by Grace Draven
“I’ll get him saddled.” Gavin kissed Cinnia and left for the stables.
“I can put you much closer to your Monteblanco than before,” Ambrose said. “Shorten your trip to a day and a half instead of six, but you’ll have to embrace a little magic, mistress.”
Louvaen glanced once more at the mirror and then at him. “I’ll kiss the stuff if it gets me there faster, sorcerer.” She looked to Ballard next, and his heart clinched at the sorrow in her eyes. “Come upstairs with me.”
He nodded. “Give me a moment with Ambrose. I’ll be there.” He watched her stride for the stairs, Cinnia on her heels.
He turned to Ambrose once they were out of earshot. “I’d wager a good courser Jimenin somehow found out Louvaen was returning in the spring and thinks Cinnia will return with her. The girl would buckle the moment she saw her father imprisoned and do whatever Jimenin wanted. He’ll be looking for them. How close can you put her to her home?”
Ambrose spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “No closer than what I mentioned. But she’ll be on an unfamiliar horse, and if she conceals herself she’ll get into Monteblanco before he spots her.”
Ballard ran a hand over his face. “Gods, this is the worst of the curse. I can’t even protect her by accompanying her. Neither can Gavin, and she won’t leave her father to rot in the gaol while she stays at Ketach Tor.”
“She’ll know what to do. She’s resourceful and no wilting flower by any stretch, and she’s dealt with Jimenin before.” Ambrose worried his lower lip, a sure sign he was planning and strategizing. “You can keep watch with the mirror I gave her and Cinnia.”
“That’s as bad as not knowing anything if I can do nothing to help. Besides, she’ll want the mirror to keep an eye on Cinnia.”
“You as well,” Ambrose pointed out. “Is that what you want?”
The idea she might summon his image in the mirror as he transformed for a final time made the cold knot of dread in Ballard’s gut swell until it threatened to choke him. “No,” he said.
Ambrose snapped his fingers. “An easy solution. Mirrors aren’t hard to enchant; they’re just hard to control sometimes. I can enchant another one so that Louvaen can only summon Cinnia. It can act as a beacon as well, in case she needs to return to Ketach Tor.”
Ballard scowled. “She better not come back. I expect the others to be long gone by the time her business with her father is finished.”
“She may have to, dominus. If something happens to me, and I can’t get the women out, then Louvaen needs the means to return and do it for me.”
Ballard growled his frustration. “She’s right. She should have shot Jimenin.” He took the stairs two at a time, tossing instructions over his shoulder to Ambrose as he went. “When Gavin returns, tell him to gather up the coin he thinks she’ll need to free her father. I’d bet long we’ll be paying a king’s ransom for his release.”
He found Louvaen in her chamber. She waved him in as she and Cinnia tossed clothing and personal toiletries haphazardly into a satchel, at least until Louvaen lifted the wrapped dagger he’d given her. She placed the gift within her jumble of possessions with careful hands, burying it deep amongst crushed skirts and shifts.
Sometime during his conversation with Ambrose, she’d exchanged her fancier dress with its many laces for a plainer, more practical garment. The ornamental combs in her hair were gone, and she’d bound the dark locks into a heavy plait that fell down her back. His fantasy of unlacing her and keeping her locked in his chamber with him for a week was so much dust.
“Are you ready?” he said.
She paused in closing the satchel. “Yes.” Her slender hands trembled on the ties.
Cinnia gazed at her and Ballard. Her lower lip quivered. She patted Louvaen’s shoulder. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready,” she said and fled the room.
Louvaen’s lashes were damp with unshed tears. “You save my family again.”
He shook his head and came to stand before her. His hands rested heavy on her slender shoulders. “Your father became Gavin’s father as well when Cinnia married him. He has a duty to Mercer Hallis. In this, you are simply the messenger for Lord de Lovet.”
She offered him a weak smile. “You made him give up his horse. I’ll take good care of Sparrow until I can return him.”
“He’s Cinnia’s now. Keep him for her. Gavin would wish it.” Ballard gathered her close until her scent of cloves filled his nostrils, and her strong features filled his vision. He pushed back his hood so she might see him as clearly as he saw her. “Wife of my soul,” he said softly.
She closed her eyes and sagged in his arms. “Oh gods, Ballard. I don’t want to go.” She straightened abruptly, almost bumping his nose. Her hands slid into his hair and tugged him down until her mouth touched his and they were kissing wildly—a battle of clutching hands and desperate moans until they gasped for air.
Ballard set her from him. “Get your cloak, and then it’s downstairs with you, witch, or I’ll change my mind and lock you in Ketach Tor with me forever, your father be damned.” He shouldered her satchel and ushered her out the door before she could protest and before he gave in to temptation.
They met the others in the bailey, with Gavin holding the reins of a saddled Sparrow. Someone had lowered the drawbridge, and its chains clinked in the wind gusting up from the abyss. Nearby, the roses rustled, and Ballard caught the sibilant laughter within their restless motion.
Cinnia hugged her sister and passed her a mirror similar to the one she’d received on Modrnicht. This one was smaller and plainer, hurriedly enchanted by Ambrose. “Like my mirror,” she told Louvaen. “Except you’ll only be able to summon me.”
Louvaen took it and cast a sideways glance first at Ambrose and then at Ballard. The question was as clear in her gaze as if she’d spoken the words. This was your idea, wasn’t it? He acknowledged her inquiry with a brief, unapologetic nod.
She returned her attention to Cinnia, hugged her hard and promised to rescue their father as soon as possible. She embraced Magda and the maids as well.
The housekeeper patted her shoulder. “We’ll take good care of your girl until you see her again.”
Louvaen and Ambrose faced each other. Ambrose spoke first. “There’s plenty of coin hidden under Sparrow’s saddle, enchanted like the mirror to look like part of his blanket. It should be more than enough to release your father.” He gestured to the mirror she held. “Cinnia didn’t tell you, but the mirror is a beacon as well in case you need to return.”
“She won’t need to return,” Ballard said and scowled at his sorcerer.
Ambrose refused to give ground. “So you say, but I want to be certain.”
Louvaen’s gazed flitted between them before settling on Ambrose. The corner of her mouth lifted. “Old spitfrog, don’t bespell me off a cliff. You’ll kill Gavin’s favorite mount.”
Ambrose harrumphed, and a smile hovered on his lips. “That bit of horseflesh is the only thing saving you from a bad end, you foul harpy.”
Were he not wrenched sideways inside at her imminent departure, Ballard might have grinned at the awkward affection between his lover and his magician.
She stopped in front of Gavin who handed her the reins. “Sparrow’s smooth on the canter and will rattle your teeth in the trot,” he said. “He’s also sensitive on his left side, so nudge lightly.” He pulled her into a quick embrace and released her just as speedily. “Godspeed, sister.” He returned to a teary Cinnia, and Ambrose shepherded them a small distance away to give her and Ballard privacy.
Ballard tied the satchel securely to the back of the saddle and turned to face Louvaen. Pale and severe in the shadow of her hood, she refused to lift her gaze higher than the top lace of his bliaud. He raised her chin with his thumb and curved his hands along either side of her jaw. He spoke the words guaranteed to make her look at him. “Am I so ugly to you now, Louvaen?”
As he predicted, her eyes snapped up, and she stared at
him with a small frown. “Don’t be a fool...” She paused and frowned even harder. “You know me too well, Ballard de Sauveterre.”
He couldn’t find within him the will to summon the smallest smile. He contented himself with gliding his thumbs across her smooth skin. It was an exercise in futility, but he touched on every detail of her face, committing each to memory.
It would have been better if she saw him as he once was, scarred by war but not enchantment—simply a man who once lived by the sword and would have died either in battle or his bed. But he’d take what he could get.
He looked hard into her eyes. “Remember me,” he said in a voice both commanding and supplicating. She had time only to utter a gasp before he lifted her and swung her into the saddle. He handed her the reins as she blinked at him and slapped Sparrow on the hindquarters. The horse leapt forward, and Louvaen held on, looking back only once as they cantered out of the bailey and over the drawbridge.
Ballard ignored Cinnia’s quiet sobs behind him and Gavin’s comforting murmurs. He watched long after horse and rider disappeared into the forest of leafless birch trees. The sun dipped below the horizon, and he remained sentry in the twilight until Ambrose touched his shoulder.
“She’ll be fine, dominus. You should come inside. The light’s almost gone.”
No, he thought. The light is gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Louvaen halted before Monteblanco’s Merchant House with its imposing façade of arched windows and grand doors recessed into a thick of wall of stone. The sign posted out front bore a simple bench carved into the panel, symbol of a lending establishment and to her jaundiced eye the street marker pointing the way to a place far more corrupt than any knocking shop. A stream of townspeople passed through the door, some looking as if they’d just left the wake of a loved one, others wearing expressions of relief equal to that of men given stays of execution. Her father had worn both faces at various times when he returned home from the Merchant House.
If anyone should sit in a prison cell, it was the hive of thieves operating the Merchant House. Monteblanco’s four richest families controlled it, and through the course of generations, clever practices and manipulations of investments, had become partial or full owners of nearly every home, farm and shop in and around the town.
Her breath swirled in front of her in a misty cloud, and she huddled deeper in her cloak. A few townsfolk cast her curious glances, but none recognized her or called her name. She rode an unfamiliar horse, and her nondescript cloak shrouded her well enough as long as she kept her head down and didn’t look anyone in the eye. A quick survey of the street revealed nothing obvious, but she was certain Jimenin had posted watchers along the main road to notify him the moment they caught sight of her—or even better, her and Cinnia together.
She stopped herself from kicking Sparrow into a gallop and racing for the debtors’ tower to check on her father. The reflection displayed in the mirror had shown a dejected Mercer Hallis sitting in the corner of a common cell crowded with other prisoners. He’d have to wait a little longer. Paying whatever debt Jimenin had trumped up this time was her first order of business and the one guaranteed to send him into an apoplexy when he realized she once again thwarted his plans. With any luck he’d drop dead in the street from sheer frustration.
Sparrow nickered softly to her when she dismounted and tied his reins to one of the hitch rings mounted outside the building. She stroked his nose. “Patience, friend. There’s a comfortable stall waiting for you. I’ll be done soon.” Her hand passed over the blanket where it edged the horse’s withers and closed around the bespelled purse tied there. She tugged it free and slipped it into a pocket sewn inside her cloak. The jingle of coin rattled her nerves but drew no attention from the milling crowd. The sound was a common one here. Louvaen pushed back her hood and crossed the threshold.
Tables crowded the front chamber’s floor space, each stacked with documents and occupied by harried scriveners seated behind them. Louvaen set her sights on the unfortunate clerk sitting at a table closest to the door. She remembered him in particular. He was the one tasked with blocking her from barging into Magister Hildebrandt’s chambers the last time she’d appeared to pay her father’s debts. That encounter hadn’t ended well.
He spotted her and promptly blanched. “Mistress Duenda,” he said in a voice so heavy with dread, Louvaen almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“We meet again, Goodman Calcun. Are you going to tell me where I may find Magister Hildebrandt and the latest bill of exchange?” She stalked him around the table, cutting off his only avenue of escape. “Or do we dispense with the niceties and duel each other with the candlesticks like last time?” She glanced meaningfully at the two pewter candlesticks flanking the clerk’s stacks of loan documents.
He snatched them behind his back, and his eyes had rounded to the size of saucers. “Magister Hildebrandt is...is...”
“Is right here,” said a voice cold enough to freeze a lit torch. Louvaen turned and found herself face to face with the Merchant House’s principle owner. Tall, gaunt and brittle as an icicle, Magister Hildebrandt stared down his nose at her. His thin-lipped mouth drooped in a perpetual frown enhanced by an even droopier white mustache. Dislike simmered in his sunken blue eyes. “Stop terrorizing my scrivener, Mistress Duenda.”
He gestured for her to enter his chambers with a twitch of his bony fingers. Louvaen strode into a familiar room filled with ledger books. More occupied most of the available floor space, teetering altars built to the gods of debt and usury. She squelched the impulse to kick a few over as she sat in one of the chairs facing the magister’s desk.
He followed behind her and took his place behind the desk, spidery hands tapping their way across stacks of documents until he found the one he wanted. After a cursory glance, he slid it to her. “You’re here to review the bill of exchange?”
“I’m assuming it’s why my father is knitting mittens in the debtor’s tower.” She ignored the magister’s scowl and perused the document. The more she read, the angrier she grew. “This is dated prior to the last bill, yet Jimenin made no mention of another debt when I was here to make payment several weeks ago.” She glared at Hildebrandt. “Why is this showing up now?” She knew exactly why this latest bill had suddenly appeared at the lending house, but she was curious as to what the magister would tell her.
He eyed her over the steeple of his clasped hands, intent as a vulture. “Don Jimenin felt it wasn’t charitable turning them over to us just after you paid the last debt. He wanted to give your family time to recover.”
It would be sheer, unadulterated luck if the top of her head didn’t blow off by the time she finished with this vile business. “Charitable?” The bill crumpled in her grip before she relaxed her fingers at Hildebrandt’s alarmed expression. “Jimenin wouldn’t recognize charity if it bit him in half.” Gods, how she wished her name was Charity.
Hildebrandt reached gingerly for the bill only to retreat when Louvaen bared her teeth at him. She separated the document and passed the last page to him. “This is a forged bill. I’m familiar with my father’s signature, and this isn’t his.”
He made a show of examining the parchment before shaking his head. “The signature is too similar to his earlier ones to ignore, mistress.”
She slapped the paper on the desk. “I’m telling you my father didn’t sign this bill. Nor would he. Even he knows such a venture would fail. A cargo of ice shipped from the north in the height of summer? Really?” The ridiculousness of the investment scheme assured her of its fabrication. “What did he say before you sent your catchpoles for him?”
“The same thing you did. Don Jimenin, however, produced a witness who gave sworn statement he was present when your father signed the bill.”
“I’ll just bet he did,” she said. “Throw around enough coin, and people will swear they rode a flying cow at sunset.”
The magister sighed and gathered the papers together, smoothi
ng and sifting them into an orderly pile. “Regardless of your opinion of Don Jimenin’s business practices, the debt is open. Mercer Hallis will remain incarcerated in the debtor’s tower until payment is settled.” He paused and scooted his chair back from his desk. “Don Jimenin has stated his offer of debt forgiveness still stands if your father agrees to a marriage between him and your sister Cinnia. He’ll pay the bill of exchange as the bride price.”
Extortion not so subtly buried in a falsely magnanimous gesture. Hildebrandt tensed in his seat as Louvaen stared at him with narrowed eyes. She wondered how much of a fight the magister would put up if she reached across the desk and wrapped her hands around his throat. Then again, there was no benefit in killing the messenger. Thanks to Ballard and Gavin, her best revenge came in knowing she had defeated Jimenin a second time.
She reached into the pocket of her cloak and dropped the full purse on the desk. It struck the surface with a satisfying thunk. “Draw up an article of endorsement. I brought payment.”
She smirked as Hildebrandt’s hollow eyes rounded. He gawked as she counted out the required amount. “That’s a great deal of money, mistress. Where did you get—?”
“Your only concern, magister, is that I can pay the debt.” She paused in her counting as he watched her, entranced. “Are you planning to draw up the endorsement and call in a witness? Or do I need to go out there and trap a clerk or two?”
His thin lips disappeared into a tight line, and he rose to call in three scriveners. Louvaen waited impatiently while one of the scriveners drew up copies of the article of endorsement. Once signed, witnessed and the money exchanged, the magister sealed the document with the Merchant House’s seal. He passed one to Louvaen. “You may present this to the bailiff who will then release your father. As before, one copy will remain with the Merchant House. Another will be given to Don Jimenin.” He looked as relieved as she felt at having their transaction concluded.
