“Simon Exeter is the son of Vincent Exeter and Marie Essendon—King Amrath’s aunt. The Exeters, like the Essendons, Pickerings, Reds, Valins, and Jerls, are all descendants of the signers of the charter that created the kingdom in … ah…” Albert paused, thinking.
“I don’t need dates.”
“Good, I’m lousy with them. Let’s just say it was a long time ago. Anyway, these six form the houses of nobility in Melengar. Exeter rules over the East March. A very important fief, as it’s the gateway to the kingdom and the bulwark against any invasion from the east. Really any invasion at all, as it controls the great north–south roadway.”
“Get to the man himself,” Royce said, taking his eyes off the castle to survey the rest of the square.
All around it were three-story homes of the gentry, crowded shoulder to shoulder forming a high wall, mostly of stone with gates of their own that led to small courtyards. Each different, each with a personality of pretty windows and painted facades that vied with the others for dominance. Velvet-clad men, sipping from goblets, looked down on everyone from balconies.
“Simon is … intense,” Albert explained. “I’ve never cared for him personally. I suppose few do. Arrogant certainly, but also self-assured to the point of being a royal ass. His way is always the right way, you understand. If you disagree, then he insults and belittles you. In short, he’s a bully. He doesn’t like Imperialists, hates Warric—hates most of the south really, maybe the whole world, who knows. Rumor has it that he doesn’t get along well with the king.”
“How does that work?”
Albert shrugged.
“When you talked to your gentry pal, did he mention any recent events?”
“The gala, of course. The sorry news that the price of brocade has risen to insane levels. There’s a trade war going on with Warric, and as always, fashion is the first casualty. He also mentioned the impossibility of finding a good manservant. Daref has a taste for young men and he rotates them out on a regular schedule. He says it keeps life from growing stale. Ah…” Albert raised a finger as he thought of something. “Old Chancellor Wainwright died and was replaced by Percy Braga, some foreigner from the south. According to Daref, the appointment had Lord Exeter in a tizzy as he put it. Not only did he want the office, but also it went to a stranger with strong ties to the church. I can only imagine the storm that must have started.”
Albert tapped his lips. “What else … Oh, the princess was gifted a Maranon horse for her birthday, which she rides through the square just about every day. They had a hanging—but we saw that on our way in. There was something else…” He shook his head in frustration.
“How did Wainwright die?”
“Actually there is some mystery to that. The official story is that he died from a fever.”
“And the unofficial?”
“Apparently the fever was abrupt.”
“Poisoned?”
“Possibly.”
“How long ago?”
“Sometime this month I believe. The gala is to honor his successor, Chancellor Braga, who just took up the vacancy.”
Bells rang a complex melody and Royce looked up at the twin spires of the cathedral jabbing a brilliant blue sky. The castle and church faced each other across the square, rival giants at opposite ends of an arena where ants labored. He noted the shadow lengths. Time was running short.
“Know anything about this new guy, this Braga?”
Albert shook his head. “Just what Daref told me. He’s from the south, has some connections to the church as I said, and was married to the queen’s sister Clare—Oh yes! That was it. Lady Clare also died recently.”
“A lot of deaths.”
“It would seem so.” Albert squinted at Royce. “Why all the questions? What are you trying to figure out?”
“A prostitute went to the castle and disappeared. No one seems to know where, and the lord high constable is searching desperately for her. Why?”
“Because he’s the constable?” Albert offered. “That’s his job.”
“Do you think a bigwig lord high constable personally roughs up people in the middle of the night in search of a missing prostitute?”
Albert looked decidedly less certain. “Not when you put it that way.”
“Why do you think he did it?” Hadrian asked.
“No idea.” Royce looked at the castle, at the guards and the towers. “And the girl is likely dead. All that’s important is that Exeter wants her, and that makes him vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable to what?” the viscount asked. “What’s all this about?”
“You’ll have two jobs to do tonight, Albert,” Royce told him. “First you have to find us a job that will pay for those clothes. Second, you need to help me kill Lord Exeter.”
CHAPTER 11
THE NEW GUARD
Reuben walked through the castle feeling conspicuous. He wore his new tunic, chain, helm, and sword. He grimaced when it came time to put the helmet on. The cuts still hurt from the last one he had worn. But his new helm felt nothing like that. He had no wadding, no need to stuff rags around his head. It fit snug, felt good, and lacked the narrow visor that had left him nearly blind. His new uniform gave him confidence. So did the sword, now that he knew at least enough not to look stupid whenever he drew it. He was not about to win any Wintertide ribbons, but he might make someone think twice before taking a swing. And he suspected that was the majority of a guard’s job—intimidation. He wondered if he could get Mauvin to show him more. He liked to think the Pickerings, if not the prince himself, genuinely liked him, but Reuben liked to think a lot of things.
He wanted to think there was nothing strange going on and that his father had a perfectly reasonable explanation for being drunk in the middle of the day—the day of a major castle event, when all guards were expected to be at their finest. He wanted to think that Rose was no longer in danger, that his father had picked his uniform off the floor and was, at that very minute, taking action to apprehend the assassins plotting to kill the king. He also liked to believe the squires would no longer bother him, now that he was a full-fledged Essendon castle guard, or if that wasn’t the case, that his new training, and new friends, would help keep him safe. He liked to think he would now command respect from everyone, including his father. And he liked to think—
He saw a flash of burgundy gown and paused at the stairs next to the fancy suits of armor. Turning, he saw it was only Lady Drundiline, the queen’s secretary. He should have realized. The princess would be in her chambers, still dressing up the way she always did for celebrations. Her hair piled, showing her long neck, and she would have a new gown he guessed. She almost always did, and recently the queen had allowed her to wear lower necklines. Nothing like what Rose came dressed in, but less childlike than she used to wear. The king and queen were starting to show off their daughter, positioning her for the eventual marriage that would be arranged.
Reuben liked to pretend that Arista wouldn’t be forced to wed. That she wasn’t going to leave Medford for some far-off castle where he would never see her again, but she was almost thirteen. It wouldn’t be long now. Just thinking of it hurt, and that one thought stole all the happiness that his uniform and new prince-gifted sword had granted. All the dread he had unloaded when he told his father about Rose was replaced with what felt like a pending execution date. Vague and hazy, it loomed in front of him. Except death was far too indefinable to truly fear. Reuben couldn’t imagine being dead, but he could imagine walking those halls knowing there was no chance at all of seeing a glimpse of her. When they sent Arista away, they would banish his dream as well. He had foolish dreams, insane thoughts, but as long as she was there, as long as she had not married, there was always hope. And with so little to sustain him, that thin strand of promise was how he convinced himself that breathing was still a good thing.
Reuben liked to think that one day he would hold Arista in his arms and that he would feel her trembling stop because
he was there. That one day, when they were both older, he would know what it was like to kiss her lips.
Reuben sighed.
He liked to think a lot of things, just nothing useful.
He waited until no one was watching and slipped down the steps into the lower corridors that led to the dungeon. Panic seized him as he noticed the bales of straw. The party decorations were all over the castle: bales of straw, bundles of corn stalks, pumpkins, and squash.
But why would someone put them down here? Maybe they had too much? More importantly, had they found Rose?
He raced to the last cell and, pulling a lantern from the ceiling, yanked open the door and peered in. He held his breath and his heart raced until he saw movement in the corner. He stepped in, raising the lantern higher. Two big brown eyes blinked at him.
“Reuben?” Rose said anxiously. “Is it time? Can I go now?”
He relaxed and breathed again. “No, not yet. How are you?”
“Scared.” She was kneeling on the stone, her arms pulled in tight. One side of her hair was out of place, pushed up with bits of straw in it. “Did you tell your father yet?”
“Yes, and he’s going to take care of everything. He said it was actually good you stayed here.” Reuben paused. “Anyway, my dad will clear it all up.”
“Are you sure?” Her eyes were red and deep with shadows. She had been crying.
“I told you—my father is a member of the king’s bodyguard. It’s his job to protect the royal family. Trust me, he’ll take care of this.”
“I don’t like it in here. It’s cold and the floor is hard and I haven’t done anything.” She looked at the floor. “I was just here for a party. Just doing what I was asked.” She glanced toward the exit and gestured with her hand. “Earlier someone came down. I saw a light outside the door and heard some men. I was terrified.”
“I know.” Reuben smiled, then hung the lantern from the claw in the ceiling and went back into the corridor. He grabbed a couple bales of straw and hauled them in. “There, you can sit on these or spread them out and lie down. Straw is plenty soft and it will make you warmer by keeping you off the stone. I’m about to go on duty, so I can’t stay long. You’ll probably only have to spend one more night.” He said this as gently as he could.
She moved to sit on the straw bale and nodded. What else could she do? Cry, he supposed, maybe scream. He was glad she didn’t. “I wish I had a light at least. It’s frightening not to see anything. I try to sleep, but you can only sleep so much, you know?”
“I could get you a candle, but it really would be best if you stayed in the dark. No one is supposed to be down here, and if you’d had a light earlier, those men who brought the straw bales would have seen it. I know this must be awful for you, but it’s just another day—just a night really, and it’s better to be safe, don’t you think?”
She sucked in her lower lip and nodded, looking defeated.
He felt terrible.
“Hey, what do you think of my new uniform? Handsome, aren’t I?” He meant it as a joke—anything to lighten the mood, to cheer her up. Anyone else would have picked up on his insincerity. Reuben’s humor was almost always self-deprecating.
“You look nice,” she said. “Even more dashing than usual.”
Reuben was stunned. She thought he was serious. The urge to correct her flared—no one had ever called Reuben dashing before, and he had certainly never felt that way. He straightened his back a tad. As he did, he noticed again the extremely tight waist of her bodice and her breasts shining bright and smooth in the flicker of the lantern light.
“I just took my oath to serve the king a few minutes ago.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Reuben realized she was the first person to tell him that—ever. Imagining the path his life would likely take, he guessed she would be the only one. “Well, I should get going. I just wanted to stop in before my shift and let you know I talked to my father.”
“Do you have to leave?” she asked. “Or can you sit and keep me company awhile? You’d be surprised how unexciting it is to sit in a dark cell. All I do is listen to myself breathe.”
He smiled, thinking she was making a joke, then felt self-conscious after realizing it wasn’t. He cringed, but she smiled back. She had such big eyes—large and dark. They reminded him of the horses in the stable—friendly eyes.
He sat down and she immediately moved next to him, shifting her hips until she pressed against his side. “Cold,” she said.
“Maybe I should see if I can get you another blanket. I could—”
“Don’t go.” She grabbed hold of his arm and hugged.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t want to be alone anymore.” He felt her rubbing his arm, petting it. “Tell me what it’s like to live in a castle?”
Reuben laughed. “I don’t know. I live in a tiny room in the barracks with my father and a bunch of other grumpy men. I’m only in the castle when delivering wood or buckets of water or hauling out ash. I spend most of my time in the courtyard.”
“You’re not out there when it rains, are you?”
“I go in the stables then. Especially if it’s cold. The horses keep the stables toasty. And if it’s really cold, I stand between them and watch as they make these huge clouds with their breath. I brush and talk to them. They seem to like having me there.”
“If they are anything like me, they do.” She gave his arm a light squeeze and stared at him with those big eyes.
“Maybe I should bring a brush when I come back.”
He meant it as a joke—another poor attempt at being funny. Not until he heard the words did he realize he’d just compared her to a horse. Now he expected her to push him away and take offense. Instead she laid her head against his shoulder.
“I’d love to have you brush my hair.” She nuzzled him. He guessed she was pretending to be a horse now, just being playful, making a joke out of his joke perhaps. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt nice. Really nice. Warm, comforting, and exciting. Girls were never so kind, so … friendly. “You’re not like other men I know.”
His mind caught on the word men. Most people referred to him as a boy or worse. Even the princess, who was only twelve, called him a boy. Hearing Rose say it made him feel better than he would have imagined—better than putting on a new uniform, better than wearing a fine sword. “How would you know? We only just met.”
She laughed. It was a sad laugh. “I’ve known you longer than I’ve known most men.”
“Oh, right,” he muttered. He’d forgotten. With the exception of her dress, nothing about Rose made him think she was anything other than a pretty girl. Now that most of the makeup was gone, he found a cuteness about her, an open quality he liked. Reuben didn’t feel he had to be on guard around her the way he was with everyone else. When he made mistakes, she didn’t mock him. She had yet to laugh or ridicule him. He could be himself—relaxed—the way he had previously only felt in the company of chopped wood or horses. Rose was incredibly nice, and it was hard to think of her as a—“So what’s life like for you?”
She smiled up at him. “See, right there. You’re very odd.”
If anyone else had said this, Reuben would have cringed, but he could tell by the tone of her voice and the look on her face that Rose meant it as a compliment.
“I am?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s as if you actually want to know.”
“I do. I want to know what it’s like being … well … you.”
She looked at him, and he stared back. Her smile faded then and a sadness filled her face.
He’d done something wrong, said an awful thing. He just couldn’t figure out … “What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me. What is it?”
She looked away, letting her hair cover her face. “You didn’t say whore.”
He sat not knowing how to respond, not knowing if he should say anything.
“Why not? Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “It didn’t seem … I don’t know … nice, I guess.”
Her face came up again, and her cheeks were wet so that some of the strands of her hair stuck to them. “See!” she said a bit too loudly, her voice cracking so that she paused to cough. “Other men never have a problem saying it, and very few have ever been concerned about being nice to me. It’s always been my job to be nice to them. You don’t have to be nice when you pay. You don’t have to be thoughtful, or even gentle. And no one wants to talk, and if they do, they want to talk at you. They don’t want to hear you say anything, or if they do, they want you to say awful things, and they absolutely don’t want to hear the sob story of some poor girl.” She laughed again, a nervous, miserable laugh that sounded and looked more like crying.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. I don’t even want to hear it. It’s depressing.”
She bent over and covered her face with her hands. Her body shook with sobs. Reuben didn’t know what to do. He reached out and thought to pat her shoulder, but that didn’t feel right. Instead, he just laid a hand on her arm, giving a light—and what he hoped was a comforting—squeeze. She responded by turning in to him and pressing her face to his chest. He let his arms circle and hug her. They sat under the flickering lantern for several minutes. He wanted her to feel better, but part of him didn’t—holding her was wonderful, and if she felt better, she would pull away.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice muffled by his tabard.
“For what?”
“For being different. For listening to me. For keeping me safe.”
“You don’t have to thank people for that. Anyone would—”
She was shaking her head. “No man I’ve ever known would, or has. I honestly didn’t think you existed.”
“Me?”
Rose pulled away then, breathing deep and wiping her eyes clear. “Well, a man like you. Strong, handsome, all dressed up and shining like one of those knights I hear about in fairy tales.”
Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn Page 15