Royce was good at navigating crowds. Small and agile, he could also anticipate currents and knots, working them to his advantage. Hadrian followed in his wake, swimming through the gap before it closed again. On the few occasions when Royce hit a dam, it took only a menacing stare to get people out of his way. Men with big fists and calluses avoided him for the same reason some pretty women never attracted suitors: People silently communicated with body language, eye contact, and open or closed stances. Some said, I’m friendly, talk to me; Royce’ s message was the same as a pointed blade. His glare could be relied upon to intimidate a roomful of hardened criminals, and the effect was magnified on simple farmers, mothers, and their children. To them, he must look like death moving their way. Most couldn’t get out of his path fast enough.
Royce made for the far wall. That was the obvious spot. The raised parapet on that side of the courtyard was entirely draped in banners, perfect for concealment; was a reasonable distance to the target—less than a hundred yards—and held a direct and unobstructed line of sight to the stage. Even an idiot like Fawkes could be counted on to solve that riddle. He clearly had. The far parapet was the only one without a ladder. The killer was up there neatly isolated. He could take his shot, then drop down outside the wall to a waiting horse. The assassin would be gone before anyone even knew what happened. Once the crowd noticed, the ensuing chaos would choke the courtyard, severely inhibiting any pursuit.
When Lady Dulgath entered and took her seat, Royce considered dashing to the stage to warn her but decided against it. The assassin was already up in his nest, probably looking down the stock of a crossbow and waiting for a signal to shoot. Royce’s attempt to warn Nysa might become that signal, and he was hoping there was still time to stop the assassination. Royce’s one advantage was that the killer didn’t know he was coming any more than Lady Dulgath knew she was about to be murdered. As long as the plan remained unaltered, there would be no reason for the assassin to rush the shot. If Royce and Hadrian could gain access to the parapet, and if the bowman was intent on his target, they might be able to get close. If so, Royce would assassinate the assassin.
Then he would face a decision.
They could just disappear—should just disappear. He and Hadrian could follow the same exit plan the bowman had prepared. Every reasonable thought in his mind demanded that they leave. Then, he could come back later and pay Fawkes and Payne a visit on a dark, quiet night of his choosing, in a place no one would hear their screams. He could kill Fawkes whenever he wanted. It didn’t—wouldn’t—have to be in front of an audience.
The other less sensible option whispered teasingly in his ear to take care of everything right then. He could fill in for the crossbowman, but instead of putting a bolt through Lady Dulgath, he’d punch a hole in Fawkes—or Hadrian would. He was better at such things and had the benefit of two working hands. The only question was whether his partner would have the stomach for it. Hadrian still suffered from the handicap of his imagined morals.
If the quarrel pinned Fawkes upright in his chair—as they sometimes did—the ceremony might conclude with his death undiscovered until they came for His Lordship’s chair. With all the noise of the crowd, and everyone’s attention on the king and the lady, perhaps no one would notice. The powers that be could easily blame the dead assassin lying next to the bow, and he and Hadrian could leave for home that very afternoon without any worry of being hunted.
The more he thought about it, the more Royce liked that option. Killing Fawkes with the same weapon he planned to murder Nysa with had a poetic irony that appealed to him. And it would be nice to turn Fawkes’s moment of triumph into his downfall, but Royce knew he was also being stupid. Emotions did that; passion made idiots out of everyone.
Royce hated Fawkes and wanted him dead more than anyone since Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Medford who had beaten Gwen a year before. He tried to convince himself it was because Fawkes had attempted to put Royce back in Manzant, the abyss where he’d spent the worst years of his life. That was more than reason enough for a death sentence. The last time Royce had been sent to Manzant, he’d rewarded those responsible with what was still referred to in the city of Colnora as the Year of Fear, even though it only took place over one summer.
Royce also tried to rationalize that Fawkes’s other transgressions contributed to his desire to end the miscreant’s life then and there: his mangled hands, drugging Hadrian, selling them like slaves. All told Fawkes had four capital crimes to pay for, but even all of them wouldn’t have put Royce in that crowded courtyard on that afternoon.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was there because of her. He was trying to save Nysa, but justifying his actions by pretending he only cared about revenge. He reasoned that ruining Fawkes’s plan was an additional victory. Suffering fools wasn’t something Royce was good at, even when he was the fool. His rationalizations were crap, just excuses for his reckless behavior, and that truth was a problem for him.
She looks so much like Gwen. The thought bobbed up, but he dismissed the notion as he had his previous justifications—just one more excuse.
Sure, she had dark hair and olive-colored skin, but she wasn’t as dark-skinned as Gwen; plus, she lacked the distinctive Calian features. Still, they both had a similar, and uncanny, ability to read him and shared an eerily haunting wisdom. The real reason was something else, something more, something he couldn’t understand, and that lack of understanding scared him.
She feels familiar. When she speaks, it’s as if she knows me.
Beyond all that, the fact that Hadrian hadn’t balked about rescuing the countess, or hesitated at the idea of preventing the assassination, was evidence he was making a huge mistake. Yet despite all this, Royce was pushing through the crowd and making his way to a ladder laying in the grass, close enough for emergencies, but too far away to invite anyone to use it.
He’s rubbing off on me.
Royce scowled at the thought, and his expression sent a little girl falling over herself to dart out of his way. She continued watching him long after he’d moved past. The day was warm, and the sun shone clear and bright, but when Royce glanced back at that girl, she shivered.
And I’m not even after you, he thought, feeling the stiff boards wrapped tightly to his hand and left middle finger.
The three good fingers and thumb of his left hand were more than enough to hold Alverstone, and that dagger could cut anything. He’d recovered the white blade from the belt of one of the Manzant slavers, where it had been casually stuffed like a pair of old gloves. If the slaver had succeeded in stealing it, Royce would’ve spent the rest of his days hunting him down, even if he had to excavate Manzant in the process. The blade was all he had to remember the man who had made the weapon—the first person to challenge Royce’s worldview, the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, to a savior.
Usually to make something truly great, you need to start from scratch, Royce remembered him saying. You need to break everything down, strip away the impurities, and it takes great heat to do that, but once you do, then the building can start. The result can seem miraculous, but the process—the process is always a bitch.
Royce tried to squeeze his right hand and winced.
The process is always a bitch.