Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(128)

Grant disappearing. Wandering off to be a ghost again, with a new life and a new mask. It was all he knew how to do, probably the only chance he could see to return to the Balanquans—even if it was dangerous. I couldn’t let him do that to himself. I couldn’t lose him.

I gave Aiana the crossbow and took off through the crowd. Traveling free and alone no longer mattered. The Glittering Court was nowhere in sight; they’d probably scattered when the Icori arrived. I didn’t care if I got in trouble with the Thorns anymore, especially when it seemed I’d be free of my contract soon—one way or another.

Grant wasn’t in his loft, and it wasn’t obvious in that empty place if he’d been there recently. His trunk was still there, and clothes still hung on their hooks. But I thought there might be less of them than before.

I locked the door when I left, and as I started to tuck the key away, I remembered I had another in my pocket. Silas’s. Could Grant have gone there? He spent as much time at his mentor’s and the store’s as he did his own home.

But Silas’s place was empty too. Heavy hearted, I started to leave for the store and then remembered the papers in the bag slung over me. Amidst all the surprises, I’d forgotten to give them to Silas. He apparently had enough to free Cedric and hold Warren for the time being but would need these eventually. I took them out and placed them back on the desk, not sure I could count on him still being at the courthouse.

Seeing notes scrawled in Grant’s heavy handwriting triggered a pang of despair in my chest, as though I’d already lost him. As my gaze passed over the coded letter, I couldn’t help but automatically read some of what he’d written. A few new additions stood out, like the name of the man who’d had the schedule in Bakerston. Recipient is Cortmansh had been written at the top and underlined three times. And then beside it, underlined four times: How is he translating Balanquan? The new corrections we’d discovered were there too, like the heretic patrols and Green.

My eyes suddenly jerked back to the top. Cortmansh. Grant had written that before seeing the Lorandian letter I’d translated earlier, which had corrected some of Abraham Miller’s misspelled names. Cortmansh had become Courtemanche, which made more sense if he was Lorandian. We’d always used a harsh Osfridian pronunciation because of Miller’s writing. But it wasn’t an Osfridian name.

“Courtemanche,” I said, using the lilting Lorandian pronunciation. It added another syllable, dropped some consonants, and revealed the words within: Courte for short, and manche for sleeve.

I’ve got several wagons heading out to Alma today . . . we’re barely going over the border.

I glanced farther down the page and reread our corrected line: He will supervise usual transfer so that you can deliver to Green Bend. I pushed the letter aside to look at the map I’d noticed earlier in the stack. It showed all the Osfridian colonies and had been marked up by both Grant and Silas. There was Green Bend, the first major city just inside Alma Colony when coming from Cape Triumph.

I closed my eyes and put a hand on the desk to steady myself as I strung all the pieces together. Tom Shortsleeves—Courtemanche, the traitors’ chief Lorandian financial supplier—was transporting wagons of valuables to other conspirators in Green Bend. Most of those valuables probably consisted of pure gold currency. Tom never kept anything else around for long—except goods that might be useful to an army, like ammunition and camp silverware. He gave away common items to Mistress Smith and sold his luxuries to people like Cornelius Chambers, rich collectors who eagerly handed over large sums of gold in exchange for rare Balanquan art . . .

I opened my eyes. Elijah had been the one to tell me about those sculptures, Elijah who’d spent his childhood with a trading group in the Balanquan Empire. Tom wasn’t the one translating the Balanquan portion of the code.

I could scarcely breathe. With shaking hands, I jotted out a quick note to Silas: Courtemanche is Tom Shortsleeves. He may still be in the city. I’m going to the Dancing Bull to try and find him.

There was no time to explain my deductions, no time to even get Silas. The courthouse was out of the way from the Dancing Bull, and Silas could be off with the governor or the army. And Grant . . .

I slowed for just a moment as I descended the stairs back to the street. Grant. Was he at his store? Checking would delay me from getting to the tavern. If he was there, he wouldn’t be for long. I would miss him if I didn’t go now. But Tom was leaving—or had left—the city too. He’d said he was going right after the verdict, and Warren’s outing as a conspirator would probably have hastened that departure.

My steps quickened again. I wanted Grant. I wanted to find him before he disappeared behind another mask. But I couldn’t let the traitors’ greatest source of gold get away, not when he had the potential and wealth to resurrect another plot. This was a sacrifice for the greater good that I couldn’t refuse. I had to try to protect Adoria from the blood and destruction of war that still engulfed Sirminica.

Ignoring the ache in my chest, I pushed Grant from my thoughts and ran to the Dancing Bull. No one in the city gave me a second glance, not in a day filled with so much tumult. In fact, when I burst breathlessly into the tavern, my ankle hurting once again, it seemed as though no one had the time to sit down for a drink either. The common room was empty, aside from a sallow-faced bartender I didn’t recognize. I was never here during the day. He stopped polishing a mug when he saw me.