Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(65)
Author: Robin LaFevers

“True enough. But where will she go? And who will see Mortain’s wishes and report them to us?”

Ismae opens her mouth, then closes it. “I had not thought about that,” she admits. “It is possible she will join us here in Rennes and serve among the duchess’s court.”

“And run smack into the abbess herself?”

Ismae scowls. “I wish the reverend mother would go back to the convent already. I am tired of living under her critical gaze.”

“You do not have to tell me how tiresome she is.”

Ismae smiles, but there is little humor in it. “No, I do not. Now, come, let me wash the ashes out of your hair, else you’ll ruin the linens.”

I spend the next two nights scouring the city with Thabor’s men, searching in every nook and cranny to find each and every one of d’Albret’s saboteurs. I find seventeen in all, and each one of them is now closely watched and guarded by Commander Thabor’s men.

My nighttime activities have the added benefit of keeping me away from Beast and the abbess’s politics, for I must sleep during the day in order to perform this task that is so critical to the city’s—to the duchess’s—safety.

There is also great pleasure in being viewed as the hero of the quest—a role with which I am wholly unfamiliar.

On the third morning, my sauciness toward the abbess is repaid with a summons to her chamber that comes far too early. I stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed and thick-headed, and make myself ready as quickly as I can.

When I am washed and dressed and certain that no hair is out of place, I make my way to her chamber. Outside her door, I pause to take a deep breath and smooth my gown. I remind myself that I am not a green novitiate in the convent being called into the office for some minor innocent rebellion.

For they were innocent rebellions, I recognize that now. I had been plucked from my home—however dark and oppressive it was, it was the only place I’d known for fourteen years—and plopped down on an isolated rocky island that I feared was the destination of the mysterious Night Rowers, rumored ferrymen to the Underworld itself. I was in a frenzy with near madness.

That realization—that I was damaged and broken when I first met her and deserving of her sympathy, rather than her harsh judgment—fills me with a righteous anger that is completely strange to me. I raise my hand and knock on the door.

“Come in,” the abbess calls out.

I lift my chin, plant a mocking smile on my lips, then enter the room.

The abbess is retrieving a note from a crow that has just arrived. She does not look up as I enter or acknowledge my presence in any way. It is a tactic I remember well from the convent, one calculated to increase the visitor’s unease. However, her small torments are nothing compared to all I have been through in the last several months, and my mocking smile turns into one of genuine amusement.

Instead of waiting patiently—or nervously—I cross to the lone window that overlooks the inner courtyard. I do not particularly care what is out there; I know only that I do not want her to think her games have intimidated me. I glance over my shoulder in time to see her eyebrow twitch in annoyance—just once—as she continues to read the note. My objective achieved, I go back to looking out the window.

Seconds later there is an impatient rustle of paper, then the abbess speaks. “Sybella.”

Slowly I turn around and face her, the bright light coming in from the window behind me forcing her to blink. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

“Come over here so I do not have to put a crick in my neck to speak to you.”

“But of course.” I cross the room and stand before her as she settles the crow on one of the two empty perches behind the desk.

“It is good that your thoughts have turned toward protecting the duchess. That speaks well of your training.”

Not of me. Never of me. Only of the training that she and the convent are responsible for.

“Which is why I have called you here. I wish to discuss your next assignment.”

My heart skips a beat. “I had not realized I was finished with this one yet.”

She turns from the crow she’s been tending and looks me square in the eye. “You must return to Nantes. To d’Albret’s household.”

For a moment, I am not certain I have heard her correctly. Then, foolishly, I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “Surely you jest.”

Her face tightens in anger. “I do not jest. We must learn more details of d’Albret’s plans, and you are best suited to the task.”

“You realize that my ability to pose as his docile prodigal daughter disappeared the same time his prisoner did?”

“Something you did not receive orders to do,” she points out.

“Something I was unable to avoid,” I remind her, barely able to hold on to my temper. “In any case, d’Albret will never allow me back into his household. And certainly not in a position of trust where I might overhear important information. He will most likely kill me on sight.” It would not be a quick or pleasant death, of that I am certain.

“Of course you will not go back as yourself. You have proven to be a master of disguises. We will dress you as a servant, which will give you an excuse for lingering at doors.”

I long to shake her by her slender shoulders and then slap her cold, calm face. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? D’Albret watches everyone and has others watch them as well. He has already killed over half the servants at the palace simply because he suspected they were loyal to the duchess. He would never let an unknown servant into his household.”

The abbess inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. That she is so visibly annoyed gives me hope that she is taking my words to heart.

She shoves her hands into her sleeves and crosses to look out the window. I stay where I am and try to mask the fact that I am seething inside.

“Very well, then,” she says. “I will send you back with but one purpose: to get close enough to kill d’Albret.”

Sweet Mortain. Does she truly think I will fall for that twice? “While I have longed to do that very thing, Reverend Mother, does it not go against every precept you have ever taught me? For he is not marqued. Unless”—I pause as a thought occurs to me—“has Annith seen it?”

The abbess’s lips thin, and she removes her hands from her sleeves. For a moment, I think she will strike me. “What do you know of Annith? Have you been corresponding with her while in Nantes? That was strictly forbidden.”