Hadrian got up. “I’m getting a refill. You want one?”
“No.”
“Sounds like you could use one.”
“No.”
Hadrian bumped his way back to the bar, while Royce struggled to think of something-anything.
He could try and break Gwen out. He had seen the fire, and everything would be in chaos. It wasn’t like the high constable was around to give them orders. Security would be weak. But he knew her-Gwen wouldn’t go unless the rest of the girls were safe first, and he couldn’t hope to get them all out. If he did, where would he take them? He’d be on the run with a wagonload of women. If he had a month to prepare, maybe, but Royce suspected justice would be quick. He guessed he had no more than a day or two and possibly just a few hours.
There had to be a better way, and he knew what the problem was. He was still thinking like himself. He needed to think like Merrick. He needed to make things flow the way he wanted. To do that he had to understand where the power was and how to bend it.
Royce sighed. All he could think of was killing, and he couldn’t kill everyone. How would Merrick handle it? Manipulation certainly, but how and who? He didn’t even know who gave the order to arrest the girls. There were quarter sheriffs and probably a high sheriff, also a city constable, and finally the lord high constable of all of Melengar, whose office was presently vacant thanks to him. Which one should he put pressure on? Which one had the power to free Gwen?
“What I need is leverage. Someone I can blackmail or bribe.”
“Too bad about Exeter,” Hadrian said. “Could have used him, except his attempt to kill the king is pretty much common knowledge now, and of course there’s the whole dead thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fire? Big old blaze in the castle? I thought you might have set it to flush Exeter out.”
“No, Albert did what he was supposed to, and Exeter came out on his own.”
“Yeah, well, I know that now. Actually I gathered that from all the gossip at the castle. Everyone was talking about how Exeter had it set. He was trying to take over.”
“Really? That’s odd. Exeter told me some bishop-Saldur, I think he said-was the one plotting for the throne.”
“Was that before or after you cut his fingers off?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Probably would have accused his mother of killing the king after a finger or two.”
Royce shook his head. “No, I’ve found people are pretty truthful at times like that. I think Exeter was innocent.”
“You’re saying you killed the wrong man?”
Royce smirked. “I meant for burning the castle and trying to kill the king. Exeter said Rose could identify who they were. Said he wasn’t looking to kill her-he wanted to find her. She had some kind of proof he needed.”
“Hmm…” Hadrian took another long drink. Outside the wind buffeted the tavern, whistling through the many cracks.
“What?”
“When the patrol caught up to Rose, they didn’t try to kill her. The sheriff wanted her taken to Exeter.”
“Did you catch his name? The guard you think killed Rose?”
“Richard Hilfred, a sergeant in the royal guard.”
Royce stood up. “Great! All I need to do is kill him.”
“Then you’re in luck. He’s already dead.”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“He was the guy who started the fire. That new chancellor killed him. But what difference does that make?”
Merrick would have seen the connections. He would’ve seen the pieces falling into place, and for once Royce was seeing them too. He got up and started walking back and forth. Royce was on to something, and he couldn’t sit still. Merrick used to pace when he planned, too, and that made him feel even more that he was on the right track.
“Hilfred was just a pawn, the inside guy. This Bishop Saldur’s the one pulling the strings. And with a little convincing, he might be able to pull some for us. A friend of mine used to say ‘guilt and fear are a powerful combination,’ and it often only takes a small suggestion that someone else knows what you did to get the imagination running. If I plotted to kill the king, and he didn’t die, I’d be a little concerned His Majesty might find out, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, but what are you gonna do? Walk into the cathedral and put a knife to the guy’s throat and-”
“No,” Royce found himself saying, even though he’d been thinking the same thing. Merrick never maneuvered that way. Too crude, he’d say. Persuasion was an art. Too much force had unwanted consequences. Fear was good-panic unpredictable. “We need Albert.”
“Albert?”
“Yeah.”
Royce reached out and deliberately knocked Hadrian’s mug over, spilling the ale across the end of the table and onto the floor.
Hadrian pushed away from the table and looked at Royce, surprised. “What’d you do that for?”
“You didn’t get wet, did you?” He had a bemused look on his face.
“No.”
Royce watched the ale drip off the end of the table for a moment. “That’s because I knew where the ale would go. Besides, I need you sober, because if this fails, we might have to kill a lot of people.”
CHAPTER 21
Rain started falling just before dawn. The soft patter on the roof of the barracks should have been soothing, a welcome relief, a gift from Maribor to finally douse the night fires, but Chancellor Percy Braga saw it as just one more thing to deal with. The barracks had become the new council chambers, with what remained of the heart and soul of the kingdom squeezed into two narrow rooms. Braga would eventually commandeer a nobleman’s house in the city, possibly even move into Mares Cathedral, though Saldur might balk. For now he needed to be on the scene.
The scene was the smoldering ruin of the castle keep. The fire had burned longer than anyone would have thought. All that straw. Braga had heard those three words all night, but it was all that aged oak that kept the fire going. Bucket brigades did nothing but prevent the fire from spreading to the outbuildings. The keep was unassailable, as if a dragon had taken up residence, refusing to be moved. The place had burned all night, black walls with glowing eyes and a deep throaty roar.
So much had to be done and now they would do it in mud thanks to rain that had come too late. The sheer enormity of the problems aligned against him was overwhelming. He took a breath and exhaled and then took another. He shouldn’t have to remind himself to breathe. The world was changing. The sun would shine again, perhaps brighter than before. He just needed to get through this.
Braga sat at the woefully small table, a size that suited the small number of attendees. Of the original twelve council members only Lord Valin, Marshall Ecton, the Chamberlain Julius, and Bishop Saldur survived to reconvene. Buried under a pile of military blankets, struggling to endure the morning chill, which was worsened by the rain, Braga sat at the head of the table feeling more exhausted and cold than he could ever recall. No one suggested starting a fire.
Braga waited on the death tally. In the chaos, no one knew who died and who might have survived, and he needed to have that list. The delay was agony, but he had to know before proceeding. At least one name wouldn’t be on the list. The princess had been spared, carried to safety by that boy-Richard Hilfred’s son.
Everyone had ash on them somewhere. The whole of Essendon Castle was one big lump of charcoal and everyone looked like miners recently out of the hole.
“I’d like to send scouts up the East March Road,” Valin insisted with steel in his voice that Braga couldn’t have imagined before. The old warrior had always struck him as a doddering steward, keeping the seat warm for the next Marquis of Asper, but the man was alive now, his eyes bright and his voice deep. “We’re sitting here blind and deaf. I have known Exeter since he was a pup, and that lad was no fool. He may have commanders and an army on the march. Even though the man is dead, his forces could still pose a risk. We need to know where they are, their numbers and makeup.”