Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (16 page)

He had failed.

Royce waited patiently.

He had been in Imperial Square that morning, speaking with vendors who regularly delivered supplies to the palace, when the old battered coach passed by and entered the imperial gates. Recognizing it immediately, Royce wondered what it was doing there.

The palace courtyard had insufficient space for all the visitors’ carriages during Wintertide and soon the coach returned and parked along the outer wall. The old buggy, with its paint-chipped wheels, weathered sides, and tattered drapes, looked out of place amidst the line of noble vehicles.

He waited for what must have been hours before he spotted the old man leaving the palace and approaching the carriage.

“What the—” Arcadius began. He was startled by Royce, who sat inside.

The thief placed a finger to his lips.

“What are you doing here?” Arcadius whispered, pulling himself in and closing the door behind him.

“Waiting to ask you that same question,” Royce said quietly.

“Where to, Professor?” the driver called as he climbed aboard. The coach bounced with his weight.

“Ah—just circle the city once, will you, Justin?”

“The city, sir?”

“Yes. I’d like to see it before we leave.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Well?” Royce pressed as the carriage jerked forward.

“Chancellor Lambert took sick on the day he was to leave for the celebrations here. Because he could not attend, he thought a personal apology was required and asked me—of all people—to deliver his regrets. Now, what about you?”

“We located the heir.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah, and you said finding him would be difficult.” Royce drew back his hood and tugged his gloves off one finger at a time. “After Hadrian discovered he was the Guardian of the Heir, he knew exactly what he wanted for a Wintertide present—his very own Heir of Novron.”

“And where is this mythical chimera?”

“Right underfoot, as it turns out. We’re still pinpointing him, but best guess puts Gaunt in the palace dungeons. He is being held for execution on the ’Tide. We were planning to steal him before that.”

“The heir is Degan Gaunt?”

“Ironic, huh? The Nationalist leader trying to overthrow the empire is actually the one man destined to rule it.”

“You said
were
… so you’re not planning to rescue him anymore?”

“No. Hadrian cut some deal with the regents. They’ve made him a knight, of all things. If he wins the joust, I think they promised to set Gaunt free. I’m not sure I trust them, though.”

The carriage rolled through the streets and up a hill, causing the horse to slow its pace. One of Arcadius’s open travel bundles fell to the floor, joining the rest of his clothes, a pile of books, his shoes, and a mound of blankets.

“Have you ever put anything away in your life?” Royce asked.

“Never saw the point. I’d just have to take it back out again. So, Hadrian’s in the palace—but what are you doing here? I heard Medford was burned. Shouldn’t you be checking on Gwen?”

“Already have. She’s fine and staying at the Winds Abbey. That reminds me. You might want to stick around. If all goes well, you can come with us for the wedding.”

“Whose?”

“Mine. I finally asked Gwen and she agreed, believe it or not.”

“Did she?” Arcadius said, reaching out for one of the blankets to draw over his legs.

“Yeah, and here we both thought she had more sense than that. Can you picture me as a husband and a father?”

“Father? You’ve discussed children?”

“She wants them and even picked out names.”

“Has she now? And how does that sit with you? Whining children and stagnation might be harder for you than all the challenges you’ve faced before. And this is one you can’t walk out on if you decide it’s not for you.” The old man tilted his head to look over the tops of his glasses, his mouth slightly open. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“You’ve been after me to find a good woman for years; now you’re second-guessing Gwen? I know I won’t find better.”

“Oh no, it’s not that. I just know your nature. I’m not sure you’ll be content with the role of a family man.”

“Are you trying to scare me off? I thought you wanted me to settle down. Besides, when you found me, I was a much different person.”

“I remember,” the wizard said thoughtfully. “You were like a rabid dog, snapping at everything and everyone. Clearly, my genius in matching you up with Hadrian worked wonders. I knew his noble heart would eventually soften yours.”

“Yeah, well, travel with a guy long enough and you start picking up his bad habits. You have no idea how many times I almost killed him when we first started. I never bothered, because I expected the jobs would take care of that for me, but somehow he kept surviving.”

“Well, I’m glad to see things worked out for you both. Gwen is a fine woman, and you’re right—you couldn’t do better.”

“So you’ll wait?”

“I’m afraid not. I was ordered to return immediately.”

“But you’ll come out to the Winds Abbey afterward, right? If you were not there, it would be like not having my fath—well, an uncle, at least.”

Arcadius smiled, but it looked strained. After a moment of silence, the smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Royce asked.

“Hmm… oh, nothing.”

“No, I’ve seen that look before. What is it, you old coot?”

“Oh—well, probably nothing,” Arcadius said.

“Out with it.”

“I was just in with the regents. With them were a sentinel
named Luis Guy and another very quiet fellow. I’ve never seen him before, but the name was familiar. You used to speak of him often.”

“Who?”

“They introduced him as Lord Merrick Marius.”

M
ince was freezing.

The dawn’s wind ripped through the coarse woven bag around his shoulders as if it were a fishnet. His nose ran. His ears were frozen. His once-numb fingers—now stuffed in his armpits—burned. He managed to escape most of the heavy gusts by standing in the recessed doorway of a millinery shop, but his feet were lost in a deep snowdrift, protected only by double wraps of cloth stuffed with straw. It would be worth it if he learned who lived in the house across the street, and if that name matched the one the hooded stranger had asked about.

Mr. Grim—or was it Mr. Baldwin?—had promised five silver to the boy who found the man he was looking for. Given the flood of strangers in town, it was a tall order to find a single man, but Mince knew his city well. Mr. Grim—it had to be Mr. Grim—explained the fellow would be a smart guy who visited the palace a lot. That right there told Mince to head to the Hill District. Elbright was checking out the inns, and Brand was watching the palace gate, but Mince was sure Heath Street was the place for someone with palace connections.

Mince looked at the house across the street. Only two stories and quite narrow, it was tucked tight between two others. Not as fancy as the big homes but still a fine place. Built entirely of stone, it had several glass windows, the kind you could actually see through. Most of the houses on Heath Street were that way. The only distinguishing marks on this one were the dagger and oak leaf embossment above the door and the noticeable lack of any Wintertide decoration. While the rest of the homes were bedecked in streamers and ropes of garland, the little house was bare. It used to belong to Lord Dermont, who had died in the Battle of Ratibor the past summer. Mince asked the kids who begged on the street if they knew who owned it now. All they could tell him was that the master of the house rode in a fine carriage with an imperial-uniformed driver and had three servants. Both the master and the servants kept to themselves, and all were new to Aquesta.

“This has to be the right house,” Mince muttered, his words forming a little cloud. A lot was riding on him that morning. He had to be the one to win the money—for Kine’s sake.

Mince had been on his own since he was six. Handouts were easy to come by at that age, but with each year, things got tougher. There was a lot of competition in the city, especially now, with all the refugees. Elbright, Brand, and Kine were the ones who kept him alive. Elbright had a knife, and Brand had killed another kid in a fight over a tunic—it made others think twice before messing with them—but it was Kine, their master pickpocket, who was his best friend.

Kine had taken sick a few weeks earlier. He began throwing up and sweating like it was summer. They each gave him some of their food, but he was not getting better. For the past three days, he had not even been able to leave The Nest. Each time Mince saw him, Kine looked worse: whiter, thinner,
blotchier, and shivering—always shivering. Elbright had seen the sickness before and said not to waste any more food on Kine, as he was as good as dead. Mince still shared a bit of his bread, but his friend rarely ate it. He hardly ate anything anymore.

Mince crossed the street to the front of the house, and to escape the bitter wind, he slipped to the right of the porch stairs. His foot sank deeper than expected and his arms windmilled as he fell down a short flight of steps leading to a root cellar. Mince landed on his back, sending up a cloud of powder that blinded him. He reached around and felt a hinge. His frozen hands continued to search and found a large lock holding the door fast.

He stood and dusted himself off. As he did, he noticed a gap under the stairs, a drain of some kind. His fall had uncovered the opening. Hearing the approach of the butcher’s wagon, he quickly slithered inside.

“What will you have today, sir?”

“Goose.”

“No beef? No pork?”

“Tomorrow starts Blood Week, so I’ll wait.”

“I have some right tasty pigeons and a couple of quail.”

“I’ll take the quail. You can keep the pigeons.”

Mince had not eaten since the previous morning, and all their talk about food reminded his stomach.

“Very good, Mr. Jenkins. Are you sure you don’t require anything else?”

“Yes, I’m sure that will be all.”

Jenkins
, Mince thought,
that is probably the servant’s name, not the master of the house
.

Footfalls came down the steps and Mince held his breath as the manservant brushed the snow away from the cellar door with a broom. He opened it to allow the butcher entry.

“It’s freezing out here,” Jenkins muttered, and trotted out of sight.

“That it is, sir. That it is.”

The butcher’s boy carried the goose, already plucked and beheaded, down into the cellar and then returned to the wagon for the quails. The door was open. It might have been the cold, the hunger, or the thought of five silver—most likely it was all three—that sent Mince scurrying inside quick as a ferret without bothering to consider his decision. He scrambled behind a pile of sacks that smelled of potatoes and crouched low while trying to catch his breath. The butcher’s boy returned with the birds, hung by their feet, and stepped out again. The door slammed, and Mince heard the lock snap shut.

After the brilliant world of sun and snow, Mince was blind. He stayed still and listened. The footsteps of the manservant crossed overhead, but they soon faded and everything was quiet. The boy knew there was no way to escape the cellar undetected, but he chose not to worry about that. The next time there was a delivery, he would just make a run for it. He could get through the door on surprise, and no one could catch him once he was in the open.

When Mince looked around again, he noticed that he could see as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering down through gaps in the boards. The cellar was cool, although balmy when compared to the street, and filled with crates, sacks, and jugs. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling. A small box lined with straw held more eggs than he could count. Mince cracked one of them over his mouth and swallowed. Finding a tin of milk, he took two big mouthfuls and got mostly cream. Thick and sweet, it left him grinning with delight. Looking at all the containers, Mince felt as if he had fallen into a treasure room. He could live there by hiding in the piles, sleeping in the sacks,
and eating himself fat. Hunting through the shelves for more treats, Mince found a jar of molasses and was trying to get the lid off when he heard steps overhead.

Muffled voices were coming closer. “I will be at the palace the rest of the day.”

“I’ll have the carriage brought at once, my lord.”

“I want you and Poe to take this medallion to the silversmith. Get him started making a duplicate. Don’t leave it, and don’t let it out of your sight. Stay with him and watch over it. It’s
extremely
valuable.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And bring it back at the end of the day. I expect you’ll need to take it over several times.”

“But your dinner, my lord. Surely Mr. Poe can—”

“I’ll get my meals at the palace. I’m not trusting Poe with this. He is going along only as protection.”

“But, my lord, he’s hardly more than a boy—”

“Never mind that, just do as instructed. Where is Dobbs?”

“Cleaning the bedrooms, I believe.”

“Take him too. You’ll be gone all day, and I don’t want him left here alone.”

“Yes, my lord.”

My lord, my lord!
Mince was ready to scream in frustration.
Why not just use the bugger’s name?

Mince listened for a long time before deciding the house was empty. He crossed the cellar, climbed the steps, and tried the door to the house. It opened. Careful and quiet as a mouse, he crept out. A board creaked when he put his weight on it. He froze in terror but nothing happened.

He was alone in the kitchen. Food was everywhere: bread,
pickles, eggs, cheese, smoked meats, and honey. Mince sampled each one as he passed. He had eaten bread before, but this was soft and creamy compared to the three-day-old biscuits he was used to. The pickles were spicy, the cheese was a delight, and the meat, despite being tough from curing, was a delicacy he rarely knew. He also found a small barrel of beer that was the best he had ever had. Mince found himself light-headed and stuffed as he left the kitchen with a slice of pie in one hand, a wedge of cheese in the other, and a stringy strip of meat in his pocket.

The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. Sculptured plaster, carved wood, finely woven tapestries, and silk curtains lined the walls. A fire burned in the main room. Logs softly crackled, their warmth spreading throughout the lower floor. Crystal glasses sat inside cherry cabinets, fat candles and statuettes rested on tables, and books filled the shelves. Mince had never held a book before. He finished the pie, stuffed the cheese in his other pocket, and then pulled one down. The book was thick and heavier than he had expected. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his greasy fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the house. He froze, held his breath, and waited for footsteps or a shout.

Silence.

Picking up the book, he felt the raised leather spine and marveled at the gold letters on the cover. He imagined the words revealed some powerful magic—a secret that could make men rich or grant eternal life. Setting the book back on the shelf with a bit of sadness, Mince moved toward the stairs.

He climbed to the second story, where there were several bedrooms. The largest had an adjoining study with a desk and more books. On the desk were parchments, more mysterious words—more secrets. He picked up one of the pages, turned
it sideways and then upside down, as if a different orientation might force the letters to reveal their mysteries. He grew frustrated. Dropping the page back on the desk, he started to leave when a light caught his attention.

A strange glow came from within the wardrobe. He stared at it for a long time before venturing to open the door. Vests, tunics, and cloaks filled the cabinet. Pushed to the rear was a robe—a robe that shimmered with its own light. Mesmerized, Mince risked a hesitant touch. The material was unlike anything he had felt before—smoother than a polished stone and softer than a down feather. The moment he touched the fabric, the garment instantly changed from dark, shimmering silver to an alluring purple and glowed the brightest where his fingers contacted it.

Mince glanced nervously around the room. He was still alone. On an impulse, he pulled the robe out. The hem brushed the floor and he immediately draped it over his arm. Letting the robe touch the ground did not seem right. He started to put it on and had one arm in the sleeve when he stopped. The robe felt cold, and it turned a dark blue, almost black. When he pulled his arm out, the beautiful purple glow returned.

Mince reminded himself he was not there to steal.

On principle, he was not against thieving. He stole all the time. He picked pockets, grabbed-and-ran from markets, and even looted drunks. But he had never robbed a house—certainly not a Heath Street house. Thieving from nobles was dangerous, and the authorities were the least of his worries. If the thieves’ guild found out, their punishment would be worse than anything the magistrate would come up with. No one would raise a stink over a starving boy taking food, but the robe was a different matter. With all the books and writing in the house, it was obvious the owner was a wizard or warlock of some sort.