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

by Robin LaFevers

  I look down and see that I have sliced my pear to ribbons. I carefully set the knife aside and reach for the bread.

  “If it is activity you crave, one of my groomsmen can accompany you if you care to ride. Or you can occupy yourself with”—he waves his hand, searching for some activity he deems appropriate—“needlework.”

  I stare at him coldly. “I do not care for needlework.” I pause. “Unless it involves the base of the skull.”

  His mouth lifts in amusement and I hold my breath, wondering if he will laugh again. I ignore the small nick of disappointment when he does not. “Then occupy yourself reading some of the histories in my study. I assume the convent taught you how to entertain yourself for a morning. Put some of that excellent training to use.” And with that, he removes himself from the table, leaving me to seethe over my breakfast.

  Stay, he bids me. As if I am some hound to follow or not, at his command. As if it is he, not I, who is in charge of my actions. I know in my bones that the abbess will want to be informed of any urgent secret meeting. Besides, does not his very desire to keep this meeting secret prove he is up to some deception? When it is over, I will have only his word as to what took place.

  Renewed purpose flowing through me, I rise and hurry to find my cloak.

  I travel on foot. Saddling a mount would waste precious time and risk drawing questions. I do not know how loyal Duval’s servants are or to what lengths they will go to enforce his wishes.

  The morning air is crisp and clean; Guérande’s merchants are only just beginning to open their shutters. Industrious maids and housewives are already shopping for their day’s provisions. No one pays any attention to my passing. When I reach the palace, it is easy enough to gain admittance, as courtiers, nobles, and petitioners come and go as they please. I also suspect the guard recognizes me from last night, although I cannot be certain. My biggest obstacle is finding where Duval’s mysterious meeting is taking place.

  I stand in the main hallway for a moment, trying to create a map of the palace in my head. As I orient myself, I remember that Duval has private rooms assigned to him. That is surely where he will hold his meeting.

  I ask a posted sentry for directions, then hurry up the staircase he points to. The palace is larger than the village where I grew up and far more confusing. Countless chamber doors line the endless hallways and corridors. In the end, I give up and bribe one of the many pages underfoot to show me the way to Duval’s chambers. I give him a coin—two when he promises silence—then study the door before me.

  There is no antechamber. The door is in plain sight of anyone who walks by, which means I cannot simply stand with my ear to it. There is another door to the right of Duval’s, so I approach it, casting my senses out, trying to see if anyone is in there.

  It feels empty, so I slip inside and hurry to the joint wall between the two rooms. I press my ear against it, but the stone is thick, and the men are speaking in low, cautious voices. I turn back to explore the chamber. It is filled with fine furnishings and elegant tapestries, none of which will help me in the least. There is a window, however, that overlooks a small enclosed courtyard. I stick my head out, pleased to see Duval’s room also has a window. It is easier to hear through glass than stone.

  Once assured there is no one in the courtyard below, I remove my cloak so it will not trip me and step out onto the ledge. Carefully, I inch along the narrow casement until my hand grasps the wood that frames Duval’s window. I pause, then flatten myself against the wall so I cannot be seen from inside. I am quickly rewarded for my efforts by Duval’s voice, slightly muffled but audible through the thick glass. “If you cannot tell me who you are working for, then we have nothing more to discuss.” His voice is as cold and hard as the stone at my back.

  “You know well that there are few to trust in the duchess’s court. If word of my liege lord’s identity were to fall into the wrong hands, it would put many people in jeopardy.”

  “You cannot expect me to gallop off to a rendezvous with your mystery lord when it could so easily be a trap.”

  “You may choose the time and place of the meeting, one to your own advantage. But my liege has a plan, a proposal”—his voice sounds like he is smiling—“that he thinks you’ll find most intriguing.”

  There is a long pause as Duval considers, weighing the risks. My ears are firmly fixed on the room beyond, but my eyes search the courtyard below. My fingers and toes have grown numb in the bitter chill of the morning, but I will not leave my post before I hear Duval’s answer.

  “Why me?” he finally asks. “Why has your liege sent you to me rather than to the chancellor or one of the duchess’s guardians?”

  “Because blood is thicker than any chain of office. My liege believes that you more than anyone care for the young duchess’s well-being.”

  Interesting that the mysterious lord would think such a thing. Is it empty flattery? Or does the man have personal knowledge of Duval?

  The room is quiet as both men weigh and measure each other, and I nearly dance with impatience—I’m desperate to hear Duval’s answer and nearly as desperate to be gone from this place before I am discovered.

  “Very well,” Duval says at last. “I will speak to this liege of yours and hear what he has to offer. Tell me where you are staying and I will have word sent as to when and where we shall meet.”

  Satisfied that the main thrust of the meeting is over, I peel my fingers away from the window, flexing them to get the blood flowing again. Slowly, for fear of missing a step with my nearly numb feet, I begin inching back to the adjoining room. Stiff with cold, I half fall, half climb back into the chamber, then silently close the shutter. I grab my cloak and rub my arms, trying to get warm again, but only for a moment. I need to be well away from here before Duval concludes his meeting.

  I hurry to the door, open it a crack, and peer out into the hallway, then nearly gasp in surprise when I spot Madame Hivern lurking outside Duval’s door. Hopefully, the door presented as thick an obstacle to her as it did to me.

  I know Duval wanted this meeting to remain secret, but it is my own suspicion of the woman that propels me into the hall. I arrange my face in a flustered look, then step out of the office. “Madame Hivern?” I say, making my voice young and just a bit tremulous.

  Startled, she whirls around. “Demoiselle Rienne? What are you doing here?” Her lovely face is wary.

  I glance about, confused. “I was looking for milord Duval’s chambers. One of the footmen told me they were in this corridor, but I must have miscounted the doors.”

  Her face relaxes and a smile that is pure condescension appears on her face. “Come, my dear.” She reaches out, tucks my arm in hers, and begins leading me down the hall, away from both doors. “Surely you know that the best way to lose a man is to chase him down?” She pats my hand. “Let me share with you the secrets of our trade.”

  It is all I can do to keep from correcting her disturbing assumption. Nor do I trust this sudden charity of hers. “Madame is too kind.” I am pleased that I keep any whiff of irony from my words. In truth, the last thing I want is advice from Duval’s mother on how to be a good mistress. However, perhaps I can turn it to my advantage and use the opportunity to learn more about Duval.

  The memory of his stricken face the night they argued flits through my mind, and I feel sick at my own deception, as if I am probing a gaping wound. Nevertheless, it is why I am here, and I know just what the reverend mother would think of such misplaced scruples.

  Ignoring the nobles and courtiers gathered in clusters in the grand salon, Madame Hivern settles us in a corner away from the others. When we are alone, she turns considering eyes on me. “So.” She sets her graceful hands in her lap. “Where are you from, my dear, and how did you meet Gavriel?”

  I lower my eyes—a young country miss would be nervous, would she not?—and begin twisting my hands in my lap. “My family is of modest means, madame, and would not be known to you.”

&nbs
p; She tilts her head daintily, but the smile on her face is brittle as glass. “Then how did you come to meet?”

  Stick close to the truth to give weight to the lie is what the convent drilled into our heads. “In a tavern, near Brest.” I do not fully trust Duval, but I trust his mother even less and will not serve up his secrets on a platter before her.

  Her face blanches and she rears back a little, as if she has just been struck. “Please tell me you were not the serving wench.”

  “No,” I say, careful not to smile. “I was passing through on my family’s business.”

  I watch as she mentally combs through the coastal area of Brest, trying to determine what business Duval was up to. After another moment, her lovely mask falls back into place. “You must forgive me,” she says, “but my son has kept so completely to himself until now, I scarcely know how to credit your presence.”

  I make my eyes wide and innocent. “But madame, clearly the two of you are estranged, so perhaps he has simply not mentioned such relationships to you.”

  Her mouth grows ugly and flat at this blatant reminder, but she bites back her retort as a servant places a tray of spiced wine in front of us. By the time the servant leaves, she has composed herself. I pick up a wine goblet, and she leans forward, changing the subject. “Not all men are the same, you know. With someone such as Gavriel, I would suggest appearing aloof, not chasing too much. He might see that as suffocating rather than charming.” Her words are sharp, but her voice is sweet, like honey on the edge of a blade, and meant to be cutting. I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face and commending his soul to Mortain.

  She frowns and continues her prattling. “Why ever did you think it would be a good idea to chase him down? Is that what girls do in the village you come from?”

  “I was not chasing him, madame, merely trying to deliver a message. It came after he left this morning and I thought to deliver it myself.”

  Hivern holds up her hands in mock horror. “You are his paramour, not his servant. Do not follow him like a dog follows his master.”

  My hand tightens on my wine goblet, and I am glad it is silver, not glass, for surely it would shatter under the force of my annoyance with this woman. “Madame, I assure you—”

  “Oh, call me Antoinette, won’t you? I think we shall be fast friends, you and I.”

  “Do you think that is a good idea, given the breach between you and your son?”

  A hint of cold fury flickers across her face, then is gone. “Perhaps you can help us to heal this rift.”

  I set my goblet down on the table and give Madame Hivern my most innocent look. “Is that why you were looking for him? To call a truce?”

  Annoyance crosses her face, and she casts about the room as if searching for a distraction. Apparently she finds one, for her expression softens and her eyes shine with the first true emotion she has shown. “My darling!” Hivern’s face is alight with pleasure. “Do come here, I have someone I would like you to meet.”

  The man who approaches is tall and slender with dark eyes and fine features and is far too young to be her lover, and yet she has called him darling. He gives me a cautious, considering look, then bends to kiss Hivern’s cheek.

  “Ismae, I would like you to meet my son François Avaugour. François, this is Ismae, Gavriel’s new friend.”

  If he has heard tell of his brother’s “friend,” he gives no indication. He bends gallantly over my hand. “Enchanté, demoiselle. Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.”

  I murmur some nonsense back, and Madame Hivern pats the seat next to her. “Come join us, my love.”

  “But of course.” François takes the chair close to Hivern so that he faces me. “How can I resist the two loveliest ladies at court?”

  I long to roll my eyes at his words, but I peer up at him through my lashes instead.

  “Gavriel’s friend is not used to such polished manners, François. She has been too long in the country. You should offer to guide her through her first visit to court when your brother is tending to his other duties.”

  His liquid brown eyes meet mine. “I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure, demoiselle.”

  “You are too kind,” I murmur, pleased at how easily I have been pulled into the bosom of Duval’s family. They must hunger after his secrets as much as I hunger after theirs.

  “My son was born and raised at court and can steer you safely through its treacherous waters.”

  “But surely milord Duval will do that,” I protest.

  “Duval can do what?” a deep, familiar voice asks.

  “Gavriel!” Hivern’s voice is full of gaiety that is as false as her heart. “What a lovely surprise. We were just getting to know your friend a little better. She is such a charming thing.”

  The warm, heavy weight of Duval’s hand settles on my shoulder and I am rendered speechless as he bends down and places a kiss atop my head.

  “Dearest Ismae,” Duval says. “Whatever are you doing here? Not that it isn’t a delightful surprise.”

  Merde. I have been so busy matching wits with Madame Hivern that I have not given any thought to an explanation for my presence here at court.

  “She was kind enough to accept my invitation, Gavriel,” Madame Hivern says with a sly glance in my direction. “I thought it would be fun to become acquainted.”

  Duval’s hand on my shoulder tightens painfully, then he removes it and gives a perfunctory bow. I do not know how he makes it look ironic, but he does. “My lady mother’s generosity knows no bounds.” Then he turns his gaze upon me. “Come, demoiselle. I am finished here.” He reaches down, grabs my elbow, and pulls me to my feet. Without another look in his family’s direction, we depart.

  Behind the crackle and snap of anger that burns in his eyes, I catch a glimpse of something else. Something that looks remarkably like fear.

  “Was that part of your convent’s instructions?” Duval’s voice is tight with anger. “To catch the eye of my brother and offer yourself to him as well as me?”

  “No, my lord, it was not,” I say primly.

  But likely only because it hadn’t occurred to the abbess.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Duval escorts me back to his residence himself. He says it is so I do not get lost along the way, but he does not fool me. He wants to be certain I do not circle back to the palace. When he leaves to return to court, I consider following him a second time but then realize it would be foolish, as he will likely be expecting it. Besides, I do not wish to risk running into Madame Hivern again. The thinly veiled venom of her false concern still bubbles through me, as vicious as any poison. I wonder how Duval would feel if I killed his mother, for in truth, that is what I wish to do. He might well thank me.

  When I reach my chamber, I find Louyse unpacking my trunks. She turns to me, her old cheeks pink. “Oh, miss! So many lovely things you have.”

  Indeed, rows and rows of the most beautiful gowns are spread about the room. I am stunned at the riches the convent has provided. Velvets and brocades and the finest silks, all in dazzling colors: deep blue, emerald green, and rich claret.

  There is a sound in the doorway and I look up to find Agnez coming into the room holding a large twig cage at arm’s length. In it sits a large, rather fiendish-looking crow.

  “They sent this along with the trunks, demoiselle,” Louyse explains. “We tried to put it in the stables, but it unsettled all the horses, so the ostler insisted we bring it inside. Is it a . . . pet, my lady?”

  “Of a sort. Put the cage over by the window,” I tell Agnez. As she sets it on the floor, the crow squawks and lunges for her finger. She squeaks and springs back, nearly tripping in her haste to be away from the bird.

  “That’ll be all,” Louyse says to her sharply, although it isn’t really the girl’s fault.

  With one last suspicious glance at the crow, Agnez quickly takes
her leave. Louyse shakes her head. “Will you want help dressing?” At my blank look, she adds, “Before you go to court tonight?”

  “Perhaps in an hour or so, thank you.”

  She pauses at the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Two letters came with the trunks. They’re on the table over there. And the smallest of the trunks is still locked. They do not appear to have sent a key. Would you like me to send up one of the footmen to break it?”

  “Let me see what the letters say before I decide.”

  “Very well, milady.” She dips a curtsy, then departs, leaving me alone with a very ill-tempered crow who is trying to shred his cage with his wicked-looking beak.

  I hurry to the table and pick up the first letter. Even though I recognize the reverend mother’s handwriting, I turn the note over and examine the seal. Annith has a wealth of tricks for opening correspondence, and she has taught me the signs to search for if I suspect tampering, but I see none of them on this seal. It is the same black wax the convent always uses, smelling faintly of licorice and cinnamon, and it is all in one piece, with no smaller, thinner layers to indicate it has been resealed. Satisfied, I tear open the seal, hoping for a new assignment. There are so very many here at court whose throats I would happily slit.

  Dearest Daughter,

  I hope this finds you well and adjusting to life at court, and I trust your training at the convent is serving you well.

  Sister Vereda casts her bones into the flames daily, searching for guidance, but has Seen nothing yet. When she does, I shall send a message. However, if your heart and eyes are open to Him, He will no doubt guide your hand.

  Remember that you are also our eyes and ears at court. Report to me all that you learn, no matter how small a thing it may seem.

  In addition to gowns and finery, we have sent a small trunk of the tools and supplies your service to Mortain will require. Vanth bears the key.