De Louth reached inside a pouch hanging at his waist and held something aloft in the air between them. It was a chain. At the end swung a key.
Griffyn’s heartbeat slowed. Thick and ponderous, it knocked out a beat that made his blood churn and head spin. A key. It looked lighter than the one around his neck, and he saw it was silver. Steel. And it would fit. He knew it would fit. It was as if the knowledge flowed through his blood, as if the key were already in his hand. This little steel key would fit inside his larger iron one, and the puzzle key, the one that would open the chest of the Hallows, would be one step closer to being complete.
“How did you come by this?” he asked hoarsely.
De Louth lowered the chain to the table. “I took it.”
“From whom?”
“Endshire.”
“Marcus? How in God’s name did Marcus come by it?”
“He stole it. From the countess. Last year. I watched him.”
“He took it from her?” Griffyn repeated in a low voice.
“Not off her person. She was gone by the time we got there. But it was lying on the floor of her bedchamber. Looked like it’d been left behind in a hurry. An accident.”
“And Marcus found it,” Griffyn said slowly, trying to picture the moment when Marcus realised what he had. “He must have been pleased.”
De Louth snorted. “He looked like he was sucking on ice in Palestine. It mattered, to him.” He sat back in his seat. “To you. To whoever tried to buy it from me last week.”
Griffyn went still. “What?”
“Someone tried to buy it from me about a week ago.”
“Who?”
De Louth shook his head. The firelight from candles glinted off a few grey hairs speckling his beard. He glanced at the mugs of ale. “I don’t know. We met in a dark alleyway. He didn’t speak much. I wouldn’t know if he was sitting at the next table. There was one thing, though. I saw it when he was reaching for the bag under his tunic.” De Louth’s eyes met his from across the oaken tabletop. “He had a tattoo. A bright soaring eagle, inked right over his heart.”
Griffyn and Fulk looked at one another.
“He was willing to pay a lot for that.” De Louth nodded towards the chain and key, laid like a spiraling, linked snake on the table. A fat candle burned beside it, slowly spreading yellow wax like a sluggish volcano. “An awful lot.”
“So why didn’t you give it to him?”
De Louth shrugged. “I didn’t trust him.”
“You’ve developed quite a conscience over the past year,” Griffyn observed coldly.
De Louth shrugged again. “A conscience? I dunno. I needed the money. And it wasn’t Marcus’s to begin with.”
“So why didn’t you sell it when you could?”
De Louth’s gaze wandered back to the mugs of ale, then he poked his finger into the yellowish wax. More hot wax came chugging down into the recess, covering de Louth’s thick, calloused finger. He pulled it free. “I don’t think my answers will suit, my lord, but they’re the only ones I’ve got. I didn’t trust him.”
Griffyn’s face stayed hard. “Why are you doing this?”
“He took it from the countess. It’s hers. Not his.”
Griffyn’s eyebrows inched up. “Truly, now: why?”
De Louth scowled. “I said you’d believe me or no. So, ’tis no. I don’t much care. That belongs to the countess. Or,” he added, sitting back, “you. But it sure as hell isn’t Endshire’s.”
“And you’re just so tired of all the stealing, is that it?” Griffyn’s words were mocking, but his tone wasn’t. Nor was it kindly. He was impassive. Blank. Pushing. Appraising.
“I’m tired of people getting shit on, my lord,” de Louth replied. “I’m tired of watching it.”