Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (38 page)

“I would so much love to return to my home and see it rise again. But …” Myron paused.

“What is it?”

“Won’t the Imperialists simply come back? If they hear the abbey is there again—I don’t think I could …”

“Relax, Myron,” Hadrian said. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Trust me, the Imperialists won’t advocate another foray into Melengar,” Royce assured the monk. The smile on the thief’s face made Myron think of a cat, and he was happy not to be a mouse.

In the hours before dawn, the Lower Quarter was quiet. Dampened by the snow, the only sound came from the muffled hoof falls of mounts as they moved slowly up the alley to The Rose and Thorn.

“Do you need any of the money?” Royce asked Hadrian.

“I have enough. Deposit the rest with Gwen. What does that come to now?”

“Well, we’re in pretty good shape. We have our share of the fifteen gold tenents for returning Alenda’s letters, and the twenty from Ballentyne for stealing them in the first place, plus DeWitt’s one hundred, and Alric’s one hundred. You know, one day we’re going to have to find DeWitt—and
thank him
for that job.” Royce grinned.

“Do you think it was fair asking for the money along with the abbey?” Hadrian asked. “I have to admit the guy was starting to grow on me, and I hate to think we took advantage of him.”

“The hundred was for going into Gutaria with him,” Royce reminded him. “The abbey was for saving his sister. We didn’t ask for
anything
Alric didn’t agree to in advance. And he did say anything, so we could easily have asked for land and noble rank.”

“Why didn’t we?”

“Oh? So you would like to be the count Blackwater, would you?”

“It might have been nice,” Hadrian said, sitting up straighter in his saddle. “And you could be the infamous marquis Melborn.”

“Why infamous?”

“Would you prefer notorious? Nefarious, perhaps?”

“What’s wrong with
beloved
?”

Neither could hold a straight face at the thought.

“Come to think of it, we failed to bill the good king for saving him from Trumbul. Do you think—”

“It’s too late, Royce,” Hadrian told him.

Royce sighed, disappointed. “So, I think he wasn’t too put out, all things considered. Besides, we
are
thieves, remember?
Anyway, the bottom line is, we won’t be starving this winter.”

“Yes, we’ve been good little squirrels, haven’t we?” Hadrian said.

“Maybe this spring we can start that fishing enterprise you wanted.”

“I thought you wanted the winery.”

Royce shrugged.

“Well, you keep thinking. I’m going to go wake up Emerald and let her know I’m back. It’s too cold to sleep alone tonight.”

Royce passed the tavern and dismounted at Medford House. For some time, he stood, just staring at the top window, while his feet grew colder and colder in the snow.

“You
are
going to come up, aren’t you?” Gwen asked from the doorway. She was still dressed and as pretty as ever. “Isn’t it awfully cold out there?”

Royce smiled at her. “You waited up.”

“You said you’d be coming back tonight.”

Royce pulled his saddlebag off his horse and carried it up the steps. “I have another deposit to make.”

“Is that why you were standing in the snow for so long? You were trying to decide whether or not to trust me with your money?”

Her words stung him. “No!”

“Then why were you standing there so long?”

Royce hesitated. “Would you prefer me if I were a fisherman, or perhaps a winemaker?”

“No,” she said. “I prefer you as you are.”

Royce took her hand. “Wouldn’t you be better off with a nice farmer or rich merchant? Someone you can raise children with, someone you can grow old with, someone who will stay at home and not leave you alone and wondering.”

She kissed him.

“What was that for?”

“I’m a prostitute, Royce. There aren’t many men who consider themselves unworthy of me. I love you as you are and always will no matter what path you choose. If I did have the power to change anything, it would be to convince you of that.”

He put his arms around her, and she pulled him close. “I missed you,” she whispered.

Archibald Ballentyne woke with a start.

He had fallen asleep in the Gray Tower of Ballentyne Castle. The fire had burned out, and the room was growing cold. It was also dark, but the dim glow of the faint orange embers in the hearth gave a little light. There was an odd and unpleasant odor in the air, and he felt the weight of something large and round on his lap. He could not make it out in the darkness. It seemed like a melon wrapped in linen. He stood up and set the object in his chair. He moved aside the brass screen and, taking two logs from the stack nearby, placed them on top of the hot coals. He prodded the embers with a poker, blew on them, and coaxed the fire back to life. As he did, the room filled with light once more.

He set the poker back to its stand, replaced the screen, and dusted his hands off. As he turned around, he looked at the chair he had been sleeping in and immediately pinwheeled backward in horror.

There on his seat was the head of the former archduke of Melengar. The cloth, which was covering it, had partially fallen away, revealing a large portion of what had once been Braga’s face. The eyes were rolled back, leaving white and
milky orbs in their sockets. The yellowed skin, stretched and leathery, was shriveled. A host of some kind of worms moved in the gaping mouth, slithering in a heaving mass, which made it almost appear as if Braga’s tongue was trying to speak.

Archibald’s stomach twisted in knots. Too frightened to scream, he looked around the room for intruders. As he did, he saw writing on the wall. Painted in what appeared to be blood, in letters a foot tall, were the words:

NEVER INTERFERE WITH MELENGAR AGAIN

BY ORDER OF THE KING

… AND US

A
s the man stepped out of the shadows, Wyatt Deminthal knew this would be the worst, and possibly the last, day of his life. Dressed in raw wool and rough leather, the man was vaguely familiar, a face seen briefly by candlelight over two years earlier, a face Wyatt had hoped he would never see again. The man carried three swords, each one battered and dull, the grips sweat-stained and frayed. Taller than Wyatt by nearly a foot, with broader shoulders and powerful hands, he stood with his weight distributed across the balls of his feet. He locked his eyes on Wyatt the way cats stare at mice.

“Baron Delano DeWitt of Dagastan?” It was not a question but an accusation.

Wyatt felt his heart shudder. Even after he recognized the face, a part of him—the optimist that had somehow managed to survive after all these dreadful years—still hoped the man was only after his money. But with the sound of those words, that hope died.

“Sorry, you must be mistaken,” he replied to the man blocking his path, trying his best to sound friendly, carefree—guiltless. He even tried to mask his Calian accent to further the charade.

“No, I’m not,” the man insisted as he crossed the width of the alley, moving closer, eating up the comforting space between them. His hands remained in full view, which was more worrisome than if they had rested on the pommels of his swords. Even though Wyatt wore a fine cutlass, the man had no fear of him.

“Well, as it happens, my name is Wyatt Deminthal. I think, therefore, that you must be mistaken.”

Wyatt was pleased he had managed to say all this without stammering. With great effort, he concentrated on relaxing his body, letting his shoulders droop, resting his weight on one heel. He even forced a pleasant smile and glanced around casually as an innocent man might.

They faced each other in the narrow, cluttered alley only a few yards from where Wyatt rented a loft. It was dark. A lantern hung a few feet behind him, mounted on the side of the feed store. He could see its flickering glow, the light glistening in puddles the rain had left on the cobblestone. Behind him, he could still hear the music of the Gray Mouse Tavern, muffled and tinny. Voices echoed in the distance, laughter, shouts, arguments; the clatter of a dropped pot followed the cry of an unseen cat. Somewhere a carriage rolled along, its wooden wheels clacking on wet stone. It was late. The only people on the streets were drunken men, whores, and those with business best done in the dark.

The man took another step closer. Wyatt did not like the look in his eyes. They held a hard edge, a serious sense of resolve, but it was the hint of regret he detected that jarred Wyatt the most.

“You’re the one who hired me and my friend to steal a sword from Essendon Castle.”

“I’m sorry. I really have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t even know where this
Essendon
place is. You must
have me confused with some other fellow. It’s probably the hat.” Wyatt took off his wide-brimmed cavalier and showed it to the man. “See, it’s a common hat in that anyone can buy one, but uncommon at the same time, as few people wear them these days. You most likely saw someone in a similar hat and just assumed it was me. An understandable mistake. No hard feelings, I can assure you.”

Wyatt placed his hat back on, tilting it slightly down in front and cocking it a bit to one side. In addition to the hat, he wore an expensive black and red silk doublet and a short flashy cape; however, the lack of any velvet trimming, combined with his worn boots, betrayed his station. The single gold ring piercing his left ear revealed even more; it was his one concession, a memento to the life he had left behind.

“When we got to the chapel, the king was on the floor. Dead.”

“I can see this is not a happy story,” Wyatt said, tugging on the fingers of his fine red gloves—a habit he had when nervous.

“Guards were waiting. They dragged us to the dungeons. We were nearly executed.”

“I’m sorry you were ill used, but as I said, I’m not DeWitt. I’ve never heard of him. I’ll be certain to mention you should our paths ever cross. Who shall I say is looking?”

“Riyria.”

Behind Wyatt, the feed store light winked out and a voice whispered in his ear, “It’s elvish for
two
.”

His heartbeat doubled, and before he could turn, he felt the sharp edge of a blade at his throat. He froze, barely allowing himself to breathe.

“You set us up to die.” The voice behind him took over. “You brokered the deal. You put us in that chapel so we would take the blame. I’m here to repay your kindness. If you have any last words, say them now, and say them quietly.”

Wyatt was a good cardplayer. He knew bluffs and the man behind him was not bluffing. He was not there to scare, pressure, or manipulate him. He was not looking for information; he knew everything he wanted to know. It was in his voice, his tone, his words, the pace of his breath in Wyatt’s ear—he was there to kill him.

“What’s going on, Wyatt?” a small voice called.

Down the alley, a door opened and light spilled forth, outlining a young girl, whose shadow ran across the cobblestones and up the far wall. She was thin with shoulder-length hair and wore a nightgown that reached to her ankles, exposing bare feet.

“Nothing, Allie—get back inside!” Wyatt shouted, his accent fully exposed.

“Who are those men you’re talking to?” Allie took a step toward them. Her foot disturbed a puddle, which rippled. “They look angry.”

“I won’t allow witnesses,” the voice behind Wyatt hissed.

“Leave her alone,” Wyatt begged. “She wasn’t involved. I swear. It was just me.”

“Involved in what?” Allie asked. “What’s going on?” She took another step.

“Stay where you are, Allie! Don’t come any closer. Please, Allie, do as I say.” The girl stopped. “I did a bad thing once, Allie. You have to understand. I did it for us, for you, Elden, and me. Remember when I took that job a few winters back? When I went up north for a couple of days? I—I did the bad thing then. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t and I almost got some people killed. That’s how I got the money for the winter. Don’t hate me, Allie. I love you, honey. Please just get back inside.”

“No!” she protested. “I can see the knife. They’re going to hurt you.”

“If you don’t, they’ll kill us both!” Wyatt shouted harshly, too harshly. He had not wanted to do it, but he had to make her understand.

Allie was crying now. She stood in the alley, in the shaft of lamplight, shaking.

“Go inside, honey,” Wyatt told her, gathering himself and trying to calm his voice. “It will be all right. Don’t cry. Elden will watch over you. Let him know what happened. It will be all right.”

She continued to sob.

“Please, honey, you have to go inside now,” Wyatt pleaded. “It’s all you can do. It’s what I need you to do. Please.”

“I—love—you, Da—ddy!”

“I know, honey. I know. I love you too, and I’m
so sorry
.”

Allie slowly stepped back into the doorway, the sliver of light diminishing until the door snapped shut, leaving the alley once more in darkness. Only the faint blue light from the cloud-shrouded moon filtered into the narrow corridor where the three men stood.

“How old is she?” the voice behind him asked.

“Leave her out of this. Just make it quick—can you give me that much?” Wyatt braced himself for what was to come. Seeing the child had broken him. He shook violently, his gloved hands in fists, his chest so tight it was difficult to swallow and hard to breathe. He felt the metal edge against his throat and waited for it to move, waited for it to drag.

“Did you know it was a trap when you came to hire us?” the man with three swords asked.

“What?
No!
”

“Would you still have done it if you knew?”

“I don’t know—I guess—yes. We needed the money.”

“So, you’re not a baron?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“I was a ship’s captain.”

“Was? What happened?”

“Are you going to kill me anytime soon? Why all the questions?”

“Each question you answer is another breath you take,” the voice from behind him spoke. It was the voice of death, emotionless, and empty. Hearing it made Wyatt’s stomach lurch as if he were looking over the edge of a high cliff. Not seeing his face, knowing that he held the blade that would kill him, made it feel like an execution. He thought of Allie, hoped she would be all right, then realized—she would see him. The thought struck with surprising clarity. She would rush out after it was over and find him on the street. She would wade through his blood.

“What happened?” the executioner asked again, his voice instantly erasing all other thoughts.

“I sold my ship.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Gambling debts?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

“What difference does it make? You’re going to kill me anyway. Just do it!”

He had steadied himself. He was ready. He clenched his teeth, shut his eyes. Still, the killer delayed.

“It makes a difference,” the executioner whispered in his ear, “because Allie is not your daughter.”

The blade came away from Wyatt’s neck.

Slowly, hesitantly, Wyatt turned to face the man holding the dagger. He had never seen him before. He was smaller than his partner, dressed in a black cloak with a hood that
shaded his features, revealing only hints of a face—the tip of a sharp nose, highlight of a cheek, end of a chin.

“How do you know that?”

“She saw us in the dark. She saw my knife at your throat as we stood deep in shadow across the length of twenty yards.”

Wyatt said nothing. He did not dare move or speak. He did not know what to think. Somehow, something had changed. The certainty of death rolled back a step, but its shadow lingered. He had no idea what was happening and was terrified of making a misstep.

“You sold your ship to buy her, didn’t you?” the hooded man guessed. “But from whom, and why?”

Wyatt stared at the face beneath the hood—a bleak landscape, a desert dry of compassion. Death was there, a mere breath away; an utterance remained all that separated eternity from salvation.

The bigger man, the one with three swords, reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “A lot is riding on your answer. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Right now you’re trying to decide what to say, and of course, you’re trying to guess what we want to hear. Don’t. Go with the truth. At least that way, if you’re wrong, your death won’t have been because of a lie.”

Wyatt nodded. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and said, “I bought her from a man named Ambrose.”

“Ambrose Moor?” the executioner asked.

“Yes.”

Wyatt waited but nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The dagger was gone and the three-sword man was smiling at him. “I don’t know how much that little girl cost, but it was the best money you ever spent.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?”

“Not today. You still owe us one hundred tenents, for the balance on that job,” the man in the hood told him coldly.

“I—I don’t have it.”

“Get it.”

Light burst into the alley as the door to Wyatt’s loft flew open with a bang and Elden charged out. He held his mammoth two-headed axe high above his head as he strode toward them with a determined look.

The man with three swords rapidly drew two of them.

“Elden,
no
!” Wyatt shouted. “They’re not going to kill me! Just stop.”

Elden paused, his axe held aloft, his eyes looking back and forth between them.

“They’re letting me go,” Wyatt assured him, then turned to the two men. “You are, aren’t you?”

The hooded man nodded. “Pay off that debt.”

As the men walked away, Elden moved to Wyatt’s side and Allie ran out to hug him. The three returned to the loft and slipped inside the doorway. Elden took one last look around, then closed the door behind them.