The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “It’s where the vault is. For the size of your winnings, I don’t have enough on hand in my office.” He grinned and clapped Marten on the shoulder. “I was not expecting you to deliver so promptly. You have certainly surprised me. I’d given you poor odds.”

  His brother’s proud reply warmed Marten’s chest and he followed obediently. Edgar led him through several of the game rooms, where well-dressed men and women played avidly, never looking up from the tables. Cigar smoke drifted through the air in blue clouds, and servants offered trays of alcohol and food. Whores in elegant clothing snuggled up to players, fondling and whispering. Edgar stopped every few feet to respond to greetings, while Marten fidgeted. He knew few of the people here, preferring the parts of the gambling den that catered to less polished clients.

  It took far longer than Marten would have liked to wend their way to the counting room. There Edgar took him into one of the private rooms. Marten waited impatiently for his brother to return. When at last he did, he carried a fat pouch. But it was not nearly big enough, nor heavy enough.

  Marten lifted his brows in consternation. “What’s this?”

  Edgar tossed the purse onto the table. “Call it a sign of appreciation. I am quite pleased with the money you’ve made me in this endeavor. Buy your friends a round or two. Play the tables. Lose it all. Or then again, maybe you’ll add to your winnings. It’s all on me.”

  He couldn’t help himself. Marten reached out and took the gambling chits. He rose with a sardonic grin. “Glad to oblige.”

  He lost track of the hours. He gambled, bought drinks, smoked cigars, made toasts, and gambled more. When he lost, he remembered his resolution to stop, to steer clear of gambling. The shame of his weakness made his stomach burn, even as he remained doggedly at the tables. He couldn’t just leave. He should win back his losses, walk away completely in the clear.

  As the night passed, he grew befuddled with drink, ignoring his growing guilt and shrinking winnings. There was a truly golden moment when he found himself in the happy position of repaying Cyril Brackenridge the money he’d borrowed only two days before. Cyril clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

  “Apparently you had little need of my help. Care to tell the story?”

  “A fortunate wager,” was Marten’s only reply.

  He stayed until after dawn the next morning. He ate a hearty breakfast in the dining room with Cyril and two other cohorts, and left midmorning with his winnings. Edgar had once again left his coach for Marten’s use, but did not come to see his brother off. It was just as well. Fat as the money bags were that he carried, his debt had bloomed again in the night’s play. He’d quickly run through Edgar’s reward chits and begun running up his tab again. He had enough to pay Neckbitt and to satisfy several other creditors, but he was deep back into Edgar again.

  “You’re a damned fool,” he told himself, slumping on the seat, smelling the sour stink of smoke, sweat, and whiskey emanating from himself. “A damned fool.”

  Chapter 14

  Lucy finished her report for Alistair shortly after Marten’s departure and then followed her father’s advice to keep calm by reading the new novel by Veprey. But she soon found that she couldn’t remember anything she read and set the book aside. Her mind was besieged by the looming threat of the blackmailer and the terrifying attack of the cipher the previous day. If she hadn’t broken out the doors and escaped, she didn’t know what would have happened. She might have killed her family. The thought made her legs rubbery and she sank to the floor, arms wrapping her stomach as she rocked back and forth weeping silent tears of guilt and horror.

  She didn’t know how long she stayed thus, but eventually she rose, so drained she could hardly feel anything as she rinsed her face in the washbasin. Trying to focus on something more pleasant, she found her mind settling on Marten. Her face softened, her lips curving. He was a passionate, generous lover and he seemed to find as much pleasure in her as she had in him. A gambler and a rogue he might be, but he had his merits. She’d even agreed to dine with him two nights hence—if the cipher hadn’t destroyed her yet.

  The day passed slowly. Lucy couldn’t seem to settle, but paced and sat down, then quickly thrust to her feet again. She flexed her fingers, hardly able to believe she wasn’t crippled. It was all she could do to resist the urge to descend into the cellar and open up the stone vault holding her cipher collection; it wouldn’t accomplish anything. The majick radiating from the seven was already excruciating. What she’d been thinking to want to add to them, she didn’t know. Or rather, she hadn’t been thinking at all. She’d just wanted, like an animal, without any reason at all.

  Blythe brought in dinner promptly at half past six. Lucy eyed the spread askance.

  “Do you think I’m going to waste away to nothing?”

  “Donna be thinkin’ it was me. Janet is worried about ye, not eatin’ all day. Ye might at least pretend.”

  Lucy sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

  Blythe sniffed and turned to leave. She paused, looking over her shoulder.

  “Almost forgot. Ye have two letters there. Messengers brought ’em just as we was comin’ up.”

  Lucy stiffened, the breath gusting out of her. She nodded frozen acknowledgment and went to latch the door behind Blythe. Slowly she returned to the table, finding the two letters lying on top of her napkin. The first was from Sarah, with Faraday printed in elegant script in the left corner. Lucy took a careful breath and shoved it aside with her finger. The second was heavy parchment with her name and address scrawled in the bold, black writing of her blackmailer.

  She stared at it, considering tossing it into the fire unread. Her jaw tightened and she picked it up, breaking the familiar round wax seal and unfolding the parchment.

  Did you and Miss Nettles put your pretty heads together? Have you devised a plan to thwart me? Maybe a bribe? But what do you have that I could possibly want? Not money. You don’t have nearly enough. Perhaps a tumble between the sheets? But no. Tempting as the notion is, there’s no time. I have a task for you. You have until tomorrow to complete it, or you will find your secrets exposed on the front page of the evening Sentinel. You will be arrested before dinner. Think of how it will reflect on customs, on your friends, on your family, on the king.

  There’s a crate in warehouse P38. Deliver it to my representative at the second glass after midday tomorrow. Hockings pier, slip 47. The inventory code is DHFH489AR.

  Lucy read the letter three times. Impotent fury choked her. She clutched the back of a chair, her knuckles turning white as she fought it down. Beneath her left hand, the brocade upholstery heated. Smoke curled up from between her fingers and the fabric charred. Lucy told herself to breathe, counting each breath. Ten, twenty, sixty, one hundred. She concentrated on the lift and fall of her ribs and the thud of her heart. Slowly she brought herself under control. When she had herself in hand, she reached for Sarah’s letter. Better to know the worst. But there was little to learn: Come to me Moonday. As soon as you can. Sarah had not signed it.

  For several minutes Lucy stared at the opposite wall, seeing nothing. What could she do? There was nowhere to run and no time left to get rid of the ciphers. She had a desperate idea of burning down the house. It was tempting but would only stave off the inevitable; her blackmailer would certainly insist that the rubble be sifted through. The ciphers were spelled against destruction and sooner or later they would be found. And there was the danger of burning out her neighbors. She couldn’t do that. On the other hand, neither she could she steal the crate and turn it over to him. But—

  She stood straight. What if she turned the tables? The crate might give her a clue to the identity of the blackmailer. Maybe she could hold it hostage until she could get rid of the ciphers. It was the only road open to her.

  With that decision made, she folded the letters and sat, forcing herself to eat. She’d need her strength. Besides, she didn’t want to offend Janet or suffer a scolding from Blythe by sending b
ack the meal untouched. She had too many enemies at the moment to start a war at home.

  The next day was bleak and windy. Dark clouds scudded across the sky and the ink black waves frothed in the harbor. Lucy called a footspider and was on her way to customs well before dawn. The trouble was making a hole in her workday to go fetch the blackmailer’s crate without someone noticing her absence. Concentrating on planning kept her tension and anxiety from consuming her.

  There was no one in the darkened rotunda when she arrived. Lucy crossed through the corral of benches in the center and below the balcony into the warren of offices. A few yawning clerks were wandering blearily in. She marched past, ignoring them. Once again she found herself in the lobby outside Alistair’s office. It was only dimly lit, and no one had yet arrived. Lucy hesitated, fingering the buckles on her satchel. She could leave the report on the desk. His clerks would deliver it when they arrived and she’d avoid any questions about the door handle.

  Before she could make up her mind, the decision was taken from her. Alistair himself walked in. His iron gray hair was windblown and his lips pinched together when he saw her.

  “I have my report,” Lucy said defensively.

  “Ah. Bring it, then.”

  He pushed past and keyed open the door of his office with his seal. Lucy followed. The memory of the last time she’d been there clung clammily to her skin. She raised her chin. She’d done nothing wrong. At least, she’d not done what they’d accused her of. A niggling inner voice condemned her: But you’re about to. She gritted her teeth rebelliously. Alistair set his satchel down and turned to look at her.

  “There’s going to be a formal hearing,” he said without preamble. “There have been some inconsistencies in the audit—the teams worked all sennight-end,” he said, seeing her surprise. “The same crisis protocols apply as during the salvage—blood oak of that size cannot just go missing on our watch. Lady Warrinton, Mrs. Pladis, and Mr. Higgelsham have powerful friends who are demanding satisfaction. You are relieved from duty as of now until the hearing is complete and you are absolved. Someone else will be assigned to oversee your team. Should you be found innocent of wrongdoing, you will be paid for the time off. If you are found guilty, you will be arrested and held for trial. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t. She stared, unable to breathe. She was suspended? She’d done everything right on the salvage! “What inconsistencies?” she managed at last, her throat feeling as if she were being strangled by a wire. Her arm began to warm and she forced herself to relax her body.

  “I am not permitted to say,” Alistair replied. His expression was remote, his eyes hooded.

  “You think I’m guilty.”

  “I think—it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It does to me.”

  “You’ve always done a model job. I’ve never had a complaint.”

  “But it appears you do now.” Lucy fumbled in her satchel for her report and handed it to him. “I’m sure you have work to do. You will let me know when I should be at the hearing, won’t you?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, but swung around toward the door. Alistair’s voice stopped her halfway there.

  “I suggest you engage a barrister. This is likely to get very ugly.” His voice had softened into something resembling sympathy.

  “I won’t need one,” Lucy said shortly. A prickly feeling circled her wrist under the cipher. It felt like a bracelet of pulsing needles. Her legs twitched with the sharpening pain.

  “You will.” Alistair came to stand in front of her, his forehead deeply creased. “Don’t misunderstand your danger. It doesn’t matter if you’ve done anything wrong or not. You’ll need someone to protect you.”

  Lucy’s lips pulled into a thin smile. “Isn’t that what you are supposed to do? But don’t put yourself out. I’ll take care of myself. If that’s all?” She strode out before he could ask her to turn in her seal or mention the melted door handle. She fled as fast as she dared, her stomach knotting as she listened for the sounds of pursuit. She broke into a trot as she crossed back out through the rotunda, down the stairs, and outside.

  She threaded her way in the murky morning light along the maze of customs docks and warehouses that stretched for nearly half a league. The wet docks extended into the harbor like a floating village. Customs teams were already boarding the ships that filled every slip. It was lucky the lighters and stevedores had struck; otherwise the place would be bustling. She hoped that it was a sign her luck was changing for the better.

  Warehouse P38 was located on the southern end of the network of customs buildings. It was set back from the shore in a sprawling complex of warehouses. The wind whistled around the walls like angry ghosts haunting a dead town. Lucy glanced about as she approached the double doors of P38. The complex was deserted—no witnesses to see what she was about to do.

  She keyed the lock with her seal and pushed inside. The interior was dark and dusty. She sneezed, reaching for the jutting round knob just inside the door that would activate the lights. They burst brightly alive as her fingers stroked the surface. Lucy couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder—what if someone saw? But there were no windows and the door was tightly shut.

  Not wasting any time, she went to the inspector’s desk. It was set up on a small dais above the sorting stations. It was shaped like a half-moon, with a thin layer of dust coating it. Behind was a wall of empty shelves and bins. Lucy brushed clean the small brass ring pressed into the wood above the middle drawer. She touched her seal to the circle and instantly it flickered to life, showing her own green and black signature imprint. She pulled open a side drawer and pulled out the stack of papers inside. It was an inventory list. She flicked the pages, searching the closely written columns for DHFH489AR. The code told her the general vicinity of the crate, but this would give her better information. At last she found the entry. The DH stood for Delia’s Heart, the name of the ship. It was a tramper, carrying cargoes for at least thirty investors. The listed owner of the crate was Bernwick Corporation. Lucy rolled her eyes. That didn’t help much—Bernwick was a loose conglomeration of dozens of investors. It would be almost impossible to pick any single one out as her blackmailer. But at least it was a start. Her father might know something about them. The FH stood for “forehold.” Customs divided the hold into six imaginary divisions, with the forehold being at the bow. The number 489 told her where exactly the crate was located in the warehouse, and the last two letters were the initials of the clerk who’d checked it in.

  Lucy returned the list to the desk and withdrew a map from the top middle drawer, unfolding it and smoothing it out over the desktop. She ran her finger over the tiny notations until she found slot 489. With a quick nod, she refolded the parchment and put it away, relocking the desk. Her imprint faded, but it wasn’t gone. Alistair’s seal could read every opening and closing of the desk back to its creation. No, when they figured out something was missing, they’d know quickly who’d taken it. Guilt sluiced through Lucy as she thought of the taint that would attach to her family, to the king. The newspapers and opposition to the monarchy would make a great deal out of her crimes. Still, it was better than being caught with true ciphers. And with any luck, she’d be able to return the goods before anyone ever knew she’d taken them. With the lighters and stevedores striking, it might be days or weeks before anyone inspected P38.

  Nervous anxiety goaded her into jogging the length of the warehouse. She counted the rows and turned up an aisle. It was crooked, narrowing and widening unevenly, as if the inventory had been stacked too quickly and without care. The shadows in the aisle only increased her nervousness. A sudden gust of wind made the roof rattle and she jumped. The prickling on her wrist had subsided as she walked the length of the quay. But now it returned, the pain intensifying as her heart beat wildly. She forced herself to take deep breaths, trying to contain her escalating apprehension. But to little avail. Her legs quaked with the fear of getting caught.

&nb
sp; “And they think you stole the blood oak. As if you could manage it without fainting dead away,” she said aloud, and then wished she hadn’t. Her voice only made her more aware that she shouldn’t be here.

  She ignored the pain of the cipher, which had now begun to glow a dull white. The light fell over her hand and gave relief to the gloom. Taking advantage of it, she held her arm out as she read the inventory tags. At last she found what she was looking for. It was smaller than she expected, about the size of a boxed chess set, and wedged on its side between two larger boxes. Lucy pulled it free, turning it in her hands. It was simply joined, with a swirled device carved into the mahogany top. It was sealed by majick. She could feel the tingle in her fingers. It couldn’t be a very powerful spell, however. It felt muted—just as the majick had the night of the salvage. And ever since.

  She frowned and then glanced down at the cipher that continued to glow a milky color. Was it doing that to her? Suppressing her sensitivity to majick? It was a miracle, something she wished for all her life. But instead of making her feel better, the notion made her more jittery.

  She tucked her prize under her arm and marched back out to the front doors. She pushed outside, locking the doors behind her and pulling her cloak close, hiding the box beneath its folds. She considered where she could go that was safe and where no one would expect her. The only solution was to choose a random spot. Well aware that someone could be following her, she turned deeper among the warehouses, winding haphazardly between them. She changed directions often, keeping to the shadows. She had no particular destination. But at last when she went around a corner, she found a bolt-hole. She keyed open a narrow side door in a large warehouse and slipped inside. She leaned back against the door, breathing rapidly. Outside the wind howled. If there were footsteps, she didn’t hear them.