The Cipher Read online

  Lucy oversaw the salvage with unrelenting energy and zeal. She threw herself into the work, ignoring her own worries and the increasingly vicious bite of majick. It permeated the air, inhabiting the recovered cargoes in the shape of weak ciphers and majicked commercial goods. Many of the sailors, stevedores, and lighters carried traces of majick as well. But Lucy had learned to tolerate the pain and refused to let it get in the way of her work.

  The gale began to subside as dusk fell. But still the salvage continued to flow in. Lucy was completing a report to her supervisor, Alistair Crummel. She folded it and pressed the circular tip of her seal against the paper. A jolt ran up her fingers and the mark on the page shimmered with a green flame. It was shaped like a crescent moon inside a triangle and ringed by a series of numbers and letters in minuscule black script that identified the seal as hers. Only she could activate it.

  She handed the report to Ellen Bagnot, her junior clerk. “Make sure Alistair gets this tonight. He’ll be waiting for it.”

  “As ye wish.”

  “Not exactly what you were expecting on your last day, was it?”

  “Not so much, no, ma’am.”

  Lucy smiled. “At least it’s been a memorable ending to your customs career. Though it still escapes me how you could want to attach to a Chancery office in Ospredale.” Lucy grimaced at the word Chancery.

  “’Tis a good position, ma’am,” Ellen said quickly. “Close to m’family. I haven’t seen them in nigh on fifteen years since I apprenticed. Ye know I wouldn’t of taken it else, and ye don’t need to worry none. I won’t be having nothing to do with the crown case. I wouldn’t never hurt yer family that way,” she said fervently.

  “You just do the job they ask of you and don’t worry about the Ramplings. Most of us don’t remember not having to work to eat. We’ve been mired in this Chancery suit for more than fifty years, and whatever you do or don’t do, we’ll be sunk in it for another hundred, or until the family goes bankrupt. So don’t balk if you’re told to work on the case. None of us will take it amiss.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”

  “Now go and be sure you put that report into Alistair’s hands yourself.” She grasped Ellen’s hand firmly. “We’ll miss you. I wish there was time to celebrate your leaving properly.”

  The other woman flushed and bobbed her head before scurrying off. Lucy went in search of Hig. She’d not gone more than a dozen feet when she was struck by an agonizing sensation like toothy saw blades raking hard across her skin. She staggered, letting out a soft moan before biting down on her lip, tasting blood.

  But challenging the ripping pain was a spurt of eager hunger. A cipher. A true cipher.

  She forced herself to straighten, to appear as if nothing were wrong. She scanned the shed. Near the opposite wall Hig and Peep had their heads together over a stack of crates. Neither seemed aware of the overpowering majick that had suddenly blossomed inside the shed. Of course they didn’t notice; nor did Brithe.

  Lucy swung around jerkily, seeking the source like a flower following the sun. It felt like it was coming from the front right corner of the building. A steady stream of dockworkers, sailors, and lighters continued to trudge in, loaded with the dripping remnants of the ships. Lucy ignored them, following the flow of power upstream with slow, deliberate steps. The pain grew with every stride. But it didn’t compare with the frantic hunger that had seized her the moment she felt its enthralling touch. The inside of her mouth and the bottoms of her feet started to itch mercilessly. Eagerness made her breath come sharp between her lips. She’d never encountered any but true ciphers that did that to her.

  She told herself to stop, to turn around, to ignore her gut-churning want. She didn’t listen. She knew it was stupid. The cipher would likely kill her in a long, painful ordeal. Or worse. Much, much worse. But she couldn’t help herself.

  Four hundred years ago, Errol Cipher had created the first ciphers. His—true ciphers—were far more powerful than those produced by majicars today, even the one she wore around her neck. He’d made most of them to torment those he hated. True ciphers were usually things of innocuous appearance, like spoons or hairpins or shoe buckles. Most people had no way to detect them until they attached, and then there was no way to remove them until the spell ran its course. Or the wearer died.

  Lucy filtered through the throng of salvagers. They were dripping wet and exhausted. They hauled in their heavy loads of flotsam with grim faces. She nodded to those who caught her eye, but she didn’t stop.

  She was close now. She edged past the long tables of clerks registering and recording the salvage. Drawn by the throbbing power of the cipher, Lucy circled around the haphazard stacks of goods. She ran her fingers over wet bolts of cloth, several bales of draggled furs and dripping hides, clay jars of spices and delicacies, bundled lengths of unfinished wood, ruined shoes, bronze and porcelain decorative ornaments, and dozens of casks of wine. The number and variety of goods were endless—hidden in barrels, chests, and caskets, stacked in crooked aisles fifteen feet high and ten feet across.

  Lucy wandered deeper into this pillared forest, finally finding what she was looking for in a collection of stacked bins where small, odd items went to keep them from getting lost. She paced around to the left, stopping abruptly, catching her breath sharply as cold cut deeply into her lungs. She tugged the top bin aside, pulling until she’d opened a gap into the bin beneath it. She craned her neck, peering inside. There was a jewelry box carved from windstone; a wet, floppy straw hat with long crumpled feathers attached; a collection of ivory combs and brushes; a battered silver teapot with one cup; and an assortment of decorative bead masks. And there was one small wooden box made of roughly finished pine held together with cheap brass tacks. A flat band circled it with a customs tag identifying the date, the time of day the box had been logged in, the salvager, and the customs official who’d accepted it.

  A gabble of loud voices made Lucy start. She jerked her head up, breathing a silent sigh when the voices died and no one disturbed her. Woodenly, she turned back to the box. Hot want demanded that she snatch it and smuggle it home. Her stomach roiled. Absolutely not! She was a customs agent, not a thief, not a smuggler. But then—what? Move it where she could keep an eye on it until she could buy it? Her body twitched at waiting, at the thought of possibly losing it. No, that wouldn’t do either.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she reached into the bin, hesitating a finger’s breadth away. As a rule, true ciphers were dangerous only once they touched human skin. She’d be handling only the box. Even so, she hesitated, then chided herself. Someone had clearly packed it inside the box without suffering harm.

  Lucy brushed the top of the box. The wood was rough, a splinter piercing her index finger. Oh, how she wanted to take it! But everything she was rebelled at the idea. It was against the law. And she wouldn’t, couldn’t, break the rules she lived her life by. But a snide voice inside ridiculed her. She collected true ciphers. That was against the law. Taking this one was no different. But it was.

  Reluctantly she pulled back. She’d mark the box so that it could not be released without her making a personal inspection. Then at least she’d know to whom it belonged. From there, she’d see about buying it. No one else would know its real nature, and given the rough packing, the cipher was probably nothing valuable. It was the best she could do without stealing it.

  Suddenly the top of the box erupted, spattering Lucy’s arms with splinters. A chain thrust up like the head of a cobra. It swayed in midair, inching upward above her head. Lucy stared at it in blank shock, fear freezing her in place. The chain was as long as her arm. It was made of sylveth disks, each the size of a dralion, and hooked together by heavy silver links. The disks were a dull gray, like rainwater, lacking the usual telltale glimmer. There was no clasp.

  The chain gave a wriggle.

  Lucy gasped, her heart contracting. She bit her tongue, telling herself to get away. Slowly she slid h
er left foot behind her.

  The chain wriggled again.

  Panic blistered through her veins. She flung herself backward. Too late. The chain darted like a striking snake and snapped itself around her left wrist, spinning like an anchor chain around a capstan and coiling up her arm to the elbow. The sylveth disks flared incandescent white. Lucy turned her head away from the brilliance, holding her arm extended.

  Her skin went cold, like she’d dipped her arm in snow-melt. The chill washed up her shoulder and around her neck. It swept over her head and down to her ribs, thighs, and feet. For a moment, she felt encased in an icy shroud. The cold sank through her skin into her muscles, into her bones. She felt as if something were twisting tight inside her, the pressure making her choke. She wanted to cry out, but a part of her recalled where she was; that she dared not be discovered. She clamped her lips together and sealed them with her teeth.

  The cold turned suddenly scorching. The heat erupted outward. For a moment, Lucy thought she smelled cooking meat. Then suddenly it was gone, and with it the bright light.

  She crumpled to the floor, her breath huffing between her lips in short, wheezing pants. She grasped at the shreds of her own equilibrium, examining herself. Her skin wasn’t melting from her bones. Her legs weren’t turning into frog legs or horse tails. She ran her fingers over her face and scraped her nails across her scalp. She was still herself.

  Relief made her giddy.

  The scuffle of feet and the sound of masculine voices made her realize how she must look, sitting on the floor. She glanced down. The cipher encircled her left arm from wrist to elbow. The sylveth disks now shimmered with the rainbow light of soap bubbles. She pushed at it. It didn’t budge. She pushed harder, scratching bloody rents in the skin between the links. Still it didn’t move.

  “No, no, no!” she muttered, continuing to scrabble at it, though she knew it wouldn’t come off. Errol Cipher had created this trinket to never relinquish its grip. Not until the spell had run its course. Not until she’d suffered the torments and humiliation that the ancient majicar had woven into its length.

  Of course, it might be one of the good ones.

  A harsh bark of laughter tore at her throat. Not all of them were curses. A few, a very slim few, were gifts. To grow hair on a sterile pate. To protect from harm. To give precious skills. But this was not one of those. It was stupid and wishful to think so. About as stupid as digging for it in the first place.

  The voices drew closer. Lucy glanced up and then frantically pulled at her rolled sleeve. She yanked it down just as two men strolled between two of the pillared stacks. Her mouth dropped open as relief rushed over her.

  Jordan.

  He was home…. Hewas safe.

  Chapter 3

  Jordan gaped, then leaped forward.

  “Lucy! Are you all right?” He gripped her hand and helped her to stand, one arm circling her waist as she swayed.

  Jordan’s face was narrow, with sharp cheekbones and a patrician nose. Damp clung to the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. He was bareheaded and ruddy, wearing his hair in the fashionable coif typical of ships’ captains and officers—chin-length in front and fastened in a pigtail high on the back of his head, the hair around his collar and above his ears shaved close. The gale had picked it loose and now tendrils of black hair clung to his forehead and cheeks. His oilskin overcoat dripped a wet trail on the floor. Beside him was a man Lucy didn’t recognize. He was not quite as tall as Jordan, with broad shoulders and a lean form. His face was square and tanned, his features blunt. His eyes were a pale brown; his walnut hair was streaked gold from the sun.

  “Are you hurt? What’s happened to you?”

  Lucy pushed Jordan away. He held tight. She made a growling, annoyed sound, twisting to see his face.

  “What’s happened is that you’re drenched and intent on making me equally so. And what in Meris’s name are you doing here? Why aren’t you out on the Firewind?” Her voice was accusing.

  “What, you’d rather I was trying to run the weir? And in such heavy weather? I thought we were friends.”

  “So did I. How long have you been in port?”

  He looked slightly abashed. “Five days.”

  “So nice of you to send around a note, you know, just to say you’re safe so the rest of us don’t have to worry about you.”

  His eyebrow flicked up. “Who knew you could sound just like my mother?”

  “Just at the moment I’d like to see you racked on the weir,” Lucy said, shoving herself away. She caught her breath, recalling the cipher. She pulled her arm close against herself to hide it.

  Jordan frowned.

  “Did you fall? Are you all right?”

  “I stumbled is all. I’m fine.”

  But her knees started to buckle, giving lie to her words.

  “Come on, then, you need to sit down.”

  He started to guide her back toward the center of the building. Lucy resisted.

  “No, there are some tables on the west wall. It’s closer.”

  “As you wish.”

  Jordan and his companion assisted her to a table. There were no chairs, but a cask served well enough. Lucy sat with a sigh. She held her arm close against her ribs, hoping they would not notice the cipher beneath her sleeve.

  “You aren’t going to faint, are you? If that’s even possible for you.”

  Jordan knelt before her, taking her right hand and chafing it in his. His fingers were callous and warm. Lucy watched him intently, grasping his fingers, not yet able to let go of her fear and worry for him.

  He looked up at her, frowning. “You know, you look like you’ve been keelhauled.”

  “Aren’t you a charmer? Please, don’t stop. I can hardly get enough of such flattery. Maybe if I had known you were safe, I wouldn’t have been yanking my hair out with worry.” It came out weakly, without any of the usual force.

  He smiled, though it didn’t ease his frown. “Sorry about that. I forget sometimes that anybody worries about me. And now it seems I need to worry about you. What have you done to yourself? Let me see.”

  Before Lucy could object, he’d taken her left hand in a gentle grip. He turned it over. Lucy sucked in a breath, unable to pull away. Jordan glanced up sharply.

  “Does that hurt?”

  Lucy said nothing, her face taut. She wanted to jerk away, but he was already pushing up her sleeve, exposing the sylveth chain. A strangled sound tore from her throat. Stricken, she stared at Jordan.

  “You should have a doctor look at this. There’s no bruising or swelling, but clearly you are suffering a great deal of pain.”

  Lucy stared. “What?”

  He glanced down, running his fingers lightly over her forearm, probing gently as he did. Lucy watched, stunned relief making her queasy. His fingertips slid through the cipher as if it weren’t there. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it.

  Lucy smoothed her hand down over her arm. The heavy silver links were cold and hard to her touch. The gray sylveth disks, by contrast, were quite warm. Hastily she rolled down her sleeve again. Her heart pounded. She felt like she’d won a reprieve, but from what? The danger of the cipher clung to her like her own shadow. Mordant humor twisted her lips. But at least it was hers now. Whether she liked it or not.

  “How do you feel?”

  Jordan’s voice brought Lucy back to the present.

  “You’re the one touching me—how do you think I feel?”

  He grinned and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sharp as teeth, as always, dear Lucy.”

  She squeezed his hand hard. “It’s good to see you, Jordan. I—”

  She broke off, pulling her hand from his and splaying it hard against his chest. “You’re hovering like a starving vulture. And you smell like a whore who’s been swimming in perfume. It would be no wonder if I did feel faint with that stench.”

  He grinned as she shoved him away. “Perhaps you need to eat. Seems like you’re in the mood to gnaw on something
. I’d as soon it wasn’t me.”

  Sudden hunger made Lucy’s mouth water. But she didn’t relish the idea of walking back through the shed. She wasn’t sure that her trembling legs would support her.

  “If you would be so kind as to fetch something, I would be grateful. There’s a temporary mess set up in the back.”

  “As my lady wishes,” Jordan said with a mocking bow and extravagant flourish. “Ah, but I am forgetting my manners. Lucy Trenton of the customs service, I’d like to introduce Marten Thorpe, master of the Ravenstrike. I should warn you that he is considered of dubious reputation and you should not let your guard down for a moment. Not that you are not perfectly capable of fending for yourself, a fact that I am sure Marten shall discover if he becomes too forward. And Marten, I have known Lucy since we were children. She is very much like a sister, only I actually like her. I should not wish you to impose on her good nature. Or even her bad one.”

  “By all means, I shall behave myself,” Marten said with an upward flick of his brow.

  Left alone with Marten Thorpe, Lucy eyed him narrowly. She’d heard of him, of course. He had a reputation for being quite a ladies’ man, and for being something of a gambler. It was this last that made Lucy’s expression severe. Gambling was illegal in Crosspointe, and doing so demonstrated a disappointing lack of integrity, not to mention brains. If she ever was assigned to inspect the Ravenstrike, she’d go over the ship with a fine-toothed comb. He also had the reputation of being one of the finest—or possibly luckiest—sea captains on the Inland Sea. He’d never lost even one ship in his career. And even though he’d been a captain for only ten years, such a feat was nearly unheard of. Not with all the dangers of the Inland Sea.

  “Do I have spiders hanging out my nose?” he asked her, propping himself against a tall crate. Despite his wet clothing, he appeared at ease, as if he were sitting on the deck of his ship.