Royce took another drink and then set his glass down before asking, “They’re going to kill Hadrian, aren’t they?”
“Yes. The regents know they can’t just let him go. After he kills Breckton, they will arrest him for murder, throw him in prison, and execute him along with Gaunt and Arista on Wintertide.”
“Why do they want Breckton dead?”
“They offered him Melengar in order to separate him from Ballentyne. He refused, and now they’re afraid the Earl of Chadwick will attempt to use Breckton to overthrow the empire. They’re spooked and feel their only chance to eliminate him is by using a Teshlor-trained warrior. Nice skills to have in a partner, by the way—good choice.”
Royce sipped his wine and thought awhile. “Can you save him?”
“Hadrian?” Merrick paused and then answered, “Yes.”
The word hung there.
“What do you want?” Royce said.
“Interesting that you should ask. As it turns out, I have another job that you would be perfect for.”
“What kind?”
“Find-and-recover. I can’t give you the details yet, but it’s dangerous. Two other groups have already failed. Of course, I wasn’t involved in those attempts, and you weren’t leading the operation. Agree to take the job and I’ll make sure nothing happens to Hadrian.”
“I’ve retired.”
“I heard that rumor.”
Royce drained his glass and stood. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long, Royce. If you want me to work this, I’ll need a couple of days to prepare. Trust me, you’ll want my help. A dungeon rescue will fail. The prison is dwarven made.”
CHAPTER 14
TOURNAMENT DAY
The morning dawned to the wails and cries of the doomed. The snow ran red as axe and mallet slaughtered livestock whose feed had run out. Blood Week happened every winter, but exactly what day it began depended on the bounty of the fall harvest. For an orphan in Aquesta, the best part of winter was Blood Week.
Nothing went to waste—feet, snouts, and even bones sold—but with so much to cleave, butchers could not keep track of every cut. The city’s poor circled the butcher shops like human vultures, searching for an inattentive cutter. Most butchers hired extra help, but they always underestimated the dangers. There were never enough arms carrying the meat to safety or enough eyes keeping lookout. A few daring raids even managed to carry off whole legs of beef. As the day wore on and workers grew exhausted, some desperate butchers resorted to hiring the very thieves they guarded against.
Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim’s Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim’s cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. He snatched it and ran with the bloody fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.
He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswall, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless. The other two boys could hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now, and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.
Arriving on the street in front of the Bingham Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend’s loud wheezing had frequently woken Mince, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.
Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys—friends—who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form had once been a person—laughing, joking, running, crying—then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile—there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.