The Drowned Woods (77)
Ifanna knew that. She’d known it since they rode into the city, since Ifanna had seen the beggars and refugees at the city’s borders. The nobles wouldn’t bother helping them; the prince wouldn’t care. So Ifanna would. She wouldn’t call it penance, because Ifanna didn’t believe in feeling guilt. She had never been the kind of person who dwelled on past mistakes.
But she remembered Mer’s hand on her cheek, the calm realization that Ifanna could have traded herself instead of selling out her first love.
No, this wasn’t penance. But it was the right thing to do.
Ifanna said, “Then so be it. I’ll be a pickpocket in one of the southern cities. I’ll find food wherever I have to. I’ll rebuild the guild from the ground up. But we’re not sacrificing anyone. I’m not leaving someone behind because we needed a horse to carry sacks of silver.” She smiled, but it felt more like a snarl. “Tell everyone in the guild that.”
Aldyth rocked back. Ifanna waited for a flash of her cold anger, for that rationality that had helped Aldyth rule this city’s criminals. But instead, her mother’s posture relaxed.
“Well,” she said, “it looks like you’re finally ready to lead them.”
CHAPTER 25
THE FIRST TIME Fane had fought another, he’d been nine years old.
It had been a scrap with a boy—one or two years older, with gangly arms and legs and a temper that flared hot. He’d said something unflattering about Fane’s family, and Fane had answered with his own childish insult, and the next thing he’d known, they were grappling with each other in the muddy street.
It was no great battle; rather, Fane’s mam had pulled the two apart, taken Fane by the wrist, and dragged him away. Fane’s eyes were stinging from the dirt and his cheek smarted, but he’d managed to say, “Why’d you stop me?”
“Because he was shoving your face into the street, love,” said Mam.
“I would have won,” said Fane sulkily.
Mam had laughed—she had a merry laugh, brimming with the kind of cheer that always made people smile. She squatted down before him, wiping the dirt from his cheek with the edge of her sleeve. “You would not have beat him.”
“Are you going to tell Da I was fighting?” he asked, feeling more flattened by his mother’s amusement than the implication that he would have lost the fight. Da hated fighting; he’d refused to join the cantref’s armies as a lad, even when all his brothers had gone off to war.
“I think you should,” said Mam. “Can I ask why you were fighting?”
Fane let out a breath. “He said Gethin must be a changeling because he’s too quiet.”
Mam’s smile softened. “I know you want to stand up for your brother. But mayhap next time you just walk away, all right? Words don’t always have to lead to brawling in the street.”
“Then when do I fight?” he asked, frowning.
Mam’s soft fingers had brushed the muddy hair from Fane’s eyes. “When there’s more at stake than pride.”
Fane heard the iron before he saw the guards.
This iron crooned of oil, of clean cloths being moved across the breastplate and shoulders. The armor was well tended, untouched by battle. These were the royal guards, the last line of defense for Gwaelod’s prince. They would be former soldiers, all chosen for their skill and experience. Fane closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reach out, to count how many armored pairs of feet were pounding toward them.
Mer glanced at Fane and he saw the question in her eyes. “At least five,” he said curtly. “Maybe eight.”
Mer spat out a curse, reaching for the flask at her belt. She put it to her lips and drank deeply, then flung the last of the water to the stone floor. A twist of her fingers and the puddles froze on the spot.
The first guard rushed around the corner. His heel hit the frozen water and he lost his balance. Under the weight of his armor, there was no stopping his fall. He tumbled over backward, crashing into the guard behind him. “Come on,” Mer snapped, and ducked through a doorway to their left. Fane followed, taking a moment to pull the door shut behind them. He gave the latch one hard yank and felt something snap. Hopefully that would delay the guards, if only for a few moments.
“They’ll be taking the prince to his chambers,” said Mer grimly. “Now the alarm’s been raised.”
“I assume that’s bad,” said Fane. They’d run into a bedroom; it was empty, the bed mussed and a gown thrown over the back of a chair. Fane glanced around for another door, but he did not see one.
“No way in once the doors shut,” said Mer. “The hinges are reinforced with iron. I can’t break them. It would take a stone diviner to do so.” She went to the window—glass, far more expensive than Fane was used to—and pushed it open. She took a breath and said, “How are you with heights?”
He blinked. “Fine?” It came out as a question.
“Good.” Mer put one foot on the windowsill, grimaced, then crept out onto the ledge. It was narrow, winding around the circular wall of the tower. Mer crawled nimbly as a spider, her gaze kept straight ahead.
For Fane, getting out of the window took a little more maneuvering. He bruised a knee and banged one elbow, but then he was on the narrow ledge. One glance down and—