“Yes,” Safi drawled. “He is currently rutting with his mistress Paskella. I know, and I don’t particularly care.” She motioned vaguely toward the door. “I will wait in his study until he is done.”
The first attendant choked. “He does not like for guests to wait.”
“And I am not a guest. I am his wife.” Safi took a single step forward, and both attendants dove into her path.
“We really must insist, Your Imperial Majesty. No one is allowed in there—”
“I will throw you again,” Safi said to the first attendant. “And I will break both your kneecaps while you’re down.”
Though the man did not step aside, his eyes bugged sufficiently and neither he nor his fellow interfered when Safi marched for the door. Golden light shimmered ahead. Hell-Bard wards—which Caden had warned her about when they had figured out this new plan. The wards would keep out all unwanted intruders and, more importantly, keep in any unwanted sounds.
They would not, however, block Hell-Bards, and as Safi pushed the doors wide, a mist of power rustled over her. Comforting, calming, warm. She had not learned how to make these wards since, as Lev had said earlier, she had avoided the usual route of noosing and training. She suspected, though, as the magic slid over her skin, that it was linked to the Loom. To the colors and Threads she’d seen there. To the way Hell-Bards could draw on the life-force of one another to heal from mortal wounds.
Safi glanced back as the doors shut behind her and winked at the attendants. Then the hall was hidden; she was alone in the Emperor’s study. As always happened during a heist, Safi’s heartbeat sharpened in her chest. Her vision funneled down to only what she needed, only what mattered. She had been raised for moments like this one.
After crossing to a chair before Henrick’s desk, Safi peeled off the chain. Cold instantly scudded through her. Fingernails made of shadow. But like the night before, it was easy to ignore. Especially when the colors of the room suddenly brightened.
Ah yes, this was the version of herself she loved most. The one built for action. The one who initiated, the one who moved. All that was missing was Iseult.
I’m coming for you.
She tucked the noose out of sight in the chair’s cushion, then cut across the room to the Emperor’s dressing room. Each step brought new noises into her ears, and by the time she gripped the knob and gently turned it, she could almost discern individual sounds.
Sounds she had hoped she would never have to hear, that made everything inside her curdle and cringe. Henrick, it would seem, was … enthusiastic.
The door opened silently. The noises beyond the dressing room increased, and Safi’s wince deepened. This was, without a doubt, the most perfect opportunity to swap the golden chain and Threadstones—Caden had guided her well. But it was also disgusting, and she wondered if it was possible to cauterize one’s brain.
Darkness shrouded Henrick’s dressing room, but light from the study revealed shelves and cabinets and a suit hanging on a life-size wooden frame. Safi hurried toward it, hoping it was his suit from that day. That his belt would be draped around it …
It was not, and a quick scan around the room revealed no belt, no chain, no Threadstones. Safi was going to have to enter the bedchamber.
After carefully shutting the study door and creeping through the utter black to reach the bedroom door, Safi paused. She listened. The noises from within had shifted to feminine, which, although more palatable, were still more than Safi wanted to hear.
Perhaps even more uncomfortable was the fact that nothing in the Truth-lens hummed false. The woman on the other side of this door—his mistress Paskella—was genuinely enjoying herself with the Emperor. She was fully absorbed in her pleasure, and Safi hoped that meant Henrick was too.
With the lightest of fingers and slowest of movements, Safi turned the knob and squeezed back the door. An inch. Then two. Then three—enough to give her a full view of the space beyond.
It was not so different from Leopold’s chamber: four-poster bed, fireplace (unlit), a single armchair. Heavy black velvet and glistening red brocades gleamed in the dim light of Firewitched sconces turned low. On the bed, two figures moved with great energy and surprising athleticism. They were, as Safi had hoped, wholly invested in each other. Where are their clothes? Safi thought, biting her lip. Henrick and his mistress must have undressed somewhere. The belt had to be near.
Then Safi spotted a haphazard heap beside the fireplace and pushed into the room, her eyes never leaving the thick curtains around the bed that hid Henrick and his mistress. Safi’s brain would at least be spared that imagery.
She kept her posture low and her footsteps quick until she reached the armchair. Then she dropped to her knees and studied the heap. It was indeed the discarded garments of the Emperor, and after rummaging through the pile she found Henrick’s belt.
She pulled it to her, head briefly hanging back. Success tasted so good. Even better than she remembered. Within seconds, she had the golden chain off and replaced by the one she’d obtained today in Praga. They were not identical, but a cursory glance wouldn’t reveal the differences. Besides, the Emperor in his hubris would never expect her to steal his chain.
It took Safi longer to pry the Threadstones loose. Henrick had had them stamped into the leather, and she lacked decent tools to wedge the rubies free. Eventually, though, with enough prying and pulling, the two Thread-bound rocks popped loose.
And oh, how Safi smiled then.
She shoved both stones into her pocket along with the golden Hell-Bard chain, and withdrew two new uncut rubies. These were a much closer match to the originals than the chain was. Safi had touched her own Threadstone so many times, she’d known exactly what she was looking for while she, Svenja, and Nika had gone from shop to shop.
She’d also had the foresight to bring a small tub of paste with her. After verifying that Henrick and his mistress were not yet done with their revelry, Safi unscrewed the tiny tub, slathered out several dollops of pale cream onto the leather, then shoved the new rubies in. She waited several seconds, blowing lightly, before wiping away excess adhesive.
Lev had said it would take a full minute—at least—for this paste to dry. She’d also said, once that happened, the stones would not be coming loose anytime soon.
Unfortunately, a minute was more than Safi had. As soon as she’d finished wiping, a great scream filled the room. Then a second, in a two-part harmony that made Safi’s stomach revolt. She hoped this woman was compensated for her time. Well compensated.
The crescendo ended, and silence descended. A net to cage in Safi. She went very still behind the armchair. Each of her breaths rasped overloud. If either Henrick or his mistress looked this way, they would see her shadow between the armchair’s legs.
She dared not peek at them. She just sat there, waiting for the paste to dry while two people enjoyed a postcoital haze.
Please don’t get up. Please don’t get up.
They didn’t get up. Instead, the sheets started rustling, and Safi suspected the two had settled in for a cuddle.
Inwardly, she screamed.
“Thirty-five years,” the woman said, “and it is still everything I want.” She had a deep voice, rough with age and time—and her accent was, to Safi’s surprise, lowborn. This was not a typical courtesan and not a domna who traded favors for an emperor’s time.