Hadrian could hear the river and see the moon reflecting off its face when Scarlett asked, “What about you? How’d you learn to fight like that? How’d you end up with Royce? That has to be a tale.”
“I grew up in the military, you could say, and then I became a mercenary for several years in Calis. How I ended up with Royce is indeed a tale—a long one.” He pointed to the bridge that led to the dale and the end of their trip, then grinned.
“Not fair.”
“I have an appointment with Royce tonight, but if you’re really interested, you could invite me to dinner tomorrow.”
She smirked. “You really are something, aren’t you?”
“Just a dog with a ball.”
Hadrian had said good night to Scarlett and was almost to the door of Caldwell House when he spotted a familiar hood near the stables. Even after three years, seeing Royce come at him was disturbing; he felt as perplexed as a bird might at the impossibly nimble flight of bats. Adding to that was how Royce remained visible in moonlight but disappeared in shadows. He appeared to fade out then materialize. Combined with the flutter and flow of his black cloak, the effect was creepy and—Hadrian imagined—absolutely terrifying to anyone on Royce’s bad side.
“You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be,” Hadrian said.
“Got what I needed. You eat?”
“Not yet.”
Royce glanced around. Unlike the Lower Quarter of Medford, where people wandered the night—or slept in alleys and on doorsteps—the streets around Caldwell House were empty. “We’ll get something later,” Royce said. “Let’s talk in the room first.”
“Something happen?”
“Spoke to her again. She has a way of…let’s get inside and I’ll tell you the rest.”
Caldwell House was vacant; neither Wagner nor Gill were visible. A fire was burning low in the hearth. The crackle of wood and the groan of the door seemed loud in the stillness.
“Having a town meeting or something tonight?” Royce asked.
“Not that I know of, but I was on a mountain all day. They might just turn in early. This is mostly a farming community. People in the country don’t stay up late.”
They climbed the creaking stairs to their room on the second floor. Hadrian reached for the latch, but Royce grabbed his wrist. He pointed at the light flickering out from under the door. They exchanged looks of surprise, then Hadrian slowly pulled his side swords and backed up while Royce opened the door.
Three candles burned inside: one near the bed, one on the windowsill, and one on the little table where Lord Fawkes and Pastor Payne sat. The two were playing a game of cards and drinking from a pair of crystal glasses filled from a tall black wine bottle. They looked up as Royce and Hadrian entered the room.
“Ah! Finally,” Fawkes said with a big grin. “Thought you’d never get here.”
“Usually when I find unexpected guests in my room,” Royce said, “they don’t leave in the same condition they arrived in.”
Royce’s comment lacked any true menace, because he hadn’t drawn Alverstone. Hadrian followed his partner’s lead and sheathed his swords.
“Then I shall consider myself one of the lucky ones,” Fawkes replied, stretching his grin even wider. He laid down his cards and winked at the pastor. “I had you anyway.”
Pastor Payne frowned and slapped his set of cards on the table in frustration. He got up and walked to the window, where he stood with his arms folded, glaring at Fawkes and giving up the stage to His Lordship.
“I thought I’d save you the time of finding us,” Fawkes said. “So you’ve seen the place, had a chance to evaluate the job. What say you? How would you go about killing Lady Dulgath?”
Hadrian glanced at Royce. He could tell his partner was irritated. Fawkes being in their room was unexpected, and Royce didn’t like unexpected. Hadrian couldn’t say he was overly fond of it, himself. The door had no lock, and they were only renting, but still. A noble lord might not consider it impolite. Courtesy and respect were required within the peerage, but they flowed in one direction. As far as Fawkes was concerned, Hadrian and Royce were most certainly inferior.
“You’re not going to tell me you need more time,” Fawkes said. He looked at Payne. “The pastor must be fiscally conscious when spending church funds. He’s worried you two might be dragging this out to milk expenses. As for myself, I’m anxious, seeing that a noblewoman’s life hangs in the balance.”
“No, I don’t need more time,” Royce said.
“Well then”—Fawkes took a sip from his drink—“let’s hear it.”
“All right.” Royce glanced at Hadrian, revealing he was still irritated about the intrusion, but holding it in check. “Personally, I’d scale the outside of the tower to her bedchamber late at night, slip through the window, and slit her throat while she slept.”
Pastor Payne grimaced, and one of his hands stroked at his throat. “That’s awfully brutal.”
“Murder usually is.”
“But how’s that supposed to look like an accident?” Payne asked.
“It isn’t.” Royce moved to the table and, tilting the black wine bottle, looked for a label. There wasn’t one. “The time for accidents has long passed. Everyone already knows she’s a target. Pretending otherwise is foolish. If Lady Dulgath genuinely caught a cold and died weeks later from a fever, everyone would assume foul play.”
“But her bedroom window is six stories up,” Fawkes said.
“Seven,” Royce corrected. “But the whole outside is covered in lush, strong ivy, with branches thicker than a man’s thumb. Not much different than climbing a ladder. I know. I did it—slipped right into her bedroom.”
“You didn’t!” the pastor said, appalled.
Fawkes stood up. Pursing his lips, he began pacing around the table. He retained his glass, holding it with both hands, tapping the rim with an index finger. “What else? If we take precautions, if we clear the ivy, certainly the assassin will pick a new tactic. What else might he try?”
“Knox has been posting more guards, which is helping. He’s got Lady Dulgath fairly well buttoned up. Poisoning will be difficult now that she’s looking for that. The staff is too small and loyal to bribe.”
Hadrian knew this to be a joke, a biting insult, and he struggled not to smile.
Fawkes didn’t so much as blink. “Still, there must be a way.”
“Of course,” Royce replied. “Trickier, though.”
“Let’s hear it.” Fawkes raised his little glass as if to toast the proposal.
“Well, if you can arrange it so you know where she’ll be in advance, and if that place is outdoors, then I’d go with a long-distance bow shot.”
“Long distance?” Payne asked. “What’s that mean?”
“Means that you hide an archer close enough to ensure a lethal first shot, which if the lady’s security is even one notch above a dead chipmunk will be very far indeed.”
“So what are we talking about here?”
“A longbow—particularly if the archer is in an elevated position. The killer can pretend it’s a walking stick until he gets into position. Then he can string it, make the shot, unstring, and walk away.”
“What’s the range on a longbow?”
“Three hundred, four hundred yards,” Hadrian said.
“Yes, but accuracy is key,” Royce said. “I wouldn’t recommend more than a hundred yards. You’ll only get one shot.”
Fawkes was thinking, tapping his glass again.
“So if I had the job,” Royce went on. “I’d contract this out, hire a professional marksman.”
“Who?”
“Only three men I’d trust to make the shot with a longbow,” Royce replied. “And one is dead.”
“And the other two?”
“One is Tom the Feather.” Royce glanced at Hadrian. “But he’s way up in Ghent, and I don’t think he’d do it regardless of the price paid. He’s a man of scruples.”
“And the other?”
“A man by the name of Roosevelt Hawkins. Now, he’s actually local—real close—too close.”
“How do you mean? Where is he?”
“Manzant Prison—but no one gets out of there.”