Fawkes gave the pastor a long stare with the trace of a smile.
“What about a crossbow?” Fawkes asked. “I heard any idiot can shoot one of those.”
“True, but for the same range it would have to be a big one,” Royce replied. “And how are you going to get that past castle security? So as you can see, the tower climb is far easier and likely what your assassin will use. The other involves hiring someone. That not only complicates things, but also costs money and reduces the profit. And then there’s the need to know Her Ladyship’s schedule and hope she’s going to be outside in a place ideal for the shot.”
“What else?”
Royce shrugged. “If she were in a crowd, someone could just walk up and knife her. But that would likely result in the capture of the assassin.”
“What if her staff wasn’t totally loyal?” Pastor Payne asked. “What then?”
What are the odds of that? Hadrian couldn’t avoid a smirk. The calculating, eager, nearly gleeful way the two of them reveled in the possibility of killing a young woman turned his stomach.
“Lots of possibilities there,” Royce said. “Too many to guard against. If that’s a real concern, my best advice would be replacing the entire staff.”
“That’s the best you have for us?” Fawkes asked.
Royce nodded.
He was lying. No one could tell by looking at his face, but three years had given Hadrian a special sense of the man under the hood. He was leaving things out. Hadrian had never been a professional assassin, but even he guessed there were other ways to kill Lady Dulgath. She was famous for going out into the villages to help sick and injured people. At the very least, she could be lured out and ambushed. The castle could even be set on fire, as had happened in Medford the year before. That blaze claimed the life of the queen. Could have killed the king as well, but he hadn’t been there that night. Still, climbing the tower’s ivy did seem viable and straightforward enough to work, which left Hadrian puzzled as to why Royce offered it up, rather than other choices.
If Fawkes were experiencing similar reservations, he kept them from his face. He smiled. “Excellent. That’s wonderful news.” He looked at Payne and nodded. “All we need to do is get rid of the ivy and make certain Lady Dulgath is well protected when outdoors. We’ll also keep a lookout for men with crossbows or longbows. This is truly a relief.”
Fawkes returned to the table, refilled his and Payne’s glasses, and then retrieved two more from a small satchel hanging over one of the chairs. “I anticipated success tonight and brought the bottle of wine to celebrate. Sadly, you took so long, the pastor and I polished off most of it while waiting. Still, we have enough for a toast,” Fawkes said.
“Did you also bring the money you owe us?”
“Absolutely.” Fawkes grinned.
Payne walked back from the window and picked up his glass.
Royce sneered at the bottle in Fawkes’s hand.
“That’s no attitude to take. It’s a Maranon tradition to conclude business with a toast.”
“I’m not big on tradition,” Royce replied.
Fawkes narrowed his eyes. “As with most traditions, there’s also a point. Up north you shake hands. People do that to show they aren’t holding a weapon and don’t have one up their sleeve. Down here, we drink. Eating and drinking together establishes a personal connection. It proves a degree of trust.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I can’t say I’m ready to leave my firstborn in your care, either, but we do need a certain degree of faith in each other. I need assurance you’ve done your due diligence and haven’t, in fact, joined with your like-minded brethren and made it easier for the assassin by leading us astray. And you need to know we won’t be wagging our tongues and exposing your identities to authorities who might be interested in your prior transgressions,” Fawkes said.
“And drinking can do all that?”
“No, but refusing to join us does give me cause for concern.”
“Be as concerned as you like. I’m not drinking anything you offer me,” Royce said.
“I don’t conduct business with men who doubt my integrity.”
“Which means what?”
“It means you don’t get paid,” Fawkes said.
“You’re right. I can’t imagine why I should doubt your integrity.”
“So you’ll join us?”
“No, you’ll pay me or you won’t leave this room alive.” Royce shifted his sight to Payne. “Either of you.”
“You dare threaten me?” Fawkes exclaimed, taking a step back from the table while his hand reached for his sword.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Hadrian stopped him. “We’ll have a drink.”
“No, we won’t,” Royce said.
“Sure we will.” He pointed at the bottle. “They’ve already been drinking the wine. It’s fine.”
“And the glasses?” Royce asked.
Hadrian pointed at a pair of cups on the shelf over their beds. “We’ll use those instead.” He retrieved the cups and held them out to Fawkes.
The lord frowned. “You aren’t going to drink such fine wine out of wooden cups, are you?”
“Is there some rule against toasting with wooden cups?” Hadrian asked.
“No.” Fawkes sighed and continued to frown as he poured a small amount in each. “You two are so untrusting.”
“To peace between us and a long life to all.” Hadrian lifted his cup and drank.
With a miserable expression, Fawkes did as well. Payne followed suit, but Royce never touched his cup.
The wine was rich but delicate—there one minute, gone the next.
“And the payment?” Hadrian asked.
“He hasn’t drunk,” Payne said, pointing at Royce.
“Doesn’t matter,” Fawkes told him. “Get the money.”
Payne set his cup down and moved to the window, where he bent and blew out the candle. Downstairs the door to Caldwell House opened. Several booted feet ran across the wooden floor of the common room, heading for the stairs.
Concern flashed across Royce’s face.
“Relax. They’re just bringing it up,” Fawkes said, but his words sounded odd.
Royce reached for his dagger, and Hadrian took a step to intercept him, then noticed the world was swimming. The room lurched strangely. Candlelight spread out, and the figures of Payne, Fawkes, and Royce moved in slow motion. The table between them was thrown aside as the door to the room burst open. The sound was strangely muffled, as if Hadrian were underwater.
Not again, Hadrian thought.
Six men in black uniforms, chain mail, and conical helms entered the room. They wielded swords, and violence gleamed in their eyes. These weren’t villagers. They weren’t even castle guards. They were something else, and it wasn’t good.
The bottle of wine, which had toppled when the table was tossed, had struck the floor but didn’t break. It rolled in a half circle, the blood-colored contents dripping from its neck. Hadrian reached for his swords. He was struck before he got either of them free of its scabbard. Another blow hit his back. One more made him cry out, and he crashed to the floor.
His swords fell from his hands.
“You’d better be right about this,” Payne said.
“Coin equals options, my good pastor. Split only two ways, this will get you out of that hovel you call a church and save you from starving this winter.”
“And you’re certain there’s no chance of them escaping?” Payne asked.
“You heard for yourself. No one has ever escaped from Manzant Prison—no one.”
Hadrian’s sight darkened as everything went black.
Chapter Fourteen
The Note