The Death of Dulgath Read Online Free PDF Page B

assassin’s fear of the king’s second cousin?”
    This comment did nothing to alleviate Fawkes’s glare, but his gaze did shift to the easel again.
    Sherwood knew what the lord was thinking and took another step forward. The painter had no grand illusion of beating Fawkes in a brawl. A law did exist making it illegal to strike a noble, even a despicable one. Sherwood’s advance was a bluff, but the artist tried to sell it as best he could by rising to his full height, which was an inch taller than Fawkes, and returning that venomous glare with a firm jaw and ready hands.
    Bluff or not, Fawkes chose to merely spit on Sherwood’s shoe before walking out.
    He, too, slammed the big door, but this time it stayed shut.

Chapter Three
Maranon
    The weather remained horrible all the way to Mehan. If the clouds weren’t following them, as Hadrian imagined, and all of northern Avryn was suffering the same deluge, then Wayward’s pond was likely a lake after the three additional days of downpours that soaked Royce and Hadrian’s travels south. On the morning of the fourth day, the skies woke clear and blue, a huge southern sun shining upon a land of gorgeous rolling hills.
    Most of the jobs Riyria took occurred in and around Medford, with a few sending them only as far south as Warric. Although Hadrian had grown up less than fifty miles from the border, this was his first trip to Maranon. If the peninsula of Delgos were a mitten, Maranon would be the thumb, and a green one at that. A land that was deep, velvet-rich, and the color of a forest by moonlight stretched out in all directions, broken by small stands of leafy trees. Maranon was known for its horses—the best in the world. At first, Hadrian thought he saw deer grazing in the meadows, but deer didn’t travel in herds of fifteen or more. Nor did they thunder when racing across the fields, shifting and circling like a flock of starlings.
    “Are they owned? Or can you just grab one?” Hadrian asked Royce as they rode their mangy northern mounts, which were at least clean thanks to three days of rain.
    Royce, who had thrown his hood off and was letting his cloak air-dry on his shoulders, glanced at the horses racing over a distant hill. “Yes and no. They’re like deer up north—or anything anywhere, really. There’s nothing that isn’t claimed by someone. Those are wild, but everything here belongs to King Vincent.”
    Hadrian accepted Royce’s expertise. Despite his partner’s lack of idle conversation, he knew Royce had traveled extensively—at least in Avryn. He appeared most familiar with the congested areas around the big cities of Colnora and Ratibor, those places a thief and former assassin would find the most work. For Hadrian, the trip to Maranon felt like Riyria was taking a holiday. The change in weather only added to the sense that they were in for some relaxation.
    Rising in his stirrups, Hadrian gazed across the open land. Aside from the road they followed and the mountains in the distance, Hadrian didn’t see a soul, city, or village. “So what’s to stop me from roping one and taking it home?”
    “Aside from the horse itself, you mean?” Royce asked.
    “Well, yes.”
    “Nothing really. Unless you’re caught, in which case you’ll be hanged.”
    Hadrian smirked, but Royce wasn’t looking. “If caught, we’d be hanged for most of what we do.”
    “So?”
    “So, this looks nicer. I mean…” He gazed at the few puffy, white clouds, which cast fleeting shadows over the hills. “This place is incredible. It’s like we crawled out of a sewer and wandered into paradise. I’ve never seen so many shades of green before.” He looked down. “It’s like our Medford grass is sick or something. If we have to steal, why can’t we take horses for a living? Got to be easier than climbing trellises and towers.”
    “Really? Ever try grabbing a wild horse?”
    “No—you?”
    “No, but explain to me how a man on a horse catches a riderless