The Laurentine Spy (39 page)

They reached the end of their luck abruptly, swinging around a corner to confront a dark space hemmed in by the backs of buildings. There were no doors, no windows, just piles of fetid refuse.

Athan swore. He thrust Saliel behind him and spun to face their pursuers.

“Don’t move,” he said, dragging air into his lungs. “Leave this to me.”

The Spycatcher’s men careered around the corner and halted.

Athan eyed them grimly. He ripped off his cloak and wrapped it roughly around his left forearm.

Therlo laughed, a gasping, exultant sound. He unfastened his cloak, tossing it aside as he stepped forward. The other man flanked him, breathing heavily.

Athan unsheathed his knife and held it lightly between his fingers. “Who’s your friend?”

Therlo drew his knife. “Volker.”

“And where’s your master?”

“You’ll see him soon enough.” Therlo laughed again, panting. “He looks forward to it. Nothing squeals quite like a Laurentine spy.”

Athan crouched low.

“Your...what did he say you called him? Ah, yes. Your Guardian. He squealed for us, Ivo. He screamed.” Therlo stepped closer. “I look forward to hearing your lady whore scream too.”

Athan shook his head.
Don’t listen to him.
Anger would kill him.

He moved slowly forward, keeping his body low, shielding the blade with his left arm, making sure he was between Saliel and their attackers. “I had hoped to break your skull, servant,” he said softly. “And yet, you live. I’m disappointed.”

Therlo lunged at him.

Athan stepped aside and blocked the blow with his forearm. The blade sliced harmlessly into the layers of cloak. He jabbed his knife at Therlo’s stomach. The man stumbled back and fell awkwardly.

Volker leapt in, his teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness. Athan spun and blocked the thrust, shredding his cloak still further. His knife opened Volker’s cheek. He tried to take the man out fast—while Therlo was still down—but his foot slipped on the cobblestones and his blade slid off Volker’s ribs, cutting but not killing.

Volker staggered back, but Therlo was up again. Athan risked a glance behind him. Saliel stood with her back to the wall. His spare knife was in her hand, unsheathed.

Athan flexed his fingers, feeling the balance of the knife. Months he’d spent in Balzac, fighting with other youths under the tutelage of a grizzled knife fighter. They’d jabbed at each other with charred sticks, feinting and blocking, lunging and slashing. He’d come away from the lessons with red welts raised on his skin, his clothes torn and charcoal-streaked—but he’d learned how to defend himself. How to kill.

A useful skill, his uncle had called it.

“Come on,” he said to Therlo. His tone was soft, insulting. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

Therlo snarled and moved closer. Volker circled to the left. The low, crouching movements blurred in the deepening dusk.
Do this fast. Soon you won’t be able to see them.

Athan feinted and then struck—hard—taking Therlo in the shoulder, slicing through muscle and striking bone, making him stagger and grunt with pain. The man spat a curse, but retained hold of his blade.

Volker darted in. Athan added another slash to his cheek. The man stumbled back, but didn’t fall. He remained standing, shaking his head. Hot droplets of blood struck Athan’s face.

He lunged for the kill, while Volker stood dazed, but Therlo moved too. His knife scored down Athan’s right arm, parting the fabric and leaving a faint, stinging line on his skin.

Athan dropped to the cobblestones and rolled, coming to his feet out of range of Therlo’s blade. From the corner of his eye he saw Saliel step forward. He waved her back.

For a few seconds no one moved. They were all breathing heavily. “That’s right,” Therlo said, panting. His sleeve was black with blood. “Keep your whore out of this. We want her unmarked when we bed her.”

Athan ignored the words. He wrapped the shredded cloak more tightly around his forearm and flexed his knife hand. There was blood on his fingers, warm and sticky, not his own. He crouched low and beckoned Therlo forward. “Come on. Why the caution?”

Dimly, he saw Therlo snarl, but it was Volker who charged. Athan feinted—and saw a chance to take the man. He thrust hard, with all the weight of his body behind the blow.

Volker slipped on the cobblestones and fell. Athan’s knife missed flesh, snaring in the man’s cloak. He fell with him. They rolled, struggling with each other, and came apart.

Athan scrambled to regain his feet. His knife lay on the cobblestones, glinting. He reached for it.

Therlo lunged.

Athan saw his own death coming—a gleaming blade—and then Saliel was between them, facing Therlo. He tried to cry out to her, but his voice strangled in his throat.

Therlo slashed at her, a vicious, upward stroke.

Athan’s heart seemed to stop beating—and then he saw the blade had missed Saliel. His pulse surged. Something roared inside him. His scrabbling fingers found the knife. He launched himself at Therlo, snarling, knocking him to the ground.

They rolled on the cobblestones, grappling fiercely, and somehow Therlo had a knee in Athan’s stomach. “Filthy spy,” he hissed.

Athan put his elbow in the man’s throat and raised his knife. Therlo screamed as the blade slashed across an eye. He released his grip, keening softly.

Athan came to his knees, looking for Saliel. He lost what little breath he had.

Volker had her. They lay sprawled on the ground, a tangled shadow. Volker was on top—that much Athan could see—and his hands were around her throat.

He’s choking her.

Athan scrambled desperately to his feet. Volker screamed, a short, cut-off cry. The figures parted. Saliel rolled away and pushed to her knees. Volker stayed on the ground. He lay curled around himself on the cobblestones, wheezing.

The muscles in Athan’s groin tightened in an instinctive wince. “Saliel, are you all right—?”

An arm hooked around his ankles, jerking him off his feet.

Athan managed to twist as he fell, avoiding Therlo’s blade. The tussle was short and ugly. He knocked the knife from the man’s hand and held him by the throat while he thrust his blade up beneath Therlo’s ribs. He must have found the heart. Therlo stopped struggling. His body spasmed and a strange sound came from his throat. Then he lay still.

Athan pushed unsteadily to his feet and turned to Volker. He lay face down. The cobblestones were black with blood beneath him. Saliel stood silently. Her face was a pale oval in the dimness.

“Are you all right?” Athan stripped the shredded cloak from his arm.

“I cut his throat.”

Athan let his knife fall to the ground. He walked over to her, lurching slightly, and took her in his arms. “It’s all right.”

Saliel pressed her face into his shoulder and shook her head. She was trembling.

Athan held her in silence. He could think of nothing to say. They had both killed. It was—most profoundly—not all right.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

T
RUE DARKNESS FELL.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Saliel shook her head. “Are you?”

“No.” Athan closed his eyes. Memory of her standing between him and Therlo was vivid in his mind: the glint of the knife as it slashed up, the heart-stopping moment when he’d thought the blade had caught her. She could have died so easily. It could be her lifeblood on the cobblestones.

He tightened his grip on her.

The things he had feared were nothing. The portrait in the family gallery, the Seresin mausoleum, the country estate—all were unimportant. He could live without his parents, his brothers and sisters, his uncle. He wouldn’t be nameless. He had a name: Athan. The Seresin was unimportant. It didn’t define who he was.

He didn’t need his House to anchor him and make him whole. He needed no one other than himself.
And you, Saliel. I need you.

The moon rose, casting light and shadows. Its rings were razor-sharp.

With the moon came a whisper of sound. Athan raised his head. His ears caught the scuff of feet, furtive.

He released Saliel and made a desperate grab for her discarded knife. No attack came. Instead, two dark figures in the alleyway froze. He caught a glimpse of eyes wide with alarm and a grime-streaked cheek. Boys. Adolescents.

He took rough hold of Saliel’s wrist and dragged her from the trap they were in, the knife in his fist.

The watchers made no move to hinder or follow them, but still Athan ran, pulling Saliel with him. He turned three corners in quick succession and then slowed to a walk. He released Saliel’s wrist. They were both gasping for breath.

“What now?”

Athan wiped sweat from his face. “The Spycatcher—”

“Do you think you can face him tonight? Truly?”

Athan leaned against a wall. “Truly?” He shook his head. The adrenalin was gone; he was shaking, sweating. “No.”

“Then let us leave.” Saliel gripped his arm. “Let’s sail on the
Sea Wind
tonight.”

“I should stay—”

“No. We go together, Athan, or not at all.”

He reached out to touch her cheek. “Then we go together.”

Their valises lay where they’d left them, pushed against a wall like bundles of rubbish. Athan crouched and wrenched his open. His spare cloak was folded at the bottom. He pulled it out and stood, settling it over his shoulders with a jerk. The fabric was cold at his throat. “Ready?” He held his hand out to her.

They kept to the main streets, walking briskly. Torches fixed in brackets burned at each corner. A light snow began to fall. Athan scanned the shadows, the dark alleyways. No one appeared to be following them.

The dockside, when they reached it, was a confusion of noise and movement. Dogs barked and wagon wheels clattered and hawkers advertised their wares loudly. Two bonfires burned. Snow fell with a
hsss
into the leaping flames. The scent of frying fish stopped Athan in his stride. “Food,” he said. “We need to eat.”

The fish he’d smelled were small and being fried whole and then laid—crisp—between thick slices of bread. He bought four sandwiches and paid extra for them to be wrapped in sheets of paper. Hot grease leaked through the flimsy wrappings, staining them.

The
Sea Wind
loomed up from the water, a jutting cliff, straining at her ropes. A glance told him she wasn’t new—but despite her shabbiness, she was alive, bright with lamps and loud with voices. And beneath the human noises—shouts, laughter, tears—was the soft slap of water against creaking wood.

He stood back to allow Saliel to climb the narrow gangway. A breeze ruffled the black water and swirled snowflakes in his face.

Athan put down his valise. He flexed his fingers and cast a glance behind him. The wharf was a chaos of flame and moonlight, shadow and darkness, noise, movement. Women clutched their children, men shook hands, and the bonfires crackled and hissed. A voice rose drunkenly in song and somewhere a dog yelped.

He picked up his valise and began to climb the gangway. The skin between his shoulder blades, at the nape of his neck, was tight.
We’re not safe yet.

Saliel waited for him at the top. Athan’s tension eased slightly as he set foot on the
Sea Wind
’s deck. The harassed purser, standing near the head of the gangway, sold them two berths, barely glancing at them as he did so.

The ship was crowded. Everywhere Athan looked he saw crying babies, over-excited children, and weary adults. Torches burned and snow fell and the sea and sky were black.

He drew Saliel to one side. “Let’s make sure no one followed us.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

I
T BECAME EASIER
to draw breath when the
Sea Wind
was released from her mooring ropes. Athan inhaled deeply and turned to Saliel. “We’re safe.”

She said nothing, merely nodded.

Their cabins were below deck. He took Saliel to her berth first, down steep stairs and along a narrow corridor lit by smoky lanterns. The door was partially open, revealing an iron kettle sitting on the narrow strip of wooden floor, steam coiling from its spout. Inside, two women talked.

Saliel’s face was pale and weary, smudged with dirt. There was a dark mark on the hem of her cloak.

“There’s blood on your cloak,” he said in a low voice. “Take care they don’t see it.”

Saliel removed the cloak. She folded it over her arm, hiding the stain.

Athan looked at her carefully. There was a fleck of dried blood on her jaw, a tiny splash. He put down his valise and took hold of her chin. “Blood,” he said, and she shivered and stood still while he rubbed it off with his thumb.

Athan released her chin and looked her over a second time. Then he pulled back the hood of his cloak. “Have I blood on me?”