“Too bad. I bet I can give you details she didn’t. I seen the whole thing out my window—him dragging her down off the porch, down those pretty steps she built. He had her by the hair. Just slapped her at first, but he didn’t like how she kept quiet I guess, ’cause he closed his fist then. Bet you could hear her screams all the way in Artisan Row. By the time Dixon ran out, she was on her knees and they were starting to kick her.” Grue paused. He had a little smile on his face, and Hadrian wondered what was restraining Royce. Even he wanted to send Grue’s face into a wall.
“Lord Exeter runs this city—him and his sheriffs. Lives in the castle proper. Untouchable. Fact is, that Calian whore got herself on the wrong side of things now. Never know what a noble might do. Might come back. Might kill her the next time if he thinks she’s hiding something. You see, in all honesty, I sent the boys over to get the tun because folks will ransack the place after she’s dead. I figured getting it ahead of the rush was the smart move. Actually, Rose did me a big favor—I just want to hug that girl.”
“Might want to be careful,” Royce said, smiling. “Roses have thorns.”
“I’m from a small village,” Hadrian said. He leaned out into the fountain and, after catching some water in his hands, wiped his face. “But lord high constable, that’s like a big sheriff, right?”
“Yes,” Albert replied as the three stood in the shadow of the rearing king statue. The sun was warm and he, too, dipped his hands in the Gentry Square’s fountain, flicking droplets on his face in a dainty manner befitting a man with lace cuffs.
Hadrian sighed.
“What?” Royce asked.
“Maybe it’s this city, or the north in general. It doesn’t like us. You know my leg only recently stopped hurting.” He looked at Albert. “Last time we were up here—almost a year ago—I was stabbed, and my thigh ached every time it rained. Just a few weeks ago, I realized it was raining and it didn’t hurt. First time … and now.”
“Now what?” Albert asked, looking lost, but Hadrian didn’t offer any more insight.
Royce was staring at the castle. Spearhead towers rose above the wall, casting late afternoon shadows across the square. The quaint moat was a tranquil pond with its lily pads, dragonflies, cattails, and bright green scum. The gate stood open, the bridge down, a gaping mouth with a tongue sticking out. Two guards stood to either side just across the bridge, challenging anyone who crossed. A few did. All who stopped showed a scroll. A summons? Invitation? Identification? Maybe all three.
“Albert, what do you know about Lord Exeter?” Royce asked.
“Simon Exeter is the son of Vincent Exeter and Marie Essendon—King Amrath’s aunt. The Exeters, like the Essendons, Pickerings, Reds, Valins, and Jerls, are all descendants of the signers of the charter that created the kingdom in … ah…” Albert paused, thinking.
“I don’t need dates.”
“Good, I’m lousy with them. Let’s just say it was a long time ago. Anyway, these six form the houses of nobility in Melengar. Exeter rules over the East March. A very important fief, as it’s the gateway to the kingdom and the bulwark against any invasion from the east. Really any invasion at all, as it controls the great north–south roadway.”
“Get to the man himself,” Royce said, taking his eyes off the castle to survey the rest of the square.
All around it were three-story homes of the gentry, crowded shoulder to shoulder forming a high wall, mostly of stone with gates of their own that led to small courtyards. Each different, each with a personality of pretty windows and painted facades that vied with the others for dominance. Velvet-clad men, sipping from goblets, looked down on everyone from balconies.
“Simon is … intense,” Albert explained. “I’ve never cared for him personally. I suppose few do. Arrogant certainly, but also self-assured to the point of being a royal ass. His way is always the right way, you understand. If you disagree, then he insults and belittles you. In short, he’s a bully. He doesn’t like Imperialists, hates Warric—hates most of the south really, maybe the whole world, who knows. Rumor has it that he doesn’t get along well with the king.”
“How does that work?”
Albert shrugged.
“When you talked to your gentry pal, did he mention any recent events?”
“The gala, of course. The sorry news that the price of brocade has risen to insane levels. There’s a trade war going on with Warric, and as always, fashion is the first casualty. He also mentioned the impossibility of finding a good manservant. Daref has a taste for young men and he rotates them out on a regular schedule. He says it keeps life from growing stale. Ah…” Albert raised a finger as he thought of something. “Old Chancellor Wainwright died and was replaced by Percy Braga, some foreigner from the south. According to Daref, the appointment had Lord Exeter in a tizzy as he put it. Not only did he want the office, but also it went to a stranger with strong ties to the church. I can only imagine the storm that must have started.”
Albert tapped his lips. “What else … Oh, the princess was gifted a Maranon horse for her birthday, which she rides through the square just about every day. They had a hanging—but we saw that on our way in. There was something else…” He shook his head in frustration.
“How did Wainwright die?”
“Actually there is some mystery to that. The official story is that he died from a fever.”
“And the unofficial?”
“Apparently the fever was abrupt.”
“Poisoned?”
“Possibly.”
“How long ago?”
“Sometime this month I believe. The gala is to honor his successor, Chancellor Braga, who just took up the vacancy.”
Bells rang a complex melody and Royce looked up at the twin spires of the cathedral jabbing a brilliant blue sky. The castle and church faced each other across the square, rival giants at opposite ends of an arena where ants labored. He noted the shadow lengths. Time was running short.
“Know anything about this new guy, this Braga?”
Albert shook his head. “Just what Daref told me. He’s from the south, has some connections to the church as I said, and was married to the queen’s sister Clare—Oh yes! That was it. Lady Clare also died recently.”
“A lot of deaths.”
“It would seem so.” Albert squinted at Royce. “Why all the questions? What are you trying to figure out?”
“A prostitute went to the castle and disappeared. No one seems to know where, and the lord high constable is searching desperately for her. Why?”
“Because he’s the constable?” Albert offered. “That’s his job.”
“Do you think a bigwig lord high constable personally roughs up people in the middle of the night in search of a missing prostitute?”
Albert looked decidedly less certain. “Not when you put it that way.”
“Why do you think he did it?” Hadrian asked.
“No idea.” Royce looked at the castle, at the guards and the towers. “And the girl is likely dead. All that’s important is that Exeter wants her, and that makes him vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable to what?” the viscount asked. “What’s all this about?”
“You’ll have two jobs to do tonight, Albert,” Royce told him. “First you have to find us a job that will pay for those clothes. Second, you need to help me kill Lord Exeter.”
CHAPTER 11
THE NEW GUARD