During those times, death by drowning was all but certain—and quite often welcomed. What had been fine the day before became too much to bear when the depression hurricane descended, and any memory of happiness was dismissed as a delusion. He was worthless; his work was atrocious, his life a miserable failure, and obviously Elan would be a better place without him breathing the air. While the attacks came without warning or trigger, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be provoked. Given that he had begun that morning experiencing a sprinkle, what lay on the floor of the private study threatened to bring the thunder.
For a brief instant Sherwood thought he saw a person, a horribly broken and mutilated corpse. Then he realized he wasn’t seeing flesh and bone, but splintered wood. He was looking at his easel, shattered in a dismembered sculpture of wanton destruction. Worse still were his paints. Bottles had been thrown, leaving brilliant bursts of colors on the walls and glass shards on the floor. A yellow ocher starburst had exploded near the window, looking like a second sun; a splatter of vermilion made the wall appear to bleed; a fan of umber had sprayed the wooden floorboards.
Sherwood always left his tools in the study. The room was never used and always closed. It made no sense to carry everything up to his room and then back down every morning. Early on, he left the canvas, too, but grew paranoid as the image of Lady Dulgath took form. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see it until finished. Maybe not even then.
He had taken the painting with him the night before and slept with it beside his bed, breathing oil fumes all night—one of the things his despair latched onto and labeled as stupid. He no longer felt that way; his depression couldn’t care less about such crumbs when a banquet lay before it.
The easel had belonged to Yardley, who inherited it from his master, who very likely got it from his. No telling how old the thing was—easily a hundred or more years. And every inch was covered in paint, with some places showing a buildup of layers, the sediment of decades. The screw that held the crossbar had long been cracked; so had the crossbar and the back leg. This had always caused the canvas frame to wobble, and the tray never was tight enough to suit Sherwood, especially not when it held a vial of Ultramarine. He’d cursed the thing countless times and considered having a new one made.
But seeing it on the floor, broken into a dozen pieces with bright jagged splinters, he felt he might vomit. This was the easel he’d learned on. This was the platform from which he discovered how to properly see the world. He’d taken it everywhere, sleeping with it on ships and in winter camps on high mountains. It had leaned against walls while he bedded ladies of varying ranks, and he’d whispered his fears to it more than once after coming home drunk.
Almost as tragic as the easel were the pigments. Seventy-five or maybe as much as a hundred gold tenents decorated the walls of the study. No blue burst, though—he’d thrown away the vial of Beyond the Sea all on his own. He still hoped to catch the man—Royce Melborn—and ask for it back. If Melborn had half a brain, he’d deny knowing anything about it, but laymen rarely understood the value of paint. That one vial was worth a dozen easels and everything presently on the walls.
Sherwood felt the hurricane build as he saw his brushes, also vandalized. Each one had been snapped in half, and some of them had the hairs pulled out or mashed with so much force that the ferrule had split. The painting was safe, but what good was it now that he had no hope of finishing it?
“What happened?”
Sherwood turned to see Lady Dulgath standing in the doorway.
How long have I been standing here?
He couldn’t talk and only pointed at the disaster, shaking his head.
“Who did this?” Her voice rose in volume and anxiety. “Did you see, were you here?”
He continued to shake his head. He felt like crying, afraid he might. Already his face was hot, his eyesight misting. He blinked fast to hold everything back.
“You there! Stephen,” she called out the door, “run and fetch the sheriff. Then tell everyone in this castle to assemble in the Great Hall. Do you understand? Everyone!” Her voice was angry, violent.
Sherwood picked up a brass candle tray and bent to sweep up as much of the pigment as he could. “I don’t understand why anyone would do this.” His voice was shaking, his words slurring. He didn’t care. “Stealing is understandable, but—I mean—this is worth a lot of money. Why destroy it? What have I done?”
“I’ll have it replaced,” Lady Dulgath said.
“You can’t. The time, the cost—it’s…” He actually didn’t know how much. Thinking about the totality of the loss was like asking how high was up.
“Doesn’t matter. You are my guest. I consider it my failure. I’m responsible, and I’ll make it right again.” She took a step, and glass crunched under her shoe. She froze and looked around, frightened. “The painting, is it—” She saw the covered square of canvas resting beside the leg of the desk, and her shoulders relaxed. “They didn’t touch it?”
“Wasn’t here. I took it to my room last night.”
She offered him an encouraging smile. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“Yes—that’s something.”
She continued to stare at the painting. He couldn’t stop her from looking at it. All she had to do was take two steps and lift the cover. He was certain she would, but a moment later Sheriff Knox and Chamberlain Wells entered.
“I want to know who did this,” Lady Dulgath demanded.
Knox took a moment to look around thoughtfully, finally focusing on the door. “That might be difficult.”
“Why is that?”
“No lock. Anyone can get in here.”
“Could be anyone in the castle then,” Wells said.
“Not just the castle,” Knox corrected. “Virtually anyone could have come in last night. I pulled Throm and Frewin from the gate to guard your bedroom door. We were shorthanded on the wall. You really need to let me recruit more guards. Burying your head in the sand must stop. Your life is in danger.”
“Whoever did this wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“But someone is.”
“Dulgath doesn’t need a standing army. This is a close community, and I won’t allow you—or anyone else—to destroy that.”
“I’m just asking for a few more guards—to protect you!”
“I don’t need protection. I need to know who did this. Find out. Go!” She turned and faced the chamberlain. “I’ve ordered the staff to be gathered. See to it that they are…everyone. I’ll speak to them shortly. I want this solved, and I want it solved today.”
“As you wish, milady.”
She closed the door after they left and crossed the room to Sherwood, who was still struggling to gather as much pigment as he could. She found an empty cup, a decorative stein from a high shelf, and helped him. “I’m so very sorry this happened, Sherwood.”
He paused and looked up. “You know my name.”
“Of course I do.”
“You’ve never said it before.”
She shrugged. “Is that significant?”
“To me it is.”
She looked at him, curious, forehead furrowed, those elegant brows creeping closer together. He could see it again, that vision through her eyes; an image beyond the window, a hazy shadow like someone peering out through frosted glass.
Sherwood had struggled his whole life to see beyond the veil that people hung over themselves. They wore clothes to hide their truths: the bravado of cowards, the humility of the courageous, the indifference of caretakers, and the sins of the pious. He scraped back veneers to find bone. These were the buried secrets that unlocked the sincerity of his work. Understanding—seeing—what others couldn’t, or refused to, allowed Sherwood to put into paint the same underlying honesty that made his portraits so lifelike. Everyone kept secrets; most simple and easy to spot.
Wells was practically naked. The man was a glutton. Knox was a barely restrained animal at heart. Fawkes was a dif
ferent matter. Something cold dwelled within his chest and throbbed rather than beat. Sherwood wouldn’t trust Fawkes to piss every day.
Nysa Dulgath was nothing like them, or any woman he had ever seen. She had a secret, to be sure, but she’d buried it deeper than he thought possible, beneath the dirt, below gravel, under shale and heavy rock. All he ever saw were these fleeting glimpses of shadows peeking out the windows of her eyes, little cupped hands pressed against the glass, a lonely soul trapped in an empty house.
Seeing how she looked at him then, that concern in her face, made the clouds part. He stood in the eye of the hurricane. The world blew around him dark and terrible, but he was safe. He was with her under a single shaft of sunlight, and everything was perfect.
The religious spoke of divine moments of grace when whatever gods they worshiped paused from their daily routine to stretch out a finger and touch them. Lives were changed, prophets made, and nations shifted when that happened. Sherwood felt touched at that moment, rocked to his core and then some. For a time, he thought he might be falling in love with Nysa Dulgath, but love was no longer a word large enough to encompass everything he felt. Mothers loved their children. Husbands loved wives. What Sherwood felt was more akin to worship. A prophet was born among the broken glass and scattered pigment, and while nations didn’t tremble, they should have.
Chapter Nine
Theft of Swords
Hadrian awoke to the song of birds and a cool breeze. A window was open, the only movement the thin curtains rippling with the wind. He lay on something soft, a pillow beneath his head. Somewhere distant, he heard muffled clinks of glasses, voices, laughter, and the drag of chairs on a wooden floor.
Sounds like a tavern.
The thought drifted in with the gentle breeze and whistling whoops and chortles of a thrush—then he remembered.
He sat up, expecting a nasty headache, something similar to the morning after a drunken pass out. He had figured his head would be throbbing, his eyes dry and reluctant to shift. Surprisingly, he felt okay, good even. His mouth might have been the last resting place for a deceased chipmunk, but other than that he was fine.
Hadrian had no idea where he was. Along with his morning-after apprehension, he had expected to open his eyes on a different scene—if he ever managed to open them again.
He was indeed on a bed, a nice bed: thick mattress, soft blanket, linen sheets, feather pillow, no stains. The rest of the room was just as charming. Big, dark-wood beams supported the ceiling. A rug stretched across the floor. Drapes framed a solitary window, where a bright light shone on a table and an upholstered chair. In the chair sat a familiar shadow.
“They drugged me,” Hadrian said. “She—she drugged me.”
“I know,” Royce replied. He was staring out the window, looking down.
Hadrian began taking inventory with his hands, no pain, cuts, or bruises. No tar or feathers. He was in his clothes, shoes still on, cloak missing. No, not missing, it lay across the foot of the bed.
He looked at his hands and remembered fumbling with a key. “Did I—did I manage to lock the door?”
“Yes, you did.” Royce threw his booted feet on the table. “I had to pick it to get you out.” He pushed back his hood, revealing a confused expression.
“What?”
Royce shrugged.
“You’re impressed I did that, aren’t you? That I thought to lock myself in.”
“Be more impressed if you hadn’t allowed a pretty girl to drug you.”
“A pretty girl…how’d you know? And how did you find me?” Hadrian stood up, continuing to test himself, but his balance was fine. Whatever she’d given him was friendlier than rye whiskey.
Royce didn’t answer.
Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough? Hadrian’s stomach sank.
“Oh, Royce, you didn’t…”
Royce cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his sight shifted to the floor in thought. Once more, he displayed a puzzled expression. He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”
“Not even the woman?”
“I know her. She’s from the Diamond, so she’s not an idiot. Not stupid enough to seek retribution, and she was adequately cooperative.”
“Really?” Hadrian wondered if he were dreaming, or perhaps dead. He should have been lying on a lonely road outside of town, his body burned with tar and covered in feathers, not waking up in a cozy private room.
Royce saved me but didn’t kill anyone? Apparently the world has forgotten how life works.
Spotting a washbasin on a dresser, Hadrian went over and splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a folded towel. He turned around, and his hands went to his sides. “Where are my swords?”
“No idea. Where’d you leave them?”
“What d’you mean where’d I leave them? I—”
I dropped them. And I took off the spadone before that. They were all near the bar.
“Didn’t you notice they were missing?” Hadrian asked.
Royce nodded.
“You didn’t think to get them back?”
Royce scowled. “Don’t see why I have to do everything. Need a hand when you piss, too?”
Hadrian threw the towel at him. Royce dipped his head, and the cloth flew out the window.
“How late is it?” Hadrian grabbed his cloak and hung it over his arm.
“Midmorning. You had a good rest. We missed breakfast.”
“Excuse me while I get my things.”
Royce stood up.
Hadrian stopped him. “No—stay here. My turn.”
Heading down the stairs, Hadrian noticed that the barroom was different. Morning light flooded in through the windows as well as the door, all of which were open to admit the breeze to the otherwise stuffy room. Gill was the first person Hadrian saw. The kid wore a stained apron and was rushing to clear tables where recent breakfast patrons had left plates and cups. Fearful that the ones who had taken his weapons would be long gone, Hadrian was pleased to see Bull Neck and his orange-clad partner at the same table where they’d sat the night before.
Wagner was still there, too, behind the bar, the same towel hanging over his shoulder. With his attentive publican eyes, Wagner was the first to spot Hadrian. Concern flooded the barkeep’s face as he glanced toward Bull Neck’s table to check if they’d seen him. Hadrian recognized two other faces at a different table. Not the men that had held up the post—not Brett and Larmand—but these men had been there. Scarlett wasn’t.
Getting up late had the benefit of a sparse crowd. Decent folk had come and gone. Aside from the ones he intended to speak with, Hadrian saw only one table of bystanders. A small family near the door was finishing up their porridge. The boy tilted a bowl to his lips, and his mother and father scolded him for bad manners. A girl in pigtails sat on a chair too big for her, swinging her legs.
Hadrian walked past Bull Neck and company to the bar, where Wagner pretended not to see him.
“I want my swords back.”
“What swords are those, friend?” Wagner smiled and pulled the towel from his shoulder to wipe dry hands or perhaps wrap around knuckles.
Hadrian smiled back. He’d hoped it would go this way. While he didn’t normally seek revenge, he didn’t appreciate being taken for an idiot.
Besides, a fight ends when one person hits the floor. This fight hadn’t ended. It hadn’t even started, but it was about to.
“Seriously?” Hadrian turned from Wagner and walked over to the family. Fishing out a silver tenent, he clapped it on their table. “This breakfast, and the next one, is on me.”
The man stared at him, looked at his wife and kids, and then asked, “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to take your family and leave. Right now.”
The man narrowed his eyes and glanced at his family once more. “Again, I have to ask why?”
“Because none of you were here last night when I was drugged and
robbed.”
The man didn’t look as shocked as Hadrian expected. When the man leaned over and looked at Bull Neck, Hadrian realized the fellow wasn’t as innocent as he’d first appeared. Hadrian had spoken loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, and Bull Neck and his orange-clad pal were grinning. The kids’ mother was already up from her seat. She scooped up the coin, and without waiting for her husband, led her children out the door.
Hadrian waited.
“I think I’ll stick around,” the father told him, an amused, almost eager, glee in his eyes.
Hadrian nodded, then closed the front door to Caldwell House, sliding the bolt across. Turning back to the room, he saw that Bull Neck and his friend had risen to their feet.
“You, in the orange,” Hadrian said. “What’s your name?”
The man adjusted his belt and rolled his shoulders, making a show of loosening up. “Mostly, I’m called Bad-News-for-Bloody-Strangers.” He laughed.
Bull Neck laughed with him. The rest smiled. “But you can call me Clem for short. I’m tellin’ you so you’ll know who laid ya low.”
“Ah-huh.” Hadrian nodded. “Well, Clem, you’re gonna want to take that nice tunic off. Red and orange clash, and bloodstains are difficult to get out.”
Clem laughed again. No mirth in it, but rather the sound of cruelty being fed. “Don’t worry, I think I can avoid getting your blood on me.”
“No blades,” Bull Neck said, punching one fist into a palm. “And no creepy friend.” He glanced toward the stairs to make sure that was true. “And no woman to protect you.”
Woman to protect me? Isn’t she the one who drugged me?
Hadrian couldn’t figure out what had happened after he passed out. Bull Neck mentioned a creepy friend, but if Alverstone had come out to play, there would have been a lot of blood and more than a few bodies.
“You’re in for some serious trouble, struth, yes—I can tell you that!” Bull Neck nodded his sincerity. “Weez gonna pound you to flour, boy. Weez surely are. Gonna mash you down to wort. You gonna be nothing but paste.”
The Death of Dulgath Page 11
