Eilwen cast him a sidelong look. With her keen eyes and instinct for survival, Eilwen was a remarkable thief. They had met when she’d tried to pickpocket him… only to find her hand trapped by a vine in his pocket.
Gwydion kept two gardens—the first was of herbs, poisons, and a few rare flowers. He had carved out a place on the castell grounds to grow his plants. He loved that garden for its quiet and its peace; he could spend a few hours with earth beneath his nails and fresh greenery all around.
The second garden consisted of a different kind of plant: thieves, gamblers, beggars, and a handful of children. Gwydion had grown this garden of eyes and intelligence for years. Some he paid in coin and others in food, while a few requested healing herbs. He knew each and every one of them, knew what they desired most dearly, and he used that. From them, he harvested secrets. He knew which guards took bribes, which nobles visited brothels, which gambling houses drugged their patrons to steal coin from their pockets, who tried to avoid taxes, and so much more. He memorized it all, refusing to put such power to paper. He knew too easily how such things could be stolen.
Eilwen reached for a plate of oggies and pushed one toward Gwydion. “Eat something. You look pale.”
“Every time I need a compliment, I should come here,” said Gwydion.
“You want flattery, try the brothel down the road,” she replied. “You come to me for stolen truths.”
He acknowledged that with a nod. Then he picked up an oggie,because hewashungry. Eilwen nodded in approval. They were not friends, but they were allies, and he had come to trust her. If only because he knew her secrets.
Gwydion took a careful bite of the pastry. He had to suck in a few breaths so the hot filling did not scald his mouth—chicken and leeks—but at least the food quieted his unruly stomach.
“What news have you gathered?” he asked.
Some of Gwydion’s plants required threats or blackmail—but Eilwen’s needs were simple. She had two younger brothers and a sister, and she wished to keep them out of the mines. Stealing had been Eilwen’s way to keep them fed until Gwydion had discovered her. Now those same siblings were being trained as servants. It would be a safer life for them… and when they did work for noble houses, they would report all they saw to Gwydion.
Eilwen was bound to Gwydion as tightly as a person could be: His gold kept her family fed and housed, and the unspoken threat of arrest was never far from reach. Eilwen was a thief and a spy, and she would betray him if a better patron came along.
But even so, Gwydion liked her.
“Amaethon returned before you did,” Eilwen said, wrapping her fingers around a tankard. “There was an incident in the courtyard.”
Gwydion grimaced. He should have realized that Amaethon would find another outlet for his temper. “What happened?”
Eilwen shrugged. “He set a small fire.”
“Not the horses,” said Gwydion, alarmed. Even Amaethon would not go so far.
“No,” agreed Eilwen. “There was an ambassador who said Amaethon was looking ragged after his hunt.”
Gwydion waited for the rest of the tale. And then the horrible implication struck him. “He set an ambassador onfire?”
“Oh, of course not,” said Eilwen. A moment of quiet. “He set the ambassador’sdaughteron fire.”
Gwydion covered his eyes with his left hand. “Fallen kings. Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” said Eilwen. “Her gown was burned right off her back without scorching a hair on her head. The fire was intended to frighten and shame. I’m no expert in magic. But it reminded me of when my siblings would put a snail down my shirt when they were frustrated about something else.” She gave Gwydion a keen-eyed look. “Brothers, right?”
Gwydion did not agree nor disagree. He came here to buy information, not to give it away. “Anything else?”
“You remember that shipment of black powder that went missing?”
“Of course.” Gwydion tasted his own drink. The cider was terrible, but at least there was no trace of poison. “I thought you knew nothing about that.”
Eilwen’s mouth went tight in irritation. “We didn’t pull that job. Wish we had—would’ve made a tidy profit. No, some other crew did, and they’re planning on dropping small jars of the powder in some of the bonfires of Nos Calan Gaeaf. Not enough to blow anything up,” she added, seeing Gwydion’s alarm. “But when those fires are lit, there’ll be enough fizzle and flare to distract some fat-pursed lordlings.”
“And then someone takes their valuables in the chaos,” said Gwydion.
Eilwen tapped her nose, winking at him. “The princeling understands.”
“I’m not a prince,” he murmured.
Princes inherited thrones. Princes ruled lands. Gwydion was the youngest nephew of a king. He was neither heir nor spare—not with three older brothers and a sister. He was an afterthought, at best.
“You want us to stop them?” asked Eilwen. “Or leave the powder, then rob the crew afterward?”
