“What?” Marten rasped, blood dribbling from his nose down over his lips and chin. Then, “Yes” when the guard cocked back to hit him again.
“Good, then.”
The guard roughly shoved him back. His ribs flared where Jordan had punched him. Marten waited until the door thumped shut before he pushed himself up to sit with his back against the wall. The depth of his reaction to the possibility of Lucy’s death was appalling. And bizarre. Unless…
No. Absolutely not. He was not—he could not be—in love with the woman. He hardly knew her! And yet…
He rubbed his palm over his chest. It hurt, like a ragged, bleeding wound. By the gods, how had this happened? He snorted softly. Braken’s curse. It wasn’t enough that the sea god suffered from tormented love; he wanted to share his pain. Because even if Lucy was alive, there was no way Marten was ever going to win her over. He’d been the key to destroying her. There was no forgiving that.
He bounced his head back against the wall. He was torn between hoping she was alive and safe and fearing she’d been killed. Or worse. He could not put the image of her shredded hands out of his mind. Damn, what a fool he was!
On the second morning of his incarceration, Baskin arrived, sent by Edgar to make sure that Marten was presentable. The valet shaved him and helped him into a fresh set of clothing. The elbows of his shirt were wearing thin and the cuffs of his trousers were frayed.
“Should’ve run to Tiro Pilan when ye had the chance,” Baskin muttered as Marten stamped into his boots.
“Aye, that’s a fact.” His voice dropped. “Is there any word on Lucy?”
“Lots o’stories in the paper,” Baskin answered shortly. “Yer not goin’ t’like ’em.”
“I haven’t liked any of it since it began. Tell me.”
“It be yer brother. Says ye became a gambler on account of Miss Trenton puttin’ a spell on ye. Says she forced ye to smuggle the blood oak through the salvage.”
Marten swore and slammed his fist against the wall. The pain only fed his fury. If she was alive, if she was reading that bilge—“I’ve got to find her.”
“Expect she’ll be attendin’ today. I would if’n I was her. Be wantin’ t’see ye squirm.”
Marten stared. “That’s brilliant. Find her. Tell her to meet me. Gaoler’s Coach. Soon as may be.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, but ye ain’t free to be makin’ appointments. Not that she’ll be wantin’ t’talk with ye.”
Master Wedling entered before Marten could answer. He was flanked by two guards. Unlike customs, Chancery employed the Blackwatch. They wore polished brown boots that rose up over the knee, and black breeches and coats over red shirts. The coats were frogged with red trim. The two guards were women, one with graying hair, the other hardly out of drawers. Both were grim-faced and unyielding.
“Good, you are ready. The wagon is outside. I just need to attach this,” Master Wedling said, holding up a chain. “Turn around.”
Marten shifted, his back rigid. Master Wedling fixed the chain to the loop on the collar.
“Very good, then. Come along.”
Marten turned to follow, the chain snaking over his shoulder, the collar pressing against his neck. In an undertone, he said to Baskin, “You know what to do.”
They led him out of the building to a platform. The breeze was sharp and the sky was overcast. The tang of acrid smoke tainted the air from the fire in Salford Terrace.
Beside the platform waited a wooden cart pulled by a white mule. The railings were low, about knee-high, allowing a good view of any occupants. They were swathed in crimson bunting with a gate on the side that lifted aside. Master Wedling led Marten on board. As the cart shifted with their weight, deep-sounding bells clanged softly. They were hung beneath the cart and on the mule’s harness to call attention to its passengers as it rolled along.
“You must put this on as well,” Master Wedling said, unfolding a white tabard. On the front and back was the word DEBTOR embroidered in the same glaring crimson as the bunting, and below it, a figure of a man on his knees, hands raised in supplication. Master Wedling fastened the chain to an eyebolt on the rail behind the driver and stepped back onto the platform. “Yours is the only auction today. I expect you’ll fetch a pretty price. There’ll be plenty wanting a pet ship’s captain,” he said in what seemed to be an effort at reassurance. “Well, then. Off you go.”
The rail gate was dropped into place and the cart jolted to life. Marten braced himself as the chain tightened and the collar jerked against his neck. Led by four guards and trailed by four more, the cart rolled down the alley out onto the avenue, the bells ringing loudly. The street was crowded with people who pointed and yelled, laughing at his predicament. Marten burned with humiliation. He knew he looked disreputable with his black eyes and swollen lips. With the addition of the tabard, collar, and chain, he looked like a dangerous animal. He deserved this. If only for what he’d helped Edgar do to Lucy. With a snarl, he fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head, ignoring his audience.
The drive seemed endless. The cart jerked and bounced over the uneven cobbles and occasional chuck-hole. Every jolt sent jabs of pain up through his bruised ribs, jerking the chain tight as he staggered for balance.
The main market square was not far from Jabry Inn. The cart rolled slowly up the cordoned center, stopping beside the scaffold at the far end. It stood before a squat tower made of mottled black and green stone. It had been built as a memorial to the three founders of Crosspointe—Errol Cipher, the first William Rampling, and Trevor Culpepper. Behind it in the distance rose a black column of smoke from Salford Terrace.
A guard clambered up on the cart and unchained Marten, pulling him down a set of carriage steps like a recalcitrant dog and then up onto a great block of black basalt shot through with veins of white quartz. The Chancery scales and compass were carved in relief on each of the four sides. From where he stood, Marten could see over the heads of the gathered crowd to the edges of the square. His guard, the gray-haired woman, continued to hold the chain, pulling him around in a circle to show him off like a prize cow. Marten couldn’t help but resist. She yanked and the collar bit hard into his neck. He stumbled forward and the crowd cheered. She yanked again and he dug his heels in. Undaunted, she changed her angle and the collar pressed against his windpipe. He was forced to turn and stumble toward her again.
There was a brassy trill of trumpets and the crowd quieted. Behind him on the scaffold, a rich baritone voice rang out.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, lend me your attention, please. We are gathered here today to auction this man, Captain Marten Thorpe, into indentured service for a term of eleven years and eight months. He is thirty-two years old, in good health. He is a seasoned ship’s captain with current registration and documentation. He’s been a captain for ten years with not a single wreck. I have his anchor sheets and logs available. Additionally, while he has some injuries, they will in no way interfere with his ability to perform his duties aboard ship. You will have half a glass to examine the documents and then we will begin. The bidding will start at one dralion, seven Hurn’s eyes, six glyphs, and eight crescents.”
The next half glass was interminable. The guard dragged Marten around in circles, jabbing at him to answer when potential buyers asked him questions about his experience and qualifications. He saw no sign of Lucy. Nor did he see Edgar. His bladder tightened. What if someone else purchased his contract? He hadn’t considered it before, assuming his brother would make good on his word, or threat.
The horns sounded again and the guard led Marten to the front of the platform.
“Very good. Let us begin. Who will meet the starting bid?”
“So bid!”
Marten’s gaze fastened on Edgar, who stood below him in the front row flanked by his bullyboys, relief making his legs rubbery. The bidding continued in rapid staccato, but he hardly heard it. He combed the crowd for a telltale sweep of red hair and a pair of brill
iant blue eyes. She was there, witnessing his humiliation; he could feel it.
Marten started when the crack of the gavel ended the bidding. Edgar had won, at a cost of nearly three dralions. Far more than Marten’s debt. But then, Edgar hadn’t called his markers for the money, but for his silence. Money wasn’t the object. Nor was it a bad investment. His wages would have cost Edgar far more over the next twelve years.
The guard pulled him back down the steps, handing over Marten’s chain with very little ceremony. She peeled the tabard over his head and disappeared.
Edgar jingled the chain lightly. “Have you learned your lesson yet, brother? The house always wins.”
Marten didn’t answer.
“Let us be off, then. I have business to attend to.”
The bullyboys crowded in around Marten as he trailed after his brother. They meandered past the merchant stalls with Edgar stopping here and there to chat with friends and business acquaintances. Marten continued to search for Lucy out the corners of his eyes to no avail. When they arrived at the carriage, Edgar motioned Marten to the rear. A new brass loop had been installed on the baggage rail.
“You’ll ride behind.”
Edgar handed the end of the chain to one of his bullyboys, who clipped it onto the loop, jerking Marten up onto the step as he did. He grunted. The bullyboy grinned. Another clambered up, sandwiching him between their muscular bulk. Edgar shut the door and the carriage wheels rattled over the cobbles, the horses’ hooves clopping.
They were turning onto the avenue leading out into Blackstone when Marten saw Lucy at last. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it a flat blackish brown that made her look mousy. But her eyes were the same piercing blue, her jaw strong and jutting. She glared at him, rage narrowing her eyes and pulling her lips into a thin smile at his predicament. She stood at the corner beside a lamppost, only feet away from the wheels of the carriage. No one but Marten noticed her.
His heart leaped at the sight of her. Alive. By Braken, she was alive. At the moment, he didn’t care that she hated him. All that mattered was she was still in this world.
He drew a breath, closing his eyes with relief. When he opened them again, she was gone. He searched the crowd, twisting and standing on tiptoe, but could find no trace of her. The carriage lurched and the chain pulled taut. He glanced down at himself and humiliation seared him. This was what she’d come today to see. Not a man, but a slave.
Unreasonable anger made his jaw tighten and sent a rush of warmth through his muscles. If he hadn’t been trying to help her, he wouldn’t be in this blasted situation. He wouldn’t have gone to Jordan, and Edgar wouldn’t have called his markers. Didn’t she know how much he’d given up to save her? What right did she have to enjoy his disgrace? A small voice whispered, Every right. He quashed it, suddenly far too aware of the cold iron around his neck and the fact that for the next twelve years his life was no longer his own.
He drew a tight breath. He wasn’t going to let Lucy be an anchor tangling him in its coils. She was a grown woman; she could damned well help herself from now on. He had his own hide to look out for.
At that moment he believed he could dismiss her from his mind and heart and forget about her.
Instead of going to Thorpe House, the carriage took them to Sweet Dreams. It pulled up to a private entrance on the side of the bagnio. A closed-in portico kept off the rain and weather and screened guests from view. As the coachmen pulled the horses to a halt, Marten was unclipped, his leash retained by one of Edgar’s bully-boys.
The door leading into Sweet Dreams was made of burnished copper and engraved with a busy scene of Blackwater Bay. There was no visible means of opening it. Edgar set his hand in the middle and muttered something guttural that Marten couldn’t understand. The door slid silently back into the wall.
This was a part of the bagnio that Marten didn’t recognize. The entrance was a landing made of alabaster. A balustrade circled the lobed front overlooking the broad hall below. On either side of the landing, two wide staircases curved downward like great white wings. Edgar veered down one of these. The hall at the bottom had inlaid wood floors with swirling patterns that suggested the wind surrounding an enormous compass rose. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled fire and on the walls hung rare artworks from all over the world. Plush chairs and couches lined the walls and heavy curtains hid private nooks. Everywhere there was gilding, on the groined ceiling and pilastered walls, on the fringes of the draperies and tablecloths, and on the low tables, stools, and benches. The hall glowed like dawn.
They crossed to the other side under a broad arch that led into a smaller set of sitting rooms and salons. There was also an entry leading to the bathing rooms, gambling rooms, and restaurant areas of the bagnio, and another into Edgar’s private rooms, which was where they went now.
Edgar took Marten’s chain, ordering his bullyboys to wait. Once inside, he shut the door and Marten realized with a chill that he could not leave these rooms without Edgar opening it up again.
“I’ll show you to your quarters.”
“Here?”
“I want to keep a close eye on you, and I plan to be quite busy here at Sweet Dreams. Until I’m certain you’ll behave yourself, you’ll live here. Your man will be at Thorpe House, so you’ll have to dress and shave yourself. It will give you a chance to understand what you have lost, and what you might gain from my goodwill.”
He took Marten to a small room that appeared to have recently been a storage closet. The walls were plastered and painted dull gray. There were no windows, and only an oil lamp to light the gloom. The bedstead was narrow, the mirror polished steel, the dresser plain wood. The floor was cold and bare and the sheets were coarse.
Edgar turned to Marten, speaking with a kind of unhappy reserve, as if he didn’t like what he was forced to do, but was ruled by a necessity he couldn’t alter. “I’ll have someone show you where to empty your slops and get wash water. There is a bathing room that the servants may use and you’ll dine with them as well.
“For the moment, I have no duties for you. However, that will change soon. In the meantime, you will remain here unless you are bathing, dining, or cleaning up after yourself. Every time you leave, you will be accompanied by a guard. Ring the bell when you wish to go.”
He turned, then paused, looking back. “Consider where you are, Marten. Look at what’s become of you. I suggest you think hard about where your best interests lie and forget about Lucy Trenton once and for all. I told you before, she is destined for the Bramble.”
Chapter 23
Lucy fled the market square breathless and sick to her stomach. Watching Marten led about by a collar and chain had disgusted her. He’d been like an animal, pulled this way and that, staring balefully at the eager crowd. She wondered where he’d gotten the bruises and swelling on his face. She’d thought she would feel triumph when the gavel struck. But instead she felt hollow and unacountably angry. It had nothing to do with him, she told herself. She wouldn’t like seeing anyone treated so. He deserved to be punished for what he’d done to her, but no one deserved that. Yet despite her repulsion, she couldn’t tear herself away. She watched him until he was loaded onto the back of the carriage.
It wasn’t until his gaze fastened on to her that she realized he’d been looking for her since stepping onto the block. When their eyes locked, it felt like a blow. Fury erupted in her belly and she glared back. He closed his eyes, an expression she could only interpret as relief washing over him. It was like wind on the fire of her rage.
Suddenly the cipher on her arm tingled and went cold. A rime of frost sparkled on the lamppost beside her. Panic-stricken, she bolted.
The cold followed her. She shoved through the crowd, and dashed down an alley and out onto a wide street. Footspiders trotted up and down and hacks waited outside the shops. The sidewalks were crowded with clerks, solicitors, barristers, and shoppers. Lucy ran into the street. Coach drivers yelled at her to get out of the way and one footspi
der swung a fist at her when she nearly tripped him. But she dared not stop. The tingling had turned painful, a bracelet of fiery needles driving into her flesh. The cipher was going to erupt again.
She found herself running toward Salford Terrace. Toward the fire she’d started outside Faraday, and the majicars who were now fighting it. Instinctively she veered off, turning down a narrow road that took her toward the harbor. But she’d hardly gone twenty steps when a mad idea made her falter. What if…? Ice to battle fire? She glanced down. Her hand was sheathed in a glove of ice. She turned it over, making a fist. The ice cracked and flaked off. Was it possible? What if she could use the cipher’s majick against itself?
She spun around and ran back the way she’d come.
Salford Terrace was a wasteland. Even the dirt of the hills smoldered. There wasn’t a tree or a building left, or even any lumps of stone or wood to say there ever had been any there. There were only piles of wind-drifted ash. The only landmark Lucy recognized was the castle up on Scarbrey Hill. The fire had burned a swath that arrowed down toward the harbor. The flames were smaller now than that first night, but just as determined. Lucy could see the brilliant colors of the majicars’ robes as they battled the blaze. They were close. She’d come out onto the burn less than a quarter of a league from the fire line.
Heat wrapped her feet. She looked down in surprise. The ground was still smoldering here. As she watched, flames leaped suddenly to life, licking her boots eagerly. Lucy watched them stupidly. Then understanding reached her. She jumped back. The fire followed, clinging. Her boots blackened. She curled her toes, scrambling onto the road. The flames pursued her. Where she stepped, the cobbles caught fire. In only moments the greedy flames grabbed hold of the fresh tinder. They spread quickly to the buildings on either side as Lucy watched in horror.
Her boots were burning fiercely now. Lucy kicked them off. On either side of her, flames roared. Smoke billowed from the buildings. She coughed and choked, her eyes streaming.
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