“Five: When I let go of you, are you going to run?”
“No.”
“Other hand,” Royce told her and dragged the first clear. A stain of sweat remained on the table. She tentatively slid the other into its place. Royce placed the tip of Alverstone beside her left-hand pinky and let it twist into the wood. “Six: Why not?”
“No place I can go that’d be far enough.”
“You’re good at this game.” Royce grinned, then startled her by moving the blade in rapid succession, darting it between her next four fingers so fast it made a tiny drumroll. Feldspar shuddered, her legs jumped, and she let out an anguished squeak. But she didn’t move the hand on the table even the breadth of a hair. “Seven: Did Hadrian manage to get a room before you drugged him?”
“Y-yes.”
He pulled the blade from the table. “Get up,” he ordered, and let her find her own feet. “I’m going to open that door. While I do, you’re going to explain to your friends why they’re going to be very good boys.”
Royce crossed the room, moving without a sound. The cellar had a primitive two-pin lock; it took him more time to get out his picks than it did to unlock the door. Inside, he found Hadrian slumped on the floor.
“Tell your stocky friends to carry him to the room.”
Feldspar nodded and gestured to Bull Neck to get moving.
“C’mon, Dodge,” he objected. “The guy is scrawny as a chicken.”
Her voice was stern. “Do what he says, Brook.”
“There’s eight of us. I don’t see why we should do anything he says.”
Feldspar glanced at Royce. “Excuse me,” she said, then walked over to the bar and grabbed a paring knife. She crossed back to Brook and, without warning or comment, buried the knife in the man’s thigh. He screamed and bent over, clutching his leg. Then he fell backward onto the floor, sending one of the chairs skidding.
“Do. You. See. That?” She bent over him, shouting and pointing at the blade in his thigh.
“Why’d you do that?” the bartender asked.
“She obviously likes him,” Royce explained.
Feldspar grabbed the knife, stood up, and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Get Hadrian upstairs. Right now!”
Chairs toppled as the men got up and headed for the cellar.
Royce kept a careful eye as they carried Hadrian. “Tuck him in nice, boys.”
“Yes—for Maribor’s sake, don’t hurt him.” Feldspar laid the knife on the table and held her hands up again. “Duster, I swear to you, I didn’t know. I wasn’t here when you two arrived. I heard that two guys broke up Payne’s tarring, and I thought the church had sent down some muscle to watch over him. I also heard rumors of a hired assassin, but had I known you—”
“Congratulations for a well-played hand of Ten Fingers. You’re good at it. No wonder you still have all of yours.” Royce watched the procession carrying Hadrian up the stairs of the inn without incident. They looked like pallbearers at a funeral.
“Hadrian will be happy he saved your life by locking himself in the cellar,” he told her. “He’s odd that way.”
Chapter Eight
Eye of the Hurricane
Christopher Fawkes hung the lantern on the brass hook dangling from the stable’s ceiling. Flies—woken by the light—competed with moths for the stupidest things in the world as they butted the lamp, frustrated with their inability to incinerate themselves. Knox had objected to using a lantern, but Christopher wasn’t going to conduct business standing in a dark barn.
No one finding the chamberlain, high sheriff, Pastor Payne, and the king’s cousin chatting in a lighted stable, even late at night, would hardly think it noteworthy. But if the same men were caught together in the dark—anywhere—that would be suspicious.
“Well? What do you think?” Christopher asked Chamberlain Wells.
Thorbert Wells stood with arms folded, his long face sagging more than usual. “I’m thinking that I’m still not comfortable.”
“What more assurance do you need?” Payne asked. “The church is behind us, and you have the king’s cousin before you.”
“It all seems so…I don’t know…wrong,” Wells said.
“What the church does is always right. We are the arbiters of right and wrong,” the pastor assured him.
Wells settled his sight on Payne with an appalled wrinkle in his brow. “You shouldn’t assume just because I’m native to Dulgath, that I’m stupid.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but—”
“No one thinks you’re stupid,” Christopher cut in before Payne could do any damage. “We wouldn’t be trying to enlist you if we felt that way. What you are is ambitious. A modest, content man doesn’t rise from fisherman’s son to castle chamberlain. We appreciate your achievements, but you lack noble blood, so you’ve reached your full potential. You’ve topped out here in Dulgath. There’s no place higher to rise to in this backwater. Nothing has changed here for centuries, and it won’t if the Dulgath line continues.”
The constant tap, buzz, and flutter of the flies diving at the lantern unnerved Christopher, reminding him of more nefarious insects. At the age of six, he had been traumatized by a pair of bumblebees. While not stung, he had, nevertheless, been trapped behind a rosebush, too scared to venture forth. Night came, and Christopher still refused to move for fear they were lurking in the dark. When his brother finally dragged Christopher home, his father had beaten him for being a coward. The humiliation and subsequent taunts drove Christopher to learn the sword and shield. But although he performed adequately in court contests with live blades, the buzzing of bees still sent chills down his spine.
He gave a nervous glance at the lantern. They’re flies! he told himself, but still folded his arms to hide his shaking hands.
Not a good way to start a legacy.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that no one would remember it this way. Many important events in history occurred in less-than-ideal fashion but were corrected in recollection. Had Novron really stood atop that famed hill challenging the might of flying beasts? And afterward, had he made that grand and eloquent speech about freedom and bravery? Had the Patriarch embraced Glenmorgan, and had the steward appreciatively knelt, allowing himself to take a lesser title? Christopher couldn’t imagine power struggles being so amiable.
When people looked back on how the landless Christopher Fawkes became Earl Christopher Fawkes of Dulgath, no one will recall that it started in a stable. In the future, this night never happened.
“I was loyal to Beadle—to the Earl of Dulgath.”
“I’m certain you were. But Beadle is dead. Do you really think Nysa Dulgath is capable of filling her father’s shoes?”
Wells sighed. “She doesn’t listen to me—doesn’t listen to anyone. Thinks she knows everything.”
“If you support me, Wells,” Christopher told him, “together we’ll transform Dulgath. Make it powerful. This place is rich but untapped. I’ll levy taxes, conscript an army, and Knox here will train them. The Nyphron Church’s influence will grow. They’ll help me expand Dulgath’s borders, and I’ll need lords loyal to me. You’ll have your own castle then.”
“I won’t kill her,” Wells announced.
“No one is asking you to.”
“You have no idea what those assassins will come up with.” Wells pointed at him with a pudgy finger. “What if they suggest bribing the chamberlain to knife the girl? I’m telling you now, I won’t do that.”
“We wouldn’t ask you to.” Christopher suspected that the chamberlain’s concern stemmed from the fear of getting caught rather than a distaste for spilling blood.
“I don’t trust them,” Knox said, jumping in. He had his arms folded, leaning back against the stall.
Christopher could have stabbed him. They were there to convince Wells to join, and this was no time for airing concerns. I have to do everything myself. “Well, that’s natural. They’re rogues, assassins, and thieves. If t
hey were trustworthy, we’d have cause for concern.”
“One of them—the big one—is familiar,” the sheriff went on. “I’ve seen him before. Don’t remember where.”
“So?”
Knox scowled. “Look, how long is this going to take them?” His tone was disapproving; so was the frown on his face, but then Knox usually looked that way. The man was a thug, a northern soldier of some sort recruited by the earl, who’d wanted a tough, impartial hand. What he got was certainly impartial—to everything but coin. Knox was very partial to gold tenents.
“How should I know?” Christopher said. “Do you think I make a habit of this sort of thing?”
“Damned if I have a clue about what you do.”
“Well, see, that’s where we differ,” Christopher said. “Because I know exactly what you do, Knox. Absolutely nothing. As a high sheriff, you’d make a great sundial.”
Christopher didn’t even know what that meant, but his mother used to say it all the time. Is that all you did today, Chris? As a fetcher of wood, you’d make a great sundial. I asked you to box up my gowns; as a valet, you’d make a great sundial.
He never understood what she had against sundials. They never bothered anyone, were quiet, kept to themselves, and did what was asked of them in all kinds of weather. His mother just couldn’t see their value. As for his father, he had no problem with sundials—just with his son.
Christopher doubted Knox had any greater clue about the shortcomings of sundials than himself, but the point was made. Knox’s frown became a sneer. He muttered an insult under his breath, too quiet to catch, but the sentiment was unmistakable.
The man was a violent bully. No one became high sheriff without a little fury in them, and Knox was testing him. Either Christopher would force the sheriff to accept a bit in his teeth or the table would be turned. He needed to show Wells who was in charge. Besides, Knox was too comfortable in Christopher’s presence. Dangerous thug or no, there were lines, boundaries that had to be maintained. For now, he’d have to work with the brute, but afterward Knox might prove to be an opportunist, and ambitious men were likely to try something stupid, like blackmail.
Give a crow a carcass and it’ll just want another, he thought. Knox is just like the bees, and he needs to know his place.
Christopher summoned his courage. Laughing amicably, he started to turn away, then with a quick shove, he drove the sheriff back against the horse gate, making it clang and startling Derby. Christopher drew his sword.
Knox stared, his mouth open, as Christopher stuck the tip of his blade into the leather collar of the sheriff’s gambeson. “Unless you plan on leaving Dulgath soon, I’d watch your mouth. I’m the king’s cousin. While that might not earn me much back in Mehan, it does mean I can kill you without having to clean up the mess. Do we understand each other?”
Knox hesitated. He wouldn’t be the man Christopher thought he was if he didn’t show some backbone, but the sheriff wasn’t stupid. After a run of heartbeats, he nodded.
“Good.” Christopher withdrew his blade, noting with great relish the little nick left in Knox’s leather collar. From then on it would serve as a reminder to them both.
Christopher slapped his sword back into its scabbard, trying to give the appearance he wasn’t concerned and his heart wasn’t racing. He’d just taken a huge gamble and won. This wasn’t a time to show concern.
“Can I ask a question?” Wells asked.
The uncertainty in the man’s voice pleased Christopher. His point had been made, and the proper respect was being paid.
“Yes, of course, Chamberlain. What do you want to know?”
“What about the painter?”
“Sherwood Stow? What about him?”
“He and Lady Dulgath have been seeing each other every morning for months, and he has a—a reputation, doesn’t he? What if this Sherwood were to, well, you know?”
Christopher was mystified by Wells. The man who had clawed his way to the position of chamberlain was squeamish about so many things. If Bishop Parnell hadn’t insisted they acquire him, to have an inside man to help cover their tracks, he never would have given him a second thought.
“It still takes nine months to make a baby even if he was you knowing her. While I’m patient, I’m not that patient.”
“But expectant mothers become more reclusive.” Wells wrung his hands. “They don’t go out. They stay in their chambers under constant observation from fussing midwives. That might make killing her impossible. If the rogues you hired feel they have a good thing here, they might drag their feet. You’re paying their expenses, right?”
“I’m not paying them anything,” Christopher said. “Once they tell us what we need to know, I’m shipping them off to Manzant.”
“What?” Knox asked. “Why not just kill them?”
Christopher offered up a wry smile. “Killing is such a waste. Ambrose Moor pays good money for—”
“But living men tell tales,” the sheriff said.
“Yes, precisely,” Wells said, aghast. “What if the king should speak to them…”
“Do you honestly think Vincent will take a trip to a salt mine to chat with two assassins?” Christopher’s patience was wearing thin and it was difficult not to show his frustration.
“No,” Wells admitted, “but what if he sends constables there, or what if they escape?”
“No one ever escapes from Manzant,” Christopher replied.
“And the constables? I’m not sure I want to take that risk,” Wells muttered with a grimace.
“If they’re dead, no one can talk to them,” Knox said. “Ever.”
“Look.” Christopher sighed. He hated the slow and the frightened; they could never understand the bold steps one needed to stride to reach greatness. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”
Knox stiffened. “Unmake them. We need corpses to blame for the murder, not walking, talking men.”
“And how do we explain two corpses before Nysa is dead?” Christopher asked. “Kinda hard for dead men to do the deed. Or are you saying we should wait until after she’s killed? That creates its own problems. First, they’ll want to be paid as soon as their part is done—a payment I don’t have, by the way. And second, they’re not going to hang around afterward. You’ll have to track them down, and pray they don’t say anything before you find them. With my plan, we can scoop them up as soon as they give us the information. No one has to know when they were sent to Manzant. All that’s important is that they were arrested and justice carried out before a formal investigation starts. But corpses decay quickly, especially in this climate, so you’ll have to kill them after Nysa is dead.”
“Let me worry about when, where, and how the two meet their end. I’ll hold up my end,” Knox snapped.
Wells was nodding. “I’ve watched Knox for years, and I trust him in such matters. I’m not saying anything against you, Lord Fawkes, but if my opinion means anything, I’d be more comfortable with the thieves dead rather than locked up.”
Christopher ran a hand over his face, sighing again. “Okay, okay, fine. We’ll do it your way.”
“And Sherwood?” Wells asked.
Christopher raised his hand, patting the air between them. “Trust me. Stow isn’t winning any points with Nysa.”
“Other noble ladies have succumbed to—”
“It’s not a matter of her being noble when he’s not. It’s that he’s human and she’s—Novron knows what—cold as frost in a frozen lake. Point is, he’s not making headway and isn’t likely to. But if it would make you more comfortable, I could make plans for Sherwood of the Endless Canvas and ensure that things are handled as expediently as possible.”
The chamberlain didn’t answer. He took a breath and ran a tongue along his lips as his eyes shifted from one face to the next.
Now was the time for Christopher to set the hook. “You see, you’ve already proven your value, and great things come to people who show such potential. So, Chamb
erlain, what do you say? Shall we consider you on board? Do you want to continue your rise and expand your horizons?”
He stared hard at Wells. They all did. The chamberlain’s eyes darted around once more.
Christopher rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as a gentle reminder that Wells might already be in too deep. He wasn’t, of course. The matter would still be word against word, but his little demonstration with Knox was bound to pay dividends.
“All right.” Wells nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing at the moment. We’ll wait to see what the consultants have to say.”
“And Sherwood?”
Christopher just smiled.
Sherwood put a breakfast biscuit in his mouth. Holding it with his teeth, he shifted the painting to his left hand and opened the study door with his right. Another lovely Maranon morning cast spears of sunlight across the floor, over the desk, and up the wall. There was something magical about early light—late evening, too. Sherwood had a fondness for both dawn and dusk. Fairy tales said that these between-times, the not-quite-day and not-quite-night periods, were when the doors between the world of men and the worlds of the fantastical opened. These were the enchanted minutes when wonderful and dreadful things occurred. Sherwood wasn’t one for superstition, myths, or legends, but he admitted to the truth of the between-times being enchanting. The light was always more golden, its angle casting dramatic shadows, and everything came alive with color. That morning should have been wonderful, but instead, Sherwood was greeted by the dreadful.
At first, he didn’t know what he saw. Something strange was in the center of the room, lying on the floor in a twisted, unnatural way.
As usual, Sherwood had arrived early. Lady Dulgath, always punctual, wouldn’t be there for half an hour. He had intended to finish the last of his breakfast as he oiled his paints. He hadn’t left much time to set up. He’d lingered in bed, suffering a mild attack of depression. The morose feelings came over him often. Most times they were fleeting and easy to weather. Yet occasionally a random hurricane hit, the world turned dark, and rain fell in unimaginable torrents.
The Death of Dulgath Page 10
