The Laurentine Spy (3 page)

Saliel shivered, less from cold than from the bleakness of the room, and went to sit beside the fire. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and halted. It was an unnerving sight. She looked ghostly, her face pale above the stark white of her high-necked nightgown. The only color was the long plait of red hair that hung over her shoulder. Her image looked trapped inside the ornate and heavy frame of the mirror, caught in some terrible place.
Which, in truth, I am.

Saliel turned away from her reflection and sat on the rug before the fire. She drew her knees up and hugged them, shivering. Sometimes it was hard to remember why she’d chosen this life. There were moments when the fear and the loneliness seemed beyond all proportion to the prize at the end. But the prize was worth it. It
was.

“A cottage,” she whispered. There was no one to hear her, but she spoke in Corhonase because in this room she was Lady Petra. The guttural words roughened her voice. “By the sea.”

She stared at the glowing embers, imagining it.
A home of my own.

CHAPTER TWO

S
ALIEL SAT ON
the stool, her hands folded in her lap, while the maid pinned up the heavy braids of hair. The woman’s busy fingers tugged and pulled and twisted.

If she slid her eyes sideways she could see the window. The summer fields, below on the plain, were distorted by the tiny panes of glass. The window was open and if she shifted on the stool—a movement that made the maid huff slightly through her nose—she could see through the narrow opening. The patchwork of green-gold fields was unblurred. Wind rippled the wheat in a sinuous movement, as if muscles flexed beneath the pelt of a giant beast.

Above the fields, faint in a pale morning sky, hung the moon. Its rings were visible, thin and glinting.
A witch day
, the old women in the Ninth Ward would say, and make gestures to protect themselves from the Eye. But those slums, those women, were half a world away, and the Corhonase had no name for mornings like today.

Saliel bowed her head and looked down at her clasped hands, and the maid huffed faintly through her nose again. A witch day. A day when witchcraft was strong, even such tiny magic as she possessed, little more than sleight of hand and fierce concentration.

She unclasped her fingers and opened her hands, turning them out to see the palms. A lady’s hands, soft.

A pickpocket’s hands. It was a long time since she’d used that skill. She had left thieving behind when she’d left the Ninth Ward—and left behind fear of being caught and punished: a finger thief’s punishment, or worse, a witch’s punishment.

Saliel closed her hands, remembering the undercurrent of excitement in the ballroom last night and the almost feverish flush on the Admiral’s face as he danced. Things were happening in the Citadel, things she didn’t understand.
I’d be a fool to ignore the only advantage I have.

Her fingers clenched around each other. She couldn’t bend people to her will, but she’d still be called a witch and punished as witches were: with burning, with a high pyre and hungry flames.

But the punishment would be even worse if she was found to be a spy, not swift, but slow and drawn-out, unendurable. She’d be broken long before they allowed her to die. Unless the slight magic she possessed saved her life or sped her dying: a key filched from a jailer’s belt, a knife stolen.

Saliel raised her eyes. The moon’s rings gleamed faintly. A witch day. The safest day to practice her skill.

She waited, sitting on the stool, encased in her day gown—stiff petticoats and tight bodice and starched lace ruff—while the maid finished pinning the braids around her head
. Be calm. It’s merely a matter of holding her eyes. You’ve done it before; you can do it again.
But fear was tight in her chest as she stood and turned to face the woman.

She caught the maid’s eyes easily. Brown eyes, as dark as leaf mold on a forest floor, slightly protuberant.

Calm
, Saliel told herself, staring into the woman’s eyes.
Be fast.
The maid stood motionless, caught and unaware, unblinking, as Saliel reached out and touched her. She saw her hands move, dimly, at the edge of her vision. Slow. Clumsy. She straightened the woman’s white collar with fumbling fingers, undid one of the buttons on her apron and did it up again, pulled the cuffs further down the plump wrists, holding the woman’s gaze while a sharp ache grew behind her eyes.

When she’d used this tiny magic as a child—picking pockets and taking coins from well-filled purses—she’d barely needed to think what her hands were doing. Now she strained to concentrate. The pain in her head intensified. It took effort not to glance down and watch her fingers pluck the woman’s handkerchief from the pocket at her waist and drop it on the floor.

Saliel let her eyelids close in a long blink. When she opened them the maid had come out of her trance.

“You have dropped your kerchief,” she told the woman.

“Oh.” The maid bent, flustered, to pick it up. ‘‘I beg your pardon, noble lady.” There was no hint of suspicion in her face or voice, no awareness that for half a minute she’d been caught by her mistress’s eyes.

Saliel inhaled a slow, shaky breath and turned to look out the window again. The ache behind her eyes was sharp. She pressed fingertips to her forehead.

S
ALIEL CURTSEYED.
“N
OBLE
Gerda, may I join you?”

“Of course, my dear,” the Admiral’s wife answered.

The Royal Consort favored spending her days in the formal gardens atop the Citadel, her ladies gathered around her, gossiping and embroidering. On fine mornings the servants erected a canopy and spread thick rugs on the grass and piled them with silk cushions. Saliel settled alongside Lady Gerda and arranged the full skirt of her gown modestly around her. There was tension in her shoulders.
Relax. Do it as you planned.

She opened her embroidery basket and began to thread a needle. “Excuse me,” she said, feigning a yawn and hiding it behind her hand.

“Tired?” Gerda looked up from her embroidery silks. Her figure was full-bosomed and motherly, her face plump-cheeked, but her posture was unyielding and her mouth tightly held.

“A little,” Saliel confessed, keeping her voice shy and deferential. “I did so enjoy the ball last night.”

“I found it somewhat tedious,” her companion said dampingly. “But young people like these entertainments.”

“Surely not only young people... The Admiral was...” Saliel lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, most noble Gerda. I did not mean to...”

“You are quite correct, my dear,” Lady Gerda said, faint contempt in her tone. Her mouth, when Saliel glanced up, was thin with disapproval. “My husband did enjoy the ball.”

“He seemed in very high spirits,” Saliel ventured.

“Yes. It grows wearying. Fortunately one does not have to endure it much longer.”

“Ma’am?” Saliel allowed herself to sound bewildered.

“Men are a tiresome subject of conversation.” The Admiral’s wife held up two strands of silk. “Which shade of green do you prefer?”

T
HE SKY WAS
blue and the sunlight bright and warm, but beneath the canopy there was cool shade and the gentle murmur of voices. Servants circulated, bearing trays of sweetmeats and juice in crystal glasses. Saliel glanced around. A Laurentine poet would liken the ladies of the court to exquisite flowers, clustered sweetly about the Royal Consort, their voices as soft on the ear as running water. A Corhonase scholar—for there were few poets—would snort at such hyperbole and note that the ladies were attired in a manner befitting their station and that they spoke in well-bred tones.

The scholar would be the more accurate of the two, but Saliel missed the poetry in life. She stifled a sigh and bent her head over her embroidery.

“Petra.”

Saliel looked up. The Consort stood before her, a round, sleek woman with cold eyes and a small smile. Her stature was short, but the force of her personality made her appear tall. She wore no crown, not even a circlet of gold in her dark hair. Her status was proclaimed by the keys hanging at her waist.

“Walk with me. There’s a subject I wish to discuss.”

Saliel obediently put down the embroidery and rose to her feet. A servant handed her a parasol trimmed with dainty tassels of colored silk. She opened it as she stepped from beneath the canopy.
Relax. You’re Lady Petra. There’s nothing to fear.

The paths were fashioned of crushed white marble that crunched delicately beneath her silk slippers. Saliel walked a respectful half-pace behind the Consort, her eyes meekly lowered. The Consort’s keys clinked together faintly with each step, silver against silver, musical.

“I’ve been giving thought to your betrothal,” the Consort said.

Saliel’s head jerked up. “But your Eminence, the mourning period!”

“You’ve been with us nearly two years.” The Consort paused by a fountain in the shape of a rearing horse. Its stone nostrils flared wide. “You’ll soon put off your mourning clothes.”

A faint breeze lifted the parasol, tugging it slightly in her hand and stirring the fringe of tasseled silk. “I...I hadn’t thought to marry so soon.”

“Marriage is a necessary evil, my dear Petra.” The Consort touched the gleaming keys at her waist. “Without a husband, a woman is nothing. And you are one-and-twenty. It’s imperative that you marry as soon as possible.”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

“Many would consider you past the age of marriage.”

Saliel bit her lip. One-and-twenty and unwed? No, she was
three-
and-twenty and unwed. The woman’s voice would rise an octave in horror if she knew.

The Consort patted her arm. “My dear Petra, I’m not chastising you. I’m merely pointing out the truth. It was a great shame your parents died before you were married. The timing was most unfortunate.” She shook her head. “A double mourning period.
Two
years. And at your age! Very inconvenient.”

Saliel swallowed her amusement, and her dislike of the woman.

“But don’t worry, my dear Petra. I’ll find a husband for you.”

Gratitude
, she told herself.
Reverence.
“Thank you, your Eminence.”

“In fact, I have given considerable thought to the matter,” the Consort said. “And I believe that Lord Ivo will make you a suitable spouse.”

“Lord Ivo?” Saliel’s grip tightened on the parasol. With effort she relaxed her fingers and made her tone timid and hesitant: “Your Eminence, I have conceived something of a...a dislike for Lord Ivo. I would prefer another man as husband, if it pleases you.”

“Dislike?” The Consort’s thin eyebrows arched in astonishment. “Nonsense. Lord Ivo will do very well for you. Why should you dislike him?”

Why should I like him?
The man hadn’t had an original thought in his life. “Is there no other nobleman—”

“My dear Petra.” The Consort’s voice was edged with impatience. “You cannot afford to be fastidious. Not only are you of an advanced age, but you have no fortune and you are—somewhat plain,”

Saliel blinked as if to hold back tears. “Forgive me, your Eminence.”

The Consort tutted. “Don’t cry, my dear Petra. I’m certain Lord Ivo will be content to have you, despite your hair and those unfortunate freckles.” Her eyebrows pinched together in a frown. “What
was
your poor mother thinking, to allow you in the sun?”

Saliel bowed her head and looked down at the path. The chips of marble shone whitely in the sunlight.
My mother? I never knew her.

“So it’s settled,” the Consort said briskly. “I’ll inform Lord Ivo. The betrothal will remain secret, of course, until the end of your mourning period.”

Saliel raised her eyes and smiled at the woman. She tried to look overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you, your Eminence. You are most kind.”

S
ALIEL ATTACKED HER
embroidery. Lord Ivo! How could the Consort have chosen him? Of the men in court, he was one of those she disliked the most. His mouth was wide and slack and foolish, and he was always on the verge of sleep.
I doubt he’s even aware of my existence.

Her stitches became less fierce. In a sense, it was rather amusing. Lord Ivo would be extremely disappointed when he discovered who his bride was. The Corhonase liked their women plump and dark-haired, and she was neither.

Saliel swallowed a laugh. How fortunate the marriage would never take place. The end of her mourning period was the end of her time at the Citadel. She’d leave all this behind her: the tedium of court life, the constant fear.

She tied a knot in the silk thread, snipped off the excess, and looked at her embroidery with a critical eye.
Passable.

Saliel reached for a new skein of thread and paused. Raising her head, she looked across at Lady Marta. Marta was newly arrived in court, young and modest and sweet-natured—and more importantly, married to a Captain in the Fleet.