“He’s not going to kill Carston. He needs the boy alive. We have time.”
“Then I’ll go without you.”
“Fine. Go. Good luck.” She went to the door and thrust it open. “You know if the regent sees an army coming at him, he’ll kill Carston. You need to sneak in and steal him. I’m very good at that sort of thing, but of course, you have more trustworthy people at your disposal who are no doubt skilled enough for this sort of thing.”
He didn’t move. His face was a mask of fury, fear, and indecision. Keros sympathized. Margaret pulled the door shut and marched back to the table. She didn’t gloat; it wasn’t her nature.
“I know another majicar. She might be willing to help us. It may cost you.”
“Anything,” Nicholas said heavily.
Margaret smiled unpleasantly. “Careful. I don’t know what she’ll ask. She is no friend of mine.”
Keros frowned, wondering who the majicar was. Margaret looked at him. “Would you come with us to meet her? Just in case.”
“In case of what?” Weverton demanded.
“In case we have to kill her,” Margaret said without even a hint of a smile.
Chapter 6
Nicholas was reeling from Keros’s revelations and Margaret’s last announcement. He still had difficulty imagining her killing anyone, though he’d seen her fighting off the brigands in the alley. He followed her out to the courtyard with Keros trailing behind. The majicar was unsteady on his feet and he glowered at the horses.
“You can’t ride those into Sylmont,” he said.
“I know,” Margaret replied. “We’ll take a hack and return for them later.”
She glanced at Nicholas and he nodded. Soon the three of them were walking back up toward the Ferradon River. They went slowly, Margaret taking Keros’s arm to steady him. Nicholas kept his hand on the hilt of his rapier, scanning ahead for trouble and turning frequently to watch their trail. The closest bridge over the river was outside the Riddles in Cranford—more than half a league away. They’d be able to find a hack there.
The rain fell steadily, the wind gusting now and again. Nicholas’s mind tumbled madly over the events of the night and all that he’d learned. Primary in his mind was Carston. The fact that Geoffrey had taken him to guarantee Nicholas’s cooperation meant that he was up to something—something he knew Nicholas would fight him on. But what? He had no idea and that bothered him. How could Geoffrey hide anything big enough to warrant this action so well from Nicholas’s spies? And then this business of the majicars—if they were being driven insane, then Crosspointe was in real danger from them. And even if they weren’t a concern, the ghost spells were—if Keros was right. But the majicar’s logic seemed sound. He made a compelling case. What could possibly be done about it? Nicholas would have to consult his own majicars.
His thoughts spun to Margaret. Her tactics were straightforward enough—she’d help him get his son back and he’d owe her, enough to go against all he’d worked for by putting her family back on the throne. Would he do it? He grimaced. What wouldn’t he do for his son? He glanced at her, still marveling at her transformation. How often had she been inside his house and he’d never known? What secrets of his had she ferreted out over the years? And all this time he’d only seen the simpering young miss, as dull as dishwater and clever as mud. He was a fool. And not just about her, but about Geoffrey as well. He felt like everything he thought he’d been certain of was crumbling to ash, and he’d been too stupid to know it.
That thought brought him back to his son and Geoffrey. Once they retrieved Carston, Geoffrey would have no reason to hide his plotting from Nicholas anymore. Which meant he would no doubt come after the Weverton empire, confiscating whatever he could get his hands on and putting every Weverton he could find in an iron collar. His mouth twisted. If Geoffrey wanted a war, Nicholas would give him one. No one went after his family, his only son, with impunity. He might not help put a Rampling back on the throne, but as sure as the black depths, he’d make Geoffrey pay.
He glanced again at Margaret and found her looking at him. Her expression was knowing and there was no triumph in it. For that he was grateful.
They found a hack near the corner of Chalky Street and Trisfield Lane. They bundled Keros quickly inside so that no one would see his ruined face and Margaret called out the address: the Spotted Lace Teahouse in Blackstone.
Margaret and Keros sat opposite to Nicholas. Keros leaned into the corner and fell almost instantly asleep as the hack rattled over the cobblestones.
“Where did you find him?” he asked Margaret, nodding at the majicar.
She shook her head, swiping the rain from her face with her sleeve. Not a question she was willing to answer. He tried a different tack. “Do you think he’s right about these ghost spells?”
She shrugged. “It sounds plausible. If it’s true . . .” She trailed away with a helpless twist of her hand. “I hope he’s wrong,” she said. “And what will you do about your friend the regent? He’ll come after you the way he’s come after us Ramplings.” She folded her arms. “Some would say that you are a fool to tip your hand. Some would say you should let him keep the boy while you make arrangements to eliminate Truehelm.”
She was right. His lip curled. “I will not leave my son in that bastard’s hands longer than I have to.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Perhaps.”
She tipped her head back, watching him from beneath lowered lids. He couldn’t read her expression.
“My father would not have come for any of us,” she said. “Any more than Ryland or Vaughn will stop the slave auctions of our family. Not until they are ready to attack the regent and defeat him. Crosspointe always comes first.”
Nicholas didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d worked to discredit and undermine her father for years. He’d thought the man lacked foresight and was too bent on clinging to outdated policies instead of embracing the future. He had also ignored the Jutras threat, and had been too complacent about believing the Inland Sea would forever provide a barrier against invasion. He’d been criminally wrong and nine months ago Queen Naren had paid the price with her life when the Jutras had managed to send a ship into Blackwater Bay. The captured Jutras had all been majicars and had escaped their prison, infiltrating the castle and attacking the throne room. The official story that was told later was that the Crown Shields had fought back, side by side, with several Rampling family majicars who happened to be in the castle that day.
But it was a lie. Nicholas had paid well for the stories of those who had been in the throne room and witnessed the attack. The Jutras majicars had begun casting a spell that involved dreadful human sacrifice. They killed two people, carving them up alive before they were stopped by a single powerful majicar, a woman everyone had thought was dead.
Lucy Trenton, a niece of the king, had been convicted of treason and murder and sentenced to be exposed on the Bramble during Chance. She’d been sent on the Bramble ship, but even before the first Chance storms struck, she returned with powerful majickal abilities. She stopped the Jutras spell, allowing the Crown Shields to destroy the invaders.
She’d not been seen since. Margaret’s father had no doubt been keeping her in his pocket—his own private majicar to use at will, and by all accounts, a very powerful one.
Nicholas rubbed his thumb along his lower lip, forcing himself to consider Margaret’s words. In truth, King William had had a much stronger backbone than he did when it came to family. But there were sacrifices Nicholas was unwilling to make—sacrifices that perhaps a king must make. But that was only another argument for why there should be no monarchy in Crosspointe. There should be a council made up of representatives from the guilds and merchants—the people themselves.
He became aware that she was looking at him as if awaiting an answer. There was something about her that demanded honesty and he found it hard to resist.
“I put no one above my
family,” he said at last.
A smile flickered across her lips and was gone. “I know.”
That piqued his curiosity. “What else do you know about me?”
“Enough.”
He sat forward. “And yet I am disconcerted to discover how little I know about you. Not nearly enough, I find. Tell me about yourself.”
The request surprised her. Her mouth pursed as she thought. She shook her head. “I have revealed far too much to you already.”
The sharp spear of disappointment at her words startled him. He wanted to know her. She intrigued him. He sat back again, his expression shuttering as he considered his reaction. He enjoyed women. He liked their company and he liked them in his bed. But he wanted no attachments and his relationships lasted no more than a month or two at best before he found another companion. Carston’s mother had been the exception. She was both lovely and smart—an artisan who worked with glass. But both she and he had known it was a relationship of companionship and the bedroom—nothing more. Carston had been an unpleasant surprise for her and a joyful one for him. After the boy’s birth, Nicholas had given her a generous settlement and they’d gone their separate ways, though they remained on friendly terms.
But Margaret stirred him in a way he’d not experienced before. She made him curious and angry and confused. He was drawn to her brashness—a side of her he had never suspected. He admired her cool nerve and her loyalty. She was brave—reckless even. He wanted to know how she’d become her father’s spy and perhaps assassin and thief. What was it like to hide behind the demure mask of beauty she habitually wore? He wondered what books she liked to read and whether she could use a sword as well as she could use her knife. He wondered if she had a lover.
He found his jaw tightening at the notion, and for a brief moment wondered what it would like to be in her bed. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself firmly. She is a Rampling and bedding her would be sheer idiocy. All the same, he felt himself hardening as he considered what her skin would feel like . . .
They said nothing more as the hack clattered through Cranford and Cheapside and up into Blackstone. By the time they pulled up, the rain was pounding on the roof and the wind had begun to blow harder.
“You and Keros should wait for me here,” Margaret said as she prepared to get out.
“I don’t like it,” Nicholas said. “You said this majicar was not your friend. I’m coming with you.” His tone brooked no arguments. He donned his hat and reached for the door handle.
“If you like.” She nudged Keros awake. He sat up groggily, his hood falling back to reveal his scabrous face. “We’ll be back,” she told him. “Try not to get into any trouble while we’re gone.”
He smiled wearily. “I don’t promise anything.”
She hesitated. “Thanks. You know my brothers will have kittens about this. They’ll probably send me to the Bramble.”
The majicar covered her hand with his. “Then we’ll run away together. Somewhere warm.”
She grinned at him and kissed his cheek. “Just you and me.”
“We are wasting time,” Nicholas said sharply, unaccountably annoyed. She frowned and followed him out of the door. He held out a hand to help her out. She looked at it and ignored it, jumping lightly down. He shut the door and told the driver to wait while Margaret dashed inside the shop.
It was a cozy place and large. It was past the tenth glass and most of the tables were full. The smell of baking pastries and fragrant tea made Nicholas’s mouth water. Their makeshift meal in the safe house had been at least five glasses ago. Margaret scanned the tables, settling on one near the window. A woman sat there. She was only slightly taller than Margaret, with blond hair that was pulled back from her face in a braid. Her eyes were brown, her face triangular and sharp featured. She met Margaret’s glance with raised brows and pointed to the chair opposite.
Margaret wound between the tables without removing her cloak. Nicholas followed, keeping his hat pulled low. There were murmurs of annoyance as they dripped water on the other patrons and the floor. They stopped at the woman majicar’s table. There was a pot of tea in front of her, a pitcher of cream, and a half-drunk cup. A plate covered with crumbs was pushed to the side.
“I had begun to think you were not coming,” she said to Margaret.
“I almost didn’t.”
“And who is your gentleman friend?”
Margaret glanced at him, then back. “I’ll introduce him later. Are you ready to go?”
The majicar’s brows winged downward. “Go where?”
“Outside in a hack for now.”
“And after that?”
“Better we discuss it outside.”
Margaret didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and pushed past Nicholas, going to the counter. She ordered a basket of muffins and rolls, fishing a small purse out of her clothing. She gathered the paper-wrapped parcels and went to the door. The majicar waited. She was dressed in sturdy clothing, tall boots, and a gray oilskin cloak lined with wool. Margaret swept past without a word.
“Ashford Avenue,” she told the driver and then climbed into the hack to sit beside Keros.
Nicholas gestured at the woman majicar to precede him, settled himself on the seat beside her, and removed his hat.
“What’s this about?” she demanded as Margaret tore open the package of pastries and offered them first to Keros and then to Nicholas before taking one for herself.
“It’s about a job,” Margaret said before biting into a poppy-seed cake
“A job?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind?”
“Stealing.”
The majicar woman folded her arms. “And what are we going to steal?”
“My son,” Nicholas said. “He’s been kidnapped. We’re going to get him back.”
The majicar looked at him. “I didn’t think you had a son.”
That took him aback. “You know who I am?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Her attention shifted to Margaret. “And you are helping him? That is unexpected.”
“Who are you?” Margaret demanded suddenly. “Before this goes any further, I want to know who you are and why you were in the castle working as a lady’s maid for Alanna Truehelm. Why did you help me?”
The majicar shook her head. “That is for your ears alone. At least for now.”
There was a vague threat in that “for now,” as if she had information that she might share with Margaret’s enemies—Rampling enemies, like Nicholas. His mouth twisted. Just at the moment, he didn’t care to be lumped in with them, especially Geoffrey Truehelm.
“Fine,” Margaret snapped. Before she could say any more, Keros convulsed in the seat beside her. His hands flailed and his feet kicked. His fist connected with Margaret’s cheek and she lurched sideways. Nicholas caught her and she jerked away just as Keros slumped over.
“What’s wrong with him?” the woman majicar asked.
Margaret pushed him back. Nicholas reached out his hand to help steady him. Keros’s head lolled back and his hood fell away. His skin appeared about the same. Many of the blisters had broken and wept; his face looked as if someone had taken a vegetable grater to it. His hands were the same.
“He’s feverish,” Margaret said, her fingers brushing the air above his forehead. “I can feel it from here.”
“What happened to him?” the majicar woman asked and her tone was crisp and businesslike.
“It was a majick attack,” Margaret said. “He was shielded, but—” She shrugged. “Can you help him?”
The woman lifted her brows. “You trust me?”
“If you hurt him I will kill you,” was Margaret’s flat response.
“I can try. I may fail. I am not a master and majick does not work as it should.”
“Do it.”
“Open his shirt. I need bare skin,” she said.
Margaret unfastened Keros’s coat and unlaced his shirt, pulling it wide. His skin was
pale and muscled. He was not a soft man.
The majicar reached inside her tunic and pulled out her illidre. It was a slender rod about five inches long. The ends were slanted and smooth, the sides faceted. It was a cloudy mix of purple and dark blue with specks of dark pink. She held it cupped between her palms, looking deep inside it. A moment passed, then she gripped it in one hand and pressed the other flat end against Keros’s chest.
A thread of green grew from her fingers, curling like vines across dirt, then they spread out and burrowed into his skin. The unconscious man jerked and went rigid. The majicar woman drew a gasping breath, her jaw knotting. Margaret’s fingers knitted together, her knuckles white. Nicholas had no comfort to offer. He could only watch.
The majicar’s fingers stiffened and gouged into Keros’s chest. Sweat gleamed on her forehead. A minute dribbled past. Another. Finally the skin on Keros’s face began to smooth, the blisters closing and shrinking until his skin was unblemished. When she was through, the majicar gave a gasping sob and slumped back against the seat, panting, her eyes closed.
Margaret rested her hand on Keros’s head. “The fever is gone.”
“He was dying. It wasn’t majick. He was poisoned.”
“Thank you, Ellyn.”
The majicar’s eyes opened and her mouth curved. It was like watching a snake smile. “That’s twice you owe me.” Then her gaze fell on Keros. The smile slid away. She sat up slowly, shock making her look very young. “What is this?” she asked. She looked at Margaret, her gaze as cold and bleak as the bottom of the sea. “How did you do this? Why? What is your game?”
“What do you mean? I have no game with you; I don’t know you.”
Ellyn’s gaze slipped back to Keros as if pulled. “It is not possible,” she whispered, her illidre still clutched tight in her hand.
“What isn’t?”
Just then Keros’s eyes flickered and opened. He stared at Ellyn. He frowned and slowly sat up straight. He reached out a hand, his fingers stopping a breath from her face. They trembled, then jerked away like he was burned. His hands curled into fists. His mouth snapped closed, his face contorting.
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