“You lads want to take this outside?” Wagner asked.
“I’d be happy not to do this at all,” Hadrian replied. “Just return my swords, and we can all have breakfast.”
“Breakfast is over, tosser,” Bull Neck declared. He was cracking his knuckles and smiling so wide his gums were showing.
Hadrian ignored him and stared at Wagner for an answer.
“Don’t know anything about no swords, mister.”
“I think it’ll come back to you after a few of these nice tables are broken.” Hadrian moved to the middle of the room, the most indefensible place he could find. He hated starting fights and didn’t think he’d have to this time. Presenting himself as an easy target was like laying out steak in front of hungry dogs. These men had wanted to beat him senseless since he’d arrived.
Bull Neck came at him first. He’d gone to the trouble of shoving Clem aside so he could have the first strike. Hadrian intended to indulge Bull, even though he had nothing against the man. There had been a lot of Bulls in Hadrian’s life—big, loud, demanding men who expected respect based on size and volume alone. A few could fight, but most never bothered to learn because they assumed superior bulk was all that combat required.
Bull was the latter. Not the sort to use weapons, he probably had a fondness for fists and chokeholds. Hadrian wasn’t going to make his point with Bull because he disliked his brand of fist-first thuggery, but because Bull looked like he could take a beating. The best way to change minds was to break the biggest bones first.
Bull took three lumbering steps, punching out with his big left fist in a wide roundhouse swing.
A lefty.
Hadrian had already guessed that from how he had stood with his right leg forward. Now he knew for certain because the swing wasn’t a jab or a feint. The big boy had put everything into that punch, expecting to end the fight right there.
Hadrian turned sideways and guided the blow away from his face with his left hand. He caught Bull’s wrist and twisted it slightly to roll the elbow up. Then, bracing with his right, Hadrian snapped his opponent’s arm backward at the elbow.
Pop!
Hadrian heard, as well as felt, the joint give.
This was followed by a bellowing scream as Bull stumbled forward. Hadrian let momentum do the work, and Bull slammed into the table still laden with porridge. Bowls shot into the air, wooden legs severed, and the table collapsed as Bull crashed into it.
Clem took a step forward as Hadrian backed up. “Wait!” Hadrian held up his palms and then pointed at the debris. “You might want to pick up one of those table legs. Makes a good club, don’t you think?”
This made Clem pause for a moment. Then he glanced at the floor where Bull was rolling in the spilled porridge, whimpering and clutching his twisted arm. Hadrian hoped that if Clem took a moment to reflect upon the torment of his friend it’d be enough to make Clem—and everyone else—think twice. It didn’t. But Clem did take Hadrian’s advice and picked up a broken table leg.
The first swing was wide. Hadrian took a step back anyway. The second, a backswing, was on target and Hadrian ducked, taking another step back. Then another. By the time they reached the oak post where Brett and his friend had been talking the night before, Clem was getting tired. Swinging that table leg as hard as he could was difficult, and sweat glistened on the orange-clad man’s forehead.
Hadrian waited for the next swing, and this time he stepped inside and guided his opponent’s hand. Easy to tell that the loud thwack! was Clem’s hand rather than the table leg hitting the post. The man dropped the club with a cry and jerked his hand to his chest in agony. Regardless of what else it might have done, the post had skinned Clem’s knuckles. Blood smeared the front of his nice tunic, leaving two faint streaks.
Hadrian thought this would end the fight, but the father who had remained behind had opened the door, and Brett, followed by two others, entered. Apparently, the wife was no more innocent than the husband.
All three charged Hadrian, arms spread for a waist-high tackle.
Hadrian stepped behind the pillar, ruining everything. He also picked up the table leg.
Brett went right, the family man went left. The third didn’t know what to do, so he just stopped in front of the post. They hadn’t seen Hadrian pick up the leg, and Brett still hadn’t seen it when Hadrian clubbed him in the forehead. Brett’s mouth made a wide O as his head snapped back and his legs crumpled under him. The father of two had intended to grab Hadrian’s arms from behind, but Hadrian was standing too close to the post for him to easily get both arms around. Didn’t matter. Hadrian brought the table leg back, punching into the man’s stomach with the splintered end. The jagged teeth cut through his shirt. Porridge Dad let out a whoosh of air, folded, and collapsed.
By this time, Wagner had come around the bar to join the fray, and Clem had recovered enough to have a second go.
Hadrian dodged around the post and moved back to the center of the room, where Bull was howling on the floor, lying on his back, his knees up as he rocked from side to side. Hadrian snatched another loose table leg off the ground.
The remaining three men—Gill abstained from the fight, choosing instead to watch from the cellar stairs—came at Hadrian more slowly this time. They fanned out, trying to circle him. Wagner wrapped the towel around his knuckles, and the three shuffled forward, jabbing and swiping, some with open hands and outstretched fingers. Maybe they were trying to catch hold of him; Hadrian wasn’t sure, but they looked ridiculous, like children. None had any training, much less experience.
They drugged me. Stole from me. Might have killed me.
The last one was unlikely, but he needed something. He was starting to feel like he was beating up on kids. When fighting skilled soldiers, Hadrian could anticipate moves. These people were erratic and foolish beyond prediction. They were so inept he might accidentally kill one. Not having his swords was a benefit; these imbeciles would probably impale themselves.
Hadrian cracked Brett on his reaching wrist. He howled and fell back. Thinking this provided an opening and not realizing Hadrian now had two clubs and was proficient with both hands, Clem lunged in. The second table leg caught him across the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted. Hadrian swung at Wagner then, who managed to jump out of the way but lost his balance in the effort and fell, slamming into another table, cracking it badly as he went down.
“Stop!” Scarlett Dodge stood in the doorway. She wore the same fetching patchwork gown, which looked out of place in the morning light. In her arms, she clutched three familiar swords. “Damn it, Brett! I told you to stall him, not fight him.”
She threw the three blades on the floor, where they clattered on the stone.
“Hey!” Hadrian yelled.
“What? You threw my friends on the floor!”
“His swords are worth more,” Royce said. He appeared from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, hood up, arms folded. No one had seen him come down. Everyone still able to, shifted away.
“Royce, I thought I told you to wait upstairs,” Hadrian said.
“You took too long. I got bored.”
“What are you doing?” Wagner asked Scarlett as he got to his feet. “Declawing the cat, remember?”
“Yeah, that was last night and before I knew this cat doesn’t need claws to kill you.”
“We almost had him, Dodge,” Porridge Dad said, still bent over and rubbing his stomach. “He was getting tired.”
“He’s had more sleep than any of you—trust me.”
“I’d rather have gotten drunk and suffered a hangover. You want to explain what happened last night?” Hadrian asked.
“Not really.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to insist,” Royce said, and began to slowly cross the debris-ridden room. “Miss Dodge, is it?”
“It sure as bloody Mar isn’t Missus.”
“Watch your mouth, girl,” Wagner snapped. “No need to blaspheme our Lord’s name.”
“I think Miss Dodge needs to take a walk with us,” Royce said.
“She ain’t going nowhere with you two.” This was said by Bull Neck, who still lay on the floor, cradling his wounded arm.
“I’m afraid she is,” Royce said. He drew out a folded parchment and held it up. “Can you read?”
She stared at the parchment. Shock spread across her face. “You’re—you’re…” Scarlett couldn’t manage to say the word.
“Royal constables,” Royce said. “Keepers of the peace.”
“That’s not possible. You were in the Diamond, for Maribor’s sake.”
“You think I whipped this up last night?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Ask Sheriff Knox or Chamberlain Wells. You can even talk to Lord Fawkes—he’s the king’s cousin. He ought to know if the king’s signature is authentic.”
Wagner growled. “I don’t care who you say you are; she’s not going anywhere with you two.”
“It’s okay, Wag,” Scarlett said.
“It ain’t.”
“It is.”
“These two ain’t no royal constables.”
Scarlett sighed. “If it’s true, they could kill me in the name of the king, and Sheriff Knox would buy them drinks. And if it isn’t, they can still murder me and disappear. If they wanted me dead, you’d already be picking out my box.”
As she said this, Hadrian buckled on his two swords, then hefted the big one onto his back.
“Besides, how exactly do you plan to stop them?” She pointed toward Hadrian. “He pummeled all of you black-and-blue with two table legs. What do you think he’ll do with those? And don’t forget what I told you last night about him.” This time Scarlett pointed at Royce.
“That’s why I’m worried,” the bartender said.
“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Royce told him. “From what I’ve seen of the people in this town, I’d vote Miss Dodge ‘Most Likely to Survive.’”
Scarlett led them toward the door.
Hadrian paused and looked back at Clem, whose nose had bled like a spigot down the front of his tunic. “Cold water,” he said. “Don’t use hot. Believe me, hot water will set the stain and it’ll be ruined.” He shook his head. “What a shame. That was a nice tunic.”
The three of them followed the cobbled street downhill toward the river. Morning light shone blindingly bright on a two-story whitewashed clapboard building with a stone foundation and a big waterwheel. The wheel creaked and trickled as it slowly turned.
“Royce, you hungry?” Hadrian asked.
“A little,” Royce replied. He walked behind the other two, forcing Hadrian to peer back over his shoulder.
“I didn’t get dinner last night.”
He stared at Scarlett.
“What?”
“You know the town. Where can we go?” Hadrian asked.
“We?” She laughed, but there was nervousness in it. Scarlett glanced back at Royce before answering Hadrian. “I drugged you last night, and you want to eat with me today?”
“Sure, just don’t do it again. If you do”—Hadrian jerked his head toward Royce—“he’ll probably kill you.”
“Probably?” Royce said.
“So where can we find food?” Hadrian asked again.
“Ah…” Scarlett hesitated.
“Someplace isolated,” Royce said. “I don’t like crowds.”
“He’s not kidding,” Hadrian said. “And as far as Royce is concerned, two is a crowd.”
“We can go back to my place. I have a slab of pork and some eggs I can cook up.”
“Wonderful.” Hadrian smiled at her.
“Is he always like this?” Scarlett asked Royce.
He nodded. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
Scarlett Dodge lived in a small, ivy-bedecked stone cottage with a dirt floor, a yellow thatched roof, and a bright-red door. Chimneys stood at both ends, with the ubiquitous ivy hiding everything else. Inside were two rooms: a clean kitchen, and a disaster of a bedroom. Blankets, sheets, undertunics, kirtles, a bright-red cloak, and red gloves lay scattered across the rush-covered floor. There could have been a fight in her bedroom more violent than the one held at Caldwell House. A spinning wheel rested in the corner, tilted against the wall. A line of thread coming off the drive wheel was tangled around the bobbin in a massive wad. A nearby basket of unspun wool was tipped over, the contents looking like foam spilling out of a beer keg.
In contrast, the kitchen sparkled. Wood was stacked neatly near the fire, as were a series of six copper pots. Not a single one showed even a hint of soot. On three rows of shelves, ceramic and wooden bowls grouped by type descended in size from left to right. Plates and cups were proudly displayed, herbs hung in neat bundles from the rafters, and a series of sharp knives were stabbed into the support beam near a clutter-free table.
Scarlett paused, looking at her home with an embarrassed grimace, then shrugged. “I like to cook.”
The fire was still smoldering in her hearth. She added wood, pumped it with a bellows until a flame caught, then went to a barrel. Popping the lid off, she hooked out a slab of pork. Scarlett clapped it onto the table, jerked a knife off the post, and began slicing a section free.
“Well?” Hadrian asked, taking a seat on one of only two stools in the house.
Royce remained standing. He walked around, studying the place.
“Well what?” Scarlett replied, expertly trimming fat. She handled a knife well, holding it lightly with a finger on the blade and using the whole edge. Hadrian had never been a butcher, but he knew when someone was at ease with sharp things. While Scarlett probably hadn’t been a butcher, either, she certainly could have applied for the job.
“Why did you ruin a perfectly good glass of rye whiskey that might have led to a sleepless night for the both of us?”
Scarlett paused. She smiled then shook her head, clearing the expression. “You make it hard to hate you.”
“Really?” Royce said. “Funny—I have the opposite problem.”
“You mentioned something about us, the church, and Bishop Parnell?”
“Yeah, well, I may have been mistaken about that. It was before I saw…Royce, is it?”
“Pleased to meet you.” He nodded. “Dodge?”
“Scarlett. Scarlett Dodge.”
“Scarlett? Seriously? That’s the best you could come up with?”
She scowled. “Hey, that’s my real name. Thank you very much.”
Royce shrugged.
Hadrian had one heel hooked on the crossbar of the stool and the other on the floor. He considered tapping his toe but figured they’d still ignore him. Instead, he said, “Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?”
“Which was?” Scarlett asked.
“Hello? We were talking about why you drugged me.”
“Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Definitely a mistake. I thought you were hired muscle watching over Pastor-Pain-in-the-Ass. I had no idea that…” Focusing on Royce, her eyes became serious. “How much are they paying?”
“How much is who paying for what?” Royce asked.
“How much is the church paying you to kill Lady Dulgath? If I make you a better offer to leave, you’d be okay with that, right?”
“You’re that wealthy?”
“No, but I’ll take up a collection. If everyone pitches in, and they will—”
“We’re not here to kill Nysa Dulgath,” Hadrian said.
Scarlett rolled her eyes.
“We aren’t.”
She ignored him and continued to address Royce. “What do you say?”
“Let me get this straight—you’ll pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath.” Royce was nodding. “I think I might be able to do that. If you can—”
“Royce!” Hadrian slapped the table.
“What?”
“Stop it.”
“She’s going to pay us not to kill Lad
y Dulgath. That’s easy money.”
“It’s dishonest.”
Royce folded his arms and glared.
“Wait…” Scarlett looked from Royce to Hadrian. “You really aren’t here to kill her?”
Royce scowled at Hadrian. “You ruin everything.” He turned back to Scarlett. “Up to a minute ago, I thought you were part of it. Why else would a Black Diamond be hiding in Brecken Dale?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hiding—not really—and I’m not in the Black Diamond…not anymore.”
“Freelancing?”
She shook her head. “Straight.”
Royce looked skeptical.
Scarlett appeared confused. “If you’re not here to kill her, then…I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
“We were hired to help protect her,” Hadrian explained.
“Ha!” Scarlett followed the outburst with mock laughter. She dumped strips of pork into a pan, then hooked it to a blackened rafter chain and let it dangle over the fire before adding another small log. “And exactly who hired you?”
“The Nyphron Church.”
“Ah-hah!” Scarlett turned to Hadrian with a there-you-have-it look.
“Ah-hah what?” Hadrian said.
“The church is using you to help kill her.”
“Churches don’t kill people,” Hadrian told her. “They burn incense, collect tithes, and mutter words in forgotten languages—they don’t put out contracts on high-ranking nobles.”
Scarlett and Royce exchanged glances, then both shook their heads.
Royce hooked a thumb in Hadrian’s direction. “See what I have to put up with?”
“Adorable,” Scarlett said.
“Look,” Hadrian went on, certain they just didn’t understand. “Lady Dulgath has had a number of attempts made on her life, and everyone insists a professional has been hired. But Lady Dulgath isn’t acknowledging there’s a problem. So the church is concerned for her welfare and hired us as consultants. Royce is an authority when it comes to assassinations.”
“You don’t say,” Scarlett said with a bemused expression.
The Death of Dulgath Page 12
