Things became trickier deeper inside the castle, but that too was aided by a previous task. Calum preferred her for tasks near the grounds. She’d been born into a high family and could pass easier than the others—she knew more about how to fit in. She’d once been assigned to procure an item from the mistress of a courtier, and while planning her attempt, Nim had learned the route the woman made each night to enter her lover’s chamber.
Nim was not headed for a mere courtier’s rooms, though, and no guards had been paid off to keep their silence. So the task was a bit slippery and involved more climbing and hiding than she liked, more risk, and a fair amount of luck. She didn’t believe in luck as a rule—Nim’s father had carried a coin in his boot for years, and it had done him no good at all—but whatever game the fates were playing, her fortune held.
The lower levels of the castle were grand and imposing, and Nim could not help but feel overwhelmed by their size and ill at ease by the way even the whisper of her cloak echoed off stone walls and high vaulted ceilings. They were nothing compared to the upper levels. The king had posted guards far more frequently, and even the dark alcoves she was forced to hide in were detailed beyond measure. Tiny lions, grand longswords, and bare-bottomed infants curled through carved wood and stone. Every window, every door, every turn of the structure was ornamented. Nim had a thought of Margery’s floppy-headed cousin and that maybe he’d been right that he could attain a position in the castle as an artist, but she could not bring herself to imagine him inside such a lavish and dangerous place. Not when even the guards were decorated at every turn, polished steel and sharpened points flashing over finely stitched carved leather.
She took the final corridor with far less speed and estimated that she’d been traversing the route for well more than an hour. The marking of time did not stop. Guards stood at each corridor in the upper level, and Nim found herself settled into small, dark spaces for what seemed like endless delays while she waited for her chance to slip past.
When she finally made her way to the entrance to the seneschal’s rooms, the door was locked. Nim drew her most prized possession—her key—from the hidden pocket at her waist then split the thin strips of metal from what appeared to be a skeleton key into what, among other things, was a lock-picking tool. The mechanisms inside the lock were far from silent, but when she pushed open the massive door, its hinges did not scream. She carefully pressed the door closed behind her, putting the lock back in place with a satisfying click in a room that was utter darkness.
Beyond black shapes inside the shadows, a thin line of pale light showed Nim another door. She prayed her information was correct, that the room on the other side was the seneschal’s private study, and that she was not about to stumble through darkness and into a situation that would have her in irons.
* * *
Nim crept into a room lit by dim blue moonlight that fell through half a dozen massive arched windows. The centermost frame held her awestruck for a heartbeat, the delicate carvings of its lancet arch so intricate that together they became almost formidable. She shook off the hesitation, unsettled that she could be so drawn to skilled architecture when she’d never been struck by more than passing notice of anything of the sort in the past, and took in the rest of the room.
The far wall held two shelves of bound books, and pedestals stood along the walls and between the windows, displaying sculptures of wood and of stone. A small table stood near Nim, on its surface a tall candle, fine cloth, and a bowl of dark fruit. A chair sat before the table, deceptively utilitarian in shape. Like the rest of the castle, every curve was adorned and ornate. A wide stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall, its hearth cold though the space was warm.
Satisfied she’d found the room that held her intended target and that all was quiet throughout the suite, Nim crossed to the considerable desk near the far wall. It was dark and handsome, simpler than the other furnishings. She traced a finger over its edge, near a plush chair and where the wood was worn from use. The chair, too, held signs of wear, and Nim wondered just how much time the seneschal spent in his private rooms. Surely, Margery’s information had been correct, and the king’s head of law and order throughout the kingdom truly did spend long days installed in the official workrooms of his post. But there was evidence the desk had been well used. Nim stepped toward the center, between the chair and desk, and noted how the moonlight from the largest window fell perfectly across the writing space.
The surface was neat and orderly, and when she carefully opened the first drawer, the papers inside were as well. She drew out a sheet, and the air rose with a warm, woody scent. Nim glanced over her shoulder, but the room was still, its corners dark where hidden from the moonlight.
The paper was lovely, heavy and thick, its surface smooth. Margery had been right about the seneschal’s script. It was strong and elegant and spoke to the confidence a person only gained after writing thousands of pages. It was no secret that Nim had always been impressed by good ink and well-shaped handwriting. Of course a seneschal would have a good hand—he would write logs and letters and laws. “Why should I care about his handwriting?” she’d asked Margery, despite all the rest.
Margery had smirked. “All your favorites write well. It’s like you collect them. Your pets.”
“Pets,” Nim had parroted with a snort. But the mark had hit true. Margery knew things about Nim that no one else had gotten close enough to discover. It was past time to draw away—if she wanted to keep her safe, Nim would leave Margery alone.
She pushed the unpleasant thought down and scanned over the correspondence before returning it to the drawer. On top of the neatly stacked pile, she laid the letter she’d brought with her, a sealed message that demanded a meeting if he wanted to see his precious watch returned—a warning that she knew of his ties to the Trust.
Her last chance to gain freedom was by extorting the hand of the king. It truly was an exceptionally foolhardy plan, but she’d no real options, given that she had a month to return the watch before Calum assigned her a new and potentially more dangerous task. If the seneschal could offer her some sort of protection or aid in an escape, Nim would take it. If not, the watch would be delivered to her warden at the turn of the moon. She stared at the letter for only a moment before sliding the drawer closed.
Nim fished through the other drawers but found nothing aside from pen and ink, a tin of what might have been tobacco, and more papers. She frowned, glancing over the desk’s construction. There were no locks to be seen, no obvious place where the structure might be thick enough to hide a compartment. But her instructions had said the portable drum watch would be hidden within the seneschal’s private rooms, inside his desk. Nim had never seen a portable watch, but a little research had awarded her a sketch of a round bit of carved metal, small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand. She assumed whatever the Trust was after was hidden inside the drum. Why Calum needed it should have been none of her concern, but she suspected the items were tied to her marks’ bargains somehow, owed to the Trust. Once she stole them back, Calum would be free to enact his punishment without fear of losing the bartered item. His accountants were more cruelty and brute force than stealth, and given the way they relied on magic, none of them would be able to sneak into a castle courtyard, let alone the seneschal’s rooms, without gaining notice.