The Drowned Woods (44)

“That would require him to do more than grunt occasionally.”

That was true; Fane hadn’t spoken much with the others.

She shook her head. “And what about Emrick? Gryf? Where did you find them?”

“Emrick is a scholar, as he mentioned before,” said Renfrew. “I found him in a gambling den, a blade to his throat.”

“Your blade?” she asked.

“For once, no,” Renfrew replied. “His gambling debts are far more severe than he would ever admit. His family won’t aid him, not again. I paid his captors enough that they let him go—for now. This job and its wealth are his best hope to keep his head.”

“And Gryf?” Mer stroked Trefor’s ears. “Not a soldier, or so he said.” Her mouth pursed. “Intelligence, then. Don’t think I haven’t noticed his accent. He’s from Gwynedd.” She spoke the words quietly, but with certainty. “You’ve made yourself a traitor twice over, if you’ve brought Gwynedd’s spies into the city.”

Renfrew started to pat her shoulder, then his fingers brushed at the strands of hair hanging near her left eye. He pushed them back behind her ear, exposing the brand. That skin was pale, kept hidden from the world. She was not used to others seeing it so readily.

“There is always a cost,” he said. His thumb touched the brand lightly. She could only feel the pressure—she’d lost sensation where the hot iron had pressed against her skin.

Then his hand fell away and he stepped back, leaving Mer to her unsettled thoughts.





The rest of the day and night passed in uneasy quiet.

Mer could not leave Emrick’s home, but she wasn’t idle. After years of working with Renfrew, and then with the guild, she knew what mattered: her knives, first of all. Those she sharpened and cleaned, and tucked into their places at her belt, her wrists, and boots. Then there was a length of slender, sturdy rope, the sort that fishermen used to moor their boats. She made sure she had her lockpicking tools. And lastly, there was a small leather flask. It held fresh water untainted by metals or salt. In her hands, that water would be more a weapon than any knife.

She was not the only person making preparations. More than once, Mer nearly tripped over Emrick. He stalked from room to room, muttering about one tome or another, always with at least one book crammed under his arm. “Nerves getting to you?” she asked.

Emrick glared at her. “Not nerves,” he said, voice taut. “Merely a respect for the endeavor to come.”

Mer gave him a skeptical look. “Doubt anyone’s ever started trembling out of respect before.”

“I am not trembling.” Emrick’s arms pressed more tightly to his sides, as if he could force himself to stillness. “You have not studied magical wards as thoroughly as I have. What could be hidden in those caves—”

“Could probably kill us in horrible and rather inventive ways,” Mer said. “Truly. You think to lecture a diviner on magic? You should try warning the dog—he might get a little more out of it.”

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Emrick sputtering with anger.

It cheered her greatly.

As for Gryf, he sat in the kitchens and seemed content to taste whatever the cook was preparing. Mer felt his eyes on her whenever she passed by. She ignored him. If he was a spy from Gwynedd, then she would be a fool to return his flirtatious smiles.

The cook was bustling about, setting hot katt pies upon a table. Mer stole two when the cook’s back was turned. She found Fane in his bedroom—or rather, he was sitting on the ledge of his window, long legs dangling out onto the roof. At the sound of her footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. She half expected a grunt of acknowledgment—which was how he greeted everyone else in the house—but he said, “Does Renfrew want to see me?”

“No, not yet.” Mer held out one of the small pies. “I thought you might be hungry.”

Fane took the pie with a nod of thanks. “Will you stay?” he asked, to her surprise. “Or do you have work to do?”

“I can stay,” she said.

Trefor, who had been napping in the corner, lifted his head and sniffed the air. There was a boot tucked firmly between the dog’s forelegs. It didn’t look like Fane’s.

Mer sat down on the floor beside Trefor. She broke off an edge of her small pie and set it before him. The dog gobbled it down in two swallows.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. The pie was lamb, flavored with mint and onions. Trefor watched her eat, a tendril of drool escaping his mouth. It pooled on the boot beneath him. Mer gave in and tossed him another piece of crust.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

Fane brushed a few crumbs off his shirt, then pulled his legs inside, turning so that he faced her. The sun shone against his back, lighting up a few highlights in his dark hair. “Of course.”

“Why do you talk to me?” she said. “You said perhaps two sentences to Ifanna, and that’s more than you’ve uttered to Gryf or Emrick.”

He hesitated. “I could tell you a reason, but you won’t like it.”

She frowned at him. “All right, now I have to know.”

“I’m comfortable around you,” he said simply.

Her frown deepened. “Why wouldn’t I like that?”