The Laurentine Spy (30 page)

“You may wait outside,” the Spycatcher said, taking the glass.

“Yes, noble lord.”

The servant glanced at her as he closed the door. Anticipation gleamed in his eyes, as it had in Therlo’s.

Saliel sipped her tea.
You wait in vain. I shall not betray myself.
She set the cup down on the writing desk and picked up the quill again.

She’d filled one-and-a-half sheets with writing, curling each
f
with a flourish and dotting each
i
precisely. She reread the last sentence.

We were aboard the life boat for a full day, and came ashore at night on the coast of Kre
β
el.
Saliel dipped the quill in ink and glanced up at the window. Not much longer.

She bent her head.
We were four pa
β
engers and three crew
, she wrote.
The pa
β
engers were my mother and myself, and—

The door opened again. “Noble lord, you have a visitor.”

Saliel looked up. The dark-eyed servant stepped into the room and bowed. Behind him was Lord Ivo.

The Spycatcher rose to his feet. “Lord Ivo. What a...pleasant surprise.”

“Grebber.” Lord Ivo acknowledged the Spycatcher with a lazy nod of his head. “I must ask, what are you doing with my wife?”

Therlo stood in the doorway, blocking it, but he’d have to step aside if Lord Ivo insisted. Saliel laid down the quill and took a deep breath.

The Spycatcher smiled. “Your wife and I are discussing her journey from Gryff. The Royal Consort has given permission.”

“Has she?” Lord Ivo shrugged. “But I’m Lady Petra’s husband, and I haven’t given my permission.”

The Spycatcher laughed, his manner friendly. “It’s merely a discussion—”

Lord Ivo dismissed the man’s protest with a yawn. “It grows late. My wife can speak with you again tomorrow.”

Saliel rose. She reached for her cape.

“But, Donkey—”

“I must insist,” Lord Ivo said mildly.

There was a moment of silence, while Saliel fastened the cape at her throat. She didn’t look at the Spycatcher or his servants. She kept her movements subdued and obedient.

“Why?”

The Spycatcher’s tone brought Saliel’s head up. The man was staring at Lord Ivo. His eyes were narrow with suspicion.

Lord Ivo’s throat worked, as if he tried not to speak. “Because—”

He lunged at the Spycatcher. The sharp blade of a knife gleamed in his hand.

Saliel stood frozen like a fool, as the Spycatcher threw himself backward, dark wine spraying from his glass, as the servant leaped forward and Therlo charged from the doorway with a shout.

Lord Ivo slashed at Therlo, forcing him to stumble back, and struck the other servant a blow that made him double over.

The Spycatcher hurled his glass aside. He lunged at Saliel, his arm upraised, and struck her across the face, open-handed.

Saliel fell. There was an instant of blankness: she heard nothing, saw nothing. The taste of blood was in her mouth.

Fingers closed around her left wrist, biting in.

She blinked to clear her vision. The Spycatcher’s face loomed above her. His lips peeled back from his teeth. “I have you, bitch.” He yanked her wrist, hauling her to her knees.

Saliel scrabbled for the knife. Fabric ripped as she tore it from her pocket. She stabbed with all her strength.

The blade sank deeply into the Spycatcher’s thigh. He uttered a choked cry and released her.

Saliel pushed upright, reaching for the green vase without thought. Her fingers closed around it. Cool. Heavy. She swung as hard as she could.

The vase struck the Spycatcher on the side of the head. He fell without uttering a sound, hitting the writing desk. The porcelain cup tipped over. Tisane spilled over the pages of writing.

Saliel stood over the Spycatcher, the vase gripped in her hand. Blood trickled down the man’s temple.
Is he dead?
She couldn’t inhale, couldn’t exhale; her chest was too tight.

A strangled grunt jerked her around. The dark-eyed servant lay motionless, the hilt of a knife jutting from beneath his chin.

Saliel raised the vase again. Lord Ivo and Therlo wrestled in front of the fireplace. Lord Ivo gripped the manservant’s throat, his fingers digging in. Therlo’s face was suffused with blood, savage. He clawed at Lord Ivo’s eyes.

The men broke apart. Lord Ivo scrambled to his feet. Therlo bellowed and pushed up from the floor.

Lord Ivo punched him. The blow was solid. Therlo fell as the Spycatcher had fallen, heavily and without sound.

Saliel lowered the vase.

Lord Ivo swung around. He stared at her, panting. Strands of black hair had come loose from the band at the nape of his neck. There was nothing sleepy about his face. His eyes were wide open, clear and fierce. “Are you all right?”

It was One’s voice, Laurentine, coming from Lord Ivo’s mouth.

The world shifted dizzyingly beneath her feet. Saliel turned away. The vase dropped from her hand. It cracked as it hit the floor, splitting into three pieces. It was the same ugly shade of green inside as it was out.

I think I’m going to be ill.

CHAPTER FIFTY

“I
DIDN’T KNOW
it was you,” Athan said. He gulped for breath. His heart hammered in his chest. She stood with her face averted. “Three...” He stepped over the servant’s body. “If I’d known you were Lady Petra I would
never
—”

She jerked away from his outstretched hand. “Don’t touch me.”

“Three,” he said desperately. “Please—”

“We must go. It’s nearly night.” She spoke with Lady Petra’s voice, cold and clipped, distant.

He glanced up at the window. The sky was darkening towards dusk. “But—”

“Not now!” Three didn’t look at him. She almost ran from the room, the full skirt of her gown making a
whisk
of sound.

Athan followed, shutting the door firmly. He hurried down the stairs after her. Apologies crowded on his tongue.

Three halted at the foot of the stairs and waited for him. He didn’t have to tell her to take his arm; she laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve, barely touching him. She didn’t look at him.

They walked along the corridor silently, calmly.
A man and his wife, strolling together.
Athan tried to steady his breathing. His heart still raced in his chest.

Each step brought them closer to freedom. They crossed one atrium, and another, while the sky grew darker. Fresh candles burned in the corridors. Athan dipped his head to nobles and ignored the servants.
Closer. Closer.

Three released his arm. Athan opened the door to her suite and bowed. Her skirts rustled stiffly as she walked past him.

“Leave us,” Athan told the maid as he stepped inside. “I wish to speak privately with my wife. Come back in an hour.”

The woman curtseyed. “Yes, noble lord.”

Athan closed the door behind her. He stood with his back to it, gripping the handle. “Three—”

“Not now!”

He pushed away from the door, following her into the bedchamber. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice edged with desperation.
Listen to me.
“I only found out three days ago. If I’d known—” He swallowed. “I wouldn’t have done it.”

Three didn’t look at him. She reached for a candleholder.

“You’re the one person in the Citadel I would never harm. You must believe me!”

She lit the candle and held it out to him. “Take it,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“Three...” He swallowed. “Let me make it right. Please. Marry me.”

Her eyes jerked to his. They were gray and wide, shocked.

“You’ll have my Name and my House and everything else I can give you.”

She shook her head, not uttering a word.

“I won’t touch you. I promise.” He swallowed again. “Please.”

Three turned away and put the candleholder down. She walked to the wall and crouched and pressed her fingers to a block of stone. It turned inwards. Athan watched as she reached inside and seemed to grasp for something.

A doorway opened in the wall.

Three stood. “You’ll need the candle.” She stepped through the doorway without looking back at him.

Athan grabbed the candleholder and followed hastily, ducking his head. Two shallow steps led up into a narrow corridor. Black shadows lunged back from the candlelight.

The door slid shut.
We’re safe.

“Three.” Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, beautiful. “Please, listen to me—”

“I said, not now!” Her voice was low and fierce.

Athan stepped back. “My apologies.”

He followed her along the passage, not crowding at her heels.
Fool. Triple times a fool. Now isn’t the time.

Anger grew in his chest—at the Guardian, at the Spycatcher, at himself. He went blindly down hundreds of stairs while his cape brushed stone on either side.

Awareness of where he was came snapping back as they entered the catacombs. He saw the candle flame. He saw Three’s shining hair. He saw crumbling skulls and broken-fingered hands and shreds of cloth.

Athan stepped closer to Three. His breath came more quickly. He began to sweat.

He tried not to look at the skeletons, but with each chamber that opened out, there were more. Dozens, hundreds, thousands. Toothless skulls grinned, watching as he walked past. Bones rustled behind him, stirring.

Athan squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait.” His voice choked in his throat.

Three’s footsteps stopped. “Are you all right?”

He gripped the candleholder and tried to steady his breathing.
I can’t look at them.

Her voice came closer. “They’re dead.”

Athan opened his eyes. He fixed his gaze on her face, trying not to see the skeletons. They beckoned for his attention, pale and brittle.

“They’re dead,” Three said again, meeting his eyes. “Many years ago they were people, as you and I are, but now they’re dead. They can’t harm you,”

He gulped for air. Shame was hot in his cheeks. “It feels as if they’re watching.”

She didn’t laugh at him. Her gaze was serious. “No,” she said. “They’re not. They can’t.”

Her calmness, her matter-of-factness, steadied him. He followed as she began to walk again, gripping the candle tightly, focusing on the red-gold hair. Their path took them downward, deeper. The Citadel sat heavily above him. The airwas cold and stale. Skeletons lay in their niches, staring at him from empty eye sockets.
They can’t see me
, he told himself with each step.
They’re dead.

At last Three halted. Relief came as sweat, dripping off his skin. He recognized this chamber, this shallow alcove. He’d been here before.

He watched as Three pressed her hands against the wall. Stone grated against stone as the slab swung aside.

Athan ducked his head and followed Three into the ancient storeroom. He crossed the room while she sealed the entrance to the catacombs. He opened the door. Faint light shone in. “After you, my lady.”

She hesitated, and then stepped past him.

Athan had seen her emerge from the storeroom a hundred times; now it was he who walked out into the shadowy chamber. He saw the stone tables and urns and dark gutters with relief. His chest became less tight. It was easier to breathe.

“What happened?” the Guardian asked sharply, striding across the floor.

Athan closed the door. “The Spycatcher took Three for questioning.”

“What? Tell me!”

Beside him, Three said nothing. Athan glanced at her. She stood with her head slightly averted. Her expression was tight, closed.

She hates him.

“Later,” Athan said. “It won’t be long before we’re missed. We must hurry.” He held out a hand to Three.

She didn’t take his hand, but she did walk past the Guardian, not looking at him.

The man followed at their heels as they crossed the chamber. “Tell me,” he insisted.

“When we’re free of this place.”

“But you have the code book?”

“Yes.” Athan jerked open the door to the sewer. “After you.”

The Guardian hesitated. “But I want to hear—”

“Later,” Athan told him flatly.

The Guardian stood his ground for a mere second, then ducked his head and stepped through the doorway.
You’re right to be afraid of me. I despise you more than you can ever know.
Athan’s mouth tightened. He turned to Three. “My lady?”

He didn’t offer her the support of his hand; he let her step down into the sewers unassisted. Then he followed, still holding the candle.