“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.
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.