Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “We all do,” the bishop said.

  “I’m also quite curious what’s in the purse. The man told me that under no circumstances should I look inside, which of course made me want to peek.”

  “And did you?”

  The nobleman shook his head. “Normally I would have, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, to be honest, Your Grace, I was frightened. The man was, shall I say, intimidating. I had the distinct impression that he might be watching me.” The nobleman looked around.

  “I see. Well, thank you, I suppose.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The blond nobleman offered another smile and, spinning on his heels, walked back out into the downpour. Saldur peered out into the rain but couldn’t spot anyone who might be watching. He closed the door.

  Fueled more by the possible inconvenience that someone else might come to the door, the bishop ignored the clammy wetness of his clothes and walked down the corridor, gritting his teeth. As he did, he opened the purse and dumped the contents into his hand.

  Saldur stopped.

  In his palm he held a severed finger.

  Saldur grimaced and dropped it. A metallic sound as it hit the floor drew his attention to a ring. The golden band was a gaudy thing, with one huge ruby and a smaller one to either side. There was no mistaking the gold and burgundy badge of Melengarian high office—this was the ring of the lord high constable.

  What happened to Simon Exeter was still a mystery, but Saldur didn’t feel a need to pick at that scab. Surely Novron had killed Exeter to protect him from disaster because Saldur was working in his service. The high constable didn’t have enough proof to charge him yet. But being a suspicious man, he had been putting pieces together faster than Saldur had anticipated. The bishop looked down at the finger and the ring, puzzled.

  Why would anyone send me the severed finger of Lord Exeter?

  Examining the bag more closely, he found a scrap of parchment still inside. Written on it in a small, tight hand, the words were few but to the point.

  See that the ladies of Medford House are released and protected and I’ll forget about you.

  —Rose

  Saldur read the note three times, and his hands were shaking by the third time through.

  The little wide-eyed bitch did recognize my voice! And is still alive!

  The bishop turned around and, retracing his steps, pushed open the doors to Gentry Square once again. The blond-haired noble was gone, and no one else could be seen. In the distance, through the curtain of rain, he could just make out the rearing stone statue of Tolin Essendon. Exeter’s body had been removed and the blood washed away, but a single length of rope—too high perhaps for the soldiers to safely reach—still dangled from the neck of the king like a noose.

  Why hadn’t Richard killed her? Perhaps Hilfred was smarter than he thought. Only a fool would trust a man about to betray his king. Likely kept her alive to work as insurance in case something went wrong. Maybe he even planned to blackmail him later. He should have had Richard slit her throat in the dungeon, but he thought it was best to have her body discovered far away or not at all. Having her die in the castle would have just provided Exeter one more piece to add to his puzzle, and himself one more accusation to defend against.

  For the first time, Saldur was forced to consider who had killed the constable and why. They said a note had been found on him—something about Exeter harming some women.

  Could it really be as simple as the girls having hired thugs to protect them from harm? Hadn’t he heard that there were other murders in the city just like Exeter? Each of the victims had somehow harmed the women from this Medford House. How ironic that the petty affairs of prostitutes from the worst quarter of the city could hold a dagger to his throat. Saldur was always amazed at how few people had an appreciation for seeing what was possible. This Rose had him trapped. She could have asked for so many things—money, power, anything really. If arranging for the release and protection of a handful of whores would put the matter to rest, Saldur would be happy to oblige.

  Forgetting the fire, his bath, and his waiting bed, Saldur turned and headed back to the burned-out castle once more. He needed to convince His Majesty to release the girls, before Rose started pointing fingers.

  When Albert returned to The Hideous Head, Royce was waiting with the door open. Pulling him in, the thief shut the door quickly, and Albert struggled to wipe the rain from his eyes with his soaked sleeve.

  “Well?” Royce asked.

  “It went fine,” Albert told them. “I got the package to Bishop Saldur and I saw him go back to the castle. Can I ask what was in it?”

  “Leverage,” Royce replied.

  “So I’m involved in what now … blackmail as well as murder?”

  “Gwen and the girls were arrested,” Hadrian said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does that have to do with Bishop Saldur?”

  “Royce has come up with a plan to get them out.”

  Clearing his eyes, Albert could see Hadrian at one of the tables, a toppled mug of ale before him and a puddle on the floor. His big sword lay bridging the gap across the table and the chair beside him, the baldric left dangling. Royce remained on his feet, hovering uncomfortably close. Neither looked like they had slept.

  “I’ve been thinking,” the viscount said. “I’m not cut out for this nefarious sort of life. That and the fact I’m more than a little concerned that the royal guard might be looking for a certain viscount who delivered a message to Lord Exeter shortly before the fire. So perhaps it’s time I left Medford.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Royce told him with a certainty that made Albert believe it. “I need you gathering information.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, but … here.” Albert held out a coin purse. “There’s twenty gold tenents for a job I secured while at the party. It’s yours to do with as you please. The person who hired me will never find me where I’m going. I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face in Melengar, or possibly all of Avryn, ever again. I’m thinking of going south, Delgos or perhaps Calis.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Royce repeated, ignoring the purse.

  “And what if I’m arrested?”

  “Albert,” Hadrian said. “You’re overreacting. No one is after you. Besides, you’re one of us now. We wouldn’t let them hang you.”

  Hang me? The thought chilled him.

  “You don’t think they’d really—” But of course he did. Why else would he have said it? “And how could you stop it? The two of you are so cavalier about everything! I don’t mean to be insulting, but please understand that you’re just two men—they have an army. I’m sorry this is all…” Albert threw up his waterlogged hands, spraying liquid off the cuffs. He was befuddled, lost for the proper words to describe the extreme absurdity. “I’m leaving.”

  Royce stepped between him and the door, his face inches away, and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper. “The king’s men might be after you. If they are, they might question you. If they absolutely must find a scapegoat, they might choose to pin a crime on you. But if you walk out that door and Gwen is executed as a result…” He licked his lips, and his eyes glared, unblinking. “Maybe you should take a tour of the city’s fountains on your way out of town.”

  Albert didn’t move. He barely breathed and Royce continued to watch him like a cat hoping the mouse would run.

  “We really could use your help, Albert,” Hadrian said, his voice so pleasant and casual that Albert was disoriented. These were very strange people. “I promise you, we’ll have your back. If anything happens, we’ll be there.”

  When the viscount replied, he spoke quietly, haltingly, and at a slightly higher pitch than usual as he dragged each word out with a struggle. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Good man,” Hadrian said, clapping him on the back and drawing him away from Royce and the door.

&n
bsp; “What do you want him to do, Royce?”

  “Find out all you can about where Gwen and the girls are being held. If you hear anything—anything at all—about plans for their execution or release, get back here as fast as those new shoes will let you. Understand?”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “If I’m right, we won’t have to do anything.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Albert asked, not at all certain he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Then Hadrian and I will have to go in and get her. I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

  “I agree,” Hadrian said.

  They planned to go get her—to rescue a whore imprisoned by the king of Melengar after the queen was murdered. The two of them. Common thieves nonchalantly challenging the might of an angry monarch. Albert was employed by madmen. Who did they think they were?

  Except for the soot stains, the ash, and the still-rising smoke, the room was as Amrath had left it. Nothing had been burned, not the carpet, not the swan mirror, not the bed where he had found Ann beneath covers as if sleeping. If an army had breached the walls, he could comprehend her death, and he would mount his horse, lift his axe, and ride with the storm. But this. Some invisible monster had slipped into their bedroom and smothered his sweet Ann. A beast that he could still smell, whose poison he breathed as he lay holding her.

  “Your Majesty?” It was Valin this time, knocking softly on their door.

  “Go away! Leave us alone!” he tried to roar, but his voice, scorched by the smoke, was raspy and vicious.

  “But, sire, it’s not healthy—”

  “Go away!”

  “Just let me come in. I’ll—”

  “I swear I’ll beat to death anyone who enters this room.”

  The king pulled his wife closer. If he closed his eyes hard enough, it was almost as if nothing had happened. Almost as if he hadn’t left her on the one night in her whole life that she really needed him.

  He couldn’t see much anymore. He hadn’t stopped crying since he saw her, since he entered in disbelief and rushed over to try and wake her up. He chased them all out, throwing chairs, stools, and tables. If he’d caught anyone, he would have ripped them apart. He had become a real bear, a wild bear, a wounded and dangerous bear.

  Amrath was having trouble breathing. His chest ached as his heart was crushed and torn, consumed in misery. In the silence of the bedroom, even the absurd haunted him.

  Why did I say it depended on if you were ready to go to the party?

  “Of course I love you, Ann. I’ve always loved you—I’ll always love you. I should have said so. I was being a fool, making a stupid joke.”

  The tears continued to seep out of his closed eyes and leak across his cheek into her lovely hair.

  “Your Majesty.” Leo this time. Then the door opened and Alric and Arista stumbled through, their cheeks wet, eyes red.

  “Will you kill your own children?” Leo called out.

  Before he could rise, they rushed toward the bed. “Father?” Arista was out in front, ahead of Alric, whose sight was fixed on his mother.

  “You shouldn’t—” He coughed again. “You shouldn’t be in here. You should—” He doubled over and started to vomit.

  “Get him out!” Leo ordered. “Get all of them out of this damn smoke, or we really will lose our king!”

  CHAPTER 22

  HOMECOMINGS

  King Amrath stared out the shattered window of what had once been his council chambers. Now a gutted, scorched-black cave, it stank of smoke and death. Long black tears ran so that even the stone walls cried. The rain continued, weeping for the loss as the king looked out of his ruined home at the city below. The king had no more tears to shed.

  The ache was still in his chest, a crushing sensation as if someone had punched a hole through his ribs and squeezed his heart. The rest of him was just numb. He still had trouble breathing. Leo had likely saved his life by sending his children in, but the king wasn’t sure if a thank-you was appropriate, nor was he at all certain his trouble breathing had anything to do with the smoke.

  But he was still king. He still had responsibilities. Leo and Braga were steering the kingdom as best they could, but they still needed him.

  The meeting had begun with a tally of the dead. Remarkably only a little over a dozen people perished in the fire, mostly servants who worked the upper floors—Drundiline, his wife’s favorite handmaid, and Nora, the kids’ nurse. Their loss was tragic, but Amrath hardly noticed. He still puzzled at how Ann’s bedchamber was hardly touched by the fire, but Arista’s room was nothing but a blackened shell.

  “Your Majesty?” Leo said softly.

  “What? Sorry, I…”

  Leo smiled sadly. “Never mind. Go on, Chancellor.”

  Braga nodded. “It was Richard Hilfred who set the fire but Exeter who ordered it.”

  “As I tried to warn you, Your Majesty,” Saldur said.

  The bishop’s voice irritated him. By not heeding his counsel, Saldur was blaming him for Ann’s death. There was too much truth there not to hate the cleric for pointing it out.

  “As far as I have been able to determine,” Braga said, “Lord Exeter had long plotted to take the throne. I suspect he may have murdered Chancellor Wainwright, hoping to obtain the chancellery. When you appointed me to that position, he apparently decided to take action.”

  “And where is Exeter now?”

  “He’s dead. Butchered in Gentry Square.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “We think he was betrayed by someone he was conspiring with.”

  “Yes,” Saldur agreed. “That’s how things look.”

  “Wasn’t there a note? Something about a group of women taking credit?” Leo asked.

  “Oh yes, some foolishness suggesting a house of prostitution was involved,” Saldur said. “Obviously a poor attempt at diversion.”

  “I would have to agree with the bishop, Your Majesty,” Braga added. “I’m continuing the investigation, but the women mentioned in the note don’t appear to have had anything to do with it. Medford House is literally a handful of women struggling to survive in an alleyway. The madam of the house was recently battered by Exeter during an investigation the high constable was conducting. This appears to have been the source of the charade, but that’s where it ends. The real killer was just trying to throw us off his scent.”

  “But the women of Medford House were arrested?” Leo said.

  Braga raised his hands and shook his head in a show of frustration. “The sheriffs are Lord Exeter’s men and some can actually read. You can hardly blame them. At the time his body was found, his treachery was not yet known. They acted in haste—without knowing the facts or about the constable’s guilt. I’m just grateful they didn’t kill anyone. I’ve already given the order for the women’s release.”

  “I think we need to do more than that,” Saldur said. “These poor girls have been treated badly, and while we know they weren’t involved, rumors are already spreading. People think they were responsible for the wanton slaughter of a high-ranking nobleman and relative of the king.”

  “And the killer of my wife,” Amrath reminded them.

  “Of course, excuse me. It’s just that people might be angry to think someone of their social standing might do such a thing and get away with it.”

  “How would it be if I knighted them?” the king said, not entirely joking.

  Saldur offered an uncomfortable smile. “I think just some declaration of royal protection would suffice.”

  “I suppose we could issue an edict and instruct the sheriffs to actually enforce it,” Braga said. “It’s my understanding that crimes against women in that profession often have a blind eye turned by those entrusted with keeping the peace in the quarter.”

  “Do as you want,” Amrath said to the chancellor. “I really don’t care. Now what about Richard Hilfred?”

  “He is dead as well, Your Majesty, by my own blade, the night of the fi
re,” Braga said.

  “Well done, Chancellor,” Leo exclaimed, and it was followed by rousing applause by all in attendance.

  Braga bowed his head respectfully and humbly, but his pride was evident. Amrath had been right in appointing his brother-in-law to the position. At least one member of the council had done something of value that evening.

  “Richard Hilfred…” the king muttered. “He saved my life once. It’s hard to believe.”

  “I knew Richard Hilfred well,” Saldur said. “He often came to me with concerns about his life—and Richard was a very troubled man.”

  “Don’t you dare try and excuse him.” Amrath tore at his beard, pulling until it hurt.

  “Absolutely not, sire. I would never—but as his bishop, I listened to him confide his many personal troubles with me and often mentioned his great sadness at the death of Rose Reuben—something he blamed you for not preventing. Still, I never suspected he would go so far.”

  “So Exeter and Hilfred are dead,” Amrath said. “But that doesn’t explain the queen’s death. Why is it that no one woke her? No one thought to get her out? How is it all of you stand before me without a scratch or a burn?”

  With each word the king’s voice grew louder until the roar of the bear had returned and his hand had settled on the pommel of his sword.

  There was a long pause.

  “Your Majesty,” Braga began softly. “We tried.”

  “How hard is it to run up a set of stairs?”

  “Before setting the fire, Richard Hilfred chained the doors to the residence shut. He thought you and your family were inside. His plan was to kill all of you. I tried … please believe me, Your Majesty. After killing Richard Hilfred, I did everything I could to get the doors open, but it was useless. As the fire grew, I was pulled from the inferno by two guards. There simply was nothing that anyone could do.”