The Drowned Woods (38)

Perhaps her best chance was to remain in a guild of thieves, among those who knew how to thwart such hunters.

Mer gave the thief a narrow-eyed look. “And I’m not a prisoner? I won’t belong to you?”

The thief’s hand dropped to her side and in doing so, her fingers brushed Mer’s. The touch sent a spark of sensation through her.

The thief’s smile sharpened to a wicked point. “That is entirely up to you.”





CHAPTER 10


IFANNA VERCH ALDYTH AP MADYN did not commit the crime she’d been imprisoned for.

She stood accused of kidnapping a nobleman’s son. And while it was true that she had found herself in possession of a lanky young man, she hadn’t kidnapped him. He’d been soused after a night of carousing with other young nobles, stumbled into a cart that wasn’t his, and passed out. Ifanna hadn’t known he was back there when she’d stolen that wagon; she only discovered him after they were out of the city limits, when he sat up and blearily inquired about breakfast. If she had known, she wouldn’t have gone near that wagon. The stolen silver was not worth the smell of sick.

For some reason, this argument did not impress the guards.

Which was how she found herself locked up for a month, pending a journey to the cantref court. She sat in her cell, wearing the rags she’d been given and quietly cursing that nobleman’s son.

“Morning, your ladyship,” said Llygad. He was one of those guards that resented his posting; he’d probably joined the service of the prince hoping to become a dashing soldier. Instead, he patrolled a prison. It wasn’t even the prince’s dungeon—no, Llygad did not have the honor of guarding traitors or murderers. This prison was for those who could not pay their taxes or passed forged papers. It must have been desperately boring.

Ifanna would have felt sorry for Llygad, if he weren’t such an arse.

“Thank you kindly,” she said, in a clipped imitation of the fine accent Ifanna’s mothers had tried to drill into her.

“Don’t know why you aren’t with the others,” he said, making no attempt to hide his own bitterness. “Why you get special meals and treatment.”

Ifanna sat up a little straighter; her back was to the cell wall, her wrists encased in iron.

“Well, I picked the lock of the first cell they threw me into,” said Ifanna. “Your kind should search your prisoners more thoroughly. One might sneak a bit of metal in, knotted into her hair.”

Llygad scoffed. “There are other places to keep you.”

“You mean,” said Ifanna, “the prince’s dungeon? I wouldn’t fit in.”

The thieves’ guild had grown like an old tree in Caer Wyddno—its roots were driven deep beneath the streets and couldn’t be ripped out without disturbing the city’s foundations. The ap Madyn household had its own crest and noble history—and while there were whispers of forgeries, nothing was ever proven. More importantly, the guild paid its share into the royal coffers. There was an unspoken alliance between the guild and the royal family; one did not touch the other.

“You’re all criminals,” said Llygad sullenly.

Ifanna rolled her shoulders, trying to work out some of the knotted muscles. “My dear prison guard, there are different types of criminals.”

Llygad’s lips curled back in disgust. “You thinkin’ to lecture me about crime?”

“Well, I mean, I do have more experience.”

“I’m a guard,” he said.

“Precisely,” she said.

Llygad glowered at her. It was probably unwise to taunt him, but there was no other entertainment; Ifanna had to take her joy where she could find it. “You’re a ploughin’ robber. Stop trying to pretty it up.”

She leaned forward, so that her elbows rested on her knees. “I can spill a coin purse without spilling a single drop of blood. That takes skill. That takes artistry.”

“Don’t matter how pretty your crimes are,” said Llygad. “You’re still never going to see anything but the inside of a cell or a quarry—not as long as I’m still breathin’.”

Llygad was lucky that Ifanna was not one of those criminals he’d so unfairly compared her to—because if she had been, that last statement might have seemed a challenge.

But for all of Ifanna’s flaws, she had never been inclined toward violence. She could use it if she had to, but it was the way healers used herbs to induce vomiting—it was an ugly last resort. And Ifanna was nowhere near that desperate yet. Her cell was dry and solitary, and while the food wasn’t good, it was edible.

“Enjoy my company that much?” she asked.

Llygad made an irritated sound, stepping forward as if to strike her.

A soft shuffle made him go still. A girl with mud-brown hair and a dirty tunic stood in the hallway. There was a tray in her hands and her head was tilted forward in deference. When Llygad’s scowl fell on her, the girl dropped in a wobbly, nervous curtsy. “Pardon me, sir. I have the prisoner’s evening meal.” She scurried toward the cell, dropping the tray to the space between bars and floor. Ifanna eyed the fare. It looked to be a bowl of runny porridge, a crust of stale maslin bread, and a cup of watery red wine.

“Wait,” said Llygad, and the girl froze with her fingers still around the tray. Llygad held Ifanna’s eyes as he took the bread. “Good night, ladyship.” He turned and sauntered down the hall.