The Cipher Read online

  He gathered up the papers that his brother had thrown down and stalked out.

  Marten followed, seething with guilt, fury, and dread. The stories flooding the Sentinel had accused Lucy of outrageous, impossible things, but one struck him to the core—her seals found on smuggled goods. Seals that he’d stolen and given to Edgar. It was a Bramble offense. He’d tried to find her, to apologize, to explain, to confess—he didn’t know. But she’d been suspended from her job and her house had been seized by the Crown Shields. Her friends and servants had been arrested and she had disappeared. Now there was bounty on her head. And he was responsible. He and Edgar.

  Inside his office, Edgar slammed the door and rounded his desk, shoving his chair aside violently before turning on Marten.

  “What do you mean barging into my home and addressing me like a common servant? You had best remember your place and your manners. Cecilia cannot take your brutish behavior in her delicate condition.”

  “Brutish? Me? You goat-cracking bastard. She’ll be sent to the Bramble. She never stole anything from the salvage, never smuggled anything. How could you do this?”

  “Me? You stole her seals. She’d never be in this predicament if it weren’t for you. Not that she’s innocent. She may not have smuggled, but she apparently kept a hoard of true ciphers and set that fire in Salford Terrace. And don’t affect to be surprised. I told you she would be a casualty and I tell you again to give her a wide berth. She’s going to the Bramble and with luck, she won’t be the only Rampling on the ship.” He paused, saying slowly, “I’m very fond of you and I’d regret it if you found yourself sharing passage with her on the Firedance.”

  “Wide berth? Brother, I intend to find her and crawl on my knees begging forgiveness. And after that, I’ll go to the lord chancellor and confess everything.” He hadn’t thought of it until that moment, but the words felt right, like he meant them.

  Edgar sighed, righting his chair and sitting. He rubbed a hand over his brow. “Don’t be a fool, Marten. Nothing you can do or say will save her now. All that will happen is that you will embarrass yourself and me, and you will likely be found guilty of conspiring with her. Your name has already come up in the salvage investigation—your tarnished reputation precedes you. If you tangle yourself in this anchor chain, you will certainly find yourself pulled under.”

  “When I am responsible for her ruin? What kind of man do you think I am?”

  Marten cringed from the scornful look Edgar gave him.

  “I think you know the answer to that, much as I wish I could believe differently. Besides, she deserves what she gets for allowing you to succeed.”

  Marten recoiled. He held himself rigid and still, speaking quietly. “You may be right. I may be the worst sort of man, but I won’t let this stand.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you interfere, brother.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, short of cutting the tongue out of my head or murdering me.”

  Edgar raised his brows. “Shall I tell you what I can do?”

  He pulled open a desk drawer and removed a leather folder. “Do you know what these are? They are your markers. All of them. You owe me money, of course. The other night at Sweet Dreams you ran up quite a tab. I knew you would, given the slightest encouragement. You’re into me for nearly five drals. I have also bought markers from several others you owe, though you are to be commended for paying most of your creditors off with your winnings from the Lucy Trenton bet. What’s left amounts to nearly three more drals. Altogether that’s more than you are worth, I believe.”

  Edgar lowered the pages, his eyes glittering. “I can call your debts in right this moment. If you cannot pay, I can have you sold into servitude. How do you think you’d do in an iron collar? Think about it, Marten—at least fifteen years of your life. Presupposing you didn’t dig the hole deeper for yourself in the meantime; you and I both know you cannot resist the lure of the tables. You’d lose your legal voice. Nothing you could say would be heard by anyone who matters. So think carefully about speaking out. I should not like you to act hastily.”

  Marten’s hands clenched. The kindness in Edgar’s tone did nothing to change the threat. A threat that he believed with all his heart. His brother didn’t make idle threats. Marten growled helplessly, the sound tearing at his throat. Edgar had his balls in a vise.

  “Stop this. What good can come of sending her off to the Bramble? She’s just a damned customs inspector,” he pleaded.

  “She’s far more than that. And with her help, Crosspointe may be saved. Sacrificing her is nothing compared to that. Now, I’d like to get back to Cecy. And Marten, if you ever cause such a scene again in front of my wife, I’ll call your markers and send you to work in the coal mines. You’ll never see the light of day again.”

  Marten allowed himself to be escorted outside, striding jerkily down the sidewalk. Guilt and rage choked him. Despite Edgar’s threatening advice, he had to find Lucy. Somehow, he had to make this right for her. How could anyone believe such lies? A secret majicar like Keros? The idea was laughable. Even more so was the notion that she could possibly have a collection of true ciphers. Lucy would not bend the law, much less break it.

  He clenched his jaw, coming to the bottom of the hill. Ahead of him a half league across Salford Terrace near the royal castle was a swollen column of oily smoke. A fringe of orange showed beneath, even so far away. The wind pushed it north and east toward the harbor and the shipyards. Marten sucked his teeth. Lucy could never be responsible for this. He didn’t know her very well, but he knew that much.

  He had to find her. But where would she have gone? Her home was seized, her family arrested. He didn’t know her friends. Except…Jordan.

  He began to run.

  Marten had never been to Jordan’s home. Usually they encountered each other at Sweet Dreams, where Jordan liked to visit the baths and enjoy the attentions of a long-legged whore or two. Occasionally they met in society. It took Marten longer than he liked to get the address from the merchant marine guildhall. He was startled to learn that Jordan lived in Cheapside near the river. He’d have guessed Salford Terrace or Blackstone at the least. But his flat was unprepossessing, upstairs of a bakery in the middle of a long row, the buildings built up against one another, sharing common walls.

  Marten rang the bell and waited, shuffling his feet. He couldn’t lose the memory of Lucy soft and warm beneath him, her eyes shining with passion, her mouth biting and tasting. And her hair—it had been an astounding surprise. Her red curls had hung like a silky waterfall to her waist. He felt himself growing hard and slammed his fist against the wall. The pain returned him to reality. He was a fool. He’d betrayed her. She wasn’t going to be interested in bedding him again. The knowledge only made his mood worse.

  He rang the bell again, yanking hard on the pull. The door jerked open at last and Jordan stood inside. He wore buff-colored trousers with boots and a white shirt hanging open. His hair was loose around his face and he hadn’t shaved. His neck and chest were dappled with reddish blue love bites and scratches.

  “Marten. What brings you here?”

  “I need your help. Can I come in?”

  Jordan hesitated. “Very well.”

  Marten followed his friend up the narrow stairs to a utilitarian flat. The floors were bare; the furniture was solid and lacking ornament. The light was bleary through the rippled windowpanes. Jordan motioned for Marten to sit and closed the pocket doors that led deeper into the flat. Marten heard women’s voices, one low and husky, the other sweet and melodic. The sound of their conversation was cut off abruptly as the doors drew shut.

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your sport,” he said, lifting his hand to his forehead in a mock salute.

  Jordan shrugged unrepentantly, glancing down at the marks on his chest. “Exuberant, aren’t they? But no need for concern. I needed a rest anyhow.”

  Marten forced a smile, catching sight of the newspapers scattered over
a low table. He could see this morning’s headline: ROYAL TREASON: LUCY TRENTON’S BETRAYAL. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood.

  “I expected something different,” he said, his gaze sweeping the room, unwilling to broach the subject of Lucy now that he was here.

  “Oh? Gold furniture and sylveth chandeliers?” Jordan dropped into a stuffed chair, slouching down and negligently kicking out his feet before him.

  “Something like that.”

  “This suits me well enough. I don’t need a lot of fancy feathers. And I don’t ask my family to visit.”

  Jordan’s expression was stiff, warning Marten off the subject. The Truehelms were a very old, very wealthy family, with several estates across Crosspointe. Jordan’s father was the lord chancellor, and one of his sisters was First Sept of the Metals Guild, his brother a Pilot. He captained one of his family’s ships, but rarely spoke of them. There was clearly something amiss there, but Marten had always respected the other man’s privacy and didn’t pry.

  “What is it? Moneylender trouble?” Jordan asked, watching Marten toy with the buttons on his turned-back cuffs.

  Marten answered slowly. It grated that Jordan assumed his gambling was the heart of the matter. Was he so predictable? But of course he was. Edgar had wagered on it. For a moment he remembered the way Cyril Brackenridge had pressed money on him at the Summerland’s ball. He was pathetic. The knowledge was bitter. He wished desperately for a drink, but Jordan hadn’t offered. Sudden realization rocked him. Jordan hadn’t offered because he was not welcome here. He was to be held at arm’s length. He was a liability—sooner or later, he would betray his friends for money. He could read the truth in the guarded watchfulness in Jordan’s demeanor. And worst of all, he was about to confirm that dismal opinion.

  At that moment, Marten knew he’d never place another bet again. He saw the contempt in Edgar’s eyes mirrored in Jordan’s expression. He felt himself shrinking with humiliation. He wanted to scurry away with his tail between his legs. He caught himself up short. He couldn’t let Lucy go to the Bramble for his deceit. Honor meant telling the truth and accepting the consequences. He had to take what he deserved. If he wanted respect, he had to earn it. Starting now.

  He lifted his gaze, meeting Jordan’s eyes levelly. “You know I was caught up against a lee shore with a gale blowing me in. Edgar gave me a way out. A substantial wager. Enough to get me almost entirely out of debt. I had to take it. I didn’t think I had a choice.” He paused, disgusted at himself. He’d had a choice. He could have been a man and not dragged an innocent woman into his mess. He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling the tie at the back of his head free. His hair fell around his face. He pushed it back, bracing himself for Jordan’s anger.

  “I won it. Did exactly what Edgar asked.”

  “And you felt the need to rush over and tell me about it?” Jordan’s expression had turned sour and his upper lip curled with repugnance.

  Marten thrust himself to his feet, pacing. He averted his face.

  “You know, I always thought my gambling was only about me—that no one else got hurt if I was arrested, or if the moneylenders came after me. If I lost, it was my bones that got broken, my ass that was going to the Bramble.”

  “Stupid. I take it you’ve learned different?”

  Marten nodded. “And I need your help to set it right. Doesn’t matter what happens to me. I deserve whatever I get.”

  “Commendable, I’m sure,” Jordan said coldly.

  Marten acknowledged the disapproval, one side of his mouth curling upward. “I know I’m a bastard.”

  Jordan didn’t dispute the point. “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

  Marten drew a deep breath and blew it out, speaking quickly. “I stole stamped seals from Lucy Trenton. Edgar’s using them to frame her for smuggling. When I confronted him, he threatened to call in my markers and put the iron collar around my neck. Then anything I say will be discounted out of hand. I’ve got to put a stop to this before he can silence me.”

  Jordan sat forward, his face hardening, white lines bracketing his mouth. His fingers curled around the arm of his chair, biting deep into the leather.

  “You framed her?”

  “Edgar did.”

  Slowly Jordan stood, his hands clenching, the muscles in his jaw working. “But you stole stamped inspections tags from her and gave them to your cocksucking brother.”

  Marten nodded.

  Jordan moved faster than Marten would have thought possible. He grasped Marten by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Jordan pulled back his fist and smashed it into Marten’s face, pummeling his face and chest. Marten didn’t fight back, warding off the blows as best he could with his arms. Something inside him welcomed the punishing fists, welcomed the pain. He deserved this.

  Jordan lowered his hands and slugged Marten twice more in the pit of his stomach. Marten doubled over, sobbing for breath. His left eye was nearly swollen shut and his right eye was blurry. Blood trickled down his right cheek from where the heavy signet ring on Jordan’s left hand had ripped his skin. His lips were split and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He slowly came erect, steeling himself for Jordan’s next attack. But the other man had withdrawn and stood with his arms folded over his chest, as if to keep himself reined in. His hands were swollen; the skin across his knuckles had split and bled spiderweb patterns down his fingers.

  “I ought to kill you.”

  “I wouldn’t stop you.” Marten’s lips were too swollen to form the words properly.

  “What’s your brother about, going after Lucy? What does it get him?”

  Marten shook his head, leaning back against the wall for balance when dizziness assaulted him. “I’ve thought about it. He hates the royal family. He discredits them this way. But there has to be more to it. The papers are calling her an unregistered majicar and accusing her of starting the fire in Salford Terrace. They say she killed a bunch of Crown Shields and that she hoarded illegal ciphers. It doesn’t make any sense. What could he possibly gain by all that? Who’d believe it?”

  “Everybody who doesn’t know her,” Jordan said shortly. “They’ve pulled in her family and a number of her friends. Could one of them be the target?”

  “Or the king.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Your family has hands in almost as many pots as Edgar. Find out what he’s up to. If I can get around in front of him, maybe I can force him to back down on Lucy.”

  Jordan nodded. “It’ll take a day or so.”

  “Do you…do you know anywhere she might have gone? I don’t know her haunts.”

  “No. I’ve looked a few places, but nothing. She won’t be sitting idle. She’ll be going after the truth herself. She’s tenacious. She’ll find it.”

  “We have to get there first. Edgar is too dangerous.”

  Jordan smiled thinly. “You saw her, that night of the retrieval. She held sylveth spawn in her hands and didn’t flinch. She helped cut off a man’s arm and then went back out to fight off the spawn. If there’s one thing that’s true about Lucy, she doesn’t back down and she doesn’t give up. She’s going to find out who did this to her, and she’s going to go after him.”

  Marten swallowed. If she was reading the papers, she must already have worked out that he was part of it. An odd pain began in his chest that had nothing to do with the blows Jordan had dealt him.

  “Then we have to hurry. Edgar will kill her if she interferes with him. With all those stories in the paper, no one would blame him. He’d be a hero.”

  “There’s only one place people go to hide in Sylmont. The Riddles. Start there.”

  “The Riddles?” Would she go to Keros? Marten dismissed the idea. Even if she wanted to find him, she couldn’t. And why would she trust the majicar? Especially if she’d figured out Marten had stolen her seals.

  “There’s something else you ought to know,” he told Jordan. “I went to visit he
r on Embernight. We were to have dinner. But when I got there, she’d been attacked. Her hands were shredded to the bone, tendons sliced through—someone had been at her with a knife.”

  “What?”

  “She said she cut herself on some glass. She wouldn’t tell me what really happened and she wouldn’t go to a healer. I ended up taking her to a friend of mine for a healing. An unregistered majicar.”

  He lifted his brow at Jordan, waiting for accusations or recriminations for yet another illegal transgression. But Jordan only scowled broodingly, rubbing a hand over his cheek and jaw.

  “He healed her?”

  “Aye. It was a close thing, though. I don’t think it was Edgar—it wouldn’t make sense if he was planning this other. I think she has another enemy out there.”

  “Then you’d better hurry and find her. I’ll send word when I’ve learned anything.”

  He spoke with a finality that Marten recognized as dismissal. He straightened, stepping away from the wall. Jordan followed him to the top of the stairs, watching impassively as Marten lurched down to the door.

  “Marten. Just so you know. You and I are done. When this is over, if you’re still alive and she’s not, I’ll plant you in the ground.” He turned and disappeared without waiting for an answer.

  Marten put his hand on the door, wiping the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “If I’m still alive and she’s not, I’ll dig the hole myself,” he murmured.

  Chapter 18

  It was Emberday again. Lucy had slept most of the past two days, waking only to bolt food like a starving dog and scour the papers. It astonished her that she was being talked about more than the Jutras were. The news about them was oddly muted and without any of the sensationalism that colored the revelations about her.

  According to the Sentinel, the Jutras ship was no threat to Crosspointe—at least not now. It had been attempting to cross the Inland Sea when it was caught in a storm. Only incredible luck brought it safely into Blackwater Bay. The sea-battered Jutras had been easily captured and now were being held in Blackstone. Their makeshift prison was a manor with bars on the windows surrounded by a high wall and guarded by Crown Shields and majicars. The question now was what to do with them. Numerous letters and editorials argued the point, from sending them to the Bramble to torturing them for information about invasion plans for Crosspointe.