“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.”
“Five: When I let go of you, are you going to run?”
“No.”
“Other hand,” Royce told her and dragged the first clear. A stain of sweat remained on the table. She tentatively slid the other into its place. Royce placed the tip of Alverstone beside her left-hand pinky and let it twist into the wood. “Six: Why not?”
“No place I can go that’d be far enough.”
“You’re good at this game.” Royce grinned, then startled her by moving the blade in rapid succession, darting it between her next four fingers so fast it made a tiny drumroll. Feldspar shuddered, her legs jumped, and she let out an anguished squeak. But she didn’t move the hand on the table even the breadth of a hair. “Seven: Did Hadrian manage to get a room before you drugged him?”
“Y-yes.”
He pulled the blade from the table. “Get up,” he ordered, and let her find her own feet. “I’m going to open that door. While I do, you’re going to explain to your friends why they’re going to be very good boys.”
Royce crossed the room, moving without a sound. The cellar had a primitive two-pin lock; it took him more time to get out his picks than it did to unlock the door. Inside, he found Hadrian slumped on the floor.
“Tell your stocky friends to carry him to the room.”
Feldspar nodded and gestured to Bull Neck to get moving.
“C’mon, Dodge,” he objected. “The guy is scrawny as a chicken.”
Her voice was stern. “Do what he says, Brook.”
“There’s eight of us. I don’t see why we should do anything he says.”
Feldspar glanced at Royce. “Excuse me,” she said, then walked over to the bar and grabbed a paring knife. She crossed back to Brook and, without warning or comment, buried the knife in the man’s thigh. He screamed and bent over, clutching his leg. Then he fell backward onto the floor, sending one of the chairs skidding.
“Do. You. See. That?” She bent over him, shouting and pointing at the blade in his thigh.
“Why’d you do that?” the bartender asked.
“She obviously likes him,” Royce explained.
Feldspar grabbed the knife, stood up, and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Get Hadrian upstairs. Right now!”
Chairs toppled as the men got up and headed for the cellar.
Royce kept a careful eye as they carried Hadrian. “Tuck him in nice, boys.”
“Yes—for Maribor’s sake, don’t hurt him.” Feldspar laid the knife on the table and held her hands up again. “Duster, I swear to you, I didn’t know. I wasn’t here when you two arrived. I heard that two guys broke up Payne’s tarring, and I thought the church had sent down some muscle to watch over him. I also heard rumors of a hired assassin, but had I known you—”
“Congratulations for a well-played hand of Ten Fingers. You’re good at it. No wonder you still have all of yours.” Royce watched the procession carrying Hadrian up the stairs of the inn without incident. They looked like pallbearers at a funeral.
“Hadrian will be happy he saved your life by locking himself in the cellar,” he told her. “He’s odd that way.”
Chapter Eight
Eye of the Hurricane
Christopher Fawkes hung the lantern on the brass hook dangling from the stable’s ceiling. Flies—woken by the light—competed with moths for the stupidest things in the world as they butted the lamp, frustrated with their inability to incinerate themselves. Knox had objected to using a lantern, but Christopher wasn’t going to conduct business standing in a dark barn.
No one finding the chamberlain, high sheriff, Pastor Payne, and the king’s cousin chatting in a lighted stable, even late at night, would hardly think it noteworthy. But if the same men were caught together in the dark—anywhere—that would be suspicious.
“Well? What do you think?” Christopher asked Chamberlain Wells.
Thorbert Wells stood with arms folded, his long face sagging more than usual. “I’m thinking that I’m still not comfortable.”
“What more assurance do you need?” Payne asked. “The church is behind us, and you have the king’s cousin before you.”
“It all seems so…I don’t know…wrong,” Wells said.
“What the church does is always right. We are the arbiters of right and wrong,” the pastor assured him.
Wells settled his sight on Payne with an appalled wrinkle in his brow. “You shouldn’t assume just because I’m native to Dulgath, that I’m stupid.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but—”
“No one thinks you’re stupid,” Christopher cut in before Payne could do any damage. “We wouldn’t be trying to enlist you if we felt that way. What you are is ambitious. A modest, content man doesn’t rise from fisherman’s son to castle chamberlain. We appreciate your achievements, but you lack noble blood, so you’ve reached your full potential. You’ve topped out here in Dulgath. There’s no place higher to rise to in this backwater. Nothing has changed here for centuries, and it won’t if the Dulgath line continues.”
The constant tap, buzz, and flutter of the flies diving at the lantern unnerved Christopher, reminding him of more nefarious insects. At the age of six, he had been traumatized by a pair of bumblebees. While not stung, he had, nevertheless, been trapped behind a rosebush, too scared to venture forth. Night came, and Christopher still refused to move for fear they were lurking in the dark. When his brother finally dragged Christopher home, his father had beaten him for being a coward. The humiliation and subsequent taunts drove Christopher to learn the sword and shield. But although he performed adequately in court contests with live blades, the buzzing of bees still sent chills down his spine.
He gave a nervous glance at the lantern. They’re flies! he told himself, but still folded his arms to hide his shaking hands.
Not a good way to start a legacy.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that no one would remember it this way. Many important events in history occurred in less-than-ideal fashion but were corrected in recollection. Had Novron really stood atop that famed hill challenging the might of flying beasts? And afterward, had he made that grand and eloquent speech about freedom and bravery? Had the Patriarch embraced Glenmorgan, and had the steward appreciatively knelt, allowing himself to take a lesser title? Christopher couldn’t imagine power struggles being so amiable.
When people looked back on how the landless Christopher Fawkes became Earl Christopher Fawkes of Dulgath, no one will recall that it started in a stable. In the future, this night never happened.
“I was loyal to Beadle—to the Earl of Dulgath.”
“I’m certain you were. But Beadle is dead. Do you really think Nysa Dulgath is capable of filling her father’s shoes?”