Percepliquis

CHAPTER 7

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.

She knew many of the faces, even if she did not know all the names.

Alenda Lanaklin stood beside Denek, Lenare, and Belinda Pickering as they said goodbye to Mauvin and Alric. Mauvin threw his head back, laughing at something. It sounded wrong-too loud, too much effort. With her left hand, Belinda dabbed at her eyes with a cloth; her right hand gripped Mauvin’s sleeve with white fingers. Alenda looked over the crowd, managing to catch Myron’s attention. She waved to him. The monk paused in his efforts to pet the noses of the team of brown geldings harnessed to the wagon. He smiled and hesitantly waved back.

Not far away, two men Arista did not know spoke with the empress. One wore a plumed cavalier hat, a red and black doublet, high leather boots, and a heavy sailor’s wrap. The other man towered over everyone present. His head reminded Arista of a barrel, wide and flat on top and bottom, with vertical creases like wooden slats. He was mostly bald and missing one ear and sporting several ugly scars, one that split his lower lip. A thick, untailored cape draped him like a tent. Arista speculated he had merely cut a hole in a thick blanket and pulled his head through. At his side was a huge, crude axe, hanging naked from a rough bit of raw leather.

“Do what the empress tells you,” Arista heard the sailor say. “She’ll take care of you until I come back.”

A few feet away, Hadrian stood speaking with a man, a refugee from Melengar. He was a viscount, but she did not know his name. An attractive young woman rushed up, went up on her toes, and kissed Hadrian. The viscount called her Emerald.

What kind of name is that?

Hadrian hugged her, pulling Emerald off the ground. She giggled. Her left leg bent at the knee. She was very cute-smaller than Arista, thinner, younger. The princess wondered if he had dozens of women like this all over Avryn, or if this Emerald was special. Watching them together, seeing his arms around her, watching them kiss, she felt an emptiness, as if there were a hole inside her. She felt an ache, a pain like a weight pressing on her chest, and told herself to look away. After another minute, she actually did.

Twelve riding horses and two hitched to the wagon, fourteen animals in all, stood waiting in the snow. On four of the horses sat five young boys-squires, Hadrian called them-who he had recruited to act as servants and watch after the animals. All Arista knew about them were their names: Renwick, Elbright, Brand, Kine, and Mince. The last boy was so small that he rode double with Kine. They waited sitting straight and trying to look serious and grown up.

The buckboard, filled with their provisions and covered with a heavy canvas tarp, had its wheels removed and was fitted with snow runners. Huddled on the forward bench, glancing only occasionally at the crowd and adjusting his hood with a disgusted, angry expression, was the dwarf. Beneath his heavy brows, beneath his large nose and frowning mouth, his long braided beard had recently been cut short. The dwarf’s fingers absently played with it the way a tongue might play with the space left by a missing tooth. He grumbled and sneered, but she could not find any sympathy for him. It was the first time she had seen Magnus since the day he had slammed the door in her face-less than a week after his hand had murdered her father.

Royce Melborn stood alone in the snow. He waited silently across the courtyard near the gate, his dark cloak fluttering lightly with the breeze-a small shadow near the wall. No one appeared to notice him except Hadrian, who kept a watchful eye, and Magnus, who repeatedly glanced over nervously. Royce never looked at any of them. His head faced the gate, the city, and the road beyond.

Amilia exited the palace, wrapped in heavy wool. She pushed through the crowd and crossed the yard to Arista. Trapped under her arm was a parchment, wrinkled and creased. In her hands was what looked to be a short whip.

“This is for you,” she said, holding out what Arista now recognized as the severed half of the dwarf’s beard, still neatly braided. “Being aware of Magnus’s tendency to disappear, Modina took the precaution of snipping some hair for you.”

She nodded. “Give her my thanks. Do you know where Gaunt is?”

“He’s coming.”

The castle doors opened once more and Degan Gaunt stepped out. He was clad in a belted fur-lined houppelande and a chaperon hat with a full bourrelet wrapped around his head and a long cornette that streamed nearly to the ground. The elaborate houppelande was worn complete with huge bell sleeves and a long train, which dragged across the ground, softly grading the snow behind him.

“The future emperor has arrived,” Amilia whispered, and then added, “He thought his clothes needed to reflect his future status and he didn’t want to be cold.”

“Can he ride in that?”

Before the secretary could answer, a page ran out before Gaunt carrying two large silk pillows and a blanket. He proceeded to lay them out on the wagon’s bench. The dwarf forgot his beard as he looked at the pillows beside him with another sneer.

“I’m not riding beside a dwarf. Get that runt off of there,” Gaunt said. “Hadrian will drive the wagon.” When no one made a move, he added, “Do you hear me?”

Arista pulled herself onto Princess’s back, swung her leg over the sidesaddle horn, and trotted rapidly to Gaunt. She reined the animal only a few feet short of Gaunt, causing him to step back. She glared down at him. “Magnus rides on the wagon because he’s too short for the horses, and he is perfectly capable of driving it, true?”

The dwarf nodded.

“Good.”

“But I do not wish to travel with him.”

“Then you may ride on a horse.”

Gaunt sighed. “I’ve been told this will be a long journey and I do not wish to spend it on the back of a horse.”

“Then you can sit beside Magnus. Either way-it doesn’t matter.”

“I just told you I don’t want to sit beside a dwarf.” Gaunt glared at Magnus with a grimace. “And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“And I don’t appreciate your obstinacy. You can ride beside Magnus, ride on a horse, or walk, for all I care. But regardless, we are leaving.” She raised her head and her voice. “Mount up!”

At her command, they all found their rides and climbed aboard. Looking livid, Gaunt stood staring at the princess.

Arista pulled on the reins and turned her mare to face Modina, who was holding Allie’s hand. This left Gaunt facing the rear of her mare.

“I swear I will do all I can to find the horn and return with it as soon as possible.”

“I know,” Modina replied. “May Maribor guide your path.”

Alric and Mauvin rode at the head of the party, although the king did not know where they were going. He had studied many maps but only set foot out of Melengar on three occasions. Alric had never traveled that far south and he had never heard of Amberton Lee before the meeting. He trusted someone would tell him when to turn-Arista, most likely.

They traveled the Old Southern Road, which Alric knew from maps ran all the way to Tur Del Fur, at the southern tip of Delgos. As they passed through the Adendal Durat, the road was little more than a cleft in the ridge that sliced through the rocky mountains as it dropped down from the plateau of Warric to the plain of Rhenydd. Snow drifted in the pass such that on occasion, they needed to dismount and pull the horses through, but the road remained passable. Months of sun followed by bitter nights had left a crust on the surface that crunched under the horses’ hooves and left icicles, hanging thick like frozen waterfalls, across the face of the rocky cliffs. The height of winter was over, days grew longer, and while the world lay buried, it was not as deep as it once had been.

No one talked much during the course of the morning. Gaunt and Magnus were particularly quiet, neither saying a word nor looking at each other. Degan sat bundled, his long train wrapping his body and head so only his nose remained exposed. Magnus appeared oblivious to the cold as he drove the wagon with bare ruddy hands. His breath iced his mustache and what remained of his beard, leaving him with a frozen grimace of irritated misery. Alric felt better seeing his discomfort.

Royce and Hadrian rode at the rear of the party, and Alric never noticed either speak. Royce rode absently, his hood up, his head down, bobbing as if he were asleep. The five boys were with them. They whispered among themselves occasionally, as servants were prone to do. The sailor they called Wyatt rode beside his giant friend. Alric had never seen a man that size before. They had provided him a draft horse and still his feet hung nearly to the ground, the stirrups left dangling. Wyatt had whispered a few words to the giant at the start, but Elden never spoke.

The only conversation, the only break from the droning crunch of snow and panting breath of the animals, was that of Myron and Arista. A quarter hour did not pass without the monk pointing out some curiosity to her. Alric had forgotten Myron’s fascination with everything-no matter how trivial. Myron found the twenty-foot icicles hanging from the cliffside nothing short of a miracle. He also pointed out designs he found in the rock formations-one he swore looked like the face of a bearded man. Arista smiled politely and even offered a laugh on occasion. It was a girl’s laugh, high and light, natural and unburdened. Alric would feel self-conscious to laugh so openly. His sister did not seem to care what those around her thought.

Alric hated how she had taken charge when setting out. As much as he had enjoyed the look on Gaunt’s face when she had barked at him in the courtyard, he disliked the bold way his sister acted. If only she had given him the time to act. He was the king, after all. The empress might have given Arista authority to organize the expedition, but that did not extend to leading it. She had never satisfactorily explained why she was along, anyway. He had assumed she would ride quietly in the wagon and leave commanding the venture to him but he should have known better. Given her theatrics in the courtyard, it was surprising that she still rode sidesaddle and had not taken to wearing breeches. They escaped the tight pass before noon as morning clouds finally gave up their tight grip on the world. Ahead the land dropped away, leaving a magnificent view to the south. Alric spotted Ratibor in the distant valley. The whole city appeared no larger than his thumb and from that distance it looked beautiful, a clustered glen in a sea of forest and field.

“There,” Hadrian announced from the rear, pointing toward a shining river to the east. “You can see Amberton Lee-sort of. Down near the Bernum River, where it bends. See there, how the land rises up into three hills.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Arista agreed. “I remember.” She looked up at the sky. “We won’t make it today.”

“We could spend the night in Ratibor,” Hadrian offered. “It’s only a few miles. We could reach it by nightfall.”

“Well, I don’t-” Arista began.

“We will head to Ratibor,” Alric declared quickly, causing Arista to look at him in surprise.

“I was just going to say,” she went on, “if we veer east now, we’ll be that much closer in the morning.”

“But there is no road,” Alric told her. “We can’t be wandering through the snowy fields.”

“Why not?”

“Who knows how deep that snow is and what lies beneath?”

“Royce can find us a route through; he’s good at that,” Hadrian said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Arista agreed.

“No, Ratibor is a much better choice,” Alric said loudly. “We’ll get a good night’s rest, then push on at first light and be there by noon.”

“But, Alric-”

“You heard my decision!” He kicked his horse and trotted down the road, feeling their eyes on his back.

Hooves trotted up behind him. He expected it to be his sister and dreaded the argument, but he would not back down. Alric turned hotly only to see Mauvin with his hair flying. The rest of the group followed twenty feet behind them, but they were moving in his direction. He let his horse slow to a walk.

“What was that all about?” Mauvin asked, moving alongside, where the two horses naturally fell into the same pace.

“Oh, nothing.” He sighed. “Just trying to remind her who’s king. She forgets, you know.”

“So many years, so few changes,” Mauvin said softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mauvin only smiled. “Personally, I prefer your idea. Who wants to sleep in the snow if you can have a bed? Besides, I’d like to see Ratibor. It was on our list, remember?”

Alric nodded. “We were also supposed to go to Tur Del Fur.”

“Yeah, but let’s save that for another time, since it’s under new management and all,” Mauvin mentioned. “I still can’t believe we are on our way to Percepliquis. That was always the big prize-the dream.”

“Still hoping to find the Teshlor Codes?”

Mauvin chuckled. “That’s right. I was going to discover the secret techniques of the Teshlor Knights. You remember that, do you? I was supposed to be the first one in a thousand years to possess that knowledge. I would have guarded it jealously and been the greatest warrior alive.” Mauvin glanced behind them. “Not much chance of that now. Even if I did find them, I could never match Hadrian. He grew up with it and was taught by a master. That was a stupid dream, anyway. A boy’s fantasy. The kind of thing a kid thinks before actually seeing blood on a blade. When you are young, you think you can do anything, you know? And then…” He sighed and turned away. Alric noticed his hand go up to his face briefly before settling on the pommel of his sword, only it was not Mauvin’s sword.

“I didn’t notice before,” Alric told him, nodding toward Mauvin’s side.

“This is the first time I’ve worn it.” He pulled his hand away self-consciously. “I’ve wanted it for so long. I used to see my father wield it-so beautiful, so elegant. I dreamed of it sometimes. All I ever wanted to do was hold it, swing it, and hear it sing in the air for me.”

Alric nodded.

“What about you?” Mauvin asked. “Are you still interested in finding Novron’s crown?”

The king huffed and might have laughed if the statement had not seemed so ironic. “I already have a crown.”

“Yeah,” Mauvin said sadly.

Alric spoke in a voice just loud enough for Mauvin to hear. “Sometimes the price of dreams is achieving them.”

They were just closing the city gate for the night when the party arrived in Ratibor. Arista did not recognize the guard. He was a burly, balding man in a rough stitched rawhide coat who waved at them impatiently to get inside.

“Where is a good place to find lodgings for the night, my good man?” Alric asked, circling his mount on the guard as he went about locking down the city.

“Aquesta. Ha!” The man laughed.

“I meant here.”

“I knows what ya meant,” he said gruffly. “The Gnome has open rooms, I think.”

“The Gnome?”

“It’s a tavern,” Arista explained. “The Laughing Gnome-King’s Street and Lore.”

The guard eyed her curiously.

“Thank you,” she said, quickly kicking her horse. “This way.”

The heavy scent of manure and urine that Arista had remembered as the prominent smell of Ratibor was replaced by the thick smell of wood smoke. Other than that, the city had changed little from the last time she had been there. Streets ran in awkward lines, forcing adjoining buildings to conform to the resulting spaces often with strange results, such as shops in the shapes of wedges of cheese. The wooden planks that used to bridge the rivers of muck lay buried beneath a thick layer of snow. The winter had stolen the leaves from the trees and the wind ripped along empty streets. Nothing but the snow moved. Arista had expected winter would brighten the place and bury the filth, but instead she found it bleak and barren.

She rode in the lead now. Behind her, she could hear Alric grumbling. He spoke too low for her to catch the words, but his tone was clear. He was unhappy with her-again. Any other time, she might have fallen back, apologized for whatever it was she had done wrong, and tried to make him feel better. But she was cold, hungry, and tired. She wanted to get to the tavern. His feelings could hurt at least until they were settled.

As they approached Central Square, she tried to keep her eyes down and focus on the snow where Princess walked, but she could not resist. When they were in the exact middle of the square, her eyes ignored her will and looked up. The post was still there, but the ropes were gone. Dark and slender, nearly blending into the background, it was a physical reminder of what might have been.

There is blood under the snow, she thought.

Her breath shortened and her lip began to quiver. Then she noticed someone riding beside her. Arista was not aware if she had heard his approach, or merely sensed his presence, but suddenly Hadrian was an arm’s length away. He did not look at her or speak. He merely rode quietly alongside. This was the first time he had left Royce’s side since they had started out, and she wondered what had brought him forward. Arista wanted to believe he joined her because he knew how she felt. It was silly, but it made her feel better to think it.

The signboard above the door at the public house was crowned in snow and yet remained as gruesome as ever. The obscenely large open mouth, hairy pointed ears, and squinting eyes of the namesake gnome glared down at them.

Arista halted, slid off her mount, and stepped onto the boardwalk. “Perhaps the rest of you should wait here while Hadrian and I make arrangements.”

Alric coughed and she caught him glaring at her.

“Hadrian and I know this city. It will just be faster if we go,” she told him. “ You were the one that wanted to come here.”

He frowned and she sighed. Waving for Hadrian to follow, she passed under the sign of The Laughing Gnome. A flickering yellow light and warm air that smelled of grease and smoke greeted them. A shaggy spotted dog scampered over, trying to lick their hands. Hadrian caught him just as he jumped up toward her. He let the dog’s forepaws rest on his thighs as he scrubbed behind its ears, causing the animal to hang its tongue.

The common room was empty except for two people huddled near the hearth-so different from the first time she had been there. She stared off at a spot near the center where a fiery-haired young man had once held the room spellbound.

This was the place. It was here I saw Emery for the very first time.

She had never thought about it before, but this revelation made the room sacred to her. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Hadrian gave her a gentle squeeze.

She spotted Ayers behind the bar, wiping out mugs. He was wearing the same apron, which appeared to have the same stains. The innkeeper had not shaved in a day or two, and his hair was mussed, and his face moist.

“What can I do ya for?” he asked as they approached, the dog trailing behind, pawing at Hadrian for more attention.

“We’d like rooms.” Arista counted on her fingers. “There are fifteen in our party, so maybe four rooms? Do your rooms sleep four?”

“They can, but I usually charge by the pair.”

“Oh, okay, so then seven rooms if you have them, I guess-the boys can all sleep in one room. Do you have vacancy?”

“Oh, I’ve got ’em. No one here but the mice. All the folk heading down from Wintertide passed through weeks ago. No one travels this time a’ year. No need to…” He trailed off as he looked intently at Arista. His narrow eyes began widening. “Why, ain’t you-I mean, yer her-ain’t you? Where have you been?”

Embarrassed, she glanced at Hadrian. She had been hoping to avoid this. “We’d just like the rooms.”

“By Mar! It is you!” he said, loud enough to catch the attention of the two near the fire. “Everyone said you was dead.”

“Almost. But really, we have people waiting in the cold. Can we get rooms? And we have horses too that-”

“Jimmy! Jimmy! Get your arse in here, boy!”

A freckle-faced kid, as thin as a Black Diamond member, rushed out of the kitchen, bursting through the doors with a startled look on his face.

“Horses outside need stabling. Get on it.”

The boy nodded, and as he stepped by Ayers, the proprietor whispered something in his ear. The lad looked at Arista and his mouth opened as if it had just gained weight. A moment later he was running.

“You understand we’re tired,” Arista told the innkeeper. “It has been a long day of riding and we need to leave early in the morning. We are just looking for a quiet night.”

“Oh, absolutely! But you’ll be wantin’ supper, right?”

Arista glanced at Hadrian, who nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Wonderful. I’ll get something special for you.”

“That’s not necessary. We don’t want to cause any-”

“Nonsense,” Ayers told her. “Rusty!” he shouted over her head toward the two at the hearth, who were now on their feet, hesitantly inching closer. “Run and tell Engles I want his cut of pork.”

“Pork?” the man replied. “You can’t serve her no smoked pork! Benjamin Braddock got a prize lamb he’s kept alive all winter, feeds it like a baby, he does.”

“Yeah, real sweet animal,” the other man said.

“Okay, okay, tell him to get it to Engles and have it butchered.”

“How much you willing ta pay?”

“Just tell him who it’s for, and if he wants to come ask her for money, let him.”

“Oh please, this isn’t necessary,” Arista said.

“He’s been saving that lamb for a special occasion,” Rusty told her, and smiled. “I can’t see how he can expect a better one.”

The door opened and the rest of the party entered, dusting snow off their heads and shoulders and stomping their feet. Once inside, Gaunt let go his train and threw back his hood, shivering. He walked directly toward the fire with his hands outstretched and brought to Arista’s mind the image of a giant peacock.

Rusty nudged his buddy. “That’s Degan Gaunt.”

“By Mar,” Ayers said, shaking his head. “If’n you get a drop, it’s a flood. And look at him all dressed up like a king. He’s one of your group?”

Arista nodded.

“Blimey,” Rusty said, staring now at Hadrian. “I seen this fella afore too-just a few weeks ago. He’s the tourney champion. He unhorsed everyone ’cept Breckton, and he only missed ’cuz he didn’t want ta kill him.” He looked at Hadrian with admiration. “You woulda dropped him if’n you’d had the chance. I know it.”

“Who else you got with you?” Ayers asked, looking overwhelmed. “The Heir of Novron?”

Arista and Hadrian exchanged glances.

“Our rooms-where are they?” Alric asked, joining them as he shook the wet out of his hood.

“I-ah-let me show you.” Ayers grabbed a box of keys and led the way up the stairs.

As she climbed, Arista looked down at the empty space below and remembered how they had spent forty-five silver to sleep there. “How much for the rooms?”

Ayers paused, turned, and chuckled.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he threw his arms out. “Here you are.”

“Which rooms?”

Ayers grinned. “Take the whole floor.”

“How much?” Alric asked.

Ayers laughed. “I’m not charging you-I can’t charge you. I’d be strung up. You get settled in and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Alric grinned. “See? I told you it was worth coming. They are very friendly here.”

“For her,” Ayers said, nodding in Arista’s direction, “nothing in this city has a price.”

Alric frowned.

“That is very kind,” she told him. “But given our situation, I think five rooms will still be best.”

“What? Why?” Alric said.

“I don’t think we want to leave Magnus or Gaunt unsupervised, do you?”

Hadrian, Royce, Myron, and Gaunt took one room. Wyatt, Elden, Magnus, and Mauvin took the second, and the boys took the third. Alric insisted on his own room, which left Arista alone as well.

“Relax as long as you like,” Ayers told them. “Feel free to come down and enjoy the hearth. I’ll roll out my best keg and uncork my finest bottles. If you choose to sleep, I’ll send Jimmy to knock on your doors as soon as the meal is ready. And I just want to say, it’s a great honor to have you here.” He said the last part while staring at Arista.

She heard Alric sigh.

Wyatt lay on one of the beds, stretching out his sore muscles. Elden sat across from him on the other bed, his huge head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The bed bent under the pressure. Wyatt could see the ropes drooping down below the frame. Elden caught Wyatt’s look and stared back with sad, innocent eyes. Like Allie, Elden trusted him. He gave the big man a reassuring smile.

“Stop! Don’t touch that!” Mauvin shouted, and every head in the room turned. The count was hanging his cloak on a string with the other wet clothes. He glared at Magnus, who had a hand outreached toward the pommel of Pickering’s sword, which was sheathed and hanging by a belt slung over the bedpost.

Magnus raised a bushy eyebrow and frowned. “What is it with you humans? And you call us misers! Do you think I’ll stuff it under my shirt and walk off with it? It’s as tall as I am!”

“I don’t care. Leave it be.”

“It’s a fine weapon,” the dwarf said, his hand retreating, but his eyes drinking it in. “Where did you get it?”

“It was my father’s.” Mauvin advanced to the end of the bed and grabbed his sword.

“Where did he get it?”

“It’s a family heirloom, passed down for generations.” Mauvin held the sword in his hand gingerly, as if it were an injured sparrow needing reassuring after its narrow escape from the dwarf. Wyatt had not noticed the weapon before, but now that his attention was drawn, he saw that it was an uncommonly attractive sword. It was elegant in its simplicity; the lines were perfect and the metal of the hilt shone bright. Almost imperceptible were fine decorative lines.

“I meant, how did yer family come to have it? It is a rare man who owns such a blade as this.”

“I suppose one of my ancestors made it, or paid for it to be made.”

The dwarf made a disgusting noise in his throat. “This was not made by some corner blacksmith with a brat pumping a bellows. That there, lad, was forged in natural fires in the dark of a new moon. Your kind didn’t touch it for centuries.”

“My kind? Are you saying this is dwarven?”

Again the noise of reproach. “Bah! Not by my kin-that blade is elvish and a fine one at that, or I’ve never worn a beard.”

Mauvin looked at him skeptically.

“Does she sing when she travels the air? Catch the light around her and trap it in her blade? Never grow dull even if used as a shovel or an axe? Cut through steel? Cut through other blades?”

Mauvin’s face answered the dwarf. The count slowly drew it out. The blade shimmered in the lamplight like glass.

“Oh yes, she’s an elven blade, boy, drawn from stone and metal, formed in the heat of the world, and tempered in pure water by the First Ones, the Children of Ferrol. No finer blade have I laid my eyes on save one.”

Mauvin slipped it back and frowned. “Just don’t touch it, okay?”

Wyatt heard the dwarf grumble something about having his beard cut off; then Magnus moved to the bed on the other side of the room, where he was too far for Wyatt to hear. Mauvin still held the blade, rubbing his fingers over the pommel; his eyes had a faraway look.

They were strangers to Wyatt. Mauvin, he knew, was a count of Melengar and close friend of King Alric. He had also heard that he was a good sword fighter. His younger brother had been killed in a sword fight some years back. His father had died recently-killed by the elves. He seemed a decent sort. A bit moody, perhaps, but all right. Still, he was noble and Wyatt had never had many dealings with them, so he decided to be cautious and quiet.

He kept a closer eye on the dwarf and wondered about the “misunderstandings” the empress had spoken of.

How do I keep getting myself into these situations?

Poor Elden. Wyatt had no idea what he made of all this.

“How you feeling?” Wyatt asked.

Elden shrugged.

“Want to go down for the meal, or have me bring you back a plate?”

Again a shrug.

“Does he talk?” Mauvin asked.

“When he wants to,” Wyatt replied.

“You’re the sailors, right?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I’m Mauvin Pickering,” he said, putting out his hand.

Wyatt took it. “Wyatt Deminthal, and this is Elden.”

The count looked Elden over. “What does he do on a ship?”

“Whatever he wants, I should think,” Magnus muttered. This brought a reluctant smile to everyone’s lips, including those of the dwarf, who clearly had not meant it as a joke but gave in just the same.

“Where are you from-Magnus, is it?” Wyatt asked. “Is there a land of dwarves?”

The dwarf’s smile faded. “Not anymore.” He clearly meant that to be the end of it, but Wyatt continued to stare and now Mauvin and Elden were doing likewise. “From up north-the mountains of Trent.”

“Is it nice there?”

“It’s a ghetto-dirty, cramped, and hopeless, like every place they let dwarves live. Satisfied?”

Wyatt regretted saying anything. An awkward silence followed until the tension was broken by a pounding at the door and a cheerful shout: “Meal is ready!”

The knock came to their door announcing supper and Hadrian and Myron were first on their feet. Royce, who sat on a stiff wooden chair in the corner by the window, did not stir. His back was to them as he stared out at the dark. Perhaps his elven eyes could see more than the blackness of the glassy pane, perhaps he was watching people moving below, or the windows of the shops across the street, but Hadrian doubted he was even aware of the window itself.

Royce had not said a word since they had left Aquesta. When he bothered, he communicated in nods. Royce was always quiet, but this was unusual even for him. More disturbing than his silence were his eyes. Royce always watched the road, the eaves of the forest, the horizon, always looking, scanning for trouble, but not that day. The thief rode for over nine hours without once looking up. Hadrian could not tell if he stared at the saddle or the ground. Royce might have been asleep except that his hands continually played with the ends of the reins, twisting them with such force that Hadrian could hear the leather cry.

“Hadrian, fetch me a plate of whatever they are handing out down there,” Degan told him as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Upon first entering the room, Gaunt had immediately claimed the bed nearest the fireplace. He had cast off his houppelande and chaperon, throwing them on the floor. Then he had flung himself on the mattress, where he sprawled, moaning about his aches.

“And make sure it’s lean,” Gaunt went on. “I don’t want a bunch of fat. I want the good stuff. And I’ll take dark bread if they have it, the darker the better. And a glass of wine-no, make that a bottle, and be sure it’s good stuff, not-”

“Maybe you should come down and pick out what you want. That way there won’t be any mistakes.”

“Just bring it up. I’m comfortable-can’t you see I’m comfortable here? I don’t want to mingle with all the local baboons. An emperor needs his privacy. And for Novron’s sake, pick up my clothes! You need to hang those up so they can dry properly.” He looked quizzical. “Hmm… I suppose that should be for my ancestor’s sake, now wouldn’t it? Perhaps even for my sake.” He smiled at the thought.

Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Let me rephrase. Get your own food or go hungry.”

Gaunt glowered and slapped his mattress so that even Royce looked over. “What bloody good is it having a personal servant if you never do anything for me?”

“I’m not your servant; I’m your… bodyguard,” he said with reluctance, the word tasting stale. “How about you, Royce? Can I bring you something?”

Royce didn’t bother even to shake his head. Hadrian sighed and headed for the door.

When he descended the stairs, Hadrian found The Laughing Gnome filled to the walls. People packed the common room. Considering their numbers, the crowd was keeping remarkably quiet. Rather than being filled with a roar of conversation and laughter, the room barely buzzed with a low hum of whispers. All heads turned expectantly when he and Myron emerged from the steps. That was followed quickly by signs of disappointment.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Ayers called, pushing forward. “Clear a path! Clear a path!”

Hadrian caught a few muttered false knight and joust champion comments as Ayers escorted them from the bottom of the stairs around to a large table set up in a private room.

“I’m keeping them out so you can eat in peace,” Ayers told them. “But I can’t kick them out of the inn altogether. I have to live in this town, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

Wyatt, Mauvin, Magnus, and Alric already sat at the table with empty plates before them. Jimmy, dressed now in a stained apron, rushed about filling cups. He held a pitcher in each hand and danced around the table like a carnival juggler. The room was a small space adjacent to the kitchen. Fieldstone made up half of the wall, along with the corner fireplace. Thick milled timbers and plaster formed the upper portion. The room’s three windows remained shuttered and latched.

“Are they all here to see us?” Myron asked. He paused at the doorway, looking back at the crowd, mirroring their expressions of awe.

Hadrian had just taken a seat when a cheer exploded beyond the closed door in the common room. Alric drained his glass and held it up to Jimmy, shaking it.

“Are you all right? Where have you been?” voices, muffled by the wooden door, called out in the common room. “Were you kidnapped? Will you resume your office? We missed you. Will you drive out the empire again?”

“Forgive me, dear people, but I have traveled long today,” Arista said from the other room. “I am very tired and cannot hope to answer all your questions. Just know this: the tyrants that once controlled the empire are gone. The empress now-and for the first time-rules, and she is good and wise.”

“You met her?”

“I have. I lived with her for a time and have just come from Aquesta. Evil men held her prisoner in her own palace and ruled in her name. But… she rose up against her captors. She saved my life. She saved the world from a false imperium. Now she is in the process of building the true successor to the Empire of Novron. Show her the trust you have given me, and I promise you will not be disappointed. Now, if you will allow me, I am very hungry.”

Cheering. Applause.

The door opened and Arista stepped inside, then closed it behind her and leaned on it as if she were barricading it with her body. “Where’d they all come from?”

“Word spread,” Ayers replied, looking self-conscious. “I need to get back to the bar. I can’t leave the mob too long without refreshment.”

As Ayers exited, Hadrian spotted Mince standing with the other boys just outside the doorway. Hadrian waved them in. All five entered the dining room in single file and stood just inside-afraid to move farther.

“They came to our room and told us there was food down here, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian. “But we don’t know where to go.”

“Take a seat at the table,” Hadrian replied.

All the boys reacted with the same shocked expression, a mixture of fear and wonder.

“Oh, we aren’t going to have the servants eat with us,” Alric said, causing the boys to halt.

“There are enough chairs,” Arista pointed out.

“But honestly, stableboys? Look at them. They’re not just servants; they’re children. There must be somewhere else they can eat.”

“Actually, if I may…” Hadrian spoke loudly, stood up, and grabbed a hold of Mince, who was attempting to worm his way out of the room. “These young men here,” Hadrian said, pointing to Elbright, Kine, and Brand, “assisted in rousing the people of Aquesta to open the gates for you and your army. And Renwick”-Hadrian pointed at the oldest-“was a tremendous help to me as my squire during the time I pretended to be a knight.”

“Still am, sir. I don’t care what they say.”

Hadrian smiled at him. “He also fought in the palace courtyard and was one of the first into the dungeon, if you recall. And this young man here,” he said, holding the squirming boy with both hands, “is Mince. This child, as you call him, has been singled out by the empress herself as being instrumental in the overthrow of Ethelred and Saldur. Without them, it is very likely that your sister, Royce, I, and even the empress would all be dead. Oh, and of course, so would you and Mauvin. Not bad for a stableboy. So for all that they have done, don’t you think they deserve a place at our table?”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Alric said quickly, looking a bit ashamed.

“Sit down,” Hadrian told them, and they each took a seat, smiles across their faces.

A rotund woman with short, ratty hair and saddlebag cheeks backed into the room from the kitchen, carrying a deep tray of spit-roasted lamb. She wore a gray wool dress and yet another grease-stained apron.

She approached the table and stopped abruptly, looking at the diners with a disappointed-even irritated-expression. “Missing three,” she said, her high voice reminding Hadrian of a squeaking door.

“I’ll bring a plate up for Royce. He’s… he’s not feeling well,” Hadrian explained.

Arista glanced at him. “Is it okay to leave him alone?”

Hadrian nodded. “I think so. Besides, if he wanted to do something, who’s going to stop him?”

“Elden will also be staying in his room,” Wyatt mentioned. “He has a thing about crowds.”

The cook nodded. Her large breasts, outlined by the apron, hung over the edge of the pan, threatening to nudge the steaming lamb. No one else spoke. Finally she asked, “And where’s that scoundrel Degan Gaunt? I can’t imagine him turning down a free meal.”

“Scoundrel?” Hadrian said, surprised. “I thought he was a hero here in Ratibor.”

“Hero?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you know. Local boy who went off to seek his fortune, became a pirate, and returned to lead the liberation movement.”

The cook laughed, though it was more like a cackle that juggled its way out of her round throat. She put down the tray and began cutting the meat.

Everyone at the table exchanged glances.

Wyatt shrugged. “I don’t know his background, but Gaunt was no pirate. That I do know.”

Again, the cook cackled and this time put a hand to her lips, which turned the laughter inward and caused her shoulders and chest to bounce.

“Are you going to let us in on the joke?” Alric asked.

“Oh, well, it’s not my place to be spreading rumors, now is it?” she said, and followed the statement by making a show of biting her lower lip. Her hands slowed in their work and then stopped. She looked up and a huge grin pushed the saddlebags apart.

“Okay, so it’s this way,” she said, lowering her voice. “I grew up only a few doors down from Gaunt-right there on Degan Street. Did you know that his mother named him Degan because it was the only word she knew how to spell, having seen the street sign for so many years?”

Now that her mouth was going, so were her hands, and she sliced portions and delivered them to their plates, heedless of the little trails of grease she left. “Anywho, his mother and mine were close and I used to be best friends with his sister, Miranda. She was a joy, but Degan-well, even as a boy he was a demon. We stayed clear of him when we could. He was a pitiful little wretch. He got caught stealing dozens of times, and not because of need. I mean, I don’t agree with theft, but pinching a loaf of bread from Briklin’s Bakery when the old man has his back turned to surprise your mother with on Wintertide is one thing. I ain’t saying it is right, but I overlook something like that.

“Well, as for Degan, he goes in for stuff like smashing the window on the curio shop so he can have a porcelain rabbit he had his eye on. Thing is, everyone knows he’s a no-good. You can see it in the way shopkeepers watch him or shoo him out the door. They can spot the likes of him a mile away.”

Just then, Ayers barged in. “Jimmy, get to the cellar and roll out another keg. They’ve already drained the one we pulled up earlier.” The boy put down his pitchers and ran toward the kitchen. Ayers stared at the cook. “You’re not bothering these folks, are you, Bella? Is she bothering any of you?”

“Not at all,” Arista replied, and all the heads at the table nodded in agreement.

“Well, keep it that way. She has a way of yammering, she does.”

Bella blinked her eyes innocently.

Jimmy appeared, rolling a barrel from the kitchen.

“How many we got left?” the innkeeper asked.

“Four.”

Ayers frowned. “I shoulda ordered more, but who knew…” He pointed at the diners and shrugged. Ayers took control of the barrel and returned to the tavern. Bella waited a moment, staring at the door. Then a grin filled her face and she went on.

“Now, just ta give you an idea about how bad things got for ole Degan, he even received a visit from the BD telling him to cut it out. Course he don’t and yet somehow managed to avoid punishment. Miranda and I used to talk about how that boy was charmed. But after his mother’s death, he got into some real trouble. Now, I wasn’t there to see it, but rumor is-and it sure seemed like the kinda thing that idiot would do-he got drunk and raped Clara, the candle maker’s daughter. Well, her old man had connections. Not only was he a favorite merchant to the royal chamberlain,

but his nephew was in the BD.”

“BD?” Myron asked. “I don’t understand.”

“BD-Black Diamond,” Mauvin told him.

Myron still looked confused.

“Not a lot of literature on them,” Hadrian said. “The Black Diamond is a very powerful thieves’ guild. They control all the illegal activity in a city, just like a potters’ guild controls the pottery market.”

The monk nodded. The cook was standing still again, holding a lamb chop between two greasy, stubby fingers, waiting, as if her body could not move unless her mouth was.

“I’m sorry, please continue,” Myron said. “This is a wonderful story.”

“Well now,” she went on, dumping the chop onto Myron’s plate so roughly and off center that it nearly flipped over. “I remember there were patrols combing the streets for him. They was angry too, shouting that they was gonna hang him, only they never found ole Degan. Turns out that a press-gang near the docks caught him that very night. They didn’t know who he was. They just needed hands for a ship and hauled him off to sea. Like I said, the man is charmed.

“Okay, so this next part I know from reliable folk. Some years later, the ship he was on was attacked by pirates. They done killed the whole crew but somehow ole Degan survived. Who knows how he done it? He probably convinced them pirates he knew where a treasure was buried er sumptin. Anywho, he gets away. Some folks say a storm wrecked the pirate ship, and again he’s the lone survivor. That seems a mite bit lucky for anyone, but for Degan it doesn’t seem so strange. So he ends up in Delgos and gets into trouble again. He’s back to his old tricks, this time stealing from the merchant families at the border villages. He’s going to be executed for sure this time, but then he spins his greatest tale.

“He says he was only taking the money to finance his dream of freeing the common man from the boot of the aristocracy. Can you believe it? Degan Gaunt, a man of the people? Well, that kinda talk plays real well down that way. Those folks on the peninsula hate the monarchies. They swallow it and, what do you know, not only do they let him go-they give him money for his cause! Well, this just tickles Degan, as you could imagine, and he decides to keep the thing going. He travels all over, giving speeches and getting donations. I heard him once when he was preaching his spiel in Colnora. He was actually pretty good at it-all shouts for liberty and freedom, banging his fist on a podium and working up a sweat. Then a’course he passes the hat. But then-” She stopped talking as she struggled to free a troublesome lamb chop from the rest.

“But then?” Alric asked.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Somehow he goes from being this traveling sideshow to actually running an army-and a successful one at that! That’s just strange. It’s one thing to be-”

The crowd outside the door began clapping, and a moment later the door to the dining room opened and Degan stepped inside. He had a disapproving sneer on his face.

“You started serving without me?”

No one answered and the cook puckered her lips, continuing to dish out the meal in silence. Degan took a seat and waited impatiently for his plate. Everyone stared at him until he glared back, irritated. “What?”

“This is very good.” Wyatt spoke up, pointing to the lamb on his plate.

“Thank you,” the cook replied.

“If it is, it will be the first time this place has served anything eatable,” Gaunt muttered. “Hurry up, woman!”

The cook, who stood behind him, made a see what I mean? face and dropped a chop on his plate.

“What time will you folks be getting up?” the cook asked. “You’ll be wanting breakfast, won’t you?”

“We’ll be leaving early,” Arista said. She caught a look from her brother. “Isn’t that right, Alric?” she added.

“Yes, yes, ah-dawn, I should think,” he said. “Breakfast should be before that. Something hot, I hope.”

“Seeing the business you’re bringing him, old Ayers would pay to poach venison if you wanted it. Course he ain’t gonna be too pleased you’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sure he’s hoping you’ll be here a week at least.”

“We’re in a hurry,” Arista explained.

Bella looked as if she might say more when the common room door opened again. “Bella, quit bugging them. I don’t pay you to chatter. I have orders for food. I need five stews and a plowman’s meal.”

“All right, all right!” she bellowed back. She turned to the diners and, with an awkward curtsy, rushed off to the kitchen.

The room was dark except for the moonlight that entered through the window and the glow of hot coals in the fireplace. Outside, the wind blew snow against the building. Royce could hear the muffled sounds of voices rising through the floorboards as everyone ate dinner. The shift of furniture, the clink of glasses-he had heard it all before.

Royce’s eyes focused on the street corner outside. He could see the start of the alley between Ingersol’s Leather Shop and a silversmith. It was right there-on that very corner, that exact spot.

“That’s where I came from.” Royce spoke to the empty room, his words condensing on the window’s glass, making a tiny fog.

He remembered nights like this-cold, windy nights when it was hard to get to sleep. Most nights he had slept in a barrel packed with straw, but when it was really cold-the kind of cold that killed-he had climbed into barns and squeezed between sheep and cattle. Doing so was dangerous. Farmers listened to their animals, and if they found intruders, they assumed they were stealing.

Royce had been only eight, maybe ten years old. He had been freezing, his feet and hands numb, his cheeks burning. It was late and he had crawled into the stable on Legends Avenue. The rear stall was blocked off into a makeshift manger for four sheep. They lay curled up as one big wooly bed, their sides rising and falling like breathing pillows. Royce carefully crawled into the middle, feeling their body heat and the soft wool. They bleated at his intrusion, but given the size of the stall, they suffered his presence. In just a few minutes he fell asleep.

He woke to a farmer with a pitchfork. The farmer jabbed and nearly got Royce in the stomach. Royce rolled, taking the tongs in his shoulder. He screamed and scattered the sheep, which bounced off the walls. In the confusion, Royce escaped into the snow. The hour was late. It was still dark, and blood ran down his arm. He had not yet discovered the sewers and had no place to go. He returned to the barrel on the corner and climbed in, pulling as much straw over him as he could.

Royce remembered hearing “Ladies of Engenall” played on a fiddle from inside the Gnome. He listened to them all night: people singing, laughing, clinking glasses-all warm, safe, and happy while outside he shivered and cried. His shoulder screamed in pain. The rags he wore hardened as the blood froze. Then it started to snow. He felt the flakes on his face and thought he would die that night. He was so certain that he prayed, and that was the first and last time he had ever asked the gods for help. The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the straw. He recalled lying there shivering, his eyes shut tight as he had whispered aloud to Novron, asking to be saved. He pleaded, reminding the god that he was only a child-a boy-only he knew that was a lie. He was not a boy-boys were human.

Royce was not human-not entirely. He was a mir, a half-breed, a mongrel.

He knew Novron would not help him. Novron and his father, Maribor, were the gods of men. Why would they listen to the words of an elf, a hated cur whose own parents had thrown him away as trash? Still, he begged for his life anyway. Because he did not look like an elf, the young Royce reasoned that maybe Novron would not notice.

Right down there, on that corner, Royce had begged to live.

He traced a circle on the window with his finger.

He always remembered it as the worst night of his life-he had been alone, terrified, dying. And he had been so happy the next morning when he was still alive. Starved, shaking from the cold, stiff from sleeping in a ball, shoulder throbbing, but as happy as a person could be.

Here I am, warm and comfortable in The Laughing Gnome, and I’d give anything to be in that barrel again.

A board creaked and Myron entered quietly. He hesitated at the door, then slowly crossed the room toward Royce and sat down on the bed near him.

“I used to sit for hours too,” the monk said, his voice soft, just a tad above a whisper. “I used to remember things… times and places, both good and bad. I would see something that reminded me of my past and wish I could go back. I wished I could be the way I used to be, even if that meant pain. Only I could never find my way around the wall. Do you know what I mean by the wall?”

Royce refused to answer. Myron did not seem to mind.

“After the burning of the abbey, I never felt whole again. Half of me was missing-gone-more than half. What was left was lost, like I didn’t know where I was or how to get back.”

Royce stared. He was breathing faster without knowing why.

“I tried to find a way to go on. I could see familiar traces of the path that was my life, but there was always the wall behind me. Do you know what I mean? First you try and climb, pretending it never happened, but it’s too tall. Then you try to go around, thinking you can fix it, but it is too far. Then, in frustration, you beat on it with your hands, but it does nothing, so you tire and sit down and just stare at it. You stare because you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Walking away means that you’re giving up, abandoning them.

“There is no way back. There is only forward. It’s impossible to imagine there’s any reason to move ahead, but that isn’t the real reason you give up. The real fear-the terror that keeps you rooted-is that you might be wrong.”

Royce reeled. It was as if Myron were rifling through his heart, opening sealed closets and exploring locked drawers. Royce gave Myron a withering look. If he were a dog, Royce would be growling, yet Myron seemed not to notice.

The little monk went on.

“Instead of passion, you have regret. In place of effort, you are mired in memory. You sink in nothingness and your heart drowns in despair. At times-usually at night-it’s a physical pain, both sharp and dull. The anguish is unbearable.”

Royce reached out and grabbed Myron by the wrist. He wanted him to stop-needed him to stop.

“You feel you have no choices. Your love for those who have gone makes you hold tight to their memory and the pain of their loss. You feel to do anything else would be disloyal to them,” Myron went on, placing his free hand on top of Royce’s and patting it gently.

“While the idea of leaving is at first impossible to contemplate, the question you need to ask is, how would they feel knowing that you are torturing yourself because of them? Is this what they would want? Is that what you would want them to do if the situation was reversed? If you love them, you need to let go of your pain and live your life. To do otherwise is a selfish cruelty.”

Hadrian opened the door and nearly dropped the plate of lamb. He stepped in hesitantly. “Everything all right here?” he asked.

“Get him away from me, before I kill him,” Royce growled between gritted teeth, his voice unsteady, his eyes hard.

“You can’t kill Myron, Royce,” Hadrian said, rapidly pulling the monk away as if he had found a child playing with a wild bear. “It would be like killing a puppy.”

Royce did not want to kill Myron. He honestly did not know what he wanted, except for him to stop. Everything the monk had said hurt, because it was all true. The monk’s words were not close. They were not worrisomely accurate. What he said was dead-on, as if he were reading Royce’s mind and speaking his innermost thoughts aloud-holding his terrors to the light and exposing them.

“Are you all right, Royce?” Hadrian asked, still holding Myron close. His tone was cautious, nervous.

“He’ll be fine,” Myron replied for him.

The five boys and Myron had left the dinner table, followed shortly by Hadrian and Wyatt, who took plates up to Royce and Elden respectively. Alric, who had eaten his fill, loosened his belt but made no move to leave. He sat back, smiling, as Ayers brought out another bottle of wine and set it on the table before them. For the first time since they had started this trip, Alric was feeling good. This was more like it. He could see the same expression in Mauvin’s eyes. This was the dream of their youth: riding hard, exploring, seeing strange new sights, and in the evening settling in at a local inn for a fine meal and a night of drinking, laughing, and singing. At last, the carefree days of his boyhood-once stolen-now returned. This was an adventure at last. This was a man’s aspiration, a chance to live life to the fullest.

“My finest stock,” Ayers told them with pride.

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Arista said. “But we need to be getting up early tomorrow.”

“It’s not polite to insult a host like that, Arista,” Alric said, feeling her hands trying to strangle his dream.

“I didn’t-Alric, you can’t stay up all night drinking and expect to get an early start in the morning.”

He frowned at her. This was why she had never been included in his and Mauvin’s plans. “The man wants to honor us, all right? If you’re tired, go to bed and leave us be.”

Arista huffed loudly and threw her napkin on the table before walking out.

“Your sister isn’t pleased with you,” Gaunt observed.

“Are you just discovering that now?” Alric replied.

“Shall I open it?” Ayers asked.

“I don’t know,” Alric muttered.

“It would be best to do as she tells you,” Gaunt said.

“What’s that?”

“I only meant her being in charge and all. You don’t want to become the nail sticking out. I can see why you’re afraid of her and I sympathize, believe me. You saw the way she treated me when we left-but what can we do? She holds all the power.”

“She’s not in charge,” Alric growled. “I am.” He looked at Ayers. “Open that bottle, my good man, and pour liberally.”

Gaunt smiled. “I guess I misjudged you, Your Majesty. I’ve actually been doing too much of that. Take Magnus here, for example.”

Alric preferred not to. The idea that he had just finished a meal with-and was about to drink at the same table with-his father’s killer sickened him.

“I was offended that I had to ride with a dwarf, but it turns out he’s not a bad companion. True, he’s not exactly a big talker, but he’s interesting just the same. Did you know he’s held here by the hairs of his beard-literally? He’s another member of our exclusive club who your sister controls and forces to do her bidding.”

“My sister doesn’t control me,” Alric snapped.

“And you had best watch your tongue, my friend,” Mauvin advised Gaunt. “You are treading on dangerous ground.”

“My apologies. Perhaps I am mistaken. Please forgive me. It’s just that I’ve never seen a woman lead a mission like this before. It’s shocking to me, but then again, you come from the north, and I come from the south, where women are expected to stay behind while their men go off to fight. Allow me to toast her.” He raised his glass. “To the princess Arista, our lovely leader.”

“I told you, she’s not in charge. I am,” Alric said with more force.

Gaunt smiled and raised his other hand defensively. “I meant no offense.” He raised his glass again. “To you, then, to King Alric, the true leader of this mission.”

“Hear! Hear!” Alric joined him and drank.