Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy)

by Robin LaFevers

  “By the grace of Mortain, I grant you Sight so you may see His will and act on it. Do you promise to obey the saint and act only when He bids it?”

  “I do.”

  She dips the point of the stopper into the contents of the vial, then gropes gently for my face. “Open your eyes wide, child.”

  Even though I am sore afraid of that sharp wand, I do as she commands. She moves it unerringly toward my eyes, one single heavy drop hanging from the tapered end, and I pray her hand is steady.

  There is a touch of warmth, then my vision blurs and all the colors and light in the small room run together. My eyes grow warmer and warmer until I fear they will burst into flames. For a moment, I am afraid she has blinded me, but then the sensation passes and the heat and the blurring cease, and I can see again. It seems to me that everything is somewhat brighter now, all the edges sharper, as if the same milkiness that clouds Sister Vereda’s gaze has been ripped away from my own.

  But it is not only my sight that is different. My skin, too, has changed, and I feel the air as an almost solid thing against my arms and face. I am aware of Sister Vereda in a way I was not before; I can feel her, feel the spark of life that shines so brightly within her.

  “These Tears of Mortain are a gift to those of us who serve Him,” she explains as she returns the vial to its box. “They allow us to experience life and death as He does. Now go,” Sister Vereda says. “And may Mortain keep you in His dark embrace and guide your hand with His own.”

  Chapter Eight

  Chancellor Crunard has claimed this chateau is nothing but a hunting lodge, but to my eyes, accustomed as they are to a poorly thatched cottage and the austere world of the convent, it looks like a palace. The only thing the nobles appear to be hunting is one another, whether for spirited gossip or furtive liaisons behind the tapestries.

  The chancellor pats my arm. “Relax, my dear,” he says. “Or else they will wonder why my new paramour is scowling so.” His wry smile causes me to blush. Prettily, I hope.

  “Your pardon, milord.” It had seemed a most far-fetched notion when the abbess first explained it. Surely no one would believe that I was with Chancellor Crunard in that way. But the truth is, there are many such pairings throughout the hall, older lords and nobles sporting young maids on their arms just as they sport jaunty feathers in their caps or jeweled daggers at their hips.

  Our host, Baron Lombart, approaches, and Crunard introduces us. Lombart is fat and old and reminds me of the boar who used to hide in the woods near my home. I murmur some polite nicety and wonder if my new garrote would be able to slice through the thickness of his neck.

  I suspect Crunard has guessed the drift of my thoughts, for he nods in the direction of the crowd. “Entertain yourself for a bit, my dear. The baron and I have business to discuss.”

  It is my cue, and joy at being released surges through me. I am only too happy to let the tides and currents of the mingling nobles carry me to the edge of the room so I can slip away to my assignment.

  As I move toward the door, curious glances brush against my skin. I feel one particular gaze linger too long, so I stop and pretend to make conversation with two gentlemen nearby. One of them stops talking and turns his protruding eyes to me. I give him a withering glance and continue on my way.

  When I reach the doorway, no one is watching, so I slip from the room. The hallway is dark compared to the brightness of the great hall, and cool. I am glad to be away from the smell of too many bodies and warring perfumes. I count off twenty paces and am not surprised to find a wide, sweeping stairway, just as Sister Vereda predicted.

  When I reach the first door at the top of the stairs, I draw into myself, as I have been taught, letting everything around me grow still, and then I cast my senses into the room beyond. The Tears of Mortain have done their job well, for I am certain there is no spark of life burning behind that door.

  The next chamber is as cold and empty as the first, but when I stand in front of the third, I feel the faint trickle of life, warm and pulsing.

  Anticipation bubbles through me, and it is all I can do to keep from charging in, daggers drawn. Instead, I put a hand to my heart to calm it and quickly run through Sister Beatriz’s instructions. This will be the hard part, acting the coquette.

  With one last deep breath, I force a smile of breathless anticipation onto my face and open the heavy wooden door. “Jean-Paul?” I whisper into the room, then stumble slightly, as if I’ve had too much wine. “Is that you?”

  Standing at the window, Martel whirls around to face me. He is just as Sister Vereda said he would be, not much taller than I, his hair the reddish brown of a fox. I stumble toward him, and barely have time to register his scowl of alarm before he steps away from the window and grabs my shoulders. “What are you doing here?” He gives me a rough shake and I let my body go slack, as if I can barely manage to stand on my own.

  “I am looking for Jean-Paul. And you, sir”—I tap him lightly on the chest—“are not him.” I squish my lips into a pout and pray I do not look like a hooked fish. I am close enough to see the ruby he wears in left ear.

  Looking down at my bodice, the fool relaxes. Are men truly such idiots that they cannot resist two orbs of flesh? Martel glances at the door behind us and licks his lips. “Perhaps, after I conduct my business, I can come to demoiselle’s aid,” he suggests. His eyes stray again to my bodice, and the dagger at my ankle calls to my clenched hands. Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.

  “That is a very kind offer.” I let my eyes wander up and down his body, as if assessing his charms. In truth, I am searching for the marque. His forehead is clear, as are his lips. Uncertainty raises its head. I sigh as if smitten. “But Jean-Paul,” I say, then sigh again. I tilt my head, considering. “Well, as you say, he is not here. Mayhap monsieur will do.” As if I am a mare in heat, I think in disgust, and any stallion will suffice.

  Martel steps closer. I swallow the distaste that rises up in my throat and wind my arms around his neck. There! Just where his shirt meets his jaw line, a dark shadow marks his skin. He sees the spark of interest flare in my eyes, and his own heat with desire. I allow my body to press even closer against his. He licks his lips again. “As soon as I am done . . . Perhaps you can wait in the next chamber?”

  “My pleasure, milord,” I say. He nuzzles my ear to seal our agreement. While pretending to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, I slip the bracelet from my wrist. Just as his nuzzling starts to move dangerously low, I yank the hidden wire from the bracelet. Before he can guess what is happening, I loop it around his neck, spin out of his embrace, step around to his back, and pull tight, a move I have practiced with Annith a hundred times.

  His hands scrabble at his neck, tearing at the silver wire. The sounds he makes are ugly and desperate and fill me with uncertainty. Then I remember that this man is betraying my country, my duchess, and I pull tighter, praying to Mortain for strength.

  He grants it. After a short but spirited struggle, Martel sags against me. Before he is completely gone, I lean in and put my lips to his ear. “We punish those who betray our country.” My words are as soft and tender as a lover’s caress, and Martel shudders as death claims him.

  Just as I relax my grip, a thick warmth rises up from his body and rubs against me, like a cat rubbing its owner’s leg. Images fill my mind: a fleet of ships, a sealed letter, a heavy gold signet ring, my own breasts. The warmth swirls briefly within me, then dissipates with a sudden whoosh, leaving me chilled and shaken.

  What in Mortain’s name was that?

  His soul.

  The words come unbidden. Almost as if someone else—the god, perhaps?—has spoken them.

  Why has no one at the convent warned me of this? Is this one of the glories of Mortain that Sister Vereda spoke of? Or something else? For I cannot decide if I have just been violated in some way or granted a sacred trust.

  But I have no time for reflections. I shove my questions aside and brace myself ag
ainst the man’s body, trying to balance his weight as I unwrap the garrote from his neck. I wipe it clean on his doublet, then retract the wire into the bracelet. With both hands free, I prop the body up against the window and peer down to the courtyard, praying that the cart Chancellor Crunard promised is there.

  It is.

  I grasp the traitor by his collar and begin the difficult task of shoving his body through the window.

  For a small man, he is surprisingly heavy. I struggle with his dead weight, trying to maneuver it onto the casement. After a final heave that leaves me breathing hard, the lifeless body tumbles from the window. There is a moment of silence, then a thud as the body hits the waiting cart. I peer out in time to see the driver lift the reins and urge the horses forward.

  I do not know where he will take the body or what he will do to keep it concealed, but that is not my task.

  Flushed and shaky after my brush with Martel’s soul, I long to sit down in one of the chairs and compose myself. Or fall to my knees and pray for understanding. But I must get back to Crunard so we may take our leave.

  I push away from the wall and move toward the door, then hear a footstep in the corridor outside. Too late! Someone is coming. Baron Lombart, perhaps? Hoping to meet with Martel?

  I try to think. Should I seduce him or kill him? Of course I would prefer to kill him, but I cannot—not unless he tries to kill me or I see the marque.

  The latch on the door lifts and I step back a few paces, gripping my arms and hunching my shoulders, already slipping into the role I must play. Once again, anticipation burbles through me. Or perhaps it is panic.

  When the door opens I cry out, “Jean-Paul? What took you so long? I’d almost given up on—oh. You are not Jean-Paul,” I say accusingly.

  “No,” he says, then closes the door softly behind him. “I am not, but perhaps I can help you,” he offers.

  And indeed, he is not Jean-Paul, nor Baron Lombart. This man is much taller than the baron, and where Lombart had gone to fat, this man is all lithe muscle. His rich brown cloak is clasped in place with the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos, the patron saint of battle and soldiers. Under that he wears an unadorned black doublet that is elegant in its simplicity. He steps farther into the room, and I begin to feel trapped. Afraid of what his sharp gray eyes will see in my face, I fold my arms so that my breasts rise up enticingly. “As you are not Jean-Paul, I do not think you can help me.” Even as I speak, my eyes search his face, his neck, praying for the marque that will allow me to dispatch him. But there is none. Or none that I can see.

  “But I am here and he is not.” The man’s eyes, as dark and shifting as storm clouds, roam over my body, but there is no heat there. His keen gaze dismisses me and moves to the window.

  I take a step closer to distract him. “Ah, but I do not wish to play Jean-Paul false, my lord, even though your charms are many.” In truth, he is not charming so much as dangerous, and I would have said anything to turn his attention from that window.

  Almost as if reading my thoughts, he crosses to it and peers outside. I hold my breath. Sweet Mortain, please let the cart be gone from the courtyard!

  The man’s regard flicks back to me, cutting straight to the bone. “You wound me, demoiselle. I am sure I could make you forget all about Jean-Paul.”

  Still playing the coquette, I tilt my head to the side, but something is wrong. He is saying the right words, but his eyes do not match his flirtatious tone. A deep note of warning sounds inside me. “B-but I do not want to forget about him,” I say as if insulted.

  He takes three giant strides toward me, his entire demeanor changing as he grabs my shoulders. “Enough with the games. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  I let my body go slack, as if I’m weak and frightened. “I might ask the same of you. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “Gavriel Duval. And if you are looking for a tryst, I can accommodate you.” He pulls me closer, so that I feel the heat rising off his body, warm and smelling faintly of some spice. “But I do not think that is what you are looking for.”

  He knows! I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Somehow he knows what I am and why I am here.

  I panic and begin to babble. “I am sorry, milord, but I am waiting for Jean-Paul. I will leave you to your moment of quiet and be on my way.” With a nimble twist of my body, I slip from his iron grip. It is artlessly done, but I am free and fleeing for the door.

  Once in the hall, I run all the way to the stairs. I take them two at a time, then pause a moment to compose myself. I look over my shoulder, but there is no sign of Gavriel Duval. I straighten my skirts and square my shoulders, then enter the great hall. Upon seeing me, Crunard extricates himself from his conversation and makes his way through the crowd to my side. He arches an eyebrow. “Is everything as it should be?”

  “It will be once we are away from here,” I say.

  As he escorts me to the door, I feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of my head. I know if I turn and look, they will be the color of storm clouds.

  Chapter Nine

  At the convent, the reverend mother looks at me sharply as she leans forward. “You are certain he said Duval?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother. That was the name he gave. Although perhaps it was false? He also wore the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos,” I add, in case that will help in any way.

  The abbess glances at Crunard and he nods reluctantly. “Duval does serve Saint Camulos, as do most knights and soldiers.”

  “Even so,” she says. “It would be easy enough to get hold of such a pin to round out the deception.”

  Crunard shifts in his chair. “But if it was Duval . . .” he says.

  “There could be other reasons for his being there,” the abbess points out.

  “There could,” Crunard agrees grudgingly. “But it is also possible we have caught a very big fish indeed.”

  The abbess turns her piercing blue gaze back to me. “How did he react to finding you in the room?”

  “He assumed I was there for a liaison of some sort and was flirtatious at first. Then he grew angry.” I want to look away, afraid she will be able to tell just how poorly I played my role with him, but trying to avoid her will only make her pay closer attention.

  “Tell me everything he said. Everything.”

  And so I repeat the conversation for her, word by word. When I am done, she looks at Crunard, who shrugs. “It could mean nothing; it could mean everything. I no longer claim to know all the duchess’s enemies. They hide too well among her allies.”

  “But Duval . . .” the abbess says, shaking her head. She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. I cannot tell if she is thinking or praying. Mayhap both. While her eyes are closed, I take a deep breath and long for my own bed. Tonight’s duties have been exhilarating, but draining too. That Duval saw through my deception has left me shaken. I had thought there was little more for me to learn, but tonight has proven me wrong. I vow to pay more attention to Sister Beatriz’s lessons in the womanly arts. Perhaps Annith and I can even practice on each other.

  “So,” the reverend mother says, coming out of her reverie. “This is what we shall do. Baron Lombart’s guests will be staying the week. Chancellor Crunard was on his way back to court, but he has had a change of heart, haven’t you, Chancellor?”

  He nods, then spreads his hands. “I fear my horse has gone lame.”

  The abbess smiles. “So of course he will return to Lombart’s with his young guest. And you”—her eyes pin me to my chair—“will return with him and find a way to engage Duval again. Preferably alone. With luck, you can convince him to play a game of seduction with you, a liaison or some such—”

  “But Holy Mother—”

  Her face grows cold and distant. “Did you or did you not vow to use every skill you possess in the service of Mortain?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “There is no but. Your feminine artistry is as much a part of your ars
enal as your dagger or beloved poison. Duval must be watched. You yourself have found evidence of that. The closer you get to him, the more you will learn. Perhaps you will even be able to coax truths from him under the guise of pillow talk.”

  I am certain I could no more coax secrets out of the dark, angry Duval than I could coax the abbess to dance a gavotte in the streets of Nantes, but I keep that to myself. I have already performed poorly tonight and I am afraid if I argue she will think I am no longer fit to serve the convent. Then a thought occurs to me. “Why not just eliminate him now and avoid the risk altogether?”

  “Did you see the marque of Mortain on him?”

  I hesitate, then answer truthfully. “No. But Martel’s was nearly hidden under his collar. Perhaps Duval’s hides as well.”

  She smiles, and too late I see I have played right into her hands. “All the more reason to get close to him, no?”

  I cannot begin to fathom why Mortain insists on concealing these marques of His so that I must play hide-and-seek.

  “Ismae,” she says, serious once more. “Duval is one of the duchess’s most trusted advisors. It is critical we know where he stands.”

  “He has her ear and trust in a way few others do,” explains Crunard.

  “And if he is betraying us, he will feel Mortain’s punishment soon enough.” The abbess’s face is grim. “Perhaps even at your hand—”

  She is interrupted by scuffling at the door. The abbess only has time to frown before the door bursts open. My breath hitches sharply in my throat as Gavriel Duval himself strides in.

  Annith is right on his heels. “I am sorry, Reverend Mother! I told him you’d left instructions not to be disturbed, but he wouldn’t listen.” She sends the intruder a scathing look.

  “Yes, I can see that,” the abbess says. She sends a quick questioning glance my way. When I nod, indicating he is who I saw at Lombart’s, she turns back to the man glowering in her doorway. “Well, Duval, come in. Don’t hover at the door.”

  Duval comes farther into the room and I nearly flinch at his heated gaze. In truth, the man is angry enough to breathe fire. “Abbess. Chancellor Crunard.” He gives a perfunctory nod to both. His anger eats up all the empty space in the room. “We have a few things we must discuss.”