The Death of Dulgath (16 page)

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 lay 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.