The Laurentine Spy (16 page)

“Lie?” Athan repeated foolishly. “Why would they lie? They’re animals.”

“Which is precisely my point,” the Spycatcher said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “They don’t lie. Unlike people.”

Athan wrinkled his brow, as if the concept was too difficult for him to grasp. “Oh,” he said.

“People lie all the time. Or didn’t you realize that, Lord Ivo?”

The terrifying eyes dragged the truth from him: “Uh, yes.” Sweat slid down his throat beneath the stiff ruff of lace. Could the Spycatcher smell his fear beneath the scents of straw and manure?

“I’m sure that even you have lied.” The Spycatcher spoke mildly, but Athan saw malice in the man’s eyes.
You wish to make a fool of me.

“Uh, yes,” he was forced to reply. His heart began to beat fiercely.
Think of a question!
But he couldn’t. His mind was blank.

The Spycatcher’s lips parted.

Athan’s terror was visceral: a sudden clenching in his chest and in his belly. “Do you prefer animals to people?” he blurted.

The Spycatcher hesitated with his mouth partly open, then he laughed. The sound was light and disdainful. “What an absurd question. Why would I do that?”

Sweat was damp on Athan’s brow. His throat was almost too tight for speech. “Because animals don’t lie.”

Slow, terrifying seconds passed while the Spycatcher surveyed him, amusement evident on his face. “Tell me, Lord Ivo...” the man’s voice was smooth, friendly. “Would you wish to marry your piglet rather than Lady Petra?”

“Uh... What?”

“By your own admission Lady Petra must lie. And your piglet clearly does not. So would you prefer to be married to Russet?”

Athan screwed his face up, trying to look baffled instead of terrified. “No,” he said.

The Spycatcher laughed again, tilting his head, breaking eye contact for a brief moment.

Athan jerked his gaze away and bent to rub one of Russet’s ears. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back beneath the embroidered doublet. His heart beat so loudly it drowned out all other sounds.

Touching Russet steadied him. The sound of his heartbeat shrank. He could hear other noises—the grunts of feeding pigs, the scrape of a pitchfork on stone, the Spycatcher’s laughter. “Would you like to feed her an apple, Lord Grebber?”

The Spycatcher stopped laughing. “Grigor.”

“My apologies.” Athan yawned, and then asked the question again: “Would you like to feed her?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you certain?” Athan scratched beneath Russet’s chin. His fingers trembled slightly, but his voice was slow and relaxed. “She likes apples.”

“No,” the Spycatcher said again, dismissively. “I’m looking for a piglet to race. I heard there was a litter.”

Athan pointed. “Over there.” And because he was Lord Ivo, he added, “But they’re not red.”

The Spycatcher exhaled through his nose, a brief sound of disgust. “I’m much obliged to you.” His bow was cursory.

Athan raised his head and watched the man walk away.

Russet nudged his hand and he began to scratch her again, his fingers moving automatically. Her coat was warm, rough, clean. He watched until the Spycatcher reached the weaning pen, where black and white piglets jostled around a feeding trough. The man leaned his forearms on the wooden railing and studied the animals.

Athan straightened. He turned towards the entrance. It was a struggle to stroll languidly and not take swift steps. He wiped perspiration from his face.
That was too close. I almost gave us all away.

H
E MANAGED TO
avoid the man the rest of that day and the next. It meant not visiting Russet again; it was a risk he dared not take.

The Spycatcher prowled the ballroom both evenings. Athan knew where he was; he followed Lord Grigor’s passage between yawns and sips of wine. The Consort scanned the dancers from her position on the dais, her gaze lingering on various members of the court. The Prince didn’t survey the room. He sat and frowned into his wine glass.

The Spycatcher was in the courtesans’ salon too. The mirrors made it easier for Athan to watch him asking questions. The man must have spoken to almost every noble man and lady in the Citadel. Soon he’d start again, retracing his path, asking new questions.
And then he’ll catch me.

Athan shivered. The whore he lay with mistook it for arousal and made a low murmur of encouragement in her throat. He wanted to push her away; instead he let her straddle him. She was warm and soft, lushly rounded.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what she was doing, but his concentration kept slipping. The Spycatcher. Questions.
Concentrate.
Release came in the end but there was no pleasure, only relief it was over. He opened his eyes and searched in the mirrors for Lord Grigor. The man was on the far side of the room.

The courtesan made as if to leave. Athan caught her wrist. “Stay.” He’d need her if the Spycatcher tried to speak with him.
Busy
, he’d mumble and shut his eyes.
Not now. Later.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“T
HE KEY TO
the Citadel,” the Guardian said. “Now remember, the first code book is red, the second is green. The third will be another color. We expect it to be thinnest of them.”

Athan took the key. The metal was dark and unexpectedly heavy in his hand. “Lead?”

The Guardian nodded. “When will you do it?”

“Tonight,” Athan said, closing his fingers around the key. “I want this over as quickly as possible.”

“I’ve made the arrangements for your departure.” The Guardian turned so that he spoke to Three as well.

Three nodded. She sat on the stone urn as calmly as if this was a tea party. Her composure was reassuring; it made some of Athan’s tension ease.

“You leave in two nights’ time,” the Guardian said. “I’ll have traveling cloaks for you, but dress as warmly as you’re able.”

“Two nights?” Athan shook his head. “No. Make it tomorrow night.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“But—”

“I’ve already made the arrangements.” The Guardian’s voice was curt, uncompromising. “It’s not possible to alter them.”

Athan closed his mouth, clenching the muscles in his jaw.

“This is yours.” The Guardian handed the silver tin of wax to Three. “All’s well?”

“Yes,” she said, tucking the tin into the pocket of her cloak.

“The Spycatcher doesn’t suspect you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s spoken to me several times, but I’ve been able to lie.”

“And you?” The Guardian turned to Athan.

“He doesn’t suspect me yet.” His fingers tightened around the key. He remembered his conversation with the Spycatcher: the scent of straw and manure, sweat on his skin, panic leaping in his chest as the man opened his mouth. “But he’s only a question away from unmasking me. He came close yesterday.”

“Close?”

His fingers clenched so tightly that the key dug into his palm through his glove. “Very close.”

Three turned to the Guardian. “Let him stay here. Let me do it.”

“No.”

“But what if the Spycatcher asks the right question? What then?” Her voice was fierce. He heard how afraid she was for him. “He’ll do to One what he did to Rolen!”

The Guardian stood. “There will be no discussion about this.” He spoke flatly, coldly. “The task is One’s.”

Three rose to her feet. “But—”

Athan stood and took hold of her hand. Her calmness had been feigned. She was as tense as he was, tenser. “It will be fine,” he told her.

Her fingers gripped him. “But what if he catches you? He’ll
hurt
you—”

“He won’t catch me. I promise.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
HE KEY WAS
hidden beneath the stiff lace at his cuff. Everything else he carried openly: the tiny bottle of ink with its embossed silver lid was in the pocket of his breeches, the quill and folded sheets of parchment were in the inner pockets of his doublet. The execrable verse he’d scribbled on the first two pages
—The sun was rising in the sky, when Russet op’ed her little eye
—gave reason to carry ink and quill and parchment; it was only the key he needed to hide.

Athan trod lightly. The hour was well past midnight, but candles burned in the wall sconces and guards still walked these corridors. Twice now he’d had to step into an alcove and conceal himself behind a hanging swathe of tapestry.

The guards were ceremonial, their doublets as frilled as his own. They stood at the gates to the Citadel and patrolled this innermost sanctum, the ideal of Corhonase manhood: youthful and strong-bodied, with noble brows and resolute chins. Picturesque, but still dangerous. It didn’t need a battle-hardened veteran to see him skulking in the shadows; a pretty youth could notice him just as easily.

He’d been this way once before, through atria and along corridors, up flights of marble steps. He’d yawned and displayed languid interest in the items Lord Seldo had pointed out—busts of Emperors and the swords wielded by Corhonase heroes, tapestries depicting ancient battles—and made mental note of the route to the chamber where the Prince and his advisors met.
Left, and up one more staircase, and to the right.

His memory was correct.

Athan halted. The doorway was impressive: fluted pilasters on either side and the screaming eagle of Corhona spreading its marble wings above. He examined the door. It was solid, tall and double-leaved and inlaid with dark marquetry. Candles burned in sconces on either side, making the silver door knobs gleam.

He glanced around. The shadows cast by the candles were the only things that moved; the corridor stretched on either side, empty. He took note of the nearest hiding places: the alcove fifty paces to the right where a statue of the First Emperor stood, sword in hand, before a tapestry showing the battle that founded the Empire; the alcove to the left, a few paces closer, hung with a tapestry depicting the fall of Sihgil, flames leaping from the rooftops.

Athan slipped two fingers inside his cuff and felt for the key. The metal was warm. He paused for a moment, listening. He heard nothing except his own quiet breathing.

The keyhole was rimmed with silver, tiny in the massive door. Athan inserted the key. There was perspiration on his skin—fear and relief. This was it.
After tonight it will all be over.

But the key didn’t slide easily into the hole. It stuck halfway.

Athan pulled the key out and rubbed his fingers over the shaft and teeth. It felt smooth enough.

This time he inserted the key more slowly. “Work,” he whispered. “Curse you,
work
.”

As if it heard him, the key slid fully into the keyhole. Athan let out his breath in a hiss. He glanced up the corridor, listening for the guards.

Silence.

But when he tried to turn the key it wouldn’t move. “Come on,” he whispered to it. “Open.”

It took an agonizingly long minute to find a position where the key would turn, angling it up and down, twisting, jiggling, pulling it out a fraction of an inch. Sweat beaded his upper lip and tension was tight in his chest. His ears strained to hear the sound of booted footsteps.

The key turned a quarter of a revolution—
click—
and then stuck again. Athan closed his eyes for a moment.
Don’t rush this
, he told himself, inhaling a slow breath, exhaling.
Take it slowly. There’s no hurry.

He opened his eyes and gripped key tightly and turned it with slow deliberateness. The shaft snapped.

Athan stood frozen, his mind refusing to accept what had happened—and then horror dried his mouth.
No.
He’d been hot a moment before, sweating; now he was cold.

Half an inch of the key protruded jaggedly from the keyhole.

He shoved the broken shaft in his pocket and tried to pull the key free. His fingers couldn’t get a proper grip; it was too short.

Athan was so focused on the key, the keyhole, that it was almost too late when his ears registered the sound of marching feet. His head jerked up.

Panic held him immobile. He couldn’t tell whether the guards came from the left or the right—

The right. They came from the right.

He moved with frantic haste. With each stride, he expected to hear the guards’ loud shout of discovery.

The corridor was longer than he’d thought, the alcove further away, his court shoes slipped on the marble as he ran—

Athan crammed himself behind the tapestry of Sihgil. The fabric was thick with dust, stiff and heavy. He braced his hands against it—
still
—and tried to slow his panted breaths.

The footsteps became louder as the guards swung around the corner. Louder, closer...and then they halted. Athan squeezed his eyes shut.
Don’t see the key.