The Midnight Spy Page 2

  The younger servants interested Nica the most. Girls who appeared to be close to her age—yet lived utterly different lives. Prudence Bellamy was one, a chambermaid who wasn’t much older than Nica. Attractive, with a full head of lush red curls and breasts to match, she caught many a man’s eye and loved to flirt with them all—until Jonn Shanks had arrived. Then Prudence only had eyes for one man.

  “Your porridge, Miss.” A young servant girl named Nellie, who wore a brown shift and matching head scarf, slid the bowl in front of Nica, her eyes downcast, waiting to be sent on her way.

  “Thank you,” Nica replied and the girl flitted off as if afraid to be seen with Mosaba’s daughter. Which, Nica reflected, was probably the case. Mosaba ruled with absolute authority and anyone who dared disobey suffered the consequences.

  Nica lifted her spoon and stirred the steaming bowl, staring blindly through the carved screen that hid her from the dining hall. Maybe the girl didn’t know who she was—for the amount of attention her father paid her, one would think she was nothing more than a chambermaid herself.

  She imagined Prudence Bellamy’s life—flirting as she pleased and walking free from the castle at the end of each day to return home. Yes, the girl had to clean chamber pots and scrub floors but she also flirted with men and had a life—she didn’t live in fear and isolation like Nica.

  Not for much longer, Nica thought with a tentative surge of hope. Tonight she would sneak into Mosaba’s office and steal that map, then she and Toppen would leave and find a life of their own.

  As if conjured from her thoughts, a familiar giggle drifted in from the hallway.

  “Why, Mr. Shanks—” Prudence’s voice was high and girly— “imagine running into you in the middle of the day. I thought soldiers were always busy sneaking around spying on people and fighting.”

  “Hello, Miss Bellamy.”

  Shanks voice was also easily recognizable. His lilting accent was noticeable and Nica wondered at his ability to disguise his voice at will, remembering how perfect his Sartish had been in the darkness of the tower. She tried to place his inflection but it was as foreign as he and she wondered if the accent was fake and perhaps intentional—a means to lull one into believing he was a friend.

  “Actually,” his voice was deep and rich and very friendly, “we do our sneaking and spying at night, when everyone is asleep.”

  Nica could imagine the charming half-grin on his face as he surveyed the ample cleavage that Prudence liked to display at all times.

  Prudence giggled as if his statement had included some sexual innuendo. “Well, why are you here, then?” she asked. “It’s rare that a soldier comes into the servant’s hall.” Her voice took on a hopeful note. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Actually I am.”

  Nica paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth, curious at which servant Jonn Shanks might have business with. Had he come looking for Prudence?

  “I’m looking for Mosaba’s daughter.”

  Nica’s spoon clattered back into her bowl and she scrambled to her feet, ready to run. He was going to reveal her secret. Or threaten her. Or worse.

  “Oh. Her.” It was as if someone had punctured Prudence’s happiness like a balloon.

  Shanks didn’t seem to notice. “I watched for her in the dining hall this morning but I don’t believe she appeared. Does she eat somewhere else?”

  Nica looked from one side of the little room to the other as panic coursed through her veins. There was only one exit from this area and it led straight to where Shanks was talking to Prudence.

  “She doesn’t eat with the others,” Prudence said. “Too important, I suppose. She’s like a ghost—hardly anyone sees her, but they say she’s an early riser—probably already come and gone by now.”

  “And where does she eat?”

  Nica imagined Prudence pointing in the direction of the room in which she was now trapped. Her head swiveled as she looked for a hiding place—but there was nothing. Only the small table where she sat. Booted footsteps sounded on the stone floor headed her direction.

  Mediche! Nica flew to the corner where the carved screen joined the stone wall. She crouched down and threaded her fingers through the holes in the screen, and tugged—pulling the lower portion free below where it was affixed to the wall. The wood had some give and she had the strength of the desperate. Thankfully, she was thin and able to slip through the small gap into the dining hall.

  On her hands and knees she crawled under a table toward a nearby exit praying the dining hall remained empty and no one watched her. Once she was sure she couldn’t be seen from the small room which was her eating area she got to her feet and raced for the door.

  Once safely in the corridor, she smoothed her skirt and inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Why had Jonn Shanks been seeking her? He was dangerous. She needed to stay far away from him.

  THE BELLS ON the clock tower tolled twelve later that night. As the last peal faded away Nica poked her head outside the door of her chambers to survey the hallway through the muted light. As she expected, the passageway was empty. She hurried out of her rooms and up the stairs, her slippers a quiet shush on the stone. Only the guards were about this time of night and she knew their rotation well. A familiar surge of adrenaline pulsed through her.

  Nica tiptoed as she approached her father’s office. From her window she had watched his departure earlier in the evening and knew he had not yet returned to Ravensfell.

  When he was in his office he always hung his keys on a peg by the door so he wouldn’t forget them when he left. For months she had carried a ball of wax in her pocket, waiting for her opportunity, but he was obsessive about locking his office and pocketing the keys.

  Finally, during the heat of summer, he had left the turret windows open. In the dark of night Nica had crept along the ledge and pulled herself into the room through the window. Using the wax, she’d made a mold of the key to his office.

  How she’d had the nerve, she didn’t know. A moment of madness was the only explanation. She was timid by nature and even worse, her father had made her fearful. But she’d disguised herself as a servant and snuck into town and had a key made.

  She glanced up and down the hallway as she approached the door, then hurriedly slid the iron key from her pocket and shoved it into the lock. She held her breath but the knob twisted easily in her hands and she pushed the door open a crack to peer inside.

  Empty.

  Her heart raced at the thought of being caught but she needed a map. She and Toppen were headed across the border into Jarisa to Pont d’Suree. It was there that the University was located and where Nica hoped to start over. She was desperate to get away. Mosaba’s anger with her seemed to grow by the day.

  Nica slipped into the office. The desk was strewn with maps from a meeting earlier in the night and her eyes raced across the top layer of scrolls. These were not what she sought. Her fingers fumbled with the large pages as she shuffled through them. She knew which map she wanted, having seen it before during her geography lessons.

  There! A corner of the page’s gold edges stuck out from under several other maps. She grasped the edge of the paper and pulled it out of the stack. Nica hesitated. She couldn’t take the chance of being stopped in the corridor with the map in her possession. Not at this hour of the night.

  “Focus,” she whispered as she folded the thick, stiff paper into a rectangle, creasing it tightly in an attempt to make it lie flat. With hands that trembled, she slipped it down the front of her dress. Though scratchy, the map disappeared neatly below the ruffles of her bodice. She gave her dress a satisfied pat, then turned and stopped short with a gasp.

  Jonn Shanks leaned against the door with his arms crossed, watching her. He wasn’t dressed in the red tunic of the Sartish army. Instead, he wore a pair of dark breeches that clung to muscled legs and a crisp white shirt. Gold buttons glittered from the black jacket that hung casually from his shoulders and it was obvi
ous he’d not yet retired for the night.

  Nica put a hand to her throat. “Y..you startled me.”

  “M’lady Madanica, I presume?” There was something about the deceptively casual way he slouched there, so motionless, so intent, she felt as if she were being stalked.

  “Nica.” She straightened her back, trying to recover her composure. “Call me Nica. Only my father calls me Madanica.” She smoothed her skirt and wished she could vanish into thin air. Anything to escape that piercing gaze.

  “As you wish.” He shrugged off the doorframe and walked up to her—too close for comfort. He blocked her pathway to the door. “M’lady Nica.” He bowed slightly from the waist, in acknowledgement, she presumed, of her status as the King’s daughter—yet Nica didn’t get the sense he considered her to be of any greater stature than he. In fact, he seemed to find her amusing. “It is my privilege to meet you.” His Sartish was impeccable.

  Nica feigned ignorance. “And you are…?”

  “Jonn Shanks.” He gave a short bow but his eyes went past her to the table piled high with maps. “Can I help you find something?”

  Had he seen her take the map? His face was like a mask, impossible to read.

  “No.” She spoke a little too quickly. “No, thank you,” she said again, slower this time. She took a step back and glanced toward the door. “I’ll wait until my father returns.”

  The young soldier’s eyes narrowed when she turned her head and the angry purple bruise on her right cheek became visible. Nica brushed her hair forward to hide the mark where Mosaba had backhanded her for interrupting him.

  “Are you looking for Mosaba?” she asked. Did she dare try to walk past him? He was a full head taller and appeared to be as wiry and strong as the hand she’d failed to pry from her neck last night.

  “No. He’s left the castle.” Shanks gave her an appraising look. “I saw the light and thought perhaps there was some trouble.”

  Nica laid her hand flat against the front of her dress, the hidden map digging into her skin. “No cause for concern.” She took a tiny step forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  He didn’t budge. “M’lady Nica, forgive my impertinence. Perhaps you like to live dangerously, but I must warn you that you are taking great risks.”

  Nica pressed her lips together. She was forbidden to speak to her father’s soldiers but his arrogance was too much. “And what of you? Why are you in my father’s office at midnight?” Her voice held a dare. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were spying.”

  “Speaking of spies—” his lips twisted in a smile that was much too charming— “I’ve been admiring the lovely scent of your perfume.” His gaze challenged her. “Reminds me of the tropical hills of Jarisa. Laurisnips, yes?”

  Caught off guard by his flattery, Nica’s cheeks grew warm. The rare perfume had been a gift from Toppen. One of his brothers had smuggled it over the border. She didn’t think anyone in Sartis would recognize the fragrance.

  “You know,” Shanks continued, “that scent is especially charming on the evening breeze.” He tapped his finger on his chin and pretended to think. “Probably best enjoyed while facing south with an easterly wind.” He looked around in mock surprise. “Why, I’d bet if we opened that window right there—” he pointed across the room to the window through which Nica had been spying the night before— “we could smell laurisnips even now.”

  Nica took a step back. There was no easy way to explain her presence on the ledge.

  He lowered his voice. “Perhaps the difference between you and I is that I don’t get caught spying unless I want to be seen.”

  “Trust me,” Nica snapped. “I’ve plenty of practice if the game is hide and seek. I can hide well when necessary.”

  His smile faded and shadows filled his eyes. “I’m sure you could.” Then he gave her a surprisingly boyish grin. “But I could find you.”

  Nica glared at him. “That sounds like a threat.”

  Shanks shrugged, his jacket moving smoothly over his broad shoulders. “Or a promise.” He was scarcely older than she, yet he was already a soldier and one who had gained Mosaba’s respect. Perhaps that explained his self-assurance.

  For once in her life, Nica said what she thought. “You, sir, are over-confident. Which is simply a polite way to say arrogant and rude.” She crossed her arms. “Should I set my mind to it, I could disappear right from under your nose.”

  Shanks chuckled and took a step back, clearing a path to the door for her. “I hope you won’t put me to a test any time soon.” He offered his arm. “May I escort you to your rooms?”

  “Thank you, no. I know the way on my own.” Nica brushed by him and hurried toward the door, intent on escape. Though he let her go, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her shoulders as clearly as if his fingers touched her.

  HighGarden Palace

  LaBrice, Jarisa

  he King has been captured.”

  Jaaniyah Jacoby stood at the window of her study and stared blindly at the view of tropical forest and jagged mountains in the distance as Heathron’s words echoed in her ears with a dreadful finality. Her Minister of War had delivered the bad news an hour ago.

  Of all times, why now? Just as she was to assume a position next to her father’s throne—the beginning of a transition to her own rule. A knock sounded at the door interrupting her musings.

  “Come.”

  A guard entered. “How can I be of service, M’lady?”

  “I need you to fetch Becknah for me—as quickly as you can.”

  ‘Yes, M’lady.” The sound of his running footsteps echoed through the open doorway as the guard pulled the thick wooden door closed. Jaaniyah threaded her fingers together to still their trembling. Perhaps their scholar could tell her what the stars had to say about her father’s fate.

  A LIGHT SEQUENCE of taps sounded at the door—a familiar knock.

  “Ian Becknah.” The guard announced her visitor then bowed and pulled the door closed as he exited the room.

  “You’ve heard?” Jaaniyah paused. The pained frown that creased the elderly face spoke volumes. Becknah was her father’s oldest and most trusted advisor. If anyone could save the king it would be this man.

  “Yes, M’dear, I’ve heard.” Becknah shook his head as he approached. The gold thread interwoven within the crimson of his overcoat reflected the afternoon light. “Tis more than the wolf at the door this time. Tis the devil, himself.”

  “Mosaba?”

  “Who else?” The old man shrugged, causing his silver hair to fall forward and brush his shoulders. “He requested a meeting at Ry’dontt. Jacoby believed the ruler of Sartis sought détente. The King went with the intention of negotiating peace.”

  “Never!” Jaaniyah spat the word from her lips as though it were poison. “Jarisa will never agree to peace while that barbarian lives.” She paced toward the towering stone fireplace, the long skirt of her forest green gown sweeping across the floor. “Would he consider a ransom?”

  The older man held out his thin, gnarled hands. “Can we afford to give him what he wants?”

  “No, of course not.” Jaaniyah faced the windows as if searching for an answer in the distant vista. “The only thing that will satisfy that madman is the throne to Jarisa and he’ll only gain that over my dead body.” Her brows pulled down in a frown. “I think we should retaliate now, and destroy Sartis.”

  “And the only thing to be gained would be the sure death of your father along with many others.” The old man braced his hands on the arms of a chair before the fire and lowered himself to the seat. “Your father saw the need for peace. We must somehow move beyond war as the answer to our differences or we will be forever caught in an endless cycle of strike and retaliation.”

  “He has my father.” The words slipped through clenched teeth as Jaaniyah tried to calm her rage. “We need to steal something equally precious from Mosaba.”

  A weighted silence filled the room.


  “Now, there’s an idea,” Becknah finally murmured. He tapped a finger against his chin as he gazed up to the dark timbers exposed above their heads. “Perhaps there is something.”

  Jaaniyah stopped pacing and focused on the older man. “What?”

  He stroked his beard, the rings on his fingers sparkling as though imbued with magical powers. “There is one other thing I’ve heard that Mosaba greatly desires.”

  “What’s that?” Jaaniyah stepped closer.

  Becknah peered at her over glasses perched on the end of his nose, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiled. “The Getheas Stone.”

  Jaaniyah’s face twisted with confusion. “But that’s a myth. A legend. It’s not real.”

  Becknah cocked his head at her. “So they say. But most legends grow from a seed of fact and the willingness to believe. From what I’ve heard, Mosaba believes.” The reflection of the fire on the crescent sliver of his glasses made his eyes appear to dance with madness.

  “But even if the legend is true, Mosaba doesn’t have the stone. How would we steal it?”

  “By finding it first.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you believe the Getheas Stone actually exists?”

  The scholar lifted his palms— “There are antique texts, information about the life of Getheas that says it does. Documents that suggest the Ancients—Getheas, Juneedika and Celestica—were the greatest prophets—and perhaps, magicians—of all time.”

  Jaaniyah sank into a nearby chair as she mulled over his words. “We don’t even know where to look. How would we negotiate with something we don’t have?”

  “Ah, child.” The older man spoke with a familiarity borne from long association. “It’s not true that we don’t know where to look. There have been clues left behind that point the way.”

  “Obscure poems every schoolboy has learned by the time he reaches the age of eight?” Jaaniyah scoffed in disbelief. “The story of the stone has been told for centuries. If it’s really out there, why hasn’t someone deciphered the poems and found the thing?”