The Drowned Woods (49)
Mer pinched her eyes shut for a few heartbeats. Sometimes it felt as though she were more storm than person, bringing chaos and pain everywhere she went. She knew Renfrew could take care of himself and the others, and for all of them to stay clumped together would mean certain capture. But part of her still twinged with guilt at having left him behind.
Do not apologize. That’s the one thing I wish I could have taught you.
Mer lifted her head, checked to be sure her hair covered the brand, then glanced toward Fane. He knelt beside Trefor, looking over the dog’s paws. Trefor was panting happily, as if their midnight escape were just a late-night jaunt for his pleasure.
“Are you all right?” said Fane, rising to his feet.
Mer rubbed her sore knuckles against her tunic. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”
“I know, but…” He exhaled. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” said Mer, confused. “Unless you were the one who betrayed us, you couldn’t have stopped that attack.”
“Of course, I didn’t,” he said. Contrition seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. “But I couldn’t help fight that guard for you. And I couldn’t save the cook.”
“I don’t need you to fight for me,” said Mer. “As for the cook… I couldn’t save her, either.” She swallowed, trying to push back the memory of blood spilled in a dark hallway.
“Where are we going?” asked Fane.
Mer considered her answer. She knew a few bolt-holes in the city, places she could vanish into like a rabbit darting down a warren. But disappearing wouldn’t help anyone. They had to find Ifanna—and Mer knew the place where the thief would be waiting. “The Crooked Goat. It’s an eating house in the tradesmen quarter. It’s also commonly known to be a front for the guild. It’s where Ifanna meant to meet me.”
Fane frowned. “How does an eatery survive if everyone knows it is a front?”
“Because they make the best cakes in three cantrefs,” she replied. “One time, a few overambitious guards decided to try and raid the place, but there were so many customers they couldn’t get through the door.”
Fane chuckled. “I suppose that’s one way to stay in business.” His expression sobered. “Do you think she betrayed us?”
And that was the question. Mer grimaced. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks she’s too enamored with her own legend, with being the best thief that ever lived—she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to do a job no one else could. But if she told another at the guild…” She shrugged. “Her mothers were never fond of me. They were going to sell me back to the prince before Ifanna took a liking to my magic. She stepped in, took me on as part of her crew. I agreed, because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Hiding the prince’s diviner in his own city,” said Fane. “That seems… risky, even for a guild of criminals.”
“Ifanna likes risk,” said Mer. “Sharp blades, dangerous people, unbeatable odds—those are as intoxicating as drink.”
There came raucous laughter from the brothel. The door swung open and a man stepped out, readjusting his cloak. Mer sidestepped until she stood in Fane’s shadow. Without hesitation, she took his arm and slipped it around her waist.
The man barely gave them a glance before striding down the street. Mer watched him go, but she didn’t pull away from Fane. Two lovers out for a stroll would draw less attention.
“Come on,” she said. “We shouldn’t remain too close to the house.”
Mer led them unerringly through the streets. The market stalls were shuttered for the night, but one building was lit from within, candlelight spilling out through cracks in the walls. A wooden goat had been carved into the sign above the door. The sign was notably crooked.
Mer walked around to a side door, raising her hand to knock loudly.
Footsteps rang out, then an older woman opened the door. “Not open,” she began to say.
“She’s here, isn’t she?” said Mer.
The woman brandished a wooden spoon like it was a knife. “Now, lass, I don’t know who you’re—”
“Ifanna,” said Mer, and the name startled the cook. Mer pushed past her, stepping into the light and warmth of the kitchen. Fane gave the cook an apologetic smile before easing past her. Perhaps it was the sheer brazen nerve or that Fane towered over her, but the cook merely sighed, threw an irritated glance toward the ceiling, and went back to her work. A younger girl, mayhap twelve or thirteen, poured batter onto a hot griddle. The air was full of steam and the sweet scent of warmed sugar; Mer’s stomach lurched to one side, as if it were trying to get at the hot cakes.
It had been several years since she set foot in the Crooked Goat, but she knew her way through the kitchen, past an empty front room, to a stairway. She took the steps two at a time, and it felt like walking into a memory: stolen moments in between jobs, the taste of sugared berries when Ifanna brought up cakes from the kitchen, the warm glow of satisfaction after smuggling a shipment of stolen artwork into the city, the golden flicker of candles as Ifanna bent over a map, her long fingers sweeping across the lines.
It had been in these rooms that Mer had reclaimed some old scraps of herself—her laugh, the joy that came with work, the feeling of belonging to something and someone.