The Drowned Woods (46)

Mer was a little impressed, despite herself. By coming here, Ifanna had ensured that she knew everyone’s names and, more importantly, their faces. She could make the lives of everyone in the room uncomfortable, if not outright dangerous. Every kingdom had a guild of its own, and if this one decided to put a price on their heads… it might not matter if they destabilized Garanhir’s rule. They could still be hunted across the isles.

Silence fell across the room. It had a weighted quality, smothering any flippant comments. Mer held her breath, waiting for Renfrew’s answer.

It finally came. “One-sixth,” said Renfrew. “I know the guild traditionally claims one-fourth of all crimes in the city, but it will be one-sixth. And you needn’t accompany us. I will ensure the guild receives what it deserves.”

Ifanna shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”

“Because you have to prove yourself,” said Mer, with a flash of irritation. “Regain your pride and dignity after being imprisoned. Doesn’t matter that if something happens to you—if you get killed by some magical trap and your letter is found by your mothers and the rest of the guild—we’ll all be hunted by them.”

Ifanna gave her an indulgent look. “Then I suggest you do your best to keep me alive.” She rose from her chair, brushing sugar from her trousers and scattering crumbs across the rug. Emrick made a soft sound of protest, but no one paid him any mind. “When you leave, send Mer for me. I’ll have the key at hand.” Her gaze passed over everyone at the table, lingering for a heartbeat longer on Mer. With one last nod to Renfrew, Ifanna strode from the room. Mer heard the servants as they opened and closed the front door.

Renfrew glanced at Mer. If there was disappointment in his face, he kept it well hidden. “The day after tomorrow,” he said. “We leave in the early morning hours.” He rose from his chair. “Mer, a moment, if you please.”

Feeling a little like a scolded child, Mer followed Renfrew from the dining room.

“I know,” said Mer, before he could speak. “It’s not what you wanted. It’s less treasure—but Ifanna will come through for us.”

Renfrew’s face was impassive. “If you trust her, then I expect she will. But you should talk her out of coming, if you still care for her,” he said. Mer winced. Of course he would know about her and Ifanna’s past, even if she never told him.

Renfrew said, “Take nothing you aren’t willing to lose.”





CHAPTER 13


FANE DID NOT sleep well in the city.

Caer Wyddno felt like a beehive—all swirling streets and constant, humming noise. There was the clatter of rolling carts, the snorts of horses, the baying of hounds, the talk of every passerby, and the distant rumble of ocean waves. And the iron. There was so much of it; the metal sang in every house, every street, on every person.

Fane lay in his bed, Trefor snoring softly by his hip. The dog’s face twitched in dreams, and Fane found himself smiling, gently stroking Trefor’s head. Fane closed his eyes, tried to center his breathing in his belly. Perhaps if he fooled his body into thinking he was resting, his mind would follow.

As he breathed, Fane heard something.

It came slowly, so slowly he didn’t recognize it at first. A quiet whisper—like a child with a half-remembered song. Then the sensation sharpened into a quivering painful note, like a chapel bell struck at a wrong angle.

Iron.

Iron freshly wrought into armor and swords. And the song grew louder.

Fane bolted upright. His heart tore into a gallop and he found himself flinging his bedcovers aside, all but tossing them across Trefor. The corgi let out a startled little yip and scurried out from under the blankets, giving Fane a half-reproachful, half-concerned look.

Fane pressed a finger to his lips. He seized his boots and his pack and hastened from his bedroom.

He didn’t have much time; he went to the nearest door and tried it. To his relief, it came open easily. Fane poked his head inside and said, without knowing to whom he spoke, “Get dressed—guards are coming.”

There was a choked-off snore, then Emrick’s voice. “What?”

“Guards,” hissed Fane. “Get up now.”

A moment of quiet. Then, “What?” Emrick sounded utterly bewildered.

Frustration tore hot through Fane’s chest; there wasn’t time for this. He strode to the next room, leaving Emrick to fend for himself.

The second door was locked. Fane grimaced and pounded hard on it. There came a soft sound—another note upon the air that only Fane could hear. Someone inside had drawn a blade.

“Yes?” came Mer’s voice.

“Guards,” said Fane. “They’re approaching the house.”

Like with Emrick, there was a moment of quiet. Then the door swung open, and Mer stood with her own pack in hand. She was dressed in all but her boots, and the only evidence she had been asleep was her messy hair. “How many?” she asked.

He felt a swell of gratitude that she hadn’t doubted him. “At least twenty.”

She let out a soft curse, yanking her boots on as she did so. He had to admire her reflexes—most people would have been sleep-muddled, but she reacted as if the attack had arrived at midday.

Another door opened and Renfrew stepped out. “What’s wrong?”