Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

He shoots me a pained glance as he enters the room. “Do we have a schedule we must adhere to?”

“Yes, actually. There is a troupe of mummers arriving to perform for the household. After tonight, they will move on to Jarnac, then to the city of Angoulême. We will be going with them.”

“Wait, let me be sure I understand. We are going to parade in front of the very people you—?we—?are trying to escape from?”

“No,” I scoff. “We will wait in the shadows and join them as they come out of the grand salon, slipping in among them as easily as smoke up a chimney. Two lone travelers, even under the guise of messengers, would be noted leaving the city—?especially if they were not seen delivering any messages. This way, we will hide in plain sight. The guards at the tower can see the road for nearly a mile, there is no way to get by them unnoticed. Believe me, I have spent much time thinking on this. And if I must tell you to hurry one more time, I will put you back into your hole.”

This spurs him to action, and he hastily begins undressing. “Use the water for a quick wash. You may be dressed like a wolf, but there is no reason to smell like one. There is also a salve for your wrists, and linen strips to wrap around the iron so it won’t chafe.”

He emerges a few minutes later, smelling faintly of the balsam soap and dressed in the simple clothes of a peasant, which fit well enough, considering they were part of a costume junk pile. Even though his wrists are now wrapped in linen, I am pleased that the sleeves are long enough to fully cover his manacles. “It will do. Your beard adds a nice touch.”

He grimaces and reaches up to tug at it. “But will it be enough to disguise me?”

“We will not be relying on that alone. Here is the rest of your costume.” I pull a great wolf skin from the open chest and shake it out.

He stares at it, faint admiration mixed with equal parts horror. “I am to wear that?”

I look at it, inordinately pleased with the thing. “It is perfect. We will be dressed as Saint Brigantia fighting off the wolves of war.” I glance up at him. “You know the story? How Brigantia tricked your god and averted a war that would have—”

“Yes, I know the story. But . . .” He reaches for the wolf skin. “How am I to wear it?”

“Look, it has been fashioned into a mask and will fit over the top of your head. You can see out of it.”

He settles the snarling wolf’s head over his own, tugging and adjusting until I see his eyes behind the two holes. “It smells of old wolf.” His voice is hollow, distorted by the mask. That is also good, in case he has to speak.

“It makes the disguise all the more believable. Now for the last part.” I hold up a heavy loop of chain.

He rears back, looking for all the world like a hound resisting a leash. “You already gave me your poison.” Faint sparks of temper lurk in his voice.

“It is part of the costume, and while you have given me your word, you have also betrayed me once. Bringing you with me is a big risk.”

“Why?” he asks. “Why are you taking such a risk to help me?”

“Mortain knows,” I mutter. “Now stop flapping your tongue else we will miss our chance.”

He heaves a great sigh and lowers his head so I may slip the chain over it. After giving it a quick tug to make sure it is secure, I reach for the helmet that will complete my own costume. I settle it over my head, roll my shoulders, then grip the chain firmly in my hand. “Time to go.”

Chapter 56

ully disguised by our costumes, we cautiously make our way through the long winding corridors of the dungeon. When we reach the landing, I peek out to be certain the coast is clear before we hurry up the three flights of stairs to the main floor. Once there, we lurk in the shadows, waiting. Faint strains of quiet music drift out of the great hall. That isn’t right. The music should swoop and swirl and be accompanied by laughter and applause as well.

I motion for Maraud to stay put and edge forward, drawing closer to the hall. There is still nothing but quiet voices and the plucking of lute strings.

“Where are they?” Maraud’s voice at my ear nearly causes me to jump.

“I told you to stay put.”

“You also told me we’d be joining a parade of mummers, and yet—”

Voices approach from the opposite side of the causeway. Maraud and I leap back toward the landing. By the smell that reaches us, it is a pair of servers bearing the fish course.

“. . . can’t believe she wouldn’t let them perform.” It is a man talking.

“She’s a somber one, she is,” grumbles the second voice.

“But does she need to spoil it for the rest of us?” The voices disappear into the main hall.

“Rutting figs!” I whisper. “Louise canceled the performance.” My mind is buzzing like a nest of frantic hornets, replaying all my options in my head. We will have to go with a second plan, then, which is not nearly as safe. As I open my mouth to explain just that, rapid footsteps, quick and light, come down the stairway.

Before we can do so much as move, Lady Juliette appears in front of us, her haughty gaze widening in surprise before narrowing in suspicion. “Why are you skulking in here?”

Lady Juliette with her sharp eyes and prickly disposition. But even she cannot see through an iron visor. Or so I pray.

I look down at my feet, allowing my shoulders to slump. When I speak, my voice is pitched low so that my words are broad and flat. “We were told to meet in here, my lady, so we could perform for the count and his household.”

She looks briefly to Maraud, her lip curling. “Not tonight. The count is away, and his countess does not like for the mice to play.” She smiles at her own jest, and I wonder how much wine she has had. “The countess does not approve of mummery. Now be off to the stables with the others, or I’ll have to assume you are here to steal the silver and have a footman throw you out.”

“No need to do that, my lady! If you’d just show us the way . . .”

She points to the staircase.

We quickly bow our thanks and scramble toward the stairs. When we reach the door, the porter opens it for us, loudly complaining about stragglers as he shuts it firmly behind us.

Maraud turns to me, his wolf jaw leering in the light of the torches. “That went well.”

“Shut up, or I will rip off your mask and shove you back inside.”

He pauses, his mouth open. “I do not think any of them would know who I was.” He smiles. “They’d still just think me a lost mummer trying to steal the silver.”

“People hang for less than that.” I tug on his chain. “The stable is this way.”

As we cross the courtyard, we keep close to the walls in an attempt to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible. I pause silently at the cluster of guards on the gate tower, then again at the sentries patrolling the battlements, wanting Maraud to see for himself why we could not just walk out of here.

When we finally reach the stable, it is full of a colorful collection of fools, men dressed as maids, and two kings. Someone dressed in a black cloak with a crow mask tucked under his arm talks to a man wearing stag’s antlers.

We fit right in. Someone—?the steward perhaps?—?has provided jugs of wine and rough bread and cheese—?appeasement, perhaps, for the canceled performance.

Luckily, everyone is so busy either grumbling or swigging wine that we are able to slip in unnoticed.

Or so I think.

Two steps inside the door, a hand reaches out and grabs my arm. I freeze.

It is Alips from the kitchen. A thick, solid woman, tonight she is dressed in the dark green and gold of Dea Matrona, a wreath sitting crookedly atop her head. “Don’t worry, dearie. All of our welcomes won’t be like this.” She leans in close, close enough that I can smell the wine on her breath. “No one saw you slip in among us. The others won’t even know you’re missing. We always lose a few this time of year. Just be sure and be back by the day after Epiphany, and no one will be an

y the wiser.”

She thinks I am one of the castle servants who plan to join the mummers in their revelries. “Very well, ma’am.”

She gives Maraud a long appraising look before winking at me in approval. Then she turns to a yellow-costumed fool who is arguing with one of the red-and-black-masked hellequin. We are forgotten.

Even though others have begun to remove their cumbersome masks and the bulkier parts of their costumes, Maraud and I leave ours on until we reach a remote corner of the stable. The stall is as far away from the door—?and inquiring eyes—?as possible. “We’ll sleep here.” I hold up a finger. “And not one word. Not one. We are out of the chateau, and that is what matters.”

He says nothing.

I shrug. “You can take off your mask, if you wish.”

He tilts his wolfish head at me, then reaches out and jiggles the chain.