Page 8 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

When her chest was warm and she felt slightly more alive, she went back into her room. There, the file waited.

Nore carried it to the desk in her room, wedged into the corner by the window. She did not bother with the fire, but wrapped an extra blanket around herself and lit a taper.

Celestine had provided nothing more than an overview: the six countries and their nobility, presumed alliances, trade partnerships, some potential motives for the thief. It was easy enough to find the page she was looking for, the web of Luthrite noble families. Easy enough to trace her fingers over the names, encoded—even in a jumble of meaningless letters and symbols, she knew exactly where to find him.

She traced the name with the tip of her finger. It was crossed out—but she knew better. He was many things, but he was certainly not dead.

She let her eyes slip shut. Let the memories slide over her. Then she tore the page from the dossier and held the corner to the flame, watching the paper blacken and the names disappear as it burned.

She is doing as well as you predicted. Her focus is far better than any apprentice I’ve yet seen, and her heart is as closely guarded as can be.

Bittern to Dove, 1621 UCE

three

TWO DAYS LATER, NORE received a message from Joana, the barmaid at the Gleaming Swine. Nore stayed at her office long after Kota and the rest of her clerks left—Kota still looked like a wounded dog every time Nore glanced her way, and presented theories on the thief whenever possible as if to further prove her innocence—and worked until the streets were cold and dark and rowdy. In the late evening, she slipped into a back storeroom and changed into a set of clothes she kept above a ceiling beam. Dressed and disguised, Nore kept her head down as she departed through the building’s hidden access that Sparrow used.

The pub was more raucous now, the off-shift sailors, dockworkers, and port guards taking advantage of the free hours that sparkled with possibility. It was easy to fade into the background in her weathered sailing clothes with her hair bound and hidden. Nore lingered by the bar, sipping her ale. She’d make her way to the deck soon enough. She came here a couple of nights a week to sit, drink watered-down ale, and listen.

It wasn’t as if she were trying to learn anything about her own shipments—though it would’ve been nice, Nore thought bitterly—but more that she was trying to get the general pulse of the harbor. Who was coming? Who was going? Who owed money and refused to pay up? Where were the tension points, the breaking points?

She was half listening to a heated discussion about port fees rising in Idistra, probably due to the tyrant queen’s new policies—anything she could glean about Idistra was, annoyingly, useful to her now—when a hand landed on her shoulder. “Well met, Finch,” the voice said quietly.

She turned. The captain she knew only as Tern waited behind her. He had ink-black hair and eyes nearly as dark; his face was pocked with the remnants of a disease he’d survived nearly a decade before, sailing around Arkun. Tern was from Hontoro, though he’d lived on a ship nearly as long as he’d been alive.

“Well met, Captain. Are you back for long?” The last time she’d seen Tern, they were on a ship for a three-week voyage to Minho. That must’ve been nearly half a year ago now.

“Not very,” he said. Tern nodded to a curtain that led through to one of the smoking rooms. She followed, taking her ale, slipping with him through the curtain. The room was cloudy, smoky, and sweet; she made out the indeterminable haze of people and the murmur of conversation. Tern led the way to a table tucked into a back corner. There was a screen, but neither of them moved to pull it. Though that lessened their privacy, it allowed them to watch the crowd that moved around them.

She watched Tern’s deft, clever fingers as he rolled a cigarette. He often smoked sweet-smelling herbs from Sina, which he always kept in a pouch on his hip. Sometimes, she caught the smell of it on the street and turned, expecting to catch the shadow of him lurking in a corner.

He offered her one; she declined. She wondered at his real name; when they sailed together, his crew called him only “the Captain.” He knew hers, but he didn’t use it—and since he’d used her code, whatever he wanted to tell her probably had something to do with the duchess’s business.

“It’s been a while,” Tern said, lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. “You all right?”

“I am,” she said so she didn’t say, Actually, I’m being robbed. Though the spies rarely spoke to one another and were not really friends, there were ones, like Tern, who liked to check in on one another. When she was younger, she’d hated it, thinking that they saw her as young and lonely and weak. Now that she was older, she understood the solidarity better. It was nice to know that if she died on assignment, someone might remember her.

If nothing else, if she were poisoned in her apartment, she suspected he would send someone to find her body before Grimsby totally consumed her.

And if Tern’s gaze lingered on her, went searching for something she was not willing to offer—well, he was smart enough to keep those thoughts to himself. The closest they had come to crossing lines had been on his ship during a long voyage, when she’d neglected to draw the screen before bathing, thinking she would be alone for a while. Then, for the barest moment, when he’d burst in, his gaze had not lingered. It had burned.

Invite me, his eyes had said. And for a moment, she had considered it. But Nore knew the risks—she did not dare chance a romantic entanglement with anyone she knew.

“And you?” Nore asked, possibly a beat too late.

“As fine as ever,” Tern said. He looked behind her, then cleared his throat. “I hear you’ve gotten into some trouble.”

Nore stiffened. If Tern knew about her thief, it was probable he’d heard from Celestine—which meant she was losing faith in Nore to solve her own problems.

“What have you heard?” Nore asked.

Tern shrugged. “She asked me to keep an eye on the harbor. On your ships. Not on you, Finch; you needn’t worry.”

Nore hadn’t worried at all that Celestine had any suspicions about her until this very moment. “Right,” she said. “Thanks for that.”

“Have you considered an amalgamate?”

It took all her (very tired, frayed) restraint not to roll her eyes. Nore could do magic in Lindan and sometimes in other related systems, but it required a lot of effort, and it was always far more difficult (or impossible) away from home. Outside of those places, she had no magic or power to speak of.