The Laurentine Spy (14 page)

“It’s a risk we must take.”

“Why?”

“That’s not for you to know,” the Guardian said stiffly.

“I believe it is.” One’s voice was quiet, and very firm. “If you wish for our cooperation.”

The Guardian didn’t reply. His stillness was brittle. His black-gloved hands clenched.

The silence lengthened. Shadows stopped sidling across the floor. Even the candle seemed to cease its flickering.

“Very well.” Saliel shivered at the tight anger in the Guardian’s voice. “If you insist.”

One nodded, and released his grip on her shoulder. “I do.”

“Code books were found on one of the ships captured at the Oceanides. We already had one. The other was new.” The Guardian spoke flatly, his displeasure evident in every word. “It appears that some Corhonase documents have a deeper layer of information than was thought. The second book—the one recovered last month—deciphers that.

“When the new code book was used, it became clear there’s a third layer of code.” The Guardian leaned forward. The black cloak and hood didn’t shroud him softly; the fabric fell in precise folds, each crease sharp with tension and anger. “The code book that contains it must be copied!”

One said nothing. His silence made the Guardian exhale through his teeth, an angry hiss of sound. “A letter was intercepted several months ago. With the first code book it was propaganda. ‘The Protectorate is corrupt. All Laurentine women are whores.’ Nonsense like that. When the second code book was used, it became a list of every agent Corhona has in Laurent.”

Saliel’s breath caught in her throat.
A list of every agent.
For a brief moment—a single beat of her heart—she felt empathy for those unknown spies.

“There are more agents than was thought. Far more. Spies—and citizens who’ve been bribed or coerced. Naval officers, diplomatic aides, government officials. They’ve even infiltrated some of the noble houses.”

Beside her, One stirred slightly.

“The names are there, but they’re unable to be deciphered.”

“Hence the third code book,” One said. His tone was uninflected.

“Yes.” The Guardian pushed away from the stone table. Saliel felt the fierceness of his stare. “We must obtain that book. With it we can destroy Corhona’s entire network of spies! It will take them years to recover. Decades.”

She heard One exhale, a heavy sound. “Why us?”

“The Citadel is less heavily guarded than the Emperor’s court.”

“But there are other minor courts—”

“We’re the closest.”

“But must it be now?” Saliel asked. “Can’t it wait until the Spycatcher’s gone and we’ve been replaced?”

“No.”

“But if they understood the circumstances,” she said. “Surely—”

“We’ve been ordered to obtain the code book immediately. Regardless of personal risk.”

“But the Spycatcher’s eyes—”

“I will not disobey our orders.” The Guardian’s voice held a cold note of authority. “I advise you not to disobey them either. If you think you can leave Corhona without my help, you’re mistaken. You’d be caught before the day was out.”

Saliel looked down at her hands.
He’s right.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them and raised her head. “How do we obtain the third code book?”

“You’re not going back,” One said flatly. “I’ll do it.”

Saliel shook her head. “It must be me. I can lie to the Spycatcher.”

“It has to be One,” the Guardian said. “The code books are thought to be in the vault behind the debating chamber. No woman may enter that part of the Citadel.”

There was a short moment of silence.
You don’t care that this may kill him, do you? You see us as tools, not people.

“So the task is mine,” One said. His voice was expressionless. “How do I open the vault?”

“With the Key to the Citadel.”

One laughed, a harsh sound. “Which is why it’s never been done before.”

The Guardian jabbed the air with a finger. “You must get that key!”

“How?” One asked, an edge of derision in his voice. “Shall I ask the Prince for it? Or shall I overpower his guards and steal it from him?”

The Guardian took a step towards One. His hands were clenched.

“The Consort has the Key,” Saliel said hastily, standing. “It’s one of her marriage keys.”

Both men turned their heads to look at her.

“No,” said One. The word was a single flat syllable.

“Yes.”

The Guardian unclenched his fists. “You can steal it?”

Saliel shook her head, seeing the ornate silver key in her mind’s eye. “It would be instantly missed. But...I can make an impression. That would take a few seconds at most.”

The Guardian stepped back and leaned against the table again. “An impression?”

“With soft clay or wax. If you’re able to bring me some.”

The Guardian jerked his head in a short nod. “I can do that.”

“No.” One rejected the plan with a sharp movement of his hand. “Leave Three out of it. I’ll try with the Prince.”

“But I can—”

“It’s too dangerous,” One said, turning to face her. The word
dangerous
hissed on his tongue. “The Consort is no fool.”

“And what you propose is even more dangerous! I can get close to the Consort. Closer than you can get to the Prince.”
And I can hold her eyes. I hope.

“But—”

“Are you one of the Prince’s cronies?”

One shook his head. “No, but—”

“Then the task is mine,” Saliel said firmly. “I’ll do it.”

“No!”

“If I’m caught, I can lie to the Spycatcher. You can’t.” She reached out and touched his arm lightly. “There’s less risk for us both this way. Please.”

One stared at her in silence. His arm was tense beneath the cloak. He stepped back, breaking the contact, and turned away from her. “If you insist.” She heard anger in his voice, flat.

“I do.”

“Very well.” The Guardian straightened. “I’ll bring clay tomorrow night. Now hurry. Leave. It’s late.”

For a moment she thought One would refuse. A draft flickered the candle and lifted the hem of his black cloak, like a hawk flaring its wings. He seemed to tremble with barely suppressed rage. Then he nodded, a short jerk of his head, and turned to face her. “You’ll be careful?”

“Yes. But you’re in more danger—”

“Don’t fear for me. I’ll take care to avoid the Spycatcher.” His hand moved slightly, as if he reached out to touch her. He checked the movement. “Until tomorrow night.”

Saliel nodded. She watched as One strode across the chamber. She didn’t turn away until the darkness had swallowed him.

“Come,” the Guardian said brusquely. He already held open the storeroom door. “It’s late. You must hurry.”

Saliel hesitated at the threshold. She looked back at where One had been.
Be safe. Please.

The Guardian uttered an impatient sound. He pushed past her and opened the concealed exit, grunting as the slab of stone moved aside. “Hurry.”

Saliel stepped into the storeroom, trying to ignore the fear that twisted in her stomach. So much could go wrong. “What should I do if One’s caught?”

“You must leave instantly. Follow the old sewer down to the town.”

“How shall I find you?”

“Wait for me at the bottom. I’ll find you.”

And so will the Spycatcher’s men
. “But—”

“Hurry,” the Guardian said again, gesturing at the catacombs. “It’s nearly dawn.”

Saliel pulled her cloak more tightly around her. Rolen’s body lay through that dark opening, buried beneath dirt and rubble. “Can you tell me who One is? In case—”

“No.”

Saliel bit her lip. She stepped through into the catacombs. The Guardian spoke as the stone slab swung shut: “I’ll bring the clay tomorrow.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HERE WAS NO
mention in court of Rolen’s escape. Clearly the Prince had decided to suppress the news. The Consort’s gaze was cold and predatory as she surveyed the ladies embroidering in the hall.
She knows one of us is a spy.
Saliel concentrated on her stitches. She found the Consort almost as frightening as the Spycatcher. The woman was no fool. It wouldn’t take her long to compile a shortlist of suspects. And she would be on that list: Lady Petra, orphan, unknown before her arrival in court. And the Consort would remember who had asked what questions and—

The needle jabbed into her fingertip—a sharp prick of pain. A bead of blood welled up. She’d dreamed of blood during the short time she’d slept. She’d been in the catacombs and the Spycatcher had found her because she smelled of Rolen’s blood. She’d run with the light of his lamp at her heels, and the lamplight and the sound of running feet had disturbed the skeletons. The air had rustled with the movement of brittle bones as they’d twisted on their stony beds to watch. And when she could run no more, she’d turned to face the Spycatcher.
Spy
, he’d hissed, his pale eyes bright with bloodlust, reaching for her.

She’d woken with a scream in her throat. She hadn’t slept again after that.

Saliel sucked her fingertip.

“They say he was Lord Brecher’s valet.” Marta shivered. “How terrible. To think that one’s servant was a spy!”

Rolen had panicked. She would not. Saliel stopped sucking her fingertip. “Yes, terrible.” She bent her head over the embroidery again. Three more neat stitches and the flower petal was finished.

“Have you heard what he looked like?” Marta asked.

Saliel closed her eyes briefly
. Don’t remember.
“No,” she said, tying a knot in the thread. She rummaged in her embroidery basket for the scissors.

“They say he was quite young.”

Saliel snipped off the excess thread.

“And comely.”

There had been nothing comely about Rolen’s face last night.
Blood. The gleam of bone beneath cut flesh.
Bile rose in Saliel’s throat. She closed her eyes again.

Don’t think about it.

She swallowed and opened her eyes and calmly replaced the scissors. She glanced around, at the tapestries showing scenes of patriotism and honor, at the fires burning in the wide hearths, at the noble ladies clustered on the sofas, their fingers stitching busily and their heads bent together as they talked.
Spy
, she heard.
Laurentine.

She was aware of the Consort seated across the room, her gaze sharp and black.
Relax
, she told herself, and turned back to her embroidery basket.
Choose another color. Gossip. Be like everyone else here.

“How long had he been in the Citadel?” she asked. Her fingers touched silk threads. Red: blood. Brown: the color of Rolen’s hair. Green: his shirt.
Stop it.

“A year, they say.”

“A year!” Saliel made her voice horrified. She looked up. “Think of how much he can have learned!”

Marta’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”

“Forgive me,” she said, contrite. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your husband’s death.”

Marta was silent for a moment, smoothing her finger over an unfurling leaf, tracing the stem of an embroidered flower. She looked up, sweet-faced and pretty. Malice gleamed in her eyes. “I hope the spy’s death is terrible.”

Saliel had to look away. The scent of blood filled her nose. She heard Rolen’s desperate breathing beneath the hushed voices in the hall.

She swallowed against nausea and pretended to search for something in her embroidery basket. Tears burned behind her eyes as she fumbled through the contents. Scissors, skeins of silk thread, a silver thimble.
Rolen didn’t die alone. I was there. I held him.

At the bottom of the basket was the tiny box of inlaid wood that held her needles, and a stylus and tin of wax for drawing embroidery designs. Saliel reached for the tin. It was made of pressed silver, cool beneath her fingers.

Realization came as she held the tin.

Her pulse jerked, and then sped up. She raised her head and looked at the Consort. The woman’s gaze was on Lady Serpa. Her expression was coldly thoughtful.

Saliel shivered.
Dare I?

“It’s only five days until your wedding, is it not?”

“Uh...” She blinked and tried to make her brain work. “Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

The question could have been about her gown or the suite she’d move to in the married ladies’ wing, but the expression on Marta’s face—anxious—told her it wasn’t.
Are you ready for your wedding night?
was the question Marta asked.

Saliel’s fingers clenched around the tin of wax. “Yes.” Her smile felt stiff. Dread was tight in her chest—but it wasn’t Lord Ivo and the marriage bed she feared; it was holding the Consort’s eyes.