Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

He stares at me a long moment. “What if I gave you my word that I will not attempt to escape? I am just as eager to be gone from this city as you are.”

“Gone from this city, yes, but I am not at all convinced you wish to face the duchess’s justice. Besides, why would I trust the word of a confirmed traitor?”

After another moment of hesitation, he does what I ask. I hope he will not argue every step of the way, else it will be a most tedious journey. Perhaps I shall have to gag him.

Once he is settled and retied, I mount Fortuna, glad to have her solid, friendly bulk beneath me once more. I hold out my hand to the hellequin so that I may take my own reins and Crunard’s as well. He hands me mine but does not release Crunard’s. “Let me lead him,” he says, sounding surprisingly like Aveline when she is eager for some task that she knows will be denied her.

I bark out a laugh. “I think not.”

“I would not toy with him. Much,” the hellequin grumbles.

“No.” I hold my hand out, and with great reluctance, he gives the reins to me.

I secure Crunard’s reins to my saddle, then nudge Fortuna to the open road.

“So how do you know of the marques?” I finally ask when we have been traveling a while. “That is a well-guarded secret of Mortain’s.”

“As the liaison between the convent and the Breton court, I have worked closely with the abbess for many years. Of a necessity, we have had to share information with each other so that we could ensure no mistakes were made.”

“And yet, not only were mistakes made, but you betrayed the duchess and every measure of trust the abbess has put in you.” I make no effort to hide the censure in my voice, and I wonder again at how the abbess came to judge this man so wrongly. “So, now that I have decided to spare your miserable life, tell me of how Matelaine died.”

“Who?”

I study his face for the signs of lying we have been taught to look for, but there are none. Or else he is an exceptionally accomplished liar. “The first assassin sent to kill you.”

“Other than Ismae, you are the first.”

“You are wrong,” I say firmly, hoping it is not I who am wrong, steered down a false path by the scheming abbess.

“What did she look like?” he asks softly.

“She was young. All of fifteen. Skin as pale as milk and bright red hair.”

“Ah,” he says, and I pounce.

“Tell me.”

There is a long moment of silence before he speaks. “Since you are hungry for information, as I am, I propose an exchange. A trade, if you will. I will answer one of your questions, and you will answer one of mine.”

Before I can respond, Balthazaar butts in. “Or we could play the game my way: If you do not simply answer her question, I will run you through with my sword.”

Crunard does not so much spare him a glance. “Have we a deal?”

“Be careful,” Balthazaar warns me. “He is toying with you, lulling you into a false sense of security.”

“Not that I do not agree, but what makes you think so?”

The hellequin glances over at Crunard, his face growing dark. “Let us just say that one hunter is easily able to recognize the tactics of another.”

I follow the direction of his scowl. “You’re jealous!” I am so surprised I scarce remember to keep my voice low.

He flinches at the word, then looks sorely affronted. “Jealous? Of that old man? Nay, it is just that if anyone is to hunt you, it should be me.”

A flutter of something both terrifying and thrilling moves low in my belly. I know him well enough now to recognize that when he appears to be disgusted with me, it is actually himself he is unhappy with. Before I can say anything, he puts his heels to his horse and, with a flapping of his dark cloak, draws to the front of our group.

I turn my thoughts back to Crunard’s proposal. I have no secrets to hide, and he appears to know nearly as much as I do as to how the convent operates. “Very well. We will trade. What do you know of Matelaine?”

“The truth is, I never met her,” Crunard says. When I open my mouth to protest, he raises his bound hands in an appeasing gesture. “However, one of the kitchen maids used to carry on a flirtation with one of my guards. She fits your description of this Matelaine.”

Matelaine. Flirting with a guard. Most likely so she could get close to Crunard.

“But I have not seen her in weeks,” Crunard adds.

“Because you recognized she was from the convent and killed her.”

“I have already said that I have not. I have nothing to gain from lying at this point.”

“Nevertheless, she is dead.” I stare at him, willing myself to see past the flesh and bone to his soul and discern whether or not he is telling the truth.

“How did she die?” he asks.

I look away. “I do not know. There were no marks on her body, no bruises, cuts, or injuries.”

“Surely the convent has ways of determining the cause of death.”

“True, but we cannot discern it from a glimpse of the body in a bone cart on the side of the road.”

Crunard’s eyes are narrowed in thought. “And she had nothing on her?”

“Only her gown.” She was wearing a plain gown, maid attire, now that I think about it. “And she was holding a white chess piece in her left hand.”

The skin around his eyes tightens imperceptibly, as does his mouth. “I do know how she died, then, and I fear it was naught but an accident,” he says gently. “She was merely caught in a trap set for someone else.”

“An accident,” I repeat hollowly. It was terrible enough that Mat­elaine had died on a mission she was not qualified to undertake. But to have her death be an accident makes it not only tragic but a waste.

Sensing my hesitation, Crunard continues. “If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why I had access to Arduinna’s snare, the convent’s own poison. If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why the abbess has sent you here now. Is there to be a trial? Does the duchess know? Duval? Do you truly know whose orders you are carrying out as you stand there and hand out death like God on Judgment Day?”

“You are guilty.”

“No,” he says dryly. “The man I sought to poison is very much alive.” He frowns, as if still unable to understand how that happened, and I think of Ismae and her gift and her love for Duval.

“Perhaps you do not know quite as many convent secrets as you think you do,” I tell him. “Now, what is your question? I would be done with you, at least for now, but I will not go back on my promise.”

“What has the abbess told you of me?”

I am puzzled by the question, but even more so by his manner, which is almost tentative and seems out of character for him. “Nothing,” I say truthfully. “I know only that you were her liaison at court, but she never spoke of you. Not until she explained you were responsible for ­Matelaine’s death.”

He is quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “Have you another question, demoiselle?” While Crunard’s words are most polite, there is an underlying tightness in his tone that perplexes me.

“No more for now,” I tell him. “Only a warning. If you annoy me too much, I will kill you, the abbess and Mortain’s justice be damned.”

At the sound of the god’s name, the hellequin quirks one eyebrow and holds up three fingers. It is the third time I have mentioned the god tonight. I glare at him, until he too falls silent.

Two leagues later, I call a halt for the night. Our horses need rest, even if we do not. It is a tedious camp, with Crunard making exaggerated, stilted movements, as if his bindings are cutting off his very life force, and the hellequin’s moroseness filling the small clearing like smoke from the stuttering fire. I do my best to ignore them both, get Fortuna settled, and locate a soft spot on which to pass the rest of the night.

In an attempt to give Balthazaar something to do beside glare at Crunard

, I hand him a length of rope. “Here. Tie Crunard up so that he cannot escape during the night.”

Balthazaar visibly cheers at this, snapping the rope against his hands and carefully considering Crunard as he stalks toward him.

“I will not try to escape,” Crunard says. “There is no need to tie me up.”

“There is every need, as I do not trust you any more than I would a fox who has caught scent of a hen house. Your freedom calls to you so loudly that I can hear it singing in my ears. So, yes, we will tie you up.”