“Because I’m looking for something, and we don’t have a lot of time.” Sothe jerked the dead woman’s undershirt up like an impatient lover, pawed at her breasts, and grinned in triumph. “Got you. Some things never change.”
“Sothe. .”
Sothe held up a hand, bending over the body. She came up with a long, thin, flat paper, curved where it had been pressed against the woman’s skin.
“Pockets are too risky,” Sothe said. “And you have to keep it on you. Some of the men used to keep it up their arseholes, but I always preferred sticking it on somewhere intimate with spirit gum.” She frowned down at the body. “I wonder who’s teaching them that trick now.”
“What is it?”
“Cipher. One-use, good for a couple of hundred words. The only other copy is with some clerk under the Cobweb.” Sothe unfolded the packet into a small square of onionskin paper, then folded it back up and tucked it away. “It’s how she was going to report in.”
“Ah. So you’re going to send in her reports?”
“Just one report. They burn the cipher after use. Keeps it secure.” Sothe shook her head. “I’ll try to salvage something out of this.”
“Salvage something? Have you seen the crowd outside?” Raesinia felt a little of her excitement returning. “Sothe, it worked. We brought down a bank. That will hit the Borels where it hurts-”
“I don’t mean the banks. You brought Danton here. Do you know how many people are following him right now, after the speech he gave? Now they know he came to a hotel room, and they’re going to ask who else was there. That’s all they’ll need.” Sothe shook her head bitterly. “How many times did I tell you to keep away from him? We can’t afford to let Orlanko tie the two of you together.”
“Faro brought him,” Raesinia said defensively. “He didn’t have anywhere else to stash him. I should have realized they couldn’t go back to the Royal. We could have made other plans-”
“We can worry about fixing the blame later. Right now we have to get you out of here.”
Raesinia nodded, trying to focus. “Does Orlanko have anyone else watching the place?”
“There’s two men in grooms’ uniforms stuffed into a hayrick in the stables,” Sothe said grimly. “I think we’re clear for the moment, but that won’t last. You have to come with me.”
“What about the others?”
“Warn them if you like,” Sothe said. “Just don’t take too long about it. After that, they’re on their own. We need to split up anyway.”
“If the Concordat ties them to Danton-”
“If Orlanko figures out that you aren’t the wilting dove he’s been led to believe you are, he’ll clap you in irons until your father is dead and he’s got you safely married off, and this whole project is for nothing,” Sothe said. “Now come on. I’ve got to get you away before I can clean up here.”
“All right,” Raesinia muttered. She looked down at the body. “Don’t you think you should. . cover her, or something?”
Sothe rolled her eyes and grabbed the trailing edge of the blanket, folding it back over the half-naked corpse. Raesinia hurried out to the living room, hoping fervently that Ben and Faro were still sober enough to walk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARCUS
Marcus had a distinct sense that he’d been here before.
The trappings were different. He was in his office in the Ministry of Justice, instead of the vast, ruined throne room of the Prince of Khandar. The incomprehensibly formal Khandarai had been replaced by furious Vordanai, and the elaborate gilded wigs by floppy-brimmed hats with one side tied up, as current fashion apparently demanded. But the air of outraged privilege was the same, the sense that the world had been rocked out of its normal, comfortable course, and that someone was going to have to do something about it.
“I want his goddamned head-you hear me?” shouted a middle-aged count with a florid face, who had apparently fortified himself for this meeting with several bottles of wine. “Damned merchant”-he pronounced the word as though it were something vile-“thinks he can put something over on his betters! Well, I’m not going to stand for it!” He was waving a paper, too fast for Marcus to read, but from the gilt edging he assumed it was a Second Pennysworth certificate. “If the king was well he wouldn’t stand for this nonsense!”
There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the nobles, about a dozen or so of whom were packed into the office. They had a certain sameness about them, partly because they were all dressed almost identically, and partly because they were all cousins or second cousins twice removed or something similar. The fat, drunk one had nominated himself the spokesman, by virtue of being willing to say out loud what all the rest were thinking.
“My lord,” Marcus said, “as I’ve said before, we are investigating the matter, and I assure you that-”
“Investigating? Investigating! Damn you, I want to see a hanging by sundown!”
“If I may, Harry?”
A young man with a good deal more composure touched the fat count on the shoulder. He subsided a little and shuffled out of the way, allowing the young man to step in front of Marcus’ desk. He was a handsome fellow, with a neatly trimmed beard and immaculate dark hair. The fashion that made the others look faintly ridiculous actually gave him the intended air of nonchalant daring.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain,” he said. “I am Count Alan d’Illphin Vertue.”
“Captain Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said, a little warily. He was staying behind his desk for the distance it provided, and the opportunity to duck behind it if they started throwing things. “Forgive me for not offering you a seat, my lord, but-”
Vertue waved a hand graciously. “And I likewise apologize for the demeanor of some of my companions. Obviously, yesterday’s events have left tempers a bit high.”
“Perfectly understandable, my lord,” Marcus said. “I hope you understand that the Armsmen are doing all they can in the matter.”
“Of course.” Vertue smiled coldly. “Under ordinary circumstances, Captain, I would positively insist that the normal affairs of commerce be permitted to take their course. This is Vordan, not Imperial Murnsk, and we cannot expect royal intervention every time the vicissitudes of the market produce a minor catastrophe.” The tiniest flick of his eyes at the fat drunk, who was now muttering quietly to a couple of the others. “However.”
“However?”
“What we have in this case does not fall within the ordinary bounds of commercial activity, Captain. This man, this Danton, has engaged in a deliberate conspiracy to undermine the soundness of an otherwise reputable financial institution. He has produced a panic through tricks and inflammatory rhetoric. The markets are unsettled, and rightly so, for who knows what his motives are and where he will strike next? If the Armsmen were to take the matter in hand, it would be greatly reassuring to everyone.”
“By ‘take the matter in hand,’ my lord, may I assume that you want me to arrest Danton?”
“It seems the most expedient method,” Vertue said. “At the very least he should be detained until his true motivations are determined.”
Marcus gave a “my hands are tied” shrug. “Unfortunately, my lord, we must operate according to the law, which dictates that it must be the other way around. If we believe Danton to be guilty of a crime, then of course we will arrest him, but until then. .”
Vertue smiled, but it was a thin smile, stretched like rubber pulled to the breaking point. I wonder how much he’s on the hook for, Marcus thought.
“Surely,” the count said, “under the circumstances, extraordinary measures are called for? Especially given the uncertainty of the political situation.”
Meaning that nobody knows when the king is going to drop dead. Marcus put on a bland smile of his own. “Extraordinary measures are not my prerogative, my lord. I suggest you speak to the Minister of Justice and the rest of the Cabinet. If my lord the minister issues me instructions to proceed, I will certainly carry them out as swiftly as I am able.”