“Ah—Royce?” Hadrian said as five additional men pushed their way through the crowd.
Not all of them were brutes, and none stood as big as the bullnecked man and his buddy in orange. Two were older fellows with graying hair. Three were young, long and lanky, with pretty, unmarked faces. On the positive side, none of them carried so much as a stick.
“So, do you want to know why Hadrian here carries three swords?” Royce asked the crowd. A few nodded, and he gestured toward his partner with a grin. “Tell them.”
The two had done this before. It didn’t always work.
Hadrian pasted a friendly smile on his lips and faced the crowd, paying particular attention to the wall of muscle in front of him. “In my travels, I’ve found most men are reluctant to fight someone wielding a sword unless they also have one. Most good-natured folk—like yourselves—don’t have weapons. So I carry extras in case a situation like this arises. That way, I can hand out a couple so people aren’t so disadvantaged in a fight.”
Hadrian drew both his side blades in an elegant, single motion. The crowd stepped back and let out a communal gasp.
“So you can have your choice.” He spun the smaller weapon against his palm. “This is a short sword, the workhorse of combat, an ancient, reliable design. Great for close quarters and frequently used with a shield. Or…” He spun the larger one in his other hand. “This is a hand-and-a-half sword, also called a bastard sword—I think because no one knows where it came from.” He chuckled.
No one joined him.
Hadrian sighed. “Looking at the handle, you can see it has room for two hands, but it’s also light enough to swing one-handed. A really nice, versatile blade.” Hadrian slammed both weapons back into their scabbards with practiced ease. Then, reaching up, he slid the great sword off his back.
Once more, people gasped and gave way, backing up another step as the massive blade swung out.
“Now, this is a spadone.” With one hand, Hadrian held the blade out level, pointing at the crowd. “As you can see—it’s big. Sort of a three-and-a-half sword.”
He grinned at them, but the crowd remained cold. Everyone’s eyes followed the tip of the blade as if it were a snake’s head.
“This is obviously a two-handed weapon and not for the faint of heart. You might be thinking it would be a good choice due to its long reach, but most would have trouble swinging it, much less holding it out as I’m doing now.” Hadrian swung the big sword in large sweeping arcs, making it sing in the wind; then he let go and caught it with his other hand. “And while you’re struggling to raise it, I’d stab you with the short sword.”
“I’ve seen him do that,” Royce lied. “Usually catches a poor sod in the stomach. One quick thrust. A wound like that can take days to kill you. And painful.” He shook his head and frowned. “One sad case screamed and moaned for so long, his own mother wanted to smother him with a pillow.”
Faces blanched. Royce was a good liar.
Bull Neck’s mountain-ridge brow wrinkled, and his stalwart friend in orange retreated a bit more, stepping on the foot of a woman behind him. She cried out and shoved him with both hands.
“And if you’re thinking of rushing him…” Royce chuckled. The sound wasn’t at all jovial. Hadrian had never witnessed Royce laughing in good humor. When he laughed, babies cried. “I should mention that he can mow down scores of men with his big sword, and with less effort than you scythe wheat. Of course, doing so is louder and messier. Wheat doesn’t bleed, and straw doesn’t scream.”
Eyes, still locked on the sword, widened. Hadrian knew they were picturing him swinging the blade into the crowd as if through ripened crops.
Royce leaned forward in his saddle, the leather creaking with the strain. The chuckling had stopped, and what smile he wore melted into a grim, straight line. “Now that you’ve met Hadrian, let me introduce myself. I’m the one you don’t want to know.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Let the priest go, or I’ll be forced to demonstrate why Hadrian is the lesser of two evils.”
The wall of muscle retreated, walking backward and forcing the gathered throng to fall back as well. Then everyone scattered, slipping through doorways or darting up side streets. The crowd dispersed so quickly they didn’t bother untying Pastor Payne; they simply left him standing in the noxious smoke of the sizzling cauldron.
The priest shuffled toward them, coughing as he came.
“Thank you—thank you,” he choked out, doubling over. He struggled to draw a clean breath. The old man wore a round felt cap. Two tufts of white hair jutted out from either side. Satchels of loose skin drooped below sad eyes. Around the frame of his jaw and chin flared a bristling white beard, but his upper lip and cheeks were clean-shaven. His cassock, a ruddy rusted color, was buttoned to the neck and skirted the ground so closely it hid his feet.
Hadrian cut the rope off the priest’s wrists before putting the great sword away. “What was that all about?”
Pastor Payne made use of his free hands to cough into. Then he wiped his lips and eyes. He shook his head at the retreating villagers in disgust. “These are backward people, heathens and blasphemers. Time has forgotten this corner of the world, and those who dwell here are lost in barbarism.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” Royce dropped to the ground.
“They resent my presence. No, that’s not exactly right. They resent the Nyphron Church, which has neglected bringing them into Novron’s fold for far too long. They are mired in the past, and it’s my job to bring them into the future.”
Hadrian turned to Royce. “I thought this wasn’t our problem.”
Royce shrugged. “Turns out it was.”
Hadrian surveyed the deserted streets, which, he then noticed, were paved in a pleasant cobblestone. He could still hear the sound of slamming doors and whispered mutterings. “We made a lot of enemies just now. How come?”
Royce grabbed the lead to his horse and pointed at Payne. “Because a dead client doesn’t pay. Pastor Payne is our employer.”
“By the way, Payne is spelled with a y and an e—not with an i,” he told them, coming to a stop before a rickety shack slapped together from warped boards and cracked stones, perhaps the only building in town not covered in ivy. The priest turned and eyed the two of them carefully, then sighed. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Neither of you is literate, correct?”
“Wrong,” Royce said.
“Really?” Pastor Payne pushed up his lower lip. “Down here, only those in the clergy know their letters. I would have assumed that—your sort—wouldn’t.”
“Our sort?” Royce asked.
“Paid killers,” Payne explained. “That’s what you are, correct? I was informed that at least one of you has worked in that capacity for the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. Isn’t that right?”
“And for that reason you assumed we’re ignorant?” Royce said.
The priest nodded with enthusiasm. “People who spill blood for a living are always ignorant.” He looked them both over again. “Well, almost always, I suppose.”
“Ignorance isn’t prejudiced about who it afflicts,” Royce replied.
Payne looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled and nodded, causing Royce to raise an eyebrow at Hadrian, who shrugged.
“Welcome to my church,” the pastor said, indicating the tilting shack that leaned heavily on the twisted trunked of an olive tree beside it.
“This is a church?” Hadrian asked. “In Medford, the church is…bigger.”
“Medford doesn’t have a church,” the old pastor said. “It enjoys a cathedral. We’re just starting here. I can assure you things will be much different the next time you visit. Come in. I’ll make you something to eat.”
Lacking any windows, glass or not, the inside of the church was illuminated by stripes of sunlight shining through the gaps between wall planks. Thick dust clouds swirled as the priest moved around in the tiny space. Looking through large ceramic pots resting on the floor and p
eering into smaller ones shelved above, he finally found what he was after.
“Ah-hah!” He grinned, pulling out a cloth-wrapped wheel of cheese. “Now if I could find—I swear I had some blackberries somewhere. Gathered them myself. I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer.”
Hadrian searched for a seat and didn’t find anything he was confident would hold his weight. Royce refused to venture more than a step inside the door, where he stood with his arms hidden beneath his cloak.
“Found you!” Payne pulled a basket of berries off a dark shelf, grinning at them as if he’d discovered gold in a stream. “Help yourself. I know where there are more.” The pastor popped two into his mouth and chewed, humming in delight. “Food is wonderful, isn’t it? Winter will be a challenge this year.”
“Isn’t it warmer down here?”
“Sure, sure, but the people are ice. At least in summer, I can fend for myself. In winter, I won’t exactly be able to rely on the generosity of my congregation to get me through.” He popped two more berries, then used a whittled stick stripped of its bark to cut away a piece of cheese.
“They certainly don’t seem to like you,” Royce said.
“The monks have turned them against the church.”
“Monks?”
Payne nodded in reply as he chewed with a full mouth then swallowed. He pointed at the western wall. “Up there is the old monastery. Been here since imperial times and named after a ridiculous piece of cloth.” He swallowed again. Seeing their blank faces, he waved a hand before them. “That doesn’t matter. My woes with the monks aren’t your concern. The church will take care of them. You’re here to stop a murder.”
“No,” Royce replied. “Just giving a professional opinion.”
“Right—right, of course. Well, no sense in going to the castle now. Be dark soon. You can stay here tonight, and in the morning I’ll introduce you to Knox. Hugh is the high sheriff of this province. He’ll be the one you’ll be working with. I’ll also introduce you to Lord Christopher Fawkes. He’s been of great assistance to the church and Lady Dulgath recently. Wonderful young man—cousin to King Vincent. He’s actually the one who suggested speaking to Viscount Alan Wind-something. The fellow who referred you.”
“Albert Winslow.”
“Yes, that’s him.” Pastor Payne took a seat on a rolled bundle of straw, making Hadrian wonder if he’d be better off sleeping outside. “He’s close friends with Bishop Parnell from up north. The bishop dropped me off here when he came down to administer last rites to the late earl. Then he went on to the spring conclave in Ervanon. The bishop met with Viscount Winslow, who sent you our way.”
“What can you tell us about Lady Dulgath?” Royce asked.
Payne paused and wiped his mouth. “Well, she’s the only daughter—only child—of Lord Beadle Dulgath, formerly the Earl of Dulgath. She’s young, twenty-two I believe. Very pretty. Got her looks from her mother, who died in childbirth. Beadle never remarried. He was a sentimental man. Emotional sort. Weak is what Bishop Parnell says. He has let this province run wild with lawlessness, as today’s little demonstration can attest. Can you imagine what would happen if the peasants of Medford hauled a priest out in the main square to be tarred and feathered? King Amrath would post their heads on poles lining the King’s Road.”
“You know a lot about Medford,” Hadrian said.
“I studied at Sheridan University. We used to spend our free days in Medford.”
“Small world. We know a Professor Arcadius from Sheridan. He’s the—”
“Can we get back to Lady Dulgath,” Royce insisted.
“Oh yes. Let’s see…” The priest tapped his chin. “She’s well liked. Some might even say loved by…well, I guess everyone.”
“Apparently not.” Royce started to lean against the doorframe but must have thought better of it and straightened again. “When did the attacks start?”
“Maybe a few weeks after Beadle’s funeral or so I’ve heard.”
“Maybe?”
“It’s hard to say exactly. We only know about the attempts that got noticed, but Knox will tell you more about that.”
Royce had a sour look on his face. Usually Albert dealt with the client who wanted an item taken. Then Hadrian and Royce would watch the place for a few days, noting visitors and guards—if there were any—and determining when the lights went out and from what windows. Only on rare occasions did his partner check out interiors. If they needed floor plans or inside details, Albert would be sent for a visit. Hadrian knew Royce didn’t speak to many people, but he especially avoided priests, nobles, and most certainly high sheriffs. The last law enforcement officer he’d talked with had been found grotesquely butchered and decorating the fountain in Medford’s Gentry Square. Hadrian doubted Pastor Payne was aware of Royce’s involvement in that affair. If he were, he wouldn’t be so casual about introducing the thief around.
Chapter Four
Beyond the Sea
The next morning, Sherwood let himself into the study as usual. The castle staff had stopped bothering with him after the third week. Not that they’d known what to do with him before. An artist was an oddity in a castle—even a large one. In Dulgath, he was an outright enigma.
While gossip wasn’t something he intentionally provoked, Sherwood was delighted by the whispers his contradictions generated. He hobnobbed with the nobility, but dressed like the staff. Being friendly, he spoke kindly and easily to everyone without any hint of haughtiness, but he also told tales of intrigue in the courts of high kings.
On fine days, he kept to his room. On mornings after a night’s rain he took long walks, mostly along the coast. The castle staff didn’t know he was out searching for ocher, which stood out better from the cliff walls when wet, or that the snails he used to make Imperial Purple were more plentiful after a rain. The servants probably considered him daft. Oddly enough, his eccentricities gained him a queer sort of acceptance.
Before he’d left Mehan for Dulgath, everyone had warned Sherwood that the people he’d meet there would be a bit off. As a result, he fit right in and had become a part of the “castle family.” And since he had no title before his name and required no special treatment, Sherwood had become little more than furniture to the people who worked there—all except one. She was Nysa’s handmaiden, Rissa Lyn. He knew her name from the number of times the lady had called it during their sessions.
Rissa Lyn, make certain to lay out my blue gown for this afternoon.
Rissa Lyn, ready a hot bath for when I’m done here.
No, Rissa Lyn, don’t close the drapes. He needs the light.
In two months, Sherwood hadn’t heard Rissa Lyn say anything in reply other than Yes, milady. But she was all eyes. Rissa Lyn watched Her Ladyship, and she watched Sherwood. She was peering at him again that morning as he hauled his easel into the study. Standing just under the stairs, she blushed when he looked over and withdrew.
He placed the easel where he always did, the floor marked with charcoal to indicate where each of its tripod legs went. This maintained consistency of view from one day to the next. Consistency of light was a bigger problem, and the reason the sessions were held at the same time each day. He went to the windows and threw back the drapes, tying them up. He was lucky—no clouds. Still, the shift of seasons was devastating. He should have asked her to start their sessions earlier to compensate. Now she might not come at all.
He hadn’t seen Nysa since the door had slammed the day before. That wasn’t unusual. He rarely saw her outside their sessions, and he always arrived first.
Sherwood took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his easel. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled out the tray to oil his paints. He kept his palette loaded so as not to waste pigments, but overnight the paint thickened. He liked his paint to be the consistency of buttercream. He wiped the stems of his brushes clean and lined them up in neat rows—largest to smallest. His favorite was in need of a re-bristling. It flared from fatigue, and too
much paint lay trapped in the stem. Sherwood was a curse to a fine brush; Yardley had always said so.
Sherwood had begun his apprenticeship when he was ten years old, making Yardley more than merely an art instructor. The old perfectionist, with the irritating laugh and disgusting habit of spitting every few minutes, had been more like a parent to Sherwood than the tin miner and his wife who bore him. In addition to portraiture, finding and crushing pigments, and caring for his brushes, Yardley had taught him to fish, whistle, dance, navigate courtly life, and how to defend himself with fists and a blade. Where Yardley had learned sword fighting was anyone’s guess, but he knew what he was doing and he’d taught Sherwood well. An artist wandering alone on the open road was a target too tempting for many, and Sherwood’s prowess had been tested more than once.
His prep work done, Sherwood pulled up the stool and sat.
The room was quiet except for the sound of the sea drifting in through the open window, soft and muffled, a distant unending war fought between wave and rock. A seagull cried twice, then was silent. Wind buffeted the drapes and rocked parchments rolled up on the desk behind which Nysa usually stood.
Sunlight moved in an oblong rectangle across the floor, slicing over the desk and running up the paneled wall. Sherwood knew the time by the path the light took, tracking it with a painter’s eye every morning. He’d worked on the background of the painting only when Lady Dulgath wasn’t in the room, but he had finished everything that wasn’t Nysa weeks ago.
As the light reached the edge of the stone fireplace, he knew she was late.
Sherwood touched the leg of the stool, patting it as if for a job well done. While not the stool’s doing, it managed to still be there. She hadn’t ordered its removal.
That’s something—isn’t it?
As the light moved across the first stone of the hearth—the one he’d struggled to match in color because he was low on hematite—Sherwood began to face the reality that Lady Dulgath was making good on her declaration. He hadn’t believed her. They’d only had a small quarrel, a spat. People didn’t—
The Death of Dulgath Page 5