Free Weapon of Blood by Chris A. Jackson

Anyway, she came in
early this morning and made everything up just like she always did.  She said
he was a stickler for details, always wanted things just so.  Part of bein’ a
wizard, I guess.”
    “Hmph.  I guess wizarding pays well. 
This place is nicer than many of the nobles’ homes I’ve been in.”  As Captain
of the Royal Guard, Norwood had considerable experience with nobility.  He was
less familiar with the habits of wizards, even though the Wizards Guild and
many of its members resided in his jurisdiction, north of the river.  To his
mind, practitioners of magic tended to be quirky, arrogant, and more than a
little annoying.  “What other servants did he have?”
    “Only a stablehand.”  Tamir flipped a
page in his book.  “But he just takes care of the outside of the house. 
Doesn’t even have a key.”
    “Vonlith didn’t employ any guards? 
Wealth like this attracts thieves like honey draws flies.”
    “None, sir, but I don’t know many thieves
foolish enough to rob a wizard’s home.  They’re generally jealous of their
privacy, and tend to have nasty magical doodahs to keep out the riffraff.”
    “Good point.”  He peered around the room
again, wondering how much of what he saw was magical.  The mirror, certainly. 
Hells, the carpet under his boots could be magical for all Norwood knew.  “We
better wait for Master Woefler to arrive before we poke into anything.”
    “Woefler’s coming?”  Tamir made a sour
face.  “That skinny git makes my teeth ache, sir.”
    “He might be a skinny git, but I’d rather
have him burned to ashes by a wizard’s trap than any of my guardsmen. 
Even you, Sergeant.”
    “Thanks, sir.”
    “We can, however, have a casual look
around.”
    “Already done that, sir.”
    “Good.  No windows or doors were broken
or forced?”
    “None that we’ve seen so far.”  Tamir
gave a stiff shrug.  “A few doors are locked, and I thought it best if we not
go kicking any in.”
    Norwood bent closer to the corpse again,
and placed his palm on the forehead.  The flesh was cool; some hours had passed
since death.  He lifted one hand from the armrest, having to pull the rigid
fingers away from the leather.  The arm moved with some resistance.  The flesh
was stiff, but not as unyielding as it would eventually become. The eyes were hazed
and dry, but clear of blood.  He opened the mouth with gentle pressure on the
tip of the wizard’s bearded chin, wary of what might issue forth.  He’d seen
some strange deaths in his time, and sometimes corpses didn’t stay dead.  There
was no blood, and the man’s tongue was not discolored or bloated.
    “Rigor hasn’t set in all the way yet. 
Maybe eight hours.  No sign of blunt trauma to the skull.”  He looked at the
back of the chair.  “And no sign that something pierced him through the back of
the chair, either.”
    Tamir’s pencil scratched along the page
of his log.  “Got it.”
    “Also, note that there’s no splash or
spatter marks around the victim’s head.  His hair’s mussed up, and he’s wearing
night clothes, like he might have gone to bed and then woken up to come down
here.”  Norwood felt along the sides of the corpse’s skull, but found nothing
amiss.  Finally, he gripped the man’s hair and pulled his head forward.  A wash
of crimson painted the back of the dead wizard’s neck.  It had soaked his
collar and wicked around both sides, but most of the blood had gone right down
the back of his nightshirt.
    “Not a lot of blood.”  He gingerly probed
the back of the dead man’s head with his fingers, ignoring the cool, congealed
mess.  “No sign of a busted skull but…”  His fingertip found a small slit at
the base of the skull.  “Hmm.  Yes.  A stiletto or poniard, I think.”
    “Someone pithed him?  Why go to
that trouble?”
    Norwood shrugged.  A blade to the back of
the skull was a tricky way to kill someone.  The point of entry was small
enough