Where’d that come from?
Royce and Hadrian still slept under rumpled blankets, leaving her alone with the vision. She got up quietly, fearful of shattering the fragile beauty. Walking barefoot to the water’s edge, she caught the warmth of the sun, melting the night’s chill. She stretched, feeling the unexpected pride in the ache of a well-worked muscle. Crouching, Arista scooped a handful of water and gently rinsed away the stiff tears of the night before. In the middle of the pond, a fish jumped. She saw it only briefly as it flashed silver, then disappeared with a plop! Another followed and, delighted by the display, Arista stared in anticipation for the next leap, grinning like a child at a puppet show.
The mist burned away before sounds from the camp caught her attention, and Arista walked over to find the clearing Hadrian had mentioned. She returned to camp, brushed out her hair, and ate the cold pork breakfast waiting for her. When finished, she folded the blankets and rolled up the tarps, then stowed the food and refilled the water pouches. Arista mounted her mare, deciding at that moment to name her Mystic. Only after Royce had led them out of the little glade did she realize that no one had spoken a single word all morning.
They reached the road almost immediately, which explained the lack of a fire the night before and the unusual way Royce and Hadrian were dressed—in doublets and hose. Hadrian’s swords were also conspicuously missing, stowed somewhere out of sight. How Royce had known the road was nearby baffled her. As they traveled with the warm sun overhead and the birds singing in the trees, Arista could scarcely understand what had troubled her the night before. She was still sore but felt a satisfaction in the dull pain that owed nothing to being a princess.
They had not gone far when Royce brought Mouse to a stop. A troop of imperial soldiers came down the road escorting a line of four large grain wagons—tall, solid-sided boxes with flat bottoms. Riders immediately rode forward, bringing a cloud of dust in their wake. An intimidating officer in bright armor failed to give his name but demanded theirs, as well as their destination and reason for traveling. Soldiers of his vanguard swept around behind the three with spears at the ready, horses puffing and snorting.
“This is Mr. Everton of Windham Village and his wife, and I am his servant,” Royce explained quickly as he politely dismounted and bowed. His tone and inflections were formal and excessive, his voice nasal and high-pitched. Arista was amazed by how much like her fussy day steward he sounded. “Mr. Everton was—I mean, is—a respected merchant. We are on our way to Colnora, where Mrs. Everton has a brother whom they hope will provide temporary … er, I mean … they will be visiting.”
Before they had left The Rose and Thorn, Royce had coached Arista on this story and the part she might have to play. In the safety of the Medford tavern, it had seemed like a plausible tale. But now that the moment had come and soldiers surrounded her, she doubted its chances of success. Her palms began to sweat and her stomach churned. Royce continued to play his part masterfully, supplying answers in his nonthreatening effeminate voice. The responses were specific-sounding, but vague on crucial details.
“It’s your brother in Colnora?” The officer confronted Arista, his tenor harsh. No one had ever spoken to her in such a tone. Even when Braga had threatened her life, he had been more polite than this. She struggled to conceal her emotion.
“Yes,” she said simply. Arista was remembering Royce’s instructions to keep her answers as short as possible and her face blank. She was certain the soldiers could hear the pounding of her heart.
“His name?”
“Vincent Stapleton,” she answered quickly and confidently, knowing the officer would be looking for hesitation.
“Where does he live?”
“Bridge Street, not far from the Hill District,” she replied. This was a carefully rehearsed line. It would be typical for the wife of a prominent merchant to boast about how near the affluent section of the city her family lived.
Hadrian now played his part.
“Look here, I’ve had quite enough of you, and your imperial army. The truth of the matter is my estate has been overrun, used to quarter a bunch of brigands like you who I’m sure will destroy my furniture and soil the carpets. I have some questions of my own. Like when will I get my home back?” he bellowed angrily. “Is this the kind of thing a merchant can expect from the empress? King Ethelred never treated us like this! Who’s going to pay for damages?”
To Arista’s great relief, the officer changed his demeanor. Just as they had hoped, he avoided getting involved in complaints from evicted patrons and waved them on their way.
As the wagons passed, she was revolted by the sight visible through the bars on the rear gates. The wagons did not hold captured soldiers, but elves. Covered in filth, they were packed so tightly they were forced to stand, jostling into each other as the wagon dipped and bounced over the rutted road. There were females and children alongside the males, all slick with sweat from the heat. Arista heard muffled cries as the wagons crawled by at a turtle’s pace. Some reached through the bars, pleading for water and mercy. Arista was so sickened at the sight she forgot her fear, which only a moment before had consumed her. Then a sudden realization struck her—she looked for Royce.
He stood a few feet away on the roadside, holding Mouse’s bridle. Hadrian was at his side, firmly gripping Royce’s arm and whispering in his ear. Arista could not hear what he said, but guessed at the conversation. A few tense moments passed, but then they turned and continued toward Colnora.
The street below drifted into shadow as night settled in. Carriages raced to their destinations, noisily bouncing along the cobblestone. Lamplighters made their rounds in zigzag patterns, moving from lamp to lamp. Lights flickered to life in windows of nearby buildings and silhouettes passed like ghosts behind curtains. Shopkeepers closed their doors and shutters while cart vendors covered their wares and harnessed horses as another day’s work ended.
“How long do you think?” Hadrian asked. He and Royce had donned their usual garb and Hadrian once more wore his swords. While Arista was used to seeing them this way, their change in appearance and Royce’s constant vigilance at the window put her on edge.
“Soon,” Royce replied, not altering his concentration on the street.
They waited together in the small room at The Regal Fox Inn, the least expensive of the five hotels in the affluent Hill District. Once they had arrived, Royce had continued to pose as their servant by renting two rooms—one standard, the other small. He avoided inquiries about luggage and arrangements for dinner. The innkeeper had not pursued the matter.
When they were upstairs, Royce insisted they all remain in the standard room together. Arista noticed a pause after he said this, as if he expected an argument. This amused her, because the idea of sharing a comfortable room was infinitely better than any accommodations she had experienced so far. Still, she had to admit, if only to herself, that a week ago she would have been appalled by the notion.
Even the standard room was luxurious by most boarding-house standards. The beds were made of packed feathers and covered in smooth, clean sheets, overstuffed pillows, and heavy quilts. There were a full-length mirror, a large dresser, a wardrobe, a small writing table and chair, and an adjoining room for the washbasin and chamber pot. The room was equipped with a fireplace and lamps, but Royce left them unlit and darkness filled the space. The only illumination was from the outside streetlamps, which cast an oblong checkerboard image on the floor.
Now that they were off the road and in a more familiar setting, the princess gave in to curiosity. “I don’t understand. What are we doing here?”
“Waiting,” Royce replied.
“For what?”
“We can’t just ride into the Nationalists’ camp. We need a go-between. Someone to set up a meeting,” Hadrian said. He sat at the writing desk across the room from her. In the growing darkness, he was fading into a dim ghostly outline.
“I didn’t see you send any messages. Did I m
iss something?”
“No, but the messages were delivered nonetheless,” Royce mentioned.
“Royce is kind of a celebrity here,” Hadrian told her. “When he comes to town—”
Royce coughed intentionally.
“Okay, maybe not a celebrity, but he’s certainly well known. I’m sure talk started the moment he arrived.”
“Then we wanted to be seen?”
“Yes,” Royce replied. “Unfortunately, the Diamond wasn’t the only one watching the gate. Someone’s watching our window.”
“And he’s not a Black Diamond?” Hadrian asked.
“Too clumsy. Has about the same talent for delicate work as a draft horse. The Diamond would laugh if he applied.”
“Black Diamond is the thieves’ guild?” she asked.
They both nodded.
While supposedly a secret organization, the Diamond was nevertheless well known. Arista heard of it from time to time in court and at council meetings. They were always spoken about with disdain by haughty nobles, even though they often used their services. The black market was virtually controlled by the Diamond, who supplied practically any commodity for anyone willing to pay the price.
“Can he see you?”
“Not unless he’s an elf.”
Hadrian and Arista exchanged glances, wondering if he had meant it as a joke.
Hadrian joined Royce at the window and looked out. “The one near the lamppost with his hand on his hilt? The guy shifting his weight back and forth? He’s an imperial soldier, a veteran of the Vanguard Scout Brigade,” Hadrian said.
Royce looked at him, surprised.
The light from the street spilled across Hadrian’s face as he grinned. “The way he’s shifting his weight is a technique taught to soldiers to keep from going footsore. That short sword is standard issue for a lightly armed scout and the gauntlet on his sword hand is an idiosyncrasy of King Ethelred, who insists all his troops wear them. Since Ethelred is now part of the New Empire, the fellow below is an Imp.”
“You weren’t kidding about serving in a lot of armies, were you?” Arista asked.
Hadrian shrugged. “I was a mercenary. It’s what I did. I served anywhere the pay was good.” Hadrian took his seat back at the table. “I even commanded a few regiments. Got a medal once. But I would fight for one army only to find myself going against them a few years later. Killing old friends isn’t fun. So I kept taking jobs farther away. Ended up deep in Calis fighting for Tenkin warlords.” Hadrian shook his head. “Guess you could say that was my low point. You really know you’ve—”
Hadrian was interrupted by a knock. Without a word, Royce crossed the room, taking up position on one side of the door while Hadrian carefully opened it. Outside, a young boy stood dressed in the typical poor clothing of a waif.
“Evening, sirs. Your presence is requested in room twenty-three,” he said cheerily, and then, touching his thumb to his brow, he walked away.
“Leave her here?” Hadrian asked Royce.
Royce shook his head. “She comes along.”
“Must you speak about me as if I’m not in the room?” Arista asked, but only with feigned irritation. She sensed the seriousness of the situation from the look on Royce’s face and was not about to interfere. She was behind enemy lines. If she was caught, it was not certain what would happen. If she tried to claim a diplomatic status, it was doubtful the New Empire would honor it. Ransoming Arista for Alric’s compliance was not out of the question—nor was a public execution.
“We’re just going to walk in?” Hadrian asked skeptically.
“Yes, we need their help, and when one goes begging, it’s best to knock on the front door.”
They lodged in room nineteen, so it was a short trip down the hall and around a corner to room twenty-three. It was conveniently isolated. There were no other doors off this hall, only a stair, which likely led to the street. Royce rapped twice, paused, then added three more.
The door opened.
“Come in, Duster.”
The room was a larger, more luxurious suite with a chandelier brightly lighting the interior. No beds were visible as they entered a parlor. Against the far wall were two doors, which no doubt led to sleeping quarters. Dark green damask fabric adorned the walls, and carpet covered the entire floor except for the area around the marble fireplace. Four tall windows, each shrouded with thick velvet curtains, decorated the outside wall. Several ornate pieces of furniture lined the room. In the center stood a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and accusing eyes. Two more men stood slightly behind him, while another two waited near the door.
“Everyone, please take a seat,” the thin man told them. He remained standing until they all had sat. “Duster, let me get right to the point. I made it clear on your last visit that you are not welcome here, didn’t I?”
Royce was silent.
“I was unusually patient then, but seeing as how you’ve returned, perhaps politeness is not the proper tack to take with you. Personally, I hold you in the highest regard, but as First Officer, I simply cannot allow you to blatantly walk into this city after having been warned.” He paused, but when no reaction came from Royce, he continued. “Hadrian and the princess are welcome to leave. Point of fact, I must insist the lady leave, as the death of a noblewoman would make things awkward. Shall I assume Hadrian will refuse?”
Hadrian glanced at Royce, who did not return his look, and then Hadrian shrugged. “I would hate to miss whatever show is about to start.”
“In that case, Your Highness …” The man made a sweeping hand motion toward the door. “If you’ll please return to your room.”
“I’m staying,” Arista said. It was only two words, but spoken with all the confidence of a princess accustomed to getting her way.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Shall I escort her, sir?” one of the men near the door offered with a menacing tone.
“Touch her and this meeting will end badly,” Royce said barely above a whisper.
“Meeting?” The thin man laughed. “This is no meeting. This is retribution, and it’ll most assuredly end very badly.”
He looked back at Arista. “I’ve heard about you. I’m pleased to see the rumors are true.”
Arista had no idea what he meant, but did not like a thug knowing about her. She was even more disturbed by his approval.
“Nevertheless, my men will escort you.” He clapped his hands and the two doors to the adjoining rooms opened, as did the one behind them, leading to the hallway. Many well-armed men poured in.
“We’re here to see the Jewel,” Royce quietly said.
Immediately the thin man’s expression changed. Arista watched as, in an instant, his face followed a path from confidence to confusion, then suspicion, and finally curiosity. He ran a bony hand through his thin blond hair. “What makes you think the Jewel will see you?”
“Because there’s profit in it for him.”
“The Jewel is already very wealthy.”
“It’s not that kind of profit. Tell me, Price, how long have you had the new gate guards? The ones in the imperial uniforms. For that matter, when did Colnora get a gate? How many others like them are roaming the city?” Royce sat back and folded his hands across his lap. “I should have been stopped the moment I entered Colnora, and under farmer Oslow’s field over two hours ago. Why the delay? Why are there no watches posted on the Arch or Bernum Bridge? Are you really getting that sloppy, Price? Or are the Imps running the show?”
Now it was the thin man’s turn to remain silent.
“The Diamond can’t be happy with the New Empire flexing its muscle. You used to have full rein, and the Jewel his own fiefdom. But not anymore. Now he must share. The Diamond has been forced back into the shadows while the new landlord kicks up his heels in front of the fire in the house they built. Tell Cosmos I’m here to help with his little problem.”
Price stared at Royce, and then his eyes drifted to Arista. He nodded and stood up.
“You will, of course, remain here until I return.”
“Why not?” Hadrian remarked, apparently undisturbed by the tension radiating in the room. “This is a whole lot better than our room. Are those walnuts over there?”
During the exchange and while Price was gone, Royce never moved. Four men who were the most menacing of those present watched him intently. There seemed to be a contest of wills going on, each waiting to see who would flinch first. Hadrian, in contrast, casually strode around the room, examining the various paintings and furnishings. He selected a chair with a padded footstool, put up his feet, and began eating from a bowl of fruits and nuts.
“This stuff is great,” he said. “We didn’t get anything like this in our room. Anyone else want some?” They ignored him. “Suit yourself.” He popped another handful of walnuts into his mouth.
Finally, Price returned. He had been gone for quite a while, or perhaps it had just seemed that way to Arista as she had quietly waited. The Jewel had consented to the meeting.
A carriage waited for them in front of The Regal Fox. Arista was surprised when Royce and Hadrian surrendered their weapons before boarding. Price joined them in the carriage, while two of the guild members sat up top with the driver. They rolled south two blocks, then turned west and traveled farther up the hill, past the Tradesmen’s Arch, toward the Langdon Bridge. Through the open window, Arista could hear the metal rims of the coach and the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestone. Across from her the glare of tavern lights crawled across the face of Price, who sat eyeing her with a malevolent smile. The man was all limbs, with fingers that were too long and eyes sunk too deep.
“It would seem you’re doing better these days, Duster,” he said with his hands folded awkwardly in his lap, a jackal pretending to be civilized. “At least your clientele has improved.” The Diamond’s First Officer smiled a toothy grin and nodded at Arista. “Although rumor has it that Melengar might not be the best investment these days. No offense intended, Your Highness. The Diamond is as a whole—and I personally am—rooting for you, but as a businessman, one does have to face facts.”
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