The Drowned Woods (42)
In those days, she didn’t hide her brand—not from the guild. The young thieves saw the scar as a badge of pride.
Yes, I belonged to the prince, Mer would say, but he couldn’t keep me.
With the implication, of course, that Ifanna could.
It wasn’t quite a lie; Mer simply prettied up the truths she liked. She had escaped the prince. She just never told them that she still had nightmares of cold fingers against her chin, of the smell of burning flesh and the blinding flash of agony when hot metal pressed to her cheek.
She had escaped. That was the only thing that mattered.
And she had found a place to belong. A person to whom she wanted to belong.
“Yes, dear,” said Aldyth, pouring a cup of tea. Ifanna sat in one of the high-backed wooden chairs—as befitted her station. And Mer stood behind that chair, as befitted hers. “The cartwrights are late with this month’s payment.”
“Then send an enforcer,” said Ifanna. “What am I supposed to do? Steal the coin?”
Melangell’s long fingers curled around her own cup of tea. “No enforcers necessary. The cartwrights have always been prompt; likely, something has gone awry—a fire or an illness. You will go because the guild needs diplomacy, not swords. And if you are going to rule this guild someday, then they need to know your face. To associate you with leadership, not”—she flicked her fingers, as if brushing away a gnat—“petty crimes.”
Ifanna bristled. “My crimes aren’t petty.”
“Then I suppose those rotten butcher scraps threw themselves into the eastern guard barracks,” murmured Aldyth.
Mer kept her mouth still. That had been her idea. A bit of revenge after a few swigs of stolen wine. They’d thrown the entrails through a window from a nearby roof, laughing quietly to themselves as they escaped in a heavy fog. Ifanna had kissed her, fingers tangled up in Mer’s hair, and she had felt the thief’s smile.
“Go to the cartwrights,” said Melangell. “Find out what has gone awry with their payment.”
Ifanna picked up her tea, drank it in a gulp that made Aldyth wince, then rose from her chair. “All right.”
She and Mer left the sitting room. Once the door had closed behind them, Ifanna slowed her step so that Mer walked beside her. In private, they stood on equal ground. Ifanna relied on her as much as Mer relied on Ifanna.
“Taxes,” said Ifanna, her smile wrinkling at the corners. “That’s what they have me doing. Tax collection.”
“They’re not entirely wrong about you needing to be seen,” said Mer. “The guild knows you’ll be their next leader, but those outside of it need to know, too. It’s better to establish that authority bit by bit than try to seize it, should something happen to your mothers.”
Ifanna snorted. “Now you sound like them.” But even as she spoke, she reached down and wove their fingers together. “Come along. At least we’ll have a nice morning walk.”
The two of them wore hooded cloaks and kept to the shadowed alleys, but Ifanna stopped by a merchant’s stall and bought a handful of fresh raspberries to be eaten along the way.
The cartwrights worked their craft on the southernmost edge of the city, where the buildings gave way to coastal fields. Mer stood by a wooden fence, as was her duty, while Ifanna walked inside the workshop. Carts were decent for smuggling and the thieves’ guild had an arrangement with these builders: The cost of protection was lowered, so long as the cartwrights crafted secret compartments into the wagons sold to the guild. It was an old alliance and Mer had no doubt that the cartwrights had simply forgotten to send payment or something equally innocent.
But when Ifanna emerged from the workshop, Mer knew something was wrong.
Ifanna was always smiling—it was both armor and weapon, a sly dagger used to pry away her enemies’ defenses and a mask to hide her fears. There were lines at the corners of Ifanna’s mouth, carved from years of smirks and grins.
But as Ifanna stepped into the sunlight, there was no smile.
“What’s wrong?” Mer asked.
Ifanna spoke slowly, gaze somewhere on the horizon. “There’s… a shipment. Gone awry. I have to look into it.” Every word came out slowly. Then she shook her arms, as if she were brushing away cobwebs. “I need to do this myself. Can you meet me in the courtyard behind the chapel? The one near Miller’s Lane?”
Mer took her by the hand, squeezing lightly. “I’ll come with you, if you want.”
The faint ghost of a smile touched Ifanna’s mouth. “I know. But not this time. You’re right, that people outside the guild need to know my face. And they don’t need to know yours.”
She cupped one hand around the back of Mer’s neck, fingers touching the small scar behind her ear. The touch sent a shiver of pleasure through Mer. The kiss was light and tasted like berries. “I’ll see you after the job,” said Ifanna. Her hand fell away and the last Mer saw of Ifanna was a flash of dark hair in the sunlight, vanishing beneath a hooded cloak.
Mer took her time walking to the chapel courtyard, meandering through familiar streets and sucking at the raspberry seeds stuck between her teeth.
The courtyard was a lovely one—pruned roses and hedges, kept carefully tended by mindful gardeners. There was a high wall and one entrance so she could keep an eye out for Ifanna’s approach. Mer lingered on a stone bench, waiting for an hour, then two, until her nerves were sharp and tight. Perhaps something had gone awry. Ifanna could need her.