Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  Jean slammed his fist on the door, splitting his knuckles. “Guard!”

  ***

  An implacable line of thirty wardens confronted the crowd in the Arsenale as the bells of the malefico sounded across the city, an angelus to summon all who would witness the death of a legend.

  The steel crane and the makeshift scaffold erected around it were behind them. Beyond the crane was the incredible blue of a deep harbor ringed with high, armored gates.

  Jean made his way easily to the front, the black of his warden’s coat clearing the path for him. The mob faced the water, the arm of the iron crane throwing a long shadow over their numbers.

  Deep in his chest, Jean could feel the press of bodies behind him, the avid gazes pinned on the loading crane. He closed his eyes and pictured the crowd as a great beast straddling the docks, scales shining in the red sunset and smoke furling from its nostrils. He closed his eyes now because he couldn't close them later. He'd come too far to refuse to be a witness. It would have been comforting to have Marion beside him.

  The crowd rustled like a wind through dry leaves before sending up a ragged cheer. They were bringing Aureo down the Canal Dorato. Jean resisted the urge to turn, as if looking would make it worse. How could it get any worse?

  If it had been his choice alone, he would have forgiven Aureo. Maybe he could have exiled him, or kept him in the Gaol until causing mayhem was more of a fond memory than a possibility. Jean would have forgiven all if only Aureo had spoken one word of contrition.

  If he had said he was sorry.

  Too late for that now. It was too late for a great many things.

  The tramp of boots clomping in lockstep drew nearer. If he caught Aureo's eye, he might do something foolish. The procession marched past him on their way to the makeshift scaffold, and now he could not avoid seeing.

  Aureo's hands were bound behind his back like a common thief. The prison rags were gone, replaced by a spotless linen shirt. The brilliant sunburst cloak he was known for flowed from his shoulders.

  Jean’s face ached with holding his expression carefully blank, and his eyes burned. Was it honor or humiliation, that cloak? The life of a wolf cannot be retold as a lamb, but Aureo was neither, was nothing so ordinary. In his world, Aureo had been a Kraken: a beast of incalculable menace that rises with the storm, covers the land and savages man and nature alike before vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Unknowable. Invincible.

  Aureo's hair was combed, his beard freshly trimmed. He turned before mounting the stairs and his blue eyes swept the crowd. Jean expected rage, even scorn, but Aureo faced the shouting throng and smiled his charming smile. The clanging resonance of the malefico rang its last and ceased.

  Aureo tossed his head and the long curls of fading gold swung over his temple. He lifted his chin, and his voice—trained by a thousand rabble-rousing speeches to carry over the thunder of waves—soared like a song.

  “My friends!” Aureo called. The crowd stilled and their voices dropped to a beehive hum. “My countrymen, we come to the end of our journey together.”

  Through shock at Aureo’s daring and his own creeping sense of horror, Jean’s defenses came apart like cobwebs. He met Aureo's eyes and found he couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot, caught in some awestruck spell rooted in childhood memories of fear and blood.

  Aureo looked at Jean alone, the false grin sloughing away. “Though I go to my end, I leave you here to carry on the dream we began, one of a free and united city, where no man can look down on you or claim he is better than you. A city where the poor do not starve while the rich fatten their bellies in idleness, and where the sounds of children can be heard in all doorways, not just the castles of the wealthy.”

  Aureo nodded as the crowd grew deadly silent. “For that's the truth. That's the city we have. That's the city that's killing me today, the same one as will kill you if you step out of line. If you speak out for what's right and demand a decent home and your share of bread, if you refuse to put your mouth to the ass of the Citta Alta, you will learn your place. I die as a man, at least. But you, my friends... my poor friends... you will all die as slaves.”

  In the short space of silence he had gained, Aureo mounted the scaffold and approached the waiting noose. He eyed the rope with regal disdain.

  “Come then, you sorry bastards. I haven't all day.”

  One end of the rope was affixed to the top of the crane. As the hangman made to put the noose around Aureo’s neck, a warden stepped from the column.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Jean froze as Marion climbed the steps. Not with his own hand... he thought, and then wanted to laugh. What difference did it make? Marion had Kon Sessane’s ear. He had the favor of the Consolari. If he had wanted Aureo to live, he had only to say so. It was Marion’s hand either way.

  Aureo gave Marion an admiring smile. “I knew you’d come. You wouldn’t leave me to lesser men, bebè.”

  Marion grasped the rope and slipped the knot down roughly over Aureo’s ears. “That’s not why I’m here, old man,” Marion said. “I just want to be close enough to hear you die.”

  Aureo continued to smile. The rim of the red sun dipped below the water. “You were such a pretty boy, once. My favorite. You think killing me will wash it all away, don’t you? Wash me from your skin. All those nights we—”

  Marion stepped back and threw the crane’s lever.

  Freed, the weighted rope shot up, yanking Aureo into the sky. Ten feet, then twenty. Aureo Marigny, master of the Teschio, kicked up his heels high over the mob as the rope choked the life out of him. It was not quick, but it was not meant to be. The slow rope was reserved for gangers.

  Tortured, choking sounds came from Aureo, and Jean was grateful that he couldn’t see his face anymore.

  Marion stood tall on the scaffold, unsmiling. After glancing up once, as if to make sure of his work, he stepped down and strode to Jean.

  But he’s not dead yet, Jean thought.

  A sighing wave went through the crowd.

  A man burst out with a braying laugh. “Cheeky fucker to the last! Look at him dance!”

  Others took up the jeer, taunting and pointing at the struggling man. The wind caught the edges of Aureo’s cloak and filled it like a sail, spreading the sunburst over the mob.

  He dances!

  The sun is dancing!

  Marion made to speak, but whatever he saw in Jean’s face stopped him. Jean’s hands shook. Marion took his arm and turned him away to the canal, dragging him along like a puppet on a string.

  Perhaps he’d been caught too long in Aureo’s spell ever to be free of him. In that moment, all he felt was a mirror of Aureo’s fierce and burning hatred for the world.

  JEAN

  Aequora, Dieci

  (Day 10)

  Oily torch-smoke helped to keep the night insects away. It streamed through the orange flames and made flickering shadows against the half a hundred bare backs and avid faces filling the open court of the Bailey.

  Jean lingered near the high wall enclosing the court, nursing a bloody knuckle in his mouth. The court was nearly full. Not unusual for Aequora.

  Wardens and guardiers both could haul any man who was too drunk or too violent to the Bailey, but when the prisoners calmed down or sobered up, the guardiers let them go. It was not a comfortable detention, with only sparse shelter under striped awnings and delicate pergolas, but the men rutting in pairs on wide benches or on the grassy lawn were not thinking of refuge. The Bailey was for forgetting, for sloughing aggression with one good fuck or a dozen, or for sleeping off an epic night of drinking, all without blame or disgrace. Jean had lost count of the nights he spent in the yard.

  Every poor man in the Zanzare hoped to one day move up to the Martello, where there was room and food, but dreaming of the Citta Alta was like wanting to get into heaven. The Bailey was a playground, the Colibri a paradise. Marion had hanged Aureo Marigny from a loading crane in the Arsenale eight years ago. Not even
a tree for the old man. Marion had wanted every ship coming into the docks to see the body, to know it was finally over.

  And yet, little had really changed. The poor were still wanting, the rich were still lords, and the Consolari was more powerful than ever. The Zanzare was ruled by less brutal masters, but the men who lived there were still slaves.

  Seasoned guardiers lounged against the high wooden walls, chatting and smoking, half an eye on their prisoners. The guardiers were only tasked to keep the men from violence. All else was permitted, including the shabby and very sober men who wandered in through the open gates, hoping to find partners less particular than those in the bathhouses.

  One of the watchful guardiers touched fingers to his temple in salute. Jean strolled through the gates to his side.

  “Verdi, is it?”

  Verdi smiled to be remembered. His hair was steel gray at the temples now, but he had the same sly manner and crooked grin that had once endeared him to Aureo. He bobbed his head. “Sì, il mio principe.”

  Jean chuckled. “There’s no more branco and no more princes. Those days are gone.” His eyes swept the busy court. “How goes the night?”

  Verdi stuck a cigarette between his lips. “Aequora,” he sighed, hanging the weight of a thousand unspoken complaints on the word. He looked at Jean's bleeding hand and the weathered skin around his eyes crinkled. “Anyone dead?

  Jean shook his head. “I broke up two brawls on the way here.” He flexed his aching fingers. “One man needed a dottore. I need a new bastone.”

  Verdi shrugged. “Aequora.”

  “It does seem to put a fire under us.” Jean glanced up at the Gaol tower looming high above them. “How's your dog?”

  The torches on the wall sizzled as insects dove into their light. Verdi clucked his tongue. “Oh, he's mending. Hasn't been out of the house today, but yesterday he felt well enough for a walk.”

  Verdi did not own a dog. Jean slipped the silver safe from his pocket and struck a match for Verdi. “Did he wander very far?”

  “Only ‘round to a bookshop. He sniffed around there for a bit, but didn’t find the scent he was looking for. I think he fancied someone was following him. A wary creature, my dog.”

  Jean held the match to the tip of Verdi's cigarette. “Can’t think why.”

  Verdi narrowed his eyes against the smoke and sucked. “Cautious beasts live longer.”

  Jean shook the match out and dropped it. “So they do.” The night seemed to grow quieter. He put it down to imagination, his own caution against prying ears.

  Cervo, again. The crates of iron parts and the note from the spy. If the two events were connected, that meant the Sessanei could be involved, and the whole business would suddenly become a lot more dangerous.

  If is a big word to hang a man with, Jean thought. He slipped a silver coin into Verdi's hand with practiced deftness, wished him a fortunate Aequora, and left.

  The Canal Tignola was teeming with sandolii as a strident, impatient mob crowded the waterway, shouting insults over the gilded prows. There were to be several fetes held tonight, in a dozen castles across the Citta Alta, including the Castello Rosa and one very exclusive dinner party at a lavish house in the Myrtles.

  Maybe I should have accepted Silvere’s invitation, Jean mused. If only to see Tris’s little fox-face when he arrived on Silvere’s arm.

  On the steps of the Gaol, a pair of guardiers exchanged sharp glances when Jean roughly shouldered between them. He almost hoped they'd stop him. He would welcome a third brawl, anything not to be thinking about storming into Marion's house, throwing the Sessane boy into the street, and claiming what was his.

  ***

  When Paris opened his door, Jean made sure he was blocking it.

  Paris recovered quickly. “Saluto, Jean.” He smiled and pulled the door wider before turning his back. “Come in. Unless you'd rather settle this in the alley?”

  “I've left enough blood in alleyways to fill a bucket. I came to talk.” Jean would have liked nothing more than to bloody the stuffy bastard up for the snot-nosed way he'd talked to him in the Corsair. That would be some real fun.

  Paris watched Jean's hands closely. “Did Marion send you, or was it Kon?”

  “I'm not Kon's errand boy, fool, nor Marion's.” Jean pushed the door closed. “I want you to stay away from the little Sessane prick.”

  Paris leaned on the edge of his desk. “How is Tris?”

  “You’d know better than me.” The Gaol had a conservator’s wing under Tris’s supervision, where Jean assumed Paris could see Tris any time he wanted.

  “He hasn't come to work.”

  “No small wonder, the way you attacked him.” Jean crossed his arms. “I put him in a sandolo and sent him home to bed. There's a group of angry waiters who'll have words for Kon. That meal could have fed twenty of us in the old days.”

  Paris hesitated, his face neutral. “Thank you. For taking care of Tris, that is.”

  “I didn't do it for you, or even for him. Personally, I think a few nights at the Corsair without his babysitters would do him good.”

  “Oh, do you?” Paris's nostrils flared out and his mouth thinned to a sneer. “All Tris needs to make a man out of him is a hard fuck. Do I have you right?”

  Now what's this? “Why’d you lean so hard on pussycat that night? You know he belongs to Marion.”

  “Not the parts I felt of.”

  Jean grinned. “You’re a filthy old cock, you know that? Isn't there enough willing tail hanging around the Bailey for ten men?”

  Paris ran his finger along the wing of a small statue of Andreja Paladin on his desk. “If I only wanted willing, I'd dangle my hook for you, messere.”

  “Now you're getting saucy. Who says I'd bite?”

  “Men like you are always willing. You're the biggest slut in the Colibri.”

  “Careful. You don't love me enough to talk to me like that.”

  “Only Marion gets to call you a slut?” Paris picked up the statue and studied it. “Do you think he knew what he was doing?”

  It took Jean a moment to understand that Paris was referring to the master of masks.

  “The island had been ruins for a thousand years when he came here,” Paris said. “What happened to him, I wonder, to make him think the world would tolerate a nation such as ours?”

  Jean shrugged. “It works, doesn't it?”

  “Not really.” Paris's finger traced the lines of Paladin's mask. It was the likeness of a stag, wrought in delicate lines. “The harbor works. We're the only point of trade between Solari and Cwen, so we snatch the biggest cut we can and pray it’s not so much that they go to war over it. We have a fleet. There's food and clean water, and the crossbones are gone.” He carefully replaced the statue in its niche. “So why is it that you and I still have a job to do? Why do we have the Bailey? Why are there barred cells in the Gaol? How many men have I exiled this year alone?”

  Jean honestly didn't know the numbers. “Twenty?”

  “Fifty-seven. The Solari have a name for us. Not Malachite, not even Male City. It's Malignant. Paladin's dream was of a serene republic.”

  “And look where that got him,” Jean said, earning himself a hard look from Paris.

  In the legend of Paladin's Surrender, Paladin’s own captains had come marching to his gate, demanding that he answer to the charges made against him. Paladin had given himself up, asking only for a fair trial and a chance to speak. He never made it to the Gaol tower. The captains turned him over to the Starless Men, who took him to sea and ripped him apart with barbed knives made of shark's teeth. It had taken Paladin three days to die.

  Jean bowed his head. “All dreams fade. We're awake and this is what we have. It's not perfect, but would you rather be in Solari?”

  “No more than I'd rather be in Cwen.” Paris rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “What was your age when you were gathered in Aequora?”

  “Two, I'm told.”

  �
�Just a baby. And Marion?”

  “About the same.”

  Paris nodded. “It shows. Marion thinks of the Zanzare as a bad home he wanted to escape. You, however, regard the Island of Thieves as your personal kingdom. Il principe di fango. Isn't that what they call you?”

  Prince of mud, strictly a Citta Alta joke for the prince of cats. “I prefer Principe del Cazzo.”

  Paris smirked. “Cocks. That suits you perfectly. I didn't come to Malachite until I had hair on my face. Maybe it was too late for me.”

  Paris might be playing another of his games. He had so many. “I don’t like riddles.”

  “I'll be plain enough even for you, then. What happens to the men who are gathered to us after they're bearded?”

  Jean ticked the list off on his fingers. “They don't take mates. They resist male authority. They have strange ideas they carry over from Cwen, rules about bodies and fucking and fighting that are too stupid for words.”

  “And they'll only fuck painted cortigiani or young men without beards.” Paris's mouth was no longer endearing. It was pursed like he'd bitten on a lemon. “That's because they're pretending they still have women to choose from.”

  Jean found he was slightly curious, after all. “Have you ever done that? Had a woman?”

  “My bloodline breeds intelligent women, or so I was told. They're very strict about keeping track of their bloodlines, the Cwen. They breed others for strength, some for beauty, and some for reasons I can't begin to understand. I was supposed to give a noblewoman a daughter, but first I had a proving.” Paris rose with practiced grace and moved around to the other side of his desk, to a wide wooden chair upholstered in sage-dyed leather. “Do you know what that is?”

  Jean shook his head.

  “Sit and I’ll tell you a story of Cwen.”

  He would rather stand, but it was going to be a damn long night anyway. He sat.