The Thief's Daughter (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Betrayed

The feeling of helplessness was terrible. Owen searched the room for a way to escape, but even if he found one, his limbs were sluggish and heavy, so bereft of strength that he could hardly move at all. He tried to speak and found that at least his mouth worked.

“I see you,” Owen said in a low voice.

The shadow froze midstep. The deep silence was interrupted by the sound of the waterfall from the open window.

“As I see you,” said a familiar voice from the shadows. The voice was no longer simpering, but Owen recognized it nonetheless. Lord Bothwell.

“Why are you here now?” Owen asked. He had to do something to stall him. Could he shout for help? How quickly would it take for someone to come? He could not defend himself, but did his enemy know that?

“Isn’t it rather obvious?” Bothwell replied snidely. He started toward the bed again, keeping to the shadows, his hand gripping a dagger. “I was paid to help you, but I was paid even more to make sure you all die.”

Owen felt a prickle of gooseflesh down his back. “All of us?”

“Well, especially Lady Mortimer. If she’s assassinated in Atabyrion, it will more than provoke your king to invade. And that will draw his eyes away.”

“Away from what?” Owen pressed, anxiety hammering inside his heart. He was utterly helpless.

The shadowed man clucked his tongue. “Things are not as they seem. Now, be a good boy and stay down so I can kill you properly. It’ll be painless and quick. You have my word.”

He took a few steps closer, and Owen saw a faint outline of his face. The act of subservient affability had been discarded. There was no question Bothwell intended to murder him.

“You weren’t with us at the falls. Who tried to poison us?” Owen challenged, a bead of sweat dripping down from his forehead.

“It was supposed to look like an
accident
. A year ago, I hired a servant in Iago Llewellyn’s household, waiting for an opportunity such as this one. You ruined it, and I had to throw him into the river. Ah, well, at least I can leave this backward land and return to a more civilized kingdom. Happy morrow,
boy
.”

Bothwell loomed over Owen’s bedside, his face leering down at him in the dim light.

A dagger plunged into the side of the man’s hip.

Owen registered that it was a woman’s hand holding the hilt as the blade jerked free. He tried to roll off the bed, but he only managed to lift himself partway. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt tingles in his fingers and toes as fresh blood surged through him.

Bothwell jerked away and lunged toward the bed where Justine had been lying so still, his dagger out and ready. Only it wasn’t Justine.

Owen saw a flash of black hair, but he instantly recognized Etayne’s face beneath it. Her eyes were wild with passion as she kicked the poisoner in the stomach. He fell backward, then did a roll to get clear of her, but Etayne was ready. She sprang from the bed, dagger in hand, and charged after him. Owen kicked against the sheets, trying to free his legs, trying to do something. The air was rent with grunts and curses as the two poisoners fought on the ground in the shadows. He saw a dagger rise up in the light, then saw Etayne’s hand grip the man’s wrist. There was some violent cursing, a chair wobbled and tipped over, and suddenly Etayne was on her feet, backing away, dagger held out. Some of the black hair from the wig stuck to the sweat on her face. She positioned herself by Owen’s bed, acting as a shield.

The grim-faced man rose, bent over with pain. “You are too young,” he growled. “Too green. I have heard about you from the school. And surely
you
have heard of Foulcart. You’re good with disguises, but I am better at knife work, and you know it.”

“How certain are you?” Etayne asked warily, holding her dagger underhanded now, her arms close to her chest.

Bothwell took a faint step forward and then collapsed onto the floor face-first.

“Which is why I poisoned my dagger before stabbing you,” Etayne said with a smirk.

Bothwell twitched and convulsed.

Etayne stepped on his wrist and then pried the dagger from his hand.

“You knew of him?” Owen asked, filling his lungs with grateful breaths. Etayne had made herself up to look just like Justine; she was even wearing the other girl’s gown.

“We went to the same poisoner school in Pisan. He went by a secret name to hide his identity,” she said, wiping sweat from her cheek. “He works for Occitania now, I believe. I’d never met him in person, or I would have recognized him.”

Etayne picked up the fallen chair and hoisted the comatose man into it. She then proceeded to bind his wrists and ankles to the wood while his head lolled to the side.

“Is the poison you used fatal?” Owen asked.

“No. It’s paralytic. I stabbed him in the leg to make it more difficult for him to fight, and also so the poison would go directly into his blood.” She sheathed her dagger in a girdle strap and then came over to the bed and helped Owen sit up against the headboard.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he said, looking at her with gratitude. She mussed with his shirt to arrange it.

“It was a gambit,” she said with a shrug. “Clark is still in no condition to fight, and you were as weak as a newborn pup after the Fountain drained you. So we spread the rumor that you were ailing too, and Justine was too sick to be moved. I disguised myself as her and took her place. The earl’s daughter is safe as well. I thought the other poisoner might use this as an easy chance to kill you both, and he did. Bothwell fell into my trap.”

“I’ve never been so weak,” Owen said, not certain how he felt about being used as the bait in her trap.

“I can help with that,” Etayne said. First, she shut the window and barred it. Then she lit a candle to provide more light. Bothwell was starting to snore, his head still hanging low. The poisoner fetched some herbs from her bag and quickly added them to a cup of broth on the small dresser. She stirred it with a spoon and then came to Owen’s side.

As she pressed the cup to his lips, he inhaled the aroma of chicken and vegetable broth and saw little lumps of lentil grain in it. She tipped it and he swallowed, tasting the salty broth and a hint of some herbs he recognized from his time with Ankarette. These were the healing herbs a midwife used. He had drunk a similar concoction as a child.

He took several deep swallows of the tepid broth, and when Etayne encouraged him to drink more, he managed to finish the cup.

“There,” she said, using her finger to dab his wet mouth. “Your strength will return faster now.”

It made him nervous and uncomfortable to feel her so close. She gazed at him, her eyes traveling along his scalp to the patch of white in his hair. For a moment, he thought she was going to touch it. Then she leaned away and set the cup back on the small dresser.

Etayne began rifling through the poisoner’s pockets. She removed a vial that hung around his neck from a piece of twine and carefully sniffed the tip that was plugged by cork. Then she proceeded to remove a second dagger, along with all the rings from his fingers. The poisons must have been added recently, or Owen’s power would have detected them.

Etayne discovered some papers hidden in a pouch secured to the man’s chest with leather straps.

Bothwell’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking. “Gaawww!” he moaned, his eyes wild with panic. He jerked on the bonds hard enough for the chair to lurch in place. Etayne put her hand on his shoulder to keep it from tipping over.

“If you fall forward, you’ll break your nose,” Etayne warned.

“You won?” Bothwell asked with disbelief. He looked absolutely furious.

She patted his cheek condescendingly. “Things are not as they seem. Now, be a good boy and stay still so I can kill you properly.”

His eyes widened at her deliberate insult. “That was good, Etayne. Ooooh, just the right amount of venom to sting and burn.” He struggled against the ropes, frowning angrily. “What did you use on me? Catspaw?”

“Veregrain,” she countered.

“That was my next guess. Ah, I see. The first stab,” he said with a grunt. “You waited until my back was to you.”

She shrugged and tried not to look pleased. “You still serve Chatriyon, it seems.”

Bothwell’s eyes narrowed with resentment. “I serve those who provide the best opportunities. So should you,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care how much Mancini pays you. Chatriyon can best it. A girl with your talents would go far in Occitania. Kill the boy, though, he’s listening in.”

“I know,” Etayne said. “I’m a little tempted by your offer. By a little, I mean not at all. Loyalty binds me.”

Bothwell spat out an oath. “Don’t mock me, Etayne. You are loyal to yourself. To your own interests. This is a better offer. If you want to still serve Ceredigion, by all means, do so
after
the usurper falls. Even better, be a spy for us from within the kingdom. Like Mancini is.”

Etayne wrinkled her brow. “I found some papers on you.” She teased him with them, waving them through the air. “What kind of ciphers did they use, I wonder?”

His eyes widened with terror. “Give those back.”

Etayne clucked her tongue. “I beat
you
, Bothwell. Remember?” Owen watched as she opened the papers. “The formian cipher,” she asked with an exaggerated sigh. “Really, you disappoint me.”

He bucked against the bonds. “We didn’t think
you
would be sent.”

“Is that the
royal
‘we’?” Etayne asked sarcastically. Owen had picked up on the slip as well. He wished he could use his Fountain-blessed ability to study Bothwell again, but trying to tap into his magic was like blowing into a hollow jug. He was completely bereft of his power.

Bothwell frowned. “You don’t know him.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she replied, quickly scanning the encrypted message. She brought it closer to the candle. Owen watched as the young man began flexing his fingers, testing the strength of his bonds. Feeling himself reviving, Owen leaned forward from the bedstead, though the movement made him dizzy. He swung his legs off the side, but he knew it would be recklessly foolish to try to stand.

Bothwell’s eyes were affixed to Etayne’s face. Her look grew darker as she read.

“Who ordered this?” she demanded, slapping the paper across her hand. “Chatriyon? I don’t think even he’s that stupid.”

Bothwell’s eyes blazed.

“What is it?” Owen asked, his voice wary. The whole business of poisoners and death. It was like playing Wizr, except someone could remove your piece without entering the game.

Etayne turned and gave him a worried look. “A poisoner is going after King Severn.”

Owen gasped in shock. He turned on Bothwell. “Who?”

The young man’s frown was nervous. “I am only doing my part,” he snapped. “There cannot be peace between Ceredigion and Atabyrion. It would be a disaster!”

“Answer his question!” Etayne insisted.

Bothwell’s eyes darted from her to Owen. “If you release me . . .” he suggested.

“I’ll release you into the river!” Etayne threatened.

Bothwell blanched. “There’s no need to be nasty!”

Etayne shook her head. “Every moment we delay increases the jeopardy of my king. We are loyal to him, Bothwell. I assure you of that.”

The poisoner snorted. “Then you are going to be startled when you find out he’s no longer the king.”

Owen wanted to start choking the man. “And who will rule Ceredigion? Eyric? The people don’t know him. They don’t trust him. His claim may be true, but he has been missing for too long. The people are prosperous. They will rally behind Severn.”

Bothwell shook his head. “Perhaps you are right. But you don’t see what is truly going on. You are missing the waterfall because of all the mist. You can hear it, maybe. But you cannot see it.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Etayne said. “Perhaps we can make this more simple. How about a dose of henbane? Hmmm? Or better yet . . . pure nightshade.”

Bothwell’s eyes bulged and he started rocking in the seat. “You may as well just kill me!” he snarled. “If I tell you, I am a dead man regardless!”

“But the best part,” she said, “is that you won’t even remember telling us.”

“Gormless!” Bothwell cursed. He sighed. “I will tell you. I will tell you!” He shook his head, defeated. “It’s probably too late for me anyway. Chatriyon doesn’t want Eyric to rule. He’s just a pawn. A distraction. Chatriyon’s humiliated because of his defeat at the hands of that little prig Kiskaddon. You see, he was going after Brythonica to sate his ambition, but now he’s changed his mind. Now he wants a bigger jewel. He wants Ceredigion.”

Owen shook his head. “That’s not ambition. That’s madness.”

Bothwell snorted. “That may well be true. But he’s determined. He wishes to provoke Severn to war with Atabyrion by killing the Mortimer lass. Then he’ll kill Severn by poison and claim the throne through a forced marriage with the crouch-back’s niece. That’s the plot, Etayne. That’s all of it. He will rule Ceredigion through his wife. Tunmore’s role is to persuade the girl. He’s Fountain-blessed, if you didn’t know. We’ve been poisoning her mother for weeks to help sour her on the old man. The fact that you are here in Atabyrion, Etayne,” he chuckled darkly, “will only make it easier for Tyrell to get to the king.”