Wells sighed. “She doesn’t listen to me—doesn’t listen to anyone. Thinks she knows everything.”
“If you support me, Wells,” Christopher told him, “together we’ll transform Dulgath. Make it powerful. This place is rich but untapped. I’ll levy taxes, conscript an army, and Knox here will train them. The Nyphron Church’s influence will grow. They’ll help me expand Dulgath’s borders, and I’ll need lords loyal to me. You’ll have your own castle then.”
“I won’t kill her,” Wells announced.
“No one is asking you to.”
“You have no idea what those assassins will come up with.” Wells pointed at him with a pudgy finger. “What if they suggest bribing the chamberlain to knife the girl? I’m telling you now, I won’t do that.”
“We wouldn’t ask you to.” Christopher suspected that the chamberlain’s concern stemmed from the fear of getting caught rather than a distaste for spilling blood.
“I don’t trust them,” Knox said, jumping in. He had his arms folded, leaning back against the stall.
Christopher could have stabbed him. They were there to convince Wells to join, and this was no time for airing concerns. I have to do everything myself. “Well, that’s natural. They’re rogues, assassins, and thieves. If they were trustworthy, we’d have cause for concern.”
“One of them—the big one—is familiar,” the sheriff went on. “I’ve seen him before. Don’t remember where.”
“So?”
Knox scowled. “Look, how long is this going to take them?” His tone was disapproving; so was the frown on his face, but then Knox usually looked that way. The man was a thug, a northern soldier of some sort recruited by the earl, who’d wanted a tough, impartial hand. What he got was certainly impartial—to everything but coin. Knox was very partial to gold tenents.
“How should I know?” Christopher said. “Do you think I make a habit of this sort of thing?”
“Damned if I have a clue about what you do.”
“Well, see, that’s where we differ,” Christopher said. “Because I know exactly what you do, Knox. Absolutely nothing. As a high sheriff, you’d make a great sundial.”
Christopher didn’t even know what that meant, but his mother used to say it all the time. Is that all you did today, Chris? As a fetcher of wood, you’d make a great sundial. I asked you to box up my gowns; as a valet, you’d make a great sundial.
He never understood what she had against sundials. They never bothered anyone, were quiet, kept to themselves, and did what was asked of them in all kinds of weather. His mother just couldn’t see their value. As for his father, he had no problem with sundials—just with his son.
Christopher doubted Knox had any greater clue about the shortcomings of sundials than himself, but the point was made. Knox’s frown became a sneer. He muttered an insult under his breath, too quiet to catch, but the sentiment was unmistakable.
The man was a violent bully. No one became high sheriff without a little fury in them, and Knox was testing him. Either Christopher would force the sheriff to accept a bit in his teeth or the table would be turned. He needed to show Wells who was in charge. Besides, Knox was too comfortable in Christopher’s presence. Dangerous thug or no, there were lines, boundaries that had to be maintained. For now, he’d have to work with the brute, but afterward Knox might prove to be an opportunist, and ambitious men were likely to try something stupid, like blackmail.
Give a crow a carcass and it’ll just want another, he thought. Knox is just like the bees, and he needs to know his place.
Christopher summoned his courage. Laughing amicably, he started to turn away, then with a quick shove, he drove the sheriff back against the horse gate, making it clang and startling Derby. Christopher drew his sword.
Knox stared, his mouth open, as Christopher stuck the tip of his blade into the leather collar of the sheriff’s gambeson. “Unless you plan on leaving Dulgath soon, I’d watch your mouth. I’m the king’s cousin. While that might not earn me much back in Mehan, it does mean I can kill you without having to clean up the mess. Do we understand each other?”
Knox hesitated. He wouldn’t be the man Christopher thought he was if he didn’t show some backbone, but the sheriff wasn’t stupid. After a run of heartbeats, he nodded.
“Good.” Christopher withdrew his blade, noting with great relish the little nick left in Knox’s leather collar. From then on it would serve as a reminder to them both.
Christopher slapped his sword back into its scabbard, trying to give the appearance he wasn’t concerned and his heart wasn’t racing. He’d just taken a huge gamble and won. This wasn’t a time to show concern.
“Can I ask a question?” Wells asked.
The uncertainty in the man’s voice pleased Christopher. His point had been made, and the proper respect was being paid.
“Yes, of course, Chamberlain. What do you want to know?”
“What about the painter?”
“Sherwood Stow? What about him?”
“He and Lady Dulgath have been seeing each other every morning for months, and he has a—a reputation, doesn’t he? What if this Sherwood were to, well, you know?”
Christopher was mystified by Wells. The man who had clawed his way to the position of chamberlain was squeamish about so many things. If Bishop Parnell hadn’t insisted they acquire him, to have an inside man to help cover their tracks, he never would have given him a second thought.
“It still takes nine months to make a baby even if he was you knowing her. While I’m patient, I’m not that patient.”
“But expectant mothers become more reclusive.” Wells wrung his hands. “They don’t go out. They stay in their chambers under constant observation from fussing midwives. That might make killing her impossible. If the rogues you hired feel they have a good thing here, they might drag their feet. You’re paying their expenses, right?”
“I’m not paying them anything,” Christopher said. “Once they tell us what we need to know, I’m shipping them off to Manzant.”
“What?” Knox asked. “Why not just kill them?”
Christopher offered up a wry smile. “Killing is such a waste. Ambrose Moor pays good money for—”
“But living men tell tales,” the sheriff said.
“Yes, precisely,” Wells said, aghast. “What if the king should speak to them…”
“Do you honestly think Vincent will take a trip to a salt mine to chat with two assassins?” Christopher’s patience was wearing thin and it was difficult not to show his frustration.
“No,” Wells admitted, “but what if he sends constables there, or what if they escape?”
“No one ever escapes from Manzant,” Christopher replied.
“And the constables? I’m not sure I want to take that risk,” Wells muttered with a grimace.
“If they’re dead, no one can talk to them,” Knox said. “Ever.”
“Look.” Christopher sighed. He hated the slow and the frightened; they could never understand the bold steps one needed to stride to reach greatness. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”
Knox stiffened. “Unmake them. We need corpses to blame for the murder, not walking, talking men.”