The innkeeper gaped a moment longer, finally tearing his gaze from the horses to stare first at Nicholas and then Margaret, then back at the horses. “W-who are you?” he stuttered at last.
Nicholas swept himself up imperiously, an impressive feat, given he was sopping wet and holding an equally wet and ungainly Margaret. “I am Avery Dedlok of Shevring and this is my wife, Sophia. We’ve lost our carriage in a mudslide. We need your best rooms, a meal, and hot baths. Money is no object, but I insist you show us the way now.” His voice rose, managing to sound both querulous and demanding.
“Avery, I’m going to catch my death. I can feel my life slipping away. I’m so cold. Just lay me down here and I will die, surely I will,” Margaret whimpered woefully. “I don’t want to be trouble for anyone. Truly I don’t. I’ll die here and you can find yourself a younger wife. Julia Slitterpod would make a good mother. Oh, our poor, poor motherless son,” she wailed. “Poor little Dicky. He’s young, yet. He will forget me, his poor, neglected mother. Oh, my baby, my sweet baby!” Her voice rose in a shriek and then her head fell back and dangled as if she’d fainted or died.
It was enough to jolt the innkeeper into action. He motioned desperately for Nicholas to follow. He guided them through the taproom. Margaret scanned it from between slitted eyelids. It was crowded and far too many were well armed. None of them seemed drunk. Everyone fell silent as they watched the small parade of the innkeeper, Nicholas and Margaret, with Ellyn bringing up the rear. Keros had remained outside to care for the horses.
They were led into a large suite of rooms in the rear of the house. It had a large bedroom with an attached dressing room, a spacious sitting room, a broad tiled garderobe, and a smaller attached bedroom with two beds for the servants. The suite was well appointed, with floral upholstery and bedclothes, and ornate furniture in fashion some fifty seasons before. Nicholas carried Margaret into the bedroom. He was about to put her down when she opened her eyes.
“I am filthy. Do not get this bed all wet and muddy or I will cut your throat,” she whispered fiercely.
He grinned and turned to set her in the chair. “Oh, thank Chayos, my sweetest love. You are alive! I was so worried.” He bent and kissed her hands and then turned to look at the innkeeper, who had followed them in. “Food, man! And brandy and hot tea. Quickly! Evelyn, come help your mistress.” He stood and waited until Ellyn pushed around the stout innkeeper, then guided the man out and shut the bedchamber door firmly.
Margaret stood with a small groan and unbuttoned her coat. She hung it in the closet and pulled off her boots, first removing the knives hidden in the tall shafts. She dropped them to the floor and then her socks. She wriggled her toes. They were wrinkled and cold.
“I’m going to take a bath,” she told Ellyn and didn’t wait for a reply. She went into the garderobe and shut the door.
There was, thankfully, a hot-water spigot. There was no cold. She turned the handle and steaming water fountained into the tub. It was straight out of a spring, and was slightly milky and smelled of minerals. There were baskets on a nearby shelf containing soap, washrags, brushes, and towels. She opened a jar of flowery soap, scooped out a thick dollop, and held it under the water. Next she began stripping away her clothing, leaving it in a pile at the foot of the tub. She stepped into the tub, gasping at the heat on her cold flesh. She gritted her teeth and set her other foot inside, then sank down to sit. Her fists clenched as the hot water rose up. Steam filled the room and her skin turned bright red. When the tub was full, she turned the spigot off and began scrubbing herself. When she was through, she ducked under the water to rinse her hair and then pulled the plug and let the water drain. When it was done, she opened the spigot again and filled the tub to her chin.
It was tempting to stay soaking in the water until it turned cold. She felt her sore muscles beginning to ease. But Nicholas would want a turn as would Ellyn and Keros. She was about to stand and reach for a towel when there was a knock at the door. It opened before she could answer and Nicholas stepped inside. She pulled the towel over herself.
“Good evening, wife,” he said as he leaned back against the door. He was still dressed in the filthy clothing he’d been wearing for the last three days. “Care for some company?” he asked with a meaningful look at the tub.
“I’d prefer dinner,” she said, glad that heat hid her flush of embarrassment. She didn’t understand it. She’d had many lovers, most as part of the jobs her father had given her. But something about Nicholas set her on edge.
“Then you are in luck. It is served. You should come eat while it’s still hot.”
He made no effort to move, his arms folded over his chest as he watched her. Dared her. Margaret was no coward and she was not about to back down from Nicholas Weverton. She pulled the plug on the tub and stood, letting the sopping towel fall to the floor with a plop. She didn’t hurry as she stepped out onto the floor and reached for a dry towel. She pulled it around herself and tucked the corner between her breasts.
She looked at Nicholas. “I’m afraid I have nothing to wear to dinner,” she said.
He looked like his ears had been boxed. He stared at her, then gave a slow shake of his head. “You continue to surprise me.”
“I killed my first man when I was seven seasons old. I have trained my entire life to be the Crown’s weapon—spy, assassin, thief, whore, and whatever else might be required of me. That is what I am. Not that prim, insipid, sugary girl I pretend to be.” She pushed her hair back behind her ear. “Do not presume that you know me.”
He straightened, coming to stand before her. He touched his fingers to her neck and rubbed them lightly down her shoulder and then back up. She couldn’t hide the shiver that trembled through her, chasing a streak of heat. She didn’t push his hand away. She wouldn’t show weakness.
“I want to know you. I plan to.”
She moved so quickly that he didn’t realize she had his belt dagger before she was pressing it to his throat. “Consider this your first lesson, Weverton,” she said, making his name an insult. She pushed until blood trickled freely down his neck. “You’ve confused this game of wife and husband with something real. But it most definitely is not. Don’t make Carston an orphan before you even get him back.”
He reached up, covering her hand with his. He made no attempt to pull the knife away. “You wouldn’t,” he said, his thumb rubbing against the inside of her wrist. “You need an alliance with me.”
His touch sent curls of heat through Margaret’s chest and settled low in her belly. No. She would not be attracted to this mother-dibbling bastard. Margaret yanked away. She flipped the dagger in her hand and threw it. The blade bit deep into the wood of the door and the hilt quivered.
She started to push past him, then stopped. “Touch me again and I’ll cut your hand off.” She was turning the door handle when he spoke.
“I’ll make you change your mind.” It sounded like a vow.
She spun around, her mouth twisting in a snarl. “What game are you playing? I came to you because I wanted to help your son—an innocent boy. And you repay me with this feeble seduction? You have persecuted my family. You put that bastard Geoffrey Truehelm in the regency. It is likely that you had my father killed.”
He frowned. “I told you that I did not.”
“I don’t trust you. I don’t believe you.” Anger made her shake. She should have killed him long ago. Her father had refused to order it and was dead instead. Now Ryland was demanding the same thing—to leave Weverton be. But she’d broken the rules to tell Nicholas about his son—why shouldn’t she break them to cut out his heart?
But the truth was that as angry as he made her, she didn’t really want to. She’d only just lost her father, and though they had never been truly close, his death had left a hollow inside her that was ringed with pulsing hurt, the kind that could never go away. There had been unfinished business between them and she’d never have a chance to get the answers she needed. Now she never
would. The boy deserved better than that. Besides, Nicholas clearly loved his son and she didn’t doubt that the feeling was returned. After all, she’d loved her father desperately, despite what he’d made out of her. If she killed Nicholas, she’d be responsible for causing Carston an indescribable agony. She couldn’t do it.
She stared at the door, her spine stiff, jaw hard. “I am here to help you get your son back. After that, we are done. I don’t want anything else to do with you, unless it means I can slit your throat. Don’t give me a reason to do it; you don’t want your son to grow up without his father.”
“I thought you wanted an alliance.”
“Ryland or Vaughn can handle it.”
“I don’t want them. I want you. Think about it.”
She pushed out of the door, leaving him inside. In the bedchamber, she found two dressing gowns lying across the bed. She slipped the smaller one on, buttoning it up to her chin. It was made of green wool and lined with flannel. It was also far too big. It dragged on the ground and she felt like a child inside it. She rolled up the sleeves. Behind her, she felt Nicholas watching her. She ignored him, picking up the skirts of the dressing gown and going into the sitting room.
The meal was on the table. There was a spicy pork roast with early carrots, brown rice and white beans, an apple tart, a plate of cheeses, and a loaf of crusty bread as well as wine and hot tea. Ellyn and Keros were nowhere to be seen.
“They are dining in the kitchen,” Nicholas said as he pulled out a chair for her. “It may be that they can glean some information from the servants.”
She sat down without answering, grateful for the crackling fire that heated the room. He sat opposite. Soon they were both too caught up in eating to bother with conversation. But all too soon the meal was over. She looked at him over her glass of wine. “You should go bathe.” Her voice was expressionless.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he looked down at his empty plate. “Should I now?”
“If you don’t want to chance having the maid haul you out with the chamber pot.”
He stood. “I’m afraid I’ve made your meal less palatable. You’ll excuse me, I hope.” With that he retreated back into the bedchamber.
Margaret swigged down the rest of her wine as she watched him go, her meal sitting heavy in her stomach. He’d withdrawn into chill formality and for that she was grateful.
She’d drunk another glass of wine and was halfway through another when there was a soft knock at the door. It swung open just wide enough for Keros and Ellyn to slide inside. Instantly Margaret was on her feet. Keros was twisted so tight he was about to snap. His face was pale and graven. He paced across the room and back, his hands clenched at his sides. Ellyn shut the door and leaned against it, watching him with a slight frown.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Margaret demanded.
Keros rubbed a hand across his mouth as he swung around to look at her. “Slaves,” he said in a guttural voice. “The entire inn is run with slaves. They’ve been beaten and half starved. Down the street is a brothel. Every woman inside is a slave. There are apparently two more just like it, servicing the private army the regent has been building here.”
Margaret didn’t move—she couldn’t. It felt like she’d been struck in the stomach. They were likely family, friends, or supporters of her family. She swallowed the rocks that filled her throat. “There’s nothing we can do. Ryland says we wait until we’re ready to take Crosspointe back.”
“He didn’t tell you to help Weverton,” Keros retorted.
Margaret ignored that, focusing on the real issue. “What do you propose? What should we do? You said it yourself—the regent is building a private army here. Majick isn’t reliable. Anything we do will likely get us killed and do nothing to help.”
“We can go kill the damned regent,” Keros growled. “And Weverton. Then your brothers can take Crosspointe back.”
Margaret agreed wholeheartedly. But she couldn’t say so. “Getting to the regent may be more difficult than you think. Both he and Weverton have powerful allies. Don’t think that we won’t have a civil war. Not only that, the people love them, both. They don’t trust Ramplings anymore. They’ve gleefully supported Rampling slavery. If you stir in the weather making food scarce, the worries for the winter, not to mention majick failing and majicars battling in the streets, you’ve got a recipe for riots.”
His head jerked from side to side. “I’ve sat by long enough. It has to stop.” He reached for the door and stalked out, slamming it behind him.
Margaret looked at Ellyn. “Go after him. Stop him, whatever he is going to do.”
“How? He’s essentially a master majicar and I am just a journeyman.”
“He will not attack you. I can’t go after him without making people suspicious. I’m supposed to be teetering on the edge of Chayos’s altar, after all. I can’t very well be running about after a common servant.”
“Perhaps I agree with him,” Ellyn said after a moment.
“You don’t have the luxury,” Margaret snapped. “Any more than I do. You work for Azaire and your country doesn’t benefit from Keros stirring up trouble on his own. Now go or I’m done with you.”
The other woman’s lips tightened and she left without a word.
Margaret sagged down into a chair, pulling her fingers through her hair. She made a face as they caught painfully in the snarls. She hadn’t bothered to look for a comb. She stood and went into the bedchamber. The door to the garderobe was closed. In the middle of the bed was the dagger she’d thrown at the door. She eyed it. A cracking brilliant marriage bed, she thought acidly. She went to the bureau and found a wooden comb. She sat, looking at herself in the wavery mirror and beginning untangle her hair, picking out some pine needles that hadn’t got washed out.
Of course there would be slaves here. The regent would want to demonstrate his wealth and power. She swallowed. It meant that there was a better chance that someone might recognize her. Her hand clenched in the comb. How long would Ryland and Vaughn wait? How many of her family and friends would suffer unspeakable things or be murdered? She thought of the brothels and her stomach lurched. She lunged to her feet, reaching for the chamber pot beneath the bed. But the violence of her reaction was too strong and her dinner splattered the rug and the edge of the counterpane.
“Dammit,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
She found the towel still wet from her bath and did her best to clean up. She was still on her knees wiping up when the garderobe door opened and a cloud of fragrant steam billowed into the room. She sat back on her heels. Nicholas was flushed with the heat and his hair was slicked back against his head. He looked at her and then at the floor.
“Are you unwell?”
She made no effort to get to her feet. The weight of exhaustion and frustration hung heavy on her. “Keros may be out burning down the town. I sent Ellyn to try and stop him.”
His brows rose. “What brought that on?”
“He’s not fond of slavery or sitting around helpless watching people suffer for no better reason than the regent’s greed,” she said, levering herself up. She looked down at the dirty towel. “Neither am I.” She went into the garderobe and dropped the towel into the basket, drawing a hard breath. Time to let it go. She could do nothing. There was no point wallowing in her hatred and rage. Later—when she could do something about it—she’d open the door on the violence that burned in her spirit.
A moment later she returned to the bedroom. Nicholas wasn’t there. She found him in the sitting room. He had poured another cup of tea and held it out for her. She took it silently, gulping it down. She grimaced. It was tepid. She held the cup out for more.
Instead of the pot, he reached for a bottle of brandy. He held it up and she nodded. He filled her cup and then poured an equal measure for himself. She eyed the full cup and then took a healthy drink. It heated her belly and steadied her shaking nerves. She just didn’t know what
Keros would do. She had not known him long, though they were kindred spirits in many ways. He was more like a brother than the three she had. Maybe that’s what worried her. In his place, with his freedom to act, she’d burn Molford to the ground and every slave-master bastard with it.
She sat on a chaise, pulling her legs up beneath her, holding the cup between her palms. Nicholas sat facing her at the other end, setting the bottle of brandy on the low table beside him. They did not speak and after about ten minutes, Margaret held her cup out for more. He filled it again.
“What will he do if Ellyn doesn’t stop him?” Nicholas asked her.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He is a master majicar and he’s angry. I know what I’d like to do,” she added darkly.
He bent forward, his expression intent. “For what it’s worth, I never imagined Geoffrey would do this—that he would sell his enemies into slavery. It’s appalling—unconscionable. I never meant for any of that to happen.”
“Yet you let him continue on without lifting a finger to stop him. But tell me this—have you ever wondered what else he might do that you would never have expected?”
He had no answer.
Chapter 9
Keros left the inn and strode down the street. He pulled majick to him, feeling it crackle over his skin. Blue sparks danced across the backs of his hands and snapped in his hair. Inside his mind, he felt the thing there waking. He stopped, jerking around to face an alley. A man held a woman against the wall and thrust his hips into hers with a grunting sound. The noises she made were anxious and eager—it wasn’t a rape. Keros clenched his hands, almost wishing it was.
Months ago when the lord chancellor—now regent—had convicted Lucy of murder and sentenced her to be exposed on the Bramble, he’d also taken her father, two of her brothers, her best friend and many other friends and sentenced them as accessories to her treason. It had all been mere legal maneuvering—there had been no real evidence. They had manufactured what they needed. Then they had left Lucy and Marten on the Bramble and the rest they’d sold in Bokal-dur—the Jutras capital city.
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 12