The Drowned Woods (50)

And then she’d lost it all a second time.

Mer did not bother to knock. She merely pushed open the first door on her left. It opened into a small room with a cot and desk, an unlit candle set on the windowsill.

Sure enough, Ifanna was asleep in the cot. She looked smaller beneath the blankets, her fist curled beneath her cheek. Mer slid her pack from one shoulder and dropped it to the floor with a loud thump.

Ifanna jerked awake. She sat up, blankets falling away. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving,” said Mer. “So I hope you have that key.”

Ifanna blinked a few times. “Did I lose time? Or are you early?”

“Early,” said Mer. “On account of the prince raiding our house.”

The last remnants of sleep fell away from Ifanna’s face. “What happened?”

“A company of guards,” said Fane quietly. He lingered in the doorway.

If Mer hadn’t known her so well, she wouldn’t have seen the flash of alarm in Ifanna’s eyes. The rest of her face was still as she absorbed the news.

“It wasn’t me,” said Ifanna, after a moment’s silence. “I know—Mer, I know you’ve no reason to believe me because I’ve done it before, but I told no one. I haven’t even returned to the guild, because that would invite questions.”

Not everyone could lie well. There were certain indications—a gaze that would slant to the left, fumbling hands, words tripped over, even the word honestly was all too often used in untruths.

Ifanna was many things, but she had never been a liar. If someone asked what she was doing, she’d offer up a wink and say, Illegal ventures. To Mer’s knowledge, Ifanna had only ever lied once.

I’ll see you after the job.

And perhaps this was what made Mer the worst judge—she wasn’t sure if she wanted to believe Ifanna or not. Regardless, Ifanna couldn’t be left behind. Either she was an asset or a traitor—and if she was the former, they would need her; if she was the latter, they couldn’t allow her to sell more information to the prince.

“You have the key?” said Mer.

Ifanna swung her bare legs over the side of the cot. She wore only a long shirt and there was an unfamiliar scar along her thigh. Mer glanced away from it before Ifanna could catch her looking. “I’m not the best thief in the city for nothing,” said Ifanna. She nodded at the desk. “Second drawer, false back.”

Mer retrieved the key while Ifanna pulled on her clothes. The false back sprung open when Mer pressed her fingers to the seam of old wood. Inside were a few folded papers, a scattering of gold coins, and a heavy iron key. It was unornamented and Mer did not need Fane’s powers to know the iron matched that found in the sewer grates—it was the same dark gray, flecked with rust.

“How did you get it?” asked Mer.

“I have a man in the guards,” said Ifanna, buttoning her shirt. “Paid him off. He took it from inside the castell.”

Mer threw her a startled look.

“Not every job has to be stylish and elaborate,” said Ifanna, a bit begrudgingly. “And I needed rest.”

Mer slipped the key into her pocket, where it sat against her hip like a weight. Ifanna picked up her own pack, tucked her hair beneath a hood, and strode from the room. They descended the stairs, back toward the kitchens. Ifanna spoke a quiet word to one of the cooks, coins exchanged hands, and then Ifanna took a cloth bundle, steam rising from the knotted fabric. And then they were out of the Crooked Goat. Mer found herself gazing at the sign for a moment, her throat a little too tight.

This would likely be the last time she ever looked at that sign. If the job succeeded, she would flee Gwaelod and never return. And if the job failed—

She wouldn’t think of that.

Ifanna unknotted the cloth, passing a small cake to Mer and one to Fane. “I doubt either of you ate before fleeing your house,” she said.

It was a small kindness. A peace offering.

The cake tasted of currants and honey, crumbling apart between her fingers. Warmth—sweetness. Mer savored the taste. A person had to take what pleasures they could.

“Best to eat them before we walk through a sewer,” she said to Fane, who was eyeing his own small cake.

Ifanna swallowed hers in three bites. “There’s a guild-controlled sewer entrance on the next street over. We’ll go in there.”

“I think I’ve seen more of this city’s sewers than the markets,” remarked Fane.

“Come back with a full purse in a few weeks,” said Ifanna. “I’ll take you to the evening markets when the late summer harvests have been brought in. We’ve a festival that lasts three nights.”

“Don’t take her up on that,” said Mer. “The last time I attended that festival, I could do little more than sip tepid water and nap in a quiet room for a full day.”

“I told you not to drink the day-old cider,” said Ifanna.

“A kind offer,” said Fane. “But I believe I’ll have had my fill of cities by the time we’re through.”

Ifanna screwed up her face, as if she could not imagine such a thing.

The entrance to the sewer was through a small grate. Handholds had been carved into the stone, and Ifanna went first. Fane stood over the entrance, eyes scanning the dark streets for observers. Mer glanced at Trefor. He cocked his head back and forth, as if listening. “What are you going to do with him?” asked Mer.