The Death of Dulgath by Michael J. Sullivan Page B

breathe.
    I’m only a painter. I’m nothing to her.
    He tried to swallow and nearly choked on his own saliva. I’ve never lost a subject before, he thought stupidly, as if that mattered, as if it ever had. Never failed to complete a project.
    Sherwood stared at the empty space before the desk, at the marks he’d put on the floor to show Nysa where to place her feet.
    It’s like she’s dead. The thought crashed in. What if she is?
    He shook his head. No, the castle would be thrown into chaos. She just isn’t coming. She isn’t coming because she doesn’t—
    The familiar swoosh-swoosh of the brocade gown preceded her entrance. Lady Dulgath entered without acknowledging his presence. She whirled on her mark, spinning on her left heel. After looping the fox over her neck, she clasped the riding gloves in her hand. Her eyes focused on the chandelier.
    “Chin up, just a tad more,” he said softly.
    She tilted her head without a word.
    Outside the study’s door that Nysa had left open, Chamberlain Wells could be heard saying, “She’s indisposed at the moment. But…well, let me inquire. I suppose she might see you. Wait here.”
    That was Wells’s way of saying She’s only wasting time with that infernal painter like she does every morning. Sherwood didn’t have a problem with Wells, which was good, since he ran the castle and could make the artist’s life miserable if he wanted to. That said, he was of the same mind as many in his position, believing a painter’s time to be worthless.
    Lady Dulgath allowed herself a glance at Sherwood. He smiled. She smiled back. His heart vaulted a hurdle, forcing him to take a deep breath. He nearly lost the presence of mind to pull the cloth over the painting before Thorbert Wells entered.
    “My lady,” Wells said, pausing at the doorway to bow.
    Thorbert Wells was a rotund man with a fondness for expensive belts that neither he, nor anyone facing him, ever saw. The chamberlain’s girth also hid his shoes, which that morning were a fine pair with soft leather uppers. Wells rarely wore the same pair twice in a week. He owned so many shoes that Sherwood had once asked Wells’s manservant if he ever placed a mixed pair on the chamberlain’s feet to see if he noticed. This was the sort of joke that gained Sherwood access to the kitchens at night and a swig from the hidden jug of barley whiskey kept under the floorboards.
    “Sheriff Knox has some gentlemen here to meet with you,” Wells said.
    “Gentlemen?” she asked.
    “Ah…yes, concerning the recent unpleasantness.” Wells had a problem saying the words assassination, murder, or killing. Even when it came to butchering quails to eat, he was apt to say, The birds will be dressed for dinner, as if the fowl shared his penchant for belts and shoes and would be seated at the table.
    Again, the lady focused on Sherwood, and he was certain she was looking for—perhaps not permission, but understanding. Sherwood’s heart climbed up his throat, as if searching for a better view of this extraordinary moment.
    “Very well, let them in,” Lady Dulgath said with just enough irritation in her voice to suggest that interrupting their time together was a disappointment.
    Wells bowed again, then waved three men in.
    Sherwood recognized Sheriff Knox, although he hadn’t had cause to speak with the man. Still, he had seen him around, especially of late, and Hugh Knox wasn’t the kind of person one overlooked—he was the sort you crossed the street to avoid. Harsh, with a tendency to glare, he wore his blond hair tied back and had a red sash across his chest and wrapped around his waist. Edged in gold, the garment was the mark of his office. He wasn’t from Dulgath. The color of his hair and stubble told that story. The habitual squint of his eyes and sneer on his lips told the rest. This wasn’t a genteel man. He wore two sabers and steel shoulder guards over a thick three-quarter-length leather gambeson. That day he looked