The Rose and the Thorn Read online

  Mauvin spun the blade expertly and presented the sword back to Reuben.

  The prince pulled an apple from the small purse that hung from his belt and began tossing it up in the air and catching it. “How much trouble did you get in last night?” Alric asked him.

  “My father was on duty all night, so I don’t know yet.”

  “Oh right, I heard they had run some security drill or something. Luckily I slept through it.” The prince threw the apple up through the branches of the oak tree, where it cut through the leaves. On the way back, it glanced off a branch and bounced wide of his catch. Fanen was there to make the save and held the fruit up in silent victory.

  Alric smiled. “Say, we’re thinking of doing some more hunting tonight. Interested?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I can’t. Tonight will be my first shift as a real guard. I’ll be standing the front gate. And the big party for the new chancellor is tonight. Aren’t you expected to be there?”

  They glanced at each other with sinister smiles. “These galas are boring. Our parents are always introducing us to people we don’t know and don’t want to know—like old women in jewels who like to kiss and smell of cheese. We thought we’d sneak out. Since everyone will be busy and the castle filled with people, no one will even know we’re gone.”

  “Except the gate guard,” Mauvin mentioned, and raising an incriminating finger, he added, “Who would be you.”

  “Oh… I see. You want me to pretend I never saw you leave.”

  “Just if anyone asks, which I doubt.”

  Fanen tossed the apple back to the prince, who threw it once more. It went up higher, sending a cloud of yellow leaves cascading down and making it difficult to tell where the apple had gone. This time the fruit bounced off several branches, and Fanen made a valiant grab before the apple hit the grass.

  “These parties are hectic and go on all night,” Alric explained. “No one wants us around anyway, so you’ll be fine. What do you say?”

  “What can I say? You’re the prince.”

  Alric smiled. “What’d I tell you—I love this guy.” He turned to the Pickerings. “I’ve got to do a fitting for a new doublet. Wanna come watch me annoy the tailor?”

  “Tempting,” Mauvin said sarcastically, “but I think I’ll stay here and give our new guard some tips. Who knows, maybe we’ll take him to Percepliquis with us.”

  “Suit yourself.” Alric trotted back up the hill, forgetting his apple.

  Mauvin circled Reuben, studying him. “Care to try out the new equipment?” He had a mischievous glint in his eye. “I did promise to train you, remember?”

  Reuben felt as if a bumblebee hummed around him, unsure if it might sting. Until recently, Reuben’s experience with nobles hadn’t been good. “I thought you were joking. And I do have to—”

  “Pickerings don’t joke about sword fighting. Now draw your weapon.”

  Certain he was about to be humiliated by a boy three years younger, Reuben nevertheless drew his blade. It sang in a way no sword he had ever touched before had. A high ring that sounded deadly.

  “Guard up.”

  Reuben raised the blade. So much lighter than the others he had practiced with.

  “Is that your stance? Good Maribor, what have they been teaching you? Fanen!”

  His brother walked behind Reuben and repositioned him like he was a doll. Dropping on his knees, the boy grabbed Reuben’s ankles and shifted his feet. “Left foot back and turned out,” Fanen muttered. “Right foot forward.”

  When he was done, Reuben was standing sideways and feeling a bit awkward.

  “Okay, now bend your knees—just a little—and get up on the balls of your feet. Okay, good. Now attack me.”

  Sharp as a razor.

  Reuben made a weak effort, and Mauvin raised his eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

  “This sword is sharp. I’d rather not hurt a nobleman in—”

  Mauvin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You stand about as much chance of touching me with that blade as you do of marrying the princess. Now c’mon.”

  Reuben knew Mauvin hadn’t meant it—well, he did, but he couldn’t have known his words had cut deeper than his sword was ever likely to. Still, it made attacking Mauvin easier.

  Reuben stepped forward and made two attempts to swing before Mauvin stopped him. “It’s not a bloody axe, Hilfred. Think of it more like a knife. You wouldn’t hammer at a loaf of bread the way you split logs, would you? This is a blade. Slice, stab, use your wrist as well as your arm.”

  “He’s not even holding the grip right.” Fanen pointed at his hand.

  Mauvin and Fanen taught him together, starting with his grip, then his feet. He learned to shuffle instead of step. Then it was thrusts and finally parries. Fanen eventually got bored, snatched up the apple, and sat down on the stone bench next to the rosebushes. He bit into the fruit and, holding it clutched in his teeth, began jotting something down with a bit of graphite into a small book of parchment.

  Mauvin rolled his eyes at his brother. “More poetry?”

  Fanen ignored him.

  “Okay, Hilfred, try that move again, only this time—”

  “Sorry,” Reuben said. “I really do appreciate this, but I have something very important I must do.”

  Mauvin’s shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

  Mauvin sighed. “We didn’t get far, but Alric ought to sleep a little better knowing at least one of his guards understands the basics. Well… good luck tonight.”

  Reuben didn’t know if he should bow or what. He opted for a polite head bob and then jogged down the hill toward the barracks. His father had to be back by now. As he ran, he felt his new sword clap his thigh and a small smile pulled at his lips. The prince had given him a sword. The prince! And the Pickerings had taught him fencing—actually taught him, instead of pummeling him senseless. His elation was tempered when he concluded they were only using him to sneak out. The three were buying his silence with pretend friendship. Nobles didn’t make friends with common soldiers. Still, the sword was nice—he might even get to keep it—and he had to admit he did feel a bit more confident using it, now that Mauvin had explained things better. When going through basic training, he had failed to learn much. The instructors spent all their time with the noble boys, while he was left to watch over their shoulders. His practice was against fence posts, as the others had refused to pair off with him. His two sparrings with Mauvin were the first real practices he had ever experienced.

  “Where you been, boy?” Richard Hilfred barked as soon as Reuben entered.

  Reuben knew the tone—a harsh accusation, with the snap of military authority. His father sat at the little table. His shirt was off, his feet bare, everything else cast on the floor. His father’s uniform had never touched the ground before, and Reuben stared at the crumpled tunic as if it were a dead body.

  “I was getting my chain and—”

  His father stood and struck Reuben with his left fist. He swung backhand but had put his weight into the blow. Reuben fell, hitting the door with his head on the way down. There was a loud hollow thunk, but he couldn’t tell if the sound came from the door or his skull.

  “What’d I tell you about getting noticed? What’d I tell you about the greats? Stupid kid.”

  Only then did he notice his father had a dark bottle in his right hand. Reuben wondered if that was why he used his left hand. When struck, he had thought maybe his father was softening the blow, but now he wondered if he just didn’t want to bother putting down the drink. His father lifted the bottle to his lips. He had to tilt the bottom high.

  “You have no idea what these bastards are like,” he growled. “The moment you get mixed up with them you’re…” His father kicked the cot so that it hopped up, knocking the pillow to the floor. He sniffled, wiped his nose with his arm, and sat back down while taking another swig from the dark bottle. Reuben wondered where he got it. Bottles
with labels were expensive, too expensive for soldiers, even members of the royal guard. “There’s no such thing as honor, Rue. Chivalry is a joke, an idea some rotter poet made up. A snowball in midsummer, that’s what it is. A chicken that can lay golden eggs. The great ones pretend to keep it for themselves so that fools like us will think it’s real, but it’s all lies. Remember that, boy.”

  Reuben got up. His face stung and he could taste blood from where his teeth cut the inside of his mouth. He stood on the far side of the room, his back pressed against the closed door. The distance afforded no real protection. The room was little more than twelve feet and his father need only take a step or two to hit him again.

  “Take what you can get. Steal what you can get away with. And trust no one. Love no one. That’s the worst. Love is an awful thing. You let it in and it eats you from the inside. Turns your head around. You find yourself doing things, betraying yourself—and for what? For what! He could have done something. I… I risk my life every day for him, but what does he do for me? Where is he when I needed him?” He smacked his lips and sighed. “Everyone’s out for themselves. And you had better be too—we all have to be or we’ll be swallowed up.”

  Reuben felt the rough wood of the door with his fingers as his tongue played with the cut in his cheek. He didn’t dare move or speak, but he knew he had to. Even if that meant another blow. Even if it brought the right hand. Even if his father forgot he still held the bottle. He had to tell his father the king was in danger. Maybe the news would snap him out of it. Looking back at the uniform, he doubted that.

  His father sat down hard on the chair. Reuben took that as a good sign. He might not want to bother getting up just to kill his son.

  “And you… what were you thinking? Raised by a woman, fussed over until you’re good for nothing but merchant work. That’s all boys raised by women are good for. Soft, pink things that think too much. Beware of thinking too much, boy. That, too, will get you in trouble.”

  As he spoke, the scar on the left side of his face moved with the pinching of his wrinkles, the stiff skin lagging a hair behind the rest, wiggling like a snake. The way his father had told the story, a big, crazy drunk had come at the king, killing three men on his way. The remaining two of the king’s guards ran. Richard Hilfred had been the last to stand in the way. He got the scar, and before it had healed, he said it was possible to whistle a tune through the slit in his cheek. But the king had been saved.

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE CRIMSON HAND

  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 Squa
re. 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.