“Exhausted,” Brand agreed.
“Probably been riding all night in the storm,” Elbright said with a hungry smile. “Go on, Brand, do the old helpful stable-boy routine. Now, Mince, watch how this is done. It might be your only hope, as you’ve got no talent for purse cutting.”
Royce and Hadrian entered Imperial Square on ice-laden horses. Defending against the cold, the two appeared as ghosts shrouded in snowy blankets. Despite wearing all they had, they were ill-equipped for the winter roads, much less the mountain passes that lay between Ratibor and Aquesta. The all-night snowstorm had only added to their hardship. As the two drew their horses to a stop, Royce noticed Hadrian breathing into his cupped hands. Neither of them had winter gloves. Hadrian had wrapped his fingers in torn strips from his blanket, while Royce opted for pulling his hands into the shelter of his sleeves. The sight of his own handless arms disturbed Royce as they reminded him of the old wizard. The two had learned the details of his murder while passing through Ratibor. Assassinated late one night, Esrahaddon had been silenced forever.
They had meant to get gloves, but as soon as they had arrived in Ratibor, they saw announcements proclaiming the Nationalist leader’s upcoming execution. The empire planned to publicly burn Degan Gaunt in the imperial capital of Aquesta as part of the Wintertide celebrations. After Hadrian and Royce had spent months traversing high seas and dark jungles seeking Gaunt, to have found his whereabouts tacked up to every tavern door in the city was as much a blow as a blessing. Fearing some new calamity might arise to stop them from finally reaching him, they left early the next morning, long before the trade shops opened.
Unwrapping his scarf, Royce drew back his hood and looked around. The snow-covered palace took up the entire southern side of the square, while shops and vendors dominated the rest. Furriers displayed trimmed capes and hats. Shoemakers cajoled passers-by, offering to oil their boots. Bakers tempted travelers with snowflake-shaped cookies and white-powdered pastries. And colorful banners were everywhere announcing the upcoming festival.
Royce had just dismounted when a boy ran up. “Take your horses, sirs? One night in a stable for just a silver each. I’ll brush them down myself and see they get good oats too.”
Dismounting and pulling back his own hood, Hadrian smiled at the boy. “Will you sing them a lullaby at night?”
“Certainly, sir,” the boy replied without losing a beat. “It will cost you two coppers more, but I do have a very fine voice, I does.”
“Any stable in the city will quarter a horse for five coppers,” Royce challenged.
“Not this month, sir. Wintertide pricing started three days back. Stables and rooms fill up fast. Especially this year. You’re lucky you got here early. In another two weeks, they’ll be stocking horses in the fields behind hunters’ blinds. The only lodgings will be on dirt floors, where people will be stacked like cordwood for five silvers each. I know the best places and the lowest costs in the city. A silver is a good price right now. In a few days it’ll cost you twice that.”
Royce eyed him closely. “What’s your name?”
“Brand the Bold they call me.” He straightened up, adjusting the collar of his tunic.
Hadrian chuckled and asked, “Why is that?”
“’Cuz I don’t never back down from a fight, sir.”
“Is that where you got your tunic?” Royce asked.
The boy looked down as if noticing the garment for the first time. “This old thing? I got five better ones at home. I’m just wearing this rag so I don’t get the good ones wet in the snow.”
“Well, Brand, do you think you can take these horses to The Bailey Inn at Hall and Coswall and stable them there?”
“I could indeed, sir. And a fine choice, I might add. It’s run by a reputable owner charging fair prices. I was just going to suggest that very place.”
Royce gave him a smirk. He turned his attention to two boys who stood at a distance, pretending not to know Brand. Royce waved for them to come over. The boys appeared hesitant, but when he repeated the gesture, they reluctantly obliged.
“What are your names?” he asked.
“Elbright, sir,” the taller of the two replied. This boy was older than Brand and had a knife concealed beneath his cloak. Royce guessed he was the real leader of their group and had sent Brand over to make the play.
“Mince, sir,” said the other, who looked to be the youngest and whose hair showed evidence of having recently been cut with a dull knife. The boy wore little more than rags of stained, worn wool. His shirt and pants exposed the bright pink skin of his wrists and shins. Of all his clothing, the item that fit best was a torn woven bag draped over his shoulders. The same material wrapped his feet, secured around his ankles by twine.