The Laurentine Spy (23 page)

“You dance well,” the Spycatcher observed.

“Thank you.”

“Did you dance often in Gryff?” It was no idle question. The man’s eyes were intent on her face.

“Yes.” Saliel met his gaze. The urge to tell the truth was easily ignored.
Be chatty. Lie.
“Balls were held most nights in the Governor’s palace.”

“The Governor’s palace?” The Spycatcher’s brow creased. His eyes stared into hers, pale. “What was his name? I’ve forgotten.”

Her heart began to beat slightly faster. “Lord Maler,” she said, smiling shyly. “His wife was Lady Erma. She was a close friend of my mother’s.”

“Oh? You knew them well?”

“Yes.”

“I believe I met Lord Maler in Jurgenheim. A tall man. Quite thin.”

You know this. Relax. Breathe.
Saliel shook her head. “He was tall, but his build was heavy.”

“Oh? I must be thinking of someone else. His aide perhaps.”

She was no longer cold. Perspiration was damp on her skin. “Lord Udo? He was certainly thinner.”

The Spycatcher held her eyes a moment longer—while her heart beat fast in her chest—and then he nodded. His gaze strayed from her face. He scanned the ballroom.

Saliel concentrated on her steps. It was too soon for relief. She’d convinced the man she was from Gryff; not that she wasn’t a spy. She placed her feet with care and searched for words she could use. “Tomorrow’s the anniversary of the First Battle.”

The man’s attention snapped back to her. “So it is.”

“It’s one of my favorite days of the year.”

“Oh?” His eyes were steady on her face.

The pale gaze made her want to shiver. “The ceremony is so stirring! The description of the battle, the names of the heroes. It makes one proud to be Corhonase.”
Enthusiastic. Patriotic. Naive.
“And it’s such an honor to wear the privet.”

The Spycatcher studied her for a moment. “An honor? Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Although...it does make me sneeze.” She wrinkled her nose and confided: “I do wish the soldiers had found some other flower to proclaim their victory.”

The Spycatcher laughed. His gaze left her face. He scanned the ballroom again.

The music slowed and the dance ended. Saliel curtseyed. “Thank you, Lord Grigor. That was most enjoyable.” She met his eyes as she said the words.

“The pleasure was all mine,” the Spycatcher said, bowing.

Saliel allowed herself to be led from the dance floor. Sweat stuck the linen shift to her skin beneath the tight corset. Her legs trembled with relief.
I did it.

“I see that your husband has arrived,” the Spycatcher said smoothly. “He’s doubtless looking for you. Shall I escort you to him?”

Her reaction was involuntary, she couldn’t help it: she halted.

The Spycatcher halted too. His glance was polite and inquiring. “Do you not wish to see him?”

He was playing with her; it was in his voice—the same tone she’d heard him use with Lord Ivo—and it was in the bright, cold eyes.
He plays with people the way a cat plays with a mouse.

This time Saliel spoke the truth. She had to; it was what the man expected. “I would prefer not to.”

The Spycatcher’s eyebrows rose. She saw amusement gleam in his eyes.

“Forgive me, my lord!” She clutched his arm. “I can’t think how I came to say such a thing. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful about my husband.”

“You’re unhappy to be married?” The Spycatcher’s tone was polite and concerned, smooth.

I am Lady Petra. I am patriotic.
“It’s my duty to marry,” Saliel said. “And I am happy to do my duty.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “One’s duty.”

“Every marriage is for the good of the Empire.”

“Indeed.” The Spycatcher smiled. “Including your own.”

“Yes.”

The Spycatcher’s smile widened. “But you would prefer to return to Lady Marta, rather than greet your husband?”

His eyes were on her. She had to say, “Yes.”

The Spycatcher bowed. “As you wish.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

A
THAN STROLLED WITH
Druso into the courtesans’ salon, arm in arm. He had to brace himself to enter. The sounds and scents of sex made him feel ill. He turned his eyes away from Seldo, mounting a whore.
That was me, with Lady Petra beneath me.

He selected an alcove at random and stretched out on the wide sofa, yawning. “More wine.”

He chose a glass of wine while Druso chose a courtesan. He didn’t watch as Druso divested the woman of her clothes. It was easy to yawn again, easy to let the glass tilt until the wine ran into the cushions, easy to pretend to doze—but it wasn’t easy to ignore the sounds, the rhythm.
Did we sound like that?

No. Lady Petra hadn’t giggled. She hadn’t whispered as the whore was whispering to Druso, urging him on.

Athan squeezed his eyes shut.

The minutes seemed interminable before Druso was finished.

“Donkey?” He heard his friend ask. “You want her?”

Athan feigned a snore.

He listened as the courtesan dressed. She kissed Druso enthusiastically, and then she was gone. “Wine,” Druso called.

He heard the
clink
of crystal, the sound of Druso drinking deeply, silence, and then a familiar voice: “Druso.” It was Tregar.

“Do join us,” Druso said. “I say, Donkey, wake up!”

Athan uttered another snore. He kept his eyes closed as Tregar called for wine. He tried to concentrate on the tune the musicians played, not the conversation beside him: Tregar’s sour, barbed comments, Druso’s laughter.

He dozed lightly, the music and the voices blurring together in his ears, and was jerked awake by a sharp elbow in his ribs. “Wake up, Donkey.”

Athan grunted and opened his eyes. He yawned. “What?”

“Move over. We have company.”

Athan turned his head. Druso was gone. Tregar reclined on the cushions, fondling a whore. Standing watching, his pale eyes gleaming, was the Spycatcher.

Fear kicked in Athan’s chest.

The Spycatcher stopped watching the idle movement of Tregar’s hand. “Lord Ivo,” he said, bowing.

Athan swallowed. “Lord Grebber.”

“Grigor,” Tregar said, sharp, sneering. “It’s Grigor, Donkey.”

Athan yawned again. “My apologies, Lord Grigor.” He shifted sideways on the sofa, pushing brocade cushions aside with his hand. “You wish to join us?”

“Thank you.”

Athan looked away as the man stretched out alongside him. Sweat gathered on his skin. He gestured for a servant. “More wine.”

“How are you finding married life?”

Athan shrugged with a shoulder, not looking at the man. “Fine.” He groped for a glass of wine.

“It has its pleasures, hasn’t it?”

Athan grunted, a noncommittal noise. He swallowed a large mouthful of wine.

“I’m married,” the Spycatcher said, his tone idle, conversational. “Did you know?”

Athan gulped another mouthful of wine.
Look at him or he will suspect.
He made himself turn his head. “No,” he said, meeting the man’s eyes. “I didn’t know. Have you been married long?”

“Several years.” The Spycatcher smiled and leaned close. “Tell me, Donkey. Did you enjoy your wedding night?”

Athan tried to clench his jaw shut, to not open his mouth, not move his tongue, but it was impossible. “No,” he was forced to say.

“No?” The Spycatcher’s eyebrows rose. He uttered a light, delighted laugh. “Why not? You prefer Lady Petra to all the ladies in court.”

A bead of sweat slid down Athan’s cheek. He wiped it away. “Because she doesn’t like me.”

The Spycatcher’s eyebrows rose higher. “She told you that?”

“Of course not,” Athan said. “She’s a lady.”

“Then how do you know?”

His mouth was dry. Fear was a sour taste on his tongue. “I can see it.”

The Spycatcher leaned back on one elbow, observing him. “How perceptive of you, Donkey. You astonish me.”

Athan raised his glass and gulped the wine. He tried to turn his eyes from the man; it was impossible.

“So you didn’t enjoy visiting your wife’s bed?”

“No.”

The Spycatcher laughed again, an amused, pitying sound. “Poor Donkey.”

Athan managed a weak smile, pinned by the man’s gaze, helpless.

The Spycatcher leaned close again. “You know, Donkey, there’s pleasure to be had in an unwilling bed partner—if you allow yourself to enjoy it.”

Athan jerked back. “You mean rape!”

The Spycatcher smiled. “How can it be rape? It’s your duty as a husband. Something you’ll have to do often.” His pale eyes gleamed. “I advise you—as a friend—to learn to enjoy it.”

Revulsion rose in Athan’s throat.

“You want the redhead tonight?” the Spycatcher asked.

“No!” It was almost a shout.

The Spycatcher smiled pityingly. “Poor Donkey. Your marriage has unmanned you.” He turned to survey the courtesans.

Athan squeezed his eyes shut and slid lower on the cushions, sweating, trembling.

“Here,” he heard the Spycatcher say. “She’s not a redhead.” The man laughed.

Athan grunted. He didn’t look to see which courtesan the man had summoned. He kept his eyes closed as his doublet was unbuttoned, his breeches. But the whore’s warm breath, her tongue and clever fingers, failed to arouse him. He saw Lady Petra’s face, pale and tense, felt her skin flinch beneath his hands.
I can’t do it.

He let his head loll deeper in the cushions and feigned a snore.

“The fool’s asleep.”

Tregar sniggered.

“Come here,” the Spycatcher said, snapping his fingers. The courtesan’s warmth left Athan.

He lay with his head turned against the cushions, listening as the Spycatcher’s breathing changed.
I sounded like that.
The muscles in his throat tightened.
I’m sorry, Petra.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

S
ALIEL WOKE WITH
a jerk when the maid opened the shutters in the parlor. She scrambled to her feet and had the pillow and blanket back on the bed before the woman opened the door to the bedchamber.

The maid had a sprig of privet pinned to her bodice. The flowers were tiny and white. Saliel’s nose itched at the sight of it. She sneezed when her hair was being braided, and again when the maid pinned a sprig of privet to her bodice above the marriage keys.

She wasn’t the only person affected by the flowers: ladies sneezed over their embroidery, and the afternoon speeches in the Great Hall were punctuated by the sound of noblemen and women sneezing discreetly into their handkerchiefs. Saliel listened with her lips slightly parted to the description of the First Battle and the founding of the Empire.
Rapt. Patriotic.

The court dined together, lords and ladies, in the Banquet Hall. Saliel sat beside her husband. Lord Ivo said nothing beyond commonplace courtesies. He yawned several times and seemed on the verge of sleep.

She behaved as the other wives did—making polite conversation, cutting her food into small, neat pieces, eating it. Memory of the wedding night was tightly locked away.
I do not remember.
She chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, but her stomach didn’t want the food.

“Delicious,” she said, laying down her fork.

They attended the bonfire afterwards. Saliel huddled into her cape and listened as the names of the heroes were read aloud. Flames leapt and roared, devouring the wood, shooting sparks into the air.

Lord Ivo stood alongside her. She didn’t look at him, but she sensed his boredom. He shifted his weight and yawned.

Branches snapped and cracked in the bonfire. The sounds made her shiver.
I would burn like that. My skin would shrivel and turn black. My hair would flare alight.
She glanced sideways, searching for the Spycatcher. Did he imagine what it would be like to burn on a witch’s pyre?

The throng of nobles was too thick. She couldn’t see him.

Saliel looked back at the bonfire. She clasped her hands together and composed her face into an expression of enthralment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A
THAN ESCORTED
L
ADY
Petra inside. The ballroom was warm after the chill night air; but her cheeks remained pale. She looked bloodless.

She sneezed again, six tiny puffs of sounds,
tss tss tss tss tss tss.
He’d never heard anyone sneeze quite like that before, so quietly and quickly.