Albert Winslow walked quickly through Aquesta, holding his heavy cloak tightly around him, its hood raised. He regretted not switching to boots, as his buckled shoes were treacherous on the icy cobblestones. He could have taken a carriage. The palace had a few available for hire, but walking made it easier to determine if he was being followed. Glancing back, Albert found the street empty.
By the time he entered The Bailey Inn, the fire in the common room was burning low. An elderly man slept near the hearth, a cup of brandy nearly spilling in his lap. Albert walked quickly to the stairs and up to his room. He would write out a note, leave it on the table, and then head back to the palace. Formulating the wording in his head, he took out a key and unlocked the door.
How do I begin to explain what I just saw?
Instead of entering a cold, dark room, he found a fire burning, lighted candles on the table, and—lying on his bed with boots still on—a dwarf.
“Magnus?”
The door closed abruptly, and Albert spun to see Royce behind him. “You should remember to lock your door,” the thief said.
Albert smirked. “I won’t even dignify that with a comment. When did you get back?”
“Not long enough ago to get any rest,” Magnus grumbled. “He drove us like dogs to get here.”
“Hey, watch the boots,” Albert said, slapping them with the back of his hand.
“What’s happened with Hadrian?” Royce spoke sharply, his hood still up.
When Albert first met Royce, the viscount had been a drunk living in a farmer’s barn outside Colnora. Reduced to selling his clothes piecemeal to buy rum, he was down to little more than his nightshirt and old rags. Wailing about the misfortune of being the noble son of a spendthrift father, he offered Royce and Hadrian his silk nightshirt for five copper tenents. Royce had made him a better offer. Riyria needed a nobleman to work as a liaison to the wealthy and privileged—a respectable face to sell disreputable services. They cleaned him up, paid for new clothes, and provided all the trappings of success that a viscount required. They gave him back his dignity, and Albert was noble once more. From then on the viscount saw Royce as a friend, but at times like this—when Royce’s hood was raised, and his voice harsh—even Albert was scared of him.
“Well?” Royce pressed, stepping closer and causing Albert to back up. “Is he in prison? They didn’t…”
“What? No!” Albert shook his head. “You’re actually not going to believe this. I just came from the Feast of the Nobles, the big opening party for the Wintertide celebration. Everyone was there, kings, bishops, knights, you name it.”
“Get to the point, Albert.”
“I am. Hadrian was there too.”
Albert saw Royce’s hands form fists. “What were they doing to him?”
“Oh no, nothing like that—they were feeding him. He was—They made him a knight, Royce—a knight of the empire. You should have seen the outfit he was wearing.”
At this, even the dwarf sat up.
“What? Speak sense, you crazy—”
“I swear. It’s the truth! Regent Saldur even came over and told the whole table this nutty story about how Hadrian fought for the Imperialists at the Battle of Ratibor and was knighted because of it. Can you believe that?”
“No, I don’t. Have you been drinking again?”
“Just a bit of wine. I’m sober. I swear,” Albert said.
“But why would they do such a thing? Were you able to get near him? What did he say?”
“He wasn’t able to speak freely and hinted that he was being watched, but I think he’s competing in the tournament. It sounded like the regents made him some kind of deal.”
“The tournament at Highcourt?”
“Yes. He made it pretty clear that we shouldn’t interfere or try to help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I feel ridiculous,” Amilia whispered to Nimbus as she pushed her plate away.
One hundred and twenty-three pairs of eyes stared at her. She knew the exact number. She knew which rulers brought wives and which sat with courtesans. She knew who was sensitive to drafts and who was uncomfortable near the heat of the hearth. She knew which princess refused to sit beside which countess. She knew who held power and which ones were just puppets. She knew every quirk and foible, every bias and fear, every name and title—but not a single face.
They were manageable as slips of parchment, but now they were all here—staring. No, not staring. Their expressions were too malicious and filled with contempt for something as benign as staring. In their eyes she could see the exasperation and she knew what they were thinking: How is it that she—the poor daughter of a carriage maker—sits at the empress’s table? She felt as though one hundred and twenty-three wolves snarled at her with exposed teeth.