The Laurentine Spy (43 page)

She couldn’t drag air into her lungs.
Calm. Think.

“Nothing.” Ottler and the other man came back into the parlor.

The Spycatcher removed his hand from her breast. “The luggage. Check it.”

Their valises were on the floor beside the couch. Ottler picked one up and tipped it upside down. Athan’s belongings spilled from it, across the cushions and floor—nightshirt and shaving kit, Marillaqan clothes, his spare knife. “No.” Ottler jerked the other valise open and upended it. Her nightgown tumbled out, her hairbrush, her clothes.

Ottler threw both valises on the floor.

The Spycatcher increased the pressure of his knife. More blood trickled down her throat. “Where is it?”

“What?” The word came out as a croak.

His fingers twisted cruelly in her hair. She felt strands come out of her scalp. “The code book.”

“I don’t know—”

Someone knocked on the door. “Saliel?”

She tried to cry out to Athan, to warn him, but the Spycatcher was too fast. His hand clapped over her mouth. “The door. Quickly.”

The two men crossed the room swiftly. They stood on either side of the door, one dark, one fair.

Athan knocked again. “Saliel?”

The fair-haired man slid back the bolt.

Athan stepped into the cabin. His cloak was dark with water. “I have a carriage,” he said. “It’s not the best—”

They took him as he pushed his hood back, hitting hard, bringing him to the floor.

I’m sorry, Athan
. Tears fell from her eyes.
I’m sorry
.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

H
E LAY GASPING.
Knees dug into his back.

“Search him.” The voice was familiar.

Athan raised his head. He saw Saliel and the Spycatcher, he saw the knife, he saw the blood trickling down her throat, staining her blue gown.

He snarled and tried to push to his feet.

“Search him,” the Spycatcher said again.

Someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. An arm locked around his throat. He tried to struggle as hands searched him roughly. The arm tightened. His vision grayed, became black.

When he swam back to full consciousness he heard the Spycatcher’s voice. “Excellent.” It was almost a purr. “Excellent.”

Athan lifted his head, searching for Saliel again. The weight was gone from his back.

“Hager, take her.”

He saw boots, legs walking. He followed them with his eyes. A couch. Saliel.

She looked at him. He saw her distress, the silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

Don’t cry for me.
But he had no breath to speak.

Hager took hold of Saliel’s head, twisting his fingers tightly into her hair. She didn’t seem to feel it. Her expression didn’t change: grief.

The Spycatcher removed his knife. Blood trickled more quickly down her throat.

“Saliel—” Athan tried to push to his feet again.

Someone hauled him upright. The arm was around his neck again.

“Donkey.” The Spycatcher bowed with a flourish. His teeth glistened as he smiled. “How delightful to see you again.”

“Grebber.”

The Spycatcher’s smile tightened. “I have the code book.” He raised his hand.

Athan recognized the oiled cloth, the stitching. He looked the man straight in the eyes. “I don’t care.”

The Spycatcher stared at him for a moment. “You don’t care,” he said, lowering the package.

“No.”

The Spycatcher leaned close, holding his gaze. “What do you care about then, Donkey?”

“Her.” The word was pulled from him. “And I will
kill
you—”

The Spycatcher laughed softly. “You love her, do you?”

“Yes—” He doubled over as the man’s knee took him in the groin, hard.

The arms that held him let go. Athan fell to the floor.

The Spycatcher bent over him. “You love her.”

Athan squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to vomit. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

“You love her.”

Yes.
He opened his eyes and looked for Saliel.

His pain shrank abruptly. His vision cleared.

She had caught Hager’s gaze.

He watched as she leaned sideways and groped beside the couch. He saw a hairbrush, his shaving kit—

His spare knife.

Saliel drew it from its sheath. She didn’t try to stab Hager. She straightened and slid the knife into the pocket of her gown.

She turned her head and looked at Athan. He saw her shock to find him watching.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes on Saliel. “I do.”
Wait
, he mouthed.

She nodded, a minuscule movement.

The Spycatcher grabbed his hair and hauled his head around. “And tell me, does it hurt to see her like this?”

The pale eyes were impossible to look away from. Athan tried to clench his jaw but the word was forced from his mouth: “Yes.”

The Spycatcher’s smile sharpened. “Do you know she’s a poorhouse foundling, Donkey?”

“Yes.”

The Spycatcher looked startled for a moment—then he laughed. “And yet you still love her. How delicious.” He released Athan’s hair and stood. “This is going to be more amusing than I’d thought.” He turned away. “Bind his hands, Ottler.”

Athan was hauled to his feet. For the first time he saw the man who held him.
He’s huge.

“Co-operate,” the Spycatcher said. “Or I’ll have Hager slit her throat too.” He gestured at the bedchamber.

Athan turned his head. A woman lay on the bed. He saw brown hair, blood.

“Recognize her?”

Athan closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” He stood quietly while his hands were tied in front of him. Ottler was thorough. The cord dug painfully into his wrists.

The Spycatcher watched, smiling. “And her,” he said, turning to Saliel.

Hager tied Saliel’s hands together.

“Her cloak.”

It lay neatly over the back of the sofa. Hager shook it out and placed it over her shoulders, covering the blue gown. The Spycatcher’s smile grew wider. He stepped close to Saliel.

She averted her face.

“No.” The Spycatcher gripped her hair. “Learn to enjoy it.” He caressed her cheek, her bloody throat, her breasts. “I shall let every man on the ship have her. Every single one. And I shall make you watch.” He looked at Athan. “How does that make you feel, Donkey?”

Athan bared his teeth. “That I want to kill you.”

The Spycatcher laughed. He released Saliel’s hair and pulled the hood forward over her face. “Come,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Ottler pushed him towards the door. He walked, watching Saliel. One step. Two. Three. Her head lifted. She looked at him from beneath the hood.

The Spycatcher opened the door. Rain fell heavily outside.

“Athan—” Saliel’s legs seemed to give way. She clutched at him. Their hands touched for a brief moment. The knife pressed into his palm.

He took it while Hager dragged her back.

They walked briskly, the Spycatcher holding Saliel’s elbow, then Athan with Ottler and Hager flanking him. Hands gripped his arms on either side. No one on deck paid them any attention; they had their heads down against the rain.

The cords were tight. His fingers were numb by the time they reached the gangway. It was wide enough for only one person. Hager walked ahead of him; Ottler behind. Athan slit the cords with rough haste, gripping the knife blade clumsily—
don’t drop it—
cutting clothes and skin. The cords parted. His fingers stung as blood rushed into his hands.

At the bottom of the gangway, Saliel glanced back at him. Her face was pale beneath the wet hood. Athan gave a tiny shake of his head.
Not yet.
There were too many jostling people, too much noise and confusion. It would be easy for the Spycatcher to drag her into the crowd. He’d never find her again.
I need space. I need to be able to see you.

They walked along the wharf, the Spycatcher and Saliel, Ottler and Hager and himself. Rain sluiced down, heavy, warm. Athan flexed his fingers. The numbness was gone, replaced by sharp, tingling pain.

Water splashed up with each step they took. The bustle of the
Morning Star
grew less. Rain swallowed the sound of voices, the clatter of wagon wheels.

Steps led down to a lower level of dock. He saw smaller vessels—sloops and ketches, fishing boats—and an empty, drenched wharf.

Saliel glanced back at him. Athan nodded.
Yes, here.

The Spycatcher jerked her forward. “Move.”

They walked down the steps. Hands gripped him at the elbow on either side, firm. Athan held the knife lightly. The hilt nestled into his palm. Twelve steps and a landing and then twelve more, with water sluicing down them.

Saliel seemed to stumble as she went down the second flight of steps. She fell to her knees, clutching the Spycatcher, dragging him with her.

Athan yanked his right arm free from Hager’s grip. He turned and sank his knife into Ottler’s throat. The hand that held his elbow spasmed and released. Ottler fell heavily, a look of blank astonishment on his face.

He swung back to Hager. The man pulled a knife from beneath his cloak. His mouth opened in a shout.

It took no longer than a heartbeat—grabbing Hager’s wrist and jerking the man towards him, burying his blade high in the man’s stomach.

Hager’s momentum carried him forward. He fell heavily against Athan, clutching him.

Athan ripped the knife free. Blood gushed over his hand.

Hager’s knees buckled. His head came up. He stared at Athan. A sound came from his mouth, inarticulate. His wrist relaxed in Athan’s grip. The knife he held fell to the ground. The rain swallowed the sound it made.

Athan shoved Hager away and spun to face the Spycatcher.

The man was halfway down the flight of stairs, struggling to stand. Saliel hung onto his knife arm. The Spycatcher’s face was a mask of fury. He struck her, sending her sprawling, and pushed to his feet. His lips drew back from his teeth.

Athan kicked him in the chest. The impact was heavy, solid. He felt it in every bone in his body.

The Spycatcher tumbled backward down the steps.

Athan followed, gripping the knife tightly. His boots splashed in red-tinted water.

The Spycatcher rolled at the bottom and scrambled to stand, gasping.

“No,” Athan said, and punched him in the side of the head. All his weight, all his rage, was in the blow.

The Spycatcher’s legs buckled, as Hager’s had done. He collapsed.

Athan stood looking down at the man, at the reddened water. Then he knelt. He buried his fingers in the Spycatcher’s hair and pulled his head back.

The man stared up at him, dazed, his pale eyes unfocused.

“You’re dead,” Athan said, and he slit the Spycatcher’s throat.

T
HERE WAS BLOOD
everywhere. He knelt in it. His hands were covered with it.

The sound of rain roared in his ears. No, not rain. The noise was inside him.

Athan dropped the knife. He pushed to his feet, lurching. He was drenched, soaked. In blood. In rain.

He turned slowly to Saliel. She knelt on the steps. Her face was starkly white. “Are you all right?” The words made no sound as they came out of his mouth. He couldn’t hear them.

Behind her, on the landing, lay Ottler and Hager.

I just killed three men.

Color leached from his vision. Everything became gray.

“Athan!”

He barely heard his name. It was as faint as the cry of a bird. There was no color except gray. He knew there was blood, knew he stood in it, knew his hands were covered in it—but he saw only gray.

“Athan, are you all right?” She’d been kneeling on the steps, now she stood with her hand on his arm. He hadn’t seen her move.

Gray. Rain. Blood.

He turned from her and vomited.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

A
THAN GRIPPED HER
hand tightly the whole way—on the wharf, in the carriage. Saliel looked at his face as they reached the Laurentine consulate. The whiteness, the blankness, were gone. His expression was grim, but he was Athan again.

Rain drummed down. The cobblestones ran with water. She glanced at the consulate—a flight of steps, slender columns, white marble—and ducked her head against the downpour.

At the top of the steps, guards barred their path. Their uniforms—blue and gold—made Saliel’s throat tighten.
Home.