The Laurentine Spy (4 page)

“M
AY
I
WALK
with you?” she asked Marta that afternoon, as the ladies prepared to stroll through the gardens.

“By all means.” The young woman’s expression was one of shy pleasure.

Saliel raised her parasol and fell into step beside Marta. “Shall we take this path? It’s quieter.”
And safer for asking questions.
She inhaled past the tightness in her chest and smiled at her companion. “I wished to ask you something.”

“Me?”

Saliel nodded. “My betrothal will be announced at the end of my mourning period.”

“Oh,” said Marta. Conflicting emotions crossed her face. She looked as if she didn’t know whether to offer congratulations or commiseration.

“What is it like to be married?”

Marta’s cheeks flushed with color. “Oh,” she said again, faintly.

They strolled in silence for a moment. A breeze rustled the well-clipped hedges. Marble chips crunched softly beneath their slippers. “You are recently married yourself,” prompted Saliel.

“Yes.”

“Lord Soder looks to be a fine man.”

Marta’s blush deepened. “Yes.”

“You must be very happy.”

“Yes,” said Marta, but her voice was little more than a whisper, neutral.

Saliel looked sideways at her in frustration.
Talk to me.
“Forgive me for asking, but...” She hesitated and bit her lip.

Marta glanced at her.

“Is it...is it as
disagreeable
as they say?”

“It?”

Another monosyllable. Saliel fluttered her hands as if searching for a euphemism. “A wife’s duty,” she said in a whisper.

Marta’s mouth pursed in distaste. “Yes,” she said. “It is extremely disagreeable.”

“Oh,” Saliel said. She walked a few steps in silence. “But it doesn’t happen often, does it?”

Marta was silent. They reached the wall that bordered the formal gardens and halted. From this vantage point the Citadel was a disorganized jumble of terraces and ramparts and towers. Its history was easy to trace in the black stone the original builders had used and the gray marble the Corhonase favored. There was as much gray as black. Within a mere two generations the Corhonase had doubled the Citadel’s size.
You would have done well to explore more thoroughly before you settled in. The black walls hide secrets.

The ancient scrolls spoke of plots and intrigues, of secret passageways, but the Corhonase hadn’t cared to read them. They weren’t interested in an empire that had been dead for centuries.

Beneath the muddle of buildings—black and gray—the sandstone cliffs fell like spreading skirts, with the dirty sprawl of the town clutching at their hem. A causeway wound its way down the rust-colored escarpment. Pedestrians and carts labored upward.

Beyond the town lay the harbor. Saliel counted seventeen naval vessels.

She turned away from the view and sat on a marble bench, smoothing her gown. Her mourning clothes were the color of ashes. “I have distressed you. Forgive me.”

“No.” Marta shook her head. “Don’t apologize. You’re asking questions I didn’t have the courage to ask myself.” She sat alongside Saliel and clasped her hands in her lap. “What occurs in the marriage bed is unpleasant,” she said, not looking at Saliel. “But the act itself is quickly over. And...and a husband should not visit his wife’s bed above once or twice a week.”

“Should not?” Saliel asked softly. Something in Marta’s tone prompted the question.

Marta grimaced. “My husband wishes me to be with child before he leaves. So he visits my bed every night.”

“Leaves?” Saliel took care that interest didn’t sharpen her voice.

Marta nodded.

“When?”

“Soon. At the end of the month.”

“A campaign?”

“He doesn’t talk to me about such matters.” Marta plucked at her skirt. “I wish he wasn’t going, for then he wouldn’t visit me so often, and...” Her fingers tightened on a fold of cloth. She finished in a rushed whisper: “And I wish he wouldn’t grow a beard.”

“A beard?”

“It makes it seem even more...
primitive
.’’

“Perhaps if you ask him to remove it?” Saliel suggested tentatively.

Marta shook her head. “He says it’s necessary.”

“Necessary?”

Marta nodded.

“Why?” Saliel allowed herself to sound perplexed. Beards weren’t common among the noblemen of the court. They wore their hair long and their faces clean-shaven.

“He wouldn’t say.”

“He’ll soon be gone,” Saliel said soothingly. “Perhaps, if you close your eyes?”

“I do.” Marta shuddered delicately. “I dislike seeing him...that is to say, I don’t like to see him when he is...”

“Unclothed.”

Marta shuddered again. “Yes.”

Saliel knew that the male body differed from the female. She’d seen boy-infants in the poorhouse; there was an appendage, small and odd-looking. She was unclear about its appearance on an adult male. The graffiti in the slums had been rough and imprecise and clearly exaggerated.

“Do you know who your husband is to be?” Marta asked.

“Nothing has been decided yet.” It wasn’t wholly a lie.
Lord Ivo may refuse me.
“The Consort is arranging my betrothal.”

“I’m sure she’ll choose well.”

“I have little to commend me,” Saliel said. “I don’t expect so fine a husband as yours.”

Marta blushed prettily. She was a beauty by Corhonase standards, with a sweet, heart-shaped face and dark eyes and a plump figure. “Your hair is a nice color,” she said shyly.

“Thank you,” Saliel said. “But there are few who share your opinion.”

Marta shook her head, with its chaste coil of dark braids, but didn’t deny this truth. She smoothed her gown, which was crumpled where she’d clutched it. The marriage keys pinned low on her bodice shifted against each other, clinking slightly.

Saliel looked at the keys glittering in the sunlight. The moon was no longer visible in the sky, but she could remember how its rings had looked that morning, pale and delicate. A witch day.

She glanced around. Tall hedges shielded them. She heard no footsteps, no voices. They were quite alone.
Dare I?
Her heartbeat was suddenly loud in her ears. “Marta?”

Marta lifted her head. “Yes?”

Saliel swallowed her fear. She smiled at her companion and caught her gaze.

Marta’s eyes were a warm brown, flecked with gold, unblinking and glazed. Holding them required no effort, but when Saliel reached for the keys it became more difficult. Her own eyes wanted to watch the movement of her hand.

An ache began to build in her head.
Concentrate.
But her fingers were clumsy and slow as she struggled to undo the pin.

Marta’s eyelids flickered.

Saliel froze, with her hand outstretched and the keys cool against her palm. She stared into Marta’s eyes, while her heart pounded in her chest.
You can do this.
Her concentration steadied. Brown eyes, flecked with gold. Unblinking eyes.

Saliel forced herself to breathe. She undid the pin. The marriage keys were smooth in her hand. They clinked slightly against one another.

For a moment she sat, holding the keys, holding Marta’s eyes, taking slow, deep breaths and gathering her concentration. Then she tried to pin the keys back on Marta’s bodice.

The silk was heavy and stiff with embroidery. Her fingers fumbled, slow.
Calm
, Saliel told herself, while the ache increased inside her skull.
Concentrate.
But she knew she couldn’t hold Marta’s eyes long enough to fasten the keys.

Panic squeezed her throat, making it impossible to breathe. There was sudden perspiration on her skin. She couldn’t inhale, couldn’t exhale, couldn’t think what to do—

The pin slid into the fabric.

Saliel sat back, trembling, her palms slick with sweat. The pain behind her eyes was intense. It felt as if her head would split open.

Marta blinked. Her eyes were wide and guileless and without suspicion. “Yes?”

Saliel’s mouth was dry, her voice slightly hoarse: “Your pin has come undone.”

“Oh.” Marta looked down. “Thank you.” She refastened the catch. Her fingers hesitated, touching the keys.

Saliel’s heart stopped beating for an instant. Fear froze her to the marble seat.

“It is unpleasant,” Marta said, glancing up. “And somewhat painful. But it’s over swiftly, and...it is our duty.”

Saliel managed a weak smile and a nod.

Marta released the keys. Wife’s keys. Smooth and cool and silver. She rose to her feet. Her smile was shy. “I hope I’ve answered your question sufficiently?”

“Yes.” Saliel had to clear her throat to speak. “Thank you.”

‘Don’t be afraid, Petra.”

Saliel watched her leave. Her hands trembled as she wiped perspiration from beneath her lower lip.
I was a fool to try that.
The skill she’d had as a child—the easy concentration, the quickness of finger—was gone.

No more. Never again.

CHAPTER THREE

A
THAN DIDN’T USUALLY
visit the courtesans’ salon two nights running, but the Citadel was bursting at the seams with newly-arrived naval officers. Whatever Corhona planned involved a lot of ships.

He strolled through the rooms, wine glass in hand. Sounds and scents swirled around him. He saw mouths stretched wide in drunken laughter, bare flesh and groping hands.

The gulf between the behavior expected of noble men and ladies was vast.
Do they not see how odd it is?
But the gulf between honor and trickery was no less vast. Death before dishonor was the code the Corhonase lived by—and yet they planned trickery.

Athan tasted his wine. It was rich and smoky, full of dark fruit—brambles and blackcurrants. He strolled further. His gaze skimmed over Lord Druso, the closest he had to a friend in the Citadel, over Lord Seldo, Lord Tregar. Ah...there was Admiral Veller, taking his pleasure in one of the alcoves.

Athan drank idly. Brambles and smoke. A wine that smelled and tasted of autumn. When he judged the Admiral had caught his breath he sauntered slowly over. “Admiral,” he said, by way of greeting.

Admiral Veller opened his eyes. “Donkey. Do join us.” His wave was expansive.

“Thank you.” Athan sprawled on the cushions. The whore shifted to rub herself against him.

“You’re overdressed,” she said, coy, businesslike. Her fingers trailed up his arm, over lace and plum-colored satin. She began to unbutton his doublet.

Athan ignored her. “I hear you’ll soon be acquiring new property for the Empire.” He raised his glass. “I toast your success.”

Admiral Veller grunted. Sweat glistened on his face. “Thank you.” He drained his glass and belched. “More wine,” he said, and the courtesan rose obediently to her feet.

“I trust it won’t cost the Empire many sons,” Athan said. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, savoring it.

The Admiral laughed. “There’s little chance of that.”

“No?” Athan said, yawning.

The courtesan returned and the Admiral took the glass she offered. “No,” he said, leaning back against the cushions and scratching his belly. “We’ll be acquiring by invitation, Donkey.” He belched again and drank deeply.

“Invitation?”

The Admiral grunted. He closed his eyes.

The courtesan lay down beside Athan and began to stroke his thigh. He looked at her. He wanted to push her hand away. Instead he lay back and forced himself to relax. Invitation?

“A
WIFE
?”

“Yes,” said the Consort.

“Who?” Athan asked, struggling to stay seated in the same slouched pose. His hands wanted to clench. He kept them loose and relaxed.

“Lady Petra. She’ll make you a good wife.”

It took effort not to say
No
, a short, sharp, forceful monosyllable, not to push to his feet and stride from the atrium, not to be Athan, horrified, instead Lord Ivo, languidly surprised. “Oh?” he managed.

“Yes,” the Consort said. “She is very biddable and docile.”

Athan looked at the woman from beneath half-closed eyelids. Docility was not an attribute he sought in a wife. He wanted spirit and intelligence.

“And she is modest.”

Athan acknowledged this with a grunt. Lady Petra could be nothing other than modest; by Corhonase standards she was exceedingly plain.

“And she is chaste and virtuous.”

Athan nodded, and searched for words of refusal that wouldn’t cause insult. He glanced around. The atrium was empty except for the Consort’s attendants, standing at a discreet distance. The smooth gray marble, the stern busts set in niches, offered no inspiration.