The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Gwen lay facedown, muffling her tears. “Go away.”

  He sat alongside her and placed his palm on her back. She was wearing a simple linen dress. He felt the rough material beneath his fingers, letting his thumb slide back and forth, gently rubbing. He felt stupid. He wanted to help her, but he had no experience at comfort. He felt her body as she quivered, and while his left hand gently caressed her back, his right made a fist so tight it ached.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him, her voice sluggish with tears. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that’s not the real reason you don’t want me here.”

  She turned over and looked up at him with a wet, puzzled eye.

  “You’re protecting me again. You’re afraid I’ll do something stupid and get myself killed.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Yes. I have no intention of getting killed.”

  “But you’re going to do something.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Gwen wiped her face with her good hand. “There must have been ten at least. Sheriffs and castle guards, too, I think. I don’t know all the uniforms. They wanted to know where Rose was. I told them she went to the castle—that she was invited for a party. His Lordship seemed to think she’d come back, only she hadn’t. None of us had seen her all night. We still haven’t. Lord Exeter didn’t believe me, I guess.”

  Gwen paused. She touched her fingertips to her lips. “Dixon tried to stop them. They… He’s still unconscious. I don’t know if he’ll live.” She rolled over again, burying her face in the pillow. “You need to leave. You need to get out of the city, away from Melengar. Go back to where you came from and forget all about me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep you safe. I’m supposed to… If you stay, you’ll be killed and I’d rather die than have that happen.”

  Royce’s stomach tightened, breathing became harder, and a prickly heat made him begin to sweat. She barely knows me. He squeezed his fist tighter. The hand he touched her with began to quiver and he pulled it away. “Don’t worry about me.”

  She turned to face him. Her eyes, though always dark, were now blackened, swollen. It didn’t look like Gwen peering out from under the scarf, but it was her voice, the same one he had heard out in the dark, the voice that once saved him.

  “No, Royce. You don’t understand. He’s too powerful.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “He’s the high constable. He has an army of sheriffs and deputies and he’s cousin to the king, who has a real army. I don’t want you beaten like Dixon. I don’t want you to die.”

  “Gwen, I’m not used to trusting people. It’s not in my nature. You found us bleeding and near death on the street but never asked me anything but my name. Most people would have posed a question or twenty-five. And I never offered to explain. I never told you anything about me, about my past.”

  “Are you going to tell me now?”

  “No. I’m going to show you.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DANDY AND THE TROLL

  The Hideous Head hadn’t changed from earlier that day, except that Hadrian thought there might be even less customers at the bar and even more dead leaves scattered across the floor. As he expected, Albert was nowhere to be found, but at the same table they had shared the day before sat a dandy gent wiping his nose with a lace handkerchief and sipping a glass of cider. Until he stood up and waved, neither Royce nor Hadrian had any idea he was the same man they had saved from the barn near Colnora.

  Viscount Albert Winslow had been transformed.

  The beard was gone and his long hair had been cleaned, combed, powdered, pulled back, and tied with a black velvet bow. They could see his face for the first time. It was pink and lean with sharp cheekbones and a handsome chin. Hadrian had no idea why, but he only then noticed that Albert had startling blue eyes. He had traded his filthy nightshirt for a doublet of gold with a high starched neck and shimmering silk accents. The new lace shirt underneath peeked out in ruffles and embroidered cuffs. On his legs were opaque hose and he wore brass-buckle shoes, and on the table beside him was a luxuriant wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a plumed feather.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, adjusting his cuffs.

  “I didn’t give you that much money.” Royce glared.

  “No. What you gave me was ill suited to the task. You obviously have no idea the costs of being noble.”

  “Then how’d you manage this?”

  “Credit.”

  “Credit?”

  “Yes. That’s where I promise to pay later for things I want now.”

  Royce rolled his eyes. “I know what credit is. I just can’t believe they agreed.”

  “The first barber certainly wouldn’t. I went to a cheap one and got nicked a few times for my effort.”

  “The first barber?”

  “Oh yes. And the first clothier. I went to a secondhand shop in the Merchant Quarter and bought a ghastly used doublet. The thing smelled of fish. I also bought worn shoes, a torn and stained shirt—the offensive parts blessedly hidden by the doublet—and a pair of hose. Dressing myself thusly, and cleaned up as well as your coin would allow, I then went to the most expensive shops in Gentry Square. There I introduced myself as the road-weary Viscount Winslow who was in town for the celebration tonight at the castle and in desperate need of a new look. I then proceeded to buy all new clothes and visited a coiffeur, all on credit.”

  “And they just let you?”

  “Nobility has its perks.”

  “How many perks did you spend?” Royce’s tone shifted between amazed and angry but finally settled on a nice restrained tempest.

  Albert hummed for a moment. “Only about thirteen gold tenents.”

  “Thirteen!” Royce hit the table with his fist, making Albert and the candle jump.

  Albert leaned back with his palms up in defense. “The clothes were very cheap. I know several barons who spend twenty-five, even thirty on just a jacket, and I really couldn’t quibble and still convincingly play the part of a wealthy noble who they could trust to pay later.”

  Royce huffed and dropped back in his chair hard enough to rock it. “You might be surprised to discover we don’t have thirteen gold.”

  Albert straightened up at this and a confident grin filled his face. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I have a month to pay.”

  “A month—a whole month? Are you crazy? I think the largest haul Hadrian and I’ve scored was only five gold coins, and those were local stamps, not tenents. Usually we bring in twenty or thirty bits of silver.”

  “Which is good money,” Hadrian added.

  “Yes… yes it is. But thirteen gold!” Royce grabbed the glass of cider and smelled it.

  “Not fermented.” Albert grinned at him.

  Royce leaned over to sniff Albert’s breath. “I hope you enjoy those clothes, because you’ll hang in them, or go to debtor’s prison, or have your thumbs cut off, or whatever they do to nobles who don’t pay their bills. Don’t expect us to help you out.”

  “Tut-tut. We’ll be fine. After dressing myself properly, I paid an unexpected visit to an old friend, Lord Daref. I asked if he was free this evening and offered to treat him to a night of decadence and debauchery—”

  “You did what? Are you out of your mind?” Royce turned to Hadrian. “He’s nuts. Maybe drying out his brain was too much too soon.”

  Hadrian had to agree. The viscount was happily running headlong off a cliff and didn’t appear to have a care.

  Albert reached out to console Royce, who snapped his hand back.

  “Relax. I’m not an idiot. I knew full well he would refuse. He, like every other noble in the city, is attending the autumn gala. It’s an annual harvest soirée, only this year there is the added attraction of celebrating the appointment of a new chancellor. It would be a black mark not to be in attendance. When he asked why I was not going, I
feigned ignorance, saying I only just arrived in the city and had no idea.”

  “He invited you as his guest?” Royce asked.

  Albert smiled. “He did indeed. So tonight I will be dining on venison and pheasant until I am stuffed as a bird. While I am, I will see about finding the hidden foibles and prying those dark sinister secrets out into the sacred and inebriated light of candles. Then, as we discussed, I will nonchalantly suggest a possible, and decidedly irresistible, option. I will dangle the chance for them to get even with any rival at no risk whatsoever, just for the cost of, say, twenty or fifty golden tenents.”

  “Fifty gold? You are crazy.”

  “Trust me. I know these people. Gold means little when balanced against a single moment of humiliation to an enemy, or sometimes even a friend. If you can do the jobs, we’ll all be wealthy soon.”

  Royce’s line of sight veered off toward the bar. Hadrian glanced over his shoulder to see the same man he had drawn his sword on in Medford House leaning over the bar speaking to Grue and looking in their direction.

  “I notice you didn’t include a blade with your new attire,” Royce said. “Not even a little jeweled dagger.”

  “Lords no.” Albert looked appalled. “I don’t fight.”

  “I thought all nobles learned sword fighting.” Royce looked to Hadrian.

  “I thought so too.”

  “Nobles with competent fathers perhaps. I spent my formative years at my aunt’s at Huffington Manor. She held a daily salon, where a dozen noble ladies came to discuss all manner of philosophical topics, like how much they hated their husbands. I’ve never actually held a sword, but I can tie a mean corset and apply face paint like a gold-coin whore.”

  This caused Royce and Hadrian to chuckle. When Royce stopped abruptly, Hadrian didn’t need to turn this time. He could hear the footfalls on the wooden floor.

  “Having a good time, are you?” Grue asked. He was as greasy-looking as ever. “So it turns out you two are friends with that harlot. Willard says you stopped him from taking their tun. Says you busted up Gitty and Brock. Gitty’s still laid up and bemoaning the loss of his front tooth.”

  “That was an accident. He hit the banister badly,” Hadrian said. “Still, they shouldn’t have been stealing the ladies’ tun.”

  “Ladies!” Grue laughed. “That’s a good one, mister. Never heard no whores called ladies before. Those boys were there on my orders. I told you earlier how they’ve been cutting in on my business, making it impossible to turn any profit by stealing all my customers. The only reason I survive is because I’m the only place down here on Wayward with the royal writ to sell ale. But now it turns out they’re starting to make their own, and she’s in tight with the administrators. Cast some sort of witchy spell on them so they agree to whatever she asks. She’ll get her writ—then I’ll be out of business. A man would be stupid to drink here when he can go across the street and have his ale with a pretty wench sitting on his knee. With that much business, she could give drinks for free and I’d have to close my doors. I ain’t gonna let that happen. That’s why I sent the boys over to take her cask of wort and shut her down before she can hatch her plans.”

  “So you sent them over.” Royce stated the obvious, which was not like him, but his voice had a tone like a tumbler clicking into place.

  “Of course I did, only you two had to interfere. I can’t say I’m happy with that.”

  Hadrian marveled at how every time Grue spoke, he tied a noose tighter around his neck. “Are you asking us to leave, or is this where you and your friends teach us a lesson?”

  “Neither. Gitty’s awful mad, but Gitty’s also an idiot. I was thinking just the opposite. You boys handled yourselves well. Maybe I could hire you to work for me.”

  “Hire us?” Hadrian asked.

  “I could use a couple of toughs to keep things orderly. You know, stop the bricklayers from smashing the cups and glasses and keep fellas like Stane from killing girls. That sort of thing. Despite what she likely told you, I learned from that mistake. It’s really bad for business when anyone gets killed in your alehouse—even a whore.”

  “Thought you didn’t have any girls,” Royce said. He was crouching more than sitting now, leaning forward, his eyes focused and wide. Hadrian had seen cats like that just before they pounced.

  “Well, I might just be getting me some. I’ll even do you a favor and tell you who beat her, if you’re still interested.”

  “You told us you didn’t know,” Royce said.

  “I’m a businessman. I don’t give stuff away for free.” He grinned.

  “Too late, we already learned it was Lord Exeter.”

  “Too bad. I bet I can give you details she didn’t. I seen the whole thing out my window—him dragging her down off the porch, down those pretty steps she built. He had her by the hair. Just slapped her at first, but he didn’t like how she kept quiet I guess, ’cause he closed his fist then. Bet you could hear her screams all the way in Artisan Row. By the time Dixon ran out, she was on her knees and they were starting to kick her.” Grue paused. He had a little smile on his face, and Hadrian wondered what was restraining Royce. Even he wanted to send Grue’s face into a wall.

  “Lord Exeter runs this city—him and his sheriffs. Lives in the castle proper. Untouchable. Fact is, that Calian whore got herself on the wrong side of things now. Never know what a noble might do. Might come back. Might kill her the next time if he thinks she’s hiding something. You see, in all honesty, I sent the boys over to get the tun because folks will ransack the place after she’s dead. I figured getting it ahead of the rush was the smart move. Actually, Rose did me a big favor—I just want to hug that girl.”

  “Might want to be careful,” Royce said, smiling. “Roses have thorns.”

  “I’m from a small village,” Hadrian said. He leaned out into the fountain and, after catching some water in his hands, wiped his face. “But lord high constable, that’s like a big sheriff, right?”

  “Yes,” Albert replied as the three stood in the shadow of the rearing king statue. The sun was warm and he, too, dipped his hands in the Gentry Square’s fountain, flicking droplets on his face in a dainty manner befitting a man with lace cuffs.

  Hadrian sighed.

  “What?” Royce asked.

  “Maybe it’s this city, or the north in general. It doesn’t like us. You know my leg only recently stopped hurting.” He looked at Albert. “Last time we were up here—almost a year ago—I was stabbed, and my thigh ached every time it rained. Just a few weeks ago, I realized it was raining and it didn’t hurt. First time… and now.”

  “Now what?” Albert asked, looking lost, but Hadrian didn’t offer any more insight.

  Royce was staring at the castle. Spearhead towers rose above the wall, casting late afternoon shadows across the square. The quaint moat was a tranquil pond with its lily pads, dragonflies, cattails, and bright green scum. The gate stood open, the bridge down, a gaping mouth with a tongue sticking out. Two guards stood to either side just across the bridge, challenging anyone who crossed. A few did. All who stopped showed a scroll. A summons? Invitation? Identification? Maybe all three.

  “Albert, what do you know about Lord Exeter?” Royce asked.

  “Simon Exeter is the son of Vincent Exeter and Marie Essendon—King Amrath’s aunt. The Exeters, like the Essendons, Pickerings, Reds, Valins, and Jerls, are all descendants of the signers of the charter that created the kingdom in… ah…” Albert paused, thinking.

  “I don’t need dates.”

  “Good, I’m lousy with them. Let’s just say it was a long time ago. Anyway, these six form the houses of nobility in Melengar. Exeter rules over the East March. A very important fief, as it’s the gateway to the kingdom and the bulwark against any invasion from the east. Really any invasion at all, as it controls the great north–south roadway.”

  “Get to the man himself,” Royce said, taking his eyes off the castle to survey the rest of the square.

>   All around it were three-story homes of the gentry, crowded shoulder to shoulder forming a high wall, mostly of stone with gates of their own that led to small courtyards. Each different, each with a personality of pretty windows and painted facades that vied with the others for dominance. Velvet-clad men, sipping from goblets, looked down on everyone from balconies.

  “Simon is… intense,” Albert explained. “I’ve never cared for him personally. I suppose few do. Arrogant certainly, but also self-assured to the point of being a royal ass. His way is always the right way, you understand. If you disagree, then he insults and belittles you. In short, he’s a bully. He doesn’t like Imperialists, hates Warric—hates most of the south really, maybe the whole world, who knows. Rumor has it that he doesn’t get along well with the king.”

  “How does that work?”

  Albert shrugged.

  “When you talked to your gentry pal, did he mention any recent events?”

  “The gala, of course. The sorry news that the price of brocade has risen to insane levels. There’s a trade war going on with Warric, and as always, fashion is the first casualty. He also mentioned the impossibility of finding a good manservant. Daref has a taste for young men and he rotates them out on a regular schedule. He says it keeps life from growing stale. Ah…” Albert raised a finger as he thought of something. “Old Chancellor Wainwright died and was replaced by Percy Braga, some foreigner from the south. According to Daref, the appointment had Lord Exeter in a tizzy as he put it. Not only did he want the office, but also it went to a stranger with strong ties to the church. I can only imagine the storm that must have started.”

  Albert tapped his lips. “What else… Oh, the princess was gifted a Maranon horse for her birthday, which she rides through the square just about every day. They had a hanging—but we saw that on our way in. There was something else…” He shook his head in frustration.

  “How did Wainwright die?”