“What happened to Rose?”
They took seats at the table with the window, one up from their usual, so that Royce could keep an eye on the street. Wayward Street was dark. Moonlight was all that separated objects from emptiness as the faint radiance painted edges and cast shadows in long blocky shapes. Some of the cold light spilled in the window and highlighted the planes on one half of Hadrian’s face.
He had that beaten look again. If Hadrian were a child, Royce would have called it pouting. Oddly, he often slipped into one of these moods after a fight. Because the blood on him wasn’t Hadrian’s, Royce guessed he was better off than “the other guy.” He should be happy, but Hadrian didn’t always see things the same way as Royce.
“She’s dead.” Hadrian took another deep swallow, then wiped his mouth and rested his elbows on the table.
“Sheriff patrol?”
“No, they did get stopped but got away.” He pushed back and pointed at his shirt. “I stayed behind and added another four to my list. The problem is, that didn’t change a thing. She was killed anyway. I found her body in an alley.”
“Another patrol?”
“No, I think it was the guy who was escorting her home. I’m pretty sure he had no intention of taking her anywhere, except away from the castle.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you did better than me. You only lost one of the girls. I’m pretty sure I killed the whole lot.”
Hadrian stopped drinking. “Come again?”
“They’ve arrested everyone from Medford House.”
“Because of the notes you left?”
“I’m guessing.”
“Probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“You think?” Royce glared at him, but it lacked commitment. He sat back, folding his arms and looking off toward the bar as if hoping to catch the eye of the waitstaff.
“Don’t get mad at me. You’re the one who went knife happy. Nobles get cranky when you decorate their streets with one of their own.” Hadrian took another swallow, then asked, “So what are you planning to do? You’re not going to let them execute her, are you?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know!” he snapped.
Royce refused to look at him, his sight wandering around the tavern instead, never lighting anywhere for very long. The place was a sty, and he wondered how long Gwen had been forced to work there. Must have felt like prison. They had that in common. Now she was locked up again for something she didn’t do—for something he did. How many more people did he have to kill to make this right?
Hadrian got up. “I’m getting a refill. You want one?”
“No.”
“Sounds like you could use one.”
“No.”
Hadrian bumped his way back to the bar, while Royce struggled to think of something—anything.
He could try and break Gwen out. He had seen the fire, and everything would be in chaos. It wasn’t like the high constable was around to give them orders. Security would be weak. But he knew her—Gwen wouldn’t go unless the rest of the girls were safe first, and he couldn’t hope to get them all out. If he did, where would he take them? He’d be on the run with a wagonload of women. If he had a month to prepare, maybe, but Royce suspected justice would be quick. He guessed he had no more than a day or two and possibly just a few hours.
There had to be a better way, and he knew what the problem was. He was still thinking like himself. He needed to think like Merrick. He needed to make things flow the way he wanted. To do that he had to understand where the power was and how to bend it.
Royce sighed. All he could think of was killing, and he couldn’t kill everyone. How would Merrick handle it? Manipulation certainly, but how and who? He didn’t even know who gave the order to arrest the girls. There were quarter sheriffs and probably a high sheriff, also a city constable, and finally the lord high constable of all of Melengar, whose office was presently vacant thanks to him. Which one should he put pressure on? Which one had the power to free Gwen?
“What I need is leverage. Someone I can blackmail or bribe.”
“Too bad about Exeter,” Hadrian said. “Could have used him, except his attempt to kill the king is pretty much common knowledge now, and of course there’s the whole dead thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fire? Big old blaze in the castle? I thought you might have set it to flush Exeter out.”
“No, Albert did what he was supposed to, and Exeter came out on his own.”
“Yeah, well, I know that now. Actually I gathered that from all the gossip at the castle. Everyone was talking about how Exeter had it set. He was trying to take over.”
“Really? That’s odd. Exeter told me some bishop—Saldur, I think he said—was the one plotting for the throne.”
“Was that before or after you cut his fingers off?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Probably would have accused his mother of killing the king after a finger or two.”
Royce shook his head. “No, I’ve found people are pretty truthful at times like that. I think Exeter was innocent.”
“You’re saying you killed the wrong man?”
Royce smirked. “I meant for burning the castle and trying to kill the king. Exeter said Rose could identify who they were. Said he wasn’t looking to kill her—he wanted to find her. She had some kind of proof he needed.”
“Hmm…” Hadrian took another long drink. Outside the wind buffeted the tavern, whistling through the many cracks.
“What?”
“When the patrol caught up to Rose, they didn’t try to kill her. The sheriff wanted her taken to Exeter.”
“Did you catch his name? The guard you think killed Rose?”
“Richard Hilfred, a sergeant in the royal guard.”
Royce stood up. “Great! All I need to do is kill him.”
“Then you’re in luck. He’s already dead.”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“He was the guy who started the fire. That new chancellor killed him. But what difference does that make?”
Merrick would have seen the connections. He would’ve seen the pieces falling into place, and for once Royce was seeing them too. He got up and started walking back and forth. Royce was on to something, and he couldn’t sit still. Merrick used to pace when he planned, too, and that made him feel even more that he was on the right track.
“Hilfred was just a pawn, the inside guy. This Bishop Saldur’s the one pulling the strings. And with a little convincing, he might be able to pull some for us. A friend of mine used to say ‘guilt and fear are a powerful combination,’ and it often only takes a small suggestion that someone else knows what you did to get the imagination running. If I plotted to kill the king, and he didn’t die, I’d be a little concerned His Majesty might find out, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, but what are you gonna do? Walk into the cathedral and put a knife to the guy’s throat and—”
“No,” Royce found himself saying, even though he’d been thinking the same thing. Merrick never maneuvered that way. Too crude, he’d say. Persuasion was an art. Too much force had unwanted consequences. Fear was good—panic unpredictable. “We need Albert.”
“Albert?”
“Yeah.”
Royce reached out and deliberately knocked Hadrian’s mug over, spilling the ale across the end of the table and onto the floor.
Hadrian pushed away from the table and looked at Royce, surprised. “What’d you do that for?”
“You didn’t get wet, did you?” He had a bemused look on his face.
“No.”
Royce watched the ale drip off the end of the table for a moment. “That’s because I knew where the ale would go. Besides, I need you sober, because if this fails, we might have to kill a lot of people.”
CHAPTER 21
THE DAY AFTER