A gust of wind pushed him out and away from the stone. He felt his stomach rise as he imagined himself falling. He hovered for a moment, spinning. A toy for the wind, his heart pounding. Then the gust coughed and gave up the game. He slapped back against the wall, hitting his shoulder. He was slick with sweat, something he hadn’t noticed before but something the wind revealed with its cold breath. Overhead Royce had paused.
Is he stopping for me, or is he tired as well?
He dangled as Hadrian did, but he didn’t look nearly as concerned. The thief appeared to have no fear of death, and in a moment of clarity Hadrian wondered why he did.
What am I afraid of losing? My life?
Looking out at the starry universe, he didn’t feel small—he didn’t even exist. A copper coin had more worth.
Does it really matter? Is wishing to live another day enough?
Most people had reasons: loved ones, goals—making something, going somewhere, seeing something. Hadrian had left home to see the world and make a name for himself. He set out to be a hero, to right wrongs, save maidens, slay dragons. Instead, he became a butcher, a killer. That was the name he gained, the one he had earned. At first he thought Luck had been his friend. That’s all there was to it—a bad day for them, a good day for him. He was younger and they were older, or they were younger and he had more experience. Then they came at him in groups. Not even a cut. Awe hardly described the looks of those in the stands. It was so easy to think he was special, chosen, picked by the gods. Everyone said so. Some even worshiped him as a god. Those were his days of insanity, the months of blood and wine, the days that ended when he fought the tiger and watched it die. He wasn’t a hero. Heroes didn’t slaughter the innocent or let poor boys die.
Heroes also don’t climb insanely tall towers and steal books from priests.
The road he searched for, he couldn’t find.
Maybe it doesn’t exist.
He felt the rope twang and Royce was on the move again. That’s when he realized he did have a reason to live. If nothing else, he refused to give that bastard the satisfaction of being right.
He caught the rope with both hands again and, setting his feet, resumed the climb. Step, pull, wrap, hold; step, pull, wrap, hold; up he moved. The last leg was climbed on the long rope. They had one length twice that of the others. Royce wanted it at the top so they could drop out of sight if necessary. Hadrian had carried the coil up. Removing it from his shoulders made him feel buoyant.
“From now on, no talking,” Royce told him, having to shout to be heard over the wind as he hoisted the coil over his head.
Is that supposed to be a joke?
They were just beneath the alabaster stone of the “crown,” and here Royce scaled up freehand; then like a spider he worked his way to the outer ring while inverted before setting the rope and dropping the length. The line hung out away from the wall two feet beyond Hadrian’s grasp. They hadn’t practiced this. He looked up, but Royce was climbing once more.
From now on, no talking.
He had done it on purpose. To follow, Hadrian would need to disengage from his safety and lunge out in midair to catch the other rope. Only two feet, but any distance separated by death felt too far.
Does it really matter?
He hadn’t come all that way to fail. And who would really care if he died? He focused on the dangling line and half imagined Royce above him, poised, ready to shift it the moment he jumped.
See, Arcadius, I told you he couldn’t make it.
The bastard.
That was all it took and he jumped. Catching the rope was easy, but the swing and the sudden drop was unexpected, and he struggled to stop himself from sliding down the length. His skin began to burn as his weight dragged him down. He felt the heat between his thighs and wrapped his feet tightly, catching the cord. Together, his legs, feet, and hands left him alive and swinging out and back where he slammed hard against the stone, slapping his knuckles and cheek.
Above him, Royce was already on the parapet.
CHAPTER 17
ROYCE
Different.
Nothing was ever the same the second time around. Not that Royce made a habit of doing anything twice, but on those rare occasions he found it impossible to repeat the sequence exactly. This held true with the Crown Tower. None of it was the same. Of course it wouldn’t be, given the oaf he had in tow, but that wasn’t the issue. That aspect was behind him, and what he was feeling was out front.
Different.
The trip to Ervanon illustrated his point. The first time, he had moved invisibly except for the bumbling seret, who had no idea the real threat he posed. Once he dumped them on Hadrian, he had become a ghost, inconspicuous and unseen. This second time, the road had been alive with riders. Not that Hadrian had noticed. The man noticed nothing, not even his own stupidity, which followed him as loyally as a dog. Stealing that book had set all of Ghent on edge, and he was still being hunted. Soldiers, even those who worked for the church, were animals of habit. They hunted by day and slept at night. Avoiding them had been a simple task, but still indicative of a problem Royce hadn’t faced previously. Never before had he returned to the site of a crime within days of committing it. Such an act certainly benefited from being unexpected, but it also threw all the elements into a kind of tornado.
He had planned the job carefully. He knew the routine of the servants and patrols, the merchant caravans, and even the drunk they called Mosley, who wandered home past the tower each night. As a result, he had a high level of confidence even though he had little idea what lay at the top. Precious little information had been available on that. The alabaster portion of the tower was rumored to be the personal living quarters of the Patriarch, the head of the Nyphron Church. As much myth as man, only the archbishop, and perhaps the sentinels, ever actually saw him. If he had servants, he kept them with him and none ever saw the light of day except through tower windows.
While from the ground the top looked small, Royce had determined the “crown” was not just one floor. Arcadius had helped with that part. He sent Royce to take visual measurements using sticks and string; then he calculated with numbers and determined the alabaster portion was as many as four stories, or two if it had high ceilings. The sheer girth of the tower suggested a living space bigger than most castle keeps and could house a large staff of servants. Guessing that a patriarch was much like a king, Royce anticipated a personal chapel, a library, an impressive reception hall, an opulent bedroom, and a study. The top of the Crown Tower was famed to house the horded wealth of Glenmorgan and the church, so he could also expect a treasure room of some sort. A simple strongbox was unlikely, unless the tales were only rumor, but he suspected they were true. If anywhere was perfect to keep a treasure, it was up there. All he needed was to find the room with the biggest lock.
Royce was wrong—about the lock. He had found the book in an unguarded, open room littered with a cornucopia of oddities, weapons, armor, books, chalices, and plenty of jewelry, each treated with no more respect than junk in an attic. To Royce’s relief, there had been just a few books to search through and only one battered journal. He was in and out in minutes, never needing to explore the upper floors, despite his curiosity. This time, knowing exactly where to go, he expected to be faster. The only variable was Hadrian.
Looking down, he saw the dolt was still dangling, swinging like a clown near the end of the rope. Arcadius had chained him to a mindless cow.
Unlike Hadrian, Arcadius wasn’t an idiot, and the old man’s motives vexed him—but then everything the professor did was puzzling. After paying to get Royce out of prison—something he never gave a reason for—he provided Royce with a room at the school, where he had fed and educated him. Initially, Royce hadn’t seen anything strange in his actions. He was confident Arcadius had old scores to settle, and being in need of a good assassin had simply bought one.
Genius really—save a killer from certain death and such a beast might just
be tamable. Having a pet assassin could be handy to anyone. Yet for all his education, Arcadius knew nothing about the ethics of killers—or maybe it was just Royce he had read wrong. Royce had no intentions of being domesticated.
Royce had already known letters and numbers, which had surprised the old man and allowed them to move on to history and philosophy. Why the professor wanted to educate him in such matters was another of the many mysteries that he refused to answer—no, not refused. Arcadius never flatly refused anything. He always gave an answer, just never the one Royce expected. This was one of the early indicators that the old man was clever. I feel very strongly that everyone should have an education. Ignorance is the bane of the world. Knowledge brings understanding, and if men understand the difference between right and wrong, they will, of course, do what is right. It was this sort of absurdity that the professor would spout, leaving Royce to puzzle about his real motives. In the two years they had spent together, he had never found it.
Months went by.
Royce had expected Arcadius to provide him with a list of people to eliminate, but he had never received one. The old professor had even accepted Royce’s prolonged leave of absence, “to close out some unfinished business.” Arcadius hadn’t asked a single question before or after, and the topic was never brought up since, not even in jest. This, more than anything, convinced him that Arcadius had known exactly how he’d spent those months away, confirming Royce’s belief that the professor was dangerously intelligent and absolutely puzzling. Over a year had passed, and until this job, escorting Hadrian to Sheridan, he had never requested a thing. Now Arcadius was tossing Royce the key to his freedom, but why? If it had been anyone else, Royce would have assumed the job had been designed to fail. He had been on enough setups to recognize the smell. But why? Why buy him out of prison just to send him back or see him killed?
Different.
Everything was out of place with this job, the reasoning, the purpose, the stupid conditions. Nothing made sense. He was being manipulated; he just couldn’t tell how or why. I want the two of you to pair up, Arcadius had told him. You can be a good influence on the young man. Hadrian is a great swordsman—any weapon really. In a fair fight, no man can beat him, but I am concerned that not all his battles will be fair. He lives in a make-believe world, trusting that people are good and honorable. Such an attitude will make him easy prey for those wishing to harness his considerable talents. You can help put his feet on the ground, anchor him in reality, introduce him to the real world—a world you know all too well. And he will be a great asset. You could use a good sword at your side.
All this must have been a lie. Hadrian hadn’t drawn any of his three swords, despite nearly being killed twice. Not to mention he had been stupid enough to get caught unarmed during an ambush. But the biggest indication was that he didn’t have the killer instinct. The man was soft. Royce concluded the weapons were a ruse, a costume to give the impression of a threat that didn’t really exist. The question then remained: Why had Arcadius gone through all this effort? What was the old man really after?
Different.
Royce slid the remaining escape coil of rope to the side and looked over the edge. He had expected the idiot to be dead by now. His insistence on living was more than a little annoying, but his persistence in climbing had solved the problem well enough.
Royce reached inside the folds of his cloak and drew his knife.
I told you, he pictured telling Arcadius, he fell to his death just as I said he would. At least that wouldn’t be a lie.
The rope supporting Hadrian was tied to the merlon, twisting and sliding with Hadrian’s pendulum weight. Royce reached out with his knife and Alverstone’s blade caught the moonlight. The dagger shined its pale white light, nearly blinding him. It was a good dagger—a great dagger—but at that moment he wished for any other.
Royce shook his head, annoyed with himself. I only promised not to kill the old man. But that thought didn’t change the brilliance of the blade in his hand. He’d made a bargain with the only person who had ever mattered. It was stupid. The man was dead. It made no sense to keep a promise to a ghost. Royce had managed to block out most of his memories of Manzant prison, but the dagger was in his hand—a parting gift from a man who had saved more than just his life and asked but one small favor. Royce had cut dozens of necks with that white blade and never thought twice, but he couldn’t cut this one lousy rope.
It’s my payment, Royce, he remembered Arcadius saying.
And that’s it? After that I’m through with both of you?
Yes. But I will hold you to an honest attempt—a fair treatment. You can’t set him up to fail.
Royce sighed, sheathed the dagger, and got to his feet.
After the book has been delivered, I’m free of all vows.
A smile replaced the scowl. On the way out he would send Hadrian down first—and then he would untie the bloody rope if he had to. With any luck, someone below would hear him scream and draw attention to his body. Royce would descend the other side of the tower—the side nearest the exit, and disappear as planned. It would have worked better if they could find the journal on him. Royce berated himself again for being a fool.
When mentally scolding himself grew tiresome, and Hadrian still hadn’t reached the top, Royce had nothing else to do but sit back and look at the view. Of all places, he loved a good roof. The higher the better, and none had ever been higher than this. The air smelled fresher, the moon felt closer, and humanity was farther away. He leaned against the merlon, listening to Hadrian’s grunts while overhead the stars sparkled even though clouds were quickly moving in. A storm was on the way. That was good. Clouds meant a darker night. A storm would hamper any search. Royce wasn’t used to luck going his way, but it appeared as if Novron was smiling on him.
Given his love of altitude, Royce found it ironic that most of his life had been spent in the gutter. All that could change now. He was done with cities. Nothing to go back to—he had made certain of that. He hadn’t just burned bridges; he had obliterated them in apocalyptic fashion. Only one more tie to cut, and he was severing it tonight. In an odd way he felt as much regret as pleasure. He would be on his own again, but he would also be alone.
I work best alone.
Royce wanted to believe that, but even after all that had happened, he still missed Merrick.
Back in his early days, when he was new to the city of Colnora, he had met Merrick. They were both new inductees to the Black Diamond thieves’ guild. Merrick had started life better off than Royce—most people had. He had parents of means, not that they were still speaking to him by then, but they had raised their son, educating the boy with the hope he might follow his father’s example and become a magistrate. Merrick chose a different path.
The guild paired Royce with Merrick to learn the city, but Merrick was always an overachiever. Royce was his pet project, and his new partner proceeded to instruct him on everything. He taught Royce letters, numbers, and the most reliable escape routes and safe houses. He also introduced him to his first bottle of stolen Montemorcey, shared one night on a rooftop. Doing so ruined Royce for any other drink and made high places his altar.
Royce had known nothing of the world and Merrick became his guide. Little wonder they turned out to be so much alike, kindred spirits in motives and attitudes. Royce had never known his family, and Merrick soon became the brother he never had. The two would still be terrorizing the streets, alleys, and rooftops of Colnora if only Merrick hadn’t betrayed Royce and sent him to prison. The betrayal proved that no one could be trusted. People looked out for themselves. Not even the slightest act was ever without some form of perceived benefit to the person making it. Even kindness was the result of a desire for respect or admiration in the eyes of those helped. This was another lesson Merrick had taught Royce, and Merrick knew everything. When the noose pulled tight, when the wind blew cold, anyone—no matter who—looked out for themselves.
As he
thought this, Royce felt a tremor on the wooden walk circling the crown. It wasn’t Hadrian; he was still climbing.
The rising wind?
Possible, but he didn’t like it. He had been lucky, but Royce was cynical by nature, and gods he knew to be fickle. He struggled to listen, but the same wind was howling and at that moment Hadrian finally pulled himself over the lip of the crenel, where he collapsed, panting on the walkway. Royce removed his harness and gestured for Hadrian to do the same. Once done, he pointed to the right, indicating their direction. The window he had entered last time was halfway around the tower. All he needed Hadrian to do now was follow him. Concerned about the vibration on the walkway, he wasted no time getting started.
He didn’t trot although he wanted to. If the vibration was the result of footfalls, he didn’t want to send a return message. Still, he moved with urgency, peering ahead and watching the bend for signs of anyone.
Different.
Previously there had been no patrol on the parapet, but he had rattled the beehive with his last visit. Had they found the horses? Had someone in the city spotted Hadrian blundering through the streets? Had they seen all the rope he was carrying and made an educated guess? They could have determined Royce’s previous method of entry. Steps may have been taken. Still, he needed only minutes. Royce reached the window—still unlocked. Is that good or bad? He pushed the panes in and entered. Dark, but not entirely silent, he could hear breathing. Creeping inside he found no one. The room was as empty as before. The breathing came from an outer chamber. Moving forward, he found a priest seated on a bench breathing heavily. The stairs were nearby and the priest’s waistline indicated he might be unaccustomed to climbing.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 27
