Albert had spent the night at Lord Daref’s Medford home in the northwest of the Gentry Quarter—a posh three-story brick and stone home outfitted with fireplaces on every floor and dainty flowerboxes under the windows. Daref also had a modest holding in Asper, but he visited it only twice a year to check on things. As his friend explained, “living in the country made it impossible to stay current and remain relevant,” which Albert understood to mean it was boring. In the city, Daref lived alone but kept a staff of six servants. The lack of a wife had sparked rumors for years, rumors that were heightened by the young man with fair hair who lived with him. Daref called him Neddy and introduced him as his nephew, but Albert had been to the wedding of Daref’s niece and knew she didn’t have any siblings. Albert found it odd that his friend went to such lengths when most of the gentry had real secrets, but perhaps that was the point; Lord Daref felt left out of the controversy.
Daref and Albert had left the party just after the fire broke out. Neither possessed the stomach for gawking at tragedy. While others stood around in the cold all night or worked bucket brigades, they slept comfortably. It was the first decent accommodation Albert had come across in the last two years. He was grateful for it and for the savory breakfast the three of them were enjoying.
A knock at the door brought a messenger and news that the fire hadn’t been an accident. The blaze was set with the intent of killing the royal family. The king and his children were spared, but the queen perished. Perhaps even more surprising, the traitor responsible, the Lord High Constable Simon Exeter, was also killed. His body found butchered in Gentry Square. The identity of his murderer remained a mystery.
The news sparked a lively conversation between Daref and Neddy about the possible implications of a conspiracy and the effect it would have on members of the court. Albert hadn’t heard a word of their conversation; he was too fixated on the word butchered.
When Royce and Hadrian had offered him an opportunity to escape his humiliating poverty, he’d jumped at the chance. Now he wondered if that had been wise. He’d expected some good-humored embarrassments, such as what he had planned for Baron McMannis. But this—he was an accomplice in the death of a man, a high-ranking noble.
Albert couldn’t finish his second helping of sausage and eggs.
Would the guards remember him? Had Vince told the chancellor or the king about the viscount who delivered an odd message to Exeter? Would he recall the name Winslow? Might they think he was part of the plot? Regicide had a way of inciting hysteria and the executioner’s axe swung liberally, doling out the same sentence to the guilty as well as those unfortunate enough to be caught up in the events.
Everyone knew he had arrived with Daref. The castle guard could be on their way at that moment. He needed to disappear. Albert felt the coin in his purse. Lady Lillian had given Lady Constance twenty-five tenents to arrange for the theft of her earrings. He had clothes, gold, and as close to a full stomach as he could manage. He could walk out through the city gates and vanish. The coin would go a long way—perhaps as far as Calis, where no one would have ever heard the name Lord Simon Exeter.
“I need to be leaving,” Albert interrupted Neddy, who was speculating whether the Wintertide festival would be forgone this season.
Daref looked out at the rain and smirked. “You always were a skittish coward.”
Albert’s heart skipped; then he smiled. It was only a joke.
“I suspect several people will be leaving the city after last night, as if the fire and murder were the work of a plague. Like you, they will hole up in their respective country estates and wait out the next few weeks to see what matures.”
“And you?” Albert asked.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Court will be an exciting place, and I want to be right in the center of it all.”
Albert’s lack of wealth made packing a matter of getting dressed. He bid farewell to Daref and set out into the rain. Walking past the square, he saw the remnants of Royce’s work. Blood was everywhere. The fountain pool was dingy red, a few ropes still attached to the statue, where Exeter’s body had been cut away. The display was such a horrific sight that Albert put a hand to his mouth to prevent losing the helping of the sausages and eggs he’d eaten.
How had Royce and Hadrian managed it? I still owe them money. If I run, will Royce hunt me down?
In the course of just one day, Royce had discovered Exeter’s identity. He’d located, plotted against, and killed the third most powerful man in Melengar—someone with an army of sheriffs at his command—all while his victim attended a king’s gala. If Royce decided to kill him, how infinitesimal were the chances of a disavowed viscount on the road to Calis?
His stomach churned. He really had no idea what kind of men they were. How could he, having just met them? Hadrian seemed affable enough, but there was something else there, something buried. He walked with a swagger that was just a little too confident for a commoner, as if he had no fear of death. Albert’s father had always warned him about casual men. The Winslows were a family of gamblers, and this was likely where he gained his innate gift for reading people. Granted, his grandfather lost the fief in a game of chance, and his father lost everything else the same way, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right—it was called gambling for a reason. Still, between his two new associates, Royce was the frightening one. He didn’t veil his disposition in the least. That man was capable of anything.
Death as an accomplice or death in the dark?
Albert had always been a coward, but the family’s gambling habit was still in his blood. If he went to Royce first and explained that he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, then maybe he would let him go. He decided he would rather take a risk now than live in fear the rest of his life. If he gave them twenty gold tenents, that would repay the original money they had given him many times over. The two might not be pleased with him for severing their partnership, but it ought to be enough to save his life. He would still have five to live on, and he could run with that. The question was, should he tell them about the five he was keeping or just say the job had paid twenty? Five seemed fair, but they might not see it that way. Still, he needed at least five to live on. He would never be able to show his face in civilized society after taking Lady Lillian’s money and not delivering on his promise, and Constance would be disgraced and vengeful. She was no Royce Melborn, but the fury of a scorned noble lady was nothing to trifle with. He could never hope to return and would be forced to vanish and start a new life. Calis was still a possibility, but he might also go to Delgos—no nobles there. Either would be nice, someplace warm for the coming winter. Someplace they sold cheap rum.
When he arrived in the Lower Quarter, Albert did so with slow feet. He was in no hurry despite the rain that was soaking his new clothing. This was a bad day for everyone and he was not eager to receive his fair share. He headed for the tavern but paused at the common well in the square. Raynor Grue was decorating the place with his gruesome visage made uglier by the cuts, as if someone had taken pity on the crows by cutting up their meat. He’d also seen the other dead man when he came through the Artisan Quarter. The sheriffs were too preoccupied with the affairs of state to worry about removing the bodies of two peasants. How long would they hang there before someone took them down? Both scenes were gruesome, and it made Albert wonder exactly what state Exeter’s body was found in. The first didn’t bother him too much, but Grue was different. He had known him. He’d just talked to the man the day before. Albert’s hand went absently to his own throat, his own face. He remembered how casual, how arrogant he’d been with Royce when questioned about borrowing so much for clothes. Maybe he should have been less cavalier. His feet moved even slower after that.
Sadly, no earthquake split the street to swallow him and soon he arrived at The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. The door was closed and for a moment Albert wasn’t certain what to do. He shouldn’t just walk in, but he certainly couldn’t wait for Raynor Grue to open the place. He stood at the threshold trying to determine his next move, most of which centered around, Well, I tried to contact them. They can’t fault me for that.
The door opened.
“Winslow,” Royce’s voice said sharply from the darkness. “Get in here.”