Seeing Royce Melborn standing in the dark at the foot of her bed, Lady Lillian’s eyes went wide, but she did not scream. Had she, Royce would have slit her throat in an instant, not so much out of necessity but reflex. He was there to kill her anyway, but the woman’s self-restraint, bought the lady an extra pair of seconds. She made the most of them.

“Wait!” she said. The single word was urgently cast but the volume was low, practically a whisper as if the two were together in this endeavor rather than predator and prey.

Royce was so impressed he did as she asked. He had the luxury. The Traval Estate was vacant. Lady Traval had no children, no pets, and her husband was away on business. As a precaution she’d even gone so far as to send all the guards and servants away. Lady Traval and Edmund wanted to be alone, and as such the lovers had the entire place to themselves. Royce couldn’t have had an easier execution to preform. Lillian could have shrieked for hours alerting no one other than Edmund, who lay on his stomach beside her having no idea anyone else was in the bedroom. Even if he had, the young baron was no more a threat than the pillow he lay on. Royce’s two victims were prone on the mattress helpless in Lillian’s lavish bed chamber. Bright moonlight revealed the sheen of sweat on pale skin. Both lay naked, breathing heavy, wrapped just as much in each other as the tangled bed sheet.

Curiosity was what made Royce delay, and this came in two parts. The first was how this pampered wife of a noble shipping magnate had maintained her wits at such a moment. The second was the anticipation of what she might say next. What could she say? He expected disappointment. She would likely claim something to the effect of: You can’t do this! despite the obvious truth of the situation. Royce had heard such words on those few occasions where his target had the opportunity to speak. Nevertheless, she had surprised him with her quiet restraint. That didn’t happen often. He felt she’d earned at least one sentence, even if it wouldn’t make a difference.

It did.

“I can pay more,” Lady Lillian said.

Well played and in only four words.

Edmund stirred. “What? You’re paying me now?” he asked merrily, in-between panted breaths. “Have I become your whore?”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Lillian snapped, still in that carefully quiet voice.

“How do you know you can pay more?” Royce asked.

At the sound of his voice, Edmund rolled over and peered in the dark. It took a second before…“Novron’s ghost!” The Baron of Sansbury screamed. Lucky for him, the lady of the house had already entered into a negotiation sufficiently intriguing to grant a stay of execution for both.

“Because I know my husband,” Lady Lillian replied as if Edmund didn’t exist. “He’s cheap. I guarantee that I can pay twice what he offered you.”

“Who is this?” Edmund glared at Royce. “Lilly, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, Eddie, please do be quiet, or you’ll get us both killed.”

“Killed?” The young man’s eyes threatened to fall out as he looked first at her then Royce.

“Twice as much?” Royce asked. “Are you being literal or just flamboyant?”

“I’m not sure,” Lady Lillian replied. “What is the life of a noble adulteress going for these days?”

Royce suppressed a smile. He had never met Lady Lillian Traval before, but he’d known of her for years. She had the distinction of being Riyria’s first official employer. While Royce was not normally sentimental, it still counted for something that she paid promptly and well. Her husband, by contrast, was indeed cheap. The lady had paid fifty tenents for the recovery of one earring, while in return for the double murder of his wife and her lover, Hurbert Traval was only willing to part with… “Thirty,” Royce replied.

“Gold, I hope,” she said this sounding disappointed but not surprised.

“Yes.”

“Is he really here to kill us?” Edmund asked. “Did your husband—“

“Silence! Edmund. Damn you! I’m trying to save our lives you foolish boy!”

The baron cringed, whimpered, and pulled up the sheet. Edmund Wyberne, eighth Lord of Sansbury was pretty, pale, and pathetic. The lad was wealthy and still in his teens but always as morose as a man with a noose around his neck. His father had died only a few years ago of consumption—the White Death—leaving Edmund an enormous inheritance including his illness that left him frail, pale, and bizarrely attractive to women. Apparently the ladies had a thing for walking corpses.

“Sixty it is then,” Lady Lillian declared.

“You have it here?”

“I do.”

“Wait! You can’t trust a hired murderer!” Edmund wailed from behind the armor of his damp bedsheet that he held to his face. “What’s to stop him from taking it, killing us, then collecting his reward from Hurbert?”

Lady Lillian rolled her eyes. “If he does that, my husband will know he stole it, and that will be…well, bad for business. Wouldn’t it?”

“Are you serious?” Edmund exclaimed. “Bad for—“

“But if I give it,” Lady Lillian said, her eyes on Royce. “I will provide an excuse for where the money went. I’ll have to, or admit everything, which I can’t do, can I? I trust you were not hired to simply kill me, but engaged to slit our throats only if you found me with someone in my bed tonight?”

Royce nodded.

“So, you can simply report I was alone, can’t you? You will have done your job—as far as my husband knows—and you will walk away with twice as much money as promised, and no blood on your clothes—no need to look over your shoulder tonight. What do you say?”

Royce walked out the front door of the Traval Estate and through the moonlit, snow-blanketed gardens, feeling both pleased and oddly out of sorts. He had been prepared for a night of old fashioned murder, a return to the long neglected craft that defined so much of who he was, only to be left frustrated. Royce felt a tarnish had built up on his talents over the last few years of partnering with Hadrian Blackwater. The man had succeeded in stifling his art, but this night was Royce’s chance to scrape off the rust and get back in shape. To his delight, Hadrian, who found the idea of killing a woman too repugnant, had opted to linger in the nearby port town of Roe. If he believed in gods, Royce would have professed this was a sign. He hadn’t looked forward to the killing exactly, he took no more pleasure in murder than a butcher does lopping off the heads of chickens, but he did relished the anticipation of a certain peace of mind.

Royce hadn’t felt himself lately. He hadn’t felt normal in quite sometime. It was almost like he had a cold. He suffered bouts of longing for the old carefree days of blood and butchery. Back then everything was simple, everything made sense. Now nothing did.

I’m obviously sick, and the illness goes by the names of Hadrian Blackwater and…Gwen Delancy.

Royce felt this is what it must be like for a wounded wolf taken in by a helpful family. They meant well enough, but a wolf is supposed to be wild, and the family can’t understand how all that feeding and petting ruined an animal. Too much domestication and soon the poor wolf will have forgotten how to survive on its own.

That’s what that evening was meant to be—a night back in the wild. He was free of their influence, on his own again, enjoying a boy’s night out, only…

It’s as if the universe itself has aligned against me—allied with them. Soon there will be no more crime, no more want. Everyone will get along in perfect harmony. What a sorry state.

Royce exited through the stone archway officially leaving the garden and the Traval Estate behind. He took a moment to close and re-lock the iron gate.

“Where lies our book?” a voice said.

In an instant, Royce ducked, dodged, pulled his dagger, and cursed his laziness. He searched for his assailant amongst the shadows of barren trees cast by the full moon and the snow covered road that led to town.

The man wasn’t hard to find. Dressed in a tattered gray cloak, he stood along the path just outside the gate. Long red hair, mustache, and a pointed beard leaked out of the hood and wreathed a face paler than Edmund the Baron of Death’s Door. He displayed no visible weapon. His arms remained limp at his sides.

“Our book. Wait not. So desperate am I. Produce it now, and rid me of my cursed dread.” The voice was was raspy and strange.

Back in the estate, Royce saw a light appear in Lady Lillian’s bedroom window. First floor, front facing, the expensive glass was perfect for a snooping eavesdropper, or worse, a spy.

Too late for a random caller or wandering minstrel, he’s here for a reason. He’s either a very unfortunate busybody, or he works for Hurbert Traval.

Royce assumed the latter, and was surprised the old baron had the intelligence to send a shadow to watch his assassin. As impressed as Royce was, he couldn’t let it go. This would serve as warning to the shipping magnate not to play games with him.

Besides, Alverstone was already in his hand, and it was his boy’s night out.

The man didn’t so much as flinch when the dagger pushed into the side of his throat. The neck offered all the resistance of a stewed carrot, and the white blade passed through until it pushed out the hood on the far side. He crumpled, and Royce left him where he lay.

As Royce walked away two things bothered him.

First, if this was a servant of Traval, why give himself away? And what an odd way to do it? Where’s our book? Royce pondered this a moment concluding the obvious. I’d miss-heard him. He had a bit of an accent, likely didn’t say book at all. Probably said Bok or Boche something in another language—Calian or maybe Alburnian maybe. That’s what his accent sounded like. Bok might be the Calian word for money, or gold, or something. Perhaps, after witnessing the deal Royce had made with Lady Lillian—and knowing I was carrying a bag of gold—the spy planned to make a similar arrangement by offering to double-cross Hurbert and blackmail me.

This line of reasoning made perfect sense assuaging his concerns except there was one other odd thing that was a bit harder to reason away. Royce had just stabbed a man in the neck making certain to sever the big artery, only…Where was the blood?

Usually such a murder resulted in a brief gush. Years of practice had taught Royce to anticipated the spray. He had moved to the side to avoid the mess. This usually worked, but he always got some on his blade hand, but this time his knuckles came away clean. Such a thing was not inconceivable. After all the dagger had done all the messy work. This too would have satisfied him except…Royce looked at Alverstone and with the aid of the moon saw the gleam of the clean white blade.

Royce found Hadrian in the village drinking at the Pickled Pig’s Foot. This wasn’t a hard guess. As far as Royce knew, the Pickled Pig’s Foot was the only tavern in the entire seaside town of Roe—possibly the only one in the entire province of Oakenshire—and when he left him Hadrian looked to be in a drinking mood. The shabby stucco and thatch public house perched itself on a hill just up from the wharf where it had a view of the ocean marred only by a couple tiers of roofs and a forest of chimneys.

Being it was past midnight no other patrons remained inside, and the look on the tavern keeper’s face as Royce entered suggested the owner had been hoping Hadrian would leave before anyone else wandered in. Despite the name, the Pickled Pig’s Foot was not an unpleasant place. Given the damp winter’s night, the interior of the tavern provided a welcome warmth of seasoned wood and the cozy glow of resting embers.

Royce offered the tavern keeper an artificial smile which was answered in kind.

“What can I get you?” the apron-endowed, hair-deficient man asked without a lick of enthusiasm.

“Nothing, thanks. I’m not staying. Just here for him.”

As expected, this elicited a genuine smile.

Hadrian sat in the back corner near the fireplace, behind a table filled with empty mugs and a candle’s melted corpse.

“I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

Hadrian looked up with a grimace. He had several days worth of stubble, and eyes that belonged to a much older man. “Enjoy yourself, did you?”

Royce glanced over at the owner who was pretending not to watch them as he wiped a clean counter. It looked to only be the three of them in the Foot. This was good, but also bad as without other patrons the place was utterly silent.

“Oh, right,” Hadrian followed his line of sight and waved at the man. “Don’t want to say too much in front of Oscar, do we.” Hadrian burped and wiped his mouth. “That’s Oscar, by the way. He owns the Pickled Pig’s Foot—Toe…whatever.” Hadrian stared off into space for a second, his mouth hanging open then asked, “Why is it that these places always have such disgusting names?” He looked at Oscar, who couldn’t help but hear every word. Hadrian was drunk and therefore louder than normal. “Sorry, no offense intended, but honestly, is that the very best you could come up with? Did you really think passersby would be so captivated by the promise of severed pig’s feet floating in a vat of brine they would find it utterly impossible to pass your door without popping their head in to experience the dream? Why not just name it the Stinking Turd. Bet that would pack’em in, right?”

“He’s drunk,” Royce apologized.

“Yeah, I know.” Oscar wiped his hands. “You’re heading out though, right? I’d kinda like to close up.”

“Just give us a second.”

“Yeah, give us a second, Oscar.” Hadrian said. “My business associate here needs to bring me up to speed on our latest project—likely wants to gloat. Do you want to gloat, Royce?” Hadrian put a hand to his mouth. “Oops. You think Oscar heard your name? That’s bad, right?”

“This is why its never a good idea to drink,” Royce said.

“No? Wait, I thought you…you like wine, don’t you?”

“I like Montemorcey, but it’s incredibly rare, and when the source of your vice is almost nonexistent it’s an easy habit to keep in check.”

Hadrian nodded, then pursed his lips, turned and shouted. “Hey, Oscar! Got any of this rare Monty Mousey wine? Hadrian’s brow furrowed. “Wait, I think I got that wrong. How do you say it?”

“Don’t carry wine,” Oscar replied. “And I thought you were leaving.”

“We are,” Royce said getting to his feet and welcoming Hadrian to do the same if he was capable.

“I wasn’t asking for a bottle,” Hadrian said using the table to push himself up. “I was just curious. Don’t need to be so touchy. For a guy who owns an ale house named the Pickled Pig’s Foot, you’re awfully quick to push paying customers out the door.”

“You’ve been here for six hours. Unlike some people, I have a life.”

“Yeah, but…wait…” Hadrian stood with one hand still on the table steadying him as his eyes shifted in in deep thought. “Pigs don’t have feet—do they?” He looked first at Oscar then at Royce. “I mean, they’ve got hooves, right? They're like horses, sort of except the pigs hooves are cloven. It’s like they have two toes, but they aren’t toes, not really.” He looked at them again. Neither Oscar or Royce said anything. “You know what I mean. But the point is no one talks about horse’s feet, do they? No one says, their going to put a shoe on a horse’s foot—even if that actually makes more sense. I mean, shoes go on feet, right? No one puts a shoe on a hoof. That’s silly.”

Royce grabbed Hadrian by the strap of his baldric and hauled him forward. “Did you pay?” Royce shook his head at his own stupidity. He turned to Oscar. “Did he pay?”

Oscar nodded. “Handsomely. If not for that I’d have tossed him out hours ago. My wife is going to be furious.”

“Oscar is going through a bad time right now.” Hadrian said. “Tell him, Oscar.”

“He’ll tell me next time.” Royce said hauling Hadrian through the door. “Maybe he’ll even have some mousey wine then.”

“Yeah, that would be good. Do that, Oscar. Get some mousey wine for the next time.”

The bracing cold of the winter night stiffened Hadrian and crimped his lazy face into a tight grimace as if Royce had slapped him. “By Mar! It’s freezing out here! Let’s go back in.”

Oscar slammed the door shut and threw the bolt.

“I thought we were friends, Oscar!” Hadrian yelled at the closed door.

“You’ll need to be a little louder if you want to wake the whole village,” Royce explained.

“Oh, you’re a funny guy, aren’t you? Did you tell Lillian a joke, too? Did she laugh, or couldn’t she because you slit her throat?” Hadrian shifted unsteadily as he eyed Royce. “You don’t even have any blood on you. Is that the mark of a professional, or did you wash-up in her basin before leaving? And was it just the poor lady, or did you kill her dog, too?”

“Lady Lillian doesn’t have a dog.” Royce pulled him over to where their horses waited.

“Not anymore. Chuck it out an upper story window, did you?”

“There was no dog, Hadrian. Now do you need help getting on your horse or do you need to vomit?”

Hadrian stopped to ponder the answer to this perplexing riddle. He shook his head, then pointed across the street. “My horse is in the stable over…”

Royce handed him Dancer’s lead.

Hadrian looked up into the mouth of his horse. “Dancer! How’d you get out?”

“By Mar! How much ale did you drink?”

Hadrian once more stared off into space as he pet the white diamond on Dancer’s forehead.

“I get it. A lot. Never mind. Get on on your horse. Let’s go.”

Hadrian managed to climb aboard Dancer after only three tries. During this complicated operation, Dancer remained rooted as a tree on a calm day as if this was not the first time for either of them.

Royce believed Dancer, being sober, would be capable of following him, but couldn’t trust Hadrian, being drunk, not to interfere. As such, Royce took Dancer’s lead. Either Hadrian didn’t care or didn’t notice.

“Did it get colder?” Hadrian complained, absently letting go of the reins to pull his wool cloak tight. “Feels colder. You know, winter is like a pretty woman who talks a lot about nothing. They’re nice at first, fun, different, beautiful even, but after a while…”

Royce waited.

Hadrian picked up the reins and became fascinated by the knot that bound the ends.

“After a while what?” Royce asked.

“Huh?”

Royce shook his head. “Forget it.”

“I’m just saying that winter lasts waaayy too long. Aren’t you tired of winter, Royce?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“What?”

“Lady Traval. I didn’t kill her.”

Hadrian didn’t say a word for several minutes.

“I’d have told you sooner if I knew it would shut you up.”

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

“I couldn’t go through with it. She was a helpless woman with big pleading eyes and I just couldn’t bring myself to kill an innocent—“

Hadrian fell off his horse.

He hit the snow on his back and grunted in pain. It took him a second, then he rolled to his feet with a miserable groan and looked up at Royce with the most incredulous set of drunken eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Of course not, you idiot. She offered me more money to leave her alive. I just wanted to hear what you’d say. That looked painful, by the way.” He grinned. “Ground’s still mostly frozen, isn’t?”

“Yes, on both counts.”

Hadrian climbed back in the saddle on the first try this time, leaving Royce to suspect the bracing cold and the fall helped to sober him a bit.

On they went up the river road that followed the bank of the Galewyr. The sides of the river were frozen, but a dark line of moving water cut through the center and made the ghostly sound of rain on long lost leaves.

“It’s still good news,” Hadrian said.

“Absolutely, we made double the money without doing anything.”

“We?” Hadrian shook his head. “That’s your money.”

“We’re still partners, and the gold is clean. Not a drop of blood on it. You can spend the coin proudly.” Royce considered mentioning the other fellow who also did not appear to have a drop of blood, but Hadrian was too drunk and too happy to ruin the improved mood. They had a long ride back to Medford and the only thing worse than a happy chatty Hadrian, was a depressed chatty Hadrian.

They rode a while in silence.

“What?” Royce finally asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. What’s the problem?”

“I was just thinking that four years ago, you wouldn’t have offered to share the money—wouldn’t even have told me about it. I also doubt you’d have let Lady Lillian live. You’d have taken her money and killed her.”

“Four years ago, we weren’t partners—not really. And leaving Lady Lillian alive makes logical sense. No wisdom in killing a paying customer.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Hadrian nodded. “And the Royce Melborn I first met, even the one of only a couple years back would never have asked…what? just because I was blessedly silent. You’ve changed. You were an animal, a wild thing really, but now…now you’re domesticated, aren’t you? You’ve become a tame beast, haven’t you Royce?”

“If you weren’t drunk, I’d kill you.”

“I’m gonna tell Gwen.”

“Do not tell Gwen.”

Hadrian laughed.

“I hate you when you’re drunk.”