The Death of Dulgath (30 page)

“No, not her. I was going to say, what about
you
?”

“Me?”

“The first time we entered Medford, you risked your life for me. More than that, you actually begged in the street for my sake. Why’d you do that?”

“Okay.” Royce nodded. “You can add one more condition to the list. Acts which run contrary to one’s own self interest are due to ignorance, impulse,
and
delirium.
”

Hadrian laughed. “That’s a fine fortress you’ve built there, although none too comfortable, I suspect.”

“And that cloud you live on is going to disappear in Manzant. People don’t help others unless there’s something in it for them, and since we’re of no use to anyone, no one is going to help us.”

Out the rear window, between the vertical bars of iron, Hadrian spotted another traveler on the road. A wagon was coming their way.

Hadrian couldn’t believe his eyes.

He glanced at Royce for validation and found his partner staring out the back of the wagon, his mouth open, brows twisted in confused knots. “What’s she doing here?”

Scarlett Dodge was driving a buckboard pulled by a pair of mismatched horses. She’d traded her patchwork gown for a loose shirt and men’s trousers. She’d tucked her vibrant hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Hadrian hoped she wasn’t trying to pass for a man; she still looked every bit a woman despite the attire. As she neared, Scarlett steered her wagon to the left of the road, bringing it up alongside them. The bed of the buckboard was filled with six barrels: four marked BEER, the other two ALE.

“Hello there!” one of the black-uniformed men called to her.

“Hello,” she replied, her voice soft, meek, wary.

Hadrian and Royce both shifted to peer out the left-side window.

“What’s your name?” someone asked, too far past the corner of the window for them to see.

“I’m just stopping to water my horses. I’ll be on my way in a—”

“Didn’t ask you about your horses. I asked your name, sweetie. What is it?”

“Ruby.” Scarlett was too far to one side for Hadrian to see her face. His view consisted entirely of the wagon, barrels, and the hind ends of the horses.

“See, she knows better than to give her real name,” Royce said.

“She’s here to help us,” Hadrian told him.

“All by herself? Against six Manzant slavers?”

Hadrian looked out the rear window, searching for others. The road, flat and straight, was empty for miles.

Royce shook his head. “She’s the one who put us here.”

“What’s with the boy’s clothes, Ruby?” one of the slavers asked.

“Brother’s clothes. Easier to work in.”

“Where you taking all that beer and ale?”

One of them came to the wagon and jostled a barrel, then another. “They’re full.”

“They’re, ah—old. Going bad. Has a real rank taste. I’m taking them to Manzant to sell. Guards are grateful for whatever they can get.”

Hadrian leaned against the wall of the wagon.

She’s lying—but why?

Fawkes could have sent her to ensure they were locked away.

Do you understand the meaning of the word
thorough
?

His brain knew it was possible, even probable, but his heart didn’t want to believe.

She’s here to help,
he reasoned.
Maybe she tried to get others, too, but they refused. She’s stubborn and foolish and chased after us alone.

“You’re in luck, little lady. We’re from Manzant. You can give it to us.”

“Wasn’t planning on
giving
it to no one. I’m selling it, but sure, I can sell it to you. Let’s see, for all six kegs it’ll cost you…five yellow tenents or twelve with King Vincent’s profile.”

“Naw, I’m thinking these are donations.”

“Then you’d be thinking wrong.”

Two of the men lifted a barrel from the wagon and hauled it out of sight.

“Leave that alone!”

“Just taking a taste, honeysweet.”

“Stop it!”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a party, boys.”

“By Mar! We got beer, ale, and a pretty little thing to entertain us.”

“And you didn’t want to come.”

“I know, right? I would’ve been kicking myself.”

“We’re spending the night here, aren’t we? I mean, no sense in going any farther today, am I right?”

“Absolutely. Hey, Owen, why don’t you make a fire?”

“And just leave the whoring and drinking to you? Screw that.”

“I said stop it!” Scarlett’s voice cut a note higher. She was scared. The horses didn’t like it. The two on Scarlett’s wagon shuffled, making their tack jingle, and the lorry shifted forward and back.

Hadrian jerked on his chains; they rewarded him by cutting into his abused flesh. He pressed his face to the bars of the window, but he couldn’t see anything beyond Scarlett’s barrel-laden wagon.

“Why don’t you sit down?” a voice growled.

Startled by something, both sets of horses jerked. The wagon Royce and Hadrian were in lurched, slamming Hadrian’s face against the window. At the same time, Scarlett gasped. Not quite a scream, but close.

Hadrian jerked on the manacles again, and blood dripped around his wrists.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with this, is there?”

“Tastes fine to me.”

“It’s even a little cold.”

“I think she’s lying to us, don’t you?”

“Lying to us about more than the beer, I’ll bet. Those clothes are lying, too. They say you’re frumpy, but I’ll wager you’ve got quite a figure underneath.”

“No!” Scarlett shouted.

Running feet slapped dirt, and a moment later Scarlett appeared back in Hadrian’s vision. She stared through the little window, eyes wide with fear. “Help!” she screamed.

One of the men caught her by the arm. Scarlett jerked back and slammed against the side of their wagon. She screamed again. Another man grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up. Her hat came off, and that long red hair cascaded out. The men exclaimed in pleasure at the sight.

“Told you them clothes were hiding something special!”

Hadrian threw himself at the wooden wall. The boards, thick and solid, didn’t even shudder. The impact only served to jar his ribs, and a fresh bolt of pain stole his breath.

“Settle down in there!” one of the slavers shouted, banging on the wall of the wagon.

“They’re jealous of our good fortune,” another said.

With arms and feet thrashing, Scarlett was carried out of sight. Hadrian continued to press his face hard to the corner of the little opening in the wall, struggling to see what they were doing. All he saw were Scarlett’s horses standing, hoofing the ground and lifting their heads to watch what Hadrian couldn’t see. On the ground just outside, Scarlett’s hat lay in a rut, long red hairs caught in the brim.

Scarlett screamed. The sound was different this time, and Hadrian was surprised to discover that screams had their own language. Before she’d cried out in fear; now she shrieked in panic. Fear of the possible had become the terror of reality. She wailed until her cries were muffled. Things went quiet for a few seconds, and then she screeched again. After a minute or so, the screams stopped, and Scarlett settled into a whimpering ongoing sob.

Hadrian couldn’t help himself. He began to thrash, trying to find a way out of the chains, out of the iron manacles that had him helpless—a way that didn’t exist.

“Hold her!”

“Get her ankles! Get her goddamn ankles!”

Hadrian pulled on the iron, feeling the brackets cutting deeper, neither giving at all.

“Easy,” Royce whispered.

“I have to do something! I can’t just sit here and listen to this.”

“Nothing you can do. Relax.”

“I can’t relax!” he yelled. “She wasn’t involved, Royce. She’s here to help and now…” Hadrian put his face back to the window but still couldn’t see.

“You can’t do anything else,” Royce said in his all-too-cold, all-too-complacent, all-too-callous way. Times like this Hadrian hated his partner, hated his ruthless indifference. This side of Royce was devoid of compassion, of empathy. He could sit content while just outside—

Scarlett shrieked again, this time louder. The slavers replied with laughter.

Once more, Hadrian put his face against the bars of the window. The cool metal pressed against his cheek. “You sons of bitches!” Hadrian shouted. “Leave her alone!”

More laughter.

Royce did nothing. He sat on the floor of the wagon, his back against the wall. No struggling, no effort to squirm out of the manacles—he just sat there, head back, looking at his boots. At least he wasn’t smiling. That was something.

Scarlett wailed louder, and then fell back once more to sobs. After that came a good deal of grunting and some sounds of gagging and spitting. Then slowly, bit by bit, the noises faded. The horses still jangled their tack and stomped their hooves, but he couldn’t hear Scarlett anymore.

Did they kill her?
The idea grew in his head.

At first, he didn’t want to believe it, but as the silence continued, he grew steadily more certain of the possibility. They’d killed her and were sitting around her body, drinking and recovering.

Hadrian stayed by the window, straining to hear. Wind brushed grass, making a sound as light as rain. A single cricket trilled a lonely note. Somewhere, a swallow chirped. So quiet.

Why is it so very quiet?

Footsteps.

Hadrian heard them shuffle on dirt. They paused, then grew louder as they approached Royce’s side of the wagon.

Feeling sick, furious, and drained, Hadrian turned toward the rear door, hoping someone would be stupid enough to open it. With his wrists bound up, there wasn’t much he could do, but he was pretty sure he could kill at least one.

Hadrian was good at killing—that was his skill, his one true talent. Once upon a time, he had actually been proud of that ability. He’d since outgrown his pride and sobered up from an addiction to blood, but at twenty-two he’d come too late to the simple wisdom that killing wasn’t something to take pride in. And yet there were times, moments like this, when he realized that even terrible talents had a use.

To his amazement, he heard a key enter the door’s lock.

They’re opening it!

Hadrian glanced at Royce with wide-eyed anticipation. His partner shifted to a crouch. His nimble, cat-smooth movement announced his agreement to an unspoken plan.

If the man opening the wagon door also has the key to our chains…

The door swung open. Both Royce and Hadrian started, then stopped short, confounded by the sight of red hair.

“Hang on, I have to find the right one,” Scarlett Dodge said, holding up a large metal hoop filled with a dozen keys. A bit of dirt smeared her shirt, and she had a grass stain on one knee of her trousers. Other than that, she looked fine. “Here, turn around,” she told Hadrian.

“You’re…you’re all right?”

“Yeah,” she said with a little puff of air—an almost-laugh that said,
Why wouldn’t I be?
“Turn around.”

He did as she instructed, sending Royce a baffled look. Royce didn’t look surprised, but his face was covered with suspicion.

Hadrian felt a tug on the manacles at his wrist.

“What did you do? Your skin is all torn up and bloody.” She loosened one; then both popped open, and his arms were free. The relief in his shoulders was immediate. A surge of blood reached his fingertips, igniting a burst of pins and needles. The ache in his side—while not gone—eased a bit.

“Hold steady,” she complained, starting to work on his collar.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

“Me? Of course I’m sure.”

The heavy metal collar made a loud hollow
clunk!
as it hit the wagon’s bed. Hadrian rubbed at his raw neck and swallowed several times, enjoying the simple pleasure.

Scarlett paused before Royce, holding up the key. “If I unlock you, are you going to be nice?”

Royce said nothing. He stared at her with an unfathomable expression: anger, suspicion, but also something else.

Scarlett let out a frustrated sigh and went to work on Royce’s locks. As she did, Hadrian climbed out. A cool breeze chilled the sweat on his skin as he cautiously moved around between the two wagons. He headed toward the river, which proved to be no more than a pathetic trickle running over the road. High banks told tales of spring floods, but at that moment Mercator Creek wasn’t impressive. There was no bridge; the two-track road just plowed through a shallow section where rocks refused to wash away. The team of horses that had pulled the prison wagon drank from the rippling water. Scarlett’s pair were held by a hand brake, too far back to join the other horses. The two animals were slick with sweat, their hair soaked flat and dark beneath the leather straps and collar. She’d driven them hard—too hard to let them drink until they cooled down.

Around the front, a keg marked BEER sat upright in the road. It looked exactly like a miniature rain barrel; its lid had been broken into two parts. The dirt around the base was dark and wet. A few inches away, he spotted a tin cup in the dirt. Next to it lay a slaver. He wasn’t alone. Hadrian counted the men and came up with all six. They were lying on the road or in the grass—although one was partially in the creek, the fingers of his left hand shifting in the current.