Starcrossed (55 page)

“Surely we’ll know more come morning,” he said. “Our — friend — must have some plan.”

“I hate waiting too,” I said, and personally didn’t care to stick around to learn the plans of people who randomly had their acquaintances arrested. But it seemed I didn’t have a choice about that, so I plied the rest of Durrel’s story from him.

It seemed their marriage, however promising on paper, was troubled from the beginning. Talth, generally accounted a respectable widow, turned out to be cold and controlling, unaffectionate but to her four children, and kept Durrel on a tight leash, like a prize dog she’d bought to show off to her rich friends. By the time his tale wound round to the night of the murder, a dark picture had emerged. An overheard quarrel, a witness who saw Durrel leaving his wife’s bedchamber, the empty poison bottle in his rooms.

“But I didn’t do it,” he insisted. “Her maid is lying. I left Talth’s rooms at midnight; she can’t have seen me there two hours later.”

“And no one can confirm your story? That you were alone in your own quarters all night?”

“
I
can barely confirm my story,” he said. “I don’t remember much about that night. I — I was angry, and there was . . . rather a lot of wine involved.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “One thing she wasn’t stingy with was her wine cellar.”

“What was the fight about?”

He shrugged. “Money, Koya, who knows. Nothing, anything. I barely
knew
the woman, Celyn, but apparently she’d decided to hate me almost as soon as we were married.”

“So in a drunken rage, angry over money, you broke into her rooms in the middle of the night and poisoned her.”

“I know it looks bad. Her family is convinced I’m guilty, and —” He faltered and stared up at the ceiling. “And so’s mine.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. I had met his parents, Lord Ragn Decath, his genial, good-natured father, and a sweet, soft-spoken stepmother, Amalle. They’d been kind to me, when their son thought I was an errant Aspirant on the run from convent school. I had liked them.

But I’d touched a nerve. Durrel’s expression grew closed. He shook his head. “Amalle has left the city, and my father won’t see me. He hasn’t come or even sent word since I was arrested.” He rose and crossed the cell, looked out the high, barred window at the fading sky. “We’ve talked the moons down. The guards will be back on duty soon.”

“And then what?” I said. Bludgeon the one who brought breakfast and steal his keys? Not a
terrible
plan, the more I thought about it.

He sat beside me. “It seems the gods keep throwing us in each other’s paths, Celyn Contrare,” he said. “I say we see what they have in store.”

He sounded so patently silly that I had to laugh. This entire situation was completely cracked, but it was almost worth it, to see Lord Durrel again. “That sounds like one of your friend Raffin’s lines,” I said. Raffin Taradyce had been the engineer of Durrel’s escape (and mine) from Gerse last year.

He did grin then, but sobered quickly. “Speaking of, I have news you won’t like. Raffin’s joined the Guard.”

I felt my eyes narrow. “City or royal?”

“Ah, no . . .” Durrel was shaking his head, almost wincing. “Acolyte.”

I shouldn’t have gone cold all over, but I couldn’t help it. Durrel Decath’s best friend was now a Greenman, one of the brutal henchmen of the Inquisition who tore children from their beds and tortured their victims in secret dungeons all over the city in their ruthless quest for magic users and heretics. All in the name of Celys, our great Mother Goddess. I clutched at my bare wrist, where I’d once worn a silver bracelet given to me by Meri Nemair. It was too dangerous to wear silver in the city now; the slightest glint of the metal would condemn you as a magic user. “His father’s idea?”

“Who else?”

I sighed. “Remind me to tell you how I met Lord Taradyce sometime.”

“Hist,” Durrel said. Outside in the hall, we heard footsteps, then a loud bang on the door, and a guard threw it open with a godless crash.

“You there, girl,” he said. “You’ve made bail. You’re out of here.”

I scrambled to my feet, Durrel behind me. “Who?” I demanded. “How?”

The guard shrugged. “You want out of here or not?”

I turned back to Durrel, feeling suddenly helpless.

“Go,” he urged.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “The most surprising people pop in to see me.”

The guard was glaring at me in brutish impatience, and as he edged me toward the door, Durrel called my name. I hung back. “Can you get a message to my father?”

“I’ll try. What do you want me to say?” The guard had hold of me now and was pulling me into the hallway. Durrel looked flustered, perplexed. “Think on it,” I said. “And tell me next time.”

“You can’t come back here! It’s too dangerous.”

“There are visiting days every week,” I said. “I’ll come then.”

The guard slammed the door hard between us, but I watched over my shoulder as pale fingers curled through the bars in the tiny window.

Outside the gates, across the drawbridge, a lanky young man in a ridiculous powder blue satin suit leaned casually against a rain barrel.

“Rat?” I raised my arm against the piercing sunlight. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe that’s
my
line. Gods!” Rat jumped as I lowered my arm from my face. “Marau’s balls, Digger. I hope somebody’s bleeding in the street somewhere thanks to you.”

“How did you find me?”

“Were you expecting someone else? It hurts just to
look
at you.” Rat winced, leaning in to inspect my bruised eye and gashed cheek. “I have a boat, thank the gods. If they’ll even let you on. You smell like —”

“I know what I smell like.” A hired river launch bobbed nearby, and I hobbled toward it. “How did you know where I was?” I repeated, lowering myself into the boat — without any help from Rat, I’ll note. He hopped down after me and told the boatman where to take us.

Rat, properly Halcot Granthin, my roommate, produced a slip of paper from his doublet. “They sent a note.” I unfolded the page, a crisp sheet of stationery so white it was almost too bright to look at directly.
Your lodger has been arrested. Fifty marks bond to release her from the Keep.
“Aunt Grea found it under the bakery door this morning. By all the hells, what were you
doing
?”

“Working. Red guards pinched me in Markettown.”

“Entertaining,” he said, obviously waiting for more.

“You do it next time.” There was nothing on the paper to give up its origins.

“Recognize the handwriting?”

“No.” It was neat and featureless schoolroom calligraphy, carefully anonymous. And unsigned, of course. “Thank you,” I added belatedly. “I owe you fifty marks.” Not that I had any idea where it was going to come from.

“Lucky again. They sent the money too. But you
do
owe me new trunk hose. You’ve ruined my favorite pair.” He leaned in distastefully and plucked at the stained fabric near my knee.

“Oh, they weren’t either. I pulled these out of the fireplace.”

“Evidently.”

The pier where we were moored was crowded, mostly with Watch craft unloading prisoners. I seemed to be the only one getting
out
of the Keep this morning. In among the city boats were two long, gilded vessels packed with soldiers in green livery — more of the king’s army being shipped into the city to remind us all to stay in line. Above the horizon of buildings on the opposite shore, a sliver of green glass dome colored the sky: the Celystra, visible from nearly every point in the city.

Tensions in Gerse had always been high, but now that we were finally, openly, at civil war, it was even worse. Soldiers patrolled the streets and waterways, and the city had closed down most of the markets, lest we citizens gather and start a riot. There was hardly anything to buy now, anyway, with the troops outside Gerse diverting most of the food and goods from the farms of Gelnir for their own use. Neighbors kept their doors and windows closed fast, and nobody met each other’s eyes. Everyone was afraid of glancing up and recognizing enemy sympathies in people they’d lived and worked beside all their lives. As the summer days grew hot and long, the king’s grip on the city grew so tight we could barely breathe.

The boat slipped into the current, and I settled back into the cramped seat, reaching to pull my cap over my eyes. My fingers closed on air; I must have forgotten it in Durrel’s cell. I couldn’t shake that final image of him watching me, one hand reaching out as I walked away. What had happened to him? It was hard to reconcile the hopeless young man I’d just left with the gallant, good-humored nob who’d plucked me from the riverbank and swept me to safety last fall.

Rat was watching me. “What?” I said crossly.

“Just making sure you weren’t going to careen out of the boat,” he said. “You’re about to tip over, you know.”

I hunched lower. “Have you heard anything about the murder of a nobleman’s wife recently — a Talth Ceid?”

The expression on Rat’s face was immeasurable, and even the boatman turned to stare at me. “Where have
you
been, then?” the sailor asked, then reddened under his sun-weathered skin, the shadow of the Keep still darkening the water before us. “Oh.”

Rat wasn’t so polite. “Honestly, don’t you pay attention to anything? Lord Durrel killing Talth Ceid is the only thing anyone’s talked about for the last two weeks!”

“Just fill me in,” I said. “My head hurts.”

“I should think so,” he said. “Well, it’s brewing into quite the scandal. It seems that things behind closed doors at the Ceid household were not so dignified after all.”

“What kind of scandal?”

“Talth’s daughter, to start,” Rat said in a low voice. “They’re saying there might have been more than paternal affection between Talth’s oldest and her stepfather.”

“What?” It took a moment for my sluggish brain to work through that. “You mean, Durrel and —?”

“Koya,” Rat supplied. “And it’s not quite as seedy as it sounds. She must be well into her third age by now, and Lord Durrel’s only just a man. Or so I’ve heard.”

“And that’s why he supposedly killed her? For this Koya?”

“Or for the money. You can pick your motive — no, really, odds makers on Bonelicker Way are taking wagers for it — but apparently the Decath got the marriage settlement back
and
the house on Garrison Street when his lordship’s wife was so conveniently dispatched. Not that any of them will do him much good where he’s at now. The Ceid are screaming for Lord Durrel’s blood, and the way things look, I think they’ll get it.” Rat’s gaze had gone narrow. “Why all these questions?”

I scratched at the back of my head, gingerly probing one of the bruises. “Apparently I’ve just spent the night in a cell with the city’s most celebrated murder suspect.”

Rat’s expression was carefully neutral. “
That’s
what this is about? How do these things happen to you?”

“I know him,” I said. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You’ve heard that story a dozen times.”

“I didn’t realize he was
that
Durrel Decath.”

I turned the anonymous note over in my hands. “I don’t think he did it,” I said.

“He should find that encouraging, since you’re obviously an expert on the case.”

“Maybe I am,” I said, fingering the ink on the paper. Maybe whoever’d had me arrested really was trying to give Durrel a gift — the gift of a light-fingered sneak thief all too adept at digging up nobs’ secrets. “Can you find out where this paper came from?” I handed the letter back to Rat. He was the son of a cloth merchant, but he had a talent for procuring any number of oddments — contraband wine, rare imported tobacco, more exotic entertainments — at below-market prices, without ever technically stealing any of it. If I wanted expensive white notepaper, or information about it, Rat could get it for me.

“Isn’t that your area of expertise?” he said. “Very well. And if I find your mysterious stationer, then what?”

“We figure out who wrote this note.” And had me arrested, and be one step closer to unraveling the tangle that Durrel and I were both in.

The boat finally pulled up alongside the Bargewater Street landing, and Rat helped me up to the street in front of his aunt’s bakery. The hot, yeasty scent wafting from the ovens was sour with the acrid tinge of old smoke.

“Another burning?”

Rat nodded toward the alley, his face grim. “That family with the twins. Nobody’s seen them in about a week, and last night the Guard came and emptied their house into the street.”

Down the side street a blackened heap still smoldered on the cobbles. “Was anyone —?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just their belongings. What was left of them, anyway. Crockery, bedding. Books. Apparently they were running quite a trade in seditious literature. We’re lucky they didn’t burn the whole block. Bardolph must be feeling lenient these days.”

I breathed through my mouth to quench the smoke smell, but couldn’t draw my eyes away from the dying bonfire. Just last week I’d seen those twin boys tussling in the street. It had taken me a shocked moment to realize they were playing at Sarists. One boy raised his hands against his brother, who clutched at his chest and cried out, “Magic, magic!” before falling dramatically to the cobbles. Their mother, a small, tired-looking woman with nervous eyes, had been swift to round them up and usher them back inside — but someone must have seen them anyway.