Hadrian awoke to the song of birds and a cool breeze. A window was open, the only movement the thin curtains rippling with the wind. He lay on something soft, a pillow beneath his head. Somewhere distant, he heard muffled clinks of glasses, voices, laughter, and the drag of chairs on a wooden floor.

Sounds like a tavern.

The thought drifted in with the gentle breeze and whistling whoops and chortles of a thrush — then he remembered.

He sat up, expecting a nasty headache, something similar to the morning after a drunken pass out. He had figured his head would be throbbing, his eyes dry and reluctant to shift. Surprisingly, he felt okay, good even. His mouth might have been the last resting place for a deceased chipmunk, but other than that he was fine.

Hadrian had no idea where he was. Along with his morning-after apprehension, he had expected to open his eyes on a different scene — if he ever managed to open them again.

He was indeed on a bed, a nice bed: thick mattress, soft blanket, linen sheets, feather pillow, no stains. The rest of the room was just as charming. Big, dark-wood beams supported the ceiling. A rug stretched across the floor. Drapes framed a solitary window, where a bright light shone on a table and an upholstered chair. In the chair sat a familiar shadow.

“They drugged me,” Hadrian said. “She — she drugged me.”

“I know,” Royce replied. He was staring out the window, looking down.

Hadrian began taking inventory with his hands, no pain, cuts, or bruises. No tar or feathers. He was in his clothes, shoes still on, cloak missing. No, not missing, it laid across the foot of the bed.

He looked at his hands and remembered fumbling with a key. “Did I — did I manage to lock the door?”

“Yes, you did.” Royce threw his booted feet on the table. “I had to pick it to get you out.” He pushed back his hood, revealing a confused expression.

“What?”

Royce shrugged.

“You’re impressed I did that, aren’t you? That I thought to lock myself in.”

“Be more impressed if you hadn’t allowed a pretty girl to drug you.”

“A pretty girl . . . how’d you know? And how did you find me?” Hadrian stood up, continuing to test himself, but his balance was fine. Whatever she’d given him was friendlier than rye whiskey.

Royce didn’t answer.

Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough? Hadrian’s stomach sank.

“Oh, Royce, you didn’t . . .”

Royce cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his sight shifted to the floor in thought. Once more, he displayed a puzzled expression. He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

“Not even the woman?”

“I know her. She’s from the Diamond, so she’s not an idiot. Not stupid enough to seek retribution, and she was adequately cooperative.”

“Really?” Hadrian wondered if he were dreaming, or perhaps dead. He should have been lying on a lonely road outside of town, his body burned with tar and covered in feathers, not waking up in a cozy private room.

Royce saved me but didn’t kill anyone? Apparently the world has forgotten how life works.

Spotting a washbasin on a dresser, Hadrian went over and splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a folded towel. He turned around, and his hands went to his sides. “Where are my swords?”

“No idea. Where’d you leave them?”

“What d’you mean where’d I leave them? I —”

I dropped them. And I took off the spadone before that. They were all near the bar.

“Didn’t you notice they were missing?” Hadrian asked.

Royce nodded.

“You didn’t think to get them back?”

Royce scowled. “Don’t see why I have to do everything. Need a hand when you piss, too?”

Hadrian threw the towel at him. Royce dipped his head, and the cloth flew out the window.

“How late is it?” Hadrian grabbed his cloak and hung it over his arm.

“Midmorning. You had a good rest. We missed breakfast.”

“Excuse me while I get my things.”

Royce stood up.

Hadrian stopped him. “No — stay here. My turn.”

----------------------------------------

Heading down the stairs, Hadrian noticed that the barroom was different. Morning light flooded in through the windows as well as the door, all of which were open to admit the breeze to the otherwise stuffy room. Gill was the first person Hadrian saw. The kid wore a stained apron and was rushing to clear tables where recent breakfast patrons had left plates and cups. Fearful that the ones who had taken his weapons would be long gone, Hadrian was pleased to see Bull Neck and his orange-clad partner at the same table where they’d sat the night before.

Wagner was still there, too, behind the bar, the same towel hanging over his shoulder. With his attentive publican eyes, Wagner was the first to spot Hadrian. Concern flooded the barkeep’s face as he glanced toward Bull Neck’s table to check if they’d seen him. Hadrian recognized two other faces at a different table. Not the men that had held up the post — not Brett and Larmand — but these men had been there. Scarlett wasn’t.

Getting up late had the benefit of a sparse crowd. Decent folk had come and gone. Aside from the ones he intended to speak with, Hadrian saw only one table of bystanders. A small family near the door was finishing up their porridge. The boy tilted a bowl to his lips, and his mother and father scolded him for bad manners. A girl in pigtails sat on a chair too big for her, swinging her legs.

Hadrian walked past Bull Neck and company to the bar, where Wagner pretended not to see him.

“I want my swords back.”

“What swords are those, friend?” Wagner smiled and pulled the towel from his shoulder to wipe dry hands or perhaps wrap around knuckles.

Hadrian smiled back. He’d hoped it would go this way. While he didn’t normally seek revenge, he didn’t appreciate being taken for an idiot.

Besides, a fight ends when one person hits the floor. This fight hadn’t ended. It hadn’t even started, but it was about to.

“Seriously?” Hadrian turned from Wagner and walked over to the family. Fishing out a silver tenent, he clapped it on their table. “This breakfast, and the next one, is on me.”

The man stared at him, looked at his wife and kids, and then asked, “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m going to ask you to take your family and leave. Right now.”

The man narrowed his eyes and glanced at his family once more. “Again, I have to ask why?”

“Because none of you were here last night when I was drugged and robbed.”

The man didn’t look as shocked as Hadrian expected. When the man leaned over and looked at Bull Neck, Hadrian realized the fellow wasn’t as innocent as he’d first appeared. Hadrian had spoken loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, and Bull Neck and his orange-clad pal were grinning. The kids’ mother was already up from her seat. She scooped up the coin, and without waiting for her husband, led her children out the door.

Hadrian waited.

“I think I’ll stick around,” the father told him, an amused, almost eager, glee in his eyes.

Hadrian nodded, then closed the front door to Caldwell House, sliding the bolt across. Turning back to the room, he saw that Bull Neck and his friend had risen to their feet.

“You, in the orange,” Hadrian said. “What’s your name?”

The man adjusted his belt and rolled his shoulders, making a show of loosening up. “Mostly, I’m called Bad-News-for-Bloody-Strangers.” He laughed.

Bull Neck laughed with him. The rest smiled. “But you can call me Clem for short. I’m tellin’ you so you’ll know who laid ya low.”

“Ah-huh.” Hadrian nodded. “Well, Clem, you’re gonna want to take that nice tunic off. Red and orange clash, and bloodstains are difficult to get out.”

Clem laughed again. No mirth in it, but rather the sound of cruelty being fed. “Don’t worry, I think I can avoid getting your blood on me.”

“No blades,” Bull Neck said, punching one fist into a palm. “And no creepy friend.” He glanced toward the stairs to make sure that was true. “And no woman to protect you.”

Woman to protect me? Isn’t she the one who drugged me?

Hadrian couldn’t figure out what had happened after he passed out. Bull Neck mentioned a creepy friend, but if Alverstone had come out to play, there would have been a lot of blood and more than a few bodies.

“You’re in for some serious trouble, struth, yes — I can tell you that!” Bull Neck nodded his sincerity. “Weez gonna pound you to flour, boy. Weez surely are. Gonna mash you down to wort. You gonna be nothing but paste.”

“You lads want to take this outside?” Wagner asked.

“I’d be happy not to do this at all,” Hadrian replied. “Just return my swords, and we can all have breakfast.”

“Breakfast is over, tosser,” Bull Neck declared. He was cracking his knuckles and smiling so wide his gums were showing.

Hadrian ignored him and stared at Wagner for an answer.

“Don’t know anything about no swords, mister.”

“I think it’ll come back to you after a few of these nice tables are broken.” Hadrian moved to the middle of the room, the most indefensible place he could find. He hated starting fights and didn’t think he’d have to this time. Presenting himself as an easy target was like laying out steak in front of hungry dogs. These men had wanted to beat him senseless since he’d arrived.

Bull Neck came at him first. He’d gone to the trouble of shoving Clem aside so he could have the first strike. Hadrian intended to indulge Bull, even though he had nothing against the man. There had been a lot of Bulls in Hadrian’s life — big, loud, demanding men who expected respect based on size and volume alone. A few could fight, but most never bothered to learn because they assumed superior bulk was all that combat required.

Bull was the latter. Not the sort to use weapons, he probably had a fondness for fists and chokeholds. Hadrian wasn’t going to make his point with Bull because he disliked his brand of fist-first thuggery, but because Bull looked like he could take a beating. The best way to change minds was to break the biggest bones first.

Bull took three lumbering steps, punching out with his big left fist in a wide roundhouse swing.

A lefty.

Hadrian had already guessed that from how he had stood with his right leg forward. Now he knew for certain because the swing wasn’t a jab or a feint. The big boy had put everything into that punch, expecting to end the fight right there.

Hadrian turned sideways and guided the blow away from his face with his left hand. He caught Bull’s wrist and twisted it slightly to roll the elbow up. Then, bracing with his right, Hadrian snapped his opponent’s arm backward at the elbow.

Pop!

Hadrian heard, as well as felt, the joint give.

This was followed by a bellowing scream as Bull stumbled forward. Hadrian let momentum do the work, and Bull slammed into the table still laden with porridge. Bowls shot into the air, wooden legs severed, and the table collapsed as Bull crashed into it.

Clem took a step forward as Hadrian backed up. “Wait!” Hadrian held up his palms and then pointed at the debris. “You might want to pick up one of those table legs. Makes a good club, don’t you think?”

This made Clem pause for a moment. Then he glanced at the floor where Bull was rolling in the spilled porridge, whimpering and clutching his twisted arm. Hadrian hoped that if Clem took a moment to reflect upon the torment of his friend it’d be enough to make Clem — and everyone else — think twice. It didn’t. But Clem did take Hadrian’s advice and picked up a broken table leg.

The first swing was wide. Hadrian took a step back anyway. The second, a backswing, was on target and Hadrian ducked, taking another step back. Then another. By the time they reached the oak post where Brett and his friend had been talking the night before, Clem was getting tired. Swinging that table leg as hard as he could was difficult, and sweat glistened on the orange-clad man’s forehead.

Hadrian waited for the next swing, and this time he stepped inside and guided his opponent’s hand. Easy to tell that the loud thwack! was Clem’s hand rather than the table leg hitting the post. The man dropped the club with a cry and jerked his hand to his chest in agony. Regardless of what else it might have done, the post had skinned Clem’s knuckles. Blood smeared the front of his nice tunic, leaving two faint streaks.

Hadrian thought this would end the fight, but the father who had remained behind had opened the door, and Brett, followed by two others, entered. Apparently, the wife was no more innocent than the husband.

All three charged Hadrian, arms spread for a waist-high tackle.

Hadrian stepped behind the pillar, ruining everything. He also picked up the table leg.

Brett went right, the family man went left. The third didn’t know what to do, so he just stopped in front of the post. They hadn’t seen Hadrian pick up the leg, and Brett still hadn’t seen it when Hadrian clubbed him in the forehead. Brett’s mouth made a wide O as his head snapped back and his legs crumpled under him. The father of two had intended to grab Hadrian’s arms from behind, but Hadrian was standing too close to the post for him to easily get both arms around. Didn’t matter. Hadrian brought the table leg back, punching into the man’s stomach with the splintered end. The jagged teeth cut through his shirt. Porridge Dad let out a whoosh of air, folded, and collapsed.

By this time, Wagner had come around the bar to join the fray, and Clem had recovered enough to have a second go.

Hadrian dodged around the post and moved back to the center of the room, where Bull was howling on the floor, lying on his back, his knees up as he rocked from side to side. Hadrian snatched another loose table leg off the ground.

The remaining three men — Gill abstained from the fight, choosing instead to watch from the cellar stairs — came at Hadrian more slowly this time. They fanned out, trying to circle him. Wagner wrapped the towel around his knuckles, and the three shuffled forward, jabbing and swiping, some with open hands and outstretched fingers. Maybe they were trying to catch hold of him; Hadrian wasn’t sure, but they looked ridiculous, like children. None had any training, much less experience.

They drugged me. Stole from me. Might have killed me.

The last one was unlikely, but he needed something. He was starting to feel like he was beating up on kids. When fighting skilled soldiers, Hadrian could anticipate moves. These people were erratic and foolish beyond prediction. They were so inept he might accidentally kill one. Not having his swords was a benefit; these imbeciles would probably impale themselves.

Hadrian cracked Brett on his reaching wrist. He howled and fell back. Thinking this provided an opening and not realizing Hadrian now had two clubs and was proficient with both hands, Clem lunged in. The second table leg caught him across the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted. Hadrian swung at Wagner then, who managed to jump out of the way but lost his balance in the effort and fell, slamming into another table, cracking it badly as he went down.

“Stop!” Scarlett Dodge stood in the doorway. She wore the same fetching patchwork gown, which looked out of place in the morning light. In her arms, she clutched three familiar swords. “Damn it, Brett! I told you to stall him, not fight him.”

She threw the three blades on the floor, where they clattered on the stone.

“Hey!” Hadrian yelled.

“What? You threw my friends on the floor!”

“His swords are worth more,” Royce said. He appeared from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, hood up, arms folded. No one had seen him come down. Everyone still able to, shifted away.

“Royce, I thought I told you to wait upstairs,” Hadrian said.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“You took too long. I got bored.”

“What are you doing?” Wagner asked Scarlett as he got to his feet. “Declawing the cat, remember?”

“Yeah, that was last night and before I knew this cat doesn’t need claws to kill you.”

“We almost had him, Dodge,” Porridge Dad said, still bent over and rubbing his stomach. “He was getting tired.”

“He’s had more sleep than any of you — trust me.”

“I’d rather have gotten drunk and suffered a hangover. You want to explain what happened last night?” Hadrian asked.

“Not really.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to insist,” Royce said, and began to slowly cross the debris-ridden room. “Miss Dodge, is it?”

“It sure as bloody Mar isn’t Missus.”

“Watch your mouth, girl,” Wagner snapped. “No need to blaspheme our Lord’s name.”

“Sorry, but he brings out the worst in me.”

“I think Miss Dodge needs to take a walk with us,” Royce said.

“She ain’t going nowhere with you two.” This was said by Bull Neck, who still lay on the floor, cradling his wounded arm.

“I’m afraid she is,” Royce said. He drew out a folded parchment and held it up. “Can you read?”

She stared at the parchment. Shock spread across her face. “You’re — you’re . . .” Scarlett couldn’t manage to say the word.

“Royal constables,” Royce said. “Keepers of the peace.”

“That’s not possible. You were in the Diamond, for Maribor’s sake.”

“You think I whipped this up last night?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Ask Sheriff Knox or Chamberlain Wells. You can even talk to Lord Fawkes — he’s the king’s cousin. He ought to know if the king’s signature is authentic.”

Wagner growled. “I don’t care who you say you are; she’s not going anywhere with you two.”

“It’s okay, Wag,” Scarlett said.

“It ain’t.”

“It is.”

“These two ain’t no royal constables.”

Scarlett sighed. “If it’s true, they could kill me in the name of the king, and Sheriff Knox would buy them drinks. And if it isn’t, they can still murder me and disappear. If they wanted me dead, you’d already be picking out my box.”

As she said this, Hadrian buckled on his two swords, then hefted the big one onto his back.

“Besides, how exactly do you plan to stop them?” She pointed toward Hadrian. “He pummeled all of you black-and-blue with two table legs. What do you think he’ll do with those? And don’t forget what I told you last night about him.” This time Scarlett pointed at Royce.

“That’s why I’m worried,” the bartender said.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Royce told him. “From what I’ve seen of the people in this town, I’d vote Miss Dodge ‘Most Likely to Survive.’”

Scarlett led them toward the door.

Hadrian paused and looked back at Clem, whose nose had bled like a spigot down the front of his tunic. “Cold water,” he said. “Don’t use hot. Believe me, hot water will set the stain and it’ll be ruined.” He shook his head. “What a shame. That was a nice tunic.”

----------------------------------------

The three of them followed the cobbled street downhill toward the river. Morning light shone blindingly bright on a two-story whitewashed clapboard building with a stone foundation and a big waterwheel. The wheel creaked and trickled as it slowly turned.

“Royce, you hungry?” Hadrian asked.

“A little,” Royce replied. He walked behind the other two, forcing Hadrian to peer back over his shoulder.

“I didn’t get dinner last night.”

He stared at Scarlett.

“What?”

“You know the town. Where can we go?” Hadrian asked.

“We?” She laughed, but there was nervousness in it. Scarlett glanced back at Royce before answering Hadrian. “I drugged you last night, and you want to eat with me today?”

“Sure, just don’t do it again. If you do” — Hadrian jerked his head toward Royce — “he’ll probably kill you.”

“Probably?” Royce said.

“So where can we find food?” Hadrian asked again.

“Ah . . .” Scarlett hesitated.

“Someplace isolated,” Royce said. “I don’t like crowds.”

“He’s not kidding,” Hadrian said. “And as far as Royce is concerned, two is a crowd.”

“We can go back to my place. I have a slab of pork and some eggs I can cook up.”

“Wonderful.” Hadrian smiled at her.

“Is he always like this?” Scarlett asked Royce.

He nodded. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

----------------------------------------

Scarlett Dodge lived in a small, ivy-bedecked stone cottage with a dirt floor, a yellow thatched roof, and a bright-red door. Chimneys stood at both ends, with the ubiquitous ivy hiding everything else. Inside were two rooms: a clean kitchen, and a disaster of a bedroom. Blankets, sheets, undertunics, kirtles, a bright-red cloak, and red gloves lay scattered across the rush-covered floor. There could have been a fight in her bedroom more violent than the one held at Caldwell House. A spinning wheel rested in the corner, tilted against the wall. A line of thread coming off the drive wheel was tangled around the bobbin in a massive wad. A nearby basket of unspun wool was tipped over, the contents looking like foam spilling out of a beer keg.

In contrast, the kitchen sparkled. Wood was stacked neatly near the fire, as were a series of six copper pots. Not a single one showed even a hint of soot. On three rows of shelves, ceramic and wooden bowls grouped by type descended in size from left to right. Plates and cups were proudly displayed, herbs hung in neat bundles from the rafters, and a series of sharp knives were stabbed into the support beam near a clutter-free table.

Scarlett paused, looking at her home with an embarrassed grimace, then shrugged. “I like to cook.”

The fire was still smoldering in her hearth. She added wood, pumped it with a bellows until a flame caught, then went to a barrel. Popping the lid off, she hooked out a slab of pork. Scarlett clapped it onto the table, jerked a knife off the post, and began slicing a section free.

“Well?” Hadrian asked, taking a seat on one of only two stools in the house.

Royce remained standing. He walked around, studying the place.

“Well what?” Scarlett replied, expertly trimming fat. She handled a knife well, holding it lightly with a finger on the blade and using the whole edge. Hadrian had never been a butcher, but he knew when someone was at ease with sharp things. While Scarlett probably hadn’t been a butcher, either, she certainly could have applied for the job.

“Why did you ruin a perfectly good glass of rye whiskey that might have led to a sleepless night for the both of us?”

Scarlett paused. She smiled then shook her head, clearing the expression. “You make it hard to hate you.”

“Really?” Royce said. “Funny — I have the opposite problem.”

“You mentioned something about us, the church, and Bishop Parnell?”

“Yeah, well, I may have been mistaken about that. It was before I saw . . . Royce, is it?”

“Pleased to meet you.” He nodded. “Dodge?”

“Scarlett. Scarlett Dodge.”

“Scarlett? Seriously? That’s the best you could come up with?”

She scowled. “Hey, that’s my real name. Thank you very much.”

Royce shrugged.

Hadrian had one heel hooked on the crossbar of the stool and the other on the floor. He considered tapping his toe but figured they’d still ignore him. Instead, he said, “Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?”

“Which was?” Scarlett asked.

“Hello? We were talking about why you drugged me.”

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Definitely a mistake. I thought you were hired muscle watching over Pastor-Pain-in-the-Ass. I had no idea that . . .” Focusing on Royce, her eyes became serious. “How much are they paying?”

“How much is who paying for what?” Royce asked.

“How much is the church paying you to kill Lady Dulgath? If I make you a better offer to leave, you’d be okay with that, right?”

“You’re that wealthy?”

“No, but I’ll take up a collection. If everyone pitches in, and they will —”

“We’re not here to kill Nysa Dulgath,” Hadrian said.

Scarlett rolled her eyes.

“We aren’t.”

She ignored him and continued to address Royce. “What do you say?”

“Let me get this straight — you’ll pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath.” Royce was nodding. “I think I might be able to do that. If you can —”

“Royce!” Hadrian slapped the table.

“What?”

“Stop it.”

“She’s going to pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath. That’s easy money.”

“It’s dishonest.”

Royce folded his arms and glared.

“Wait . . .” Scarlett looked from Royce to Hadrian. “You really aren’t here to kill her?”

Royce scowled at Hadrian. “You ruin everything.” He turned back to Scarlett. “Up to a minute ago, I thought you were part of it. Why else would a Black Diamond be hiding in Brecken Dale?”

She shook her head. “I’m not hiding — not really — and I’m not in the Black Diamond . . . not anymore.”

“Freelancing?”

She shook her head. “Straight.”

Royce looked skeptical.

Scarlett appeared confused. “If you’re not here to kill her, then . . . I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“We were hired to help protect her,” Hadrian explained.

“Ha!” Scarlett followed the outburst with mock laughter. She dumped strips of pork into a pan, then hooked it to a blackened rafter chain and let it dangle over the fire before adding another small log. “And exactly who hired you?”

“The Nyphron Church.”

“Ah-hah!” Scarlett turned to Hadrian with a there-you-have-it look.

“Ah-hah what?” Hadrian said.

“The church is using you to help kill her.”

“Churches don’t kill people,” Hadrian told her. “They burn incense, collect tithes, and mutter words in forgotten languages — they don’t put out contracts on high-ranking nobles.”

Scarlett and Royce exchanged glances, then both shook their heads.

Royce hooked a thumb in Hadrian’s direction. “See what I have to put up with?”

“Adorable,” Scarlett said.

“Look,” Hadrian went on, certain they just didn’t understand. “Lady Dulgath has had a number of attempts made on her life, and everyone insists a professional has been hired. But Lady Dulgath isn’t acknowledging there’s a problem. So the church is concerned for her welfare and hired us as consultants. Royce is an authority when it comes to assassinations.”

“You don’t say,” Scarlett said with a bemused expression.

“That’s why we were picked. He knows how such things are done.”

“He’s just so cute,” Scarlett said to Royce, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Why is that hard to believe?” Hadrian asked.

“Is he serious? Is any of that even remotely true?” she asked Royce while cracking an egg into the same pan where the pork was starting to sizzle.

“Yes. And mostly.”

“It’s not that hard to understand.” Hadrian unfolded his arms so he could use his hands to better explain. “Royce is going to review the situation, then report on how a professional might go about killing Lady Dulgath so they can —”

“Do exactly what he says,” Scarlett said.

“What?” Hadrian paused a moment to rerun the idea. “No!”

“If you are really telling the truth — and I’m starting to think you might be — that’s exactly what they’re doing,” Scarlett told him.

Hadrian shook his head, pushed up from the stool, and planted both feet square on the floor. “The two of you are so distrustful. You look at a black-and-white cow and see gray. No! You see a conspiracy to poison farmers with milk!”

“Or” — Scarlett smiled at him — “we look at a conspiracy and see a conspiracy.”

“If the church wanted Lady Dulgath dead, why not just hire us to kill her?” Hadrian asked.

“Granted, that would seem easier, but this is the church we’re talking about. They have a tendency to overbuild. Have you seen their cathedrals?” She cracked another egg. “Think for a second. Let’s say they did that, and Lady Dulgath was killed. Do you suppose the king will just shrug and say, Oh well? No. He’ll send real constables.”

She sprinkled some pepper on the eggs. “They aren’t going to risk getting caught up in this. They’re trying to spread their tentacles here in Maranon — and doing a damn fine job of it. So what do they do? They find a couple of nonaffiliated cutthroats and get them down here. After they carry out the execution themselves, the cutthroats are arrested for it. Everyone knows they’re the killers: The murder happened exactly the way they said it would. Now the conspirators have their scapegoats, who they’ll execute before the king’s constables arrive. There’s no need for further investigation because justice has been done. The best part is you two aren’t part of any guild, right?” She looked at Royce, who nodded. “So they don’t have to worry about any retribution. Lady’s dead. Killers executed. King is satisfied. Justice done. Everyone’s happy.”

Scarlett used a wooden spatula to flip the meat. The little cottage was filling with the wonderful scent of cooking pork. Hadrian wasn’t certain if the smell of food had anything to do with it, but he was growing sympathetic to her points. He turned to Royce. “She could have something here.”

Royce had wandered to the bedroom side of the cottage. He held a red glove in his hand, looking it over, and not saying anything.

“Royce?”

He dropped the glove on the bed. “What?”

Royce had the hearing of a bat. He could practically listen in on what was happening tomorrow. After dropping the glove, he found a basket of rushes interesting.

“You knew?” Hadrian asked.

Royce shrugged. “I suspected. Hiring a consulting assassin is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“Then why are we here?”

“Twenty gold tenents and expenses. The coffers were dry. We needed something. So we either took this or started thieving outright, and I knew how well that would go over with you.”

“Twenty? Gold?” Scarlett’s mouth hung open. “Damn. Glad I don’t have to outbid them.”

“Okay, sure, but we can’t spend gold if we’re dead.”

“And I have no intention of being framed.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Same as before. Nothing’s changed.”

“Really?”

“Sure. We still need the money, and Miss Dodge might be wrong — about them framing us, at least. Even if she isn’t, they’re paying to hear how I would do this job. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell them. They can try to follow my plan if they want, but even the best in the Diamond couldn’t mimic my methods. The chances of them succeeding are as unlikely as someone stealing from the Crown Tower.”

Scarlett was loading plates with meat and eggs when she turned with surprise. “That was you?”

“Figure of speech,” Royce said.

“Oh — sure — of course.” Scarlett continued to stare.

“Before I tell them anything, I want to know as much as I can about what’s going on.” He glared at Scarlett. “Like why an ex-Diamond would be willing to take up a collection, or why villagers would pay to save their ruler.”

“Lady Dulgath is special.” Scarlett set the plates on the table.

“Yeah, you mentioned that, but special how?” Hadrian asked.

“The Dulgaths have always treated their people well. They really care about us.”

“No offense to your humble abode,” Royce said, “but yesterday Hadrian and I were in the lady’s stables. They’re much nicer than this. Seems she cares more for her horses than she does her people.”

Scarlett shook her head as she pulled a loaf of brown bread out of a box and set it on the table. “That’s unreasonable. Dulgath is the home of several thousand people scattered in dozens of hamlets and fishing villages. The Dulgaths can’t provide for all of us. No one could. She’ll do what she can, just like her father had.”

“Which is?”

“Let us buy, sell, and trade without crippling taxes. Protect us with fair laws, evenly executed.” Scarlett grabbed a bucket and turned it over, making a seat for herself. “And . . .”

“And?”

“She heals people.”

Scarlett sat down on her bucket before the table and bowed her head.

“What do you mean, she heals people?” Royce asked.

Scarlett kept her head down, whispering to herself.

Royce looked at Hadrian. “What’s she doing?”

“I think she’s praying.”

“You’re kidding.” Royce rolled his eyes and slapped the table with his hand. “How does she heal people?”

Scarlett held up her index finger, asking him to wait.

Royce continued to glare at her, but Scarlett didn’t see.

Hadrian took the break in conversation to pull close to the table. The plate before him was steaming. The inch-thick pork was crispy brown, nearly black on the edges, the eggs dripping with dark grease. He tore a chunk of bread, pulled his dagger, and — using the bread to hold the meat — cut a piece. After he took a bite, bliss came over his face. “Good,” he told Royce, chewing.

“I think I’ll wait to see if you pass out or vomit blood before I eat.”

“Be cold by then.”

“It’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.”

Scarlett’s head came back up. Her eyes opened and she, too, tore a bit of bread free.

“Can we talk now?” Royce asked. He was still standing, but he put a foot up on the stool near him.

“Of course — as long as you don’t mind me chewing at the same time.”

“Then tell me how Lady Dulgath heals people.”

“She goes around to the hamlets just like Maddie Oldcorn used to.”

“Who’s that?”

“Maddie was — I don’t know, a legend really — an old woman who lived alone out in the forest near Brecken Moor. It’s said she gave Nysa Dulgath her gift before she died.”

“What gift?”

Scarlett took a bite of pork and chewed a moment, her lips glistening from the grease. “The gift of healing. Old Maddie was famous for it. Fever, pox, the Black Cough, blood sores, you name it, she healed it, and with little more than a wave of her hands. She was a divine servant of Maribor.”

“Up north, they’d burn Old Maddie as a witch,” Royce said.

Scarlett pointed at him with her bread. “Exactly. And the Nyphron Church would be the one building the pyre, proclaiming that evil comes from turning off Novron’s path. Around here, we look to Maribor and are granted his blessings for our steadfast faith.”

Hadrian tested the eggs with his fingers to see if they were too hot to pick up. They weren’t, and he found them rich and silky, with a nice smoked flavor from the pork’s fat. “What kind of blessings are we talking about?”

“Well, for one, it never rains here . . . not during the day at least. And the winters are mild. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Royce smirked. “You realize you’re south, right? There’s this thing called climate. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

She waved a hand in his direction. “And the blessing of Maddie? How do you explain her? Does the good weather make diseases flee from the body? Sure, people might not have as many colds in warm weather, but I’m talking about people who were stricken one day and fine the next.”

“If that’s true, I’d be more interested in the woman herself, not some god I’ve never seen lift his finger to help anyone. Where did Maddie come from and how did she get her so-called gift?”

“Don’t know. Not sure anyone does — Augustine might know more. An odd bird, Maddie was. Saved the lives of hundreds of people, but she wasn’t the least bit friendly.” Scarlett thought a minute, then pointed at Royce with her crust. “Come to think of it, she was a lot like you, only she saved lives.”

“Who is Augustine?” Hadrian licked his fingers. “In case we want to talk to him.”

“Augustine Gilcrest is the abbot of Brecken Moor.”

“Is he the one who ordered the tarring and feathering of Pastor Payne?”

Scarlett waved her bread this time, which Hadrian took a moment to realize meant no. “He’s a Monk of Maribor. While the Nyphron Church takes issue with the monks, the monks don’t feel the same way. Or maybe they do, but they would never act on it. The monks are a live-and-let-live sect.”

“They might feel differently if the Nyphron Church really does have plans to move in,” Royce said.

“No . . . no . . . it’s not possible — they’re . . .” Scarlett chewed for a while, swallowed, then stopped, still searching for words. “I don’t know how to explain. You’d have to meet them, I suppose. But no, neither he nor anyone at the monastery would have had anything to do with that.”

“Maybe we should talk to him.” Hadrian was still cleaning pork fat from his fingers one by one.

“You talk to him.” Royce took his foot off the stool and eyed his plate of food. “I’m not good with religious types. Besides, I need to get back and look around the castle some more.”

“This is really good, by the way.” Hadrian nodded at the plate.

“Thanks,” Scarlett said.

“Feeling sick yet?” Royce asked.

“Nope.”

Royce scratched his chin, then sighed and sat down, drawing his plate to him. He took a bite of pork and nodded. “Very good.”

“Thank you,” Scarlett said, but Hadrian couldn’t tell whether she was being genuine or sarcastic.

“Where is this monastery?” Hadrian asked.

“She’ll take you,” Royce replied.

“Whoa, wait a second.” Scarlett dropped the knife and bread and raised her hands. “Breakfast is one thing, but I do have a life.”

“While we’re here, you’re working for us. Consider it payment for what you did to Hadrian last night.”

“You can’t do that.”

Royce smiled at her and lifted the folded parchment from his pouch. “Amoral killer with a writ. I’m just about your worst nightmare. So what do you say you do it for your king? Oh, but just so we’re clear” — Royce pointed the tip of Alverstone at Hadrian — “if he suffers so much as a stubbed toe, I’m coming after you first.”

They finished breakfast, then Royce and Hadrian stepped outside while Scarlett cleaned. The sun was past midday, the shadows short, and the scent of magnolia hung in the air. Scarlett’s cottage didn’t have a yard. Her front steps led directly to the cobbles of the street.

“So you want to split up again?” Hadrian wasn’t sure this was such a good idea, given how things had gone the night before.

“Here.” Royce handed him his own piece of folded paper. “You have your steel, your credentials, and a guide. Even you should be okay given all that.”

Hadrian shot him a smirk. “I’m not worried about myself. You’re the one going into the lion’s den. If the church is trying to frame us, then Payne, Knox, and Fawkes are all in on it, and who knows how many others. That means the odds are stacked against you.”

“And how is that different from any other day of the week? Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

Hadrian had his doubts. Royce wasn’t so much a closed book as one that was chained shut, locked in a box, and thrown into the sea. Still, he was starting to sense moods, subtle shifts like a change in the wind. Hadrian had no idea whether a storm was coming or if the skies were clearing. What he did know was that something was off about Royce.

“What happened to you last night while I was being stupid?” Hadrian asked.

Royce wiped a hand over his face. “I certainly wasn’t being smart. I paid an uninvited visit to the lady’s bedroom. She caught me.”

“She caught you? How’d that happen?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Part of why I need to go back.” His face hardened.

Royce didn’t like privileged nobles as a general rule, but there was something about the look on his partner’s face that Hadrian couldn’t puzzle out. Royce seemed intent on hating Lady Dulgath for some reason, but Hadrian decided not to push.

“Okay, so while you’re stalking Lady Dulgath, I’ll investigate this monastery. What am I looking for exactly?”

“Don’t know.” Royce looked around. A two-wheeled wagon rested under the shade of an old oak across the street, flowers growing through its spokes. Scarlett Dodge lived on a lovely tree-lined lane that followed the curves of the little hills visible between the roofs of the houses. “Something strange about this place.”

“You mean like how everything is covered in ivy?” Hadrian said. “Or how the spring doesn’t uncover any new rocks?”

“Huh?” Royce asked.

“Rocks. You know, in the fields.”

“I can honestly say I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Each spring, farmers need to clear their fields of rocks brought up over the winter. Frost heaves them to the surface, where they ruin plow blades. So the farmers dig the stones up and make walls with them because there’s only so much material needed for building a house or well. Yesterday I rode by a dozen farms — you must have seen them, too. Had to have been here for centuries, but the rock walls are just little decorative things.”

“Easy winters. Not much frost.”

“Maybe. But what about it not raining here? And since when do the common people love their ruler so much?”

“So you have been paying attention.”

“I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

“You have no idea how stupid I think you are, and honestly, we don’t have time for that conversation.”

Hadrian scowled.

“We’ll meet back in the room at Caldwell House tonight,” Royce said. “I might be late, so don’t wait up. And don’t turn your back on her again.”

“Scarlett?”

Royce rolled his eyes, sighed, and grimaced. “She’s not a pretty barmaid. She’s not a nice girl.”

“Seems like it to me.”

“Of course she does. She was in the Diamond. Her working name was Feldspar, and the nice-girl thing is part of her act. Cute and disarming, she dances, sings —”

“She sings, too?” Hadrian smiled.

“Pretty sure, and she does magic tricks. One of her favorites is making people’s coins disappear. She’s not innocent. She’s dangerous if you turn your back on her — so don’t.”

Hadrian recalled how deftly Scarlett had prepped the pork.

“And stay away from the pastor, too,” Royce said. “It would appear he was lying.”

“About what?”

“About there being no i in his name.”