“Their jobs were almost too clean for Royce's taste.”

“I need your help.”Royce looked up as if his head weighed a hundred pounds, his eyes red, his face ashen. He waited.“One last job,” Hadrian told him, then added, “I promise.”“Is it dangerous?”“Very.”“Is there a good chance I’ll get killed?”“Odds are definitely in favor of that.”Royce nodded, looked down at the scarf in his lap, and replied, “Okay.”

“If this keeps up, we’re going to own Melengar,” Hadrian mentioned.“What’s this we stuff?” Royce asked. “You’re retired, remember?”“Oh? So you’ll be leading the Nationalist advance, will you?”“Sixty-forty?” Royce proposed.”

“You didn’t really hold back on Braga so Pickering could kill him, did you?” Royce asked after the two were left alone in the hallway.“Of course not. I held off because it’s death for a commoner to kill a noble.”“That’s what I thought.” Royce sounded relieved. “For a minute, I wondered if you’d gone from jumping on the good-deed wagon to leading the whole wagon train.”

“Hadrian leapt to his feet. Royce was already up.“Don’t bother,” Esrahaddon told them. “She’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do. The monster cannot be harmed by your weapons. It—”The two were out the door.”

“Royce nodded. “Invest in crossbows. Next time stay hidden and just put a couple bolts into each of your target’s chests. All this talking is just stupid.”“Royce!” Hadrian admonished.“What? You’re always saying I should be nicer to people. I’m trying to be helpful.”

“It was a trap after all,” Alric said. He turned to Royce. “My apologies for doubting your sound paranoia.”