“You don’t want to know. As far as you’re concerned, they were lost and you took them in.” She winked.
As Gill worked on the buckles, Wagner turned back to Scarlett and slipped an arm around her waist. “You sure everything is good?” His voice had an added tone of concern. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t, but he pulled her close while looking at Hadrian.
“Everything’s fine,” she replied with enough of a sidelong glance to convince Hadrian she noticed the behavior, too.
Is that annoyance in her eyes?
“With so many people coming to watch, I’m guessing they’re not holding this ceremony inside the castle?” Royce asked.
“Out in the courtyard is what I’ve heard.” With his arm still around Scarlett’s waist, he looked at Hadrian again. “You owe my Scarlett a huge debt of gratitude. You know that, right?”
“We do indeed,” Hadrian replied.
Wagner looked to Royce, as if expecting to hear a thank-you.
Instead, Royce asked, “When does this ceremony take place?”
“Little after midday,” Wagner replied with a frown.
“Why you so interested?” Hadrian asked.
“Because there’s a bigger debt we need to repay, and I know just how to do it.”
Asher, the dale’s physician, had arrived with Tasha. By then, they were all inside the main room of Caldwell House, which was devoid of customers. Everyone had already left for the ceremony at Castle Dulgath.
After a sneer from Royce, Asher had decided to treat Hadrian first, which didn’t take long. Not much could be done for cracked ribs other than wrap them tightly and frown a lot. Afterward, he sat across from Royce and looked at the thief’s hands. That was all he was able to do, as Royce refused to let him touch either one.
“I need to examine your hands,” Asher said. “And to do that I need to touch them.”
“Touch my hand and I’ll take yours as payment.”
Asher, a friendly-looking man with a big bushy-bear beard and a sunburned nose, threw up his hands and looked to Scarlett. “Nothing I can do if he won’t let me.”
“You’re right,” Royce said. “Go have a drink. There’s a barrel of ale in the wagon.”
“Do not have a drink,” Wagner told him. “I need to dump that thing.”
“We need to get going,” Royce said.
“Why?” Hadrian asked. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Lady Dulgath is still alive.”
“So?”
“So, I told the countess to cut down her ivy,” Royce explained to Hadrian as Asher remained sitting across from him. “Since she’s still alive, I’m guessing she listened. That means Fawkes has switched to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Scarlett asked.
“You said plan B isn’t possible.” Hadrian put his shirt back on over the stiff cloth strips Asher had wrapped him in. “You said he’d need Tom the Feather or that other guy, but he was in Manzant. Wait—you don’t think they got him out for this, do you?”
“What’s plan B?” Scarlett asked again.
Royce shook his head. “Couldn’t have. They didn’t know the man existed until I told them. Wouldn’t have had time to get there and back. Besides, Hawkins has been in Manzant for years. After so long, if he’s still alive, he’d be in no condition to do more than drool. But Fawkes might have dug up a crossbow.”
“Crossbow?” Scarlett looked at both of them, concerned. “What are you two talking about?”
“I told Fawkes and Payne that if they could get Lady Dulgath outside at a prearranged place, a place where they could hide an archer with a bow, then—”
“They’re going to kill her at the homage ceremony?” Scarlett’s eyes went wide.
“Be my guess, but with a little luck I think we can catch Fawkes, Payne, and their beloved church with fingers on the trigger—right in front of the king.”
“We have to go. Now!” Fear filled Scarlett’s face.
“He can’t go anywhere with two mangled hands,” Asher declared. “At the very least, I have to set the bones. If I don’t, that hand will be a worthless claw the rest of your life.”
“He’s right, Royce,” Hadrian said.
“You do it,” Royce told him.
For a moment Hadrian thought he was joking—another way of saying, You think so? Go ahead and try! But Royce’s expression was wrong. Hadrian wasn’t foolish enough to think he could read the man’s mind through his expressions. If so, he’d have concluded long ago that Royce wanted to kill every man, woman, child, and dog he encountered. For a time, Hadrian believed that might be true, but Royce had surprised Hadrian enough times that he came to realize this tree had roots no one could see.
Clues were there, but difficult to spot and harder to decode. The man didn’t like being read. Every truth that slipped out was cursed. It was why their rides together were so one-sided. People always gave parts of themselves away when they talked. If Royce was going to sacrifice a clue about himself, it wouldn’t be over idle prattle. Still, Hadrian had discovered some signs—he’d had to. Living with a man-killing tiger, you quickly learned the difference between a growl and a purr—or else.
Royce wasn’t growling.
“The doctor here is—”
“I don’t trust him.” Royce didn’t look at the doctor—hadn’t done so since he’d arrived. Maybe if he had he might have reconsidered. Asher, doctor of the dale, was a big fluffy man with a concerned brow and helpful eyes. But then Royce didn’t trust anyone. That he admitted—if only by assumption—that he trusted Hadrian didn’t go unnoticed. Needing help was an admission of defeat. Doing so in front of an audience was unprecedented.
Hadrian sat down beside Asher. “I’ve set bones before, but not in a hand. What do I do?”
“First, just have him hold his hand palm-down and extend his fingers all the way out.”
Everyone in Caldwell House was looking at Royce. His jaw was clenched, and he was breathing with irritation through his nose.
“Scarlett, Tasha, can you go ask Gill and Wagner to saddle our horses?” Hadrian asked.
“The two of you can’t ride busted up the way you are,” Scarlett said. “I’ll hitch Midnight and Mack to a wagon. They’re not as friendly as Myrtle and Marjorie, but they’re fresh and are used to pulling as a team. C’mon, Tasha, the boys want to be alone for a while.”
It took a second after they left, but Royce put out his hand and, with a wince, opened it as best he could. Two fingers and his thumb straightened out; the other two hung limp.
“Okay,” Asher said with his warm, reassuring tone. “I can see from here it’s not the fingers, but the bones in the back of the hand that need setting. So, Hadrian, what you need to do is gently lift the fingers—one at a time. Pull them out straight. Stretch them—don’t yank or anything, just a gentle pull. As you do that, press down with your other thumb on the bone that’s out of place. You’ll need to feel around for the break. You’ll find it. Just apply pressure until it lines up again. And Royce, try to leave your hand limp. You know, Scarlett can brew up something for the pain. She—”
“No!” both Royce and Hadrian snapped.
Hadrian shook his head. “We’ve had our fill of her recipes.” He looked at Royce with a grim smile and took his hand. “You ready for this?”
“Just shut up and do it.”
Hadrian guessed Royce was silently debating which was worse, the pain or the humiliation; he settled on the latter. Royce didn’t ask anyone for anything. Hadrian found the protrusion he was looking for and wanted to be as quick as he could. Asher offered encouragement as Hadrian squeezed and pulled.
Royce made no sound at all. His eyes squeezed shut; he breathed harder, more forcefully.
The bone slid down, and Hadrian moved to the second one. When he had both in place, Asher asked Royce to extend his fingers again. This time all four came up.
“Great!” Asher grinned, that big beard bristling. “Now take the
se splints and put one on the back and one on the front. Wrap them tightly. Secure the fingers, too; the less movement the better.”
The other hand was easier, just a matter of aligning the finger and splinting. Hadrian was wrapping it when Scarlett came back.
“All done here? Wagon’s ready to roll,” she said, moving behind the bar. “Looks like we have two, maybe three hours before the ceremony, but there’s no sense cutting things close. I’ll pack a meal for us; we can eat on the way.”
“You’re not going,” Hadrian told her.
“If you’re going to save Lady Dulgath, I want to help.”
“I don’t see what you can do.”
She looked nettled by the comment but forced a smile. “For one thing, I can vouch for you. Might need someone to speak on your behalf to Lady Dulgath.”
“Why would she listen to you?” Royce asked. “You’re not even a native.”
“I know her.” Scarlett tore a loaf of bread in half and wrapped it in a cloth.
“You do?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes. Don’t look so surprised. The countess visits the monastery a lot, and so do I. We’ve talked a few times. She’s very…different. If given the choice among Fawkes, Payne, you two, and me—she’d listen to me.”
“Okay, you can come,” Royce said.
“What?” Hadrian glared at him. “This is going to be dangerous.”
Royce tested the movement of his wrapped hands. “She’s a Diamond, not a debutante.”
“Great.” Scarlett grinned. “What do you want me to do?”
“Watch the horses and wagon for us while we go in,” Royce said.
“You got it.” Scarlett continued to fill the basket.
“You got it?” Hadrian asked, dumbfounded. “He tells you to wait outside and watch the pretty horses and you’re fine with that? If I’d said that—”
“I would’ve called you an ass.” She dropped in some cheese.
“Why?”
“Because you’d be trying to protect me. Royce doesn’t give a damn if I live or die. Besides, the first thing you learn in the Diamond is to never disagree with a mission lead, and never, ever question a guild officer.”
Hadrian finished wrapping Royce’s finger and looked at him, puzzled. “You were a guild officer?”
Scarlett picked up the basket and made a pfft sound as she swung her hair out of her face. “Seriously? Have you two even met?” Her face was incredulous. “You didn’t know he was in Manzant. You obviously didn’t know he’s the only person to have escaped, and you didn’t know he was an officer of the Diamond. What do you two talk about on all those long hours riding together?”
Hadrian started to laugh.
Royce shot him a glare. “Shut up.”
Chapter Nineteen
Pageantry
A fair breeze came softly across the breakwaters and up the grassy slope to the walls of Castle Dulgath. Christopher Fawkes stood on the cliffs above the sea and took a deep breath. He was wearing his best doublet, which was to say his only doublet. It was missing a button and had a small bloodstain on the cuff.
Sherwood Stow’s blood.
He stood only a few feet from where Sherwood was killed—or at least where he had been hit by the quarrel. Christopher didn’t know if the artist had died there, as his body fell, or whether he’d survived both the blow and the drop to drown in the sea. He didn’t much care. Luckily, Christopher didn’t believe in the vengeance of ghosts. If he did, returning to the scene of his—or mostly Knox’s—crime might have been worrisome. Standing on a high bluff overlooking a crashing sea could provide a perfect opportunity for an angry spirit to dispense justice. As unconcerned as Christopher was, the thought had at least crossed his mind, which said something about his confidence.
He had only a few hours left before his life would be forever changed. He’d come to the bluff early to clear his head. It hadn’t worked. The words were still there. Christopher had fallen asleep to an annoying mantra that continued to echo.
Don’t kick the milk pail!
The phrase had manifested itself as he lay awake most of the night. Christopher’s father had used it often, and so had his mother, as if the two of them were lifelong dairy farmers prone to losing their livelihood through awkward feet.
Standing on the bluff and looking at the clear sky above the sea, Christopher struggled to banish thoughts of his family—especially his father. They were the residue of a former and clearly insignificant life. He visualized tossing memories off the edge and watching them fall to the waves below.
If only it were that easy.
While the stable was fine for the likes of Wells, Knox, and Payne, he couldn’t have asked Bishop Parnell to meet him there, and he couldn’t risk meeting in any place more public. It wasn’t long before Parnell came striding through the high grass, his great cape and the ends of his stole whipping in the wind. He had one hand on his high hat and the other swinging his staff, a vexed glare on his face. Christopher expected a reproach for the location of the meeting, but instead the bishop planted the butt of his staff in the ground, looked around—most notably at the windowless walls above them—and nodded.
“This is your last opportunity, Christopher,” he said. “I’m growing tired of your inability to get this job done. Do you understand? The church can’t afford to back failures.”
If this was his way to welcome Christopher to the fold, it lacked faith, and for a clergyman that wasn’t an encouraging sign.
“I took you in, paid your debts, fed, clothed, and protected you. Now is the time of your reckoning. Your chance to repay my kindness. Fail, and I won’t know you. Do you understand?”
Guess the bishop is all out of carrots.
The bishop raised a hand as if to bless him, but instead declared, “You were a disgrace to your father and the king—to all of humanity. Worthless.”
Christopher gritted his teeth. My father? Sure. The king? Perhaps. But all of humanity? Really?
Now he understood the point of the meeting—control. On the eve of Christopher’s ascension, Bishop Parnell was making certain the soon-to-be earl knew his place.
Melanie de Burke was to blame. He’d purchased the animal, which had cost a small fortune, from Hildebrand Estates with money he didn’t yet have. His plan had been to pay the debt with the proceeds from the Summersrule Chase. The beast was willful, ill mannered, and stubborn. No matter how much he used the whip, the horse just wouldn’t run as fast as it could and eventually stopped altogether. Back in the stable, she bit him once more, and Christopher lost his temper.
He hadn’t meant to kill her. Just wanted to teach the nag a lesson. The lesson went too far, and Christopher found himself with a bloody sword, a huge debt, and no chance of returning the animal. His father had refused to help, using the incident to wash his hands of his son. The king proved even less helpful, cousin or not. Christopher was on his way to Manzant, and genuinely frightened for the first time since being ambushed by the bees. Then the church entered his life. They removed one debt but added another.
“Hopefully, this is behind you now, and new opportunities await. But the church has a policy,” the bishop told him. “No man can be given a position unless he can obtain it through his own abilities. You must achieve this for yourself. I have redeemed you for our Lord Novron. Win this contest—kill Nysa Dulgath without implicating yourself—and the church will throw its support to you and insist that Vincent make you Earl of Dulgath. Fail, and I won’t know you.”
“My plan will work.”
“Your last three didn’t,” the bishop said. There was an incensed tone to his words, that airy, disappointed exasperation that came with age. And while Parnell was indeed old, somewhere in his fifties, he was young for a bishop. Most high-ranking clerics lived disturbingly long lives, adding credence to their claim of being favored by Novron.
“The church is not in the habit of failing. I’ve spent years—decades—shaping opinions and maneuvering individuals,
here and in other provinces of Maranon. I have patiently redirected the course of this kingdom so it will be fertile for the return of the Heir of Novron. Succeed, and you’ll be part of that future. Now tell me, who will loose the quarrel?”
“Knox has a man picked out. Shervin Gerami. He’s a net-maker from Rye, a village down the coast a few miles. Not a smart man, but he has a keen eye and steady hands.”
“Do you trust he can accomplish the task?”
“We’ve practiced,” Christopher said. “Nine out of ten shots were lethal, and he’s fast. He was able to fire an aimed quarrel every thirty seconds. If he misses, he should be able to try again before trying to escape. He won’t get far. Knox will kill him during the apprehension.”
“And if Knox fails, and the assassin is captured? What will he say?”
“That he was hired by Royce Melborn, the very man who came up with the plan in the first place. He might also claim he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon.”
“Why would he say that?”
“He’s local stock, and an avid believer in ghosts, ghouls, faeries, and witches. Spouting such nonsense will make it even less likely anyone will listen to a word he says.”
“Very well.” Parnell nodded, reaching up to prevent the wind from stealing his hat. “We shall see if our Lord Novron deems you worthy of power, Christopher. For his judgment is the true test. You will be either an earl, a vagabond, arrested, or dead.” He turned and sailed back through the sea of grass.
Christopher remained a moment longer, looking out over the edge of the cliff, thinking, if only for a moment, that Novron didn’t give a damn about him.
The courtyard of Castle Dulgath—which was usually little more than a lawn, yard, and garden surrounded by the shaky arms of stone walls—had been transformed. Everything that could be moved out had been; this included the smokehouse, the henhouse, the gardener’s shed, the smith’s anvil and workbench, and most of the azalea bushes. Where it all went to, Christopher had no idea. Carpenters had raised a stage of bright fresh-cut wood, which was now covered in bunting and streamers of white and blue.
The Death of Dulgath Page 25