“Never told you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t mad, not then. I just wanted to know how you’d react. By the gods, you were fire in a dress.”
He’d had too much to drink, he knew. What had started as a celebration had settled into quiet reminiscence as the guild turned in one by one. Much as Thren didn’t want to admit it, Grayson’s comment had cut deep, but of course the man had known it would. Even though it’d been many years since their parting, few knew him better than his old friend.
Former friend, Thren thought, correcting himself. Things had changed ever since Marion’s death. Even then, he’d known Grayson would never forgive him. More than a decade later, he now had his proof. His wife was dead, and his sons were lost to him. Whatever remnants of her that remained in this world were in Thren and Grayson’s memories. Staring into his glass, he felt his stomach twist. Had Grayson told the truth about the Watcher? Was he really dead? If he was, that was just one more piece of Marion gone from the world, forever denied to him.
Thren let out a bitter laugh. Grayson had killed his own nephew. Would he even believe it if he told him?
The door opened, and the look on the man’s face upon entering was enough to startle Thren.
“What is it?” he asked as the thief shut the door. Through his alcohol-addled mind, Thren forced a name to match the face. Ricki. That was it.
“Something ain’t right,” Ricki said, his squished, oval face glancing about the empty cellar. “Where’s everyone? We need to get out, now!”
“Calm yourself,” Thren said as he rose from his chair. “Speak clearly, and tell me what is going on.”
“City Guard’s closing off streets all around here,” Ricki said, tugging at the collar to his shirt. “Was coming back from the market, spending what little I got from the Gemcroft’s place, you know? Just barely snuck past while they was setting up, yelling at people to get in their homes.”
“You think they will come for us?” Thren asked, struggling to believe it. How would they even know of their location, let alone have the guts to make a move?
“They ain’t alone,” Ricki said, pulling open the door. “I saw Victor’s men gathering far up Iron Street. Don’t take much to figure out what they’re doing. Looks like someone decided to take us out.”
That was enough to spur Thren to action. He pushed Ricki aside, dashed up the stairs, and burst into the proper rooms of the inn.
“Wake everyone,” he yelled at the innkeeper. “Now! You, too, Ricki!”
Both rushed toward the rooms, the innkeeper the ones on the lower, Ricki the upper. Thren pulled his cloak tight about him and pulled its hood over his head. The more he looked like every other thief, the better. He was no fool. Victor had no interest in scum like Ricki, or even Martin. No, they wanted him. Of course they wanted him. Question was, how did they know? Who had sold out their location?
Men and women began stumbling down the stairs and into the main hall, most drunk or in a stupor.
“Ready your things,” Thren yelled to them. “Our lives are in danger. Soldiers come with swords!”
This awoke a fire in them. The inn grew more chaotic, and amid that, Thren went back to the door and glanced down the street. In the far distance he saw squads of soldiers in approach. He had thirty seconds, perhaps a minute at most, before he was surrounded.
Thren ducked back inside, found what was left of his guild anxiously awaiting orders. He looked to them all, and feeling his insides hardening into stone, he gave them.
“This is not the end of my guild,” he told them. “But wherever you go, whoever of you lives, toss aside your cloak and colors. I know your names, your faces, and will forever remember your vows. Listen, and wait. The reaper cannot take me, the guard cannot break me, and no whoreson of a noble will defeat me. Not now. Not this day.”
He saw the shock in their eyes, the disbelief. But Thren could see the writing on the wall, whether it was carved into the stone or written with blood. Someone conspired against him. Perhaps it was Victor. Perhaps it was one of the Trifect. It might even be the Widow that killed his men and mocked him afterward. Whoever it was, he needed to be found, and killed. The lesson of the Watcher weighed heavy on Thren’s mind. Free of all ties, one man alone could accomplish so much if he had the strength and will to do it.
“Go,” he told them, and that one word broke the spell. The shattered remnants of his guild rushed to the doors, a few returning to their rooms to grab their things. Thren did not wait, nor did he make for a door. Instead he climbed the stairs, having prepared for such an event. In a far room he stood on the bed and pushed against the ceiling, lifting several boards to reveal a hole to the roof. Climbing up, Thren replaced the boards, then slunk to the edge. From there he looked down and surveyed the forces arrayed against him.
It wasn’t good. They’d brought at least a hundred armed men, if not more. Every which way he looked, there was a squad of six to ten guarding a street. No doubt more lurked in the alleyways closer to the inn. Only the rooftops remained open to him, though the crossbows he saw the various soldiers holding made him nervous. Crouching lower, he waited, just a moment, to see how the chaos played out. His former guild members fled in all directions, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The squads closed in, and more worrisome, none gave chase. It was a perfect net, tightening in. Those that tried to make it past were attacked, and while Thren watched, he saw several shot dead with crossbow bolts.
And then the main force from Victor reached the inn, many carrying torches. They didn’t enter. They didn’t try to flush anyone out. Instead, they set it aflame.
“Oh shit,” Thren muttered. Whatever time he had was done. He’d hoped to lurk, perhaps even hide on the rooftop until the search ended, but now he had no choice. Every way was guarded. Every direction he turned, he saw armed men waiting. One after another of his guild surrendered, those not fast enough to avoid the squads. Others dove into windows and forced open doors as soldiers chased after. Thren wished them well, then drew his swords.
Either they’d kill him, or he’d kill in return. There would be no capture, not for him. The fire grew, the smoke of it reaching the ceiling and the heat of it warming the wood beneath his feet. Despite it all, Thren pulled his hood lower and grinned. Grayson had claimed Thren feared facing an opponent strong enough to defeat him. Feeling the way his senses lifted, the sudden clarity of his sight, perhaps it’d just been too long since he had faced a truly worthy opponent? With Victor, Grayson and his Suns, and now the Widow, perhaps he finally had a plethora to choose from? Before, he only had the Watcher, and his presence had been a blanket across his ambitions, smothering him.
Now it was gone, and the weakness in his heart with it. The city was once more an enemy, a thing to cower and break. His complacency had nearly killed him, but it was not too late. He was not too old to face this, not yet. A thousand soldiers might swarm the streets, but they would not catch him. His son had burned bright, and in his own way, made him proud, but at last it had come to end.
Arms out, he descended upon a squad of four that circled his side of the inn. Two died before he even landed, one sword piercing a soldier’s back, the other slashing out another’s throat. When he hit the ground he kicked out the legs of the third. The fourth turned on him, and he cried out.
“Here!”
That cry was the last word he ever spoke. Thren batted aside a hasty block and then shoved a short sword through his mouth. That done, he pulled it free and ran. Though the various alleys would be guarded, he knew they were still his best bet. In the main streets they could surround him, call in help when they realized who he was. Rushing a nearby home, he leapt through a window as crossbow bolts thudded against its side. His landing jarred his shoulder, but he rolled to his feet, almost amused by the terror he saw on the faces of the family living there.
Cutting through one room, he kicked open a back door, emerging into an alley. Three men hurried toward him, one with a raised crossbow. Thren rushed them, leaping t
o one side to prevent a clear shot. Catapulting himself into the air, he kicked off the wall, sailing over the soldiers while upside down. His sword lashed out, cutting the string of the crossbow as the soldier tried to follow him with his aim. Landing, he spun, swords weaving so that the remaining men fell back, expecting an attack.
But it was just a feint, and before the group realized it, he was already running. Another squad moved to cut him off up ahead, but Thren used a heavy barrel as a step ladder, catapulting himself high enough to grab the edge of a roof. Momentum swung him higher as more crossbow bolts pierced the air all about him. Rolling onto the roof, he took a moment to gasp for air, then lumbered back to a stand.
His city. His life. He knew it all too well, far better than any soldier. Without slowing, he ran for the edge of the roof, legs pumping, heart pounding. Leaping off, he sailed through the air, crashing down atop an awning stretched out from a building on the opposite side of the street. The fabric tore, but slowed him enough before he landed hard on the wares of a petty jewel crafter.
Thren laughed, rolled off, laughed some more. Tossing aside his cloak, he vanished into the thick market crowd, leaving the soldiers and the burning wreckage of his guild far behind.
19
Nathaniel did his best to help, but given his diminutive size, and the sheer amount of things being transported over from their mansion to Lord Connington’s, he was just a burden to those lifting and carrying. So instead he decided to entertain his mother, and keep her mind off whatever bothered her. As they rode together in the litter, he sat beside her, wrapped in her arms, and asked a thousand questions.
Will there be any children there?
Who was the first Lord of the Connington family?
What did their family crest look like?
Where’d they get their money?
Would his things be all right?
Did they have any interesting pets?
“Dear, if you’re nervous, you can just say so,” Alyssa said as he continued to ramble, and she struggled to keep up with her answers. Nathaniel shrugged and grinned at his mother.
“I’m not nervous. You’re nervous. I bet you’ve never slept anywhere but your room, but I stayed at Lord Gandrem’s.”
His mother laughed, and it made all of Nathaniel’s world brighter with it.
“I was fostered at various homes when I was your age, and older. But you’re right, I am nervous. Would you be a gentleman and hold my hand, lest I faint?”
Nathaniel stood up straighter, put on his most serious face.
“Whatever you would require, milady.”
She laughed again, and his face cracked into a smile. So long as his mother wasn’t crying, he’d be all right. They’d be just fine. His mother was strong, deep down he knew that. Seeing her upset, seeing her afraid when Zusa fought against the other strange ladies, had been far more frightening than anything.
The litter stopped, and in through the window climbed Zusa, having ridden on the top. She ruffled Nathan’s hair, then turned to his mother.
“We’re here,” she said. “And true to his word, there are many, many guards.”
They stepped out, and it seemed like an army of servants awaited them. The Gemcroft servants met them, exchanging looks and words with each other in hushed, quick tones. Nathaniel watched them, feeling like he was seeing a hint of a world he’d been sheltered from. Some handed over belongings, others followed guides inside, carrying bags and armloads of clothes, shoes, belts, jewel boxes, and dusty heirlooms. Burlier men carried heavy trunks, smaller women food and supplies for baking. It was a whirlwind of things to Nathan, a stunning amount all to keep him fed, keep him happy, keep him well. He thought of the simplified existence Lord Gandrem lived in his castle and wondered what he might say seeing such a chaotic sight. But John had stayed behind so he might ride with Melody to their new temporary home. The thought made Nathaniel uneasy for some reason he couldn’t identify.
“I’ll speak with Stephen about arrangements,” Alyssa said to Zusa. “See if you can find him a room.”
Zusa frowned but did not object. She offered Nathaniel a hand. He stared at it. She wore plain clothes, as if she were a servant. Try as he might, he could not ever remember having touched her bare skin before, just her wrappings. Feeling the eyes of his mother upon him, he took it, nodded for her to lead the way. He did his best to hide his surprise at how soft Zusa’s hands were. His mother kissed his forehead, and then they were away, crossing the expansive yard surrounded by fences and weaving through the bustle of servants and guards.
Once inside, Zusa looked down both sides of the hallway and frowned.
“Stephen has little family,” she said. “Surely there must be plenty of rooms worthy for a little prince such as you.”
“I’m not a prince.”
Zusa smirked at that.
“Given the wealth of your mother, you might as well be one, Nathan.”
A few of the house servants ushered past them, but Zusa seemed reluctant to bother them. Instead she picked a direction, and together they traveled deeper into the mansion. Nathaniel stared at the walls, mesmerized by the many paintings. Some were of fields and mountains, crystal blue streams running through green hills. Others were of grim men and women, dressed in fine clothing of times past, smiles seeming such a rarity in these people of wealth. Nathaniel frowned. Maybe it was just the way they wanted to look, to be remembered. Why was it so wrong to be remembered laughing, to be thought of as kind?
Of course, he knew what John would say to that. Those with power had no time for games and smiles. Too many others might suffer for it.
“Anywhere is fine,” Nathaniel said when he realized Zusa was still searching for a room he might use.
“For you, perhaps,” Zusa said, stopping a moment so she could duck her head between large double doors opening into a vast room. “But I will be keeping an eye on you while we’re here, and I would have you sleep somewhere safe.”
“There’s guards all over,” Nathaniel said as she tugged on his hand. “Mother said Lord Connington even hired extra. Why wouldn’t we be safe?”
Zusa stopped. She pulled free one of her daggers and then spun low so she could grab his neck with one hand and press the tip of her blade against his throat with the other. Nathaniel didn’t react, too stunned and confused. There in the dim, long hallway they were alone, the mansion strangely silent.
“There are a hundred guards swarming about outside these walls,” Zusa whispered to him. “But not a one could stop me from killing you this second. Guards don’t mean safety. Walls don’t mean safety. We are safe only when we are strong enough to protect ourselves, and right now, you are but a child. Until you are grown, I must protect you as well as your mother.”
She stood, let go of his neck.
“But you’ll protect me,” he said. “How is that any different than Lord Connington’s guards?”
“I protect you because I am loyal to your mother,” she said, putting away her dagger. “But who are Stephen’s guards loyal to?”
“To...to Stephen, but that doesn’t mean they’ll let something bad happen to us.”
Zusa shook her head.
“Always know the loyalties of the hands you put your life in. You will one day be a Lord of the Trifect, Nathan. You cannot rely on the honor and decency of men to stay alive.”
“So I should trust no one?” he asked. It sounded like a cruel lesson of an even crueler world awaited him when he grew older. Zusa stared at him, and he saw a bit of her hard facade fade. She knelt again, put her hands on his shoulders.
“Trust those you love, and that love you in return,” she said. “It will hurt more if they betray you, but at least you’ll still know joy.”
Zusa nodded toward a simple door that looked almost quaint compared to most of the rooms they’d passed.
“In there. Let us see what we find.”
She took his hand again, and they stepped into a fairly plain room, just a small bed
, a dresser for clothes, and a washbasin with a mirror in the corner. Zusa looked about, analyzing things in a way Nathaniel doubted he would ever understand. She checked the window, the door, beneath the bed, and then nodded.
“I must look outside first, but I feel this will be safe,” she said. “The door is sturdy, and you can bolt it from within. The window is high, but you should be able to crawl through and land outside without breaking any bones. Those unfamiliar to the mansion will not think to find you in such a small, unadorned room.”
“There’s also a lot of shadows near the ceiling,” Nathaniel said, and his look made Zusa smile.
“There’s that, too. If you are ever afraid, trust me to be in the dark corners, always ready to save you. Now stay here. I’ll fetch some servants to bring you your things.”
She left him there, and he stood before the plain bed and white sheets and tried to pretend it was his home. It wasn’t. Zusa’s words continued to haunt him, and he closed his door, shut the lock. The room was quiet, and dark. Nathaniel sat on his bed and drummed his fingers against his stump. Time ticked along, and finally unable to stand anymore, he lurched to his feet, flung open the lock, and began wandering the halls.
In many ways, the mansion felt familiar, similar in style to his mother’s. But the tiny differences in the color of stone, the texture of the carpet, added up to something that was a constant reminder of his status as a visitor. A large woman passed him by, arms full of dirty sheets, and she gave him a glare. She said nothing, and didn’t stop him, so he hurried along. The hallway came to an end at a plain door, similar to the room Nathaniel stayed in. The main difference was that a small image had been carved into the wood, though he couldn’t quite make it out. A cat, perhaps?
Curious, he tested the doorknob, found it unlocked. Unable to stop himself, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
It was a child’s room, similar in size to Nathaniel’s. The bed was smaller, the window lower. All about the floor were scattered toys, little animals carved out of wood, each the size of his fist. There were no paintings, no markings, and something about the place made his hair stand on end. Hurrying to leave, he rushed through the door and bumped into a man, his head driving into the man’s stomach. As arms pushed him back, Nathaniel let out a yelp, convinced that Zusa’s words were prophetic, and that he was about to be murdered within walls surrounded by a hundred guards. But instead it was a well-dressed man, not much taller than him. He was young, and had a softness to his face that immediately removed any of Nathaniel’s initial fear of harm.
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