The Death of Dulgath (2 page)

Contents

 
Praise for Sullivan’s Work
Copyright
About the Book
Author’s Note
Dedication
Maps
Chapter 1: The New Sign
Chapter 2: The Artist
Chapter 3: Maranon
Chapter 4: Beyond the Sea
Chapter 5: Castle Dulgath
Chapter 6: The House and the Bedchamber
Chapter 7: A Game of Ten Fingers
Chapter 8: Eye of the Hurricane
Chapter 9: Theft of Swords
Chapter 10: Ghost in the Courtyard
Chapter 11: Brecken Moor
Chapter 12: Lady Dulgath
Chapter 13: Fawkes and Hounds
Chapter 14: The Note
Chapter 15: The Painting
Chapter 16: The Road South
Chapter 17: Shervin Gerami
Chapter 18: Broken Bones
Chapter 19: Pageantry
Chapter 20: Assassin
Chapter 21: The Storm
Chapter 22: Long Story Short
Chapter 23: Monastery by Night
Chapter 24: A Need to Kill
Chapter 25: The Fifth Thing
Afterword
Sneak Peek: Age of Myth
Bonus Short: The Methuselah Treatment by T. C. Powell
Acknowledgments
Works by Michael J. Sullivan
 
 

Chapter One
The New Sign

If anyone had asked Royce Melborn what he hated most at that moment, he would’ve said dogs. Dogs and dwarves topped his list, both equally despised for having so much in common—each was short, vicious, and inexcusably hairy. Royce’s contempt for them had grown over the years for the same reason: They had caused him an incalculable amount of grief and pain.

That night it was a dog.

At first, he thought the furry creature on the mattress in the third-floor bedroom was a rodent. The dark thing with a curled tail and flat nose was small enough to be a good-sized sewer rat. Royce was pondering how a rat had gotten into a posh place like the Hemley Estate when it rose to its feet. The two stared at each other, Royce in his hooded cloak holding the diary and the mongrel on its four tiny legs. One second of held breath lasted long enough for Royce to realize his mistake. He cringed, knowing what would come next, what
always
came next, and the little beast didn’t disappoint.

The mutt began barking. Not a respectable growl or deep-throated woof but an ear-piercing series of high-pitched yaps.

Definitely not a rat. Why couldn’t you be a rat? I never have problems with rats.

Royce reached for his dagger, but the rodent-dog leapt away, its tiny nails skittering on the hardwood. He hoped it would flee. Even if the little monster woke its master, it wouldn’t be able to explain that a hooded stranger had invaded Lady Martel’s boudoir. Aroused from a blissful sleep, the owner might throw something at the mutt to shut it up. But this was a dog, after all, and like dwarves they never did what he wanted. Instead, the animal stayed a safe distance away, yipping its turnip-sized head off.

How can such a tiny thing make so much noise?

The sound echoed off marble and mahogany, amplifying into a wailing alarm.

Royce did the only thing he could: He leapt out the window. Not his planned exit, not even his third choice, but the poplar tree was within jumping distance. He caught a broad branch, pleased it didn’t break under his weight. The tree, however, shook, rustling loudly in the quiet of the dark courtyard. By the time his feet hit the ground, Royce wasn’t surprised to hear—

“Stop right there!” The husky voice was perfectly suited for the job.

Royce froze. The man coming at him held a crossbow: cocked, loaded, and aimed at his chest. The guard looked disappointingly competent; even his uniform was neat. Every button accounted for and glinting in the moonlight, each crease sharp as a blade. The guy had to be an overachiever, or worse—a professional soldier reduced to guard duty.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Not at all an idiot.

Behind the first guard came a second. He trotted over with heavy footfalls and a jangling of straps and metal chains. Taller than the first, he wasn’t so well attired. The sleeves on his coat were too short, the lack of a button ruined the symmetry of the side-by-side brass rows, and a dark stain marred his collar. Unlike the first guard, this second one didn’t have a crossbow. Instead, he carried three swords: a short one on his left hip, a slightly longer one on the right, and a huge spadone blade on his back. These weren’t the weapons of Hemley guards, but the man holding Royce at bay didn’t spare a glance when the second guard jogged up.

Drawing the shortest of his three swords, this second man didn’t point it at Royce. Instead, he placed the sword tip against the back of the first guard’s neck. “Put the bow down,” Hadrian said.

The man hesitated only an instant before letting the crossbow fall. The impact jarred the trigger and sent the bolt whispering through the grass of the manicured lawn. Behind them, the rodent-dog still yapped, the sound muffled by the walls of the mansion. Now that his partner had things in hand, Royce tucked the book into his belt and glanced toward the manor. No lights. Nobles were sound sleepers.

Turning back, he found Hadrian still holding the fastidious guard at sword’s point. “Kill him and let’s get going.”

The guard stiffened.

“No,” Hadrian said with the indignation Royce would’ve expected if he’d asked his partner to throw out a good bottle of wine.

Royce sighed. “Not again. Why do we always have this argument?”

The ex-crossbowman had his shoulders hunched, hands in fists, still expecting the thrust that would end his life. “It’s all right. I won’t raise the alarm.”

Royce had seen the look many times and thought the guy was doing well. No blubbering, no screams, no begging. He hated when his victims fell to their knees and whimpered, although he had to admit that made killing them easier. “Shut up,” he ordered, then glared at Hadrian. “Kill him and let’s go. We don’t have time for a debate.”

“He dropped the bow,” Hadrian pointed out. “We don’t need to kill him.”

Royce shook his head. There was that word again—
need.
Hadrian used it often, as if justification were a requirement for killing. “He’s seen me.”

“So? You’re a guy in a dark hood. There’s hundreds of men in hoods.”

“Can I say something?” the guard asked.

“No,” Royce snapped.

“Yes,” Hadrian replied.

“I have a wife.” The man’s voice shook.

“Man’s got a wife.” Hadrian nodded sympathetically while still holding the blade against the guard’s neck.

“Kids, too—three of ’em.”

“Maribor’s beard, he’s got
three
kids,” Hadrian said with a decisive tone and drew back his sword.

The guard let out a breath. Somehow, he and Hadrian both assumed that the ability to reproduce had some relevance in this situation. It didn’t.

“And I’ve got a horse,” Royce declared with the same righteousness. “Which I’ll ride away on just as soon as you kill this poor bastard. Stop dragging this out.
You’re
being cruel, not me. Get it over with.”

“I’m not going to kill him.”

The guard’s eyes widened in hopeful anticipation; a tiny smile of relief tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked at Royce for confirmation, for a sign he would indeed see another sunrise.

Royce heard the sound of a door bursting open, and someone called out, “Ralph?” Lights were coming on in the house. Seven windows on four floors glowed with candles.

Maybe it just took that long to light them.

“Here!” Ralph shouted back. “Intruders! Get help!”

No, of course he wouldn’t raise the alarm.

That did it. Royce reached for his dagger.

Before he touched the handle, Hadrian clubbed Ralph with the pommel of his sword. The guard dropped to the grass beside his spent bow. Whether Hadrian had hit the man as a result of his shout or because Royce went for his dagger was impossible to tell. Royce wanted to think the former, but suspected the latter.

“Let’s get out of here,” Hadrian said, stepping over Ralph and pulling Royce by the arm.

I wasn’t the one delaying us,
Royce thought, but he didn’t bother arguing. Where one crossbow existed, there would be others. Crossbows were neither short nor hairy, but ought to be on his list. He and Hadrian ran along the shadow of the wall, skirting the blooming rosebushes, although Royce didn’t know why they bothered. In his sentry getup, Hadrian sounded like a fully tacked carriage horse.

Melengar’s Galilin Province was a tranquil, agrarian region not prone to the threat of thievery, and the estate of Lord Hemley suffered from woefully ineffective security. While Royce had spotted as many as six guards on various scouting missions, that night there had only been three: a sentry at the gate, Ralph, and the dog.

“Ralph!” someone shouted again. The voice was distant, but it carried across the open lawn.

Behind them in the darkness, five lanterns bobbed. They moved in the haphazard pattern of a bewildered search party or a host of drunken fireflies.

“Aaron, wake everyone up!”

“Let Mister Hipple loose,” a woman’s voice shouted in a vindictive tone. “He’ll find them.”

Above it all, the incessant yipping of the rodent-dog continued—Mister Hipple, no doubt.

The front gate was unmanned. The guard stationed there must have run for help after Ralph’s shout. As they passed through unopposed, Royce marveled at Hadrian’s luck; the man was a walking rabbit’s foot. Three years in Royce’s School of Pragmatism had barely scratched his partner’s idealistic enamel. If Mister Hipple had been a larger, more aggressive animal, they might not have escaped so easily. And while Hadrian was more than capable of killing any dog, Royce wondered if he would have.

It has puppies, Royce! Three of ’em!

The two reached the safety of the dense thicket where they’d left their horses. Hadrian’s was called Dancer, but Royce never saw any point in naming his. While stowing the diary in a saddlebag, Royce asked, “How many years were you a soldier?”

“In Avryn or Calis?”

“All of it.”

“Five, but the last two years were…well, less formal.”

“Five years? You fought in the military for
five years
? Saw battles, right?”

“Oh yeah—brutal ones.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re mad I didn’t kill Ralph, aren’t you?”

Royce paused a moment to listen. No sound of pursuit, no lights in the trees, not even the yips of a manic rodent-dog chasing them. He swung a leg over the saddle and slid his foot into the stirrup on the other side. “You think?”

“Look, I just wanted to do
one
lousy job where nobody got killed.” Hadrian stripped off the uniform’s waistcoat and replaced it with his wool shirt and leather tunic from his saddlebag.

“Why?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve done plenty of jobs where we didn’t kill anyone. Anyway, it’s fine.” Royce grabbed his reins, which he kept knotted together.

“It’s what? What did you say?”

“Fine. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Hadrian raised a brow.

Royce nodded. “Are you going deaf?”

“I just…” Hadrian stared up at him, puzzled. Then a scowl took over. “You’re coming back later, aren’t you?”

The thief didn’t reply.

“Why?”

Royce turned his horse. “Just being thorough.”

Hadrian climbed into his own saddle. “You’re being an ass. There’s no reason to. Ralph will never pose any threat.”

Royce shrugged. “You can’t know that. Do you understand the meaning of the word
thorough
?”

Hadrian frowned. “Do you understand the meaning of the word
ass
? You don’t need to kill Ralph.”

There it was again—
need.

“Let’s argue later. I’m not killing him tonight.”

“Fine.” Hadrian huffed, and together they trotted out of the brush and back onto the path that led to the road.