The last of the kitchen maids slipped through the servantsâ entrance of Lothian Manor just as the bells of the Great Temple tolled the second hour past midnight, and Captain Devlin counted heads as each one passed him in the narrow alley behind the farrierâs shop.
Thirty-seven. That was everyone on the list that Lady Jocelynn had given him earlier that day, written in her own careful hand and then burned in the hearth after heâd committed it to memory. The names were grouped by where they worked in the manor: kitchens, laundry, stables, and household staff, with notes beside each one that told Devlin which errands Jocelynn had invented to send them into town over the course of the day.
A bolt of fabric for new drapes she didnât need because the current ones âoffended Lady Jocelynnâs eyes at night.â A message for the cobbler about shoes that had already been collected. A request for scented candles from the chandler on Water Street, who closed his shop an hour before sunset.
Each errand was designed to expire, leaving the servant stranded in the city with nowhere to go but the meeting point Devlin had arranged in the cellar of a cooperage three streets over from the Gilded Horns.
It was clever. Devlin had to give the lady that much. Sheâd thought of everything, right down to staggering the errands so that no more than three servants would be departing from the manor at any given time. Anyone who noticed would assume they were simply slow about their business, or that theyâd stopped at an alehouse to warm themselves against the cold on their way back. By the time anyone in the manor realized that none of them were coming back, the ceremony would already be underway.
"Thatâs the last of them," Devlin said under his breath to Sir Elgon, who stood at the mouth of the alley with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, watching the street for any sign theyâd been followed.
"Good," Elgon said, his voice rough and low. "Get them moving. The sooner weâre off the streets, the better."
"Couldnât agree more," Devlin said as he waved the group forward, guiding them with soft clicks of his tongue and sharp gestures, the same way heâd once directed deckhands during a night landing on an unfamiliar shore.
The streets of Lothian City were quiet at this hour, but quiet wasnât the same as empty. There were still guardsmen walking their rounds in pairs, and Devlin had already spotted the orange glow of a brazier at the intersection ahead where a pair of watchmen were warming themselves between passes. He steered the group down a side street to avoid them, his boots finding the cobblestones with the rolling, sure-footed gait of a man who had spent more years on pitching decks than solid ground.
The cold of the night was fierce. It wasnât the damp, salt-heavy cold of Blackwellâs harbor winds, but a dry, biting thing that numbed the nose and stung the chest with every breath. Several of the servants had pulled their hoods low and wrapped scarves across their faces until only their eyes were visible, but their breath still rose in bright plumes of white steam that seemed to hang in the still, freezing air like signal flags on an invisible mast.
"Keep your heads down and keep moving," Devlin murmured to the group. "No talking. If someone stops us, Iâll handle it."
No one stopped them. By the time they reached the back street behind the Gilded Horns, the only sounds were their own footsteps, the distant bark of a dog, and the faint, muffled revelry still spilling from the alehouses near the harbor where the crews of merchant ships drank away the cold.
But even as his body moved through the practiced motions of leading people through dark and unfamiliar territory, Devlinâs mind was somewhere else entirely.
It was back in a corridor of Lothian Manor, standing face to face with Albyn while the distant sounds of the Stag Feast echoed through the stone walls around them.
"Youâre being a fool," Devlin had said, keeping his voice low even though the corridor was empty and the nearest revelers were two floors above them. "Whatever Jean and his people have arranged, this is our best chance to get everyone out. All of us. Together."
Albyn leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his broad chest, the lamplight catching the rough stubble on his jaw and the deep lines around his eyes that hadnât been there six months ago. He looked older than Devlin remembered, worn down in ways that went deeper than the weathering of sun and salt that marked every sailor from Blackwell.
"I know what the plan is," Albyn said in that steady, direct way of his, as if they were discussing their favorite fish for stew rather than the choice between escape and something far less certain. "Jeanâs people will take everyone through the tunnels under the Gilded Horns."
"He said the Black Merchant should be able to obtain a river boat there," Ablyn added. "But if you have to, I know youâre more than capable of handling one of those tiny cogs they use on the river here. Take the best one you can lay your hands on, Elgon and his men should be plenty of muscle for you if you need them, and set sail for Otker Canyon."
"Charlotte Otkerâs letter should get you into the hands of reliable men who can get you through the canyon without attracting too much attention," Albyn concluded. "After that, youâre beyond the borders of the march, and you can turn to Lady Jocelynnâs uncle in DuCoumont for help. Itâs a good plan, and I trust it."
"Then come with us," Devlin pressed. "If you trust the plan..."
"I trust the plan for you," Albyn said firmly. "I trust it for the servants, for the household staff, and the knights and the Templars."
"But not for me," Albyn said, meeting his friendâs beseeching gaze directly. "This plan would never work for me..."