The place was tall, a full four stories if you counted the three dormers and five gables built with all the planning of an afterthought. It, too, was made of fieldstone supported by thick timbers. Like everything else, it was covered with thick ivy. The place was a living plant with doors and two smoking chimneys.
No sign was posted at the entrance or from the eaves. But the door was open, and three men stood in a cluster on the porch, smoking long black pipes. They scrutinized him; not one smiled.
“Excuse me, is this an inn?” When no one replied, he added, “You know, a hostelry, an auberge, a lodge, a way house?”
Just stares.
“A place where people rent rooms for the night to sleep in?”
The group puffed and walked back inside, leaving a cloud behind.
Not to be deterred from the possibility of a good mug of beer—even a reasonable imitation thereof—Hadrian tied Dancer to one of the porch posts. He clapped the horse’s neck. “Hang in there. I’ll see if I can find something for you, too.”
He walked around the railing and up the stairs onto the porch.
“Don’t mind them,” a voice said. A moment later a young woman stepped out of the gloomy interior of the house, emerging from the ivy-wreathed hole.
Red hair—lots of red hair.
Divided down the middle of her head, the woman’s ginger tresses spilled to her waist after first cascading off bare shoulders. Small and dangerously pretty, she wore a gown elegant in design but not material. Black felt pulled together with leather laces formed the plunging front, while the sleeves were made of coarse wool. Side panels—hidden beneath her arms—were made of suede, and the cuffs and pleats were comprised of stitched together burlap scraps. Not remotely refined, the patchwork dress was a bold attempt to imitate the wardrobe of a lady using the means of a waif. Yet unlike any chaste noble garment, this concoction of wool and leather greedily gripped the woman’s body, straining the imperfect stitching.
“No?” he asked, willing his eyes to remain on her face, not a poor alternative given her friendly smile.
“No.” She reached up, gathering her hair with both hands and casting it behind her like a net. “You’re the one who stopped the feathering last night, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, obviously didn’t need one. “Some folk are holding a grudge.”
“Not you, though?”
“Wasn’t there. Heard about it. People talk in a small village. You thirsty?”
“Yes, but right now I’m looking for a room and a place for my horse. So, is this an inn?”
“Caldwell House is pretty much whatever you need her to be.” She winked. Her age was difficult to guess. The dress said young, but her confident tone made him think she was a year or two older than himself.
“Do you…work here?”
“What? Like a whore or something?” There wasn’t any tone of offense and no emphasis on the word whore. Just a question asked in a delightfully casual manner, as if they were discussing lemonade or the lack of rain.
He absolutely had been thinking prostitute, but given her reply, he felt it safer to retreat. “Barmaid, perhaps?” That, too, might have been an insult. She could be like Gwen and own the place.
“An entertainer.” She made a little hop, threw her hands up, and spun around in an elegant twirl that made the hem of the gown flare. “My name’s Dodge.” She pulled at her hair. “Scarlett Dodge. My mother had all the creativity of an eight-year-old with a spotted puppy.”
He chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Spot. I’m Hadrian.”
“Pleasure is mine.” She made an equally elegant curtsey. “You’re from up north, then?”
“Most recently from Melengar.”
Her eyes brightened, and the smile grew even more inviting. “Fancy that. I came down from Warric—Colnora, to be exact. But you probably guessed I wasn’t a native, on account of how pretty I talk.” She chuckled. “And my lovely complexion”—she held out a freckled arm and rubbed—“which I share with the bellies of dead fish on a hot day.” She made another smart spin, turning her back on him but trailing a hand that beckoned with a curled finger. “C’mon in, Hadrian of Melengar. I’ll let you buy me a drink, and we can regale each other with stories of our adventures in foreign lands.”
Hadrian glanced back at Dancer. “It won’t take long. I promise.”
The inside of Caldwell House was about as pleasant a place as Hadrian could have hoped for. Overhead ran heavy beams of rough-cut wood from which a wagon-wheel chandelier hung. The place was brimming with pewter mugs, fishing rods, forgotten coats, burlap bags, garlic sprigs, and the occasional spider web. Someone had carved the initials W. A. in the center post. More initials, words, and other scars marred the six round tables and the elbowed bar, behind which rested a rack of three barrels, one marked BEER, another ALE, and the last WHISKEY. On a chalkboard was written the words: FISH ARE GOOD, BUT GILL’S THE BEST.
Nine patrons occupied the main room. The three men from the porch were now at the bar; four others sat at a table in the center, and two more stood to the rear, holding tankards. One waved at Scarlett, who smiled. “Hey, Brett, when’d you get back?”
“This morning,” Brett replied. He was one of those standing, talking to a fellow across from him who was leaning with his back to the initialed post, one foot bent up and resting on it.
Scarlett trotted across the floor and gave the man a hug—a polite, friendly sort. No kiss preceded or followed. Brett had the typical black hair and dark eyes of Maranon men, so he wasn’t her brother. But he didn’t appear to be a husband or lover, either. That was good. Hadrian recognized the four men at the table as Bull Neck and company. That was bad. They sat hunched over drinks, elbows on the table, their heads close. Luckily none looked at him, and he tried not to stare at them, either. Like an abandoned boat, Hadrian continued to drift toward the bar, where a man with a short beard and rolled-up sleeves wiped his hands on a towel. He didn’t seem to notice Hadrian, either, as he, and almost everyone else, was looking at Scarlett.
“Have a drink with us,” she cooed to Brett.
The not-her-brother shook his head. “Got a wagon to unpack, honey.”
A playful push and pout followed. “What about you, Larmand?” she asked the one holding up the post.
“Sorry, Dodge, Brett needs muscle.” He held up a bent arm, flexing.
“What does that have to do with you?” Her comment brought a communal oooh from some of the others. “Suit yourself.”
She swept back to Hadrian’s side and faced the bartender. Putting a hand on Hadrian’s shoulder, she said, “Wag, this man is buying two ryes and a pair with foam.”
“That so?” the bartender asked.
“Sure,” Hadrian replied. “Why not.”
“Gill!” the man with the towel shouted, and a boy came out from an archway. “Fetch Scarlett a bottle from the cellar.”
Hadrian pointed at the barrel marked WHISKEY, puzzled.
“I assumed you weren’t a cheap bastard,” Scarlett said as Gill went down the steps to their left and used a key hanging around his neck to enter a small door. “Wag knows what I like.”
While Gill fetched the bottle, the bartender used one hand to hold two pewter mugs beneath the barrel spigot marked BEER. “Wagner Drayton,” he said, extending his hand while still holding the beers in the other.
“Hadrian Blackwater.” He shook and received the drinks as a reward.
Only a truly forgiving or desperate woman would consider Wagner a handsome man. His face suffered from numerous pockmarks and deep wrinkles. The latter cut across his brow and added unnecessary dimension to his cheeks. The beard was likely an effort to cover his face. He kept it short, but it, too, was unsightly, as it grew in patches. He was smiling.
Well, that’s something.
Scarlett pulled over a pair of high-backed wooden stools. “Have pity on your paws.” She clapped the face of a seat and hopped up on her own, kicking her heels up onto the footrest that r
an around the base of the bar.
Hadrian pulled off his spadone, propping it next to him. He sat down and picked up the mug before him.
“To a fine meeting.” Scarlett rammed his mug hard enough to send foam over the edge.
The beer was good—warm, rich, and far from flat.
“So what do you do here, Scarlett?” Hadrian asked, hoping to learn more about this woman who freely hugged men, dressed like a patchwork princess, and demanded only the best whiskey.
“I told you, I entertain.”
“Give him a taste,” Wagner said, picking up three shot glasses, which he tossed at her.
Scarlett caught each with practiced ease and began juggling, sending them higher and higher. She stood up, moved to an open space, and began catching them behind her back. Continuing their rotation, she rested each on her forehead momentarily, and then, without Hadrian seeing it happen, there were only two glasses—then just one. She walked back to her seat, the final glass vanishing into thin air.
“Impressive.” He applauded.
“Thank you.” She bowed before hopping back on her chair.
Gill returned with a dark, corked bottle, plucking straw off it as he came. The boy handed it to Wagner.
“Glasses, darling.” The bartender smiled at Scarlett, who reached up toward Hadrian’s head and pulled a shot glass from behind his ear. She placed it on the bar while reaching up for another. By the time she produced the third glass, Wagner had poured two shots of amber liquid.
“Some of the best rye whiskey in Maranon,” Wagner said, re-corking the bottle.
Scarlett lifted hers and smelled it. Her eyes closed as a dreamy look took her and an alluring smile spread across her lips. “I love this stuff.”
“That’s why I have to keep it locked in the cellar.” Wagner pointed at her and tapped his nose at the same time.
“What will we drink to this time?” she asked.
“To whiskey-loving women who juggle,” Hadrian supplied.
She grinned, and they clicked glasses more gingerly this time. She took the whole shot in one swallow.
Hadrian did the same. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting such a welcome reception after my friend and I interrupted things.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“He’ll be along. Sent me ahead to get a room. Which reminds me. Wagner?”
“Yes, sir?” The bartender popped a bright smile on his ugly lips.
“Could I get a room with two beds and a stall for my horse?”
“Absolutely. Horse out front, is it?”
“Yep.”
“Gill!” Wagner yelled. The boy was there in a flash, and Hadrian was starting to see why Gill was the best. “Take care of the man’s horse.”
“So tell me, are my partner and I the only new people in town? Anyone else visiting?” Hadrian asked Wagner.
“Been slow,” Wagner replied. “Why? You expecting to meet up with someone?”
“Me? No. Just making conversation is all. And now that I think about it, what’s the deal with Pastor Payne? What’d he do to deserve a tarring?”
Wagner shook his head. “Nothing. It’s not him; it’s what he’s trying to sell. We don’t need the Nyphron Church in these parts.”
Scarlett switched to a polite smile as she crossed her legs. “Dulgath has an old tradition that dates back to imperial days. The church hasn’t bothered with us until now. Brecken Moor is where the Monks of Maribor were founded.”
“Wait.” Hadrian stopped her, confused. The whiskey had hit harder than he expected. “I thought this was Brecken Dale.”
“It is,” Wagner said, then pointed across the bar, as if Hadrian could tell what direction that was. He couldn’t; the rush of the drinks on an empty stomach, combined with the twists and turns of the village roads, had left him baffled. “Brecken Moor is the old monastery up on the hill, just outside town.”
“Oh yeah, Payne mentioned something about a monastery, didn’t speak too highly of it.”
“Up north, the two sects tolerate each other, but down here…” Scarlett shook her head. “Like Wag said, we aren’t buying what they’re selling.”
“Which is?” Hadrian asked.
She waved a dismissive hand. “That crap about Novron and his heirs. If they had their way, we’d return to imperial rule, everyone bowing down to one man. We like things just as they are. Especially now that Lady Dulgath is going to be in charge. Don’t get me wrong, the earl was fine, a good man, really. But Lady Dulgath is something else, something special.”
Scarlett held out her glass, and Wagner poured another drink. She continued, “A lot of changes are going on outside our little corner of Elan. But you’ll find that people around here like our traditions. I’ve heard rumors that the other provinces of Maranon have switched allegiances from Monarchist to Imperialist. Swanwick was the most recent.”
Hadrian nodded, and the room swam. He checked his beer and found that most of it was still in his mug.
While it was true he hadn’t eaten in hours, he wasn’t such a lightweight that a single shot—
I’m sweating, too. Something isn’t right.
He scanned the room and noticed that the four at the table had gotten up. The two who were in such a hurry to unload a wagon had moved to the door but forgot to leave. They were no longer looking at Scarlett. Everyone was looking at him.
“What’d you put in the drink?” he asked her softly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t kill you, but we are going to finish what you stopped. Only this time you’ll be tarred and feathered right alongside that bastard Payne. When you see Bishop Parnell, tell him we don’t need the Nyphron Church around here, and anyone he sends will get the same treatment.”
Hadrian got to his feet and drew his swords, but the room was soup, his arms lazy, his hands going numb. Probably fed me some azaleas.
Bull Neck charged forward, and Hadrian made a wild swing at him.
“Leave him,” Scarlett said. “He’ll pass out soon enough.”
Anger bloomed, but years of training helped Hadrian push it away. He had to think, but his mind was spinning like the room, and he was running out of time. He considered making a run for his horse, but Gill would have taken Dancer away. The kid was already back, and Brett and Larmand were guarding the door.
Out of options.
Hadrian’s vision narrowed as the poison worked through him. He was weaving, struggling to keep standing.
What will Royce say when he finds out. What will he do?
Hadrian looked sympathetically at Scarlett. She hadn’t meant him any serious harm; she just wanted him to leave. But Royce was another matter, and she had no idea what he was capable of. That single sobering thought provided him an instant of clarity, and in that moment, he saw the sign again.
FISH ARE GOOD, BUT GILL’S THE BEST.
The kid was back near the cellar steps, watching him, waiting like everyone else to see him fall. Hadrian dropped his swords. They couldn’t help him now; only Gill could.
Gill’s the best.
With a sloppy stagger, Hadrian grabbed the kid. Behind him, people shouted, but he wasn’t listening to them anymore. All his focus was on one thing—the key that Gill had around his neck.
With a yank, which must have hurt, the chain broke. Gill probably screamed, but Hadrian couldn’t spare the attention. His sight was already dimming as he nearly fell down the steps. Luckily the boy had neglected to lock the door. He rolled into the small room filled with hay-packed straw, slammed the door closed, and with shaking hands struggled to put the key into the lock. If he could just seal himself in, then…
Fish are good and Gill’s the best, but now it’s time to take a rest.
The words began to repeat stupidly in his head. Then they began to jumble.
Resting fish and Gill…how best is now to rest?
Hadrian, who by then was sweating a puddle, was happy to find the cool stone of the floor and lay his face on it.
Gill the fish…rest is best…time is now…it feels so good to…
Royce explored the grounds of Castle Dulgath. No one questioned his presence; no one even noticed as he studied gates, windows, and walls. The lack of security was appalling, and the castle wasn’t much better. Roughly squared stones were stacked without mortar and covered with lichen, moss, and ivy. The place practically wheezed with old age. One tower at the southern corner had fallen, and no one had bothered to rebuild it. The pile of collapsed stones had lain forgotten for some time, judging by the thick roots of the trees growing over them.
A desolate place. The thought lingered in Royce’s head as he circled the point. Nice that way.
He imagined few would share his opinion, Hadrian being among the least likely. But Royce found beauty in the windswept rock and the constant battle it waged against the sea. Stripped bare but standing strong, the promontory displayed an insolent resilience he appreciated. Why anyone would erect a castle there, he had no idea. Strategically, it made no sense. Dulgath was miles from anything notable and had nothing to defend or protect.
Traffic did pass along the coast, but Castle Dulgath was inland from the infamous Point of Mann, where ships went to die. The name came from Captain Silas Mann, who’d discovered the dangerous reef when his ship plowed into it and sank with all hands. A more common and colorful rumor declared the landmark’s name had its origins in the prayers of drowning sailors who were asking Maribor for life’s meaning. The treacherous, ship-sinking obstacle protected the coast, making the castle unnecessary. Yet another reason its location made no sense.
The pinnacle of stone the castle sat on, an upthrusting slab of nearly vertical basalt rock, was ideal for a defensive fortress, but Castle Dulgath made little use of it. The entrance through the front wall wasn’t much more formidable than a garden’s gate. Made of simple wood with iron braces, the gates stood less than ten feet in height. Any kid with a fruit crate could climb over them—a theory that wouldn’t be tested, since the entryway was never closed, much less locked.
The Death of Dulgath Page 8