The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I’m not going to kill these people,” Hadrian said. “They’re nice people.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I talked to them.”

  “You talked to me too.”

  “You’re not nice people.”

  “I know, I know, I have those wolf eyes that good old Sebastian warned you about. Remember him? The nice man who, along with his nice lady friend, was planning to slit your throat?”

  “He was right about you at least.”

  “That’s my point. Pick anyone and the odds are pretty good that they’re not nice. Everyone looks nice. Everyone dresses up in fine clothes and wears wide smiles like Dougan behind the bar, but I guarantee if you scrub the surface of that coin you’ll find tin. People always pretend to be pleasant, kind, and friendly, especially cutthroats and thieves.”

  “You don’t.”

  “That’s because I’m surprisingly honest.”

  “I’m not killing them.”

  “Then why are you here? Arcadius said we were to be a team. I was to show you the business. He said you were this excellent fighter, a hardened soldier. Okay. I didn’t like it, but I can see the benefit of having a skilled sword along, for just such occasions as this. So what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t like killing.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I gathered that much. The question is why? Did Arcadius lie to me? Are you really some sword merchant and that’s why you carry all that steel? Did he send you with me to get your first taste of blood?”

  “I’ve drank more than my share—believe me.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I discovered it was wrong.”

  “Excuse me? Did you say wrong?”

  “Yeah, you know, wrong, the opposite of right.”

  “How young are you? Do you also believe in fairy godmothers, true love, and wishing on falling stars?”

  “You don’t believe in right and wrong? Good and bad?”

  “Sure, right is what’s good for me, and bad is what I don’t like, and those things are very, very wrong.”

  “You really were raised by wolves, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “So you boys are from Rhenydd, eh?” Lord Marbury came over, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  Hadrian hoped the lord hadn’t overheard anything. Not that he was afraid of him. Even with his sword, the man wasn’t a threat. As with most high-ranked nobles, he had no idea how to fight. To them swords were like fur and the color purple—emblems of nobility and power—but Hadrian would be embarrassed if the lord had listened to their debate about committing murder. He liked the man, and Marbury seemed the honorable sort.

  “Any news from the south?” His Lordship asked. “Things are as boring here as a dead goat that can’t attract a single fly.” He let out a solid belch. “All I have to get me by is ale, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the church took that away next. So what’s the word from the palaces of kings?”

  Royce stared directly at Hadrian with an angry look.

  “Didn’t really visit any palaces. Wouldn’t let me in dressed like this,” Hadrian said.

  Marbury hit his fist on the table and chuckled. “Wouldn’t let me in either, I suspect. I’m like a mir—half human, half elf—only in my case I’m a cross between a noble and a peasant. A lord in a land where nobility is outlawed. Did you know my family fief goes back to Glenmorgan?”

  “How the blazes would you know that?” the priest asked from his seat at the bar.

  Marbury twisted around, nearly spilling his drink with his elbow. “Did I invite you to this discussion?”

  “No, but they didn’t invite you to theirs either.”

  “Harding, go bless yourself.”

  “Bless you too.”

  Lord Marbury turned back to Hadrian and Royce. “As I was saying, my family got our fief from Glenmorgan.”

  Hadrian nodded. “I just learned about him. He almost rebuilt the empire, except he never was able to conquer Calis. Too many fractured kingdoms, too many warlords, and of course the goblins.”

  “That’s him. Wouldn’t call him emperor. The church dubbed Glenmorgan the Steward of Novron because they refused to give up on their dream of finding the lost heir.” He leaned back in his chair and waved his hands about like he was trying to clear the air of smoke. “Glenmorgan ruled all this, everything. Rhenydd too. He built the Crown Tower where the Patriarch and the archbishop live. You must have seen it on your way in. That was only part of his castle. You’re right—he never took Calis, but his grandson Glenmorgan III, saved Avryn. My great-great-great—and so on—father fought beside him in the Battle of Vilan Hills, where we stopped the goblins from overrunning Avryn. That was Glen III’s downfall really. His nobles and the church, who’d gotten fat under the pitiful rule of Glen II, didn’t like that Glen III was as strong as his grandfather. All those comfortable gentlemen of fur and the bell-ringing bishops betrayed him. They locked Glenmorgan III in Blythin Castle, down there in Alburn. They charged him with heresy. And when the people rioted, the church, being the virtuous sort, blamed the nobles and then frocks took over everything.”

  “Frocks?” Hadrian asked.

  “People like me,” the priest spoke up again. “He means the church.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “You realize that’s both treason and heresy.”

  “I don’t give a pimple off Novron’s ass if it is. You gonna send for the seret to drag me off to some tribunal? Invite a sentinel to scourge Iberton?”

  Hadrian had no idea what a seret or a sentinel was, but the prospect didn’t sound pleasant.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Marbury lowered his voice, addressing the table again. “Some days I wish he would, but there’s no need. I’m a castrated bull. Good for nothing but wandering the fields and making barley ale.”

  “Never saw a bull make ale this good before,” Hadrian said.

  Marbury laughed. “I like you, kid.” He looked at Royce. “I like him too. A bit on the quiet side, but that makes him the smart one, right? Quiet ones always are. They know better than to babble like old, castrated, noble, ale-making bulls.”

  Hadrian looked across at Royce, who had dipped his head down, hiding his eyes. “He likes to think he is, but he doesn’t know everything.”

  “I never claimed to know everything,” Royce said. “Just what matters.”

  “To whom?” Hadrian asked.

  “To me.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That’s a long way from everything.”

  “It’s enough to make intelligent decisions. You let emotions get in the way of sense.”

  “I have just the opposite problem,” Lord Marbury said. “I let sense get in the way of emotion. For example, I should have put my sword through the belly of Harding over three years ago, and would have if I had trusted my emotions.”

  “I can still hear you,” the priest declared.

  “I know that, you miserable frock.”

  “He seems like a nice enough man,” Hadrian said.

  “He is. He’s a damn fine fellow. I got the fever two years ago and he stayed with me when everyone else left for fear it was the plague again. Why, he even washed my backside for me. That’s not something you forget. Harding is a pillar of this community.”

  “I heard that too,” Harding said.

  “Shut up.” Marbury took a swallow from his mug. “The point is he’s still one of them—the snakes that slither and poison everything. The ones that crashed Glenmorgan’s empire and put families like mine out to pasture. The ones that turned me from a knight serving an emperor into a farmer serving ale, and if I was half the man my great-grandfather was, I’d have lopped his head off years ago.”

  “It’s not too late,” Royce said.

  Marbury laughed and slapped the table. “Hear that, Harding? The one in the hood here agrees with me.”

  Outside, the sun had slipped behind the hills, leaving the w
orld in a ghostly light of diminishing sky. The children had disappeared, the dogs curled up on the side of the trail, and lights spoke of life in the settling darkness.

  Royce’s head tilted up abruptly. He leaned forward and said, “Prove me wrong.” Then Royce stood and moved for the rear door. A moment later Hadrian heard the sound of footfalls approaching.

  Hadrian watched as five men entered. Each wrapped themselves in dark cloaks, but the sound of chain mail was unmistakable and in Hadrian’s mind conjured the smell of blood, the squish of mud, and feet that were never dry. Their faces were flushed from the wind, hair tangled and thrown back. They scanned the room, eyes intent.

  “Welcome, lads, name’s Dougan.” He held out his hand but none moved to shake it. “What can I do you for?”

  One of the men threw his cloak back over one shoulder, revealing the red underside and a broken crown crest on his chest. He also uncovered a sword—a Tiliner rapier with a knuckle guard and sharpened pommel. Hadrian had seen hundreds. They were the blade of choice among professionals. Made in Tiliner Delgos, it was a solid working weapon, an effective and practical instrument of murder.

  “Looking for two men out of Sheridan who knifed a boy,” the man said.

  Dougan’s eyebrows rode up. “Are you now?”

  “We are.” The men spread out, scraping their heavy boots on the worn wood. They eyed the tinker and the priest; then three made a small circle around the table where Hadrian sat with Lord Marbury. “And who might you two be?”

  “That there is Lord Marbury,” Dougan said in gentle warning tone. “He owns most of the land south of the lake.”

  Harding turned around. “And he’s had a few to drink, so I wouldn’t say he’s in the best of moods today.”

  “I’m not,” Marbury growled at the priest, “and you’re not making it any better.”

  “We were told one of the pair carried three swords,” a different man said. Thick eyebrows, a trimmed beard interrupted by a half-moon scar across his chin, he stood hovering over Hadrian. “Some sort of soldier, a mercenary maybe.”

  “This here is a friend of mine up from Rhenydd,” Marbury declared. “And he’s a smith. Made those swords himself, am I right?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  “So you’re saying these are samples of your work, then?” The man hovered over him, his head cocked to the side, one finger pushing and pulling the pommel of the great sword.

  “They are,” Hadrian confirmed.

  “Let me have a look.” He held out his hand.

  Hadrian couldn’t see behind him now without appearing suspicious, but he was certain at least two of the three had moved up. Royce was outside near the sewer waiting in ambush to slit the throat of anyone who followed him out. He was likely listening to every word. Hadrian glanced toward the rear door. If he ran for it, at least two would grab him while the others drew steel. If that happened, he could yell and Royce would hear. It would be a bloody fight then, and afterward…

  Prove me wrong.

  He was testing him. Arcadius says you’re supposed to know how to fight. Maybe he wanted to know for certain before the job. Maybe he wanted to know he could stomach shoving a foot of steel through a man, and if he could kill innocent bystanders if it came to that.

  Prove me wrong.

  Hadrian looked across at Lord Marbury and decided he would do just that.

  Hadrian drew his short sword from its scabbard and, careful to take it by the blade, extended the pommel to the man hovering over him. He watched how he placed his fingers around the grip. He knew how to handle a sword, but he was shaking hands with the weapon, not planning on shoving it into his chest—not yet.

  “Why are seret involved in a petty knife fight?” Marbury asked.

  So this is a seret.

  “The boy who was stabbed is the son of Baron Lerwick.” He lifted the short sword, flicking it from side to side; then he spun it, rolling the hilt over the back of his hand, catching the grip again.

  “Lerwick, eh?” Marbury nodded. “How long ago this happen?”

  “Few days.”

  “Kid dead?”

  “No.” The man turned the blade back and forth in his palm.

  “Close to it?”

  “No.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble for nothing, then.”

  “The baron doesn’t agree and neither does the archbishop.”

  Marbury smirked at him. “Oh? My congratulations on owning such fine horses,” Marbury addressed the bar in a loud voice. “These men must have the fastest mounts in Avryn to be able to learn about this knifing, ride to Monreel, speak to the baron, then to Ervanon to speak to the archbishop and get back here, all in one day.”

  The man ignored him. “This sword is awfully worn.”

  “It gets a lot of use,” Hadrian said.

  “I thought you were a sword smith and this was only a sample.”

  “Of course it is,” the tinker spoke up. “That’s why it’s so worn. I should know. I’ve been a tinker longer than anyone in this room has been breathing. When you sell tools, you know that people do all kinds of stupid things with them. Hit rocks, chop wood, stab them in the ground … just while trying to decide. You can’t afford to have your stock ruined by such abuse. Instead, you pick one and use it as the sample that everyone beats on.”

  The man looked at the weapon again and licked his lips. “Not very pretty work.”

  “I’m not a very good smith.”

  “How long has this man been here?” The seret holding Hadrian’s sword looked to Dougan.

  The bartender shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  “Three days,” Marbury said. “Been staying with me at my house on the north shore. I have him working on a new copper tub for boiling the wort for my ale.”

  “That right?” the man asked the bartender.

  Dougan shrugged. “How would I know what goes on at His Lordship’s house?”

  “What about you, Reverend? Can you confirm this man’s story?”

  Harding glanced at Marbury. “I would never dispute the word of His Lordship. He’s a fine upstanding member of this community.”

  “He is?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Anyone else stop by?”

  “My nephew’s here too,” Marbury explained. “He’s out back with a chamber pot. Got hold of a bad chicken this afternoon and is still paying for it. You want me to drag the lad in so you can harass him too?”

  The man scowled and dropped Hadrian’s sword on the table with a clang. He led the others back to the door, then paused. “We’ll be back this way. The pair we’re looking for is actually a big man and a little guy—dressed in black. If you do notice anyone, I would appreciate you let us know.”

  “Will do, and come back again when you can stay and drink.” Dougan smiled and waved as they walked out.

  Hadrian looked at Lord Marbury as he returned his sword to its scabbard. “I’ve been building you a copper tub?”

  “You’re obviously incredibly lazy, as I don’t think you’ve even started.” He lifted his mug. “Your friend abandon you?”

  “No. He’s waiting out back. He was planning an ambush in case they got physical.”

  “He’s the one who stabbed that kid, then?”

  “Yeah, but he was—”

  Marbury held up his free hand. “No need to explain. It’s just a shame he didn’t stick the knife into the baron himself.”

  “Don’t care for Lerwick?”

  “Not at all. The man is a liar, a cheat, and a disreputable scoundrel.”

  “He’s also good friends with his holiness the archbishop,” Harding said.

  “Which is how he has a troop of Seret Knights at his disposal.”

  “What are seret?”

  “Soldiers of the church,” the priest explained.

  “Enforcers of the church,” Marbury said. “Bullies and brutes. Started out centuries ago as the Knights of the Order of Lord Darius Seret—another ruddy sod if ever
there was one. That whole family was touched. Lerwick is related to that clan somehow, which explains a lot. Mean bastards.”

  Hadrian watched the hallway to the back door.

  “Maybe you should go look?”

  Hadrian shoved back his chair, which made a hollow screech, and then crossed to the hallway. Just as Royce said, there was a door and a piss pot next to it. He lifted the latch and gave a shove. The wooden door swung back, revealing a dirt alleyway that ran behind the buildings.

  “Royce?” He was greeted only by the cold air and the darkness.

  Hadrian walked around the tavern to the front where Dancer remained tied to the post, but Royce’s horse was gone. The long coils of rope she once carried were also missing.

  Hadrian stepped back inside to the stares of Bremey, Harding, Dougan, and Lord Marbury, who had moved back to the bar.

  “Probably two miles down the road by now,” Marbury guessed. “Like I said, he’s the smart one.”

  CHAPTER 14

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  The next morning Royce was still missing. Lord Marbury had made good his fiction by inviting Hadrian to spend the night at his house on the south shore of what he learned was Morgan Lake, known for its premium bass fishing and crystal-clear water. He declined, feeling it was best to stay at the tavern in case Royce returned. He had spent the evening talking and drinking, pressured to try each label until he had at least two too many. Besides discovering the name of the lake and its fame for white, striped, and bigmouth bass, he also learned that Agnes, Willy the shepherd’s second wife, was expecting their third child—Willy’s fourth. And that the village would once again be holding their annual ice-fishing contest during the week leading up to Wintertide. As always, first prize was a full keg of that year’s blue ribbon ale. The award had been given out as part of the Wintertide celebrations held on the frozen lake that would be decorated with hundreds of lanterns and for a few weeks acted as the town’s common. Between stories and news from visiting riders, Hadrian had watched the window and listened for the sound of a horse, but Royce never returned. When Dougan blew out the lanterns and went to bed, he had let Hadrian sleep in the storeroom.

  With no means to proceed with the mission, not even having the rope, Hadrian saddled Dancer in the morning. With a dry-mouthed hangover, he thanked Dougan for the room and asked him to give his regards to Lord Marbury. Then he began riding back toward Sheridan. He rejoined the broad road that he had learned was actually known as the Steward’s Way. He plodded along with an aching head, an irritable stomach, and a growing anger. By the time he made camp, he was talking to himself.