The Death of Dulgath (13 page)

“No, Mister Royce Melborn, your parents weren’t hate and disillusionment,” she said, her pale, white face lit by starlight that did, indeed, revealed the brown of her eyes. “At least one of your parents is what people call an elf. I think you sh—”

Chapter Seven
A Game of Ten Fingers

Royce had never been one for etiquette. Appearing in the bedchamber of the countess had to rank high on anyone’s list of faux pas; leaving while she was still mid-sentence was probably worse. He was halfway back to Brecken Dale before it even occurred to him to wonder why he’d done it.

She’d rattled him.

This was the only explanation he could come up with. A spoiled, noble girl had shaken him so badly he’d run away.

Run away.

He’d fled from a young woman who had a disturbing way of looking at things. On the way back to town, a loop of two words ran through his mind:
Not possible.
Every once in a while he’d toss in a colorful adjective or add:
The bitch is nuts.
Mostly, he gritted his teeth, breathed heavily through his nose, and strangled the reins between fists until the leather cried. The only consolation about Lady Dulgath’s pronouncement was that Hadrian hadn’t been with him, hadn’t heard.

At least one of your parents is what people call an elf.

Elves were as respected as cockroaches, pond scum, and bread mold. Once, very long ago, they had been slaves of the First Empire. When it fell, they were freed but had nowhere to go. Since then, the slaves-turned-beggars clustered in the worst parts of every city. Dumb as bugs drawn to a campfire, they crowded in cesspools holding out hands and pleading for scraps. Every day they kissed the filthy feet of those who spit on them.

Royce had been wrong that night when he’d debated whether dogs or dwarves were the worst. His answer should have been, elves—no doubt about it. They were just so low on the list, he usually left them off it entirely.

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.

She was right, even though she couldn’t have known. Builders knew the best ways to destroy buildings, and Royce prided himself on breaking down falsehoods. He saw through deceit, flattery, and fake smiles. He followed logic, and when something didn’t add up, he knew the sandy grains of a lie sat at the bottom of the foundation. But this time everything made sense; everything added up. He just didn’t want to accept the truth.

Royce had never known his parents. He had been told he was abandoned in a muddy sewer in the city of Ratibor when just an infant. Other kids had taunted him, called him an
elf.
He was small, thin enough, and certainly looked every bit as destitute. Being young, he’d believed them. When he got older, he realized the children were wrong.
Elf
was simply the most despicable word they could come up with.

Over the decades he’d witnessed so much inhumanity that he’d come to accept his abandonment as typical, one more brace in a consistent framework. The question wasn’t:
How could my mother leave me in a sewer
, but, rather:
Why aren’t more children abandoned in the mud?
Just dumb luck. He’d built an existence on the belief of an unsympathetic world, but after fleeing Lady Dulgath’s bedroom, he felt that underpinning crumble. If she was right, it would explain a great deal. Royce still believed in the callousness of life—but perhaps brutality wasn’t handed out so capriciously. He hadn’t been abandoned because the world was cruel; he’d been cast away because he was an elf.

When he arrived at Payne’s door, the clergyman sensed the thief’s mood and didn’t bother inviting him in. Instead, the pastor directed Royce to Caldwell House, saying he’d tried to warn Hadrian away but had seen him go in that direction.

Royce arrived at the place Payne had indicated, but he didn’t find a sign, just an ivy-covered porch. Three men stood together near the open door, watching him as he tied up his horse.

“This Caldwell House?”

They ignored him.

Royce leapt the guardrail onto the porch, and the men scattered.

“Don’t mind them,” a young woman said as she stepped out of the gloomy interior of the ivy-covered building.

Royce turned toward her, and the face beneath the tumble of red hair went ghostly white. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, and she waved her palms like little white flags. “Bugger me!” she exclaimed.

“No thanks,” Royce said. “Not in the mood, and you’re not my type.”

She backed up, stumbling over her own feet while trying to get away. Her reaction was odd, but the absolute horror in her eyes tipped him off to trouble, and Royce slowed down. He remembered her from his days in the Black Diamond, though as little more than a face. Known as Feldspar, she’d been a low-level sweeper, a grunt in the Diamond’s army who worked in a team on one of Colnora’s less productive corners. He seemed to recall her working with a guy who went by the guild name of Glitter, who drew in a crowd with juggling and magic acts. The real sleight of hand went on behind the scenes.

Being scared of him was reasonable considering the miniature war he’d waged on the guild a few years back, but a more immediate fear radiated from her face. Surprise, even dread, would’ve been expected, but Feldspar exhibited an expression normally only seen in those
expecting
a visit from him. She radiated guilt, and Royce followed her retreat into the tavern.

Hadrian.

A quick look around revealed no sign of him. He might have gone to their rented room, but that seemed unlikely given the presence of the bar. His partner should be sitting, drinking, and chatting up a pretty—

“Where is he?” Royce asked.

Feldspar was still backing up, but slowly.
Smart.
Everyone knows you never run from a predator; it just invites an attack.

Royce counted eight others in the bar. The same herd of four who’d wanted to tar the pastor sat at a table, trying their best not to be noticed, and yet they kept casting concerned glances. Two more leaned on a post, watching. The bartender and a kid who likely worked there were equally interested.

“I didn’t know it was you. I swear to Maribor, I had no idea. If I had known…”

“Go on,” Royce said, following her into the room. “If you had known…what?”

She realized her mistake and closed her mouth.

“Dodge?” one of the men near the post called, and two more at the table pushed out chairs that scraped across the stone floor.

Wasn’t supposed to go this way. They’re just realizing the play has stopped following the script.

Royce darted forward and caught a fistful of red hair, jerking Feldspar back and kicking the feet out from under her.

The rest of the boys at the table hopped up, and the two near the post started across the room, coming at them.

“Stop!” he ordered, and placed Alverstone’s blade to her neck. “Everyone take a seat. I’m guessing she’s not the only one who can tell me what I want to know. When she’s struggling to breathe through a new hole in her throat, the rest of you will be more cooperative.”

“You little—” one started to say.

“Sit down!” Feldspar screamed. “He’s not screwing around. He’ll do it.”

The room froze. Royce was the first to move. Hauling her by her hair, he dragged the woman across the floor to the open door and pulled it shut. He jerked the bolt across. “There,” he said. “No one leaves until we have a little talk.”

No one sat.

“Sit your asses down—he doesn’t ask twice!” she shouted.

Everyone found a chair.

“Okay now.” Royce pulled her head back to look into her eyes. “Seeing as how I know you pride yourself on sleight of hand, we’re going to play a game of Ten Fingers.”

She whimpered.

“Ah, you remember how it’s played, good. I wasn’t planning on explaining it.” He dragged her to a table. “C’mon, I’m not the patient sort.”

Feldspar placed a shaking hand palm down on the table.

“Spread your fingers. You wouldn’t want to lose two at once by accident, would you?”

“What the bloody—” the fellow in the orange tunic started to ask.

“Shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut up! And don’t you move. Please, for the love of Maribor, don’t anyone move.”

She had tears in her eyes, and the table, which wasn’t quite level, quivered. The uneven legs made an unnerving, hollow
dud, dud, dud
sound.

Royce set the tip of Alverstone between her right pinky and ring finger. The mirrored blade reflected the room. “First question: Where is Hadrian?”

“In the cellar, over there.” Knowing the rules, she indicated with her head.

Royce lifted and dropped the knife between her ring and middle finger. “Second: Is he alive?”

“Yes, just sleeping.”

“Lucky, lucky lady.” He placed the knife tip between her middle and index fingers, both of which were shaking so badly he thought she might cut herself. It’d be easy to do; Alverstone wasn’t a forgiving blade. “Third: Why is he in the cellar?”

“He locked himself in after realizing I drugged him.”

“Drugged him?”

Her breath stopped for a moment. When at last it resumed, it came in stutters.

“Fourth: Why is he still in there?”

“He took the only key, and I was a sweeper, not a pick. I’ve no skills. We figured you’d be coming soon, and we didn’t want to be caught breaking the door down when you arrived. But I didn’t know it was
you
who was coming.”

“Five: When I let go of you, are you going to run?”

“No.”

“Other hand,” Royce told her and dragged the first clear. A stain of sweat remained on the table. She tentatively slid the other into its place. Royce placed the tip of Alverstone beside her left-hand pinky and let it twist into the wood. “Six: Why not?”

“No place I can go that’d be far enough.”

“You’re good at this game.” Royce grinned, then startled her by moving the blade in rapid succession, darting it between her next four fingers so fast it made a tiny drumroll. Feldspar shuddered, her legs jumped, and she let out an anguished squeak. But she didn’t move the hand on the table even the breadth of a hair. “Seven: Did Hadrian manage to get a room before you drugged him?”

“Y-yes.”

He pulled the blade from the table. “Get up,” he ordered, and let her find her own feet. “I’m going to open that door. While I do, you’re going to explain to your friends why they’re going to be very good boys.”

Royce crossed the room, moving without a sound. The cellar had a primitive two-pin lock; it took him more time to get out his picks than it did to unlock the door. Inside, he found Hadrian slumped on the floor.

“Tell your stocky friends to carry him to the room.”

Feldspar nodded and gestured to Bull Neck to get moving.

“C’mon, Dodge,” he objected. “The guy is scrawny as a chicken.”

Her voice was stern. “Do what he says, Brook.”

“There’s eight of us. I don’t see why we should do anything he says.”

Feldspar glanced at Royce. “Excuse me,” she said, then walked over to the bar and grabbed a paring knife. She crossed back to Brook and, without warning or comment, buried the knife in the man’s thigh. He screamed and bent over, clutching his leg. Then he fell backward onto the floor, sending one of the chairs skidding.

“Do. You. See.
That?
” She bent over him, shouting and pointing at the blade in his thigh.

“Why’d you do that?” the bartender asked.

“She obviously likes him,” Royce explained.

Feldspar grabbed the knife, stood up, and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Get Hadrian upstairs. Right now!”

Chairs toppled as the men got up and headed for the cellar.

Royce kept a careful eye as they carried Hadrian. “Tuck him in nice, boys.”

“Yes—for Maribor’s sake, don’t hurt him.” Feldspar laid the knife on the table and held her hands up again. “Duster, I swear to you, I didn’t know. I wasn’t here when you two arrived. I heard that two guys broke up Payne’s tarring, and I thought the church had sent down some muscle to watch over him. I also heard rumors of a hired assassin, but had I known you—”