The Drowned Woods (32)
Mer jerked back, as though she had been the one struck. Shaking, she retreated. Fear flooded her mouth—she was suddenly all too aware of how she should not be in this place.
She turned to leave.
And she ran headfirst into the man standing behind her. She opened her mouth to yelp in surprise, but a hand descended and clamped down the words. She was dragged away from that dungeon, toward the stairs. When the torchlight fell across the man, she realized it was Renfrew. He released her and she stepped back, wiping at her mouth. She expected him to scold her or worse.
His eyes were blue and calm as a frozen lake. “Come, dear child,” he said, hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm, unrelenting. “We should return to your lessons.”
She had been so shaken that she did not protest; she was only grateful that he did not tell the prince she’d been spying on him.
It was years later that Mer realized those keys had been all too easy to lift. Renfrew had let her take them. He had wanted her to see. To watch what happened to those who betrayed their oaths to the prince. That was the lesson he had intended her to learn.
To this day, she was unsure whether it had been a warning—or his subtle way of insinuating she should have escaped earlier.
When Mer ventured out of Emrick’s house, she did not look like the young spy who once dwelled within the prince’s castell.
It had been a painstaking effort on her part—face paint, to hide the brand beside her left eye. It took an hour of careful brushing, of matching her skin tone just so, but she was satisfied with the result. Her lips were darkened, her hair twisted into an elaborate braid. And she wore a fine red gown with knives hidden up her sleeves.
Fane stood by the front door, dressed in the simple, clean lines of a servant. With his scarred hands and broken nose, Renfrew must have decided against disguising him like a nobleman.
“Trefor not coming?” she asked. While the dog would no doubt draw unwanted attention, she would have liked his companionship.
Fane gave a small shake of his head. “He was asleep.”
“I hope you asked one of the servants to take him out if he needs to go outside.”
“No need,” said Fane. “He’s rather good at escaping locked doors.”
Mer threw him a look, unsure if he was jesting or not. For all this talk about corgis being servants of the otherfolk, she still didn’t know if the rumors held any weight. She’d heard ravens and black dogs could be heralds of magic, but corgis were just so… cute. And smiling. And rather memorable. It seemed the worst combination for a spy.
“What do you think he is?” she asked.
A faint smile touched Fane’s lips. “Hungry.”
With that, they stepped out into the city.
There were fisherman yelling about fresh cockles and oysters, bakers with stalls brimming with barley and rye, children with baskets of fresh flowers and herbs, and even a young man calling out that he could tell people’s fortunes for a few copper coins. Mer slipped through the crowds like a fish through familiar currents. No one gave her a second glance; half of going unseen was to be comfortable with one’s surroundings. Folk had a good sense for fear, just like animals. They could sense nerves or unease, and would pick those people out of a crowd. Even the pickpockets seemed to take note of Mer’s relaxed stride and watchful eyes—or perhaps they simply did not want to risk the wrath of the hulking man at her shoulder.
Caer Wyddno was a circular city, with the castell at the top of the ocean cliff and the lower city curving beneath it. The farther one got from the castell, the more dangerous the city became; the houses grew more dilapidated, the roads pockmarked with holes. Many of those who passed by bore a simple iron broach.
“The mark of the thieves’ guild,” Mer murmured, answering Fane’s question before he spoke it. “Those who travel through seedier parts of the city wear them to show they’ve paid their protection fees.”
Fane grunted an acknowledgment.
The shop they needed sat between an old tannery and an abandoned home.
It was a shop with no particular specialty—bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters, heavy iron keys with no locks were knotted together with twine, jars of pickled seeds and berries stood on dusty shelves, and an old saddle moldered across the back of a wooden chair. The man behind the counter eyed them warily. Clothes hung from his thin frame like billowing sheets around a half-dead tree. His hands had an unsteadiness about them—as if he were suffering from exhaustion or coming off a bad night of drink.
“Hello,” Mer said, with a polite inclination of her head. At least with the face paint, she didn’t have to worry about the brand being so visible.
“Huh,” said the man.
“I’ve been sent to pick up a package,” said Mer, recalling the code Renfrew had repeated to her. “Gooseberry jelly for the widow living across from the apothecary.”
Understanding flickered in the man’s eyes. “Ah, I see. You’ve payment?”
Mer reached into her cloak and withdrew a pouch of coins. The man twitched the pouch open, thumb moving across the gold inside. It was a small fortune.
The man began to pull the pouch toward him, but Mer snatched at his wrist. He jerked back as if she had burned him. “Not until we have the jelly,” she said. She tried to speak as Renfrew did when he was displeased—quiet and cold.