The Laurentine Spy (7 page)

The servant stepped forward and scratched on the wooden panels.

Marta’s maid opened the door. She curtseyed low. “Noble Petra.” Relief was clearly audible in her voice.

“Is everything all right?” Saliel entered the parlor. It was a stiff, formal room, with heavy furniture and dark tapestries. Trinkets and tiny ornaments clustered in cabinets of polished, ebony-black wood. The fire was unlit.

“Petra?” Marta’s voice was weak and tearful.

The maid hurried across the parlor to the open door of the bedchamber. “Please, noble lady.” She beckoned, her face anxious. “Please.”

The furnishings in the bedchamber were similarly dark and ornate, but here a fire burned and candles were lit. Marta lay in the bed. Her face was tear-stained. “Petra.” She held out her hand.

Saliel hurried over to the bed. “What’s wrong?” She clasped Marta’s outstretched fingers. “What has happened?”

“My husband is dead.”

Saliel froze, holding Marta’s hand.
Is he dead because of me?
She swallowed. Her throat was tight. “How?”

“Laurent,” said Marta. Tears welled in her eyes. She began to weep.

I killed him.

Saliel sat on the edge of the bed. Marta clutched her hand.
She trusts me.
She couldn’t look at Marta’s face. Guilt was bitter on her tongue.

She closed her eyes and listened as Marta’s sobbing slowly quieted. Then she raised her head.
Concern, not guilt. I’m Lady Petra, not a Laurentine spy.
But she was a spy—it was all she was in this citadel—and she wiped Marta’s cheeks with a lace-edged handkerchief and knew there were questions she must ask. “Do you know what happened? Can you tell me?”

“The Consort told me he died honorably,” Marta said in a choked voice. “She said he took his own life when Laurent demanded surrender. I know nothing more.”

Death before dishonor.
It was the code the Corhonase lived by.

Saliel looked down at the damp handkerchief in her hand. The entire crew would have followed Lord Soder’s example. A hundred men. She closed her fingers around the handkerchief, squeezing tightly, and made herself look up. “A hero.” The words stuck in her throat. She had to push them out. “You can be proud of him.”

Marta smiled weakly. “Yes. And...I’m grateful to him.”

Saliel met her gaze and understood what she was saying. In dying honorably, Lord Soder had given Marta and her unborn child their lives. If he’d surrendered, the dishonor would have been hers, as his wife, and the choice would then have been hers. Death before dishonor.
Truly the Corhonase are fools.

“Lord Soder was a most honorable man,” she said. “A true nobleman.”

Marta nodded. Her eyes filled with tears again.

Saliel handed her the handkerchief. She turned to the maid. The woman stood at the foot of the bed, quiet and unobtrusive. “Has your mistress eaten breakfast?”

The woman shook her head.

“Bring her something warm to drink, and a little food.”

“Yes, noble lady.”

Saliel turned back to Marta. Marta hadn’t loved Lord Soder, but she had good reason to cry: in Corhonase terms the man had been a very good husband.
I’m sorry.
She shut her eyes for a brief moment and listened to Marta’s sobbing. How many other wives had received the same news this morning?

Marta stopped crying when the maid returned. The woman curtseyed with careful balance and placed a tray on the table beside the bed.

“I don’t think...” Marta said doubtfully.

Saliel handed her a cup of warm, honeyed milk. “At least have something to drink.”

She watched as Marta drank obediently.
Perhaps there’s something to be said for docility.
“More?” she asked, when the cup was empty.

“Thank you.” Marta glanced at the pastries the maid had brought. “Perhaps I could eat a little...”

Saliel handed her the plate.

Marta chose a pastry filled with fruit and custard. She raised it to her mouth. Her brow creased with new distress. “I shall have to remarry,” she whispered. She laid down the pastry.

Saliel reached out and took hold of Marta’s hand. “I’m certain the Consort will choose well.”

Marta’s eyes shone with fresh tears. “But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Saliel said softly. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Marta blinked back the tears. Her smile was small and wavering. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I’m the reason you’re crying.
Saliel forced herself to return Marta’s smile. “Do eat something.”

Marta picked up the pastry again and obediently ate.

F
OR ONCE THERE
was no ball; the magnitude of the disaster was too great. Athan had seen the ships for himself from one of the terraces in the formal gardens. There were eight fewer than when the squadron had sailed.

The Citadel seethed with rumors. They all had one thing in common: Laurent was cast as villain. That, Athan ignored.

He’d heard that Admiral Veller had given his report to the military council and then taken his own life. The Prince had been in talks with his advisors all day. No statement had yet been released, but the members of the military council had recently exited the debating chamber.

Athan entered the most private of the men’s atria and looked around. Braziers illuminated the courtyard, casting shifting shadows over tall columns and elaborate fountains. A figure sat in the semi-darkness.

Athan smiled.
Got you.
He strolled across the courtyard. “Evening, Seldo.”

Lord Seldo looked up wearily. “Donkey.”

“Care for a drink?” Athan displayed the bottle he carried.

Interest flickered in the man’s eyes. He straightened slightly. “Thank you. It’s been a trying day.”

“So I gather.” Athan sat down beside his prey. “I confess I’m confused as to the details.” He poured wine for them both. “Here.”

Seldo grunted his thanks and drank deeply, gulping the wine. “It’s a catastrophe, Donkey.”

“Eight ships lost.” Athan sipped his own wine. It was savory, pepper and spices. “But I haven’t yet heard how.”

Seldo drained his glass. Athan leaned over to refill it. He smiled Lord Ivo’s smile—amiable, slightly bewildered. “Tell me, Seldo. How did the squadron lose so many vessels?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
ALIEL’S PACE WAS
faster than normal. It was a struggle: haste, caution. She crossed echoing chambers and walked along winding passages. Bones surrounded her—old, crumbling to dust—but she saw only blackness, smelled only stale air.

The Guardian wasn’t waiting in the storage room. Saliel crossed the small space and felt for the door. Stone grated against stone as she pushed it open.

Three cloaked, hooded men stood in the candlelight. They turned at her entrance. Their voices became silent. One of the figures came towards her, his footsteps echoing flatly.

“I saw three stars fall tonight,” she said in a low voice.

“I saw none,” the Guardian said. “Come. Be seated. We have much to discuss.”

Saliel followed him out of the shadows.

“Have you heard the news?” Two asked.

“I’ve heard very little.” She sat on an urn. “What happened at the Oceanides?”

“A disaster for Corhona.” Two said, jubilant. “The squadron lost eight ships!”

“And all the men aboard,” One said quietly.

Saliel glanced at him. Did he also regret the loss of life? Did he feel some culpability? “How?” she asked. “What happened?”

The Guardian nodded at One.

“Laurent was waiting,” One said. “The would-be pirates were heavily outnumbered. Five ships were destroyed in battle. The remaining three were asked to surrender. Their crews refused, preferring to scuttle their ships.” He spoke without inflection, stating the facts. “Laurent was able to board at least one before it sank. They found sufficient evidence to implicate the Empire.”

“The Oceanidans have decided to join the Protectorate,” the Guardian said smugly.

Two gave a whoop that echoed in the chamber.

Saliel nodded. Her emotions were mixed: relief Corhona hadn’t acquired the Oceanides, regret the islands had lost their independence. She looked down at her hands.
Perhaps I value independence too highly, having none myself.

“The Admiral is dead.”

“What?” She raised her head.

“He accepted responsibility for the disaster and took his life. In the debating chamber. Before the Prince and his military advisors.” One’s voice was flat.

The Guardian shrugged. “Death before dishonor.”

Saliel looked down at her hands again.
Another widow.

“This is a great day for Laurent,” the Guardian said. “You may feel proud of yourselves.”

Proud?
There was nothing to be proud of in what they did: lying, pretending. Saliel closed her eyes.
I
want to go home.

“W
E’LL MEET IN
two nights’ time,” the Guardian said at last, standing. “Take care that your true feelings on this matter aren’t apparent to others.”

Athan stood. “Guardian, I must speak with you privately.”

“Very well.”

Three rose to her feet. She didn’t stand as Two did, triumphant.

Athan looked at her more closely. “Are you all right?”

“It’s been a difficult day.” Her voice was low, weary. “There are many new widows in court.”

Athan nodded. He could think of nothing to say.

Three turned away. He watched as she and the Guardian walked across the chamber.

“Until next time,” Two said.

“Yes,” Athan said, scarcely noticing as Two left.

The Guardian opened the door to the storage room. Athan found that he had to look away. He couldn’t watch as Three vanished from sight.
She shouldn’t be here. This is no life for a young woman.

He sat down again and stared at his gloved hands. It seemed to him that he was responsible for the deaths, that he had blood on his hands. The guilt that he felt disturbed him.
Is this how Three feels? Satisfaction and guilt intertwined?

“Well?” the Guardian asked, as he came back across the chamber.

Athan raised his head. “About my betrothal.”

The Guardian sat. “What about it?”

“I’ve done as you asked,” Athan said. “Lady Petra dislikes me heartily.”

“Good.”

“And we are still betrothed.”

“Don’t worry,” the Guardian said.

“It’s been five weeks. Her mourning period will soon be over.”

“Don’t worry.”

Athan exhaled through his nose, a sharp hiss of air. “How can I not worry?”

“You have my word. The wedding won’t take place.”

Athan stared at the hooded figure.

“Trust me,” the Guardian said.

“Very well.” Athan pushed to his feet. “But know this—” the vehemence in his voice surprised him, “—if you fail to halt the betrothal, I’ll leave the Citadel. Laurent be damned!”

The threat hung in the chill air of the chamber.

The Guardian stood. “There will be no betrothal. You have my word.”

Athan gave a sharp nod and turned away. Then he halted. “About Three.”

“What about her?”

He turned back to face the Guardian. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“She volunteered,” the Guardian said mildly.

“She shouldn’t be here. This is no place for a woman.”

The Guardian looked at him for a moment. “Don’t concern yourself about her,” he said. “She’ll be leaving soon.”

Athan felt relief, and a deep sense of loss. “Good.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HEY SPENT THEIR
days indoors, now that it was autumn. Saliel disliked the Ladies’ Hall, with its heavy ceiling and narrow, shuttered windows. Two hundred women sat and sewed, but the Hall seemed to swallow them. They shrank, becoming doll-sized.

She raised her head and looked around, seeing tapestries, sofas with brocade cushions, ornate side tables. The colors she wanted to see—warm reds and yellows, vivid blues and greens—weren’t there. The noblewomen wore the colors of virtue: dark colors, pale colors, dull colors.

And gray, the color of mourning. The seamstresses had been busy in the past three weeks; more than fifty ladies wore gowns of ash-gray silk.

And for each gown, a dead man.

Saliel bent her head over her embroidery.

“Noble Petra.”

Saliel looked up. One of the Consort’s attendants stood before her, her face round and placid. “Yes?”