“I’m sorry,” Chancellor Braga offered.
She stared at them, stunned, her mouth hanging open with the shock. Then she shifted her gaze to Reuben. “Please…” she begged in a soft voice. “My mother…”
“Reuben, no!” It might have been Braga, maybe the bishop, possibly even Grisham who yelled; he never knew. A moment later he was back in the castle charging up the stairs.
Braga had been premature when he declared that the castle had become a death trap. A lot of it was stone and the scattering of straw and hay was quickly consumed; being dry as tinder, it didn’t even produce much smoke. By his second trip, however, his assessment fit. The castle timbers had finally caught and there was an unmistakable roar that boiled in the depths. The fire had grown to adulthood and found its voice. Furniture burned the brightest, causing Reuben to shield his eyes. Above him sparks rained down, and what remained of the tapestry had fallen, blanketing the steps and causing him to jump through fire.
He reached the solar again, but by now the hallway was black with smoke, which billowed and churned. Remembering what he had learned, Reuben dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled down the hall but this time could not avoid the smoke. His eyes watered, and his throat burned as he struggled to breathe in a world without air.
Soon all he could see was the floor. Panic rose as he realized he couldn’t get a breath. He put his face down until his nose pressed against the wood and he sucked in. He thanked Maribor for the lungful of burnt air he found and noticed he was trembling. The floor below him was hot and he could hear the crackle of flame on the underside. He realized then that the bishop and chancellor were right. This time it was too late.
He was going to burn to death within just a few feet of his father.
No. I’ll suffocate first.
He closed his eyes. He had to; they were burning from the smoke.
How many breaths do I have left?
He coughed, pushed his lips against the floor, and sucked.
At least one more.
He had saved her. He had done that much. Rose was dead. His father, too, but he had done that one good thing. And maybe it was best this way. Arista would have married and left him heartbroken and alone. This had been his moment. Perhaps this was the reason he’d been born—why Maribor had spent so little time on him. He never had to learn how to fight or ride, and what need was there for friends, or a mother, or even a father, if all he was destined for was to save the princess on a cold autumn night and then die? What point was there in providing him a full life?
He thought of Rose.
I should have done more than kiss her. If only I knew how little time I had left—how little time she had.
Overhead, a beam snapped with a crack like thunder. He waited, but nothing fell.
He took another breath, his lips pressed against the hardwood. He had never been so intimate with nor loved a floor as much as he did at that moment. He would never make it to the queen. Even if he did, she had to be dead, suffocated in her sleep. And if she was still alive, he could never get either of them to safety. He couldn’t get himself out. There just wasn’t enough air.
If he had been smart, he would have soaked his shirt in water from the well when he got the axe. Then he could have wrapped it around his face. Maybe that would have helped, but—
He peered out through squinting eyes. He was just in front of Arista’s open bedroom. The tree that had crashed through her window was blazing. He crawled into her room, moving toward the bed. It, too, was on fire. He could feel the heat bristling, singeing his hair. He reached out and it felt like he was sticking his arm into open flame. He felt the metal container and, grabbing hold of the rim, dragged over the princess’s chamber pot.
He could feel the urine slopping inside.
He stripped off his tabard, tore it in half, and wadded up a handful, then soaked it in the pot. Holding it to his face, he inhaled. The air smelled and tasted foul, but he could breathe.
He thought of the queen once more, but he would have only one chance to get out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked.
Dumping the remaining contents of the pot over his head and holding the soaked rag to his nose and mouth, he blindly ran, trusting his route to memory. He bounced off the walls and staggered ahead. The hallway felt too long. What if I’ve gotten turned around in the smoke? He might be running into the castle to die with the queen. Then he stepped on something soft. His father. He knew where he was.
He had to turn and pushed on through the darkness. The stairs were coming; he should already have found them. It was hard not to just run, hard not to panic. The urine he had poured on his hair and face had already dried. His skin tingled, sizzling like a pig on a spit. The heat was burning him. He’d catch fire soon; maybe he already had. He kept pushing forward but still couldn’t find the steps. He was lost. Panic set in and he stopped. He froze, too frightened to move.
No, Reuben, my sweet boy, you’re fine. Run forward. You’re almost out. Run forward!
He did as he was told.
Now turn right. You’re almost to the stairs! That’s it. You’re there, but everything is on fire. You’ll have to jump. Do it! Do it now! Jump!
Reuben threw himself forward, leaping into the air, and as he fell, in that weightless instant, he couldn’t help wondering who was helping him. Who else was crazy enough to be there in the burning castle with him? It didn’t matter; he just hoped she was right.
Hadrian was still watching the castle burn as the crowd around the castle gate thickened. The entire population of the Gentry Quarter, if not the whole city, had turned out for the show. In a society where people were distinguished by the clothes they wore, this gathering of humanity at the gates appeared oddly homogeneous. Rich and poor could hardly be distinguished, as aside from those who’d just left the gala, mostly everyone else had rushed out of homes forgetting their stockings, doublets, tunics, and gowns. They approached the moat in simple white linen, looking like an army of ghosts, the flicker of fire illuminating their faces, which stared in disbelief, as blank and sorrowful as any lost soul.
The castle had become a full blaze. What had been the moat became a bright mirror, reflecting. Somewhere metal hit metal. It might have been something as simple as a ladle striking a kettle, but that’s all it took. Hadrian swore he could hear screams, the cries of men dying. Trumpets and drums, the thunder of horses rolling out across a smoldering field. Grunts and gasps.
He was covered in blood; he was always covered in blood. That’s why his sword’s grips were wrapped in rough leather. Blood was like oil. Hadrian had always been shocked at how much blood a body held. People were nothing more than bags of liquid that burst and sprayed. Around him, a wall of corpses piled up, dismembered and disemboweled. They circled him like sandbags—horses, too, which were just as filled with blood but took longer to die. He would find the animals afterward, their big hulks lying on their sides, heaving and still snorting clouds into frigid air. No matter how tired he was—by the end he was always exhausted—he still took the time to drive his sword into their throats. He wished he knew a prayer to say, but all he managed was to repeat the two words that kept bouncing in his head: I’m sorry.
Always, along with the smell of blood in his nose, there was smoke—braziers and torches, campfires and the burning of homes, forts, and castles. With the host defeated on the field, the gates thrown wide, the spoils of victory were his. The men would rush in howling and near mad, having shaken hands with death and lived. Afterward they felt like gods. They deserved everything—and who could deny them? They took what they wished and slaughtered any with a different opinion.
Hadrian’s ritual afterward had been trying to drown himself. Someone would drag a barrel of something into the street, splinter the lid, and they would all dunk cups to toast themselves. Hadrian would continue to drink. Trying to make it all go away. He wanted to wash the blood off, but he could never rid himself of the stain. As he sat t
here, beside the barrel, they would offer him his choice of the women they ripped from their homes, because they knew he was instrumental in their victory. He picked a pretty blonde with the torn dress. She reminded him of Arbor, the girl he once loved back in Hintindar, the girl he lost to his best friend. He grabbed her. She screamed, but all he did was hug the girl to his chest. She fought against him but stopped when she realized he was crying.
When he let her go, she knelt beside him, just watching. She never said a word, just a pale perfect face looking up, highlighted by the flames.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What’s that?”
Hadrian blinked. The girl was gone and he was looking at Essendon Castle again.
“What did you say?” An elderly man stood beside him, shivering.
“Nothing,” Hadrian replied.
“They say the king is dead, you know.”
“Do they?” Hadrian replied, wondering how to slip away.
“Betrayed by one of his own, a guard named Hilfred.”
Hilfred? Hadrian was no longer in a hurry to leave. “What happened to the guard?”
“Executed by Chancellor Percy Braga. Our new chancellor is as good as Count Pickering with a sword, you know.
“I heard one of the guards saying that Lord Exeter is to blame. He’s been plotting against the king and ordered the doors to the royal residence chained and the fire set. The whole royal family is gone.”
“Not the whole family.” A woman clutching a child to her chest spoke just above a whisper, as if imparting a dangerous secret. “One of the children lived.”
“Which one?”
“The girl, Arista.”
“Lord Exeter will have the child killed, then.”
“The hateful bastard,” the woman cursed, covering the ears of her own child.
“Careful,” the old man said. “He might be our new king.”
This brought a look of horror to the woman’s face. “The new chancellor won’t allow that. He’ll see justice is done.”
“Chancellor Braga is foreign-born,” another man said. This one had managed to pull a blanket with him on his way out as well as a misshapen hat that he tugged down over his reddening ears. “He’s had no time to make alliances. Lord Exeter commands the guards and all the sheriffs. Given a choice between the two, even if it can be proved that Exeter killed the royal family, I don’t know which way the army will side. We could be looking at civil war.”
“It’s a dark, dark day,” the woman muttered, hugging the child tight and twisting at the waist.
With one last look up at the burning castle, Hadrian pushed out of the crowd. He slipped into the empty streets of the Gentry Quarter. Away from the castle, away from the burning heat, it was cold. A wind was picking up, a northern wind, a breath of winter.
He aimed for Gentry Square, deciding to cut through to the Merchant Quarter. He’d try poking his head into The Hallowed Sword. Maybe Royce had returned the carriage to Dunwoodie and was waiting there for him. As he entered the square, he found another crowd forming. About twenty people stood around the statue in the center, holding up lanterns and torches. As he got closer, he saw why.
The body of a man hung from the statue. Horribly mutilated, the corpse had been strung up by ropes and decorated in macabre fashion with candles. He wore the black and white uniform like the sheriffs. His eyes, ears, and several of his fingers were missing. Nailed to his chest, held there by what Hadrian assumed had been the man’s own jeweled dagger, was a sign printed in large letters:
NOBLE OR NOT, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS
TO ANYONE WHO HARMS
THE LADIES OF MEDFORD HOUSE
Royce had found Lord Exeter after all. Hadrian turned away. He’d seen enough for one night.
When he reached The Hallowed Sword, he found Dunwoodie’s carriage and Diamond tied up out front, but Royce was not there. Dunwoodie himself was still sleeping, and Hadrian decided to leave him to it.
He wanted a drink but the place was deserted. Everyone who was awake was at the castle or in the square.
Hadrian left the Merchant Quarter, passing once more near the castle, which was still burning. Flames were shooting out of the rooftops, and one of the peaked cones of a lower tower had caved in, taking the falcon flag with it. A communal Ohhh! went up from the crowd. The bucket brigade had given up on the castle and were now hoisting water from the moat and splashing it on the courtyard’s outbuildings, trying to save what they could.
Hadrian slipped back into the shadows, this time entering the Artisan Quarter. Once more he found a crowd in that quarter’s central square. Only five people stood witness where another body was strung up. This one was mutilated in much the same way. The dead man was missing his eyes, ears, and fingers. The note nailed to him read simply:
He killed a lady of Medford House.
A man wearing a bright red stocking cap was trying to read it out loud for the benefit of those who couldn’t. “Ka-ki-killed, ah laaadee…” Hadrian listened as he methodically struggled through the seven words.
“That’s Stane,” one of those in the small crowd said.
“I was there the night he killed that poor girl,” another mentioned. He looked familiar, wearing a carpenter’s hammer where a sword would be.
“What was her name?” the speaker with the red cap asked.
“It was a year ago. Don’t even remember now.”
“I knew he would end badly.” An elderly woman wagged her finger. “Always said so.”
Hadrian remembered the name Stane. He was the one Grue had said killed Gwen’s friend. The murder that caused her to leave the tavern. Hadrian looked back at the sign. Technically she was a whore from The Hideous Head at the time, but he could see Royce was keeping to a consistent message. The townsfolk didn’t seem to mind him blurring the details.
Hadrian continued on through Artisan Row and the gate to the Lower Quarter. The bodies were gone, as if the fight had never happened. Dark spots remained to reassure him it had. He realized too late that he should have gone the long way around and avoided the scene, but he was too tired. It had been a long night, and he was hoping Gwen would give him a bed. He’d look for Royce again in the morning. Knowing Royce, he’d find Hadrian if he was alive.
Hadrian didn’t take the shortcut this time. He took the main street through the Lower Quarter’s central square. Each quarter had something. The gentry had their fancy statue, Merchant Square had pretty benches, and even the artisans had a fountain. In the Lower Quarter all they had was the old common well and a notice board. Even before he got close, Hadrian knew that a new notice had been tacked up that night.
He wasn’t disappointed.
One more body hung, stretched in the now-familiar grotesque design. Blood dripped and was warm enough to raise steam off the icy street. No crowd surrounded it. The square was deserted, and Hadrian stood alone, looking up at the grisly display. Of all the men who had died that night, this was the only one he had known. Still he couldn’t muster any sympathy.
Royce had indeed been busy that night, and he was thankful they had separated. Hadrian walked on, heading for Wayward Street, turning his back on the square, the well, the notice board, and the mutilated body of Raynor Grue.
CHAPTER 20
FALLOUT
Years of working for Raynor Grue had warped Gwen’s internal clock to the point where she rarely slept at night. Those had been her working hours and the habit persisted. Like an owl, she couldn’t fall asleep until after sunrise, which was just one of the reasons why she was dressed when the soldiers came.
The Lower Quarter never invited much activity, and there was no mistaking their arrival. Last night the ruckus had resulted in her being dragged and beaten by the lord high constable. As Gwen waited in the parlor, she noticed they were louder this time. Angry shouts and the clatter of hooves rolled in like a storm. She also heard wagon wheels—so much heavier and duller than a carriage.
Staring at the front door
, expecting it to burst open, she waited stoically. Gwen told herself it would be all right. She told the others the same. No one believed her.
They didn’t knock—she hadn’t expected them to but had wondered just the same. Medford House, she thought, looked worthy of a little respect these days. She and the girls had done a fine job with the place. The old ruin was gone and a building finer even than the original Wayward Inn stood in its place. The House wasn’t finished; Gwen didn’t think it ever would be. She was always finding ways to improve. She had plans to put a pretty fence out front, some crown molding in the bedrooms, and she hadn’t given up her dream of painting the whole thing blue. Still, it was the finest building in the Lower Quarter, a building that wouldn’t look out of place in the Merchant Square. It didn’t matter. The soldiers knew it was only a whorehouse.
They opened the door rather than breaking it down, and she was grateful for that. A dozen men entered with torches, dressed in chain mail, their dull metal helmets on. Gwen almost failed to recognize Ethan under all that steel.
“May I help you?” she asked. It was an absurd question, but so was the whole affair. A dozen men in chain barged in, only to be greeted by her standing on a crutch with a broken arm and a bandaged face and her pleasant inquiry.
“You’re all under arrest for the murder of Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Melengar.”
Gwen didn’t recognize the man who spoke. He was old and beefy with gray in a chest-length beard. She looked instead to Ethan, the only one she knew. Ethan had been the sheriff of the Lower Quarter as long as Gwen had lived there, and while she couldn’t say she liked him, she respected him. At least he tried to be fair. Ethan looked back and she could see the conflict. He was upset like the others, but not necessarily with her. There was even a little fear in his eyes, but that night, everyone was scared.
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