The Laurentine Spy (27 page)

And he’d say it in Laurentine, so that she knew immediately.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

T
HE IRON KEY
slid into the lock. It turned, a stiff movement. The latch lifted on the other side of the door with a soft
click.

Athan released the breath he’d been holding. He laid his palm against the cool wood and pushed. Two inches of darkness appeared.

He pulled the key from the lock, tucked it into his cuff, and took a candle from his pocket.
Hurry.
He reached up to the wall sconce. The wick took a moment to light, while he strained to hear the tread of booted feet.

Athan pushed the door open, shielding the flame with his hand, and stepped inside the debating chamber. Furniture loomed out of the darkness: high-backed chairs upholstered in brocade, desks made of dark, polished wood.

He closed the door, lowering the latch to lock it again. His footsteps echoed quietly as he walked across the floor. The chamber stretched beyond the light cast by the candle, full of dark amorphous shapes.

Shallow marble steps lead up to a dais. The Prince’s chair was massive, throne-like. The screaming eagle of Corhona spread its wings across the back. The eagle’s feathers were gilded. Athan snorted beneath his breath.
A fine seat for a puppet.
The Prince had no authority; any decisions made in this chamber were approved or rejected by the Emperor.

The wall behind the dais was marble, white, carved with scrolling foliage. Fluted columns stretched high into the darkness.

Athan studied the sculpted designs. Shadows shifted with each flicker of the candle. He held the flame close, squinting to see more clearly. It took long minutes of searching, while hot wax trickled onto his fingers and tension built in his chest, before he found the keyhole.

“Yes.” The
s
hissed triumphantly on his tongue.

He inserted the key and turned it cautiously. The lock clicked open. The door swung inwards at the touch of his hand, heavy, swinging silently on its hinges.

Athan removed the key. He stepped into the doorway. The vault was small, cramped. It reminded him of a mausoleum; the low ceiling, the shelves on either side long enough for a corpse to lie on.

No coffins rested on the marble shelves. Instead there were leather-bound books and rolls of maps.

Athan stepped inside and scanned the shelves, looking for red and green and blue leather. He saw thick volumes and thin ones, gold-embossed and plain—all brown.

Think. Where would they put the code books? Somewhere safe, somewhere secure.

His eyes fell on a small, wooden chest that sat at the end of one shelf. The top was inlaid with Corhona’s screaming eagle, pale wood on dark. Gold gleamed around the rim of a keyhole.

Athan stepped closer and bent over the box.

The key to the Citadel slid easily into the keyhole. The lock opened with a quiet
snick.

Athan lifted the lid carefully. He saw red and green, and blue. Relief swelled in his chest.

The third code book was a slim volume. He took it out to one of the desks in the debating chamber. A silver candleholder sat on the desktop. Athan removed the candle, replacing it with the one he held. He sat. The tiny flame lit his movements as he pulled ink and quill and parchment from their hiding places inside his clothes. He opened the book.

Sixteen pages, filled with letters and numbers and symbols.

Athan inhaled a deep breath and dipped the quill in the ink.
Do it carefully
, he toldhimself.
Make no mistakes.

After the second page he stopped to rub his eyes. At the end of the third page he laid down the quill and rubbed his face with both hands. He yawned, and heard his jaw creak. On the fifth page he caught himself writing the wrong combination of numbers and letters.

“Stop.” He said the word aloud, and then obeyed with his hand, laying down the quill.

Exhaustion was gritty in his eyes. He closed them and sat for a moment, resting his head in his hands. It would be easy to fall asleep here.

Easy. Fatal.

Athan pushed to his feet and walked once around the chamber, treading carefully in the gloom. He sat again and picked up the quill and copied another page with meticulous care, and then walked around the debating chamber again.

The hours passed that way: copying, walking, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes and the cramp from his fingers. Four times the door handles rattled as the guards checked them.

Fourteen pages, fifteen. Sixteen.

It was done.

He did everything more slowly than he wanted to, making sure he made no mistakes—forgetting to lock the box or the vault, leaving the chair he’d sat in pushed out instead of in, not putting the unburned candle back in its silver holder. The copied pages sat beneath doublet and shirt, against his skin—and if he did everything right, no one would ever know that he’d been here.

Athan blew the candle out at the door and waited for the guards to pass. He rested his forehead against the smooth wood. He saw symbols behind his closed eyelids, letters and numbers.

He slept a little, standing, and jerked awake to the sound of booted footsteps.

The guards came closer. Their footsteps stopped. The door handles rattled. “Clear.”

Footsteps again, growing fainter—

Athan quietly opened the door.

He stepped out into the corridor and locked the door behind him. His tiredness was gone.

He retraced his route—cautious, alert—walking down staircases and along corridors, crossing silent atria. At the first brazier, he disposed of the bottle of ink; at the second, the quill; at the third, the stub of the candle.

He breathed more easily once the flames had swallowed the candle. Only the pages beneath his shirt could betray him now—and the key hidden inside his cuff.

With each step he came closer to safety—and with each step the skin between his shoulder blades grew tighter. Here, in this atrium, was where he’d been found last time.

Athan stood in the shadows for long minutes, watching, listening. His ears strained to hear footsteps.

Nothing.

He stepped into the atrium, placing his feet carefully. Sweat stuck his shirt to his skin.

His tension grew greater once he was safely across.
So close now.
His breaths were short and shallow. He had to strain to hear past the beating of his heart.

Two more staircases. Another atrium. A final flight of stairs...

He was no longer the only nobleman in these corridors.

Athan wiped the perspiration from his face. He let his shoulders slouch.
I’m merely another bleary-eyed noble who has drunk too much.
He stumbled slightly as he walked and yawned widely.

His valet was asleep in a chair beside the hearth. The candles had burned low and the fire was almost out.

The man jerked awake as he entered. “Noble lord,” he said, scrambling to his feet.

“Go away,” Athan said, an irritable note in his voice. “And don’t wake me in the morning.” He stretched his jaw in a yawn.

“Yes, noble lord. As you wish.”

Athan turned away, not watching as the man bowed. He heard the door open and then shut.

He shrugged out of his doublet, letting it fall to the floor, and unbuttoned his shirt. The copied pages were warm from his body, limp, damp with sweat. The ink hadn’t smeared.

He turned to the bed. The movement caught his eye in the mirror. He saw himself: linen-white parchment, bare chest.

Athan stared at himself. He heard his uncle’s voice in his head:
Sometimes it’s possible to win before it comes to fighting.

The pages he held, with their letters and numbers, their strange symbols, would save countless Laurentine lives.

These pages make me a hero.

A few months ago he would have stood triumphantly. He would have cared about what the pages in his hand meant to Laurent, what they meant to his House.

Tonight there was no triumph. His relief had nothing to do with Laurent, or with what his House would think of him. It was more personal; now he and Three could leave.

Athan turned away from the mirror. He slid the copied pages beneath his pillow.
We paid too high a price.

He stripped, shedding his clothes. It was done.

Only one more day.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

A
THAN FOUND AN
empty sofa in the corner of one of the smaller salons. He yawned and wandered over, aware of the parchment hidden beneath shirt and doublet and ruffles of lace. He arranged his limbs in a careless sprawl, stretching one leg along the seat. The puce velvet of his breeches went ill with the dark green brocade.

He pretended to doze, resting his chin on his chest above the pages of code.
What will I say to her?
No apology could be sufficient. Nothing could compensate for what he’d done.

He could give her his Name, his House, his wealth.
Marry me. I think I love you.

Athan tried to imagine her reaction. Would she laugh in his face, or spit in it?

“Wake up. Donkey!” A hand shook his shoulder. “You’ll miss the racing.”

Athan opened his eyes. “Druso.” He yawned.

“Hurry up,” Druso said cheerfully. “That pig of yours is running soon.”

“Russet? So she is. I’d forgotten.” He yawned again and rose leisurely to his feet.

“Forgotten?” Druso grinned and shook his head. “You don’t deserve that pig, Donkey.”

“You’re right.” Athan adjusted the lace at his cuffs. The key to the Citadel was a hard lump against his wrist, making the band of linen tight. “You may have her.”

Druso’s grin faltered. “What?”

“You may have Russet.”

“I was only jesting, Donkey.”

Athan shrugged. “Pigs are too much effort. You may have her.”

“But—”

Athan yawned and turned away. “Come, let’s watch her race.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

S
ALIEL JOINED THE
noble ladies at their embroidery. A second day in bed would bring too much attention; she would have visits from the physician, from Lord Ivo, from the Consort.

Lunch time came and went. She sat alongside Marta, stitching. The last dark-veined leaf. The last unfurling petal. The last—

“Noble Petra.”

Saliel looked up. One of the Consort’s attendants stood in front of her. Her face was doll-like, familiar.

“The Royal Consort wishes to speak with you.”

Saliel swallowed. She put aside the embroidery frame.
Don’t panic. She can’t do anything to me. There’s too little time.

She rose to her feet and followed the attendant across the Ladies’ Hall. The woman scratched on the door to the Consort’s private parlor.

Saliel inhaled a slow breath.
Calm.

The attendant opened the door.

“My dear Petra.” The Consort sat beside the fireplace. Her gown was sumptuous, a midnight blue that made her skin seem as pale as milk and her eyes as dark as ebony. “Do come in.”

Saliel curtseyed. “Your Eminence.”

“Have a seat, my dear.”

Saliel sat, while the attendant poured tisane into porcelain cups. A silver platter of sweetmeats lay on one of the tables. She folded her hands in her lap.
I am Lady Petra. I’m taking tea and cake with the Consort. I’m flattered and nervous.

The attendant curtseyed and left the parlor.

The Consort opened her hand in a gesture of invitation. “Have something to eat.”

“Thank you.” She selected a bite-sized cake.

“I hear that your husband had a most unfortunate accident,” the Consort said, her hand hovering over the sweetmeats. She plucked one from the tray.

“Yes, your Eminence.”

“You put out the flames. With your bare hands.”

“Oh, no.” Saliel glanced up. “I tried to, but it was Lord Ivo who put them out. He used my shawl.” Shame helped her to blush. “I didn’t think to do that.”

“Your shawl?” The Consort’s eyebrows arched slightly. “How quick-thinking of him.”

“Yes.” Saliel looked down at the cake on her plate.
Surprisingly so.

“And you didn’t faint or have hysterics,” the Consort said with cool approval. “I commend you, my dear Petra. Not many noble ladies would have acted as you did.”

Was there an edge to those words of praise? Saliel looked up and met the Consort’s eyes. “Thank you.” She picked up the cake and bit into it, tasting ginger and cloves and honey.