The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Hadrian wondered if trees in graveyards were different from others. The few that grew among the headstones were like premature balding men, having already shed all their leaves. Their bark was black, their trunks twisted and bent. A blanket of recently deceased leaves hung in the crooks of statues and covered the mounds and mortuaries. Sculptures of women in flowing robes revealed faces streaked with the tarnish left by rain. They appeared at best to be weeping and at worst to be bleeding from their eyes. It was quiet there. Behind them, the bustle of the Merchant Quarter was a faint echo, a lonely sound that marked their isolation. Graveyards were supposed to be peaceful, serene resting places, but this one was infested with two-legged rats. Rats who did not like visitors, especially those who barged in unannounced.

  Standing in the middle of the graveyard, they lingered like kids who had just whacked a beehive and were waiting to see what would emerge. Hadrian didn’t consider this the most reckless, or even the most peculiar, thing he had done recently. Life with Royce was like that. A year earlier, if anyone had suggested they would still be working together, Hadrian would have laughed. Well, maybe not laughed—he didn’t do a lot of laughing back then. He had suffered from a kind of despondency that made even the stupidest ideas seem sensible. This was how he ended up agreeing to team with Royce Melborn, a brooding, vicious sort of criminal, and only Maribor knew all the things he’d done. After a year, all Hadrian had managed to learn was that he needed to tread carefully when Royce raised his hood, that his friend disliked any beverage except an obscure and expensive wine, that his dagger had a name but his horse did not, that he was abandoned at a young age, and that he was indeed very good at stealing. He also knew Royce placed little value on human life. He had a habit of seeing murder as the easiest solution to life’s many problems. Normally this was an issue between them—but not that day.

  Deep within the shadows, faces appeared. No one said a word. They gathered slowly, circling, threading between the headstones. In a few minutes Puzzle reappeared, coming out of a gargoyle-decorated crypt. Five others came with him. They fanned out, creeping closer. Hadrian guessed the odds at maybe five-to-one.

  “This pinky finger says you asked to be brought here.” The speaker was surprisingly short and wore a high-topped black hat with the red imprint of a hand stamped on it. He had a nasty bruise on the left side of his face and a deep cut along his cheekbone that appeared to be recently stitched. It didn’t appear to bother him much, as he was in the process of eating a drumstick and licking his fingers as he spoke. “We have this sort of rule, though. It says that no one sees where we live and keeps living unless they is willing to join.”

  “Yeah, I can see your need for secrecy,” Royce said. “I’m sure no one knows you’re here.”

  “We got ourselves a smart one, boys. Maybe you ought to tell me why it is you decided to kill yourself today—while you still have the privilege.”

  “You’re looking for a girl named Rose from Medford House. I want to know why.”

  This brought a few chuckles from the circle of onlookers, laughter that made Hadrian think of crows on a fence. Each member of the Crimson Hand looked like patchworks of people. One wore a hunting vest over a sailor shirt; another had a painter’s smock, a jester’s hat, and knee-high waders. One fella even sported a riding boot on one foot and a satin slipper on the other. Stray dogs living in an alley—thin, vicious, dirty, and very likely diseased.

  “Mighty demanding, aren’t you?” Top Hat asked. “What makes you think we’d tell you anything?”

  “Honor among thieves.”

  Top Hat narrowed his eyes. “You a thief, then? Do you know what we do to thieves who practice in our city?”

  “No, and I don’t really care—besides, I haven’t stolen anything. Your man there can vouch for me. He’s followed us ever since we arrived.”

  Top Hat turned. Puzzle nodded.

  Top Hat hummed as he took another rip from the drumstick, sucking in a long strand of meat. He chewed a bit. “Who are you, then? Fellas don’t walk into a den demanding information, lest you’re touched or…” He paused, took a step forward, and squinted at Royce. Motioning with the chicken leg like it was a pointer, he asked, “Who you working for?”

  “Nobody.”

  “They were with another fella earlier,” Puzzle put in. “Left him at a barber with a bag of coins to buy new clothes.”

  “Fancy fella? Rich?”

  Puzzle shook his head. “More like Roy the Sewer.”

  Top Hat threw away his chicken bone and began to circle them, sucking his fingers and wiping them on his pants. He carried a naked saber at his side. From the single-edge, slightly curved blade and the brass-plated handguard, Hadrian guessed it was a sea dog cleaver—standard issue for sailors on western vessels. He also wore a long bladed dirk, another naval weapon. While it was possible, Hadrian couldn’t imagine Top Hat had ever been on a ship, but his steel was a matched set. “What’s your name?”

  “Royce Melborn.”

  “Royce… Royce…” He paused. “Why is that name familiar? You come up from the south, didn’t you? Colnora maybe?”

  Royce didn’t answer.

  “You’re working for the BD, ain’t you?”

  “BD have designs on Medford?” one of the others asked, the one with the mismatched footwear.

  Top Hat scowled and slapped his arm against his sides in disgust. “Ah…’course they do. Bloody BD have designs on every ruddy thing in the world, don’t they? Can’t stand not having a pinch of every honest copper. Miserable piss pots. Ain’t it enough the Jewel runs half the world? I should kill the both of you right now.”

  “I’m not a member of the Black Diamond.”

  “Says you.” Top Hat took off his headgear and scrubbed his thinning hair. “Bugger me.”

  “We can’t afford trouble with the BD,” the dramatically tall thief wearing the waders said.

  Top Hat looked up as if he might hit him. “Figure that out by yourself, did you?” He popped his lid back on and faced Royce. “But maybe you’re right—maybe you ain’t BD.” Top Hat wiped his nose and straightened up. “I’ll tell you what, being as how we is so honorable here, I’m gonna send a rider to Colnora to look you up. If he says you’re Black Diamond, we’ll talk. Sure, why not. I’ll hear the Jewel’s proposal.” His expression indicated it wasn’t going to be a fun conversation. “If you’re a nobody, like you say, you have your choice of joining up or getting added to our courtyard here.” He spread out his hands and turned around slowly as if showing off a grand estate. “Or”—he took another step closer and let his hand caress the handle of his dirk—“you can leave the same way you came. Given that it will take a while for the rider, you’ve got some time to disappear.”

  “How kind.” Royce’s voice was flat and he took his own step forward. “But I don’t care what you think, and you can waste all the time you like sending messengers—this isn’t a social call. Why are you looking for Rose?”

  For the first time, Top Hat seemed uncomfortable and retreated a step. Looking into Royce’s eyes from that distance took more nerve than a little man with stolen weapons could muster, even surrounded by an army.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “I want to know if it has anything to do with Gwen DeLancy being attacked last night.”

  “Again, what business is it of yours?”

  “DeLancy is a friend, and I’d like to thank the man who hurt her.”

  Top Hat’s caustic demeanor slipped and Hadrian thought he saw a flash of sympathy. “Sorry to hear that. If you’re telling the truth, then you have all the more reason to leave, and before you get in real trouble. You don’t want anything to do with that mess.”

  “Why not?”

  Top Hat took a deep breath and looked at the faces around him. He lighted on Hadrian’s for a moment before turning back to Royce. “Reason we’re looking for Rose is on account of the quarter sheriffs are looking, and they’re looking because the hig
h constable wants her. He and a few of his featherheads paid a personal visit here asking questions about Rose. They want her—bad. Suggested we look real hard. They were very… insistent.” He rubbed his scarred cheek. “To show he wasn’t joking, His Lordship took three of my boys and hung them in Gentry Square. Never accused them of nothing, just gave them a swing.” He pulled the brim of his hat down and sighed. “No, sir, the greats are serious about this one, and you’d be smart to steer clear.”

  “Do you know who beat Gwen?”

  “ ’Course I do.”

  “Who is he?”

  “No one to play with. Trust me, this is one party you don’t want an invitation to. The gods are warring and the best we mortals can do is try not to get noticed.”

  “I wasn’t planning on being noticed,” Royce said, his eyes fixed on the small man with the big hat before him. Hadrian didn’t think he’d even blinked during the whole conversation.

  “Out of your league, cutthroat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You sound tough.” Top Hat nodded. “You walked into my den, we have you circled—no way out—but I ain’t smelled fear. You get marks for that. I’m not joking about letting you join. Him too.” He pointed at Hadrian. “I like a man who knows how to stay quiet. Besides, I just lost three boys. With my luck it’ll be four before the cock crows. So, sure, maybe you’re a killer. Maybe you’re even one of the BD’s fabled bucket men. The Jewel’s ghosts-with-a-blade, but this guy…” He let the comment linger, then shook his head. “Uh-uh. This guy is beyond anyone.”

  “Everyone has to die.”

  Top Hat rubbed his chin. “Have to admit I wouldn’t mind seeing him pay after what he done to my boys. We have a history that goes back a long way. But no one can touch him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Same bastard who beat me bloody the same night and who hung my boys for no more reason than to make a point—the Marquis of East March, Lord Simon Exeter, High Constable of Melengar.” Top Hat shook his head. “Have to admit I was flattered His Lordship made a personal appearance down here, but I’d rather he hadn’t. If you’re smart, you’ll forget all about this, before you learn what real trouble is.”

  “So where are we going?” Hadrian asked as they dodged a lumber cart and walked back up Paper Street.

  “To talk to Gwen.”

  “But she refused to see us.”

  “And I respected her privacy, but that was before I knew why.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You really need to walk faster.” For such a large man, it often surprised Royce how slow Hadrian’s long legs could be. They turned right at the portrait painter’s shop and veered toward the Lower Quarter once more.

  “Why doesn’t she want to see us?”

  “She’s trying to save our lives again.”

  The man on the porch of Medford House laughed and Royce took an instant dislike to him. Royce took an instant dislike to most people, but as he and Hadrian approached, Royce had the feeling that this time was justified. Two guys stood on the porch. Big field hand types, with deep tans and calloused hands. One was holding Jasmine against the doorframe by her throat. The other, the one who had laughed, was shoving another girl—Royce remembered her name was Abby—off the porch to the ground.

  Hadrian no longer had any trouble keeping up, and Royce felt a hand on his shoulder as the bigger man passed him. “You might want to just take a few breaths and let me talk to them first.”

  Royce didn’t slow down. “I’m not going to talk—”

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” Hadrian helped Abby to her feet. “What seems to be the problem here?”

  “They’re stealing our wort!” Abby shouted.

  “Your what?” Royce asked.

  “It’s used to make ale,” Hadrian explained, climbing the steps of the porch.

  “They’re taking the whole tun!” Jasmine croaked out, causing the man to slap her.

  Royce started for the steps.

  Hadrian whirled with his hand up. “No! Just relax. Let me deal with this.”

  Royce hesitated, more because Hadrian was blocking the way than because he agreed.

  Everyone turned to look at Hadrian as he began kicking at one of the pretty lathed spindles that decorated the porch railing. He snapped one off and wrenched it free.

  “Hey!” Abby said.

  “Sorry, I’ll fix it later, but I need something blunt to hit them with.”

  This got the men’s attention and the one let go of Jasmine, who escaped into the house.

  “All I can say is you’d better do a good job,” Royce threatened. “If either of them leaves that porch, they’re mine.”

  “Royce, they’re not even armed.”

  “They have arms—but I’ll remedy that.”

  Royce thought the men looked decidedly less confident but no more intelligent, which was proven when the one who had held Jasmine took a swing at Hadrian.

  What bothered Royce the most was that the moment the fool attacked, he knew his chances of killing the two ploughboys had passed. He heard the crack as Hadrian broke the first one’s arm with the spindle. Then he doubled him over before laying him out with a blow across the back of his head. And all before the second had taken more than two steps.

  To his great pleasure those two steps were away from Hadrian. Royce reached under his cloak, his fingers following the line of his belt to the handle of Alverstone. He was torn between actually cutting the man’s hands off or just slitting his throat. There was no real reason to torture the poor sap; he was just a thug. Still, he did not like how people felt it was safe to push their way into Medford House. An example might deter that, and a pair of hands nailed to either side of the porch steps might just do the trick.

  Unfortunately, Hadrian ended Royce’s mental debate when he slammed the man in the lower back, dropping him to his knees. His forward momentum drove his head into the porch railing and cracked another spindle, thereby saving Hadrian the need to do any more.

  Royce frowned.

  “There,” Hadrian said. “Problem solved, and you aren’t wanted for murder. Isn’t that nice?”

  “It’s only nice not being wanted for murder if you’ve actually killed someone. Otherwise, what’s the point? Besides, what makes you think I’m not wanted for murder?”

  They entered the parlor and found two more men hauling a large metal tub up the stairs from the cellar, while a flock of women beat on them. They set their burden down long enough to growl and shove a few away.

  “That’s enough!” one of the men shouted while drawing a hunting knife. “Next one comes close will get cut!”

  Again Hadrian was quick to step forward.

  Where was all this speed when we were walking here?

  “Who the prince’s peter are you?” the guy with the dagger asked as he watched Hadrian advance.

  “I’m fairly certain that tun doesn’t belong to you.”

  “It’s ours!” one of the girls shouted. “They’re stealing it for The Hideous Head.”

  “I’ll carve you up, too, if you don’t get out of our way.” The man brandished the knife menacingly.

  Hadrian reached behind his head and drew his big spadone. Royce had only seen him draw it once before. Usually Hadrian made do with his short and bastard swords. This time it was just for effect.

  Hadrian extended the tip of the massive blade. He was a good eight feet away, but the sword crossed most of the distance. “Maybe you’d rather just leave?”

  The man shoved his knife back into his belt and turned toward the door.

  “Make them put it back where they found it,” Royce said, “or I’ll be nailing hands to the porch posts.”

  The two looked at him, then at their hands, and finally back to Hadrian’s sword. “Ah…” the one said, and glanced at the other, who shrugged. “Sure, why not. No need to get crazy. Just a job.” They hoisted the tun and carried it back down the steps.

  That’s when Royce saw
her. Gwen was at the top of the broad staircase leaning over the rail. One arm in a sling and she wore a scarf wrapped around her head and face so that only her eyes shone. While one was swollen completely closed, Royce recognized the other. It belonged to the woman who had held him when he thought he was dying. The one who promised he would be safe and who had kept that promise. No one had ever done that before. His parents had abandoned him, his friends betrayed him, but she, this stranger with emerald eyes, took care of him when no one else would. If there really was such a thing in the world as a good person, he was looking at her. And seeing the bruises and cuts that the wrap did not quite cover, he also knew he was going to kill the man who had done it, and he was going to take his time.

  Royce was up the stairs before the girls had a chance to stop him, before she could get away.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by the wrap. She started back up the steps. “Now please leave.”

  “I know about Rose,” Royce told her. “And I know it was the high constable—the marquis, something, something Exeter.”

  She stopped but didn’t look at him. Her hand tightened on the banister.

  He waited, and slowly she turned, holding up the edges of the scarf around her face. “I… I wanted you to return.” There was a strangeness in her voice. A quaver. “Ever since you left, I looked and thought… maybe… but I never believed, not really. You’re not the type to be sentimental, the kind that looks back. But I wanted you to, only… only not like this… not now.”

  She began to cry and, turning away, she climbed the stairs. She moved slowly, pulling hard on the railing, inching up, dragging a weak leg. He followed.

  Reaching her room, Gwen crawled onto her bed—the bed Royce had occupied for weeks. The place was sacred to him—something he didn’t realize until that moment. The room was a sanctuary of kindness and comfort. He’d stayed there only a couple months, but coming back he wondered if what he was feeling could be what others felt about places they called home.