The Crown Tower

CHAPTER 13

Hadrian followed behind Royce. There was enough room to ride alongside, as the road north was as wide as three oxcarts, but he hung back. Traveling next to him would feel too friendly, and Hadrian had no such feelings. It was possible that Royce had saved his life on the barge, but for all the wrong reasons. And while he had helped him in the stables, again he had not acted out of friendship or loyalty. Hadrian was nothing but a stone in a stream he needed to cross, useful only so long as his foot was on him.

The two rode for hours. The sun had set and the moon had taken its place, but Royce hadn’t said a word since they left Arcadius’s office, hadn’t even looked at him. Hadrian could have fallen asleep, or off a cliff, and Royce would have neither known nor cared.

They traveled through a bleak world, barren of trees. A windswept highland inhabited mostly by rocks and tall grasses, which grew in patches and all leaned the same way, bowing in submission to the prevailing wind. In the distance, he could see rocky mountains, jagged, dark, and grim. This was Ghent-at least that’s what Royce and Arcadius called it. Neither had felt it necessary for him to know the details of their mission. Arcadius appeared to care only that Hadrian go along, not that he be an informed member of the team. This was fine. Hadrian didn’t want to be there at all. Stealing was wrong. He believed that but was unable to muster much indignation, given he’d done far worse over his few short years. He was trying to be better, but so far all he’d managed to do was run away. Hadrian had fled his home, deserted one army for the next, abandoned Avryn for Calis, and finally with no place left to run, he’d returned home. Hadrian had even run away from Vernes when he might have stayed to help Pickles, and he left Colnora rather than attempt to solve the riddle of the barge. Now he was to be a thief, which didn’t sit well with him. But he was stealing only a dusty journal, not the food from a family’s mouth. And if it could change Pickles’s life from one of desperate poverty to one of almost limitless hope, then it might be the most virtuous thing he’d ever done.

Hadrian tried not to think too much. He didn’t ask questions, which he imagined was the real reason why he knew so little, but it was impossible to spend three days in Sheridan and not learn something. First, he discovered that wool was the number one industry in the area and that there were far more sheep than people. Second, he discovered Ghent, or more precisely the city of Ervanon, was once the capital of three of the four nations of men, having been the home of a short-lived empire. Hadrian found neither of these facts particularly interesting or important. The third item, however, surprised him. Ghent, while being the northernmost region of the country of Avryn, was not a kingdom or principality. Ghent was an ecclesiastical dominion, ruled by the Nyphron Church, and Ervanon was the center of the church and home of the Patriarch. This last bit Hadrian remembered having heard before. His father never spoke of the church, and Hintindar had no priest, but everyone knew of the Patriarch just as everyone knew of the gods Novron and Maribor. This meant he would be thieving from the church. If he hadn’t already angered the gods, this ought to cinch the deal.

So far Hadrian wasn’t terribly impressed with Ghent. The hillsides had the expressions of old war veterans, scarred and withered. The fields were empty, picked clean, trampled of life. The road had once been paved in stone. Hadrian saw them in patches, now mostly buried in dirt. The whole place seemed used up, sucked dry. Something that may have once been great remained a dust-covered memory.

They came to a bend in the road where it turned more west than north, and there at the turn was a squat fir tree that for the last quarter mile Hadrian had suspected might be a bear.

Coincidentally, at the same time as they passed the tree, Hadrian finally reached the conclusion that Arcadius was senile. The man was old to be sure. Older than anyone he’d ever met. Older even than his father, who at the time of his departure was the oldest man in Hintindar-though everyone said he carried his age well. The professor didn’t carry his age well at all, and old folks sometimes went batty. One didn’t even need to be that old. Hadrian knew a warlord in the Gur Em who spoke of himself as if he were another person in the room. Sometimes he got in arguments to the point of refusing to speak to himself anymore and insisted others relay messages “to that idiot.” And the warlord was nowhere near Arcadius’s age. The best that could be said for Arcadius was that he carried his insanity well. So well in fact that it took Hadrian all the way to the bear tree to conclude the professor was crazy.

He had to be. There was just no sense in asking him to pair up with Royce.

If Hadrian had an opposite in the world, it rode on the dark gray horse ahead of him, and this thought entertained Hadrian for several hours. Even the way he rode was different. Royce held the reins close while Hadrian gave Dancer plenty of slack. Royce crouched and leaned forward; Hadrian slouched back, rolling with the animal’s gait. Hadrian often stared at the road below or even at the saddle as he passed the time, tying and untying knots in the saddle straps. Royce was always turning and peering everywhere-except back, of course.

Why would Arcadius insist that he go? Why say this was his father’s dying wish? It couldn’t be for the book they were after. As Royce had declared a dozen times, he would stand a better chance alone. As much as Hadrian wanted to prove him wrong, he had to agree. He was a soldier, not a thief. If they wanted to besiege this tower, at least then he could contribute, but as it was, Hadrian saw no purpose in his tagging along. He was dead weight being dragged by a person who resented his presence, and that always made for a fun outing.

Royce veered off the road, guiding his horse around the scrub and rocks, climbing and then descending a hill that left them out of sight of the highway. Hadrian followed and found him dismounted next to a rash of bushes, tying his animal. Hadrian remained mounted, watching as Royce saw to his horse’s needs; then, finding a suitable place, he unrolled his blanket and lay down.

“I take it we’re camping here, then?”

Royce said nothing, still refusing to acknowledge his existence.

“You could have said, ‘We’re going to bed down here for the rest of the night.’ No, wait, you’re right, too much. How about ‘sleeping here’? Two words. Even you could manage that, right? I mean, I know you can talk. You had plenty to say back in Arcadius’s office. Couldn’t keep the words from coming out then, but no, utterly impossible to indicate in any way that we’ll be stopping here for the night.”

Hadrian dismounted and began unloading Dancer. “How long were we on the road?” He paused to look up at the moon. “What? Five, six hours? Not a damn word. Getting chilly out, don’t you think, Hadrian? Moon looks like a fingernail, ain’t that right, Hadrian? That tree looks like a goddamn bear, don’t it, Hadrian? Nothing. By the way, in case you hadn’t noticed, I was attacked by a goshawk and a pig-riding dwarf that shot eggs at me with a sling. I was knocked from my horse and wrestled with the dwarf, the hawk, and the pig for what had to be half an hour. The dwarf kept smashing eggs in my face, and that ruddy pig pinned me down, licking them off. I only got away because the dwarf ran out of eggs. Then the hawk turned into a moth that became distracted by the light of the moon.”

Royce shifted to his side, hood up.

“Yeah, well … thank Maribor and Novron I didn’t need your help that time.”

“Didn’t care for my help too much in the stable,” Royce said.

“It speaks!” Picking a spot on the other side of the horses, Hadrian laid out his ground cover and draped his blanket over the top. “And I did thank you for that.”

“And I was touched by your heartfelt gratitude.”

“You didn’t need to stab him. And you didn’t need to kill all those people on the barge. You could have just told me who you were, who they were, and what they were planning.”

“You have your ways. I have mine. I haven’t been impressed by your methods. Mine work.”

“Well, then by all means stick with yours. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find yourself back in prison. I hear there’s a whole bunch of like-minded people in there.”

“Say hello to the worms for me, then,” Royce said.

“Worms?”

“Graves are where people who think like you end up.”

“No, they don’t. Only the lucky ones. You need someone to bury you for that. You know anyone who’d go to that trouble for you?”

“If I’m dead, why would I care? If I’m not, it’d better be a very deep hole.”

“You have any friends?”

“One.”

“Arcadius?”

“No.”

“Where is this friend?”

“No idea.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“When he framed me for murder and sent me to prison.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word friend.”

“And I think you live in a fairy-tale world where words have consistent meanings. Can you read and write?”

“My father taught me.”

“Good for you. Ever notice how the word friend is only one letter away from fiend? Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not.”

“You’re an optimistic fellow, I’ll give you that.” Hadrian threw a second blanket over himself and turned to his side, setting his back to Royce.

“Did you save any?” Royce asked.

“Any what?”

“Of those eggs. If you did, we could cook them for breakfast in the morning.”

Hadrian lay silent for a moment confused; then it hit him and he almost laughed.

For a second day Royce and Hadrian traveled in silence. It didn’t bother Hadrian anymore. The crack about the eggs had sapped some of the tension-maybe Royce was human after all. Hadrian wasn’t the chatty type to begin with. He just felt they had been in the middle of a conversation when they escaped Sheridan and the following silence festered like a sliver in his skin. The sliver was still there, but it was one of those deep ones that would need to work itself out. He’d been through worse, and this was only going to last a couple days. That had been the promise at least.

For the last several miles Hadrian had seen what he thought was a figment of his imagination like the bear tree, only this was much farther away and much larger. A single vertical line like a massive pole stuck into the horizon. With each passing hour, the pole got bigger. By the time they stopped for a midday meal, the pole had become a tower, and it was still miles away.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked.

Royce was on his knees searching through a canvas bag. He looked up and Hadrian nodded toward the horizon. “The tower? Yeah. Still about a day away.”

Hadrian stood staring. Everything at that distance had a bluish cast, a muted washed-out color that began to blend with the sky. The tower stood at the apex of a massive hill that dominated the plain.

A perfect place for armies.

Hadrian could imagine rows of foot soldiers lined up in the open fields. Cavalry wheeling in wide arcs. Legions upon legions could maneuver without effort, and likely did. That tower was a ruin-all that remained of a bigger structure. It must have been mammoth. He could almost see it, this massive fortress on the rise overlooking the vast expanse. The final battle of a war had scarred this land, and it centered on the rise and the castle that once crowned it.

Hadrian sat on a patch of grass, putting his back against a rock, and opened his own food sack. He had lots of apples rolling around the bottom, cheap and plentiful around this time of year. They didn’t have them in Calis and he’d bought a half dozen. He bit into one and fished out a chunk of cheese to go with it.

“What was that you slept on last night?” Royce asked.

Hadrian thought of saying “the ground,” then realized what he was getting at. “Canvas I coated in pitch. In the Gur Em everything is wet. You lay out a blanket and it will soak through. The pitch keeps the water out. This isn’t a jungle but I remember dew getting my bedding soaked just the same.”

Royce was nodding. “Interesting. Hadn’t thought of that. Good idea. Teach you that in the military?”

“No.” Hadrian shrugged. “Just got tired of sleeping soaked, and I was on a dock one day watching a sailor paint the top of his hat with pitch. Said he was waterproofing it. That gave me the idea.”

“Clever,” Royce said. There was a note of surprise as he peered at Hadrian through squinting eyes.

“I can make you one if you like. Just need to get another piece of canvas and find some pitch.”

“That’s okay. I’ll manage.”

“Not a lot of trouble and it can be tricky to get right. Too little pitch and the water still gets in. Too much and it will crack when you roll it. Water gets in the cracks and-”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, really, I can show you-”

“I don’t need your help,” Royce growled. He reached back and pulled up his hood, which had been down most of the day.

There was no further conversation. They ate, mounted, and moved on.

Clouds rolled through, large gray things. A curtain of rain swept the horizon to the west but never came at them. Looking behind him, Hadrian realized what Dancer had known for some time-they had been slowly climbing for miles. Visibility was impressive. He couldn’t ever recall seeing so far. Whole forests looked like bushes, and the mountains that had appeared so grim and imposing the day before were tiny things. The tower continued to grow. Less blue, less hazy, the once-featureless column was made of blocks. Battlements ringed the top and were made of a different material, something bright like chalk-marble maybe. The whole thing had likely been dressed in the white stone-the whole castle perhaps-but the pretty material would have been scavenged. Hadrian had seen such things in Old Calis. Great fortresses gutted, the once-noble edifices used for field walls to corral sheep. The higher stone would have been too difficult to get. As pretty as the white slabs were, they weren’t worth dying for. The effect was dramatic-a gray tower with a white … crown.

Hadrian laughed to himself.

Royce turned to look.

“Crown Tower,” he said, pointing. “I get it now.”

Royce rolled his eyes.

The village of Iberton hugged the shore of a narrow lake that disappeared into foothills of yellowing grass. Dozens of boats bobbed at piers that jutted into the water like gapped teeth. Houses were small, quaint things of stacked stone with plastered uppers. Each one blew smoke from chimneys and sported a garden of ripe vegetables. Children ran across the docks while a pair of black dogs chased. After almost two days of Hadrian listening to the wind, their laughter was musical.

Beyond the lake, beyond the foothills to the north, the real mountains began. Snow-capped teeth rising jagged against the sky. Past them lay Trent, a whole different country. They had come to the ceiling of Avryn. The tower was just up the road and loomed over everything, except the mountains. It felt as if they had climbed a tall ladder and had reached the top rung. The view was impressive, but it was an uneasy perch.

Royce veered off the broad way to the narrow track leading to the village and dismounted before a small building with a signboard that was no more than a picture of a frothy tankard. Although it was growing late, it was much darker inside, and at first all Hadrian saw was the flicker of lanterns that hung from roof beams. He stopped at the entrance to grant his eyes a chance to adjust, but Royce continued forward, moving to a little table between a small stone hearth and the windows.

“How ya doing?” The man behind the bar greeted him with a big smile. He extended his hand and Hadrian had to take a couple quick steps to meet him. The proprietor had a firm grip and a wholesome way of looking him in the eye. “I’m Dougan. Who might you be?”

“Hadrian.”

“Nice to meet you, Hadrian. What can I get you?”

“Um…” He looked over at Royce, who was lost in the recesses of his hood again. “Beer.”

The bartender looked regretful. “Sorry, lad. We don’t offer beer. Beer is what you get in any shoddy tavern on any dusty road where they have barrels delivered by wagon after weeks of travel in the hot sun. This is Iberton. You’ll need to be more specific.”

All three of the other patrons seated at the rail nodded and looked his way with pitiable expressions. Each was an older gentleman, the sort he’d expect to find drinking while the sun was still shining. “I’m sorry. I’m not following. What do you offer?”

“Ale, and lots of it-the finest in Ghent.”

“The finest anywhere,” said the oldest of the rail’s crew. He wore a lengthy gray beard that nestled on the bar and a tattered traveling cloak that was torn and mended with various colored threads. “And I should know-I’ve been there.” He raised his mug. The rest imitated him, each taking a swallow, and the mugs all hit the wood again with a singular thud.

“I’ll have an ale, then,” Hadrian said with a smile.

Again the doleful looks.

“What kind?” Dougan asked, this time leaning over and resting his elbows on the counter. He jerked his head toward the walls where panel-painted advertisements hung. Each had some rendering of a mug, glass, or tankard spilling over and phrases such as A Taste of Summer’s Morn, Barley’s Banquet, Bittersweet to the Last.

The walls were covered and Hadrian just stared.

“Where you from?” Dougan asked, still looking up at him with that warm, cheerful smile.

“Rhenydd,” he said. Hintindar was too small for anyone to know.

“Ah … down south. First time up this way, then?”

Hadrian nodded. He was still looking at what he realized was the tavern’s menu scattered over the walls. Some were beautiful, lovely paintings of the lake or masterfully carved in bas-relief. Others were crudely chiseled or written on bark with charcoal.

“Okay, this here’s a barley town,” Dougan explained. “That’s what everyone does. They grow barley.”

“And fish.” This time it was the fat gent nearest the door. He wore a priest’s frock and spoke with his hands. He made a casting motion and added, “Lots of good fishing here, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I thought Ghent was big on sheep and wool?” Hadrian said.

“Oh, there’s plenty of that too,” Dougan said. “And if it’s a fine woolen tunic or cloak you want, I know the perfect place. But if it’s ale you’re after, you need walk no farther. Now, many people grow barley, and most of them who do make their own ale. This here is the perfect place for that. Barley farms and that lake out there provide the best ingredients in Elan. Just walk out and scoop up a bucket of water, and you’ll see that it’s crystal clear. We don’t even have a well. There’s no need. So all the big farms hereabouts have their own brands like Bittersweet and Summer’s Morn. Those are from farms up on the north shore, whereas Barley’s Banquet and Old Marbury are from the south.” Dougan pointed up at the shelf that ran near the ceiling that was lined in oversized, metal mugs. Writing was etched on each but was too far and too small for Hadrian to read. “Them’s the trophies handed out each year, and there’s a grand competition for the first place. So you can see Iberton takes its ale seriously.”

Everyone at the bar-everyone in the tavern except Royce-watched Hadrian. Sensing pressure, he decided to play it safe. “What would you suggest?”

This caused the priest to shift uneasily on his stool and the bartender to sigh. “That would be putting me in a precarious pinch. Being the dispenser, I must remain neutral.”

“You’ll choke on anything other than Old Marbury,” said the man farthest away, the only one besides himself who wore a sword.

“Before you decide,” the priest said, “you should know this is Lord Marbury.”

“Oh?” Hadrian straightened up and offered a bow. “Your Lordship.”

Everyone smiled in an embarrassed manner, except Lord Marbury, who scowled. “Do that again and I’ll stab you in the foot.”

Hadrian looked to Dougan, who, by virtue of his winning smile, had become his helmet in a hailstorm.

“It’s more of an honorary title now,” the bartender said.

“The church doesn’t recognize ranks of nobility within Ghent,” the priest explained.

Marbury grumbled, “The church wouldn’t recognize a-”

“Another drink, Your Lordship?” Dougan said loudly, snatching up the mug before the man.

“I wasn’t done with that one.”

“Oh, I’d say you were. And let’s not forget we still haven’t found out where this young lad’s loyalties lie, have we? Or his friend’s for that matter.” Dougan stared at Hadrian expectantly. “Have you decided?”

Hadrian was confused and uncertain where the topic of conversation had wandered. Then Dougan gestured at the advertisements again.

“Oh … right. Um…” He glanced at Lord Marbury, who sat hunched over the rail glaring at Dougan. “I’ll try Old Marbury, I think.”

This brought smiles from both His Lordship and Dougan, and Hadrian felt as if he’d finally said something right and had made more than a drink order.

“I’m partial to Bittersweet,” the bearded traveler who had offered the toast admitted. Hadrian noticed the man jingled when he moved, but instead of a weapon, he was ornamented with numerous metal trinkets that dangled from a wide belt.

“You’re a tinker?” Hadrian asked.

“Tinker Bremey,” he introduced himself. His handshake was weak and began unpleasantly before their thumbs met. “I have good hooks if you’re here for the fishing.”

“And what might your friend be interested in?” Dougan asked, pointing toward Royce.

“Good question. We haven’t known each other long.”

“Join up on the road, did ya?”

“No, we-”

“I’m not thirsty,” Royce called.

Marbury glanced over. “Then why in Maribor’s name did you come in here?”

“He was thirsty.” Royce pointed at Hadrian. “I just wanted to get out of the wind. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Marbury nodded and turned to Hadrian. “Considerate fellow you’re riding with.”

“Oh yeah.” Hadrian nodded and smiled. “That’s exactly how I describe him to everyone-considerate to a fault.”

Royce smirked and folded his arms across his chest.

“I sell a tight weave tent that blocks even the highest winds,” the tinker informed him. “Comes with nautical-quality rope and pegs to hold it in place. You stretch this lady out and she’ll keep you warm all night.”

Dougan slapped Lord Marbury’s and Hadrian’s mugs on the bar, where both foamed over just like in the pictures. The bar went silent as Hadrian raised the drink to his lips. He was used to small, or table, beer in Calis, where they used an over-abundance of hops. This was stronger, richer and fresh. He was grinning before he drew the mug from his face.

“Hah!” Marbury slapped the counter. “I told ya. I should win this year. Just look at him-there’s a happy man, if ever I saw one.”

Hadrian nodded. “It’s good.”

“He’s just being polite,” the priest said. “You can tell that’s the sort he is. Raised well. Mother was likely a devout member of the Nyphron Church.”

“Actually, my mother passed when I was young,” Hadrian said. “My father … well, the only time he mentioned the gods was when he ruined a bit of metal or burned himself on the forge.”

“A smith’s son you are,” the tinker said. “I should have known by all the steel you carry. I sell a fine set of tongs and hammers. I even have one I bought from a dwarven smith-finest you’ll ever see.”

“Why did the dwarf part with it?” the priest asked.

“Desperate to feed his family, I think. Sad story.”

Hadrian took the opportunity to move over and join Royce, who sat with his back to the hearth and his sight on the windows. “I’d say you’re being awfully quiet, but then I might as well follow with ‘Oh look, you’re breathing.’”

Royce leaned forward and whispered, “Why don’t you just tell them we’re thieves while you’re at it?”

“What are you talking about?” Hadrian matched his tone, feeling uncomfortable whispering like conspirators in front-or in this case behind the backs-of strangers. “I was just being friendly.”

“You told them your name, your place of birth, what your father did for a living, suggested which direction you were traveling in, and the fact you’ve never been here before. You would have told them who I was, and exactly where we came from if I hadn’t stopped you.”

“And exactly what would be so wrong with that?”

“First, when you’re on a job, you don’t want people to notice you. You want to be nothing more than a vague shadow on a person’s memory. Leave nothing that anyone can use to track you. After we break into the tower, people will be looking for us and they’ll remember a talkative stranger wearing three swords who likely went back south.”

“If you wanted to avoid being noticed, why’d we come in here in the first place?”

“That’s the second thing. I’m expecting some guests.”

“Guests?” Hadrian raised his mug to drink.

“The five men who were on the road behind us.”

Hadrian put the mug back down. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see anyone.”

“No surprise there.”

“What? You think they’re after us?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re here.”

“Wait … then they could be just other people traveling the same road?”

“I think everyone is after me until proven otherwise.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“They were also wearing swords and chain and have been riding hard.”

“So?”

“So five is too many for a courier, too few for reinforcements, and no one else rides that hard unless they’re hunting someone. Five would be just about the right size to send after two men accused of stabbing the son of a baron who were last seen riding north out of Sheridan.”

Hadrian turned to look out the window. All he saw was the stone wall, the road, and the lake beyond. The setting sun gleamed gold across the water’s surface.

“There’s a door off the side here.” Royce tilted his head toward a hallway that extended past the bar. “It opens to the trench where they dump chamber pots. When our guests arrive, we’ll step out that door and wait. If they follow, we can be certain they didn’t just happen to get thirsty at the same time we did. Arcadius says you’re supposed to know how to fight. I hope so, because if they come out, we’re going to kill them. All of them. And then we’ll come back in here and kill these four.”

“What? These four? Why?”

“Because you decided to get all friendly and chatty. We can’t leave five bodies in the sewer and four witnesses to spread the word. The first one you take out is Lord Marbury-he’s the only real threat. I’ll kill the priest and the tinker. Then whoever gets done first can deal with Dougan. Try not to splatter too much blood around. After they’re dead, we’ll put all the bodies out back-with luck the sewage pit will be deep enough to cover them. If we don’t make a big mess with the blood, it might be hours before anyone notices. By then we’ll be lost in the streets of Ervanon.”

“I’m not going to kill these people,” Hadrian said. “They’re nice people.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to them.”

“You talked to me too.”

“You’re not nice people.”

“I know, I know, I have those wolf eyes that good old Sebastian warned you about. Remember him? The nice man who, along with his nice lady friend, was planning to slit your throat?”

“He was right about you at least.”

“That’s my point. Pick anyone and the odds are pretty good that they’re not nice. Everyone looks nice. Everyone dresses up in fine clothes and wears wide smiles like Dougan behind the bar, but I guarantee if you scrub the surface of that coin you’ll find tin. People always pretend to be pleasant, kind, and friendly, especially cutthroats and thieves.”

“You don’t.”

“That’s because I’m surprisingly honest.”

“I’m not killing them.”

“Then why are you here? Arcadius said we were to be a team. I was to show you the business. He said you were this excellent fighter, a hardened soldier. Okay. I didn’t like it, but I can see the benefit of having a skilled sword along, for just such occasions as this. So what’s your problem?”

“I don’t like killing.”

“I’m not an idiot. I gathered that much. The question is why? Did Arcadius lie to me? Are you really some sword merchant and that’s why you carry all that steel? Did he send you with me to get your first taste of blood?”

“I’ve drank more than my share-believe me.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I discovered it was wrong.”

“Excuse me? Did you say wrong?”

“Yeah, you know, wrong, the opposite of right.”

“How young are you? Do you also believe in fairy godmothers, true love, and wishing on falling stars?”

“You don’t believe in right and wrong? Good and bad?”

“Sure, right is what’s good for me, and bad is what I don’t like, and those things are very, very wrong.”

“You really were raised by wolves, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“So you boys are from Rhenydd, eh?” Lord Marbury came over, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

Hadrian hoped the lord hadn’t overheard anything. Not that he was afraid of him. Even with his sword, the man wasn’t a threat. As with most high-ranked nobles, he had no idea how to fight. To them swords were like fur and the color purple-emblems of nobility and power-but Hadrian would be embarrassed if the lord had listened to their debate about committing murder. He liked the man, and Marbury seemed the honorable sort.

“Any news from the south?” His Lordship asked. “Things are as boring here as a dead goat that can’t attract a single fly.” He let out a solid belch. “All I have to get me by is ale, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the church took that away next. So what’s the word from the palaces of kings?”

Royce stared directly at Hadrian with an angry look.

“Didn’t really visit any palaces. Wouldn’t let me in dressed like this,” Hadrian said.

Marbury hit his fist on the table and chuckled. “Wouldn’t let me in either, I suspect. I’m like a mir-half human, half elf-only in my case I’m a cross between a noble and a peasant. A lord in a land where nobility is outlawed. Did you know my family fief goes back to Glenmorgan?”

“How the blazes would you know that?” the priest asked from his seat at the bar.

Marbury twisted around, nearly spilling his drink with his elbow. “Did I invite you to this discussion?”

“No, but they didn’t invite you to theirs either.”

“Harding, go bless yourself.”

“Bless you too.”

Lord Marbury turned back to Hadrian and Royce. “As I was saying, my family got our fief from Glenmorgan.”

Hadrian nodded. “I just learned about him. He almost rebuilt the empire, except he never was able to conquer Calis. Too many fractured kingdoms, too many warlords, and of course the goblins.”

“That’s him. Wouldn’t call him emperor. The church dubbed Glenmorgan the Steward of Novron because they refused to give up on their dream of finding the lost heir.” He leaned back in his chair and waved his hands about like he was trying to clear the air of smoke. “Glenmorgan ruled all this, everything. Rhenydd too. He built the Crown Tower where the Patriarch and the archbishop live. You must have seen it on your way in. That was only part of his castle. You’re right-he never took Calis, but his grandson Glenmorgan III, saved Avryn. My great-great-great-and so on-father fought beside him in the Battle of Vilan Hills, where we stopped the goblins from overrunning Avryn. That was Glen III’s downfall really. His nobles and the church, who’d gotten fat under the pitiful rule of Glen II, didn’t like that Glen III was as strong as his grandfather. All those comfortable gentlemen of fur and the bell-ringing bishops betrayed him. They locked Glenmorgan III in Blythin Castle, down there in Alburn. They charged him with heresy. And when the people rioted, the church, being the virtuous sort, blamed the nobles and then frocks took over everything.”

“Frocks?” Hadrian asked.

“People like me,” the priest spoke up again. “He means the church.”

“I do indeed.”

“You realize that’s both treason and heresy.”

“I don’t give a pimple off Novron’s ass if it is. You gonna send for the seret to drag me off to some tribunal? Invite a sentinel to scourge Iberton?”

Hadrian had no idea what a seret or a sentinel was, but the prospect didn’t sound pleasant.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Marbury lowered his voice, addressing the table again. “Some days I wish he would, but there’s no need. I’m a castrated bull. Good for nothing but wandering the fields and making barley ale.”

“Never saw a bull make ale this good before,” Hadrian said.

Marbury laughed. “I like you, kid.” He looked at Royce. “I like him too. A bit on the quiet side, but that makes him the smart one, right? Quiet ones always are. They know better than to babble like old, castrated, noble, ale-making bulls.”

Hadrian looked across at Royce, who had dipped his head down, hiding his eyes. “He likes to think he is, but he doesn’t know everything.”

“I never claimed to know everything,” Royce said. “Just what matters.”

“To whom?” Hadrian asked.

“To me.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s a long way from everything.”

“It’s enough to make intelligent decisions. You let emotions get in the way of sense.”

“I have just the opposite problem,” Lord Marbury said. “I let sense get in the way of emotion. For example, I should have put my sword through the belly of Harding over three years ago, and would have if I had trusted my emotions.”

“I can still hear you,” the priest declared.

“I know that, you miserable frock.”

“He seems like a nice enough man,” Hadrian said.

“He is. He’s a damn fine fellow. I got the fever two years ago and he stayed with me when everyone else left for fear it was the plague again. Why, he even washed my backside for me. That’s not something you forget. Harding is a pillar of this community.”

“I heard that too,” Harding said.

“Shut up.” Marbury took a swallow from his mug. “The point is he’s still one of them-the snakes that slither and poison everything. The ones that crashed Glenmorgan’s empire and put families like mine out to pasture. The ones that turned me from a knight serving an emperor into a farmer serving ale, and if I was half the man my great-grandfather was, I’d have lopped his head off years ago.”

“It’s not too late,” Royce said.

Marbury laughed and slapped the table. “Hear that, Harding? The one in the hood here agrees with me.”

Outside, the sun had slipped behind the hills, leaving the world in a ghostly light of diminishing sky. The children had disappeared, the dogs curled up on the side of the trail, and lights spoke of life in the settling darkness.

Royce’s head tilted up abruptly. He leaned forward and said, “Prove me wrong.” Then Royce stood and moved for the rear door. A moment later Hadrian heard the sound of footfalls approaching.

Hadrian watched as five men entered. Each wrapped themselves in dark cloaks, but the sound of chain mail was unmistakable and in Hadrian’s mind conjured the smell of blood, the squish of mud, and feet that were never dry. Their faces were flushed from the wind, hair tangled and thrown back. They scanned the room, eyes intent.

“Welcome, lads, name’s Dougan.” He held out his hand but none moved to shake it. “What can I do you for?”

One of the men threw his cloak back over one shoulder, revealing the red underside and a broken crown crest on his chest. He also uncovered a sword-a Tiliner rapier with a knuckle guard and sharpened pommel. Hadrian had seen hundreds. They were the blade of choice among professionals. Made in Tiliner Delgos, it was a solid working weapon, an effective and practical instrument of murder.

“Looking for two men out of Sheridan who knifed a boy,” the man said.

Dougan’s eyebrows rode up. “Are you now?”

“We are.” The men spread out, scraping their heavy boots on the worn wood. They eyed the tinker and the priest; then three made a small circle around the table where Hadrian sat with Lord Marbury. “And who might you two be?”

“That there is Lord Marbury,” Dougan said in gentle warning tone. “He owns most of the land south of the lake.”

Harding turned around. “And he’s had a few to drink, so I wouldn’t say he’s in the best of moods today.”

“I’m not,” Marbury growled at the priest, “and you’re not making it any better.”

“We were told one of the pair carried three swords,” a different man said. Thick eyebrows, a trimmed beard interrupted by a half-moon scar across his chin, he stood hovering over Hadrian. “Some sort of soldier, a mercenary maybe.”

“This here is a friend of mine up from Rhenydd,” Marbury declared. “And he’s a smith. Made those swords himself, am I right?”

Hadrian nodded.

“So you’re saying these are samples of your work, then?” The man hovered over him, his head cocked to the side, one finger pushing and pulling the pommel of the great sword.

“They are,” Hadrian confirmed.

“Let me have a look.” He held out his hand.

Hadrian couldn’t see behind him now without appearing suspicious, but he was certain at least two of the three had moved up. Royce was outside near the sewer waiting in ambush to slit the throat of anyone who followed him out. He was likely listening to every word. Hadrian glanced toward the rear door. If he ran for it, at least two would grab him while the others drew steel. If that happened, he could yell and Royce would hear. It would be a bloody fight then, and afterward…

Prove me wrong.

He was testing him. Arcadius says you’re supposed to know how to fight. Maybe he wanted to know for certain before the job. Maybe he wanted to know he could stomach shoving a foot of steel through a man, and if he could kill innocent bystanders if it came to that.

Prove me wrong.

Hadrian looked across at Lord Marbury and decided he would do just that.

Hadrian drew his short sword from its scabbard and, careful to take it by the blade, extended the pommel to the man hovering over him. He watched how he placed his fingers around the grip. He knew how to handle a sword, but he was shaking hands with the weapon, not planning on shoving it into his chest-not yet.

“Why are seret involved in a petty knife fight?” Marbury asked.

So this is a seret.

“The boy who was stabbed is the son of Baron Lerwick.” He lifted the short sword, flicking it from side to side; then he spun it, rolling the hilt over the back of his hand, catching the grip again.

“Lerwick, eh?” Marbury nodded. “How long ago this happen?”

“Few days.”

“Kid dead?”

“No.” The man turned the blade back and forth in his palm.

“Close to it?”

“No.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble for nothing, then.”

“The baron doesn’t agree and neither does the archbishop.”

Marbury smirked at him. “Oh? My congratulations on owning such fine horses,” Marbury addressed the bar in a loud voice. “These men must have the fastest mounts in Avryn to be able to learn about this knifing, ride to Monreel, speak to the baron, then to Ervanon to speak to the archbishop and get back here, all in one day.”

The man ignored him. “This sword is awfully worn.”

“It gets a lot of use,” Hadrian said.

“I thought you were a sword smith and this was only a sample.”

“Of course it is,” the tinker spoke up. “That’s why it’s so worn. I should know. I’ve been a tinker longer than anyone in this room has been breathing. When you sell tools, you know that people do all kinds of stupid things with them. Hit rocks, chop wood, stab them in the ground … just while trying to decide. You can’t afford to have your stock ruined by such abuse. Instead, you pick one and use it as the sample that everyone beats on.”

The man looked at the weapon again and licked his lips. “Not very pretty work.”

“I’m not a very good smith.”

“How long has this man been here?” The seret holding Hadrian’s sword looked to Dougan.

The bartender shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“Three days,” Marbury said. “Been staying with me at my house on the north shore. I have him working on a new copper tub for boiling the wort for my ale.”

“That right?” the man asked the bartender.

Dougan shrugged. “How would I know what goes on at His Lordship’s house?”

“What about you, Reverend? Can you confirm this man’s story?”

Harding glanced at Marbury. “I would never dispute the word of His Lordship. He’s a fine upstanding member of this community.”

“He is?”

“Absolutely.”

“Anyone else stop by?”

“My nephew’s here too,” Marbury explained. “He’s out back with a chamber pot. Got hold of a bad chicken this afternoon and is still paying for it. You want me to drag the lad in so you can harass him too?”

The man scowled and dropped Hadrian’s sword on the table with a clang. He led the others back to the door, then paused. “We’ll be back this way. The pair we’re looking for is actually a big man and a little guy-dressed in black. If you do notice anyone, I would appreciate you let us know.”

“Will do, and come back again when you can stay and drink.” Dougan smiled and waved as they walked out.

Hadrian looked at Lord Marbury as he returned his sword to its scabbard. “I’ve been building you a copper tub?”

“You’re obviously incredibly lazy, as I don’t think you’ve even started.” He lifted his mug. “Your friend abandon you?”

“No. He’s waiting out back. He was planning an ambush in case they got physical.”

“He’s the one who stabbed that kid, then?”

“Yeah, but he was-”

Marbury held up his free hand. “No need to explain. It’s just a shame he didn’t stick the knife into the baron himself.”

“Don’t care for Lerwick?”

“Not at all. The man is a liar, a cheat, and a disreputable scoundrel.”

“He’s also good friends with his holiness the archbishop,” Harding said.

“Which is how he has a troop of Seret Knights at his disposal.”

“What are seret?”

“Soldiers of the church,” the priest explained.

“Enforcers of the church,” Marbury said. “Bullies and brutes. Started out centuries ago as the Knights of the Order of Lord Darius Seret-another ruddy sod if ever there was one. That whole family was touched. Lerwick is related to that clan somehow, which explains a lot. Mean bastards.”

Hadrian watched the hallway to the back door.

“Maybe you should go look?”

Hadrian shoved back his chair, which made a hollow screech, and then crossed to the hallway. Just as Royce said, there was a door and a piss pot next to it. He lifted the latch and gave a shove. The wooden door swung back, revealing a dirt alleyway that ran behind the buildings.

“Royce?” He was greeted only by the cold air and the darkness.

Hadrian walked around the tavern to the front where Dancer remained tied to the post, but Royce’s horse was gone. The long coils of rope she once carried were also missing.

Hadrian stepped back inside to the stares of Bremey, Harding, Dougan, and Lord Marbury, who had moved back to the bar.

“Probably two miles down the road by now,” Marbury guessed. “Like I said, he’s the smart one.”