“Let’s argue later. I’m not killing him tonight.”
“Fine.” Hadrian huffed, and together they trotted out of the brush and back onto the path that led to the road.
The two rode side by side on the open lane. Rain began falling before they reached the King’s Road. The sun was up by then, although it was difficult to tell with the heavy clouds leaving the world a charcoal smear. Blissfully, Hadrian remained silent. In any given tavern, whether he knew someone or not, Royce’s partner would strike up a conversation. The man would talk to strangers with the ease of reunited friends. He’d clap them on the back, buy a round of drinks, and listen to riveting tales such as the one about the goat who had repeatedly gotten into a neighbor’s garden.
When just the two of them were out on the road, Hadrian commented on trees, cows, hillsides, clouds, how hot or cold the weather was, and the status of everything from his boots—which needed new soles—to his short sword—which could use a better wrap for the handle. Nothing was too insignificant to warrant remark. The abundance of bumblebees or the lack of the same would launch him into a twenty-minute discourse. Royce never spoke during any of it—didn’t want to encourage his partner—but Hadrian carried on about his bees, the flowers, and the mud, another favorite topic of self-discussion.
Despite his indefatigable insistence on blabbering to himself, Hadrian was always silenced by rain. Perhaps it put him in a bad mood or the pattering made it difficult to hear himself. Whatever the reason, Hadrian Blackwater was quiet in the rain, so Royce loved stormy days. Luck remained with him nearly the whole way home. Melengar was experiencing one of its wettest springs in recent memory.
Royce looked over from time to time as they rode. Hadrian kept his head down, his hood crushed and sagging with the weight of water.
“Why don’t you ever talk when it rains?” Royce finally asked.
Hadrian hooked a thumb under the front of his hood, lifting it to peer out. “What do you mean?”
“You talk all the time, but not when it rains—why?”
Hadrian shrugged. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”
“It doesn’t. What bothers me is when you blather nonstop.”
Hadrian peered over, and a little smile grew in the shadow of his sopping hood. “You like my talking, don’t you?”
“I just got done saying—”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have said anything if you really liked the silence.”
“Trust me,” Royce said. “I really like the silence.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s uh-huh supposed to mean?”
Hadrian’s smile widened into a grin. “For months we’ve ridden together while I’ve held whole conversations by myself. You’ve never joined in, and some of them were really good, too. You haven’t said a word, but now that I’ve stopped—look at you…yapping away.”
“A single question isn’t yapping away.”
“But you expressed an interest. That’s huge!”
Royce shook his head. “I just thought there might be something wrong with you—obviously I was right.”
Hadrian continued to grin with an overly friendly look of self-satisfaction, as if he’d scored a point in some imaginary contest. Royce pulled his own hood down, shutting Hadrian out.
The horses plodded along through mud and occasionally gravel, shaking the water from their heads and jangling their bridles.
“Sure is coming down, isn’t it?” Hadrian said.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Farmer’s wife back in Olmsted said it’s the wettest spring in a decade.”
“I’ll slit your throat as you sleep. I really will.”
“She served soup in cups because her husband and Jacob—that’s her sleep-all-day-drink-all-night brother-in-law—broke her good ceramic bowls.”
Royce kicked his horse and trotted away.
Royce and Hadrian were back on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter of Medford. Spring was nearly over; in other parts of the world, flowering trees were busily trading pink petals for green leaves, and warm breezes blew earthy scents while farmers rushed to finish their planting. On Wayward, it meant four days of steady rain had once again made a murky pond in the low spot at the end of the street. And as usual, the water level reached the open sewer that ran behind the buildings. Euphemistically known as the Bridges, the sewer bled into the growing lake, spreading the reek of human and animal waste.
The rain was still coming down as Royce, Gwen, and Hadrian stood on the planked porch of Medford House, staring across the muddy pond at the new sign over the door of the tavern. A fine lacquered board hung from a wrought-iron elbow brace, displaying the crisp image of a vibrant scarlet bloom and a curling stem that sported a single sharp thorn. Surrounding the flower were the elegantly scripted words: THE ROSE AND THE THORN
The sign looked oddly out of place in front of the dingy tavern with its saddle-backed roof of mismatched shingles and weathered timbers. For all its dilapidation, the alehouse and eatery had substantially improved. Only a year before, what had been known as The Hideous Head needed no illustration to explain itself to its illiterate patrons. Grime-covered windows and muck-splattered walls told everyone what they needed to know. Since gaining control of the tavern, Gwen had cleaned up the dirt and the muck, but the real improvements had been inside. The new sign was the first enhancement to the exterior.
“Beautiful,” Hadrian said.
“It will look better in sunlight.” Gwen folded her arms in judgment. “The blossom turned out perfect. Emma did the drawing and Dixon helped with the painting. Rose would have liked it, I think.” Gwen looked up at the dark clouds. “I hope she somehow sees—sees her rose hanging above Grue’s old door.”
“I’m sure she can,” Royce told her.
Hadrian stared at him.
“What?” Royce shot back.
“Since when do you believe in an afterlife?” Hadrian asked.
“I don’t.”
“Then why did you say—”
Royce slapped his hand on the porch rail, which had just enough rain on it to splatter. “You see?” he appealed to Gwen. “This is what I have to deal with. He admonishes me about my behavior. Why can’t you smile, he says. Why didn’t you wave back to the kid? Would it have killed you to be polite to the old woman? Why can’t you ever say a kind word? And now, when I try to be a little considerate, what do I get?” Royce held out both of his palms, as if presenting Hadrian to her for the first time.
Hadrian continued to stare at him, but now with pursed lips, as if to say, Really? Instead, he replied, “You’re only being nice because she’s here.”
“Me?” Gwen asked. Standing between them, she swiveled her head to look from one to the other, as innocent as a dewdrop. “What do I have to do with this?”
Hadrian rolled his eyes, threw his head back, and laughed. “You are a pair. Whenever the two of you are together, it’s like I’m with strangers—no, not strangers—opposites. He becomes a gentleman and you feign ignorance of men.”
Royce and Gwen maintained their defensively blank looks.
Hadrian chuckled. “Fine. Let today henceforth be known as Opposites Day. And as such I’m going across the Perfume Sea to have a drink at the Palace of Fine Food and Clean Linens.”
“Hey!” Gwen snapped, bringing her hands to her hips in a huff of indignation.
“Yeah!” Royce said. “Who’s the rude one now?”
“Stop it. You’re scaring me.” Hadrian walked off, leaving them alone.
“I missed you,” Gwen told him after Hadrian had gone inside, her eyes on the rain as it boiled the giant puddle.
“Was only a few days,” Royce replied.
“I know. Still missed you. I always do. I get scared sometimes—worried something bad will happen.”
“Worried?”
She shrugged. “You might get killed, be captured, or maybe meet a beautiful woman and never come back.”