Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(24)
Once that is done, I use a knife to whittle away all the extra wax so that my mold is as small as possible. I toss the shavings into the fire and hide the wax casting in one of my velvet jewelry pouches.
It is a long, tense walk back to Madame Dinan’s chamber, but as I go, a plan begins to form, as fragile and tenuous as a spider’s web.
I have followed the convent and Mortain’s wishes so far, and it has brought nothing but tragedy. Even worse, d’Albret is still alive and spewing his evil across the land. It is long past time for me to fulfill the role the abbess had planned for me, with or without her orders. I will kill him, marque or no.
But I will attempt to free the prisoner first. If, as I suspect, he is too wounded and broken to make the trip to Rennes, I will grant him a small mercy and put him out of his misery, for certainly that is what I would wish for if it were me.
I will not even make him beg.
In the morning, I convince Tephanie and Jamette that we must go into town. I cannot march up to a blacksmith and demand he make me a key without raising a host of questions. So instead, I tell my attendants that I must find a silversmith to repair one of my favorite belts. Jamette wants to know why, if it is one of my favorites, she has never seen it before. Tephanie comes to my rescue. “Because it is broken, you ninny!” She is as excited as a young child at the thought of an outing and begins chattering about the monkey one of the soldiers saw in town.
Even though impatience makes me want to hurry, because of Jamette and our escort of guards, I force myself to browse the stalls. I stop to rub some bright red satin between my fingers and admire the thick rich nap in a piece of green velvet. Smelling money, the shopkeepers cluster around us like flies on a drop of honey. I flirt and pretend I am seriously considering a bolt of blue damask. All the while, Jamette watches me far too closely, as if memorizing every move I make, every word that comes from my lips. I half expect her to pull a scrap of parchment from her sleeve and begin making notes, and I have no doubt she would, if she could write.
At last we come to the street of silversmiths, the faint sound of the rapid tapping of their hammers as distinct as a hailstorm. I pretend to shop for a silver bauble, but I am actually searching for a smith who looks stouthearted and trustworthy and not inclined to run tattling to the castle in the hopes of currying favor with the new lord. I find just such a man—or so I hope—at the third shop we visit.
The silversmith puts down his hammer as we approach and comes forward with a bow. He is of middle years with a stolid face and strong hands that are roughened with a lifetime of scars from the hot metals he works with and silver dust is worked into the creases of his skin. A woman who has been sweeping the workroom—his wife, no doubt—hurries to join him.
As the smith draws closer, he glances at the men behind us. His look of pleasant greeting turns into one of guarded suspicion as he recognizes the standard and colors of the house of d’Albret emblazoned on our escorts’ tabards. His wife nudges him with her elbow and keeps her pleasant smile firmly in place.
“How may we serve you, my lady?” The smith’s cold, distant voice is at odds with his words.
“I have a belt that has broken a link, but it is of gold. Do you work in gold?”
“I do,” he says slowly, as if reluctant to admit such a thing if it will cause me to tarry at his shop.
The woman is less reluctant. “Gold is too valuable to put on display, my lady, but my husband’s skill is equal to any smith’s in the city.” The sure, quiet pride with which she says this moves me in some way I cannot explain.
The smith, however, sends her an aggrieved look, and that is when I know he wishes we would go elsewhere. Which makes him imminently suitable for the job I have in mind. “May I see the work, then?” I ask.
“Certainly, my lady. Let me fetch a tray.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. I wish to see the work area before I decide. I will not leave my valuables in a pigsty.”
The good wife bristles at this, but opens the half door to the workroom and curtsies.
“I will be right back,” I tell the others.
The smith and I move to the farthest workbench, and the wife excuses herself to fetch a tray of her husband’s best work. I hand the man my belt. As his practiced eye and sure hands move over the piece, probing it for weak links or breaks, I maneuver myself so that I am standing with my body blocking what we are doing. The smith frowns up at me. “There is nothing wrong with—”
“Shhh,” I say quietly. I step closer to him, as if I am looking at something he is showing me. “That is not my true commission for you. I have a key that needs copying.” I slip the velvet pouch out of the larger purse at my belt and hand the small blocks of wax to him. Keeping one eye on me, he opens the pouch to see the impressions of the key. “My lady, I am no blacksmith—”
I smile and say sharply, “Do you not think I can read the sign above your shop? This key is a gift for someone. Someone special.” I smile coyly so that his mind goes precisely where I want it to. He frowns in disapproval and opens his mouth to refuse, but I pull a second, smaller pouch from my purse. “I will make the job—and your silence—worth your while.”
Just then, his wife comes back with a tray of finely worked gold belts, circlets, intricately carved cups, and paternosters. When she sees the bag, her face lights up. I hand her the pouch before the smith can refuse the job, knowing that once she closes her hand around those coins, she, like any good housewife, will not let them go.