“Sorry,” he offered. “I’m going to look around. Maybe they ran into others.”
Hadrian went back down the steps. The ladies stopped shouting. Nothing moved on the street. Most of the thoroughfares branching off Wayward and all of the alleys were just dirt paths that sliced between narrow shacks. Only the porch lanterns of Medford House and the windows of The Hideous Head provided any light. Far away, a dog cried. Hadrian could think of few night sounds as lonely as a dog’s distant howl.
He walked down the street, listening, watching. Where’d they go?
At the start of Wayward he passed the well, pausing to peer into alleys. Manure filled most of them, like the one he’d cut through to get there. Horses made a huge mess of roads, and in the finer quarters, street sweepers were paid to haul the droppings away. In the Lower Quarter, the road apples looked to be shoveled aside. Hadrian imagined the place reeked in the heat of summer. The odd lumps and piled shapes lost in shadow made it hard to tell anything, and if it hadn’t been for a fortuitous sliver of moonlight catching the hem of her dress, Hadrian would have never found Rose.
In a narrow alley between a pawnshop and a decrepit shack, it took only two steps into the manure-packed crevice to be sure. The girl lay on her side, her skirt high on one hip exposing a pale thigh. No movement. Her eyes were closed. She might have been sleeping except for the bloody slice across her throat. No blood. The pile of manure drank it up.
Hadrian stood staring. In the shaft of moonlight he could see his breath puffing. The night was growing colder by the second. His jaw clenched tight, his hands made and unmade fists. He wanted to put a sword in his hands, to swing, swing hard, but there was no one to swing at. There was just a beautiful girl—a girl who once spilled soup on him, who he’d once danced with—lying in an alley, dumped like garbage.
He looked around for the sergeant but Rose was alone.
Light, Hadrian thought.
Carrying Rose in his arms, she hardly weighed anything. He cradled her as best he could, taking extra effort to keep her head up. He didn’t want it to drop back, not with the slice across her throat. Gwen’s girls had cleared a table, but he was reluctant to lay her down. Her body was still warm, still soft. He placed her gently on the dining table that had been dressed with linen as a dozen sobbing women circled him. Hands to faces, some on their knees with their heads bobbing over their laps.
Gwen stood at the head of the table, eyes moist, wet lines on her cheeks. She just stared, her hand braced on the table. She placed a quivering palm on Rose’s forehead and caressed her as if soothing a troubled child, then bent and kissed her brow.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and more tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. “Clean her up.”
Gwen led Hadrian away. She took him into the drawing room, a smaller, homey space with a glowing fire in a stone hearth. Soft chairs and delicate furniture huddled inside the hug of dark wood and the smile of bright floral wallpaper.
“I don’t understand,” Hadrian said. “They were safe. They were only a few blocks away from here.”
“Etta,” she called to one of the girls. “Bring Hadrian a basin and a cloth. He needs to clean up.”
“And even if they found them, why would they have killed her like that? The others didn’t seem to want to kill her. They just wanted to take her back to the castle.”
“You know who killed her?”
“The sheriff pa—” He stopped. She was right. He didn’t know who had killed her. Sure, there were a lot of sheriff patrols, but not that many. And what happened to the sergeant? And why would they have killed her and just left the body in an alley?
Etta entered the drawing room with a pretty blue and white porcelain basin of water and a towel over her shoulder. She was rushing. Rose’s death had everyone on edge. There was a sense of urgency. A drive to do things fast even though there was nothing really to be done. Etta sat him down on a stool, kneeled, and began to wash his face and hands.
Hadrian hardly noticed her. His mind was elsewhere—running up and down Wayward Street and the alleys branching off it trying to make sense of things. Had I missed them by taking the shortcut? If I hadn’t gone that way, could I have stopped it?
At the gate he remembered the sergeant had said that Exeter was trying to kill her, but the sheriff they had run into ordered his deputy to take her to Lord Exeter, not kill her.
I’m taking her home, the sergeant had said to the castle guards, but it didn’t sound like he even knew about Medford House, and he didn’t like Hadrian helping. Why? Maybe he wasn’t taking her home. Maybe he was just looking for a dark enough alley.
Gwen took the towel from Etta. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take over.”
Etta nodded. As she left, Gwen motioned for her to close the door.
“You don’t need to clean me,” Hadrian said, taking the towel from Gwen, who sat across from him.
“Yes, I do. I need your hands clean.”
Gwen peered up at him with an expression he couldn’t read—fear, perhaps, or nervousness but also a sense of eager anticipation. Looking at that once-beautiful face made him wish he had stayed with Royce, if only to watch.
“I want to ask a favor, a very personal favor,” she said in a serious tone. She wet her bruised lips and wiped the hair from her face. “I need you to give me your hand. I want to read your palm.”
“What? Like a fortune-teller?”
“Yes, exactly.”
They did that sort of thing in Calis. There were palmists’ stands all over the cities, along with crystal gazers and bone seers. Hadrian never gave it much thought. He figured they just spoke in generalities that could apply to anyone, but some people he knew swore by it. “Oh, right. You’re Calian.”
She nodded.
“An odd time for fortune-telling, don’t you think? We—”
“Please.” Gwen, who had always been calm and comforting, looked desperate. Seeing her battered face broke his heart.
He extended his hand.
Gwen caught his fingers. She looked scared. He could feel the quiver of her hand on his. She turned his hand over, spread his fingers, and stared down at his open palm.
He waited. Her face cycled through a gamut of emotions: fear, curiosity, astonishment, joy, then back to troubled. New tears welled in her eyes. She let his hand go, covered her face, and began to sob.
“What is it?” He reached out for her, and to his surprise, she threw her good arm around his neck and hugged tight.
After a few minutes Gwen relaxed and let him go.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, wiping her eyes. He waited for a long moment, allowing plenty of time, but she remained silent.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
For one awful, selfish instant he imagined her saying something like, Hadrian, I’ve wanted to confess this to you ever since we first met, but it isn’t Royce I’m in love with… And what would he say? He knew what he’d like to say. He was just as smitten with her as Royce was, but he also knew that betraying Royce wouldn’t just be wrong or cruel—it would be fatal.
Gwen shook her head, and in that one small movement of swaying black hair, Hadrian felt both dejected and relieved. Whatever bothered her probably had nothing to do with him or—
Royce!
Hadrian stood up. “I need to go help Royce.”
“Yes… yes, you do… and he needs to help you.”
CHAPTER 18
DUSTER
Gentry Square was deserted—too late for deliveries, too early for gala revelers to return home. All lights out. Royce had stopped the carriage in the main plaza, near the fountain with the stone statue of the king on a rearing horse. The few who might have been home chose not to interfere.
Royce had the man spread out, pulled tight against the statue. He had tied one wrist to the neck of the horse; the other was anchored to its raised tail. The constable’s neck was stretched by a length of rope looped around the king�
�s head. Exeter’s ankles were spread and fastened to the hooves—neither touching the ground. The whole of His Lordship’s body dangled several feet above the pool and the bubbling waters of the great fountain.
Royce walked along the top of the pool’s retaining wall, surveying his work. He’d abandoned the carriage driver’s oversized hat and coat, returning to his cloak and hood, which swirled and flapped in the wind’s tides.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Lord Exeter shouted, his voice a little choked from the rope around his neck.
“Actually, I think I’ve done a remarkably good job. But don’t worry—I’m not done. I have more decorations.” He dipped into the bag that had been on the driver’s seat and pulled out a handful of candles. “I want everyone to see you on their way home.”
“Who are you?”
He’d been asking that a lot and Royce found it enjoyable to deny him any information, but he was getting close to finishing and it was time he knew.
“Last night, do you remember going to a brothel in the Lower Quarter?” Royce climbed the statue and placed a lit candle on the raised knee of the horse.
“Yes—so?”
“Do you recall speaking to a young woman by the name of Gwen DeLancy—the proprietor of the place?”
“Of course.”
“And do you also remember beating her when she didn’t know the answer to the question you asked?”
“Is that what this is about?” Exeter let out a little laugh, which irritated Royce.
“No laughing.” He halted the placement of another candle on the crown of the king and instead cut off the forefinger on Exeter’s right hand.
The constable screamed as blood stained the water in the fountain.
Royce lit another candle and scaled back up the statue. “Gwen is a very special person. She’s kind and good—not at all like me. But I think she’s suffered her whole life. Suffered at the hands of people like you and Raynor Grue and like this sailor fellow who works as a net hauler for the Lady Banshee. All of you figured it was safe to batter a whore. You were wrong.”
Royce set the candle and climbed back down.
“You’ll be drawn and quartered for this!”
Royce grinned. “No, I won’t.”
“You can’t assault me and expect to live.”
Royce looked down at the blood still dripping from the severed stump of the constable’s finger. “I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood that you’d be suffering delusions yet. You must just be confused. I’m not assaulting you. I’m murdering you.”
He took his dagger and, with no more effort than cutting through a bit of tough meat, severed the third finger of his right hand. Exeter screamed again. His struggles against the rope turned into a panicked shaking.
“As for getting caught, I’m afraid you might be disappointed.” The finger wore a ring and Royce pocketed both. “You wanted to know who I am. I would have thought a smart fellow like you would have put it together already. ’Course, we are quite a few miles away from Colnora. And while I never killed a ranking noble before, you still should have heard of Duster.”
At the sound of the name, he could see the last of Exeter’s strength fail. His eyes were large, his mouth partially open, hooked in a terrible frown. He had heard after all. “You really shouldn’t have touched Gwen.”
He dragged the blade up along Exeter’s thigh, opening it like the casing on a sausage. Then Royce grabbed another candle.
“You can’t kill me!” Exeter cried after he stopped screaming, while Royce was busy setting the new candle on the rump of the horse.
“I think you might be wrong there. As even you can see, your blood looks just as red as mine.”
“No, you don’t understand. There’s a conspiracy.” Exeter was speaking quickly now, but some of his words were difficult to understand, as he was spitting them through gritted teeth. “I’ve been investigating for months and Rose can provide the proof I need to stop it. I think she can identify Saldur as a conspirator and maybe even others who are involved. If you kill me, I won’t be able to stop it. Bishop Saldur and his Imperialist church are trying to take over the kingdom. Others have died, Chancellor Wainwright and the new chancellor’s wife. The king will be next, and his son after that. If you kill me, the king is as good as dead and Melengar—all of Avryn—might die with me.”
“And that would be bad for me… how?”
“I… you…?”
“I don’t care who rules. I don’t care about your petty kings and silly bishops. This is bigger than all that. You hurt Gwen—nearly killed her. You beat the woman that I… that I… you know what? Less talk, more screaming.”
Royce began carving his own sculpture.
CHAPTER 19
THE FIRE
Richard Hilfred returned, passing through the gate with a grim expression and without saying a word to either of them. He looked tired and there was a dark stain on his sleeve and a slice in the back of his tunic. They both watched as he crossed the courtyard and entered the castle. Reuben glanced over at Grisham, who offered a noncommittal shrug.
The carriages had reshuffled since Lord Exeter’s departure, now that a few of the party guests had also left. But most of the guests were still inside enjoying the festivities, leaving the long line of carriages waiting in the chilly night. Reuben heard a familiar tune being played in the castle. Performed at every party, he never learned the name or even if it had one. In the three years he’d lived within the castle walls, Reuben had never been to any of the parties, never seen the orchestra for himself. He imagined guests in the big hall. All the lovely ladies spinning, their gowns whirling as they and their men moved in circles beneath chandeliers of candlelight. Arista would be among them. Whenever he heard the muffled music, he always pictured her dancing. He imagined she would be lovely, graceful, elegant. In all the pictures in his head he never saw her with another man. She was always alone, dancing by herself with a bittersweet look upon her face. She might leave the dance, go to the window, and peer out into the black night, searching for the stable and the single lantern marking the place where Reuben usually lay among the straw. Perhaps she would think of him. She might wonder if he was lonely. She would grab her cloak and—
“Have either of you seen the king?” Richard Hilfred snapped.
Reuben jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. He hadn’t even noticed him return from the castle.
Hilfred continued. “Vince said he saw His Majesty leave with Count Pickering, the Earl of West March, and the Earl of Longbow. Said the two were drunk and fighting again.” His tone was more than harsh; it was harried.
Reuben and Grisham exchanged a glance.
“Yeah, the king and the others were in the courtyard for a while,” Reuben said.
“Just walked around,” Grisham added. “Trying to sober them up in the cold air, I expect.”
“Yeah.” Reuben nodded. “Walked in circles, and then…” He looked to Grisham, who was no help, just staring back with a dull expression. “Then the three lords got horses and left, but the king went back inside.”
“I just looked. His Majesty isn’t at the party, and I can’t find Bernie or Mal, who were assigned to him.”
“He did say he was tired. Had a headache or something, I think. Mentioned he would be going to bed.”
“Were Mal and Bernie with him?”
“I… ah… I think so.”
Reuben’s father scowled and turned to Grisham, who nodded. Apparently his son’s account needed corroboration.
His father looked puzzled and stood thinking for a moment. As he did, Reuben noticed the stain on his right sleeve was blood. Not a lot, and it didn’t appear to have come from a wound; the sleeve wasn’t torn or damaged. Finally his father spoke. “The queen retired early, too, along with the princess.”
“There you have it,” Grisham said with a grin. “Wine and that silver dress has put the king in an amorous mood. So they put the kiddies to bed and left the pa
rty to the guests.”
Reuben’s father nodded. “So to your knowledge no one in the royal family has left the castle, right?”
“That’s right,” Reuben said, and Grisham nodded.
Reuben’s father looked up at the castle towers for a moment.
“Did anything happen while taking Rose home?” Reuben asked.
His father saw him staring at his sleeve. “No,” he said, and abruptly turned and walked back to the castle, where he disappeared inside.
“Your old da seems a bit stressed this evening. I wonder what thistle got jammed in his codpiece? You might want to keep that helmet on when you go to the barracks tonight, just in case he decides to bounce your head off that door again, eh?”
Guests began leaving. Those with young children went first, cradling sleeping bundles who raised their eyelids just long enough to give the world an insulted look. Grisham waved and a carriage would peel away from the line and roll in to pick them up. The woman would climb in and the husband would pass the child over before slipping in beside her. After the steward closed the door, the coach would circle the courtyard and ride back out, stopping just long enough for Reuben to wave them through. The process was repeated over and over, and Reuben was grateful to finally have something to do.
Later the celebrants came mostly in pairs, younger couples arm in arm and older ones barely acknowledging each other. Most talked loudly and often walked crooked even though they had walked straight going in. There was a lot more laughter and even a bit of singing. One very heavy woman broke into song on the castle steps and was joined by three men in doublets with their cloaks absently left over the crux of their arms. They refused to enter the carriage until they had completed the tune, and Reuben, who had developed a bone-deep chill, wondered how they could endure the frigid night in just their thin doublets and hose.
By the time the quartet exited the gate, the bulk of the guests were filing into the courtyard. The carriages knew the routine. They lined up at the bridge and rolled in, swallowing up their passengers and moving through with practiced efficiency, but the line could only move one at a time and a crowd of fur-lined nobles remained in the courtyard waiting for their carriages.
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