The beard was gone and his long hair had been cleaned, combed, powdered, pulled back, and tied with a black velvet bow. They could see his face for the first time. It was pink and lean with sharp cheekbones and a handsome chin. Hadrian had no idea why, but he only then noticed that Albert had startling blue eyes. He had traded his filthy nightshirt for a doublet of gold with a high starched neck and shimmering silk accents. The new lace shirt underneath peeked out in ruffles and embroidered cuffs. On his legs were opaque hose and he wore brass-buckle shoes, and on the table beside him was a luxuriant wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a plumed feather.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, adjusting his cuffs.
“I didn’t give you that much money.” Royce glared.
“No. What you gave me was ill suited to the task. You obviously have no idea the costs of being noble.”
“Then how’d you manage this?”
“Credit.”
“Credit?”
“Yes. That’s where I promise to pay later for things I want now.”
Royce rolled his eyes. “I know what credit is. I just can’t believe they agreed.”
“The first barber certainly wouldn’t. I went to a cheap one and got nicked a few times for my effort.”
“The first barber?”
“Oh yes. And the first clothier. I went to a secondhand shop in the Merchant Quarter and bought a ghastly used doublet. The thing smelled of fish. I also bought worn shoes, a torn and stained shirt-the offensive parts blessedly hidden by the doublet-and a pair of hose. Dressing myself thusly, and cleaned up as well as your coin would allow, I then went to the most expensive shops in Gentry Square. There I introduced myself as the road-weary Viscount Winslow who was in town for the celebration tonight at the castle and in desperate need of a new look. I then proceeded to buy all new clothes and visited a coiffeur, all on credit.”
“And they just let you?”
“Nobility has its perks.”
“How many perks did you spend?” Royce’s tone shifted between amazed and angry but finally settled on a nice restrained tempest.
Albert hummed for a moment. “Only about thirteen gold tenents.”
“Thirteen!” Royce hit the table with his fist, making Albert and the candle jump.
Albert leaned back with his palms up in defense. “The clothes were very cheap. I know several barons who spend twenty-five, even thirty on just a jacket, and I really couldn’t quibble and still convincingly play the part of a wealthy noble who they could trust to pay later.”
Royce huffed and dropped back in his chair hard enough to rock it. “You might be surprised to discover we don’t have thirteen gold.”
Albert straightened up at this and a confident grin filled his face. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I have a month to pay.”
“A month-a whole month? Are you crazy? I think the largest haul Hadrian and I’ve scored was only five gold coins, and those were local stamps, not tenents. Usually we bring in twenty or thirty bits of silver.”
“Which is good money,” Hadrian added.
“Yes … yes it is. But thirteen gold!” Royce grabbed the glass of cider and smelled it.
“Not fermented.” Albert grinned at him.
Royce leaned over to sniff Albert’s breath. “I hope you enjoy those clothes, because you’ll hang in them, or go to debtor’s prison, or have your thumbs cut off, or whatever they do to nobles who don’t pay their bills. Don’t expect us to help you out.”
“Tut-tut. We’ll be fine. After dressing myself properly, I paid an unexpected visit to an old friend, Lord Daref. I asked if he was free this evening and offered to treat him to a night of decadence and debauchery-”
“You did what? Are you out of your mind?” Royce turned to Hadrian. “He’s nuts. Maybe drying out his brain was too much too soon.”
Hadrian had to agree. The viscount was happily running headlong off a cliff and didn’t appear to have a care.
Albert reached out to console Royce, who snapped his hand back.
“Relax. I’m not an idiot. I knew full well he would refuse. He, like every other noble in the city, is attending the autumn gala. It’s an annual harvest soirée, only this year there is the added attraction of celebrating the appointment of a new chancellor. It would be a black mark not to be in attendance. When he asked why I was not going, I feigned ignorance, saying I only just arrived in the city and had no idea.”
“He invited you as his guest?” Royce asked.
Albert smiled. “He did indeed. So tonight I will be dining on venison and pheasant until I am stuffed as a bird. While I am, I will see about finding the hidden foibles and prying those dark sinister secrets out into the sacred and inebriated light of candles. Then, as we discussed, I will nonchalantly suggest a possible, and decidedly irresistible, option. I will dangle the chance for them to get even with any rival at no risk whatsoever, just for the cost of, say, twenty or fifty golden tenents.”
“Fifty gold? You are crazy.”
“Trust me. I know these people. Gold means little when balanced against a single moment of humiliation to an enemy, or sometimes even a friend. If you can do the jobs, we’ll all be wealthy soon.”
Royce’s line of sight veered off toward the bar. Hadrian glanced over his shoulder to see the same man he had drawn his sword on in Medford House leaning over the bar speaking to Grue and looking in their direction.
“I notice you didn’t include a blade with your new attire,” Royce said. “Not even a little jeweled dagger.”
“Lords no.” Albert looked appalled. “I don’t fight.”
“I thought all nobles learned sword fighting.” Royce looked to Hadrian.
“I thought so too.”
“Nobles with competent fathers perhaps. I spent my formative years at my aunt’s at Huffington Manor. She held a daily salon, where a dozen noble ladies came to discuss all manner of philosophical topics, like how much they hated their husbands. I’ve never actually held a sword, but I can tie a mean corset and apply face paint like a gold-coin whore.”
This caused Royce and Hadrian to chuckle. When Royce stopped abruptly, Hadrian didn’t need to turn this time. He could hear the footfalls on the wooden floor.
“Having a good time, are you?” Grue asked. He was as greasy-looking as ever. “So it turns out you two are friends with that harlot. Willard says you stopped him from taking their tun. Says you busted up Gitty and Brock. Gitty’s still laid up and bemoaning the loss of his front tooth.”
“That was an accident. He hit the banister badly,” Hadrian said. “Still, they shouldn’t have been stealing the ladies’ tun.”
“Ladies!” Grue laughed. “That’s a good one, mister. Never heard no whores called ladies before. Those boys were there on my orders. I told you earlier how they’ve been cutting in on my business, making it impossible to turn any profit by stealing all my customers. The only reason I survive is because I’m the only place down here on Wayward with the royal writ to sell ale. But now it turns out they’re starting to make their own, and she’s in tight with the administrators. Cast some sort of witchy spell on them so they agree to whatever she asks. She’ll get her writ-then I’ll be out of business. A man would be stupid to drink here when he can go across the street and have his ale with a pretty wench sitting on his knee. With that much business, she could give drinks for free and I’d have to close my doors. I ain’t gonna let that happen. That’s why I sent the boys over to take her cask of wort and shut her down before she can hatch her plans.”
“So you sent them over.” Royce stated the obvious, which was not like him, but his voice had a tone like a tumbler clicking into place.
“Of course I did, only you two had to interfere. I can’t say I’m happy with that.”
Hadrian marveled at how every time Grue spoke, he tied a noose tighter around his neck. “Are you asking us to leave, or is this where you and your friends teach us a lesson?”