“Stop that. Let a body do her work.”
“That’s not what I pay you for.”
“No? I’m yer companion and lady’s maid. I donna wake at this hour for my own health.”
“And I have told you a hundred times to go ahead and sleep, that I could manage very well on my own.”
Blythe snorted. “As if I’d go shirkin’ my duties.”
Lucy stirred a dollop of honey into her tea and slathered butter on her toast. “I hired you because my mother would not stop pestering me about my complete inability to care for myself, and was on the verge of hiring someone intolerable to hound me every waking moment. What I pay you for, and what you consistently refuse to do, is live your own life in my home under the guise of being my companion and lady’s maid.”
“What kind o’woman would I be if I took yer money without doin’ a lick of work? Besides, ye need lookin’ after.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Yer mother donna seem to think so.”
“My mother hardly thinks I can use a spoon without choking myself. If you want something to do, help Janet in the kitchen or visit the almshouses. Better yet, why don’t you and James start a family—have a dozen or two. That might keep you occupied and out of my hair.”
“Yer mother’d only find somebody else.”
“I’ll deal with that coil of sylveth when I come to it. If you want to be paid for doing something for me, then by all means, let it be for having children and distracting my mother.”
“’Twould certainly be less aggravatin’ work,” Blythe said tartly, and stood up. “Now, better be quick about things. I’ll have Jamie flag a footspider afore he’s off to the docks.”
James was a rigger. Every ship coming into port before the Chance storms had to be stripped, its yards, masts, and cordage taken down, overhauled, and stowed until the ship was fitted out again. Like most riggers, James had been a sailor, retiring once he’d been “spliced” to Blythe. He lived in Lucy’s house, performing maintenance in exchange for room and board. He was a quiet man, and patient, as he’d have to be married to Blythe. Perhaps Lucy should speak to him about starting a family….
She daydreamed about a swarm of little Blythes carrying three-pronged spears. They surrounded their mother, poking and prodding until she tore at her hair and screamed, while Lucy sat in quiet solitude in her own quarters, untroubled by the ruckus. She smiled and drained her tea, burning her tongue on the hot liquid.
When Blythe returned, she helped Lucy wriggle into her corset. Lucy held the bedpost, bracing her legs wide, as Blythe snugged it. It was not so tight she couldn’t breathe or walk briskly, but was nevertheless a nuisance. Still, it did good things for her figure, pushing up her ample breasts and thinning her waist. Next Lucy stepped into thin, close-fitting gray wool trousers and allowed Blythe to help her on with the overdress. It was made of Nardian tetch, a soft, durable material that did not readily show wear. Slits ran up the fronts of both thighs to her hips, allowing her free movement. Burgundy and gold embroidery circled the cuffs and square neckline in a wide band. Blythe laced it up the back. Lucy bent and slid on her midcalf boots. She put on her earrings and applied her cosmetics lightly while Blythe braided her hair, looping it up on her head in a fashionable, though sturdy, coif. It could withstand sea winds and rain.
“Ye say ye donna need me, but I’d like t’see ye manage that on your own,” Blythe said smugly as she set aside the hairbrush.
Lucy examined herself in the mirror. The twilight purple of the overdress was a good color for her, making her skin look fresh instead of sallow, and complementing her fiery hair. Lucy made a face at herself and swung her blue wool cloak over her shoulders.
“I didn’t say I don’t need you. I said I wanted you to listen to me and stop hovering,” Lucy pointed out.
She left Blythe and went into her office to retrieve the two blackmail letters from her lockbox. She slid them into a pocket inside her satchel and slung it over her shoulder beneath her cloak. She returned to her bedroom to collect her gloves, catching sight of her customs seal sitting in a small crystal bowl on her nightstand. Beside it was her pouch of seal blanks. She stopped short and stared. No—it was impossible. She went to the other side of her bed and picked her seal up, turning it over in her hand.
“What’s the matter, then? Thought ye was in a hurry.”
Lucy hardly heard Blythe’s pointed remark. Her fingers closed around the cool metal. How could she have forgotten to lock it up? She scowled, trying to remember returning home after the salvage. It was murky. No one else could take the seal from her waist, any more than one could remove her royal necklace. She must have taken it off. But she’d never leave it just sitting out. It didn’t matter that no one else could use it—that it was majickally keyed to respond only to her. She always, always, secured it under lock and key. If somehow someone got ahold of it and turned its majick—it could be used to smuggle goods.
Wordlessly, she returned to her office and locked up the seal and pouch of blanks. One little salvage and sylveth spawn collection, and her mind turned to bread pudding. Well, she had better pull herself together. She couldn’t fight her blackmailer with soggy bread.
Chapter 7
The morning was drizzly, the air smelling of salt brine and coal smoke. The stooped footspider hauling her cart was of middling years and balding. His green and white striped uniform was grimy and damp. James handed Lucy into the cart, giving the man Sarah’s address. He was stronger than he looked, and faster. He trotted off at a sharp pace.
The city was already bustling, even as the sun streaked the eastern sky orange and pink. Servants scurried along the streets carrying baskets and carts, and the farther Lucy descended from her home in Blackstone into the center of the city, the more the savory scents of cooking meats, breads, and spices filled the air. Lights winked to life in black first-floor windows, and high up in Rampling Castle, torches bobbed and weaved along the battlements as guards made their dawn rounds.
The footspider began climbing up into Salford Terrace, where Glamley Street ribboned along the top of Harbottle Hill. It was a mere stone’s throw from the castle’s curtain wall, and housed the finest shops in Sylmont. The storefronts gleamed with pink-veined marble, sleek alabaster, precious metals, and sparkling glass. Sylveth lamps glowed softly from the limbs of arching white-skinned elm trees. Majicars were required to perform three months of service to the crown each year, allowing for expensive public projects like sylveth street-lights. Crowding about Glamley Street on the hills north and south were the imposing residences of the wealthy and aristocratic, the roadways guarded and gated to keep the riffraff out. Below was Sherborn Park, an emerald green expanse scattered with pretty woods, gardens, and quiet pools, and crisscrossed by footways and cart paths. There was a hedge maze on the western side, where lovers often met in clandestine assignations.
The footspider jogged through the park, guided by knee-high lights set in copper stalks shaped like sea ivy. There was an arching bridge over the Chigwell River, which really wasn’t much more than an exaggerated stream. The bridge emptied onto Glamley Street just a short distance from Faraday. The footspider pulled up front, panting. He bowed when Lucy dropped a silver full moon in his outstretched palm.
“Thanks be, Mistress,” he said, pocketing the heavy coin and trotting away before Lucy could change her mind.
FARADAY was inlaid in small flowing brass letters in the archivolt above the polished oak doors of the shop. A pair of sylveth lamps inside gold bell shades lit the covered entry. The lamps were almost as expensive as the building had been, but Sarah had claimed that money was drawn to money, and no one was going to visit a shop on Glamley Street if it didn’t ooze wealth and refinement. Lucy stood back from them, not entirely trusting the sylveth was safe.
Before she could ring the bell, one of the doors swung open to reveal Sarah’s butler, dressed in dark blue livery. He ushered her up the stairs, opening the doors of the si
tting room and announcing her.
The room was decorated in shades of windstone green and rose pink, with delicate furniture made of ivory-colored wood. Sarah sat on the chaise with a stack of papers, sipping a cup of steaming tea. She was an exotically stunning woman, with ash blond hair, snapping black eyes, and olive-toned skin. She was several inches taller than Lucy, svelte, with full breasts and a narrow waist that had little need of a corset. Her long fall of hair was woven with silver and brilliant blue crystal beads that matched her necklace and bracelets.
“You look appalling,” she said, setting aside her papers. “Like you’ve not been to bed in days. Please tell me a man’s the cause of it, not one of your dull books or, worse, work.”
Lucy’s lips twisted humorlessly. One of the things she liked best about Sarah was her unrelenting honesty. Not that she wasn’t capable of tactful deception—she was a businesswoman after all, and no one stroked bureaucrats and temperamental customers like she did. Part of her early education in Esengaile, though she’d never confided exactly what the nature of that education had been.
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say a man’s at the heart of it.”
Sarah’s brows arched. “Is that so? And you running out in the chill morning to tell me about it?” She tsked. “I’m going to have to teach you a few things about the care and feeding of lovers. But I suppose it’s too late now. No doubt he’s gone off in a fit of pique that his charms could not chain you longer to your bed. Though perhaps that will work in your favor—he’ll be despondent at your aloofness and grovel for your attention. Men can be so predictable. But do sit down and tell me all about it.”
It wasn’t so easy a tale to begin. And Sarah wasn’t going to like hearing it. Especially the danger Lucy had put both her and Faraday in. Lucy rubbed her hand over her mouth, feeling the heavy cipher cold beneath her sleeve.
“What have you got to drink?”
“I take it you’re not asking for a cup of tea,” Sarah said drily, and went to the sideboard. She chose a short, bulbous decanter from the dozen collected there, and poured a glass of celery-colored liquid. She handed it to Lucy. “That should cure what ails you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s Shepet. From Esengaile.”
Lucy swirled it. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“That is because it is considered the exclusive drink of the Drailie, and therefore highly illegal to export from Esengaile.”
“Is it?” Lucy lowered the glass without sipping.
Sarah laughed out loud, shaking her head. “Oh, gods of the air, your expression is priceless. Think about it. We are partners in Faraday. You don’t think I’d knowingly involve you with smuggling? I know what it would do to your career. And to me, for that matter. I’d be summarily expelled from Crosspointe, thank you very much. So put your mind at ease. While Shepet is illegal to export from Esengaile, it is quite legal to import it into Crosspointe. A few cases make their way over the Inland Sea each year and I make it a point to lay in a supply. Try it.”
Lucy lifted the glass and tasted the liquor. Tart sweetness spread across her tongue, numbing her throat as it trickled down into her stomach. A tingling pleasure unraveled along her nerves. Her legs went soft and she wobbled. A feeling of euphoria spread through her, and she felt a sudden welling of strength and power. Like she was invincible.
Sarah poured herself a glass, returning to her seat and tucking her legs under her. She motioned Lucy to sit opposite.
“Well then? It must be quite a tale for you to be drinking this early in the day. I’m on the edge of my seat. Tell me your darkest, most delicious secrets.”
Lucy looked down into her Shepet, then gulped it all before raising her eyes. “I am being blackmailed.”
Sarah unfolded her legs and straightened, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Blackmailed? About what? By whom? Explain.”
Lucy fumbled in her satchel and handed Sarah the letters. The other woman scanned them, frowning. She looked back up at Lucy.
“Secret? Treasures? What’s he talking about?”
Lucy turned the glass in her fingers. “All my life I’ve been able to sense majick. Doesn’t matter how small. I know where it is and how strong the spell.”
A sudden chill filled the room. Sarah folded her arms, sitting back. Her face was ominously expressionless. “You can sense majick,” she repeated. “And for this you’re being blackmailed.”
“Yes. No. In part.”
“And the other part are these treasures?”
“Yes.”
“They must be illegal, these treasures of yours. Else you could not be blackmailed. And you questioned my ethics with the Shepet.”
Lucy licked her lips, hearing the murderous edge of Sarah’s fury beneath the calmness of her tone. “That’s the sum of it.”
“What are they?”
Lucy didn’t let herself look away. “True ciphers.”
Sarah blanched. “You have unexpected depths. And perilous hobbies.”
“Mind if I have another drink?” Lucy didn’t wait for an answer, pouring herself another glass. She held the decanter up in silent offering.
“Yes, please. The occasion definitely warrants it.”
Lucy filled Sarah’s glass and returned to her seat.
“So I expect you’re telling me all this for a reason.”
“I need help. I can’t let this overflow onto my family, onto you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I have to get rid of my collection. Before he asks for whatever it is he wants. If I do his favor, I’ll be in his power. And if I don’t, he’ll expose me. Either way, it will be a disaster. If I get rid of them, I get rid of him.”
Sarah’s gaze could have cut rocks. Gone was the svelte hostess who’d greeted Lucy’s arrival with warmth. In her place was the dragon—all teeth and claws, with a pitiless glint in her eye. This was the Sarah who’d fled Esengaile half-naked and pursued by killers, crossing half a world without money, without food, without shoes. She’d sold herself into indentured servitude for the chance to come to Sylmont. Six years later, she’d clawed her way to freedom and success. And in those six years…There was a lot Lucy didn’t know about what Sarah had done, what had been done to her, in those years. But one thing she did know—Sarah would kill before she’d allow anyone to steal the home and safety she’d achieved. Even Lucy. Maybe especially Lucy.
“Seems easy enough. Drop them in the harbor.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, slapping her forehead with the flat of her hand. “Now, why didn’t I think of that? Just walk down to the water and toss them in. Splish-splash.” She dusted her hands together. “Easy as buckling my shoes. How stupid of me not to think of it.”
“My, my. This is all so unexpected. Since I clearly don’t have a full grasp of the situation, why don’t you enlighten me? And while you’re at it, explain how you expect me to help with your little crisis.” Sarah’s voice had grown even more frigid, if that was possible.
Lucy grimaced. “Point taken. Let me be more clear. There are seven ciphers. Five are small—an earring, a pipe, a candlestick, a knife, and a pewter mug. The last two are a rather large chair and a flying jib. The second weighs near two hundred pounds. Neither can be easily moved or dropped unnoticed into the harbor.
“My blackmailer must know this—he knows how many I have.” She bunched her fist. “How can he possibly have found out? I brought them home one by one. Each was hidden or boxed. The company who dug the vault doesn’t know what it was for. I only open it to put acquisitions inside and it’s sealed only to me.” Lucy’s voice rose. She stopped, her lips pinching together, her fingers flexing. She wanted to hit something. She drew a breath, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. Succumbing to panic and fury wasn’t going to help.
A moment later she began again, her voice lower, tightly reined.
“This bastard must have people watching me, probably for a long time. If I tried to dispose of the ciphers in the h
arbor, he’d stop me, one way or another, even if I could toss in the chair and the jib. No, I’ve got to get rid of them without him discovering what I’m up to.”
Lucy sat forward, snaring Sarah’s dark gaze.
“Look, I know I’m an ass. I know the danger I’ve put you and Faraday in, the danger to my family, to customs, to everyone who knows me or who’s even met me. It’s unforgivable and I don’t expect you to try. But the only way to save yourself and Faraday is to help me. And quickly. I don’t think I have much time before he makes his demands. If I comply, the result will be the same—he’ll have hard evidence that I have broken the law. He’ll have me on the rack forever, and that means he’ll have all of you too—guilt by association. If we get rid of the ciphers, all of you will be all right.”
“Laudable, I’m sure,” Sarah drawled, swallowing her Shepet and setting the glass aside with a hard click. Suddenly she shot to her feet, standing over Lucy with her hands akimbo. “By the gods of the air, what could have possessed you? I would have thought you’d have a lot more sense. I did think you had more sense.”
She abruptly paced away to the other side of the room. Her cheeks flagged red as she spun around and marched back to stand over Lucy. “Is that it? Is that all you’re hiding?”
Lucy’s eyes dropped and Sarah made a guttural sound deep in her throat.
“Gora!” she swore in her native tongue. “You are really getting on my wick! I swear on Braken’s buggered ass that I will slit your throat if you don’t come all the way clean!”
Lucy licked her lips. “During yesterday’s salvage, I came across another true cipher.”
“Another? Just lying about like shit in a chicken yard. Wait—you’ve got eight of them? What have you been gabbling on about seven for?” Sarah’s voice had dropped into utter calm. It was a bad sign. Her threat about slitting Lucy’s throat was not entirely an idle one. She was more than capable of it, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d killed. Or even the second.
“Because I don’t have the eighth. It has me.”
The Cipher Page 7