“People hang for less than that.” I tug on his chain. “The stable is this way.”
As we cross the courtyard, we keep close to the walls in an attempt to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible. I pause silently at the cluster of guards on the gate tower, then again at the sentries patrolling the battlements, wanting Maraud to see for himself why we could not just walk out of here.
When we finally reach the stable, it is full of a colorful collection of fools, men dressed as maids, and two kings. Someone dressed in a black cloak with a crow mask tucked under his arm talks to a man wearing stag’s antlers.
We fit right in. Someone—the steward perhaps?—has provided jugs of wine and rough bread and cheese—appeasement, perhaps, for the canceled performance.
Luckily, everyone is so busy either grumbling or swigging wine that we are able to slip in unnoticed.
Or so I think.
Two steps inside the door, a hand reaches out and grabs my arm. I freeze.
It is Alips from the kitchen. A thick, solid woman, tonight she is dressed in the dark green and gold of Dea Matrona, a wreath sitting crookedly atop her head. “Don’t worry, dearie. All of our welcomes won’t be like this.” She leans in close, close enough that I can smell the wine on her breath. “No one saw you slip in among us. The others won’t even know you’re missing. We always lose a few this time of year. Just be sure and be back by the day after Epiphany, and no one will be any the wiser.”
She thinks I am one of the castle servants who plan to join the mummers in their revelries. “Very well, ma’am.”
She gives Maraud a long appraising look before winking at me in approval. Then she turns to a yellow-costumed fool who is arguing with one of the red-and-black-masked hellequin. We are forgotten.
Even though others have begun to remove their cumbersome masks and the bulkier parts of their costumes, Maraud and I leave ours on until we reach a remote corner of the stable. The stall is as far away from the door—and inquiring eyes—as possible. “We’ll sleep here.” I hold up a finger. “And not one word. Not one. We are out of the chateau, and that is what matters.”
He says nothing.
I shrug. “You can take off your mask, if you wish.”
He tilts his wolfish head at me, then reaches out and jiggles the chain.
He watches me closely—too closely—as I detach the chain from around his neck. When I am finished, I quickly step back.
He lifts the mask from his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “Sweet Jesu, it’s hot in that thing.”
When I go to remove my own helmet, he is still watching me, so I turn my back to him and lift it from my head, grateful for the cool air on my hot cheeks and scalp.
“Is your ability to alter yourself so completely one of Mortain’s arts?” he asks.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“When we stepped out of the stairwell tonight, you lowered your head, your shoulders drew in, your whole body shifted. It was like watching someone bank a fire. But when you are sparring, or fighting, or yelling at me, your shoulders are straight, your head and chin are up, daring the world to be so foolish as to overlook you.” He tilts his head, studying my face. “Even your eyes. I do not know how you do it, but the vividness of them recedes when you choose it.”
I nearly laugh. It is not Mortain’s art at all, but the survival skills of a whore’s daughter who must move in a sea of nobles without being detected. “Hush your prattle.” I dump my helmet on the floor. “We have a long walk to Jarnac tomorrow, and you will need all your strength to keep up.”
I kick the straw on the floor into a lumpy pile, then lie down, stretching out my full length. A moment later, Maraud does the same, although to my great annoyance, it is closer to me than I would like. His very existence is demanding small intimacies I’ve no wish to share.
There is a rustling in the straw a few stalls over as a furtive coupling takes place. A whispered argument between two voices slurred with drink. There are even, when the other noises are quiet, the sounds of horses, stomping an occasional foot or whinnying softly at all the unfamiliar activity.
“How much longer until I need the antidote?” His question comes out of the darkness, as offhand and casual as if asking how long until the planting season might begin.
“Not until late morning. You are fine.”
“Must I take it forever?”
“No. Only for a month. After that, the poison will have worked its way out of your body.”
“I gave you my word,” he grumbles as he pokes at the straw to soften the prickliest parts.
“And we both know precisely how much that is worth.”
“I never promised you I would not try to escape.”
Is that true? I fold my hands under my head and cast my mind back over all our conversations. “I did not ask you to say the words out loud, no, but I explained escaping was not part of our bargain, and you agreed to that. Therefore, your word is tarnished in my eyes.”
When he says nothing, I remove my hands and turn to my side, pillowing my head with my arm as I make myself comfortable.
It’s hard not to question my decision to bring him along. He has betrayed my trust, proved that he is ruthless, and taken me for a fool. I owe him nothing. I made clear that his freedom was never part of the bargain. He is an extra assurance, much like the poisoned needles I wear inside my sleeves. That is all. That is the only reason I have brought him.
It is not because I have grown fond of him like one does a cat. Or because of all the times he could easily have overpowered me but chose not to. It is not because he wished to rescue me as well as claim his own freedom.
He is a valuable negotiating tool. Nothing more.
Something hot and sharp stabs at me. The hay, which had seemed so comfortable only moments ago, now feels prickly and pokes roughly through my tunic.
“What are you worried about?” Maraud asks.
“You should be sleeping. It is more than ten miles to the next town. If you cannot make it, I will not be able to carry you.”
He shrugs. “If I have to drag myself by my arms, crawl on my hands and knees, or tie myself to a passing cart, I will keep up. I will not go back into that hole.” He says this so simply that it would be easy to miss the underlying note of ferocity that runs through it. He turns to look at me again. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
It is all I can do not to flinch under his gratitude. “We shall see.”
?Chapter 57
hen I open my eyes in the morning, the first thing I see is Maraud. While I am pleased he did not try to escape during the night, I am not pleased that his head is propped on his elbow and he is watching me.
I squint against the morning light spilling into the stable and scrub my face with my hands, using the movement to check that I was not drooling. “What are you staring at?”