Midnight Jewel

  “What ‘we’ are you talking about?” demanded the governor.

  “The McGraw Agency. I work for them.” Grant didn’t falter or lose that collected air. His face was still hard and tough. But I saw something fade in his eyes, the destruction of a dream he’d fought for for such a long time. My heart broke for him.

  Grant had been made.

  I took a hesitant step toward him, and then Adelaide exclaimed, “Tamsin!”

  Spinning around, I saw Tamsin climbing up the rickety stairs. I immediately ran toward her. Adelaide was right with me, and we practically knocked Tamsin over the platform’s edge with our hugs.

  “What happened?” cried Adelaide.

  I clutched at Tamsin’s sleeve and couldn’t stop the tears now. “I thought we’d lost you again.”

  “No,” she told me. “But I’m never getting in a blasted boat again.” Tears of her own brimmed in her brown eyes. She was a wonder to look at in all that bright tartan, with her shining hair wound into elaborate plaits.

  We talked over each other, laughing and asking questions and simply marveling that we were there at all. Silas’s sharp voice jolted us from the bubble of our reunion. “Thorn. A word.”

  I looked up and saw that both Warren and Grant were gone now. Silas stood near Governor Doyle, who was speaking with a commander from the fort. Several other soldiers had arrived and were spread in a loose but watchful ring around the Icori. Cedric separated from us, Adelaide right behind him.

  Tamsin and I held hands and watched as the three of them spoke in hushed tones. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I didn’t expect to come back to this. Whatever it is.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “And that?” She nodded at the crossbow tucked under my arm.

  “Also a long story. Probably not as long as yours.”

  Adelaide’s face was alight when she returned. “Mister Garrett said there’s enough shift in the evidence to rescind the verdict! There’s still a lot to go over before Cedric’s entirely clear, but for now—”

  “Mira!”

  I looked over the platform’s edge and saw Aiana standing below, her face somber. “I’ll be right back,” I told my friends. I darted down the stairs.

  “You have to find Grant,” Aiana immediately said.

  I glanced quizzically up at the platform. “I thought he must’ve taken Warren away when Silas showed up.”

  “Yes, but once he has, I’m worried he’ll disappear. If he hasn’t already.”

  All that earlier joy drained from me. “Disappear how?”

  “It was his backup plan—if the mission didn’t work out or if his identity was discovered. Get out of Cape Triumph immediately before he’s easily remembered. Take on another name in another place, get work in some trading company in the hopes of eventually going up there with a party granted access to the border or even just over the border.”

  I gaped. Grant had never discussed a contingency. “That would get him in?”

  “Maybe. It could take a long time. And there’s no certainty of traders getting through, which is why he wanted to avoid this. If he was reckless enough, he could sneak in and try bribing his way to amnesty for the illegal crossing, but that could just as easily get him killed.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “Look, that’s for later. Right now, you need to talk him out of it before we lose him. I think you’re the only one who can.”

  I thought back to our parting. Grant had balked when I told him I loved him, but he’d also sworn to me he’d save my friends at any cost. That cost had been his cover and nearly his life. The look in his eyes when he’d announced himself haunted me.

  “I don’t know if I can talk him into anything.”

  “You have to try, Banle,” Aiana insisted. She handed me a key. “Hurry. If you’re lucky, he stopped by his place to pack.”

  I bit my lip and glanced around. Adelaide still stood above me with Cedric, but Tamsin had come down and now spoke with a mixed group of Icori and soldiers. I’m worried he’ll disappear.

  Grant disappearing. Wandering off to be a ghost again, with a new life and a new mask. It was all he knew how to do, probably the only chance he could see to return to the Balanquans—even if it was dangerous. I couldn’t let him do that to himself. I couldn’t lose him.

  I gave Aiana the crossbow and took off through the crowd. Traveling free and alone no longer mattered. The Glittering Court was nowhere in sight; they’d probably scattered when the Icori arrived. I didn’t care if I got in trouble with the Thorns anymore, especially when it seemed I’d be free of my contract soon—one way or another.

  Grant wasn’t in his loft, and it wasn’t obvious in that empty place if he’d been there recently. His trunk was still there, and clothes still hung on their hooks. But I thought there might be less of them than before.

  I locked the door when I left, and as I started to tuck the key away, I remembered I had another in my pocket. Silas’s. Could Grant have gone there? He spent as much time at his mentor’s and the store’s as he did his own home.

  But Silas’s place was empty too. Heavy hearted, I started to leave for the store and then remembered the papers in the bag slung over me. Amidst all the surprises, I’d forgotten to give them to Silas. He apparently had enough to free Cedric and hold Warren for the time being but would need these eventually. I took them out and placed them back on the desk, not sure I could count on him still being at the courthouse.

  Seeing notes scrawled in Grant’s heavy handwriting triggered a pang of despair in my chest, as though I’d already lost him. As my gaze passed over the coded letter, I couldn’t help but automatically read some of what he’d written. A few new additions stood out, like the name of the man who’d had the schedule in Bakerston. Recipient is Cortmansh had been written at the top and underlined three times. And then beside it, underlined four times: How is he translating Balanquan? The new corrections we’d discovered were there too, like the heretic patrols and Green.

  My eyes suddenly jerked back to the top. Cortmansh. Grant had written that before seeing the Lorandian letter I’d translated earlier, which had corrected some of Abraham Miller’s misspelled names. Cortmansh had become Courtemanche, which made more sense if he was Lorandian. We’d always used a harsh Osfridian pronunciation because of Miller’s writing. But it wasn’t an Osfridian name.

  “Courtemanche,” I said, using the lilting Lorandian pronunciation. It added another syllable, dropped some consonants, and revealed the words within: Courte for short, and manche for sleeve.

  I’ve got several wagons heading out to Alma today . . . we’re barely going over the border.

  I glanced farther down the page and reread our corrected line: He will supervise usual transfer so that you can deliver to Green Bend. I pushed the letter aside to look at the map I’d noticed earlier in the stack. It showed all the Osfridian colonies and had been marked up by both Grant and Silas. There was Green Bend, the first major city just inside Alma Colony when coming from Cape Triumph.

  I closed my eyes and put a hand on the desk to steady myself as I strung all the pieces together. Tom Shortsleeves—Courtemanche, the traitors’ chief Lorandian financial supplier—was transporting wagons of valuables to other conspirators in Green Bend. Most of those valuables probably consisted of pure gold currency. Tom never kept anything else around for long—except goods that might be useful to an army, like ammunition and camp silverware. He gave away common items to Mistress Smith and sold his luxuries to people like Cornelius Chambers, rich collectors who eagerly handed over large sums of gold in exchange for rare Balanquan art . . .

  I opened my eyes. Elijah had been the one to tell me about those sculptures, Elijah who’d spent his childhood with a trading group in the Balanquan Empire. Tom wasn’t the one translating the Balanquan portion of the code.

  I could scarcely breathe. With shak
ing hands, I jotted out a quick note to Silas: Courtemanche is Tom Shortsleeves. He may still be in the city. I’m going to the Dancing Bull to try and find him.

  There was no time to explain my deductions, no time to even get Silas. The courthouse was out of the way from the Dancing Bull, and Silas could be off with the governor or the army. And Grant . . .

  I slowed for just a moment as I descended the stairs back to the street. Grant. Was he at his store? Checking would delay me from getting to the tavern. If he was there, he wouldn’t be for long. I would miss him if I didn’t go now. But Tom was leaving—or had left—the city too. He’d said he was going right after the verdict, and Warren’s outing as a conspirator would probably have hastened that departure.

  My steps quickened again. I wanted Grant. I wanted to find him before he disappeared behind another mask. But I couldn’t let the traitors’ greatest source of gold get away, not when he had the potential and wealth to resurrect another plot. This was a sacrifice for the greater good that I couldn’t refuse. I had to try to protect Adoria from the blood and destruction of war that still engulfed Sirminica.

  Ignoring the ache in my chest, I pushed Grant from my thoughts and ran to the Dancing Bull. No one in the city gave me a second glance, not in a day filled with so much tumult. In fact, when I burst breathlessly into the tavern, my ankle hurting once again, it seemed as though no one had the time to sit down for a drink either. The common room was empty, aside from a sallow-faced bartender I didn’t recognize. I was never here during the day. He stopped polishing a mug when he saw me.

  “Where’s Tom?” I demanded.

  The shock on his face smoothed to neutrality. “Tom who?”

  “You know who!” I stormed forward. “Is he still here?”

  The bartender set down the mug and fixed me with a cool gaze. “Miss, I don’t know what you think you’re— Argh!”

  I climbed over the bar and kicked him in the chest, doing it much less skillfully in a dress than I would have in Lady Aviel’s pants. But it was so completely unexpected that the surprise gave me an advantage. I pushed him back with a knee jab to the stomach, trapping him in the small space. Another hit from my knee made him double over, and I forced him down by sitting on his back. I weighed less, but he didn’t have room to maneuver. I grabbed a length of rope sitting near an ale cask and bound the man’s hands with knot skills learned from my father.

  “Where’s Tom?” I repeated.

  The bartender glared up at me defiantly, and I resisted the urge to slap the answer out of him. I had no time for torture or interrogation. If Tom was here, there was only one place he could be. If he wasn’t here, he was probably out of my reach anyway. I located the backroom key, and a widening of the man’s eyes made me think I might not be too late after all. On my way out from behind the bar, I spied the pistol kept on the shelf. I wasn’t familiar with its style, but at least it was a close-range weapon. I fit the gun into my skirt’s pocket as best I could and headed for the back-room door.

  Beyond it, I found the stairwell that I’d seen the night Tom and I had argued. This time, the steps were illuminated from lanterns below. With a deep breath, I began my descent. The wooden stairs creaked beneath me, killing any chance at subtlety. But I didn’t need it, not if I could pull off the plan I’d formulated on my way here.

  “Barnaby? Has Elijah come back?” called a familiar voice.

  I reached the bottom and found myself in an enormous storage area. Marks on the dusty floor showed that a huge number of crates had once filled the room. All were gone now, except for a few in the corner. One had its lid off, and Tom knelt before it, carefully putting in burlap bags that clinked when they bumped each other.

  “Barnaby?” Tom glanced over his shoulder and jumped to his feet when he saw me. He tilted his head and looked me over, cautious but not threatened. “Well. You’re certainly prettier than Barnaby. And maybe cleverer, if you made it down here. How may I be of assistance, fascinating creature?”

  “I’m here to help you.” I switched to the Belsian accent. “If you still want it.”

  Tom stared, speechless for a change, and then a huge grin spread over his face. “Lady Aviel! Is this the real angel at last? In a dress? And here I thought this was turning out to be a terrible day.”

  “Things not going your way?” I asked, returning to my regular voice.

  He shrugged. “Just a lot of surprises. You’re a good one, though. I can’t believe I didn’t catch on sooner. You do that Belsian accent flawlessly. But you’re Sirminican, yes? Exquisite. And of course I want your help. Looks like we’ll have to get you something a little more durable to wear to Alma, but we can worry about that once we’re out of town. No wig, though. I won’t allow it. It’d be a crime now that I’ve seen your real hair. I’m not even sure about a mask, though I suppose you’ll want to—”

  “Stop.” He’d been inching nearer, mostly out of curiosity. I retrieved the gun from my skirt without him realizing it and pointed it at his chest. “Not a step closer.”

  “Really?” His eyes narrowed behind the mask as he studied me. He didn’t look frightened in the least. “Is this about the wig? You can wear it if you want.”

  “It’s about you and your operations, Mister Courtemanche. Get on your knees.”

  He obeyed, grinning. “And she speaks Lorandian too.”

  “Not as well as you,” I said, recalling his farewell to Adelaide this morning. “And I can’t hear a trace of it in your Osfridian.”

  “As well you shouldn’t. I’ve been in or around the colonies for most of my life. My family came from Lorandy years ago, and I support my homeland’s vision for Adoria.”

  “By funding a bloody revolution so that Lorandy can get its hands on the colonies’ resources?”

  “I have done a remarkable job,” he said with false modesty. “If I’d only worked this hard in my youth, I’d be living like a king by now.”

  “The Osfridian authorities actually think you’re a nobleman—that it’s the only way you’d have so much gold.” I nodded toward the bags in the crates.

  He brightened even more, still far too at ease considering his current position. “Well, that is high praise indeed.”

  “It’s over now. Lie down and put your hands behind your back.” Some of the gold bags were tied with rope. It was a narrower type than what I’d used upstairs, but I was certain I could get it to secure his wrists—so long as I could do it while holding the gun.

  But he didn’t move. “Aviel, I really can’t say enough how much I’m loving this. Not just seeing your real face. I mean: seeing this side of you. It really has improved my day—which makes it that much sadder that I have to be the one to tell you that gun isn’t loaded.”

  I didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

  “I’d never really leave a loaded gun that accessible. I keep it on display to make drunken customers think twice about harassing the bartender. And if they don’t, my men can deal with any altercation.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But I was less confident now. Since I didn’t know this type of pistol, I couldn’t use its weight to tell me if it was loaded or not.

  Tom got to his feet and brazenly moved forward, putting the barrel back to his chest. “Then fire and find out.” When I did nothing, he chuckled softly. “Even if it was loaded, I wouldn’t be afraid. I know you won’t hurt me.”

  “You don’t think I have the nerve?”

  His smile broadened. “Oh, no. You’re no coward, Aviel. You were brave to come here. I used to tease you about not getting your hands dirty, but now I know that’s not true. It’s just your last resort. You’d rather appeal to man’s better nature. That kind of idealism will only hobble you, my dear. Because if you’re trying to get ahead, if you’re trying to further a cause, you have to shrug off honor and sentiment. If you really wanted to stop my actions, you would’ve tried to shoo
t me the instant you walked in. Instead, you decided to take the honorable path, to bring me in and see justice served through the fair channels everyone else faces. Thinking like that is why people fail. Why they get killed. Attachment to people, to principles, is a waste of your time. You need to be ready to sacrifice them.”

  “My father used to say the same thing.”

  “Smart man.”

  I pulled the trigger. It clicked. Nothing more.

  My hands shook, as though the hopelessness of my situation had cowed me. I turned the gun to its side and made motions to surrender it—and then I swung upward and slammed the grip into Tom’s face. He managed to grab my hair as I leapt for the stairs, jerking me back. I fell with a yelp, and moments later, he had me pinned on my back. He pressed a more familiar gun’s barrel to my forehead, and I knew it was loaded. It was the one he often wore.

  “I like you, Aviel,” he said, with none of his usual levity. “And I wish you’d stuck with us. Lorandy’s going to do great things in Adoria—far better than Osfrid could have. But your chance is over, and I can’t leave loose ends. I, you see, have no problem making the tough decisions.”

  “Neither do I,” said a welcome voice. “Pull that trigger, and I pull mine.”

  Still keeping the gun on me, Tom glanced over his shoulder, toward the stairs. He blocked my view, but I knew who stood there. “Mister Elliott, right? Spy and alleged shopkeeper. Until my lady showed up here, I would’ve said you’re the best-kept secret in Cape Triumph.”

  “Lower your gun and stand up,” said Grant.

  “How are you giving commands? Are you really ready to sacrifice some innocent girl for the McGraws?” When Grant didn’t answer, Tom tsked. “Well, Aviel, there you have it. Someone not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

  “Worry about yourself,” said Grant. “If you shoot her, I shoot you. If you surrender, you can live. Those are your choices. I walk out of here either way. It makes no difference to me.”

  “Oh, stop. Of course it makes a difference. If I live, you get the glory of bringing me in for interrogation.”