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  "You're telling me you cannot possibly teach a soldier to curtsy," Arramy shot back.

  NaVarre let out a short laugh. "I could teach a pig to curtsy if I had the time, but I don't. These particular vipers can smell an assassination attempt a mile away. In fact, they hire assassins to sniff out other assassins. Your soldier wouldn't make it through the front gate. It will be far easier to teach Bren to shoot a pistol and hope she doesn't have to, than hope a trained killer will be able to pass for a lady."

  Arramy regarded NaVarre, absolutely motionless. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "If this all goes sideways and she gets caught... If they get their hands on her... You know what they'll — " he stopped abruptly and glowered at the floor, brows low. Leaning heavily on his cane, he pushed himself to his feet and looked down at me, that fierce glare of his gone somber. "He's going to get you killed, Bren."

  "Yes. Well," I said, my throat tight, "better me than someone else." I held his gaze, the dull heat of anger throbbing in my chest, something sharper twisting just below it, digging deep into a vulnerable part of me I wished I didn't have.

  Finally, Arramy nodded once, turned, and limped for the door without a word.

  I flinched as the soundproofed panel slid shut behind him, the bolts clicking into place.

  NaVarre let out a low whistle and bent over his desk to rest his elbows on the blotter, steepling his hands in front of his nose. "That actually went better than I thought it would."

  I realized I was holding my breath and let it out, my shoulders sagging. NaVarre thought I could do it, why did it matter if Arramy didn't? Because Arramy is the reason you're alive and you don't want to admit he might have had an ulterior motive... I lifted my head and rubbed at the knot of tension blossoming at the base of my skull, then glanced wearily at NaVarre. "He just walked in here and told us he thinks there's a leak. Why would he do that if he's the leak?"

  "Because he wants to throw us off his trail by making us look at someone else..." NaVarre mumbled behind his fingers. "That's what I would do."

  "That's what we're doing," I muttered.

  NaVarre's mouth pulled down at the corners. "True."

  "So. He seems to have bought the story about Lake Brunallis and Pha-Mun-Ghour. Now what?"

  "Now we need to come up with your new identity." He eyed me over his fingertips. "How would you feel about becoming Lady Hagenost's ward?"

  And we were back to inventing details I would have to remember. "Wouldn't that be the sort of thing people could research?"

  NaVarre shook his head and lowered his hands. "Lady Hagenost is known for taking in young women. Grooming them for society. She's also famous for 'losing' them to a certain sort of aristocrat." He pulled a self-deprecating mug. "No one would be at all surprised if Lord Braeton was one of those aristocrats. Which brings up another... thing..." He actually blushed a little as he went on. "I'll ah... have to introduce you around town as my newest love interest."

  I started laughing. I couldn't help it. It just popped out as an unladylike snort and grew from there, the tension easing in my chest.

  "Oh, come on," he deadpanned. "It wouldn't be that bad, would it?"

  "No! No. I'm sorry! I am," I managed. "It was just... your face when you said, 'love interest,' you got all bug-eyed and worried like you were about to tell me I've contracted a terrifying disease."

  "Yes, well... thank you. I think. Stop laughing."

  "I can't! You're still making the face!"

  ~~~

  Three hours later we had hashed out a backstory that would be simple enough to remember, and plain enough to be uninteresting. My name would be Pendar Tarastrian – common West Tetton first and family names – and I was the daughter of a grocer and a mending woman. I wound up in Lady Hagenost's collection because I worked on her winter estate south of Flaje, and she took a liking to me.

  I should have gone to bed when we stopped, I suppose, but the fire was warm and the armchair was comfortable, and my feet were so tired. NaVarre was writing notes in his little black ledger. I told myself I would just close my eyes for a wink before making the trek to my rooms.

  The next thing I knew, I was being carried down the hallway, held like a child in a pair of muscular arms.

  I opened my eyes, my sleepy brain prepared to see Arramy, only to find myself looking at NaVarre's finely made jaw instead. I drifted off to the thought that I should be alarmed by my own disappointment, and then roused slightly again when NaVarre placed me on my bed and gently removed my shoes. I had very nearly let go of reality when he paused after tucking the summer blanket around me and stood there, looming over me in the dim light of the candle on the nightstand. His words were barely audible, and I might have dreamt it, but I could have sworn he leaned closer and whispered, "I'm starting to understand why your father never let me meet you... Goodnight, Brenorra Warring."

  I heard his footsteps, then the door, and then I was running down endless green corridors on a sinking ship, chasing someone I couldn't see.

  22. Target Practice

  34th of Nima

  It was a shame, really. The morning turned out to be absolutely perfect; the sort of morning I used to love, with a sky of rich blue blushing to palest pink, and a sweet breeze that smelled of dew and earth and growing things. Back home I would have taken my tea on the veranda, then spent an hour or two reading in the swing because there was nothing more important to do.

  Instead, I woke from a nightmare, and rather than brave my pillow once more, I tiptoed down the hall and went sneaking around NaVarre's library, hunting through the Informationals section until I found what I was looking for. In a matter of minutes, I had a list of the other things I needed and went about collecting them. Then, with the sun creeping into the sky in a slow, glorious, gilded ripple, I walked out to the target range at the far end of the strolling green and set to work trying to become less of a 'liability.'

  An hour later, I flinched as the pistol bucked in my hands, kicking upward, the bullet tearing from the barrel with a loud crack that fractured the serenity of the garden. A chunk of bark went flying from a tree twenty meters beyond the target.

  I heaved a sigh and began reloading the pistol the way the book had said.

  The strolling green was quiet. Too quiet. I had frightened away all the wildlife. Not even the birds wanted to be anywhere near me, and I couldn't blame them. Why sing when at any second you might be shot by the idiot who couldn't hit a haystack if it got up and smacked her in the face —

  "That isn't a lady's Misinet. Use both hands to hold the grip."

  Arramy's words were calm, but his voice still sent a strange mix of panic and relief sliding down my spine. I froze, my breath snagging in my throat as he came to stand next to me.

  He held out his hand, silently requesting that I let him have the pistol.

  Moving slowly, I finished loading it and handed it over, fully expecting him to send me back to the house with a scolding. He just tested the weight, checked the round in the chamber, then took the grip in his right hand and cupped the bottom of it in his left hand as he sighted down the barrel. "Like so," he murmured, holding the pistol out to me.

  I eyed him, then took the pistol back and mimicked his stance and the way he had held the gun. Right then. You would have let him help you before, so you have to let him help you now. Keep up appearances. You can do this. And besides. This is highly ironic if he's actually Coventry.

  "Good. Keep your elbows loose." He lifted his own hands as if he were holding the pistol to illustrate what he meant. "Thumbs together and out of the way of the recoil rod."

  I copied what he was doing, took aim at the target and fired, stifling the urge to cringe at the sound of the shot. There was a distinct jingle of bells, indicating that I had at least hit the target's frame. I felt like doing a little victory dance but settled for sliding another round into the chamber and trying again.

  "Arms loose... thumbs together," Arramy said as I brought the pistol up again.<
br />
  Again, the shot hit the frame with a tinkle of bells. I still wasn't anywhere near the circle, though.

  "Alright. This time I want you to hold your breath when you fire," Arramy said, taking the gun from me and bringing it up into firing position. He took aim, this time with his left hand, then drew an audible breath, holding it when he pulled the trigger.

  There was a puff of red dust and a silvery jingle of chimes as the bullet slammed into the tattle-bag. He had hit the thing dead center.

  He handed the pistol back, and I started again. Right hand on the grip, left hand under, one foot a bit ahead of the other, arms loose. Thumbs together. Take aim. Hold your breath –

  "Finesse it," Arramy said. "Let it out just until it's easy to hold. There. Feel that? That moment when you don't have to breathe quite yet? That's what you want."

  I took aim and fired. This time a little black hole appeared in the white at the bottom edge of the target. I let a smile break through as I slid another round into the chamber, yanked the ramming pin back, and tried again. Arms loose. Thumbs together. Take aim. Finesse the breath. Fire.

  Another black dot appeared on the target amid a silvery jingle, this time a little to the left and up from the other one.

  I loaded and fired. Another little black dot.

  I reloaded and took aim more carefully this time. Arms loose. Thumbs together. Take aim. Hold your... breath...

  My thoughts scattered as Arramy stepped up behind me and leaned down to put his arms along mine, his chin brushing the top of my head, his hands completely covering my fingers. His breath warmed my hair as he took aim at the target, bringing the nose of the gun up farther than I thought it should go. "Bullets fall as they fly," he said, his voice a deep rasp above my ear. "The farther the distance, the farther they fall before they hit your target."

  He squeezed the trigger. Another tell-tale puff of red chalk dust shot into the air.

  Slowly, he lowered the gun, bringing my hands down with his. He stayed there behind me. Unmoving.

  He smelled clean, like bayberry and evergreen soap, and I very nearly turned around to rest my head against his chest, wanting to burrow into that steadiness that seemed to keep the world from tilting quite so much. The urge was so strong I actually swayed when he stepped back.

  I gave myself a vicious mental shaking. This had to stop. I couldn't trust him anymore. My heart ached and beat frantic as a bird in my chest, and my stupid fingers were wooden as I fumbled in the bag of bullets. I dropped one before I got the pistol reloaded. I ground my teeth and went through the motions again. Hand on the grip, other hand under... arms loose... thumbs together... take aim... don't breathe... fire. Wait, bullets fall...

  The shot went wide and I rolled my eyes. Get a grip, ninny.

  I reloaded, brought the gun up, and tried again, angrily shoving away the lingering warmth of Arramy's arms around me. There was another jingle of bells and a puff of green dust went up. I had hit the outermost circle.

  I reloaded and tried again. Another jingle and puff of green.

  "That could have been a leg or shoulder. Well done. Again," Arramy said, digging a round out of the bag and handing it to me.

  There was a puff of purple that time. Two rings in. I slammed another round into the chamber.

  Purple again. Then yellow twice in a row – third ring – followed by a string of purples. My arms were getting shaky, my hands buzzing from the recoil of the heavy Navy issue pistol, my nose and tongue burning with the tang of spent gunpowder. Finally, I stopped and didn't reload.

  "Congratulations. You've dropped a man at fifty yards," Arramy said, sounding almost pleased. He took the pistol from me again, eyeing me askance as he also bent and picked up the bag of bullets I had 'borrowed' from NaVarre's armamentary. "Please don't take my sidearm again without asking," he muttered.

  I bit my lower lip. We'll see. "Yes, sir."

  ~~~

  When I returned to my rooms, I found Ina bustling about, packing up all my things with the hurried efficiency of an experienced personal maid who has been told her charge is leaving within the hour.

  I paused in the doorway, watching as she buzzed from the bed to the bureau, then back to the bed, then to the closet, then back to the bed, every trip adding clothing to a growing pile tucked neatly into a large, red-lacquered shipping case.

  My refugee clothing was nowhere to be seen. The only things going into the case were the outfits NaVarre had been mysteriously producing from... wherever he kept women's clothes in my exact size. But, as with the riding outfit and the day dresses, none of it felt like it was mine. I hadn't picked out any of the fabrics, I hadn't approved any of the designs. These clothes had been made for a stranger.

  As I looked at all the glorious things on the bed, my stomach tightened. I didn't want to go back. Not like this. I didn't want to wear beautiful clothes and sparkling jewelry. It seemed wrong, as if I was sweeping everything I had lived through beneath a very beautiful, very expensive carpet.

  I cleared my throat. "Ina, where are the clothes I brought with me?"

  Ina let out a little squeak and dropped a hatbox into the traveling case as she whirled to face me. "Oh, stars, Miss, you gave me a scare," she blurted, eyes wide. "I thought I was all alone in here."

  I smiled a little, then tried again. "I apologize... but I was wondering what happened to my things?"

  "Your... things?" Ina's eyes were still wide, though now a little blank with confusion.

  "Ugly grey skirt and blouse, even uglier brown skirt, wide black belt, brand new red linen tirna..." I watched her confusion turn into a flash of recognition.

  "Oh. Those things. The tirna is in the case, but Lord Braeton said to burn everything else, so I put it all in the..." she stopped talking and her mouth formed a small 'o'. Then she stepped quickly to the servant's entrance, leaving the door open as she clattered down the stairs in a rush. I could hear her thin, reedy voice calling wildly, "Merriday, did you take the bin from the Gold Room already?"

  I stood there in the sudden silence and tried telling myself it didn't make much sense to want those ratty, sea-worn things, but they were mine. I had bought them myself, and I had bought them with money my father had handed to me. They were all I really had left of that other life, the life with Father in it.

  I looked at the floor and waited. I should have been angry. At another time I might have been, but in that moment I was only old. Still and cold and ancient as a stone in winter.

  From the depths of the servant's passage I heard the patter of light footsteps ascending the stairs from the kitchen. Rapidly. Then Ina came puffing up the last flight of steps, arriving in an awkward jumble of bony arms and heavy breathing.

  I lifted my head.

  A triumphant smile lit her face. She held up my father's heavy coat and satchel. Then her smile went apologetic. "Merriday had already stuffed the clothes in the incinerator before I got there, but I managed to save this. I'm so sorry, Miss. His Lordship insisted, but I never would have put them out if I had known you still wanted them..." She paused and gave the coat a quick once-over. "I can dust it with whiting. That should get rid of any bugs —"

  "There weren't any bugs," I said, my voice thick. "Just pack it with the rest, please."

  "Yes Miss."

  "Ina?"

  "Yes Miss?"

  "Did Lord Braeton tell you when we would be leaving?"

  Ina's face reddened. "Ah. Yes Miss. I'm sorry, Miss, I thought you would have known already. You'll be leaving for the Coralynne on the hour." Her gaze traveled to my dew-soaked hems and muddied boots. "Shall I find a more suitable outfit?"

  I swallowed. Then nodded. This was my new role, letting NaVarre dress me up and give me things – whether I wanted them or not. While Ina went rummaging through the closet for some never-before-worn finery for me to wear, I took a last look at father's coat in the shipping case and firmed my chin. No more losing things. I would play the role and wear the clothes, but I wasn't going to giv
e up any more of myself without a fight.

  ~~~

  A lady's Misinet: a small snub-nosed pistol designed to be carried discreetly in a pocket. Its small size meant there was little kick, and it could be held and used with one hand. Arramy's Navy pistol was significantly larger and had to be held with both hands while firing.

  23. Work to Do

  34th of Nima, Continued

  We left the plantation an hour later, NaVarre and I in the carriage, Arramy up in the box with the driver of the baggage wagon.

  Penweather and the other marines stayed behind – Mrs. Burre was supposed to keep a close eye on the three of them while we were gone. A simple task, really. They weren't going anywhere. Penweather was the only one who could walk without assistance, and he was nursing an injured shoulder.

  Mrs. Burre wasn't particularly impressed that Arramy was going with us. I watched from inside the lead carriage as she pulled him aside at the bottom of the manor steps, insisting on checking the bandages beneath his shirt one last time, her expression stern. It was an oddly endearing image, a mother straightening the collar of her son's school jacket before sending him out the door.

  Annoyed, I looked away when Arramy turned and headed for the luggage wagon.

  NaVarre rapped on the carriage ceiling with the handle of his walking stick, the driver clucked to the horses, and then we were rolling down the long treelined drive that split the plantation in half, heading for the river and NaVarre's private docks.

  Or, Lexan Rammage, Lord Braeton, the Earl of Anwythe's private docks. Braeton was the man sitting in the carriage with me. The laughing, easy-going pirate with boundless energy and a beautiful smile was gone. In his place was a rigid, rakishly handsome stranger in expensive clothes.