《The Riyria Chronicles [WITTY BANTER | EPIC FANTASY | ASSASSINS | THIEVES | MERCENARIES]》
V1: Chapter 1 - The New Sign
If anyone had asked Royce Melborn what he hated most at that moment, he would¡¯ve said dogs. Dogs and dwarves topped his list, both equally despised for having so much in common ¡ª each was short, vicious, and inexcusably hairy. Royce¡¯s contempt for them had grown over the years for the same reason: They had caused him an incalculable amount of grief and pain.
That night it was a dog.
At first, he thought the furry creature on the mattress in the third-floor bedroom was a rodent. The dark thing with a curled tail and flat nose was small enough to be a good-sized sewer rat. Royce pondered how a rat had gotten into a posh place like the Hemley Estate when it rose to its feet. The two stared at each other, Royce in his hooded cloak holding the diary and the mongrel on its four tiny legs. One second of held breath lasted long enough for Royce to realize his mistake. He cringed, knowing what would come next, what always came next, and the little beast didn¡¯t disappoint.
The mutt began barking. Not a respectable growl or deep-throated woof but an ear-piercing series of high-pitched yaps.
Definitely not a rat. Why couldn¡¯t you be a rat? I never have problems with rats.
Royce reached for his dagger, but the rodent-dog leaped away, its tiny nails skittering on the hardwood. He hoped it would flee. Even if the little monster woke its master, it couldn¡¯t explain that a hooded stranger had invaded Lady Martel¡¯s boudoir. Aroused from a blissful sleep, the owner might throw something at the mutt to shut it up. But this was a dog, after all, and like dwarves, they never did what he wanted. Instead, the animal stayed a safe distance away, yipping its turnip-sized head off.
How can such a tiny thing make so much noise?
The sound echoed off marble and mahogany, amplifying into a wailing alarm.
Royce did the only thing he could: He leaped out the window. Not his planned exit, not even his third choice, but the poplar tree was within jumping distance. He caught a broad branch, pleased it didn¡¯t break under his weight. The tree, however, shook, rustling loudly in the quiet of the dark courtyard. By the time his feet hit the ground, Royce wasn¡¯t surprised to hear ¡ª
¡°Stop right there!¡± The husky voice was perfectly suited for the job.
Royce froze. The man coming at him held a crossbow: cocked, loaded, and aimed at his chest. The guard looked disappointingly competent; even his uniform was neat. Every button accounted for and glinting in the moonlight, each crease sharp as a blade. The guy had to be an overachiever or worse ¡ª a professional soldier reduced to guard duty.
¡°Keep your hands where I can see them.¡±
Not at all an idiot.
Behind the first guard came a second. He trotted over with heavy footfalls and a jangling of straps and metal chains. Taller than the first, he wasn¡¯t so well-attired. The sleeves on his coat were too short, the lack of a button ruined the symmetry of the side-by-side brass rows, and a dark stain marred his collar. Unlike the first guard, this second one didn¡¯t have a crossbow. Instead, he carried three swords: a short one on his left hip, a slightly longer one on the right, and a huge spadone blade on his back. These weren¡¯t the weapons of Hemley guards, but the man holding Royce at bay didn¡¯t spare a glance when the second guard jogged up.
Drawing the shortest of his three swords, this second man didn¡¯t point it at Royce. Instead, he placed the sword tip against the first guard¡¯s neck. ¡°Put the bow down,¡± Hadrian said.
The man hesitated only an instant before letting the crossbow fall. The impact jarred the trigger and sent the bolt whispering through the grass of the manicured lawn. Behind them, the rodent-dog still yapped, the sound muffled by the mansion¡¯s walls. Now that his partner had things in hand, Royce tucked the book into his belt and glanced toward the manor. No lights. Nobles were sound sleepers.
Turning back, he found Hadrian still holding the fastidious guard at sword¡¯s point. ¡°Kill him, and let¡¯s get going.¡±
The guard stiffened.
¡°No,¡± Hadrian said with the indignation Royce would¡¯ve expected if he¡¯d asked his partner to throw out a good bottle of wine.
Royce sighed. ¡°Not again. Why do we always have this argument?¡±
The ex-crossbowman had his shoulders hunched, hands in fists, still expecting the thrust that would end his life. ¡°It¡¯s all right. I won¡¯t raise the alarm.¡±
Royce had seen the look many times and thought the guy was doing well. No blubbering, no screams, no begging. He hated when his victims fell to their knees and whimpered, although he had to admit that made killing them easier. ¡°Shut up,¡± he ordered, then glared at Hadrian. ¡°Kill him, and let¡¯s go. We don¡¯t have time for a debate.¡±
¡°He dropped the bow,¡± Hadrian pointed out. ¡°We don¡¯t need to kill him.¡±
Royce shook his head. There was that word again ¡ª need. Hadrian used it often as if justification were a requirement for killing. ¡°He¡¯s seen me.¡±
¡°So? You¡¯re a guy in a dark hood. There are hundreds of men in hoods.¡±
¡°Can I say something?¡± the guard asked.
¡°No,¡± Royce snapped.
¡°Yes,¡± Hadrian replied.
¡°I have a wife.¡± The man¡¯s voice shook.
¡°Man¡¯s got a wife.¡± Hadrian nodded sympathetically while still holding the blade against the guard¡¯s neck.
¡°Kids, too ¡ª three of ¡¯em.¡±
¡°Maribor¡¯s beard, he¡¯s got three kids,¡± Hadrian said with a decisive tone and drew back his sword.
The guard let out a breath. Somehow, he and Hadrian assumed that the ability to reproduce was relevant in this situation. It didn¡¯t.
¡°And I¡¯ve got a horse,¡± Royce declared with the same righteousness. ¡°Which I¡¯ll ride away on just as soon as you kill this poor bastard. Stop dragging this out. You¡¯re being cruel, not me. Get it over with.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not going to kill him.¡±
The guard¡¯s eyes widened in hopeful anticipation; a tiny smile of relief tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked at Royce for confirmation, for a sign he would indeed see another sunrise.
Royce heard the sound of a door bursting open, and someone called out, ¡°Ralph?¡± Lights were coming on in the house. Seven windows on four floors glowed with candles.
Maybe it just took that long to light them.
¡°Here!¡± Ralph shouted back. ¡°Intruders! Get help!¡±
No, of course, he wouldn¡¯t raise the alarm.
That did it. Royce reached for his dagger.
Before he touched the handle, Hadrian clubbed Ralph with the pommel of his sword. The guard dropped to the grass beside his spent bow. Whether Hadrian had hit the man due to his shout or because Royce went for his dagger was impossible to tell. Royce wanted to think the former, but suspected the latter.
¡°Let¡¯s get out of here,¡± Hadrian said, stepping over Ralph and pulling Royce by the arm.
I wasn¡¯t the one delaying us, Royce thought, but he didn¡¯t bother arguing. Where one crossbow existed, there would be others. Crossbows were neither short nor hairy, but they should be on his list. He and Hadrian ran along the shadow of the wall, skirting the blooming rosebushes, although Royce didn¡¯t know why they bothered. In his sentry getup, Hadrian sounded like a fully tacked carriage horse.
Melengar¡¯s Galilin Province was a tranquil, agrarian region not prone to the threat of thievery, and the estate of Lord Hemley suffered from woefully ineffective security. While Royce had spotted as many as six guards on various scouting missions that night, there had only been three: a sentry at the gate, Ralph, and the dog.
¡°Ralph!¡± someone shouted again. The voice was distant, but it carried across the open lawn.
Behind them in the darkness, five lanterns bobbed. They moved in the haphazard pattern of a bewildered search party or a host of drunken fireflies.
¡°Aaron, wake everyone up!¡±
¡°Let Mister Hipple loose,¡± a woman¡¯s voice shouted in a vindictive tone. ¡°He¡¯ll find them.¡±
Above it all, the incessant yipping of the rodent-dog continued ¡ª Mister Hipple, no doubt.
The front gate was unmanned. The guard stationed there must have run for help after Ralph¡¯s shout. As they passed through unopposed, Royce marvelled at Hadrian¡¯s luck; the man was a walking rabbit¡¯s foot. Three years in Royce¡¯s School of Pragmatism had barely scratched his partner¡¯s idealistic enamel. They might not have escaped so easily if Mister Hipple had been a larger, more aggressive animal. And while Hadrian was more than capable of killing any dog, Royce wondered if he would have.
It has puppies, Royce! Three of ¡¯em!
The two reached the safety of the dense thicket where they¡¯d left their horses. Hadrian¡¯s was called Dancer, but Royce never saw any point in naming his. While Stowing the diary in a saddlebag, Royce asked, ¡°How many years were you a soldier?¡±
¡°In Avryn or Calis?¡±
¡°All of it.¡±
¡°Five, but the last two years were¡well, less formal.¡±
¡°Five years? You fought in the military for five years? Saw battles, right?¡±
¡°Oh yeah ¡ª brutal ones.¡±
¡°Uh-huh.¡±
¡°You¡¯re mad I didn¡¯t kill Ralph, aren¡¯t you?¡±
Royce paused a moment to listen. No sound of pursuit, no lights in the trees, not even the yips of a manic rodent-dog chasing them. He swung a leg over the saddle and slid his foot into the stirrup on the other side. ¡°You think?¡±
¡°Look, I just wanted to do one lousy job where nobody got killed.¡± Hadrian removed the uniform¡¯s waistcoat and replaced it with his wool shirt and leather tunic from his saddlebag.
¡°Why?¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Never mind.¡±
¡°You¡¯re being ridiculous. We¡¯ve done plenty of jobs where we didn¡¯t kill anyone. Anyway, it¡¯s fine.¡± Royce grabbed his reins, which he kept knotted together.
¡°It¡¯s what? What did you say?¡±
¡°Fine. It¡¯s fine.¡±
¡°Fine?¡± Hadrian raised a brow.
Royce nodded. ¡°Are you going deaf?¡±
¡°I just¡¡± Hadrian stared up at him, puzzled. Then a scowl took over. ¡°You¡¯re coming back later, aren¡¯t you?¡±
The thief didn¡¯t reply.
¡°Why?¡±
Royce turned his horse. ¡°Just being thorough.¡±
Hadrian climbed into his saddle. ¡°You¡¯re being an ass. There¡¯s no reason to. Ralph will never pose any threat.¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°You can¡¯t know that. Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough?¡±
Hadrian frowned. ¡°Do you understand the meaning of the word ass? You don¡¯t need to kill Ralph.¡±
There it was again ¡ª need.
¡°Let¡¯s argue later. I¡¯m not killing him tonight.¡±
¡°Fine.¡± Hadrian huffed, and together they trotted out of the brush and back onto the path that led to the road.
The two rode side by side on the open lane. Rain began falling before they reached the King¡¯s Road. The sun was up by then, although it was difficult to tell with the heavy clouds leaving the world a charcoal smear. Blissfully, Hadrian remained silent. Whether he knew someone or not, Royce¡¯s partner would always strike up a conversation in any tavern. The man would talk to strangers with the ease of reunited friends. He¡¯d clap them on the back, buy a round of drinks, and listen to riveting tales such as the one about the goat who had repeatedly gotten into a neighbor¡¯s garden.
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When just the two of them were out on the road, Hadrian commented on trees, cows, hillsides, clouds, how hot or cold the weather was, and the status of everything from his boots ¡ª which needed new soles ¡ª to his shortsword ¡ª which could use a better wrap for the handle. Nothing was too insignificant to warrant a remark. The abundance of bumblebees, or the lack of the same, would launch him into a twenty-minute discourse. Royce never spoke during any of it as he didn¡¯t want to encourage his partner, but Hadrian carried on about his bees, the flowers, and the mud, another favorite topic of self-discussion.
Despite his indefatigable insistence on blabbering to himself, Hadrian was always silenced by rain. Perhaps it put him in a bad mood, or the pattering made it difficult to hear himself. Whatever the reason, Hadrian Blackwater was quiet in the rain, so Royce loved stormy days. Luck remained with him nearly the whole way home. Melengar was experiencing one of its wettest springs in recent memory.
Royce looked over from time to time as they rode. Hadrian kept his head down, his hood crushed and sagging with the weight of water.
¡°Why don¡¯t you ever talk when it rains?¡± Royce finally asked.
Hadrian hooked a thumb under the front of his hood, lifting it to peer out. ¡°What do you mean?¡±
¡°You talk all the time, but not when it rains ¡ª why?¡±
Hadrian shrugged. ¡°Didn¡¯t know it bothered you.¡±
¡°It doesn¡¯t. What bothers me is when you blather nonstop.¡±
Hadrian peered over, and a little smile grew in the shadow of his sopping hood. ¡°You like my talking, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I just got done saying ¡ª¡±
¡°Yeah, but you wouldn¡¯t have said anything if you really liked the silence.¡±
¡°Trust me,¡± Royce said. ¡°I really like the silence.¡±
¡°Uh-huh.¡±
¡°What¡¯s uh-huh supposed to mean?¡±
Hadrian¡¯s smile widened into a grin. ¡°For months, we¡¯ve ridden together while I¡¯ve held whole conversations by myself. You¡¯ve never joined in, and some were really good, too. You haven¡¯t said a word, but now that I¡¯ve stopped ¡ª look at you¡yapping away.¡±
¡°A single question isn¡¯t yapping away.¡±
¡°But you expressed an interest. That¡¯s huge!¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°I just thought there might be something wrong with you ¡ª obviously, I was right.¡±
Hadrian continued to grin with an overly friendly look of self-satisfaction as if he¡¯d scored a point in some imaginary contest. Royce pulled his own hood down, shutting him out.
The horses plodded along through mud and occasionally gravel, shaking the water from their heads and jangling their bridles.
¡°Sure is coming down, isn¡¯t it?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Oh, shut up.¡±
¡°The farmer¡¯s wife in Olmsted said it¡¯s the wettest spring in a decade.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll slit your throat as you sleep. I really will.¡±
¡°She served soup in cups because her husband and Jacob ¡ª her sleep-all-day-drink-all-night brother-in-law ¡ª broke her good ceramic bowls.¡±
Royce kicked his horse and trotted away.
Royce and Hadrian were back on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter of Medford. Spring was nearly over; in other parts of the world, flowering trees were busily trading pink petals for green leaves, and warm breezes blew earthy scents while farmers rushed to finish their planting. On Wayward, it meant four days of steady rain had once again made a murky pond in the low spot at the end of the street. And as usual, the water level reached the open sewer behind the buildings. Euphemistically known as the Bridges, the sewer bled into the growing lake, spreading the reek of human and animal waste.
The rain was still coming down as Royce, Gwen, and Hadrian stood on the planked porch of Medford House, staring across the muddy pond at the new sign over the tavern door. A fine lacquered board hung from a wrought-iron elbow brace, displaying the crisp image of a vibrant scarlet bloom and a curling stem that sported a single sharp thorn. Surrounding the flower were the elegantly scripted words: the rose and the thorn.
The sign looked oddly out of place in front of the dingy tavern with its saddle-backed roof of mismatched shingles and weathered timbers. For all its dilapidation, the alehouse and eatery had substantially improved. Only a year before, what had been known as The Hideous Head needed no illustration to explain itself to its illiterate patrons. Grime-covered windows and muck-splattered walls told everyone what they needed to know. Since gaining control of the tavern, Gwen had cleaned up the dirt and the muck, but the real improvements had been inside. The new sign was the first enhancement to the exterior.
¡°Beautiful,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°It will look better in sunlight.¡± Gwen folded her arms in judgment. ¡°The blossom turned out perfect. Emma drew, and Dixon helped with the painting. Rose would have liked it, I think.¡± Gwen looked up at the dark clouds. ¡°I hope she somehow sees ¡ª sees her rose hanging above Grue¡¯s old door.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure she can,¡± Royce told her.
Hadrian stared at him.
¡°What?¡± Royce shot back.
¡°Since when do you believe in an afterlife?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°I don¡¯t.¡±
¡°Then why did you say ¡ª¡±
Royce slapped his hand on the porch rail, which had just enough rain to splatter. ¡°You see?¡± he appealed to Gwen. ¡°This is what I have to deal with. He admonishes me about my behavior. Why can¡¯t you smile? he says. Why didn¡¯t you wave back to the kid? Would it have killed you to be polite to the old woman? Why can¡¯t you ever say a kind word? And now, when I try to be a little considerate, what do I get?¡± Royce held out both palms as if presenting Hadrian to her for the first time.
Hadrian continued to stare at him, but now with pursed lips, as if to say, Really? Instead, he replied, ¡°You¡¯re only being nice because she¡¯s here.¡±
¡°Me?¡± Gwen asked. Standing between them, she swiveled her head to look from one to the other, as innocent as a dewdrop. ¡°What do I have to do with this?¡±
Hadrian rolled his eyes, threw his head back, and laughed. ¡°You are a pair. Whenever you are together, it¡¯s like I¡¯m with strangers ¡ª no, not strangers ¡ª opposites. He becomes a gentleman, and you feign ignorance of men.¡±
Royce and Gwen maintained their defensively blank looks.
Hadrian chuckled. ¡°Fine. Let today henceforth be known as Opposites Day. And as such, I¡¯m going across the Perfume Sea to drink at the Palace of Fine Food and Clean Linens.¡±
¡°Hey!¡± Gwen snapped, bringing her hands to her hips in indignation.
¡°Yeah!¡± Royce said. ¡°Who¡¯s the rude one now?¡±
¡°Stop it. You¡¯re scaring me.¡± Hadrian walked off, leaving them alone.
¡°I missed you,¡± Gwen told him after Hadrian had gone inside, her eyes on the rain as it boiled the giant puddle.
¡°Was only a few days,¡± Royce replied.
¡°I know. Still missed you, though. I always do. I get scared sometimes ¡ª worried something bad will happen.¡±
¡°Worried?¡±
She shrugged. ¡°You might get killed, be captured, or meet a beautiful woman and never return.¡±
¡°How can you worry? You know the future, right?¡± he joked. ¡°Hadrian said you read his palm once.¡±
Gwen didn¡¯t laugh. Instead, she said, ¡°I¡¯ve read many palms.¡± She looked at the sign with the single blooming rose, and sadness crossed her face.
Royce felt like stabbing himself. ¡°Sorry, I¡I didn¡¯t mean¡¡±
¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±
It didn¡¯t feel all right. Royce¡¯s muscles tightened. Both hands became fists, and he was glad she wasn¡¯t looking at him. Gwen had a way of seeing through his defenses. To everyone else, he was a solid wall fifty feet high with razor-sharp spikes on top and a moat at its base; to Gwen, he was a curtainless window with a broken latch.
¡°But I do worry,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s not like you¡¯re a cobbler or bricklayer.¡±
¡°You shouldn¡¯t. These days I don¡¯t do anything worth worrying about. Hadrian won¡¯t let us. I¡¯m stuck with fetching lost possessions, stopping feuds ¡ª did you know we helped a farmer plow his field?¡±
¡°Albert got you a job plowing?¡±
¡°No, Hadrian did. A farmer took sick, and his wife was desperate. They owe money.¡±
¡°And you plowed a field?¡±
Royce smirked at her.
¡°So Hadrian plowed and you watched.¡±
¡°I tell you, the things he does.¡± Royce sighed. ¡°Just doesn¡¯t make sense sometimes.¡±
Gwen smiled at him. She was likely siding with Hadrian; most people did. Everyone thought good deeds were great ¡ª publicly at least ¡ª and her expression was one of patient understanding as if she were too polite to say so. It didn¡¯t matter. She was smiling at him, and for that brief moment, it wasn¡¯t raining. For that instant, the sun shone, and he had never been an assassin, and she had never been a prostitute.
He reached out, wanted desperately to touch her and hold that moment in his arms, to kiss that smile and make it more than a fleeting brilliance he would otherwise only recall as a dying spark. Then he stopped.
Gwen looked down at his faltering hands, then up at his face. ¡°What is it?¡±
Is that disappointment in her voice?
¡°We¡¯re not alone,¡± he said, nodding across the street to where three wretched figures moved in the shadows near the kitchen door. ¡°You need to talk to your bartender. Dixon is dumping scraps outside the door, and you¡¯re drawing flies.¡±
Gwen looked over. ¡°Flies?¡±
¡°Elves. They¡¯re pawing through your garbage.¡±
Gwen squinted. ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t even see them.¡± She waved a hand. ¡°It¡¯s fine. I told Dixon to give them any leftover food. I hope he¡¯s not just throwing it in the mud. I¡¯ll need to get a barrel or set out a table.¡±
Royce grimaced while watching the miserable creatures. The rags clinging to their bodies were little more than torn scraps pretending to be clothing. Soaked with the rain, the elves looked like skin-wrapped skeletons. Feeding them was an example of cruelty by kindness. Gwen gave them false hope. Better to let them die. Better for them, better for everyone.
He looked at her. ¡°You realize they¡¯ll just come back. You¡¯ll never get rid of them.¡±
Gwen nudged him and pointed up Wayward Street. ¡°Albert¡¯s here.¡±
On foot and veiled behind the hazy curtain of solid rain, Albert Winslow approached the dreaded pond with disgust. Soaked through and through, the viscount¡¯s new brimless hat lay flat against his head, sliding down one side of his face. His cloak was plastered to his body. He looked at the murky lake and then across at them with a frown. ¡°If it¡¯s always going to be like this,¡± he called across, ¡°can¡¯t you put in a bridge for your moat, Gwen?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have a charter governing the street,¡± she called back. ¡°Or the Bridges, for that matter. You¡¯ll need to take that up with the king, or at the very least, the Lower Quarter Merchants¡¯ Guild.¡±
Albert looked down at the churning pond and grimaced as he waded in. ¡°I want a horse!¡± he shouted at the clouds as the water reached the middle of his calves. ¡°I¡¯m a viscount, for Maribor¡¯s sake! I shouldn¡¯t have to wade through a sewer just to report in.¡±
¡°Can¡¯t afford three,¡± Royce replied. ¡°Can barely afford feed for the two.¡±
¡°Can now.¡± Albert pulled back his cloak to reveal a purse. He shook it. ¡°We got paid.¡±
Six shiny gold coins stamped with the Melengar Falcon and twenty silver bearing the same image lay on the table in the Dark Room. The only room without a single window, it once was used for all manner of kitchen storage. Gwen had transformed the space to serve as the headquarters for Riyria, his and Hadrian¡¯s rogues-for-hire operation. She¡¯d added a fireplace for warmth and light and the table where Albert had emptied his purse.
Royce brought over a candle. Every kingdom and city-state produced their own coins, but the tenent was international and supposed to be of consistent weight¡ª equal to a typical robin¡¯s egg. A silver tenent weighed the same as a gold tenent, but it was larger and thicker to make up for the lighter metal. That was the intention, and, for the most part, it held true. These felt to be honest coins.
¡°You got away clean, by the way.¡± Albert stood by the fire and pulled off his sodden hat. ¡°Lady Martel either doesn¡¯t know her diary was taken or is too embarrassed to report it. I¡¯m guessing the latter.¡±
Albert began to wring his hat out onto the floor.
¡°No, no, no!¡± Gwen shouted at him. ¡°Here ¡ª give me that. Oh, and get out of the rest of your things. They have to be washed. Dixon, can you please get a blanket?¡±
Albert raised his brows at Gwen as she stood with hands out, waiting. He glanced at Royce and Hadrian with questions in his eyes. Neither said a word. Both responded with grins.
¡°Albert, do you really think you have anything I haven¡¯t seen before?¡± Gwen asked.
Albert frowned, wiped the wet hair from his face, and began to unhook his doublet. ¡°Anyway, as I was saying, Lord Hemley hasn¡¯t called for so much as a search. According to our employer, Lady Constantine, Lady Martel only reported a nasty scare in the middle of the night that turned out to be nothing.¡±
¡°Nothing?¡± Royce asked.
¡°I¡¯m not sure Ralph and Mister Hipple would agree,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°What kind of scare did she say they had?¡± Royce inquired.
Albert shrugged off the dripping brocade, which Gwen took. The big bartender returned with a blanket, and they traded material. ¡°Can you please give this to Emma and ask her to do what she can?¡±
¡°Tell her to be careful,¡± Albert said. ¡°That¡¯s expensive.¡±
¡°We know,¡± Royce reminded him.
¡°Emma is experienced with brocade,¡± Gwen assured him as Dixon left. ¡°Now let¡¯s have those stockings and breeches.¡±
¡°Can I have a chair?¡±
¡°After the breeches are off.¡±
¡°What was the nasty scare Lady Martel mentioned?¡± Royce asked again.
¡°Oh ¡ª¡± Albert chuckled as he rolled off his long stockings. ¡°She said a raccoon entered through a bedroom window and set her dog to barking. Hearing the noise, one of the grounds¡¯ guards came running, and, in the dark, he banged his head against a poplar branch. He called out, thinking he¡¯d been attacked.¡±
¡°Thinking he¡¯d been attacked?¡± Royce asked.
¡°His story was that two guys broke in and threatened to kill him. Lady Martel called him delusional.¡±
Royce took a seat opposite the fire and tapped his fingertips together. He wondered what was in that diary that made Lady Martel want to avoid an investigation.
Hadrian just laughed.
¡°What?¡± Albert asked, handing over his second stocking, which Gwen took with a look of disdain.
¡°Lady Martel just saved Ralph¡¯s life,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Oh really? Who¡¯s Ralph?¡±
¡°The delusional guard. Royce has been waiting for the rain to stop, and then he would pay ole Ralph a visit.¡±
Albert clapped his hands together. ¡°Then it¡¯s a day for everyone to celebrate, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°After the breeches are off.¡± Gwen scowled.
¡°Are you this way with all your customers?¡± Albert asked.
¡°You¡¯re not a customer, Albert.¡±
¡°No ¡ª I¡¯m a viscount.¡±
After a short pause, everyone burst out laughing. ¡°All right, all right, here, take my trousers! Take them. What do I need trousers for? I¡¯ve already lost all my dignity.¡±
¡°Who needs dignity when you have coin?¡± Royce tossed him a stack of silver pieces topped with a gold.
Albert caught them as if he were a practiced juggler. Standing naked before the fire, he appraised the coins with a smile. ¡°I¡¯m noble once more!¡±
¡°Wrap this around you.¡± Gwen handed him the blanket. ¡°We¡¯ve seen enough of your nobility for one day.¡±
She gathered up the rest of his clothes and headed out.
Albert draped himself in the soft wool and sat in a chair as close to the hearth as possible without setting himself on fire. Rubbing the coins between his fingers, he said, ¡°Silver and gold are so pretty. It¡¯s a shame you have to trade them away.¡±
¡°And these won¡¯t last.¡± Royce sighed, then he faced Albert. ¡°At the rate we¡¯ve been taking jobs and the smallness of the purses, things are getting tight. We need something that pays more.¡±
¡°Actually, I have another job ready to go. This one is worth ¡ª get this ¡ª twenty gold tenents plus expenses. Which is good because it¡¯s way down in southern Maranon.¡±
Royce and Hadrian sat up.
¡°That was fast,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°You don¡¯t normally work that hard.¡±
¡°True, but this one fell into our laps.¡± A drop of water slipped down Albert¡¯s face, and he paused to scrub the wetness from his hair with a corner of the blanket. ¡°Sounds incredibly easy, too.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not qualified to judge, Albert,¡± Royce said.
¡°Ah, but this one is. They don¡¯t even want you to do anything.¡±
Royce leaned forward and eyed the viscount. ¡°Who pays twenty yellow for nothing? What¡¯s the job?¡±
¡°It seems that someone is trying to kill Lady Nysa Dulgath.¡±
¡°We aren¡¯t guards for hire.¡±
¡°Oh, she has guards. Lady Dulgath is a countess and will soon be the ruler of a tiny province in the southwest corner of Maranon once she pledges fealty to King Vincent. Apparently, her father, Earl Beadle Dulgath, recently passed, and she¡¯s his only child.¡±
¡°Was he murdered?¡± Royce asked.
¡°No. Old age. The fellow was ancient, nearly sixty. But someone has it out for his daughter. From what I¡¯ve been told, there¡¯ve been three attempts on her life in the last month. After those failures, they want a professional. That¡¯s where you come in.¡± Albert looked squarely at Royce.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t call assassinating a countess nothing. Besides, you know how he gets about those kinds of jobs.¡± Royce gestured toward Hadrian.
Albert waved a hand. ¡°No, you misunderstand. You¡¯re not being hired to kill her. Rumors say they¡¯ve already hired someone.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Unless they went cheap, the hired hand is a bucketman for the Black Diamond. The BD and I have an understanding not to interfere with each other.¡±
¡°I remember,¡± Albert said. ¡°But they don¡¯t want you to catch the killer. Your job is to assess the situation and inform Sheriff Knox how you would kill Lady Dulgath so he can formulate plans to prevent it.¡±
¡°Why me?¡±
Albert smiled. ¡°I let it slip that you used to be an assassin for the Black Diamond.¡±
Royce glared.
¡°No one in Maranon cares about what you¡¯ve done elsewhere. These are nobles we¡¯re talking about. Morality works on a sliding scale for them. They¡¯re excited to have someone with experience.¡±
¡°Sounds¡¡± Hadrian began and searched for the word.
¡°Suspicious,¡± Royce provided.
¡°I was thinking odd,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°But yeah. It¡¯s strange. Is it possible this sheriff is the one who wants her dead?¡±
¡°Unlikely. I¡¯m not certain he even knows about this. He¡¯s not the one who hired us. And I don¡¯t think this client is in the habit of assassinating heads of state.¡±
¡°And who has? Hired us, that is.¡±
Albert hesitated momentarily, then said, ¡°The Church of Nyphron.¡±
V1: Chapter 2 - The Artist
Sherwood Stow held his paintbrush with unconscious effort as he stared at Lady Nysa Dulgath. The woman stood ten feet away, one hand poised over her stomach and the other at her side, clasping a pair of riding gloves as if she were about to race off on a hunt. She stood divinely straight, chin high and level so the dangling pearl earrings hung in precise balance. Her hair was up, braided, coiled, and wreathed her head like a royal diadem. She wore an exquisite gold silk-brocade dress with billowing sleeves, and around her shoulders a grinning-faced fox stole curled, as if it, too, were delighted to be so near this magnificent woman. While the lady¡¯s gaze was regal in its elevated, distant focus, Sherwood¡¯s only regret was she wasn¡¯t looking at him. She was, in fact, staring over his head at the chandelier that hung at the center of her private study.
The room was small by Castle Dulgath standards. Intimate was how Sherwood thought of it, like a dressing room or a parlor used for courting. Even more so since parlors came staffed with chaperones, and they were the only two present in the study.
¡°Why don¡¯t you look at me?¡± Sherwood asked.
¡°Is that a requirement?¡± the lady replied, her eyes fixed on the chandelier. Her lips held fast to an indifferent near-smile, the obligatory face of state. Usually he appreciated subjects who could maintain a certain statuesque quality while he painted, but she took the request to an extreme. Nysa wasn¡¯t posing for him; she was hiding.
¡°Let¡¯s say it¡¯s a request.¡±
¡°Request denied.¡± The words were as sweetly neutral as her lips, neither warm enough to suggest familiarity nor cold enough to imply displeasure.
I can¡¯t even tell if she¡¯s breathing.
Nysa was altogether too stiff. This, of course, was the image she wished to portray, but Sherwood Stow wasn¡¯t interested in painting the soon-to-be Countess of Dulgath. He was after the woman. And while he never spoke the name publicly, in his mind he always thought of her as Nysa ¡ª never Lady Dulgath.
The Dulgath line was an edifice, a monument, a dust-covered dynasty of renown. Nysa was a woman in her early twenties ¡ª he didn¡¯t know how early, difficult to tell because her body possessed a youthful vigor, but her eyes were ancient. A beautiful and mysterious being of light, but her movements exposed the charade. Too graceful. Sherwood had known many women ¡ª ladies, princesses, even queens ¡ª but none possessed a fraction of her poise and elegance. Nysa was a spiraling leaf caught by a breeze, and if she landed on the surface of a placid lake she¡¯d leave no ripple.
¡°Mister Stow, isn¡¯t it usually customary when painting to actually bring the brush to the canvas?¡± she said to the chandelier. ¡°You¡¯ve stood there for twenty minutes mixing paint and holding that bristled stick aloft, but never once have you employed it.¡±
¡°How can you tell while looking at the chandelier?¡±
¡°Seeing and looking are unrelated. You, of all people, should know that.¡±
Sherwood nodded and once more added walnut oil to the thickening umber. His old master, Yardley, was no doubt heaving in his grave. Yardley had always insisted on working with egg tempera, but Sherwood preferred oil. Not only did it enable him to give a translucent depth in his portraits, but its slow drying time granted him the luxury to do . . . well . . . everything.
¡°Yes, indeed, and since you know that as well, you understand the necessity for my delay and the importance of going slow.¡±
¡°Slow doesn¡¯t properly define you, Mister Stow. A bead of honey in winter is slow. It pours, as if with great reluctance, but it does pour. You, Mister Stow, are not a drizzle of honey. You¡¯re a rock.¡±
¡°Pity. I do so like honey. Perhaps you could reconsider your assessment?¡±
¡°A rock, I say. A vast block of granite, immobile and resolute in your refusal to budge.¡±
¡°Am I, now?¡±
¡°How else do you account for two months of daily, hour-long sessions? That¡¯s sixty hours. I¡¯ve heard good artists have been known to finish a portrait in a week¡¯s time.¡±
¡°True. True.¡± He tapped his chin with a finger, leaving a bit of paint. ¡°I suppose the only explanation is I¡¯m not a good artist.¡±
Sherwood corked his bottle of oil and set it back on the easel¡¯s tray along with the stained rags and vials of pigments, some of which were deceptively expensive. Beyond the Sea ¡ª or Ultramarine ¡ª was the most prized because the stone used to make the dark blue paint had to cross the ocean from the same fabled land whence came the incomparable Montemorcey wine. The paint was worth twenty times its weight in gold. Luckily, few non-artists knew this or his brethren would be routinely beaten and robbed.
¡°You admit it then?¡±
¡°Absolutely, I¡¯m not a good artist.¡± He used the rag he¡¯d made from his last decent shirt to wipe oil that had dripped from the stem of his brush to his hands. No matter how much care he employed, his hands were magnets for paint and oil. ¡°I¡¯m the best artist.¡±
She let out an uncharacteristic puff, which was almost a laugh, while one delicate brow rose in skeptical declaration. ¡°You are an arrogant man.¡±
Finally, a reaction.
¡°No, I¡¯m confident; there is a difference. Arrogance is an unjustified belief in oneself. Confidence is the simple understanding of one¡¯s abilities. I do not boast about being a great lover ¡ª although I very well may be. On that particular subject, I simply am not in a position to accurately judge. I leave that determination to the women I entertain.¡±
This time both of her brows rose, creating the tiniest crease in her forehead.
¡°But we were discussing art, and when it comes to that, I am an expert. So you can trust me when I say there isn¡¯t a greater artist than I, and the reason I say that is because there is no finer judge of artistic merit than myself.¡±
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¡°Mister Stow, I don¡¯t believe I can trust you about art or anything else. How can I when you refuse to let me look at your work? You¡¯ve denied everyone even a glimpse at your two-month masterpiece.¡±
¡°Truth isn¡¯t created on schedules.¡±
¡°Truth? Is it truth you are painting? I thought it was me.¡±
¡°I am painting you ¡ª or at least trying to ¡ª but you are causing the delay by your refusal to cooperate.¡±
¡°Whatever do you mean?¡±
¡°You hide from me.¡±
¡°I ¡ª¡± Her eyes almost shifted. He saw the pupils quiver with the struggle. Biting her lower lip, she gathered herself, and the lock of her gaze redoubled. She lifted her chin, just a smidge, in defiance. ¡°I¡¯m right here.¡±
¡°No . . . you¡¯re not. The Countess of Dulgath in all her refined nobility and grand regalia stands before me, but that¡¯s not you ¡ª not who you really are. I want to see the person inside. The person you keep hidden from everyone for fear they¡¯ll see ¡ª¡±
She looked at him. Not a glance, not a stare, but a fierce glare of fire. Only a flash, but he saw more in that instant than he¡¯d seen in two months. Powerful. Violent. A tempest corked in a woman¡¯s body and glazed over with the sadness of loss and regret. He¡¯d seen her. The vision rocked him, so much so that Sherwood took a step back.
¡°We¡¯re done here,¡± Lady Dulgath declared, breaking the pose and throwing off the fox. ¡°And I see no reason to continue with this foolishness. I only agreed to this portrait because my father wanted the painting. He¡¯s dead, so there¡¯s no need.¡±
She pivoted on her left heel and strode toward the exit.
¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, then,¡± Sherwood called after her.
¡°No ¡ª you will not.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll be here.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t.¡± She slammed the oak door on her way out, leaving Sherwood alone in the study, listening to the echo of her fading footfalls.
He stared at the door, which had bounced with her thrust, rebounding and hanging agape so that he caught a glimpse of her gold dress as she retreated down the corridor.
Fascinating.
A heartbeat later Sherwood picked up his brush and rag, both of which he¡¯d dropped without realizing, and started to paint. The brush flew with unconscious ease, moving from palette to canvas in a blinding fury. So intense was his concentration that he didn¡¯t notice the young man enter the study until he heard him speak.
¡°Is there some kind of trouble?¡±
Sherwood recognized the blue satin doublet even before seeing the goatee and immediately pulled the drape over the front of the painting. He kept the cloth tacked to the top of the canvas¡¯s frame for quick deployment. Covering works in progress to keep gnats, dust, and hair out of the paint wasn¡¯t unusual, but now it served a more important purpose.
¡°Lord Fawkes. Sorry, I didn¡¯t see you. What did you say?¡±
¡°I was asking if there was a problem,¡± Fawkes said, looking around the study with his trademark mix of bewildered innocence and sinister suspicion. ¡°I heard a loud bang and saw the countess storm out. Is there some way I can be of assistance?¡±
¡°Not at all. This was a particularly good session, but it¡¯s over. I¡¯ll just gather my things. We made excellent progress today.¡±
Fawkes circled around the easel and frowned at the covered portrait. ¡°I hope that isn¡¯t one of the bed linens.¡±
¡°My nightshirt, actually, or what¡¯s left of it.¡±
¡°What do you wear to bed?¡±
¡°Now? Nothing at all. Can¡¯t afford it.¡±
¡°Thank Novron it¡¯s nearly summer.¡± Lord Fawkes picked up Sherwood¡¯s bottle of Ultramarine and tossed it from hand to hand. For him to choose to play with that particular bottle of pigment was too coincidental. Unlike the rest of his ilk, Lord Christopher Fawkes must have been familiar with the art trade. ¡°Why are you still here, Sherwood?¡±
The artist pointed at the covered painting and smiled. Pointing was easy; the smile was more of a challenge as he watched Fawkes continue to toss the blue bottle.
The lord glanced over his shoulder with a dismissive sniff. ¡°You painted my aunt Mobi¡¯s picture last summer at her villa in Swanwick.¡±
¡°Yes, I remember. Beautiful place. Lady Swanwick was most gracious and generous.¡±
Fawkes nodded. ¡°Yardley painted her portrait as well, two years before, and yet she insisted on one by you, his apprentice.¡±
¡°Actually, that happens quite often.¡±
Fawkes paused in his game of toss to hook a thumb at the covered painting. ¡°Everyone gasped when you unveiled her portrait.¡±
¡°I get a lot of that, too.¡±
¡°Aunt Mobi sobbed when she saw what you¡¯d done. Ten minutes passed before she could say anything at all. Uncle Karl was certain you¡¯d offended her.¡±
Sherwood nodded. ¡°The Earl of Swanwick called his guards.¡±
¡°I heard they took you by the wrists and started dragging you away when Aunt Mobi found her voice and stopped them. That¡¯s me! she said. That¡¯s how I really am ¡ª no one has ever seen me like that before.¡±
¡°I get that, too.¡±
¡°Did you sleep with her?¡± He tossed the bottle higher than he had before.
¡°Excuse me?¡±
¡°Is that how you impressed her so? How you got her to be so generous?¡±
¡°Did you see the painting?¡±
Fawkes chuckled. ¡°No. I just heard the tale. Aunt Mobi keeps it locked in her bedchamber, where I¡¯m certain she dreams of the young artist who captured her so exquisitely. I wonder why a woman married to an earl would be so impressed by a penniless artist.¡±
¡°Does this story have a point?¡±
Fawkes smirked. ¡°My point is, that painting ¡ª which captured Aunt Mobi so perfectly that she may have betrayed her husband ¡ª took five days to create. So once more I ask, why are you still here, Sherwood?¡±
¡°Some portraits are more difficult than others.¡±
¡°And some women are harder to seduce.¡±
Sherwood snatched the bottle in mid-toss. ¡°Pigments are not toys.¡±
¡°Neither is Lady Dulgath.¡± Fawkes stared at the bottle in Sherwood¡¯s hand for a moment, then turned away. ¡°I assumed you were merely freeloading off your patron¡¯s goodwill. Possibly lingering because you had no other prospects. Now I believe I¡¯ve been na?ve.¡±
He looked again at the linen-draped painting as if it were a veiled face watching them. ¡°Life as an itinerant artist must be taxing and perilous. I suspect that living in a castle with your own bed and studio is a significant improvement. But you¡¯ve forgotten one thing. She¡¯s noble; you¡¯re not. There are laws against such things.¡±
¡°No, there aren¡¯t.¡± Sherwood placed the bottle of blue pigment on the easel¡¯s tray and stepped between it and Lord Fawkes.
Fawkes glared. ¡°There ought to be.¡±
¡°If we are speaking of things that should be, you would have been born a dairy farmer in Kelsey instead of the cousin to King Vincent. Although that would have been a terrible injustice to cows, which I¡¯m certain is what Maribor was thinking when he made you a landless lord.¡±
Sherwood was exceedingly pleased that Lord Fawkes no longer held his precious bottle of Beyond the Sea. The Maranon lord of no-place-in-particular sucked in a snarl. His shoulders rose like the fur on the back of a dog. Before he could open his mouth to cast some vile insult, Sherwood cut him off. ¡°Why are you still here? The funeral was more than a month ago.¡±
This had the effect of pouring cold water on a flame. Fawkes blinked three times, then settled into a murderous glare. ¡°In your single-minded efforts to enter Her Ladyship¡¯s bed, it may have escaped your attention that someone is trying to kill her.¡±
¡°And what does that have to do with anything?¡±
¡°I¡¯m staying to protect her.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Sherwood said with more sarcasm than he intended, but he was more than nettled with the lord. ¡°Perhaps it has escaped your attention that she has a contingent of well-trained guards for that. Or is it your belief that the only thing standing between Lady Dulgath and death is the assassin¡¯s fear of the king¡¯s second cousin?¡±
This comment did nothing to alleviate Fawkes¡¯s glare, but his gaze did shift to the easel again.
Sherwood knew what the lord was thinking and took another step forward. The painter had no grand illusion of beating Fawkes in a brawl. A law did exist making it illegal to strike a noble, even one disliked by the king. Sherwood¡¯s advance was a bluff, but the artist tried to sell it as best he could by rising to his full height, which was an inch taller than Fawkes, and returning that venomous glare with a firm jaw and ready hands.
Bluff or not, Fawkes chose to merely spit on Sherwood¡¯s shoe before walking out.
He, too, slammed the big door, but this time it stayed shut.
V1: Chapter 3 - Maranon
The weather remained horrible all the way to Mehan. If the clouds weren¡¯t following them, as Hadrian imagined, and all of northern Avryn was suffering the same deluge, then Wayward¡¯s pond was likely a lake after the three additional days of downpours that soaked Royce and Hadrian¡¯s travels south. On the morning of the fourth day, the skies woke clear and blue, a huge southern sun shining upon a land of gorgeous rolling hills.
Most of the jobs Riyria took occurred in and around Medford, with a few sending them only as far south as Warric. Although Hadrian had grown up less than fifty miles from the border, this was his first trip to Maranon. If the peninsula of Delgos were a mitten, Maranon would be the thumb, and a green one at that. A land that was deep, velvet-rich, and the color of a forest by moonlight stretched out in all directions, broken by small stands of leafy trees. Maranon was known for its horses ¡ª the best in the world. At first, Hadrian thought he saw deer grazing in the meadows, but deer didn¡¯t travel in herds of fifteen or more. Nor did they thunder when racing across the fields, shifting and circling like a flock of starlings.
¡°Are they owned? Or can you just grab one?¡± Hadrian asked Royce as they rode their mangy northern mounts, which were at least clean thanks to three days of rain.
Royce, who had thrown his hood off and was letting his cloak air-dry on his shoulders, glanced at the horses racing over a distant hill. ¡°Yes and no. They¡¯re like deer up north ¡ª or anything anywhere, really. There¡¯s nothing that isn¡¯t claimed by someone. Those are wild, but everything here belongs to King Vincent.¡±
Hadrian accepted Royce¡¯s expertise. Despite his partner¡¯s lack of idle conversation, he knew Royce had traveled extensively ¡ª at least in Avryn. He appeared most familiar with the congested areas around the big cities of Colnora and Ratibor, those places a thief and former assassin would find the most work. For Hadrian, the trip to Maranon felt like Riyria was taking a holiday. The change in weather only added to the sense that they were in for some relaxation.
Rising in his stirrups, Hadrian gazed across the open land. Aside from the road they followed and the mountains in the distance, Hadrian didn¡¯t see a soul, city, or village. ¡°So what¡¯s to stop me from roping one and taking it home?¡±
¡°Aside from the horse itself, you mean?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Well, yes.¡±
¡°Nothing really. Unless you¡¯re caught, in which case you¡¯ll be hanged.¡±
Hadrian smirked, but Royce wasn¡¯t looking. ¡°If caught, we¡¯d be hanged for most of what we do.¡±
¡°So?¡±
¡°So, this looks nicer. I mean . . .¡± He gazed at the few puffy, white clouds, which cast fleeting shadows over the hills. ¡°This place is incredible. It¡¯s like we crawled out of a sewer and wandered into paradise. I¡¯ve never seen so many shades of green before.¡± He looked down. ¡°It¡¯s like our Medford grass is sick or something. If we have to steal, why can¡¯t we take horses for a living? Got to be easier than climbing trellises and towers.¡±
¡°Really? Ever try grabbing a wild horse?¡±
¡°No ¡ª you?¡±
¡°No, but explain to me how a man on a horse catches a riderless horse. And a Maranon one at that. In a land of endless rolling hills, there¡¯s no place to trap them. And even if you were to catch one, what then? There¡¯s a difference between a wild horse and an unbroken one. You know that, right?¡±
In one of the back corridors of his mind, Hadrian recalled having heard something like that, but he hadn¡¯t remembered until Royce brought it up. Horses born on farms were raised around people. They weren¡¯t trained and didn¡¯t take to having folk hop on their backs any more than a dog would, but they were still relatively tame.
¡°Got just as much chance with a wild horse as you would have saddling a stag.¡±
¡°Just an idea,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I mean, how long will we do this for?¡±
¡°Do what?¡±
¡°Steal.¡±
Royce laughed. ¡°Since I teamed with you, I hardly ever steal. Annoying really. There¡¯s a certain beauty in a well-done theft. I miss it.¡±
¡°We stole that diary.¡±
Royce turned to give Hadrian a pitying look and a sad shake of his head. ¡°That¡¯s not theft; it¡¯s petty pilfering. And now this. The idea of preventing someone from assassination feels . . .¡±
¡°Dirty?¡± Hadrian asked.
Another look, this one baffled. ¡°No. It feels wrong, like walking backward. Seems simple enough in theory, but it¡¯s awkward. I¡¯m not even sure what they want me to do. Am I expected to talk to this woman, this walking target? Don¡¯t usually chat with the soon-to-be dead.¡±
In three years, this was the most Royce had ever said while riding. The angry tone explained it. Royce hadn¡¯t been this far outside his comfort zone since the Crown Tower debacle. The master thief was rarely off balance, but when he was, Royce became chatty.
¡°She¡¯s noble,¡± Royce went on. ¡°I don¡¯t like nobles. Always so full of themselves.¡±
¡°Brought up that way,¡± Hadrian said as if he were worldly.
Hadrian had known a number of nobles, but they were all Calian, and that was like saying he knew rodents because he¡¯d fed some squirrels. Calian nobles were nothing like those in Avryn. They were more casual, earthy, less pompous, and far more dangerous. Hadrian thought Royce would actually like most Calian nobles, at least until they hugged him. Hadrian had learned early on that Royce Melborn wasn¡¯t a hugger.
¡°Exactly.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°And this one is a woman ¡ª a Maranon woman at that.¡±
¡°What¡¯s so different about Maranon women?¡±
¡°Remember that storm on the Uplands near Fallen Mire? The place where the breezes coming across Chadwick slam into the winds coming down off the ridge?¡±
¡°Oh yeah.¡± Hadrian nodded, remembering a night when neither of them had slept.
¡°They¡¯re like that.¡± Royce waved his hand dismissively at the lush, beautiful countryside that ran as far as Hadrian could see. ¡°Look at this place. Do people here work hard? Do you think common folk¡¯s mattocks go dull on the rocks in this soil? Or that people go to sleep hungry three nights a week? The serfs on these manor farms live better than Gwen. Now imagine what their nobles are like. I expect this Dulgath woman will be the worst possible sort. Did you know the Province of Dulgath is the oldest fief in Avryn?¡±
¡°Exactly how would I know that?¡± Hadrian smiled at him, entertained by a talkative Royce.
¡°Well, it is,¡± Royce said, irritated, as if Hadrian had disputed him. ¡°If Albert can be trusted to know the history of the various noble houses, Dulgath was founded around the same time as the Novronian Empire, and the family that rules here is as old as the First Empire¡¯s origins. Most nobles adopt the name of the region they¡¯re given stewardship of, but here it¡¯s the other way around. The Province of Dulgath was named for the people who founded it. So, given that, how entrenched do you think Lady Dulgath¡¯s sense of privilege is? Her family goes back for hundreds of generations. And I have to save her?¡±
¡°Technically, I think they want to know how you would murder her.¡±
Royce gave Hadrian a wicked smile. ¡°The hard part, I expect, will be not carrying it out. Having you whispering in my ear not to kill may be of benefit for once.¡± Royce looked up at the perfect sky stretching far and wide. ¡°There¡¯s no way I¡¯ll get out of here without blue bloodstains.¡±
The road forked; A left turn hooked south while their path continued into the distance where the green hills ended at a wrinkle of green mountains.
Royce paused for a long time, staring down the left branch, which made Hadrian look as well. The road was straight, level, and followed along the skirt of the green ridge toward larger stony mountains tinged blue in the late-morning sun. Minutes passed while Royce continued to stare, and Hadrian became certain his partner had lost his way, something which was more than odd. For three years, Hadrian had never known Royce to lose his inner compass through dense forests, amid fog as thick as a wool blanket, during starless nights, or even in a blinding blizzard. And yet, the thief continued to sit on his horse, staring down that long southern route.
¡°Is it that way?¡± Hadrian finally asked.
Royce looked up, as if he¡¯d been asleep. ¡°What?¡±
¡°Is that how we get to Dulgath?¡±
¡°Down there?¡± Royce shook his head. ¡°No ¡ª no, that¡¯s not the way. That doesn¡¯t lead anywhere.¡±
Hadrian looked at the broad well-worn track marred by the passage of wagon wheels and the half circles of horses¡¯ hooves. ¡°Pretty well traveled for a dead end.¡±
Royce smirked, as if Hadrian had made a vulgar joke. ¡°Yes, it most certainly is.¡±
Urging his horse to stay on their path, Royce continued to look back at the road more traveled, as if he didn¡¯t trust it. Whatever haunted him, he didn¡¯t say, nor did Hadrian ask.
When they¡¯d first begun working together, marrying their unique skills for mutual gain, Hadrian had tried on numerous occasions without any luck to pry open the box of Royce¡¯s history. Only near-death brushes ¡ª or, as it would seem, the anticipation of meeting Maranon nobles ¡ª managed to loosen that lid. Wherever that southern road led, Hadrian wouldn¡¯t learn about it from Royce. The two things he was certain about were that Royce had been down that road and it went somewhere.
The road they were on went somewhere as well. Up.
After several hours of silent riding, it narrowed through a series of switchbacks until it snaked into a tight pass beyond which a vista opened onto another world. This one even more beautiful than the one they¡¯d left behind. Wildflower meadows and leafy forests sat beside an ocean, a vast expanse of water that cut jagged coves and bays from massive cliffs. Hadrian guessed they had come to the western edge of Maranon and the start of the Sharon Sea. This was his first time seeing it, but at that distance it looked no different from the eastern oceans. On this backside of Maranon, where the roads were narrower and little more than grass-covered greenways, there were more trees, more streams, and many more waterfalls.
Tucked inside a space less than ten miles from mountains to sea was a shadow-valley, cozy and snug, dangling its toes in the vast blue that crashed white against a stony point. Castle Dulgath stood on a singular promontory that hooked south like a crooked finger. Built from cliff stone, it blended with the tortured rock except for the straight edges of its towers and its flags flying blue and white.
¡°Pretty,¡± Hadrian said.
Royce huffed. He pointed to the red berries along the trail. ¡°So are those, but I wouldn¡¯t suggest eating any.¡±
The trip down was quick and silent. Royce drew up his hood as they neared the valley¡¯s floor and farms and travelers started to appear. The homes were built of fieldstone, covered with neat, thatched roofs. Often the buildings were multistoried, and always picturesque. The people were darker than those in Melengar: black-haired, olive-skinned, and brown-eyed. Well fed and healthy, they dressed in colorful clothing of greens, oranges, and yellows, a stark contrast with the people of Melengar. There, the poor wore a natural-wool uniform dyed with dirt to a dingy gray. Mud was the pigment of the north, but the south delighted in color.
Heads turned and friendly faces looked up at them as they passed. Royce never paused, never slowed. Once, he urged his horse to a trot when a man said ¡°Hello,¡± which sounded like yellow in the Maranon accent. Hadrian, on the other hand, smiled and returned waves, especially from pretty young women.
¡°We should move down here,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Our contacts are up north. I know my way around better, and we have resources and a reputation. Down here, we¡¯d be starting from scratch and working blind. We don¡¯t even know the laws.¡±
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¡°But it¡¯s pretty.¡±
Royce glanced back. ¡°You said that already.¡±
Hadrian spotted another young woman, this one with painted eyes. She smiled at him. ¡°It¡¯s gotten prettier.¡±
They traveled down the road through dappled shade and to the songs of peeping tree frogs. Before long, the sounds of wagon wheels and conversation replaced the frog calls as Royce and Hadrian reached a cluster of buildings. Rounding a bend, they entered into a proper village with candle shops and cobblers. Buildings here displayed tiled roofs, glass windows, shutters, and eaves. Moss covered old foundations, and thick ivy climbed chimneys and wreathed windows. The grassy trail became a stone-covered broadway where it passed through the village, although it was difficult to see the road, given the crowd gathered upon it.
Men and women clustered in the village square ¡ª an open market where merchants and vendors might set up displays to sell buttons, copper kettles, and the day¡¯s fresh catch of fish. Instead, a crowd surrounded a large smoking pan suspended over an open fire. At first, Hadrian thought the two of them had stumbled on a festival. He imagined being welcomed to a communal picnic, but he didn¡¯t smell any food. Instead, he smelled the gagging stench of boiling tar. In the middle of the throng of townsfolk, a dozen angry men held an elderly fellow with his wrists bound behind his back. They led him past four sacks of feathers toward the cauldron of bubbling tar.
¡°We should do something,¡± Hadrian said.
Royce lifted enough of his hood to see him clearly. ¡°Why?¡±
¡°Molten tar can kill an old man.¡±
¡°So?¡±
¡°So, if we don¡¯t do something, they¡¯ll kill him.¡±
¡°How is this our problem?¡±
¡°Because we¡¯re here.¡±
¡°Really? That¡¯s your argument? We¡¯re here? Haven¡¯t won too many debates, have you?¡± Royce looked around. ¡°You¡¯ll notice we aren¡¯t alone. The whole village is in on this. That poor bastard is probably a criminal ¡ª a poisoner of children, torturer of women ¡ª maybe a cannibal.¡±
¡°Cannibal?¡± Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Honestly, the way you think. It¡¯s ¡ª¡±
¡°Practical? Sensible?¡±
¡°Sadistic.¡± Hadrian pointed. ¡°Royce, look at his cassock. The man is a priest.¡±
Royce scowled. ¡°Worst sort of criminal.¡±
Faces had turned their way. People were pointing at the pair of strangers watching them from horseback. Hadrian, and his three swords, received the most attention. The crowd quieted, and four of the bigger men from out front approached and stood boldly before them.
¡°Who are you?¡± the biggest one asked. Shoulder-length hair didn¡¯t quite hide the bull neck that was nearly as wide as his head. Broad jaw, wide nose, eyes sunk deep beneath an eave of brow, he narrowed his eyes into a quarrelsome glare and then cracked the knuckles on two massive hands.
Hadrian grinned and introduced himself by name.
Royce cringed.
¡°No reason not to be friendly.¡± Hadrian said while dismounting. Then more quietly he said to Royce, ¡°What difference does it make? We aren¡¯t doing anything illegal.¡±
¡°Not yet,¡± Royce whispered back.
Hadrian stepped forward and offered his hand to the four men.
None took it.
¡°You a knight?¡± the bullnecked man asked.
¡°Me?¡± Hadrian chuckled. ¡°No.¡±
¡°Probably another vagabond lord here to freeload after the funeral.¡± This was said by the slightly shorter gent to Bull Neck¡¯s right, the one whose friendly orange tunic undermined his efforts to appear menacing. Another of the four, who liked his hair short but didn¡¯t know much about cutting it, nodded his agreement.
¡°Maybe they¡¯re from the church? Seret and Sentinels consider anyone who doesn¡¯t bend a knee at Novron¡¯s altar a heretic,¡± said a man standing in the back.
¡°Well, whoever you are,¡± the bullnecked man said, ¡°you shoulda brought more men with you if you plan to stop us from feathering Pastor Payne.¡±
Hadrian let his shoulders droop. ¡°Actually, we don¡¯t ¡ª¡±
¡°Need more men,¡± Royce broke in.
Hadrian turned to look at him. ¡°We don¡¯t?¡±
¡°No,¡± Royce confirmed. ¡°But they do.¡± He rose up in his stirrups and waved for the other men who were holding Pastor Payne to come forward. ¡°C¡¯mon up here. Your friends are going to need your help.¡±
¡°Ah ¡ª Royce?¡± Hadrian said as five additional men pushed their way through the crowd.
Not all of them were brutes, and none stood as big as the bullnecked man and his buddy in orange. Two were older fellows with graying hair. Three were young, long and lanky, with pretty, unmarked faces. On the positive side, none of them carried so much as a stick.
¡°So, do you want to know why Hadrian here carries three swords?¡± Royce asked the crowd. A few nodded, and he gestured toward his partner with a grin. ¡°Tell them.¡±
The two had done this before. It didn¡¯t always work.
Hadrian pasted a friendly smile on his lips and faced the crowd, paying particular attention to the wall of muscle in front of him. ¡°In my travels, I¡¯ve found most men are reluctant to fight someone wielding a sword unless they also have one. Most good-natured folk ¡ª like yourselves ¡ª don¡¯t have weapons. So I carry extras in case a situation like this arises. That way, I can hand out a couple so people aren¡¯t so disadvantaged in a fight.¡±
Hadrian drew both his side blades in an elegant, single motion. The crowd stepped back and let out a communal gasp.
¡°So you can have your choice.¡± He spun the smaller weapon against his palm. ¡°This is a short sword, the workhorse of combat, an ancient, reliable design. Great for close quarters and frequently used with a shield. Or . . .¡± He spun the larger one in his other hand. ¡°This is a hand-and-a-half sword, also called a bastard sword ¡ª I think because no one knows where it came from.¡± He chuckled.
No one joined him.
Hadrian sighed. ¡°Looking at the handle, you can see it has room for two hands, but it¡¯s also light enough to swing one-handed. A really nice, versatile blade.¡± Hadrian slammed both weapons back into their scabbards with practiced ease. Then, reaching up, he slid the great sword off his back.
Once more, people gasped and gave way, backing up another step as the massive blade swung out.
¡°Now, this is a spadone.¡± With one hand, Hadrian held the blade out level, pointing at the crowd. ¡°As you can see ¡ª it¡¯s big. Sort of a three-and-a-half sword.¡±
He grinned at them, but the crowd remained cold. Everyone¡¯s eyes followed the tip of the blade as if it were a snake¡¯s head.
¡°This is obviously a two-handed weapon and not for the faint of heart. You might be thinking it would be a good choice due to its long reach, but most would have trouble swinging it, much less holding it out as I¡¯m doing now.¡± Hadrian swung the big sword in large sweeping arcs, making it sing in the wind; then he let go and caught it with his other hand. ¡°And while you¡¯re struggling to raise it, I¡¯d stab you with the short sword.¡±
¡°I¡¯ve seen him do that,¡± Royce lied. ¡°Usually catches a poor sod in the stomach. One quick thrust. A wound like that can take days to kill you. And painful.¡± He shook his head and frowned. ¡°One sad case screamed and moaned for so long, his own mother wanted to smother him with a pillow.¡±
Faces blanched. Royce was a good liar.
Bull Neck¡¯s mountain-ridge brow wrinkled, and his stalwart friend in orange retreated a bit more, stepping on the foot of a woman behind him. She cried out and shoved him with both hands.
¡°And if you¡¯re thinking of rushing him . . .¡± Royce chuckled. The sound wasn¡¯t at all jovial. Hadrian had never witnessed Royce laughing in good humor. When he laughed, babies cried. ¡°I should mention that he can mow down scores of men with his big sword, and with less effort than you scythe wheat. Of course, doing so is louder and messier. Wheat doesn¡¯t bleed, and straw doesn¡¯t scream.¡±
Eyes, still locked on the sword, widened. Hadrian knew they were picturing him swinging the blade into the crowd as if through ripened crops.
Royce leaned forward in his saddle, the leather creaking with the strain. The chuckling had stopped, and what smile he wore melted into a grim, straight line. ¡°Now that you¡¯ve met Hadrian, let me introduce myself. I¡¯m the one you don¡¯t want to know.¡± He paused, letting that sink in. ¡°Let the priest go, or I¡¯ll be forced to demonstrate why Hadrian is the lesser of two evils.¡±
The wall of muscle retreated, walking backward and forcing the gathered throng to fall back as well. Then everyone scattered, slipping through doorways or darting up side streets. The crowd dispersed so quickly they didn¡¯t bother untying Pastor Payne; they simply left him standing in the noxious smoke of the sizzling cauldron.
The priest shuffled toward them, coughing as he came.
¡°Thank you ¡ª thank you,¡± he choked out, doubling over. He struggled to draw a clean breath. The old man wore a round felt cap. Two tufts of white hair jutted out from either side. Satchels of loose skin drooped below sad eyes. Around the frame of his jaw and chin flared a bristling white beard, but his upper lip and cheeks were clean-shaven. His cassock, a ruddy rusted color, was buttoned to the neck and skirted the ground so closely it hid his feet.
Hadrian cut the rope off the priest¡¯s wrists before putting the great sword away. ¡°What was that all about?¡±
Pastor Payne made use of his free hands to cough into. Then he wiped his lips and eyes. He shook his head at the retreating villagers in disgust. ¡°These are backward people, heathens and blasphemers. Time has forgotten this corner of the world, and those who dwell here are lost in barbarism.¡±
¡°That doesn¡¯t answer the question.¡± Royce dropped to the ground.
¡°They resent my presence. No, that¡¯s not exactly right. They resent the Nyphron Church, which has neglected bringing them into Novron¡¯s fold for far too long. They are mired in the past, and it¡¯s my job to bring them into the future.¡±
Hadrian turned to Royce. ¡°I thought this wasn¡¯t our problem.¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°Turns out it was.¡±
Hadrian surveyed the deserted streets, which, he then noticed, were paved in a pleasant cobblestone. He could still hear the sound of slamming doors and whispered mutterings. ¡°We made a lot of enemies just now. How come?¡±
Royce grabbed the lead to his horse and pointed at Payne. ¡°Because a dead client doesn¡¯t pay. Pastor Payne is our employer.¡±
¡°By the way, Payne is spelled with a y and an e ¡ª not with an i,¡± he told them, coming to a stop before a rickety shack slapped together from warped boards and cracked stones, perhaps the only building in town not covered in ivy. The priest turned and eyed the two of them carefully, then sighed. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter, I suppose. Neither of you is literate, correct?¡±
¡°Wrong,¡± Royce said.
¡°Really?¡± Pastor Payne pushed up his lower lip. ¡°Down here, only those in the clergy know their letters. I would have assumed that ¡ª your sort ¡ª wouldn¡¯t.¡±
¡°Our sort?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Paid killers,¡± Payne explained. ¡°That¡¯s what you are, correct? I was informed that at least one of you has worked in that capacity for the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±
¡°And for that reason you assumed we¡¯re ignorant?¡± Royce said.
The priest nodded with enthusiasm. ¡°People who spill blood for a living are always ignorant.¡± He looked them both over again. ¡°Well, almost always, I suppose.¡±
¡°Ignorance isn¡¯t prejudiced about who it afflicts,¡± Royce replied.
Payne looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled and nodded, causing Royce to raise an eyebrow at Hadrian, who shrugged.
¡°Welcome to my church,¡± the pastor said, indicating the tilting shack that leaned heavily on the twisted trunked of an olive tree beside it.
¡°This is a church?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°In Medford, the church is . . . bigger.¡±
¡°Medford doesn¡¯t have a church,¡± the old pastor said. ¡°It enjoys a cathedral. We¡¯re just starting here. I can assure you things will be much different the next time you visit. Come in. I¡¯ll make you something to eat.¡±
Lacking any windows, glass or not, the inside of the church was illuminated by stripes of sunlight shining through the gaps between wall planks. Thick dust clouds swirled as the priest moved around in the tiny space. Looking through large ceramic pots resting on the floor and peering into smaller ones shelved above, he finally found what he was after.
¡°Ah-hah!¡± He grinned, pulling out a cloth-wrapped wheel of cheese. ¡°Now if I could find ¡ª I swear I had some blackberries somewhere. Gathered them myself. I¡¯m sorry I don¡¯t have more to offer.¡±
Hadrian searched for a seat and didn¡¯t find anything he was confident would hold his weight. Royce refused to venture more than a step inside the door, where he stood with his arms hidden beneath his cloak.
¡°Found you!¡± Payne pulled a basket of berries off a dark shelf, grinning at them as if he¡¯d discovered gold in a stream. ¡°Help yourself. I know where there are more.¡± The pastor popped two into his mouth and chewed, humming in delight. ¡°Food is wonderful, isn¡¯t it? Winter will be a challenge this year.¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t it warmer down here?¡±
¡°Sure, sure, but the people are ice. At least in summer, I can fend for myself. In winter, I won¡¯t exactly be able to rely on the generosity of my congregation to get me through.¡± He popped two more berries, then used a whittled stick stripped of its bark to cut away a piece of cheese.
¡°They certainly don¡¯t seem to like you,¡± Royce said.
¡°The monks have turned them against the church.¡±
¡°Monks?¡±
Payne nodded in reply as he chewed with a full mouth then swallowed. He pointed at the western wall. ¡°Up there is the old monastery. Been here since imperial times and named after a ridiculous piece of cloth.¡± He swallowed again. Seeing their blank faces, he waved a hand before them. ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter. My woes with the monks aren¡¯t your concern. The church will take care of them. You¡¯re here to stop a murder.¡±
¡°No,¡± Royce replied. ¡°Just giving a professional opinion.¡±
¡°Right ¡ª right, of course. Well, no sense in going to the castle now. Be dark soon. You can stay here tonight, and in the morning I¡¯ll introduce you to Knox. Hugh is the high sheriff of this province. He¡¯ll be the one you¡¯ll be working with. I¡¯ll also introduce you to Lord Christopher Fawkes. He¡¯s been of great assistance to the church and Lady Dulgath recently. Wonderful young man ¡ª cousin to King Vincent. He¡¯s actually the one who suggested speaking to Viscount Alan Wind-something. The fellow who referred you.¡±
¡°Albert Winslow.¡±
¡°Yes, that¡¯s him.¡± Pastor Payne took a seat on a rolled bundle of straw, making Hadrian wonder if he¡¯d be better off sleeping outside. ¡°He¡¯s close friends with Bishop Parnell from up north. The bishop dropped me off here when he came down to administer last rites to the late earl. Then he went on to the spring conclave in Ervanon. The bishop met with Viscount Winslow, who sent you our way.¡±
¡°What can you tell us about Lady Dulgath?¡± Royce asked.
Payne paused and wiped his mouth. ¡°Well, she¡¯s the only daughter ¡ª only child ¡ª of Lord Beadle Dulgath, formerly the Earl of Dulgath. She¡¯s young, twenty-two I believe. Very pretty. Got her looks from her mother, who died in childbirth. Beadle never remarried. He was a sentimental man. Emotional sort. Weak is what Bishop Parnell says. He has let this province run wild with lawlessness, as today¡¯s little demonstration can attest. Can you imagine what would happen if the peasants of Medford hauled a priest out in the main square to be tarred and feathered? King Amrath would post their heads on poles lining the King¡¯s Road.¡±
¡°You know a lot about Medford,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°I studied at Sheridan University. We used to spend our free days in Medford.¡±
¡°Small world. We know a Professor Arcadius from Sheridan. He¡¯s the ¡ª¡±
¡°Can we get back to Lady Dulgath,¡± Royce insisted.
¡°Oh yes. Let¡¯s see . . .¡± The priest tapped his chin. ¡°She¡¯s well liked. Some might even say loved by . . . well, I guess everyone.¡±
¡°Apparently not.¡± Royce started to lean against the doorframe but must have thought better of it and straightened again. ¡°When did the attacks start?¡±
¡°Maybe a few weeks after Beadle¡¯s funeral or so I¡¯ve heard.¡±
¡°Maybe?¡±
¡°It¡¯s hard to say exactly. We only know about the attempts that got noticed, but Knox will tell you more about that.¡±
Royce had a sour look on his face. Usually Albert dealt with the client who wanted an item taken. Then Hadrian and Royce would watch the place for a few days, noting visitors and guards ¡ª if there were any ¡ª and determining when the lights went out and from what windows. Only on rare occasions did his partner check out interiors. If they needed floor plans or inside details, Albert would be sent for a visit. Hadrian knew Royce didn¡¯t speak to many people, but he especially avoided priests, nobles, and most certainly high sheriffs. The last law enforcement officer he¡¯d talked with had been found grotesquely butchered and decorating the fountain in Medford¡¯s Gentry Square. Hadrian doubted Pastor Payne was aware of Royce¡¯s involvement in that affair. If he were, he wouldn¡¯t be so casual about introducing the thief around.
V1: Chapter 4 - Beyond the Sea
The next morning, Sherwood let himself into the study as usual. The castle staff had stopped bothering with him after the third week. Not that they¡¯d known what to do with him before. An artist was an oddity in a castle ¡ª even a large one. In Dulgath, he was an outright enigma.
While gossip wasn¡¯t something he intentionally provoked, Sherwood was delighted by the whispers his contradictions generated. He hobnobbed with the nobility, but dressed like the staff. Being friendly, he spoke kindly and easily to everyone without any hint of haughtiness, but he also told tales of intrigue in the courts of high kings.
On fine days, he kept to his room. On mornings after a night¡¯s rain he took long walks, mostly along the coast. The castle staff didn¡¯t know he was out searching for ocher, which stood out better from the cliff walls when wet, or that the snails he used to make Imperial Purple were more plentiful after a rain. The servants probably considered him daft. Oddly enough, his eccentricities gained him a queer sort of acceptance.
Before he¡¯d left Mehan for Dulgath, everyone had warned Sherwood that the people he¡¯d meet there would be a bit off. As a result, he fit right in and had become a part of the ¡°castle family.¡± And since he had no title before his name and required no special treatment, Sherwood had become little more than furniture to the people who worked there ¡ª all except one. She was Nysa¡¯s handmaiden, Rissa Lyn. He knew her name from the number of times the lady had called it during their sessions.
Rissa Lyn, make certain to lay out my blue gown for this afternoon.
Rissa Lyn, ready a hot bath for when I¡¯m done here.
No, Rissa Lyn, don¡¯t close the drapes. He needs the light.
In two months, Sherwood hadn¡¯t heard Rissa Lyn say anything in reply other than Yes, milady. But she was all eyes. Rissa Lyn watched Her Ladyship, and she watched Sherwood. She was peering at him again that morning as he hauled his easel into the study. Standing just under the stairs, she blushed when he looked over and withdrew.
He placed the easel where he always did, the floor marked with charcoal to indicate where each of its tripod legs went. This maintained consistency of view from one day to the next. Consistency of light was a bigger problem, and the reason the sessions were held at the same time each day. He went to the windows and threw back the drapes, tying them up. He was lucky ¡ª no clouds. Still, the shift of seasons was devastating. He should have asked her to start their sessions earlier to compensate. Now she might not come at all.
He hadn¡¯t seen Nysa since the door had slammed the day before. That wasn¡¯t unusual. He rarely saw her outside their sessions, and he always arrived first.
Sherwood took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his easel. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled out the tray to oil his paints. He kept his palette loaded so as not to waste pigments, but overnight the paint thickened. He liked his paint to be the consistency of buttercream. He wiped the stems of his brushes clean and lined them up in neat rows ¡ª largest to smallest. His favorite was in need of a re-bristling. It flared from fatigue, and too much paint lay trapped in the stem. Sherwood was a curse to a fine brush; Yardley had always said so.
Sherwood had begun his apprenticeship when he was ten years old, making Yardley more than merely an art instructor. The old perfectionist, with the irritating laugh and disgusting habit of spitting every few minutes, had been more like a parent to Sherwood than the tin miner and his wife who bore him. In addition to portraiture, finding and crushing pigments, and caring for his brushes, Yardley had taught him to fish, whistle, dance, navigate courtly life, and how to defend himself with fists and a blade. Where Yardley had learned sword fighting was anyone¡¯s guess, but he knew what he was doing and he¡¯d taught Sherwood well. An artist wandering alone on the open road was a target too tempting for many, and Sherwood¡¯s prowess had been tested more than once.
His prep work done, Sherwood pulled up the stool and sat.
The room was quiet except for the sound of the sea drifting in through the open window, soft and muffled, a distant unending war fought between wave and rock. A seagull cried twice, then was silent. Wind buffeted the drapes and rocked parchments rolled up on the desk behind which Nysa usually stood.
Sunlight moved in an oblong rectangle across the floor, slicing over the desk and running up the paneled wall. Sherwood knew the time by the path the light took, tracking it with a painter¡¯s eye every morning. He¡¯d worked on the background of the painting only when Lady Dulgath wasn¡¯t in the room, but he had finished everything that wasn¡¯t Nysa weeks ago.
As the light reached the edge of the stone fireplace, he knew she was late.
Sherwood touched the leg of the stool, patting it as if for a job well done. While not the stool¡¯s doing, it managed to still be there. She hadn¡¯t ordered its removal.
That¡¯s something ¡ª isn¡¯t it?
As the light moved across the first stone of the hearth ¡ª the one he¡¯d struggled to match in color because he was low on hematite ¡ª Sherwood began to face the reality that Lady Dulgath was making good on her declaration. He hadn¡¯t believed her. They¡¯d only had a small quarrel, a spat. People didn¡¯t ¡ª
He felt his heart skip and a pressure on his chest, a tightness that made it difficult to breathe.
I¡¯m only a painter. I¡¯m nothing to her.
He tried to swallow and nearly choked on his own saliva. I¡¯ve never lost a subject before, he thought stupidly, as if that mattered, as if it ever had. Never failed to complete a project.
Sherwood stared at the empty space before the desk, at the marks he¡¯d put on the floor to show Nysa where to place her feet.
It¡¯s like she¡¯s dead. The thought crashed in. What if she is?
He shook his head. No, the castle would be thrown into chaos. She just isn¡¯t coming. She isn¡¯t coming because she doesn¡¯t ¡ª
The familiar swoosh-swoosh of the brocade gown preceded her entrance. Lady Dulgath entered without acknowledging his presence. She whirled on her mark, spinning on her left heel. After looping the fox over her neck, she clasped the riding gloves in her hand. Her eyes focused on the chandelier.
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¡°Chin up, just a tad more,¡± he said softly.
She tilted her head without a word.
Outside the study¡¯s door that Nysa had left open, Chamberlain Wells could be heard saying, ¡°She¡¯s indisposed at the moment. But . . . well, let me inquire. I suppose she might see you. Wait here.¡±
That was Wells¡¯s way of saying She¡¯s only wasting time with that infernal painter like she does every morning. Sherwood didn¡¯t have a problem with Wells, which was good, since he ran the castle and could make the artist¡¯s life miserable if he wanted to. That said, he was of the same mind as many in his position, believing a painter¡¯s time to be worthless.
Lady Dulgath allowed herself a glance at Sherwood. He smiled. She smiled back. His heart vaulted a hurdle, forcing him to take a deep breath. He nearly lost the presence of mind to pull the cloth over the painting before Thorbert Wells entered.
¡°My lady,¡± Wells said, pausing at the doorway to bow.
Thorbert Wells was a rotund man with a fondness for expensive belts that neither he, nor anyone facing him, ever saw. The chamberlain¡¯s girth also hid his shoes, which that morning were a fine pair with soft leather uppers. Wells rarely wore the same pair twice in a week. He owned so many shoes that Sherwood had once asked Wells¡¯s manservant if he ever placed a mixed pair on the chamberlain¡¯s feet to see if he noticed. This was the sort of joke that gained Sherwood access to the kitchens at night and a swig from the hidden jug of barley whiskey kept under the floorboards.
¡°Sheriff Knox has some gentlemen here to meet with you,¡± Wells said.
¡°Gentlemen?¡± she asked.
¡°Ah . . . yes, concerning the recent unpleasantness.¡± Wells had a problem saying the words assassination, murder, or killing. Even when it came to butchering quails to eat, he was apt to say, The birds will be dressed for dinner, as if the fowl shared his penchant for belts and shoes and would be seated at the table.
Again, the lady focused on Sherwood, and he was certain she was looking for ¡ª perhaps not permission, but understanding. Sherwood¡¯s heart climbed up his throat, as if searching for a better view of this extraordinary moment.
¡°Very well, let them in,¡± Lady Dulgath said with just enough irritation in her voice to suggest that interrupting their time together was a disappointment.
Wells bowed again, then waved three men in.
Sherwood recognized Sheriff Knox, although he hadn¡¯t had cause to speak with the man. Still, he had seen him around, especially of late, and Hugh Knox wasn¡¯t the kind of person one overlooked ¡ª he was the sort you crossed the street to avoid. Harsh, with a tendency to glare, he wore his blond hair tied back and had a red sash across his chest and wrapped around his waist. Edged in gold, the garment was the mark of his office. He wasn¡¯t from Dulgath. The color of his hair and stubble told that story. The habitual squint of his eyes and sneer on his lips told the rest. This wasn¡¯t a genteel man. He wore two sabers and steel shoulder guards over a thick three-quarter-length leather gambeson. That day he looked tired, understandable, given the recent unpleasantness. The man charged with enforcing the law and protecting the countess couldn¡¯t be sleeping well.
A pair of men accompanied him, neither a native of Maranon.
One was tall, with a friendly smile and a relaxed stride, acting as if he were meeting a familiar bartender instead of a countess. He was dressed in worn leather and had dull buckles on three separate belts ¡ª none of which Thorbert Wells would have been caught in if his trousers depended on them ¡ª and a long cloak tossed jauntily over one shoulder. He one-upped Knox by wearing three swords. The one on his back looked big enough to fell a tree. The other man, a few inches shorter, might have been a woman for all Sherwood could tell. He was tented inside a dark cloak, hood up and his hands lost in its folds. Only a sharp nose, thin lips, and a pale chin presented themselves.
¡°Your Ladyship.¡± Knox went down to one knee. Rising, he gestured to the others. ¡°This is Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater of Melengar. They come highly recommended by Viscount Winslow of Colnora and Bishop Parnell.¡±
¡°Highly recommended for what?¡± she asked, tilting her head from side to side, studying the two.
Knox hesitated and glanced awkwardly at Wells and Sherwood. ¡°Perhaps we could speak privately?¡±
¡°Is it a secret?¡± she asked.
¡°In a way, milady.¡±
¡°They are here to protect me, yes?¡±
¡°No,¡± the one in the hood said without so much as a pleasant tone, much less a milady.
The countess raised her head to stare down her nose at him, no attempt to hide her irritation. ¡°Then why are you here?¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been hired to find the best ways to kill you.¡±
Sherwood dropped his favorite brush, adding to the woes of its bristles. Wells clamped a meaty hand over his mouth, making his big cheeks swell as they flushed red. Knox closed his eyes, tilted his head up toward the ceiling, and opened his mouth but said nothing.
Lady Dulgath folded her arms under the head of the fox and raised an elegant brow. ¡°Really? And how much are you being paid? Hadrian ¡ª is it?¡±
The hood shook. ¡°Name¡¯s Royce, and that information is between me and my employer.¡±
This time even Knox brought a hand to his face.
¡°Pardon me,¡± the taller one with the swords butted in, ¡°my lady, I¡¯m Hadrian.¡± He offered a gracious bow. ¡°I hope you¡¯ll excuse my partner. He¡¯s not accustomed to speaking to . . . people . . . ah, people such as yourself. You see, we were asked to evaluate security measures to see if there are ways to improve them. Royce is an expert at finding flaws, particularly when it comes to threats of assassination.¡±
The chamberlain cringed at the mention of the ¡°a¡± word.
¡°So you believe my life is in danger. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you think your life is in danger?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Not particularly.¡± She expelled a huff of air, pivoted on her left heel, and turned her back to them. She took three steps toward the window, stopped, then spun on the same heel back to face them once more. ¡°If I did, would I allow a man with three swords and another shrouded in a hood to enter my private study?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°I just thought you were stup ¡ª¡±
¡°Royce!¡± Hadrian snapped. In a milder tone, he continued, ¡°My friend is very tired from our long trip. Now, if no one is trying to harm you, there¡¯s no reason for us to be here. But since we¡¯ve traveled so far, and on the expectation of payment, I hope you won¡¯t begrudge us the opportunity to at least tour Dulgath. Neither of us has been to Maranon before. Your corner of it is most beautiful.¡±
Lady Dulgath continued to stare at Royce. ¡°Draw back your hood,¡± she ordered.
Hadrian laid a hand on the other one¡¯s shoulder and whispered something to him.
¡°Is there a problem?¡± the lady asked.
¡°I¡¯m here to do a job,¡± Royce said. ¡°Not entertain you.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve come to my castle unbidden and have failed to show any sign of decorum or decency. Would you rather entertain me from my dungeon?¡±
Royce sneered. ¡°Would you rather I ¡ª¡±
Sherwood didn¡¯t know why he did it. If anything, it was because he couldn¡¯t abide the words that were likely to finish that sentence. He grabbed the nearest bottle of pigment and hurled it at the man. The artist was to the side and slightly behind the visitors when the bottle flew. With his hood up, Sherwood couldn¡¯t see the man¡¯s eyes, and he knew Melborn couldn¡¯t have seen him. The bottle was small but heavy due to its thick glass ¡ª as ideal for throwing as a polished river stone. His aim was perfect. The container should have cracked against the hooded man¡¯s head, but it didn¡¯t. Instead, a slender hand darted from the dark cloak and snatched the bottle from the air. Then the hood turned, and Sherwood felt like a mouse who¡¯d caught the attention of a hawk.
The taller man stepped in again. ¡°Perhaps we should attempt this meeting at another time?¡±
Wells¡¯s face was so red it neared purple. ¡°I think you are right. I shouldn¡¯t have allowed this intrusion in the first place. Gentlemen, if you will?¡± He shooed at them, his large sleeves flapping with the effort.
Lady Dulgath said nothing, but she continued to stare at the hooded man as he and the others left.
Only then did Sherwood look down at his tray. He was sickened to realize he¡¯d thrown the bottle of Beyond the Sea.
V1: Chapter 5 - Castle Dulgath
Castle Dulgath consisted of three unadorned square towers perched on a precipice of stone. A small rock wall bordered the front, while the backside was a sheer and mortal drop to the sea. Inaccessible except to seagulls, the promontory offered limited space for luxury. The castle¡¯s foundation took up most of the narrow point, leaving little room for the courtyard, which had been foolishly given over to uncontrolled azalea bushes. They grew to a surprising size along the stone wall. And there, among the pink and purple blooms, Royce and the rest of them found Pastor Payne, waiting.
¡°How did it go?¡± he asked.
¡°Not well,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°You should have expected as much,¡± Royce added, shaking his fist that still held the bottle of pigment. He hadn¡¯t meant it as a rebuke, but he was irritated.
The pastor took a step back into the blossoms, his eyes big as goose eggs.
¡°Perhaps you should have come in with us,¡± Sheriff Knox said. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath isn¡¯t what I would call a supporter of the Church of Nyphron. Since my arrival, I¡¯ve tried to keep a safe distance between us. Is there a problem?¡±
¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± Sheriff Knox said. He was calm but wore a sour look. Then he turned to Royce, and asked, ¡°You don¡¯t need her cooperation to do this, right?¡±
Royce nearly laughed but wasn¡¯t in the mood, even in the face of such absurdity. ¡°You might be surprised to learn, Sheriff, that I never obtain the cooperation of those I plot to murder.¡±
Everyone stared at him in a palpable silence. Even Hadrian had his brows up.
Royce rolled his eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean ¡ª oh, never mind.¡± He turned to Payne. ¡°Look, are you planning to pay me extra to actually kill her?¡±
The pastor took another step into the bushes, the blossoms starting to swallow him. ¡°No ¡ª of course not!¡±
Royce looked back at the others. ¡°There ¡ª see?¡± Remembering the young woman¡¯s glare as she threatened to imprison him, he glanced back at Payne. ¡°Are you sure?¡±
¡°You¡¯re here to protect Countess Dulgath!¡± Knox admonished, spraying Royce with saliva as he spat out the word protect.
¡°Might have told her that.¡± Royce leaned toward Hadrian and said, ¡°What did I tell you about spoiled nobles ¡ª spoiled noble women? Maybe we should forget this whole thing.¡±
¡°If you do,¡± Payne put in, ¡°I¡¯m sure the church will insist on withholding payment, including the funds for travel expenses. Since you don¡¯t need to interact with the lady, why not just follow my example and keep your distance? Speaking of which . . .¡± The pastor looked toward the castle entrance nervously. ¡°I¡¯ve done my part, and there¡¯s little else I can accomplish here. I should be going.¡± Payne bowed curtly, and, with his usual stale smile, withdrew.
As the pastor exited the courtyard, Hadrian turned to Knox. ¡°It couldn¡¯t hurt to look around a bit, right?¡± He was standing closer than usual to Royce, with that everything-is-going-to-be-all-right smile on his face. ¡°Why not fill us in on some of the failed attempts. What exactly has happened? What made you think the countess is in danger?¡±
¡°I¡¯ll show you.¡± Knox waved for them to follow.
The sheriff led them up a set of stone steps to the parapet. Royce scanned the length. No guards, no sentries posted. Down in the courtyard, not a single soul was visible. Tilting his head up, he noted the numerous windows, tiny dark holes in the face of the rising towers. I could walk in on a cloudless day, dressed to kill, and no one would notice.
¡°Here.¡± Knox pointed to a missing merlon.
Royce spotted grooves and gouges where someone had used a pry bar. Peering over, he saw the road hugged the wall just below. The square, two-foot block of stone stood out pale against the green grass, lying where it had rolled after crashing down.
¡°Missed Her Ladyship by inches,¡± Knox said.
After giving Royce some time to examine the area more closely, Knox led them back down to the grassy common.
¡°What time of day?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Pardon?¡± Knox replied.
Royce rolled his eyes. ¡°When the great big rock nearly crushed the pretty lady, what time of day was it?¡±
¡°Oh, midday or thereabouts.¡±
¡°And no one saw anything?¡± Hadrian asked.
Knox shook his head and spread out his arms. ¡°As you can see, Castle Dulgath isn¡¯t a busy place.¡±
¡°Nor very well protected,¡± Royce added with an insinuating glare.
¡°You¡¯re just looking to make all kinds of new friends today, aren¡¯t you?¡± The sheriff licked his lips. ¡°You know, I told the bishop we didn¡¯t need outsiders coming here to tell me how to do my job. Dulgath isn¡¯t Colnora. We don¡¯t have people like you around here. This is a peaceful province.¡±
¡°Really? Then why am I here?¡±
¡°I honestly don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°I imagine that¡¯s a list that¡¯s grown uncomfortably long by now, hasn¡¯t it?¡±
Knox reached to shove Royce, who took a step back and to the side, causing the sheriff to fall on his face. ¡°You son of a bitch . . .¡± The sheriff came off the ground with a look in his eye that told a story.
Hadrian read it as well and moved in to block. He had a tendency to do that ¡ª get in the way ¡ª but this time Royce appreciated it. He hadn¡¯t traveled four days and ridden a hundred and twenty-five miles to kill a province sheriff. Royce wasn¡¯t sure Hadrian would be able to douse the sparked fire, so he shifted the bottle of pigment to his left hand and then reached inside his cloak for the handle of Alverstone, his dagger.
¡°Sheriff Knox!¡± a man called from the front doors of the castle. He walked quickly toward them. ¡°Why don¡¯t you introduce me to your new friends?¡±
Knox violently brushed bits of grass off himself while baring his teeth at Royce.
¡°Hugh, please!¡± the man shouted, breaking into a jog. ¡°Don¡¯t be rude. It¡¯s not proper to introduce oneself.¡±
The sheriff took a breath, then another. ¡°This is Lord Christopher Fawkes, second cousin to King Vincent.¡±
¡°Hello, gentlemen!¡± the lord exclaimed in a jubilant voice. He clapped his hands together and rubbed briskly, giving the appearance of a man about to embark on some great work. ¡°You must be Royce Melborn.¡± He extended a hand, then drew it back, exchanging it for a raised finger. ¡°Ah ¡ª no, you¡¯re probably not the handshake sort, are you? That¡¯s fine. Artists need to be mindful of their tools.¡±
He turned to Hadrian. ¡°But you¡¯re a different sort altogether. Mister Hadrian Blackwater, isn¡¯t it?¡± The hand went out again and, once clasped, Lord Fawkes pumped it soundly two times, then clapped Hadrian on the shoulder. ¡°Nice sword! Spadone, right? Quite the antique. Don¡¯t see many of those anymore. My friend Sir Gilbert ¡ª he¡¯s the senior knight of my cousin Vincent ¡ª never uses one. Says they went out of style centuries ago . . . back when knights actually fought in wars!¡±
Fawkes laughed loudly at his own joke.
No one else did, but the lord either didn¡¯t notice or care. ¡°Oh, Hugh, these two are a wedge of sharp cheese, aren¡¯t they? Please, allow me to give them the tour. I¡¯m certain you have better things to do, don¡¯t you?¡± The last two words lacked the gaiety of the others, and were punctuated with authority.
¡°Certainly, Your Lordship.¡± Knox gave Royce a parting scowl. He adjusted his sword belt and strode toward the front gate.
¡°Excitable fellow, that Hugh,¡± Fawkes said, his tone quieter, calmer. ¡°Hails from somewhere in Warric, if memory serves. I¡¯m sure he has a bloodstained past. He¡¯s hiding down here, I imagine.¡±
Royce¡¯s eyes followed Knox¡¯s back until he disappeared from sight.
¡°So, you are the men Bishop Parnell has picked to properly plan Lady Dulgath¡¯s murder.¡± Fawkes grinned and winked at them.
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Royce wasn¡¯t certain if the man was a fool or a genius. He displayed signs of both. Neither made him comfortable, but over the course of his life he¡¯d been at ease with only four people. None of them was a well-dressed noble with a loud voice who winked. No one ever winked at Royce. The fact that this man, with his black goatee and expressive hands, did so was a curiosity worthy of further scrutiny.
¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± Fawkes told them, spreading his hands out and fanning his fingers. ¡°I¡¯m privy to what¡¯s going on. Brilliant, really, like that adage about fighting fire with fire. And from what I¡¯ve heard, you two know how to handle yourselves in heated situations.¡± He moved in closer. Lowering his voice, he added, ¡°Rumors say a rather high-profile noble was assassinated up north. I suspect you know a little about that.¡±
¡°Rumors can¡¯t be trusted,¡± Royce told him.
¡°No, of course not.¡± Fawkes glanced toward the front gate. ¡°Still, I doubt our good sheriff knows about that incident or realizes he may owe me his life. As I recall, that dead noble was a high constable. Knox should be more careful. One doesn¡¯t buy poison and handle it without gloves. A fine and dangerous instrument deserves respect. Wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±
¡°Absolutely.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°And now that you mention it, I do seem to recall something about that rumor. Happened in Medford, didn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Why, yes, I believe that was the place.¡±
¡°I can see why you were concerned about the sheriff, but just so we understand each other . . . the man killed wasn¡¯t just a high constable; he was also the king¡¯s cousin.¡±
Lord Fawkes escorted them inside Castle Dulgath¡¯s stables, which were situated beyond the cleft wall and down the road where the land flattened out enough to be safe for horses. Made to appear like a fancy cottage, the stables had twelve-paned windows and an interlocking-brick floor. The place was cleaner than Wayward Street ¡ª even cleaner than The Rose and the Thorn despite Gwen¡¯s hard work. The building didn¡¯t smell like a stable. There wasn¡¯t a trace of manure nor a glimpse of straw. Chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, and the doorways benefited from decorative molding. Horses lounged in stained oak stalls with black-painted metal gates. Each wore a tailored blanket, and in front of every bay sat a large, beautifully crafted trunk.
¡°Nice barn,¡± Hadrian remarked, looking up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling.
¡°Adequate,¡± Fawkes said with a bulging lower lip and a curt dip of his head. ¡°Dulgath doesn¡¯t have the resources, talent, or inclination to indulge in serious equestrian endeavors. I realize you meant it as a jest, Hadrian, but in Maranon, this is hardly impressive.¡±
Lord Fawkes strolled along the long row of gates and stopped outside the stall where a horse stood cloaked in a beige warming coat. Large, black eyes spotted Fawkes, and a white head poked out through the opening in the bars designed specifically for that purpose. The lord cooed, made kissing sounds, and scrubbed the horse¡¯s neck. ¡°This is Immaculate ¡ª she¡¯s mine.¡± Fawkes opened a small pouch on his belt and palmed out a sugar cube. The horse snatched up the treat, smacking her lips with a loud, hollow thumping clap of appreciation.
¡°Why are we here?¡± Royce asked.
Annoyance flashed across Fawkes¡¯s face but was instantly stripped and replaced by a warm smile. ¡°Not a fan of horses?¡±
¡°I like riding more than walking, but I prefer women for the friendlier stuff.¡±
¡°Ha! Well said. Still, a good horse can be a blessing from Novron.¡± He patted Immaculate¡¯s neck fondly. ¡°No one understands our love, do they?¡± he whispered loud enough for them to hear, then turned away with a grin.
Fawkes moved to the next stall, which housed an entirely black horse, this one with a snow-white velvet blanket. The horses were so perfect, so uniform in color; Royce wouldn¡¯t have put it past these pretentious people to dye the animals. Even the horse¡¯s hooves were pitch black. Fawkes reached down and flung open the chest. Inside, a saddle rested on a stand beside a folded blanket, a bridle, and a lead. The saddle was two-toned, tooled leather with an embroidered suede seat and shiny brass fittings. It had the fixed head and lower leaping head of a sidesaddle, which accounted for its plush luxury, although Royce imagined Lord Fawkes¡¯s saddle to be just as ostentatious.
¡°This is Derby, Lady Dulgath¡¯s mare. And this¡± ¡ª he lifted the sidesaddle ¡ª ¡°is Her Ladyship¡¯s as well.¡± He held it up to them.
¡°It¡¯s very nice,¡± Hadrian said.
Fawkes chuckled. ¡°Look at the cinch.¡±
Royce tilted his head to peer at the fabric band that dangled down. Unlike the dual D-rings he and Hadrian tied leather straps to, this one had a set of buckles hidden under the saddle flap. Made of wool, this girth band was bright white.
¡°Again, very pretty,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°It¡¯s new,¡± Royce noted.
The lord grinned. ¡°Good eye.¡±
Fawkes dropped the saddle, closed the chest, then walked to the far wall, where an open barrel stood. Reaching inside, he withdrew a near-identical girth strap. This one was sweat-stained and lacked the fluff of the other.
Royce took it from Fawkes and examined the edges ¡ª crisp and clean up to a point and then ragged where the wool banding had torn. Hadrian looked at him expectantly. ¡°Someone cut it a little more than halfway through. The rest tore while riding.¡±
Fawkes nodded. ¡°Lady Dulgath was shifting from a three-beat canter to a four-beat gallop when it happened. She took a nasty spill. Thankfully, she wasn¡¯t jumping at the time, although she was setting up to do so. The strap broke during her practice ride for the Dulgath Steeplechase of Roses.¡±
Fawkes retrieved the strap from Royce and dropped it back in the barrel.
¡°So that¡¯s two,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°How did they try to kill her the third time?¡±
¡°Poison,¡± Royce replied.
Hadrian and Fawkes looked at him in surprise.
¡°How did you know?¡± Fawkes asked.
¡°I didn¡¯t, until just now, but it seemed likely, given the azaleas in the courtyard.¡±
¡°Those pink flowers are poisonous?¡± Fawkes said as if Royce had shattered a childhood trust. ¡°They¡¯re so beautiful.¡±
¡°And toxic. When I was with the Diamond, a common practice was to send a bouquet of azaleas in a black vase as a warning to other guilds that might be encroaching.¡±
¡°We should have those torn out immediately!¡±
¡°Don¡¯t bother. They don¡¯t pose any real danger to anyone but dogs or maybe children. There are a lot of poisonous flowers ¡ª chrysanthemum, lily of the valley, hydrangea, foxglove, wisteria. Eat any of them and you¡¯ll get sick but probably won¡¯t die. To do someone in, you want hemlock ¡ª eight leaves will kill you. Monkshood is excellent because it absorbs through the skin and leaves no trace. Belladonna is also nice; just one leaf or ten little berries will do the job. Old Bell is a favorite of female murderers because they always have it on hand. Rubbing the leaves on their cheeks makes them rosy. Later, you can brew tea with the same leaves and rid yourself of a troublesome husband. The best choice, of course, is arsenic, but finding some is nearly impossible, and making the extract is difficult.¡±
¡°Then why did you think she¡¯d been poisoned?¡± Fawkes asked.
¡°Because you aren¡¯t dealing with a professional. Dropping a block of stone and cutting a saddle strap is pathetic, lazy work. I don¡¯t even think the killer is a novice. What you¡¯re dealing with is a first-time idiot. A lot of people have heard azaleas are poisonous. So if you¡¯re a moron, but looking for a means to bury someone, those pretty blossoms would be hard to resist. I¡¯m guessing the countess was sick recently?¡±
Fawkes nodded. ¡°We were enjoying breakfast, and she complained about a burning in her mouth. She was eating a pastry at the time, then she drooled a bit and vomited. Disgusting.¡±
¡°She has a taster now?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Yes.¡±
¡°And what makes you think that this feckless would-be killer has given up and hired a professional?¡±
¡°Rumors, mostly. Well, that and the fact that nothing has happened lately. I don¡¯t know anything about these sorts of things, but my guess is it would take time to find the right man, have him travel down here, and plan the deed. That¡¯s why I¡¯m glad you arrived. So how would you go about killing Countess Dulgath?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know ¡ª yet. You¡¯re right about proper planning. Things aren¡¯t to be rushed if they¡¯re to be done right.¡±
¡°When will you know?¡±
¡°I need to get a feel for this place, observe Lady Dulgath¡¯s habits, find her weaknesses and vulnerabilities. A good assassin is like a good tailor ¡ª everything is fit to order.¡±
¡°So this could take a while.¡± Fawkes sounded disappointed.
¡°Well, like you said, if it didn¡¯t she¡¯d be dead already, so I wouldn¡¯t complain. Given that I¡¯m in a race here, I should get to work.¡± He turned to Hadrian. ¡°Can you get us a room or something in the village while I take a look around?¡±
¡°You can stay in the castle,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°There are extra rooms, and I¡¯m sure I can convince Wells about the value of having you there.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°I¡¯d rather retain my autonomy and perspective. But that does bring up a point. We need an alibi, an excuse for being here.¡±
Hadrian looked around them. ¡°What about horse traders or trainers ¡ª something like that?¡±
Fawkes shook his head. ¡°In these parts, horses are our religion. And a layman can¡¯t fool the devout.¡±
¡°Besides,¡± Royce said, ¡°it has to allow us to poke around and ask questions without drawing attention.¡±
¡°Maybe Payne could say you¡¯re deacons of the church?¡±
¡°Most of the town saw me flash my swords,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°By now the other half has heard the story. One guy thought we might be Seret because we were helping Pastor Payne. Could we play off that?¡±
¡°Swords? Helping Payne? What are you talking about?¡± Fawkes asked.
¡°When we arrived, the townsfolk were going to tar-and-feather him. Seeing as he was our client, I thought it was best if they didn¡¯t,¡± Royce said.
Fawkes nodded. ¡°The people around here are not overjoyed with the church, though that will change now that Bishop Parnell is building a ministry. I wouldn¡¯t advise posing as a Seret. The military arm of the church are fanatics and its best not to get on the wrong side of their kind. But that does give me an idea. What about . . .¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°Well, we could use the incident to our advantage. You saw a crime being committed and stepped in. We¡¯ll make you sheriffs.¡±
¡°W-what?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Yes, of course. I¡¯ll talk to Knox.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t work for him,¡± Royce declared.
¡°In a way, you already do,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°But you¡¯re right, he didn¡¯t seem too taken with you. That¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll tell you what. I¡¯ll say that the two of you are special royal constables sent by the king himself to investigate attempts made on Lady Dulgath¡¯s life. It makes perfect sense. Vincent is scheduled to visit here in the next few days to review the fief, accept Lady Dulgath¡¯s pledge of fealty, and renew the homage. It¡¯s only sensible he would want to send his own men to ensure his security, if not hers. Yes . . .¡± Fawkes grinned. ¡°Two royal constables ¡ª you¡¯d have authority to go anywhere and question anyone.¡±
¡°How do we prove it?¡±
¡°I¡¯ll vouch for you and talk to Wells and Knox ¡ª convince them it¡¯ll help protect Lady Dulgath, and they¡¯ll need to back me up if anyone asks. I can be quite persuasive when I need to. We¡¯ll draw up some official-looking papers with Vincent¡¯s signature. Almost everyone here is illiterate, but if it looks official, and if I, Wells, and Knox confirm your story, they¡¯ll believe.¡±
¡°Constables?¡± Royce muttered more to himself than them. He¡¯d played roles in the past: shopkeepers, tradesmen, soldiers, tax collectors. Once he¡¯d even impersonated an executioner ¡ª he was good at that one. Never had he imagined acting as the chief law enforcement official of a realm. The notion left him unsettled, like being asked to eat human flesh.
¡°Appropriate, too,¡± Fawkes said, and threw his arms out to remind them of their surroundings. When they didn¡¯t show a hint of understanding, he explained, ¡°The word constable comes down from imperial times, when the officer responsible for keeping the horses was the count of the stable. It¡¯s like a sign from Novron.¡±
Royce agreed. He just wasn¡¯t certain what was on that sign.
V1: Chapter 6 - The House and the Bedchamber
While riding by himself back to town, Hadrian concluded something wasn¡¯t right about the village of Brecken Dale. He felt it in that faint, absent way he noticed the first kiss of a cold ¡ª nothing specific, nothing he could point to, just a general sense of things being askew. Seeing the pretty berries along the trail reminded him of what Royce had said about them being poisonous. Could he have been on to something or was that just another example of Royce being Royce? Over the last couple of years, Hadrian had witnessed many Royce-being-Royce moments and developed a truism about his partner¡¯s unique brand of paranoia and cynicism. Offered help was either an insult or a ploy. Needed help was a con or a ploy. Pretty much everything was suspected of being a ploy of some sort, except perhaps admitted exploitation, which Royce oddly identified as honesty.
Believing the worst of people, of the world in general, was a trap too easy to fall into. Hadrian had fought beside soldiers who¡¯d developed similar views. Such men saw evil and virtue as concepts of childhood na?vet¨¦. In their minds, there was no such thing as murder, and killing was just something you did when circumstances warranted.
A terrible way to live. What good is a world ¡ª what is the point of living ¡ª if generosity and kindness are myths?
Royce, like everyone, saw what he looked for, what he expected to see. Hadrian looked for goodness and believed he was better for doing so.
Who doesn¡¯t want to live in a brighter world?
He rode along a short wall that decorated rather than protected one of the many stacked-stone farmhouses. Farmers always built from what was at hand, and being tucked between the toes of old mountains, the fields had to be a veritable quarry of rocks. As a blacksmith¡¯s son, Hadrian had never suffered the trials of turning the soil, but he knew many who did. Most came to his father with mangled plows, battered mattocks, and anguished faces. Rocks were as much a curse to farmers as the weather.
Only two things can be reliably grown ¡ª rocks and weeds. He¡¯d heard the saying repeated by the villeins in his childhood village of Hintindar whenever spring threw up another crop of each. And every year the walls surrounding the fields got higher and longer. There had been a time when he wondered if those walls would seal him in.
Noting the height of the wall he now rode beside, Hadrian couldn¡¯t help but wonder why it was so short. Once more that feeling of strangeness descended, underscoring the notion that everything about the town was off, askew.
No, not just askew, awry.
Approaching the twin oaks that marked the southern boundary of the town, he noted how they resembled a pair of porch pillars. These broad columns, however, were clad in dark bark and hid beneath a canopy that cast deep, wide shadows. The hollow ¡ª the dale ¡ª where the village clustered was a leafy pocket at the base of the ravine where that singular road from the outside entered the Valley of Dulgath.
Outside. Already Hadrian thought of things in such terms as here and beyond here, as if he were in a different place from everywhere else, from normal. On this, his second visit to Brecken Dale, he thought the gathered ivy wasn¡¯t simply decorative and pretty but a blanket that hid everything. The sound of Dancer¡¯s hooves on the stone road echoed in the hollow.
Everything echoes. Noises bounced back off the ravine. Not even sound escapes.
When he reached Pastor Payne¡¯s ramshackle hovel, the old man was outside, pulling loose boards. More than a few had come free and teetered in a stack next to him.
¡°Hey there,¡± Hadrian called. ¡°Could you recommend an inn? I¡¯m going to get a room for myself and Royce.¡±
¡°This town doesn¡¯t have one. At least none I could recommend. Your best bet would be Fassbinder¡¯s place.¡±
¡°What¡¯s that?¡±
¡°Fassbinder is a soap maker, but his two boys died last year. It¡¯s where I stayed my first night, but now Bishop Parnell has arranged for this¡± ¡ª he gestured toward the shack ¡ª ¡°wonderful abode. He¡¯s assured me the new church will be the envy of the region.¡±
Hadrian tried to imagine Royce taking supper with Fassbinder and his wife. He didn¡¯t relish night after night of awkward silence.
¡°How about something a bit more public. A tavern with some lodging, perhaps?¡±
¡°There¡¯s Caldwell House, but as I said, I wouldn¡¯t recommend it.¡±
¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I want to go there? Do they have bugs or something?¡±
¡°Worse. It¡¯s down by the river near the square where we first met.¡± Payne¡¯s arm stretched out, one bony finger aimed downhill toward the center of the village, where the ivy and old oaks grew the thickest. ¡°A house of sin and debauchery.¡±
¡°They sell beer then?¡±
The pastor¡¯s response was an irritated pfft, which Hadrian took as yes.
¡°I stay away from the river. The far side is godless; that¡¯s the bad side.¡±
¡°What¡¯s over there?¡± Hadrian lifted his head. A depression snaked through the far side of town, where he imagined a river ran. Beyond roofs and gables, he saw only trees and a hill.
¡°Nothing ¡ª nothing of any worth.¡±
Hadrian had trouble reading clergy in general; they always managed to project a disconnected yet knowledgeable attitude ¡ª less than helpful when gauging reliability.
¡°Fassbinder is up that way,¡± Payne told Hadrian, pointing toward the majority of the freshly planted fields to the south.
¡°Thanks.¡± He dismounted, preferring to walk through the remainder of the village and guessing Dancer appreciated the gesture.
The sun was in the middle of the sky and warm ¡ª another beautiful day in Maranon ¡ª but few people were out. A pair of boys and a dog chased sheep in a high meadow up the ravine, and a woman drew water from the central well, but he didn¡¯t see anyone else. Two doors closed as he approached, and the shutters on nearly every house abutting the street were sealed.
He hoped the pastor wasn¡¯t watching him as he turned downhill toward the river.
On that day the village market was open. The dale¡¯s version was small, airy, and lined with stalls and carts selling salt, spices, leather goods, candles, copper pots, and brass buttons. Caldwell House wasn¡¯t hard to find. The building sat on the corner of this way and that, which was a confusing sign, given that five separate lanes came together at the same intersection; two, however, were only small pathways. One of these led to a reclusive home surrounded by a stand of trees, while the other marked the entrance to what Hadrian thought must be Caldwell House, easily the largest building in the village.
The place was tall, a full four stories if you counted the three dormers and five gables built with all the planning of an afterthought. It, too, was made of fieldstone supported by thick timbers. Like everything else, it was covered with thick ivy. The place was a living plant with doors and two smoking chimneys.
No sign was posted at the entrance or from the eaves. But the door was open, and three men stood in a cluster on the porch, smoking long black pipes. They scrutinized him; not one smiled.
¡°Excuse me, is this an inn?¡± When no one replied, he added, ¡°You know, a hostelry, an auberge, a lodge, a way house?¡±
Just stares.
¡°A place where people rent rooms for the night to sleep in?¡±
The group puffed and walked back inside, leaving a cloud behind.
Not to be deterred from the possibility of a good mug of beer ¡ª even a reasonable imitation thereof ¡ª Hadrian tied Dancer to one of the porch posts. He clapped the horse¡¯s neck. ¡°Hang in there. I¡¯ll see if I can find something for you, too.¡±
He walked around the railing and up the stairs onto the porch.
¡°Don¡¯t mind them,¡± a voice said. A moment later a young woman stepped out of the gloomy interior of the house, emerging from the ivy-wreathed hole.
Red hair ¡ª lots of red hair.
Divided down the middle of her head, the woman¡¯s ginger tresses spilled to her waist after first cascading off bare shoulders. Small and dangerously pretty, she wore a gown elegant in design but not material. Black felt pulled together with leather laces formed the plunging front, while the sleeves were made of coarse wool. Side panels ¡ª hidden beneath her arms ¡ª were made of suede, and the cuffs and pleats were comprised of stitched together burlap scraps. Not remotely refined, the patchwork dress was a bold attempt to imitate the wardrobe of a lady using the means of a waif. Yet unlike any chaste noble garment, this concoction of wool and leather greedily gripped the woman¡¯s body, straining the imperfect stitching.
¡°No?¡± he asked, willing his eyes to remain on her face, not a poor alternative given her friendly smile.
¡°No.¡± She reached up, gathering her hair with both hands and casting it behind her like a net. ¡°You¡¯re the one who stopped the feathering last night, right?¡± She didn¡¯t wait for an answer, obviously didn¡¯t need one. ¡°Some folk are holding a grudge.¡±
¡°Not you, though?¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t there. Heard about it. People talk in a small village. You thirsty?¡±
¡°Yes, but right now I¡¯m looking for a room and a place for my horse. So, is this an inn?¡±
¡°Caldwell House is pretty much whatever you need her to be.¡± She winked. Her age was difficult to guess. The dress said young, but her confident tone made him think she was a year or two older than himself.
¡°Do you . . . work here?¡±
¡°What? Like a whore or something?¡± There wasn¡¯t any tone of offense and no emphasis on the word whore. Just a question asked in a delightfully casual manner, as if they were discussing lemonade or the lack of rain.
He absolutely had been thinking prostitute, but given her reply, he felt it safer to retreat. ¡°Barmaid, perhaps?¡± That, too, might have been an insult. She could be like Gwen and own the place.
¡°An entertainer.¡± She made a little hop, threw her hands up, and spun around in an elegant twirl that made the hem of the gown flare. ¡°My name¡¯s Dodge.¡± She pulled at her hair. ¡°Scarlett Dodge. My mother had all the creativity of an eight-year-old with a spotted puppy.¡±
He chuckled. ¡°Nice to meet you, Spot. I¡¯m Hadrian.¡±
¡°Pleasure is mine.¡± She made an equally elegant curtsey. ¡°You¡¯re from up north, then?¡±
¡°Most recently from Melengar.¡±
Her eyes brightened, and the smile grew even more inviting. ¡°Fancy that. I came down from Warric ¡ª Colnora, to be exact. But you probably guessed I wasn¡¯t a native, on account of how pretty I talk.¡± She chuckled. ¡°And my lovely complexion¡± ¡ª she held out a freckled arm and rubbed ¡ª ¡°which I share with the bellies of dead fish on a hot day.¡± She made another smart spin, turning her back on him but trailing a hand that beckoned with a curled finger. ¡°C¡¯mon in, Hadrian of Melengar. I¡¯ll let you buy me a drink, and we can regale each other with stories of our adventures in foreign lands.¡±
Hadrian glanced back at Dancer. ¡°It won¡¯t take long. I promise.¡±
The inside of Caldwell House was about as pleasant a place as Hadrian could have hoped for. Overhead ran heavy beams of rough-cut wood from which a wagon-wheel chandelier hung. The place was brimming with pewter mugs, fishing rods, forgotten coats, burlap bags, garlic sprigs, and the occasional spider web. Someone had carved the initials w. a. in the center post. More initials, words, and other scars marred the six round tables and the elbowed bar, behind which rested a rack of three barrels, one marked beer, another ale, and the last whiskey. On a chalkboard was written the words: fish are good, but gill¡¯s the best.
Nine patrons occupied the main room. The three men from the porch were now at the bar; four others sat at a table in the center, and two more stood to the rear, holding tankards. One waved at Scarlett, who smiled. ¡°Hey, Brett, when¡¯d you get back?¡±
¡°This morning,¡± Brett replied. He was one of those standing, talking to a fellow across from him who was leaning with his back to the initialed post, one foot bent up and resting on it.
Scarlett trotted across the floor and gave the man a hug ¡ª a polite, friendly sort. No kiss preceded or followed. Brett had the typical black hair and dark eyes of Maranon men, so he wasn¡¯t her brother. But he didn¡¯t appear to be a husband or lover, either. That was good. Hadrian recognized the four men at the table as Bull Neck and company. That was bad. They sat hunched over drinks, elbows on the table, their heads close. Luckily none looked at him, and he tried not to stare at them, either. Like an abandoned boat, Hadrian continued to drift toward the bar, where a man with a short beard and rolled-up sleeves wiped his hands on a towel. He didn¡¯t seem to notice Hadrian, either, as he, and almost everyone else, was looking at Scarlett.
¡°Have a drink with us,¡± she cooed to Brett.
The not-her-brother shook his head. ¡°Got a wagon to unpack, honey.¡±
A playful push and pout followed. ¡°What about you, Larmand?¡± she asked the one holding up the post.
¡°Sorry, Dodge, Brett needs muscle.¡± He held up a bent arm, flexing.
¡°What does that have to do with you?¡± Her comment brought a communal oooh from some of the others. ¡°Suit yourself.¡±
She swept back to Hadrian¡¯s side and faced the bartender. Putting a hand on Hadrian¡¯s shoulder, she said, ¡°Wag, this man is buying two ryes and a pair with foam.¡±
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
¡°That so?¡± the bartender asked.
¡°Sure,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°Why not.¡±
¡°Gill!¡± the man with the towel shouted, and a boy came out from an archway. ¡°Fetch Scarlett a bottle from the cellar.¡±
Hadrian pointed at the barrel marked whiskey, puzzled.
¡°I assumed you weren¡¯t a cheap bastard,¡± Scarlett said as Gill went down the steps to their left and used a key hanging around his neck to enter a small door. ¡°Wag knows what I like.¡±
While Gill fetched the bottle, the bartender used one hand to hold two pewter mugs beneath the barrel spigot marked beer. ¡°Wagner Drayton,¡± he said, extending his hand while still holding the beers in the other.
¡°Hadrian Blackwater.¡± He shook and received the drinks as a reward.
Only a truly forgiving or desperate woman would consider Wagner a handsome man. His face suffered from numerous pockmarks and deep wrinkles. The latter cut across his brow and added unnecessary dimension to his cheeks. The beard was likely an effort to cover his face. He kept it short, but it, too, was unsightly, as it grew in patches. He was smiling.
Well, that¡¯s something.
Scarlett pulled over a pair of high-backed wooden stools. ¡°Have pity on your paws.¡± She clapped the face of a seat and hopped up on her own, kicking her heels up onto the footrest that ran around the base of the bar.
Hadrian pulled off his spadone, propping it next to him. He sat down and picked up the mug before him.
¡°To a fine meeting.¡± Scarlett rammed his mug hard enough to send foam over the edge.
The beer was good ¡ª warm, rich, and far from flat.
¡°So what do you do here, Scarlett?¡± Hadrian asked, hoping to learn more about this woman who freely hugged men, dressed like a patchwork princess, and demanded only the best whiskey.
¡°I told you, I entertain.¡±
¡°Give him a taste,¡± Wagner said, picking up three shot glasses, which he tossed at her.
Scarlett caught each with practiced ease and began juggling, sending them higher and higher. She stood up, moved to an open space, and began catching them behind her back. Continuing their rotation, she rested each on her forehead momentarily, and then, without Hadrian seeing it happen, there were only two glasses ¡ª then just one. She walked back to her seat, the final glass vanishing into thin air.
¡°Impressive.¡± He applauded.
¡°Thank you.¡± She bowed before hopping back on her chair.
Gill returned with a dark, corked bottle, plucking straw off it as he came. The boy handed it to Wagner.
¡°Glasses, darling.¡± The bartender smiled at Scarlett, who reached up toward Hadrian¡¯s head and pulled a shot glass from behind his ear. She placed it on the bar while reaching up for another. By the time she produced the third glass, Wagner had poured two shots of amber liquid.
¡°Some of the best rye whiskey in Maranon,¡± Wagner said, re-corking the bottle.
Scarlett lifted hers and smelled it. Her eyes closed as a dreamy look took her and an alluring smile spread across her lips. ¡°I love this stuff.¡±
¡°That¡¯s why I have to keep it locked in the cellar.¡± Wagner pointed at her and tapped his nose at the same time.
¡°What will we drink to this time?¡± she asked.
¡°To whiskey-loving women who juggle,¡± Hadrian supplied.
She grinned, and they clicked glasses more gingerly this time. She took the whole shot in one swallow.
Hadrian did the same. ¡°I have to admit, I wasn¡¯t expecting such a welcome reception after my friend and I interrupted things.¡±
¡°Where¡¯s your friend?¡±
¡°He¡¯ll be along. Sent me ahead to get a room. Which reminds me. Wagner?¡±
¡°Yes, sir?¡± The bartender popped a bright smile on his ugly lips.
¡°Could I get a room with two beds and a stall for my horse?¡±
¡°Absolutely. Horse out front, is it?¡±
¡°Yep.¡±
¡°Gill!¡± Wagner yelled. The boy was there in a flash, and Hadrian was starting to see why Gill was the best. ¡°Take care of the man¡¯s horse.¡±
¡°So tell me, are my partner and I the only new people in town? Anyone else visiting?¡± Hadrian asked Wagner.
¡°Been slow,¡± Wagner replied. ¡°Why? You expecting to meet up with someone?¡±
¡°Me? No. Just making conversation is all. And now that I think about it, what¡¯s the deal with Pastor Payne? What¡¯d he do to deserve a tarring?¡±
Wagner shook his head. ¡°Nothing. It¡¯s not him; it¡¯s what he¡¯s trying to sell. We don¡¯t need the Nyphron Church in these parts.¡±
Scarlett switched to a polite smile as she crossed her legs. ¡°Dulgath has an old tradition that dates back to imperial days. The church hasn¡¯t bothered with us until now. Brecken Moor is where the Monks of Maribor were founded.¡±
¡°Wait.¡± Hadrian stopped her, confused. The whiskey had hit harder than he expected. ¡°I thought this was Brecken Dale.¡±
¡°It is,¡± Wagner said, then pointed across the bar, as if Hadrian could tell what direction that was. He couldn¡¯t; the rush of the drinks on an empty stomach, combined with the twists and turns of the village roads, had left him baffled. ¡°Brecken Moor is the old monastery up on the hill, just outside town.¡±
¡°Oh yeah, Payne mentioned something about a monastery, didn¡¯t speak too highly of it.¡±
¡°Up north, the two sects tolerate each other, but down here . . .¡± Scarlett shook her head. ¡°Like Wag said, we aren¡¯t buying what they¡¯re selling.¡±
¡°Which is?¡± Hadrian asked.
She waved a dismissive hand. ¡°That crap about Novron and his heirs. If they had their way, we¡¯d return to imperial rule, everyone bowing down to one man. We like things just as they are. Especially now that Lady Dulgath is going to be in charge. Don¡¯t get me wrong, the earl was fine, a good man, really. But Lady Dulgath is something else, something special.¡±
Scarlett held out her glass, and Wagner poured another drink. She continued, ¡°A lot of changes are going on outside our little corner of Elan. But you¡¯ll find that people around here like our traditions. I¡¯ve heard rumors that the other provinces of Maranon have switched allegiances from Monarchist to Imperialist. Swanwick was the most recent.¡±
Hadrian nodded, and the room swam. He checked his beer and found that most of it was still in his mug.
While it was true he hadn¡¯t eaten in hours, he wasn¡¯t such a lightweight that a single shot ¡ª
I¡¯m sweating, too. Something isn¡¯t right.
He scanned the room and noticed that the four at the table had gotten up. The two who were in such a hurry to unload a wagon had moved to the door but forgot to leave. They were no longer looking at Scarlett. Everyone was looking at him.
¡°What¡¯d you put in the drink?¡± he asked her softly.
¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she said. ¡°It won¡¯t kill you, but we are going to finish what you stopped. Only this time you¡¯ll be tar and feathered right alongside that bastard Payne. When you see Bishop Parnell, tell him we don¡¯t need the Nyphron Church around here, and anyone he sends will get the same treatment.¡±
Hadrian got to his feet and drew his swords, but the room was soup, his arms lazy, his hands going numb. Probably fed me some azaleas.
Bull Neck charged forward, and Hadrian made a wild swing at him.
¡°Leave him,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°He¡¯ll pass out soon enough.¡±
Anger bloomed, but years of training helped Hadrian push it away. He had to think, but his mind was spinning like the room, and he was running out of time. He considered making a run for his horse, but Gill would have taken Dancer away. The kid was already back, and Brett and Larmand were guarding the door.
Out of options.
Hadrian¡¯s vision narrowed as the poison worked through him. He was weaving, struggling to keep standing.
What will Royce say when he finds out. What will he do?
Hadrian looked sympathetically at Scarlett. She hadn¡¯t meant him any serious harm; she just wanted him to leave. But Royce was another matter, and she had no idea what he was capable of. That single sobering thought provided him an instant of clarity, and in that moment, he saw the sign again.
fish are good, but gill¡¯s the best.
The kid was back near the cellar steps, watching him, waiting like everyone else to see him fall. Hadrian dropped his swords. They couldn¡¯t help him now; only Gill could.
Gill¡¯s the best.
With a sloppy stagger, Hadrian grabbed the kid. Behind him, people shouted, but he wasn¡¯t listening to them anymore. All his focus was on one thing ¡ª the key that Gill had around his neck.
With a yank, which must have hurt, the chain broke. Gill probably screamed, but Hadrian couldn¡¯t spare the attention. His sight was already dimming as he nearly fell down the steps. Luckily the boy had neglected to lock the door. He rolled into the small room filled with hay-packed straw, slammed the door closed, and with shaking hands struggled to put the key into the lock. If he could just seal himself in, then . . .
Fish are good and Gill¡¯s the best, but now it¡¯s time to take a rest.
The words began to repeat stupidly in his head. Then they began to jumble.
Resting fish and Gill . . . how best is now to rest?
Hadrian, who by then was sweating a puddle, was happy to find the cool stone of the floor and lay his face on it.
Gill the fish . . . rest is best . . . time is now . . . it feels so good to . . .
Royce explored the grounds of Castle Dulgath. No one questioned his presence; no one even noticed as he studied gates, windows, and walls. The lack of security was appalling, and the castle wasn¡¯t much better. Roughly squared stones were stacked without mortar and covered with lichen, moss, and ivy. The place practically wheezed with old age. One tower at the southern corner had fallen, and no one had bothered to rebuild it. The pile of collapsed stones had lain forgotten for some time, judging by the thick roots of the trees growing over them.
A desolate place. The thought lingered in Royce¡¯s head as he circled the point. Nice that way.
He imagined few would share his opinion, Hadrian being among the least likely. But Royce found beauty in the windswept rock and the constant battle it waged against the sea. Stripped bare but standing strong, the promontory displayed an insolent resilience he appreciated. Why anyone would erect a castle there, he had no idea. Strategically, it made no sense. Dulgath was miles from anything notable and had nothing to defend or protect.
Traffic did pass along the coast, but Castle Dulgath was inland from the infamous Point of Mann, where ships went to die. The name came from Captain Silas Mann, who¡¯d discovered the dangerous reef when his ship plowed into it and sank with all hands. A more common and colorful rumor declared the landmark¡¯s name had its origins in the prayers of drowning sailors who were asking Maribor for life¡¯s meaning. The treacherous, ship-sinking obstacle protected the coast, making the castle unnecessary. Yet another reason its location made no sense.
The pinnacle of stone the castle sat on, an upthrusting slab of nearly vertical basalt rock, was ideal for a defensive fortress, but Castle Dulgath made little use of it. The entrance through the front wall wasn¡¯t much more formidable than a garden¡¯s gate. Made of simple wood with iron braces, the gates stood less than ten feet in height. Any kid with a fruit crate could climb over them ¡ª a theory that wouldn¡¯t be tested, since the entryway was never closed, much less locked.
Just as well, Royce concluded, given that none of the towers were built for defense. Castle Dulgath possessed no arrow loops, barbican, or curtain wall, and not a single murder hole. Even the crenellated battlements appeared to have been built more for style than for use. Either the builders had no thought of defense ¡ª odd, considering the isolated perch they placed the castle on ¡ª or they didn¡¯t know the first thing about fortress defenses.
After the sun had sunk into the sea, Royce moved along the parapet in earnest, imagining himself as an assassin with a contract to eliminate the countess. In many ways, he wished he were. The job would be insanely easy. Aside from the lack of a gatehouse or closed gates, there were precious few guards. The tiny Hemley Estate with Ralph and Mister Hipple was more heavily, and competently, watched. The castle¡¯s courtyard went dark with the setting sun. No attempt was made to set a lantern or light a torch. And the ivy! Old and entrenched, the plant grew everywhere, the branch-thick vines making excellent ladders.
He didn¡¯t have the slightest trouble reaching the tower, where an open window gave him access to ¡ª he struggled not to laugh ¡ª Lady Dulgath¡¯s bedroom. The chamber was paneled in dark-stained oak, had a little hearth all its own, and a luxurious bed with a red velvet canopy and silk sheets. She had four freestanding wardrobes, a dressing table, a wash table, three wood-and-brass trunks, a full-length mirror that tilted on a swivel, a table littered with seashells, shelves filled with books, a painting of an elderly man dressed in black and green, two chairs ¡ª one with a cushioned stool before it ¡ª and a set of thick candles, three-quarters melted.
She wasn¡¯t in the room. He didn¡¯t expect her to be. If this had been a real job, he¡¯d have waited until late and slipped in while she slept. Then, placing a hand over her mouth ¡ª to hold her still and keep her silent ¡ª he¡¯d slit the lady¡¯s throat. The red covers would help hide the blood. There would be a dark stain, but it could just as easily be spilled water. He¡¯d pull the covers up to her throat to cover the wound.
Royce preferred to be neat when he didn¡¯t have a point to make. He¡¯d wash off any blood in the basin, assuming he got some on him, which was unusual but did happen. With everything in order, he would climb back down the unwatched ivy, walk along the unmanned parapet, and saunter out the unguarded, and always open, gates.
It¡¯s a wonder she¡¯s still alive.
Footsteps made Royce slip between a pair of wardrobes as the chamber door opened. Nysa Dulgath entered, guarding a candle flame with a cupped hand. She set the light down, closed the door behind her, and then stopped. Pressing down on her left heel, she spun upon it like a child¡¯s top.
¡°What are you doing here?¡± she asked, but her eyes weren¡¯t on him ¡ª they were searching.
Royce hesitated. He was good at hiding, always had been. In the dark, no one ever saw him. The only light in the room was the single candle, hardly enough to give him away. Her tone also threw him. Too relaxed, too calm. If she really saw him hiding in her private chambers, if she¡¯d spotted him, the pampered girl would have begun caterwauling not unlike Mister Hipple¡¯s little fit. The inflection of her question wasn¡¯t without emotion, of course: She was decidedly annoyed.
A moment of silence followed. She huffed and folded her arms roughly, as if that might mean something. She then shifted her weight first to her left and then her right hip. ¡°Are you going to answer me?¡±
She was staring directly at him then, an indignant frown on her lips.
How can she see me?
No point in pretending he wasn¡¯t there or that she hadn¡¯t caught him, he replied, ¡°My job.¡±
¡°Your job entails lurking in my bedroom?¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t expect you to be here.¡±
¡°Where else would I be at night?¡±
¡°I ¡ª¡±
¡°And why are you here at all? Have you been going through my clothes?¡± Once again she pivoted on that left heel, moved to a wardrobe, and flung open the doors, sending Royce into retreat.
¡°Why would I go through your clothes?¡±
¡°I haven¡¯t the slightest idea. But it¡¯s really all that¡¯s here, so why else would you be in my room?¡±
¡°I was hired to determine how a professional assassin might go about murdering you.¡±
¡°You think hiding in my wardrobe might be a good tactic, do you?¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t in your wardrobe.¡±
¡°I can only hope that¡¯s the truth.¡± She slapped the doors shut.
Such an odd girl.
That was always true of those with noble blood. They failed to act as any normal person would. For a time, Royce had been convinced that nobles were another species and that the idea of blue blood made them different from others, just as they claimed. While they boasted about being superior, Royce always found the opposite to be true. Nobles were born without the survival instincts granted every other living thing. Believing themselves special, they were oblivious to dangers and surprised when catastrophe followed. Lady Dulgath was a shining example.
For a moment, he thought she was about to show a degree of intelligence when she picked up the candle. He expected her to flee. Instead, she held it up and came closer.
¡°Pull back the hood,¡± she told him.
¡°Not that again. And let me explain in advance ¡ª a stay in your dungeon really isn¡¯t going to happen.¡±
Her eyes narrowed, and a smile formed on her lips ¡ª not a friendly one, more of an amused, curious grin. ¡°So sure of yourself. Your problem is that you lack the capacity to imagine a young woman could be a threat.¡± She lowered the candle, accepting, he hoped, that the hood was staying up. ¡°I know that particular arrogance all too well. Assumption of superiority is quite dangerous.¡±
¡°When I was first hired, I wondered why anyone would want to kill you. I don¡¯t anymore. Honestly, I¡¯m surprised there isn¡¯t a line.¡±
Lady Dulgath laughed, nearly blowing out the candle. She crossed to one of the tables and set it down.
Royce continued, ¡°I¡¯m not kidding. The good news ¡ª for me anyway ¡ª is I¡¯m not here to protect you, find the assassin, or even determine who hired him. That¡¯s Knox¡¯s job. Given this castle¡¯s security, and ¡ª as I mentioned ¡ª the fact that it could be literally anyone, I don¡¯t envy the sheriff. He¡¯s doomed to failure. If you don¡¯t already have one, make out a last will and testament as soon as possible. That way at least you won¡¯t leave a mess for others to clean up.¡±
¡°I wonder who your parents are,¡± she said, leaving Royce baffled.
¡°What?¡±
¡°Your parents ¡ª who are they?¡±
¡°Hatred and disillusionment, how about you?¡±
She smiled at him, the same unperturbed grin, as if he were great fun.
¡°You know,¡± Royce said, ¡°most young ladies would be terrified to find someone like me in their room.¡±
¡°You know, most men would be terrified to be caught uninvited in the bedroom of a countess, but then . . .¡± She took a slow step forward. ¡°You¡¯re not a man, are you?¡±
Royce took a step back. He wasn¡¯t sure why. The woman before him was small, thin, and delicate. And while the gown she wore, with its high collar and long sleeves, wasn¡¯t provocative, it did emphasize her feminine frailty.
¡°Does your partner know?¡± she asked.
¡°Know what?¡±
¡°What you are?¡±
¡°What am I?¡±
She smiled again.
¡°Is this a guessing game?¡± he asked, annoyed.
¡°I was only ¡ª¡± She stopped and her eyes widened. ¡°You don¡¯t know.¡± She clasped her hands before her, touching fingertips to her lips while grinning. ¡°You have no idea, do you?¡± She looked him up and down and nodded. ¡°You hide it well, and you¡¯re still young. In your first century?¡±
¡°You¡¯re a very odd girl.¡±
¡°And what about you?¡± She let out a childlike giggle, which somehow managed to sound frightening. ¡°No human could have caught the paint bottle Sherwood threw. You didn¡¯t even see it. You heard it. And the speed you displayed was beyond that of a mere man.¡± She turned and blew out the candle. ¡°I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.¡±
That wasn¡¯t a question, and she spoke with complete confidence. ¡°Heat and cold don¡¯t bother you nearly as much as they do your friend, but ice, snow, and boats ¡ª oh, ships! You never go sailing.¡±
Royce was pleased the candle was out, but not so certain she couldn¡¯t see him. She seemed to see him all too clearly, and he didn¡¯t know how.
¡°No, Mister Royce Melborn, your parents weren¡¯t hate and disillusionment,¡± she said, her pale, white face lit by starlight that did, indeed, revealed the brown of her eyes. ¡°At least one of your parents is what people call an elf. I think you sh ¡ª¡±
V1: Chapter 7 - A Game of Ten Fingers
Royce had never been one for etiquette. Appearing in the bedchamber of the countess had to rank high on anyone¡¯s list of faux pas; leaving while she was still mid-sentence was probably worse. He was halfway back to Brecken Dale before it even occurred to him to wonder why he¡¯d done it.
She¡¯d rattled him.
This was the only explanation he could come up with. A spoiled, noble girl had shaken him so badly he¡¯d run away.
Run away.
He¡¯d fled from a young woman who had a disturbing way of looking at things. On the way back to town, a loop of two words ran through his mind: Not possible. Every once in a while, he¡¯d toss in colorful adjective or add: The bitch is nuts. Mostly, he gritted his teeth, breathed heavily through his nose, and strangled the reins between fists until the leather cried. The only consolation about Lady Dulgath¡¯s pronouncement was that Hadrian hadn¡¯t been with him, hadn¡¯t heard.
At least one of your parents is what people call an elf.
Elves were as respected as cockroaches, pond scum, and bread mold. Once, very long ago, they had been slaves of the First Empire. When it fell, they were freed but had nowhere to go. Since then, the slaves-turned-beggars clustered in the worst parts of every city. Dumb as bugs drawn to a campfire, they crowded in cesspools holding out hands and pleading for scraps. Every day they kissed the filthy feet of those who spit on them.
Royce had been wrong that night when he¡¯d debated whether dogs or dwarves were the worst. His answer should have been, elves ¡ª no doubt about it. They were just so low on the list, he usually left them off it entirely.
I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.
She was right, even though she couldn¡¯t have known. Builders knew the best ways to destroy buildings, and Royce prided himself on breaking down falsehoods. He saw through deceit, flattery, and fake smiles. He followed logic, and when something didn¡¯t add up, he knew the sandy grains of a lie sat at the bottom of the foundation. But this time everything made sense; everything added up. He just didn¡¯t want to accept the truth.
Royce had never known his parents. He had been told he was abandoned in a muddy sewer in the city of Ratibor when just an infant. Other kids had taunted him, called him an elf. He was small, thin enough, and certainly looked every bit as destitute. Being young, he¡¯d believed them. When he got older, he realized the children were wrong. Elf was simply the most despicable word they could come up with.
Over the decades he¡¯d witnessed so much inhumanity that he¡¯d come to accept his abandonment as typical, one more brace in a consistent framework. The question wasn¡¯t: How could my mother leave me in a sewer, but, rather: Why aren¡¯t more children abandoned in the mud? Just dumb luck. He¡¯d built an existence on the belief of an unsympathetic world, but after fleeing Lady Dulgath¡¯s bedroom, he felt that underpinning crumble. If she was right, it would explain a great deal. Royce still believed in the callousness of life ¡ª but perhaps brutality wasn¡¯t handed out so capriciously. He hadn¡¯t been abandoned because the world was cruel; he¡¯d been cast away because he was an elf.
When he arrived at Payne¡¯s door, the clergyman sensed the thief¡¯s mood and didn¡¯t bother inviting him in. Instead, the pastor directed Royce to Caldwell House, saying he¡¯d tried to warn Hadrian away but had seen him go in that direction.
Royce arrived at the place Payne had indicated, but he didn¡¯t find a sign, just an ivy-covered porch. Three men stood together near the open door, watching him as he tied up his horse.
¡°This Caldwell House?¡±
They ignored him.
Royce leapt the guardrail onto the porch, and the men scattered.
¡°Don¡¯t mind them,¡± a young woman said as she stepped out of the gloomy interior of the ivy-covered building.
Royce turned toward her, and the face beneath the tumble of red hair went ghostly white. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, and she waved her palms like little white flags. ¡°Bugger me!¡± she exclaimed.
¡°No thanks,¡± Royce said. ¡°Not in the mood, and you¡¯re not my type.¡±
She backed up, stumbling over her own feet while trying to get away. Her reaction was odd, but the absolute horror in her eyes tipped him off to trouble, and Royce slowed down. He remembered her from his days in the Black Diamond, though as little more than a face. Known as Feldspar, she¡¯d been a low-level sweeper, a grunt in the Diamond¡¯s army who worked in a team on one of Colnora¡¯s less productive corners. He seemed to recall her working with a guy who went by the guild name of Glitter, who drew in a crowd with juggling and magic acts. The real sleight of hand went on behind the scenes.
Being scared of him was reasonable considering the miniature war he¡¯d waged on the guild a few years back, but a more immediate fear radiated from her face. Surprise, even dread, would¡¯ve been expected, but Feldspar exhibited an expression normally only seen in those expecting a visit from him. She radiated guilt, and Royce followed her retreat into the tavern.
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Hadrian.
A quick look around revealed no sign of him. He might have gone to their rented room, but that seemed unlikely given the presence of the bar. His partner should be sitting, drinking, and chatting up a pretty ¡ª
¡°Where is he?¡± Royce asked.
Feldspar was still backing up, but slowly. Smart. Everyone knows you never run from a predator; it just invites an attack.
Royce counted eight others in the bar. The same herd of four who¡¯d wanted to tar the pastor sat at a table, trying their best not to be noticed, and yet they kept casting concerned glances. Two more leaned on a post, watching. The bartender and a kid who likely worked there were equally interested.
¡°I didn¡¯t know it was you. I swear to Maribor, I had no idea. If I had known . . .¡±
¡°Go on,¡± Royce said, following her into the room. ¡°If you had known . . . what?¡±
She realized her mistake and closed her mouth.
¡°Dodge?¡± one of the men near the post called, and two more at the table pushed out chairs that scraped across the stone floor.
Wasn¡¯t supposed to go this way. They¡¯re just realizing the play has stopped following the script.
Royce darted forward and caught a fistful of red hair, jerking Feldspar back and kicking the feet out from under her.
The rest of the boys at the table hopped up, and the two near the post started across the room, coming at them.
¡°Stop!¡± he ordered, and placed Alverstone¡¯s blade to her neck. ¡°Everyone take a seat. I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s not the only one who can tell me what I want to know. When she¡¯s struggling to breathe through a new hole in her throat, the rest of you will be more cooperative.¡±
¡°You little ¡ª¡± one started to say.
¡°Sit down!¡± Feldspar screamed. ¡°He¡¯s not screwing around. He¡¯ll do it.¡±
The room froze. Royce was the first to move. Hauling her by her hair, he dragged the woman across the floor to the open door and pulled it shut. He jerked the bolt across. ¡°There,¡± he said. ¡°No one leaves until we have a little talk.¡±
No one sat.
¡°Sit your asses down ¡ª he doesn¡¯t ask twice!¡± she shouted.
Everyone found a chair.
¡°Okay now.¡± Royce pulled her head back to look into her eyes. ¡°Seeing as how I know you pride yourself on sleight of hand, we¡¯re going to play a game of Ten Fingers.¡±
She whimpered.
¡°Ah, you remember how it¡¯s played, good. I wasn¡¯t planning on explaining it.¡± He dragged her to a table. ¡°C¡¯mon, I¡¯m not the patient sort.¡±
Feldspar placed a shaking hand palm down on the table.
¡°Spread your fingers. You wouldn¡¯t want to lose two at once by accident, would you?¡±
¡°What the bloody ¡ª¡± the fellow in the orange tunic started to ask.
¡°Shut up!¡± she screamed. ¡°Just shut up! And don¡¯t you move. Please, for the love of Maribor, don¡¯t anyone move.¡±
She had tears in her eyes, and the table, which wasn¡¯t quite level, quivered. The uneven legs made an unnerving, hollow dud, dud, dud sound.
Royce set the tip of Alverstone between her right pinky and ring finger. The mirrored blade reflected the room. ¡°First question: Where is Hadrian?¡±
¡°In the cellar, over there.¡± Knowing the rules, she indicated with her head.
Royce lifted and dropped the knife between her ring and middle finger. ¡°Second: Is he alive?¡±
¡°Yes, just sleeping.¡±
¡°Lucky, lucky lady.¡± He placed the knife tip between her middle and index fingers, both of which were shaking so badly he thought she might cut herself. It¡¯d be easy to do; Alverstone wasn¡¯t a forgiving blade. ¡°Third: Why is he in the cellar?¡±
¡°He locked himself in after realizing I drugged him.¡±
¡°Drugged him?¡±
Her breath stopped for a moment. When at last it resumed, it came in stutters.
¡°Fourth: Why is he still in there?¡±
¡°He took the only key, and I was a sweeper, not a pick. I¡¯ve no skills. We figured you¡¯d be coming soon, and we didn¡¯t want to be caught breaking the door down when you arrived. But I didn¡¯t know it was you who was coming.¡±
¡°Five: When I let go of you, are you going to run?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Other hand,¡± Royce told her and dragged the first clear. A stain of sweat remained on the table. She tentatively slid the other into its place. Royce placed the tip of Alverstone beside her left-hand pinky and let it twist into the wood. ¡°Six: Why not?¡±
¡°No place I can go that¡¯d be far enough.¡±
¡°You¡¯re good at this game.¡± Royce grinned, then startled her by moving the blade in rapid succession, darting it between her next four fingers so fast it made a tiny drumroll. Feldspar shuddered, her legs jumped, and she let out an anguished squeak. But she didn¡¯t move the hand on the table even the breadth of a hair. ¡°Seven: Did Hadrian manage to get a room before you drugged him?¡±
¡°Y-yes.¡±
He pulled the blade from the table. ¡°Get up,¡± he ordered, and let her find her own feet. ¡°I¡¯m going to open that door. While I do, you¡¯re going to explain to your friends why they¡¯re going to be very good boys.¡±
Royce crossed the room, moving without a sound. The cellar had a primitive two-pin lock; it took him more time to get out his picks than it did to unlock the door. Inside, he found Hadrian slumped on the floor.
¡°Tell your stocky friends to carry him to the room.¡±
Feldspar nodded and gestured to Bull Neck to get moving.
¡°C¡¯mon, Dodge,¡± he objected. ¡°The guy is scrawny as a chicken.¡±
Her voice was stern. ¡°Do what he says, Brook.¡±
¡°There¡¯s eight of us. I don¡¯t see why we should do anything he says.¡±
Feldspar glanced at Royce. ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said, then walked over to the bar and grabbed a paring knife. She crossed back to Brook and, without warning or comment, buried the knife in the man¡¯s thigh. He screamed and bent over, clutching his leg. Then he fell backward onto the floor, sending one of the chairs skidding.
¡°Do. You. See. That?¡± She bent over him, shouting and pointing at the blade in his thigh.
¡°Why¡¯d you do that?¡± the bartender asked.
¡°She obviously likes him,¡± Royce explained.
Feldspar grabbed the knife, stood up, and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. ¡°Get Hadrian upstairs. Right now!¡±
Chairs toppled as the men got up and headed for the cellar.
Royce kept a careful eye as they carried Hadrian. ¡°Tuck him in nice, boys.¡±
¡°Yes ¡ª for Maribor¡¯s sake, don¡¯t hurt him.¡± Feldspar laid the knife on the table and held her hands up again. ¡°Duster, I swear to you, I didn¡¯t know. I wasn¡¯t here when you two arrived. I heard that two guys broke up Payne¡¯s tarring, and I thought the church had sent down some muscle to watch over him. I also heard rumors of a hired assassin, but had I known you ¡ª¡±
¡°Congratulations for a well-played hand of Ten Fingers. You¡¯re good at it. No wonder you still have all of yours.¡± Royce watched the procession carrying Hadrian up the stairs of the inn without incident. They looked like pallbearers at a funeral.
¡°Hadrian will be happy he saved your life by locking himself in the cellar,¡± he told her. ¡°He¡¯s odd that way.¡±
V1: Chapter 8 - Eye of the Hurricane
Christopher Fawkes hung the lantern on the brass hook dangling from the stable¡¯s ceiling. Flies ¡ª woken by the light ¡ª competed with moths for the stupidest things in the world as they butted the lamp, frustrated with their inability to incinerate themselves. Knox had objected to using a lantern, but Christopher wasn¡¯t going to conduct business standing in a dark barn.
No one finding the chamberlain, high sheriff, Pastor Payne, and the king¡¯s cousin chatting in a lighted stable, even late at night, would hardly think it noteworthy. But if the same men were caught together in the dark ¡ª anywhere ¡ª that would be suspicious.
¡°Well? What do you think?¡± Christopher asked Chamberlain Wells.
Thorbert Wells stood with arms folded, his long face sagging more than usual. ¡°I¡¯m thinking that I¡¯m still not comfortable.¡±
¡°What more assurance do you need?¡± Payne asked. ¡°The church is behind us, and you have the king¡¯s cousin before you.¡±
¡°It all seems so . . . I don¡¯t know . . . wrong,¡± Wells said.
¡°What the church does is always right. We are the arbiters of right and wrong,¡± the pastor assured him.
Wells settled his sight on Payne with an appalled wrinkle in his brow. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t assume just because I¡¯m native to Dulgath, that I¡¯m stupid.¡±
¡°Yes, yes, of course, but ¡ª¡±
¡°No one thinks you¡¯re stupid,¡± Christopher cut in before Payne could do any damage. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be trying to enlist you if we felt that way. What you are is ambitious. A modest, content man doesn¡¯t rise from fisherman¡¯s son to castle chamberlain. We appreciate your achievements, but you lack noble blood, so you¡¯ve reached your full potential. You¡¯ve topped out here in Dulgath. There¡¯s no place higher to rise to in this backwater. Nothing has changed here for centuries, and it won¡¯t if the Dulgath line continues.¡±
The constant tap, buzz, and flutter of the flies diving at the lantern unnerved Christopher, reminding him of more nefarious insects. At the age of six, he had been traumatized by a pair of bumblebees. While not stung, he had, nevertheless, been trapped behind a rosebush, too scared to venture forth. Night came, and Christopher still refused to move for fear they were lurking in the dark. When his brother finally dragged Christopher home, his father had beaten him for being a coward. The humiliation and subsequent taunts drove Christopher to learn the sword and shield. But although he performed adequately in court contests with live blades, the buzzing of bees still sent chills down his spine.
He gave a nervous glance at the lantern. They¡¯re flies! he told himself, but still folded his arms to hide his shaking hands.
Not a good way to start a legacy.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that no one would remember it this way. Many important events in history occurred in less-than-ideal fashion but were corrected in recollection. Had Novron really stood atop that famed hill challenging the might of flying beasts? And afterward, had he made that grand and eloquent speech about freedom and bravery? Had the Patriarch embraced Glenmorgan, and had the steward appreciatively knelt, allowing himself to take a lesser title? Christopher couldn¡¯t imagine power struggles being so amiable.
When people looked back on how the landless Christopher Fawkes became Earl Christopher Fawkes of Dulgath, no one will recall that it started in a stable. In the future, this night never happened.
¡°I was loyal to Beadle ¡ª to the Earl of Dulgath.¡±
¡°I¡¯m certain you were. But Beadle is dead. Do you really think Nysa Dulgath is capable of filling her father¡¯s shoes?¡±
Wells sighed. ¡°She doesn¡¯t listen to me ¡ª doesn¡¯t listen to anyone. Thinks she knows everything.¡±
¡°If you support me, Wells,¡± Christopher told him, ¡°together we¡¯ll transform Dulgath. Make it powerful. This place is rich but untapped. I¡¯ll levy taxes, conscript an army, and Knox here will train them. The Nyphron Church¡¯s influence will grow. They¡¯ll help me expand Dulgath¡¯s borders, and I¡¯ll need lords loyal to me. You¡¯ll have your own castle then.¡±
¡°I won¡¯t kill her,¡± Wells announced.
¡°No one is asking you to.¡±
¡°You have no idea what those assassins will come up with.¡± Wells pointed at him with a pudgy finger. ¡°What if they suggest bribing the chamberlain to knife the girl? I¡¯m telling you now, I won¡¯t do that.¡±
¡°We wouldn¡¯t ask you to.¡± Christopher suspected that the chamberlain¡¯s concern stemmed from the fear of getting caught rather than a distaste for spilling blood.
¡°I don¡¯t trust them,¡± Knox said, jumping in. He had his arms folded, leaning back against the stall.
Christopher could have stabbed him. They were there to convince Wells to join, and this was no time for airing concerns. I have to do everything myself. ¡°Well, that¡¯s natural. They¡¯re rogues, assassins, and thieves. If they were trustworthy, we¡¯d have cause for concern.¡±
¡°One of them ¡ª the big one ¡ª is familiar,¡± the sheriff went on. ¡°I¡¯ve seen him before. Don¡¯t remember where.¡±
¡°So?¡±
Knox scowled. ¡°Look, how long is this going to take them?¡± His tone was disapproving; so was the frown on his face, but then Knox usually looked that way. The man was a thug, a northern soldier of some sort recruited by the earl, who¡¯d wanted a tough, impartial hand. What he got was certainly impartial ¡ª to everything but coin. Knox was very partial to gold tenents.
¡°How should I know?¡± Christopher said. ¡°Do you think I make a habit of this sort of thing?¡±
¡°Damned if I have a clue about what you do.¡±
¡°Well, see, that¡¯s where we differ,¡± Christopher said. ¡°Because I know exactly what you do, Knox. Absolutely nothing. As a high sheriff, you¡¯d make a great sundial.¡±
Christopher didn¡¯t even know what that meant, but his mother used to say it all the time. Is that all you did today, Chris? As a fetcher of wood, you¡¯d make a great sundial. I asked you to box up my gowns; as a valet, you¡¯d make a great sundial.
He never understood what she had against sundials. They never bothered anyone, were quiet, kept to themselves, and did what was asked of them in all kinds of weather. His mother just couldn¡¯t see their value. As for his father, he had no problem with sundials ¡ª just with his son.
Christopher doubted Knox had any greater clue about the shortcomings of sundials than himself, but the point was made. Knox¡¯s frown became a sneer. He muttered an insult under his breath, too quiet to catch, but the sentiment was unmistakable.
The man was a violent bully. No one became high sheriff without a little fury in them, and Knox was testing him. Either Christopher would force the sheriff to accept a bit in his teeth or the table would be turned. He needed to show Wells who was in charge. Besides, Knox was too comfortable in Christopher¡¯s presence. Dangerous thug or no, there were lines, boundaries that had to be maintained. For now, he¡¯d have to work with the brute, but afterward Knox might prove to be an opportunist, and ambitious men were likely to try something stupid, like blackmail.
Give a crow a carcass and it¡¯ll just want another, he thought. Knox is just like the bees, and he needs to know his place.
Christopher summoned his courage. Laughing amicably, he started to turn away, then with a quick shove, he drove the sheriff back against the horse gate, making it clang and startling Derby. Christopher drew his sword.
Knox stared, his mouth open, as Christopher stuck the tip of his blade into the leather collar of the sheriff¡¯s gambeson. ¡°Unless you plan on leaving Dulgath soon, I¡¯d watch your mouth. I¡¯m the king¡¯s cousin. While that might not earn me much back in Mehan, it does mean I can kill you without having to clean up the mess. Do we understand each other?¡±
Knox hesitated. He wouldn¡¯t be the man Christopher thought he was if he didn¡¯t show some backbone, but the sheriff wasn¡¯t stupid. After a run of heartbeats, he nodded.
¡°Good.¡± Christopher withdrew his blade, noting with great relish the little nick left in Knox¡¯s leather collar. From then on it would serve as a reminder to them both.
Christopher slapped his sword back into its scabbard, trying to give the appearance he wasn¡¯t concerned and his heart wasn¡¯t racing. He¡¯d just taken a huge gamble and won. This wasn¡¯t a time to show concern.
¡°Can I ask a question?¡± Wells asked.
The uncertainty in the man¡¯s voice pleased Christopher. His point had been made, and the proper respect was being paid.
¡°Yes, of course, Chamberlain. What do you want to know?¡±
¡°What about the painter?¡±
¡°Sherwood Stow? What about him?¡±
¡°He and Lady Dulgath have been seeing each other every morning for months, and he has a ¡ª a reputation, doesn¡¯t he? What if this Sherwood were to, well, you know?¡±
Christopher was mystified by Wells. The man who had clawed his way to the position of chamberlain was squeamish about so many things. If Bishop Parnell hadn¡¯t insisted they acquire him, to have an inside man to help cover their tracks, he never would have given him a second thought.
¡°It still takes nine months to make a baby even if he was you knowing her. While I¡¯m patient, I¡¯m not that patient.¡±
¡°But expectant mothers become more reclusive.¡± Wells wrung his hands. ¡°They don¡¯t go out. They stay in their chambers under constant observation from fussing midwives. That might make killing her impossible. If the rogues you hired feel they have a good thing here, they might drag their feet. You¡¯re paying their expenses, right?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not paying them anything,¡± Christopher said. ¡°Once they tell us what we need to know, I¡¯m shipping them off to Manzant.¡±
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¡°What?¡± Knox asked. ¡°Why not just kill them?¡±
Christopher offered up a wry smile. ¡°Killing is such a waste. Ambrose Moor pays good money for ¡ª¡±
¡°But living men tell tales,¡± the sheriff said.
¡°Yes, precisely,¡± Wells said, aghast. ¡°What if the king should speak to them . . .¡±
¡°Do you honestly think Vincent will take a trip to a salt mine to chat with two assassins?¡± Christopher¡¯s patience was wearing thin and it was difficult not to show his frustration.
¡°No,¡± Wells admitted, ¡°but what if he sends constables there, or what if they escape?¡±
¡°No one ever escapes from Manzant,¡± Christopher replied.
¡°And the constables? I¡¯m not sure I want to take that risk,¡± Wells muttered with a grimace.
¡°If they¡¯re dead, no one can talk to them,¡± Knox said. ¡°Ever.¡±
¡°Look.¡± Christopher sighed. He hated the slow and the frightened; they could never understand the bold steps one needed to stride to reach greatness. ¡°I¡¯ve already made the arrangements.¡±
Knox stiffened. ¡°Unmake them. We need corpses to blame for the murder, not walking, talking men.¡±
¡°And how do we explain two corpses before Nysa is dead?¡± Christopher asked. ¡°Kinda hard for dead men to do the deed. Or are you saying we should wait until after she¡¯s killed? That creates its own problems. First, they¡¯ll want to be paid as soon as their part is done ¡ª a payment I don¡¯t have, by the way. And second, they¡¯re not going to hang around afterward. You¡¯ll have to track them down, and pray they don¡¯t say anything before you find them. With my plan, we can scoop them up as soon as they give us the information. No one has to know when they were sent to Manzant. All that¡¯s important is that they were arrested and justice carried out before a formal investigation starts. But corpses decay quickly, especially in this climate, so you¡¯ll have to kill them after Nysa is dead.¡±
¡°Let me worry about when, where, and how the two meet their end. I¡¯ll hold up my end,¡± Knox snapped.
Wells was nodding. ¡°I¡¯ve watched Knox for years, and I trust him in such matters. I¡¯m not saying anything against you, Lord Fawkes, but if my opinion means anything, I¡¯d be more comfortable with the thieves dead rather than locked up.¡±
Christopher ran a hand over his face, sighing again. ¡°Okay, okay, fine. We¡¯ll do it your way.¡±
¡°And Sherwood?¡± Wells asked.
Christopher raised his hand, patting the air between them. ¡°Trust me. Stow isn¡¯t winning any points with Nysa.¡±
¡°Other noble ladies have succumbed to ¡ª¡±
¡°It¡¯s not a matter of her being noble when he¡¯s not. It¡¯s that he¡¯s human and she¡¯s ¡ª Novron knows what ¡ª cold as frost in a frozen lake. Point is, he¡¯s not making headway and isn¡¯t likely to. But if it would make you more comfortable, I could make plans for Sherwood of the Endless Canvas and ensure that things are handled as expediently as possible.¡±
The chamberlain didn¡¯t answer. He took a breath and ran a tongue along his lips as his eyes shifted from one face to the next.
Now was the time for Christopher to set the hook. ¡°You see, you¡¯ve already proven your value, and great things come to people who show such potential. So, Chamberlain, what do you say? Shall we consider you on board? Do you want to continue your rise and expand your horizons?¡±
He stared hard at Wells. They all did. The chamberlain¡¯s eyes darted around once more.
Christopher rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as a gentle reminder that Wells might already be in too deep. He wasn¡¯t, of course. The matter would still be word against word, but his little demonstration with Knox was bound to pay dividends.
¡°All right.¡± Wells nodded. ¡°What do you want me to do?¡±
¡°Nothing at the moment. We¡¯ll wait to see what the consultants have to say.¡±
¡°And Sherwood?¡±
Christopher just smiled.
Sherwood put a breakfast biscuit in his mouth. Holding it with his teeth, he shifted the painting to his left hand and opened the study door with his right. Another lovely Maranon morning cast spears of sunlight across the floor, over the desk, and up the wall. There was something magical about early light ¡ª late evening, too. Sherwood had a fondness for both dawn and dusk. Fairy tales said that these between-times, the not-quite-day and not-quite-night periods, were when the doors between the world of men and the worlds of the fantastical opened. These were the enchanted minutes when wonderful and dreadful things occurred. Sherwood wasn¡¯t one for superstition, myths, or legends, but he admitted to the truth of the between-times being enchanting. The light was always more golden, its angle casting dramatic shadows, and everything came alive with color. That morning should have been wonderful, but instead, Sherwood was greeted by the dreadful.
At first, he didn¡¯t know what he saw. Something strange was in the center of the room, lying on the floor in a twisted, unnatural way.
As usual, Sherwood had arrived early. Lady Dulgath, always punctual, wouldn¡¯t be there for half an hour. He had intended to finish the last of his breakfast as he oiled his paints. He hadn¡¯t left much time to set up. He¡¯d lingered in bed, suffering a mild attack of depression. The morose feelings came over him often. Most times they were fleeting and easy to weather. Yet occasionally a random hurricane hit, the world turned dark, and rain fell in unimaginable torrents.
During those times, death by drowning was all but certain ¡ª and quite often welcomed. What had been fine the day before became too much to bear when the depression hurricane descended, and any memory of happiness was dismissed as a delusion. He was worthless; his work was atrocious, his life a miserable failure, and obviously Elan would be a better place without him breathing the air. While the attacks came without warning or trigger, that didn¡¯t mean they couldn¡¯t be provoked. Given that he had begun that morning experiencing a sprinkle, what lay on the floor of the private study threatened to bring the thunder.
For a brief instant Sherwood thought he saw a person, a horribly broken and mutilated corpse. Then he realized he wasn¡¯t seeing flesh and bone, but splintered wood. He was looking at his easel, shattered in a dismembered sculpture of wanton destruction. Worse still were his paints. Bottles had been thrown, leaving brilliant bursts of colors on the walls and glass shards on the floor. A yellow ocher starburst had exploded near the window, looking like a second sun; a splatter of vermilion made the wall appear to bleed; a fan of umber had sprayed the wooden floorboards.
Sherwood always left his tools in the study. The room was never used and always closed. It made no sense to carry everything up to his room and then back down every morning. Early on, he left the canvas, too, but grew paranoid as the image of Lady Dulgath took form. He couldn¡¯t afford to let anyone see it until finished. Maybe not even then.
He had taken the painting with him the night before and slept with it beside his bed, breathing oil fumes all night ¡ª one of the things his despair latched onto and labeled as stupid. He no longer felt that way; his depression couldn¡¯t care less about such crumbs when a banquet lay before it.
The easel had belonged to Yardley, who inherited it from his master, who very likely got it from his. No telling how old the thing was ¡ª easily a hundred or more years. And every inch was covered in paint, with some places showing a buildup of layers, the sediment of decades. The screw that held the crossbar had long been cracked; so had the crossbar and the back leg. This had always caused the canvas frame to wobble, and the tray never was tight enough to suit Sherwood, especially not when it held a vial of Ultramarine. He¡¯d cursed the thing countless times and considered having a new one made.
But seeing it on the floor, broken into a dozen pieces with bright jagged splinters, he felt he might vomit. This was the easel he¡¯d learned on. This was the platform from which he discovered how to properly see the world. He¡¯d taken it everywhere, sleeping with it on ships and in winter camps on high mountains. It had leaned against walls while he bedded ladies of varying ranks, and he¡¯d whispered his fears to it more than once after coming home drunk.
Almost as tragic as the easel were the pigments. Seventy-five or maybe as much as a hundred gold tenents decorated the walls of the study. No blue burst, though ¡ª he¡¯d thrown away the vial of Beyond the Sea all on his own. He still hoped to catch the man ¡ª Royce Melborn ¡ª and ask for it back. If Melborn had half a brain, he¡¯d deny knowing anything about it, but laymen rarely understood the value of paint. That one vial was worth a dozen easels and everything presently on the walls.
Sherwood felt the hurricane build as he saw his brushes, also vandalized. Each one had been snapped in half, and some of them had the hairs pulled out or mashed with so much force that the ferrule had split. The painting was safe, but what good was it now that he had no hope of finishing it?
¡°What happened?¡±
Sherwood turned to see Lady Dulgath standing in the doorway.
How long have I been standing here?
He couldn¡¯t talk and only pointed at the disaster, shaking his head.
¡°Who did this?¡± Her voice rose in volume and anxiety. ¡°Did you see, were you here?¡±
He continued to shake his head. He felt like crying, afraid he might. Already his face was hot, his eyesight misting. He blinked fast to hold everything back.
¡°You there! Stephen,¡± she called out the door, ¡°run and fetch the sheriff. Then tell everyone in this castle to assemble in the Great Hall. Do you understand? Everyone!¡± Her voice was angry, violent.
Sherwood picked up a brass candle tray and bent to sweep up as much of the pigment as he could. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why anyone would do this.¡± His voice was shaking, his words slurring. He didn¡¯t care. ¡°Stealing is understandable, but ¡ª I mean ¡ª this is worth a lot of money. Why destroy it? What have I done?¡±
¡°I¡¯ll have it replaced,¡± Lady Dulgath said.
¡°You can¡¯t. The time, the cost ¡ª it¡¯s . . .¡± He actually didn¡¯t know how much. Thinking about the totality of the loss was like asking how high was up.
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. You are my guest. I consider it my failure. I¡¯m responsible, and I¡¯ll make it right again.¡± She took a step, and glass crunched under her shoe. She froze and looked around, frightened. ¡°The painting, is it ¡ª¡± She saw the covered square of canvas resting beside the leg of the desk, and her shoulders relaxed. ¡°They didn¡¯t touch it?¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t here. I took it to my room last night.¡±
She offered him an encouraging smile. ¡°Well, that¡¯s something, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Yes ¡ª that¡¯s something.¡±
She continued to stare at the painting. He couldn¡¯t stop her from looking at it. All she had to do was take two steps and lift the cover. He was certain she would, but a moment later Sheriff Knox and Chamberlain Wells entered.
¡°I want to know who did this,¡± Lady Dulgath demanded.
Knox took a moment to look around thoughtfully, finally focusing on the door. ¡°That might be difficult.¡±
¡°Why is that?¡±
¡°No lock. Anyone can get in here.¡±
¡°Could be anyone in the castle then,¡± Wells said.
¡°Not just the castle,¡± Knox corrected. ¡°Virtually anyone could have come in last night. I pulled Throm and Frewin from the gate to guard your bedroom door. We were shorthanded on the wall. You really need to let me recruit more guards. Burying your head in the sand must stop. Your life is in danger.¡±
¡°Whoever did this wasn¡¯t trying to kill me.¡±
¡°But someone is.¡±
¡°Dulgath doesn¡¯t need a standing army. This is a close community, and I won¡¯t allow you ¡ª or anyone else ¡ª to destroy that.¡±
¡°I¡¯m just asking for a few more guards ¡ª to protect you!¡±
¡°I don¡¯t need protection. I need to know who did this. Find out. Go!¡± She turned and faced the chamberlain. ¡°I¡¯ve ordered the staff to be gathered. See to it that they are . . . everyone. I¡¯ll speak to them shortly. I want this solved, and I want it solved today.¡±
¡°As you wish, milady.¡±
She closed the door after they left and crossed the room to Sherwood, who was still struggling to gather as much pigment as he could. She found an empty cup, a decorative stein from a high shelf, and helped him. ¡°I¡¯m so very sorry this happened, Sherwood.¡±
He paused and looked up. ¡°You know my name.¡±
¡°Of course I do.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve never said it before.¡±
She shrugged. ¡°Is that significant?¡±
¡°To me it is.¡±
She looked at him, curious, forehead furrowed, those elegant brows creeping closer together. He could see it again, that vision through her eyes; an image beyond the window, a hazy shadow like someone peering out through frosted glass.
Sherwood had struggled his whole life to see beyond the veil that people hung over themselves. They wore clothes to hide their truths: the bravado of cowards, the humility of the courageous, the indifference of caretakers, and the sins of the pious. He scraped back veneers to find bone. These were the buried secrets that unlocked the sincerity of his work. Understanding ¡ª seeing ¡ª what others couldn¡¯t, or refused to, allowed Sherwood to put into paint the same underlying honesty that made his portraits so lifelike. Everyone kept secrets; most simple and easy to spot.
Wells was practically naked. The man was a glutton. Knox was a barely restrained animal at heart. Fawkes was a different matter. Something cold dwelled within his chest and throbbed rather than beat. Sherwood wouldn¡¯t trust Fawkes to piss every day.
Nysa Dulgath was nothing like them, or any woman he had ever seen. She had a secret, to be sure, but she¡¯d buried it deeper than he thought possible, beneath the dirt, below gravel, under shale and heavy rock. All he ever saw were these fleeting glimpses of shadows peeking out the windows of her eyes, little cupped hands pressed against the glass, a lonely soul trapped in an empty house.
Seeing how she looked at him then, that concern in her face, made the clouds part. He stood in the eye of the hurricane. The world blew around him dark and terrible, but he was safe. He was with her under a single shaft of sunlight, and everything was perfect.
The religious spoke of divine moments of grace when whatever gods they worshiped paused from their daily routine to stretch out a finger and touch them. Lives were changed, prophets made, and nations shifted when that happened. Sherwood felt touched at that moment, rocked to his core and then some. For a time, he thought he might be falling in love with Nysa Dulgath, but love was no longer a word large enough to encompass everything he felt. Mothers loved their children. Husbands loved wives. What Sherwood felt was more akin to worship. A prophet was born among the broken glass and scattered pigment, and while nations didn¡¯t tremble, they should have.
V1: Chapter 9 - Theft of Swords
Hadrian awoke to the song of birds and a cool breeze. A window was open, the only movement the thin curtains rippling with the wind. He lay on something soft, a pillow beneath his head. Somewhere distant, he heard muffled clinks of glasses, voices, laughter, and the drag of chairs on a wooden floor.
Sounds like a tavern.
The thought drifted in with the gentle breeze and whistling whoops and chortles of a thrush ¡ª then he remembered.
He sat up, expecting a nasty headache, something similar to the morning after a drunken pass out. He had figured his head would be throbbing, his eyes dry and reluctant to shift. Surprisingly, he felt okay, good even. His mouth might have been the last resting place for a deceased chipmunk, but other than that he was fine.
Hadrian had no idea where he was. Along with his morning-after apprehension, he had expected to open his eyes on a different scene ¡ª if he ever managed to open them again.
He was indeed on a bed, a nice bed: thick mattress, soft blanket, linen sheets, feather pillow, no stains. The rest of the room was just as charming. Big, dark-wood beams supported the ceiling. A rug stretched across the floor. Drapes framed a solitary window, where a bright light shone on a table and an upholstered chair. In the chair sat a familiar shadow.
¡°They drugged me,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°She ¡ª she drugged me.¡±
¡°I know,¡± Royce replied. He was staring out the window, looking down.
Hadrian began taking inventory with his hands, no pain, cuts, or bruises. No tar or feathers. He was in his clothes, shoes still on, cloak missing. No, not missing, it laid across the foot of the bed.
He looked at his hands and remembered fumbling with a key. ¡°Did I ¡ª did I manage to lock the door?¡±
¡°Yes, you did.¡± Royce threw his booted feet on the table. ¡°I had to pick it to get you out.¡± He pushed back his hood, revealing a confused expression.
¡°What?¡±
Royce shrugged.
¡°You¡¯re impressed I did that, aren¡¯t you? That I thought to lock myself in.¡±
¡°Be more impressed if you hadn¡¯t allowed a pretty girl to drug you.¡±
¡°A pretty girl . . . how¡¯d you know? And how did you find me?¡± Hadrian stood up, continuing to test himself, but his balance was fine. Whatever she¡¯d given him was friendlier than rye whiskey.
Royce didn¡¯t answer.
Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough? Hadrian¡¯s stomach sank.
¡°Oh, Royce, you didn¡¯t . . .¡±
Royce cocked an eyebrow. He didn¡¯t say anything for a moment, and his sight shifted to the floor in thought. Once more, he displayed a puzzled expression. He shook his head. ¡°No. I didn¡¯t.¡±
¡°Not even the woman?¡±
¡°I know her. She¡¯s from the Diamond, so she¡¯s not an idiot. Not stupid enough to seek retribution, and she was adequately cooperative.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Hadrian wondered if he were dreaming, or perhaps dead. He should have been lying on a lonely road outside of town, his body burned with tar and covered in feathers, not waking up in a cozy private room.
Royce saved me but didn¡¯t kill anyone? Apparently the world has forgotten how life works.
Spotting a washbasin on a dresser, Hadrian went over and splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a folded towel. He turned around, and his hands went to his sides. ¡°Where are my swords?¡±
¡°No idea. Where¡¯d you leave them?¡±
¡°What d¡¯you mean where¡¯d I leave them? I ¡ª¡±
I dropped them. And I took off the spadone before that. They were all near the bar.
¡°Didn¡¯t you notice they were missing?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce nodded.
¡°You didn¡¯t think to get them back?¡±
Royce scowled. ¡°Don¡¯t see why I have to do everything. Need a hand when you piss, too?¡±
Hadrian threw the towel at him. Royce dipped his head, and the cloth flew out the window.
¡°How late is it?¡± Hadrian grabbed his cloak and hung it over his arm.
¡°Midmorning. You had a good rest. We missed breakfast.¡±
¡°Excuse me while I get my things.¡±
Royce stood up.
Hadrian stopped him. ¡°No ¡ª stay here. My turn.¡±
Heading down the stairs, Hadrian noticed that the barroom was different. Morning light flooded in through the windows as well as the door, all of which were open to admit the breeze to the otherwise stuffy room. Gill was the first person Hadrian saw. The kid wore a stained apron and was rushing to clear tables where recent breakfast patrons had left plates and cups. Fearful that the ones who had taken his weapons would be long gone, Hadrian was pleased to see Bull Neck and his orange-clad partner at the same table where they¡¯d sat the night before.
Wagner was still there, too, behind the bar, the same towel hanging over his shoulder. With his attentive publican eyes, Wagner was the first to spot Hadrian. Concern flooded the barkeep¡¯s face as he glanced toward Bull Neck¡¯s table to check if they¡¯d seen him. Hadrian recognized two other faces at a different table. Not the men that had held up the post ¡ª not Brett and Larmand ¡ª but these men had been there. Scarlett wasn¡¯t.
Getting up late had the benefit of a sparse crowd. Decent folk had come and gone. Aside from the ones he intended to speak with, Hadrian saw only one table of bystanders. A small family near the door was finishing up their porridge. The boy tilted a bowl to his lips, and his mother and father scolded him for bad manners. A girl in pigtails sat on a chair too big for her, swinging her legs.
Hadrian walked past Bull Neck and company to the bar, where Wagner pretended not to see him.
¡°I want my swords back.¡±
¡°What swords are those, friend?¡± Wagner smiled and pulled the towel from his shoulder to wipe dry hands or perhaps wrap around knuckles.
Hadrian smiled back. He¡¯d hoped it would go this way. While he didn¡¯t normally seek revenge, he didn¡¯t appreciate being taken for an idiot.
Besides, a fight ends when one person hits the floor. This fight hadn¡¯t ended. It hadn¡¯t even started, but it was about to.
¡°Seriously?¡± Hadrian turned from Wagner and walked over to the family. Fishing out a silver tenent, he clapped it on their table. ¡°This breakfast, and the next one, is on me.¡±
The man stared at him, looked at his wife and kids, and then asked, ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±
¡°Because I¡¯m going to ask you to take your family and leave. Right now.¡±
The man narrowed his eyes and glanced at his family once more. ¡°Again, I have to ask why?¡±
¡°Because none of you were here last night when I was drugged and robbed.¡±
The man didn¡¯t look as shocked as Hadrian expected. When the man leaned over and looked at Bull Neck, Hadrian realized the fellow wasn¡¯t as innocent as he¡¯d first appeared. Hadrian had spoken loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, and Bull Neck and his orange-clad pal were grinning. The kids¡¯ mother was already up from her seat. She scooped up the coin, and without waiting for her husband, led her children out the door.
Hadrian waited.
¡°I think I¡¯ll stick around,¡± the father told him, an amused, almost eager, glee in his eyes.
Hadrian nodded, then closed the front door to Caldwell House, sliding the bolt across. Turning back to the room, he saw that Bull Neck and his friend had risen to their feet.
¡°You, in the orange,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±
The man adjusted his belt and rolled his shoulders, making a show of loosening up. ¡°Mostly, I¡¯m called Bad-News-for-Bloody-Strangers.¡± He laughed.
Bull Neck laughed with him. The rest smiled. ¡°But you can call me Clem for short. I¡¯m tellin¡¯ you so you¡¯ll know who laid ya low.¡±
¡°Ah-huh.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°Well, Clem, you¡¯re gonna want to take that nice tunic off. Red and orange clash, and bloodstains are difficult to get out.¡±
Clem laughed again. No mirth in it, but rather the sound of cruelty being fed. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I think I can avoid getting your blood on me.¡±
¡°No blades,¡± Bull Neck said, punching one fist into a palm. ¡°And no creepy friend.¡± He glanced toward the stairs to make sure that was true. ¡°And no woman to protect you.¡±
Woman to protect me? Isn¡¯t she the one who drugged me?
Hadrian couldn¡¯t figure out what had happened after he passed out. Bull Neck mentioned a creepy friend, but if Alverstone had come out to play, there would have been a lot of blood and more than a few bodies.
¡°You¡¯re in for some serious trouble, struth, yes ¡ª I can tell you that!¡± Bull Neck nodded his sincerity. ¡°Weez gonna pound you to flour, boy. Weez surely are. Gonna mash you down to wort. You gonna be nothing but paste.¡±
¡°You lads want to take this outside?¡± Wagner asked.
¡°I¡¯d be happy not to do this at all,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°Just return my swords, and we can all have breakfast.¡±
¡°Breakfast is over, tosser,¡± Bull Neck declared. He was cracking his knuckles and smiling so wide his gums were showing.
Hadrian ignored him and stared at Wagner for an answer.
¡°Don¡¯t know anything about no swords, mister.¡±
¡°I think it¡¯ll come back to you after a few of these nice tables are broken.¡± Hadrian moved to the middle of the room, the most indefensible place he could find. He hated starting fights and didn¡¯t think he¡¯d have to this time. Presenting himself as an easy target was like laying out steak in front of hungry dogs. These men had wanted to beat him senseless since he¡¯d arrived.
Bull Neck came at him first. He¡¯d gone to the trouble of shoving Clem aside so he could have the first strike. Hadrian intended to indulge Bull, even though he had nothing against the man. There had been a lot of Bulls in Hadrian¡¯s life ¡ª big, loud, demanding men who expected respect based on size and volume alone. A few could fight, but most never bothered to learn because they assumed superior bulk was all that combat required.
Bull was the latter. Not the sort to use weapons, he probably had a fondness for fists and chokeholds. Hadrian wasn¡¯t going to make his point with Bull because he disliked his brand of fist-first thuggery, but because Bull looked like he could take a beating. The best way to change minds was to break the biggest bones first.
Bull took three lumbering steps, punching out with his big left fist in a wide roundhouse swing.
A lefty.
Hadrian had already guessed that from how he had stood with his right leg forward. Now he knew for certain because the swing wasn¡¯t a jab or a feint. The big boy had put everything into that punch, expecting to end the fight right there.
Hadrian turned sideways and guided the blow away from his face with his left hand. He caught Bull¡¯s wrist and twisted it slightly to roll the elbow up. Then, bracing with his right, Hadrian snapped his opponent¡¯s arm backward at the elbow.
Pop!
Hadrian heard, as well as felt, the joint give.
This was followed by a bellowing scream as Bull stumbled forward. Hadrian let momentum do the work, and Bull slammed into the table still laden with porridge. Bowls shot into the air, wooden legs severed, and the table collapsed as Bull crashed into it.
Clem took a step forward as Hadrian backed up. ¡°Wait!¡± Hadrian held up his palms and then pointed at the debris. ¡°You might want to pick up one of those table legs. Makes a good club, don¡¯t you think?¡±
This made Clem pause for a moment. Then he glanced at the floor where Bull was rolling in the spilled porridge, whimpering and clutching his twisted arm. Hadrian hoped that if Clem took a moment to reflect upon the torment of his friend it¡¯d be enough to make Clem ¡ª and everyone else ¡ª think twice. It didn¡¯t. But Clem did take Hadrian¡¯s advice and picked up a broken table leg.
The first swing was wide. Hadrian took a step back anyway. The second, a backswing, was on target and Hadrian ducked, taking another step back. Then another. By the time they reached the oak post where Brett and his friend had been talking the night before, Clem was getting tired. Swinging that table leg as hard as he could was difficult, and sweat glistened on the orange-clad man¡¯s forehead.
Hadrian waited for the next swing, and this time he stepped inside and guided his opponent¡¯s hand. Easy to tell that the loud thwack! was Clem¡¯s hand rather than the table leg hitting the post. The man dropped the club with a cry and jerked his hand to his chest in agony. Regardless of what else it might have done, the post had skinned Clem¡¯s knuckles. Blood smeared the front of his nice tunic, leaving two faint streaks.
Hadrian thought this would end the fight, but the father who had remained behind had opened the door, and Brett, followed by two others, entered. Apparently, the wife was no more innocent than the husband.
All three charged Hadrian, arms spread for a waist-high tackle.
Hadrian stepped behind the pillar, ruining everything. He also picked up the table leg.
Brett went right, the family man went left. The third didn¡¯t know what to do, so he just stopped in front of the post. They hadn¡¯t seen Hadrian pick up the leg, and Brett still hadn¡¯t seen it when Hadrian clubbed him in the forehead. Brett¡¯s mouth made a wide O as his head snapped back and his legs crumpled under him. The father of two had intended to grab Hadrian¡¯s arms from behind, but Hadrian was standing too close to the post for him to easily get both arms around. Didn¡¯t matter. Hadrian brought the table leg back, punching into the man¡¯s stomach with the splintered end. The jagged teeth cut through his shirt. Porridge Dad let out a whoosh of air, folded, and collapsed.
By this time, Wagner had come around the bar to join the fray, and Clem had recovered enough to have a second go.
Hadrian dodged around the post and moved back to the center of the room, where Bull was howling on the floor, lying on his back, his knees up as he rocked from side to side. Hadrian snatched another loose table leg off the ground.
The remaining three men ¡ª Gill abstained from the fight, choosing instead to watch from the cellar stairs ¡ª came at Hadrian more slowly this time. They fanned out, trying to circle him. Wagner wrapped the towel around his knuckles, and the three shuffled forward, jabbing and swiping, some with open hands and outstretched fingers. Maybe they were trying to catch hold of him; Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure, but they looked ridiculous, like children. None had any training, much less experience.
They drugged me. Stole from me. Might have killed me.
The last one was unlikely, but he needed something. He was starting to feel like he was beating up on kids. When fighting skilled soldiers, Hadrian could anticipate moves. These people were erratic and foolish beyond prediction. They were so inept he might accidentally kill one. Not having his swords was a benefit; these imbeciles would probably impale themselves.
Hadrian cracked Brett on his reaching wrist. He howled and fell back. Thinking this provided an opening and not realizing Hadrian now had two clubs and was proficient with both hands, Clem lunged in. The second table leg caught him across the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted. Hadrian swung at Wagner then, who managed to jump out of the way but lost his balance in the effort and fell, slamming into another table, cracking it badly as he went down.
¡°Stop!¡± Scarlett Dodge stood in the doorway. She wore the same fetching patchwork gown, which looked out of place in the morning light. In her arms, she clutched three familiar swords. ¡°Damn it, Brett! I told you to stall him, not fight him.¡±
She threw the three blades on the floor, where they clattered on the stone.
¡°Hey!¡± Hadrian yelled.
¡°What? You threw my friends on the floor!¡±
¡°His swords are worth more,¡± Royce said. He appeared from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, hood up, arms folded. No one had seen him come down. Everyone still able to, shifted away.
¡°Royce, I thought I told you to wait upstairs,¡± Hadrian said.
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¡°You took too long. I got bored.¡±
¡°What are you doing?¡± Wagner asked Scarlett as he got to his feet. ¡°Declawing the cat, remember?¡±
¡°Yeah, that was last night and before I knew this cat doesn¡¯t need claws to kill you.¡±
¡°We almost had him, Dodge,¡± Porridge Dad said, still bent over and rubbing his stomach. ¡°He was getting tired.¡±
¡°He¡¯s had more sleep than any of you ¡ª trust me.¡±
¡°I¡¯d rather have gotten drunk and suffered a hangover. You want to explain what happened last night?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Not really.¡±
¡°I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re going to insist,¡± Royce said, and began to slowly cross the debris-ridden room. ¡°Miss Dodge, is it?¡±
¡°It sure as bloody Mar isn¡¯t Missus.¡±
¡°Watch your mouth, girl,¡± Wagner snapped. ¡°No need to blaspheme our Lord¡¯s name.¡±
¡°Sorry, but he brings out the worst in me.¡±
¡°I think Miss Dodge needs to take a walk with us,¡± Royce said.
¡°She ain¡¯t going nowhere with you two.¡± This was said by Bull Neck, who still lay on the floor, cradling his wounded arm.
¡°I¡¯m afraid she is,¡± Royce said. He drew out a folded parchment and held it up. ¡°Can you read?¡±
She stared at the parchment. Shock spread across her face. ¡°You¡¯re ¡ª you¡¯re . . .¡± Scarlett couldn¡¯t manage to say the word.
¡°Royal constables,¡± Royce said. ¡°Keepers of the peace.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not possible. You were in the Diamond, for Maribor¡¯s sake.¡±
¡°You think I whipped this up last night?¡±
¡°Sure, why not?¡±
¡°Ask Sheriff Knox or Chamberlain Wells. You can even talk to Lord Fawkes ¡ª he¡¯s the king¡¯s cousin. He ought to know if the king¡¯s signature is authentic.¡±
Wagner growled. ¡°I don¡¯t care who you say you are; she¡¯s not going anywhere with you two.¡±
¡°It¡¯s okay, Wag,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°It ain¡¯t.¡±
¡°It is.¡±
¡°These two ain¡¯t no royal constables.¡±
Scarlett sighed. ¡°If it¡¯s true, they could kill me in the name of the king, and Sheriff Knox would buy them drinks. And if it isn¡¯t, they can still murder me and disappear. If they wanted me dead, you¡¯d already be picking out my box.¡±
As she said this, Hadrian buckled on his two swords, then hefted the big one onto his back.
¡°Besides, how exactly do you plan to stop them?¡± She pointed toward Hadrian. ¡°He pummeled all of you black-and-blue with two table legs. What do you think he¡¯ll do with those? And don¡¯t forget what I told you last night about him.¡± This time Scarlett pointed at Royce.
¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m worried,¡± the bartender said.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry about her,¡± Royce told him. ¡°From what I¡¯ve seen of the people in this town, I¡¯d vote Miss Dodge ¡®Most Likely to Survive.¡¯¡±
Scarlett led them toward the door.
Hadrian paused and looked back at Clem, whose nose had bled like a spigot down the front of his tunic. ¡°Cold water,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t use hot. Believe me, hot water will set the stain and it¡¯ll be ruined.¡± He shook his head. ¡°What a shame. That was a nice tunic.¡±
The three of them followed the cobbled street downhill toward the river. Morning light shone blindingly bright on a two-story whitewashed clapboard building with a stone foundation and a big waterwheel. The wheel creaked and trickled as it slowly turned.
¡°Royce, you hungry?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°A little,¡± Royce replied. He walked behind the other two, forcing Hadrian to peer back over his shoulder.
¡°I didn¡¯t get dinner last night.¡±
He stared at Scarlett.
¡°What?¡±
¡°You know the town. Where can we go?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°We?¡± She laughed, but there was nervousness in it. Scarlett glanced back at Royce before answering Hadrian. ¡°I drugged you last night, and you want to eat with me today?¡±
¡°Sure, just don¡¯t do it again. If you do¡± ¡ª Hadrian jerked his head toward Royce ¡ª ¡°he¡¯ll probably kill you.¡±
¡°Probably?¡± Royce said.
¡°So where can we find food?¡± Hadrian asked again.
¡°Ah . . .¡± Scarlett hesitated.
¡°Someplace isolated,¡± Royce said. ¡°I don¡¯t like crowds.¡±
¡°He¡¯s not kidding,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°And as far as Royce is concerned, two is a crowd.¡±
¡°We can go back to my place. I have a slab of pork and some eggs I can cook up.¡±
¡°Wonderful.¡± Hadrian smiled at her.
¡°Is he always like this?¡± Scarlett asked Royce.
He nodded. ¡°Annoying, isn¡¯t it?¡±
Scarlett Dodge lived in a small, ivy-bedecked stone cottage with a dirt floor, a yellow thatched roof, and a bright-red door. Chimneys stood at both ends, with the ubiquitous ivy hiding everything else. Inside were two rooms: a clean kitchen, and a disaster of a bedroom. Blankets, sheets, undertunics, kirtles, a bright-red cloak, and red gloves lay scattered across the rush-covered floor. There could have been a fight in her bedroom more violent than the one held at Caldwell House. A spinning wheel rested in the corner, tilted against the wall. A line of thread coming off the drive wheel was tangled around the bobbin in a massive wad. A nearby basket of unspun wool was tipped over, the contents looking like foam spilling out of a beer keg.
In contrast, the kitchen sparkled. Wood was stacked neatly near the fire, as were a series of six copper pots. Not a single one showed even a hint of soot. On three rows of shelves, ceramic and wooden bowls grouped by type descended in size from left to right. Plates and cups were proudly displayed, herbs hung in neat bundles from the rafters, and a series of sharp knives were stabbed into the support beam near a clutter-free table.
Scarlett paused, looking at her home with an embarrassed grimace, then shrugged. ¡°I like to cook.¡±
The fire was still smoldering in her hearth. She added wood, pumped it with a bellows until a flame caught, then went to a barrel. Popping the lid off, she hooked out a slab of pork. Scarlett clapped it onto the table, jerked a knife off the post, and began slicing a section free.
¡°Well?¡± Hadrian asked, taking a seat on one of only two stools in the house.
Royce remained standing. He walked around, studying the place.
¡°Well what?¡± Scarlett replied, expertly trimming fat. She handled a knife well, holding it lightly with a finger on the blade and using the whole edge. Hadrian had never been a butcher, but he knew when someone was at ease with sharp things. While Scarlett probably hadn¡¯t been a butcher, either, she certainly could have applied for the job.
¡°Why did you ruin a perfectly good glass of rye whiskey that might have led to a sleepless night for the both of us?¡±
Scarlett paused. She smiled then shook her head, clearing the expression. ¡°You make it hard to hate you.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Royce said. ¡°Funny ¡ª I have the opposite problem.¡±
¡°You mentioned something about us, the church, and Bishop Parnell?¡±
¡°Yeah, well, I may have been mistaken about that. It was before I saw . . . Royce, is it?¡±
¡°Pleased to meet you.¡± He nodded. ¡°Dodge?¡±
¡°Scarlett. Scarlett Dodge.¡±
¡°Scarlett? Seriously? That¡¯s the best you could come up with?¡±
She scowled. ¡°Hey, that¡¯s my real name. Thank you very much.¡±
Royce shrugged.
Hadrian had one heel hooked on the crossbar of the stool and the other on the floor. He considered tapping his toe but figured they¡¯d still ignore him. Instead, he said, ¡°Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?¡±
¡°Which was?¡± Scarlett asked.
¡°Hello? We were talking about why you drugged me.¡±
¡°Oh, that.¡± She waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Definitely a mistake. I thought you were hired muscle watching over Pastor-Pain-in-the-Ass. I had no idea that . . .¡± Focusing on Royce, her eyes became serious. ¡°How much are they paying?¡±
¡°How much is who paying for what?¡± Royce asked.
¡°How much is the church paying you to kill Lady Dulgath? If I make you a better offer to leave, you¡¯d be okay with that, right?¡±
¡°You¡¯re that wealthy?¡±
¡°No, but I¡¯ll take up a collection. If everyone pitches in, and they will ¡ª¡±
¡°We¡¯re not here to kill Nysa Dulgath,¡± Hadrian said.
Scarlett rolled her eyes.
¡°We aren¡¯t.¡±
She ignored him and continued to address Royce. ¡°What do you say?¡±
¡°Let me get this straight ¡ª you¡¯ll pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath.¡± Royce was nodding. ¡°I think I might be able to do that. If you can ¡ª¡±
¡°Royce!¡± Hadrian slapped the table.
¡°What?¡±
¡°Stop it.¡±
¡°She¡¯s going to pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath. That¡¯s easy money.¡±
¡°It¡¯s dishonest.¡±
Royce folded his arms and glared.
¡°Wait . . .¡± Scarlett looked from Royce to Hadrian. ¡°You really aren¡¯t here to kill her?¡±
Royce scowled at Hadrian. ¡°You ruin everything.¡± He turned back to Scarlett. ¡°Up to a minute ago, I thought you were part of it. Why else would a Black Diamond be hiding in Brecken Dale?¡±
She shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m not hiding ¡ª not really ¡ª and I¡¯m not in the Black Diamond . . . not anymore.¡±
¡°Freelancing?¡±
She shook her head. ¡°Straight.¡±
Royce looked skeptical.
Scarlett appeared confused. ¡°If you¡¯re not here to kill her, then . . . I don¡¯t understand. Why are you here?¡±
¡°We were hired to help protect her,¡± Hadrian explained.
¡°Ha!¡± Scarlett followed the outburst with mock laughter. She dumped strips of pork into a pan, then hooked it to a blackened rafter chain and let it dangle over the fire before adding another small log. ¡°And exactly who hired you?¡±
¡°The Nyphron Church.¡±
¡°Ah-hah!¡± Scarlett turned to Hadrian with a there-you-have-it look.
¡°Ah-hah what?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°The church is using you to help kill her.¡±
¡°Churches don¡¯t kill people,¡± Hadrian told her. ¡°They burn incense, collect tithes, and mutter words in forgotten languages ¡ª they don¡¯t put out contracts on high-ranking nobles.¡±
Scarlett and Royce exchanged glances, then both shook their heads.
Royce hooked a thumb in Hadrian¡¯s direction. ¡°See what I have to put up with?¡±
¡°Adorable,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°Look,¡± Hadrian went on, certain they just didn¡¯t understand. ¡°Lady Dulgath has had a number of attempts made on her life, and everyone insists a professional has been hired. But Lady Dulgath isn¡¯t acknowledging there¡¯s a problem. So the church is concerned for her welfare and hired us as consultants. Royce is an authority when it comes to assassinations.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t say,¡± Scarlett said with a bemused expression.
¡°That¡¯s why we were picked. He knows how such things are done.¡±
¡°He¡¯s just so cute,¡± Scarlett said to Royce, shaking her head in disbelief.
¡°Why is that hard to believe?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Is he serious? Is any of that even remotely true?¡± she asked Royce while cracking an egg into the same pan where the pork was starting to sizzle.
¡°Yes. And mostly.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not that hard to understand.¡± Hadrian unfolded his arms so he could use his hands to better explain. ¡°Royce is going to review the situation, then report on how a professional might go about killing Lady Dulgath so they can ¡ª¡±
¡°Do exactly what he says,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°What?¡± Hadrian paused a moment to rerun the idea. ¡°No!¡±
¡°If you are really telling the truth ¡ª and I¡¯m starting to think you might be ¡ª that¡¯s exactly what they¡¯re doing,¡± Scarlett told him.
Hadrian shook his head, pushed up from the stool, and planted both feet square on the floor. ¡°The two of you are so distrustful. You look at a black-and-white cow and see gray. No! You see a conspiracy to poison farmers with milk!¡±
¡°Or¡± ¡ª Scarlett smiled at him ¡ª ¡°we look at a conspiracy and see a conspiracy.¡±
¡°If the church wanted Lady Dulgath dead, why not just hire us to kill her?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Granted, that would seem easier, but this is the church we¡¯re talking about. They have a tendency to overbuild. Have you seen their cathedrals?¡± She cracked another egg. ¡°Think for a second. Let¡¯s say they did that, and Lady Dulgath was killed. Do you suppose the king will just shrug and say, Oh well? No. He¡¯ll send real constables.¡±
She sprinkled some pepper on the eggs. ¡°They aren¡¯t going to risk getting caught up in this. They¡¯re trying to spread their tentacles here in Maranon ¡ª and doing a damn fine job of it. So what do they do? They find a couple of nonaffiliated cutthroats and get them down here. After they carry out the execution themselves, the cutthroats are arrested for it. Everyone knows they¡¯re the killers: The murder happened exactly the way they said it would. Now the conspirators have their scapegoats, who they¡¯ll execute before the king¡¯s constables arrive. There¡¯s no need for further investigation because justice has been done. The best part is you two aren¡¯t part of any guild, right?¡± She looked at Royce, who nodded. ¡°So they don¡¯t have to worry about any retribution. Lady¡¯s dead. Killers executed. King is satisfied. Justice done. Everyone¡¯s happy.¡±
Scarlett used a wooden spatula to flip the meat. The little cottage was filling with the wonderful scent of cooking pork. Hadrian wasn¡¯t certain if the smell of food had anything to do with it, but he was growing sympathetic to her points. He turned to Royce. ¡°She could have something here.¡±
Royce had wandered to the bedroom side of the cottage. He held a red glove in his hand, looking it over, and not saying anything.
¡°Royce?¡±
He dropped the glove on the bed. ¡°What?¡±
Royce had the hearing of a bat. He could practically listen in on what was happening tomorrow. After dropping the glove, he found a basket of rushes interesting.
¡°You knew?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce shrugged. ¡°I suspected. Hiring a consulting assassin is a bit odd, don¡¯t you think?¡±
¡°Then why are we here?¡±
¡°Twenty gold tenents and expenses. The coffers were dry. We needed something. So we either took this or started thieving outright, and I knew how well that would go over with you.¡±
¡°Twenty? Gold?¡± Scarlett¡¯s mouth hung open. ¡°Damn. Glad I don¡¯t have to outbid them.¡±
¡°Okay, sure, but we can¡¯t spend gold if we¡¯re dead.¡±
¡°And I have no intention of being framed.¡±
¡°So what do we do now?¡±
¡°Same as before. Nothing¡¯s changed.¡±
¡°Really?¡±
¡°Sure. We still need the money, and Miss Dodge might be wrong ¡ª about them framing us, at least. Even if she isn¡¯t, they¡¯re paying to hear how I would do this job. And that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m going to tell them. They can try to follow my plan if they want, but even the best in the Diamond couldn¡¯t mimic my methods. The chances of them succeeding are as unlikely as someone stealing from the Crown Tower.¡±
Scarlett was loading plates with meat and eggs when she turned with surprise. ¡°That was you?¡±
¡°Figure of speech,¡± Royce said.
¡°Oh ¡ª sure ¡ª of course.¡± Scarlett continued to stare.
¡°Before I tell them anything, I want to know as much as I can about what¡¯s going on.¡± He glared at Scarlett. ¡°Like why an ex-Diamond would be willing to take up a collection, or why villagers would pay to save their ruler.¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath is special.¡± Scarlett set the plates on the table.
¡°Yeah, you mentioned that, but special how?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°The Dulgaths have always treated their people well. They really care about us.¡±
¡°No offense to your humble abode,¡± Royce said, ¡°but yesterday Hadrian and I were in the lady¡¯s stables. They¡¯re much nicer than this. Seems she cares more for her horses than she does her people.¡±
Scarlett shook her head as she pulled a loaf of brown bread out of a box and set it on the table. ¡°That¡¯s unreasonable. Dulgath is the home of several thousand people scattered in dozens of hamlets and fishing villages. The Dulgaths can¡¯t provide for all of us. No one could. She¡¯ll do what she can, just like her father had.¡±
¡°Which is?¡±
¡°Let us buy, sell, and trade without crippling taxes. Protect us with fair laws, evenly executed.¡± Scarlett grabbed a bucket and turned it over, making a seat for herself. ¡°And . . .¡±
¡°And?¡±
¡°She heals people.¡±
Scarlett sat down on her bucket before the table and bowed her head.
¡°What do you mean, she heals people?¡± Royce asked.
Scarlett kept her head down, whispering to herself.
Royce looked at Hadrian. ¡°What¡¯s she doing?¡±
¡°I think she¡¯s praying.¡±
¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡± Royce rolled his eyes and slapped the table with his hand. ¡°How does she heal people?¡±
Scarlett held up her index finger, asking him to wait.
Royce continued to glare at her, but Scarlett didn¡¯t see.
Hadrian took the break in conversation to pull close to the table. The plate before him was steaming. The inch-thick pork was crispy brown, nearly black on the edges, the eggs dripping with dark grease. He tore a chunk of bread, pulled his dagger, and ¡ª using the bread to hold the meat ¡ª cut a piece. After he took a bite, bliss came over his face. ¡°Good,¡± he told Royce, chewing.
¡°I think I¡¯ll wait to see if you pass out or vomit blood before I eat.¡±
¡°Be cold by then.¡±
¡°It¡¯s a trade-off I¡¯m willing to make.¡±
Scarlett¡¯s head came back up. Her eyes opened and she, too, tore a bit of bread free.
¡°Can we talk now?¡± Royce asked. He was still standing, but he put a foot up on the stool near him.
¡°Of course ¡ª as long as you don¡¯t mind me chewing at the same time.¡±
¡°Then tell me how Lady Dulgath heals people.¡±
¡°She goes around to the hamlets just like Maddie Oldcorn used to.¡±
¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±
¡°Maddie was ¡ª I don¡¯t know, a legend really ¡ª an old woman who lived alone out in the forest near Brecken Moor. It¡¯s said she gave Nysa Dulgath her gift before she died.¡±
¡°What gift?¡±
Scarlett took a bite of pork and chewed a moment, her lips glistening from the grease. ¡°The gift of healing. Old Maddie was famous for it. Fever, pox, the Black Cough, blood sores, you name it, she healed it, and with little more than a wave of her hands. She was a divine servant of Maribor.¡±
¡°Up north, they¡¯d burn Old Maddie as a witch,¡± Royce said.
Scarlett pointed at him with her bread. ¡°Exactly. And the Nyphron Church would be the one building the pyre, proclaiming that evil comes from turning off Novron¡¯s path. Around here, we look to Maribor and are granted his blessings for our steadfast faith.¡±
Hadrian tested the eggs with his fingers to see if they were too hot to pick up. They weren¡¯t, and he found them rich and silky, with a nice smoked flavor from the pork¡¯s fat. ¡°What kind of blessings are we talking about?¡±
¡°Well, for one, it never rains here . . . not during the day at least. And the winters are mild. I¡¯ve never seen anything like them.¡±
Royce smirked. ¡°You realize you¡¯re south, right? There¡¯s this thing called climate. Perhaps you¡¯ve heard of it?¡±
She waved a hand in his direction. ¡°And the blessing of Maddie? How do you explain her? Does the good weather make diseases flee from the body? Sure, people might not have as many colds in warm weather, but I¡¯m talking about people who were stricken one day and fine the next.¡±
¡°If that¡¯s true, I¡¯d be more interested in the woman herself, not some god I¡¯ve never seen lift his finger to help anyone. Where did Maddie come from and how did she get her so-called gift?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t know. Not sure anyone does ¡ª Augustine might know more. An odd bird, Maddie was. Saved the lives of hundreds of people, but she wasn¡¯t the least bit friendly.¡± Scarlett thought a minute, then pointed at Royce with her crust. ¡°Come to think of it, she was a lot like you, only she saved lives.¡±
¡°Who is Augustine?¡± Hadrian licked his fingers. ¡°In case we want to talk to him.¡±
¡°Augustine Gilcrest is the abbot of Brecken Moor.¡±
¡°Is he the one who ordered the tarring and feathering of Pastor Payne?¡±
Scarlett waved her bread this time, which Hadrian took a moment to realize meant no. ¡°He¡¯s a Monk of Maribor. While the Nyphron Church takes issue with the monks, the monks don¡¯t feel the same way. Or maybe they do, but they would never act on it. The monks are a live-and-let-live sect.¡±
¡°They might feel differently if the Nyphron Church really does have plans to move in,¡± Royce said.
¡°No . . . no . . . it¡¯s not possible ¡ª they¡¯re . . .¡± Scarlett chewed for a while, swallowed, then stopped, still searching for words. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to explain. You¡¯d have to meet them, I suppose. But no, neither he nor anyone at the monastery would have had anything to do with that.¡±
¡°Maybe we should talk to him.¡± Hadrian was still cleaning pork fat from his fingers one by one.
¡°You talk to him.¡± Royce took his foot off the stool and eyed his plate of food. ¡°I¡¯m not good with religious types. Besides, I need to get back and look around the castle some more.¡±
¡°This is really good, by the way.¡± Hadrian nodded at the plate.
¡°Thanks,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°Feeling sick yet?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Nope.¡±
Royce scratched his chin, then sighed and sat down, drawing his plate to him. He took a bite of pork and nodded. ¡°Very good.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± Scarlett said, but Hadrian couldn¡¯t tell whether she was being genuine or sarcastic.
¡°Where is this monastery?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°She¡¯ll take you,¡± Royce replied.
¡°Whoa, wait a second.¡± Scarlett dropped the knife and bread and raised her hands. ¡°Breakfast is one thing, but I do have a life.¡±
¡°While we¡¯re here, you¡¯re working for us. Consider it payment for what you did to Hadrian last night.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t do that.¡±
Royce smiled at her and lifted the folded parchment from his pouch. ¡°Amoral killer with a writ. I¡¯m just about your worst nightmare. So what do you say you do it for your king? Oh, but just so we¡¯re clear¡± ¡ª Royce pointed the tip of Alverstone at Hadrian ¡ª ¡°if he suffers so much as a stubbed toe, I¡¯m coming after you first.¡±
They finished breakfast, then Royce and Hadrian stepped outside while Scarlett cleaned. The sun was past midday, the shadows short, and the scent of magnolia hung in the air. Scarlett¡¯s cottage didn¡¯t have a yard. Her front steps led directly to the cobbles of the street.
¡°So you want to split up again?¡± Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure this was such a good idea, given how things had gone the night before.
¡°Here.¡± Royce handed him his own piece of folded paper. ¡°You have your steel, your credentials, and a guide. Even you should be okay given all that.¡±
Hadrian shot him a smirk. ¡°I¡¯m not worried about myself. You¡¯re the one going into the lion¡¯s den. If the church is trying to frame us, then Payne, Knox, and Fawkes are all in on it, and who knows how many others. That means the odds are stacked against you.¡±
¡°And how is that different from any other day of the week? Seriously, I¡¯ll be fine.¡±
Hadrian had his doubts. Royce wasn¡¯t so much a closed book as one that was chained shut, locked in a box, and thrown into the sea. Still, he was starting to sense moods, subtle shifts like a change in the wind. Hadrian had no idea whether a storm was coming or if the skies were clearing. What he did know was that something was off about Royce.
¡°What happened to you last night while I was being stupid?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce wiped a hand over his face. ¡°I certainly wasn¡¯t being smart. I paid an uninvited visit to the lady¡¯s bedroom. She caught me.¡±
¡°She caught you? How¡¯d that happen?¡±
¡°I¡¯m still trying to figure that out. Part of why I need to go back.¡± His face hardened.
Royce didn¡¯t like privileged nobles as a general rule, but there was something about the look on his partner¡¯s face that Hadrian couldn¡¯t puzzle out. Royce seemed intent on hating Lady Dulgath for some reason, but Hadrian decided not to push.
¡°Okay, so while you¡¯re stalking Lady Dulgath, I¡¯ll investigate this monastery. What am I looking for exactly?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± Royce looked around. A two-wheeled wagon rested under the shade of an old oak across the street, flowers growing through its spokes. Scarlett Dodge lived on a lovely tree-lined lane that followed the curves of the little hills visible between the roofs of the houses. ¡°Something strange about this place.¡±
¡°You mean like how everything is covered in ivy?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Or how the spring doesn¡¯t uncover any new rocks?¡±
¡°Huh?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Rocks. You know, in the fields.¡±
¡°I can honestly say I have no idea what you are talking about.¡±
¡°Each spring, farmers need to clear their fields of rocks brought up over the winter. Frost heaves them to the surface, where they ruin plow blades. So the farmers dig the stones up and make walls with them because there¡¯s only so much material needed for building a house or well. Yesterday I rode by a dozen farms ¡ª you must have seen them, too. Had to have been here for centuries, but the rock walls are just little decorative things.¡±
¡°Easy winters. Not much frost.¡±
¡°Maybe. But what about it not raining here? And since when do the common people love their ruler so much?¡±
¡°So you have been paying attention.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not as stupid as you think I am.¡±
¡°You have no idea how stupid I think you are, and honestly, we don¡¯t have time for that conversation.¡±
Hadrian scowled.
¡°We¡¯ll meet back in the room at Caldwell House tonight,¡± Royce said. ¡°I might be late, so don¡¯t wait up. And don¡¯t turn your back on her again.¡±
¡°Scarlett?¡±
Royce rolled his eyes, sighed, and grimaced. ¡°She¡¯s not a pretty barmaid. She¡¯s not a nice girl.¡±
¡°Seems like it to me.¡±
¡°Of course she does. She was in the Diamond. Her working name was Feldspar, and the nice-girl thing is part of her act. Cute and disarming, she dances, sings ¡ª¡±
¡°She sings, too?¡± Hadrian smiled.
¡°Pretty sure, and she does magic tricks. One of her favorites is making people¡¯s coins disappear. She¡¯s not innocent. She¡¯s dangerous if you turn your back on her ¡ª so don¡¯t.¡±
Hadrian recalled how deftly Scarlett had prepped the pork.
¡°And stay away from the pastor, too,¡± Royce said. ¡°It would appear he was lying.¡±
¡°About what?¡±
¡°About there being no i in his name.¡±
V1: Chapter 10 - Ghost in the Courtyard
The entirety of the castle staff had assembled in the Great Hall: two stewards, four chambermaids, two gardeners, two charwomen, the trio of cooks, the butterer, four scullery maids, the smith, herbalist, vintner, dyer, tailor, furrier, mercer, milliner, scribe, four grooms, a stable boy, woodcutter, food tester, sheriff, chamberlain, tax collector, treasurer, keeper of the wardrobe, her handmaiden, and the sergeant-at-arms with his six men. Lady Dulgath stood before them, demanding that the person or persons responsible for destroying Sherwood¡¯s easel and paints step forward.
No one did.
Sherwood wasn¡¯t surprised, but he was touched by the emotion in Lady Dulgath¡¯s voice as she made her demand. She was angry. Perhaps ¡ª most likely ¡ª certainly ¡ª she was upset that his property was damaged in her home. She had suffered the embarrassment of failing to protect her guest. Still, Sherwood entertained the whisper-thin notion that she reacted so harshly because she liked him. She had said his name, after all. Wasn¡¯t much to base a verdict on, but Sherwood was in a vulnerable state, and he clung to the idea like an ant riding a leaf in the middle of a flood.
The loss of his paints, palette, brushes, and easel was a mortal blow. They were irreplaceable. The set of tools had taken generations of master artists to build, amass, and perfect. Each painter loathed using up the better pigments, and was always saving to add more color to the collection. Some contributed a different brush or two; in Sherwood¡¯s case, it was walnut oil. When he died, the collection would have been left to an apprentice; he just didn¡¯t know who that would be. Now he had nothing to pass on.
Sherwood calculated that if he painted every noble¡¯s face for the rest of his life, he still couldn¡¯t hope to replace what had been lost. Deprived of the tools of his trade, he couldn¡¯t even feed himself. But worse than all that was the deep disappointment of not finishing Nysa¡¯s portrait. He had so wanted to. He needed to see all of what lay beyond the veil that could only be shown through the slow process of peeling back and layering up.
Feeling the winds of the hurricane blowing, Sherwood left the gathering and sat on the stone carving of a dragon that decorated the castle¡¯s reception hall. Castle Dulgath was famous for its sculptures.
Or ought to be, he thought.
Much of the castle was crafted from stone, and so beautifully done that rumors persisted about it once being a dwarven fortress. Sherwood didn¡¯t think that was true. He¡¯d been to the ruins of Linden Lott and had seen the ancient dwarven capital. He¡¯d witnessed the skillful precision on a scale no longer possible. The sort of creative artistry on display in Dulgath was wholly different.
Dwarven designs were massive, practical, and tended to use geometric shapes. Castle Dulgath¡¯s statues and reliefs were whimsical and breathtakingly lifelike. The dragon, whose paw he sat on, lay curled up, eyes closed as if it were a sleeping dog ¡ª only one of many such decorations. The west tower that stood on the very edge of the sea-battered cliff was adorned with clawed feet at its base ¡ª a beautification that few ever saw. The stone railings that led to the fifth floor ¡ª the private quarters off limits to all but a few ¡ª were adorned with delicately sculpted ivy that hung down like the real thing. A stone otter playing with a pinecone was hidden in a corner of the kitchen pantry, and the wall in the courtyard before the common well was decorated with a bas-relief of a school of fish swimming past. After two months, Sherwood was still discovering hidden treasures. Who had been responsible for the secret wealth of artistry, he couldn¡¯t discover. Apparently, no one remembered.
What am I going to do? The thought had been rattling inside his skull ever since its predecessors: Why me? and This isn¡¯t real tired themselves out. Two new thoughts muscled their way in: I¡¯m going to starve and My life is over.
Sitting on the dragon¡¯s paw he felt tears welling in his eyes as the full weight of his loss descended. His mouth folded up, as if a purse string ran through his lips and a miser had pulled them taut. Just then, Lord Fawkes entered the castle. Sherwood hadn¡¯t thought his day could get worse, but his hurricane of bad luck wasn¡¯t done raining. Fawkes spotted him and changed course.
¡°Stow, I just heard,¡± he said, shaking his head with sympathy so blatantly false that Sherwood could hear the laughter behind it. ¡°Bad break. What are you going to do now? You don¡¯t have any extra supplies, do you?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯ll do now or whether you have extra supplies?¡±
¡°Leave me alone, please.¡± Sherwood wiped his eyes, dragging the tears over his cheeks.
¡°Are you seriously crying over spilled paint?¡± Fawkes put a foot up on one of the dragon¡¯s massive claws and leaned in. ¡°People are dying every day.¡± He held out a hand about knee-high. ¡°Children starving to death on crowded streets, women raped, men butchered in mindless campaigns for stupid rulers. The world is full of unjust misery, and here you are sobbing over paint? You¡¯re quite the sniveling little quim, aren¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Surely a lord of your stature has better things to do?¡±
¡°Of course, but I like to be generous to the downtrodden. I suspect you are low on funds ¡ª you artist types aren¡¯t known for budgeting your money. I thought I would offer my assistance. I¡¯ve purchased a horse this morning and wish to have it taken back to Mehan. I¡¯m in need of a courier, and you could use the money. I¡¯ll pay you to ride her home for me. I suspect Her Ladyship will be willing to provide you with adequate food and whatever supplies you¡¯ll need, seeing as how she¡¯s sort of at fault for your situation.¡±
¡°She didn¡¯t do it.¡±
¡°She didn¡¯t stop it, either, but that¡¯s a triviality. What is important is that this is your lucky day, Stow. On the heels of your disaster comes good fortune. The horse is in the stable, a chestnut named Eloise. She came with saddle and tack. You can pack your bags and be on your way to Mehan by midday. I¡¯ll pay you five silver for the trip because I¡¯m feeling generous and because of your misadventure. So stop your blubbering and start packing.¡± Fawkes clapped his hands and grinned, eyes bright with happiness, as if this news was equally good for him and Sherwood.
¡°Excuse me,¡± Sherwood said. He got to his feet, turned his back on Lord Fawkes, and walked away.
Sherwood had no idea where he was off to. Not thinking ¡ª not capable of sound thought ¡ª he¡¯d taken the obvious path before him. He moved toward the light coming in the front doors of the castle instead of going back inside where he might have lost himself in the many corridors and rooms. All he wanted was to get away. Sherwood knew Lord Fawkes was watching; he felt eyes boring into his back.
He walked out through the big doors onto the stone porch. Castle Dulgath wasn¡¯t built correctly. Sherwood had been to most of the strongholds across Avryn and even a few in Trent and western Calis. None were like this. The differences went beyond the intricate decorations. The porch was a good example ¡ª castles didn¡¯t have porches. Fortresses were built for defense and were circled by a curtain wall with ramparts and turrets. The others all had a single massive entry composed of three formidable barriers ¡ª a drawbridge, a sturdy gate, and a portcullis. Such strongholds didn¡¯t always have moats, but those without had ditches.
In contrast, Dulgath sported a wide porch with columns that held up the extended roof to shade it from the summer sun. This was less a fortress and more a glorified country manor. That was one of the things Sherwood loved about the castle and, by extension, Nysa Dulgath.
Once on the porch, he made a quick turn to the right to break Fawkes¡¯s line of sight. Immediately his back felt better. Elevated as he was, Sherwood had a broad view of the courtyard. The shadow cast by the east tower divided the yard into dark and light, the contrast leaving those areas in the sun so brilliant they looked washed out. Having no place to go except away from Fawkes, Sherwood stopped three steps after making his escape and stood dumbly on the porch. He was acutely aware of how his arms hung pointlessly at his sides, how heavy his body felt, how dry his mouth was, and how none of it mattered. Depression was closing in; the dark clouds were circling, creeping up, preparing to smother. Just then, he saw movement, or thought he did.
Like his arms, his eyes had been left with no clear direction. Sherwood had been aimlessly staring because at that moment he found even the effort of shifting his gaze to be too much. If he had been walking or merely glancing around the way a person typically might, he never would have noticed the motion. Having seen the subtle shift of light and darkness near the well, he was slow to grasp the impossibility of what he saw. No one was there and nothing was moving in the breeze, because there wasn¡¯t one.
A cloud ¡ª maybe? Or a bird¡¯s shadow?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Sherwood stepped off the porch and looked up. The sky was clear.
Everyone ¡ª everyone is in the Great Hall. So who ¡ª or what ¡ª is near the well?
The or what surprised him. Sherwood wasn¡¯t usually a believer in the fantastical. He¡¯d spent too many drunken nights with court entertainers. Minstrels, poets, and storytellers accepted him as part of their club and told him the real stories behind the tales of valor and wonder. At a young age, he discovered the truth about the world ¡ª mysteries were designed for a purpose, and if something seemed too fantastical to be true, it was. But he was the only audience in the courtyard, and he¡¯d entered only a second before. What had moved in that corner of the yard didn¡¯t look human. Nothing more than a shadow, but the movement was strange, too fast, and ¡ª
Didn¡¯t it go up rather than across?
Such a thing wasn¡¯t possible. There hadn¡¯t been a sound. In the stillness of the empty, windless yard, Sherwood could¡¯ve heard a leaf fall, but there was nothing.
Who or what is near the well?
The question lingered, and Sherwood realized that the hurricane ¡ª with its dreadful, smothering clouds ¡ª was holding off. The storm had miraculously been brought to bay by this aberration. Keeping his eyes locked on the spot, he descended the steps and started across the courtyard.
Along with the odd sense that what he¡¯d seen wasn¡¯t normal was the equally strong impression that it wasn¡¯t good. With each step, he became more certain of two things. The first was the wickedness of what he approached, and the second was that it was still there. Just a day before, he would have returned inside, but it wasn¡¯t the previous day and Sherwood found himself not so much brave as invincible. He was a soaked man caught in a summer rainstorm.
What harm can it do that hasn¡¯t already been done?
The inner ward¡¯s well was set in a niche surrounded on three sides by screening walls. Sherwood was certain something was hiding in that little space where his sight was blocked. Crossing the yard, he approached the well head-on, but saw nothing except the beautiful stone mural of fish and the side-cranking windlass that looked a bit like a sailing ship¡¯s wheel.
¡°Sir?¡±
Sherwood jumped at the sound.
¡°Mister Stow?¡± Rissa Lyn had followed him across the yard. In both her hands, she held empty buckets.
He must have looked strange, creeping up on the well and staring at it. The expression on her face said as much. She even gave a concerned glance at the well, and then another behind her.
¡°Is the . . . ah ¡ª has Lady Dulgath concluded her meeting then?¡± he asked, trying his best to sound sane.
¡°Yes, sir.¡±
¡°No one admitted to it, did they?¡±
¡°No, sir.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t think they would.¡±
¡°Me neither, sir.¡±
Sherwood nodded and forced a smile that must have been miserable, judging by the way Rissa Lyn grimaced in return.
¡°I¡¯m sorry. You¡¯re here to fetch water. Don¡¯t let me get in your way.¡± He gave a curt nod and started back toward the castle.
¡°Sir?¡±
He paused, turning to look at Rissa Lyn standing in the sunlight. She was still grimacing, but not at him. She looked frightened.
¡°What is it?¡±
¡°I know who busted up your things,¡± the maid said in a whisper, her sight darting toward the castle doors. Then she turned and walked to the well, setting the buckets down and reaching out for the windlass crank.
¡°Let me help you with that,¡± Sherwood said, and rushed over to rotate the wheel.
¡°Thank you, sir. You¡¯re too kind, sir,¡± Rissa Lyn said loudly. Then, as he began cranking, she whispered, ¡°I was woken by the noise, an awful cracking. I often sleep in the linen storage. It saves me from crossing the yard in the dark.¡±
She glanced around apprehensively at the old walls. ¡°No one cares ¡¯cause it¡¯s just me who goes in there. So I was just down the hall, you see, and I heard it. I don¡¯t know what I was thinking . . . going down there, I mean. It sounded like a monster was loose in the castle ¡ª crashes, shattering glass, cracks, grunts, and under all of that a muttering like someone was talking to themselves. I honestly don¡¯t know how I found the courage to peer through the crack in the doorway.¡±
¡°What did you see?¡± Already Sherwood had convinced himself that the phantom shadow near the well was some ancient ghost or demon responsible for the destruction of his easel and paints. Rissa Lyn¡¯s answer was both disappointing and depressing.
¡°Was Lord Fawkes, sir.¡± She emptied the water from the well¡¯s bucket into one of her own. ¡°He was in the study working up a sweat after taking a real dislike to your painting stand. Hard work, I guess, difficult to break.¡±
¡°Did he see you?¡±
¡°Oh ¡ª no, sir. I just took a peek, and when I saw who it was, I ran back to my cupboard. People think he¡¯s swell and all, but ¡ª he scares me.¡±
Sherwood let the wheel spin, taking the haul back down to the bottom of the well. ¡°Scares me, too.¡±
This made her smile at him for the first time. ¡°It just wasn¡¯t right for him to do that, not to someone as . . . well, as nice as you.¡±
¡°Thank you, Rissa Lyn.¡± He started cranking again. ¡°Did you tell Lady Dulgath?¡±
The smile vanished and that look of fear rushed back. ¡°No, sir.¡±
¡°Why not? She was asking for ¡ª¡±
¡°She was asking for the guilty to step forward. His Lordship wasn¡¯t there. And if he were, he wouldn¡¯t bother.¡±
¡°But you could¡¯ve explained about seeing him.¡±
She shook her head. Rissa Lyn had curly hair that jiggled like leaves on a bush well after she stopped. ¡°He would find out, and who would believe me? He¡¯d just deny it, and then I would be in trouble for lying, even though I wasn¡¯t.¡± She bit her lip, and he understood.
Sherwood wasn¡¯t making idle conversation about Lord Fawkes being scary. The lord had the brutal aggression of ambitious men. He wouldn¡¯t think twice about crushing or intimidating those he saw as below him.
Sherwood grabbed the well¡¯s bucket this time and filled her other bucket. ¡°You can still tell Lady Dulgath in private. Talk to her like you¡¯re doing with me now. No one but you and she would know what you said.¡±
The curls shook again. ¡°Me and Her Ladyship . . . we . . . I don¡¯t speak to her.¡±
¡°You¡¯re her handmaiden, right?¡±
When Sherwood was interested in a noblewoman, he usually worked through her handmaiden. They were the front door to any lady¡¯s heart ¡ª or at least her bed. Noblewomen maintained a distinct delineation between servants and gentry, but exceptions were often granted for their personal maids, who were sometimes as close as sisters. This was one of the reasons why he¡¯d always made it a point to say good morning to Rissa Lyn. He¡¯d even brought her pretty shells from his walks on the shore and flowers from the roadside.
Rissa Lyn nodded, but behind her eyes was that same fear.
She¡¯s not afraid of Fawkes. She¡¯s afraid of Lady Dulgath.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± He set the haul back on the edge of the well.
¡°Nothing, sir. Thank you for the help, sir. And please, don¡¯t tell nobody that I was the one who saw His Lordship, sir. I only told you because . . . I have to go, sir.¡±
She grabbed up the two buckets and ran off, spilling much of the water as she went.
Sherwood stood in the well niche, watching Rissa Lyn disappear into the dark of the castle. She left an intermittent trail of damp spots.
¡°She¡¯s hiding something,¡± a low voice said in his ear.
Sherwood jumped, pushed away, slipped, and fell on the decorative stone that fanned around the base of the well. Over him appeared a man in a long black cloak with the hood drawn up.
¡°I want to ask you some questions.¡±
When Sherwood¡¯s heart stopped racing and his ability to breathe returned, he realized he knew who the man was ¡ª one of the two who had met Nysa the previous morning.
¡°Too bad. I don¡¯t want to answer any.¡± Sherwood got his feet back under himself. ¡°Go away.¡±
¡°Your wants aren¡¯t my concern.¡±
Royce Melborn ¡ª at least he thought that was the man¡¯s name ¡ª reached menacingly into his cloak.
Sherwood was already preparing his feet to run when the hand came out. He¡¯d expected a dagger. What he saw instead stopped him. The man in the cloak was holding the glass bottle of Beyond the Sea. ¡°I thought . . . I expected you would¡¯ve destroyed that. Thrown it away or something.¡± He held out his hand. ¡°Give it back.¡±
¡°No,¡± Melborn said. ¡°You gave it to me.¡±
¡°I threw it at you.¡±
¡°Gave, threw ¡ª same thing.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡± He reached for the vial, but Melborn snatched it away.
¡°Better be the same thing because otherwise sending it my way could be interpreted as assaulting a constable. That¡¯s a serious offense.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not a constable.¡±
¡°I have a writ. Do you want to see it?¡±
¡°Have you forgotten I was there when you were presented to Lady Dulgath? I know you¡¯re not a constable. Any writ you have is a forgery.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t need a writ to get answers. I have better ways to extract information. Let¡¯s go up to your room where we can speak in private.¡±
¡°No!¡±
Royce smiled and tossed the bottle of pigment high into the air. It spun, glinting in the sun.
Sherwood gasped as it came hurtling back down. He expected a brilliant burst of blue on the stone at their feet, but Melborn snatched it out of the air.
¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to talk?¡± Melborn asked, and motioned as if he were about to throw it again.
¡°Don¡¯t! You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re doing!¡±
¡°Yes, I do.¡±
¡°Do you even know what you¡¯re holding?¡±
¡°This?¡± Melborn looked at the bottle, turning it back and forth. ¡°This is Ultramarine, commonly known as Beyond the Sea, a pigment made from pulverizing the semiprecious stone lapis lazuli into a powder. It¡¯s ideal for dyeing cloth or mixing with egg yolks to make tempera for painting.¡±
Sherwood stared openmouthed for a moment. ¡°I actually use oil.¡±
¡°What kind?¡±
¡°Walnut.¡±
¡°Try linseed sometime.¡±
¡°How do you know all this?¡±
¡°Used to be in the business.¡±
¡°You were a painter?¡±
Melborn shook his hood. ¡°Illegal imports. Beyond the Sea is one of the exclusive trade items brought in through the Vandon Supply Company ¡ª a pretty way of saying it¡¯s pirated. This stuff goes for one hundred gold tenents an ounce. What is this?¡± Melborn held up the bottle to his ear and shook it. ¡°Two, two-and-a-half ounces?¡±
¡°Three. Unless you¡¯ve poured some out.¡±
¡°Nope, all still here.¡± Melborn began tossing the bottle back and forth between his hands. ¡°Sure you don¡¯t want to invite me to your room for some tea and cookies?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have either, but . . .¡± Sherwood¡¯s stomach lurched with each toss. ¡°Are you saying you¡¯ll give that back if I cooperate?¡±
¡°That¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m saying.¡±
¡°Okay.¡±
¡°And one more thing.¡±
Sherwood cringed, knowing the offer was too good to be true. ¡°What?¡±
¡°I want an apology for throwing it at me. That wasn¡¯t very nice.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±
¡°There, doesn¡¯t that make you feel better?¡± Melborn stepped past him and led the way back across the yard.
Sherwood realized that the dark clouds had retreated a bit. That bottle ¡ª if he did get it back ¡ª would save his career and possibly his life. As much as he would loathe doing it, he could sell it in Mehan and use the coin to replace at least some of what was lost. There would be enough to get him painting again. Sherwood wouldn¡¯t be able to take any noble commissions, not without his precious blue pigment, but merchants liked portraits, too.
As he watched Melborn¡¯s cloak whip behind him, and the man slipped into the shadows of the porch, Sherwood was reminded of the thing in the shadows. The thing that wasn¡¯t quite human. He¡¯d found his ghost.
V1: Chapter 11 - Brecken Moor
Scarlett Dodge led Hadrian up the trail that corkscrewed around the balding hill. They were a few miles outside the village on the far side of the river ¡ª the bad side, as Pastor Payne called it. Didn¡¯t seem bad to Hadrian.
Down by the mill, where a big waterwheel turned, Scarlett had taken him across an arching stone bridge that was about as picturesque as they came. The rushing river churned below, its deep green waters frothing between sun-bleached boulders. A small mountain rose from the edge of the far bank. The river had cut a gash through it, revealing iron-rich layers of stone. There were no homes on the far side, no mills, no tilled fields, and everything was uphill. The little trail they followed had worn the roots of nearby trees, polishing them until the wood shone. Where the path passed over rocks ¡ª which was often ¡ª the surface of the stone was buffed as smooth as finished marble.
The path started in a thick canopy of cottonwood and hawthorn. As they ascended, it graduated to birch and juniper. Farther up, the trail widened when they reached a world of fir, aspen, and pine. The ¡°bad side¡± of the river had an enchanting, mythic quality. Moss and lichen covered the rocks, some of which were the size of two-story houses. They looked to have been dropped and forgotten by neglectful giants.
¡°It¡¯s beautiful here,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°It is,¡± Scarlett agreed, striding up the trail with all the stamina of a mountain goat.
¡°Some of the rocks are shaped like faces,¡± he observed. This was the sort of comment that made Royce cringe, and Hadrian expected the same reaction from Scarlett.
Instead, she nodded and smiled. ¡°People used to believe stones like these were alive, you know? Trees, too ¡ª they believed everything had spirits. People worshiped river gods, the sun, the moon, and the four winds.¡±
¡°Is that what the monks think, that there are spirits everywhere?¡±
¡°No, but that¡¯s what our ancestors thought. Ages and ages ago, long before the empire, people lived in scattered villages like ¡ª well, like Brecken Dale, and every one of them had its own personal god. They worshiped a statue of him or her, and even took it with them when they charged into battles. There were hundreds of spirits and demons back then. But all that changed, starting here.¡±
¡°Starting here? What happened?¡± Hadrian asked, but Scarlett had scampered ahead and disappeared around a bend of cliff. Catching up, he discovered they had reached the top.
An open, rocky slope, covered in sedge, matt buckwheat, and forget-me-nots, spread out before him. He stood above the tree line, and below lay the world. Hadrian felt as though he could see into infinity. Green-blue ridges of forested hills ran south toward bluer, rocky mountains, and beyond those were white peaks. A cloud was caught between two ridges, a tuft of milkweed trapped in a cleft. Far below, the village was merely a smudge and the river only a shining ribbon wriggling through the green. To the east, and what looked to be just below their feet, the silver waves of the ocean shimmered. But what astounded him the most was the clear, blue sky threatening to engulf him. ¡°Whoa.¡±
Scarlett had stopped; she watched him, grinning. ¡°Amazing, isn¡¯t it?¡± she asked. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯ve come to the end of the world and can see clearly for the first time.¡±
On the still-rising slope that formed the bald head of the little mountain stood an ancient stone building. Massive, rough-hewn slabs were stacked without mortar. Corners had been worn and rounded, and while no ivy grew there, emerald-green moss and gold lichen decorated every block.
¡°Welcome to Brecken Moor,¡± Scarlett said.
Augustine Gilcrest looked like a monk, old and weathered, with a face that had suffered from the merciless sun, the wind, and the cruel whims of gods. But in his eyes was the blue of an endless sky. A long white beard showed he hadn¡¯t shaved in decades, and the haphazard hair sticking out in all directions beneath a miserable flop of a hat told Hadrian the cleric likely hadn¡¯t seen a mirror in about as long.
Seeing Scarlett, the abbot of Brecken Moor howled with joy, then embraced her tightly, kissing her three times on the cheek. She returned the squeeze with the same comfortable closeness of a family accustomed to hugging.
¡°I¡¯m so glad you¡¯ve come to visit. Let¡¯s sit down in the shade. I know what a long stroll it is to get here.¡±
They were out in the cloister, an enclosed garden surrounded by a pillared walkway. At the center, an artesian spring trickled down into a naturally formed pool. Around it, carefully cultivated plots of vegetables, herbs, and flowers grew. Around those, walkways and stone benches had been constructed.
The monk led them to one of those, in the shade of an old and twisted bristlecone pine. He gestured for them to sit. ¡°It¡¯s so wonderful to see you again.¡± He beamed at Scarlett. ¡°You need to visit more often.¡± His eyes darted over. ¡°And who is this young man?¡± His tone was playful, mischievous, and his brows made an insinuating jump.
¡°This is Hadrian Blackwater, just a curious stranger from up north,¡± Scarlett said. Her face looked a bit flushed, but it could have been from the mountain hike.
¡°The question is,¡± Augustine said, continuing in his baiting tone, ¡°what is he curious about?¡±
¡°Actually,¡± said Hadrian, who was sticky with sweat and fixated on the trickling water, ¡°I was wondering if you had anything to drink.¡±
The abbot held out a hand to the bubbling spring. ¡°That¡¯s what it¡¯s there for, the same as the air you¡¯re breathing. Maribor provides.¡±
Scarlett walked over, bent down, and sucked water from the surface of the pool as if she were a deer in a glade. She stood up, wiping her mouth. ¡°Best you¡¯ll ever have.¡±
Hadrian followed her example. The water was cold, clear, and perfect. He drained almost half an inch before standing. Refreshed and revitalized, he took a deep breath of the fresh air and sighed.
¡°Nice, isn¡¯t it?¡± Scarlett asked.
¡°I could live here,¡± Hadrian replied.
¡°If you wish, you can,¡± Augustine told him. ¡°We welcome anyone interested in a life of worship.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Hadrian hadn¡¯t seen more than two other monks ¡ª or at least two other men in the same drab habits. ¡°Not a lot of takers lately, I¡¯m guessing?¡±
Augustine smiled. ¡°We¡¯re a bit out of the way here.¡±
¡°Certainly is beautiful,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Everything here is. Even down in the village ¡ª across this whole valley, really.¡±
¡°Yes, Dulgath is a little sliver of paradise perched at land¡¯s end.¡± The abbot winked at Scarlett.
¡°So much natural beauty in one place, and yet . . .¡±
¡°Yes?¡± the abbot asked.
¡°I don¡¯t know, just doesn¡¯t feel natural. Something strange about this place.¡±
The abbot and Scarlett exchanged looks. ¡°Would you like to know? Would you really?¡±
Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure he did. He wasn¡¯t one for sermons. In the manor village where he¡¯d grown up, they didn¡¯t have a church. A priest of Nyphron would visit a few times a year. He came to perform weddings, to bless the dead and the harvest, but mostly to break bread and drink with Lord Baldwin. No one in Hintindar could be considered devout, and Hadrian¡¯s father held an open contempt for the church.
The years Hadrian had spent in the military, not to mention his time in Calis, had done nothing to improve his indifferent view of religion. He supposed it served a purpose: calmed fears, eased suffering, gave hope, and occasionally helped those whom others ignored. Still, he¡¯d never understood the blind worship of the faithful.
Deacons, priests, and bishops were ordinary men and just as prone to acts of good and evil as anyone else. From his perspective, there was only one difference: The religious loved to talk. Soldiers, merchants, even nobles were men of action. The devout were men of words ¡ª usually lots of them.
That afternoon, however, Hadrian was tired from a long uphill walk, and sitting down to listen to a story didn¡¯t sound so bad. It didn¡¯t matter that he was pretty sure it wasn¡¯t going to be a good one.
¡°Okay.¡± Hadrian found his own slab of stone and got comfortable.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Augustine smiled at him, then stood up. He lifted his eyes to the sky and took a deep breath.
¡°Long, long ago,¡± he began, fanning his fingers as if he were evoking the birth of existence, ¡°our people came to this valley and thought to make a life here. But their dreams became a nightmare, for this place was ruled by an evil demon of the old world: a monster capable of leveling mountains, blotting out the light of the sun, and calling down bolts of lightning. Paths were guarded by cruel thorns, soil was made barren, and the water¡± ¡ª he pointed at the trickling well ¡ª ¡°was poison. This was a cursed land, an awful, terrible place of darkness and death . . . until Bran came.¡±
Scarlett grinned at the name like a child hearing a favorite tale and eager to share ¡ª to experience it again through the reactions of someone new.
Augustine¡¯s attention was distracted by a pair of monks who entered the cloister. ¡°C¡¯mon.¡± He invited them with a wave.
One young, one middle-aged, they shuffled over silently and sat on the ground. They, too, had the eager, excited expression.
It must be really boring up here, Hadrian guessed.
¡°Now then,¡± Augustine went on, ¡°Bran was the prot¨¦g¨¦ of Brin, the legendary hero of old. When Brin was a boy, no more than fourteen years old, his parents were killed by a marauding army of giants, who were so big they used trees as toothpicks. Brin slew every last one with his bare hands. But that wasn¡¯t his only exploit. He stole the secret of metal from the dwarven king, who back then ruled from the ancient city of Neith.¡± The abbot pointed to the southwest, causing Hadrian to turn and look, but all he saw was a cloud-covered mountain range snaking down the back of Delgos like a jagged spine.
¡°The dwarven king¡¯s name was Gronbach, his heart so black it bled ink. He was worse than any fiend of Phyre.¡±
¡°I¡¯ve heard of that dwarf,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°He¡¯s in nursery rhymes. An ugly creature that promises girls treasure and then betrays them. He locks the poor child in a prison of stone, but the girl ¡ª usually a princess ¡ª manages to escape by some clever trick or magic.¡±
Augustine nodded. ¡°Which demonstrates how such tales take form. It¡¯s a less-than-accurate retelling of a real event between the mighty Brin and the evil Gronbach. But that¡¯s a tale for another day. I merely wanted to set the stage, and let you know that Brin¡¯s adventures ranged far and wide. It¡¯s because of Brin that we have blades like the ones you carry.¡±
Everyone was staring at Hadrian¡¯s swords, heads nodding in unison.
Hadrian smiled politely and was thankful the abbot wasn¡¯t telling the whole story, or this would be a very long visit.
¡°There are many legendary tales of adventures featuring Brin. It is said he slew the last of the dragons, invented writing, and fought beside Novron at a crucial battle in the Great Elven War. He even saved the first emperor¡¯s life.
¡°But his greatest feat was leading a band of heroes into the underworld ¡ª into the land of death itself. That trip changed everything. Bran¡¯s tales of his teacher¡¯s adventures taught us about the real gods. Did you know that long ago men worshiped every tree and leaf?¡±
¡°I told him,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°Oh good,¡± he replied, but his face suggested otherwise. ¡°Well . . .¡± Augustine stumbled, trying to find his place. ¡°It¡¯s from Bran ¡ª the founder of the Brotherhood of Maribor ¡ª that we know of Phyre and the truth that there are only five gods. Erebus is the father of all; Ferrol, the father of the elves. Drome brought forth dwarves, and of course Maribor created mankind. As for the plants and animals, that was the work of Muriel.¡±
¡°What about Novron? The Nyphron Church worships the son of Maribor as their god. Do the Monks of Maribor not?¡±
Scarlett cringed, but the abbot just smiled politely, as if placating a child who didn¡¯t know better.
¡°We are the keepers of the truth. We don¡¯t involve ourselves in what others believe.¡±
Maybe monks were as adept as nobles at obfuscation, because Hadrian noticed Gilcrest hadn¡¯t answered the question. Still, he wasn¡¯t going to be rude and dig deeper.
The abbot once more stumbled to find his place. ¡°While Brin¡¯s accomplishments are legion, his most important contribution is the knowledge that no one, no matter how vile their past, is beyond redemption.¡±
¡°Sounds like a great guy,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°But what does this have to do with Dulgath?¡±
The abbot grinned, and a twinkle shone in his eye. ¡°Several years after the Elven War, when the empire was still young and the capital city of Percepliquis was just being built, Bran heard of the hardships the people in this valley were up against. So Bran the Holy, student of Brin the Magnificent, came to help. He stood in this very place, the ground where this monastery now stands. On this hilltop, Bran faced the Demon of Dulgath. He wrestled with the monster and forced it to yield. Wise as he was, Bran didn¡¯t slay it, but rather made it repent for its cruelties. He charged it with making right every wrong it had perpetrated against the people of this land. Exhausted from his efforts, Bran took off his shawl and rested. Then he prayed for Maribor to bless this valley. Overnight everything changed. The waters became pure, the thorns were replaced with ivy, and the weather turned ideal.¡±
Hadrian asked Scarlett, ¡°You believe all this?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve lived here for five years,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a drought, a storm, or a famine.¡±
¡°That doesn¡¯t prove anything.¡±
¡°The winters here are never very cold and always stunning. It¡¯s as if the only reason it snows is for the beauty it brings. You can see for yourself how lush everything is. Ivy is everywhere, and plants usually found much farther south thrive here. We have oranges, and there are palm trees along the coast. The growing season is incredibly long, and the land is never exhausted, no matter how often the farmers plant. They don¡¯t even rotate the crops. They plant whatever they want, wherever they want.¡±
¡°Still doesn¡¯t ¡ª¡±
¡°Five years, Hadrian,¡± she said with a smirk. ¡°I¡¯ve been here five years, and I¡¯ve only seen it rain once in the daytime. You can see storms that devastate other parts of Maranon from up here. Hurricanes that wreck ships on the coast ¡ª or dark clouds filled with rain and hail ¡ª never reach us. They either turn aside or die altogether. If you travel, you¡¯ll find it blistering hot or deathly cold just outside this valley, but here, in this place, it¡¯s always sunny, always warm, always ¡ª perfect.¡±
The monks nodded in agreement.
¡°Fruits grow heavy, there¡¯s never a blight, and crops are always plentiful. This land is blessed, Hadrian. Either we¡¯re benefiting from the efforts of a reformed demon or Maribor loves this valley ¡ª maybe both. The only problems we face are the occasional accident or sickness, and for those we had Maddie Oldcorn and now Lady Dulgath. Augustine can tell you about that. He was there when it happened.¡±
The abbot turned thoughtful, a sadness leaching through his previous energy and making him appear old for the first time. ¡°Her Ladyship had been in the steeplechase and fell. Landed badly. Blood was in her eyes and leaking from her ears.¡± He shook his head, grimacing. Having a few gruesome memories of his own, Hadrian knew the abbot was seeing it all over again. ¡°She was close to death when they carried her into the castle and laid her on the bed. Maddie was called. She had always been the thorn on the rose, the sting of a bee, but she had the heart of a racehorse and would come when needed, no matter how late the hour. She would kill herself reaching for the finish line. Most people think that night was what did her in. Maddie saved Nysa Dulgath and poured everything she had into the effort. The old woman saved that girl, but died doing so. We buried her on a hill in the village where folk lay flowers in her memory.¡±
¡°And after that Lady Dulgath started healing people?¡± Hadrian asked.
Augustine nodded. ¡°Apparently Maddie gave her more than just life. Maybe she knew she was dying and wanted to pass on her gift. In any case, it wasn¡¯t long before Lady Dulgath began healing the sick the same way Maddie had.¡±
¡°No explanation for how she does it?¡±
Augustine raised his hands to the sky. ¡°She has the grace of our Lord, and he listens to her.¡±
¡°But you¡¯re the abbot. Shouldn¡¯t you be the one your Lord listens to?¡±
¡°Maribor chooses whom he works through. He has his reasons. That we might not understand them is a fault in us ¡ª not him.¡±
That was more the sort of talk Hadrian was used to hearing from clerics. Experience had likely taught Augustine to expect skepticism. Hadrian figured the abbot had encountered it often ¡ª getting people to entrust their souls to something they couldn¡¯t validate had to be a hard sell. Doubt must have been readable on his face, as Hadrian hadn¡¯t learned Royce¡¯s art of the dispassionate stare.
Augustine stood up, clapping his hands together. Old and soft as they were, they made a muffled noise, but the old man¡¯s eyes were bright with excitement. ¡°Come with me.¡±
He led them through the nave of the church. The other two monks must have known where he was going, because they grabbed a pair of dead torches off the wall and lit them from a white-coal brazier near the entrance. The church was little more than a large hall with a raised altar and a podium. There were paintings on the walls and ceiling, but in the dim light Hadrian couldn¡¯t make them out. The middle-aged monk took Augustine¡¯s hand as they came to stairs that led down into the solid rock of the mountaintop. When they reached a door, the abbot pushed it open. Inside, a shaft of light cut through the ceiling on a slant that shone on a pedestal, which was actually a stunning sculpture of four kneeling people, their arms upraised. In their hands they held a golden chest. The brilliant box dazzled under the beam of sunlight.
The abbot lifted the lid and revealed the contents ¡ª a piece of cloth.
Green, black, and blue plaid, the material seemed to be a simple shawl or small blanket. Clearly old, it was faded, tattered, torn, and badly frayed around the edges. The fabric was lovingly laid out and tacked in place so its full width was visible, like a tapestry.
¡°After his battle with the demon,¡± Augustine said, staring down into the golden box, his hands reverently clasped before him, ¡°Bran the Beloved took off his shawl. In the morning, he left it behind. This is the One True Thing, the proof of my words. We believe this shawl ¡ª this very bit of cloth you see here ¡ª was handed down to Bran from Brin. If so, it would be older than the Novronian Empire, older by far than the Church of Nyphron, even older than Percepliquis. This is the Shawl of Brin.¡±
In that dark grotto, next to the gold case held up by those eerie stone hands and bathed in that pure white shaft of sunlight, Hadrian did feel a sense of awe. A presence of the mystical crept over him, raising goose bumps. An old blanket in a box was what he saw, but what he felt was an intersection with eternity, a window on a world beyond, an impossible wrinkle in reality ¡ª a footprint of a god.
No one spoke for several minutes. They stood transfixed by the simple woolen cloth, as if they were holding their own internal conversations with it, with themselves, and with Maribor. Then, without another word, the abbot closed the box, breaking the spell. He led them back out into the daylight of the tranquil cloister.
The sun felt good, reassuring. Everything was normal again. Still, no one spoke, and Hadrian took another drink from the pool. This time he splashed water on his face, then looked around.
Is it possible that some ancient hero really did fight and defeat an old-world demon on this mountaintop? Is this valley really blessed in some way? Hadrian pictured telling Royce that story and once more felt the grass beneath his feet.
His doubt must have registered, because Abbott Gilcrest patted him on the arm reassuringly and said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, my son, if you don¡¯t believe in Maribor and the blessings he provides. Belief in him isn¡¯t a requirement. It doesn¡¯t stop him from believing in you.¡±
V1: Chapter 12 - Lady Dulgath
The room they had lent Sherwood Stow was on the third floor of the south tower, and not as nice as Royce and Hadrian¡¯s at Caldwell House. The space was smaller and had but a sliver of a sea-facing window, which left it gloomy. With three of the walls made from stone, the place was as comfortable as a dungeon. In his explorations, Royce had discovered better rooms left vacant. Perhaps those rooms had been occupied when Sherwood arrived, or they were reserved for the coming of the king and his entourage. Or maybe whoever had assigned Sherwood¡¯s room wanted him to leave as soon as possible.
The artist had been provided with a bed, but even though evening drew near, no one had bothered to freshen the linens. Broken rocks of yellow ocher and ruddy iron littered a small table in the corner. A tiny hammer and a metal file lay among the debris. Hammer-sized impressions on the surface of the table suggested Sherwood held as much respect for his accommodation as those who had provided the room had shown to the artist. Chicken bones littered the floor near the chamber pot. Near misses, Royce guessed. From the rancid smell that greeted his nose upon entering, Sherwood¡¯s pisspot hadn¡¯t been dealt with any better than the bed.
¡°I don¡¯t get visitors,¡± Sherwood said with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He picked up the discarded bones, crossed the room, and dumped them and the chamber pot¡¯s contents out the window and into the sea. When he turned back, a look of shock flashed across the painter¡¯s face.
Royce didn¡¯t suffer from a lack of situational awareness. Some people ¡ª most people ¡ª walked around oblivious to nearly everything. How they survived more than a week was a curiosity to him akin to why turkeys had wings. In Royce¡¯s profession, being surprised was the same as being dead, so catching him unaware was a rare thing. Seeing the stunned look on Sherwood¡¯s face, however, Royce was certain someone had been hiding in the corner as they entered. Cursing himself for his stupidity and expecting the worst, Royce whirled while reaching for his dagger.
No one was there, just the artist¡¯s easel and paint tray propped in the corner.
Sherwood moved to the easel as if he¡¯d forgotten Royce was in the room. He reached out and touched the tripod, running his hands over the surface of the paint-splattered wood. ¡°Impossible.¡±
¡°What is?¡±
Sherwood untied a rolled-up canvas pouch. It unfurled, one end dangling from the easel tray. The thing was a sort of carrying case for paintbrushes, with little pockets for each. There had to be two dozen brushes neatly stuffed into the compartments. ¡°They¡¯re all here.¡±
Sherwood opened the lid of the tray and gasped. He jerked back as if a snake had been hiding there. Reaching out, he timidly touched each of the pigment bottles. Then he picked up the paint-smeared palette and stared at it. ¡°It¡¯s . . . it¡¯s . . .¡± he repeated, shaking his head. ¡°This is the same palette. The paint it¡¯s . . . I just don¡¯t understand.¡±
¡°Your easel, your paint, your room, what¡¯s not to understand?¡±
¡°These don¡¯t exist anymore, or I should say they didn¡¯t ¡ª none of them. Last night Lord Fawkes went into the study and destroyed it all. This easel was snapped into half a dozen pieces, and the paint vials were shattered against the walls and floor. And this . . .¡± Sherwood held up the palette. ¡°This was broken in two. But it¡¯s all here now ¡ª not a mark, not a blemish.¡±
¡°No blemishes? There are dents, scrapes, and paint splattered all over that thing.¡±
¡°Yes!¡± Sherwood spun, holding up the palette like a tiny shield. ¡°I know every mark, every drip of paint. This isn¡¯t a replacement or a replica. This is my old easel. These are my old paints.¡±
Sherwood¡¯s eyes went wide with thought. He turned and scanned the pigments again. ¡°Beyond the Sea . . . it isn¡¯t here.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because I have it.¡± Royce held out the bottle.
¡°Yes.¡± Sherwood took the vial and put it in the gap where it belonged. ¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±
¡°Ponder it later. I have questions, remember?¡±
Sherwood faced him with a giddy smile. ¡°Sure. Whatever. What do you want to know?¡±
¡°Tell me about Lady Dulgath. What¡¯s she like? What are her habits? Her interests? Her ¡ª¡±
¡°Her hair isn¡¯t black.¡±
¡°I¡¯m actually more interested in ¡ª¡±
¡°People don¡¯t know that,¡± he went on, staring at Royce in earnest. ¡°They would if they paid attention, if they looked close, but people don¡¯t. Everyone is so focused on themselves they never really take the time to look at others and rarely see them.¡±
Royce sensed Sherwood was one of those quirky spigots that started by chugging and spitting out blasts of useless, dirty water. But after you pumped it a few times, it vomited the good stuff. He decided to continue to coax, to see what came out. ¡°So what color is her hair?¡±
¡°Brown.¡±
¡°Looks black to me.¡±
¡°It¡¯s what I call soft black, but it¡¯s really a very dark brown. You can see it when she stands in front of a window on a sunny day. The light gives her a golden halo as it passes through the individual strands. Her eyes aren¡¯t really brown, either. There¡¯s a hint of gold and even a little green in them.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not interested in painting her.¡±
¡°But that¡¯s how I know her. That¡¯s how I understand her. She doesn¡¯t have black hair and brown eyes like everyone else, because she isn¡¯t like everyone else. She isn¡¯t like anyone else. You can hear it in her voice. She drags her vowels, puts emphasis on the wrong syllables, as if she¡¯s from another country. But I¡¯ve been to all of them, and I¡¯ve never heard the like. Just looking at her you can see the differences. She¡¯s only twenty-two, but she has an old soul. Her not-young soul is visible through those not-brown eyes. She betrays it in the way she moves, the way she acts. Each step, each shift is poised and filled with total confidence. She¡¯s fearless in the command of her body. This confidence bleeds out in her voice and the directions she gives her staff. Firm, strong, but kind and compassionate, she has wisdom far beyond her apparent years. And courage!¡± Sherwood chuckled at the absurdity, as if Royce had just accused Lady Dulgath of being a coward.
¡°I once saw her stop a fight between two soldiers. One had a busted, bleeding nose, and he had just drawn his sword. The other man¡¯s face was red with rage, and he howled in anger. Everyone else ¡ª big men, some of them armed ¡ª backed away. She marched right up and slapped one and then the other. Just slapped them. I couldn¡¯t believe it. I don¡¯t think anyone could. She did the same sort of thing with an unruly horse.¡±
¡°She slapped it?¡±
Sherwood chuckled again; the man was in a decidedly better mood than when they¡¯d first met. ¡°No, but . . . well, the animal was rearing and kicking, and Nysa ¡ª I mean, Lady Dulgath ¡ª showed no hesitation. She laid a hand on the animal¡¯s neck. The horse relaxed ¡ª calmed right down.¡± Sherwood continued to stare at the easel, then blinked and laughed again. A self-conscious smile pulled at his lips.
Royce remained quiet, waiting to see if Sherwood would continue. Just as he thought the artist was finished, he spoke again.
¡°She¡¯s sad,¡± Sherwood said at last. ¡°Lonely, I think.¡±
¡°Her father just died.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not that. I arrived before he died. She was melancholy then, too. She actually took her father¡¯s death well, very stoically. Still, there¡¯s this a regret that hovers around her. That¡¯s the thing I notice the most about her. She wears it like . . . like you wear that cloak ¡ª hides behind it. That¡¯s what makes her so hard to see.¡±
Sherwood went on to speak of Nysa Dulgath with an awe that only infatuation ¡ª deep and fresh ¡ª produced. Sherwood was likely on the verge of declaring that the lady inhaled with more acumen than mere mortals, and yet . . .
Heat and cold don¡¯t bother you nearly as much as they do your friend, but ice, snow, and boats ¡ª oh, ships!
If she had added dogs and dwarves to the list of things he avoided, Royce would¡¯ve concluded she knew him. And the comment about water . . . Royce could swim, he¡¯d had to on a few occasions, but he avoided lakes, rivers, and the ocean. He hated having no solid ground to stand on. Boats and docks were somehow worse. They messed with his balance and made him sick. He¡¯d never told anyone. Weaknesses were things only the stupid advertised. Nysa Dulgath knew his just by looking at him.
Royce spotted the cloth-covered painting behind the table. ¡°Is that her portrait?¡±
¡°Yes.¡±
¡°Can I see it?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Why not?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not done.¡±
Royce considered looking anyway, but he¡¯d seen plenty of portraits hanging in the halls of the wealthy, usually pudgy men and pasty women. He simply wasn¡¯t that interested. He¡¯d learned what he came to find out. Sherwood wasn¡¯t a threat to Lady Dulgath ¡ª he was in love with her. Royce had suspected as much from the moment the painter threw a fortune in blue pigment at him in her defense. Now he was certain. With their deal concluded, Royce was content to leave the artist alone with his easel mystery. Still, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that he should have looked.
Climbing the ivy was even easier the second time.
Lady Dulgath was in her bedroom. He¡¯d seen the light come on before he started his climb and made no effort to conceal his approach. Even so, the odds of anyone seeing or hearing him were slim. Practice and experience had made his stealth habitual. Cats ¡ª even when not hunting ¡ª were damn hard to hear.
She wasn¡¯t in bed.
Lifting his head above the sill, Royce saw Nysa Dulgath sitting at the little desk, her back to him. She was wearing a different gown. This one was white and off the shoulder, drawing attention to the smooth dark-olive skin, and ¡ª he didn¡¯t care what Sherwood said ¡ª she had black hair.
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He studied her.
The first time he¡¯d met Lady Dulgath ¡ª he hadn¡¯t really noticed the woman herself. Instead, he¡¯d seen the accumulated assumptions he¡¯d built while riding to Maranon. This time he watched more honestly and found a beautiful woman. Slender, tall, relaxed in her body ¡ª Sherwood was right about the poise and confidence. She was just sitting at her desk, but she sat straight, ankles crossed. The movement of her hands and arms as she used a quill was ¡ª
¡°Are you here to kill me this time?¡± she asked without turning.
Royce slipped through the window and perched on the sill, his feet dangling inside the room but not touching the coiled rug that covered half the floor. ¡°No. Why would you say that?¡±
Lady Dulgath set her quill down and turned halfway in her seat, throwing one arm over the back of the chair. Long hair covered the side of her face, obscuring one eye and blanketing one shoulder. The candle behind her gave it a pleasant shine. ¡°Because no one hires an assassin merely to plan a murder. Was it Bishop Parnell or Lord Fawkes who hired you to kill me?¡±
She knows!
¡°Actually, they did hire me, but merely to provide them with a plan.¡±
¡°Which they will execute?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°Probably.¡±
The degree to which Royce had misjudged this noble woman was earthshattering. He¡¯d made bad guesses before, but he almost always overestimated his enemies. This time he¡¯d pegged his target as a careless, negligent, oblivious child; he¡¯d mistaken a fox for a hen.
¡°Since you obviously know people are plotting your death, why haven¡¯t you bothered to take precautions?¡±
¡°Mister Melborn, is it? Ruling a kingdom doesn¡¯t equal unfettered power. Take for example the Church of Nyphron ¡ª the chief sponsor of my elimination. I have no power to remove any of them. They don¡¯t work for me. Only the king can order such a ban, and he won¡¯t. This leaves me with an assassin on my windowsill ¡ª something that ought to be only a metaphor.¡±
¡°And yet you don¡¯t seem the least bit frightened.¡±
She rolled her shoulders, shrugging off the hair. ¡°You just said you weren¡¯t here to kill me.¡±
¡°And you believe the word of a killer?¡±
¡°Maybe I¡¯m just not afraid of dying.¡±
¡°Everyone is afraid of death.¡±
¡°Says the deliveryman. And yet you make a business of it.¡±
¡°I used to make a business of it,¡± Royce clarified, then wondered why he bothered. She didn¡¯t care, and neither should he. ¡°And people are not afraid of death happening, just of it happening to them.¡±
¡°So you aren¡¯t a killer anymore?¡±
¡°Not an assassin.¡±
¡°Ah.¡± She nodded. ¡°Now you merely advise others.¡±
¡°This is an unusual job.¡±
¡°No doubt.¡± She brushed the hair away from her face, looking at him clearly with both eyes. ¡°How would you kill me?¡±
She was being provocative, trying to push him off balance. She took great pleasure in that, enjoyed attacking and watching him retreat. ¡°I¡¯d slit your throat while you slept.¡±
¡°You¡¯d sneak up here while I¡¯m in bed, catch me unaware, but . . . that didn¡¯t work so well last night . . . or this.¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t trying very hard.¡±
¡°Right, of course, normally you succeed because ¡ª because of your special secret.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s not go there again.¡±
¡°Why not? Are you afraid to learn something about yourself?¡±
¡°I know myself quite well, thank you.¡±
¡°No, you don¡¯t.¡± Nysa stood up. The light of the desk¡¯s candle behind her left the lady¡¯s features in darkness, but the bright white of the gown practically glowed. ¡°You think you¡¯re a man, but you¡¯re better than that.¡±
¡°Better? Last night you called me an elf.¡±
¡°You are.¡±
¡°And you call that better? Where I come from, that¡¯s about as low an insult as there is.¡±
¡°Where I come from, it¡¯s the highest form of praise.¡±
Royce leaned in and peered at her with a disagreeable smirk. ¡°I hadn¡¯t noticed Maranon holding any affection for elves. In fact, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve seen any since coming here.¡±
Lady Dulgath bit her lip and turned away.
A point scored.
Royce could see what had so overwhelmed Sherwood. Lady Dulgath had an allure that even he couldn¡¯t deny. It didn¡¯t help that she looked a bit like Gwen DeLancy: same shapely figure, dark eyes, and dark hair. Some time ago Royce had realized that he judged the beauty of all women by how much they resembled Gwen, but there was more to Nysa Dulgath¡¯s appeal than that. She was younger and lighter-skinned than Gwen, but they shared the same intoxicating sense of mystery. In a world of mundane predictability, they were intriguing riddles ¡ª rain in sunshine creating rainbows.
¡°If you¡¯re not here to kill me, then why climb my ivy? Were you hoping to catch me dressing?¡±
Royce rolled his eyes.
¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve never met an assassin. How would I know what you do? But if peeping wasn¡¯t your aim, what is?¡±
¡°Trying to figure out why someone wants you dead.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡± She showed him a smirk of her own. ¡°You¡¯re deciding whether I deserve to live. You¡¯re trying to determine if it¡¯s worth the money to tell them how to kill me. You didn¡¯t have any problem doing so when we first met, but second thoughts have crept in since last night. And now ¡ª now you¡¯re undecided ¡ª on a windowsill, so to speak.¡±
¡°You can certainly wring every drop out of a metaphor, can¡¯t you?¡±
She spun halfway around on her left heel and went to the bed. Sherwood was right about the way she moved. She didn¡¯t so much walk as glide, and that heel spin she did was as elegant as a dancer¡¯s pirouette.
The dress added to the drama of the movement, made of something shiny, satin, perhaps. It caught light from both the candle and the moon, rippling like waves on a still, night pond.
Ghostly. That was the word that came to mind. She sat on the bed and crossed her ankles again, this time folding her hands in her lap and pulling her shoulders back as if posing.
Maybe she is. Maybe she¡¯s trying to seduce me, flashing her big eyes in the false hope that it will save her life. Something told him he was wrong even before he¡¯d finished the thought. I¡¯ve got to stop thinking she¡¯s like everyone else ¡ª she¡¯s a fox, not a hen.
¡°Since you¡¯re on the sill about me,¡± she said with a grin, ¡°I¡¯ll offer a defense and see if I can persuade you to grant clemency.¡±
¡°Knock yourself out.¡±
She narrowed her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m sorry . . . what?¡±
¡°Go ahead, state your case,¡± Royce said.
Nysa stared at him a moment longer, then used both hands to hook her hair behind her ears. Straightening up once more, she asked, ¡°Did you know that the Dulgath family is the oldest continually ruling bloodline in Avryn?¡±
¡°That¡¯s not likely to sway me. I¡¯m not big on tradition.¡±
¡°It¡¯s my life on the line. Grant me a little leniency.¡±
Royce shrugged and, expecting a long tale, curled up in the frame of the window. Putting his back against one side, he drew up his feet and placed them on the other.
¡°Let¡¯s see.¡± Lady Dulgath tapped her chin and tilted her head toward the ceiling, as if she were trying to spot something very small or very far away. ¡°About three thousand years ago ¡ª close to that ¡ª when the Great War ended and the Novronian Empire was born ¡ª¡±
Royce interrupted. ¡°We really need to go back that far? Seriously?¡±
She ignored him. ¡°Before the war, no one had ever come this far west. After the war, everyone did. A rush of people searched for fertile lands. Maranon was perfect. Mehan ¡ª the capital of Maranon ¡ª was originally the name of a prominent clan from that time. They were the first here and had taken the best fields. The latecomers went farther west. As you can see, we¡¯re up against the ocean in this valley, so those who settled here were the late and undesirable ¡ª outcasts. They were led by a man named Dul. He was so poor he nearly starved to death and was so horribly thin people called him the Ghast. This would¡¯ve been right about the same time that the first stones of Percepliquis were being laid. Dul the Ghast led a miserable band of about a hundred members of Clan Mehan to this valley, which they found beautiful and rich.¡±
¡°And they lived happily ever after,¡± Royce finished for her.
¡°Not at all. There¡¯s a reason Dul the Ghast and his followers were undesirable ¡ª they were idiots.¡±
This made Royce smile.
Nysa returned the grin.
¡°They had no idea how to take care of themselves on the frontier. When they exhausted the supplies they¡¯d brought, they found themselves in desperate need. Back then ¡ª this was before Novron died, before his cult grew ¡ª people worshiped spirits believed to exist in nature: trees, rocks, bears, that sort of thing. In desperation, Dul and his dying people began begging the spirits of nature to save them. Dul probably never expected anything to come of it, but what he didn¡¯t know was that there really was a spirit dwelling in this valley, and the spirit heard him. Overnight everything changed, and that guardian spirit has watched over the House of Dulgath ever since.¡±
¡°Are you saying that¡¯s why you¡¯re not concerned? Because you have a magical guardian protecting you?¡±
¡°I guess you could say that, yes.¡±
Royce had no trouble believing her sincerity. Nobles and wealthy merchants were known to believe in ghosts and good luck charms. He once knew a silk merchant who had been convinced his dog of nineteen years was still alive. He would go down on one knee and pet thin air while making cooing noises at it. The odd thing was that his wife had died the same year as the dog ¡ª but she had never visited. A guardian spirit didn¡¯t surprise Royce at all, and normally he would¡¯ve accepted her story as another example of wishful stupidity, except . . .
Fox, not a hen.
¡°Okay, so that answers why you¡¯re so relaxed. It doesn¡¯t explain why everyone wants to kill you.¡±
¡°A few years ago, the Nyphron Church came for a visit. Five of their leading bishops were traveling from province to province, preaching to the noble families about the importance of restoring the faith of Novron. They came here and weren¡¯t pleased that the Earl of Dulgath wasn¡¯t receptive to their belief in restoring the old empire.¡±
The Earl of Dulgath? An odd way for her to refer to her father.
¡°They wanted his assurance that when the time came, he would cast his allegiance to an emperor of their choice. We¡¯ve never worshiped Novron here. Even when we were part of the empire, we gave only lip service. This tiny valley has its own ways ¡ª old ways ¡ª and we¡¯re set in them. Old Beadle told them that he wouldn¡¯t cooperate.¡±
Old Beadle?
¡°The earl was a problem, a rock in their road. A big, unmovable stone. Sadly, he didn¡¯t have the same life span as most rocks. When he died without a male heir ¡ª just a delicate, young, inexperienced girl ¡ª the church saw an opportunity.¡± She shook her head and sighed. ¡°But alas, the countess was no more pliable than the earl. So in the intervening years they found someone more amenable. Lord Fawkes will allow them to pull his strings, all while thinking he is the one in control.¡± She shook her head again. ¡°So foolish. Now the stage is set for the final act in their little drama, The Death of the Last Dulgath.¡±
¡°And none of this frightens you because you¡¯re protected by the magical woodland spirit of the valley. Do I have that right?¡±
¡°You¡¯re the expert on killings. You tell me. They¡¯ve tried three times now. How hard can it be to kill a delicate young girl?¡±
Something in the sound of her voice ¡ª not arrogance, but confidence ¡ª disturbed Royce, like hearing a deer howl or a rabbit roar.
¡°An interesting tale, but I¡¯m not persuaded. I¡¯m no fan of the church or nobility. It doesn¡¯t matter to me who rules. The lives of those at the lower rung remain unchanged. I¡¯ve decided, and I¡¯m going to tell them how I¡¯d kill you. I want you to know that.¡±
¡°How considerate of you.¡±
¡°Of course, should that ivy be cut down and a sentry posted to patrol the yard, such a thing would be a lot harder. And if you locked your door and posted another guard outside it, anyone looking to end your life might be out of luck.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not a very resourceful assassin, are you? I should think there would be cleverer ways than climbing in a window.¡±
¡°Simple plans work. Every moving part is a potential failure point. Besides . . .¡± Royce shrugged. ¡°Not a lot of incentive in this job. I¡¯m just here to get paid. That¡¯s all that matters.¡±
¡°Is it?¡± she asked, getting up.
She stood before him with her weight on one hip, arms limp at her sides. She had a predatory stare in her eyes. Royce found his muscles tensing. The look was threatening.
Is she thinking of pushing me out the window? No, that look isn¡¯t violent ¡ª it¡¯s inviting.
He¡¯d seen that stare before, usually on prostitutes working a room. Gwen¡¯s girls donned that expression frequently, but none ever looked at him that way. They aimed their weapons at the loud and the drunk, the ones throwing money away like silver fountains. No one ever stared at Royce.
Nysa locked eyes with him and smiled, soft cheeks growing round.
¡°I think you¡¯re curious,¡± she told him.
¡°About what?¡±
Not a shift, not a blink. ¡°About me, certainly, but even more about you. I can see doubt in your eyes. You don¡¯t want to believe what I said, but the truth is impossible to ignore. Your problem is that you¡¯ve lived with lies your entire life. What choice was there? Everyone agrees that elves are dirty, worthless, lazy, ignorant vermin. In a world without a dissenting opinion, how could anyone expect to judge fairly? The question before you isn¡¯t, How could I be one of them? but rather, How could I have ever believed I was only a man?¡±
¡°What does the daughter of an earl know about elves?¡±
¡°I read a lot,¡± she said, then broke their contest and laughed.
She swirled, making the gown fan, and threw her head back. Gwen¡¯s girls did that, too. Maybe Nysa was bad at it, or Royce was wrong about her intent, for the act was uncharacteristically awkward and filled with frustration and annoyance. In that instant, her guard dipped, and for the first time he felt he saw Nysa Dulgath, the woman behind the mask. The lady hadn¡¯t planned it, but that slip succeeded where her previous efforts had failed. The truth was indeed hard to ignore. Royce decided he liked Nysa Dulgath, or at least he didn¡¯t dislike her. She certainly was interesting.
She took a step toward him.
¡°Time for me to go.¡± Royce spun and threw his legs back out the window. ¡°Don¡¯t forget about the ivy. You need to get rid of it.¡±
¡°But I like ivy.¡±
¡°It can grow back.¡±
¡°And you? How will you visit me again if I tear it down?¡±
¡°I won¡¯t. Goodbye, Lady Dulgath.¡±
V1: Chapter 13 - Fawkes and Hounds
The trip back down the mountain was faster, as downhill trips always are. Even so, it was night when Hadrian and Scarlett Dodge reached the section of the trail where the pitch flattened to a mere slope and broadened wide enough for side-by-side travel. The moon was three-quarters full and cast a spray of silver pools where it penetrated the leaves. The light ran up and over their bodies as they waded through moonbeam puddles, and Hadrian kept stealing glances at Scarlett. At first he thought he was getting away with it. Still acting as a guide, Scarlett was focused on the trail ahead, but when he spotted her smile, he knew she¡¯d caught him. He also knew she didn¡¯t mind.
¡°So how did you end up in Dulgath ¡ª in Brecken Dale?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°What do you care?¡± Her tone was both curt and cold.
Hadrian was surprised, then realized he shouldn¡¯t have been. Royce had all but placed a knife to her throat. ¡°Look, we got started wrong. You poisoned me, and Royce threatened to kill you ¡ª fact is, we¡¯re not who you thought we were, and I have no idea who you are.¡±
¡°Probably best that way, don¡¯t you think?¡±
¡°No ¡ª I don¡¯t think that at all.¡±
She looked at him just as moonlight splashed her face. She had that puzzled squint he already recognized as one of her go-to expressions ¡ª at least the ones she used with him.
¡°But I¡¯ll tell you what I do think. I think it¡¯s easy to distrust someone you don¡¯t know. If you¡¯re ignorant of their past, you can¡¯t understand their motivations, so you jump to conclusions, which are usually wrong. For example, I¡¯m a really nice guy, but you probably hold a different opinion of me.¡±
¡°Yep ¡ª I think you¡¯re an idiot.¡±
He smiled. ¡°That¡¯s just because you don¡¯t know me. Once you do, you¡¯ll discover I¡¯m really only an imbecile.¡±
This made her laugh. He could tell she didn¡¯t want to, and her frustration made the sound even sweeter.
¡°See, you can¡¯t resist me. I¡¯m like a dog that drops a ball at your feet.¡±
¡°Hadrian,¡± she said with a weary tone and a shake of her head. ¡°I get it. You¡¯re attracted to me. You¡¯re trying to start something here ¡ª make me like you ¡ª but you¡¯re only going to be around for a few days, and Wagner and I ¡ª we¡¯re sort of a thing.¡±
¡°Wagner? The bartender? That old guy?¡±
¡°He owns Caldwell House, and he¡¯s nice.¡±
Hadrian nodded slowly with a pushed-out lower lip.
¡°What?¡±
¡°Just seems a little old, that¡¯s all.¡±
¡°Yeah, well, most men worth something are. Boys tend to be lazy or have an overabundance of dreams; they¡¯re always looking but never finding because they haven¡¯t a clue what they really want.¡± She glared directly at him as she spoke. ¡°Men like Wagner are past the stargazer stage. He understands the way the world is and makes the best of it.¡±
¡°Ah-huh.¡± Hadrian kept his eyes forward this time but felt her looking at him again.
¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±
¡°Nothing.¡±
¡°Wagner¡¯s been good to me.¡±
¡°Didn¡¯t say he wasn¡¯t. Probably a great guy . . . when he¡¯s not poisoning people.¡±
¡°I did that ¡ª and I didn¡¯t poison you. I drugged you. If I¡¯d used poison, you¡¯d be dead.¡±
Hadrian nodded, giving in again. He shifted his short sword¡¯s belt just off the hip, where it rubbed him. The hand-and-a-half sword always hung low, but he wore the short sword higher when he rode to keep it clear of his thigh. ¡°You know, I wasn¡¯t asking for your hand in marriage. I was just curious about how a woman from Colnora ended up here. Seemed a bit strange to me, that¡¯s all.¡±
They continued on in silence. The two split, going separate ways around a hawthorn tree that Hadrian was surprised he remembered from the trip up. Same thing had happened with a boulder earlier. Why is it I remember some things but not others? Why the tree and the boulder, but not that fallen log or that curve?
This was the sort of internal conversation he often expressed verbally with Royce, the kind that drove his partner nuts. But it wasn¡¯t polite to travel with someone and not acknowledge them, so a little pointless conversation seemed reasonable. Rather than be irritated by the silence, Hadrian chose to ¡ª
¡°I ran into some trouble in Colnora,¡± Scarlett said.
Hadrian didn¡¯t dare look over. He didn¡¯t show any sign that he knew she was there.
¡°Royce was telling the truth about me being in the Black Diamond.¡± She paused.
Hadrian didn¡¯t respond, didn¡¯t want to sidetrack her into a discussion about Royce.
After a moment, she went on. ¡°I grew up a farmer¡¯s daughter and ran away to the big city because I had talent and wanted to act in the theater there. I was only fourteen ¡ª didn¡¯t know women weren¡¯t allowed to be actors. They laughed at me, told me to go home. I couldn¡¯t do that. I¡¯d watched my mother kill herself in silent misery. She¡¯d cried herself to sleep at night. I wouldn¡¯t do that ¡ª wouldn¡¯t be that.
¡°I danced and sang on street corners for money. People liked me and dropped coppers in my hat. I thought I¡¯d found a future, and I was so happy. Didn¡¯t know about the Minstrel Guild and how ruthless people could be. Like I said, I was only fourteen.¡±
Hadrian risked a glance and discovered Scarlett wasn¡¯t looking at him. Her sight was fixed on the shadows, a hard, pained expression on her face. ¡°I was just a stupid little girl,¡± she said with a sneer of contempt, as if seeing herself and hating what she saw.
¡°The guild didn¡¯t care that I was young and na?ve. All they cared about was me cutting into their profits. Beat me bloody and split my lip. My eyes were so swollen I couldn¡¯t see out of them for days. My left arm was broken, as well as the third finger on this hand.¡± She held it up as if she were showing off a ring. ¡°Still a little crooked.¡± She grimaced and made a fist with that hand. ¡°But that was all they did ¡ª could have been worse. If the Black Diamond found you cutting in on their territory, you¡¯d be dead, not just broken, beaten, and left vomiting in a ditch. You see, the members of the Minstrel Guild pride themselves on being professional men, not predators and thugs. This was business, not pleasure. Nearly killing a stupid girl was just part of their job.
¡°Don¡¯t know what I would¡¯ve done after that if it hadn¡¯t been for Chase. I wouldn¡¯t have gone home, so I probably woulda died, I guess.¡±
¡°Who¡¯s Chase?¡±
¡°Chase was an entertainer ¡ª a magician and actor.¡±
¡°Was he one of the men who ¡ª was he part of the guild?¡±
¡°No ¡ª which at the time surprised me, too, because Chase put on shows wherever he liked in the city. No one ever bothered him. Turned out they didn¡¯t dare. He was part of a different guild ¡ª the Black Diamond.¡± She looked at him with a bitter smile Hadrian didn¡¯t understand. ¡°His shows drew in crowds, big crowds. Everyone was fascinated and intent on watching his hands to see how he did the magic. Meanwhile sweepers ¡ª pickpockets ¡ª worked their own magic. Misdirection was the key, he¡¯d always said. He pulled me out of that ditch and cleaned me up. Gave me food and a place to sleep. Had me sing and dance at his shows and taught me how to pick pockets and do magic. To him they were the same thing. He added me to his act and renamed me Dodge ¡ª Scarlett Dodge, the red-haired enchantress. He also sponsored my membership to the Diamond. Chase was a good man. Saved my life.¡±
¡°Was?¡±
¡°They killed him ¡ª Malachite and Jasper. This was five years ago. Hoyte was running things in the Diamond and fortifying his position as First Officer ¡ª which is sort of like a duke, the second most powerful member short of the Jewel himself, who¡¯s essentially the king. And like any good duke, he was preoccupied with weeding out those not loyal to him. Most of us in the bottom ranks hated Hoyte. Chase was no different. He threw his loyalty to a new guy, a bucketman and rising star in the guild, who looked like he could replace Hoyte, but then everything changed.
¡°Hoyte cleaned house. The rising star went to Manzant, and Chase and a lot of others were found floating facedown in the Bernum River. I didn¡¯t want to be next, so I ran. Went south.
¡°In Ratibor, I joined, of all things, a traveling minstrel show. I performed magic, and we fleeced our audiences just like in Colnora. Kept moving to avoid problems. In Swanwick, trouble caught us. I was arrested. Kept my hands because they had decided to send me to Manzant Prison. The salt mine always needs workers, and workers need hands. On the road south, I pulled one more magic act and got my chains off. Chase taught me that, too. One more way in which he saved my life. I ran west into the mountains.¡±
She slowed, then stopped. Scarlett stared at the shadowy path and then back at the black of the forest. ¡°People here say a spirit haunts these woods and has protected the people in this valley for centuries.¡±
¡°Augustine¡¯s reformed demon?¡±
¡°I guess.¡± She seemed embarrassed. ¡°I¡¯m not saying I believe everything, but everyone believes something. They insist in the existence of the gods, or demons, or tree spirits, or they believe that such things don¡¯t exist. One person might profess that people are basically good, while another might think the opposite. But everyone believes in something, you know? And what we choose to believe in says a lot ¡ª not only about the kind of people we are, but about the kind of people we want to be, and the kind of world we want to live in.¡±
¡°Augustine tell you that?¡±
She stopped and gave him an angry face. ¡°What? You think a reformed thief can¡¯t conceive of such things? Or do you think a woman couldn¡¯t possibly ponder such ideas?¡±
She was opening up to him, saying things he imagined she didn¡¯t say to many people. Maybe she thought he would understand, that he might feel the same ¡ª and he did ¡ª but instead of agreeing, he¡¯d accused her of being stupid. ¡°Sorry,¡± he said, and meant it.
¡°You should be.¡±
¡°I am.¡±
The scowl on her face lost its strength and slowly drained away as they walked.
Hadrian waited. He didn¡¯t dare say another word until she did.
¡°Anyway,¡± she said, finally breaking the silence and erasing the slate of past awkwardness with a word, ¡°I honestly feel that something guided me here.¡±
¡°Here, here? Up this trail?¡±
She nodded. ¡°I stumbled on this path and followed it to the monastery. It really was as if Maribor ¡ª or something ¡ª led me.¡±
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
¡°And Abbot Augustine took you in.¡±
¡°Like Chase before him, he saved me. Didn¡¯t rebuke, judge, or ask questions. He just told me I needed to change my life, as if he knew everything. He introduced me to the people of the dale, who, with his endorsement, welcomed me as one of their own.¡±
She began walking again, moving faster and lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.
¡°And now?¡±
She gave a carefree roll of her shoulders. ¡°I dance. I sing. I do magic tricks. Three times a week I entertain people at Caldwell House. The rest of the time, I try to master the spinning wheel or make clay pots. Haven¡¯t succeeded at a single pot, but I¡¯m better at it than spinning wool. Spinning is a torment. I¡¯m also trying to learn to bake.¡±
Hadrian could hear the river and see the moon reflecting off its face when Scarlett asked, ¡°What about you? How¡¯d you learn to fight like that? How¡¯d you end up with Royce? That has to be a tale.¡±
¡°I grew up in the military, you could say, and then I became a mercenary for several years in Calis. How I ended up with Royce is indeed a tale ¡ª a long one.¡± He pointed to the bridge that led to the dale and the end of their trip, then grinned.
¡°Not fair.¡±
¡°I have an appointment with Royce tonight, but if you¡¯re really interested, you could invite me to dinner tomorrow.¡±
She smirked. ¡°You really are something, aren¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Just a dog with a ball.¡±
Hadrian had said good night to Scarlett and was almost to the door of Caldwell House when he spotted a familiar hood near the stables. Even after three years, seeing Royce come at him was disturbing; he felt as perplexed as a bird might at the impossibly nimble flight of bats. Adding to that was how Royce remained visible in moonlight but disappeared in shadows. He appeared to fade out then materialize. Combined with the flutter and flow of his black cloak, the effect was creepy and ¡ª Hadrian imagined ¡ª absolutely terrifying to anyone on Royce¡¯s bad side.
¡°You¡¯re back earlier than I thought you¡¯d be,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Got what I needed. You eat?¡±
¡°Not yet.¡±
Royce glanced around. Unlike the Lower Quarter of Medford, where people wandered the night ¡ª or slept in alleys and on doorsteps ¡ª the streets around Caldwell House were empty. ¡°We¡¯ll get something later,¡± Royce said. ¡°Let¡¯s talk in the room first.¡±
¡°Something happen?¡±
¡°Spoke to her again. She has a way of . . . let¡¯s get inside and I¡¯ll tell you the rest.¡±
Caldwell House was vacant; neither Wagner nor Gill were visible. A fire was burning low in the hearth. The crackle of wood and the groan of the door seemed loud in the stillness.
¡°Having a town meeting or something tonight?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Not that I know of, but I was on a mountain all day. They might just turn in early. This is mostly a farming community. People in the country don¡¯t stay up late.¡±
They climbed the creaking stairs to their room on the second floor. Hadrian reached for the latch, but Royce grabbed his wrist. He pointed at the light flickering out from under the door. They exchanged looks of surprise, then Hadrian slowly pulled his side swords and backed up while Royce opened the door.
Three candles burned inside: one near the bed, one on the windowsill, and one on the little table where Lord Fawkes and Pastor Payne sat. The two were playing a game of cards and drinking from a pair of crystal glasses filled from a tall black wine bottle. They looked up as Royce and Hadrian entered the room.
¡°Ah! Finally,¡± Fawkes said with a big grin. ¡°Thought you¡¯d never get here.¡±
¡°Usually when I find unexpected guests in my room,¡± Royce said, ¡°they don¡¯t leave in the same condition they arrived in.¡±
Royce¡¯s comment lacked any true menace, because he hadn¡¯t drawn Alverstone. Hadrian followed his partner¡¯s lead and sheathed his swords.
¡°Then I shall consider myself one of the lucky ones,¡± Fawkes replied, stretching his grin even wider. He laid down his cards and winked at the pastor. ¡°I had you anyway.¡±
Pastor Payne frowned and slapped his set of cards on the table in frustration. He got up and walked to the window, where he stood with his arms folded, glaring at Fawkes and giving up the stage to His Lordship.
¡°I thought I¡¯d save you the time of finding us,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°So you¡¯ve seen the place, had a chance to evaluate the job. What say you? How would you go about killing Lady Dulgath?¡±
Hadrian glanced at Royce. He could tell his partner was irritated. Fawkes being in their room was unexpected, and Royce didn¡¯t like unexpected. Hadrian couldn¡¯t say he was overly fond of it, himself. The door had no lock, and they were only renting, but still. A noble lord might not consider it impolite. Courtesy and respect were required within the peerage, but they flowed in one direction. As far as Fawkes was concerned, Hadrian and Royce were most certainly inferior.
¡°You¡¯re not going to tell me you need more time,¡± Fawkes said. He looked at Payne. ¡°The pastor must be fiscally conscious when spending church funds. He¡¯s worried you two might be dragging this out to milk expenses. As for myself, I¡¯m anxious, seeing that a noblewoman¡¯s life hangs in the balance.¡±
¡°No, I don¡¯t need more time,¡± Royce said.
¡°Well then¡± ¡ª Fawkes took a sip from his drink ¡ª ¡°let¡¯s hear it.¡±
¡°All right.¡± Royce glanced at Hadrian, revealing he was still irritated about the intrusion, but holding it in check. ¡°Personally, I¡¯d scale the outside of the tower to her bedchamber late at night, slip through the window, and slit her throat while she slept.¡±
Pastor Payne grimaced, and one of his hands stroked at his throat. ¡°That¡¯s awfully brutal.¡±
¡°Murder usually is.¡±
¡°But how¡¯s that supposed to look like an accident?¡± Payne asked.
¡°It isn¡¯t.¡± Royce moved to the table and, tilting the black wine bottle, looked for a label. There wasn¡¯t one. ¡°The time for accidents has long passed. Everyone already knows she¡¯s a target. Pretending otherwise is foolish. If Lady Dulgath genuinely caught a cold and died weeks later from a fever, everyone would assume foul play.¡±
¡°But her bedroom window is six stories up,¡± Fawkes said.
¡°Seven,¡± Royce corrected. ¡°But the whole outside is covered in lush, strong ivy, with branches thicker than a man¡¯s thumb. Not much different than climbing a ladder. I know. I did it ¡ª slipped right into her bedroom.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t!¡± the pastor said, appalled.
Fawkes stood up. Pursing his lips, he began pacing around the table. He retained his glass, holding it with both hands, tapping the rim with an index finger. ¡°What else? If we take precautions, if we clear the ivy, certainly the assassin will pick a new tactic. What else might he try?¡±
¡°Knox has been posting more guards, which is helping. He¡¯s got Lady Dulgath fairly well buttoned up. Poisoning will be difficult now that she¡¯s looking for that. The staff is too small and loyal to bribe.¡±
Hadrian knew this to be a joke, a biting insult, and he struggled not to smile.
Fawkes didn¡¯t so much as blink. ¡°Still, there must be a way.¡±
¡°Of course,¡± Royce replied. ¡°Trickier, though.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡± Fawkes raised his little glass as if to toast the proposal.
¡°Well, if you can arrange it so you know where she¡¯ll be in advance, and if that place is outdoors, then I¡¯d go with a long-distance bow shot.¡±
¡°Long distance?¡± Payne asked. ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±
¡°Means that you hide an archer close enough to ensure a lethal first shot, which if the lady¡¯s security is even one notch above a dead chipmunk will be very far indeed.¡±
¡°So what are we talking about here?¡±
¡°A longbow ¡ª particularly if the archer is in an elevated position. The killer can pretend it¡¯s a walking stick until he gets into position. Then he can string it, make the shot, unstring, and walk away.¡±
¡°What¡¯s the range on a longbow?¡±
¡°Three hundred, four hundred yards,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Yes, but accuracy is key,¡± Royce said. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t recommend more than a hundred yards. You¡¯ll only get one shot.¡±
Fawkes was thinking, tapping his glass again.
¡°So if I had the job,¡± Royce went on. ¡°I¡¯d contract this out, hire a professional marksman.¡±
¡°Who?¡±
¡°Only three men I¡¯d trust to make the shot with a longbow,¡± Royce replied. ¡°And one is dead.¡±
¡°And the other two?¡±
¡°One is Tom the Feather.¡± Royce glanced at Hadrian. ¡°But he¡¯s way up in Ghent, and I don¡¯t think he¡¯d do it regardless of the price paid. He¡¯s a man of scruples.¡±
¡°And the other?¡±
¡°A man by the name of Roosevelt Hawkins. Now, he¡¯s actually local ¡ª real close ¡ª too close.¡±
¡°How do you mean? Where is he?¡±
¡°Manzant Prison ¡ª but no one gets out of there.¡±
Fawkes gave the pastor a long stare with the trace of a smile.
¡°What about a crossbow?¡± Fawkes asked. ¡°I heard any idiot can shoot one of those.¡±
¡°True, but for the same range it would have to be a big one,¡± Royce relied. ¡°And how are you going to get that past castle security? So as you can see, the tower climb is far easier and likely what your assassin will use. The other involves hiring someone. That not only complicates things, but also costs money and reduces the profit. And then there¡¯s the need to know Her Ladyship¡¯s schedule and hope she¡¯s going to be outside in a place ideal for the shot.¡±
¡°What else?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°If she were in a crowd, someone could just walk up and knife her. But that would likely result in the capture of the assassin.¡±
¡°What if her staff wasn¡¯t totally loyal?¡± Pastor Payne asked. ¡°What then?¡±
What are the odds of that? Hadrian couldn¡¯t avoid a smirk. The calculating, eager, nearly gleeful way the two of them reveled in the possibility of killing a young woman turned his stomach.
¡°Lots of possibilities there,¡± Royce said. ¡°Too many to guard against. If that¡¯s a real concern, my best advice would be replacing the entire staff.¡±
¡°That¡¯s the best you have for us?¡± Fawkes asked.
Royce nodded.
He was lying. No one could tell by looking at his face, but three years had given Hadrian a special sense of the man under the hood. He was leaving things out. Hadrian had never been a professional assassin, but even he guessed there were other ways to kill Lady Dulgath. She was famous for going out into the villages to help sick and injured people. At the very least, she could be lured out and ambushed. The castle could even be set on fire, as had happened in Medford the year before. That blaze claimed the life of the queen. Could have killed the king as well, but he hadn¡¯t been there that night. Still, climbing the tower¡¯s ivy did seem viable and straightforward enough to work, which left Hadrian puzzled as to why Royce offered it up, rather than other choices.
If Fawkes were experiencing similar reservations, he kept them from his face. He smiled. ¡°Excellent. That¡¯s wonderful news.¡± He looked at Payne and nodded. ¡°All we need to do is get rid of the ivy and make certain Lady Dulgath is well protected when outdoors. We¡¯ll also keep a lookout for men with crossbows or longbows. This is truly a relief.¡±
Fawkes returned to the table, refilled his and Payne¡¯s glasses, and then retrieved two more from a small satchel hanging over one of the chairs. ¡°I anticipated success tonight and brought the bottle of wine to celebrate. Sadly, you took so long, the pastor and I polished off most of it while waiting. Still, we have enough for a toast,¡± Fawkes said.
¡°Did you also bring the money you owe us?¡±
¡°Absolutely.¡± Fawkes grinned.
Payne walked back from the window and picked up his glass.
Royce sneered at the bottle in Fawkes¡¯s hand.
¡°That¡¯s no attitude to take. It¡¯s a Maranon tradition to conclude business with a toast.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not big on tradition,¡± Royce replied.
Fawkes narrowed his eyes. ¡°As with most traditions, there¡¯s also a point. Up north you shake hands. People do that to show they aren¡¯t holding a weapon and don¡¯t have one up their sleeve. Down here, we drink. Eating and drinking together establishes a personal connection. It proves a degree of trust.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t trust you.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯m ready to leave my firstborn in your care, either, but we do need a certain degree of faith in each other. I need assurance you¡¯ve done your due diligence and haven¡¯t, in fact, joined with your like-minded brethren and made it easier for the assassin by leading us astray. And you need to know we won¡¯t be wagging our tongues and exposing your identities to authorities who might be interested in your prior transgressions,¡± Fawkes said.
¡°And drinking can do all that?¡±
¡°No, but refusing to join us does give me cause for concern.¡±
¡°Be as concerned as you like. I¡¯m not drinking anything you offer me,¡± Royce said.
¡°I don¡¯t conduct business with men who doubt my integrity.¡±
¡°Which means what?¡±
¡°It means you don¡¯t get paid,¡± Fawkes said.
¡°You¡¯re right. I can¡¯t imagine why I should doubt your integrity.¡±
¡°So you¡¯ll join us?¡±
¡°No, you¡¯ll pay me or you won¡¯t leave this room alive.¡± Royce shifted his sight to Payne. ¡°Either of you.¡±
¡°You dare threaten me?¡± Fawkes exclaimed, taking a step back from the table while his hand reached for his sword.
¡°Hold on! Hold on!¡± Hadrian stopped him. ¡°We¡¯ll have a drink.¡±
¡°No, we won¡¯t,¡± Royce said.
¡°Sure we will.¡± He pointed at the bottle. ¡°They¡¯ve already been drinking the wine. It¡¯s fine.¡±
¡°And the glasses?¡± Royce asked.
Hadrian pointed at a pair of cups on the shelf over their beds. ¡°We¡¯ll use those instead.¡± He retrieved the cups and held them out to Fawkes.
The lord frowned. ¡°You aren¡¯t going to drink such fine wine out of wooden cups, are you?¡±
¡°Is there some rule against toasting with wooden cups?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No.¡± Fawkes sighed and continued to frown as he poured a small amount in each. ¡°You two are so untrusting.¡±
¡°To peace between us and a long life to all.¡± Hadrian lifted his cup and drank.
With a miserable expression, Fawkes did as well. Payne followed suit, but Royce never touched his cup.
The wine was rich but delicate ¡ª there one minute, gone the next.
¡°And the payment?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°He hasn¡¯t drunk,¡± Payne said, pointing at Royce.
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Fawkes told him. ¡°Get the money.¡±
Payne set his cup down and moved to the window, where he bent and blew out the candle. Downstairs the door to Caldwell House opened. Several booted feet ran across the wooden floor of the common room, heading for the stairs.
Concern flashed across Royce¡¯s face.
¡°Relax. They¡¯re just bringing it up,¡± Fawkes said, but his words sounded odd.
Royce reached for his dagger, and Hadrian took a step to intercept him, then noticed the world was swimming. The room lurched strangely. Candlelight spread out, and the figures of Payne, Fawkes, and Royce moved in slow motion. The table between them was thrown aside as the door to the room burst open. The sound was strangely muffled, as if Hadrian were underwater.
Not again, Hadrian thought.
Six men in black uniforms, chain mail, and conical helms entered the room. They wielded swords, and violence gleamed in their eyes. These weren¡¯t villagers. They weren¡¯t even castle guards. They were something else, and it wasn¡¯t good.
The bottle of wine, which had toppled when the table was tossed, had struck the floor but didn¡¯t break. It rolled in a half circle, the blood-colored contents dripping from its neck. Hadrian reached for his swords. He was struck before he got either of them free of its scabbard. Another blow hit his back. One more made him cry out, and he crashed to the floor.
His swords fell from his hands.
¡°You¡¯d better be right about this,¡± Payne said.
¡°Coin equals options, my good pastor. Split only two ways, this will get you out of that hovel you call a church and save you from starving this winter.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re certain there¡¯s no chance of them escaping?¡± Payne asked.
¡°You heard for yourself. No one has ever escaped from Manzant Prison ¡ª no one.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s sight darkened as everything went black.
V1: Chapter 14 - The Note
The next morning, Sherwood waited in Lady Dulgath¡¯s private study, playing out a hunch. In many ways, he felt dishonest, even despicable given the circumstances, but he had to know. Sherwood went about his usual routine: adjusting the easel, setting the canvas, mixing his paints. He marveled at the exactness of his palette. He never cleaned the thing. The new oil kept the paint workable for days, and cleaning it would be a terrible waste ¡ª one of the other advantages of oil over egg, which dried up in minutes. Even with the oil, an inevitable buildup formed as paint dried beyond his ability to reclaim, but palettes were cheap and eventually he would replace the whole thing. He¡¯d had this one for a while; none of the original wood was visible on the paint side. Even the backside was a mess of smudges and multicolored fingerprints ¡ª and every one was exactly the same as it had been. Sherwood didn¡¯t know how, but he was certain Lady Dulgath was responsible.
I consider it my failure. I¡¯m responsible, and I¡¯ll make it right again.
Maybe it had been a coincidence that she¡¯d said that, but deep down he was so certain. A feeling wasn¡¯t the same as the truth, though, so Sherwood waited while watching the sunrise, its light creeping across the ceiling and down the wall.
If she¡¯d had nothing to do with it, Nysa wouldn¡¯t expect a session. No one else knew about the miracle except Melborn, and Sherwood was convinced he didn¡¯t care enough to say anything. So if Lady Dulgath came to the study, it would prove her involvement.
And what will that mean? He didn¡¯t know, didn¡¯t care. One thing at a time.
He finished mixing, then set the palette knife down. Hopping onto the stool, he wiped his hands on a rag, then returned to watching the sun creep while he waited.
He didn¡¯t hear her walking; he never did, at least not her feet. The dress was what he heard, that familiar swish, swish. Lady Dulgath entered, as she always did, without a word or glance. She wore the same gold silk-brocade dress, had the fox stole wrapped around her shoulders, and held the riding gloves. Moving to her mark on the floor, she turned, lifted her chin, and looked at the chandelier.
¡°Thank you,¡± he said.
The two words just came out. Sherwood had run through a dozen different conversations in his head, everything from pointing an accusing paintbrush at her to kneeling at the lady¡¯s feet and weeping. He¡¯d been undecided on what he would really do if she came. Now he knew and was pleased with the simplicity ¡ª so much better than weeping.
¡°For what?¡± Her words were aloof, her eyes still on the chandelier.
¡°I honestly don¡¯t know.¡±
This made her look at him.
¡°You don¡¯t know why you¡¯re thanking me?¡±
¡°For restoring my property, certainly, but . . . I don¡¯t know what you did or ¡ª perhaps more to the point ¡ª how you did it. So, while I thank you for the gift, I¡¯m not really sure what exactly I¡¯m thanking you for. Does that make sense?¡±
¡°It does not.¡±
¡°But you did repair my easel, brushes, and paints.¡±
She looked down at his tools with squeezed lips and squinted eyes. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right. Are those new?¡±
¡°No, they aren¡¯t. They are the same ones that were destroyed. Somehow you managed to put them back together for me, down to the last sable hair in this brush.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±
¡°If it wasn¡¯t you, how did you know to come here this morning?¡±
She resumed looking at the chandelier. ¡°Habit.¡±
¡°Habit?¡±
¡°Yes. To be honest, I¡¯d forgotten about your mishap of yesterday. You¡¯ve had me doing this for so long, I act by rote now, which, as I think on it, is most disturbing. You need to finish this foolish painting so I can have my mornings back. This has gone on far too long.¡±
She lifted her chin and blanked her face.
¡°I know you,¡± he said. Once more, the words came out without thought, as if a pipe ran directly from his mind to his mouth and someone had flipped open the spigot.
¡°No, you don¡¯t,¡± she said.
¡°Oh, but I do. I can see who you really are. I can see what you¡¯re so desperately struggling to hide from everyone. I can see it clearly ¡ª and it¡¯s beautiful.¡±
¡°If you knew the real me, you wouldn¡¯t think me beautiful.¡±
¡°But I do, and you are ¡ª beautiful and wonderful and wise and . . . and I ¡ª¡± Sherwood caught himself. He looked at the restored easel, at the miracle before him, and threw caution to the wind. ¡°I love you, Nysa.¡±
There. Sherwood felt as if he¡¯d expelled some kind of poison that had sickened him for weeks. Saying it filled him with relief and joy. The euphoric sensation lasted all of a second; then reality crashed down.
What have I done?
He expected either outrage or laughter. If the former, guards would be throwing him out of the castle. If the latter, his heart would break. Instead, Nysa Dulgath slowly shifted her gaze to him. Pity was in her eyes, a deep, mournful sadness so pained that Sherwood trembled.
A tiny almost-smile stole over her lips, a bitter, painful face. ¡°You don¡¯t know me, Sherwood. No one does, and no one ever will. Just paint. Can you do that?¡±
He nodded, a terrible emptiness filling him.
Sherwood took his noon meal outside, sitting in the grass of the courtyard. The day was perfect, as every day in Dulgath had been since he¡¯d arrived.
It never rains.
He only then realized this and found it odd he hadn¡¯t noticed before. The skies were perpetually blue. There was always a light, warm breeze, never hot. He sat in the shade along the south wall near an overgrown area where the scattered stones of the crumbled tower made scything the grass too much trouble to bother. He had his back to one of the great blocks and his legs outstretched toward the statue of a man and a woman kissing. Of the many wonderful pieces of artwork at Castle Dulgath, this was Sherwood¡¯s favorite. The two figures intertwined and blended at the base, as if they were part of a tree trunk. Then, as the torso twisted up, a man and woman appeared like the frayed ends of a rope. The two embraced on the edge of a kiss, their lips a hairsbreadth apart, eyes closed, ecstasy on their faces.
The statue stood partially hidden in the tall grass, behind a wild bush and maverick tree. No one came there. No one visited that side of the castle, and at first he¡¯d lamented the statue¡¯s isolation. He felt others should see its beauty and incredible artistry, which went beyond depicting the human form, lifting it above reality into the scope of what ought to be. Raw emotion formed from cold stone, the sculpture captured a moment of longing and triumph, passion and love.
What else is there to hope for with any art? To capture not just truth but a truth worthy of display, one that provides comfort, joy, or understanding, and moves the heart or makes it pause.
As the weeks had gone by, Sherwood came to see this neglected corner of the courtyard, this tranquil place of quiet solitude, as his. He appreciated its seclusion. The statue ¡ª those inspirational lovers lost in the forgotten weeds of a fallen past ¡ª gave him hope for the future. At times, when the shadows were just right, he thought the woman looked vaguely like Nysa. The cheeks were far too high and sharp, the face too long, but he obviously wasn¡¯t seeing with just his eyes.
He heard feet swishing through grass and was surprised to see Rissa Lyn coming toward him. No buckets this time. Instead, she carried a curled-up bit of parchment.
¡°Pardon me, sir.¡± She halted the moment he turned her way and gave a curtsy. ¡°I have a message for you.¡±
¡°From whom?¡±
¡°Chamberlain Wells gave it to me, sir, but he says it¡¯s from Her Ladyship.¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath?¡±
¡°Yes, sir.¡±
Sherwood nearly toppled his plate in an effort to stand. ¡°Let¡¯s have it then.¡±
He reached out, but Rissa Lyn hesitated. She had a troubled look in her eyes.
¡°What is it?¡± he asked.
¡°Sir, I seen your easel. I seen your paints and brushes there in the study this morning, and . . .¡± Her face reddened. ¡°I was outside the door and heard you speaking to Her Ladyship ¡ª about her knowing ¡ª about her having something to do with it and all.¡±
¡°Yes?¡± he asked impatiently. Sherwood liked Rissa Lyn well enough. but if Lady Dulgath had sent him a message ¡ª for the first time ever ¡ª he wanted to know what it said.
¡°Well, I think you¡¯re right, sir. I think she does know ¡ª I think she was the one who did it.¡±
¡°Thank you, Rissa Lyn, I appreciate you telling me, but ¡ª¡±
¡°Sir . . .¡± She bit her lip and looked at her feet. ¡°I don¡¯t just think she did it. I know she did.¡±
¡°What do you mean? Did you see her do something?¡±
Rissa Lyn shook her head.
¡°Then how do you know?¡±
¡°On account of how I¡¯ve been Lady Dulgath¡¯s handmaiden for the last ten years. Served her since she was twelve years old, sir. I was there when she was carried in after falling off Derby¡¯s back. There was no saving her, sir. Poor Nysa. Her back was broken, neck too. She was dead before they got her to the castle.¡±
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
¡°What?¡± Sherwood was so focused on the note in Rissa Lyn¡¯s hand he hadn¡¯t paid attention, but those last words were impossible to ignore. ¡°What are you saying?¡±
¡°I¡¯m saying the Countess Nysa Dulgath, daughter of Earl Beadle Dulgath, died two years ago. His Lordship was crying and wailing like I¡¯d never seen him. She was his only child, the last link he had to his Lady Raychelle. He couldn¡¯t let her die. He had Abbot Augustine bring in that witch, Maddie Oldcorn. Was just His Lordship, the abbot, and me there when Maddie told him his daughter was dead and nothing could be done.¡±
¡°Rissa Lyn, Lady Dulgath is alive. She¡¯s right up ¡ª You¡¯re holding a note she wrote to me!¡±
¡°That¡¯s not Her Ladyship. That¡¯s someone else ¡ª something else. I¡¯m telling you because I know you¡¯ll believe me. You can see her for what she is. A mere lady couldn¡¯t have fixed your easel and paints, could she? A mere lady couldn¡¯t have survived being poisoned. And I was there that day when the stone fell. It didn¡¯t miss her, sir.¡±
¡°What are you talking about? She would¡¯ve been crushed. The stone was¡± ¡ª he pointed at one of the huge blocks half buried in the grass ¡ª ¡°as big as these.¡±
¡°And I watched her swat it away like a fly,¡± the maid said.
Sherwood narrowed his eyes. ¡°Rissa Lyn, have you been drinking?¡±
She scowled, then frowned. ¡°I have not, sir! And I don¡¯t understand why you act as if you don¡¯t believe me.¡±
¡°Because I don¡¯t!¡± He nearly shouted the words, but part of him was inwardly nodding and whispering, Yes.
¡°I thought . . .¡± Rissa Lyn folded her lips tight to her teeth. ¡°I thought you were different.¡± Her lower lip quivered. ¡°I thought you¡¯d understand.¡±
She turned and started to walk away.
¡°The note!¡± he cried.
She spun. Tears were in her eyes as she threw the parchment at him. ¡°You¡¯d love a monster when . . . I¡¯m . . . I¡¯m right in front of you ¡ª damn you! Damn you, Sherwood Stow! Go on. Go to it. Let the demon drag you to Phyre. I don¡¯t care anymore.¡±
With that, Rissa Lyn ran away in tears, leaving the note fluttering in the grass, blown by the perfect breeze.
Sherwood had memorized the note and replayed the words in his head as he dug his sword out of a pile in the corner of his room. No rust on the metal, but plenty on the man. Sherwood had taken better care of the blade than he had of himself. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d used it, or when he¡¯d done anything more strenuous than a long walk.
Like everything else, he¡¯d inherited the blade from Yardley; where Yardley had gotten it, no living soul knew. Nothing too fancy, the sword had a straight guard and a hawk¡¯s-head pommel, but the work was of high quality and the blade professional, not merely decorative. Traveling artists didn¡¯t carry much, so whatever they kept long enough to hand down was worth the effort. In most kingdoms of Avryn, able-bodied men were required by their lords to own a weapon and use it if called upon. But only nobles and those so authorized, such as soldiers and sheriffs, openly carried. As a result, he, like his predecessors, kept the weapon in his bedroll ¡ª out of sight, but close at hand.
Sherwood had been accosted on several occasions. Mostly, one or two toughs came at him, usually armed with only a single knife between them. Pulling the sword from his bedroll nearly always ended the encounter. But there had been times when he¡¯d faced thieves brandishing their own weapons ¡ª true highwaymen who weren¡¯t deterred by the show of a long blade ¡ª and Sherwood had been forced to fight for his life.
He¡¯d done well. Sherwood was certain he¡¯d killed at least one man but hadn¡¯t lingered to make certain. In another fight, he¡¯d stabbed a young tough, no more than seventeen, through the stomach. He, too, probably died. In more than six fights, Sherwood had survived, suffering just three wounds, and only one of those could be considered serious. Luckily, Yardley had also taught him how to sew up a cut.
Sherwood harbored no illusions of his prowess. He only hoped that if Lady Dulgath required his blade, his skills would be equal to the task. He waited, watching the sun sink into the ocean. It was only three-quarters set, but he couldn¡¯t wait any longer. He wanted to arrive before she did.
Strapping the sword to his waist, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted out of the castle.
Sherwood, the note had read. Meet me at the cliffs on the west side of the castle at sunset. I need help, and you¡¯re the only one I can trust.
His emotions were a volatile mix of jubilation and terror. The revelation that she both trusted and needed him was a blast of pure joy. That she was so desperate to meet outside the castle, in such a secluded place made him dread what she might say.
Perhaps she wants to come away with me?
No. That would be too much to hope for. He was letting his emotions override reason. Likely she needed him to pass a message to King Vincent, something she couldn¡¯t trust going through Wells or Rissa Lyn.
Sherwood ran across the courtyard and out the gate, making a quick left and hugging the wall before veering off into the grassy bluffs on the blind side of the castle. The wind was stronger there as it came off the ocean with a damp salty blast that permanently bent the hip-deep grass.
She¡¯s scared of someone in the castle ¡ª maybe everyone . . . ¡°You¡¯re the only one I can trust.¡±
Clearly, she couldn¡¯t trust Rissa Lyn, but did she know her handmaiden believed she was a demon?
No, he realized then, saw it clearly. You¡¯d love a monster when . . . I¡¯m . . . I¡¯m right in front of you . . . Rissa Lyn was jealous and either making things up or suffering from some form of delusion. Regardless of her feelings, she had to realize that wild accusations weren¡¯t going to keep him from Nysa. I¡¯ll talk to her later . . . let her down easy.
He ripped through the tall, wind-battered grass, which lashed at his feet and legs. The sounds of the surf grew louder; overhead, gulls cried. On the western side, the sunset tower of Castle Dulgath stood on the very edge of the promontory¡¯s sea-worn tip. The eight-story stone pillar, which appeared to be an extension of the cliffs, had no windows on that side. Some sixty feet below, relentless waves crashed against the stubborn stone.
Someone was near the base of the tower ¡ª a dark figure standing in the shadowed gap between two of the tower¡¯s massive carved feet. Sherwood slowed his run to a hesitant trot when he realized it wasn¡¯t Nysa, not even a woman. It was a man in a black cloak, the hood up.
¡°What are you doing here?¡± Sherwood asked, stopping short.
¡°Why, waiting for you, of course,¡± Lord Fawkes replied. The wind on top of the cliffs was chaotic and violent, forcing Fawkes to grip the edges of his cloak to keep it from whipping like a flag. Despite his effort, the lower edges flapped behind him like a startled bird.
¡°You sent the message?¡± Sherwood kept his distance. He was out of breath, tired, and sweating from the run.
¡°Yes, I needed to speak with you privately, and I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d come at my request.¡± Fawkes stepped forward one stride. Maybe he was trying to get out of the wind or felt uncomfortable between the tower¡¯s claws. ¡°You¡¯ve actually succeeded in getting Nysa to fall for you.¡±
¡°Fall?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t be modest, boy. I spoke to her this morning and explained how the king might be uncomfortable with her appointment, her being the last of the Dulgath line and all. I offered my hand in marriage but was rebuffed. Apparently she¡¯s found someone else. I know she has high standards ¡ª and I couldn¡¯t imagine you had inexplicably leapt that bar.¡±
Sherwood wanted to believe. ¡°She said there was someone else? Maybe she just wasn¡¯t interested in you.¡±
¡°She was quite sincere and rather specific.¡±
¡°What exactly did she say? Did she mention me by name?¡±
¡°No, but she spoke of a man who visits her regularly. Someone she¡¯s getting to know better each day, and the more she learns about him, the more she has come to believe that she has found someone she could be with.¡±
¡°She . . . she said that?¡±
¡°Yes, but don¡¯t get your hopes up. You aren¡¯t going to live happily ever after. I invited you to leave, but you didn¡¯t take the hint. Now I must insist.¡± He let go of his cloak, freeing it to fly behind him and fall to the grass, exposing his sword.
Sherwood fell back, drawing his own. ¡°I won¡¯t leave. I¡¯d rather die.¡±
Fawkes looked at the blade, puzzled. ¡°What¡¯s a painter doing with a sword? Was that a gift? Do you even know how to hold it?¡±
Sherwood grinned. ¡°I¡¯ve killed men with this ¡ª men who¡¯d attacked me. How about you? Done a lot of exhibitions, I suspect. Performed pretty dances before courtly audiences with tipped blades, perhaps? I don¡¯t think many draw steel against the king¡¯s cousin and mean it.¡±
¡°Oh, they¡¯ve meant it,¡± Fawkes said, striding toward him and drawing his blade. ¡°I¡¯m not well liked by many in Mehan. People have lost limbs and some have died in exhibitions. Are you sure you want to do this? I¡¯m giving you one last chance. You can simply leave.¡±
¡°And I¡¯ll extend you the same courtesy. Leave now. Nysa has made her choice.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll stay. This should be fun; don¡¯t you think?¡±
¡°For one of us,¡± Sherwood retorted.
Lord Fawkes swung first. Sherwood danced back, letting the blade sing through the air.
He had most of his wind back, but he¡¯d burned energy rushing to the the cliff. Fawkes had the advantage of rest. On the other hand, the trip had warmed Sherwood, loosening his muscles. Fawkes could have been standing in the cool wind for who knew how long.
Sherwood let him swing again. The same move, right to left with a downward angle. A power stroke, attempting to take advantage of Sherwood¡¯s weak side. Or maybe the lord was just testing him, trying to get a feel for his ability.
A good fight is a short fight, Yardley always had said. Show him nothing. Conserve your energy while burning his. Then, at the first opportunity, end it.
Sherwood and Fawkes crashed blades, hard. Then, as fast as the artist could, he backstroked at an angle to catch Fawkes at the neck.
The lord ducked.
Damn!
Sherwood was afraid Fawkes might take that moment of exposed chest to stab upward. That¡¯s what he would¡¯ve done, but Fawkes retreated three steps, bouncing on his feet.
That¡¯s the difference between an exhibition fighter and a survivalist, Sherwood thought.
Fawkes was going for points, trying to look good: engage, withdraw, reset, circle left, circle right, lunge again. It made for a pretty show, but on a lonely cliff with lives on the line, and only seagulls and grass for an audience, no one fought that way.
This might be Christopher Fawkes¡¯s first real battle. That was Sherwood¡¯s advantage.
He¡¯s never done this. I have him. But Sherwood had more than one voice in his head. The other one mused over how well Fawkes handled his blade. He has a lot more experience, He has held that sword as often as I¡¯ve held a paintbrush. And his teachers were skilled swordsmen, not aging portrait artists.
But he¡¯s never killed. That reassuring rationalization was followed by a nagging thought. First time for everything.
Another attack. This time Fawkes employed more finesse. He began with the same swing ¡ª and Sherwood saw now that he¡¯d done it twice to set expectations ¡ª then he spun left and brought the sword blade up, hoping either to slice across Sherwood¡¯s torso or ¡ª if he were really lucky ¡ª to catch the tip on his stomach and then thrust.
Sherwood foiled Fawkes¡¯s plan by spinning to his right. This wasn¡¯t skill. He had no idea Fawkes was trying something clever. Sherwood had merely decided that if he tried the same swing again, he¡¯d catch it on the other side and try to get in behind the man. As it turned out, they outsmarted each other, and each bobbed away, trying to conceal the surprise and concern they felt.
¡°Impressive,¡± Fawkes said, selling a sense of confidence that Sherwood wasn¡¯t buying.
Earlier he might have been intimidated, but he realized that Fawkes was mostly bluster and wasn¡¯t actually very good. In that instant, he realized he¡¯d won.
Believing you will be victorious, Yardley used to say, knowing it ¡ª not just in your head, but in your heart ¡ª is what will give you the ability to succeed. You lose the fear, and it¡¯s the fear that kills you. Believe in yourself and you¡¯ll triumph.
Sherwood knew now that he was better than Fawkes. More importantly, he could see the fear in the lord¡¯s eyes.
Fawkes knew it, too.
To look at Lord Christopher Fawkes was to see a dead man.
Sherwood advanced this time. He held the sword more comfortably. He felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The two voices in his head went silent, and he found his balance. The wind was in his hair, gulls were crying, the surf crashed below, but Sherwood focused on Fawkes, who had his back to the cliff. He took a shuffled step forward and raised his swo ¡ª
Pain exploded across Sherwood¡¯s back.
Every muscle in his body seized. His breathing stopped. His eyes went wide.
In front of him, Fawkes¡¯s attention darted to something behind Sherwood, and His Lordship smiled. Not with sinister supremacy, but with relief.
The tension in Sherwood¡¯s muscles disappeared along with every ounce of his strength. He crumpled to the grass, limp, as if every bone in his body had dissolved. He needed air but couldn¡¯t breathe through the unbearable pain.
He wasn¡¯t sure how long he lay there before footsteps approached.
¡°Hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± Sheriff Knox said. ¡°I got the crossbow you asked for. It¡¯s huge, but it¡¯s the only one I could find. I just wanted to see how well it worked.¡±
¡°Not at all,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°That thing is ¡ª it¡¯s amazing.¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t it? Heavy as a boulder and not meant to be held while fired. Crossbows really aren¡¯t my thing. I was aiming for dead center, and it should have killed him instantly. Little bugger is still wheezing.¡±
¡°Made an incredible hole,¡± Fawkes said, his voice catching in his throat. ¡°Help me throw what¡¯s left of him off the cliff.¡±
Sherwood couldn¡¯t move, couldn¡¯t breathe, as they dragged him. He wondered what it would be like to fall from such a height.
Will the impact kill me or will I drown?
As it turned out, it was neither. Sherwood Stow died while still en route to the edge.
V1: Chapter 15 - The Painting
Christopher Fawkes was the empathetic sort. While he had a long list of enemies ¡ª an actual written list he kept in the lining of his doublet ¡ª he could generally find something about each person to respect or at least pity. This annoying predisposition toward understanding and compassion frequently robbed him of the unencumbered enjoyment of victory. A notable exception was the King of Maranon. Lord Fawkes was certain the only reason for King Vincent Pendergast¡¯s existence was to give Christopher something to hate without reservation.
Vince the Vile ¡ª as Christopher referred to him in the safe confines of his own head ¡ª embodied everything bad in the world sewn up in one awful package. He was short, which was unforgivable for a monarch, and also ugly, which was unforgivable for anyone. He took after the Pendergast line, with a huge, hooked nose hanging off his face. His deep-set eyes hid beneath a ledge of bone so wide that a stick of chalk could rest there. He had gaps in his teeth, not just between the center two like any normal monstrosity, but between all of them.
Why Vince the Vile didn¡¯t grow a beard over his pockmarked skin remained a mystery, unless growing hair proved just as unmanageable as running his kingdom. His Majesty¡¯s fingers were fat and stubby, little sausages complete with thin, stretched casings. The only difference? Christopher had never seen so much hair on sausages. The king¡¯s fingers weren¡¯t the only fat part of the man. Vince the Vile wouldn¡¯t be able to wear a barrel without a cooper letting it out a stave or two. Perhaps the king¡¯s worst aspect was his habit of spitting and his utter lack of skill at it. Vincent¡¯s face was usually wet with saliva, and a gob of phlegm often decorated his chin. His personality matched his appearance.
¡°Chrissy?¡± the king said when spotting him in the courtyard. ¡°I¡¯m surprised to see you in Dulgath.¡±
¡°Your Majesty.¡± Christopher bowed with a smile on his lips as he pictured unleashing a quarrel into the fat, spittle-dripping crown-stand. Christopher had the arbalest ¡ª what Knox called the huge crossbow ¡ª hidden as best he could behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Being the size of a bass violin, the weapon wouldn¡¯t fit under the bed. Didn¡¯t fit behind his wardrobe, either. The wingspan of the prod ¡ª what Knox called the bow part ¡ª stuck out on either side. He had put a sheet over it, making it look like a midget ghost with outstretched arms.
The morning after he¡¯d sent the two thieves to Manzant, Christopher noticed that the ivy on the west tower had been removed. The gardener had ripped it down, by order of the countess, the evening he and Payne were in Brecken Dale. Either she was a fortune teller or the thieves had warned her. Why they would care, the lord didn¡¯t know, but it didn¡¯t matter.
Christopher had asked Knox to find a heavy crossbow and hoped the shooting-from-a-distance idea hadn¡¯t also been thwarted. Seeing the arbalest with its steel prod, its hand crank, and its three-quarter-inch-thick ash quarrels, he couldn¡¯t imagine anything stopping it. The giant bolt that killed Sherwood had entered his back, exited his chest, and flown out over the ocean without pause. The only challenge left was aiming the thing at Nysa Dulgath in such a way that neither she nor anyone else could see the assassin squeeze the trigger.
Christopher followed King Vincent and his retinue into the reception hall. The monarch left the bulk of his caravan ¡ª which if one included the men-at-arms might amount to more servants than in the whole of Lady Dulgath¡¯s castle ¡ª in a miniature tent city just down the lane from the stables. Christopher was sorry to see that his friend Sir Gilbert hadn¡¯t come. Instead, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus flanked His Majesty, along with Bishop Parnell and the usual set of hands for holding his cup, adjusting his collar, and kissing his ample arse.
Lady Dulgath waited with her entire staff lined up in their finest bleached whites and blues. Blue and white were the colors of House Dulgath, but the indigo dye was expensive. Still, each member of the household wore at least one article of blue. The scullery staff, dairymaids, charwomen, and stable boys all had light-blue neckerchiefs. The gardeners, woodcutters, and cooks donned blue belts, and the chambermaids and seamstresses draped sashes over their shoulders. The skilled servants, such as the scribe, tailor, and treasurer, sported blue vests. Chamberlain Wells, being in charge of the household, wore a tie and a long blue coat. The staff made a fine showing, backs and hair straight, eyes down, faces clean. The countess herself was stunning. Lady Dulgath was dressed completely in blue, a rich gown that matched the deep color of the sapphire around her neck.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. A shame she turned down my marriage proposal. Such a terrible waste to put a three-quarter-inch-thick quarrel through that breast.
She curtsied with her usual unrivaled grace, bowing her head. The king took her hand and kissed its back. Christopher knew what was on the royal pimple¡¯s mind. Father dead. No suitors. The queen left at home in Mehan. And it got cold at night on the coast, even in summer.
He imagined exactly what Vince the Vile was thinking: I¡¯m the king, after all, and so handsome! How can she resist?
The old wart is in for a frustrating night. If Nysa hadn¡¯t personally told Christopher about her growing interest in Sherwood, he¡¯d have guessed she was frigid.
But she didn¡¯t actually name Sherwood, did she? And the painter looked so very surprised. Why? Should have been proud or at the very least guilty. Is it possible there¡¯s someone else?
¡°So very sorry to hear about your father, Nysa,¡± the drooling magpie blathered without a dandelion tuft of sincerity. He was still holding her hand, mauling it with his own. ¡°I would¡¯ve come for the funeral, but the demands on a king¡¯s time often prohibit me from doing what I want.¡±
How strange, Christopher thought, given that you attended the Swanwick Spring Derby during that time. A race where your horse, once again, came in first.
¡°I assure you that I have no intention of altering the fief. House Dulgath has always done a fine job of administrating its land. It would be a crime to change that after so many centuries,¡± he said while glancing at the bishop. ¡°Can we hold the ceremony tomorrow? That way I¡¯ll be out of your hair and you can resume your life.¡±
And His Royal Majesty will go hunting. If a handful of drunks riding through a forest while an entourage of soldiers herds a host of animals to the slaughter can be considered hunting.
¡°Yes, Your Majesty,¡± Nysa was saying. ¡°We can arrange that. You might have noticed the decorations on your way in. I thought we would hold it outside in the courtyard.¡±
¡°What if it rains?¡± Vincent asked.
This elicited several smiles from the line of servants.
¡°I don¡¯t expect it will, Sire.¡±
¡°Why not?¡±
¡°Because . . . that would be unpleasant.¡±
Christopher had stopped listening to the conversation, but his attention returned when the king asked, ¡°And where is Sherwood Stow?¡±
¡°We don¡¯t know, Your Majesty. No one has seen him since yesterday,¡± Lady Dulgath explained.
¡°He left?¡±
¡°No, Sire ¡ª at least I don¡¯t think so. His things are still here.¡±
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Vincent rubbed his glistening chin. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking of having him paint my daughter, Evangeline ¡ª her portrait, I mean. I want it done while she¡¯s still young and pretty ¡ª before she starts looking like her mother. I spoke to Stow when he came through Mehan on his way here, but that was months ago.¡±
¡°Two months and three days, Sire,¡± Perkins Fallinwell, the king¡¯s body man, replied. Fallinwell had one of the most hilarious names Christopher had ever heard. There had to be a story behind it, but Perkins, being the pinched-nosed, prune-lipped tosser that he was, refused to divulge a word of it.
¡°Yes, that¡¯s right ¡ª two months. How long does it take to do a portrait? That¡¯s what he was here for, correct?¡±
¡°Yes, Sire,¡± Nysa replied. ¡°My father had commissioned him, but Mister Stow hasn¡¯t yet completed it.¡±
¡°Slow bugger, but I¡¯ve heard he¡¯s the best. And I want the best for my little E-line. You say you haven¡¯t seen him in days?¡±
¡°One day, Sire,¡± Perkins Fallinwell corrected.
Vincent clapped Fallinwell on the back. ¡°He carries the royal purse. Can you tell?¡± The king laughed ¡ª a sluggish, honking sound like an influenza-stricken goose. When the king gathered himself, he coughed and then spat on the floor, barely missing Fallinwell¡¯s shoe. A long elastic string snapped to his chin, where it stayed, a shimmering beacon to everyone watching, but the king was utterly oblivious. ¡°Is the painting any good?¡±
¡°I, ah . . .¡± Nysa bit her lip. ¡°I haven¡¯t actually seen it.¡±
¡°You haven¡¯t? Not at all?¡± The king looked at Wells and then the handmaiden. Each in turn shook their head.
¡°Sherwood is very protective about works in progress.¡± Nysa tried to make up for her ignorance with a smile.
¡°But two months?¡±
Nysa clasped her hands together. ¡°I think he wants it to be a surprise unveiling. I¡¯m inclined to grant him that pleasure.¡±
¡°All fine and good, but I want to see if the man is worth waiting for or whether I should hire someone else. After two months, it must be nearly finished. And I don¡¯t think a painter of portraits will mind if the King of Maranon takes a peek. Where is it?¡±
¡°In his room. I¡¯ll have it brought down to the study.¡± She nodded toward Rissa Lyn, who scurried off. ¡°This way. Let me show you.¡±
When Bishop Parnell started to follow, the king held up a hand. ¡°Your Grace, your presence won¡¯t be necessary. I¡¯m sure you have better things to do. Perhaps you could have some tea with Pastor Payne. I¡¯m sure this won¡¯t take long, and I will join you shortly.¡±
Lady Dulgath escorted Vincent down the corridor to the little room across from the stairs. Christopher watched them go, then followed. He wasn¡¯t interested in Sherwood¡¯s painting but was suspicious about Vincent wanting to speak to the lady in private.
Christopher waited outside the door while Rissa Lyn scurried past, carrying the large, covered canvas. He knelt down and fussed with the buckle on his shoe, and she curtsied in his direction after reemerging from the study, then scampered down the hall.
¡°How long has Christopher Fawkes been here?¡± the king asked in a tone far softer than he¡¯d employed earlier.
¡°Since the funeral.¡±
His Majesty spat. Christopher knew the sound. His memory conjured a vivid, disgusting image, and he grimaced.
¡°I would be remiss if I didn¡¯t warn you that he wishes to become the next Earl of Dulgath. If he has expressed interest toward you, I suspect it has more to do with winning your land rather than your heart.¡±
¡°I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty.¡±
Vincent went on. ¡°As I said, I have no intention of changing what is working so well. Maranon has always been a lush, rich kingdom, but Dulgath is the icing on the cake. On the way in, I saw how every field was planted, every plant vibrant and strong. Your roads are without holes and the houses are in good repair. Your people are well fed, smiling and laughing. It¡¯s good to see, so I have no doubt about renewing Dulgath¡¯s tenure. You should know that I never had any, although many advised otherwise. Now, let¡¯s take a look at that painting.¡±
¡°Oh, I assumed you merely wanted to speak in private. We really shouldn¡¯t ¡ª¡±
¡°Nonsense, I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll be fine. Even if it¡¯s not finished, it¡¯ll give me an idea of the man¡¯s skill. I really am thinking of having him paint my Evangeline.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll just stand over here,¡± Lady Dulgath said.
¡°Don¡¯t you want to see?¡±
¡°No, thank you, Sire. It would be . . . rude.¡±
¡°Suit yourself. Okay, so ¡ª ah, here we are . . . By Mar! That¡¯s . . . that¡¯s ¡ª no, that¡¯s not right at all. I can certainly see why he wouldn¡¯t let you see it, Nysa. This is most disturbing. Insulting is what it is. Utterly ¡ª I can¡¯t believe . . . damn! This must be some kind of joke, and it¡¯s not a funny one. No, I don¡¯t believe he¡¯ll be painting my daughter after all. Absolutely not! And if I were you, I wouldn¡¯t pay the man for this ¡ª this . . . excuse me.¡±
The king hurried out of the study, his expression a twisted frown. Vincent the Vile strode past Christopher as if he weren¡¯t there. Nysa Dulgath didn¡¯t follow.
¡°Where¡¯s the Great Hall?¡± the king asked Wells as the chamberlain came through the main entrance.
¡°This way, Your Majesty,¡± the chamberlain said.
¡°And get me a drink!¡± Vincent bellowed.
¡°Of course, Your Majesty. Right away, Sire.¡±
Christopher lingered in the hall, watching the open door to the study. After several minutes, when Lady Dulgath still hadn¡¯t emerged, he peeked in. Nysa was at the easel, gazing at the painting and crying. In all the time he¡¯d spent in Dulgath, he¡¯d never seen her display any emotion.
¡°Are you all right?¡± he asked.
She didn¡¯t reply. With one hand over her mouth, she ran out of the study.
Stunned, Christopher watched her go. Nysa had more in common with the many statues in the castle than with its people. But she had been reduced to tears by a painting.
How bad could it possibly be?
Christopher listened to Lady Dulgath¡¯s receding footsteps, then crept forward to the easel and lifted the cloth.
At first, he wasn¡¯t certain what he saw. A face certainly ¡ª a pair of eyes looked back at him with stunning, even disturbing, clarity. But it wasn¡¯t Nysa¡¯s face. This person was bald, cheekbones high and sharp. The eyes themselves were mesmerizing, but even they failed to be the most striking feature.
The ears! The ears are pointed!
The face in the portrait wasn¡¯t human ¡ª it was elven. But unlike any elf Christopher had ever seen.
Every elf he¡¯d ever encountered was covered in filth and wore the most wretched, downtrodden expression. Driven from respectable society, they were forbidden in many towns. When tolerated, they could only be found in the worst sections. The males were notoriously lazy, while the females were known to neglect their children. The one thing the genders shared was incessant begging. Dirty hands were constantly outstretched while they mumbled something indistinguishable, and yet their intent was obvious.
Sherwood had portrayed one of those vile creatures dressed in Lady Dulgath¡¯s clothes. However, the most disturbing detail wasn¡¯t the subject¡¯s race but the expression on its face. The eyes bored straight into him, wide and clear. She wasn¡¯t begging, and her expression displayed no hint of shame. What was truly troubling was how the elven female in the portrait appeared to consider herself superior. Christopher could see it in her haughty stare, the square of her shoulders, and that hint of a smirk that declared she knew something he didn¡¯t. This elf was laughing at him, looking out from that canvas with painted eyes and judging him as unworthy.
Christopher snatched up the canvas without thinking. He couldn¡¯t concentrate with those eyes upon him ¡ª glaring with disdain, belittling him, insulting his existence, questioning his very right to exist. He smashed the canvas against the wall, splintering the frame. He pulled and wrenched at the thing, trying to tear it in half, but the canvas was stronger than it appeared. He hurled it to the floor and reached for his dagger.
I¡¯ll cut those miserable eyes from your ¡ª
¡°Lord Fawkes?¡±
Christopher turned and saw Lady Dulgath¡¯s handmaiden.
Her name was Rissa Lyn, and she stood in the doorway in her simple white dress with the faded-blue sash. Her eyes were huge, her mouth a large O.
Christopher froze with dagger drawn, then quickly put it away. When he saw she was alone he asked, ¡°What do you want?¡±
The woman hesitated. She gave a nervous glance out the open door, then walked quickly toward him. Her eyes were on the broken painting as she said, ¡°It killed Sherwood Stow.¡±
Christopher¡¯s heart was still racing, his air coming in short, fast breaths. ¡°What are you blathering about, girl?¡±
¡°I read the note Lady Dulgath sent to Mister Stow right before he vanished.¡±
This got his full attention.
¡°Her Ladyship begged him to meet her on the cliffs above the sea. I told him what she was. Tried to stop him from going. Mister Stow is dead.¡± She pointed at the painting. ¡°That thing killed him. Killed him because he knew what she really was.¡±
¡°And what is she?¡±
¡°A demon. Same one that possessed Maddie Oldcorn. Poor Lady Nysa died but was never buried proper. Now a monster walks around in her corpse. Mister Stow saw that. It¡¯s all in the painting, isn¡¯t it, milord? I went to his room last night, to try to convince him about the demon. He wasn¡¯t there, but the painting was, so I looked. Mister Stow saw the monster inside Lady Dulgath, and it killed him. He never returned from that meeting.¡±
The woman was insane, and desperation filled her eyes as she clasped her hands against her chest, squeezing them so hard the fingertips went white.
¡°You have to do something, my lord. The king is here. He can stop it. If you tell him what I ¡ª¡±
¡°Christopher!¡± the voice of the bishop called. ¡°Fawkes!¡±
¡°Excuse me.¡± He walked out.
Keep it together, Christopher. Just one more day ¡ª not even a whole day. Just a few more hours. Just a few more.
V1: Chapter 16 - The Road South
The world rocked again, accompanied by a loud, painful thump. Hadrian opened his eyes. His cheek ¡ª pressed against rough, vibrating wood ¡ª throbbed along with the rest of his head. Sunlight, bright and harsh, entered a barred window and stung his eyes. His wrists hurt and were tied ¡ª no, manacled behind his back. He tried to swallow. Yes, his tongue, throat, and mouth were dry, but the real problem was the wide iron collar. Metal links connecting his wrists to the neckband dug into his back.
He lay inside an enclosed wagon. Three barred windows ¡ª small ones on either side and a large one in the door at the back ¡ª showed they traveled a two-track road across flat, open ground. Another hard jolt and pain bloomed in Hadrian¡¯s right side. Having his arms wrenched up toward the middle of his back wasn¡¯t helping. After one more painful bump, a hard hammering blow that made him clench his teeth, Hadrian sat up ¡ª not an easy thing to do, trussed up as he was.
The sun between the bars indicated either the lateness of the day or a dawn newly born. Hadrian wasn¡¯t alone. Royce sat across from him, knees up, head down, chained in the same way as Hadrian.
¡°Thought you¡¯d never wake up,¡± Royce said.
¡°How long have I been out?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°Day and a half, maybe.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s mouth hung open. ¡°Are you serious? That can¡¯t be right. Last time it was only a few hours. And I drank less this time.¡±
Again Royce shrugged.
Hadrian dragged his pasty tongue across his teeth. ¡°That would explain the taste in my mouth. I¡¯m never drinking anything again.¡±
Outside, three men rode escort ¡ª one on each side, another at the rear. They wore the same black uniforms as the men who had broken into their room at Caldwell House. The sun was on the right side of the wagon. If it was evening, they were traveling south; if morning, north.
¡°What happened?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°They put the drug in the cups on the shelf before we arrived.¡±
¡°Yeah, I gathered that much. I meant after.¡±
¡°You passed out, and we had uninvited company. They were very rude. I can¡¯t believe you drank.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t expect everyone in Dulgath to be alchemists.¡±
¡°Not everyone, just her.¡±
¡°Her?¡±
¡°Feldspar,¡± Royce said bitterly.
¡°You think Scarlett was involved?¡±
¡°Same place. Same drug. Everyone conveniently absent. Doesn¡¯t take a genius.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°She¡¯s working for Fawkes and Payne.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not serious?¡±
Royce rolled not only his eyes but his head as well. ¡°Let me guess. You¡¯re in love with her.¡±
¡°No!¡± he said loud enough to anger the throbbing in his head. The wagon and the rough road were torturing him just fine; he didn¡¯t need to help. ¡°I like her, that¡¯s all. She seems nice, sweet, and protective of her friends.¡± He looked out at the soldier trailing behind them. ¡°Are you sure? I mean . . . I can¡¯t believe I could misjudge a person so badly.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not exactly known for your judgment of character, but don¡¯t feel too bad. The woman is a professional. Most Diamond girls are trained at manipulation, and seduction ¡ª two of their best tools.¡±
Hadrian did feel bad. Not because he had been taken in by Scarlett, but at the thought that she could do such a thing. He really had liked her. Worse ¡ª he had believed her. Hadrian had bought that whole story about her escaping Colnora and finding a better life in the dale. Such a thing was easy to believe. He wanted it to be true, still did. ¡°Any idea where we are?¡±
¡°The Old Mine Road.¡±
¡°The Old ¡ª ?¡± Hadrian lifted his chin. His side screamed again. Once more, he clamped his teeth in pain. For his effort, he saw mountains, the little green range separating Dulgath from Greater Maranon. ¡°We¡¯re not in Dulgath anymore. This is that road ¡ª the one you paused at on the way in ¡ª the one that went south.¡±
Which makes it late afternoon, coming on evening.
He looked again at the soldier behind them. He had his helm off and his chain coif thrown back. ¡°Where are we going?¡±
¡°Manzant.¡±
The name was vaguely familiar, and not in a good way.
Royce assumed he didn¡¯t know and added, ¡°A salt mine on the rocky thumb of Maranon. It¡¯s also a prison ¡ª sort of. You¡¯re not going to like it.¡±
A salt mine prison? ¡°Can you unlock these?¡± He jingled the chain holding his wrists.
¡°No.¡±
Royce let his head hang forward as if it weighed more that day. His hood was off, thrown back. So was his cloak, disheveled and torn, but his hair did a good job of hiding his face.
¡°Seriously?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce took the effort to tilt his head and glare at him. ¡°Hands are locked just like yours. I can¡¯t reach my tools.¡±
¡°Well, maybe I can reach them.¡± Hadrian shoved to his knees, making a rattling sound as chains clattered on wood, then gasped as the sharp pain stabbed his side again.
¡°Won¡¯t help,¡± Royce told him, lowering his face once more.
¡°Why not?¡±
¡°My right hand is broken. So is the middle finger of my left. Besides, I doubt they missed them when searching us.¡±
¡°Oh.¡± Hadrian sighed, then let himself slide back down. He moved slowly, bracing for more pain.
¡°What about you?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Cracked rib, I think.¡±
¡°That all?¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Pretty sure.¡±
Royce had his head up again and studied Hadrian¡¯s face. ¡°You look terrible.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Hadrian shifted his jaw and moved his cheek muscles, searching for bruises. ¡°My face doesn¡¯t even hurt.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Just in general, I mean. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever just sat and stared at you before.¡±
Hadrian frowned. Getting back to a sitting position, he let his head rest on the wall behind him. ¡°Why is it you always find your sense of humor when we¡¯re about to die?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°I suppose because that¡¯s when life is at its most absurd.¡±
¡°We are going to die, right? I don¡¯t want to get my hopes up unnecessarily.¡±
¡°If we¡¯re lucky,¡± Royce replied without any hint of humor this time. ¡°Manzant is a place where people go to disappear. A long, deep, narrow shaft. Dwarves built the mine centuries ago, a hideous achievement of incarceration. Inmates mine salt in the dark in return for food and fresh water. No tools, no protection, you either find a way to get salt or you die trying. In time, the salt leaches the very soul out of a man, or so I¡¯ve heard.¡±
¡°Well, you¡¯re in luck. Can¡¯t squeeze wine from a stone, right?¡± Hadrian pulled on the manacles again. Now he remembered the name Manzant, the place Scarlett had told him about. She¡¯d gotten away by escaping her chains, but that was probably a lie like everything else. ¡°If we¡¯re going to prison, what do you suppose the charges are? We haven¡¯t done anything wrong.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t have to do anything wrong to end up in Manzant. Like I said, it¡¯s a mine as well as a prison. Ambrose Moor ¡ª he¡¯s the administrator ¡ª doesn¡¯t care where he gets workers. Criminals are fine, but he¡¯ll pay decent money for slaves, too.¡±
¡°But we aren¡¯t slaves.¡±
¡°We are now.¡±
Hadrian scanned the wagon and found it empty except for some rotting straw and extra chains that had turned a dark-rust color. They added to the loud jangle accompanying each hard bump. ¡°You still have Alverstone?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Manzant slavers are excellent at their job. Not done yet. They¡¯ll strip us naked when we get to the prison. Shave our heads, too.¡±
¡°Quit talking it up. You¡¯re ruining all the surprises.¡±
The wagon hit another bump, a big one. They both groaned as the fixed axle hammered the road. Then the movement stopped. ¡°What now? Are we there?¡±
Royce shook his head. He peered out the side window, head cocked, listening. ¡°Water.¡± Royce paused. ¡°Must be at Mercator Creek.¡± He nodded. ¡°They¡¯re watering the horses. We¡¯re farther south than I thought.¡±
Hadrian heard a laugh. Two men talked, but their voices were too distant and muffled to understand.
¡°How far to Manzant?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Mercator Creek is less than ten miles from the prison, but in a wagon traveling up that twisting mountain road . . .¡± He looked out the window at the sky. ¡°Be there tomorrow, I guess.¡±
¡°So we have a whole night to figure a way out.¡±
Royce gave him a pitiful smirk. ¡°I really love the way you think things will all turn out fine. How did Feldspar put it? It¡¯s so ¡ª cute.¡±
Hadrian frowned and tried to feel for the lock on his wrists, but his fingers were numb from being pinched.
Royce said, ¡°Arcadius was right about you. It¡¯s like you¡¯re color-blind. Except it¡¯s not colors you can¡¯t see, it¡¯s reality. Your problem is you expect too much from people.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not the blind one here,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the lows people can reach, believe me. But I¡¯ve also witnessed heroic, even ridiculous levels of kindness. You have, too, but you ignore them. That¡¯s blindness, my friend.¡±
Royce shook his head slowly and made a hissing sound ¡ª condescending laughter ¡ª a Royce Melborn trademark. ¡°Water flows downhill,¡± he explained. ¡°Cats eat mice. And sure, there¡¯s the odd cold day in summer, or the freak warm spell in winter, but as a rule that doesn¡¯t happen. In fact, it¡¯s so not the rule it¡¯s not worth mentioning. What you don¡¯t understand, or choose to ignore, is that people care only about themselves. They wouldn¡¯t risk money, much less their lives, for someone else. The only reason anyone would gamble their own neck for another person is if that other person¡¯s life is important to their own welfare, and even then . . .¡± He shook his head and let out the same wispy laugh. ¡°Fear drives most people. Acts of bravery are most often the result of ignorance or impulse. Given even a moment to think, to realize and reflect on the possible dangers, your would-be hero always gets cold feet.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°And you¡¯re alive because of it.¡±
Royce smiled as if he¡¯d expected this comment. ¡°You¡¯re right, and you know what? That¡¯s bothered me for three years, but I¡¯ve finally figured it out.¡±
Something banged hard against the side of the wagon. ¡°You two still alive in there?¡± a harsh voice called. A face grinned in the window over Royce¡¯s head.
¡°They¡¯re fine. Both of ¡¯em sittin¡¯ up like this is their lucky day. You two just relax. We¡¯ll be moving again soon enough, and by tomorrow, you¡¯ll be home. Enjoy the sun, boys; it¡¯s the last you¡¯ll ever see of her.¡± The man laughed and then moved away, chuckling as he went.
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¡°Nice fella,¡± Royce said. ¡°Maybe he¡¯ll help us.¡±
¡°Funny. So, what¡¯s this thing you¡¯ve figured out?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Oh, right. I determined the only reason you came back around the tower instead of climbing down and getting away was because you wanted to die.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s eyes widened.
¡°Still do, in a way, I think. When you came back from Calis all disillusioned and lacking direction, you felt life had no point or purpose. You can¡¯t stand to live in a world where people feed off others. You¡¯d rather die in protest then accept the truth that life is misery and your fellow men are vicious animals who¡¯ll jump at any opportunity to get ahead by stepping on their neighbor¡¯s neck.¡±
¡°Okay.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°Sounds like you¡¯ve got me nailed down, but what about ¡ª¡±
¡°Gwen? She might just be that strange warm spell in winter. I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°No, not her. I was going to say, what about you?¡±
¡°Me?¡±
¡°The first time we entered Medford, you risked your life for me. More than that, you actually begged in the street for my sake. Why¡¯d you do that?¡±
¡°Okay.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°You can add one more condition to the list. Acts which run contrary to one¡¯s own self interest are due to ignorance, impulse, and delirium.¡±
Hadrian laughed. ¡°That¡¯s a fine fortress you¡¯ve built there, although none too comfortable, I suspect.¡±
¡°And that cloud you live on is going to disappear in Manzant. People don¡¯t help others unless there¡¯s something in it for them, and since we¡¯re of no use to anyone, no one is going to help us.¡±
Out the rear window, between the vertical bars of iron, Hadrian spotted another traveler on the road. A wagon was coming their way.
Hadrian couldn¡¯t believe his eyes.
He glanced at Royce for validation and found his partner staring out the back of the wagon, his mouth open, brows twisted in confused knots. ¡°What¡¯s she doing here?¡±
Scarlett Dodge was driving a buckboard pulled by a pair of mismatched horses. She¡¯d traded her patchwork gown for a loose shirt and men¡¯s trousers. She¡¯d tucked her vibrant hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Hadrian hoped she wasn¡¯t trying to pass for a man; she still looked every bit a woman despite the attire. As she neared, Scarlett steered her wagon to the left of the road, bringing it up alongside them. The bed of the buckboard was filled with six barrels: four marked beer, the other two ale.
¡°Hello there!¡± one of the black-uniformed men called to her.
¡°Hello,¡± she replied, her voice soft, meek, wary.
Hadrian and Royce both shifted to peer out the left-side window.
¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± someone asked, too far past the corner of the window for them to see.
¡°I¡¯m just stopping to water my horses. I¡¯ll be on my way in a ¡ª¡±
¡°Didn¡¯t ask you about your horses. I asked your name, sweetie. What is it?¡±
¡°Ruby.¡± Scarlett was too far to one side for Hadrian to see her face. His view consisted entirely of the wagon, barrels, and the hind ends of the horses.
¡°See, she knows better than to give her real name,¡± Royce said.
¡°She¡¯s here to help us,¡± Hadrian told him.
¡°All by herself? Against six Manzant slavers?¡±
Hadrian looked out the rear window, searching for others. The road, flat and straight, was empty for miles.
Royce shook his head. ¡°She¡¯s the one who put us here.¡±
¡°What¡¯s with the boy¡¯s clothes, Ruby?¡± one of the slavers asked.
¡°Brother¡¯s clothes. Easier to work in.¡±
¡°Where you taking all that beer and ale?¡±
One of them came to the wagon and jostled a barrel, then another. ¡°They¡¯re full.¡±
¡°They¡¯re, ah ¡ª old. Going bad. Has a real rank taste. I¡¯m taking them to Manzant to sell. Guards are grateful for whatever they can get.¡±
Hadrian leaned against the wall of the wagon.
She¡¯s lying ¡ª but why?
Fawkes could have sent her to ensure they were locked away.
Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough?
His brain knew it was possible, even probable, but his heart didn¡¯t want to believe.
She¡¯s here to help, he reasoned. Maybe she tried to get others, too, but they refused. She¡¯s stubborn and foolish and chased after us alone.
¡°You¡¯re in luck, little lady. We¡¯re from Manzant. You can give it to us.¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t planning on giving it to no one. I¡¯m selling it, but sure, I can sell it to you. Let¡¯s see, for all six kegs it¡¯ll cost you . . . five yellow tenents or twelve with King Vincent¡¯s profile.¡±
¡°Naw, I¡¯m thinking these are donations.¡±
¡°Then you¡¯d be thinking wrong.¡±
Two of the men lifted a barrel from the wagon and hauled it out of sight.
¡°Leave that alone!¡±
¡°Just taking a taste, honeysweet.¡±
¡°Stop it!¡±
¡°Looks like we¡¯ve got ourselves a party, boys.¡±
¡°By Mar! We got beer, ale, and a pretty little thing to entertain us.¡±
¡°And you didn¡¯t want to come.¡±
¡°I know, right? I would¡¯ve been kicking myself.¡±
¡°We¡¯re spending the night here, aren¡¯t we? I mean, no sense in going any farther today, am I right?¡±
¡°Absolutely. Hey, Owen, why don¡¯t you make a fire?¡±
¡°And just leave the whoring and drinking to you? Screw that.¡±
¡°I said stop it!¡± Scarlett¡¯s voice cut a note higher. She was scared. The horses didn¡¯t like it. The two on Scarlett¡¯s wagon shuffled, making their tack jingle, and the lorry shifted forward and back.
Hadrian jerked on his chains; they rewarded him by cutting into his abused flesh. He pressed his face to the bars of the window, but he couldn¡¯t see anything beyond Scarlett¡¯s barrel-laden wagon.
¡°Why don¡¯t you sit down?¡± a voice growled.
Startled by something, both sets of horses jerked. The wagon Royce and Hadrian were in lurched, slamming Hadrian¡¯s face against the window. At the same time, Scarlett gasped. Not quite a scream, but close.
Hadrian jerked on the manacles again, and blood dripped around his wrists.
¡°Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with this, is there?¡±
¡°Tastes fine to me.¡±
¡°It¡¯s even a little cold.¡±
¡°I think she¡¯s lying to us, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Lying to us about more than the beer, I¡¯ll bet. Those clothes are lying, too. They say you¡¯re frumpy, but I¡¯ll wager you¡¯ve got quite a figure underneath.¡±
¡°No!¡± Scarlett shouted.
Running feet slapped dirt, and a moment later Scarlett appeared back in Hadrian¡¯s vision. She stared through the little window, eyes wide with fear. ¡°Help!¡± she screamed.
One of the men caught her by the arm. Scarlett jerked back and slammed against the side of their wagon. She screamed again. Another man grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up. Her hat came off, and that long red hair cascaded out. The men exclaimed in pleasure at the sight.
¡°Told you them clothes were hiding something special!¡±
Hadrian threw himself at the wooden wall. The boards, thick and solid, didn¡¯t even shudder. The impact only served to jar his ribs, and a fresh bolt of pain stole his breath.
¡°Settle down in there!¡± one of the slavers shouted, banging on the wall of the wagon.
¡°They¡¯re jealous of our good fortune,¡± another said.
With arms and feet thrashing, Scarlett was carried out of sight. Hadrian continued to press his face hard to the corner of the little opening in the wall, struggling to see what they were doing. All he saw were Scarlett¡¯s horses standing, hoofing the ground and lifting their heads to watch what Hadrian couldn¡¯t see. On the ground just outside, Scarlett¡¯s hat lay in a rut, long red hairs caught in the brim.
Scarlett screamed. The sound was different this time, and Hadrian was surprised to discover that screams had their own language. Before she¡¯d cried out in fear; now she shrieked in panic. Fear of the possible had become the terror of reality. She wailed until her cries were muffled. Things went quiet for a few seconds, and then she screeched again. After a minute or so, the screams stopped, and Scarlett settled into a whimpering ongoing sob.
Hadrian couldn¡¯t help himself. He began to thrash, trying to find a way out of the chains, out of the iron manacles that had him helpless ¡ª a way that didn¡¯t exist.
¡°Hold her!¡±
¡°Get her ankles! Get her goddamn ankles!¡±
Hadrian pulled on the iron, feeling the brackets cutting deeper, neither giving at all.
¡°Easy,¡± Royce whispered.
¡°I have to do something! I can¡¯t just sit here and listen to this.¡±
¡°Nothing you can do. Relax.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t relax!¡± he yelled. ¡°She wasn¡¯t involved, Royce. She¡¯s here to help and now . . .¡± Hadrian put his face back to the window but still couldn¡¯t see.
¡°You can¡¯t do anything else,¡± Royce said in his all-too-cold, all-too-complacent, all-too-callous way. Times like this Hadrian hated his partner, hated his ruthless indifference. This side of Royce was devoid of compassion, of empathy. He could sit content while just outside ¡ª
Scarlett shrieked again, this time louder. The slavers replied with laughter.
Once more, Hadrian put his face against the bars of the window. The cool metal pressed against his cheek. ¡°You sons of bitches!¡± Hadrian shouted. ¡°Leave her alone!¡±
More laughter.
Royce did nothing. He sat on the floor of the wagon, his back against the wall. No struggling, no effort to squirm out of the manacles ¡ª he just sat there, head back, looking at his boots. At least he wasn¡¯t smiling. That was something.
Scarlett wailed louder, and then fell back once more to sobs. After that came a good deal of grunting and some sounds of gagging and spitting. Then slowly, bit by bit, the noises faded. The horses still jangled their tack and stomped their hooves, but he couldn¡¯t hear Scarlett anymore.
Did they kill her? The idea grew in his head.
At first, he didn¡¯t want to believe it, but as the silence continued, he grew steadily more certain of the possibility. They¡¯d killed her and were sitting around her body, drinking and recovering.
Hadrian stayed by the window, straining to hear. Wind brushed grass, making a sound as light as rain. A single cricket trilled a lonely note. Somewhere, a swallow chirped. So quiet.
Why is it so very quiet?
Footsteps.
Hadrian heard them shuffle on dirt. They paused, then grew louder as they approached Royce¡¯s side of the wagon.
Feeling sick, furious, and drained, Hadrian turned toward the rear door, hoping someone would be stupid enough to open it. With his wrists bound up, there wasn¡¯t much he could do, but he was pretty sure he could kill at least one.
Hadrian was good at killing ¡ª that was his skill, his one true talent. Once upon a time, he had actually been proud of that ability. He¡¯d since outgrown his pride and sobered up from an addiction to blood, but at twenty years old he¡¯d come too late to the simple wisdom that killing wasn¡¯t something to take pride in. And yet there were times, moments like this, when he realized that even terrible talents had a use.
To his amazement, he heard a key enter the door¡¯s lock.
They¡¯re opening it!
Hadrian glanced at Royce with wide-eyed anticipation. His partner shifted to a crouch. His nimble, cat-smooth movement announced his agreement to an unspoken plan.
If the man opening the wagon door also has the key to our chains . . .
The door swung open. Both Royce and Hadrian started, then stopped short, confounded by the sight of red hair.
¡°Hang on, I have to find the right one,¡± Scarlett Dodge said, holding up a large metal hoop filled with a dozen keys. A bit of dirt smeared her shirt, and she had a grass stain on one knee of her trousers. Other than that, she looked fine. ¡°Here, turn around,¡± she told Hadrian.
¡°You¡¯re . . . you¡¯re all right?¡±
¡°Yeah,¡± she said with a little puff of air ¡ª an almost-laugh that said, Why wouldn¡¯t I be? ¡°Turn around.¡±
He did as she instructed, sending Royce a baffled look. Royce didn¡¯t look surprised, but his face was covered with suspicion.
Hadrian felt a tug on the manacles at his wrist.
¡°What did you do? Your skin is all torn up and bloody.¡± She loosened one; then both popped open, and his arms were free. The relief in his shoulders was immediate. A surge of blood reached his fingertips, igniting a burst of pins and needles. The ache in his side ¡ª while not gone ¡ª eased a bit.
¡°Hold steady,¡± she complained, starting to work on his collar.
¡°Are you sure you¡¯re all right?¡± he asked.
¡°Me? Of course I¡¯m sure.¡±
The heavy metal collar made a loud hollow clunk! as it hit the wagon¡¯s bed. Hadrian rubbed at his raw neck and swallowed several times, enjoying the simple pleasure.
Scarlett paused before Royce, holding up the key. ¡°If I unlock you, are you going to be nice?¡±
Royce said nothing. He stared at her with an unfathomable expression: anger, suspicion, but also something else.
Scarlett let out a frustrated sigh and went to work on Royce¡¯s locks. As she did, Hadrian climbed out. A cool breeze chilled the sweat on his skin as he cautiously moved around between the two wagons. He headed toward the river, which proved to be no more than a pathetic trickle running over the road. High banks told tales of spring floods, but at that moment Mercator Creek wasn¡¯t impressive. There was no bridge; the two-track road just plowed through a shallow section where rocks refused to wash away. The team of horses that had pulled the prison wagon drank from the rippling water. Scarlett¡¯s pair were held by a hand brake, too far back to join the other horses. The two animals were slick with sweat, their hair soaked flat and dark beneath the leather straps and collar. She¡¯d driven them hard ¡ª too hard to let them drink until they cooled down.
Around the front, a keg marked beer sat upright in the road. It looked exactly like a miniature rain barrel; its lid had been broken into two parts. The dirt around the base was dark and wet. A few inches away, he spotted a tin cup in the dirt. Next to it lay a slaver. He wasn¡¯t alone. Hadrian counted the men and came up with all six. They were lying on the road or in the grass ¡ª although one was partially in the creek, the fingers of his left hand shifting in the current.
Royce came out of the wagon and pushed past. He descended on the nearest guard, his torn cloak spreading out like the wings of a vulture with the movement.
¡°You don¡¯t have to ¡ª¡±
Before Scarlett could finish, Royce had pulled a dagger from the soldier¡¯s belt and stabbed the man in the throat.
Royce moved to the next one.
¡°He doesn¡¯t have to do that,¡± Scarlett said, moving to stand beside Hadrian.
¡°Don¡¯t bother trying to stop him. There¡¯s no way he¡¯ll let them live.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not that,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°I didn¡¯t drug them.¡±
Royce paused, looking first at her, then down at the man he straddled. He placed a hand to the slaver¡¯s throat. He nodded in a sort of grim approval and rose. Still holding the dagger, he returned to Scarlett, who took three quick steps backward.
¡°Royce!¡± Hadrian shouted, but the thief ignored him.
He caught her by the throat with his left hand. His middle finger being broken, he used his thumb to hook under her chin, forcing her head back against the side of the prison wagon. The dagger was clutched awkwardly, painfully, in his other hand, which still bore the boot mark where someone had stepped on it. ¡°Why¡¯d you do it?¡±
¡°Royce ¡ª let her go!¡±
¡°I want to know why.¡±
¡°Because unlike you, she cares about people. We got to be friends the other day. She did it for me.¡±
¡°No,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°I did it for him.¡± She managed a shallow nod at Royce.
The thief stared. ¡°Explain why you¡¯d risk your life for me. Explain fast.¡±
¡°Royce!¡± Hadrian yanked a sword from the belt of a black-uniformed man.
¡°I did it because you were drugged with my herbs. Someone took them from my place while I was out with Hadrian, but I knew you wouldn¡¯t believe that. I knew you¡¯d blame me, and that Manzant can¡¯t hold you. And I heard what happened the last time you got out ¡ª what happened to those who helped put you there.¡±
¡°Royce!¡± Hadrian shouted, coming at him with the naked sword.
Royce let go of her and gingerly shifted the knife to his other hand, wincing as he did. He moved away from her.
Hadrian slowed down as he stepped through the grisly scene, ignoring the gathering flies. ¡°This was stupid. What if they didn¡¯t drink right away? What if they¡¯d waited to celebrate their good fortune?¡±
¡°Riding in the hot sun all day?¡± Scarlett replied. ¡°Pretty much a sure thing.¡±
¡°So they didn¡¯t . . .¡± Hadrian looked at her but not directly in her eyes. It felt like too much of an intrusion. ¡°They didn¡¯t ¡ª you know?¡±
¡°No.¡± Scarlett gave her head a curt shake. She wore a little smile while narrowing her eyes, as if he both amused and bewildered her. Then she shrugged. ¡°They were a little grabby near the end.¡± She pulled out the side of her shirt and peered beneath it with a scowl. ¡°I¡¯ll have a nasty bruise.¡±
¡°What if they had drunk from another barrel?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°They¡¯re all poisoned,¡± Royce answered for her. ¡°But what if not all of them drank? What if the first one dropped dead before the others got around to it?¡±
Scarlett exposed a knife beneath the long tails of her shirt and shrugged.
¡°Might have killed one ¡ª maybe. These were Manzant slavers. They don¡¯t go down easy.¡± Royce shook his head. ¡°That was way too dangerous.¡±
¡°Glad you noticed,¡± she said. ¡°And you should also note that this is Wagner¡¯s entire supply of beer and ale ¡ª ruined to save you. So the two of you can go on back to wherever you came from, right? Hadrian¡¯s swords are in the box up where the driver rests his feet. Wag says he saw them load up. That pretty white dagger and your coin, you¡¯ll find on the bodies. Just take the horses, leave, and forget about Dulgath. Okay? Just leave.¡±
Hadrian saw the way Royce was clutching his broken hand.
Royce looked back at him with a familiar expression that was easy to read.
¡°Sorry,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We aren¡¯t leaving.¡±
V1: Chapter 17 - Shervin Gerami
Covered mostly in salt and birdlime, the coastal village of Rye was worse than repugnant. Christopher honestly couldn¡¯t think of a word awful enough to describe it. An hour¡¯s ride south and west of Castle Dulgath, its shacks sat on a beach and looked like wreckage washed up in a storm. Their front yards were tiny slivers of seaweed-strewn sand covered by upturned hulls of little battered boats. Buoys, ratty nets, and snapped branches were heaped in piles. Leather-skinned villagers squatted over smoking campfires, dressed in little more than loincloths. Christopher had asked Knox to find someone unassociated with Castle Dulgath to do the deed but hadn¡¯t expected the necessity to visit another world in the process.
Christopher Fawkes couldn¡¯t claim to be well traveled. While he¡¯d been to the major cities of Maranon, that wouldn¡¯t be considered worldly for a baron. Then again, Christopher Fawkes wasn¡¯t a baron. His father held that title. Christopher was instead the worthless fourth son, but like any contemptible child of a middling noble, he used his father¡¯s title to open doors. Most people never questioned him. This never pleased his father, but then nothing did ¡ª at least nothing Christopher ever did. His mother agreed with her husband, as a smart wife of a despot should. Christopher¡¯s brothers and sisters ¡ª of which he had six ¡ª followed suit in their opinions of him. This didn¡¯t surprise Christopher; siblings in a noble household were, by nature, mortal enemies.
The only surprising hostility Christopher faced had come from his previous horse. The mare had tried to bite him every chance she got. He¡¯d named the horse Melanie de Burke after a woman at court; she was a gorgeous and expensive purebred Renallian. He¡¯d once loved Melanie de Burke ¡ª the woman ¡ª but he was certain she still didn¡¯t know he existed. Melanie de Burke ¡ª the horse and biter ¡ª had been dead three years. He¡¯d killed her ¡ª the horse, that is ¡ª and that singular act had ruined his life. As he thought about it, had he killed Melanie de Burke ¡ª the woman ¡ª he might have fared better. Such was the insanity of life in Maranon, and the reason he so appreciated Immaculate.
How far have my standards fallen when my love and loyalty are won by an animal that simply doesn¡¯t bite me?
¡°Are you certain you found someone suitable here?¡± Christopher asked, getting down from the wagon and scanning the desolate encampment.
This is how the natives in the dark recesses of Calis live. At least he imagined so. He hadn¡¯t been there, either.
¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± Knox said with a grin.
Christopher didn¡¯t like the man¡¯s smile, something sinister in it. It had that I-know-something-you-don¡¯t-know look about it. Noting the nick still in the leather collar of Knox¡¯s gambeson, Christopher had to wonder if the sheriff might be plotting a little payback.
Lord Fawkes helped Rissa Lyn down from the wagon and shook his head, pretending that she could understand the million-and-one things that the shake was meant to convey. She didn¡¯t, of course.
How can she?
Her home was likely someplace quite like this, a backwater assortment of listing hovels whose inhabitants shared their beds with their goats and pigs to save their livestock from wolf packs and big cats. She did look adequately apprehensive of the strange world Knox had brought them to, but then she¡¯d looked like that from the start. Handmaidens didn¡¯t normally go off on adventures with lords and provincial sheriffs, and that expression of wide-eyed shock, held in check by a surprisingly resolute determination, was still on her face.
Christopher followed Knox to the beach, and his feet sank into the hot sand just inches from where the surf smoothed everything out with its constant pawing. A wave rushed in, reached out, then receded before him, leaving a residue of white bubbles and green tubular plants. He looked at the waves and at the gray line of the horizon.
This is the end of the world.
Well, not quite. The Isle of Neil could be seen as a line of darkness on the water, as well as the Point of Mann, the strait known to eat ships. Beyond them was the Westerlins, but no civilization. Not a single city, town, hamlet, or village lay to the west of where he stood. This was the end of the known world.
So what is out there?
He¡¯d heard the same stories everyone had about the Westerlins, rumored to be populated by an odd assortment of deformed people. One race supposedly had one large foot ¡ª so big that if it rained they could lie on their backs and shelter in the shadow of it. There were also monstrous single-breasted women, and men with the heads of dogs, and others with no heads at all, their faces in their chests. These things, along with dragons, giants, trolls, and ogres, were said to roam that distant shore, where the sun went to sleep each night. In that darkness, no other light would be seen; there was no sound of music or lilt of laughter.
Staring across those waves, Christopher felt a terrible unease, a sense of impending doom, a desire to retreat from the edge of a cliff or the rim of a fire.
What kind of people could live here so close to oblivion?
¡°That¡¯s him; that¡¯s Shervin Gerami,¡± Knox said, pointing at a man on the far side of the boats. The man sat cross-legged, fussing with the strands of a net before a particularly strange hut fashioned out of pale twigs. He was bald, and the afternoon sun glinted off his head with a brilliant shine.
Knox lumbered over, leaving Rissa Lyn and Christopher to follow. Sand got into the ankles of Christopher¡¯s shoes, making him grimace. He could feel it grind painfully against his feet.
My shoes will be ruined before this is done . . . and it¡¯s not like I have another pair. Being not-a-baron pays not-a-lot.
Passing through the cluster of shanties, Christopher was greeted by the powerful smell of fish and wood smoke. A pair of women with bare shoulders, wearing what looked to be just a wrapping of homespun cloth chopped stalks of grass with cleavers against a split log. Their faces held hopeless eyes born from a life of endless drudgery. Another man, dried up and dark as a raisin, sat listlessly against a shack, his bare feet outstretched. He smoked a clay pipe and watched them. There were others, but Christopher chose not to look. He felt uncomfortable here in this place of sunbaked people who slept in skeleton homes built on the edge of eternity. Knox showed no sign of concern, no hesitancy as he trudged through the sand toward the man with the shining head.
¡°Shervin!¡± Knox called over the roar of the surf.
The bald man looked up. He had keen eyes, clear and focused, and he fixed them on each member of the Dulgath party. He appeared to make a judgment, and then resumed work on the net.
¡°How do you know this man?¡± Christopher asked quietly as they approached.
¡°I¡¯m sheriff,¡± Knox replied. ¡°I make rounds. Shervin was accused of murder. I judged him innocent.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t have that authority.¡±
Knox laughed.
For a man such as Knox to laugh at him was more than disrespectful. According to Payne, who got his information from Bishop Parnell, Knox had spent years in the military. He¡¯d served Duke Ethelred of Warric and had seen combat in many conflicts, including the famed Battle of Vilan Hills. Payne had expressed a suspicion that Knox was wanted for murder, which was the real reason he was in Maranon. Once more, Christopher thought about the nick he¡¯d made in the sheriff¡¯s collar and wondered if that had been such a good idea after all.
¡°Out here, I act with the authority of the earl ¡ª excuse me ¡ª countess. The Dulgaths can¡¯t be everywhere, and most of these people can¡¯t afford to make a pilgrimage to the castle to plead petty grievances or ask for restitution. That¡¯s my job. I act in their stead. I do the real work, the unpleasant tasks.¡±
Knox stopped before the bald man, looking down at him.
¡°Who-low Meestah Knock-Knock,¡± Shervin greeted him. ¡°You still want me ta keel sum¡¯tin fur you? I tell you a¡¯fore, da Blade of ant-trickery do not slay any but da Old Ones.¡±
¡°I remember,¡± Knox said. ¡°That¡¯s why I brought this woman . . . to convince you.¡±
Shervin lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun and examined Rissa Lyn. No fingernails were on that hand. Christopher searched out the man¡¯s other fist, still clutching a wad of net, and found it also lacked nails. In their place were smooth divots.
Rissa Lyn shrank from Gerami¡¯s studious glare but didn¡¯t retreat. Her breaths were short and shallow, and she looked as if she might be sick. Still, the woman was proving to be quite brave.
¡°Con-fence da Blade? How you gonna do dat?¡±
¡°Is that our language he¡¯s speaking?¡± Christopher asked Knox.
Knox frowned as the fingernail-less man tilted his head to look at Christopher. ¡°Who dis fancy man?¡±
¡°This is ¡ª¡±
¡°Royce Melborn,¡± Christopher said, jumping in. ¡°A famous thief.¡±
Shervin chuckled.
¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± Christopher asked hotly.
¡°Meestah Fancy Shoes couldn¡¯t steal nothin¡¯. And any good thief can¡¯t be famous.¡±
Knox snapped, ¡°Well he is, and if I were you I¡¯d watch my tongue.¡±
¡°Can¡¯t see me own tongue.¡± Shervin laughed ¡ª a deep, wicked sound ¡ª then demonstrated by sticking it out and looking down. ¡°Not as long as some people¡¯s, I s¡¯pose.¡±
¡°This can¡¯t be the best you can find,¡± Christopher said.
¡°Trust me on this,¡± Knox replied.
But Christopher didn¡¯t trust him. He¡¯d learned not to trust anyone, least of all men like Knox.
¡°Meestah Melborn think da Blade cannot keel? Me show Meestah Fancy Shoes.¡± Shervin stood up and threw open the curtain that served as a door to his hut. ¡°You look.¡±
Christopher didn¡¯t want to. He didn¡¯t want to take one step toward, much less enter, that hut with walls woven from branches of bleached driftwood like a bony nest of some giant bird. An easy impression to reach, as several large gulls circled and many actual bones surrounded the shack. The skull of a great horned beast hung from a nearby post along with smaller skulls of squirrels or perhaps rats.
¡°Here,¡± Shervin said, entering and waving for Christopher to follow. ¡°Come see.¡±
Knox shooed him forward, and Christopher felt compelled to follow or be seen as weak or frightened. He was scared ¡ª a little. Christopher didn¡¯t think anyone could be at ease in the presence of such a strange fellow as Shervin, who when standing was bigger than expected. Tall and lean, the man had muscles that stood out too much and looked the way Christopher imagined a shaved cat might. Only then did he realize . . . the man has no hair.
Shervin wasn¡¯t just bald, but hairless. No beard, no mustache, not a strand on his arms or legs. Not even his armpit showed a single thread of hair. There were, however, tattoos. Shervin had plenty of them. They weren¡¯t depictions of anything recognizable, just designs and symbols wrapping his arms and thighs.
Christopher gave in, and, with a hand on his sword, followed Shervin inside. He¡¯d skewer the shaved cat if he tried anything.
The place didn¡¯t smell, which surprised Christopher; he expected it to reek with the stench of dead things. Instead, the interior was clean. Oddly, it smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. An extinct fire pit in its center was bordered by a neat bed of rocks. The rest of the space was filled with baskets of varying heights and widths, but none of this was what Shervin wanted him to see. The bald, hairless man with the tattoos directed Christopher¡¯s attention to the walls, where a variety of tools hung: an ax, a massive scythe, two primitive spears, and a wooden club with a big knob on the end.
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¡°Dees are what I do me keeling wit.¡±
¡°What killing?¡±
¡°I hunt and slay da Old Ones.¡± He pushed out the curtain again, stepped outside, grabbed one of the rat or chipmunk skulls, and held it up. ¡°Dees what¡¯s left after I chopping ¡¯em.¡± He made a cutting motion across his neck. Then he turned and glared again at Rissa Lyn. ¡°But da Blade only keel da Old Ones ¡ª not men, not weemeen.¡±
¡°What¡¯s an Old One?¡± Christopher asked, escaping the hut and feeling better for it.
¡°Day be da leftovers of da ancient world, driven to da corners and da edges where to hide in shadows from da light of men.¡±
Christopher gave up trying to gain sense from Shervin and turned to Knox. ¡°What are we talking about here?¡±
The sheriff shrugged absently. ¡°Ghosts and ghouls.¡±
Shervin was nodding. ¡°And leshies, goulgans, and manes.¡± He pointed to the surf. ¡°And selkies. Lots of bulbane selkies. But not weemeen. Da Blade is not a murderer.¡±
¡°She¡¯s not a woman.¡± Rissa Lyn spoke up then. Her voice shook a bit but was loud and forceful.
¡°What den?¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath is a demon.¡±
Shervin put the little skull back on the post, then puckered up his lips and began to shift them from side to side as he focused on Rissa Lyn. The only thing Christopher could think was that da Blade was contemplating how she might taste slow-roasted with a pinch of salt.
Rissa Lyn appeared to be thinking along the same lines as she wrapped her arms around herself, sending worrisome glances at Knox and Christopher.
Still sucking on his lips, Shervin began to nod. ¡°Yes,¡± he muttered.
¡°Yes, what?¡± Rissa Lyn asked, both defiant and concerned.
¡°Dis man here¡± ¡ª Shervin pointed at Christopher ¡ª ¡°Meestah Fancy Shoes is a dry well. Meestah Knock-Knock.¡± He pointed at the sheriff. ¡°He a bucket ah blood. But you . . .¡± He shook his head again. ¡°You are clear water from da mountain stream.¡±
¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± Rissa Lyn asked, her face perplexed as she struggled to determine if she should be flattered or insulted.
¡°Means I will come and see dis demon. If an Old One, I will keel it.¡±
¡°How can you tell?¡± Christopher asked. He looked pointedly at Knox. ¡°He¡¯s not going to try to speak to Lady Dulgath, is he?¡±
Shervin grinned, showing clean white teeth. ¡°Are you an Old One?¡±
¡°What?¡± Christopher scowled at him.
¡°Are you an Old One?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°How you know you not?¡±
¡°Because I¡¯m not.¡±
¡°Yes.¡± He nodded. ¡°Same way ¡ª see?¡±
¡°See what? No, I don¡¯t see anything.¡±
¡°Dis is because you a dry well. Empty buckets cannot see nothing outside demselves.¡± Shervin went into his stick house and returned with an oversized scythe.
¡°Won¡¯t need that,¡± Knox said. ¡°I have a better weapon.¡±
¡°Is no better weapon,¡± Shervin declared.
¡°Let me show you.¡±
Together the four tramped back through the village, past the two women and the pipe-smoking man. The women didn¡¯t look up this time, but the pipe man watched with interest. They returned to the wagon, where Knox threw off the tarp and revealed the arbalest. With the bright coastal sun shining off the steel fixtures, the big crossbow appeared to be from another world.
Shervin¡¯s eyes widened at the sight. ¡°A bow!¡±
¡°You¡¯ve seen one before?¡± Knox asked.
Shervin shook his head. ¡°But you are right, dis is a better weapon. Bows are sacred tings.¡±
¡°This one is downright divine,¡± Knox said. ¡°Let¡¯s get a target up and you¡¯ll see.¡±
Along with the arbalest, they had loaded a stuffed dummy and a pine post on a stand to hang it from. A long length of thin rope was cut to the required distance. Knox asked Christopher to carry the post while he grabbed the dummy and rope ¡ª giving one end to Rissa Lyn, who stayed by the wagon. Together they walked one hundred yards.
¡°You brought us all this way for a lunatic?¡± Christopher asked as they marched across rock and through tufts of grass, the seaside wind slapping their backs.
¡°Absolutely,¡± Knox replied. ¡°He¡¯s perfect.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t see how. The man is ignorant and insane.¡±
¡°Exactly. Who else do you think we can get to murder the countess? Any sensible person would know it¡¯s suicide. Besides, what do you think will happen after she¡¯s dead? If Shervin Gerami tries pointing at us, who will believe a man who says he killed Lady Dulgath because she¡¯s a demon?¡±
¡°And a man who calls me Royce Melborn,¡± Christopher said, nodding. ¡°All right, I can see the logic, but he¡¯s so odd. Do you think he can do it?¡±
¡°A woodchuck can use one of these. It¡¯s accurate to three hundred yards. He¡¯s shooting less than half that.¡±
¡°Where¡¯d you get it?¡±
¡°Wells dug it out of the castle¡¯s attic.¡±
¡°Castle Dulgath has an attic?¡±
¡°Just what Wells called it. He knows every inch of that place. Once upon a time, Dulgath was a real castle and the walls were lined with arbalests. He picked out the best one for us. Although we¡¯re thin on quarrels, so I hope Shervin doesn¡¯t miss, or you and I will be searching these rocks for hours. It shoots a long way.¡±
They reached the end of the rope and set up the dummy, a servant¡¯s tunic stuffed with fistfuls of straw. They tied a rope under the arms and hung the mannequin from the pine post, then started back.
When they returned to the wagon, Knox took down the arbalest and set it up. The weapon could be held in a man¡¯s arms but was too unwieldy to use that way. Instead, it came equipped with front legs that held the nose up. The rear had a block that supported the butt as well. Using wooden shims, the archer could adjust the vertical angle in advance, aim it, and then let go. So long as the target wasn¡¯t moving ¡ª and Lady Dulgath ought to be sitting ¡ª all Shervin had to do was squeeze the trigger lever. The arbalest also had a built-in hand crank lying across its top that drew the string back. Given that the bow¡¯s prod was made of steel and had a wingspan of five feet, no one was going to pull it back with bare fingers and a foot in a nose stirrup.
Peering across at the target, Christopher felt a stab of worry. The dummy that was nearly the height of a man looked to be the size of a wineglass.
After a quick demonstration and a few dry launches, during which Shervin didn¡¯t say a word, Knox loaded a quarrel. The things couldn¡¯t be called arrows. They were heavy missiles thicker than a man¡¯s thumb, with massive iron tips. Shervin crouched, then lay flat on his stomach, looking down the length of the stock. He lifted the butt and moved it.
¡°No!¡± Knox shouted over the wind. ¡°I¡¯ve already aimed it.¡±
¡°Aimed wrong.¡± Shervin held his hand up, pointing at the sky. ¡°Wind.¡±
Knox looked angry, then hesitated as he considered the word. ¡°If you miss, you¡¯ll have to go fetch.¡±
Shervin didn¡¯t miss. The quarrel traveled faster than the eye could see, and it seemed the moment Christopher heard the snap of the string a magnificent burst of straw flew up. A loud crack cut against the blow of the wind. A moment later he couldn¡¯t see anything ¡ª not the dummy, not even the post it hung on.
Together with Knox, Christopher ran out to the target. The pine post had been split in half and fallen over. The dummy didn¡¯t exist. They found the tunic a few feet away with a rip through the front and back. Straw was everywhere.
¡°What do you think?¡± Knox asked.
Christopher nodded. ¡°Good choice.¡±
They left Shervin in his village. The man had rituals to perform ¡ª he pronounced it writ-tools ¡ª that would take all night. Knox balked about having to come back for him in the morning, but Christopher sided with da Blade of ant-trickery, which he finally realized was supposed to be antiquity. Christopher had his own ritual to perform, and he guessed it would be easier without Shervin Gerami along.
Christopher had dreams of the future but usually restrained himself from indulging too much in anticipation. Such things could jinx his plans. He¡¯d seen it before: Schedule an early trip and the next morning it would rain. Novron didn¡¯t abide prediction. The moment anyone made plans, the world changed, apparently out of spite.
Christopher also believed that it wasn¡¯t wise to spend too much time in his head. Thinking too much was a mistake. Plotting was the antithesis of doing. The man who sits and schemes continues to sit while others achieve. Christopher fancied himself a man of action, but as his defining day approached, he found thinking ahead hard to resist. Such was the case with the village of Rye. He found he hated that pile of twigs on the sand. When he became earl, one of his first orders would be to raze it. Not the first order, not even the second. Christopher ¡ª who didn¡¯t believe in making plans in advance for Novron to thwart ¡ª had at least a small list.
First he¡¯d get rid of Knox and Wells. They were both too intelligent and too ambitious to keep around. Payne he¡¯d have to live with, as an earl had no power over members of the church, and he wouldn¡¯t dare provoke Bishop Parnell. After that would come the rebuilding of Castle Dulgath. The place was nearly a ruin. He¡¯d have to raise taxes. From what he understood, they were nearly nonexistent, and the farmers could well afford to pay more. Once he had his house in order ¡ª and in the process of being restored ¡ª he would turn his thoughts inland.
Dulgath was the smallest of the Maranon provinces and largely ignored as a result. He intended to change that. Christopher saw no reason for there to be four provinces. Swanwick and Kruger were both vast holdings, while Manzar and Dulgath were insignificant in comparison. If Dulgath swallowed up Manzar, there would be three equal-sized neighbors. Having control over a prison where any detractors could disappear was an added benefit, but the real attraction came from the expectation of tax revenue the salt mine would produce.
He¡¯d need an army to bring Manzar into line. At present, Dulgath lacked even enough full-time guards to properly staff the front gate. He¡¯d change that, too. Every family would be required to contribute one son to his military, along with their increased taxes. With a land as lush as Dulgath, he¡¯d easily subdue the rocky highland of Manzar, which lacked any real towns. Then he wouldn¡¯t be just an earl ¡ª two full rungs above his father on the peerage ladder ¡ª but an important player in Maranon affairs. He¡¯d have the ear of the king, even if he had to cut it off to get it.
As the wagon rolled and bounced along the twisting coastal road, climbing higher and higher toward the plateau of the Dulgath Plain, Christopher surveyed his new realm and nodded silently.
This will do for a start, he thought.
When they reached the top of the ridge, Knox rested the horses, and the three got down to stretch their legs. This was the southwestern desolation of Dulgath, nothing but lichen rock, wind-tortured grass, and a grand view. At that height, they could clearly see the Point of Mann, the Isle of Neil, and Manzant Bay.
¡°Stunning, isn¡¯t it?¡± Christopher said with deep-breathed pride.
Of course it is: it¡¯s mine. A mother always sees her children as beautiful.
He walked alongside Rissa Lyn. As they strolled aimlessly through the tall grass, he took hold of her hand. She stopped, stiffening at his touch, then stared at him as if he¡¯d pulled a knife.
¡°Relax.¡± He smiled, and, bringing her hand up slowly, kissed the back. ¡°I just wanted to thank you.¡±
The fear in her eyes was replaced by confusion.
¡°You did very well,¡± he told her, and meant it.
Shervin Gerami had scared him, so he would¡¯ve expected Rissa Lyn to be reduced to a sobbing mess. ¡°You were very brave ¡ª courageous even.¡±
He saw a smile fighting onto her face. ¡°I want to thank you, Your Lordship. I¡¯ve been so afraid of that thing, and being the only one who knew . . . well, it was difficult.¡±
¡°Call me Christopher.¡±
Her eyes went large. ¡°Oh no, sir ¡ª I couldn¡¯t!¡±
Okay, so perhaps that was asking too much.
Rissa Lyn wasn¡¯t a child; she¡¯d spent years as a servant. Christopher might as well have asked her to fly. Letting go of her hand, he held up his own and spread his palms. ¡°That¡¯s fine. I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you¡¯ve done.¡±
¡°It¡¯s you that¡¯s doing it, sir.¡± She shook her head as a look of dismay descended. ¡°You are the only one to believe me. The only one ¡ª and I didn¡¯t even think you did, not at first. To be honest, I was frightened of you.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry about that.¡± Christopher resumed walking, causing her to follow. ¡°I was just so disturbed by that painting.¡±
¡°Oh, I can understand that ¡ª shoot and sugar I can. That painting scared me, too. Seeing what awful thing was truly behind that pretty face was horrible. So no, sir, I won¡¯t be holding that against you at all, sir.¡±
¡°Thank you, Rissa Lyn.¡± He took hold of her hand again. This time she didn¡¯t flinch, didn¡¯t stiffen. She blushed. ¡°Who were these others who didn¡¯t believe you?¡±
¡°Julia, the head maid. I went to her right after the lady recovered. I was so terribly frightened, hysterical and not making much sense. She said I was just imagining things. That seeing Lady Dulgath all mangled and bloody was making me imagine all kinds of old wives¡¯ tales about ghost, ghouls, and demons. For a long time, I believed her. But as the years passed, I knew it was me who had been right all along. I could tell because Lady Dulgath changed. Folk said she became sober from nearly dying, but I knew the truth. Nysa Dulgath had died, and something else had taken over her body, walking and talking through it.¡±
She squeezed his hand.
¡°I don¡¯t like to look into her eyes, but when I do, I can see it looking back. It scares me near to fainting sometimes, honest it does.¡±
¡°Who else have you told?¡±
¡°Just Mister Sherwood. After seeing his painting, I thought he would understand. He was such a good man, and I was afraid she¡¯d do something awful to him. And of course she did, didn¡¯t she? I feel so guilty about cursing him just before he went to ¡ª and then he disappeared. But he didn¡¯t believe me, either. No one believed me.¡±
¡°I believed you,¡± Christopher said, looking in her eyes and offering a sympathetic smile.
She smiled back, no fighting it this time. Her lips trembled, and tears spilled down, the wind streaking them at angles. ¡°Oh, sir!¡± she whimpered. ¡°You don¡¯t know how much I¡¯ve wanted someone to tell me that, to let me know I¡¯m not crazy.¡±
He reached out and wrapped his arms around the woman, pulling her to his chest, letting her cry. Knox was back at the wagon, checking the front hooves of the offside horse. The sheriff glanced over once then resumed hunting for stones.
When Rissa Lyn slowed her sobs, Christopher said, ¡°Look out there, Rissa Lyn.¡±
She pulled back and wiped her eyes clear, then she followed his line of sight and faced the cliff and the sea below.
¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± he said. ¡°Makes everything else seem small and insignificant, because looking out there you can see eternity, can¡¯t you, Rissa Lyn?¡±
¡°Yes, I suppose I ¡ª¡±
Christopher gave her a good solid shove. Rissa Lyn was light and not possessed of any great sense of balance. She went right off the edge of the cliff with no trouble at all. The entire moment was over so quickly. She just disappeared, although her wails did trail behind her for a few seconds, fading in pitch and volume. One minute she was there, and the next Rissa Lyn was gone, as if she¡¯d never existed. All it took was a little shove.
If only all my troubles could be dealt with so easily.
Christopher inched up and peered over the edge. He spotted her body. She must have missed the rocks and hit the shallow surf. A wave came in and threw her corpse against the rocks then sucked it out again. Christopher watched as this happened three more times. Then any trace of Rissa Lyn disappeared just as Sherwood had.
I do so love the sea.
Christopher strongly suspected Rissa Lyn had been in love with Sherwood Stow.
Now at least they can be together. Of course, he¡¯s up the coast a bit. He imagined that Sherwood¡¯s ghost and Rissa Lyn¡¯s might wander those craggy shores for eternity and never meet. ¡°How tragic would that be?¡± he asked the wind, and then walked back to the wagon.
¡°Horse all right?¡± he inquired of Knox.
¡°Thought she was favoring the left, but it looks fine.¡±
Knox climbed back on the wagon, and Christopher joined him. Throwing the brake off and jiggling the reins, they continued on their way.
V1: Chapter 18 - Broken Bones
Hadrian, Royce, and Scarlett rode back in Wagner¡¯s buckboard after pouring out the poisoned beer to lighten the load. On Royce¡¯s suggestion, they kept one full, just in case. What he¡¯d meant by that Hadrian didn¡¯t know ¡ª didn¡¯t think he wanted to find out.
They¡¯d cleaned up everything down to the splinters left by the broken keg lid and stuffed it all ¡ª bodies included ¡ª into the prison wagon, which they drove into the trees well off the road. The slaver¡¯s horses were unhitched and tied to the back of the beer wagon. With luck, no one would come looking for the men or their animals. According to Royce, slavers working for Manzant were independent freelance abductors. If anyone did come looking for them, odds were against it being anytime soon.
Royce¡¯s knowledge about slavers and Manzant reminded Hadrian of something Scarlett had said while Royce had her pinned against the side of the wagon. At the time, Hadrian was concerned he might kill her. Later, as they bounced their way back toward Dulgath, Hadrian had the time to remember.
¡°What did you mean when you said Manzant couldn¡¯t hold Royce?¡± he asked Scarlett, who sat beside him on the bench, driving the team. The horses had been driven hard to catch up with the slavers, and she was giving them an easy plod back for succeeding.
Hadrian looked over his shoulder to where Royce reclined on the bed of the cart, his hands resting carefully in his lap. ¡°Were you in Manzant?¡±
Scarlett raised her eyebrows in surprise but didn¡¯t say a word.
¡°You already know that,¡± Royce said.
¡°I do?¡±
Hadrian thought a moment and realized he did remember something. He¡¯d been introduced to Royce by a professor at Sheridan University, and at the time Arcadius had mentioned a prison where he had found Royce. He couldn¡¯t recall the name of the place. ¡°That was three years ago. You expected me to remember?¡±
Royce reached up with his better hand and tugged his hood over his head. ¡°Taking a nap.¡±
¡°Did you ever tell me why you were there?¡±
¡°Sleeping now.¡±
¡°Did you mention what you did after you got out?¡±
¡°Hand hurts. Leave me alone.¡±
Hadrian frowned, then glared at Scarlett.
¡°Don¡¯t look at me,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m not getting in the middle of this.¡±
They traveled until well after dark, then pulled clear of the road. Royce continued to sleep in the wagon while Scarlett and Hadrian bedded down beneath it, using blankets taken from the slavers. Six men ¡ª six blankets. This left them extras to place underneath and to use as pillows.
¡°You didn¡¯t happen to bring anything to eat, did you?¡± Hadrian asked, wadding up a blanket behind his head. The two lay side by side beneath the axle with the wheels flanking them. ¡°I¡¯m starving.¡±
¡°Was in sort of a hurry,¡± she said, pulling the blanket up to her neck even though it wasn¡¯t cold. ¡°When I came to work, Wag said you guys had gotten grabbed up.¡±
She wiggled a bit, then pulled a rock out from underneath. ¡°Then I had to make the poison. Don¡¯t have that stuff lying about, you know? And I had to get it in the barrels and roll them on the wagon.¡±
¡°You did all that yourself?¡±
¡°No, Gill and Brett got the wagon hitched. Tasha helped with brewing the poison, and Wag rolled out his beer ¡ª was real sad about that ¡ª you would¡¯ve thought I asked him to kill his dog. Brook and Clem helped get the barrels up on the buckboard.¡±
¡°Bull Neck and Orange Tunic?¡±
¡°That¡¯s them. Nice guys when you get to know them, all of them, really. ¡¯Course Brook¡¯s still mad at me, but he¡¯ll get over it about the same time as his leg heals.¡±
¡°You stabbed him? I thought Royce did that.¡±
She shrugged. ¡°Seemed like the thing to do at the time. Anyway, given my late start, you¡¯ll forgive me if I forgot to pack up supplies for a cookout.¡± She dropped her head onto her blanket pillow with an exhausted huff.
The horses, which were tied up to a stand of birch trees a few yards away, loudly ripped up grass, shifting their feet and whipping their tails. Crickets and katydids trilled, and a soft breeze made that comforting rain sound again as it brushed the fields.
¡°Thank you,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°I didn¡¯t do it for you.¡± Scarlett stretched and yawned at the same time. ¡°I did it for me. So I wouldn¡¯t have to worry about Royce. I told you that.¡±
¡°I know.¡±
¡°I mean it.¡±
Hadrian looked up at the underside of the wagon, where bits of mud and old grass had gotten stuck.
¡°It had nothing to do with you,¡± Scarlett said with more force, more volume.
¡°We should get some sleep,¡± he told her. ¡°Royce will be waking us before dawn. He does that ¡ª like he can hear the sun or something.¡±
They lay together, listening to the night. He heard her breathing, soft and steady ¡ª a nice sound. He was tempted to touch her, reach out blindly with his fingers searching for hers. He didn¡¯t. She might get spooked and take her blankets and leave. Be a pretty poor way of thanking her for saving his life.
When he turned to sleep on his side, the pain stabbed him. He let out a grunt and set his shoulders on the grass again. He hated sleeping on his back.
¡°Need to have that wrapped up,¡± she whispered.
¡°What I need is a stiff drink that isn¡¯t laced with something for a change.¡±
¡°And sleep,¡± she said. ¡°You need that, too.¡±
Hadrian took a deep breath and sighed. ¡°Good night, Scarlett Dodge.¡±
¡°Good night, Dog-with-a-Ball.¡±
Hadrian chuckled, which caused his side to ache. ¡°Don¡¯t do that.¡±
¡°You deserve it.¡± Scarlett turned over on her side, her back to him. ¡°And I didn¡¯t do it for you.¡±
Yes, you did, he repeated to himself, but let it go with that.
Brecken Dale hadn¡¯t changed. Not that Hadrian expected it would in the few days they¡¯d been gone. The thought was larger than that; Hadrian didn¡¯t think the dale ever changed. Leaves might turn color and fall, snow might blanket fields, and the names of people and some of their faces might be different, but the dale remained as it always had been. He saw all this as they came down the road, as he got a clear bird¡¯s-eye view of the village from the trail above.
Timeless was the first word that popped into his mind. Eternal was another.
Why he thought that was harder to nail down. Then he realized that he saw no forgotten foundations of abandoned buildings, no blackened husk of a burned-out mill or barn, no grass-overgrown cart or wagon orphaned in a pasture. No fallow fields, either.
Hadrian wasn¡¯t a farmer, but he¡¯d grown up with them and knew that a third of the land had to rest for a season or face exhaustion. Not so in Dulgath. Pastures looked to be permanent, and while every inch of cultivated land was sown, it all thrived. Rules that governed the rest of the world didn¡¯t seem to apply here. Hadrian hadn¡¯t seen any construction, either. In Medford, scaffolds were everywhere as buildings went up or came down. Bridges were in constant need of repair ¡ª and the roofs! No day passed that Hadrian hadn¡¯t heard the pounding of hammers on roofs. But in Brecken Dale the decay of time took a holiday.
Maybe it really is blessed.
Just a few days ago he¡¯d felt uneasy in the little village. All the ivy and the talk of it never raining had put him on edge. Dulgath was different, even odd, but he no longer felt out of sorts. If anything, it seemed proper. His initial impression of tranquility had been the right one. Either that or the stretch of road coming into Dulgath, just before reaching the dale, was enchanted.
The sun insisted it was still morning when they entered the dale. The last time he and Royce had come that way, they¡¯d arrived in the middle of a tarring. This morning, the village was empty. They rumbled past the peach orchard, which Scarlett said was owned by the Beecham family. With thirty head of dairy cows, they were also the largest producers of milk in the area. Clem was their third son and had once courted her with a basket of peaches and cream.
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¡°He thought he was being clever,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°But I¡¯d only been living in the village a few months, and it just reminded me about how much I stood out.¡±
They passed through the market, where the stalls were shuttered and not even a single cart was parked. Hadrian didn¡¯t bother asking, since the confusion on Scarlett¡¯s face told him it wasn¡¯t expected.
Wagner burst out the door to Caldwell House when they were still heading for the stable. ¡°You did it!¡± he called to Scarlett, shaking that same dirty rag at her. Clem and Gill spilled out after him, along with a woman with short brown hair, a friendly smile, and a fetching hat. Brook brought up the rear, favoring his right leg.
¡°You doubted me?¡± Scarlett smirked.
¡°Worried, darling, that¡¯s all. Guess I shoulda known better. All went well, then?¡±
¡°The one in the back has a broken hand and finger, and Hadrian has cracked ribs, but other than that everything¡¯s fine.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll tell Asher he¡¯s got patients,¡± the woman with the hat said and hurried off through the deserted market.
¡°Thanks, Tasha.¡± Scarlett climbed off the wagon. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Where is everyone?¡±
¡°King arrived yesterday. They¡¯re down at the ceremony.¡±
Scarlett nodded as if understanding this.
¡°What ceremony?¡± Hadrian asked as she helped him down. He didn¡¯t really need the help, the pain in his side wasn¡¯t that bad, but he accepted her hand just the same. He liked the way her little fingers fit inside his.
Peaches and cream, he thought, and realized he would¡¯ve made the same mistake as Clem, if he¡¯d been smart enough to think of it at all.
¡°Lady Dulgath is paying homage,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°She¡¯s pledging her loyalty to King Vincent, and in turn he gives her a kiss and officially declares her to be Countess Dulgath.¡±
Royce climbed off the wagon by himself, clutching his right hand to his chest. ¡°People from Brecken Dale went to see this?¡±
¡°Sure,¡± Wagner said, patting the necks of the horses and looking them over. ¡°Folk from all the villages and countryside, I¡¯d imagine. Not every day you get a new ruler. ¡¯Course lots of folk just want a look at the king or an excuse to get out of the fields.¡±
¡°Gill, take care of Myrtle and Marjorie. I ran them ragged,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°Oh, and Wag, here¡¯s a few new horses for you. That ought to pay for the beer and your trouble.¡±
¡°Where¡¯d they come from?¡± Wagner asked.
¡°You don¡¯t want to know. As far as you¡¯re concerned, they were lost and you took them in.¡± She winked.
As Gill worked on the buckles, Wagner turned back to Scarlett and slipped an arm around her waist. ¡°You sure everything is good?¡± His voice had an added tone of concern. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn¡¯t, but he pulled her close while looking at Hadrian.
¡°Everything¡¯s fine,¡± she replied with enough of a sidelong glance to convince Hadrian she noticed the behavior, too.
Is that annoyance in her glance?
¡°With so many people coming to watch, I¡¯m guessing they¡¯re not holding this ceremony inside the castle?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Out in the courtyard is what I¡¯ve heard.¡± With his arm still around Scarlett¡¯s waist, he looked at Hadrian again. ¡°You owe my Scarlett a huge debt of gratitude. You know that, right?¡±
¡°We do indeed,¡± Hadrian replied.
Wagner looked to Royce, as if expecting to hear a thank-you.
Instead, Royce asked, ¡°When does this ceremony take place?¡±
¡°Little after midday,¡± Wagner replied with a frown.
¡°Why you so interested?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Because there¡¯s a bigger debt we need to repay, and I know just how to do it.¡±
Asher, the dale¡¯s physician, had arrived with Tasha. By then, they were all inside the main room of Caldwell House, which was devoid of customers. Everyone had already left for the ceremony at Castle Dulgath.
After a sneer from Royce, Asher had decided to treat Hadrian first, which didn¡¯t take long. Not much could be done for cracked ribs other than wrap them tightly and frown a lot. Afterward, he sat across from Royce and looked at the thief¡¯s hands. That was all he was able to do, as Royce refused to let him touch either one.
¡°I need to examine your hands,¡± Asher said. ¡°And to do that I need to touch them.¡±
¡°Touch my hand and I¡¯ll take yours as payment.¡±
Asher, a friendly-looking man with a big bushy-bear beard and a sunburned nose, threw up his hands and looked to Scarlett. ¡°Nothing I can do if he won¡¯t let me.¡±
¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Royce said. ¡°Go have a drink. There¡¯s a barrel of ale in the wagon.¡±
¡°Do not have a drink,¡± Wagner told him. ¡°I need to dump that thing.¡±
¡°We need to get going,¡± Royce said.
¡°Why?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°What¡¯s going on in that head of yours?¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath is still alive.¡±
¡°So?¡±
¡°So, I told the countess to cut down her ivy,¡± Royce explained to Hadrian as Asher remained sitting across from him. ¡°Since she¡¯s still alive, I¡¯m guessing she listened. That means Fawkes has switched to plan B.¡±
¡°What¡¯s plan B?¡± Scarlett asked.
¡°You said plan B isn¡¯t possible.¡± Hadrian put his shirt back on over the stiff cloth strips Asher had wrapped him in. ¡°You said he¡¯d need Tom the Feather or that other guy, but he was in Manzant. Wait ¡ª you don¡¯t think they got him out for this, do you?¡±
¡°What¡¯s plan B?¡± Scarlett asked again.
Royce shook his head. ¡°Couldn¡¯t have. They didn¡¯t know the man existed until I told them. Wouldn¡¯t have had time to get there and back. Besides, Hawkins has been in Manzant for years. After so long, if he¡¯s still alive, he¡¯d be in no condition to do more than drool. But Fawkes might have dug up a crossbow.¡±
¡°Crossbow?¡± Scarlett looked at both of them, concerned. ¡°What are you two talking about?¡±
¡°I told Fawkes and Payne that if they could get Lady Dulgath outside at a prearranged place, a place where they could hide an archer with a bow, then ¡ª¡±
¡°They¡¯re going to kill her at the homage ceremony?¡± Scarlett¡¯s eyes went wide.
¡°Be my guess, but with a little luck I think we can catch Fawkes, Payne, and their beloved church with fingers on the trigger ¡ª right in front of the king.¡±
¡°We have to go. Now!¡± Fear filled Scarlett¡¯s face.
¡°He can¡¯t go anywhere with two mangled hands,¡± Asher declared. ¡°At the very least, I have to set the bones. If I don¡¯t, that hand will be a worthless claw the rest of your life.¡±
¡°He¡¯s right, Royce,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°You do it,¡± Royce told him.
For a moment Hadrian thought he was joking ¡ª another way of saying, You think so? Go ahead and try! But Royce¡¯s expression was wrong. Hadrian wasn¡¯t foolish enough to think he could read the man¡¯s mind through his expressions. If so, he¡¯d have concluded long ago that Royce wanted to kill every man, woman, child, and dog he encountered. For a time, Hadrian believed that might be true, but Royce had surprised Hadrian enough times that he came to realize this tree had roots no one could see.
Clues were there, but difficult to spot and harder to decode. The man didn¡¯t like being read. Every truth that slipped out was cursed. It was why their rides together were so one-sided. People always gave parts of themselves away when they talked. If Royce was going to sacrifice a clue about himself, it wouldn¡¯t be over idle prattle. Still, Hadrian had discovered some signs ¡ª he¡¯d had to. Living with a man-killing tiger, you quickly learned the difference between a growl and a purr ¡ª or else.
Royce wasn¡¯t growling.
¡°The doctor here is ¡ª¡±
¡°I don¡¯t trust him.¡± Royce didn¡¯t look at the doctor ¡ª hadn¡¯t done so since he¡¯d arrived. Maybe if he had he might have reconsidered. Asher, doctor of the dale, was a big fluffy man with a concerned brow and helpful eyes. But then Royce didn¡¯t trust anyone. That he admitted ¡ª if only by assumption ¡ª that he trusted Hadrian didn¡¯t go unnoticed. Needing help was an admission of defeat. Doing so in front of an audience was unprecedented.
Hadrian sat down beside Asher. ¡°I¡¯ve set bones before, but not in a hand. What do I do?¡±
¡°First, just have him hold his hand palm-down and extend his fingers all the way out.¡±
Everyone in Caldwell House was looking at Royce. His jaw was clenched, and he was breathing with irritation through his nose.
¡°Scarlett, Tasha, can you go ask Gill and Wagner to saddle our horses?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°The two of you can¡¯t ride busted up the way you are,¡± Scarlett said. ¡°I¡¯ll hitch Midnight and Mack to a wagon. They¡¯re not as friendly as Myrtle and Marjorie, but they¡¯re fresh and are used to pulling as a team. C¡¯mon, Tasha, the boys want to be alone for a while.¡±
It took a second after they left, but Royce put out his hand and, with a wince, opened it as best he could. Two fingers and his thumb straightened out; the other two hung limp.
¡°Okay,¡± Asher said with his warm, reassuring tone. ¡°I can see from here it¡¯s not the fingers, but the bones in the back of the hand that need setting. So, Hadrian, what you need to do is gently lift the fingers ¡ª one at a time. Pull them out straight. Stretch them ¡ª don¡¯t yank or anything, just a gentle pull. As you do that, press down with your other thumb on the bone that¡¯s out of place. You¡¯ll need to feel around for the break. You¡¯ll find it. Just apply pressure until it lines up again. And Royce, try to leave your hand limp. You know, Scarlett can brew up something for the pain. She ¡ª¡±
¡°No!¡± both Royce and Hadrian snapped.
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°We¡¯ve had our fill of her recipes.¡± He looked at Royce with a grim smile and took his hand. ¡°You ready for this?¡±
¡°Just shut up and do it.¡±
Hadrian guessed Royce was silently debating which was worse, the pain or the humiliation; he settled on the latter. Royce didn¡¯t ask anyone for anything. Hadrian found the protrusion he was looking for and wanted to be as quick as he could. Asher offered encouragement as Hadrian squeezed and pulled.
Royce made no sound at all. His eyes squeezed shut; he breathed harder, more forcefully.
The bone slid down, and Hadrian moved to the second one. When he had both in place, Asher asked Royce to extend his fingers again. This time all four came up.
¡°Great!¡± Asher grinned, that big beard bristling. ¡°Now take these splints and put one on the back and one on the front. Wrap them tightly. Secure the fingers, too; the less movement the better.¡±
The other hand was easier, just a matter of aligning the finger and splinting. Hadrian was wrapping it when Scarlett came back.
¡°All done here? Wagon¡¯s ready to roll,¡± she said, moving behind the bar. ¡°Looks like we have two, maybe three hours before the ceremony, but there¡¯s no sense cutting things close. I¡¯ll pack a meal for us; we can eat on the way.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not going,¡± Hadrian told her.
¡°If you¡¯re going to save Lady Dulgath, I want to help.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t see what you can do.¡±
She looked nettled by the comment but forced a smile. ¡°For one thing, I can vouch for you. Might need someone to speak on your behalf to Lady Dulgath.¡±
¡°Why would she listen to you?¡± Royce asked. ¡°You¡¯re not even a native.¡±
¡°I know her.¡± Scarlett tore a loaf of bread in half and wrapped it in a cloth.
¡°You do?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Yes. Don¡¯t look so surprised. The countess visits the monastery a lot, and so do I. We¡¯ve talked a few times. She¡¯s very . . . different. If given the choice among Fawkes, Payne, you two, and me ¡ª she¡¯d listen to me.¡±
¡°Okay, you can come,¡± Royce said.
¡°What?¡± Hadrian glared at him. ¡°This is going to be dangerous.¡±
Royce tested the movement of his wrapped hands. ¡°She¡¯s a Diamond, not a debutante.¡±
¡°Great.¡± Scarlett grinned. ¡°What do you want me to do?¡±
¡°Watch the horses and wagon for us while we go in,¡± Royce said.
¡°You got it.¡± Scarlett continued to fill the basket.
¡°You got it?¡± Hadrian asked, dumbfounded. ¡°He tells you to wait outside and watch the pretty horses and you¡¯re fine with that? If I¡¯d said that ¡ª¡±
¡°I would¡¯ve called you an ass.¡± She dropped in some cheese.
¡°Why?¡±
¡°Because you¡¯d be trying to protect me. Royce doesn¡¯t give a damn if I live or die. Besides, the first thing you learn in the Diamond is to never disagree with a mission lead, and never, ever question a guild officer.¡±
Hadrian finished wrapping Royce¡¯s finger and looked at him, puzzled. ¡°You were a guild officer?¡±
Scarlett picked up the basket and made a pfft sound as she swung her hair out of her face. ¡°Seriously? Have you two even met?¡± Her face was incredulous. ¡°You didn¡¯t know he was in Manzant. You obviously didn¡¯t know he¡¯s the only person to have escaped, and you didn¡¯t know he was an officer of the Diamond. What do you two talk about on all those long hours riding together?¡±
Hadrian started to laugh.
Royce shot him a glare. ¡°Shut up.¡±
V1 - Chapter 19 - Pageantry
A fair breeze came softly across the breakwaters and up the grassy slope to the walls of Castle Dulgath. Christopher Fawkes stood on the cliffs above the sea and took a deep breath. He was wearing his best doublet, which was to say his only doublet. It was missing a button and had a small bloodstain on the cuff.
Sherwood Stow¡¯s blood.
He stood only a few feet from where Sherwood was killed ¡ª or at least where he had been hit by the quarrel. Christopher didn¡¯t know if the artist had died there, as his body fell, or whether he¡¯d survived both the blow and the drop to drown in the sea. He didn¡¯t much care. Luckily, Christopher didn¡¯t believe in the vengeance of ghosts. If he did, returning to the scene of his ¡ª or mostly Knox¡¯s ¡ª crime might have been worrisome. Standing on a high bluff overlooking a crashing sea could provide a perfect opportunity for an angry spirit to dispense justice. As unconcerned as Christopher was, the thought had at least crossed his mind, which said something about his confidence.
He had only a few hours left before his life would be forever changed. He¡¯d come to the bluff early to clear his head. It hadn¡¯t worked. The words were still there. Christopher had fallen asleep to an annoying mantra that continued to echo.
Don¡¯t kick the milk pail!
The phrase had manifested itself as he lay awake most of the night. Christopher¡¯s father had used it often, and so had his mother, as if the two of them were lifelong dairy farmers prone to losing their livelihood through awkward feet.
Standing on the bluff and looking at the clear sky above the sea, Christopher struggled to banish thoughts of his family ¡ª especially his father. They were the residue of a former and clearly insignificant life. He visualized tossing memories off the edge and watching them fall to the waves below.
If only it were that easy.
While the stable was fine for the likes of Wells, Knox, and Payne, he couldn¡¯t have asked Bishop Parnell to meet him there, and he couldn¡¯t risk meeting in any place more public. It wasn¡¯t long before Parnell came striding through the high grass, his great cape and the ends of his stole whipping in the wind. He had one hand on his high hat and the other swinging his staff, a vexed glare on his face. Christopher expected a reproach for the location of the meeting, but instead the bishop planted the butt of his staff in the ground, looked around ¡ª most notably at the windowless walls above them ¡ª and nodded.
¡°This is your last opportunity, Christopher,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m growing tired of your inability to get this job done. Do you understand? The church can¡¯t afford to back failures.¡±
If this was his way to welcome Christopher to the fold, it lacked faith, and for a clergyman that wasn¡¯t an encouraging sign.
¡°I took you in, paid your debts, fed, clothed, and protected you. Now is the time of your reckoning. Your chance to repay my kindness. Fail, and I won¡¯t know you. Do you understand?¡±
Guess the bishop is all out of carrots.
The bishop raised a hand as if to bless him, but instead declared, ¡°You were a disgrace to your father and the king ¡ª to all of humanity. Worthless.¡±
Christopher gritted his teeth.
My father? Sure. The king? Perhaps. But all of humanity? Really?
Now he understood the point of the meeting ¡ª control. On the eve of Christopher¡¯s ascension, Bishop Parnell was making certain the soon-to-be earl knew his place.
Melanie de Burke was to blame. He¡¯d purchased the animal, which had cost a small fortune, from Hildebrand Estates with money he didn¡¯t yet have. His plan had been to pay the debt with the proceeds from the Summersrule Chase. The beast was willful, ill mannered, and stubborn. No matter how much he used the whip, the horse just wouldn¡¯t run as fast as it could and eventually stopped altogether. Back in the stable, she bit him once more, and Christopher lost his temper.
He hadn¡¯t meant to kill her. Just wanted to teach the nag a lesson. The lesson went too far, and Christopher found himself with a bloody sword, a huge debt, and no chance of returning the animal. His father had refused to help, using the incident to wash his hands of his son. The king proved even less helpful, cousin or not. Christopher was on his way to Manzant, and genuinely frightened for the first time since being ambushed by the bees. Then the church entered his life. They removed one debt but added another.
¡°Hopefully, this is behind you now, and new opportunities await. But the church has a policy,¡± the bishop told him. ¡°No man can be given a position unless he can obtain it through his own abilities. You must achieve this for yourself. I have redeemed you for our Lord Novron. Win this contest ¡ª kill Nysa Dulgath without implicating yourself ¡ª and the church will throw its support to you and insist that Vincent make you Earl of Dulgath. Fail, and I won¡¯t know you.¡±
¡°My plan will work.¡±
¡°Your last three didn¡¯t,¡± the bishop said. There was an incensed tone to his words, that airy, disappointed exasperation that came with age. And while Parnell was indeed old, somewhere in his fifties, he was young for a bishop. Most high-ranking clerics lived disturbingly long lives, adding credence to their claim of being favored by Novron.
¡°The church is not in the habit of failing. I¡¯ve spent years ¡ª decades ¡ª shaping opinions and maneuvering individuals, here and in other provinces of Maranon. I have patiently redirected the course of this kingdom so it will be fertile for the return of the Heir of Novron. Succeed, and you¡¯ll be part of that future. Now tell me, who will loose the quarrel?¡±
¡°Knox has a man picked out. Shervin Gerami. He¡¯s a net-maker from Rye, a village down the coast a few miles. Not a smart man, but he has a keen eye and steady hands.¡±
¡°Do you trust he can accomplish the task?¡±
¡°We¡¯ve practiced,¡± Christopher said. ¡°Nine out of ten shots were lethal, and he¡¯s fast. He was able to fire an aimed quarrel every thirty seconds. If he misses, he should be able to try again before trying to escape. He won¡¯t get far. Knox will kill him during the apprehension.¡±
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¡°And if Knox fails, and the assassin is captured? What will he say?¡±
¡°That he was hired by Royce Melborn, the very man who came up with the plan in the first place. He might also claim he killed Lady Dulgath because she¡¯s a demon.¡±
¡°Why would he say that?¡±
¡°He¡¯s local stock, and an avid believer in ghosts, ghouls, faeries, and witches. Spouting such nonsense will make it even less likely anyone will listen to a word he says.¡±
¡°Very well.¡± Parnell nodded, reaching up to prevent the wind from stealing his hat. ¡°We shall see if our Lord Novron deems you worthy of power, Christopher. For his judgment is the true test. You will be either an earl, a vagabond, arrested, or dead.¡± He turned and sailed back through the sea of grass.
Christopher remained a moment longer, looking out over the edge of the cliff, thinking, if only for a moment, that Novron didn¡¯t give a damn about him.
The courtyard of Castle Dulgath ¡ª which was usually little more than a lawn, yard, and garden surrounded by the shaky arms of stone walls ¡ª had been transformed. Everything that could be moved out had been; this included the smokehouse, the henhouse, the gardener¡¯s shed, the smith¡¯s anvil and workbench, and most of the azalea bushes. Where it all went to, Christopher had no idea. Carpenters had raised a stage of bright fresh-cut wood, which was now covered in bunting and streamers of white and blue.
Chairs had been placed on the stage, seeming out of place on the unfinished blond decking. The big chair from the Great Hall, where the late earl had sat during meals, was center stage. Today the king would sit there. A smaller, more delicate chair sat to the right of the larger one. This seat was for the lady of honor, Nysa Dulgath. On the king¡¯s left, another chair was reserved for Bishop Parnell. Not even King Vincent would want to snub the church in such a public display.
More chairs faced the stage, with an aisle between them. Who sat where indicated their significance and marked their place in the nobility¡¯s hierarchy. Christopher would be sitting on the aisle in the last row, which was better than no seat at all.
He had been briefed by Wells, who, as chamberlain, was responsible for every aspect of the ceremony. Of course, his wasn¡¯t the final voice. Even Lady Dulgath didn¡¯t have authority in the presence of the king.
Now that the time was at hand, Christopher worried about Bishop Parnell¡¯s ability to pressure the king into making him earl.
Why wouldn¡¯t Vincent give the fief to Sir Gilbert? The man is the best knight in Maranon. Or the king could choose one of his hunting buddies, like Baron Linder. Heck, why not award the title to my father, for that matter.
Christopher had no idea what leverage Parnell would use to influence the king¡¯s decision, but that wasn¡¯t his concern, at least not yet. And with that thought, he allowed himself a good long stare across the length of the yard, up toward the wall that was elaborately ¡ª and strategically ¡ª decorated. A large pair of heraldic banners were displayed over the parapet. Between the king¡¯s own colors and those of Dulgath, a massive arbalest was hidden, along with an insane, hairless man without a single fingernail. Christopher couldn¡¯t see him or the weapon but knew both were there ¡ª his gift for the newly pledged countess.
The people of Dulgath had been arriving all morning. He¡¯d seen them from his window on the third floor. They had come in farm wagons, buckboards, and on horseback, but most had arrived by foot. Huge masses of people dressed in their finest colorful cloth brought a roar that drowned out the sea. They had formed small camps outside the castle walls, laughing, shouting, singing, and dancing.
Christopher was on the porch when Wells gave the signal and the gates were finally opened.
The sweaty-faced crowd tumbled into the courtyard where, in the absence of any real constabulary, the king¡¯s own men were acting as guards. With outstretched arms and loud voices, they funneled the surging crowd toward the far wall and directed the onlookers to form orderly rows until the whole courtyard was full. Those who hadn¡¯t arrived early enough found themselves outside the walls, but they were still excited to be present. This was a holiday for them, as good as an annual fair ¡ª no, better, as this happened but once in a lifetime. Or so they expected.
There had to be thousands. Men in variously colored cowl hoods to protect them from the sun; women holding babies in their arms, jostling and swinging in an effort to keep them quiet; wide-eyed children constantly tapping and pointing; everyone with smiles of excitement and anticipation. They wanted a show, and they would get one.
A trumpet sounded.
¡°That¡¯s us, My Lord,¡± a mostly bald but otherwise white-haired man said. He was the king¡¯s scribe, and Christopher thought his name might be Robank or Robant.
They walked out together. Wells had orchestrated the event like a wedding, and in a way that¡¯s exactly what it was. Nysa was about to pledge her loyalty to her liege lord, and he in turn would grant her stewardship of Dulgath. The two would be bound to each other ¡ª and just as in marriage, she would be far more bound to him than he to her.
As Christopher and the scribe made their way through the crowd to their seats, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black hood, so out of place in all the oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and browns. Like the fin of a shark, it cut through the assembly, slicing away from the stage, where everyone else was pushing to be, and heading toward the far wall ¡ª the distant one where the large set of heraldic banners hung.
Christopher froze, trying to follow the path of the dark hood that reminded him of ¡ª but that was impossible. Royce Melborn would be in Manzant by now locked away in that terrible hole of no return.
¡°Lord Fawkes?¡± the scribe said while tugging on Christopher¡¯s arm. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to proceed together. Is anything wrong?¡±
Christopher scanned the throng of jostling, cheering townsfolk but had lost track of the phantom.
I¡¯m just nervous.
He shook his head and replied, ¡°No, no. Everything is fine. I was just overwhelmed with the pageantry and the splendor. Let us proceed, my good man.¡±
The two continued to their seats but remained standing. No one would be allowed to sit until the king did. Next came the king¡¯s valet, and then the only other woman to be granted a chair. The king called her Iona, but Christopher had heard her real name was Bessie. She was His Majesty¡¯s mistress. Christopher was surprised she¡¯d been granted a place at all, but then old Bessie had lasted longer than any previous courtesan. By his reckoning she was going on her seventh month in the royal bed.
Next came the esquires and the knights, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus, their crests emblazoned on formal tabards. Another trumpet blast and Bishop Parnell took his place on the stage, looking rather dignified.
The horn sounded again, and Lady Dulgath left her castle. She exited alone, and at the sight of her the crowd went so silent that Christopher could hear the swish of her long blue gown across the steps as she climbed onto the stage. She reached her chair and pivoted on her left heel to face the crowd. As she did, three more trumpeters joined the first, and together all four proclaimed the coming of the king.
The crowd before the stage, including the people granted chairs, went down to their knees at the brassy sound. Heads bowed, the trumpeters knelt as well, and nothing but birdsong, the wind in the banners, and the distant rush of waves accompanied King Vincent to the center of the stage.
¡°People of Dulgath,¡± he said, ¡°His Lordship, Earl Beadle Dulgath, is dead. I mourn his loss and pray to Maribor and Novron that his spirit is at peace. Today I¡¯m here to appoint his successor ¡ª his daughter ¡ª Lady Nysa Dulgath.¡±
The king took his seat, and like springs set free, the crowd popped up and cheered.
Christopher, along with the others who¡¯d been granted a chair, took his seat amid the roar of the crowd. He leaned out and caught the eye of Lady Dulgath. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
Everything¡¯s going to be fine, he tried to convince himself, but he didn¡¯t really believe it.
The hood didn¡¯t bother him nearly as much as the smile on Lady Dulgath¡¯s face. She¡¯d never smiled at him before, and he didn¡¯t know what that meant.
V1: Chapter 20 - Assassin
Royce was good at navigating crowds. Small and agile, he could also anticipate currents and knots, working them to his advantage. Hadrian followed in his wake, swimming through the gap before it closed again. On the few occasions when Royce hit a dam, it took only a menacing stare to get people out of his way. Men with big fists and calluses avoided him for the same reason some pretty women never attracted suitors: People silently communicated with body language, eye contact, and open or closed stances. Some said, I¡¯m friendly, talk to me; Royce¡¯ s message was the same as a pointed blade. His glare could be relied upon to intimidate a roomful of hardened criminals, and the effect was magnified on simple farmers, mothers, and their children. To them, he must look like death moving their way. Most couldn¡¯t get out of his path fast enough.
Royce made for the far wall. That was the obvious spot. The raised parapet on that side of the courtyard was entirely draped in banners, perfect for concealment; was a reasonable distance to the target ¡ª less than a hundred yards ¡ª and held a direct and unobstructed line of sight to the stage. Even an idiot like Fawkes could be counted on to solve that riddle. He clearly had. The far parapet was the only one without a ladder. The killer was up there neatly isolated. He could take his shot, then drop down outside the wall to a waiting horse. The assassin would be gone before anyone even knew what happened. Once the crowd noticed, the ensuing chaos would choke the courtyard, severely inhibiting any pursuit.
When Lady Dulgath entered and took her seat, Royce considered dashing to the stage to warn her but decided against it. The assassin was already up in his nest, probably looking down the stock of a crossbow and waiting for a signal to shoot. Royce¡¯s attempt to warn Nysa might become that signal, and he was hoping there was still time to stop the assassination. Royce¡¯s one advantage was that the killer didn¡¯t know he was coming any more than Lady Dulgath knew she was about to be murdered. As long as the plan remained unaltered, there would be no reason for the assassin to rush the shot. If Royce and Hadrian could gain access to the parapet, and if the bowman was intent on his target, they might be able to get close. If so, Royce would assassinate the assassin.
Then he would face a decision.
They could just disappear ¡ª should just disappear. He and Hadrian could follow the same exit plan the bowman had prepared. Every reasonable thought in his mind demanded that they leave. Then, he could come back later and pay Fawkes and Payne a visit on a dark, quiet night of his choosing, in a place no one would hear their screams. He could kill Fawkes whenever he wanted. It didn¡¯t ¡ª wouldn¡¯t ¡ª have to be in front of an audience.
The other less sensible option whispered teasingly in his ear to take care of everything right then. He could fill in for the crossbowman, but instead of putting a bolt through Lady Dulgath, he¡¯d punch a hole in Fawkes ¡ª or Hadrian would. He was better at such things and had the benefit of two working hands. The only question was whether his partner would have the stomach for it. Hadrian still suffered from the handicap of his imagined morals.
If the quarrel pinned Fawkes upright in his chair ¡ª as they sometimes did ¡ª the ceremony might conclude with his death undiscovered until they came for His Lordship¡¯s chair. With all the noise of the crowd, and everyone¡¯s attention on the king and the lady, perhaps no one would notice. The powers that be could easily blame the dead assassin lying next to the bow, and he and Hadrian could leave for home that very afternoon without any worry of being hunted.
The more he thought about it, the more Royce liked that option. Killing Fawkes with the same weapon he planned to murder Nysa with had a poetic irony that appealed to him. And it would be nice to turn Fawkes¡¯s moment of triumph into his downfall, but Royce knew he was also being stupid. Emotions did that; passion made idiots out of everyone.
Royce hated Fawkes and wanted him dead more than anyone since Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Medford who had beaten Gwen a year before. He tried to convince himself it was because Fawkes had attempted to put Royce back in Manzant, the abyss where he¡¯d spent the worst years of his life. That was more than reason enough for a death sentence. The last time Royce had been sent to Manzant, he¡¯d rewarded those responsible with what was still referred to in the city of Colnora as the Year of Fear, even though it only took place over one summer.
Royce also tried to rationalize that Fawkes¡¯s other transgressions contributed to his desire to end the miscreant¡¯s life then and there: his mangled hands, drugging Hadrian, selling them like slaves. All told Fawkes had four capital crimes to pay for, but even all of them wouldn¡¯t have put Royce in that crowded courtyard on that afternoon.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was there because of her. He was trying to save Nysa, but justifying his actions by pretending he only cared about revenge. He reasoned that ruining Fawkes¡¯s plan was an additional victory. Suffering fools wasn¡¯t something Royce was good at, even when he was the fool. His rationalizations were crap, just excuses for his reckless behavior, and that truth was a problem for him.
She looks so much like Gwen. The thought bobbed up, but he dismissed the notion as he had his previous justifications ¡ª just one more excuse.
Sure, she had dark hair and olive-colored skin, but she wasn¡¯t as dark-skinned as Gwen; plus, she lacked the distinctive Calian features. Still, they both had a similar, and uncanny, ability to read him and shared an eerily haunting wisdom. The real reason was something else, something more, something he couldn¡¯t understand, and that lack of understanding scared him.
She feels familiar. When she speaks, it¡¯s as if she knows me.
Beyond all that, the fact that Hadrian hadn¡¯t balked about rescuing the countess, or hesitated at the idea of preventing the assassination, was evidence he was making a huge mistake. Yet despite all this, Royce was pushing through the crowd and making his way to a ladder laying in the grass, close enough for emergencies, but too far away to invite anyone to use it.
He¡¯s rubbing off on me.
Royce scowled at the thought, and his expression sent a little girl falling over herself to dart out of his way. She continued watching him long after he¡¯d moved past. The day was warm, and the sun shone clear and bright, but when Royce glanced back at that girl, she shivered.
And I¡¯m not even after you, he thought, feeling the stiff boards wrapped tightly to his hand and left middle finger.
The three good fingers and thumb of his left hand were more than enough to hold Alverstone, and that dagger could cut anything. He¡¯d recovered the white blade from the belt of one of the Manzant slavers, where it had been casually stuffed like a pair of old gloves. If the slaver had succeeded in stealing it, Royce would¡¯ve spent the rest of his days hunting him down, even if he had to excavate Manzant in the process. The blade was all he had to remember the man who had made the weapon ¡ª the first person to challenge Royce¡¯s worldview, the closest thing he¡¯d ever had to a father, to a savior.
Usually to make something truly great, you need to start from scratch, Royce remembered him saying. You need to break everything down, strip away the impurities, and it takes great heat to do that, but once you do, then the building can start. The result can seem miraculous, but the process ¡ª the process is always a bitch.
Royce tried to squeeze his right hand and winced.
The process is always a bitch.
No one was looking as he and Hadrian reached the ladder. ¡°You want it over there?¡± Hadrian asked, nodding toward the banners, but it was more of a statement than a question. When you knew what to look for it was easy to see.
Once Hadrian set the ladder, Royce led the way up. Using only the two outside fingers of his left hand, he climbed with no more difficulty than if it had been steps. Partway up, he disappeared beneath the blue-and-white standard of House Dulgath.
If I were doing this, I¡¯d set up the crossbow down and to the left. Better angle and more reaction time if anyone comes up. But then if I were doing this, I would¡¯ve pulled up the ladder.
Not for the first time, Royce wondered who he¡¯d find holding the bow. Not Tom the Feather or Roosevelt Hawkins, and probably not a bucketman from the Diamond.
Creeping up the last few rungs, Royce poked his head above the level of the catwalk. Beneath the banners was a dim world, a long tunnel formed by the parapet, roofed and walled on one side by the huge linen pennants. On the outer side, merlons left squared open spaces, giving views outside the castle. Muted sunlight lent the space a tentlike feel. The underside of the banners acted as the backside of stained glass along the corridor. Less than twenty feet to his left, a man lay on his stomach with his hips turned, one leg bent and the other straight to fit within the narrow passage. He was bald, heavily tanned and tattooed. His arms were wrapped around a massive crossbow, his cheek resting on its stock; the weapon¡¯s nose barely protruded through the gap between the standard of Dulgath and the banner of Maranon. The prow of the bow was mounted on a stand, the other end pressed against the bald man¡¯s shoulder. As Royce had expected, a rope was tied around a merlon behind the assassin ¡ª his escape route.
Hasn¡¯t seen me.
A bell began ringing. Royce reached into his cloak and gingerly drew Alverstone with his left hand before creeping onto the parapet. The bowman was so intent on his target he never noticed.
Too intent.
The killer¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he was holding his breath.
The bell! It¡¯s a signal.
A busted right hand made it impossible to accurately throw his dagger. Instead, he raced toward the assassin, but a diving hawk couldn¡¯t cut that distance faster than the bald man could squeeze a trigger. Only two strides separated them when . . .
Thwack!
The sound was loud. Somewhere in the courtyard below, came a faint, muffled thrump! Followed by screams.
Royce wondered if the shooter had even seen where his shot landed before his throat was cut. The assassin was dead, but a price was paid. A jolt of pain exploded from Royce¡¯s broken finger as he killed the bowman. Soaked in blood, the slick blade slipped from his fingers. Alverstone hit the the parapet and fell through to the courtyard below. ¡°Damn it!¡±
Hadrian, who had caught up to Royce, was pulling back the edge of the pennant.
¡°Did he hit her?¡± Royce whispered.
Hadrian drew the banner aside further so both of them could peer out. Lady Dulgath sat slumped in her beautiful blue gown, a massive quarrel protruding from the center of her chest.
She¡¯s dead.
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Two knights were on their feet. One drew his sword, looking through the crowd for the enemy. Everyone else stared at the chair to the right of King Vincent. Hadrian released the cloth and it slid back into place.
¡°Can you climb down the rope with your hands like that?¡± Hadrian asked.
Before Royce could answer, a communal gasp rose from the courtyard. Several people screamed. ¡°She¡¯s alive!¡± someone shouted. That one voice managed to cut through the murmur of the crowd.
Royce peeled back the canvas and saw the impossible. Nysa Dulgath¡¯s eyes were open. With both hands she pulled the quarrel from her body, looking at it, stunned.
How could she . . . how could anyone survive being impaled with a bolt that size.
Nysa dropped the quarrel. It hit the stage with a hollow clunk. Blood soaked the front of her once beautiful gown, turning the blue to black. She coughed, and blood bubbled out of her mouth, spilling in a gruesome display down her chin and neck. Her eyes looked up, looked across the length of the courtyard, looked directly at Royce. Help me, she mouthed.
They were separated by almost three hundred feet but she knew he was up there, once more hiding, once more watching. She always knew when he was near, and that he could see her lips because he was elven.
The sound of someone climbing the ladder caught Royce¡¯s attention, and he let go of the canvas, blocking his view of the lady and her pleading eyes.
Knox¡¯s voice arrived before he did. ¡°Shervin! Damn you. Load another bolt or I¡¯ll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!¡± When his head cleared the parapet he froze. ¡°Melborn! Blackwater?¡±
Hadrian drew his swords and charged toward Knox, but the sheriff wasn¡¯t a fool. Grabbing an end of the banner, he leapt; his weight did the rest. Sheriff Knox fell to the courtyard brining the blue-and-white standard of Dulgath with him. He pointed at Royce and the arbalest shouting, ¡°Assassin! Assassin!¡± His men headed his way, pushing through the crowd.
Hadrian dragged the ladder up. He jerked his head toward the rope. ¡°I can buy you some time, but make it fast. Get moving.¡±
The knights, along with other guards, continued their way toward the wall, hampered by the crowd. People were crying, as they backed away from the stage. King Vincent stood beside Nysa, shocked. Lady Dulgath continued looking at Royce with desperate eyes.
Help me.
I¡¯ll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!
¡°I¡¯m not leaving," Royce said.
¡°What?¡± Hadrian shot back.
¡°We need to get her out. Here, help me load another quarrel.¡± Royce fumbled, trying to work the arbalest.
¡°Get her out? Royce, there¡¯s a thousand people between us and her. Maybe two thousand. How do you expect ¡ª¡± He shook his head. ¡°Royce, get on the rope!¡±
¡°We can¡¯t leave her here. You heard what Knox said.¡±
¡°Royce, you¡¯re being stupid! Get down the rope. It¡¯s not going to take them long to get another ladder.¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Since when are you a hero? Look, I¡¯m all for saving people, but there is no way to get her out!¡±
¡°Yeah, there is. But I need your help.¡± Royce said, continuing to work the weapon with his mangled hands. ¡°Get over here.¡±
Hadrian looked skeptical but joined Royce at the arbalest. He rotated the crank, spinning it as quickly as he could, pulling back the wire. ¡°Okay, so what¡¯s the plan?¡±
¡°You¡¯re going down to the courtyard and carry Nysa Dulgath out the gate. Then, put her in the wagon and I¡¯ll use the rope to meet you outside the wall.¡±
¡°If I go down there, they¡¯ll kill me,¡± Hadrian said as the wire reached it¡¯s firing position.
¡°I won¡¯t let them.¡±
¡°You won¡¯t let them. How you going to ¡ª ?¡±
¡°Just trust me!¡±
Hadrian stared at Royce for a moment, only a second, then nodded. Seeing him do it, seeing Hadrian accept trust me as an argument worth risking his life for, disgusted Royce. Had the situation been reversed, he never would¡¯ve agreed. Royce would¡¯ve already left.
Would I? Would I leave him behind to die?
He wanted to believe he would, but . . .
¡°What are you going to do?¡± Hadrian asked as he placed the bolt.
¡°Play chess.¡±
The bell rang.
Payne had been tasked with pulling the rope. The idea being that the noise would cover the sound of the shot. Christopher was preparing to look surprised, but he needn¡¯t have bothered ¡ª it came as a genuine shock when the quarrel struck Nysa.
He¡¯d heard the crack, as if someone had split wood. In point of fact, Gerami had done exactly that. The quarrel had punched through Lady Dulgath¡¯s chest and shattered the wooden back of her seat. Christopher had to fight off a smile now that the deed was done.
It¡¯s over! I¡¯m going to be earl!
The next shock came when Knox called out the thieves¡¯ names, and cut away the banner.
Why aren¡¯t they in Manzant? The thought fought with the sight before his eyes.
Then the third shock hit.
Nysa Dulgath sat up, and opened her eyes. The delicate woman reached up and with both hands pulled the quarrel from her body. The bolt was dark with blood. She pressed her left hand to the wound and dropped the quarrel with her right. Then, both hands pressed, blood leaked through her fingers.
How is she still alive?
He couldn¡¯t have been the only one thinking this. The knights jumped out of their chairs, and the king¡¯s men retreated, but no one moved to help Nysa. Not even the king, who stood an arm¡¯s length away.
She¡¯s going to die. No one can take a hit like that and live. This is just some freakish thing. She¡¯s going to collapse at any minute.
But she didn¡¯t. Nysa continued to hold her palms to the wound and stare at the distant parapet, where the knights had directed guards. While they were searching for a way to assail the wall, a voice rose above the murmuring of the crowd.
¡°No one move ¡ª or the king dies!¡±
Everything stopped.
Royce shouted his command again to make certain everyone heard. Vincent started to retreat. ¡°That especially includes you, Your Majesty!¡± he added.
Vincent froze.
Royce continued, ¡°I won¡¯t hesitate to punch a hole in the king, so don¡¯t test me. Everyone is going to do exactly what I say. If you don¡¯t, the king will die. Even if I¡¯m killed afterward, imagine the treatment you¡¯ll receive for acting so rashly.¡±
¡°What do you want?¡± Vincent shouted back.
¡°First, tell everyone to do as I say.¡±
The king hesitated.
¡°Do as he says, Vinny,¡± Bessie pleaded while sobbing. She had rushed from her bunting-covered chair to be at the king¡¯s side when Lady Dulgath was hit.
¡°Quiet, woman!¡±
¡°Look at Lady Dulgath. Look at that quarrel. I¡¯ve got another aimed at your chest,¡± Royce said.
¡°Do what he says!¡± the king shouted.
¡°Wise man. Second, I want you, and everyone else, to be silent. I¡¯m the only one allowed to talk. Wouldn¡¯t want the king to die because someone couldn¡¯t hear me. Third, I want Your Majesty to sit back down. You¡¯re not going anywhere for a while.¡±
The king didn¡¯t hesitate this time. He took his seat, putting both hands on the arms of the chair. He looked decidedly terrified.
¡°Now my friend is going to lower a ladder. Those of you at the bottom will want to move away. If anyone gets anywhere close to him, if anyone so much as gives him a dirty look . . . well, by now you ought to know what will happen. So for the sake of your king ¡ª and the wrath that¡¯ll rain down on you and yours if you do anything to cause his death ¡ª give my friend a wide berth.¡±
The silence in the courtyard was so complete that Christopher heard the creak of the ladder as Hadrian Blackwater climbed down.
What are they doing?
Watching the crowd part, seeing Hadrian move toward him, Christopher felt his grand scheme collapsing.
What if they tell what they know? Will the king believe them? No. He won¡¯t, not now. They¡¯re threatening his life. This might work out after all.
Hadrian walked straight up to the center of the stage and was the only one to touch Lady Dulgath. As he stooped down to lift Nysa, Vincent whisper to Blackwater, ¡°You¡¯ll hang for this.¡±
¡°No, we won¡¯t,¡± Royce shouted, making the king start. ¡°And I said no talking.¡±
With a pained grunt, Hadrian lifted Nysa in his arms. Her head wobbled; her eyes wandered blindly. One arm fell limp. Blackwater carried the countess off the stage and headed toward the front gate beneath the stare of thousands of eyes.
As Hadrian passed Christopher, he heard Nysa whisper, ¡°Going to pass out. Get ¡ª get me to the monastery. Tell Royce . . . have to get me to the Abbey of Brecken Moor. You have to tell . . . you have to . . .¡±
¡°I heard. Calm down,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°Save your strength.¡±
¡°My strength is gone.¡±
The whole of the courtyard watched as he carried their lady out the gate, leaving a trail of blood that dripped from the end of that long blue gown.
¡°What did you do?¡± Scarlett gasped, her eyes threatening to fall out of her head as Hadrian laid Nysa Dulgath in the bed of the wagon.
He did it as gently and carefully as he could, but the woman was a wilted rag covered in blood. Her dress was a sponge from which dripped a thick drizzle. Her skin felt slick and slippery.
While Nysa Dulgath couldn¡¯t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds, his ribs told him that carrying her had been too much. The stress had sent jolts not only to his side, but up to his shoulder and down his back. Taking deep breaths didn¡¯t help, but he needed one ¡ª more than one. Hadrian¡¯s arms were shaking with pain by the time he set her on the buckboard.
Scarlett had leapt up and scrambled to make a bed from the blankets they¡¯d left in the wagon. She helped ease Nysa down and rolled up another blanket for a pillow, plucking blades of grass off it, as if Lady Dulgath would care.
¡°Drive the wagon to the wall over there.¡± Hadrian pointed. ¡°Around the back you¡¯ll see a rope dangling from the parapet. Royce will be down in a minute. I hope.¡±
¡°What did you do?¡± Scarlett repeated in an accusatory tone, continuing to fuss over Lady Dulgath.
Does she think I did this? Fine, I¡¯ll drive.
Hadrian stepped on the spoke of a wheel and pulled himself upto the driver¡¯s seat. More pains, sharp as needles ¡ª very long needles ¡ª stabbed him in the side, stealing what little breath he had, and making him clench his teeth.
Hurt myself carrying her.
Hadrian took the reins off the stock, disengaged the wheel¡¯s brake, and urged the team forward with a kissing sound he¡¯d heard Scarlett make, along with a jiggle and slap of the long leather straps.
Feeling the wagon move, Scarlett looked up at him. ¡°What¡¯s going on? What did you do?¡±
Hadrian wheeled them toward the wall. The bounce and rattle of the wagon that made him twist in his seat did nothing to comfort him as he sucked in two more careful breaths.
¡°When Royce gets here, we¡¯re going to go really fast,¡± Hadrian said, realizing how poor the suspension was on the wagon and how much the trip would hurt. He glanced back at Nysa, her pale face rocking from side to side with the motion of the wagon. She was either dead or unconscious; either way, she wasn¡¯t going to suffer.
¡°Where are we going?¡±
Hadrian looked down at Nysa. ¡°The Abbey of Brecken Moor.¡±
¡°The abbey? But ¡ª¡± They both looked up to see a dark figure slip over the wall.
Legs wrapped around the rope, Royce slid down like a raindrop on a string. Then he sprinted toward the wagon, shouting, ¡°Go! Go!¡±
Hadrian slapped the reins, sending the wagon forward in a lurch as Royce jumped up. He caught the arm of the front seat with his three good fingers and plopped down beside Hadrian. The wagon bucked and banged over ruts, throwing Hadrian into the air and slamming him down again so hard he squeezed his eyes shut and saw little dancing lights.
When he reached the road, the earthquake stopped. There was plenty of shaking and still a little rocking, but they were no longer being tossed in the air like children on a tarp at a spring fair.
Royce climbed into the back.
¡°What did you do?¡± Scarlett asked him, shouting over the rumble of the wagon and the hiss of the wind.
¡°How is she?¡± Royce replied.
¡°She¡¯s drooling blood! That¡¯s how she is!¡±
¡°What¡¯s that mean? Hadrian, you¡¯re sort of a doctor, can you ¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m not a doctor ¡ª but even I know she should have died five minutes ago. Should have checked out the moment she was hit.¡± Hadrian braced himself as they rolled through a dip that turned out not to be as bad as he thought. ¡°That bow was an arbalest. In the army, we used them to pierce armor, kill horses, and shatter the wheels of assault towers. A single quarrel will stop a charging water buffalo. Royce, there¡¯s no way she¡¯s going to live. She¡¯s spitting red because at least one lung is punctured, or more likely shredded. She¡¯s drowning in her own blood ¡ª what little she has left.¡±
Royce looked at Scarlett. ¡°You know anyone who can help her?¡±
¡°Hadrian said we¡¯re taking her to the abbey. I think that is the best place.¡±
¡°The abbey? Why there?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t ask me,¡± Scarlett said.
¡°It¡¯s where she asked to be taken,¡± Hadrian supplied.
¡°Then that settles it,¡± Royce declared.
Scarlett shook her head. ¡°Wagon won¡¯t go up that trail.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s attention was on the road, but the few glances he gave back to the three passengers revealed a sorry scene. Not trusting the makeshift pillow, Scarlett was cradling Nysa¡¯s head in her lap, her legs to either side of the lady. She looked close to tears as the wind whipped her fiery hair. Royce held on to the wagon¡¯s rail with his relatively good hand, rocking side to side and frowning at Nysa.
¡°She¡¯s right,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We¡¯ll get partway maybe, but it narrows, gets too steep and rocky.¡±
¡°We can switch horses in Brecken Dale,¡± Scarlett shouted. ¡°Get fresh mounts, saddle them, and leave the wagon, but someone will need to carry her on horseback ¡ª ride tandem.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll take her,¡± Royce said.
They hit another bump, and Hadrian grunted. If it weren¡¯t for Scarlett, Lady Dulgath¡¯s head would¡¯ve been clapping on the wood. She wouldn¡¯t feel it. The lady couldn¡¯t feel anything, and he was certain she never would again.
¡°Is anyone going to tell me what happened in there?¡± Scarlett shouted. She was angry, frustrated, scared, and still holding Lady Dulgath¡¯s head, brushing the woman¡¯s hair away from her face.
¡°Got there too late,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Then Royce threatened to kill the King of Maranon.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not serious?¡± Scarlett looked at Royce. ¡°That¡¯s got to be a step up, even for you.¡±
¡°You want to tell me why we¡¯re doing this, Royce?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Normally this is the sort of thing you¡¯d be yelling at me for.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t answer. He had his head cocked back, looking up at the sky. ¡°Anyone else notice that it¡¯s starting to rain?¡±
V1: Chapter 21 - The Storm
Clouds.
As a daydreaming boy, Hadrian had done his fair share of lying in fields and imagining some as dragons or trolls to slay. He¡¯d seen castles in the sky and towers where damsels waited to be rescued. In their puffy white and billowing grays, Hadrian had peered into the glories of his future and witnessed wonders ¡ª wonders that never came to pass. To Hadrian, the man, clouds only meant rain.
These clouds were different. Not that they appeared unusual, and they did mean rain ¡ª plenty was falling by the time they reached Brecken Dale ¡ª but they also meant something else. Only no one knew what.
It never rains during the day. Scarlett must have said it at least a dozen times before they finally reached Caldwell House. From the moment Royce drew their attention to the rain, she¡¯d had her head craned back with a look of surprise and fear.
What does it mean? Hadrian had also asked more times than he could remember.
Scarlett never answered him.
They made enough racket racing through the dale that those who hadn¡¯t gone to witness the homage came out to see them rattle by. Or maybe they were already out, standing on their porches and stoops looking up at the sky and, like Scarlett, wondering what was happening.
Wagner, Gill, Asher, and Clem were certainly out. Tasha was there, too, standing behind Asher and peering over the doctor¡¯s shoulder.
¡°Lady Dulgath is hurt!¡± Scarlett shouted as Hadrian brought the wagon to a stop.
Asher climbed up as Royce and Hadrian got off. Royce hesitated a moment, looking back at the wagon and the motionless woman. Then he and Hadrian ran to the stables.
Caldwell House¡¯s stables lacked the luxury of the castle¡¯s, but they were still grander than any stable in Medford. The long single corridor with stalls to either side was clean and just as livable as any of the homes along the street. With the double doors open wide, gusting storm winds and the sound of distant thunder agitated the horses and threw bits of straw dust into the air.
¡°How long we got?¡± Hadrian asked, searching the stalls for Dancer.
¡°They have to get out of that courtyard,¡± Royce replied, searching for his own animal. ¡°Get down to their stables, saddle their horses ¡ª and wait for others to do the same. The more coming after us, the longer it will take. Fifteen or twenty minutes? Maybe more. But that wagon was pretty slow.¡±
Hadrian spotted the white diamond and two rear socks of Dancer. He grabbed the bit and bridle hanging on a peg just outside the stall and flung the gate open. ¡°Did you kill him?¡±
¡°The king? No, that would¡¯ve only made matters worse. Someone used our real names, remember?¡±
Hadrian was having trouble seeing how things could¡¯ve been worse, but he felt a sense of relief at the news. When faced with the question of whether to kill or not, Royce had a nasty habit of choosing the former. For him, doing so was the same as checking the grass before squatting in a forest or looking in a boot before pulling it on in the morning. Common sense, he called it ¡ª dead people didn¡¯t seek revenge.
¡°Well, that¡¯s one point in our favor.¡± Hadrian finished Dancer¡¯s bit, then dashed over to help Royce, who was having trouble with his own mount because of his injured hands. ¡°Would you have killed him? If he¡¯d refused ¡ª if they had grabbed me?¡±
¡°In a heartbeat.¡±
¡°Not sure if I should feel touched or terrified.¡±
¡°That¡¯s your problem.¡±
¡°But what did you mean about playing chess?¡±
Royce appeared puzzled for a moment then smirked. ¡°Oh, that ¡ª I literally put the king in check.¡±
¡°Funny.¡± Hadrian tugged the bridle over the horse¡¯s ears, and Royce quickly slipped the bit into her mouth. ¡°And so now what¡¯s the plan?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m making this up as I go.¡±
Hadrian buckled the neck strap. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me we¡¯re still playing Opposites Day. Seriously, why are we doing this?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t say anything. He simply grabbed the quilted horse blanket and tossed it over the back of his mount.
Royce often ignored questions he didn¡¯t want to answer. There had been times when ¡ª
¡°I honestly don¡¯t know,¡± Royce said, smoothing out the wrinkles, not looking at Hadrian.
¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± Hadrian paused in disbelief. ¡°Are you . . . you aren¡¯t in love with Nysa Dulgath ¡ª are you?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not like that,¡± Royce said.
¡°What is it like?¡±
Hadrian helped Royce set his saddle onto his horse. ¡°I ¡ª I don¡¯t know . . . but there¡¯s something ¡ª¡±
¡°Something worth dying for?¡±
Royce sighed. ¡°Certainly looks that way, doesn¡¯t it?¡±
When they rushed out of the stable, leading their mounts, Hadrian noticed that Scarlett was missing and Asher was still on the back of the wagon, kneeling over Lady Dulgath. A crowd had formed around them, mostly the old folk who¡¯d stayed behind while the rest of the village headed to the castle.
¡°This woman is dead,¡± Asher told them when they were near enough so he didn¡¯t have to yell.
Royce stopped as if he¡¯d been hit.
The crowd had been generally quiet to start with, but with that pronouncement everyone fell silent. Rain pattered on rooftops, on grass, on the wagon, and on the people gathered in a circle. The sky cried at her passing. A silly thought, but at that moment Hadrian didn¡¯t find it so foolish. Dulgath wasn¡¯t like other places. Its differences lay somewhere below the mind¡¯s ability to reason. Ever since he¡¯d arrived, Hadrian had sensed something odd, something different, somehow out of place. As Asher draped a blanket, pulling the wool toward Lady Dulgath¡¯s face, Hadrian felt a deep upwelling of sorrow, as if something profound was ending, something greater than a single life.
Thunder rolled nearer, and lightning flickered behind the thick clouds.
¡°I¡¯m not dead.¡±
Asher jerked back, his face going white.
Royce dropped the reins of his horse and lunged forward, shoving his way to the wagon.
¡°Get me to the abbey, Royce,¡± Nysa told him. ¡°I¡¯m running out of time.¡±
¡°Royce,¡± Hadrian shouted, ¡°mount up. I¡¯ll hand her to you.¡±
Royce nodded, grabbed his horse, and leapt up. The crowd scattered as Hadrian lifted Nysa. The pain in his side screamed.
¡°Clem, Wagner . . .¡± Hadrian looked around and spotted the tavern boy.
Fish are good, but Gill¡¯s the best.
¡°Gill! Help me lift her.¡±
With the boy¡¯s help, they got Nysa in front of Royce, who cradled her before him.
Scarlett appeared, coming down from the direction of her house on a saddled black horse. ¡°Everyone ready?¡±
¡°Scarlett, no,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°You stay here. They don¡¯t know about you. No one knows you had anything to do with this.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t give a damn. She¡¯s . . . I care for her far more than either of you do, and I won¡¯t stay here ¡ª¡±
¡°Don¡¯t have time to argue!¡± Royce snapped.
¡°Go,¡± Hadrian told him. ¡°Down to the river. Cross the stone bridge, then just follow the trail uphill to the left. The monastery is at the top of the mountain. I¡¯ll be right behind you.¡±
Royce nodded, kicked his horse, and trotted down the cobblestone streets, as overhead lightning warned that the storm was coming closer.
Christopher hesitated at the stall of Immaculate, then looked down five gates at Derby, Lady Dulgath¡¯s sleek courser. Immaculate¡¯s, while not an awful horse or a biter, was a durable linen shirt compared with the fine damask doublet that was Derby. Nysa certainly wasn¡¯t going to be using her that evening. Throwing open the chest before Immaculate¡¯s stall, Christopher took his saddle to Lady Dulgath¡¯s horse.
¡°Where did they go?¡± Vincent was shouting outside the stable, where a light rain was falling. ¡°Did anyone see?¡±
A dozen men were in saddles and a dozen more were still working on it. The king himself was mounted after having a breastplate and helm slapped on him. Sir Jacobus had tried to dissuade His Majesty from coming, assuring the king they could take care of things, but Vincent was still fuming, and the rain did nothing to dampen his anger.
¡°They¡¯re rogues ¡ª assassins ¡ª hired to kill Lady Dulgath,¡± Christopher said. ¡°There¡¯ve been rumors for weeks that two men ¡ª professionals from the north ¡ª were coming to kill her. It¡¯s likely they¡¯re headed for Gath Pass. From there they¡¯ll try to escape by racing north to Rhenydd.¡±
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¡°Chrissy,¡± the king snarled. His face was furious red. His horse sensed his mood and spun, tossing his head . . . ready for the run. ¡°Do be quiet. I need a chance to think.¡±
¡°Actually, Sire,¡± Sir Jacobus said, ¡°I think he may be right. Several witnesses saw the lady placed in a wagon that went that way.¡±
¡°If they¡¯re in a wagon, they¡¯ll have to stick to the road,¡± Sir Dathan pointed out.
Vincent nodded. ¡°If they¡¯re in a wagon, we should catch them before they reach the pass.¡±
Christopher found his stirrup and swung up on Derby, who jerked sideways and turned around, bending her neck, trying to bite him.
Why do the good horses always try to bite me?
¡°Best watch out ¡ª the last one to do that died,¡± he told the horse.
He gave Derby a sharp tug on the bit and pulled her head back hard. This caused the horse to back up, which was fine because Knox was behind him. The sheriff had a less-than-triumphant look on his face.
¡°This is a mess,¡± he hissed.
¡°Relax, everything¡¯s fine,¡± Christopher whispered back. ¡°Just stay close.¡±
¡°Everyone¡± ¡ª the king rose in his stirrups ¡ª ¡°to me!¡± With that, he spurred his horse forward and the race began.
With Nysa Dulgath propped between his arms, Royce found the path. Like navigating crowds, he was also good at finding his way. He¡¯d never been lost, not outside at least.
Because I¡¯m elvish.
He looked down at Nysa as if she¡¯d said the words, but her eyes were closed.
Royce had no idea if elves had a better compass than anyone else. Fact was, he didn¡¯t know much about elves. Common knowledge held that they were less intelligent and physically smaller and weaker than men. They were lazy, avoiding work like an intelligent man avoids a bare hilltop in a lightning storm. They were filthy all the time, too. Everyone knew elves hated water. They had ugly pointed ears and sinister slanted eyes. But some generous folk also said they had better hearing and sight than men. Others ¡ª shopkeepers, mostly ¡ª maintained they were strangely quick and agile, and could steal merchandise right out from under watching eyes. Their agility led to rumors that elves were somehow related to cats. That their god had cursed a family of felines, turning them into abominations. The one thing everybody agreed on was that back in the days of the First Empire, they had been slaves, and freeing them had been as foolish as turning milk cows loose or expecting chickens to fend for themselves.
Royce did have high cheekbones and was fast, agile, and could move quietly. He could see farther than others seemed to be able to, even in near-total darkness. His hearing was also better than that of anyone he knew, but his ears weren¡¯t pointed, and his eyes were like everyone else¡¯s. I¡¯m not completely elvish, Royce qualified, arguing with the voice in his head. A mix maybe, a half-breed of some sort. And he never got lost. Maybe that¡¯s a thing.
Rain battered the leaves. It came down harder, sounding like a fast river or nearby waterfall. The volume of the shower helped muffle the sound of his horse¡¯s hooves as she plodded up the narrow trail. Royce didn¡¯t dare push. The path was uneven, steep, rocky, and growing slick. If she stumbled ¡ª if they fell ¡ª Royce would never get Nysa back up on the horse, not with his hands the way they were.
Nysa¡¯s head hung limply. He cradled it to his chest, sheltering her face from the raindrops with his hood. Her chin, lips, and the lower half of her cheeks were stained red. As he held her, as he looked into her face, Royce realized she wasn¡¯t breathing.
He touched her neck, feeling for that little pulsing thump that ¡ª
¡°I¡¯m still here,¡± Nysa said. Her eyes opened slowly and with effort, like jammed wooden windows swollen with humidity.
¡°Didn¡¯t look like you were breathing.¡±
She offered him an effort-filled smile. ¡°Thank you for this.¡± Her voice was sluggish, cracking.
¡°Don¡¯t talk. Conserve your strength.¡±
¡°Strength is fine.¡± She coughed and spit more blood.
¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like it.¡±
¡°Just hard to talk. Blood is in my throat.¡± She coughed again. A dark, almost black line drooled down her chin.
Royce looked behind. No sign of Hadrian.
He should have caught up by now.
¡°Royce,¡± Nysa said, her voice clearer. ¡°Do you like me?¡±
Royce looked at her, surprised at the absurdity of the question, and decided to respond in kind. ¡°Of course not. I always risk my life for people I hate.¡±
She smiled. ¡°I mean, are you attracted to me?¡±
In another place and time, and with someone else, Royce would have smirked.
She¡¯s delirious, he reminded himself. Humor her.
¡°Honestly? At this moment? You¡¯ve looked better.¡±
She jerked and coughed again. ¡°Don¡¯t make me laugh.¡±
¡°Most people don¡¯t find me funny.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure most people don¡¯t share our sense of humor.¡± She cleared her throat.
For a woman with a hole in her chest the size of a crown tenent, she was oddly lucid and unconcerned. Most people, even seasoned fighters, would be crying, begging not to die, screaming, or complaining about the pain.
¡°We¡¯re short on time, so I¡¯ll skip the formalities. Nysa Dulgath is the last of her bloodline. If she dies, the king will appoint a new earl, someone from the outside, someone like Christopher Fawkes.¡±
If she dies? If Nysa dies? She¡¯s really delusional.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t count on Fawkes. I have it on good authority he¡¯ll be unavailable for . . . well, everything,¡± Royce told her.
¡°But if Nysa has a child,¡± she went on, ¡°we can raise her to be a good ruler.¡±
Royce¡¯s brows rose. ¡°We? Are you asking me to marry you?¡±
Nysa looked up at him, her lower lip lifting, eyes drooping into an embarrassed, practically apologetic flinch. ¡°I realize I have problems.¡±
¡°No kidding.¡±
¡°Oh ¡ª believe me, you don¡¯t know the half of it.¡±
¡°What? You chew with your mouth open?¡±
She smiled again.
So odd. So very odd. How is she even talking? I¡¯m missing something.
¡°Thing is ¡ª I never thought I could find anyone that I could . . . well, be with. But you¡¯re different.¡±
¡°Because I¡¯m part elven.¡±
¡°Yes. I know you think that¡¯s an insult, but it¡¯s not ¡ª it¡¯s an incredible compliment. Look, I¡¯m giving you the chance to become the next Earl of Dulgath. The offer comes with your own castle and an ocean view.¡±
And a wife with a hole in her chest. ¡°Tempting.¡±
¡°But? There¡¯s a but, isn¡¯t there?¡±
¡°There is.¡±
Nysa glanced down at herself. ¡°Is it the blood? I could wash.¡±
He couldn¡¯t help smiling. She did share his morbid sense of humor ¡ª even while facing her own death. That won her points in his book ¡ª a book with few pages. He did like her, and his admiration grew by the minute. If not for Gwen ¡ª and the fact that Nysa¡¯s life expectancy was akin to a soap bubble¡¯s ¡ª he might have considered it.
I could lie. She won¡¯t live. What would be the harm?
¡°I¡¯m with someone,¡± he said, his tone serious, regretful. ¡°I know what it¡¯s like to be betrayed. I won¡¯t do that.¡±
¡°Hadrian?¡± she asked.
¡°No.¡± He chuckled. ¡°A woman.¡±
¡°Oh. She must be very special. You¡¯re turning down a title and an estate that would make you wealthy and respected for the rest of your life.¡±
¡°She is special.¡±
Royce glanced behind them again. Still no sign of Hadrian.
What¡¯s taking him so long?
¡°Oh!¡± Nysa looked up, hopeful. ¡°You could bring her along. I won¡¯t mind.¡±
Royce¡¯s brows rose in surprise.
Nysa frowned again. ¡°Different cultures, I suppose. Where I¡¯m from, we don¡¯t have marriage. People don¡¯t mate for life.¡±
¡°People don¡¯t get married in Dulgath?¡±
She offered that same apologetic smile. ¡°Look, I want to thank you for being honest ¡ª for telling me the truth. Now . . . I have something I need to tell you. Something I never thought I¡¯d ever tell anyone. You see, I¡¯m not Nysa Dulgath. That poor girl died two years ago. Fell off her horse in a steeplechase accident and snapped her neck. I arrived too late. Managed to fix her body, but by then she was long gone.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not Nysa Dulgath?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°And you expect me to believe that?¡±
¡°Of course.¡±
¡°Why?¡±
¡°Because you¡¯re right ¡ª I¡¯m not breathing. You¡¯re carrying a dead body.¡±
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. The storm was almost on them.
¡°You can¡¯t go!¡± Hadrian shouted at Scarlett.
She¡¯s being so stupid!
She wasn¡¯t. She was being brave, and he admired her for it. But that didn¡¯t take away the pain of knowing she¡¯d die alongside him.
Going to the monastery was suicide. Lady Dulgath was certain to die, and they¡¯d be trapped on top of the mountain. After what Royce did, after threatening the king, there would be no mercy. He and Royce would hang, or burn, or kneel before the block, or whatever they did down there. But no one knew about Scarlett. She could continue living her life, entertaining guests at Caldwell House and sleeping in Wagner¡¯s bed. Given enough time, she might even learn to spin and weave.
If she came with them, she¡¯d be arrested as part of a conspiracy to murder the countess and threaten the king.
¡°You can¡¯t stop me!¡± Scarlett turned her horse, but Hadrian caught her mount by the bit and pulled her back. ¡°Let go!¡±
Hadrian grabbed her wrist and pulled Scarlett down. He let her fall, hoping it would take some of the fight out of her. It didn¡¯t. She came up swinging.
He caught her again one wrist and then the other. She struggled, trying to kick him. He spun her as if they were dancing, making her face away and pulling her arms across her body, hugging her to him.
¡°You have to stay here,¡± he said.
¡°Let me go!¡± She tried kicking backward with her heels.
Wagner, Asher, and the rest watched. No one moved or said a word.
¡°If you come with us, the king will execute you.¡±
¡°Nysa is ours, not yours!¡± Scarlett shrieked as she struggled. ¡°She doesn¡¯t mean anything to you! You don¡¯t understand!¡±
This was taking too long. He hoped Royce didn¡¯t need him, but he wasn¡¯t letting Scarlett throw her life away.
If only I could tie her up or ¡ª
The idea of locking Scarlett in Caldwell House¡¯s cellar came to him at exactly the same time that he heard the shouts.
¡°The king! The king!¡± Someone Hadrian didn¡¯t know was running up the street. He was pointing backward and yelling like a wild man. ¡°Coming up the road!¡±
Hadrian was out of time.
He let go of Scarlett, who took the opportunity to kick him hard in the shin before leaping back on her horse. Hadrian grabbed Dancer and together they raced for the river and the bridge.
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. The storm had arrived.
While everyone else fought for a place nearest the king, Christopher lagged at the rear of the pack, Knox at his side. By the time they entered the dale, the rain was pouring, a heavy summer shower that, along with the growing darkness made it hard to see. Sunset was still hours away, but the clouds continued to roll in, thick and heavy. By the time the king¡¯s party reached the village market, the sky was as dark as dusk. Wind whipped the rain that fell in sheets, making puddles on the brick. Lightning revealed the world in colorless flashes, and the following thunder rolled with a deep, long voice, making it hard not to imagine this wasn¡¯t an ordinary storm.
Novron is with me, Christopher realized. The son of Maribor is advocating on my behalf, marking this day with portent of my victory.
Christopher saw the darkness as his personal cloak, the lightning as bursts of his mental acuity, and the thunder as the drumroll announcing his impending achievement. He was the storm, and his god was with him.
As they approached the market, Christopher reined in Derby and raised a hand, telling Knox to do the same.
¡°What are you doing?¡± the sheriff demanded. He pointed toward the king¡¯s company, who had taken the split to the right and were riding toward the mountain pass.
¡°The king is on a goose chase,¡± Christopher told Knox as he fought with Derby, who wanted to follow after the other horses.
¡°What are you talking about?¡±
¡°They didn¡¯t go that way. Nysa Dulgath is headed for the Abbey of Brecken Moor.¡±
¡°How do you know?¡±
¡°Because I heard her. It¡¯s where she asked to be taken.¡± Fawkes watched the last of the king¡¯s retinue disappear around the houses. ¡°If anyone else heard, they didn¡¯t listen. They think Melborn was there to kill her. We know better. He and Blackwater are trying to save her. She thinks she¡¯ll be safe at the abbey ¡ª that she can hide up there and recover. Then she¡¯ll return. Melborn probably expects a reward. Thinks the countess will be so indebted to him that she¡¯ll pay a fortune, grant him a title, or give him an estate or some other prize.¡±
¡°So what are we doing?¡± Knox asked. Lightning flashed and in one instant revealed every strand of hair plastered to his head; rivulets of water streamed off his stubble. His eyes were angry, harsh and violent. That was the nature of the man. The truth of him shown to Christopher by the light of Novron. This, too, was a sign for Christopher, who needed such a man now. He needed an animal to help him kill, but Knox was merely a beast, something to be ridden then discarded when no longer of any use.
¡°We go after them,¡± Christopher said. ¡°We finish that bitch. Then we¡¯ll claim we arrived too late. Explain that they took her for ransom but she died during the trip. We¡¯ll be seen as heroes for killing them. If we don¡¯t catch up before they reach the abbey, if the monks witness anything, we¡¯ll have to take care of them, too. I trust you don¡¯t have a problem slaughtering monks?¡±
¡°Not for a worthy cause.¡±
Spoken like a true monster ¡ª but at least he¡¯s my monster.
¡°Oh ¡ª you can trust it will be, my friend. I¡¯ll take very good care of you,¡± Fawkes said even while he thought, I¡¯ll slit your throat when you¡¯re not expecting it and tell King Vincent you were the one who hired the rogues ¡ª that you split off from the rest at the market and, being suspicious, I followed you.
¡°You¡¯d better,¡± Knox said.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep at night if I didn¡¯t.¡±
V1: Chapter 22 - Long Story Short
Nysa Dulgath was indeed dead. Royce checked: no pulse, no breath, her skin cold. Not chilled, not clammy, but milk-jug-left-out-in-the-rain-over-night cold. He didn¡¯t panic or have an overwhelming need to put space between himself and the unexpected corpse he was pressed against. This wasn¡¯t the first dead body he had held. Corpses didn¡¯t upset him ¡ª still, talking ones were a new experience.
Royce leaned backward, holding her out to the full extent of his arms and glared into eyes that were staring back at him. He no longer supported her ¡ª its ¡ª head. He didn¡¯t need to. She ¡ª it ¡ª was holding her ¡ª its ¡ª own head up.
¡°Hmm. I¡¯m not on the ground, and you¡¯re not galloping away,¡± Nysa¡¯s corpse said. ¡°Does that mean you¡¯re willing to hear the rest of the story?¡±
¡°First, tell me who or what you are.¡±
¡°My name doesn¡¯t matter. Won¡¯t mean anything to you. I was a Fhrey; that¡¯s what my kind was called in the days before Nyphron. Before the First Empire. Elf is their word, not yours.¡±
¡°You were an elf?¡±
¡°Best if you let me start at the beginning or this will get very confusing.¡±
Nysa¡¯s corpse waited, watching him as the horse continued to plod.
¡°Okay,¡± was all Royce could think to say.
¡°Who I really am is too long a tale to tell just now. I wouldn¡¯t mind explaining everything, but we don¡¯t have the time.¡±
You¡¯re already dead so, what¡¯s the hurry? Royce thought.
¡°The first thing you need to know is that Fhrey are nothing like you think. We are an ancient and noble ¡ª and granted, also an arrogant ¡ª race. We once ruled the world. Even this place was under our dominion.
Royce smirked. He wasn¡¯t about to be intimidated or hoodwinked, even by a talking corpse.
¡°It¡¯s true. There¡¯s evidence everywhere. Those smooth bluish stone ruins on Amber Heights above the Gula River near Colnora . . . that was once a Fhrey fortress called Alon Rhist. And words like Avryn, Ervanon, and Galewyr are Fhrey words. Rhenydd, too ¡ª at least the ydd part. The oldest of my kind can live for more than three thousand years.¡±
¡°So is that what¡¯s going on here? You¡¯re practically immortal. You can¡¯t die?¡±
¡°Oh, no ¡ª I already died. My body turned to dust thousands of years ago. But I broke Ferrol¡¯s Law, and you need to be careful not to do the same. Ignorance of the law won¡¯t protect you, and having a little human blood won¡¯t either. You are part Fhrey, and as such you are forbidden from killing another Fhrey. Ever.¡±
¡°Unlawful killing of anyone is called murder, and universally frowned upon. Unless you¡¯re at a higher social level than your victim, in which case it¡¯s called justice.¡±
¡°Not the same thing. Humans have laws against killing one another, laws made by men. The law forbidding one Fhrey from killing another is made by Ferrol, our god, and it is he ¡ª not other Fhrey ¡ª who dispenses punishment for that crime. Ferrol¡¯s will is the cornerstone of our society, and since the dawn of time only a few have violated his sacred law.¡±
Royce couldn¡¯t hide the sarcasm in his voice. ¡°The punishment for murder in any society is death. What more could Ferrol do?¡±
¡°If a Fhrey kills another Fhrey, they are forever denied entrance to Alysin, the Sacred Grove, the afterlife. You might know it as Phyre, Rel, Nifrel, or even Eberdeen. For us, there is no greater loss. It means we are outcasts and will never again see the ones we love, and those who love us.¡±
Royce, who¡¯d never had much use for religion, didn¡¯t know any of those terms beyond how to curse with them, as in Go to Rel or I hope you burn in Phyre, which until that moment he¡¯d assumed referred to a funeral fire.
¡°So you¡¯re a ghost?¡±
¡°Sort of.¡± Nysa¡¯s shoulders shrugged.
Realizing this wasn¡¯t Nysa, Royce imagined a marionette and grimaced.
¡°What you think of as ghosts are actually humans who through stubbornness or ignorance refuse to go to their reward. But it¡¯s true we are both disembodied spirits unable to interact with this world in any meaningful way.¡±
¡°You seem to be interacting just fine.¡±
¡°In a body I can, as any spirit does. With a body I¡¯m as capable as everyone else ¡ª more so, in fact.¡±
More so? Like her comment, We don¡¯t have much time, this jumped out at Royce, but he kept quiet.
¡°The problem is, bodies don¡¯t last, and it¡¯s rare to find one unoccupied. I was lucky with Maddie Oldcorn, sort of like a squirrel moving into a bird¡¯s vacant nest. Caught in a blizzard, Maddie died, but her body was mostly intact. Toes were never right, but I was able to live with that.¡±
¡°So Nysa isn¡¯t in there with you?¡±
¡°No, she was gone before I arrived. If she had been alive, even lingering between worlds, I could have saved her. Same with Maddie. I can¡¯t enter a body unless it¡¯s vacant. A body with a spirit is like a candle with a flame ¡ª the original spirit must be extinguished before the body can be relit.¡±
Royce had heard many bizarre tales over the years. Most he didn¡¯t believe, but he¡¯d actually seen a few things that made him wonder. He¡¯d watched a four-day-old corpse sit partway up, burp, and then lie back down. And he¡¯d watched a dead man shaking his head, although that turned out to be a rat rolling around inside an emptied skull. He had personally witnessed the fight on top of the Crown Tower and couldn¡¯t understand why there hadn¡¯t been any bodies at the bottom afterward. That last one still haunted him. But, if he were really talking with a three-thousand-year-old dead elf, this bizarre conversation took first place.
¡°Who¡¯d you kill?¡±
¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. I was young and foolish and oh, so arrogant. When I died, I was alone ¡ª a face pressed up against a window looking in at the world I used to know but couldn¡¯t touch. I didn¡¯t know about entering bodies then and could only watch helplessly as the people I used to know made terrible decisions. The person I cared the most about was another Fhrey, who, like me, also broke our sacred law. I wanted to be with him when he died, but once separated, I couldn¡¯t find him. I looked everywhere. Then . . . well . . . I just kept heading west until I came to the land¡¯s end, to this place, and here I stopped.¡±
¡°Nice place.¡±
¡°Yes, until the humans came. I tried to keep them out. Can¡¯t do much without a body, but if I try really hard, I can make things move. I even possessed a few dead animals. Got a raccoon once. They have fingers, you know? Hands make all the difference and soon these will be too stiff to be of use. With hands I¡¯m able to ¡ª¡± She stopped, refusing to look at him.
Said more than she wanted to. More than it wanted to, he corrected. This isn¡¯t Nysa.
He was having trouble remembering that and had to remind himself that if he touched her skin it would be like ice.
¡°So you were Dul the Ghast¡¯s nature spirit,¡± Royce said.
¡°Ugly, ugly man. Sunken eyes, looked just like a skeleton. I don¡¯t know why I did it. I was lonely, I guess. He was up on top of this mountain crying and begging for help. They were starving to death, you see. Dul¡¯s son and daughter had died, and his wife was sick. The whole lot of them wouldn¡¯t have survived another month, so he climbed up and begged for help. I like it up here, nice view. I sat on top of the mountain often and was watching the sunset when Dul came up bawling and wailing. I¡¯d started to leave when I heard him say, I know you¡¯re there. I know you can hear me. Please help us. At that time, no one had spoken to me for centuries, but here this creepy little man was talking right to me. I don¡¯t think I can explain how that felt ¡ª to be acknowledged after so long ¡ª to have someone recognize that you exist when even you had started to doubt.
¡°I didn¡¯t know what I could do. I followed him home. Together we watched his wife die, and I performed my first miracle.¡±
¡°I take it she made an unexpected recovery.¡±
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¡°Yes, as far as everyone else knew. There really wasn¡¯t anything wrong with her, except the discomfort of acute hunger, the pain of losing her children, and a fever that was gone by the time I stepped in. Mostly, she¡¯d just given up. People do that, more often than you¡¯d think.¡±
¡°So the squirrel settled into the bird¡¯s nest.¡±
¡°Yes, and with human hands, hands nearly like my own, I was able to ¡ª¡± She stopped herself again. ¡°I was able to help them.¡±
¡°Did he know?¡±
¡°Oh yes. I set him straight right away. Did I mention how ugly Dul was? Didn¡¯t want him touching me. I¡¯ve never liked humans. Dirty, awful things. It¡¯s why I never thought I¡¯d find anyone to be with. Their kind can be so repulsive.¡±
You¡¯re a talking corpse spitting up blood, and you think we¡¯re repulsive?
¡°And yet you helped them.¡±
¡°Was nice being alive again, to be able to do things. I thought I had found a way to survive, but then he came.¡±
¡°He?¡±
¡°The rumors of my miracles had traveled all the way to Percepliquis. When he heard, he came looking for answers.¡±
¡°Who is he?¡±
¡°Perhaps the most remarkable human ¡ª no, person ¡ª I¡¯ve ever met, and I¡¯ve been around a long time. His name was Bran and he was looking for someone. Not me, as it turned out, but I think something led him here and brought us together. Bran recognized me the moment we met. Not specifically, not my name, but he said he knew what I was. What I¡¯d done. He¡¯d been taught about my sort and knew what to look for. He told me the most amazing story, about a woman named Brin. At first, I thought he was making it up, but he spoke of places where I had lived ¡ª oh, so long ago ¡ª and told stories that were handed down from this Brin. Then, just like Dul the Ghast, I started crying. I didn¡¯t think I could anymore, but that story ¡ª Brin¡¯s story ¡ª gave me hope.¡±
¡°What was this story?¡±
¡°That eternity isn¡¯t nearly as long as I thought; that there will come a day when I¡¯ll have a chance to redeem myself. That this time, these moments right now, are my chance to learn, to practice, and to improve. But most of all, that both Bran and Brin will be watching and rooting for me.¡±
¡°Are these people still alive? Are they Fhrey like you were?¡±
¡°No, they were human and both died thousands of years ago. So long ago that the monks who practically worship Brin as a demigod have most of her story wrong ¡ª so wrong they actually think she was a man. I¡¯d set them straight, but they wouldn¡¯t believe me.¡±
¡°If these two are dead, how can they be watching?¡±
Nysa¡¯s lips smiled. ¡°That¡¯s a completely different story, and we don¡¯t have time for it, either.¡±
¡°You said that before. What¡¯s the rush? Why don¡¯t we have much time?¡±
¡°Because this body is dead. The muscles are stiffening. I¡¯ll have to leave it soon. You need to get me to the monastery.¡±
¡°Why? What¡¯s at the abbey?¡±
¡°Nothing right now ¡ª but something will be.¡±
The trail was quickly turning into a mountain stream as the rain flash-flooded over rocks. Overhead, thunder boomed, rattling the trees. Scarlett had slowed down as the trail became a darkened tunnel, shrinking in on the sides, becoming the narrow footpath Hadrian remembered. They were halfway, possibly as much as three-quarters. He searched for landmarks, things he could remember, but in the storm everything looked different. Surely they were close to the top; the trees were getting shorter.
The crash of rain made it hard to hear anything, and Hadrian might have died if it hadn¡¯t been for Scarlett. Despite her professed desire to escape him in her chase after Nysa Dulgath, she continued to look back ¡ª never more than a glance ¡ª but enough to see he was still there.
As they climbed into the shorter trees and low brush, lightning flashed while she looked back. She reined her horse and pointed. She wasn¡¯t looking at Hadrian; her sight went past, focusing behind him. Wide eyes completed the story. Before she even yelled her warning, Hadrian had drawn his bastard sword and wheeled Dancer around.
Lord Fawkes and Sheriff Knox came rattling up the trail. They were both soaked, slick, and shiny. They had drawn their swords, bright silver in the lightning flash. Both showed white teeth in vicious grins.
¡°Deal with him, Sheriff,¡± Fawkes barked, letting Knox squeeze past.
¡°Keep going!¡± Hadrian shouted to Scarlett.
¡°There¡¯s two of them,¡± she yelled back.
¡°I can handle two.¡±
¡°Maybe on a good day, but this isn¡¯t a good day for you.¡±
She knew not to mention his ribs, not to even say he was hurt, but that¡¯s what she meant. She refused to abandon him in the face of uneven odds.
¡°Trust me. I can handle this,¡± Hadrian told her.
¡°I remember you now,¡± Knox said, tucking the loose end of his sodden cloak into his belt after the fashion of some mercenaries. In the military, only officers wore them. Those that transitioned out brought their cloaks as status symbols but maintained the axiom that only fools fight with a flag on their back.
Seeing the cloak, Hadrian remembered Knox, too. They had both been at the Battle of Gravin River Ford. Hadrian had been an arrogant kid of fifteen who¡¯d just joined Warric¡¯s Third Battalion, his first enlistment. Knox was a veteran in the same unit. Hadrian hadn¡¯t kept his fighting ability a secret, and when he rallied the troops and almost single-handedly held the line against Earl Francis Stanley of Harborn¡¯s forces, Ethelred had appointed him captain.
Showing up his elders and getting promoted hadn¡¯t won him many friends. Hadrian didn¡¯t remember Knox in particular but wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he still held a grudge.
¡°You know what I think?¡± Knox said. ¡°I think you were lucky that day. Never heard of any great acts of heroism after Gravin Ford.¡±
That was because Hadrian had resigned his newly awarded commission within a month of receiving it. As an officer he had the right to abdicate, and he did, leaving Warric altogether to join the ranks of King Armand¡¯s forces in Alburn, where he kept a lower profile and managed to serve for a whole year.
¡°And like the tart said¡± ¡ª Knox grinned his white teeth at Scarlett ¡ª ¡°this isn¡¯t a good day for you.¡±
The trail was narrow, forcing Scarlett to stay behind him. She was out of immediate danger, but that was Hadrian¡¯s only blessing.
Dancer wasn¡¯t a warhorse; she wasn¡¯t trained for combat. With one hand needed for the reins, Hadrian was limited to a single sword against two enemies. And his ribs hurt. Carrying Nysa had at best aggravated the wound, and possibly done real damage. Riding hadn¡¯t helped, either. Stiff and sore, he suffered constant pain that cycled with an annoying randomness between an ache and a stabbing jolt. Scarlett and Knox were right: This wasn¡¯t a good day for him.
The sheriff spurred his horse and charged forward, swinging as he came. Knox was a seasoned soldier and used an economical stroke that demonstrated more respect than the sheriff¡¯s words. He didn¡¯t expect to kill on first clash, which itself was proof of Knox¡¯s own martial acumen.
Hadrian caught the blade easily, but the impact sent a screaming thunderbolt down his side, making him cramp and preventing a proper counter. Trapped on the horse, he was limited to a twisting effort from his torso ¡ª and that part of him was broken. Instead, he took advantage of the part of him that wasn¡¯t. Rising, he slipped out of his right stirrup, gave a hard kick, and caught Knox in the stomach, sending the man over his horse¡¯s side and onto the ground.
Hadrian shot a look to his left, expecting Fawkes to be on top of him. With Knox down, Hadrian readied his blade to block whatever attack Fawkes would give him ¡ª only he wasn¡¯t there. Intent on catching Royce and Lady Dulgath, the lord had taken the opportunity to force his horse through the brush that bordered the trail, riding right past Hadrian.
He would have had a clear path, except that Scarlett was waiting.
As Fawkes attempted to race by, Scarlett, lacking a sword and holding only a small knife, did the only thing she could ¡ª she leapt at him. Flinging herself off her horse, she tried to grapple Fawkes to the ground. Hadrian expected Fawkes to cleave her in half, and if he¡¯d been left-handed he might have. But his sword was on the wrong side. Instead, he backhanded Scarlett in the face, sending her to the ground.
Fawkes wasted no more effort on either of them and rode up the trail.
By the time Hadrian looked back, Knox had gotten to his feet and moved uphill, around to Hadrian¡¯s off side.
Trying to fight on horseback with broken ribs on a narrow trail had all the makings of a disaster. Using her as a shield, he jumped down on the far side of Dancer.
Hitting the ground was excruciating. The jolt brought more flashing lights, and he sucked air through clenched teeth for a second before he could think again. Then, slapping Dancer out of the way, he drew his short sword.
Knox had his second sword drawn now as well, but he was in a precarious position, with Hadrian in front and Scarlett behind. The woman was getting to her knees, bleeding from her nose and lip, but she still had her dagger.
Knox was an experienced fighter and not at all a fool. He knew the path of least resistance. Hadrian saw it in his eyes. He witnessed the subtle shift on the grip of the sheriff¡¯s sword, the tilt in his hips toward the downhill side of the trail.
Scarlett wasn¡¯t a fool, either, but she also wasn¡¯t an experienced swordfighter. Fights she¡¯d known were likely limited to fists and thrown bottles. Because Knox was looking at him instead of her, she had no idea what was about to happen. She pushed up, rising to her feet, moving toward Knox. She probably thought to distract him, maybe even stab him in the back. She never saw the threat, didn¡¯t realize her own mistake, until he twisted and thrust half the steel of his blade into her stomach. Her eyes went big, her mouth opened, but she made no sound.
If there had been any lingering doubt about the sheriff¡¯s intelligence, or his sense of self-preservation, he erased it by jerking out his sword and racing up the trail past Scarlett. Knox caught her horse and, in a running mount, leapt up and sped away following Fawkes.
Scarlett collapsed face-first in the rushing stream of muddy water coming down the mountain trail.
¡°Scarlett!¡± Hadrian fell to his knees beside her. He took hold of Scarlett¡¯s shoulders and gently lifted, turning her over.
¡°No!¡± Scarlett screamed. ¡°Don¡¯t touch me! Don¡¯t move me!¡± Her face contorted in pain as she struggled to inhale, swallowing air instead of breathing it.
She had mud on her face, her beautiful hair pasted to her skin with the wet. Her eyes were squeezed tight, her mouth wrenched in pain.
¡°Scarlett, I . . .¡± He didn¡¯t know what to say.
Hadrian had seen it happen on the battlefield. Thrusts to the abdomen were never good. Deep ones ¡ª this sort ¡ª were almost always fatal. The blood coming from her stomach, beneath her pressing hands, was dark and thick.
¡°Go,¡± Scarlett was able to say, her voice weak.
¡°I can¡¯t.¡±
¡°Go ¡ª go save Nysa.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t leave y ¡ª¡±
¡°If you save her¡± ¡ª Scarlett gasped ¡ª ¡°she¡¯ll save me. It¡¯s my only chance. Now go.¡±
¡°But Nysa is ¡ª¡± Hadrian started.
¡°Trust me. Just do it!¡±
¡°Okay, okay, but you have to hang on, you hear me?¡± He pushed up out of the mud, picked up his swords, and grabbed Dancer. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back. You wait for me!¡±
Hadrian hauled himself into the saddle, as below him Scarlett lay doubled over in the sodden path, clutching her stomach. With each gasp of air, she whimpered. A dark tail of blood snaked downhill with the trickling rain.
¡°Hadrian,¡± Scarlett said. She managed to look into his eyes. ¡°The Manzant slavers . . . you were right.¡± She sucked in another breath. ¡°I didn¡¯t do it because of Royce.¡±
Hadrian stared at her, feeling the rain run down his face. ¡°Don¡¯t you give up. You hear me? You wait! I¡¯ll be right back!
V1: Chapter 23 - Monastery by Night
The storm was letting up when Royce guided his horse into the courtyard of the monastery. Old stone, wet from the storm, shimmered and flashed bright with the last few flickers of lightning. Three monks were waiting at the front gate with mournful faces and soaked habits. None looked surprised to see them.
¡°In here. In here!¡± The oldest of the three waved Royce toward the warm glow of interior light. ¡°How is she? When the storm arrived we knew something was wrong.¡±
By the time they reached the abbey, Nysa¡¯s eyes had closed and she had gone limp. ¡°Take her,¡± Royce said, not trusting himself to get down without dropping her.
One of the younger monks reached up and took her from his arms. Royce felt relief followed by loss. He didn¡¯t understand half of what Nysa¡¯s corpse had told him, and believed less than that.
He didn¡¯t think she lied. She wasn¡¯t the sort, and the lack of breathing and cold skin backed up her story better than an eyewitness, but such things were hard for Royce to accept. He¡¯d met his share of preachers, priests, and hermits, each selling their version of life and death, trying to convince new recruits. Royce never saw a reason to invest in their opinion when he had his own, especially when his worked and theirs didn¡¯t. But Nysa ¡ª or whoever it was ¡ª wasn¡¯t asking for his faith, his support, or his money. Still, that didn¡¯t mean she wasn¡¯t after something. No reason for her to spin such a yarn without a point. As he handed her down and watched them take her inside, he knew he was missing that point.
What does she want from me?
¡°You¡¯re the other one?¡± the oldest monk asked.
Took a moment for Royce to realize what he meant. ¡°Yes. You must have met Hadrian.¡±
He nodded. ¡°I¡¯m Abbot Augustine. Thank you for bringing her. We¡¯ll handle things from here.¡±
If by that he meant for Royce to leave, he was mistaken. Risking his life for someone wasn¡¯t normal for him, and he wanted to know why he¡¯d done it. Royce had heard a fairy tale, but not his place in it. She had a reason behind asking him to bring her.
Because I¡¯m elvish? Maybe. But there¡¯s something more.
Royce was a man of few beliefs. He relied on the bedrock constant of man¡¯s propensity for greed and hate. No one did anything except to help themselves. This axiom had proved a sure bet so often, it ranked right alongside water running downhill.
She wants something, but what?
Royce dropped down and followed the rest of them into the big ivy-covered building. The monks made no move to stop him. One even held the door.
¡°Have you ever seen such weather?¡± the young man asked.
Royce nodded. The storm was bad, but not unusual for summer.
The monk continued to linger at the door, looking up at the sky. ¡°I¡¯ve only ever seen a storm once before. When old Maddie Oldcorn died, we had one of these.¡±
¡°That was the last bad storm?¡±
The monk shook his head. ¡°The last storm. The last time I saw it rain in daylight.¡±
They carried Nysa through a large open room ¡ª the nave of the church ¡ª toward the altar. Royce had poked his head into Mares Cathedral in Medford; this abbey wouldn¡¯t be suitable as its privy. There were no seats, kneelers, statues, nor any marble or carved mahogany. And no hint of gold, just a stone floor and high wooden roof. Open-fire braziers and racks of candles gave the interior light, and the altar was nothing but a raised platform with a podium where a book might rest.
Royce saw no books. The place could have been a Medford stable, with two exceptions: the walls and ceiling. These were covered in painted frescoes. Mares Cathedral had paintings on its walls, too, pictures of a white-bearded man placing a crown on a young, handsome man¡¯s head while streams of light shone down ¡ª Maribor anointing Novron.
The pictures here were different. They had cracks, tiny spidery lines where the paint had turned brittle, and the wall itself had also cracked in places, leaving great fissures running through the images. The colors were muted and dull; in some places the lines were completely lost. These paintings were created by artists with less talent than those at the cathedral. As a result, the images were crude ¡ª flat, with no sense of depth or perspective.
The handsome man was nowhere to be seen; neither was the old bearded guy. Instead, a raven-haired woman sat on a big chair. Behind her, lost partially to shadows, stood a crudely dressed man with a violent black beard. To her right was a beautiful woman holding a longbow and wearing a wry smile. On the other side stood a crippled man leaning on a mousy woman who had her hands stuffed into the pockets of a smock. In the foreground, two more figures were seated on pillows ¡ª both young girls. One wore a silly-looking hat, held a staff, and had a wolf curled at her feet. The other clutched a book on her lap and held a quill between her fingers. There were no shafts of light shining on their faces and no glowing radiance. On their far right was painted a flat landscape of lush fields that led to a shining city. Royce had never seen such a place. Tall, elegant towers and grand avenues faded into the distance, where a massive gold-domed building stood. At the city¡¯s entrance, two great statues of lions loomed. Scaffolding held workers building additional structures.
Royce couldn¡¯t make sense of the image. This was more of a family portrait, like those he saw in merchants¡¯ homes. Moreover, in the dim light of the nave, few without his keen sight would be able to see the frescoes. He guessed they must have been painted by torchlight or before the roof was constructed.
The monks, who didn¡¯t pause to look at the paintings, took Nysa¡¯s body down a set of stairs. Royce was about to follow when he spotted something else in the painting ¡ª a small and seemingly insignificant village stood on the far left. Primitive beyond anything Royce had ever seen, the community was a collection of huts surrounded by an earthwork-and-wood wall. At the center was a big house; the entire place nestled in a niche of a great and seemingly endless forest. The contrast between the great shining city and the little village was what stopped Royce.
Who were these people? Why would anyone make a painting of them? They don¡¯t look like kings or nobility. Did she want me to see this? She knew I would be able to because I¡¯m elvish. Is this important somehow?
The ivy that covered the monastery was densest around the nave. Some had even slipped in through the windows, the door, and cracks in the walls.
He tilted his head up to see the other painting. It was farther away, harder to see than the one on the wall. Even Royce had to squint. This long image depicted three realms with doorways leading from one to the next. Before the first was a long river with a hut beside it. The river flowed to a pair of great gates. The first realm was filled with people and ruled by a man on a mountain throne. The next was a dark place of shadow and flame ruled by a sinister-looking queen. Across a narrow bridge was another door that led to a beautiful place of flowering trees and green, rolling hills. This last place had no throne or castle, just a modest cottage. One more door led out of the realm to another place, a dark, walled area impossible to see into.
Royce stared up for several minutes, trying to make sense of this image, of this place. He felt the eyes of those on the wall watching him, the woman with the dark hair most of all. There was something about her that he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on.
The pounding of horses¡¯ hooves entering the courtyard caught his attention.
Finally! What took you so long?
Royce waited.
Good thing I didn¡¯t need help, he planned to say. Then Lord Fawkes opened the door.
Soaked and windblown, His Lordship ducked inside, throwing his hood back and wiping the wet from his face. ¡°There you are!¡± he said, spotting Royce. ¡°And where is she?¡± His eyes shifted to the stairs. ¡°Down there?¡±
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Fawkes made no immediate move to cross the room. He took his time, shaking the rain out of his hair and squeezing it from his shirt, stomping his feet. ¡°I hate water in my shoes. Gurgles when you step, and your feet blister in them.¡±
¡°Where¡¯s Hadrian?¡±
Fawkes looked up as if unfamiliar with the name. ¡°Oh, your partner in crime, yes ¡ª he¡¯s dead. Killed him on the way up. Him and his girlfriend.¡±
¡°You killed Hadrian? You killed him?¡±
¡°He¡¯s a big man, I know, but also wounded. I was there when the slavers beat him, remember. Bruised, maybe busted ribs, I¡¯m guessing. You, on the other hand . . .¡± Fawkes peered across at Royce. ¡°How are they? Your hands, that is. They stomped them pretty good. That must hurt.¡±
Royce reached for Alverstone, only to remember he¡¯d lost it somewhere in Castle Dulgath¡¯s courtyard.
Fawkes grinned at him as he threw off his sodden cloak. He drew his sword and made two wide practice swings that sprayed the floor with rainwater. ¡°Not even a knife?¡±
Royce imagined throwing Alverstone at Fawkes¡¯s throat, saw him clawing at his neck in fear and agony, and he hated the dead man with the crossbow for the loss of his blade. Fawkes had risen from a mere target to an enemy and then to an adversary worth taking Royce¡¯s time with. He wanted so badly to kill the man that he might drool at the sight of him ¡ª so close, so alone. The world was rarely this accommodating ¡ª but, of course, it wasn¡¯t. His hands were busted and his dagger miles away. Life was filled with cruel ironies.
Royce didn¡¯t buy the story of Hadrian¡¯s death. But if it was true, dagger or no dagger, hands or no hands, Fawkes would never leave this room alive.
I¡¯ll tear his throat out with my teeth if I have to.
Two things bothered Royce ¡ª besides his hands and the missing dagger. First, he still didn¡¯t know what Nysa wanted from him. Why she¡¯d told that crazy story. Second, if Hadrian wasn¡¯t dead, then why hadn¡¯t Fawkes attacked? He¡¯d taken off his cloak, shaken out his hair, wiped his face, and seemed content to take practice swings.
If Hadrian could come up the trail, why wait? What is he waiting for?
The answer came through the door a moment later.
¡°Have you killed her?¡± Knox asked. The sheriff looked across the hall at Royce and pulled his two blades. One had blood on it.
Hadrian¡¯s?
Royce felt rage ignite. As it did, his eyes narrowed, fixing on the two of them.
¡°Not yet. Was waiting for you. Kill this one. He¡¯s unarmed and his hands are broken. Should be easy.¡±
¡°Then why didn¡¯t you kill him?¡±
¡°Can¡¯t afford to make mistakes this time,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°I think you can appreciate that. You¡¯re better with a blade, and he can¡¯t be allowed to get away.¡±
The two moved forward. They spread out, forcing Royce toward the corner. Both Fawkes and the sheriff swung at him. Royce leapt back, giving them control of the room.
¡°See,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°He¡¯s harmless, and this is a butcher¡¯s work. You deal with it. I¡¯m going after Nysa.¡±
Royce could do nothing as Fawkes went down the steps, his sword still out.
Knox came at Royce with eager eyes. He swung again, and once more Royce dodged.
¡°You¡¯re quick,¡± the sheriff said.
From the stairway came the sound of a door slamming shut.
¡°He¡¯s killing her, you know,¡± Knox said. ¡°Bitch has a nasty habit of living. He¡¯s going to cut off her head this time to make sure. We¡¯ll blame you for it.¡± Knox moved closer, creeping in on bent legs, his eyes fixed on Royce. ¡°I know your kind. Stabbing folk in the back is your style. Not very sporting.¡±
Knox took another swing, first with his left saber and then with his right.
Royce wasn¡¯t there either time.
¡°You really are fast. I¡¯ll give you that.¡±
Knox drove him back. Forced him into the corner to limit his ability to move. Royce tried to dodge, to pivot away from the walls, but Knox had been waiting. Two experienced swords were more than Royce could safely dodge, and he retreated again until his back was against the wall with the mural. He found himself standing between the girl with the book and the one with the wolf.
I bet neither of you ever had a day like this.
¡°Knox! Put the sword down!¡± Racing out of the rain, Hadrian crashed through the door with both swords drawn.
¡°About time!¡± Royce snapped. ¡°Kill him and let¡¯s go.¡±
Hadrian advanced without comment, his jaw set, his eyes locked on the sheriff, who shuffled back, raising his swords. Hadrian struck with his bastard blade. Metal met metal with a dull ring as the swords locked at the guards. Knox brought his second blade around, but a saber was slower than a short sword, and before the ring of the first clash faded, Hadrian had thrust two feet of dull metal under the sheriff¡¯s rib cage. He drew it out with an uncharacteristically cruel slicing motion. Knox let out a grunt that might have been a word, then folded over. He dropped his sword and grabbed at his torn stomach, trying to hold his bowels in. He fell with a wet slap.
Royce stared at the dead man, surprised. ¡°What? No argument?¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Not this time. Where¡¯s Nysa?¡±
Royce led the way down the steps. At the bottom was a closed door. He hit it with his shoulder and bounced off. ¡°Locked.¡±
¡°So? Pick it!¡± Hadrian shouted.
¡°Can¡¯t.¡± Royce stepped aside to show him. The door had a handle, but lacked a latch and keyhole. ¡°Bolted from the inside.¡±
Hadrian pulled his big sword from his back and hammered the wood with the pommel. He hit it three times. ¡°Open, damn you!¡±
The door ignored him.
Christopher was quick to bolt the door behind him. Not that he didn¡¯t think Knox could handle an unarmed thief, but he didn¡¯t want anyone coming in or going out. He¡¯d spent the better part of the spring and summer trying to kill Nysa Dulgath, and this time he was determined to succeed.
I took you in, paid your debts, fed, clothed, and protected you. Now is the time of your reckoning. Your chance to repay my kindness. Fail, and I won¡¯t know you. Do you understand?
Christopher understood perfectly. This was his moment for the taking or the losing. As far as make-it-or-break-it moments went, they didn¡¯t come any clearer than this.
He was in some sort of grotto beneath the monastery, a small stone chamber dressed up to look important. A shaft of daylight came in at a slant from an overhead opening. The light was muted by a cloudy sky, but still bright in that otherwise dark place. It illuminated a gaudy chest.
That looks promising.
Next to it lay Nysa Dulgath. She was on the floor, hands folded over her breasts, gown smoothed out. Her eyes were closed. She didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t breathe. The only other people in the chamber were two young monks and an old man with a ridiculously long white beard, all of whom cowered on the far side of the chest and Nysa¡¯s prone body.
No, it doesn¡¯t get easier than this.
¡°You¡¯re the abbot here?¡± he asked the bearded one. He still held his sword but let it rest against his thigh. ¡°Augustine, isn¡¯t it?¡±
The man nodded.
The chest was open and Christopher walked over. No gold.
I guess that was asking a bit much.
Instead, he saw only a bit of plaid cloth. ¡°What¡¯s with the rag?¡±
The abbot didn¡¯t answer, but his old eyes watched every move Christopher made.
¡°I¡¯m lucky to find you. A pair of rogues ¡ª the same ones that tried to kill Lady Dulgath and abducted her for ransom ¡ª have come here. You¡¯re in great danger. They were hired by Sheriff Knox, who had some crazy notion put in his head by the lady¡¯s handmaiden that Nysa is a demon. The man is obviously insane, but capable. I figured it out ¡ª because I¡¯m smart that way.¡± He smiled.
The abbot and his cohorts didn¡¯t smile back. Christopher was certain the two younger monks would start crying soon.
He glanced back at the still-barred door then added in a softer voice, ¡°I¡¯ll kill the treasonous sheriff when I leave here, ensuring justice is done.¡±
Christopher moved to Lady Dulgath, causing the monks to retreat.
Such brave guards.
He studied Nysa as she lay on the stone floor. Such smooth skin, lovely cheeks, flowing hair, and that narrow waist. Even pale with death and splattered with dried blood, she was beautiful. Normally he couldn¡¯t stare, wouldn¡¯t dare ogle the countess, but nothing stopped him now.
Her breasts, normally something he would be eager to inspect, repelled him. He refused to look at the wound, that dark ugly depression near where her hands were folded. Christopher wasn¡¯t squeamish, but that hole in her chest was disturbing.
What a waste.
He sighed. ¡°Looks like I raced all this way for nothing. I¡¯m too late. She¡¯s already dead.¡±
¡°No. I¡¯m not.¡± Lady Dulgath¡¯s eyes opened slowly, as if they weighed many pounds.
Christopher stepped back, squeezing the handle of his sword.
¡°Thank you for coming so quickly,¡± Lady Dulgath said. Her voice sounded calm, relaxed, but he noted a strange reediness. She spoke as if from a hollow place, with a breathless quality that ¡ª in another time and place ¡ª might have been interpreted as seductive. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d get here soon.¡±
¡°You ¡ª you knew I was coming?¡± Christopher glanced at Augustine who looked guilty of something, but Fawkes didn¡¯t know what that might be.
¡°Of course,¡± Lady Dulgath said in her strangely normal, nearly lighthearted tone, the odd, airy flutter still present in her words.
Christopher didn¡¯t like that sound, that queer hum like blowing across the mouth of a bottle.
¡°I invited you,¡± Nysa said.
Behind him, Christopher heard the door jiggle and a thump as someone threw themselves against it.
Good luck with that, Knox. The door is six inches of oak.
¡°You didn¡¯t invite me. You ran here thinking you could get away, trying to find help.¡±
¡°I told Hadrian where to take me ¡ª right in front of you,¡± she said. ¡°I knew you¡¯d hear and come to help.¡±
Christopher laughed. He liked the sound of it, how it filled the little room and pushed back against that windy voice that didn¡¯t sound the least bit normal. ¡°You misunderstand, milady. I¡¯m not here to help you; I¡¯m here to kill you.¡±
¡°I know.¡± Came the words in that same awful voice.
Christopher knew something was wrong, something absolutely unnatural about her. The sound raised the hairs on his arms.
¡°In case you¡¯re wondering why I chose you, it¡¯s because you killed Sherwood. I like to think his murder will be seen as justification. I want to believe that my decision is as coolly reached and as pure as that, but I can¡¯t deny that I do hate you, Christopher Fawkes. I saw his painting only after it was too late. I hate you for depriving me of the chance to speak to him about it. The gods know you deserve to die. I just wanted you to know that what you did to Sherwood made this easier.¡±
¡°What are you talking about?¡±
¡°I¡¯m so glad you got here while I could still move these fingers and speak through this mouth. I didn¡¯t come here for help, Christopher,¡± she said with a terrible, pitying tone. ¡°I came here so there wouldn¡¯t be any witnesses. Tell me, Lord Fawkes, do you know what Miralyith means? In Fhrey ¡ª what you call elvish ¡ª it means Artist. You killed the wrong one.¡±
V1: Chapter 24 - A Need to Kill
Hadrian was desperate.
Royce was left muttering That doesn¡¯t make sense. It should have worked, over and over as if reason, combined with repetition, could convince the door to open. He¡¯d shown Hadrian how to use his dagger between the door and its jamb to catch and flip the bolt. The gap was wide enough and Hadrian had felt something rise and fall away. Royce examined the door and confirmed that the bolt had been removed. And yet, the door still refused to open.
Thoughts of Scarlett bleeding to death on a muddy path while crying out You promised to come back finally drove Hadrian to recklessness. He threw himself against the door, and nearly blacked out from the pain.
¡°That wasn¡¯t very smart,¡± Royce said when Hadrian slumped to the floor, and wrapped his arms around his body.
¡°We have to get in . . .¡± Hadrian took a gasp of air, just a sip. Inflating his lungs pushed his ribs out and made his body shudder in agony. ¡°Scarlett is dying . . .¡±
Royce gave the unrelenting wood a frustrated kick, which the door didn¡¯t acknowledge in the slightest; it didn¡¯t even rattle against the frame. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense! It should open. You lifted the bolt. It¡¯s gone. That should have work ¡ª¡±
¡°Stop saying that! Stop arguing with the door and just open it!¡±
¡°It. Won¡¯t. Let. Me!¡± Royce kicked the door again. ¡°The brace is gone. You felt it. I heard it.¡±
¡°Is there another? A second bolt?¡±
¡°No, there was only the one, and now it¡¯s gone.¡±
¡°Then what¡¯s keeping it closed?¡±
¡°Damned if I know!¡±
¡°Wait ¡ª¡± Hadrian felt suddenly and mortally stupid. ¡°Does it ¡ª oh, by Mar! Does it pull open?¡±
Royce looked at him, and for a fleeting moment Hadrian saw the shadow of shock, almost horror, at the thought. Then it vanished. ¡°No!¡± he snapped, but he gave the door¡¯s handle a pull to be sure.
¡°Then what¡¯s stopping it?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Braced by something. Something I can¡¯t see by looking around the edges.¡±
¡°Something strong.¡± Hadrian rubbed his shoulder and resumed breathing normally, or as normally as a man with cracked ribs could without wincing. ¡°It didn¡¯t give even a little when I hit it. It¡¯s like a wall of stone.¡±
Royce slapped his back against the door and slid down. He looked sick, and Hadrian was sure his partner¡¯s face mirrored his own. They had failed. Nysa Dulgath and Scarlett Dodge were dead or would be soon.
I shouldn¡¯t have left her, Hadrian thought. I shouldn¡¯t have let her die alone in the rain and mud. But if I hadn¡¯t, Royce might be dead, too.
¡°Too late anyway,¡± Royce said in a bitter tone, looking at his own hands as if they had disappointed him. ¡°Fawkes has finished the job by now. Killed her and the abbot. When you visited, did you go in there?¡±
Hadrian nodded.
¡°Any other way in?¡±
Hadrian gave him a look. ¡°Do you think I would have bounced off the door if there was?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°You were the one who asked if the door opened out, remember?¡±
¡°No, there¡¯s no other exit. It¡¯s a tomb. At least Fawkes won¡¯t get away,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°And you¡¯ll hear no arguments from me this time. You can use whichever weapon of mine you want, and kill him any way you like. I¡¯ll even watch. The bastard didn¡¯t just kill Nysa, he ¡ª¡±
The door opened.
Royce, who¡¯d been resting with his back against it, jumped up in alarm. It hadn¡¯t been pulled wide, but merely swung inward in response to the slight weight Royce had placed on it.
¡°What¡¯d you do?¡± Hadrian asked, stunned.
¡°Nothing,¡± Royce said, glaring at the tiny gap between the frame and the door.
¡°Take this.¡± Hadrian got to his feet and held out his short blade.
Royce took it with his left hand, then shoved the door inward with his foot.
The scene inside was mostly the same as Hadrian had witnessed days before. The slanted shaft of sunlight illuminated the chest within the small stone tomb. The differences were Nysa Dulgath, who lay beside the box, her hands folded neatly on her chest, and Lord Fawkes, who stood over her body with a sword in his hand.
The door announced their entrance with a creak of its hinges. Pressing down on the left heel of his shoe, Fawkes spun upon it like a child¡¯s top, facing them.
¡°Do it, Royce,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°This is one job that needs to end with a killing.¡±
¡°No!¡± Abbot Augustine came around the chest, shaking both hands to get their attention.
Hadrian held up his own hand, warning the abbot to stop. ¡°We aren¡¯t going to hurt you ¡ª just His Lordship.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t need to kill him,¡± Augustine said.
¡°Need?¡± Hadrian said. Fawkes had plotted against and murdered Lady Dulgath, not to mention beating and selling them to slavers. Need had nothing to do with it. Hadrian thought of Ralph and wondered whether Royce was rubbing off on him.
Royce didn¡¯t move. He stood holding Hadrian¡¯s sword, staring at the lord.
Fawkes tossed his own sword away, letting it clang on the floor.
Surrendering? Hadrian thought. He has no idea who he¡¯s dealing with. Royce doesn¡¯t care about such things.
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In the three years they¡¯d worked together, Hadrian had learned that Royce refused to abide people like Fawkes. Pragmatic in most ways, Royce never allowed a man or woman to live who had crossed him. While he would never label it as an excuse, his reasoning was that leaving enemies breathing was the sort of careless behavior that came back to haunt and possibly kill. In Royce¡¯s line of work, staying his hand was just sloppy.
Hadrian had his own theory. Violence always came from somewhere. Most often its origin was taught, handed down as an heirloom from one generation to the next or a gift presented from close friends. That sort of mean streak became part of a person¡¯s character and displayed itself through insults and unwarranted cruelty. The other sort was violence born of necessity. Beat a dog long enough and it bites and will continue to bite anyone and everyone, in an act of perceived self-preservation.
Hadrian had known men who had suffered insults all their lives due to their size, name, appearance, or birthplace. These were the first into battle and the last ones out. They couldn¡¯t walk away from even a casual slight and needed to prove themselves to any detractors. These were men who expected the worst of everyone. Royce was a step beyond that. People hadn¡¯t merely belittled or slighted Royce ¡ª the world had tried, with strong prejudice, to erase him. Hadrian still didn¡¯t know the whole story, but he knew enough to believe Royce might have been a show dog that, through cruelty, had learned to be more than mean ¡ª he¡¯d taught himself to survive through the precise application of malice. For this reason, Hadrian found it odd that Royce hesitated.
¡°Go on,¡± he urged. He held a strong belief that Fawkes didn¡¯t deserve even a single additional breath.
Fawkes stared at Royce in a manner that ¡ª if the lord had any clue about the thief¡¯s history and temperament ¡ª would have been brave. Then he let out an almost impatient huff, folded his arms roughly, and shifted his weight first to his left, then his right hip.
Seeing this, Royce lowered the short sword, letting it hang against his thigh.
¡°Royce?¡± Hadrian asked, stunned.
He didn¡¯t reply. Instead, Royce glanced down at the body of Nysa Dulgath, then over at Fawkes.
¡°Are you going to kill him or not?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No ¡ª no, I¡¯m not.¡±
¡°Fine.¡± Hadrian pulled his bastard sword. ¡°Then I will.¡±
¡°No!¡± Royce stepped between them.
¡°What¡¯s wrong with you? That bastard killed Lady Dulgath, tried to kill us, and . . . and Scarlett is probably dead by now. Because of him, there¡¯s no way to save her ¡ª if there even was a chance to begin with.¡±
Hadrian wanted to believe the tall tales . . . that the stupid cloth in the box was more than just an old rag; that it really never rained in Dulgath in the daytime. He wanted to believe it all, because then Scarlett ¡ª
¡°Scarlett Dodge is hurt?¡± Fawkes asked, almost as if he cared.
¡°Congratulations. You managed to kill one of us,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Where is she?¡± Lord Fawkes asked with a strange urgency.
¡°Still on the path where you fought us. Has to be dead by now. Probably ¡ª¡±
¡°Take me to her!¡±
¡°Right after I kill you.¡±
¡°I can help.¡± Fawkes turned to the abbot and said, ¡°Augustine, gather the monks. I¡¯ll need to speak to all of you when I return.¡±
¡°Of course,¡± the abbot said, and bowed to the lord.
Fawkes turned back and stared at Hadrian with intense eyes. ¡°If you care for Scarlett, take me to her.¡±
¡°Do as he says,¡± Royce told him.
¡°What?¡±
¡°I¡¯m serious. I really think he can help her.¡±
¡°This is . . .¡± Hadrian didn¡¯t have an answer. Still, he sheathed his weapon. Opposites Day had stopped being funny a long time ago.
The storm had passed, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up, revealing a setting sun that stained the sky a bloody red.
Scarlett hadn¡¯t moved. They found her curled up and lying on her side in the muddy path. Her beautiful hair was matted into the silt that had built up around her. Dirt smeared her face, and blood was everywhere. Some had already darkened as it dried but around her mouth, still bright red. Her eyes were closed and remained shut even as the horses charged toward her.
She didn¡¯t move.
¡°Scarlett!¡± Hadrian shouted, jumping from his saddle and wincing with the impact as he rushed over. He fell to the ground alongside her body and slipped an arm under her neck. She didn¡¯t react. One of her hands slipped off her lap and fell into a puddle, where it stayed. Hadrian cradled her head in his arm and put his hand to her lips.
¡°It¡¯s too late,¡± he managed to say as his teeth locked together and he glared at Fawkes.
¡°No, it¡¯s not,¡± Lord Fawkes said, climbing down from his horse. ¡°Back, Derby,¡± Fawkes told the animal. The horse moved away, obeying as if she understood.
¡°She¡¯s not breathing!¡±
¡°She¡¯s still here,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°I can feel her. She¡¯s not down the river yet. I can pull her back.¡±
¡°What river?¡± he asked, exasperated. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± But Fawkes had closed his eyes and started humming. ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡±
Royce shook his head. The thief watched intently while the lord began making new sounds and speaking foreign words. Fawkes moved his fingers as if plucking strings in midair.
¡°Royce, what¡¯s going on?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
Hadrian brushed the hair from Scarlett¡¯s face. Tears were welling on his lower lids, and his lips mashed themselves together as he held the woman tight.
Don¡¯t you give up. You hear me? You wait! I¡¯ll be right back!
But he hadn¡¯t made it in time.
If you save her, she¡¯ll save me.
But Nysa was dead.
I didn¡¯t do it because of Royce.
The first tear slipped down Hadrian¡¯s cheek. He let it fall. His stomach was tight, the muscles pulling on his ribs, but he no longer cared.
¡°It¡¯s all Fawkes¡¯s fault. Why didn¡¯t you kill him?¡± Hadrian asked Royce.
¡°Because . . .¡± Royce looked embarrassed. ¡°Because he spun on his heel.¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°When we came in, Fawkes pivoted on his heel ¡ª his left heel.¡±
¡°What does that have to do with anything?¡±
¡°He¡¯s never moved like that before. He didn¡¯t ¡ª but I remember ¡ª¡±
Scarlett jerked violently in Hadrian¡¯s arms. Her mouth flew open and she gasped a loud, gurgling breath. She coughed and bent over, retching blood and vomit. Then, sucking in a breath deeper than any Hadrian had heard before, she coughed again before another breath was drawn. Her fingers clutched at Hadrian and, finding his arm, clamped down and squeezed. Then she pulled him to her, hugged him tight. Her other arm, the hand that had fallen into the puddle, came around his neck.
She blinked several times and looked at Hadrian through clear eyes. ¡°I waited,¡± she managed to whisper, clutching him. ¡°It wasn¡¯t easy, but I waited. I waited for you.¡±
Fawkes sat down in the mud, looking tired ¡ª more than tired; he looked drained. But he was smiling at Scarlett. Hadrian couldn¡¯t make sense of anything. Couldn¡¯t explain even to himself why the man¡¯s look was so wrong. Such an expression didn¡¯t belong on the face of Christopher Fawkes.
What in the name of Maribor is going on?
¡°We need to get her out of this mud,¡± Royce said. ¡°Abbeys have healers, don¡¯t they? Augustine should be able ¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Scarlett said, pawing at her stomach where her dress was torn and stained. Where the stab wound should have been, the skin was smooth. ¡°Nysa saved me.¡±
¡°Nysa¡¯s dead,¡± Fawkes told her.
Scarlett looked at the lord, surprised to see him. Then she glanced at both Royce and Hadrian before saying, ¡°But . . . I don¡¯t understand. Nysa came to me, she pulled me back.¡±
¡°That was me,¡± Fawkes told her.
Scarlett stared at him for a long time then finally said, ¡°Like Maddie Oldcorn?¡±
Fawkes nodded. ¡°Like Maddie Oldcorn.¡±
¡°Do you know what they¡¯re talking about?¡± Hadrian asked Royce.
¡°They¡¯re talking about squirrels living in bird¡¯s nests.¡±
¡°Oh, of course,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Thanks for clearing that up.¡±
¡°I was hoping you¡¯d remember,¡± Fawkes told Royce. ¡°All the words in the world couldn¡¯t convince you if you didn¡¯t believe. Come, we need to get back or Abbot Augustine will worry.¡±
¡°Well, we certainly wouldn¡¯t want that,¡± Hadrian scoffed.
¡°Hush,¡± Scarlett told him, ¡°and help me up. She ¡ª he ¡ª healed me, but it¡¯s not like ¡ª I mean, I did get a sword shoved through my gut.¡±
Hadrian helped Scarlett to her feet. She wavered slightly, leaning on him. He could still picture Knox shoving that steel into her stomach and was dumbfounded that she could stand at all.
¡°We have a lot of work still to do tonight,¡± Fawkes told them. ¡°The king will want an explanation.¡±
¡°I know I¡¯d sure like one,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°It really won¡¯t help. The answer doesn¡¯t actually make any sense.¡± Royce reached out for his horse¡¯s reins and stopped. He flexed his right hand, then tore the splint off and flexed the fingers again. He pulled the splint off the finger on his left hand and felt it.
¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind, Hadrian,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°But I¡¯ll have to deal with your ribs later. It has been a long day, and it¡¯ll be an even longer night.¡±
V1: Chapter 25 - The Fifth Thing
With its pillars, polished stone floor, and decorative pennants, the Great Hall was the only part of Castle Dulgath that Royce thought resembled a castle instead of an oversized, run-down house of crumbling stone. The chair helped ¡ª the way it sat alone on the dais ¡ª supporting the king. Kings made all the difference. This one had his full retinue turned out, along with the castle staff. What had once been the comfortable residence of a country lady had become an extension of the power and might of His Majesty Vincent Pendergast, King of Maranon.
Previously, Royce had only seen the imperfections of the place: the fallen tower, the overgrown ivy, the lack of proper fortifications. He¡¯d completely overlooked its charm. The odd statues carved in the strangest of places alluded to stories no one understood; the encroaching ivy wrapped everything in a warm embrace; all of this lent a sort of enchanted whimsy to the home.
That¡¯s it, Royce realized. It¡¯s not a fortress; it¡¯s a home.
Like all kings, Vincent didn¡¯t look happy, visibly tired after his long ride the night before, which had resulted in him returning angry and empty-handed. He glared at Lord Fawkes, who acted as the spokesman for the group. Lord Christopher Fawkes stood at the center, and a full step ahead, of the group. Fawkes showed no sign of fatigue; he didn¡¯t yawn, slouch, or sag in any way. Instead, he remained straight, even proud, before his liege.
¡°You expect me to believe this?¡± the king asked in a tone that showed he clearly didn¡¯t.
¡°I do, Sire,¡± Fawkes replied in a strong, clear voice.
Vincent raised a brow. ¡°You saw Sheriff Knox separate from the rest of us and followed him to the monastery?¡±
¡°I did, Sire.¡±
Royce and Hadrian had strict orders to stand still and remain silent. Above all else, they mustn¡¯t talk. The two had been accused of the murder of Lady Dulgath and the attempted murder of the king ¡ª the latter being the far more serious charge. That Vincent himself was a witness to the crime made their situation untenable at best. The only reason they weren¡¯t already hanging from a rope was because they had turned themselves in and had the backing of such respected men. They had willingly walked in with the venerable Bishop Parnell, Abbot Augustine, and Chamberlain Wells all proclaiming his and Hadrian¡¯s innocence. Lord Fawkes had done so as well, but Royce wasn¡¯t sure how much value the king placed on his cousin¡¯s word.
Prior to sunrise, Fawkes had insisted, with a degree of confidence that appeared insane, that he could clear their names and protect them from harm. If anyone else had promised this, Royce would have ridden north as fast as his horse could carry him. But bones didn¡¯t mend themselves in an instant, a woman dead on a muddy path didn¡¯t awaken without a scratch, and there was no doubt that the person he had known as Lady Dulgath now resided in the body of Christopher Fawkes.
Standing in the Great Hall of Castle Dulgath, Royce flexed his right hand. Not even stiff. The finger on his left was also healed beyond the memory that it had ever been injured.
Not surprisingly, Hadrian was on board, especially after the pain from his ribs vanished after Fawkes had some time to rest. He¡¯d also pointed out that Royce wasn¡¯t actually guilty of anything for a change ¡ª as if that mattered. But perhaps more than anything, Royce agreed to stand before the king¡¯s justice out of curiosity. He wanted to see what other miracles Christopher Fawkes could perform.
¡°And you say you witnessed Chrissy fight and kill the sheriff in defense of Lady Dulgath, who lay dying at your abbey?¡± the king asked Augustine.
¡°He was most heroic, Your Majesty,¡± the abbot replied, his hands clasped before him in a perfectly pious posture.
The king raised an eyebrow. ¡°Chrissy, heroic? I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever seen that side to him before.¡±
¡°If I may, Sire.¡± Bishop Parnell stepped in. ¡°You underestimate the man. He has changed over these last few years under the tutelage of the church.¡±
¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure he has,¡± Vincent grumbled, then began a slow shake of his head as his eyes focused on Royce. ¡°But I saw this one aim an arbalest at me, with my own eyes. Why¡¯d you do it?¡±
Remembering the rules, Royce remained silent.
¡°I want an answer, or I¡¯ll have your head here and now!¡±
Royce glanced at Fawkes, who nodded.
¡°If I wanted you dead,¡± Royce replied, ¡°we wouldn¡¯t be having this conversation. I was simply trying to save Lady Dulgath.¡±
The king showed his teeth as his face flushed.
¡°He¡¯s right, Sire,¡± Fawkes intervened. ¡°A single squeeze of that lever and you would be dead. You¡¯re looking at a man who could have, but didn¡¯t, kill you.¡±
¡°Lady Dulgath wasn¡¯t dead,¡± Royce said. ¡°But Knox had said that he¡¯d finish the job the moment she was taken to the infirmary. He¡¯d pointed his finger my way, and everyone in that courtyard wanted a rope around my neck. You weren¡¯t going to listen ¡ª no one was ¡ª certainly not until after Hadrian and I were dead and the lady along with us. I took the only possible route. Everyone believed I was a killer, so I used that to my advantage to try to save Lady Dulgath. It almost worked.¡±
The king¡¯s face softened. He still looked angry, maybe more than before, but he believed the explanation. Royce was a good liar, but telling the truth was even more convincing.
Vincent leaned back in the big chair that had once belonged to Nysa Dulgath and her father before her. He steepled his fingers and shifted his sight to the bishop, who remained in the regalia he¡¯d worn the day before. The bishop represented the most reputable of those gathered. ¡°And it¡¯s your testimony that Sheriff Knox was the one who hired Shervin Gerami?¡±
¡°I can only report what I saw, Your Majesty, and that was Knox speaking to this Gerami fellow early on the morning of the ceremony. After they spoke, the sheriff handed over a purse. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I figured Knox was hiring him to be a sentry or for some other duty. Of course, when the bald man was found on the wall, beside the arbalest, it became clear to me that Knox was paying the man for a more despicable task.¡±
¡°And the arbalest? Can anyone shed light on how Knox got that weapon?¡±
Chamberlain Wells looked to Fawkes, who nodded his permission. ¡°I think I can, Your Majesty. The sheriff came to me with the specific request for a heavy crossbow.¡±
¡°Did he say why?¡±
¡°No, but like the bishop, I had no reason to question his motives. Knox was the high sheriff and in charge of Dulgath¡¯s security. If he needed an arbalest, I figured there had to be a good reason.¡±
They had gone over most of this at Brecken Moor the night before. Fawkes had explained his plan to hang the whole affair on Knox, claiming the sheriff had hired Royce and Hadrian as consultants while secretly planning to pin the murders on them. When Fawkes had grown suspicious of Knox he had warned the thieves. Then Fawkes and the thieves had worked to thwart the sheriff¡¯s plot. Augustine had been an eager supporter of the plan, and Royce thought he knew why.
The abbot had been in the room when Nysa changed nests. He¡¯d seen the whole thing. Augustine might have been privy to the secret for years.
When it was Augustine¡¯s time to speak, the abbot embellished his version, painting Fawkes as a swashbuckling champion who fought the evil sheriff in a pitched battle, an epic sword fight that lasted ¡°at least an hour.¡± But then again, maybe that was how the abbot imagined it happening. His sort was prone to aggrandizing tales to advance their own agendas.
¡°One thing still escapes me,¡± the king said. ¡°Why would Sheriff Knox, an immigrant from Warric whom Beadle Dulgath appointed, want to kill Lady Dulgath? What could he possibly gain? Can you tell me that, Chrissy?¡±
They had gone over the story to make sure each had answers to anything the king might ask. Yet after an entire night of discussion, this question had never been raised.
Why did the sheriff do it?
A certain amount of sloppiness was understandable given the exhaustion Fawkes had exhibited after healing Scarlett Dodge and then Royce. But this was a pretty important point to overlook. Like everyone else gathered before the king, Royce watched Lord Fawkes with great anticipation.
Fawkes hesitated. He inspected his feet for a moment, then glanced warily not at the king, but at Bishop Parnell. Then he straightened, and, looking directly at Vincent, he said, ¡°I believe the Nyphron Church is responsible.¡±
The bishop¡¯s eyes nearly fell out, and the chamberlain gasped, clamping a palm over his mouth to stifle it.
¡°That¡¯s a serious charge,¡± the king said, and Royce noted that for the first time the insulting tone was missing.
¡°And utterly absurd!¡± Parnell shouted.
¡°I have no proof, Your Majesty,¡± Fawkes admitted. ¡°And yet I¡¯m sure this is so.¡±
¡°Your Majesty, I ¡ª¡± Parnell started.
The king silenced the bishop with a hand. He kept his focus on Fawkes and said, ¡°Explain your reasoning.¡±
¡°My belief is the church is seeking to take control of Maranon. The newly appointed Earl Woodrow Braga of Swanwick is a self-professed Imperialist, replacing Earl Purim ¡ª an ardent Monarchist. Manzar has always been a bulwark for the church. And I suppose you could say my own father has had a spiritual awakening, as he, too, has shifted his allegiance, nodding in favor of the Imperialists.¡±
¡°There is nothing unseemly about men of good standing taking a greater interest in their church,¡± Parnell snapped.
¡°No,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°But there is when the church pressures and threatens nobles if they don¡¯t agree to side with them against their king. I spoke to Lady Dulgath several times after arriving here. She explained how her father had received repeated threats from the church. Beadle had remained strong and was able to weather their intimidation, but it seems they were taking a stronger stance with Lady Dulgath. She was told that if she refused to comply with their wishes, she would be replaced. I suspect if Knox had lived, there would have been a convincing argument for him to act as steward. As you so keenly pointed out, he¡¯d already been appointed by Beadle himself and so would have been a likely candidate for the earl¡¯s successor.¡±
¡°Who did she say was the source of those threats?¡± the king asked, allowing his eyes to flicker toward the bishop, who glared at Fawkes so hard he looked on the verge of exploding.
¡°She didn¡¯t,¡± Fawkes replied without the slightest glance at Parnell. ¡°Lady Dulgath was the very embodiment of discretion, Your Majesty. Nor could she trust me, given that my father is an Imperialist. I tried to explain how I had broken ties with him because I saw my father as a traitor to his king, but she only had my word. As you well know, that means nothing these days.¡±
¡°I see.¡± The king continued to stare at Fawkes with a fascinated expression, as if he were witnessing a magic trick and trying to figure out what he had overlooked.
¡°This is all a lie!¡± the bishop nearly screamed. He was red, and sweat beaded on his face.
In a perfectly calm and sensible tone, Fawkes said, ¡°At best, I¡¯m merely speculating. I¡¯ve already explained I have no proof. I¡¯m not accusing anyone of anything. His Majesty asked to understand my reasoning, and I¡¯ve stated it.¡±
The bishop gesticulated with hands that formed fists. His face looked as if he could chew through rocks. The king appeared oblivious as he stared with continued fascination at Fawkes.
¡°The church took you in after your financial fiasco, did it not?¡± Vincent asked Fawkes.
¡°They did.¡±
¡°And what have you become but an ungrateful cur!¡± Parnell shouted.
¡°If it is true, that the church has backed you financially, why do you now stand before me, denouncing them?¡± Vincent asked Fawkes as if the bishop weren¡¯t there.
¡°I am my own man, Your Majesty. That should have been obvious when I left my father¡¯s house. My loyalty is to my king, and it cannot be bought with blood or gold.¡±
¡°But it didn¡¯t prevent you from borrowing money falsely, using my name as collateral.¡±
Fawkes faltered, and Royce thought he might finally have been tripped up, but then he realized this was no more than a dramatic pause. ¡°For that I have no excuse, Your Majesty. It is a transgression that has long weighed on my heart and on my soul. I admit my wrongdoing and wish to make amends, to prove myself through deeds rather than words.¡±
The king chuckled this time. ¡°You do impress me, Christopher. I¡¯m certain most of what I¡¯ve heard is unadulterated codswallop, but . . . well done. Perhaps politics is more your talent than horse racing.¡± Vincent crossed his arms and cast his sight across the assembled group. ¡°Given so many witnesses of good standing, it¡¯s impossible for me to simply reject your explanation of recent events. That means, of course, I¡¯m indebted to you, Christopher. You are to be rewarded. What would you ask of your king?¡±
This time Fawkes didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°These men were promised compensation for coming here.¡± He gestured at Royce and Hadrian. ¡°As they were instrumental in saving your life, and at considerable risk, I ask that you grant them the payment they were offered. I would pay them myself, but . . .¡± Fawkes pretended to reach for a purse that wasn¡¯t there.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
¡°Yes, yes, of course, but what for yourself?¡± the king asked.
¡°For me? Nothing, Sire.¡±
¡°Nothing?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t believe a man should be rewarded for doing his duty to protect his king.¡±
The king smiled. Not a sneer, not an expression of mockery or amusement, but one of true approval.
He¡¯s done it, Royce thought, and couldn¡¯t have been more impressed if Fawkes had palmed the crown right off the old man¡¯s head.
¡°You say you want to prove yourself through deeds?¡± Vincent asked. ¡°Very well. It seems I have a province without a ruler.¡±
¡°Your Majesty, no!¡± Bishop Parnell exclaimed.
The king ignored him. ¡°Christopher Fawkes, son of Oddsworth, I hereby appoint you Steward of Dulgath, in which capacity you will serve for three years. Should you, at the end of that time, prove a worthy administrator of these lands, I will bestow on you the title of earl.¡± The king looked over at his scribe, who nodded.
He then faced Royce and Hadrian. ¡°Now, what do I owe the two of you?¡±
¡°Fifty gold tenents,¡± Royce said before Hadrian had the chance to open his mouth.
¡°Fifty?¡± Bishop Parnell said, shocked.
¡°It¡¯s what Sheriff Knox promised us,¡± Royce told the bishop. ¡°Being a clergyman, I wouldn¡¯t expect you to know the going rate of a quality assassin consultant.¡±
Parnell bit his lip.
¡°You¡¯ll be paid,¡± the king said, ¡°but I must insist the two of you leave Maranon. I won¡¯t abide thieves and assassins in my kingdom, no matter what service they might have provided me.¡±
Royce considered asking if he planned to exile Bishop Parnell as well but then thought better of it. He and Hadrian weren¡¯t on their way to the gallows and were being paid twice the agreed amount. Fawkes¡¯s advice to keep his mouth shut seemed wise after all.
Hadrian exited the castle, feeling better the moment the sun hit him. Being in the Great Hall with so many robes and crowns had felt like being underwater; pressure was everywhere. Leaving as soon as they were paid was the smart thing to do. They shouldn¡¯t give the king time to come to his senses and reconsider, but as the reception broke up, Royce had lingered. Fawkes did as well.
I¡¯ll be out in a minute, Royce had told him. I have a few things to talk to Lord Fawkes about before we go.
This was fine with Hadrian. He had at least one question of his own to deal with, and, like Royce, he wanted to do so alone.
The courtyard was still a mess of storm-tossed banners and toppled chairs. The Dulgath standard still lay in the courtyard where Knox had pulled it down. The arbalest was gone. Vincent had likely ordered it secured moments after they¡¯d left. Having one of those pointed at you was tantamount to looking through a big open door into the next world, an experience anyone ¡ª much less a king ¡ª wouldn¡¯t want to repeat.
Hadrian walked out the front gate, which was still wide open and lacking a guard.
Nothing changes here.
Hadrian looked up at the perfect sky with its perfect sun and puffball clouds.
Nothing at all.
Scarlett waited down the slope and a few yards off to the side with their horses. She was petting Dancer, stroking her neck and letting her tear up thin grass. As he approached, Scarlett looked up, saw him, tilted her head, and leaned out to peer around the horse. She smiled. ¡°No one chasing you this time.¡±
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder. ¡°Nope.¡±
¡°And Lord Fawkes?¡±
¡°Steward.¡±
Scarlett looked puzzled and a bit disappointed. ¡°Not earl?¡±
¡°He will be.¡±
She thought about this and nodded. ¡°Did you get paid?¡±
¡°We did indeed.¡±
She smiled; then the expression vanished. ¡°So you¡¯ll be leaving, then?¡±
He stopped beside Dancer, clapping her on the shoulder. The horse took no notice of him as she ate the grass. He looked over the horse¡¯s back at Scarlett. ¡°Yes, but I was thinking . . .¡±
¡°A dangerous thing for you, I suspect.¡± She grinned.
¡°You¡¯ve been hanging around Royce too much.¡± He pretended to sound hurt.
She dropped the grin. ¡°Tell me, what have you been thinking?¡±
¡°You¡¯re a northern girl; you don¡¯t belong down here. I can¡¯t imagine you enjoy entertaining drunks in Wagner¡¯s tavern for thrown coins.¡± He softened his tone. ¡°You¡¯re smart, too. Good in a tight spot and incredibly brave. Took a sword to the stomach and only cried a little.¡±
She scowled. ¡°Didn¡¯t cry ¡ª eyes just watered.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what crying is.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t blubber, didn¡¯t sob. It just hurt is all.¡±
¡°I know it hurt, and I didn¡¯t mean to . . .¡± Hadrian sighed. ¡°How did me complimenting you turn into ¡ª look, my point is, I was wondering if you¡¯d like to come with us, back to Medford.¡±
¡°And do what? Be what? Part of your little thieves¡¯ guild? I¡¯ve already gone that way. Didn¡¯t work for me, remember?¡±
¡°Might be different this time.¡±
She frowned at him.
¡°So you¡¯re just going to stay with Wagner and dance in his bar?¡±
¡°Actually . . .¡± She looked up at the walls of the castle. ¡°Last night Lord Fawkes told me that if the king made him earl ¡ª and he was pretty sure he might ¡ª he planned on cleaning house. Getting rid of the ones he thought might be disloyal. The first to go would be Chamberlain Wells.¡±
¡°And?¡±
¡°And he said if that happened, the job was mine.¡±
Hadrian blinked. ¡°Really?¡±
¡°You don¡¯t have to look so shocked.¡±
¡°Sorry ¡ª I just ¡ª wow, that¡¯s huge.¡±
She shrugged, embarrassed. ¡°I told him I don¡¯t know anything about running a castle. Lord Fawkes said anyone could learn, but there were only a rare few he could trust. Have to admit . . .¡± Her eyes became glassy, and she reached up to wipe them clear. After a cough to clear her throat, she continued. ¡°It felt good to be recognized like that. To be rewarded for something ¡ª for doing something good, you know?¡±
Hadrian¡¯s hopes collapsed, one by one, in rapid succession. A series of optimistic dreams, which had only started to take root hours before, winked out with painful pricks like a dozen nasty needles. A faint pressure squeezed his chest as muscles tightened. He nodded and continued to nod, buying himself time to swallow.
¡°You should definitely do that.¡± He took another breath. ¡°That¡¯s an incredible opportunity.¡±
¡°It is, isn¡¯t it?¡±
He couldn¡¯t help thinking that she wanted him to convince her of something.
¡°I mean, I¡¯m a daughter of a poor farmer, turned thief, turned failed wool spinner, and I¡¯m going to be the chamberlain of Castle Dulgath. It¡¯s insane.¡±
¡°I think you¡¯ll make a wonderful chamberlain.¡±
She stared at him for a long moment as tears welled once more in her eyes. ¡°Thank you for saying that.¡±
¡°No ¡ª no, I mean it. I really do. Bet you look really good in blue, too.¡±
¡°Aren¡¯t you just full of shoot and sugar?¡±
¡°Maybe ¡ª I don¡¯t even know what that means.¡±
¡°Neither do I. It¡¯s a local thing.¡± She wiped her eyes again. ¡°Look, Dulgath is missing a sheriff, and as chamberlain I bet I could convince the new steward to give you the job. You did okay as a constable.¡±
¡°I was a lousy constable.¡±
¡°Just don¡¯t drink the ale.¡±
Hadrian smiled, but the edges of his lips turned downward as he did. ¡°The king ¡ª your king ¡ª ordered us out of Maranon.¡±
She looked as if he¡¯d slapped her. ¡°But you saved his life!¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Turns out he¡¯s prejudiced against thieves and assassins. Can¡¯t really blame him, I suppose.¡±
Scarlett looked away then. Her hands found Dancer¡¯s neck again, and she stroked the horse while looking at the ground as if it had moved in an unpleasant and unexpected direction. Hadrian knew the feeling and gave her a moment. He clapped Dancer again. ¡°You¡¯re spoiling my horse.¡±
¡°When are you leaving?¡± Scarlett asked quietly. ¡°Lady Dulgath¡¯s funeral is tomorrow. You¡¯re staying for that, aren¡¯t you? They¡¯re going to carry her up to the monastery to bury her next to her father. All the Dulgaths are up there.¡±
¡°Actually, I think Royce is going to want to head out in just a few minutes. We¡¯ve been here a long time, but . . .¡±
¡°But?¡± The single word lingered. Spoken softly, it sounded more like a cry, desperate and fearful.
Hadrian placed his hand on hers. She grabbed it and squeezed. In that moment, Hadrian hated Dancer as she stood between them. If she weren¡¯t there, he would have . . . but far more than a horse separated him from Scarlett Dodge. Of the three of them, Hadrian realized Dancer was the wisest.
Hadrian gave in, letting go of Scarlett¡¯s hand and simply shrugging. Looking at her became too hard, too painful. He lowered his head and focused on Dancer¡¯s white socks. He wasn¡¯t accustomed to losing battles, and while this wasn¡¯t one, he felt the loss just the same. He was helpless, beaten by powers beyond his ability to affect.
Dancer took a few steps to the right.
Hadrian lifted his head and saw red hair, lots of red hair. Arms swung around his neck as Scarlett¡¯s body pressed against his. She pulled, rising up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips pressed against his, gentle and soft, but firm ¡ª hungry. Fingers slid up his neck, reaching into his hair. He heard a sound, a soft hum. Hadrian couldn¡¯t tell which of them made it. Scarlett¡¯s lips parted slightly and lingered briefly on his. Then her hands released, the arms drew back, and those lips stole away, taking his breath with them.
Lord Fawkes led Royce to Nysa Dulgath¡¯s bedroom, which looked unchanged from the last time he was there.
¡°Must be strange,¡± Fawkes said.
¡°What?¡± Royce asked. At that moment, he could think of half a dozen things fitting the description.
¡°Coming in here through the door.¡± Fawkes smiled.
¡°Why are we here?¡±
¡°Two reasons.¡± The lord crossed to the table with the shell collection, and opened the drawer. When he turned around he held out a brilliant white dagger. ¡°Hadrian said you lost this.¡±
¡°Thank you. I wasn¡¯t planning on leaving the providence until I found this.¡±
Fawkes raised a brow. ¡°Really? Give it back then. I¡¯ll have someone bury it.¡±
¡°Too late.¡± Royce said as he put the dagger away. ¡°What¡¯s the other reason you asked me here?¡±
¡°I wanted to show you this,¡± Fawkes said, pulling the cloth-covered painting from behind the headboard of the bed. He set it up on the desk. ¡°Sherwood spent two months painting this portrait of Nysa Dulgath. I wanted you to see it. Frame got a little banged up recently, but I put it back together.¡±
Fawkes threw back the cloth.
Royce stared at the image of a young female elf. Her ears came to points; her eyes, a brilliant blue, were teardrop-shaped. Cheekbones were sharp and high, but the most surprising thing was that the elven girl was entirely bald ¡ª that and the fact she didn¡¯t look like the elves Royce knew. Something in her face, in those piercing blue eyes ¡ª she wasn¡¯t ashamed of who she was. This person was proud.
¡°This is you?¡± he asked.
¡°What I looked like before I died. I don¡¯t know how Sherwood did it. I don¡¯t know how he knew. Perhaps he was more than an artist. Maybe he unknowingly practiced The Art.¡±
Royce wasn¡¯t sure what the difference was, but he didn¡¯t want to interrupt her.
¡°Sherwood had the ability to see people. Really see them. He told me that, but I didn¡¯t believe. He was killed before I saw this. Before I could tell him he was right.¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Royce took a step closer to the image. ¡°He knew.¡±
¡°Yes.¡± Fawkes nodded. He took a labored breath, then spun on his left heel and moved to the window, leaving Royce with the painting. ¡°Do you . . . do you find it ugly?¡±
Royce reached up and touched the dry ridges left behind by the paintbrush. ¡°No.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t help wondering what Sherwood would have painted if he¡¯d done your portrait.¡±
Royce found the thought more than disturbing.
¡°I¡¯m more human than anything,¡± he said. ¡°You can see that just by looking at me. I honestly don¡¯t even know how you knew.¡±
Fawkes turned around and stared at him in surprise. ¡°The same way you knew about me. Didn¡¯t take you but a second. You came in the door ready to kill Christopher Fawkes but didn¡¯t. What stopped you? How did you know?¡±
He shrugged. ¡°The way you moved, the way you stood, how you talked. I recognized it. I recognized you.¡±
¡°We are more than the bodies we inhabit,¡± Fawkes said. ¡°They¡¯re little more than clothes, and yet we judge so much by them.¡± He laughed bitterly. ¡°I, of all people, should understand this truth, and yet . . .¡± He looked at the painting. ¡°I never gave Sherwood a chance. He saw the truth in me, but I refused to see the same in him.¡±
Fawkes took a step toward Royce. ¡°You could stay.¡±
¡°Your king would object, and that would ruin your chance to be earl.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not afraid of the king.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°No, I don¡¯t suppose you are. But you also don¡¯t want to start a war because you¡¯re lonely.¡±
Fawkes scowled at him. ¡°I¡¯m really starting to hate this woman of yours.¡±
¡°Goodbye, Lord Fawkes,¡± he said, and moved to the door. Before exiting, he stopped. ¡°The weather here ¡ª you control it somehow, don¡¯t you? That¡¯s why it¡¯s always sunny and warm, but not too warm.¡±
¡°What¡¯s your point? You don¡¯t like fair weather?¡±
¡°Too much of anything isn¡¯t good.¡±
¡°Goodbye, Royce Melborn.¡±
The inhabitants of Brecken Dale lined the streets of the village. Everyone was out: husbands, wives, and children held close to thighs. Each was dressed in their best set of clothes ¡ª which for many was their only set. But the collars were straight, the shoes bright, the hair neatly combed. Not a hood or hat could be seen, and all eyes were on Royce, Scarlett, and Hadrian. The crowd had been waiting for them.
Royce¡¯s first reaction was concern; his second was suspicion. Has someone peeked into the ramshackle church this morning? Given how the townsfolk felt about Pastor Payne, Royce didn¡¯t think so. Only when the stench becomes too unbearable will anyone bother to open that door. The following funeral will likely be attended by the fewest people needed to carry the body to a shallow, unmarked hole.
Why the villagers were out, each watching them with wide eyes and grins, eluded Royce. Given the numbers, the turnout had to be nearly everyone. One father went to the trouble of hoisting his son to his shoulders so the lad could see well. Even Scarlett looked puzzled.
¡°By Mar!¡± she said when they came into view of the village market. The place was full of folk. ¡°It¡¯s like a fair day.¡±
Wagner, Clem, Brook, and Gill stood with the others.
¡°Wag?¡± Scarlett asked, getting down from her horse. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± She tied the animal to the post and joined him.
¡°They know what you did,¡± Wagner replied. ¡°What all of you did, and tried to do for Lady Dulgath, and what you¡¯ve done for Lord Fawkes.¡±
¡°How?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Small town, people talk, and I might have mentioned something.¡± The bartender beamed a grin. Scarlett gave him a weak shove that made them both laugh.
Royce looked out over the gathering, boys and girls stared back at him with awe.
We¡¯re celebrities. He shivered and thanked Maribor they were banned by the king.
Hadrian didn¡¯t get off his horse. He¡¯d said his goodbyes. He and Scarlett exchanged one last look; then she bowed her head, turned away, and headed for the sheltered ivy of Caldwell House. Hadrian watched her go. The door closed behind her, but he continued to look, even then. After a moment more he turned to Royce and asked, ¡°You ready?¡±
Royce nodded enthusiastically.
Hadrian urged his horse forward, wading through the bodies that were slow to make a path. Royce followed.
¡°Thank you for everything you did,¡± said a woman, holding a less-than-content chicken in the crook of one arm. She reached out the other hand to touch Royce¡¯s leg. He recoiled and gave his mount a kick, making the dawdlers jump back. Once clear of the crowd, he gave another light kick and his horse broke into a trot, heading for the pass. He kept up the quick pace until clear of the village and the nearby farms. Only then did he let his mount settle back into her relaxed walk.
Hadrian caught up, and they rode side by side. Royce expected he¡¯d talk. For once, they had a lot to discuss. The two hadn¡¯t had a private moment in more than a day, and a lot had happened over that time. But although the sky was clear, as it always was in Dulgath, Hadrian didn¡¯t say a word. He spent most of the trip looking at his reins and playing with the knot.
Farms faded behind them as the trail began its upward grade. Even hunting shacks disappeared as the left side of the path fell away and the right became a cliff. They were nearing the gap that led out of Dulgath and back into Greater Maranon, to that open world where herds of horses roamed.
They¡¯d reach Mehan sometime after dark and get a room at one of the inns. The next morning, they¡¯d head due north, and if they pushed hard, they¡¯d make Ratibor by nightfall. An easy day would see them in Aquesta, but he¡¯d press Hadrian to keep going. With luck, they would reach Medford in five, maybe even four days.
Royce wanted ¡ª needed ¡ª to see Gwen¡¯s face again. Just knowing they were headed that way made him feel better.
She must be very special. You¡¯re turning down a title and an estate that would make you wealthy and respected for the rest of your life.
He¡¯d would never admit it, not to Hadrian, and certainly not to Gwen ¡ª didn¡¯t even like thinking it to himself ¡ª but somehow Gwen had become his fifth thing. To survive, Royce had only ever required four things: air, food, water, and sleep. He was less bothered by heat and cold than others and could live in a forest or field if need be. But those other four things were absolutes.
Reluctantly, he had discovered Gwen had become the fifth. He could last longer without her than any of the others, but if too much time past, he felt the effects. Sick wasn¡¯t the right word; empty was closer, but even it didn¡¯t fit. Thin. He nodded to himself at the thought. That was it. He felt translucent, as if less of him existed when she wasn¡¯t there.
I just never noticed how little of me existed before; I was a shadow without a person.
He didn¡¯t know when it had happened or how he¡¯d let it happen, but somehow when he was without her he felt less than whole. Gwen had stolen part of him and ¡ª No, she hasn¡¯t taken anything. She¡¯s given me something I¡¯ve never had, and now I can¡¯t live without it. The idea was unsettling, and he bristled, frowning at himself under his hood.
Royce began to wish that Hadrian would start talking, some nice pointless blathering about flowers on the roadside or how a cloud looked like a girl he¡¯d once known, except that she parted her hair on the other side of her head.
Then, as if Hadrian could read minds, he said, ¡°Well, look at that.¡±
Royce glanced over, assuming Hadrian would be pointing at a rock and insisting it resembled a turnip. Instead, he found was his partner staring back toward the village.
Fearing that the villagers had changed their opinions and were now in some fanatical pursuit, Royce whirled his mount around and then sat, stunned.
From their position high on the ridge, they could once again see the whole valley of Dulgath, the village below, the castle and the ocean beyond. And there, arching over all of it, was a rainbow. Clear as stained glass it stood out beneath a single gray cloud as if painted for them.
¡°What do you suppose that means?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°It means it¡¯s raining down there,¡± Royce said. ¡°But there¡¯s sunshine, too.¡±
V2: Chapter 1 - Vested Interest
Devon De Luda wondered, and not for the first time, if Genevieve Hargrave, the Duchess of Rochelle, was insane.
¡°Stop! Stop!¡± she shouted while hammering her fist against the roof of the carriage.
She shot a sharp look his way and commanded, ¡°Make him stop!¡± Then she pushed her head out of the window and yelled up at the driver, ¡°Rein in those beasts, for Maribor¡¯s sake. Now!¡±
The coachman must have assumed an emergency, halting the carriage so abruptly that Devon flew against the opposite bench. The moment the wheels stopped, even a bit before, the duchess launched herself out the door and raced away, skirts hiked, heels clacking.
Abandoned and dumbfounded, Devon nursed his banged knee. As ducal cofferer of Rochelle, Devon usually performed duties revolving around coins and notes. He didn¡¯t welcome his newfound responsibility of looking after such an impulsive whirlwind; he preferred an ordered, predictable existence. But nothing had been normal in the city since the new duchess¡¯s arrival.
Maybe she is, at least a touch, mad. It would explain so many things.
Devon considered simply waiting in the carriage, but if anything happened to her, he would be blamed. With a sigh of resignation, he climbed out of the carriage and followed the duchess.
Darkness had settled in early, the spring days still short; like prosperity, the season of rebirth had been slow to arrive in Alburn. The rain had stopped, but an evening mist crept in from the sea, ensuring that everything remained damp. Cobblestones glistened in the light of streetlamps, and the world beyond the carriage smelled of wood, smoke, and fish. A smattering of puddles created an obstacle course for Devon¡¯s new shoes, and as he picked his path through them, he tugged the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck. Inside the carriage, it hadn¡¯t been warm, but the evening¡¯s air was bitterly cold. They were on Vintage Avenue, both sides bordered by reputable three-story mercantile shops. On the curbs, dozens of carts lined the street, where migrants sold a circus of wares. Colorful scarves, embroidered saddles, and fresh-roasted pig were sold side by side. As always, a seedy crowd had gathered in the chaotic hive of commerce¡ªfew could afford to do much more than look at the scarves and smell the pig.
The duchess trotted down the line of merchants. She bustled through the crowd, most of whom stopped short and stared in wonderment at this heavyset lady in satin and pearls chugging down the thoroughfare, her heeled shoes clip-clopping as loudly as a horse.
¡°Milady!¡± De Luda chased after her. ¡°Where are you going?¡±
The duchess didn¡¯t pause or slow until she reached a rickety cart holding up a rack of clothes. There she halted, panting, and stared up at the display.
¡°It¡¯s perfect.¡± The duchess clapped. ¡°That vest, the one with the satin front and floret pattern. You see it? It¡¯s not my taste at all, you understand, but Leo will love it. The print is so bold and vibrant. And it¡¯s blue! It¡¯ll be exactly what he needs for the Spring Feast. He¡¯ll definitely be noticed in that. No one could wear that vest without standing out.¡±
Devon had no idea who she was talking to, and perhaps she didn¡¯t, either. With the duchess, it rarely mattered. While Devon spent more time with Her Ladyship than many, he hadn¡¯t seen her often. The duchess sought him out only when she required advice on ducal economics, which had brought them together only a few times¡ªalthough more often lately as she had embarked on a new endeavor. Even so, a dozen summonses, a few carriage rides, and a talk or two hadn¡¯t provided him enough information to know, much less understand, the new duchess. Devon doubted even the duke understood the actions of his new wife.
¡°Hullo! You there!¡± she shouted to the merchant, a dark-skinned Calian with shifty eyes. They all had the same way about them as far as Devon was concerned. Calians were devious savages who dressed in the costumes of cultured society but fooled no one. ¡°Hullo! How much for the vest? That blue one up there on the rack, the one with the shiny brass buttons.¡±
The man beamed a lecherous grin. ¡°For you, good lady, just two gold tenents.¡± His voice was thick with an untrustworthy far-eastern accent, every bit what Devon expected¡ªthe sort of voice Deceit itself would use.
¡°Outrageous!¡± De Luda balked, shuffling up behind her. That was the trouble with these cart-shop merchants: They swindled the innocent and inexperienced. They talked as if unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime deals were being offered, but later the swindled buyer would discover the diamond was quartz or the wine, vinegar.
¡°I¡¯ll give you seven silver tenents,¡± the duchess replied. ¡°Devon, give this man seven silver tenents and¡ª¡±
The merchant frowned and shook his head. ¡°For seven silver, I have a nice handkerchief for you. For a gold tenent and eight silver, I could part with the vest.¡±
¡°Your Ladyship, it¡¯s unseemly for the Duchess of Rochelle to haggle in the street with a¡ª¡± He scowled at the Calian merchant, who waited for the slur that didn¡¯t come. Normally, De Luda wasn¡¯t shy, but in the past three months, he had discovered that the duchess took issue when people were insulted in her presence, no matter how well deserved the remark.
¡°I don¡¯t care. Leo will be thrilled, and oh, how I can¡¯t wait to see him in that vest! Don¡¯t you think he¡¯ll look marvelous?¡± When the merchant lowered the garment from its hook, she spotted a bright-yellow coat that had been hidden behind. ¡°Dear Maribor! Would you look at that jacket? It¡¯s even more divine!¡±
Grabbing Devon¡¯s arm, she shook it violently, overwhelmed with enthusiasm. This wasn¡¯t the first throttling at her hands, but he knew a firm jostle was infinitely better than a hug. Her hugs were notorious. The duchess passed them out so liberally, and so violently¡ªeven to the staff¡ªthat many an individual changed course after spotting her in the halls of the Estate.
¡°I must have them both. Leo¡¯s birthday is coming up, and that jacket will make him feel young again. He¡¯s turning forty, you know, and no one likes crossing that threshold. I nearly cried the morning I turned thirty. Time sneaks up on one, doesn¡¯t it? Pounces like a wicked cat from the shadows when you least expect it. And thirty is a ditch compared with the canyon that is forty. But I don¡¯t have to tell you that, do I? Leo needs the vest and will love that jacket. These are not the garments of a stodgy, no-account, forty-year-old duke; it¡¯s the attire of a young and handsome man whose star is rising.¡± The duchess glared at the merchant. ¡°One gold, no silver, for both jacket and vest.¡±
The merchant laid out the vest out on the counter before them, shaking his head. ¡°My dear lady, this is imported silk from eastern Calis, extraordinary workmanship. For months, it rode in a caravan through the panther- and cobra-infested jungles of the dreaded Gur Em.¡± He accompanied his outlandish tale with hand gestures as if putting on a children¡¯s show, going so far as to reach out with claws when he mentioned the panther. ¡°Many died delivering this rare and beautiful cloth. Only master seamstresses are granted access to such material, for one wrong snip or a misplaced cut could result in a devastating loss. You, of course, appreciate the skill required to create such a masterpiece, so I¡¯ll part with it for one gold, six silver for the vest, and an additional two gold for the coat.¡±
The duchess ran a pudgy hand over the shimmering material. ¡°I think not, but the bit about the master seamstresses was a nice touch.¡± She gave him a friendly smile¡ªthe only sort she knew how to make. ¡°This is common Vintu silk, farmed in the Calian lowlands along the southern coast of the Ghazel Sea. It sells in Dagastan for five silver dins per yard in any number of thrift shops. But sometimes, in spring mostly, you can find a bundle for four and some change. The parcel this came from was likely imported via the Vandon Spice Company and bought wholesale for three silver a yard and shipped here in less than two weeks as part of their usual rotation. Granted, the VSC likes to add exorbitant markups, and I¡¯m sure that raised the price considerably, but there were no panthers, cobras, or deaths.¡±
Devon was stunned. Duke Leopold¡¯s new wife, who insisted on being called Genny rather than the more formal Genevieve, was full of surprises¡ªmost of them disturbing and more than a little cringeworthy¡ªbut the duchess¡¯s command of the mercantile industry was undoubtedly vast.
Still, the Calian didn¡¯t lose a beat. He frowned, spread his hands apart, and shook his head. ¡°I am but a poor merchant. Such a great lady as you won¡¯t even notice the loss of a few pitiful coins. Yet for me, this sale could feed my wife and poor children for weeks.¡±
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
With those words, Devon was certain the Calian had won. The merchant had read the duchess correctly and properly spotted the weakness in her defense.
Genny took a step closer to the man, tilted her head down to eye him squarely, the ever-present smile growing sharper. ¡°This isn¡¯t about money,¡± she said with a glint in her eye. ¡°We both know that. You¡¯re trying to cheat me, and I¡¯m trying to undercut you. It¡¯s a game we both love. No one can convince you to sell for less than your minimum profit, and you can¡¯t force me to pay more than I¡¯m willing. In this competition, we are equals. You don¡¯t even have a family, do you? If you did, they would be here helping to¡ª¡±
A commotion cut through the crowd. A small boy, thin and dirty, darted through the throng of shoppers. The waif clutched a loaf of bread to his chest as he skillfully dodged through the forest of legs. The cry had alerted the city guard, and a pair of soldiers caught hold of the kid as he struggled to crawl toward a broken sewer grate. They hauled him up, his legs free and kicking, bare feet black as tar. No more than twelve, he was a wildcat: twisting, jerking, and biting. The guards beat the boy until he lay still on the cobblestone, quietly whimpering.
¡°Stop!¡± The duchess charged toward them, hands raised. Being a big woman in a large gown, the duchess was hard to miss, even on busy Vintage Avenue. ¡°Leave that child alone! What are you thinking? You aren¡¯t, are you? No, not thinking at all! Of course not. You don¡¯t beat a starving child. What¡¯s wrong with you? Honestly!¡±
¡°He¡¯s a thief,¡± one of the soldiers said, while the other pulled out a strap of leather and looped one end around the boy¡¯s left wrist. ¡°He¡¯ll lose his hand for this.¡±
¡°Let him go!¡± the duchess shouted, and, taking hold of the child, she wrenched his arm free of the soldier¡¯s loop. ¡°I can¡¯t believe what I¡¯m witnessing. Devon, do you see this? Is this what goes on? Outrageous! Brutalizing and butchering children just because they¡¯re hungry?¡±
¡°Yes, Your Ladyship,¡± Devon answered, ¡°the law states . . . your husband¡¯s law states that a thief forfeits the left hand for the first offense, the right for the second, and his head for the third.¡±
The duchess stared at him with an expression that could only be described as flabbergasted. ¡°Are you serious? Leo would never be so cruel. Surely the law doesn¡¯t apply to a child.¡±
¡°I¡¯m afraid so; there are no exceptions. These men are merely doing their jobs. You really should leave them to it.¡±
The boy cowered into the skirt of her gown.
The guards reached out and took hold of the lad again.
¡°Wait!¡± The duchess stopped them as she spotted a man in a flour-covered apron. ¡°Is this your bread?¡±
The baker nodded.
¡°Pay him, Devon.¡±
¡°Excuse me?¡± Devon hesitated.
She planted a hand on her hip and set her jaw. Even though Devon had worked only sporadically with the duchess, he¡¯d learned this meant: You heard me!
Devon sighed, and as he walked toward the baker, he opened his purse. ¡°This doesn¡¯t change the fact that the boy broke the law.¡±
The duchess pulled herself up to her full height¡ªwhich was considerable for a man and astounding for a woman. ¡°I asked this boy to fetch me a loaf of bread. He obviously lost the coin I gave him, and since he didn¡¯t want to fail in his assigned duties, he resorted to the only option available. I¡¯m merely replacing the money he lost. Since he was acting on my request, your issue is with me, not him. Please feel free to submit any complaints you might have to the duke. I¡¯m certain my dear husband will do the right thing.¡±
The baker stared at her for a brief instant. His mouth opened to answer, but survival instincts beat back his tongue.
She looked around at the others. ¡°Anyone else?¡± She glared at the guards. ¡°No? Well then, good.¡±
The soldiers scowled, then turned away. While Devon was paying the baker, he heard one of them mutter ¡°Whiskey Wench.¡± The words were said softly but not quietly enough. The soldier wanted her to hear.
###
The carriage rolled on again with the duchess slumped in her seat. Being a large woman and having little room in the coach, she couldn¡¯t slouch much before her knees pressed against the opposite bench. ¡°Just a child. Can¡¯t they see that? Of course they can, but do they care? Brutes, that¡¯s what they are. They would have cut off that boy¡¯s hand¡ªchopped it off right there on the silk merchant¡¯s stool I suppose. That¡¯s the type of barbarity doled out in this city? Children are crippled because they are starving? That¡¯s no way to run a duchy, and I¡¯m sure Leo doesn¡¯t realize how inappropriately his edicts are being measured out. I¡¯ll talk to him, and he¡¯ll clarify the law. With stupidity like this, it¡¯s no wonder Rochelle is floundering. Such punishment only inflames dissent among a populace. Will the boy be a better citizen with one less hand?¡±
¡°Not a boy,¡± Devon said, rocking beside her as the carriage rolled and the horse¡¯s hooves clattered.
¡°How¡¯s that?¡±
¡°The thief wasn¡¯t a boy, not human, I mean. He¡¯s a mir. Didn¡¯t you notice his pointed ears? He¡¯s likely a member of some criminal organization. That¡¯s how they operate, a colony of rats that haul their catch back to a central nest.¡±
¡°We have mir in Colnora, too, Devon. The boy¡¯s heritage doesn¡¯t change a thing. He¡¯s still a destitute, starving child. It¡¯s as simple as that.¡±
¡°Simple, you say?¡± Devon struggled to keep as civil a tongue as the baker had. He would have preferred to point out that it was she who was being a simpleton, but that would be going too far. The duchess often rubbed his fur the wrong way, and as a result, he usually said too much. Fortunately, he¡¯d gotten away with comments that most people in her position would find disrespectful. With anyone else, he might have lost his tongue by now, and it was not without a sense of irony that Devon realized the same attitude which had saved the mir child had worked in his favor as well. ¡°You haven¡¯t been with us very long, Your Ladyship. You don¡¯t understand Rochelle. How things work, I mean. This isn¡¯t Colnora. Nothing is simple here. We have the problems of any major city, but we¡¯re packed closely together, and this is home to four separate and distinct races.¡±
¡°The Calians aren¡¯t another race, just another nationality.¡±
¡°Regardless, Rochelle is unique in its collision of diversity, and added to that are the rigid trappings and traditions of a bygone era. This city is resentful of changes that have occurred over the centuries. We are a lake with layers of sediment. At the bottom are the mir, and they¡¯re down there for a reason.¡±
¡°You disapprove of my intervention on behalf of that child?¡±
¡°That mir.¡±
She frowned. ¡°I guess you don¡¯t think I should have added the pork and cheese, either? Would you have preferred that I send him on his way with a pat and a wave? Better yet, I should have just let him be mutilated, yes? You believe that because the mir are unattractive and unsophisticated . . . because they don¡¯t fit in . . . that they should be shunned? Is that it?¡±
The duchess wasn¡¯t speaking about the child anymore, and Devon wasn¡¯t about to step into her trap. ¡°I think you should have just bought that horrible vest and given it to your husband.¡±
The duchess folded her arms across her massive bosom and let out a humph. ¡°Why? Why was saving a child so wrong?¡±
Devon shook his head. ¡°Mir aren¡¯t like us, my lady, and neither are the dwarves or Calians. They¡¯re creations of different gods, lesser gods, and it¡¯s wrong to grant them the same privileges enjoyed by the blessed of Maribor and his son Novron.¡±
¡°You¡¯re wrong; they are the future of this city!¡± she declared with conviction. ¡°If golden wheat grew wild on your farm, you¡¯d cultivate it in the hope of profiting from a natural crop. That¡¯s just common sense. When one is desperate as we are, one must leverage every asset . . . not merely the pretty ones.¡± She scowled so that her lips appeared squeezed by full cheeks. ¡°So, I¡¯m guessing you also don¡¯t approve of what I just told the merchant guild. A little late to make your opinion known, Devon. Care to weigh in on my marriage to Leo? It¡¯s only been three months; perhaps you will change his mind, and he¡¯ll ask the bishop for an annulment.¡±
De Luda sighed and rubbed his temples. ¡°I¡¯m simply trying to point out that you are inexperienced and na?ve.¡±
¡°Inexperienced? Na?ve?¡± The duchess let out a deep chuckle. ¡°I¡¯ve hammered out deals on a pirate ship in a storm while downing shots of Black Dog. Back in Colnora, I have a neighbor who is one of the most renowned thieves in the world, a man rumored to toss rivals off Amber Falls during summer barbecues. But he¡¯s also an excellent customer, and the people he invites to dine aren¡¯t innocent, so I overlook his transgressions. As for na?ve, do I look like a rosy-cheeked debutante?¡± She waited, but he said nothing. ¡°Of course not. I¡¯m a heifer too old to milk and too tough to butcher. Do you think I got where I am by being blind? I¡¯m not pretty, nor polished, definitely not quality stock as people tend to say. I¡¯m the Whiskey Wench. That¡¯s what the soldier called me, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s what everyone says, right? I know what they think. I¡¯m not oblivious to the whispers about why Leo chose me. Well, I¡¯ve heard worse, believe me. I¡¯m a woman. We always hear worse. The starched-shirt-and-tight-hosed dandies around here are dandelion tufts next to what I¡¯m used to dealing with.¡±
Devon took a deep breath, then another. ¡°I merely meant that you are too na?ve about the ways of Alburn, and Rochelle in particular. Ours is a complex and dangerous city. Your Colnora is a free and open municipality where merchants flaunt their independence. Rochelle is old, congested, and choked by tradition and bureaucracy. This city is filled with hidden places and dark secrets. Too many secrets, and it¡¯s unforgiving of mistakes. We still believe in the traditional ways and in ancient-world monsters. I assume from your interest in the blue vest that you¡¯ve heard about our murdering ghost.¡±
¡°My hometown has its fair share of bogeymen, as well, Devon. I¡¯ve personally lived a whole summer in a city terrorized by gruesome murders that took low- and highborn alike.¡±
¡°The murderer was a man?¡±
¡°What else?¡±
Devon nodded. ¡°In many places, paying heed to superstition is merely a habit. For instance, in Colnora, when someone tosses salt over their shoulder after an accidental spill, they don¡¯t actually expect to fend off a demon creeping up behind them.¡±
¡°Are you trying to tell me that Rochelle has literal demons stalking people?¡± She raised her eyebrows and displayed a lopsided smile. ¡°Do they have fangs and bat wings? Do they spit fire?¡±
¡°I¡¯m saying wise people stay indoors at night and dress their children in bright blue to ward off evil. And despite that, citizens of this city are mutilated¡ªa great many as of late. Myths are too often rooted in truth, and we¡ª¡±
The carriage came to an abrupt halt. They hadn¡¯t yet crossed the bridge leading to the Estate. ¡°Why are we¡ª¡±
The door on Devon¡¯s side ripped open. Cold air rushed in, damp and clammy. In the dark, he saw a pair of cruel eyes, malevolent and evil. He recoiled, pushing away and fighting to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He died with the duchess¡¯s screams ringing in his ears.
V2: Chapter 2 - The Return of Virgil Puck
Royce knew what was coming.
Hadrian had glanced back at their prisoner more than a dozen times, even though nothing had changed. Virgil Puck continued to walk behind Royce and Hadrian¡¯s horses, still tethered with one end of a rope tied tightly around his wrists and the other end fastened to the horn of Hadrian¡¯s saddle. Nevertheless, the interval between the glimpses shortened, and the length of each look grew at a measurable rate. If Royce had a means of calculating time in small increments, he thought it possible to determine the exact moment when¡ª
¡°What if he¡¯s telling the truth?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce frowned, feeling cheated. He expected it would¡¯ve taken longer. Hadrian hadn¡¯t changed as much as Royce had hoped. ¡°He¡¯s not.¡±
¡°But it sounds like he might be.¡±
¡°Yes, I am,¡± Puck said, his voice rising above the shuffle of his own feet¡ªthe walk of the reluctant.
¡°He¡¯s no different from anyone accused of a crime. Everyone proclaims their innocence.¡± Royce didn¡¯t bother looking back. Everything he needed to know was revealed through the tautness of the rope. From it, he could tell Puck was still tethered; beyond that, Royce didn¡¯t care.
The three made leisurely progress along the rural portion of the King¡¯s Road, just north of the city of Medford. The day was warm, and while most of that year¡¯s snow had finally melted, runoff was still making its way to lakes and rivers. All around, Royce could hear the trickle of water. Each season had its own distinct sounds: the drone of insects in summer, the honk of geese in autumn, the wind in winter. In spring, it was birdsong and running water.
¡°He¡¯s no criminal, not a murderer or even a thief. I mean, technically, he¡¯s accused of giving rather than taking.¡±
Royce raised a brow. ¡°Lord Hildebrandt would disagree. Virtue and chastity, these are the things that have been taken from his daughter.¡±
¡°Oh please!¡± Puck erupted. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Have either of you seen Lady Hildebrandt? She didn¡¯t receive the name Bliss from her lovers, I can assure you of that. She¡¯s forty-three going on eighty-nine, with the face of a savagely carved jack-o¡¯-lantern and the figure of a two-ball snowman. And don¡¯t get me started on her acidic personality and that grotesque cackle of a laugh. I¡¯m absolutely positive she retains her virtue the same way a bruised and rotting melon avoids being eaten. No one who has actually met Bliss Hildebrandt of Sansbury could possibly imagine crawling into bed with her. I¡¯d personally rather curl up with a diseased monkfish. Maybe if there had been a knife at my throat, I might . . .¡±
His pause caused Royce to look back.
Virgil Puck¡¯s misshapen nose was off center and sported a bulbous tip like the knob on the end of a walking stick. Beyond that, the man was tall, thin, and endowed with long, curly blond hair, the sort to evoke sighs from women of every rank and class. He wore only a heavy tunic, breeches, and boots. The tunic was covered in vertical white-and-blue stripes, and the boots were yellow as a canary¡¯s breast. Hadrian was right about one thing. Virgil didn¡¯t have the look of a normal run-of-the-mill criminal.
But criminal is such a relative term, and what is normal, anyway?
Puck looked at the ground, shaking his head with a grimace. ¡°No, no, I can truthfully say not even that would be enough. I¡¯m telling you for the third time, you have the wrong man. The true culprit must be either deaf and blind or depraved to the point of utter insanity.¡±
Hadrian turned around, shifting the tip of the sword strapped to his back and resting a hand on the rump of his mount. ¡°Are you noble?¡±
¡°If you mean, do I have highborn blood in my veins, the answer is no. Why do you ask?¡±
¡°The way you talk is . . . clever . . . complicated. You use odd words like culprit and depraved.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because I¡¯m a poet,¡± Puck declared with dramatic flair. He tried to follow the remark with a sweeping bow, but there wasn¡¯t enough slack in the rope to execute it successfully. ¡°I make my living going from great house to great house entertaining my hosts with songs and stories. Tales of woo and woe. From the epic love affair of Persephone and Novron to the tragic courtship of Lady Masquerade and Sir Whimsy. I make them laugh; I make them cry; I inspire, educate, and¡ª¡±
¡°Seduce?¡± Royce provided. ¡°Women have a weakness for poets. Did you beguile Bliss Hildebrandt with words?¡±
Puck expressed his indignation by stopping, and he was jerked forward by Hadrian¡¯s horse. ¡°You aren¡¯t listening. I didn¡¯t seduce her. I wouldn¡¯t do that for all the gold in Avryn. I¡¯d rather fornicate with a rabid ferret. I¡¯m telling you, when we get back to Sansbury, you¡¯ll see her and understand. And I hope she gives you both hugs and wet kisses for your efforts. Then you¡¯ll realize the true depths of your mistake. She¡¯s like an ugly old hound that still thinks it¡¯s a puppy, even while drooling those long elastic strands of goo. And when she opens her mouth to thank you, you¡¯ll see her tongue, an organ that¡¯s far too long for any reasonable living thing.¡±
¡°Lady Hildebrandt is with child,¡± Royce said. ¡°Had to happen somehow.¡±
Puck smirked. ¡°I¡¯ve seen baby porcupines, too¡ªdon¡¯t know how that happens, either.¡±
¡°He just sounds so . . .¡± Hadrian struggled. ¡°You know, sincere.¡±
¡°By all the gods! That¡¯s because I¡¯m telling the truth!¡± Puck shouted to the sky. ¡°The two of you are . . . you¡¯re . . . what exactly? I have no idea. Sheriffs? Bounty hunters? No matter, whatever your profession, you must do this often, right? You¡¯ve surely captured dozens of suspected wrongdoers and brought them to justice. You must know what nefarious men are like. How they act. When you dragged me out of that tavern in East March, did I act guilty? I¡¯m assuming most criminals run, isn¡¯t that so? Did I? Did I resist at all? No, I didn¡¯t. What did I do instead?¡±
¡°You called for a sheriff,¡± Hadrian replied, and glanced at Royce with a tiny nod of acknowledgment.
¡°Yes! Yes! I did that because I thought you were accosting me. Only thugs would drag a person out of a public house and tie him up. And if a sheriff had heard, it would be the two of you on the end of a rope¡ªand a shorter one than this, I suspect.¡±
Hadrian shifted his sight between Puck and Royce with a ruminating expression.
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Royce interjected, attempting to preempt the thought forming in his partner¡¯s head.
¡°But if he¡¯s innocent, should we really be turning him over to Lord Hildebrandt? If he¡¯s convicted, he won¡¯t have the shield of noble blood. The baron will kill him.¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡±
¡°It certainly matters to me,¡± Virgil chimed in.
¡°Why? Why doesn¡¯t it matter?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°All I care about is the eight gold Hildebrandt is paying us.¡±
¡°That¡¯s cold, Royce,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°No, that¡¯s life. Don¡¯t complain to me. Take it up with Maribor, or the universe, or nature. The same rules that starve a sparrow in winter will see Puck hang for a crime . . . even if he didn¡¯t commit it. But that¡¯s not our problem. We don¡¯t have anything to do with that.¡±
¡°Excuse me?¡± Puck spoke up. ¡°I feel obligated to point out that it¡¯s you who tied this rope to my wrists, and it¡¯s you who is dragging me incessantly toward a fate I don¡¯t deserve. It¡¯s your horse, not Maribor¡¯s, not the universe¡¯s, not nature¡¯s, and it certainly has nothing to do with any ruddy, bloody sparrow!¡±
¡°Eight gold tenents.¡± Royce looked hard at Hadrian. ¡°Say those three words out loud. Repeat them over and over until it drowns out the little ferret bugger behind us.¡±
Hadrian didn¡¯t look convinced.
¡°Okay, how¡¯s this. Remember that we promised . . . we gave our word to Lord Hildebrandt that we would fetch Puck and bring him back.¡± Royce struggled to get the words out with a straight face.
When Hadrian replied with a solemn nod, Royce had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. The two had been together for three years, two working officially as the rogues-for-hire enterprise called Riyria¡ªand still Hadrian thought a promise was something that must be kept. Hadrian was young, in his early twenties, but the man had been to war more than once, and it baffled Royce how he could remain so unworldly.
Puck focused his attention on Royce. ¡°So, that¡¯s all my life is worth? Just a few gold coins? What if I offer you more than Lord Hildebrandt is willing to pay? Would that balance the scales in your maladjusted world, a place where you claim to play no part even though you hold the leash?¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°You don¡¯t have that kind of money. If you did, we would¡¯ve reached a deal back in East March.¡±
¡°I could get it.¡±
¡°No, you can¡¯t. You¡¯re a poet. Poets make little money, and they certainly don¡¯t save for a rainy day. You throw your coin away on ridiculous things¡ªyour clothes, for example.¡±
¡°True enough, but I wasn¡¯t talking about my money,¡± Puck said. ¡°While I swear I never touched Bliss, I have dallied with a few ladies in my time. Some of them are quite fond of me. I¡¯m sure Lady Martel would pay ten to save my life.¡±
¡°Lady Martel? Are you referring to Lord Hemley¡¯s wife?¡± Royce asked.
¡°The very same.¡±
Royce smirked. ¡°I doubt your prowess between the sheets could possibly be worth ten gold.¡±
¡°You misunderstand me. My relationship with Martel Hemley isn¡¯t like that. I mean, I could have slept with her. She¡¯s no great looker, either, but at least she¡¯s intellectually stimulating, and she finds me equally so. I¡¯m sure ten gold would seem like a small price to ensure our continued conversations. Our kinship is based on a mutual love of the written word. Why, just last summer I spent a whole night, in her bedroom no less, doing nothing but drinking and exploring her library.¡±
¡°Is that a euphemism, or are you actually talking about books?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Oh, so you¡¯ve heard of them! Yes, books. The woman has a wide range of interests and has a little library right off her private chambers. She has copies of the Song of Beringer and The Pilgrim¡¯s Tales, which is impressive but not atypical. The most interesting thing on her shelves is a bizarre little diary.¡±
Royce reined his horse to a stop and pivoted in the saddle. ¡°She showed you her diary?¡±
Puck looked up, concerned. Royce hadn¡¯t intended to be threatening, but it was an attribute difficult to control.
¡°Well, yes, but it wasn¡¯t her diary. The memoir belonged to a fellow named Falkirk de something, who had excellent penmanship and an archaic writing style. Lady Martel mentioned she stole it, although I doubt that. I mean, who ever heard of a noble thief? She was fairly drunk at the time, so I didn¡¯t take what she said seriously.¡±
¡°Did she mention where she met this Falkirk guy?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Oh no, she didn¡¯t get it from him. Lady Martel obtained the diary from a monk she¡¯d been having a tryst with. One night while he slept, she came upon the diary and took it because she wanted to learn about his true feelings toward her. Wasn¡¯t until later that she realized it was the writings of this Falkirk fellow. She tried to return it, but the monk had disappeared before she could. She never saw him again.¡±
¡°You said the style was archaic. So, you read it?¡±
Puck nodded. ¡°Tried to. To be honest, it bored me. Why are you so interested?¡±
When Royce didn¡¯t answer, Hadrian said, ¡°We do odd jobs for people. One was getting that diary from Lady Martel. After we did, she claimed it hadn¡¯t been taken. Things like that needle Royce; he sees conspiracies and nefarious intent wherever he looks.¡±
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Royce focused on Virgil. ¡°What can¡ª¡±
The sound of horses drew Royce¡¯s attention. Eight men rode toward them, white tabards covering chainmail shirts, swords clapping thighs. They slowed upon approach but showed no signs of aggression. Royce and company had passed, or been passed, by a dozen groups of travelers that morning: farmers, tradesmen, merchants. These were the first with swords, and the tabards looked official. Usually, a patrol like this signaled trouble, but for once Royce and Hadrian weren¡¯t breaking any law. They were acting in service of a respected baron of Melengar. And yet Royce still tensed.
¡°Pardon our intrusion,¡± the lead rider said, bringing his mount to a stop. The man¡¯s helm was off, only a single day¡¯s growth of beard on his face, and he was smiling. Royce didn¡¯t know what to make of him. The rider continued, ¡°Might I ask your names and inquire as to why you are dragging this man along the King¡¯s Road?¡±
Royce hesitated for a dozen reasons, not one of which he could pin down as good or even sensible. He just didn¡¯t like being stopped. He liked answering questions even less.
In that momentary vacuum, his partner jumped in. ¡°My name is Hadrian. How are you?¡±
¡°I¡¯m great,¡± the man replied. ¡°What¡¯s this fella¡¯s name?¡± He pointed at the prisoner.
¡°My name is Virgil.¡±
¡°Is it?¡± The rider nodded and climbed down off his mount to face Puck. ¡°Got a last name?¡±
¡°Puck. Perhaps you gentlemen can offer me some assistance. These two fellows seem to be under a misconception. They accuse me of taking advantage of Lady Bliss Hildebrandt¡ªwhich I absolutely did not do. I¡¯ve been wrongfully charged. If you could¡ª¡±
Without warning, the tabard-clad man pulled out his dagger and stabbed Puck in the chest. Virgil didn¡¯t even have time to cry out before falling to the ground.
Royce and Hadrian drew back, their horses shuffling and nickering. They each pulled weapons. Hadrian produced his bastard sword, and Royce freed his white dagger, Alverstone. The shift in Hadrian¡¯s horse dragged Puck¡¯s bleeding body away from his attacker, leaving a bloody trail. The man who¡¯d stabbed Virgil showed no signs of concern. He merely took out a handkerchief and wiped the mess of blood off himself and his blade.
Virgil gasped, gurgled, and convulsed for only a few seconds. The poet was dead the moment the blade hit his heart, but it took a little time for the message to reach all quarters of his twitching body.
Royce and Hadrian waited, but none of the others so much as touched their weapons. The man who had killed Puck put his dagger away and climbed back up on his horse.
¡°Why did you do that?¡± Hadrian demanded, holding his sword at the ready.
¡°King¡¯s orders,¡± the killer replied matter-of-factly. He wore an amused smile as he noticed Hadrian¡¯s sword. ¡°Nothing to do with either of you.¡±
Hadrian shot a look at Royce, and then he looked back at the patrol. ¡°King Amrath ordered the death of Virgil Puck?¡±
The man looked down at the sad crumpled body on the side of the road still tethered to Hadrian¡¯s saddle. He shrugged. ¡°Sure. Why not?¡± Then he kicked his horse and the entire troop rode away.
Royce and Hadrian arrived back on Wayward Street just before dark.
They would have returned sooner, but Hadrian had insisted on arranging for Puck¡¯s burial. Royce, who had littered and in some cases decorated many a landscape with corpses, had difficulty following the logic. Puck wasn¡¯t their mess to clean up. His body¡ªonce it had been disconnected from Hadrian¡¯s horse¡ªwas nature¡¯s problem. They had nothing to do with his death, so why waste time, let alone money, to dispose of the remains? But Hadrian and logic weren¡¯t always on a first-name basis, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Hadrian had his own version of logic. Royce didn¡¯t understand it, and after three years, he¡¯d given up trying.
Wayward Street was still a muddy mire festooned with a dozen stagnant pools and scarred with the deep tracks from wagon wheels. A filthy patch of stubborn gray snow remained clutched in the shadowy armpit between the tanner¡¯s shop and The Rose and the Thorn tavern. But the roofs were clear, and like a spring flower, Medford House blossomed with fresh blue paint. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the front porch of the grand house of prostitution, which was looking more like a luxurious inn as of late.
¡°Not much on patience, is she?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Thought she was going to wait for warmer weather.¡±
The front door opened, and Gwen DeLancy stepped onto the porch. She was wearing her blue dress, and the color very nearly matched the paint on the house. Royce guessed that was the point. He¡¯d always liked that dress, and the color had nothing to do with it. Gwen smiled and extended her arms in proud presentation. ¡°Well? What do you think? They just started today. Didn¡¯t get too far, just this one wall, but isn¡¯t the color wonderful?¡±
¡°It¡¯s blue,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t a different color be better for business? Shouldn¡¯t it be pink or something?¡±
¡°Of course it¡¯s blue!¡± she scolded. ¡°Medford House was always going to be blue. Just took me a while to raise the funds.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Looks expensive.¡±
The two climbed down. They didn¡¯t bother tying up their horses. The animals knew the routine and patiently waited to be unloaded.
¡°It is expensive.¡± Gwen pulled her arms in tight and half spun to admire the place she¡¯d built. The skirt of her dress flared with the movement and her shoulders squeezed close to her neck, battling the chilly breeze. She was barefoot, one leg bent, her weight on the other, a hip tilted.
Royce stared and cursed time for insisting on moving.
¡°Royce?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°What?¡±
¡°Your pack.¡±
¡°What about it?¡±
¡°You set it down in the mud. It¡¯s getting filthy.¡±
Royce looked around. His bag had somehow found its way into the slurry that was known to be a mixture of manure and sludge. ¡°Gah!¡± he uttered his disgust, grabbing it and hoisting it to the steps. ¡°How did that get there?¡± He glared at Hadrian accusingly.
¡°Don¡¯t look at me. That was all your doing.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?¡±
¡°I was thinking the same thing. Kinda why I mentioned it.¡±
Royce scowled at the pack as if it were somehow responsible.
¡°Maybe you were distracted by how beautiful the new color is,¡± Gwen said, turning back. Her skirt did that flaring thing again. The sunlight caught her face and highlighted eyes outlined in dark paint. Her lips glistened, pulled up in a modest smile.
Hadrian snorted. ¡°Yeah, that must have been it.¡± He placed his own saddlebags on the porch steps and took Royce¡¯s reins. ¡°Go on in. I¡¯ll take the horses over.¡±
Gwen shook her head. ¡°Don¡¯t bother. I¡¯ll have Dixon take care of them. Albert¡¯s waiting inside.¡±
¡°Is he?¡± Hadrian exchanged a look of confusion with Royce.
Gwen nodded. ¡°He¡¯s all smiles. Says you got paid.¡±
¡°Paid? For what?¡± Royce asked.
Gwen shrugged, rolling mostly bare shoulders, making Royce want to ask For what? again. ¡°The job you just finished, I would expect.¡±
¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± Royce turned to Hadrian. ¡°Does that make sense to you?¡±
¡°Maybe you should talk to Albert,¡± Gwen coaxed.
Hadrian started up the steps, but Royce didn¡¯t move. Days had passed since he¡¯d seen Gwen, and he just wanted to look at her¡ªto be with her. Such behavior wasn¡¯t normal, not like him at all. Royce felt awkward and uncomfortable. Gwen, it seemed, was a much better thief. She¡¯d managed to steal an entire person; She¡¯d pinched his old self, stealing it away like a poorly guarded purse. When she was around, everything was different. Mostly, it was confusing, both exciting and peaceful, which left Royce pondering the change. Was he better off or crippled? Had he lost his way or found a better one?
¡°You should go inside,¡± Gwen said. ¡°It¡¯s getting cold out here, and Albert probably wants to talk to both of you.¡±
Eight. Eight gold tenents. Royce eyed the pale yellow disks with the embossed image of Amrath, or maybe it was the king¡¯s father. Apparently, the two looked similar, or perhaps they didn¡¯t and the kingdom¡¯s treasurer got lazy and had the minter make only slight modifications to the previous molds. Didn¡¯t matter. The fact remained that they were genuine, and there were eight. Royce, Hadrian, and Albert were in the Dark Room, a moniker bestowed due to its lack of windows as well as the shady business conducted there. Albert had dumped the coins on the table, then sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace to put his stocking feet up on the hearth. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face.
¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Royce said.
¡°No mystery; we got paid.¡± Albert gestured at the money with an overly dramatic flourish. The viscount had lost everything except his title before becoming Royce and Hadrian¡¯s liaison to the nobility. He retained a lofty air and that easygoing attitude that comes from living without fear of any natural predator.
Hadrian set his bags down and took a seat by the fire. ¡°We didn¡¯t finish the job. Didn¡¯t even get Puck back to Sansbury. A troop of men killed him on the King¡¯s Road.¡±
Albert swished his lips back and forth in momentary thought, then waved his hands dismissively. ¡°Clearly Lord Hildebrandt was pleased with how things turned out. Likely he planned to execute the poor fellow as it was. You merely saved him the effort.¡±
Hadrian dragged over a chair and sat down beside Albert and the table of coins. He plucked one up, turning it over in his fingers. ¡°How could he have . . .¡± He looked at Royce. ¡°He can¡¯t possibly know Virgil is dead.¡±
¡°Of course he can.¡± Albert sat forward, an annoyed scowl forming on his face, as if the objections were a condemnation of his efforts. He fluffed the lace cuffs of his ruffled sleeves like a preening peacock. ¡°The men who killed him probably worked for Hildebrandt. They must have ridden back, reported the deed done, and¡ª¡±
¡°Puck died just north of here, not far from where the South Road splits from the King¡¯s Road. That¡¯s twenty-five miles from Sansbury.¡± Royce, who had remained standing, shook his head. ¡°Someone would have had to ride amazingly fast to reach there by now. And then it would take time for them to . . . Albert, when were you paid?¡±
¡°Early this morning.¡±
Royce and Hadrian looked to each other for answers but found only reflected confusion.
¡°This morning?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Puck was alive this morning. We were all enjoying a pleasant little walk from East March.¡±
Albert¡¯s brows rose as the truth finally dawned. ¡°Well, that . . . that is quite odd, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Who paid you, Albert?¡± Royce asked.
The viscount sat up, pulled his feet back under him, and straightened his vest by tugging on the bottom. ¡°Lady Constance. We had a meeting this morning at Tilden¡¯s Tea Room in Gentry Square. Wonderful little place right next to the bakery, so they get¡ª¡±
¡°Constance?¡± Royce said the word aloud. Something clicked, and he felt the way a hound might when taking a second sniff at a footprint. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that name before.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Me, too. Albert¡¯s mentioned her a few times.¡±
¡°Of course I have. I get most of our jobs through Lady Constance. She makes social butterflies look like shut-in moths. The woman knows everyone, and everyone knows her. She¡¯s native to Warric, has connections in Maranon, but prefers the parties here in Melengar.¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t she the one who hired us for the Hemley job? The one with Lady Martel¡¯s diary?¡± Royce asked.
Albert nodded.
¡°But she wasn¡¯t procuring the diary for herself, right?¡±
¡°I believe that¡¯s so. Just as I represent you, Lady Constance acts as a liaison for her people . . . er, clients . . . um, friends . . . however you want to refer to them. She¡¯s never said anything, but I assume she adds a surcharge and pays us the difference. She has to make a living somehow.¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t she a noble?¡±
¡°Yeah, well, given the straits you found me in, you should know that not all nobles are rich. She was married to Baron Linder of Maranon. Why, I don¡¯t think even she could say. He had no lands, wasn¡¯t wealthy, and not even particularly attractive.¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t? Is he dead?¡±
¡°Yes, in addition to his other shortcomings, he apparently lacked skill with a lance; he was killed by Sir Gilbert of Lyle in a Wintertide joust just six months after they married. How she manages to maintain such a lavish lifestyle is a mystery to everyone at court and a topic of much speculation.¡± He paused in thought. ¡°I wonder what rumors circulate about me.¡± He waved the question away. ¡°Anyhoo, I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s made herself as useful to her acquaintances as I¡¯ve been to you.¡±
¡°You never asked her about it?¡±
Albert looked shocked and insulted at the same time. ¡°Oh, dear Maribor, no! And she has never asked me about my affairs. We have a perfectly wonderful lack of curiosity about each other, which makes working together not only possible but delightful as well.¡±
¡°You slept with her,¡± Hadrian said, his tone neither critical nor approving. He was merely stating a conclusion.
Albert let slip a mischievous grin. ¡°Along with our lack of curiosity, we share an obvious absence of morals and a mutual aversion to cumbersome attachments. But filling that void is a healthy appetite for lust. It¡¯s a wonderful arrangement, two peas in a pod are we.¡±
Royce, whose tiring hand reminded him that he was still holding his pack, looked around for a place to set it down. Mindful that the bottom was still wet with muck, he placed it on the hearth near the crackling fire. ¡°So, you have no idea who actually hired us to steal that diary?¡±
¡°Nope, can¡¯t say that I do.¡±
¡°And Virgil Puck?¡±
¡°Well, that¡¯s a different matter, now isn¡¯t it? Of course it was Lord Hildebrandt; otherwise it would be terribly awkward when you arrived with him and . . .¡± Albert¡¯s eyes shifted as he fit the puzzle pieces together.
Albert was a fine intermediary. He¡¯d a handsome face that polished up well, and he knew all the finer points of etiquette required to sail the dangerous waters of the Avryn aristocracy. He was competent and well spoken but suffered the illness of all nobles, a dulling of the senses due to privilege. Pets suffered from the same disorder. Having grown up in a household, a dog couldn¡¯t be expected to live in the wild, any more than a cow or chicken. Domesticated creatures lacked basic situational awareness, that fearful ever-present state of expected catastrophe that kept the less pampered alive. Watching Albert, Royce saw him questioning his foundations and knew what was running through his head: No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me.
¡°So, Puck was telling the truth. He didn¡¯t have anything to do with Bliss Hildebrandt. Guess I¡¯m a better judge of people than you on this one.¡± Hadrian beamed a smile, which didn¡¯t last long. Royce guessed it faded just as soon as his partner realized he had helped kill an innocent man.
Royce knew better. Puck wasn¡¯t innocent; no one was. He¡¯d done something to someone, and the only thing Royce wanted to know was whether that something was going to rub off on him.
¡°So, who killed Virgil and why?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Won¡¯t ever find out,¡± Royce replied. ¡°It¡¯s a double blind. Quadruple if you add in Albert and Constance. We apprehended the poet under trumped-up allegations, nothing dire enough to arouse suspicion¡ªeven from someone like me. Then, a second group was hired to do the killing, and probably they were told an entirely different story. All of which makes it incredibly difficult to trace the responsible party or determine the actual motive.¡±
¡°Well, not to be insensitive to Mister Puck and his demise, but¡±¡ªAlbert looked over at the coins¡ª¡°I¡¯m in dire need of a new doublet and breeches. It¡¯s important to keep up appearances you know, and¡ª¡±
¡°Go ahead.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°Take a tenent, but the new outfit will have to wait. We still need to pay Gwen for the use of the room and catch up on our late stable fees.¡±
¡°Well then, we¡¯re in luck because I already have another job lined up.¡±
¡°Not through Lady Constance, I hope. I¡¯d prefer something a little more straightforward. A job where I know what I¡¯m getting into before I step in.¡±
¡°Ah¡ªno, this one didn¡¯t come from Constance, but it¡¯s . . .¡± Albert paused. ¡°Unusual.¡±
Royce folded his arms. He¡¯d had his fill of unusual. ¡°How so?¡±
¡°Well, normally I have to poke around and look for work, but this fellow came to me, or rather he came looking for you.¡± Albert looked pointedly at Royce.
¡°Me?¡± This unusual was sounding worse by the second.
Albert nodded. ¡°He¡¯s staying in the Gentry Quarter. Wouldn¡¯t give me a name or even tell me what it was about. He said he¡¯d know when you returned, and he¡¯d stop by then.¡±
¡°He would know?¡±
Albert nodded. ¡°That¡¯s what he said.¡±
¡°Well, doesn¡¯t that just make me feel all warm and cozy. Did he mention how he knew I was living in Melengar, or how he knew me, period?¡±
¡°Nope, only said he was up from Colnora and was looking for . . .¡± Albert paused to think. ¡°It was a strange name, one that made me think of a cleaning service. He didn¡¯t mention Riyria, but when I did, he recognized the word. Hmm, I wish I could remember what it was.¡± Albert furrowed his brow further in concentration.
¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± Royce told him and wished he could take the same advice, but he knew all too well that the stranger from Colnora had called him Duster.
V2: Chapter 3 - The Whiskey Baron
It took only a few hours for the mystery man to show up at The Rose and the Thorn. They had time for baths and a hot meal. Hadrian was able to down two tankards of beer, but Royce wanted to stay clearheaded. Normally he unwound after a job with a glass or two of Montemorcey, and he was annoyed that the wine would have to wait. Albert had Gwen seat the potential client in the Diamond Room, which had been kept empty of other patrons to give them privacy.
He sat in the back, an elderly man with gray hair and a face as salty and rugged as a seaside cliff. He wasn¡¯t tall; if he stood, Royce suspected they might be the same height. He was, however, big. More than stocky, and even larger than portly, the man eclipsed the chair in which he sat and strained the seams of his traveling clothes. The tunic he wore had double stitching and metal studs, which decorated the floral designs across his chest. A heavy cloak lay tossed over the back of the chair beside him. Made of a thick two-ply wool, the wrap looked new. He had gloves, too, expensive calfskin. They rested on the table near the cloak. Each had the same floral design as his tunic. A matched set, Royce thought.
The visitor watched Royce and Hadrian enter as if studying them for later recall. He didn¡¯t bother getting up or offer to shake hands. He patiently waited as Royce and Hadrian took their seats on the stools opposite him, not saying a word.
He focused on Royce. ¡°Is it you? Are you Dust¡ª¡±
Royce cut him off with a raised hand. ¡°I don¡¯t use that name anymore.¡±
The man nodded. ¡°Fair enough. What should I call you, then?¡±
¡°Royce will do, and the big fella is Hadrian.¡±
Each gave a nod of acknowledgment.
¡°Who are you?¡± Royce asked.
¡°I¡¯m a man who lived in Colnora during the Year of Fear.¡±
Royce let his hand slip off the table. Beside him, Hadrian placed both feet flat on the floor to either side of his stool. The old man didn¡¯t appear formidable in any sense, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: revenge. He wanted it, and he¡¯d come to get it.
¡°Name¡¯s Gabriel Winter.¡±
Royce knew the name but had yet to make the connection. And as far as he could recall, he¡¯d never tangled with anyone named Winter.
¡°You terrorized Colnora. The entire city was paralyzed from the horror you wrought. Pushcart people, street sweepers, shop owners, business barons, everyone right up to the magistrate was terrified. Even brave Count Simon fled to Aquesta that summer. That did a lot for morale, I can tell you.¡± The fat of the man¡¯s neck quivered as he spoke, but his eyes never wavered, and his voice remained steady and calm. Both hands stayed in plain sight, ten pudgy fingers, palms on the table beside the empty gloves and half-melted candle. Nothing else lay between Royce and Winter but the tabletop.
No cup or mug¡ªhe hadn¡¯t ordered a drink.
The Diamond Room was quiet. Not part of the original inn, the room had been recently built to accommodate the tavern¡¯s growing popularity. The addition filled the oblong space between The Rose and the Thorn and Medford House and gave the place its diamond shape. The only sounds came from two barmaids cleaning mugs in the other room.
¡°What do you want?¡± Royce asked as his fingers entered the front fold of his cloak and slipped around the handle of Alverstone.
¡°I want to hire you.¡±
It shouldn¡¯t have surprised Royce. Albert had described the man as a potential client. But so much about the meeting was worrisome. ¡°Hire me?¡±
¡°Yes,¡± the man replied with curt candor, a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he knew a secret or the punch line to a joke that had yet to be revealed.
¡°To do what?¡±
¡°Exactly what you did in Colnora. Only this time I want you to make the city of Rochelle bleed.¡±
Hadrian shifted in his seat, his feet coming off poised footings. ¡°Why?¡±
The man pushed back from the table, folding his arms across his chest as if contemplating what to say next, or maybe just working himself up to say it. Some things didn¡¯t come easy. Royce understood that well enough, and from the miserable expression on the man¡¯s face, he guessed that whatever he was about to say, this might be the first time he¡¯d put it into words.
¡°My wife died ten years ago. Just been me and my daughter since then. Good girl, my Genny, faithful, loyal, a hard worker, quick as a whip, and tough as leather. We did well together, the two of us. She got me through the tough times, and there were plenty of those. But less than four months back she went off with a nobleman from Rochelle. Fella named Leo Hargrave.¡±
Hadrian leaned forward. ¡°Leopold Hargrave?¡±
¡°That¡¯s him.¡±
Royce raised a questioning brow at Hadrian.
¡°He¡¯s the Duke of Rochelle. It¡¯s in Alburn, southeast of here. I was in King Reinhold¡¯s army down that way before I shipped off to Calis.¡±
¡°Reinhold is dead,¡± Winter said.
¡°The king of Alburn has died?¡±
¡°Him and his whole family. Bishop Tynewell is going to crown a new king come the Spring Festival. Genny wrote me all about it. She wrote me three days a week ever since the wedding, then nothing.¡± The man frowned, his sight falling to the surface of the table where he scraped at a worn spot with his thumbnail, trying to tear back a splinter.
Royce nodded. ¡°So, what? You think she¡¯s dead?¡±
¡°I know she is.¡±
¡°Because she¡¯s late in sending letters?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°The woman just got married; she¡¯s in a new city, a very different city, and she¡¯s a duchess now. Might be a tad busy. Or maybe she sent letters and the courier was lost in the snows. It¡¯s not spring yet, and those mountain passes can be treacherous. You¡¯re jumping to conclusions.¡±
Gabriel Winter looked into Hadrian¡¯s eyes. ¡°I did receive a letter, but not from my Genny. Hargrave wrote to say she¡¯s disappeared.¡±
¡°Oh, well, disappeared is . . . it¡¯s not good, but it doesn¡¯t mean she¡¯s dead.¡±
¡°Yes, it does.¡± His stare was cold and harder than granite. ¡°I told her what would happen. She just wouldn¡¯t listen. The only reason Hargrave married Genny was for her dowry. He doesn¡¯t love her. Never did. But Genny, she loves him, see. From the top of her head to the tip of her toes she does. Don¡¯t know why. She¡¯s always been so sensible in the past, and this Hargrave . . . well, the man is noble, that should have told her everything right there. I tried to stop her, but how could I? He¡¯s all she ever wanted. That¡¯s what she told me. My Genny, she¡¯s not what you would call pretty. Even as wealthy as we are, no one ever came knocking on her door. She was getting up there in age, will be thirty-three in the fall, and, well, when the duke asked for her hand it was like offering the gift of flight to a chicken. She couldn¡¯t see past the dream. Hargrave killed her all right, him and his ilk. That was his plan from the start. I saw it in the man¡¯s eyes. He was using her.¡± Gabriel turned to Royce. ¡°I¡¯d go there myself, but¡ª¡± He spread his arms. ¡°I¡¯m old and fat, and never was that good with a knife. What could I do to avenge my darling daughter? Nothing. As a father, I¡¯m incapable of doing the deed myself, but as a businessman¡±¡ªhe pointed at Royce¡ª¡°I have the means to pay others to be my hands.¡±
Businessman! That clicked the tumbler, and Royce finally knew who he was talking to, and how the man knew where to find him. ¡°Winter¡¯s Whiskey.¡±
¡°That¡¯s me.¡±
It was Hadrian¡¯s turn to raise a questioning brow.
Royce clarified, ¡°One of the business barons of Colnora, the ones who actually run the city. Nobles appointed by the king of Warric are supposed to administrate, but they rule like a barnacle commands a ship. The real control resides in the hands of the magnates who live in the Hill District: men like the DeLurs, the Bocants, and Gabriel Winter, purveyor of fine liquors and quality spirits.¡±
¡°My neighbor is Cosmos DeLur. He was kind enough to provide me with your change of address.¡±
¡°I guessed as much.¡±
¡°My money has bought me all manner of comforts, but right now the only thing I want is revenge.¡±
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
¡°Have you tried contacting the duke?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Of course I have.¡±
¡°What did he say?¡±
¡°His scribe wrote that Hargrave was ¡®investigating the matter.¡¯ Investigating the matter! Oh, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s looking real hard, given he¡¯s the one who killed her!¡±
¡°You know that for a fact?¡± Hadrian stared in shock.
¡°I know it as well as you¡¯re sitting here. I told Genny he only wanted her money. Guess he didn¡¯t need my girl once his debts were paid. No reason to keep her. Nobles aren¡¯t like you and me. No loyalty, no civility. They behave all righteous and proper, but it¡¯s just an act.¡±
Gabriel turned to Royce. ¡°Will you make them suffer the way you did in Colnora?¡±
¡°Expensive,¡± Royce said.
¡°You know who I am. What street I live on. I can afford it, and I want blood. I¡¯ll give you fifty gold for your time and another twenty-five for every life you take, double if they suffer.¡±
Hadrian dragged a hand down his face. ¡°All this talk of blood and bodies; she could still be alive.¡± Gabriel started to speak, and Hadrian put a hand up to stop him. ¡°Granted, it doesn¡¯t look good, and it does sound like something bad has happened to her, but she might not be dead. Could be she¡¯s locked up somewhere. Killing a duchess is dangerous, even if she¡¯s new to the family.¡±
Gabriel thought about this for a moment. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll pay one hundred and fifty yellow stamped with Ethelred¡¯s ugly head if you find, rescue, and bring Genny back alive. But if she¡¯s dead, my original offer stands.¡±
¡°Depending on the extent of involvement, this job might prove costly, even for you.¡±
Gabriel Winter¡¯s rage returned. He made fists on the table. ¡°I have a lot of money, but only one daughter. And if she¡¯s gone, what need have I for gold?¡± He wiped his eyes. ¡°Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny.¡±
¡°How far is it?¡± Royce asked.
Hadrian stuffed the round of fresh bread in the small sack tied around the horn of Dancer¡¯s saddle. This was his quick-access bag where he kept his travel essentials for riding: gloves, some peanuts, three strips of jerky, a rag, a few apples, cedar grease to keep the bugs away, a tinder kit, and a needle and thread. The loaf was fresh out of the oven and still warm. Though he¡¯d just finished a fine breakfast, Hadrian knew the odds of the loaf surviving even the short distance to the Gateway Bridge were slim. He considered stuffing it into the big leather bags behind his saddle, but the loaf would be crushed there, and that was no way to treat a gift from Gwen.
¡°To Rochelle?¡± he asked. ¡°I dunno, five, six days maybe, assuming the mountain pass is clear, which it should be since Gabriel Winter has been getting letters from there. We¡¯ll have to cross to the eastern side of the Majestics.¡±
¡°And we¡¯ll need to skirt around Colnora,¡± Royce reminded while he finished tying down the last of his gear across the rump of his horse. ¡°Will it be hot down there?¡±
Hadrian considered this. Rochelle was nearly as far south as Dulgath, but the regions didn¡¯t share the same climate. Dulgath had the most magnificent weather of anywhere he¡¯d been. In contrast, Alburn, as he remembered, was a cold, wet place. ¡°Bring your heavy cloak and boots.¡±
¡°Already have them.¡±
¡°When do you think you¡¯ll be back?¡± Gwen asked. She stood on the porch of Medford House along with Jollin, Abby, and Mae, all out to see them off. The sun was just rising, and, except for Gwen, the girls were still in their nightgowns and wrapped in blankets. Behind them, painters set up scaffolding to continue turning The Medford House blue.
¡°Might be a while,¡± Royce said, his voice soft, regretful.
Gwen met him in the street, and the two stood an arm¡¯s length apart. Hadrian watched and waited, as did the girls.
¡°This job could be more complicated than the one we did in Maranon, more . . . well, I don¡¯t know, just more.¡± Royce held on to the lead of his horse, the distance between him and Gwen remaining undiminished. ¡°Don¡¯t get worried if we aren¡¯t back for . . . I don¡¯t know, could take several weeks. Let¡¯s just say that, okay?¡±
Gwen nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll say that, then.¡±
¡°Right.¡± Royce didn¡¯t move, just stared at her.
A moment, maybe two, went by and Hadrian considered whether Royce would ever move, wondered if he could. Hadrian couldn¡¯t understand what prevented his partner from hugging and kissing her goodbye. Then he remembered this was Royce he was watching, and it all made sense.
¡°Right,¡± Royce said again, and nodded. He then led his horse down Wayward Street, and Hadrian followed.
The trip was quiet. Hadrian didn¡¯t even attempt to chat.
Over the last three years, they¡¯d gone through various conversational stages. Initially, Hadrian sought to draw Royce out, mistaking silence for social awkwardness. This served only to irritate Royce, who refused to be manipulated into doing anything, even talking. Hadrian then tried pretending Royce was a normal person who simply couldn¡¯t speak. Thus, Hadrian took it upon himself to fill the many hours of slow travel with his own meanderings, and, when needed, he would supply both sides of a conversation. Royce had silently endured this. Given that Hadrian felt some of his musings were insightful, even entertaining, his companion¡¯s muted reaction irked him. Once, Hadrian had performed an improvisational debate between a work-obsessed honeybee and a flighty dandelion that ought to have resulted in a stirrup-standing ovation, but Royce had ignored it completely, which caused Hadrian to wonder: Why am I doing all the work?
Several hours after setting out for Rochelle, Hadrian finally concluded that it wasn¡¯t his job to entertain Royce. If the thief was too self-absorbed to participate in a simple conversation, then fine. They would ride in silence. Hadrian hung back, nibbling bread, waving to the milkmaids, and making silly faces at the boys herding sheep. He sewed up a hole in the thumb of his glove, and after he spotted a hawk that failed to catch a field mouse on its third attempt, he managed to stop himself from commenting on the bird¡¯s need for spectacles. And so it was that they rode the entire day without a word between them.
For the most part, they followed the Old South Road, which was also called the Colnora or Medford Road, depending on where one lived. As far as roads went, this was one of the best. Wide, firm, and mostly straight, it ran through a dignified countryside of respectable forests and friendly fields. Farms and small villages appeared, with names like Windham and Fallon Mire, places not unlike where Hadrian was born.
Just before sunset, Royce led them off the road and into a small stand of trees without saying a word. Silently, he tied his horse, unsaddled her, and removed his gear. Hadrian waited for the thief to say something, anything, but once his gear was in place, Royce went off on his usual security-patrol-and-wood-gathering ritual.
¡°It¡¯s like he¡¯s forgotten we¡¯re here,¡± Hadrian whispered to Dancer as he tethered her to a branch. ¡°Do you think he¡¯s mad at me?¡±
Hadrian shook out his bedroll and laid it on what looked to be a soft patch of grass, still matted from winter¡¯s recent retreat. While the surface looked dry, he discovered the ground was actually quite wet, so he went back for the tar-covered canvas to lay beneath his blankets. ¡°Do you know anything I might have done?¡± he whispered to Dancer as he scanned the trees, looking for Royce. ¡°Quiet is one thing, but it¡¯s like we¡¯re on our way to the Crown Tower again.¡± He clapped the horse on the neck. ¡°We left you tethered in a field, and Royce was unconscious while I floated down an ice-cold river. Not a good time for any of us, was it?¡±
When Royce returned with an armful of wood, he sported his usual miserable expression. The light was nearly gone, the camp set, and Royce still hadn¡¯t said a word. Hadrian wondered just how long the silence would last. He¡¯s going to have to say something eventually. Maybe he¡¯ll ask where the bread is. While Hadrian had saved half the loaf for Royce, he planned to respond that he¡¯d eaten it all because Royce hadn¡¯t said he wanted any.
After lighting the fire, Royce sat down on his blankets and watched the flames.
I¡¯m not making a meal until he says something. He¡¯s going to have to ask. He¡¯s going to have to open his mouth and say, ¡®Well, are you going to make something or what?¡¯
He didn¡¯t. Royce continued to sit and stare as if he¡¯d never seen fire before.
Oh, for the love of Maribor! Hadrian got up and dug through the food bag. I can¡¯t believe he¡¯s¡ª
¡°I¡¯m not mad at you,¡± Royce said.
Hadrian glanced at Dancer, showing her a guilty expression. He heard that? Royce¡¯s hearing was unusually acute, but Hadrian hadn¡¯t known it was that good.
¡°Why so quiet then?¡±
Royce shrugged, which Hadrian knew was a lie.
¡°Is it the job?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Best we¡¯ve had in ages.¡±
¡°Are you upset this Cosmos person knows you¡¯re in Medford?¡±
¡°No. I would have been shocked if he didn¡¯t know.¡±
¡°So, what is it?¡±
Another lying shoulder roll was followed by an unnecessary adjustment of his blanket.
Hadrian gave up and set the pot on the fire. Then he searched for the lump of lard, which always managed to find its way to the bottom of the pack.
¡°Do you think she likes me?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Gwen?¡±
¡°Yeah.¡±
His arm still in the pack, Hadrian looked over. ¡°Is this a trick question? Is there more than one Gwen?¡±
¡°I know she likes us, but she likes everyone, doesn¡¯t she? Even Roy the Sewer.¡± Royce got to his feet and threw a stick at the fire with enough force to burst forth a cloud of sparks. ¡°Roy traded the trousers she¡¯d given him for a bottle, then nearly froze in the street, but she still smiles at him, still gives him free food. She¡¯s a nice person, obviously, but¡ª¡±
¡°She likes you, Royce. And yes, more than Roy the Sewer.¡± Hadrian rolled his eyes at the absurdity.
Royce stared back, his brow knitted tighter than a miser¡¯s purse.
¡°Are you serious?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Do I look like I¡¯m joking?¡±
Hadrian had to admit his friend did appear grave, even more than usual.
¡°She¡¯s always so nice, makes me feel . . .¡±
Hadrian waited, shocked that Royce might finish such a sentence. He didn¡¯t.
¡°It¡¯s just that most people consider me . . . well, you know. If Medford took a vote for the person to avoid the most, it¡¯d be a toss-up between me and old Roy the Pantless Wonder.¡±
¡°Wait.¡± Hadrian forgot the lard and walked back around the fire. ¡°I always assumed . . . but . . . what are you saying? I mean, you two have kissed, haven¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Kissed?¡± Royce glared. ¡°No! By Mar, are you insane? What kind of question is that? Gwen is . . . she¡¯s . . .¡±
¡°She¡¯s a woman who¡¯d probably like you to kiss her.¡±
Royce sat back down on his bedding, his eyes tense, angry. His hands clenched with unconscious energy.
¡°So, you two haven¡¯t done anything?¡±
¡°What do you mean by anything?¡±
¡°I mean¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯ve hugged her,¡± Royce declared proudly.
¡°That wasn¡¯t what I meant, but have you? Have you really? Or did she hug you, and you didn¡¯t cringe? Because that¡¯s not the same thing, you know.¡±
¡°Look, just because you¡¯re quick to¡ª¡±
¡°This isn¡¯t about me, and it isn¡¯t about Roy the Sewer, either. The woman¡¯s in love with you, Royce. And don¡¯t tell me you don¡¯t feel the same.¡± Hadrian shook his head. ¡°You can¡¯t stand leaving her and can¡¯t wait to get back. The two of you act as if you¡¯re already married¡ªstill in that honeymoon phase, too. I just don¡¯t understand it. You¡¯re normally so¡ª¡± He paused. ¡°Oh! That¡¯s why you¡¯re so quiet. You¡¯re not mad at me; you¡¯re angry with her.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not.¡±
¡°Yes, you are. You¡¯re angry at Gwen because she ruined your perfect little world. Everything was so neat and orderly, all painted the same color of black. Now she¡¯s gone and made a mess by spilling hope and sunshine all over the place. You¡¯re in love with her and it¡¯s killing you, isn¡¯t it?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t answer.
¡°Admit it, you love Gwen, and it scares you. You¡¯re terrified because you¡¯ve never loved anyone before.¡±
The hood came up, as it always did.
¡°That¡¯s not an answer, you know.¡±
¡°Yes, it is.¡±
V2: Chapter 4 - Rochelle
Rolling hills and quaint farms disappeared as Royce and Hadrian headed into the Majestic Mountains. The jagged snow-swept peaks that ran from the Senon Uplands to Amber Heights divided Warric from Alburn, west from east, new from old. As always, Royce left the road to avoid the city of Colnora, maintaining his truce with the Black Diamond Thieves¡¯ Guild. They found the byway again near the Gula River and followed it into Alburn rather than risk the snows of the Amber Heights pass. Crossing to the far side of the Majestics, they entered a different world. The landscape reflected the transition. Rolling green hills turned into jagged mountains, river gorges, and ocean cliffs. Oaks and maples became pines and junipers. Snow reappeared at the higher elevations and dense fog hugged the seaside. The population was isolated in pockets¡ªvalley villages, they were called¡ªand Royce and Hadrian had passed through several of these hamlets without stopping. The local folk didn¡¯t seem to like strangers.
¡°Is that it?¡± Royce asked as the two sat astride their mounts looking at a city clutched in a river valley below. Although the town wasn¡¯t as sprawling as Colnora; the buildings were packed tighter and appeared taller. Hadrian and Royce were still miles away, and from that distance and at that height, the place looked peaceful. Surrounded on three sides by snowy peaks and the open ocean on the fourth, it looked idyllic.
¡°I think so,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°I haven¡¯t actually been there, but that¡¯s definitely the Roche River, and the city of Rochelle is supposed to be where it meets the sea, or the bay, I guess. The Goblin Sea is farther east. I think this¡ª¡± he pointed to the cliff beside them, which dropped to an ocean inlet where waves announced the incoming tide¡ª¡°is called Blythin Bay. At least it was six years ago, and I don¡¯t know why they would have changed the name.¡±
By then, the two had been on the road for five days, always camping and avoiding cities or towns. The trip had been warm and dry, but according to the sky, all that was about to change.
The hood tilted upward, scanning the darkening sky. ¡°Bad weather on the way. Best get down there. What do you know of this place?¡±
¡°I never came to Rochelle. I was only in Alburn for a few months. That was when I served in the military for King Reinhold. Most of that time I was bivouacked up on Amber Heights. I spent my days watching Chadwick¡¯s First Regiment, waiting for them to invade.¡±
¡°Why just a few months?¡±
¡°Because less than a year before, I was in that same regiment. Lord Belstrad, the commander, gave me a medal for my part in the Second Battle of Vilan Hills. I knew all those men. Several were my friends, and everyone knew old Clovis was itching to attack Alburn and take the heights. So, I left. Disappeared in the middle of the night.¡± Hadrian looked east across the inlet to where he could just make out the far coast, a thin green line fading in a rising mist. ¡°I shipped over to Galeannon and kept right on going, all the way to Calis. Amber Heights wasn¡¯t the first time I faced the prospect of fighting past friends. So, I figured if I went far enough away, it couldn¡¯t happen again.¡±
¡°Did it?¡±
¡°No.¡± Hadrian sighed. ¡°Instead, I only slaughtered strangers.¡±
Hadrian expected a quip from Royce or at least a snide comment. The hood was silent.
¡°So, I can¡¯t say I know much about Alburn, even less about Rochelle. As a whole, about the only thing I remember is it being odd.¡±
¡°Odd?¡±
¡°Unfriendly, secretive, and above all, superstitious. The east is different. Those who live in the sunset shadow of the Majestic Mountains are peculiar, and not in a good way. You¡¯ll see. None of my memories of Alburn are good ones, but . . . well, I can¡¯t say as I recall much that was good from those years. Maybe I¡¯m biased.¡±
¡°Good to hear you don¡¯t have fond memories, given the nature of this job.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡±
¡°We¡¯re not here for a social call. None of this helping to save people or advising nobles. We¡¯re here to hunt. Been a while since I did wet work. There¡¯s a certain . . . clarity that comes with executions.¡±
¡°We¡¯re not here to kill anyone,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We¡¯ve come to rescue the duchess.¡±
Royce drew back his hood to look at Hadrian, or maybe it was merely so Hadrian could see the mocking smile. ¡°You understand Winter¡¯s daughter is dead, right?¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±
Royce¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°The Duke of Rochelle married her for her money, then arranged a convenient accident to rid himself of the excess baggage. He¡¯s probably done it before, and he¡¯ll likely do it again with another rich daughter or perhaps an elderly widow.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t know that.¡±
They reached a ridge where the trail twisted down a narrow pass, which was steep enough that the rocks kicked by the horses¡¯ hooves started a tiny cascade. Seabirds cried overhead, and the wind coming off the water howled.
¡°Of course I do. Gabriel Winter was right. Dukes don¡¯t marry middle-aged, ugly merchant¡¯s daughters for love. He wanted the money. That¡¯s how the world works. People are motivated by money, power, security, and . . . well, that¡¯s pretty much it. Actually, when you think about it, they¡¯re all variations on the same theme.¡±
¡°So, you don¡¯t believe in love?¡±
¡°Love is another word for lust or dependence. People confuse it with all sorts of other things, fantasies and wishful thinking, mostly.¡±
¡°Oh really?¡± Hadrian urged his horse to catch up, as Royce¡¯s mare had a tendency to inch ahead. ¡°Then tell me, O wise one, was it lust or dependence that caused you to risk your life to rescue Gwen from prison? And what fantasy or wishful thinking drove Gwen to hide and nurse us back to health despite the danger?¡±
Royce urged his horse ahead.
¡°Oh, and tell me, Sir Genius, why is it you can¡¯t remember your own name when she¡¯s around, but you haven¡¯t dared to kiss her?¡±
The hood came up again.
¡°That¡¯s still not an answer.¡±
The city of Rochelle proved to be a congested hive of activity. Carts, wagons, and carriages packed cobblestone streets trapped between tall buildings. The soaring stone architecture, with its pointed arches and ornate fa?ades, made Hadrian feel small, and not merely in size. Like the cathedral in Medford, the grandeur here left him feeling unworthy and unwanted, which was one of the reasons Hadrian never had much interest in religion.
The sun hadn¡¯t quite set, and yet the shadows of the buildings created a premature night on the streets below. Crowds moved through pools of radiance cast by illuminated shop windows. Among the men with walking sticks and ladies in gowns strolling the sidewalks, Hadrian spotted dark-skinned laborers in eastern garb and dwarven crafters bustling along the gutters. A man on stilts and a boy with a spitting torch cut through the mob, lighting streetlamps. A lady in a lavish cloak walked a tiny pug-nosed dog on a leash, making Hadrian think of Lady Martel and Mister Hipple. A pair of men in red-and-blue military uniforms moved casually up the street while a matching pair moved down the other side, eyes watchful and suspicious.
The smell of woodsmoke, roasting meats, and baked pies filled the air. Throngs stopped to peer into the bright shop windows or surrounded peddlers¡¯ carts, waving hands over their heads to catch the merchants¡¯ attention. Horses¡¯ tacks jingled; hooves clapped stone; bells rang; fiddlers played jaunty tunes; and barkers shouted about cheap shoes and shows about to start. ¡°Come see the lizard-man shed his skin on stage!¡± Conversations poured over one another such that words were lost in the exchange, and yet Hadrian still managed to notice the accent. More lyrical and sophisticated than western dialects, the sound of the east was one of music and mystery. All of it served to remind him of a time he¡¯d rather forget. He¡¯d found such sights and sounds intoxicating as a youth, back when he was arrogant and stupid. Royce would argue he still was stupid, but his partner didn¡¯t know the pre-Calian Haddy, the boy-soldier with the skill of a man. What a cruel and absurd joke: The more ignorant you realize you are, the smarter you become.
He glanced at Royce, whose hood panned left and right as he struggled to take everything in. Being overwhelmed was a common reaction for those who hadn¡¯t traveled in these parts. When it came to the east, there was always too much¡ªtoo much and yet never enough.
A light rain began to fall as they entered the city¡ªmore a nuisance than a problem, but Hadrian suspected that might change as the drops multiplied, the sun set, and the air turned colder. This was something else he remembered: The weather was as unpredictable as the people. According to the stars, spring was less than a week away, but the cool air had a different opinion. Pulling his own hood up, Hadrian tightened the collar as he and Royce waited atop their horses, caught in the traffic of a busy street.
¡°Any idea where we should go?¡± Royce asked as the two waited side by side just to the rear of a carriage, which was stopped behind a wagon being unloaded.
¡°I¡¯m thinking an inn or at least a tavern of some sort. I don¡¯t know about you, but I¡¯m hungry.¡±
¡°A lot of these stands sell food,¡± Royce pointed out. ¡°That one is selling lamb, I think.¡±
¡°It¡¯s nearly spring, most vendors will have lamb, but let¡¯s get indoors. I¡¯d prefer not to get soaked on a night that¡¯s already turning cold.¡±
Hadrian looked down the street at signs for potential havens: ABERNATHY¡¯S ANTIQUE APOTHECARY; BOOTHMAN & FULLER GLASS; HINKEL¡¯S HEART-STOPPING HATS; FISKE & PINE TALISMANS, AMULETS, AND WARDS. ¡°Lots of shops, but no inns that I can see.¡±
The wagon finished its delivery and rolled on. With no clear idea where to go, Royce and Hadrian followed the flow of traffic, trusting it the same way they sometimes relied on their horses to lead them to water. Much to Hadrian¡¯s amazement, the streets became even more congested as they reached a stone bridge. Wide as it was, the span across the Roche River was choked with traffic. Off to their right, a forest of ships¡¯ masts marked the location of the city¡¯s harbor, while ahead and up on a hill stood a grand estate behind a wall. Crossing the bridge, they discovered they were on an island. Traffic urged them around the walled manor and to another bridge. Crossing this second one, they found a large plaza bordered by a huge cathedral and more shops. Although it didn¡¯t seem possible, this plaza was even more packed with people. A sea of heads bobbed along in a slow-flowing current.
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The architecture throughout the city was unusual and more pronounced near the center. Most buildings were constructed from stone and elegantly designed. Not only were they taller than the houses at the edge of town, but they had a grand quality expressed in the many subtle flourishes and unnecessary accoutrements: cupolas were numerous, as were spires. Even the smaller shops had an excess of fanciful gables. Doors were elaborately carved, as were supporting structures and the borders around windows. In towns like Medford, decorations of this sort would depict grapevines or flowers, but in Rochelle, grotesque, twisted faces peered out. Ornamental rainspouts were fashioned so that fantastic monsters, monkeys, lions, and nightmarish creatures belched forth the rain that ran from the slate-tiled roofs. Everything appeared ancient, worn, and weathered from centuries of storms. And everywhere was statuary.
One statue literally stood head and shoulders above the rest. In the grand plaza on the far bank of the Roche River, a monumental figure of a man loomed. Chiseled of pristine white marble, it stood seventeen feet tall and was as perfect a specimen of humanity as any Hadrian had ever seen. Lean, muscled, and youthful, the figure was carved with one shoulder down and a knee locked¡ªa casual stance so life-like it could have been a giant covered in flour. The bare-chested man grasped a sword, point down, in his right hand. Novron, Hadrian guessed and it wasn¡¯t a particularly difficult conclusion seeing as how the statue was positioned directly in front of a massive cathedral. The figure sported all the traditional tropes of the demi-god: long hair, perfect physique, and the unmistakable sword. If it wasn¡¯t Novron, the Rochelle chapter of the Church of Nyphron had some explaining to do.
¡°There!¡± Royce pointed to a signboard: BLACK SWAN HOSTELRY.
They steered to the side, working their way out of the flow of people. Hadrian waited with the animals while Royce went in. He came back out only a few minutes later. ¡°No vacancy. Place is packed.¡±
They moved on to the Gray Fox Inn and then the Hound¡¯s Tooth, and finally The Iron Crown. Every room was taken.
¡°They have a waiting list,¡± Royce explained after returning with the bad news. ¡°A bunch of people are hoping that someone might leave.¡± Royce climbed back aboard his saddle and in a quiet voice said, ¡°Fella inside told me our best bet is a place called the Dirty Tankard. Says it¡¯s up this way.¡±
Having drifted out of the more populated areas, Hadrian was both pleased and dismayed¡ªhappy to be away from the press of the crowd but uneasy as options ran out. He¡¯d hoped to find someplace soon, especially since the rain was coming down harder. Crossing another smaller and less distinguished bridge, the two entered a neighborhood of equally narrow but darker streets. Shops were scarce, barkers and vendor carts completely absent. The Dirty Tankard lived up to its name: a dingy shack that reminded Hadrian of The Hideous Head before Gwen took it over and turned it into the much-improved Rose and the Thorn. Despite the Tankard¡¯s run-down appearance, a line of people stretched out the door and wound down an oily street.
Dismounting, Royce tied their mounts as Hadrian took a place in line. He could hear the rain on the inn¡¯s roof growing louder.
¡°Is de festival,¡± the woman in front said to the man ahead of her. She pronounced the word fest-e-vole, forcing Hadrian to puzzle it out. ¡°Always busy dis time o¡¯ year.¡±
¡°Yes, but dis is a special year, taint it? Every-von coming.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t know why. Not going to make no difference to most of dees folks here, now is it?¡±
¡°Why you here?¡±
¡°Same as you. To see how much a difference it doesn¡¯t make.¡±
Royce rushed up, his hood taking on the shine it did when wet.
¡°When is the festival?¡± Hadrian asked the group ahead of him.
The woman turned. Middle-aged and dark-skinned, she had bright almond eyes. She gave the pair a puzzled look as she studied their clothes. She glanced at the horses tied to the nearby post. ¡°You looking for a place to stay?¡±
Hadrian and Royce both nodded.
¡°You don¡¯t want dis place.¡± She spoke with the same conviction as if they were all waiting in line before an executioner¡¯s block.
More heads turned. Hadrian saw the face of the man she had been speaking to and another woman looking back¡ªall Calians. Ahead of them stood a pair of dwarves in traveling clothes holding satchels over their shoulders.
¡°She¡¯s right, you don¡¯t belong here,¡± one of the dwarves said. ¡°You should be in the Merchant District or Old Town. This place¡ª¡± the dwarf hooked a thumb at the Dirty Tankard¡ª¡°is awful.¡±
¡°We tried,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°They¡¯re all full.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a room on Mill Street.¡± The person who said this wasn¡¯t in line. She sat on the side of the road, her back up against the wall, wrapped in a sheet of worn sail canvas. She looked young, and Hadrian might have considered her a girl except that in her lap lay a bundled child. Hadrian hadn¡¯t even noticed her until she spoke.
¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry. Were you in line?¡± Hadrian apologized.
¡°No,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯m not in line.¡± She said the words hesitantly, as if unsure whether he had been making a joke.
¡°Where is that room?¡± Royce pressed.
She pointed. ¡°An old woman lets it out. There¡¯s no sign, but it¡¯s available. Down there. The one with blue shutters and matching door, just up the hill from the bookbindery, back toward the Merchant District.¡±
Royce looked the way she gestured. ¡°If you know about this place, why are you sitting in the rain?¡± He glanced at the child. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take it? Is it expensive?¡±
This made several people in line laugh.
¡°Where you two from?¡± the Calian ahead of them asked.
¡°Not from here,¡± Royce said pointedly.
¡°Of course not. Wouldn¡¯t be talking to her if you were. Or me, I suppose.¡±
¡°Wouldn¡¯t be waiting to get into the Tankard, either,¡± one of the dwarves said.
¡°The lady who lets out the room on Mill Street is from here,¡± the mother with the baby said, as if this explained everything. When she saw it didn¡¯t, she added, ¡°I could knock on her door all day, and she¡¯d never open for the likes of me.¡±
¡°Why not?¡± Hadrian asked.
The woman pulled back the sail canvas she¡¯d used as a hood, revealing a pair of ears that narrowed dramatically at the top. ¡°No place in this city would rent me a room.¡± She put a hand on the back of her sleeping child. ¡°Not even the Dirty Tankard. Their bedbugs are too good for us.¡± She said this last part as a joke; she even laughed a little.
A man came out of the shack waving his arms over his head to get everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°We¡¯re full!¡± he shouted. ¡°Go look someplace else.¡±
The line let out a communal groan as they broke formation.
¡°And it¡¯s gonna be a wet one tonight,¡± the dwarf grumbled.
¡°And cold,¡± said the Calian woman.
Royce looked at Hadrian, who shrugged. ¡°What¡¯s this woman¡¯s name on Mill Street?¡±
¡°Dunno,¡± the mother said, pulling her sailcloth back over her head, covering her ears. ¡°Husband used to be a tax collector, which didn¡¯t make her popular. He died a few years back. Now she lets out the room. Not a friendly sort.¡±
¡°That makes two of us,¡± Royce said.
Mill Street was a narrow paved track with a series of brick-and-stone buildings so closely butted together that they formed an irregular pair of walls. Narrow balconies cast shadows on cobblestone where rainwater had been trained to hug the curb. No trees, bushes, or grass broke the uniformity. This was a serious street; a proper humorless precinct that didn¡¯t simply frown, it scowled. Even in that crowded city, Mill Street was vacant, an empty stretch of blinds and closed doors. Only one building had blue shutters. Near the center of the block, it stood three stories high and had a pair of narrow framed windows marking three floors, each endowed with a barren flower box, painted blue. An old-fashioned black iron candle-lantern illuminated the front door, which had also been painted the same sapphire hue. A brass knocker in the shape of a woodpecker perched in the center above a large grated window, its beak pressed against a plate.
Just as the mother had mentioned, there was no indication of a room for rent.
¡°You should let me do the talking,¡± Hadrian said as he grasped the woodpecker. It made a surprisingly loud clack! clack! clack!
¡°You? You¡¯re an awful negotiator,¡± Royce replied, using the stoop to scrape mud off the edge of his boots. ¡°And far too generous. You¡¯ll let this old hag fleece us out of every copper.¡±
¡°See, that¡¯s just the sort of thing I think we ought to avoid. ¡®Old hag¡¯ isn¡¯t the best way to approach a woman who might be willing to share her home with us.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to say it to her face.¡±
¡°But that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking.¡±
¡°She can¡¯t hear my thoughts.¡±
¡°Actually, it¡¯s sorta in your tone.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have a tone.¡± Royce directed his attention to the woodpecker. His hood was still up, and rain beaded on the surface, glistening with the lamplight. ¡°Besides, I¡¯m a professional thief. I make a living by lying convincingly.¡±
¡°You scare people,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°This old widow lives alone. She¡¯s not going to take chances renting to anyone who frightens her. She¡ª¡±
The door itself didn¡¯t open, but the brass-grated security window slid back. Behind, a thin and withered gray-haired woman appeared, her lips pursed. She clutched the collar of a shawl about her neck and peered out with trepidation. She spotted Royce first.
He studied her for only a moment, then sighed and stepped aside, granting Hadrian the audience.
¡°By the Unholy Twins,¡± the old woman cursed. She glared at both of them. Her eyes were large¡ªsunken and bulbous¡ªaccentuated by arching brows that glared in judgment. ¡°If you¡¯re looking for handouts, this isn¡¯t the door. If you¡¯re selling something, the Merchant District is in the city center. If you¡¯re spreading news, I assure you I¡¯ve already heard it. If you¡¯re dispensing trouble . . . believe me, I¡¯ve all I need, stocked full, I say.¡±
Hadrian blinked, stunned.
¡°Oh, my apologies,¡± she softened her voice, her brows drooping in understanding. ¡°I see. You¡¯re nothing but a pair of idiots. Off you go. Play in the rain. Leave the pretty bird on my door alone. It¡¯s not real; it can¡¯t fly.¡± She shooed at them with frail fingers. ¡°The river is that way. If you fall in, odds are good that all your troubles will be over in short order. Goodnight and goodbye.¡± With a smile, she clapped the little window grate shut.
¡°We¡¯re here for the room,¡± Hadrian shouted, his voice descending in volume with each word, accepting the defeat.
¡°Well done,¡± Royce said. He clapped slowly. ¡°I must admit she didn¡¯t appear the least bit frightened.¡±
The entire door jerked back, making the woodpecker clack. ¡°Did you say you want to rent my room?¡±
¡°Ah, yes,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°We heard you have one to let. Is that true?¡±
¡°It is.¡± She looked them over anew, and a frown developed. ¡°Do you have any money?¡±
Royce sneered at her.
¡°We do,¡± Hadrian said, and followed this with a big smile. He poured all his charm into it.
¡°I see,¡± she said, still frowning. Her eyes adding a cloud of disappointment to the mix. She promptly turned to address Royce. ¡°I charge four silver a night¡ªthat¡¯s tenents, mind you.¡±
Royce narrowed his eyes. ¡°Unless this room comes with running water and its own staff, you¡¯re dreaming. I¡¯ll give you three silver dins.¡±
The woman sniffed. ¡°Forgive me, did I say four silver? I meant five. And I only deal in tenents. I¡¯ll have nothing to do with that worthless din fiddle-faddle. That funny money is nothing but painted metal. And the room comes with a pot and a bed. I, young man, comprise the entire staff, but don¡¯t expect me to lift a finger on your behalf.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°We¡¯ll pay three silver.¡±
¡°No, if you want to stay here, you¡¯ll pay six.¡±
¡°Six? But . . .¡± Royce glanced at Hadrian, perplexed and irritated. The thief had never shown much capacity for patience with children or the elderly, or indeed any living thing. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to reduce your price. It¡¯s called haggling.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re supposed to be polite to your elders. I¡¯m not a hag.¡±
Royce sighed. ¡°That¡¯s not what haggling means.¡±
¡°No, it isn¡¯t.¡± She glared at him with a look that could wither the most resilient weed.
¡°I think she was listening earlier,¡± Hadrian explained.
Royce glowered. ¡°Yeah, I got that.¡±
¡°The price is six silver. Would you like to try for seven?¡± The old woman folded her arms stiffly, her lips pursing into a sour expression. And while she and Royce were close to the same height, she somehow managed to look down on him, waiting for the inevitable answer that her face declared she knew all along.
¡°You drive a hard bargain for a non-hag.¡±
¡°It¡¯s also raining, and the city is packed.¡± She held her hand out, palm up. ¡°You pay in advance. I¡¯ll kick you out with no refund if you don¡¯t obey my rules.¡±
¡°Which are?¡±
¡°You be quiet, respectful, and clean up after yourself. No women. No animals. No drinking. No smoking. No nonsense. Breakfast is at dawn. There is no dinner. Do not be late for breakfast. I don¡¯t like wasting food.¡±
Hadrian pulled the coins out of his purse, and the woman took and inspected each in the light of the candle-lantern.
¡°We may want to stay more than one night,¡± Hadrian said, and dipped his fingers into his bag for more coins.
She held up a hand stopping him. ¡°Let¡¯s just see how the first night goes, shall we? Now¡ªwhat are your names?¡±
¡°Baldwin and Grim,¡± Royce said.
She clamped the coins in a fist and stepped to one side, granting them entrance. ¡°Well then, Mister Baldwin and Mister Grim, you¡¯re at the top of the stairs on the left. My name is Evelyn Hemsworth.¡±
V2: Chapter 5 - Mercator
Mercator Sikara shivered in the cold rain, pulling the thin shawl tighter to her neck. A wind blew up Vintage Avenue the way it often did that time of year, coming off the bay to deliver its damp, salty slap. The squall had a clear path funneling between Grom Galimus and the Imperial Gallery, the two biggest buildings on Darius Square, creating a piercing blast that coursed along the river. The spiderweb-thin shawl was poor defense against such an onslaught, and the pelting rain added insult to injury. ¡°And look at you without even a wrap,¡± she said to the great statue of Novron as she watched the rain drizzling down the marble. ¡°But then, I suppose demi-gods don¡¯t get cold, do they?¡±
The weather has been terrible, so much worse than last year. Mercator vaguely remembered feeling the same way the previous spring and wondered if she¡¯d thought the same thing each year. If so, then it might be because that was the natural progression, a downward spiral. Or maybe I¡¯m just old. Too old to appreciate the charm of a late winter¡¯s rain. The young look at snow and marvel at its beauty. Old folk look at it and think about the danger of falling. Am I that old? I mean, I am¡ªbut, not really. Or am I?
She supposed a stranger wouldn¡¯t guess her to be beyond forty. She was. Mercator was well beyond forty, and not even the very young would find pleasure in such a cold rain. Her hypothesis was confirmed by those around her. Everyone braced themselves as best they could against the winter¡¯s spiteful bite. All along the riverfront, vendors and customers alike bowed their heads, clutched cloaks, and hunched up their shoulders like hedgehogs in a hurricane.
Why is misery easier to bear in groups? Unlike the changing state of the weather, this thought seemed to be an irrefutable truth. There was strength in numbers; any anthill proved that. Still, a million ants working in perfect harmony couldn¡¯t stop the wind or halt the rain. And if they could, there was always the question of whether it would be wise to try.
Mercator trudged with her burden up the street to the Calian dealer and his rickety wagon filled with scarves, cheap jewelry, and a rack of clothes. Erasmus wasn¡¯t a real merchant, in that he wasn¡¯t a member of the Rochelle Merchants¡¯ Guild¡ªwasn¡¯t allowed to be. He was Calian, and while he was prominent among his people, he wasn¡¯t permitted to engage in commerce in any substantial, permanent, or professional way. Every transaction he completed was illegal, but a transient cart could be overlooked. The illicit nature of his trades had to be one of the all-time cosmic absurdities: One of the world¡¯s greatest tradesmen was barred from his practice in one of the largest trading ports in the world. But the city¡ªall of Alburn, really¡ªwas home to many of life¡¯s most profound absurdities. Mercator knew this all too well because on that same list there was a line reserved specifically for her.
¡°Evening, Mister Nym,¡± she greeted the Calian, dropping her bags at his feet. The man, whom she¡¯d known for decades, ignored Mercator, pretending to straighten his counter of baubles. The rain drizzled off his tiny red-and-white-striped awning. ¡°I have more dyed wool: double-ply bolts, thread, and yarn. This batch came out particularly well: very deep, extremely even.¡±
Erasmus sniffed and wiped his nose, looking at her only from the corner of his eye, still pretending she wasn¡¯t there. ¡°Too early,¡± he grumbled, slurring his words as he attempted to move his lips as little as possible. His hands busied themselves with the stock. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here. People will see.¡±
He was absolutely correct in that she was there much earlier than usual, but . . . ¡°Mister Nym, it¡¯s pouring, and it¡¯s cold, and it¡¯s only going to get worse as the night goes on. No one is watching. I need money. Eating is a habit that, once started, is hard to break.¡± She paused, then added, ¡°Or so I¡¯ve heard, at least.¡±
This forced a smile onto the Calian¡¯s grim face. He looked up and down the street. As she¡¯d said, no one was paying attention to them. She wouldn¡¯t have approached otherwise. Mercator knew the rules, and she wouldn¡¯t do anything to jeopardize Erasmus¡¯s tenuous hold on his street corner. He was one of the few who bought her dyed wool, and he was a friend.
¡°I can¡¯t buy any now.¡± There was a sympathy in his eyes.
Erasmus Nym was a good man, braver than most. He¡¯d often risked his life and livelihood to help her. She couldn¡¯t ask for more than that, and she offered him a nod.
As she bent to pick up her bundles, he stopped her. ¡°Hold on.¡±
Erasmus pulled back some scarves and retrieved a small purse. He poured out a few coins and set them on the countertop, pushing them in her direction.
¡°What¡¯s that for?¡±
¡°I owe for the last batch.¡±
¡°No, you don¡¯t.¡±
¡°Maybe the one before, then. Just take it.¡±
¡°But I¡ª¡±
Erasmus reached up, pulled down a beautiful blue vest, and dropped it onto Mercator¡¯s bundles of dyed wool. ¡°Here, you might as well take this. Can¡¯t sell it. Everyone thinks it¡¯s cursed now. I should have sold it to the duchess straightaway.¡±
¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Habit.¡± He sniffed. The Calian was coming down with a cold. Spring colds were a curse. ¡°Couldn¡¯t help myself. It¡¯s in our blood, you know.¡±
Mercator¡¯s brows went up. This was the first time in forty years he¡¯d ever suggested, even vaguely, that the two of them shared the same blood. Then she realized he hadn¡¯t. Erasmus Nym was merely referring to himself and other Calians; he hadn¡¯t intended to include her in the term our. Sometimes Mercator heard what she desired. Not that she wanted to be seen as Calian; that wasn¡¯t the point. Her skin and his were the same color, but she wasn¡¯t Calian. And even though Erasmus Nym had long claimed some kind of noble ancestry, his people were the dirt on the streets of Rochelle. Mercator¡¯s ilk was the manure that even the Calians stepped around. And Mercator herself was¡ª
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
¡°Your head!¡± Erasmus was waving a hand over his own in an urgent motion. ¡°Cover your head!¡±
Mercator noticed a carriage rolling toward them. She quickly lifted her sopping shawl and covered her ears. Erasmus turned away, pretending to adjust stock in the rafters of the awning as the coach passed by.
¡°They weren¡¯t even looking,¡± she said. ¡°The curtains were closed.¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. If anyone sees your ears, if anyone thinks I¡¯m dealing with a mir . . .¡± He gave her a look of exasperation. ¡°Take the coins and go.¡±
Did he set the coins on the cart because he didn¡¯t want anyone to see him giving me money, or because he didn¡¯t want to accidentally touch my hand? Sometimes Mercator also saw what she didn¡¯t desire.
She couldn¡¯t tell which was more likely or which was better.
¡°Before I go, I need to know. Has there been any word? Any hint about the duke taking action?¡±
This was her real reason for coming. She needed the money, but the necessity for hope was even more demanding.
He shook his head, an angry scowl on his face. He, too, was running out of patience. They all were, and that was bad. That was dangerous. Erasmus turned toward the sound of another carriage and glared at her.
She took the coins, snatched up the vest and her bundles, and left.
Tucked between the old open-air sewers and river spillway, the derelict Rochelle neighborhood¡ªknown as Melrah by the inhabitants, and the Rookery by everyone else¡ªlacked paved streets, and the rain turned the narrow paths of dirt, ash, and night soil to slop. Most of the buildings in that part of Rochelle had long been abandoned. Since the residents had no means or right to repair them, roofs and walls collapsed as support beams rotted. Mercator¡¯s people used the timber remnants as firewood on cold nights, gutting their shelters for warmth. The old forest encroached on Melrah as it sought to take back what had long ago been stolen. Cutting firewood wouldn¡¯t have been difficult, except they weren¡¯t allowed to down trees. Technically, they weren¡¯t allowed to burn the fallen walls and stairs. The grand total of what the inhabitants of the Rookery weren¡¯t allowed to do seemed endless. Still, Mercator counted her blessings. There was still one thing left off that list: The mir were allowed to live.
But is this really living?
Mercator stepped around those bundled in rags, who huddled in every windbreak and dry patch. She made for the light of the little fire where half a dozen mir still warmed themselves beneath the surviving roof of the old mill. Seton was the first to spot her, and a smile stretched the girl¡¯s face. Girl. This was another absurdity. She should have considered her a gyn, but even in her own mind the old language was being replaced. A girl was a human female child, not an eighty-three-year-old mir who had so little human blood that she possessed the traditional blond hair and blue eyes of the ancient Instarya and looked to be just beyond adolescence. But just as with the shattered homes, they worked with what they had. And, at least compared with Mercator, Seton was a child.
¡°You¡¯re back!¡± Seton called and left the warmth of the fireside to hug Mercator.
The hug was a surprise. Mercator hadn¡¯t expected it, and the open expression of affection overwhelmed her. Feeling the unabashed arms of the girl, who ignored Mercator¡¯s soaked clothes to squeeze her tightly, made the old mir tear up. She thanked the rain for hiding it.
¡°Has there been any word?¡± Seton asked.
¡°It¡¯s been two weeks,¡± Vymir said. ¡°Something must have happened by now. It¡¯s nearly spring.¡±
Mercator shook her head, and their happy expressions deflated. ¡°No,¡± she said, and then pulled out the coins. ¡°But we have this.¡± She moved around the fire¡¯s circle and dropped a coin into each person¡¯s hand.
When she got to Seton, the girl refused to lift her palm. ¡°It¡¯s your money.¡±
¡°You helped me gather the plants for the dye.¡±
¡°But that¡¯s all,¡± Seton protested. ¡°If you let me, I would¡ª¡±
Mercator took the girl¡¯s hand and forced the money into it. ¡°Unlike you, I don¡¯t need to look pretty.¡±
Seton¡¯s face darkened. ¡°Beauty has always been a curse for me. You know that. Would have been better if I had been born a twisted wretch. If it hadn¡¯t been for the rasa . . .¡±
¡°That was years ago.¡±
¡°Still haunts me. Besides, what good are looks when I¡¯m a mir, a filthy elf that¡ª¡±
¡°You¡¯re beautiful,¡± Mercator said firmly. ¡°We all are, even Vymir.¡± She gave him a wink. ¡°Don¡¯t let the opinions of the ignorant convince you truth is a lie.¡±
Seton scowled, looking down at the mud on her own feet. ¡°An eight-year-old boy threw a rock at me today. I was in the street¡ªjust walking, for Ferrol¡¯s sake!¡ªand he threw a chicken-egg-sized rock¡ªone that his mother had given him. When he missed, she gave him another. After a while, it¡¯s hard not to see yourself as they see you.¡±
¡°After a while?¡± Mercator smiled while still holding tight to the girl¡¯s pale hands with her own bluish-black fingers. ¡°I¡¯m a hundred and twenty-three years old, and let me tell you something. After a while, you learn the truth about people, which is people don¡¯t know anything. People are dumber than spooked cattle chasing one another off a cliff. It¡¯s persons you need to listen to.¡±
Seton¡¯s eyes narrowed in confusion.
¡°Look,¡± Mercator told her. ¡°You can talk to a person. You can reason with an individual. Usually. But people, that¡¯s another thing altogether. In a group is where they lose their way. Doesn¡¯t matter if it¡¯s humans, dwarves, or mir, if you put three or more in a room, they¡¯ll manufacture stupid like it was spun gold. They¡¯re like honeybees that way, except the product is never sweet. Don¡¯t listen to them. Listen to me. Don¡¯t listen to people, listen to a person.¡±
Mercator bent down to lock eyes with Seton, offering a reassuring smile. ¡°Things will improve. I¡¯m going to make it better. That¡¯s my responsibility as matriarch of the Sikara. I owe that to my grandfather and his father before him.¡±
¡°It¡¯s been this way for centuries,¡± the girl said.
¡°Yes, it has, but spring is coming. Trust me. Spring is coming.¡±
Seton sighed and nodded, but she clearly didn¡¯t believe.
Mercator couldn¡¯t blame her. She had a hard time believing it herself. ¡°Good. Now take that coin to the Calian Precinct tomorrow and buy something nice to eat.¡±
Mercator turned to leave.
¡°We have food,¡± Estrya announced to her gaily.
¡°You do?¡± Mercator turned back.
They all nodded proudly.
Estrya pointed to the black pot on the fire. ¡°Vymir and Bista found mushrooms growing in the alley under a crate. You¡¯ll stay, won¡¯t you? It¡¯s the least we can do.¡±
Mercator shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t have to lift that pot¡¯s lid to know you don¡¯t have enough to feed three mouths, much less seven. Besides, I need to get back. I¡¯ve been gone too long as it is.¡±
¡°Where is it you go?¡± Seton asked.
Mercator smiled wryly. ¡°It¡¯s a secret.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t tell me?¡± Seton looked shocked.
¡°Not even you.¡±
Her expression turned pained. ¡°You don¡¯t trust me?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not a matter of trust; it¡¯s a matter of responsibility. I¡¯m matriarch, so the unpleasant tasks fall to me.¡± Mercator raised her arms, letting the sleeves fall back, revealing the blue skin that ran up to her elbows. ¡°See? Perfect example. Some things leave marks that cannot be erased, and what I have to do is another one of those things.¡± She turned away from the fire. ¡°Enjoy your meal. Soon it will be better. I promise.¡±
With a final wave, Mercator walked back out into the cold rain.
V2: Chapter 6 - Over Lamb and Small Beer
Royce was stunned when they reached the top of the stairs and opened the door. The room was the very definition of cozy. A large, elaborately carved dark-wood chimney breast framed the fireplace and dominated one wall, a fire already crackling behind a brass screen. A figurine of a boy skating on a pond adorned one side of the mantel and a candelabra the other. Deep-burgundy paper covered the walls, heavy drapes framed the tall windows, and a plush Calian rug lay on the hardwood floor. Soft chairs, dressers, and tables made a pleasant sitting area near the fire; a big bed all but filled an adjoining room. Paintings hung on the walls, and a bellows rested in a basket beside a full set of hearth tools. The chamber was bedecked with lamps, pillows, and a mirror. Even paper and pen lay upon a desk.
Hadrian dropped his bags near the door. ¡°This is the nicest room I¡¯ve ever been in.¡± He looked down at his dirty boots. ¡°I¡¯m afraid to move.¡±
Royce eyed the place, confused. He made a quick tour, peering behind the wardrobe, checking the backside of the drapes. In most places they stayed, he would find dry rot, mildew, rat droppings, and sometimes blood. Here, he found pristine wood and polished glass. ¡°No wonder she didn¡¯t dicker.¡±
Hadrian crossed to the dry sink. ¡°Hey, there¡¯s soap next to the wash basin¡ªand towels embroidered with the name HEMSWORTH.¡±
Royce looked over, nodding. ¡°Makes them harder to sell after stealing. You have to pay for the thread to be removed. No name on the rug, though.¡± He studied the intricate floral design. ¡°How much do you think the carpet would fetch? A fortune, right? We could drop it out the window. Wouldn¡¯t make much of a sound when it hit the street.¡±
Hadrian looked up from the towels and shook his head. ¡°We aren¡¯t stealing from a widow.¡±
Royce looked affectionately at the rug. ¡°An apparently rich widow.¡±
¡°We¡¯re here to do a job, remember?¡±
Royce faced the windows, assessing the logistics. They were too narrow to climb through, but a carpet could slip out just fine. Assuming they weren¡¯t painted shut, he could roll the rug up and shove it out while Hadrian waited below. They could throw the thing over the back of one of their horses easily enough. The hard part was knowing where to sell it. That was always the challenge of working in an unknown town.
Hadrian snapped his fingers, gaining Royce¡¯s attention. ¡°Hello. Focus. You said you like the current job. Can we concentrate on that? You might get to kill people, remember?¡±
Royce looked up. ¡°True.¡± He stared back at the carpet longingly. ¡°We can empty this place later. No sense doing it now and losing the room.¡±
Hadrian sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, appearing as comfortable as if he were sitting on blown glass. He stared at the cushioned stool in front of him but made no move to put his feet up. ¡°What¡¯s our first move?¡±
Royce stepped to the window and, barely moving the drapes, peered out at the street below. The rain was coming down harder, and the cobblestones were slick. Their horses, left out front, were getting a cold bath. ¡°Need to quarter our animals, find some food, and gather some information. As soon as the rain lets up a bit, we¡¯ll visit the news center.¡±
¡°Huh? What makes you think Rochelle has such a thing?¡±
¡°Every city does.¡±
¡°A tavern?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°A brothel.¡±
The rain never entirely stopped, and while they did find a place for their horses, they failed to spot a single brothel after almost two hours of searching. In a city as heavily populated as Rochelle, that was just strange. As far as Royce could determine, Rochelle was only a bit smaller than Colnora, which supported no less than thirty-two houses of comfort¡ªthree more than the number of certified taverns, eight more than the number of inns. Even Medford¡ªa provincial village in comparison¡ªprovided twelve. Yet after crisscrossing both sides of the river, they found nothing of the sort.
Hunger, the wet, and the smell of cooking meat finally proved irresistible, and Hadrian dragged him into something called The Meat House¡ªa small, smoky, congested shack off one of the narrower side streets. The weather-warped shack sold one-pound chunks of lamb or pork on small planks of grease-stained wood. ¡°Freshest meat in the city. We get it from the slaughterhouse next door,¡± the cook told them. They each bought a slab of lamb from the man who worked the spit. Then, helping themselves to a pair of pre-poured beers lined up on the counter, they elbowed spots at the long, narrow shelf that served as a communal table. With a row of men standing and chewing on steaming meat while staring at a wood wall decorated with years of grease splatter, the Meat House had all the ambience of a bovine food trough. The only light came from the open spit as drools of grease hit the coals and set off brilliant flares. Still, awful as it appeared, the no-nonsense eatery was warm and dry, and the meat¡ªif nothing else¡ªwas hot.
A beefy, bald-headed thug dressed in a stained blue work shirt, smelling of fish and lacking so much as a scarf to shield him against the cold, struggled to rip a mouthful of meat free from the bone without burning his fingers.
¡°Might want to let it cool,¡± Royce offered.
The bald man barely turned his head, just shifted his eyes to focus suspiciously on Royce. Dogs did that, too, when eating.
¡°Only got a few minutes before the next trawler comes in,¡± the man said, and licked his fingers. ¡°I can work with burnt hands, but not an empty stomach.¡±
¡°Ugly night to be working outdoors.¡±
¡°Any night¡¯s a good night if you¡¯re getting paid.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t like the prospect of blisters, so he used Alverstone to cut a bite-size chunk. Popping it into his mouth, he still needed to suck in air or risk burning his tongue. He was shocked to find the meat tender and flavorful, but Royce, of all people, ought to know better than to judge anything based on appearance.
Hadrian stood on his left, talking quietly with a small fellow in a gray hood. Royce had a keen sense of hearing, but at times it worked against him. With so many conversations, it was difficult to focus on just one. He and Hadrian needed information, but while Hadrian was friendly and liked to talk, he was also likely to give out unnecessary details. Believing the job would eventually take a violent and unlawful turn, Royce preferred to monitor his friend¡¯s conversation. Best to make certain Hadrian didn¡¯t advertise their real names, where they came from, or the fact that they were very likely going to murder the Duke of Rochelle.
After a while, Royce relaxed. Despite Royce¡¯s many comments to the contrary, Hadrian wasn¡¯t an idiot. They wouldn¡¯t still be together if that were the case. While his friend might retain the asinine belief that most people were basically good, he had at least learned not to trust everyone who smiled his way. Because two hooks in the water could catch more fish than one, Royce turned his back to Hadrian and focused on the bald man to his right.
Adopting the local manner, Royce slumped against the shelf, resting on his elbows, and asked, ¡°If a fella was looking for something to keep him warm tonight besides a blanket, any idea where he might look?¡±
¡°You want whiskey?¡±
Denser than expected.
Royce shook his head. ¡°I was thinking more along the lines of a woman, the sort you pay for.¡±
The bald man¡¯s face turned toward him. Lit by the fire, it glistened with a thick coat of slathered grease. ¡°Ain¡¯t got that here. Illegal.¡± He tore another mouthful of lamb from the bone, actually ripping it with a turn of his head, then chewed with his mouth open. ¡°Church don¡¯t approve.¡±
¡°Church doesn¡¯t approve of a lot of things,¡± Royce said. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean they don¡¯t exist.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t exist here.¡±
¡°Where you two from?¡± asked a lean, swarthy fellow on the far side of the bald man, who also had grease dripping from his chin.
¡°Maranon,¡± Royce answered. ¡°Little place called Dulgath.¡±
¡°Un-huh.¡± The dark man nodded, displaying what Royce had hoped for: total ignorance. ¡°Well, Tom¡¯s right. Don¡¯t know how they do things in Dul-gath, but Rochelle is a pious place.¡± He said the word pie-us as if demanding a dessert.
¡°Moral and pure as the season¡¯s first snowflake,¡± Tom added through a mouthful of meat.
Then both men snickered. Hearing each other, the two grease-stained geniuses laughed harder until the bald guy nearly choked to death on a chunk of lamb. He coughed, spit some gristle into his hand, looked at it doubtfully, and stuffed it back into his mouth.
Royce took a swig from his mug and discovered it was small. The term didn¡¯t refer to its size, which in this case was far more than Royce was willing to consume, but rather the amount of alcohol. Small beer was a poor man¡¯s brew, similar to the watered-down wine used in church services. The drink was designed to quench rather than intoxicate. Royce wasn¡¯t thirsty, but he wanted to keep up appearances. ¡°You¡¯re both from around here then, is that right?¡±
¡°Born on the docks,¡± the baldheaded one said. ¡°Took over my father¡¯s job unloading the fish trawlers. Which is why I run all the way here on my break. By bloody Mar, I can¡¯t stand fish.¡±
¡°I¡¯m originally from Blycourt,¡± the other said. ¡°That¡¯s down east, closer to Blythin Castle. You probably heard of it. But my family moved here when I was young. Spent most of my life in Little Gur Em.¡± He pointed out the door as if this held some meaning.
¡°Glad to meet some locals.¡± Royce forced himself to talk with his mouth full and let grease drip to his chin. ¡°Maybe you can tell me a bit about the city. What to look out for, where not to go.¡±
The swarthy gent jumped to answer so quickly that he nearly lost the food in his mouth, and he had to pop a hand to his face to trap it. ¡°You in town for the Spring Festival?¡±
¡°Yep, though it doesn¡¯t feel much like spring. More crowded than I would have thought.¡±
The local man nodded. ¡°Bishop proclaimed anybody seeking the crown has to be here for the feast, else they ain¡¯t eligible to be king. It¡¯s bringing noble folk from all over. Some, a lot actually, think he plans to hold a contest, and the winner gets the crown.¡±
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¡°That explains a lot. Had trouble finding a place to stay. Any clue who¡¯s going to be picked?¡±
¡°Most likely it will be Floret Killian, the Duke of Quarters,¡± Tom put in.
¡°What about Leopold Hargrave? He¡¯s the duke here, right?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Old Leo¡¯s got no children. A king needs heirs.¡±
¡°Just got married, didn¡¯t he?¡¯¡± Royce asked. ¡°He could still have kids, although . . . I heard something about his wife going missing, is that true?¡±
Like candles blown out by Royce¡¯s words, the gleeful smiles on both men¡¯s faces vanished.
They shot nervous looks at each other, then scanned the shack as the fire flared and shadows hit the walls.
¡°I got to get back. Trawler is likely in by now.¡± The bald man chugged his remaining beer and wiped his face with his sleeve. Before pushing his way out, he fixed Royce with a suspicious glare.
The swarthy man continued to stare from across the gap that was left behind by the bald man¡¯s hasty departure. He studied Royce from boots to hood. ¡°You looking for the duchess?¡± His words reached out slowly like fingers in the dark.
¡°I didn¡¯t say that. Just making conversation.¡±
¡°Why are you here . . . Mister . . . ah . . . what did you say your name was?¡±
¡°His name is Grim, and I¡¯m Baldwin,¡± Hadrian jumped in, shoving his extended palm past Royce. ¡°And you would be?¡±
The man looked at Hadrian¡¯s hand as if it were a hissing snake. ¡°Leaving, I think.¡± He backed away, pulling a blue kerchief from his neck and wiping his hands. Without another word, he shoved past and headed out the door.
Royce and Hadrian shared a puzzled look.
¡°Curious,¡± Royce muttered.
¡°I told the fella I was talking to that my name was Baldwin,¡± Hadrian whispered. ¡°Didn¡¯t want you picking the same name.¡±
Royce looked for the guy in the gray hood. ¡°Where is the fellow you were talking to?¡±
¡°I mentioned the duchess, and he remembered he had to feed his cat.¡±
Royce looked around the Meat House. Smoke filled the space where a row of men leaned on the shelf, guzzling beer and tearing seared flesh. Too many eyes looked their way. More than before?
¡°Maybe we should¡ª¡±
¡°Not be here?¡± Hadrian smiled. ¡°Was thinking the same thing.¡± He swallowed the last of his beer, and together they moved back to the street.
The Meat House was in a run-down section a few blocks from the city¡¯s harbor. Royce led the way uphill, heading back toward their rented room while steering away from the crowds. The route threaded them through ever-narrower streets lined with walls of brick, places where rodents darted in the shadows. Rain was still falling, drizzling down walls, pouring off roofs, and creating a stream that threatened to back up the open-grate sewers.
¡°I take it you didn¡¯t learn anything useful?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You mean beside the fact that a monster stalks the city streets and rips people¡¯s hearts out?¡±
¡°Cute, but¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m not joking. That¡¯s what he actually told me.¡±
¡°The one with the cat?¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Had the same kind of ears as the mother who told us about the room for rent. He was trying to hide them, but you could see the points when he turned.¡±
¡°They¡¯re called ¡°mir¡±¡ªpart human, part elven.¡±
¡°Is mir an elven term? In Calis, they¡¯re called kaz.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°I think so, but don¡¯t know what kaz means, besides ¡®universally hated,¡¯ that is.¡±
They reached the crest of a little hill. The street veered right, and, trying to stay on track, Royce took a side lane to the left. He didn¡¯t know for certain, but hoped it went through to something bigger. If nothing else, it afforded a quieter, darker path, and he felt the need to disappear. They hadn¡¯t been in town a full night and already he felt they¡¯d made a misstep, one he couldn¡¯t even blame on Hadrian.
¡°How about you?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Any luck?¡±
¡°Some. I know why it¡¯s so crowded. Apparently, you have to be at the Spring Feast to be chosen king. Every noble in Alburn must be here, and the lowborn have come to see who gets picked. Oh, and maybe Leo didn¡¯t marry Genny for just her money.¡±
¡°What makes you say that?¡±
¡°Candidates need to produce an heir.¡±
Hadrian smiled. ¡°Which means . . .¡±
¡°Yeah, yeah. I guess it¡¯s doubtful the duke killed her, but that doesn¡¯t mean she¡¯s alive. She could have been murdered by a rival.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°But she could be alive. She doesn¡¯t have to be dead to prevent the bishop from picking her husband. Maybe she¡¯s being held captive until after the new king is crowned.¡±
The two skirted a puddle. The present road, which was so narrow it felt more like an alley, lacked the precision engineering of Mill Street. Sewers were still in use¡ªRoyce saw the grates at regular intervals¡ªbut the water didn¡¯t drain into them. Instead, the runoff chose to gather in low pockets and holes that the road menders had neglected.
¡°Hmm,¡± Hadrian mused.
¡°What?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you find it suspicious?¡±
¡°I find everything suspicious. Can you be more specific?¡±
¡°Well, Gabriel Winter said Reinhold and his whole family were dead. I saw him once when he reviewed the troops. That old guy had enough children to be an honorary rabbit. And none of his heirs are alive? Seems odd. His death and Genny¡¯s disappearance might be related. Could be we¡¯ve stumbled into something more than the disappearance of a wealthy woman. We should find out what happened to the previous king. I suppose we could ask Evelyn Hemsworth. She might know.¡±
Royce made a face.
¡°Did you just shudder?¡± Hadrian began to chuckle. ¡°You shuddered, didn¡¯t you? The infamous Mister Grim quivers at the thought of talking to an old woman?¡±
¡°Oh, and I suppose you¡¯re eager to have breakfast with her in the morning? Won¡¯t that be grand! Assuming the shriveled shut-in biddy eats food. I¡¯m betting she gets by on blood she sucks from goats.¡±
¡°She¡¯s not that bad.¡±
Royce stopped walking and faced Hadrian straight-on.
Hadrian¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°Okay, so she¡¯s as irritating as rough wool to a sunburn, but she has to have the finest¡ª¡±
From behind them, a loud noise cut through the drumming rain.
The two spun.
They were alone on a dark street. A moment before, Royce had considered the lack of light as a bonus, but now he had cause to reconsider. Seedier neighborhoods settled for oil lanterns; some got by with torches, and many made do with nothing at all. But even in the worst areas, there was light from windows, except where they now stood. This street had none. No doors, either. Three-story brick walls hemmed them in.
The clatter was unmistakable: horses running, headed their way.
¡°Is that what I think it is?¡± Hadrian asked.
From behind, a wagon¡ªone of the big ones with high sides used to haul livestock¡ªcame thundering their way, pulled by a pair of black draft horses racing at full tilt. The street was so narrow the wheels scraped the walls, first one side, then the other. Even in the dark, Royce could see the lathered sweat on the animals, their ears back, eyes wide and wild. The steeds were in a panic.
¡°Run!¡± Royce shouted.
Together, they sprinted up the street, but Royce knew they wouldn¡¯t reach the end of the block.
¡°Here!¡± He led Hadrian to a sewer grate.
The two dropped to their knees and together wrenched the square of iron bars free, revealing an uninviting hole. Sparks flared and illuminated the dark alley as the left wheel of the wild wagon scraped the end of its metal axle across the face of one brick wall. Royce didn¡¯t search for a ladder. No time to even look below. Anything was better than death by trampling. This was a lie, of course. He admitted it to himself even as he leapt in. There were many things worse, Royce just didn¡¯t think he¡¯d find any on that list at the bottom of a sewer. For the most part, Royce liked sewers. He¡¯d grown up in one.
The fall wasn¡¯t far, and the water at the bottom was deeper than he expected, which initially seemed like a good thing. Royce always believed it was better to hit water than rock when leaping into a dark hole of unknown depth. After the inaugural splash and obligatory gasp for air, he had a second to realize the water was chest high. A second after that, he discovered the amount of water wasn¡¯t insignificant when combined with the rainwater surge. A powerful current dragged him and Hadrian off their feet and hurtled the two through a lightless tunnel that scraped their legs and elbows across stone walls too slick from slime to grasp.
The darkness was broken by intermittent columns of light entering through other sewer grates. The flashes gave Royce a sense of how fast they were going. Slower than a trotting horse, but not by much. The sensation was odd and eerie. Bobbing weightless in the dark, the patches of pale light¡ªset at near-regular intervals¡ªrushed by, the only marker of time and distance. The hard stone walls echoed every noise, magnifying drips, splashes, and the water¡¯s rush.
¡°This isn¡¯t good!¡± Hadrian shouted.
His voice bounced around the tunnel, making it impossible for Royce to tell his partner¡¯s location¡ªbehind, maybe? ¡°What was your first clue?¡±
¡°Where do you think this goes?¡±
¡°Best guess? The bay.¡±
They swept around a sharp curve that had Royce reaching for a handhold as he skidded along another wall. His fingers came up with fists of muck.
¡°How much you wanna bet this doesn¡¯t pour out on a nice soft beach?¡± Hadrian yelled.
They passed more lighted grates. In the flash, Royce looked behind him. Hadrian was there, just back and off to the left. The current held the two in near-perfect synchronicity. Kicking and stroking as best he could, Royce broke the distance, moving closer until he latched on to Hadrian¡¯s foot. When he did, Hadrian kicked.
¡°Stop it, you fool!¡± Royce yelled.
¡°Was that you?¡±
¡°Yes, it¡¯s me. Hold still!¡±
Royce caught Hadrian¡¯s foot again and pulled, docking them together. He grabbed hold of Hadrian¡¯s belt to ensure they stayed that way.
¡°I thought . . .¡± Hadrian paused. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I mean, we¡¯re in a big sewer, aren¡¯t we? Could be anything down here.¡±
¡°Use your sword,¡± Royce said. ¡°The big one. See if you can catch it on anything.¡±
He felt Hadrian twist, then heard the sound of metal scraping, but he sensed no noticeable decrease in speed.
They came near the wall again. Hadrian stretched and twisted. More scraping. A series of jerks, and there it was, the force of water surging against them. The force was too much for whatever grip Hadrian had managed, and they were off again.
¡°Wall and ground are too smooth,¡± Hadrian reported. ¡°Need something to catch the blade on.¡±
¡°There!¡± Royce pointed at the next grating. ¡°See the light.¡±
¡°Too high. I can¡¯t¡ª¡±
¡°Not the grate, next to it! Stairs!¡±
In the dim light, Royce could see a set of stone steps descending into the sewer. He realized it was likely too dark for Hadrian to see. ¡°Trust me. Right in front of that next shaft of light. On the left. Kick!¡±
They both swam as hard as they could, which did little to alter their course. The current liked to keep them and everything else trapped in the center.
Not going to make it, Royce realized as once more the light revealed their speed and the lack of sideways movement.
¡°Hang on!¡± Hadrian shouted as they came close to the grating. His head dipped below the water. A moment later Royce nearly lost his grip on Hadrian¡¯s belt as the bigger man shoved off the bottom of the sewer, propelling himself toward the steps. Holding the long blade with one hand on the pommel and another on the flange, Hadrian caught the corner where passing sewage frothed against the wall. Grunting loudly, Hadrian drew them to the side. The current grew weaker the farther away from the center they moved; still, Hadrian¡¯s arms shook with the strain to keep them stationary as water frothed in his face.
¡°Go! Go! Go!¡± Hadrian shouted.
Royce clawed up Hadrian¡¯s body, and caught the edge of the steps. Then reaching back, he pulled Hadrian to the stairs. The two scrambled onto the bottom step and collapsed, panting in the dark, listening to the rush of water. A loud clank echoed as Hadrian set the big spadone blade down on the stone. Unable to lie down, Hadrian pushed his back against the wall and stretched out his legs along the step¡¯s length. His head was back, and he groaned while laboring to breathe. Royce crouched, head between his knees, spitting sewer swill from his mouth and swiping his hair back.
¡°That was refreshing,¡± Hadrian said between breaths. His voice quavered.
A faint light spilled down from an opening at the top of the stairs, providing just enough illumination for Royce to see his partner¡¯s face. Hadrian¡¯s breath was misting, his body shaking. The night had always been cold, but walking in the rain had been one thing; being soaked to the bone was another. No wind at least, but that would change the moment they went topside. Royce gritted his teeth in anticipation.
¡°What just happened?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°I¡¯d like to believe a horse was accidentally spooked and ran in our direction.¡±
¡°Down an otherwise deserted street?¡± Royce said, sounding skeptical. ¡°A street that lacks windows and doors?¡±
¡°I said I¡¯d like to believe that.¡±
Together they pushed to their feet and climbed up a few steps, where they paused to wring out the worst of the wet.
¡°Someone just tried to kill us, didn¡¯t they?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Sure seems like it.¡±
Hadrian returned the spadone to its place on his back. ¡°But we just got here.¡±
¡°I know. Doesn¡¯t seem fair, does it?¡± Royce squeezed his cloak, letting the water drizzle down the steps. ¡°You might be right. I think we got ourselves into something bigger than a simple case of a man killing his wife for her money.¡±
¡°But why would anyone¡ªI mean, how could anyone even know what we¡¯re doing here? Or do you think they treat all visitors this way. Hey, welcome to town. Here, have a scalding-hot mouthful of lamb, some incredibly weak beer, and don¡¯t forget your free runaway cart!¡±
¡°We asked about the duchess.¡±
¡°We asked about . . . wait . . . are you serious? This is because of that?¡±
Royce nodded. He looked up at the damp, dripping walls of the sewer. ¡°This city reminds me a lot of Ratibor¡ªa lot more crowded, far more embellished, and no brothels, but it harbors the same mentality. Bald dockworker and company didn¡¯t run away from us, they ran to someone, maybe several someones.¡±
¡°But why did those someones try to kill us? All we did was¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m guessing they don¡¯t want people inquiring about the duchess.¡±
¡°Because she¡¯s dead?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Or because she¡¯s alive?¡±
Royce pondered this and realized he didn¡¯t have the slightest clue. After nearly an entire night in the city, he had more questions than when he¡¯d arrived.
V2: Chapter 7 - Breakfast
Royce and Hadrian were on time for breakfast.
Evelyn Hemsworth presided at a table covered in three cloths¡ªblue upon yellow, with pristine white on top¡ªand on this lay a vast collection of tableware. Porcelain creamers, cups, plates, and spice towers had been placed with such precision that Hadrian wondered if the woman had used plumb lines and T-squares. Crystal glasses lorded over the silver forks and knives, which guarded napkin-covered plates. Great silver serving trays with ornate lids were set with equal precision in a circle around a two-foot silver sculpture of a palm tree, at the base of which three men in turbans and Calian garb stood holding candelabras. While no food was visible, the entire house smelled of fresh pastries and sizzling bacon.
At the head of the table, Evelyn sat. She looked exactly as she had the night before: hair in a bun, formal dress, high tight collar that made Hadrian swallow in sympathy. She stared at the two of them with large piercing eyes and judgmental brows, her lips drawn up like a tight purse.
Royce looked at Hadrian, who stared back, both unsure what to do next: sit, offer a morning greeting, or ask permission to join her?
¡°Good morning,¡± Hadrian ventured as lightheartedly as he could.
¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she said.
Hadrian glanced at the window. The morning sun had only just pierced the glass, replacing the illumination of the diminishing fire and making the crystal stemware sparkle in rainbow hues. ¡°You said dawn.¡±
¡°I did. Dawn was eight minutes ago.¡±
¡°But the sun¡ª¡±
¡°The sun doesn¡¯t reach this house until eight minutes after dawn because Lardner¡¯s Cabinet and Wardrobe Shop, on the hill at the intersection of Cross and Howell, is a full four stories tall and traps my home in shadow.¡±
Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.
¡°Sit,¡± she ordered.
They both complied. Hadrian sat in the middle. Royce took the seat farthest away.
¡°It smells wonderful,¡± Hadrian said, reaching out to peek under the silver lid directly before him.
¡°Tut, tut!¡± Evelyn said, and clapped her hands sharply, stopping him. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you people?¡± She glared accusingly.
Once more Hadrian glanced at Royce, mystified. The truth was he could answer that question a dozen different ways.
¡°Have you no sense of propriety? No piety?¡±
Hadrian still hadn¡¯t a clue what she was getting at, and apparently it showed. She frowned his way.
¡°We need to give thanks to Our Lord, Novron, for this meal.¡±
¡°Oh,¡± Hadrian replied.
¡°Oh?¡± Evelyn intensified the disappointment in her eyes. ¡°What sort of comment is that?¡±
Fearful of another verbal blunder, Hadrian shrugged.
¡°Now he¡¯s acting like a monkey,¡± she said to Royce, as if he would understand and agree. Royce sat rigidly, staring back. Hadrian imagined he was entertaining himself ticking through all the ways he planned to kill her, mentally trying each out.
Evelyn turned to Hadrian, waiting. A long minute passed, and her brows rose with the passage of time. ¡°Well?¡±
¡°Well what?¡± Hadrian asked.
Evelyn looked dumbfounded. ¡°Are you telling me that you . . . am I correct in my assumption that you¡¯ve never offered thanks to Novron for your good fortune? How is that possible? Were the two of you hatched in a cave somewhere such that you don¡¯t understand the basic concepts of civilization and devotion to our god?¡±
Hadrian looked to Royce for help, and he wasn¡¯t surprised to see his partner lifting his hood.
¡°We do not wear hoods at the table.¡± Evelyn¡¯s words were so firm that the declaration came out as an indisputable fact.
Royce froze like a raccoon caught in a trash bin.
¡°Honestly, the two of you . . . it¡¯s like living with animals.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We¡¯re not from around here.¡±
¡°Obviously. The two of you live in a forest, most likely in some worm-filled burrow.¡±
¡°If it¡¯ll get us closer to eating, we¡¯re all for whatever thanks giving you have planned. Right?¡± Hadrian looked at Royce, who remained stationary with his hood partway up, watching Evelyn with a menacing fixation.
¡°Fine.¡± Evelyn sighed with abundant disappointment. Then she bowed her head. ¡°We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food before us. May we prove worthy of your kindness.¡± She lifted her head and looked at Hadrian.
¡°Am I supposed to say that now, too?¡±
Evelyn gave an exasperated shake of her head. ¡°Just¡ªjust eat. Please.¡±
Lifting the lids, they found a steaming feast of eggs, pork, cheese, whitefish, shellfish, honey, almonds, pastries, and whey. For a moment, Hadrian was overwhelmed. ¡°Did . . . did you prepare this all yourself?¡±
¡°Of course not. Didn¡¯t you see the army of fairy-cooks that filed out while you were insulting Our Lord? I particularly like their tiny aprons, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I¡ª¡± Hadrian wasn¡¯t certain she was mocking him.
¡°Eat,¡± she ordered.
They passed trays, loading up plates. Hadrian felt horribly selfish and decadent while piling up so much, but Evelyn insisted she¡¯d cooked it for them and they had best eat it.
¡°I don¡¯t recall hearing you come in last night,¡± Evelyn said, pouring herself tea from an elaborate pot made in the shape of an elephant.
To Evelyn Hemsworth and Royce, the pot was likely the whimsical design of a creative artist, but Hadrian had firsthand experience with the animals. He¡¯d seen them during his years in Calis, where they were used as both beasts of burden and war machines. Much of the tableware setting was inspired by, or likely came from, Calis. The port of Rochelle was perhaps the first stop in the trans-Goblin Sea trade route. Even the spice shakers had monkeys on them.
¡°But I noticed you left quite a puddle on my rug and a nasty trail of wet up the stairs. I¡¯ll ask you to please remove your boots in the future. I¡¯m an old woman and have more than enough to do. I don¡¯t need you providing me with extra work. And be aware, I lock the door promptly with the third chime of the bell tower after sunset.¡± She reached for the sugar and paused. ¡°You¡¯re not up to anything shady, are you? I won¡¯t stand for any higgery-jiggery or jiggery-pokery for that matter. Not in this house. Understand? While you¡¯re here, I¡¯ll expect the both of you to conduct yourselves properly. And you¡±¡ªshe indicated Royce with a tilt of her head and the raise of a brow¡ª¡°don¡¯t wear a cloak to the meal table. And wash your hands before coming down. Who were your parents? That¡¯s what I¡¯d like to know.¡±
They ate for several minutes in silence. The food was wonderful, but Evelyn didn¡¯t eat much at all.
¡°Might I ask, what became of King Reinhold?¡± Hadrian ventured and received an apprehensive look from Royce. Both of them visibly cringed in anticipation of the response. Talking to Evelyn was like searching for wayward eggs in a dark henhouse.
Evelyn sighed.
¡°I¡¯m sorry if that¡¯s not a polite thing to discuss over breakfast,¡± Hadrian added.
¡°What? Oh, no, that¡¯s fine, but well, His Majesty . . .¡± Evelyn frowned over her plate, which consisted of only a single small roll and a slice of orange cheese. ¡°It was quite the tragedy, you understand. His ship, the Eternal Empire, sank in a storm off Blythin Point about five months ago. The entire royal family was aboard, along with most of the royal court. That¡¯s why stewardship of the kingdom has fallen to Bishop Tynewell.¡±
¡°Why the bishop?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Tradition mostly. When the last emperor of the Novronian Empire died, the Bishop of Percepliquis was the one who assumed the mantle of steward to the empire.¡± She peered at both of them for a moment expectantly. ¡°Neither of you has any clue what I¡¯m talking about, do you?¡±
¡°Not really,¡± Hadrian said.
She sighed. ¡°It¡¯s like talking to children. You¡¯re like a pair of five-year-olds dressed up in big people¡¯s clothes. I¡¯m afraid to let the two of you wander the streets alone. You might accept candy from strangers and be whisked off to darkest Calis.¡±
¡°He would.¡± Royce pointed at Hadrian.
¡°Don¡¯t point,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s not polite.¡±
Royce rolled his eyes.
¡°Watch yourself, young man. You¡¯re treading on thin ice, you are.¡±
Royce smiled at her malevolently. ¡°I¡¯m actually quite good at that.¡±
Hadrian didn¡¯t like the look in his friend¡¯s eye, which had changed from surprised raccoon to hungry panther. ¡°I think you were going to tell us more about the death of King Reinhold?¡±
¡°Actually, no. I was explaining common history, of which you and your friend are as stunningly ignorant as you are lacking in suitable personal hygiene and proper manners.¡±
¡°Right,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°That was it. Go on.¡±
¡°Oh, yes, well, history is something of a passion in Alburn, you understand. The people here are quite proud of their heritage¡ªwe are, you see, unique in the world. It¡¯s our claim to the past that defines us as a people. Which is why it¡¯s so disappointing to encounter the likes of you two, who appear so nescient of that which is so important to us.¡± She paused either to take a breath or to allow Hadrian the opportunity to prove her point, perhaps by asking what nescient meant. He didn¡¯t take the bait.
¡°Well, what I was going to impart was that after the death of the last emperor, his family, and the destruction of the capital city of Percepliquis, Bishop Venlin stepped in and took over. It was the bishop who officially moved the empire from somewhere in the west to here. At that time, this was the Imperial Province of Alburnia. The bishop¡ªthat¡¯s what the patriarch was back then¡ªactually ruled the remains of the empire out of Blythin Castle until he finished his cathedral.¡± She gestured, but didn¡¯t point, toward the east. ¡°Even back then, Rochelle was a thriving port city. You need to understand that at that time, everywhere west of the Majestic Mountains was locked in complete and utter chaos because petty warlords were grabbing land and power.¡±
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Hadrian wanted to point out that not much had changed, but he wasn¡¯t about to interrupt. He hoped that Evelyn¡¯s ramblings would shed some light on more recent events. Royce didn¡¯t appear to be listening at all as he scraped eggs off his plate with a knife.
¡°Everyone loyal to the emperor¡¯s banner came here. The Calders, the Killians, the Hargraves¡ªthey had all been prominent families in the court of the last emperor. Alburn became home of the empire in exile. Everything that could be salvaged was brought here for safekeeping: artifacts, books, statues, paintings. So you see, Alburn in general, and Rochelle in particular, has very strong links with the traditions of the Novronian Empire. So when the king and his entire family sank in the Goblin Sea, the bishop naturally stepped in to act as steward. Simple as that.¡±
¡°That was simple?¡± Royce asked and licked his knife clean.
¡°It¡¯s called thinking, dear,¡± Evelyn told him. ¡°If you work at it, the mind gets stronger.¡±
Royce shifted his grip on the knife, taking hold of the blade.
¡°So what happened?¡± Hadrian quickly asked. ¡°Why isn¡¯t this still the empire in exile? Why isn¡¯t the patriarch still here? How did Reinhold become king? He isn¡¯t a Calder, Killian, or Hargrave, is he?¡±
¡°No. That was all Glenmorgan¡¯s doing. He was the big winner of the monarch sweepstakes. The biggest thug of the west, if you will. When Glenmorgan invaded Alburnia, the patriarch avoided being sacked by anointing him the almost-emperor, otherwise known as a steward. Then when Glenmorgan set himself up at Ervanon in the north, the patriarch was obliged to join him. Still, while the church¡¯s head may have gone to Ghent, its heart remains here. For example, the Seret Knights are still headquartered in Blythin Castle, just as they always have been.¡±
¡°And Reinhold?¡±
¡°His great-great-great-grandfather, or something, was appointed governor of Alburn by Glenmorgan. He set up his government at the westernmost city, Caren¡ªas far away from all the traditional imperialists as he could. After good old Glenny the Third was executed at Blythin, the governor¡ªby then it was his son¡ªjust kept on running things, but now as king.¡±
¡°Because they were all lost at sea, there are no more descendants of that bloodline. Is that right?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Indeed, and the bishop will be making his choice during the Spring Feast.¡± Evelyn looked down her nose at Royce and scowled. ¡°You¡¯re not eating. For Novron¡¯s sake, you¡¯re thin as a brittle bit of last year¡¯s grass. That¡¯s why you wear that big cloak, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯re embarrassed at how little you are. Well, eat. You won¡¯t grow big and strong like your friend unless you do.¡±
¡°We need to find a new place to stay,¡± Royce said the moment they were clear of the house and moving with unusual speed down the street.
The rain had stopped, the weather warmer, and aside from a bit of fog and some puddles, it was a relatively pleasant day.
¡°There isn¡¯t any other place. Remember?¡± Hadrian replied, stretching his legs to keep up with Royce, who was practically trotting. ¡°We spent forever searching yesterday.¡±
¡°We looked for a couple of hours.¡± Royce gave his third glance back, as if Evelyn Hemsworth were fast on their heels.
Mill Street was alive with activity. Carriages rolled by; a girl sold early spring flowers from a handcart; a man with a wagon delivered milk and cheese door-to-door; a tiny dog with a pug nose begged for scraps; and pedestrians with canes and overcloaks dodged street traffic, standing puddles, and one another. Everything was so different from the night before.
¡°What are you griping about?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Do you remember what the Dirty Tankard looked like? The Hemsworth house is really nice. And the food! That may have been the best meal I¡¯ve ever had.¡±
¡°The woman is insane.¡±
¡°I actually kind of like her.¡±
Royce stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the street between two separate but equally sized piles of horse droppings, glaring at his partner with a shocked expression that bordered on disturbed.
Hadrian continued walking two steps before noticing. ¡°What?¡± He looked back with equal parts innocence and guilt. ¡°She¡¯s nice . . . in an authoritarian, priggish, self-important sort of way. Think of her as the mother you never had.¡±
Royce made a bitter face. ¡°If my mother was anything like that, I¡¯m glad I never knew her.¡±
They resumed walking, moving clear of the milk wagon coming their way. The flat bed of the dray was laden with a half a dozen barrel-sized covered pails that cried white tears.
¡°She¡¯s right, you know,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°You should eat more if you want to grow up to be big and strong like me.¡± He grinned.
Royce pulled up his hood. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me.¡±
They climbed a hill that granted an expansive view of the city, most of it dominated by roofs and smoking chimneys. Yet with the rain gone and the fog restricting itself to the area around the harbor, Hadrian was finally able to form a mental map of the place. Rochelle straddled the Roche River as it poured into Blythin Bay¡ªmost of which was lost to the fog. Split in two as it was by the waterway, the city had been built with one half on either bank, the big harbor dominating the mouth of the river. In the middle of the Roche, a long thin island was joined to the two banks by a pair of stone bridges.
The island, aside from its role as the only means of traversing the river from one bank to the other, appeared to be reserved entirely for the duke. This was evident by the imposing wall that ringed the palatial estate. The areas nearest the bridges on both banks were the most affluent. The farther away from the river, the more destitute and neglected things became. The area just on the east side included the cathedral and its huge plaza. Hadrian suspected this was what people referred to as Old Town. Just east of there was another square surrounded by shops. Hadrian guessed it was the Merchant District¡ªalthough the far side of the river had just as many shops, so he couldn¡¯t be sure.
Royce headed south toward the foggy bay and into narrower, dirtier streets. Hadrian remembered the area from the night before, and daylight only made the neighborhood worse. The Meat House was just ahead on the right.
¡°What are we doing back here? We just ate.¡±
¡°Not looking for food this time. Need to find . . . there!¡± Royce pointed at the building next to the Meat House.
A ghastly looking two-story structure of gray mottled wood was fashioned in the general shape of a barn. A tall double door was stained with red handprints near the edge and along the latch. A row of wagons was parked in a line out front. They rocked and jiggled from hosts of restless passengers¡ªmostly pigs that snorted and squealed.
¡°It¡¯s a slaughterhouse.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°The cook said they got their supply fresh from next door. The wagon that nearly killed us yesterday was a livestock wagon, just like those.¡±
¡°Royce, I¡¯m sure there are hundreds of wagons like these in and around the city.¡±
¡°But none as conveniently available to someone who overheard our conversation.¡±
Royce approached the wagons and began walking up and down the row, studying them. They were old and worn. The sides were tall and bleached by the sun. The big spoked wheels had manure and straw stuck to the rims. Hadrian imagined what it might have felt like having one, or perhaps two, roll over him. Death by slaughterhouse wagon wasn¡¯t on his list of best ways to go.
¡°Is there a problem with my wagons?¡± A man came out of the building wearing a blood-splattered apron and a dingy leather skullcap. He held a bloody rag in one hand and a dripping hatchet in the other.
¡°Yes,¡± Royce said. ¡°I think there is.¡± He pointed to the third in line. ¡°That one¡¯s axle hub¡ªsee it? The metal looks raw, like it was recently filed, or perhaps scraped against a brick wall.¡±
The butcher didn¡¯t bother to look. ¡°That¡¯s not a problem.¡±
¡°It is for me.¡± Royce took a single step toward the man. ¡°Was it stolen? Did it disappear last night? Did you have to search for it this morning?¡±
The butcher mused a moment with his lips then spit on the ground between them. ¡°Nope. Been there all night. Hasn¡¯t moved. How is that a problem for you?¡±
¡°You¡¯re right. It¡¯s not.¡± Royce smiled as he took another step closer. ¡°But it just became a problem for you.¡±
Hadrian was fascinated by just how catlike Royce became when preparing to kill; his eyes became dilated, his pupils growing with his excitement. Hadrian didn¡¯t know for certain if Royce would kill the butcher. He generally didn¡¯t murder in plain sight on a busy street in daylight, but the body language was unmistakable.
¡°Someone tried to kill me with that wagon last night, and since it wasn¡¯t stolen¡±¡ªRoyce took another step¡ª¡°I¡¯ll have to assume it was you.¡±
While the butcher processed the accusation, Royce rushed forward.
With Royce, half seconds mattered. Luckily Hadrian had seen the attack coming even if the butcher was oblivious, and he stepped between the two. The butcher finally realized his peril and shuffled backward.
¡°Out of my way!¡± Royce snapped as Hadrian extended his arms, blocking the thief from dodging around him.
¡°Keep him away from me!¡± the butcher shouted. ¡°That guy is crazy. I didn¡¯t do anything.¡±
¡°He¡¯s not crazy,¡± Hadrian tried to explain. ¡°He thinks you tried to kill him . . . err . . . us, actually.¡±
¡°Help! Help!¡± the butcher shouted, backing up.
Royce shifted left then right, but Hadrian blocked him both times. To the butcher¡ªto anyone watching¡ªit would have appeared that Royce was doing his best to get past. He wasn¡¯t. Royce could dance with an angry rattlesnake and never get bitten. He once boasted about his ability to dodge arrows; Hadrian had never seen him do that but believed he could. If Royce really wanted to get around, Hadrian probably couldn¡¯t stop his lithe partner.
¡°Step aside,¡± Royce snapped. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill him.¡±
The butcher¡¯s eyes widened, and his pleas became frantic, ¡°Somebody . . . anybody . . . help me!¡±
¡°Calm down, both of you,¡± Hadrian said.
A number of people on the street had stopped and were staring. An elderly man and two women took the most interest but posed no danger. Two laborers stacking bags of feed farther up the street, on the other hand, were worth keeping an eye on. They, too, had paused and turned. At that moment, everyone¡¯s expressions displayed puzzlement, but it wouldn¡¯t take long for that to change.
Hadrian addressed the butcher, ¡°Look, we just want to know who tried to run us down last night.¡±
¡°It was him,¡± Royce insisted, and, reaching into his cloak, he drew out Alverstone. ¡°And I¡¯m going to treat him like one of his pigs. Time for the slaughter, you rat-tailed sow!¡±
The butcher looked at the gleaming white dagger, and with a squeak, which sounded a bit like the squeal of a pig, he turned to flee.
Hadrian tripped him. ¡°Don¡¯t run! Whatever you do, don¡¯t run! He really will kill you then. Your only hope is to stay near me.¡±
This was only partially a lie. Royce was intentionally scaring the man in the hope of getting information, but Royce was still Royce, and the cat analogy was a little too perfect. There was a good chance this man had been involved in the attack, and if he proved unhelpful, if he stopped being a potential lead . . .
¡°Help! I didn¡¯t do anything,¡± the butcher cried from the ground where he lay on his back. He dropped the meat cleaver and rag, both hands up to fend off the expected attack. ¡°I don¡¯t know how the wagon got like that. I didn¡¯t watch the thing all night. I was asleep. Maybe someone did take it. Maybe they took it and put it back. I don¡¯t know. But I didn¡¯t do anything!¡±
¡°Hold! In the name of the duke!¡± Running up the street were a trio of men in chainmail and blue-colored tabards¡ªcity guards.
Hadrian frowned as he realized that Royce¡¯s theatrics had taken a potentially serious turn. He had seen the guards around the city, but previously only in pairs. The reason there were three became instantly apparent. The lead man wore a helmet with the yellow horsehair crest of an officer, his face vaguely familiar.
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± the officer demanded while trotting up. He spotted Royce¡¯s dagger, and his hand moved to a sword. His fellow soldiers followed suit.
Royce dropped into a full crouch, the ruse ended. The thief was poised to fight.
¡°Roland Wyberg?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°By Mar! Is that really you?¡±
No one moved.
The officer¡¯s eyes narrowed as he stared. His mouth opened in shock. ¡°Blackwater?¡±
Then to the utter amazement of everyone, including the spectators on the street, the two clasped hands.
¡°You¡¯re still alive.¡± Hadrian clapped the officer¡¯s back. ¡°Who would have thought.¡±
¡°Me? You¡¯re the one who disappeared. I expected¡ªwell, everyone thought you were dead. Rumors said you were knifed by a Warric patrol.¡±
¡°Excuse me!¡± the butcher shouted from where he still lay on the ground. He pointed at Royce. ¡°This man is about to kill me.¡±
Roland glanced from Hadrian to Royce. ¡°Friend of yours?¡±
¡°He is.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°We think the butcher might have tried to kill us last night.¡±
¡°No,¡± Royce said, putting his dagger away. ¡°He¡¯s just an idiot.¡±
¡°You saw him. He was going to kill me.¡± The butcher pointed at Royce.
In a fair imitation of Evelyn Hemsworth, Royce said, ¡°It¡¯s not polite to point.¡±
¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡± Wyberg asked.
¡°Someone tried to run us down with a slaughterhouse wagon,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°That one over there.¡±
The officer studied the wagons for a moment, eyes narrowed in contemplation. ¡°Sure it wasn¡¯t just an accident?¡± He focused on Hadrian with a new scrutiny. ¡°Is there some reason why someone would want you dead? What exactly are you doing here, Blackwater? And for that matter, what made you disappear in the first place?¡±
Royce nodded at the crowd, which, despite the diminished chance of violence, had grown. A dozen people stood in the street, and more were arriving. ¡°Is it possible to continue this conversation somewhere less public? The central square, perhaps? A community stage, maybe?¡±
Roland looked around and frowned at the audience. ¡°There¡¯s a guard post just up the street.¡± He hooked a thumb at the two other soldiers with him. ¡°I was checking up on these two when we heard the shouts. I can offer you some coffee, not allowed to have anything stronger.¡±
¡°Aren¡¯t you going to arrest them?¡± the butcher asked, still lying on the ground as if unable to get up.
¡°For scaring you?¡±
That made the butcher huff dramatically.
The officer pointed to the Meat House as they passed by. ¡°If you¡¯re hungry, we could grab something to eat. Doesn¡¯t look like much, but the food is good.¡±
¡°No!¡± Royce and Hadrian said together.
V2: Chapter 8 - A Tale of Two Soldiers
The kid Hadrian remembered was a lean seventeen-year-old with deep dimples that attracted women like a bowl of candy drew children. He hadn¡¯t seen Wyberg in six years, not since Hadrian had left the service of King Reinhold. He didn¡¯t look much different. Heavier, but Roland had always needed a few pounds. The slender boy had become a solid man, but the dimples were still there, and in his eyes, Hadrian saw a vague reflection of another young soldier whom time had also changed.
The guard post was a typical one-room shack. Nothing more than a place to check in, store shackles and weapons, and provide a little warmth when it got cold. Much of the room was given over to stacks of wood, but there was an ink-stained desk in the corner on which was laid a stack of mangled parchments held down by a horseshoe. The floor creaked when stepped on, the fire hissed, and the whole place smelled of smoke and damp wood.
¡°So, Blackwater, what happened to you?¡± Roland snapped off his chin guard and tossed the big helmet on the desk, where the weight of the horsehair brush caused it to roll halfway to the edge.
¡°Went to Calis.¡± Hadrian took a seat on a crude bench that looked to have been banged together from two unsplit logs and a wide board. Royce showed him an uncomfortable face before sitting alongside, enveloping himself in his cloak the way a proper woman might check the skirt of her dress.
Roland moved to the fire, where a blackened metal kettle sat on a wrought-iron grate, forming a bridge over glowing coals. ¡°Why?¡±
¡°You probably don¡¯t remember, but I came to Alburn from Warric. Had friends serving in Chadwick¡¯s First Regiment. Didn¡¯t want to be here to welcome them and couldn¡¯t get a transfer, so . . .¡± Hadrian didn¡¯t bother finishing.
Roland lifted the kettle¡¯s lid. He shook his head and scowled. ¡°No one ever puts a new one on after draining it.¡± He took the pot outside, filled it with water from the rain barrel, struggled to latch the door, then set the pot back on the fire. He was still fussing with the lid when he said, ¡°You were right. They attacked. A few weeks after you vanished. Nasty battle.¡± Roland reached up to a shelf at the left of the desk and took down a large tin box. ¡°Richard, Brick, and Mel were all killed. You remember Mel, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Swell Mel? Sure.¡± Mel had been an older fellow who cut his hair short and made a habit of helping new recruits and adopting stray animals.
¡°The First Regiment hit us from two sides.¡± With difficulty, Roland popped the top of the tin off. Some of the coffee beans fell to the floor. He poured a small pile onto the desk. ¡°Captain Stowe and most of the officers died. Warric crippled us in short order.¡± He took a hammer that hung from a peg and proceeded to smash the beans. ¡°I sent Brady on a horse to Caren. Told him to ride his ass off and get help,¡± he said in between hammer strikes. ¡°The rest of us fell back to the Narrows. We held them there. Lost almost everyone doing it. We were four hundred when the sun came up, forty-two when it set. Afterward, I got a promotion and my choice of station. Picked Rochelle. Had my fill of fighting.¡± Roland scooped up the crushed coffee and dropped handfuls into three cups, then checked the water and scowled. He looked back. ¡°How was Calis?¡±
¡°Bloody.¡± Hadrian left it at that.
Roland looked over. Their eyes met, and he nodded. ¡°Guess we both woke up with hangovers.¡±
Royce kept his attention on the single window that faced the street. The interior pane was covered in flies that relentlessly butted the glass. A large number of them were dead on the sill.
Roland took a pair of split logs off the stack and placed them among the coals beneath the grate. Damp stains indicated they had been left out in the rain, and the logs hissed. Smoke escaped the draft, and Roland cracked the door a couple of inches to allow it an escape.
¡°And who is this?¡± Roland nodded toward Royce.
¡°My partner in crime,¡± Hadrian said with a smile that garnered a look from Royce, who otherwise hadn¡¯t moved. ¡°We¡¯ve been working out west. Taking odd jobs as we could find them.¡±
Roland spun the desk chair around and sat. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here? An odd job?¡±
Hadrian glanced at Royce, who provided no help. Discussing an assignment with the city guard was as likely as a pair of mice consulting a house cat about dinner options. But Roland was a friend, a decent man, in a position to help, and Royce¡¯s methods had failed to turn up anything except a near-death experience. Knowing he¡¯d hear about it later, Hadrian took the gamble. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°We were hired to find a woman named Genny.¡±
Royce shifted on the bench.
Roland, who was just about to peek under the lid of the kettle again, stopped. ¡°You mean Genevieve? The duchess who married old Leopold?¡±
Hadrian nodded.
¡°Who hired you?¡±
Royce coughed into his hand. ¡°Sorry. Think I¡¯m getting a cold.¡±
Hadrian felt Royce looking at him, but he didn¡¯t turn to verify. He¡¯d already committed himself to the path. ¡°Her father.¡±
Hadrian imagined Royce to be mentally screaming at him, or gasping in horror, but the reaction of Roland was anticlimactic. He turned back to the pot with a sniff.
¡°Her father seems to think she¡¯s dead, although a note said she¡¯s only missing.¡±
¡°We¡¯ve looked for her. Tore the town apart, really. The duke had us going door-to-door, searching shops and private homes. But . . .¡±
¡°But what?¡±
¡°She¡¯s been missing for two weeks. No one has seen or heard anything about her.¡± He nodded. ¡°I think her father has cause for concern.¡±
Roland dipped his pinkie into the kettle and jerked it back. Then he poured steaming water into three cups. ¡°This is one of the best perks of this post. We get great coffee shipped over from Calis. Be sure to wait until the floating bits settle before you drink.¡± He handed them the cups.
¡°Well then,¡± Hadrian said, cheerily, ¡°it¡¯s a good thing we arrived. Maybe we can help. Can you tell us what happened? How¡¯d she disappear?¡±
¡°Not much to tell. She and the ducal cofferer, a fellow named Devon De Luda, were returning from a meeting with the city¡¯s merchant guild. On their way back to the Estate¡ªthat¡¯s the duke¡¯s residence¡ªthe carriage was attacked. De Luda was killed on the spot, and the duchess was dragged off.¡±
¡°Where¡¯d this happen?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Just before the bridge to the Estate, on the far side of Central Plaza. That¡¯s the big one with the cathedral.¡±
¡°Seems like a pretty public setting for a murder,¡± Royce noted.
¡°Usually is, but that night it was deserted.¡±
¡°Deserted? A little odd, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Not really. The town is filled with folk right now because of the festival. Two weeks ago, things were quieter. And Rochelle residents are a superstitious lot, tend to stay in at night.¡±
¡°So, no talk, no rumors?¡±
¡°Plenty. Always are. But that¡¯s just gossip and ghost stories. No mysterious monster killed the duchess, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re getting at.¡±
Hadrian glanced at Royce, puzzled. ¡°Okay . . . I wasn¡¯t, but I guess that¡¯s good to know. Do you usually suspect monsters?¡±
¡°No, but that doesn¡¯t stop the tongues from wagging. De Luda was stabbed, plain and simple. His heart was in his chest, and he still had a face.¡±
Hadrian opened his mouth but didn¡¯t quite know what to say.
Roland sighed. ¡°I¡¯m just saying it wasn¡¯t a monster, okay?¡±
Hadrian nodded. He glanced at Royce, who stared at Roland with a concerned look.
¡°Okay, so lately we¡¯ve been finding mutilated children, most of them mir. Kids with their chests torn open and hearts ripped out. But their faces have been fine. No one¡¯s lost a face in years¡ªif they ever really did.¡±
¡°What a quaint city you have here,¡± Royce quietly remarked.
¡°Yeah, well, no place is perfect. I think all the talk about the carriage being attacked by a monster is just people finding what they expect to see. Like I said, De Luda¡¯s body wasn¡¯t like the other corpses. My personal theory¡ªabout the duchess, I mean¡ªis that she was dragged into the shadows, her throat slit, and her body dumped in the river.¡±
¡°Why?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You¡¯ve probably heard about what¡¯s going on during the Spring Feast, right?¡±
¡°Yeah, Alburn¡¯s going to get a new king.¡±
¡°Well, a lot of people think there¡¯s some significance to the anointing ceremony being held here in Rochelle rather than in Caren. Folks think Leopold is the front-runner. They also believe it¡¯s why the forty-year-old duke suddenly took a wife. The theory is the bishop offered him the crown on the condition he got married first. If that¡¯s true, I bet there are plenty of nobles who would like to spoil that plan and make the bishop pick someone else.¡±
¡°So, why not just kill Leopold?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Duke doesn¡¯t leave the Estate often; the duchess is always running around town. And it¡¯s easier to kill a strange, imported merchant¡¯s daughter than a man who you know, possibly like, and could even be related to. You might not want him dead, just don¡¯t want him to be king.¡±
¡°Okay, but why wasn¡¯t her body next to that De Luda guy? Why go to the trouble of dragging her away before killing her?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°I wondered about that, too.¡± Roland grinned like the boy who knew the answer to the riddle. ¡°But I realized if she were dead, the duke could just pick another wife, marry her quick, and nothing would change. But with her missing . . . well, he can¡¯t remarry. Not for a while. Not if there¡¯s a chance she¡¯s still alive. It¡¯s the not-knowing that lowered his chances. The bishop will pick a less risky candidate. Unfortunately, that means it could be any of a hundred or so nobles.¡±
¡°But you have a favorite?¡±
Roland nodded. ¡°I¡¯d lay money on Floret Killian, Duke of Quarters. He¡¯s popular and powerful and the sort to do whatever it takes. But I can¡¯t make any accusation without proof, and I don¡¯t have any.¡±
¡°You mentioned the duchess was coming back from a meeting with the merchant guild. Do you know what that was about?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Stirring up trouble is what I hear. She¡¯d been sticking her nose in stuff a woman shouldn¡¯t be involved in. But I guess things are different in Colnora. That¡¯s where she came from. I suppose you already know that. She didn¡¯t fit in all that well around here. Rochelle has particular ways of doing things. People have roles, and I guess she didn¡¯t like hers much.¡± Roland put another log on the fire.
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¡°What about the driver?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Was he killed, too?¡±
Roland hesitated. ¡°Driver?¡±
¡°You mentioned that the duchess and De Luda were in a carriage. So what happened to their driver?¡±
Roland¡¯s eyes shifted back and forth. ¡°Only De Luda¡¯s body was found. Guess the driver ran off.¡±
¡°Where¡¯s the carriage now? Is it back at the duke¡¯s estate?¡±
Roland shook his head. ¡°Just down the street. They took it to Woffington¡¯s shop to be cleaned. Everything was covered in blood.¡±
He took another sip. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but it looks like the two of you came a long way for nothing. Still, I hope you¡¯ll stick around a few days. I¡¯ve been busy as a hummingbird on the last day of summer, but we could have a drink when I¡¯m off duty. Maybe I can lure Hadrian back to Alburn now that we aren¡¯t at odds with Warric anymore.¡±
¡°Oh, I think we¡¯ll be staying awhile,¡± Royce said with a friendly smile that sent chills up Hadrian¡¯s back.
Woffington & Sons was located not far from the river, in an area where everything, even the carriage shop, was built of old stone, a material normally reserved for castles or churches. Royce felt certain it hadn¡¯t always been used for building coaches. The architecture was too sophisticated, too decorative for a business, even one that catered to nobles. Fluted pillars held up an arched, engraved transom, and over the big door crouched one of the town¡¯s many stone gargoyles. This one was endowed with a barbed tail curled around its feet as it perched vulture-like, peering down menacingly on all who entered.
Hadrian had followed Royce without a word, hanging back a step, and Royce was still deciding whether to admonish him. The problem stemmed from the fact that Hadrian might not have made a mistake. On a purely objective level, his partner had committed a monumental blunder. They were there to commit murder, probably more than one, and he¡¯d just declared their association with the events to come¡ªto a high-ranking officer of the city guard, no less. As ridiculous as that was, though, Royce had to admit Hadrian¡¯s direct approach had resulted in a bounty of information that might have required weeks to obtain by less direct methods, and Royce was starting to suspect that time might be a factor. And there was also one more restraint on Royce¡¯s rebuke, one more reason to suspect that Hadrian¡¯s knack for dumb luck might have turned out okay, but he needed more information to be sure.
The shop wasn¡¯t far from the plaza, so it was obvious why the carriage had been brought there. From the shop¡¯s entrance, Royce could see the cathedral. The massive edifice with its soaring bell towers dominated the eastern bank. Central Plaza itself hosted numerous shops, statues, and fountains. The river¡¯s early-morning fog had yet to burn off, but the square was already filling with pedestrians and hawkers.
That¡¯s where it happened.
Despite Captain Wyberg¡¯s assurances about the habits of Rochelle¡¯s residents, Royce found it an odd locale for a murder. Killing in a place so conspicuous generally meant the perpetrator was trying to send a message.
That¡¯s what I would do. He caught himself. Have done. He thought again. More than once.
This realization was both intriguing and disturbing, leaving Royce as curious as he was concerned.
Who are we dealing with?
A kid that Royce guessed to be about thirteen spotted the pair lingering at the shop¡¯s open doors. Brushing himself free of sawdust, he trotted over. A wide belt with tools hanging from loops, most of them chisels and wooden mallets, hung from his waist. ¡°Can I help you, gentlemen?¡± Over the boy¡¯s shoulder, Royce spotted four men working in a large open space held up by old stacked-stone pillars. Suspended from the ceiling or piled on shelves was a plethora of wheels, raw lumber, and metal poles. Royce counted eight carriages in various states of production.
¡°Officer Roland Wyberg of the city guard informs me that this is where the duke¡¯s carriage is being repaired,¡± Royce said with a dash of aggressiveness.
The boy straightened up. ¡°Oh, ah, yes, sir. Are you from the Estate, sir?¡±
Royce folded his arms slowly, studying the boy with a dismissive expression that wasn¡¯t too difficult for him to conjure up. The kid was fresh-faced enough to have been a spring lamb. ¡°I¡¯m investigating the events of that night. Let¡¯s just say that, shall we?¡± He gave the boy a sly smile. ¡°You¡¯d be one of the Woffington sons, is that right?¡±
¡°Ah, yes, I¡¯m Brian Woffington, sir.¡±
¡°And, Brian, are you working on the carriage?¡±
¡°My father and brother Steven are, but they¡¯re not here just now. They went to get material for the interior. They¡¯re over at Handon¡¯s place on the west bank.¡±
¡°That¡¯s fine; we don¡¯t need to talk to them. We only want to take a look at the coach. Can you take me to it?¡±
¡°Um, yes, sir.¡±
Brian led them around tables, racks, bolts of leather, and massive spools of thread. The other sons looked over, but no one said anything.
¡°Working on a lot of wagons,¡± Hadrian mentioned. ¡°Business must be good.¡±
¡°Rochelle has over three hundred carriages for hire,¡± the kid told them. ¡°Keeping them in good order sometimes requires replacing the whole rig.¡±
They dodged around a few more tables, and in the back of the shop, Royce and Hadrian came across the gaudiest coach they had ever seen. It appeared to be made entirely of gold, right down to its wheels. The door panels were the only exception. There, the surface had been painted to depict a man on a rearing horse, his mantle flying in the wind as a beautiful woman watched in awe. The interior was gutted, the seats removed and lying on the shop¡¯s floor, their skin stripped bare, revealing the wooden frames. Royce went over to the window and peered in for a closer look. Tufts of padding, and the remains of regularly placed tacks, indicated the carriage had once been upholstered from floor to ceiling. All that remained was the skeleton of bare wood.
Royce stepped back and continued examining the carriage¡¯s exterior.
¡°Mind if I . . .¡± Royce pointed toward the driver¡¯s berth.
¡°Hmm? Oh, go ahead,¡± Brian replied. ¡°It¡¯s not real gold, by the way. Just painted to look like it. If it were real, the horses would die trying to pull it. Oh, and we¡¯d need a troop of soldiers to guard the shop at night.¡± The boy laughed.
Royce hopped up and made a quick study of the seat. ¡°Has this bench been repaired?¡±
Brian shook his head. ¡°No, sir. Didn¡¯t touch nothing. Weren¡¯t no damage. The bloodstains were inside.¡±
As on most coaches, the footboard was adjustable. Royce positioned himself on the bench as if he was driving, and with his feet on the board, his knees came to his chest. ¡°No one changed anything up here? Adjusted the seat?¡±
¡°Nope.¡±
¡°When they brought the carriage over, someone must have driven it, right?¡±
Brian shook his head again. ¡°Happened just down by the river, not far at all. The horse was led.¡±
¡°Did you know who was driving the carriage the night of the attack?¡±
¡°Driving?¡± the boy asked, and thought for a moment before shaking his head. ¡°Probably Ickard Wimbly.¡±
¡°Probably? You don¡¯t know?¡±
¡°He¡¯s the duke¡¯s coachman. So, I think it was him. I can¡¯t remember exactly if¡ª¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t Wimbly,¡± one of the other sons of Woffington paused in his work to chime in. This son was at least a couple of years older than Brian, having the start of a narrow beard. ¡°He never drives the duchess. Steven has been down there a lot. Talks to Wimbly all the time. The man refused to drive her. Called the duchess the Whiskey Wench.¡±
Hadrian gave them both a skeptical look. ¡°How does the duke¡¯s coachman refuse to drive the duke¡¯s wife?¡±
¡°And how did he still have a job after calling her a wench?¡± Royce added.
¡°Wimbly used to drive the duke¡¯s father. He¡¯s a fixture at the Estate and very well respected. And he¡¯s not the only one who felt that way, trust me. The duchess wasn¡¯t exactly admired.¡±
¡°And the duke put up with it?¡±
All of the sons of Woffington exchanged looks of agreement. ¡°Not sure if he actually knew, but don¡¯t know how he couldn¡¯t.¡±
¡°So who drove?¡±
The sons all either shook their heads or shrugged. ¡°Wimbly¡¯s not picky when it comes to finding someone to drive her, so it coulda been anyone at the Estate.¡±
¡°And it happened at night, yes?¡± Royce turned back to Brian.
¡°Yep, was dark.¡±
¡°And do you know which route the carriage took from the Merchants¡¯ Guild?¡±
¡°Went right by this shop down the hill, past Grom Galimus, then over toward the bridge.¡±
Grom Galimus? Royce wasn¡¯t an expert in languages, but knew a fair amount of Old Speech, elvish, and even a handful of dwarven words learned from Merrick, who had taught Royce to read and write. Of course, a lot of the elvish, and all the dwarfish terms, were various forms of profanity. Grom galimus was Old Speech, or elven, Royce couldn¡¯t remember which, but he did recall what it meant: his glory.
The kid nodded. ¡°That¡¯s where it happened. That¡¯s where she was killed.¡±
¡°You think the duchess is dead?¡±
¡°Of course. Nobody survives a Morgan attack. My guess is she got scared and tried to run. Big mistake. When they find her body, it¡¯ll be a mess. The Morgan has been busy these days. Just the other night a little elven boy was ripped apart, and a Calian girl was found the same way near the harbor.¡±
¡°What makes you think the duchess ran?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°¡¯Cuz she would¡¯ve been safe if she just stayed inside. But the duchess is new to these parts and probably didn¡¯t know.¡±
¡°Didn¡¯t know what?¡±
¡°That monsters are repelled by the color blue, the color of purity, like the clear sky or clean water. Can¡¯t tell now, but the whole inside of the carriage was covered in plush blue velvet. If the duchess knew that color drove away evil spirits, she would have known that she¡¯d be safe as long as she stayed inside.¡±
Royce nodded, pretending to agree, but he was certain that the duchess¡¯s fate would have been the same no matter the color of the carriage¡¯s upholstery.
¡°No one ever notices the driver,¡± Royce told Hadrian as they walked downhill toward the bridge, and Woffington & Sons became just one of many doors along a stone edifice. ¡°I discovered that years ago. Servants are invisible except to one another. A baron can always tell you his horse¡¯s name, but he rarely knows the name of the groomsman who cares for it. They¡¯re the perfect blind spot for attacking the aristocracy. You saw how well it worked with Lord Exeter.¡±
Royce was speaking quickly. He wasn¡¯t the sort to think out loud, but he was onto something. Wheels were turning, and he was either bouncing ideas off Hadrian to gauge their accuracy or educating him in the finer points of intrigue. Most of their lengthier conversations were along one of those lines. Hadrian rarely knew which was which and suspected Royce didn¡¯t, either.
¡°So you think the driver was involved?¡±
¡°If he wasn¡¯t, he¡¯d have been found dead next to De Luda.¡±
¡°Maybe he was dragged off like the duchess.¡±
¡°Taking her is one thing, but there¡¯d be no reason to go to the extra trouble for a no-account driver. If all the bodies were missing, you might have a point. But since De Luda was left behind, the killer or killers weren¡¯t concerned about cleaning up after themselves. No, the driver isn¡¯t dead.¡±
They were entering the plaza, which turned out to be an attractive circle of decorative paving stones that highlighted the area between the mouth of the bridge and the massive doors of the cathedral. The last time they¡¯d passed this way, it had been night and the whole square had been a mass of people jostling to push through a bottleneck, making it impossible to see the giant church¡¯s doors, much less the paving stones. Now the plaza served as a vast open space providing a stunning view of the cathedral¡¯s grandeur.
¡°His glory,¡± Royce said.
¡°What?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°It¡¯s the translation of the cathedral¡¯s name. Grom Galimus means ¡®his glory.¡¯ I¡¯m guessing his refers to Novron.¡± Royce pointed at the sculpture in front.
The statue of the first emperor looked bigger, more impressive in the absence of human clutter, though even at that early hour a few people knelt at its stairs, heads down, praying. Around them, carters were still setting up. The various vendors were busy putting out displays or propping up awnings, although some of the carts had permanent roofs. A flight of pigeons burst skyward as the clang of Grom Galimus¡¯s bells marked the hour, an event that, annoyingly, occurred all day and night.
¡°So, you¡¯re not mad at me for being so forthcoming with Roland?¡± Hadrian asked as they passed a bakery where the owner was setting wares out in display cases.
The smell of baking bread came two steps later. Then a breeze blew it away, replacing warmth and comfort with the fishy scent of the river, which wasn¡¯t bad, but the two odors clashed, opposites of each other. One was home and hearth, the other exploration and adventure. Hadrian felt a sense of loss without knowing why. Such was the mysterious nature of smells and memories.
¡°Thought about it,¡± Royce replied.
¡°That¡¯s all? I expected you¡¯d be ranting and throwing a fit the moment we left. I was thinking about excuses to tell passersby.¡±
¡°What¡¯d you come up with?¡±
¡°Best one was that you were stung by a bee. Although I thought it would be fun to say you were a snake charmer and one got loose in your pant leg.¡±
Royce shook his head, frowning. ¡°You really are terrible at lying. Need to work on that. In our profession, that¡¯s a serious handicap.¡±
¡°So, why didn¡¯t you berate me?¡±
¡°Because, as usual, your luck held out.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s brows rose. ¡°In what way?¡±
The last of the fog was lifting. The soft white wisps hovered over the water, the morning reluctant to cast off its bedcovers. When it parted, an uncompromised view of the water and the series of stone arches that made up the bridge emerged. Sunlight glinted on the river.
¡°I think there¡¯s a good chance we won¡¯t need to go on a killing spree.¡± Royce sounded almost sad.
Hadrian had never planned on a spree of any kind, but he saw no reason to interrupt a current flowing in his direction. ¡°So, you think she¡¯s still alive?¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°Starting to look that way.¡±
¡°I say she might be alive, and you think I¡¯m crazy. The captain of the city guard and a kid at the local carriage shop tell you she is likely dead, and you think she¡¯s alive. Why do you always insist on taking the opposite of anyone¡¯s opinion?¡±
¡°Because most people are idiots. But in this case, lack of a body makes a compelling argument. To hear your friend tell it, corpses pop up all over the place, but there¡¯s no sign of the duchess¡¯s? When I thought her husband did her in, I figured she was in a hole under the Estate or, more likely, chained to a boulder under the bay, but now it looks like he¡¯s not involved.¡±
¡°Do you think it was the Morgan?¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°Of course not. There¡¯s no such thing as a monster that stalks city streets and mutilates people.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s brows rose.
Royce frowned. ¡°You know what I mean: monsters that fear the color blue. The carriage had to be reupholstered because of the cofferer¡¯s blood, which means Devon De Luda was attacked while still inside. That the kid missed such a hole in his logic demonstrates how people are willing to overlook the obvious if it doesn¡¯t fit their beliefs. We¡¯ll know more once we find the driver.¡±
¡°How we going to do that? The guy¡¯s practically invisible. No one has any clue who he is.¡±
¡°I do. And I know enough to be sure I¡¯m not going to like him.¡±
Hadrian laughed. ¡°That narrows the search to nearly everyone on the face of Elan.¡±
Royce started to respond, then stopped and nodded. ¡°Okay, sure, but I¡¯m really not going to like this guy.¡±
V2: Chapter 9 - The Gold Eater
Genny Hargrave scraped the silver coin across the stone floor. She paused frequently to check the sharpness of the edge, and to listen.
She didn¡¯t hear anyone outside the door or walls. No one to see, either. The door to the little cell, while solid enough to keep her imprisoned, had gaps aplenty. She¡¯d found a handful of spy holes, and at that moment they all agreed: Her captors had left, and she was alone. Genny made the best use of her time by sharpening the edge of the coin, but each scrape chilled her.
What if he comes back while she¡¯s gone? What if he discovers what I¡¯m doing?
He was Villar, and although a last name had been mentioned, it wasn¡¯t clear enough to catch. She was a significant improvement over the mad dog that was Villar. Mad, that¡¯s how Genny thought about him, like a snarling rabid animal. He had a kind of caustic hatred doled out to everyone, for any reason.
Genny knew the type. She hadn¡¯t transformed from illegally distilling and distributing liquor on the black market to a key player in Winter¡¯s Whiskey of Colnora by attending cordial dinners with dignified aristocrats. In the same way, this wasn¡¯t the first cold, filthy bucket Genny had sat on. Men like Villar were mean, unpredictable, dangerous, and sadly plentiful. Her father had been one. She liked to think she¡¯d tamed the madness out of the man, that the money, power, and respect had quieted the demons unchained by his wife¡¯s death. But she knew quieted wasn¡¯t gone and the mania would always be there, watchful and looking for a reason to return.
What if neither comes back at all?
Genny still didn¡¯t know where she was, couldn¡¯t even be positive how long she¡¯d been there. More than two but less than three weeks was her best estimation. Early on, she hadn¡¯t bothered keeping track of the days. She had expected to die, and that one thought filled her mind to the exclusion of all else. Then, as time went on she had been forced to reevaluate. No sense keeping me alive just to kill me later, she reasoned, but had to admit a bias in her conclusion. The same could be said about her expectation of rescue. Her husband was the duke, and he controlled a full contingent of city guards. With such resources, could a rescue be far away? Apparently it could. As the days dragged on, she began to wonder if something had happened to Leo.
In all that time, Genny learned little about her prison. Didn¡¯t even know what sort of place it was. The stone was marred with pockmarks, lichen, and ivy, which made her suspect she was outside the main gates. She hadn¡¯t seen much beyond the Estate and the Merchant District since her arrival in the city. Parts of Rochelle might be deep in jungles¡ªhow would she know? There might even be a ruined quarter that she had yet to discover. Still, her little square of the world was unusually quiet. All she ever heard was birdsong. No sound of carriages, barkers, blows of hammers, or cries of babies. She¡¯d never found a part of her new city¡ªor any city¡ªthat was this quiet. Most important, she never heard the chimes of Grom Galimus.
They took me to the surrounding countryside, but where and why?
She tried to remember the night Villar grabbed her. So much of it remained muddled, like a nightmare recalled hours after waking. She¡¯d witnessed Devon¡¯s death. Villar had wanted her to see, but it wasn¡¯t a matter of pride. The man wasn¡¯t a professional, no expertly slit throat or precisely inserted blade. It¡¯d been brutal and bloody. Villar had stabbed Devon repeatedly with a small knife. The violence and gore paralyzed her. Genny was no pampered debutante, and before becoming the newest member of the nobility, she often enjoyed gambling at cards and impressing men with her capacity for holding hard liquor, but she¡¯d never been exposed to anything like that. Watching a man butchered close enough to feel the spray of his blood was more than enough to horrify. She couldn¡¯t move, couldn¡¯t think. The hood came next, a bag placed over her head and cinched tightly. Then she was shoved into a cart, covered with rough blankets, and off they went.
Too afraid to scream or cry, she cowered, something she hadn¡¯t done since she was eight. At any moment, she was certain she¡¯d be killed. If she¡¯d been thinking, she might have taken note of the trip¡¯s length, turns, bumps, or accompanying sounds, but all she could think of was the way the knife had sounded when plunging over and over into Devon¡¯s chest. That and the gasping gurgle that came from his mouth. He¡¯d been trying to say something, and Genny thought it might have been please stop, but she couldn¡¯t be sure. When the cart had finally halted, she was carried quite a distance before being dropped into the cell. A metal collar was fastened around her neck, and a chain secured her to a wall. A door slammed, and she heard a lock click. A lock, not a bolt. She took note of that. While lying on cold stone with the bag still over her head, she heard her assailants talking, their voices muffled by the door. The memory of the quarrel was so vivid because it had provided hope. Genny could recall it word for word.
¡°Where did the blood come from?¡± the woman had asked, her tone full of fear.
¡°She wasn¡¯t alone,¡± Villar replied.
¡°Who did you kill?¡± The woman¡¯s tone had changed to anger.
¡°I have no idea, a courtier of some kind.¡±
¡°No one was supposed to get hurt!¡± she shouted.
¡°No one was supposed to be with her, either. He saw me. Did you want a witness?¡±
¡°This is bad.¡±
¡°It¡¯s what it is. Deal with it.¡±
Genny clung to the most important line from that argument: No one was supposed to get hurt. If that was true, her death wasn¡¯t inevitable; it might even be unlikely.
That first night, she had waited for hours, until certain she was alone, before finding the knots, untying the string, and pulling the hood off. She found herself in the small stone room, no window and only one door. Light from a small fire on the far side seeped underneath and around it, as did an awful vinegar odor. The door was new and very sturdy. The freshly cut wood still smelled of the forest, and sap dripped from knotholes. The collar around Genny¡¯s neck was closed and fastened to the chain by a large iron padlock that hung on her chest like the gaudy pendant of a horrid necklace. The other end of the chain was bolted to the wall opposite the door. The restraint granted her full range of the room, but nothing more. There had been a pile of straw, which she assumed was meant to serve as her bed, but it had since been scattered and matted. She scooped it into a pile each night, but each morning it was strewn about, which made her wonder about her dreams. She couldn¡¯t recall them, but was sure they weren¡¯t pleasant. She had the bucket, the straw, and two surprisingly thick wool blankets. She lay on one; the other she wrapped around herself, tucking the corners down under her legs and shoulders. The cell was cold but, thanks to the blankets, not unbearable. She was able to sleep, and that was something.
She hadn¡¯t been hurt, and nothing was taken from her. Not that Genny had much when pulled from the carriage, just the dress she wore, her shoes, and a tiny wrist bag. She was surprised they hadn¡¯t taken the purse. Not that it had much money in it, only a few silver¡ªemergency coins¡ªshe called them, but why had they abducted her if not for money? The purse also had one other item, the key to her traveling trunk. She¡¯d used the big sea chest as luggage when she moved to Rochelle and continued to keep it in her room as the one personal space she reserved for herself. It held nothing of value to anyone but her. The trunk was filled only with memories and mementos. She had a bottle of whiskey from ¡°the old days,¡± and a diary, and her mother¡¯s rings that were too small for Genny, and letters from her father. She kept those in the chest because she didn¡¯t want Leo reading how much Gabriel hated him for ¡°stealing¡± his daughter. The trunk couldn¡¯t help her now, nor could her dress or shoes, but the coins and key were treasures. She had long since hidden them in her cell, in the stone¡¯s cracks, fearful her captors would finally notice the purse and take it. She couldn¡¯t afford to lose her treasures.
Most of the time, Genny was left alone in her cell. She was pleased that Villar was rarely there. When he did appear, his visits were mercifully brief. Erratic and berating, he would argue with the woman, insult Genny, or rant about the misdeeds of others. He usually left in a huff. Genny preferred the other warden. She was quiet, reserved, and respectful.
A noise outside the door caused Genny to stop in mid-stroke. She stashed the coin, went to the door, and quickly pressed her cheek to peer through the crack in the slats. She was relieved it wasn¡¯t Villar. Standing near the entrance and shaking the rain out of her soaked shawl was the woman, the one Villar called Mercator Sikara.
Mercator pulled off her soaked dress and dropped it on the floor. Long ago she¡¯d given up trying to save her kirtle. Surrendering to the inevitable, she¡¯d dyed the whole thing, but it didn¡¯t help. The front and sleeves were darker by several shades. Still, the garment fared better than her skin. The creamy white cloth had turned blue, but Mercator¡¯s brown skin became a blackish purple. Standing naked in the faint light, she looked like one great bruise.
On the bright side, I have to be the safest person in Rochelle.
She dried off and wrapped up in one of her blankets. Soft, thick, and warm, it ought to sell for close to a gold tenent, considering the ridiculous amounts nobles paid for anything blue. Mercator bought raw material from Calian weavers who either didn¡¯t know or, like Erasmus, didn¡¯t care she was a mir. Mercator had an excellent eye for quality, and made good deals buying cloth for five to eight copper. When able, she sold the blankets to merchants like Erasmus for double. The blue dye made all the difference. After more than a century, Mercator knew how to cultivate and harvest woad, a genial flowering plant that produced a less-than-effective blue dye. To compensate, she had to soak and dry each woven cloth or bolt of yarn, then repeat the process a dozen times. The process was time consuming, but she couldn¡¯t possibly afford to purchase indigo, a rare imported plant that was exceedingly expensive. The source of the dye wasn¡¯t what mattered; the only thing people cared about was the deep-blue color. Her process, while time consuming, produced the desired result. If she weren¡¯t mir, she would¡¯ve been rich.
Mercator put the kettle on, stoked the fire, and then checked her work. Popping the lid on a clay pot marked with the blue handprint, she fished out the cloth, held it up, and let it drip while she studied the shade. It looked perfect, which meant it would be too light when dry¡ªonce the excess dye was removed.
With a disappointed sigh, Mercator submerged the cloth in the pot again. She had close to a dozen of the old clay vessels, which were found in the belly of the ruined church. At least she thought it was a church, but from the outside it was hard to tell it was even a building. Tall grass and bushes grew all around. If not for the arched doorway, the place could easily be mistaken for a stony hill.
The pots were huge old urns, a good three feet in height and beautifully crafted. Mercator almost hated employing them. Still, she had to use something, and these were ideal for her purposes. Mercator spent the late summer and fall gathering woad. She fermented the leaves in a tub of water mixed with a bit of lime. In the spring, she planted seeds that she¡¯d meticulously salvaged, only a fraction of which would take root.
In winter, she spent most of her days dunking cloth in the blue dye just as she would do that day. She wrung out her soaked dress as best she could, dressed, and went back to work. Crossing to the last pot, the one she¡¯d been working on the longest, she submerged her arms up to her elbows. Mercator held the wool under as if drowning a small animal, squeezing the material as hard as she could, wringing the cloth below the surface to help infuse the dye more completely into the material.
Dye! Dye, you miserable woolly lamb! She tried to smile, amazed at the insanity she indulged in to keep from going mad.
It wasn¡¯t working.
Not-thinking was her best hope. Work kept her mind occupied, but she was running out of cloth, and after speaking to Erasmus Nym, it was becoming impossible not to¡ª
¡°Any chance you¡¯re thinking of feeding me in the near future?¡± The duchess¡¯s voice came from the other room. Even muffled by the only door in the ruin, the duchess was loud. And she talked a lot. ¡°I know I could stand to eat a bit less, but there is a difference between a diet and starvation.¡±
Mercator pulled up the cloth, let it drip, and studied it carefully.
Stolen novel; please report.
Good enough.
Once upon a time, good enough was never acceptable. Mercator used to fuss about such things, but once upon a time she¡¯d been younger. Age, she realized with some regret, had diluted her need for perfection. Passion, they called it. Everyone placed such high value on an intensity of spirit, but it was like the dye: valuable when focused, limited, and used properly. She looked down at herself¡ªbut what good is anything when randomly splattered? The young were fountains of energy and vigor, running blind sprints into imagined lands. Mercator was done with races.
I¡¯m also done with this cloth.
She dropped it into a vinegar bath.
One more thing that makes this place smell so grand.
¡°In case you forgot, food is a plant or animal that can be consumed,¡± the woman bellowed through the locked door. ¡°It¡¯s required to live. Did you know that? Some people even enjoy the process of eating. They do it every day. More than once, even.¡±
¡°Salt,¡± Mercator said.
¡°What? What did you say? Did you say salt?¡±
¡°Yes, salt. It¡¯s a rock, a mineral. Neither plant nor animal and it must be consumed to live. It¡¯s the only rock you can eat, and you have to consume it in order to survive.¡±
¡°True enough, but it doesn¡¯t quite fill the belly like a good roasted leg of lamb, now does it? People eat all kinds of things that aren¡¯t filling. You can eat gold, too.¡±
¡°Gold is a metal and definitely not required to sustain life. No one would ever eat that.¡±
¡°I have.¡±
Mercator was wiping her hands and arms on the blue-stained towel she kept near the pots. She stopped and stared at the closed door that separated the outer room from the little chamber where they kept the woman. She had tried to refrain from speaking to the prisoner. At first, it was important that the duchess know as little about them as possible. As the days dragged into weeks, trying to avoid the woman was just pointless. ¡°You¡¯re joking, right?¡±
¡°No, I¡¯m not. Chefs make it very thin and lay it on top of chocolate cakes.¡±
¡°You disgust me.¡±
¡°Well, I can¡¯t say it¡¯s my favorite, but when it¡¯s served at the dinner of an important potential partner, one shouldn¡¯t insult the host by turning up one¡¯s nose, now should one?¡±
¡°People are starving all over the world, and rich people eat gold?¡±
¡°I know, I know! It¡¯s a ridiculous thing to do. I can assure you it wouldn¡¯t be my first choice. I¡¯d much rather dine on a fine steak or perhaps a goose. Oh yes, what I wouldn¡¯t give for a roasted goose, one where the skin has been crisped to a caramel brown. Perhaps some oysters and mussels in a butter-wine sauce. You know, there are easier ways to kill me than starvation.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not starving. It takes more than a month to die from lack of food. Being a person who consumes gold, I would expect you to be more learned.¡±
Mercator took the cloth out of the vinegar rinse and hung it up on the line that ran the length of the area under the dome. A curious choice for a roof, it was the dome that made Mercator assume the little ruin had once been a church because the only other dome she¡¯d seen was the one over the altar of the grand cathedral of Rochelle. This little dome above Mercator¡¯s dye industry was made of crude interlocking stones the same as the walls. While the ruins were ideal as a hidden workshop, the site also dripped with ancient mystery. All of Alburn was that way, and Rochelle was its graveyard of inconvenient secrets.
The duchess was one of those, and becoming more inconvenient by the minute. ¡°And why do such a thing?¡± Mercator asked. ¡°Why eat gold at all? What¡¯s the point? It doesn¡¯t benefit you, and it can¡¯t taste good. So why?¡±
¡°Same reason people live in houses with too many rooms, have more clothes than they can wear, and ride down the block in a horse-drawn carriage rather than walk. Only the very rich can afford such things, so they use these extravagances to demonstrate to others the height of their status.¡±
¡°But everyone already knows you¡¯re rich.¡±
¡°You¡¯d think that, but there is one very important person that everyone wishes to impress. Someone who rarely gets the message of a person¡¯s true worth. People will go to any lengths, like eating gold, to convince this person that they have value.¡±
¡°And who is that?¡±
¡°Why, ourselves, dear.¡±
Such an odd woman.
They had abducted her in a desperate gamble to change things. But it didn¡¯t seem to be working. And if something didn¡¯t happen soon, everything would fall apart. So many depended on Mercator, and she felt like she was letting them all down.
Things will improve. I¡¯m going to make it better. That¡¯s my responsibility as matriarch of the Sikara. I owe that to my grandfather and his father before him.
She had told Seton that spring was coming, but Mercator had failed to explain what that could mean. Villar will have his way, all because I . . . because I . . .
This isn¡¯t helping.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She felt weak, even a little dizzy. Her stomach ached. She looked at the duchess¡¯s door and frowned. Maybe it was time to eat.
At first, Genny believed the poor quality and extremely small portions of food had been a tool to weaken her, make her more pliable and easier to control. She had since revised that theory. They¡¯re doing it out of spite.
They had a noble duchess at their mercy, and they were torturing her for entertainment. They fed her gruel as humiliation. That was their plan, to beat her down, starve, degrade, and intimidate her. When she was desperate, perhaps they would give her dead rats and laugh, goading her to eat them. It was possible that the poor treatment was part of some clever plan, but Genny had come to believe that it was merely for sport. How grand it must be to embarrass her, what hoots, what laughs they must share. How wonderful to finally make one of them suffer.
Only I¡¯m not one of them. Not really. She grimaced at the worn wooden bowl and remembered a similar one she had eaten from as a child. I¡¯m not one of anything. The masses see me as privileged, and the nobles see me as the unwashed.
If Duchess Dederia, Duke Floret¡¯s wife, had been abducted, she wouldn¡¯t have survived the first hour. The moment they stuffed Dederia¡¯s head into that smelly bag, she would have dropped dead.
They¡¯re fortunate they got me instead. Lucky on the one hand, not so fortunate on the other.
Genny was done playing nice.
No one got anywhere by being timid. No one advanced through whispers. This was a lesson she¡¯d learned early.
Genny had observed that successful men were bold and acted confident, even when they weren¡¯t. They declared they were right, insisted it was so, and, amazingly, people who ought to know better, believed. Even if they were wrong half of the time, they were right the other half. After a while, the mistakes were forgotten, but the victories never were¡ªthe men made a point of reminding everyone of those. Genny had seen this, learned from it, and practiced what she had dubbed the Art of Bluster. She¡¯d always had a big mouth, literally and metaphorically. And she was smarter than she looked, which at first was a hindrance, but later had become a weapon.
Peering out through one of the cracks in the door, Genny wanted to make certain there was an audience for the tirade she was about to unleash. Mercator was at the cook fire, dishing out her own meal. She poured the same dismal slop into an identical wooden bowl. Not a bit of fruit, nut, syrup, or berry was added. There was no meat, no bread, no cider or beer. Genny watched, baffled. She¡¯d been certain her captives served themselves a different meal. Who would willingly eat such miserable food?
She stared as Mercator drained the last of the porridge into a bowl. That¡¯s when Genny realized the most remarkable thing of all. After pouring out the remnants, Mercator had significantly less in her bowl than what Genny had been served.
Is this really what she lives on?
Mercator sat down on the floor, crossed her legs, and ate that half serving of porridge, lifting the bowl to her mouth and drinking it in like soup. Even at their poorest, the Winter family never ate this badly.
Genny knelt at the reach of her chain, staring out the gap in the door, studying her captor. Mercator was a miserable sight. She was thin and ragged, her skin dark¡ªreddish brown like an acorn¡ªexcept her arms, of course. She was small and more than lithe. Mercator looked like a deer in late winter. Stick-like legs, a long slender neck, high, hollow cheeks, and the infamous oblong ears that declared the woman¡¯s elven heritage. Mercator was a mir, and all the mir Genny had ever seen were thin.
Are all mir in want of food?
Genny had already identified the need to empower the Calians and dwarves, but it turned out she had a blind spot¡ªthe mir. They were, as always, invisible. That was before Genny came to know one. Before she was forced to watch Mercator struggle to survive. Before she saw her eat the mouse¡¯s share of the porridge. Before she saw a person where there wasn¡¯t supposed to be one.
Mercator stopped eating. Her head bowed over the remains of her miserable meal, and with raised knees, she rocked in a regular rhythm. Try as she might to be quiet, Genny could still hear the sobs.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± the duchess asked.
After a gasp and sniffle, the mir lifted her head, brushed her hair back, and surprised Genny with an answer. ¡°Your husband isn¡¯t doing anything. He¡¯s not trying to save you.¡±
¡°Leo? What do you mean?¡±
Mercator shook her damp hair. ¡°When Villar grabbed you, he left our demands in the carriage¡ªa simple set of instructions. Once they were followed, you¡¯d be set free.¡± Her lower lip shook as her mouth pulled into a deep frown, the sort attempted in the hope of restraining emotion¡ªan effort that never worked. ¡°We didn¡¯t even ask for much. Hardly anything at all. But rather than agree, or even make a counterproposal, he¡¯s refused to bargain.¡±
¡°Demands?¡± Genny said mostly to herself. ¡°You asked for money? A ransom? Is that what this is about?¡±
Mercator made a loud disgusted sound. ¡°We aren¡¯t thieves. We just want . . . a chance to live.¡± She sniffled again. ¡°All we ask is to have the same opportunities as everyone else. For no known reason, Calians are denied the privilege to open their own shops. Dwarves are forbidden to engage in any trading, why is anyone¡¯s guess. And my people, the mir, are banned from everything, labeled outlaws at birth. Our crime is existing.¡±
¡°Surely you exaggerate. You make and sell dyed cloth.¡±
¡°Illegally. And if I¡¯m caught, or if those who risk doing business with me are apprehended, we both face mutilation or death depending on the whims of the city guard who discovers the offense. The punishments are capricious and subjective.¡± She shook her head and toggled a finger between them. ¡°This right here, my talking to you, is against the law.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡±
¡°A mir isn¡¯t allowed to speak to a citizen of the city. Doing so will result in a beating. Technically, I can¡¯t even look you in the eye. That, too, is forbidden, although rarely enforced. We can¡¯t take water from wells or fountains, can¡¯t fish or hunt for food. We can¡¯t beg. Renting property is prohibited; so is sleeping on the streets or in alleys. We are banned from the bathhouses and denied the ability to clean ourselves in the river or bay. We mustn¡¯t start fires to warm ourselves, have to speak in whispers so as to not disturb the better folk, and are forbidden to teach our children to read, write, or learn numbers.¡±
¡°How do you live?¡±
¡°That¡¯s just it, we aren¡¯t supposed to.¡±
¡°What did you ask of my husband? What did you demand.¡±
¡°We begged for the privilege to work, to buy and sell, and to rent land the same as anyone else. We asked to be made citizens of the city and be granted the same privileges, opportunities, and security granted to everyone else.¡±
¡°That¡¯s all?¡±
¡°Yes. Your husband could fix everything with a signature, but when it comes to granting even basic dignity to the Pitifuls, even the life of his new wife isn¡¯t enough to make him do what is right.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t believe that.¡±
¡°Neither can I, but here we are.¡±
Mercator hated crying. Knowing the duchess was peering out, seeing her moment of weakness, made it worse. At this point, all she had was her dignity, and the duchess was stripping away even that.
¡°You know you¡¯re being foolish,¡± the duchess said. ¡°Kidnapping me was about as stupid a thing as a person could do.¡±
¡°So is calling me stupid if you ever want to eat again.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t understand. I was trying to help you.¡±
¡°By calling me stupid?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t be silly.¡±
¡°Silly and stupid, I guess you really don¡¯t like food, do you?¡± Mercator picked up a rag and wiped her face.
¡°You misunderstand. Let me explain. The night you abducted me, do you know what I was doing? Where I was coming from?¡±
¡°I heard you were on a shopping spree. Checking out a blue vest to give to your husband.¡±
¡°That was a momentary stop on my way back from a meeting with the Merchants¡¯ Guild.¡±
¡°Merchants¡¯ Guild?¡± Mercator stared at the closed door. She couldn¡¯t see the duchess but guessed the woman was peering through the slats the way Mercator often did when trying to tell if the duchess was asleep. ¡°What business does a duchess have with the guild? Are they not importing the fashions you desire?¡±
¡°I was trying to persuade them to grant membership to the Calians.¡±
Mercator let out an absurd laugh. ¡°Why would you do that? Because you anticipated being kidnapped and thought it might be a good way to¡ª¡±
¡°Because this city is a financial mess!¡± the duchess burst out with enough indignation to overpower the bells of Grom Galimus.
She sounded so sincere that Mercator forgot her sarcasm. She forgot her indifference as well, her shield against sympathy. Instead, she listened.
¡°An absolute disaster and I¡¯m just the woman to fix it. I wasn¡¯t always a duchess, you understand. Before coming here, I was a merchant. I helped run one of the most profitable businesses in the most successful mercantile city in the world. I may not know why the sun circles Elan, but I know how to make money. When you look like I do, it¡¯s a necessity. Believe me when I say I love Leo, but the man knows nothing about finances. I asked to see his books and he showed me his library of poetry! Ha! Can you believe it? This city possesses tremendous untapped potential. Most people don¡¯t see the downtrodden as valuable, but then they don¡¯t think much of me, either, and I helped turn an illegal moonshine operation into a respected distillery. Other people¡¯s ignorance is always a moneymaker, remember that.¡±
Mercator wasn¡¯t certain she¡¯d be capable of accurately remembering any of the duchess¡¯s ramblings but didn¡¯t doubt the truth of what she said.
¡°We are a port city with unique access to the exotic eastern trade routes, but we refuse to embrace our best resources. Instead, we force them to deal illegally, which not only denies the duchy tax on their profits, but it also lowers the income of legitimate businesses, depriving us of even more income.¡±
Genny¡¯s blood was obviously up; Mercator could hear her walking back and forth in her little cell. ¡°The situation is even more dire with the dwarves. Their neighborhood of Littleton should be a gold mine for this city. Raw goods arriving from Calis and Galeannon should be shaped into works of art by their hands. The results would be triple the profit when those finished goods are exported. With its wealth of natural talent and geographic position, Rochelle should be the crown jewel of the east, the powerhouse producer of Alburn. Instead, we flounder in debt.¡±
She paused, perhaps to catch her breath, then went on, ¡°This is why I screamed at all those pasty-faced shopkeepers who were too locked in their traditions and too blinded by intolerance and idiocy to see that they would stand to double their profit as well. A rising sea lifts all boats. I demanded they grant acceptance to all Calians interested in doing business in our city, or I would triple their taxes¡ªfor the good of the people, you understand.¡±
¡°That¡¯s why De Luda was with you.¡±
¡°Yes. While he didn¡¯t agree with my ideas, he was obligated to make the introductions. Ironically, he was murdered by the very people who would have benefited from his continued assistance.¡±
V2: Chapter 10- Venlin Is Standing
Bishop Maurice Saldur of Medford stared in awe at the ceiling of the grand chapel inside Grom Galimus. The overhead fresco had been painted by famed imperial artist Elijah Handel. The beauty, the depth, the vividness of color displayed in the image of Novron receiving the Rhelacan from Maribor was the very definition of mastery. Several of the paintings on the walls of the cathedral were also created by Handel, who had been commissioned by Bishop Venlin in the years that directly followed the fall of Percepliquis. Venlin was famously quoted as saying, ¡°Novron spared you from the destruction of the capital, Elijah, so you could decorate the new one.¡± What wasn¡¯t painted was carved in marble. Three of the greatest sculptors of all time had worked on the cathedral: Burke Thatcher, who in his youth studied at the Art Academy of Percepliquis; his son Alrick Thatcher, who surpassed his father; and the greatest of all, Marley Layton, who was best known for creating the massive statue of Novron that graced the plaza outside.
¡°Amazing, isn¡¯t it?¡± Tynewell said. The bishop mirrored Saldur¡¯s upward stare. ¡°This is the closest thing we have to a piece of Novron¡¯s empire.¡±
¡°It¡¯s magnificent,¡± Saldur agreed.
¡°And this is my home,¡± he said with a self-satisfied smile, the sort a man displays after making a pig of himself at a feast.
This was a source of irritation to Saldur that he knew full well was pure jealousy, but he couldn¡¯t help himself. Who could? Grom Galimus was easily the most sacred place in Elan. Why the patriarch and archbishop chose to dwell in that remote remnant of a castle built by that impious barbarian, Glenmorgan, who literally destroyed the last vestiges of the imperium, was beyond Saldur. Even so, the Crown Tower was a blessed relic compared with Mares Cathedral. Saldur was relegated to a cheap imitation of Grom Galimus built by childish thugs in the cultural desert otherwise known as Melengar. His church had been hastily erected with all the artistry of a blind cow with paint on her tail, and manifested all the sanctity of a whitewashed brothel. This, Saldur thought with a sigh while looking up at the marble and gold, is what religion is all about.
Catching Tynewell grinning at him, Saldur scowled and said, ¡°Will we be dining here, or should we go out?¡±
¡°Rochelle does, indeed, boast numerous caf¨¦s and public houses that are a delight.¡± Tynewell was grinding it in now, twisting the dagger, relishing Saldur¡¯s envious drool. ¡°But I took the liberty of having meat and bread brought to my office. I felt that in private we could speak more candidly.¡±
Maurice Saldur had hoped for a meal at the pretty coffeehouse across the plaza that he¡¯d passed on the way in. They didn¡¯t have such places in Medford, not even in Colnora, but in Rochelle they were everywhere. While he preferred a good brandy to dark coffee, it wasn¡¯t seemly for a bishop to linger in a local tavern. Coffee shops were a different matter. In the cultured east, they were seen as sites of intellectual discourse where a learned bishop was a welcome visitor. While Saldur didn¡¯t savor the idea of chewing stringy meat across a battered desk in a cramped closet, he nevertheless resigned himself to accept his host¡¯s decision. He followed as Tynewell led the way through an intricately carved mahogany door into the Bishop of Alburn¡¯s private office.
The moment the door opened, Saldur was dumbfounded. This was just an office the same way Grom Galimus was just a church.
Tynewell led him into a series of rooms every bit as opulent as the cathedral proper. More frescoes, very likely created by Handel, adorned a ceiling never meant to be seen by the general public. They walked right by Tynewell¡¯s meticulously polished desk and into a separate suite with plush furniture arranged in a semicircle before a massive marble hearth where a trio of giant logs burned brightly. One wall was a towering stained-glass window; the other another fresco, this one of Novron laughing, with a silver flagon in hand. He was seated in a chair speaking with an elderly man in suspiciously modern church robes. The background was a perfect extension of the room they were in. The illusion was amazing, and Saldur felt he could walk right through and into that other space.
¡°Venlin.¡± Tynewell pointed at the older figure in the painting. ¡°He had Handel put Our Lord in his office and him in the picture. This is the most candid image of Novron you¡¯ll find. It borders on the obscene, but no one ever sees it except the bishops. The story goes that Venlin ordered its commission to show Novron¡¯s human side, and that here, in the sanctity of this behind-the-scenes refuge, we, too, can relax and be human.¡± The bishop sniffed contemptuously. ¡°Personally, I think Venlin was an egotistical narcissist. I¡¯m told that in his old age he thought Novron actually spoke to him.¡± Tynewell stared at the painting that ran from floor to ceiling, making Venlin and Novron life-sized. ¡°Can you imagine His Holiness, the self-proclaimed patriarch, sitting in this room and talking to himself while believing he was speaking to Novron? Astounding, don¡¯t you think?¡± He gestured at the couch. ¡°Please, have a seat.¡±
Only then did Saldur notice there was a banquet of venison and quail on the table before them.
¡°You live well,¡± Saldur said, sitting and digging in.
¡°Venlin lived well,¡± Tynewell corrected as he proceeded to close and lock the doors. ¡°I benefit from his legacy.¡± The Bishop of Alburn took a seat across from Saldur, reclining back, crossing his legs, and throwing a long arm out over the cushions. ¡°Did the patriarch send you?¡±
Saldur ripped the leg off a quail. ¡°Yes, well, not directly, that is. I didn¡¯t actually chat with the patriarch. I¡¯ve never seen the man.¡± He gestured at the painting with the drumstick. ¡°This is the closest I¡¯ve come to meeting a patriarch of the church. I sometimes wonder if he exists. Maybe Nilnev died a decade ago and the archbishop hasn¡¯t told anyone. Seems like something Galien would do, and who would be the wiser? But the archbishop did give me a message that he said came from Nilnev¡¯s hand.¡± He pulled a sealed letter from a pocket of his robe and handed it to Tynewell.
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The Bishop of Alburn broke the seal, read the note, and smiled.
¡°Do you mind?¡± Saldur asked, holding out his hand.
Tynewell shook his head and gave him the letter.
Saldur skimmed the contents quickly. ¡°Well, this is quite an honor. The patriarch has left the selection of the new king up to you. Makes sense. You know your kingdom and can best judge the candidates.¡± Saldur swallowed an excellent mouthful of well-seasoned quail, then reached for the jug of what he hoped would contain wine. ¡°May I?¡±
¡°Of course.¡±
Saldur filled a goblet with what sadly turned out to be mead. He wasn¡¯t a fan. He raised a greasy finger. ¡°Just remember to pick someone who will be willing to relinquish power when the day comes.¡±
¡°Will that day come?¡± Tynewell asked.
Saldur raised his brows. Such a question was tantamount to heresy, but then so was the painting behind him, which was commissioned by the founder of the Church of Nyphron. This is why we have laws against such things. Exposure to temptation leads to mistakes.
¡°I certainly hope so,¡± Saldur said. ¡°Otherwise I murdered an entire royal family and a dozen bureaucrats for nothing.¡±
Tynewell sat up. ¡°The sinking of the Eternal Empire was your work?¡±
Saldur nodded.
¡°That¡¯s not . . . wait . . . how could you possibly arrange for a storm?¡±
¡°There wasn¡¯t one. That was just the story we circulated, and because we told everyone about a terrible storm several days before the Eternal Empire was due to arrive, no one thought it strange that she might have been lost in it.¡±
¡°So, how did the ship sink?¡±
¡°The Eternal Empire was an excellent vessel. Brand-new, top-of-the-line three-masted, four-decked frigate, even had a pretty figurehead of a woman with golden wings. Reinhold spared no expense. I couldn¡¯t waste something the future empire might one day need.¡±
¡°It didn¡¯t sink?¡±
¡°Right now, that ship is in Aquesta harbor being stripped of all identifying marks. We added pretty green pennants and renamed it the Emerald Storm. Poetic, don¡¯t you think?¡±
¡°So, what happened to the royal family?¡±
¡°They were allowed to go free.¡± Saldur grinned as his statement produced the expected reaction of shock. Tynewell was so very smug with his grand home, but his majestic life was as precarious as anyone¡¯s. Until the day the new empire was established, they were all little more than shadows hiding from the light.
¡°But . . . but . . .¡±
Saldur stopped Tynewell with the rise of another greasy hand. ¡°They were out at sea, several miles away from land at the time . . . with their wrists tied.¡±
¡°Oh.¡±
Saldur found the bread and tore off a chunk. ¡°So, who will you pick?¡±
¡°How¡¯s that?¡± Tynewell asked, his eyes shifting, no doubt still imagining the scene of the royal family, their cousins, and all the royal administrators thrown overboard.
¡°Rumors say you¡¯re going to hold a contest, is that so? I honestly think that isn¡¯t a good idea.¡±
Isn¡¯t a good idea was the understatement of the century. Of course, matters could be framed in such a way that the desired candidate would prove victorious, but what if something unexpected happened? Then you would have the wrong person ruling, and another accident would have to be arranged. Too many accidents would arouse suspicion. No, contests were too fraught with danger due to random chance.
Tynewell returned a wry smile.
Saldur wasn¡¯t amused. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game. We don¡¯t do this for our own entertainment.¡±
¡°You handle your succession your way, leave me to mine.¡±
This less-than-artful dig at Saldur¡¯s failure in Melengar felt like a slap, one Saldur didn¡¯t feel he deserved. He had aided Tynewell with the removal of Alburn¡¯s monarchist king¡ªalways the hardest part¡ªand his fellow bishop should be more appreciative of Saldur¡¯s help. ¡°Personally, I¡¯d choose Armand Calder.¡±
¡°Calder? Are you serious? In Alburn¡¯s family tree, he¡¯s one of the smaller roots. Not very accomplished, and not well connected. Also, I hear he neglected to bring his family, as I so particularly instructed. I don¡¯t care if his sons are sick with fevers. That was no reason to ignore my edict and leave behind his wife and daughter, not to mention his sons.¡±
Tynewell shook his head, but Saldur pressed on. ¡°Armand is a lesser-known earl, but he also has a smaller ego, a trait that could prove most useful when . . .¡±
Saldur stopped talking; Tynewell wasn¡¯t listening. He was looking at the painting of Venlin with a distant focus in his eyes.
¡°Are you going to eat any of this?¡± Saldur asked, waving a hand over the feast. ¡°I feel like a glutton.¡±
¡°Huh? Oh, I¡¯m not hungry.¡±
¡°Really? If I had food like this back in Medford, I¡¯d be four hundred pounds by now.¡± His host still wasn¡¯t paying attention. ¡°Is there something wrong?¡±
¡°Hmm?¡± Tynewell looked up as if from a dream. ¡°Oh, no. Nothing . . .¡±
¡°You aren¡¯t considering Leopold Hargrave, are you? I mean, he¡¯s pliable enough, but the man is a terrible administrator. Putting him in charge would no doubt create a fiscal disaster.¡±
Tynewell¡¯s attention had finally returned to the conversation, and he nodded in agreement. ¡°Leo is old-fashioned. His family descends from the Imperial Council. Rochelle is home to three of the most prominent families to survive the fall: the Hargraves, Calders, and Killians. Floret Killian even claims to be a direct descendant of Persephone¡¯s brother. These families, along with Lord Darius Seret, built this province that later became a kingdom. Leo believes in the old codes, the virtues once practiced by the Teshlor Knights of the old imperium. We don¡¯t need his kind of trouble.¡±
¡°Good point. Well, whoever you pick, best to keep in mind that they actually have to rule a kingdom, you know?¡±
Tynewell focused on Saldur, and he smiled. ¡°Yes, yes, of course. That¡¯s it exactly. This . . . this is such a big decision. I need to consider my choices carefully.¡±
¡°Yes, but also expeditiously. The feast is what, three days from now?¡±
He continued to nod. ¡°You¡¯re absolutely right. I just . . .¡±
¡°What?¡±
Tynewell bit his lower lip and hung onto it for a moment. ¡°I want the patriarch to approve of my choice.¡±
Saldur raised his hands. ¡°He¡¯s given you the power, so I don¡¯t see how he can complain with the results.¡±
Tynewell smiled. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s true. That¡¯s very true. Maybe I will have something to eat after all.¡± He plucked a slice of bread and proceeded to cover it with meat, then paused as his eyes went back to the painting. ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s odd?¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°That Venlin is standing.¡±
Saldur turned and looked back at the fresco.
¡°Look at him. The patriarch is in the presence of Novron himself, but he doesn¡¯t kneel, doesn¡¯t prostrate himself in the slightest. If anything, he¡¯s standing more upright. It¡¯s as if he felt he was an equal to Our Lord. Where does confidence like that come from?¡±
¡°I would think ruling what was left of the empire would have something to do with it.¡±
¡°I think you might be right.¡±
V2: Chapter 11 - Little Gur Em
The chimes of Grom Galimus rang out the midday bells as Royce led Hadrian past the harbor where dozens of sail-stripped masts looked like a forest in winter. They had spent the morning walking around the city. Royce had moved with the speed of intent, which kept Hadrian from asking questions. Royce never cared for them, and Hadrian assumed everything would reveal itself in time. Hours passed, marked neatly by the cathedral bells, as they cut through crowds crossing the bridges to the west side of the city, then circled back. Returning to the plaza, which by then had filled up with its usual crowd, Royce led the way south along the river, taking what appeared to be a nonsensical route that zigzagged streets to the harbor.
¡°Where are we going?¡± Hadrian finally asked as they passed between a pair of giant elephant tusks that made a gateway into a neighborhood of narrow streets.
¡°Hmm?¡± Royce murmured, glancing back as if he hadn¡¯t heard exactly what Hadrian had said, which was a sure sign something was up.
The blocks past the elephant tusks were so tightly packed that clotheslines stretched between buildings created a complex crisscrossed webbing. Those not covered with drying clothes were decorated with colorful flags or flower-laden garlands. The passage was jammed with people who edged around the obstacles of vendor stands where merchants purposely placed their carts in the way of traffic and shouted at customers in more than one language. From some unseen place, rhythmic drums pounded an addictive beat.
¡°Are you heading somewhere or just wandering?¡± Hadrian shouted as he dodged around a dark-skinned woman carrying two caged chickens that fluttered and squawked. ¡°Are you looking for the driver in the crowds?¡±
¡°Oh, no.¡± Royce shook his head. ¡°I know where the driver is, but there¡¯s no sense in going after him until tonight.¡±
Royce made an elegant spin, dodging around a wagon of firewood, his cloak sweeping behind. Trying to keep up, Hadrian nearly plowed into a mother holding the hands of two children, but halted at the brink. All three looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back, concluding a silent but clear conversation that included understanding, forgiveness, and a bit of humor. Slipping past, and around the wagon, Hadrian struggled to catch Royce as he darted and wove from one hole to the next¡ªholes that all too often fit only Royce.
Is he trying to lose me?
They broke out of the narrows and merged into a broader marketplace, where Hadrian was able to use his long legs to cut the distance. ¡°So . . . what? We¡¯re sightseeing?¡±
Royce glanced back to show the irritation on his face.
¡°What, then?¡±
¡°I¡¯m looking for another place to lodge. Another boardinghouse. Figure there has to be something else. We didn¡¯t look everywhere. Maybe in the less affluent areas we¡¯ll find something. I¡¯d rather share a room with rats than have another breakfast with that woman.¡±
¡°Are you serious? The city is booked, and the room we have is fantastic.¡±
¡°Our room is being let out by a crazy person.¡±
¡°She¡¯s nice.¡±
¡°She¡¯s demented and will likely knife us in our sleep.¡±
¡°Evelyn Hemsworth? You can¡¯t be serious.¡±
¡°No, I¡¯m not. I¡¯m obviously speaking metaphorically. It is far more likely that she¡¯ll poison us with tomorrow¡¯s breakfast. That¡¯s how her type usually works.¡±
¡°Her type? What do you mean, her type?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t answer. He was moving again and once more eluded Hadrian. This time he cut around a group who gawked at a veil-draped young woman dancing with zills on her fingers. At her slippered feet lay a cloth hat littered with a few copper coins. If Hadrian weren¡¯t concerned about losing Royce in the crowd, he would have lingered a bit.
They were in the heart of the neighborhood dominated by colorful pottery, flatbreads, bright clothes, baskets, wood carvings, and exotic spices. Several signs denoted the location as Little Gur Em, a reference to the jungles of Calis, which were both dense and dangerous. To Hadrian, who had spent time in the real Gur Em, it seemed like a slur, but the residents appeared to have embraced the name, adding it to their carts. LITTLE GUR EM OILS AND SERUMS, one plaque read, GUR EM JUNGLE TEAS, another.
All around, dark-skinned Calians spoke in accents or in the harsh jungle tongue of the Tenkin language. Old wrinkled men in loose wraps clustered at open-air tables, playing games of Heker, drinking coffee, and smoking from tall brass water pipes. Hadrian recalled the salt and pepper shakers on Evelyn¡¯s table and realized that immigrants spilling into Alburn had brought all the flavors of home. The music, the smells, the voices and faces all threatened to unlock mental doors Hadrian preferred to keep closed. Moving down that street, he wasn¡¯t pushing through a crowd so much as through a thicket of thorny memories. This was an era of his life he¡¯d walked away from. One he had vowed never to return to. He struggled to ignore the street and focused on Royce.
¡°Evelyn isn¡¯t crazy,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°She¡¯s normal. That¡¯s your problem with her. You don¡¯t know how to deal with normal.¡±
¡°She¡¯s not normal.¡±
¡°Sure she is. The woman is upstanding and decent. You can¡¯t even recognize it anymore because you¡¯re so . . . so higgery-jiggery.¡±
Royce stopped and looked back at him. The thief wanted to scowl, to show his anger and disdain, but he was having trouble. Royce looked like a person trying not to sneeze, but that wasn¡¯t what he was holding back. He fought down an unwanted smile. ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd,¡± he snapped. ¡°A person can¡¯t be higgery-jiggery. Higgery-jiggery is something a person does.¡±
Hadrian chuckled. ¡°Oh, so you speak fluent Evelyn Hemsworth now?¡±
They had ended up in front of a pushcart painted with a landscape of a jungle waterfall. The picture offered an impressive display of carvings in wood and polished stone. The man behind it, a short, thin fellow with a white beard and big teeth, eagerly jumped to his feet. ¡°You need a gift to settle a dispute with your girlfriend, yes?¡± he said to Royce.
The thief looked at the Calian cart worker, aghast.
¡°Ah yes, it is clear from the look of distress on your face. You have had a squabble and now you must make up with a present!¡± the merchant declared. ¡°That is the only way to properly resolve these setbacks with a sweetheart.¡±
¡°She¡¯s not my sweetheart.¡±
¡°My apologies, good sir!¡± The merchant smiled and clasped his hands before him, revealing long thin fingers. ¡°And I can see the problem clearly now. Oh, yes! It is a bickering feud with your wife that brings you to my cart. Ah, yes, a far more serious state of affairs than a mere misunderstanding with a trollop. Never a good thing when the wife suspects you of higgery-jiggery!¡± He grinned. ¡°But better than jiggery-pokery, yes?¡± He followed this with a wink that left Royce staring at the man as if he had three heads.
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¡°Now, what you need is a peace offering.¡± He rubbed his hands together then flexed his fingers as if he were about to perform a magic trick. ¡°A fine bit of artistry to make her forget your transgressions.¡± The man snatched up a figurine of a man and woman in a passionate embrace. He held up the finely carved sculpture. ¡°This¡ªthis will make her remember why she married you, yes? Hand-carved in Dagastan by a ninety-year-old blind shepherd who was rumored to have once been a pirate. And because you are in such a dire state, I will sell it to you for only a single pair of silver tenents. The answers to your prayers, yes?¡±
¡°No!¡± Royce snapped.
¡°Are you sure, Royce?¡± Hadrian grinned. ¡°The little missus might forgive you when she sees that.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t respond except to draw up his hood as he started to walk away; then he stopped. His sight fixed on one of the other figurines in the back. ¡°That one,¡± he said, pointing at a hefty sculpture of a man standing triumphantly with one foot on a defeated foe.
¡°So your wife is a devotee of the arena games?¡± the happy cart man asked, lifting the figurine up with some difficulty. This was no lightweight bauble. ¡°And not a better choice will you find should you look the world over.¡±
¡°He¡¯s not looking for a gift for his wife.¡± Hadrian pushed abruptly forward. ¡°He isn¡¯t even married. We aren¡¯t looking to buy anything. C¡¯mon, Royce. We should probably find something to eat. Maybe we can¡ª¡±
Hadrian stepped away, but Royce didn¡¯t follow.
¡°What¡¯s the story with this one?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Why does the man have three swords?¡±
¡°Ah!¡± The merchant grinned at them both, and Hadrian noticed how all his teeth were yellow and crooked. ¡°This carving is a beautiful work of art created to commemorate the greatest warrior in the world: Galenti, the Tiger of Mandalin, the Hero of Calis, the Courtier of the Queen, and the Bane of the Ba Ran Ghazel.¡±
¡°I¡¯m hungry. Aren¡¯t you hungry?¡± Hadrian clapped his palm to his stomach. ¡°I think there¡¯s a place that sells meat on a stick over there. Smells great. Ever have meat on a stick?¡±
¡°Greatest warrior in the world, eh?¡± Royce asked. ¡°That¡¯s hard to believe.¡±
¡°Only to those who have never seen him fight, I would imagine. He was already well-known for his battles against the Ghazel when he arrived in Mandalin. But it was his victories in the arena that brought about his conquest of the queen.¡±
¡°Is that so?¡± Royce took down his hood and smiled at Hadrian. ¡°And who is this queen?¡±
The man turned and plucked another figurine from his inventory¡ªthis one of a beautiful, sultry woman with slanted eyes painted in decorative outlines. She had a round, doll-like face with a small pouting mouth accentuated by brilliant red lips. She wore a hat with pheasant feathers and a silken dress that appeared no more than paint on the figure. ¡°Rea Rhys Ramsey, the illegitimate daughter of the king of Calis. Her half brother, Lemuel Ramsey, ordered her death, but Rea Rhys escaped and retreated to the one place she knew her brother would never look¡ªthe east. She followed the Estee River into the ancient Erbon region in the center of the country. There, she rediscovered the ruins of Urlineus. She claimed the ancient imperial city as her own and renamed it Mandalin. Her restoration of the old arena and resumption of the games made her quite popular. Now she rules Eastern Calis, while her brother rules the west from Rolandue.¡±
¡°Oh, so she¡¯s still alive?¡±
¡°Very much so. Rea Rhys is notorious. Living on the fringe of civilization, she manipulates Tenkin warlords by day and battles the Ba Ran Ghazel at night. She has the beguiling beauty of a starry constellation and is as seductive and dangerous as a viper. For nearly two years, Galenti was her paramour and she his patron. The two swam in lakes of liquor, beds of tulan leaves, and pools of blood until his last fight.¡± He pointed at the other statue. ¡°They call Galenti the Tiger of Mandalin because he battled against a great striped cat.¡±
¡°Last fight? That statue shows him victorious. Did the beast eventually kill him?¡±
The merchant laughed. ¡°No, no, Galenti could never be defeated. Like all good legends, he simply disappeared.¡± The man made a flamboyant show of throwing his hands up, as if releasing a dove to the heavens. Then he halted as he looked at Hadrian. The vendor¡¯s eyes narrowed as they shifted focus from one sword to the next.
Royce turned to Hadrian. ¡°What do you think? Maybe my missus would like this one. Should I get it?¡±
Hadrian frowned and walked away. ¡°I¡¯m getting something to eat.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t buy either statue. This didn¡¯t surprise Hadrian. There was no way Royce would walk around with a one-foot figurine under his arm. Nor could he see him riding back to Melengar with it strapped to the back of his saddle. Thus, Hadrian didn¡¯t find it odd when Royce joined him at the Erbonese Teahouse without either gift for the missus, but he was surprised when Royce¡¯s only question was, ¡°What do they serve here?¡±
Partially in the street and on the edge of the traffic flow, the caf¨¦ provided a grand view of the city¡¯s human parade. The two sat at one of a dozen wobbly tables, which were nestled under an outdoor thatch-covered pavilion. The structure did little to block the wind or sun. The proprietor was a native Alburnian, but all he did was greet the customers. The ones doing the work were Calian immigrants.
¡°If it¡¯s authentic fare,¡± Hadrian replied, ¡°rice and tea. Although if you¡¯re adventurous, you could try Hohura. That¡¯s a Calian liquor. If you¡¯re absolutely insane, you could get a mug of Gurlin Bog, goblin liquor that hisses and tastes like something a campfire vomited.¡±
¡°I think I¡¯ll avoid intoxicants for the time being.¡±
¡°Then you¡¯ll want to steer clear of anything with grenesta in it, and they tend to put the herb in everything. I once had a fabulous stew; ten minutes later I passed out.¡±
Royce peered at him with a grimace. ¡°You¡¯re making me long for the Meat House.¡±
¡°But this place has chairs and a better view.¡±
Few areas of the city had thus far matched Little Gur Em for activity and interest, and Hadrian revised his assumption that the name was derogatory. Perhaps it began that way, as the real Gur Em was as universally cherished as Black Fever¡ªwhich was often contracted in the selfsame jungle. Still, the Gur Em was wild, colorful, fragrant, and bursting with life. In this way, it was mirrored by the Calian district of Rochelle. Hadrian remembered Calis as overwhelming to the senses, grand bazaars and vast markets set in old cities on the ocean coast, or vibrant villages in the dense brush, but here the experience was jammed into a tiny urban neighborhood of stone buildings and cobbled walkways. It was indeed a jungle of sorts.
Without a word, a barefoot man in a long, unadorned tunic delivered a communal bowl of rice and vegetables, which was accompanied by a plate of piled flatbread and dark tea. The food was so hot it steamed. Hadrian knew the dish as fried kenase. Royce sniffed it dubiously then waited until Hadrian took a bite before joining in.
¡°How come you didn¡¯t ask me about Mandalin?¡±
¡°You mean all that stuff the guy said about the queen and a tiger and arena fights?¡±
¡°Yeah.¡±
¡°The truth?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Sure.¡±
¡°Not interested.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Hadrian set down his tea, surprised. ¡°A man tells you this fantastic story about bloody battles and a notorious queen of Calis, and you aren¡¯t even mildly curious?¡±
¡°If our pasts aren¡¯t our present, there¡¯s likely a reason.¡±
¡°So you won¡¯t ask me, and I shouldn¡¯t ask you?¡±
¡°Something like that. Besides, I¡¯m sure in a contest of bygone horrors, I¡¯ve got you beat.¡±
Hadrian peered across the lip of his steaming cup. ¡°You think so?¡±
¡°You don¡¯t?¡± Royce appeared genuinely surprised. ¡°A whole city still has nightmares about me.¡±
Hadrian nodded, then hooked a thumb back in the direction of the merchant. ¡°You weren¡¯t paying attention. An entire country knows about my murderous past.¡±
¡°Maybe. But they like you. No one is making carvings of me.¡±
¡°In Calis, they also craft the likenesses of Death and Pestilence. They¡¯re an odd people.¡±
¡°He didn¡¯t talk about you like you were a scourge.¡±
¡°Because all he knows is the myth. Have you ever wondered how a soldier of fortune could be so . . .¡± Hadrian paused to take a sip of his tea.
¡°Na?ve?¡± Royce offered.
Hadrian swallowed. ¡°I was going to say optimistic.¡±
¡°Really? I suppose it could be described like that. Yeah, I¡¯ve puzzled over that one for some time. Most mercenaries are a bit more¡ª¡±
¡°Jaded and cynical?¡± Hadrian offered.
¡°I was going to say realistic and practical.¡±
¡°Really? I suppose it could be described like that. But what you might not be considering is that maybe I¡¯m on the return trip.¡±
¡°Huh?¡±
¡°Do you have nightmares of people you killed?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°There you go.¡±
¡°There I go, what?¡±
Hadrian took the clay pot left on their table and poured tea into his cup until it overflowed. ¡°Every cup is different, but each can only hold so much. Eventually you either stop pouring or make an awful mess. Make a big enough mess and you have to clean up; you have to change.¡± Hadrian looked at the pool of tea dripping through the slats of the wobbly table. ¡°I made a really big mess, and it wasn¡¯t tea I spilled.¡±
They were both looking at the puddle of tea when the screaming started.
V2: Chapter 12 - Unicorns and Polka Dots
Up the street where an alley divided a makeshift livestock shelter from an old stone building, a crowd began to form.
The animal pen was nothing more than rope strung between driven stakes hemming in a score of sheep. Out front, alongside a hastily assembled stage, was a hand-painted sign that read: SUNSET AUCTION. With its white marble blocks and pillars, the three-story stone building opposite the alley gave the impression of having once been a place of importance¡ªa counting house or a court. Now the upper windows were laden with drying clothes, and the balconies brimmed with spinning wheels, jugs, baskets, and pots. A number of families roosted in the vacuum of cracked-marble neglect. Most of them had rushed to balconies and peered down; several pointed at the alley below.
Hadrian swallowed the last of his kenase and stood up. His height allowed him to see over the crowd but granted him no further insight.
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Royce asked, not bothering to stand.
¡°Dunno. Something happening in the alley.¡±
¡°Nothing good, by the sound of it.¡±
The screams had stopped but were replaced by a chorus of wailing.
¡°Where are you going?¡± Royce asked as Hadrian pushed forward.
¡°To see what happened.¡±
¡°Whatever it is, they have plenty of people to deal with it. And screams and cries are never portents of good fortune. I¡¯d stay away.¡±
¡°Of course you would.¡±
What ability Hadrian lacked in deftly dodging his way through a shifting populace, he more than made up for in cutting through a dense crowd. People moved clear for a man of his size. Those who didn¡¯t, he could move. Any resistance to a gentle push was instantly stifled when they spotted his swords. The city¡¯s residents didn¡¯t carry steel. Most couldn¡¯t afford it, and few had the need. Farmers, merchants, and tradesmen rarely faced violence beyond the occasional drunken fistfight. Theirs was a life of endless repetition, where if they stayed in their place and hoed their given row, nothing of great note ever happened. Men of steel were different. A man with a trowel and hod sought to lay bricks; a man with a sword sought to lay men low; a man with three swords¡ªyou quickly avoided. It was in this manner that Hadrian worked his way forward until he was at the mouth of the alley. That was where the crowd stopped. While everyone was eager to see what the noise was about, few cared to get close. Content to view from a distance, the mob hung back, leaving a corridor open.
In a city as congested as Rochelle, the refuse needed to go somewhere. In the finer districts, waste was deposited into the Roche River, which carried it out to the bay and then the Goblin Sea. Poor neighborhoods like Little Gur Em made do by jamming their rubbish behind the buildings in alleys. So, finding a vast mound of garbage at the end of the alley wasn¡¯t a surprise. Broken crates, torn cloth, rotting food, animal waste, and bones were all piled high, but in this case, a handful of kneeling women wailed before the heap. A smaller number of men stood nearby looking aghast and bewildered as they stared down at what appeared to be trash being dragged from the pile.
For the most part, it was. A little cascade of rubbish had been formed where someone had been digging. People did that. Hadrian knew that even men and women of means went treasure hunting in trash piles for a lark. Stories always circulated about someone finding gold earrings or an overlooked sack of silver, but the best prize Hadrian personally knew to have been found was a torn leather belt long enough to be repurposed for a thinner man. This time, someone had apparently found more than they bargained for. No one likes to pick up a discarded shoe and find a foot inside.
The women wailed over the body of a child. A little girl, no older than six or seven, was dead. Hadrian knew dead bodies. He¡¯d walked the aftermath of too many battlefields not to know the child had died only hours ago, certainly less than a day. But there was more than just death involved with this body.
As Hadrian approached, as he reached the scene and took his place beside the other befuddled men, he understood the problem. The little girl hadn¡¯t been murdered, she¡¯d been torn apart. Her face was fine, her mouth partially open, her eyes thankfully closed. He had killed more men than he could remember and been in battles where women and children had died. He¡¯d lost his squeamishness to gore long ago but never grew accustomed to the sight of open-eyed dead children. The girl¡¯s rib cage had been broken into, its contents rifled through. Without needing to get closer, Hadrian could tell something was missing: The child¡¯s heart was gone.
¡°We should go,¡± Royce whispered. The thief was behind him, motioning with a hand for them to retreat. ¡°Soldiers coming.¡±
His warning came too late.
¡°You really need to listen to me more often,¡± Royce told Hadrian as the two sat in the guard post.
This was a different station house than where they had chatted with Roland, but the interiors were identical. Same one-room shack with a desk, weapons, stacks of wood, and a small fire. An identical horseshoe held down similar parchments. The military was nothing if not consistent. At least the shackles remained on the wall rather than on their wrists. The guardsmen had confiscated Hadrian¡¯s swords, missed Royce¡¯s dagger on the pat-down, and after some preliminary questions, ordered them to wait.
¡°We¡¯re not in trouble,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°The truth is, we¡¯ve done nothing wrong.¡±
Royce closed his eyes and shook his head. ¡°By Mar, the way you think. It¡¯s . . . it¡¯s . . . I honestly don¡¯t know if there¡¯s a word for it. You realize the truth is rarely important, right?¡±
¡°Soldiers are people, too,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°I know. I was one.¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t limiting the observation to soldiers. Most people don¡¯t care about the truth.¡±
¡°Look, they have no reason to do anything to us. We¡¯re innocent. They just picked us up because we¡¯re strangers and didn¡¯t belong in that alley. They¡¯re just double-checking.¡±
¡°Reason, truth, innocence¡±¡ªRoyce sat back against the wall and folded his arms¡ª¡°unicorns, pixies, and dragons; you¡¯re not that young to believe in such things. How is it that you fancy yourself a resident of a make-believe world.¡±
¡°I told you. At this point, it¡¯s a choice.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not. It¡¯s fooling yourself. I can decide between eating fish or pork, but I can only pretend to eat unicorn meat. I can¡¯t actually eat a unicorn. The world is the world, and you live in it with open eyes or choose to be blind. It¡¯s all the same to me, but don¡¯t stand there pretending you¡¯re right.¡±
Hadrian grimaced. ¡°There are so many things wrong with that statement.¡± Only Royce could think of a unicorn-eating metaphor. Where do thoughts like that bubble up from? Why a unicorn? Who thinks of eating a symbol of purity and grace? Maybe that was his point. Perhaps Royce was making an argument within an argument, but Hadrian wasn¡¯t about to be sucked down some obscure sewer where only Royce knew the way. Hadrian had a point of his own. ¡°You always wear black and gray. That¡¯s a choice, too, and it says a lot about you.¡±
¡°It says I don¡¯t like to be seen at night.¡±
¡°It says you like to hide, and people who like to hide are usually up to no good. That¡¯s a message you declare to everyone you meet, and people receive it as you might expect. Then when others don¡¯t trust you, when they avoid you, hurt or arrest you for doing nothing, your worldview is justified. So, you¡¯re right; you can¡¯t eat unicorns in your world because they don¡¯t exist, but they do in mine¡ªprobably because in my world we don¡¯t eat them.¡±
Royce furrowed his brow, his mouth partially open as if he was hearing a sound he couldn¡¯t understand.
¡°Honestly, I think you should try wearing purple and yellow,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Something bright and happy¡ªpolka dots maybe. And you should smile more. People would treat you differently. You might find the world a brighter place.¡±
¡°Tell me you aren¡¯t serious.¡±
Hadrian chuckled. ¡°About the yellow polka dots? Of course not. You¡¯d look ridiculous, and you might attract children, which would be a mistake on an epic level.¡±
¡°And the unicorn stuff?¡±
¡°You brought unicorns into this. I have no idea where that came from. It¡¯s like you have a demented recipe book or something. Which if you do, please don¡¯t tell me.¡±
¡°Are you two always like this?¡± The guard behind the desk had stopped his scribbling and was staring at them with an expression of utter bewilderment.
¡°He is,¡± they both said in unison.
¡°You¡¯re hilarious.¡± The guard smiled. ¡°I sure hope you¡¯re not guilty. I¡¯d hate to have to hang the two of you.¡±
¡°Good,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°At least, we can agree on something.¡±
¡°Sounds like unicorn-believer talk to me.¡± The guard grinned. ¡°Personally, I¡¯m with dark-clothes guy. Living is anguish and then you die.¡±
¡°Wow, that¡¯s uplifting,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°You should start your own church.¡±
He shook his head. ¡°Not the religious type.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a surprise.¡±
¡°The problem with the world,¡± the guard went on, ¡°is that too many people don¡¯t see it like it is. They want it to be something it just isn¡¯t. I think everything would be better if folks stopped believing in fantasies and dealt with the way things are. We might actually improve things then. I mean, there aren¡¯t any unicorns, or fairies, and there certainly isn¡¯t an Heir of Novron who¡¯s going to appear and save us all. That¡¯s just stupid.¡±
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¡°I couldn¡¯t have said it better myself.¡± Royce pointed at the guard. ¡°I really hope you don¡¯t try to hang me. I¡¯d hate to have to kill you.¡±
The guard looked confused again, then, assuming Royce was making a joke, he laughed.
Royce laughed, too.
Hadrian didn¡¯t, and this served to remind him he didn¡¯t have his swords. They were by the door. He could see them, and that made him feel better because the truth was that Royce and the guard had a point. Sometimes things didn¡¯t work out the way they should. They certainly hadn¡¯t for that little girl in the alley.
The door to the guard post opened, and a familiar face entered.
¡°Blackwater?¡± Roland asked, puzzled. ¡°My, aren¡¯t you making the rounds.¡± He looked to the desk guard. ¡°Drake, what are they doing here?¡±
¡°We picked them up in the alley where the mir was killed,¡± the soldier said with a salute. ¡°The big one had those three swords, and the other looked, well . . . suspicious.¡±
¡°It¡¯s the color of his clothes,¡± Hadrian offered. ¡°Makes him look sinister.¡±
¡°You know them, sir?¡±
¡°Yes. This is Hadrian Blackwater, an old friend. Not the sort to murder children, believe me.¡± Roland turned his gaze on Royce but hesitated to add any clarification.
¡°Apparently, I need to wear polka dots,¡± Royce said.
¡°What were you two doing in Little Gur Em?¡±
¡°Having our midday meal,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I was introducing Royce here to Calian cuisine. We were at an outdoor caf¨¦ when we heard the shouts and went over to investigate.¡±
¡°Still the soldier, eh?¡± Roland chuckled. He turned to the guard. ¡°Is that really all you have on them, Drake? They were there and looked suspicious?¡±
The guard nodded. ¡°Pretty much.¡±
¡°Give them back their belongings, then.¡±
The guard moved to the door and gathered Hadrian¡¯s swords.
¡°Sorry for the inconvenience,¡± Roland told them. He glanced down at the desk, pivoted the top page so he could read it. ¡°Looks like we¡¯ll have to add this one to the pile.¡±
¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡± Hadrian asked, taking the spadone first and slinging it over his shoulder.
Roland, who didn¡¯t appear to have had time to shave in a week, scrubbed his growing beard and sighed. ¡°I told you about the murders we¡¯ve been having. Mir tend to be the targets, and we can be thankful for that. If it had been the child of a citizen¡ªa guild merchant or tradesman or, Novron forbid, a noble¡ªI¡¯d have the constable crawling all over me.¡±
¡°But because it was a mir, you¡¯ll ignore it?¡± Royce asked.
¡°No, not ignore. There¡¯s really nothing I can do in any case. But there would be more pressure.¡± Roland looked to the guard, who handed Hadrian¡¯s other two swords over. ¡°No witnesses, right?¡±
The soldier shook his head. ¡°As usual, no one knows anything.¡±
¡°It¡¯s always the same,¡± Roland said. ¡°No one sees them. No one knows a thing. Then the next victim turns up in the river, or pit, or an alley¡ªeach one ripped open, heart missing.¡±
Roland checked on the contents of the pot near the fire and grunted when he found it empty.
¡°Don¡¯t you think that¡¯s a little odd?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You¡¯d think that, wouldn¡¯t you? But no, not anymore. I may have mentioned that life is cheap down here on the east side. Even cheaper next door in the Rookery, which is where most of the killings have occurred.¡±
¡°But to rip out the hearts of children?¡± Hadrian asked. This made him think of Royce roasting unicorns, only this was the real-world form of that idea. Could there be a purer example of evil? Why would anyone do such a thing? And how? How does a person kill and crack open a rib cage without anyone seeing or hearing it?
¡°Probably selling them on the black market,¡± Roland said with enough callousness to make Hadrian wonder what had happened to the young man he once knew. ¡°Some of these Calians use them to make youth potions or healing balms. Spreading a little powdered baby heart on your face will keep you looking young, or so people have been told. Rich merchants¡¯ wives are their market. We try to stop it, but there¡¯s not much we can do. Usually, they use calf or lamb hearts, but someone is obviously making an extra effort. If people think they¡¯re getting the real thing, the price goes up. When news of a death spreads, the demand is higher.¡±
Dealing with frequent loss of children¡¯s hearts and the indifference of bystanders has driven the unicorns out of Roland¡¯s world, as well, Hadrian realized. Such beliefs made sense and were difficult to debate. After all, horrors had a way of grabbing the limelight and diminishing everything else. How can anyone believe that people are basically good when faced with such blatant evidence to the contrary? What Hadrian couldn¡¯t make Roland, Drake the guard, or least of all Royce understand was that a life barren of unicorns was existence without purpose. Hadrian had visited that dark land once. He¡¯d lived as a glutton of selfishness, reclining on the luxury of visible truths. He¡¯d drowned himself in wine and blood, but the more he consumed, the emptier he felt. What was the point if, as Drake so eloquently put it: living is anguish and then you die? Hearing those words convinced Hadrian of the importance of unicorns. Even if there weren¡¯t any, it was absolutely necessary to believe they existed. What¡¯s more, he needed to try to find them. It wasn¡¯t much. Chasing fantasies was a thin thread to justify a life, and yet how many wonders had been wrought by people who did exactly that¡ªthose who believed in crazy dreams.
¡°Sorry for the mistake,¡± Roland said. ¡°I¡¯d buy you both a drink, but I have the night shift the rest of this week, and the duke frowns on drunk officers.¡±
¡°Ah, yes, the life of an honest soldier,¡± Hadrian mused, feigning envy.
¡°How about you two? Still looking for the duchess? Heard you stopped by the carriage shop. Find anything?¡±
¡°Nothing yet.¡±
¡°Let me know if you do. I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯s dead, but if she isn¡¯t . . .¡±
¡°What?¡±
Roland hesitated, and his face changed. The tough fa?ade, the soldier¡¯s stare, dimmed, and for a moment, Hadrian once more saw the lad he had once known. ¡°Everyone calls her the Whiskey Wench. No one showed her a lick of respect. I didn¡¯t, either. Guards are supposed to bow when she goes by. None of us did. We all said how she wasn¡¯t a real noble. That she was fake because she wasn¡¯t born one, and wasn¡¯t even from Alburn. I guess the feeling came from a kind of envy, as if she was getting away with something and didn¡¯t deserve respect. Then, well, she gave me a new pair of boots. My old ones had holes in them. My feet used to get soaked, and I nearly got frostbitten more than once. I hardly ever saw the woman. It¡¯s not like I was her bodyguard, but she must have noticed. Why she bothered, I don¡¯t know. Told myself she didn¡¯t like seeing a guard captain in a shoddy uniform, except . . . city guards are required to wear black boots, thin leather that looks nice, but doesn¡¯t do anything when you¡¯re out patrolling in the cold.¡± He lifted his foot to show Hadrian his pair of brown, fur-lined footwear. ¡°Nicest boots I¡¯ve ever owned. Real warm. Hardly noticed the snows the rest of the winter.¡± He put his foot down. ¡°If she¡¯s alive, I want to know. And if she¡¯s not and you discover who did it, I want to know that, too.¡±
Hadrian nodded and, checking his weapons, pushed the short sword down on his hip and lifted the bastard sword higher and back a tad. ¡°Well, thanks for helping us out.¡± Hadrian took two steps toward the door, but stopped when he realized Royce wasn¡¯t following.
Across the roadway stood a busy countinghouse. Like many of the important buildings, it was constructed of stone that had grown dingy.
Seeing it, Royce turned back and caught Roland¡¯s attention. ¡°Can you answer a question for me?¡± He pointed at one of the sculpted decorative faces on the building across the street. ¡°Why are these things everywhere? They crouch under steps, frame windows, perch on ledges, and hold up everything from bridges to balconies. Even some of the cobblestones have tiny grotesque faces carved into them. Why is that?¡±
Roland dipped his head to see beyond the doorframe. ¡°You mean the gargoyles?¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve seen them before. They¡¯re used to channel rainwater off big churches, like the cathedral in Medford. But here, they¡¯re all over. Most don¡¯t even serve any real function, only a few are being used to divert runoff.¡±
Roland pushed up his lower lip. ¡°Just decorations, I suppose.¡±
¡°There¡¯s no story behind them?¡±
Roland rolled his shoulders. ¡°Sure. There¡¯s multiple stories, but they¡¯re all nonsense.¡±
¡°Humor me.¡±
¡°The most popular one has a priest who slays a dragon with the help of a condemned man. They burn the beast afterward, but the head isn¡¯t affected. You know, on account of it being able to breathe fire and all. So, the local bishop decides to mount the thing on his cathedral to scare off evil spirits. Seemed like a good idea, so stonemasons were asked to add them from that time on.¡±
¡°Ah-huh,¡± Royce said, dissatisfied.
¡°Well, there¡¯s another one about the town¡¯s founding. A crazy architect by the name of Bradford Crumin was commissioned to lay out the city. He chose the place for the Estate, Grom Galimus, and most of the old buildings. He was brilliant but also insane. He claimed to hear voices¡ªghosts, he called them¡ªand the only way he could shut them up was to scare the spirits away. Apparently, they were terrified by scary faces, so he put all these grotesque creatures around.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t say anything, just folded his arms.
¡°Okay, so there¡¯s another one. Seems they never used to be here. The city went up and all the buildings were plain, but functional. Then one day this swarm of creatures swooped down and overran the place. The town was swamped, and everyone was afraid to go outside. Didn¡¯t know where they came from, but a few days after the invasion, an old wizard comes hobbling along. He agreed to rid the town of the creatures for a price. The city agreed, and he turned them into stone, but¡ª¡±
¡°But the town didn¡¯t pay,¡± Royce said.
¡°You¡¯ve heard this?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°No, but stories are all the same, aren¡¯t they?¡±
Roland thought a second, then shrugged. ¡°Anyway, you were right; they refused to pay. Since the creatures were all dead, their problem was solved.¡±
¡°Let me guess: The wizard does something nasty.¡±
Roland nodded. ¡°He cursed the town. Now every night, usually in the dark of a new moon, the stone creatures come alive and exact revenge.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°Never mind, I was expecting something awful, but also believable.¡±
¡°We¡¯re talking monstrous faces, here. What would be believable?¡±
¡°How about, the stone carvers charged by the hour?¡±
¡°Why the sudden interest in architecture?¡± Hadrian asked as he once more followed Royce back into Little Gur Em.
¡°Didn¡¯t you notice?¡± Royce was once more moving quickly, nearly trotting, retracing their earlier trip back to the scene of the crime.
¡°Notice what?¡±
They came upon the same square where they¡¯d spilled the tea, and Royce pointed up at the building near where the girl¡¯s body was found.
¡°What about it?¡±
¡°See the gargoyles lining the ledge up there?¡±
The old building was adorned with regularly spaced creepy monkey-like statuettes along the third-floor exterior. They weren¡¯t really gargoyles, not in the traditional sense. These didn¡¯t funnel rainwater; they were merely decorations.
¡°So?¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°See the gap?¡±
The row of hunched, fanged monkeys leaned forward, holding up the top balcony with their shoulders, but Royce was right, one was missing. The rogue stone-monkey monster second from the left had abandoned his post, leaving the other little monsters to do all the work.
Such a massive weight hitting the ground from that height would have produced a lot of damage, not to mention debris, but the street below didn¡¯t show any signs of an impact. Hadrian¡¯s next thought was that it had been removed, perhaps in need of repair. But doing so would have required scaffolding and a hoist, neither of which was present. And the empty place showed no evidence of excavation, just a space for a carving that wasn¡¯t there. The statue looked to have simply flown away. The most sensible answer, and the one he concluded with, was that the gargoyle had never been installed in the first place. Maybe the builders had been short a figure. Likely, there was some story that went along with it. The kind of tale that people shared to show off their knowledge of local lore. Oh, yeah, Grimbold the Carver dropped over dead when working on it, and out of tribute to him no replacement was ever made. Or maybe something like, Someone miscalculated the number of statues for that wall, and ol¡¯ Pete started installing from the right and Bradford from the left. It wasn¡¯t until they were done that they realized they were short by one. Funds were low, so the missing gargoyle wasn¡¯t made.
The problem with these neat and sensible explanations was the bare spot¡ªbright and pristine. Like a sun-bleached carpet with a square of vivid color where a cabinet had once stood, the wall bore a clean silhouette where a statue should have been. Something had been there, but now it wasn¡¯t.
Royce looked at Hadrian and asked. ¡°Why is one missing?¡±
V2: Chapter 13 - Grom Galimus
Villar Orphe waited where he usually did, on top of a roof. He had several favorites, but that evening he sat on the peak of the Trio Vestments Building, where a tailor, a haberdasher, and a cobbler came up with the idea of a one-stop shop for men¡¯s clothing. Villar had never seen the inside of the Trio V, but he was quite familiar with the roof, which hid his home. Tucked in a hidden niche formed by hips and gables, his abode was less a house and more a tented nest built of canvas and discarded wood that he had dragged up at night like a giant owl. His tiny shelter was filled with the few things he valued: a salifan plant that he kept alive in a wooden cup, a torn bit of tapestry, and a sword left to him by his grandfather. That last item he mounted under the eave, so even if someone found his nest, they might not see it. He also had some food reserves¡ªroots, nuts, and berries that he¡¯d gathered on the outskirts of town. The berries were just starting to appear on the warm, sunny hillsides, and he¡¯d found some mushrooms, as well. He had also hauled in a few treasures uncovered in the trash on Governor¡¯s Isle. Someone down there didn¡¯t like salted fish.
The sun was still up, which kept Villar¡¯s head down. He didn¡¯t like moving about in the daylight. He was blessed with the distinctly beautiful features of his people and refused to cover his ears or hide his eyes from the world. He was proud of his heritage; the rest of the world should be ashamed. Villar¡¯s list of shoulds was long. He should be able to walk into Trio V¡¯s and buy a new suit of clothes. He should be able to wear his grandfather¡¯s sword on his hip in public. He should be able to live in a house with four walls and have an honest-to-Ferrol pot for his salifan plant. What should be and what was, however, remained widely divergent, and this kept him hunkered down with his back against the cupola where the pointing-well-dressed-man weather vane proclaimed an easterly wind.
He often mused on what would happen if he dared wear the sword. It wasn¡¯t illegal. He¡¯d heard that some rulers disallowed blades and bows inside city limits, except for those worn by knights, nobles, and city guards. Rochelle didn¡¯t have a weapons law, but then there was no edict against a mir walking into the Trio V, either. Some rules didn¡¯t need to be written down or enforced by the guard. If he was seen with the sword brazenly clapping his thigh, he¡¯d draw looks. Then a crowd would form, and unless he was willing to use the weapon, they would beat him and rip it away. If he used it¡ªif he acted like any other self-respecting person¡ªthe city guard would come. While wearing a sword wasn¡¯t illegal, wounding and killing people most certainly was. Villar knew from experience that the guards didn¡¯t like dwarves, barely tolerated Calians, but absolutely hated mir. Villar had no illusions of being able to fight off a squad of trained soldiers. He had no training with a blade, and he¡¯d never been in a fight. He didn¡¯t consider being beaten the same as being in a fight. So, while being a mir was reason enough for a beating, being a mir with a sword was guaranteed suicide.
Looking down between his feet, he could see the river and the setting sun as it turned gold. Carriages rolled across the distant bridges. Smoke rose from countless chimneys. Crowds crawled along the canyon-streets, flowing like some viscous slime that oiled the workings of the city. He was literally above it all, but soon he¡¯d add a more figurative aspect to that idea.
The bells of Grom Galimus began to play their lonesome melody, marking the end of the day. He should be going. The bishop wouldn¡¯t appreciate him being late. He started to rise, then paused. He heard the scraping again. Tiny claws on wood.
The rat is back.
Villar looked to his pile of possessions in time to see the black-and-white spotted rodent scurry into a crack in the roofing. The thief was at it again. This time he had gotten the box open.
Villar fished the old wooden container out of his pile and, in a panic, he searched the contents while guarding against any mischief that the demon wind might be plotting. Everything that had been there appeared safe. He drew out his most cherished possession: a small portion torn from a tapestry that was at least a thousand years old. According to the story his grandfather told, the tapestry had belonged to the Orphe family and had once been the size of a three-story wall. This two-foot scrap was all that remained. The rest had been confiscated and burned by the church¡ªfor obvious reasons. Even Villar¡¯s little scrap showed the detailed image of pointed-eared heroes in armor, riding horses and holding swords aloft. This, his grandfather had told him, was a depiction of the Fall of Merredydd. The image commemorated the battles against barbarians that eventually brought low the ancient and magnificent imperial province. A place that had once been ruled by mir for mir.
Villar spread the bit of tapestry across his thighs and lovingly caressed the fine needlework.
A mir had ruled a province.
He stared into the thread-woven eyes of the faces and made them a promise. ¡°If Ferrol is willing, another one will yet rule a kingdom.¡±
Seeing the sun touch the distant mountains, Villar lifted the cloth to his lips and kissed the image, then folded it and put the torn corner back.
Time was growing short, and he had much to do.
Villar took his usual rooftop highway route to the cathedral, dropping down in the shadow of the alley. With the workday over, the mass migration of weary people slogged home. Shoulders slumped, heads bowed, few looked up. Even if they had, even if they saw him, no one would have noticed, or cared about, another mir on the street.
The sun was dipping behind the Estate, most of its face gone, its power fading. A host of shadows crept out of the low places and claimed dominion over the world. The coin of chance was flipping. At last tails was coming up.
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His kind couldn¡¯t safely enter most shops, but a few proprietors were sympathetic and looked the other way when a mir slipped in. Those rare merchants would only sell to mir if no one else was in the store. Common practice was to wait and watch for a lull in traffic then slip in, buy what was needed, and hurry back out before anyone saw. If someone did see, the mir would be turned away. The Crow Tavern on the east side went a step further. Each night, they threw bones and unwanted leftovers on the street for the mir from the nearby Rookery to grab. A crowd gathered religiously and fell to their knees, gathering what they could carry in arms or the folds of skirts. Villar had witnessed the event only once; that was all he could stomach. He had felt nauseated and decided that the Crow would be the first building to burn. Its operator, Brandon Hingus, would be the first executed. Maybe he meant well, but the result was the public humiliation of his people. Such a blight would need to be erased with extreme prejudice to expunge the ugly memory.
Despite the common-knowledge ban on most commercial venues, there were a few places mir were tolerated so long as they didn¡¯t make trouble. Public squares were generally safe, as were bridges¡ªbeneath which many lived. They were allowed to draw water from common wells even though the law clearly prohibited it. The mir were also allowed to enter Grom Galimus. They couldn¡¯t go past the Teshlor windows, the first pair of stained glass panes that illuminated the nave and depicted the ancient imperial order with images of grim armored warriors who appeared to watch so that not a toe crossed the line.
Still, mir were allowed to stand inside the doors, observe the services, listen to the choir, and then wait on the steps, hoping for handouts. So long as they were respectful and didn¡¯t block access, they were granted the privilege of silent begging. As such, it wasn¡¯t odd for a mir to trot up the marble steps and enter the giant doors of Grom Galimus.
Once more, no one looked, no one noticed, no one cared when Villar slipped inside for his first meeting of the night.
Villar had been a fraction late, but the bishop was more so, leaving Villar to stand between the two stained-glass Teshlors. No service was under way, and the vast interior was mainly empty. The only ones there were a few boys cleaning up and a few devoted faithful kneeling on the stone floor, praying to the statues of Novron and his doting father, Maribor. Despite his covert mission, Villar refused to dip his head or avert his eyes. He would not worship these gods, nor even pretend to. They were the gods of men. From either side, the Teshlors stared at him. Villar felt uncomfortable under their watchful, sunlit gaze¡ªa gaze that suggested they saw more than a stubborn mir¡ªbut even as he waited, Villar noticed the light failing and their images fading with it.
Hard heels echoed. A robed figure moved through the gallery pillars. The bishop approached.
When he came into view, he silently waved Villar to a corner. They were still not past the knights, but Villar was also not near the doors.
¡°Is there a problem?¡± Tynewell whispered. The bishop positioned himself between Villar and the door, blocking the view of everyone except the boys cleaning up.
¡°No, everything is perfect.¡±
¡°Then why are you here?¡±
¡°A Calian named Erasmus Nym will need access to Grom Galimus the morning of the feast.¡±
Tynewell looked puzzled. ¡°I have an early service. People will¡ª¡±
¡°After the service. Midday is fine. He doesn¡¯t need long to prepare.¡±
The word prepare made the bishop wince. ¡°What exactly will this Erasmus person be doing? I won¡¯t allow him to desecrate the church. He¡¯s not going to sacrifice a goat on my altar.¡± Tynewell¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Or a child.¡±
Villar paused a moment, wondering where that had come from. He hadn¡¯t told the bishop everything. Villar didn¡¯t think it wise, and the bishop didn¡¯t want to know the details. The only thing Tynewell cared about was that every Alburn noble at the feast would die.
¡°Nym won¡¯t do anything other than what I have.¡±
Tynewell thought a moment then asked, ¡°And where will you be?¡±
¡°Someplace else. A place that I don¡¯t want Erasmus to know about.¡±
¡°And what does this Erasmus fellow know about me and my involvement? Is having him use my church such a good idea? Will it point a finger my way?¡±
¡°No, this cathedral is huge, and you can¡¯t be expected to know what occurs in every crook and corner. I¡¯ve already shown him where to go, and he didn¡¯t ask anything about others involved. I just wanted to let you know it would be him rather than me in case you happened upon each other.¡±
¡°And no one else knows anything, right? You haven¡¯t bragged, have you? Gone off in some tavern about how the bishop has promised you a favor in return for arranging a murderous riot?¡±
¡°Mir aren¡¯t welcome in taverns.¡±
¡°Be that as it may, the point is still valid. You haven¡¯t been drunk under some forsaken bridge boasting about how you¡¯ll be Duke of Rochelle when the bishop crowns himself king for lack of options, have you? If anyone discovers I¡¯m involved, neither of us will get what we want.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t drink.¡±
Tynewell studied him carefully, then smiled. ¡°Good. You know, I had my doubts about you. Relying on a mir¡ªsuch a thing doesn¡¯t come easy, but I¡¯m a man of faith. I believe that if you show faith in someone, that someone will prove themselves worthy. This is your opportunity. Succeed and you¡¯ll earn my trust and the rule of this city. Imagine that. You¡¯ll be a hero to your people. You¡¯ll live in the Estate and govern this region on my behalf. I will be king of Alburn¡ªa bishop-ruler just like Venlin¡ªand you¡¯ll be the first mir noble since the fall of Merredydd. You and yours will get their due, trust me.¡±
Villar didn¡¯t trust him, but this was the only chance he, or any of them, had. The whole affair was a terrible gamble, and there was no way to be certain the bishop would honor his pledge to appoint him duke. But it didn¡¯t matter. Left to itself, nothing would change. Villar would rather die than face another day of eating the Duke of Rochelle¡¯s trash and watching the mir people beg for scraps thrown in the street. And either way, at least Villar would have the chance to fight back. The ability to kill those who had humiliated him and his people for generations would be a worthy reward. This was something Mercator could never understand. She had become domesticated, but Villar¡¯s heart was still free.
Leaving the cathedral, he stood upon the steps to watch the last of the daylight fade. He had plenty of time to reach his second appointment. He would, in fact, be incredibly early. Perhaps he should get something to eat first. He considered rummaging through the duke¡¯s garbage for dinner, something he¡¯d have to do just one last time. He looked down at the Estate, a place that would soon be a place of honor rather than one of humiliation. That¡¯s when he saw them, the two strangers. The foreigners who had been asking questions about the duchess and poking around where they shouldn¡¯t. One was perched high up on the pediment at the far end of the bridge watching the Estate as if waiting for something.
Villar realized what it was, and he knew he wouldn¡¯t be getting dinner that night.
V2: Chapter 14 - The Driver
¡°What exactly are we looking for?¡± Hadrian asked, shifting his position again. The capstone he sat on was cold.
¡°The driver,¡± Royce replied.
The two were on the west side of the East Bridge, where Royce hadn¡¯t taken his eyes off the front gate of the duke¡¯s estate since they¡¯d arrived. Hadrian sat on the bridge parapet out of the way of traffic, looking like a lost boy who¡¯d foolishly let go of his mother¡¯s hand and hoped she¡¯d come back. Royce was above him, perched high on the massive end-pediment that announced the start or end of the bridge, depending on which way one was walking. He stood behind the statue of a winged beast, a giant, ugly bat-thing with horns and fangs. Royce and the sculpture made quite the diabolical pair as he clung to a wing, peering over the stone monster¡¯s shoulder. Occasionally the gate to the Estate opened. Someone would exit, or enter, and each time Royce became still and attentive. Then the gate would close, and he would settle back, disappointed.
They never did find a new place to stay. All livable spaces were occupied, even the open-air patches of dirt under bridges and behind stables. Royce had continued to search until the sun threatened to set, then he insisted on a hectic race to the Estate. They¡¯d been there for more than an hour, and, so far, nothing had warranted the rush. Except for his two-word statement, Royce hadn¡¯t responded to any inquiries about their current vigil.
The day had remained reasonably warm, continuing the rumor that spring was just a few steps down the road. The morning had been sunny, but afternoon had invited clouds to the party, and more were showing up all the time. A variety of boats passed beneath them. Professional fishermen hauled in nets, heading upriver after a day on Blythin Bay. The waterway also played host to a series of trows that ran up- and downriver, dropping off one load of cargo at the harbor and picking up another to haul back upstream. Along the bridge, the flow of foot traffic, wagons, and carriages was picking up. With slumped backs and bowed heads, servants, traders, and laborers returned home, their way lit by a fading sun.
¡°There he is!¡± Royce said with urgency as he leaned forward, leering with the same malevolent expression as the statue to which he clung.
A small figure stepped outside the front gate of the ducal estate, gray-haired, partially balding. With his protruding brow and long beard, the dwarf looked like the quintessential depiction of his race. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and then entered the flow of traffic coming toward them.
¡°The dwarf?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Shh!¡± Royce scolded as he climbed down. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s the driver.¡±
¡°How do you know?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know, but he¡¯s the only dwarf to come out of the duke¡¯s residence, and I doubt His Lordship employs many.¡±
He didn¡¯t look like a carriage driver. If Hadrian were to guess, he would¡¯ve pegged the little guy as a gardener or a stable hand or, given the sack slung over one shoulder, perhaps a bearded child who was running away from home. The dwarf was dressed in a no-frills worker¡¯s tunic and belt, with wool pants and worn boots. He held a mud-stained cloak and a small sack tied at the mouth with twine. He struggled to work his way into the flow of the bustling people who jostled him as if he weren¡¯t there.
¡°I know you don¡¯t like dwarves, Royce, but that doesn¡¯t mean every¡ª¡±
¡°The carriage¡¯s footboard was ratcheted up for someone his size, so, the driver was either a child or a dwarf. Everyone would have noticed a child driving a carriage, but look how people ignore the dwarf like he doesn¡¯t exist. Everyone blocks out what they don¡¯t want to see. And honestly, who wants to lay eyes on the likes of him?¡±
The dwarf walked past, and Royce slipped into traffic a few pedestrians back.
¡°He works at the Estate,¡± Royce said quietly as they followed the dwarf across the bridge toward the plaza. ¡°Not full-time, I don¡¯t think. Probably hired for some temporary task, stonework most likely. And when they needed a driver for the duchess, guess who volunteered?¡±
¡°That sounds like a lot of guesses.¡±
¡°Either that, or an eight-year-old was hired to drive the duchess.¡±
Hawkers took advantage of the evening migration by shouting invitations and waving welcomes to the mob. Their efforts were stymied by the bells in the tower of Grom Galimus, chiming six times. When the ringing finally ceased, the dwarf was through the plaza and heading up an alley that divided the cathedral from another large stone building. This sister building had a flight of steps leading to an imposing colonnade of marble pillars above which IMPERIAL GALLERY was chiseled into the entablature. Both buildings had gargoyles, none of which were missing.
The alley between the cathedral and the gallery was wider than the one in Little Gur Em, but it was congested. This helped their pursuit. Royce kept two rows back from their prey, which required slowing down to let others pass. Moving on little legs, the dwarf wasn¡¯t speedy. The sun was on the horizon, its dying light already lost to them in the stone canyons of the central city, where the buildings were so close Hadrian thought he might be able to touch the walls on both sides of the street with his sword tips.
The crowd began to thin as they followed a street that curved northeast. The buildings here were residential, shorter, less ornate. Hadrian spotted women on small wrought-iron balconies beating rugs, and numerous chimneys pouring smoke. The stone houses gave way to wood with stucco and timber uppers, and the number of stories lowered with each successive block. By then, the sun was gone, the hazy afterlight competing with streetlamps.
The street they followed spilled out onto another, where a long wall ran along the one shoulder. Eight feet high, the barrier was made of brick and topped with metal spikes. When the dwarf reached it, he turned and followed along its length until he reached a gate. The wooden double door was open, and the dwarf passed through. Royce paused to study the latch and hinges for a moment. They were simple iron drawbolts. The oddity was the presence of latches on both sides. The doors could be used to lock people in or out. With a hesitant glance at Hadrian, Royce continued after the dwarf.
Within the confines of the wall was a completely different world of tightly packed wooden shacks. The widest streets inside were the size of the narrowest alleys outside. Here, too, were cart vendors, but narrow as the streets were, the vendors nearly blocked them, causing pedestrians to squeeze around wagons and barrels. Royce and Hadrian had only traversed one block when Royce stopped. With concern, he looked up and down the street.
¡°What is it?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°We¡¯re in trouble.¡±
Hadrian looked around. They were on the cobblestones of a narrow block gripped between shabby shacks where laundry hung from the sills of open windows. Residents gathered in small groups, some in front of doorways, others at intersections around trash fires, warming themselves. The alleged driver of the ducal carriage had stopped at one of these and talked with those huddling around it.
¡°What¡¯s wrong? What do you mean?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡±
Hadrian looked again but couldn¡¯t find a threat. ¡°See what?¡±
¡°We stand out,¡± he declared. ¡°Literally. Everyone here is short.¡±
Hadrian looked again. Royce was right. All along the street, not a single person was more than four feet tall, and nearly all the men had beards of considerable length that were frequently braided or bound with ribbon.
¡°What do we do now? Walk on our knees?¡±
Royce shushed him, guiding Hadrian into the shadow of a porch. The thief focused on the group at the intersection¡¯s fire, where the driver had paused to chat with five other dwarves. They mostly stood with arms folded across their chests, but on occasion, they would hold out their hands to the heat.
At that distance, Hadrian couldn¡¯t hear what they said, but he suspected Royce could. ¡°What are they saying?¡±
¡°Arguing about the weather,¡± Royce replied.
¡°How can you argue about weather?¡±
Again, Royce motioned him to silence, and Hadrian leaned against the grayed wall of the building where they sheltered. In the window, a sign hung. Maybe it said HELP WANTED or ROOM TO LET, but Hadrian couldn¡¯t tell. It wasn¡¯t written in any language he recognized. The window itself was oddly low, and the pair of rocking chairs on the porch looked to be for children.
This is like a miniature version of the world.
¡°I feel like a giant,¡± he told Royce. He turned back to the ring of dwarves around the fire, where a heated argument was growing; two of the dwarves gesticulated wildly, thrusting fists over their heads. Even Hadrian caught the occasional shout of ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what is and what isn¡¯t!¡±
¡°These people really take their weather seriously.¡±
¡°Not arguing about the weather anymore,¡± Royce reported.
¡°What are they talking about?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t know. Something to do with the Calians, mir, and the coming of spring. Our guy isn¡¯t too popular, either. Nor is he happy with them. And nobody likes the duke. And¡ª¡± Royce tilted his head to listen. ¡°They¡¯re holding a meeting, an important one in the Calian Precinct. Sounds like it has something to do with an alliance.¡±
The streets were emptying, and windows shuttered as the night erased the day¡¯s earlier promise of coming spring. The cold of winter had returned, reminding everyone it wasn¡¯t yet finished. The driver hoisted his sack and bid a less-than-fond farewell to those around the fire. He headed off into the darkening streets. Royce waved at Hadrian, and together they followed.
The dwarf stopped at a tiny butcher shop. There he haggled in an unfamiliar language over one of three chickens that hung from the porch rafters. A great deal of pointing, scowling, and foot stomping accompanied the conversation. The bird under debate was so small and scrawny that Hadrian questioned whether it was a chicken at all. If not for the white feathers, he might have guessed a crow. In the end, the driver reluctantly handed over coins and took the pair of legs, swinging the chicken as he walked. Then he stopped at a wheelbarrow where what appeared to be an elderly husband and wife sold firewood. The driver picked out three splits as if he were choosing produce in a market. Burdened as he was with an armload of wood, his sack, and a scrawny chicken that he continued to heedlessly whip about with the swing of his arm, the dwarf continued until he came to a tiny shack. The wood siding had been weathered to a dark gray. The upper story jutted out over the lower, creating an overhang that shadowed the door. A light shone from inside, and without a knock, the driver entered.
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The shack had two glassless windows. Tattered cloth covered both, but one covering was ripped, and through it Royce and Hadrian spied on their suspect. To Hadrian¡¯s shock, more than a dozen people were within. Children and elders, male and female, they all crowded into the small space of one room. The light came from a cook fire where a surprisingly cute dwarven lady took the bird from the driver. With children pulling on her apron, she held up the chicken, made some comment, and then kissed the driver on his nose. The two laughed.
Instantly feeling guilty for spying, Hadrian left Royce to monitor the dwarf while he found an abandoned crate to sit on near a rubbish pile. After Royce¡¯s commentary, he¡¯d expected that the dwarf was on his way to some nefarious hideout, a creepy tower, or ancient ruin where Genny Winter was chained to a wall or suspended over alligators. Instead, he was snooping on the hard-working provider for a warm and loving family. Their poverty made the act of spying even more distasteful. Hadrian hadn¡¯t been invading merely a gathering but an event as sacred as a funeral. Most of the garbage pile he waited in consisted of wood chips and strips of bark, which made Hadrian think it might not be rubbish at all. In a household so picky about buying firewood, he couldn¡¯t imagine them discarding anything that burned.
Hours went by before Royce approached Hadrian. The thief had something small in his hands. ¡°Not a stoneworker,¡± he said, holding up an exquisitely carved wooden figurine of a rearing horse, polished and lacquered to a honey finish. Every muscle and the individual strands of hair in its mane and tail were rendered in startling detail.
¡°It¡¯s beautiful.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°There¡¯s a shed around the other side filled with things like this.¡±
¡°Why doesn¡¯t he sell them?¡± Hadrian looked over at the house. ¡°I don¡¯t know what they pay him at the Estate, but I would think such craftsmanship would pay well. This is better than what I¡¯ve seen in the shop windows.¡±
Royce nodded while still looking at the carving.
¡°We spending the night?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce shrugged, then pivoted abruptly.
Hadrian heard it, too. The front door of the shack clapped. The woodcarver, and alleged driver of duchesses, was on the move again.
With cloak on and hood up, the dwarf appeared significantly more sinister than before as he slipped out of the shack and set out into the night. This time he clutched a bread-loaf-sized box in his arms and presented the image of the quintessential villain of a hundred children¡¯s stories: Gronbach, the little bearded dwarf bent on evil. As the driver scurried through the shadows, Hadrian had no trouble believing the tales of a nefarious dwarf. The scene was fable-perfect, except he had also seen the earlier moments when a tired worker dragged himself back to his impoverished family and provided them a miserable excuse of a chicken. Kisses from a loving wife were never part of the Gronbach myth. He didn¡¯t even have a wife or children. In the fairy tales, he was a monster, and his reputation cast a shadow over all dwarves.
The little guy moved with more speed, darting up the maze of narrow streets. At one point, he broke into a trot, and Hadrian was certain he¡¯d been discovered. But after a few yards, the dwarf slowed to a quick walk. If he had looked back, the driver would have spotted Hadrian, who stalked with his own hood up. The dwarf certainly would wonder about the tall man with three swords strolling late at night in a dwarven enclave, but he wouldn¡¯t see Royce. While the thief was much closer, he was slipping from shadow to shadow and appearing as little more than a flutter, a faint disturbance that could have been the corner of a firewood tarp blown by the wind. But the dwarf didn¡¯t so much as glance over his shoulder as he maintained a generally northeastern course, avoiding windows, doors, and firelight.
Convinced they were finally on their way to the sinister ruined tower and alligator pit, Hadrian was puzzled when the dwarf approached a figure at the entrance to a cemetery. The burial ground was a modest patch of headstones walled in by a tight congestion of stone buildings, one of which might have been a small church. The tombstones, however, were marvelous. Even at a distance, they revealed artistry. Dwarves were known for stonework as much as for kidnapping young women, and the statuary in that yard was more beautiful than any he¡¯d ever seen. Most were depictions of people¡ªthe deceased, Hadrian assumed. These weren¡¯t the diminutive, malevolently hooded monsters of a host of cautionary tales, but the exquisite heroes of their own stories. Straight, proud, smiling figures looked up at the sky or down with empathy at those who might come to grieve on their behalf.
This is how they see themselves, he thought. Combining this sight with the scene in the shack, Hadrian began to wonder if there would be an alligator pit at all.
The dwarf walked directly up to the figure at the entrance, no hesitation, no greeting, either. The fellow waiting at the gate to the cemetery was tall, thin, and dark-skinned, with hair that was mostly gray.
Royce looked backward with apprehension, and in his gaze was a wealth of information. He wasn¡¯t so much looking for anything as telling Hadrian to be wary. One slaughterhouse wagon was more than enough. Not that another runaway cart would be the threat again. This tiny street was peppered with windows, doors, and a host of other obstacles: barrels, awnings, porch steps, and piles of garbage. Royce wasn¡¯t saying, Watch out for another killer wagon but rather, I don¡¯t like the feel of this; keep your eyes open for a trap.
The fact that Royce had exchanged so much information with a look disturbed Hadrian. There was no doubt he had heard Royce correctly on all counts, and Hadrian¡¯s utter confidence in that silent discourse only added to the anxiety that he was harmonizing with Royce¡¯s mind. While that was good for work, Hadrian couldn¡¯t shake the sense that it was bad for everything else¡ªlike his sanity.
Sticking close to the walls and staying out of the moonlight, Hadrian crept up to where Royce stood at the base of the three-story church¡ªthe only stone building in the neighborhood, which obviously predated everything around it.
¡° . . . ninety-eight swords, half as many shields.¡±
¡°Why so few shields?¡±
¡°Shields aren¡¯t as important and are harder to store,¡± the dwarf said. ¡°We haven¡¯t stopped. Production has slowed, sure, but that¡¯s all. Don¡¯t forget we¡¯re the ones carrying the burden. The rest of you aren¡¯t out a single din.¡±
¡°You¡¯re just scared,¡± the Calian replied. ¡°We all had great hopes the ransom would succeed, but the feast is the day after tomorrow. Spring is coming, my friend, and whether I¡¯m the seed, the rock, or the sod, I fear the plow.¡±
The dwarf nodded. ¡°Time¡¯s up. A hundred swords is the best we can do.¡± He held out the box. ¡°But with this, it should be more than enough.¡±
¡°I¡¯m more frightened of what you hold than the swords.¡± The Calian eyed the container as if the dwarf were waving a crossbow in his face. ¡°Griswold, if it becomes necessary, will you use it?¡±
¡°This one is yours.¡± The dwarf handed the box to the Calian.
He took it slowly, gingerly, and held it away from his body, as if a swarm of angry bees were inside.
¡°With that, I can ask the same of you. Will you use yours?¡± the dwarf asked.
¡°If it comes to it, what choice do we have? A hundred swords won¡¯t be enough, and Villar will use his. Giving him a monopoly on such power would be the pinnacle of stupidity. We have a responsibility to act as safeguards to one another. And then there¡¯s the sacrifices to think about. Not to mention what happens afterward.¡±
¡°That¡¯s something we¡¯ll decide when we get there¡ªif we get there. One can¡¯t start building a house without determining the size and shape of the foundation.¡±
¡°Comments like that are what make others see only your height,¡± the Calian said. ¡°You¡¯re reinforcing false ideas. You¡¯re a woodcarver, for Novron¡¯s sake!¡±
The dwarf laughed. ¡°I¡¯m a woodcarver, but in no way is it for Novron¡¯s sake.¡±
They both smiled. Then the Calian stretched his neck and peered up the road. Hadrian and Royce froze, but the Calian didn¡¯t see them. ¡°Where is Villar?¡±
The dwarf gave his own casual glance. ¡°He¡¯s usually the first one here, isn¡¯t he?¡±
¡°Do you think¡ª¡±
Royce spun and shoved Hadrian out into the street. Off balance and bewildered, he staggered backward into the moonlight, catching the attention of the dwarf and the Calian. They both stared at him in shock and fear.
¡°What the¡ª¡± Hadrian began just as the thief sprang to his side. An instant later, a massive block of stone struck the street where the two had been standing. It shattered, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Looking up, Hadrian spotted a silhouette peering down from the roofline of the church. It withdrew from sight, melting into the darkness.
¡°Meet you back at the boardinghouse,¡± Royce said quickly as he leapt to a windowsill. From there, he scaled the stonework to the church¡¯s roof where he, too, vanished.
Hadrian looked back toward the graveyard. The dwarf and the Calian were running away in opposite directions.
Hadrian had always considered himself a good runner, but that night he was handicapped by racing in the darkness of an unknown city. Weighed down by three swords while chasing a slender man with a solid head start didn¡¯t help, either. Unable to pursue both, and already knowing where the dwarf lived, he chose to follow the Calian. The good news was that his target appeared to be considerably older, and he still protectively held the dwarf¡¯s box.
The contents must be valuable or he would¡¯ve dropped it before running.
The Calian cut through an alley Hadrian didn¡¯t know existed, pulling down stacks of empty crates to block his pursuer¡¯s progress. By the time Hadrian emerged from the debris-strewn alleyway, the Calian had gained a greater lead and was openly sprinting down the center of the next street. Hadrian didn¡¯t know what time it was, but he guessed it was after decent folk went to bed. Few remained on the cobblestone thoroughfares, and while all of them stopped to watch, none made any attempt to stop his pursuit. The Calian tried to lose him by cutting through more alleys, and he succeeded. Hadrian lost sight of his target; the man was gone. Guessing that the man would head for the same gate that marked the exit from the dwarven community, Hadrian ran for it. He was rewarded by a glimpse of the Calian racing out.
He headed south toward the harbor, sandaled feet striking the stone in rapid slaps. In the growing fog of the silent streets, Hadrian could hear the man long after he¡¯d lost sight of him. This was the only noise the Calian made. Hadrian generated a multitude of sounds: clapping swords, the flap of his cloak, and the pounding of his boot heels.
Luckily, the Calian was slowing down, getting tired most likely. Darting into a series of dilapidated houses, he dodged a ladder and jumped a pile of manure that Hadrian slipped in. He didn¡¯t fall, but it was close.
They both ducked under a clothesline loaded with clothes someone had forgotten to take in. With boots still slick with muck, Hadrian ran past a cascading avalanche of busted crates, over an open sewer grate, around a brimming water barrel, and into a yard enclosed by a battered wooden fence. The Calian managed to leap the stockade-style wall, and for precious seconds, Hadrian lost sight of him again.
By the time Hadrian had cleared the fence, he¡¯d once more lost his prey.
The barrier was merely a dividing line between one property and another¡ªseparating an alley filled with a stack of broken wagon wheels and one filled with dented buckets. The Calian could have gone left or right. Rather than running off blindly, Hadrian stood still, held his breath, and listened. He had no idea where he was anymore. They had raced up a dozen different streets. The architecture was back to four-story buildings with stone bases and timber-and-stucco uppers. Damp, salty air accompanied a growing level of fog, which reduced his visibility to half a block. His only clue was a familiar pungent fragrance, a pervasive incense burned in many homes in Calis.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Off to his left.
He darted around the buckets and back out onto a street, another tiny affair. Again, he had a choice, and once more Hadrian paused to listen. He waited but heard nothing.
Is he hiding? Hadrian was exhausted after the long run. The old Calian had to be, too, or maybe he¡¯d realized it wasn¡¯t such a good idea leading his pursuer back to his home. Or perhaps he had simply taken off his sandals. Slowly, carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, Hadrian made a calculated guess that the Calian had continued in the same general, southerly direction, and he crept that way. Reaching an intersection, he found a lonely streetlamp illuminating three choices. Straight ahead lay the masts of ships, black against the starry sky. To his right, the dark edifice of the cathedral towered over rooftops and the bright-white fog. Its lower reaches were illuminated by the increased presence of streetlamps. To his left, there was only darkness.
I¡¯d pick darkness, Hadrian thought and started down the dismal street. He¡¯d only gone a few steps when he heard a wet tearing noise. In daylight, while surrounded by a crowd of smiling friends, the sound would have made him cringe, but in a strange, dark place of mist and twisting streets, it made him shudder. This wasn¡¯t a happy noise. Hadrian drew his short sword. The metal made a soft ring as it left the scabbard. Something moved. Hadrian saw little more than a shift in shadows, but the sound was a harsh sudden jerk, the sort a startled deer might make. There was a thrash¡ªsomething knocked over¡ªand then silence.
Hadrian guessed his prey was fleeing again and quickly rounded the corner. He tripped, and this time he did fall. He hit the hard alley floor with his left shoulder and knee, grunting with the pain that shot up his thigh. His knuckles struck the cobblestones hard enough to make him let go of the blade. Instinct made him roll to one side and snatch up his weapon as he did. He raised the blade in defense against the expected attack.
No one was there.
He was alone, lying on the ground in a dark alley, feeling foolish. Hand throbbing, knee aching, shoulder sore, he once more held his breath to listen. All he heard was the distant ringing of cathedral bells.
It¡¯s official, I¡¯ve lost him.
Royce would never let him hear the end of this fiasco. You couldn¡¯t even catch an old man?
Angry and disappointed, Hadrian looked for what had finally tripped him up. It took several seconds of staring to understand what he was seeing. It failed to make sense in so many ways that his mind took a great deal of convincing to finally accept it.
Three steps back, the Calian was sprawled on the wet stone. Hadrian knew him by the burgundy wrap, the green scarf, and the box. These features provided the identity rather than his face, because he no longer had one.
V2: Chapter 15 - Bird Hunting
Royce leapt from the roof of the four-story building and landed on the slate tiles of the structure on the opposite side of the street. He ran to the ridgeline and sprinted along it. A slender figure in a dark, hooded cloak ran with abandon ahead of him. Racing entirely across rooftops, Royce had pursued his quarry out of the congested dwarven district toward the center of town. At that moment, the cathedral¡¯s soaring tower began tolling ominous peals of cascading notes, providing musical accompaniment for the drama unfolding against the starry night sky.
With buildings tightly packed, the canopy tour had been without serious challenge. Still, Royce¡¯s prey had been impressive. He¡¯d proved more than comfortable with heights. He was fast, agile, and clever in his maneuvers. The moment his quarry had decided to make his flight across the high ground, Royce experienced a giddy sense of victory. Rarely did a target act so agreeably. Rather than trying to disappear into the unfamiliar maze of city streets, this guy was like a bird trying to escape a shark by diving into the ocean. Royce¡¯s sense of jubilation was soon replaced with a rush of excitement at finding an unexpected challenge. This bird, he was stunned to discover, could swim.
Ahead was trouble. They were at the end of the easy jumps. Before them was another street-imposed gap, a wide one, and on the far side, the vertical wall of a much taller building.
Royce expected his prey to slow, to hesitate, to double back or climb down. Any of these would have granted Royce the opportunity to catch up to a lethal distance. Instead, once more his little bird did the unexpected. Reaching the end of the building, the figure didn¡¯t slow or pause. Instead, he made a running leap directly at the wall of the taller building. He missed the wall and smashed through a window, taking down a curtain. Royce was right behind, diving through the narrow opening of shattered glass. He expected his bird to be on the floor tangled in cloth and bleeding from cuts. All he found was the glass-laden drape and an open door creaking slightly.
Royce rolled to his feet, bolted out the door, and raced down a corridor into a very strange place. He almost ran into a knight before discovering it was merely pieces of armor stacked in the shape of a man. It even held a spear in one of its gauntlets. Royce found himself on an upper-story indoor balcony that circled a large four-story chamber. No one was in the building. This was a public business of some sort, and at that late hour, the place was dark except for the glow of streetlamps entering the windows. Below, were numerous displays: pedestals supporting statues, books, musical instruments, tools, even clothing on stuffed dummies. In the center stood a huge chariot and two stuffed white horses. Much of one wall was covered in a mural depicting the landscape of an impossibly grand city lit by a perfect summer sun. Paintings in lavish frames covered the other walls. Hanging from the ceiling were still more oddities. The most eye-catching was a massive creature that looked to be a dragon suspended over the center of the chamber by several chains. The thing was huge, but not real. It appeared to be made of painted cloth wrapped over a wooden frame.
Distracted by the bizarre nature of the place, which seemed to be some kind of curio shop, Royce gave up several seconds to his fleeing quarry. The sound of shattering glass pulled his attention back. He spotted the figure breaking a window on the far side and raced around the balcony to the broken opening. Outside was a sheer drop to the street; his prey had gone up.
The climb wasn¡¯t trivial. Several of the handholds were no more than fingertip-sized, but his bird had scaled the wall quickly. Before Royce was halfway up, his quarry was on the roof. A moment later a series of slate shingles flew his way. The first barely missed him, shattering on the stone to the left of his face. Royce had to duck the second, which he heard as it passed. More were coming.
With a lurch, Royce leapt up and caught hold of one of the grotesque downspouts. This one looked like an evil, sharp-toothed dog, snarling and extending a long serpent¡¯s tongue. He hugged the statue around its neck as another shingle clipped his boot. The impact stung. If it had hit his head, Royce would¡¯ve fallen. The next shingle came, this one aimed higher. Royce managed to catch it as he dangled one-handed from the dog¡¯s head. His enemy boldly straddled the ridgeline. The rising moon was behind him, giving a silvery outline to his whipping cloak that snapped in the wind. With his adversary¡¯s hood up, all Royce could see was a nose, part of a cheek, and a chin.
I¡¯m chasing myself.
Royce waited until his opponent bent down to pry up another slate before throwing the one he¡¯d caught. Slate shingles weren¡¯t knives, and his throw was off. Royce had aimed at the hood, but it hit his target in the thigh. Despite the bad aim, he was rewarded with a grunt.
Royce pulled himself up on top of the dog¡¯s head, then sprang to the eave, catching the lip. Another strong pull and he was crouching on the roof. He scanned the ridgeline. The shingle-thrower had abandoned his attack and was back to running. He sprinted along the peak, then veered right, following a long gable. It acted like a plank extending off the side of a ship. By the time Royce reached the gable, his prey had made the long jump across the gap of an alley, which separated the strange shop from Grom Galimus¡ªthe same alley where, only hours earlier, he and Hadrian had followed the dwarf. His hooded bird landed safely on the far side, touching down on another gargoyle, its ugly head protruding out from the side of cathedral¡¯s buttress. Royce made the same leap, landing on the same stony head: a hideous lion with fangs that extended well past its lower jaw.
By then, Royce¡¯s twin was already climbing up the buttress¡¯s pier, a sheer column of stone.
They were already up five stories. Royce could see the plaza out front, where the massive statue of Novron looked tiny. What he¡¯d thought to be a curio shop was the Imperial Gallery, whose roof he was now looking down at. Still, they were only halfway up the side of the cathedral.
Slab after slab, ornate divider after divider, Royce scaled the stone pier in pursuit.
Who is this?
Royce had never encountered anyone who could match his skill at climbing, his ease in high places, or his ability to see in dim light. This hood-and-cloak really could be his long-lost brother. With each foot they scaled together, Royce¡¯s respect for his adversary grew. Even if this guy wasn¡¯t connected to the job, Royce couldn¡¯t give up this chase.
I¡¯ve got to find out who this is.
When he reached the top of the pier, Royce¡¯s rival swung around the little pointed cap and ran up the incline of the flying buttress. If the long, rising arm that held up the side wall had been a bridge, it could have spanned half the Roche River. Running up its slope, they both gained significant height. Reaching the top, they jumped a stone railing that protected a long balcony just below the eaves of the main roof. They were above the great oculus window, above the creepy statues of old men in draped robes who glared down with stern indignation, but above them still more gargoyles jutted from the edge of the roof¡ªno two alike.
Royce¡¯s adversary raced down the length of the open walkway, which ran along one side of the churchlike battlements on a castle. At the balcony¡¯s end, the hood-and-cloak had only two choices: up or down. Stakes were literally higher now. The wind at that height was brutal, and unlike all the previous roofs, Grom Galimus¡¯s pitch was sharp as a miserly wedge of cheese. Royce trotted up, waiting to see which way his prey would choose. When his opponent went up, Royce found himself oddly pleased. This game of cat and mouse wouldn¡¯t end with a whimper.
Far too steep to walk up, the roof offered vertical ribbing that divided the sets of shale shingles. Royce¡¯s opponent used them to pull himself along the slick surface. What the roof didn¡¯t offer was a usable ridgeline. A tall fin of decorative metalwork crowned its peak. Royce¡¯s enemy shimmied higher, kicking the slates and creating an avalanche with his heels. Displaced shingles cracked, and the broken bits fell down toward Royce. Shifting left and then right between the ribs, he dodged the cascade. With each shift, he climbed higher until he, too, reached the ridgeline.
¡°You¡¯ve run out of places to climb,¡± Royce shouted above the rush of wind that snapped both their cloaks. ¡°What now?¡±
His adversary¡¯s hood tilted up, assessing the bell tower. As far up as the two of them were, the tower of Grom Galimus went up half again as high. While not the height of the Crown Tower, it was nothing to scoff at.
¡°You¡¯ll never reach it before I get you,¡± Royce told him as he continued to inch closer. ¡°And what good would it do?¡±
His quarry turned to face him, and as he did, the wind caught the hood and blew it back. A pale face adorned with arched eyebrows accentuated a pair of angry, angled eyes. Swept-back hair displayed a broad forehead and ears that came to sharp points.
That explains a lot. In at least one sense, we are related.
The two faced off with cloaks snapping back and forth like cat¡¯s tails¡ªtwo male tabbies having a deadly dispute over territory.
¡°Who are you?¡± the mir demanded with a harsh eastern accent, the words kicked out from behind clenched teeth.
¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± Royce was puzzled. ¡°I¡¯m the guy you tried to crush with a rock. Is that something you do to random strangers?¡±
¡°You shouldn¡¯t be in Rochelle. Our business is our own. Leave now and you can go in peace. If you continue to interfere, you and your friend will be added to the list.¡±
The mir looked off to his right, searching for an escape and finding none.
¡°There¡¯s a list?¡±
Royce lunged forward, hoping to catch his prey¡¯s wrist. Just as quickly, the mir jerked away. He tried to switch his grip but missed with the other hand, his balance off, his footing lost. Down he went on the far side of the roof, sliding across the surface of the slates on his back like a kid riding a sled. He pushed out with his feet against the ribbing, trying to stop, but the momentum was too great.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Royce held his breath as he watched. Hanging onto the wrought-iron crown of the peak, it was all too easy to imagine taking that trip, the conclusion of which Royce already knew.
Coming to the end of the roof, the mir made a desperate grab for the railing of the balcony but missed it by more than a foot. His speed skipped him well away from the walls of the cathedral. There wasn¡¯t a scream. Royce appreciated that. He had no idea who had just died, but under different circumstances he might have made a valuable addition to Riyria.
Just as well, he thought. We¡¯d have had to change the name.
Taking a more deliberate and far slower route, Royce descended to the balcony and peered over the railing. Below, lay buttresses. The dead man had most likely missed hitting them. Below that lay the river.
Royce climbed the rest of the way down, taking his time, not only because he¡¯d seen the repercussions of a tiny mistake, but because he felt no urgency. He expected to spot the mir¡¯s body impaled on one of the gargoyle snouts or at the very least on the bank of the Roche River, but Royce had found neither. He walked the length of the riverbank, first south then back north, and saw no evidence of a body.
Could he have hit the river? Royce looked up at the slope of Grom Galimus¡¯s roof. Theoretically, it was possible. Still, the fall would have been painful and likely fatal.
Royce scanned the surface of the moonlit water for any floating, body-sized object. Nothing.
It was as if his bird had flown away.
Royce spent more than an hour searching the base of the cathedral and the banks of the river just to be thorough. Satisfied, he returned to Hemsworth House and walked up a deserted Mill Street just as Hadrian was walking down. Only those up to no good, or people with no place to go, would be outdoors at that hour. Royce had to remind himself that he didn¡¯t fall into either group, at least not that night. It felt strange, and yet it was an altogether too common reality as of late. Over the last few years, Royce had found himself acting within the limits of the law. They were making more money with less risk, yet it felt wrong, like writing with his left hand or walking backward.
The two met in front of the boardinghouse in a bank of fog. ¡°Any luck?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce shook his head. ¡°Had a fun run. Got a squirrel¡¯s tour of the city.¡±
Hadrian looked shocked. ¡°He got away from you?¡±
¡°He took a tumble. Pretty sure he¡¯s dead.¡±
They spoke just above a whisper. The fog demanded it. Royce always enjoyed a good fog. It reduced visibility while increasing the distance sound traveled. And since it usually occurred during the shifting temperatures of night or early morning, it proved a thief¡¯s friend and an assassin¡¯s weapon. Spring and autumn were the seasons for lowland mist, and rivers were its breeding ground. That night the river was working overtime, and the oil lamp in front of Evelyn Hemsworth¡¯s home served to do nothing but illuminate the white haze.
¡°Any idea who he was?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°A mir,¡± Royce replied. ¡°Said we should leave or we were going to be added to a list.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a list?¡±
¡°That¡¯s what I said.¡±
¡°And why both of us? I didn¡¯t chase him.¡±
Royce smiled. ¡°Maybe he didn¡¯t want you to feel left out.¡±
¡°Oh, well, at least someone thinks about me.¡±
¡°What happened to the dwarf and the Calian?¡±
¡°They bolted in different directions.¡±
¡°You followed the Calian, right?¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Chased him clear across town, almost to the docks.¡±
¡°And?¡±
¡°He went around a corner. I lost him for a bit; then I tripped over his body.¡±
¡°He was dead? Did you see who killed him?¡±
¡°Nope.¡±
¡°Was his throat slit?¡±
¡°No, worse.¡±
¡°How so?¡±
¡°His face was gone. Looked like it had been eaten.¡±
Royce had excellent hearing. At that moment, he could tell a mongrel dog was padding its way along the alley one block up, but he still wasn¡¯t certain he¡¯d heard Hadrian correctly. ¡°Did you say eaten?¡±
Hadrian adjusted his scarf, tucking the ends inside the leather of his tunic. ¡°Chewed up pretty bad.¡±
Royce leaned in. ¡°Is that new?¡± He gestured at the knitted garment.
Hadrian grinned and hooked his thumb, showing the blue-dyed wool in the hazy lamplight. ¡°Like it? I was down in the Calian section of town. That place never goes to sleep. All sorts of merchants still selling everything imaginable. Honestly, you should go there. I¡¯ll help you shop. We could get you a nice new cloak, didn¡¯t see any polka dots but there was a sweet lemon-yellow one. You¡¯d look good. What do you think?¡±
¡°You stopped to buy a scarf in the middle of the night?¡±
Hadrian shrugged. ¡°An impulse buy. I just happened to spot it at the fourth cart I went to. Actually, I was hoping for a whole cloak, but this was all I could find. You should get yourself one.¡±
¡°Why?¡±
¡°Because it¡¯s blue, and because I think having a face is a good thing.¡±
Royce rolled his eyes. ¡°Let¡¯s try to keep focused, shall we? What about the box? Let me guess; it was taken and you didn¡¯t get a chance to look inside?¡±
¡°Why would you assume that?¡±
¡°It¡¯s just the way these things always seem to go,¡± Royce grumbled. ¡°You either have a day when everything works out or one when nothing does. Following the dwarf turned up only that he has a family and likes to carve wood; the guy you went after led nowhere, and the phantom who tried to flatten us with a slab of stone killed himself, denying me the opportunity to check his body. With such a grand set of circumstances, I must assume the box also vanished, thereby putting the perfect finish to a miserable day.¡±
¡°We know where the dwarf lives. We can¡ª¡±
¡°He¡¯ll be gone, along with his whole family. You saw that place. They¡¯re as tight-knit as a sweater knotted out of human hair.¡±
Hadrian looked at him with that appalled expression he so often wore when Royce talked about drowning loud dogs or eliminating witnesses. ¡°A sweater made out of¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m just saying, it¡¯s going to take a lot of torture to get anyone in that neighborhood to talk.¡±
¡°We aren¡¯t torturing anyone.¡±
Royce rolled his eyes. ¡°Well, I certainly wouldn¡¯t be taking you along if I was. But it doesn¡¯t matter, they would only lie. To get the truth I¡¯d have to launch a complex operation where I could¡ª¡±
¡°No torture, Royce.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°So, to reiterate . . . the perfect finish to a miserable day.¡±
¡°So pessimistic.¡± Hadrian shook his head slowly, frowning. ¡°I was thinking just the opposite. About how good the day turned out to be.¡± He raised his hand, spreading his fingers. ¡°Count with me.¡± He held back a finger. ¡°First, we managed to discover where the dwarf lived.¡± He held back another. ¡°Second, we found two more suspects he was colluding with, and where they were meeting.¡± Another finger. ¡°Third, we didn¡¯t get crushed by a block of granite.¡± He bent another back. ¡°Fourth, the fellow you were chasing fell to his death¡ªnot you. Nor did you kill him, so we are also not wanted for murder this morning. I consider that a plus even if you might not.¡± He held back his thumb. ¡°Best of all, I still have a handsome face.¡± Hadrian shook his five fingers at Royce like a child waving an enthusiastic hello. ¡°So you see, we had a very good day, and to prove it let me put forth the evidence of the box. It wasn¡¯t taken, Mister Grim. I found it on the ground beside the Calian. Apparently, all his assailant was after was the man¡¯s face.¡±
¡°And inside?¡±
Hadrian¡¯s expression lost its buoyant sarcasm. ¡°Rocks.¡±
¡°Rocks?¡±
Hadrian rolled his shoulders. ¡°Just a box of gravel. That¡¯s all that was inside. I dug through it, which I should get credit for. Especially given that I was in a dark, foggy alley next to a faceless corpse, but yeah, it was just gravel.¡±
¡°So, the box wasn¡¯t taken, but it turned out to be empty for all practical purposes, and you claim that as evidence that we had a good day?¡±
¡°Still have a face, see?¡± Hadrian grinned at him.
¡°Yes, I see. I see very well, in fact, which is part of why I don¡¯t accept it as conclusive proof that things worked out for the best.¡±
Hadrian scowled.
Royce reached Hemsworth¡¯s door, and as expected, it was locked.
¡°You just hate being happy, don¡¯t you?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°I have no idea. What¡¯s it like?¡±
If Royce needed any more evidence Hadrian was wrong about the day, he found it the moment he popped the lock and opened the door to the boardinghouse. Inside, Evelyn Hemsworth stood before him. She was dressed in a beige robe, her hair wrapped in a floral-print scarf, her arms folded. She stared with a surprised expression that quickly soured.
¡°How did you get in?¡± she asked accusingly. ¡°I locked that door.¡±
¡°I guess I used the key you gave us.¡±
¡°I gave you nothing of the sort.¡±
¡°We rent a room here. How can you expect us to get in if you lock the door and don¡¯t give us a key?¡±
¡°I told you, I expect those under my roof to arrive during civilized hours. I don¡¯t approve of you slinking in at all hours like a pair of burglars. There¡¯s no legitimate reason for a body to be on the streets at this time of night. No reputable excuse. Now, as I did not¡ªas I said¡ªgive you a key, how did you open that door?¡±
¡°You must have forgotten to lock it.¡±
Evelyn took a menacing step forward, glaring at Royce with a stern-faced expression. She jabbed at him with her forefinger. ¡°Don¡¯t get smart with me, young man. You know full well that door was locked, and that I never gave either one of you a key. Now, explain yourself.¡±
Royce pointed at Hadrian. ¡°He did it.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s brows went up. ¡°Did not.¡±
Evelyn¡¯s eyes narrowed on Royce. ¡°You¡¯re dancing on the edge of a very steep cliff, my boy.¡±
¡°What happened to treading on thin ice? I only ask because I don¡¯t dance.¡±
She ignored him. ¡°I don¡¯t like these late-night shenanigans the two of you have been conducting. I also don¡¯t like being woken from a dead sleep by someone banging on my door!¡±
Royce glanced at Hadrian, who showed he was just as puzzled. ¡°We didn¡¯t knock.¡±
¡°Not you.¡± Evelyn shook a hand at them. ¡°The other one. Got me up by threatening to break down my door. Hammered on it with his fists, which was utterly futile. My husband was a tax collector, you see. He took precautions against home invasion. Would take a battering ram to break this door. So, after tiring himself out and getting frustrated, he tried to convince me he was your brother.¡± She sniffed indignantly. ¡°As if I couldn¡¯t tell the difference.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have a brother,¡± Royce said.
¡°Well, if you did, I wouldn¡¯t let him in, either. Not at that time of night. I told him I didn¡¯t care if he was related to the duke. It was far too late to be banging on proper people¡¯s doors. If he had business with you, he would have to conduct it in the morning at a decent hour.¡±
¡°What¡¯d he say?¡± Hadrian asked this time.
¡°That he knew you weren¡¯t back, and he¡¯d wait quietly in your room so I could go back to sleep.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t let him in, did you?¡±
Evelyn rolled her eyes. ¡°What do you take me for? Of course not. The fellow was dressed up like a bandit in a dark hood and cloak, and soaking-wet as if he¡¯d just taken a bath in his clothes. And he was a mir.¡± She whispered this last bit as if it was a dirty secret. ¡°Which is proof he was lying about being your brother. I certainly wasn¡¯t opening the door for a dishonest, drenched marauder. Do you think me a fool? That person was up to no good. Dangerous is what he was, and while you¡¯re under this roof, you¡¯re under my protection.¡±
The bird is still alive? And he knows where we¡¯re staying.
Evelyn Hemsworth didn¡¯t look like any sort of bodyguard Royce would have picked, but there was no denying that she¡¯d defended them from the most dangerous adversary Royce had encountered in years.
¡°So, he finally left.¡± She leaned in toward Royce, her arms still folded, her eyes locked on his. ¡°The two of you had better mend your ways. I can see you¡¯re falling in with a bad crowd. You both seem to be decent boys, granted a bit dim-witted and slow, but the captain of the city guard vouches for you, and¡ª¡±
Royce and Hadrian both raised their brows.
¡°Don¡¯t look so surprised. When I heard you were picked up by the watchmen, I was planning on throwing you out into the street. But then I asked Captain Wyberg about it, and he said it was all a misunderstanding. He also said that you two¡±¡ªshe nodded rather than pointed in Hadrian¡¯s direction¡ª¡°had served together. Still, this city has bad elements. And if you¡¯re not careful, you¡¯ll end up in trouble. We don¡¯t want that, do we?¡±
¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°And I won¡¯t be having any more late-night visitors banging on my door, will I?¡±
¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± Hadrian repeated.
¡°And no more fiddling with my lock,¡± she said to Royce. ¡°Agreed?¡±
¡°Yes,¡± he replied.
¡°Good.¡± She nodded curtly. ¡°And don¡¯t be late for breakfast. I¡¯m making waffles.¡±
V2: Chapter 16 - Looking Away
Genny had a razor-sharp edge on four of the silver coins. The key was a bigger issue. It made more noise when she scraped it, and the metal was much harder. She also couldn¡¯t grind it just anywhere as she did with the coins. Those she scraped across the floor, and then covered the marks with the straw. The key, she had to file down carefully. Genny needed to grind away all the teeth except the top one. That meant she could only use rocks that protruded, providing an adequate edge. The rocks comprising the floor were flush and smooth. She was instead forced to scrape it against one of three stones that jutted far enough out from the wall. Luckily all three were hard and abrasive. And with nothing else to do, Genny managed to reduce her trunk key into little more than a cylindrical barrel with a single tooth at the end like a tiny, mouse-sized hoe.
After nearly two weeks, the key was close to done, and so were Genny¡¯s fingers. They throbbed, and her knuckles were a series of abrasions, two of which had scabs. Taking a break, she hid the key in the wall crevice. Then she lay down on the straw and sucked on her fingertips, staring at the ceiling. The underside was plaster. Parts of it had been painted. Most had faded; other sections had chipped and fallen. An old bird¡¯s nest was in one corner. She wondered how a bird had gotten in, then realized the door must be new.
Why am I still here? Why hasn¡¯t Leo agreed to the demands? Even if her life wasn¡¯t in jeopardy, what Mercator was asking made sense.
If the situation were reversed, she would have traded the duchy for Leo.
So why hasn¡¯t he?
Genny knew why. The answer to that question was too obvious, sort of like standing in a lush field and wondering about the color of grass. All she needed to do was look down, but Genny didn¡¯t want to. All her life she had looked, forced herself to see what others refused to accept. How much easier it would have been to welcome her role as a dutiful daughter, to blind herself to the facts and pretend everything was fine.
After her mother¡¯s death, her father gave up. Because he was a whiskey distiller, everyone expected Gabriel Winter to resign from life by becoming a drunk. Everyone thought he¡¯d crawl into one of his casks, but that just showed how little they knew him. Her father didn¡¯t drink, never had. Even when he taste-tested, he spat. But there was more than one way to withdraw, and a man didn¡¯t need to be a drunk to become mean. People made excuses for him. Some even lied. And there were those who came right out and said that her life would be easier if she looked away.
¡°Get married,¡± they told her. ¡°Find a man and make a new home.¡± But Genny knew that wasn¡¯t in her future, not back then. Even as a young girl, she knew spinsterhood was all but certain. Instead, Genny ignored all the advice. She looked, she saw, and she accepted the way things were¡ªand then she decided to change them.
With the general abdication of her father, Genny took the reins of the business and rebuilt it. In less than a decade, Winter¡¯s Whiskey went from a cheap black-market product to a posh commodity. A few hidden stills that ran on stolen grain became the largest warehouse and distillery in the world, buying thousands of pounds of rye, oats, and barley. Genny even went so far as to purchase rights to farms from Count Simon, an unprecedented act since only royals controlled land. That could only happen in Colnora, which had always had its own rules. As long as the money flowed, the crown looked away. Genny made a habit of ignoring traditions, of pushing the boundaries that others observed but she saw as too limiting. With a loud mouth, a refusal to accept restrictions, an irritating habit of being right, and absolutely no concern as to what others thought of her, she ran naked and laughed at the fools who raced her in long robes. Success proved she was right, and that was all she needed.
This was the one lie she told herself. The only reality she chose not to look away from.
Genny convinced herself that saving her father would be enough. That and beating all those arrogant merchants who called her names. Hatred was another form of admiration, she concluded, and wealth was the measure of worth. The deception was hardly a choice. Love wasn¡¯t a commodity she could buy. Her blind eye was a simple matter of finding contentment within the bounds of the possible.
Then one day, a man, a duke, a short, portly, balding eastern noble smiled at her; and just like that, what was possible changed.
The situation was made unbearable because she genuinely liked him. Leo wasn¡¯t handsome or dashing; he was awkward and often silly. But when she was in the room, his eyes never left her. Many suggested he only pretended to care to get at her money. Her own father had told her that¡ªhe smashed a window with his bare hand, lacerating his fingers in the process to ensure she heard him. She did. Genny heard all of them, but for once, for the first time in her life, she chose to look away¡ªto believe in a dream. She rationalized that her money, which was considerable, wasn¡¯t enough to make a dent in the coffers of a kingdom. The Duke of Rochelle made more in taxes on any given month than Winter¡¯s Whiskey did in a year. He¡¯s not marrying me for my money, she had assured herself. And in a way, that was true, which was why it was so easy to believe. In doing so, she understood what she never had before¡ªwhy people decided to lie to themselves. Genny wanted to be loved, to be wanted, desired, cherished, not because of what she was capable of, but because of who she was, what she was. This was something she¡¯d never dared dream of before, and Leo Hargrave was holding it out to her, begging Genny to take it.
She so desperately wanted the fairy tale to be true that she fell into the habit of looking away.
But he didn¡¯t come to her on their wedding night, or the night after, nor any night since. They slept in separate bedrooms. Leo didn¡¯t talk much. People said he was naturally quiet. She accepted this. Then when the whispers started, and even the servants began calling her the Whiskey Wench, Leo did nothing. He still smiled at her, gave Genny whatever she liked, complimented her, but the hugs were few, the kisses fewer. He loves me, but not everyone shows affection in the same way, she told herself. She needed to believe he felt the same way she did, because if he didn¡¯t, it would break her heart into so many pieces there would be no putting it back together.
Why am I still here? Why hasn¡¯t Leo found me? Has he even looked?
Tears welled up. She felt them coming hot and painful along with the truth.
Genny wasn¡¯t stupid. That was part of her problem. She had figured it out some time ago. Leo hadn¡¯t married her for the money. That was where everyone had it wrong. He had married her because he needed a wife. He needed one fast, and it didn¡¯t matter who.
It¡¯s not true, part of her still protested. But that internal voice was losing volume, smothered by facts that could no longer be overlooked. She was fighting a losing battle. Genny cried as quietly as she could. She didn¡¯t want Mercator to hear. It didn¡¯t work.
¡°Are you hungry?¡± Mercator asked.
¡°Is this a trick question?¡± Genny said, wiping her eyes and sniffling.
¡°I have bread. Would you like some?¡±
¡°I¡¯d sleep with Villar for some bread.¡±
¡°The bread isn¡¯t that good,¡± Mercator chuckled.
Genny laughed with her.
Since that first real conversation about eating gold, the mood in her prison had changed. Mercator wasn¡¯t ready to fling open the cell door and set her free, but it was obvious she felt the abduction had been a mistake. The moment they shared was soft, gentle, comforting, fun. Strange how the flip side of tears was laughter. They could have been a pair of visiting friends up past bedtime, hiding from parents. Snickering as they shared secrets about boys, about clothes, about all the things friends were supposed to talk about. Only Mercator wasn¡¯t her friend. She had no reason to cheer her up.
¡°I¡¯m sorry for disrespecting your husband,¡± Genny said.
¡°Who?¡± Mercator asked.
¡°Isn¡¯t Villar your¡ª¡±
¡°Oh, blessed Ferrol, no! How could you possibly think that he and I . . .¡± She faltered. ¡°Villar is merely the leader of his clan, the Orphe. I¡¯m the head of the Sikara. Ours are the two oldest and most respected mir families. We have no romantic relationship, and to be honest, I think he finds me repugnant.¡±
¡°Well, he has no reason to feel that way. You are very kind.¡±
¡°I was involved in kidnapping you, remember? How is that kind?¡±
¡°You offered me bread, and I know you don¡¯t have much. You didn¡¯t have to do that.¡±
Mercator didn¡¯t say anything. There was no sound on the other side of the door.
¡°Oh, I see. Is that bread meant to be my last meal?¡±
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¡°No!¡± Mercator replied hotly. ¡°It¡¯s just bread.¡±
Nothing was said for a moment, and the silence felt suffocating.
¡°There¡¯s still time,¡± Mercator offered.
¡°And when the time runs out?¡±
Mercator sighed. ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°I suspect Villar does.¡± Genny clenched her jaw. She felt lying to herself now was pointless, and yet there wasn¡¯t much point in not lying, either. The result was going to be the same, and it didn¡¯t matter one bit either way.
¡°Listen, do you want the bread or not?¡±
¡°No,¡± Genny said. ¡°Why waste it.¡±
Silence followed, and lingered. No sounds came from the other side of the door for a long time, then Genny heard Mercator sigh again.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Genny asked.
¡°Now I don¡¯t want it, either.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t be that way. You spent good money. You should eat it.¡±
Another pause. Mercator shifted in the other room. Genny wasn¡¯t near the door, couldn¡¯t see her, but it sounded like she sat down, and none too gently.
¡°I don¡¯t like doing this, you know?¡± the mir said, her tone miserable. ¡°You seem like a nice person. It¡¯s just like Villar to grab the only decent noble. It¡¯s just . . . I have to . . . we have to . . . something has to be done, and nabbing you was certainly better than the alternative.¡±
¡°Which is?¡±
¡°Death. Many would die.¡± There was a loud noise on the other side of the door, something clattering on the floor. ¡°If only your husband would concede to the demands, this whole mess would be over. It¡¯s not like we asked for riches. We just desire the same rights everyone else already has. And you were already trying to do just that.¡±
¡°So, you believe me?¡±
¡°I do now. I asked around. You really did attend a meeting of the Merchants¡¯ Guild, and you suggested the Calians and dwarves be allowed membership.¡±
¡°You¡¯re being nice. I doubt anyone who was there described it like that.¡±
¡°You¡¯re right. They said the Whiskey Wench had lost her mind. That the bitch was blackmailing them and would ruin the city as a result.¡±
¡°At least I made an impression.¡±
¡°You did,¡± Mercator said. ¡°So why hasn¡¯t the duke agreed? Why hasn¡¯t he demanded the guilds alter their charters? Doesn¡¯t he care about his people? Doesn¡¯t he care about you?¡±
Genny didn¡¯t answer. She couldn¡¯t. She honestly didn¡¯t know, and not knowing hurt so badly the tears came again. She cupped her face, trying to muffle any sounds, pushing them inward so that her body jerked with the agony.
¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Mercator said. ¡°That was an insensitive thing to say.¡±
A key turned in the lock, and the door to the cell opened. Normally, Mercator set her meals carefully, never coming close. This time she took a step into the room and handed her a bit of bread. ¡°Eat it. Don¡¯t eat it. I don¡¯t care.¡± She left, slamming the door and locking it behind her.
¡°Thank you,¡± Genny said.
¡°Don¡¯t say that.¡±
¡°I mean it.¡±
¡°So do I.¡±
Genny bit into the bread. This was the first real food she¡¯d had in days. ¡°Thank you just the same,¡± Genny muttered softly.
¡°I can still hear you!¡±
¡°Sorry.¡±
Mercator groaned.
Mercator looked up. The cloth drape that hung over the arched entrance in lieu of a door drew back. Villar had come to bother her again.
He was soaked and paused just inside to shake the water out of his hair. Slipping off his cloak, he snapped it twice to shake the wet off.
¡°Is she still alive?¡± he asked, looking at the closed door to the little chamber. This had become something of a ritual, being the first thing he said each time he entered.
Every church needs its rituals, Mercator thought.
¡°Yes,¡± the duchess responded. ¡°I¡¯m still alive. And how goes your search for proof that you aren¡¯t the accidental love child of a whorish werebat and a horse¡¯s ass?¡±
This made Mercator chuckle. She put a blue hand to her face, trying to hide it.
Just as Villar always asked the same question, their captive always replied with a new retort¡ªsome of her responses quite creative. The woman had a surprisingly inventive mind.
Villar glared at Mercator. Then his sight shifted to the fresh dye on her arms, and his expression of disgust deepened. Mercator hated herself for it, but she pulled her sleeves down just the same. ¡°Is it raining again?¡±
¡°No,¡± Villar said, throwing his soaked cloak on the only stool in the room.
Mercator looked at him, puzzled, but he refused to explain.
¡°The feast is in two days, and the duke hasn¡¯t taken any action or uttered a public word concerning the demands. He¡¯s not going to concede. Humans don¡¯t care about anything except keeping others down so their position at the top is maintained.¡±
Mercator toggled a finger between them. ¡°We¡¯re both at least half human.¡±
¡°Our lesser half, certainly. And you¡¯re¡ª¡± He stopped himself and stared at her. An awkward moment lingered.
Mercator did nothing to help. She didn¡¯t say a word and stared right back, daring him to say more. Villar was less a book to be read and more a clear window one hoped the owner would drape out of common decency.
He turned aside. ¡°The point is, compromise doesn¡¯t work. You can¡¯t say I haven¡¯t tried to be reasonable. I¡¯ve given them a chance to avoid blood. But time has run out, and now we have to do things my way.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t.¡±
¡°We have to.¡±
¡°You¡¯re suggesting suicide, and not just for those of us in Rochelle, but for all of Alburn, all of Avryn maybe. Even if we succeed, the backlash will be a generational tidal wave of hate and persecution.¡±
¡°Are we not persecuted now? We¡¯re already drowning. What difference is a wave to those trapped at the bottom of the sea?¡±
She pointed at the duchess¡¯s door. ¡°She agrees that things need to change. Maybe if we let her go, she could talk to¡ª¡±
¡°She¡¯s lying, saying what she knows you want to hear.¡± Villar threw up his hands. ¡°You¡¯re so stupid! Do you hear yourself? Let her go? We kidnapped her, held her for weeks in a filthy cell. Do you honestly think that once she is safely back within the Estate¡¯s walls she¡¯ll lift a pinkie finger to help us? And don¡¯t forget, a man has died. Do you think they grant pardons for murdering the ducal cofferer?¡±
¡°You should never have killed him.¡±
¡°She will point us out and cry for revenge.¡±
¡°She¡¯s not like that.¡±
¡°Maybe it isn¡¯t stupidity, maybe you¡¯re so indoctrinated into accepting their views that you¡¯ve forgotten who you are. Ours was once a proud and respected people, and we can be that again. I¡¯ve called for a meeting tomorrow, and I expect you to attend . . . and support my plan. You¡¯re the head of the Sikara family. Your great-great-grandfather was Mir Sikar and mine, Mir Plymerath. It¡¯s time that those who currently rule accept the truth about this region¡¯s past and give us the respect we deserve.¡±
¡°Things will change, but not all at once,¡± Mercator said. ¡°You can¡¯t obtain respect at the point of a sword, not from people who despise us. Respect needs to be earned. Trust needs to be built up over time, over generations.¡±
Although she argued against him, Mercator understood his hatred all too well and, even more, the damaging effects of ridicule. In many ways, she wanted to join in his outrage. They only disagreed over methods. Her outrage of principle was as acute as his. But after more than a hundred and twenty years, she had learned that wisdom was superior to passion, and that the easy and the fast never changed much; in fact, it often made matters worse. At a mere sixty years old, Villar hadn¡¯t learned that lesson yet. Knowing Villar, she wondered if he ever would.
¡°At this meeting you¡¯ve called, will Griswold Dinge and Erasmus Nym support your plan? If they don¡¯t, will you reconsider?¡±
¡°No need, their people have suffered nearly as badly as ours.¡± He stole a look at the locked door and frowned. ¡°We can only achieve our goals by force. Change¡ªreal change¡ªhappens no other way. And you¡¯re wrong. The only means of gaining respect is at the point of a sword because power is the only thing people respect.¡±
¡°So you respect the duke, do you? Because he has plenty of swords. And the king¡ªwhoever he turns out to be¡ªwill have even more at his disposal. If you shed blood, you¡¯ll be starting a war we can¡¯t possibly hope to win. No, not a war. That presupposes a conflict between reasonably able forces; this will be a slaughter.¡± She fixed him with a steely gaze. ¡°Do you know what a scapegoat is?¡±
¡°I know the term.¡±
¡°But do you know what it really means, its origin? Ages ago, before the time of Novron, people lived in small villages. They were superstitious and easily frightened. Once a year they would take a goat and cast all their faults and offenses on it. Then they drove it out of the village to die in the wilderness. They did this in the hope that the gods would punish the goat instead of them. As it turns out, people haven¡¯t changed much.¡± Mercator walked over and grabbed a blue cloth off the line and held it up in a fist. ¡°They¡¯re still just as superstitious and ignorant as ever. The nobility of Alburn will use us as their scapegoat. They¡¯ll point at us and say, There is the cause of our hardships, punish them. Only they won¡¯t wait for the gods to deal out the retribution. They¡¯ll take it by their own hands.¡±
¡°Would that be any different than how things are now? Our people are starving! I doubt Amyle will live to see another week¡¯s worth of dawns. Histivar¡ªyou pass him every day¡ªhe lives under a bridge! Under a lousy bridge! How can you stand there and suggest things can get worse?¡±
¡°Because they can. Right now, we are alive, and alive is better than dead.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not. Not like this.¡±
¡°You¡¯ll only get us killed. And not just here. You do this, and the repercussions will ring out all over the world. Our people everywhere will suffer.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t care. Better to die than live and suffer in poverty and humiliation. Better still to take some of them along.¡±
Villar snatched up his cloak, threw it back over his shoulders, and started toward the exit. ¡°And one more thing.¡± He paused, turning back. ¡°You need to prepare yourself. When this happens, you have to do your part, too.¡±
¡°My part?¡±
He nodded and pointed at the door that trapped the duchess.
Mercator shook her head and mouthed the word no!
¡°The revolution will start here.¡± He spun and walked back out.
Mercator stood staring at the drape, but not seeing it. She felt cold. Mostly because her dress was soaked from working with the dye¡ªmostly, but not completely.
¡°Are you going to kill me?¡± the duchess asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft, hesitant.
Mercator looked at the blue-black of her stained hands. Even to her, they looked like the hands of a monster.
She didn¡¯t answer.
V2: Chapter 17 - The Gathering
Breakfast the next morning was a surprisingly civil affair. Royce and Hadrian were on time, and Evelyn showed her approval with a slight nod before taking her seat. The meal was every bit as sumptuous as the morning before, but this time with waffles pressed into the shape of elephants. Evelyn didn¡¯t bother asking either of them to do the benediction, but Hadrian and Royce waited patiently for her to do so, and showed respect by bowing their heads.
¡°These waffles are excellent,¡± Hadrian said, mostly to break the silence, but also because it was true. Evelyn was an incredible cook, and he was wondering if she did indeed employ an army of fairy helpers.
¡°Thank you,¡± she replied. Then, as if in acknowledgment of their fine behavior, she scrutinized Royce, who not only had risen early to wash and shave but had also elected to leave his cloak in their room. ¡°That¡¯s much better breakfast attire. I approve.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± Royce replied with equal propriety.
Then Evelyn narrowed her eyes at Hadrian. ¡°Is that a new scarf?¡±
Hadrian sat up and smiled. ¡°Yes, do you like it?¡±
¡°It¡¯s blue.¡±
¡°Popular color in Rochelle, I¡¯ve discovered.¡±
¡°Only among idiots.¡±
This brought a surprised smile to Royce¡¯s face, but shocked Hadrian.
¡°Your front door is blue,¡± Hadrian pointed out.
¡°I didn¡¯t paint it,¡± the old woman said. ¡°That was my late husband¡¯s doing. He had some fool notion it would protect us from a monster.¡±
Hadrian looked down at his scarf, disappointed. He had expected the old woman to appreciate his adoption of the local style. Why he cared remained something of a mystery, but perhaps his desire to please her stemmed from the loss of his mother. Hadrian couldn¡¯t remember much about her. She had died when he was still young, but he imagined Evelyn was what mothers were like, or supposed to be: stern, correcting, fault-finding, and great cooks. Her disapproval, as ridiculous as it was, bothered him more than all of Royce¡¯s scoffing. Her mention of the monster, however, opened a door too tantalizing to let close without a peek. Hadrian gave up trying to win approval for his choice in fashion and asked, ¡°You don¡¯t believe in the Morgan?¡±
Evelyn¡¯s brows rose as she delicately tore a pastry in half. ¡°Yesterday you didn¡¯t know basic history, but today you¡¯re steeped in local arcane folklore, are you?¡±
¡°We¡¯re trying to educate ourselves,¡± Royce offered.
Evelyn wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then sniffed. ¡°Well, you won¡¯t do it by listening to gossip and ghost stories, gentlemen. The Morgan is nothing more than a silly old legend. Honestly, I would think two grown men would know better. But of course you aren¡¯t the only ones. Tomorrow, you¡¯ll see. If you go to the Feast of Nobles, the whole lot will be attired in a bewildering spectrum of sapphire, cobalt, ultramarine, navy, turquoise, cyan, cerulean, and azure, all in an attempt to ward off a monster straight out of a children¡¯s tale.¡± She focused on the scarf. ¡°I think a man who carries three swords ought not fear a ghost.¡±
¡°What exactly is this ghost story?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You won¡¯t like it. There¡¯s more of that icky history stuff you¡¯re not fond of.¡±
¡°Make it short, and I¡¯ll try and stay awake.¡±
She tilted her head down and peered up at him. ¡°You washed this morning, so I¡¯ll let that go.¡± Evelyn paused to refill her teacup, set the ceramic pot down with a petite tink, and then picked up her cup with both hands. She sat back, watching the steam rise. ¡°Yesterday, if you recall, I mentioned a fellow by the name of Glenmorgan. He was the brute who, back in the year 2450, conquered all the other petty little mongrel lords and called himself the new emperor, a title the church later changed to steward. He¡¯s also the one who set up his capital in Ervanon and forced the Church of Nyphron to do the same. Well, he had a civilized son, but the boy didn¡¯t live very long. His grandson, Glenmorgan the Third, was different. While still young, the child demonstrated he was just as barbaric as his grandfather, and he ran off to fight the goblins in Galeannon. To his credit, he won that battle, which was thereafter known as the Battle of Vilan Hills. At least it was until recently when another battle was fought, and now that original engagement goes by the less significant title of the First Battle of Vilan Hills.¡±
¡°I was in the second,¡± Hadrian mentioned.
Evelyn lifted her chin and peered at him over her cup. ¡°Under whose banner?¡±
¡°Lord Belstrad.¡±
¡°You fought under the banner of Chadwick, Warric¡¯s first regiment in the coalition force commanded by Lanis Ethelred? That was the conflict that turned back the Ba Ran Ghazel¡¯s second serious invasion of Avryn. The one where Sir Breckton, Belstrad¡¯s eldest son, had the rightful glory stolen from him by Rufus of Lanksteer. The northman¡¯s ill-advised and downright ludicrous charge into a ravine won him the title of Hero of the Battle despite costing the lives of nearly all his men. Would have killed him, too, if the Ba Ran Ghazel hadn¡¯t been just as dumbfounded by the stupidity as everyone else.¡±
Hadrian blinked, his mouth hanging in surprise.
¡°Close your mouth, dear. This is Rochelle, and more than mere goods flow through these ports. Here, we are fond of our history. My late husband was a particular maven of all things antiquated, and his passion became mine.¡± She took a sip of tea. ¡°As I was saying, Glenny Three won the First Battle of Vilan Hills. The celebration took him across the bay to Blythin Castle, the onetime stronghold of the exiled empire and Nyphron Church¡ªat least until they built Grom Galimus. Glenny spent the next few days drinking and basking in the praise of his nobles. When it came time to leave, they had a surprise waiting for him. The old families didn¡¯t like the idea of a strong emperor who wasn¡¯t sanctioned by the church. They were afraid the true Heir of Novron would be forgotten.¡±
¡°They killed him?¡±
She shook her head. ¡°Heavens, no. Just as they are now, the nobility of that time were notorious cowards. They shied from murder. Instead, they locked Glenny Three in the bowels of Blythin Castle. Rumor says the granite cliff the castle sits on is riddled with ancient tunnels where the Seret have carved out a vast number of oubliettes. They sealed him in, walled him up, and walked away. As you can imagine, betraying your emperor after he¡¯d just saved the empire from disaster generated a fair degree of guilt. So here in Rochelle, the city nestled in the shadow of Blythin Castle, there arose a ghost story to accommodate that shame. The tale tells that Glenny was upset with his fate, and being a bundle of ambition that even death couldn¡¯t squelch, he turned into a monster and found a way out of those tunnels. Now he creeps down here to Rochelle in search of the nobles who betrayed him. They¡¯re all long dead, but Glenny doesn¡¯t know that, you understand, and when it sees someone that looks like one of them, the Morgan has his revenge. And it¡¯s bloody; it¡¯s always very bloody.¡±
Evelyn took another sip, set her cup down, and reached for her pastry.
¡°And the color blue?¡± Hadrian asked.
Evelyn flipped her hand in nonchalant dismissal. ¡°Blue wards off evil, of course. That¡¯s why proper baby boys are always covered in it, to protect them from demons and evil spirits. Superstitious fools are willing to pay the exorbitant cost to protect their precious darlings.¡±
Hadrian considered this. ¡°What about baby girls? Aren¡¯t parents concerned about them, too?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not a matter of concern. They don¡¯t need protection. Evil spirits aren¡¯t interested in them.¡± Evelyn made no attempt to hide her caustic sneer. ¡°They¡¯re females after all, entirely unimportant. No self-respecting demon would waste its time with a girl, so inexpensive pink is just fine.¡±
¡°Where are we headed today, my faithful hound?¡± Hadrian asked as Royce, having donned his cloak once more, darted off at a brisk pace up Mill Street, heading away from the river. Once again, Hadrian struggled to keep pace with his partner as he moved swiftly uphill.
While Hadrian maintained his belief that the two had been lucky the day before, there was no denying their efforts had yielded little progress in finding the duchess. They knew the whereabouts of an Estate-employed dwarf who might, or might not, have been the driver of the duchess¡¯s coach. They also knew that the aforementioned dwarf was in nefarious contact with a Calian who was now dead, the victim, it seemed, of the five-hundred-year-old reincarnation of a betrayed emperor. Then there was the phantom who had tried to crush them with a rock, whom Royce had thought was dead, but wasn¡¯t. This elusive mir had survived a high dive from the cathedral roof into the Roche River well enough to pay them a visit, but failed to leave his name or address.
¡°Back to dwarf-land?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No,¡± Royce replied. ¡°Today we¡¯re going to a funeral.¡±
¡°A funeral? Whose?¡±
¡°That¡¯s what I hope to discover.¡± Royce stopped when they reached the first cross street. A brisk wind gusted down its length, blowing a tumbling basket past them. ¡°Which way leads to this wonderland of Calian shopping you love so much?¡±
¡°It¡¯s down near the harbor, in Little Gur Em, close to where we ate yesterday.¡±
Royce set off down the street, staying on the walk to avoid the wagon traffic. ¡°I¡¯m betting the Calian with the missing face had a family, and families have a tendency to bury members when they die. If we see a funeral¡ªa procession, a gathering at a graveyard or home¡ªodds will be good that we¡¯ll have found the faceless man.¡±
Traffic increased as they headed south toward the bay, where the salty air mixed with the smell of fish. Men wheeled laden carts uphill and empty ones down toward the docks. Others carried hods, or toolboxes, or ladders. Several in the loose-fitting dress of sailors staggered out of doors, squinting at the sun as they dragged themselves back toward the ships. Others milled about in a daze with no clear purpose. They wandered without an evident destination, looking with child¡¯s wonder at the buildings, shops, and carts. Hadrian realized that they acted much as he did, and in that instant, he understood that these were visitors to the city, there to witness the historic crowning of the new king.
Hadrian studied the streets and building shapes, trying to recall his trip from the night before. He looked for anything familiar, but it was significantly different in daylight. Recalling a neighborhood of dilapidated houses, he turned down a narrow street and found what he was looking for: an avalanche of busted crates, an open sewer grate, and a familiar clothesline stretching overhead. Clothes had been taken off the cord, and the ladder was missing, but the dollop of manure was still there, complete with the slide mark from his boot.
¡°Getting close,¡± Hadrian said. After a wrong turn, he doubled back and found the shabby wooden fence. With no one watching, they jumped it together. Back in the land of dented buckets, Hadrian found the intersection, verifying his memory by looking down the street and seeing the spires of the cathedral. The crossroads, so ominous the night before, was laughably mundane in the daylight. He turned his back on Grom Galimus and walked only a few steps before being rewarded with a stain of blood leading to an alley.
The bells of Grom Galimus were chiming as Royce bent down, studying the ruddy blemish. He scooped up some pebbles, chips, and shards of rock recently scattered. He sniffed them.
¡°What¡¯s it smell like?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Gravel,¡± Royce replied.
¡°From the box,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I probably spilled some when checking it last night.¡±
Royce nodded and stood up. He looked around and sighed.
¡°Nothing?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Other than the fact the body is gone, I have nothing.¡±
After that, the two proceeded to imitate the rest of Rochelle¡¯s visitors who wandered the maze of streets. Royce and Hadrian explored the back areas¡ªthose residential sections where chickens wandered free; where hanging rugs formed all the privacy available for roadside privies; where naked children played in puddles, and gatherings of mothers watched the two of them with suspicious interest. Royce made a methodic search, up one row then down the next, with an eye to the impoverished homes. They looked for crowds, for groups dressed in black, for weeping huddles of those who might be mourning the loss of a loved one.
After hours traipsing through trash and garnering unfriendly glares, Royce stopped. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s possible he didn¡¯t have any family or friends.¡±
¡°Someone took his body away,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Maybe the guards or neighborhood elders? Can¡¯t have the children playing with dead bodies, might give them sicknesses and a true understanding of their genuine worth to society. Maybe we should head down to the harbor. That¡¯s where they probably dump bodies. This city looks like the sort to have a cadaver-sluice. Our Calian conspirator is likely halfway to the Goblin Sea by now.¡±
¡°He had to have somebody who cared about him,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Why?¡±
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
¡°Everyone has someone.¡±
¡°No, they don¡¯t.¡± Royce focused on a scraggly little pug-nosed dog that was rummaging through a pile of rotting fish bones and tangled netting. ¡°Think about all the stray dogs out there, the ones like that, the mangy wretches no one wants, the sort that people throw rocks at to drive away. They don¡¯t have anyone, and people like dogs, right? Man¡¯s best friend, isn¡¯t that what they say? There are a lot of stray humans, too.¡± Royce continued to watch the dog with sympathetic eyes. There was something odd about the mutt. The dog wasn¡¯t a stray. It had a collar. A blue collar that¡ª
¡°You¡¯re not a stray anymore, Royce.¡±
¡°What?¡± Royce turned with a puzzled look.
¡°I¡¯m just saying that if you died, I¡¯d bury you. And if not me, Gwen would.¡± He laughed. ¡°By Mar, Gwen would build a tomb for you and paint it blue.¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t talking about me.¡±
¡°Sure. I was just saying.¡±
¡°Perhaps you should try not saying anything.¡±
When Royce looked back, the dog was gone.
The light of another day began to fade as they returned once more to Little Gur Em¡¯s merchant square; the bells of Grom Galimus chimed.
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Royce sighed. ¡°Maybe we should look for the dwarf. He might not have relocated. If I put a knife to his throat, or better yet his wife¡¯s, he might . . .¡± Royce paused. Looking around at the crowd, his expression became puzzled.
¡°What is it, boy? What do you smell?¡±
Royce glared.
¡°Sorry.¡± Hadrian grinned.
Royce nodded toward the people moving around them.
There were three young girls carrying cloth-covered baskets of baked goods. A man with a saw looped over one shoulder walked past and tipped his hat. An elderly couple strolled hand in hand, shuffling along as slowly as a pair of lazy snails, looking both romantic and cute. Most were Calian, a few were dwarves, and several were mir.
At first Hadrian saw nothing odd, then as he watched he saw it. Where earlier, people were going, coming, and milling about, now everyone¡ªevery single person, right down to the children¡ªwas heading east.
¡°They weren¡¯t doing that a minute ago?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°The bells.¡± Royce nodded in the direction of the cathedral. ¡°They just rang.¡±
¡°Hurry up or we¡¯ll be late,¡± a Calian woman said as she ushered children out of her home. She caught sight of them, offered a cautious smile, then looked away and shooed her boys along.
One by one, the shopkeepers and cart vendors closed their doors and covered their wares. After locking their treasures away, they, too, headed away from the setting sun.
¡°Where do you think they¡¯re going?¡±
The two stood in the square and watched as it emptied of people, draining like a leaking bucket until only a few stragglers remained. As the light faded and night crept into the city once more, Royce and Hadrian followed.
Pursuing the parade east, Hadrian noticed they were leaving Little Gur Em and entering a decidedly less inviting part of town. In all his wanderings and late-night chases, Hadrian hadn¡¯t been here. Based on the way Royce was looking about, he hadn¡¯t, either.
Like the fringe of an old coat, the eastern edge of the city frayed. Rochelle had been bigger once; now the forest worked to reclaim stolen land. Grand homes and shops abandoned to decay had been uprooted by trees bursting through foundations, popping roofs, and throwing branches through windows so that the forest appeared to wear the houses. Streets had lost stones; the gaping holes reminded Hadrian of missing molars in an ancient mouth, while the tufts of yellowed grass that spurted in doorways were the unwanted hair of the aging. Wind blew shredded curtains, tattered awnings, and loose boards, which made a hollow, lonesome sound that echoed down the cavity-plagued road.
The procession took several routes, but all of them concluded at a stone ruin that might have once been a warehouse. Large enough to have been used to construct sailing ships, the building had four intact walls and half a wooden roof. None of the windows retained any evidence of glass, and the stone exterior showed only a speckled stain of paint where a mural had once decorated a wall. Conversations had been few, but as the many groups and individuals transformed into one tight crowd, soft murmurs rose. Royce and Hadrian drew their hoods up as they slipped inside. The sun was gone, the land dark. A single bonfire shimmered brightly at the front of the building, casting giant shadows on chalk walls.
Hadrian had no idea what he was seeing or was about to see. In many ways, the confluence of people reminded him of a church service, but he couldn¡¯t understand why a religious meeting would be held at night in such a fearful place. Something seasonal like a Wintertide or Summersrule observance, he guessed, as a cold wind shook the branches of a tree, clacking a branch against the broken roof. This was winter¡¯s last night, and the season thrashed with a spiteful anger.
Royce clapped Hadrian on the arm, and with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated a small figure near the fire. With the dwarf¡¯s hood pulled back, Hadrian recognized Griswold, who stood on a wooden crate alongside a taller figure. That person wore his hood up, his face hidden.
¡°Seventeen days,¡± the hooded one next to Griswold said loudly. He turned halfway around and then repeated it. ¡°Seventeen days ago your leaders embarked on an ambitious plan on your behalf. The disappearance of the Duchess of Rochelle was our doing. We took her to apply pressure on the duke, to get him to grant rights for those who have none. Our demands were reasonable, easily granted, and completely ignored. For seventeen days we sought a peaceful solution, but tomorrow is the Spring Feast, and we can¡¯t wait any longer.¡±
Even the low murmuring stopped. The interior of the ruined building grew silent.
¡°We all wanted a peaceful solution, but injustice cannot be defeated by good intentions. Prejudice cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be beaten back without a cost. We must rise. Blood! That¡¯s what it takes. Blood must be spilled. The noble houses wear blue, but they should fear red. The crimson of their own lives. We need to show them we will no longer silently withstand their degradations. Seeing the color splattered on the walls, on the cobblestones, and on their pretty blue jackets will get their attention.¡±
¡°Oh, it will certainly do that!¡± a mir said. Dressed in a deep-blue kirtle, the woman had equally dark skin, her hair nappy as any East Calian. She walked up to stand next to Griswold and the hooded speaker. A full head shorter than the one she interrupted, she was small and slight, but she stood tall, chin-high, eyes bright. ¡°It will also terrify them. And not just the aristocracy of Rochelle, or even the three great houses of Alburn. I¡¯ve already spoken to Villar about the folly of his proposal. If you listen to him, if you take up arms, you¡¯ll be declaring war and gain the very fervent attention of both the nobility and the church. And I¡¯m talking about not just here, but all across Avryn. Not one of those kings, dukes, earls, or marquises will abide such a filthy house. They¡¯ll scrub the streets clean and use gallons of our blood for the washing. For every drop of theirs we draw, they¡¯ll demand a barrel of ours.¡±
¡°Mercator Sikara, everyone,¡± the tall one said, holding his hands out and introducing her to the crowd, but his tone wasn¡¯t inviting or welcoming. Hadrian suspected everyone already knew who she was. Villar shook his head. ¡°What would your grandfather think of you? Of your fears? Of your willingness to abase yourself. Would he approve of you offering your people the illusion of safety through complacency? I don¡¯t deny that sacrifices will be made, but anything worth having comes at a price. We have had our heritage stolen from us. All of us.¡± He pointed at Griswold. ¡°Once proud Belgriclungreians have been shuttered into ghettos, locked in on festival nights, and forced to lock themselves in during their own celebration days to avoid being victims of violence. Calians, once the noble merchant-citizens of the imperial province of Calynia, whose city of Urlineus was the last to surrender its imperial banner, are now forced to beg for the right to buy and sell on the streets of a city that considers itself the last echo of the imperium. A city that should welcome them the most! And the mir . . .¡± He paused, shaking his head.
He took a breath as if it was far too much to go on, but somehow he managed to continue. ¡°Mir . . . that was once a term of respect, a title of an honorable heritage. Those of us who can trace our lineage back to the imperial province of Merredydd know that we were once proud and admired members of the Novronian Empire. Mir Sikar sat on the Imperial Council beside Mir Plymerath, both of whom personally knew, and fought beside, the living Novron. But now . . . now . . .¡± He faltered and gestured up at the walls around them. ¡°Now we barely exist, denied even the right to dwell in a house, the freedom to conduct a business of any kind, and the dignity to provide for ourselves and our loved ones.¡±
¡°That voice is familiar,¡± Royce whispered.
¡°The one in the hood?¡±
Royce nodded.
¡°Living in the past is no way to create a future,¡± Mercator said.
¡°It¡¯s from the past that we find our future,¡± Villar declared.
¡°I wish he¡¯d lift his head high enough so I could see his face,¡± Royce said, peering up.
Hadrian was acutely aware that all the people in attendance, other than the two of them, were dark-skinned Calians, short dwarves, and easily identified mir. Anyone getting a good look under either of their hoods would know they didn¡¯t belong. Given that they had stumbled into something akin to a pre-revolution rally, Hadrian preferred not to be noticed. Spies were always given the same reward, whether it was handed out by kings or insurgents, and three swords wouldn¡¯t be enough to fight off hundreds of furious people.
¡°You¡¯re asking us to commit suicide.¡± Mercator threw up her hands, her voice growing shrill in frustration.
¡°I¡¯m asking for us to stand up for ourselves, to be brave,¡± Villar countered. ¡°We outnumber our oppressors. We can defeat them. We can take control and make our own rules.¡±
¡°Our numbers are greater only in Rochelle,¡± Mercator argued. ¡°Outside this city are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people who would like nothing better than to see every one of us dead, and they¡¯ll respond to this attack. Well-equipped and well-trained armies will have no qualms about putting down our little insurrection. And do you think it will stop there? No! The aristocracy of every kingdom will purge their homes of the unwanted. Today we are seen as merely a nuisance, but after tomorrow we¡¯ll be a threat. If you do this, you doom not just ourselves, but every mir, Belgriclungreian, and Calian across the face of Elan. You¡¯ll launch a universal war that we have no hope of surviving, much less winning.¡±
Villar¡¯s voice showed disgust and an end of patience. ¡°You have all heard Mercator¡¯s words before. And as I said, I tried things her way, and at great personal risk. I was the one who kidnapped the duchess. And what did the duke do? Nothing. He has ignored our demands. So many of you have suffered, so many have asked why we don¡¯t stand up for ourselves, why we don¡¯t fight. Tomorrow we will. On the first day of spring, the nobles from every corner of Alburn will be at the feast. It¡¯s our best chance, a perfect opportunity. They¡¯re not expecting a revolution, and they won¡¯t be protected by thick breastplates, nor will they be carrying swords. But we will! The dwarves have secretly prepared nearly a hundred weapons, ready to be handed out. The Calian soothsayers have confirmed that tomorrow is a turning point for this city, and it will be if the mir, the Belgriclungreians, and the Calians all join forces and attack the Feast of Nobles tomorrow at midday. Listen to me now, and we won¡¯t ever have to listen to the nobles again. I ask for your support, by a show of¡ª¡±
Villar finally lifted his head high enough that the light splashed his features, and both Hadrian and Royce got a good look at the person beneath the hood. A triangular face, black hair, angled brows¡ªa mir, and an angry one. There was a cold hate in the pull of his lips and an intensity in his dark eyes as he scanned the crowd, seeking to speak directly to everyone gathered. Royce had also tilted his head to get a better look, and in that same moment the two recognized each other.
Lowering his head, Royce whispered, ¡°It¡¯s him. The guy I chased last night.¡±
Villar shouted, ¡°Grab that man!¡± and pointed at Royce.
¡°Time to go,¡± Royce said. They struggled to retreat but ran into a mass of bodies.
Villar continued to shout. ¡°Get him! Both of them! They¡¯re spies for the duke!¡±
The phrase spies for the duke did the trick, and instantly Hadrian felt uncountable hands.
Royce reached under his cloak.
¡°No, Royce, don¡¯t!¡± Hadrian yelled.
His partner hesitated and in that moment was equally besieged by a dozen men who swarmed until they had him in a firm grip. Royce glared.
The crowd was filled with innocent people, the elderly, women, and children. Any hope they had to get free would require killing¡ªlots of killing, and even then they might not get away. That sweet old couple Hadrian had seen on the way to the rally stood four rows back, still arm in arm, looking upon them with fear. Beside them, a beautiful blond girl, a mir, stared at him wide-eyed in shock. The rest of the crowd was confused and frightened. These people weren¡¯t soldiers. They were a host of Griswolds. People who came home from a long day with nothing more than a miserable excuse for a chicken. And even so, their meager offering garnered a kiss from a grateful wife. None of this would matter to Royce.
¡°There¡¯s too many,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°What are you talking about, Villar?¡± Mercator asked, ¡°Who are these men?¡±
¡°They have been searching for the duchess. Asking questions and hanging out with the captain of the duke¡¯s guard. Just last night I came upon them spying on Griswold and Erasmus. I chased the little one. And the large one murdered Erasmus Nym.¡±
¡°Nym¡¯s dead?¡± someone asked, but was ignored.
Hadrian tried to pull free, but it was hopeless with so many pressing in from all sides. Someone put an arm around his neck, tilting Hadrian backward and off balance. He felt them take his swords.
Hadrian and Royce had been turned to face the front of the room. Mercator, whose arms were two-toned as if she were wearing black gloves to her elbows, stepped forward. ¡°Is what Villar says true?¡± Hadrian was encouraged by the sincerity of the question. She, at least, hadn¡¯t made up her mind.
He looked to Royce, who refused to answer. Hadrian offered as charming a smile as the chokehold allowed and focused on her. ¡°Yes and no.¡±
Mercator wasn¡¯t amused.
¡°No, I didn¡¯t kill anyone. Yes, we have been looking for the duchess. No, we aren¡¯t spies of the duke; we¡¯ve never even met the man. Yes, I know the captain of the guard, we served together years ago.¡±
¡°I was there,¡± Griswold said, ¡°I saw you chase Nym last night, and now my friend is dead.¡±
¡°Well, yes, I did chase him, but we got separated, and when I found him again, he was dead. But I swear I didn¡¯t have anything to do with it.¡±
¡°He¡¯s lying, of course,¡± Villar said. ¡°I¡¯d lie, too, if I were in his place. He¡¯s only trying to save his own skin.¡±
¡°And why are you looking for the duchess?¡± Mercator asked.
¡°My friend and I were hired by her father, Gabriel Winter, who¡¯s worried about the disappearance of his only daughter; he feared for her life.¡±
¡°See! He admits it,¡± Villar said. ¡°They know we kidnapped her. They know what happens tomorrow. Let them live and we die. We need to kill them; throw their bodies in the Roche; let it take their stink to the sea.¡±
¡°No!¡± a voice in the crowd yelled, the girl with blond hair and blue eyes. ¡°Leave him alone.¡± She pushed through the crowd to face Hadrian. ¡°I know this man, and I won¡¯t let anyone hurt him.¡±
Royce looked at Hadrian and Hadrian looked back, his face mirroring the confusion.
¡°Seton?¡± Mercator asked, pushing forward toward the girl. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±
¡°This is the rasa!¡± The blonde pointed at Hadrian and stared at Mercator with big eyes.
Mercator continued to appear puzzled. ¡°The rasa?¡± Her eyes widened. She studied Hadrian closely. ¡°Are you sure? How can you be . . . how could he be . . .¡±
¡°I¡¯m positive,¡± Seton said. ¡°I could never forget his face, his three swords, those eyes.¡±
Hadrian, on the other hand, had clearly forgotten hers. She was vaguely familiar but only because he thought she looked a bit like Arbor, the shoemaker¡¯s daughter from Hintindar whom he¡¯d been in love with at the age of fifteen. But this girl was a mir, and Arbor must still be living in Hintindar, married and with children by now. Hadrian had no idea why this young woman was defending him, or why she called him a rasa. Given his position, he wasn¡¯t about to deny anything she said.
Villar pivoted. ¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡±
¡°This is Hadrian Blackwater,¡± Seton said. ¡°Seven years ago, he saved my life.¡±
V2: Chapter 18 - The Rasa
She didn¡¯t say any more. The beautiful blonde mir¡ªwho literally and figuratively stood between Hadrian and Royce and death, looked uncomfortable as she faced Mercator with pleading eyes. Villar shifted impatiently. He likely wanted them dead, their bodies jammed down a sewer shaft, and while Hadrian obviously preferred to avoid that future, he was also curious to understand why this girl was so adamant about saving his life.
¡°Seton,¡± Mercator said gently. ¡°You have to tell the story.¡± The blue-stained mir looked out across the crowd. ¡°I know this isn¡¯t the¡ªI¡¯m sorry, but you¡¯re going to have to explain.¡±
Seton nodded but still struggled to find her voice, and when it came, her words started faint and so low that Hadrian strained to hear. ¡°I was living in the village of Aleswerth a few miles north. That¡¯s where I was born. Lord Aleswerth had defied King Reinhold. I don¡¯t even know about what or why, but one day the king¡¯s soldiers arrived.¡±
¡°Louder!¡± someone in the back shouted.
¡°We can¡¯t hear you,¡± someone else said.
Seton¡¯s embarrassment showed, but when she resumed her story, her voice was louder, and as she spoke it grew even more so. ¡°Everyone was called into the castle. We were told that anyone left outside the walls would be slaughtered. I didn¡¯t think they would let me in, but I guess with my hair covering my ears they didn¡¯t notice I was a mir, and I slipped in with everyone else.¡± She paused and swallowed hard.
¡°The battle went on all day and on past sunset. I hid behind the woodpile. Then in the middle of the night, the gate burst open. They set fires everywhere, and men in chainmail carrying swords ran through the courtyard, killing everyone. They didn¡¯t . . .¡± She stopped, her eyes searching the dark for the words. ¡°They didn¡¯t look human. They looked like monsters, cruel and horrible. One was worse than all the rest. He was tall, powerful, and covered in blood. Among my people there are legends of vicious creatures called rasas: terrible fiends, part elven, part beast, wholly possessed of evil. That¡¯s what he looked like to me.¡±
She paused, regained her composure, and then continued. ¡°He charged in swinging this incredibly long sword. Lord Aleswerth¡¯s men attacked him from all sides, strong men, good men. I was certain they would kill this savage invader. Instead, they all died, their blood adding to his gore. He cut them down, cleaving off arms and legs, beheading, and in one case, he cut a poor man nearly in half, slicing him from the shoulder to hip.¡± As she spoke, her eyes focused on Hadrian, squinting as if she peered into a painful light. ¡°He killed the horses, too, the ones the lord¡¯s knights rode when they came at him. This man¡ªthis rasa¡ªtook down mounted knights with no more difficulty than a butcher slaughters a lamb. Before long, they were stacked around him, bodies in a pond of blood.¡±
The crowd was quiet as she spoke. Only the faint crackle of the campfire broke the stillness, the sound and the flickering light adding to the imagery she conjured.
¡°When all the soldiers were dead, the invaders came for the women. I was discovered. They liked my hair and how young I appeared. In the dark, they thought I was human.¡±
She paused, her face tense, her sight dropping to her own feet. She took another breath. ¡°I could smell the beer on their breath. The battle was over, the celebration begun. Everyone was drinking. I held onto the hope that I might survive, that if they continued to think I was human, they would let me live. I feared they would . . . would . . . but they didn¡¯t want me for themselves. Instead, I was dragged to the rasa. The blood-soaked man was in the middle of the courtyard beside a barrel of beer, his giant sword still in one hand, a cup in the other. He was drunk.
¡°The soldiers threw me and three other girls down at his feet. ¡®To Hadrian Blackwater, the hero of the battle, go the spoils,¡¯ they yelled. ¡®Pick your favorite, Blackwater.¡¯ He picked me.¡±
Seton paused there and began to cry. ¡°I was terrified. After seeing what he¡¯d done to the knights of Lord Aleswerth, I was certain this man was capable of unspeakable horrors. I knelt in the dirt, made muddy by the blood of so many, and I waited. All around me was fire, smoke, and screaming. My stomach was so bound in knots that I vomited. I didn¡¯t care if he killed me. I just wanted it to be over. I couldn¡¯t . . . I couldn¡¯t . . .¡±
It took her a moment to find her voice again, and when it returned she looked directly at Hadrian, as if she were speaking only to him, like they were alone. ¡°Then he did something so unexpected, so unfathomable, that I thought I hadn¡¯t heard him correctly. He said, ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯ The rasa¡¯s voice wasn¡¯t what I expected. It was soft¡ªsoft and gentle, and sad. I thought he was speaking to me. I thought he was telling me that he regretted what he was about to do, but he never moved. He just kept saying it, repeating those two words. I realized he wasn¡¯t talking to me at all. He was looking at the pile of bodies. Staring at it, he drank and repeated his apology. Finally, he did look my way. He acted as if he¡¯d just noticed I was there. I was sobbing, and he stared. I thought my life was about to end. When he reached out and grabbed me, I screamed.¡±
¡°And then?¡± another from the crowd asked, a woman who glared at Hadrian with hate. ¡°What did he do?¡±
¡°He . . .¡± Seton lifted a hand in Hadrian¡¯s direction, reaching out. ¡°He held me. He held me tight, but gently. I was still terrified, expecting the worst at any minute; he, too, was crying. Then he let go. A couple of other soldiers came up. They saw he wasn¡¯t doing anything with me, and they tried to pull me away. Said they didn¡¯t want the blond bitch to go to waste. He told them no. They weren¡¯t happy with that, but he said if anyone touched me¡ªanyone¡ªthat he would kill them and their horse.¡±
¡°And their horse?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°I really said that?¡±
Seton nodded. ¡°You did.¡±
Hadrian started to remember now. It was seven years ago, not long after he had joined Reinhold¡¯s army. Most of the memories from that night had been mercifully washed away with beer, but some returned to him in nightmares or came in flashes triggered by fire and screams. The last time was when Queen Ann of Medford died, when Castle Essendon went up in flames.
¡°The next day,¡± Seton went on, continuing to look at Hadrian. ¡°I was alone. Just me and the ruined castle walls. The army of the king had gone, and so had the rasa who had protected me. I searched. I looked everywhere. Not a single person was left except me. I later heard folks who said the king was teaching his nobles a lesson. I only learned one thing¡ªthat I, too, would have died if it weren¡¯t for this man. This man who scared me so much that I vomited out of fear. He protected me. I¡¯m the only survivor of the infamous Sacking of Aleswerth Castle, and I walked out with my life, dignity, and virtue all intact. And all because of him. Now, for whatever reason, fate has seen fit to swap our places, and so help me Ferrol, I¡¯ll fight anyone who tries to harm him.¡± She peered into Hadrian¡¯s eyes, and added, ¡°And their horse.¡±
Seton took Hadrian¡¯s hand, kissed the back of it, and rubbed it along her cheek. ¡°Thank you,¡± she told him, and lifting his fingers to her lips, gently kissed each one. ¡°Thank you, thank you.¡±
Hadrian couldn¡¯t imagine that a young mir, even given her gift for storytelling, could dissuade a mob bent on killing two outsiders threatening their existence, and yet the demeanor of the crowd had markedly changed. Whoever this girl was, she held significant status in this underground society of theirs, one that exceeded her apparent age.
¡°They still must die,¡± Villar demanded. ¡°Seton, you¡¯ll have to step aside.¡±
The blonde, who had appeared so shy and gentle until then, sharply spun to face him. ¡°You want him dead? Fine, but don¡¯t ask others to do it for you.¡± Seton pushed one of those holding Hadrian aside. ¡°Let go!¡± She pulled on the fingers of another man. The others released their grips, and she pushed them back.
¡°There! Go ahead, Villar. You kill him, but by your own hand. Show us the way to your bloody revolution. Be the first to draw blood. Go ahead. Don¡¯t let my foolish little story worry you. The man is unarmed. Surrounded. Go on!¡±
Villar stared at her, not Hadrian. In his eyes smoldered a seething hatred.
¡°Do it!¡± The girl¡¯s voice rose to a shout.
¡°We don¡¯t have to kill them,¡± Mercator said. ¡°We only need to keep them from informing the duke or his guards of our intentions. If we vote for revolution, our actions will make what they learned here moot. If we take no action, then there is no crime, and no one will believe a crazy story of murderous plots from two foreigners.¡±
¡°They know about the duchess,¡± Villar reminded them. ¡°The duke will kill us for that.¡±
Mercator nodded. ¡°Yes, us. You and me. No one else. Her abduction was our doing and our responsibility. Even so, they have no proof, and it¡¯ll be our word against that of outsiders.¡±
¡°But if we kill them, then we¡ª¡±
¡°He¡¯s right here, Villar!¡± Seton exploded again. ¡°No one is stopping you. Go ahead.¡± She took a step toward him, staring him down. ¡°You tell us that we must fight. You say we have to stand up for ourselves, but what you really mean is we have to die¡ªto die for you, for your pride, your hate. You want us to sacrifice ourselves so you can have a better future. That¡¯s not leading, Villar, that¡¯s exploitation. You want any of us to listen to you? To follow you? To risk our lives for your vengeance? Then give us more than words. Risk your own life first. Take his life yourself¡ªor shut up.¡±
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Villar was shaking. Sweat glistened on his face in the torchlight. Hadrian thought he would attack her, hit the girl, make her stop. Instead, without a word, Villar turned away, pushed through those watching, and disappeared into the crowd.
¡°Griswold, can you get some rope?¡± Mercator asked. ¡°We can¡ª¡±
In the drama, nearly everyone had forgotten about Royce, who hadn¡¯t said or done anything. Those holding him had relaxed their grip, likely believing they were in charge of the quiet one. They discovered their mistake when one cried out in pain and another doubled over as the thief twisted free of all the rest. In a flash, Alverstone appeared, followed by gasps and a sudden retreat of those closest to him. ¡°Sorry, don¡¯t like ropes.¡±
¡°Royce.¡± Hadrian spoke in a measured voice, the same one he would use when calming a spooked horse. ¡°Don¡¯t . . . don¡¯t do anything that you¡¯ll . . . I mean . . . that I¡¯ll regret.¡±
¡°Would be more productive if you told them that.¡± Royce spun, blade out, and everyone took another step back.
¡°We aren¡¯t going to hurt you,¡± Mercator said. She was one of the few moving toward him, but not quickly.
Smart woman, Hadrian thought.
¡°Not going to tie me up, either.¡±
¡°We can¡¯t just let you walk out. If you were to tell the duke¡ª¡±
¡°Who said anything about walking out?¡± Royce fanned the dagger as he moved closer to Hadrian. ¡°We came for the duchess, Genny Winter. You¡¯re going to give her to us.¡±
Mercator stopped and folded her arms, staring at him. ¡°Or what? You¡¯ll kill us all with your dagger?¡±
Royce frowned, glanced at Hadrian, and sighed. ¡°Why does everyone jump to that conclusion with me?¡±
Polka dots, Royce, Hadrian thought. Polka dots.
¡°Look,¡± Royce told her, ¡°I don¡¯t care for being locked up or killed. Big surprise there, right? And I¡¯m guessing you¡¯d prefer that we don¡¯t reduce your gathering¡¯s population by even a single life, true? Given her story¡±¡ªhe indicated Seton¡ª¡°I suspect you understand it¡¯ll cost you at least that if you force the issue. So, let¡¯s try something else. How about a trade?¡±
¡°We have the duchess, I get that,¡± Mercator said. ¡°But what do you have that we could want?¡±
Royce smiled. ¡°The duke.¡±
###
No one returned Hadrian¡¯s swords, but neither did they attempt to tie the two up. Mercator left the crowd in the main meeting hall with a promise to update everyone before morning. Then she sent a runner to fetch someone named Selie, convinced Griswold to come along, tried in vain to discourage Seton from doing the same, and chose a dozen of the larger Calians and mir to act as guards. Then the entire entourage escorted Royce and Hadrian across the street.
They entered a small dilapidated building with a partial roof, broken windows, and a mostly intact wooden floor. A well-worn path had been cleared through the debris down the stairs to the cellar. Four stone walls without a single window, six wooden chairs surrounding a rickety table, and the stub of a candle melted onto an overturned cup made up what Hadrian suspected to be the headquarters of the revolution.
Mercator took a seat and gestured for Royce and Hadrian to join her.
Seton looked at the dozen men and mir who were trying to look as tough as possible. ¡°You don¡¯t need them.¡±
¡°Not all of us share your unwavering faith,¡± Mercator told her.
¡°It¡¯s not faith. I¡¯m just saying . . .¡± Seton smiled shyly at the guards. ¡°No offense, but if Hadrian wanted to kill us, they wouldn¡¯t be able to stop him.¡±
¡°He doesn¡¯t have his swords,¡± Griswold said.
¡°I know.¡±
Mercator puzzled on this a moment. As she did, an older, dark-skinned woman entered in a rush. ¡°Mercator? I was told you needed me.¡±
¡°We do.¡± Mercator motioned to the open chair. ¡°This is Selie Nym, Erasmus¡¯s widow. She will be acting in her husband¡¯s stead as a representative to the Calians, agreed?¡± She looked to Griswold, who nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to impose on you at a time like this, Selie, but we have an emergency.¡±
The widow shook her head. ¡°Don¡¯t go to worrying about me. This is bigger than an old widow¡¯s problems. Erasmus would never forgive me iffen I didn¡¯t pick up his part in this.¡±
Mercator folded her hands on the table and took a breath. ¡°Okay, we¡¯re listening.¡±
Royce straightened up and faced the three. ¡°Hadrian was telling the truth. We were hired to find and, if possible, rescue Genevieve Winter, the Duchess of Rochelle. If she¡¯s still alive, we can help each other.¡±
¡°She is, but it doesn¡¯t matter; her husband doesn¡¯t care what happens to her. Or he does, but not enough to meet our demands.¡±
¡°Or there¡¯s a third explanation.¡±
¡°Which is?¡±
¡°That he doesn¡¯t know anything about your requests, and he thinks his wife is dead.¡±
Mercator¡¯s brows knitted, her eye shifting in thought. ¡°That¡¯s not possible . . . is it?¡± She looked to Griswold, who only shrugged.
¡°How were your demands relayed?¡± Royce asked.
¡°We wrote them down and left a note in the carriage the night she was taken.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Maybe it got lost in the debris, or it blew away, but in any case, the duke knows nothing about the note.¡±
¡°What makes you say that?¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been investigating her disappearance, remember? And Villar was right about us meeting with Captain Wyberg of the city guard, but he didn¡¯t say anything about finding a note. And Leopold had the guard searching the city, and none of them knew about any demands. In fact, Wyberg thinks she was most likely killed by some rival for the crown.¡± Royce leaned in. ¡°If you could prove to the duke his wife is alive, and make your case for reforms, he might agree in exchange for her return. Your original plan can still work, which means there would be no reason for the revolt tomorrow. Isn¡¯t that what you wanted?¡±
Mercator¡¯s eyes showed a momentary glimmer of hope, but then it vanished. ¡°Except there¡¯s absolutely no way to get to the duke. I can¡¯t enter a shop to buy a loaf of bread at midday, so there¡¯s no way anyone is going to let me into the Estate at night, especially to have an audience with the duke.¡±
Royce looked at Hadrian. ¡°I¡¯m guessing the captain could get us an audience, right?¡±
He nodded. ¡°Wyberg could manage it, and he owes me favors much larger than this.¡±
¡°So, all we need is proof that his wife still lives. If we had that, I think he would listen to what you have to say. Then, if I could persuade him to agree . . .¡±
¡°Royce can be very persuasive,¡± Hadrian explained.
The thief nodded. ¡°I have a lot of money riding on this job, so trust me, I¡¯m motivated.¡±
¡°You want me to speak face-to-face with the duke?¡± Mercator gave a little laugh. ¡°That sounds incredibly risky. What¡¯s to stop you from handing me over and saying, ¡®This is the kidnapper!¡¯¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°If we did that, you¡¯d have the duchess executed, right? The duke would lose his wife, and I¡¯d be out a fortune. Where¡¯s the benefit in that?¡±
Technically, Royce could make even more money if he let them kill her, then gathered up the heads of those responsible and carried them back to Gabriel Winter, but Hadrian imagined such a debate was for another day and a different crowd.
Hadrian watched Mercator. She was no fool; nor was she one of the typical meek elves he so often saw on the streets of Medford. While appearing not quite middle-aged, she had a demeanor that suggested otherwise. Her eyes surveyed them with a careful judgment born of wishful thinking but tempered by years of disappointment.
Mercator looked to the widow Nym and Griswold, both of whom shook their heads.
¡°These boys have no skin in the game that they¡¯re setting up.¡± Selie said. ¡°We¡¯re betting the house and they¡¯re tossing in a copper din.¡±
Mercator nodded. ¡°She¡¯s right. Your fortune doesn¡¯t stack up against the gamble we shoulder in this proposal. I need greater assurance. Lives are at stake, mine being the least of my worries. But the two of you¡ªthe architects of this grand plan¡ªhave no serious risk.¡±
Royce faltered, searching the ground for ideas.
Hadrian noticed Seton was still watching him. She wanted a solution almost as much as he did. His time in the east had always been a dirty stain on his life, but she¡¯d showed him there had been at least one pinprick of light. Another one would be nice.
¡°I¡¯ll stay,¡± Hadrian declared.
¡°What?¡± Royce and Mercator asked together.
¡°I¡¯ll spend the night here, under guard, as insurance. Royce can escort you to the duke. If he betrays you, has you killed or whatever, then your people can kill both me and Genny Winter.¡±
Griswold pointed at Seton. ¡°According to her, that¡¯s not too easy.¡±
¡°But unlike Royce, I¡¯ll let you tie me.¡±
Mercator looked surprised at the offer and nodded. ¡°I could agree to that.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± Griswold nodded. ¡°That seems fair.¡±
¡°No, it doesn¡¯t,¡± Royce said. ¡°In fact, that sounds really stupid.¡±
¡°Why?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Do you plan on betraying anyone?¡±
¡°No, but . . .¡±
¡°But what?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t like working under pressure, okay? And what guarantee do we have that they won¡¯t . . .¡±
¡°Won¡¯t what?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Won¡¯t kill you anyway?¡±
Hadrian looked at Seton. ¡°I have a protector.¡±
The blonde smiled. ¡°Yes, you do.¡±
¡°I¡¯d be happier if it were someone a little taller,¡± Royce said.
¡°Does everyone agree?¡± Hadrian asked.
Griswold nodded.
¡°Selie?¡± Mercator turned to the Calian. ¡°What do you say?¡±
¡°Old Eras, he never did like the idea of fighting. Couldn¡¯t even bring himself to argue with me. Just said, ¡®Selie, there¡¯s no reason to be that way,¡¯ and he was usually right, too.¡± Her lips shifted as tears slipped down her cheeks. ¡°People got the wrong impression because he was always haggling, but he just liked the sport of it. Couldn¡¯t understand why folks refused to get along. He would¡¯ve wanted to find a peaceful solution.¡± She looked around to nodding heads. ¡°We agree to this.¡±
Mercator gave a single nod. ¡°So it¡¯s decided. Let¡¯s pray to each of our gods that this will work. We¡¯re going to need all the good fortune we can get.¡±
V2: Chapter 19 - Living Proof
The key was done.
Genny finished it more out of habit and a sense of accomplishment than anything else. She had no idea if it would work, and only a mild desire to test it. Curiosity was the only driving force now. Escaping felt almost counterproductive. Better to be killed and retain a thread of hope than live and discover the truth. In a choice between the murder of her body and a murder of her spirit, she suspected the former might be best. At least she wouldn¡¯t be forced to suffer needlessly. Besides, if it worked, the key would only open the collar. The shackle around her throat was held fast by a warded padlock, but the door¡¯s lock was a tumbler, and she didn¡¯t know anything about those.
She rubbed the key with her thumb. ¡°You did a good job, old girl,¡± she said aloud, and she wasn¡¯t just referring to the key.
She was alone again. Mercator and Villar were both off to the meeting, which meant that Genny didn¡¯t have long to live. If they decided the way Villar wanted, Mercator would return to perform her final task. Genny wondered if she would follow through with it. While she¡¯d never killed anyone, Genny imagined it wouldn¡¯t be an easy thing to do, but it was clear that no point in Mercator¡¯s life had been easy. The mir hadn¡¯t said a word, but that last argument with Villar, how he looked at her, and what he didn¡¯t say told Genny everything she needed to know.
Mercator would kill her. She wouldn¡¯t like it, wouldn¡¯t want to, would probably apologize and possibly cry as she dragged a knife across her throat, but she¡¯d do it. Mercator was a survivor, and her sort did what they had to.
Genny looked at the key. She thumbed it, feeling where the rest of the teeth had been, noting how smooth it was. Her old trunk key was now a skeleton key. The problem with warded padlocks, like the one that held the collar, was that they only had a few configurations for the obstructions, or ¡°wards,¡± that made it impossible to turn any but the correct key inserted in the hole. With so little space in each mechanism and so many unique locks to make, some were bound to be identical, which meant keys for one could open others that used the same design. Worse, almost all warded locks left the first notch unobstructed so that a universal key¡ªa skeleton key¡ªcould be used. This was handy for when a key was lost, or when someone had hundreds of locks to deal with and didn¡¯t feel like carrying hundreds of keys.
Genny had learned this after discovering a consistent discrepancy in her inventory. Her warehouse in Colnora had a fine-looking warded lock, big and new, but a locksmith explained how useless the thing was to anyone who knew the first thing about how locks worked. This was bad news in a city that was home base to the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. She replaced the lock with a far more expensive and elaborate version, and the thefts stopped. Genny thought nothing more of the matter until she woke up with a collar locked on her neck and an old chest key in her purse.
How many noble duchesses know how to pick a lock? How many have potential skeleton keys in their wrist purses? So what are the odds Mercator and Villar used an irregular ward lock? Genny felt her odds were good, but getting the collar off was only half the battle. The other was the door.
Mercator opened it for every meal. The mir wasn¡¯t very big, but Genny had never been in a brawl. She didn¡¯t know how well she would fare, and she honestly didn¡¯t want to find out. That¡¯s where the sharpened coins came in. If she could . . .
But why bother? I gave all my love to a man, and received only lies. What do I have to look forward to now?
Genny decided to stop looking away and face the unpleasant truth that some people, no matter how hard they try, never get what they desire the most.
She tossed the key, letting it skip across the stone into the corner.
Genny heard someone. Quick steps rushed up and flew into the room on the other side of the locked door. She held her breath. This was it. Whoever had come was there to end her life. The door would open and she would see a knife, or a sword, or a¡ª
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¡°Can you write?¡± Mercator asked.
Genny was confused.
¡°Do you hear me? Can you write?¡±
¡°Are you talking to me?¡± Genny asked.
Mercator was moving around outside the door, shuffling loudly. She appeared to be in a hurry. ¡°Of course I am!¡±
¡°Don¡¯t take that tone with me. How am I supposed to know? I¡¯m locked in a room.¡±
Mercator paused, took a breath, and began again. ¡°My apologies, but I¡¯m in a bit of a rush. And you should be, too, if you want to get out of here.¡±
Get out of here? Is this a trick? Doesn¡¯t make sense. Why trick me?
¡°Yes, I can write.¡±
¡°Wonderful! I need you to do something for me, and for yourself.¡±
Genny slid to the door and peered out the central knothole. Outside, Mercator flipped over piles of wool. She was searching for something in a mad dash.
¡°I need you to write a letter to your husband.¡±
¡°Are you serious?¡±
¡°Yes.¡± Mercator found a feather and cut the end of the quill with a small knife.
¡°Why, I¡¯d love to, dear. Can I tell him where I am, and give him your best wishes?¡±
¡°Do you know where you are?¡± Mercator set the knife back down, then reconsidered and stuffed it in her belt.
¡°No.¡±
Mercator found a sheet of parchment and grabbed it up. ¡°Then I suppose not.¡±
¡°What do you want me to say?¡±
¡°Tell him what we talked about; ask him to do what is right; and mention something that only you two share, so he¡¯ll know the message came from you.¡±
¡°Wait. What? Leo doesn¡¯t know I¡¯m alive?¡±
¡°There¡¯s a rumor to that effect.¡±
¡°A rumor? You don¡¯t know? Why don¡¯t you know? By Mar, are you serious?¡±
Mercator opened the door and set the parchment and quill before Genny. ¡°We think the duke never received our first note and that¡¯s why he hasn¡¯t done anything. But if you can convince him . . .¡±
If that¡¯s true . . . does that mean . . . could Leo love me after all?
Genny¡¯s heart leapt as she took the paper and quill. Then she hesitated.
No . . . she thought. It doesn¡¯t explain everything else: him keeping his distance, our separate beds, his failure to defend me.
¡°Leo doesn¡¯t love me,¡± she told Mercator, an admission that brought tears. ¡°He married me so he could be king. This won¡¯t change anything.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t know that.¡±
Genny bowed her head and sniffled. ¡°Yes, I do. I pretended he cared, but it¡¯s not true.¡± She set the quill down and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Mercator sat down opposite her. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right. Maybe he doesn¡¯t love you, and only married you to better his chance for the crown. Makes sense. But he still needs you if he¡¯s to become king. And if he¡¯s crowned, then you¡¯ll be a queen.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t care about that. Never have.¡±
¡°You should.¡±
¡°Why? Why should I care? If he doesn¡¯t love me, if this has all been a charade, if all he wanted was a crown¡ª¡±
¡°It could save your life.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not sure I want it saved. If the only person who ever said they loved me, doesn¡¯t . . . I¡¯m not sure life is worth living.¡±
Mercator¡¯s tone lowered, her eyes growing stern, nearly angry. ¡°It¡¯s not just your life at stake.¡± She changed from hectic jailor to disapproving teacher scolding a petulant student. ¡°If the duke doesn¡¯t agree to reforms, there will be an uprising followed by a retaliation. Hundreds will die, maybe thousands.¡± Mercator picked up the quill. ¡°I don¡¯t care if the duke doesn¡¯t love you, and right now you shouldn¡¯t, either. You have the power to save lives. Your Ladyship, isn¡¯t that worth pretending he loves you for at least one more day?¡±
Genny looked down at the parchment and sniffled. ¡°As pathetic as it sounds, you¡¯re the closest thing I have to a friend in this city. Call me Genny.¡± She sniffled again and reached out and took the quill. ¡°I need ink.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have ink.¡± Mercator said, then smiled and looked at her arms and hands. ¡°But, Genny, I think I can manage something.¡±
V2: Chapter 20 - Jiggery-Pokery
Royce waited in the shadows between two stone giants, torturing himself.
Standing in the dark, narrow street dividing the imposing Imperial Gallery from the immense Grom Galimus, he watched people carrying lanterns and moving through the sprawling riverfront plaza, celebrating a festival of rebirth. The populace danced and sang in joyous abandon as they said goodbye to winter the way a squirrel waved farewell to a frustrated dog thwarted by high branches. They wore bright colors and waved streamers of green, blue, and yellow. Giddy as children, they were oblivious to the dangers around them. They were prey. He¡¯d grown up in a city like this: old, dark, and decrepit. Royce was a panther in the grass, gazing out at a watering hole after a drought, but he wasn¡¯t there to hunt. He was waiting for Mercator.
As unpleasant as it was to ignore the temptation to act when the revelers were such ripe pickings, they weren¡¯t the source of Royce¡¯s agony. What needled him was the way the stakes of their job had risen while the payout hadn¡¯t. What Royce suffered was the contradiction that was Hadrian Blackwater.
While he hoped that his friend survived the night, he also felt, in a purely theoretical way, that Hadrian deserved to die. The fool had willingly surrendered to a mob of revolutionaries. A group that believed he had killed one of their own. That was stupidity taken to an art form, like giving up higher ground or leaving an enemy alive. And yet, this was only a symptom of a larger, more perplexing issue, that irritated Royce like an infected splinter. He couldn¡¯t ignore that their lives had been saved by a random act of kindness that Hadrian had once shown to a total stranger.
From Royce¡¯s perspective, the best insurance for a long life was murder. Potential threats¡ªeven remote or indirect¡ªhad to be eliminated. Not broken, not reduced, but burned out of existence. Royce left no hatred to smolder, never granted revenge the potential to return to roost. He wouldn¡¯t have violated the blond mir, either¡ªthe very idea was repugnant¡ªbut given the circumstances, he imagined he would have seen her dead. When you¡¯re part of a force that wipes out an entire town, you don¡¯t leave anyone alive. Not even a young girl.
Back in his Black Diamond days, when Royce was a member of the infamous thieves¡¯ guild, he had been one of three assassins the BD employed. The other two were his best friend, Merrick, and Jade, Merrick¡¯s lover. Jade had been a young girl, too, and just as sweet as Seton, but she had become one of the most feared assassins in the known world. Not despite her gender, but because she was female. Men always underestimated her.
Was Jade a mir, too? Thinking back, he couldn¡¯t help wondering. Not all mir have elven features.
Since meeting Hadrian, he¡¯d recognized that the man was unnaturally lucky, but that thought, that excuse, was too consistent an occurrence. It had become less a rationalization and more of a truism, which irked Royce.
If it had been me, if I had saved her life, Seton would have spent the last seven years training to kill, and one by one she would have seen to it that each of the duke¡¯s soldiers who took part in that raid died a horrible death. Then, when I showed up, she¡¯d be overjoyed to find the one guy that got away. My reward would have been a vivisection.
But it had been Hadrian, and he received a tear-filled oratory of appreciation and an advocate for his defense.
That was the problem with life; it often failed to be consistent. Nothing could be relied on. Royce was positive that if he dropped a rock enough times, he¡¯d eventually see it fall upward. He was also certain that this event would coincide with the worst possible moment for it to occur. What others saw as miracles, Royce perceived as dumb luck. Still, there was a problem with that, and its name was Hadrian Blackwater.
By all accounts, the man shouldn¡¯t have survived childhood. Maybe he had caring parents who watched over their son¡ªyet another example of the universe showing preferential treatment. Still, after he left home, he should have died within a week, a month at best. Ridiculous skill with a sword can protect someone from only so much.
Tonight is a good example. We both should have died, but we didn¡¯t. Why?
This was the puzzle that frustrated Royce, the embodiment of the sliver. It challenged his very clear and proven worldview.
Aside from Hadrian¡¯s professional soldiering, during which he apparently killed the equivalent of a small county¡¯s worth of men, he was unusually kind, empathetic, and forgiving. Everything in Royce¡¯s life had convinced him that those three idiosyncrasies were synonymous with swallowing brews of arsenic, cyanide, and hemlock all in a single gulp. Even if the result wasn¡¯t suicide, such attributes should result in massive handicaps when trying to survive in a world that claimed to value such qualities but in reality punished people who possessed them.
Except in Hadrian¡¯s case, it hadn¡¯t, and by virtue of being with him, Royce had been rewarded. The worst part was that Royce couldn¡¯t pass it off as a rock falling up. This wasn¡¯t the freak singular occurrence. Four years earlier, the idiot had made the worst mistake of his life by staying to save Royce when they were on top of the Crown Tower. Hadrian had the opportunity to escape, but he had stayed, performing a suicidal defense on behalf of a man he hated. Anyone else would have paid for such an error with their life. Not Hadrian Blackwater, and again, by virtue of being with him, Royce had lived, too. Then there was Scarlett Dodge. She was another person Royce would have killed if Hadrian hadn¡¯t been with him, another example of a good deed rewarded. Royce and Scarlett had once laughed at Hadrian¡¯s na?vet¨¦, his moronic integrity. But given how things turned out in Dulgath, Royce didn¡¯t find it funny anymore.
Once could be explained as a fluke. Twice was a coincidence. But three times? Three times was a pattern, wasn¡¯t it?And if it is, what does that pattern reveal?
Royce pushed the thought away. It didn¡¯t expose anything. Weird stuff happens all the time, doesn¡¯t prove or disprove anything. Even a rock will eventually fall upward, right?
He was making too much out of nothing. Something he criticized others for doing. People spot a goose heading south in early fall, and they expect an early winter. They see a squirrel amassing nuts and convince themselves the winter¡¯s snows will be deep. All this from an overeager goose and a greedy rodent. One thing doesn¡¯t dictate the other. Hadrian was lucky, that was all. Except . . .
I don¡¯t believe in luck.
Luck, as it was understood by most people, was some supernatural force that benefited one person more than another. An incomprehensible, impetuous power that blessed certain people without reason, and would abandon them just as inexplicably. What a load of nonsense. Luck was a word insecure or envious people used to explain events they didn¡¯t understand. What they didn¡¯t realize was that everything had a certain probability. Those people described as lucky were merely individuals who increased their odds of success either by their actions or lack thereof. A man who lives on a mountaintop but isn¡¯t hit by lightning isn¡¯t lucky, he simply didn¡¯t go outside in a storm. People made their own luck. This, too, had been an axiom that Royce had believed. Now these two established principles were slammed against each other, and he didn¡¯t care for the new landscape the collision left behind. The pattern was wholly strange, an alien thing that challenged all he knew to be true, everything he¡¯d learned. If Royce didn¡¯t know better, he would almost conclude that¡ª
Mercator appeared, moving through the crowded plaza. She had added a blue shawl to her attire and dropped part of it over her head. Does she own anything that isn¡¯t blue?
She entered from Vintage Avenue, but that didn¡¯t mean anything. Royce had known Mercator for only an hour and already he knew she wasn¡¯t stupid enough to travel in a straight line from where Genny Winter was being held. The best he could determine was that the Duchess of Rochelle was somewhere in the city or on the outskirts¡ªsomewhere Mercator could have gotten to and back in less time than it took Grom Galimus to chime twice.
It took her several minutes to cross the plaza. Because this was the night before the big feast, it seemed everyone was out. Royce watched as Mercator threaded her way through the crowd, looking for anyone who might be following. She seemed unobserved, and Royce met her in front of the cathedral.
¡°That didn¡¯t take long. Are you certain you have ample evidence? You realize we won¡¯t get a second chance at this. If he isn¡¯t persuaded that she¡¯s alive, this whole thing fails.¡±
Mercator presented Royce with an understanding smile, the sort an adult would offer a child who has just said something stupid. ¡°This will do the trick.¡± Mercator drew out a folded parchment.
¡°A letter?¡± Royce was disappointed.
¡°Were you expecting a finger?¡±
Behind Mercator, not far from the fountain, a Calian man was juggling flaming torches that made muffled whump sounds each time they spun.
¡°To be honest, yes. A fresh-cut finger shows the victim was recently alive. And there is the added bonus of indicating the seriousness of the kidnapper.¡±
Mercator continued her patient smile. ¡°You¡¯ve done this sort of thing before, haven¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Hadrian and I weren¡¯t hired for our looks.¡±
¡°Nor for your intelligence.¡± The insult was presented without malice, making it sound more like constructive criticism.
Royce was never one for criticism, constructive or otherwise, and certainly not when it came to his area of expertise. The presumption of this mir was astounding if she thought she could educate him on blackmail and coercion. She looked to be the type to spend most of her days scrounging garbage for food or begging for handouts in the street.
A ring of people in colorful clothes held hands and danced in a circle as a trio of fiddlers played in the center. All the dancers were red-faced, from either the exertion or drink¡ªlikely both. Royce found it hard to believe that he and they were the same species.
¡°The duchess wants us to succeed,¡± Mercator said. ¡°Given that her life weighs in the balance, and since she knows her husband better than either of us, it¡¯s sensible to assume she is far more capable of providing us with the means of convincing him to act. Wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t answer. As simple as that concept was, he reran it twice through his head looking for an error. He couldn¡¯t find one beyond the possibility that the duchess might encode a message only Leo would understand, which would convey her whereabouts. This, however, seemed unlikely.
¡°What?¡± Mercator asked.
¡°Nothing.¡± Royce shook his head.
¡°You¡¯re shocked. I can see it on your face. You didn¡¯t believe it possible a mir could think.¡±
Royce shrugged and gave a glance at the revelers laughing and dancing as if they were mad from fever. ¡°Don¡¯t take it as a slight; I¡¯m usually shocked that anyone can think.¡±
¡°But how much harder to accept from me, a mir and a female. You assumed I was incompetent, didn¡¯t you?¡±
She was right, and such an admission wouldn¡¯t have troubled him a year ago, but a year ago he¡¯d thought he was human. Discovering he was also a mir made it difficult to think that those with mixed-blood were inferior. Difficult, but not impossible. The fact that he didn¡¯t exhibit elven features allowed Royce to believe his blood was only slightly tainted. This was a weak, impractical argument, but prejudices were a form of fear, and fear was often senseless. Groundless anxieties permitted ludicrous rationalizations. At least they did in the quiet, controlled spaces of his own mind. Such carefully crafted constructions tended to fall apart when facing the reality of a blue-stained mir who showed no evidence of inferiority.
¡°Yes,¡± he admitted.
No offense or anger surfaced on her face. Instead, she nodded while maintaining that understanding smile. ¡°So, what now?¡±
¡°We¡¯re waiting on Roland Wyberg. The captain of the city guard is supposed to meet us here. He wasn¡¯t at the guardhouse, but I told one of his men that I¡¯d found the duchess, and he anxiously volunteered to fetch him, immediately. I hope he didn¡¯t lie or exaggerate.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t mention me, did you?¡±
¡°No, but would it have been a problem if I did?¡±
Mercator sighed. ¡°It could. People have a lot of preconceptions about my kind. We¡¯re not what you think, you know. We didn¡¯t cause the destruction of the empire. We aren¡¯t lazy or stupid, nor are we abominations. We don¡¯t carry disease, aren¡¯t cannibals, don¡¯t steal babies or worship Uberlin. We¡¯re the same as everyone else, except more destitute because the rest of society hates us. They keep us dirty and desperate, then condemn us as if we chose our circumstances. The irony is that long ago we were considered superior to humans. I¡¯m guessing you didn¡¯t know that. The term mir comes from the word myr, an Old Speech word that originally meant son of. It was also an honorific, like sir added before the name of a knight. If you put those two things together, you must conclude that we are descended from pretty good stock. It was only after the fall of Merredydd, a province of the old empire that was governed by mir for mir, that the term became derogatory.¡±
¡°No offense, but all of that contradicts history as I understand it.¡±
¡°That¡¯s because the history you know is wrong. History isn¡¯t truth. You¡¯re not too foolish to recognize that, are you?¡±
The dancers moved away as acrobats tumbled into the center of the square, encouraged by applause. Men in tight clothes jumped and rolled and climbed onto one another, creating human ladders of various designs.
¡°And how do you know your history isn¡¯t a lie?¡± Royce asked.
Mercator grinned. ¡°I¡¯m older than I look, a lot older. That¡¯s one of the things about mir. We live a long time. Not so much as elves, I suspect, but longer than humans. My mother lived to be four hundred and fifty. She could remember Glenmorgan and his Second Empire. Age gave her the wisdom to conclude that our long life was a gift turned into a curse by a world filled with ignorant hate and bad timing. My grandfather Sadarshakar Sikara was born in 2051 and lived for five hundred and sixty-seven years. Can you imagine that? He remembered the birth of Nevrik, the Heir of Novron, and the appointment of Venlin as the Archbishop of Percepliquis, and he witnessed the fall of that grand city. He was in Merredydd at the time, a province established for the myr who chose not to live with humans.¡±
She leaned in, placed a hand to the side of her face, and whispered, ¡°Rumor has it the myr were a bunch of bigots.¡± She laughed as if it was a joke, but Royce couldn¡¯t tell if it was ironic or just silly.
¡°If you¡¯re the descendant of such an esteemed family, why do you look so . . .¡± Royce hesitated.
¡°Calian?¡± Mercator glanced at her hands and nodded as if she¡¯d expected the question. ¡°When Merredydd fell to barbarians, Sadarshakar brought his family here to what was then called Alburnia. Few survived, and Sadarshakar took a Calian woman as his wife. The situation didn¡¯t improve, and my mother married a Calian man.¡± Mercator drew back the shawl off her head and pulled on her nappy hair. ¡°Which makes me arguably more Calian than mir. A highly respected combination, I must say.¡± She laughed again, managing to find humor in every tragedy.
Royce could understand that, at least.
¡°Fact is,¡± she said, ¡°I learned history from someone I trust . . . my grandfather, who witnessed the events firsthand. That¡¯s how I know. Tell me . . . Royce, is it? How do you know about the history of your people?¡±
¡°I actually don¡¯t care,¡± Royce said. ¡°All of this clearly means a good deal to you, but it doesn¡¯t mean anything to me. Doesn¡¯t matter whether your version is true or not. I¡¯m here to do a job, not debate ancient history. Now, if you want to talk about something, I¡¯d love to hear where the duchess is.¡±
Mercator shook her head. ¡°Sorry. She¡¯s the only good card I still hold. But she¡¯s safe and unharmed, as this letter attests. I¡¯d like to keep it that way. I¡¯ve grown to like her. She¡¯s . . . different.¡±
¡°It was worth asking,¡± Royce said. He gazed out at the plaza once more, trying to decide if he was pleased or irritated with the number of celebrating people. They complicated everything, which was both good and bad. ¡°We probably¡ª¡± Royce saw movement where there shouldn¡¯t have been any.
The plaza was still a swirl of activity¡ªdancers spun, acrobats tumbled, jugglers tossed, spectators clapped, and children ran¡ªbut overhead, nothing should have moved. Too dark for a bird. Too big for a bat. Royce looked up at the front of Grom Galimus. The great doors were huge but dwarfed by the massive bell towers on either side. Above those doors stood a row of sculpted figures of robed men. Then came the oculus of the great rose window. Next, a colonnade of pillars and arches, and above that, and still only halfway up, was a pediment upon which perched a series of gargoyles.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Mercator asked, craning her neck, trying to see what he saw.
¡°Thought something mov¡ª¡±
They both spotted it then. The third gargoyle from the left flexed its wings.
¡°I¡¯m not from here,¡± Royce said. ¡°Is that normal?¡±
¡°Of course not. It¡¯s¡ªoh no!¡±
The gargoyle¡¯s head turned. Like so many others, this figure was monkey-like with powerful hunched shoulders, the wings and face of a bat, and saber-like fangs. As it looked down at them, Royce noticed that the eyes had been sculpted to look decidedly evil, but he guessed that was how he¡¯d have seen them, regardless of what the artist had carved¡ªbecause the gargoyle looked right at him.
Royce expected it to shove off the side of the cathedral, spread its wings and dive. Instead, the beast began to climb down the front of the church, moving awkwardly at first but gaining balance and skill as it descended, until it moved with monkey speed, leaping from pediment to column.
¡°Run!¡± Mercator shouted at Royce.
###
¡°Why did you kill Nym?¡± Griswold Dinge asked Hadrian. The dwarf sat across from him in the little room.
With Nym dead, Selie preparing for his funeral, Villar gone, and Mercator off to meet with the duke, the dwarf¡ªthe last of the civic leaders¡ªhad apparently pulled guard duty. Hadrian was glad Erasmus Nym¡¯s widow wasn¡¯t there, as he was certain Seton¡¯s story didn¡¯t absolve him of that accusation. If anything, it cast more doubt, and he¡¯d preferred to deal with an angry dwarf rather than a grieving widow.
¡°He didn¡¯t kill Erasmus,¡± Seton affirmed faithfully.
The three sat cozy and close in the stone cellar, which was littered with rat droppings. Griswold had bound Hadrian¡¯s hands behind his back. As an added precaution, he held a naked dagger. His manner wasn¡¯t overtly threatening, but the menace was there.
¡°She¡¯s right. I didn¡¯t kill the Calian.¡± Hadrian smiled, but his charm had no effect on the dwarf.
¡°Oh yes, even though you were right on his heels during your pursuit, someone else came out of nowhere and took his life. Do you expect me to believe that?¡±
¡°I honestly have no idea what killed him,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Don¡¯t you mean who?¡±
¡°Seemed more like a what. All I know is he was dead, and his face was gone. It looked like it had been chewed away. I only knew it was him because of the clothing and the box he had been carrying. Didn¡¯t seem like a typical murder to me.¡±
¡°He didn¡¯t kill Nym,¡± Seton asserted again.
¡°And how in the bloody name of all that is holy do you know that? He spared your life; so what? He also butchered a pile of men; you said so. Your own words show he¡¯s a killer, no innocent little lamb here. And his story about Nym missing his face is beyond belief.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not,¡± Seton said, ¡°and it¡¯s not because he spared my life that I believe him.¡±
This caught the dwarf¡¯s attention and he turned, revealing a little gold earring piercing his left lobe. Decoration? Mark of a sailor? Wedding gift? Hadrian knew so little about the small folk that he felt not only stupid but ill-equipped to help himself, much less his cause.
¡°So what makes you think he didn¡¯t kill Erasmus?¡±
¡°Killings where people are mutilated the way he described have happened before.¡± Seton said. ¡°That¡¯s the reason the nobles wear blue.¡±
The dwarf shook his shaggy head. ¡°Bah! The nobles are skittish. The streets are dangerous. Not every person butchered in the alleys is a victim of¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯m not talking about the recent murders.¡± Seton¡¯s voice lowered and grew several degrees more serious. Her eyes supported the shift in tone, growing solemn. Hadrian found it odd to see so much darkness in a face that looked so young. ¡°I¡¯m talking about Throm Hodinel.¡±
Griswold squinted his eyes. ¡°Who now?¡±
¡°Throm Hodinel. He was the curator of the Imperial Gallery. Some said he was a relation to the Killians, a distant cousin or something. I saw his body the day they found it at the feet of the statue of Glenmorgan. And his face was a mess. They had to identify him by his clothing because . . .¡± Seton hesitated, her eyes focusing on Hadrian as if he knew the answer.
¡°Because his face had been chewed off,¡± he answered.
Seton nodded. ¡°Actually, it wasn¡¯t just his face; a large portion of the man had been eaten. But yes, his face was gone. So were a good number of his bones.¡±
¡°Sounds like wolves,¡± Griswold said.
¡°Inside the gallery?¡±
The dwarf stared at her skeptically. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard this story.¡±
¡°It happened before your time.¡±
The dwarf tilted his head and studied her more intently. ¡°How old are you?¡±
She grinned at him. ¡°Throm Hodinel died fifteen years before you were born.¡±
This raised the bushy brows of the dwarf. Griswold looked to easily be in his forties, maybe older. Seton wasn¡¯t a teenager, wasn¡¯t human, and if what she said was true, she was decades older than Hadrian. Adding these truths to the embarrassing fact that he hadn¡¯t initially recognized her, Hadrian realized that while he had misjudged women before, this time marked a whole new level of stupidity.
¡°Throm Hodinel wasn¡¯t the only one,¡± Seton went on. ¡°Every few years someone dies the same way. It¡¯s almost always a noble, or someone suspected of being an illegitimate child of one of the old-world dukes, usually male, and always within a few miles of Blythin Castle. The murders happen at night or around dusk in a heavy fog, and in every case, the victims are eaten. Some are only eaten a little, others are almost completely devoured, but their face is always gone.¡±
¡°You¡¯re speaking about the Morgan. Villar told me that was a myth,¡± the dwarf said.
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¡°Villar doesn¡¯t know everything.¡±
¡°Where is Villar?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± He spoke the words slowly, not looking at either of them. The statement caused the dwarf to frown, and his considerable brows knitted the equivalent of a full sweater.
¡°Is something wrong?¡±
Griswold looked up but didn¡¯t answer.
¡°Griswold, what aren¡¯t you telling us?¡± Seton asked.
¡°Riots are a bloody business. If something went wrong, if our people were in jeopardy, we wanted protection. We needed a backup plan. So we could intercede, if necessary. But only if necessary.¡±
¡°Is that what the three of you were meeting about?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°For the most part, yes. But I also needed to give Erasmus his supplies.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°The box. I found it with Erasmus¡¯s body, but it only contained some rocks, just gravel. The way he carried it, you¡¯d think it was dangerous.¡±
¡°In the hands of a skilled dwarf, dirt, stone, metal, and wood are all dangerous.¡±
Hadrian felt that rope ought to be included on that list, as his wrists were starting to ache and his hands throbbed. In binding him, the dwarf had exhibited a level of skill that his people were known for when creating stonework or anything mechanical.
¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Seton said.
¡°Of course you don¡¯t. How could you? It¡¯s old magic. Older even than you. Older than Rochelle, older than Novron.¡±
¡°What are you talking about?¡± Seton asked.
¡°Do you think only mir hold the claim to ancient secrets? For all your age, our collective history goes back far beyond yours. Before Novron and his empire, before the mir, before humans, the Belgriclungreians lived and thrived. I¡¯m talking about the days when only full elves and dwarves roamed the lands, when Drumindor was the world¡¯s greatest forge. There was a time when we had a king, an age of greatness, an age of wonder. They say it was Andvari Berling and King Mideon who did it, but the magic predates even them. It goes back to the gods of the ancient giants, to the ones known as Typhins. They were prohibited from having children of their own, according to legend. But they found a way to bring forth life from earth and stone. A magic they used to create the giants themselves. My people discovered that secret, but because it was outlawed by the gods, it was forbidden. Only once was it attempted, and that was during the War of Elven Aggression when King Mideon saved our people. Elves had used their magic to crush the Tenth and Twelfth Legions on the Plains of Mador, and then Mideon called on the legendary Andvari Berling and asked him to crack the forbidden scrolls and make a weapon that could defeat the elves. Some say Andvari never succeeded; others claim he did, but that something went terribly wrong. They claim it was his failure, rather than the attack of the elves, that actually defeated the Kingdom of Mideon and laid waste to Linden Lott.¡±
¡°What did King Mideon ask this Andvari to make?¡± Seton asked.
¡°The only real magic our people ever had.¡±
¡°Which is?¡±
Griswold paused a moment. Then a twinkle flickered in his eyes and he leaned in and whispered, ¡°A golem, a protector made of stone.¡±
###
No one in the plaza had noticed the gargoyle come to life. All eyes were on the acrobats, the dancers, or the juggler. Mercator nimbly raced through the oblivious crowd. For someone who claimed to be old, the Calian mir moved as well as the acrobats they dodged. She and Royce ran through the ring of dancers, breaking the chain of clasped hands, causing a disturbance. Like rambunctious children running through an adult party, they turned heads and provoked shouts. Royce was reminded of his youth. Fleeing had been a daily occurrence back when he survived by picking pockets in the squares of Ratibor. Just as wind was a bird¡¯s ally, crowds were his. They provided cover as well as opportunity, but just as too much wind could kill a bird, too dense of a crowd could jam him up, lock him in, and give his pursuer the chance to catch up. Being able to read a mass of people, to see the patterns and guess the timing, had made the difference between getting away and losing a hand.
Royce was older now and out of practice, but it didn¡¯t take long to rediscover the familiar skills and remember old techniques. Mercator did a fine job of finding and exploiting holes as well. Anticipating openings, she managed to stay out ahead. She looped the fountain, heading for the steps of the gallery. He wasn¡¯t sure what her plan was, but then Royce wasn¡¯t certain about the extent of the danger. Seeing a gargoyle come to life was disturbing, but the fact that Mercator felt the need to flee was the real worry. Why, was something he could ask her later. As it turned out, why was answered sooner than expected.
People pointed at something behind Royce, then the screams started, and finally he understood why Mercator was making for the steps of the gallery. The plaza was like a river where a dam had burst upstream. He needed to reach the safety of the bank before the rush of the flood. Whatever the gargoyle was doing, it had caused a panic, and the once happy crowd turned into a mindless mob as people began to push in a frantic attempt to get away.
A man bowled over a woman and her daughter, causing him to trip and fall to the ground, where he, too, was stepped on. The juggler and the dancers were consumed in the tidal surge. Royce and Mercator reached the marble steps of the gallery just as the wave burst. She wasted no time running to the big bronze doors. Royce finally saw her plan and was once more impressed by the level of strategic forethought. And she was a mir.
If she knew, she could say the same about me, couldn¡¯t she?
The gallery wasn¡¯t as big as Grom Galimus, but it was still large and almost entirely made of stone. There weren¡¯t any ground-floor windows, and its doors opened out. Royce and Mercator would only have a few seconds to get inside. The swell of the crowd fleeing whatever mayhem had ignited their stampede would realize what Mercator had: The gallery was protection from this storm. If Royce and Mercator were inside when that happened, the bottleneck would inhibit the gargoyle . . . brilliant.
¡°Locked.¡± Mercator pulled angrily on the door. ¡°You can open it, right?¡±
¡°How¡¯d you know?¡± Royce knelt at the door, making a quick study of the basic lever-tumbler mechanism.
¡°Anyone expecting a severed finger seems the sort to have a background in theft.¡±
Royce inserted his curtain pick into the keyhole. Lifting the lever, he popped the latch. Although the process had taken only seconds, the crowd moved faster than Royce had expected; a mass of revelers-turned-stampeding-herd pushed up behind them. Unable to pull the door open wide, the two barely managed to slip in before the pressing weight of the mindless crowd slammed it shut again. Part of Royce¡¯s cloak was caught, and he freed himself by ripping it in half.
The two looked back at the pair of bronze doors, backing slowly away, listening to the muffled cries of the terrified crowd that grew louder as the seconds passed. The interior of the gallery was tomb-quiet and dark, but Royce knew the building and remembered the room. He¡¯d been there only the night before. This was the rotunda with the murals and paintings, odd artifacts on pedestals, and that big chariot with the stuffed horses yoked to it. The strange beast he¡¯d seen from above he now saw from level ground. This was the proper viewing position for everything, and from there the dragon hoisted overhead was suitably terrifying.
¡°What is that thing outside?¡± Royce asked.
¡°A golem.¡± Mercator¡¯s eyes remained fixed on the doors as the two backed away. The fear on her face did nothing to convince Royce that they were safe. ¡°Dwarven sorcery, old, deep, evil magic.¡±
¡°That thing was a statue a minute ago. What is it now?¡±
¡°Still a statue¡ªin a way.¡±
¡°It was after us, right?¡±
¡°Still is.¡±
¡°Can it get in here?¡±
Mercator looked up at the broken window in the upper colonnade where the night before Royce had chased Villar. ¡°I think so.¡±
¡°Maybe you¡¯d better tell me exactly what a golem is. I hate getting visits from total strangers.¡±
###
Sitting in the chair was aggravating the pain in his arms, so Hadrian switched to the floor where he could stretch out his legs. Seton helped him, brushing away a pile of rat pellets.
¡°What does ancient dwarven magic have to do with you, Erasmus Nym, and Villar?¡±
Griswold reached up and ran fingers under his beard, his lower lip jutting out. He paused there, and Hadrian thought he might not say anything. ¡°We doubted our forces would be enough to prevail against the duke and the city guard. We needed more. We needed what Andvari offered King Mideon.¡±
¡°I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s knowledge you can¡¯t pick up just anywhere,¡± Hadrian said.
Griswold nodded and addressed Seton. ¡°Do you know about the Night of Terror?¡±
¡°That was centuries ago,¡± Seton said.
Griswold scowled at her. ¡°And I suppose you were there?¡±
¡°Before my time. Even before Mercator¡¯s, I think.¡±
¡°One cold night, mobs came into Little Town¡ªthat¡¯s what they called our ghetto back then¡ªand set our houses on fire. Everyone was dragged into the street for a beating. Almost a hundred of my people died on the same night that the rest of the world calls Wintertide. Strange way to celebrate the rebirth of the sun, don¡¯t you think? In the aftermath, the elders found a way to protect us. At that time, the city was under construction, Grom Galimus only half built. My people did the stonework. Cheap, skilled labor is what we were. The archbishop commissioned many sculptures, and we were happy to oblige. Right under his nose and with his blessing, we created weapons that we could call on in time of need.¡±
Griswold smiled. ¡°Surely you¡¯ve seen all the fanciful downspouts and carvings, malevolent faces that spit rainwater out to the streets?¡±
Hadrian nodded.
¡°Those were our creations. Every one of them sculpted by my people. We made them fierce and grotesque as a means of embodying what they are¡ªmonsters. The archbishop thought they were fanciful¡ªfunny, he called them. What he didn¡¯t know was that each one was sculpted ritualistically, and the shards were saved so that we could use them when necessary. If the day came when we were threatened again, we could breathe life into these decorations and send them to fight for us.¡± Griswold¡¯s glare hardened. ¡°The nobles have their soldiers, and we have ours. Ours sit upon their perches high above the city, awaiting the day when all debts will be paid in full.¡±
¡°You can be really creepy, you know that?¡± Hadrian asked.
###
¡°What exactly is a golem?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Is it alive? Can it be killed?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not an expert on dwarven magic,¡± Mercator said, ¡°but I know golems are sculptures brought to life. Creatures that are supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.¡±
¡°This one is made from stone.¡± Royce stared at the bronze doors with their detailed reliefs, nine framed images that told the life story of a grand city. ¡°How do you harm stone?¡±
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The gallery echoed with the sound of drumming on the doors by what could have been a huge hammer. They both watched as the elegant images were distorted by dents, the metal puckering where it was struck.
Mercator and Royce backed up.
¡°Can¡¯t burn it. Doesn¡¯t have any blood, so slitting its throat is useless. Pretty much nothing sharp will be helpful . . .¡± Royce was thinking out loud as he scanned the chamber for a weapon. ¡°What is this place?¡±
¡°The Imperial Gallery,¡± Mercator said, bumping into a bust of a balding man. The sculpture toppled, fell, and shattered on the marble floor. She stared aghast at the ruined artwork. ¡°The noble houses brought a lot of this stuff with them after the fall of Percepliquis. They keep the best pieces in their homes, and the rest is displayed here.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s an ancient weapon around that kills stone gargoyles?¡±
Mercator flashed him a scowl that he guessed had more to do with the beating on the door than his poor attempt at humor.
Hadrian would have appreciated it.
Royce found a pair of hammers set on a display pedestal, one large, one small, both old and crude. He felt the weight of the heavy one, thinking it might be useful. ¡°Why is it after us?¡±
Mercator stared at the door. ¡°It¡¯s being controlled by Villar.¡±
¡°How do you know?¡±
¡°He¡¯s one of the few people who know how. Erasmus Nym is dead, and Griswold is busy guarding your friend. It has to be Villar.¡±
¡°So what does he want with us?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Her eyes darted back and forth in thought, then they widened. ¡°Wait, you said no list of demands was found in the carriage?¡±
¡°No one but you appears to know anything about a list.¡±
Mercator placed a cupped hand over her mouth in disbelief. ¡°The list wasn¡¯t overlooked or blown away; he never left it. Everything makes sense now. Villar didn¡¯t kidnap the duchess to seek concessions. He never wanted a peaceful solution. He was only placating me, pretending. And now¡ª¡±
The bronze door ruptured. A stone fist punched through. Claws reached in and began ripping the hole wider. The metal screeched as it tore.
Mercator stuffed Genny¡¯s note into Royce¡¯s hand. ¡°Take this to the duke.¡±
¡°What are you going to do?¡±
She looked back at the doors and Royce couldn¡¯t tell if she was scared or angry. Both maybe.
¡°Stop him, I hope. He¡¯s driving that thing, running it like a puppet. He can see and hear through it, so I can talk to him, reason with him.¡±
The golem pushed in farther, and Royce dropped the hammer and sprinted for the stairs. The extra weight would only slow him down, and speed was what he needed now. He took the steps three at a time. Four flights up, he glanced back.
Mercator remained in the middle of the main room next to a statue whose plaque read GLENMORGAN THE GREAT. The gargoyle had opened the hole to the size of a window, and it was pulling its body through, emerging like some hideous insect splitting a pupa sac.
¡°Villar!¡± Mercator shouted. She had both hands up, palms out. ¡°Stop! You don¡¯t have to do this. I¡¯ve talked to the duchess. She¡¯s on our side and wants to help.¡±
The creature appeared to be listening, or maybe it was merely having trouble getting through the ragged opening it had made. The bronze had left deep scratches across its stony skin.
¡°I know you want your war, Villar. You think it¡¯s the only way, but it isn¡¯t. Genny can get the duke to change the laws, and they will force the guilds to change their rules. The duchess was already working on it. The very night you kidnapped her she was on her way back from . . .¡± Mercator stopped. ¡°Oh, my Lord Ferrol.¡± She staggered as if from a blow. ¡°You knew, didn¡¯t you? You knew all along that she was working on a solution. That¡¯s why you did it. You wanted to stop her. You needed to stop her.¡±
The gargoyle cleared the door. Using its feet and the knuckles of its hands, the thing scrambled monkey-like across the room. It slowed down as it neared her.
Mercator shook her head in disbelief. ¡°Villar, how could you?¡±
The golem hesitated for a moment, and Royce thought she had a chance, then the thing sank both sets of claws into her body. Royce was no stranger to violence. He¡¯d seen¡ªhe¡¯d performed¡ªbrutalities that many would label gruesome, even sick. He was as used to bloodletting as a butcher, and yet what he witnessed in that artifact-filled chamber unsettled him. It didn¡¯t so much vivisect Mercator as tear her open like a cloth bag with poor stitching. Royce heard muscles shred and her bones make a greenwood-splinter sound. The Calian mir whom Royce had only begun to know, and thought he might like, died in an explosion of blood that splattered the statue of Glenmorgan and stained the perfect marble floor.
The gargoyle showed fangs and pointed teeth, grinning its delight. Then, as tears of blood ran down stone skin, that grotesque monkey-face tilted up. No more encouragement was required. Royce resumed his rapid climb.
The window on the top floor was his goal, his exit, the broken one Villar had shattered the night before.
Reaching the top floor, Royce once more spotted the suit of armor standing against the wall, still holding its long spear. Behind him, the gargoyle was climbing the steps. Royce listened to the crack of stone on marble as if someone were clapping rocks together.
Glass from the window still lay on the floor. Outside was the wall, the leap to the cathedral, and a trip across rooftops that Royce had made once already. Except this time, he would be the prey, the one who would slide down slate shingles and fall into the river. Maybe he, too, would survive. No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me. He wasn¡¯t Villar, and he wasn¡¯t competing with a mir. With Royce¡¯s luck, the thing would embrace him in a bear hug, they¡¯d hit the river, and he¡¯d be dragged to the bottom.
. . . supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.
Remembering what had happened to the bust that Mercator had knocked off its pedestal, he grabbed the spear. Jerking it free of the armor, he positioned himself near the balcony¡¯s railing. Hope this works, he thought even though he suspected it wouldn¡¯t.
I¡¯ll still have the window, he consoled himself. If I survive that long.
Royce held the spear low, not in front, not braced against himself, just at his side. He didn¡¯t want to slam the beast head-on. Royce was certain if he tried that, the gargoyle would splinter the spear¡ªor more likely drive it from his hands. He didn¡¯t want to stab the thing. He wanted to do what Hadrian had once achieved when facing an indestructible foe. Worked once, might work again. But theory and reality were often distant relatives. After seeing what the golem had done to Mercator, Royce was less than confident. Watching a person being torn apart had that effect.
I don¡¯t have Hadrian¡¯s luck.
The gargoyle¡¯s head rose above the steps as it climbed. Its wings spread wide like the hood of a snake before a strike. It spotted Royce, and its eyes widened, the mouth displaying more teeth. Stone teeth, stone face: Every inch of it was craggy and coarse and covered in rivulets of blood. The creature broke into a charge.
The spear didn¡¯t give the monster the slightest pause. It didn¡¯t try to dodge, didn¡¯t shift or slow. The gargoyle appeared bemused, even joyful. Royce couldn¡¯t have had a more accommodating enemy, and he imagined the golem felt the same way. As they came together, Royce planted his rear leg and held tight to the pole, then as they collided, he gave ground to prevent the gargoyle from jarring the spear from his hands. The impact was nonetheless powerful, and the tip broke. Royce fell back, dodging to one side while pushing against the stone beast, acting as a lever instead of an impediment. The golem¡¯s course altered, only two feet to one side, but it was enough.
Shoved off balance, all its weight slammed into the balcony¡¯s railing. A man would have hit the balustrade and slid or bounced off.
. . . supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from. It may have wings, but stone can¡¯t fly.
The heavy body of the charging gargoyle shattered the rail, and over the edge it went, crashing through the suspended body of the dragon, shattering the whole exhibit and sending it all to the floor four stories below.
A bang, deep and solid, echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth twice.
Shatter, you miserable figurine! This half thought, half wish filled Royce¡¯s mind as he peered over the edge. He hoped to see a burst of plaster, as when Mercator had overturned the bust. Four stories down lay a mess of broken dragon parts and the torn body of Mercator, her blood draining through a large crack in the checkered marble floor that marked the impact crater of the golem.
The gargoyle hadn¡¯t been pulverized. The creature was on its knees in the center of the cracked floor.
No, not Hadrian¡¯s kind of luck. Royce then noticed that the golem hadn¡¯t escaped unscathed. Part of it was missing. Its left arm lay on the floor a few feet away. The gargoyle looked at it mournfully. Then the fanged monkey-face once more fixed its stare on Royce. This time it added a hiss.
Great, I¡¯ve made it angry. Well, angrier.
The golem ran for the stairs, and Royce raced for the window. Already knowing the route was his one comfort. The map was still engraved in his mind, which allowed Royce to move with speed and confidence. Poking his head out, he saw the street below. The avenue throbbed with a mass of people, some of whom wore uniforms and held torches. Bodies lay in a line, marking the golem¡¯s path to the gallery.
Ducking past the remaining broken shards and out the window, Royce climbed up the wall. He wished he¡¯d brought his hand claws, but he hadn¡¯t had them the last time and had managed just fine.
But I was the hunter then. Being the prey is a different matter.
Royce had been chased before. He never cared for it, and usually the hunt ended when he managed to gain enough distance to turn around unseen and don the role of huntsman once more. That wasn¡¯t going to happen this time.
How do you harm stone?
He¡¯d broken its arm by dropping it from a height.
Perhaps taking a tumble from higher up?
Reaching the roof of the gallery, he looked back. Nothing but a single sheer curtain fluttered, blowing out through the broken window by an errant wind. Is it possible the thing lost interest?
The answer came when the window¡¯s remnants burst outward and fell, along with portions of the frame and a few stones of the wall. More screams erupted below. Arms went up. Fingers pointed. Men shouted, ¡°Up there! There it is!¡±
The gargoyle wasn¡¯t as nimble as it had been when descending the cathedral¡ªclimbing was clearly harder to manage with only one arm. Brute force now replaced grace. It fearlessly launched itself up from the sill, one clawed hand creating its own handhold, gouging out mortar like soft dirt. Rear claws did the same, then punched up again¡ªstone muscles propelling it amazing distances in single thrusts.
Royce didn¡¯t like the ease with which it followed nor the power it displayed. Mercator¡¯s death remained fresh in his mind, and he didn¡¯t want to be anywhere near those claws. Taking a cue from the previous night, he pulled slate shingles free and threw, hoping he might make the golem fall. Royce¡¯s aim was better than Villar¡¯s, and he struck the beast three times: once in the head, twice in the body. The slates shattered. The gargoyle didn¡¯t notice.
How am I going to make it fall again? The question was pushed aside as he realized it didn¡¯t matter¡ªnot yet. He needed to get higher. Royce resumed his flight.
Running out along the gable, he jumped the gap between the gallery and Grom Galimus, landing on a stony lion¡¯s head. Below him, he heard the crowd cheer with excitement. As he scaled the cathedral¡¯s pier, Royce realized how futile the effort was. Even if he got away from the golem, reached the duke, somehow convinced him his wife was alive, and persuaded the man to concede to Mercator¡¯s demands, Hadrian might still die. The issue of Nym¡¯s death hadn¡¯t yet been addressed. If Hadrian¡¯s luck provided him the means to slip free of that noose, Royce just might kill him anyway.
They were up six stories now.
Is that enough? No, I need to go higher.
After Royce reached the flying buttress, obtaining additional height was no longer an issue. He ran up its angled length, and the world below dropped away as he climbed several stories as quickly as ascending stairs. Reaching the high balcony just below the cathedral¡¯s eaves, Royce saw it as a death trap. Too narrow to pull another spear stunt, even if he had one. Up there the golem would have all the advantage. Facing the thing on the steep roof of Grom Galimus wasn¡¯t to Royce¡¯s liking. The peak was equally dangerous for both. The battle odds would be even: each had a good chance of falling. Royce was never pleased with a fair fight, but fair was better than certain death. They were about two hundred and fifty feet up, and he guessed his odds of surviving a fall, assuming he could hit the water, were one in a hundred.
Villar had managed it. Hadrian could probably pull it off as well, but I don¡¯t have his kind of luck.
Royce saw it as a last resort.
Reaching up, he grabbed the eaves, scowling at the row of gargoyle faces that glared down at him. Each one, he now realized, was grinning. I really hate these things.
Royce was breathing hard, his clothes stuck to his skin, and as he pulled himself up, he realized his muscles were weakening. Stone, he guessed, doesn¡¯t get tired. As he reached the roof, the wind greeted him with a familiar blast of cold air. He replied with a grunt and a scowl as he was forced to remember that spring, while very near, hadn¡¯t yet arrived. The chill sent a shiver through him and whipped what was left of his cloak over his shoulder.
Below, he spotted the golem racing up the buttress, wings extended like an acrobat¡¯s balancing pole. When crouched and seen at a distance on the walls of buildings, the gargoyles appeared small. Up close, the creature was eight feet tall.
This isn¡¯t going to end well.
Royce shimmied up the ribs to the fence-like peak of the roof where he would make his last stand. His options were limited. He could try to climb the bell tower as Villar had considered doing, but there was no more benefit in it now than before. He could climb down the other side of the cathedral and hope the golem would follow and fall the way Villar had. Already tired, Royce knew if anyone fell it would most likely be him. Each step inched him toward exhaustion while the gargoyle showed no sign of weakening.
The thing lost its arm! If I lost one after falling four stories, I¡¯d quit. It hasn¡¯t even slowed down!
Royce had to make a move while he still had the strength. The golem was one-handed now and needed both feet to stand on the roof, so it couldn¡¯t rip him apart as it had Mercator, the thing would have to resort to slashing, biting, or crushing. But without a spear, without a weapon, fighting the golem would be suicide, except . . .
Royce pulled Alverstone from the folds of his cloak. Moonlight gave its blade a luminosity that was pleasantly eerie. Royce had few possessions; the dagger was his most prized for two reasons. The first was that it had been a gift from a man who¡¯d shown him kindness and saved his life. The only one to do so¡ªuntil Hadrian acted the fool on the Crown Tower. The second was that the blade was remarkable. He had no idea how it had been created. The weapon had somehow been forged in secret in that infernal pit that was the Manzant Prison and Salt Mine. The one good thing to come out of there. No, Royce corrected himself, not the only good thing. The dagger wasn¡¯t the real gift he¡¯d received; it was but a symbol, the embodiment of something more. The gleeful, thieving assassin who entered that salt mine wasn¡¯t the same as the one who¡¯d crawled out. As Royce straddled the peak of Grom Galimus waiting for the arrival of the golem what he held in his hand wasn¡¯t a dagger; it was what it always had been¡ªhope.
He didn¡¯t wait long. The gargoyle leapt onto the roof and once more grinned with delight to find his prey waiting.
With his other hand holding on to the decorative iron fins along the roof¡¯s peak, Royce braced in a crouch, facing into the howling wind.
Is this the craziest, stupidest thing I¡¯ve ever done? That this was even a question made him suspect the idiocy of his past life choices.
Using the stone claws on its feet, the gargoyle pinched into the slate, creating firm footholds as it walked up the steep slope. A gust of wind hit its wings, staggering and nearly toppling the beast, but the creature folded them away and continued its climb.
This is what Villar had seen last night. An unstoppable predator. Irony, oh how I hate thee.
Royce maintained his perch along the line of the peak. When the first attack came¡ªa wide swipe from the remaining arm¡ªhe shuffled back along the length. All this did was grant the gargoyle room to take position on the ridgeline with him. With only one arm, the golem couldn¡¯t both attack and hold on to the fins. Still, it had claws on its feet and, of course, fangs. Royce couldn¡¯t forget the fangs. Mercator¡¯s blood was already drying, aided by the brisk wind. An ever-present, sinisterly sculpted smile revealed zigzagging teeth as pointed as spear tips, the invention of an artist with a sick mind and no concern for realism. The gargoyle moved forward with the confidence Royce lacked.
Facing the monster, guarding from attacks, Royce shuffled backward blindly, knowing he would eventually run out of roof, and do so without warning. He was a sailor walking a plank backward.
Royce dodged a swipe from the golem¡¯s foot. In the process, he backed up too far and found the end of the roof. He fell, catching himself by grabbing the decorative ironwork.
The golem pressed the advantage, rushing forward. With Royce dangling and nearly helpless, the sensible thing for the golem to do would have been to crush his hand and let him fall. Instead, it grabbed his wrist and jerked him up. The golem¡¯s grip on his wrist was exactly what Royce expected, vise-strong and cold. This was the end of the fight, but while the golem had but one arm, Royce had two. As the golem jerked Royce up, it had no defense¡ªlikely didn¡¯t feel a need for it.
How do you harm stone?
The golem had no reason to fear a delicate dagger. Royce had slim hope himself, despite knowing the weapon was endowed with an extraordinary blade that cut wood like hot iron cut wax. Once, it¡¯d even cut a link of iron chain. Alverstone was hope in the face of despair, and Royce hoped very hard as he jabbed at the gargoyle¡¯s chest.
Rather than turn, deflect, or snap as it should have, the dagger¡¯s blade punctured the stone. Not deep; it didn¡¯t have the opportunity. The golem screamed, recoiled, and in that instant of shock, the heavy stone creature was thrown off balance. Falling from its precarious perch, the golem let go of Royce in the hope of grabbing support.
Released from bondage, Royce fell. He hit the roof¡¯s surface, started his slide, and without thought used Alverstone the way he so often used his hand claws. Royce stabbed into the slate with the blade. It penetrated, caught, and held, leaving Royce hanging from the dagger, as beside him the golem tumbled.
The gargoyle¡¯s weight worked against it. It managed to grab an edge but tore it free. The onetime statue fell, rolled, and picked up the sort of speed one expects from a rock rolling down a steep roof. It bounced, jumped, and finally fell, this time on the plaza side. The gargoyle¡¯s wings spread, but stone wings did nothing to slow its fall.
Royce didn¡¯t see the impact. The edge of the roof blocked the climax. He heard it: a loud crack. Screams and shouts followed. They were short-lived, the sort that came from the surprise of a falling stone, rather than the fear of a living golem.
V2: Chapter 21 - The Duke
The bronze doors of the Imperial Gallery¡ªone with a massive hole torn in it¡ªwere open by the time Royce reached the street. A skittish crowd remained in the plaza, and given the way they scuttled back at his approach, they had watched his upper-story jiggery-pokery. That was most certainly what Evelyn would have made of his chase across the rooftops if she¡¯d been in the crowd. Royce considered for a moment whether she¡¯d been one of those people the gargoyle had injured in its murderous march across the plaza. No one would have fared well before the golem¡¯s onslaught, but an old woman would lack any ability to get out of the way. His teeth clenched in anger. He didn¡¯t know why. He hated that old woman.
He took a breath before entering the gallery, and then another. He¡¯d just survived a race with a golem and felt he deserved to take a moment. His back was sore, and his wrist ached where the stone monster had held onto it, but at least it wasn¡¯t broken. Not exactly Hadrian¡¯s luck, but better than his normal lot.
Few spectators had found the courage to venture inside. Those who did hugged the wall nearest the exit. A handful of men dressed in the uniform of the duke¡¯s city guard made a semicircle around the bloody mess in the middle of the rotunda. Most stood awkwardly, shifting their weight, unsure where to look or what to do. Three others pulled back the broken remains of the fallen dragon, revealing the extent of the gore. Everything within twenty feet of Mercator¡¯s body wept blood. The remains bore as little resemblance to a once living person as did a slab of bacon. A young man in a crisp new set of clothing clapped both hands over his mouth; when that didn¡¯t work, he ran for the door, brushing past Royce in his dash to the street.
As a general rule, Royce disliked everyone. Strangers began at a deficit that required they prove their worth just to be seen as neutral. Mercator had jumped that bar in record time.
And a mir to boot, he thought. How remarkable is that?
Royce couldn¡¯t help feeling he¡¯d blindly brushed past greatness. An opportunity had been lost, a treasure squandered. That was how he framed it in his head, as an abstract business failure. But looking at Mercator¡¯s blood and the blue-stained lumps of meat that had once been the most remarkable mir he¡¯d ever known, Royce clenched his fists.
A shriveled-up biddy and now a mir. I¡¯m becoming soft. This is all Hadrian¡¯s fault.
¡°You there!¡± one of the guards shouted. ¡°Grab him!¡±
Not twice in one night, Royce thought as he took a step back, dipping into a crouch.
The guard wasn¡¯t a fool. He recognized the body language, which must have looked like a badger raising its fur, teeth bared. The man didn¡¯t rush him. Neither did anyone else. Instead, the guards fanned out.
Royce heard movement behind him. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Roland Wyberg, just coming in through the torn bronze door. ¡°Well, it¡¯s about time,¡± Royce said. ¡°C¡¯mon, we gotta go.¡±
¡°Go? What are you talking about? Where¡¯s Hadrian?¡± Roland asked, puzzled. He looked at the hole in the door then at the bloody mess in the center of the room. ¡°What in Novron¡¯s name happened here?¡±
¡°I saw this man running across the rooftops chased by . . .¡± The guard faltered.
¡°Chased by whom?¡± Roland asked. His stare extended to everyone in the room, finally settling on Royce.
¡°Not a who, a what,¡± Royce replied. ¡°One of the stone gargoyles from the walls of Grom Galimus.¡±
¡°A gargoyle?¡± Roland asked, pronouncing the word with distinct incredulity.
Royce nodded. ¡°A stone statue, normally content to sit on a ledge outside the cathedral, decided to climb down. It took a particular dislike to myself and¡±¡ªhis eyes tracked to the blood pool¡ª¡°a mir named Mercator Sikara.¡±
Roland stared. He opened his mouth. It hung there for a moment, then he closed it again, his eyes shifting helplessly. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know what to make of that.¡±
¡°Luckily, I do,¡± Royce said. He pulled out two parchments. ¡°Here, this one¡¯s for you. It¡¯s from Hadrian, explaining why you need to take me and Mercator to the duke and insist on an audience. Although now we¡¯ll have to settle for just me.¡±
¡°And the other?¡± Roland pointed at the parchment but made no attempt to take it.
This guy is a lot smarter than I gave him credit for. And that¡¯s good because whether either of us likes it or not, we¡¯re about to become a team.
¡°This?¡± Royce held up the letter from Genny Winter. ¡°If we¡¯re lucky, it¡¯s a weapon we can use to prevent a slaughter tomorrow.¡±
Roland continued to look puzzled; then realization dawned. ¡°The Feast of Nobles?¡±
¡°Exactly. We need to see the duke. Right now.¡±
Governor¡¯s Isle was an odd name for the ancestral residence of dukes, but Royce guessed it had something to do with all that gibberish Evelyn had blathered on about. The place didn¡¯t look anything like a ducal castle. The Estate had the typical ugly wall surrounding the grounds, but it appeared out of place, newer and more slapdash than anything inside, all of which was extraordinarily precise. Brick paths wound through open lawns and alongside trimmed hedges. One led through a small orchard and garden to a stable, a coach house, barracks, and a kitchen built separate from the main structure, all constructed from a smooth rock with no visible mortar.
The Estate itself was a rambling country home built of the same precisely cut stone¡ªsomething the elite of Colnora might have referred to as a grand villa. The house was three stories high with gables and a centered portico complete with stone pillars. Royce counted five chimneys and twenty-nine glass windows facing front, including a round one set at the portico¡¯s peak. At the very top, the ducal flag flew just below the colors of Alburn. The entry path formed a circle before the front doors, and fine gravel lined a neatly edged lawn, well-trimmed hedges, and early purple flowers that Royce couldn¡¯t identify. The style was relaxed, opulent, and open, nothing like the homes of western nobles, which skewed toward the dull and solid¡ªwith an emphasis on solid. In places like Warric and Melengar, a duke¡¯s residence was barely discernible from a stronghold. Even successful knights lived in gray stone citadels with narrow, glassless openings. But this place . . .
If the wall was a relatively recent addition, Royce struggled to imagine how the Dukes of Rochelle could have lived in an open, defenseless house. The idea was both incredible and unfathomable. The lack of walls suggests an absence of enemies, but no ruler fits that description. Had the ancient governors been so ruthless that sheer terror replaced the need for walls? Perhaps in place of stone battlements they had encircled the island with posts laden with corpses. Or . . . An odd, alien thought popped into Royce¡¯s head, one that was as unlikely as his walking alongside the captain of the guard into a ducal estate. Could there have been no need for walls because it was a more virtuous world? The sort of place where Hadrian would have fit in? Royce pondered all this as he walked past the yellow-flowering forsythia bushes, listening to his feet crush the gravel. Hadrian is one of those people born too late, and I? Am I born too early?
Royce wasn¡¯t surprised that obtaining an audience in the dead of night was difficult even for the captain of the duke¡¯s guard. Wyberg had to browbeat the soldiers at the gate, who complained about his lack of an appointment. At the front doors, Roland had to remind the pair of men about his rank in order to gain entry to the foyer.
Looking up, Royce spotted an open third-story window. He could have already entered the duke¡¯s bedroom by then, though the meeting might not have been as cordial with that approach.
Inside, the Estate continued to impress. The duke¡¯s foyer was ballroom-sized and decorated with sculptures and paintings instead of swords and shields, the normal ornaments for any serious lord intent on projecting a sense of power. Royce was genuinely impressed by some of the art. When he¡¯d visited such places in the past, the homes were always dark, and he was in too much of a hurry to notice the furnishings. The place was elegant, but he wouldn¡¯t want to live there. The residences of the rich always felt cold.
¡°Duke Leopold does not meet with his soldiers in the middle of the night,¡± said the duke¡¯s chamberlain, a portly, balding man who displayed a well-worn frown beneath a neat mustache. While unarmed and unimposing, he was proving to be a worthier adversary than the gate or door guards. With thumbs hooked on the breast of his robe, chest thrust out, he stood blocking the way. ¡°We have a hierarchy to handle problems.¡±
¡°Exactly, and I¡¯m captain of the guard,¡± Wyberg declared.
¡°But did His Grace request an audience?¡±
¡°No, this is an emergency.¡±
The chamberlain¡¯s frown deepened. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to handle emergencies? Why does the duke have you in charge, if not to provide him the luxury of sleeping at night? As you can see, the sun is down. We don¡¯t bother him with trifles when he is sleeping.¡±
¡°Trifles!¡± Roland burst out. ¡°I just said¡ª¡±
¡°Tut-tut!¡± The chamberlain placed the palms of his hands together then tilted the tips of his pressed fingers toward Roland. ¡°This is what you will do. Tomorrow morning¡ªand not too early¡ªyou can come and make an appointment to speak to the ducal clerk. Given the feast, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be too busy to receive you, but if it truly is an emergency¡±¡ªhe looked at Wyberg skeptically¡ª¡°he¡¯ll get you in to see the duke¡¯s secretary, who will evaluate your request and determine if it warrants an audience. If it does, your request will be passed on to the Ducal Council of Attendance, which will review His Lordship¡¯s itinerary and try and find time in the schedule for you. Now, doesn¡¯t that sound like a better way to go about this? I¡¯m sure whatever the problem is, you can manage it for a while.¡±
¡°This can¡¯t wait!¡± Roland exploded.
Royce stayed out of the confrontation. He had entered behind the captain, acting as Roland¡¯s shadow, and soundlessly moved about the foyer, feigning interest in the art. With all of Wyberg¡¯s outbursts, the chamberlain only gave Royce a cursory glance, then ignored him altogether. Royce inched behind the chamberlain, slipping beyond his peripheral vision. Spotting a painting of a stag in a river valley, Royce moved toward it. While it wasn¡¯t the best art in the room, it was near the corridor. Moving over, he leaned in to inspect it further.
¡°I must see the duke tonight!¡± Wyberg shouted and thrust his arms out in a rage. ¡°You have no idea what¡¯s going on! If I don¡¯t¡ª¡±
¡°Calm yourself!¡± the chamberlain snapped, throwing up his hands and cringing as if he felt Wyberg was about to attack.
Royce took that opportunity to slip into the unguarded hallway.
Wood paneling, tiled floors, and an arched ceiling complete with painted designs in the ducal colors greeted Royce as he trotted down the corridor, moving fast¡ªfar faster than if he were burgling. It felt odd. This was wholly without precedent, and Royce wasn¡¯t certain how to proceed. What do I do if I spook a servant or, worse, a guard? He guessed his normal solution might not be the best choice in this instance. He was there to talk to the duke, not kill him or his servants. He was acting blind. Moving boldly through a lit house, unannounced and unwanted, was strange when doing so with none of the normal tools he used in such situations.
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This is more like something Hadrian would do. The man is becoming a serious liability.
As he searched the vast estate for clues to the duke¡¯s whereabouts, Royce reviewed the pros and cons of continuing his partnership with the man who didn¡¯t seem to live in the same world. He genuinely liked Hadrian, although at that moment he wasn¡¯t able to bring to mind a single reason why. But is liking something a good enough reason to offset the risks? I like Montemorcey wine, but too much will kill me. The more he thought about it, the more similarities he found between them. They both impede my ability to think sensibly, resulting in bad judgments, and too much of either gives me headaches.
Still, the best argument was also the worst. Hadrian was wrong. I do have a unicorn in my world, and the damn thing goes by the name of Hadrian Blackwater. He¡¯s a mythical beast impossible to believe in, even when he¡¯s right in front of me. Royce had never had the need to believe in anything before, but that was the effect of the unicorn on a mortal man. It made him consider things he thought impossible. Because if unicorns were possible . . . what else might be? In that way, Hadrian was less like Montemorcey and more like Alverstone. Perhaps that was why Royce could never throw either of them away.
Finding another stair, Royce took it, guessing the duke slept on the highest floor. Reaching the top, he found the residence to be more inviting. Deeply stained wood and tapestries softened the hard edges. Small tables topped with bouquet-filled vases added a dash of personality through spring blossoms. Expansive windows framed with thick green drapes invited moonlight in and made the house feel more like a home¡ªa three-story one with a footprint the size of a large island and filled with priceless art. Royce passed an open door and spotted a chambermaid turning down a bed. She didn¡¯t see him, and Royce slipped quickly past.
A boy in a white tunic, who carried a tray of porcelain cups and plates, did see him, but the lad didn¡¯t say a word¡ªjust walked right past.
I¡¯ve been doing it all wrong, Royce thought. Apparently, I can saunter into any mansion, lift what I like, and stroll right back out.
He looked at the corridor of closed doors and considered his next move. Should I knock? The idea felt absurd.
Royce heard a noise behind him and spun to find the chambermaid stepping out, holding a pile of white linens. She, too, saw him; he was certain she had, but the maid¡ªlike the boy¡ªdidn¡¯t raise her eyes to the level of his face. As she turned to leave, Royce had an insane idea. It was the sort of crazy notion that Hadrian would propose.
¡°Excuse me,¡± Royce said, feeling ridiculous. ¡°Where might I find the duke?¡±
As soon as he said it, Royce knew he¡¯d made a mistake. He wasn¡¯t Hadrian, and such things only worked for him. Maybe if I was wearing polka dots . . .
¡°I believe His Lordship is in the library, sir,¡± the maid replied. ¡°He¡¯s having trouble sleeping again, sir.¡±
Royce stared at the woman, dumbfounded.
Apparently, mistaking his bewilderment for an unfamiliarity with the Estate, she added, ¡°Around the corner. First door on the left, sir.¡±
¡°Ah . . . thank you,¡± he replied.
She nodded and walked off with her armload of sheets.
What sort of place is this? Yes, please. Right this way, sir. The duke is right in here. Have at him, sir. Slit his throat. Would you like tea with that? Royce shook his head while watching her vanish down the steps, then remembered why he was there.
The door to the library was open, and Royce walked in. What wasn¡¯t windows was bookshelves, though there weren¡¯t many actual books. Most of the shelves were filled with painted plates, potted plants, intricately carved boxes, models of sailing ships, and even skeletons or stuffed figures of small animals set in poses. A large map hung from the ceiling above the fireplace¡¯s hearth, where a meager fire halfheartedly burned. The duke stood at one of the windows, looking out at the night sky. He was a balding, plump man, the sort that might have been strong and stocky in his youth, but years and wealth had transformed him. He was barefoot, wearing only a long nightshirt that exposed the gray hairs on his calves.
¡°My lord?¡± Royce ventured, trying his best not to sound like a thief. The duke failed to react and continued to stare out the window. Royce inched forward as if sneaking up on a skittish rabbit that might bolt. ¡°Duke Leopold?¡±
The man turned. ¡°Oh,¡± he said. ¡°I see.¡± He nodded some understanding that eluded Royce. Perhaps he thought he was there to retrieve dishes or turn down the bed.
The duke lifted a decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured some into a crystal glass. He held up the decanter in offering.
Royce shook his head.
¡°Do you mind if I . . .¡± He didn¡¯t wait for approval, and drank, then took a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡±
¡°For what?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You¡¯re here to kill me, right?¡±
Royce was stunned.
¡°You look surprised.¡±
¡°I ah . . .¡±
¡°What else could you possibly be doing in my residence unannounced this late at night just before the crowning? And your cloak and hood¡ªwell, it just screams killer.¡±
At least someone is awake in here. That¡¯s what separates the duke from the chambermaids¡ªparanoia.
¡°Not going to get any complaints out of me,¡± Leo said. ¡°Honestly, you¡¯re doing me a favor.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not here to kill you.¡±
The duke looked over with an expression that could only be described as annoyed. ¡°No?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°That¡¯s disappointing.¡± He turned. ¡°So, who the blazes are you, then? And why are you here?¡±
Footfalls rushed up the steps.
Royce pulled the parchment from his belt and held it out. A moment later soldiers burst into the library. They would have to wait.
¡°To give you this.¡±
The duke stared at the parchment, puzzled. ¡°What is it?¡±
¡°A letter,¡± Royce said as a guard stepped toward him. ¡°From your wife.¡±
He waited in what they called the parlor, but Royce saw it as just another overly polished medium-sized room with too much art and too few chairs. He was left to himself. No guards watched, the door was open, and he hadn¡¯t been shackled or tied. No one had even tried. This was a good thing for everyone involved. After reading the letter, the duke had ordered his thugs to let Royce go. Then Leo Hargrave had merely asked him to wait. Royce appreciated that it hadn¡¯t been an order. He¡¯d actually used the word please. Nevertheless, waiting wasn¡¯t something Royce was fond of, especially as the night was short, and there was so much left to do if Hadrian was to be extricated from the pickle barrel he¡¯d jumped into. Roland had been ordered to wait as well, but then he was called up for questioning, leaving Royce alone. That had been some time ago.
The Estate had many paintings. In that room alone, there were eight. Only one caught his eye: the portrait of a man who was unmistakably Leopold. The work was exquisite, and Royce felt uneasy, as if the painting were an actual person in the room with him. The sensation was so pronounced that he went over to inspect it. His eye caught the artist¡¯s signature: SHERWOOD STOW. Should have known.
Royce had no idea what Wyberg was telling the duke, and that made him uneasy. Just being in an expensively appointed room filled with carvings of elephants and deer, not to mention a silver tea set, made him jumpy. He didn¡¯t stay in places of this sort, but he did often visit, and he couldn¡¯t help noticing how easily the carvings would fit under his cloak or avoid calculating what a small fortune they would bring on the black market. The room was chilly despite the fireplace because no one had bothered to light it. This left Royce sitting on the velvet-and-wood chair, feeling the cold seep in and wondering why he was still there.
He thought I was here to kill him. If this job had turned out the way I had expected, I would have been.
Royce pictured two different paths running side by side, so close, yet so different. He¡¯d come to Rochelle to kill Leopold. That¡¯s what Gabriel Winter had wanted. Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny. Royce had arrived on that road, but somehow he¡¯d gotten off it. Now he was on another path, but the duke had assumed he was still on the first. Royce felt as if he¡¯d performed sleight of hand, so subtly that the world itself had been duped.
I was duped, too.
Even as he sat in that cold, empty room, he could see himself on the other path. I would have stood behind the duke as he stared at the stars and slit his throat¡ªcareful to catch his glass so it didn¡¯t shatter. That reality feels more authentic than this one. That¡¯s what I should have done. That¡¯s what I was supposed to do.
Royce found it surreal that he should be standing beside that path, looking down and seeing a history that didn¡¯t happen. His trajectory had altered course, just a smidge, a tiny tilt, but it was enough to change events from bloodbath to letter delivery.
Were you expecting a finger?
Royce had been expecting a whole lot of fingers and even more heads. Instead, he sat in a luxurious room, waiting on the ruler of the city to . . . he had no idea. That was the problem with this new path. Royce didn¡¯t know where it went. He¡¯d never gone this way before. Just as he was deciding that waiting on a duke was about as smart as listening to Hadrian, the duke showed up.
The man was dressed, but not in the finery Royce would have expected for a ruling noble. Wearing a crisp shirt, waistcoat, and casual trousers, he looked more like a modest merchant. He was followed by half a dozen men, who were better dressed but appeared worse for wear. Whereas they looked as if they had just woken up, Leo Hargrave beamed as if born again. Bright and smiling, he strode up to Royce and nodded.
¡°So, old man Winter hired you,¡± Leopold said and studied Royce¡¯s face for his reaction.
Royce didn¡¯t give one.
¡°He hates me, you know. You¡¯re in the Black Diamond, right?¡±
Royce remained silent, his sight shifting briefly as Roland entered. For better or worse, Wyberg was his advocate, his lifeline out of this, and it was reassuring to see he was still there. This way when the bastard betrayed him, Royce wouldn¡¯t need to hunt him down to slit his throat.
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± the duke said, and then chuckled. ¡°And you can relax. Right now, you¡¯re my best friend, and I owe you.¡± Leo shivered. ¡°Why is it so cold in here? Did they leave you so ill attended? Idiots.¡± The man scowled, then lifted the parchment in his hand, grasping it as gently as if it were a newborn. ¡°My Genny is alive.¡±
¡°She won¡¯t be if you don¡¯t¡ª¡±
¡°I know,¡± Leo said. ¡°It was all in the letter. Grant the dwarves the right to work. Give the Calians the right to trade. Bestow on the mir the right to exist. Not something I can simply change overnight. Guilds are powerful things but Genny . . .¡± He shook the letter again. ¡°Never a dull moment with her around and never a moment¡¯s peace. The woman was already working toward those ends. She was fixing the problem that is Rochelle. She¡¯s a businesswoman, you see. Rochelle is a horrible tangle. This city is choked with regulations and procedures, layers upon layers of protocol, and ages steeped in narrow-minded intolerance. She doesn¡¯t know anything about such things. Had no idea of the impossibility of the task. That¡¯s the way with her, you know. Don¡¯t ever tell that woman she can¡¯t do something. She¡¯ll take it as a challenge. In this case, she came up with a plan where the existing members of the merchant and trade guilds will receive a percentage of the money earned by the Calians and dwarves. She also indicated that if they refused, I should raise taxes on trade goods. Nothing speaks to businessmen like money, or someone threatening theirs. And as it turns out, the daughter of a Colnora merchant baron is fluent in such matters. She was getting close to an agreement, but then she disappeared.¡±
¡°I need to get back,¡± Royce said. ¡°I need to bring proof you¡¯re planning to do something.¡±
¡°Yes, I know. Genny mentioned an uprising. Lovely handwriting.¡± He grinned. ¡°She has these pudgy little hands, but her penmanship is beautiful. Years of keeping books, she told me.¡±
¡°What proof can we provide?¡± Royce pressed.
The duke gestured at his companions. ¡°These gentlemen are leaders of the city¡¯s merchant and trade guilds, the ones Genny met with. They are quite eager to assist, especially after I explained that if my wife dies, I¡¯ll charge them as complicit in the murder and execute every last one of them.¡± Leo focused on the sleepy men and glared.
¡°The king will condemn the murder of prominent merchants,¡± one of the men said.
¡°What king?¡±
The man looked uncomfortable.
¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Leo smiled. ¡°I will definitely hold a trial immediately following your deaths in order to get to the bottom of this conspiracy. And while we are doing that, you can voice your concern to his late majesty King Reinhold when you see him.¡±
I like this guy, Royce thought. ¡°Guess we¡¯d better get going.¡±
¡°Captain Wyberg will go with you. Good luck . . . Royce, is it?¡±
He sighed and nodded.
¡°Royce,¡± the duke said to himself as a curious, thoughtful look came over him. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that name before.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Royce told Roland and quickly headed for the door. He didn¡¯t want to discover what revelations the duke had uncovered.
V2: Chapter 22 - The Morning After
With nothing else to do, Hadrian had fallen asleep. He woke to the first light of dawn spilling down the wooden steps from the shack above. The three of them were still huddled in the stone cellar. Griswold sat where he¡¯d always been, hunched up with knees high, his long beard pooling on his lap, demonstrating the patience and unruffled composure of a rock. He still had the dagger, out and ready. Seton had curled up beside Hadrian using him as a pillow, her hair creating a pool of blond across his lap. He guessed she¡¯d done it for warmth, or perhaps as a precaution against treachery while she slept.
No one can steal me away without waking my protector.
For Hadrian, who was cold, cramped, and couldn¡¯t feel his hands, the beautiful mir was a wonderful comfort. In the newborn light that gave everything a spotless purity, she was something more than beautiful, more than a woman. In the same way, the first snowfall of the year was more than snow; both were transcendent.
She¡¯s so light, like having a cat sleep on me. Hadrian had always felt that cats were picky, untrusting things. Being fragile, they had to be. Whenever a cat sat on him, Hadrian felt special, as if the animal approved, and their acceptance was some sort of gift. Makes a body feel worthy of something to have a cat trust you that much.
Hadrian didn¡¯t feel worthy. I did one good thing. How quickly does a pure drop of rain disappear in a muddy lake? How many did I kill that night? I don¡¯t even remember. In her story, he was a monster who came to slaughter and maim. Hadrian had few illusions about those days, and his memories only got worse the farther he traveled east where civilization was little more than an inconvenient philosophy. Still, he¡¯d never really seen himself as evil.
But I was. Maybe I still am.
He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her body rising and falling gently, silently. Maybe she was a hundred years old and had witnessed and even participated in atrocities of her own. Maybe she had closets full of horrible regrets. Who didn¡¯t? But in that forgiving light, she was as innocent as a newly budded flower, and she was his savior.
Cats don¡¯t sleep on monsters, do they?
Noises turned Griswold¡¯s head and woke Seton. They all listened: voices coming from outside. The sound soaked through the walls of the overhead shack and dripped down through the gaps in the floorboards, conversations impossible to clearly hear. Identities were equally vague. Men and women were all Hadrian could reliably discern. Not many, two or three perhaps, but they were coming closer.
The dwarf climbed to his feet. ¡°Either your friend¡¯s back or time¡¯s up. If he¡¯s betrayed us . . .¡± He pointed the dagger at Hadrian, an old, dull blade. Is it the same one he uses to carve figurines? After seeing him with his family, after looking at the beauty he created out of wood, Hadrian found it hard to believe Griswold could kill. But Hadrian had been wrong before.
Maybe in a society of stoneworkers, wood carving is an indication of insanity. Griswold might be the sort of crazed killer that no one suspects. Hadrian had met a few of those. Young soldiers, usually the quiet ones that he worried might not be up to the task, revealed a different side on the battlefield. Normally constrained by social pressure, they felt a sense of freedom in combat that they never encountered in daily life. Killing, the ultimate taboo, became a necessary relief to the building pressure to conform. After the fight, they went back to their shadow life, but the taste of blood worked like an infection. They were the ones who volunteered for missions but fell into trouble after the war. Killers hiding in plain sight; pots boiling with sealed lids. Griswold might be like that.
Hadrian felt Seton stiffen as if she¡¯d had the same thought, and then the mir got to her feet as well, her eyes on the dagger.
¡°That was the deal he made,¡± Griswold told her.
The noise grew louder. Then footfalls hit the floor of the shack, thumping on the ceiling above.
¡°Hadrian?¡± Royce yelled.
Griswold shuffled away from the stairs and toward Hadrian.
¡°No!¡± Seton moved with surprising speed, thrusting herself between them and raising her hands, putting up the defense Hadrian couldn¡¯t.
Griswold¡¯s expression was grim, not gleeful. And Hadrian was pleased to see it. At least he doesn¡¯t want to kill me¡ªor maybe it¡¯s just her he regrets killing.
¡°Stop!¡± The order came from the stairs where Selie Nym descended. ¡°Griswold Dinge, you put that dagger away! Right now, you hear?¡±
¡°Why? What¡¯s happened? Where are Mercator and Villar?¡±
¡°Mercator Sikara is dead,¡± the Calian woman said.
This did nothing to improve the dwarf¡¯s attitude, and his expression went from grim to angry.
¡°Was it the small one who did it?¡±
Royce joined her at the bottom of the stairs and Griswold took a tighter grip on the dagger. Hadrian got to his feet.
The dwarf let out a heated growl. ¡°What happened to Mercator. I don¡¯t see¡ª¡±
¡°That¡¯s right, Griswold, you don¡¯t see anything!¡± The widow was furious. ¡°Mercator Sikara was murdered. And it¡¯s all your fault!¡±
¡°My fault? Don¡¯t be ridiculous. I¡¯ve been here, with them, all night.¡±
¡°Mercator was torn apart by a golem!¡±
She could have hit the dwarf with a bucket of water and gotten the same response. He stopped not only his movement toward Hadrian but even his breathing. A fortunate turn for Griswold, as by then Royce was past the widow, and Alverstone was out and ready to say hello.
¡°Drop the dagger or lose the hand,¡± Royce ordered in the sort of voice that allowed no hesitation or argument.
Griswold let his blade fall and backed away, but his eyes were still trained on Erasmus¡¯s widow, still aghast.
¡°Damn it,¡± Royce cursed, kicking the blade away and frowning at the dwarf. ¡°They never pick the choice I want.¡±
The dwarf had backed up all the way to the wall, retreating from more than Royce. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. How could a golem kill Mercator?¡±
¡°You tell me, you little bearded excuse for a mole rat!¡± The widow was filled with fury. ¡°Erasmus had always been against using those things, those evil, disgusting creatures, and now . . . now . . .¡± She took a deep breath to compose herself. ¡°Who have you taught that evil sorcery? Do you see what price has been paid? Mercator is dead and so is my Erasmus!¡±
¡°He killed your husband!¡± Griswold pointed at Hadrian.
¡°He didn¡¯t.¡± Seton looked at Selie in desperation.
The widow patted Seton¡¯s cheek. ¡°Honey, do you think I would believe anything coming out of his mouth? Erasmus¡¯s face was damn near chewed away. What happened to my . . . to my . . . that wasn¡¯t done by any man.¡±
¡°I¡ª¡± Seton began.
The widow was done with her but not with Griswold. ¡°You¡¯re the only one who knows . . . the only one who . . .¡± The widow put her hands to her hips, her eyes narrowing to the sort of slits archers used when targeting small prey. ¡°Hundreds of people saw a golem in the plaza last night! That stony monster climbed down the side of the cathedral, smashed into the gallery, and tore that poor woman apart. First my Erasmus, now Mercator. All because¡ª¡±
¡°It wasn¡¯t me. I was here with them.¡± He gestured toward Hadrian and Seton.
¡°But you showed others. You¡¯re the only one who knows how. Who else did you teach that vile black magic to? Who else can raise a golem?¡±
Griswold bowed his head. ¡°Just three of us, only three. I had to, you see, as a kind of safeguard. A way to ensure no single person, no one sect had more power than the others, and so each race would have equal power. I was one, your husband another . . .¡±
She glared. ¡°Who was the last?¡±
¡°Villar,¡± Royce said cutting Hadrian¡¯s bonds free.
The dwarf¡¯s eyes indicated agreement.
¡°Mercator figured it out,¡± Royce said. ¡°He never left any note with demands. He used Leopold¡¯s lack of action to fuel dissent and his bloody little war. He was trying to stop us from getting to the duke. Mercator tried to talk him out of it, but it didn¡¯t go so well.¡±
¡°Did you get into the Estate? Were you able to see the Duke?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce nodded. ¡°And he has Wyberg and a group of guild leaders in the meeting hall right now. They¡¯re discussing the duke¡¯s intentions and what changes will be coming. Looks like Mercator accomplished that much at least. There won¡¯t be any revolution.¡± He looked at Hadrian. ¡°I told Roland we¡¯d take care of getting the duchess back to the Estate.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s fingers suffered the dreaded pins and needles as blood flowed back to them. To his surprise, Seton, whose face was streaked with tears, took his hands and rubbed them.
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With his hands returning to normal, Hadrian clapped and rubbed them together. ¡°Let me get my swords, and we¡¯ll get going. So, where is she?¡± he asked Royce.
¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± He looked to Griswold.
The dwarf began shaking his head, though Hadrian doubted the dwarf was aware of it. He had a lost, horrified look, as if he¡¯d just woken up with blood on his hands. ¡°I don¡¯t know. No one does.¡±
¡°What do you mean no one?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°The duchess was the mir¡¯s responsibility, and only Villar and Mercator know where they took her. But the duchess isn¡¯t the real problem.¡±
¡°Then what is?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°If Villar doesn¡¯t want reforms and is only after bloodshed and violence, then . . .¡±
¡°Then nothing. He has no mob to follow his¡ª¡±
¡°He doesn¡¯t need anyone¡¯s help. You don¡¯t understand,¡± Griswold interrupted, his face white. ¡°He knows how to create a golem. You have no idea how much damage they can do.¡±
¡°Think I have a pretty good idea,¡± Royce said. ¡°Had one chasing me most of the night.¡±
¡°Trust me it can be much worse.¡±
¡°But why?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Why would Villar be so bent on violence?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°Frustration, revenge, hate. He blames others for his lot in life. His father never appreciated him. The weather has been cloudy. Take your pick. People have an inexhaustible supply of excuses to wreak havoc.¡±
¡°In this case, however, Villar has a once in a lifetime opportunity,¡± Griswold said. ¡°He can raise an unstoppable monster and later today, all the nobles of Alburn, the very people Villar blames for his misfortunes, are going to be gathered in one place. It¡¯d take no time for him to tear through that crowd.¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Villar¡¯s last golem had to have made an impression. It¡¯ll keep everyone away. People are probably fleeing the city as we speak.¡±
¡°We¡¯re talking about nobles vying for the crown,¡± Royce said. ¡°No one is going anywhere.¡±
Selie Nym nodded. ¡°It¡¯s Villar that we have to find.¡± She turned to the dwarf. ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t know exactly where he is, but you know something¡ªsome way to narrow the search.¡±
Griswold nodded. ¡°To raise a golem, you have to be on consecrated ground.¡±
¡°What does that mean?¡± Royce asked.
¡°It has to have been blessed, sacred. Otherwise, you¡¯re committing suicide.¡±
¡°How so?¡±
¡°Raising a golem requires trapping a demon and forcing it inside a statue. They don¡¯t like that, and the first person they¡¯ll kill is their creator. Golems can¡¯t step on consecrated ground, so that¡¯s the only safe place to raise one. If they can¡¯t reach the summoner, they¡¯re forced to act as his puppet.¡±
¡°Does that have something to do with the boxes you were handing out? Do they have to spread it around or something?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No, the boxes are filled with the residue, the waste bits and chips, that were chiseled off the statues when they were created. Using them, the summoner can animate the statue related to its corresponding bits. The plan had been for Erasmus, myself, and Villar to raise golems to aid in the uprising. I was going to use the church near the graveyard. The place where you saw me give Erasmus his box of gravel.¡±
¡°So, where else can this be done?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Will any graveyard work? Any church?¡±
¡°That¡¯s the thing. There aren¡¯t many places in Rochelle that meet the requirements. It¡¯s not like anyone can throw salt around and say some magic words. The site must be on a focal point.¡± Griswold looked at them and sighed again. ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain if you aren¡¯t a dwarf. Even hard for some of us to understand. So many of the old ways have been lost since we were scattered to the winds by the empire.¡± He cupped his hands. ¡°It¡¯s like this. There are places¡ªnatural places¡ªin the world that are centers of power. You¡¯ve heard of Avempartha, right? That¡¯s an example. Drumindor is another. Power rises to the surface in places like that, and people have built structures on them to harness that strength, sometimes without even knowing why.¡±
¡°Grom Galimus?¡± Royce said.
Griswold nodded. ¡°That¡¯s where Erasmus¡±¡ªhe looked at the widow and cringed¡ª¡°was going to raise his golem. Villar was going to be somewhere else.¡±
¡°Where?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. He wouldn¡¯t tell anyone.¡±
¡°How long can a summoner control his golem?¡± Royce asked.
¡°It comes down to a force of wills. The summoner needs to conduct the actions of the golem. You see through its eyes and direct its movements. But it hates being used, so the whole time you have to concentrate and be mindful about the amount of time the connection is in place. Keeping control for too long is dangerous.¡±
¡°How so?¡±
¡°Hang on too long, and you lose your soul and become permanently trapped inside the golem. It becomes immortal and nearly indestructible.¡±
¡°Yeah, okay,¡± Royce said. ¡°That¡¯s worse. How long does that take?¡±
¡°Generally, we try to not hold the connection for more than a few hours, but a golem can do a lot of damage in that amount of time. Best way to stop the summoner is to force him to sever the connection.¡±
¡°And how do you do that?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Distract, threaten, or kill him.¡±
¡°So the connection is broken if the summoner dies?¡±
¡°Yes.¡±
¡°Sounds like a plan to me.¡± A smile grew on Royce¡¯s lips.
¡°I think I would prefer stopping him before he makes another one,¡± Hadrian said, moving to the steps.
¡°What are you going to do?¡± Griswold asked.
Hadrian shrugged. ¡°We have a tendency to make this stuff up as we go.¡±
A mir had been waiting at the top of the stairs and handed Hadrian his weapons without saying a word. After Hadrian strapped them on, he jogged to catch up to Royce.
¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± he asked as they walked down a roadway. He knew it was called Center Street only because the name was neatly stenciled on a wooden road sign that the birds loved more than the residents did, as evidenced by the white streaks on the placard and pole. The street, as far as Hadrian could tell, tracked due west toward the plaza. He knew this not due to any growing understanding of the city, but because he could see the spires of Grom Galimus straight ahead. The tallest building by far in the city, the cathedral could always be seen rising above the other roofs.
¡°Not sure. I¡¯m thinking.¡±
The two were as alone as they could be that morning in a cramped city that was coming alive with the rising sun. Griswold, Seton, and Selie Nym had remained to aid Roland with quelling the rebellion.
¡°Happy first day of spring,¡± Hadrian offered along with a yawn as they walked by a shop where the owner flipped over a sign, presumably for the first time that year. It had read DRIED HERBS but now announced FRESH FLOWERS.
Royce gave him a sidelong glance. ¡°Don¡¯t do that again.¡±
¡°You have something against spring? When did that happen?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t offer yourself as a hostage.¡±
¡°Oh, that.¡± Hadrian yawned again. He hadn¡¯t gotten much sleep, and it was starting to drag on him.
¡°Don¡¯t Oh that me,¡± Royce reprimanded, sounding eerily like Evelyn Hemsworth. ¡°This is not a laughing matter. You put me in a box.¡±
¡°I put you in a box? See, I saw it as me putting myself in one.¡±
¡°You did both. In our line of business, associations are liabilities. Loyalties are points of weakness. They get you killed. If they had captured you, locked you up, that would have been fine. But you¡ª¡±
¡°How would that have been fine?¡±
¡°I would have just killed them.¡± Royce said this in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hadrian failed to question the boast.
If it had been anyone else, Hadrian would have passed it off as bombastic bluster, but Royce wasn¡¯t bragging, wasn¡¯t exaggerating to make a point. He was serious, and to him this was a practical matter. A basic trade rule, like not shoveling manure into the wind.
¡°But when you volunteer to act as collateral,¡± Royce went on, ¡°that puts me in a tight spot. The stakes go up, and I can¡¯t walk away if things take a nasty turn¡ªlike this one did.¡±
¡°Is this your way of saying you care about me?¡±
Royce continued his Evelyn Hemsworth impersonation by displaying an I-can¡¯t-believe-you-really-exist expression. ¡°This is my way of saying you¡¯re an idiot, and the next time you do something that stupid, I¡¯ll let them kill you.¡±
Hadrian smiled. ¡°You really like me, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Shut up.¡±
¡°I feel bad now,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I didn¡¯t get you anything for Spring Day.¡±
Royce walked faster, shaking his head as he moved forward.
The sun was barely up, but already the day displayed all the indications that it would be glorious. The sky was blue, the sunshine bright, the temperature warmer than it had been in days. Birds built nests under the eaves of shops as owners threw wide winter shutters, letting the birdsong in. How rare that the first day of spring lived up to expectations. That sentiment was on every face as people crept out of dark homes to celebrate the holiday of rebirth. Mothers dressed their children in fine clothes, delivering stern ultimatums and handing out rules against doing anything beyond standing still. Young women burst out of doorways, resembling budding flowers as they twirled their dresses of bright yellows, pinks, and greens, full of excitement that they might attract the attention of a handsome bee or two.
The usual vendors were not present in the plaza. Even they had taken the day off. In their place, musical bands were in the process of setting up while men who moved awkwardly in waistcoats, capes, and shiny-buckled shoes set up banquet tables or roped off squares for dancing. One area suffered from an odd break in the boundary where several shattered paving stones created a nasty crater. Hadrian noted that even though the steps of the gallery had been cleaned, there was still a rusty tinge on some of them, and one of the beautiful doors had been battered and torn. The tragedy of the previous night had been mostly erased by the morning light and the new season, but just like winter, the hardships couldn¡¯t be entirely forgotten. The people in the plaza moved around the crater and avoided the steps to the gallery. Still, they were unwavering in their efforts to celebrate the spring. Surviving was often a matter of moving forward. Moving forward was a matter of putting yesterday in the past, and all of it began with putting one foot ahead of the other, remembering how to smile, how to dance, and especially, remembering that laughing wasn¡¯t disrespectful; it was essential.
Hadrian¡¯s attention was pulled away by the grand procession underway as ten men carried a massive garland-festooned post across the bridge. The Springpole, streaming ribbons of various colors, was headed to the plaza, where it would be erected for the opening dance. Hadrian¡¯s home village of Hintindar put up a Springpole every year as well, though not nearly so big. He imagined every town did. Rochelle planned on celebrating on a scale Hadrian couldn¡¯t imagine. Feeling the energy and anticipation, he wanted to join in, help put up the pole, roll out the barrels, and find a partner for the Rabbit Run and the Blossom Ball. But they still had work to do.
As if realizing only then that he was walking, Royce stopped. He took in a long breath and let out a sigh of frustration.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve got nothing. Villar is the only one left who knows where the duchess is.¡± Royce looked around at all the congested buildings. ¡°He could be anywhere!¡±
¡°No,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°He has to be somewhere special, someplace sacred.¡±
¡°Sure, okay, but what is considered special or holy in Rochelle? Do you know? Because I don¡¯t. This is the problem with taking jobs outside our neighborhood. Even Griswold, who I¡¯m guessing has lived here his whole life, only knew about two places. And if Erasmus was using the cathedral and the dwarf the old church, then where was Villar going? Griswold would have mentioned other sites if he knew any.¡±
¡°Villar knows of at least one more, obviously,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°He¡¯s a mir, and mir live for a long time, right? So it might be something ancient. Something everyone else has forgotten about.¡±
¡°How does that help?¡±
¡°Maybe we just need to find someone who knows a lot about the ancient history of Rochelle.¡± Hadrian smiled. ¡°Can you think of anyone like that, Royce?¡±
Royce¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Oh, you are kidding me.¡±
V2: Chapter 23 - A Prayer To Novron
Like the rest of the city, Mill Street had been transformed. The quiet thoroughfare of dignified stone homes was festooned with whimsical decorations. Nearly every house had garlands of spring flowers and pastel-colored ribbons in loops beneath windows. Some homeowners extended the loops beneath two windows, creating smiling faces with flowered lips and crisscrossed-glass eyes. Here, too, groups of residents gathered in small clumps, chatting on a street devoid of its normal traffic. Five men in tall hats spoke in the middle of the road. A larger group of women in hoop skirts gathered near the lamppost, which had been trimmed with a spiraling green ribbon. One bent down to pet a little pug-nosed dog.
¡°Where have you two been?¡± Evelyn burst out the moment they entered the house. With arms tightly folded, she stood beside a table of uneaten food. ¡°Just when I thought you¡¯d been tamed, you prove that wild animals can never truly be domesticated.¡± She looked at the grand banquet she had prepared, as if she might cry. ¡°But even a wild animal . . .¡± She waved at the table. ¡°It¡¯s food after all. Even a cave-dwelling beast will make a habit of being on time for a feast.¡±
¡°Our sincere apologies,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We were unavoidably detained.¡±
¡°Whose prison?¡± she asked.
Royce wiped his feet on the doormat and removed his cloak. Hadrian took off his sword belt. They needed her cooperation and couldn¡¯t afford to irritate Evelyn any more than she already appeared to be.
¡°Did the duke catch you, or was it some underworld thug who locked you up?¡±
¡°What makes you¡ª¡±
¡°Oh, honestly.¡± She scowled and grabbed her skirt while stepping to the head of the table. Royce moved quickly and pulled out the chair for her. She frowned. ¡°If I look that simple-minded to you, I suggest investing in canes to help you walk like all the others Novron punished with blindness. The only surprise about you two is that my silverware hasn¡¯t gone missing, which, incidentally, is the only reason you are still here. I have friends in the duke¡¯s court. My husband was very popular there, you know. In a way, he, more than the duke, paid their salaries. I would have seen both of you in chains if so much as a toothpick had been pilfered.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t even see the toothpicks.¡± Royce glanced at Hadrian.
Hadrian shook his head.
Evelyn tilted hers and peered sternly at the both of them. ¡°At this point, there is nothing either of you can say to redeem yourselves. I told you no jiggery-pokery, did I not? No shady business. But here we are. I¡¯d throw you out now, but I can¡¯t stand wasting food. So, sit down and eat your last meal under my roof. Immediately afterward, please gather your things and leave. I¡¯ll have no more to do with either of you.¡±
¡°But¡ª¡± Hadrian started.
She shut him down with a raised hand. ¡°No! No, I don¡¯t want to hear your excuses! Just eat and get out. The eggs are ruined, and the pastries are likely hard, but that¡¯s your fault.¡±
They settled into chairs. Hadrian reached to uncover the food plates but Royce stopped him.
¡°What are you waiting for?¡± Evelyn asked, annoyed.
¡°We haven¡¯t given thanks.¡± And before Evelyn could reply, Royce bowed his head. ¡°We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food Mrs. Hemsworth has made for us, and apologize for being late. We weren¡¯t in a prison. Well, Hadrian was, sort of, but only because he volunteered to risk his life to save the Duchess of Rochelle. She¡¯s still alive, by the way, but being held prisoner by a murderous mir¡ªthe same one who brought the stone gargoyle to life and hurt all those people in the plaza. Oh, and it killed Mercator Sikara, a mir who was only trying to keep peace between the Pitifuls and the nobles. More would have died if I hadn¡¯t managed to lure the thing to the top of Grom Galimus and cause it to fall, shattering on the plaza. Despite all this, we would have still been on time except we haven¡¯t yet found the mir holding the duchess, and we¡¯re in a bit of a hurry because he may kill her at any moment. Oh, yeah, and he¡¯s intent on unleashing a great deal of bloodshed later today. So, Lord Novron, we¡¯ve been a tad busy. We hope you understand and forgive us for our tardiness.¡±
Royce looked at Evelyn, who stared at him incredulously.
¡°May we prove worthy of your kindness.¡± She concluded the prayer with wide eyes that looked back at Royce, dumbfounded.
Hadrian gave her a big smile as he uncovered the food and scooped spoonfuls onto his plate, then passed it on to Royce.
¡°Are you . . . was that true?¡± she asked.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t lie to Novron,¡± Royce told her through a mouthful of eggs, which were not at all ruined.
¡°Who are you?¡±
Royce glanced at Hadrian. Normally this was where his less experienced partner would put them in jeopardy, openly admitting everything because someone had gone to all the trouble of asking. Hadrian, however, kept himself occupied with the meal. Neither of them had dined the night before, and Hadrian was fond of repeating the military axiom: Never pass up a chance to eat or sleep, as you don¡¯t know when you¡¯ll get another opportunity.
Royce turned back to Evelyn Hemsworth, who waited with a cringing expression, a look that was half dread and half curiosity. She wanted to know, and at the same time she didn¡¯t. Royce used the moment it took to chew and swallow to mentally sort through the most reasonable replies. None worked for this. After his acrobatics, and his admission that they were seeking to save the duchess, he couldn¡¯t exactly pretend they were traveling merchants or agents for such. He toyed with the idea of saying they were undercover Seret Knights, but Royce was certain Evelyn knew more about the Seret than he did. He also considered refusing to answer at all, but that wouldn¡¯t do. They needed her help, and while his message of grace had blunted her anger, she was many leagues from trusting him.
With all other options eliminated, and this being an absurd situation, Royce tried something utterly ridiculous. He once more borrowed from Hadrian¡¯s example. ¡°We were hired by Gabriel Winter of Colnora to come to Rochelle and find Genny Winter, his missing daughter. Mister Winter thought she might have been murdered. What we discovered was she hadn¡¯t been killed but kidnapped. She was taken by a loose coalition of the city¡¯s underprivileged, who hoped to influence the duke¡¯s policies by a route that avoided a full-scale revolution. However, it turned out that not everyone wanted to avoid the insurrection. A mir named Villar intends to use dwarven magic to create another stone golem to kill everyone at the Feast of Nobles today.¡±
Royce waited for the explosion. He expected Evelyn to demand that they leave, or to see if she would shout for the city guard, calling for their arrest. At the very least, she would loudly deny everything he said. He also expected a good helping of disbelief concerning the raising of golems. Royce had arguments ready, but they weren¡¯t good ones. The truth was a poor weapon when fighting faith, but he was prepared to do battle nonetheless.
¡°Oh my blessed Novron!¡± she exclaimed in shock. Her hands came down, two wrinkled fists pounding the table, soundly ringing the porcelain plates. ¡°Then why are you just sitting here?¡±
Royce and Hadrian looked at each other, surprised.
¡°You . . . you . . . believe me?¡± Royce asked.
¡°It makes perfect sense, doesn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°It does?¡± Royce looked at Hadrian, who had a mouthful of pastry and could only shrug.
¡°Absolutely,¡± Evelyn said. ¡°And besides, everyone saw you and the golem wreaking havoc through the gallery and across the cathedral. That¡¯s hard to argue with. So, shouldn¡¯t you two be out looking for this Villar fellow? If what you say is accurate, he¡¯s been recruited to murder every noteworthy noble in Alburn.¡±
¡°We are,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We didn¡¯t actually come for breakfast.¡±
She watched him chew a huge mouthful. ¡°No?¡±
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¡°We need to ask you about Rochelle,¡± Royce said. ¡°We¡¯re looking for any special places, ancient churches or something that might be considered deeply sacred.¡±
¡°Grom Galimus,¡± she replied instantly.
¡°Besides that,¡± Hadrian managed to say after he swallowed.
Evelyn thought a moment. ¡°Well, there is supposed to be an ancient burial ground up in Littleton. Dates back to the early imperial age. I¡¯ve never been there. Littleton, or ¡®Little Town¡¯ as it was once called, is the dwarven ghetto. Not a safe neighborhood, you understand.¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been there,¡± Royce said. ¡°But that¡¯s not it, either. There has to be another place, maybe something related to mir?¡±
Evelyn pondered while pouring tea for herself. Royce and Hadrian watched as she deposited two cubes of sugar and stirred. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I can¡¯t think of anyplace else like that. Of course, you could visit the gallery. That¡¯s what I¡¯d do.¡±
¡°Already been there, twice,¡± Royce said.
¡°And from what I¡¯ve heard, I shouldn¡¯t send you a third time lest the entire place be destroyed, but there are old maps. One in particular hangs on the third-floor wall. It¡¯s very big and believed to have been drawn by the original surveyors who laid out Rochelle. You might find what you¡¯re looking for on it.¡±
Royce and Hadrian pushed away from the table.
¡°Good luck, gentlemen,¡± Evelyn said.
Royce stopped and looked back. He reminded himself he hated this strict, authoritarian, erudite woman, but with no success. Had life seen fit to give him a mother, Royce suspected she really would have been something like Evelyn. Anything less would have been useless. ¡°You might want to leave,¡± he told her.
¡°Leave?¡± Evelyn said. ¡°Leave what?¡±
¡°Get out of the city.¡±
¡°Are you suggesting I flee?¡± She signaled her indignation with a raised eyebrow.
¡°Look, Villar harbors a good deal of resentment against those he feels suppressed his people. You¡¯re pretty much the face of that fellowship. Everyone knows about your hatred for mir, and if you¡¯re¡ª¡±
¡°I do not!¡± she snapped. ¡°Why would you say such a thing?¡±
¡°Because we learned about your room for rent from one.¡±
Hadrian nodded his support. ¡°A young mother living on the street just a block down from here with her child. Said she could knock on your door all day, but you¡¯d never take her in.¡±
¡°I can assure you, she never came here. I don¡¯t see how she could conclude such a thing if she never bothered to so much as knock.¡±
¡°When the Dirty Tankard refuses to let you a room,¡± Royce said, ¡°it doesn¡¯t seem too likely that the wealthy widow on Mill Street is going to invite you into her parlor.¡±
Evelyn looked at the rug with a thoughtful frown.
¡°Would you have let her a room?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°A mir with a child in her arms?¡±
Evelyn hesitated. ¡°I let you two in, didn¡¯t I?¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°And what does it tell you when you compare two shifty foreign men to a homeless mother and her child? I¡¯m just saying, if we can¡¯t stop Villar, there¡¯s a good chance he might seek vengeance in places like Mill Street. Leave. Stay. It¡¯s your choice, but if I were you, I¡¯d disappear for a while.¡±
Evelyn folded her arms with her normal self-righteous indignation. ¡°Well, I think we can be quite thankful that I¡¯m not you. Now get out of here.¡±
Royce picked up his cloak and a pastry. Hadrian grabbed his sword belt, strapping it on as they headed for the door.
¡°Wait!¡± she called to them as they started down the hill toward the gallery.
¡°What?¡± Royce asked.
Evelyn once again hesitated as she stood on the stoop, then said, ¡°Don¡¯t be late for breakfast again, or I really will throw you out.¡± With that, she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut.
No one stopped Royce and Hadrian from entering the Imperial Gallery. The two didn¡¯t draw attention even when they climbed the steps and slipped through the bent gap in the bronze doors. Inside, the grand hall was a mess, debris everywhere. What looked to Hadrian to be a giant scaffold lay strewn across the floor. The snapped wooden beams were splintered and wrapped in cloth that had been ripped and torn. The thing had a papier-mach¨¦ head like an alligator and huge leathery bat wings. Little more than thin material stretched over bowed sticks, it reminded Hadrian of toys he¡¯d watched kids play with in Mandalin. They would run with playthings tethered to strings until the wind blew the toys into the sky. Maybe that¡¯s what this is, a giant wind toy.
Under the ripped cloth and broken timber were shards of broken vases, the remains of chalky, white busts of dignified people, and toppled pedestals. Tears of blood, dried drips on statues and paintings, had yet to be addressed. He surmised this was where Mercator had been killed¡ªtorn apart, Erasmus Nym¡¯s widow had said. There had been an uncharacteristic look of revulsion on Royce¡¯s face, but such sights weren¡¯t unfamiliar to Hadrian. In Calis, men were ripped apart by bulls or torn to shreds by lions, both in the name of entertainment, and while arenas always had sand-covered courtyards that could be raked, the walls were dyed a ruddy brown from the layers of splatter. Gore on a grand scale was one more love letter addressed to Hadrian from an unwanted past. They were stacking up.
The gallery had an odor. Hadrian knew what death smelled like, and it wasn¡¯t that. At least, it wasn¡¯t the stench of decomposing bodies, nor even blood; but it was similar. The scent reminded him of rotting straw, or a stagnant pond, a musty, almost spicy fragrance of decay.
Hadrian had an urge to look around. The gallery was filled with so many strange and wondrous items set out as exhibits. Weapons both refined and crude. A large bow hung on the wall beside a spear and a series of swords, two of which bore a close resemblance to the one on Hadrian¡¯s back. There were shields, cups of painted clay, woodcarvings, sets of armor, musical instruments, furniture, cloaks, hats, lamps, rakes, and still-corked bottles; even a window, complete with its frame, hung on the wall. He only managed a glance as Royce led him in a rush up the stairs to the third floor.
The marble steps bore sharp chips and cracks and indents the size and shape of large feet. The golem? Hadrian wondered. Looking down, he placed his own feet in the same spots. The golem would have dwarfed him. A giant stone beast wasn¡¯t something he wanted to fight.
The map wasn¡¯t as easy to find as it should have been. The thing was huge and took up one whole wall, but it didn¡¯t look like a map. The ones Hadrian had seen comprised fine lines of iron gall ink on parchment. This was a tapestry. A massive wall hanging with needlework so fine it must have taken years to complete. The artwork was colorful, filled with shades of green for the forests and blues for the ocean and rivers; in the fields were dazzling splashes of yellow, pink, and purple wildflowers.
The perspective of the image was as if the viewer were a bird flying at a slight angle so that buildings and hills had depth and dimension. The coast was easy to recognize, as were the Roche River and Governor¡¯s Isle, but little else was familiar. The map showed a bridge linking the banks and the island, but there was no building on the isle itself. Instead, cows grazed on what looked to be a pasture. The plaza wasn¡¯t on the map, either, nor Grom Galimus. Instead, a little clump of trees marked that spot. There were roads, but few followed the same paths as the modern ones. Mill Street was nothing but a path that led to, not surprisingly, a mill. The city center was located farther to the east, centered on the smaller stream that today ran through Little Gur Em and the Rookery. A dock was there, not far from the modern one, and several small homes clustered up the slope. The town was tiny, rural, and more a village than a city. The focal point of everything, in the exact middle of the tapestry, was a round building east of the Rookery. It possessed a dome like Grom Galimus but was significantly smaller. Pillars held the roof up, forming a circular, open-air colonnade that stood on a raised dais.
¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Royce asked, pointing to the same building Hadrian was puzzling over.
¡°A church?¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t look like any church I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±
¡°A temple?¡±
¡°To whom?¡±
Hadrian peered at the map, but there was no writing. He shrugged. ¡°How old do you think this map is?¡±
¡°It obviously predates the city, or maybe this was the start of it. The graveyard and Grom Galimus aren¡¯t shown, so . . .¡±
¡°So, what? Imperial times?¡±
¡°At least; maybe even earlier.¡±
¡°What does it mean?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°It means we should have dragged Evelyn here, because I have no idea.¡±
¡°But that¡±¡ªHadrian pointed to the temple¡ª¡°that looks like something special, right? Something . . .¡±
¡°Sacred?¡± Royce finished for him.
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Do you know where it is?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Up on a hill. Looks like if we go to the Rookery, head east, and search for high ground, we might find it.¡±
¡°How long do you think we have before Villar attacks?¡±
¡°The Feast of Nobles is midday, right? That¡¯s when it¡¯s held in Colnora and Ratibor.¡±
¡°Same in Hintindar and Medford.¡±
Royce looked at the windows. ¡°So, we still have a few hours if Villar sticks to the plan to catch all the nobles at the feast.¡±
¡°What are the odds of that?¡±
¡°At this point?¡± Royce scowled. ¡°We should hurry.¡±
Hadrian agreed but was disappointed. ¡°We should come back here. I¡¯d love to look through this place.¡±
¡°Absolutely not,¡± Royce said. ¡°We are never coming back.¡±
¡°Be careful,¡± Hadrian warned him. ¡°My father used to tell me: Never say never on any endeavor; it sounds like a dare to gods that don¡¯t care. If the likes of us prosper, fail, or falter; it matters not while they roll with laughter on an altar, at our miserable, sad little lives.¡±
Royce looked over and smiled. ¡°I think I would have liked your father.¡±
V2: Chapter 24 - Haunted
Oswal Tynewell concluded what he knew to be his final service as the Bishop of Alburn. By the end of the day, his title would be different¡ªhis world certainly would be. Standing on the raised altar, he watched the people leave. They spilled out like water swirling through a funnel. Choked by the big doors, they clogged into a crowd. The exodus took longer than usual because the high masses always drew greater crowds. Usually, the cathedral never got close to full. Grom Galimus was a monster of a church, his grand flagship that sailed the stormy seas of iniquity. There simply wasn¡¯t enough faith in the city to satisfy its belly. Normally such an idea distressed him, made him feel he wasn¡¯t succeeding in his role as spiritual leader. That morning, he couldn¡¯t have cared less about that role, and he wished for a smaller flock. Or at least a faster one.
He wanted them out, all of them gone so he could shut and bolt the doors. The time had arrived, and Oswal was uncomfortable watching his sheep as they went to slaughter. Not so distressed as to stop or warn them, of course. He felt merely a disquiet, the sort of unease one faces when delivering a white lie. That¡¯s what it was, a positive wrapped in a negative, a good intention shrouded in wolf¡¯s clothing. He would benefit the most initially, but everyone would make out in the long run. They would all see that in time.
Oswal knew this was true. He accepted it without reservation, but that hadn¡¯t always been the case. At first, Oswal had ignored his calling. Grom Galimus has a voice, it was said. She spoke to people who took the time to open their hearts and listen. When first appointed, Oswal believed this to be a metaphor that dovetailed neatly with the strange and inexplicable creaks and groans of the old cathedral. He knew better now.
Thinking back, he was surprised it had taken a whole year.
He¡¯d been working in the office and had left his feathered quill in the bottle. The wind from an open window had blown the inkwell over, ruining hours of carefully worded letters to his fellow bishops¡ªthe sort of mindless drudgery that was a grind to get through. The whole pile of silly, pointless reports had been soaked, making them illegible. He¡¯d cried out in despair. Smashed his fists on the desk and wept. He sobbed like a child, not merely for the loss of the letters, but the need for them in the first place.
What has my life become? he had thought.
It wasn¡¯t merely the letters, it was everything. He was the Bishop of Alburn, curator of Grom Galimus, but he saw his future grow clear out of the mist. His life would be no more than a handful of ledgers and reports, the same as his predecessors¡¯. How can this be? he¡¯d thought as he cried into the ink-stained desk. I always thought I was chosen¡ªdestined for more. How could I have risen to this seat merely to keep it clean and tidy? Something has to happen.
And something did. That was the night he first heard the whispers, the voice of Grom Galimus. Only it wasn¡¯t one voice, it was two, and they called his name.
The last of the faithful funneled out, including the boys and the ushers who were all eager to join the festival crowds, and Oswal personally shut and locked the great doors. This left him alone in the church. No, he thought, I¡¯m not. The Calian had to be around somewhere, but he didn¡¯t want to know where he was or what exactly he was doing. He refused to involve himself further in the details of the day¡¯s events. A blind eye was best.
My part in this is done.
He returned to his office, slipped inside, and locked the door. He didn¡¯t want visitors. Or more precisely, he didn¡¯t want any more of them. Tynewell was never alone in that office.
He removed the miter from his head and set it in the case, careful to pull the tails up before closing the cabinet doors. After slipping off his high vestments and hanging them up in the wardrobe, he poured wine into a silver chalice and sat down in his undershirt. Kicking his slippers off, he threw his hairy legs up on the desk and drank. He paused and raised the cup.
¡°To a better future, gentlemen,¡± he said, hoping they didn¡¯t notice how his hand shook.
But of course they do. They see everything, don¡¯t they? No sense denying it. They know what I am.
¡°I suppose you two never had doubts as you piloted the waters of your own lives, did you? Never had . . .¡± He almost said fears but caught himself. ¡°Concerns. Well, we all know I¡¯m not either of you.¡± He turned to Novron, who was forever holding up either the exact same silver chalice Oswal now held or its sister. He gesticulated with his goblet so that the wine spilled. ¡°After all, I¡¯m not the son of a god like you are. You have to admit that¡¯s a pretty big advantage. Not really fair, when you think about it. And I¡¯m certain things were easier in your day. Fewer people to deal with at least, less bureaucracy. And you had the Rhelacan. I don¡¯t have any magic weapons at my disposal to sweep aside my enemies.¡±
His words were forceful, loud, and confident; no humble self-effacing blather allowed. That was how he had to talk to Novron. The emperor couldn¡¯t hear him otherwise. Then Oswal gestured at Venlin, a bit more slowly, but the wine still spilled down his knuckles. ¡°And you! What are you crowing about? What competition did you have? You were revered, and already the undisputed head of the church, and you had an army that would¡±¡ªhe paused to lick the wine from his fingers¡ª¡°take turns cleaning your sandals with their tongues if you told them to. So don¡¯t look at me like that. I have it hard¡ªharder than either of you.¡± He swallowed a mouthful of wine. It was much better than the watered-down service vino. ¡°I have to claw my way.¡± He held up his empty hand. ¡°Do you see these fingers? Worn to a nub, every one. And these feet!¡± He sat back and held the bottoms out to the painting. ¡°Sore from the bloody balancing act I¡¯ve been doing. I¡¯m a lion tamer trapped in a cage with a dozen hungry beasts. ¡®Up! Up!¡¯ I yell, but do they listen?¡±
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Oswal settled back and breathed, letting the chalice rest on the arm of the chair. Outside the window, he could hear laughter, shouts, and musicians¡¯ instruments being tuned up. Such children, he thought. They have no idea what¡¯s about to happen.
He didn¡¯t worry so much about his flock. They were docile things. But the Alburn aristocracy, the wealthy merchants and clerks, and the military were another matter. He couldn¡¯t run the kingdom without them. If they refused to recognize him as ruler, which they would if they suspected his involvement in the massacre, or if they found a suitable surviving noble, he¡¯d have a civil war on his hands. A war that he had no army to fight. All he had was faith. That, too, could be taken away.
¡°What will the patriarch do? Will he recognize me as the rightful ruler of Alburn?¡±
Of course! Venlin said, his smooth delivery two parts velvet and one part barrel-aged whiskey. Venlin was the intellectual of the two, the brilliant confidant and adviser, the shrewd politician. That old recluse granted you complete freedom to choose the best successor to Reinhold. He did so because you know each of the candidates personally. Who better to select the most devoted, the most pliable, the best ally. You¡¯re doing that. He can¡¯t get upset because you did what he asked.
¡°But it¡¯s probably not how he expected me to do it.¡±
Novron scoffed. Are you serious? Doing what people expect gets you nothing and nowhere. Honestly, man! How did you rise in the ranks with that attitude?
¡°I should have asked permission, shouldn¡¯t I? I mean, it feels like such a deception.¡±
Novron shook his head and addressed Venlin. Talk sense into him before I throw him out the window, will you?
Venlin sighed. It doesn¡¯t matter if it¡¯s a lie or not. If it helps you sleep, then wrap it around you each night and smile. If you had asked for consent, or even floated the idea past Saldur when he was here, you know he wouldn¡¯t have liked it. Better to seek forgiveness than ask for permission. What you count on is that the world will come to see the truth in time. At first, it sounds crazy; worse, it sounds conceited and self-centered. But you were granted the choice to anoint whomever you saw fit, and Oswal, you¡¯re going to do just that. There isn¡¯t anyone in the running who isn¡¯t a shortsighted, self-centered idiot. And, of course, all the candidates will be dead.
Novron parroted back Saldur¡¯s words, Well, whoever you pick, best keep in mind that he actually has to rule a kingdom, you know?
That was why he had to pick himself, but Saldur wouldn¡¯t see it that way, and Maurice Saldur was typical of the church. Oswal was the Bishop of Alburn, but somehow Maurice Saldur was more influential. How that was possible was hard to determine. Perhaps it was location. He was Bishop of Medford, and that was but a short carriage ride to Ervanon.
I didn¡¯t actually chat with the patriarch. I¡¯ve never seen the man.
Oswal was certain this had to be a lie. While he was busy writing letters, Saldur was handling affairs like the disappearance of the Eternal Empire. Even after botching his own efforts to replace the ruling family of Melengar, Nilnev had given Saldur another chance. He hadn¡¯t even trusted Oswal to take care of his own king.
They all have it better than you, Novron told him. And Saldur isn¡¯t your problem. Garrick Gervaise, lord of Blythin Castle, is the ox you¡¯ll need to yoke or slay.
Oswal nodded. He was about to defy the intent, if not the letter, of the patriarch¡¯s orders while living in the shadow of the Seret¡¯s base and ancestral home. Blythin Castle was less than a day¡¯s ride up the coast to the east, and the castle commander wasn¡¯t a philosophical man. Reason and logic, to Garrick Gervaise, were sinful things. Oswal knew that convincing the black knight to support him wouldn¡¯t be easy. Garrick wouldn¡¯t see Oswal¡¯s initiative as a positive development. After all, Garrick saw his job as regulating the clergy, and crowning oneself king would certainly attract close scrutiny. Handling Gervaise would be his most dangerous battle.
If only he would attend the feast.
Oswal settled deeper into his chair and drained his cup. He felt exhausted, the sort of fatigue that hits only after all the work is finished.
¡°Is it finished?¡± he asked.
For now¡ªyour part at least, Novron said. All the pieces are in motion.
He got up and searched for the bottle to refill the chalice.
¡°I don¡¯t want to kill them, the nobles, I mean, but it¡¯s best to eliminate one¡¯s competition.¡± He held his cup away from the desk as he poured so as not to spill on anything important. Although his hands had stopped shaking, his head felt a tad loose, and he had a vague sense of it floating like a bubble on his shoulders. This was only his second cup, but he had hardly touched the breakfast tray. He couldn¡¯t eat then, but he thought he might now. I¡¯d better, or at the rate I¡¯m drinking I¡¯ll pass out before the feast.
Would that be so bad? Novron asked.
You do need an excuse not to attend, Venlin said. You can¡¯t trust Villar to contain his violence to only those dressed in blue.
V2: Chapter 25 - Keys and Coins
By the time Villar woke up, the sun was high. Light streamed in through the drape that Mercator had hung in place of a door. The old one had likely rotted away centuries ago. The new drape was¡ªlike everything else Mercator touched¡ªblue. The long dyed cloth fluttered lazily, letting in varying degrees of brilliant sunlight, changing the shadows in the room. For a long moment, Villar lay on the floor, feeling the pleasant flower-scented breeze and watching the light war with the darkness. Sunbeams ricocheted up the wall, exposing the dye-stained pots and dust motes. Then the breeze exhausted itself, the cloth fell flat, and the room returned to its dull darkness. Outside, birds sang and bees hummed. A perfect spring day, he thought with detached judgment, as if he weren¡¯t part of it but rather some distant observer.
That aloof perception lasted no more than a minute. It took that long for the pain to catch up with his sleep-muddled mind. When it did, the observer became the tortured. Villar felt terrible. He always did the morning after. His head throbbed, his body ached, and his muscles were drained. He continued to lie there, breathing slowly, letting the blood bang at his temples. It would subside in a little while, always had in the past. That¡¯s when he realized this wasn¡¯t like the other times. He¡¯d stayed with the golem longer than usual because the little hooded foreigner was fast and agile and saw him coming. That was odd. No one had ever seen him before. But that wasn¡¯t all that made this time different. Villar felt pain in his chest. It, too, throbbed, but it also burned, and that didn¡¯t make any sense at all.
Grunting as he engaged stiff muscles, he rolled to his side, his elbow and hip hurting where they pressed against the floor. He had lain down on a blanket, one of the blue-dyed ones that Mercator had stacked all over. Should have used more than one. Should have used all of them, made a thick comfortable cocoon. He¡¯d learned never to run a golem while standing or even sitting. Too easy to become disoriented and fall. When in the golem and on the hunt, the experience was so vivid it was easy to forget it wasn¡¯t his body running, jumping, and fighting. Everything was so real.
Villar didn¡¯t know his safety point¡ªhow long he could maintain the connection without going too far. Griswold had warned him never to remain for more than two chimes of Grom Galimus, but that was only a rough estimate; he didn¡¯t think the dwarf really knew. Villar speculated that the cutoff point would be different for each person. Not everyone¡¯s strength of will was the same. It stood to reason that an individual with a strong sense of himself could maintain the golem longer. The real concern, as Villar saw it¡ªand perhaps this tied in to the idea of losing one¡¯s soul¡ªwas that in the heat of things, it was easy to miss the passage of time, and everything else. Still, Villar was confident he hadn¡¯t gotten anywhere near two chimes. And for the first time, it wasn¡¯t he who had severed the connection. The connection had vanished all by itself.
No, not by itself. The golem had been destroyed, and I was nearly killed. That¡¯s what happened, but how?
When he possessed a golem, he wasn¡¯t actually there. The golem acted on his commands, but no matter what happened to the creature, Villar was safe because he was miles away. The whole process worked much like a dream. Dreams, no matter how awful, were safe; they had no power to penetrate the real world. He thought hard. Trying to remember. Then it came to him. The gargoyle had fallen off the cathedral and hit the plaza. The moment it struck the ground, the connection snapped, releasing whatever demon he¡¯d trapped in the stone, but because the gargoyle fell rather than Villar, that was all that should have happened.
Then why do I have this pain in my chest?
Thinking perhaps the pain was imaginary, a lingering, vivid memory, Villar reached up and touched the spot that hurt. Running fingertips lightly, he found that his shirt was stiff, stuck painfully to his skin. Gritting his teeth and emitting a pained grunt, he pulled the tunic off. With the agony of ripping off a scab, he tore the cloth free of his skin. Thank Ferrol, I don¡¯t have hair on my chest. On the shirt, a large rusty-red stain radiated out in a circle from a small slice in the garment. Touching his bare chest, he felt a very real wound.
I was stabbed. I was stabbed? How could that have happened?
The wound wasn¡¯t deep. It had cut the skin but was stopped by the sternum. Judging by his shirt, however, the injury had caused more than its fair amount of bleeding.
After the two strangers had broken into the meeting, Villar had left and waited outside. He¡¯d watched as the hooded foreigner and Mercator set off together. The two had a plan to contact the duke. If they succeeded, everything could unravel. If they convinced Leo to intercede, no one would support the revolt. He couldn¡¯t allow that. When the two went separate ways, he considered killing the foreigner but wasn¡¯t certain he could. The prior chase across the rooftops had made him second-guess his chances. Instead, Villar came up with a better plan, an easier and ultimately far more enjoyable one. He would use a golem.
He¡¯d followed Mercator back to the temple and waited for her to leave again. The ancient ruin had been the perfect place to keep the duchess. It existed at the three-way intersection of the remote, the secluded, and the inaccessible. No one ever went up there¡ªtoo much trouble and too many brambles along the way. This had long been Mercator¡¯s secret craft shop, and all her dyed cloth was worth a small fortune. She¡¯d used this place as a safe haven and wisely never told anyone about it.
The ruins made an excellent place for him to store his supplies as well. Over the previous months, Griswold had provided him several boxes of gravel, keys to various statues stationed around the city. He had plenty to choose from. And of course, he had his hearts, a reagent he had to provide for himself. They were not nearly as plentiful as the gravel. He had been down to his last two, but that problem could be easily rectified. He¡¯d have the golem collect several more before breaking the connection. It was worth risking a heart to stop the foreigner and Mercator from reaching the Estate.
Once Mercator left, he entered. In his haste, he didn¡¯t bother with his usual safeguards. This wasn¡¯t the main event, merely a brief interlude. He¡¯d be safe enough; only he and Mercator knew about the ruin, and she wouldn¡¯t be coming back. He made the bed and began the ritual.
Originally, he had only planned to stop Mercator. Yes, he would kill the foreigner, but Sikara need not die. Keeping them from reaching the duke was the important thing. But then she figured out he¡¯d been working against peaceful solutions since the beginning. If she told the others, they would turn on him¡ªall his hard work ruined. And of course, the mir didn¡¯t need two leaders; he could be both the duke and the representative for the mir people. Besides, her Calian blood made her an abomination.
He¡¯d borrowed the term from the bishop, but it fit. The mixing of elven and human blood was bad enough. Somewhere in his own distant past, one of Villar¡¯s ancestors had made that mistake, but the Sikara family hadn¡¯t merely succumbed to a necessity¡ªthey wallowed in the deep end. Villar¡¯s great-grandfather Hanis Orphe traveled to Alburnia with Sadarshakar Sikara after the fall of Merredydd. The two had a falling-out when Sadarshakar chose to marry a dark-skinned Calian. The tribes diverged at that point, the Orphe being more steadfast and the Sikara more accommodating. Further relations with the Calians led to the dilution of the Sikara bloodline, and Mercator was the obvious result of this weakening. She was more Calian than anything else. She lacked dignity, and commitment, and barely looked like a mir.
Villar rolled to his feet and moved to one of the pots of clean water. He sniffed it to be sure. Grabbing the corner of a large blanket, he soaked it and gingerly scrubbed at the wound while he gritted his teeth. Most of the blood wiped off easily enough, but around the cut, it had hardened, and he didn¡¯t feel like messing with it.
Turning, Villar looked at the door to the little cell.
He had forgotten all about the duchess. The woman had been quiet. She hadn¡¯t even greeted him with one of her usual insipid quips. Usually, the duchess just couldn¡¯t keep her mouth shut, and it was such a large, loud mouth. She was their prisoner, their captive, but she failed to act her part. A helpless, captive woman was supposed to be quiet, tearfully sobbing in the corner, or begging for life, praying to her god. But not this one.
He had wanted to kill her the night before. The ritual required concentration, and he couldn¡¯t afford any interference from her; nor could he risk her giving away his secret should anyone come looking.
Villar had planned on killing her for months. Now with Mercator¡¯s death and the feast imminent, he¡¯d finally get his chance. He couldn¡¯t rely on her staying quiet again. Villar looked for a knife, turning over crates of wool and throwing aside mounds of linen. He went through barrels that stank of vinegar and shook out rags. Nothing.
Seriously, Mercator? How did you work without a knife?
Then Villar remembered she¡¯d had it with her at the gallery when the golem . . .
No, not the golem, it was me, and I do regret what happened.
Her death was a loss; the mir needed to rise to the greatness the past proclaimed them to be, and after the feast, there would be so many seats left unfilled. As duke, he would have campaigned for her to be appointed Duchess of Rise. She might be a mongrel, but she was still the descendant of the famed Sikar. Villar liked the idea of making Alburn a mir kingdom just as Merredydd had been. She could have had a part to play in the restoration of their heritage; her death was a waste.
Villar took one last look around. Seeing no sign of a knife, he clapped his arms against his sides in resignation.
I¡¯ll just have to strangle the bitch.
As a golem, he¡¯d killed dozens. That¡¯s how he got the hearts, those hard-to-obtain ingredients. At first, he¡¯d tried without success to use animal hearts.
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Then Ferrol smiled on him and intervened, reversing his fortune.
It had happened on the last hot day of autumn. Villar had watched six children playing at the storm drain where the Rookery and Little Gur Em butted up to the city harbor. Villar had gone there to watch the ships load¡ªor so he¡¯d told himself. What he was really doing was searching for a victim, some new immigrant without family or friends. Someone small, weak, and bewildered by the big city. A youth whom he could easily overpower.
The sky was cloudy as the evening heat invited late-day thunderheads to form. The kids had pulled back the heavy metal lid of the cistern and were taking turns jumping into the stone reservoir, using a rope to climb out. They obviously had done this all summer. The rope was bleached, and its edges frayed where it rubbed against the sharp side of the cistern wall. The children didn¡¯t notice, nor did they appear to care, about the rain clouds blanketing the sky. Villar considered chasing them away for their own good, but one thing stopped him. The group of kids was a mixed lot: two Calians, one dwarf, one mir, and two humans. If it had been simply a group of mir, he would have ordered them out. Even if dwarves and Calians had been with them, he might have said something. But the presence of the humans enraged him. Villar couldn¡¯t bring himself to warn them off.
As the sky darkened, one of the humans left, as did the dwarf and the two Calians. The other human and, much to his dismay, the mir lingered. The two continued to play as if there was nothing wrong with their twisted friendship. Revolted, Villar was driven to leave. He was walking away when the rope snapped. Screams followed by cries for help echoed up.
No one else heard.
¡°By Mar! Thank Novron!¡± the human said as Villar peered over the edge. ¡°Can you lower more rope?¡±
Can you lower more rope? Villar could still hear that voice in his head. The kid didn¡¯t say sir, he didn¡¯t say please, just can you lower more rope? A common human child, ordering him to obey with the same sense of disregard and entitlement as a noble. The little brat expected Villar to do as he was told. Why wouldn¡¯t he? How many times had the kid seen adults do the same? How many times had he seen grown mir smile and bow as they surrendered their dignity.
The two children were treading water in the cistern below. Without the rope, the interior sides¡ªsheer and slick with algae¡ªmade the site a death trap.
¡°You really shouldn¡¯t be playing in here,¡± Villar said. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous. That¡¯s why there¡¯s a cover over this. And it¡¯s about to rain. This thing fills up fast in a downpour.¡±
¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± The little human smiled at him. He had red fleshy cheeks, the sort mir never had, the kind gained from an abundance of everything. In that smile, a sickening confidence bloomed, an absolute assurance that the world would always take care of him. He hadn¡¯t the slightest fear, not the hint of a doubt that Villar would save them. ¡°If it rains, the water will lift us up and we can just climb out.¡±
He was right. Even without the rope the two might survive¡ªif it rained hard enough.
They thought he was joking when he closed the lid. The laughs stopped when he secured it with the metal rod the kids had originally removed. With the top closed and the growing roar of rain, no one heard them. Villar regretted that one was a mir, but that was what came from associating with the wrong crowd.
Villar was back before dawn to collect his prizes, and neither Dinge nor Nym asked where he had gotten the hearts.
Turned out mir hearts worked better¡ªat least for Villar. The human heart resulted in a vague, hazy, intermittent connection. The mir organs formed a clear coupling. The novice summoners speculated that the more similar the heart was to the individual conducting the ritual, the better the connection. Villar became responsible for obtaining hearts for Erasmus and Griswold as well. He spent one heart to gain two or three, four if he was lucky. The dark, twisted streets of the Rookery were ideal for killing the unobservant. Not only did hearts of the underclass work better, hunting them had another advantage: Few cared about the death of young mir, Calians, or dwarves. This point was driven home as more and more children died while the city guard did nothing. The poorly run investigations aided Villar¡¯s efforts in provoking people to revolt. Witnesses, when there were any, were ignored or told tales related to the Morgan myth.
Villar glanced at the blue drape across the doorway of the old ruin. He could tell by the sunlight on the cloth that it was nearly midday. The feast would be starting soon. Erasmus was dead. If the foreigner was able to deliver the cow¡¯s note to her husband, and if he agreed to changes, Griswold would sit the party out. So would the others. They didn¡¯t have the courage of conviction that he had. The citywide uprising he¡¯d hoped for wasn¡¯t going to happen, but a single golem¡ªthe right golem¡ªlet loose at the right place and time could still do the job.
So, before he could crack the next box of remnants and set up his ritual, he needed to take care of one other thing. It was time to kill the Duchess of Rochelle.
Genny didn¡¯t like the way Villar looked. She never had, but now he was worse. Something had happened, something bad. He had blood on his chest and a cold expression on his face that suggested he¡¯d suffered more than a bad night¡¯s sleep. Then he started tearing the place up, and she knew.
She¡¯d guessed something wasn¡¯t right the night before when he arrived alone. Villar had never before visited when Mercator was out, and it scared her. Never once did he call Mercator¡¯s name. He knew she wasn¡¯t there. Genny had almost asked about the letter, but kept her mouth shut. The sense that this isn¡¯t right, that something had gone wrong, shoved her heart to her throat. Instead, she had watched as he opened a box and checked the contents: something the size of a shriveled apple, gravel, some leaves. To this, he added a few strands of his own hair. Then he closed the box and set the whole thing on the cook fire.
Villar took a seat on the floor and spread out a blanket as if he planned to take a nap. He waited for the box to burn, until it was mostly consumed. When the wood became ashen white, he lay down and started talking, chanting words Genny didn¡¯t understand. A cloud belched forth from the smoldering box.
Villar¡¯s eyes were closed as he continued, and she watched bright-white smoke snake up from the box, then stream out the doorway as if it had a mind of its own and places to go. Villar stopped muttering and appeared to fall asleep. Five minutes later she saw him jerk and twitch. His eyes remained closed, and it seemed like he was having a bad dream. He lay like that for some time, and then his eyes flew open, he gasped in shock, and lay panting.
¡°How?¡± he said, and then fell asleep.
She waited for a long time. Then curiosity overwhelmed her, and she took a chance and tried talking to him, but he didn¡¯t hear.
That was when Genny knew she had to get busy. She took out the coins and the key and set to work. She didn¡¯t know how long she had, so she worked with haste. She had tested the coins on single hairs, and they cut just fine, but when it came down to the wholesale hacking of locks, they proved a lot duller than she would have liked. Listening to the deep breaths of Villar just outside the door, she pulled out as many hairs as she cut.
She wanted to believe Mercator was alive, but the fact that Villar was here and Mercator wasn¡¯t made that a hard sell. As long as Mercator acted as her jailor, Genny believed she might survive. Now that there had been a changing of the guard, it was time for her to execute her plan. Like all jailbreaks, it was an all-or-nothing shot. She would either escape or die. That kind of pressure made it hard to hold her fingers steady on the coins.
This isn¡¯t going to work! This is crazy. What am I doing?
Something. I¡¯m doing something, and something is oh so much better than nothing. I may die, but I¡¯m not just going to sit here and give up. It¡¯s a chance, damn it! So quit thinking and cut!
Turned out there was no rush. Villar slept through to the morning.
When he finally woke, he was in a bad mood. He washed, then began looking around, going through Mercator¡¯s things, and Genny had a sinking feeling she knew what he searched for.
Villar came to the door of the cell. He grabbed the latch, but it wouldn¡¯t move. Mercator had asked Griswold to make locks for the door and the collar. They opened with keys; keys he didn¡¯t have.
No knife. No key. Mercator is dead and still causing me grief.
Villar turned over crates once more and threw aside folds of linen and wool. His frustration turned to anger, and he began smashing things in his search. He even kicked the suspended pot, knocking down the tripod of metal poles, which clanked and scraped across the stone.
Villar went through the barrels and shook out rags.
Why is this so hard? Did she keep the key with her, too? Why would she take it? Why not leave it in easy reach? Hang it on the wall¡ª
He saw it then. A shiny key was dangling from a hook just to the side of the door. Why he hadn¡¯t seen it before he had no idea, except he wouldn¡¯t have expected Mercator to act in such a rational way. After the missing knife, he had assumed she wouldn¡¯t be sensible about the key. By the time he snatched it off the hook, Villar¡¯s blood was up. He was ready for murder. Still, the idea of actually strangling the noble bitch, of touching her, was awful. Then he remembered the metal poles. Better to beat her to death. I can do that!
Returning to the pot and its stand, he saw a blade in the bottom of the empty container¡ªa small one, not much bigger than a paring knife. Mercator had left it where she used it the most. With a grin, Villar took it. Holding the little knife in one hand and the key in the other, he returned to the locked door. He was so enraged his hand shook, and he had a hard time putting the key in the lock. He was forced to put the knife under his arm as he used two hands to steady the key.
Watch it not work.
He turned and felt the tumblers engage. The bolt slid free.
Ha! Finally, something went right!
Pulling the door back, he spotted the duchess. The lazy bitch was still asleep on the floor. She had one of Mercator¡¯s blankets over her such that only her head was visible, and only the top of that. He could see the chain looping from the wall to the collar, which was lost below her long sandy locks of hair. That had been Mercator¡¯s idea. She needed to be able to feed the cow, and that meant opening the door. Without a chain on the big woman, she¡¯d be able to overpower Mercator the moment she popped the lock. Chained up by the neck, she was helpless.
He took a step into the room, then stopped.
Something wasn¡¯t right¡ªa lot of things in fact.
The figure underneath the blanket was too small. He could see her hair peeking out from where her head should be, from where the chain led, only there was no bulge, no head¡ªjust hair. For an instant, he thought all the days of starving had magically shrunk her to the size of a skinny dwarf, but that wasn¡¯t possible.
A kick revealed all: One blanket was laid over straw and another bunched up to look like a body. There was a pile of cut hair, and the collar¡ªthe empty collar.
He turned and caught sight of her bolting out the door. She had waited just to its side when he entered. Out she went, trying to slam the door closed behind her¡ªtrying to lock him in! The old bovine was no match for a mir. Villar kicked the door wide, throwing her flat on her back.
She screamed, thrusting her hands out to ward him off.
¡°Time to die, you fat cow!¡±
V2: Chapter 26 - Haggling
¡°Explain something to me, Royce,¡± Hadrian said as the two struggled up the slope. ¡°Why did Maribor create picker bushes?¡±
¡°Did he?¡± Royce asked, fighting through a thicket of fallen deadwood, high grass, and a wicked snarl of the thorny bush Hadrian was taking issue with. ¡°Thought he was just the god of men, not flora.¡±
¡°Oh, you might be right. Bet Evelyn would know.¡±
¡°With any luck, she¡¯s long gone. I don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to find this place.¡± Royce paused to wipe his face with his sleeve.
That was when Hadrian knew it was hot. He, of course, was soaked with sweat. His shirt stuck unpleasantly to the center of his back. Worse, the material of his pants clung to his thighs, making it hard to move. Royce rarely perspired, but that day his hood was back, his forehead slick and shiny, his hair sticking. Two days before, it had felt like it might snow, but now summer appeared to have leapfrogged spring. Trudging uphill across sodden grass and through brambles as formidable as castle walls didn¡¯t help.
¡°I get the strong feeling we¡¯re wasting our time,¡± Royce said, waving a hand before his face to clear away the mini-storm-cloud of tiny black bugs. He turned and looked behind them to where the city of Rochelle spread out below. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be this far out, would it?¡±
Hadrian shrugged. ¡°We¡¯re coming into a forest now.¡± He nodded at the staggered line of pine and spruce that grew just up the slope. The trees were gathered in small groups as if chatting about their neighbors, but farther on, they marshaled en masse, forming a dense forest that covered the base of a coastal mountain. ¡°Was there a forest on the map? Do you remember?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°No, but these trees are, what, thirty, forty years old? Probably been cut for firewood for generations. That map goes back hundreds of years. No telling what this place might have looked like then. The only positive thing is that it does make sense for Villar to be out here. The seclusion is ideal. I can¡¯t imagine too many people coming up this way if they didn¡¯t have to.¡±
Hadrian took advantage of Royce¡¯s pause, and plopped down in the grass. At least the puddles left by the previous days of rain were cool. He scooped up a handful and wetted the back of his neck. Then he lay back and stared up at the blue sky and white clouds. ¡°Beautiful day. Doesn¡¯t seem right.¡±
¡°What doesn¡¯t?¡± Royce asked, scanning the way ahead and not looking pleased.
¡°That such awful things should happen on such nice days.¡±
¡°You¡¯d rather be up here in the rain?¡±
¡°I was thinking more about the people down there. You saw them this morning, all dressed up in their finest clothes. Been a long, dark winter. They just want a little happiness. And on the first good day in months what happens? It¡¯s not fair.¡±
Royce gave Hadrian a puzzled look. ¡°That¡¯s so odd.¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°Here we are, fighting brambles and slick, muddy slopes while trying to find a madman before he massacres hundreds, and your thoughts are focused on how unfair it is for the people having a grand time at a festival?¡±
¡°Why is that odd?¡±
¡°Why wouldn¡¯t you think about us struggling in this heat against these thorny vines while breathing in these tiny black flies? Isn¡¯t that unfair? Why can¡¯t we be eating pork and dancing with ladies on such a fine day?¡±
Hadrian chuckled.
¡°What? Why is that funny?¡±
¡°It isn¡¯t. It¡¯s just I have this image in my head of you dancing. Can¡¯t get past it.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°I¡¯m just saying it¡¯s strange that you feel sorry for them rather than us.¡±
¡°Well, I do feel sorry for you, if that makes it better.¡±
Royce clapped his hands together before his face, trying to kill some of the swarm that plagued him. ¡°Why?¡±
¡°Because you can¡¯t understand why it is I would feel sorry for them. Makes me think your world is very small.¡±
¡°Oh,¡± Royce said, sounding disappointed. ¡°I thought you were going to say something else.¡±
¡°Really, what?¡±
Royce made a pfft sound, spitting as if the flies had invaded his mouth. He stepped back from the brambles, waving his hands before his face as he retreated. ¡°Miserable little horrors. Why do they do that? Fly right into our mouth, eyes, and nose. It makes no sense. They can¡¯t like it; I certainly don¡¯t. There¡¯s no benefit to be had, and yet into my mouth they go.¡±
¡°What was it you thought I was going to say?¡±
¡°Oh.¡± Royce washed a hand over his face. ¡°I thought you might be on the verge of apologizing for volunteering to be a martyr last night.¡±
¡°Apologize? Are you kidding? I saved us.¡±
¡°Is that how you see it?¡±
¡°Is there another way?¡±
¡°You put me in a very unpleasant position.¡±
Hadrian sat up to face him. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry. Were you the one tied up all night while a dwarf played with a knife, reminding you about his intention to slit your throat? ¡¯Cuz I thought that was me.¡±
Royce was struggling, trying to extract something from his tongue with two fingers, a fly no doubt. He got something, peered at it in disgust, and gave it a flick. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be learning from me. You can¡¯t do that if you don¡¯t listen.¡±
¡°Learn from you?¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I think you¡¯ve got that backward, pal. Arcadius teamed us up so I could teach you.¡±
Royce, who had moved on to cleaning his eyes, paused. ¡°Did you just call me pal?¡±
¡°Yeah. It means friend¡ªliterally brother.¡±
¡°I know what it means.¡±
¡°So it¡¯s just your hearing that¡¯s going? If you want to talk about odd, that would certainly qualify. You have the most disturbingly acute ears of anyone I¡¯ve ever met. Seriously, I don¡¯t know how you sleep at night. The crickets must drive you insane.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not the crickets . . . it¡¯s definitely not the crickets.¡±
Hadrian smirked. ¡°I would think that this job would have convinced you of the virtues of being a decent human being. Look at Roland. My friendship with him has helped us, not just once but twice. Being respectful to Evelyn has reaped huge rewards. And we lived last night because a long time ago I acted honorably.¡±
¡°Was that the same night you helped slaughter a town?¡± Royce asked. ¡°And it wasn¡¯t that long ago, was it? You¡¯re not that old.¡±
¡°Because of nights like that, I feel old.¡±
¡°So, which was it?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Were you saved because of a kindness extended to a girl? Or were you in jeopardy in the first place because you and your compatriots killed most, but not all, of the people during that battle?¡±
¡°It¡¯s because I protected Seton.¡±
¡°Are you sure? What would you have protected her from if the town hadn¡¯t been sacked? And if you hadn¡¯t been so proficient with your sword, the other soldiers might not have granted her to you. Which makes me wonder, what actually made the difference, your kindness or your cruelty?¡±
¡°Why is it you choose to see the darkness in everything?¡±
¡°Because it¡¯s there, and ignoring that fact invites peril.¡±
¡°But light is also there, and recognizing it allows happiness.¡±
¡°What good is being happy if you¡¯re dead?¡±
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
¡°What good is being alive if you¡¯re miserable?¡±
Royce paused, and for a moment Hadrian was certain he had won. Royce was stumped, but then he tilted his head.
¡°What¡¯s up, boy?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°You hear something?¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t funny the first time,¡± Royce said.
A moment later a woman¡¯s scream came from up the hill.
I¡¯m not just going to kill her. Villar realized this with the perfect clarity that accompanied every mistake he had made while the noble cow hid to the side of the door. She had plotted to lock him in. He imagined her literally as a bovine with black and white spots. In his mind¡¯s eye, he saw her standing on her back legs; a massive tongue licking the broad pink nostrils of her nose, waiting with hooves up and together, like a begging dog, hoping he would fall for the bait. The moment he opened the door, the second he rushed in so blindly, focused on her decoy of blankets and straw, was the same second she slipped out.
He almost fell for it.
The hair and the chain.
His mind had registered those two things as incontrovertible evidence that she lay on the floor near the back wall. How could he conclude anything else? If her neck wore a collar attached to a chain secured to a wall, the odds were strong the rest of her was there as well. His eyes and his mind had joined together in a conspiracy to betray him. If the room was bigger or the cow smaller, the ruse might have worked. The realization of how close he¡¯d come to a fatal mistake was frightening.
As she lay on the floor screaming, Villar felt his heart pound from the near miss. He took a second to breathe, to calm down. Then he adjusted the grip on his knife.
She scuttled away, kicking out with her legs like a crab. When she rolled to her knees and started to stand, he grabbed her.
The duchess was no dainty woman, no slender flower. She equaled his height and outweighed him by twenty pounds. With a sharp lurch, she slammed her body against his, knocking him back against the wall, nearly throwing him to the floor. The assault also knocked the duchess off balance, and she went down to one knee.
He was after her an instant later, but the old cow threw everything she could find at him, including two of the heavy urns. One hit his hand, knocking the knife free. He grabbed it up just in time to see the duchess making for the door.
He was on her then, catching her in the middle of the room. One hand latched on to her butchered hair, pulling her head back, while the other brought up the knife. She continued to twist and kick until the knife reached her neck.
¡°Stop!¡±
Villar looked up as the two foreigners burst into the temple.
The smaller one had that white knife, the one that had stabbed the golem and somehow cut his chest. The other¡ªthe big one Seton had called the rasa¡ªheld two blades, one in each hand.
¡°Kill her and you die,¡± Royce shouted.
A portly woman whom Hadrian assumed to be the Duchess of Rochelle was on her knees, panting, sweating, her head pulled back. Villar stood behind her, his left hand holding a fist of the woman¡¯s hair, his right holding a dagger near her throat.
¡°Help me,¡± Genny Winter cried.
Irritated by the outburst, Villar pulled her head further back, causing the duchess to cry out once more.
¡°Drop your weapons,¡± Villar said.
Royce made a sound like he was clearing his nose. ¡°Why?¡±
¡°Do it or I¡¯ll kill her!¡±
Royce glanced at Hadrian. ¡°Didn¡¯t I already explain that if he kills her, I¡¯ll kill him?¡±
¡°You did.¡±
¡°So, what is this idiot doing? Threatening us with suicide?¡± Royce asked.
¡°He¡¯s under the impression you care about her life.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Royce chuckled.
¡°It¡¯s an easy mistake. You did order him not to kill her, and, besides, he doesn¡¯t know you.¡±
¡°Okay, sure, but even if I were someone else¡ªI mean, why would anyone surrender? Would you? Even if that person cared if she lives, Villar is still at a disadvantage. It¡¯s like trading pieces in chess. Sure, we would lose her, but then he loses the entire game. On the other hand, if we surrender, he¡¯ll kill all of us and we get nothing. No one would take that deal. It¡¯s stupid. Not to mention I¡¯m going to get paid whether she¡¯s dead or not.¡±
Hadrian focused on Villar. ¡°That¡¯s his way of saying we aren¡¯t going to put our weapons down, but if you kill her . . . well, I¡¯m sure you got the rest.¡±
Villar hesitated, the knife unsteady at the woman¡¯s throat.
¡°You need to make a deal, boys,¡± Genny said, her voice steady. ¡°Villar made you an offer, so now you counter. That¡¯s how haggling works. So, now it¡¯s your turn. What do you propose?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t have to counter.¡±
¡°Yes, you do!¡± the duchess cried. ¡°You want me to live, or we wouldn¡¯t be having this conversation, right? Of course, right. But we¡¯re at an impasse. So, you need to deal. Got it?¡±
¡°Whose side are you on?¡± Royce asked.
Her eyes widened in surprise. ¡°My own, obviously. I want to live. Now listen.¡± She allowed herself to swallow; in the small room it made a sound they all heard. ¡°I don¡¯t want to die, but that¡¯s beside the point because bizarrely this has nothing to do with me. It¡¯s between the three of you. You don¡¯t want him to kill me, and Villar doesn¡¯t want you to kill him. That¡¯s good because you both have something the other wants. Everyone can win here¡ªeven me.¡±
No one said anything as all three waited.
¡°Okay, good. How about this. Villar lets me go, and you let him go? How does that sound?¡±
Royce smiled. ¡°Fine with me. Go ahead. Let her go.¡±
¡°There, you see?¡± Genny said.
Villar shook his head. ¡°You think I¡¯m an idiot? The moment I let you go, they¡¯ll rush me. This won¡¯t work! It¡¯s stupid. We can¡¯t make a deal. And if I¡¯m going to die then I¡¯m taking¡ª¡±
¡°It¡¯s not stupid!¡± Genny shouted as the blade pressed against her skin. ¡°I can make any deal work. It¡¯s what I do. Now shut up and listen to me.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not letting you go so long as they can chase after me the moment I do.¡±
¡°Fine, fine. No problem. This will be easy.¡±
¡°It will?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Absolutely,¡± the duchess replied. ¡°Villar? How would it be if these nice gentlemen and I got into the cell and you locked us in. That way, you¡¯re free and no one can harm you.¡±
¡°What¡¯s to stop him from¡ª¡± Royce started.
¡°Shut up!¡± Genny shouted. ¡°Whoever you are, please just be quiet.¡±
¡°His name¡¯s Royce, and I¡¯m Hadrian Blackwater.¡±
¡°How nice. Now Royce, Hadrian, please shut up and let me handle this, will you?¡± She forced a smile. ¡°The two of you will keep your weapons¡ªthat way, you won¡¯t be at Villar¡¯s mercy. Locked in a room, sure, but safely locked in a room.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not a very¡ª¡± Royce began.
¡°Shush, I don¡¯t want to hear arguments or counterproposals. We have a deal on the table. Will you agree?¡±
Royce looked at the door, huffed, then said, ¡°Fine.¡±
¡°Hadrian?¡±
¡°Yeah, sure, why not.¡±
¡°Villar? You want to live, and so do I. This is a fair trade, a better-than-equitable exchange. My life for yours. Will you take it?¡±
Villar didn¡¯t reply.
¡°Lower the knife and let me move back while these two enter the cell. Then I¡¯ll get in. You can lock the door and just walk out.¡±
He still didn¡¯t answer, but slowly, the knife moved away from Genny¡¯s throat. She waved for Royce and Hadrian to enter the cell. ¡°Gentlemen, if you please?¡±
Royce looked disgusted but stepped in. Hadrian went so far as to sheath his swords before entering. Then Genny Winter followed the two of them. Villar shoved her forward into the room, slammed the door shut, and turned the key that he¡¯d left in the lock.
The moment the door sealed, Genny threw her arms around Hadrian and kissed him. ¡°I love you!¡±
After the embrace, she started toward Royce, whose dagger was still out.
Hadrian pulled her back. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you. Royce isn¡¯t much of a hugger.¡±
¡°Well, gentlemen, you have my eternal gratitude, but who in Maribor¡¯s name are you? And what are you doing here?¡±
¡°Your father sent us to rescue you,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°He hired us to discover what happened to you,¡± Royce corrected as he moved to the door. He knelt before the latch.
¡°And you did both! You¡¯re my heroes. I¡¯ll knight you, or make you earls or something.¡±
Hadrian smiled at her. ¡°I think only kings can do that.¡±
¡°Kings!¡± the woman burst out. ¡°Leo! I need to find my husband. I need to show the bishop I¡¯m still alive so Leo can be crowned king.¡±
¡°Should have thought of that before locking us in a stone room,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°I did,¡± Genny replied. She pointed at Royce, who had just managed to pop the lock and open the door.
Royce immediately raced out like a dog released from a cage after being teased by an arrogant squirrel.
¡°You knew he could pick locks?¡± Hadrian asked the duchess.
¡°I knew he wasn¡¯t the type to allow himself to be confined in a cell unless he was positive he could get out. Business is like a card game: You have to judge people quickly and play the odds.¡±
Hadrian looked out the open door. Royce was already so far away they could no longer hear him. At that moment, the only sound came from the breeze and birds.
¡°Look, I have to help Royce find Villar,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°You need to stay here. Safest place, really. I know you want to go down to the feast, but right now that¡¯s not such a good idea. We¡¯ll be back after we find Villar. Then we¡¯ll escort you back to town.¡±
¡°And if you don¡¯t return, shall I stay here and starve? Or should I wander through the wilderness until I die of exposure?¡±
¡°Look, we will be back, I promise. But if it makes you feel better, town is straight that way.¡± He pointed at the door. ¡°Just keep heading down the hill, and you¡¯ll run right into Rochelle. Just don¡¯t go until we get back.¡±
¡°Why not?¡±
¡°It could be dangerous.¡±
The duchess scoffed. ¡°I¡¯m not some fragile debutante. I¡¯m sure I can manage a hike downhill to town.¡±
Hadrian glanced outside. I¡¯m never going to catch up with Royce now. I didn¡¯t even see which way he went. ¡°Look, I¡¯m wasting valuable time. You just have to trust me on this. If we can¡¯t find Villar, if he gets away, there¡¯s a chance he might create a monster and attack the feast.¡±
Genny Winter blinked.
Hadrian saw the confusion on her face. ¡°It¡¯s called a golem, a monster made of stone.¡± The explanation sounded absurd even to him. ¡°Villar made one before. If he does it again, he¡¯ll slaughter everyone at the feast. So you don¡¯t want to go there, understand?¡±
Her hand went to her mouth. ¡°Leo!¡± she whispered, and her eyes darted toward the door.
¡°Look, I know you¡¯re worried, but there¡¯s nothing you can do. Truly, you need to stay here. Don¡¯t leave. Keep yourself safe.¡±
With that, he ran out in pursuit of Villar and Royce.
V2: Chapter 27 - The Spring Feast
Genny had never been in the best of shape, and being trapped for over two weeks in a small cell, eating next to nothing, had only made matters worse. The moment Hadrian left she bolted toward the city and was soon sweating rivers and heaving for breath. Blood pounded in her head; her chest burned; and she¡¯d only run fifty feet.
Three times she stumbled; twice she nearly fell.
Run, feet! Run!
Her whole focus was on the ground before her.
Don¡¯t fall. Don¡¯t fall. Don¡¯t fall. Rock! Don¡¯t fall. Don¡¯t fall. Tree!
On and on she went, only vaguely registering the blur of green and brown and the warmth of a hot sun baking her skin, something she hadn¡¯t felt in days. The heat was nice, but it made her perspire. By the time she hit pavement, she was soaked, struggling to see through sweat-filled eyes.
She had come down out of the trees and fields and entered the broken ruins of the Rookery. She¡¯d seen the place before, but only from the window of a carriage and only the part of the destitute neighborhood that bordered Little Gur Em near the harbor. When she emerged from the forest, she was in the shattered heart of this neglected corner of the realm. Grass grew up through the cobblestones and the entrances to buildings. Last year¡¯s leaves remained in corners where the wind had gathered them. The old buildings with their empty windows and missing doors looked hollow, cadaverous. Some were missing walls. Rotting plows and the rims of broken wheels rusted on the street or in the yards. Despite the neglect, Genny spotted yellow and purple wildflowers sprouting everywhere, even on the roofs of some buildings. She loved flowers, and seeing them again made her smile to the point of crying.
I¡¯m alive.
Genny found she couldn¡¯t get enough air, as if the world were suddenly in short supply, and her chest burned from the effort of trying. Blood flushed her face; she could feel it hot and full, and her heart continued to pound a loud beat. When did running become so difficult? When she was younger, and a whole lot thinner, she used to run everywhere. Never once had her head felt like a cork in a shaken bottle of sparkling wine.
When did that change?
The answer came quickly and in the form of another question. When was the last time I ran? When I was a child. When I was thin. Now I¡¯m . . . little wonder Leo doesn¡¯t love me. No one could possibly love this.
Tears added to her torment. She ought to hate Leo, but at that moment what she wanted most was to see his face and know he was safe. All she could remember were the laughs they shared. He was so comfortable to be with, never making her feel ugly or awkward, never hurting or belittling her. Even Genny¡¯s father had a tendency to condescend, to trivialize her feelings. Leo actually listened, or did a damn fine impression of it. He never told her no. Never tried to rein her in or told her to behave. Thinking about it, she wondered if his refusal to protect her from ridicule was less evidence that he didn¡¯t care and more a sign of respect that she could handle herself. And they agreed on so much; at times it felt as if they were the same person.
Genny slowed down. She was out of the Rookery, somewhere between Littleton and Little Gur Em. This was the trade and business district, filled with warehouses and workshops . . . and strangely few people.
Everyone is at the festival.
Leo was most certainly there, seated as close as possible to the bishop, trying to impress Tynewell and sway his favor. If I¡¯m not there, will he be disqualified? Will someone else be chosen?
For Maribor¡¯s sake, how pathetic am I being? What does it matter who wears the crown? I nearly died, but I¡¯m still alive! I¡¯m free! I¡¯m married to a goddamn duke and live in a lavish estate! What¡¯s there to complain about? So what if he doesn¡¯t love me. Who cares? I love him, and I¡¯ll keep on loving him.
Bishop Oswal Tynewell stood behind the many panes of glass that formed the great rose window directly above the front doors of Grom Galimus. Eight stories up, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the plaza below. The dancing had stopped, and the rope dividers had been removed. Everyone advanced to take their seats at one of twenty tables set up in four rows circling the statue of Novron. Oswal marveled at the accuracy with which they were placed. No one down there could see the spacing the way he could. The fourth row on the right side was off a little, and it irked him for no reason he could fathom. The banquet tables appeared tiny from his vantage point, though he knew each seated twelve, and that meant more than two hundred nobles were gathered. From where Oswal stood, they appeared as little colorful dots¡ªbright-blue specks.
The rest of the city¡¯s citizenry, as well as the throngs of visitors, were forced to stay back behind rope barriers that outlined the plaza. Those who, until recently, had been dancing and singing on the paving stones before the cathedral became sweaty spectators of the momentous event that they expected to reveal itself soon.
The event will certainly be momentous and absolutely worth witnessing¡ªjust not too closely.
Not everyone was there. Some of the lesser nobles, such as those who had resigned themselves to monasteries, hadn¡¯t come. Also absent were women who were old and unmarried. Inviting them would have appeared strange, if not openly suspicious. Monks and spinsters were nothing for Oswal to be concerned about. None of them could be considered serious contenders for the throne.
Oswal¡¯s immediate concern centered on the fact that food was being brought out, yet nothing had happened. If the servants pulled the lids off the plates¡ªif they began serving without his presence¡ªthere would be concern. Already heads were repeatedly turning to look at the door of Grom Galimus. Everyone was waiting for his entrance. Waiting for him to give his speech and explain who the new king of Alburn would be, or at least how the person would be chosen.
Oswal had no intention of coming out. The church was one of the few safe places in the city. At least that was what Villar had told him, and he ought to know. That mir was dabbling in powers best left untapped, but if doing so got the job done, who was he to argue with results? Still, magic could be unpredictable, and Tynewell didn¡¯t want to leave his survival in the hands of those who might not be able to control the evil they were planning to unleash.
While the Novronian Empire had once employed wizards, magic had also been the source of its destruction. As such, after the fall of the great capital city, magic had been eradicated from the world by edict of the church. Only the truly evil practiced the forbidden art. Its use was grounds for both excommunication and execution. That Villar planned to employ the dark art was further evidence of his vile character. Oswal shivered at the thought of his association with the mir, and yet what else could he do? To obtain what he wanted, some rules needed to be bent and some lines needed to be crossed. Oswal felt that so long as he closed his eyes beforehand, he could step over those lines and still absolve himself of guilt by way of ignorance. Besides, no one could tell him that the sinking of the Eternal Empire was virtuous. Sin was often the bridge to salvation.
Time kept ticking, and still nothing happened. No revolt, no attack from magical creatures. Oswal pondered what excuse he would give when at last he was forced to emerge. Perhaps he could put them off, saying he still hadn¡¯t decided. No, that wouldn¡¯t work. The kingdom had already gone five months without a king. A contest. He would have to go with that, but what sort? One that was impossible to achieve might be good. It would buy him time to¡ª
From outside the window and through the many panes of glass, came the sounds of shouts. At first, they were merely cries of surprise. Then they turned to exclamations of fear.
In the plaza below, faces looked up and fingers pointed at the great marble statue of Novron that graced the center of the square. Some seventeen feet tall, the sculpture was a marvel of artistry, a source of inspiration, and a point of reverence, but never before had it elicited cries of fear. Oswal couldn¡¯t understand the source of the panic until he realized that Novron, who for generations had looked across the plaza to the cathedral, was now looking down at his feet.
A moment later the statue shifted, twisting its torso and drawing forth its sword.
A miracle!
Oswal stared in stunned wonder. The god Novron has come to life!
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Many of the nobles believed similarly as they remained in the square, moving away but not fleeing. A few even went so far as to approach the giant figure. Floret Killian, for instance, who was dressed in his long velvet gown of solid blue with a matching cape, was the first to advance. The attire was so inappropriate for the weather, but so apropos for a man to be crowned in. Perhaps Floret saw this animated statue of Novron as a machination of the church¡ªmaybe he thought it was the test their bishop had arranged to find Alburn¡¯s next king: Fleeing from it might prove a lack of faith. Surely the bishop knew Novron would attend in person, and he would be the one to anoint the next ruler. Why else would the bishop insist that all nobles in the kingdom be present? Why else would he wait so long to declare the identity of the new ruler? Yes, of course, Maribor had told the bishop that his son would make an appearance at the Spring Festival and he wanted to ensure that everyone would be on hand to view this miracle.
Then the marble Novron began killing people.
One of Novron¡¯s giant sandals came down on Floret¡¯s side and crushed him against the paving stones. From that point on, the statue left red prints wherever that foot landed. With the other leg, Novron kicked Killian¡¯s two sons across the plaza. Oswal was certain from the stain on the marble shin that they had died the moment the leg hit them. This was merely the preamble. Once Novron was off his pedestal and had his feet firmly planted, he began swinging the sword. A good eight feet in length, the huge marble weapon hewed through swaths of people, all conveniently clumped together. With each successive stroke, the once immaculate statue turned scarlet from the spray and splash of blood.
Oswal clutched his throat in horror. He stood transfixed by the speed of the massacre. He was appalled. That a mir had chosen to defile the most sacred symbol of the church as his instrument of murder caused him to hit the panes of the rose window with his fists.
How dare he!
His horror at the shrieks of the dying and the soon-to-die was overpowered by outrage at the humiliation being wrought upon the faith by a mir using the image of Novron as a tool of destruction.
This is intolerable.
Revolution was one thing. Dark magic another. But this, this was an inconceivable perversion. He had to do something. He jogged to the stairs and raced down. Tynewell had no thought as to what he would do when he got to the bottom, but his indignation was overwhelming. He tripped on his own robes and fell the last three steps, but he refused to feel the pain.
Grabbing up a wrought-iron candlestick, he ran from his office to the massive front doors. There he stood, puffing from exertion, leaning on the iron stand and staring around at an empty cathedral while outside the screams continued. He didn¡¯t dare open the doors. Instead, he peered out through the windows at the massive animated statue wreaking havoc on the plaza. And just when the bishop felt it couldn¡¯t be worse, another towering statue arrived.
Villar didn¡¯t notice the arrival of Glenmorgan, which was odd given that the onetime ruler of the Steward¡¯s Empire stood a good twelve feet tall, and his boots crushed cobblestone to gravel. Villar was preoccupied¡ªgiddy¡ªby his delight in crushing the life out of Alburn¡¯s rulers using their own god.
The statue of Novron was huge, and so different from the smaller gargoyles he had been used to. It moved slowly, reacting on a delay, but it was powerful beyond belief. And he liked the view. The statue was so tall he could see everything¡ªeverything except Glenmorgan. That revelation reached him in the form of a tackling blow.
Villar wasn¡¯t actually in the plaza; he was remotely operating the golem just as he had done with gargoyles so many times before. And while both Novron the Great and the statue of Glenmorgan¡ªwho normally stood on a pedestal in the center of the Imperial Gallery¡ªslammed into a stone pylon that commemorated the war heroes of the First Battle of Vilan Hills, Villar didn¡¯t feel a thing. He also didn¡¯t feel the repeated blows Glenmorgan hammered him with. He did, however, see the chips of marble broken from his chest by Glenmorgan¡¯s fists.
Griswold! With Erasmus Nym dead, only the dwarf had the knowledge and ingredients to raise another golem. He¡¯s trying to stop me.
Villar rolled away, pushing back to his stony feet.
Glenmorgan refused to let up and grabbed him from behind. Leaping on Novron¡¯s back, he threw an arm around the emperor¡¯s neck and squeezed.
Griswold might be a dwarf, a member of the race who had unlocked the secrets of the golem, but he lacked experience at running one. They had let Villar do all the work, all the prior murders in stone form. They had been lazy, and now the dwarf would pay the price. Griswold fought like a person, an easy mistake. Villar had done the same his first few times. Only neither one was flesh, and stone doesn¡¯t breathe. Choking was pointless. Crushing and falling, on the other hand, was devastating.
Before she arrived, Genny was met by a stampede. Hundreds of gaily dressed people fled from the plaza. Ladies in spring gowns and men in hose and buckles ran as if Uberlin were in pursuit.
A woman in a light-blue dress with white lace cuffs waved harshly at her. ¡°Run!¡± she cried. ¡°Novron is killing everyone!¡±
She might as well have said Grom Galimus was dancing a jig for all the sense that made, and Genny didn¡¯t even slow down. Not that she was moving all that fast. Her one bit of luck was that everywhere she had run that day had been downhill.
¡°No! No! Go back!¡± A man holding a fanciful hat in his hands waved at her. ¡°Everyone is being killed down there!¡±
Genny did slow down then. The man¡¯s words hadn¡¯t retarded her speed, but the smear of blood across the side of his face gave her pause. That streak of gore made her take his warning seriously, and yet it still didn¡¯t stop her. She continued down Center Street to where it joined Vintage Avenue. From there she had an unobstructed view of the plaza. Two giant stone statues were locked in battle, one on the other¡¯s back with an arm around its neck. Below them was a horrific display of colors. Like blueberries in strawberry jam, bodies lay on the blood-soaked paving stones of the plaza.
Genny continued moving forward.
Leo?
She scanned the bodies. They were a ghastly mess, and she didn¡¯t think she would be able to identify him in that tumbled macabre mass, but she thought she might spot the vest. It was so bright. Then Genny remembered she hadn¡¯t bought it. But even if she had, she wouldn¡¯t have had the chance to give it to him. They took her before she returned home.
I wish I had given you something. She cried once more.
If any doubt hid within the shadows of her heart that she still loved Leo Hargrave, it was washed away by those tears.
Even if Leo doesn¡¯t love me, he is a good man, a kind man. I couldn¡¯t love anyone this much if that wasn¡¯t true.
Something blue moved.
A man near her edge of the plaza struggled to crawl. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally and he hauled himself away by the strength of his arms, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Overhead, the giants staggered, their massive stone legs bashing the paving stones so hard they shook the Spring Day decorations off the walls. The statue of Novron was struggling to throw off the statue of Glenmorgan and in the effort, four feet repeatedly bombarded the plaza, threatening to crush the desperate man.
Genny¡¯s heart leapt at the possibility that it might be Leo, and she rushed forward into the red sea beneath the stone-footed hailstorm. She quickly realized it wasn¡¯t him. This man was younger, thinner. She didn¡¯t stop. Even if it wasn¡¯t Leo, it could have been, and she wanted to help him just as she hoped someone was helping the man she loved. Without even looking at the statues, and gasping for every ounce of air she could haul into her chest, Genny grabbed hold of the man by the shoulders of his tunic and pulled.
In her younger days, the Duchess of Rochelle had hauled, rolled, and stacked casks of whiskey along with the men. The cripple on the plaza was lighter than any cask she had ever hauled. She dragged him away from the carnage with speed, if not gentleness. Genny wasn¡¯t certain where this extra burst of energy came from. It didn¡¯t matter. She had it and was going to make use of the newfound strength. She pulled the survivor out of harm¡¯s way.
Then the ground shook, and there was a great crack!
Novron had managed to lift Glenmorgan, flip him over his shoulder, and slam him down hard on the plaza¡¯s pavers. While the emperor god had been chiseled from solid marble, Glenmorgan had been sculpted from lesser stone. The huge ruler of the Steward¡¯s Empire, who had once stood in the center of the Imperial Gallery, broke. Just to be certain, Novron brought his foot down and shattered his adversary, scattering the pieces across the plaza.
Genny had dragged the wounded man a short way up Vintage Avenue. But it wasn¡¯t far enough. The giant marble monster was finishing off the wounded, crushing them under his massive feet. He would notice them before long.
The wounded man knew it, too, and she felt him cringe.
Vintage Avenue was one of the finer streets in the city and equipped with storm drains. The large pipes ran under the street and flushed rainwater to the nearby river. Their mouths were as big as barrels; a normal-sized man could wriggle in and disappear.
¡°Crawl into that drain, and get as deep in as possible without falling in,¡± she told him. ¡°I¡¯ll be right behind¡ª¡± She heard the slam of stone on stone. Looking back at the square, she realized the golem had spotted them. The giant statue began its uphill charge. ¡°Damn,¡± she cursed.
They couldn¡¯t both shimmy into that drainpipe in time.
¡°Tell Leo I love him,¡± she said, and ran away from the wounded man. As she did, Genny flailed her arms and shouted, ¡°Villar! You son of a whorish werebat! I¡¯m still alive, and you¡¯re still ugly.¡±
She wasn¡¯t committing suicide, although she realized it might have looked like it. To the wounded noble, she probably appeared to be sacrificing herself to save him. In reality, she had a plan. Her strategy was to catch Villar¡¯s attention and lure the golem away, granting the nobleman time to escape. This was an easy decision and a simple choice, given that Genny had concluded she couldn¡¯t possibly fit into even a barrel-sized pipe. The second part of her plan was less thought out. She hoped to make it to the carriage shop across the street in time to find shelter for herself. This latter part wasn¡¯t likely, not by a long shot.
So maybe this wasn¡¯t such a smart idea after all.
The reality of her situation crystallized when her exhausted legs finally gave out. With muscles screaming from fatigue, Genny stumbled on the uneven cobblestones. Then she fell face-first in the street as the giant statue of Novron closed in.
V2: Chapter 28 - Hide-And-Seek
Royce followed a dirt path outside the ruin, looking for clues. He wasn¡¯t certain what he hoped to find; a dropped note penned by Villar saying I went this way would have been helpful. Hadrian had eventually exited the ruins and circled them twice before wading into where the hawthorn bushes were thick. Royce had no idea where the duchess was¡ªstill in the cell if she was smart.
Villar might have returned to the city or gone deeper into the forest. Both plans had advantages and drawbacks. The city was downhill, but the terrain was mainly open. The forest was closer and offered cover. Which way did he go?
Hadrian emerged from the brambles. ¡°Find anything?¡±
¡°Nope,¡± Royce replied.
The two met back at the ruins.
The search was extra credit, and it wouldn¡¯t result in any higher payment. Royce was only looking because Villar had nearly killed him on not just one but two occasions. He didn¡¯t like loose ends, and Royce made a point of not letting those that opposed him live.
He scanned the domed building. Such an odd place.
The roof was the most striking feature, forty feet high and massive. Royce was no engineer, but he couldn¡¯t imagine that creating a dome out of stone was an easy task. The only other one he¡¯d seen was on the top of Grom Galimus, and he wasn¡¯t certain what that was made of¡ªlooked like gold but probably was just painted that color. This roof was assembled from solid, hand-cut rock¡ªno mortar¡ªeach stone precisely fashioned.
What is this place? Too small for a cathedral, monastery, or church, too elaborate for a house. It appeared to be a temple of some sort, like an overgrown chapel.
¡°You want to give up, don¡¯t you?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Not giving up. We found Genny Winter, even saved her life. I bet Gabriel will pay us extra for that. Job is done. Besides, Villar could be anywhere.¡±
¡°Pretty good bet he went to Grom Galimus,¡± Hadrian said as the two entered the temple. ¡°Villar doesn¡¯t seem like the type to just give up.¡±
¡°Not our problem, we did¡ª¡±
They both halted abruptly only a few steps inside the ruined temple.
The first thing Royce noticed was the smell. The interior had an awful odor akin to¡ª
¡°Smells like someone roasted a dog in here,¡± Hadrian whispered. The whisper said more than the words. Hadrian had come to the same conclusion Royce had.
Royce took another step and peered into the cell. The room, the whole temple, was deserted, but if that was true . . . ¡°Where¡¯s the duchess?¡± he whispered back.
¡°I¡¯m guessing on her way back to Rochelle,¡± Hadrian replied. He had one hand on the handle of his short sword as he carefully moved toward the fire.
What had been a nearly extinguished pile of faintly smoking ash had come back to life. Flames continued to lick a mostly consumed stack of wood. Royce glanced behind him at the doorway they had entered. He looked at the floor near the wall and found it bare.
¡°There was a box here,¡± Royce said. ¡°I saw it when I came out of the cell.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Like the one Griswold gave Erasmus. I think that¡¯s what¡¯s burning.¡±
Royce stared at the fire. ¡°Villar didn¡¯t run away . . . he doubled back.¡±
¡°That¡¯s crazy. We were just outside, looking for him. That¡¯s a huge gamble.¡±
¡°All his stuff is here. He had to come back. He waited for us to leave; probably figured we would go back to Rochelle and look for him at the cathedral, just like you said. When we ran out, he rushed back in. Not a bad idea, considering it¡¯s the one place we knew he couldn¡¯t be.¡±
Royce and Hadrian began a systematic search of the debris but found nothing. ¡°So, where is he now?¡±
Genny expected to be crushed.
She thought the stone Novron would stomp her like a bag of grapes, but instead, the god emperor¡¯s head cocked to one side as if listening; then it abruptly turned and charged east between the gallery and the cathedral. It didn¡¯t quite run¡ªGenny wasn¡¯t certain something that big and heavy could¡ªbut the long legs gave it the speed of a horse. She watched it leave, dumbfounded.
Where¡¯s it going?
¡°Genevieve?¡± the man she had pulled clear called out from the mouth of the drainpipe, looking like a groundhog peering out of its hole.
Genny rolled to one side. She wasn¡¯t getting up. That was way too much effort. Instead, she crawled over the cobblestones. She recognized the blood-smeared face of Armand Calder, Earl of Someplace. She didn¡¯t know him well, had only seen him once, during her wedding. She seemed to recall he might have kissed her hand. He was a lesser lord, no one of great account in the world of Alburn politics.
¡°Hullo, Army, how you doing?¡± she responded with a ridiculous smile. ¡°Hanging in there, right? You¡¯re gonna be fine. Might not be dancing for a while, but you¡¯ll be up and about in no time; trust me, I¡¯m going to see to that.¡±
Armand shook his head. Either it was the pain¡ªwhich looked considerable given the condition of his leg that had been facing the wrong way when she¡¯d found him¡ªor the terror had finally caught up, but she saw tears in the Earl of Someplace¡¯s eyes.
¡°It just came to life and started killing everyone . . . everyone.¡± He shuddered as he spoke.
Everyone. The word hurt to hear, yet hope, like a wisp of smoke in the temporary absence of a breeze, lingered.
¡°What about . . .¡± Genny stopped herself. She needed to know. ¡°Have you seen my¡ª¡±
¡°Leo wasn¡¯t here,¡± Armand stated.
Luckily, Genny was already on her hands and knees. Even so, she nearly collapsed. ¡°Are you saying . . . I mean . . . are you sure?¡±
The news was too wonderful to accept. Genny so desperately desired to believe Armand that her need made her hesitate. I¡¯m only hearing what I want to hear.
¡°His spot, the chair next to Floret¡¯s, was empty all morning,¡± the earl told her.
¡°Are you sure?¡± Genny replied. ¡°We¡¯re talking about Leopold Hargrave, Duke of Rochelle.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± Armand nodded. ¡°Your husband.¡±
¡°But Leo¡ªhe . . .¡±
¡°He never showed up,¡± Armand said. ¡°Guess he didn¡¯t want to be king as much as the rest of us. Lucky him.¡±
Genny¡¯s body was still begging for air from all her exertion, but at that moment she held her breath. ¡°Do you know where Leo is?¡±
¡°He was out looking for you. Everyone was talking about it.¡±
Genny breathed. ¡°Army,¡± she said, crawling the rest of the way to the Earl of Someplace. ¡°Army, you sweet, sweet man.¡± She helped pull him out on the cobblestones and covered him with a discarded cloak, tucking the edges around his neck. ¡°You hang on. I¡¯m going to take care of you. I¡¯m going to see you get through this. I swear by every god there is that I will.¡±
She meant it¡ªevery word. Genny decided then and there that she would defend Armand Calder with the last beat of her heart, for he had given her a gift beyond value, beyond imagining, beyond her wildest dreams.
Leo wasn¡¯t just alive. Leo loved her.
They were beneath the dome in a generally round room with the fire pit in the middle. The interior was a mess of overturned crates, urns, and scattered piles of wool, of which there was a surprising amount. Royce and Hadrian had dug through the clutter: several tall clay pots stained with tears of blue dye, an overturned wooden tub, mounds and mounds of raw wool. But no Villar.
Royce heard something outside, a distant thumping sound like someone running. He darted out, certain that Villar had broken from cover and was making a dash for it, but the sound was louder than the pounding of hooves. It sounded like¡ª
¡°Royce?¡± Hadrian poked his head out of the doorway and then joined him. ¡°Royce, what is that?¡±
Peering between the oak tree and a spruce, Royce saw the sun glint off something brilliantly white, something moving toward them at the speed of a galloping horse. As it cleared a gully, Royce got a good look.
¡°Royce, is that . . . ?¡±
¡°The statue of Novron from the plaza,¡± Royce finished for him.
They could both see it clearly as it traveled through the open, its long legs stomping with ease across the same fields and thickets they had just struggled up. The god¡¯s chest was marred: Chips of marble had been chiseled away. Other than that, he was perfect as only an artist could create: broad shoulders, narrow hips, lean muscle. This was exactly how Royce expected Novron to look. Not surprising, given that Royce¡¯s understanding of the god had been formed by various statues like this that he¡¯d seen in and around churches. This one had been the best of those, the most realistic¡ªin many ways, too realistic. Seeing it move felt less strange than knowing the life-like statue was only stone. As the statue grew nearer, Royce saw dark stains on its legs, as if the Son of Maribor had been stomping grapes for wine.
¡°Don¡¯t suppose it¡¯s just out for a stroll, eh?¡± Hadrian said, even as he drew his two swords.
¡°What are you going to do with those? It¡¯s stone. You¡¯d do better with a hammer and chisel.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t have those.¡±
The statue crashed through a copse, kicking the trees into a cloud of splinters. A branch too heavy for Royce to lift landed twenty feet away. Novron was close enough for him to see the marble god¡¯s expression. The normally stoic, proud, and noble features were twisted in vicious rage.
Royce pulled Alverstone out of the folds of his clothes.
¡°Oh, okay,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°A dagger is sooo much better.¡±
¡°A very sharp dagger,¡± Royce replied. ¡°When I was on Grom Galimus¡ª¡±
¡°Grom Galimus! Sacred ground!¡± Hadrian burst out. ¡°Get back inside!¡±
They ran through the doorway.
Having fought the gargoyle, Royce knew all too well the impossibilities of combat with living stone. He had managed to do some tiny damage with Alverstone, but Hadrian was right: A dagger wasn¡¯t a match for a giant. The fall from the roof of Grom Galimus had destroyed the golem, but that wasn¡¯t going to happen this time. Novron the Great looked a whole lot more dangerous than the stone monkey with its useless wings. But the thought that they could hide inside the ruin and wait out the golem like a summer downpour felt like little more than wishful thinking.
¡°Not going to work,¡± Royce said as outside they heard, and felt, the rumble of the charging marble giant.
¡°Why do you say that?¡±
¡°The golems-can¡¯t-tread-on-sacred-ground thing can¡¯t be true. I fought the gargoyle on top of Grom Galimus,¡± Royce said as if admitting some terrible sin. He had to shout to be heard over the hammering of the statue¡¯s footfalls as it closed the remaining distance. ¡°Doesn¡¯t get much more holy than a cathedral.¡±
Royce and Hadrian waited, each with a wincing expression.
Nothing happened. The footfalls ceased.
Through the open doorway, they spotted a pair of marble legs. They stood still like a pair of birch trunks.
Hadrian looked at Royce and smiled.
Royce shrugged. ¡°Maybe because I was on the roof it wasn¡¯t literally sacred ground? Or perhaps only the altar is sacred.¡± He didn¡¯t think the golem¡¯s restriction would be that specific, and yet he couldn¡¯t come up with any other reason why Villar¡¯s Novron wasn¡¯t crawling through the door to kill them.
¡°It¡¯s not reaching in the doorway, either,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Just standing there. Maybe it can¡¯t enter the interior space?¡±
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Royce bent down and peered out at the legs. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here forever, but I¡¯m thinking the God of Man might.¡± Giant Novron also bent down and peered in at them.
¡°Remember what Griswold said? There¡¯s a time limit. The person animating the golem can¡¯t keep the connection too long or his soul will get stuck permanently, making the golem an immortal, indestructible terror.¡±
Royce sighed. ¡°And anyone willing to stick around to roast a child¡¯s heart while we were outside searching for him is bound to be the type to go down with his ship, the HMS Revenge. So, waiting for Villar to break the connection might not be such a good plan.¡±
¡°Probably not. Good news is that the duchess is safe.¡±
¡°Yes . . .¡± Royce said with a sour look. ¡°By all means, let¡¯s thank Maribor for that.¡±
¡°Why not thank Novron. He¡¯s literally right outside.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°If only¡ª¡± he started to say, then stopped as a new thought distracted him. ¡°Villar has to be on sacred ground to summon that thing, right?¡±
Hadrian nodded.
¡°And if he leaves it, the golem would kill him.¡±
¡°Theoretically.¡±
¡°So he must still be here.¡±
The ruin wasn¡¯t a big place. There were no adjoining rooms except the cell, no cabinets or curtains to hide behind. Just the big dye pots, piles of wool, and the cook fire. Nevertheless, Royce moved around the space, nudging the blankets and looking inside the pots, which were huge but still far too small for even a mir to hide.
Where? Hadrian silently mouthed.
Royce shrugged in frustration. He looked back down at the crates and the piles of wool. He had to be close. He wasn¡¯t in the room with them, which meant . . .
Villar had led Royce on a merry chase across the rooftops of Rochelle. That tour of the city wasn¡¯t random. The mir knew where he was going, what transom led to what windows, what ledges could be leapt to, and what streets were narrow enough to cross at a running jump. He¡¯d been that way before.
Villar has a thing for roofs.
Royce looked up and pointed at the dome.
Hadrian¡¯s eyes widened. He shook his head. ¡°Can¡¯t be. The golem is out there. Why doesn¡¯t it just climb up and kill him.¡±
¡°Can¡¯t reach him.¡±
¡°But you said the gargoyle¡ª¡±
¡°The gargoyle was small. Well, smaller. And Grom Galimus had all kinds of ornaments and handholds. I don¡¯t think Novron can climb up the smooth walls of this temple. Villar, on the other hand, would have no problem.¡±
¡°Probably been up there this whole time¡ªthat¡¯s why we haven¡¯t found him,¡± Hadrian whispered. ¡°Now what?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t answer.
¡°The only way to stop that thing is to kill Villar. One of us has to get up there.¡± Hadrian looked out the door. The legs hadn¡¯t moved. ¡°And that means the other has to distract the god.¡± Hadrian sighed. ¡°You¡¯re the expert climber, so¡ª¡±
¡°There you go again!¡± Royce snapped.
¡°What?¡±
Royce shook his head in disbelief. ¡°Didn¡¯t we just talk about this? About your stupid habit of playing the hero? That¡¯s not grape juice on its legs.¡±
¡°No . . . no, it¡¯s not.¡± Hadrian¡¯s voice lowered. ¡°But time¡¯s running out, and I don¡¯t see another option, do you? I can¡¯t climb up these sheer walls, but you can.¡±
¡°Obviously, you should be the one to distract that thing, but that¡¯s not the point!¡± Royce snapped.
¡°What is the point?¡±
¡°You don¡¯t have to be so eager. You should try to persuade me to be the bait out of self-preservation.¡± Royce took a step closer to the door, to the marble legs. They were massive.
Hadrian smiled. ¡°You think if I go out there I¡¯m committing suicide?¡±
Royce nodded.
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m not. I have complete confidence. I¡¯ll be fine.¡±
¡°And what makes you think that?¡±
¡°Because there are unicorns in my world.¡±
¡°There aren¡¯t any stupid unicorns, Hadrian.¡±
¡°Yes, there are, I¡¯m looking at one right now. And I know you¡¯re a very fast one.¡± Hadrian pulled off his cloak. ¡°Ready?¡±
¡°Villar probably heard all of this,¡± Royce told him.
¡°Then I have nothing to worry about.¡±
Royce held out Alverstone ¡°Take this. It hurt the gargoyle before.¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ll need it more than me, little unicorn. Ready?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t ever call me that again, or when this is over, assuming you¡¯re still alive, I will kill you.¡±
¡°Deal.¡±
Hadrian threw his cloak out the doorway.
A marble foot came down, crushing the garment. Hadrian dived directly between the pair of white polished legs. His plan was to somersault to his feet and run. But the green grass beyond the door was an illusion. The turf lied about the rocks beneath its blades. Hadrian slammed his shoulder against a hidden stone the size of a saddle horn, making him cry out in pain and killing his forward momentum.
A moment was all he had before the golem turned and another foot came down.
Hadrian log-rolled downhill, feeling the ground jump with the golem¡¯s second failed attempt. Finding his feet, he ran for the thickets. The golem chased after him. Hadrian wasn¡¯t certain it would. If Villar had heard their conversation, there was a good chance he might ignore the self-proclaimed decoy. Either Villar hadn¡¯t heard or suspected the verbal planning was a ruse. Or maybe he simply didn¡¯t care. In any case, Hadrian had the statue on his heels, a marble god he had no hope of outrunning and couldn¡¯t fight.
Hadrian plunged into the mass of thickets, hoping to slow the golem down. The thorns slashed him, tore his clothes, and cut his cheek just below his left eye. Like a rabbit chased by a wolf, he clawed his way into the underbrush, aiming for thicker branches and better cover.
Behind him, the ground shook. Branches snapped, and vines were ripped clear. Thorns didn¡¯t bother the god emperor.
Royce didn¡¯t waste a moment.
The instant the golem turned its back, he was out the doorway. A strong leap gave him a fingertip purchase on ancient decorative molding. After that, he relied mostly on cracks¡ªsmall ones to be sure, but there were many to choose from. He pulled himself up as fast as he could. Everything was working perfectly. Too perfectly. No plan ever unfolded so nicely.
Why did the golem chase Hadrian? Villar must have heard. He knows I¡¯m the real threat. Unless . . . I¡¯m not.
Royce cleared the rim of the roof and ran up the curve to the peak of the dome. The roof of the temple was empty.
Villar wasn¡¯t there.
Stones!
Hidden beneath the brambles and old tree roots, Hadrian discovered a graveyard of tumbled slabs. Once part of the temple, these stones had fallen away and collapsed upon one another like playing cards. Three mostly buried slabs formed a hole that Hadrian crawled into.
A deep cave would have been nice, a tunnel even better; what he found was little more than a pocket.
Better than nothing.
Peering out the opening, he watched the world grow brighter as saplings and brambles were ripped away by Novron the Great. The god was digging down toward him.
Villar wasn¡¯t on the roof, but he had to be nearby. Royce climbed back down and reentered the temple. Hadrian couldn¡¯t survive much longer.
Royce stood in the little room, frustrated. Villar had to be there somewhere, but he couldn¡¯t find him and Royce was almost out of time.
I told you there were no unicorns!
Royce looked at the smoldering coals of the fire.
But the world is filled with vicious, merciless killers.
Then he noticed the heaping piles of wool.
I should know . . . I am one.
Hadrian squeezed himself as deeply as he could into the stone burrow. The slabs were massive, far from trivial impediments, even to a seventeen-foot marble god, but Hadrian was reminded about Villar¡¯s resolve as the golem grabbed the first stone and heaved it clear, tossing the giant granite block like a bag of grain. The second slab followed the first, leaving Hadrian exposed, his cozy refuge destroyed.
He scrambled to his feet. There was no fighting the thing; all he could do was run and dodge. Hadrian watched Marble Novron, hoping he might be able to evade whatever attack it made. If he could, he¡¯d try running again. The golem raised a fist to smash him with, but its arm didn¡¯t come down. Hadrian waited, but Novron continued to stand there, perfectly still. Its eyes were blank, vacant . . . like a statue.
Royce had been quick, just quick enough.
Inching away from the marble god, Hadrian moved back up the slope. He found the ruined temple engulfed in flames. Black smoke and orange tongues of fire licked out the doorway. Royce was out in front of the door, dagger in hand, watching the place burn.
¡°What happened?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Villar wasn¡¯t on the roof,¡± Royce replied, not taking his eyes off the doorway. ¡°And I sort of got tired of looking. How about you, where¡¯s your playmate?¡±
¡°Standing over in the thickets looking a lot like a statue.¡± Hadrian peered into the smoke and flames. ¡°You think Villar¡¯s dead?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Not yet.¡±
¡°No? Then why isn¡¯t the golem moving?¡±
¡°Only a guess, but I think when the smoke reached him, Villar panicked and broke the connection.¡±
¡°You know where Villar is, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I can¡¯t prove it, but I think so,¡± Royce said. ¡°If he wasn¡¯t on the roof, the only place left is underneath.¡±
¡°Makes sense. It would have been hidden,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°What would?¡±
¡°The tomb. That¡¯s what this place is, a monument or crypt to someone. This one was secret, so the entrance to the burial chamber is disguised. Villar set his box to burning, then crawled inside to run the golem.¡±
The two watched the fire grow. The inferno was thirty feet away, a distance required due to the heat. When the fire spread to the undergrowth, they retreated farther.
¡°How did you figure out it was a tomb?¡±
Hadrian pointed at one of the fallen slabs the golem had thrown, now only a few feet away. On it was chiseled a passage of text:
Falkirk de Roche
First Disciple of Bran
Rest With Maribor
¡°Any idea who that is?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Must have been someone important, but I suppose given enough time, even really important people are forgotten. It could have been¡ª¡± He stopped, and then pointed. ¡°There!¡±
Something moved just inside the doorway. It slowed, then collapsed before getting outside.
Royce nodded. ¡°Now he¡¯s dead.¡±
After the killer statue had inexplicably run away, Genny took a few minutes to catch her breath. When the marble monster didn¡¯t return, she found two boys cowering in the carriage shop. They looked like good kids, the sort to help a woman who could barely get to her feet. They said they were Wardley Woffington¡¯s sons. After a good deal of coaxing, which ended when one recognized her, Genny convinced them to come out. Once they did, she ordered them to build a stretcher and carry Armand Calder to a physician, which they managed with the skill of those desperate to have some normal task to concentrate on.
After that, Genny walked¡ªvery slowly¡ªdown the hill. She had no idea where she was going or why. The plaza was a gory scene, but maybe someone else might need help, and . . . it was downhill. She reached the river¡¯s edge, but got no farther than the start of the paving stones when everything finally caught up to her, and she broke down and sobbed.
She wasn¡¯t alone.
People began to spill back into the square from all corners. They came across the bridge, down Vintage Avenue, from Center Street, even through the alley between the gallery and the cathedral. All the faces were the same¡ªshock, horror, bewilderment, sadness. No one could do much more than stare and cry. Hundreds of men, women, and children, most of whom were dressed in the blue clothes of the wealthy and noble, lay dead alongside those who had served them at the feast. Out of that sea of morbid faces emerged an oddity.
Genny saw him through blurry eyes. A portly fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard was dressed in a poorly fitted metal breastplate and carrying a sword. He dropped the weapon and ran toward her, his arms spread wide. He crashed into her, his embrace so tight she could barely breathe. His bushy beard pressed hard against her cheek.
¡°I thought I¡¯d lost you,¡± he said, and when he pulled back to stare at her face, as if to assure himself it was really her, she saw tears of relief.
¡°I thought the same of you.¡± She gestured at the plaza. ¡°But you weren¡¯t here. You were . . . looking for me?¡±
¡°I was.¡± Leo stared into her eyes, his lips trembling. ¡°I thought you were dead. For more than two horrible weeks, I lived with that pain. Then I got your letter. I gathered my men and have spent the entire night and all of this day digging through every hovel, shop, and barn looking for you.¡± He started to laugh then covered his mouth and shook his head. ¡°I was coming back because I heard about the attack and . . . and . . . and here you are. I don¡¯t know how, but you are. Genny, my love, where have you been?¡±
Genny lingered on those two words: my love. ¡°Leo, tell me, do you love me?¡±
The duke¡¯s brows shot up. ¡°What a question! Didn¡¯t I just get done telling you¡ª¡±
¡°I need to know. Do you really love me?¡± she insisted, grabbing him by the arms and holding him fast.
¡°How can you ask such a thing?¡±
¡°Because everyone says you married me for my money or the crown.¡±
¡°That¡¯s not true.¡± His voice was stern, his eyes growing dark and stormy.
¡°Then why? Why do we sleep in separate rooms? Why on our wedding night didn¡¯t you come to me . . . that night or any other. Why have you been so distant?¡±
The storm faded and Leo looked down. The expression on his face shifted to pain and embarrassment.
It is true. He doesn¡¯t¡ª
¡°I¡¯m an old man, Genny. Set in my ways. I don¡¯t like too many people; even fewer like me. Living here, surviving in this place, it teaches you not to trust anyone. You learn early that people only take¡ªthey never give. Loyalty is a word that means ¡®What can I get from you, and for how long?¡¯ I¡¯ve had to guard myself, and I have, but it makes for a lonely life. But you¡¯re different, knew it the moment I met you. So bright, cheerful, smart, and open. You never asked how many servants I had, or how big my holdings were. That was so odd.¡±
She smiled.
¡°You never really asked anything of me, except which whiskey I liked best, and what was my favorite food.¡±
¡°Rye for the drink and apple-braised venison to eat,¡± she confirmed.
He nodded. ¡°I was drowning, Genny, and empty at the same time, and you were a lifeline, one I never thought I¡¯d find. You gave me a reason to live when I didn¡¯t have one. I needed you . . . but you didn¡¯t need me. You were rich, beautiful, smart¡ªwhat could I offer you?¡±
Beautiful?
¡°And what am I? Selfish, that¡¯s what. I shouldn¡¯t have asked you to marry me, but I couldn¡¯t help myself.¡±
Genny¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You regret your proposal?¡±
¡°I wanted to marry you,¡± he assured her. ¡°I just thought you would refuse. The question was my way to end our relationship before it went too far. But you said yes.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t understand, Leo. What are you talking about?¡±
¡°You should be queen and so much more. But I couldn¡¯t provide any of the things you deserve. Many thought I was the front-runner for the crown, but I knew better. Rochelle is such a mess, and if I¡¯m not able to properly administer my own finances, why would the bishop put me in charge of an entire kingdom?¡±
¡°Leo, my love, I don¡¯t care about being queen. It¡¯s you I want. Only you.¡±
¡°Is it? Is that all? What about children, Genny? And you¡¯d be such a wonderful mother. Your children would grow up to be strong, determined, and honest. I can never give you that. I can¡¯t give you children. I can¡¯t give any woman children. To be honest, I can¡¯t do much of anything. Swords are dangerous things, and in battles men have lost eyes, arms, and legs. I was wounded years ago, in a nameless battle at an insignificant creek. A handful of monks nursed me at a little monastery. I never told anyone, and neither have they, for which I was grateful, but I should have told you. It was wrong for me to accept your hand in marriage knowing I couldn¡¯t be a real husband.¡± His beard wriggled as his lips folded, his mouth quivering. ¡°It¡¯s just that I fell so deeply in love with you, Genny. And I was going to tell you. Even if it meant you¡¯d leave me. I lied, but at least I didn¡¯t tether you to me forever. The bishop will grant an annulment since the marriage was never consummated.¡±
¡°You do love me,¡± Genny said as tears fell.
¡°With all my heart, dear girl. That¡¯s why I want you to have your freedom.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t want freedom.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t? What do you want?¡±
¡°I want a goddamn double bed!¡± She grabbed hold of that bristly face and kissed him hard. His arms closed around her again.
V2: Chapter 29 - Winters House
¡°I suppose you two were involved,¡± were the first words out of Evelyn¡¯s mouth as she poured her obligatory morning tea.
¡°Indirectly,¡± Hadrian replied.
The lids came off the food. That morning¡¯s thank-you to Novron had been a mere communal bowing of heads. As usual, the breakfast table was impeccable and laden with a feast fit for kings, emperors, and at least one pair of very quiet thieves.
Evelyn didn¡¯t look at either of them, focusing instead on the amber stream spilling into her porcelain cup.
¡°The Seret will be coming soon. Such a thing happening in their own backyard must be addressed. They¡¯re not known for being prudent. It¡¯s likely they¡¯ll seek justice, and it won¡¯t matter who they choose to hold responsible.¡± She looked up. ¡°A pair of no-account foreigners would be tops on their list. I think it best if the two of you returned from whence you came.¡±
¡°You¡¯re kicking us out?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Yes,¡± she said simply and with an ever-so-curt nod. ¡°I am.¡± Evelyn set her spoon down sharply and frowned. ¡°Truth is, I¡¯ve already rented your room to someone else. So, please pack your things and be out by midday, thank you.¡±
Hadrian stared at her and smiled. ¡°You¡¯re concerned about us, aren¡¯t you?¡±
Evelyn glared back. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. You¡¯re abominable people, and I¡¯ll not have you spoiling my house with your unsavory ways any longer. There, you wanted the truth, you have it. Stop smiling. I¡¯m not doing this for you. I¡¯m not. Stop it.¡±
A knock at the door ended the one-sided debate as Evelyn stood up and, with an exasperated huff, marched to her home¡¯s entrance.
¡°Hullo!¡± a loud voice bellowed.
¡°Oh good gracious.¡± Evelyn gasped. ¡°Your Ladyship!¡±
Royce and Hadrian abruptly stood. Leaving the dining room, they entered the foyer at the same time as the Duchess of Rochelle who was dressed in a long black gown, black shawl, and a matching wide-brimmed hat, the sort that demanded special care when moving in tight spaces. Large though she was, her presence was twice as big. She commanded attention like a loud bee in a small room. Her face, round and happy, beamed a smile that made crescent-moons of her eyes.
Evelyn smoothed a lace doily that was already perfectly placed. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I had no idea you were coming. Please forgive this terrible mess!¡±
¡°Oh, nonsense, my good lady!¡± the duchess said. ¡°I¡¯m the one who should be apologizing. Dropping in unannounced at this hour and after such a tragedy. I wouldn¡¯t be the slightest bit surprised if you turned me away. Kicked me to the gutter. A fine woman such as yourself would expect that I know better than to act so abominably.¡±
¡°I . . . I . . . ah . . .¡± Evelyn stammered, lost.
¡°She¡¯s met her match,¡± Royce whispered to Hadrian.
¡°But you see, I do have a reason, and while it might not be readily apparent, nor may you find it entirely important, I assure you that to me it most certainly is. And being the duchess of this city, that counts for something, doesn¡¯t it? Of course it does. So, I do hope you¡¯ll pardon this intrusion.¡±
The large woman pushed deeper into the home, sweeping the hem of her gown to make certain it wasn¡¯t stepped on. As she moved clear of the doorway, Hadrian spotted an elegant carriage waiting on the street and a surprisingly large contingent of armed soldiers, including Roland Wyberg, working as the woman¡¯s security detail.
¡°I¡¯m looking for two¡ª¡± The duchess spotted them and smiled. ¡°There you are, aren¡¯t you?¡±
She said this as if she expected some sort of answer, but neither Royce nor Hadrian had any clue how to respond. The pause took only a single beat as her smile widened. She spread her hands toward them. ¡°My saviors.¡±
She crossed the room and enveloped Hadrian in a hearty embrace; no bear could do better. Apparently, she didn¡¯t remember his comment about Royce and hugging, for she took hold of him as well. Royce went rigid, enduring the embrace as best he could.
¡°Our pleasure, Your Ladyship,¡± Hadrian replied.
¡°To you, dear boys, I¡¯m Genny, your most grateful damsel in distress. I thought you would like to know. My husband sent men up the eastern slope to look for any signs of Villar. They found the ruins, burned and destroyed, along with two bodies.¡±
¡°Two?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Villar and the original inhabitant, Falkirk de Roche, a first-century monk after whom the river and city were named. De Roche was in a tomb under the dome. Villar, on the other hand . . . well, I¡¯m guessing it was Villar . . . was burned beyond recognition. They also found the inanimate statue of Novron. That monster killed nearly every noble in the city. Armand Calder and I came within a heartbeat of becoming two more Spring Day casualties.¡±
Evelyn, who still hadn¡¯t found her tongue, continued to stare.
¡°Now then, if I know my father, my rescue wasn¡¯t his only request. I¡¯m sure your remuneration is contingent upon returning me to his side. Well, that¡¯s not going to happen. My husband loves me and I him, and I¡¯m not going anywhere.¡± She held out a sealed parchment, and Hadrian took it. ¡°So, here is a letter for my father, explaining that I¡¯m safe and couldn¡¯t be happier, and that he should pay you the full amount he promised. But just in case he doesn¡¯t see it that way . . .¡± She turned and bellowed, ¡°Wentworth!¡±
A little man with his hair in a ponytail rushed forward and held out a purse. Royce took it.
¡°Inside, you¡¯ll find seventy-five gold tenents to hold you over and pay for expenses. I¡¯d give more, but it¡¯s no longer just my money, you understand. My husband and I are going to get the city¡¯s finances in shape, and we have to watch our expenses. Still, I wanted to make sure you weren¡¯t left empty-handed. So please accept this along with my undying gratitude.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Oh no, dear boy, thank you! If not for your intervention, I¡¯d be dead, my husband would be heartbroken, and Alburn wouldn¡¯t have such a fine new king!¡±
¡°Has the bishop crowned your husband?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°Ha-ha! No, no. Rochelle will just have to be content with us here. My husband took himself out of the running when he didn¡¯t show up at the feast. Apparently, finding me was more important than a crown. No, the bishop chose Armand Calder, the only noble to attend the feast and live. He might walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but it looks like he will make a complete recovery. He seems like a decent sort, which is good, and he likes me, which is better. Alburn is in need of many changes, and I think King Armand will listen to my ideas about reform. Did you know Mercator Sikara?¡±
They both nodded.
¡°Remarkable lady. She died trying to get my letter to Leo, didn¡¯t she?¡±
¡°Yes,¡± Royce said.
The duchess nodded. ¡°That poor woman. All she wanted was a better life for her people.¡± The duchess raised her hand and shook a finger. ¡°I¡¯m going to ensure the mir are treated better¡ªin Rochelle if no place else. Leo and I are going to make this city a beacon for the rest of the world. A safe haven for the mir, the Calians, and the little bearded folk. When people see the prosperity that harnessing so many talents can produce, they¡¯ll surely want to emulate our success. Well, I really must be going. So, thank you again, Hadrian Blackwater and Royce . . . Royce. I¡¯m sorry, but I didn¡¯t catch your last name. What is it?¡±
Royce sighed. ¡°Melborn.¡±
Evelyn glared. ¡°I thought your names were Baldwin and Grim!¡±
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Returning from the stable that had quartered their animals, Hadrian led their horses down Mill Street. He¡¯d felt guilty about not checking in on Dancer all week. The stable hand had complained, saying he should have been warned if they were going to abandon their horses for so long. In truth, the man was probably more disappointed when Hadrian showed up. Any hopes he might have had of selling a set of orphaned animals had vanished, and now he would have to settle for the ridiculously steep caretaking fee that he imposed. Dancer showed no signs of ill treatment or ill will, nuzzling Hadrian¡¯s shoulder as they walked.
Returning to Hemsworth House, Hadrian found Royce waiting on the stoop out front, surrounded by their gear like a man washed up on a deserted island.
¡°What did you do now?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Nothing,¡± Royce said, standing up and throwing Hadrian¡¯s saddlebag at him. Royce hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°The new occupant is here, and Evelyn wanted me and our things out so we didn¡¯t upset her.¡±
¡°Her?¡±
¡°Yep.¡± He wore an odd smirk, part surprised, part amused. ¡°The new guest is that mir mother who told us about the place.¡±
Hadrian put his little finger in his ear and made a show of wiggling it before pulling it out and saying, ¡°Sorry, sounded like you said Evelyn let the room to a mir.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°Don¡¯t know how she did it, either. Tracked the mir down somehow. I suppose she¡¯s lived here her entire life and knows this city pretty well. Old woman is full of surprises.¡±
Royce tossed his own bag on his horse, but before tying it, he lifted and hooked the stirrup on the horn, double-checking the cinch.
¡°Seriously?¡± Hadrian leaned on Dancer, shaking his head in disgust. ¡°You had to check? You don¡¯t think I know how to cinch a saddle?¡±
Royce didn¡¯t even look up as he ran fingers along the strap, checking its tension. ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±
¡°Trust. You have to learn to trust people, Royce.¡±
He dropped the stirrup without making any changes. ¡°No. I don¡¯t.¡±
They finished lashing bags to their mounts. The animals stood impatiently, stomping hooves to express their desire to be on the road. Along the street the milkman was back to delivering his jugs, and a flower girl was going door-to-door with a basket of fresh-cut purple pansies. Only a day later and the city was back to old routines.
Hadrian pulled himself up onto Dancer and grasped his reins, but Royce hesitated. He had his things secured but remained staring up at the window of what had been their room.
¡°Forget something?¡±
¡°The rug.¡±
¡°What rug? Oh, wait . . . you¡¯re not serious!¡±
¡°It¡¯s just that it would definitely fit nicely through that window and hit the street with hardly a sound.¡± Royce looked up and down the thoroughfare. ¡°There are never any constables on this street. I bet we could sell it in Little Gur Em for five gold, maybe six.¡±
¡°I¡¯m leaving.¡± Hadrian started to urge Dancer into the traffic, then stopped.
¡°What?¡± Royce asked. ¡°You¡¯re having second thoughts about the rug, aren¡¯t you?¡±
Hadrian gave him a sharp look. ¡°No.¡± He pointed across the street at a little pug-nosed dog sitting on a patch of recently turned earth. ¡°Must be a stray. I¡¯ve seen that dog around here a lot. I wish I had some food.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not a stray; it has a collar,¡± Royce said and continued to stare. Then his eyes narrowed and a stunned looked filled his face. ¡°That¡¯s not possible.¡±
¡°What¡¯s not?¡±
Royce abandoned his horse and crossed the street.
Royce famously hated dogs, and, thinking he might harm the animal, Hadrian leapt off his mount and raced over, catching up just as Royce bent down to study the little mangy pup¡¯s collar.
¡°I can¡¯t believe it.¡±
¡°What?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°It¡¯s Mister Hipple.¡±
¡°No! That¡¯s not possible. You don¡¯t mean . . .¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°Lady Martel¡¯s dog. The one who sounded the alarm at Hemley Manor and nearly got poor Ralph the guard killed. How could that dog possibly be here?¡±
Hadrian looked around at the unkempt field filled with crooked posts. ¡°This is a cemetery, a paupers¡¯ graveyard. Maybe this is Lady Martel¡¯s grave.¡±
¡°Lady Martel wouldn¡¯t be buried in a pauper¡¯s grave in Alburn. She¡¯s the wife of a wealthy Melengar lord.¡±
¡°But didn¡¯t Puck say something about the diary belonging to a monk named Falkirk?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No. He said the diary was written by someone named Falkirk, and that she got it from a monk.¡±
¡°Whoa, that¡¯s really weird. Wonder what she¡¯s doing here, and how she died.¡± Hadrian looked at the dog, sadly. ¡°That¡¯s one loyal pet. I¡¯ve heard stories about things like this. The dog gets so attached that it waits on its owners¡¯ grave for them to come back. Some end up dying because they just can¡¯t leave.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t say anything. He merely stared at the dog and the grave.
¡°Maybe we should take Mister Hipple with us,¡± Hadrian said, bending down and reaching out.
The little mongrel with the flat face and folded ears snapped at him. ¡°Or not.¡±
They returned to their horses and climbed up.
¡°Perhaps Evelyn will adopt him,¡± Hadrian said hopefully.
¡°Or maybe he¡¯ll be crushed under the wheels of a milk wagon. I¡¯m not sure which would be the worse fate,¡± Royce added.
The streets were just as congested as on the day they had arrived, but this time the current was all in one direction, out. Like Royce and Hadrian, everyone was leaving the city, heading home. At the bottom of the hill, they found that the plaza had been cleaned. The sound of hammering announced that the door to the gallery was being worked on, and the bells of Grom Galimus were chiming on time, but no vendors had set up shop. In their place, flowers had been laid out in bunches around the empty pedestal where a seventeen-foot statue of Novron once stood. Wreaths, candles, and lovingly drawn portraits were mixed in with the bundles of recently gathered blossoms. The odd thing¡ªno delineation existed between the memorials for servants and nobles. No line separated the privileged from the poor. Grief blended them all together, ignoring differences as readily as death had.
¡°Don¡¯t understand how all this connects,¡± Hadrian said as they waited to cross the bridge to Governor¡¯s Isle behind a trio of wagons filled with families. ¡°How could reading the diary of a several-thousand-year-old monk get Lady Martel and Virgil Puck killed? Maybe some ancient ghost wants his book back. Which brings up another mystery.¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°Who killed Erasmus Nym?¡±
Royce shrugged. ¡°I suppose a golem got him.¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Only Villar, Griswold, and Erasmus knew how to raise them. You were chasing Villar across rooftops when Erasmus died.¡±
¡°So, it must have been Griswold.¡±
¡°Nope. He¡¯d run away from the cemetery. Besides, the two of them were friends. He¡¯d have no reason to kill him.¡±
¡°I have a friend, and I think about killing him all the time.¡± Royce said with a straight face.
¡°Oh, so you admit it now. We¡¯re friends?¡±
¡°I never said anything about you. Don¡¯t be so presumptuous.¡±
The wagon ahead of them began moving, but slowly. They were at the edge of the bridge where the big gargoyle pediment Royce had perched on was still guarding the entrance to Governor¡¯s Isle.
Hadrian looked around at the congested city of towers and grotesque statues dominated by the cathedrals and bridge spires. Even in the daylight, with the many shadows cast by the tall buildings, the old city felt dark. Who knew what other secrets it kept to itself.
Royce turned sharply around in his saddle and looked behind.
¡°What?¡± Hadrian asked, looking back as well, but he saw only the city and more throngs of people.
¡°Nothing.¡±
¡°What is it?¡±
Royce gave a second glance back and sighed. ¡°I just thought of something.¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°Why Lady Martel might have been buried in an unmarked grave. It¡¯s because her body wasn¡¯t claimed. No one identified her.¡±
¡°I think that¡¯s obvious. If they¡¯d known who she was, her body would have been sent back to Hemley Manor.¡±
¡°And why do you think that was? I mean, why didn¡¯t anyone identify her?¡±
Shock crossed Hadrian¡¯s face. ¡°You don¡¯t mean . . .¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°What if Lady Martel didn¡¯t have a face?¡±
Hadrian grimaced and pulled his blue scarf tighter.
Crossing the river, they started up the far hills, heading west. When they reached the crest, they turned back for a final look. From that distance, the city, nestled in the valley surrounded by the mountains and the sea, appeared quaint, even romantic.
¡°What¡¯s that up there?¡± Royce pointed to what appeared to be a fortress down the coast.
The castle was nothing but an outline on the top of a distant mountain, but even from that far away it appeared intimidating, dangerous, powerful.
¡°Blythin Castle,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°I think that¡¯s where they imprisoned Glenmorgan the Third, and it¡¯s now headquarters to the Seret Knights. Creepy place. Wanna go look?¡±
Royce pulled up his hood. ¡°No. Let¡¯s get home. I¡¯m never coming back here.¡±
Hadrian laughed. ¡°Never say never on any endeavor . . .¡±
¡°Quit it.¡±
¡°It sounds like a dare to gods that don¡¯t care . . .¡±
¡°I mean it.¡±
¡°If the likes of us prosper, fail, or falter . . .¡±
¡°You are seriously annoying me now.¡±
¡°It matters not while they roll with laughter on an altar . . .¡±
Royce kicked his horse and trotted off up the road.
Hadrian looked back once more at the city. He thought of Seton and the night he first met her amidst the smell of blood and the cries of widows. He remembered his father who¡¯d made him butcher a chicken, the first life he took. And he thought back on his years of war and slaughters within the arenas of Calis. ¡°At our miserable, sad little lives.¡±
Royce was right. They were never coming back here again.
V3: Chapter 1 - The Last Berling
¡°I¡¯m sorry, Gravis,¡± Lord Byron said in his most sympathetic tone, which he knew from experience was not up to such a task, ¡°but I regret to deliver the unpleasant news that you are being let go.¡±
The dwarf in front of Lord Byron stood before the grand desk, looking horribly out of place in the lavish office.
Lord Byron thought, He¡¯d look out of place anywhere, I imagine.
Not quite three feet tall, the dwarf had hair that came to his knees and a beard that brushed the floor. His eyebrows, which grew on a pronounced ridge, appeared like a pair of neglected hedges whose gardener had died a century ago. These brows cast a brooding shadow on his face. Taken as a whole, Gravis Berling seemed little more than a hairy haystack with a pair of pitiful eyes.
But then again, they¡¯re all like that, aren¡¯t they?
¡°I don¡¯t understand, sir,¡± Gravis said, his voice the traditional deep dwarven groan of grinding rock.
Lord Byron didn¡¯t know much about dwarfs despite employing a tiny army of them. Like everyone, he¡¯d heard the legends, the jokes made at public houses, and he¡¯d witnessed the depictions at theaters where they were always villains. Dwarfs certainly looked the part. Small and hairy, they scurried about in the dark, completely at home underground where no reasonable person would ever go. Rats were the same way, and as such, they induced fear and loathing. People who weren¡¯t revolted were often the type to see small furry things as cute, such as the lady who tries to care for a hurt squirrel or raccoon. But dwarfs were neither. Nor were they so simple a thing as inconvenient rodents. Dwarfs were dangerous, their size misleading. Lord Byron had once seen a dwarven miner crush a rock with his bare hand. Armed with pickaxes, Gravis¡¯s brethren could cut through stone as if it were high grass. Not only were they frighteningly strong, but the entire race also possessed the endurance of wolves and the longevity of tortoises. Some stories claimed dwarfs lived as long as five centuries. Lord Byron had reason to believe there was truth to these tales as Gravis himself was easily over a hundred. The years showed in the gullies of his face, the deep valleys beneath those downtrodden eyes, and the brittle gray in all that hair. Some legends even put forth the notion that the diminutive race was not born of flesh and blood but rather crafted from stone. This was why their voices possessed that unpleasant grit and the reason why dwarfs had no feelings.
¡°What do you mean, let go?¡±
Lord Byron frowned, disappointed at the response. He¡¯s pretending to be ignorant. I did hope it wouldn¡¯t go this way. But then I also hoped the gout in my left toe would clear up.
¡°As of this moment,¡± Lord Byron explained, ¡°you are no longer an employee of the Delgos Port Authority Association.¡±
The dwarf narrowed his eyes, bristling those awful brows. They look like woolly bear caterpillars with their fur up. Do caterpillars do that? Raise their fur? Is that why they call them woolly bears? I doubt it.
¡°What¡¯s that mean, sir?¡± Gravis continued with what appeared to be a charade of ignorance.
Lord Byron fought the urge to roll his eyes. It had been a long day, most of it taken up dismissing more than two dozen dwarfs. He could have had the foreman do it?¡ª?regretted a bit now that he hadn¡¯t?¡ª?but he believed in doing things the proper way. Delgos was a republic, not a monarchy. A worker had the right to hear such news directly from his employer.
¡°It means you no longer work here, Gravis. You will receive your final recompense at the door as you leave.¡±
The dwarf continued to stare as if he no longer understood the Rhunic language. They sometimes did that, feigned ignorance while muttering something in their native tongue.
¡°But . . .?¡± Gravis looked around the office. ¡°I don¡¯t work here. I work at Drumindor, sir.¡±
Lord Byron had expected that the old engineer would be a problem. Gravis Berling had been with the Port Authority longer than anyone, longer than even Lord Byron. And then, of course, there was the whole family name issue. It was said that a certain Andvari Berling?¡ª?an ancient dwarf?¡ª?had designed and overseen the building of the fortress. Lord Byron wasn¡¯t at all certain this was true, but it could be. Anything could be, couldn¡¯t it? Gravis certainly thought it was possible, and in the old engineer¡¯s mind, Drumindor was his property?¡ª?the ancient fortress his inheritance. This was why Lord Byron had insisted that the old engineer was to be the last brought to his office. He knew the meeting would be unnecessarily quarrelsome and draining. He looked forward to consoling himself afterward with a cup of tea and a long walk along the bay. Nothing helped clear the head like salt-sea air and a hot cup of salifan, especially with a squeeze of fresh lemon. A cup of tea absolutely required fresh lemon, or what was the point?
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Lord Byron didn¡¯t like scenes or disturbances of any sort. He was a proper man who woke each morning at sunrise, always put on his left shoe before his right, and never went outside without hat and gloves. Order was the proper way of things and routine the heart and soul of order. People like Gravis were . . . messy. Handling him was very much like clearing a clogged drain with a bare hand. And, if pressed on the matter, Lord Byron would admit to a certain personality flaw regarding the propensity to procrastinate when it came to anything expected to be disagreeable. Informing Gravis Berling that he would no longer be allowed to care for his beloved Drumindor after more than a century was undoubtedly going to be unpleasant.
Lord Byron took an exasperated breath before stating what he was certain Gravis was well aware of but pointedly pretending to be oblivious to. ¡°Drumindor is part of the Delgos Port Authority Association, Gravis. Why are you being
so obtuse?¡±
Perhaps it was his use of obtuse that caused it. Lord Byron doubted the likes of Gravis had a clue what the word meant. But whatever the reason, the dwarf appeared to stop listening. Despite his small vocabulary, Gravis had gotten the message. Perhaps it just took a bit of time to penetrate all that hair. ¡°I¡¯ve worked there all me life. I . . .?¡± The dwarf stroked his beard, eyes shifting about in a vague panic.
Lord Byron had witnessed similar mannerisms in men walking to the gallows. Gravis was noticeably terrified as any person would be when faced with a very sudden end to what had been a long life.
¡°I never had any children,¡± Gravis confessed, as if this were some great crime. He sounded suddenly short of breath. ¡°I¡¯m the last of the Berlings?¡ª?the last. There¡¯s no one left in me clan. I . . . I have no family, except me wife, and she . . .?¡± He hesitated as if a new and terrible thought had walked uninvited across the threshold of his mind. ¡°My Ena, she¡¯s sick! The poor lass. She¡¯s been ill for some time, getting worse, too. How will I . . . Without me job, I¡¯ll be asked ta pay rent on that shack of ours. If I lose it?¡ª?I got nothing. There¡¯s no place that will hire me, not now, not at my age.¡± He looked at his hands as if they had betrayed him. ¡°What¡¯d I do wrong, sir? I swear ta your god and mine that I¡¯ll make it right. I will. I¡¯ll do anything. Please. Please.¡±
Lord Byron had expected the question. They had all asked it, and he had answered the same way each time. ¡°It¡¯s not anything you did, Gravis. The Tur Del Fur Administration Triumvirate has determined that, given the recent lawless disturbances, continuing to allow your people to operate Drumindor is . . . well, it¡¯s a threat to city security.¡±
¡°What disturbances? And what do you mean about a threat to security?¡± Gravis looked lost. ¡°The Berlings?¡ª?built Drumindor, sir. This?¡ª?this whole bay was uninhabitable before Andvari Berling arrived. I¡¯ll tell you what¡¯s a threat, sir?¡ª?not having a Berling take proper care of the old gal. That¡¯s dangerous, that is. Letting me go?¡ª?as you call it?¡ª?that¡¯s irresponsible, unsafe, and absolutely a threat to this city¡¯s security.¡±
¡°I am aware of your?¡ª¡±
¡°Mount Druma used to erupt all the bleeding time, spewing clouds of ash and poison gas and letting loose streams of lava. This lovely little bay was a toxic death trap a¡¯fore we built Drumindor!¡±
¡°Yes, I fully understand?¡ª¡±
¡°And then there were the pirates, the Dacca and the Ba Ran. They used to ravage these coasts! If it weren¡¯t for my people, there¡¯d be no Drumindor, no Tur Del Fur, no Port Authority Association or Administration Triumvirate! If it weren¡¯t for my people, this office would be in a smoking crater of molten rock! All your lovely little shops, caf¨¦s, taprooms, and theaters wouldn¡¯t exist.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not my decision, Gravis.¡±
¡°You¡¯re the president of the Port Authority Association!¡± The grind of gravel rose to the roar of a lion. ¡°Ya just said Drumindor is part of the bloody DP-double-A.¡±
¡°Yes, but I don¡¯t run the country. This decision was made by the Triumvirate. If you have a problem, take it up with them.¡± ?This was Lord Byron¡¯s shield. He had never thought of it that way until witnessing Gravis change from the wandering wizard of wheels and levers into something more frightening. Once more, Lord Byron remembered how that miner¡¯s bare hand had crushed a rock like a clod of dirt, and for a moment, he felt afraid. Gravis¡¯s hands, old as they were, might still possess power beyond mortal man.
¡°Aye, you¡¯re right. It¡¯s not up to you. Not even up to the Unholy Trio. Even if they wanted to, they can¡¯t change the way men think,¡± Gravis said in resignation as he looked at the polished floor and shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s the same as always, isn¡¯t it? We thought the republic would be different. No kings, no emperors,
no church. Just free folk minding their own business. But it¡¯s still the same. It¡¯s always the same.¡± He looked up sharply and fixed Lord Byron with a piercing glare. ¡°I should be the one firing you?¡ª?all of ya. Drumindor is mine, and none
of you deserve her. You can¡¯t understand her language, and ya don¡¯t even know how she works.¡± He paused and thought a moment as if another idea?¡ª?a horrible one?¡ª?came knocking. ¡°But I do.¡±
Gravis Berling glared up at Lord Byron, and a smile appeared under all that hair, an awful, terrible smile. ¡°Aye, that¡¯s right, I know her very well.¡±
V3: Chapter 2 - The Affair
After waking and finding Royce Melborn standing in the dark at the foot of her bed, Lady Lillian Traval¡¯s eyes went wide, but she didn¡¯t scream. Had she, Royce would have slit her throat in an instant, not so much out of necessity, but reflex. He was there to kill her anyway, but the woman¡¯s self-restraint bought the lady an extra pair of seconds. She made the most of them.
¡°Wait!¡± she said. The single word was urgently cast, but the volume was low, practically a whisper, as if the two were together in this endeavor rather than predator and prey.
Royce was so impressed he did as she asked. He had the luxury. The Traval Estate was practically vacant. Lady Traval had no children or pets, and her husband was away on business. As a precaution, she¡¯d even gone so far as to send all the guards and servants away. Lady Traval and Edmund wanted to be alone, and as such, the lovers had the entire place to themselves. Royce couldn¡¯t have had an easier execution to perform. Lillian could have shrieked for hours, alerting no one other than Edmund, who lay fast asleep on his stomach beside her. The young baron was no more a threat than the pillow he lay upon. Royce¡¯s two victims were prone on the mattress, helpless in the lady¡¯s lavish bed chamber. Bright moonlight revealed the sheen of sweat on bare skin. Both lay naked, wrapped just as much in each other as in the tangled bedsheet.
Curiosity was what made Royce delay, and this came in two parts. The first was how this pampered wife of a noble shipping magnate had maintained her wits at such a moment. The second was the anticipation of what she might say next.
What can she say?
He expected to be disappointed. She would likely claim something to the effect of You can¡¯t do this! despite the obvious truth of the situation. Royce had heard such words on those few occasions where his target had had the opportunity to speak. Nevertheless, she had surprised him with her quiet restraint. That didn¡¯t happen often. He felt she¡¯d earned at least one sentence, even if it wouldn¡¯t make a difference.
It did.
¡°I can pay more,¡± Lady Traval said.
Well played, and in only four words.
Edmund stirred. ¡°What? You¡¯re paying me now?¡± he asked merrily in between sleepy breaths. ¡°Have I become your trollop?¡±
¡°Shut up, you idiot!¡± Lillian snapped, still in that carefully quiet voice.
¡°What makes you think you can pay more?¡± Royce asked.
At the sound of his voice, Edmund rolled over and peered into the dark. It took a second before . . . ¡°Novron¡¯s ghost!¡± the Baron of Sansbury screamed. Luckily for him, the lady of the house had already entered into a negotiation sufficiently intriguing to grant a stay of execution for both.
¡°Because I know my husband,¡± Lady Traval replied, as if Edmund didn¡¯t exist. ¡°He¡¯s cheap. I guarantee that I can pay twice what he offered.¡±
¡°Who is this?¡± Edmund glared at Royce. ¡°Lilly, what are you two talking about?¡±
¡°Oh, Eddie, please do be quiet, or you¡¯ll get us both killed.¡±
¡°Killed?¡± ?The young man¡¯s eyes threatened to fall out as he looked first at her then Royce.
¡°Twice as much?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Are you being literal or just flamboyant?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Lady Traval replied. ¡°What is the life of a noble adulteress going for these days?¡±
Royce suppressed a smile. He had never met Lady Lillian Traval before, but he¡¯d known of her for years. She had the distinction of being Riyria¡¯s first official client. While Royce was not normally sentimental, it still counted for something that she paid promptly and well. Her husband, by contrast, was indeed cheap. The lady had paid fifty tenents for the recovery of one earring, while in return for the double murder of his wife and her lover, Hurbert Traval was only willing to part with . . .
¡°Thirty,¡± Royce replied.
¡°Gold, I hope,¡± she said, sounding disappointed but not surprised.
¡°Yes.¡±
¡°Is he really here to kill us?¡± Edmund asked. ¡°Did your husband?¡ª¡±
¡°Silence, Edmund! Damn you! I¡¯m trying to save our lives, you foolish boy!¡±
The baron cringed, whimpered, and pulled up the sheet. Edmund Wyberne, the eighth Lord of Sansbury, was pretty, pale, and pathetic. The lad was wealthy and still in his teens but always as morose as a man with a noose around his neck. His father had died only a few years ago of consumption?¡ª?the White Death?¡ª?leaving Edmund an enormous inheritance, including the illness that left him frail, pale, and inexplicably attractive to women. Apparently, ladies had a penchant for corpses.
¡°Sixty it is then,¡± Lillian declared.
¡°You have it here?¡±
¡°I do.¡±
¡°Wait! You can¡¯t trust a hired murderer!¡± Edmund wailed from behind the armor of the damp bedsheet that he held to his face. ¡°What¡¯s to stop him from killing us, stealing your money, then collecting his reward from Hurbert?¡±
Lady Traval rolled her eyes. ¡°If he does that, my husband will know he stole it, and that will be . . . well, bad for business. Won¡¯t it? No one would ever hire him again if news got around, and it certainly would get around. Gossip as spicy as this will spread through the gentry like water on a flat stone.¡±
¡°Are you serious?¡± Edmund exclaimed. ¡°You expect?¡ª¡±
¡°But if I give it,¡± she said, her eyes on Royce, ¡°I will provide an excuse for where the money went. I¡¯ll have to or admit to my husband I¡¯m cheating on him, which your presence painfully proves he suspects. I trust you were not hired to simply kill me, but engaged to slit my throat only if you found me with someone in my bed tonight?¡±
Royce nodded.
¡°So, you can simply report I was alone, can¡¯t you? You¡¯ll have done your job?¡ª?as far as my husband knows. After he pays, you¡¯ll walk away with three times as much money as promised. And no blood on your clothes, no need to look over your shoulder tonight. What do you say?¡±
Royce walked out the front door of the Traval Estate and through the moonlit, snow-blanketed gardens, feeling both pleased and oddly out of sorts. He had been prepared for a night of old-fashioned mayhem, a return to the long-neglected craft that defined him. Royce felt a tarnish had built up on his talents over the last few years of partnering with Hadrian Blackwater. The man had succeeded in stifling Royce¡¯s art, but this night was his chance to scrape off the rust and get back into shape. To his delight, Hadrian, who found the idea of killing a woman too repugnant, had opted to stay in the nearby port town of Roe. If Royce believed in gods, he would have declared this to be a sign. While not exactly looking forward to the killing?¡ª?Royce took no more pleasure in murder than a butcher does when lopping off the heads of chickens?¡ª?he did relish the anticipation of a certain return to normalcy.
Royce hadn¡¯t felt like himself in quite some time. He suffered bouts of longing for the old carefree days of blood and butchery. Back then, everything was simple; everything made sense. Now, nothing did.
I¡¯m obviously sick, and the illness goes by the names of Hadrian Blackwater and . . . Gwen DeLancy.
Royce thought this was what it must be like for a wounded wolf who had been taken in by an ignorantly helpful family. They meant well enough, but a wolf is supposed to be wild, and the family wouldn¡¯t understand how all their feeding and petting could ruin the animal. With too much domestication, the poor wolf would forget how to survive on its own.
This evening should have been my night back in the wild. Free of their influence, enjoying a boy¡¯s night out, except . . . It¡¯s as if the universe itself is aligned against me and allied with them. Soon there will be no more place for my old self. What a sorry state.
Royce exited through the stone archway, officially leaving the garden and the Traval Estate behind. He took a moment to close and relock the iron gate.
¡°Where ¡¯tis our book?¡± a voice asked.
In an instant, Royce ducked, dodged, pulled his dagger, and cursed his laziness. He searched for his assailant among the shadows of barren trees cast by the moon on the snow-covered road that led to town.
The man wasn¡¯t hard to find. Dressed in a tattered gray cloak, he stood along the path just outside the gate. Long red hair, mustache, and a pointed beard leaked out of the hood and wreathed a face even paler than Edmund-the-Baron-at-Death¡¯s-Door. He displayed no visible weapon. His arms remained limp at his sides.
¡°Wait not, so desperate am I. Produce it now, and rid me of my cursed dread.¡± The voice was raspy and strange.
Back in the estate, Royce saw a light appear in Lady Traval¡¯s bedroom window. First floor, front-facing, the expensive glass was perfect for a snooping eavesdropper, or worse, a spy.
Too late for a random caller or wandering minstrel, he¡¯s here for a reason. He¡¯s either a very unfortunate busybody, or he works for Hurbert Traval.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Royce assumed the latter and was surprised the old baron had the intelligence to send a shadow to keep watch over his assassin. As impressed as Royce was, he couldn¡¯t let it go. He needed to warn the shipping magnate not to play games with Riyria.
Besides, his dagger, Alverstone, was already in his hand, and this was his boy¡¯s night out.
The man didn¡¯t so much as flinch when the dagger slid into the side of his throat. The neck offered all the resistance of a stewed carrot, and the white blade passed through until it pushed out the hood on the far side. The victim crumpled.
Royce studied the man for a moment, making certain he was indeed dead and that the corpse wasn¡¯t in any way familiar. Then he left the body where it lay.
As Royce walked on, two things bothered him.
First, if this was Hurbert¡¯s spy, why give himself away? And what an odd way to do it. Where ¡¯tis our book? Royce pondered this a moment, concluding the obvious. He¡¯d misheard. The man had a bit of an accent, and likely didn¡¯t say book at all. He probably said, where is the bok or boche, something in another language like Calian or maybe Alburnian. That¡¯s what his accent sounded like. Bok might be the Calian word for money, or gold, or something. Perhaps, after witnessing the deal Royce had made with Lady Traval?¡ª?and knowing that Royce was carrying a bag of gold?¡ª?the spy planned to double-cross Hurbert and blackmail the blackmailer.
This line of reasoning made perfect sense, assuaging his concerns?¡ª?except for the second thing, which was a bit harder to reason away. Royce had just stabbed a man in the neck, making certain to sever the big artery, only . . .
Where is the blood?
Usually, such a murder resulted in a brief gush. Years of practice had taught Royce to anticipate the spray. He had moved to the side to avoid the mess. This usually worked, though he always got some on his blade hand. But this time, his knuckles came away clean. Such a thing was not inconceivable. After all, the dagger had done all the messy work. This, too, would have satisfied him except . . . Royce looked at Alverstone and, with the aid of the moon, saw the gleam of a clean white blade.
Royce found Hadrian in the village, drinking at the Pickled Pig¡¯s Foot. This wasn¡¯t a hard guess. As far as he knew, it was the only tavern in the entire seaside town of Roe?¡ª?possibly the only one in the entire province of Oakenshire?¡ª?and when Royce had left Hadrian, he had looked to be in a drinking mood. The shabby stucco-and-thatch public house was perched on a hill just up from the wharf, where it had a view of the ocean that was marred only by a couple tiers of roofs and a forest of chimneys.
Since it was past midnight, no other patrons remained inside, and the look on the tavern keeper¡¯s face as Royce entered suggested the owner had been hoping Hadrian would leave before anyone else wandered in. Despite the name, the Pickled Pig¡¯s Foot was not an unpleasant place. Given the damp winter¡¯s night, the interior of the tavern provided a welcome warmth of seasoned wood and the cozy glow of resting embers.
Royce offered the tavern keeper an artificial smile, which was reflected back.
¡°What can I get you?¡± the apron-endowed, hair-deficient man asked without a lick of enthusiasm.
¡°Nothing, thanks. I¡¯m not staying. Just here for him.¡± Royce pointed.
As expected, this elicited a genuine smile.
Hadrian sat in the back corner near the fireplace, behind a table filled with empty mugs and a candle¡¯s melted corpse.
¡°I wasn¡¯t gone that long, was I?¡±
Hadrian looked up with a grimace. He had several days¡¯ worth of stubble and eyes that belonged to a much older man. ¡°Enjoy yourself, did you?¡±
Royce glanced over at the owner, who was pretending not to notice them as he wiped a clean counter. Having only three people there was good, but it was also bad because, without other patrons, the place was utterly silent.
Hadrian followed Royce¡¯s line of sight and said, ¡°Oh, right. Don¡¯t want to say too much in front of old Oscar, do we?¡± Hadrian burped and wiped his mouth. ¡°That¡¯s Oscar, by the way. He owns the Pickled Pig¡¯s Toe . . . Foot . . . whatever.¡± Hadrian stared off into space for a second, his mouth hanging open, then he asked, ¡°Why is it that these places always have such disgusting names?¡± He looked at Oscar, who couldn¡¯t help but hear every word. Hadrian was drunk and therefore louder than normal.
¡°Sorry, no offense intended,¡± Hadrian went on, ¡°but honestly, is that the best you could come up with? Did you really think passersby would be so captivated by the promise of a severed pig¡¯s foot floating in a vat of brine that they would find it utterly impossible to pass your door without popping their head in to experience the promise? Why not just name it the Stinking Turd? Bet that would pack ¡¯em in even more, right?¡±
¡°He¡¯s drunk,¡± Royce apologized as he walked to Hadrian¡¯s table.
¡°Yeah, I know.¡± Oscar wiped his hands. ¡°You¡¯re heading out though, right? I¡¯d kinda like to lock up.¡±
¡°Just give us a second.¡± Royce sat down.
¡°Yeah, give us a second, Oscar,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°My business associate needs to bring me up to speed on our latest project?¡ª?likely wants to gloat. Do you want to gloat, Royce?¡± Hadrian put a hand to his mouth. ¡°Oops. You think Oscar heard your name? That¡¯s bad, right?¡±
¡°This is why it¡¯s never a good idea to drink,¡± Royce said.
¡°No? Wait, I thought you . . . you like wine, don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I like Montemorcey, but it¡¯s incredibly rare, and when the source of your vice is almost nonexistent, it¡¯s an easy habit to keep in check.¡±
Hadrian nodded. Then he pursed his lips, turned, and shouted. ¡°Hey, Oscar! Got any of this rare Monty Mousey wine?¡± Hadrian¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Wait, I think I got that wrong. How do you say it?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t carry wine,¡± Oscar replied. ¡°And I thought you were leaving.¡±
¡°We are,¡± Royce said, getting to his feet and welcoming Hadrian to do the same if he were capable.
¡°I wasn¡¯t asking for a bottle,¡± Hadrian said, using the table to push himself up. ¡°I was just curious. Don¡¯t need to be so touchy. For a guy who owns an alehouse named the Pickled Pig¡¯s Foot, you¡¯re awfully quick to push paying customers out the door.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve been here for six hours. Unlike some people, I have a life.¡±
¡°Yeah, but . . . wait . . .?¡± Hadrian stood with one hand still on the table, steadying himself as his eyes shifted in deep thought. ¡°Pigs don¡¯t have feet?¡ª?do they?¡± He first looked at Oscar, then at Royce. ¡°I mean, they¡¯ve got hooves, right? They¡¯re like horses, sort of, except that pigs¡¯ hooves are cloven. It¡¯s like they have two toes, but they aren¡¯t toes, not really. And since a pig has two toes and a horse has none, why are they both hooves?¡± He looked at each man in turn once more. Neither Oscar nor Royce said anything. ¡°You know what I mean. But the point is, no one talks about horses¡¯ feet, right? No one says they¡¯re going to put a shoe on a horse¡¯s foot?¡ª?even if that makes more sense. I mean, shoes go on feet. No one puts a shoe on a hoof. That¡¯s just so strange.¡±
Royce grabbed Hadrian by the strap of his baldric and hauled him forward. ¡°Did you pay?¡± Royce shook his head at his own stupidity. He turned to Oscar. ¡°Did he?¡±
Oscar nodded. ¡°Handsomely. If not for that, I¡¯d have tossed him out hours ago. My wife is going to be furious.¡±
¡°Oscar is going through a bad time right now,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°His wife is acting like a harpy. Tell him, Oscar.¡±
¡°He¡¯ll tell me next time,¡± Royce said, hauling Hadrian to the door. ¡°Maybe he¡¯ll even have some mousey wine then.¡±
¡°Yeah, that would be good. Do that, Oscar. Get some mousey wine for my friend for the next time.¡±
The bracing cold of the winter night stiffened Hadrian, and his face crimped into a tight grimace, not unlike if Royce had slapped him. ¡°By Mar! It¡¯s freezing out here! Let¡¯s go back in.¡±
Oscar slammed the door shut and threw the bolt.
¡°Geez, Oscar, that was rude. I thought we were friends!¡± Hadrian yelled at the closed door.
¡°You¡¯ll need to be a little louder if you want to wake the entire village,¡± Royce explained.
¡°Oh, you¡¯re a funny guy, aren¡¯t you? Did you tell Lady-what¡¯s-her-name a joke, too? Did she laugh, or couldn¡¯t she because her throat was slit?¡± Hadrian shifted unsteadily as he eyed Royce. ¡°You don¡¯t even have any blood on you. Is that the mark of a professional, or did you wash up in her basin before leaving? And was it just the poor woman, or did you kill her dog, too?¡±
¡°Lady Traval doesn¡¯t have a dog.¡± Royce pulled him over to where their horses waited.
Hadrian snorted a laugh. ¡°Well, not anymore she doesn¡¯t. Chucked it out an upper-story window, did you?¡±
¡°There was no dog, Hadrian. Now, do you want help getting on your horse, or do you need to vomit?¡±
Hadrian stopped to ponder this perplexing riddle, then shook his head and pointed across the street. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m okay. My horse is in the stable over?¡ª¡±
Royce handed him Dancer¡¯s reins.
Hadrian looked up into the face of his horse. ¡°Dancer! How¡¯d you get here?¡±
¡°By Mar! How much ale did you drink?¡±
Hadrian once more stared off into space as he stroked the white diamond on Dancer¡¯s forehead.
Royce shook his head. ¡°Never mind. I get it?¡ª?it was a lot. Get on your horse. Let¡¯s go.¡±
Hadrian managed to climb aboard Dancer after only three attempts. During this complicated operation, the horse remained rooted like a tree on a calm day, as if this wasn¡¯t the first time for either of them.
Royce thought that Dancer, being sober, would be capable of following Royce, but Hadrian, being drunk, couldn¡¯t be trusted not to interfere, so Royce attached a lead to the ring on Dancer¡¯s halter. Hadrian either didn¡¯t notice or didn¡¯t care.
¡°Did it get colder?¡± Hadrian complained, absently letting go of the reins to pull his wool cloak tight. ¡°Feels colder. You know, winter is like a pretty woman who talks about a lot of nothing. They¡¯re nice at first: fun, different, beautiful even, but after a while . . .?¡±
Hadrian picked up the reins and became fascinated by the knot that bound the ends.
Royce waited. ¡°After a while, what?¡± he asked.
¡°Huh?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Forget it.¡±
¡°I¡¯m just saying that winter lasts waaaay too long. Aren¡¯t you tired of winter, Royce? Everything is cold. Cold and dead. As dead as Lady-what¡¯s-her-name.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t kill her.¡±
¡°Come again?¡±
¡°Lady Traval. I didn¡¯t kill her.¡±
Hadrian didn¡¯t say a word for several minutes.
¡°I would have told you sooner had I known it would shut you up.¡±
¡°Why didn¡¯t you kill her?¡±
¡°I couldn¡¯t go through with it. She was a helpless woman with big, pleading eyes, and I just couldn¡¯t bring myself to take the life of an innocent?¡ª¡±
Hadrian fell off his horse.
He hit the snow on his back and grunted in pain. It took him a second, then he rolled to his feet with a miserable groan and looked up at Royce with the most incredulous set of drunken eyes. ¡°Are you serious?¡±
¡°Of course not, you idiot. She offered me more money to leave her alive. I just wanted to hear what you¡¯d say. That looked awfully painful, by the way.¡± He grinned. ¡°Ground¡¯s frozen, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Yes, on both counts.¡±
Hadrian climbed back into the saddle on the first try this time, leaving Royce to suspect the bracing cold and the fall had helped to sober him a bit.
On they went, up the river road that followed the bank of the Galewyr.
The sides of the river were frozen, but a dark line of moving water cut through the center and made the ghostly sound of rain on long-lost leaves.
¡°It¡¯s still good news,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Absolutely. We made triple the money without doing anything other than taking a winter ride.¡±
¡°We?¡± Hadrian shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s your money.¡±
¡°We¡¯re still partners, and the gold is clean. Not a drop of blood on it. You can spend the coin proudly.¡± Royce considered mentioning the other fellow who also did not appear to have a drop of blood, but Hadrian was too drunk and too happy for Royce to ruin the improved mood. They had a long ride back to Medford, and the only thing worse than a happy-chatty Hadrian was a depressed-chatty Hadrian.
They rode for a while in silence.
¡°What?¡± Royce finally asked.
¡°I didn¡¯t say anything.¡±
¡°I know. That¡¯s the problem.¡±
¡°I was just thinking that four years ago, you wouldn¡¯t have offered to share the money?¡ª?wouldn¡¯t even have told me about it. I also doubt you¡¯d have let her live. You¡¯d have taken her money and killed her.¡±
¡°Four years ago, we weren¡¯t partners?¡ª?not really. And leaving Lady Traval alive makes logical sense. No wisdom in killing a paying customer.¡±
¡°Uh-huh, uh-huh.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°And the Royce Melborn I first met, even the one of only a couple years ago, would never have asked ¡®What?¡¯ because I was silent. The old Royce would have considered it a blessing. You¡¯ve changed. You were once an animal, a wild thing really, but now . . . now you¡¯re practically domesticated, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯ve become a tame beast, haven¡¯t you, Royce?¡±
¡°If you weren¡¯t drunk, I¡¯d kill you.¡±
¡°I¡¯m gonna tell Gwen.¡±
¡°Do not tell Gwen.¡±
Hadrian laughed.
¡°I hate you when you¡¯re drunk.¡±
¡°That¡¯s strange.¡±
¡°How so?¡±
¡°Because that¡¯s why I drink . . . to stop hating myself.¡±
V3: Chapter 3 - The Visitor
After a good night¡¯s sleep and breakfast at the Silver Pitcher Inn, Hadrian felt decidedly better. Not that he had been feeling much pain the night before?¡ª?even after falling off the horse, which he only barely remembered?¡ª?the mild hangover didn¡¯t bother him. A little headache was nothing compared to how he¡¯d felt on the way to Roe, which was downright nauseated. He and Royce had been hired to murder a woman in her own bed, and Hadrian couldn¡¯t think of anything more distasteful, aside from perhaps butchering small children who slept in their mothers¡¯ arms. He refused to be party to the killing, but Royce had accepted the job.
It had been a lean year, but the project wasn¡¯t taken because of the money. Hadrian had volunteered to clean stables and share his pay if Royce turned the contract down; he refused. Royce wanted to kill the woman. Not her in particular, anyone would do. Hadrian didn¡¯t know all the details, but he did know that Royce, who had been a thief all his life, had achieved the status of assassin in the criminal guild known as the Black Diamond. While abhorrent to most people, Royce¡¯s position was a highly respected occupation within a certain slice of the population, and he took pride in his work.
However, since the two of them had teamed up four years ago, Royce hadn¡¯t had much opportunity to ply his trade. They mostly made their living with theft. Not that they cut purses or picked pockets. Instead, they stole for others.
Contracts for jobs were arranged by Royce and Hadrian¡¯s associate, Albert Winslow. Being a viscount, he moved in affluent circles. They stole baubles for ladies and ledgers for businessmen, intercepted letters, spied on spouses, and planted evidence for blackmail. On only two occasions had they come close to contracted murder. In Dulgath, they were hired to advise on how to perform an assassination. But less than a year ago, they had received a true murder contract. Royce had been hired to kill everyone associated with the death of Genevieve Winter. The problem, as it happened, was that Genny was still alive. Royce had been teased with a dream job only to have it snatched away. This, Hadrian believed, had instilled an itch that Royce felt a growing desire to scratch.
In many ways, Royce was an exceptionally talented artisan whose greatest skill was underutilized. Hadrian understood this sense of wasted ability. He himself had been trained, practically from birth, to kill, but as a soldier, not an assassin. And while he rarely ever drew steel these days, he continued to carry three swords wherever he went. He and Royce were a pair of fish thrown up on land to gasp and flop, stranded in a desert and seeking a body of water to call home. But at least Hadrian hadn¡¯t been a party to the murder of a woman for money. That was a low he had managed to avoid, at least for now, which meant this was a good day.
It¡¯s the little victories that provide men the strength to keep moving.
The weather was warmer but still cold, as it was apt to be that time of year. The displeasure was made worse due to the rumor that spring was close. That was the popular gossip, at least. Only the farmers and priests seemed to know. And despite the wet snow that fell as they rode, the days were longer than they had been, and the roads were clear of drifts.
The hazy white ball of light was nearly overhead as the two arrived back on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter of Medford. Sun-afflicted icicles along the eaves of ?The Rose and Thorn Tavern dripped a soft rhythm on the roof of a coach parked out front. Coaches and carriages were not unheard of in the Lower
Quarter. These days they weren¡¯t even unusual. The popularity of Medford House, home for professional comfort and congeniality, drew wealthy merchants and nobles to the otherwise destitute little alley. What a delight it must be for the prim and proper; how thrilling to adventure into the dangerous dark streets where secrets lacked the legs to exit into the light of day. What Hadrian found odd was that this particular conveyance did not appear to be a merchant¡¯s coach or a noble¡¯s carriage. It lacked the frills that made the fancy buggies look like debutantes desperate for approval. This was a no-nonsense, eight-seater, two-toned coach-and-four. The top half was lacquered black with sparingly implemented gold-painted filigree accents. The lower portion and spoked wheels were constructed from a heavily varnished and buffed-to-shiny red hardwood. On the door in elegant script was a bronze plate proclaiming Hanson and Son.
Despite the snow, two men worked the coach. The elder, who was in the process of blanketing the four horses, had gray in his beard and years on his face. He wore a thick wool wrap like those worn by carriage drivers in the Gentry Quarter. A younger man with a darker, shorter beard inspected the wheels and displayed his youthful indifference to the weather by making do with but a thin tunic and leather vest. The two could be portraits of the same person painted thirty years apart, making Hadrian suspect they might comprise the titular Hanson and Son, though neither appeared wealthy enough to own their own coach.
Royce delivered Hadrian a puzzled look as the two dismounted. Hadrian shrugged in return. After pulling their gear and returning their animals to the stable, the two entered The Rose and Thorn, which at midday had few customers. The usuals were there?¡ª?those between jobs, without jobs, or incapable of work. These were the sort who drank their meals. Dixon kept track of their tabs on a slate behind the bar. The present leader of the blackboard tally was a newcomer, a grizzled blacksmith named Mason Grumon who had recently opened a shop on Artisan Row but never seemed to work there.
¡°The boys are back!¡± Dixon shouted in his deep baritone as the two entered. Those at the bar clapped or hammered the wood with their mugs, as if Royce and Hadrian were walking onto a stage.
Royce scowled, then sighed as the two crossed to the hearth.
¡°I think it¡¯s nice,¡± Hadrian said, pulling off his cloak and shaking the wet out before hanging it on a wall peg near the fire. ¡°Sort of like having a family.¡±
¡°If this were your family, you ought to sympathy-kill your parents.¡±
¡°Okay, so it¡¯s not like I would brag about my siblings.¡± He glanced around the common room, then approached the bar.
¡°Drink?¡± Dixon asked. ¡°I just loaded a new keg of Imperial Gold.¡±
¡°No!¡± Royce shouted sternly from the back of the room, where he was still shaking out his cloak. ¡°Do not give that man a drink.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°He¡¯s right. I emptied the barrel last night down in Roe. Doubt I¡¯ll be invited back anytime soon. But hey, I¡¯m curious . . . whose coach is that out front?¡±
Dixon stuck out his lower lip and shrugged his big shoulders. ¡°No idea. Been a topic of some interest for a couple of hours now.¡±
¡°No one saw who got out?¡±
¡°That¡¯s just it,¡± Mason Grumon said. ¡°No one did.¡±
¡°Someone had to, Mason. You just didn¡¯t see ¡¯em,¡± Kenyon the Clean argued. Kenyon was the owner of the soapmaking shop that most days defined the hallmark smell of Wayward Street. He was a welcome customer because everyone in the Lower Quarter could breathe easily so long as he was in The Rose and Thorn rather than stoking his vats.
¡°I¡¯m telling ya that thar coach rolled up empty, or I ain¡¯t no blacksmith.¡±
¡°Not sure whose side of this argument you¡¯re on now, Grumon,¡± Roy the Sewer said and laughed in a maniacal manner that displayed his famously hideous set of twisted yellow teeth. There wasn¡¯t any part of Roy that didn¡¯t teeter on that side of macabre. He had one eye larger than the other?¡ª?different colors, too. Both were doleful, but one was milky. His thin, greasy hair lay plastered to his skull, like he¡¯d just gotten out of a bath. But if he had ever bathed, it was in the foul muck that ran in the stream behind the shops, which provided him with his unique smell and his well-earned title. After the sudden and disturbing outburst, everyone stared, causing Roy the Sewer to return to his occupation of swirling what was left of his stale beer as if trying to raise it from the dead. Each day he came in for a drink, but only one, and his name never appeared on the slate. Hadrian was certain that Dixon paid for his refreshment.
¡°Lucky me, sandwiched between these two,¡± Grumon said, glancing at Roy, then Kenyon. ¡°Put ¡¯em together, and I don¡¯t know if they¡¯d make good bug repellent or if they¡¯d attract every fly in the city.¡±
¡°Is Albert here?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Diamond Room,¡± Dixon replied.
¡°Diamond? Not the Dark?¡±
¡°He and Gwen are chatting with some old fellow. Really nice sort, very friendly, but odd. Actually, I think he came looking for you two.¡±
¡°Odd how?¡±
¡°Dresses in fancy robes. Talks a lot?¡ª?uses big words. And he has these little round circles of glass perched on his nose.¡±
Royce and Hadrian exchanged looks as they quickly headed for the archway that divided the bar area from the larger, diamond-shaped room. This was an addition that the owner, Gwen DeLancy, had built to join The Rose and Thorn to her other business?¡ª?Medford House. The extension doubled the size of the tavern, but because it lacked a fireplace, it was chilly in winter, and patrons shunned it. There were, in fact, only three people in the Diamond Room: Gwen, Albert Winslow, and . . .
¡°Professor Arcadius?¡± Hadrian said the moment they entered.
The thin, elderly man, white-bearded and dressed in a blue robe, sat in the middle of a bench seat at the table tucked into the acute back corner of the room. At the sound of his name, he lifted his spectacles and peered up at them. ¡°Riyria, I presume.¡±
¡°What are you doing here?¡± Royce asked in a sharp tone as he approached the group. Royce looked at Gwen. ¡°What¡¯s he been telling you?¡±
¡°Mostly how wonderful the two of you are.¡± Gwen smiled at him, and instantly Royce stopped as if he¡¯d hit an invisible wall.
His shoulders lowered, his eyes relaxed, and he stood staring at her as if he¡¯d forgotten what he was doing. Hadrian guessed it was more the smile than the words. Such a look from Gwen had the power to incapacitate the thief better than a blow to the head.
¡°What brings you here?¡± Hadrian asked the professor.
¡°You two, of course. Had to come, didn¡¯t I? It¡¯s been four years, and neither of you so much as bothered to ride the few miles to Sheridan to let me know you¡¯re alive.¡± He leaned toward Gwen as if speaking to her in confidence, despite talking just as loudly as before. ¡°When I extolled that long list of virtues about these two, I left out their astounding thoughtlessness. We parted under less than perfect circumstances, you understand. I asked them to visit on occasion. Told them how I¡¯d appreciate it if they eventually told me how things worked out, but they never did.¡±
¡°The professor has been telling us how he brought you two together,¡± Albert said. The landless viscount was dressed in his work clothes: a silk shirt covered by a lavish doublet, beneath a robe, and under a dress jacket. But like any common off-duty millworker, the collar of his doublet and shirt were unhooked and thrown wide. His legs stretched out into the room, shoes off, toes flexing within dark woolen hose. ¡°Quite the interesting tale, actually.¡±
¡°Was it?¡± Royce found his voice once more, and it retained that unhappy edge. ¡°And what exactly did you tell them . . . professor?¡±
¡°Why, the truth, of course. How I persuaded the two of you to help me borrow a rare book, and how much you hated each other. It was just as likely that Royce would slit Hadrian¡¯s throat as it was for Hadrian to stab Royce through the heart. Was a dangerous gamble on my part, but I knew if they stuck together?¡ª?if they were forced to stay united?¡ª?they¡¯d make a remarkable team. And I¡¯m pleased to see I was right. Even a bit flattered that you adopted Riyria as your working name.¡±
¡°Anything else?¡± Royce pressed.
Arcadius shook his head, wagging his white beard so that it brushed the table. ¡°Like what? I mean, there really isn¡¯t much else to tell unless you want me to get into your ill-treatment of horses.¡± He looked to Albert, then Gwen. ¡°They left theirs tethered in the wilderness for days. Poor things nearly died.¡±
¡°So did we,¡± Royce pointed out in a brutal tone.
¡°You found Dancer?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°I did indeed,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°Got worried about you and sent some of the older boys up north on a field trip. They failed to find you but brought your horses back to the university, and once I heard where you were, I had them delivered.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°How did you think they ended up out front of ?The Rose and Thorn?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. I guess I just thought Dancer found her way back to me like one of those faithful hounds who sniff out their beloved master.¡±
¡°And the note that was left in your saddlebag?¡±
¡°There was a note?¡±
Royce stood up against the front of the table directly across from the professor. The only light in the room came from the winter-brilliant windows behind him, and his shadow ran across the table and over the old man. He leaned in. ¡°So, you did know we were alive. Then tell me, why are you here now?¡±
¡°Well, after you left, I heard rumors that two men narrowly escaped the ecclesiastical tyranny of Ghent. Seret knights seeking the fugitives followed their trail to Medford. And I later heard that a man covered in blood was seen on Wayward Street begging for help for his dying friend. Granted, that didn¡¯t sound at all like you. But it was remarkable that both of these men vanished without a trace. Then, a year later, there was this unpleasant business with Lord Exeter and a spree of public executions that reminded me of someone?¡ª?murders that were in retribution for harm done to the ladies of Medford House.¡± He dipped his head toward Gwen. ¡°When I finally heard about a nefarious pair of evildoers calling themselves Riyria, well, you don¡¯t obtain the position of professor at a university by being stupid. Still, suspicions are not the same as knowing. The fact that neither of you had visited or sent word in four years had me worried. So, I came down to see for myself what had become of the two seeds I¡¯d planted so long ago.¡±
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¡°Sorry we didn¡¯t visit,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°We just?¡ª¡±
¡°Don¡¯t apologize to him,¡± Royce snapped. ¡°He nearly got us killed. If it hadn¡¯t been for his idiotic demands?¡ª¡±
¡°You probably would have gone your separate ways,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°And both of you would likely be dead. The men I knew were mere shadows of the two that stand before me now. You¡¯ve done well for yourselves here. And this lady beside me is quite a gem to have in your pocket.¡±
¡°This is Gwen DeLancy, and she¡¯s not in anyone¡¯s pocket,¡± Royce said.
¡°Of course not. I only meant she¡¯s a wonderful friend to have on your side. She¡¯s both intelligent and loyal. And if you doubt anything I¡¯ve said, take a moment and try to recall that other Royce Melborn, the one of four years past. That vicious little thief couldn¡¯t name a single soul he trusted, but this fellow before me?¡ª?this Royce Melborn of ?The Rose and Thorn?¡ª?he has two friends, and a fine pair they are. Real wealth is not measured in the weight of useless yellow metal, but by the hearts of those that love you.¡± The professor straightened up. ¡°But don¡¯t worry, Royce. Your debt has been paid. I only stopped by to see how my handiwork turned out and possibly have a meal. I¡¯ll be heading back to Sheridan in the morning.¡±
¡°Fine,¡± Royce said. There was still a hint of suspicion in his eyes, but the trail of recrimination had gone cold with nothing deceitful to show for it.
¡°How did the job go?¡± Albert asked, his voice gloomy and weighted with apprehension, as if inquiring about a beloved horse who had broken her leg. Albert personally knew Lillian Traval, and Hadrian guessed he liked her.
¡°Quite well.¡± Royce drew out his purse and dropped it on the table, where it hit with a considerable thud. ¡°Got paid double.¡±
Albert looked lost. ¡°You got paid? I don¡¯t understand. That¡¯s my job. Was Hurbert there? Did he pay you?¡±
¡°Nope, and when you go to collect, tell Lord Traval his wife was alone when I found her.¡±
¡°And was she?¡±
Royce smirked.
Albert¡¯s mouth opened and hung there. He looked at the bag on the table then back up at Royce. ¡°Then where did the money come from?¡±
¡°Lady Traval.¡±
¡°She¡¯s alive? . . . But you were supposed to?¡ª¡±
¡°She offered more.¡±
¡°She offered?¡ª?oh. Oh! That¡¯s wonderful!¡± A wide smile broadened Albert¡¯s face, his eyes suddenly bright.
¡°You took a job to murder a woman?¡± Arcadius asked.
¡°A known adulteress,¡± Royce replied. ¡°The job came from her husband.¡±
¡°And you didn¡¯t kill her because she paid you more money?¡±
¡°Sometimes, even I get lucky.¡±
¡°And you were fine with this?¡± Arcadius asked Hadrian.
The tone of disapproval was obvious, and Hadrian knew what the professor was getting at. Arcadius had coerced Royce and Hadrian to work as a team so that Hadrian might prove to have a positive moral influence on the unprincipled thief.
Before Hadrian could offer an apology, Royce answered for him. ¡°He stayed in Roe and got drunk. And just like the job you sent us on, I knew that this one didn¡¯t require the both of us. And once more, I was proven correct.¡±
¡°I see.¡± ?The professor glanced at Gwen, then out the windows, as if pondering something profound. But then, Hadrian imagined everything the professor thought was deep.
Royce and Hadrian pulled up seats across from the professor, the viscount, and Gwen.
¡°Why are you all on one side?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°For warmth,¡± Arcadius answered.
Gwen sat up. ¡°I was telling the professor how costly it would be to build a hearth and chimney in this room, and he suggested I might heat it by simply getting an iron box large enough to hold a few split logs. I could light a fire in it and use a big metal pipe to vent the smoke out through the roof. He thinks it would heat this whole room.¡±
¡°It would indeed,¡± the professor said. ¡°And we wouldn¡¯t need to huddle like newborn pups to keep from shivering.¡±
¡°I was thinking of asking Mason Grumon how much he¡¯d charge to make it.¡±
¡°By the looks of the board behind the bar, he ought to do it in return for a clean slate,¡± Hadrian said.
Gwen gave him a wink and a nod. ¡°My thoughts exactly.¡±
¡°Royce, Hadrian,¡± Albert said as he counted the coins on the table, forming four piles that would be their individual shares. Royce and Hadrian¡¯s were the largest; Albert¡¯s was half their size and Gwen¡¯s the smallest, ¡°I know you just got back, but I have another job lined up and ready to go.¡±
¡°Something¡¯s wrong,¡± Royce said, watching Albert count the coins.
This caused the viscount to look up, concerned.
¡°You¡¯re actually doing your job. I don¡¯t know whether to be impressed or suspicious. What sort of assignment is this new one?¡±
Albert gave a hesitant glance at Arcadius.
¡°He¡¯s fine,¡± Royce said. ¡°I know where he lives.¡±
¡°Though he doesn¡¯t appear to know how to get there,¡± Arcadius lamented.
Albert shrugged. ¡°I think you¡¯re going to like this one?¡ª?the both of you. There¡¯s a Lord Byron down in Delgos who¡¯s interested in hiring the two of you to prevent a dwarf from sabotaging Drumindor.¡±
¡°What¡¯s Drumindor?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Drumindor is an ancient dwarven fortress that guards the entrance to Terlando Bay and the city of Tur Del Fur,¡± Arcadius explained. ¡°It was built many thousands of years ago over the top of Mount Druma, a very active volcano that made settling Terlando Bay impossible until the dwarfs tamed it with the construction of Drumindor. It¡¯s quite an ingenious engineering achievement. Not only do the two towers safely vent the volcano¡¯s destructive gases, thus preventing eruption, they also can use that same buildup of geological pressure to spew molten rock hundreds of feet and sink any unfortunate wooden vessel that might seek to invade the bay.¡±
¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Albert looked impressed.
¡°He¡¯s the lore master at Sheridan University,¡± Hadrian explained.
¡°Oh.¡± Albert nodded. ¡°The way Lord Byron describes it, Drumindor is a city utility, part of the Port Authority. Lord Byron administrates the Port Authority and is responsible for Drumindor. There¡¯s been some trouble down there with the dwarfs recently, and Lord Byron had to fire a great many that used to work at the fortress. One disgruntled fellow named Gravis Berling appears to have been particularly upset, and Lord Byron believes he may be plotting revenge.¡±
¡°If this Lord Byron is the head of the Port Authority, doesn¡¯t he command a small army?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Why does he need us?¡±
¡°The real power down there is a trio of merchants known as the Triumvirate; they appointed Lord Byron to his position. Apparently, Lord Byron reported his concerns, and the Unholy Trio?¡ª?as some call them?¡ª?have refused to do anything about it. Lord Byron isn¡¯t a fool. He knows that he¡¯ll be held responsible if anything happens, so he¡¯s interested in purchasing an insurance policy through Riyria.¡±
¡°Why won¡¯t this Triumvirate do anything?¡± Hadrian asked.
Albert pushed up his lower lip in disregard. ¡°It¡¯s just one dwarf, and an old one at that. The poor fellow lost his job, so he¡¯s vowing revenge over cups at the local pubs. But what can one dwarf do to a several-thousand-year-old fortress?¡±
¡°All right,¡± Royce said, ¡°but what exactly does Lord Byron want us to do?¡±
¡°I suppose he wants you to find and watch this Gravis fellow, and make sure he¡¯s not planning anything.¡±
¡°And if he is?¡±
¡°Well . . .?¡± Albert gave sheepish looks at Gwen and Arcadius. ¡°We all know how you feel about dwarfs, Royce. That¡¯s why I thought you¡¯d like the job. And seeing as how it¡¯s a public service sanctioned by the administrator of the Delgos Port Authority, it¡¯s not even against the law, which I thought Hadrian would like as well. Also, you can¡¯t beat the location. Tur Del Fur is one of the most delightful cities in the world. People of means travel there from all over. So many make a habit of it that they have a name for them?¡ª?turists.¡±
¡°What makes it so popular?¡± Gwen asked.
¡°For one, it doesn¡¯t snow down there. Because Tur Del Fur is situated on the southernmost tip of Delgos and warmed by the balmy Calian currents that bathe its coast, it enjoys an eternal summer. It¡¯s all tropical plants and cool ocean breezes. And, being in the republic, it has some of the finest eateries, public houses, and entertainment anywhere.¡±
¡°But it¡¯s a job,¡± Royce said. ¡°Not a vacation.¡±
¡°Depends on how you look at it.¡±
¡°That would depend on how much this Lord Byron is willing to pay.¡±
¡°That¡¯s the interesting part.¡± Albert pulled himself up before his little stack of gold coins and leaned forward. ¡°He¡¯ll only cough up sixty gold, but?¡ª¡±
¡°Sixty?¡± Royce balked. ¡°Tur Del Fur is a long way from Medford. And travel is not cheap. The price of horse feed is up this time of year. And how long does he want us to hang around and watch this guy? We could be there for months. That¡¯s a lot of expense, and it sounds like Tur Del Fur is pricey.¡±
¡°It is, which is why I demanded he pay for all expenses.¡±
¡°You did?¡±
Albert smiled. ¡°How do you think I survived all these years as a landless noble?¡±
¡°You sold your clothes for liquor,¡± Hadrian pointed out.
¡°Well, yes, but that was during a particularly low point. For years before that, I lived off the generosity of the wealthy. To be honest, the few gold coins they toss at Riyria is nothing compared to what can be had with an expense account. For whatever reason, it is a well-known fact that a miserly baron or prince, who would laugh at the idea of paying a fair wage to an employee, will happily expend a fortune to demonstrate his generosity in accommodations for those in his service.¡±
¡°Why is that?¡±
¡°Honor.¡± Albert said the word like it was a joke. ¡°If you¡¯re in a noble¡¯s pay, that makes you the noble¡¯s man. What you do and how you do it reflects on them. The likes of Lord Byron would be ashamed to have his men walking about in filthy rags and staying in a hovel. It would suggest he¡¯s poor, or cheap. And there¡¯s this old tradition of hospitality and generosity that?¡ª?while it doesn¡¯t extend to fair pay?¡ª?demands that guests, even contracted ones, be treated like royalty. In the world of the gentry, reputation is their currency. To be seen as generous and true to your word is everything. And Lord Byron, while now a resident of the Republic of Delgos, is an old-fashioned noble, a transplant from Maranon. Like myself, he lost his family fief, but unlike me, he¡¯s a skilled and hard worker. Lord Byron realized he could make a fortune serving the merchant cartels of Delgos if he just swallowed a bit of pride. And he was right. Still, I can tell the man laments the loss of his noble heritage. He still attaches the title of Lord to his name in a place where that¡¯s more of a detriment. As a result, while we might not return with a dragon¡¯s hoard to squirrel away for our old age, we can look forward to an absolutely wonderful free holiday.¡±
¡°We?¡± Royce asked.
Again, Albert looked abashed. ¡°I took the liberty of explaining that it would be more than merely the two of you. That an operation of this sort would require additional support.¡±
¡°Which includes you,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Of course. You¡¯ll need your liaison to meet with Lord Byron, secure lodging, make reports, provide updates, and collect the fee when the task is complete. And have you seen it outside?¡± Albert pointed toward the windows where the snow was coming down harder. ¡°My frail constitution born of blue blood was not meant for such harsh conditions.¡±
¡°That¡¯s brilliant,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°In fact, I think we should all go. Tell me, Gwendolyn, how long has it been since you¡¯ve set foot outside of Medford?¡±
Gwen looked surprised by the question, shocked that she was being included in the conversation. ¡°I haven¡¯t left since I first came here, years ago.¡±
¡°Exactly. And I can say from personal experience that Tur Del Fur is, in fact, the most beautiful and enjoyable place on the face of Elan. The waters of the palm-tree-lined harbor are sapphire blue. The sunsets and sunrises are wonders to behold, and the music is so enchanting that a person could lose themselves in it. The food and drinks aren¡¯t merely sustenance but rather works of art crafted by master artisans. And there are dozens of theaters performing a variety of acts: everything from original dramas and comedies to acrobats, animal acts, and displays of magic. And this is in addition to the uncountable smaller shows in every danthum.¡±
¡°What¡¯s a danthum?¡± Gwen asked, her face bright with the imagery that the professor painted.
¡°Oh, it¡¯s sort of like an upscale tavern, except they have entertainment every night and serve exquisite meals to order. They¡¯re very popular. You see, being a free city of the Republic of Delgos with a very liberal sense of itself, Tur Del Fur has attracted many great artists, poets, writers, dancers, and philosophers. With so much talent and so few restrictions, the city is a wellspring of creativity and an intellectual lodestone. A truly marvelous place that everyone ought to see at least once in their life. Besides¡±¡ª?he leaned toward her and winked?¡ª?¡°have you seen it outside?¡±
Arcadius then faced Royce. ¡°Having Gwen along sounds like an excellent idea. Or do you think that after all she¡¯s done for you, she doesn¡¯t deserve a few weeks¡¯ break from her toil and drudgery? Certainly this wonderful lady deserves a holiday.¡±
¡°I¡¯m more interested in how you fit into all this,¡± Royce said.
¡°Chaperone, my boy. Really can¡¯t allow a gentle fawn such as Gwendolyn DeLancy to be traveling abroad with three wolves such as yourselves. This is what old men such as I were made for?¡ª?one of the few things we¡¯re still capable of.¡±
¡°How thoughtful,¡± Royce said. ¡°But I doubt Albert secured an allowance
for five.¡±
¡°Actually¡±¡ª?Albert rocked his head side to side?¡ª?¡°I never said how many would be needed. An argument could easily be made that Gwen is your domestic help, and you have a particular fetish about never allowing anyone else to touch your things. That¡¯s actually quite a common eccentricity?¡ª?some might say affliction?¡ª?among the pampered gentry, something they¡¯ll understand and accept even if it seems absurd to you. And given that the professor is a teacher of lore at Sheridan, it¡¯s an easy argument that he¡¯s indispensable for his contributions of historical and cultural information that will allow you to unravel the complex nature of the dwarven culture and the history of the fortress.¡±
¡°Albert,¡± Hadrian said with a dash of awe, ¡°you¡¯re amazing.¡±
¡°That¡¯s nothing. I once lived for five years in a palace with an eight-person staff, my own personal carriage and driver, and three separate concubines, one of whom was the niece of the high chamberlain.¡±
¡°What happened?¡±
¡°The chamberlain found out. Barely escaped with my life.¡±
¡°What do you say, Royce?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Job sounds easy enough. We go, check out this guy for a week or so, maybe even warn him off, and spend the rest of the time pretending we¡¯re wealthy merchants. Worst case scenario, you might have to kill a dwarf.¡±
Royce picked up and slipped away his stack of coins, his expression taut with irritation, as if struggling with a puzzle he couldn¡¯t solve. ¡°Seems a bit too good to be true.¡±
¡°And what do you think, Gwendolyn?¡± Arcadius asked.
She took a deep breath and looked at Royce, that magical smile filling her face and making her dark eyes shine. ¡°It does sound wonderful. I haven¡¯t ever been any place people would call nice. I couldn¡¯t afford it. And . . .?¡± She looked around. ¡°I certainly couldn¡¯t ask for better company. But I understand if taking me would bother you, Royce. I¡¯m certain I would get in the way, and I don¡¯t want to be a burden. You all go. I have work to do here. The bathtub needs a good scrubbing.¡±
Royce sighed. ¡°We only have the two horses.¡±
Once more, Albert grinned and drew himself up like a child at the adult¡¯s table. ¡°Don¡¯t even need those, not when you¡¯re in the service of the nobility. I took the liberty of chartering a coach for the trip. That¡¯s it outside. Hanson and Son Stagecoach Service.¡±
¡°Stage coach?¡±
¡°Oh, yes, the Hansons have been very successful with their innovative idea. They drive the coach, splitting the time on the reins and only stopping to switch horses at stages along the route. They claim they can get us from here to Tur Del Fur in only two to four days?¡ª?depending on weather.¡±
¡°Two days?¡± Hadrian said.
¡°I know! Normally it can take ten days to two weeks.¡±
¡°And we¡¯re going to do it in two days?¡±
¡°Well, that¡¯s what they claim. There¡¯s a scheduled overnight stay in the small town of Kruger,¡± Albert said. ¡°But that¡¯s optional, so I told them we¡¯d prefer to get there as quickly as possible.¡± Looking at Gwen he added, ¡°But I could change that if you prefer.¡±
¡°I can handle sleeping in a luxurious coach. And it can take all of us?¡± Gwen asked, excited.
¡°Yes, it seats eight with luggage. Four inside, four out, so one of us will need to brave the elements.¡±
¡°I¡¯m certain Hadrian won¡¯t mind,¡± Arcadius offered.
Hadrian didn¡¯t, so he nodded. He was used to poor-weather travel, and he certainly wouldn¡¯t expect the professor or Gwen to take a high seat in the cold and wet. As Albert had arranged for the coach, he also ought to have an inside seat, and Hadrian knew that Royce, while he would never say it, might literally kill to ride beside Gwen.
¡°Oh?¡ª?but we can switch along the way,¡± Gwen told him. ¡°I don¡¯t mind a little snow in my face.¡±
¡°It¡¯s settled then,¡± Arcadius declared with a clap of his hands. ¡°And if those poor men have been out in the cold minding their coach, we shouldn¡¯t keep them waiting much longer.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll need to grab some things from the House and let the girls know I¡¯m leaving,¡± Gwen told everyone as she stood up, her eyes wide, her voice absolutely effervescent. She was all smiles. ¡°This is so exciting.¡±
¡°You sure?¡± Hadrian asked, ¡°You seemed to be looking forward to scrubbing soap scum from that tub.¡±
Gwen slapped him playfully on the shoulder. ¡°This is going to be wonderful.¡±
Gwen, Albert, and Arcadius moved off to pack, leaving Royce and Hadrian alone in the room. They watched the others exit, then stood there for a full minute in silence until Hadrian finally said, ¡°You¡¯re terrified, aren¡¯t you?¡±
Royce continued to stare at the door. ¡°I¡¯m honestly considering drinking a beer.¡±
V4: Chapter 4 - The Stagecoach
Hadrian rode with the luggage on the coach¡¯s flat roof. The combined belongings of Arcadius, Royce, and himself could have fit on his lap. But Gwen¡¯s bags and Albert¡¯s sea-captain-style trunks covered so much of the roof that Hadrian wondered about two things: what could they have possibly brought, and had he terribly underestimated his own needs? Ahead of Hadrian was the driver¡¯s bench, where father and son sat side by side.
The father, whose name was Shelby, rode on the left and drove the coach. His son, Heath, took the guard¡¯s seat to his right. The young man wore a short Grafton blade?¡ª?a cheap but functional weapon that looked brand new. A light, olive-wood crossbow was strapped to the footrest between them?¡ª?out of sight, but within reach.
¡°You know how to use that blade?¡± Hadrian asked.
Heath looked up and smiled. ¡°Ya scared, sir? No reason to be. We run this route all the time. Never once seen a highwayman. Most travelers are on foot, you see, and the Flying Lady here, she doesn¡¯t stop.¡±
¡°Then why the sword and crossbow?¡±
¡°Because you can never be too careful,¡± Shelby replied. He possessed the deep, no-nonsense voice of a hardworking father who¡¯d seen enough of the world to be more cautious than curious. He reminded Hadrian of his own father, who¡¯d died close to six years ago while Hadrian was far away. That had been the cherry on the top of his stack of regrets, which began with fighting his best friend and ended with the tiger. There had been other mistakes since then, but all those had been honest errors. The ones before had been intentional.
¡°It¡¯s our job to see you safe to your destination, sir,¡± Shelby said, holding the reins in one hand, a long whip in the other. Never once had Hadrian seen him use the whip on the animals. He only cracked it in the air. That was enough. ¡°And we take our responsibilities seriously.¡±
Shelby kept the horses at a trot, occasionally granting them a breather in the form of a walk, which usually followed climbing a hill. Hadrian marveled at the speed. It was still morning, and they were already past the village of Windham in the kingdom of Warric. Hadrian would never drive Dancer at such a pace for so long. An easy twenty miles was plenty for one day¡¯s travel. He knew from experience that?¡ª?in an emergency?¡ª?a horse could cover a hundred miles in a day, but the animal would be exhausted and need a long rest. Trading out the horses solved that problem. This wasn¡¯t a new idea. It had been utilized for military dispatches for ages, but Hadrian didn¡¯t think it had ever been applied to civilian land travel before.
He thought it was genius.
Not only was the travel fast, but it was also stunningly comfortable. Despite the frozen ground, numerous ruts, and the occasional rock or root, the ride was remarkably smooth. The coach rocked and bounced like a ship on a stormy sea, but it lacked the hard jarring he was used to.
¡°Whose carriage is this?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Mine,¡± Shelby replied.
¡°Looks expensive.¡±
¡°She is that.¡±
Apparently dissatisfied with Shelby¡¯s refusal to say more, Heath spoke up. ¡°My father and grandfather worked as groomsmen for King Fredrick of Galeannon. It was my grandfather¡¯s dream to move to Vernes and start his own river barge service on the Bernum. He died before he could, but he left his savings and the dream to my father, only?¡ª¡±
¡°Only I don¡¯t know a ruddy thing about barges,¡± Shelby said.
¡°You tried, at least,¡± Heath pointed out. ¡°And you learned a lot.¡±
¡°I learned I don¡¯t know nothing about rivers or barges. I also became just educated enough to realize I couldn¡¯t hope to compete with the companies already working the Bernum.¡±
¡°You also learned about post stops,¡± Heath said, appearing unwilling to allow his father to sell himself short. He turned a bit to face Hadrian. ¡°Are you familiar with river barges?¡±
¡°I am. I traveled from Vernes to Colnora on one. Not a great experience.¡±
¡°So then you already know how they change out the horses. Doing so lets them travel all day and night. That¡¯s what gave my father the idea of creating a post or stage coach. He kept the horses and sold the barge. Then instead of trying to compete with the river companies, he offered fast, reliable service over land, taking passengers to the off-river cities of Kilnar, Swanwick, Ratibor, Aquesta, and Colnora. No other public service goes there. We get a lot of business when the Bernum reaches flood stage or when there¡¯s a drought. And because we trade out the horses at coach houses along the route, we can keep moving at a nonstop rate. No barge, not even your royal carriages, go as fast.¡±
¡°Yeah, I noticed that.¡± Hadrian actually thought it was a bit too quick. Perhaps on a warm summer¡¯s day it would be nice, but the near constant trotting had left him suffering a cold wind and a face full of wet snow that made it hard to see.
¡°She rides smooth, though, doesn¡¯t she?¡±
¡°She does. Usually, a wagon rattles the teeth out of a man¡¯s head.¡±
¡°That¡¯s my son¡¯s genius,¡± Shelby said. ¡°A cart is just a box on a pair of axles. Don¡¯t matter how pretty you make the box; it¡¯s still bolted to four solid wheels. Heath separated the box from the axles by putting it on . . . what do you call it?¡±
¡°Suspension springs,¡± Heath said. ¡°They¡¯re these long flat straps of bowed metal that are hinged on either end, and the chassis?¡ª?the box?¡ª?rides, and sort of bounces, on them. Some of the noble carriages make sways, hanging the chassis from leather straps, but that doesn¡¯t do much for the hammer sensation that occurs when you hit a rut, and the leather isn¡¯t as durable. When it comes to building a coach, usually there¡¯s a body-maker who fashions the chassis?¡ª?he¡¯s more like a skilled cabinetmaker?¡ª?and another guy, a carriage smith who makes the axles, wheels, and such. But there¡¯s this guy in Tarin Vale by name of Bartholomew?¡ª?he¡¯s a master coach craftsman, and he does it all.¡±
¡°Not the fastest of workers,¡± Shelby put in.
¡°True, but after an accident broke one of our axles, I worked with him?¡ª¡±
¡°Heath here has long had an interest in smithing. A good head for it, too,¡± Shelby said with undeniable pride. ¡°He¡¯s always building stuff. Invented them springs you¡¯re bouncing on.¡±
¡°I had the idea,¡± Heath clarified. ¡°Bartholomew made it work.¡±
¡°You both did. Boy¡¯s a lot smarter than he looks. A sight brighter than his father, that¡¯s for certain. Ought to be an advisor to a king or merchant lord, but this is all I can give him.¡±
¡°I¡¯d rather be driving coaches,¡± Heath told his father with sincerity. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t like all the bowing, and I grin every time I see our name on the door.¡± He turned to Hadrian again. ¡°We¡¯ve got Bartholomew working on another coach, one I call the Hanson Hurricane. The springs will be much better?¡ª?we¡¯re using four separate stacks of thin leaf-style sheets?¡ª?but the real difference will be the pivoting front axle that will change the base from a rectangle to a triangle because the wheel on the inside of the turn is able to rotate more sharply than the outside front wheel. It will make it easier to pull and less likely to turn over, which will really help in the mountains. With the Hurricane, I think we might be able to cut our travel time by a third.¡±
¡°Horses might have an opinion on that,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Just need more teams. One day I hope to have a fleet of coaches running daily from all the major cities from Tur Del Fur to Lanksteer. Can you imagine that? Anyone who wants to can walk to a coach station, pay a small fee, travel to Colnora, spend a few hours getting what they need, then return home to Medford the next day?¡ª?maybe all in the same day.¡±
¡°Boy¡¯s a genius, but also a dreamer,¡± Shelby said. ¡°Gets it from his grandfather, I suppose. I¡¯d be happy with a warm hearth, a full belly, a soft chair, and a softer woman. But not him. I¡¯d like to remind you, Heath, that you owe me a grandson.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll get to it.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t build this business for it to crumble because you¡¯re too busy changing the world.¡±
¡°I just haven¡¯t found anyone yet.¡±
¡°You¡¯re too picky. If she¡¯s got four limbs, two eyes, and most of her fingers, you shouldn¡¯t complain.¡±
¡°As you can tell, my father¡¯s standards are high.¡±
Hadrian chuckled.
¡°You¡¯re married, aren¡¯t you, Mister Blackwater?¡± Shelby asked. ¡°A successful man like you. You must have a nation of children by now.¡±
¡°Actually, no. I . . . ah . . . I was in the military for several years, and since then, well, you¡¯d be surprised how hard it is to find a woman with most of her fingers.¡±
This made Heath laugh.
¡°How old are you, Mister Blackwater,¡± Shelby inquired, ¡°if you don¡¯t mind me asking?¡±
¡°Twenty-four.¡±
Shelby shook his head and sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to make of you young folk these days. I had a wife and child by Heath¡¯s age, three more by yours.¡±
¡°How many children do you have?¡±
Shelby didn¡¯t answer.
¡°It¡¯s just me now,¡± Heath said.
This provided an abrupt end to the conversation, leaving Hadrian thinking he¡¯d gone somewhere he shouldn¡¯t have. He was disappointed, as the conversation had helped take his mind off the cold wind that managed to not only push through his wool shirt and cloak but also the blanket the Hansons had provided.
¡°I¡¯m sorry if I said something wrong,¡± Hadrian offered.
¡°Nothing to be sorry for,¡± Shelby said.
Heath looked back at Hadrian. ¡°About ten years ago, our family had a small place in Fallon Mire,¡± Heath said softly as he pointed south and a bit west. ¡°It¡¯s a little village down that way. I was eight years old and kept asking to go with my father on his route. I saw it as this grand adventure. He finally let me go that summer. The trip was terrible. Nothing went right. Weather was bad, and we got stuck in mud for two days. Then we busted a wheel in the middle of nowhere. My father had to take a job as a farmhand to raise the money to have it repaired. For over two months, we lived in this very coach?¡ª?me guarding her and taking care of the horses while my father worked the fields, coming back late each night with only a small round of bread and some cheese. I kept thinking how unfortunate we were?¡ª?how Mum and the rest were enjoying the summer while I was trapped alone in a hot coach all day. As it turned out, I was wrong. That was the summer the plague came to Fallon Mire. It¡¯s been just my father and me ever since.¡±
¡°Sorry to hear that,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°All the more reason to find a nice girl and start a family,¡± Shelby advised. ¡°You never know what will happen. Waiting is for fools.¡±
Hadrian looked up at the falling snow that slapped his face and weighed down his eyelashes.
Shelby Hanson makes a good argument.
Royce hadn¡¯t known whether he ought to sit beside or across from Gwen. Both were good and bad, but for different reasons. When it came down to it, his choice had been random and based on no logic at all. He had sat beside her and regretted it from the start. She was so close. The tufted leather seat being narrow, their arms and legs touched. And when the coach got up to speed, the bouncing often threw them together, clapping them like a pair of applauding hands.
In the four years he¡¯d known her, Royce had touched Gwen on so few occasions that he recalled each and every one. This intimate jostling, forced upon him under the watchful gaze of Arcadius and Albert, made him long for his days in the salt mines. He considered switching places with Hadrian. Sitting up in the cold and wet would be a joy compared to this torture, but two things stopped him. The first was the impression it might give. Royce didn¡¯t want Gwen to think he couldn¡¯t tolerate sitting beside her. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yet even if it had just been the two of them, he¡¯d still have suffered. The pressure?¡ª?the tension?¡ª?was painful. Everyone else appeared happy and content. Albert and Arcadius even dozed on occasion. Royce sat with every muscle taut, as every second was one more chance for him to make a mistake, to say or do something stupid.
When did this become a problem?
Royce had always enjoyed Gwen¡¯s company. From those first few weeks when she¡¯d nursed him back to health, he¡¯d felt comfortable around her in a way he¡¯d never known before. And yet, lately Royce had discovered a growing anxiety whenever she was near. He felt as if he¡¯d found a fragile bit of exquisite pottery that had become essential to him, and he was terrified of breaking it. Gwen had become precious to the point of anguish. Certain that the humiliation of any misstep would be amplified by his spectators, Royce suffered unbearably.
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He might be able to sell the idea of switching places with Hadrian as a self-sacrificing thoughtfulness for his friend¡¯s comfort, but while Hadrian could pull that sort of thing off, Royce lacked the precedent. And then there was the other thing. Despite the anguish born of exceptional humiliation and awkwardness, he found that sitting beside Gwen DeLancy, feeling the press and warmth of her body and inhaling the fragrance of her hair, was both insanely pleasing and horribly addictive. The experience was like getting drunk on Montemorcey wine. The aroma and taste were exquisite, and the more he drank, the more intoxicated he became. Soon he lost all reason and indulged far too much. His sober self would warn him away, but his alcohol-muddled mind lacked the capacity for good judgment. Before long, the wine would erase whatever sense he was born with and leave him exposed and vulnerable. Disaster would invariably follow. And yet whenever offered a glass, his sober mind, more often than not, accepted. He didn¡¯t understand how that happened any more than he knew why he was sweating.
¦Ã
¡°You¡¯re a remarkable woman, Gwendolyn,¡± Arcadius said, after concluding his interrogation of Gwen¡¯s past and using the front of his robe to once more clean his spectacles. He¡¯d done it four times since they had left Wayward Street, and Royce began to speculate that the dirt might be on the man¡¯s eyes.
Arcadius went on, ¡°You¡¯ve quite the head for business, and I can¡¯t help wondering what you might accomplish with a more formal education. There are programs at Sheridan for the scions of merchant families: courses in general and regional economics, business law, general accounting, and the best methods for organizing books and ledgers. Armed with such information and skills, a person such as yourself might soon be living in the Gentry Quarter, administrating a dozen legitimate endeavors and attending the Medford Autumn Gala by invitation from the king himself.¡±
Gwen laughed awkwardly. ¡°I¡¯d have nothing to wear.¡±
¡°Oh, I think by then you¡¯d have money for a grand wardrobe.¡±
¡°I wouldn¡¯t know what to buy.¡±
¡°I¡¯d be happy to help with that,¡± Albert said. The viscount sat with his head against the padded wall near the window, where he had spent much of the trip trying to nap after claiming he hadn¡¯t gotten much sleep the night before. ¡°I spent my formative years with my aunt at Huffington Manor surrounded by noble ladies; each saw me as a cross between a loyal servant and an adopted son. I know nothing about the sword, but I¡¯m an expert when it comes to fine ladies¡¯ fashion.¡±
Gwen shook her head. ¡°I also wouldn¡¯t understand any of the conversations or know what to say. The nicest gown in the world couldn¡¯t help me debate gentlemen and ladies who judge a person by the whiteness of their skin. It all seems wonderful, but I don¡¯t think it would be. I¡¯d just sit there feeling awkward and out of place, sweating and wishing I was anywhere else.¡±
Given her profession, Royce didn¡¯t think Gwen was capable of shyness or embarrassment. She¡¯d always been just as comfortable and commanding dealing with the many barons and knights that visited Medford House as she had with Roy the Sewer. Looking over at her, he realized he was wrong. She sat with hands clasped on the blanket laid across her lap, knees tight together, elbows held in close to her waist. She appeared stiff to the point of rigid. Maybe she was cold, but it wasn¡¯t chilly anymore. When they had first entered the coach, they could see their breaths, and the leather seats made a cracking sound when they sat down. But now, the combined body heat had warmed the space and fogged the windows.
They had made one exchange of horses already, a very brief affair that did not require, nor allow, time for them to stretch their legs before they resumed travel. Through the windows, trees and hillsides flashed past in a blur. Their progress was amazing. The wooden floor was still damp from the snow they originally tracked in from Wayward Street, but they were already approaching Colnora.
Colnora.
This raised another issue that worried Royce. The only way south by land was across one of the city¡¯s four bridges. Most likely they would take the Bernum or Langdon. Because they were the widest, these spans were the best for wagon travel. That meant the coach would pass right through the middle of the city. This wasn¡¯t good. Royce wasn¡¯t welcome in Colnora. If they didn¡¯t stop, and if he kept his hood up and the window drapes closed, it might be okay. He looked once more at Gwen, then at the door to the coach. No lock.
¡°Learning more about ledgers would be good,¡± Gwen said. ¡°So many of Medford House¡¯s customers want to pay on credit?¡ª?the nobles especially?¡ª?that it makes keeping track difficult.¡±
¡°Oh, there¡¯s much more to be learned than just keeping track of credit,¡± the professor said. ¡°I¡¯m certain you¡¯ll discover that the mercantile laws of Melengar, worked out between the king and his trade guilds, can aid you just as much as it does for big businesses and industries.¡±
¡°Medford House isn¡¯t part of any guild.¡±
¡°Perhaps that¡¯s something you¡¯ll seek to change once you know how. Could you imagine that?¡± Arcadius looked at all of them. ¡°A day when the entire comfort industry has its own guild and can regulate prices and conditions for its workers all over Avryn, and have it protected by the might of the king¡¯s soldiers?¡±
Another big bump bounced them all and clapped Gwen and Royce together.
¡°Oh! That was a fine one, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Arcadius howled in delight. ¡°Nearly hit my head on the roof that time.¡±
Gwen looked apologetically at Royce. ¡°Sorry.¡±
¡°Not your fault. The road is filled with holes, and the Hansons are bent on breaking the land speed record. I didn¡¯t hurt you, did I?¡±
Gwen shook her head. ¡°I just . . . I know this is awful for you.¡±
¡°Awful?¡±
¡°To be trapped in here?¡ª?with all of us?¡ª?with me. If it were just you, Albert, and the professor, I¡¯m sure you¡¯d have your feet up, taking a nap. But because I¡¯m here . . . well, you¡¯ve barely moved since we¡¯ve started. I just feel so bad about that. I don¡¯t think I should have come. I¡¯m ruining such a nice trip for all of you.¡±
¡°I, for one, can say that you are not ruining anything,¡± Albert declared. ¡°Honestly, you¡¯re a delight. Traveling with Royce and Hadrian is . . .?¡±
Royce glared.
¡°Less than joyful.¡±
¡°I concur,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°Having you along is like walking hand in hand with summer sunshine.¡±
Gwen looked at Royce. Her eyes bored into him expectantly with a nervous mix of hope and fear.
Just then the coach came to such a sharp halt that he and Gwen were nearly thrown into Albert and Arcadius.
Hadrian didn¡¯t like the look of it the moment the roadblock came into view. Hidden around a narrow bend such that Shelby was forced to use the brake to stop the coach in time, two big, spiked barricades blocked the route.
Not highwaymen, at least.
A pair of wagons were off to either side, making the barricade impossible to drive around. Three men, dressed in uniforms and chainmail, mounted their horses and rode forward. Noticing the red-and-white combatant-lion tabards of Warric and the way all three wore only one gauntlet, Hadrian recognized them as scout soldiers of Lanis Ethelred.
¡°Did you go through this on the way up?¡± Hadrian asked the Hansons.
¡°No,¡± Shelby said, his voice tinged with worry.
¡°Whose coach is this?¡± the lead rider asked as the other two men dismounted and took hold of the coach horses.
¡°Mine,¡± Shelby replied.
¡°Yours?¡± the soldier asked skeptically.
Hadrian didn¡¯t know him, but he knew his rank was that of a low sergeant.
¡°Name is Shelby Hanson; this here is my son. And if you can read, you¡¯ll see that name on the side.¡±
¡°That don¡¯t mean anything,¡± the sergeant said without looking, which made Hadrian guess he couldn¡¯t read. ¡°No matter who your master is, you¡¯ll need to pay the fee to travel the king¡¯s road.¡±
¡°What fee?¡± Heath asked. ¡°We¡¯ve traveled this route hundreds of times. There¡¯s never been a fee.¡±
¡°New king, new rules,¡± the sergeant said.
¡°New king?¡±
¡°Old Clovis died. Lanis now rules. Let¡¯s see . . . I¡¯ll be a nice guy and only charge you¡±¡ª?he hesitated a moment as his eyes looked over the handsome coach?¡ª?¡°three gold tenents.¡±
¡°That¡¯s insane!¡± Heath shouted.
¡°Is it?¡± the sergeant said, and Hadrian didn¡¯t like the abruptly aggressive change in his tone. ¡°Let¡¯s think about this for a moment. Why isn¡¯t a fine young lad like yourself serving in the new king¡¯s army?¡±
¡°We aren¡¯t subjects of Warric,¡± Shelby explained. ¡°We¡¯re just passing through. We run a coach service.¡± He hooked a thumb back at Hadrian. ¡°We¡¯re hauling customers to Delgos.¡±
The sergeant¡¯s sight tracked to Hadrian. He looked at his face only briefly, then his eyes were drawn to the swords. ¡°And what do we have here?¡± ?The sergeant urged his horse closer. ¡°What are you, a mercenary? Deserter? Criminal?¡±
¡°Name¡¯s Hadrian Blackwater. Pleased to meet you.¡±
¡°I doubt that. Why don¡¯t you strip off those blades and climb down here?¡±
¡°Because he¡¯s a customer,¡± Shelby said. ¡°And until we deliver him to his destination, he¡¯s under my protection. Now, I¡¯ll pay your fee, which means he can stay where he is.¡±
The sergeant¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°How many are inside?¡±
¡°None of your business,¡± Heath answered.
The sergeant¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°I¡¯m afraid it is, lad. Because the fee is three gold per head. And I¡¯ll be collecting that now.¡±
The sergeant dismounted. As he did, Hadrian watched Shelby release the crossbow from the strap, but he kept it out of sight.
¡°Everyone out of the coach!¡± the sergeant ordered, heading toward the door.
Hadrian stood up. ¡°Excuse me, sergeant. How far are we from Colnora?¡±
¡°What?¡±
Everyone, including Heath and Shelby, looked at him, all appearing more than a little puzzled.
¡°I asked how far we are from the city of Colnora.¡±
The soldier studied him. ¡°Just over the next rise.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡± Hadrian unbuckled his belt and laid his swords aside.
¡°Sir,¡± Shelby said to him, ¡°you don¡¯t need to be doing anything. Let me take care of this.¡± He let his hand slide to the stock of the crossbow.
¡°I¡¯d love to, Shelby, but I¡¯d rather the world didn¡¯t end this morning.¡± Hadrian slowly climbed down to face the soldier. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t let you open that door.¡±
The sergeant¡¯s eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensed, and his hand moved to rest on the pommel of his sword. ¡°Something in there you don¡¯t want me to see, eh?¡±
¡°It¡¯s more along the lines of something you don¡¯t want to see. Truth is?¡ª?and I¡¯m not exaggerating in the slightest?¡ª?if you open that door, you¡¯ll die.¡±
¡°And why is that?¡±
¡°Because there¡¯s a demon inside this coach. And if you open that door, it will come out and kill you.¡± Hadrian frowned at the soldier. ¡°Although, considering how you¡¯re disgracing that uniform, I¡¯m inclined to open it for you. I used to be in Ethelred¡¯s service. I know there are enterprising field sergeants stationed at dull posts who sometimes make a few tenents by using the uniform to intimidate the local folk. But that sort of thing fosters distrust and a hatred not just of the soldiery but of the king himself. In that way, this abuse of power isn¡¯t merely corruption. It¡¯s a form of treason against the king and his subjects?¡ª?those you¡¯re supposed to protect. Many a good man fought and died bravely wearing those colors you¡¯ve got on. And now here you are . . .?¡± He shook his head in disgust. ¡°Honestly, I shouldn¡¯t care. I should help you with the door handle, but I know that it won¡¯t end here.¡± He let his eyes rise in the direction of Colnora. ¡°I don¡¯t want to see a whole city burned to the ground because of you three.¡±
Silence followed. Even the horses seemed to hold their breath.
The sergeant stared at Hadrian, one eye squinting, his mouth open, tongue running along his teeth like a gambler deciding on his bet. ¡°Is that so?¡±
After a short while, his decision was made. The soldier began to chuckle and relaxed his shoulders. ¡°I appreciate the concern, but, believe me, I can take care of myself.¡±
¡°That¡¯s just it. I don¡¯t believe you. So, before opening the door, how about you prove it?¡± Hadrian stepped clear of the coach and horses. He found a nice level patch of road where the snow was flattened from travel. He stripped off his cloak, tossed it aside, and raised his hands. ¡°I¡¯m unarmed?¡ª?just one man. You have a sword. If you can truly take care of yourself in combat, go ahead and kill me. If you can manage that, then maybe you¡¯ll survive the demon.¡±
The sergeant¡¯s brow creased, and his mouth wrenched up on one side in utter disbelief. ¡°You want me to kill you?¡±
¡°Of course not. I want to humiliate you in front of everyone. I know that sounds awful, but in the process, I hope to save your life, those of your men, and maybe even teach you an important lesson. There¡¯s also a good chance I¡¯ll be preventing a war. So, there¡¯s a lot of upsides to this.¡±
Hadrian stepped forward to within arm¡¯s reach of the sergeant and rested his hands on his hips. ¡°Well, c¡¯mon, we have a schedule to keep, and you¡¯re making us late.¡±
The sergeant glanced at his men, who continued to hold the horses, watching with interest. They all smiled at each other as if this was great fun.
¡°I¡¯ll do it, you know?¡± The sergeant faced Hadrian with a sinister grin as he slowly drew his sword.
¡°Yes, I do, which is why I¡¯m not too upset. And to any demons that might be listening, please stay inside.¡±
The sergeant looked at the coach. A hint of suspicion appeared in his eyes, then vanished.
Hadrian couldn¡¯t have asked for a better adversary. The sergeant was a trained soldier who had learned the basic sword-and-buckler combo used in the standard Warric rank and file. His grip, stance, shoulder tilt, and even the way his off hand?¡ª?despite lacking the buckler?¡ª?was extended out alongside his sword hand, demonstrated classic Mid-Avryn military training. A complete novice would have been more dangerous because the untrained were also unpredictable. Warric sergeants were not.
Intent on making a quick end of the conflict, the man attacked with a vicious thrust designed to shove most of his short, standard-issue blade into Hadrian¡¯s stomach. If he¡¯d succeeded, Hadrian would have died a slow and painful death. This was something Hadrian was certain the soldier knew, which became just one more reason not to be gentle.
One of the sergeant¡¯s many mistakes, and likely the most critical, was his grip. He held the weapon like it were a hammer. Not so much his fault. That was how all buckler-and-sword soldiers were taught. There was no need for finesse in the ranks. In the lines, it was all pound and slash. Except the sergeant wasn¡¯t in a line on a field, he didn¡¯t have his shield, and he wasn¡¯t trying to bludgeon Hadrian. As a result, when he thrust forward?¡ª?as he extended his arm?¡ª?his wrist rolled, presenting both the flat of his blade and the back of his hand to the sky. This wouldn¡¯t have been altogether bad if he¡¯d skewered Hadrian, but given that the sergeant couldn¡¯t have announced his intentions any clearer, Hadrian easily stepped aside. Then with the sergeant at full extension, Hadrian slammed his fist downward on the flat of the blade, close to the man¡¯s hand. The sergeant¡¯s grip broke. The sword fell?¡ª?but never hit the ground.
Before the blade touched the snow, Hadrian caught the sword with his foot and flipped the weapon up into his own hand. Then he placed the tip against the astonished man¡¯s throat.
The two other soldiers let go of the horses, and drawing their swords, they rushed forward to defend their leader.
¡°Do you really hate your sergeant that much?¡± Hadrian asked as he literally pressed his point against the man¡¯s throat. The sergeant gasped and stepped backward as Hadrian allowed the edge to cut. As a fine example of the Warric military, the sergeant had kept his weapon sharp, and it took little effort to draw blood.
¡°Stop!¡± Shelby shouted at the sprinting soldiers. He was standing with one foot on the driver¡¯s box, one on the rest, the crossbow cocked and aimed.
The men stopped so quickly that they slid on the snow. One comically fell, which caused the sergeant to close his eyes in disgust.
¡°Toss your blades aside, then lie down!¡± Shelby ordered. ¡°Fetch ¡¯em, son.¡±
Heath jumped down from the coach and gathered the weapons.
Then nothing happened for a long moment.
¡°What are you going to do now, Hadrian?¡± the sergeant asked. ¡°Kill us, and you¡¯re wanted for murdering the king¡¯s men. Let us go, and we¡¯ll hunt you down.¡±
Hadrian rolled his eyes. ¡°Careful, or you might scare me.¡± He took away the sergeant¡¯s dagger and tossed it onto the pile Heath had made near the coach¡¯s front wheel. ¡°You¡¯re more ambitious than your fellow soldiers, but that¡¯s like saying you¡¯re the fastest starfish on the beach. This buggy is pretty quick, and chasing us would be a lot of work. I wasn¡¯t kidding about the demon in this coach. Your reward for catching us would be an early grave?¡ª?for you and a lot of innocent people. So, look . . . there¡¯ll be more travelers on this road who won¡¯t hesitate to pay the Road Tax. Stay here, enjoy the clearing skies, and consider yourself lucky you aren¡¯t dead or being hauled in on charges of racketeering in the name of the king. Being a new king with new rules, His Majesty might want to also make some new examples. We¡¯ll leave your horses tethered at the hitch inside the front gate.¡± He gestured at Heath, who gathered up their mounts and walked them around to the rear of the coach.
Hadrian addressed all three of them. ¡°You know, you could try to be . . . well, better. I know standing a post is boring and thankless, but honestly you can always be proud of a job well done. And money is good to have, but it comes and goes. Once traded, you¡¯ll never get your integrity back. Pride in yourself and what you do is?¡ª¡±
¡°Can we get going now?¡± Royce asked from inside the coach. ¡°The demon is getting hungry.¡±
Hadrian sighed.
V3: Chapter 5 - The Trouble with Bubbles
Gravis Berling watched the bubbles rising in his glass of ale. Like all Berlings, he was born and bred for genius and knew that the gas was created during the fermentation process. Humans didn¡¯t understand that, but then humans didn¡¯t know much. They left brewing to their wives. These women, these alewives, had the audacity to add hops to their family gruit recipes and then call what they created bier, or beer, as if they had invented it. They had no idea what turned wort into the effervescent amber drink. For them that brewed it, the magic was believed to be in the family stick that their mothers and grandmothers handed down. Daughters were told to only stir the wort using the magic stick. What they didn¡¯t know?¡ª?what they still don¡¯t?¡ª?is that the stick was caked with yeast from all the other previous batches, and it was that unseen fungi that provided the magic to get the fermentation process rolling.
Fermentation was an old word, a Dromeian word. Gravis was certain of that, and also that the term described how yeast consumes sugar to produce gas and alcohol. The gas appeared in any fermentation process and was equally responsible for the holes in spongy bread and the bubbles in Gravis¡¯s ale.
When first brewed, there were a lot of bubbles, and many people liked it that way, but in a few days, all the bubbles were gone, and the drink went as flat as stale water. Sealing ale in barrels never worked. The gas always escaped.
¡°Master Berling.¡± Baric Brock interrupted Gravis¡¯s study of his drink. He hadn¡¯t seen Baric approach, but he knew the voice. He was one of the in-betweens, a dwarf whose beard was tending toward gray but not yet committed to the cause. He was a middle-aged, middling meddler, who surely intended what else but . . . mischief.
Gravis didn¡¯t reply or so much as look up.
Baric persisted. ¡°Terrible age we live in, isn¡¯t it?¡±
Gravis didn¡¯t care for Baric, but then he didn¡¯t care for most people. Not that Baric classified as people. He was a Brock. The whole family was a bunch of silversmiths who always made a sumptuous living while others starved. Worse yet, the Brocks were one of the northern families?¡ª?those who left the peninsula and then came back. In Gravis¡¯s book, that made him one toe short of a traitor?¡ª?a wealthy and insensitive toe-short traitor.
Baric leaned in, resting a meaty hand decorated with a silver ring on the counter of the bar inches from Gravis¡¯s ale?¡ª?the drink with too few bubbles. ¡°Heard Ena died. I¡¯m sorry for your loss. I truly am.¡±
¡°Leave me be, Baric.¡± Gravis growled the words, thinking Baric ought to at least understand what any dog would.
¡°I¡¯m just offering me condolences, Berling. Just trying to be decent.¡±
¡°And I¡¯m just letting you know to sod off. Now awa¡¯ an¡¯ bile yer heid.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t need to be that way. There¡¯s no call for it.¡±
¡°No call for it? No call for it, you say?¡± Gravis¡¯s head came up, his eyes torn from the too few bubbles to lock on Baric and his too few brains, who was also freakishly tall for a Dromeian.
Not just a traitor. The Brocks must have human blood in their past.
¡°They¡¯ve banished me from her!¡± Gravis shouted and slammed his hand on the bar, turning every head in the alehouse.
¡°No one banished you, Berling. Ena just died. It happens.¡±
¡°Not from Ena, you hampot! From Drumindor!¡±
¡°Drumindor?¡± Baric looked as dim as a dying candle. Then those eyes narrowed. ¡°Are you hearing yourself, Berling? Your wife just passed away, and you¡¯re still going on about the blasted towers?¡±
Everyone was listening to them now. Scram Scallie wasn¡¯t a big place, and their raised voices echoed off the walls, killing any other talk. Gravis didn¡¯t like
all the attention. Aside from Sloan behind the bar, only four additional patrons filled the room, but for Gravis, who lived a small life, it was a multitude. And while he¡¯d like nothing more than to take the twists out of Baric¡¯s crooked thinking and set him straight, Gravis wasn¡¯t a public speaker. He didn¡¯t do well in arguments in front of an audience. He¡¯d never been popular. Maybe there was prejudice against his family¡¯s name, which Baric had been using like a stick to beat him with. Or perhaps people shunned Gravis because he wasn¡¯t just a little smarter than everyone else, but a lot, and people couldn¡¯t begin to comprehend his thinking. Either way?¡ª?and he felt it likely to be both?¡ª?he knew he wasn¡¯t about to win minds and hearts by debating Baric. Feeling eyes on him, Gravis made a tactical retreat. ¡°You¡¯re a Doritheian, Baric. You don¡¯t understand, and ya never will.¡±
¡°Bah!¡± Baric waved a dismissive hand, signaling that the encounter was over, then he turned around to walk away.
While Gravis had been cognizant of the attention they had drawn, it was no surprise that Baric was slow in the awareness department. Why he didn¡¯t realize that everyone would be watching only sharpened the point of the argument that Gravis wasn¡¯t bothering to make. Instead, he watched it happen, knew it would. When Baric turned and saw all the faces, the miserable sod couldn¡¯t let it go?¡ª?not with people watching, not in this sacred place.
Scram Scallie wasn¡¯t merely a dwarven bar?¡ª?it was a historic site, and every Dromeian knew it. A literal crack in the wall, nothing more than a mousehole
in the side of the grand Turian Cliffs, the little alehouse was invisible to the rest of the city, but to Gravis and his fellow Belgriclungreians, Scram Scallie was famous. The little shelter predated Drumindor. Legend held that Andvari Berling himself carved it out as a base while surveying the bay. Trapped inside by a storm that raged for days, he had used glow stones for light and invented the quintessential invisible rolling door. When the war with the elves turned dire, and the Orinfar was discovered, Scram Scallie became the model for all the rols built as safe houses throughout the north. Now, several thousand years later, it served as a place where Dromeians could get away from the big people?¡ª?hence the name.
Nine thousand, Berling. How long were the Brundenlins in charge? How long before your clan, and their kings, nearly wiped us off the face of Elan? Was it even an entire century, Berling? Was it?¡±
Feeling vindicated and victorious, Baric once more tried to walk away, but again, he failed. He turned back, and with a newly drawn breath, he added, ¡°Until Linden of the Brundenlins declared himself king, that word was an unspeakable profanity. His wonderful grandson, Mideon, demonstrated exactly why that is. You want to bandy about lineage, Gravis? Keep in mind that you Berlings were right there by Mideon¡¯s side, supporting his war, his greed, and his bloated ego. And finally, that insanity with the golem! Who did that, Berling? Mideon had lost but refused to accept that fact, so he had Andvari use the forbidden arts to summon the thing that destroyed Linden Lott!¡±
¡°That¡¯s a lie!¡± Gravis erupted.
¡°It¡¯s an unproven truth?¡ª?there¡¯s a difference. But I wouldn¡¯t expect a Brundenlin to understand that . . . and ya never will.¡± Baric whirled around and began to swagger out.
This time it was Gravis who couldn¡¯t back down. ¡°There¡¯re too few
bubbles, Baric!¡±
Baric didn¡¯t stop?¡ª?not immediately?¡ª?he was on a triumphal march, but he slowed. Because Scram Scallie was possibly the smallest alehouse in the world, he almost reached the door when curiosity finally tackled him. The others were silent and every face expectant as Baric asked the question that they all hoped he would. ¡°What are you babbling about, you old fool? What do you mean by too few bubbles?¡±
Gravis lifted his drink. ¡°In the ale. When first fermented, there¡¯s a fizz to it. It bubbles and froths with power, energy, and life. Drink it fresh, and it tingles the tongue. But let it sit in a barrel and the bubbles disappear, leaving the ale flat?¡ª?leaving it dead, a mere ghost of its former self. You can still drink it, acourse, but the life is gone.¡±
Baric waited as Gravis indulged in a bit of his own theatrics and took a swallow from his bubble-deficient glass. He made a revolted sour face as he glared at the ale. Then he pointed at the drink. ¡°We Dromeians . . . we were once a great people, but we have sat too long in the barrel. We¡¯re out of bubbles, Baric. We aren¡¯t alive anymore. We just exist. Not that long ago, Dromeians were great, and the humans were small. Now we look up to them like a pet to its master and wag our tails when they throw scraps. We stand and watch as they defile our temples and great buildings, turning them into alehouses and brothels. We¡¯ve forgotten who we are, Baric. We need to ferment again. We need our bubbles to rise once more.¡±
¡°You¡¯re talking mince. Our days of glory are gone. We aren¡¯t a great people anymore. And who are you to criticize? You worked for them like everyone else.¡±
¡°I worked for my forefathers. I labored at maintaining a legacy!¡±
¡°And look where it got ya.¡± Baric grinned and searched the room for the agreement he knew would be waiting.
Gravis pointed a finger at him as if casting a curse. ¡°You¡¯re why we will never be great again. It¡¯s people like you, who accept mediocrity and see nothing wrong with good enough, that are dragging us down. You¡¯re why the ale has no bubbles.¡±
Berling have us do?¡±
¡°Teach them a lesson they won¡¯t ever forget,¡± Gravis said. ¡°Give them a reminder of who we were and, Drome willing, may be again.¡±
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¡°And how do you expect to do that?¡±
¡°They don¡¯t deserve Drumindor,¡± Gravis replied. ¡°I¡¯ll take it back.¡±
¡°You¡¯re daft.¡± Baric snickered. ¡°Ya going ta trot up there and ask them to hand it over, are you? Tell them it¡¯s your name on the deed? Or will you battle them for it?¡± Baric put up his fists like a prize fighter. ¡°Gonna smite ¡¯em all, and kick ¡¯em out. I don¡¯t see how else you can do it, Berling. The towers are a bit too big to steal, don¡¯t ya think?¡±
¡°I have my ways.¡±
¡°You¡¯re full of yourself, is what you mean.¡±
From behind the bar, Sloan clapped a pair of mugs on the counter loud enough to catch the room¡¯s attention. ¡°Leave him be, Baric.¡±
Scram Scallie was Sloan¡¯s place?¡ª?at least as much as it could belong to any one person. Sloan was a Bel. Her clan originally hailed from West Echo. But her family had come to Tur in the Silver Age of King Rain, back when the Bels were so important that their name came first. Some of them left when the Belgric Kingdom was accepted into the Novronian Empire and citizenship was granted to all. But out of commitment to a tradition older than any of her family, she and hers stayed to run the tiny heritage site. Then, when her father died, she took over. Now, some forty years later, it was just her. She wasn¡¯t all that old, but Sloan was as respected as an elder and one of the few dwarfs Gravis could stomach.
While Baric was an idiot, he wasn¡¯t stupid, and the dwarf wisely refused to lock antlers with Sloan the Bel?¡ª?not in her own place. He yielded the field with a cowed look.
Sloan proceeded to serve Kiln the Miner his ale, sliding the drink down the bar and leaving a trail of wet that she wiped away with her towel. In all the years he¡¯d known her, Gravis never once saw Sloan without the towel, either in her hand or over a shoulder. He often wondered if she slept with it.
She certainly isn¡¯t sleeping with anyone else.
Many had tried to woo The Lady Bel of ?Tur, but to his knowledge, that was one peak that had yet to be conquered.
¡°The big folk aren¡¯t all bad, Gravis,¡± she said in a soft, calming voice. ¡°They invited us ta Delgos, didn¡¯t they? No ghettos, no pogroms, no restrictions on where we can go, or what businesses we can open. They welcomed us as equals.¡±
¡°And why did they do that? Not out of the goodness of their hearts, I don¡¯t think.¡±
¡°Yer so smart ya can plumb the depths of human hearts, can ya?¡±
¡°They needed water.¡± This bit of genius came from Trig the Younger, who because Scram Scallie was too small for tables or chairs, stood elbow to elbow with Kiln at the bar. The words were less proclaimed to the room than pronounced into his drink. Because he was the son of the water system administrator, however, no one was likely to doubt him no matter how he said it. ¡°They have no idea how to turn a crank. Couldn¡¯t even if we drew them a picture. They¡¯re too big to fit in the access tunnels.¡±
This made a few people chuckle, Baric being the loudest. But children and the simpleminded were easy to amuse. The laughter quickly faded, killed by the lingering tension.
¡°They¡¯ve been replacing dwarfs in tier two positions for years,¡± Kiln went on. ¡°Now, they¡¯ve done it to Berling and the rest of them at the towers.¡± He shook his head over his mug. ¡°Never thought they would. Since Drumindor was created, there has never been a time when a Berling wasn¡¯t in it. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±
Gravis was pleased to see that this wasn¡¯t a disputed fact.
¡°Those towers are everything to this place,¡± Kiln went on. ¡°The scallie have to know that, don¡¯t they, Sloan? They must realize that if something goes wrong, it¡¯s over?¡ª?for them, for us, for everyone here. So, if they think they can get by without a Berling in Drumindor?¡ª?a maze of a million levers?¡ª?no one is safe, are they?¡±
¡°It will all happen here like it has every place else,¡± Trig said. He spoke like a loved one delivering a eulogy. ¡°The ghettos and the pogroms, the laws and restrictions?¡ª?if we don¡¯t fight back now, all of it will follow.¡±
¡°Not the answer? We¡¯re up against the sea here. Are you saying . . . do you think we ought to just give up?¡±
¡°It won¡¯t happen here,¡± she said.
¡°Because this is Tur Del Fur, the Jewel of the Belgric Peninsula.¡±
¡°Not anymore,¡± Gravis said. ¡°This is Delgos now, Land of Trade and the Unholy Trio.¡±
She shook her head. ¡°This is Belgric, home of the old kingdom. That¡¯s in stone and can¡¯t be changed, and that¡¯s why here is different. I know what¡¯s happening. I¡¯m not blind. This is our last stand. If we lose Tur . . . there¡¯s nothing left fer us . . . not here, not anywhere. I don¡¯t understand the curse that¡¯s been laid on our people, but don¡¯t think fer a moment that I don¡¯t know about it.¡±
gronbachs, and when it was done, bystanders applauded.¡± Sloan shook her head slowly, pinching her lips together. ¡°People actually stood by and clapped while me sister¡¯s blood pooled before them. It¡¯s hard ta keep breathing after something like that, hard not ta hate, and just about impossible ta hope.¡±
¡°So why?¡ª¡± Gravis started, but Sloan held up a palm.
¡°Because when I walk outside¡±¡ª?she gestured at the invisible Andvari Berling door?¡ª?¡°when I go ta the end of the tier, ta the turnout?¡ª?ya all know the one I mean?¡ª?and I look down at the bay, guess what I see? Those two beautiful towers still standing in all their glory. But I don¡¯t just see Drumindor. I see how all of it once was. Drumindor, the rolkins, the domes, the tiers, and the bay. They are all reminders etched in stone that we aren¡¯t cockroaches ta be stepped on. We aren¡¯t vermin ta be driven out fer the greater good. Here we stand, drowning in evidence that we deserve respect. And that¡¯s why here is different.¡±
¡°I get that, Sloan,¡± Kiln said. ¡°I do. But we still see it happening, and if we do nothing, then nothing will change.¡±
¡°So we¡¯ll do something, but fighting has never worked fer us. It only destroys, and we aren¡¯t good at breaking things?¡ª?but we are exceptional at building. The proof is all around us. Our greatest legacy has always been what we create. So that¡¯s what we¡¯ll do. We must build, but not fortresses or weapons. We need bridges and respect.¡±
¡°And how do we do that?¡± Baric asked. ¡°Complain to the Unholy Trio?¡±
Several laughed at this, but there was no mirth in it, just a sad desperation.
¡°We could remind them why they welcomed us in the first place.¡± Sloan looked at the towel in her hand. ¡°They¡¯ve fired the whole lot from Drumindor, haven¡¯t they? And yer right; they have been replacing all the supervisors in every position of importance all over the city. And doing that hasn¡¯t gone well, has it? They¡¯re trying ta figure out how ta survive without us. So, what if we give them what they want?¡ª?but all at once with no time ta prepare. Why don¡¯t we let them see what it would be like, and in the process announce loud and clear that it¡¯s all or nothing? Either we are full citizens with equal rights, equally deserving of respect and appreciation or¡±¡ª?she held the hand holding the towel out over the edge of the bar and dropped it to the floor?¡ª?¡°we all quit.¡±
This is the problem, Gravis thought. In the days of Mideon, the world quaked at the sound of dwarven boots. Now, we have leaders like Sloan, females, who tell everyone that being good little dwarfs is the best way.
¡°Doing that won¡¯t work,¡± Gravis said. ¡°That sort of thing has been tried over and over.¡±
¡°But this isn¡¯t Vernes, or Rochelle, or Dithmar,¡± she replied. ¡°This is Tur Del Fur, our ancestral home.¡± She walked over to the wall and laid a hand on it. ¡°Our people built this place, and they did so fer Dromeians. These are our tunnels, halls, and mines. Here, unlike everywhere else, we have the advantage.¡±
Gravis didn¡¯t agree, but he said nothing more on the subject. They could do as they liked. He had his own plan, and he didn¡¯t need anyone¡¯s help.
critical eye, he longed to be free. The shack was his answer.
He¡¯d constructed the first one from what he¡¯d found along the coast, driftwood mostly, and scrap from the shipyards: planks, mast poles, and canvas. He¡¯d even scored a discarded cabin door that served as his entrance and made the whole thing look grand. The shack listed to one side and leaked when it rained, but it was his, and he was proud of it.
Then the first big storm came.
Gravis was working at the time, and down in the bowels of Drumindor, he hadn¡¯t the slightest clue that the gods of wind, rain, and ocean were having a tempestuous tussle. When he went home, it wasn¡¯t there. The whole thing, door and all, had been wiped clean off the face of Elan.
By then, he had advanced out of the cog room and was courting a lass named Ena Schist. Ena always wanted him to buy a rolkin. Nothing big or grand, just a little hole in the wall with turquoise shutters and a flower bed. Gravis could have gotten one farther up the tiers, but he wanted to be close to Drumindor, and real estate near the water was priced out of reach. Years later, after his father had passed and he was appointed chief supervisor, Gravis still stayed in the shack. By then, it was home for both of them.
He spent his honeymoon within those walls. Nearly died of fever there, too. He and Ena had wept rivers of tears and laughed themselves sick on that little square of rock and shoal that shook with even a light breeze. But it had only been a few days ago that Ena had taken her last breath beneath that slanted roof. Gravis had spent most of his life inside Drumindor, but the best times?¡ª?few as they were?¡ª?had been lived inside that shack.
Standing in the dark and looking at the old place, Gravis couldn¡¯t even go inside?¡ª?not anymore. In two hundred and forty-six years, Gravis had never been required to pay rent. They told him that was because he had been an employee, and it was one of the privileges they chose to grant him. He¡¯d never told Ena, but he was sure if he had, she would have laughed herself even sicker to hear that someone thought their shack on a rock was a privilege. He was grateful she died before the eviction notice came.
Gravis stood in a light rain, staring at his home. The place was empty. He knew it would be?¡ª?it would always be. No one else would ever want to live there. The Port Authority had driven him out for no reason other than spite.
Gravis couldn¡¯t stay. Lord Byron would have someone watching the place. If he lingered too long, men with blades would come and say he was on PA land and he must move. If he put up a fuss, they would drag him away. And if the commotion was too unruly, they¡¯d likely drag him to the ocean.
Gravis wiped his eyes and looked up at Drumindor.
Unlike Sloan, he didn¡¯t see hope in those two towers. All he saw was pain. And if he could figure out a way to get back inside, he would whistle a merry tune
as he waited on the full moon and the end of everything.
V3: Chapter 6 - Kruger
Rocked gently in the snug little coach for hours on end, Royce had watched as each of the others succumbed to sleep. Their eyes closed, opened, then closed again. Heads drooped, only to pop back up. A hand might wipe lips, then the process would begin again. Finally, breathing would grow deep and regular. When that happened, limp heads stayed down, swaying from side to side and looking like their necks had been broken. At this point, even the biggest bumps and sways couldn¡¯t wake them.
At least he thought so until Gwen fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.
Resting like a feather near Royce¡¯s neck, her hair brushed the lobe of his ear, and her cheek rocked with the motion of the coach. He was fearful that her head might slide off its perch. This concerned him far more than he was comfortable with. He mentally argued that his anxiety was entirely due to his desire for her to rest and it was unrelated to how it made him feel. He twisted and contorted his body, leaning into her to form a safer resting place. The position was awkward and untenable. His muscles would soon cramp, his neck ache, but no power on Elan could make him move.
It¡¯s only because she deserves a good sleep. I owe her that much, don¡¯t I? A little discomfort is nothing compared to what she¡¯s given me.
For Royce the amount was measured and made greater by contrast with how little others had done.
The coach continued to roll and sway. The windows were hopelessly fogged. All Royce could determine by then was that the sunlight was weaker, the day slowly fading. This soft illumination filled the warm interior, made warmer still by Gwen¡¯s body pressing against his. With everyone asleep, Royce no longer felt exposed or watched, and for that blessed moment, he experienced a strange sense of peace. Unable to shift, straighten, nor even willing to cough, Royce resigned himself to just sitting. He tried to look at her but couldn¡¯t risk turning his head that far. Instead, he stared at the one exposed hand that rested on her lap near her knee. It wasn¡¯t much, but oh so better than looking at Arcadius, who was starting to drool, his head cocked against the seat padding.
Royce had never studied a hand before, never examined or appreciated one. He judged hers to be perfect and wondered what it might be like to place his upon it, to intertwine his fingers with hers.
His eyelids drooped.
Gah!
At that moment, more than any other, he didn¡¯t want to sleep. He gritted his teeth and silently cursed the name of every god he knew.
His head dipped. He pulled it back up in defiance, forced his eyes to remain open.
It makes no sense. No sense at all. And being so illogical makes me . . .
Royce awoke when the coach stopped.
The jostling caused Gwen¡¯s head to slide off his shoulder. She caught herself and jerked back. Sleepy eyes looked at him, then widened. ¡°Sorry.¡±
¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he replied.
Royce wiped away the moisture on the window with the heel of his hand. Outside, it was dark, but there was a light. In the center of the yard, a pole rose where a bull¡¯s-eye-style lantern hung, drawing a swarm of swirling insects. Its lonely gleam revealed the common clearing between buildings.
Albert scrubbed his face with both hands and made smacking noises with his lips. Arcadius continued to sleep until Gwen reached out and shook his knee.
In response, the old professor lifted his head. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sleeping, dear, just resting my eyes.¡±
Gwen leaned forward and peered out the window. ¡°Where are we?¡±
Albert yawned and stretched his arms out as wide as the coach allowed. ¡°Another stage stop I suspect.¡±
Hadrian climbed down, looking haggard.
Royce yawned and wiped his eyes.
¡°You slept?¡± Hadrian sounded surprised.
¡°Nothing else to do. How about you?¡±
¡°Once the snow stopped, I got some sleep. I think. Hard to tell, really.¡±
Gwen climbed down. She squinted, her hair mussed up on one side, her face still stiff from sleeping. ¡°It¡¯s a lot warmer here.¡±
¡°How lovely,¡± Arcadius declared, exiting the carriage with all the nimbleness of a man trying out stilts for the first time. ¡°It¡¯s like we¡¯ve jumped ahead three months, skipped the rest of winter, and missed the worst parts of spring.¡±
¡°Leave your stuff and go on up to the house, folks,¡± Shelby told them as he unhooked the coach from the team. ¡°We¡¯ll be a short while. Briar and Gus will feed you. They¡¯re a nice couple, and Briar is a fine enough cook.¡±
The door to the house flew open, and Heath came running out.
¡°They awake?¡± Shelby asked.
¡°Are now,¡± he said as behind him a light appeared beyond the curtains.
The first two things Hadrian noticed upon entering the coach house were the bright fire in the hearth and the smell of bacon. Before the fireplace was a large, sturdy table surrounded by chairs. Additional seating was stacked against the back wall. Above it all and hanging side by side from the roof beams was a strange duo: a wagon wheel and a ferryboat captain¡¯s wheel. The two were nearly the same size. Just below them, burned into a rough board that served as the mantle to the hearth, were the words Wheels of Dreams.
Already there were plates and spoons set out. A man, who was so tall and thin that he appeared stretched, was busy lighting the candles on the table. ¡°Hullo, ladies and gentlemen!¡± he said brightly. ¡°I¡¯m Gus. Come in, have a seat, my wife will be?¡ª¡±
A short, ragged woman burst into the room backward, holding a blackened pot with towels on each hand. ¡°Hot dish!¡± she announced, bustling her way to the table and slamming the pot down in the center. She straightened up and took several short breaths while wiping her face with one of the towels. ¡°Sit down and eat. There¡¯s more coming.¡± With that, she ran back out through the same door where she¡¯d entered.
¡°That¡¯s my wife,¡± the man said. ¡°Briar Rose. You might not have caught it, but she¡¯s very pleased to meet you.¡±
¡°Pleased to meet you as well,¡± Gwen said, then yawned as they all spread out around the table.
¡°Indeed,¡± Arcadius agreed. ¡°It¡¯s a lovely place you have here.¡±
¡°Oh, this house isn¡¯t ours,¡± Gus said as he moved to the next candle. ¡°Shelby built this place. He¡¯s got two coach stations, along with a string of little stables running from Tur Del Fur to Ervanon.¡±
¡°Had two!¡± Briar shouted from the kitchen.
¡°That¡¯s right, he had two. The other one was up in Chadwick, in Fallon Mire. That used to be the main one. He got rid of it. And we¡¯re hoping to take this one over one day?¡ª?make it into a proper inn. Heath thinks they¡¯ll have a dozen or more coaches working this route. That¡¯s a guaranteed revenue stream.¡±
¡°I want to be a coachman,¡± a young girl announced as she entered, carrying a basket of steaming rolls that she placed on the table. She displayed round cheeks decorated with freckles and a big smile.
¡°This is my daughter, Copper,¡± Gus said.
¡°Her real name is Dorothy,¡± Briar explained as she burst back in, this time with a sizzling skillet of bacon, the contents of which she scraped into the previously delivered pot. ¡°But we¡¯ve always just called her Copper. Don¡¯t have a clue why.¡± Briar paused, looking at all of them, bewildered. ¡°Sit and eat. Won¡¯t take the Hansons more than a hoot and a giggle to get rolling again. Those two are as dogged as hounds on a trail, and you won¡¯t be stopping again for hours.¡± ?Then once more she was gone, her daughter chasing after.
They all took seats.
Gus nodded, not the least bit surprised.
¡°Milk!¡± Copper shouted, returning with a pitcher. ¡°Still warm!¡±
¡°Goat or cow?¡± Arcadius asked.
¡°We have three goats,¡± Copper replied.
¡°Lovely! Cow¡¯s milk gives me indigestion. Bring it around here, my dear.¡±
Royce remained standing near the door to the courtyard. When Hadrian looked over, Royce walked out.
¡°Excuse me,¡± Hadrian said and got up. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back . . . I hope.¡±
Outside, Royce was walking without any urgency toward the lantern pole. Despite the chill, his hood was down.
¡°What¡¯s up?¡± Hadrian asked.
Royce turned. ¡°A demon?¡±
Hadrian smiled awkwardly. ¡°Would you rather I used your name?¡±
¡°Technically, that is my name?¡ª?at least one of the ones they gave me.¡±
¡°Huh? No.¡± Royce shook his head. Then he looked up at the lantern on the pole, where a small cloud of insects swarmed. He continued to stare as if fascinated by the concept of illumination.
Hadrian thought he knew most of his partner¡¯s moods and what they meant. This wasn¡¯t a hard thing to learn, for there weren¡¯t that many. What made it challenging was how Royce¡¯s attitudes indicated the opposite of normal people. Quiet, to the point of cold hostility, was actually his normal state and no cause for alarm. If he did speak, his words were curt and to the point, suggesting he¡¯d already run through the conversation in advance and was only suffering the necessary obligation of letting the other person know how it turned out. Chattiness, however, was an indication of a problem. His need to talk, but failure to do so, was like seeing a fish floating upside down. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Royce?¡±
¡°I wish I knew.¡±
¡°Can I have a hint?¡±
Royce pointed at the light on the pole. ¡°Look at all those moths.¡±
Hadrian gave it a glance. ¡°Can I have a better hint?¡±
¡°The moths just keep butting the glass of the lantern,¡± Royce said.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
¡°If there wasn¡¯t glass on the lantern, the moths would kill themselves.¡±
¡°Uh-huh, they do that. We see it all the time with campfires. I actually think we¡¯ve discussed this before. Can¡¯t recall why. Likely you were explaining something to do with the stupidity of people. Yeah, that seems right.¡±
¡°The thing is, they can¡¯t help themselves, and it¡¯s not the light¡¯s fault, either. It¡¯s just there. Bright and irresistible. You¡¯d think the moths would know better or should know better. Look at them hitting that glass over and over again, so intent on seeking their own death.¡±
¡°You¡¯re starting to scare me now. What¡¯s going on?¡±
¡°I think there¡¯s a chance Gwen likes me.¡±
¡°Of course she likes you. We¡¯ve had this conversation before, too.¡±
¡°Yeah, now I think she . . .?¡±
¡°She what?¡±
Royce took a deep breath and swallowed. His face tensed. ¡°She slept with her head on my shoulder.¡±
¡°Okay. And . . .?¡±
¡°And? What do you mean and? Did you hear what I said?¡±
¡°Did she say anything?¡±
¡°Of course not. I just said she was sleeping. You¡¯re not listening to me at all, are you?¡±
¡°I am. It¡¯s just that?¡ª?never mind. That¡¯s?¡ª?that¡¯s great, Royce.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s not!¡± he snapped and began to walk again, this time in a circle around Hadrian.
¡°It¡¯s not?¡±
¡°No!¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you like her?¡±
¡°Of course I do?¡ª?that¡¯s the problem!¡±
Hadrian looked up at the lantern. ¡°Can we go back to the moths again? I think I missed something.¡±
Royce stopped moving, took a breath, and let it out. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t?¡± Hadrian finally understood why he had struggled to grasp the meaning of his friend¡¯s awkward rambling; this was a mood he¡¯d never encountered before. Royce was seeking advice. ¡°Okay, I get it. Not a problem. I actually have a decent amount of experience with women. It¡¯s easy. Not complicated at all. You really only have two options. You can express yourself?¡ª?you know, tell her how you feel, and ask her how she feels.¡±
Royce cringed.
¡°Or not.¡± Hadrian rubbed his hands together and regrouped. ¡°You¡¯re right. Words are not your strong suit. Sure. So, go the other way.¡±
¡°Kiss her.¡±
The thief¡¯s eyes widened.
¡°You do want to, don¡¯t you?¡±
Royce¡¯s face hardened, and he gritted his teeth as if Hadrian were performing field surgery on him. ¡°Yes, but that¡¯s . . . it¡¯s so . . .?¡±
¡°You have kissed a woman before, haven¡¯t you, Royce?¡±
His answer was a violent glare.
¡°Oh? Oh. Really?¡± Hadrian stared, off balance for a moment. ¡°I suppose I should have guessed that, shouldn¡¯t I?¡±
¡°I¡¯m . . .?¡± Royce began, then floundered into a series of short breaths. He turned away, once more being drawn toward the light on the pole. ¡°I have no idea what to do. It¡¯s like I¡¯m trying to pick up a soap bubble, and I¡¯m terrified that if I touch it, the whole thing will burst.¡± His hands clenched into fists. ¡°I¡¯d really love to slit Arcadius¡¯s throat for this.¡±
¡°The professor? What¡¯s he got to do with it?¡±
¡°It¡¯s all his fault. ¡®I think we should all go,¡¯ he said. ¡®Certainly this wonderful lady deserves a holiday,¡¯ he babbled. Since I¡¯ve known him, that old man has been nothing but trouble. I¡¯ve killed whole families that were guilty of less.¡±
¡°Royce, you¡¯re not going to kill Arcadius.¡±
¡°Of course not?¡ª?Gwen would hate me if I did.¡±
¡°Ah . . .?¡± Hadrian decided to let that go and take the win. ¡°Okay.¡±
¡°Which brings me to the point.¡±
¡°It does?¡± Hadrian thought they¡¯d already reached and plowed through that field, so discovering they still hadn¡¯t was surprising?¡ª?and more than a bit scary. ¡°I mean, what is the point, Royce?¡±
¡°That whole demon thing you did. Your handling of those three tax collectors. That was smart. With Gwen inside, if they had opened that door . . .?¡±
¡°I know. I know.¡±
Royce brushed the grass with the toe of his boot. ¡°And Gwen would have had a front row seat for it all. She would have seen the demon at work. And if she had? After that . . . I don¡¯t think she would have slept with her head on my shoulder.¡±
¡°Royce,¡± Hadrian presented him with a sympathetic look. ¡°After that, I don¡¯t think she would have slept at all.¡±
¡°Exactly, you get my point. Good.¡±
¡°So, are you thanking me?¡±
such a romantic, Royce. I would definitely avoid talking to her. Go with the kiss. Even if you miss, slam teeth, slide off, and fall on your face, that will be better than comparing Gwen to a bottomless pit.¡± He turned. ¡°I¡¯m going to eat now before Albert consumes everything Briar Rose cooked.¡± Hadrian took a step. ¡°Oh, and for your information, Gwen doesn¡¯t like you.¡±
Royce spun in a panic. ¡°You said she did.¡±
¡°The woman is in love with you, Royce. I have no idea why. I¡¯m not sure anyone does. I don¡¯t even think Professor Arcadius with all his knowledge can crack that one. But yeah, she loves you. So, relax. Talk to her, kiss her, murder a bunch of puppies in front of her?¡ª?you can¡¯t lose this one. I only wish I could be so lucky.¡±
¡°Dwarfs dwell in hollow mountains and underground?¡ª?often in caves hidden behind waterfalls,¡± Arcadius was saying when Royce returned to the meal. The professor sat at the head of the table, his long sleeves rolled up to the
elbows. With his slick-with-grease fingers, he held a strip of bacon like a baton, which he used to conduct his lecture to the rest of the table.
¡°I¡¯ve heard that lady dwarfs are ugly,¡± Copper said as she cleared the empty serving plates. The little girl had a poorly assembled stack and struggled with the unruly tower that threatened to topple.
The professor shook his head, and while once more wielding his bacon baton, he explained, ¡°While often suspected to be stocky and bearded, female dwarfs are actually remarkably beautiful, made all the more so by their petite size. And despite their reduced place in the world today, the dwarfs have a long and proud history and once fought with the elves for dominance of the world. That was back when their king ruled the entire peninsula of Delgos, and they mined gems and gold by the wagonload. But those days are long past. Still, each and every dwarf hides a treasure beyond imagination, but¡±¡ª?he paused to wink at Copper?¡ª?¡°dwarven hoards are always cursed. So nothing good ever comes from stealing from them.¡±
¡°Are dwarfs really made from stone? Do they live forever?¡± the girl asked, still hugging her shifting spire of plates.
The professor of problems is at it again, Royce thought. He doesn¡¯t care whose life he ruins.
Arcadius had used a child¡¯s curiosity to put the little girl in this jam. The kid had lingered too long at the table, enchanted by the stories of a senile old man, and now she would break a fortune¡¯s worth of pottery and obtain a beating for doing so. Her parents would pay as well, and maybe the family would go to bed hungry. They might even be removed from this cushy post and left homeless and destitute, all because the old man didn¡¯t know when to shut up.
¡°Nothing lives forever except love and hate,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°But dwarfs live as much as thrice as long as a man. And while they aren¡¯t made of stone and stand only between twenty-seven and forty-four inches in height, the dwarf possesses the strength of twenty men. Although, scholars believe the dwarf¡¯s vigor is due mostly to magical objects, which they manufacture at their grand underground forges and workshops.¡±
¡°I thought the wee folk shunned magic, even more than the church,¡± Gus said, coming to the aid of his daughter. Seeing what Royce saw, he promptly took command of the teetering stack.
¡°And they are universally hated,¡± Royce said, taking a seat across from Gwen, who looked to be halfway through her meal of some sort of egg casserole and a slice of bread.
Royce hadn¡¯t eaten all day, but looking at her, he had no appetite.
I imagine moths don¡¯t eat much, either.
Arcadius put his bacon baton in his mouth and nodded while chewing. ¡°They do suffer a good deal in the popularity department, that¡¯s true. What with the mass circulation of such bedtime stories as ¡°The Dwarf and the Dairy Maid¡± and ¡°Little Wren and the Big Forest,¡± they face an uphill battle when trying to change the attitudes of adults who grew up with such gruesome fables. True or not, why parents wish to send their babies off to dreamland filled with tales of terror, I can¡¯t begin to fathom. But it is interesting to know that once upon a time, children used to leave broken toys outside their front doors at night in the hope that a dwarf might pass by and repair them before dawn. And an optimistic tot would also leave a sacrificed bit of food on a plate and perhaps a hat or pair of socks as a thank-you in advance. Such were the bright and happy days before literature murdered innocence in the cradle.¡±
¡°You want some of this?¡± Hadrian asked Royce, scooping the last of the egg dish onto his plate.
Royce shook his head.
¡°It¡¯s good,¡± Gwen said.
¡°Sure is,¡± Copper agreed. ¡°Mum is a great cook.¡±
The girl nodded. Freed of her monument of crockery, she stood between Gwen and Albert, leaning on the table with both hands and swaying with excess energy. ¡°I¡¯m gonna be like Heath and have my own coach. Only mine will be a coach-and-six, and I¡¯ll beat his time. Heath says ladies don¡¯t drive coaches, but I don¡¯t see why not. I¡¯m good with horses, isn¡¯t that right, Pa?¡±
¡°Certainly better than you are with clearing a table,¡± Gus replied.
¡°See!¡± ?The little girl glowed.
¡°Well, don¡¯t you listen to Heath,¡± Gwen said. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to anyone. You can do whatever you want. You just need to be smart and work hard.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what I think.¡± ?The girl looked around. ¡°What is it that you do, ma¡¯am?¡±
Gwen hesitated and bit her lip.
Copper¡¯s eyes went wide.
Gwen looked stunned.
The girl stared at Gwen in awe. ¡°What¡¯s your name, ma¡¯am?¡±
¡°Gwendolyn DeLancy,¡± she replied, ¡°but you can call me Gwen.¡±
Shelby entered, carrying the driver¡¯s box, and Gus quickly rushed over to help.
¡°Have Briar restock this,¡± Shelby told him. ¡°We¡¯ve still got a long way to go. And remind her that we¡¯re going into warm weather. So she shouldn¡¯t include anything that¡¯ll spoil. Have her check the cellar for nuts and raisins. Those are good on the road. We can eat them as we drive.¡±
¡°I think she¡¯s already got snacks made, but I¡¯ll tell her.¡± Gus took the box into the kitchen.
¡°Wonderful,¡± Hadrian replied with a full mouth.
¡°Indeed,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°This has been an extraordinary delight.¡±
¡°Good. Good.¡± Shelby nodded. ¡°Heath is nearly done switching out the
team and refitting the wheels for the next stage of our trip.¡±
¡°The wheels?¡± Albert asked.
Shelby nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll be crossing into Delgos in just a few miles and dealing with less agreeable mountain roads for this next part, and there won¡¯t be any more snow. Heath is putting on smaller front wheels to grant the coach a tighter turn radius to get through the narrow passes. He should be done in just a few minutes, then we¡¯ll get rolling again. If anyone needs more blankets, just ask Gus or Briar. But honestly, from this point on, keeping cool will be more of a challenge than staying warm.¡±
Outside the little front window of the coach house, Royce saw something big enough to be a man move. He guessed it was Heath, but as Shelby exited, he spotted Shelby¡¯s son near the stable.
¡°How many people are here?¡± Royce asked Gus when he returned. ¡°Besides the passengers.¡±
¡°It¡¯s just Briar, Copper, and me. Is there something I can get you?¡±
¡°No. I¡¯m fine.¡± Royce got up.
Hadrian was busy shoveling the remaining food into his mouth as Gus hovered, ready to take his plate. Albert sat back, breathing deeply and unbuttoning his doublet. Gwen was once more talking to Copper, and Arcadius busied himself by cleaning his teeth. No one said anything as Royce left.
Outside, he was once more greeted with the cool night air and that lingering scent of skunk that wafted in from the surrounding forests. This time Royce avoided looking at the lantern and moved into the shadows at the side of the house.
In the stable, the horses were acting up, whinnying, snorting, and stomping.
¡°What¡¯s with Jack and Rabbit?¡± Shelby asked from somewhere unseen, his voice carrying on the cool night air.
¡°Dunno,¡± Heath replied. ¡°Seems spooked.¡±
But why? Royce thought.
He¡¯d always had an intuition for trouble, a sense for when something was wrong. Long ago, he¡¯d guessed it was his imagination, but decades of evidence had eroded logic. He¡¯d come to accept it as a gift?¡ª?at times he counted on it. At that moment, he fully agreed with the horses. Something wasn¡¯t right.
But what?
The courtyard was small. Just the house, the stable, and a workshop. There was one other building not readily visible, and Royce spotted the little trail that led into the scrub toward the obligatory outhouse.
It¡¯s over there. Whatever spooked me and the horses. It¡¯s hiding in the cover of the bushes and trees.
Drawing Alverstone, Royce started to hunt.
He followed the trail, then inched around the outhouse to where the thickets blocked the view from the stable and house. There, in the radiance of the moon, Royce spotted a man seated on the body of a rotting tree within a ring of young pines. Royce realized, with no small amount of concern, that he knew this man. He was certain he¡¯d killed him just the night before.
The man remained attired in his tattered gray cloak, hood up; his sickly, pale face shone chalk-white in the moonlight. His long red hair and beard peeked out, providing the only color. He looked comfortable and relaxed as he watched Royce approach.
¡°We need our codex,¡± he said in that familiar, raspy voice.
Royce peered at the man¡¯s neck. A dark mark proclaimed the place where Royce had sunk his knife.
Definitely the same guy.
This time, Royce maintained his distance, studying the man and trying to solve the bizarre puzzle.
He should be dead. And how did he find me? And how did he manage to keep up with the Flying Lady?
He followed me back to The Rose and Thorn, saw us enter the coach, and when Hadrian and the drivers were looking forward, he jumped on the back.
This was the only plausible possibility, but plausible might not be quite the right word, and it only solved one of the haystacks of problems.
¡°Dost thou have our book?¡± the man asked, and Royce once again noted the odd accent, joined now with archaic language. But even buried under all that rasp, he had clearly said book.
He thinks I¡¯m someone else.
¡°I don¡¯t have any books,¡± Royce replied. ¡°I¡¯m not a big reader.¡±
¡°Either thou possesseth it or thou knowest the place it now lies.¡±
The man waited.
So did Royce.
¡°Thou need not be frightened of us, Royce.¡±
So much for a case of mistaken identity.
¡°We cherish thee. Thou art . . .?¡± He thought a moment, then nodded. ¡°In truth, thou art our only friend. Thou hast freed us from our eternal prison, a kindness for which we are evermore obliged. And we trust that thy efforts in restoring unto us the vessel of our tragic youth shall be an effort worth rewards beyond mere silver or gold.¡±
¡°Diamonds?¡±
¡°Eternal life.¡± ?The man smiled.
¡°I¡¯d prefer diamonds.¡±
The man laughed at this?¡ª?more cackle than laugh.
Royce advanced slowly. ¡°Are you genuinely offering me a job? If so, I¡¯ll need to know exactly what you want and the price you¡¯re willing to pay.¡±
¡°We must have our book, that which thou stolest from Lady Martel of Hemley Manor. In return, we shall grant everlasting life.¡±
¡°You¡¯re after the diary?¡± At least one piece in this puzzle made sense. Nearly two years before, Royce had stolen the diary of Lady Martel. The contract had been arranged by Albert through Lady Constance. Neither Royce nor Hadrian nor Albert knew the identity of the employer, and it was presumed the employer didn¡¯t know the identity of the thieves.
¡°The codex of our writing belongs to us.¡±
¡°And who are we?¡±
The ghost-white creature seated on the decaying log grinned, revealing a full set of gleaming teeth set in black gums. ¡°We are Falkirk de Roche.¡±
V3: Chapter 7 - Tur Del Fur
When Hadrian came out of the coach house, rubbing his hands on his pants to get the last of the bacon grease off, he found that Royce had taken the spot on top of the coach. He sat up there like a crow on the peak of a roof, hood up, his cloak fluttering in the rising wind. As Hadrian approached, the thief glanced over but didn¡¯t say a word, and Hadrian didn¡¯t need to ask. The answer was obvious. If it had been anyone else, Hadrian might have suspected the underlying reason to be compassion, decency, or even straight-up friendship. Since Hadrian had suffered the cold wind and wet snow for hours, it was only fair that he be granted time inside the coach. But this wasn¡¯t anyone else?¡ª?this was Royce?¡ª?and Hadrian¡¯s welfare had nothing to do with the crow being on the roof. He was up there because of Gwen.
Being near Gwen DeLancy had always confused Royce. Watching him was as entertaining as witnessing a drunk trying to navigate a familiar room. There were times when the man seemed to forget his own name. Hadrian knew all too well what that was like. At the age of fifteen, he¡¯d fallen for Arbor, the shoemaker¡¯s daughter, and he had been so smitten that he¡¯d nearly killed his best friend. Such feelings were bewildering for anyone. But for Royce, who was already as twisted as a corkscrew, it must be a nightmare. The man rarely drank, for fear it would impair his ability to fend off the multitude of hazards?¡ª?some real, others imagined?¡ª?that he believed life constantly thrust at him. This trip must be frustrating beyond reason, so Royce wanted to be alone.
Despite his friend¡¯s distress, Hadrian appreciated the chance to ride inside. He hadn¡¯t slept much. His clothes were still damp from the snow, and a chill resided deep in his bones. He¡¯d previously determined that if he sat in the cold long enough, the cold felt welcomed to stay. The lack of food contributed. The Hansons had provided eat-as-we-go provisions in the way of nuts, raisins, and such, but that was like wearing a hat in a rainstorm?¡ª?it helped, but not much, and after a while, not at all. Briar Rose¡¯s eggs and bacon had provided the foundation for recovery, but what he really needed was a warm place to sleep. He took the seat vacated by Royce, next to Gwen and across from Albert.
¡°Well, isn¡¯t this nice,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°Royce is heroically giving up his coveted spot to poor Hadrian. What a fine act of gallantry?¡ª?wouldn¡¯t you say so, Gwendolyn?¡±
She nodded. ¡°If he hadn¡¯t, I would have.¡±
Hadrian smiled at her.
¡°Here, take my blanket.¡± Gwen draped her woolen cover around his shoulders.
Hadrian thanked her, and as the coach rolled out, he slouched down and laid his head against the soft, tufted leather padding that ran all the way up the walls of the interior. The coach resumed its rocking rhythm, which he found soothing. The others talked about the food, the family, and the true chances of Copper becoming a coachman?¡ª?which started an amiable dispute between the practical-but-inexperienced Albert and an idealistic-but-veteran Gwen. Hadrian never heard how it turned out. He fell sound asleep and remained so, even through the rest of the horse exchanges.
When he awoke, the world had changed.
The interior of the carriage had shifted from not so cold to a little too warm. Hadrian had been damp from snowmelt, but now, buried beneath his layers of wool, he was wet from sweat. Opening his eyes, he saw the coach¡¯s windows were open, the drapes thrown wide. Bright sunshine flooded the interior, along with a pleasant breeze that carried the rumor of flowers and a salty ocean.
¡°But what exactly is a republic?¡± Gwen was asking as the coach continued to rattle and roll along. She spoke in a soft voice as if not to wake him.
¡°Simply put, it is a political system in which the supreme power lies in a body of citizens who elect?¡ª?that is, choose by the greatest number of votes?¡ª?the people to represent them,¡± Arcadius replied just as quietly. The rocking of the coach caused his long beard to sway.
¡°So, there¡¯s no king?¡± Gwen asked.
The professor shook his head. ¡°Nope?¡ª?no nobility at all. In the case of Delgos, the government is a bit of a mix. They started as a democracy?¡ª?that¡¯s a type of regime where all the people have an equal say in the rules and laws. But over time, it slipped into a mix of democracy and oligarchy, as most republics tend to do.¡±
Gwen looked out the window as if trying to see this remarkable republic firsthand.
¡°Having everyone vote on everything was a bit of a nightmare, as you might imagine,¡± Arcadius went on. The professor was one of those lucky people who loved his job. His was teaching, and it didn¡¯t take much encouragement to get him started. Getting him to stop was the challenge. ¡°Everything was accomplished about as fast as a group of men trying to decide which of them was the smartest. As it turned out, those were the most successful business owners who, by virtue of their wealth and ability to provide others with jobs, convinced the citizenry that the tycoons ought to shoulder the awful burden of making decisions on their behalf. In theory, the people still get to vote on who makes the decisions, but in reality, it¡¯s always the same three. Not surprisingly, they are the most powerful business owners in the region.¡±
¡°You make it sound bad,¡± she said. ¡°But I think there¡¯s a bit of sense in that approach. More, certainly, than getting to run everything just because you¡¯re born to the right family.¡±
Arcadius nodded. ¡°That¡¯s true, and I agree that it¡¯s a step in the right direction, but as wealth is passed on from father to son, it¡¯s not all that terribly different, either.¡±
Gwen thought about this a moment, then asked, ¡°Who are the three?¡±
Arcadius held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. ¡°The shipping magnate, Ernesta Bray; metal manufacturer, Oscar Tiliner; and of course, the biggest of them all, both figuratively and literally¡±¡ª?and for this he used his thumb?¡ª?¡°financier and banker, Cornelius DeLur. Together they are more commonly known as The Triumvirate.¡±
¡°Ernesta? Is that a woman?¡±
Arcadius smiled. ¡°Indeed, and she holds an iron grip on just about everything that enters or leaves the country.¡±
Gwen scowled at Albert. ¡°And you thought Copper couldn¡¯t be a coachman!¡±
¡°Where are we?¡± Hadrian asked, sitting up to discover his neck ached from the awkward position in which he¡¯d been sleeping.
¡°The dead has risen!¡± Albert exclaimed. The viscount¡¯s dress coat was off, as was his robe, and his doublet was fully unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt. He was eating nuts from a cloth bag on his lap. ¡°We¡¯re in West Echo. We passed the Tiliner Crossroad some time ago. Best estimate, I¡¯d say we¡¯re less than five miles out of ?Tur Del Fur.¡±
Hadrian yawned as he looked out the window at a changed landscape. Almost everything was buff-colored rock and scrub. Behind the coach, a cloud of yellow dust rose. In the distance were jagged mountains of inhospitable stone.
¡°I thought Tur Del Fur was supposed to be a tropical paradise.¡±
¡°It is,¡± Albert said.
¡°Looks more like a desert.¡±
¡°Most of Delgos is a rocky highland.¡± The professor couldn¡¯t help himself. ¡°While there are green valleys and fertile fields, down here near the southern tip things get a bit bleak. But along the coast, where springs irrigate the terraces with hundreds of tiny waterfalls, a marvelous transformation takes place. You¡¯ll see.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry if I woke you,¡± Gwen said. While cloak and hood lay stuffed on the seat beside her, Gwen remained trapped in a long-sleeved wool dress. She pumped her collar, trying to stay cool.
¡°Sorry?¡± Albert chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s about time he opened his eyes. If it wasn¡¯t for the snoring, I¡¯d have thought him dead. You slumbered your way through the morning like a real nobleman, my friend.¡± Albert offered up a bag. ¡°Nuts?¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s water?¡± His mouth felt like how the landscape looked. ¡°Got a bit warmer, it seems.¡±
The coach abruptly slowed to a walk, then without warning, it tilted sharply downward such that the bag of nuts slid off Albert¡¯s lap and clapped on the floor.
¡°Here we go!¡± the viscount announced, excitedly.
Apparently alarmed, Gwen put one hand on the seat and another on the ceiling. ¡°Here we go where?¡±
¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Albert assured her. ¡°It¡¯s just that Tur Del Fur is built into the side of sea cliffs. The road snakes through a bunch of switchbacks, and the angle is more suited to pack mules than a coach-and-four. But we¡¯ll be fine.¡±
¡°You¡¯ve been here?¡± Gwen asked, still not sounding convinced. ¡°You¡¯ve done this before?¡±
¡°A couple of times . . . in a carriage, as a guest of friends.¡± ?The words appeared to conjure a memory as Albert then put his chin on the windowsill, took a deep breath, and sighed. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯d live here if I could afford it.¡±
The coach continued at a slower pace than at any previous point in the last two days. Then they came to a complete stop.
¡°Are we there?¡± Hadrian asked.
Albert shook his head. Before he could answer, the coach began moving again, making a sharp right turn that caused the wagon to rock, tilting out to one side. Once around the bend, the Flying Lady proceeded down the first switchback.
As it did, Hadrian was granted his first clear view of ?Tur Del Fur. They were high on the side of a cliff descending into a sheltered cove, beyond which was the vast blue of the ocean that ran to the horizon. The cliff was stepped in tiers of lush green vegetation on which were built hundreds of colorfully painted
stone and stucco buildings. Palm trees and flowers grew in courtyards, small gardens, and along roads. Far below and at the bottom was the bay that appeared as a pool of aqua blue bordered by white sand beaches, where ships of all shapes and sizes bobbed. The bay was sheltered by two rock promontories, stony arms that reached out and formed a natural breakwater, with a gap that served as a gateway. And upon the two headlands stood a pair of unbelievably tall towers.
The massive pillars looked to be a thousand feet tall. Waves crashed white at their feet, and on top were glittering gold domes. Carved from solid rock, the sides were deeply grooved, forming fins that caused the towers to resemble two massive gears set on their ends. From ports in these fins, smoke spewed as if from teapot spouts that pointed toward the ocean.
¡°One of those has to be Drumindor,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°They both are,¡± Albert replied. ¡°It¡¯s hard to see at this distance, but there¡¯s a thin bridge that extends over the entrance to the bay that connects the two.¡±
Hadrian recalled the Crown Tower. These were taller by no small amount.
¡°I thought you said the Crown Tower was the tallest structure ever built,¡± Hadrian said to Arcadius.
¡°I believe I said it¡¯s the tallest surviving structure built by man,¡± Arcadius replied. ¡°Drumindor is arguably the singularly greatest achievement of the dwarven race. Those two columns are all that is left after the whole of an entire mountain was carved away, and with its passing, paradise was born.¡±
More of the ocean breeze blew through the coach, and with it now came music: drums, horns, and strings that created an appealing rhythmic sound that Hadrian had never heard before. The lively, joyful melodies were so very different from the stiff chamber concertos performed in the Gentry Quarter or the jigs and reels played in the northern taverns. This was bright, airy, and emanating from multiple sources at once: different songs but the same sound.
Back and forth the coach meandered toward the bay. They passed shops that sold seashells and items crafted from them. Exquisite carvings of fish and other animals were offered in the window of another. A third appeared to sell nothing but polished stones. There was a shop offering fish teeth, where a set of massive shark jaws framed the entry so that patrons were forced to walk through them to enter the store. The carriage rolled by net shops and sweet-smelling confectionery kitchens selling taffy in the shape of fish. A variety of tailor and seamstress shops went by with clothes on display.
¡°They have ladies¡¯ underwear in the window!¡± Gwen exclaimed, shocked.
¡°That¡¯s not underwear,¡± Albert said and laughed a little.
¡°It certainly is. Look at it.¡±
¡°Believe it or not, that¡¯s a dress.¡±
Gwen glanced at him in disbelief. ¡°It¡¯s too short and thin, and it¡¯s all white?¡ª?bright white.¡±
¡°Bleached cotton, I believe. They grow it down here. It¡¯s very light, very soft. As you can already tell, it gets warm in these parts. Only pathetic visitors like us will be found wearing wool.¡±
Gwen¡¯s head tracked as they passed the shop, unable to look away. ¡°It¡¯s a dress? It doesn¡¯t even have sleeves. A woman in Medford wearing that would be arrested.¡±
¡°Without a monarchy or much in the way of a formalized church, I think you¡¯ll find behavioral conventions to be a great deal more relaxed down here. Just about anything is acceptable, so long as it doesn¡¯t interfere with the making of money. This isn¡¯t considered a paradise simply because of the weather.¡±
Hadrian was distracted by what looked to be a pair of Ba Ran Ghazel talking to a dwarf and a Calian outside a shop that sold tulan leaves. He leaned out the window, but the coach rolled past. ¡°Are there ghazel here?¡±
Albert looked in the direction Hadrian had been. ¡°I think those are Urgvarians. That¡¯s what I heard people call them in the past.¡±
¡°I¡¯m pretty sure Urgvarians are a tribe of Ba Ran Ghazel.¡±
Albert shrugged. ¡°Then maybe, I guess. You¡¯ll see a few around. Never heard of them causing any trouble. Usually, you can spot them down by the harbor. Most are sailors.¡±
From that point on, Hadrian and Gwen sat like children at the windows, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as a circus of marvels paraded before them.
¡°That¡¯s a brothel!¡± Gwen announced, pointing at what appeared to be a little palace complete with a stone fountain out front. ¡°It¡¯s lovely.¡±
¡°Is that a tavern?¡± Hadrian asked as a two-toned, three-story stone building with a terrace and a copper-colored dome rolled by.
¡°That, my dear sir, is The Blue Parrot,¡± Albert replied. ¡°The best danthum in the city.¡±
¡°Looks like a cathedral.¡±
¡°If it were,¡± Albert said dreamily, ¡°I¡¯d be a clergyman.¡±
A group of dark men in white cotton roasted a pig, basting it with what looked to be cups of beer. A roadside pot stirred by a man wielding a huge wooden spoon emitted a strong lemony, garlicky, oniony scent that lingered long after they passed. A barefoot, shirtless blond man played a tin whistle beside a basket into which people dropped coins. Colorful fruit stands were everywhere along with donkeys and chickens that roamed wild through the streets and shops.
At long last, the coach came to a stop, and Hadrian heard the sound of waves.
¡°We¡¯re here, folks!¡± Shelby declared.
Feeling stiff and drowsy, Hadrian climbed out of the coach and into the hot sun. They were greeted by salt-sea air as they stood at the harbor in the shadow of a great stone sculpture of an old dwarf holding a hammer valiantly aloft. Overhead, seagulls circled and cried, their shadows swirling on the paver stones. On one side of the plaza, colorful boats were tied up to piers. On the other were rows of two- and three-story buildings with brilliant awnings where people sat at tables eating and drinking, laughing and singing.
¡°This is delightful!¡± Gwen had both hands crossed over her chest as if to restrain her heart as she looked about.
With Hadrian¡¯s help, Heath unloaded the luggage.
¡°I suppose I ought to check in with Lord Byron,¡± Albert said. ¡°We need to find out where we¡¯re staying. That¡¯s his office over there.¡± He pointed at some stately buildings near where the larger vessels were docked. ¡°I won¡¯t be long, I hope.¡± He took a few steps, then turned back, looking a bit giddy. ¡°Welcome to Tur Del Fur, everyone!¡±
Hadrian stared, fascinated by the ridiculously blue ocean. He¡¯d seen one before, even ridden on it more than once. Twice, in fact, unless a different one bordered Calis, which it might. He had suffered terrible storms both on its back and along its shore and seen waves the size of mountains and heard them roar. Those were moments he could believe in a god?¡ª?any god. Yet in all his experience with the ocean, it had never been this blue. And this ocean wasn¡¯t all the same shade of blue. Near the stone steps that ran down into the bay from the paved stone plaza where the Flying Lady continued to wait for Albert to return, the water was a bit greener. And where the waves lapped between the tied boats, the surface wasn¡¯t even that; it reflected the color of the nearby vessels. But the majority of ?Terlando Bay remained a stunning aqua, especially near the white sand beach, where a great many people sat beneath garishly decorated umbrellas, waded into the surf, or bobbed like fishnet buoys amid the rolling waves. But beyond the breakwater marked by the Drumindor towers, the sea became a cobalt blue so rich in color it didn¡¯t seem real. And finally, near the horizon, where the ocean got deep and serious, it turned the more familiar and decidedly angrier slate gray. But that ocean was part of a different world, a cold and colorless one. In that world, the streets smelled of piss and horse manure, and the air was filled with the angry voices of men realizing they had made one too many bad decisions. For now at least, Hadrian was here in this perfect land of music, color, hot sun, and cool breezes. Here, the succulent scents of roasting pork and baking bread wafted out of the many open-air caf¨¦s that were close enough that the travelers could hear the clatter of plates and at least one group ordering another bottle of wine.
¡°I can see why Albert likes it here,¡± Hadrian said, only to discover he was standing alone behind the coach.
Having finished unloading the luggage onto the street, the Hansons were back to work, checking the horses and wheels. Gwen, lured by the lapping water, had slipped off her shoes, hiked the hem of her gown, and was testing the water. Arcadius, who had followed her to the bottom step, watched her progress.
¡°It¡¯s not cold,¡± Gwen reported.
¡°But not bathwater either, I take it?¡± the professor suggested.
¡°It would be . . . refreshing to jump into,¡± she replied with a mischievous grin.
¡°That¡¯s a most judicious answer, my dear, the sort designed to coerce an old man into making a terrible mistake.¡±
Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who had been oddly aloof?¡ª?even for him. Suffering a bout of uncharacteristic shyness, nervousness, or whatever it was that Gwen had caused was one thing, but disappearing altogether pushed the boundaries even for Royce. After failing to see him anywhere, Hadrian concluded he must have gone off with Albert.
As wonderful as it was to be standing at the tropical waterfront on a gorgeous afternoon just days after leaving the frozen north, being forced to linger under a hot sun in heavy wool was less so. Smelling the food, hearing the laughter and the clink of glasses quickly became a torment. Like a child presented with an unexpected birthday cake but told to wait until the candles were blown out, Hadrian was impatient. He, who might have lived his whole life never dreaming such a place existed, now couldn¡¯t tolerate another moment that divided him from the temptations that teased from all directions. He also felt conspicuous when standing beside the coach surrounded by a mountain of luggage. Worse still was that he knew Albert was not known for his haste or reliability.
We might be here for hours while Albert gets fitted for a new suit. Maybe that¡¯s why Royce went with him?
¡°We¡¯re all done here, sir,¡± Shelby said. The man looked up and down the street. ¡°Your friends are still not back?¡±
¡°They should be soon,¡± Hadrian replied, as he peered down the street. ¡°They¡¯ve gone to find our host.¡±
Shelby nodded, then looked up at the levels of carved stone buildings that formed the seemingly endless tiers of terraces that defined the bay¡¯s cliffs. ¡°I know that seems like a lot of doors and windows up there. Sorta looks like a colony of cliff swallow nests, but there are only so many holes and lots of swallows. Tur fills up this time of year. People come down from up north?¡ª?those who can afford it and some who can¡¯t but expect to find work and make their dreams come true. Are you sure you have a place to stay?¡±
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I certainly hope so, for Albert¡¯s sake.
¡°I¡¯m sure we do. Our host is Lord Byron; he runs the?¡ª¡±
¡°Delgos Port Authority,¡± Shelby finished for him, nodding knowingly. ¡°I had to deal with him when setting up this route. Turns out, people are considered just as much an import as oil or apples.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t like him?¡±
¡°Didn¡¯t say that. He¡¯s good at what he does. Hard worker, smart fellow. Not certain he has a soul, but no one¡¯s perfect.¡±
Hadrian smiled. He liked Shelby and regretted that he and Heath would soon be on their way.
¡°But you¡¯re right. I¡¯m sure Lord Byron will find you a place.¡± He opened the door to the coach, inspected the inside, then closed it. ¡°We have another group we¡¯re taking back north, so we can¡¯t linger too long. I hope you understand.¡±
¡°When do you sleep?¡±
Shelby smiled. ¡°I sleep on the bench when Heath drives.¡±
¡°I tried that. Didn¡¯t work so well.¡±
¡°I have more practice. Besides, I¡¯ll sleep well enough when I¡¯m dead.¡±
¡°If you keep going non-stop, that might be sooner than you think.¡±
¡°Now you sound like my son.¡±
Hadrian nearly admitted that Shelby sounded like his father, but that might lead to questions he didn¡¯t want to answer right then, not in the dazzling fantasyland of ?Tur Del Fur. Thoughts like those were best left to the cold gray depths that lay far off on the horizon.
¡°I did want to thank you for the help back there near Colnora,¡± Shelby said, his voice made a subtle shift to profound sincerity. ¡°In Delgos, they squeeze us. The Port Authority demands a cut of our business in exchange for the privilege of driving over terrible roads they do nothing to maintain. But as irritating as it is to be extorted by Lord Byron, at least the process is orderly and consistent. I know what to do, and if I follow the rules, no one bothers me. Up north, it¡¯s different. We only passed through four kingdoms, but we must deal with dozens of petty rulers. Each one is a little tyrant like that sergeant.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Up there we never know what they¡¯ll do. I own the staging stables here in Delgos, but up north I can only rent because you can¡¯t buy sovereign land. That means they can take it all back whenever they like, along with all my improvements, and without so much as a sorry, mister.¡± Shelby looked at his son as Heath approached. ¡°And they could have made good on that threat of forcing Heath to join their army. Might have, if not for you.¡±
¡°How did you do that, anyway?¡± Heath asked, holding the nearly empty feed bag over one shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen such a thing before. The sergeant was?¡ª?well, at least, he looked like a professional soldier?¡ª?and you just took his sword away like he was a toddler. You made it seem so easy.¡±
¡°He was a professional,¡± Hadrian said. Having been taught to not take pride in such things and never boast, Hadrian would normally understate his actions, but he saw the look in Heath¡¯s eyes and noticed how the young man rested one hand on the pommel of the new blade at his hip. ¡°That sergeant had every intention of killing me, and not in a nice way.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a nice way?¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°Oh, yeah. There¡¯s good and bad to everything, I suspect. In the sergeant¡¯s case, he planned on shoving about three feet of sharpened metal through my stomach, or thereabouts. If the point missed my spine, it would come out my back, probably after punching through my kidney. Being an experienced soldier and an absolute bastard, he would twist the blade as he pulled it back out, further carving me up and widening the holes through my muscles, organs, and skin. The bleeding inside and out would be significant, and shock would set in. I¡¯d have immediately collapsed due to a complete loss of muscle control. Breathing would become incredibly painful. Thinking would also be difficult, not just because of the panic caused by knowing I was going to die, but because that sort of trauma messes with your head, causing anxiety, dizziness, and confusion. I¡¯d lose control of my bladder and bowels. But there¡¯s a good chance I wouldn¡¯t lose consciousness. You see, that¡¯s the not nice part. I¡¯d lie there, struggling to breathe and suffering the anguish of every inhale, hoping that I¡¯d pass out?¡ª?or even die?¡ª?sooner rather than later. But I wouldn¡¯t?¡ª?not for a long while. It varies on how big the puncture is and where exactly the blade went in and what it damaged. Often, it¡¯s not as bad as it seems. Odd as it might sound, the intestines will often slide out of the way of a blade, like a bowl of buttered noodles makes way for a finger. So, while I might die in less than a minute if properly skewered, in this case, I¡¯d linger for a lot more than that, probably as much as a whole day. That¡¯s a long time to spend in excruciating anguish. And even if a physician managed to sew me up, I¡¯d still die from a horrible fever. That would just take even more time.¡±
Heath stared at him with a grimace.
¡°I know I told you I was twenty-four, and maybe that seems young, but not all years are equal. I¡¯ve trained in combat since I was a small child and fought in multiple wars, dozens of battles, and countless conflicts across Avryn and Calis. You learn a few things doing that?¡ª?a few million things, really. So, sure, just like your father knows exactly how far he can push a horse, I can beat most men in a fight. But even I¡¯ve been wounded more times than I can recall. Came close to dying more than once. So yes, I made it look easy?¡ª?it isn¡¯t.¡±
Heath took his hand off the sword.
¡°Aw, crap,¡± Shelby muttered, shaking his head as he drew their attention to four men in bright yellow uniforms striding with purpose toward them. The uniforms appeared militaristic, but the choice of canary yellow with white piping was the opposite of intimidating. They also bore no weapons. If not for Shelby¡¯s reaction, Hadrian might have thought they were street entertainers: musicians, jugglers, or acrobats. ¡°And here I was just saying how much better it is in Delgos.¡±
The lead man addressed them while still a few steps away. ¡°I¡¯m Officer Hildebrandt of the Port Authority Security. How are you today, gentlemen?¡±
¡°We¡¯re fine,¡± Shelby said. ¡°At least we were.¡±
¡°Relax, Mister Hanson, I¡¯m not here to bother you. I just saw the coach and thought it would be considerate to provide you with some news that will be affecting your exit from our fine city.¡± ?The other men spread out behind Hildebrandt. They did not circle, merely formed an impressive line to either side, each standing with precision?¡ª?straight and dignified.
¡°And what might that be?¡±
¡°There was a murder up in West Echo about a week ago, near the Tiliner cutoff. A courier was killed, his pouch taken. We have strong evidence that the killer took refuge in Tur Del Fur. It is our job to bring the murderer to justice and recover the lost package. As a result, we are inspecting every vehicle and vessel leaving this city to make certain the fugitive is not aboard. Your coach will, therefore, be stopped and searched before being allowed to leave. I am familiar with your business, and you and your son are held in high regard by the DPAA. We regret this inconvenience and hope you understand the need. I am informing you up front so that you can explain to your passengers in advance and avoid misunderstandings.¡±
¡°And also to ensure we don¡¯t pick up any last-minute strangers?¡±
¡°That, too.¡± He nodded politely to each of them. ¡°Good day to you and yours,¡± he said, then the four marched on.
¡°Who was that?¡± Hadrian asked as he watched them go.
¡°The Delgos Port Authority Association has a small security force that patrols the city. They are sort of like the king¡¯s guard up north, but their primary job is to oversee customs, enforce duties on goods going in or out, and stop the importing of contraband. It¡¯s a game they play with the pirates. Most people around here call them Yellow Jackets.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°I can see why.¡±
¡°Never had them talk to me before. It¡¯s a little disturbing that they know
my name.¡±
¡°We¡¯re all set!¡± Albert called out as he strode triumphantly across the plaza, sending a gathering of seabirds into flight. He had his jacket slung over one arm and a little paper held aloft in the other. It caught the sun and shone bright white.
The viscount was alone. Once more, Hadrian scanned the plaza, terraces, and the street for signs of Royce, but found none.
¡°You met with Lord Byron?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°No, one of his secretaries. A man named Tolly, but he was expecting us. He set up a meeting for me with Byron the day after tomorrow. But the important thing is that we have a place to stay. Sounds nice, too. He reserved a traditional rolkin for us.¡±
¡°What¡¯s that?¡±
Albert pointed up at the multitude of whitewashed, blue-domed stone buildings that dominated the cliffside. ¡°Rolkins are traditional dwarven homes carved right out of the natural volcanic rock of the cliff. They¡¯re very fun and quirky?¡ª?loads of character. Everyone who comes here tries to get one. You¡¯ll love it.¡±
Albert tapped the little paper to his lips and stared up at the labyrinth of buildings that appeared to be built one atop the other. He frowned. ¡°Hmm. Tolly said the place was called the Turquoise Turtle and was located on Pebble Way just off the Fourth South Sea View Terrace, only . . .?¡±
¡°You have no idea where that is, do you?¡±
Albert pursed his lips and shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve only been here twice, and while I have done my fair share of wandering the streets, I was almost always drunk at the time, so my memory is a little fuzzy.¡±
¡°These in front of you are the South Sea View Terraces,¡± Shelby said. ¡°Just need to count up four levels.¡± He pointed at a set of bright-blue-framed windows and a bit of greenery.
¡°Wonderful!¡± Albert grinned.
¡°You folks have a nice time. We¡¯ll be back this way every two weeks, I suspect. If you need us, keep an eye out. We always stop here at the statue of Andvari Berling, usually around midday.¡± He pointed at the stone statue of the dwarf.
Then Shelby and Heath said their goodbyes before climbing back aboard the Flying Lady, and they all waved as the coach-and-four moved off at an uncharacteristically slow plod.
Albert once more raised the little paper high and declared, ¡°Let us sally forth in pursuit of the Turquoise Turtle!¡±
Hadrian grabbed up his pack and slipped it over his shoulder. ¡°Didn¡¯t Royce go with you?¡±
¡°No.¡± Albert looked around. ¡°Isn¡¯t he here?¡±
Hadrian shook his head.
¡°You two go on and find this palace,¡± Arcadius said. His shoes were off, and he was standing on the first water-covered step, the swells riding up to his ankles. ¡°I¡¯m too old to be wandering about in the hot sun. Gwen and I will stay here. We¡¯ll wait for Royce and keep a watch on the luggage while we continue to swim in these lovely waters.¡±
¡°Swim?¡±
Arcadius frowned and shook his head. ¡°This is as close to swimming as I get.¡±
¡°Careful you don¡¯t drown,¡± Hadrian said.
Gwen, who had given up on saving her gown, was waist deep. ¡°Where¡¯s Royce?¡±
¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s about somewhere,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°He tends to like to explore a bit. He can¡¯t relax until he gets a solid feel for a place.¡±
She nodded but looked worried.
¡°If he¡¯s not back before I am, I¡¯ll find him,¡± Hadrian said.
Gwen looked up, appearing thankful but a bit embarrassed. ¡°I just don¡¯t want?¡ª?I mean, how else will he know where we¡¯re staying?¡±
¡°Trust me, Royce can find us. But don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll be sure to drag him out of the arms of whatever woman he¡¯s seducing.¡±
Gwen scowled at him. ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking that.¡±
¡°Not even a little?¡±
Gwen splashed water at him.
As Hadrian and Albert approached a switchback, they looked inside the Drunken Sailor, a public house composed of only three walls and designed to look like an old ship. The bar had a killer view?¡ª?at least for the bartenders. All the patrons sat with their backs to the bay. Above their heads was a rough painted sign that read Join the Crew! Hadrian most certainly wanted to do so as he stared at the drinks on the tables and the men lounging in hammocks strung between mini-masts. Albert looked to be of a similar mind as he licked his lips, staring as if a striptease were being performed.
Despite the temptation, they both weathered the turn and followed a small street that sloped steeply uphill. This dead-ended at a set of narrow steps that continued to zigzag upward. The stairs were bordered on both sides by white walls that had rounded edges, making them appear more like bleached-white, hand-formed clay than stone. Along the way, they passed vividly painted gates of lemon yellow and tangerine orange, but the most common color was cobalt blue, which matched the little domes that crowned many of the rolkins.
Albert paused to breathe. ¡°I¡¯m starting to think I have overpacked.¡± He wiped sweat from his face with a grimace. ¡°I am absolutely paying someone to carry my trunks up here.¡±
They reached a modest terrace that overlooked the bay and sported two olive trees growing in planters. Between the trees, an unusually small man slouched with his legs extended on a stone bench. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue feather in the band, a loose white cotton shirt over sunbaked skin, and sandals on surprisingly large feet. He had a snow-white beard even longer than the professor¡¯s. On his lap, and spilling down the bench onto the pavement, was a rope net that he worked on.
¡°Morning,¡± he said.
¡°Is it still morning?¡± Albert managed to sigh in between gasps of air. He looked about miserably. There was another gate, two more down a new street, and more stairs. He frowned at Hadrian. ¡°This may be hopeless. There are no signs. I haven¡¯t a clue which way to go.¡±
¡°Looking for something?¡± the little man asked.
¡°Yes,¡± Albert replied. ¡°At the risk of sounding insane, we¡¯re searching for a turquoise turtle.¡±
With a minimal amount of effort, as if moving too much was unwise, the man pointed across the terrace at the little road. ¡°That¡¯s Pebble Way. You¡¯ll find your turtle up there.¡±
Albert brightened. ¡°Thank you! Thank you very much!¡±
¡°Lord Byron send you?¡± The small man in the straw hat had abandoned his net and followed them.
¡°He did indeed,¡± Albert replied.
¡°Can I see the card?¡±
Albert looked confused despite still holding the bit of paper in his fist. ¡°Do you work for Lord Byron?¡±
Though Hadrian found it was difficult to see under the beard, he was certain the man smiled. ¡°He¡¯s a customer.¡± Seeing a lack of understanding, the man added, ¡°I own the Turtle, as well as a few others. I rent them to visitors like yourselves?¡ª?at least I presume you¡¯re turists. Lord Byron reserved the Turtle for some folks coming down from up north on the Hanson Coach. Since it just left, I suspect you might be part of that group. Now, I won¡¯t know that for sure until I see Lord Byron¡¯s seal on that card you¡¯re waving around.¡±
¡°Oh! Of course. Excuse me.¡± Albert handed over the paper.
The man studied it for a moment. As he did, Hadrian concluded the fellow in the straw hat was not a short man at all, but a member of the dwarven race.
The dwarf handed the letter back to Albert. ¡°Welcome to the Turtle, gentlemen. My name is Auberon. Allow me to show you around.¡±
After searching the streets and alleyways of ?Tur Del Fur, Royce had found nothing.
Riding on the roof of the coach, he had been able to make certain no stowaways clung to it. The moment they stopped, he began a quick survey of the plaza, then a fast sweep of the streets. No one appeared to be watching?¡ª?at least no pale, red-haired fellows.
Maybe I should have kept the head.
The idea had crossed his mind more than once on the trip down. On each occasion, he scolded himself for paranoia that exceeded even his own exorbitant standards.
I removed the man¡¯s head. I left it a foot and a half away from his body. The man is dead.
Royce understood this. Facts were easy to accept?¡ª?most of them, at least.
But where was the blood?
He had severed the head, but it hadn¡¯t produced a single drop. This, too, was a fact?¡ª?one not so easily dismissed.
Shouldn¡¯t matter. We covered many miles at high speed, and if Mister de Roche missed his ride?¡ª?even if he isn¡¯t dead, which is impossible?¡ª?it will take him days to reach Tur Del Fur, even if he knew that¡¯s where we were headed. And how hard is it for a headless man to travel?
Pretty hard, I suspect.
He¡¯s dead.
Right.
Satisfied?¡ª?or as best Royce could ever be?¡ª?he returned to where he¡¯d left the coach to find it gone and a problem brewing.
Hadrian and Albert were missing, but Gwen, Arcadius, and the luggage were still there. So were two men. Big, brutish thugs with necks equal to the width of their heads. They were laughing at Gwen, who looked to have been thrown into the bay. She stood before them, struggling to wring the water out of her dress, which clung embarrassingly to her body. As he approached, Royce noted that neither man wore visible weapons. He also took into consideration the number of witnesses on the waterfront?¡ª?hundreds. People of all sorts walked by or sat at tables with nothing to do but sip drinks and watch what happened in the street.
If it had only been one man, Royce might be able to make it look like the guy fell, maybe passed out from drinking and then . . . just happened to . . . roll into the bay . . . and drown. It would be a hard sell, but with two, he didn¡¯t have a chance. Whichever one he didn¡¯t knife would start hollering to the audience. While it was possible the crowd might applaud, Royce doubted it. Some art was too sophisticated for the common spectator. The smart thing would be to wait, follow the bastards, and when they made the mistake of walking somewhere reasonably isolated, Royce would bury them. Except . . .
Gwen had her head down, hair a tangled mess. She was dripping wet, her slight frame shook, shoulders rocking as she cried. The situation was obvious. The two brutes had been drinking at one of the caf¨¦s, saw the chests and bags and no one guarding them except an old man and a woman. They came over to take what they wanted, but they didn¡¯t expect Gwen. She fought back?¡ª?of course she did. Most likely the scene of two big ogres robbing a beautiful woman didn¡¯t play well before the crowd, either. So, one or both turned it into a comedy by throwing her in the water. This would have set the crowd at ease.
¡°Oh, see that, they¡¯re just playing, and it¡¯s funny. She¡¯s a Calian?¡ª?so that¡¯s okay.¡±
Now the ogres were laughing at her; maybe the crowd had done so as well?¡ª?all of them guffawing at Gwen¡¯s embarrassment, at her humiliation.
Royce¡¯s fingers squeezed Alverstone¡¯s handle so tightly they hurt. Maybe the crowd should be exposed to a higher form of entertainment.
This is going to be very bad.
¡°Are you her father?¡± one asked Arcadius. ¡°Or a customer?¡± Which made the two thugs laugh even harder.
It¡¯s always the same two. Why is that?
The idea flashed through Royce¡¯s mind as he closed the remaining distance between him and his prey, moving on the pads of his feet.
Royce had repeatedly encountered these two guys his whole life. Big, lumbering idiots who, for no reason Royce could account for, felt they owned the world. Never kings or princes, these trolls always walked around with the idea rattling in their otherwise empty heads that other people needed to do whatever they?¡ª?the trolls?¡ª?wanted. Somehow it seemed that these oversized brutes failed to grasp the absurdity of the idea because they felt the need to prove it over and over. Not once did the rabid dogs appear surprised to learn that the rest of the world¡¯s population hadn¡¯t heard of their dominion. They showed an eagerness?¡ª?no, a joy?¡ª?in explaining their Right to Rule. It didn¡¯t matter if it was a small child, an old man, or a woman, they loved enlightening the universe.
Royce came up from behind the largest and whispered, ¡°He¡¯s neither.¡±
Future Corpse Number One jumped and spun. ¡°Who are you?¡±
¡°Local exterminator,¡± Royce replied. He held Alverstone just inside the fall of his cloak.
The man noticed Royce¡¯s hidden hand, and his face changed from jovial to concerned.
Concerned but not terrified?¡ª?not yet. Still thinks he owns the world.
¡°Royce!¡± Gwen shouted.
He didn¡¯t waiver, didn¡¯t take his eyes off the two trolls.
Neck or heart? Ah yes, the age-old question. I could pretend to give him a big old hug like we were long-lost friends and then plant Alverstone in his back. It would have to be the back of his neck; anywhere lower and all I¡¯d likely get is the lungs. He¡¯d live way too long. And the bastard¡¯s too big, and it¡¯s too much to ask that he bends down. If they really were old friends that might work, but Mister Talking Cadaver and I?¡ª?we just don¡¯t have the time.
¡°Royce, don¡¯t!¡±
He frowned. She¡¯s giving away the punchline, ruining the surprise. The audience won¡¯t like it?¡ª?they love sudden unexpected twists, and I¡¯ve got a great one.
Maybe it was the sound of her voice, or what Royce imagined was the look on her face?¡ª?he couldn¡¯t tell because he kept his sight locked on his target, but The Talking Dead finally caught wind of the danger. Might also have been that eerie intuition people often exhibited.
If you stare at the back of someone¡¯s head, they always seem to turn around.
Most people, even the trolls of the world, had a special sense that alerted them to the presence of impending death. They felt it and responded in the same way. The ogre pulled back, eyes widening.
¡°Royce! They just asked to help with the luggage. This is Pete and Jake. They¡¯re nice people.¡±
¡°Yeahthat¡¯sright,¡± the brute spewed so fast that it came out as a single word.
Royce still refused to take his eyes off the pair. He took a step closer and carefully enunciated his next words, slowly and precisely. ¡°Explain . . . help with the luggage.¡± Royce did this not only to lower the chance of a misunderstanding but also to reveal how high the stakes were.
¡°I, ah . . . I mean, we were offering to?¡ª¡± Troll Number One pointed. ¡°She was just standing here with all this stuff and looked like she could use some help. That¡¯s all. Jake and I?¡ª?we just thought we¡¯d?¡ª?you know?¡ª?lend a hand carrying this to wherever she was going.¡± His eyes glanced back at where Royce¡¯s hand was still hidden. ¡°That¡¯s all.¡±
Royce allowed himself a glance toward Gwen. She looked terrified, but not of them. And there was no evidence of tears. No red or puffy eyes, no glistening tracks on her cheeks. ¡°Why are you all wet?¡±
¡°I was hot. I went wading,¡± She gestured at the stairs behind her. ¡°The steps below the water are slippery.¡± She made a regretful grimace and held up her dripping hair. ¡°I fell.¡±
¡°She made a lovely splash, she did,¡± Arcadius declared.
¡°I thought you were crying.¡±
¡°No! No, I wasn¡¯t.¡± She shook her head, slinging water. ¡°I was laughing.¡± She pointed at Potentially Pardoned Pete. ¡°He asked if I was married or if I had a man in my life. I told him I had too many.¡±
¡°So that¡¯s why he called you a whore?¡±
¡°I did not! I would never say such a thing.¡± Prematurely Pardoned Pete was quick to say. ¡°I explained how that sort of statement might be misunderstood. And that someone?¡ª?not me?¡ª?might accidentally take her meaning to be that she was a . . . you know . . . a . . .?¡±
¡°A whore,¡± Royce said, his eyes hard.
¡°And then . . .?¡± Gwen smiled. ¡°That¡¯s when I said . . . Not this week!¡± She waited, watching him. Then she shrugged. ¡°I thought it was funny.¡±
Jake laid a hand on Pete¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I think maybe it would be best if we go have another drink, eh, Pete?¡± His voice was a work of labor as he tried to make it all sound casual.
Pete appeared to think this was a wonderful idea. He backed away and offered an infinitely polite wave to Gwen and Arcadius. Then the two retreated toward the caf¨¦s at not quite a run.
Gwen lowered her head and looked at the pavement. ¡°I guess it wasn¡¯t that funny.¡± She sounded hurt.
¡°I thought it was a delightful joke,¡± Arcadius told her with a happy tone, as if oblivious to existence itself.
Royce stared at her and felt the sudden need to explain. ¡°I just thought that, well . . .?¡±
¡°I know what you thought.¡± Gwen looked incredibly sad, and she turned away as if now she really might cry.
Royce didn¡¯t know what to do. He felt both helpless and confused?¡ª?two things he desperately hated. Not understanding what was happening was bad enough, but he sensed things were moving too fast in a direction he didn¡¯t want them to.
¡°Hey, everyone!¡± Hadrian came bounding up with a brilliant smile. ¡°Wait until you see where we¡¯re staying.¡±
Royce glared at him. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for Mister Happy Sunshine. Then he spotted the nasty-looking red welt above Hadrian¡¯s eyes. ¡°Has someone attacked you, too?¡±
¡°No one attacked me!¡± Gwen stated firmly, then followed the declaration with an exasperated huff.
Hadrian put a hand to his forehead. ¡°Oh?¡ª?no.¡± He laughed. ¡°We¡¯re staying in a rolkin?¡ª?that¡¯s the name of a dwarven-style house?¡ª?and the ceilings, beams, and tops of doorways are . . . well, low.¡±
No one said anything for an awkward moment.
Hadrian looked at Royce then at Gwen, and his eyes grew concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gwen replied in advance with a stern shake of her head that caused more droplets of bay water to fly.
¡°Ohh-kay,¡± Hadrian said, then turned to ponder Gwen¡¯s bags and Albert¡¯s ship¡¯s-captain-style chests, one with brass handles and the other with iron. Each was covered in overstuffed sacks. Then he looked toward the caf¨¦s. ¡°You think if I ask real nicely, I might persuade a couple of guys to help us carry these up?¡±
In unison, Gwen, Arcadius, and Royce answered, ¡°No!¡±
V3: Chapter 8 - The Blue Parrot
¡°This is stunning.¡± Gwen walked through the rooms of the rolkin with her mouth open, her head turning from side to side, taking it all in. Her face was filled with an expression Hadrian could only describe as glee. They all looked that way to one degree or another, like kids discovering a secret place that would be used as their new hangout. ¡°Because it¡¯s a hole in a cliff, I expected . . . well, I didn¡¯t expect this.¡±
With walls of pure white, no sharp corners, and few straight lines, the place looked to have been formed from pristine snow crafted by gloved hands. Ceilings were arched into mini-domes, walls curved into circles, each edge smoothed. Light poured in through large, glassless windows, illuminating every corner. Cut deep into the cliff, the rolkin¡¯s ancient stone and ocean breeze kept the interior cool and smelling fresh. Built-in seats and shelves were carved out of the cliff. Tables rose out of the floor, with bowls built into them. Oil sconces, planters, coat hooks, and stools were all chiseled from the native stone. Additional furnishings were not simply placed within rooms?¡ª?they decorated the spaces. Calian carpets of exquisite design accentuated polished floors. Petrified wood stumps supported green and black onyx sculptures of fish and dolphins. A tree planted in the common room grew up through the ceiling, its trunk appearing like a wooden chimney. A broad-leafed jungo plant spread out from a massive hand-beaten copper urn. And a huge clay pot that appeared to serve no purpose, except to look beautiful, stood to one side. In an obvious contrast to the stone was an overabundance of softness. Thick cushions and numerous brightly dyed pillows formed delightful sitting spaces.
And all of it was in miniature.
Royce and Gwen had no problem at all, but Hadrian ducked when passing through any doorway and often felt his hair brush the ceiling when he stood up straight.
¡°For once, I¡¯m grateful for my age-imposed hunched back,¡± Arcadius said as he moved about the rolkin. ¡°Hadrian has clearly learned, but you need to be wary, Albert. This place is a death trap for the tall.¡±
¡°I think it¡¯s cozy,¡± Albert replied. He had already changed into a loose-fitting cotton tunic and was swimming barefoot in the fluffy cushions of the main
room¡¯s oversized bench that was practically a bed. ¡°And these big chairs are so nice.¡± He hugged a bright yellow pillow to his face. ¡°Why is it that up north we insist on hard wood, and the closest we ever get to comfort is lining a chair¡¯s seat with cane?¡±
¡°Because of the church, lad,¡± Arcadius said, eyeing a stone chair laden with cushions. ¡°Too much comfort means a closer relation to the body and a more distant one from the spirit. Misery makes all of mankind better people.¡± He took the plunge and collapsed into the all-consuming pillow-chair that hissed as air escaped the cushions. Joining with the pillow¡¯s song, Arcadius sighed contentedly. ¡°I fear that I¡¯m doomed to wickedness.¡±
Hadrian stood in the middle of the central common room, running through a mental checklist of things he wanted to tell everyone. Auberon had taken him on a lengthy tour of the home, pointing out all the amenities, quirks, and features. The dwarf had also made a point of touching a small recurring symbol painted in turquoise on the wall of every room: three thick vertical lines, the center one taller than those on either side, each topped with a little circle. It didn¡¯t look at all like a turtle, and though Hadrian inquired about many things he saw, he never asked about that. Something in the way the dwarf looked when he touched the
lines suggested a profound and personal reverence that Hadrian didn¡¯t feel right inserting himself into.
¡°There¡¯s a well in the courtyard,¡± Hadrian explained as he stood in the center of the common room while Gwen explored. ¡°Also, that courtyard is our private garden and includes four trees: a mango, an avocado, a lemon, and a papaya. We can help ourselves to the fruit, but the mango isn¡¯t producing right now.¡±
¡°You can see the ocean from the balcony up here,¡± Gwen announced, her voice bouncing down to them from the upper story. ¡°It¡¯s a great view of the bay. All the ships look so small.¡±
¡°There are pots, pans, a big kettle, and plenty of wood,¡± Hadrian continued. ¡°A merchant keeps the woodpile stocked, but we have to pay for what we use.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll just add that to Lord Byron¡¯s bill,¡± Albert said.
¡°There¡¯s a hearth and stone oven inside and another set in the courtyard. But Auberon suggests we use the outside one unless it¡¯s raining or gets windy because otherwise the fire will make the house too hot. Also¡±¡ª?he looked at Royce?¡ª?¡°there are no locks on any of the doors.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°With no glass and simple shutters on windows that are big enough to ride a horse through, I can¡¯t see why there would be.¡±
¡°There¡¯s an amazing fish mounted on the wall in one of the bedrooms!¡± Gwen called down.
¡°Auberon is a fisherman,¡± Hadrian explained. ¡°You¡¯ll see lots of that kind of stuff.¡±
¡°Who is this Auberon you keep talking about?¡± Royce asked.
¡°The owner and, I think, possibly the builder of this place. He¡¯s a dwarf and will be coming by to take care of the plants and trees, and answer any questions, so don¡¯t be alarmed if you see him in the courtyard.¡±
Royce, who had looked miserable since arriving, closed his eyes and shook his head.
¡°He¡¯s a nice guy. Owns one of those fishing boats docked in the bay. Very easygoing. Just being around him, you feel more relaxed. Talking to him is like gazing out at the ocean. You¡¯ll see.¡±
Royce stared at Hadrian as if he were insane. ¡°And you¡¯re sure his name is Auberon and not Gravis?¡±
¡°Yes, Royce, I might be making a massive assumption here, but I think there may be more than one dwarf in all of ?Tur Del Fur.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t tell him why we¡¯re here, did you?¡±
Hadrian frowned.
¡°What?¡± Royce said. ¡°There was a time when you would.¡±
¡°And there was a time when you would have already killed half a dozen people.¡±
Royce looked abruptly stern and made a sudden slashing motion across his neck as Gwen reappeared, descending the curving steps.
¡°There are four bedrooms upstairs,¡± Gwen said. ¡°May I have one, or I suppose I could sleep down here if?¡ª¡±
¡°Yes, take whichever you like,¡± Royce said louder than necessary. ¡°Take that one with the balcony view. You seem to like it.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t need the?¡ª¡±
Royce walked out.
The others watched him move with that disturbing quickness that caused his cloak to fly behind him, as if struggling to keep up. Everyone stared at the empty doorway for a moment, then they looked at each other, mystified.
¡°What was that?¡± Albert asked, rolling to his side and peering out the door.
No one answered for a short time. Then, still engulfed in the chair, Arcadius said, ¡°There was a minor incident at the shore.¡±
¡°Minor?¡± Albert asked. He looked back out at the courtyard, then rotated, placed his feet on the floor, and stood up. ¡°How many are dead?¡±
¡°Please excuse me,¡± Gwen said. ¡°I think I¡¯ll settle into my room. I need to change my dress. This one is wet.¡± ?Then she, too, disappeared.
Hadrian found Royce still in the courtyard, seated at the small table in the shade of the mango tree. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± Royce was drawing invisible pictures on the surface of the table with his fingertips.
¡°Well . . .?¡± Hadrian pulled a chair out and sat down. ¡°It¡¯s warm enough to go swimming, and you¡¯re sitting here wrapped in thick wool with your hood up. Add to that the fact you just walked out on Gwen in mid-sentence. These things make me think something¡¯s not right. Is it because . . . you know?¡ª?did you talk to her? Did you tell her how you feel?¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°Haven¡¯t gotten a chance. I think she hates me.¡±
¡°Hates you? What happened to that whole sleeping-with-her-head-on-your-shoulder incident?¡±
Royce slapped his palms on the table. ¡°How should I know?¡±
¡°Arcadius said there was an incident down at the shore. Care to share?¡±
¡°There wasn¡¯t. Nothing happened.¡± Royce sat back far enough that Hadrian could see under the hood. His friend looked angry, which wasn¡¯t all that unusual, but there was a hint of frustration in his eyes.
Staring at him and thinking it over, Hadrian realized that wasn¡¯t altogether strange, either. Still . . . ¡°Something must have.¡±
Royce¡¯s fascination with the little stone table continued as he rubbed the top with his thumb. It left a damp mark on the polished surface.
Royce is sweating? That¡¯s new.
¡°You remember Bull Neck and Orange Tunic?¡± Royce asked.
¡°You mean Brook and Clem from Dulgath?¡±
¡°They had names?¡±
¡°Think so. Their mother would have to be awfully careless to forget that.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°They were just down at the shore. Only it turned out it wasn¡¯t them.¡±
Hadrian was puzzled, but only for a moment. Not so long ago, Hadrian would have had no idea what Royce was talking about, and it both fascinated and slightly bothered him to discover he was able to work out exactly what his friend was saying. The sensation reminded Hadrian of when he first started to pick up the Tenkin language. He¡¯d learned a word here, a phrase there, and then one day he found himself thinking in Tenkin. He felt the same excitement now?¡ª?the realization that he had achieved a new level of understanding?¡ª?but also, he had to wonder if he had had to sacrifice something in the process.
Royce pulled back his hood a bit and looked at the door to the rolkin. Arcadius and Albert were discussing something Hadrian couldn¡¯t hear, but he assumed Royce could. ¡°I did absolutely nothing?¡ª?nothing at all, but she got so upset.¡± He sighed. ¡°She was scared?¡ª?scared of . . . me.¡± Royce raised his hands in exasperation. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing. This whole thing . . . it¡¯s . . . it¡¯s not going to work. She¡¯s¡±¡ª?at a loss for the right words, Royce opted to fold his arms in a violent manner?¡ª?¡°well, you know.¡± He took a breath and let it out slowly. ¡°And I¡¯m . . . well . . . me. Aren¡¯t I?¡±
¡°Yeah.¡± Hadrian nodded again, this time wetting his lower lip. ¡°I can¡¯t think of much worse than being you. That¡¯s tough, pal.¡±
¡°It¡¯s worse than that,¡± Royce said, completely ignoring Hadrian¡¯s joke. Or maybe he hadn¡¯t heard, or perhaps Royce didn¡¯t understand Hadrian was joking. ¡°Gwen and I . . .?¡± He shook his head and let out another loathing sigh. ¡°It¡¯s not possible. I can see that now. Don¡¯t know what I was thinking. Clearly, I wasn¡¯t?¡ª?I was listening to you, which should have been a huge warning right there.¡± Royce pointed to an engraving of a marlin cut into the stone of the wall near the fountain. ¡°We¡¯re from different worlds. She¡¯s like that beautiful fish there, and I¡¯m a bird.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°A vulture, I suppose.¡±
Royce glared.
¡°Sorry.¡±
¡°My point is, I don¡¯t belong with her.¡±
¡°Really?¡±
The hood nodded.
¡°Well, maybe you¡¯re right.¡± Hadrian pushed back in his chair. Somewhere overhead a bird was singing?¡ª?several, in fact. Tur was filled with songbirds. The sun was shining. He and Royce were gathered in the shade of a fruit-laden tree as a cool breeze blew by, and Royce was as happy as a man forced to witness paradise without being able to enter. ¡°But, let me ask you something . . . who does?¡±
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¡°Who does what?¡±
¡°Who belongs with her? Do you think Brook or Clem ought to marry her?¡±
Royce stared at him like a tiger trapped in a cage while Hadrian used a metal pole to ring the bars.
Hadrian continued, ¡°How about one of the nobles back in Medford? Maybe Baron Rendon or Sir Sinclair? They¡¯d be a good choice, right? They have nice homes and lots of money. They could take her to fancy galas and such.¡±
¡°She doesn¡¯t like them. They¡¯re clients. That¡¯s it.¡± His voice was low and dangerous.
Hadrian was sliding on river ice but hoped his newfound fluency in Royce-speak would help him safely reach the far bank. ¡°Okay, but how about Dixon? She likes him, right? What if he asked her to marry him? What if she said yes because the one she really wanted never said anything.¡±
¡°Are you trying to tell me something?¡±
Hadrian rolled his eyes. ¡°Obviously!¡±
¡°Did Dixon ask Gwen to?¡ª¡±
¡°Oh, for Maribor¡¯s sake! Honestly!¡± Hadrian ran both hands through his hair. While he might have made great strides in understanding his partner, Royce had regressed. ¡°How can you be so perceptive and intelligent about most things, but so dim-witted about this? You¡¯re like a man unable to find the sun because that bright light in the sky is blinding him. My point is, you¡¯re being an idiot. Gwen¡¯s in love with you, and you¡¯re in love with her, and the only thing in the way is that neither of you feels worthy of the other. It would be hilarious if it wasn¡¯t so tragic. Worst part is how much the two of you truly need each?¡ª¡±
The hood jerked up as Gwen came out into the yard. ¡°Don¡¯t mean to interrupt, but I was thinking that if we could get some food, I could cook it. I¡¯m no chef, but after hearing the tales of Hadrian¡¯s campfire cookouts, I¡¯m going to assume?¡ª¡±
¡°Absolutely not!¡± Albert shouted from inside. ¡°No cooking! Tonight, we eat out. My treat?¡ª?that is to say, I¡¯ll charge Lord Byron. This is our first evening in Tur, and we deserve the best. So, it is The Blue Parrot for us. I will spare no expense.¡±
¡°Fine.¡± Gwen lingered a moment. She looked at Royce as if on the verge of tears, then she turned around and went back inside.
¡°I think she might have heard us,¡± Royce said.
Hadrian clapped the table between them. ¡°Tell her, Royce! This stopped being funny a long time ago.¡±
The Blue Parrot was the two-toned, three-story, stone building with the terrace and shiny copper-colored dome that they had passed on their way in. It actually had five domes, as there were four little towers, each capped with their own mini-domes, but those were tiled, not metal.
¡°This is a tavern?¡± Hadrian asked as the five of them rolled up in a pair of little donkey-drawn carriages that frequented the streets. The Parrot wasn¡¯t more than a mile and a half away, but Albert had arranged transportation as if they were royalty.
¡°Technically, it¡¯s a danthum,¡± Albert said.
¡°But that¡¯s like a tavern, right?¡±
¡°I would consider them distant cousins. One could make the argument that Roy the Sewer and I are both human beings?¡ª?and there are more than a few passing similarities to support this?¡ª?but I would hope you wouldn¡¯t think we are the same.¡±
The carriages only comfortably seated two. Gwen and Arcadius rode in one, but Hadrian, Royce, and Albert squeezed into the other. The fact that Royce chose to wedge himself into the boys¡¯ carriage rather than sit with Gwen was noticed by all.
The Blue Parrot¡¯s popularity was made obvious by the crowd waiting to get in and the line of carriages dropping off passengers. The gathering was a remarkably varied group, and Hadrian saw just as many ladies as men. There were plenty of fops, peacocks, and popinjays: men and women in huge hats, finely embroidered robes, and shiny leather boots, all too heavy to be comfortable. Others wore more relaxed attire, making do with simple, light tunics and sandals. Some brought their dogs; there were also a few cats, and Hadrian even spotted a pig on a leash, sporting a blue bonnet. But the most peculiar surprise was the variety of nations. Refined Avryn nobles stood shoulder to shoulder with rustic Calians, and men dressed in the frocks of the clergy waited alongside a group of Urgvarian sailors.
¡°What¡¯s everyone waiting for?¡± Gwen asked as the carriages abandoned them and promptly clip-clopped away. So many carriages, carts, and wagons created a nonstop clatter in the background.
¡°It¡¯s not open,¡± Albert explained as he adjusted his doublet and checked the alignment of the buttons. That evening, Albert had insisted they all dress up. After washing at the courtyard fountain, he had changed into his viscount clothes, donning his black-velvet and silver-brocade doublet. He chose not to wear the usual overtunic, and in a breezy, carefree manner, he left the top buttons of the doublet and white shirt undone.
Arcadius had complied by throwing on a different but identical robe, the only difference being that the new one was made of linen instead of wool. Hadrian didn¡¯t have anything else to wear except a second shirt, which he changed into, leaving his leather jerkin behind. Albert explained that long blades were not allowed in the Parrot, so he left those, too.
Gwen put them all to shame. She disappeared upstairs and reemerged in a stunning off-the-shoulder white linen gown that wrapped her body with the intimacy of a silk cocoon. Her hair was brushed back with its normal luster, and she had rings dangling from her ears and bracelets on her wrists. Her lips were colored a pale red and her eyes painted dark, like smoke from a smoldering fire.
Royce, not surprisingly, ignored Albert¡¯s demands, remaining in his usual funeral-colored wool.
¡°Not open?¡± Gwen stared up at the marvelous edifice, disappointed. ¡°Well, I can still cook. I¡¯m sure not all of the markets are closed.¡±
¡°Not to worry,¡± Albert assured her. ¡°Unlike the taverns and brothels in Avryn, many of the finer establishments are open for only a set number of hours each evening. This allows workers to rest, clean up, restock, and generally prepare for the next night¡¯s festivities.¡±
Gwen looked up at the sky. The sun was well on its way to setting, creating a stunning spectacle of orange, pink, and gold over the bay. ¡°Evening is almost over.¡±
¡°Not down here it¡¯s not. In truth, it¡¯s just about to start.¡±
The doors opened and the crowd cheered.
¡°We need to hurry if we¡¯re going to get a good seat.¡± Albert pushed them forward into the fray.
The interior of ?the Parrot was as remarkable as the patrons. The place was the size of a small cathedral. The central room?¡ª?with its three-story domed ceiling, fresco-decorated walls, twinkling lantern chandeliers, and towering stone pillars?¡ª?only housed the extravagance. Within this grand chamber, a massive sculpture of an elephant, which was three times the size of those Hadrian was familiar with, stood to one side of a grand wooden stage. On the other end was an equally large gorilla, its arms raised as if holding up the ceiling. Part of the left wall had living fish swimming behind glass, and everywhere there were potted plants and full-sized trees, giving the interior a jungle feel.
¡°Parrots!¡± Gwen exclaimed, pointing up at a dozen beautiful green birds flying under the dome from tree to tree, startled at the flood of people pouring in.
¡°Over here!¡± Albert waved them toward a round wooden table. All the tables closer to the stage had already filled up, but the one the viscount had selected was only two rows back. ¡°Five chairs. Perfect!¡±
The room roared with the conversations of hundreds as it rapidly filled.
¡°This is so exciting!¡± Gwen said, a great smile on her face, her eyes darting from one delight to the next.
¡°It¡¯s insane.¡± Royce glowered. He, too, looked around but showed none of Gwen¡¯s amusement. Instead, he glared at every face that came nearby and even scowled at the parrots. ¡°This is a madhouse.¡±
¡°Trust me,¡± Albert told him. ¡°It only gets worse.¡±
¡°Then why are we here?¡±
¡°Because in Tur Del Fur, worse is wonderful.¡±
A small army of blue-jacketed servants dispersed from side doors into the sea of patrons. They moved from table to table, taking drink orders while somewhere unseen a band began to play. Strings, drums, and pipes joined to create a wave of sound richer and more powerful than anything Hadrian had ever heard. And it was lively to the point of decadence with a booming rhythm.
Albert leaned over to Hadrian. ¡°So, yes?¡ª?to answer your question, it¡¯s like a tavern.¡±
¡°Good evening, gentlemen and lady,¡± a blue-jacketed servant greeted them, shouting over the music. ¡°My name is Atyn. I¡¯ll be your waiter. Allow me to welcome you to The Blue Parrot.¡±
It took Hadrian a moment to realize that their waiter wasn¡¯t a man. His tapering ears, high cheekbones, and angled eyebrows proclaimed his heritage from afar, but Hadrian was so unaccustomed to seeing an elf in any establishment?¡ª?much less employed by one?¡ª?made his mind second-guessed his eyes.
¡°Is this your first time with us?¡± Atyn asked. He was looking right at Hadrian, who realized he had been staring.
¡°These three are novices to the city,¡± Albert gestured to Hadrian, Royce, and Gwen, then he looked at Arcadius.
The professor shook his head. ¡°Not my first time within these walls, but when I was last here . . .?¡± He thought a moment. ¡°I believe this was a municipal building.¡±
The waiter looked stunned. ¡°That would have been even before my time, and I have been here a good long while.¡±
Arcadius smiled. ¡°Sorry to admit that I¡¯m just about as old as I look.¡±
¡°A few things have changed,¡± Atyn said with a perfectly expressionless face that made the professor smile. ¡°Now, for those who have never been here, or haven¡¯t visited this century, please allow me to explain that The Blue Parrot is the finest danthum in the city, and tonight you will have the experience of a lifetime. The shows will begin soon, and when they do, it will get loud, so if you plan to eat?¡ª?which I strongly advise, as we have delicacies unmatched anywhere in the world?¡ª?you might consider deciding what you want to order while I can still hear you.¡±
Hadrian, who had determined that the musicians were hidden in a pit just before the stage, was already forced to lean across the table to hear, and he wondered how much louder it could possibly get.
¡°Tonight,¡± Atyn proclaimed with a flourish of his hand, ¡°we are offering our spectacular flaming peacock.¡±
¡°Oh, by Mar!¡± Albert reacted with physical delight. ¡°We must have at least one of those!¡± He looked as if the very idea had sent him into a fit of ecstasy. ¡°You have no idea.¡±
¡°Also this evening,¡± Atyn continued, ¡°we offer roasted swan, complete with head and neck?¡ª?tucked under the left wing, of course. We also have our popular Treasures of the Ocean, and for dessert, frozen blueberry and custard magpies.¡±
¡°Magpies?¡± Gwen wrinkled her nose.
¡°That¡¯s just what we call them because they¡¯re served in a bowl that¡¯s been carved and painted to resemble the bird.¡±
¡°Frozen?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Indeed!¡± the waiter said. ¡°Barges of winter lake ice are packed in straw and sailed down the coast to fill our storehouse and provide you with such unmatched delicacies. We also have a special tonight, our legendary Flame Broiled Sea Monster.¡±
¡°What, may I ask, is that?¡± Arcadius inquired.
¡°Grilled octopus,¡± Atyn explained with a grin. ¡°The tentacled beast is caught fresh daily, hung out to dry in the sun, and then grilled on charcoal. The outside is blackened to a wonderfully crunchy texture, but the inside is succulent and just as chewy as you¡¯d hope. It¡¯s served with a wedge of lemon.¡± Atyn took a needed breath. ¡°I can imagine this is a great deal to consider, so in the meantime, may I bring the table a bottle of wine?¡±
¡°Oh, Royce,¡± Albert said. ¡°They have Montemorcey here.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m not in?¡ª¡±
¡°Such a rare treat,¡± Arcadius interrupted. ¡°Bring two bottles to start.¡±
¡°Excellent choice. I¡¯ll get that right away. And please enjoy the show.¡±
Atyn bowed with an otherworldly grace and moved on to the next table, where the Calians were seated. ¡°Good evening gentlemen, my name is Atyn. I¡¯ll be your waiter. Allow me to welcome you to The Blue Parrot,¡± he said in perfect Calian.
Hadrian continued to watch the waiter. The only elves he had ever seen were wretched creatures living lives of impoverished misery on the streets of the larger cities. Always filthy, they cowered in the shadows, eating from trash piles while hiding in fear of being attacked. Seeing Atyn dressed smartly and speaking eloquently in multiple languages was like seeing a polished gem that used to be a rock. ¡°He¡¯s an elf.¡±
¡°Delgos is a very tolerant nation,¡± Albert said. ¡°And Tur Del Fur is about as forward-thinking and free as you can get. Their creed down here is simple: do what you like, just don¡¯t bother others, and above all, don¡¯t interfere with commerce. I suppose I should have warned you.¡±
¡°Nothing to be warned about,¡± the professor declared. ¡°The unjustified mistreatment of such individuals in Avryn is one of the great embarrassments of our civilization. They are people, plain and simple, and it is refreshing to find them granted the common courtesy that all deserve.¡±
¡°But it does take a bit of getting used to,¡± Albert said. ¡°Last time I was here, the Earl of Tremore made quite a scene. It began with Tremore demanding that the elves?¡ª?not just the staff, mind you, but patrons as well?¡ª?be removed from the premises. The tension escalated when he stabbed one.¡±
¡°Oh dear! What happened?¡± Gwen asked.
¡°They locked the earl up in the city prison.¡±
¡°They did that to an earl?¡±
¡°He¡¯s not an earl down here. Happens all the time. Almost every night there is a noble fresh from the north who hasn¡¯t acclimated to the culture and thinks he¡¯s still in Avryn. Most of the time, it¡¯s just part of the entertainment. You¡¯ll see, this place gets quite boisterous as the night goes on, but sometimes it goes too far. This being Delgos, that¡¯s a long walk to be sure, but stabbing a waiter or waitress in The Blue Parrot is absolutely too far. And they have a professional crew to deal with that. As I said, interfering with commerce isn¡¯t allowed.¡±
All around them, people flowed past, finding seats and settling in. The group of Calians at the neighboring table were dressed in the typical white linen thawb and loose trousers that Hadrian found himself envying. They wore tall festive hats, spoke loudly, and laughed a great deal.
Directly in front was a group of sailors, easily distinguished by their long, greased hair and the sail-canvas tar flap that protected the shoulders of their blouses. They were louder than the Calians but didn¡¯t laugh as much.
In this turmoil, Royce looked about as comfortable as a cat riding a sinking board during a flood. His hood was up, his eyes scanning the crowd.
¡°Let¡¯s have a toast,¡± Arcadius said when the wine arrived along with the shocking luxury of crystal stemware. He¡¯d poured everyone a glass, including Royce, who had pushed his away. ¡°To Gwen DeLancy,¡± the professor announced, raising his glass. ¡°What might have been merely a pleasant trip has been elevated to the height of rapture by her presence.¡±
Gwen looked embarrassed as everyone except Royce drank to her. He refused to touch his glass.
¡°What is it, Royce?¡± Arcadius asked. ¡°Do you disagree?¡±
He looked over to see Gwen watching him with agony in her eyes.
¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she offered a sad smile. ¡°He doesn¡¯t?¡ª¡±
Royce got to his feet.
Hadrian feared another abrupt exit, but Royce surprised everyone. He took up his glass and lifted it toward her. ¡°To Gwen,¡± he said, then he drank and sat back down.
Gwen continued to stare at him with dark, puzzled eyes.
V3: Chapter 9 - Flaming Peacocks
The first act of the evening¡¯s show was a snake charmer who coaxed a huge cobra out of a basket, controlling it with nothing but a flute-like instrument made from a gourd. Almost everyone in the crowd was equally transfixed such that the room quieted to hushed whispers. But Hadrian wasn¡¯t impressed. He knew the act. Charmers in the East had once been healers who specialized in handling dangerous animals and treating snake bites. Over time, they learned to make more money by catching cobras, pulling out their fangs, imprisoning them in baskets, and making them lethargic and easy to handle by depriving them of water. Then they pretended to bewitch the poor animals with poorly played music. Some even went so far as to sew the snake¡¯s mouth shut, making a bite impossible and ensuring that the serpent would die of starvation. The crowd applauded. Hadrian did not.
Acrobats came next and were far more thrilling as they flipped, tumbled, and bounced across the stage. Most of them were elves, and their feats of balance and death-defying leaps from one high rope within the dome to another were gasp-producing.
¡°Hadrian?¡± Gwen said, standing up after the acrobats were finished and the crowd was clapping their appreciation. ¡°Could I trouble you for a moment?¡± she said uncomfortably while placing a hand on her stomach and biting her lower lip. Then she gestured in a general sweep of the packed and boisterous room. ¡°The wine. I think it would be best if I had an escort.¡±
Hadrian looked at Royce, who sat between them. The thief didn¡¯t move or say a word, as if he hadn¡¯t heard.
¡°Of course,¡± Hadrian said and followed Gwen as she excused herself and navigated away from their little wooden island, swimming into the sea of revelers toward the wall of fish. Gwen moved through the chaos with clear purpose. She knew the way to where she was going, and he imagined that at some point she¡¯d seen others or had gotten directions from Atyn.
Every chair in The Blue Parrot was occupied, and more patrons stood in the spaces left between. Men made up the bulk of those Hadrian and Gwen skirted around, the ones who stood in the aisles or leaned against pillars or walls. Everyone had a drink in hand. Most were engaged in conversations. Some waved, trying to gain the attention of someone else. And a few appeared lost. Several men, and more than a few women, noticed Gwen, and they tracked her movements. Each also inevitably spotted Hadrian. It was then that he realized the wisdom of her choice of escort.
Gwen led him through an archway into a small corridor and up to a podium where a girl operated the cloakroom booth.
¡°May I help you?¡± the girl asked.
¡°Not at all, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Gwen replied, then turned to Hadrian. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have come.¡± Her words were serious, intent, and desperate. She clutched her hands to her chest as her face flooded with anxiety.
Gwen looked past Hadrian at the main room they¡¯d just left. Neither the stage nor, more importantly, their table and everyone sitting at it were visible. ¡°This is a disaster, and it¡¯s all my fault. I just . . .?¡± She struggled not to cry, but it was a losing battle. ¡°I just wanted to go somewhere so I could enjoy myself for once. And I thought?¡ª?I don¡¯t know?¡ª?I thought Royce might want me along.¡± She shook her head, dark hair rippling, earrings swinging. ¡°He doesn¡¯t, and I¡¯m just causing problems. He nearly killed those men at the waterfront. I could see it in his eyes. He thought they were going to hurt me, and he planned to make certain they didn¡¯t?¡ª?not then, not ever. They almost died. Everything would have . . .?¡± She did cry then.
Hadrian hugged her and was happy that the vestibule corridor hid them from the table. He knew if they were in line of sight, Royce would be watching, and then how would he explain? Holding her felt strange. Gwen¡¯s presence and the impact she had on the lives of those around her had always been so large that he was shocked at how small she felt.
¡°Are you certain I can¡¯t help?¡± the cloakroom clerk asked. She wore one of the Parrot¡¯s trademark blue jackets, but only the last two buttons were hooked, and one shoulder had slid free, revealing a bare shoulder and a butterfly tattoo. ¡°I can do more than guard coats.¡±
Gwen sniffled, drew back.
¡°We¡¯re fine,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Thank you.¡±
¡°And in the coach,¡± Gwen went on, ¡°if it hadn¡¯t been for you?¡ª?if those men had opened the door?¡ª?the same thing would have happened. All because of me. I¡¯m a terrible liability, and I¡¯m frightened that by being here someone is going to get killed, not to mention I¡¯m putting Royce¡¯s life in danger. I should just go home. I thought this was going to be wonderful, but I was so wrong. There¡¯s got to be another coach, or maybe a ship I can take. I brought some money, so I¡¯ll be able to pay.¡±
¡°Gwen,¡± he said, ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a good idea.¡±
¡°Oh, Hadrian!¡± She sobbed. ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he like me?¡±
¡°He does. Believe me, he does.¡±
¡°No, he doesn¡¯t. He¡¯s always quiet and polite, but . . . it has been four years. I waited almost my entire life for him to show up, and when he did, I always thought?¡ª?I mean, I knew there was no guarantee, but I hoped. I hoped so badly. And . . . there are times when he acts like he cares, moments when I¡¯d swear he loves me, but then it¡¯s like a door slams shut, and he¡¯s on one side and I¡¯m on the other. Except his side opens out, and mine is a prison. Oh, Hadrian, I think I was wrong?¡ª?wrong about this trip, about Royce, maybe about everything.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not.¡± Hadrian gritted his teeth. ¡°Except maybe about Royce being in danger because right now I¡¯m strongly considering beating the man senseless for being such an idiot.¡±
¡°Oh, no!¡± Gwen grabbed him by the front of his shirt. ¡°You can¡¯t! I mean, I don¡¯t want to be?¡ª?oh, I¡¯m making such a mess of everything. I can¡¯t get between the two of you. I can¡¯t be a wedge like that!¡±
He took her by the shoulders and pried her off. ¡°You aren¡¯t. I was making a joke . . . sort of. Look, Royce is in love with you. Trust me on that. He just doesn¡¯t know what that means or even how it works. This is a foreign language to him, and he¡¯s having translation problems. At the moment, he thinks you hate him.¡±
¡°Me? Hate him?¡± She looked both devastated and lost. Her mouth dangled open as her glassy eyes searched the darkened corners of the corridor for words. Gwen appeared exasperated. ¡°How could he ever think I could hate him? What have I done or said to?¡ª¡±
¡°Listen, I¡¯ve been pushing him to talk to you, to explain how he feels, but that¡¯s like expecting a rabbit to have a heart-to-heart with a wolf.¡±
¡°What do you mean by wolf? Am I the wolf?¡±
Hadrian rocked his head from side to side. ¡°Sort of, yes. Royce is terrified of you.¡±
Gwen straightened up, looking bewildered. She sniffled and raised her hands, palms out. ¡°Okay, maybe we aren¡¯t talking about the same Royce Melborn. The one I¡¯m speaking about has never feared anything, least of all me.¡±
Gwen delicately touched the lower lids of her eyes with her thumbs.
¡°Here, honey.¡± The cloakroom clerk reached out and handed Gwen a small white cloth.
¡°Thank you,¡± Gwen said. Then she looked at the delicately embroidered cloth. ¡°Oh no. This is too nice. I¡¯ll ruin it.¡±
¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry. It¡¯s not mine.¡± The girl planted her elbows on the podium, leaning over and allowing her jacket to slip farther down her arm as she watched the two of them.
¡°Whose is it?¡±
The clerk fluttered her hand vaguely behind her at the hanging garments. ¡°Don¡¯t know, don¡¯t care. You need it more than whoever it belongs to.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not very good at your job, are you?¡± Hadrian asked.
The girl shrugged.
Gwen smiled at the clerk and dabbed her eyes. ¡°Now I¡¯m ruining a perfect stranger¡¯s linen handkerchief. I can¡¯t do anything without making a mess of things.¡±
¡°Are you sure you want to be involved with that guy, honey?¡± the girl asked. ¡°He sounds a bit unhinged.¡± ?The clerk peered up at Hadrian, her eyes running the length of his body. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with this fella? He seems the pleasant type, nice shoulders, beautiful eyes, got all his teeth and a killer smile to prove it. Pardon me for saying, but I, for one, wouldn¡¯t mind being bounced around by him.¡±
¡°Hadrian is just a good friend.¡±
The clerk sighed and offered Hadrian a sympathetic look. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s
gotta hurt.¡±
¡°Thank you for the handkerchief,¡± Gwen began, ¡°but?¡ª¡±
¡°I know, I know.¡± ?The clerk stood straight, pulled her jacket up, and used her fingers to drum the surface of the podium with nervous tension. ¡°I should mind my own business. The staff needs to be invisible. I get it. But it¡¯s pretty obvious you don¡¯t know a good thing when it¡¯s literally standing right in front of you.¡± She appraised Hadrian once more and sighed. ¡°I¡¯m guessing this other guy is also fine looking, and maybe of the dark brooding variety?¡ª?the sort who lives life on the edge? Oh, I¡¯ve been there, honey. But let me tell you, that sort of thing?¡ª?it never ends well.¡±
Gwen looked past Hadrian. Her eyes went suddenly wide. ¡°He¡¯s coming!¡±
¡°Who?¡± The clerk rose up on her toes to peer past them. ¡°The brooding
bad boy?¡±
¡°Please don¡¯t say anything to him!¡± Gwen begged.
¡°Me or Hadrian?¡± the clerk asked.
¡°Either of you!¡± Gwen threw the handkerchief back at the clerk. ¡°Tell him I¡¯ve gone looking for a chamber pot.¡±
¡°It¡¯s called the Throne Room down here,¡± the girl called after her as Gwen darted back into the crowd. ¡°And it¡¯s up at the elephant. Elephant for ladies, gorilla for men.¡±
Hadrian let her go, knowing he needed to intercept Royce to buy Gwen time to gather herself. He just hoped enough of the room¡¯s crowd of drunken men had already seen him with her and knew not to cause trouble. In that white dress, she was bait thrown on a still pond stocked with fish?¡ª?a pond that included a black-hooded shark.
¡°So, are you married?¡± the girl asked Hadrian. Once more, she leaned across the podium, the little jacket slipping down again. ¡°I finish my shift in three hours. If you¡¯d?¡ª¡±
¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Royce asked Hadrian as he entered the cloakroom vestibule, his sight fixed on Gwen¡¯s brilliant white figure as she navigated her way through the crowd toward the elephant side of the stage.
¡°Gwen¡¯s looking for a chamber pot. Apparently, they call it the Throne Room down here.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a lot of heavy wool, sir.¡± ?The clerk spoke to Royce. ¡°Care for me to hold onto that cloak for you? Don¡¯t cost nothing.¡±
¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he replied.
¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯ve heard.¡±
Royce narrowed his eyes. ¡°What?¡±
¡°Thank you, unusually friendly cloakroom lady,¡± Hadrian said, waving at her as he led Royce back into the main room. ¡°We should follow Gwen, make sure she¡¯s okay. Lots of strange people in this place.¡±
¡°I heard that!¡± the cloakroom clerk called after them.
When they returned to the main hall, the naked din was as bracing as jumping into a cold lake. Everyone was clapping in unison to the band¡¯s beat, as onstage a group of women danced, kicking up their hems such that the audience could almost see their knees. Hadrian circled around a table of men wearing matching yellow hats and banging beer steins in unison. Feeling the growing need for a drink, he wondered what sort of beer a place like this offered. He considered looking for a bar or waiter, but that would need to wait. He had a job to do. His responsibility?¡ª?as he saw it?¡ª?was to stall Royce to grant Gwen time. Inspiration struck when he spotted one of the many palm trees. Close to twenty feet tall, it was planted in a six-foot ocher urn decorated with a splatter of parrot droppings. The tree¡¯s placement was no accident. Real estate was at a premium in the danthum, and because the tree wasn¡¯t a paying customer, it had been situated in a spot that lacked a view of the stage. This made the domesticated palm and the area surrounding it a veritable island oasis of privacy.
Hadrian reached the urn, took a breath, then turned toward Royce to play his best card. ¡°Where were you?¡±
¡°What?¡± Royce asked.
¡°When we first arrived, you disappeared. Where¡¯d you go?¡±
Royce looked irritated. ¡°What about Gwen?¡±
¡°She¡¯s right there.¡± Hadrian pointed to the stark-white-attired figure who waited in the line of women that ran left of the stage toward the elephant. By luck or by design, she had her back to them, chatting with the woman ahead of her. This was fortunate, because Royce¡¯s eyesight was probably good enough to see her smeared makeup. ¡°So, what was with the vanishing act?¡±
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Hadrian expected Royce to explain he had been checking things out as usual, but with Gwen along, he was just being extra careful. It was also possible that he might have needed to visit his own elephant. They had been on the road without a stop for some time. Either way, Royce¡¯s reply would put an end to the inquiry and force Hadrian to think up another subject to distract his partner. This was bad because he couldn¡¯t come up with anything?¡ª?nothing important enough to demand they speak privately.
Hadrian was frantically searching for another topic when he realized Royce hadn¡¯t replied. The thief wasn¡¯t even looking at him or at Gwen. His partner stared at the urn, then the floor, then his sight fluttered aimlessly across the crowd.
¡°Royce?¡±
The thief frowned and then sighed. ¡°You saw him, didn¡¯t you? Is that what you meant by there being lots of strange people in this place?¡±
¡°Saw who, Royce?¡± Hadrian asked over the band¡¯s growing crescendo and the hammering of ladies¡¯ heels.
Royce leaned in close to Hadrian¡¯s ear. ¡°Falkirk de Roche.¡±
¡°Falkirk de . . . what?¡± Hadrian was baffled. The name was only vaguely familiar.
¡°You know, pale guy, so white he looks three days dead. Has flaming red hair and a matching beard. Wears a cloak and hood and may or may not have an ugly scar running across his neck as if someone cut his head off.¡±
Hadrian stared at him. ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever seen anyone like that. And if I had, I don¡¯t think I¡¯d forget. What¡¯s this all about?¡±
Again, Royce frowned and looked away. ¡°When I told you that I didn¡¯t kill Lady Lillian, that didn¡¯t mean I didn¡¯t kill anyone that night. There was a witness. He was outside the Traval Estate.¡±
¡°A witness?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°To what? You said you didn¡¯t do anything.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what he witnessed.¡± Again, Royce spoke just loud enough for Hadrian to hear as the thief¡¯s eyes watched the crowd. ¡°I couldn¡¯t allow him to return to Hurbert Traval and report that his wife was in bed with another man. So, I eliminated the threat.¡±
¡°Eliminated the threat.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°You killed an innocent man?¡±
¡°He was trying to extort money from me, or so I thought.¡±
¡°Is this pale redhead an associate of the guy you killed?¡±
¡°No, the pale redhead is the guy I killed.¡±
Hadrian tried to puzzle out the riddle but couldn¡¯t.
¡°Given that I saw him again in Kruger just last night, I think we can safely rule out both innocent and dead.¡±
¡°Wait. You saw the man you killed in Melengar, two days later in Kruger? How¡¯s that?¡ª¡±
Royce folded his arms. ¡°Obviously, I saw the man I thought I killed. Figured there was something wrong when I stabbed him in the throat and Alverstone came away without any blood on the blade. I have no idea how he managed that, but you can¡¯t argue with facts. The man is alive and spoke to me behind the outhouse while the rest of you were eating. Said he¡¯s after Lady Martel¡¯s diary. Offered me eternal life if I got it for him. So, when we arrived, I wanted to make sure he hadn¡¯t followed us again.¡±
Hadrian smiled, almost laughed. ¡°Okay, let¡¯s get this straight. The guy you killed?¡ª?sorry, thought you killed?¡ª?who saw you not kill Lillian Traval has chased us all the way here to hire you to find the Martel diary, and he¡¯s offering to pay you with eternal life?¡±
¡°Yeah.¡±
Hadrian nodded knowingly. ¡°Royce, you fell asleep on the roof of the coach. It¡¯s all a dream.¡±
Royce frowned. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±
¡°Really? You stab someone in the neck, and there¡¯s no blood? You kill a man, and he doesn¡¯t stay dead? Then he magically appears in the middle of nowhere? And what does he want? The diary that has bothered you ever since you stole it. And what does he offer in return? Well, the very sensible sum of eternal life! Of course, it¡¯s a dream, Royce. That was a long ride. You were alone up there. You got groggy. You fell asleep and had a nightmare.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t have a nightmare.¡±
¡°How do you know?¡±
¡°My nightmares are never so pleasant.¡± Royce looked across the room at Gwen, who was now at the front of the line. The little door between the elephant¡¯s legs opened, and the woman who had been ahead of Gwen stepped out. They spoke and laughed for a second, then Gwen went in. ¡°And neither is my waking life.¡± Royce looked miserable. ¡°She regrets coming, right? Thought this was going to be a wonderful trip but has come to realize it¡¯s not.¡±
¡°That¡¯s . . .?¡± Hadrian began with the intent to argue but couldn¡¯t. ¡°Honestly, that¡¯s stunningly accurate.¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°Told you it wasn¡¯t going to work. It¡¯s easy to fantasize when you see a person only occasionally and when they¡¯re on their best behavior, but if you see them nonstop for a long period of time, faults emerge.¡±
¡°Really? What are the faults you found in Gwen?¡±
Royce looked at him with his familiar I-can¡¯t-believe-you-are-that-stupid expression. ¡°Not her?¡ª?me. She¡¯s finally seeing me as I really am.¡±
¡°She¡¯s always known who you are. By Mar, Royce, she lives in the Lower Quarter, a place that you decorated with the blood of Raynor Grue! Believe me, she knows. And Gwen is an intelligent and realistic lady, not some pampered shut-in.¡±
¡°Knowing and seeing are different. Everyone knows that a cute little kitty catches mice, but until you see the little tabby bite each leg off a mouse and then play with the still-living torso for hours, you don¡¯t truly understand.¡±
¡°Have you ever owned a cat, Royce?¡±
¡°My point is, no self-respecting woman like Gwen could ever want anything to do with a man like me. And honestly¡±¡ª?he dipped his head, shading his face with the hood?¡ª?¡°even if she did, I couldn¡¯t allow her to make that mistake. She deserves better. She actually deserves . . . well, someone like you.¡±
Hadrian¡¯s brows went up.
¡°You¡¯re both good people,¡± Royce said the word like it was an embarrassing deficiency. ¡°I¡¯m not and never will be. Fish and birds, there¡¯s no place for both.¡±
¡°Are you saying it would be okay with you if I were to . . .?¡± He gestured at the elephant. ¡°You know?¡±
¡°Try it, and this cat will be playing with your dismembered torso.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°So, that¡¯s a no, then.¡±
Gwen emerged from the elephant and began heading back.
¡°Don¡¯t tell Gwen about Falkirk,¡± Royce said. ¡°It will just worry her.¡±
¡°It was a bad dream, Royce. What should worry her is that you¡¯re so paranoid you think the monsters in your sleep are after you.¡±
Royce ignored the comment. ¡°Maybe if nothing else goes wrong, and if I stay away from her, she can still have a pleasant time.¡±
Gwen headed for the table.
Royce made no attempt to leave the palm oasis. ¡°Does drinking help?¡± he asked. ¡°That¡¯s how you deal with these things, isn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Sometimes. Never solves the problem, doesn¡¯t even let you forget, but it¡¯s good at numbing pain, even if it¡¯s only for a little while. And if you drink enough, you sleep. And sleep is a wonderful place where pain can¡¯t follow.¡±
Royce watched Gwen reach the table, pull out a chair, and take her seat. ¡°I think I might try a glass of wine.¡± ?Then, like his very life was escaping his body, he sighed. ¡°It¡¯s like being on the bank of a river and watching the greatest treasure in the world float right by, but there¡¯s nothing I can do?¡ª?I never learned how
to swim.¡±
The flaming peacocks were exactly that. Several came out at once as waiters ran with them overhead on silver trays like barbarians with torches. Atyn brought their dish, setting the platter down in the center of their table. His face had a sheen of perspiration that glistened in the bird-born firelight. Hadrian could feel the heat. Just when it started to become uncomfortable, Atyn pulled the cork from a small bottle and poured a dark, thick liquid over the body of the peacock. As he did, the flames popped, sparked, and threw off a rainbow of colors. Then he smothered the fire with a silver lid, killing the flames altogether. Upon lifting it, a bird whose meat was already sliced was revealed.
Albert clapped, causing the rest to join in as Atyn bowed. ¡°Enjoy,¡± he said.
¡°Another bottle of Montemorcey, if you please,¡± Arcadius said.
¡°Absolutely,¡± Atyn replied, then he darted away as Albert passed around portions of the bird.
The peacock tasted much like pheasant or turkey. At least Hadrian thought so. He couldn¡¯t tell much because the sauce overpowered everything else, igniting a violent explosion of spicy heat in his mouth. The peacock wasn¡¯t flaming merely because it had arrived on fire. Hadrian was forced to sip his wine for medicinal purposes. And he wasn¡¯t the only one drinking. While Royce hadn¡¯t touched the peacock Albert set before him, he had drained his wineglass and refilled it, leaving the remainder of the bottle squarely in front of him. This was the most Royce had done since rejoining the table. The thief sat with his hood still up, slightly hunched, and hadn¡¯t eaten a thing or said a word.
Hadrian took another sip, swishing the wine around his tongue, trying to lessen the inferno. Despite Royce¡¯s years of praise, Montemorcey didn¡¯t taste much different from any other wine. It did have a strange way of vanishing off his tongue, taking with it any lingering flavor, which seemed like a cheat. It certainly wasn¡¯t thirst quenching.
Hadrian tried a new strategy and began sucking in air aimed at his tongue. This worked, but only while he was doing it. While busy firefighting, Hadrian noticed the other side of the room, the portion of the hall to the right of the stage. He quickly came to think of it as the men¡¯s or the gorilla¡¯s side. Where the elephant half had the lady¡¯s room, cloakroom, and the aquarium, the gorilla side had the men¡¯s privy, the bar, and . . .
¡°What¡¯s back there?¡± Hadrian asked Albert, pointing at a grand archway on the gorilla side, where two powerful-looking men stood guard. Both were shirtless, advertising an impressive display of muscles.
¡°That¡¯s the casino.¡±
¡°Small house?¡± Gwen asked.
Albert looked at her, puzzled. ¡°Did you say small house?¡±
She nodded. ¡°Small house or gathering place; that¡¯s what casino means in Calian,¡± she explained.
¡°Didn¡¯t know that,¡± Albert said as he plucked up another skewer of still-sizzling peacock. Apparently, the viscount was immune to its effects or had already adequately killed his tastebuds. ¡°But what I do know is that¡¯s the gambling room. They have all sorts of games of chance in there: dice, cards, wheels, just about anything you can think of and a few you can¡¯t. People lose a lot of money in there.¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t anyone win?¡± Gwen asked, adding her own morsel of peacock to
her plate.
¡°They have to,¡± Arcadius said, ¡°or why would anyone do it?¡±
Albert shrugged. ¡°I suppose it must happen, but I¡¯ve never seen it.¡± He raised a hand. ¡°No, wait, I take that back; people do win . . . but only for a while. Thing is, they keep playing. You see, when they win there¡¯s nothing to stop them from continuing, but when they lose, they eventually run out of funds and are forced to stop. Doesn¡¯t seem fair in that respect, and no one ever seems to leave with more money than they entered with.¡±
¡°Why do I think you know about this firsthand, Albert?¡± Hadrian only partially joked. Albert had nothing to show for his rank but the desire to live the life of the gentry, which included plenty of leisure time and all manner of vice to fill it.
The viscount used one of the peacock¡¯s drumsticks to point at him. ¡°I can see where you¡¯d think that, but no, I don¡¯t gamble. It may be the only degeneracy I don¡¯t indulge in.¡±
¡°Interesting,¡± Arcadius said. The professor was having an awful time eating the greasy, sauce-slicked bird, as it made a mess of his fingers and his beard. Hadrian imagined that having a white beard like Arcadius¡¯s must be like wearing a fluffy white shirt. Keeping it clean through any meal had to be impossible. ¡°Why make an exception for gambling, I wonder?¡±
¡°Well, it was mostly by way of gambling that dear old Dad lost everything that his father before him had failed to squander. This led to the wonderful result of my vagabond existence.¡± Albert made a sour face while shaking his head. ¡°After watching him throw it all away . . .?¡± He paused, the sour look changing to misery. ¡°It was all so stupid.¡± Albert licked the lava sauce from his fingers. ¡°My father blew stacks of money on pricey liquors and expensive women?¡ª?spent even more on the sort he couldn¡¯t buy?¡ª?but none of that ever bothered me. I suppose I could understand those vices. Drinking provides a wonderful bliss. And who can argue with a beautiful woman on your arm or in your bed? But gambling . . . I don¡¯t know. It never made any sense to me. Always felt like he was just throwing the money away and getting nothing in return. So, no, I¡¯ve never had a desire to indulge.¡± He pointed at the casino. ¡°At least not in that sort of gambling.¡±
¡°What are the guards for?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Sore losers,¡± Albert replied. ¡°Always get a few each night.¡± Something caught his eye, and Albert smiled and stood up. ¡°Excuse me, I think I see someone I know.¡±
Since they¡¯d ordered one of everything, it wasn¡¯t long before the swan arrived. It came just as advertised, with its head tucked demurely beneath its left wing. The bird appeared to be sleeping, until, like a magician, Atyn pulled on its neck and wing and the whole feathered portion of the swan lifted off to reveal a finely roasted, pre-sliced body beneath.
¡°Amazing,¡± Gwen muttered.
¡°They do put on a fine show here,¡± Arcadius said. ¡°Both on stage and at the table.¡±
On the stage, a juggler was risking his life with swords, cleavers, and axes, accompanied by dramatic drumrolls, but few in the audience could be bothered to look now that food had arrived.
¡°Another bottle of wine, good sir,¡± Arcadius told Atyn.
Hadrian looked at the full glass in front of the professor. He was certain Arcadius had only touched it once, when he took the tiniest sip during his toast to Gwen. How he had survived the infernal peacock, Hadrian had no idea. Gwen only had one glass also, but she was nearly done with it. The real drinkers at the table were Royce and Albert. The viscount started off the evening with a tentative sip while watching Royce the way a dog glances at its master before snatching a fallen morsel. Albert had once tried drinking himself to death, and Royce had established the edict that Albert must work sober to be part of Riyria. Either Royce recognized this night wasn¡¯t considered work, or he was too miserable to care.
Onstage, a man and woman began singing a duet, and Hadrian was surprised to notice they sang in the Tenkin language. His deep baritone and her high soprano filled the hall, and even though most of the audience had no understanding of the words, the crowd quieted a bit as several listened. Hadrian wasn¡¯t fluent in Tenkin but had a working grasp of the language and wasn¡¯t surprised at all when Gwen started crying.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Royce asked. This was the first thing he¡¯d said in more than an hour, and he delivered the question with his usual harsh tone as if he expected her to say the wine was poisoned.
Gwen shook her head and pointed at the stage. ¡°The song. It¡¯s sad.¡±
Royce looked back and forth between her and the stage. He seemed confused. Then in a gentler voice he asked, ¡°What¡¯s it about?¡±
She shook her head. With tears still in her eyes and her mouth pinched tight, she seemed in pain.
Once more, Royce looked?¡ª?no, glared?¡ª?at the singers as if he might pay them a visit later that night.
Hadrian intervened. ¡°Tell him, Gwen.¡±
She wiped her eyes, gave him a long look, then sniffled and nodded. ¡°It¡¯s about a Tenkin named Lyco who was shamefully attacked by an awful man. Lyco defended himself and killed his attacker. In doing so, he won the man¡¯s wife, Dala, as his slave, as is the law. But afterward, he never touched her. Nor did he sell her, even though she would have fetched a great price. All he ever did was treat Dala with kindness. They lived together for years this way. Him caring for her in sickness, bringing Dala flowers and other gifts. Together they struggled against famines, wars, and droughts. But in all that time, he never touched her. She wished he had because Dala had fallen in love with him. It was only when they were both old and gray and when Lyco lay dying that he confessed how he had always loved her, even before the fight, but he knew that she could never love him because he¡¯d killed her husband.¡±
Gwen lowered her head as she cried. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, it¡¯s . . . it¡¯s just so sad.¡±
Royce touched her arm.
Gwen froze. She seemed to stop breathing.
Royce noticed and let go. He promptly raised his glass and drained it.
¡°Hadrian?¡± Arcadius said. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve had a bit too much wine, and this food is far too rich for an old man such as myself. I must say, I¡¯m not feeling especially well. Could I trouble you to see me safely back to the Turtle?¡±
Hadrian looked at the professor¡¯s still-full glass of Montemorcey but nodded.
V3: Chapter 10 - Fish and Birds
Royce was finding it hard to breathe.
Probably because all those blasted peacocks have filled the place with smoke.
Hadrian had left with the professor, and Albert was off doing who knows what, leaving him trapped alone with Gwen.
This is so, so bad.
All he wanted was for Gwen to enjoy herself, but he knew she wouldn¡¯t be able to if she thought he?¡ª?or anyone?¡ª?was unhappy. The woman was odd that way, but it was a nice odd. Thinking about it, if he had to pick a freakishly peculiar character flaw, this was about the best he could hope for.
At least she wasn¡¯t making the mistake Hadrian always did by trying to cheer him up. Gwen was respectful. She knew enough to leave him be.
Or is she just frightened of me? Is she sitting there right now absolutely terrified because she¡¯s alone with a murderer?
It seemed logical, but as Hadrian had reminded him, ¡°She¡¯s always known who you are. By Mar, Royce, she lives in the Lower Quarter, a place that you decorated with the blood of Raynor Grue! Believe me, she knows.¡±
Royce¡¯s plan had been a simple one. He would stay, so as not to give the impression he was angry or upset with Gwen, but he¡¯d remain silent and still, so he couldn¡¯t say or do anything to upset her.
No abrupt moves, no misunderstood comments.
His plan should have worked, except everyone else had abandoned him. Now, it was impossible to go; he couldn¡¯t leave her unprotected. And because there was just the two of them, he couldn¡¯t sit in silence any longer. He had to say something, but he¡¯d had too much wine. His silence wasn¡¯t a problem earlier because chatterbox Hadrian Blackwater could fill any void with an endless stream of useless babble. Royce could hide behind all that blathering. But now . . . he was alone, exposed, and he had to hold a delicate conversation where each word must be vetted and cross-checked, and of course, the wine hobbled him. He needed something to break the ice, something pleasant, fascinating, and perhaps even witty.
¡°Like your meal?¡± he asked.
She nodded. ¡°It¡¯s very different. Have you tried the Flame Broiled Sea Monster?¡±
¡°No, and I¡¯m not going to.¡± His tone was harsh.
That wasn¡¯t good. I sound angry, but that¡¯s because I am. That¡¯s reasonable, isn¡¯t it? Most people resent being trapped. And that¡¯s exactly what happened. Arcadius isn¡¯t sick?¡ª?not physically. The bastard left me on purpose. They all did.
Royce glared at the empty seats.
Atyn returned with a wide smile. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together with relish. ¡°Are you ready for your frozen magpies, or shall we wait for the others to return?¡±
¡°Get away from us while you still can,¡± Royce snapped.
Gwen gasped. ¡°Royce!¡±
¡°Ah . . . I¡¯ll hold off on the pies then,¡± Atyn said and promptly moved away.
Royce saw the shocked look on Gwen¡¯s face. He was only vaguely aware that the band was loudly playing, and a hundred different conversations were roaring all around them. As far as he was concerned, the room was utterly quiet. And in the empty space created by that choked silence, stress and tension flooded in.
¡°I¡¯ll leave in the morning,¡± Gwen said, her voice the whisper of a butterfly. ¡°I know you don¡¯t want me here. And I¡¯m sorry I ruined this trip for you.¡±
Gwen stood up.
So did Royce.
She was crying. Her face was away from him, but her body hitched, and he could hear the muffled sobs.
So much for making her happy.
Gwen started to dart away but halted abruptly as if something had grabbed her. It took a wine-soaked second for Royce to realize that something was him. He had a hold of her wrist. ¡°I¡¯m not going to hurt you, if that¡¯s what you think,¡± he told her. ¡°I would never do that, Gwen.¡±
When she turned back, he saw the tears running freely down her cheeks, leaving ugly dark lines. ¡°I know that, but?¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯d kill anyone who did, I swear it.¡±
¡°I know, but?¡ª¡±
¡°Hundreds if necessary.¡±
¡°Yes, but?¡ª¡±
¡°A whole city if?¡ª¡±
¡°I understand, Royce.¡±
Remembering he was still holding on, he let go of her wrist.
I shouldn¡¯t have grabbed her. Doing so is frightening. What could be worse than being grabbed and held by a ruthless killer? What was I thinking? She¡¯ll run now.
Royce would have to let her go.
Fish and birds. She knows it; I do, too.
He would never see Gwen again. Or worse, he would, but she would be married to Dixon. They would have children. Of course they would; why wouldn¡¯t they? When Royce visited, she would smile and welcome him as always, as if nothing had changed, but he wouldn¡¯t talk to her?¡ª?not really. He couldn¡¯t. It would be too awkward, too painful, and Dixon wouldn¡¯t like it. He¡¯d never see her again, never hear her voice, never . . .
¡°I don¡¯t want you to leave,¡± he told her.
A heartbeat passed, and then another. Gwen didn¡¯t run. She continued to look at him, stared at his face as if this was the first time she¡¯d ever seen it.
¡°Royce?¡± Gwen took a step toward him. Slowly, gently, she reached up and drew back his hood. ¡°Royce . . . you¡¯re crying.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t actually need to walk me all the way back to the rolkin, Hadrian,¡± Arcadius told him.
¡°No?¡± The two stood outside on the steps of the Parrot, the sound of the music dulled behind the closed doors. It felt nice to be out of the turmoil, like coming to the surface and taking a breath. ¡°Feeling better already, are you?¡±
The professor winked. ¡°I just wanted Royce to have some time alone with Miss DeLancy.¡±
¡°I had a feeling,¡± Hadrian said.
Night had arrived, and with it came a different world. Cooler by far, it was pleasant to stand on the warm stones, feeling the breeze and breathing the salt air that blew up from the harbor and smelled vaguely of fish. Shouts and laughter came out of the dark, and the donkey wagons and carriages continued to clip-clop along the streets. Far more people wandered the city than in daylight. The hordes of turists moved in small groups the way foreigners do when exploring a new place. The northern well-to-do, dressed in their heavy finery, no longer seemed foolish now that the sun had stopped its baking for the day. Some, those speaking louder than necessary, were inexperienced drinkers. One dignified fellow in a long coat and broad-brimmed hat who was momentarily lost in a fit of laughter walked right into a lamppost. He fell on his backside, nearly taking down the elegantly gowned woman beside him.
¡°She¡¯s a nice girl, isn¡¯t she?¡± Arcadius said.
For an instant, Hadrian thought the professor meant the woman on the arm of the collapsed drunk, whom he suspected might very well have been a duchess from the cold and colorless realm.
Seeing the confusion, Arcadius added, ¡°Gwen, I mean.¡±
¡°Oh. Yes. Very.¡±
¡°And she likes him.¡±
¡°It certainly seems so.¡±
¡°And he likes her.¡± ?This wasn¡¯t a question, but a statement of unbelievable fact that Arcadius followed with a shake of his head. ¡°While I certainly had my hopes, I harbored doubts that Royce Melborn could ever manage to muster enough sentiment to show affection for so much as a floppy-eared puppy.¡±
¡°He hates dogs.¡±
¡°Does he now?¡± Arcadius arched his brows while shifting his lips. ¡°Doesn¡¯t surprise me a bit. That Royce has developed a fondness for a human being, however, that¡¯s a shocker. And yet it seems he has.¡± Arcadius moved down the street and off to the side to avoid door traffic, and there, he took a seat on the step. ¡°I must admit that I wasn¡¯t pleased when I heard about the goings-on in Medford a few years ago?¡ª?with the fire and all.¡±
¡°We had nothing to do with that,¡± Hadrian was quick to assert as he took a seat beside the professor. The two, shoulder to shoulder, looked out on the lights that trimmed the tiers rising behind the nearby buildings.
Arcadius stared at him for a moment with judgmental eyes. ¡°And Lord Exeter?¡±
Hadrian frowned. Wasn¡¯t much he could say in defense of that.
¡°You didn¡¯t play a part, did you?¡± Arcadius continued.
Hadrian shook his head.
¡°Good. But it still shows Royce hasn¡¯t changed.¡±
¡°He has. Royce hasn¡¯t murdered anyone in the last two years.¡±
¡°I suspect that¡¯s only because you stood in the way. Prevention isn¡¯t the same as real change.¡±
¡°But I think he has, a little, at least.¡±
Arcadius sighed. ¡°Just recently, he took a job to murder an innocent woman.¡±
¡°She wasn¡¯t innocent, and he didn¡¯t do it.¡±
¡°Only because she paid him more.¡± The professor took off his glasses and began wiping. ¡°I had so hoped that just being around you would help Royce find his moral compass, but it has been four years, and he still appears as lost as ever.¡± He looked back at the entrance to the Parrot. ¡°But . . . perhaps she can help. A woman can do wonders for a wayward man. Should have thought of it sooner, but given the trouble I had putting the two of you together, I could never take that chance with something as delicate as a young lady.¡±
¡°I think you¡¯ll find Gwen is far from fragile,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°The woman has faced more than her fair share of hardships and demons.¡±
¡°You know, I¡¯m getting that impression, which is good, considering who we¡¯re talking about. Wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±
Hadrian recalled the first year he¡¯d worked with Royce, which he¡¯d often described as similar to trying to tame a feral, knife-wielding wolverine, and nodded. ¡°You were right about us, though. We make a pretty good team.¡±
¡°I know,¡± Arcadius said, and he looked back at the Parrot. ¡°And I¡¯m right about them, too. So, you go back inside and enjoy yourself but do me?¡ª?and them?¡ª?a favor. Take your time returning to the table. The furnace is just about the right temperature for the forming of another bond. They merely need a bit of time.¡± He looked up at the front of the danthum. ¡°And I couldn¡¯t have asked for a better forge.¡±
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Returning inside the Parrot, Hadrian was greeted by the spirited and rollicking sound of blaring trumpets, which had been included with the other instruments. He¡¯d only ever heard trumpets on the field of battle or used as fanfares for dignitaries. This was not that. These horns were blasting out a bouncy rhythm along with the big kettle drums as a heavyset man in a vibrant yellow shirt sang on stage and somehow managed to still be heard. The song was intentionally silly, claiming that the singer was sad and lonely while the music was nothing of the sort.
Waiters were still weaving between tables, delivering plates, but several of the seats were now empty as people danced in front of the stage. Among the gentry of Avryn, dancing was a formal affair where men and women faced off in lines and performed strict pass-through maneuvers designed to maintain distance, decorum, and decency. It took training and practice, and partners?¡ª?who switched often?¡ª?rarely touched more than hands. Smiling was considered lewd, and if they had any fun at all, they didn¡¯t show it.
In the small country villages like the one Hadrian grew up in, they danced carols or rounds where men, women, and children held hands in a circle and did simple side steps and sweeps with their legs. In the taverns, they danced jigs and reels, in a sort of informal hopping stomp where folks kicked up their heels in brazen and shameless ways. Most often men danced alone, but if women joined in, they kept their distance.
What transpired in the Parrot was the sort of wild capering and close-quarter cavorting only seen in the east, where cultures and customs were distinctly different. Few, if any, northern turists were on the floor. They remained aghast in their seats, pointing and gawking wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Most of those stomping and twirling were locals or Calians, though Hadrian noticed that the entire table of sailors were out there. Those fortunate enough to find women danced with them; the rest made do with each other.
Royce and Gwen were still at the table. The two were sitting close and talking, which Hadrian took as a good sign. Royce¡¯s hood was down, which was even better. Something was clearly transpiring between the two, and Hadrian followed the professor¡¯s suggestion. Instead of returning, he wandered toward the gorilla side, where every stool was taken.
¡°Hadrian!¡± Albert waved at him. The viscount had a seat just left of center. Next to him was a beautiful woman in a bare-shouldered, front-plunging green evening dress who sat primly stiff. ¡°Estelle, this is my good friend Hadrian; Hadrian, this is the Countess Ridell of Warric.¡±
¡°Pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir.¡± She spoke with the formal disregard common to noble ladies, a tone that let you know they were better than you. ¡°From which house do you hail?¡±
¡°Excuse me?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°He¡¯s not noble, dear,¡± Albert told her.
¡°No?¡± she asked, then took a second look at Hadrian and relief filled her face. ¡°Oh, thank the gods!¡± The countess slouched in her seat and crossed her knees, exposing an elegant calf as she grabbed up her drink and took a mouthful of something clear garnished with a slice of orange. ¡°I come down here to get away from all that ego-bloated, politically infused bosh, and all those titled men with their lances jammed up their blue-blooded buttocks. I certainly didn¡¯t feel like putting the cloak of decency on again. I¡¯m on holiday, by Mar!¡± She said this last bit as if the god of man could hear her.
¡°No worries here,¡± Albert assured her. ¡°Neither Hadrian nor I amount to anything at all. We¡¯re a couple of absolute louts.¡±
¡°Wonderful!¡± Estelle grinned and raised her glass. ¡°A toast to louts and knuckleheaded hooligans!¡±
¡°Hold on, my dear!¡± Albert stopped her.
¡°Why? You have something against degenerate ne¡¯er-do-wells?¡±
¡°Of course not. I¡¯m president of the Medford chapter where I serve with distinction. But poor Hadrian here is unarmed.¡±
She looked him over again, then gasped. ¡°Where in Elan is your drink, you poor fellow?¡±
Hadrian shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t have one.¡±
¡°That¡¯s taking the whole ne¡¯er-do-well thing a bit too far, don¡¯t you think? Get a weapon, my good man. This is war! We must band together to slay the foul wretch that threatens the world or die trying.¡±
¡°Which wretch is that, Estelle?¡± Albert asked.
¡°Respectability, of course. He and his henchmen: Priggishness and Gentility and their sidekicks: Manner and Decorum. I particularly hate Decorum?¡ª?such a bore.¡± She swept her naked arm at the array of exotic-looking bottles behind the bar where shelves were lined with various liquors. In addition to the typical whiskeys and rums, they also offered the Calian spirit, Hohura: a Ba Ran Ghazel liquor that came in a dark wooden jug held fast by iron straps and a chain-linked cork.
¡°Have any beer?¡± Hadrian asked the man behind the counter who sported a thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and a damp towel over one shoulder of his blue jacket.
¡°Jareb, give the man a Regal Ale,¡± an older gentleman on the other side of Albert told the bartender.
¡°Hadrian, this is Calvary Graxton, otherwise known as Mister Parrot.¡± Albert swirled a finger in the air. ¡°He owns the place.¡±
¡°Pleased to meet you, sir.¡±
Graxton was a plump man with a graying beard and long hair that he tied in a ponytail. He wore the same blue as the help, but his was a long formal coat with large gold buttons that he wore over a gold-colored waistcoat that made him look a bit like a macaw.
Mister Parrot, Hadrian mused.
¡°Nice manners for a roughneck,¡± Mister Parrot said with a smile. ¡°Jareb, put it on the house.¡±
¡°Not necessary, Cal,¡± Albert told him. ¡°I¡¯m on retainer this trip. All expenses paid.¡±
¡°By whom?¡±
¡°Lord Byron.¡±
Mister Parrot grinned. ¡°Outstanding! In that case, Jareb, bring us all double shots of ?Terrible Typhons and put it on Winslow¡¯s tab.¡± He leaned over toward Albert. ¡°I get it from the pirates of Vandon. Who knows where they get it from. It¡¯s a ridiculously expensive liquor?¡ª?but smooth as dwarf-polished stone and rich as Cornelius DeLur. Besides, old Byron will explode after discovering he subsidized the very contraband he¡¯s tasked with prohibiting.¡± He clapped Albert on the back hard enough to rock him.
¡°Is that three glasses or four, sir?¡± Jareb asked, deftly holding up three cordial glasses and motioning at the countess with a fourth.
Estelle glared at Mister Parrot so viciously that if they had both been men, Hadrian would have expected a brawl to break out. ¡°Careful how you answer, Calvary.¡± She clacked her nails on the counter of the bar. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t want to shatter a girl¡¯s innocence by saying something awful. You see, I¡¯ve always liked parrots.¡±
¡°Most pit vipers do,¡± he replied. ¡°But fortunately for both of us, I¡¯m not the one paying.¡± Mister Parrot grabbed Albert by the back of the neck and shook him. ¡°What say you, Lord Winslow? Are you the sort to contribute to the delinquency of a countess? Does the wench get a sip?¡±
¡°Is this illegal liquor strong?¡± Albert asked.
¡°Very.¡±
¡°Then by all means, serve the lady. I¡¯ll need all the help I can get tonight.¡±
¡°Thank you, your lordship.¡± Estelle batted her eyes. ¡°Though you should be aware that absolutely no assistance will be necessary. Although . . .?¡± She looked at Hadrian, and not so much at his face. ¡°Hopefully, this one isn¡¯t very happily married or if he is, he doesn¡¯t have the morals of a paladin. If so, you may have competition.¡± ?Then she smiled most wickedly. ¡°Or better yet?¡ª?company.¡±
¡°And this is the lady you¡¯re concerned I might corrupt,¡± Albert told Calvary.
The typhons were handed out. The cordial glasses were like tiny wineglasses and filled so high that the dark amber liquid spilled and drizzled down the sides like thin syrup.
¡°To our benefactor, Lord Byron,¡± Estelle declared, holding her glass aloft with two delicate fingers. ¡°May he one day learn that smiling is not a sin, and that laughter is actually good for the soul.¡±
They all drank, swallowing the contents of the glasses in one go.
Having once sampled authentic Hohura boiled fresh in the jungle by a pair of Ba Ran Ghazel and served in bleached-white human skulls, Hadrian braced himself for the impact of this mysterious drink. The liquor warmed all the way down with a nutty, smoky, creamy flavor and left a sort of cherry aftertaste. Unlike Hohura, which made him seriously consider cutting his tongue out, the Terrible Typhon was a palate pleaser and didn¡¯t burn any more than a dessert wine.
The blaring, horn-led music stopped, and most of the dancers left the stage. This caught Mister Parrot¡¯s attention. ¡°Jesse! Dex!¡± he called to his workers. ¡°She¡¯s up next. Blow out the chandeliers and turn down the lanterns. Just leave the one big bull¡¯s-eye on the stage.¡±
The word was passed, and all around the hall, men in blue jackets raced to lower the big chandeliers and extinguish their candles. Others turned down the wicks in the various lanterns around the hall.
¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡± Albert asked.
¡°A new girl. A singer. Andre sent her over.¡± Mister Parrot explained.
The room darkened until the only lights were the little candles on each table that flickered like tiny stars. The stage itself was black. Conversations hushed in anticipation, then everyone heard footsteps on the stage and a man in a scarlet robe and royal blue cape stepped into the single beam of light thrown by a huge bull¡¯s-eye lantern.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen!¡± he addressed the crowd in a loud voice.
¡°That¡¯s Andre,¡± Mister Parrot whispered to Albert. ¡°Her handler.¡±
¡°Tonight, I introduce to you a new talent. She¡¯s a bit shy, so extend the courtesy of your attention, and please welcome the magnificent Millificent LeDeye.¡±
A few clapped, but not many, as Andre disappeared into the shadows. A moment or two later, a young woman emerged into the light. Dark hair, pale skin, red lips, wearing a long, tight-fitting black gown, she was breathtaking.
She began to sing, and her voice was clear as rainwater, but quiet as a whisper. So soft and delicate, that Hadrian had no idea how it carried across the room. All the previous acts were loud, bombastic performances with singers that shouted more than sang. They had to in order to be heard over the raucous din. Even the Calian duo had belted out their lyrics. But Millificent LeDeye whispered to the audience in a wickedly seductive voice that, by its intimacy, demanded attention. The hall gave it, and the room was silent. She sang,
¡°Here we sit together in the dark, just you and I.
Two lonely people out for a lark, but too afraid to try.¡±
Hadrian thought she looked directly at him. Soft strings began to play, filling the gaps, flooding the shadows with an emotional, heart-swelling buoyancy.
¡°I want you; I do.
And you know it, too.¡±
Soft drums slid in under the strings as Millificent LeDeye¡¯s voice rose in octaves and volume to a sustained heartfelt cry.
¡°Please lie if you must, but don¡¯t let me go.
Hold me tonight, after the show.
I¡¯ll be there. I will.
If you want me still.
Together, we two in the dark.¡±
The music grew and the song went on until Hadrian could genuinely believe that he and she were the only two in the room, and her words were a message specifically for him. Then he saw shadows. Patrons were on the floor again, only this time they did not stomp, or twirl, or hop. Embracing couples were swaying, barely visible in the candlelight.
Just then, Hadrian noticed his table was empty. Royce and Gwen were missing. The thought that followed was so absurd, it made him laugh.
In the confidential security of the dark, Gwen had drawn Royce to the dance floor.
¡°My mother taught me,¡± she explained in a whisper. ¡°It¡¯s easy. You¡¯ll like it. Just put your arms around my waist.¡±
Royce didn¡¯t even hesitate. The thought never crossed his mind, but then most of his mind had been left back at the table in the bottom of an empty bottle of Montemorcey. There were people all around, but in the dark, they were easily ignored?¡ª?just a bunch of shadows. And the music was so?¡ª?personal.
¡°Two lonely people out for a lark, but too afraid to try.¡±
The voice fluttered down from the stage, but it seemed to Royce that he heard Gwen: her words or perhaps her very thoughts whispered in his ears. It couldn¡¯t be. Not because it was impossible to hear thoughts or that Gwen¡¯s lips weren¡¯t moving, but on account of the world had never been so wonderful?¡ª?not to him.
He considered that it must be a dream, but once more this explanation suffered from flaws, not the least of which was that?¡ª?as he had so recently pointed out to Hadrian?¡ª?he never had nice ones.
Unbelievably, his arms were around Gwen¡¯s waist, one hand on the small of her back, the other on a hip. Beneath his palms, these two parts shifted independently, rocking in time with the slow seductive rhythm of the song. She pulled him close. His body and cheek brushed against hers. She was warm and soft. Royce could smell tamarisk in her hair, and roses on her skin, and he felt each breath swelling her chest, and every exhale wafted warmly across his neck. He had no idea what to do, how to move, where to place his hands, what to say or even if he should speak at all. Oddly, he didn¡¯t care. Thinking was a product of the mind, and Royce no longer had his. He was drunk and knew it. Royce was also vaguely aware that he shouldn¡¯t be, not with Gwen. In all the world, she was the only person whose opinion mattered.
He ought to leave before making a fool of himself. He should play it safe and slink away. In the dark, it would be easy. He could apologize tomorrow. But the way her body moved beneath his hands, the feel of her hot breath on his neck, and the fact that his mind was waaaay back at the table trapped by a cork, made it easy, even sensible, to be reckless.
He pulled her closer, pressing their bodies tight until he could feel her heartbeat. His cheek pressed firmly against hers. He waited for a response, held his breath until her arms mimicked his, locking tighter around his neck.
Neither said a word. They didn¡¯t need to; the song spoke for them.
¡°I want you; I do.
And you know it, too.¡±
All of it was so unreal, like loving families, promises kept, happy endings, tranquility, and contentment?¡ª?myths and fairy tales all. That¡¯s how he knew it to be a hallucination. He¡¯d never had one from drinking, but that night he¡¯d had quite a bit and on an empty stomach.
¡°Please lie if you must, but don¡¯t let me go.¡±
If this wasn¡¯t real, then nothing he did mattered. And if nothing he did mattered . . .
¡°It¡¯s easy,¡± Hadrian had said. ¡°Not complicated at all. You really only have two options. You can express yourself?¡ª?you know, tell her how you feel.¡±
Royce tried to think of what to say, but that was impossible because, again, his mind was trapped in a bottle.
"So, go the other way."
Royce turned his head, pulled back slowly and felt the incredible softness of Gwen¡¯s cheek against his. As he did, he moved his hand, which had been on her back, up to the nape of her neck. His splayed fingers slipped into her hair. He tilted Gwen¡¯s head gently to one side.
¡°I¡¯ll be there. I will.
If you want me still.¡±
His lips found hers and were welcomed with a trembling that ended as the two moved as one, rocking slowly among the shadows, intertwined within the music.
¡°Together, we two in the dark.¡±
V3: Chapter 11 Millificent LeDeye
"Never heard anyone sing like that before,¡± Hadrian said.
He was staring at the empty stage where the bull¡¯s-eye lantern continued to illuminate a small patch of floor.
¡°Spellbinding, isn¡¯t it?¡± Mister Parrot said, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar.
¡°Who is she?¡±
¡°Some unknown ing¨¦nue Andre found. He¡¯s been grooming her?¡ª?putting the girl in front of small audiences at the little clubs. Tonight is her official
major debut.¡±
¡°Who is Andre?¡±
Mister Parrot exchanged looks with Albert and Estelle, who offered no help at all. ¡°I suppose you could say he¡¯s a talent promoter, an aspiring entrepreneur, and part-time danthum manager. He runs a little place called The Cave up on the Eighth Tier. Used to be a salt mine back when the dwarfs ruled, then a warehouse, and now it¡¯s this quirky little danthum. Not very nice, but it¡¯s popular in summer because the old mine stays cool. Mostly though, Andre is an officer in the DeLur Corporation.¡±
¡°DeLur?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°He¡¯s a banker, right?¡±
Estelle, who was drinking, fell into a fit of coughing. Albert applied a not-too-helpful series of pats on her back while Mister Parrot sat up, and after looking briefly around the room, he said, ¡°Yes, he¡¯s a banker.¡±
Hadrian was disappointed when the lights came back up and the band once more played a happy tune. He looked at the empty stage. ¡°That¡¯s it? She¡¯s not going to perform anymore?¡±
¡°Honestly,¡± Mister Parrot said, ¡°I don¡¯t think she knows more than the
one song.¡±
¡°I daresay our boy here seems smitten by the lady in black,¡± Estelle declared with a pout. She plucked at the hem of her dress and frowned. ¡°Knew I should have gone with a darker color tonight. I just didn¡¯t want people to think I was in mourning.¡± She looked at Albert. ¡°He¡¯s not married at all, is he?¡±
¡°Only to ideals, my dear.¡±
¡°Argh!¡± She threw her head back dramatically. ¡°An idealist! They¡¯re the rare faithful sort, and I¡¯ve lost him to a torch singer! That¡¯s like finding the Heir of Novron and a moment later watching him trip and break his neck.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll be certain to console you later this evening.¡±
¡°You¡¯d better!¡±
¡°Is there a way to get backstage?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°There¡¯s a little door behind the gorilla,¡± Mister Parrot said.
¡°Excuse me.¡±
¡°And just like that, he¡¯s gone,¡± Estelle lamented as Hadrian set down his beer and waded into the ocean of tables and currents of people. He stuck to the outside of the room, where he passed the casino guards. Up close they were even more impressive. Their powerful arms were accentuated by the way they crossed them over their chests. Each stood a head taller than Hadrian. The left one had a red mark on his forehead.
¡°Lousy dwarven doorways, am I right?¡± Hadrian said as he walked by.
The guard broke his professional scowl and smiled.
The gorilla statue was three stories tall, with a monstrous face that displayed bared fangs and wild eyes. Either the sculptor had never seen a real gorilla, or he had been forced by his patron to be creative. The entrance to the men¡¯s privy was appropriately found directly between the gorilla¡¯s legs. But around the side, a short set of stairs led to a nondescript door. Unlike the casino, the stage was unguarded, and Hadrian ducked under the low lintel and walked through.
Inside was a very different and dilapidated world. The ancient, traffic-worn wooden flooring was in a terrible state of neglect. The walls were rough with cracks in the stone. Marred posts and beams were wrapped in coils of thick rope. Ladders led up into the rafters, and sandbags hung like men on gallows. A number of people moved about, not so much with purpose as in a panic. A group of dancers, all in matching clothes, were lined up, preparing to perform. One man was in tears, and the rest showed signs of hysteria because?¡ª?at least as far as Hadrian could tell?¡ª?the sobbing man was lacking a kerchief that all the others wore.
¡°How could you have lost it?¡±
¡°Where did you last see it?¡±
¡°You¡¯re always doing things like this, Ludwink! This is why we hate you!¡±
¡°We don¡¯t hate you.¡±
¡°I do!¡±
Hadrian skirted the dance troupe, carefully stepping over a coil of rope and around a wine barrel that was topped by a stack of parchment held in place by an old boot. Across from him and behind the dancers, Millificent LeDeye stood with hands on hips, talking to Andre.
¡°May I help you?¡± a man all in black asked as he appeared out of nowhere.
¡°Huh? Oh,¡± Hadrian replied, ¡°I was hoping to speak to Miss LeDeye.¡±
¡°And who are you?¡±
¡°Hadrian Blackwater.¡± He extended his hand. ¡°And your name?¡±
The man ignored the gesture. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but Miss LeDeye already left.¡±
Hadrian looked over and pointed. ¡°She¡¯s right there.¡±
¡°You¡¯re mistaken. She¡¯s gone. Now, if you¡¯ll please return to the hall?¡ª?guests are not allowed backstage.¡±
¡°I just wanted to get a drink, Andre.¡± Miss LeDeye had raised her voice. She sounded angry, and her arms were folded with as much conviction as the casino guards.
¡°I¡¯ll buy you one,¡± Hadrian called to her.
Both LeDeye and Andre looked over in surprise.
The man in black stepped directly into Hadrian¡¯s line of sight. ¡°I told you, she¡¯s not here.¡±
Hadrian tilted his head around the colorless obstacle. ¡°And yet my eyes are telling me otherwise.¡±
¡°Your eyes are misleading you, and on their way to getting you into serious trouble. If you don¡¯t want them to be fixed, I would advise that you leave?¡ª?now.¡±
Hadrian would have left, except he saw Miss LeDeye smiling at him. ¡°What do you like to drink?¡± he shouted to her. The smile grew.
¡°Alessandro,¡± Andre snapped, ¡°get rid of him.¡±
The man in black grabbed Hadrian by the arm.
Hadrian twisted free. ¡°Careful, I bruise easily.¡±
Alessandro¡¯s hand went to his dagger.
¡°Relax, Alessandro. I¡¯m leaving.¡± Hadrian raised his voice once more. ¡°Another time then, when you aren¡¯t so busy, perhaps?¡±
Miss LeDeye covered her lips with a hand, but her eyes were delighted.
He turned to leave, and Alessandro shoved him out. Hadrian didn¡¯t have time to duck and clipped the lintel with his forehead. The door slammed shut, and he stood there, dazed.
Behind him, Hadrian heard the voices through the door. ¡°Who in the name of Novron was that?¡±
¡°Nobody. See his clothes? Just some serf from up north. The lady merely made an impression.¡±
¡°If he turns up again, I want you to be the one to make the impression. Understand?¡±
¡°You don¡¯t pay me, Andre. Couldn¡¯t afford it. I¡¯m here as a courtesy?¡ªunderstand?¡±
The voices continued but moved too far away to be heard.
Hadrian sighed, and climbing back down the stairs, he returned to the main hall, the music, and the noise.
¡°Lousy dwarven doorways, am I right?¡± the big casino guard said as Hadrian walked back past him.
Hadrian smirked. ¡°This one had help.¡±
When Albert and Hadrian returned to the table, Royce and Gwen were there, sharing a bowl of frozen magpie like a couple of teenagers at a summer fair. In unison, Hadrian and Albert looked at Royce, then at each other, and shrugged, as if they had practiced the routine.
¡°I trust you can all find your way back,¡± Albert said. ¡°There¡¯s a good chance I won¡¯t be returning to the Turquoise Turtle at all tonight. So don¡¯t bother waiting up. Estelle is the sort who finds it rude for men to run off before sunrise. Besides, she serves a wonderful breakfast.¡±
¡°You found a lady already?¡± Gwen asked, impressed.
¡°An old acquaintance. She was married at the age of ten to a wealthy Warric earl, who at the time was in his sixties.¡±
¡°She married at ten?¡±
¡°That¡¯s when she went to live with the earl. Arranged pairing, obviously, political in nature. One does hope that the marriage wasn¡¯t consummated for a few years, at least. To hear her tell the tale, they never did. Now she¡¯s twenty-eight and he¡¯s eighty-one, and they both spend a good deal of their time in bed?¡ª?just not the same one.¡±
Albert pulled a letter from inside his doublet. ¡°Just grab a carriage and tell them to bill Lord Byron, and then show them this.¡± He handed Hadrian a parchment with a seal at the bottom. Then he began to wade back into the depths of the hall, waving farewell as he went. ¡°See you tomorrow?¡ª?afternoon most likely. Ta-ta.¡±
¡°Ta-ta?¡± Gwen said and smiled at Hadrian.
¡°He¡¯s had a bit to drink,¡± Hadrian explained, taking Arcadius¡¯s old seat at the table, which was littered with empty bottles of wine, abandoned glasses, and plates. Onstage, the dancers were continuing their number, which was something of a complicated folk-style arrangement similar to a round but with lifts and twirls.
¡°How are you doing?¡± Hadrian asked Gwen. ¡°Things seemed to have improved since I left, yes?¡±
Gwen didn¡¯t answer. Instead, she smiled at the melting magpie between them like a little girl with a secret. Something had happened?¡ª?an event massive enough to reduce the-fearless-former-prostitute-turned-madam-and-successful-businesswoman into a bashful child. If this were Medford House on the morning after, Hadrian would have a good guess about the nature of the event, but given that the pair had never left The Blue Parrot, he was stumped.
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Is the magpie that good?
He looked at Royce, who dragged a finger over the sauce remains in the bowl, then sucked on it in an uncharacteristically casual manner. His hood was not merely down, his entire cloak was off, slung across the back of an empty chair.
¡°Hadrian, I¡¯ve been thinking,¡± Royce began in a deeply serious tone that was worrisome.
Having advised Royce to admit his feelings to Gwen, and seeing the suppressed glee on her face, Hadrian assumed that¡¯s exactly what had happened. But now he had to wonder if Royce had traveled farther down that road than expected.
Did he ask her to marry him? Did she accept? Is Royce about to declare his days of banditry and lawlessness to be over? Is this goodbye?
Hadrian had never been comfortable with their line of work. He found it better than outright murder, which?¡ª?if he was honest?¡ª?was a fair assessment of what he¡¯d been doing before teaming up. Others called it war or combat. Some even suggested that arena fights were a sport?¡ª?especially the ones who wagered money. For them, he imagined, it was also a business. But just as beating a child to death could hardly be mistaken for discipline, what he¡¯d done for the four years before meeting Royce had been murder?¡ª?lots of it. Stealing, spying, and bounty hunting were better than that, and far superior to starving. Hadrian knew there was a whole spectrum between those two options. He could get a job on a farm, fishing boat, or in a warehouse. As redemptive as atonement through sweat and humility seemed, he knew it wouldn¡¯t be much different from crawling into a bottle. He wouldn¡¯t be living, just hiding.
¡°One doesn¡¯t use a sixteen-folded, single-edged Tiliner blade to dig a ditch,¡± his father used to say. ¡°There are shovels for that.¡±
So while Royce steered their enterprise, Hadrian was able to keep it on the road. At least he tried. All too often a wheel, or even two, ran off into the weeds. Lately, Royce had been pulling harder than usual for the open field, and Hadrian had been feeling concerned that a division was coming. Their partnership had been good while it lasted, but Royce was one sort of person and Hadrian another. A breakup was inevitable, and Hadrian had come to terms with it?¡ª?or thought he had. Faced with the reality of severing ties and going back into the world alone, he was surprised to discover that it depressed him. Nevertheless, he was happy for Royce and Gwen. Arcadius certainly would be pleased.
Bracing himself for the words he knew would follow, Hadrian asked, ¡°Thinking about what?¡±
Royce took a deep breath, sucked on his finger again, then pointed the glistening digit at Hadrian. ¡°Mister Hipple.¡±
Those were not the words Hadrian expected. He glanced at Gwen, who showed no insight whatsoever. ¡°What?¡±
¡°Mister Hipple?¡ª?you know?¡±
¡°The dog?¡±
Royce nodded gravely. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t have left him. Those winters in Alburn?¡ª?it gets cold there. The dog might die.¡±
Hadrian remained lost as he studied them both, wondering if this was a joke. Neither smiled, and Royce was as grim and pensive as ever. ¡°That was a year ago, Royce.¡±
¡°We should go back and get him.¡± He said this while looking off into the distance as if seeing the mutt shivering in the cold.
¡°Go back? To Alburn? Are you insane?¡±
Gwen shook her head and smiled apologetically. ¡°He¡¯s had a bit to drink, as well.¡±
Hadrian nodded dramatically. ¡°I would say so.¡±
Gwen rubbed Royce¡¯s back. ¡°Maybe we should call it a night.¡±
¡°No?¡ª?no.¡± Royce waved a hand at them both. ¡°I¡¯m just starting to enjoy myself. Anyone notice the dancers? They look ridiculous. That one is missing a kerchief.¡± He reached out and began picking up empty bottles, presumably searching for more wine. He grabbed up an empty one with its cork jammed back into it. He stared at the bottle for a moment and began to nod. ¡°This is the one.¡± He looked at Hadrian to make sure he noticed. ¡°Whatever you do, don¡¯t pull the stopper out of this bottle. I have something trapped inside, and I need to keep it safe.¡±
Hadrian studied the empty bottle. ¡°What?¡±
Royce looked at it, then at Hadrian. He did this three more times, then narrowed his eyes and shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. You don¡¯t need to know. I¡¯ve said too much already.¡±
Hadrian stared at the thief, dumbfounded. ¡°Yes, I do believe it is absolutely time to call it a night. Royce, can you walk?¡±
The thief smirked at him as if Hadrian had made a bad joke.
¡°Can he?¡± Hadrian asked Gwen.
She shrugged.
Great. Both are about as useful as an ax with a missing handle.
The trip back to the Turtle wasn¡¯t nearly as bad as Hadrian had expected. Royce could walk just fine, causing Hadrian to wonder exactly how drunk his friend was or wasn¡¯t. The thief had certainly emptied his fair share of the wine bottles?¡ª?must have because Hadrian had only ever seen Albert helping him. Gwen had had a glass or two, but she wasn¡¯t drunk, although not entirely sober, either. He could tell by the way she was quiet. Some people got loud when they drank, others withdrew, as if suddenly shy. If asked, Gwen might say she was tired, but the truth, he guessed, was more likely that she was still sober enough to know she couldn¡¯t trust herself and that talking would be dangerous.
Hadrian managed to flag a carriage right away, and the three piled in. The driver knew exactly where to find the Turquoise Turtle, which was good as Hadrian wasn¡¯t certain he could find the rolkin in the tiered maze of whitewashed grottos. The ride back was a tranquil clip-clop. Neither of his two companions spoke. Gwen curled up and laid her head on Royce¡¯s shoulder, and if the thief had anything more to say on the subject of empty, corked bottles, he appeared content to let it wait. As far as herding the happy went, Hadrian had an easy go of it.
It felt late. The air was clammy and cool. The moon cast long shadows, stripping the world of color, leaving the domes and awnings to appear like many shades of silver. Far fewer people walked the streets at that hour, and the sound of music was restricted to the open doors of various-sized establishments where light and people continued to spill out. Under it all, the sound of the sea rolled its constant rhythm.
The Lord Byron letter Albert had given Hadrian worked like a magic talisman, and after only glancing at its tattered face, the driver smiled warmly and waved as they walked away without so much as paying a copper or giving a name. The whole night was turning out to have been a wonderful experience, right up until the moment they reached the gate to the Turtle and found it open.
A lack of locks was one thing, but the latch was unhooked, and the gate thrown wide. Hadrian remembered being the last one through, and he knew he¡¯d closed it.
Arcadius must have done it.
The old professor had returned early. He must have been tired and was just the sort to absentmindedly fail to hook the latch. Hadrian was feeling pretty good about that bit of deduction, clever even. Then he noticed the courtyard with all the urns and pots lying on their sides. The table was turned over, along with the chairs, and the door to the rolkin stood wide as well.
¡°Arcadius?¡± he called, more hopeful than earnest. His mind had dismissed the idea of the absent-minded professor and jumped forward to simply hoping Arcadius was alive. The lack of reply chilled him.
Hadrian reached for the grips of his swords, only to remember he didn¡¯t have them. They were inside, all the way upstairs, hanging on the wall pegs of his chosen room?¡ª?or at least they had been.
¡°Why is it so dark?¡± Gwen asked as she stared at the open door and black windows.
¡°Wait here.¡± Hadrian grabbed one of the courtyard lights. They were common handheld lanterns that hung from the top ring, but they still had the bail handle just in case. None of them were lit.
Hadrian took the candle and lit it off the streetlamp.
Royce had his knife out, but he hadn¡¯t gone in. ¡°Best that I stay with her,¡± he explained.
Hadrian nodded. Raising the lantern before him, he stepped inside.
The interior of the Turtle was silent and an absolute mess. As if a hurricane had blown through, everything that could have been dislodged, toppled, or
rolled had been. Looking like a hatched dragon¡¯s egg, the big clay pot lay shattered. The jungo plant had been ripped from the copper urn and all the dirt dumped out. Even the carpets were flipped, though some were neatly rolled as if prepped for stealing, but none were missing. The black onyx dolphin was on the ground, its tail broken. Cushions were flung everywhere, and extra bedding had been pulled out of cupboards and thrown across the floor.
Hadrian moved through the wreckage and up the stairs, heading for his room and his swords, despite believing the act was futile. Their time together may have tempered Royce¡¯s more violent habits, but those same years had also changed Hadrian. This was driven home as he moved through the ransacked rolkin, all but convinced of two things: his blades were taken, and the professor was dead.
Like the rest of the rolkin, his bedchamber had been torn apart. Blankets, sheets, and pillows were thrown about, the mattress ripped apart, feathers everywhere. His bag had been emptied, the contents scattered. To his amazement, all three swords remained untouched. Taking up his short blade in one hand while still wielding the lantern in the other, he searched the rest of the rolkin. He entered Arcadius¡¯s room last and was shocked to find it empty.
Hadrian returned to the common room, where he found Gwen busy
lighting lamps.
¡°Where¡¯s Royce?¡±
¡°He went out.¡±
¡°Out?¡±
¡°Looking for whoever did this, I suppose.¡±
¡°That can¡¯t be good. Stay here. Close the door after I leave. There¡¯s no lock, so prop something against it. I doubt whoever did this will be back, but better to be safe.¡±
Hadrian left the courtyard and had only moved down the street a short distance when he found Royce: uncloaked, his dagger out and gleaming in the moonlight. ¡°What are you doing? I thought you were guarding Gwen?¡±
¡°I heard something,¡± Royce said, then he stumbled into a rain barrel, bounced off, and nearly fell.
¡°You¡¯re in no condition to be doing this. Come back to the Turtle.¡±
¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±
¡°You¡¯re drunk.¡±
¡°I just had a little wine. I¡¯ve seen you drink waaay more. I¡¯ve watched you fight after running the taps out. You did fine.¡± Royce stumbled against the rain barrel again. He stopped and stared at it, confused.
¡°Yeah, Royce,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°It¡¯s the same barrel.¡±
¡°Really?¡±
¡°Yep. And you might want to put that dagger away before you accidentally cut off your own fingers. Whoever ransacked the Turtle is long gone.¡±
¡°And Arcadius?¡±
¡°No sign of him.¡±
Royce leaned on the rain barrel and struggled to put Alverstone into the sheath that hung on his belt. He tried three times and failed. ¡°I hate being drunk.¡±
¡°I can see why. You¡¯re lousy at it.¡±
¡°You make it look so easy.¡±
¡°Years of practice, my friend.¡± Hadrian took the dagger away. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back to Gwen.¡±
Hadrian put his arm around Royce, and the two began walking in sync. At least they tried. Royce was like a dancing partner who wanted to lead but didn¡¯t know how to dance.
¡°I kissed her,¡± Royce said.
It took Hadrian a second to catch up to the drunken side trip his friend had unexpectedly embarked on. Not only was it off topic, but also shocking both in subject and message. That Royce could kiss anyone was a hard image to conjure; that he had opted to speak of it was unthinkable. Hadrian suspected this blurted confession was the tail end of an extensive internal monologue Royce had just run through in his head. To the thief, it likely made perfect sense.
Those three words explained a lot.
No wonder Gwen had that giddy but coy look. She was bursting to share but knew better than to boast?¡ª?certainly not in front of Royce.
¡°How¡¯d that go? I take it she didn¡¯t slap you or anything.¡±
¡°It was nice.¡±
¡°I would have expected as much.¡±
¡°No, you don¡¯t understand. It was really nice. I mean, really, really nice.¡±
¡°It¡¯ll be even better when you¡¯re sober.¡±
¡°Now what in the name of Maribor are the two of you doing stumbling about like a couple of drunken sailors just in from a five-year voyage?¡± Arcadius asked as he walked toward them. ¡°Are you two just getting back now?¡±
¡°There you are!¡± Hadrian exclaimed. ¡°Where have you been?¡±
¡°Yeah, Grampa,¡± Royce said. ¡°Better not have been at the brothel again or Gramma is gonna poison your dinner.¡±
The professor paused to cast a sidelong stare at Royce. ¡°I take it he¡¯s suffering from a few too many bottles of wine?¡±
¡°The ones you put in front of him, by the way,¡± Hadrian replied.
¡°They were for everyone, Hadrian, and yet you don¡¯t seem nearly as fermented.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t like wine. You know that. And Montemorcey is the only thing Royce drinks. You know that, too.¡±
¡°True, but I didn¡¯t force it down his throat. And it was only wine. A case could be made that the man needed a bit of encouragement to shake off the shackles of the north and embrace the warmth of those around him.¡±
If Hadrian needed any further confirmation that the professor had done it on purpose, that was it. Arcadius had manipulated the events from the start. Very likely his intentions were benevolent. The professor had long sought to banish Royce¡¯s demons, teaming the two of them in the hope that Water could convince Oil to be more social. It hadn¡¯t worked, or at least it hadn¡¯t worked well enough. Now, Arcadius was calling in reinforcements.
¡°Let¡¯s shave Grampa¡¯s beard off.¡± Royce grinned at Arcadius and began searching for his dagger, which Hadrian still had, but now kept out of sight.
¡°What about you?¡± Hadrian asked the professor as he once more resumed guiding Royce back toward the Turtle. ¡°What happened? You were coming back here. Did you get lost?¡±
¡°I was just out for a late-night stroll. I really wasn¡¯t feeling altogether well. Too many years of eating the horrible stuff they call food at the university have left me incapable of digesting the real thing. The cool night air did just the trick.¡±
¡°So, you haven¡¯t been back to the Turtle yet?¡±
¡°Just returning now . . . Why?¡±
Royce frantically patted down his tunic. ¡°I think someone stole Alverstone.¡±
V3: Chapter 12 The Search Begins
Royce remained in his room until after midday.
Hadrian and Gwen had spent the early morning hours cleaning up the Turtle. The biggest hurdle, by far, was re-stuffing the mattresses. Just collecting all the feathers had been a big job. Gwen, being the expert on restoring order to desecrated bedrooms, barked orders at Hadrian, who responded like a dutiful foot soldier. Working together, Hadrian¡¯s, Gwen¡¯s, and Albert¡¯s beds had been pretty much restored. Then their attention had been turned to the common area. In a surprisingly short time, the Turtle was set as close to right as possible.
They were just finishing up when Albert returned, appearing surprisingly chipper. Gwen had insisted on going to the market, and the two had gone out shopping?¡ª?she for something to cook, he for a new hat. As far as Hadrian could tell, Arcadius?¡ª?like Royce?¡ª?was sleeping late.
When Hadrian¡¯s partner finally came down, the thief looked about as happy as a cat dragged through a storm drain. Royce spoke no more than a dozen words?¡ª?most of them variations of no. The thief skipped breakfast, which at the time could only have meant fruit from the courtyard because Gwen hadn¡¯t yet returned.
Donning his cloak and growling something about getting the lousy job over with, Royce led the way out and Hadrian followed.
The first step in satisfying their contract would be finding Gravis Berling. According to Albert, Lord Byron had no idea where Gravis lived. Tur Del Fur wasn¡¯t like Rochelle, where all the dwarfs were forced to cluster in a designated portion of the city. Still, Hadrian found it odd, and more than sad, that a person could work at a place for nearly a hundred years without his employer having a clue where he lived or might be found. Apparently, all the other dwarfs had also been let go?¡ª?a nice way of saying kicked out?¡ª?and with them went all knowledge of Gravis Berling. This forced Royce and Hadrian to begin their assignment by wandering the streets, looking for short people.
Hadrian discovered that Tur Del Fur wasn¡¯t as complicated as it had first appeared. It had one main road, which ran from the heights down to the harbor. All the other streets branched off it, creating loops at various levels?¡ª?or tiers. The lower the number, the closer to the water, and of course, the more desirable the neighborhood. The Turquoise Turtle was on Tier Four, while The Blue Parrot was on Tier Two. Hadrian and Royce spent several hours searching the city from the harbor to the heights, finding absolutely nothing useful regarding Gravis Berling. For a city founded by dwarfs, precious few of them walked its streets.
By late afternoon, they stood in the shade of the green-and-white-striped canopy of a food vender named Angelius. The balding, middle-aged man sat cross-legged just off the road in a wrap of white cotton. Beside him, a stone-ringed cook fire heated a blackened iron pot. Hadrian had purchased a stuffed flatbread from him and lingered in the awning¡¯s shade to eat. Royce continued his silence, watching him and grimacing with each bite.
¡°You really should have something, too.¡± Hadrian told Royce between mouthfuls.
¡°I should cut my own throat is what I should do,¡± Royce replied. He had his hood up, his head drawn deep into shadow.
¡°Hangover that bad? Have you been drinking water? Trust me, that helps?¡ª?especially after wine.¡±
Royce shook the hood, which was sort of an answer, just not a very clear one.
With no place to sit, they stood a step off the main street just outside the cloud of smoke that wafted from Angelius¡¯s cook fire. A wagon filled with carpets and hauled by a team of goats rolled past, followed by another filled with urns of oil. One of the containers was cracked and, in the wagon¡¯s wake, a dripping dark line was created in the dust-covered pavement. No dwarfs in sight.
Hadrian took another bite of his meal. Like everything else he¡¯d eaten in Tur Del Fur, it was a bit too spicy, but flavorful. He swallowed, then voiced the conclusion to an idea he¡¯d been pondering all morning. ¡°I don¡¯t think it was a robbery,¡± he said, shifting his grip on the flatbread, which was starting to come apart. ¡°Nothing was taken. Not that we had much to steal, but my swords would have been worth the trip, and I¡¯m sure Albert¡¯s clothes are valuable. So, I think someone was looking for something.¡±
Royce nodded.
¡°Do you think it might have something to do with your new nightmare client, the Gingerdead Man?¡±
Royce lifted his head enough that Hadrian spotted a smile.
¡°Ah-hah! I knew you were in there somewhere.¡±
Angelius looked over, ¡°Sounds like you were the victim of someone looking for the courier¡¯s package. You would not be the first.¡±
¡°What courier package?¡± Royce asked, peering at Angelius as if the man had just appeared before them.
Hadrian wiped his mouth clean with the sleeve of his shirt. ¡°A courier was murdered along the road that leads here. His pouch taken.¡±
¡°How do you know about this?¡±
¡°How do I . . . Oh, that¡¯s right, you weren¡¯t there. When we first arrived, a bunch of Yellow Jackets?¡ª?that¡¯s what they call Port Authority soldiers?¡ª?they talked to Shelby about it.¡±
¡°It is not merely the DPAA,¡± Angelius said. ¡°Everyone is looking for that package.¡±
¡°Why?¡± Royce asked. He was back to staring at Angelius.
¡°A reward has been offered . . . by Cornelius DeLur himself.¡±
Royce took a step toward him, a slow careful one that made Hadrian stop chewing. ¡°And why would you think someone would search us?¡±
Angelius shrugged. ¡°Because you were robbed, but you don¡¯t know what they were looking for. The city has gone all crazy searching for this package.¡±
The thief continued to stare. Hadrian imagined Royce¡¯s hungover brain was struggling to determine the odds that he and Hadrian had randomly stopped to eat at the stand of someone connected to those who ransacked the Turtle. It took longer than usual, but Royce sighed in resignation. ¡°Hadrian, just swallow the rest of your boiled rat so we can move on.¡±
¡°It¡¯s fried, and it¡¯s fish.¡± Angelius corrected with a bright smile.
¡°Sure it is.¡±
¡°Really tasty, too.¡± Hadrian unfolded the brown-spotted bread to reveal the contents. ¡°There¡¯s peppers and onions, goat cheese, and a spread that I think is made from chickpeas, garlic, and?¡ª¡±
¡°Shut up,¡± Royce said through gritted teeth.
Hadrian knew exactly how Royce felt, and he sympathized. But he also remembered the dozens of mornings their roles had been reversed. At those times, Royce had been demeaning, self-righteous, and failed to express even a grain of sympathy. A frequently used phrase was, ¡°You did it to yourself, remember?¡± As a result, Hadrian found it difficult not to acknowledge when Providence decided to return the favor by spreading the love.
Hadrian felt a drip running down his wrist. He closed up his meal and licked his arm.
Witnessing this, Royce shook his head. ¡°You really are quite disgusting sometimes.¡±
Hadrian grinned as if this were a compliment and took a big bite, moaning with ecstasy.
¡°It is good, yes?¡± Angelius grinned up at Hadrian from where he sat beside the fire, his back rested against the stone wall of a lamp shop.
Hadrian nodded and struggled to speak around the food in his mouth. ¡°Under-ful.¡±
¡°It is fresh hakune,¡± Angelius explained, ¡°A fierce whitefish with a great fin on its back that my brother caught just this morning out in the deep sea. I cooked it using an ancient recipe my grandmother taught me that does not include any rat.¡±
¡°Oh, don¡¯t mind him.¡± Hadrian waved a dismissive hand. ¡°He¡¯s suffering from drinking too much wine last night.¡±
¡°Ah!¡± Angelius brightened. ¡°I have just the thing!¡± He dug into one of the many sacks beside him and pulled out a jar. ¡°This is a perfect remedy.¡± Removing the lid, he revealed a viscous goo. He scooped some out with his finger and held it up. ¡°I will stuff this up your nose as far as it will go, then swirl it around. I will do this for both nostrils and be generous with my scoops.¡±
Royce recoiled. ¡°Hard to do after I cut off your hands.¡±
Angelius clearly didn¡¯t take the comment seriously and said, ¡°Oh no, it is fine, trust me. I have a brother who drinks too much all the time, and he swears by this remedy.¡±
¡°The one who caught the fish?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Different one,¡± Angelius said. ¡°I have several.¡±
¡°What¡¯s it called, this hangover cure?¡± Hadrian picked up the jar with his free hand to study it.
¡°Doesn¡¯t have a name, but trust me, it works.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t trust you,¡± Royce said. ¡°And as for your anonymous goop in a jar, I suspect it contains what¡¯s left of at least one brother.¡± He looked at Hadrian. ¡°You can walk and eat at the same time, can¡¯t you?¡±
¡°To be completely honest,¡± Hadrian told Angelius as he handed back the jar, ¡°I don¡¯t think his foul mood is entirely due to drinking. I mean, first of all, he¡¯s usually like this anyway, to one degree or another. But the real reason I think he¡¯s so grumpy is because he kissed a woman last night.¡±
Royce huffed. ¡°Just stuff what¡¯s left into your big mouth and let¡¯s go.¡±
Angelius looked confused. ¡°Is this woman horribly grotesque? Or maybe she¡¯s suffering from a contagious sickness.¡±
¡°Neither. She¡¯s actually incredibly beautiful, and he¡¯s in love with her.¡±
Angelius narrowed his eyes as he put away the jar. ¡°Then I¡¯m not understanding.¡±
¡°That¡¯s just it, no one does. No one can. Anyone else would be dancing their way through the streets and singing sappy songs since morning.¡±
¡°Why are you still talking to him?¡± Royce asked. ¡°He¡¯s busy. Now that he¡¯s sold you his rat, he¡¯ll need to hunt another.¡±
¡°Because I want a second opinion,¡± Hadrian replied. ¡°Actually, that¡¯s not true. I want you to hear reason and realize how dumb you¡¯re being.¡±
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
¡°And I don¡¯t want to discuss my personal life in the middle of a busy street with a destitute vagrant who sells boiled rats to na?ve strangers and gets happy sniffing the remains of his dead brothers from a jar. So, while we still have some light left, let¡¯s try finding Gravis Berling.¡±
¡°What do you want with Gravis?¡± Angelius asked, wiping his finger off on a towel.
Hadrian and Royce faced him with sudden interest.
¡°You know him?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°That is like asking if I know the name of this street, which if you aren¡¯t aware, is Berling¡¯s Way?¡ª?it¡¯s named after Gravis¡¯s family.¡±
¡°Do you know where we can find him?¡± Royce asked.
Angelius pulled the top from his kettle, releasing a steam cloud. He stirred the contents of the pot with a large wooden spoon. ¡°I suppose that depends on what business you have with him.¡±
¡°We owe him money and are looking to repay the debt, but we¡¯re only here for a short time.¡±
Angelius laughed, then looked at Hadrian. ¡°Your friend is not a good liar.¡±
¡°Actually, he is, but as we¡¯ve established, he¡¯s off his game today.¡±
¡°Ah yes, he drunkenly kissed the beautiful woman he loves. I can see how that would ruin anyone¡¯s week.¡± Angelius stopped stirring and looked up sharply, pointing at Royce with the dripping wooden spoon. ¡°Did she?¡ª?did this love of your life?¡ª?did she refuse you? Push you away? Slap you?¡±
¡°Why does everyone ask that?¡± Royce muttered.
¡°Because a rejection can be understood,¡± Angelius clapped the spoon on the rim of the pot, then replaced the lid. ¡°Humiliation such as that would certainly make a man miserable. I remember when I first fell in love with my sweet Velencia. She was?¡ª¡±
¡°Can we get back to Gravis?¡±
¡°She didn¡¯t slap him,¡± Hadrian said, gathering up the last of his flatbread wrap into a final bite-size bundle. ¡°From what I can tell, she was quite pleased with the kiss.¡±
¡°Do you or do you not know where he can be found?¡± Royce pressed.
¡°The one you owe money?¡± Angelius grinned at Royce. ¡°Since you are in a hurry, leave the coin with me, and I will get it to him.¡±
Royce clapped slowly. ¡°How nice. The destitute rat seller can afford a sense of humor.¡±
¡°Honestly, Royce, why are you depressed?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Would you have been happier if she had slapped you?¡± He stuffed the last of his meal into his mouth. It was bigger than he¡¯d expected, and Hadrian struggled to chew it into submission.
Royce stared at him for a moment with an expression of astonished disgust. ¡°I would have preferred not to have made a fool of myself.¡±
¡°Oh, I see,¡± Angelius nodded gravely. ¡°Are you that bad at kissing?¡±
¡°¡¯Ertainly ¡¯asn¡¯t ¡¯ad much ¡¯actice,¡± Hadrian managed to say.
Angelius nodded. ¡°But then how does anyone really know? Women tend to be kind about such things. They never tell the truth because they know how
much it would hurt. My Velencia, she?¡ª¡±
¡°That¡¯s not what I meant,¡± Royce said.
¡°What do you mean?¡± Hadrian asked, having swallowed the last of his food.
Royce¡¯s face tightened, then he glared down at Angelius. ¡°How about this. Tell me where I can find Gravis Berling, or I¡¯ll kill you and all your surviving brothers and provide the world with true justice by letting the rats feast on your remains out of an unmarked jar. And trust me I¡¯m serious this time.¡±
Angelius shook his head. ¡°Threatening me will not help. I have no idea where to find the last Berling. I doubt anyone does now.¡±
¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±
¡°Have you not heard the rumors? Gravis was stripped of his position at the Great Towers. He vowed to take revenge at nearly every alehouse in the city, saying that if he couldn¡¯t have Drumindor, then no one would. Most thought it was bluster?¡ª?bitter ravings against a cruel world, but then . . .?¡± Angelius lowered his tone and in an ominous voice said, ¡°Then his wife died, and now he has nothing to live for. Many say there¡¯s nothing to stop him; he¡¯s got nothing to lose.¡±
¡°What can a single dwarf do against a fortress?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°He¡¯s no ordinary Dromeian. Gravis is a Berling. His family created Drumindor. All of them are geniuses, and he knows more about those towers than anyone alive. If he wants to, I believe Gravis could destroy this whole city. And I heard from Hiseron the Baker, who heard it from Danis the Butcher up on the sixth terrace, that Gravis has disappeared, gone underground as he prepares his abominable plans.¡±
¡°If that¡¯s so,¡± Royce asked. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you leaving town?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know if it is true. You hear all sorts of things on this street. Most of it is the talk of people trying to be noticed. And I can¡¯t just walk away. I have an excellent spot. And the fish is good, yes?¡±
¡°Absolutely,¡± Hadrian said.
Angelius smiled. ¡°See?¡± ?Then the smile faded.
¡°What?¡± Royce asked.
The Calian shook his head and shrugged as he looked up and down the street. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen a Dromeian in days.¡±
¡°Dwarfs, you mean?¡±
¡°Yes, but actually they¡¯re Belgriclungreians.¡±
¡°They¡¯re what now?¡±
¡°The Bels, Grics, Lungs, Doritheians, Nye, Derins, and the Brundenlins?¡ª?the seven clans of the Dromeians. But whatever you call them, I haven¡¯t seen many. Some are good customers, but for the last week or so, I¡¯ve not seen them. It makes a person wonder.¡±
¡°Wonder what?¡±
¡°What they know that we do not.¡±
When they got back, Royce and Hadrian discovered at least one dwarf that hadn¡¯t vanished. Gwen was in the courtyard speaking to Auberon.
The dwarf was once again in his billowy white cotton shirt, matching baggy trousers, and worn-out sandals. He wore the same straw hat with the blue feather, but this time he¡¯d pushed the front brim up in a friendly manner as he faced Gwen.
¡°We are so terribly sorry,¡± Gwen said, as if she were personally responsible for a death in Auberon¡¯s family. ¡°She¡¯s such a beautiful jungo plant, but I¡¯m worried. Some of her roots were torn. I wetted them and set her back in the pot as best, and as soon, as I could, but?¡ª?I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°There¡¯s no need to apologize,¡± Auberon said. He spoke with a well-worn accent only noticeable in some words and phrases, his tone gentle, almost tired, like the voice of an ancient tree. ¡°This isn¡¯t your fault. I¡¯m just pleased no one was hurt.¡±
Gwen would not be so easily consoled. ¡°Last night one of us should have stayed behind?¡ª?no, I should have watched over the house. I had no business going out like that. I was being selfish.¡±
Auberon shook his head. ¡°Not at all. This is my place, not yours. You¡¯re my guests and not responsible for protecting my property. It¡¯s my duty to safeguard you while you¡¯re under my roof. And usually that¡¯s not a problem. Tur has very little crime. This is . . .?¡± He spotted Royce and Hadrian entering the courtyard.
Gwen saw them, too, and her dour expression transformed into an excited smile. Hadrian read her body. She took a step and was about to run to Royce, then caught herself and stopped. ¡°How are you feeling, Royce?¡±
¡°Better,¡± he said, his eyes on the dwarf.
¡°Auberon, this is my partner, Royce,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Royce, meet our host.¡±
¡°Welcome to Tur,¡± the dwarf said and tipped the brim of his hat. Then he moved to the front door to study the frame. ¡°Sorry for the incident last night. Such a thing is . . . well, it¡¯s very strange.¡±
¡°Why strange?¡± Royce asked. ¡°In my experience, people are robbed all the time. Especially when they don¡¯t put locks on their doors or windows.¡±
Auberon continued to study the door. ¡°We¡¯re a small community. Most know the Turtle and me, so they leave us both alone. Besides, as I was just telling the lassie here, we don¡¯t normally see this sort of thing in Tur. Folks in these parts come in two flavors: the content and the lazy.¡± He turned and looked around the courtyard that, as far as Hadrian could tell, had been returned to perfect order. ¡°By the look of things, a lot of discontented ambition visited my house last night, and that is a very curious thing.¡±
¡°Have you eaten?¡± Gwen asked Royce, then looked at Hadrian. ¡°Has he?¡±
Hadrian shook his head. ¡°I tried. He refused.¡±
¡°Albert and I found a wonderful market just down the road. I got some grapes and crackers.¡± Gwen faced Royce with a smile as bright as the sun. ¡°We can wake up your stomach with that before trying anything more adventurous.¡± She grinned wider, then darted inside before Royce could protest.
Royce watched her leave, then once she was safely inside, he approached Auberon to speak more quietly. ¡°You¡¯re a dwarf?¡±
Auberon looked up and winked. ¡°You noticed that, did you? Was it the way I buckled my sandals that gave me away?¡±
¡°Ever heard of Gravis Berling?¡±
Auberon smiled, then chuckled. ¡°Normally, at this point, I¡¯d make a smart comment, like ¡®No, but have you heard of Herbert Cantrell?¡¯?¡±
¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±
¡°He¡¯s a farmer in Rhenydd.¡±
¡°What makes you think I¡¯ve heard of him?¡±
¡°Exactly. It¡¯s stupid to assume that everyone who lives in a certain place, or happens to be of the same race, knows each other.¡±
¡°But?¡±
¡°As it turns out, I do know him, but that¡¯s not a fair example given that he¡¯s sort of famous, or infamous, depending on which side of the fence you sit on.¡± Auberon ran his hand along the door frame, studying it, assessing damage.
¡°Do you know where he can be found?¡±
¡°These days?¡ª?usually in a bottle.¡±
¡°Can you tell us where he lives?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Nope. He used to sleep in a shack on the North Arm beach?¡ª?him and his wife Ena. When the Port Authority took his job, his rent was no longer covered by the DPAA. No job. No money for rent. No home.¡±
¡°We heard she died,¡± Hadrian said.
Auberon gave up on the door frame and sighed. ¡°Aye, she did that.¡±
¡°What about family? Brothers and sisters? Kids? Anything like that?¡±
Hadrian asked.
¡°Gravis and Ena never had any children. And he was an only child. Gravis was the last?¡ª?the last of the Berlings.¡±
Hadrian frowned at Royce. ¡°Fellow works his whole life, but only makes enough to live in a shack; they fire him for what seems like no good reason, and he¡¯s kicked out and his wife dies. I¡¯m starting to not like Lord Byron.¡±
¡°Oh, don¡¯t blame him, Hadrian,¡± Auberon said, now moving toward the once-toppled furniture that Gwen had set right during their absence. ¡°Berling could have had a nicer place, but he chose to live in that hovel. Couldn¡¯t get him to move. And Ena¡¯s death had nothing to do with Byron firing Gravis. Let¡¯s see, she died the night of the full moon, and he was driven from that shack about a week after Ena¡¯s death. And yes, things grew bad for him then, but Berling never so much as looked for another job.¡±
¡°I get the impression you don¡¯t like Gravis,¡± Royce said.
¡°Never cared for any of the Berlings. They¡¯re all too full of themselves, always have been. Andvari and Alberich may have been geniuses, but that well went dry thousands of years ago. And it was the hubris of Andvari and Mideon that ruined us. Their combined arrogance destroyed our ancient capital of Neith and set the rest of us on a doomed course. We Dromeians?¡ª?we weren¡¯t defeated by anyone but ourselves. And now, its gonna happen again.¡±
¡°What do you mean?¡± Royce asked.
¡°Since the Republic of Delgos was established, there¡¯s been a huge wave of dwarven immigration returning home. Most come back looking for a better life, but a few?¡ª?the loud ones?¡ª?chatter on about the Belgric Kingdom, and the good ole days of dwarven rule. That sort of talk doesn¡¯t fly so well in a republic. Gravis is one of those with a big mouth and a small brain. He¡¯s always spouting off about fighting to reestablish a long-dead and, quite frankly, pretty awful sovereignty. Gravis lost his livelihood, and poor Ena could have died in the street because Gravis was too proud to take a conventional job. He¡¯s a Berling, you see, and Berlings can¡¯t stoop to doing laundry, watering plants, or sweeping a floor. I have no patience for that kind of thinking. You do what you must to take care of you and yours.¡±
Hadrian saw the way Auberon looked around the courtyard as he spoke, and an idea clicked. ¡°You were one of those who offered him a job, weren¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I did. Not so much for his sake, but for hers. Even so, Ena wasn¡¯t innocent. The lass shoulda known better than to marry a Berling. Nothing good could have come from that.¡±
¡°So, you don¡¯t know where to find him?¡±
Auberon shrugged. ¡°I¡¯d look for any place willing to give away strong drink. But barring that, I suspect any vacant patch of gutter would be a good bet.¡± Auberon lifted his straw hat, revealing a balding head. He wiped the sweat from his brow then set the hat back, adjusting it level this time. ¡°Why do you ask?¡±
¡°We¡¯re supposed to have a talk with him,¡± Royce said.
¡°There¡¯s a rumor he might be planning something that could destroy the whole city,¡± Hadrian added.
The dwarf took a hard look at Hadrian then Royce, then slowly nodded. ¡°Uh-huh, I see. So, you¡¯re the muscle Byron hired?¡±
They didn¡¯t answer.
Auberon pointed at Hadrian. ¡°You¡¯re a swordsman, a good one, maybe a bit more than good. And you¡±¡ª?he gestured at Royce?¡ª?¡°you¡¯d be the cutthroat. The one who says talk when he means kill.¡± He moved to the table and adjusted the placement of one of the chairs. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m old. I¡¯ve seen a lot?¡ª?too much, really. On the other hand, the both of you are still young. So let me give a bit of advice that I wish I¡¯d had when I was your age: find a new line of work. Doesn¡¯t have to be fancy. You don¡¯t need to make a lot of money?¡ª?just enough to live a simple life. Do something you like, more than one thing even, so you don¡¯t get bored, but be sure whatever you do is something you can be happy to tell your children and grandchildren about.¡± He looked at the open doorway to the Turtle. ¡°And as my people are fond of saying, yer aff yer heid if you don¡¯t take good care of that fine lassie you¡¯ve got in there. She¡¯s a keeper, she is, and it would be worth making a change for her.¡±
Auberon moved to where they had stacked up the remains of the broken pottery and sighed.
¡°I¡¯m sure Lord Byron will be willing to pay for any damages,¡± Hadrian said.
¡°Not his fault.¡± Auberon bent down and lifted two shattered pieces of clay. ¡°But someone certainly made a mistake. I¡¯ll find out who that was, then he and I . . . well . . .?¡± Auberon winked at Royce. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll have a wee talk.¡±
V3: Chapter 13 Auberon
Gwen invited Auberon to stay for supper. With Albert¡¯s help, she had purchased something she¡¯d never seen before: a dark-skinned fish the size of a small calf with a blade-like snout about the length of a good hand-and-a-half sword. The thing was so heavy it had to be carted to the Turtle on a wagon and lifted out by three men.
¡°Please stay,¡± she had begged Auberon. ¡°We have a lot of fish. Not sure what I was thinking.¡±
After admitting she had no experience cooking such a beast, Auberon agreed to stay, if only to make certain the fish was well prepared, and the leftovers properly stored. ¡°You take an animal¡¯s life, then you have an obligation to make its death worth something. And I have some experience with fish.¡±
He butchered the monster out in the courtyard, put the numerous thick pieces on a saltwater-soaked, five-foot cedar board that could have had a previous life as the bottom of a sea chest. Then, as he got coals ready in the courtyard¡¯s open-air hearth, he had them gather lemons from the tree and dill from plants near the door. He added that to the fish, then he put the whole thing over the smoldering coals and covered it with a metal lid. In about an hour, the fish was done.
The day was fading when they all sat at the supper table. The dazzling lightshow that was sunset sliced through the Turtle¡¯s massive windows, turning the whole place golden. Albert pulled the cork on a single bottle of wine, which was more than needed, as no one was in much of a drinking mood. Royce looked like he might kill Albert when the viscount poured him a glass.
¡°This is incredible, Gwen,¡± Arcadius said, smacking his lips in delight. ¡°Better than The Blue Parrot.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t look at me. Auberon is the chef. I invited him to supper, and he went ahead and made the whole meal. And thank Maribor he did. I¡¯m certain I would have desecrated this poor fish.¡± She looked at the dwarf. ¡°I¡¯m not a great cook, you see. I just know I¡¯m better than them.¡±
Albert nodded at Auberon as he swallowed. ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware your people were such wonderful chefs.¡±
Auberon smiled politely, and Gwen closed her eyes and shook her head.
¡°What?¡± The viscount looked surprised. ¡°It¡¯s true, isn¡¯t it? Dwarfs are known for metal crafting and stonework, but no one ever speaks about their talent for food.¡±
¡°And all women are great at cooking, and Calians are known for fortune telling and haggling, right?¡±
Albert stared back at her, flummoxed. ¡°But you just said you¡¯re better at cooking than we are, and you¡¯re a very good businesswoman, and you¡¯ve been known to tell fortunes.¡±
Gwen rolled her eyes while Albert continued to look lost.
¡°I believe that what the lady is saying,¡± Auberon ventured, ¡°is that it might be wise to withhold judgment on a whole nation of people and instead stick with evaluating the person in front of you based on their own merits and not the track record of hearsay.¡±
¡°Exactly,¡± Gwen said. ¡°And the only reason I can cook better than the rest of you is because you¡¯re all too lazy to learn.¡±
¡°When we camp on a job, I cook,¡± Hadrian declared. ¡°I think I do pretty well.¡±
Royce coughed like he might choke.
The dwarf took a sip from his wine and wiped his mustache and beard. ¡°As for me, I couldn¡¯t smith a doorknob or build so much as a stone step. Never had the talent.¡±
¡°I thought you . . .?¡± Hadrian looked around. ¡°Didn¡¯t you build this?¡±
¡°The Turtle?¡± Auberon shook his head. ¡°No. This place was carved out of these cliffs thousands of years ago by the Brundenlins.¡± He pointed at Royce. ¡°That¡¯s the clan your Gravis Berling hails from. While the rest of the Dromeians were content to live up north in Neith, sleeping over the grave of Thane Dorith, the Brundenlins were never known to be content. They also didn¡¯t like bowing to the Doritheians. They came down here, and once Mount Druma was tamed, they built these. That was the start of the Golden Age, as they call it. The time of Andvari Berling and King Mideon, who did away with the old thanes and created the First Kingdom.¡± The dwarf took another bite and sat back, his eyes looking out the front windows at the sunset over the harbor. White boats bobbed in gilded water, and the twin towers of Drumindor stood black, casting huge shadows on the city.
¡°Have you always been a fisherman?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Me? Oh, no. I¡¯m certain you¡¯re a better cook than I am a fisherman. I rarely catch anything and hardly ever keep the fish when I do. I just like being out in my little boat all alone, rocking on the ocean, rolling over the waves, and listening to the wind and the gulls. It¡¯s peaceful out there.¡±
¡°So, what did you used to do?¡±
Auberon sucked in his lower lip and looked back out the window. ¡°That¡¯s a long story.¡±
¡°I love stories,¡± Gwen said.
¡°But this one involves a lot of sad, dwarven history. No one likes that?¡ª?not even dwarfs. I think it¡¯s sufficient to say I¡¯m not from here. I was born up north, near Lanksteer in the Dithmar Range. That¡¯s where a lot of dwarven families relocated after the Old Empire annexed Belgric back in 1912.¡±
They all stared in shock, which caused Auberon to chuckle. He stroked his white beard, lifted his straw hat, and scratched his balding head. ¡°I know I look ancient, but I¡¯m not that old. Despite what you may have heard, Dromeians don¡¯t have the lifespan of a mountain. Twas my grandparents who moved us. And I¡¯ve done a great many things; I just never had a use or talent for the pick or hammer.¡±
And Hadrian couldn¡¯t say he had much talent for numbers, but given that 1912 was well over a thousand years ago, he didn¡¯t think grandparents solved the riddle. ¡°So, then, the little symbols on the walls in each room. They were already here?¡±
Auberon lowered his head and looked at the table. ¡°No, I painted those.¡± He lifted his sleeve to reveal the same markings tattooed on his arm. ¡°As you can see, I¡¯m not much of an artist, either.¡±
¡°What¡¯s it mean?¡± Albert asked.
Auberon hesitated.
¡°Has it ever crossed your mind, Albert,¡± Gwen said, ¡°that people don¡¯t generally put permanent marks on their bodies as a lark? Usually what they mean is personal. You might as well ask Auberon if he dresses to the left or the right.¡±
Albert¡¯s eyes grew in comprehension. ¡°Oh. Sorry.¡±
While this appeared to clear up the matter as far as the viscount and Gwen were concerned, Hadrian, Royce, Arcadius, and even Auberon looked mystified.
¡°Do you mean which leg he puts in his trousers first?¡± Hadrian asked.
Gwen closed her eyes and lowered her head. ¡°No,¡± she said, ¡°just let it go. We have a guest.¡±
Everyone looked at Albert, who smiled back. ¡°It¡¯s something a tailor would ask before taking the inseam measurement for trousers, preferring to do his work on the, ah¡±¡ª?he glanced at Gwen?¡ª?¡°unoccupied side.¡±
Gwen groaned.
¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± Auberon said. ¡°The tattoo?¡ª?it¡¯s a simple symbol because I¡¯m a lousy artist. It¡¯s my family. The tall line with the circle above is my dear wife, and the two shorter ones on either side are my sons. They died many years ago.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Gwen told him.
Auberon nodded. ¡°Aye, so am I.¡±
Royce never felt he knew a place until he saw it from above. The slopes, walls, primary arteries, choke points, and vulnerabilities of a city were best viewed from rooftops and only at night. A man standing on a high point during the day was a thing of curiosity. People pointed, gawked, and shouted, but at night, no one could see him. Paired against the black sky, he was invisible and free to study the playing field below. That¡¯s how he saw it, because someone was definitely playing a game with him.
This was no great feat of awareness. His opponent wasn¡¯t being subtle, which meant his adversary had no worries about repercussions. This either meant his enemy had no idea who Royce was, or knew but didn¡¯t care. The former would be his challenger¡¯s mistake, the latter, his. This left Royce with the age-old puzzle: who, what, and why. These sorts of riddles were best wrestled with on rooftops, where he could be alone with his thoughts.
That evening, after they said goodnight to Auberon, and as the others slept, Royce had slipped out and perched himself on the dome of a building that shared a wall with the Turtle; all the buildings in Tur Del Fur were connected in some fashion. From this vantage point, Royce could see how the rolkins had been carved from the same cliff. Each were individual residences but contiguous parts of one sculpture. Walls and stairs formed connecting tissue, and the multitude of narrow streets below looked like the tracks on a single worm-eaten board.
Trekking around the city in his cloak all day had sweated out the remainder of the wine and cleared Royce¡¯s head. Supper had replenished his strength. Now, the night air was breathing life back into his spirit. He knew he needed to think, but his mind continued to slip back to the same topic, which didn¡¯t help at all.
Royce had woken to regret, knowing he¡¯d made a fool of himself with Gwen.
I think I danced with her!
Blessedly, that part wasn¡¯t so clear. All he remembered were lots of shadows, soft whispering music, and holding Gwen obscenely close as they swayed together. He recalled the press of her body, the contours, the softness. Royce had no idea how long they¡¯d danced, who may have seen them, or what else he may have done. But one thing was undeniable.
I kissed her.
He was certain of that. The kiss stood out bright as the sun?¡ª?too intense to look at straight on or think about directly. His pickled brain had formed its own blurred tribute of an instant too beautiful to ruin by study. Better
that he remembered the myth?¡ª?a singular moment of purity and passion that transcended every other experience in his life. And as Hadrian pointed out, Gwen didn¡¯t appear to mind. As hard as it was to fathom, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit she actually seemed to like it. This was revelatory, and like everything connected with Gwen, wholly unexpected.
But kissing her had crossed a line, a dangerous one.
Over the years and despite all efforts to restrain himself, his feelings for Gwen had grown. The two of them got along well. She was comfortable, and he enjoyed her company, which was rare since he hated most people. They shared a kinship of sorts. Gwen hadn¡¯t talked much about her past, just enough for Royce to know the woman¡¯s life wasn¡¯t a parade of candies, cakes, and compliments. Her mother had fled Calis when Gwen was just eleven, never giving an explanation. Alone, the two had traveled hundreds of miles down dangerous roads into an unknown region where their kind weren¡¯t received with welcome arms. Then, somewhere around Vernes, her mother had died. Royce didn¡¯t know how old Gwen was when she joined the bursting ranks of the officially orphaned, only that she was too young to be on her own. While Royce had always been alone, his youth must have been easier. A poor, attractive, foreign girl abandoned in the wilderness of ruthless men made his days of competing with gutter rats for meals seem rosy.
Royce had known multitudes of men and women forced to face terrible hardships, but few had done so with the grace, wit, and intelligence that Gwen exhibited. And none of them had ever come through the sewer smelling sweet, their dignity and humanity still intact. Gwen had. He admired that in her. She was a better person than he, better than anyone he¡¯d ever met.
How it was that such a lady as Gwendolyn DeLancy could see him as anything but disgusting was right up there with why the sky is blue. And it wasn¡¯t simply that she thought he was a few shades lighter than deplorable. Gwen genuinely respected him in much the same way he esteemed her. This incomprehensible, wide-eyed admiration granted Royce an invitation into the land of dignity and self-respect that had always been locked behind garden gates. When he was with her, he felt important, smart, and as ridiculous as it seemed?¡ª?good. In her eyes at least, he was a hero of sorts, and through that colored glass he saw a future that wasn¡¯t dark and tragic; he spied a reflection of himself that was more than a mistake. But with this treasured gift came the desperate fear of ruining everything. Royce was terrified of falling from his pedestal and seeing that look of respect fade forever from her eyes.
Of course, there was an outside chance that while inebriated, he had been suave, and eloquent, dashing, attractive, and . . . and with enough yarn, cows might learn to knit sweaters.
He sighed till his shoulders slumped, then took a deep breath.
I need to stop this. I have to think.
Too much was happening. Royce was a man in a forest, single-mindedly gathering wood for a fire while ignoring the ceaseless snapping and rustling all around. He had stabbed a man in the throat, but not only had this not ended a life, the ought-to-be-dead man followed him halfway across the world to offer him a job. The sheer number of inexplicable issues arising from that one set of events was mind-boggling enough to make him wonder if Hadrian wasn¡¯t right about it being a dream. Now, they had only just arrived, and someone had invaded and searched the house they rented, and he hadn¡¯t a clue who it might be or why they had done it. Nothing was taken, so it wasn¡¯t a petty robbery. No one was hurt and no threat made, which meant it wasn¡¯t intimidation. No effort had been made to hide the act, so secrecy wasn¡¯t a concern.
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Who were they? What did they want? And did they get it?
Since Royce and the others had only just arrived, and they hadn¡¯t done anything unusual it seemed unlikely that any of them were the target.
Perhaps the search has nothing to do with us. Auberon is a shady character with an unexplained past, and after all, it¡¯s his rolkin. We might be the unlucky bystanders in a local clan war. Or maybe Angelius is right, and someone is just looking for the courier¡¯s missing package.
These were bizarrely optimistic ideas, and Royce shooed them away, attributing the thoughts to the lingering effects of poisoning his mind with wine. Instead, he concluded he knew two things. First, the incursion had been timed for when the Turtle was empty, which meant someone had been watching their movements. Second, Royce had insufficient information to reach a reasonable conclusion on anything else. This total ignorance led to his roosting on the rooftop that night. He hoped that whoever had been watching was still at it. There was a chance Royce might obtain the answers needed by polite inquiry. But if he were lucky, it would take more than merely asking.
Overhead, in the star-filled sky, half a moon had reached its high point, casting a cold silvery radiance in a line across the ocean and illuminating the whitewashed roofs and walls of the city. Beneath Royce, some lanterns still burned, casting a warm yellow glow. He found an unexpected beauty in the contrast, a statement shouted at the night?¡ª?an echo lingering from centuries before when dwarfs first made a campfire on those shores and declared they would stay.
Royce had never cared for the diminutive, devious crafters. Like barking dogs and track-revealing fallen snow, they served as awful obstacles to his trade by creating doors and boxes impossible to open. And yet he had to admire the work done here: the cliff dwellings and of course, the massive towers?¡ª?a pair of dark, giant legs straddling the headlands?¡ª?shadows too big to be real.
How long had it taken? How much labor went into such a feat? How had this warren of roads, stairs, and buildings managed to fit together so perfectly? And most of all . . . How did they carve two towers from one volcano and tame the beast in the process?
Tur Del Fur, however, wasn¡¯t all starlight and ocean breezes. There was also ugliness. In the streets below, he witnessed the dark side of life in paradise. Two rolkins down, a couple were fighting in their courtyard. She complained he drank too much.
Just like home, Royce thought.
A while later, a trio of barefoot young men in shorts?¡ª?two topless, one in a cheap vest?¡ª?walked through the city, toppling rain barrels and ripping down awnings. Then they broke a window with a potted palm. The noise was almost as loud as the woman¡¯s scream, and the perpetrators raced off, laughing maniacally.
After that, another couple who was taking a late stroll paused beneath the single lantern at the four-way intersection. The man knelt and held up a small object. The woman whispered something and nodded. Then in that pool of light, they embraced, kissed, and hadn¡¯t stopped for over an hour. At last check, the man¡¯s shirt was off, and the straps of the woman¡¯s dress were heading that way. This left Royce wondering how wise a decision the woman had made if the wretch couldn¡¯t afford so much as a room.
Then, of course, there were the two quiet watchers?¡ª?both reflections of himself. One sat on the public terrace bench outside the Turtle¡¯s gate. He wore a night uniform: clothes that were dark but not quite black and loose enough to provide ease of movement but cinched at the cuffs. He rarely moved.
The other watcher remained farther out. He was down the zigzagging stairs, so far away that he appeared little more than a shadow even to Royce¡¯s eyes. The first watched the Turtle, the second watched the first. Both had been there nearly as long as Royce, showing up just after moonrise. Neither appeared to notice him.
Dropping down off the dome on the far side, Royce circled around, staying low. He moved to the back of the terrace, judging his position by way of the swaying palm that grew next to the bench. Then, silent as a mute cat, he crept over directly behind Watcher-number-one and placed Alverstone to the man¡¯s neck.
¡°Why are you watching the Turtle?¡± Royce didn¡¯t need to say more. Explanations wouldn¡¯t be necessary. The man on the bench was a professional.
¡°What do you mean?¡± the watcher replied, unperturbed. ¡°I¡¯m just out for
some air.¡±
¡°Answer the question.¡±
¡°Why?¡± the watcher asked.
Royce didn¡¯t like the man¡¯s attitude. He was far too relaxed, too confident.
I¡¯m missing something.
He glanced down the street, but Watcher-number-two hadn¡¯t moved. Royce could now also see he didn¡¯t look to be in the same league. Watcher-number-two was dressed more like the three kids who had broken the window, except for the hooded cape he used to hide in.
Not a professional.
Didn¡¯t matter. Realizing Royce was looking at him, Watcher-number-two fled.
It¡¯s not him. There¡¯s something else.
¡°You don¡¯t want to kill me,¡± the man on the bench said. ¡°Do that, and you¡¯ll have to drag my body all the way down to the harbor to dump it. That¡¯s a lot of work, and you¡¯re here on holiday.¡±
From the arched doorway of the neighbor¡¯s gate, Royce noticed movement. A third player in that evening¡¯s theater appeared. He stepped into the moonlight like an actor making an ominous entrance on stage. Dressed like his compatriot, he had added to that ensemble by accessorizing it with a standard-issue crossbow aimed at Royce.
¡°Now,¡± Watcher-number-one said, ¡°how about you take that dagger away from my throat? I have some questions for you.¡±
Thwack!
Royce instinctively pulled back, dodging at the sound but knowing he was too late. At that range, he didn¡¯t stand a chance. His final thought was one of utter bewilderment.
Why¡¯d you kill me if you wanted answers?
But it wasn¡¯t Royce¡¯s last thought.
Instead, the crossbowman collapsed. He hit the stone with a grunt. That¡¯s when his still-loaded weapon fired. The bolt cracked against the terrace wall two feet to Royce¡¯s left. Behind the dead crossbowman stood another, much shorter, person.
Auberon emerged from the same shadowed doorway. Without taking his eyes off them, he reloaded his weapon with the same degree of expertise as a grandmother of ten who sewed socks. In seconds, he was lethal again.
¡°You don¡¯t have to haul bodies from here,¡± Auberon explained. ¡°I usually just throw them over the wall behind you. They tumble right into the water near pier five. A fishhook and drag line will take them out to deep water. Sharks love ¡¯em.¡±
The dwarf pointed his bow at Watcher-number-one.
¡°Wait!¡± Royce said. He was feeling like a waiter holding too many plates and having more thrust at him. For a sleepy harbor town, Tur Del Fur was turning out to be absolutely hectic, and Royce still wasn¡¯t one hundred percent.
Auberon lowered the bow, surprised. ¡°Friend of yours, is he?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Good.¡± Up came the bow again.
¡°Wait, I said!¡±
¡°For what?¡±
¡°I¡¯m trying to get some information here.¡±
¡°Really?¡± Auberon narrowed his eyes. ¡°What do you want to know?¡±
¡°To start with, who he is and who he works for.¡±
¡°His name is Ellis Pratt, and he works for Cornelius DeLur. Need to know his shoe size, too? No? Then we¡¯re done here.¡±
¡°Stop!¡± Royce growled.
¡°This fella invaded me house, broke me pot, the dolphin¡¯s tail, and tore up me jungo plant.¡±
¡°Do you also know why?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t care. I live here in Tur. My houses and boat are off limits. Everyone knows that. Now, I have a reputation to uphold. If I don¡¯t, worse might happen.¡±
¡°If he kills me,¡± Pratt said, ¡°The Company will assume it was Royce Melborn who did it, and they¡¯ll come for you. If I live, I can report that it was the crazy old dwarf who murdered Vigus.¡±
¡°Murdered?¡± Royce said. ¡°The man had a crossbow aimed at me.¡±
¡°And you had a dagger at my throat.¡±
¡°So, there aren¡¯t any innocent murder victims here, now are there?¡±
¡°Did I mention the sharks?¡± Auberon said. ¡°These two trespassers weren¡¯t murdered. They just disappeared. Maybe they joined the pirates and had a wonderful career in the unorthodox maritime acquisition trade. No bodies, nothing to blame on you.¡±
¡°Look,¡± Royce said, ¡°efficacy and expediency are all fine and good, but there is an art to this. I have a list of questions that I need addressed.¡±
Auberon frowned and rolled his eyes, then he turned to Pratt. ¡°Go on then. Tell the man your shoe size so we can get you rolling down the terraces.¡±
¡°Why should I answer any questions if the dwarf is going to kill me anyway?¡±
¡°We¡¯ll all make a deal,¡± Royce explained.
¡°I don¡¯t like deals,¡± the dwarf said. ¡°People go back on promises all the time, but no one cheats death.¡±
I used to believe that, too, Royce thought with a wistful nostalgia for simpler days.
¡°A lack of information can be as deadly as a weakened reputation. Now consider this. We let Pratt live, in exchange for him telling us what they were after, and for assurance that neither you, nor I, nor anyone staying with us will regret letting him go.¡±
¡°That¡¯d be fine,¡± Pratt said. ¡°If I trusted your word.¡±
¡°Trust my word?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Where¡¯d you get that from, some old poem? You¡¯re either going to be a late-night meal for a family of sharks, or you¡¯ll tell me something no one cares about that might save your life. Tough choice, I know.¡±
¡°I still don¡¯t like deals,¡± Auberon said. ¡°This bastard tried to kill Daisy. Poor thing still might die.¡±
¡°Who¡¯s Daisy?¡± Royce asked.
¡°The jungo plant.¡±
Royce tilted his head in disbelief. ¡°You have a tropical plant named Daisy?¡±
¡°Is that a problem?¡±
¡°Probably, but thankfully, not mine.¡± Royce turned to Pratt. ¡°Well?¡±
¡°Fine. We were sent to find a book.¡±
¡°What book?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t look at me,¡± Pratt said. ¡°I can¡¯t even read.¡±
¡°How were you going to identify this prize, then?¡±
¡°I¡¯m illiterate, not stupid. I know what a book is.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have a book.¡±
¡°Figured you¡¯d say that, which is why we didn¡¯t knock and ask politely.¡±
Royce frowned, then faced Auberon. ¡°I want him to go back and report to DeLur that I said I don¡¯t have this book.¡±
¡°And I¡¯d rather he didn¡¯t go back and report that I killed the other one.¡±
¡°Why not? Thought you had a reputation to uphold. How does that work if Pratt and Vigus have a wonderful career in the unorthodox maritime acquisition trade? Besides, Mister Pratt here is going to do his very best to convince Cornelius to let this killing go.¡±
¡°Why is that?¡± Auberon asked. ¡°Once he¡¯s gone, he¡¯s gone.¡±
¡°I¡¯m a bit curious about that myself,¡± Pratt said.
Royce moved around in front of Pratt. ¡°Cornelius warned you about me. Did he happen to mention why?¡±
Pratt shook his head. ¡°Just told us not to underestimate a fella named Royce. Which I assume is you.¡±
Royce grinned, feeling considerably better about everything. If Pratt and Vigus were kept in the dark, then Cornelius DeLur considered them expendable. The Big Guy wouldn¡¯t risk a war over the likes of them.
¡°And I¡¯m guessing the name Royce Melborn means nothing to you?¡±
Pratt nodded.
¡°Then let me offer another name that you might be more familiar with, a name that will provide you with a better understanding of the situation and why you might want to assure your boss that Vigus wasn¡¯t murdered after all.¡± Royce leaned in close. ¡°Up north, they call me . . . Duster.¡±
It took a second, then Pratt¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°How do I know you¡¯re him?¡±
Royce threw back the shoulder of his cloak, loosened the ties at his shirt collar, and exposed his shoulder. ¡°Because there is only one living person with this brand that isn¡¯t in Manzant.¡±
Pratt stared at the scarred flesh in the shape of a stylized letter M and nodded.
¡°Now, if Cornelius tries to punish Auberon, or causes harm to me or anyone in my party, I¡¯ll respond in kind, but rest assured you¡¯ll be at the top of the list. Now tell me, Pratt, when you get back, what will you tell the Big Guy?¡±
¡°That Vigus decided he¡¯d rather try a career in the maritime acquisition trade.¡±
They didn¡¯t need to bother with the crossbowman¡¯s body. Pratt took care of it with the sort of professionalism that made Royce wonder if he had underestimated the man. Royce certainly overestimated his ties to his partner, whose remains he treated like a sack of refuse.
Ultimately, Royce concluded that his night had been well spent. The what remained a little vague, and the why was just as much a mystery as it had always been. But the who, at least, was answered, which also explained the lack of subtlety. His adversary, it turned out, wasn¡¯t a fool. They knew each other¡¯s reputations well, but as Cornelius DeLur was as powerful as any king, fear of Royce Melborn didn¡¯t rank high on the Big Man¡¯s list.
Although, now Royce had another puzzle to work on.
¡°Who are you?¡± he asked Auberon once the two were back in the Turtle¡¯s courtyard, which now felt like a fortress.
¡°You¡¯re a bit young to be going senile,¡± Auberon replied. ¡°We¡¯ve already met. Maybe you should keep a notebook.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re not nearly senile enough to not know what I¡¯m talking about. What is your occupation? Your trade? You¡¯re not a fisherman, and you crossed out all the other traditional dwarven occupations.¡±
¡°I¡¯m old. I don¡¯t do anything anymore.¡±
¡°So, what did you used to do?¡±
Auberon looked at the house and sighed. ¡°I used to be stupid. And I was very good at it, too.¡±
¡°Where¡¯d you get the crossbow?¡±
¡°This?¡± Auberon lifted it into the moonlight. ¡°Got it off my boat. This here is my fishing rod.¡± He smiled at Royce. ¡°Got some real nasty fish down here.¡± He winked.
¡°Not going to tell me, are you?¡±
¡°How I wasted nearly four hundred years of my life? No. I¡¯d rather not. It¡¯s a miserable story anyway, starring an idiot who lost everything while chasing an impossible dream. The sort of tale that old people bore young people to tears with, and I¡¯m done making mistakes like that. Point of fact, I¡¯m just about done with everything. I¡¯ll be four hundred and sixty later this year, and while my ancestors were rumored to have lived past five hundred, these days I¡¯m considered ancient for a dwarf. I don¡¯t have much time left, and I plan to use it wisely. But if you¡¯d like to thank me for the help, I¡¯m all ears.¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t in any danger.¡±
¡°They had a crossbow on you.¡±
¡°They wanted information just as much as I did. No need to kill me for that.¡±
Auberon stroked his beard while he eyed Royce. ¡°You part of that crowd? Is that how you¡¯re so sure?¡±
Royce nodded. ¡°I was. I used to work for Cornelius¡¯s son, Cosmos, up in Colnora. They have a different crew down here?¡ª?not a thieves¡¯ guild because Cornelius owns this place. So they¡¯re more like his personal constabulary.¡±
¡°You were in Cosmos¡¯s Black Diamond?¡±
Royce nodded.
¡°But not anymore?¡±
Royce shook his head.
¡°Didn¡¯t know you could quit.¡±
¡°Neither did they.¡±
¡°Well, if it helps you sleep,¡± Auberon said, ¡°I used to do something sort of like that, only bloodier, uglier, and ultimately way less profitable. But just like you, it¡¯s behind me. Now if you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯m going to go and water Daisy. Poor girl has been through a lot.¡±
V3: Chapter Fourteen The Missing
Scram Scallie was packed. This was no great feat since a capacity crowd numbered only a dozen warm bodies, but that night, two dozen and more squeezed in through the ancient stone door. A larger venue ought to have been chosen, but the little alehouse was the only place near the center of town that every Dromeian knew but the big folk didn¡¯t.
Everyone but Gravis was there for the meeting; he came for a drink.
¡°All the drain lines are nearly blocked from Tier Seven to Tier Five,¡± Copper Pot said. His real name was Niblangree Optimverganon, but only his mother ever called him that, and it was suggested, by more than a few, that she had only gone to the trouble on his first birthday and regretted doing so ever since. ¡°While I can¡¯t say, because I haven¡¯t looked at ¡¯em me self, it would be my assumption that most of the drains are in dire need of a washout.¡±
¡°The freshwater lines are even worse than the sewers.¡± ?Trig the Elder leaned in at this point. ¡°The Alabaster Chute portion of duct-line seven had a cave-in. Nothing devastating, mind you. Happens all the time. Roots push through the soil and rock, and then runoff gets in there and erodes the ceiling. The Chute is a special problem because it draws from the hot springs, and with that, you also get steam, which can be mischievous. Normally, I¡¯d have sent a team in to reinforce the section and clear the debris, but acourse we¡¯re not doing that. And while the Alabaster Chute isn¡¯t the only blocked or clogged feed, that chute services the baths, and problems there . . . well, that¡¯s something the scallie notice. They go in to soak and find the basins barely deep enough to cover their knees.¡±
¡°What about drinking water?¡± Sloan asked.
Trig cleared his throat. ¡°Tur¡¯s not likely to ever run out of that. The ancient runs are nearly foolproof, but the end lines, the ones that go from the big channels to the homes, those might be impacted. I know that cutting off fresh water was what you were hoping for most. An inability to drink would put the fear of Drome in the scallie, but it¡¯s not likely to happen, and that¡¯s probably for the best. You don¡¯t want to be losing the primes. A lack of potable water out here, with all these people, would be more than dangerous. Whether you¡¯re Dromeian or human, no one can last long without potable water.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not working, not having enough of an impact.¡± Sloan leaned hard on the bar. ¡°I thought they would come around, ask for help, but they haven¡¯t.¡±
¡°And didn¡¯t I tell you it wouldn¡¯t work?¡± Gravis said. He was on his fourth pint and had never been a big drinker, though he was getting plenty of practice lately. Bubbles or no, the ale went to his head and loosened his tongue. The normally taciturn descendant of Andvari and Alberich Berling was becoming more opinionated every day.
¡°You also said you were going to steal Drumindor, now didn¡¯t you, Berling?¡± Baric shouted at him. ¡°Well, what happened with that plan? Towers are still there, aren¡¯t they? Sloan here is trying to actually do something. You, on the other hand, just talk and talk. Big words always coming out of your little mouth, but you never do anything.¡±
¡°Leave him be, Baric,¡± Sloan said. ¡°He¡¯s right. He did tell me it wouldn¡¯t work. And it hasn¡¯t. It¡¯s as if they¡¯ve forgotten we exist.¡±
¡°That¡¯s your fault, not theirs,¡± Auberon said. He was near the door. Either the ancient one had slipped in late or just liked to be near the exit. At the sound of his voice, the room went silent.
¡°Auberon,¡± Sloan said, surprised. ¡°I wondered if ya would come.¡±
¡°You invited me, didn¡¯t you?¡±
¡°I did.¡± She nodded and gathered herself. ¡°And what do ya mean by, it¡¯s my fault?¡±
The old dwarf with the sunbaked skin and pure white beard took another step into the room. He was what the word ancient was invented for, and yet he managed to stand straighter than any other in the room. ¡°Everyone¡¯s underground,¡± he said. ¡°That was your plan, yes?¡±
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Sloan nodded.
¡°Smart idea. You never know how things will turn out, so it¡¯s best not to leave families vulnerable to revenge or to be used as bargaining chips. But the problem is, you didn¡¯t leave anyone topside for them to negotiate with. With the complete absence of Dromeians, they think we¡¯ve left.¡±
¡°Left?¡± Sloan stared, confused. ¡°Where would we go? This is our home.¡±
¡°They don¡¯t see it that way. All they know is the dwarfs are gone, which is what they wanted all along.¡±
Sloan studied the bar counter for answers. ¡°Maybe I should go and talk ta them,¡± Sloan said. ¡°Perhaps I should . . .?¡±
She looked up to see what everyone else saw: Auberon shaking his head.
¡°No?¡±
¡°You go down there as spokesperson and they¡¯ll target you as a leader or, more accurately, an agitator. Appear before the Triumvirate and lay out an ultimatum, and they will see an insurrectionist intent on starting a revolution?¡ª?an enemy. You want to start a war, that¡¯s a good way to go about it.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t want a war.¡±
¡°I know you don¡¯t, and that¡¯s good. Wars never achieve the goals that start them, but they do make living with the prior problems more palatable by comparison.¡±
¡°What should we do?¡±
Auberon shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m the last person to ask. More than anyone here, I¡¯ve proven I¡¯m an idiot. And only a fool would ever take my advice.¡±
¡°Yer the wisest person I¡¯ve ever known,¡± Sloan said with a sincerity that no one hearing those words could doubt.
Auberon nodded. ¡°You should get out more.¡±
She continued to stare at him with desperation in her eyes.
¡°That¡¯s what I came to say. Listen or not. Good luck to you,¡± Auberon said. ¡°To all of you.¡± And with that, he made use of his proximity to the exit and walked out the door.
Sloan continued to stare at the place where the ancient one had stood.
¡°We need to let them know we¡¯re still here,¡± Kiln said.
Sloan nodded. ¡°But how do we do that? How do we stand up for ourselves?¡ª?how do we demand fairness without appearing to threaten them?¡±
¡°Everything frightens the scallie,¡± ?Trig the Elder said.
Sloan had her towel over her shoulder, and she walked out from behind the bar. The place was packed tight, but they made room for her to pass. She wasn¡¯t going anywhere, just walking and thinking. Then some of those thoughts spilled out of her mouth. ¡°We need ta show them we¡¯re still here . . . we need ta show them . . .?¡± She stopped, her eyes shifting left and right. ¡°But we also need ta show them who we are.¡±
¡°I think they know that,¡± Baric said.
¡°No, they don¡¯t.¡± Sloan¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°All they know are the stories?¡ª?the bad ones. The tales of Gronbach. All they ever see are dwarfs scurrying about like rats?¡ª?fixing this, tinkering with that. We¡¯ve become fairy tales ta them?¡ª?and cautionary ones. We need ta show them we¡¯re more than that. We need to show them our true history in all its glory.¡±
¡°Got a crystal ball, do you?¡± Gravis asked. ¡°Even if you have, how would that help?¡±
Sloan looked at the floor. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°Bah!¡± Gravis waved a dismissive hand.
¡°Aw, go and be on your way, Berling!¡± Baric shouted at him. ¡°Be off?¡ª?you and your mouth. Don¡¯t you have a pair of towers to steal?¡±
¡°Baric, please.¡± Sloan said gently, trying to make him heel.
¡°He¡¯s no right to denounce anyone,¡± Baric went right on. ¡°The dwarf is a bag of air. He blows out all manner of grand talk, but he hasn¡¯t the courage to act. I pity you, Berling, I truly do. You¡¯ve only ever been good at being a cog in a machine, and now here you are without any teeth.¡±
Gravis wanted to remove a few of Baric¡¯s teeth, but he saw no allies in the place?¡ª?not that this was new. During his entire life, he¡¯d been alone except for Ena. She had been his friend. She had loved him, but he had only realized that fact on the night she died. Gravis saw no more point in being there. So, not quite as dignified as Auberon, he walked out.
¡°Don¡¯t be pushing him, ya fool!¡± Sloan¡¯s shout whispered through the stone. ¡°Do ya also jump on thin ice? The poor fellow is suffering. Can¡¯t ya see that?¡±
¡°Where do you think he goes?¡± someone asked. ¡°They forced him out of his shack, you know.¡±
¡°He¡¯s a Berling,¡± ?Trig said. ¡°Lived here his whole life. He knows places the rest of us have never discovered.¡±
¡°Likely has a secret palace somewhere deep in the cliffs.¡±
¡°Aye, he¡¯s probably in a room of gold, sleeping on King Linden¡¯s bed.¡±
Their voices faded as he walked away into the dark.
V3: Chapter Fifteen Lady Constance
¡°Feeling better this morning?¡± Hadrian asked when Royce emerged from his bedroom, boots in one hand, his cloak in the other. Once more the thief was the last one up, but at least it was still morning.
¡°Much,¡± Royce replied as he came down the stairs, then stopped mid-step the way cats do when startled. He squinted painfully at the early sunlight blazing through the windows, brilliantly beaming off the white ceiling, walls, and floor.
Does he keep it dark in his room? Hadrian thought, then immediately chided himself. Of course he does. Royce likely has the shutters closed and nailed shut.
¡°Doesn¡¯t it ever rain here?¡± Royce grimaced, then continued down the last
few steps.
Hadrian sat with his legs out on the long, cushion-covered bench, the same way Albert had on the day they first arrived. His bare feet clapped against one another to a beat and rhythm all their own. On his chest was a small burlap bag filled with peanuts that he was eating, skins and all. Gwen had bought them the day before, eager to express her trials in getting them. Apparently, the grower took issue with Gwen and Albert calling them pea-nuts because they weren¡¯t. While they resembled and tasted like walnuts, almonds, and cashews that grew as hard-coated fruit, peanuts were actually legumes that grew underground. The proper term, the seller had explained, was ground pea.
Hadrian glanced out at the blue sky. ¡°It is sort of like Dulgath, isn¡¯t it? Did you want it to rain?¡±
¡°Be cooler if it did.¡± Royce set down his boots, then swirled his cloak in an elegant circle as he pulled it over his head.
¡°Be cooler if you didn¡¯t wrap yourself in five sheeps¡¯ worth of wool.¡±
Royce peered out of the hole. ¡°We both know that¡¯s not going to happen.¡± He tugged his head through and adjusted the shoulders. ¡°Where is everyone?¡±
¡°Arcadius and Gwen went to the beach, and Albert is reporting to Lord Byron. Apparently, he¡¯s expected to make daily reports on our progress.¡±
Royce sat at the table to slip on his boots. ¡°What¡¯s he going to say?¡±
Strange that Royce puts on the cloak first, then the boots. Who puts on a coat before shoes? Of course, to Royce, his cloak isn¡¯t an outdoor garment.
Hadrian looked down at himself: loose and untied shirt, bare feet, and cloth trousers?¡ª?his self-styled holiday uniform. The two men were night and day, but Hadrian couldn¡¯t decide which was better. He was undoubtedly more comfortable, but he admired Royce¡¯s dedication, which made Hadrian look like a ne¡¯er-do-well layabout.
And I haven¡¯t the slightest idea where my boots are.
He thought they might be in his room or behind the stairs. He doubted he¡¯d left them outside but couldn¡¯t rule it out.
¡°He¡¯s going to explain that we are working very hard, but that progress is slow because we only just arrived and are still getting a feel for the place.¡±
¡°Really?¡±
¡°It sounds much better when he says it.¡±
¡°I figured that, but I was just . . . I mean, that¡¯s actually the truth.¡±
¡°Right.¡± Hadrian nodded. ¡°But there¡¯s no need to lie. This is a legitimate job.¡±
Royce paused in hauling on his left boot and simply stared into the distance for a long moment. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right. Strange.¡±
Royce finished outfitting his feet and stood up, clapping them on the floor to test his work. ¡°Any of that fish left?¡±
Hadrian grinned. He set the ground pea bag on the table, then coaxed Royce to a pair of nearly invisible doors in the wall with all the intrigue of a thief during a heist. When he pressed a bit of stone, it turned to reveal a handle that, when pulled, opened a cabinet. Inside was a huge piece of ice, half melted.
¡°What?¡ª¡± Royce started to say, but Hadrian held up a finger to stop him.
Closing the ice door, Hadrian revealed a second handle below the first and opened another cabinet. This one was stocked with perishable food.
¡°Auberon calls it an ice box.¡± Hadrian explained. ¡°Says the ice lasts several days, and he gets new ice regularly. Comes off boats from up north. A wagon brings it. Everyone on the street gets deliveries like they do milk in Gentry Square. The fish is at the bottom because cold travels down. Arcadius explained the whole thing as if it was common sense, but I think it only made sense to him.¡±
Royce grabbed up the fish that had been wrapped in paper and nodded. ¡°It¡¯s cold, but not frozen. Is that good? Why do I want cold fish?¡±
¡°Arcadius insists that the cold preserves it?¡ª?you know, like salt or smoke, but without changing the taste.¡±
¡°Huh,¡± Royce mused, looking back at the cabinet. Slowly he began shaking his head. Then, like a curse, he muttered, ¡°Dwarfs.¡±
¡°Where are we off to today?¡± Hadrian asked as he brushed the remnants of peanut shells from his chest.
¡°Tell you on the way, but we¡¯re going to need water, too. Any idea where the well is? You said it was in the courtyard, but I never saw it. Or does Auberon have a special device for that, too?¡±
¡°Actually . . . you¡¯re not going to believe this.¡± Hadrian went on to spend the better part of an hour showing Royce how the indoor well worked.
¡°Arcadius says the idea isn¡¯t new. Apparently, the Old Empire had them, too.¡±
¡°And it¡¯s fresh water?¡± Royce kept saying as he stared at the spigot that ran into a stone cistern with a stopper at the bottom.
¡°Both. This is fresh, but there¡¯s another for seawater that flushes that bucket under the chair in the privy.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a privy? I was using a pot in the bedroom.¡±
¡°You aren¡¯t the only one. That¡¯s how this whole thing started?¡ª?with Auberon calling us barbarians. It¡¯s behind that little door in the archway beneath the stairs. Anyway, when you pull the lever in the privy, all of it runs out into tunnels that flow under the city and back out to the sea.¡±
¡°Sewers.¡± Royce nodded. ¡°Ratibor has them. Like a man-made river beneath the city. Very convenient. Got rid of a lot of bodies that way.¡±
¡°Gwen calls the flush bucket the best thing since shoes.¡±
¡°This is why dwarfs scare me.¡± Royce pointed at the tap as if it insulted him. ¡°If they can do stuff like this, what else are they capable of?¡±
¦Ã
Royce led Hadrian down to the harbor, then around to the seawall of the quay, and past the numerous piers and jetties to one of the two arms of land that together made a circle that created the bay. Royce still hadn¡¯t said where they were going. This wasn¡¯t unusual. Royce, never talkative, was especially taciturn when others were within earshot. When he and Hadrian reached the far northern end of the harbor, Royce led Hadrian over a one-story retaining wall. On the far side, they dropped down into what looked to be wilderness. This portion of the coast hadn¡¯t been developed and gave a glimpse as to what Tur Del Fur had once been?¡ª?a jungle. Mangroves, palms, eske trees, spikers, abra berry plants, and massive jungos were familiar to Hadrian from his days in Calis, but many others were new to him. As he and Royce plunged into the canopy of green, the screened sun made it instantly cooler, but they also lost much of the wonderful sea breeze.
Walking beneath the canopy of leaves was like being indoors. The air was still, the sounds of the world shut out and replaced by new ones: the drone of insects, rustle of leaves, whooping of gibbons, and the too-numerous-to-count bird songs. Hadrian suffered from flashbacks of his years in the Gur Em rainforest of Calis. This was nothing like that. The scale was wrong. Everything in the Gur Em was mammoth; even the raindrops seemed bigger. The animals and insects certainly were. But the biggest difference was that Delgos had no ghazel?¡ª?at least no aggressive Ankor goblins. Hadrian knew this. His rational mind took the time to patiently explain it over and over, but it was like being introduced to a pet dog after having been nearly torn apart by wolves. He had to keep reminding himself that this was a tame forest.
Royce trekked through the dense foliage, heading seaward out along the northern arm. When they were about halfway, he finally spoke. ¡°I was thinking about Gravis last night while I was on the roof.¡± Royce pushed aside a five-foot jungo leaf?¡ª?not nearly the biggest that Hadrian had seen. In the deep Gur Em, they grew so large that Tenkins were able to make rafts out of them.
¡°How long were you up there?¡±
¡°Most of the night.¡± Royce stepped deftly over a moss-covered log and around a series of hanging prop roots. ¡°Anyway, I was thinking about what the rat seller said.¡±
¡°Angelius?¡±
¡°Whatever. He mentioned that no one would find Gravis because he¡¯s hiding. So, I reasoned that if I were planning on sabotaging Drumindor and people knew what I was up to, I¡¯d hide in the one place I wouldn¡¯t need to move from in order to complete my plan.¡±
They climbed out of the dense vegetation and onto a stony scrubland that steadily rose in elevation until it became a plateau of solid rock that formed the foundation for the northern tower of Drumindor. ¡°I think he¡¯s in there.¡±
Both of them tilted their heads back to look up at the tower¡¯s full height. Together they just stared at it for a while. Clouds shrouded the top and sea birds circled at the midpoint. Big sailing vessels passing beneath the bridge appeared like toys. Amazing as it was, Drumindor wasn¡¯t at all beautiful. There was a terrible austerity to it?¡ª?all straight lines with no embellishment. The two towers were like pillars with fins instead of flutes that jutted out at precise intervals and looked like huge teeth on gigantic gears. These extruded ribs displayed sharp spouts that protruded in an ugly manner resembling thorns on a stalk except that these spikes smoked. From the tips of each and from the very top of the tower, black smoke leaked like the memory of a fire or the promise of one to come.
¡°It¡¯s not all that incredible,¡± Royce said, ¡°when you realize they didn¡¯t build it. They only cut away what was here.¡±
¡°Yeah.¡± Hadrian chuckled. ¡°Erasing an entire mountain is no feat at all. I was thinking of turning Mount Mador into a multi-story tavern next week. Wanna help?¡±
Royce peered at him. ¡°Busy.¡±
Having escaped the trees, they climbed the foothills, following goat paths through the scrub until they reached the bare rock of the headland, which Hadrian guessed to be the last natural remnants of Mount Druma. He tried to imagine what it might have looked like?¡ª?this massive mountain that was probably flat on top, similar to Mount Dag off the coast of Calis. That, too, was a volcano, but a quiet one. Legend held that centuries ago, Mount Dag had blown its top, and the resulting wave had nearly erased Dagastan. Judging from the span between the Drumindor towers, Hadrian estimated Mount Druma¡¯s base and guessed the mountain hadn¡¯t been very large, at least not by comparison to other mountains, but as an inhabitable structure it was ridiculous.
Yeah, not incredible at all.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
As they climbed higher and farther out into the sea, the wind picked up once more, and they heard the crash and boom of waves. The wind returned more powerful than before, throwing Hadrian¡¯s hair back. Circling overhead and perched in crevices, gulls and shore birds clustered en masse. The rocks of the promontory appeared splattered with gallons of white paint as centuries of built-up bird droppings teared the stone faces. Soon they spotted evidence of chisels, and the rock became squared-off stone. Another few hundred feet and they reached the official base of the northern tower. There was no entrance visible, no window, porch, or steps.
They paused in the comfort of a constant breeze to drink and eat what was left of the fish.
¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡± Hadrian asked, sitting on a ledge of rock where some thousands of years ago a dwarf looked to have chiseled his initials, or his mark, or something undecipherable into the stone step.
Royce was staring up at Drumindor, shaking his head. ¡°Huh? Oh, we¡¯ll just tell Byron to conduct a thorough search of the towers. My guess is they¡¯ll find him hidden away in some broom closet in there. They¡¯ll have him for trespassing and attempted sabotage, which will give them the excuse to keep Gravis locked up until he dies.¡±
¡°Really? Then why are we here?¡±
¡°Because Byron will probably catch Gravis tomorrow, which means we¡¯ll be leaving the day after, and I wanted to see this up close.¡±
Royce finished his meal, wiped his hands, and leaped up to where the surface of the tower began. He laid a hand on the rough stone, then craned his neck back. ¡°It¡¯s taller than the Crown Tower. I¡¯d estimate something like eighty stories?¡ª?eight hundred feet or so, maybe a bit more. Entrance must be through the other tower. Impressive.¡± He turned and dropped back down. ¡°This might be the easiest job we¡¯ve ever had.¡±
Hadrian nodded. ¡°I am a little disappointed we¡¯ll be leaving so soon. We should go out to the Parrot one more time. Everyone seemed to like that.¡±
Royce glared at him.
Hadrian laughed. ¡°You¡¯ll be fine. Just remember: less wine, more food.¡±
¡°Easy for you to say. What if she wants to dance again?¡±
¡°Then dance. What is with you and Gwen, anyway? It¡¯s like you¡¯re terrified of her, which is insane.¡±
Royce shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m wearing two layers of black wool in the tropics. Where did you get the idea I was sane?¡±
Albert was still not back when The Blue Parrot opened, leaving Arcadius, Gwen, Royce, and Hadrian to go without the viscount. They got a table identical to the last, only this one was a row back. Nevertheless, they were greeted once more by Atyn. The waiter arrived in his pressed-and-perfect blue uniform, bright-eyed and smiling wide enough to show teeth, as if this was the first real day of his life, and he was determined to make the most of it.
¡°Welcome back,¡± the waiter said with such joy Hadrian thought he might genuinely mean it. ¡°We missed you last night.¡±
¡°I believe several of us needed a day of rest after that first culinary encounter,¡± Arcadius said, slowly settling into his seat between Royce and Hadrian?¡ª?his back to the stage.
¡°I understand,¡± Atyn smiled, or rather, he continued to do so.
The man¡¯s face muscles must be capable of lifting an anvil.
Atyn ran through the menu, which consisted of fresh-charred hakune on a bed of sea breeze foam; deep-fried aquatic cave bat garnished with a lemon-lime relish and peas; beach buzzard, which was explained as a long-legged, white shore bird and not an actual vulture; and of course, their staple dish, Flame Broiled Sea Monster. He took the liberty of bringing a bottle of Montemorcey and set it on the table in front of Royce. Then he left them to ponder their choices.
¡°So, Royce,¡± Arcadius began, his elbows on the table, hands folded together, peering over his spectacles, ¡°rumor has it that you and Gwendolyn had an interesting night when last we were here.¡±
¡°Rumor also has it?¡ª?whatever that means?¡ª?that you insist cold goes down. What do you mean by, it goes down? Cold isn¡¯t a living thing; it can¡¯t choose a direction. Nor has it weight like a raindrop or snowflake. It¡¯s a temperature, it can¡¯t move.¡±
¡°You¡¯re purposely changing the subject.¡± Arcadius gave Royce that knowing look that made everyone receiving it feel stupid.
¡°I know,¡± Royce replied with his own signature grin, which made others feel stupid for being in the same territory. ¡°Only seems fair since you¡¯re purposely bringing up that subject. This is Delgos, after all. There¡¯s no hereditary authority, so we all get a say on topics of conversation. You want to chat about me and Gwen, and I prefer to discuss your theory on temperature. In fact, I¡¯d like to propose an experiment where I drop you in the ocean and you find out if it is indeed colder at the bottom. What do you say?¡±
¡°Personally, I think I will have the hakune.¡± Hadrian spoke up and rapped the wood of the table with his knuckles as if pronouncing some judgment. ¡°I had some already, and it was wonderful. How about you, Gwen?¡±
¡°I was actually thinking about the buzzard,¡± she said, tapping a finger to her chin in a dramatic expression of deliberation. ¡°I saw them at the beach when Arcadius and I went swimming. They¡¯re these cute little white birds with long yellow legs and beaks. They scamper up and down across the wet sand, chasing the waves in and out in the most adorable manner you could imagine. And you know, upon seeing them, my very first thought was that I need to eat one of those.¡±
This made Hadrian laugh and drew smiles from both Arcadius and Royce.
¡°Thank you, Gwen,¡± Hadrian said. Then he reached out for the bottle of Montemorcey. ¡°For that, you deserve another toast.¡±
Atyn returned and took their orders and apologized in advance for a possible delay. ¡°Like everyone else around here, we are having trouble. Our ovens are suffering from ventilation issues. Don¡¯t ask me what that means. I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s just the problem; no one does. And of course, we can¡¯t get anyone to repair it.¡±
¡°And why is that?¡± Arcadius inquired.
¡°Like most everything in this city, the ovens are of dwarven design. Only they know how to fix them.¡±
¡°I¡¯m still not seeing the problem. This is Tur Del Fur; I suspect there are quite a few dwarfs to be found who could help.¡±
Atyn nodded. ¡°Normally, you¡¯d be right, but all the dwarfs have disappeared.¡±
¡°How¡¯s that now?¡± Arcadius asked, taking his glasses off as if that might help him hear better. ¡°Did you say disappeared?¡±
¡°They¡¯re all gone. No one has seen a long-beard in over a week.¡±
Royce gave Hadrian a concerned look.
¡°And it¡¯s becoming a problem,¡± Atyn continued. ¡°There¡¯s a shortage of salt, the baths are closed because of issues with their plumbing, and now I heard there¡¯s something wrong with the sewers.¡±
¡°In just a week?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Hellooo, everyone!¡± Albert announced himself from two tables over as he waded through the growing host of arriving patrons searching for seats. With him came a beautiful woman in a lavish gold gown. She was tall, with a pronounced hourglass shape and a tower of hair piled high. The neck of her dress went deep and wide, revealing a panorama of shoulders and the tops of prominently displayed breasts. These were embellished with a slender silver chain that dangled a massive diamond in the valley between the hills, which precisely matched her earrings.
That she was noble was as obvious as a hailstorm to the hatless. Everything about her screamed elegance. The way she walked bowstring straight, chin up, eyes peering down on everyone as if they were revolting bugs she feared stepping on, defined the lady long before she opened her mouth. The moment she did, however, the woman annihilated all doubt.
¡°Please forgive my extemporaneous and presumably tiresome extension of what I assure you is a most sincere salutation to gentleman and lady alike.¡± She said this in the most perfect and precise manner Hadrian had ever heard. She spoke as if her tongue and lips were a troop of militantly disciplined acrobats who would surely be put to death if they stumbled.
Albert presented her like a prize item at an auction. ¡°This is Baroness Constance Constantine of Warric, Consort of the Courts, Queen of the Balls, Grande Dame of the Galas, and professional social butterfly.¡± Then he pointed at each of them in order. ¡°Constance, I give you Professor Arcadius of Sheridan University, and Gwendolyn DeLancy, Royce Melborn, and Hadrian Blackwater each from Medford?¡ª?my dearest friends.¡±
¡°How lovely, Albert,¡± the lady said. Then she formally faced the table, being certain to make eye contact with each. ¡°I am delighted to make the acquaintance of you all.¡±
Albert looked at Atyn. ¡°Can we get two more chairs?¡±
¡°Right away, sir.¡±
Arcadius presented the lady his usual whimsical expression, which could best be described as mildly mischievous. Royce scowled at her, which was his reaction to meeting anyone new. Gwen was the surprise. She stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the lady. Then as they took their seats between Arcadius and Royce, Gwen looked a little sick.
¡°How did the meeting go?¡± Hadrian asked.
Albert shrugged. ¡°Fine. Lord Byron is understandably anxious to resolve the matter but accepted my assurances. But that¡¯s mainly because he hasn¡¯t any alternative. No one else seems to care.¡±
¡°These are the two, then?¡± Constance asked Albert while gesturing toward Royce and Hadrian. ¡°This is the infamous Riyria?¡±
Everyone at the table straightened up, except for Constance, who couldn¡¯t improve her posture any more if she were hung by her wrists.
¡°Oh please. There is no need for apprehension.¡± ?The lady spoke in a soothing, reassuring tone. ¡°Riyria holds the prestigious rank of my most favored company. Never would I betray your confidence, as I am a verifiably trustworthy person, but more importantly and to the point¡±¡ª?she gave Royce a flattering glance?¡ª?¡°I have also commissioned the two of you on enough occasions to be acutely aware of how deliriously fatal such an indiscretion would be.¡±
Albert nervously drummed the flat of his hands on the table as he watched Royce. ¡°She¡¯s actually the one who suggested you to Byron, so technically she and I are sharing the percentage on this one. And given that the bulk of this job is the perks, she deserved a night at the Parrot. I didn¡¯t know all of you were coming.¡±
Royce stared at Albert; Constance stared at Royce; Gwen stared at Constance; and Albert stared hard at the open bottle of wine.
¡°Forgive me if my presence is an imposition.¡± Lady Constance stood up.
¡°Do you drink wine?¡± Royce asked. ¡°Because we¡¯ve got a bottle here that¡¯s bound to be wasted otherwise.¡±
¡°I have been known to indulge, if it is good. I see no point in granting space in my life for the mundane.¡±
¡°It¡¯s the best there is, which is why I don¡¯t like the idea of wasting it.¡± Royce looked to Hadrian.
¡°A toast to Lord Byron then?¡± Hadrian lifted the bottle.
Constance sat back down.
¡°Oh, by Mar, yes,¡± Albert said, and held out his glass, shaking it with impatience. ¡°Stress is a terrible thing, and a day dealing with nobles wears a
man out.¡±
Lady Constance tilted her head back and raised her elegant eyebrows at him. ¡°Really?¡±
¡°Not you, dear,¡± he assured her. ¡°You are a raft to a drowning soul.¡±
¡°A raft? Is that how you see me? A handful of rough-hewn logs lashed together?¡±
¡°It¡¯s the stress from dealing with Lord Byron, my lady. Give me time to down a few glasses of this, and I will compose a sonnet to your beauty.¡±
Albert drained half his glass in one go, then sat back with a sigh. Lady Constance swirled the contents of her glass, sniffed the wine, then took the tiniest sip before placing the stemware before her on the precise center of the decorative napkin.
¡°So, how are things going?¡± Albert asked Royce. ¡°Have you found him?¡±
¡°I have an idea, but it¡¯s mostly speculation. This city lacks witnesses. Have either of you heard anything about dwarfs vanishing from this city?¡±
¡°Vanishing?¡± Albert asked. ¡°Getting abducted, you mean?¡±
Royce turned his stemmed glass upside down as Hadrian made his rounds. ¡°No idea. The waiter just mentioned that all the dwarfs in the city were missing. No one has seen them in over a week.¡±
¡°Over the last few years, there has been a great deal of trouble with the native Dromeians, and recently it has reached a new level,¡± Lady Constance said.
¡°What did they do?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Oh, they haven¡¯t done anything.¡± Her hands were on her lap, and she spoke like an eager classroom student excited to answer her first question. ¡°Aside from growing too numerous. The problem lies with the non-Dromeians. They are concerned that having so much of the city¡¯s crucial infrastructure controlled by such a small and insular community isn¡¯t wise. Especially when there are many dwarfs who are growing more adamant about the restoration of the old Belgric kingdom?¡ª?by force, if necessary. The Triumvirate has taken measures to limit their involvement.¡±
¡°Which is to say, they forced the city administrators to dismiss hundreds of dwarfs from excellent-paying jobs out of an abundance of caution,¡± Arcadius said disapprovingly and followed the comment with an uncharacteristically large swallow of his own wine.
¡°That is one way of putting it.¡± Constance nodded politely. ¡°This has caused some hardships.¡± She nodded toward the professor. ¡°Both for the native Dromeians and for the city as a whole.¡±
Arcadius frowned. ¡°The prevailing wisdom of the addlebrained geniuses in power is that not only are the dwarfs unnecessary, but that the city would fare better in the hands of humans. It never occurred to the captains of commerce that this city?¡ª?all of Delgos, in fact?¡ª?was built by dwarfs, for dwarfs, with nary a thought to men.¡±
¡°Why is that a problem?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Your forehead has already noticed what you and the Triumvirate haven¡¯t. If you think the doors are a problem, they are luxuriously large in comparison to the access tunnels, vents, shafts, sewers, and valve rooms that lie beneath Tur Del Fur.¡±
Lady Constance nodded. ¡°They resorted to using children, only?¡ª¡±
¡°Only your average child isn¡¯t as strong as a man, and your average man isn¡¯t as strong as a dwarf. An eight-year-old boy can¡¯t turn a valve that two big men would struggle with.¡±
¡°As a result,¡± Constance went on as Arcadius took another drink of wine, ¡°the last decade has seen a marked reduction in proper maintenance. The sewers have been backing up, the plumbing is a mess, and the mines have all but stopped producing. As a result, there is a scarcity of salt, rock, and ore, leaving the roads and buildings in disrepair.¡±
¡°But this has been going on for years,¡± Royce said. ¡°So, what happened recently?¡±
¡°If allowing the native Dromeians to maintain the mines, sewers, and plumbing was considered irresponsible, then allowing them to operate Drumindor was believed to be criminally negligent. The Triumvirate finally took action, and Lord Byron was ordered to dismiss all the Dromeians working in the towers.¡±
¡°So, their disappearance could be a protest of some sort?¡± Hadrian asked.
¡°Or maybe,¡± Royce said, ¡°they might be fleeing a house they know is about to be burned.¡±