The Laurentine Spy (9 page)

Two stirred, shifting on the upturned urn. Athan understood his fear. He swallowed and tried to unclench his hands, to relax.

The Guardian continued pacing. His footsteps echoed flatly in the chamber. “Three, I’ve made the arrangements for your departure. You leave in four weeks.”

Three nodded.

“If the Spycatcher believes you’re fleeing him, he may not search the Citadel.”

Athan frowned.
You cast her as bait
. “Won’t that be dangerous for her?”

“Only if she’s caught.” The Guardian spoke mildly. “And there’s little chance of that. Trust me.”

Athan stared at him. He was no longer sure how much he trusted the Guardian.
Your priorities are different to my own.

“To have no spies in the Citadel would be undesirable.” The Guardian stopped pacing. He sat on an urn. “If the Spycatcher believes Three is his prey, then you two may be able to remain here.”

“And if he doesn’t believe it?” Two’s voice was high, anxious.

The Guardian shrugged. “Then you’ll have to leave.”

Athan nodded. Beside him, Two’s rigid tension eased slightly.

The Guardian sighed, a heavy sound. “I hope it won’t be necessary. You’re very valuable to Laurent.”

They sat in silence, while the candle flickered and thick shadows crowded close. The Guardian straightened on his seat. “Thank you, Three. It’s well that we are warned.” He stood. “We’ll meet in two nights’ time. Be careful. Do nothing to draw attention to yourselves.”

Two nodded jerkily.

“Don’t let your fear betray you.”

CHAPTER NINE

S
ALIEL WORE THE
lavender gown to her betrothal. It was in the same style as her mourning dresses, with a tight bodice and full skirt and a stiff lace ruff around her throat, but she almost didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. For the first time in two years she wasn’t wearing gray.

Embroidered flowers unfurled delicate lavender-blue petals at the cuffs and hemline and across the rigid, boned bodice.

“The color suits you.”

Marta was right. The lavender made her eyes look more blue than gray, her hair a richer red. Saliel turned away from the mirror. The ruff pricked beneath her chin, tight and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”

Marta smiled brightly. “For what?”

I would give Lord Ivo to you if I could.
Saliel reached out and took her hand. “The Consort will choose wisely for you.”

Marta’s smile wavered. She nodded and turned away.

T
HE CEREMONY WAS
held in the Great Hall: a huge, vaulted expanse that was part of the original Citadel. Cold, gray rain fell outside. It suited Saliel’s mood perfectly. Lord Ivo didn’t appear to notice the difference in her appearance. His gaze was vague, his smile vacant.

She’d heard the words many times before. This time she wasn’t in the audience.
Duty
, she heard the Consort say.
Honor.
And beneath those words:
Spycatcher. Very soon.

She stood stiffly, aware of hundreds of inhaled and exhaled breaths rustling the air, aware of eyes watching her. Candles burned in the sconces, but the black stone swallowed the light. The faces of those watching were shadowy and half-seen. For a fleeting moment they were characters from one of her nightmares, waiting for the candles to snuff out before they hunted her, then she blinked and the fancy was gone.

Dutiful
, she reminded herself as the Consort uttered the final phrases of the ceremony.
Obedient. Unafraid.

The Consort pinned the betrothal keys to her bodice and stepped back. The ceremony was over. In a month her marriage would be celebrated. But she’d be gone before then and the blank, un-notched keys would never be cut.

Would the Spycatcher arrive before she left? How soon was soon?

Fear was tight in her chest as she allowed Lord Ivo to take her hand, as she curtseyed deeply to the Consort—
obeisance, gratitude
—as she rose and turned to accept Marta’s quiet words of congratulation.

Lord Ivo’s hand was warm and limp.

“It was a fine ceremony,” Marta said.

“Thank you.” Saliel slid her fingers from Lord Ivo’s grasp. He appeared not to notice.

“I wish you every happiness.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

Beside her, Lord Ivo yawned.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
S
PYCATCHER DID
have striking eyes. The irises were unnervingly pale, almost white within the dark rings that edged them.

Instinct made the hairs on the back of Athan’s neck prick upright, but common sense told him there was no magic in that ice-pale gaze; if the man had witchery in his blood he’d be dead.

In appearance the Spycatcher was ordinary. His height and build were medium, his hair brown, his features unremarkable. He would have passed unnoticed if not for the unusual color of his eyes.

His name was Lord Grigor and he had arrived in court yesterday, three weeks after Three’s warning. His identity as Spycatcher hadn’t been disclosed and—so far as Athan had been able to observe—few people knew who he really was.

The man’s manner was amiable. Wherever Athan went he found him watching and listening and asking questions. So far the Spycatcher had paid him little attention—a circumstance that made him slightly nervous. Tonight he was determined to initiate a conversation with the man.
I need to know how dangerous he is.

Athan paused as he entered the courtesans’ salon. The smell reminded him of a tropical fruit, over-ripe and fermenting slightly. He scanned the room slowly. The mirrored tiles on the ceiling glittered, reflecting candlelight and glimpses of silk and lace and bare flesh.

A servant approached, offering wine. Athan took a glass, his gaze sliding from face to face, seeking the Spycatcher.

There he was. In one of the alcoves with a courtesan.

He slid his eyes away. The man liked it rough.
He enjoys giving pain.

Athan looked down at his wine and discovered he didn’t want to drink it.

Lord Druso jostled his elbow. “Well, Donkey, where to?”

Athan glanced back at the alcove. The Spycatcher had finished taking his pleasure; the whore wasn’t lingering at his side. He inclined his head in the man’s direction. “Shall we make the acquaintance of Lord...uh, Lord Grebber?”

“Grigor,” said Druso. He shrugged. “Why not?”

Athan ambled across the salon, the untasted wine in his hand. The Spycatcher looked up as they approached. He was struck again by the paleness of the man’s eyes. His ribcage seemed to tighten.
Witch-Eye.
Then logic reasserted itself. The Spycatcher was dangerous—but not because he was a witch.

Athan yawned, and bowed. “Lord Grebber.”

“Grigor,” said Druso, laughing. “It’s Lord Grigor, Donkey, you idiot.” He bowed to the man.

“I beg your pardon.” Athan smiled in lazy apology, his eyes half-closed. “Lord Grigor.”

The Spycatcher inclined his head in greeting. “Lord Druso, I believe. And Lord Ivo. Pray join me.”

“Thank you.”

Athan sat and leaned back against the cushions.

“I trust you’re enjoying the Citadel,” Druso said courteously.

“I am, thank you.” The man smiled. “Very much.”

Athan indicated the salon, slopping wine carelessly from his glass. “What’s not to enjoy?”

“Nothing.” The man’s smile widened. “I’m sure I’ll find my stay here most pleasurable.”

Druso nodded. His eyes passed over the courtesans as he sought one.

“Where are you from?” Athan asked as he sipped from his glass. The wine was spicy on his tongue.

“Wrest,” said the Spycatcher. The paleness of his gaze almost made Athan shiver. “Do you know it?”

Athan shook his head. “No.”

“And you?” The Spycatcher’s attention shifted. He seemed amused by the length of time Druso was taking to select a whore. “Are you a native of the Citadel?”

The urge to shiver faded, now that the man’s eyes were on Druso. “No,” Athan said. “I’m from Haast.”

“Haast?” The Spycatcher stopped studying Druso. “I hear it rains a lot there.”

The colorless gaze was oddly unsettling. Sweat prickled between Athan’s shoulder blades. “More than anywhere else in the Empire,” he said, and gulped another mouthful of wine.

The Spycatcher smiled. “And do you like rain, Lord Ivo?”

Athan shrugged. “Not particularly.”

The Spycatcher watched him for a moment, still smiling. “How long have you been here?” he asked. A casual question—except for the intentness of his gaze.

“Bit more than a year,” Athan said, sweating. “Same as Druso. We met aboard ship.” He smiled at the man and drained his glass.

The Spycatcher reached out to halt a passing servant.

“My thanks.” Athan leaned forward and exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

“Why come to the Citadel?” he heard the Spycatcher ask.

Athan settled back on the cushions. “Touring the Empire,” he said, raising the glass to his mouth. “As one does.” He looked at the Spycatcher and found the unnerving eyes intent on his face and almost choked on the wine.

“And you and Lord Druso are still here?” The Spycatcher’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

Athan shrugged. “A number of us stayed. Druso. Tregar. Irmer.”

Druso leaned over and caught the skirts of a courtesan. The woman giggled and slid obligingly onto his lap. The Spycatcher’s eyes moved to watch as Druso unfastened her scanty, lace-trimmed garments.

“The Citadel has the best whores outside the Emperor’s court,” Athan said.

“Yes,” the Spycatcher said, his gaze still on Druso and the courtesan. “For a principality on the edge of the Empire, it does very well.”

Athan sipped his wine. “Do you intend to stay long?”

“No,” the man said, his attention on Druso. “My business will soon be concluded.”

Athan’s chest tightened. “Business?” He infused vague interest into his voice. “What is it? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

The Spycatcher glanced back at him. “Thank you, but it’s a trifling matter. I require no assistance.”

“Oh?” Athan’s skin crawled beneath that pale gaze. “Well, if you have any difficulty—”

“There’ll be no difficulty.” The man’s tone dismissed him. He turned back to watch Druso.

Athan sipped his wine and forced himself to relax, settling deeply into the soft cushions. Beside him Druso lay sprawled, fondling the whore while she divested him of his breeches.

“I hear that you like redheads.” The sharp, icy eyes turned his way again.

Not particularly
, he’d intended to say, but instead his mouth said, “I’m partial to the color.”

The Spycatcher turned and beckoned.

Athan frowned at his wine.
What possessed me to tell the truth?
He put the glass down and watched with resignation as the red-haired courtesan crossed the salon.

“She’s the one you wanted?” he heard Lord Grigor ask.

Athan closed his eyes. “Yes,” he made himself say, as the whore slid onto the cushions alongside him. “My thanks.”

He tried to relax his body as the courtesan unbuttoned his breeches and opened his doublet. There was a warm mouth on his skin and deft fingers stroking him, but he felt no stir of arousal. He was too aware of the Spycatcher reclining beside him, watching.

“I understand why they call you Donkey.”

Actually, they call me Donkey for my lack of wits as much as anything, but I pretend not to realize.
Athan opened his eyes. Hair pricked upright on his scalp as he met the man’s gleaming, colorless gaze. It took all his effort not to tense. He shaped his mouth into a vague smirk.

The Spycatcher looked away. “Wine!” he called, snapping his fingers.

Athan closed his eyes again. He was sweating beneath his bunched clothing.
Relax
, he told himself.
Get it over with.
He built the salon behind his closed eyelids, concentrating on the smells of perfume and wine, on the raucous laughter, on the sound of Druso panting alongside him. It was an evening like any other, familiar and unthreatening.
Relax.

His body recognized the courtesan’s skilled tongue and fingers. It helped, as it always did, to pretend she was Lady Petra. Her voice might be cold when she spoke to him, but her mouth was hot and greedy.

The whore shifted. He felt her warm weight on top of him. His world narrowed to the softness of the thighs that straddled him.
Lady Petra, riding me.

Athan’s skin became tight. He heard himself groan. For a few seconds he forgot the Spycatcher entirely.