Page 155 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“You’re just not used to playing the game when the cards are stacked against you.”

“You manipulated me.”

“No,” he said. “I manipulated Celestine.”

She caught her breath on her own anger—because they were not the same thing, and he was right. She was not Lindan. She was not the crown. She was not Celestine’s pawn. Not anymore.

Nore rubbed her eyes. “Are you still working for her, then? Will you go back to Cleoc?”

“No,” he said, holding her gaze. “I’m free. I chose to work for Cleoc, and I chose to warn Locke about the attempt on her life. Cleoc knows that I will not take any vows, but as long as she is focused on maintaining peace in Idistra, we have an arrangement.”

“That night,” Nore said. “You didn’t go to steal from them. You went to warn them.”

“I did,” he confirmed. “Only that Gail was plotting against them, and I could set him up in such a way that his capture would be unimpeachable—which was necessary, considering imprisoning the favored heir to the sovereign could be interpreted as an act of war—and defacing a powerful religious site seemed like a clear angle.”

Nore laid her head back, letting her eyes slide shut. “Fuck you,” she said, without heat.

“And I would do it again, Finch. If betraying you that night, if testing your trust one last time meant saving you—I would do it a thousand times.”

Nore let her thoughts whir—but truthfully, he was a man who had always been beholden to someone. “You came back to Nettlepool, to a woman who would kill you, to try to save me—even though I, too, would kill you.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“You’re a fool, Khari. A lovesick fool.”

“Do you trust me yet?” he asked, pressing his lips to her temple.

Nore turned her face, burrowing into his shoulder. What a question that was. “I’m working on it,” she admitted.

If you are amenable, I would love to speak with you about a proposal that I believe suits both our interests. Privately, if you please, as it is a delicate matter.

Letter from Celestine de Roullier, Duchess of Arlowe, to the Earl of Tyning, 1636 UCE

thirty-three

WHEN THEY DOCKED IN the northern territories, Nore and Cas disembarked with the rest of the passengers. He led the way, to a seedy pub in the harbor. She knew of its existence from Tern, who’d told her more than one tale of his adventures in the north—so of course Cas would know of it, too. She wondered if they’d ever only just missed one another here.

If anyone could be convinced by coin to take them to Locke, Nore was certain she’d find them here.

“You look a scoundrel,” Cas said as they drew closer to the pub. They wore travel clothes, Nore dressed in one of her sailor costumes, with only a travel bag each and a few thousand in both Lindle and Idistran money. Nore had paid to have most of their trunks, their cat, and a healthy amount of money transported ahead to Terlo’s address, along with a letter of apology.

If they died, at least Terlo would be better off for it. Nore doubted they had yet fully recovered from their misadventures on Locke.

And if they lived—well, maybe Terlo would be up for meeting Nore again, when it was all over. She did like them, all things considered.

“I’ve lowered myself to match your appeal, darling,” Nore said. Cas elbowed her in the ribs.

He led the way through the crowd spilling out of the pub. Nore was content to follow, her hands slipping into her pockets as she affected a loose stride, long in the leg. Cas held the door for her and hesitated, a smile curving his lips.

She liked pretending, sometimes: she liked playing at the rogue, acting as if she weren’t devastated and quite possibly sentenced to death in her home nation, acting as if it were all beneath her.

She surveyed the clientele as Caspian went to get them drinks. Nore leaned against the corner of the bar, allowing the ebb and flow of conversation around her to swallow her. The place was packed with sailors, mostly because it was the only open pub in the harbor at this time of year. She spotted a knot of Maroushan navy over in the corner, quietly hunched over their drinks, at odds with the Scaelan merchants and other traders who cut through the pub. Nore studied each group in turn, not quite certain what she was looking for—a gut feeling, perhaps. A fact that had not yet been quantified.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. Cas came over and handed her a frosted tankard. He, too, took in the clientele—and then he laughed heartily.

“What is it?”

Cas took a long, steady drink, looking into the corner. There were two people who Nore thought fit her personal description: a young man and woman at a table, positioned so they both had their backs to the wall and were able to see the crowd.