He scanned the first one, moved it aside, and scanned the one beneath it, then replaced the first one exactly where he’d found it. Invitations to dine with other nobles. Probably not important, but how would he know for certain? He scanned the next one, and the next, gleaning nothing more useful than the Baron’s schedule for the next few days. There were no convenient letters stating, “Ashes Magnus has arrived at this address, and requests that you forward their mail.”
Laughter on the other side of the door. Shane tested the drawers, holding his breath. Only one opened, and it contained nothing more exciting than writing equipment: quill and pen-knife, inkstone and blotter. He lifted the blotter, but did not find any letters tucked behind it.
He checked the lectern. It held a stack of papers, which was briefly exciting until he realized that they all said the exact same thing—“His Lordship Baron Maltrevor is pleased to accept your invitation.” The secretary had clearly saved time by writing them up in advance, so that Maltrevor could grab one, sign it, and pass it to a page. Shane tucked one of the acceptances into his surcoat, on the off chance that it might come in handy. Perhaps I will learn to think like a spy yet.
Then there was nothing to do but wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And not listen.
There was a lot that he wasn’t listening to.
Shane knelt in the middle of the floor and closed his eyes. Prayer. Prayer was what he had left.
Not to the Saint of Steel, who he knew no longer heard. Nor to the Dreaming God, of whom Shane
had not been worthy. He prayed instead to the White Rat, that practical god who solved problems and whose people tried so hard to make the world a better place.
White Rat, I owe Your people a debt I can never repay. I have no right to ask You for more, but please, let Marguerite be safe and well, and let us all get through this.
Whatever this was. It seemed like an enormous amount of trouble over mere salt. Still, both Marguerite and the Bishop thought that it was important, and he had faith that they understood the matter better than he did.
Shane wondered if the White Rat could hear thoughts tangential to prayers. Well, if He could, He had probably heard much worse. He tried to refocus. Let the outcome, whatever it is, be the one that helps the most.
And if nothing else, let us not make things worse.
The door creaked, very softly. Shane’s eyes snapped open, but he knew the soft footsteps that came toward him.
“What do you have for me?” Marguerite whispered. “Anything useful?”
Her hair had slipped mostly loose from her braid, forming a disheveled knot, the ribbon dangling.
He had a sudden intense urge to comb it out with his fingers and braid it back in place, midnight line over midnight line.
Of all the things that we do not have time for…
“Are you all right?” he whispered, because they had time enough for that.
“Fine, fine.” She waved off the question. “What have you found?”
The first time that he’d killed a man, he’d wanted to be sick. The black tide had rolled back and he looked down at the corpse in front of him and his gorge had risen and then Stephen, who was only a little older but had been a soldier for a great deal longer, had grabbed his forearm and hissed,
“Later. You aren’t done yet.”
And he had choked it down and lifted his sword and the tide had rolled over him again and he had cut down more of the enemy. And later on, Stephen had held his hair while Shane puked up everything he’d ever thought of eating.
Marguerite had been a spy for as long as he’d been a warrior. Undoubtedly she knew all about waiting until later. The least he could do was respect her composure. So Shane nodded to her and told her, in whispers, that it was all invitations and that only one drawer was unlocked.
“Good work.” She pulled a thin metal implement from inside her bodice. “Extra boning,” she said, at his glance. “At least, that’s what it feels like on the outside.” Shane went to the door, setting his back against it lest anyone try to enter, and waited.
He thought that he was calm and composed, until he heard Marguerite whisper, “Come on, baby, right there…” and nearly jumped out of his skin.
She was talking to the locked drawer. Of course she was. Certainly not to him. Certainly not those words, right now, when she’d just been pawed over by some titled brute.
“There’s the spot,” she murmured, and popped the lock.
There were two more locked drawers. Shane wasn’t sure he’d survive if she had to talk to those locks, too.
What is wrong with you? How can you even think such a thing right now?
It was terribly wrong. The only thing he should be thinking right now was how to comfort Marguerite after an undoubtedly unpleasant experience and possibly how to murder the baron later.
I really need to figure out what that word for not feeling guilty enough is.
“Money,” Marguerite muttered, sounding slightly disgusted by the concept, and closed the drawer again. She bent forward to work on the next lock and he squeezed his eyes shut, because only an unchivalrous monster would stare at her backside while she worked. “Now, then…come on…there we go…just a little bit more…”
With his eyes closed, it was impossible not to imagine her whispering those words in his ear.
Impossible not to imagine what he might do that would have her saying such things.
She went to another man’s bed to accomplish the mission, and still you’re having these thoughts?
In his defense, they weren’t exactly thoughts. More involuntary images. He risked opening his eyes, and saw with relief that she was sitting up again.
She shuffled quickly through the papers she’d found, eyes scanning over the pages, then stopped.
Read the paper again. Her breath came out in a long sigh. “There,” she said, with clear satisfaction.
“That’s what we needed.”
She slid the papers back into the drawer and locked it. The third lock was almost perfunctory. She was clearly distracted—thank all the gods—because she did not attempt to sweet talk it. Instead, she cracked it open, rifled through the contents without much interest, and closed it up again. “Come on,”
she murmured, rising to her feet. “We got what we came for.”
Shane opened the door to the suite and stood like a wall, shielding her from the curious eyes of the servants. Their card game was still going, it seemed. They looked up, saw Shane, then looked down again.
Not the first time that a woman has left these rooms in silence. Nor the last, I suspect. But at least we got what we came for.
He let the door close behind them and hoped that the price had not been too high.
MARGUERITE TOOK a discreet path through the fortress, rather than a direct one. It was unlikely that anyone cared who warmed Malvertor’s bed, as long as the woman was no one of consequence, but there was a slim chance that someone might be watching her. Davith, for example. He does not entirely trust me, but how much does he know, I wonder? So she took the long way around, using the corridors on the outside walls.
Shane walked beside her, rather than behind. Marguerite glanced up at his profile. She had thought that she had learned to read him a little, but tonight he might have been a carving made of ice.