“Well, Mr. Dunwoodie, I’d—”
“No mister, just Dunwoodie.”
“Tonight you’re my guest, so tonight you’re Mr. Dunwoodie—the noble Mr. Dunwoodie of the Carriage.” Royce winked at him. And Hadrian had a hard time keeping a straight face. Royce could be just plain eerie sometimes. “Now, you said this was the best place in the city for drink, right? So how about I fetch a round.”
“They have maids that will come by and serve—”
“We can’t wait, not tonight! Tonight is special. And Mr. Dunwoodie shouldn’t have to wait for anything.”
Royce jumped up and headed off to the bar.
“Your friend is a very generous man,” Dunwoodie said.
“A heart of gold, that one.” Hadrian couldn’t help smiling. “Nice place, this.”
“One of the best in the city. See that blade above the bar? That’s the Hallowed Sword. Legend goes that there is the weapon of Novron the Great, the one he done defeated the elves with.”
“Really?”
“ ’Course not, but that doesn’t stop everyone from toasting it every night. Just one more reason to drink. And who knows, maybe it is Novron’s sword.”
Royce returned with three cups of cider and handed them out. “To Mr. Dunwoodie of the Wheels!” he declared, and raised his cup.
Hadrian drank, not surprised to discover his was soft cider.
“To Mr. Stevens and his birthday!” Dunwoodie raised his cup again.
“To the Hallowed Sword!” Hadrian raised his cup to the blade above the bar, and it wasn’t long before Royce was off fetching another round.
They toasted the sword eight times that night as well as the musicians, Diamond—the mare that pulled Dunwoodie’s carriage—and every tier that went on the cup-stacking pile at the nearby tables. At last Dunwoodie looked at the two of them, struggling to focus.
“You are wonderful people,” he slurred. “I love you, I really do. I just met you, but I love you. And damn do you know how to drink.”
Ten minutes later Dunwoodie’s head was down.
The tower nearest the rafters fell with a clatter, and the room erupted in a resounding cheer, but Dunwoodie noticed none of it.
“What now?” Hadrian asked.
“Let’s get him a room. Mr. Dunwoodie of the Carriage deserves a soft bed to sleep this one off.”
Royce paid the innkeeper and Hadrian carried Dunwoodie upstairs, where they stripped him of clothes. Just as planned, they fit Hadrian well enough, driver’s jackets and pants being notoriously loose. Hadrian pulled the blanket up over Dunwoodie and was surprised to see Royce place a stack of silver coins on the nightstand.
They hurried back down and out the front door only to be met by five now-familiar lads waiting on the street.
“Still here, I see.” Top Hat had his thumbs hooked in his belt, exposing a dagger, and his hat tilted up, revealing an unhappy face. Puzzle was with them too. None looked pleased. Hadrian guessed that with each passing hour, their continued presence in the city made it appear all the more likely that he and Royce were members of the rival thieves’ guild, and that was a possibility Top Hat and the others weren’t happy about.
“You really ought to leave. Even if you are Black Diamond. This city is an empty pocket. It ain’t like Colnora with all the fancy merchants warring with each other to see who can build the biggest fortune. Down south, coins spill. Here, purses are tight. You can see we ain’t living like no kings. You tell the Jewel, Melengar is a desert and Medford an empty sewer. There ain’t enough to share.” He took a step forward and his face grew hard. “But since this is all we got, we’ll fight for it. You tell the Jewel that.”
He made to shove Royce, who moved out of the way. Top Hat missed, stumbling forward a step.
“I told you,” Royce said. “I don’t work for the Black Diamond. I don’t work for anyone.”
Top Hat regained his balance and turned, frustrated and flushed. “I hope you’re right. That way when my messenger returns with the truth of it, I get to kill you.”
“Then shouldn’t you be off sharpening something?”
Top Hat and the others watched as Hadrian and Royce climbed onto the carriage. Hadrian took the driver’s bench and Royce sat in the back like a noble lord.
“You have a bleedin’ carriage?” Top Hat asked.
“Beats walking,” Hadrian replied.
The five stared in wonder as Hadrian snapped the reins, waking up Dunwoodie’s old ink-black mare. He called, “Let’s go, Diamond.” This brought alarmed looks from the members of the Crimson Hand and took a moment for Hadrian to understand why. Afterward he couldn’t stop laughing.
This beats the straw out of living in a barn.
Albert Winslow stood in the great hall and took a deep breath, savoring the luscious scents of an autumn gala. Cinnamon, wood smoke, apples, and the burning caps of pumpkin lanterns. He even imagined he could smell the crisp chill of the coming winter, one he narrowly avoided dying in. The seasons all had scents that added to their personalities, just like the women he’d known. And just like the seasons, they fell into the same categories: fresh, hot, ripe, and cold as the grave. Sweet music rose over the crowd, buoyed up by the warmth of gaiety. It drifted above the laughter and measured steps of the dance that dominated the chamber. The lush sweep of luxurious gowns twirled from the delicate waists of ladies, and the click of the men’s shoe heels kept perfect time with the music.
He had missed it all so.
He glanced at the cider barrel. There was one at every door and several in every room in the castle. Cups hooked to the rims by their handles along with pewter ladles. And the slices of apple floated like smiles. His mouth watered at the memories. He hadn’t had a drink in two weeks, or was it longer? The days in the barn blurred. He’d tried to sleep through most of them. His strategy had been to die in his sleep, but he found it was not as pleasant or easy as it sounded. The pains in his stomach kept waking him. If he could have afforded it, Albert would have drank himself to death. He couldn’t think of a better way to die—blissful and oblivious. And if there was agony as he took his final breaths, he’d never know it. The best part—the true genius of the plan—was that no matter how much drink he consumed, he’d have zero chance of waking with a hangover. Pleasure without consequence or without payment—surely there could be no better exit.
What shocked Albert was that he was back standing in the castle’s drawing room amidst the familiar revelry—the barn already no more than a nightmare, no longer real. One moment he was near naked and casting himself into the lonely straw, begging for a quick death and the next he was in Essendon Castle, his feet sore from dancing in new shoes. He marveled at the shifting of the world, at fortunes shuffled by the whims of gods who were clearly insane.
Am I the only one to see the truth of it? Or is everyone thinking the same and keeping their mouths shut?
Lord Daref had been a perfect host. To the blind, deaf, and dumb, associating with Viscount Winslow would be seen as a source of bolstered status for a mere lord. Walking in with a viscount beside him, Daref hoped to increase his standing at court. Albert would have preferred a blonde with a big chest, wide hips, and a great laugh.