The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  When they discovered her cowering in her hole, she did not tell them the truth. She told them that a man had attacked her, that she’d run and hidden. It was a dockrat, she said. No, she couldn’t remember his face or his clothing. No, she’d gotten away before he’d had a chance to do more than grab and hit her. They believed her lie when they wouldn’t believe her truth. They hugged her tight and praised her. She never mentioned her ability to sense majick again. Not to them, not to anyone else.

  She did not see the stranger again. She did not learn his name. And she never forgot the ciphers. They became her obsession. And not just any of them. True ciphers. The most dangerous of all.

  She sighed, her eyes burning. Then, as now, she’d gotten herself into the mess without any help. Only this time, there was no place to hide, no one to rescue her. She was doomed.

  Chapter 6

  Lucy thrashed, her legs tangling in the sweat-dampened sheets. She jerked upright, jamming her blankets against her open mouth and biting into the wool to stifle the sounds tearing from her raw throat. Her screams slowly faded to ragged panting. She lowered the blankets, glancing at the door connecting her apartment to the one her lady’s maid shared with her husband. Since Lucy had come home Blythe had done nothing but fuss, bemoaning the state of her clothing, skin, and hair. She scrubbed Lucy raw and force-fed her an entire bottle of camphor oil. “In case ye caught yer death, goin’ out in the wind and the weather, irresponsible girl.”

  Lucy groaned, pressing the heels of her hands against her burning eyes. She heard a creak and stiffened. No doubt Blythe was pressing her ear against the door. Thank the gods she’d had sense enough to bolt it.

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, donning her dressing gown and splashing water on her face. The cold liquid was both shocking and soothing on her hot flesh. She dried herself, glancing at the windows. Moonlight sent a column of light through the open shutters. The remnants of the sunset still gleamed in the western sky. Lucy sighed. She’d hardly slept. But tired as she was, there was little hope she’d start anytime soon. Her stomach rumbled. She went into her sitting room, where a tray of biscuits, cheeses, and roasted nuts waited for her on the sideboard. A majicked pitcher of cold sweet `tea sat beside it. Lucy poured herself a glass, savoring it as it soothed her throat. She picked at the food, eating a few bites before the memory of her dream intruded and she lost her appetite.

  She paced restlessly. So long as she didn’t close her eyes, she could avoid remembering. She took up the candle and wandered into her office. Her desk was made of walnut with slender legs and hammered brass trim. A stack of correspondence sat in the middle. She hadn’t had time to deal with it properly in almost a sennight. Now was as good a time as any to do so. Better, in fact. If she was catching up with it, she couldn’t think about the sylveth spawn.

  She tightened her robe and sat in the leather chair, touching her candle to the wicks of the two brass lamps on either corner of the desk. She set aside the newspapers and a rectangular package of books containing copies of the latest novels by Veprey and Amy Eden. She hesitated, tempted to return to her bed and read through the night. The books would be a pleasant distraction. She sighed. The mail first.

  There were several letters from her solicitors and eight more from trading consortia looking for investors. Three more wanted to interview her for potential employment, and six more were bills of accounting. She set all of them aside. The pile that was left included a thin note from her best friend and business partner, Sarah Nettles, two with the delicate handwriting of her mother, two with no return address and a bold script that she didn’t recognize, and a dozen others from friends and family. Lucy smiled at them with tired pleasure. A feast to be savored.

  She started with Sarah’s note. It was written in a quick, shorthand style, asking Lucy to come round as soon as she could. They were partners in Faraday, a chic pawnshop on fashionable Glamley Street. Lucy was a silent partner, far preferring that Sarah have the responsibility of running the place. It was a well-wrought partnership. Lucy’s only obligation was inspecting and evaluating the goods that people brought in to pawn. It wouldn’t do to be caught selling smuggled or stolen merchandise.

  Lucy set the letter aside with a pleased smile. Sarah was marvelous company, with a ready wit and a sharp tongue. It was just the thing to take her mind off her nightmares.

  She next took up one of her mother’s letters, holding it gingerly. It was written on peach-colored linen paper, her writing flowing like water across the page. Her words, however, were sharply rebuking.

  Darling Lucy, really dear, I deserve more of your affection than these little notes you insist on sending as if I were some shopkeeper. I insist that you attend your father and me this Emberday for breakfast and I will accept no more of your paltry prevarications.

  Lucy groaned. There was no way to avoid it. She’d managed to put her mother off for three sennights, which was far longer than she’d ever thought she’d get away with. But the lighter strike would begin on Pescday, which would mean that Lucy would lose most of her excuses, a fact that her mother doubtless was well aware of. Without the lighters, ships couldn’t get their cargoes to shore, which meant she would have precious little to do after that. Damned strike. She rolled her eyes, sighing heavily.

  The day’s discussion would no doubt center on Lucy’s marriage prospects, or lack thereof, and what could be done to increase them. Additionally, there would be tangential forays into the subjects of grandchildren, clothing, cosmetics, and hair. She could hear it now. “Lucy, dear, you must do something with that tangle. Surely you don’t like looking so peculiar. It’s rather hideous. You must let my girl try her hand with you. She’s a miracle worker.” And then her mother would be ringing the bell and Lucy would find herself clenching her hands around the arms of a chair as her mother’s maid combed, teased, ratted, braided, trimmed, oiled, ironed, and curled her hair into submission. Which would last exactly three heartbeats until she turned her head or nodded or made some other ridiculously extravagant gesture. Then her hair would spring free, stand straight out from her head, and gloat at the lesser beings who’d tried to tame it.

  “I can hardly wait,” Lucy muttered gloomily.

  She picked up her mother’s second letter, turning it between her fingers. There was no use ignoring it. Her mother would only send more, and then Emberday would be given over to an endless discussion of callous daughters wounding their mothers by their cold, unfeeling behavior. Lucy broke the seal on the letter, unfolding it and flattening it on the desk.

  Darling Lucy, I wanted to remind you of the Summerland’s Ball this Pescday. I know Caroline sent you an invitation, but since you have a lamentable habit of forgetting to open your correspondence in a timely fashion, I thought it prudent to remind you. Wear your blue silk taffeta gown with the crystal beads. I shall send a note to Blythe to get it ready in case you forget. I shall look forward to hearing all about it on Emberday.

  Lucy tossed down the letter and opened the left drawer of her desk that contained stacks of unopened envelopes. She pawed through them, finding the large cream-colored invitation bearing the Summerland’s ostentatious crest in silver, red, and green foil. She pulled it out and slit it open. Dinner at nine, dancing until dawn, then a few hours’ sleep before she scurried to her parents’ house for breakfast. She would almost rather be dipped in sylveth.

  She put the invitation on top of her mother’s letters and pushed them to the front of the desk. She next picked up the first of the two letters lacking return addresses. The paper was heavy, expensive parchment sealed with a dollop of yellow wax that gave no clue to the sender. The round splotch contained only a plain circle impressed into it, as if from a ring. Curiously, she broke the wax and lifted the flap, unfolding the letter.

  She scanned the lines. Her body clenched so tight it was hard to breathe. The paper fell onto the desk, shock making her fingers spasm. She groped after it, picking it up clumsily and reading it again.

/>   Her gaze dropped to the cipher wrapped around her arm. She’d managed to push the thought of it to the back of her mind, behind the distracting horror of her nightmares. She traced the sylveth links with her fore-finger. Just like Jordan, Blythe had been unable to see it. Nor had it yet begun to have any effect on Lucy. Its threat hung over her heavily. Yet astonishingly, at the moment it was not the greatest of her worries.

  She reached out shaking fingers to turn up a lamp. She hardly noticed as smoke purled out the glass chimney. Even with the brighter light, the words remained obstinately the same.

  There was no salutation, no signature. Only four boldly scribbled lines: Naughty girl. You have a secret. I know what it is. What will you do to keep it?

  Lucy turned the parchment over. There was nothing to say who’d sent it. It had no postmark, which meant it had been hand delivered. What did he mean? What secret?

  And then she knew.

  Her eyes closed. Her fingers curled into fists. Her stomach burned.

  Someone had found her out. Her ability to sense majick.

  She sucked a sobbing breath. Dear Meris—no!

  But then, as quick as certainty had lanced through her, doubt sealed the wound. How would anyone know? And why would anyone care? It was a peculiar ability, with little use that she could fathom. Except that it had enabled her to find her collection of true ciphers.

  Realization struck a blow to her stomach, emptying her lungs. Her collection of true ciphers. That truly was her dark secret. And if anybody discovered them…

  The law decreed that true ciphers must be turned over to the majicars. It was a toothless law, for the most part. Anyone who found a true cipher didn’t know it unless it attached, in which case he had worse problems than the law.

  Lucy balled her fist, the cipher chain obstinate against the flex of her arm. It had not attached to whoever packed it in its box. It had waited for someone particular…for her. She refused to pursue the thought, fearing what it might mean. She should go see the majicars, ask them to remove it. And likely end up a greasy black spot on the ground. Lucy had never heard of anyone surviving an attempt to detach a true cipher. Of course few survived the playing out of the spell either.

  Rumor had it that anyone desperate enough to go to Merstone Island for help never returned, not because the attempt at detaching failed, but because the majicars didn’t even try. Not only did a removal usually mean the victim’s horrible death, but it also meant the destruction of the cipher, making it useless for study. The majicars hungered for anything that helped them understand how Errol Cipher had accomplished his great majicks. Everything he’d done was a mystery. No one now knew how to construct the wards of the Pale, or the many other wonders he’d accomplished. He’d left behind no journals, no instruction books. So when some poor sot wearing a true cipher came begging for help, the majicars merely waited until it ran its course and then salvaged it.

  Lucy not only had a true cipher wrapped around her arm; she had seven more in a secret vault drilled into the rocky bones beneath her house. All of which made her a traitor in the eyes of the law. And somebody knew it.

  She picked up the second letter. Her stomach curling, she cracked the seal and unfolded the page. Again there was no salutation or signature. Just a bald beginning and abrupt ending.

  Clever girl, to assemble so many treasures without getting hurt. One for each day of the sennight. Tell me, do you fondle them in the dark? Wet your thighs at the risks you take? Dangerous lovers. Are you brave or just suicidal? I wonder. I can be dangerous also. Perhaps one night you shall pet me. Or maybe I will pet you. Would you purr for me, clever kitten? I would like that. But I digress. I hope you understand me now. If you want to keep your secret, you will honor my request when it comes. Expect to hear from me soon.

  Lucy read the letter half a dozen times, her stomach corkscrewing tighter and tighter. She was being blackmailed. It had to have something to do with customs. Or being a member of the royal family. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—do anything that harmed either one.

  Oh, no? a niggling voice mocked. Consider the price.

  It was steep. And it was not only she who would pay it. If she was prosecuted for being a traitor, every inspection she’d ever done, and every shipowner, captain, mate, seaman—they’d all become targets of suspicion. And her family…She dragged her fingernails across her scalp, pressing her skull between her palms. For more than fifty years the royal family had been in Chancery, all the Rampling wealth tied up in the lawsuit, which was why every member of the monarchy worked for a living. There was no money to keep them otherwise. The suit had been brought by those who would see the Ramplings pried off the throne, the hatred running deep in some quarters. If she was accused of being a traitor, her parents and brothers would be the first to pay. But the taint would spread quickly. Too many family members held positions of trust throughout the government and trade. Everyone would come under suspicion. All because of her. Maybe that was the point—a new way to discredit the royal family.

  Lucy slouched in her chair, tipping her head back and feeling the walls closing in on her. She drew a deep breath. She’d always prided herself on being insignificant—a minor royal. And yet she could single-handedly spread an infection across the family and the crown that would not easily be eradicated, if at all.

  She picked up the two letters and read them again. She couldn’t give in, whatever he asked for. Succumbing would only encourage him to demand more. But neither could she let him expose her. Her gaze snagged on the second letter with its crude insinuation. Her ears burned. He was mocking her. She was no beauty and no prude—she’d had her share of lovers, had grown up on the docks, where whores plied their trade in rowboats and alleys. Pet him indeed!

  She thrust to her feet, crushing the letters in her hand. There was one way to sour the bastard’s game. He thought he knew her. He thought she’d do anything to protect her collection. He was wrong. Lucy looked at the cipher on her arm. She’d turn her ciphers and herself over to the majicars before she’d let this shag-bag twist her around his finger.

  Eventually exhaustion overtook Lucy and she crawled into bed after having devised and dismissed a dozen plans to deal with her blackmailer. When she woke just before dawn, she knew that she needed advice. And there was only one person she could trust. That is, if Sarah didn’t kill her first.

  She sat up blearily, wincing at the sound of her joints cracking as she stretched. Anyone who heard that would think she was a hundred years old. Today, she felt like it. With a loud sigh, she kicked off her bedclothes and went to unbolt the door separating her apartment from Blythe’s chamber. Hardly had she slid the bolt back when the door was flung open and her lady’s maid hurled herself into the room.

  “Well, then, ye’ve woken, have ye? And keepin’ me up all night worryin’. Don’t think I didna hear ye trampin’ about like a cat in a cage. Ye ought to be ashamed of yerself, not a single thought to anybody’s feelins but yer own.”

  She ratcheted out these words while straightening the bed and then attacking the fireplace. Blythe was shorter than Lucy, and much slighter, with pale brown hair and dainty hands and feet. She moved quickly and deftly, like a bird. But she was no songbird. She was a magpie, Lucy thought grumpily. Sharp, pushy, and domineering.

  She swept up the ashes and poured coal in the grate with irate vigor. “Cook made a lovely dinner and ye bein’ awake and didna even come out of yer hidey-hole. Poor thing was devastated.”

  Lucy snorted. Janet didn’t care whether Lucy ate her food or not. She cooked for her husband—the butler—and their four children. Lucy was just the excuse for using better-quality ingredients. She interrupted her maid’s harangue.

  “As soon as possible, I will be leaving to visit Sarah at Faraday.”

  “Might early, isn’t it? Darker than Hurn’s own shadow out there.”

  “Sarah doesn’t sleep.”

  “Ye might be interruptin’ a private moment.”


  “I might.”

  “Ye wouldna like it if she interrupted ye with one of yer gentleman callers. Not that ye’d give her much chance. Canna remember the last time ye had a caller.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Lucy said. In fact, she avoided bringing lovers home, preferring by far to keep them away from Blythe, who would report all the details back to Laura Trenton. Not that Lucy’d had time, interest, or energy for any recently. “If you’re quite done with that fire, perhaps I could dress and have breakfast.” She shivered in the chill and reached for her dressing robe.

  Blythe sniffed, bustling around to snatch the garment. She held it for Lucy to step into, then buttoned it down the front. Lucy sighed and waited. Blythe had a very clear opinion about her job duties and Lucy was not allowed to interfere or avoid them, no matter how hard she tried.

  A knock at the door signaled the arrival of breakfast. Blythe answered, taking the broad tray into the sitting room and setting it on the table beside the remnants of the previous night’s snacks. Lucy sat with Blythe opposite. The other woman slapped at Lucy’s hands as she would have tried to uncover the dishes.