The Drowned Woods (40)

Irritation flashed across Mer’s face, but she didn’t deny it. “He will, once he realizes there’s no other choice.”

So not only was Mer speaking to Ifanna of her own volition, she had done so without the spymaster’s knowledge. Ifanna tucked that information away for later.

“So you want me to drink poison,” said Ifanna, “trust my senseless body to a person who would happily dump me in a river, join a six-person crew run by a former spymaster, and steal from the very prince that rules this city?”

“Yes,” said Mer. “And you will.”

Ifanna snorted. “That so?”

Mer edged closer to the bars. Her brown eyes burned like caught tinder. “Because no one’s ever managed it before.”

The words were like a fishhook, bright and dangling, a lure. Ifanna knew that. She knew she could have turned away, but she had always been infatuated with possibility. She loved danger and risk, loved the fear-laced joy that came with every challenge. The way her mothers told it, Ifanna had been born with her fist in the pocket of a midwife, trying to reach for something that wasn’t hers.

Ifanna was not just a thief.

She was the lady of thieves. It was her blood, her birthright.

Ifanna picked up the cup, raised it to Mer in a silent toast, and then drained the poison dry.





CHAPTER 11


HAVING WORKED FOR seven years as an ironfetch, Fane was practiced at carrying bodies. Although those bodies had always been dead.

The thief’s breath was hot against his bare neck. He had her slung across his shoulders, his cloak drawn over her so it looked as though he were merely carrying a heavy pack. Mer had emerged from the prison with an empty cup and a grim, satisfied look. They’d only had to wait for an hour before the guards brought the body out, hefting it onto a cart. Likely the morning shift would take any corpses for burial or burning.

“So this is your thief,” said Fane. “She snores.”

Mer let out a soft breath. “Yes, that would be her.” She had taken the lead and Fane was glad to let her. The crowds of people, the thrum of conversation, and the constant presence of iron made him uneasy. There were too many people he might bump into; he couldn’t let his guard drop for a moment.

“Where are we taking her?” asked Fane. “Back to the house?”

“Not precisely,” said Mer. “Come on, I know a place.”





Of all the things Fane expected to happen in this criminal venture, having Mer toss a towel at him and say, “They won’t let you in clothed,” was not among them.

The bathhouse was all shadow and steam, and every breath was heavy with the scents of meadowsweet and rose. After Mer had knocked on a door and given a murmured word, they’d been led down stone steps, deep into the depths of a bathhouse. The air was warm and close. Ifanna had been laid out in a changing room; she’d begun to rouse as they approached the bathhouse. Mer had placed a bucket beside the young woman, told an attendant to keep an eye on the thief in case she was sick, and then strode into the adjacent changing room.

“Why are we here?” asked Fane.

Mer touched a mud-stained strand of her hair. “Ifanna smells like prison. I’m carrying half a sewer in my boots. And you don’t smell like flowers, either. I don’t think Emrick would let any of us into his home at the moment.” She shrugged. “This bathhouse is not owned by the nobles nor the thieves’ guild. It’s neutral territory. It’s also got a few well-armed enforcers at the doors, in case anyone tries to make trouble. I thought Ifanna’s first true talk with us should be in a place where no one is armed.”

Fane raised both brows. “Except for you.”

Mer threw him a startled look that melted into a half smile. “You catch on quick.”

“I try,” he said. He turned and began unbuttoning his cloak. “Does she know?”

There came a huff of breath behind him, followed by a rustle of fabric. “Oh, yes. Ifanna knows all that I can do. The guild wouldn’t have shielded me otherwise—I was too valuable. I could soften harsh tides, let smugglers approach the coast cloaked in mists, guide thieves through the sea caves without fear of drowning.”

Fane pulled his shirt off, placing it into a woven basket. His boots and trousers were next. They would be laundered. Finally, he wrapped a towel around his waist. “And yet you said they betrayed you to the prince,” he said.

“Yes,” said Mer, her voice taut. “She did.”

There was a tap on his bare shoulder and he turned. Mer stood behind him, her own towel wrapped around her torso. Her hair was bound up, save for a few strategically arranged tendrils that fell across her left eye and cheek. “Come along. There’s a tub in the farthest corner I wish to claim before anyone else. No one will overhear us there.”

“You’ve been here before,” said Fane.

Mer nodded. “Ifanna’s always had a fondness for this place. Or rather, the diod sinsir they serve. Come along.”

The smooth stone was warm against Fane’s bare feet. There were several tubs carved deep into the floor, likely fed by a hot spring. Golden candlelight struggled to illuminate through the billows of steam. It looked like a comfortable, warm cave—if a giant had polished it smooth, carved elegant pictures into the walls, and added a few bouquets of flowers.