“And you?” Albert asked.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Court will be an exciting place, and I want to be right in the center of it all.”
Albert’s lack of wealth made packing a matter of getting dressed. He bid farewell to Daref and set out into the rain. Walking past the square, he saw the remnants of Royce’s work. Blood was everywhere. The fountain pool was dingy red, a few ropes still attached to the statue, where Exeter’s body had been cut away. The display was such a horrific sight that Albert put a hand to his mouth to prevent losing the helping of the sausages and eggs he’d eaten.
How had Royce and Hadrian managed it? I still owe them money. If I run, will Royce hunt me down?
In the course of just one day, Royce had discovered Exeter’s identity. He’d located, plotted against, and killed the third most powerful man in Melengar-someone with an army of sheriffs at his command-all while his victim attended a king’s gala. If Royce decided to kill him, how infinitesimal were the chances of a disavowed viscount on the road to Calis?
His stomach churned. He really had no idea what kind of men they were. How could he, having just met them? Hadrian seemed affable enough, but there was something else there, something buried. He walked with a swagger that was just a little too confident for a commoner, as if he had no fear of death. Albert’s father had always warned him about casual men. The Winslows were a family of gamblers, and this was likely where he gained his innate gift for reading people. Granted, his grandfather lost the fief in a game of chance, and his father lost everything else the same way, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right-it was called gambling for a reason. Still, between his two new associates, Royce was the frightening one. He didn’t veil his disposition in the least. That man was capable of anything.
Death as an accomplice or death in the dark?
Albert had always been a coward, but the family’s gambling habit was still in his blood. If he went to Royce first and explained that he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, then maybe he would let him go. He decided he would rather take a risk now than live in fear the rest of his life. If he gave them twenty gold tenents, that would repay the original money they had given him many times over. The two might not be pleased with him for severing their partnership, but it ought to be enough to save his life. He would still have five to live on, and he could run with that. The question was, should he tell them about the five he was keeping or just say the job had paid twenty? Five seemed fair, but they might not see it that way. Still, he needed at least five to live on. He would never be able to show his face in civilized society after taking Lady Lillian’s money and not delivering on his promise, and Constance would be disgraced and vengeful. She was no Royce Melborn, but the fury of a scorned noble lady was nothing to trifle with. He could never hope to return and would be forced to vanish and start a new life. Calis was still a possibility, but he might also go to Delgos-no nobles there. Either would be nice, someplace warm for the coming winter. Someplace they sold cheap rum.
When he arrived in the Lower Quarter, Albert did so with slow feet. He was in no hurry despite the rain that was soaking his new clothing. This was a bad day for everyone and he was not eager to receive his fair share. He headed for the tavern but paused at the common well in the square. Raynor Grue was decorating the place with his gruesome visage made uglier by the cuts, as if someone had taken pity on the crows by cutting up their meat. He’d also seen the other dead man when he came through the Artisan Quarter. The sheriffs were too preoccupied with the affairs of state to worry about removing the bodies of two peasants. How long would they hang there before someone took them down? Both scenes were gruesome, and it made Albert wonder exactly what state Exeter’s body was found in. The first didn’t bother him too much, but Grue was different. He had known him. He’d just talked to the man the day before. Albert’s hand went absently to his own throat, his own face. He remembered how casual, how arrogant he’d been with Royce when questioned about borrowing so much for clothes. Maybe he should have been less cavalier. His feet moved even slower after that.
Sadly, no earthquake split the street to swallow him and soon he arrived at The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. The door was closed and for a moment Albert wasn’t certain what to do. He shouldn’t just walk in, but he certainly couldn’t wait for Raynor Grue to open the place. He stood at the threshold trying to determine his next move, most of which centered around, Well, I tried to contact them. They can’t fault me for that.
The door opened.
“Winslow,” Royce’s voice said sharply from the darkness. “Get in here.”
Albert felt his stomach rise as he compelled his legs to walk. There’s still one empty square in the city. Maybe Royce reserved it for me.
As soon as he entered, Royce closed the door and dropped the bolt. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The barroom was empty except for the three of them. Hadrian sat at the bar on one of the high stools, his big sword lying along the counter where it extended beyond three seats.
Royce gave him an exasperated look. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for hours, and I was just about to go look for you myself.”
Look for him? What did that mean? Royce wasn’t a heated killer. Albert had been with them only a few days but already he knew that much. Looking at the thief, he took a breath and tried to calm down. Daref was right; he was a coward.
“I … ah-”
“Never mind. Do you know the bishop here in Medford?”
“Maurice Saldur?” Albert was baffled by the question. “Oh no, you aren’t planning on killing him, too, are you?”
Royce didn’t bother answering and simply handed him a small purse. “Deliver this package to the bishop right now-right this minute.”
“But I don’t even know where he is.”
Royce gripped the lapels of Albert’s coat and pulled him close enough to kiss. “Get this package into the bishop’s hands immediately or-”
“Not a problem,” Albert said, taking the purse.
On the opposite side of the Gentry Quarter from Essendon Castle, Mares Cathedral brooded in its somber, dignified opulence. The two buildings dominated Medford, some said, like quarreling behemoths, but Bishop Saldur preferred to think of them as parents, looking down on a city filled with children. The castle, like a husband, provided security of the body, while the mother church nurtured the spirit. The cathedral was older than the castle, predating it and the kingdom of Melengar by centuries. A relic of the post-imperial age, it showed its years. Streaks of black stained the stone of its lofty bell tower, dark tears shed for a thousand years of mourning. The rest of the world had moved on. They had forgotten the days of imperial glory when roads were safe, water was pure, and cities such as Medford didn’t need walls. The church remembered. The church waited.
For nearly a thousand years, the Nyphron Church had sought the lost heir of the last emperor who had miraculously escaped the final destruction. That one hope had kept the faith alive through turbulent times. Clinging to the dream and a memory of greatness, the church sought to steer mankind back onto the course of enlightened progress and away from selfish divisions that placed any thug with enough swords on a throne.
It had been a long journey through dark times, but the wait was nearly over.
The bishop paused long enough to look up into the pelting drops of rain at the grand facade of Mares Cathedral with its twin soaring bell spires, a masterwork so out of place in such a small city. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the still-smoldering ruins of the castle and felt the drag of wet vestments on his shoulders. He’d failed, but at least it was the castle and not him that had burned. Whoever had killed Exeter had removed a noose from the bishop’s neck.