The Laurentine Spy (12 page)

“And did you?” the Guardian asked sharply.

Saliel shook her head.

“I’ve lied to the Spycatcher.” One flexed his wrist, freeing it from her grip. “I recall no compulsion to speak the truth.”

Saliel’s certainty faltered.
Perhaps my eyes make me vulnerable?

“Were you looking at his eyes?” she asked.

One was silent for a moment. “I can’t recall. Perhaps I wasn’t.” He rubbed a hand over his hooded face. She thought she heard him sigh. “There is something in what you say, my lady. When I spoke to him I did reveal more than I’d intended.”

“Does he suspect you?” the Guardian asked tersely.

One shook his head. “No.”

Saliel bit her lip. “So...you won’t go?”

One glanced at the Guardian. “I must.”

The Guardian nodded.

“But—”

“He’s looking for more of us.” One’s voice was flat. “I must try to learn how many,”

Saliel opened her mouth to protest, but closed it without uttering a sound. She shook her head silently.

“Thank you for the warning, my lady.” One made a movement of his head that was almost a bow. He opened the door to the disused sewers.

Saliel clasped her hands tightly together. She wanted to grab his arm again and refuse to let him go.
He risks his life doing this.

“Be careful.” The words came out as a whisper.

One nodded, and ducked through the low opening. The door closed.

The Guardian turned away. Saliel stayed where she was, her fingers knotted together.

“The wounds are mostly superficial,” the Guardian said.

She turned to see him bending over the table.

“Stay with him.” The Guardian straightened. “I’ll fetch a stretcher. He can’t remain here.”

Saliel inhaled a shallow breath and stepped closer to the table. “His heart?” She had no medical knowledge, no notion of how to care for Two.

“It’s failing.” The Guardian handed her the candle. “If he rouses, ask him what you can. We must know what he told the Spycatcher.”

Saliel nodded, barely hearing his words. Her throat clenched as she looked at Two. Blood. The gleam of bone through cut flesh.

“Thank you,” the Guardian said. He left.

The Spycatcher had used a knife; blood leaked from cuts on Two’s brow and cheeks and beneath his chin. His nose was broken and he’d bled heavily. Every finger on his right hand was broken. He struggled to breathe. His lips were blue-tinged and his green doublet dark with water.

Saliel removed her cloak and covered Two. That much—that little—she could do. She pulled off her gloves and touched fingertips lightly to his throat. The skin was cool, clammy, his pulse rapid and very faint.

She brushed wet, brown hair carefully back from Two’s brow and took hold of his left hand. Beneath the blood he was young.
Younger than I am.
“Two...” Her voice was hoarse, her throat almost too tight for words. “You’re safe now.” She squeezed his limp fingers gently and listened to his shallow, gasping breaths. “They can’t hurt you any more.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HE
S
PYCATCHER WASN’T
present when Athan entered the courtesans’ salon. He’d never killed a man before; he trembled inside himself with the shock of it. The scents and sounds swamped him. He took a deep breath, quelling nausea, and signaled for a glass of wine. A servant brought a tray. “Lord Ivo,” he said, bowing low.

Athan took a glass. His fingers shook faintly.

The servant turned to go.

“Wait.”

Athan recognized the voice. His muscles tensed. He brought the glass to his lips and sipped.

The Spycatcher came up alongside him. The servant bowed and offered the tray again.

“Lord Grebber,” Athan said in greeting.

Irritation flickered across the Spycatcher’s face. “Grigor.”

“My apologies.”

“No matter.” He turned away from Athan. His pale eyes scanned the room. There was a sense of barely restrained anticipation about him.
He’s like a hunting dog, eager to pursue its prey.

Athan laid his hand heavily on the man’s shoulder. “I see a vacant alcove,” he said. “Do join me.”

Annoyance tightened the tiny muscles around the Spycatcher’s mouth. He met Athan’s eyes squarely. The hairs on the back of Athan’s neck stood upright.
Walk away
, instinct told him.

“Thank you for the invitation, Lord Ivo, but—”

Athan pushed aside his fear. “Then you’ll join me?” He smiled affably and took the Spycatcher’s arm.

The man hesitated, and then smiled. “Very well. But let us join Lord Tregar. He has a surplus of whores.”

Athan looked around the room, allowing his mouth to gape slightly open. He nodded. “By all means.” He ambled in the direction of Lord Tregar, his arm still linked with the Spycatcher’s. The man had bathed. There was no scent of blood on him.

Rage rose in Athan’s throat, hot and sharp.
I saw what you did to him.

He wanted to kill the man; instead he asked, “Are you in good health?” His tone was that of a man making idle conversation. “I don’t recall seeing you in court today.”

“I’m perfectly well,” the man replied politely, glancing at him. “And you?”

Athan suddenly understood what Three had meant: it was impossible to lie with those colorless eyes looking at him. His rage vanished. Terror replaced it. “I feel somewhat nauseous,” he was forced to confess, while his heart thudded in his chest.
I should not have doubted you, my lady.

“How unfortunate,” the Spycatcher said. He looked away,

An inebriated whore slid off a nobleman’s lap and tumbled giggling to the floor. Athan disengaged his arm from the Spycatcher and stepped around her. Cold sweat gathered on his skin. “How’s your business progressing?” he asked, not looking at the man.

“Extremely well, thank you.”

“Oh?” He infused his tone with mild interest. “Then you’ll be leaving us?”

“Not just yet.” The Spycatcher paused to drink deeply from his glass.

Athan watched from beneath half-closed eyelids as the man’s gaze slid back to Tregar. He swallowed the fear that clogged his throat. “You have more business here?”

The Spycatcher didn’t answer immediately. He was intent upon Tregar.

Athan waited. His pulse beat loud and fast in his ears.
Tell me.

“More?” the Spycatcher said absently. He sipped his wine. “Yes.”

Athan’s fingers tightened around his glass. The sound of his heartbeat became louder. “Much more?” he asked in a disinterested tone.
Is it just me you seek? Or do you search for all of us?

The Spycatcher transferred his gaze to Athan. The pale eyes examined him. He could almost see the question forming on the man’s lips:
Why do you want to know?

Panic clenched in his chest. “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” he blurted. He stretched his lips in a smile.

Amusement lit the Spycatcher’s face. His voice was polite and dismissive: “I require no assistance, thank you.” He inclined his head courteously and gestured towards Lord Tregar. “After you.”

Athan shrugged and strolled to where Tregar lay with three courtesans. He wiped sweat from his face in a leisurely movement.
I should leave. Now.

He dared not, not after insisting on the man’s company.

“Mind if we join you, Tregar?” he asked, forcing his voice into a lazy drawl. He was aware of the Spycatcher standing alongside him, taut and almost quivering in his eagerness to hunt. “You appear to have a superfluity of whores.”

Tregar’s glance was sour. “By all means.”

“You know Lord Grebber?” Athan asked, as he reclined on the cushions, trying to relax and not lie stiffly.

“Grigor,” the Spycatcher said smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tregar.”

Tregar nodded curtly. “About that pig, Donkey,” he said.

Athan waved his glass in negation. Wine slopped on the brocade cushions. “Not for sale, Tregar.” One of the courtesans moved to lie beside him. Her hair was as dark and glossy as Lady Marta’s, her breasts lush, her belly softly rounded. She stretched, a sensuous arch of her back, and laid a hand on his leg.

“Pig?” the Spycatcher asked.

“Donkey has a russet piglet,” Tregar said, his tone resentful. “A very fast creature. And he won’t sell her.”

Athan shrugged, wanting to push the whore’s hand away. Her fingers traced tiny, tickling whorls up his thigh. The nails were gilded. “I’m partial to the color.”

Tregar clenched his jaw. He gestured for more wine. A servant approached and knelt, holding out a tray. Tregar snatched a glass and took an angry swallow.

“Tell me, Lord Tregar,” the Spycatcher said idly. “How long have you been at the Citadel?”

“What business is it of yours?” Tregar said. He glanced up and met the Spycatcher’s eyes.

A shiver crawled over Athan’s skin.
Caught.
He scarcely noticed as the courtesan unbuttoned his breeches.

“A year and a bit,” Tregar said grudgingly.

The Spycatcher smiled. He turned his attention to the woman at his side.

Athan closed his eyes as the dark-haired whore slid her hand inside his breeches. She made a low murmur of appreciation in her throat. “Tell me, Donkey...may I call you Donkey?”

Athan tensed. He raised his eyelids a fraction. The Spycatcher watched as the dark-haired whore bent her head. “You may call me Donkey.”

“Thank you,” the Spycatcher murmured. He glanced up. “Tell me, Donkey...”

Athan experienced a moment of pure terror. He couldn’t look away. His eyes were caught.

“Do you like your bride-to-be? Lady Petra.”

It was impossible to joke and turn the question aside, to not answer, and even more impossible to lie. With the Spycatcher’s eyes fixed on him, all Athan could do was speak the truth. “I prefer her to the other ladies in court.”

Beside him, Tregar sniggered. The dark-haired whore bent her head lower. He felt soft breath on his skin, a warm tongue.

The Spycatcher raised his eyebrows in amusement. He kept his gaze on Athan. “You prefer your betrothed to...let’s see...Lady Marta?”

Perspiration trickled down the back of Athan’s neck. “Yes.”

Lord Tregar snorted his laughter.

“You find Lady Petra attractive?” The Spycatcher’s voice was light and amused.
This is friendly teasing
,his tone said. His eyes said otherwise. Their gleam—pale and sharp—revealed the man’s dislike of him.

Again Athan was forced to answer with the truth. “I’m greatly attracted to her.”

Tregar choked on his wine and began to cough. More sweat slid down the back of Athan’s neck. He forced himself to lie relaxed, his half-full wine glass held loosely in his hand, a smile on his mouth as if he didn’t know he was being made a fool of.

The Spycatcher glanced at Athan’s lap and the naked dark-haired courtesan. “And do you think that Lady Petra is pleased to be marrying you?”

Athan shut his eyes.
Of course not. She can’t abide me.
“Why wouldn’t she be pleased?” he answered, slurring his words slightly.

The Spycatcher uttered a soft, laughing sound. “Why not indeed?”

Athan pressed his head back against a cushion, more aware of the Spycatcher alongside him than he was of the whore’s agile tongue. He dared not open his eyes to see whether the man was watching.

“Tell me, Donkey...” the Spycatcher said again,

“Not now.” Athan squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, hoping the man would mistake the sweat on his skin for arousal. He groped desperately for a familiar fantasy.

It seemed a violation to use Lady Petra after the evening’s ugliness—the blood, the death, the terror.
Forgive me.

It worked, as it always did. Fear receded as Lady Petra began to pleasure him. Her mouth was soft and warm and her fingers knew just how to touch him. Athan relaxed as slowly, skillfully, she took him out of himself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
WO’S BREATHING STOPPED.
The chamber was completely silent. Saliel leaned over him. “Two!”

He inhaled, deeply and convulsively. His eyes opened. His face contorted into a grimace of pain beneath its mask of blood.

“You’re safe,” Saliel said hastily. “We’re in the catacombs.” She squeezed his hand gently.

His fingers flexed in her grasp, clutching weakly back. “Three?” It was more a groan than a word.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Can’t breathe,” Two said. There was panic in his voice. He struggled to raise his head.

Saliel released his hand and put an arm under his shoulders, helping him to sit. “You’re going to be all right,” she told him.