“Why not actors? It’s safe. Might even be fun.”
“It would be neither safe nor fun. Besides, actors have to travel and I’m content with the way things are. I get to stay near Gwen,” Royce added.
“See, that’s another reason. Why not find another line of work? Honestly, if I had what you do, I would never take another job.”
Royce removed a pair of boots from a saddlebag. “We do it because it’s what we’re good at, and with the war, Alric is willing to pay top fees for information.”
Hadrian released a sarcastic snort. “Sure, top fees for us, but what about the other costs? Breckton might work for that idiot Ballentyne, but he’s no fool himself. He’ll certainly look at the seal and won’t buy the story about it softening in the saddlebag.”
“I know,” Royce began as he sat on a log, exchanging the imperial boots for his own, “but after telling one lie, his second tale about sentries breaking the seal will sound even more outlandish, so they won’t believe anything he says.”
Hadrian paused in his own efforts to switch boots and scowled at his partner. “You realize they’ll probably execute him for treason?”
Royce nodded. “Which will neatly eliminate the only witness.”
“You see, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Hadrian sighed and shook his head.
Royce could see the familiar melancholy wash over his partner. It appeared too often lately. He could not fathom his friend’s moodiness. These strange bouts of depression usually followed successes and frequently led to a night of heavy drinking.
He wondered if Hadrian even cared about the money anymore. He took only what was needed for drinks and food and stored the rest. Royce could have understood his friend’s reaction if they had been making a living by picking pockets or robbing homes, but they worked for the king now. Their jobs were almost too clean for Royce’s taste. Hadrian had no real concept of filth. Unlike Royce, he had not grown up in the muddy streets of Ratibor.
Royce decided to try to reason with Hadrian. “Would you rather they find out and send a detachment to hunt us down?”
“No, I just hate being the cause of an innocent man’s death.”
“No one is innocent, my friend. And you aren’t the cause … You’re more like”—he searched for words—“the grease beneath the skids.”
“Thanks. I feel so much better.”
Royce folded the uniform and placed it, along with the boots, neatly into his saddlebag. Hadrian still struggled to rid himself of his black boots, which were too small. With a mighty tug, he jerked the last one off and threw it down in frustration. He gathered it up and wrestled his uniform into the satchel. Cramming everything as deep as possible, he strapped the flap down and buckled it as tight as he could. He glared at the pack and sighed once more.
“You know, if you organized your pack a little better, it wouldn’t be so hard to fit all your gear,” Royce said.
Hadrian looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What? Oh—no, I’m … It’s not the gear.”
“Then what is it?” Royce pulled on his black cloak and adjusted the collar.
Hadrian stroked his horse’s neck. “I don’t know,” he replied mournfully. “It’s just that … I thought by now I’d have done something more—with my life, I mean.”
“Are you crazy? Most men work themselves to death on a small bit of land that isn’t even theirs. You’re free to do as you choose and go wherever you want.”
“I know, but when I was young, I used to think I was … well … special. I imagined that I would triumph in some great purpose, win the girl, and save the kingdom, but I suppose every boy feels that way.”
“I didn’t.”
Hadrian scowled at him. “I just had this idea of who I would become, and being a worthless spy wasn’t part of that plan.”
“We’re hardly worthless,” Royce said, correcting him. “We’ve been making a good profit, especially lately.”
“That’s not the point. I was successful as a mercenary too. It’s not about money. It’s the fact that I survive like a leech.”
“Why is this suddenly coming up now? For the first time in years, we’re making good money with a steady stream of respectable jobs. We’re in the employ of a king, for Maribor’s sake. We can actually sleep in the same bed two nights in a row and not worry about being arrested. Just last week I passed the captain of the city watch and he gave me a nod.”
“It’s not the amount of work. It’s the kind of work. It’s the fact that we’re always lying. If that courier dies, it’ll be our fault. Besides, it’s not sudden. I’ve felt this way for years. Why do you think I’m always suggesting we do something else? Do you know why I broke the rules and took that job to steal Pickering’s sword? The one that nearly got us executed?”