Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Richard stopped when they reached the gate to the Lower Quarter and turned, looking irritated to see Hadrian still with them. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you might need—” Shouts and the stamp of boots cut him off. Hadrian saw lanterns casting jittery shadows of running men.

  “Stay here,” Richard told him. “Slow them down. I’ve got to get her away.”

  Hadrian nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The sergeant smiled, and grabbing Rose’s wrist once more, they ran into the dark narrow streets of the Lower Quarter.

  Hadrian turned to face the approaching noise.

  “There! He’s one of them!” Terence, the once-unarmed deputy, had picked up his sword on the way back and now brandished it at him. At his side were three more men wearing hats with white feathers. None of them wore a uniform but all drew their swords.

  Albert waited in the reception hall listening to the muffled sounds of gaiety seeping through the corridors. He could smell the scent of meat. Dinner was at long last being served, and he hoped he was about to be finished with his obligations for the night so he could enjoy himself. He looked forward to spending the rest of the evening indulging in the luxury afforded to his class, a lifestyle he had so sorely missed.

  He tapped his toes together. His shoes were too tight. New shoes always were. The leather, always stiff at first, needed time to mold to the wearer’s foot and walking style. Albert could hardly recall the last time he had new shoes. Four, maybe five years ago? These were nice. He stared at his toes and realized he couldn’t care less about shoes—he wanted a drink. Maybe after proving himself, Royce would lengthen his leash. In some ways he felt like he had sold his soul, given away his freedom, and yet perhaps freedom was overrated. He had never been more free than when he was living in that barn in Colnora. Any freer and he’d be dead. It was impossible to argue with Royce or Hadrian that he could drink responsibly. They knew so little about him. All they had ever seen was a filthy, penniless vagrant who would sell the shirt off his back for a cup of rum. What they couldn’t see was that drink had not brought him there—drink was how he dealt with it. How else could a man accept helplessness and the inevitability of starvation? How could a man born to a world of castles, carriages, and kings accept a pauper’s end, except by washing it away?

  The problem was that while he had his doubts about Hadrian, Albert was certain Royce was not above killing him if he messed up. There was something about that man that reeked of death. Albert spent many years in castle courts learning to assess people, knowing who could be pushed and who might draw a sword at a joke. These were skills courtiers either developed quickly or died in an early misty-morning duel. Albert hadn’t been lying. He was terrible at fencing, but he had developed other skills. The combat skills of the court were the ability to evaluate a man’s intents and purposes in an instant. This is what made Albert certain Royce was more than capable of murder; he sensed a degree of experience in him. There was also a total lack of hesitancy. Royce wouldn’t give Albert a chance to explain or excuse himself. For now there could be no drinking, but maybe one day, when he had proven himself an asset—

  “What’s this all about? Who are you?”

  Lord Exeter came at him swiftly. The man was imposing. His long dark hair pulled back, the finely trimmed goatee, and harsh eyes. When taken together, it presented a severe presence that screamed, Threat! In that instant, Albert could see that he, too, had killed and would kill again. Men of power—of real power—were always scary.

  Exeter surprised him so much that Albert barely remembered what he was supposed to say.

  “Your Lordship.” Albert bowed. “I am Viscount Albert Winslow.”

  Exeter glared. “Who?”

  “I would not expect you to have heard of me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was bidden to relay a message to you from a very generous man. I honestly don’t know what it means, but it sounded most disturbing. I was asked to say the following…” He had also been asked to say the previous. The preamble worked out between himself and Royce as a means of insurance to keep him safe. He was unleashing a lion after rattling his cage, and Albert felt it was important to at least have a chair. Albert took a deep breath—he wanted to get through the whole message without pause. It was important that Exeter heard it all before rushing off. “ ‘I know your plan,’ ” Albert said in his reciting voice. “ ‘I have Rose. Perhaps we can make a deal. I am waiting in a carriage out front—a carriage marked by a rose. Come alone.’ ”

  “Who is this person?” Exeter asked.

  “I have no idea. I only just met him tonight at the gala. He never mentioned his name. Odd, don’t you think? He was very insistent that I get this message to you immediately, saying he would be waiting at the front gate.”

  Exeter continued to stare at Albert for a moment longer, looking both puzzled and angry, apparently undecided which to commit to. The gate was open, but the lion was in no hurry to escape. He turned to the guard with him. “Vince, keep him here.” Exeter retreated back toward the interior of the castle from which he’d come.

  Albert did not like the keep him here comment and stood uncomfortably in the shadow of the guard.

  Vince was one of those men who Albert assumed was born to the job of professional soldier. He stood too close for Albert’s sensibilities. He could smell the reek of stale sweat. And Albert, who was proud of his ability to read men, found looking at Vince was like peering at a blank wall. No complexity, no mystery, no color—cows had more depth. He was a full head taller than Albert, a large, balding, unpleasant head. His face was a map of scars. And even without the souvenir blemishes of his trade, Vince could never have been considered handsome. The viscount wondered what poor woman once called this her baby, and how she had managed to avoid drowning it.

  Exeter returned with a lieutenant of the guard and six other soldiers. He was moving quickly.

  “Keep him here until I get back,” he told Vince; then facing the lieutenant, he said, “Wylin, there’s an idiot sitting in a carriage out front marked by a rose. Go arrest him.”

  Simon Exeter followed behind Wylin and his men but stopped at the keep’s entryway while the rest walked to the front gate, then beyond. Across the bridge, the line of carriages waited. Each had lanterns lit. Some of the horses wore blankets as they waited for their fares or lords to return from the feast.

  Simon might have suspected the gods were allied against him if not for the viscount’s unexpected message. After the girl’s vanishing act, he had spent last night and all that day canvassing the city, interrogating whores and thieves. He deputized two dozen men and had sheriffs working double duty searching every closet and cupboard for the girl. Now he might actually have her.

  Simon didn’t like the way the gate guards were acting. Both stared at him oddly.

  Wylin trotted back across the bridge and up to Exeter. “Empty, sir.”

  “Empty?”

  “Nothing inside, well, except for this.” Lieutenant Wylin held out a parchment.

  I said come alone. And I meant it.

  You have one more chance. Get in this carriage.

  Tell the driver to take you to the graveyard on Paper Street in the Merchant Quarter. When I see the carriage arrive, and that you’re alone, I will contact you.

  Simon crushed the note in his fist and marched across the bridge toward the carriages. The men waited, watching him.

  “You there!” he shouted at the carriage driver, who sat nervously.

  “I didn’t do nothing, Your Lordship. Honest.”

  “The man who was in here. Your passenger. Where did he go?”

  “He switched carriages but paid me to wait for him, sir. Said he would be back, sir.”

  “He switched?” Simon grinned. “Which one is he in, then?”

  “Oh, the one that left, sir.”

  Simon’s smile vanished.

  “Which way did it go?”

  “
Ah … that way, sir.” He pointed. “Made a left at the square.”

  “Merchant Quarter.” Simon slapped the side of the carriage, making the driver jump.

  “You aren’t thinking of actually going, are you, Your Lordship?” Wylin asked. “I mean alone.”

  Simon fixed him with a withering glare. “Don’t talk to me as if I were one of your idiot men.”

  “My apologies, Your Lordship.”

  “He’s cagey, this one.” Simon had his doubts when the viscount delivered the message, but as he looked across the dark square, he became convinced whoever it was did indeed have the girl. “Not a complete idiot.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Never mind. I’ll go alone, but I want you and your men to split up and walk to Paper Street. Send a dozen this time. Have them take off their colors and chain and go by different routes. When you get there, fan out around the entrance to the graveyard and wait for my arrival. When you hear me whistle, close in. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, sir, but where do you want me to pull the men from? I don’t have authority to draw men away from the walls, not on a night when the king is holding a party.”

  “Pull them from the city guard, Gentry Square. Start with my sheriffs and fill out the ranks with their deputies. They don’t need to patrol anymore. That should be more than enough. Gather them on your way, but be quick. I want you there before I arrive.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Wait here. I’ll need you to drive me.”

  “As you wish.”

  When Simon returned to the reception hall, Vince was still keeping an eye on the viscount, who had a decidedly nervous look on his face.

  “Vince, go to my chambers. Fetch my sword and cloak.” He turned to the viscount. “This man who gave you the message. What did he look like?”

  “Big man. Dark complexion. Blond hair, though, with a thin mustache that ran down around his mouth, you know.” The man swirled his finger around his lips. “Slurred his words a bit I remember. I take it you didn’t see him.”

  “No, but I will.” He looked the viscount over. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Viscount Albert Winslow.”

  “What holding?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “My grandfather lost the family fief. I’m just a landless noble.”

  “Worst kind of vagrant—a noble one. Do nothing, contribute nothing, but suck off of every landowner’s teat like it’s your god-given right. Isn’t that so?”

  “That’s me exactly, Your Lordship.”

  “You’ve served your purpose. Go on. Go steal the meal you came for.”

  “Thank you, Your Lordship.”

  Simon left the castle, crossed the courtyard, and passed once more through the gate under the withering stare of the boy-guard. He climbed into the carriage marked with roses and yelled to the driver, “Take me to Paper Street, to the graveyard in the Merchant Quarter.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” The carriage pulled away from the line and entered the city streets.

  Who could he be? Most likely that stupid thief I beat the other night. Thinks he can make a coin selling the girl to me. Hanging three of his cohort clearly wasn’t enough to penetrate that top hat.

  Simon was torn between having the thief leader killed or rewarded. He guessed it would all depend on what the girl told him. He just hoped he wasn’t chasing a ghost. And who was this mysterious giant blond the viscount mentioned? This was the problem with conspiracies and coups—they were never simple.

  The carriage came to a stop. Looking out the window, Simon was puzzled. They hadn’t traveled far. They were only in Gentry Square.

  “Keep going. I said Paper Street. That’s in the Merchant Quarter.”

  The driver climbed down and opened the carriage door, stepping in.

  “What are you doing? Get out! Are you mad?”

  “Yes. Very.” The man was small and thin, but there was something about his eyes, something unnerving. Even more disturbing was the prick of a blade that the driver suddenly pressed to his throat.

  “I don’t have many friends,” the driver said. “I can actually count them all on one hand and not use all my fingers. Like anything rare, they are precious. And yes, I get very mad when one is hurt. But I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way. What you were actually asking is if I’m insane—crazy, isn’t that right?” The man’s voice was cavalier without any hint of fear or respect, yet soft, words whispered as gentle as a lover. “Well, to be honest, I think you might have a point there too. Oh, and feel free to whistle. Thanks to you, all the sheriffs in Gentry Square are gone, and thanks to the gala, all the residents are away as well. No one is going to hear your signal or your screams.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THE FEATHERED HATS

  Hadrian watched the approach of the four deputies whose only identifying uniforms were the simple white feathers in their hats. One had his on backward such that the feather pointed forward like a one-horned bull. These were no different than the last patrol, except they lacked a trained sheriff and were making do entirely with militia. They blundered up, brandishing swords.

  “He’s one of them that drew on me. And they got that Rose girl! Look out for the other one.”

  “Hold on now!” Hadrian called out. “Let’s not be hasty. You don’t want to die, and honestly I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Put your sword … ah, swords … on the ground,” Terence said. “Then lie facedown, or we’ll be doing the killing.”

  “Listen,” Hadrian tried again, “Rose didn’t do anything. She’s just a young girl. And—”

  “Someone stab this fool.”

  They all drew swords.

  Hadrian stepped back through the Lower Quarter Gate and, dodging out of sight, pulled his two blades. They followed. The first one through the gate ran into Hadrian’s short sword. His crumpled body tripped the second one. Hadrian ignored him for the moment and caught the third with his bastard sword. The last one hesitated as Hadrian expected he might. By then the second one through—the fellow with the backward feather—was on his feet and swinging. The stroke was just a basic shoulder chop—no skill at all. Hadrian caught it high with his left sword and stabbed him with his right.

  His sword thrust pierced the meat of his side. Hadrian didn’t want him dead. More importantly he didn’t want him to fall down. Seeing him occupied, the fourth man pressed the opportunity and took his chance. Hadrian rotated the skewered man around, and the timing was perfect. The fourth man accidentally stabbed the deputy with the backward hat. Both men let out a gasp. The one on the receiving end of the blade being much louder.

  Anger replaced horror, and drawing his bloody sword free, the last deputy advanced. He screamed something, maybe words, but perhaps not—Hadrian couldn’t tell. The guy had lost control. Fear and anger pumped him until he couldn’t think, much less speak. This was exactly the type of insanity that military discipline was supposed to prevent. He was slightly larger than the others but no more skilled. The first swing was a sloppy, overpowered stroke meant to … Actually, Hadrian had no idea what it was meant to do, and he didn’t think his opponent knew either. The deputy was just chopping away like Hadrian was a tree that needed to be cleared. A step back and a turn avoided the blow.

  Hadrian considered disarming the man—letting him live. Maybe he had a wife; maybe he had kids. This was just a job for him, a way to put food on the table. He didn’t go out that night expecting to die. Hadrian hated killing an innocent man. Though technically he wasn’t innocent—the guy had signed on to be a deputy, a job that came with certain risks, but that hardly made a difference. Hadrian felt sick as he realized he didn’t have a choice. He had let Terence go and this was the result. More men would die—best to just stop it there.

  “Sorry,” he offered, and finished the man with a clean stroke—a rapid stab to the heart that was in and out in a bl
ink. So fast that the man offered only a puzzled look before his legs gave out. Then he just sat down without a sound.

  Hadrian cleaned his blades. While none had touched him, he was covered in blood and felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The familiar sensation of disgust crept up his throat, causing him to grimace as he looked down at the tangled bodies. One—the backward-hat deputy—lay staring sightlessly at the stars, his mouth gaping as if in wonder. Hadrian swallowed, forcing the feeling back down, and drew in a shuddering breath. He couldn’t remember how many men’s lives he’d taken in the few years since he’d left home, which he counted as a blessing, but what he didn’t understand was why it never got any easier. He imagined that his father would have said that was a desirable thing, that it proved he was a good man, but Hadrian didn’t feel good.

  It was worth it, he reminded himself. Rose will be safe now, and she is innocent.

  Hadrian turned to run the way Rose and the sergeant had gone, but stopped when he spotted the Crimson Hand thief, Puzzle, crouched on the roof of the gatehouse.

  The thief held his hands up. “I didn’t see anything.” His voice quavered a bit. “As far as I know, it was some other guy—guys even. Five, six brutes—sons of bitches from … from Chadwick—yeah, from the south, who caught that patrol off guard.” He looked down at the piled bodies. “Who’d believe me anyway? If I said one guy had … I mean, no one would. They just wouldn’t.”

  “Fine,” Hadrian said, then trotted into the Lower Quarter.

  He took a side street, or an alleyway; it was hard to tell the difference in the Lower Quarter. He’d never been down it before but guessed it would get him to the central square faster. In the dark he nearly hung himself on a clothesline that appeared at the last second in a shaft of moonlight. A quick turn allowed the thin rope to graze past his ear. It hurt, but not as bad as it might have. The alley narrowed until he was climbing through garbage where he disturbed a family of rats that hurriedly retreated, squeaking their displeasure. He was regretting his shortcut when at last he squeezed through a rickety fence into the square. He got his bearings and headed for Wayward Street.