The server remained on her knees, tears streaking through the paint on her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs, not making a sound. The tavern had gone remarkably silent around them.
Destin looked from the terrified girl to Clermont, and back again, speechless with mingled relief and disgust. It was just as well he was speechless, since Clermont technically outranked him. After a moment, he leaned forward and put two fingers under the server’s chin so that she opened her eyes. “You’re all right,” he muttered. “It’s just hair.” He jerked his head, giving her permission to go.
The girl picked up the tray and the tankards. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her lip quivering. She didn’t look grateful, though. And she moved away quickly. Her hair remained, like pale gold threads scattered on the battered plank floor.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Clermont mused. “We’ll be lucky if we get another drink all night.”
“You’re right,” Destin said. “You shouldn’t have done that. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that the marked girl is not to be harmed in any way.”
Still, the episode of the hair had given him an idea. Not foolproof, but better than the strategy so far, which was none. And less dangerous than turning the blackbirds loose on the populace.
“Clermont, could you set up a meeting with the mayor—tomorrow, if possible?”
“Why?” Clermont’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“Let’s surprise him, shall we?”
15
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
Lila dressed carefully in her cellar room. It was small, but at least she had it to herself.
Suitable attire was always a challenge at Ardenscourt. Because other women at court were either fine ladies or maidservants, Lila had no template to follow. She’d finally hit on a kind of uniform—an overdress in the same sober blue that court scribes wore. She laced it over a long-sleeved linen shirt and black underskirt. The result was a prim, schoolteacher look, like a dedicate in one of the more lenient churches. Having hit on that, she had several made.
Her dark skin helped her blend into a servant class that was mostly made up of races from the conquered lands to the south. With any luck, her Ardenine colleagues would forget she was a woman at all.
To the nobility, she was a trader and smuggler. They had come to rely on her as a person who could, despite the war, procure most anything desired by people in the south who were used to getting what they wanted: clan-made jewelry, remedies, perfumes, tack and leather goods, the scrying balls that allowed bored Ardenine ladies to look ahead and see their boring futures.
She evaluated herself in the looking glass by the door, careful to tuck her serpent’s tooth talisman into the neckline of her shirt. Crafted of rowan, ebony, and ivory, it had been given to her by her clan friend and sometime partner, Shadow Dancer. It had proven itself once again when Destin cornered her and questioned her with persuasion soon after the meeting in the garden.
Then he’d disappeared. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to learn anything about his whereabouts. She hoped he still lived. She’d stuck out her neck to save him, after all. Though, truth be told, she had enjoyed his flustered reaction to her story about the princeling’s fit of crazy.
Hearing the temple bell mark the quarter hour, Lila knew it was time to go. Slinging her carry bag over her shoulder, she bolted out the door.
She’d been called to a meeting with the king and Marin Karn, the general of the southern armies and the architect of the war against the Fells. She’d not met the general before, since Lila usually came to Ardenscourt during the marching season, when General Karn was in the field. She tried to tell herself that this was what she’d wanted all along—to be allowed the kind of access that would enable her to play the big game. But she missed having the insulation of Destin Karn between her and the king.
She moved through the corridors at a trot, afraid she’d taken too much time primping, worried she’d be late. She climbed the stairs from the cellar and passed swiftly through the labyrinth of echoing, marble-faced hallways, intentionally confusing to the untutored, until she reached the unmarked entrance to the king’s apartments.
The blackbirds at the door were familiar. Fleury and DeJardin. Though Lila was taller than many, Fleury could have made three of her. He wore a wicked-looking sword strapped to his waist and the black of the King’s Guard. DeJardin was a collared mage, pinch-faced and wary. A slave. Lila tucked her carry bag more securely under her arm.
“What’s in the bag, girl?” Fleury demanded. He knew her name, but never used it.
Lila thrust her carry bag toward him, knowing there was no getting out of it. “Have a look,” she said, avoiding DeJardin’s eyes.
Fleury poked through the bag, smirked at DeJardin, and handed it back. “Search her,” he said to DeJardin.