Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  Cervo again. Jean made a mental note to pay a visit to the old man, and soon. “Are you going to tell me what they were for?”

  Paris nearly preened. “Weapons, bebè. Cervo said they were parts for making ranged weapons.”

  “Call me bebè again and I’ll bust your lip.” Jean leaned forward, hiding his surprise. The only revolver he had ever seen was a relic under glass in Kon Sessane’s library. “What did you do with them?”

  “Do?” Paris’s eyebrows rose. “I had them melted down for scrap and sold the bars to the Arsenale. What other choice did I have?”

  The laws against ranged weapons contained some of the harshest criminal penalties in the city. Although harpoons and bows were permitted for fishing, the Consolari had forbidden the construction of all firearms many years ago. Some examples survived the purge, antiques in private homes, non-functional and prized.

  “You did right,” Jean said grudgingly.

  “Not that I asked, but thank you. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

  Now that it came to it, he decided he didn't want to ask. It was embarrassing. No, it was humiliating.

  “Come now,” Paris continued smoothly. “You know he works here. Are you going to ask or will you stand there and glare handsomely?”

  “You can go fuck yourself.”

  “There's the Jean Rivard I know.” Paris sat down at his desk and folded his hands. “Marion began meeting Tris here eight months ago, during working hours. Kon didn't know. Had he, he would have forbidden it, so the sly rabbits skulked around for a few months, meeting in Tris's office, or inside a lowcoach. Coaches are very dark inside, aren't they? Wonderful for those slippery afternoon trysts on a leather seat, and twenty coins buys a coachman's silence, but not forever.” He winked.

  “You told Kon?”

  “Me? Never. Only a fool would bring unwanted news to that man. No, I managed it so Dominique would catch them together.”

  Kon's husband, who adored the Arsenale like some men treasured a lover. Dominique hated to leave it. Though Dominique could have lived at the Castello Rosa, he divided his life between the docks and the Citta Alta, preferring to live on a rotting sea-hulk anchored in the gated harbor.

  “That must have taken some work,” Jean said.

  “Not really. Dominique would cross the Lion Sea for Tris.”

  Kon’s husband was a skilled killer, dangerous as a shark. Marion was lucky he wasn't gutted like a mackerel. “Marion, you idiot,” Jean muttered. “Did they fight?”

  “No. Apparently, dear papa Mika is wrapped around Tris's little pinkie. He kept Tris's secret, but Kon found out anyway. Kon was angry. Livid, really. And yet, instead of Marion being hoisted by his beautiful neck from the Arsenale crane, he becomes Tris Sessane's promessa.” Paris picked a thread from his sleeve. “Tris is ecstatic. The boy is very much in love.”

  What boy in Malachite wouldn't be thrilled to have Marion as a husband? Jean stared dully at Paris. His shoulders began to ache, as if hearing about Marion's new life was using him up, turning him old. “Go on.”

  “This next bit will sting, old friend. Like everyone, I believed this engagement was simply Marion’s way of bowing to an outraged father's demands, saving face for the old bastardo after he was caught diddling the magestros' baby boy. As it turns out, Kon insisted that Tris was too young to have a lover, his career should come first, Marion wasn't good enough... all the things a protective father would say. Kon demanded that Marion end the affair at once. Marion refused and Kon threatened him with exile, but then, astonishingly, Kon granted them his permission to marry.” Paris slid a sheaf of papers over his desk. “And also this.”

  The first page caught Jean's attention, the one stamped with the crimson and gold seal of the Consolari. He held the paper between his fingers and read. It was a long list of names, men of the Citta Alta. Marion Casterline was inked in scrolling cursive. The bottom of the page was signed Yvon Moro.

  It felt like a punch to the stomach.

  Yvon was chief officer of the Orfani, the arm of the Consolari charged with the care of the children of Aequora. At any time, there were some two hundred fatherless boys awaiting adoption. Prospective fathers were put through rigorous examination before they were added to the paternal list, and the process could take years.

  Somehow, Marion's name had made it to the top.

  Jean crumpled the thick paper between his hands, meaning to tear it in half, but Paris yanked it away from him.

  “That's an official document, you brute.” Paris flattened the paper on the desk and smoothed the rich surface with both hands. “We're finished here, warden.”

  Jean couldn't even think of an insult to hurl back. He nodded, foggy around the edges. “Aye. I really think we are. Fuck.”

  When Paris looked at him with pity, he yanked the door open and fled, letting the door slam against the wall. Paris's soft laughter chased him down the corridor.

  Jean hurried to escape it before he turned back and got himself locked up for breaking the carcelero's very fine nose.

  TWENTY YEARS AGO

  Dank, humid air swarmed with gnats. Marion spat out one of the insects and looked at Aureo. The moon was high, bluish light flitting between shadow and dark with the racing clouds. The seasons were changing, the leaves of the myrtles turning orange or red as blood.

  “We can’t,” Marion said.

  “All of them,” Aureo commanded. “Do it now.”

  Marion shook his head, the night-roar of frogs loud in his ears. “Aureo... we can’t.” He waved his hand toward the isolated string of crumbling huts some distance past the Reed Gate, nearly into the marsh. “The fire might spread.” It sounded weak even as he said it. Aureo had bunked the disgraced boys in the marsh huts for just that reason.

  Aureo’s nostrils flared and spit bubbled in the corners of his mouth. “Who says I can’t?” He gave Marion a shove.

  Marion stumbled back, his cheeks flushing pink. Mud squished under his boot heels.

  Aureo advanced on him, his fists curled. “They're traitors, so do it to all of them. Do you hear me? All of them! Don't give me orders, you little bastard!” As usual, Aureo hadn't heard anything but can't. The word drove him wild. “You know what happens to traitors.”

  “Fish bait,” Jean said. He ignored the appalled look Marion turned on him, focusing on Aureo. “Raw or burnt, what's the difference?”

  The boys were new recruits, foolish as carp. They’d been running midnight raids on the Martello warehouses under Jean’s crew, but had given up Aureo’s name when the guardiers seized them. The soft-hearted guardiers had thrashed the boys before letting them go. Idiots, Marion thought. No doubt those men believed they were sending the youngsters home to papa with a few welts and a lesson. But guardiers were Silk themselves, raised in the Citta Alta, having little notion of what happened to Zanzare boys who talked too much.

  Aureo's hands went loose. He threw a lopsided grin Jean's way. “Aye, broiled or pink, the fish won't notice.” He laughed. “That's my prince. Heartless as a crab. You'll see it done, I know.” The humor faded from his grin as he looked at Marion. “Not like this one. You're going soft, Marion. Time was, you'd have been the first man to put torch to tinder.”

  Marion glanced again to the huts. They were a sorry lot, hundreds of years old, with crumbling mortar and rotted thatch roofs. They squatted like a tumor along the wall of reeds. Inside the huts slept twelve boys, none of them with a hair on their chins. The youngest was eight.

  Marion’s lips were dry as sand. His throat worked as he tried to summon a reason, an excuse, something, anything that would change Aureo's mind. His mouth stretched in a rictus smile. “For the sake of Jesu, Aureo. We can't burn a dozen boys alive.”

  “Traitors,” Aureo growled. “Not boys. Not crossbones. I'd get more use out of them as shark bait than gangers.”

  “We could just cut them loose in the Hammer. They’d find their way.”

  “You want Kon Sessane to hea
r everything those boys know about us? They’ll go straight to the Silk and spill their guts to that smoke-eyed bastard.”

  Some of them would turn Silk for a slice of bread, and Marion didn’t blame them. “You don't know that.”

  Aureo drew his knife in a dangerously slow motion. “Don't I?”

  Marion looked to Jean for aid. Jean shook his head warningly. No.

  Aureo spit into the street. “Jean.”

  “Marion's with us,” Jean said. “Why don't you let me—”

  Quick as a snake, the point of Aureo's knife turned to Jean. “You want your crown now, little prince? Is that it? Well, come and get it.”

  Jean's eyes crinkled. He didn't laugh. “I'll never turn against you, padrone. You know me better than that.”

  Marion's stomach roiled. He couldn't burn the boys, not even to save his life. What Aureo wanted from them was impossible, unthinkable, inhuman. The gangs would not stand for it. Aureo was crafting his own ruin.

  The mad light in the gang lord’s eyes told Marion that Aureo knew very well the deadly repercussions that would follow. Aureo simply didn’t give a damn.

  “Light ‘em up,” he commanded.

  Jean looked at Marion, shrugged, and went for the barrel holding the torches.

  “Jean,” Marion whispered.

  Jean looked back at him, a lit torch in each hand. “They’re dead either way,” he said tiredly. His eyes compelled Marion. “We’re not.”

  No choice. Aureo would have them hung in the Plaza Soldi by morning if they didn’t obey. For a moment, Marion considered it. Would death be so bad? But then Jean was putting a torch in his hand and shoving him down the street.

  Aureo remained where he was, watching.

  The torch smoked with an oily stink, burning Marion’s eyes. He blinked and coughed, hoping the boys would hear the sound and run.

  “Won’t work,” Jean muttered. His shoulder rubbed against Marion’s as they walked. “Poppy wine.” His black eyes seemed to glint red in the torchlight. “They won’t feel anything, Marion. I made sure.”

  “You made sure,” Marion repeated in a daze as Jean touched his torch to the dry thatch.

  “Now you do it,” Jean said. When Marion hesitated, Jean cursed under his breath and stepped close, his free hand cupping the back of Marion’s neck. “He’s watching. He’ll open your throat if you don’t.”

  “He’s lost his mind,” Marion whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jean pressed his cheek to Marion’s so he could feel the tears on his face. “I don’t want to watch you die.”

  Moving as if in a dream, Marion lifted the torch until it was pressed to the thatch, then moved all around the huts, front and back, firing them from the foundation. The smoke would do its work long before the fire.

  Paladin, let it be quick, Marion prayed.

  Jean tossed his torch on the roof and walked away. Marion’s torch dropped from nerveless fingers as Jean nudged him to move, to return to Aureo.

  The journey seemed to take a thousand years.

  Aureo waited, wine in hand, mouth curdled with distrust.

  “It’s done,” Jean said needlessly. At his back, the Reed Gate was framed with an orange glow. There was no screaming. It was mercifully quiet.

  “Took you long enough,” Aureo said. He sipped his wine greedily with a sucking sound and studied the flames, smiling like he watched a puppet show. “The Reed Gate will smell like bacon come the morning.”

  Marion stared in fascination at Aureo, revolted by him, hating him. This was the man he had served for... how many years now? Fifteen. Fifteen years of jumping when Aureo barked, of cleaning his messes, watching him hold the Teschio together with murder and terror. Fifteen years of using loyalty as an excuse to turn a blind eye. The shame crawling under his skin was more than he could bear.

  Aureo noticed. “You have something to say?”

  Marion shook his head and spit casually into the street. “Nah. I don’t much care for bacon, that’s all.”

  Aureo laughed so hard he nearly fell over. He clapped Marion on the back as tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks. “Ah, me! Better watch this bastard, Jean. He’ll cut your heart out one day.”

  Jean watched Aureo warily, and Marion expected him to play it off, to smart-mouth Aureo and laugh, the prince of cats, cat-footing around a tiger.

  But Jean only smiled. “He’s welcome to any part of my heart he wants, Aureo. Marion did his bit.” There was clear warning in his tone. “You can’t say he didn’t.”

  Aureo sobered, laughter drying up. He wiped his mouth. “He followed your lead,” he said grudgingly.

  Jean nodded and took Marion’s arm, tugging hard when Marion could not move, rooted to the spot, aching in every muscle to drive his fist into Aureo’s face.

  Smoke filled the street and doors were opening, men spilling out, shouts ringing. Marion’s rage lasted until they were on the canal and Jean was pushing him down the stairs into a sandolo.

  “Sit,” Jean commanded. He took the oar. “Shut up until we’re gone.” The boat began to drift as the sounds of alarm faded, and they were alone for a time with the rocking boat and the stars overhead.

  When they were far from the Reed Gate, the hard lump in Marion’s chest cracked open. He hid his face with a corner of his cloak and sobbed like a child.

  Jean stood and watched mutely until the storm passed.

  Marion wiped his nose messily on his sleeve. “Never again,” he swore in a choked voice. “I’m done with it. I’m leaving.”

  Jean slowly shook his head. “There’s no leaving the Teschio.” He let the boat drift and sat beside Marion. His hand brushed the skull brand under Marion’s shirt. “We swore for life.”

  “For life,” Marion stressed. “What kind of life is this? We swore loyalty and honor. We didn’t swear to murder children for them. For him.” He drew in a shaking breath. “I’m going to offer Kon Sessane my service. I’m joining the wardens.”

  “Crossbones will kill you,” Jean said immediately.

  “Are you talking about yourself?” Marion shot back. “Would you kill me, Jean?”

  Jean’s lips parted in shock. “No. Never.” He swallowed. “But if you leave, they may kill me in your place.”

  Marion reached for Jean’s hand. “Then come with me.”

  Jean’s mouth hardened to a flat line. “Why should I? I fucking hate the Silk. It’s them who kept us down in the shit while they slept in castles. They made my father fight for scraps to eat, and when he was dead they didn’t lift a finger to help. They would have let me starve. You hate them, too.”

  “I don’t know anymore,” Marion confessed. He stood and took the oar for Jean. His hands felt strange, not his own. He imagined he could feel the innocent blood staining his palms.

  The sandolo picked up speed as the canal curved and joined a larger waterway. They were nearly to the Perfume Canal. They could cross the Rio Avorio and be in the Martello by dawn.

  “Aureo always told us it was the Silk who put their boots on our necks,” Marion said thoughtfully. “He said they were our enemies. The Silk always had more than they needed, so what did it matter if we took from them? But we didn’t just steal, did we? We’ve done a lot worse than that, just because we hate them and we can. If you were a Silk, would you let Aureo out of the Zanzare?”

  Jean’s lower lip went stubborn. “You’re talking like you’re drunk,” he snapped. “They’ll find us and hang us from our own innards, no matter where we go. You can’t hide from crossbones.”

  Marion craned his neck to look up at the sky. “No,” he agreed. A cold ring was forming around the moon. He took it for an omen. “But I’m not going to hide.”

  MARION

  Aequora, Sei

  (Day 6)

  A dusty gray moth with wings like ragged lace bumped against the humid windowpane, drawn to the temptation of yellow gaslights inside.

  Tris rose up on his toes to slip the new books into an exquisitely-c
arved teak bookcase. “How did you decide on these?”

  Marion smiled, watching Tris. He’d never met a boy more beautiful, with such grace and intelligence. No wonder Kon kept him locked away, he mused.

  For health reasons, Kon claimed. But one look at Tris and the reasons became obvious. Tris's eyes were a feline pair of startling, cloud-gray jewels, with black lashes so long they could stop a man in his tracks. His features were fox-sharp, with high cheekbones, a full mouth, and deep dimples on either side of his frequent smile.

  “Do you like my gifts?”

  “Of course I do.” Tris slid Marion a look and caught him grinning. “And what cause have you for that sly expression, signore Casterline?”

  “None.”

  Tris hummed and brushed his hand over the leather spines of his prized books. “What an odd assortment of subjects you chose. One could even say a particular oddness.”

  The choices had been Federico Cervo’s, but if Tris thought he could charm that information out of him, well, he would first put up a fight. A very convincing fight.

  He stepped up behind Tris and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “If you're attempting to woo me into betraying my informant,” he whispered, “I should warn you that wardens never betray their sources.”

  Tris shivered at the kiss and chuckled. “Off with you! You don't have time for that. You barely have time to eat, so go.” He pushed Marion away and pointed to the kitchen door with a stern look.

  Marion glanced at the door, shrugged, and dragged Tris into a bear hug, mock-growling into the softness of his neck. He smelled clean soap and cologne, then Tris looked up at him and Marion's breath caught in his throat. How lovely Tris was in lamplight. Hell, any light. Marion brushed a thumb over Tris's cheekbone, admiring the flawless color, like poured cream.

  “So soft,” he murmured. He'd never held a man so soft in his arms. Tris was twenty years younger, but Marion was not at all certain that being older or more experienced gave him the power in this situation. A smile from Tris could make his knees weak and chase all rational thought from his head.