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.”
CHAPTER 14
The next morning Royce was still missing. Lord Marbury had made good his fiction by inviting Hadrian to spend the night at his house on the south shore of what he learned was Morgan Lake, known for its premium bass fishing and crystal-clear water. He declined, feeling it was best to stay at the tavern in case Royce returned. He had spent the evening talking and drinking, pressured to try each label until he had at least two too many. Besides discovering the name of the lake and its fame for white, striped, and bigmouth bass, he also learned that Agnes, Willy the shepherd’s second wife, was expecting their third child-Willy’s fourth. And that the village would once again be holding their annual ice-fishing contest during the week leading up to Wintertide. As always, first prize was a full keg of that year’s blue ribbon ale. The award had been given out as part of the Wintertide celebrations held on the frozen lake that would be decorated with hundreds of lanterns and for a few weeks acted as the town’s common. Between stories and news from visiting riders, Hadrian had watched the window and listened for the sound of a horse, but Royce never returned. When Dougan blew out the lanterns and went to bed, he had let Hadrian sleep in the storeroom.
With no means to proceed with the mission, not even having the rope, Hadrian saddled Dancer in the morning. With a dry-mouthed hangover, he thanked Dougan for the room and asked him to give his regards to Lord Marbury. Then he began riding back toward Sheridan. He rejoined the broad road that he had learned was actually known as the Steward’s Way. He plodded along with an aching head, an irritable stomach, and a growing anger. By the time he made camp, he was talking to himself.
“I can understand why you might not trust me. You don’t know me. I don’t know you,” he said to an imagined Royce. The conversation had begun as thoughts, but by the time he was lying down to sleep, the thoughts took voice. “And sure, you’re as skittish as a bloodsucking mosquito, but if you planned on running, why not tell me?”
He imagined some sort of smirk or laugh.
“I tried.” His voice went up in tone. Royce never spoke in such a singsong sarcastic rhythm, and his voice didn’t have the timbre of a girl, but that’s how Hadrian said his lines because that’s how he would have heard them. “I said they were coming. I told you we had to kill everyone and you argued. Then Lord Marbury butted in. What was I supposed to do?”
“You could have interrupted. You could have excused yourself and said, ‘Listen, if five guys with swords come to the door, we should run out the back.’” He liked how reasonable and confident that sounded.
Royce rolled his eyes in Hadrian’s imagination. He had been rolling his eyes ever since Hadrian left Iberton’s tavern that morning, and it really irritated him. “What’s the point? I didn’t want you along in the first place.”
“What if they had grabbed me? What if they had hauled me off to whatever prison they have up here for the crime you committed? What if they planned to skip the trip and settle things right in the tavern with a quick beheading?” Hadrian nearly shouted this, slapping his palm against the blanket-covered grass. His eyes fixed on the stars while a few feet away Dancer shifted her weight and tilted her head with a questioning look.
“Not my problem,” replied the imaginary Royce. The way he said it, the way he looked saying it with that smug little smile and those wolf eyes, made Hadrian wish he were there so he could smash the grin from his face.
The bastard.
Hadrian returned to Sheridan Valley the next night. He purposely took it slow to arrive after dark and waited until the common was clear before riding directly to the stable. He found an open stall, but he left Dancer saddled. He didn’t expect to stay long. He would explain what had happened to Arcadius, stop in to check on Pickles, then … he really didn’t know. He’d ride south again, maybe aim for that city the guy on the road to Sheridan had mentioned. The one on the north bank of the Galewyr where his friend sold pottery. He could get a hot meal and spend the night in a bed. If it was good enough for the potter, it would be fine for him. He’d resupply, then maybe go back down to Colnora.
Then what?
Hadrian had already seen half the world, made and spent fortunes, served queens and warlords. So why was it that he had so few prospects? He considered returning to Calis. It was a weakness, the sort he saw in drunks, and he hated himself for even thinking it. The tiger and the letter had woken him from a nightmare that he had only imagined to be a dream. He couldn’t go back to that. He didn’t want to be a soldier again either. He likened it to growing up. At some point he discovered girls were pretty; after that he could never return to calling them names. As a child, it had been necessary to watch, follow, and listen, but every man needed to graduate from servitude or accept a life of slavery. He’d seen the men who stayed, the career soldiers, and knew why-they wanted power. Rank granted privilege, authority, respect. Hadrian had no use for any of it. He’d achieved the zenith in each and found himself miserable. He could no longer draw swords at the demands of another any more than he could call women names. This was perhaps the only thing he was certain of-that and the fact he never wanted to see Royce Melborn again.
But what does that leave?
At least Pickles had a better future. He’d accomplished that much. Hadrian smiled thinking of the poor boy from Vernes in a school gown. His own life had taken the wrong turns, but Pickles was on a good road now. If nothing else, Hadrian could take solace in knowing he had played a major role in changing the direction of Pickles’s life.
Hadrian climbed the stairs to Arcadius’s office, managing to avoid students. The door was closed, leaving him to knock on the professor’s door.
“Come in,” called the now-familiar voice.
Opening the door, he found the office was the same old mess. The professor was back at his desk this time with a book open before him and a steaming cup of something in his hand. Hadrian was three steps into the room before he noticed Royce Melborn. The thief was on the far side of the clutter, just as he had been the day they were introduced, only this time he reclined on a chest, eating an apple. His cloak was off, draped over the shoulders of the nearby skeleton that dangled from the spear like a macabre marionette.
“You!” was all that Hadrian could think to say.
Royce looked at him equally surprised, then shaking his head in disbelief dug into his purse and pulled out a coin. He got up and set it on the professor’s desk before returning to his seat on the chest. “I honestly didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I hoped I would never have to see you,” Hadrian said. “You abandoned me.”
“To be more precise, I left you for dead. How’d you survive?”
“I didn’t fight them.”
“You ran? You must be fast.”
“I didn’t run. I spent the night at that tavern thinking you might be back to get me.”
Royce chuckled. “Not much chance of that.”