Albert felt his stomach rise as he compelled his legs to walk. There’s still one empty square in the city. Maybe Royce reserved it for me.
As soon as he entered, Royce closed the door and dropped the bolt. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The barroom was empty except for the three of them. Hadrian sat at the bar on one of the high stools, his big sword lying along the counter where it extended beyond three seats.
Royce gave him an exasperated look. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for hours, and I was just about to go look for you myself.”
Look for him? What did that mean? Royce wasn’t a heated killer. Albert had been with them only a few days but already he knew that much. Looking at the thief, he took a breath and tried to calm down. Daref was right; he was a coward.
“I … ah—”
“Never mind. Do you know the bishop here in Medford?”
“Maurice Saldur?” Albert was baffled by the question. “Oh no, you aren’t planning on killing him, too, are you?”
Royce didn’t bother answering and simply handed him a small purse. “Deliver this package to the bishop right now—right this minute.”
“But I don’t even know where he is.”
Royce gripped the lapels of Albert’s coat and pulled him close enough to kiss. “Get this package into the bishop’s hands immediately or—”
“Not a problem,” Albert said, taking the purse.
On the opposite side of the Gentry Quarter from Essendon Castle, Mares Cathedral brooded in its somber, dignified opulence. The two buildings dominated Medford, some said, like quarreling behemoths, but Bishop Saldur preferred to think of them as parents, looking down on a city filled with children. The castle, like a husband, provided security of the body, while the mother church nurtured the spirit. The cathedral was older than the castle, predating it and the kingdom of Melengar by centuries. A relic of the post-imperial age, it showed its years. Streaks of black stained the stone of its lofty bell tower, dark tears shed for a thousand years of mourning. The rest of the world had moved on. They had forgotten the days of imperial glory when roads were safe, water was pure, and cities such as Medford didn’t need walls. The church remembered. The church waited.
For nearly a thousand years, the Nyphron Church had sought the lost heir of the last emperor who had miraculously escaped the final destruction. That one hope had kept the faith alive through turbulent times. Clinging to the dream and a memory of greatness, the church sought to steer mankind back onto the course of enlightened progress and away from selfish divisions that placed any thug with enough swords on a throne.
It had been a long journey through dark times, but the wait was nearly over.
The bishop paused long enough to look up into the pelting drops of rain at the grand facade of Mares Cathedral with its twin soaring bell spires, a masterwork so out of place in such a small city. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the still-smoldering ruins of the castle and felt the drag of wet vestments on his shoulders. He’d failed, but at least it was the castle and not him that had burned. Whoever had killed Exeter had removed a noose from the bishop’s neck.
“A desperate day,” Olin muttered as he held the door. Olin was always saying ridiculous things like that.
Saldur entered the church feeling instantly at peace. The dim interior of lofty marble pillars, flickering candles, and the pungent scent of salifan incense was another world, a place where the troubles of the outside were forced to wait.
The bishop stood dripping as Olin closed the door.
“What can I do?” Olin asked.
“Run to my chambers and build a fire and get a bath started. And bring me back a towel to dry off. I’m frozen to the bone.”
“Of course.” Olin shuffled off. The plump man never appeared to know how to lift his feet.
While his wetness hadn’t bothered him before, now that he was inside it became a misery. He was reluctant to move, to feel the cling of soaked cloth against his skin. He took a forced step in the direction of his chambers and grimaced. He just needed to walk a bit farther; then he could peel the slop off. He’d dry himself, curl up in bed, and sleep. It had been a long night.
He had taken only one more step when he heard pounding at the doors.
The bishop looked around and sighed. He was alone at the front of the church. He gave the door a shove and found a blond-haired nobleman, equally sodden, waiting outside. When their eyes met, the man smiled.
“Your Grace!” He appeared delighted, not at all the sort of reaction the bishop was used to these days. “I’m so pleased to find you.”
“Services won’t be until—”
“I’m not here for that.” The man took note of the puddle the bishop was creating in the otherwise dry vestibule. “I’m merely making a delivery.”
He held out a coin purse.
“How nice of you.” Saldur took the pouch, disappointed at its light weight. “I’m certain our lord Novron will bless you for your generosity.”
“Oh, it’s not mine, Your Grace. I actually don’t know whose it is. Just now a man in a hurry stopped me on the street and asked if I would deliver it to you. He said it was important, and I always like to do the church a good turn. I could use all the help I can get in that respect, if you know what I mean.”
“We all do,” the bishop said.
“I’m also quite curious what’s in the purse. The man told me that under no circumstances should I look inside, which of course made me want to peek.”
“And did you?”
The nobleman shook his head. “Normally I would have, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, to be honest, Your Grace, I was frightened. The man was, shall I say, intimidating. I had the distinct impression that he might be watching me.” The nobleman looked around.
“I see. Well, thank you, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The blond nobleman offered another smile and, spinning on his heels, walked back out into the downpour. Saldur peered out into the rain but couldn’t spot anyone who might be watching. He closed the door.
Fueled more by the possible inconvenience that someone else might come to the door, the bishop ignored the clammy wetness of his clothes and walked down the corridor, gritting his teeth. As he did, he opened the purse and dumped the contents into his hand.
Saldur stopped.
In his palm he held a severed finger.
Saldur grimaced and dropped it. A metallic sound as it hit the floor drew his attention to a ring. The golden band was a gaudy thing, with one huge ruby and a smaller one to either side. There was no mistaking the gold and burgundy badge of Melengarian high office—this was the ring of the lord high constable.
What happened to Simon Exeter was still a mystery, but Saldur didn’t feel a need to pick at that scab. Surely Novron had killed Exeter to protect him from disaster because Saldur was working in his service. The high constable didn’t have enough proof to charge him yet. But being a suspicious man, he had been putting pieces together faster than Saldur had anticipated. The bishop looked down at the finger and the ring, puzzled.
Why would anyone send me the severed finger of Lord Exeter?
Examining the bag more closely, he found a scrap of parchment still inside. Written on it in a small, tight hand, the words were few but to the point.
See that the ladies of Medford House are released and protected and I’ll forget about you.
—Rose
Saldur read the note three times, and his hands were shaking by the third time through.
The little wide-eyed bitch did recognize my voice! And is still alive!