It took only a few hours for the mystery man to show up at The Rose and the Thorn. They had time for baths and a hot meal. Hadrian was able to down two tankards of beer, but Royce wanted to stay clearheaded. Normally he unwound after a job with a glass or two of Montemorcey, and he was annoyed that the wine would have to wait. Albert had Gwen seat the potential client in the Diamond Room, which had been kept empty of other patrons to give them privacy.

He sat in the back, an elderly man with gray hair and a face as salty and rugged as a seaside cliff. He wasn’t tall; if he stood, Royce suspected they might be the same height. He was, however, big. More than stocky, and even larger than portly, the man eclipsed the chair in which he sat and strained the seams of his traveling clothes. The tunic he wore had double stitching and metal studs, which decorated the floral designs across his chest. A heavy cloak lay tossed over the back of the chair beside him. Made of a thick two-ply wool, the wrap looked new. He had gloves, too, expensive calfskin. They rested on the table near the cloak. Each had the same floral design as his tunic. A matched set, Royce thought.

The visitor watched Royce and Hadrian enter as if studying them for later recall. He didn’t bother getting up or offer to shake hands. He patiently waited as Royce and Hadrian took their seats on the stools opposite him, not saying a word.

He focused on Royce. “Is it you? Are you Dust—”

Royce cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

The man nodded. “Fair enough. What should I call you, then?”

“Royce will do, and the big fella is Hadrian.”

Each gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Who are you?” Royce asked.

“I’m a man who lived in Colnora during the Year of Fear.”

Royce let his hand slip off the table. Beside him, Hadrian placed both feet flat on the floor to either side of his stool. The old man didn’t appear formidable in any sense, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: revenge. He wanted it, and he’d come to get it.

“Name’s Gabriel Winter.”

Royce knew the name but had yet to make the connection. And as far as he could recall, he’d never tangled with anyone named Winter.

“You terrorized Colnora. The entire city was paralyzed from the horror you wrought. Pushcart people, street sweepers, shop owners, business barons, everyone right up to the magistrate was terrified. Even brave Count Simon fled to Aquesta that summer. That did a lot for morale, I can tell you.” The fat of the man’s neck quivered as he spoke, but his eyes never wavered, and his voice remained steady and calm. Both hands stayed in plain sight, ten pudgy fingers, palms on the table beside the empty gloves and half-melted candle. Nothing else lay between Royce and Winter but the tabletop.

No cup or mug—he hadn’t ordered a drink.

The Diamond Room was quiet. Not part of the original inn, the room had been recently built to accommodate the tavern’s growing popularity. The addition filled the oblong space between The Rose and the Thorn and Medford House and gave the place its diamond shape. The only sounds came from two barmaids cleaning mugs in the other room.

“What do you want?” Royce asked as his fingers entered the front fold of his cloak and slipped around the handle of Alverstone.

“I want to hire you.”

It shouldn’t have surprised Royce. Albert had described the man as a potential client. But so much about the meeting was worrisome. “Hire me?”

“Yes,” the man replied with curt candor, a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he knew a secret or the punch line to a joke that had yet to be revealed.

“To do what?”

“Exactly what you did in Colnora. Only this time I want you to make the city of Rochelle bleed.”

Hadrian shifted in his seat, his feet coming off poised footings. “Why?”

The man pushed back from the table, folding his arms across his chest as if contemplating what to say next, or maybe just working himself up to say it. Some things didn’t come easy. Royce understood that well enough, and from the miserable expression on the man’s face, he guessed that whatever he was about to say, this might be the first time he’d put it into words.

“My wife died ten years ago. Just been me and my daughter since then. Good girl, my Genny, faithful, loyal, a hard worker, quick as a whip, and tough as leather. We did well together, the two of us. She got me through the tough times, and there were plenty of those. But less than four months back she went off with a nobleman from Rochelle. Fella named Leo Hargrave.”

Hadrian leaned forward. “Leopold Hargrave?”

“That’s him.”

Royce raised a questioning brow at Hadrian.

“He’s the Duke of Rochelle. It’s in Alburn, southeast of here. I was in King Reinhold’s army down that way before I shipped off to Calis.”

“Reinhold is dead,” Winter said.

“The king of Alburn has died?”

“Him and his whole family. Bishop Tynewell is going to crown a new king come the Spring Festival. Genny wrote me all about it. She wrote me three days a week ever since the wedding, then nothing.” The man frowned, his sight falling to the surface of the table where he scraped at a worn spot with his thumbnail, trying to tear back a splinter.

Royce nodded. “So, what? You think she’s dead?”

“I know she is.”

“Because she’s late in sending letters?” Hadrian said. “The woman just got married; she’s in a new city, a very different city, and she’s a duchess now. Might be a tad busy. Or maybe she sent letters and the courier was lost in the snows. It’s not spring yet, and those mountain passes can be treacherous. You’re jumping to conclusions.”

Gabriel Winter looked into Hadrian’s eyes. “I did receive a letter, but not from my Genny. Hargrave wrote to say she’s disappeared.”

“Oh, well, disappeared is . . . it’s not good, but it doesn’t mean she’s dead.”

“Yes, it does.” His stare was cold and harder than granite. “I told her what would happen. She just wouldn’t listen. The only reason Hargrave married Genny was for her dowry. He doesn’t love her. Never did. But Genny, she loves him, see. From the top of her head to the tip of her toes she does. Don’t know why. She’s always been so sensible in the past, and this Hargrave . . . well, the man is noble, that should have told her everything right there. I tried to stop her, but how could I? He’s all she ever wanted. That’s what she told me. My Genny, she’s not what you would call pretty. Even as wealthy as we are, no one ever came knocking on her door. She was getting up there in age, will be thirty-three in the fall, and, well, when the duke asked for her hand it was like offering the gift of flight to a chicken. She couldn’t see past the dream. Hargrave killed her all right, him and his ilk. That was his plan from the start. I saw it in the man’s eyes. He was using her.” Gabriel turned to Royce. “I’d go there myself, but—” He spread his arms. “I’m old and fat, and never was that good with a knife. What could I do to avenge my darling daughter? Nothing. As a father, I’m incapable of doing the deed myself, but as a businessman”—he pointed at Royce—“I have the means to pay others to be my hands.”

Businessman! That clicked the tumbler, and Royce finally knew who he was talking to, and how the man knew where to find him. “Winter’s Whiskey.”

“That’s me.”

It was Hadrian’s turn to raise a questioning brow.

Royce clarified, “One of the business barons of Colnora, the ones who actually run the city. Nobles appointed by the king of Warric are supposed to administrate, but they rule like a barnacle commands a ship. The real control resides in the hands of the magnates who live in the Hill District: men like the DeLurs, the Bocants, and Gabriel Winter, purveyor of fine liquors and quality spirits.”

“My neighbor is Cosmos DeLur. He was kind enough to provide me with your change of address.”

“I guessed as much.”

“My money has bought me all manner of comforts, but right now the only thing I want is revenge.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Have you tried contacting the duke?” Hadrian asked.

“Of course I have.”

“What did he say?”

“His scribe wrote that Hargrave was ‘investigating the matter.’ Investigating the matter! Oh, I’m sure he’s looking real hard, given he’s the one who killed her!”

“You know that for a fact?” Hadrian stared in shock.

“I know it as well as you’re sitting here. I told Genny he only wanted her money. Guess he didn’t need my girl once his debts were paid. No reason to keep her. Nobles aren’t like you and me. No loyalty, no civility. They behave all righteous and proper, but it’s just an act.”

Gabriel turned to Royce. “Will you make them suffer the way you did in Colnora?”

“Expensive,” Royce said.

“You know who I am. What street I live on. I can afford it, and I want blood. I’ll give you fifty gold for your time and another twenty-five for every life you take, double if they suffer.”

Hadrian dragged a hand down his face. “All this talk of blood and bodies; she could still be alive.” Gabriel started to speak, and Hadrian put a hand up to stop him. “Granted, it doesn’t look good, and it does sound like something bad has happened to her, but she might not be dead. Could be she’s locked up somewhere. Killing a duchess is dangerous, even if she’s new to the family.”

Gabriel thought about this for a moment. “Fine. I’ll pay one hundred and fifty yellow stamped with Ethelred’s ugly head if you find, rescue, and bring Genny back alive. But if she’s dead, my original offer stands.”

“Depending on the extent of involvement, this job might prove costly, even for you.”

Gabriel Winter’s rage returned. He made fists on the table. “I have a lot of money, but only one daughter. And if she’s gone, what need have I for gold?” He wiped his eyes. “Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny.”

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

“How far is it?” Royce asked.

Hadrian stuffed the round of fresh bread in the small sack tied around the horn of Dancer’s saddle. This was his quick-access bag where he kept his travel essentials for riding: gloves, some peanuts, three strips of jerky, a rag, a few apples, cedar grease to keep the bugs away, a tinder kit, and a needle and thread. The loaf was fresh out of the oven and still warm. Though he’d just finished a fine breakfast, Hadrian knew the odds of the loaf surviving even the short distance to the Gateway Bridge were slim. He considered stuffing it into the big leather bags behind his saddle, but the loaf would be crushed there, and that was no way to treat a gift from Gwen.

“To Rochelle?” he asked. “I dunno, five, six days maybe, assuming the mountain pass is clear, which it should be since Gabriel Winter has been getting letters from there. We’ll have to cross to the eastern side of the Majestics.”

“And we’ll need to skirt around Colnora,” Royce reminded while he finished tying down the last of his gear across the rump of his horse. “Will it be hot down there?”

Hadrian considered this. Rochelle was nearly as far south as Dulgath, but the regions didn’t share the same climate. Dulgath had the most magnificent weather of anywhere he’d been. In contrast, Alburn, as he remembered, was a cold, wet place. “Bring your heavy cloak and boots.”

“Already have them.”

“When do you think you’ll be back?” Gwen asked. She stood on the porch of Medford House along with Jollin, Abby, and Mae, all out to see them off. The sun was just rising, and, except for Gwen, the girls were still in their nightgowns and wrapped in blankets. Behind them, painters set up scaffolding to continue turning The Medford House blue.

“Might be a while,” Royce said, his voice soft, regretful.

Gwen met him in the street, and the two stood an arm’s length apart. Hadrian watched and waited, as did the girls.

“This job could be more complicated than the one we did in Maranon, more . . . well, I don’t know, just more.” Royce held on to the lead of his horse, the distance between him and Gwen remaining undiminished. “Don’t get worried if we aren’t back for . . . I don’t know, could take several weeks. Let’s just say that, okay?”

Gwen nodded. “We’ll say that, then.”

“Right.” Royce didn’t move, just stared at her.

A moment, maybe two, went by and Hadrian considered whether Royce would ever move, wondered if he could. Hadrian couldn’t understand what prevented his partner from hugging and kissing her goodbye. Then he remembered this was Royce he was watching, and it all made sense.

“Right,” Royce said again, and nodded. He then led his horse down Wayward Street, and Hadrian followed.

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

The trip was quiet. Hadrian didn’t even attempt to chat.

Over the last three years, they’d gone through various conversational stages. Initially, Hadrian sought to draw Royce out, mistaking silence for social awkwardness. This served only to irritate Royce, who refused to be manipulated into doing anything, even talking. Hadrian then tried pretending Royce was a normal person who simply couldn’t speak. Thus, Hadrian took it upon himself to fill the many hours of slow travel with his own meanderings, and, when needed, he would supply both sides of a conversation. Royce had silently endured this. Given that Hadrian felt some of his musings were insightful, even entertaining, his companion’s muted reaction irked him. Once, Hadrian had performed an improvisational debate between a work-obsessed honeybee and a flighty dandelion that ought to have resulted in a stirrup-standing ovation, but Royce had ignored it completely, which caused Hadrian to wonder: Why am I doing all the work?

Several hours after setting out for Rochelle, Hadrian finally concluded that it wasn’t his job to entertain Royce. If the thief was too self-absorbed to participate in a simple conversation, then fine. They would ride in silence. Hadrian hung back, nibbling bread, waving to the milkmaids, and making silly faces at the boys herding sheep. He sewed up a hole in the thumb of his glove, and after he spotted a hawk that failed to catch a field mouse on its third attempt, he managed to stop himself from commenting on the bird’s need for spectacles. And so it was that they rode the entire day without a word between them.

For the most part, they followed the Old South Road, which was also called the Colnora or Medford Road, depending on where one lived. As far as roads went, this was one of the best. Wide, firm, and mostly straight, it ran through a dignified countryside of respectable forests and friendly fields. Farms and small villages appeared, with names like Windham and Fallon Mire, places not unlike where Hadrian was born.

Just before sunset, Royce led them off the road and into a small stand of trees without saying a word. Silently, he tied his horse, unsaddled her, and removed his gear. Hadrian waited for the thief to say something, anything, but once his gear was in place, Royce went off on his usual security-patrol-and-wood-gathering ritual.

“It’s like he’s forgotten we’re here,” Hadrian whispered to Dancer as he tethered her to a branch. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

Hadrian shook out his bedroll and laid it on what looked to be a soft patch of grass, still matted from winter’s recent retreat. While the surface looked dry, he discovered the ground was actually quite wet, so he went back for the tar-covered canvas to lay beneath his blankets. “Do you know anything I might have done?” he whispered to Dancer as he scanned the trees, looking for Royce. “Quiet is one thing, but it’s like we’re on our way to the Crown Tower again.” He clapped the horse on the neck. “We left you tethered in a field, and Royce was unconscious while I floated down an ice-cold river. Not a good time for any of us, was it?”

When Royce returned with an armful of wood, he sported his usual miserable expression. The light was nearly gone, the camp set, and Royce still hadn’t said a word. Hadrian wondered just how long the silence would last. He’s going to have to say something eventually. Maybe he’ll ask where the bread is. While Hadrian had saved half the loaf for Royce, he planned to respond that he’d eaten it all because Royce hadn’t said he wanted any.

After lighting the fire, Royce sat down on his blankets and watched the flames.

I’m not making a meal until he says something. He’s going to have to ask. He’s going to have to open his mouth and say, ‘Well, are you going to make something or what?’

He didn’t. Royce continued to sit and stare as if he’d never seen fire before.

Oh, for the love of Maribor! Hadrian got up and dug through the food bag. I can’t believe he’s—

“I’m not mad at you,” Royce said.

Hadrian glanced at Dancer, showing her a guilty expression. He heard that? Royce’s hearing was unusually acute, but Hadrian hadn’t known it was that good.

“Why so quiet then?”

Royce shrugged, which Hadrian knew was a lie.

“Is it the job?”

Royce shook his head. “Best we’ve had in ages.”

“Are you upset this Cosmos person knows you’re in Medford?”

“No. I would have been shocked if he didn’t know.”

“So, what is it?”

Another lying shoulder roll was followed by an unnecessary adjustment of his blanket.

Hadrian gave up and set the pot on the fire. Then he searched for the lump of lard, which always managed to find its way to the bottom of the pack.

“Do you think she likes me?” Royce asked.

“Gwen?”

“Yeah.”

His arm still in the pack, Hadrian looked over. “Is this a trick question? Is there more than one Gwen?”

“I know she likes us, but she likes everyone, doesn’t she? Even Roy the Sewer.” Royce got to his feet and threw a stick at the fire with enough force to burst forth a cloud of sparks. “Roy traded the trousers she’d given him for a bottle, then nearly froze in the street, but she still smiles at him, still gives him free food. She’s a nice person, obviously, but—”

“She likes you, Royce. And yes, more than Roy the Sewer.” Hadrian rolled his eyes at the absurdity.

Royce stared back, his brow knitted tighter than a miser’s purse.

“Are you serious?” Hadrian asked.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Hadrian had to admit his friend did appear grave, even more than usual.

“She’s always so nice, makes me feel . . .”

Hadrian waited, shocked that Royce might finish such a sentence. He didn’t.

“It’s just that most people consider me . . . well, you know. If Medford took a vote for the person to avoid the most, it’d be a toss-up between me and old Roy the Pantless Wonder.”

“Wait.” Hadrian forgot the lard and walked back around the fire. “I always assumed . . . but . . . what are you saying? I mean, you two have kissed, haven’t you?”

“Kissed?” Royce glared. “No! By Mar, are you insane? What kind of question is that? Gwen is . . . she’s . . .”

“She’s a woman who’d probably like you to kiss her.”

Royce sat back down on his bedding, his eyes tense, angry. His hands clenched with unconscious energy.

“So, you two haven’t done anything?”

“What do you mean by anything?”

“I mean—”

“I’ve hugged her,” Royce declared proudly.

“That wasn’t what I meant, but have you? Have you really? Or did she hug you, and you didn’t cringe? Because that’s not the same thing, you know.”

“Look, just because you’re quick to—”

“This isn’t about me, and it isn’t about Roy the Sewer, either. The woman’s in love with you, Royce. And don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.” Hadrian shook his head. “You can’t stand leaving her and can’t wait to get back. The two of you act as if you’re already married—still in that honeymoon phase, too. I just don’t understand it. You’re normally so—” He paused. “Oh! That’s why you’re so quiet. You’re not mad at me; you’re angry with her.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re angry at Gwen because she ruined your perfect little world. Everything was so neat and orderly, all painted the same color of black. Now she’s gone and made a mess by spilling hope and sunshine all over the place. You’re in love with her and it’s killing you, isn’t it?”

Royce didn’t answer.

“Admit it, you love Gwen, and it scares you. You’re terrified because you’ve never loved anyone before.”

The hood came up, as it always did.

“That’s not an answer, you know.”

“Yes, it is.”