She got her answer when an itching, gnawing sensation engulfed her fingers. She jerked her hand back, shaking her fingers. The feeling faded slowly. Nervous tension twined around her ribs, squeezing tightly. This was it. The majick emanating through the door was different from that saturating Sweet Dreams. This was sharper, hotter.
Lucy took a deep breath. Her heart fluttered with near panic. For a moment she was the nine-year-old girl trapped against a stack of crates in her father’s warehouse trying to escape from the stranger clutching a hand around her throat. She tore away from the memory, panting. Bloody light flared in the gloomy corridor. She gasped and looked down at her cipher. It had turned a livid red. The numbness she’d felt with Marten turned now to something else. It wasn’t heat. It was more akin to a hill of ants crawling over her skin. The feeling was not painful, but neither was it pleasant. Lucy clenched her fist, ignoring it as she resolutely opened the door.
The sitting room was empty. It smelled of thuvalet, a sickly sweet tobacco imported from Esengaile. There were several books open on a low table, and the fire in the grate had gone out. There were only two candles burning on the mantel. The feel of majick was stronger here, the sense of ants crawling more maddening. Lucy clutched her arm close against her side and sidled through the room, pretending to straighten and dust.
She went through the pocket doors into a small dining room. Again, it was empty; the debris of a small meal remained on the table. Lucy took a gasping breath, realizing she’d been holding it. Where was he? Had he left already in the time it had taken her to return the shawl?
Now she didn’t bother to pretend to clean, but tiptoed on, peering into the small office. Empty. That left the two bedrooms and attached dressing rooms. Lucy eased down the short hallway, peeking into the first. It didn’t look like anyone had used it. She went to the next room, her steps slow. She edged to the doorjamb. The dressing room was empty, but the open bedroom door cast a column of brilliant light into the room. Clothing was laid out, the wardrobes standing open. She heard movements inside the bedroom and the murmur of voices. Without pausing to let herself feel her fear, she slipped inside, ducking down behind a settee, and crawled around to hide behind the dressing table and oval mirror.
Her breathing sounded loud in the dim quiet. She covered her mouth with one hand, pressing the other over her heart to steady it. The sensation of crawling ants was becoming more unnerving. The feeling expanded up over her shoulder, filling her chest cavity. Her stomach heaved and she fought it down. She closed her eyes, reaching out to soothe the Koreion. She could feel it winding restlessly back and forth out of reach. At last she gave up, ignoring the cipher’s attack as best she could.
She started and hunched down when the sylveth lights of the dressing room flared to brilliant life.
“If you’ll just sit, sir,” came a nasal voice on the other side of the dressing table.
Lucy froze as the chair was pulled out.
“You’ll have to hurry, Jenson. Thorpe is rather impatient and I’ve no desire to antagonize him at the moment. I still need him.”
“Just as you wish, sir.”
Lucy heard the rattle of drawers and the thumping of brushes and combs on the top of the dressing table. Then there was silence as the valet worked. The feeling in her arm and chest spread to her other arm and down into her stomach. It was nearly unbearable. Yet she forced herself to sit quiet and still as a stump. It took nearly half a glass before the valet had finished.
“That will do, Jenson. Now bring me my coat and stick.”
The valet did as ordered. The stranger rose and went to the middle of the room. Lucy inched up, peering around the corner of the dressing table. He would have been handsome, she supposed, if he did not wear an expression of arrogant scorn. His hair curled and waved in the latest fashion. He was dressed in a dark plum waistcoat with a black coat and trousers. The cuffs of his coat were turned back up to his elbows and glittered with gold and silver embroidery set with sparkling gems. The pattern on his waistcoat matched. His cravat was intricately tied in a lacy waterfall. Lucy’s gaze fastened on the square gold pin on his lapel. He’d been wearing that nearly twenty years before. She had no idea what it might signify. He pulled on a pair of plum-colored gloves and took his walking cane from the mule-faced valet.
“Very good, Jenson. I shall not need you until quite late. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, Master Sharpel. Thank you, sir.” The valet bowed and withdrew.
Sharpel waited until the door shut. He stepped closer to the mirror, examining himself with a thoughtful eye. He smoothed one hand down over his waistcoat, then adjusted his cravat. Lucy trembled. It felt like he was looking straight at her. She dared not move. But then he returned to his bedroom. A minute later he appeared again, fastening an intricate earpiece over the lobe of his ear. It was made of gold filigree and set with tiny drops of rainbow-hued sylveth.
As soon as he walked into the room with it, there was a surge of majick. The squirming nest of ants inside of Lucy exploded into rampaging movement. She bit back a whimper, sagging down to the floor. The sensation eased only slightly as he left the room. Lucy heard the front door open and shut. She was going to lose him! Swiftly she crawled out of hiding and ran to the door. She opened it a crack. He’d already reached the top of the stairs. Hastily she stepped out into the corridor and trotted after him.
At the first floor, he crossed the foyer and went through a set of gilded doors guarded by two footmen. They swung them open for Sharpel to pass, bowing. Lucy waited a long minute after he had disappeared and the doors closed. Then she hurried up to the footmen.
“Beggin’ yer pardons, but the master sent me t’give a message t’Master Sharpel and he’s gone off and I got t’catch ’im.” She tripped over the words, panting as if she’d been running. “He says it’s important.”
The footmen exchanged a look and then one nodded. “Be quick, then. Use the service hallway when you leave.”
“Yessir,” she said, bobbing a curtsy, and then scooted through before they changed their minds. She ran down the parchment-colored marble stairs, the heavy soles of her battered shoes thumping loudly. She hesitated just above the bottom, peering over the balustrade. She didn’t see Sharpel. But she felt the hard edge of his ciphers prodding at her from the left-hand corridor. She descended and followed after, winding through the twisting passage, following the majickal trail like a bloodhound.
It brought her past several lounges crowded with gaming tables and players. Entertainers sang and danced and footmen carried trays of food and drink. There were smaller salons where people sat eating and drinking and laughing uproariously. Sylveth lights glimmered like fireflies and the air was redolent with the various perfumes worn by the guests. Lucy clung to the wall, ducking her head down and carefully avoiding the ladies and gentlemen parading majestically in their finery. They didn’t deign to notice her, though a footman did, chasing her down and grabbing her by the scruff of her neck.
“What’s this, then? You ain’t supposed to be here.”
“Master sent me w’ a message and I gotta deliver it or he’ll be swattin’ me,” Lucy whined, trying to pull out of his grasp. “Footmen at th’door said it be candy.”
“They did, eh? Well, it’s not. Guests don’t wanna see your kind crawling about. Get off with you, but be quick about it and take the service passage back. And don’t get in the way.”
He shoved her and Lucy scampered away. The tang of Sharpel’s majick was easy enough to follow. The squirming mass of ants inside her grew more frantic as she drew closer to him.
She came to a sitting area with arched doorways leading out to different passages. A fountain tinkled merrily in the center. She hesitated. Her quarry hadn’t gone through any of the arches. Instead, the trail seemed to stop at a wall on the opposite side of the room. She scowled. He couldn’t have just vanished. Not even Errol Cipher himself could have done that.
She edged around the curve of the wall. On
the other side of the room, she found a cozy nook with plush couches facing a blank wall. No one sat here. A curtain of majick hung across the front of it. She felt its tingle, separate from the roiling mass of insects inside her. Her nose wrinkled as she caught a whiff of a decidedly unpleasant stench. Like carrion. A thrill of inexplicable fear unraveled along her bones. Without thinking, she began to turn away. She stopped herself with an effort, biting the inside of her cheek. What was she doing? Then she smiled tightly. Of course. The majickal curtain was designed to deflect unwanted intruders. Only people who truly wanted to cross would suffer through the strange fear and reeking odor of death.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned abruptly and thrust herself through the invisible barrier. For a moment she felt the clutch of hands clad in rotting flesh snatching at her legs. A smothering fog of death clung to her skin like a sticky shroud. She shuddered, rubbing at her arms. The feeling slowly seeped away. But the chill dread remained with her. Resolutely she shrugged it off, stepping between the two tall brocade chairs in the corner. Excitement made her breathless. There was a door secreted in the wall. The handle was cleverly hidden in the wainscoting. Lucy glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. No one was. She gripped the handle and twisted. The door opened easily. She slid inside and closed it quickly behind her.
She stood in a corridor paneled with Jasaic wood. It was a mottled mix of light on dark undulating shapes. The floor was covered with a thick brown rug with patterns of yellow woven into the edges. Sylveth lights glowed warmly inside frosted crystal bulbs down the center of the beamed ceiling. Paintings and sculptures were interspersed along the wall. The only sounds were the muted laughter and conversation beyond the door behind her. She was alone in the corridor.
Sharpel’s majickal track pulled her to the right. She followed it. A number of passages forked away, and periodically she went by a closed door. She ignored these. The trail turned finally down an unprepossessing branch passage, dead-ending at another door. It was made of Jasaic wood with snarling gargoyle faces pushing out from its surface. Lucy hesitated outside. The feel of Sharpel’s majick was strong here. She swallowed, breathing deeply to steady her fraying control. Her quarry couldn’t be far.
She reached for the handle. The door cracked open without a sound. The scent of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, and other savory dishes wafted through the slit. Lucy’s stomach rumbled in response and she winced. On the other side was another sitting room. It was decorated in rich dark hues of blue and red. The floor was covered in a thickly piled rug from Normengas with its distinctive knot pattern. Over the mantel was an obsidian sculpture depicting a skeletal wolf’s head biting a sword. Lining the walls were shelves containing books bound in blue and red leather, their titles printed in gilt. Sylveth lights in recesses around the edge of the ceiling provided light. Lucy slid inside, pulling the door shut. She started and dropped behind a chair at the sound of voices.
Her heart pounded as she waited. But no one entered. Slowly she tiptoed to the double doors on the other side of the room. She pressed her ear to the wood. There were at least two men. One had to be Sharpel. The frantic crawling sensation washing down her legs and over her scalp told her that much.
She put a daring hand on the handle, pulling the door open a bare crack. She could see a dining table covered in a lacy tablecloth, with shining silver and sparkling crystal. She stiffened in shock, her hand clenching. Marten sat with his back to her, his hair caught up high behind his head, the shorter underlayer neatly trimmed behind his ears and around the back side of his skull. He was dressed in his captain’s uniform, with brilliant gold braid and crisp new fabric. His gleaming boots were new and his cutlass was fastened at his side. He lifted his glass and drank, setting it back down with a distinct thunk! His back was pike straight and rigid.
Lucy could not see who else was sitting at the table without opening the door wider. She didn’t dare. Instead she listened.
“My brother, Marten, will be helming the Bramble ship in a few days,” announced a man’s gravelly voice. “I’ve just learned the Pilot assigned will be Idron. A good choice. He’s a family man. I’ve asked him to step in for a visit this evening. It should be quite productive.”
Lucy frowned. It was unusual for Pilots to meet with shipowners or even captains prior to a voyage. There was little point. The conditions on the sea were as changeable as a child’s mood. From one moment to the next, a knucklebone weir could grow, a sandbar could lump up, or a shoal could change to deep water. It was a Pilot’s special talent to sense a safe path across the sea, and the captain’s talent to shift tack or catch wind according to the Pilot’s directions. Every year fifty or more ships were lost to the vagaries of the sea. Which was why she couldn’t resent Marten captaining the Bramble ship. He’d never had a wreck. He was one of the best captains on the sea, or the luckiest. She didn’t care. He would get the ship to the Bramble safely. And once there… Bile rose in her throat. Perhaps she should wish for a less able captain, one that would wreck and kill them cleanly.
“Come, now, try this next wine. It’s very fine and complements the beef well,” Edgar said, and the butler poured while footmen took the serving dishes around. The meal went on for another glass and a half. Lucy stayed at the door, but heard nothing useful. She learned Sharpel made his home on an island in the Wigan Sound and that he was widely traveled. It was odd that she’d never heard of him, as long as she’d been a customs inspector. But then, he could just as easily import most of his goods through Tilman and bring them around the horn to Sylmont or port them over at Blakely. He traded in smaller, more lucrative items like art, spices, fabrics, tobacco, and precious stones. Lucy’s mouth hardened, hearing the latter. It only helped confirm that he was her blackmailer.
When dinner was done, the gentlemen rose and approached the door she hid behind. Lucy scrambled into a shadowed corner behind a chaise, holding her breath. Edgar poured brandy and offered cigars. Soon the room was full of choking green thuvalet smoke. Edgar and Sharpel fell into a discussion of the proposed port at the Root, while Marten stood at the mantel in brooding silence.
“Rampling is a madman to think of wasting blood oak that way,” Edgar declared. “We need to develop weapons to stop the Jutras. The profit would be tremendous and we wouldn’t be sitting here like pigeons while the Empire swallowed the Inland Sea and cut us off entirely.”
“Mad? You give him far too much credit. I should say he’s criminally stupid. Even more so for his mercy to the Jutras. He should have packed the lot off to the Bramble. Instead he wastes good food, soldiers, and majicar service hours. In the meantime, who knows when they’ll break free and wreak havoc? And what does it take to capture a blint like that Trenton girl? He ought to be arrested for incompetence. Better, send the entire line—root, stem, and flower—to the Bramble.”
At the sound of her name, Lucy jerked.
“In all honesty, I don’t know how she’s managed to hide this long. By all accounts, she’s soft and not tremendously bright. The best that can be said about her is that she’s tenacious, rather like a dog on a meaty bone. I would venture to bet that she is likely dead. Struck over the head by a footpad or, more likely, murdered by someone she’s been blackmailing.”
“She’s not dead,” Marten muttered forcefully.
“Oh?” Sharpel asked in arch surprise.
“You heard me.”
“Do tell.”
“She’s tougher than you think. And you’re right—she’s tenacious. I expect she’ll surprise you both. She’s no traitor. She’ll prove herself. Wait and see.”
Lucy felt a flush of warmth at his adamant defense. But then fear turned her blood to ice at the purring threat in Sharpel’s reply.
“Edgar, dear boy, I think your brother’s got his cock in a knot over Miss Trenton. I do hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Not at all. Marten always looks after his own best interests. If he hasn’t learned his lesson yet, he will tonight. I
imagine that will rid him of any lingering rebelliousness.”
“I could surprise you, brother,” Marten growled.
“No. You are as predictable as the tides. It isn’t your fault. Your mother was weak. A milk cow, really. Ring the bell and here she comes, placid and stupid. You are not to blame for your blood.”
Marten lunged to his feet, kicking his chair over. Lucy held her breath.
“My mother was a sweet child that our father raped in a wine cellar when her family refused his offer,” Marten said, his voice drawn tight as leather soaked in salt-water and dried in the desert sun. “She went to her wedding pregnant and terrified of her new husband. But at least she didn’t slit her wrists in her bed like your whore of a mother.”
“Now, brother, no need for name-calling. My mother no more killed herself than yours just tripped and fell down the stairs.”
There was a moment of blistering silence.
“What do you mean?”
“Can you possibly not know? My mother was pregnant with a footman’s by-blow. Father discovered it and”—Edgar snapped his fingers—“snip, he took care of the problem. He couldn’t have a bastard muddying the line, and he certainly could not trust her.”
Again there was silence. When Marten spoke again, his voice was strangled. He cleared his throat, speaking slowly. “What does that have to do with my mother?”
“Oh, dear. I thought you had sorted it out a long time ago.”
He sounded surprised and disappointed, even rebuking. Lucy felt herself growing annoyed on Marten’s behalf.
“Even then I could see what a blight Belinda’s blood was on our family line. You were such a difficult child, brave as anything, but weak-willed and imprudent. You were ruled entirely by your baser passions. It’s Belinda’s fault; your infirmity comes from her. And now look at how you’ve turned out; you’ve ruined yourself with gambling and you’re wearing an iron collar. I had to protect our name. I couldn’t allow another of father’s blunders to sully the Thorpe name. One was quite enough, thank you.”
The Cipher Page 31
