Just as well, Royce concluded, given that none of the towers were built for defense. Castle Dulgath possessed no arrow loops, barbican, or curtain wall, and not a single murder hole. Even the crenellated battlements appeared to have been built more for style than for use. Either the builders had no thought of defense—odd, considering the isolated perch they placed the castle on—or they didn’t know the first thing about fortress defenses.
After the sun had sunk into the sea, Royce moved along the parapet in earnest, imagining himself as an assassin with a contract to eliminate the countess. In many ways, he wished he were. The job would be insanely easy. Aside from the lack of a gatehouse or closed gates, there were precious few guards. The tiny Hemley Estate with Ralph and Mister Hipple was more heavily, and competently, watched. The castle’s courtyard went dark with the setting sun. No attempt was made to set a lantern or light a torch. And the ivy! Old and entrenched, the plant grew everywhere, the branch-thick vines making excellent ladders.
He didn’t have the slightest trouble reaching the tower, where an open window gave him access to—he struggled not to laugh—Lady Dulgath’s bedroom. The chamber was paneled in dark-stained oak, had a little hearth all its own, and a luxurious bed with a red velvet canopy and silk sheets. She had four freestanding wardrobes, a dressing table, a wash table, three wood-and-brass trunks, a full-length mirror that tilted on a swivel, a table littered with seashells, shelves filled with books, a painting of an elderly man dressed in black and green, two chairs—one with a cushioned stool before it—and a set of thick candles, three-quarters melted.
She wasn’t in the room. He didn’t expect her to be. If this had been a real job, he’d have waited until late and slipped in while she slept. Then, placing a hand over her mouth—to hold her still and keep her silent—he’d slit the lady’s throat. The red covers would help hide the blood. There would be a dark stain, but it could just as easily be spilled water. He’d pull the covers up to her throat to cover the wound.
Royce preferred to be neat when he didn’t have a point to make. He’d wash off any blood in the basin, assuming he got some on him, which was unusual but did happen. With everything in order, he would climb back down the unwatched ivy, walk along the unmanned parapet, and saunter out the unguarded, and always open, gates.
It’s a wonder she’s still alive.
Footsteps made Royce slip between a pair of wardrobes as the chamber door opened. Nysa Dulgath entered, guarding a candle flame with a cupped hand. She set the light down, closed the door behind her, and then stopped. Pressing down on her left heel, she spun upon it like a child’s top.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, but her eyes weren’t on him—they were searching.
Royce hesitated. He was good at hiding, always had been. In the dark, no one ever saw him. The only light in the room was the single candle, hardly enough to give him away. Her tone also threw him. Too relaxed, too calm. If she really saw him hiding in her private chambers, if she’d spotted him, the pampered girl would have begun caterwauling not unlike Mister Hipple’s little fit. The inflection of her question wasn’t without emotion, of course: She was decidedly annoyed.
A moment of silence followed. She huffed and folded her arms roughly, as if that might mean something. She then shifted her weight first to her left and then her right hip. “Are you going to answer me?”
She was staring directly at him then, an indignant frown on her lips.
How can she see me?
No point in pretending he wasn’t there or that she hadn’t caught him, he replied, “My job.”
“Your job entails lurking in my bedroom?”
“I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Where else would I be at night?”
“I—”
“And why are you here at all? Have you been going through my clothes?” Once again she pivoted on that left heel, moved to a wardrobe, and flung open the doors, sending Royce into retreat.
“Why would I go through your clothes?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But it’s really all that’s here, so why else would you be in my room?”
“I was hired to determine how a professional assassin might go about murdering you.”
“You think hiding in my wardrobe might be a good tactic, do you?”
“I wasn’t in your wardrobe.”
“I can only hope that’s the truth.” She slapped the doors shut.
Such an odd girl.
That was always true of those with noble blood. They failed to act as any normal person would. For a time, Royce had been convinced that nobles were another species and that the idea of blue blood made them different from others, just as they claimed. While they boasted about being superior, Royce always found the opposite to be true. Nobles were born without the survival instincts granted every other living thing. Believing themselves special, they were oblivious to dangers and surprised when catastrophe followed. Lady Dulgath was a shining example.
For a moment, he thought she was about to show a degree of intelligence when she picked up the candle. He expected her to flee. Instead, she held it up and came closer.
“Pull back the hood,” she told him.
“Not that again. And let me explain in advance—a stay in your dungeon really isn’t going to happen.”
Her eyes narrowed, and a smile formed on her lips—not a friendly one, more of an amused, curious grin. “So sure of yourself. Your problem is that you lack the capacity to imagine a young woman could be a threat.” She lowered the candle, accepting, he hoped, that the hood was staying up. “I know that particular arrogance all too well. Assumption of superiority is quite dangerous.”
“When I was first hired, I wondered why anyone would want to kill you. I don’t anymore. Honestly, I’m surprised there isn’t a line.”
Lady Dulgath laughed, nearly blowing out the candle. She crossed to one of the tables and set it down.
Royce continued, “I’m not kidding. The good news—for me anyway—is I’m not here to protect you, find the assassin, or even determine who hired him. That’s Knox’s job. Given this castle’s security, and—as I mentioned—the fact that it could be literally anyone, I don’t envy the sheriff. He’s doomed to failure. If you don’t already have one, make out a last will and testament as soon as possible. That way at least you won’t leave a mess for others to clean up.”
“I wonder who your parents are,” she said, leaving Royce baffled.
“What?”
“Your parents—who are they?”
“Hatred and disillusionment, how about you?”
She smiled at him, the same unperturbed grin, as if he were great fun.
“You know,” Royce said, “most young ladies would be terrified to find someone like me in their room.”
“You know, most men would be terrified to be caught uninvited in the bedroom of a countess, but then…” She took a slow step forward. “You’re not a man, are you?”
Royce took a step back. He wasn’t sure why. The woman before him was small, thin, and delicate. And while the gown she wore, with its high collar and long sleeves, wasn’t provocative, it did emphasize her feminine frailty.
“Does your partner know?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“What you are?”
“What am I?”
She smiled again.
“Is this a guessing game?” he asked, annoyed.
“I was only—” She stopped and her eyes widened. “You don’t know.” She clasped her hands before her, touching fingertips to her lips while grinning. “You have no idea, do you?” She looked him up and down and nodded. “You hide it well, and you’re still young. In your first century?”
“You’re a very odd girl.”
“And what about you?” She let out a childlike giggle, which somehow managed to sound frightening. “No human could have caught the paint bottle Sherwood threw. You didn’t even see it. You heard it. And the speed you displayed was beyo
nd that of a mere man.” She turned and blew out the candle. “I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.”
That wasn’t a question, and she spoke with complete confidence. “Heat and cold don’t bother you nearly as much as they do your friend, but ice, snow, and boats—oh, ships! You never go sailing.”
Royce was pleased the candle was out, but not so certain she couldn’t see him. She seemed to see him all too clearly, and he didn’t know how.
“No, Mister Royce Melborn, your parents weren’t hate and disillusionment,” she said, her pale, white face lit by starlight that did, indeed, revealed the brown of her eyes. “At least one of your parents is what people call an elf. I think you sh—”
Chapter Seven
A Game of Ten Fingers
Royce had never been one for etiquette. Appearing in the bedchamber of the countess had to rank high on anyone’s list of faux pas; leaving while she was still mid-sentence was probably worse. He was halfway back to Brecken Dale before it even occurred to him to wonder why he’d done it.
She’d rattled him.
This was the only explanation he could come up with. A spoiled, noble girl had shaken him so badly he’d run away.
Run away.
He’d fled from a young woman who had a disturbing way of looking at things. On the way back to town, a loop of two words ran through his mind: Not possible. Every once in a while he’d toss in a colorful adjective or add: The bitch is nuts. Mostly, he gritted his teeth, breathed heavily through his nose, and strangled the reins between fists until the leather cried. The only consolation about Lady Dulgath’s pronouncement was that Hadrian hadn’t been with him, hadn’t heard.
At least one of your parents is what people call an elf.
Elves were as respected as cockroaches, pond scum, and bread mold. Once, very long ago, they had been slaves of the First Empire. When it fell, they were freed but had nowhere to go. Since then, the slaves-turned-beggars clustered in the worst parts of every city. Dumb as bugs drawn to a campfire, they crowded in cesspools holding out hands and pleading for scraps. Every day they kissed the filthy feet of those who spit on them.
Royce had been wrong that night when he’d debated whether dogs or dwarves were the worst. His answer should have been, elves—no doubt about it. They were just so low on the list, he usually left them off it entirely.
I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.
She was right, even though she couldn’t have known. Builders knew the best ways to destroy buildings, and Royce prided himself on breaking down falsehoods. He saw through deceit, flattery, and fake smiles. He followed logic, and when something didn’t add up, he knew the sandy grains of a lie sat at the bottom of the foundation. But this time everything made sense; everything added up. He just didn’t want to accept the truth.
Royce had never known his parents. He had been told he was abandoned in a muddy sewer in the city of Ratibor when just an infant. Other kids had taunted him, called him an elf. He was small, thin enough, and certainly looked every bit as destitute. Being young, he’d believed them. When he got older, he realized the children were wrong. Elf was simply the most despicable word they could come up with.
Over the decades he’d witnessed so much inhumanity that he’d come to accept his abandonment as typical, one more brace in a consistent framework. The question wasn’t: How could my mother leave me in a sewer, but, rather: Why aren’t more children abandoned in the mud? Just dumb luck. He’d built an existence on the belief of an unsympathetic world, but after fleeing Lady Dulgath’s bedroom, he felt that underpinning crumble. If she was right, it would explain a great deal. Royce still believed in the callousness of life—but perhaps brutality wasn’t handed out so capriciously. He hadn’t been abandoned because the world was cruel; he’d been cast away because he was an elf.
When he arrived at Payne’s door, the clergyman sensed the thief’s mood and didn’t bother inviting him in. Instead, the pastor directed Royce to Caldwell House, saying he’d tried to warn Hadrian away but had seen him go in that direction.
Royce arrived at the place Payne had indicated, but he didn’t find a sign, just an ivy-covered porch. Three men stood together near the open door, watching him as he tied up his horse.
“This Caldwell House?”
They ignored him.
Royce leapt the guardrail onto the porch, and the men scattered.
“Don’t mind them,” a young woman said as she stepped out of the gloomy interior of the ivy-covered building.
Royce turned toward her, and the face beneath the tumble of red hair went ghostly white. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, and she waved her palms like little white flags. “Bugger me!” she exclaimed.
“No thanks,” Royce said. “Not in the mood, and you’re not my type.”
She backed up, stumbling over her own feet while trying to get away. Her reaction was odd, but the absolute horror in her eyes tipped him off to trouble, and Royce slowed down. He remembered her from his days in the Black Diamond, though as little more than a face. Known as Feldspar, she’d been a low-level sweeper, a grunt in the Diamond’s army who worked in a team on one of Colnora’s less productive corners. He seemed to recall her working with a guy who went by the guild name of Glitter, who drew in a crowd with juggling and magic acts. The real sleight of hand went on behind the scenes.
Being scared of him was reasonable considering the miniature war he’d waged on the guild a few years back, but a more immediate fear radiated from her face. Surprise, even dread, would’ve been expected, but Feldspar exhibited an expression normally only seen in those expecting a visit from him. She radiated guilt, and Royce followed her retreat into the tavern.
Hadrian.
A quick look around revealed no sign of him. He might have gone to their rented room, but that seemed unlikely given the presence of the bar. His partner should be sitting, drinking, and chatting up a pretty—
“Where is he?” Royce asked.
Feldspar was still backing up, but slowly. Smart. Everyone knows you never run from a predator; it just invites an attack.
Royce counted eight others in the bar. The same herd of four who’d wanted to tar the pastor sat at a table, trying their best not to be noticed, and yet they kept casting concerned glances. Two more leaned on a post, watching. The bartender and a kid who likely worked there were equally interested.
“I didn’t know it was you. I swear to Maribor, I had no idea. If I had known…”
“Go on,” Royce said, following her into the room. “If you had known…what?”
She realized her mistake and closed her mouth.
“Dodge?” one of the men near the post called, and two more at the table pushed out chairs that scraped across the stone floor.
Wasn’t supposed to go this way. They’re just realizing the play has stopped following the script.
Royce darted forward and caught a fistful of red hair, jerking Feldspar back and kicking the feet out from under her.
The rest of the boys at the table hopped up, and the two near the post started across the room, coming at them.
“Stop!” he ordered, and placed Alverstone’s blade to her neck. “Everyone take a seat. I’m guessing she’s not the only one who can tell me what I want to know. When she’s struggling to breathe through a new hole in her throat, the rest of you will be more cooperative.”
“You little—” one started to say.
“Sit down!” Feldspar screamed. “He’s not screwing around. He’ll do it.”
The room froze. Royce was the first to move. Hauling her by her hair, he dragged the woman across the floor to the open door and pulled it shut. He jerked the bolt across. “There,” he said. “No one leaves until we have a little talk.”
No one sat.
“Sit your asses down—he doesn’t ask twice!” she shou
ted.
Everyone found a chair.
“Okay now.” Royce pulled her head back to look into her eyes. “Seeing as how I know you pride yourself on sleight of hand, we’re going to play a game of Ten Fingers.”
She whimpered.
“Ah, you remember how it’s played, good. I wasn’t planning on explaining it.” He dragged her to a table. “C’mon, I’m not the patient sort.”
Feldspar placed a shaking hand palm down on the table.
“Spread your fingers. You wouldn’t want to lose two at once by accident, would you?”
“What the bloody—” the fellow in the orange tunic started to ask.
“Shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut up! And don’t you move. Please, for the love of Maribor, don’t anyone move.”
She had tears in her eyes, and the table, which wasn’t quite level, quivered. The uneven legs made an unnerving, hollow dud, dud, dud sound.
Royce set the tip of Alverstone between her right pinky and ring finger. The mirrored blade reflected the room. “First question: Where is Hadrian?”
“In the cellar, over there.” Knowing the rules, she indicated with her head.
Royce lifted and dropped the knife between her ring and middle finger. “Second: Is he alive?”
“Yes, just sleeping.”
“Lucky, lucky lady.” He placed the knife tip between her middle and index fingers, both of which were shaking so badly he thought she might cut herself. It’d be easy to do; Alverstone wasn’t a forgiving blade. “Third: Why is he in the cellar?”
“He locked himself in after realizing I drugged him.”
“Drugged him?”
Her breath stopped for a moment. When at last it resumed, it came in stutters.
“Fourth: Why is he still in there?”
“He took the only key, and I was a sweeper, not a pick. I’ve no skills. We figured you’d be coming soon, and we didn’t want to be caught breaking the door down when you arrived. But I didn’t know it was you who was coming.”
The Death of Dulgath Page 9