“Then I’d get your hands off my belt.”
Her eyes opened. “What?”
“You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I-that’s the problem. Your husband wasn’t killed, was he?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need a protector.”
“From what?”
That’s when the screams began.
Hadrian reached the deck with sword in hand, but found no one.
The cries had stopped long before he opened Vivian’s door. He had told her to lock it behind him, then raced to the deck. He listened for the scuffle of a fight, but the cries had ended decisively. There should have been the sound of boots on decking, the killer running away, but all Hadrian heard was the lap of water.
He waited.
Silence.
No, not silence-the river still spoke. For days the voice of the river breaking against the bow had been a constant frothy rush. Now the tone was different. The lapping against the hull was a lower pitch, quieter. It didn’t feel right. And that wasn’t the only change. The barge was no longer moving.
He scanned the open planking.
Nothing moved.
Hadrian walked slowly to the stern and found Samuel not far from the tiller. He was facedown in a spreading pool of blood.
Where are Sebastian and Eugene?
Hadrian had seen plenty of death. He’d killed more men than he wanted to remember but had convinced himself that each one was necessary. This was a lie-one he never actually believed, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. Still, all his fights had been on battlefields or in arenas. This was different-unprovoked butchery.
The night, which had been so tranquil, wore a new expression. Quaint swinging lanterns offered poor light and the moon showed less than half a face, giving life to a thousand silhouettes. Hadrian wasn’t afraid for himself; what had happened was over. As far as he could tell, the deck was secure, leaving only the hold and the cabins. Taking a lantern, he crept to the bow where he found the other two merchants. Both dead. Throats cut. Lying in their own blood.
A few feet from their bodies was the trapdoor leading to the hold, the padlock gone, hatch open. Hadrian peered in. Crates, sacks, bags, and boxes were tightly packed. No one waited in the shadows. Again he listened, again silence. His short sword ready, Hadrian moved through the narrow pathways that ran half the length of the barge. He found the huge trunks belonging to the merchants. They, too, were unlocked. Inside were more robes, silver plates, silverware, gold goblets, necklaces, candelabras, bowls, and crystal stemware. He also found a small chest and a strongbox. Both were open, two padlocks lying nearby. Inside, he found nothing.
Leaving everything as he found it, Hadrian climbed back onto the deck.
Everything was still quiet … and dead.
At that moment, Hadrian remembered Andrew and the fact that the barge wasn’t moving. In the dim moonlight, all he saw was the outline of the horse team illuminated by Andrew’s lantern.
Hadrian returned to the cabins.
He found the hallway as he had left it, Vivian’s door intact. He knew she would be terrified, and this time for good reason. At least he could report they were safe. The hooded man was gone.
“Unlock the door, Miss Vivian,” he said, knocking. “It’-s-”
The door creaked inward. The shock of its movement halted his breathing and set his heart pounding. Pushing it revealed the little cabin still illuminated by the lantern. The door stopped short with a dull gut-wrenching thump. All he saw beyond its edge was a hand-her hand, fingers slightly curled. Vivian lay on her stomach in a lake of blood that spilled out across the floor, soaking into the dry wood.
What if I never reach Colnora? What if he kills me right here on this barge?
Hadrian felt sick. He shook his head as he backed out, knocking it against the lantern and setting the shadows dancing around the walls.
He had promised to protect her. He had assured her she was safe.
Walking backward out of the cabin, he noticed the crimson stains he was tracking on the corridor floor.
What is it with me and death? Hundreds of miles and I’m still leaving bloody footprints.
Hadrian returned to his cabin and gathered his belongings. His one bag, comprising the accumulated wealth of his life. Hoisting it made him think of Pickles. That officer on the dock might just have saved the boy’s life. Hadrian’s great sword still hung on the wall peg. He slipped the baldric over his shoulder, centered the spadone on his back, and climbed to the deck.
Without the pull of the horses or proper steering, the barge had already closed the distance to the towpath like the pendulum of a clock. Hadrian made an easy jump from the barge and landed on solid ground. Reaching the horses, his fears were confirmed. Andrew was gone. There was no body, but the pool of blood and the trail leading to the river told the story.
Standing on the towpath, Hadrian was at the base of the exposed stone cliff that blocked out most of the sky. Andrew’s lantern displayed his shadow against the stone wall as if he were a giant. Other than the blood and the missing postilion, the scene was as quiet as the boat. The lead line of the horses had been fastened to a tree, and Bessie and Gertrude waited for a signal to start again.
Hadrian tied off the bow line to another tree, then unfastened the horses from their harnesses. Given the strong current, he wedged the bar of the tackle between two boulders just to make sure the boat remained secure. Then he returned to the horses. He tied Bessie-or was it Gertrude? — to the same tree as the boat’s line and leapt on the other’s back. “No sense leaving you here,” Hadrian told the animal, and gave it a light kick. The horse wasn’t trained for riding and refused to do more than plod. The animal’s pace was aggravatingly slow but better than walking.
Hadrian couldn’t help wondering if he might stumble upon the hooded man in some inn or tavern. He imagined him drinking with his feet up and boasting about how he’d just slaughtered a boat full of people on the Bernum. Picturing the scene made Hadrian feel better.
He was tired of killing, but for the hooded man he could make an exception.
CHAPTER 6
For two years Gwen had looked out of the windows of The Hideous Head Tavern at the dilapidated building, but until that day she had never gone into it. Many others had. When their strength ran out and the cold of winter came, the desperate always sought shelter in its ruins. Many died there. Every year Ethan dragged at least one frozen corpse from its fallen timbers. The Lower Quarter was the bottom of the city’s sink and the dead end of Wayward Street was the drain. As Gwen stood in the ramshackle remains of the old inn, she wondered how long she had before the drain’s whirlpool sucked them all down.
Two walls were solid; one tilted inward, warped into a wave, and the last was mostly missing. Part of the second floor had collapsed, as had a good portion of the roof. Through the gaping holes she could see clouds drifting past. At least three small trees, one four feet tall with a trunk as thick as her thumb, grew up through the floor.
“This isn’t too bad,” Rose said.
Gwen looked around but couldn’t see her. Since crossing the street, the girls had wandered the ruins like ghosts. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know … the parlor?”
The parlor? Gwen almost laughed. Not just because of the absurdity of the statement, but because of the way Rose had said it, her voice as carefree as a cloudless sky. Gwen spotted Jollin circling the shattered staircase, her arms folded tight, head bowed as she shuffled through the debris. Their eyes met, and the two shared a smile that conveyed the same thought. Only Rose would see a parlor in this dump.