The Cipher Read online

  “I mean to get to the bottom of this mess, Crummel,” he said in a high-pitched voice to Alistair, ignoring Lucy entirely. “I want the truth. Don’t care how high I have to go. George Gintley is a friend of mine. Don’t think he’ll protect you while you cover up for thieves!”

  His voice grew louder as he spoke, scraping Lucy’s skin like a serrated knife. What was he nattering on about—thieves?

  “Please calm yourself, Mr. Higgelsham. Shouting does no good. Now, Miss Trenton, if you will come sit, we will begin.”

  Alistair gestured at a high-backed chair sitting at the end of his desk and facing outward toward the room. The senior clerk sat ready behind the chair with a lap desk across his knees. Lucy frowned. This looked a whole lot more like a trial than a debriefing. She stepped slowly forward until she was standing beside the chair. She glanced down at Alistair and then back at the three visitors. She did not sit down. A dull ache was beginning at the back of her head. She winced as dull needles prodded the constant sylveth ache that lived in her back and legs. One of them wore a cipher. A weak one. Probably designed to hide a sagging jowl or to freshen breath. Combined with the majick cobwebbing Alistair’s office—mostly from locks on ledgers, drawers, and cabinets—Lucy felt queasy.

  “Miss Trenton, allow me to introduce Lady Warrinton, Mrs. Pladis, and Mr. Higgelsham. They are the owners of the Sweet Song—the third of the ships that wrecked Merisnight.”

  Lucy nodded, her breath catching hard in her chest. The night of the salvage she’d not known the names of the ships, but she knew them all now: Hero’s Revenge, Windswift, Sweet Song, the Vacubyr out of Kalibri, and the Dreshel Panir out of Reshnival. She’d never forget the names of those ships.

  “They have requested to be present at your debriefing, and Lord Gintley has agreed.” Alistair’s gaze swept over his three guests. “So long as they do not disrupt the proceedings.”

  He waited until each of the three reluctantly agreed.

  “Very good. Be seated, Miss Trenton.”

  Lucy did as she was told. The three shipowners stared at her like rats eyeing a hunk of cheese. Lucy drew a heavy breath. This was going to be bad. And worst of all, it was going to keep a full team off inspection, which would make Alistair very short-tempered. With the lighters about to strike, customs could ill afford the waste of time and staff.

  “Start with your account of the salvage, from the moment you opened the sheds.”

  “That’s it? She’ll lie. You’ve got to make her tell the truth,” Higgelsham said, his chest puffing.

  Before Lucy could retort, Alistair responded. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

  “Majick. They’ve gotta have some spell that’ll force a person to speak the truth.”

  Alistair shook his head. “Such spells are quite unreliable, so much so that the crown does not allow them in any government operation whatsoever. They are quite simple to fool. Now, please sit down. Miss Trenton, if you are ready?”

  Lucy was anything but. She was holding in her fury by just her fingertips. But she had little choice. She told the story succinctly and without any embellishment. She focused on the process of collection, documentation, and storage. She’d hardly explained about leaving Rebecca Rae in charge when Alistair interrupted her.

  “You left one of the harbormaster’s clerks to oversee the first shed while you opened a second?”

  “I did. She’s a bonded master clerk and the Windswift was about to run up on the weir. No customs teams had yet arrived and I believed we’d lose cargo if I didn’t get a second shed ready in time.” She didn’t try to defend herself any more than that. She felt the eyes of the three shipowners like those of dogs waiting for table scraps to fall on the floor. She wasn’t sure what they were accusing her of, but she wasn’t going to apologize for running the salvage the best way she knew how with the resources she’d had.

  “I see.” Alistair wrote something down, the scritching of the pen loud in the silence. He laid the pen aside. “Continue, please.”

  She stumbled over the description of body collection. She wondered what had happened to the knacker who lost his arm and the woman they’d had to put in the majicar’s crate. She swallowed, wishing for something to drink, but refused to ask, knowing her fuming audience would take it as weakness. She finished with Henry’s arrival.

  Without waiting for any invitation from Alistair, the short-haired, round-faced Lady Warrinton hammered out a question. “Marten Thorpe? Isn’t he Edgar Thorpe’s brother?”

  “Yes, and a gambler too, or so I’ve heard,” said Mrs. Pladis with a sniff, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief.

  “And you let him just walk into the salvage sheds?”

  Lucy bridled. “Captain Thorpe and Captain Truehelm are commissioned officers of the merchant navy. I was glad to have their aid. It proved invaluable, and saved the life of at least one knacker.” All of which was true, no matter if she also thought Marten Thorpe was a contemptible gambler, not to mention insufferably rude.

  “Then how do you account for the missing cargo?” demanded Lady Warrinton, thrusting forward until she stood over Lucy, her chest rising and falling like bellows.

  Lucy glanced at Alistair. “Missing cargo?”

  “Mrs. Pladis, Mr. Higgelsham, and Lady Warrinton are concerned that some of their cargo may have been stolen from the salvage sheds.”

  “That’s—” Lucy caught herself and began again, less heatedly. “Why do they think so? The sheds were sealed by the majicar after each was filled. No one could break in.” Unless the thieves had a stronger majicar. But that wasn’t what these three were suggesting. They thought her team, or she, had filched goods before the sheds were sealed. Lucy’s jaw hardened, her teeth grinding together. Never in her career had she even bent the customs law, much less broken it. Who were these people to accuse her?

  “Several valuable pieces of merchandise from the ship have been offered for sale in the black trades,” Alistair explained.

  Lucy sat silent, waiting for more. When nothing was forthcoming, she looked at the shipowners in perplexity. “What makes you think they even came through my sheds? What about those on the south claw? Have the records been reviewed?”

  Alistair shook his head. “They have been sent out for independent evaluation.”

  “And what if they weren’t recorded? What if her people pocketed them before recording them in the ledgers?” Mrs. Pladis spoke slowly, her head tilting back so that she could stare down her nose at Lucy. “Royal blood won’t protect you. No one is above the law.” The last was said with a sneer.

  “I have no need of protection from the law. There’s no proof your missing goods were ever turned in. What if someone smuggled them past the cordon?” Lucy snapped back. “You’ve no evidence to make these slanderous accusations, and I will not sit here and listen any longer. I have work to do.”

  She stood, the chair rocking back with the force of her movement. She strode to the door. Fury boiled inside her.

  “Miss Trenton. You have not been dismissed.” Alistair’s voice was cold.

  Lucy stopped, her hands curling into fists as she jerked around. Her face burned with anger and the humiliation of being chastised in front of these people.

  “Please sit so that we may continue.” He gestured at the chair she’d vacated. His clerk had straightened it again.

  Lucy glared, unmoving. “I have stated the facts. There is nothing more to be said.”

  “You are mistaken. Sit.”

  Lucy returned to the chair, walking gracelessly. Her stomach churned with the force of her anger. She felt hot. She laced her hands tightly in her lap and fixed her stare on a painting of a summer garden on the opposite wall.

  “Thank you. Now, as I said, Mrs. Pladis, Mr. Higgelsham, and Lady Warrinton have some concern that goods from their ship were smuggled out of the customs sheds. You’ve described the events of the night. I would like to hear your evaluation of the personnel, particularly the clerks borrowed from the
harbormaster. I would like to hear their names and duties in the salvage.”

  Mechanically, Lucy replied. She spoke in short, monotone sentences. Alistair pressed her for details and she told what she knew, still in that same uninflected voice.

  “Now, do you remember anything out of the ordinary—a variance from proper procedure perhaps, or someone out of place?”

  Other than leaving Rebecca Rae in charge while she opened the second shed? “No.”

  “Did you notice any salvagers sneaking into the sheds or out?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anyone attempting to gain access to the sealed sheds?”

  “No.”

  The questions continued, often repeating themselves, often asking what she’d already answered in her description of the salvage. Lucy felt her anger increase with every question, aware of the condemning stares from the three shipowners. The subject returned to Jordan and Marten.

  “Were you aware of Marten Thorpe’s reputation as a gambler?”

  “Yes.”

  The three shipowners squirmed and made noises of triumph and disbelief, as if she’d admitted to a terrible crime.

  “And yet you allowed him inside the shed? Allowed him to participate in the body collection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you permit that rather than having him escorted out?”

  “I am not aware that Captain Thorpe has ever been convicted of a crime. He does, however, have a reputation for being an able captain and he has experience with salvage and body collection. I thought his service was a valuable resource.”

  “How long did he have access to the sheds?”

  Lucy couldn’t remember. At the time it seemed like hours.

  “I don’t recall. Perhaps a glass, maybe two.”

  There were outraged gasps from Higgelsham and Mrs. Pladis.

  “Was he ever left alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who accompanied him?”

  “Captain Truehelm or myself.”

  “And did you see any evidence that he took something from the sheds?”

  “No. Or I would have had him arrested.”

  There were now sounds of disbelief from the three shipowners. Lucy unlocked her gaze from the painting and stared at each of them in turn. Lady Warrinton’s eyebrows were arched so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. Higgelsham muttered, and Mrs. Pladis tapped her long, scarlet fingernails on the arm of the chaise, her eyes hooded as she considered Lucy.

  “Is it possible you did not notice him taking something? A bundle, perhaps the size of a loaf of bread? He could have used majick to conceal it.”

  Lucy scowled. Anything was possible. Still, she hated to give these people the satisfaction of saying so. And Marten had not used majick. That was one thing she knew for sure—though she could not believably say so. He had worn a cloak and she’d been very tired, her brain fogged by the horrors of the body collection…. It was possible he’d slipped something beneath…. “Ido not think so,” she said finally.

  “How can you be sure?” demanded Mrs. Pladis.

  Lucy looked at the woman, but did not answer. She was responsible only for Alistair’s questions.

  “Miss Trenton? Did you hear?” Alistair asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What is your answer?”

  “I am not certain. I said that I did not think so.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Higgelsham.

  Lucy ignored him. “I cannot imagine why Captain Thorpe would risk his commission, reputation, or prison for such a dangerous theft. I don’t know what could be valuable enough to induce him to take such a chance.”

  “No? What about blood oak the size of my arm? Would that be a great enough prize?” Lady Warrinton bent forward, her jaw quivering with her intensity.

  Lucy’s mouth fell open, the air draining from her lungs in a gust. Blood oak? Gods! It had to be worth all the cargo sitting at anchor in the harbor this very moment.

  “Well, I think we’ve gathered as much information as Miss Trenton has to give us today. I will expect your written report on my desk first thing on Moonday. You may go now and join your team. Here is your assignment.”

  Alistair handed Lucy a folder. His face was unreadable.

  “Mr. Crummel! I protest—!”

  “Mr. Higgelsham, at this point, there is no evidence that the blood oak was ever turned over to us as salvage. The records are being evaluated, and Miss Trenton’s account offers no suggestion of anything untoward. I will review her report and proceed from there.”

  “But she could be in on it! She and that Thorpe—they’re probably working together. I won’t stand for it! I want them both arrested!”

  Lucy’s left hand was on the door handle. She felt herself turn to ice, felt the cipher on her arm turn fiery hot. Rage blurred her vision. She clenched her hand. A sudden surge and heat. She twisted, wanting nothing more than to get out of the room before she clouted Higgelsham across the face. The door swung forcefully open, crashing against the wall. Lucy stared down at her hand. The bronze handle remained clutched between her fingers. It glowed red, the stem that had attached it to the door soft and twisted. Shock made her go cold; instinct urged her to move. She flung herself out, still clutching the cooling metal handle in her hand.

  She fairly ran through the corridors back to the empty roundhouse. She banged into a table in the outer gallery and yelped. The sound seemed to echo and brought her to her senses. She took hold of herself and forced herself to walk decorously down the stairs.

  There were people in the foyer now, entering and leaving with quick, busy steps. Lucy turned under the stairs toward the south gallery and bumped hard into someone. She stepped back, already apologizing, only to look up and meet the amused brown eyes of Marten Thorpe.

  Lucy’s apology faded in midsentence. “What are you doing here?”

  “My, but you’re testy in the morning, aren’t you?”

  “I’m busy.”

  Lucy went to brush past him. He caught her arm.

  “My apologies, Miss Trenton. I did not mean to offend.”

  “I doubt you can help it. But it is unimportant. Please excuse me. I am late.”

  She glanced pointedly at his hand on her arm. He did not let go.

  “This will only take a moment. I thought you might like to know that the knacker—Joe Priddle—is alive. The healers say except for the loss of his arm, he has suffered no ill effects from the sylveth creature.”

  Lucy looked up. “Thank you. I am glad to know it. It is kind of you to come and tell me.”

  There was the sound of feet on the stairs and raised voices. Lucy stiffened, recognizing Higgelsham’s high-pitched accents. Marten followed her gaze as the three shipowners stepped off the stairs into the lobby. They stopped in midstride, gaping.

  “Cobbler’s balls,” she swore softly, yanking out of Marten’s grip and stomping away. Her hand tightened on the bronze handle, feeling it heat in her hand. She caught a savage breath when in the gloom of the passage, she saw the cipher glow beneath her sleeve.

  Chapter 9

  There was a light burning by the front door, but otherwise the whitewashed brick house appeared deserted. It was a narrow, cramped place, dwarfed between two grand residences. Sparkling lights lit their windows and gardens with fairy brilliance, dispelling some of the gloom surrounding their shabby neighbor, badly in need of a new roof, masonry repairs, paint, and a gardener. It was much like a poor, frumpy relative from the country keeping company with its fashionable and wealthy betters. However, it was affordable and had a genteel address, which was all that mattered in society. Or near enough.

  Marten turned the corner. The wind picked at his hair and cloak, sending a chill up his back. Urgency prodded at him. He didn’t have a lot of time, especially after the debacle this morning with Lucy. He scowled. He couldn’t seem to stop provoking her. Truth be told, he liked her sharp tongue. But making her angry wasn’t getting him anywhere. He
had to do better.

  Standing in the shadow of the wall, Marten scanned the street. Nothing seemed out of place. The ordinary business of the evening was well under way. Richly dressed visitors arrived and departed from the front doors in carriages and handcarts, while servants carrying baskets and bags scurried along to the back doors. Strains of music floated from various houses and created an annoying dissonance like a mob of children loose in a conservatory.

  Marten rubbed at the bristles along his jaw and glanced up at the bruised sunset. He was going to be late. Damn Lucy and damn himself for spending the rest of the day in a back-alley dice game. Edgar was going be very put out, and Marten could ill afford to offend his elder brother. Especially after Lucy had brushed him aside like so much dirt off her hem.

  Her fury this morning had been palpable. Who were the three who’d followed her down the stairs? Their appearance had been enough to send Lucy running, and she wasn’t one to back down from a fight. He’d learned that much about her. So what made her run?

  He shrugged. It didn’t matter. He only needed her not to run away from him. Marten smiled his anticipation. He liked a challenge, and this game was turning out to be far more interesting than he’d expected.

  His attention caught on a flicker of movement. He stared, trying to bore through the gloom. A rumpled young maid emerged from the shadows, smoothing her clothing as she hurried back to her post. Seconds later, a liveried footman strutted back along the wall. Marten grinned, savoring the feel of his stomach unclenching, of his pulse slowing, as he felt the danger pass. It was the thrill of danger—of balancing on the edge of winning big and losing everything.

  Buoyed by the rush of exhilaration, he stepped onto the street. He walked purposefully, his skin tight and prickling. A clatter on the other side of a wall made him start. He shook himself and continued on. He was a ship’s captain, for Braken’s sake. He’d sat in a crow’s nest during the worst storms the Inland Sea had to throw at him. He’d stared down the throat of a Koreion. What were bullyboys after that? What’s the worst they could do? Kill him? Break his bones? Cut off a finger? He swallowed convulsively. A hand? Marten walked faster, pushing through his creaking front gate and letting it snick closed.