Michael Sullivan - The Rose and the Thorn

“Dad?” Reuben said.

His father did not look up. He stared at the bottle, holding it slightly tilted as if he were judging the remainder.

“Someone is plotting to kill the king.”

“Someone is always plotting to kill the king. That’s why I have a job.”

“I think it’s someone in the castle.”

Richard Hilfred cocked his head and squinted at him, his mouth slightly open, showing the gap of a missing lower tooth.

“What got this into your head?”

“I met someone who overheard a conversation between two men.”

“What, at some tavern while you were out gallivanting with the prince? I warned you-”

“No, sir, right here in the castle.”

His father’s squint tightened, his mouth opening a hair wider. “One of them squires?” He shook his head and waved the bottle at him. “Don’t listen to those silver-plated codpieces. They just want to start trouble. You should know that by now.”

“Wasn’t them.”

“Whoever it is he’s lying.” His father finished the last of his bottle.

“It was a girl named Rose, the one everyone is looking for. She’s a prostitute and was here for a party. She was hiding in a wardrobe in the high tower and overheard two men say they were going to kill the king. I hid her until I could talk to you. I didn’t know who to trust.”

His father stared at his son for a long time. He reached out to place the bottle on the table, but because he wasn’t looking, he missed and it fell. It didn’t shatter. The good heavy glass clinked and, being too empty to spill, just rolled under the bunk. His father got up slowly. Reuben was just as tall but felt infinitely smaller. Dozens of white lines cut across his father’s chest, shoulders, and arms-more scars. Shadows of pain, framed with stretched tissue, some with rows of dots along them-sewing holes. They rode up and down with his breath.

“You know where this girl is?” His father’s tone was clear, cold.

Reuben nodded.

“Where did you hide her?”

“She doesn’t know any more than what I told you already. She didn’t hear any names.”

“Where?” He took a step, cutting the length of the room.

“The dungeon.”

His father thought a moment, then nodded. “Keep her there. Keep her locked in.”

“But she didn’t do-”

“Don’t but me, boy! Keep her there until I sort this out. That’s the best place. And don’t tell anyone else-you haven’t, have you?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Now let me think.”

His father bent down and picked up his tunic, then paused and glanced at Reuben. “It looks better on you.”

Hadrian walked behind the Crimson Hand thief. He had refused to give them his name, so Hadrian declared it to be Puzzle. Puzzle was not a trusting man and looked about as relaxed as a well-wound spring. Hadrian hadn’t known many professional thieves. Until that walk from the Lower Quarter into Merchant Square, Royce had been the only one. He saw similarities, but differences too. Puzzle dressed like a thug. His short-waisted coat, with big cuffs and high collar, along with the woolen pants had the hardness of a dockworker, but he was too small and thin to pull the look off. His jacket swallowed him. He didn’t walk like Royce either. There was none of the grace of his partner in the loping strides of the Hand’s thief. Puzzle had all the body language of a rat or ferret, while Royce was a hawk, which explained why Puzzle was so eager to get back to his den.

Royce was out in front and Hadrian shadowed them. There was no need to bind Puzzle, who walked between them calling directions. Hadrian gauged the thief’s chances of escape at somewhere between nonexistent and impossible. If the man bolted, Royce would swoop. Puzzle might get five steps before the talons sunk in. Hadrian had seen Royce play with victims before. His partner would turn his back, wander away, or leave a door open. Those were the nights Hadrian drank more than usual. The nights when he had woke drenched in sweat after dreaming about his father. The nights he questioned everything, including the point of his own birth.

They had dropped Albert off at a barber, with enough coin to get him cleaned up and buy a decent set of clothes. They were planning to rendezvous back at The Hideous Head. Judging from the lack of business, everyone had a similar opinion of the alehouse, which made it ideal. Albert was all smiles when Royce handed over the coins, as if he’d thought such a thing would never really happen. Hadrian had doubts they would see the viscount again but agreed with Royce that they had bigger issues to deal with.

If someone had hurt Gwen, Royce wasn’t the only one who wanted to find him.

The sun was rising high as they pressed their way through the Merchant Quarter. The streets were clean, the shops adorned with numerous windows, and above each door were painted signboards carved into clever advertisements. A tailor sported a giant thimble and needle with a line of thread whipping above it. A barrister’s advertisement displayed a wig that looked real until closer inspection revealed that it was made of wood. The thoroughfares-the maze of lanes and aisles-were as colorful as the wealthy shoppers who wandered by dressed in clothes of dyed cloth. Yellows, oranges, greens, and reds were the most predominate, and the brighter the better. Hadrian wondered if it was just a coincidence or if they were all consciously trying to mimic the color of the autumn trees. A few wore noble furs, imports from the Gentry Quarter. No one could ignore the lure of Merchant Square. It was a thrill of sights, sounds, and smells.

Merchant pitchmen walked with elaborate tree-poles, whose branches displayed hats, shoes, cheap jewelry, and purses. Fetching girls carried baskets of glass baubles, medicines, and cloth. Minstrels played while jugglers tossed gourds, dancers performed acrobatics, storytellers on boxes captivated crowds of listeners, and games of chance were everywhere. The smell of cinnamon and apples fought with the smoky aroma of roasting pig.

It didn’t seem likely that thieves would have a home in such an environment. Hadrian imagined cutpurses would live in abandoned hovels in a neighborhood much like the Lower Quarter, or in a sewer, or perhaps above some dockside bar. On the other hand, mice were more likely to take up residence in a full cupboard than an empty barn.

“What game is this?” Puzzle asked, having not needed to direct Royce for several turns. “Your friend knows where he’s going.”

Hadrian was certain that was not true. Royce said he had never been to Medford before their last visit, and despite everything, as far as Hadrian knew, Royce had never lied to him. He always thought that was odd given the man was a thief with no more ethics than a shrub, but it wasn’t the only thing strange about Royce Melborn, and his ability to find his way was one of those.

Royce came to a halt at the end of Paper Street in front of a large iron gate between Faringham’s Bookbindery and Virgil and Harrington’s Engravings. On the far side was a small graveyard. The gate was sealed with a massive and hopelessly rusted lock.

Royce faced Puzzle. He motioned toward the cemetery. “In there, right? But you have another way in. Something quick and simple.”

Puzzle stared at him with suspicion.

“It doesn’t take a genius,” Royce explained. “In the heart of everything but isolated. No one has touched that chain in a decade. How do you get in?”

The thief glanced over each shoulder, then with a specific sequence of slaps, popped one of the iron bars out of place and slipped through the gap.

“You don’t have too many fat members, do you?” Hadrian said, but the thief was running now, sprinting between the graves. Royce didn’t follow. They had arrived. The thief was just distancing himself from the bloodshed that was sure to follow.