“Huh? Oh—sure. Take your time.”
Hadrian stood silently at the open door. Royce did not move. He continued to sit with his head bowed.
Hadrian sighed. After all his searching, his thinking, his wandering, his solution seemed feeble at best. He had held dozens of mental debates in which he had played both sides of the arguments, but when he sat across from Royce, he had only one thing he could say. “I need your help.”
Royce looked up as if his head weighed a hundred pounds, his eyes red, his face ashen. He waited.
“One last job,” Hadrian told him, then added, “I promise.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Very.”
“Is there a good chance I’ll get killed?”
“Odds are definitely in favor of that.”
Royce nodded, looked down at the scarf in his lap, and replied, “Okay.”
CHAPTER 7
THE LAUGHING GNOME
Arista lugged her pack out into the cold. Three stewards and one soldier, an older man with a dark beard who held the door open, offered to carry it for her. She shook her head and smiled. The pack was light. Gone were the days of bringing six silk dresses, hoopskirts, corsets, girdles, and a headdress—just in case. She planned to sleep in the clothes she traveled in and learn to do without almost everything else. All she really needed was the robe. The wind blew snow in her face, freezing her nose. Her feet felt the cold, but the rest of her was immune, protected by the shimmering garment.
As she crossed the courtyard, the only light came from within the stable, and the loudest noise from her boots as they crushed the snow.
“Your Highness!” A boy chased after her, gingerly holding a steaming cup in both hands. “Ibis Thinly sent this to you.” He shivered, dressed only in light wool.
She took the cup. “Tell him thank you.”
The boy made a feeble bow and turned so fast to run back that his foot slipped and he fell to one knee.
The cup contained tea, and it felt wonderfully hot in her chilled fingers. The steam warmed her face as she sipped. Ibis had prepared a wonderful meal for everyone, laying it out across two tables. Arista had only glanced at the plates. It was too early to eat. She rarely ate breakfast. Her stomach needed time to wake up before going to work. That morning the thought of food was abhorrent. Her stomach was knotted and riding high. She knew she would pay later for skipping the meal. Somewhere along the road she would regret not having eaten something.
The stable smelled of wet straw and horse manure. Both doors stood open, leaving a path for the wind, which jingled the harnesses. Gusts harassed the lanterns and ripped through gaps in the walls, producing a loud fluttering howl as if a massive flock of sparrows were taking flight every few seconds.
“I’ll take that, Your Highness,” a groom offered. He was a short, stocky older man with a bristling beard and a knit hat that slumped to one side. He had two bridles draped around his neck and a bale hook hanging from his belt. He grabbed her pack and walked to the wagon. “You’ll be riding back here,” he told her. “I’ve made a right comfortable spot for you. I got a soft pillow from a chambermaid and three thick blankets. You’ll ride in style, you will.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be needing a horse and a sidesaddle.”
The groom looked at her with a blank stare, his mouth open, his lips thick and cracked. “But—Your Highness, where you’re going—it’s quite a ways from here, ain’t it? Right awful weather too. You won’t want to be atop no horse.”
She smiled at him, then turned and walked up the aisle between the stalls. The aisle was brick, the stalls were dirt, and everything lay covered in bits of straw. The rear ends of a dozen horses faced her, swishing tails and shifting weight from one hoof to the other. Cobwebs gathered in corners, catching hay and forming snarled nests even in the rafters. The walls all bore a stain a full foot from the bottom—the high manure mark, she guessed. She stopped without thinking before a stall. This was where she had spent a night with Hilfred, where he had held her, where he had stroked her hair—kissed her. A pleasant-looking gray mare was there now. The horse turned her head and Arista saw a white nose and dark eyes. “What do you call this one?”
The groom slapped the horse’s rump fondly. “This here girl is called Princess.”
Arista smiled. “Saddle her for me.”
Arista led Princess out into the courtyard. The groom followed close behind with the wagon. The team of horses puffed great clouds into the morning air. A crowd of people came out to the steps of the palace wrapped in dark cloaks, heads draped in hoods. They spoke in soft voices and whispers, clustering in small groups; some cried. The gathering reminded Arista of a funeral.