Her musings were interrupted when Yarvey returned with a tray, laden with roasted chicken breast, some spiced potatoes, and a pile of seasoned mustard greens. As she reached for the tray, she brushed his hand, releasing the small thimble she’d carried into the space between his fingers. This message would begin a journey that Emma didn’t fully understand. The thimble-object was covered with tiny buttons and, from what Emma understood, the buttons could be pushed to create specific patterns. Yarvey would pass the thimble to whomever the first portion of the pattern indicated. That person would examine a different row of depressions and pass it on to yet another part of this clandestine network. Eventually, the note would reach the correct person, who would utilize a tiny, pin-like key to access the message, which could likely contain no more than a sentence or two. It was unclear whether any individual within the chain knew all of the patterns, although it seemed likely to Emma that there must be someone orchestrating the entire scheme. Who that person could be, though, was beyond her ken.
Emma carried the tray back to her mistress’ room, refusing Alex’s offer to carry it for her. Rather than use her maimed hand and risk dropping the tray, she held the tray firmly on one arm, balancing it on her wrist. It was a skill she had mastered relatively quickly following her injury, in order to stay useful to Lady Escamilla. Emma knew that Escamilla would have kept her on regardless, but Emma did not like to feel as if she were a charity case.
Bidding Alex good evening, Emma re-entered the chamber, finding Escamilla standing, apparently considering a vase of indigo flowers. That vase contained the only color in the room, and Emma had had to work hard to convince the folks from the kitchen to provide her with flowers. She felt proud that she had been able to secure something that provided a bit of cheer for the otherwise drab room. Escamilla always seemed so patient and enduring, and yet Emma could sense a subtle sadness about her. So subtle that, if Emma hadn’t spent so much time with the woman over the past decade, she would easily have missed it.
Escamilla started at the loud click which echoed through the small chamber as Alex closed the door behind Emma. She turned and gave Emma a thin, forced smile.
“Please, my dear, please join an old woman for dinner.”
“I don’t see any old woman, but I would be happy to join you, Camilla.” That drew a slightly more authentic smile.
The two tucked in to their meal, both able to eat despite the stress of their current predicament. Or perhaps because of it. Emma thought that she could have eaten another quarter chicken, so hungry she was. In practically no time, the heaping, doubled-sized meal was gone, and both women leaned back in their chairs feeling content.
“I wish I could serve you tea. I know it has only been two weeks, but I miss sharing our chamomile together before bed,” sighed Emma.
“Typically, I would agree with you, my dear. However, I would rather not be drowsy this evening. We are leaving the Plateau. Tonight.”
---
Escamilla and Emma collected their things, sparse though they were, slipping them into a pillowcase in place of a satchel. Emma had little choice but to continue wearing her orange dress, her only other option being stained with flecks of blood from Erlin’s torture. Samuel had tossed dismembered bits of fingers at the guests as he’d given a speech about the idiocy of opposing him. Emma shivered at the recollection. She packed the stained dress in case of emergency, but couldn’t bring herself to don the gruesome garment.
Lady Escamilla was clad in oversized peasant clothes—a rough-spun cotton blouse and pants—as that was all that had been provided for her. Even in such ill-fitting and unflattering garments, she held herself in a way that made her seem every inch a noble, even if that would never be true. She was truly splendid, no matter what she wore.
Emma wheedled gently in an attempt to determine how, precisely, they were going to be exiting the Plateau, but Escamilla was tight-lipped. All she would do was continue to stress the need to “be ready.” As eager as Emma was to escape her imprisonment, she was also terrified. How would they get out of here? What if they were caught? Even if they got out of the Plateau, how would they get out of the city? She couldn’t bear the thought that she might end up in the torturer’s chair, made an example of to keep the others in line. She had lost fingers before, after all, and the idea of enduring that pain again turned her stomach into writhing snakes. She twisted a lock of her long, curly red hair about her finger, finding comfort, as she always did, in the softness of the hair on her skin.
Their meager belongings packed, the two women sat on the edge of the bed and continued to wait. There was no window and no way to accurately mark the passage of time, but Emma roughly estimated that it must have been well past high moons. She briefly rose and began to pace, but Escamilla bid her to sit once more, to conserve her strength for what lay ahead. A statement which only made Emma more apprehensive.
When it seemed that Emma could wait no more, when the tension in the room had her every nerve as taut as a clothesline, there was a noise at the door. Both women bolted to their feet, Escamilla uncharacteristically showing her nerves through her jumpiness. There was a fumbling at the lock and then the door creaked open slowly, cautiously.
A guardsman walked into the room, wearing the typical armor and ornament of the Rostanian military. He was a big man, broad at the shoulders and with arms like those of a blacksmith. The low profile of his barbute, coupled with the low light of the room, masked his features.
“My Lady Escamilla? I am here to escort you to safety.” That voice…
“Sir, remove your helm. I would see those with whom I do business. And certainly those who risk their lives for me.”
Slowly, the man removed his covering. He had a beard, equal parts brown, blonde, and gray. His head, glistening wetly with sweat, was shaved bald. Recently shaved bald, it seemed, as there was a small stream of blood trickling down behind his ear, the drops failing to coagulate as they mixed with his heavy perspiration. With these changes in appearance, Emma almost didn’t recognize him.
But, his every feature was etched into her memory, and a scant disguise couldn’t hide him.
She stormed across the room, snatching up the vase of indigo flowers as she went. Eyes blazing, Emma swung the vase with all of her strength at Fenrir’s head.
Chapter 11
Fenrir’s eyes widened at the sight of the vase careening toward his head, but he reacted in an instant. He batted it aside with the back of his leather-bound hand, knocking it clear out of Emma’s grip and into the open air.
“Shit!” he cursed quietly, watching it tumble through the air, already regretting his decision to take on this ill-conceived, dangerous mission—he pushed past Emma, knowing that he would never reach the vase before it crashed into the ground and caused a commotion that could bring guards running. By the gods, did he need yet another reminder that stealth was not his bent?
But there was no shattering of glass, no stomping of boots from guards converging on the room to investigate. There was merely a small thud and an “oomph” as Lady Escamilla dove forward, catching the vase an inch from the hard stone floor. She rose stiffly then, set the vase down, and slapped Emma across the face.
“What are you doing, you spoiled, stupid child? Are you trying to get us killed? I thought you were smarter than that, Emma!” Escamilla hissed through clenched teeth, her rage barely contained.
Emma appeared contrite in the face of Escamilla’s anger, but she didn’t cower.
“My Lady Escamilla, I would like you to meet Fenrir de Trenton, former guardsman of the Plateau. Although he appears to be grayer and balder. And fatter. Oh, and I almost forgot: he is also the man who mutilated me.” Emma was herself furious, her face red from anger as much as from the aftermath of the slap.
Fenrir shifted his feet awkwardly as Escamilla scrutinized him. He felt surprisingly exposed in the face of this severe older woman, and the livid scorn from his former lover (not to mention his first victim) wasn’t helpin
g. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, but Fenrir was accustomed to standing for long periods of time, gaze carefully unfocused. And, by Ultner, just wearing this steel and leather armor, etched with the Rostanian wolf, he felt as if he had never left his job. He felt more secure, more confident. Even his reflexes were faster, judging from his blocking of that vase.
Escamilla was the first to break the silence, letting slip a wry chuckle. Fenrir wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or worried.
“Oh, the games the gods play with us. I was there, de Trenton, to witness your fall. Both figuratively and literally.”
“It’s not de Trenton. Fenrir Coldbreaker now, at your service.” Fenrir bent his head deferentially as he shared the news of his reformation. Emma snorted derisively at the new name, earning a glare from Escamilla.
“Well, Sir Coldbreaker…” Escamilla rubbed at her hip, probably bruised from her swandive. His new name sounded ridiculous coming from the lady’s mouth. Perhaps Fenrir shouldn’t make life-changing decisions while bleeding out on the doorstep of a friend’s house in the future.
“I’m assuming you have a plan to lead us safely out of this graceful fortress.”
“Indeed, my lady. There are stipulations, however. First, you must keep your help under control.” Emma bristled like a furious dog. Fenrir shouldn’t have said that, but he didn’t know how to react to Emma. When he’d found out that his charge was Lady Escamilla, he’d hoped that Emma would not be involved. That Emma had been dismissed after their… incident, although that probably would have led to her being destitute. No one would hire a four-fingered pariah, let alone a two-fingered cripple. In the several days that Fenrir had had to prepare for this assignment, he had simply blocked out the fact that he might see Emma. It had allowed him to avoid thinking about how he felt about her and about what had happened. How he felt about himself.
“Second, you must stay absolutely quiet. It seems, my lady, that you recognize that necessity.” There he went again, poking the beast. Emma was visibly fuming by this point. “Finally, you are to follow my orders exactly. If I say ‘jump,’ you will jump as if the floor were on fire. If I say ‘run,’ you run as if Ultner’s cock is aimed at your backsides.”
“Of course, Sir Coldbreaker,” said Lady Escamilla, with a slightly raised eyebrow, but otherwise no sarcasm. “Now, what is the plan?”
---
The two women followed Fenrir silently through the servants’ passages. The Plateau was built with royalty—or at least nobility—in mind, and the builder had clearly adhered to the adage that “servants should neither be seen nor heard.” As a result, thin servant passages honeycombed the fortress proper, allowing servants to scurry through these narrow passages much like rats. The passages were certainly as narrow as rodent burrows, too, and Fenrir had to turn his shoulders as he walked to keep his pauldrons from scraping discordantly on the stone. As he swung his arms about, navigating the twists and turns, his lantern cast shadows—demons running along the wall, following them like Ultner’s own entourage. They certainly cut quite a scene: an armored guard practically performing acrobatics to maneuver his bulk at every turn, a straight-backed noblewoman clad in the gold and green livery of palace servants, and a sullen servant trailing slightly behind, clenching her crippled hand. Fenrir would have been amused by the whole situation if it hadn’t been for the very real possibility of their being killed, or worse.
Surefooted, Fenrir continued to guide Escamilla and Emma through the maze, having navigated these passages many times before. In fact, he had spent a good deal of time in the more private, less-traveled servants’ passages, entertaining the servants themselves. Once with Emma, come to think of it, although he was actively working to repress that thought. Instead, he focused on the path. Presumably, the little duke had blockaded this area of the Plateau completely, with guards paired off at each possible entrance aside from the kitchen, but the duke did not know the secret ways and shortcuts. Fenrir didn’t even know some of these ways, but Tennyson’s scouts had provided him with enough detail to get him where he needed to be. It turned out that, though the fortress was very difficult to enter unseen, it was actually relatively easy for one to stay concealed once they were inside the heavily-guarded gates.
“What did you do to Alex and Kincaid?” Emma demanded abruptly.
“Who? And keep your voice down!” Fenrir hissed.
“Our guards. Kincaid is a bucket-headed, small-cocked fool like you, but Alex is kind and gentle. Very unlike you.”
Fenrir didn’t flinch at her jab, either about his manhood or his virtue, but he responded through clenched teeth. “It is better if you do not know.” Fenrir certainly didn’t know. He’d simply been told that there would be no guard at the door that night, and there had been no guard. He had approached the hallway cautiously, having arrived through the conveniently unprotected servants’ passages. His hand on the short sword sheathed at his hip, steeling himself for the possibility that he might have to ambush and kill a man or two. Thankfully, as Tennyson’s contact had promised, no one had been there, though he’d heard voices just down the hall. Whether due to bribery, threats, or poison, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t care. The House was utilizing a lot of resources on this mission, and he just hoped to the gods that that meant his chances of success were good.
In retrospect, he shouldn’t have been here in the Plateau, surrounded by danger. He should have ran, left Rostane, far before Tennyson caught wind of his location. But, instead, he lingered with Martis, leisurely recovering while surrounded by fawning medical students. He ate rich food—broasted duck, corn soufflé, and buttered vegetables and so on—and enjoyed hot steams and baths. He just took time to walk around Martis’ stunning gardens, beginning to bloom as spring truly vanquished the last traces of the cold. He and the physician engaged in meaningless, trite conversations about nothing, joking and laughing as Fenrir told stories of being a guard, or Martis spoke of particularly irritating patients. In short, Fenrir felt, for the first time in years, safe.
But it was a false safety. A lull in the shit-storm that had become his life, of late. He should have run. Should have left.
Lost in thought, Fenrir nearly missed the echo of excited voices up ahead. Fenrir stopped abruptly and held up his hand, halting the trailing women in their tracks.
“Follow my lead and act like servants. My Lady Escamilla, keep your eyes lowered and your head down. Yes, like that, and hunch your shoulders a little. You are too well-known within the Plateau, and we don’t want anyone recognizing you. Emma, keep between me and the wall if you can. That hair will give us away in a second.” As would her hand. “We only have a few hours until anyone knows that you two are missing, and we want to be as far away as possible by then.”
Fenrir resumed his march down the hallway, correcting his posture, placing his feet with purpose and making it no secret that an armed and armored guardsman was walking down the corridor. Over his own clang and clamor, he could no longer discern whether voices were still present, but this was a rare moment when subtlety would not be his friend. Once again, he was part of the guard of the Plateau. The elite guard, even, as the armor provided by Tennyson’s agent was from one of the duke’s own, the Knights of the Wolf. And, a Wolf Knight would do little to mask his approach in a servants’ tunnel.
Fenrir’s mind flitted to his friend Silas, who would be a Wolf Knight by now. He hoped he wouldn’t become tangled in all of this.
As he rounded a curve, praying that his charges were still behind him and appropriately following his instructions, Fenrir noticed three servants clustered together, apparently chattering or gossiping, so enthralled with whatever they were talking about that they didn’t notice Fenrir’s obvious approach. They were so oblivious, in fact, that he could only assume they were sharing some particularly juicy gossip. Fenrir stopped about twenty feet shy of them, loudly clearing his throat, and enjoyed watching the members of the trio jump simultaneously. One, a chubby and grubby wom
an with mousey hair and shallow-set eyes, looked for all the world like an odd, sickly lizard. He recognized her. Lopen. That was her name. The other two, he did not know. They were younger. And all three had guilt stamped on their faces.
“Our apologies, m’lord, for impeding you.” Ah, the delicate pleasantries of servants, deference to their betters beaten into them by the castle stewards. How Fenrir missed it. “The news ‘as just been so shocking. Please forgive us.” All three bent their heads to him, one of the younger ones visibly quaking.
He had forgotten how good it felt to instill such fear.
Fenrir should have known better, but he had to ask. “What news, Lopen?” The lizard-looking woman started, surprised that he knew her name. She squinted at him. Shit. He was terrible at subterfuge.
“The news. About ‘is grace, Duke Malless.” He heard a gasp behind him. Lizard Lopen glanced around him, noticing Emma and Escamilla for the first time. Fenrir shifted and puffed out, attempting to block more of the corridor.
“I’ve not been on duty. Enlighten me.”
“M’lord, ’e jumped! That is, ’is grace threw ’isself from a balcony way up in the Plateau, and ’e fell down into Yetra Lane just before sunset. The news is all over the fortress. The city, even. ’Is grace, Duke Eric, is to be successor in Florens. Only nineteen years of age, poor boy.”
Fenrir had seen Henrik Malless many times. He particularly recalled him taking charge during that godsdamned unfortunate day in the council chamber, his last day as a guardsman. In Fenrir’s experience, silently observing the leaders of Ardia from his place as a well-paid, steel-cased ornament, few of the nobles were worth a damn. They tended to be all style—questionable, garish style—and rarely substance. Intrigue without real intelligence. They had scant knowledge of their own holdings and business affairs, delegating these duties to an army of administrators and secretaries, the people who truly ran Ardia. Instead, the nobles seemed to care about little but their constant social maneuvering and bickering, currying favor here, belittling a social enemy there. The type of petty politics that Fenrir also saw in the people who dealt with his father.
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