Chantress (4 page)

“Our solemn word.”

“Our
sacred
word.”

“I will hold you to it.” The harshness in Scargrave’s voice had given way to something like pleasure again. “We must each go about our business now. If you serve me well, you shall be rewarded. But remember: I depend on your vigilance and your discretion. And I have little tolerance for error—either of fact or of judgment.”

“We understand, my lord.”

“Yes, indeed, my lord.”

Silence followed—a searching silence that made me wish I could disappear into the stones of the wall behind me.

“Then I bid you good evening,” Scargrave said at last. “But do not forget: I will be watching.”

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor again, and the library door heaved open and shut. Behind the curtain, I felt my fear lift a little, and I guessed that Scargrave was gone.

In the quiet, Giles asked, “What do you think he means by ‘rewarded’?”

“For the right information, he pays even gutter brats in gold,” his friend said. “And he has the power to raise gentlemen in both title and estate. Who knows? We may soon be calling each other baron or viscount, if only we supply him with what he needs.”

“And if we find him a Chantress?”

His friend laughed. “We may call the King himself our cousin. Truly, Giles, our fortunes would be made.”

“Then let’s hope we find one soon.”

“It’s not likely. But we may still be able to better ourselves in small ways, simply by reporting on disloyalty among our own
crowd. Speaking of which, it’s time we found them again, or they’ll wonder where we are.”

A chair scraped, and before me the curtains stirred ever so slightly. Had I given myself away?
Please God, no.

To my relief, no one came running. Perhaps they hadn’t been looking—or perhaps it was I who had been shaking, and not the curtains. I steeled myself into absolute stillness, as their voices grew fainter.

“Do you think I could borrow one of these books?” Giles said. “Something that would help me track a Chantress down, I mean to say.”

“Honestly, Giles! You’re such a dunderhead sometimes. This is Lord Scargrave’s private library. No one takes books from it without his permission. That’s why he posts guards outside the door: to search us when we go.”

“They’re going to search us? Our persons, you mean? I say, you might have warned me!”

If Giles was upset, I was even more so. How could I escape this room, let alone the house, if there were guards outside the door—guards who would know I hadn’t entered the normal way, who would see my scar if they searched me, who would know me for a Chantress?

As I tried to steady myself, I found the gap in the curtains again, just in time to see the backs of Giles and his friend as they passed out of the room.

No sooner had they left than the thief sprinted out of hiding. I caught my breath; I had half forgotten he was there. Making for
the fireplace, he touched the wall beside it with a practiced hand. When the hidden panel sprang out, he ducked down and pulled it shut behind him.

Where did he go?
was my first thought.

And then:
Can I follow?

Shaky-limbed from the enforced stillness, I stumbled out from the draperies. Black and glossy as spilled ink, the wood carvings around the fireplace were a rich jumble of fruits and trailing vines. When I peered closely, I could see the tracings of separate panels, but I had no idea which one hid the passageway, or how to open it.

Apples, pears, grapes. Heart racing, I pushed and pulled at each carved fruit. Nothing moved.

“Why should I remove my coat?” Giles shouted from the hall. “I’ve not so much as touched one of those poxy books!”

How close he sounded! I looked over my shoulder and saw that the library door was still ajar. At any moment, someone could walk in and see me.

Panic made me hit the next bunch of apples hard. A stem slid to one side, and a panel swung open, revealing a narrow staircase that led down into the dark.

Another bellow went up in the hallway. There was no time to think. I hopped through the panel and pulled it shut behind me.

Alone in darkness, I stood at the top of the stairs. It was too late to go back and get a candle. All I could do now was to try to get out—and not cross paths with the thief who had led me here.

The thief . . . where was he? In this blackness he could be standing five feet away, and I would not know it.

I held my breath and listened. Nothing.

Still, it took me some moments to gather my courage and start down the stairs by feel alone, sliding my worn leather shoes to the edge of each step, then bracing myself for the drop: edge and drop, edge and drop, a score of times and more. The walls, so close together, helped me keep my balance, but when a many-legged creature whisked over my hand, I had to bite back a cry.

What was that?

Whatever it was, it was gone as soon as it had come. But from the murmurs and rustlings around me, I had the sinking feeling there might be worse to come.

Edge and drop.

What if I can’t find my way out?

Edge and drop.

What if I’m trapped here forever?

Edge and drop—until I was brought up short against a solid wall.

I ran my hands along it. No, not quite solid. For over on the right, there were hinges. Opposite them, I located a lever.

Before trying it, I listened out. Distant rumbling, and nothing more. I eased the door open, only to find a dimly lit brick wall a few feet in front of me. A new smell came through the door, made up of sweet hay and dung and sweat and something else I couldn’t quite remember. I sniffed the air again, and it came to me: horses. A smell I had almost forgotten in my years on the island.

When I edged around the brick wall, I found myself in a shadowy stable full of carriages and carts and hay. At the entranceway,
where great doors opened onto the night, a donkey stood waiting, hitched to a two-wheeled cart.

I crept forward and crouched by the doors. Lit only by torches that cast dim pools of light, the stable yard was quiet, except for the guards at the gate some distance away, who were talking among themselves.

Knowing that I could not pass by them unnoticed, I eyed the donkey and cart again. Presumably someone had readied them for a journey—and surely that journey must involve passing through the gates. Moreover, there were several barrels and boxes inside the cart, half buried in straw. Enough straw, indeed, that it could cover a person entirely. Provided she were daring enough to try.

I looked back at the guards, who were still talking. Could I leap into the cart without being seen?

Heart pounding, I hoisted myself over the cart edge and ducked down. No guards came running, and the donkey’s only reaction was to flick his ears. I sent grateful thoughts his way and burrowed down into the straw.

And none too soon. Only a few minutes after I had settled myself, the cart rumbled beneath me. I was on the move.

As the cart bumped and rattled its way through the cobbled stable yard, I braced myself against the barrels. When the cart thumped to a halt, the ruby leaped against my skin, and I shivered.

“Papers?” a voice barked.

“Right here,” the cart driver replied, his strong, young voice cheerful and easy.

“So you’re a ratcatcher, eh?”

“That I am.”

“With a pass signed by the Lord Protector himself, I see. Well, that’s as good a warrant as one could wish. But what’s in the barrels and boxes?”

“Traps and cages and bait. And a few dead rats.”

Dead rats? In the barrels right next to me? I forced myself not to recoil.

The easy voice went on, “You can check if you want to.”

“Oh, we’ll check them, all right. And don’t you move till we do.”

A long pause. I forgot my qualms about rats and prayed only that I would not be discovered. The cart jiggled as someone jumped on.

My heart thudded so loud I was sure he would hear it. The straw itched at my ankles, but I dared not move. How much did it hide? Could he see my head, my shoes?

Something clunked. “Traps in this one, like he said,” a hoarse voice called out. “One with a dead rat in it. You want me to open the rest, sir?”

“No, that will do.”

The cart shook again as the guard jumped off.

“Pass on through,” the inspector ordered. “But if a Watchman stops you, you’ll have to show your papers again.”

The cart jerked into motion. Still fearful of discovery, I stayed as still as I could, but my mind was racing. Who were the Watchmen? Would they inspect the cart too?

It seemed an age before the driver spoke again. “Not too far from home now, Aristotle.”

Aristotle? Was that the donkey’s name? And where was home?

Best if I didn’t stay in the cart long enough to find out, I told myself. But when I flexed my numb arms, I discovered that my mother’s letter was no longer in my sleeve. A quick search in the straw revealed it wasn’t there, either.

I must have dropped it in Ravendon House.

Despair swept over me—and then in its wake, sick fear. Was it the loss of the letter? The aftershock of working magic? Whatever it was, I had never known dread like this.

“Halt there!” A gutteral shout. “Halt for the Watch!”

The cart stopped. Buried in the straw, I went rigid with panic.

“Your pass,” a Watchman bellowed. “We must see it.”

“H-here,” the cart driver said, all easiness gone.

The strain in his voice only whetted my own terror.

“Inspect the cart,” the Watchman shouted. “Open everything.”

Watchman boots boarded and set the cart planks shaking. Barrels opened and closed. Waves of heat washed over me, and an acrid taste like smoke burned in my throat. I felt roasted alive by fear. They were almost on top of me now, almost—

“Everything’s in order,” a Watchman called out above me.

“Come down, then,” said his commander. “And you, driver, be on your way! Do not dawdle.”

The donkey jerked forward, and the cart bounced ahead. My terror dwindled, replaced by a deep languor, as if my limbs had dissolved to jelly. For long minutes, I lay motionless in the straw, too exhausted to do anything but be dimly glad I had not been discovered.

“Whoa.” The low command barely disturbed the cold night air. The cart swerved, then halted.

All at once, my languor left me. Had we arrived at our destination—whatever it was? Had I missed my chance to escape?

A soft moan like hinges, and the cart moved again, but only a little. I huddled deep in the straw. I would hide, I decided—hide and hope to flee later, when all went quiet. Hinges again, and the clunk of a door shutting.

“Well done, Aristotle.” It was the same strong, easy voice. “That
was a close call, and no mistake. But there will be extra hay tonight, you can be sure of that. And perhaps a carrot or two.”

The door groaned open again.

“I’ve been listening for you.” A new voice, older and worried. “You are safe?”

“Safe—and successful.”

“Oh, well done, Nat!” A hesitation. “And no one suspected . . . ?”

“Not a soul,” came the confident answer. “Let me unhitch Aristotle, and then I’ll come in and tell you about it.”

A moment later, I felt the cart drop beneath me. I flailed about for a handhold, but the straw slipped every which way, and I went with it. I hit the back of the barrels hard and slammed into the floor.

Dazed, I brushed the straw from my eyes. A tall, fierce-eyed boy swam into view, a horrified look on his face. Beside him was an elderly graybeard whose spectacles shone like cat’s eyes in the dim lantern light.

“Who is this?” the graybeard asked.

“I’ve never seen her before,” the boy said.

But I’ve seen you
, I thought, gulping in dismay.

He was the thief from the library.

As the old man bolted the doors, I looked around for another way to escape. I could see none. The murky room—a stable, to judge from the manger and stall—was no more than two yards high and a few yards across, and its stone walls had no windows.

The thief-boy drew a knife and hauled me up by my elbow. “How did you get into my cart?”

Before I could answer, the old man flashed the lantern in my face. “Her eyes are normal.”

“Not the Raven’s Own, then. But some kind of spy, I warrant.” The boy tightened his grip on me and brought the knife close. “Who are you? How long have you been following me?”

I knew better than to say I’d seen him steal the book. “I haven’t been following you, and I mean you no harm. Let me go.”

“Not on your life.” His grip was relentless. “You’re a spy. Confess it!”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not.” I tried not to show how much his knife frightened me.

The old man spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Release her, Nat.”

Nat bristled, but his grip slackened ever so slightly. “Is that wise, sir? If she’s a spy, she’s a danger to us.”

“If she is one, yes. But there are other possibilities, and we must consider them. For the moment, allow her to tell her story in peace.”

With a grimace, Nat let go of me. “Don’t think you can run,” he told me, his knife still at the ready. “I’ll be guarding the door. And there is no other way out.”

Trying not to show how shaken I felt, I turned to the old man. His glasses caught the light and shimmered, then cleared, revealing a pair of thoughtful and observant eyes. “Let us begin again,” he said, his voice careful and slow. “You will tell us your name, please.”

Despite his gentle manner, I was wary, especially as Nat continued to watch my every move. I selected a name from thin air. “I’m called Bess, sir.”

“And how did you come to be in our donkey cart, Bess?”

The silence stretched out uncomfortably as I tried to concoct a believable reply, one that avoided all mention of the library. “I’m a servant at”—what was the name of the place?—“Ravendon House, sir. But I was badly treated, and I wanted to leave, only I was afraid they would punish me if I tried. So this evening, when my duties were done, I slipped down to the stable yard, where I saw the cart waiting. No one was looking, so I climbed into it. And here I am.”