The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “That’s why we were picked. He knows how such things are done.”

  “He’s just so cute,” Scarlett said to Royce, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Why is that hard to believe?” Hadrian asked.

  “Is he serious? Is any of that even remotely true?” she asked Royce while cracking an egg into the same pan where the pork was starting to sizzle.

  “Yes. And mostly.”

  “It’s not that hard to understand.” Hadrian unfolded his arms so he could use his hands to better explain. “Royce is going to review the situation, then report on how a professional might go about killing Lady Dulgath so they can—”

  “Do exactly what he says,” Scarlett said.

  “What?” Hadrian paused a moment to rerun the idea. “No!”

  “If you are really telling the truth—and I’m starting to think you might be—that’s exactly what they’re doing,” Scarlett told him.

  Hadrian shook his head, pushed up from the stool, and planted both feet square on the floor. “The two of you are so distrustful. You look at a black-and-white cow and see gray. No! You see a conspiracy to poison farmers with milk!”

  “Or”—Scarlett smiled at him—“we look at a conspiracy and see a conspiracy.”

  “If the church wanted Lady Dulgath dead, why not just hire us to kill her?” Hadrian asked.

  “Granted, that would seem easier, but this is the church we’re talking about. They have a tendency to overbuild. Have you seen their cathedrals?” She cracked another egg. “Think for a second. Let’s say they did that, and Lady Dulgath was killed. Do you suppose the king will just shrug and say, Oh well? No. He’ll send real constables.”

  She sprinkled some pepper on the eggs. “They aren’t going to risk getting caught up in this. They’re trying to spread their tentacles here in Maranon—and doing a damn fine job of it. So what do they do? They find a couple of nonaffiliated cutthroats and get them down here. After they carry out the execution themselves, the cutthroats are arrested for it. Everyone knows they’re the killers: The murder happened exactly the way they said it would. Now the conspirators have their scapegoats, who they’ll execute before the king’s constables arrive. There’s no need for further investigation because justice has been done. The best part is you two aren’t part of any guild, right?” She looked at Royce, who nodded. “So they don’t have to worry about any retribution. Lady’s dead. Killers executed. King is satisfied. Justice done. Everyone’s happy.”

  Scarlett used a wooden spatula to flip the meat. The little cottage was filling with the wonderful scent of cooking pork. Hadrian wasn’t certain if the smell of food had anything to do with it, but he was growing sympathetic to her points. He turned to Royce. “She could have something here.”

  Royce had wandered to the bedroom side of the cottage. He held a red glove in his hand, looking it over, and not saying anything.

  “Royce?”

  He dropped the glove on the bed. “What?”

  Royce had the hearing of a bat. He could practically listen in on what was happening tomorrow. After dropping the glove, he found a basket of rushes interesting.

  “You knew?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce shrugged. “I suspected. Hiring a consulting assassin is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “Twenty gold tenents and expenses. The coffers were dry. We needed something. So we either took this or started thieving outright, and I knew how well that would go over with you.”

  “Twenty? Gold?” Scarlett’s mouth hung open. “Damn. Glad I don’t have to outbid them.”

  “Okay, sure, but we can’t spend gold if we’re dead.”

  “And I have no intention of being framed.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Same as before. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. We still need the money, and Miss Dodge might be wrong—about them framing us, at least. Even if she isn’t, they’re paying to hear how I would do this job. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell them. They can try to follow my plan if they want, but even the best in the Diamond couldn’t mimic my methods. The chances of them succeeding are as unlikely as someone stealing from the Crown Tower.”

  Scarlett was loading plates with meat and eggs when she turned with surprise. “That was you?”

  “Figure of speech,” Royce said.

  “Oh—sure—of course.” Scarlett continued to stare.

  “Before I tell them anything, I want to know as much as I can about what’s going on.” He glared at Scarlett. “Like why an ex-Diamond would be willing to take up a collection, or why villagers would pay to save their ruler.”

  “Lady Dulgath is special.” Scarlett set the plates on the table.

  “Yeah, you mentioned that, but special how?” Hadrian asked.

  “The Dulgaths have always treated their people well. They really care about us.”

  “No offense to your humble abode,” Royce said, “but yesterday Hadrian and I were in the lady’s stables. They’re much nicer than this. Seems she cares more for her horses than she does her people.”

  Scarlett shook her head as she pulled a loaf of brown bread out of a box and set it on the table. “That’s unreasonable. Dulgath is the home of several thousand people scattered in dozens of hamlets and fishing villages. The Dulgaths can’t provide for all of us. No one could. She’ll do what she can, just like her father had.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let us buy, sell, and trade without crippling taxes. Protect us with fair laws, evenly executed.” Scarlett grabbed a bucket and turned it over, making a seat for herself. “And…”

  “And?”

  “She heals people.”

  Scarlett sat down on her bucket before the table and bowed her head.

  “What do you mean, she heals people?” Royce asked.

  Scarlett kept her head down, whispering to herself.

  Royce looked at Hadrian. “What’s she doing?”

  “I think she’s praying.”

  “You’re kidding.” Royce rolled his eyes and slapped the table. “How does she heal people?”

  Scarlett held up her index finger, asking him to wait.

  Royce continued to glare at her, but Scarlett didn’t see.

  Hadrian took the break in conversation to pull close to the table. The plate before him was steaming. The inch-thick pork was crispy brown, nearly black on the edges, the eggs dripping with dark grease. He tore a chunk of bread, pulled his dagger, and—using the bread to hold the meat—cut a piece. After he took a bite, bliss came over his face. “Good,” he told Royce, chewing.

  “I think I’ll wait to see if you pass out or vomit blood before I eat.”

  “Be cold by then.”

  “It’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.”

  Scarlett’s head came back up. Her eyes opened and she, too, tore a bit of bread free.

  “Can we talk now?” Royce asked. He was still standing, but he put a foot up on the stool near him.

  “Of course—as long as you don’t mind me chewing at the same time.”

  “Then tell me how Lady Dulgath heals people.”

  “She goes around to the hamlets just like Maddie Oldcorn used to.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Maddie was—I don’t know, a legend really—an old woman who lived alone out in the forest near Brecken Moor. It’s said she gave Nysa Dulgath her gift before she died.”

  “What gift?”

  Scarlett took a bite of pork and chewed a moment, her lips glistening from the grease. “The gift of healing. Old Maddie was famous for it. Fever, pox, the Black Cough, blood sores, you name it, she healed it, and with little more than a wave of her hands. She was a divine servant of Maribor.”

  “Up north, they’d burn Old Maddie as a witch,” Royce said.

  Scarlett pointed at him with her bread. “Exactly. And the Nyphron Church would be the one building the pyre, p
roclaiming that evil comes from turning off Novron’s path. Around here, we look to Maribor and are granted his blessings for our steadfast faith.”

  Hadrian tested the eggs with his fingers to see if they were too hot to pick up. They weren’t, and he found them rich and silky, with a nice smoked flavor from the pork’s fat. “What kind of blessings are we talking about?”

  “Well, for one, it never rains here…not during the day at least. And the winters are mild. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  Royce smirked. “You realize you’re south, right? There’s this thing called climate. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  She waved a hand in his direction. “And the blessing of Maddie? How do you explain her? Does the good weather make diseases flee from the body? Sure, people might not have as many colds in warm weather, but I’m talking about people who were stricken one day and fine the next.”

  “If that’s true, I’d be more interested in the woman herself, not some god I’ve never seen lift his finger to help anyone. Where did Maddie come from and how did she get her so-called gift?”

  “Don’t know. Not sure anyone does—Augustine might know more. An odd bird, Maddie was. Saved the lives of hundreds of people, but she wasn’t the least bit friendly.” Scarlett thought a minute, then pointed at Royce with her crust. “Come to think of it, she was a lot like you, only she saved lives.”

  “Who is Augustine?” Hadrian licked his fingers. “In case we want to talk to him.”

  “Augustine Gilcrest is the abbot of Brecken Moor.”

  “Is he the one who ordered the tarring and feathering of Pastor Payne?”

  Scarlett waved her bread this time, which Hadrian took a moment to realize meant no. “He’s a Monk of Maribor. While the Nyphron Church takes issue with the monks, the monks don’t feel the same way. Or maybe they do, but they would never act on it. The monks are a live-and-let-live sect.”

  “They might feel differently if the Nyphron Church really does have plans to move in,” Royce said.

  “No…no…it’s not possible—they’re…” Scarlett chewed for a while, swallowed, then stopped, still searching for words. “I don’t know how to explain. You’d have to meet them, I suppose. But no, neither he nor anyone at the monastery would have had anything to do with that.”

  “Maybe we should talk to him.” Hadrian was still cleaning pork fat from his fingers one by one.

  “You talk to him.” Royce took his foot off the stool and eyed his plate of food. “I’m not good with religious types. Besides, I need to get back and look around the castle some more.”

  “This is really good, by the way.” Hadrian nodded at the plate.

  “Thanks,” Scarlett said.

  “Feeling sick yet?” Royce asked.

  “Nope.”

  Royce scratched his chin, then sighed and sat down, drawing his plate to him. He took a bite of pork and nodded. “Very good.”

  “Thank you,” Scarlett said, but Hadrian couldn’t tell whether she was being genuine or sarcastic.

  “Where is this monastery?” Hadrian asked.

  “She’ll take you,” Royce replied.

  “Whoa, wait a second.” Scarlett dropped the knife and bread and raised her hands. “Breakfast is one thing, but I do have a life.”

  “While we’re here, you’re working for us. Consider it payment for what you did to Hadrian last night.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  Royce smiled at her and lifted the folded parchment from his pouch. “Amoral killer with a writ. I’m just about your worst nightmare. So what do you say you do it for your king? Oh, but just so we’re clear”—Royce pointed the tip of Alverstone at Hadrian—“if he suffers so much as a stubbed toe, I’m coming after you first.”

  They finished breakfast, then Royce and Hadrian stepped outside while Scarlett cleaned. The sun was past midday, the shadows short, and the scent of magnolia hung in the air. Scarlett’s cottage didn’t have a yard. Her front steps led directly to the cobbles of the street.

  “So you want to split up again?” Hadrian wasn’t sure this was such a good idea, given how things had gone the night before.

  “Here.” Royce handed him his own piece of folded paper. “You have your steel, your credentials, and a guide. Even you should be okay given all that.”

  Hadrian shot him a smirk. “I’m not worried about myself. You’re the one going into the lion’s den. If the church is trying to frame us, then Payne, Knox, and Fawkes are all in on it, and who knows how many others. That means the odds are stacked against you.”

  “And how is that different from any other day of the week? Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

  Hadrian had his doubts. Royce wasn’t so much a closed book as one that was chained shut, locked in a box, and thrown into the sea. Still, he was starting to sense moods, subtle shifts like a change in the wind. Hadrian had no idea whether a storm was coming or if the skies were clearing. What he did know was that something was off about Royce.

  “What happened to you last night while I was being stupid?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce wiped a hand over his face. “I certainly wasn’t being smart. I paid an uninvited visit to the lady’s bedroom. She caught me.”

  “She caught you? How’d that happen?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out. Part of why I need to go back.” His face hardened.

  Royce didn’t like privileged nobles as a general rule, but there was something about the look on his partner’s face that Hadrian couldn’t puzzle out. Royce seemed intent on hating Lady Dulgath for some reason, but Hadrian decided not to push.

  “Okay, so while you’re stalking Lady Dulgath, I’ll investigate this monastery. What am I looking for exactly?”

  “Don’t know.” Royce looked around. A two-wheeled wagon rested under the shade of an old oak across the street, flowers growing through its spokes. Scarlett Dodge lived on a lovely tree-lined lane that followed the curves of the little hills visible between the roofs of the houses. “Something strange about this place.”

  “You mean like how everything is covered in ivy?” Hadrian said. “Or how the spring doesn’t uncover any new rocks?”

  “Huh?” Royce asked.

  “Rocks. You know, in the fields.”

  “I can honestly say I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Each spring, farmers need to clear their fields of rocks brought up over the winter. Frost heaves them to the surface, where they ruin plow blades. So the farmers dig the stones up and make walls with them because there’s only so much material needed for building a house or well. Yesterday I rode by a dozen farms—you must have seen them, too. Had to have been here for centuries, but the rock walls are just little decorative things.”

  “Easy winters. Not much frost.”

  “Maybe. But what about it not raining here? And since when do the common people love their ruler so much?”

  “So you have been paying attention.”

  “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

  “You have no idea how stupid I think you are, and honestly, we don’t have time for that conversation.”

  Hadrian scowled.

  “We’ll meet back in the room at Caldwell House tonight,” Royce said. “I might be late, so don’t wait up. And don’t turn your back on her again.”

  “Scarlett?”

  Royce rolled his eyes, sighed, and grimaced. “She’s not a pretty barmaid. She’s not a nice girl.”

  “Seems like it to me.”

  “Of course she does. She was in the Diamond. Her working name was Feldspar, and the nice-girl thing is part of her act. Cute and disarming, she dances, sings—”

  “She sings, too?” Hadrian smiled.

  “Pretty sure, and she does magic tricks. One of her favorites is making people’s coins disappear. She’s not innocent. She’s dangerous if you turn your back on her—so don’t.”

  Hadrian recalled how deftly Scarlett had prepped the pork.

 
“And stay away from the pastor, too,” Royce said. “It would appear he was lying.”

  “About what?”

  “About there being no i in his name.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ghost in the Courtyard

  The entirety of the castle staff had assembled in the Great Hall: two stewards, four chambermaids, two gardeners, two charwomen, the trio of cooks, the butterer, four scullery maids, the smith, herbalist, vintner, dyer, tailor, furrier, mercer, milliner, scribe, four grooms, a stable boy, woodcutter, food tester, sheriff, chamberlain, tax collector, treasurer, keeper of the wardrobe, her handmaiden, and the sergeant-at-arms with his six men. Lady Dulgath stood before them, demanding that the person or persons responsible for destroying Sherwood’s easel and paints step forward.

  No one did.

  Sherwood wasn’t surprised, but he was touched by the emotion in Lady Dulgath’s voice as she made her demand. She was angry. Perhaps—most likely—certainly—she was upset that his property was damaged in her home. She had suffered the embarrassment of failing to protect her guest. Still, Sherwood entertained the whisper-thin notion that she reacted so harshly because she liked him. She had said his name, after all. Wasn’t much to base a verdict on, but Sherwood was in a vulnerable state, and he clung to the idea like an ant riding a leaf in the middle of a flood.

  The loss of his paints, palette, brushes, and easel was a mortal blow. They were irreplaceable. The set of tools had taken generations of master artists to build, amass, and perfect. Each painter loathed using up the better pigments, and was always saving to add more color to the collection. Some contributed a different brush or two; in Sherwood’s case, it was walnut oil. When he died, the collection would have been left to an apprentice; he just didn’t know who that would be. Now he had nothing to pass on.

  Sherwood calculated that if he painted every noble’s face for the rest of his life, he still couldn’t hope to replace what had been lost. Deprived of the tools of his trade, he couldn’t even feed himself. But worse than all that was the deep disappointment of not finishing Nysa’s portrait. He had so wanted to. He needed to see all of what lay beyond the veil that could only be shown through the slow process of peeling back and layering up.