Years of working for Raynor Grue had warped Gwen’s internal clock to the point where she rarely slept at night. Those had been her working hours and the habit persisted. Like an owl, she couldn’t fall asleep until after sunrise, which was just one of the reasons why she was dressed when the soldiers came.
The Lower Quarter never invited much activity, and there was no mistaking their arrival. Last night the ruckus had resulted in her being dragged and beaten by the lord high constable. As Gwen waited in the parlor, she noticed they were louder this time. Angry shouts and the clatter of hooves rolled in like a storm. She also heard wagon wheels—so much heavier and duller than a carriage.
Staring at the front door, expecting it to burst open, she waited stoically. Gwen told herself it would be all right. She told the others the same. No one believed her.
They didn’t knock—she hadn’t expected them to but had wondered just the same. Medford House, she thought, looked worthy of a little respect these days. She and the girls had done a fine job with the place. The old ruin was gone and a building finer even than the original Wayward Inn stood in its place. The House wasn’t finished; Gwen didn’t think it ever would be. She was always finding ways to improve. She had plans to put a pretty fence out front, some crown molding in the bedrooms, and she hadn’t given up her dream of painting the whole thing blue. Still, it was the finest building in the Lower Quarter, a building that wouldn’t look out of place in the Merchant Square. It didn’t matter. The soldiers knew it was only a whorehouse.
They opened the door rather than breaking it down, and she was grateful for that. A dozen men entered with torches, dressed in chain mail, their dull metal helmets on. Gwen almost failed to recognize Ethan under all that steel.
“May I help you?” she asked. It was an absurd question, but so was the whole affair. A dozen men in chain barged in, only to be greeted by her standing on a crutch with a broken arm and a bandaged face and her pleasant inquiry.
“You’re all under arrest for the murder of Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Melengar.”
Gwen didn’t recognize the man who spoke. He was old and beefy with gray in a chest-length beard. She looked instead to Ethan, the only one she knew. Ethan had been the sheriff of the Lower Quarter as long as Gwen had lived there, and while she couldn’t say she liked him, she respected him. At least he tried to be fair. Ethan looked back and she could see the conflict. He was upset like the others, but not necessarily with her. There was even a little fear in his eyes, but that night, everyone was scared.
“Gwen?” Mae squeaked, rushing to her and hugging tight.
Jollin and Abby clustered close as well. Those in other rooms peeked out, asking what was happening.
Mae was ripped from Gwen. The others were taken too. Gwen was the last one seized. They dragged her out and she lost her crutch. I should have grabbed a blanket, she thought the moment the night air hit her. I should have grabbed a few. The rear doors of the wagon were open and the girls shoved in. Gwen winced. The pressure on her bad arm and being dragged because she couldn’t walk without the crutch sent stabs of pain throughout her body. She worried about getting onto the wagon. She couldn’t hope to pull herself up and wondered if she would be beaten again. Some of the soldiers looked angry enough not to care why she couldn’t get in. Jollin was there, trying to help her, but was shoved back. They were all being pushed around. The men were frightened and angry and had no one else to bully. In front of her Etta screamed, and Mae was crying as she scrambled up.
When Gwen reached the wagon, the bed was waist-high. Too high to get her knee up. A moment later she felt hands lifting her. They were gentle.
“You’re having a really bad week, Gwen.” It was Ethan. That was all he said, but she could see sympathy in his eyes, maybe even sadness. He didn’t expect to see her again. A high noble had been killed. Someone had to pay. Someone had to be punished, to be executed.
Gwen sat down between Mae and Jollin, her back against the solid wood of the wagon wall.
“Are we going to die?” Abby asked in a shaky voice.
No one answered. And as the doors were closed and locked, Gwen shut her eyes and prayed that what she had seen in Hadrian’s palm came true.
“Riyria,” she whispered to herself like a magic spell.
Standing in the shadows of Wayward Street, Royce watched the wagon roll past. For a brief insane moment he considered trying to free her.
He was an idiot.
He’d made a mistake, miscalculated, and now she was paying the price. Royce wasn’t used to dealing with fallout. He had never had anything to lose before. He should have gotten her away first, or maybe he shouldn’t have written the notes at all. Royce didn’t have a head for this sort of thing. That’s what Merrick was good at.
His old partner from his Black Diamond days was a maven at planning and manipulation. Royce fought with the world, struggling against a wind that always blew in his face. Merrick floated on the wind, commanding the current as he willed. The right word, said at the right moment, can work magic, he was fond of saying. You merely need to understand power, where it comes from, and the direction it flows. He had tried to teach Royce by using analogies about water. Spill a cup into a funnel and you don’t have to wonder where the water will end up, nor the path it will take.
Merrick had been a genius; perhaps he still was. Royce hadn’t seen him in years, not since his one-time best friend had orchestrated his arrest and imprisonment. Royce had been the water that time. After Royce got out of Manzant, Merrick was no longer with the Diamond. He never bothered to look for him but wondered if he would have killed his old friend had he been there. He wanted to think he could have avoided it, but it might have been inevitable.
Merrick would never have made the mistakes Royce had that night. The question he now had to ask was, what would Merrick do to fix the situation? How could Royce make the water flow where he wanted?
He spotted Hadrian coming up the street from the square. At least he was still alive.
“Don’t bother going to Medford House,” Royce told him. His partner jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Royce—” He paused to take a breath. “You’ve got to stop doing that. You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“Shut up and follow me.”
Down an alley and around the back of The Hideous Head, they crossed planks used as bridges over a trough of muck and sewage. Royce popped the lock, and they slipped through the rear door of the alehouse. The place was dark and empty. Looters might visit the place in days to come, but the decoration Royce left in the Lower Square would keep even the desperate away until after dawn. Pretty much everyone would be staying in shuttered homes that night.
He moved to the windows and checked the street—deserted and dark. Not wanting to draw any attention, he kept the place dark. Not a single candle was lit. This suited him fine, but Hadrian was practically blind even in full daylight. He bumped into every piece of furniture between him and the bar.
“Think Grue would mind if I helped myself to a drink?” Hadrian asked. He was behind the bar looking like a blind man, feeling around for cups.
“Something wrong?” Royce asked.
“What? Because I want a drink?”
“No, because you’re stealing one.”
“The man is dead. I don’t think he’ll be too upset.”
“Still, it’s not like you.”
“You’re an expert on me now?”
“Getting there.”
Hadrian found a large pewter mug and filled it until foam poured over the sides. He blew most of it away, then tapped off a bit more until the mug was brimming. He took a long draw, emptied the mug, and then filled it again before bumping his way back through the dark. “Well, you’re right. I had a pretty crappy evening.”