She may or may not keep that one. We’ll see if Fortune decides to keep meddling.
I admire the splendor a moment, noting the angles of the cabinet doors, the tilt of case lids. Then I pull out the linen drawstring bag, slip its lone penny into my dress pocket, and begin the harvest.
ThePfennigeisthas been hard at work all year, picking jewelry off Bóernische gentry like apples from an untended orchard. (They’ve certainly left enough lying around to rot.) I’d never get away with this in the Free Imperial States, where Almandy’s most cunning and ruthless train for years to join the Order of Prefects of the Godly Courts, who serve as instruments of the Low Gods’ laws.
But in the nobility-governed principalities and border marches, the local bailiff is usually someone’s slack-jawed brother-in-law who won’t fuss when akomte’s tax ledgers don’t add up. So if I get caught in the march of Bóern, it’ll be my own damn fault.
I still won’t. I can’t afford to. The von Eisendorfs are among Adalbrecht’s wealthiest vassals, and I’d secretly hoped tonight’s haul would be my last, but the sum of my efforts is still short of where it needs to be. I’ve mustered just over seven hundredgildenso far. The magic number is one thousand.
That will be the price of my safety. Of my freedom.
You see, there are two things they don’t tell you about having gods for godmothers:
First, nothing is freely given, even a mother’s love.
And second, it is very, very costly to run out on a debt to a god.
I eyeball the gold, silver, and jewels as they slither into my bag. I can’t say for certain—I take what my fence pays—but I’d guess after
tonight, I should have between eight hundredgildenand nine.
Not enough, but almost there.
There’s a trick to it, packing away the little things first so they settle at the bottom, rather than clinking around the bag. Rings, earrings, brooches; then the bracelets, then the necklaces, sometimes a girdle or a tiara if I’m feeling lucky.
One silver blur tumbles out and rolls off the vanity. I barely catch it before it hits the flagstones. It feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it ought to be. When I unfurl my fingers, I find a ring at odds with the rest of Ezbeta’s collection. It’s not silver but cool pewter wrought like talons, a perfect moonstone nestled in their grip.
Nowthislooks like a different story entirely.
A rumble reaches my ears from the drive outside. At first I ignore it; the ring is much more interesting than the arrival of a late guest.
Then the rumble grows louder than it has any right to be. Dozens of horses, maybe half a hundred. The Eisendorfs are wealthy, but not nearly important enough to merit a visitor that commands such an escort.
A horn sounds, and I hear a commotion on the ground level, which means the party has noticed their surprise caller. And that means my window of time to finish this job is shrinking, for that courtyard below is about to fill with gawking guests.
I don’t have time to ponder the ring or anything else; instead I shove all the jewelry into the linen bag and cinch it shut. Idobother to arrange all the boxes, cases, and lids just as I found them, like a gold-eating ghost simply swept through the vanity.
No, not a ghost. A phantom.
I leave the finishing touch in the crushed-velvet lining of an empty case, as I’ve done a dozen times now: a single red penny, crown-side up.
Then I double-check the knot on the bag and tie it up in my sash. When I climb out the bedroom window, I see banners of fore riders stabbing through the fog.
A white wolf rears on the banners, collared in gold, stark against an unmistakable field of Reigenbach blue.
It’s the personal insignia of Adalbrecht von Reigenbach, margrave of Bóern.
Gisele’s betrothed.
“Scheit,” I breathe.
I jerk the window mostly shut behind me, scramble up onto the balustrade, and hurl myself back onto the guest parlor’s balconette before I can dwell too long. My memories of Adalbrecht will strip thePfennigeistcard from my hand if I let them. It’s impossible to think of lockpicks and pennies and clever plans when every bone in my body wants simply to run.
But there’s one key to getting out of a tight corner, one that never changes. That trick is tonot panic.
I’ve been in worse pinches before. I think. Maybe not. If I blink, I see the dust of ill fortune at the corner of my sight, for my luck has decidedly turned.
It can’t be too bad, though, for I don’t see the hand of Godmother Death. Yet.
