The Laurentine Spy (6 page)

“It won’t be a campaign,” Athan said.

“What then?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated that he’d managed to glean so little information. “An acquisition. Through trickery, according to Lord Seldo.”

“Trickery?” The Guardian sounded baffled. “But the Corhonase value their honor so highly.”

“If the prize is great enough.” Athan shrugged. “They’ve tried subterfuge before. The invasion of Marillaq—”

“And look at the result,” the Guardian said. “I doubt they’d try such a thing again.”

“Perhaps the Prince is planning an unauthorized operation?” Two suggested.

Athan hesitated—
he is certainly fool enough—
and shook his head. “He wouldn’t dare. The Emperor has other nephews who can take his place.”

“But if he thought to gain favor?”

“With so many ships, it must be on the Emperor’s command,” the Guardian said. “One, what did the Admiral say?”

Athan shrugged again. “That they’d be acquiring by invitation.”

“By invitation?”

“Yes. With little loss of men.”

“The Oceanides would never
invite
Corhona...” The Guardian fell silent.

“What form of trickery?” Two asked.

Athan shook his head, wishing the scraps of information made sense.

“The officers on eight of the ships are growing beards,” Three said tentatively. “Perhaps there’s a connection?”

“Beards?” The Guardian rose abruptly to his feet. “What could beards possibly have to do with acquiring the Oceanides?”

Three shook her head.

The Guardian began to pace. His steps were sharp with frustration.

Athan frowned at the floor. He’d assumed the beards were a new fashion among the naval officers.
But if it’s only the men on eight ships...

There had to be a reason for the beards.

“Pirates,” Three said suddenly.

Athan raised his head and stared at her.

“There are no pirates in the Northern Ocean. Laurent destroyed their bases.” The Guardian stopped pacing. His voice became thoughtful, “I wonder...”

Athan didn’t wonder. “The Corhonase will masquerade as pirates.” The statement hung in the air for a moment—absurd, utterly preposterous, and yet he knew it was correct.

“Pirates,” the Guardian said. He sat down again. “Eight ships. With a hundred men aboard each—”

“The Oceanides can’t defend themselves against so many,” Athan said.

“No. It will be a slaughter.”

A slaughter.

Memory came. Bodies lying like broken dolls. Too many to count. Hundreds upon hundreds. The smell—

“Eight ships plunder the islands,” he heard the Guardian say. “Disguised as pirates. What then?” And beneath that was his uncle’s voice in his ear.
Don’t throw up on me, boy.

Athan swallowed. He pushed the memory aside.

“The rest of the squadron sail in, offering protection?” suggested Three.

“Perhaps,” the Guardian said. “Although—”

“She’s right.” The plan fell into shape behind his eyes. He saw it clearly. “The pirates plunder—and Corhona offers protection. On the condition that the Oceanides become their territory.”
Simple.

“The Oceanides needn’t accept,” Two said.

“They will.” His voice was flat.
Bodies lying like broken dolls
. “If the slaughter is great enough, they will.”

“But Laurent—?” Two sounded confused.

“Laurent can protest, but the Oceanides are free to join the Corhonase Empire if they choose.”

“We can fight,” Two insisted. “We have the larger fleet. We can take the Oceanides for ourselves.”

The Guardian shook his head. “That would be unwise.”

“But Corhona will take them—”

“Through an act of benevolence. For Laurent to then take them through force wouldn’t reflect well on us.”

“Corhona would occupy a position of high moral ground,” Athan said. “And we’d lose allies.” Anger built inside him.

“But—”

“Don’t worry,” the Guardian said. “Corhona won’t acquire the Oceanides.”

“There’s time to warn Laurent?”

“Yes.”

Athan’s tension eased. “A welcoming committee for the pirates?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He was aware of satisfaction—solid in his chest—and a strange sense of rightness.
Sometimes it’s possible to win before it comes to fighting.
The decision he’d made nearly two years ago hadn’t been a mistake. This moment made it all worthwhile—the lies, the danger.
I did the right thing becoming a spy.

The Guardian laughed. “I foresee loss of Corhonase face.”

“Not just loss of face.” Three’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “The Emperor’s judgment will be questioned, his honor brought into doubt—for the second time in his reign. It may threaten his position.”

Athan looked at her. “A power struggle within the imperial family?”

She shrugged.

“Let us hope that’s the case.” The Guardian rose to his feet. He rubbed his gloved hands together. “This is a great day for Laurent. You’ve all done exceedingly well.”

Three stood, anonymous in the black cloak and executioner’s hood.

“We’ll meet in two nights’ time,” the Guardian said. “Be careful.”

Athan nodded. He stood and bowed to Three. Did she feel it too? The satisfaction, the rightness?

Two started in the direction of the sewer tunnels, and halted after a few steps. “Do you come?”

“I must speak privately with the Guardian.”

“Very well.” Two hurried into the shadows.

Athan turned his head. He watched as the Guardian opened the door to the storage room.

“Be careful,” he heard the man say. And he heard Three’s low response: “Yes.”

She stepped through without a backward glance. The Guardian closed the heavy stone door. Athan shivered. It was a journey many men would shrink from: the catacombs, alone and in darkness.
She has courage.

“What is it?” the Guardian asked as he came back to the candlelight.

Athan shook his head to clear it. “The Consort has arranged a marriage for me.”

“Marriage? With whom?”

“Lady Petra.”

The Guardian nodded.

“I can’t do it,” Athan said. The words were short and tight. “I can’t take a Corhonase wife.”

“Would it be such a bad thing?” The Guardian’s voice was amused.

“What if she becomes pregnant? What then? What if I sire a child with her?”

“Relax,” the Guardian said.

“Relax?” said Athan. “I do not want a Corhonase wife!”

“You won’t have one.”

“No?” His hands clenched. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly. The
Royal Consort
has arranged the betrothal.”

“The marriage won’t take place,” the Guardian said calmly. “You have my word.”

“But how can you possibly—”

“Don’t let the matter concern you. There’ll be no marriage.”

“But the Consort herself—”

“Trust me,” the Guardian said.

Athan looked at him. “You won’t harm Lady Petra?”

“No harm will come to her,” the Guardian said. “And no suspicion will fall on you.”

“Very well.” He accepted this with a nod. His hands unclenched. “Will you tell me how?”

“No,” the Guardian said. “But it would help matters if you made yourself disagreeable to her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It would help matters if Lady Petra disliked you.”

“She already does,” Athan said, his voice dry.
Which is why I like her.

The Guardian shrugged. “Well, then. Take care that her dislike persists.”

“I shall.”

AUTUMN

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE FIRST FULL
moon of autumn was the anniversary of the Great Burning. The morning passed as it always did—with embroidery and sweetmeats—and in the afternoon Saliel went out into the great courtyard with the lords and ladies of the Citadel. Wind gusted around them and clouds scudded across the sky.

Marta stood beside her, wide-eyed and with glowing cheeks. “I love bonfires.”

Saliel huddled into her cloak. “So do I.” She pretended to listen, hearing only snatches of the Prince’s words as he spoke.

“On this day, nearly three hundred years ago, the Great Burning began. Nations united in one cause and fires burned around the world.”

She raised her head and looked up at the sky. “Witches died in their thousands,” she heard the Prince say from his dais. “And the sky was black for months.”

The sky wasn’t black today. It was pale, with swift gray clouds.
No screaming crowd. No stench of burning witch.
She smelled only fresh air, heard only the respectful silence of the nobles as the Prince spoke.

“Few witches escaped the Great Burning. We have hunted and burned those that did for nearly three centuries. Each year they grow fewer. Soon the moment will come when the world is purged of evil!”

A roar went up in the courtyard, a swelling, screaming sound. Sparrows took flight from the steep-pitched slate roofs.

The roar became a chant as the bonfire was lit.
Burn the witches, burn the witches.
Saliel opened her mouth. “Burn the witches!”

She watched as the fire took hold. Flames roared upward. She felt their heat on her cheeks. Logs snapped and crackled as they burned. Fierce sounds. Sounds that made her feel ill. The wind snatched the smoke, dispersing it.

“Burn the witches!”

When the bonfire had consumed itself, she walked with Marta to the edge of the courtyard. The Citadel was a jumble of ramparts and towers and sloping roofs, a muddled patchwork of colors and styles, old and new. As a defensive site, it had no equal. Plague, not warfare, had emptied the Citadel of those who built it.

Saliel shivered, hunching into her cloak, and looked out over the town and the harbor. Far beyond the horizon, days and weeks away, lay Laurent.
Freedom.

“I’m with child,” Marta said.

Saliel turned her head. “Are you certain?”

Marta nodded.

“Congratulations.”

Marta blushed prettily. “Thank you.”

“Your husband will be pleased.” Saliel glanced at the horizon again.
Five weeks since the squadron sailed.
“I wonder when he’ll return.”

“Lady Gerda says that sails have been spotted, out to sea.”

“The squadron?”

“Perhaps.”

They stood, looking down at the harbor. A pillar of smoke rose from the town.”Have you ever seen a real burning?” Marta asked.

“Only one.” Memory gave her the scent: burning hair, burning flesh.

“I saw two,” Marta said, cheerful. “When I was a child.”

“Oh.”

“I should like to see another.”

“There are few burnings now.” Saliel turned away from the view and the column of smoke. “It’s cold. Shall we go inside?”

CHAPTER SIX

S
ALIEL SAT ON
a stool by the window. It took effort not to tell her maid to hurry. Through the windowpanes she saw a patchwork of bare fields, white with frost, distorted into skewed shapes by the glass. She couldn’t see the harbor, where the maid told her the squadron had arrived during the night, couldn’t count how many ships had returned or see what condition they were in.

She winced as the maid began winding the long braids tightly about her head, fixing them there with hairpins. Someone scratched at the door.

“Noble Petra?”

“Enter,” said Saliel, holding her head still while the maid anchored the last of the braids in place.

“Noble Petra.” The newcomer curtseyed. Saliel recognized her. She was one of the servants who attended the married ladies. “Lady Marta requests your company.”

“Now?”

“Yes, noble lady.” The woman nodded. “If you please.”

“Very well.”

Saliel descended the stairs sedately, following the servant, and crossed the wide atrium. The atmosphere was hushed.

They entered the wing where the married ladies resided. Torches burned in the brackets, but the corridors were cold and dark with shadows. The soles of their shoes made quiet, flat sounds that echoed off the black stone. Saliel repressed a shiver as they halted at the door to Marta’s suite.
Something’s wrong.
The corridors were too silent, too empty.