“Who was she?” Cresia asked, her tone lightly curious.

“Who was who?”

“The woman you were thinking of a few moments ago.” She fastened the belt to her trews and sat to pull on her boots.

Is that her design? he wondered. Seeking to garner knowledge through intimacy. She’s as much a spy as I am.

“How could any man think of another when in your arms, my lady?” he replied, sitting up. He felt her flinch at his caustic tone and felt a pang of regret. I always hurt them, he recalled, thinking back over the years, the girls drawn to the handsome poet with the sad smile, the sweet embraces and the inevitable tears. Alornis was the only woman he had never contrived to disappoint, and he had never even kissed her.

“If you require intelligence from me,” he told Cresia, “it might be simpler, and less time-consuming, to just ask.”

She rose and tossed him his shirt. “Very well. When my brother and sister return. And I’ll expect a full account if we’re to help in this escapade of yours.”

They ate a sparse meal of dried beef and bread washed down with water, since his father hadn’t seen fit to provide wine with the extra provisions. If Inehla and Rhelkin sensed any tension between them, they failed to show it, though he fancied there was a faint glint of amusement in the glance Inehla gave her sister.

“How can you be certain the queen’s army will attack on Winterfall Eve?” Rhelkin asked when the meal was done.

“I can’t,” Alucius admitted. “The only surety I can give is that I sent word for them to do so.”

“How?” Cresia asked.

“By pigeon. My last, in fact. So please don’t ask me to send any more.”

“How does a poet come to keep pigeons?”

“Because he’s also a spy in service to the Meldenean Ship Lords.” Alucius sipped his water, sighing in fond remembrance of his last taste of decent wine as the others stared in silence. It had been a bottle from his father’s cellar, one of his oldest, Cumbraelin naturally, a deep and richly flavoured red from the southern vineyards. The bottle had been pleasant but not enough to see him to the sleep he craved, plagued as he was by the ache left by Alornis’s departure to the Reaches. So he had sought out a bottle of brandy from the kitchens, falling into bed only to be roused some hours later by a Volarian army.

“Then you,” Sister Cresia said, breaking through his reminiscence, “are a traitor to this Realm.” Alucius noted her hand had moved to the leather pouch on her belt whilst Brother Rhelkin was now turned towards Twenty-Seven, poised no doubt to employ his gift.

“I suppose so,” Alucius said. He looked at his cup of water and grimaced, putting it aside.

Cresia continued to glare as the silence thickened. “Why?” she asked eventually.

“That is not your concern,” Alucius stated. “What matters is that we have a common interest in ensuring this city is recovered for the Realm with a minimum of bloodshed. And, at present, I stand best placed to achieve this outcome.”

“A spy deserves no trust.”

“Trust? You speak of trust?” Alucius laughed. “You who have lived a lifetime of lies. What service have you done in the name of the Faith, I wonder? How much blood spilled in the shadows over the years?”

Inehla’s rat scurried along the table, sniffing his hand then baring its teeth with a loud squeak. “Does he smell a lie?” Cresia asked her.

The plump sister shook her head, her expression dark. “No, only this one’s contempt for us.”

Cresia’s face registered a scowl of fury before she forced it to a neutral frown, her hand retreating from her pouch. Inehla’s rat gave a final squeak then ran back to its mistress as Brother Rehlkin turned away from Twenty-Seven.

“How is it to be done?” Cresia asked Alucius.

“The Volarian reinforcements are due to arrive on Winterfall Eve,” he said. “To be greeted at the docks by Commander Mirvek, Lord Darnel, and my father. I doubt any will object, or notice if I’m there. I shall require your sister’s skill to create sufficient diversion.”

“Diversion from what?”

“This city will stand or fall on my father’s judgement. Without it, Darnel and his allies are doomed.”

“A hard thing for a son to kill a father,” Rehlkin observed.

“If you doubt my ability to do this,” Alucius replied, “you should kill me now and keep skulking here until Queen Lyrna arrives.” He saw the man’s dislike in his cold glare and found himself beyond caring. “I’ll need you and Sister Cresia to secure the Aspects.”

“Breaking into the Blackhold is no easy task,” Cresia said.

“But within your abilities, I’m sure. I’ve little doubt their guards have orders to kill them should the city fall, and it’s better to risk death than blindly accept it.”

He saw them exchanging glances, reaching agreement in silent nods, Cresia’s the most reluctant. “We’ll do this,” she said. “But when it’s done, poet, you will not be spared an accounting.”

“No.” He got up and turned away, walking back to the tunnel with Twenty-Seven falling in behind. “I don’t imagine I will.”

• • •

“I must say, Aspect,” he said, sitting on the bunk beside her. “I found the wine rather bitter.”

“But you did find it?” she asked, her gaze intent.

“Indeed I did. Only three bottles, though.”

Her mouth twitched in suppressed disappointment. “Pity.”

“Disappointment was ever my lot, Aspect. I do, however, have news. It seems we have a new queen.”

“Lyrna? She lives?”

“Hale, whole and leading an army to our salvation as we speak, an army commanded by Lord Al Sorna himself, having crushed General Tokrev at Alltor.”

Aspect Elera sat straight, closing her eyes, her shoulders pulled back as she breathed a series of controlled breaths. He had seen her do this before, when her usual composure slipped and the faint sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. After a few seconds she reopened her eyes and smiled, the same calm, open smile he knew he would miss a great deal.

“Excellent news, Alucius,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. And when can we expect our queen’s arrival?”

Alucius flicked his eyes at the Free Sword outside. The man might appear dumb as a stump and capable of no more than a few words of Realm Tongue, but Alucius’s short spying career had taught him the value of seeing beyond appearances. “Such intelligence is far beyond my reach, Aspect.” He folded his arms and extended three fingers towards his elbow, seeing understanding in her gaze as she resisted the impulse to nod.

“It is my belief you should not save the wine,” she said in a brisk tone. “These are troubled times, and wine always offers an escape from worry, don’t you think?”

“You are kind to think of my comfort, Aspect. But, if ever a man has drunk his fill, it’s me.”

The Free Sword gave an impatient jangle of his keys and Alucius stood. “Though, I am able to share two bottles with you,” Alucius told her. “Your own comfort being of paramount importance to me.”

Her smile faltered a little, a stern glint appearing in her gaze. “Wine should not be wasted, Alucius.”

“And it won’t be.” He knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing how she fought tears. Instead of raising her hand for him to kiss, as was their habit, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, “I beg you, go.”

He clasped her hands and kissed them, standing and moving from the cell. He was careful in his scrutiny of the Free Sword as he locked the door, seeing only the dull eyes of a brutal fool. Nevertheless, he was glad he had told Cresia to kill him the instant she entered this chamber.

• • •

It was the one house he had never visited since the city’s fall, a part-tumbled-down, once-impressive mansion near Watcher’s Bend, shaded by the branches of a great old oak. The roof was even more threadbare than he remembered and the windows were all gone, stirring memories of how hard Alornis had worked to keep them clean and intact. The house had been spared burning by some happy chance, perhaps because of its size or the barren rooms within, void of any useful loot, at least to those unskilled in spotting concealment.

The door was half-off its hinges, the hallway beyond all peeling paint and bare floorboards. He remembered his first visit here, the falsely confident knock she took so long to answer. “Alucius Al Hestian, my lady,” he had greeted her, bowing low. “Former comrade to your noble brother.”

“I know who you are,” she replied with a puzzled frown, opening the door only wide enough to look him up and down. “What do you want?”

It had taken several visits before she let him in, and only then because it had been raining, pointing him to a stool in the kitchen with a stern warning against dripping on her drawings. It had been duty that made him persist, the appearance of adherence to a royal command, but it was the drawings that made him come back the next night, suffering her puzzled indifference and occasional barbs. He had never seen anything like them, the clarity and feeling rendered with such economy, as irresistible as he came to find their creator.