“Gwen?” Mae squeaked, rushing to her and hugging tight.
Jollin and Abby clustered close as well. Those in other rooms peeked out, asking what was happening.
Mae was ripped from Gwen. The others were taken too. Gwen was the last one seized. They dragged her out and she lost her crutch. I should have grabbed a blanket, she thought the moment the night air hit her. I should have grabbed a few. The rear doors of the wagon were open and the girls shoved in. Gwen winced. The pressure on her bad arm and being dragged because she couldn’t walk without the crutch sent stabs of pain throughout her body. She worried about getting onto the wagon. She couldn’t hope to pull herself up and wondered if she would be beaten again. Some of the soldiers looked angry enough not to care why she couldn’t get in. Jollin was there, trying to help her, but was shoved back. They were all being pushed around. The men were frightened and angry and had no one else to bully. In front of her Etta screamed, and Mae was crying as she scrambled up.
When Gwen reached the wagon, the bed was waist-high. Too high to get her knee up. A moment later she felt hands lifting her. They were gentle.
“You’re having a really bad week, Gwen.” It was Ethan. That was all he said, but she could see sympathy in his eyes, maybe even sadness. He didn’t expect to see her again. A high noble had been killed. Someone had to pay. Someone had to be punished, to be executed.
Gwen sat down between Mae and Jollin, her back against the solid wood of the wagon wall.
“Are we going to die?” Abby asked in a shaky voice.
No one answered. And as the doors were closed and locked, Gwen shut her eyes and prayed that what she had seen in Hadrian’s palm came true.
“Riyria,” she whispered to herself like a magic spell.
Standing in the shadows of Wayward Street, Royce watched the wagon roll past. For a brief insane moment he considered trying to free her.
He was an idiot.
He’d made a mistake, miscalculated, and now she was paying the price. Royce wasn’t used to dealing with fallout. He had never had anything to lose before. He should have gotten her away first, or maybe he shouldn’t have written the notes at all. Royce didn’t have a head for this sort of thing. That’s what Merrick was good at.
His old partner from his Black Diamond days was a maven at planning and manipulation. Royce fought with the world, struggling against a wind that always blew in his face. Merrick floated on the wind, commanding the current as he willed. The right word, said at the right moment, can work magic, he was fond of saying. You merely need to understand power, where it comes from, and the direction it flows. He had tried to teach Royce by using analogies about water. Spill a cup into a funnel and you don’t have to wonder where the water will end up, nor the path it will take.
Merrick had been a genius; perhaps he still was. Royce hadn’t seen him in years, not since his one-time best friend had orchestrated his arrest and imprisonment. Royce had been the water that time. After Royce got out of Manzant, Merrick was no longer with the Diamond. He never bothered to look for him but wondered if he would have killed his old friend had he been there. He wanted to think he could have avoided it, but it might have been inevitable.
Merrick would never have made the mistakes Royce had that night. The question he now had to ask was, what would Merrick do to fix the situation? How could Royce make the water flow where he wanted?
He spotted Hadrian coming up the street from the square. At least he was still alive.
“Don’t bother going to Medford House,” Royce told him. His partner jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Royce—” He paused to take a breath. “You’ve got to stop doing that. You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“Shut up and follow me.”
Down an alley and around the back of The Hideous Head, they crossed planks used as bridges over a trough of muck and sewage. Royce popped the lock, and they slipped through the rear door of the alehouse. The place was dark and empty. Looters might visit the place in days to come, but the decoration Royce left in the Lower Square would keep even the desperate away until after dawn. Pretty much everyone would be staying in shuttered homes that night.
He moved to the windows and checked the street—deserted and dark. Not wanting to draw any attention, he kept the place dark. Not a single candle was lit. This suited him fine, but Hadrian was practically blind even in full daylight. He bumped into every piece of furniture between him and the bar.
“Think Grue would mind if I helped myself to a drink?” Hadrian asked. He was behind the bar looking like a blind man, feeling around for cups.
“Something wrong?” Royce asked.
“What? Because I want a drink?”
“No, because you’re stealing one.”
“The man is dead. I don’t think he’ll be too upset.”
“Still, it’s not like you.”
“You’re an expert on me now?”
“Getting there.”
Hadrian found a large pewter mug and filled it until foam poured over the sides. He blew most of it away, then tapped off a bit more until the mug was brimming. He took a long draw, emptied the mug, and then filled it again before bumping his way back through the dark. “Well, you’re right. I had a pretty crappy evening.”
“What happened to Rose?”
They took seats at the table with the window, one up from their usual, so that Royce could keep an eye on the street. Wayward Street was dark. Moonlight was all that separated objects from emptiness as the faint radiance painted edges and cast shadows in long blocky shapes. Some of the cold light spilled in the window and highlighted the planes on one half of Hadrian’s face.
He had that beaten look again. If Hadrian were a child, Royce would have called it pouting. Oddly, he often slipped into one of these moods after a fight. Because the blood on him wasn’t Hadrian’s, Royce guessed he was better off than “the other guy.” He should be happy, but Hadrian didn’t always see things the same way as Royce.
“She’s dead.” Hadrian took another deep swallow, then wiped his mouth and rested his elbows on the table.
“Sheriff patrol?”
“No, they did get stopped but got away.” He pushed back and pointed at his shirt. “I stayed behind and added another four to my list. The problem is, that didn’t change a thing. She was killed anyway. I found her body in an alley.”
“Another patrol?”
“No, I think it was the guy who was escorting her home. I’m pretty sure he had no intention of taking her anywhere, except away from the castle.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you did better than me. You only lost one of the girls. I’m pretty sure I killed the whole lot.”
Hadrian stopped drinking. “Come again?”
“They’ve arrested everyone from Medford House.”
“Because of the notes you left?”
“I’m guessing.”
“Probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“You think?” Royce glared at him, but it lacked commitment. He sat back, folding his arms and looking off toward the bar as if hoping to catch the eye of the waitstaff.
“Don’t get mad at me. You’re the one who went knife happy. Nobles get cranky when you decorate their streets with one of their own.” Hadrian took another swallow, then asked, “So what are you planning to do? You’re not going to let them execute her, are you?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know!” he snapped.
Royce refused to look at him, his sight wandering around the tavern instead, never lighting anywhere for very long. The place was a sty, and he wondered how long Gwen had been forced to work there. Must have felt like prison. They had that in common. Now she was locked up again for something she didn’t do—for something he did. How many more people did he have to kill to make this right?
Hadrian got up. “I’m getting a refill. You want one?”
“No.”
“S
ounds like you could use one.”
“No.”
Hadrian bumped his way back to the bar, while Royce struggled to think of something—anything.
He could try and break Gwen out. He had seen the fire, and everything would be in chaos. It wasn’t like the high constable was around to give them orders. Security would be weak. But he knew her—Gwen wouldn’t go unless the rest of the girls were safe first, and he couldn’t hope to get them all out. If he did, where would he take them? He’d be on the run with a wagonload of women. If he had a month to prepare, maybe, but Royce suspected justice would be quick. He guessed he had no more than a day or two and possibly just a few hours.
There had to be a better way, and he knew what the problem was. He was still thinking like himself. He needed to think like Merrick. He needed to make things flow the way he wanted. To do that he had to understand where the power was and how to bend it.
Royce sighed. All he could think of was killing, and he couldn’t kill everyone. How would Merrick handle it? Manipulation certainly, but how and who? He didn’t even know who gave the order to arrest the girls. There were quarter sheriffs and probably a high sheriff, also a city constable, and finally the lord high constable of all of Melengar, whose office was presently vacant thanks to him. Which one should he put pressure on? Which one had the power to free Gwen?
“What I need is leverage. Someone I can blackmail or bribe.”
“Too bad about Exeter,” Hadrian said. “Could have used him, except his attempt to kill the king is pretty much common knowledge now, and of course there’s the whole dead thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fire? Big old blaze in the castle? I thought you might have set it to flush Exeter out.”
“No, Albert did what he was supposed to, and Exeter came out on his own.”
“Yeah, well, I know that now. Actually I gathered that from all the gossip at the castle. Everyone was talking about how Exeter had it set. He was trying to take over.”
“Really? That’s odd. Exeter told me some bishop—Saldur, I think he said—was the one plotting for the throne.”
“Was that before or after you cut his fingers off?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Probably would have accused his mother of killing the king after a finger or two.”
Royce shook his head. “No, I’ve found people are pretty truthful at times like that. I think Exeter was innocent.”
“You’re saying you killed the wrong man?”
Royce smirked. “I meant for burning the castle and trying to kill the king. Exeter said Rose could identify who they were. Said he wasn’t looking to kill her—he wanted to find her. She had some kind of proof he needed.”
“Hmm…” Hadrian took another long drink. Outside the wind buffeted the tavern, whistling through the many cracks.
“What?”
“When the patrol caught up to Rose, they didn’t try to kill her. The sheriff wanted her taken to Exeter.”
“Did you catch his name? The guard you think killed Rose?”
“Richard Hilfred, a sergeant in the royal guard.”
Royce stood up. “Great! All I need to do is kill him.”
“Then you’re in luck. He’s already dead.”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“He was the guy who started the fire. That new chancellor killed him. But what difference does that make?”
Merrick would have seen the connections. He would’ve seen the pieces falling into place, and for once Royce was seeing them too. He got up and started walking back and forth. Royce was on to something, and he couldn’t sit still. Merrick used to pace when he planned, too, and that made him feel even more that he was on the right track.
“Hilfred was just a pawn, the inside guy. This Bishop Saldur’s the one pulling the strings. And with a little convincing, he might be able to pull some for us. A friend of mine used to say ‘guilt and fear are a powerful combination,’ and it often only takes a small suggestion that someone else knows what you did to get the imagination running. If I plotted to kill the king, and he didn’t die, I’d be a little concerned His Majesty might find out, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, but what are you gonna do? Walk into the cathedral and put a knife to the guy’s throat and—”
“No,” Royce found himself saying, even though he’d been thinking the same thing. Merrick never maneuvered that way. Too crude, he’d say. Persuasion was an art. Too much force had unwanted consequences. Fear was good—panic unpredictable. “We need Albert.”
“Albert?”
“Yeah.”
Royce reached out and deliberately knocked Hadrian’s mug over, spilling the ale across the end of the table and onto the floor.
Hadrian pushed away from the table and looked at Royce, surprised. “What’d you do that for?”
“You didn’t get wet, did you?” He had a bemused look on his face.
“No.”
Royce watched the ale drip off the end of the table for a moment. “That’s because I knew where the ale would go. Besides, I need you sober, because if this fails, we might have to kill a lot of people.”
CHAPTER 21
THE DAY AFTER
Rain started falling just before dawn. The soft patter on the roof of the barracks should have been soothing, a welcome relief, a gift from Maribor to finally douse the night fires, but Chancellor Percy Braga saw it as just one more thing to deal with. The barracks had become the new council chambers, with what remained of the heart and soul of the kingdom squeezed into two narrow rooms. Braga would eventually commandeer a nobleman’s house in the city, possibly even move into Mares Cathedral, though Saldur might balk. For now he needed to be on the scene.
The scene was the smoldering ruin of the castle keep. The fire had burned longer than anyone would have thought. All that straw. Braga had heard those three words all night, but it was all that aged oak that kept the fire going. Bucket brigades did nothing but prevent the fire from spreading to the outbuildings. The keep was unassailable, as if a dragon had taken up residence, refusing to be moved. The place had burned all night, black walls with glowing eyes and a deep throaty roar.
So much had to be done and now they would do it in mud thanks to rain that had come too late. The sheer enormity of the problems aligned against him was overwhelming. He took a breath and exhaled and then took another. He shouldn’t have to remind himself to breathe. The world was changing. The sun would shine again, perhaps brighter than before. He just needed to get through this.
Braga sat at the woefully small table, a size that suited the small number of attendees. Of the original twelve council members only Lord Valin, Marshall Ecton, the Chamberlain Julius, and Bishop Saldur survived to reconvene. Buried under a pile of military blankets, struggling to endure the morning chill, which was worsened by the rain, Braga sat at the head of the table feeling more exhausted and cold than he could ever recall. No one suggested starting a fire.
Braga waited on the death tally. In the chaos, no one knew who died and who might have survived, and he needed to have that list. The delay was agony, but he had to know before proceeding. At least one name wouldn’t be on the list. The princess had been spared, carried to safety by that boy—Richard Hilfred’s son.
Everyone had ash on them somewhere. The whole of Essendon Castle was one big lump of charcoal and everyone looked like miners recently out of the hole.
“I’d like to send scouts up the East March Road,” Valin insisted with steel in his voice that Braga couldn’t have imagined before. The old warrior had always struck him as a doddering steward, keeping the seat warm for the next Marquis of Asper, but the man was alive now, his eyes bright and his voice deep. “We’re sitting here blind and deaf. I have known Exeter since he was a pup, and that lad was no fool. He may have commanders and an army on the march. Even though the man is dead, his forces could still pose a risk. We need to know where they are, their numbers and makeup
.”
“Actually, I think we have a more pressing issue directly before us,” Bishop Saldur said. The elderly cleric was a mess. Wet with rain, his thin hair melted to his skull, and the soot on his face bled down from his forehead in tears of black. He looked like a corpse found floating in a river. “Before we start down any path, we need to decide who will take the helm of this kingdom. With the royal family dead, it is—”
“The princess survived,” Valin pointed out a little too quickly and loudly for Braga’s taste. The old man had been a mouse at all previous meetings, yet now he discovered his voice.
“Of course, of course, but she’s twelve,” the bishop said in his affable, warm tone while patting Valin’s hand, which the marquis withdrew. No one likes to have a corpse touch them no matter how friendly he sounds. “She can’t rule. Maybe someday, but not now. We need to designate a regent until she comes of age.”
“Lord Valin is the ranking nobleman,” Ecton spoke up. “And he’s a descendant of the charter. Clearly you should be—”
“The law states that the chancellor shall act as steward until the next king is crowned,” Chamberlain Julius declared. “This is indisputable. Lord Braga is a brother to the king.”
“Through marriage only,” Ecton replied.
“Lord Chancellor?” Wylin appeared in the doorway, where people had been coming and going all morning. Wylin was acting captain, now that Lawrence had been officially pronounced dead—found partially crushed by a fallen timber in what used to be the drawing room. Wylin was dripping wet and filthier than all of them. His hands and arms black up to his elbows.
“What is it?” Braga asked.
“We have an early tally on the dead, my lord. And, my lord”—he paused, looking at each of their faces—“things may not be as dire as we had thought. We have not found the king among the wreckage.”
“Are you certain?” Saldur asked. “Surely you have—he’s probably burned recognition.”
The Rose and the Thorn Page 26
