CHAPTER 17
Hadrian watched the approach of the four deputies whose only identifying uniforms were the simple white feathers in their hats. One had his on backward such that the feather pointed forward like a one-horned bull. These were no different than the last patrol, except they lacked a trained sheriff and were making do entirely with militia. They blundered up, brandishing swords.
“He’s one of them that drew on me. And they got that Rose girl! Look out for the other one.”
“Hold on now!” Hadrian called out. “Let’s not be hasty. You don’t want to die, and honestly I don’t want to kill you.”
“Put your sword … ah, swords … on the ground,” Terence said. “Then lie facedown, or we’ll be doing the killing.”
“Listen,” Hadrian tried again, “Rose didn’t do anything. She’s just a young girl. And-”
“Someone stab this fool.”
They all drew swords.
Hadrian stepped back through the Lower Quarter Gate and, dodging out of sight, pulled his two blades. They followed. The first one through the gate ran into Hadrian’s short sword. His crumpled body tripped the second one. Hadrian ignored him for the moment and caught the third with his bastard sword. The last one hesitated as Hadrian expected he might. By then the second one through-the fellow with the backward feather-was on his feet and swinging. The stroke was just a basic shoulder chop-no skill at all. Hadrian caught it high with his left sword and stabbed him with his right.
His sword thrust pierced the meat of his side. Hadrian didn’t want him dead. More importantly he didn’t want him to fall down. Seeing him occupied, the fourth man pressed the opportunity and took his chance. Hadrian rotated the skewered man around, and the timing was perfect. The fourth man accidentally stabbed the deputy with the backward hat. Both men let out a gasp. The one on the receiving end of the blade being much louder.
Anger replaced horror, and drawing his bloody sword free, the last deputy advanced. He screamed something, maybe words, but perhaps not-Hadrian couldn’t tell. The guy had lost control. Fear and anger pumped him until he couldn’t think, much less speak. This was exactly the type of insanity that military discipline was supposed to prevent. He was slightly larger than the others but no more skilled. The first swing was a sloppy, overpowered stroke meant to … Actually, Hadrian had no idea what it was meant to do, and he didn’t think his opponent knew either. The deputy was just chopping away like Hadrian was a tree that needed to be cleared. A step back and a turn avoided the blow.
Hadrian considered disarming the man-letting him live. Maybe he had a wife; maybe he had kids. This was just a job for him, a way to put food on the table. He didn’t go out that night expecting to die. Hadrian hated killing an innocent man. Though technically he wasn’t innocent-the guy had signed on to be a deputy, a job that came with certain risks, but that hardly made a difference. Hadrian felt sick as he realized he didn’t have a choice. He had let Terence go and this was the result. More men would die-best to just stop it there.
“Sorry,” he offered, and finished the man with a clean stroke-a rapid stab to the heart that was in and out in a blink. So fast that the man offered only a puzzled look before his legs gave out. Then he just sat down without a sound.
Hadrian cleaned his blades. While none had touched him, he was covered in blood and felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The familiar sensation of disgust crept up his throat, causing him to grimace as he looked down at the tangled bodies. One-the backward-hat deputy-lay staring sightlessly at the stars, his mouth gaping as if in wonder. Hadrian swallowed, forcing the feeling back down, and drew in a shuddering breath. He couldn’t remember how many men’s lives he’d taken in the few years since he’d left home, which he counted as a blessing, but what he didn’t understand was why it never got any easier. He imagined that his father would have said that was a desirable thing, that it proved he was a good man, but Hadrian didn’t feel good.
It was worth it, he reminded himself. Rose will be safe now, and she is innocent.
Hadrian turned to run the way Rose and the sergeant had gone, but stopped when he spotted the Crimson Hand thief, Puzzle, crouched on the roof of the gatehouse.
The thief held his hands up. “I didn’t see anything.” His voice quavered a bit. “As far as I know, it was some other guy-guys even. Five, six brutes-sons of bitches from … from Chadwick-yeah, from the south, who caught that patrol off guard.” He looked down at the piled bodies. “Who’d believe me anyway? If I said one guy had … I mean, no one would. They just wouldn’t.”
“Fine,” Hadrian said, then trotted into the Lower Quarter.
He took a side street, or an alleyway; it was hard to tell the difference in the Lower Quarter. He’d never been down it before but guessed it would get him to the central square faster. In the dark he nearly hung himself on a clothesline that appeared at the last second in a shaft of moonlight. A quick turn allowed the thin rope to graze past his ear. It hurt, but not as bad as it might have. The alley narrowed until he was climbing through garbage where he disturbed a family of rats that hurriedly retreated, squeaking their displeasure. He was regretting his shortcut when at last he squeezed through a rickety fence into the square. He got his bearings and headed for Wayward Street.
When Hadrian reached Medford House, he was out of breath. He pounded on the door, then bent over and rested his hands on his knees. His legs were wet. It wasn’t sweat. Why can’t it ever just be sweat? In the light of the House’s porch lanterns he saw the dark red stains. I should get a butcher’s apron. At least none of the blood was his this time.
Jasmine opened the door.
“Did they make it?” he asked.
The girl stared at him and took a step back. “Oh … dear Maribor. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Did the sergeant and Rose make it? Are they here?”
“Rose?” Her expression of fear and confusion shifted to delight. She took a step backward and in a hopeful, earnest voice asked, “You saw Rose?”
“Yes, she was coming here. Where is she?”
Jasmine shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Rose isn’t here.”
“Hadrian?” Gwen said, coming out of the parlor. She was limping, leaning on a homemade crutch. The scarf was off. Ugly black and blue marks inflated her face. Gwen’s lips were bloated, puffed, and split. The whole right side of her head was a dark bruise, one eye swollen shut. Cuts left black tracks of dried blood. Looking at her, Hadrian stopped feeling sorry for the sheriffs and wasn’t embarrassed for the blood on his clothes.
“I’m looking for Rose.” His voice harsher, louder.
“Everyone is,” Gwen replied.
“No, she was just with me. A castle guard was escorting her back here-”
“Rose was with you?” Several of the women pushed past Hadrian, stepping onto the porch.
“They were attacked by a sheriff and some deputies, and I”-he looked down at his clothes-“I helped out a little.”
“I see,” Gwen said.
“Rose! Rose!” the women on the porch were shouting.
“They should have been here by now. The sergeant and Rose were ahead of me.”
Gwen looked at Jasmine. “I was on the door for the last two hours and no one has come by.”