Chairs had been placed on the stage, seeming out of place on the unfinished blond decking. The big chair from the Great Hall, where the late earl had sat during meals, was center stage. Today the king would sit there. A smaller, more delicate chair sat to the right of the larger one. This seat was for the lady of honor, Nysa Dulgath. On the king’s left, another chair was reserved for Bishop Parnell. Not even King Vincent would want to snub the church in such a public display.
More chairs faced the stage, with an aisle between them. Who sat where indicated their significance and marked their place in the nobility’s hierarchy. Christopher would be sitting on the aisle in the last row, which was better than no seat at all.
He had been briefed by Wells, who, as chamberlain, was responsible for every aspect of the ceremony. Of course, his wasn’t the final voice. Even Lady Dulgath didn’t have authority in the presence of the king.
Now that the time was at hand, Christopher worried about Bishop Parnell’s ability to pressure the king into making him earl.
Why wouldn’t Vincent give the fief to Sir Gilbert? The man is the best knight in Maranon. Or the king could choose one of his hunting buddies, like Baron Linder. Heck, why not award the title to my father, for that matter.
Christopher had no idea what leverage Parnell would use to influence the king’s decision, but that wasn’t his concern, at least not yet. And with that thought, he allowed himself a good long stare across the length of the yard, up toward the wall that was elaborately—and strategically—decorated. A large pair of heraldic banners were displayed over the parapet. Between the king’s own colors and those of Dulgath, a massive arbalest was hidden, along with an insane, hairless man without a single fingernail. Christopher couldn’t see him or the weapon but knew both were there—his gift for the newly pledged countess.
The people of Dulgath had been arriving all morning. He’d seen them from his window on the third floor. They had come in farm wagons, buckboards, and on horseback, but most had arrived by foot. Huge masses of people dressed in their finest colorful cloth brought a roar that drowned out the sea. They had formed small camps outside the castle walls, laughing, shouting, singing, and dancing.
Christopher was on the porch when Wells gave the signal and the gates were finally opened.
The sweaty-faced crowd tumbled into the courtyard where, in the absence of any real constabulary, the king’s own men were acting as guards. With outstretched arms and loud voices, they funneled the surging crowd toward the far wall and directed the onlookers to form orderly rows until the whole courtyard was full. Those who hadn’t arrived early enough found themselves outside the walls, but they were still excited to be present. This was a holiday for them, as good as an annual fair—no, better, as this happened but once in a lifetime. Or so they expected.
There had to be thousands. Men in variously colored cowl hoods to protect them from the sun; women holding babies in their arms, jostling and swinging in an effort to keep them quiet; wide-eyed children constantly tapping and pointing; everyone with smiles of excitement and anticipation. They wanted a show, and they would get one.
A trumpet sounded.
“That’s us, My Lord,” a mostly bald but otherwise white-haired man said. He was the king’s scribe, and Christopher thought his name might be Robank or Robant.
They walked out together. Wells had orchestrated the event like a wedding, and in a way that’s exactly what it was. Nysa was about to pledge her loyalty to her liege lord, and he in turn would grant her stewardship of Dulgath. The two would be bound to each other—and just as in marriage, she would be far more bound to him than he to her.
As Christopher and the scribe made their way through the crowd to their seats, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black hood, so out of place in all the oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and browns. Like the fin of a shark, it cut through the assembly, slicing away from the stage, where everyone else was pushing to be, and heading toward the far wall—the distant one where the large set of heraldic banners hung.
Christopher froze, trying to follow the path of the dark hood that reminded him of—but that was impossible. Royce Melborn would be in Manzant by now locked away in that terrible hole of no return.
“Lord Fawkes?” the scribe said while tugging on Christopher’s arm. “We’re supposed to proceed together. Is anything wrong?”
Christopher scanned the throng of jostling, cheering townsfolk but had lost track of the phantom.
I’m just nervous.
He shook his head and replied, “No, no. Everything is fine. I was just overwhelmed with the pageantry and the splendor. Let us proceed, my good man.”
The two continued to their seats but remained standing. No one would be allowed to sit until the king did. Next came the king’s valet, and then the only other woman to be granted a chair. The king called her Iona, but Christopher had heard her real name was Bessie. She was His Majesty’s mistress. Christopher was surprised she’d been granted a place at all, but then old Bessie had lasted longer than any previous courtesan. By his reckoning she was going on her seventh month in the royal bed.
Next came the esquires and the knights, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus, their crests emblazoned on formal tabards. Another trumpet blast and Bishop Parnell took his place on the stage, looking rather dignified.
The horn sounded again, and Lady Dulgath left her castle. She exited alone, and at the sight of her the crowd went so silent that Christopher could hear the swish of her long blue gown across the steps as she climbed onto the stage. She reached her chair and pivoted on her left heel to face the crowd. As she did, three more trumpeters joined the first, and together all four proclaimed the coming of the king.
The crowd before the stage, including the people granted chairs, went down to their knees at the brassy sound. Heads bowed, the trumpeters knelt as well, and nothing but birdsong, the wind in the banners, and the distant rush of waves accompanied King Vincent to the center of the stage.
“People of Dulgath,” he said, “His Lordship, Earl Beadle Dulgath, is dead. I mourn his loss and pray to Maribor and Novron that his spirit is at peace. Today I’m here to appoint his successor—his daughter—Lady Nysa Dulgath.”
The king took his seat, and like springs set free, the crowd popped up and cheered.
Christopher, along with the others who’d been granted a chair, took his seat amid the roar of the crowd. He leaned out and caught the eye of Lady Dulgath. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
Everything’s going to be fine, he tried to convince himself, but he didn’t really believe it.
The hood didn’t bother him nearly as much as the smile on Lady Dulgath’s face. She’d never smiled at him before, and he didn’t know what that meant.
Chapter Twenty
Assassin
Royce was good at navigating crowds. Small and agile, he could also anticipate currents and knots, working them to his advantage. Hadrian followed in his wake, swimming through the gap before it closed again. On the few occasions when Royce hit a dam, it took only a menacing stare to get people out of his way. Men with big fists and calluses avoided him for the same reason some pretty women never attracted suitors: People silently communicated with body language, eye contact, and open or closed stances. Some said, I’m friendly, talk to me; Royce’ s message was the same as a pointed blade. His glare could be relied upon to intimidate a roomful of hardened criminals, and the effect was magnified on simple farmers, mothers, and their children. To them, he must look like death moving their way. Most couldn’t get out of his path fast enough.
Royce made for the far wall. That was the obvious spot. The raised parapet on that side of the courtyard was entirely draped in banners, perfect for concealment; was a reasonable distance to the target—less than a hundred yards—and held a direct and unobstructed line of sight to the stage. Even an idiot like Fawkes could be counted on to solve that riddle. He clearly had. The far parapet was the only one without a ladder. The killer was up there neatly
isolated. He could take his shot, then drop down outside the wall to a waiting horse. The assassin would be gone before anyone even knew what happened. Once the crowd noticed, the ensuing chaos would choke the courtyard, severely inhibiting any pursuit.
When Lady Dulgath entered and took her seat, Royce considered dashing to the stage to warn her but decided against it. The assassin was already up in his nest, probably looking down the stock of a crossbow and waiting for a signal to shoot. Royce’s attempt to warn Nysa might become that signal, and he was hoping there was still time to stop the assassination. Royce’s one advantage was that the killer didn’t know he was coming any more than Lady Dulgath knew she was about to be murdered. As long as the plan remained unaltered, there would be no reason for the assassin to rush the shot. If Royce and Hadrian could gain access to the parapet, and if the bowman was intent on his target, they might be able to get close. If so, Royce would assassinate the assassin.
Then he would face a decision.
They could just disappear—should just disappear. He and Hadrian could follow the same exit plan the bowman had prepared. Every reasonable thought in his mind demanded that they leave. Then, he could come back later and pay Fawkes and Payne a visit on a dark, quiet night of his choosing, in a place no one would hear their screams. He could kill Fawkes whenever he wanted. It didn’t—wouldn’t—have to be in front of an audience.
The other less sensible option whispered teasingly in his ear to take care of everything right then. He could fill in for the crossbowman, but instead of putting a bolt through Lady Dulgath, he’d punch a hole in Fawkes—or Hadrian would. He was better at such things and had the benefit of two working hands. The only question was whether his partner would have the stomach for it. Hadrian still suffered from the handicap of his imagined morals.
If the quarrel pinned Fawkes upright in his chair—as they sometimes did—the ceremony might conclude with his death undiscovered until they came for His Lordship’s chair. With all the noise of the crowd, and everyone’s attention on the king and the lady, perhaps no one would notice. The powers that be could easily blame the dead assassin lying next to the bow, and he and Hadrian could leave for home that very afternoon without any worry of being hunted.
The more he thought about it, the more Royce liked that option. Killing Fawkes with the same weapon he planned to murder Nysa with had a poetic irony that appealed to him. And it would be nice to turn Fawkes’s moment of triumph into his downfall, but Royce knew he was also being stupid. Emotions did that; passion made idiots out of everyone.
Royce hated Fawkes and wanted him dead more than anyone since Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Medford who had beaten Gwen a year before. He tried to convince himself it was because Fawkes had attempted to put Royce back in Manzant, the abyss where he’d spent the worst years of his life. That was more than reason enough for a death sentence. The last time Royce had been sent to Manzant, he’d rewarded those responsible with what was still referred to in the city of Colnora as the Year of Fear, even though it only took place over one summer.
Royce also tried to rationalize that Fawkes’s other transgressions contributed to his desire to end the miscreant’s life then and there: his mangled hands, drugging Hadrian, selling them like slaves. All told Fawkes had four capital crimes to pay for, but even all of them wouldn’t have put Royce in that crowded courtyard on that afternoon.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was there because of her. He was trying to save Nysa, but justifying his actions by pretending he only cared about revenge. He reasoned that ruining Fawkes’s plan was an additional victory. Suffering fools wasn’t something Royce was good at, even when he was the fool. His rationalizations were crap, just excuses for his reckless behavior, and that truth was a problem for him.
She looks so much like Gwen. The thought bobbed up, but he dismissed the notion as he had his previous justifications—just one more excuse.
Sure, she had dark hair and olive-colored skin, but she wasn’t as dark-skinned as Gwen; plus, she lacked the distinctive Calian features. Still, they both had a similar, and uncanny, ability to read him and shared an eerily haunting wisdom. The real reason was something else, something more, something he couldn’t understand, and that lack of understanding scared him.
She feels familiar. When she speaks, it’s as if she knows me.
Beyond all that, the fact that Hadrian hadn’t balked about rescuing the countess, or hesitated at the idea of preventing the assassination, was evidence he was making a huge mistake. Yet despite all this, Royce was pushing through the crowd and making his way to a ladder laying in the grass, close enough for emergencies, but too far away to invite anyone to use it.
He’s rubbing off on me.
Royce scowled at the thought, and his expression sent a little girl falling over herself to dart out of his way. She continued watching him long after he’d moved past. The day was warm, and the sun shone clear and bright, but when Royce glanced back at that girl, she shivered.
And I’m not even after you, he thought, feeling the stiff boards wrapped tightly to his hand and left middle finger.
The three good fingers and thumb of his left hand were more than enough to hold Alverstone, and that dagger could cut anything. He’d recovered the white blade from the belt of one of the Manzant slavers, where it had been casually stuffed like a pair of old gloves. If the slaver had succeeded in stealing it, Royce would’ve spent the rest of his days hunting him down, even if he had to excavate Manzant in the process. The blade was all he had to remember the man who had made the weapon—the first person to challenge Royce’s worldview, the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, to a savior.
Usually to make something truly great, you need to start from scratch, Royce remembered him saying. You need to break everything down, strip away the impurities, and it takes great heat to do that, but once you do, then the building can start. The result can seem miraculous, but the process—the process is always a bitch.
Royce tried to squeeze his right hand and winced.
The process is always a bitch.
No one was looking as he and Hadrian reached the ladder. “You want it over there?” Hadrian asked, nodding toward the banners, but it was more of a statement than a question. When you knew what to look for it was easy to see.
Once Hadrian set the ladder, Royce led the way up. Using only the two outside fingers of his left hand, he climbed with no more difficulty than if it had been steps. Partway up, he disappeared beneath the blue-and-white standard of House Dulgath.
If I were doing this, I’d set up the crossbow down and to the left. Better angle and more reaction time if anyone comes up. But then if I were doing this, I would’ve pulled up the ladder.
Not for the first time, Royce wondered who he’d find holding the bow. Not Tom the Feather or Roosevelt Hawkins, and probably not a bucketman from the Diamond.
Creeping up the last few rungs, Royce poked his head above the level of the catwalk. Beneath the banners was a dim world, a long tunnel formed by the parapet, roofed and walled on one side by the huge linen pennants. On the outer side, merlons left squared open spaces, giving views outside the castle. Muted sunlight lent the space a tentlike feel. The underside of the banners acted as the backside of stained glass along the corridor. Less than twenty feet to his left, a man lay on his stomach with his hips turned, one leg bent and the other straight to fit within the narrow passage. He was bald, heavily tanned and tattooed. His arms were wrapped around a massive crossbow, his cheek resting on its stock; the weapon’s nose barely protruded through the gap between the standard of Dulgath and the banner of Maranon. The prow of the bow was mounted on a stand, the other end pressed against the bald man’s shoulder. As Royce had expected, a rope was tied around a merlon behind the assassin—his escape route.
Hasn’t seen me.
A bell began ringing. Royce reached into his cloak and gingerly drew Alverstone with his left hand before creeping onto the parapet. The bowman was so in
tent on his target he never noticed.
Too intent.
The killer’s eyes narrowed, and he was holding his breath.
The bell! It’s a signal.
A busted right hand made it impossible to accurately throw his dagger. Instead, he raced toward the assassin, but a diving hawk couldn’t cut that distance faster than the bald man could squeeze a trigger. Only two strides separated them when…
Thwack!
The sound was loud. Somewhere in the courtyard below, came a faint, muffled thrump! Followed by screams.
Royce wondered if the shooter had even seen where his shot landed before his throat was cut. The assassin was dead, but a price was paid. A jolt of pain exploded from Royce’s broken finger as he killed the bowman. Soaked in blood, the slick blade slipped from his hand. Alverstone hit the parapet and fell through to the courtyard below. “Damn it!”
Hadrian, who had caught up to Royce, was pulling back the edge of the pennant.
“Did he hit her?” Royce whispered.
Hadrian drew the banner aside further so both of them could peer out. Lady Dulgath sat slumped in her beautiful blue gown, a massive quarrel protruding from the center of her chest.
She’s dead.
Two knights were on their feet. One drew his sword, looking through the crowd for the enemy. Everyone else stared at the chair to the right of King Vincent. Hadrian released the cloth and it slid back into place.
“Can you climb down the rope with your hands like that?” Hadrian asked.
Before Royce could answer, a communal gasp rose from the courtyard. Several people screamed. “She’s alive!” someone shouted. That one voice managed to cut through the murmur of the crowd.
Royce peeled back the canvas and saw the impossible. Nysa Dulgath’s eyes were open. With both hands she pulled the quarrel from her body, looking at it, stunned.
How could she…how could anyone survive being impaled with a bolt that size.
The Death of Dulgath Page 26
