I fought to keep the relief off my face. Instead, I said brusquely, “Crake’s Orha—where are they? I’ve been told to liaise on positions for the march back.”
He was already stepping away, distracted, and glanced back at me with an impatient frown. “The inner ward. West side, I think.” And then he was off, jogging to catch up with the other soldiers.
Legs shaking, I strode in the direction he’d indicated, avoiding anyone else’s eyes. But no one was paying attention to me now. There was something to be said for holding yourself confidently.
I was grateful for my hood as I entered the inner ward, slipping in just as a gaggle of soldiers marched past. The space was thronged withpeople and mounts, with piles of weapons and banners in Crake colors. Nearby, a horse munched meditatively in a nosebag while a burly woman inspected its hooves.
I walked past a wagon being loaded with valuables and recognized an ornate clock from the keep; the Shearwaters’ silverware; an engraved fencing sword. As well as seeking the family’s hoard, they were clearly looting everything they could from the castle.
Though the sight made my throat burn with indignation, I forced myself to look away. Time was short—I could be stopped again at any moment.
Carefully avoiding the east side of the ward, where the Cormorants were busy preparing their mounts and the Shearwaters were huddling, closely guarded, I moved through the hubbub to the western end, where I quickly identified House Crake’s Orha.
They were the ones with little, if any, armor. Though Iovawn Crake was his father’s general, and Mudmouths and Sparkmouths could be useful on the front lines, most of the time, Orha were kept to the rear. We needed quiet, concentration; to be away from the harrowing anxiety of battle. Otherwise any speaking we attempted wouldn’t work. That was why they made good use of us in the navies—Floodmouths and Gustmouths sinking ships from afar. But a battle-hardened Mudmouth, impervious to stress, was a real asset if an army could get one. Which was perhaps the only reason Uirbrig Crake valued his son.
The Crake Orha were garbed in dull greens and browns, some standing around talking, others loading up supplies. I spotted their packs on the ground against the walls, and I sidled among them with an outward confidence I didn’t feel.
A stone here, a stone there…I ducked and rummaged among the belongings. With all the soldiers moving around us, no one was paying me any real mind, but I tried to look as though I was searching for something.
The laconite beads Avrix and I had stolen vibrated in my fingers as I slipped them into the packs, sliding them secretly into loose hems and stitching, pushing them deep down below bedrolls and clothes. I didn’t know which packs belonged to the Floodmouths, but it didn’t really matter. I had plenty to go around.
I even managed to drop some into pockets, deep into the heavy folds of their cloaks. At Arbenhaw, the rare times we’d been allowed into town, Zennia and I had practiced slipping hands into pockets. It was easy, among the throng, to go unnoticed. To stumble against someone and mutter, “Sorry,” under my breath.
But a moment later, before my pouch was empty, a viselike grip enfolded my upper arm.
“You.”
A chill prickled down my neck. Turning, I found myself looking upward. At Nemaine.
“What are you doing, skulking in the shadows?” She was limping, a dark stain near her hip where I’d stabbed her, but her face betrayed no sign of the pain.
Raising her voice, she hauled me roughly along with her. “Who let this traitor wander freely out here?”
By now the fair-haired soldier I’d duped was back in the inner ward, loading valuables onto wagons. He and a few others glanced over. His face dropped.
“She–she told me she was Cormorant,” he stammered.
Nemaine glanced back at me, her blue eyes flashing. Was it all bitter anger, or was there surprise there, too? Almost as though my daring had impressed her. “Perhaps not a mouse after all but a weasel,” she murmured, tugging me to the east side of the ward.
I struggled for effect. Though I’d predicted this would happen, it didn’t stop my heart hammering dully against my ribs. What if Uirbrig changed his mind? Decided, in the end, to lop off everyone’s heads?
“Another prisoner,” Nemaine intoned as we reached the east wall. “Managed to give us the slip until now.”
In front of me, Tigo, Mawre, and Rhianne were trussed up and gagged, sitting sullenly on the ground.
At the sight of them, warm relief flared in me, but that quickly dissipated as I took in their expressions. They were glaring, murderous, their eyes like blades. Above her gag, Rhianne’s nose wrinkled in a scowl—the siblings must have told her, or she’d figured it all out.
Once I’d been relieved of Kielty’s rapier, I was thrown down beside them, gagged and shackled. Guards loitering nearby watched over us.
I looked at Rhianne. Surely she should understand? The girl she loved had rebel sympathies. She herself had said she understood their cause, even if she didn’t approve of their methods. In my gaze, I tried to say, wordlessly,I’m sorry. But Rhianne only shook her head. I knew what she was thinking.
It wasn’t so much that I was working for the rebels. It was the fact that I’d tried to sabotage the Shearwaters. To prize out their secrets and use them against the family. And who knew what Kielty’s group would’ve done if it hadn’t worked?
In any case, I thought, it was too late now. Rexim was dead, and the siblings were about to be…unless my reckless plan somehow worked.
Hollow-eyed, I avoided Rhianne’s accusing gaze—
Only to find myself staring into the face of Llir Shearwater.
