“I’m like Tibith. Soup won’t help.”
“I told ya, yer not like that,” Mince insisted, slamming the silver in a cup he decided at that moment to use as a bank.
“I can’t feel my feet anymore, Mince, and my hands tingle. I ache all over and my head pounds and… and… I pissed myself today. Did you hear me—I pissed myself! I am like Tibith. I’m just like he was and I’m gonna die just like him.”
“I said ya ain’t. Now quit it!”
“My lips are blue, ain’t they?”
“Be quiet, Kine, just—”
“By Mar, Mince, I don’t want to die!” Kine shook even more as he cried.
Mince felt his stomach churn as tears dripped down his cheeks too. Victims never recovered once their lips went blue.
He looked around for something else to wrap his friend in and then remembered the robe.
“There,” he muttered, draping the robe over Kine. “After all the trouble you’ve been, try to be of some use. Keep him warm or I’ll toss ya in the smith’s fire.”
“W-what?” Kine moaned.
“Nothing, go to sleep.”
Royce heard the key turn. The bolt shifted and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Four pairs of feet shuffled on the slate of the foyer. He heard the sound of the door closing, the brush of material, and the snap of a cloak. One pair of feet scuffed abruptly as if their owner unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a precipice.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Merrick’s voice said, “I want you and Dobbs to take the rest of the evening off.”
“But, sir, I—”
“This is no time to argue. Please, Mr. Jenkins, just leave. Hopefully I will see you in the morning.”
“Hopefully?” This voice was familiar. Royce recognized Poe, the cook’s mate on the Emerald Storm. It took him a moment, but then Royce understood. “What do you mean you will—Hold on. Is he here? How do you know?”
“I want you to go too, Poe.”
“Not if he’s here. You’ll need protection.”
“If he wanted me dead, I would already be lying in a bloody puddle. So I think it is fair to surmise that I am safe. You, on the other hand, are a different story. I doubt he knew you would be here. Now that he knows your connection to me, the only thing keeping you alive is that he is more interested in talking to me than slitting your throat, at least for the moment.”
“Let him try. I think—”
“Poe, leave the thinking to me. And never tempt him like that. This is not a man to toy with. Trust me, he’d kill you without difficulty. I know. I worked with him. We specialized in assassinations and he’s better at it than I am—particularly spur-of-the-moment killings—and right now you’re a very tempting spur. Now, get out while you can. Disappear for a while, just to be safe.”
“What makes you think he even knows I’m here?” Poe asked.
“He’s in the drawing room, listening to us right now. Sitting in the blue chair with its back to the wall, he’s waiting for me to join him. I’m sure he has a crystal glass half filled with the Montemorcey wine I bought and left in the pantry for him. He’s holding it in his left hand so if, for whatever reason, he has to draw his dagger, he won’t need to put the glass down first. He hates to waste Montemorcey. He’s swirling it, letting it breathe, and while he’s been here for some time, he has yet to taste it. He won’t drink until I sit across from him—until I too have a glass.”
“He suspects you poisoned it?”
“No, he hasn’t tasted the wine because… well, it would just be rude. He’ll have a glass of cider waiting for me, as he knows I no longer drink spirits.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Because I know him just as I know you. Right now you’re fighting an urge to enter the drawing room to see if I’m right. Don’t. You’ll never come out again, and I don’t want you staining my new carpet. Now leave. I will contact you when I need to.”
“Are you sure? Yeah, okay, stupid question.”
The door opened, then closed, and footsteps could be heard going down the porch stairs.
There was a pause and then a light flared. Merrick Marius entered the dark room holding a single candle. “I hope you don’t mind. I prefer to be able to see you too.”
Merrick lit four sconce lights, added some logs to the fire, and stirred the embers to life with a poker. He watched them for a long moment, then placed the tool back on its hook before taking a seat opposite Royce, next to the poured glass of cider.
“To old friends?” Merrick asked, holding up his drink.
“To old friends,” Royce agreed, and the two sipped.
Merrick was dressed in a knee-length coat of burgundy velvet, a finely embroidered vest, and a startlingly white ruffled shirt.
“You’re doing well for yourself,” Royce observed.
“I can’t complain. I’m Magistrate of Colnora now. Have you heard?”
“I hadn’t. Your father would be proud.”
“He said I couldn’t do it. Do you remember? He said I was too smart for my own good.” Merrick took another sip. “I suppose you’re angry about Tur Del Fur.”
“You crossed a line.”
“I know. I am sorry about that. You were the only one who could do that job. If I could have found someone else…” Merrick crossed his legs and looked over his glass at Royce. “You’re not here to kill me, so I’ll assume your visit is about Hadrian.”
“Is that your doing? This deal?”
Merrick shook his head. “Actually, Guy came up with that. They tried to persuade Hadrian to kill Breckton for money and a title. My only contribution was providing the proper incentive.”
“They’re dangling Gaunt?” Royce asked.
Merrick nodded. “And the Witch of Melengar.”
“Arista? When did they get her?”
“A few months ago. She and her bodyguard tried to free Gaunt. He died and she was captured.”
Royce took another drink and then set his glass down before asking, “They’re going to kill Hadrian, aren’t they?”
“Yes. The regents know they can’t just let him go. After he kills Breckton, they will arrest him for murder, throw him in prison, and execute him along with Gaunt and Arista on Wintertide.”
“Why do they want Breckton dead?”
“They offered him Melengar in order to separate him from Ballentyne. He refused, and now they’re afraid the Earl of Chadwick will attempt to use Breckton to overthrow the empire. They’re spooked and feel their only chance to eliminate him is by using a Teshlor-trained warrior. Nice skills to have in a partner, by the way—good choice.”
Royce sipped his wine and thought awhile. “Can you save him?”
“Hadrian?” Merrick paused and then answered, “Yes.”
The word hung there.
“What do you want?” Royce said.
“Interesting that you should ask. As it turns out, I have another job that you would be perfect for.”
“What kind?”
“Find-and-recover. I can’t give you the details yet, but it’s dangerous. Two other groups have already failed. Of course, I wasn’t involved in those attempts, and you weren’t leading the operation. Agree to take the job and I’ll make sure nothing happens to Hadrian.”
“I’ve retired.”
“I heard that rumor.”
Royce drained his glass and stood. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long, Royce. If you want me to work this, I’ll need a couple of days to prepare. Trust me, you’ll want my help. A dungeon rescue will fail. The prison is dwarven made.”
CHAPTER 14
TOURNAMENT DAY
The morning dawned to the wails and cries of the doomed. The snow ran red as axe and mallet slaughtered livestock whose feed had run out. Blood Week happened every winter, but exactly what day it began depended on the bounty of the fall harvest. For an orphan in Aquesta, the best part of winter was Blood Week.
Nothing went to waste—fee
t, snouts, and even bones sold—but with so much to cleave, butchers could not keep track of every cut. The city’s poor circled the butcher shops like human vultures, searching for an inattentive cutter. Most butchers hired extra help, but they always underestimated the dangers. There were never enough arms carrying the meat to safety or enough eyes keeping lookout. A few daring raids even managed to carry off whole legs of beef. As the day wore on and workers grew exhausted, some desperate butchers resorted to hiring the very thieves they guarded against.
Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim’s Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim’s cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. He snatched it and ran with the bloody fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.
He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswall, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless. The other two boys could hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now, and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.
Arriving on the street in front of the Bingham Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend’s loud wheezing had frequently woken Mince, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.
Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys—friends—who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form had once been a person—laughing, joking, running, crying—then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile—there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.
Will I be the thing one day? Will someone drag me to the pile?
He gritted his teeth, entered the alley, climbed to the roof, and pulled back the board. Leaving the brilliant sunlight, Mince crawled blindly into the crevice. The Nest was dark and silent. There was no sound of breathing—wheezing or otherwise. Mince reached forward, imagining Kine’s cold, stiff body. The thought caused his hand to shake even as he willed his fingers to spread out, searching. Touching the silken material of the robe, he recoiled as it began to glow.
Kine was not there.
The robe lay on the floor as if Kine had melted during the night. Mince pulled the material toward him. As he did, the glow increased enough to reach every corner of the room. He was alone. Kine was gone. Not even his body remained.
Mince sat for a second, and then a thought surfaced. He dropped the robe in horror and kicked it away. The robe’s glow throbbed and grew fainter.
“Ya ate him!” Mince cried. “Ya lied to me. Ya are cursed!”
The light went out and Mince backed as far away as possible. He had to get away from the killer robe, but now it was lying between him and the exit.
A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.
“Mince?” Kine’s voice said. “Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!”
Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince’s eyes adjusted until he could see his friend, holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. “I woulda saved you one, but I couldn’t find you. By Mar, I was famished!”
“Ya all right, Kine?”
“I’m great. I’m still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic.”
“But last night…” Mince started. “Last night ya—ya—didn’t look so good.”
Kine nodded. “I had all kinds of queer dreams, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Hmm? Oh, just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn’t breathe ’cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved—it was a terrible nightmare.” Kine noticed the beef shank Mince still held. “Hey! You got some meat too? You wanna cook it up? I’m still hungry.”
“Huh? Oh, sure,” Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.
“I love Blood Week, don’t you?”
Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Fields on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued, as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.
Two years before, the baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis—who had already borne a grudge against the earl—passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis’s lance pierced Stanley’s cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent’s chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley’s lance pierced Jervis’s helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.
Centuries earlier, Highcourt Fields had functioned as the supreme noble court of law in Avryn. Civil disputes inevitably escalated until accused and accuser turned to combat to determine who was right. Soon the only dispute became who was the best warrior. As the realms of Avryn expanded, trips to Highcourt became less convenient. Monthly sessions were eventually reduced to biyearly events where all grievances were settled over a two-week session. These were held on the holy days of Summersrule and Wintertide, in the belief Maribor was more attentive at these times.
Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.
Adorned in the distinct colors of their owners, richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords’ horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel—a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man’s fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring, which men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand’s traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.
Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the sm
ith to adjust Hadrian’s borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.
“Here, sir,” Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.
“What’s that for?” Hadrian asked.
Renwick looked at him curiously. “It’s your padding, sir.”
“Don’t hand it to him, lad,” Wilbur scolded. “Stuff it in!”
Embarrassment flooded the boy’s face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian’s tunic.
“Pack it tight!” Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian’s chest, ramming it in hard.
“That’s a bit too tight,” Hadrian complained.
Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. “You might not think that when Sir Murthas’s lance hits you. I don’t want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly.”
“Sir Hadrian,” Renwick began, “I was wondering—I was thinking—would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?”
“Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”
“No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”
“Are you really that bad?”
“I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’ ”
“Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.
Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them, really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”
“Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you?”
Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.
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