The Death of Dulgath (12 page)

“What’d you put in the drink?” he asked her softly.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t kill you, but we are going to finish what you stopped. Only this time you’ll be tarred and feathered right alongside that bastard Payne. When you see Bishop Parnell, tell him we don’t need the Nyphron Church around here, and anyone he sends will get the same treatment.”

Hadrian got to his feet and drew his swords, but the room was soup, his arms lazy, his hands going numb.
Probably fed me some azaleas.

Bull Neck charged forward, and Hadrian made a wild swing at him.

“Leave him,” Scarlett said. “He’ll pass out soon enough.”

Anger bloomed, but years of training helped Hadrian push it away. He had to think, but his mind was spinning like the room, and he was running out of time. He considered making a run for his horse, but Gill would have taken Dancer away. The kid was already back, and Brett and Larmand were guarding the door.

Out of options.

Hadrian’s vision narrowed as the poison worked through him. He was weaving, struggling to keep standing.

What will Royce say when he finds out. What will he do?

Hadrian looked sympathetically at Scarlett. She hadn’t meant him any serious harm; she just wanted him to leave. But Royce was another matter, and she had no idea what he was capable of. That single sobering thought provided him an instant of clarity, and in that moment, he saw the sign again.

FISH ARE GOOD, BUT GILL’S THE BEST.

The kid was back near the cellar steps, watching him, waiting like everyone else to see him fall. Hadrian dropped his swords. They couldn’t help him now; only Gill could.

Gill’s the best.

With a sloppy stagger, Hadrian grabbed the kid. Behind him, people shouted, but he wasn’t listening to them anymore. All his focus was on one thing—the key that Gill had around his neck.

With a yank, which must have hurt, the chain broke. Gill probably screamed, but Hadrian couldn’t spare the attention. His sight was already dimming as he nearly fell down the steps. Luckily the boy had neglected to lock the door. He rolled into the small room filled with hay-packed straw, slammed the door closed, and with shaking hands struggled to put the key into the lock. If he could just seal himself in, then…

Fish are good and Gill’s the best, but now it’s time to take a rest.

The words began to repeat stupidly in his head. Then they began to jumble.

Resting fish and Gill…how best is now to rest?

Hadrian, who by then was sweating a puddle, was happy to find the cool stone of the floor and lay his face on it.

Gill the fish…rest is best…time is now…it feels so good to…

Royce explored the grounds of Castle Dulgath. No one questioned his presence; no one even noticed as he studied gates, windows, and walls. The lack of security was appalling, and the castle wasn’t much better. Roughly squared stones were stacked without mortar and covered with lichen, moss, and ivy. The place practically wheezed with old age. One tower at the southern corner had fallen, and no one had bothered to rebuild it. The pile of collapsed stones had lain forgotten for some time, judging by the thick roots of the trees growing over them.

A desolate place.
The thought lingered in Royce’s head as he circled the point.
Nice that way.

He imagined few would share his opinion, Hadrian being among the least likely. But Royce found beauty in the windswept rock and the constant battle it waged against the sea. Stripped bare but standing strong, the promontory displayed an insolent resilience he appreciated. Why anyone would erect a castle there, he had no idea. Strategically, it made no sense. Dulgath was miles from anything notable and had nothing to defend or protect.

Traffic did pass along the coast, but Castle Dulgath was inland from the infamous Point of Mann, where ships went to die. The name came from Captain Silas Mann, who’d discovered the dangerous reef when his ship plowed into it and sank with all hands. A more common and colorful rumor declared the landmark’s name had its origins in the prayers of drowning sailors who were asking Maribor for life’s meaning. The treacherous, ship-sinking obstacle protected the coast, making the castle unnecessary. Yet another reason its location made no sense.

The pinnacle of stone the castle sat on, an upthrusting slab of nearly vertical basalt rock, was ideal for a defensive fortress, but Castle Dulgath made little use of it. The entrance through the front wall wasn’t much more formidable than a garden’s gate. Made of simple wood with iron braces, the gates stood less than ten feet in height. Any kid with a fruit crate could climb over them—a theory that wouldn’t be tested, since the entryway was never closed, much less locked.

Just as well, Royce concluded, given that none of the towers were built for defense. Castle Dulgath possessed no arrow loops, barbican, or curtain wall, and not a single murder hole. Even the crenellated battlements appeared to have been built more for style than for use. Either the builders had no thought of defense—odd, considering the isolated perch they placed the castle on—or they didn’t know the first thing about fortress defenses.

After the sun had sunk into the sea, Royce moved along the parapet in earnest, imagining himself as an assassin with a contract to eliminate the countess. In many ways, he wished he were. The job would be insanely easy. Aside from the lack of a gatehouse or closed gates, there were precious few guards. The tiny Hemley Estate with Ralph and Mister Hipple was more heavily, and competently, watched. The castle’s courtyard went dark with the setting sun. No attempt was made to set a lantern or light a torch.
And the ivy!
Old and entrenched, the plant grew everywhere, the branch-thick vines making excellent ladders.

He didn’t have the slightest trouble reaching the tower, where an open window gave him access to—he struggled not to laugh—Lady Dulgath’s bedroom. The chamber was paneled in dark-stained oak, had a little hearth all its own, and a luxurious bed with a red velvet canopy and silk sheets. She had four freestanding wardrobes, a dressing table, a wash table, three wood-and-brass trunks, a full-length mirror that tilted on a swivel, a table littered with seashells, shelves filled with books, a painting of an elderly man dressed in black and green, two chairs—one with a cushioned stool before it—and a set of thick candles, three-quarters melted.

She wasn’t in the room. He didn’t expect her to be. If this had been a real job, he’d have waited until late and slipped in while she slept. Then, placing a hand over her mouth—to hold her still and keep her silent—he’d slit the lady’s throat. The red covers would help hide the blood. There would be a dark stain, but it could just as easily be spilled water. He’d pull the covers up to her throat to cover the wound.

Royce preferred to be neat when he didn’t have a point to make. He’d wash off any blood in the basin, assuming he got some on him, which was unusual but did happen. With everything in order, he would climb back down the unwatched ivy, walk along the unmanned parapet, and saunter out the unguarded, and always open, gates.

It’s a wonder she’s still alive.

Footsteps made Royce slip between a pair of wardrobes as the chamber door opened. Nysa Dulgath entered, guarding a candle flame with a cupped hand. She set the light down, closed the door behind her, and then stopped. Pressing down on her left heel, she spun upon it like a child’s top.

“What are
you
doing here?” she asked, but her eyes weren’t on him—they were searching.

Royce hesitated. He was good at hiding, always had been. In the dark, no one ever saw him. The only light in the room was the single candle, hardly enough to give him away. Her tone also threw him. Too relaxed, too calm. If she really saw him hiding in her private chambers, if she’d spotted him, the pampered girl would have begun caterwauling not unlike Mister Hipple’s little fit. The inflection of her question wasn’t without emotion, of course: She was decidedly annoyed.

A moment of silence followed. She huffed and folded her arms roughly, as if that might mean something. She then shifted her weight first to her left and then her right hip. “Are you going to answer me?”

She was staring directly at him then, an indignant frown on her lips.

How can she see me?

No point in pretending he wasn’t there or that she hadn’t caught him, he replied, “My job.”

“Your job entails lurking in my bedroom?”

“I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Where else would I be at night?”

“I—”

“And why are you here at all? Have you been going through my clothes?” Once again she pivoted on that left heel, moved to a wardrobe, and flung open the doors, sending Royce into retreat.

“Why would I go through your clothes?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. But it’s really all that’s here, so why else would you be in my room?”

“I was hired to determine how a professional assassin might go about murdering you.”

“You think hiding in my wardrobe might be a good tactic, do you?”

“I wasn’t in your wardrobe.”

“I can only hope that’s the truth.” She slapped the doors shut.

Such an odd girl.

That was always true of those with noble blood. They failed to act as any normal person would. For a time, Royce had been convinced that nobles were another species and that the idea of
blue blood
made them different from others, just as they claimed. While they boasted about being superior, Royce always found the opposite to be true. Nobles were born without the survival instincts granted every other living thing. Believing themselves special, they were oblivious to dangers and surprised when catastrophe followed. Lady Dulgath was a shining example.

For a moment, he thought she was about to show a degree of intelligence when she picked up the candle. He expected her to flee. Instead, she held it up and came closer.

“Pull back the hood,” she told him.

“Not that again. And let me explain in advance—a stay in your dungeon really isn’t going to happen.”

Her eyes narrowed, and a smile formed on her lips—not a friendly one, more of an amused, curious grin. “So sure of yourself. Your problem is that you lack the capacity to imagine a young woman could be a threat.” She lowered the candle, accepting, he hoped, that the hood was staying up. “I know that particular arrogance all too well. Assumption of superiority is quite dangerous.”

“When I was first hired, I wondered why anyone would want to kill you. I don’t anymore. Honestly, I’m surprised there isn’t a line.”

Lady Dulgath laughed, nearly blowing out the candle. She crossed to one of the tables and set it down.

Royce continued, “I’m not kidding. The good news—for me anyway—is I’m not here to protect you, find the assassin, or even determine who hired him. That’s Knox’s job. Given this castle’s security, and—as I mentioned—the fact that it could be literally
anyone,
I don’t envy the sheriff. He’s doomed to failure. If you don’t already have one, make out a last will and testament as soon as possible. That way at least you won’t leave a mess for others to clean up.”

“I wonder who your parents are,” she said, leaving Royce baffled.

“What?”

“Your parents—who are they?”

“Hatred and disillusionment, how about you?”

She smiled at him, the same unperturbed grin, as if he were great fun.

“You know,” Royce said, “most young ladies would be terrified to find someone like me in their room.”

“You know, most men would be terrified to be caught uninvited in the bedroom of a countess, but then…” She took a slow step forward. “You’re not a man, are you?”

Royce took a step back. He wasn’t sure why. The woman before him was small, thin, and delicate. And while the gown she wore, with its high collar and long sleeves, wasn’t provocative, it did emphasize her feminine frailty.

“Does your partner know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“What you are?”

“What am I?”

She smiled again.

“Is this a guessing game?” he asked, annoyed.

“I was only—” She stopped and her eyes widened. “You don’t know.” She clasped her hands before her, touching fingertips to her lips while grinning. “You have no idea, do you?” She looked him up and down and nodded. “You hide it well, and you’re still young. In your first century?”

“You’re a very odd girl.”

“And what about you?” She let out a childlike giggle, which somehow managed to sound frightening. “No human could have caught the paint bottle Sherwood threw. You didn’t even see it. You
heard
it. And the speed you displayed was beyond that of a mere man.” She turned and blew out the candle. “I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.”

That wasn’t a question, and she spoke with complete confidence. “Heat and cold don’t bother you nearly as much as they do your friend, but ice, snow, and boats—oh, ships! You never go sailing.”

Royce was pleased the candle was out, but not so certain she couldn’t see him. She seemed to see him all too clearly, and he didn’t know how.