The Death of Dulgath (29 page)

“Lord Fawkes?”

Christopher turned and saw Lady Dulgath’s handmaiden.

Her name was Rissa Lyn, and she stood in the doorway in her simple white dress with the faded-blue sash. Her eyes were huge, her mouth a large O.

Christopher froze with dagger drawn, then quickly put it away. When he saw she was alone he asked, “What do you want?”

The woman hesitated. She gave a nervous glance out the open door, then walked quickly toward him. Her eyes were on the broken painting as she said, “It killed Sherwood Stow.”

Christopher’s heart was still racing, his air coming in short, fast breaths. “What are you blathering about, girl?”

“I read the note Lady Dulgath sent to Mister Stow right before he vanished.”

This got his full attention.

“Her Ladyship begged him to meet her on the cliffs above the sea. I told him what she was. Tried to stop him from going. Mister Stow is dead.” She pointed at the painting. “That thing killed him. Killed him because he knew what she really was.”

“And what is she?”

“A demon. Same one that possessed Maddie Oldcorn. Poor Lady Nysa died but was never buried proper. Now a monster walks around in her corpse. Mister Stow saw that. It’s all in the painting, isn’t it, milord? I went to his room last night, to try to convince him about the demon. He wasn’t there, but the painting was, so I looked. Mister Stow saw the monster inside Lady Dulgath, and it killed him. He never returned from that meeting.”

The woman was insane, and desperation filled her eyes as she clasped her hands against her chest, squeezing them so hard the fingertips went white.

“You have to do something, my lord. The king is here. He can stop it. If you tell him what I—”

“Christopher!” the voice of the bishop called. “Fawkes!”

“Excuse me.” He walked out.

Keep it together, Christopher. Just one more day—not even a whole day. Just a few more hours. Just a few more.

Chapter Sixteen
The Road South

The world rocked again, accompanied by a loud, painful thump. Hadrian opened his eyes. His cheek—pressed against rough, vibrating wood—throbbed along with the rest of his head. Sunlight, bright and harsh, entered a barred window and stung his eyes. His wrists hurt and were tied—no, manacled behind his back. He tried to swallow. Yes, his tongue, throat, and mouth were dry, but the real problem was the wide iron collar. Metal links connecting his wrists to the neckband dug into his back.

He lay inside an enclosed wagon. Three barred windows—small ones on either side and a large one in the door at the back—showed they traveled a two-track road across flat, open ground. Another hard jolt and pain bloomed in Hadrian’s right side. Having his arms wrenched up toward the middle of his back wasn’t helping. After one more painful bump, a hard hammering blow that made him clench his teeth, Hadrian sat up—not an easy thing to do, trussed up as he was.

The sun between the bars indicated either the lateness of the day or a dawn newly born. Hadrian wasn’t alone. Royce sat across from him, knees up, head down, chained in the same way as Hadrian.

“Thought you’d never wake up,” Royce said.

“How long have I been out?”

Royce shrugged. “Day and a half, maybe.”

Hadrian’s mouth hung open. “Are you serious? That can’t be right. Last time it was only a few hours. And I drank less this time.”

Again Royce shrugged.

Hadrian dragged his pasty tongue across his teeth. “That would explain the taste in my mouth. I’m never drinking anything again.”

Outside, three men rode escort—one on each side, another at the rear. They wore the same black uniforms as the men who had broken into their room at Caldwell House. The sun was on the right side of the wagon. If it was evening, they were traveling south; if morning, north.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked.

“They put the drug in the cups on the shelf before we arrived.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much. I meant after.”

“You passed out, and we had uninvited company. They were very rude. I can’t believe you drank.”

“I didn’t expect everyone in Dulgath to be alchemists.”

“Not everyone, just her.”

“Her?”

“Feldspar,” Royce said bitterly.

“You think Scarlett was involved?”

“Same place. Same drug. Everyone conveniently absent. Doesn’t take a genius.” Royce nodded. “She’s working for Fawkes and Payne.”

“You’re not serious?”

Royce rolled not only his eyes but his head as well. “Let me guess. You’re in love with her.”

“No!” he said loud enough to anger the throbbing in his head. The wagon and the rough road were torturing him just fine; he didn’t need to help. “I like her, that’s all. She seems nice, sweet, and protective of her friends.” He looked out at the soldier trailing behind them. “Are you sure? I mean…I can’t believe I could misjudge a person so badly.”

“You’re not exactly known for your judgment of character, but don’t feel too bad. The woman is a professional. Most Diamond girls are trained at manipulation, and seduction—two of their best tools.”

Hadrian did feel bad. Not because he had been taken in by Scarlett, but at the thought that she could do such a thing. He really had liked her. Worse—he had believed her. Hadrian had bought that whole story about her escaping Colnora and finding a better life in the dale. Such a thing was easy to believe. He wanted it to be true, still did. “Any idea where we are?”

“The Old Mine Road.”

“The Old—?” Hadrian lifted his chin. His side screamed again. Once more, he clamped his teeth in pain. For his effort, he saw mountains, the little green range separating Dulgath from Greater Maranon. “We’re not in Dulgath anymore. This is that road—the one you paused at on the way in—the one that went south.”

Which makes it late afternoon, coming on evening.

He looked again at the soldier behind them. He had his helm off and his chain coif thrown back. “Where are we going?”

“Manzant.”

The name was vaguely familiar, and not in a good way.

Royce assumed he didn’t know and added, “A salt mine on the rocky thumb of Maranon. It’s also a prison—sort of. You’re not going to like it.”

A salt mine prison?
“Can you unlock these?” He jingled the chain holding his wrists.

“No.”

Royce let his head hang forward as if it weighed more that day. His hood was off, thrown back. So was his cloak, disheveled and torn, but his hair did a good job of hiding his face.

“Seriously?” Hadrian asked.

Royce took the effort to tilt his head and glare at him. “Hands are locked just like yours. I can’t reach my tools.”

“Well, maybe I can reach them.” Hadrian shoved to his knees, making a rattling sound as chains clattered on wood, then gasped as the sharp pain stabbed his side again.

“Won’t help,” Royce told him, lowering his face once more.

“Why not?”

“My right hand is broken. So is the middle finger of my left. Besides, I doubt they missed them when searching us.”

“Oh.” Hadrian sighed, then let himself slide back down. He moved slowly, bracing for more pain.

“What about you?” Royce asked.

“Cracked rib, I think.”

“That all?”

Hadrian nodded. “Pretty sure.”

Royce had his head up again and studied Hadrian’s face. “You look terrible.”

“Really?” Hadrian shifted his jaw and moved his cheek muscles, searching for bruises. “My face doesn’t even hurt.”

Royce shook his head. “Just in general, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever just sat and stared at you before.”

Hadrian frowned. Getting back to a sitting position, he let his head rest on the wall behind him. “Why is it you always find your sense of humor when we’re about to die?”

Royce shrugged. “I suppose because that’s when life is at its most absurd.”

“We are going to die, right? I don’t want to get my hopes up unnecessarily.”

“If we’re lucky,” Royce replied without any hint of humor this time. “Manzant is a place where people go to disappear. A long, deep, narrow shaft. Dwarves built the mine centuries ago, a hideous achievement of incarceration. Inmates mine salt in the dark in return for food and fresh water. No tools, no protection, you either find a way to get salt or you die trying. In time, the salt leaches the very soul out of a man, or so I’ve heard.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Can’t squeeze wine from a stone, right?” Hadrian pulled on the manacles again. Now he remembered the name Manzant, the place Scarlett had told him about. She’d gotten away by escaping her chains, but that was probably a lie like everything else. “If we’re going to prison, what do you suppose the charges are? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You don’t have to do anything wrong to end up in Manzant. Like I said, it’s a mine as well as a prison. Ambrose Moor—he’s the administrator—doesn’t care where he gets workers. Criminals are fine, but he’ll pay decent money for slaves, too.”

“But we aren’t slaves.”

“We are now.”

Hadrian scanned the wagon and found it empty except for some rotting straw and extra chains that had turned a dark-rust color. They added to the loud jangle accompanying each hard bump. “You still have Alverstone?”

Royce shook his head. “Manzant slavers are excellent at their job. Not done yet. They’ll strip us naked when we get to the prison. Shave our heads, too.”

“Quit talking it up. You’re ruining all the surprises.”

The wagon hit another bump, a big one. They both groaned as the fixed axle hammered the road. Then the movement stopped. “What now? Are we there?”

Royce shook his head. He peered out the side window, head cocked, listening. “Water.” Royce paused. “Must be at Mercator Creek.” He nodded. “They’re watering the horses. We’re farther south than I thought.”

Hadrian heard a laugh. Two men talked, but their voices were too distant and muffled to understand.

“How far to Manzant?” Hadrian asked.

“Mercator Creek is less than ten miles from the prison, but in a wagon traveling up that twisting mountain road…” He looked out the window at the sky. “Be there tomorrow, I guess.”

“So we have a whole night to figure a way out.”

Royce gave him a pitiful smirk. “I really love the way you think things will all turn out fine. How did Feldspar put it? It’s so—
cute.
”

Hadrian frowned and tried to feel for the lock on his wrists, but his fingers were numb from being pinched.

Royce said, “Arcadius was right about you. It’s like you’re color-blind. Except it’s not colors you can’t see, it’s reality. Your problem is you expect too much from people.”

“I’m not the blind one here,” Hadrian replied. “I’ve seen the lows people can reach, believe me. But I’ve also witnessed heroic, even ridiculous levels of kindness. You have, too, but you ignore them.
That’s
blindness, my friend.”

Royce shook his head slowly and made a hissing sound—condescending laughter—a Royce Melborn trademark. “Water flows downhill,” he explained. “Cats eat mice. And sure, there’s the odd cold day in summer, or the freak warm spell in winter, but as a rule that doesn’t happen. In fact, it’s so not the rule it’s not worth mentioning. What you don’t understand, or choose to ignore, is that people care only about themselves. They wouldn’t risk money, much less their lives, for someone else. The only reason anyone would gamble their own neck for another person is if that other person’s life is important to their own welfare, and even then…” He shook his head and let out the same wispy laugh. “Fear drives most people. Acts of bravery are most often the result of ignorance or impulse. Given even a moment to think, to realize and reflect on the possible dangers, your would-be hero always gets cold feet.”

“I didn’t,” Hadrian said. “And you’re alive because of it.”

Royce smiled as if he’d expected this comment. “You’re right, and you know what? That’s bothered me for three years, but I’ve finally figured it out.”

Something banged hard against the side of the wagon. “You two still alive in there?” a harsh voice called. A face grinned in the window over Royce’s head.

“They’re fine. Both of ’em sittin’ up like this is their lucky day. You two just relax. We’ll be moving again soon enough, and by tomorrow, you’ll be home. Enjoy the sun, boys; it’s the last you’ll ever see of her.” The man laughed and then moved away, chuckling as he went.

“Nice fella,” Royce said. “Maybe
he’ll
help us.”

“Funny. So, what’s this thing you’ve figured out?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh, right. I determined the only reason you came back around the tower instead of climbing down and getting away was because you wanted to die.”

Hadrian’s eyes widened.

“Still do, in a way, I think. When you came back from Calis all disillusioned and lacking direction, you felt life had no point or purpose. You can’t stand to live in a world where people feed off others. You’d rather die in protest then accept the truth that life is misery and your fellow men are vicious animals who’ll jump at any opportunity to get ahead by stepping on their neighbor’s neck.”

“Okay.” Hadrian nodded. “Sounds like you’ve got me nailed down, but what about—”

“Gwen? She might just be that strange warm spell in winter. I don’t know.”