The Drowned Woods (24)

“People don’t choose any such thing,” said Mer, her voice sharpening. “They steal because when you’re hungry enough, risking a broken wrist seems a decent trade for a warm meal.” Her own memories of hunger were never too far away. It was why she always kept a few coins sewn into the hem of her undershirt or slipped into a boot.

“You sound as though you have experience with that.”

“Everything I’ve done,” she said, and her voice was even quieter than before. She wasn’t sure he could hear her; part of her didn’t care. “Everything—it was to survive. And I won’t apologize for that.”

Fane wisely did not rise to that bait. “Do you know where we’re going?” he said instead. He stepped out of the path of several ladies, chattering among themselves with baskets of laundry balanced atop their shoulders.

“Spicer’s Row.” Mer turned down a smaller alley, out of the bustling merchant district. They passed through a square brimming with carts and wagons, with shouts and clamor. “I know it. Renfrew said the right house would have periwinkles in the garden.”

“Periwinkles,” said Fane. “It’s an odd choice for a flower.”

“Do you prefer daffodils?”

He shook his head. “Periwinkles grow on grave mounds in the north. There are tales that say if you pick them, you’ll be haunted for the trespass.”

“Well, then I hope no one’s buried in the garden,” said Mer. “I suppose you think us city folk foolish for giving up old customs.” Someone was playing the crwth, and several passersby were clustered to watch. Mer squeezed through the crowd, angling herself to slip between a family.

“Not so much foolish,” said Fane, “as different. Cities like these, with all the people and the iron—both in their blood and all around them—it pushes back the old ways. Makes me wonder how things will fare in the future.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Fane said, “that humanity has a tendency to push into every corner of a place. And with their iron and their armies, it may be only a matter of time until someone like Garanhir turns his attention on Annwvyn.”

That made Mer’s steps falter for a moment. “It would be a foolish endeavor. Garanhir would have to invade both Gwynedd and Powys.”

“Aren’t those the very boundaries that your prince has been testing?” asked Fane.

Mer turned away, quickening her step. “He is not my prince,” she said, with such finality that Fane did not speak again.

The journey took them half an hour. Mer doubled back twice, looping through alleys and around buildings until she was sure that any tails would have been lost. Then, her eyes lit upon the right house. It looked to be a nobleman’s home: expensive, vulnerable, and far too good to be true.

Mer walked right on past it, half dragging Fane by his arm. He threw a startled look at her. “I think that’s—”

“Oh, it is,” she said, keeping her eyes ahead. “Don’t look at it. Stop gaping.”

He jerked his head around. It took only three steps for him to catch on. “You don’t trust it.”

“Of course, I don’t,” she said. “This is Garanhir’s city. Should he have captured any of Renfrew’s people or intercepted a message, this is where he would set the trap.” She took a breath. “We’re going to find our own entrance.”

“And if there isn’t one?”

“We’ll make one,” she said.

She walked to the end of the street, then ducked between two shops. Behind the houses was a narrow alleyway. Very narrow, likely used by stray cats and the occasional slender thief. She angled herself to slip inside, her cloak brushing against the old stone. Fane grunted but managed to follow.

Finally, they came around to the back of the noble house. Mer pushed through a carefully pruned hedgerow, grimacing as thorns scraped her bare skin. She stepped out into a small courtyard. “House like this,” Mer murmured, walking closer, “it has to have…” She knelt amid the bushes and pushed one aside, revealing a wooden door set into the ground. “A wine cellar, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Ah,” said Fane. “So that’s our entrance.” He knelt and traced the edge of the lock with his calloused thumb. His nails were short, broken. And his knuckles were stained with bruises.

“It’s old iron,” said Fane. “Not from around here.”

Mer blinked, a little impressed despite herself. “Do you make a note of every iron scrap we pass?”

“If I did that, I’d have little thought for anything else,” said Fane. “Most of it fades away, like chatter that you can’t quite hear.”

Mer pulled a small leather wallet from inside of her tunic. This had been an early lesson and one of the most valuable. “Ah, so you do have a wrench,” said Fane, seeing the slip of metal and its blunt-edged teeth.

She snorted and slipped the pick into the lock.

“I feel like this is wrong,” whispered Fane.

“If you cannot sneak into a house, you’re going to have a hard time with a heist,” said Mer quietly. She grinned when it came free. Fane reached down and heaved the cellar door open. The cool, damp smell of old oak and wine wafted upward.