The Drowned Woods (28)

Mer’s chest rose and fell, her breathing ragged and cheeks a little pink. The boot dropped from her fingers. “Renfrew?”

“I told you to use the front door,” said Renfrew.

“I had to make sure it wasn’t a trap,” said Mer.

The man stumbled upright, red-faced and furious. “Would anyone care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Emrick,” said Renfrew. “I told you they were coming.”

“You didn’t tell me they were going to sneak in through the wine cellar,” replied Emrick. “I thought they’d knock at the front door. She—she almost killed me.”

“I froze your tongue to your teeth,” said Mer. “Not pleasant, but it wouldn’t have killed you. If I wanted you dead, you’d be fodder for the rats by now.”

Emrick took half a step forward, his face shining with fury. “Insolent wretch—”

Renfrew tsked lightly. “Ah, I see we have a need for introductions. I shall handle that once we’re all dry and perhaps more well fed. Emrick, tell the servants to prepare the other rooms. And perhaps to retrieve some chopped meat for the dog.” The bottle still in hand, Renfrew turned and climbed back up the stairs.

The three of them were left to gaze at one another, breaths uneven and tension still thick through the air. Then the man, Emrick, held out his hand and said, “Boot.”

No one moved.

“My boot, if you’d be so kind,” said Emrick.

Fane knelt and picked up the boot—toothmarks and all—and handed it over.

Emrick gazed at the boot with disgust, then pulled it on. “My thanks,” he said coolly. He turned and strode up the stairs. His left boot squished audibly.

Fane and Mer stood there for a few moments. Trefor leaned against his ankle. The corgi gave a slight whine, as if in question.

“Do all his jobs go like this?” asked Fane.

Mer’s chin fell and her hair tumbled forward—covering her brand. “You mean Renfrew keeping everyone in the dark? Yes. Normally there aren’t so many wine bottles involved, though.” She turned to look at him. “Your shoulder all right?”

“Fine,” he said. He wondered if he should thank her for defending both him and Trefor. Instead he said, “You froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth?”

“It always causes a panic. Some people think they cannot breathe, even if it does nothing to obscure the airway.” She gave the smallest jerk of her shoulders. “Panic makes a person vulnerable, less able to defend themselves.” She exhaled hard. “Come on. Might as well see what we’ve walked into.”

She strode past him, up the stairs. Her shoulders were straight and her steps even, but he did not have to use that iron-sense of his to know she had a knife tucked against her palm.





CHAPTER 8


THE FINERY OF the bedroom made Mer’s skin itch.

The curtains were the first things she noticed—they were thick, embroidered with delicate thread, and a glorious red. They cost more than her room at the Scythe and Boot. As for the rest of the room, it was just the same: a sturdy bed frame, a mattress stuffed with feathers rather than straw, a desk, and a wooden floor softened with rugs. The bedroom was awash with comforts that Mer had long ago given up on.

But this was where Renfrew had chosen for a hideout, so she would go along with it.

Once she’d bathed and changed clothes, the first thing Mer did was take stock of her escape routes. There was a way out through the kitchens, the cellar, and the front door, of course. But there was also a window on the second floor with a wide ledge, and Mer decided that if the worst happened, she could leave that way. She turned and walked down the stairs, following the sound of voices to the dining room.

There were four men sitting at the long table. The first was Renfrew, and across from him sat Fane. Trefor was curled up at Fane’s ankle, gnawing on a bone.

Mer walked to the far end of the table and sat down. The cook, a kindly looking woman of middle age, poured a cup of tea and offered her a fresh slice of bara brith. Mer thanked her, then turned her attention to the other two men.

The first was the man from the cellar—Emrick. Now that she was no longer trying to fend him off, Mer could get a proper look at him. He had the ashen look of a man who spent his days indoors; he was slender, but she could tell from the unblemished skin and good teeth, he’d never been hungry. He might have been considered handsome, if Mer were attracted to young men who looked as though they’d spent their whole lives buried in books and ledgers. But Mer had always liked men and women who spent more time outdoors.

“Ah, now that we’re all here,” said Renfrew, “I believe proper introductions can be made.” His voice was quiet and level as a frozen lake—with as much warmth. He sat with his left hand atop the table, his missing index finger on display for all to see. The room fell quiet at once.

“This,” said Renfrew, gesturing idly at the nobleman, “is Emrick. Cousin to Lord Something-or-Other, in whose home we are currently residing.”

Renfrew might play at ignorance, but it was just that—a play. He would not only know the name of the lord, but also the names of his spouse, his children, and every servant in their employ. One did not survive as a spymaster without a good memory and keen attention to detail.