The Laurentine Spy (28 page)

“I wish to speak more about Gryff,” the Consort said. “It is comforting to know that Karla lived in so beautiful a place.”

Saliel chewed slowly and swallowed.
Calm. You can do this.
“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about the Governor’s palace. I hear it was quite exquisite.”

“It was.” Saliel put down the sweetmeat. “I wish you could have seen it, your Eminence. The marble had a...a tinge of pink, as if the stone was blushing. At sunset it was the color of roses.”

“Yes,” the Consort said. “So I have heard.” Her expression was benevolent and smiling, friendly. “Tell me more.”

Saliel described the long flights of marble stairs, the colonnades, the gardens with ponds and fountains and peacocks strutting along the paths. The words came automatically—she’d rehearsed them so often.

The Consort watched as she spoke. The dark eyes were fixed on her face. The woman scarcely seemed to blink.

Saliel paused to sip her tea. The liquid was lukewarm: she smelled rosehips. “Is there anything more I can tell you, your Eminence?”

The Consort smiled. “Yes. But do finish your cake, my dear.”

Saliel bit obediently into it. Ginger. Cloves. Honey.

A door on the other side of the parlor opened.

“Ah,” said the Consort, her smile widening. “Here is my other guest.”

Saliel looked around. She saw an attendant curtseying in the doorway, and a corridor beyond, and—

Her throat closed.

“Do come in,” the Consort said. “My dear Petra, are you acquainted with Lord Grigor?”

Saliel forced herself to chew, to swallow, to smile at the man. “Yes. How do you do, Lord Grigor?”

The Spycatcher bowed. “Very well, thank you, noble Petra.” He smiled at her. His gaze was sharp, his tone jovial: “I hear you had a little adventure.”

“Petra acted with great presence of mind,” the Consort said. “One would have expected a noblewoman to faint in such circumstances, but she didn’t. It is most remarkable.”

“You are to be commended, noble Petra,” the Spycatcher said, and bowed again.

“Thank you.” The blush didn’t come to her cheeks this time; she was too afraid.

“Please be seated, Lord Grigor,” the Consort said. “Petra was just telling me about Gryff.”

“Gryff?” the man said, sitting. “How interesting.”

The Consort turned her head and looked at Saliel. Her eyes gleamed, black. “Lord Grigor has an interest in Gryff. I thought he’d like to hear what you have to say.”

“Of course.” Saliel smiled.
Shy. Innocent. Unafraid.
“What would you like to know?”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

T
HE SKY WAS
pewter-gray. A raw, blustery wind blew, tugging at his cape. Athan accepted a tankard of warm mead from a servant, but sipped only a few mouthfuls. He couldn’t see the Spycatcher in the crush of noblemen.

“Come on, Donkey.” Druso tugged at his sleeve.

Athan followed, yawning, holding the tankard ready in case the Spycatcher was at the pens.
You’ll find that mead is stickier than wine.
But the man wasn’t there.

Druso leaned over the wooden railing, scratching beneath Russet’s chin.

“She likes an apple after the race,” Athan said. “But don’t feed her before.”

“I’ve had other pigs,” Druso said. His tone was unoffended.

Athan laughed, and leaned his forearms on the railing. “So you have.” He inhaled the smell of the sty, of straw and apples and manure, and sipped his mead again.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“I
N SOME PLACES
steam came up from the ground,” Saliel said. “It smelled of sulphur.” She sipped from her cup; her throat was dry with talking. The tisane was cold and unpalatable. She forced herself to swallow it.

Lord Grigor’s expression was courteous, attentive, but he shifted his position slightly on the sofa. It was a restless movement.
He’s bored
, she realized.
He thinks this is a waste of time.

The tension inside her eased. Saliel smiled at the man, shyly, and drank another mouthful of cold tisane.

The Spycatcher looked away. It was a relief not to have that gaze on her, pale and intense, urging her to tell the truth.

Saliel glanced at the Consort. The woman sat with a polite smile on her mouth, but anger glittered in her eyes.
She feels a fool.

“Lady Petra’s mother had a mirror similar to the one on my wall,” the Consort said to the Spycatcher. “Didn’t she, my dear?”

“She did?” The man studied the mirror for a moment and then turned to look at her. “It looked like this one? How unusual.”

Saliel put down the cup and saucer. She had rehearsed this moment. “The Consort says it’s Illymedan work, but mother wouldn’t have allowed such a thing in the house.” She shook her head.
Confused. Anxious.
“I don’t understand.”

The man smiled encouragingly at her. “Are you certain it was similar?”
Tell me the truth
, his eyes urged her.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “The animals were different, but the workmanship is the same.”

“Perhaps you could describe it to me?” the Spycatcher said, his tone light and friendly, reassuring.

“There were four squirrels,” Saliel said. “One in each corner, with mother-of-pearl eyes. And acorns and oak leaves carved into the frame.”

The Spycatcher studied her for a moment. “Squirrels?”

“Yes.” Saliel nodded.

“There are no squirrels in the Illymedes,” the Spycatcher said. “And no oak trees.”

I know.
She creased her brow. “There aren’t?”

“No.”

“Then...it wasn’t Illymedan work?”

“It would appear not.”

She smiled. “I’m very pleased to know that. Thank you, Lord Grigor.”

The Spycatcher acknowledged her words with a dip of his head. “My pleasure.”

It was a strain to meet those pale eyes. An ache was growing in her temples. Saliel looked away, at the Consort. The woman’s lips were pinched together. “Is there anything else you wish to hear about Gryff?”

“No, thank you, Petra.” The Consort’s voice was cold.

“Excuse me,” the Spycatcher said. “But I would like to speak more with Lady Petra.”

Saliel glanced at him. His gaze had been bored and uninterested; now it was sharp. Her chest tightened.
What did I say?

She looked back at the Consort. “Your Eminence?”

The woman didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were on the Spycatcher.

Saliel turned her head and saw the man give a slight nod. Panic jerked beneath her breastbone.
What did I say?

The Consort’s smile widened. She looked at Saliel. “I would like you to speak further with Lord Grigor.”

Saliel moistened her lips. “You would?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” The Consort reached for the little silver bell beside the platter of sweetmeats. “I shall have someone escort you to a room where you may speak more about Gryff.” She shook the bell. The sound was light and tinkling.

Saliel moistened her lips again. “But...my embroidery.”

“I would prefer that you speak with Lord Grigor, my dear Petra.”

She swallowed. “If it pleases you, your Eminence.”

The door from the Ladies’ Hall opened. “Fetch Lady Petra’s cape and bring it here,” the Consort commanded.

Saliel sat, waiting.
Calm
, she told herself. But panic was tight in her chest. What had happened? She’d said nothing, done nothing—

I looked away from the Spycatcher’s eyes.

Saliel glanced up at the man. He was watching her.

She smiled at him, polite, shy.

The door opened again.

Saliel turned her head. One of the Consort’s attendants stepped into the parlor. She held Saliel’s cape.

Fool, you looked away again.
Saliel rose to her feet. She allowed the woman to settle the cape over her shoulders and fasten it at her throat.

“Show Lady Petra and Lord Grigor to the green parlor,” the Consort said.

The attendant curtseyed. “Yes, your Eminence.”

“Petra, please answer any questions Lord Grigor may have for you.”

“Of course, your Eminence.” Saliel sank into a curtsey. “My embroidery basket?” There was a pair of scissors in it, small and silver, sharp.

“I shall have someone take it to your maid.” The Consort smiled.

“Thank you. You’re most kind.”

They were pretending, all of them. Did the attendant sense it? Beneath the smiles and the curtseys, the politeness, a hunt was taking place.
And I am the prey.

The parlor was along cold corridors and up a flight of winding stairs.

“Request my manservant to attend us,” the Spycatcher said.

“Yes, noble lord.” The attendant curtseyed.

The parlor was simply furnished—tapestries showing forest scenes, a sofa and two chairs upholstered in green brocade, a writing desk. A large vase stood on the desk. It was an ugly shade of green. A fire burned in the grate.

There was only one door. A single window was high in the wall, framing a view of an overcast sky.

“What a charming room,” Saliel said. She removed her cape and sat, folding her hands in her lap and smiling politely at the Spycatcher.
I am as placid as Marta—and as innocent.
“You have more questions, my lord?”

The Spycatcher took a seat across from her. He returned her smile. “Yes. I should like to hear of your escape from Gryff. The Royal Consort assures me it’s a fascinating tale.”

“It wasn’t an escape, my lord,” Saliel said. “It was merely a journey. I left some days before the disaster.”

The Spycatcher accepted the correction with an inclination of his head. His gaze was fixed on her face.
Tell me the truth
, his eyes urged.

“I was aboard the
Ocean Pride
, with my mother and aunt, and my cousin Lady Tressa and her husband.”

The Spycatcher’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Did your family suspect a great quake?”

“No.” Saliel shook her head and tried to look distressed. “I remember the ground shook a lot that last week, but no one guessed what would come.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“My cousin and her husband were moving to Dravek. Tressa was with child.” She blinked, as if trying to hold back tears. “She wished for us to be with her when the time came.”

“Ah,” the Spycatcher said. “I see.” He steepled his hands. “And were you?”

“No.” Saliel squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her mouth. “Forgive me, my lord.” Her voice was choked. “It’s...it’s painful to speak of.”

“There is nothing, to forgive,” the Spycatcher said politely. His voice held an undertone that made her open her eyes.

The man was looking at her intently. She almost felt his gaze, as if a knife blade brushed lightly over her skin.

I did it again. I broke the hold of his eyes.

Saliel swallowed. She lowered her hand. “There was a fire on board,” she said. “The ship...it sank. There were only a few survivors. My cousin was not one of them. Nor were her husband or my aunt.”

“You have my condolences.”

She smiled weakly and felt for the handkerchief in her pocket. “Thank you.”

“It must have been a terrifying experience.” Lord Grigor’s voice was smooth, sympathetic.

“Yes.” She made herself shiver.

“But you and your mother survived? You were most fortunate.”

“Yes.” Saliel dabbed beneath her eyes with the handkerchief. “We made it aboard a life boat. We were...very lucky.”

The Spycatcher nodded.

“We came ashore at Kressel that night. We thought—” She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth for a moment and then lowered it. “We thought we were safe. We thought everything would be all right.”

“It wasn’t?” The Spycatcher’s expression was sympathetic, curious. It was a mask he wore. He must know the tale; the Consort would have told him.

Saliel shook her head. “Kressel had the fever.”

“Ah.” The man’s eyebrows raised. “How unfortunate.”

“Yes.” She twisted the handkerchief between her fingers, not daring to look away from his eyes.

“Did you fall ill?”

“My mother caught the fever first. And then I did. I...I don’t remember what happened after that. I know only what I’ve been told.”

The Spycatcher smiled at her, sympathetic and encouraging. “And that is...?”

“My mother died and I...I was very ill. I had the fever for many weeks. I was taken in by a townsman and his wife. They cared for me, but...” She bit her lip and shook her head, touching light fingertips to her temple. “I can’t properly remember.”