I had no idea.
The jobs I’d done for Taradyce had been simple things — a councilman’s incriminating love letters, a doctored accounts book for a shipping firm — your basic fodder for blackmail, and the kind of things noblemen did to their enemies all the time. Only Taradyce made a career of spying on his friends as well.
The stables opened out onto wide, moonslit gardens, herby and fragrant and ridiculously tidy. Durrel marshaled us through a narrow, low-arched doorway — obviously a back way; I approved — and into a shadowed ser vice corridor.
“Easy here,” he said, one arm raised to hold us back as he glanced down the passage. From my position between Phandre and Raffin, I could hardly see anything but age-darkened stone and rumpled damask. The same sleepy quiet of the gardens, a smell of river and damp, and behind it — something cooking. If Tiboran truly loved me, we would head in that direction. Nobs might live off wine alone, but I required actual sustenance.
“We need an ally,” Durrel said, and I detected a trace of mischief in his voice. He waved us across the corridor and toward the roasting chicken. Or was that rabbit? Rabbit was rare enough in the city; most establishments were likely to serve up an alley cat and — concentrate, Digger! This was no moment to let my guard down.
Round a corner and under another arch, and the five of us slinked into a warm, glowing kitchen — and nearly into a wide-eyed serving maid clutching a pot of grease. Immediately Durrel had his arm around her, one soft hand clamped against her mouth. He held his other finger to his lips. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile behind her lord’s hand. She gave us a wink and ducked out of our way. Nice. I would have found a less . . . charming way to silence her.
The stealth of our approach did not last long, however; once inside the kitchen, Merista gave a cry.
“Morva!” She flung herself headlong across the ruddy tiled floor, into the arms of a squat woman swathed head to foot in aprons and kerchiefs and veils.
The woman gathered Merista to her bosom and glared at the rest of us. “Ach, seedling, you’re all right now. You, young master — your lord father will have words about this, mark me!”
I looked around the kitchen, realizing with devastation that all the work was being done for the wrong end of the meal. The fire had been tamped down, the spit was bereft of meat, and Morva shifted Merista aside just in time to avoid a splash of water cast on the floor from a scrub bucket. I tried hard not to moan.
Merista was pouring out the woeful account of her kidnapping and torture by the roguish knavery of her cousin and his friend, when Durrel’s voice broke in. “Lady Morva, please get the girls some food. And make sure Celyn gets seconds. She missed breakfast.”
When Morva’s gaze came to me, her eyes grew shrewd, and for a moment I was sure I’d been caught out. “And what in Her holy name have you lot done to this poor girl, then? She’s a fair mess!”
“We found her like that,” Raffin put in cheerfully, and Phandre snickered.
“You! Do not speak in this kitchen if you don’t wish to know what I think of Taradyce manners. Why, you’ll have the —”
Before Morva could finish, Raffin swooped down and kissed her squarely on the lips. Her already scarlet face turned purple, but she grinned. “Get on, then. Lord Durrel, what would your lady mother say, I wonder?”
“I think she’d ask you to please get Phandre, Celyn, and Lady Merista something to eat,” Durrel said patiently.
The kitchen woman fed us, tut-tutting all the while over the state of our clothes, our hair, our appetites, and my size. “A mousy thing like you, even your clothes don’t fit proper. We’ll find you something else, pet. Lord Ragn don’t let his guests go hungry or cold.”
I ate in silence, taking in the noisy room as servants bustled about. The food was simple and good, obviously the servants’ portion, but I would have eaten cat stew and liked it at that point. They only gave me a clay bowl and a hunk of bread to mop up the broth; hadn’t these people heard of spoons? They hadn’t heard of much that was grand or valuable, apparently. In all that great room, aside from Merista’s silver and Raffin’s amber ring — which I would have, by the end of this — the only things of value appeared to be the roasting spit (too big to carry), the stone statue of Mend-kaal on the hearth (impossible to sell these days), and a couple of books on cookery. Not even worth it.
As I absorbed my surroundings and my meal, Morva filled the others in on just how much trouble they were in. “You’ve done it now, then, Master. Don’t you know they’ve been at hounds and pitchforks looking for you both? The night of your own betrothal, and the very day Lady Meri’s parents sail back to Llyvraneth?”
“What?” Merista pulled away from the woman.
The cook held up her left hand and kissed her knuckles. “You didn’t hear it from me, but word came this morning. They’ve landed in Tratua and will be sailing home this week. You were supposed to meet them in Gerse, young lady, so that the entire lot of you could be presented before the king. His Majesty won’t be pleased. No, not at all.”
“But they never wrote,” Merista said in a shaky voice. “What happened?”
“Ah, pet, I’m sure they meant to, if it weren’t so sudden. Seems His Majesty’s decided Llyvraneth no longer needs an emissary in Corlesanne. Or Corlesanne’s decided they don’t want Llyvrins in their court. Either way, it amounts to the same thing, love: Your lord parents are on their way home even now.”
Even I knew that wasn’t a good sign. A king recalling his eyes and ears in a foreign court — particularly one that had shown itself sympathetic to Sarists? It could be a prelude to war. The Corles letters in my sleeve didn’t seem so cold and dead anymore.
“That’s just like Bardolph,” Durrel said grimly. “Pick a fight overseas, and ignore the trouble brewing on your own doorstep.”
“Take cheer, Lady Meri,” said Morva. “It means your lord parents will be here for your kernja-velde, and they’ll be wanting to take you home with them again.”
I perked up. The kernja-velde — a girl’s passage into adulthood on her fourteenth birthday — was a cause for celebration for any Llyvrin family: fine food and presents for hosts and guests alike, including a traditional gift of seven coins from everyone in attendance to build the girl’s dowry. Seventh Circle kernja-veldes meant coppers and strikes; a nob’s had to be a festival like nothing I’d ever seen. Fountains of gold. I could almost smell the coins.
“Where’s home?” I interjected.
“Caerellis,” Merista said. “But my birthday’s not for months.”
Pox.
“Aye, and you’ll spend those months as girls in this family have spent them for generations: in seclusion with your family,” said Morva.
“Yes,” said Phandre. “They need to turn you into a proper lady.”
Merista flushed, and Morva gave Phandre a short, hard look. “As if the likes of you would know anything about being a proper lady.”
I liked this kitchen drudge.
Merista just poked at her food after that until Durrel finally stood up from the table. “Where’s my father now?” he asked.
“Still at table. With the Taradyce, I might add.”
I saw Durrel nod. “Fair enough. Come, lad and lasses!” He grabbed a flagon and some goblets from the table. “Let’s serve up our own punishment, shall we?”
Merista fell in line easily, but Phandre scowled heavily. I took my cue from her. “Maybe I should just stay here.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Raffin said, yanking me to my feet. “In for a finger, in for a fist. You’re one of us now, Celyn.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
We followed Durrel from the kitchens to the dining hall. Torchlight threw leaping shadows against the low stone ceiling, which was black with years of smoke, making the room feel even more closed in. Even I hunched a little.
A handful of men and one or two women looked up at our approach. Seated at the very center of the high table, like a vast golden lion
, and holding court as if this was his familial manor, was Raffin’s father.
“Stop.”
We froze in a ragged line at the sound of that voice. It came from a man at Hron Taradyce’s left hand. I swallowed hard, sure I had been discovered.
“Lord Durrel.”
Durrel stepped forward. “Yes, sir.” Somehow, even carrying a silver ewer and goblets like a servant, he managed to look noble. With a slight bow to his head, he set the pitcher on the long table.
The diners seemed to part around the man with the cold voice. He was obviously Durrel’s father; the younger Decath would look like that in another twenty-one years or so.
“Lord Durrel, do you care to explain your actions of the last two days?” His voice was like a knife of ice.
Durrel did not move. “No, sir.”
“ ‘No, sir’?” Lord Decath echoed. “You removed two girls from the care of their guardians and took them on a drunken orgy in a stolen boat, and all you have is ‘no, sir’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lord Decath, I think I can explain —” Raffin’s silver voice cut through, and he stepped toward the table, bowing deeply. “You see —”
“Shut up.”
Raffin reeled back as if he’d been struck. Hron Taradyce was leaning his golden bulk over the table toward his son. I could imagine how Raffin felt; Taradyce was like a small sun burning at the center of his own universe — too easy to get singed in his presence.
But I couldn’t spare much sympathy for Raffin. I was too busy staring at a small crack in the stone of the floor, letting the dim light of the hall keep my face in shadows. Anyone in this room had the power to send me straight to King Bardolph’s gaol, but only Hron Taradyce had a good reason for it. A few forged patents, an incriminating letter or two. This was . . . inconvenient.
“I’m sure you find this all very amusing, boy,” Taradyce was saying, as Raffin shrunk a good few inches. “But I’d like to remind you who owns that boat you’ve been cruising about in. Who owns that wine you reek of.”
“You do, milord,” Raffin said miserably.
“And then who?”
His head bowed, he spat out the word. “Stolo.”
“That’s right. Your brother. And if you don’t manage to get every harbor brat between here and Yeris Volbann with child before you come of age, you miserable waste, then there might be something left over for you. But until then, you will not treat my property as if the city is your own personal plea sure garden.”
“But, Father —”
“You will address me in public as Lord Taradyce. Do you need another reminder?”
Raffin swayed on his feet. He was still a little drunk, and I hadn’t seen him eat anything all day. It would put the cap on his humiliation if he were to spew his gorge right here at his father’s feet.
Durrel put a hand on Raffin’s arm, but his friend would not look at him. Durrel stepped forward smoothly and cleared his throat.
“My lord Taradyce,” he said, and the note of iron was back in his voice. “You and your son are guests in my father’s home, and I must insist you show your fellow guests the same courtesy the Decath have always offered you.”
After a frozen moment when all the color drained away from Raffin’s face, Lord Taradyce roared with laughter. Seated again, he turned to Lord Decath. “Now there,” he said loudly, “is a son a man could be proud of.”
Raffin turned on his heel and ran out of the room.
Lord Taradyce gave a disgusted sigh and threw his napkin on the table. Decath leaned toward him and murmured something, and a moment later, Taradyce rose and gave the merest hint of a bow to the Decath. “Lord Ragn, Lady Amalle, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have some property to reclaim. I shall see you both back in the city.”
“Indeed.” Lord Decath’s voice was a low, bemused murmur as he watched Lord Taradyce cross the stone floor with clipped, purposeful strides. He turned back to us when Taradyce had gone. “Well, now that that’s settled, it appears my son has a tale to tell us. If my understanding of the situation is correct, when you left home, your female companions numbered two. And now I see a third in your party. Step forward, girl.”
Durrel stepped aside, and Phandre gave me a brief push forward. I stumbled toward the high table, and leveraged it into a curtsy at the last moment.
“Explain.”
Did he mean me?
“I don’t care who,” Lord Decath prompted. “You, girl — look at me.”
With a thin breath inward, I tilted my head up into the light, just enough for Decath to make me out. Taradyce might be gone, but that didn’t mean I was safe.
“My lord, we, uh —” Durrel gave a chuckle. “Picked up a stray. Please welcome Celyn Contrare, gentlewoman of Gerse.”
Lord Decath’s mouth quirked. “I see. You know if you feed them, they’ll never leave.”
“Ah, too late then, I’m afraid. Morva had soup.”
“Well, then, Celyn Contrare, it looks like you’re ours for keeps. No, no — don’t slink away, girl. Give some accounting for yourself, and pray Tiboran made you a more entertaining storyteller than my son. And perhaps we won’t make you sleep in the scullery with the rats.”
“I’ve slept with rats before, milord.” Which didn’t sound at all like I’d intended.
Beside me, Phandre stifled a snort, and the woman at Lord Durrel’s left said, “How charming. Lord Durrel, your little friends grow more and more amusing every day. But she blushes very prettily, so we may just forgive her.”
Lord Decath’s eyebrows had quirked upward. “I see,” he said. “And just where did my son find you?”
I glanced around, taking in the stage for my second per for mance as jeweler’s daughter Celyn Contrare. “Outside the Celystra, milord. I — escaped.”
Lord Decath glanced between me and Durrel, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Indeed? A runaway nun. That is entertaining. Quite a few rats in the Celystra, then, Celyn Contrare?”
“My lord, you have no idea.”
Decath gave a loud, choking laugh. “I did ask her to be entertaining,” he said. “I suppose I can’t fault her for obliging me. Celyn, be you welcome to Favom Keep. Now, it’s obvious the poor girl’s dead on her feet. Cossum! Find someone to show her and Lady Phandre to their rooms. Lady Merista, you’ll remain here for a moment; I have news you’ll be interested in. Good night.”
And like that, we were dismissed. Phandre grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me out of there, though flight seemed the sensible next move to me as well. I couldn’t help one last look at poor Merista, standing before that panel like the condemned.
CHAPTER FIVE
We left her there, following on the heels of an efficient manservant. I should have been paying attention, looking for exits or valuables, but I was too busy going over that scene in my mind. I still didn’t know whether Taradyce had recognized me. Tiboran watch me, I was racking up too many near escapes for one day.
Phandre dragged me upstairs, to a small firelit bedroom where I was unceremoniously stripped naked by two lady’s maids and plunged into a steaming vat of soapy water. Though my bruised knee and filleted arm sang with protest, for a few scalding minutes I felt the day’s concerns melt away as I was dunked and lathered and scrubbed like a saucepan. The maids whisked away my bloody clothes, but not before I managed to rescue my corset, with its lock picks hidden in the lining, and the packet of letters I’d stashed in the sleeve.
“Love letters?” Phandre said from the tub. Marau’s balls, but those kestrel’s eyes were sharp. Thankfully she was too wet — and too far away — to lunge for them, though I could see her longing to.
“I wish I knew,” I murmured, turning them over in my hands.
So clean I shone, redressed in a hideous gold robe, a soothing salve and neat dressing applied to the cut on my arm, I reflected that I’d managed to get nearly every thing I’d wanted that morning. I should count my blessings; how often does that happen?
I didn’t have a plan, but I knew it wouldn’t involve a long-term stay at Favom Court. I needed clothes and money and transportation to a port city like Yeris Volbann or Tratua, where I could hop a ship to Talanca or Brionry. Either city might even be far enough away, if I could snake my way in among the locals. I’d have to prove I was trustworthy, win a couple of fights, and probably perform some outrageous initiation. Pretty much like I’d done in the boat, really.
The bath had made me sleepy, but I had work to do, and Raffin’s purse wouldn’t get me to Talanca. As soon as Phandre and the maids disappeared, I went to the windows and looked out. We were on the third or fourth floor of the court’s central tower, and outside, the moons shone on a series of tidy gardens and beehive-shaped outbuildings.
Naming the seven moons was one of the earliest lessons any Llyvrin child, nob or common, ever learned. Bountiful Celys and black Marau, who held the constant perfect balance of life and death: one bright, the other in shadow, all through the long year. Small, smoky, mysterious Sar, spinning the wrong way in the night. The twins, Mend-kaal and Tiboran, as different as work and play. Bright, fiery Zet, who lit the way for hunters and kings. The Nameless One, a tiny, white hot dot of light coursing at Marau’s heels like a relentless hound, dealing out her horrible justice to sinners.
High above a thatched outbuilding, I could just make out a narrow slip of Tiboran’s moon. The only reliable thing about Tiboran was his moon’s fixed place in the sky, by which you could chart a course or read the hour as easily as by the sun.
Taking the chance that everyone was still roving about on nob or servant-of-nob business, I hiked up the long skirts of the robe and let myself out into the hallway. Some said it was risky to go working by Tiboran’s new moon, when the god’s back was turned and his eyes looking elsewhere, but that was probably just something somebody made up to discourage thieves.
Castles keep their secrets in the kitchens and the bedrooms, but their valuables can be anywhere. The Favom Court valuables, however, were elusive. I knew this was a working farm, not a palace, but the Decath seemed to live as spare and frugal a life here as any monk.
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