The Cipher Read online

  “Braken’s cods. A knack for sensing majick. If the Sennet knew…” He shook his head. “This is a foolish idea. Dangerous. What if they catch you? They’ll surely kill you.”

  “If they catch me. But I don’t matter. Crosspointe does, and my family. Besides, the cipher is bound to get me anyhow.”

  He was unconvinced. “There’s also Edgar Thorpe. He is no one to cross. If he finds out that you’re there—it’ll get very ugly. His business is none too legal and if anyone recognizes you, they’ll call the Crown Shields. He’ll rip your heart out with his bare hands for bringing such a threat to his doorstep.”

  “Two shoots from the same seed,” Lucy said caustically.

  Keros shook his head. “No. Marten used you abominably, and the next time I see him, I plan to put a curse on his cock. Weeping sores that won’t heal, and no possibility of enjoying a woman for at least a decade. But he’s a kitten compared to his brother. Trust me when I tell you that chancing Edgar’s ire is a mistake. He’ll not hesitate to destroy you. Viciously. And the people he has dealings with are no better. Maybe worse. They stay under their rocks and let him do their dirty work.”

  Lucy reached out, taking his hands in hers. “Thank you. Your concern means a lot. I can’t tell you how much. But I don’t have a choice. There’s no other way to find out what’s going on. Anyway, I’m not after Edgar Thorpe. He’ll never even know I’m there.”

  “If you’re lucky, and so far, your luck has been damned bad.” Keros stood, his body rigid. “I have to think about this. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” With that, he disappeared upstairs.

  Lucy watched him go. He hadn’t said no. Tomorrow she would convince him to say yes.

  Chapter 21

  It was nearly midday when Lucy woke. She found Keros sitting at the table reading the paper. He looked up as she entered. His expression was grim. Dark moons circled his bloodshot eyes. Lucy’s stomach clenched with foreboding.

  “What is it?” Her throat was so tight the sound was barely a whisper.

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  “I think it’s dangerous beyond reason, but yes, I will. Might not even take majick. I’ll need the day to ask some questions and figure it out.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  He folded the paper, setting it carefully on the table. “They are sending your family, friends, and servants to trial. Even your customs team. And they mean to convict in time for this year’s Bramble ship.”

  Lucy’s knees sagged. She sat down hard on the bottom step. “No.” Then just as suddenly she lunged to her feet. “I have to stop this.”

  Keros blocked her. “And do what?”

  Lucy struggled against his grip. “I have to tell them it was me and no one else. Once I tell them the truth, they’ll have to let everybody go.”

  But he was shaking his head. “It won’t matter. You didn’t do most of what they’re accusing you of. But they don’t care. They won’t release anyone until they get the truth they’re looking for. Which means telling them what you don’t know—like where the blood oak is. It would be for nothing. You’ll all end up on the Bramble, and Crosspointe will still be in danger from traitors and the Jutras. Right now, only you and I might be able to stop them, and I can’t get access to the king. You can.”

  “Not now. Not under this cloud.”

  “Don’t you think the people behind this don’t know that? Don’t you think that’s the point? They know you stole the contract and they can’t afford to let you get to the king. So they paint you with as black a brush as they can muster and when you’re caught, you’ll end up going straight to the Bramble with no chance to tell anyone what you know. It’s a ploy. If you give yourself up, you’ll be giving them exactly what they want.”

  “But the ship sails in less than two sennights. Keros, these are my family, my friends! I can’t just let them be convicted and sent to the Bramble. You know what will happen to them when the Chance storms hit.” Her eyes closed and against her mindscape she saw the sylveth spawn that had crawled up on the beach during the salvage. The things that had once been people. Only now they had the faces of her father, her brothers, Sarah, Blythe, and Hig. She pushed against Keros’s chest. She could not let that happen.

  The majicar’s hands gripped tighter. “Lucy, listen to me. The only sane and reasonable thing you can do to help them is find out who’s behind it all and tell the king. That will give him a legitimate reason to stop the trials. Without evidence, anything he does just looks like nepotism. He’ll be castigated. There will be revolt. His enemies are just waiting for such an opportunity. His hands are tied unless you do something to help him.”

  She slumped. He was right. The problem was, she didn’t know if she could do it, much less in time.

  “What if they believe all the lies? My father, brothers, everybody. What if they think I tricked them, that I abandoned them?” She pulled away, looking up at the ceiling and drawing a shaky breath. “But I did, didn’t I? I did this to them. They ought to think the worst of me.”

  “You didn’t do all of it. We’ve all made stupid mistakes.”

  She didn’t find his words comforting. “Did your mistakes kill people?”

  Keros didn’t answer, his expression remote. Instead he returned to the table and picked up his cloak from the back of his chair. He slung it around his shoulders and pinned it in place, pulling on his gloves. “I’ll be back. You should eat something. There’s fresh eggs and cheese.” He smiled thinly. “You’ll have to cook for yourself.”

  Lucy sat at the table, unfolding the paper. Her stomach knotted as she read the headline sprawled across the top of the page: LUCY TRENTON INDICTED IN ABSENTIA—

  ACCOMPLICE TRIALS TO BEGIN SEADAY. In two days.

  Her eyes burned hot and prickly as she scanned the article. Everyone on trial. The list of names seemed endless. No one important to her seemed overlooked. Only Jack and her mother weren’t included. She prayed they’d not be caught. The charges included conspiracy and smuggling, hiding a rogue majicar, arson, destruction of property, disruption of business, murder, and theft of the blood oak. The story recounted all her apparent crimes, with the unceasing insinuation that she could not have succeeded in all this alone.

  “I couldn’t have accomplished all that in my lifetime,” Lucy muttered.

  The three owners of the Sweet Song had been interviewed. She could almost hear Mrs. Pladis’s snide voice: “Lucy Trenton is an arrogant thief, thinking her royal blood will protect her. But she is wrong. This country will not stand for anyone flouting the laws. She’s made off with the blood oak. She may as well have stolen food out of the mouths of the poor men who died bringing it home. And now when Chance is upon us and the little ones are so hungry.”

  The other two owners repeated the accusation, and then the reporter, Phineas Heep, moved on to Alistair Crummel, who said that Lucy had been “unsettled during her salvage debriefing,” a fact that suggested her guilt, concluded Phineas Heep.

  Lucy glowered. “Because I couldn’t have been righteously indignant. Oh no, it must have been my guilty conscience showing.”

  An odd occurrence following the debriefing was later connected to Lucy Trenton’s majickal abilities. She stormed out of Crummel’s office and tore the bronze door handle away. A subtle threat against those who would bring her to justice? No one can say for certain, but clearly Miss Trenton is no innocent.

  Phineas Heep then went on to interview several disgruntled captains who claimed that Lucy had blackmailed them into paying her bribes to prevent her from holding up their cargoes on false claims of smuggling.

  And it has come to light that on the morning of her suspension from her trusted position as a customs inspector, she used her seal to break into a warehouse and steal a valuable collection of jewels. The Crown Shields are investigating. In the meantime, the fire in Salford Terrace continues to rage, burning everything in its path. A cadre of majicars has slowed its pa
ce, but cannot seem to snuff the flames. It’s a fearsome sight. Stone walls and cobbles turning to ash. What kind of monster is Lucy Trenton to visit such terror on her neighbors and friends?

  Lucy squeezed her eyes shut, crumpling the paper. She drew a harsh breath, not wanting to read any more. There was too much painful truth mixed in with the lies. Coward, she jeered. Look at what you’ve done. Take responsibility.

  She opened her eyes, smoothing the paper back out and reading further.

  In a related story, Minister Edgar Thorpe, a well-respected member of the Merchants Advisory Council, has come forward with disturbing allegations that Lucy Trenton gave his brother, Captain Marten Thorpe, a cipher that caused him to ruin himself with illegal gambling. Captain Thorpe has revealed that he aided Miss Trenton in smuggling the blood oak through salvage, and that she compelled him to do so with majick. Sadly, though Marten Thorpe had no choice in his actions, he must pay the price. Lord Chancellor Truehelm has forgiven his transgressions insofar as Captain Thorpe will not be sent to the Bramble. However, tomorrow he will be auctioned into indentured servitude. A steep price to pay for the bad luck to suffer Miss Trenton’s notice.

  Stunned, Lucy flipped pages to the notices of impending auction. She found what she was looking for halfway down in the third column. It was exactly as Phineas Heep had reported. Marten would be put up for sale to the highest bidder at noon the next day in the main market square in Blackstone. Lucy reread the notice three times and then pushed the paper away, her fingers tapping a slow cadence on the table. Marten was going on the auction block. And she was going to be there to watch.

  Keros returned after sundown. Lucy heard him come in and began to prepare an omelet. She could cook; she just despised it. She heated butter and tossed in onions and bacon. She added eggs whipped with cream, and toasted bread on a fork over the fire.

  “Smells good,” Keros said as he came in. He took the toasting fork from her. “I’m impressed.”

  Lucy put the food on the table and they sat down to eat.

  “You’re quiet. I take it you read the paper?”

  She nodded. Then, “I’d like you to help me with my hair.”

  “Shaving yourself bald, are you?”

  “I want to dye it. With ink.”

  “It would hide the color well enough. Make you less recognizable.”

  “So I thought.”

  “I know how to get you inside.”

  “Do you?” Lucy looked up, her interest sharpening.

  “First thing every morning and evening, there’s a shift change when most of the servants who don’t live in the bagnio come and go. It’s orderly—you won’t be able to slip in through the seams. But with my help, and Lora Clump’s, you will,” said Keros with satisfaction.

  “Who is Lora Clump?”

  “She is a scrub maid, responsible for cleaning the bathing rooms. A rather filthy, disgusting job, and one from which she is willing to take a vacation. With compensation. She’s about your size and has sold me her uniform and lent me her identification tab. Handily enough, she’s a dark-haired woman. Your choice of hair color should be appropriate. Not that anyone will notice. She wears a cap and maids are invisible to most people. I’ll give you a glamour to disguise you to those who might know her. Can you clean?”

  Lucy grinned. “I have many talents.”

  He returned the grin. “Aye, that you do. The only problem will come when your first shift is over. They’ll start looking for you if you don’t leave.”

  “So I have to leave. Unless I get permission to stay.”

  “Chancy. My glamour will fade by then.”

  There was a tightness to the corners of his eyes and a tension in his jaw that revealed his concern, despite his offhand tone. He caught her looking at him and slapped his hands down on the table.

  “Damn Marten! And damn me for giving him those drops.”

  “He’s your friend. And I’m no one important. Why wouldn’t you help him?”

  “I’m an ass.”

  “True. But then so am I. I am going to watch Marten’s auction.”

  “I thought as much. Lora’s shift begins at sunset. Don’t miss it or you won’t get inside.”

  “I won’t. Are you done with your dinner? Let’s do my hair so we can get to bed.”

  “Is that an invitation to the myriad delights of your sheets?” He waggled his brows.

  “Myriad delights? Painting it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

  “Many women enjoy a bit of flattery.”

  For a moment she recalled that Embernight, standing in front of the fire across from Marten, her hands shredded. She’d accused him of being too honest, of not offering the usual flattery. I thought it was to be truth between us. She almost laughed at the irony.

  “I’ve had enough of lies for the moment, thank you. And I am well aware that I am no prize. The one claim to beauty I had is gone.” She stroked her hand over her shorn hair and then gave a harsh laugh “Height of vanity to be regretting my hair when everyone I know is going on trial and I’m being hunted.”

  “It’ll grow back one day.”

  “Hair doesn’t grow in the grave, Keros. And in my recent encounter with sylveth spawn, I didn’t see any with a flowing mane. But enough of this. Let’s get to work.”

  Lucy dangled her head over a basin as Keros combed the ink through her hair. He took his time. But when he was through, her hair was nearly black.

  “Let’s not forget your eyebrows,” he said, painting them carefully. “You should wash out the residue. You don’t want any color to rub off and give you away.”

  “I’ll do that. And thank you.”

  “I helped get you into this mess. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Guilt, Keros? And here I thought you liked me.”

  “Guilt, yes. Certainly that. But it also happens I do like you.”

  Lucy only raised her brows skeptically.

  “Surprised, are you? Sharp-tongued virago that you are, you should be. But you have a few good qualities too. Rabid focus on finding the truth…oh—I enjoy the spontaneous combustion too. Let’s see, what else? You seem to appreciate my humor. I always like a good audience. And you don’t insult my cooking. That wins you a few points.”

  “Are you through?”

  Keros stood, taking Lucy by the hands and pulling her to her feet. He gazed down at her.

  “I took you in because I felt guilty about assisting Marten in his theft. And I am helping you because it is the right thing to do—for you, and for Crosspointe. I may be a renegade majicar, but I am a loyal son of this country. However, with all that said, I also enjoy you. Very much. I want you to be safe, and to have the chance to grow back that lion’s mane of yours.”

  Lucy swallowed, a hard lump lodging in her throat. In all things that counted, he’d become her friend. It was a gift. She pulled back, patting him on the cheek lightly. “That doesn’t mean I’m inviting you to bed.”

  Keros put one hand over his heart. “I am crushed.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Aye, that we can agree on. Now go wash your hair and get some sleep. I’ll wake you early. It will take you some time to get to the main market square before Marten steps onto the block. You don’t want to miss his comeuppance.”

  “No, I don’t.” But as Lucy went to bed, a nagging doubt chewed at her. Why was Marten being sold if he’d successfully stolen her seals? Surely he ought to have gained something by framing her? If not money to keep him from this predicament, then what? And why had his brother claimed she’d given Marten a cipher? Of course, such a lie saved his life, kept him from being sent to the Bramble. It made sense. But the lie also was another nail in her coffin. Was that the real intent?

  The questions chased one another around her skull, keeping her awake almost until dawn. But despite her anger at Marten, somehow the thought of him wearing the iron collar did not make her as happy as she’d thought it would.

  Chapter 22


  Marten’s cell was entirely devoid of comfort. The bed was made of rough wood slats and topped by a thin pallet of tattered sail canvas stuffed with mouldering straw. The walls and floor were unfinished stone and the only other furnishing in the narrow cubicle was a chipped chamber pot. A small grille in the door allowed his jailors to see inside, and another barred window high in the outer wall let in a thin gray light.

  Marten lay on the bed staring up at the roof. The iron collar pressed hard into the back of his neck. He ignored its bite, thinking only of Jordan’s battered body. He groaned, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. If not for him, Jordan would be alive and Lucy—Did Lucy know? What must she think?

  He dropped his hands to his sides, clenching them on the canvas pallet. Why was Edgar going after her so rabidly? All this to discredit the monarchy? It seemed like overkill. He thought of her shredded hands, how someone must have slashed at them over and over with a knife. His stomach lurched and he rolled over and retched onto the floor. When at last nothing more came up, he rolled back to the wall. His mouth tasted like a sewer. He was sure of one thing: Edgar had not cut her up. He wanted her humiliated and discredited, not mutilated. But someone did. Who? And why?

  For the first time, it occurred to Marten that the reason no one had been able to find Lucy was that she was dead. And in that thought was a pain so fierce that he thought he was dying. He lay there gasping, waiting for it to recede. His mind was whirling chaos. All he knew was the bewildering pain of a loss so deep there were no words.

  He came back to himself when someone slapped him hard across the face. Back and forth. The shock cut across the sucking hurt and jarred him back to awareness. One guard held him by the shoulders, while another drew back to smash him across the mouth again.

  “Ye done wailin’ like a sucklin’ baby? ’Cause we ain’t gonna listen t’yer bellyachin’ no more if’n we have t’smash ye t’bits.”