The Laurentine Spy (17 page)

The door knobs rattled. “Clear.”

The footsteps started again, two pairs of booted feet, out of rhythm. Athan opened his eyes. The tapestry hung a few inches from his nose. It swayed slightly.

He splayed his hands against the fabric and held his breath. The guards came closer, striding in unison now—left, right, loud, louder.

They were level with him. Past him. Gone.

Athan exhaled. The tapestry moved slightly. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the stiff fabric. What to do?

Dust choked in his throat. He pushed out from behind the tapestry, struggling not to cough.
Get the key out. And then get out myself.

But when he tried to pull the key from the lock, it slid more deeply in. There was nothing for him to grasp.

Athan exhaled through his nose, a hiss of air, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Calm
, he told himself.
Think.

He opened his eyes and crouched. There was a half-inch gap beneath the door.

Athan groped for the sheaf of parchment in his doublet. He unfolded two sheets and smoothed them flat and slid them under the door, pushing until only a sliver of white showed; enough for his fingers to catch hold of, not enough for the guards to notice.He stood and took the quill from his pocket—a goose feather, shorn clean of vanes. He held his breath as he slid it into the keyhole.
Let this work.
The pointed tip touched the key. He pushed, and felt the key move slightly.

Athan released his breath. He inhaled and pushed again, gently.

It was a slow task. The key moved in grudging increments. Twice he had to pull the quill from the lock and hide behind the tapestry of Sihgil. Each time he heard the door knobs rattle and that single, curt word:
Clear.

His fingers grew slippery with sweat and the linen shirt stuck damply to his back. His hand began to cramp.
Curse you. Just
—push—
come
—push—
out.

The key fell with a dull thud.

Athan stayed where he was for a long second, bent over the keyhole, and then hastily knelt. He groped for the sheets of the parchment with his fingertips.
Let the key have fallen straight, let it not have bounced, let it—

The parchment was heavy.

He blew out the breath he was holding and carefully eased the parchment from beneath the door. The key lay squarely on it: notched teeth and a snapped shaft.

Athan snatched it up. He folded the parchment and crammed the sheets into the pocket in his doublet. The quill. Where was the quill?

It lay half under the door, the tip blunted and split. He shoved it into his pocket and stood, his ears alert for the marching feet of the guards.

He heard only silence.

The key was heavy in Athan’s hand, the snapped shaft jagged against his palm. He tucked both parts inside his cuff again, wiped the sweat from his face, and straightened his clothes.

He walked along the corridor quietly, down the stairs, across an empty atrium. More corridors and stairs and flickering candles in sconces, another atrium with braziers burning to keep back the cold and the darkness.

Athan started across. Shadows loomed behind marble pillars and dark ponds reflected the brazier flames. His footsteps echoed faintly.

“Halt!”

His muscles tensed to run.

Don’t be a fool.

Athan swung around, staggering slightly, and squinted into the darkness. “Druso? That you?”

He heard two pairs of footsteps to the right, and two more behind him. He forced himself to relax, to take a lurching step to the nearest brazier. The coals were red hot.

He slipped both parts of the key from his cuff. “That you, Druso?” he said again, turning to face the guards and dropping the key onto the burning coals. He yawned and stepped away from the brazier’s heat.

Two guards emerged from the darkness. “Name yourself.”

Athan hiccupped and yawned and grinned foolishly at the men.
A nobleman who’s drunk too much and lost his way. That’s all I am, boys.
“You’re not Druso.” He slurred the words.

“Name yourself.” The command came from behind him this time.

Athan swung around and let himself overbalance. He clutched at a pillar. “Druso?” He blinked owlishly at the two guards. “Been looking everywhere for you.”

“Name yourself.” The command was more polite this time. The guards had seen the silver thread embroidering his doublet.

He screwed his face up in a frown. “You’re not Druso.”

“Your name, my lord.”

“Donkey.” Athan nodded his head foolishly. “What’s yours?”

“Lord Ivo,” he heard one of the guards whisper.

“You seen Druso?” he asked, releasing the pillar. “Got a question to ask him.” He groped for the sheets of parchment, swaying. “Need a word that rhymes with pig.” He pulled the sheets from his pocket, letting go of them with a flick of his wrist. Parchment scattered across the marble floor.

One of the guards swore beneath his breath.

“Oops,” Athan said. He lurched to his knees and groped for a sheet. He heard another hissed swearword. One guard began to gather the scattered parchment.

Athan sat on the floor. “I need a word that rhymes with pig,” he said with drunken solemnity, looking up.

Three stern-faced guardsmen looked down at him, their uniforms ridiculously frilled and trimmed with lace. The fourth guard was chasing sheets of parchment across the atrium. Athan began to giggle.

“Get him to his feet,” the senior guardsman, a Sergeant, said in a harassed tone.

“I’m writing a verse,” Athan said proudly as the men hauled him upright. He swayed heavily. “In honor of Russet. She’s my pig.”

The guardsmen said nothing.

Athan groped in the pocket of his breeches for the ink. “Fastest pig in Corhona,” he said, pulling the inkpot free. “She’s red.”

The fourth guard returned, his hands full of crumpled sheets of parchment.

“But I need a word that rhymes with red.” Athan said, frowning at the man. “You know one?” He reached for the sheets of parchment, dropping the inkpot as he did so.

The glass shattered. Ink spurted across the marble floor, black.

The Sergeant cursed audibly. “A servant,” he said. “Quickly!”

One of the guards hastened to obey. Athan watched, his mouth gaping open.

The Sergeant bowed stiffly to him. “My lord, these guardsmen will escort you to your bedchamber.”

“My bedchamber?” Athan frowned at the man and then blinked. “Can’t find it. You know where it is?” He turned and surveyed the atrium, lurching so heavily that the guards had to grab his arms to keep him upright. “Is it here?”

“No, my lord,” the Sergeant said tightly. “Allow my guardsmen to escort you.”

Athan beamed at the man. The Sergeant didn’t return the smile.

He allowed himself to be led from the atrium, swaying as he walked. “You seen Druso?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” was the wooden reply.

A flight of steps yawned at his feet. He staggered and almost fell, forcing the guards to clutch him. “You know a word that rhymes with pig?” he asked, once he was safely upright again.

“No, my lord.”

“Fig,” said Athan, taking a lurching step downward. He hiccupped. “Or...or jig.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I
S THAT MORE
comfortable, noble lady?”

The lace still pricked beneath her chin, but Saliel nodded. Nothing would make the tight ruff comfortable. “Yes.”

The seamstress turned her attention to the bodice of the wedding gown. “It’s still a little loose, noble lady.” Her brow creased in a frown. “I’ll just...”

Saliel surveyed herself in the mirror while the seamstress adjusted the bodice. The gown was as white as snow. The color didn’t suit her. Her hair seemed startlingly bright, almost garish, and the freckles on her face stood out prominently.

Seed pearls were stitched in intricate patterns across the bodice and skirt. Saliel touched one with a fingertip.Smooth and cool. It must have taken someone days to sew each pearl into place. A tedious and painstaking task. A wasted task. She wouldn’t wear the gown at her wedding.

Tomorrow. The day she’d marry Lord Ivo and move into a suite of rooms alongside Marta. And tomorrow night, the night Lord Ivo would make his first visit to her bedchamber.

Except that the wedding, the visit from Lord Ivo, wouldn’t take place.

Saliel stood still while the seamstress made the final alterations. The calmness was feigned. Excitement hissed inside her. Tonight she’d creep down to the catacombs for the last time. She’d be free of the ladies’ court, the Citadel, the Consort, the Spycatcher, Lord Ivo.

And One will be with me.

Who was he?

Someone tall. Someone who’d come the summer before last. There were a dozen men he could be. Not Lord Kessler, who was too stout, but perhaps Lord Irmer? His manner was calm and he was an amiable man, if a trifle dull. Or perhaps Lord Tregar, with his discontented mouth and disdainful manner. Or Lord Druso, lanky and cheerful. He had the height, and—

“The gown is finished, noble lady.” The seamstress stepped back. Her posture was deferential. “Does it meet with your approval?”

Saliel studied her reflection. White satin and lace and seed pearls. Innocence and purity. A virgin bride. “Yes,” she said, smoothing her hand over the fabric.
I
shall never wear this again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“T
HE KEY BROKE
in the lock.”

“What?” The Guardian turned sharply.

“It broke in the lock.” Athan walked into the circle of candlelight. He was early; Three hadn’t arrived yet.

“The code book?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Give me the key!” The Guardian held out a black-gloved hand. “I’ll re-forge it.”

Athan shook his head again. He sat on an upturned urn and glanced at the storage room. Three would step through the door soon. “I had to dispose of it.”

“What?”

He looked at the Guardian. “There were guards,” he said flatly. “Would you rather I’d let them find it on me?”

“Guards? They saw you?”

“Afterwards, when I was in one of the atria.”

“And?”

Athan shrugged again. “They think I was drunk.”

The Guardian’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Then we try again.”

“No,” Athan said. “There are other courts, other spies. Let someone else do it.”

“This is Laurent’s best chance. We try again!”

Athan pushed to his feet. Standing, he was taller than the Guardian. “No.”

“Don’t try to intimidate me,” the man said. “Without my aid, you’re helpless.”

“Helpless?” Athan took a step forward. “You think so?”

The Guardian didn’t back away from him. He stood in the circle of candlelight, thickset and solid. “You can’t leave Corhona without my assistance.”

Athan took another step towards the man. “I think you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

The Guardian stood his ground. “What about Three?”

“What about her?” His hands wanted to clench into fists. It took conscious effort to keep them at his sides, loose and relaxed.

“You’ll have to leave her behind.”

“No.”

“She’s a female, you fool. You think she can travel unnoticed?”

Athan hesitated.

“She won’t make it out of Corhona alive. Unless I help.”

Athan shook his head. There was a flaw in the man’s logic. “If I leave now, you’ll have to let her leave too. Three can’t copy the code book. You said so yourself.”

“I shall copy it.”

“You?” He laughed, a humorless sound. “How? You have no right to be in the Citadel.”

The man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ll pretend to be a servant.”

“You’ll be caught.”

“Probably. And then what will happen to Three?” The man shrugged again. “The choice is yours. Go alone now. Or wait until we have the code book.”

Athan’s hands clenched. “And Three?”

“She’ll leave once the book is copied.”

“That will be days!”

“A few, yes.”

“But the Spycatcher—”

“You’ve survived thus far.”

Only just.
His hands clenched more tightly. “And what’s to say the key won’t snap in the lock again?”

“I’ll use iron.”

Athan gritted his teeth. “How much longer?”

“A week at the most.”

“A week.” He turned abruptly away. “I’m getting married tomorrow!”