Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(49)

His words prick my conscience. I raise my chin slightly and refuse to utter the apology that hovers on my tongue. It is his own fault for skulking about my room at night. “I have not yet received any message from the reverend mother. Have you word from Chancellor Crunard?”

His face sobers immediately. “No, why?”

I shrug and take a pear from the platter on the table. “I have been in Guérande three days. As urgently as the abbess wanted me here, I would think there should be someone who needed killing by now.”

Duval throws back his head and laughs. “You are a bloodthirsty thing, I’ll give you that.”

I stab a knife into my pear. The golden skin splits, and fragrant juice drips onto the plate. “Not bloodthirsty, merely eager to do Mortain’s work. It is why I am here, after all.”

“True enough.”

"What are our tasks for the day?”

He raises one of his eyebrows at me. “I have received word that a messenger has arrived at the palace and requests a meeting with me.”

My hand stills. "Who is it?”

“I do not know, as the messenger has cloaked himself in secrecy. He claims he will speak only to me, which is why you will stay here and entertain yourself this morning.”

I clench my knife. “I can easily hide, my lord. That will not be a problem.”

“Yes, but I have promised the man a private meeting and I would keep my word.”

“But what of your promise to the abbess?” I begin cutting the pear with quick, clean strokes.

“I have not said that I will not inform you of what transpires, merely that I have promised him a private audience. Besides, there is still much you are keeping from — sweet Jesu!”

I look up, alarmed. "What?”

He nods at my plate. “You are supposed to eat it, not disembowel it.”

I look down and see that I have sliced my pear to ribbons. I carefully set the knife aside and reach for the bread.

“If it is activity you crave, one of my groomsmen can accompany you if you care to ride. Or you can occupy yourself with” — he waves his hand, searching for some activity he deems appropriate — “needlework.”

I stare at him coldly. “I do not care for needlework.” I pause. “Unless it involves the base of the skull.”

His mouth lifts in amusement and I hold my breath, wondering if he will laugh again. I ignore the small nick of disappointment when he does not. “Then occupy yourself reading some of the histories in my study. I assume the convent taught you how to entertain yourself for a morning. Put some of that excellent training to use.” And with that, he removes himself from the table, leaving me to seethe over my breakfast.

Stay, he bids me. As if I am some hound to follow or not, at his command. As if it is he, not I, who is in charge of my actions. I know in my bones that the abbess will want to be informed of any urgent secret meeting. Besides, does not his very desire to keep this meeting secret prove he is up to some deception? when it is over, I will have only his word as to what took place.

Renewed purpose flowing through me, I rise and hurry to find my cloak.

I travel on foot. Saddling a mount would waste precious time and risk drawing questions. I do not know how loyal Duval’s servants are or to what lengths they will go to enforce his wishes.

The morning air is crisp and clean; Guérande’s merchants are only just beginning to open their shutters. Industrious maids and housewives are already shopping for their day’s provisions. No one pays any attention to my passing. when I reach the palace, it is easy enough to gain admittance, as courtiers, nobles, and petitioners come and go as they please. I also suspect the guard recognizes me from last night, although I cannot be certain. My biggest obstacle is finding where Duval’s mysterious meeting is taking place.

I stand in the main hallway for a moment, trying to create a map of the palace in my head. As I orient myself, I remember that Duval has private rooms assigned to him. That is surely where he will hold his meeting.

I ask a posted sentry for directions, then hurry up the staircase he points to. The palace is larger than the village where I grew up and far more confusing. Countless chamber doors line the endless hallways and corridors. In the end, I give up and bribe one of the many pages underfoot to show me the way to Duval’s chambers. I give him a coin — two when he promises silence — then study the door before me.

There is no antechamber. The door is in plain sight of anyone who walks by, which means I cannot simply stand with my ear to it. There is another door to the right of Duval’s, so I approach it, casting my senses out, trying to see if anyone is in there.

It feels empty, so I slip inside and hurry to the joint wall between the two rooms. I press my ear against it, but the stone is thick, and the men are speaking in low, cautious voices. I turn back to explore the chamber. It is filled with fine furnishings and elegant tapestries, none of which will help me in the least. There is a window, however, that overlooks a small enclosed courtyard. I stick my head out, pleased to see Duval’s room also has a window. It is easier to hear through glass than stone.

Once assured there is no one in the courtyard below, I remove my cloak so it will not trip me and step out onto the ledge. Carefully, I inch along the narrow casement until my hand grasps the wood that frames Duval’s window. I pause, then flatten myself against the wall so I cannot be seen from inside. I am quickly rewarded for my efforts by Duval’s voice, slightly muffled but audible through the thick glass. “If you cannot tell me who you are working for, then we have nothing more to discuss.” His voice is as cold and hard as the stone at my back.