“What holding?”
He smiled sheepishly. “My grandfather lost the family fief. I’m just a landless noble.”
“Worst kind of vagrant—a noble one. Do nothing, contribute nothing, but suck off of every landowner’s teat like it’s your god-given right. Isn’t that so?”
“That’s me exactly, Your Lordship.”
“You’ve served your purpose. Go on. Go steal the meal you came for.”
“Thank you, Your Lordship.”
Simon left the castle, crossed the courtyard, and passed once more through the gate under the withering stare of the boy-guard. He climbed into the carriage marked with roses and yelled to the driver, “Take me to Paper Street, to the graveyard in the Merchant Quarter.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The carriage pulled away from the line and entered the city streets.
Who could he be? Most likely that stupid thief I beat the other night. Thinks he can make a coin selling the girl to me. Hanging three of his cohort clearly wasn’t enough to penetrate that top hat.
Simon was torn between having the thief leader killed or rewarded. He guessed it would all depend on what the girl told him. He just hoped he wasn’t chasing a ghost. And who was this mysterious giant blond the viscount mentioned? This was the problem with conspiracies and coups—they were never simple.
The carriage came to a stop. Looking out the window, Simon was puzzled. They hadn’t traveled far. They were only in Gentry Square.
“Keep going. I said Paper Street. That’s in the Merchant Quarter.”
The driver climbed down and opened the carriage door, stepping in.
“What are you doing? Get out! Are you mad?”
“Yes. Very.” The man was small and thin, but there was something about his eyes, something unnerving. Even more disturbing was the prick of a blade that the driver suddenly pressed to his throat.
“I don’t have many friends,” the driver said. “I can actually count them all on one hand and not use all my fingers. Like anything rare, they are precious. And yes, I get very mad when one is hurt. But I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way. What you were actually asking is if I’m insane—crazy, isn’t that right?” The man’s voice was cavalier without any hint of fear or respect, yet soft, words whispered as gentle as a lover. “Well, to be honest, I think you might have a point there too. Oh, and feel free to whistle. Thanks to you, all the sheriffs in Gentry Square are gone, and thanks to the gala, all the residents are away as well. No one is going to hear your signal or your screams.”
CHAPTER 17
THE FEATHERED HATS
Hadrian watched the approach of the four deputies whose only identifying uniforms were the simple white feathers in their hats. One had his on backward such that the feather pointed forward like a one-horned bull. These were no different than the last patrol, except they lacked a trained sheriff and were making do entirely with militia. They blundered up, brandishing swords.
“He’s one of them that drew on me. And they got that Rose girl! Look out for the other one.”
“Hold on now!” Hadrian called out. “Let’s not be hasty. You don’t want to die, and honestly I don’t want to kill you.”
“Put your sword … ah, swords … on the ground,” Terence said. “Then lie facedown, or we’ll be doing the killing.”
“Listen,” Hadrian tried again, “Rose didn’t do anything. She’s just a young girl. And—”
“Someone stab this fool.”
They all drew swords.
Hadrian stepped back through the Lower Quarter Gate and, dodging out of sight, pulled his two blades. They followed. The first one through the gate ran into Hadrian’s short sword. His crumpled body tripped the second one. Hadrian ignored him for the moment and caught the third with his bastard sword. The last one hesitated as Hadrian expected he might. By then the second one through—the fellow with the backward feather—was on his feet and swinging. The stroke was just a basic shoulder chop—no skill at all. Hadrian caught it high with his left sword and stabbed him with his right.
His sword thrust pierced the meat of his side. Hadrian didn’t want him dead. More importantly he didn’t want him to fall down. Seeing him occupied, the fourth man pressed the opportunity and took his chance. Hadrian rotated the skewered man around, and the timing was perfect. The fourth man accidentally stabbed the deputy with the backward hat. Both men let out a gasp. The one on the receiving end of the blade being much louder.
Anger replaced horror, and drawing his bloody sword free, the last deputy advanced. He screamed something, maybe words, but perhaps not—Hadrian couldn’t tell. The guy had lost control. Fear and anger pumped him until he couldn’t think, much less speak. This was exactly the type of insanity that military discipline was supposed to prevent. He was slightly larger than the others but no more skilled. The first swing was a sloppy, overpowered stroke meant to … Actually, Hadrian had no idea what it was meant to do, and he didn’t think his opponent knew either. The deputy was just chopping away like Hadrian was a tree that needed to be cleared. A step back and a turn avoided the blow.
Hadrian considered disarming the man—letting him live. Maybe he had a wife; maybe he had kids. This was just a job for him, a way to put food on the table. He didn’t go out that night expecting to die. Hadrian hated killing an innocent man. Though technically he wasn’t innocent—the guy had signed on to be a deputy, a job that came with certain risks, but that hardly made a difference. Hadrian felt sick as he realized he didn’t have a choice. He had let Terence go and this was the result. More men would die—best to just stop it there.
“Sorry,” he offered, and finished the man with a clean stroke—a rapid stab to the heart that was in and out in a blink. So fast that the man offered only a puzzled look before his legs gave out. Then he just sat down without a sound.
Hadrian cleaned his blades. While none had touched him, he was covered in blood and felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The familiar sensation of disgust crept up his throat, causing him to grimace as he looked down at the tangled bodies. One—the backward-hat deputy—lay staring sightlessly at the stars, his mouth gaping as if in wonder. Hadrian swallowed, forcing the feeling back down, and drew in a shuddering breath. He couldn’t remember how many men’s lives he’d taken in the few years since he’d left home, which he counted as a blessing, but what he didn’t understand was why it never got any easier. He imagined that his father would have said that was a desirable thing, that it proved he was a good man, but Hadrian didn’t feel good.
It was worth it, he reminded himself. Rose will be safe now, and she is innocent.
Hadrian turned to run the way Rose and the sergeant had gone, but stopped when he spotted the Crimson Hand thief, Puzzle, crouched on the roof of the gatehouse.
The thief held his hands up. “I didn’t see anything.” His voice quavered a bit. “As far as I know, it was some other guy—guys even. Five, six brutes—sons of bitches from … from Chadwick—yeah, from the south, who caught that patrol off guard.” He looked down at the piled bodies. “Who’d believe me anyway? If I said one guy had … I mean, no one would. They just wouldn’t.”