Betrayal in Medford. Royce read the sign posted in front of a small theater that indicated nightly performances during the week leading up to Wintertide's Eve. From the barkers on the street, he determined the play was the imperial variation of the popular Crown Conspiracy, which the Empire had outlawed. Apparently in this version, the plotting prince and his witch sister decide to murder their father, and only the good archduke stands in the way of their evil plans.
Four patrols of eight men circled the streets. At least one group checked in at each square every hour. They were swift and harsh in their peacekeeping. Dressed in mail and carrying heavy weapons, they brutally beat and dragged away anyone causing a nuisance or accused of a crime. They did not bother to hear the suspect's side of the story. They did not care who trespassed on whom, or whether the accusation was truth or fiction. Their goal was order, not justice.
An interesting side effect of the crackdown, which would have been comical if the results were not so ugly, was that street vendors falsely accused their out-of-town competitors of offenses. Local vendors banded together forming an alliance to denounce the upstarts. Before long, people learned to gather at the squares just before an imperial patrol was expected to arrive or followed the men as they patrolled. The spectacle of violence was just one more holiday show.
Two good-sized pigs, attempting to escape their fates of Blood Week, ran through the square trailed by a parade of children and two mongrel dogs chasing after. A butcher wearing a bloodstained apron and exhausted from running paused to wipe his brow.
Royce spotted the boy deftly dodging his way through the crowd. Pausing briefly to avoid the train chasing the pig, Mince locked eyes with Royce then casually strolled over to the bleachers. Royce was pleased to see no one watched the boy's progress too closely.
"Looking for me?" Royce asked.
"Yes, sir," Mince replied.
"You found him?"
"Don't know-maybe-never got a name or a look-got these though." The boy pulled some parchment from his shirt. "I snatched them from a house on Heath Street. It has a new owner. Can ya read?"
Royce ignored the question as he scanned the parchments. The handwriting was unmistakable. He slipped them into his cloak.
"Where exactly is this house?"
Mince smiled. "I'm right, aren't I? Do I get the coin?"
"Where's the house?"
"Heath Street, south off the top, harbor side, little place right across from Buchan's Hattery. Ya can't miss it. There's a crest of an oak leaf and dagger above the door. Now, what about the money?"
Royce did not respond, but focused on the boy's overstuffed tunic, which glowed as if he had a star trapped inside.
Mince saw his look and promptly folded his arms. Tilting his head down, he whispered, "Quit it!"
"Did you take something else from the house?"
Mince shook his head. "It has nothing to do with ya."
"If that's from the same house, you'll want to give it to me."
Mince stuck his lip out defiantly. "It's nothing and it's mine. I'm a thief, see. I took it for myself in case I got the wrong house. I didn't want to risk my neck and get nothing. So it's my bonus. That's how professional thieves work, see? Ya might not like it, but it's how we do things. You and me had a deal and I've done my part. Don't get all high-and-mighty or go on about bad morals cuz I get enough of that from the monks."
The light grew brighter and began flashing on and off.
Royce was disturbed. "What is that?"
"Like I said, it's none of yer business," Mince snapped and pulled away. He looked down once more and whispered, "Stop it, will ya! People can see. I'll get in trouble."
"Listen, I don't have a problem with a little theft," Royce told him. "You can trust me on that. But if you took something of value from that house, you'd be wise to give it to me. This might sound like a trick, but I'm only trying to help. You don't understand who you're dealing with. The owner will find you. He's very meticulous."
"What's that mean…meticulous?"
"Let's just say he's not a forgiving man. He will kill you, Elbright, and Brand. Not to mention anyone else you have regular contact with, just to be thorough."
"I'm keeping it!" Mince hissed.
Royce rolled his eyes and sighed.
The boy struggled to cover up by doubling over and wrapping his arms around his chest. As he did, the light blinked faster and now alternated in different colors. "By Mar, just give me the money will ya? Before one of the guards sees."
Royce handed him five silver coins and watched as the boy took off. He ran hunched over, emitting a rapidly blinking light that faded and eventually stopped.
***
Mince entered the loft by climbing to the roof of the warehouse, pulling back a loose board near the eaves, and scrambling through the hole. The Nest, as they dubbed their home, was the result of poor carpentry. A mistake made when the East Sundries Company built their warehouse against the common wall of the Bingham Carriage House amp; Blacksmith Shop. A mismeasurement left a gap that was sealed shut with sideboards. Over the years, the wood had warped.
While trying to break into the warehouse, Elbright noticed a gap between the boards that revealed the hidden space. He never found a way into the storehouse, but he did discover the perfect hideout. The little attic was three feet tall, five feet wide, and ran the length of the common wall. Thanks to the long hours of the blacksmiths, who usually kept a fire burning, it was also marginally heated.
A collection of treasures gathered from the city's garbage littered The Nest, including moth-eaten garments, burned bits of lumber, fragments of hides tossed out by the tanner, cracked pots, and chipped cups.
Kine lay huddled in a ball against the chimney. Mince had made him a bed of straw and tucked their best blanket around him, but his friend still shivered. The little bit of his face not covered by the blanket was pale-white, and his bluish lips quivered miserably.
"How ya doing?" Mince asked.
"C-c-cold," Kine replied weakly.
Mince put a hand to the brick chimney. "Bastards are trying to save coal again."
"Is there any food?" Kine asked.
Mince pulled the wedge of cheese from his pocket. Kine took a bite and immediately started to vomit. Nothing came up, but he retched just the same. He continued to convulse for several minutes then collapsed, exhausted.
"I'm like Tibith, ain't I?" Kine managed.
"No," Mince lied, sitting down beside him. He hoped to keep Kine warm with his body. "You'll be fine the moment the fire is lit. You'll see."
Mince fished the money out of his other pocket to show Kine. "Hey, look I got coin-five silver! I could buy ya a hot meal, how would that be?"
"Don't," Kine replied miserably. "Don't waste it."
"What do ya mean? When is hot soup ever a waste?"
"I'm like Tibith. Soup won't help."
"I told ya, yer not like that," Mince insisted, slamming the silver in a cup he decided at that moment to use as a bank.
"I can't feel my feet anymore, Mince, and my hands tingle. I ache all over and my head pounds and…and…I pissed myself today. Did you hear me-I pissed myself! I am like Tibith. I'm just like he was and I'm gonna die just like him."
"I said ya ain't. Now quit it!"
"My lips are blue, ain't they?"
"Be quiet Kine, just-"
"By Mar, Mince, I don't want to die!" Kine shook even more as he cried.
Mince felt his stomach churn as tears dripped down his cheeks, too. No one ever recovered once their lips went blue.
He looked around for something else to wrap his friend in and then remembered the robe.
"There," he muttered, draping the robe over Kine. "After all the trouble you've been, try to be of some use. Keep him warm or I'll toss ya in the smith's fire."
"W-What?" Kine moaned.
"Nothing, go to sleep."
***
Royce heard the key turn. The bolt shifted and the door opened on
well-oiled hinges. Four pairs of feet shuffled on the slate of the foyer. He heard the door close, the brush of material, and the snap of a cloak. One pair of feet scuffed abruptly as if their owner unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a precipice.
"Mr. Jenkins," Merrick's voice said, "I want you and Dobbs to take the rest of the evening off."
"But, sir, I-"
"This is no time to argue. Please, Mr. Jenkins, just leave. Hopefully I will see you in the morning."
"Hopefully?" This voice was familiar. Royce recognized Poe, the cook's mate on the Emerald Storm. It took him a moment, but then Royce understood. "What do you mean you will-hold on. Is he here? How do you know?"
"I want you to go too, Poe."
"Not if he's here. You'll need protection."
"If he wanted me dead, I would already be lying in a bloody puddle. So I think it is fair to surmise that I am safe. You, on the other hand, are a different story. I doubt he knew you would be here. Now that he knows your connection to me, the only thing keeping you alive is that he is more interested in talking to me than slitting your throat, at least for the moment."
"Let him try. I think-"
"Poe, leave the thinking to me. And never tempt him like that. This is not a man to toy with. Trust me, he'd kill you without difficulty. I know. I worked with him. We specialized in assassinations and he's better at it than I am-particularly spur-of-the-moment killings-and right now you're a very tempting spur. Now, get out while you can. Disappear for a while, just to be safe."
"What makes you think he even knows I'm here?" Poe asked.
"He's in the drawing room, listening to us right now. Sitting in the blue chair with its back to the wall, he's waiting for me to join him. I'm sure he has a crystal glass half-filled with the Montemorcey wine I bought and left in the pantry for him. He's holding it in his left hand, so if, for whatever reason, he has to draw his dagger, he won't need to put the glass down first. He hates to waste Montemorcey. He's swirling it, letting it breathe, and while he's been here for some time he has yet to taste it. He won't drink until I sit across from him-until I, too, have a glass."
"He suspects you poisoned it?"
"No, he hasn't tasted the wine because…well, it would just be rude He'll have a glass of cider waiting for me, as he knows I no longer drink spirits."
"And how do you know all this?"
"Because I know him just as I know you. Right now you're fighting an urge to enter the drawing room to see if I'm right. Don't. You'll never come out again, and I don't want you staining my new carpet. Now leave. I will contact you when I need to."
"Are you sure? Yeah, okay, stupid question."
The door opened, closed, and footsteps could be heard going down the porch stairs.
There was a pause and then a light flared. Merrick Marius entered the dark room holding a single candle. "I hope you don't mind. I prefer to be able to see you, too."
Merrick lit four sconce lights, added some logs to the fire, and stirred the embers to life with a poker. He watched them for a long moment then placed the tool back on its hook before taking a seat opposite Royce, next to the poured glass of cider.
"To old friends?" Merrick asked, holding up his drink.
"To old friends," Royce agreed and the two sipped.
Merrick was dressed in a knee-length coat of burgundy velvet, a finely embroidered vest, and a startlingly white ruffled shirt.
"You're doing well for yourself," Royce observed.
"I can't complain. I'm Magistrate of Colnora now. Have you heard?"
"I hadn't. Your father would be proud."
"He said I couldn't do it. Do you remember? He said I was too smart for my own good." Merrick took another sip. "I suppose you're angry about Tur Del Fur."
"You crossed a line."
"I know. I am sorry about that. You were the only one who could do that job. If I could have found someone else…" Merrick crossed his legs and looked over his glass at Royce. "You're not here to kill me, so I'll assume your visit is about Hadrian."
"Is that your doing? This deal?"
Merrick shook his head. "Actually, Guy came up with that. They tried to persuade Hadrian to kill Breckton for money and a title. My only contribution was providing the proper incentive."
"They're dangling Gaunt?" Royce asked.
Merrick nodded. "And the Witch of Melengar."
"Arista? When did they get her?"
"A few months ago. She and her bodyguard tried to free Gaunt. He died and she was captured."
Royce took another drink and then set his glass down before asking, "They're going to kill Hadrian, aren't they?"
"Yes. The regents know they can't just let him go. After he kills Breckton, they will arrest him for murder, throw him in prison, and execute him along with Gaunt and Arista on Wintertide."
"Why do they want Breckton dead?"
"They offered him Melengar in order to separate him from Ballentyne. He refused, and now they're afraid the Earl of Chadwick will attempt to use Breckton to overthrow the Empire. They're spooked and feel their only chance to eliminate him is by using a Teshlor-trained warrior. Nice skills to have in a partner by the way-good choice."
Royce sipped his wine and thought awhile. "Can you save him?"
"Hadrian?" Merrick paused and then answered, "Yes."
The word hung there.
"What do you want?" Royce said.
"Interesting that you should ask. As it turns out, I have another job that you would be perfect for."
"What kind?"
"Find-and-recover. I can't give you the details yet, but it's dangerous. Two other groups have already failed. Of course, I wasn't involved in those attempts, and you weren't leading the operation. Agree to take the job and I'll make sure nothing happens to Hadrian."
"I've retired."
"I heard that rumor."
Royce drained his glass and stood. "I'll think about it."
"Don't wait too long, Royce. If you want me to work this, I'll need a couple of days to prepare. Trust me, you'll want my help. A dungeon rescue will fail. The prison is dwarven made."
Chapter 14
Tournament Day The morning dawned to the wails and cries of the doomed. The snow ran red as axe and mallet slaughtered livestock whose feed had run out. Blood Week happened every winter, but exactly what day it began depended on the bounty of the fall harvest. For an orphan in Aquesta, the best part of winter was Blood Week.
Nothing went to waste-feet, snouts, and even bones sold-but with so much to cleave, butchers could not keep track of every cut. The city's poor circled the butcher shops like human vultures, searching for an inattentive cutter. Most butchers hired extra help, but they always underestimated the dangers. There were never enough arms carrying the meat to safety or enough eyes keeping lookout. A few daring raids even managed to carry off whole legs of beef. As the day wore on and workers grew exhausted, some desperate butchers resorted to hiring the very thieves they guarded against.
Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim's Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim's cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. Snatching it, he ran with the bloody, fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.
He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswell, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless in the process. The other two boys coul
d hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.
Arriving on the street in front of Bingham's Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend's loud wheezing had woken Mince from a sound sleep, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.
Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys-friends-who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form was once a person-laughing, joking, running, crying-then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile-there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.
Will I be the thing one day? Will someone drag me to the pile?
He gritted his teeth, entered the alley, climbed to the roof, and pulled back the board. Coming in from the brilliant sunlight, Mince crawled blindly into the crevice. The Nest was dark and silent. There was no sound of breathing-wheezing or otherwise. Mince reached forward, imagining Kine's cold, stiff body. The thought caused his hand to shake even as he willed his fingers to spread out, searching. Touching the silken material of the robe, he recoiled as it began to glow.
Kine was not there.
The robe lay on the floor as if Kine had melted during the night. Mince pulled the material toward him. As he did, the glow increased enough to reach every corner of the room. He was alone. Kine was gone. Not even his body remained.
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