He tapped his toes together. His shoes were too tight. New shoes always were. The leather, always stiff at first, needed time to mold to the wearer’s foot and walking style. Albert could hardly recall the last time he had new shoes. Four, maybe five years ago? These were nice. He stared at his toes and realized he couldn’t care less about shoes—he wanted a drink. Maybe after proving himself, Royce would lengthen his leash. In some ways he felt like he had sold his soul, given away his freedom, and yet perhaps freedom was overrated. He had never been more free than when he was living in that barn in Colnora. Any freer and he’d be dead. It was impossible to argue with Royce or Hadrian that he could drink responsibly. They knew so little about him. All they had ever seen was a filthy, penniless vagrant who would sell the shirt off his back for a cup of rum. What they couldn’t see was that drink had not brought him there—drink was how he dealt with it. How else could a man accept helplessness and the inevitability of starvation? How could a man born to a world of castles, carriages, and kings accept a pauper’s end, except by washing it away?
The problem was that while he had his doubts about Hadrian, Albert was certain Royce was not above killing him if he messed up. There was something about that man that reeked of death. Albert spent many years in castle courts learning to assess people, knowing who could be pushed and who might draw a sword at a joke. These were skills courtiers either developed quickly or died in an early misty-morning duel. Albert hadn’t been lying. He was terrible at fencing, but he had developed other skills. The combat skills of the court were the ability to evaluate a man’s intents and purposes in an instant. This is what made Albert certain Royce was more than capable of murder; he sensed a degree of experience in him. There was also a total lack of hesitancy. Royce wouldn’t give Albert a chance to explain or excuse himself. For now there could be no drinking, but maybe one day, when he had proven himself an asset—
“What’s this all about? Who are you?”
Lord Exeter came at him swiftly. The man was imposing. His long dark hair pulled back, the finely trimmed goatee, and harsh eyes. When taken together, it presented a severe presence that screamed, Threat! In that instant, Albert could see that he, too, had killed and would kill again. Men of power—of real power—were always scary.
Exeter surprised him so much that Albert barely remembered what he was supposed to say.
“Your Lordship.” Albert bowed. “I am Viscount Albert Winslow.”
Exeter glared. “Who?”
“I would not expect you to have heard of me.”
“What do you want?”
“I was bidden to relay a message to you from a very generous man. I honestly don’t know what it means, but it sounded most disturbing. I was asked to say the following…” He had also been asked to say the previous. The preamble worked out between himself and Royce as a means of insurance to keep him safe. He was unleashing a lion after rattling his cage, and Albert felt it was important to at least have a chair. Albert took a deep breath—he wanted to get through the whole message without pause. It was important that Exeter heard it all before rushing off. “ ‘I know your plan,’ ” Albert said in his reciting voice. “ ‘I have Rose. Perhaps we can make a deal. I am waiting in a carriage out front—a carriage marked by a rose. Come alone.’ ”
“Who is this person?” Exeter asked.
“I have no idea. I only just met him tonight at the gala. He never mentioned his name. Odd, don’t you think? He was very insistent that I get this message to you immediately, saying he would be waiting at the front gate.”
Exeter continued to stare at Albert for a moment longer, looking both puzzled and angry, apparently undecided which to commit to. The gate was open, but the lion was in no hurry to escape. He turned to the guard with him. “Vince, keep him here.” Exeter retreated back toward the interior of the castle from which he’d come.
Albert did not like the keep him here comment and stood uncomfortably in the shadow of the guard.
Vince was one of those men who Albert assumed was born to the job of professional soldier. He stood too close for Albert’s sensibilities. He could smell the reek of stale sweat. And Albert, who was proud of his ability to read men, found looking at Vince was like peering at a blank wall. No complexity, no mystery, no color—cows had more depth. He was a full head taller than Albert, a large, balding, unpleasant head. His face was a map of scars. And even without the souvenir blemishes of his trade, Vince could never have been considered handsome. The viscount wondered what poor woman once called this her baby, and how she had managed to avoid drowning it.
Exeter returned with a lieutenant of the guard and six other soldiers. He was moving quickly.
“Keep him here until I get back,” he told Vince; then facing the lieutenant, he said, “Wylin, there’s an idiot sitting in a carriage out front marked by a rose. Go arrest him.”
Simon Exeter followed behind Wylin and his men but stopped at the keep’s entryway while the rest walked to the front gate, then beyond. Across the bridge, the line of carriages waited. Each had lanterns lit. Some of the horses wore blankets as they waited for their fares or lords to return from the feast.
Simon might have suspected the gods were allied against him if not for the viscount’s unexpected message. After the girl’s vanishing act, he had spent last night and all that day canvassing the city, interrogating whores and thieves. He deputized two dozen men and had sheriffs working double duty searching every closet and cupboard for the girl. Now he might actually have her.
Simon didn’t like the way the gate guards were acting. Both stared at him oddly.
Wylin trotted back across the bridge and up to Exeter. “Empty, sir.”
“Empty?”
“Nothing inside, well, except for this.” Lieutenant Wylin held out a parchment.
I said come alone. And I meant it.
You have one more chance. Get in this carriage.
Tell the driver to take you to the graveyard on Paper Street in the Merchant Quarter. When I see the carriage arrive, and that you’re alone, I will contact you.
Simon crushed the note in his fist and marched across the bridge toward the carriages. The men waited, watching him.
“You there!” he shouted at the carriage driver, who sat nervously.
“I didn’t do nothing, Your Lordship. Honest.”
“The man who was in here. Your passenger. Where did he go?”
“He switched carriages but paid me to wait for him, sir. Said he would be back, sir.”
“He switched?” Simon grinned. “Which one is he in, then?”
“Oh, the one that left, sir.”
Simon’s smile vanished.
“Which way did it go?”
“Ah … that way, sir.” He pointed. “Made a left at the square.”
“Merchant Quarter.” Simon slapped the side of the carriage, making the driver jump.
“You aren’t thinking of actually going, are you, Your Lordship?” Wylin asked. “I mean alone.”
Simon fixed him with a withering glare. “Don’t talk to me as if I were one of your idiot men.”
“My apologies, Your Lordship.”
“He’s cagey, this one.” Simon had his doubts when the viscount delivered the message, but as he looked across the dark square, he became convinced whoever it was did indeed have the girl. “Not a complete idiot.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Never mind. I’ll go alone, but I want you and your men to split up and walk to Paper Street. Send a dozen this time. Have them take off their colors and chain and go by different routes. When you get there, fan out around the entrance to the graveyard and wait for my arrival. When you hear me whistle, close in. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, sir, but where do you want me to pull the men from? I don’t have authority to draw men away from the walls, not on a night when the king is holding a party.”
“Pull them from the city guard, Gentry Square. Start with my sheriffs and fill out the ranks with their deputies. They don’t need to patrol anymore. That should be more than enough. Gather them on your way, but be quick. I want you there before I arrive.”
“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” the driver asked.
“Wait here. I’ll need you to drive me.”
“As you wish.”
When Simon returned to the reception hall, Vince was still keeping an eye on the viscount, who had a decidedly nervous look on his face.
“Vince, go to my chambers. Fetch my sword and cloak.” He turned to the viscount. “This man who gave you the message. What did he look like?”
“Big man. Dark complexion. Blond hair, though, with a thin mustache that ran down around his mouth, you know.” The man swirled his finger around his lips. “Slurred his words a bit I remember. I take it you didn’t see him.”
“No, but I will.” He looked the viscount over. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Viscount Albert Winslow.”