The Laurentine Spy (31 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

A
THAN HAD NEVER
been this way, down to the township. The tunnel was wide and low, the gradient awkwardly steep. He walked with one hand braced against the wall. Each step took him closer to freedom.
First the Bight, and then the Bazarn Plateau.

He shook his head. Crossing the plateau in winter was madness. It was no journey for a young woman from the nobles’ court.

But she’s no ordinary woman.

The Guardian halted. Ahead, the sewer tunnel widened. There was a ledge on the left, and a steep and crumbling staircase. Athan craned his neck and looked up. Darkness.

The Guardian hoisted himself up on the ledge. He reached down and caught hold of Three’s wrist. “Hurry!”

She jerked back, breaking the man’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”

The Guardian uttered a hissing curse. He leaned down and grabbed Three’s arm.

Athan’s fury erupted. He had no recollection of pushing up onto the ledge; he was simply there. His hand was at the Guardian’s throat, forcing the man’s head back.

The Guardian uttered a choked sound. He released Three’s arm.

Athan shook the man, his fingers digging deep. “Don’t you dare touch her.” Fury roared in his head, hot, blood-red—and beneath that was sanity, cool. He released the man, pushing him away.

The Guardian sprawled on the ledge, sobbing for breath.

Athan stood over the man. “You’ve done her too much harm already.”

“But she’s only a—”

Athan hissed, a sharp exhalation of air. He bared his teeth.

The Guardian cringed back on the rough stone.

Athan crouched and ripped the hood from the man’s head. He didn’t see the Guardian’s face; he saw only his eyes, wide and frightened. “If you lay one finger on her again, I swear on my House I’ll kill you.”

The man believed him; Athan saw it in his eyes.

He stood abruptly. His breath came in pants, like the Guardian’s. He turned and stared down at Three.

She stood with her face averted. He saw only her profile. Her head was bowed, her eyes shut. She hugged her arms beneath the cape.

“Three,” he said softly.

Her eyes squeezed more tightly shut, and then she turned her head and looked up at him. Her face was paler than it had been before, more closed.

Athan swallowed. He stepped back. “Come.” It wasn’t an order; it was an invitation, quiet. He didn’t offer his hand; she wanted his touch as little as she wanted the Guardian’s.

He turned his head away.

He heard Three pull herself up on the ledge, heard the Guardian stand, still gasping.
I shouldn’t have let her see me do that.
He inhaled a slow, calm breath—but he wasn’t calm inside. Rage still vibrated in his chest. His fingers curled into his palms, clenching. “Let’s go,” he said, not looking at either of them. “We have to be at the Bight by daybreak.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I
T WAS STILL
night when they reached the Bight, but the sky was lightening and dawn not far off. The moon hung heavily over a black sea. Its rings were razor-sharp.

Athan reined his horse on the brow of the last hill. The ground was hard and white with frost. The animal’s breath plumed in the frigid air.

Three halted beside him.

“You all right?” he asked. His voice was hoarse with fatigue.

She nodded. He couldn’t see her face; the hood of her cloak was pulled forward.

Athan followed her gaze and looked down at the town. A haze of woodsmoke hung over it. Within the crooked streets a few glimmers of light were visible.

Beyond the buildings was the harbor.

Athan glanced behind him, half expecting to hear the sound of hooves galloping. He gathered the reins. “Ready?”

Three nodded again.

He urged his mount into a slow walk. They entered the Bight quietly.

The
Seafarer Inn
was still shuttered, but faint light seeped through the cracks. Athan slid stiffly from his horse. He ached, muscle and bone.

He turned to assist Three, but she’d already dismounted. She leaned against her horse for a moment.

Athan reached out a hand to her, and then checked the motion. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.” She straightened.

Athan rang the stable bell and went to stand at her side. He held his arm out to her, silently.
We must still pretend.

Three laid her gloved hand on his arm. Her fingers shook faintly.

They stood silently, shivering, their breath gathering like white fog before their faces. After a long minute the stable door creaked open. An ostler appeared. He squinted at them and bowed. “Noble lord? Noble lady?”

“Take our post horses.” Athan held out a coin. He was Lord Ivo still, and he let his mouth gape open. The air was painfully cold against his teeth. “See that they’re well cared for.”
They’ve been ridden hard, poor beasts.

The ostler ducked his head again and took the coin. “Yes, noble lord.” He gathered the reins. The horses moved slowly, as exhausted as their riders.

“Wait.”

The ostler looked back. “Noble lord?”

“Which way to the harbor? Our ship sails this morning.”

The man pointed. “That way, noble lord.”

Three took her hand from his arm as soon as the ostler disappeared from view. She glanced up at the lightening sky.

“We must hurry,” Athan said.

They headed for the docks, walking fast on rough cobblestones. The sky grayed. The sun was yet to rise, but he could see more clearly where to place his feet. Three kept the hood of her cloak well forward, hiding her hair. It would stand out, even in this half-light.

Athan held out his hand to halt her before they reached the waterfront.

They stood silently for a moment, listening. He scanned the empty street, the shuttered windows, and then nodded. “This way.”

The lane they turned into was narrow and deep with shadows. It stank of sewage. Athan held the furred collar of his cloak to his nose, trying to breathe shallowly as he counted the buildings. They weren’t houses; they were shacks, leaning into one another, with broken shutters and holes gaping in the roofs.

Their destination was little more than a hovel. Refuse piled in the gutter and rats scurried at their approach.

The door was warped and unpainted. Athan released the collar of his cloak and felt for his knife. He inhaled, smelling rotting garbage and raw sewage. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Her whisper was as low as his, barely audible.

Athan gripped the knife. He tapped lightly on the door.

He counted the seconds in his head.
One, two, three—

The door swung open.

His grip tightened on the knife hilt. He saw nothing but shadows inside. “The spider sends his greetings.”

“Friends of the spider are always welcome here.” The voice was low and gruff. “Come inside. Quickly.”

They stepped inside. Athan closed the door and blinked in the darkness. His nose wrinkled at the smell.
Unclean.

Their host was a dim shape. He vaguely saw a hand beckon. Together they followed the man down the hallway. Bare floorboards creaked beneath their feet. A door opened—and finally there was light.

The room was squalid. Candlelight revealed a scarred floor and walls streaked with filth. The furniture was ramshackle, battered and grubby. A fire burned in a broken grate, casting warmth.

“You must change. Quickly. There’s little time.”

The man spoke in Laurentine this time and his voice, although gruff, was well-educated. Athan turned to look at him. He was as unprepossessing as the room, with stringy dark hair and a grimy, furrowed face, but his eyes were bright and fiercely intelligent.

“Here.” The man handed Three a bundle of clothing tied with coarse string. His fingers were blackened with dirt, the nails ragged and filthy. “You may use this room. You.” He jerked his head at Athan. “Follow me.”

Three pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her face was shockingly pale. The shadows beneath her eyes looked like bruises.

Athan sheathed his knife. He clenched his hands to stop from reaching for her. “My lady, are you all right?”

She glanced at him, a brief flicker of her eyes. “Perfectly.”

Athan swallowed. He turned to the man. “She’ll be safe here?”

“Of course. Now hurry.”

Athan glanced at Three as he followed the man from the room. She didn’t watch him leave. She stood with her back turned to them both.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

S
ALIEL UNTIED THE
string and opened the bundle of clothing on the table. It appeared that everything, including her undergarments and footwear, was to be replaced. Hesitantly she lifted an item to her nose. It smelled clean.

She stripped as quickly as she could. The long row of buttons down her back proved almost impossible to unfasten. Her fingers fumbled with fatigue and haste and she was nearly in tears by the time the last of the buttons slid free. She pressed her hands to her face and took a deep, slow breath—
don’t cry
—and unlaced the tight corset and peeled off the last of her clothing: petticoats and linen shift, stockings.

The new garments were looser and less restricting than any she’d worn in the past two years, the fabric coarser. She pulled on leggings, long and warm, and then a full skirt, a blouse, a thick sleeveless vest of felt, and woolen socks and boots. The only items left on the table were a heavy hooded cloak and a shawl.

Saliel looked down at herself. Everything—cotton and wool and felt—was a drab grayish brown. Peasant clothes.

But her hair was still dressed in a noblewoman’s intricate coronet of braids.

She pulled out the pins that anchored the braids in place and sat on a stool beside the fire and unplaited her hair as swiftly as she could. Her fingers and arms ached long before she was finished.

Her hair fell past her waist when it was done. Saliel hugged her arms. She closed her eyes for a moment.
I want this day to be over
. But a chilly dawn was breaking beyond the shutters and long hours stretched until nightfall.

She was plaiting her hair into a single braid when someone tapped on the door.

Saliel tensed and looked up from her task. “Yes?”

The agent stepped into the room. He held a pair of shears in his hand, and a headscarf. “Leave it,” he said, when he saw what she was doing. “I’m sorry. I must cut your hair.”

She was too tired to protest. Too tired to even care. She took the headscarf and held it in her lap as the man stepped behind her. She felt his hand at the nape of her neck. Cold metal touched her skin. The blades came together with a
snick.

The agent stepped back. Her hair hung in his hand, part-braided, almost touching the floor.

Saliel watched as he laid the shears on the table and roughly coiled her hair. She raised a hand to her neck. One twist of braid remained, unraveling as she touched it. Her head felt wonderfully light.
Lady Petra is gone.

“You must keep your hair covered until you reach Marillaq,” the agent said. “No one must see it. Do you understand?”

Saliel lowered her hand. The Bazarn Plateau was under Corhonase administration. It was as dangerous as the Bight, as the Citadel. “Yes.”

Someone knocked on the door. “Enter,” the agent said.

Saliel looked away. She picked up the headscarf and turned it over in her fingers.

Floorboards creaked as someone entered the room. The person halted. “Your hair.”

Saliel looked up. Peasant’s clothing, coarse and bulky, a face dark with stubble. He was Lord Ivo—familiar—but he was also a stranger.

“It was necessary,” the agent said. He laid the coil of hair on top of her discarded lavender-blue gown.

“She’ll still need to keep it hidden,” One protested. “Did it have to be cut?”

“Others will take your places on the
Silver Fern
.”The agent gestured at the items on the table. His meaning was obvious: someone else would wear her clothes and hair.

One looked at her a moment longer, then turned to the man. “Do you need mine?”

“No. Black hair was easy to find.” The agent gathered her clothing together and took the bundle One held. “Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.” He left the room with hurried steps.

Saliel turned her head away. She tucked the chin-length strands of hair behind her ears and shook out the headscarf.

For a moment there was silence. She heard the coals burning in the fire. Then One spoke. “I meant what I said.” His voice was low and intense. “I offer you my Name and my House and—”