I’m taking her home, the sergeant had said to the castle guards, but it didn’t sound like he even knew about Medford House, and he didn’t like Hadrian helping. Why? Maybe he wasn’t taking her home. Maybe he was just looking for a dark enough alley.
Gwen took the towel from Etta. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take over.”
Etta nodded. As she left, Gwen motioned for her to close the door.
“You don’t need to clean me,” Hadrian said, taking the towel from Gwen, who sat across from him.
“Yes, I do. I need your hands clean.”
Gwen peered up at him with an expression he couldn’t read—fear, perhaps, or nervousness but also a sense of eager anticipation. Looking at that once-beautiful face made him wish he had stayed with Royce, if only to watch.
“I want to ask a favor, a very personal favor,” she said in a serious tone. She wet her bruised lips and wiped the hair from her face. “I need you to give me your hand. I want to read your palm.”
“What? Like a fortune-teller?”
“Yes, exactly.”
They did that sort of thing in Calis. There were palmists’ stands all over the cities, along with crystal gazers and bone seers. Hadrian never gave it much thought. He figured they just spoke in generalities that could apply to anyone, but some people he knew swore by it. “Oh, right. You’re Calian.”
She nodded.
“An odd time for fortune-telling, don’t you think? We—”
“Please.” Gwen, who had always been calm and comforting, looked desperate. Seeing her battered face broke his heart.
He extended his hand.
Gwen caught his fingers. She looked scared. He could feel the quiver of her hand on his. She turned his hand over, spread his fingers, and stared down at his open palm.
He waited. Her face cycled through a gamut of emotions: fear, curiosity, astonishment, joy, then back to troubled. New tears welled in her eyes. She let his hand go, covered her face, and began to sob.
“What is it?” He reached out for her, and to his surprise, she threw her good arm around his neck and hugged tight.
After a few minutes Gwen relaxed and let him go.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, wiping her eyes. He waited for a long moment, allowing plenty of time, but she remained silent.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
For one awful, selfish instant he imagined her saying something like, Hadrian, I’ve wanted to confess this to you ever since we first met, but it isn’t Royce I’m in love with … And what would he say? He knew what he’d like to say. He was just as smitten with her as Royce was, but he also knew that betraying Royce wouldn’t just be wrong or cruel—it would be fatal.
Gwen shook her head, and in that one small movement of swaying black hair, Hadrian felt both dejected and relieved. Whatever bothered her probably had nothing to do with him or—
Royce!
Hadrian stood up. “I need to go help Royce.”
“Yes … yes, you do … and he needs to help you.”
CHAPTER 18
DUSTER
Gentry Square was deserted—too late for deliveries, too early for gala revelers to return home. All lights out. Royce had stopped the carriage in the main plaza, near the fountain with the stone statue of the king on a rearing horse. The few who might have been home chose not to interfere.
Royce had the man spread out, pulled tight against the statue. He had tied one wrist to the neck of the horse; the other was anchored to its raised tail. The constable’s neck was stretched by a length of rope looped around the king’s head. Exeter’s ankles were spread and fastened to the hooves—neither touching the ground. The whole of His Lordship’s body dangled several feet above the pool and the bubbling waters of the great fountain.
Royce walked along the top of the pool’s retaining wall, surveying his work. He’d abandoned the carriage driver’s oversized hat and coat, returning to his cloak and hood, which swirled and flapped in the wind’s tides.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Lord Exeter shouted, his voice a little choked from the rope around his neck.
“Actually, I think I’ve done a remarkably good job. But don’t worry—I’m not done. I have more decorations.” He dipped into the bag that had been on the driver’s seat and pulled out a handful of candles. “I want everyone to see you on their way home.”
“Who are you?”
He’d been asking that a lot and Royce found it enjoyable to deny him any information, but he was getting close to finishing and it was time he knew.
“Last night, do you remember going to a brothel in the Lower Quarter?” Royce climbed the statue and placed a lit candle on the raised knee of the horse.
“Yes—so?”
“Do you recall speaking to a young woman by the name of Gwen DeLancy—the proprietor of the place?”
“Of course.”
“And do you also remember beating her when she didn’t know the answer to the question you asked?”
“Is that what this is about?” Exeter let out a little laugh, which irritated Royce.
“No laughing.” He halted the placement of another candle on the crown of the king and instead cut off the forefinger on Exeter’s right hand.
The constable screamed as blood stained the water in the fountain.
Royce lit another candle and scaled back up the statue. “Gwen is a very special person. She’s kind and good—not at all like me. But I think she’s suffered her whole life. Suffered at the hands of people like you and Raynor Grue and like this sailor fellow who works as a net hauler for the Lady Banshee. All of you figured it was safe to batter a whore. You were wrong.”
Royce set the candle and climbed back down.
“You’ll be drawn and quartered for this!”
Royce grinned. “No, I won’t.”
“You can’t assault me and expect to live.”
Royce looked down at the blood still dripping from the severed stump of the constable’s finger. “I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood that you’d be suffering delusions yet. You must just be confused. I’m not assaulting you. I’m murdering you.”
He took his dagger and, with no more effort than cutting through a bit of tough meat, severed the third finger of his right hand. Exeter screamed again. His struggles against the rope turned into a panicked shaking.
“As for getting caught, I’m afraid you might be disappointed.” The finger wore a ring and Royce pocketed both. “You wanted to know who I am. I would have thought a smart fellow like you would have put it together already. ’Course, we are quite a few miles away from Colnora. And while I never killed a ranking noble before, you still should have heard of Duster.”
At the sound of the name, he could see the last of Exeter’s strength fail. His eyes were large, his mouth partially open, hooked in a terrible frown. He had heard after all. “You really shouldn’t have touched Gwen.”
He dragged the blade up along Exeter’s thigh, opening it like the casing on a sausage. Then Royce grabbed another candle.
“You can’t kill me!” Exeter cried after he stopped screaming, while Royce was busy setting the new candle on the rump of the horse.
“I think you might be wrong there. As even you can see, your blood looks just as red as mine.”
“No, you don’t understand. There’s a conspiracy.” Exeter was speaking quickly now, but some of his words were difficult to understand, as he was spitting them through gritted teeth. “I’ve been investigating for months and Rose can provide the proof I need to stop it. I think she can identify Saldur as a conspirator and maybe even others who are involved. If you kill me, I won’t be able to stop it. Bishop Saldur and his Imperialist church are trying to take over the kingdom. Others have died, Chancellor Wainwright and the new chancellor’s wife. The king will be next, and his son after that. If you kill me, the king is as good as dead and Melengar—all of Avryn—might die with me.”
“And that would be bad for me … how?”
“I … you …?”
“I don’t care who rules. I don’t care about your petty kings and silly bishops. This is bigger than all that. You hurt Gwen—nearly killed her. You beat the woman that I … that I … you know what? Less talk, more screaming.”