Shadow Dance Page 12

  With a start, I realized what he was saying. "You want me to go with you?"

  NaVarre lifted a brow, still studying me intently. "Yes. Absolutely. You'd be perfect." He quirked a little grin.

  A weight began settling on my shoulders. I swallowed. "And if you go to this party, will you be able to find out who is running the Coventry?"

  His grin faded to a serious line. "There's a good chance, yes. More than a good chance, if I'm right about Reixham."

  I was nodding as if everything made perfect sense, while that weight on my shoulders grew, dragging at my bones. I took a breath, letting it out as I looked at the floor.

  "I won't lie. It's not going to be easy," he said quietly. "This won't be anything like the Harvest Balls you're used to. These people aren't a bunch of polite society mammas sitting around a drawing room, sipping mulled punch and gossiping. If you make even a tiny mistake they will turn on you... and your job will be to keep them distracted while I slip away from the party."

  I pictured Ydara and Jinny and Grenna standing side by side in the Dormitory courtyard. Char, hiding her food. The boy with the broken legs. My father. Obyrron. As if from a distance I heard myself say, "I'm in. I'll do it." It was a strange mix, that absolute certainty and the intense weariness that followed.

  Silence fell.

  NaVarre shifted his weight. Then he cleared his throat. "Thank you." Suddenly he straightened and drummed his hands on the top of his desk. "Well, I, for one, have had enough of this mess for the moment. I vote we go do something fun. Get out of here. How does that sound?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Good? Good. Go on up to your rooms. I've sent something up for you. Meet me back in the hall in an hour. I'll have Cook prepare a bag lunch."

  ~~~

  Circularri: (serk-oo-lah-ree). A large, elaborately decorated central conversation room common in Lodesian high society architecture, designed to show off the wealth of the owner. It is the first room accessed from the public entrance, and is often round, with other passages leading off of it. Newer construction may have a dome overhead, but in older estates the roof is left open in the middle. Only those accepted into the owner's inner-most circle are allowed past the circularri and into the rest of the house, thus the phrase, "I'm past the circularri" connotes having an in with someone powerful or rich, having good prospects, or having a reliable source of income or information.

  20. Surprises Come in all Sizes

  33rd of Nima, Continued

  NaVarre was standing in the foyer, his back to the main staircase. He hadn't heard me yet, and I hesitated on the balcony above him. The sky beyond the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows was a clear azure, the air thick with the honeyed-apple scent of blooming baraboe. I was dressed in a pretty summer riding outfit, my hair pinned up under an adorable hat, and an extremely rich (and devilishly handsome) man was about to take me on a riding tour of his sprawling plantation. Betha would have melted into a romantic puddle if she knew, but after sleeping in a hut made of logs, wearing mud to escape biting flies, and running from things with too many teeth, it just seemed unreal. Or perhaps I was unreal.

  Slowly, I placed my hand on the marble banister. It was cool and smooth. Solid. Real. I was almost jealous.

  What a strange thing to be thinking.

  I took a breath. Let it out. Then I let go of the banister, gathered my skirts and started down the stairs.

  NaVarre lifted his head at the sound of my wooden riding heels and turned to look up at me. His came all the way round, his teeth flashing in a sun-stealing smile. "I have to say, that shade of green suits you very well."

  I inclined my head. "Thank you." You would. You picked it. Just like the pink day dress from this morning.

  NaVarre's smile gave way to a boyish grin, but the sparkle in his eyes didn't dim. When I reached the bottom, he offered his arm and quirked a brow.

  Without a word, I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, following along as he ushered me through the lofty front doors, out into the sunlight, and down the front steps to the drive.

  "I have a surprise for you." He gave me a sidelong glance as he led the way around the curve of the carriage loop, toward an arched gate set in the ivy-covered wall that formed one side of the manor courtyard.

  "A surprise," I got out, trying not to wince. The new riding boots were lovely, but my feet were still quite sore.

  NaVarre just flashed that big, pretty smile as we drew near the gate, and he held it open for me.

  Unsure what I should think, I walked through in front of him. The smell of horses and fresh sawdust met us. The gate led under an archway and into a sandy exercise yard bordered by a well-kept stable. Long equine faces peered out at us over half-doors, tear-drop ears pricked in our direction.

  In the middle of the yard, a stable lad stood with a pewter dappled Dollano mare.

  "This is Flyte," NaVarre said simply.

  I smiled. Large, liquid-dark eyes, a neat white star and blaze, a regal head and that signature arched Dollano neck. She had to have cost a small fortune. "She's lovely."

  NaVarre didn't say anything. He just handed me a carrot from his jacket pocket, urged me forward with a touch to my shoulder, then took the lead rope from the lad. The mare did the rest, working her sweet-natured magic, whickering softly as I held out the treat and let her lip it from my fingers.

  "Your father mentioned how much you loved riding, so I thought... maybe she would give you something to enjoy here."

  I turned to look up at him. He was right. I had loved riding, as well as a great many other things. Things that couldn't be replaced, no matter how beautiful the replacement. I glanced away, wishing he hadn't said anything.

  Flyte finished her carrot and nosed hopefully at my hand. I let out a little, shaky chuckle and let her take the rest of the greens.

  NaVarre came to stand on the other side of the mare's head, rubbing his hands behind her ears and down her neck, calm and steady. "I've found that to be the hardest part, making new memories that they aren't part of. Laughing without them." He glanced at me, unusually somber.

  There was a long moment of silence between us. Then NaVarre cleared his throat, his tone oddly cheerful. "Well, she's yours whenever you want her. So. What say we see how she does against Aestrul in a fence chase? Think you're up for it?"

  I hesitated, but then gave in and nodded, smiling again.

  Twenty minutes later Aestrul, NaVarre's big bay springer, and Flyte were both saddled up, and we were flying down a dirt road that ran along the inside of the perimeter wall, heading for the vast, rolling emerald sea of sugarcane that was the 'lower fields'.

  It was exhilarating. Part of me knew that. Part of me relished the wind in my hair, the way the sun streamed down through the trees to dapple the road in gold, and the lush, vibrant green of everything. NaVarre took me to the top of a hill overlooking the manor and the river, and we ate a lovely lunch of cold pheasant, chilled white wine, cheese and fruit. He told me what he wanted to do to expand the drainage fields so he could hire more workers, and part of me listened and smiled. It was all very civilized and sweet.

  But from where we were sitting, I could see past the manor to the gate I had stumbled upon in the perimeter wall; the gate that stood between the plantation and the wilderness.

  Arramy had come close to bleeding out in my arms as the wagon rattled through that gate. I had saved the man who had betrayed us all, the same man that had nearly died to save my life. This man I would now have to fool into believing I still trusted him.

  I hadn't realized until then just how much I had come to think of Arramy as a constant, an immovable rock, cold and unyielding but still on my side even if only out of a sense of duty. I had lost that now, too, and it was hitting harder than I wanted to admit, leaving me drifting and empty.

  One more thing. That was what I had said when I left the Island. One more thing, and then I could go back, try to find a way forward, to make a life for myself; but one more thing ha
d turned into yet another thing, and with each thing it seemed I had to lose something more.

  I shivered in spite of the warm summer sun and turned away from the gates to look at NaVarre instead.

  ~~~

  Two hours later, we returned to the manor, where NaVarre was called away by one of his field hands.

  I went up to my rooms to get ready for supper.

  Or, that was my intention. My feet had other ideas. Instead of turning down the hallway that ended at my suite, I kept going. A few minutes later I was standing in front of Arramy's door, hesitating, unsure why I was even there and more than a little irritated by the urge to find out if he was awake yet.

  The hallway was quiet. That was the only reason I heard the splash of water as I lifted the latch pull. I froze in the act of pushing the door open, caught off guard by what I saw through the crack between the door and frame.

  Arramy was lying flat on the bed, wearing nothing but a towel draped across his hips; Ina was bending over him, humming softly as she washed his bare skin with a wet sponge.

  My heart stopped, then began beating too fast.

  She was being gentle, careful of his unbandaged sutures. She wasn't doing anything unseemly. There was no reason for the lurch in my chest, or the weird, queasy sensation that something was unraveling in my middle as I backed into the hallway, but it still felt very much like I had seen something I shouldn't have.

  I heard Mrs. Burre say, quietly, "That'll do, Ina, thank you. Now. What is the first thing we do to redress the sutures?"

  There was some more splashing, and then Ina said, "Tinctured honey first, then gauze."

  Dragging in a shallow breath, I about-faced and headed for the balcony. I was nearly to the corner when something clattered to the floor in Arramy's room, followed by the sound of furniture being moved in a hurry, and Mrs. Burre saying, loudly, "Wait, Captain, we haven't finished changing your —"

  There was a muffled curse in a familiar Altyran brogue. Then the door came flying open with a bang, and Arramy lurched out into the hallway, clutching the towel around his waist with one hand, the other hand supporting his weight on the wall.

  My stride faltered. I watched, spellbound, as he turned to his right, peering away from me down the hallway, clearly unaware that I was there. Then he swayed and swung around toward the balcony, his attention on where he was putting his bare feet as he took two wobbly, limping steps. Then he brought his head up and came to a halt, his eyes locking on my face.

  For one breathless, aching second we stared at each other.

  His lips parted, and I almost thought he was going to say something.

  The next instant Mrs. Burre and Ina came through the door behind him, Mrs. Burre loudly ordering him back to bed. He held my gaze but closed his mouth on whatever he had been about to say, his jaw tightening as he let Mrs. Burre and Ina help him back into his room.

  Stunned, I stood there, rooted to the floor. Then I brought my hands to my mouth to cover a crazed laugh that ended on a weird, airless little sob. Slowly, I turned around again and walked away. No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn't make myself remember how dangerous he was, and how careful I would have to be around him. My stupid heart was just glad he wasn't dead.

  21. Breathe, Moth

  33rd of Nima, Continued

  There was a story Mrs. Fosspotter once told me about a boy in the town where she grew up. This boy would take a candle-mirror outside at night to catch moths, and as a little girl, she would go out to catch lancet moths with him. They were pretty and red and she thought it was all for fun, until she found out that the boy was feeding the moths to his collection of spiders.

  The next night, she went out, broke his candle-mirror, and set all the moths free. He sobbed and ran back to his house, and she thought she had won. But a few nights later he had a new candle and a new mirror, and he was out on the green catching moths again, and he wouldn't let her anywhere near them.

  The lesson of her story was that our actions can have much different outcomes than we think.

  I began to see that story in a new light as the next few days unfolded: I was a moth, and the Coventry were the spiders. I wasn't entirely sure what that made Arramy – the jar, a spider, the flame, the mirror, another moth, or a seven-year-old Mrs. Fosspotter. NaVarre, it turned out, was the little boy.

  Like a moth dancing closer and closer to a flame, I went along with what the little boy wanted, at once rebelling against the idea that Arramy really had betrayed us, and terrified that I would give something away and wind up burned. Arramy could read lies on a person from a league off, and knowing him, it would only take one slip-up to have that devious brain of his working out exactly what was going on.

  To make matters even more complicated, we had to start our performance much earlier than planned. In fact, we were in the middle of coming up with what we would tell Arramy when the man himself came into NaVarre's study after dinner.

  ~~~

  "All we need to say is that we're going to a party to find out more about the man hosting it. That's it," NaVarre said quietly.

  I tipped my head back on the cushion of the armchair I was slouching in. "Where? Who? I need something. Our stories have to match."

  "Anywhere. It doesn't matter. Pick a spot."

  "Lake Brunallis," I said dully. "It's in the same direction as Arritagne."

  NaVarre nodded once. "Good. The party is being thrown by Pha-Mun-Ghour. His name is all over the manifest —"

  The gritch of the bolts sliding out of the study door cut his words off short. NaVarre and I froze, staring at each other. Then NaVarre mouthed, "Did you leave it unlocked?"

  I shook my head, and both of us plastered smiles on our faces as the metal panel slid back, and the wooden door swung inward.

  Arramy stood in the doorway. "Mrs. Burre said you would be in here. You ah... need a better combination," he muttered as he came all the way in.

  My heart instantly began pounding. Natural. Just act natural.

  NaVarre got quickly to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk, flashing that big, debonair smile. "I thought you were going to stay in bed for a week. You look like flaigha," he laughed, moving to greet Arramy with a warm handclasp and a swat to his uninjured shoulder. "It's good to see you up and walking around."

  A little half-grin tugged at a corner of Arramy's mouth, and he returned NaVarre's handshake. "Thanks. Same to you." His eyes found mine and he went quiet, then inclined his head. "Hello, Brenorra."

  Stop gawking. It's just your name, you've heard it before. I managed a nod.

  He really did look like flaigha. His left arm was in a sling and he was using a cane. His shirt hid the bandages but not quite all the pain as he turned back to NaVarre, his grin disappearing into stern lines. "We need to talk."

  NaVarre's expression didn't falter. "Have a seat then. Tea?"

  Arramy remained standing, watching NaVarre pour Praidani into a large mug from the tray. "We have a leak. Someone tipped them off. It couldn't have been an accident, that many agents showing up at the Vault."

  My mouth went try. I licked my lips, my gaze darting from Arramy to NaVarre and back.

  NaVarre handed Arramy the mug of tea before going back to sit behind his desk. "I've been thinking the same thing. They shouldn't have been able to get there that fast," he said. Then, without any hint that he was leading Arramy on, he asked, seriously, "Do you have any idea who the leak might be?"

  As if unsure what else to do, Arramy put his tea down on the rakai table and sank into the armchair across from mine. "I was hoping to get back to Nim K tomorrow. Contact some of my sources. See what I can find."

  "Nonsense," NaVarre said, then cracked another smile. "You're still held together with suture string. I've got sources of my own. I'll go."

  Arramy stared at NaVarre for a long moment, a muscle flickering in his jaw. Then he looked at me again. "So... what was in the binder?"

  It was my turn. Dredging up the conversation I ha
d just covered with NaVarre, I waded in. "Well, we know a few names. Desmodian Pha-Mun-Ghour, and Fairgiver Provisions and Mercantile. He's the link NaVarre has been looking for," I said, glad when the half-lies came out smooth and easy. "Mun-Ghour is throwing a big party in a few months at his home on Lake Brunallis, so that's our next step. We're going to get into the party to see if we can find anything linking Pha-Mun-Ghour to the Coventry."

  The names weren't what caught his attention.

  "We?" Arramy cut a glare at NaVarre. "You're gonna make her go with you?"

  NaVarre opened his mouth, but I beat him to it. "NaVarre isn't making me do anything. It was my decision. I agreed to go."

  Arramy shot a sidelong glance at me.

  "He needs someone he can trust," I added, starting to blush, my pulse tripping. "And he needs a woman to go with him so he doesn't attract the wrong kind of attention." That wasn't a lie, but it came out sounding very much like a string of excuses. I pressed my lips together.

  Arramy frowned. "Let me guess. The Coventry will be at this party?"

  "I believe so, yes," NaVarre said.

  "So... You're still parading her around in front of people who want her dead." Arramy shook his head as if disgusted. Then he ripped the stiffening right out of me. "She's a liability. She's not trained for this."

  Stunned, I gaped at him. A liability? I swallowed, but the barb had already worked its way in deep. And if I was honest with myself, as much as his words stung, he was right. I didn't have to look farther than a mirror to see the truth in the purple-green lines on my throat.

  "Oh, I think she'll do alright," NaVarre drawled, lifting an eyebrow. "This is a different sort of battle than you're used to, Captain. This isn't a ship you can pound to smithereens. We're coaxing a viper from its den. You show up with the wrong bait, that viper is going to flee deeper into its tunnels, and you will never find it. But if you give it what it wants, it will come out where you can chop off its head. Our Miss Warring is exactly what these vipers like – and for her it's not an act. She won't accidentally pick up the wrong fork at dinner, or curtsy to the wrong person, or turn the wrong direction in a gavant. Better than that, though, I know she's smart and resourceful enough to handle herself in tough situations." NaVarre smiled a little. "She has proven that many times over."