The Death Dealer - The Complete Series

by Katie Roman

  “What exactly did they do to offend the crown? What was worth sending one to slavery and killing the other?”

  The king's eyes furrowed, his mouth became a hard line, turning down at the corners, and his nostrils flared. He nearly snorted in anger. “Never you mind about those treacherous snakes.” Frederick rose and Jack did the same. “I will have a servant bring the appropriate papers to you, and then I will announce your promotion tomorrow evening. Then, I am afraid I must depart the city. I have duties in the north to attend to.”

  “Very good, Your Majesty.” Jack bowed as Frederick swept out of the room.

  Jack waited a few minutes before sitting at his new desk and set to work writing a letter. Ridley was still with him. He would have her get it out and into the hands of the right person.

  ~*~*~

  Nathaniel Moore never thought he would spend a morning tracking down the Princess of Thieves. Ridley, like Jack, had seemingly disappeared into thin air. He’d waited at the King’s Beard two mornings in a row, but she never arrived. Then he went to the Angel where the owner, Jim Little, cursed the Guild and pointed to the door. He checked the Emerald, the docks, the market, and even the temples. It was midday, his legs ached, and he was cold despite the heavy jacket he wore. There was only one stop left, and he loathed having to make it.

  Marcus’s home was quiet. Looking in through the windows, Nathaniel didn’t see Marcus’s usual throng of thieves hanging about, waiting for instruction. He saw pock-marked Ginger in her red wig sweeping the kitchen and no one else. He sauntered up to the door and knocked.

  Ginger opened it, holding her broom like a weapon. “Oye, he’ll be in a temper to see you. Might be best to speak to him out here so you can run if you need to.” She closed the door again and Nathaniel heard her call for Marcus.

  He heard the clatter of boots on stairs, followed by Marcus peering through the kitchen window. The thief king flung opened the door and grabbed Nathaniel by the front of his jacket, giving him a shake. “Where’s my girl?” he bellowed.

  Nathaniel had never seen the man in such a state before. Marcus usually remained calm and collected, never letting his emotions give him away. But now he had a wild look in his eye and wore a rumpled shirt with dirty trousers. And where was Thom? The man was practically Marcus’s shadow.

  “Unhand me, you old fool!” Nathaniel pulled back and Marcus loosened his grip, letting the fabric slip through his fingers. “I came here to find Ridley myself. We were looking for Jack Anders together. She was supposed to meet me at the Beard for breakfast yesterday. At first I thought perhaps she mixed up her days, but she wasn't there again today.”

  “She never came home! Last anyone saw of her she was with you.”

  “And she left the guardhouse unmolested.” This was bad. The last man to lay a hand on Ridley had met an ugly end. “Thom has ears and eyes everywhere; what has he seen?”

  “Thom is on an errand outside the city!” Marcus answered, grabbing at his hair. Nathaniel felt bad for him. Ridley was his adopted daughter, and his grief was palpable.

  “I can call up some guards and search across the Lane for her.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. It would be an insult to the man that the guard could find her when the Guild could not. “And what if she has moved past the Lane? Will your guards cross district boundaries?”

  Nathaniel frowned and scratched his head searching for an answer. There were no contenders for Marcus’s throne, so who else would benefit from taking her?

  “Gods all bless!” Marcus whispered. His eyes moved away from Nathaniel and were focused up the street.

  The captain followed his gaze to see a disheveled Ridley heading up the road, and both men hurried to meet her. Her hair was dirty and tangled and the front of her gray shirt was stained with blood, like it had dropped onto her. Nathaniel looked at her hand, seeing two of her fingers splinted and bandaged.

  “Captain,” she said, nodding to him before falling into a hug with Marcus.

  Nathaniel stepped back to give them a moment. After a minute or two, Ridley disengaged to look over at Nathaniel.

  “Where were you?” Marcus slung an arm over her shoulders, keeping her close.

  “I found Jack, and therein lies the problem. I think we should all retire, send Ginger to the market, and let me tell you what I’ve learned.”

  ~*~*~

  Jack gave Ridley instructions before she left the old castle. He’d written a letter to Grace, made Ridley hide it in her loincloth so no one would find it, and asked that she find a ship who would take it north. He’d have gold for her to bribe a captain in two days’ time. He also wanted her to bring Nathaniel and Marcus into the fold. As the Thief King, it would be beneficial to have Marcus’s support. And Nathaniel was known for not accepting bribes, even though he didn’t enforce it among his men. Jack wanted trustworthy men in the know.

  Ridley related her tale to the two men as they sat around the kitchen table. They watched her, mouths gaping and eyes unblinking as she told them about the new magistrate. When she finished, she felt exhausted. Her body fought to drag her into sleep, but she pinched herself to stay awake.

  “Jack Anders? A knight?” Marcus asked first.

  “Yes, and he needs our help,” Ridley said. “He’s being watched, closely. He told me he thought his ‘mates’ should know what’s become of him. He wants your help, though he couldn’t say so openly.”

  Nathaniel tapped his foot anxiously. “What help can we give?”

  Ridley shrugged. She reached under the table to pinch her thigh again when she felt her eyelids grow heavy. “He said something must be coming; something big if the king would go to the trouble of having Brayden killed. At least he thinks it was His Majesty that had Brayden killed. Who else would have dared?” She shot her eyes to Nathaniel. The captain only interrupted the story once to question her about witnessing the duke’s murder. “I…” she continued, ignoring the pursed-lipped glare of the captain. “I don’t know what Jack is guessing, but he wrote Grace a note.”

  She produced the letter from her belt pouch, having moved it from her loincloth once she was clear of the castle. “I had a priestess read it to me when I went to the healer at Kamaria’s Temple. It asked her to forgive him, but he insisted I smuggle it out. I'm not sure why he wanted me to hide it.”

  “Jack was afraid unfriendly eyes might see this,” Marcus said. “And he probably meant for his words to be entirely private, you nosey girl. We’ll find someone to get the letter to Grace for him.”

  “And what do we do in the meantime?” Ridley asked.

  “Nothing.” Both thieves looked over at Nathaniel. He looked at the letter, then back at them. “There’s nothing we can do. If I go to the magistrates for permission to arrest the king for suspicion of murder, I’ll be lucky if they only laugh me out of their court. Ridley, you said Jack wants you to come see him as soon as possible?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then that’s what you do. See if you can find out what His Majesty wants from Jack. We must be content with inaction for the time being.”

  “And what, dear Captain Moore,” Marcus cut in, “do you suggest we do if His Majesty plans to level Glenbard for his new summer palace? Or if he wants the magistrates to draft every man in this city to be in his army? What then? I won’t let my home be torn apart!”

  “If he wants those things, then no power in Cesernan is going to stop him,” Nathaniel said. “And it’s treason for you to even question it, so cool your temper and let’s see what happens.”

  Marcus pushed away from the table without another word and stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Ridley watched him through the window until he was out of her view.

  “What was that about?” Nathaniel finally asked.

  “I’m not sure. He’s never cared much for what nobles, much less the king, do. If the king does want to level our city, would you really not question it?”

  “I took a vow to serve Glenbard, t
he magistrates, and the king. I trust that anything they do will be for the betterment of us all.”

  Ridley looked at him. His dark eyes were earnest as he spoke. She scratched her head. “It must be painful to be so unquestioning all the time. You know Jack is taking bribes, and you know Brayden died for not doing so, and yet you sit there preaching about treason and obedience.”

  “I have faith in the crown and this city.” He rose from his seat. “Stay well, Ridley. Let me know what happens with Jack.”

  Six

  Grace got up from her duties to stretch. When she felt her back crack, she let out a sigh of relief. She'd spent all morning in the armory, bent over her polish and making note of what they had. She feared she'd wear her whetstone down to nothing with all the sharpening she had to do.

  The armory was a modest size, about as large as the private dining room in the tower, though there were no windows to give her a glimpse of the weather outside. The room was underground near the food cellars, and the air was at least ten degrees cooler than upstairs. Grace's coat did a good job of shielding her when she first arrived, but now she felt the bite and it became harder to work. Her fingers were stiff and she stopped frequently to blow on them.

  The armory housed wooden racks of swords and armor stands, and longer pole arms were hung on the walls by large wooden pegs. There were shields, war hammers, and bows; their strings kept safely in oiled cloth. Every inch of the room bristled with weaponry and armor in case of attack. There was enough present in this one room to arm the entire town.

  The night before, she travelled some miles away from the cottage in the woods. After Calvin left her, she struck a path toward the south. Little fishing villages lined the coast of Cesernan, and she knew one was bound to see trade ships. She planned to buy passage on one, but as she walked, she heard a wolf howl in the distance. It reminded her of Diggery, and her role as Diggery’s vessel. The howl brought her back to reality. She thought about Calvin's plea that she personally resign to George instead of fleeing in the night. So she turned back, snuck in through the well's tunnel back into the stable, and went straight to the armory to work out her frustration.

  The last bell to ring was for the nine o'clock hour. Grace's body was tired and she was hungry. She tried to find someone to beg food from, but all the servants were busy preparing for the wedding guests who were due to arrive around midday. Grace imagined her guard assignments would be midnight watches until the guests left. Calvin wouldn't want her near anyone.

  Grace felt her eyes getting heavy, but she shook the sleep from her mind and continued to polish the breastplate she was working on. As she continued, her head began to droop.

  The clatter of metal on stone caused Grace to jolt awake. She scrambled to collect the fallen breastplate and saw two finely polished boots next to it. Grace looked up into George's face. He bent down to retrieve the armor for her and handed it over.

  Grace rose from her seat. "Would you like to sit, my lord?" It wasn't a comfortable chair; it was straight backed and without a cushion and her butt hurt from hours sitting in it, but it was only proper to offer it to her uncle.

  "No, stay where you are." He signaled to the door where Master Broyles ambled in with a servant boy of about fifteen. Each one carried a cushioned chair from George's private study.

  The cushions were blue velvet on the seat and back, and they looked out of place in the armory. The old shields, swords, halberds, and everything else had probably never seen the likes of such finery. Weapons of war did not go well with seats of comfort, but Grace would not complain. She welcomed the change.

  Broyles and the boy set them down, and then the boy took away the chair Grace had been using. George sat, bidding Grace to do the same.

  “My lord, do you require anything else?” Broyles asked.

  “No thank you.”

  The boy and Broyles bowed before leaving the armory. George, still holding the breastplate, looked around him. “Do you have a polishing rag?”

  Grace got up from her seat once more to hand her rag to George, and then made her way across the armory to a sword stand. She picked out a broadsword she hadn't sharpened yet and returned to her seat. Across from her, George worked on making the breastplate shine.

  “Calvin said you were trying to run from us last night,” stated George matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving his work.

  Grace marveled to see him. George was a scholar. He didn't bother himself with armor and weapons, however he sat there, intent on making it shine. Grace hadn't even bothered to start on the sword yet.

  “Calvin isn't pleased to have me back. I thought perhaps it would be better if I left.”

  “And where would you go? You said your friends drove you out of Glenbard.”

  “I thought I could buy passage on a trade ship and settle in Nareroc, or any manner of places, really.”

  “A ship is not a safe place for a woman traveling alone. Trained as you are, you are still only one woman with a sword.”

  “I could go with Donald. He could talk to his captain about letting me-”

  “And if Donald does not want to help?” George looked up from his work. His blue-gray eyes were soft, but the line on his mouth was hard. “Your impulsive nature has not served you well in the past. Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  George set aside the armor and leaned forward in his chair, and then took her broadsword and set it aside as well. He placed both of Grace's hands in his. Her hands were callused from years with the sword and her time spent as a stable hand and maid in Glenbard. George's were soft, having been reared to be a priest or a scribe. “You are family. We love you for all the frustration you cause. By the king's orders I was to strike you from my will, you being in exile and wanted for witchcraft. However, I wanted you looked after when I died. There is some coin and other valuables set aside for you. According to Master Broyles's records, we lost it to bad investments, but in truth we have hidden it. Broyles, Calvin, and Leon all know where it is. If you truly wish to leave Arganis, I will give it to you now, but only under one condition.”

  “My lord?”

  “Winter is a dangerous time to travel. Most ships stay in port. The risk of being sunk by a winter storm is too great, and only for emergencies will they venture onto open water. Stay until the spring and come up with a plan. Write it up, show me you are not diving in feet first and blindfolded. If I agree to your plan, then I will give you your inheritance so you can start a new life outside Cesernan.”

  “And if my plan doesn't meet your approval?”

  “If you choose to sneak out in the night without saying farewell, I will forever worry you have come to some dreadful end. Your father lived life impulsively, and while no one could have prevented that horse from throwing him, he could have seen to his affairs better. You will not follow in his reckless footsteps.”

  Grace looked down at their joined hands. George disentangled his left hand and gripped her under the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Do we have a deal, Grace?”

  “I will stay the winter and plan out my next steps,” she agreed quietly.

  She was rewarded with a real smile, not the closed-lipped smile George gave most people. This was a smile that flashed his teeth and even reached his eyes. He looked around the armory. “How much have you done?”

  Grace took her hands back and rose from her seat. She walked to a small table pushed into the corner, where on top of it she had set some sheets of paper and her inkwell and quill. She grabbed the paper and brought it to George.

  “I wrote down everything I polished, sharpened, cleaned, and what have you. I even made a list of pieces that are in need of repair,” she said proudly. It was the longest she'd ever sat at such a boring task.

  George looked it over, nodding as he did so. “I think you have done enough here. Give this to Master Broyles and then go get some sleep. You are expected to muster in the courtyard upon the arrival of our illustrious guests, and
you'll do us no credit if you pass out from exhaustion.”

  Grace bit her lip. “Perhaps I should not join in the welcoming. I did embarrass Prince Drake by beating him in the sword ring. Why remind everyone?”

  George got up from his seat and offered Grace his arm. She took it, glad to pretend to be a fine lady for a few moments. George led her from the room. “You are still employed as a guard for this house, and we expect every guard to turn out to show His Highness he is well protected during his stay. Hide behind that tall man.”

  “Hoburn?”

  “Yes, that one.” George walked them down the corridor from the armory to the stairs that led up to the main hall. “He will shield you from view, and I will speak to Leon about putting you on the midnight watch. Do not think of your presence as a hindrance.”

  The two climbed the stairs. Grace felt the air shift and she became warmer as they stepped off the stairs and into a small hall. Ahead of them, servants ran with purpose here and there. Some carried cleaning supplies, others ferried fresh curtains and linens, and others just shouted orders. At the center of the hive was Broyles, log books in hand, writing down everything. The entire hall buzzed with activity.

  George handed Grace her list back. “Go and sleep. I will see you at muster.” George kissed the top of Grace's hand and patted her head before moving in the opposite direction from the insanity of the hall.

  Grace watched him sneak toward the back stairs, bound for his study, no doubt. With paper in hand, she strode toward Broyles.

  “Here is my list of the armory,” Grace said, holding it out for him.

  The steward grabbed the piece of paper and nudged Grace out of the way. “Mistress Wynifred, if you are going to drag those curtains along the floor, I will see to it that you empty all the chamber pots from now until Sir Calvin's heir is married!”

  Grace looked over her shoulder. A tiny woman, not much older than her, stopped dead in her tracks; dragging the navy and silver curtains she carried along the floor. If she wasn't careful, she'd trip over them. But after Broyles's stern warning, she squeaked and lifted them up, adjusting her hold and scurrying off.