The Crown conspiracy trr-1 Read online

  Alenda's memory of him was easier to recall because he was the more disturbing of the two. He was smaller than Hadrian was and possessed elegant features, dark hair and dark eyes. He was dressed in layers of black with a knee-length tunic and a long flowing cloak that gathered about him like a shadow. Not a single weapon was visible upon him. Despite his smaller size and apparent unarmed state, Alenda feared this man. His cold eyes, expressionless face, and curt manner had all the warmth of a predator.

  From his tunic, Royce drew forth a bundle of letters bound with a blue ribbon. Handing them to her, he said, "Getting to those letters before Ballentyne presented them to your father wasn't easy. As far as races go, it was very close but ultimately successful. You might want to burn those before something like this happens again."

  She stared at the package as a smile of relief crossed her face. "I…I can't believe it! I don't know how you did it, or how to thank you!"

  "Payment would be nice," Royce replied.

  "Oh, yes, of course," she handed the bundle to Emily, untied the purse from her waist, and handed it to the thief. He quickly scanned the contents, snapped the purse closed, and tossed it to Hadrian, who slipped it in his vest as he headed for the stables.

  "You'd better be careful. It's a dangerous game you and Gaunt are playing," Royce told her.

  "You read my letters?" she asked fearfully.

  "No. I'm afraid you didn't pay us that much."

  "Then, how did you know-"

  "We overheard your father and Archibald Ballentyne talking. The marquis appeared not to believe the earl's accusations, but I am certain he did. Letters or no letters, your father will be watching you closely now. Still, the marquis is a good man. He'll do the right thing. My guess is he's so relieved Ballentyne doesn't have proof to take to court that your affair won't bother him much. However, as I said, you'd better be more careful in the future."

  "How would the likes of you know anything about my father?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say your father? I meant the other marquis, the one with the appreciative daughter."

  Alenda felt as though Royce had slapped her across the face.

  "Making friends again, Royce?" Hadrian asked as he led two horses from the stable. "You'll have to forgive my friend. He was raised by wolves."

  "Those are my father's horses!"

  Hadrian nodded, "We left the carriage behind a bramble patch by the river bridge. By the way, I think I might have stretched out one of your father's doublets. I put it and the rest of his things back in the carriage."

  "You were wearing my father's clothes?"

  "I told you," Royce repeated, "it was close, very close."

  – 2 -They called it the Dark Room because of the business conducted in it, but the little back room at The Rose and Thorn was anything but gloomy. Several candles set in sconces on the walls and on the meeting table, along with a nice-sized fire burning in the hearth, gave off a warm, friendly light. A row of copper pots, reminders of the days when the Dark Room doubled as kitchen storage, hung from an exposed wooden beam. There was only enough room for one table and a handful of chairs, but it was more than enough for their purposes.

  The door opened, and a small party filed in. Royce poured himself a glass of wine, took a seat near the fire, removed his boots, and wriggled his toes before the hearth. Hadrian, Viscount Albert Winslow, Mason Grumon, and a pretty young woman opted for chairs at the meeting table. Gwen, the owner of the tavern, always prepared a fine feast when they returned from a job, and tonight was no exception. This evening's selections included a pitcher of ale, a large roast, a loaf of freshly baked sweet bread, boiled potatoes, a cloth-wrapped cask of white cheese, carrots, onions, and the big pickles from the barrel normally kept behind the bar. For Royce and Hadrian, she spared no expense, which included the black bottle of Montemorcey wine she imported all the way from Vandon. Gwen always kept it on hand because it was Royce's favorite. Despite how appealing everything looked, Hadrian showed no interest in any of it. He focused his attention on the woman.

  "So, how did it go last night?" Emerald asked, sitting atop Hadrian's lap and pouring him a frothy stein of the inn's homebrew. Her real name was Falina Brockton, but all the girls who worked at the tavern, or Medford House next door, went by monikers for their own safety. Emerald, a bright and cheery waif, was the senior barmaid at The Rose and Thorn and one of only two women allowed in the Dark Room when a meeting was in session.

  "It was cold," he told her, encircling her waist with his arms. "As was the ride here, so I desperately need warming." He pulled her to him and began kissing her neck as a sea of brunette waves engulfed him.

  "We did get paid, didn't we?" Mason asked.

  The blacksmith had started to prepare a heaping plate almost the instant he sat down. Mason was the son of the former pre-eminent Medford metalworker. He had inherited his father's shop but had lost it through a gambling habit coupled with bad luck. Forced out of Artisan Row, he landed in the Lower Quarter, where he fashioned horseshoes and nails, making enough to pay for his forge, drinks, and the occasional meal. For Royce and Hadrian, he offered three benefits: he was cheap, he was local; and he was solitary.

  "We did indeed. Alenda Lanaklin paid us the full fifteen gold tenents," Royce said.

  "Quite the haul," Winslow declared, happily clapping his hands.

  "And my arrows? How'd they work?" Mason asked. "Did they anchor in the tiles?"

  "They anchored just fine," Royce said. "Getting them out was the problem."

  "The release failed?" Mason asked concerned. "But I thought-well, I'm no fletcher. Ya should'a gone to a fletcher. Told ya that, didn't I? I'm a smith. I work with steel, not wood. That fine-toothed saw I made-that worked, didn't it? That's a smithing product, by Mar! But not the arrows, and for sure, not ones like you wanted. No, sir. I done said ya should'a gotten a fletcher and ya should'a."

  "Relax, Mason," Hadrian said, emerging from Emerald's mane. "Of the two, the anchor was the most important, and it worked perfectly."

  "O'course it did. The arrow tips are metal, and I know metal. I'm just disappointed the rope release didn't work. How did ya get the rope down? Ya didn't leave it there, did ya?"

  "Couldn't, the guard would have spotted it on his next pass," said Royce.

  "So, how'd ya do it?"

  "Personally, I would like to know how you did the whole thing," Winslow said. Like Royce, he was sitting back with his feet up and mug in hand. "You never let me in on the details of these operations."

  The Viscount Albert Winslow came from a long line of landless gentry. Years ago, one of his ancestors lost the family fief. Now all that remained was his title. This was enough to open doors closed to the peasantry or merchant class and was a step better than the common baronage, at least at first glance. When Royce and Hadrian first met him, he was living in a barn in Colnora. The pair invested a little money on clothes and a carriage, and he aptly performed the delicate duties of liaison to the nobles. With an allowance funded by them, the viscount convincingly attended every ball, gala, and ceremony, patrolling the political pressure cooker for business leads.

  "You're too visible, Albert," Hadrian explained. "Can't afford to have our favorite noble hauled to some dungeon where they cut off your eyelids or pull off your fingernails until you tell them what we're up to."

  "But if they torture me, and I don't know the plan, how will I save myself?"

  "I'm sure they'll believe you after the fourth nail or so," Royce said with a wicked grin.

  Albert grimaced and took another long drink of his ale. "But you can tell me now, can't you? How did you get past the iron door? When I met with Ballentyne, I had the impression a dwarf with a full set of tools couldn't get it open. It didn't even have a lock to pick, or a latch to lift."

  "Well, your information was very helpful," Royce said. "That's why we avoided it completely."

  The viscount looked confused. He started to speak but instead remained silent and cut himself a p
iece of the roast beef.

  Royce took a sip of his wine, and when he did, Hadrian took over the tale. "We scaled the exterior of the east tower, or rather Royce did, and he dropped me a rope. It wasn't as tall, but it was the closest to the one Archibald had the letters in. We used Mason's arrows to connect the two towers and, with our knees wrapped around the rope, inched our way across the length hand over hand."

  "But there are no windows in the tower," Albert protested.

  "Who said anything about using a window?" Royce interjected. "The arrows anchored in the taller tower's roof."

  "Yep, as I said, that was quality craftsmanship," Mason said proudly.

  "So, that gets you to the tower, but how did you get in? Through the chimney?" Albert inquired.

  "No, it was too small, and last night there was a fire burning," Hadrian said, "so we used Mason's second little tool, a small saw, and cut the roof on a bevel. All in all, the night was going pretty much according to plan, until Archibald decided to visit his study. We figured he'd have to leave eventually, so we waited."

  "We should have just slipped down, cut his throat, and taken the letters," Royce insisted.

  "But we weren't being paid for that, were we?" Hadrian reminded him. Royce rolled his eyes in response. Ignoring him, Hadrian continued. "As I was saying, we lay there waiting and the wind on the top of that tower was bitter. The bastard must have sat in that room for two hours."

  "You poor thing," Emerald purred and nuzzled him like a cat.

  "The good news was he actually looked at the letters while we were watching him through the cuts, so we knew right where the safe was. Then a carriage came into the courtyard, and you'll never guess who it was."

  "The marquis arrived while you were on the roof?" Albert asked with his mouth full of roast beef.

  "Yep-that's when our timetable got really tricky. Archibald left the tower to meet the marquis, and we made our move."

  "So," Emerald chanced, "you opened the roof like the top of a pumpkin."

  "Exactly. I lowered Royce into the study. He picked the safe, dumped the dummy letters, and I hauled him back up. Just as we replaced the roof section, Archibald and Victor walked in. We waited to make sure they did not hear us. Incredibly, he presented the letters right there and then. I must say, it was hilarious watching Archibald's reaction when he discovered the blank replacements. Things got pretty loud at this point, so we decided we better take the chance and rappelled down the tower to the courtyard below."

  "That's amazing. I was telling Alenda sometimes problems occur during a job, but I had no idea I was telling the truth. We should have charged her extra," Albert interjected.

  "It crossed my mind," Royce replied, "but you know Hadrian. Still, we've made a nice profit on both sides of this one."

  "But wait, you didn't explain how you got the rope off the side of the tower if my releases didn't work?"

  Royce sighed. "Don't ask."

  "Why not?" The smith looked from one to the other. "Is it a secret?"

  "They want to know, Royce," Hadrian said with a wide grin.

  Royce frowned. "He shot it off."

  "He did what?" Albert asked, sitting up so abruptly his feet hit the floor with a clap.

  "Hadrian used another arrow to cut the rope at the roofline."

  "But, that's impossible," Albert declared. "No man can shoot the width of a rope at-what was it-two hundred feet maybe, in total darkness!"

  "There was a moon," Royce corrected. "Let's not make more out of this than it already is. You forget I have to work with him. Besides, it's not like he did it in a single shot."

  "How many arrows?" Emerald inquired.

  "What's that, sweetie?" Hadrian asked, wiping foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

  "How many arrows did it take for you to cut the rope, silly?"

  "Be honest," Royce told him.

  Hadrian scowled. "Four."

  "Four?" Albert said. "It was much more impressive when I imagined it as one lone shot, but still-"

  "Do you think the earl will ever figure it out?" Emerald asked.

  "The first time it rains I figure," Mason said.

  There was a triple tap on the door and the stocky smith pushed back his chair and crossed the room. "Who is it?" he challenged.

  "Gwen."

  Sliding the deadbolt free, he opened the door, and an exotic-looking woman with long, thick black hair and dazzling green eyes entered.

  "A fine thing when a woman can't get access to her own back room."

  "Sorry, gal," Mason said, closing the door behind her, "but Royce would skin me alive if I ever opened the door without asking first."

  Gwen DeLancy was an enigma of the Lower Quarter. A Calian immigrant, she survived in the city as a prostitute and fortune-teller. Her dark skin, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones were uniquely foreign. Her talent for eye makeup and an eastern accent made her an alluring mystery that the nobles found irresistible. Yet Gwen was no simple whore. In three short years, she turned her fortunes around, buying up shop rights in the district. Only nobles could own land, but merchants traded the rights to operate a business. Before long, she owned or possessed an interest in a sizable section of Artisan Row and most of the Lower Quarter. Medford House, commonly known as The House, was her most lucrative establishment. Despite its back alley location, gentry from far and near frequented this expensive brothel. She had a reputation for being discrete, especially with the identities of men who could not afford to be seen frequenting a brothel.

  "Royce," Gwen said, "a potential customer visited The House earlier this evening. He was quite anxious to speak to one of you. I set up a meeting for tomorrow evening."

  "Know him?"

  "I asked the girls. None of them have ever seen him before."

  "Was he serviced?"

  Gwen shook her head. "No, he was just after information about thieves for hire. Funny how a man always expects prostitutes to know everything when he is looking for answers but assumes a girl will take his secrets to her grave."

  "Who talked to him?"

  "Tulip. She said he was foreign, dark-skinned, and she mentioned an accent. He might be from Calis, but I didn't bump into him so I can't tell you for sure."

  "Was he alone?"

  "Tulip didn't mention any companions."

  "Want me to talk to him?" Albert asked.

  "Na, I'll do it," Hadrian said. "If he's poking around these parts, he'll probably be looking for someone more like me than you."

  "If you like, Albert, you can be here tomorrow and watch the door for strangers," Royce added. "I'll keep an eye on the street. Has there been anyone new hanging around?"

  "It has been pretty busy, and there are a few people I don't recognize. There are four people right now in the main bar," Gwen mentioned, "and there was a different party of five a few hours ago."

  "She's right," Emerald confirmed. "I waited on the five."

  "What were they like? Travelers?"

  Gwen shook her head. "Soldiers, I think. They weren't dressed like it, but I could tell."

  "Mercs?" Hadrian asked.

  "I don't think so. Mercenaries are usually troublesome, grabbing the girls, shouting, picking fights-you know the type. These guys were quiet, and one was a noble I think. At least some of the others referred to him as baron something-Trumbul I think it was."

  "I saw some like that up on Wayward Street yesterday," Mason said. "Might'a been as many as twelve."

  "Anything going on in town?" Royce asked.

  They looked at one another doubtfully.

  "Do you think it has anything to do with those rumors about killings out near the Nidwalden River?" Hadrian asked. "Maybe the king is calling up support from other nobles."

  "Are you talking about the elves?" Mason asked. "I heard about that."

  "Me too," Emerald said. "They say elves attacked a village or something. I heard they slaughtered everyone-some even while they slept."

  "Who said that? That doesn't sound
right," Albert commented. "I've never known an elf to look a man in the eye, much less attack one."

  Royce grabbed his boots and cloak and headed for the door. "You've never known an elf, Albert," he said as he abruptly left.

  "What'd I say?" Albert asked staring at everyone with an innocent expression.

  Emerald shrugged.

  Hadrian took out Alenda's purse and tossed it at the viscount. "I wouldn't worry about it. Royce can be moody at times. Here, divvy out the profits."

  "Royce is right, though," Emerald said. She appeared pleased that she knew something they did not. "The elves that attacked the village were wild elves, full-bloods. The half-breeds from around here are nothing but a bunch of lazy drunks."

  "A thousand years of slavery can do that to a person," Gwen pointed out. "Can I have my cut, Albert? I have to get back to work. We've got a bishop, the magistrate, and the Brotherhood of Barons visiting The House tonight."

  – 3 -Hadrian was still sore from the previous day's exertion when he took a seat at an empty table near the bar and observed the patrons of the Diamond Room. The name came from its odd, stretched rectangle shape, caused by how the addition fit into the space between the tavern and the brothel next door. Hadrian knew, or was familiar with, almost everyone in the room. Lamplighters, carriage drivers, tinkers, they were the usual late crowd who came in after work for a meal. They all had the same tired, worn-out, dirty look about them as they sat with their heads bowed over their plates. Each was dressed in a coarse work shirt and poor fitting britches gathered at the waist like the mouth of a sack. They chose this room because it was quieter, and they could eat in peace. One individual, however, stood out.

  He sat alone at the far end of the room his back to the wall. His table remained bare except for the standard tavern candle. He had not bought a drink or a plate. He wore a wide-brimmed felt hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume. His doublet, worn over a brilliant gold satin waist shirt, was made of rich black and red brocade with stuffed shoulders. At his side was a saber attached to a fine-studded, leather girdle matching his high, black riding boots. Whoever he was, he was not hiding. Hadrian also noted a bundle beneath the table on which he rested one boot at all times.