Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  He had missed it all so.

  He glanced at the cider barrel. There was one at every door and several in every room in the castle. Cups hooked to the rims by their handles along with pewter ladles. And the slices of apple floated like smiles. His mouth watered at the memories. He hadn’t had a drink in two weeks, or was it longer? The days in the barn blurred. He’d tried to sleep through most of them. His strategy had been to die in his sleep, but he found it was not as pleasant or easy as it sounded. The pains in his stomach kept waking him. If he could have afforded it, Albert would have drank himself to death. He couldn’t think of a better way to die—blissful and oblivious. And if there was agony as he took his final breaths, he’d never know it. The best part—the true genius of the plan—was that no matter how much drink he consumed, he’d have zero chance of waking with a hangover. Pleasure without consequence or without payment—surely there could be no better exit.

  What shocked Albert was that he was back standing in the castle’s drawing room amidst the familiar revelry—the barn already no more than a nightmare, no longer real. One moment he was near naked and casting himself into the lonely straw, begging for a quick death and the next he was in Essendon Castle, his feet sore from dancing in new shoes. He marveled at the shifting of the world, at fortunes shuffled by the whims of gods who were clearly insane.

  Am I the only one to see the truth of it? Or is everyone thinking the same and keeping their mouths shut?

  Lord Daref had been a perfect host. To the blind, deaf, and dumb, associating with Viscount Winslow would be seen as a source of bolstered status for a mere lord. Walking in with a viscount beside him, Daref hoped to increase his standing at court. Albert would have preferred a blonde with a big chest, wide hips, and a great laugh.

  While Daref was jealous of the viscount’s rank, Albert, on the other hand, was envious of the extra layer of fat Lord Daref had put on since the last time they’d met. He literally jiggled when he walked. After Daref inquired about his lean frame, the viscount had lied, saying he was taking a vow of abstinence for the love of a lady. She had refused to speak to him, he had explained, but his heart had been so chained that he fasted until she granted him an audience. Turned out she was a stubborn wench. When at last she had relented, he found her a bore beyond suffering. After denying himself for so long, he had wanted to cast his dice and ride the wind. His first thought, naturally, had been to visit his good friend Lord Daref.

  Albert chewed on an almond sweetmeat as he watched the crowd. He had two tasks to perform that night and was ever thoughtful of the consequences of both. Success in one would result in a man’s death; failure in the other would result in his own. He needed to line up a job worth paying for his expenses, and he needed to deliver a message to Lord Simon Exeter. The second had been impossible, since the high constable was nowhere to be seen.

  “Albert, is that really you?” Lady Constance approached, waving a fan at the top of her breasts.

  “Of course not. Albert Winslow is a much more considerate man than I, for he would never have waited so long to greet so magnificent a creature as yourself.” He bowed, took her offered hand, and kissed its back with barely a touch.

  Constance was the quintessential lady-in-waiting—gorgeous, but proper to a fault. She spoke with perfect diction, which gave a hard edge to her words, as if she were biting celery. Many men wanted to take her to bed, and dozens claimed they had, but they were all liars. Albert knew only three who had ever succeeded in this endeavor, and none of those ever boasted. He knew this because he was a member of the lucky trio.

  “You’re so thin.” She let her eyes linger, her sight roaming up and down his person with a whimsically wicked smile. “Have you been ill?”

  “Utterly sick with my longing to see you again.”

  She giggled. She did a lot of that. It was her most annoying trait, especially when she did it in bed. There were few things that could kill a romantic mood more than a woman giggling—unless it was her apologizing afterward.

  “How have you been?” Albert deftly shifted the course of the conversation. He did not want to spend all night parrying inquiries into how he had spent the last two years, and he had learned long ago that women preferred to talk about themselves whenever possible, even more about other women. “What mischief have you caused since the last time we spoke?”

  Another giggle, this one followed by a half-turn and a sultry over-her-bare-shoulder gaze. “You know I would never do anything unseemly.” She batted her eyes.

  “Of course not. You are a paragon of virtue.”

  “You jest, but as of late it’s unfortunately true. I’m forced into a corner of boredom by a dull landscape.”

  “So you haven’t done anything, but surely you know of some decadent gossip.”

  “Let’s see … Baroness Quipple is rumored to have had Lady Brendon’s poodle killed for tearing up her roses. Word has it she drowned the poor thing in the same crystal punch bowl that the baroness had gifted to her this past Wintertide.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I haven’t seen the dog yet.” She offered a wicked smile.

  Albert couldn’t share her humor. A dead dog offered few possibilities of employment and he’d been working the party for hours without any luck. “As wonderful a tale as that is—”

  “Actually it didn’t have much of a tail!” Constance burst out, and giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand. “I’m absolutely awful, aren’t I?” She caught his eyes and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had been hoping you were only joking when you spoke of a tired landscape.”

  “I think I actually described it as dull.”

  Always so miserably precise. He wondered if she made a point to giggle an exact number of times. That might be why he found it so annoying. Her laughter wasn’t only excessive, it was repetitious.

  “So disappointed.”

  “In me?”

  “Well … you used to have your ear to the door of every noble, and I could always count on you for something … well … really entertaining.”

  “First of all, it’s not my ear to the doors—I have servants for that.” Another uniform giggle. “Second, well…” She hesitated.

  “Oh, please, you must indulge me. I am so dying for a good story.”

  “Actually…” she began, and then stopped. Her eyes focused on his hands. “Oh dear, where is your drink?”

  “Ah, uh, well, that is to say, I was out late last night—if you understand me. My head is still a bit thick.”

  “All the more reason, right?” She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, smiling expectantly.

  “Oh! Of course, forgive me. Shall I bring you a cider as well?”

  “Oh, would you? That would be so kind.”

  Albert felt rusty as he wormed his way to the nearest cider barrel. He used to be better at this. He should have offered first. In the past he often had extra cups around him that he offered up without needing to leave.

  “Because it is ridiculous!” the Earl of Longbow shouted. “The man has been dead for five hundred years!”

  “You’re a coward!” the Earl of West March shouted back.

  “You’re a fool!”

  The two were near the big oak table, spilling drinks on each other and on Count Pickering, who stood between them like a fence between two bulls. Albert got the drink quickly, making certain to scoop an apple slice into the cup, and returned to Lady Constance.

  “The shield argument?” she asked, not noticing or caring that he had no beverage for himself.

  “Good to see nothing has changed.”

  “They seem more adamant this time.”

  “More drunk, I think. Now, you were saying?”

  “Oh yes.” Lady Constance pointed across the room. “Do you remember Lady Lillian?”

  Albert searched the far side of the hall, seeing a pretty woman who was in a ball gown of pale blue but who looked decidedly stiff. She stared more than watched a
s if she were in another world. He nodded in her direction. “Lillian Traval of Oaktonshire?”

  “Yes, that’s her husband, Hurbert, beside her, the one with the lucrative fleet of trade ships that he runs out of Roe. Well, it seems she got herself in a fine state.”

  “She’s not…”

  “Oh no, worse—I think. Oh, I really shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

  “How many cups have you had?”

  Constance paused, her eyes shifting. “Just since I got here?”

  “Never mind, have another sip and go on.”

  She followed his instructions, except it was more of a gulp than a sip. “Well, as you may know, she has been suspected of having a fling with Lord Edmund of Sansbury. Which, of course, is true, but she stopped seeing him well over a year ago. As there was never any proof, her husband agreed with her that it was just cruel gossip. But … recently Hurbert asked about her earrings, the ones he gave for their anniversary. He wanted to see them and was oddly demanding. She explained that they must have been stolen, but her husband accused her of leaving them in Edmund’s bedroom.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Not likely. And it was then that a chambermaid came to her defense and said that Her Ladyship had lent them to Lady Gertrude just a few days before.”

  “Had she?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why did the maid lie?”

  “Because she knew where the earrings really were. She knew because she had stolen them. The maid snatched the pair from her lady’s table and handed them over to Baron McMannis, who, as it happens, is in heated negotiations concerning Lord Hurbert’s shipping fleet. McMannis would dearly love to get a peek at Hurbert’s trade manifests.”

  “So he put the maid up to it?”

  “Absolutely. Planned the whole thing. The maid will come to work at McMannis’s estate where she will no doubt receive several promised perks. Now, in order to avoid appearing to have betrayed her husband, poor Lillian needs to actually betray him and hand over the manifests to get the earrings back. The only problem is that she really does love old Hurbert, and it will break her heart to do it. So as you can see, poor Lillian is beside herself tonight and, sadly, not at all enjoying this wonderful party. Clearly this is not mischief of my making, but I do so enjoy spreading the tale.”

  “Gossip becomes you, milady.”

  “I know.” The fan beat faster.

  “Lady Constance,” Albert said. “I wonder if Lady Lillian would prefer to part with coin to get her earrings back, rather than turn over her husband’s manifests.”

  “Well, of course she would, but McMannis will make far more money from the manifests than Lillian could ever offer him. Besides, there is the embarrassment … McMannis isn’t doing this only for the money.”

  “Paying McMannis isn’t what I meant. As it happens, I know some individuals who I’m sure would be willing to retrieve the lady’s stolen property—for a reasonable price. What do you think?”

  “I would say it’s not possible. McMannis has those earrings well secured. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wore the things in his own ears when he went to bed at night. There is simply no way to get them from him.”

  “I’m not so sure. The individuals I speak of are very talented.”

  Lady Constance smiled at him. “Really? What sorts of talents are we speaking of?”

  “The sort that shouldn’t be discussed with a respectable lady such as yourself.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Albert Winslow, this is a side of you that I’ve never seen.”

  “I, too, am a man of many talents.”

  “And how much would such talents cost?”

  “Fifty golden royal-stamped tenents would do it.”

  “Really?”

  “I think so. I would need only to know what the earrings looked like and a small advance on the payment, say twenty? Perhaps she could demand that McMannis provide one of the earrings to prove he had them. I could pass the earring on to my associates, and in no time the pair would be returned.”

  “And you can really arrange for such a thing? That would be perfect. Not only will it help out poor Lady Lillian, but she also would then owe me a favor, and we all know how valuable favors can be.” Lady Constance giggled again. Her darting eyes indicated a racing mind. “It is so nice having you back again, Albert. Things were so terribly dull.”

  “It’s nice to be back.”

  A crash of glass and the ping of pewter caught their attention. Across the room, the Earl of Longbow lay on the floor with Conrad the Red looming over him. The other men at the gala pulled their ladies back protectively, and the music stopped. A castle guard approached and Conrad grabbed the soldier’s sword, pulling it from its sheath and shoving the guard away.

  “You pitiful excuse for a man!” Conrad bellowed, brandishing the weapon above his head. “You’re no better than your ancestors—lying cowards, the lot of you.”

  “That’s enough!” The voice boomed in the great hall like a crack of thunder.

  All heads turned to see the king striding across the room, his grand mantle of purple velvet and ermine fur wafting behind.

  “Amrath, don’t try and stop—” Conrad was in the midst of saying when the king slapped the sword from his hand.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, old friend.” His Majesty looked down at Heft as Leo helped him to his feet. “You both have.”

  “I’m going to end this right now,” Conrad declared with slurred speech. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. He’s one of your oldest friends.”

  “He’s a blackguard and a snake.”

  “He’s also your cousin.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Bring him,” the king told Count Pickering.

  Together the four left the hall with Conrad still explaining how he would smite Heft Jerl so that his great-great-great-grandfather “smite feel it!”

  By the time the music resumed and the dancers were taking position once more, Albert discovered he was alone. Making a quick survey of the room, he spotted Lady Constance leaning into Lady Lillian’s ear, their fans up, covering their faces. Then Lady Lillian’s face rose above the fan, her eyes focused on Albert, and in between the wing beats of the fan, he spotted a smile.

  Task one—complete.

  The row of waiting carriages stretched along King’s Boulevard. Horses shifted weight; tails swished; hooves stomped. Drivers chatted or napped on their high benches, cloaked in thick blankets. Each wore a hat adorned with pheasant feathers. The carriage lanterns burned, creating a pretty line of twinkling lights that when taken together appeared like a flaming arrow aimed at the castle.

  “You know … they won’t stay put.” The voice cut through the night. “You know that.”

  From his perch on the driver’s bench of Dunwoodie’s coach, Hadrian watched a group of men in cloaks leaving the castle.

  “Sure they will,” a louder, deeper voice replied. “Just need to get them drunker.”

  “Drunker? Are you mad? They’re at each other’s throats as it is.”

  “Yes, but they can’t fight if they can’t stand.”

  The group approached the front gate. Four were gentlemen, well dressed. Two were soldiers of the king. The two guards on station at the gate snapped to attention at their approach and bowed.

  “You’re Reuben, right? Richard’s boy?” the loud one asked.

  “Yes, sire.” The boy’s reply was barely above a whisper, but in the still night it carried across the moat.

  “Good. Now listen, the both of you.” The loud one paused and sighed. “Count Pickering and I are going to take these idiots home so they don’t kill each other. But”—he looked over his shoulder at the castle where every window was bright—“if anyone asks, I want you to say I never left. Tell them I retired for the evening. I’ve put in my time and made my appearance. The rest of the night is mine to do as I please, and it plea
ses me to spend some time with old friends and be free of my obligations for one blasted evening. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” both guards replied.

  “I already told the queen, and she is going to go to bed. So just tell anyone looking for me that I joined her. Got it? I’ll have a single night’s peace, by Maribor. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The two soldiers who had exited with the four men brought horses from the stables and helped the drunks onto the animals’ backs.

  “Come, Leo, the night is crisp, and my backside is in a saddle and not a throne. Let’s go have us a real party.”

  “Here! Here!” one of the drunks said.

  “Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.”

  The group slipped out the gate, rode across the bridge, and clip-clopped off toward the city’s gate.

  “King’s gone,” Hadrian said.

  “Yeah,” was all he heard from the interior of the coach.

  Mr. Pensive Stevens was gone and the old Royce was back. He was in a stalking mood, hood raised.

  Hadrian could see his own breath and pulled the collar of Dunwoodie’s jacket up and the sides of the driver’s pheasant-feathered hat down. In his years of military service, Hadrian had faced worse conditions, but he usually had something more to do than just sit around. Before a battle there were swords to sharpen and armor to don. He had a hard time imagining a lifetime of sitting on a cold bench waiting for customers.

  Hadrian never sat idle in one place for very long. Most of his life was spent in motion. Over the past six years, since leaving home, Hadrian had wandered and never spent more than a few weeks in any one place. He’d seen a lot of the world, but not the details. He marveled at how much went unseen except by patient carriage drivers and their silent horses. There was just a small hint of a breeze, which, combined with the colder air, had a way of letting sounds carry. He heard the distant crack of someone splitting wood and the inevitable curse when the blade clipped. There were random bursts of laughter that echoed between the buildings and unintelligible shouts that Hadrian attributed to the wandering bands of recent alehouse visitors having trouble finding their way home or perhaps to the next alehouse. He could tell which homes were most affluent by the number of servants fetching water and wood and which public houses were the most popular by the number of times their doors opened and closed. The Broken Helm was doing considerably better business than either The Wild Barrel or The Iron Ogre. He actually had not seen a single person enter The Iron Ogre and was not certain if it was even an alehouse. Places in the Gentry Quarter were so neat and ordered that The Iron Ogre might actually have been the nicest-looking smithy he’d ever seen, or judging by the name, perhaps it was a moneylender. He watched individuals walk briskly to alehouses only to leave hours later in packs that meandered aimlessly. Sheriff patrols also wandered in packs. He guessed quite a few were deputies, as they lacked uniforms. He had seen five such patrols pass by, usually three or four to a bunch.