The Laurentine Spy (8 page)

“The Royal Consort wishes to speak with you.”

Saliel laid down her embroidery frame. She glanced up at the shuttered windows as she stood.
Soon I shall be gone from this place.
It was hard to comprehend such freedom. She inhaled deeply, imagining fresh air in her lungs.
It will be as if I’ve grown wings and can
fly
.

She followed the attendant across the hall, walking slowly, sedately. The Consort sat beside one of the fireplaces.

Saliel curtseyed, low. “You wish to speak with me, your Eminence?”

“Petra.” The Consort’s expression was unsmiling, her eyes cold.

She’s angry.

Saliel’s mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed, and tried to smile.

The Consort surveyed her for a long moment, and then stood. “Come. There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

There was no need to ask what; her mourning period ended in a month. The discussion would concern her betrothal to Lord Ivo.
And my behavior. I am about to be reprimanded.

Saliel dipped her head and curtseyed again. “Yes, your Eminence.”

She stood aside.
A few more weeks and I’m gone
,she told herself.
What she says to me doesn’t matter.
But apprehension was tight in her belly as she walked two steps behind the Consort. Only a fool would be unafraid of the woman’s anger.

The Consort had a parlor where she spoke privately with her ladies, but today she chose the atrium. Saliel’s spirits lifted slightly. No dark tapestries, no shuttered windows. Instead, fresh air.

In the vestibule she took her heavy, fur-lined cape from its peg. Attendants fussed about the Consort, ensuring she was warmly dressed, and then opened the door to the atrium.

Saliel inhaled deeply as she stepped outside, filling her lungs with cold air. The open courtyard was a cheerless place, the marble as gray as the overcast sky. Potted trees, heavy with blossom in spring, were leafless, their branches bare and twisted.
Does she seek to punish me with this?
It was no punishment; she reveled in the iciness of the flagstones through the thin soles of her shoes, in the chill, blustery wind that snatched at her cape.

The Consort began to walk down the colonnade. Saliel fell into step behind her, her eyes narrowed against the wind. “Your Eminence?” she asked, meek and deferential.

The Consort glanced back at her. “You are aware that Marta must remarry?”

Saliel blinked at the unexpected question. “Yes.”

“The betrothal will be announced shortly.”

Saliel nodded. Corhonase custom required that Marta remarry before the birth of her baby; only a father or stepfather could name a child.

“I have spoken with her on the subject.” The Consort’s cape swirled in the wind. “And she has indicated a preference in her choice of husband.”

Saliel’s eyelids flickered with surprise.
Marta was so bold?

“Given the circumstances I would like to humor her. She is with child, and her husband died honorably. However...” The Consort turned to face her. “It may surprise you that Marta has expressed a desire to marry Lord Ivo.”

Saliel stared at her. “Lord Ivo?”

“Yes.” The Consort resumed walking. “I was somewhat surprised by her request. I’d thought you would have told her of your betrothal. Your discretion is commendable.”

“Thank you, your Eminence.” Saliel tried to sound overwhelmed by the faint praise.

“I have no doubt that you would be willing to end your betrothal.” The Consort’s voice was suddenly as icy as the wind. “You have made your feelings on the matter quite clear.”

Saliel bit her lip. She looked down at the flagstones, watching where she placed her feet.

The Consort walked briskly until she came to the end of the colonnade. She halted and turned to face Saliel again. In the thin, gray autumn light her eyes were black. “However, I have another husband for Marta. Your betrothal to Lord Ivo will stand.”

Saliel sank into a long curtsey of obeisance. “Yes, your Eminence.”

The Consort stared down at her. “The betrothal ceremony will be held next week,” she said coldly. “And your marriage one month after.”

“So soon?” The timing would be close: her departure, her marriage. “Can’t it—”

“No.” The word was flat, final.

Saliel bowed her head.

“I trust you have a suitable wardrobe?”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

The Consort resumed walking. “Marta has requested that your suite be near hers. There’s a vacant one in the same corridor. It is yours.”

Saliel rose to her feet. The wind buffeted her as she followed the Consort along the colonnade. “Thank you.”

The Consort made no reply. Her shoes made thin slaps of sound on the flagstones.

I am meant to be chastened.
“Thank you for discussing this matter with me,” Saliel said, her voice humble. “I’m aware there are weightier matters on your mind these days.”

The Consort halted. The wind lifted her cape, swelling it around her, as if she had grown wings and could fly.

“It’s...it’s a difficult time,” Saliel ventured hesitantly.

The Consort turned to face her. Her skin was as white as marble. Her eyes glittered blackly. “At least one good thing has come of this disaster.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No one can deny there’s a spy in the Citadel. How else could Laurent have known?”

Saliel stared at the Consort. Her throat was suddenly too tight for speech. She shook her head.

“Even my husband can’t ignore the obvious any longer.” The Consort’s mouth tightened. “He has sent for a Spycatcher.”

“Spycatcher?” Saliel stood frozen, while the wind tugged her cape.

“The man who exposed the Laurentine spy in Wrest.”

Saliel moistened her lips. “I have heard of him,” she said. “His reputation is considerable.”

“Yes.” The Consort’s smile was cruel.

Saliel forced air into her lungs. “When does he come?”

“Very soon.”

S
ALIEL SAT WITH
her hands folded in her lap. She surveyed the ballroom.
Calm. Composed.
But terror sat beneath her breastbone, making breathing difficult. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Consort says she will make her decision soon.” Marta’s voice was low.

Saliel looked at her. “Decision?”

“About whom I shall marry.” Marta plucked at her skirt, twisting the stiff gray silk between her fingers. “I do hope...” Her words trailed off.

Saliel followed Marta’s gaze. Lord Ivo was entering the ballroom. His breeches and doublet were a dark purplish-brown, the lace at wrist and throat as white as sea-foam. As always, his expression was vacuous. For a moment disbelief almost smothered her terror. “You like him?”

Marta blushed. “He’s a handsome man.”

Not handsome. Bovine.

“And his figure is very fine.”

Fine? Saliel watched as Lord Ivo gestured for a servant. She saw height and wide shoulders and well-shaped legs.
Odd, I’ve always thought of him as soft.

“He’s rather lethargic, don’t you think?”

Marta’s flush deepened. “Lethargy in one’s husband is not a bad thing.”

So that’s why you want to marry him.

A naval officer approached. His face was square-cheeked above the black and maroon uniform. He wore a Captain’s epaulettes. “Noble Marta, may I have this dance?”

Saliel watched as the pair took their places on the dance floor. Was this the husband the Consort had chosen for Marta?

The musicians began to play. The melody was somehow different tonight. She heard a slow, remorseless beat beneath the dance tune.
Spycatcher
, it said.
Soon.

How soon—

“Noble Petra.”

She looked up.

Lord Ivo stood before her, slack-mouthed. His bow was languid. “Do you care to dance?”

“Not tonight, thank you.”

There was a moment’s silence. Saliel watched the dancers move stiffly across the marble floor.

“Are you quite well, noble Petra?”

She jerked her gaze upward. For a second she almost imagined sharpness in Lord Ivo’s eyes, then he blinked and the illusion was gone.

“I’m perfectly well. Why do you ask?”

His shrug was careless. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.”

Fool.
If Lord Ivo could notice a difference in her manner, then so could others.

“I assure I’m in perfect health.” Her voice was Lady Petra’s, polite and precise and faintly edged with irritation. “However, if I must dance with you to convince you of that, so be it.” She stood.

Lord Ivo blinked again, lazily. “Very well.” He held out his arm.

Saliel made sure to thin her lips slightly in annoyance before she placed her hand on his sleeve.

“I spoke to the Consort today,” Lord Ivo said as they walked onto the dance floor.

“So did I.” Saliel shivered, remembering the icy wind, the blackness of the Consort’s eyes, the sudden shock of the woman’s words.
Spycatcher.

Slow-moving couples parted to let them through.

“I look forward to our union.”

Here on the dance floor she was prey, trapped. Dancers surrounded them. Panic tightened Saliel’s throat. She swallowed, and tried to concentrate on Lord Ivo’s words.
I am a Corhonase noblewoman. My name is Lady Petra. I am betrothed to a man I dislike.
“Do you?” she said, her voice cool.

“Yes.” Lord Ivo’s smile was wide and amiable. “We are well-matched.”

Her awareness of the throng of dancers faded slightly. It took effort not to frown at him. “Well-matched?”

“Don’t you agree?”

Saliel walked a few paces in silence, and then said, “The Consort is known to choose wisely.” To her ears, her voice sounded flat.

“Yes.” Lord Ivo’s eyes gleamed in the reflected light of the chandeliers.

Is he laughing at me?

Saliel shook the notion off. She smiled stiffly and followed Lord Ivo’s lead as he moved through the steps of the dance. He ambled, like a man half-asleep.

“You will put off your mourning clothes soon.”

“Yes.”

The dancers seemed to glance sideways at them as they passed, their eyes sharp and suspicious. Saliel’s chest was tight, her throat. It was difficult to breathe fully.
Fool. You imagine it. No one suspects.

“Our betrothal is to be announced next week.”

“Yes.” The glittering, watching eyes made her heart beat too fast. Saliel swallowed. She forced herself to look down at the red and black squares of stone she stepped on, to concentrate on the dainty dance slippers and polished boots of her fellow dancers, not their eyes.

“Are you quite well, Lady Petra?”

Her gaze jerked up. Lord Ivo was looking at her, an expression of mild inquiry on his slack-jawed face.

“Of course,” she said, and realized that she held his arm tightly. She released her grip on his sleeve. “If I appear distracted, it’s merely because I’m thinking about...our betrothal ceremony. I’m trying to decide which dress to wear. Lavender or brown. Perhaps you have a preference? The brown is a shade similar to cinnamon and the lavender...”

Lord Ivo’s attention wandered. He yawned.

“S
PYCATCHER
?” T
WO’S VOICE
was high. Athan clearly heard terror in it.

“Yes,” Three said. “The one who caught the spy in Wrest.”

Athan’s jaw tightened.
A death worthy of nightmares.

“When?” the Guardian asked.

“She didn’t say.” There was no hint of panic or fear in Three’s voice. “Just that it’s soon.”

“Do we know what he looks like?” Athan asked. He was relieved to find that his voice was as calm as Three’s.

The Guardian rose and began to pace within the scanty light of the candle. “He’s a nobleman. Beyond that, little is known.”

“Nothing?” Two’s voice held a rising note of panic.

The Guardian stopped pacing. His rebuke was short and sternly spoken: “Control yourself.”

Two hunched slightly. His black-gloved hands clenched together.

The Guardian began to pace again. “A nobleman. Thought to be in his fourth decade. In appearance he’s nothing out of the ordinary, although it’s said that his eyes are...curious.”

There was silence. Athan heard his heart hammering in his chest.
Witch-Eye.
He cleared his throat. “Does he have the Eye?”

“Of course not,” the Guardian said. “He would have been burned.”

Athan discovered that his hands were clenched, like Two’s.

“The Spycatcher’s name?” Three asked quietly.

“His name isn’t known.”