The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “Can you walk?”

  She nodded. He tucked her arm through his.

  “Lean on me as you need.”

  The streets were filthy and smelled like a midden. A stinking brown stream wound down the middle of the road, wending between piles of rubbish and the occasional half-eaten animal body. There were few noises but for the occasional burst of shouting or laughter. Rats watched the two, their eyes glinting eerily. Marten hurried Lucy along, glad of the weight of his sword on his hip and his dagger in his belt.

  They walked downhill and then back up, zigzagging between buildings. She glanced behind on occasion as if someone was watching her. Marten wasn’t about to lead anyone else to Keros, and so led her a mazy route. But her breathing soon turned ragged and her steps faltered.

  “Nearly there.”

  They finally approached a tall, nondescript brick building. The windows were shuttered or gaped blankly open. Piles of refuse surrounded the place like a stinking moat. Marten pushed Lucy behind him as a beggar lunged out of the darkness. He shoved the bent old man aside and thrust open the door. It was made of splintering boards held together by scraps of wood tacked on crosswise. Inside it was heavy oak and bound in iron.

  Marten swung the door shut with a thump. They stood in a small entryway. The floor was polished; the walls were painted with dramatic murals of the sea and forest, both populated by a varied host of fanciful creatures. A ship’s lamp hung against the wall, providing a welcoming light. The air was far warmer than outside and carried a hint of cinnamon.

  “In there,” he said, pointing Lucy down a corridor into the back of the house.

  She stepped forward and then sank to the floor. Marten caught her. Her head fell back on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Her lips had lost all color and she hardly seemed to be breathing. Muttering a string of oaths, Marten marched down the hallway and through the empty dining room. He kicked open the swinging door that led into the kitchen. Inside, Keros was chopping vegetables. He halted as Marten burst through the door.

  “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. Who’s that?”

  “The most annoying woman you ever want to meet. Look at her, will you?”

  “Put her there,” Keros said, nodding at the long table against the wall.

  “She’s cut her hands,” Marten said without inflection.

  Keros unwrapped the bandages, and lifted his brow at Marten. “What happened?”

  “She cut them on some glass is all she said. Can you heal her?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  Keros gave a small shrug. “As I can make her.”

  “But?”

  “It won’t do any good if she cuts herself again.”

  The majicar set to work. He heated a pot of water with a muttered word and cleaned Lucy’s hands. He left the kitchen and returned minutes later with a small bag. Lucy had begun to wake and was struggling against Marten’s grip. Keros unstoppered a cut-crystal vial no bigger than his pinky finger and tipped a drop onto her tongue. She slumped, falling instantly asleep.

  From beneath his shirt, he pulled a long chain. At the end was an odd-shaped illidre. It looked like a blob of glass that had been squeezed by a fist. A closer look showed that the color moved inside the glass like opalescent mist stirred by invisible breath. Where he’d come by it, Marten didn’t know. It wasn’t like any other he’d seen majicars carry. But then Keros wasn’t registered. And you didn’t just walk into the local market to buy an illidre. But it worked, and that was all that mattered.

  The majicar bent over Lucy, holding his illidre in one hand. The other grasped hers. He muttered some words and there was a flash of light and a pulse in the air that pushed Marten back a step. Moments later there was another flash, another pulse. The air went hot and his hair stood on end. Keros straightened, tucking his illidre back inside his shirt and raking his hand through his hair. It puffed around his head in a curly mass. He pulled a blanket from a chair and spread it over Lucy.

  “She’ll sleep a bit longer. There’ll be scars, but her hands’ll shape up fine. Now—are you going to tell me which way the wind’s blowing? This have anything to do with the healing I did on you this morning?”

  There was a cultured lilt to his voice that wasn’t obscured by the way he ran his words together, and which belied his rough clothing. Keros rarely talked about his past, but Marten was certain he’d been born to wealth. He carried himself with a grace and ease that Marten had seen only in those who knew they were superior. His brown eyes were clear and incisive, his expression inevitably cynical and mocking. They were friends, in a way. An unregistered majicar, Keros worked aboard the Ravenstrike as Marten’s steward. The crew knew what he was and were intensely loyal to him. His presence onboard meant fewer of them died, and they’d kill the man who lost them their healer. They kept his secret even from the Pilots, no easy task in the cramped quarters of a ship, especially when a storm struck and the injuries piled up. He’d saved Marten’s hide more than once, and he didn’t make judgments.

  “Not really. And yes.”

  “The truth is a complicated thing,” Keros observed, pouring two glasses of whiskey and passing one to Marten. “Anything else I can do?”

  Marten hesitated. “The drug you gave her to sleep. I could use that.”

  Keros didn’t ask questions, handing over the vial. “A drop is good for a half a glass or so. Down the bottle and there’ll be no waking up.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Do try not to end up on Chayos’s altar, would you? I’ve gotten used to the Ravenstrike.”

  “It’s the iron necklace I’m running from,” Marten said, draining his glass.

  Keros poured him another. “Pardon me for saying so, but is digging the hole deeper the brightest idea?” He gestured at Lucy, who was starting to wake up.

  “Chance favors the bold.”

  “Chance is a fickle bitch. But may she spread her legs for you.” The majicar lifted his glass in a salute and drank. He set the glass down as Lucy sat up awkwardly.

  “Careful, now.”

  She started, glancing from Keros to Marten and then around the unfamiliar kitchen. “I seem to have lost a bit of time,” she said, looking down at her hands. She turned them over and back, examining the no-longer-damaged flesh.

  Marten watched her, wondering what her reaction would be. Wonder? Pleasure? Fear? But she remained impassive, looking back at Keros, who was pouring himself another drink.

  “I have you to thank?”

  “Aye.”

  She swung down off the table, flexing her fingers. “Then thank you. Not to be overly vulgar, but I expect I owe you some money. How much?”

  Keros rubbed a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “You can owe me.”

  She tipped her head. “Better bet might be to take money now.”

  “I don’t gamble.” The majicar flicked a glance at Marten. “Not like some. I can help you now, and one of these days I might need something that you might have to give. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He shrugged diffidently. “Chance favors the bold, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Chance…” She grinned. “Chance is a sword without a handle.” She lifted her hands.

  Keros smiled. “So it is. I’d better take you somewhere you can hail a hack. The Riddles isn’t the place for an evening stroll.”

  “We made it here all right.”

  “Chance,” was Keros’s only response.

  Marten and Lucy followed him along a twisting route. They cut across alleys and what passed for streets, through tumbled buildings and tunnels, around islands of debris, and across creeks of putrid runoff. It was clear Lucy was entirely lost. Marten wasn’t sure where they were until they stepped out of what appeared at first to be a dead-end alley into a dramatically different part of the Riddles. The street was cobbled; the buildings were painted and neat. There was greenery in
the window boxes, and the sidewalks were swept clean. Pairs of Howlers were stationed every fifty paces or so. They wore dark blue uniforms with high collars, long coats, and polished knee-high black boots. Lucy gazed about wonderingly.

  “Welcome to Ashford Avenue, where the fashionable set come for adventure. My brother has a very successful bagnio up there.” Marten pointed up the street. “Sweet Dreams. Very exclusive.”

  “Howlers keep the peace. Paid for out of private monies—same money that pays for the upkeep of the street,” Keros said contemptuously. “You’ll get a hack here.”

  He took one of Lucy’s hands, kissing it. “Find a handle for your sword. I’d like to collect my debt someday. And you, Cap’n. May Chance scream joy for you.”

  Marten shook his hand. “Once again, thank you for your help.”

  Keros bent close so that only Marten could hear. “Try not to hurt her. I think I like her.”

  “So do I.” Marten was surprised to realize that it was true.

  Lucy sat close to Marten in the hack. She opened and closed her fingers, hardly able to believe that they were healed. Relief made her throat ache. She clenched her hands on her cloak, feeling the stiffness of dried blood. Her bandages had not been able to contain the bleeding on their journey to the Riddles. She sighed, closing her eyes. Her head swam and her mouth felt cottony. Still, a strange energy sang through her. She wanted to dance, to run.

  “Are you well?” Marten’s voice was deep and gentle. Like he was afraid she was going to fall apart. Or maybe he was afraid she was going to explode.

  “I am hungry.”

  He chuckled. “As am I. What do you propose?”

  “A private meal. At my home?” Her voice inflected upward in question.

  “I would like that.”

  The energy rushing through her ran brighter and higher.

  At home, Lucy reassured Blythe and asked for a meal, remembering only then that she’d had Blythe send her cook away. Except Janet had also refused to leave, ordering Rupert to take their children to her sister in Blacksea. Lucy excused herself from Marten, retreating to wash her face and hands and reapply her cosmetics. She looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over her skirt. Somehow she thought she should look different—like the attack of the cipher and the healing of her hands should have marked her in some way. But she was disappointingly the same. She pulled back her sleeve to look at the cipher. Neither had it changed. She hid it again and rejoined Marten in the sitting room.

  The meal consisted of soup, cheese, cold meats, herbed bread, and wine. Lucy ate ravenously while Marten told ship stories about terrible storms and a plague of rats. One sailor’s wife had slipped a cat aboard to help with the problem, which resulted in a near mutiny and an attempt to throw the husband overboard. Cats on ships were unlucky. And on the Inland Sea, no one tempted Chance.

  Lucy laughed, ruthlessly setting aside the day’s events and the threats of her cipher and blackmailer. Instead she focused on the moment, regaling Marten with tales of ingenious smugglers and insufferable shipowners, and of playing with Jordan on the docks as children.

  “He has four sisters and a younger brother. The girls wanted me to play frilly games with them. I have three brothers. I don’t know how to play frilly. Jordan’s brother, Geoffrey, was something of a black sheep and so Jordan and I became fast friends when I was eleven. We ran wild until I apprenticed to customs and he took a berth on one of his father’s ships.”

  “He’s a good captain. Few years and he’ll be running the Truehelm fleet.”

  Companionable silence fell between them as they continued eating. She looked up to find him watching her speculatively over the rim of his glass. His eyelids were hooded. It was hard to know what he was thinking.

  “You still look hungry,” she said.

  “I am.”

  A thrill rippled deliciously over her skin at the smoky desire coloring his voice.

  “There’s plenty to eat. Don’t stop on my account.”

  Thoughtfully he set down his glass and stood, coming around the table to pull her to her feet. He bent, his breath whispering over her lips. “I am hungry on your account.”

  Then he kissed her, his mouth moving slowly. His tongue slipped between her lips. He slid his arms around her, stroking her back and hips with growing insistence. Lucy kissed him back, her own hands urgent against him. She let herself vanish in the pleasure of his touch, forgetting her troubles for the night.

  Chapter 13

  Marten woke slowly. He stretched and yawned, blinking in the gloom. This was not his bedroom. He turned his head. Lucy was gone. He sat up, the blankets bunching at his bare waist. Goose pimples washed over him and he swung out of bed, wrapping his hips with a sheet. The fire had long since gone out and the door to the sitting room was ajar. He grimaced. The night’s play had been delightfully erotic. Lucy had astonished him. She’d not played coy or shy, but had leaped into the experience with pleasing abandon. He’d enjoyed himself thoroughly, and finally fallen hard asleep, replete. Apparently she had not been equally satisfied.

  Tightening the sheet around himself, he went up the steps into the sitting room. The crumbs of their meal remained on the table. Bright sunlight flared around the edges of the curtains. The room was deserted. On the opposite wall a gold streak marked the bottom of a door in the gloom. Marten padded across and pushed it open a crack.

  Lucy sat at her desk chewing on the end of a pen and frowning over a lengthy document. Numerous papers littered her desktop and her fingers were ink stained. Her curly auburn hair was loose, cascading down over the back of her chair. Marten smiled, the memory of the night before kindling his desire. Then he saw something else and his heart caught in his throat. In her left hand, Lucy toyed with her customs seal, weaving the chain in and out between her fingers.

  Instantly a plan bloomed in Marten’s head. Quietly he withdrew, hope making it hard to breathe.

  He fairly dashed back to the bedroom, stubbing his toes on the threshold. Biting back his pain, he rang for Lucy’s maid. She arrived within a few minutes, eyeing his sheet-wrapped form with clear disapproval. Marten ignored her censure and asked for breakfast. Her lips pinched and she left, muttering loudly. Next he fumbled in his coat pocket for the vial Keros had given him and the five blank disks that needed Lucy’s customs imprint to win him his bet.

  When the maid returned a half a glass later, Marten was nearly shaking. He shooed her away, setting the loaded tray on the table in the corner of the bedroom. He poured a cup of tea and tipped in two drops from the vial Keros had given him. He carried the cup back to Lucy’s office, taking a steadying breath before knuckling the door lightly.

  “Good morning,” he said, handing her the steaming drink. He sat on the edge of the desk and flipped up one of the papers. “Should I be distressed that you abandoned me so quickly for a cold chair, parchment, and ink?”

  Lucy sat back with a groan, sipping the fragrant tea. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I would have slept better if the bed hadn’t turned cold.”

  She smiled, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, rubbing at her neck. Marten watched her, trying to soften the intensity of his stare. He didn’t want to alarm her. His gaze slipped to the seal lying on top of the closely scribed papers. She sipped again. How long before she lost consciousness? Another sip.

  “There’s eggs and bacon, if you’d like. Though I could make a meal of you,” he said suggestively, running a finger down the neckline of her dressing gown. She was naked beneath and he felt a rush of desire, remembering the night’s sport.

  She opened her mouth to answer and then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped. Marten caught the tea before it spilled. He took the cup and poured it into a potted plant. His pulse racing, he laid the five seal blanks out in a row on top of her desk. He grasped her hand and wrapped her limp fingers around the barrel of the seal. Holding tightly, he carefully set the end on the first blank. A green light flashed. The b
lank now contained a shimmering green image. It was shaped like a crescent moon inside a triangle, surrounded by a thin black ring.

  Marten squeezed his eyes shut, relief flooding through him. Then quickly, before Lucy could wake, he impressed the other four seals. When he was done, he returned to the bedroom to hide his spoils away before fetching Lucy. He put her back into bed, snuggling in with her, exultation making him giddy. He tried to imagine Edgar’s face when he saw the seals. By the end of the sennight, Marten would have the blunt to pay most of his debts. Neckbitt be damned!

  A few hours later, Marten had returned home to bathe and change his clothes, and was on his way back to Ashford Avenue and Sweet Dreams and Edgar. He fingered the seals in his pocket, tapping his toes and wishing to go faster. He’d left Lucy in the midafternoon. She had clearly begun to find his company grating—as if she was finding it difficult to maintain a facade of pleasantry. He wondered again what had happened to her yesterday. He recalled the wounds on her hands. Someone had gone after her. His jaw hardened. As soon as he was free of Edgar, he’d look into it. He didn’t like to see women treated that way, and…he felt an unusual possessiveness about Lucy. There was far more grit to her than he’d imagined and he liked her for it. Besides, she was a good friend of Jordan’s.

  He frowned, still fingering the seals. He planned to see her again—she’d agreed to have dinner with him again in two nights. He spread the disks on the palm of his hand. They glimmered with green fire in the gloom of the hack. A sliver of guilt pricked his mood. They were merely proof of his having done what he’d said he’d do. No one was going to use them; Lucy wouldn’t suffer for this. His hand closed and he slid them back into his pocket, beginning to hum a merry tune.

  The hack rolled up in front of Sweet Dreams and let him out. Marten paid the driver, tipping him extravagantly before turning to enter the bagnio.

  It was an ornate red stone building with deep-set pointed windows, rounded turrets on the corners, and dozens of chimney pots. The outer facade was decorated with fantastical animals and foliage carved in white marble. The bagnio towered over the street, engulfing more than four city blocks. The second and third stories contained opulent suites and rooms, with the top floor devoted to servants’ quarters and storerooms. The first floor contained the public baths, kitchens, and private dining rooms. The first underground level held gaming rooms and Edgar’s offices. The entire building was girdled by a wide grassy band interspersed with graceful elms and beeches, all lacking leaves in preparation for winter. In the center courtyard was a spacious garden that offered secluded nooks and roomy common areas.