The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN





IN THE MORNING, once she’d scrubbed the duke from her skin, Britta dressed. Yasma brought two goblets on a tray.

Britta drank the dung root juice, but put the second goblet aside. She took a deep breath. “Yasma, I must speak with you about something.”

“Yes?”

She glanced at the door into the salon. It was closed. Even so, she lowered her voice: “You know that Lundegaard is taking in refugees from Vaere?”

Yasma nodded.

“The boats are landing at the Hook, in southern Lundegaard. Near the goldfields.” Britta looked down at her tunic and picked at a loose thread, wound it around her fingertip. “Not all the refugees are genuine. So far three squadrons of our soldiers have slipped in. One hundred and fifty men. Another squadron is due to depart this week.” She glanced up at Yasma. “Once enough men are in place, they’ll take the goldfields. And once the goldfields are secure, my father has promise of a fleet of Sarkosian mercenaries. With our army and navy, and the mercenaries, Lundegaard doesn’t stand a chance.”

Yasma’s lips were half-parted, her expression aghast.

Britta took a deep breath. “I want to stop them. And the only way I can think of is to inform the ambassador from Lundegaard.”

“But—” Yasma broke off, swallowed. “Britta, your father will kill you!”

“If he finds out, yes.” She looked down at the thread wound around her fingertip. “I hope he won’t. That’s where I need your help.”

“How?”

Britta unwound the thread. She walked around the foot of the bed and opened the door to the study. The shutters were open this morning. I must remember that when I leave. “First, I must copy the plans and the maps. Will you keep watch for me?”

Yasma nodded. Her hands twisted in a nervous, wringing movement.

“Does anyone else ever come in here? Rickard’s bondservant?”

“He never comes past the dressing room.”

“Good.” Britta rubbed her brow. “I must contact the ambassador without being observed. My head’s too slow, Yasma. I can’t think of a way. If you can think of one, I should be very grateful.”

The girl nodded again. Her eyes were wide and frightened.





WHEN THE FOURTH bell rang, Britta began clearing away the parchment. She moved slowly, carefully, capping the ink flask, wiping the ink from the quill she’d used, gathering together the sheets of paper.

Her fingers weren’t as deft as they’d once been. If she fumbled, if she dropped something, spilled ink—

She paused, gathered calmness around her again, and continued placing the items back where she had found them. Then she picked up the pages she’d copied. She counted them: five. Too slow. But if she wrote any faster, the words had a way of turning into unreadable scrawls.

Britta took one last look around the study, satisfying herself that no sign of her presence remained, then backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Yasma looked up from her mending. Relief was bright in her eyes. “You’ve finished?”

“For today,” Britta said.

The next question was where to hide the pages she’d copied? Somewhere Yasma wouldn’t be implicated if they were found. But she must be implicated. She’s my maid; how could I do this without her knowledge?

It was a sobering realization. It wasn’t merely her own life she risked with this. She’d turned Yasma into a traitor too.

The only two hiding places Britta could think of were among her clothes in the dressing room, or under the mattress of the big bed. Neither seemed particularly safe. She chose the bed, shoving the pages under the mattress. She liked the irony of it: the duke sleeping on top of documents that would destroy his planned invasion.

“Princess,” Yasma said, behind her. “I’ve thought of a way to pass the information to the ambassador.”

Britta rose and brushed the creases from her long tunic. “Yes?”

“You give it to his wife.”

“How?”

“I thought...a garden party. To celebrate your marriage. You can invite the highest ranking ladies of the court, and the ambassadors’ wives.”

Britta nodded.

“You’ll give them each a gift, a token.” Yasma handed her the goblet containing the poppy juice.

“And to the ambassador’s wife, I give the papers.”

“Yes.”

Britta swallowed half the poppy juice. She hesitated, then gave the goblet to Yasma. She had to clench her hands to keep from snatching it back.

“What do you think?” Yasma asked.

Britta dragged her attention away from the poppy juice. “I think it’ll serve very well.”