The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Augustine’s reformed demon?”

  “I guess.” She seemed embarrassed. “I’m not saying I believe everything, but everyone believes something. They insist in the existence of the gods, or demons, or tree spirits, or they believe that such things don’t exist. One person might profess that people are basically good, while another might think the opposite. But everyone believes in something, you know? And what we choose to believe in says a lot—not only about the kind of people we are, but about the kind of people we want to be, and the kind of world we want to live in.”

  “Augustine tell you that?”

  She stopped and gave him an angry face. “What? You think a reformed thief can’t conceive of such things? Or do you think a woman couldn’t possibly ponder such ideas?”

  She was opening up to him, saying things he imagined she didn’t say to many people. Maybe she thought he would understand, that he might feel the same—and he did—but instead of agreeing, he’d accused her of being stupid. “Sorry,” he said, and meant it.

  “You should be.”

  “I am.”

  The scowl on her face lost its strength and slowly drained away as they walked.

  Hadrian waited. He didn’t dare say another word until she did.

  “Anyway,” she said, finally breaking the silence and erasing the slate of past awkwardness with a word, “I honestly feel that something guided me here.”

  “Here, here? Up this trail?”

  She nodded. “I stumbled on this path and followed it to the monastery. It really was as if Maribor—or something—led me.”

  “And Abbot Augustine took you in.”

  “Like Chase before him, he saved me. Didn’t rebuke, judge, or ask questions. He just told me I needed to change my life, as if he knew everything. He introduced me to the people of the dale, who, with his endorsement, welcomed me as one of their own.”

  She began walking again, moving faster and lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

  “And now?”

  She gave a carefree roll of her shoulders. “I dance. I sing. I do magic tricks. Three times a week I entertain people at Caldwell House. The rest of the time, I try to master the spinning wheel or make clay pots. Haven’t succeeded at a single pot, but I’m better at it than spinning wool. Spinning is a torment. I’m also trying to learn to bake.”

  Hadrian could hear the river and see the moon reflecting off its face when Scarlett asked, “What about you? How’d you learn to fight like that? How’d you end up with Royce? That has to be a tale.”

  “I grew up in the military, you could say, and then I became a mercenary for several years in Calis. How I ended up with Royce is indeed a tale—a long one.” He pointed to the bridge that led to the dale and the end of their trip, then grinned.

  “Not fair.”

  “I have an appointment with Royce tonight, but if you’re really interested, you could invite me to dinner tomorrow.”

  She smirked. “You really are something, aren’t you?”

  “Just a dog with a ball.”

  Hadrian had said good night to Scarlett and was almost to the door of Caldwell House when he spotted a familiar hood near the stables. Even after three years, seeing Royce come at him was disturbing; he felt as perplexed as a bird might at the impossibly nimble flight of bats. Adding to that was how Royce remained visible in moonlight but disappeared in shadows. He appeared to fade out then materialize. Combined with the flutter and flow of his black cloak, the effect was creepy and—Hadrian imagined—absolutely terrifying to anyone on Royce’s bad side.

  “You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be,” Hadrian said.

  “Got what I needed. You eat?”

  “Not yet.”

  Royce glanced around. Unlike the Lower Quarter of Medford, where people wandered the night—or slept in alleys and on doorsteps—the streets around Caldwell House were empty. “We’ll get something later,” Royce said. “Let’s talk in the room first.”

  “Something happen?”

  “Spoke to her again. She has a way of…let’s get inside and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  Caldwell House was vacant; neither Wagner nor Gill were visible. A fire was burning low in the hearth. The crackle of wood and the groan of the door seemed loud in the stillness.

  “Having a town meeting or something tonight?” Royce asked.

  “Not that I know of, but I was on a mountain all day. They might just turn in early. This is mostly a farming community. People in the country don’t stay up late.”

  They climbed the creaking stairs to their room on the second floor. Hadrian reached for the latch, but Royce grabbed his wrist. He pointed at the light flickering out from under the door. They exchanged looks of surprise, then Hadrian slowly pulled his side swords and backed up while Royce opened the door.

  Three candles burned inside: one near the bed, one on the windowsill, and one on the little table where Lord Fawkes and Pastor Payne sat. The two were playing a game of cards and drinking from a pair of crystal glasses filled from a tall black wine bottle. They looked up as Royce and Hadrian entered the room.

  “Ah! Finally,” Fawkes said with a big grin. “Thought you’d never get here.”

  “Usually when I find unexpected guests in my room,” Royce said, “they don’t leave in the same condition they arrived in.”

  Royce’s comment lacked any true menace, because he hadn’t drawn Alverstone. Hadrian followed his partner’s lead and sheathed his swords.

  “Then I shall consider myself one of the lucky ones,” Fawkes replied, stretching his grin even wider. He laid down his cards and winked at the pastor. “I had you anyway.”

  Pastor Payne frowned and slapped his set of cards on the table in frustration. He got up and walked to the window, where he stood with his arms folded, glaring at Fawkes and giving up the stage to His Lordship.

  “I thought I’d save you the time of finding us,” Fawkes said. “So you’ve seen the place, had a chance to evaluate the job. What say you? How would you go about killing Lady Dulgath?”

  Hadrian glanced at Royce. He could tell his partner was irritated. Fawkes being in their room was unexpected, and Royce didn’t like unexpected. Hadrian couldn’t say he was overly fond of it, himself. The door had no lock, and they were only renting, but still. A noble lord might not consider it impolite. Courtesy and respect were required within the peerage, but they flowed in one direction. As far as Fawkes was concerned, Hadrian and Royce were most certainly inferior.

  “You’re not going to tell me you need more time,” Fawkes said. He looked at Payne. “The pastor must be fiscally conscious when spending church funds. He’s worried you two might be dragging this out to milk expenses. As for myself, I’m anxious, seeing that a noblewoman’s life hangs in the balance.”

  “No, I don’t need more time,” Royce said.

  “Well then”—Fawkes took a sip from his drink—“let’s hear it.”

  “All right.” Royce glanced at Hadrian, revealing he was still irritated about the intrusion, but holding it in check. “Personally, I’d scale the outside of the tower to her bedchamber late at night, slip through the window, and slit her throat while she slept.”

  Pastor Payne grimaced, and one of his hands stroked at his throat. “That’s awfully brutal.”

  “Murder usually is.”

  “But how’s that supposed to look like an accident?” Payne asked.

  “It isn’t.” Royce moved to the table and, tilting the black wine bottle, looked for a label. There wasn’t one. “The time for accidents has long passed. Everyone already knows she’s a target. Pretending otherwise is foolish. If Lady Dulgath genuinely caught a cold and died weeks later from a fever, everyone would assume foul play.”

  “But her bedroom window is six stories up,” Fawkes said.

  “Seven,” Royce corrected. “But the whole outside is covered in lush, strong ivy, with branches thicker than a man’s thumb. Not much different than climbing a ladder. I know. I
did it—slipped right into her bedroom.”

  “You didn’t!” the pastor said, appalled.

  Fawkes stood up. Pursing his lips, he began pacing around the table. He retained his glass, holding it with both hands, tapping the rim with an index finger. “What else? If we take precautions, if we clear the ivy, certainly the assassin will pick a new tactic. What else might he try?”

  “Knox has been posting more guards, which is helping. He’s got Lady Dulgath fairly well buttoned up. Poisoning will be difficult now that she’s looking for that. The staff is too small and loyal to bribe.”

  Hadrian knew this to be a joke, a biting insult, and he struggled not to smile.

  Fawkes didn’t so much as blink. “Still, there must be a way.”

  “Of course,” Royce replied. “Trickier, though.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Fawkes raised his little glass as if to toast the proposal.

  “Well, if you can arrange it so you know where she’ll be in advance, and if that place is outdoors, then I’d go with a long-distance bow shot.”

  “Long distance?” Payne asked. “What’s that mean?”

  “Means that you hide an archer close enough to ensure a lethal first shot, which if the lady’s security is even one notch above a dead chipmunk will be very far indeed.”

  “So what are we talking about here?”

  “A longbow—particularly if the archer is in an elevated position. The killer can pretend it’s a walking stick until he gets into position. Then he can string it, make the shot, unstring, and walk away.”

  “What’s the range on a longbow?”

  “Three hundred, four hundred yards,” Hadrian said.

  “Yes, but accuracy is key,” Royce said. “I wouldn’t recommend more than a hundred yards. You’ll only get one shot.”

  Fawkes was thinking, tapping his glass again.

  “So if I had the job,” Royce went on. “I’d contract this out, hire a professional marksman.”

  “Who?”

  “Only three men I’d trust to make the shot with a longbow,” Royce replied. “And one is dead.”

  “And the other two?”

  “One is Tom the Feather.” Royce glanced at Hadrian. “But he’s way up in Ghent, and I don’t think he’d do it regardless of the price paid. He’s a man of scruples.”

  “And the other?”

  “A man by the name of Roosevelt Hawkins. Now, he’s actually local—real close—too close.”

  “How do you mean? Where is he?”

  “Manzant Prison—but no one gets out of there.”

  Fawkes gave the pastor a long stare with the trace of a smile.

  “What about a crossbow?” Fawkes asked. “I heard any idiot can shoot one of those.”

  “True, but for the same range it would have to be a big one,” Royce replied. “And how are you going to get that past castle security? So as you can see, the tower climb is far easier and likely what your assassin will use. The other involves hiring someone. That not only complicates things, but also costs money and reduces the profit. And then there’s the need to know Her Ladyship’s schedule and hope she’s going to be outside in a place ideal for the shot.”

  “What else?”

  Royce shrugged. “If she were in a crowd, someone could just walk up and knife her. But that would likely result in the capture of the assassin.”

  “What if her staff wasn’t totally loyal?” Pastor Payne asked. “What then?”

  What are the odds of that? Hadrian couldn’t avoid a smirk. The calculating, eager, nearly gleeful way the two of them reveled in the possibility of killing a young woman turned his stomach.

  “Lots of possibilities there,” Royce said. “Too many to guard against. If that’s a real concern, my best advice would be replacing the entire staff.”

  “That’s the best you have for us?” Fawkes asked.

  Royce nodded.

  He was lying. No one could tell by looking at his face, but three years had given Hadrian a special sense of the man under the hood. He was leaving things out. Hadrian had never been a professional assassin, but even he guessed there were other ways to kill Lady Dulgath. She was famous for going out into the villages to help sick and injured people. At the very least, she could be lured out and ambushed. The castle could even be set on fire, as had happened in Medford the year before. That blaze claimed the life of the queen. Could have killed the king as well, but he hadn’t been there that night. Still, climbing the tower’s ivy did seem viable and straightforward enough to work, which left Hadrian puzzled as to why Royce offered it up, rather than other choices.

  If Fawkes were experiencing similar reservations, he kept them from his face. He smiled. “Excellent. That’s wonderful news.” He looked at Payne and nodded. “All we need to do is get rid of the ivy and make certain Lady Dulgath is well protected when outdoors. We’ll also keep a lookout for men with crossbows or longbows. This is truly a relief.”

  Fawkes returned to the table, refilled his and Payne’s glasses, and then retrieved two more from a small satchel hanging over one of the chairs. “I anticipated success tonight and brought the bottle of wine to celebrate. Sadly, you took so long, the pastor and I polished off most of it while waiting. Still, we have enough for a toast,” Fawkes said.

  “Did you also bring the money you owe us?”

  “Absolutely.” Fawkes grinned.

  Payne walked back from the window and picked up his glass.

  Royce sneered at the bottle in Fawkes’s hand.

  “That’s no attitude to take. It’s a Maranon tradition to conclude business with a toast.”

  “I’m not big on tradition,” Royce replied.

  Fawkes narrowed his eyes. “As with most traditions, there’s also a point. Up north you shake hands. People do that to show they aren’t holding a weapon and don’t have one up their sleeve. Down here, we drink. Eating and drinking together establishes a personal connection. It proves a degree of trust.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “I can’t say I’m ready to leave my firstborn in your care, either, but we do need a certain degree of faith in each other. I need assurance you’ve done your due diligence and haven’t, in fact, joined with your like-minded brethren and made it easier for the assassin by leading us astray. And you need to know we won’t be wagging our tongues and exposing your identities to authorities who might be interested in your prior transgressions,” Fawkes said.

  “And drinking can do all that?”

  “No, but refusing to join us does give me cause for concern.”

  “Be as concerned as you like. I’m not drinking anything you offer me,” Royce said.

  “I don’t conduct business with men who doubt my integrity.”

  “Which means what?”

  “It means you don’t get paid,” Fawkes said.

  “You’re right. I can’t imagine why I should doubt your integrity.”

  “So you’ll join us?”

  “No, you’ll pay me or you won’t leave this room alive.” Royce shifted his sight to Payne. “Either of you.”

  “You dare threaten me?” Fawkes exclaimed, taking a step back from the table while his hand reached for his sword.

  “Hold on! Hold on!” Hadrian stopped him. “We’ll have a drink.”

  “No, we won’t,” Royce said.

  “Sure we will.” He pointed at the bottle. “They’ve already been drinking the wine. It’s fine.”

  “And the glasses?” Royce asked.

  Hadrian pointed at a pair of cups on the shelf over their beds. “We’ll use those instead.” He retrieved the cups and held them out to Fawkes.

  The lord frowned. “You aren’t going to drink such fine wine out of wooden cups, are you?”

  “Is there some rule against toasting with wooden cups?” Hadrian asked.

  “No.” Fawkes sighed and continued to frown as he poured a small amount in each. “You two are so untrusting.”

  “To peace between us and a
long life to all.” Hadrian lifted his cup and drank.

  With a miserable expression, Fawkes did as well. Payne followed suit, but Royce never touched his cup.

  The wine was rich but delicate—there one minute, gone the next.

  “And the payment?” Hadrian asked.

  “He hasn’t drunk,” Payne said, pointing at Royce.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Fawkes told him. “Get the money.”

  Payne set his cup down and moved to the window, where he bent and blew out the candle. Downstairs the door to Caldwell House opened. Several booted feet ran across the wooden floor of the common room, heading for the stairs.

  Concern flashed across Royce’s face.

  “Relax. They’re just bringing it up,” Fawkes said, but his words sounded odd.

  Royce reached for his dagger, and Hadrian took a step to intercept him, then noticed the world was swimming. The room lurched strangely. Candlelight spread out, and the figures of Payne, Fawkes, and Royce moved in slow motion. The table between them was thrown aside as the door to the room burst open. The sound was strangely muffled, as if Hadrian were underwater.

  Not again, Hadrian thought.

  Six men in black uniforms, chain mail, and conical helms entered the room. They wielded swords, and violence gleamed in their eyes. These weren’t villagers. They weren’t even castle guards. They were something else, and it wasn’t good.

  The bottle of wine, which had toppled when the table was tossed, had struck the floor but didn’t break. It rolled in a half circle, the blood-colored contents dripping from its neck. Hadrian reached for his swords. He was struck before he got either of them free of its scabbard. Another blow hit his back. One more made him cry out, and he crashed to the floor.

  His swords fell from his hands.

  “You’d better be right about this,” Payne said.

  “Coin equals options, my good pastor. Split only two ways, this will get you out of that hovel you call a church and save you from starving this winter.”

  “And you’re certain there’s no chance of them escaping?” Payne asked.

  “You heard for yourself. No one has ever escaped from Manzant Prison—no one.”