Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  The shop door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Thickly woven carpets muffled his steps as he entered a two-storied enclave with an arched roof of milky-green glass. Shields bearing the arms of famous houses hung from the upper banisters, and bookcases packed with volumes lined the walls.

  He was pleased to see the light he’d noticed from the street glowed from a chandelier in the shape of a stag’s head. Every antler was tipped with crystals and the stag’s eyes were ruby flames. Cervo’s shop was a jewel.

  Marion found an old man asleep at a sprawling oak table cluttered with volumes. An iron kettle burbled on a miniature stove nearby.

  He cleared his throat. “Messere?”

  “I’m not asleep,” the old man muttered. His square face was wizened like a dried apple, a thinning braid of gray hair coiled on top of his head. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and opened his eyes. “Only thinking. I am Federico Cervo, the bookseller.”

  Marion tilted his head back to admire the ceiling. “I’ve not been here before. You have a charming shop, old father.”

  Cervo smiled as if pleased to be called father. He folded his hands over the fine satin of his vest. “What can I help you with, warden?”

  “A gift for my promessa. He’s a patron of yours.”

  Cervo bobbed his head. “Then he must be a man of quality. His name?”

  “Tris Sessane.”

  Cervo lumbered out of his seat at once and bowed stiffly. He was a lanky figure, all arms and legs. Although his spine was stooped, he must have been a strong man, once. “Highwarden. Forgive me. I did not recognize you.”

  “There’s no reason you should,” Marion said kindly.

  “The young maestro Sessane has graced my shop before. A man of great quality indeed.” Cervo crooked a finger at him and moved slowly to a bookcase near the stairs. The case was smaller than the others and the twin glass doors were closed.

  Cervo fumbled a key from his vest. “Only a very extraordinary man could appreciate the volumes from this collection.” He unlocked the case and drew from it a slim book encased in purple leather. Gold scrollwork decorated the spine and cover. “This one, in particular, I have seen the maestro admire many times.”

  “But he didn’t wish to purchase it?” Tris was as rich as his father and could afford to buy ten bookstores if he wanted to.

  Cervo handed Marion the book. A strange symbol was worked in gold on the front cover, under the title: The Art of the Marksman.

  “I see,” Marion murmured.

  “I think the maestro believed it was, shall we say, improper.”

  Improper? He wasn’t even sure it was legal. He flipped through the pages, seeing detailed plans of proscribed weapons, ammunition, their construction, how to load and aim, measurements, materials...

  Marion closed the book with a snap. He sighed and tapped it against his palm. “Old father, this knowledge is forbidden.”

  “Ah-ah!” Cervo held up one gnarled, admonishing finger. “Not illegal to know, messere. Only illegal to build, and who would do such a thing these days? No one! The son of the magestros has an inquisitive mind. Perhaps,” he lowered his voice, “he feared you would disapprove?”

  Marion stiffened. Tris tried so very hard to meet Kon Sessane’s high standards of approval, and he never quite measured up. Marion was not going to be adding to that pain, ever.

  “I’ll take it.” If nothing else, buying the book would remove it from circulation. Marion slipped it into a deep pocket of his coat. “What else stirred maestro Sessane’s interest?”

  Cervo sold him three more books on academic subjects: bridge construction, herbalism, and the anatomy of birds. They seemed boring to Marion, but Tris had a hunger for all kinds of knowledge. Apparently, his promessa wouldn’t be satisfied until he was an expert on everything.

  The heavy bolt of the lock clicked into place as Marion exited the shop. He paused in the street and passed his palm over the fine leather of the books, admiring their workmanship, shaking his head over the extravagant expense. He could afford it now, but once the price of these books would have been more than he earned in a year.

  Janvier was snoring over the reins, his head bowed. Marion knocked on the coach window.

  “For your trouble.” He offered Janvier a slip of stamped parchment.

  Janvier rubbed sleep from his eyes and frowned. “I’d prefer coin, messere.”

  Marion took the paper back at once and gave him a copper coin. “You’ll have to get used to the new money sooner or later,” he warned.

  Janvier took his tall hat off and bobbed his head in respect. “So they tell me, messere.”

  He put another coin into Janvier’s hand, this one of silver. “I have an errand in the Colibri. Wait here for an hour, then—”

  “Marion?”

  He turned. Jean Rivard lounged against the post of a gaslamp, a long, sculpted length of powerful male beauty, black-haired, black eyed, graceful as a panther, and the full, pouting mouth of an angel.

  “I thought I recognized your driver,” Jean said, sliding a look to Janvier. “Expensive ride. Puss is keeping you well.”

  The mouth of an angel, until he opens it, Marion thought. Very aware of Janvier’s eyes and ears, Marion motioned for Jean to follow him to the end of the empty street.

  Jean was a spill of pale skin wrapped in the darkness of a black warden’s coat. He’d chosen to let his wild hair grow past his collar, or maybe he just couldn’t afford the barber. He also had skinned knuckles, a four-day beard, and Marion could smell the wine he’d spilled on his shirt. All that should have made the man look shabby and unkempt, but instead it made all of his rough corners appear deliberately erotic. There was something voluptuously animal about Jean, about the way he looked men in the eye and leered, as if inviting them to the best rowdy fuck they’d ever know.

  Marion turned to Jean, his heart thumping a little harder. Habit, he thought. And because I’m not fucking blind. “I thought you’d be inside the Falena.” Actually, he’d expected to find Jean at the center of an orgy inside the Falena.

  Jean’s divine mouth twisted into a cheerless grin. “Sorry to disappoint. Aren’t you happy to see me?” His lapel was turned to display his badge: the alchemical symbol for antimony wrought in silver around a small, green stone.

  “Of course I am, but I’d be happier if you did your job.” Marion could hear his voice turning brittle, all the old thorns between them sliding back into their wounds. “District wardens are required to attend Aequora. All of them, Jean.”

  “So I missed one. I was in the Zanzare, hunting down your damned L’arciere”.

  The Archer. Marion put aside his annoyance at once. “Did you locate him?”

  Jean put his hands in his pockets. “No, but I found something else. I went to the Gaol to inform Paris, but he’s scanty as a spring mist.”

  “Try the Bailey.”

  Jean shook his head. “Paris is too good to get his cock wet in the Bailey anymore. He’s moving up the Silk.” That rough grin again. “He’s kind of like you in that way.”

  Marion grunted unhappily. He had pulled every trick he knew to get Tris to quit his job at the Gaol archives, where Tris would encounter Paris Dell'Acqua on a daily basis. But Tris—such an obedient boy in other ways—continued to refuse his request. Marion suspected that Paris was in love with Tris, and the news that Paris had ceased his visits to the Bailey was unwelcome.

  “He might be at the Golden Bird,” Marion suggested. It was a tavern near the Gran Consiglio, with whores clean enough to please even a finicky bastard like Paris. “What’s the something else?”

  “The graycloaks are the ones harboring L’arciere,” Jean announced unhappily. “Bold bastards. They’ll be in the Colibri, next.”

  More unwelcome news. The graycloaks had regrouped almost immediately after the fall of the Teschio. They’d been the soft-arm of the gangs, handling collections, organizing work crews, paying bribes, dealing with dock workers, whores, and i
nnkeepers. They didn’t rely on brute violence to get what they wanted, using blackmail and talented spies to achieve their goals instead, but in some ways their tactics were a lot worse. The Teschio killed people, but the graycloaks made deals that could kill everyone, including a pact to supply the Starless Men with Malakhan swords forged in the Zanzare. If the Starless ever used that steel against the Cwen, Malachite would pay the price.

  Marion looked at Jean’s drawn face and knew that wasn’t all of it. “Who’s dead?”

  “Three of Paris’s spies. Or three men who looked dumb and desperate enough to work for Paris.”

  “Where are the bodies?”

  “Cenere.”

  Marion nodded. A few more corpses on the Island of Ashes would not be noticed. “Paris sent me his report two days ago. Nothing was said of spies. Are you sure they worked for him?”

  “I think. Maybe.” Jean rubbed his stubbled jaw tiredly. “I don’t know and they’re dead and dead men make poor conversationalists.”

  Three murders. They couldn’t afford three. Paladin’s cock, they couldn’t afford one. “What does the Zanzare say?”

  Jean snorted contemptuously. “Bedtime stories. The Archer killed a crew of Starless Men and burned their ship at sea. Nera’s long-lost sons, no less. He took on twenty armed guardiers like Paladin taking the Arsenale. Lightning shoots from his eyeballs. Shit like that. The argenti are hiding him damn well, too. I didn’t get a whiff.” He paused. “One of the dead carried a coin from the Falena.”

  Marion didn’t like the sound of that. “You think the Archer is moving up to the Silk?”

  Jean shrugged. “Depends on what he’s after. The easy money is in the Zanzare, but the real power is the Citta Alta. A water rat wouldn’t be smart enough to know the difference.”

  “Damn it. That will throw a hornet’s nest into the Consolari chambers.” It was Kon’s one great fear: that a man of intellect would take control of the Zanzare. It had happened before. “We don’t need another Aureo Marigny.”

  Jean jerked his chin up like he’d been slapped. “I thought we agreed that we don’t talk about him anymore.”

  “We don’t. This is warden business. Not personal.”

  “I think Aureo found it personal when you—”

  “That’s enough.” Marion turned back to the lowcoach, already walking away. “Send a messenger with your reports. We’re done for the night, southwarden.”

  Jean followed him. “Is that why you came slumming down here?” he demanded, close to Marion’s ear. “To tell me we’re done?”

  Marion stopped in his tracks and sighed. The news would be all over the city tomorrow. “I have been meaning to talk to you,” he admitted. “I wish you hadn’t made me come looking for you to do it.”

  Jean folded his arms as Marion turned to face him. “Well... this ought to be good. Go ahead. Shatter me.”

  Jean never made anything easy. Short sentences are best. Marion squared his shoulders. “It’s good for me, Jean. I’m to be married.”

  Jean’s steady gaze didn’t waver. “Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man?”

  “You know who.”

  Jean shook his head and set his chin stubbornly. He looked away. “No. You’re lying.”

  “Why would I lie about this? Please don’t pretend you didn’t know about him.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Marion gritted his teeth. That was too much. “You?” he ground out. “This has nothing—nothing—to do with you.” He flung his hand out like sweeping sand from his path. “Capisce? This is about my life. My future.”

  Jean’s brows drew together in a dark line. “I think it’s more about waving that pretty, pretty boy in my face, showing the world how high a ganger can climb, how much better you can do than me. A Sessane, no less.” He stepped close and took the collar of Marion’s coat in his hand. “You think you’re one of the Silk now. You wear those fine shirts and ride in a fancy coach, but I was there when they branded you, Marion. I held your head when you puked.”

  Marion’s left arm ached with the memory. The death’s head had gone silver with age, but he had never forgotten how he had won it, what he had been forced to do to prove his worth and name himself a Teschio. To be a crossbones.

  “Times change, Jean,” he said tiredly. “Men change.”

  “Why didn’t you just marry Paladin himself?”

  He let the blasphemy pass. “Tris is a good man.”

  “He’s a child.” Jean turned his head and spit against the wheels of the lowcoach. “Do you need ragazzi to get your cock stiff, now? If I’d known that, I would’ve shaved my balls years ago.”

  Such an insult was too much, even between old friends. Marion pried Jean’s hand off his coat. “Buonanotte, southwarden.” He climbed into the cab, but glanced back and saw Jean’s expression turn lonely and contrite.

  Jean moved toward the coach, his hand outstretched. “Marion, wait.”

  Marion closed the door.

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

  “For fuck's sake, hit him, Marion!”

  Marion spared an instant for Jean. He grimaced, his nose running blood, his knees and elbows scraped raw.

  Remo the Swan seized the moment and slung a handful of dirt in Marion's face. Marion cursed and hurled his body backward, fingers scrabbling on slimy, broken cobblestones near the fish market, a dozen hurts singing for attention. He felt a fingernail break below the quick and his teeth clashed so hard he feared one had cracked. Remo laughed, high and thin.

  Somewhere in the market crowd, Aureo was watching.

  Four years of tagging after Jean, learning from him, living in his shadow. Remo was seventeen, two years older than Marion, and Marion was already too old to be in the branco unbranded.

  Remo had grown bold and careless over the winter, knowing his clock was running down. The Teschio had no use for dancers, other than to sell them to the Pae. Remo would have to find a new talent. That’s how Marion came to be on his knees in the Plaza Soldi with Remo standing over him and giggling. Remo hoped to make a grand show of slaughtering Aureo’s favorite pet.

  Such boldness would have to be rewarded. Aureo would have no choice but to brand Remo into the crossbones.

  If Marion gave Remo half a chance, the other boy would bash his head to a pulp just to make a memorable entrance into the crossbones. Winning would not be enough.

  He’s going to break my neck, Marion thought. Several other things already felt broken.

  “Marion!” Jean yelled from the sidelines. “Will you please hit that bastard?” His face was red, his voice hoarse.

  Jean wanted Marion up the ladder, into the gangs properly, and would never forgive him if he lost to Remo. This fight wasn't a vendetta, wasn't even a proper duel, but it was happening and he didn't want Jean to remember him like this.

  Can't lose. Not to the Swan.

  Marion lurched to his feet, knuckling soil from one eye. He cleared his throat and spat. “Did you just fucking throw dirt at me, Remo? Are you a Pae or just a dog digging for a place to shit?”

  “Give us a dance, Remo!” Jean harangued from the sidelines. Other boys joined in the taunts.

  Remo held up his middle finger.

  Aureo lounged with his shoulder against the tavern wall, one thumb hooked through his belt, a sweating cup of cold wine in his hand.

  Most of Lowgate had turned out into the market plaza for the fight. As far as Marion could tell, Aureo had not planned it, but Aureo rarely announced his intentions.

  Marion would either earn his brand now or leave the branco, and it was a short trip to the Island of Ashes.

  Franny got too close to Jean, waving his skinny arms and spraying spittle as he shouted. “Kill that fucker, Remo!”

  Jean elbowed Franny in the teeth without looking. Franny went down cursing, and Jean fought his way to the front of the circle around Marion and Remo. “Marion, goddamnit!”

  He thinks I'm drawing it out, Marion realized. He think
s I'm giving them a good show.

  Remo lunged toward him and Marion darted aside. He stole a look at Aureo in between dodging Remo's practiced fists. A frown pinched Aureo’s brows together, but his eyes were all for Jean.

  Marion gave a shout of disgust as Remo hawked and spat into his face, and then Remo waded into him like a wave crashing over the seawall. He tasted blood and his ears rang, and above it all was Jean's high and panicked shouting.

  His knees hit the cobblestones and Remo—damn the prick—threw a leg to kick him neatly under the chin. His teeth clicked and his head tipped back like the lid off a pot. Blood ran from his nose in a hot stream and he only knew he was on his back when he realized all he could see was blue sky.

  In another moment, Remo would sit on his chest, wrap those bony fingers around his throat, and choke the life out of him. He'd be dead and he'd deserve to be dead, because he was fucking stupid.

  Jean’s going to be so mad at me.

  The sky wheeled in arcs of blue and white. Marion couldn't get his vision to clear. A blur moved in front of him, shutting out the sky, and a weight settled on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

  A family of pigeons rose and then settled on the ledge of a rooftop. He wished they were hawks. Gulls. Even vultures. He just didn't want his last sight in the world to be of a flock of ever-shitting flying vermin.

  Remo's hands found his throat. Marion gasped and struggled, trying to suck air through a narrowing pipe. His legs kicked. He twisted under Remo and bucked to throw him off. Remo hung on, refusing to let go, a leech with a red grin.

  It was the grin that did it. Marion could accept dying. Hell, he could even welcome it on a bad day. Life in the Zanzare wasn't beautiful or easy, but it was better than being dead. He'd die when it was his time, but he’d be damned if he'd have a prancing fool like Remo giggle at him while he did so.

  “Fuck you,” Marion tried to snarl. All that came out was a strangled wheeze. Instinct screamed at him to keep his hands up, to pry those stone fingers off his neck and breathe. Fuck, just one breath, just one.