Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  “I thought we had—”

  Tris slapped Paris so hard that his palm stung.

  Paris's head rocked back and he stared. He licked a corner of his lip where it bled. “I can't believe you did that.”

  “I've tried every other method to communicate with you. Nothing gets through.” Tris stepped back and grabbed a heavier book from the case. “I'll use this instead of my hand next time.”

  Paris offered him the book with a small bow. “My apologies, messere.”

  Tris yanked the book from Paris's hand and replaced the heavier one in the case. “You can prove your sincerity by departing.”

  “Not yet.”

  Tris gaped at him. “Have you gone completely insane?”

  “I know you can have Dominique break my back with a snap of your fingers, but I only want to give you a message and then I'll go.”

  The only alternative to listening was following through on his threat. He suspected that Paris would stop him from delivering a second slap, and he didn't want to get that close.

  He folded his arms, holding the purple book over his chest like a shield. “I'm listening.”

  “Do you know what happened at Aequora?”

  He sensed he was on shaky ground. “I'm not at liberty to say.”

  “Would the magestros know?”

  “Ask him yourself.” He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Or send a message. There's a telegraph office at the gates. They're closed now but I imagine they'll wake a man up for the carcelero.”

  Paris smiled. “If you think anyone in this city sends a message that I don't know about, your father hasn't taught you very well.”

  Maybe he hasn't. “Get to the point.”

  Paris looked around the room, studying the rich furnishings. “I understand Jean has been knocking on your door at night. A good many nights. That's strange, considering.”

  “It's not at all strange. Marion is his superior.”

  Paris slid a hand along the high, curved back of Tris's favorite chair. “And it's a very expensive house. I didn't think they paid a highwarden this well.”

  “My father paid for it, and I'm losing patience. What do you want?”

  “Marion hasn't had any other late-night visitors, has he? There's a man in particular I'd wish to know about. He would be... secretive about his arrivals, but you'd remember him. He's very tall, black-bearded, dark eyes.”

  The hairs on the back of Tris’s neck prickled. “You mean other than my father, I take it? Then the answer is no. We don't entertain guests yet.”

  Paris flicked a bit of lint from the chair's fabric. “Has Marion received any packages?”

  “Packages,” Tris stated, unblinking. “If he had, I wouldn't tell you.”

  “But he has, hasn't he?” Paris looked at the stairway. “Do you mind if I search the house?”

  Tris stepped into Paris's way, barring the stairs. “I forbid it. If you do so anyway, I'll call the soldati and tell my father you forced your way into my home.”

  “I'm not afraid of Kon.”

  Tris smiled coldly.

  Paris chuckled. “Right. I don't have to be, do I? Dominique would kill me first.”

  “I fear that's true. Your wisest course now is to leave.”

  Paris stayed where he was. His expression settled into hard lines. “You like threatening me with your papas, don't you, piccolo?”

  It was on the tip of Tris’s tongue to ask if Paris felt threatened, but the mood in the room had turned darker, the spiteful banter souring into something dangerous. He realized he was honestly frightened by Paris’s actions, and he heard Kon's voice in his ear, whispering firmly.

  If you find yourself trapped, try telling the truth.

  “All weapons are valid when you're cornered.”

  Paris's posture snapped straighter, as if he had an invisible string running through his spine and someone had given it a yank. “I don't mean to corner you. I wouldn't hurt you, Tris.”

  “Right now, I feel like you would.” Honesty, Kon’s voice whispered. “I'm scared of you. I don't know what you want from me, but I know that it has nothing to do with desire. You want to punish someone and you think you can use me to do it, but I'm not cooperating in your game and that angers you to the point where you'd risk this action.” Is that why Paris had been trying to seduce him for months? Had it all be just a game, a power-play? Paris was capable of it.

  “I'm looking for a book,” Paris said.

  Tris’s jaw dropped. “A book?” He laughed without humor. “This insanity is about a fucking book?”

  “I wasn't given the title but I have very good information that it's already in your house.” Paris nodded at the book Tris was holding. “That may be the one. It has all the right clues. May I take a closer look?”

  Tris knew he shouldn't. There were unknown currents here that could sweep him away. He held the book out.

  “Thank you.” Paris slipped a knife from his side.

  Tris stiffened, but Paris only flipped the book open and tested the edges of the raised bands on the spine with the sharp blade.

  Tris looked on curiously, intrigued at the idea of a secret book. Paris pried away the headcap and peered into the binding, then turned it and began to cut away at the back-board. The paper was tough, glue and threads flaking off like snow.

  “Here,” Paris murmured. “It's here.” His long fingers drew from the dissected back-board a length of folded canvas.

  Tris stared. “What is it?” The canvas was stiff as dried fish, but he could see vibrant colors on the edges. It was a small painting.

  Paris carefully unfolded the canvas. The oil paints were stuck together in places. It crackled as it opened.

  Paris looked at the canvas a long moment, then at Tris, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. He looked like a man fighting for control.

  “Do you want to know, Tris?”

  Tris nodded, his heart thumping fast. Paris turned the canvas toward him.

  Tris stared, feeling the color drain from his face. His body seemed to go numb. “I must go to my father.” He tried to sidestep Paris to the door.

  Paris's arm shot out to block him. “Not alone. Not tonight.”

  “Get out of my way!”

  Paris shoved the painting in his face. “Not until you tell me what you know about this.”

  Tris thrust Paris away from him. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you bring this thing to me?”

  The painting was damaged and old, but exquisite, crafted with astonishing detail by a talented hand. A grim, black-bearded pirate straddled a throne made from a ship's wheel, a plain black banner at his back. His beard and hair were streaked with silver, and on either side of him were two stern boys who favored him in his dark looks, one a youth on the cusp of manhood, the other still a child.

  Tris knew exactly who they were, what they represented. The wheeled throne offered the hint, but the black banner left no doubt. It was Nera, the legendary pirate lord, Starless Man and vile enemy, the pitiless butcher of a thousand Malakhans. The youth at his right was unmistakably a young Kon.

  Avakon Nera.

  Tris shook his head in denial. “I don't believe it.”

  “You know about the gang wars, how they started.”

  “It's a lie. Go away!”

  Paris's eyes narrowed. “You're lying to protect him, aren’t you? You're Kon Sessane's son.”

  “That's not him!” Tris grabbed wildly for the canvas. Once he had it in his hands he would burn it, bury it forever. Paris snatched it away.

  Tris darted for the door. Paris grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. His head banged painfully against the wood and he gasped.

  “It doesn't matter if you believe it or not, if you trust me or not,” Paris hissed in his ear. “You're not going anywhere alone tonight.”

  He was alone already. No one knew Paris was here, and he realized now that he didn't know Paris half as well as he imagined. Tris stopped trying not to tremble a
nd looked Paris in the eye, letting Paris see his fear.

  “Are you going to kill me, Paris?”

  Paris's eyes went round with shock. “No. My god, no.” He stepped back instantly, giving Tris a wounded look. “I'd never hurt you.”

  Tris rubbed his arm where Paris had bruised him. “I don’t believe that, either.”

  “I know my actions have given you no reason to trust me, but if this painting means what I think it does, then none of us are safe. The message may not have been for you, but someone wants Marion at least to know the truth about your father.”

  He must be very careful now. “It's not the truth. It can't be.”

  “It is.” Paris carefully folded the little canvas and slipped it into his vest. He put his hand on Tris’s shoulder, ignoring Tris’s attempt to shrug him off. “Listen to me, boy. If Marion learns about the painting, Kon will have him murdered.”

  “That’s a filthy lie.”

  “Oh, not outright,” Paris continued. “He'll simply send Marion into the Zanzare on some secret mission that he’ll never return from. Regrettable, of course, but when men dig up the past, that’s how they die. Not loudly, piccolo. They just disappear.”

  “The Zanzare knows Marion! He’s one of their own.”

  “Marion hasn't been known in the Zanzare since the Teschio days, and the gangs haven't forgotten that it was Marion who betrayed them.”

  “So did Jean Rivard!”

  “But Jean stayed,” Paris snapped. “He stayed. Marion abandoned them for the Consolari and the Citta Alta and everything they hate. They wouldn't forgive that, would they? Would you?”

  All his arguments were coming apart. If he made a mistake, Marion might be the one to suffer for it. “Marion is Kon’s protégé. He cares for him. He made him highwarden.”

  “That was before Marion met you. Now Marion knows too much and he’s too close. That makes him dangerous. How does your father treat a danger to himself, to his family?”

  The only way to lie is to lie well, my dear. The world is full of half-hearted liars. Do it excellently or not at all.

  Kon was an excellent liar.

  “But the house...” Tris said on a failing note, gesturing emptily to the manse around them, the fine things. “He did all of this for us. He accepted Marion into the family.”

  “You already know the answer. There are no limits to how far Kon would go to keep this hidden.” Paris touched Tris’s cheek. “I came to you because the only man who is entirely safe with Kon Sessane is you, and I have to know if this,” he patted the pocket in his vest that carried the painting, “means what I fear it means. I have to know if Kon has been an agent of the Starless Men all along.”

  “And if I refuse to go to my father?”

  Father doesn't trust me because I decide with my heart. Men are wary of Kon because he never decides that way. Marion trusts Jean because...

  He didn't have an answer for that one.

  Paris was silent for a moment, and Tris wondered if the situation was going to turn ugly. Paris's temper was quicksilver. One moment he could be angry and then next laughing. He was a precarious man to get comfortable around. It was the main reason he had refused Paris: he'd had enough of men who kept secrets. Growing up in Kon's household had used up all his tolerance for mysteries.

  Paris took Tris’s hands between both of his. “Your hands are like ice.” He blew on them and rubbed them. “It’s your decision. If you don't go to Kon, I fear you'll be the one to bear the consequences. Act,” he urged. “Choose something, Tris. Don’t ignore the knowledge just because it's painful.”

  To do nothing was a coward's option. Tris must decide his path or lose the opportunity to make a decision at all. Impossible choices. I understand now, father.

  “There’s more,” Paris said when Tris still did not speak. “Yves is dead.”

  He remembered Yves, his kind face and gentle brown eyes, the humor and hope in them. “How?”

  “Gangers put an arrow through his throat.” Paris pulled Tris’s hands to his chest. “Will you help me?”

  ***

  Paris insisted on caution. He made Tris wait with him in a covered sandolo on the Canal Dorato until the sun rose. Tris passed the time grilling Paris in whispers for as much information as he dared to ask about L’arciere: what type of men he was recruiting, who he was known to associate with, and how he operated in the Zanzare.

  Paris was a fount of information, especially when Tris tolerated the hand on his thigh and Paris’s lips and breath on his neck. Only when Paris began to unbutton his trousers did he push him away.

  “No, Paris. Stop or I’ll shout.”

  It was an idle threat, but Paris ceased and retreated into sullen silence.

  When dawn filled the Arsenale, Tris glimpsed the brace of men dressed in crimson livery gathered on the deck of the Gryphon: Kon’s men. Paris signaled the sandolier to move on.

  They hired a large lowcoach, big enough to doze in, and waited out the day beyond the boundaries of the Arsenale. Between Paris’s constant advances and his deep worry over Marion, Tris was sure he was losing his sanity. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth and he jumped at every loud noise.

  “Where is Marion?” he fretted. He had expected to see Marion among Kon’s men, but there was no sign of him, and few wardens on the streets. “Something bad must have happened.”

  “Perhaps he's just in the Colibri,” Paris said. He thumbed through the marksman book he’d taken from the house. “Men do that before they marry, you know. A last bit of debauchery before settling down.”

  Tris wanted to slap him again, but settled for utterly ignoring him.

  At sunset, they returned to the Arsenale and found the men of the Castello Rosa had gone. Paris waited in the lowcoach, the window open to watch Tris as he ascended the gangplank of the Gryphon.

  Dominique stood blocking the gangway of the hulk, fists balled on his hips and staring in that brooding, unhurried way of his that made men bend the neck like whipped hounds. Around them, the docks were alive with sweating, swearing workmen. A massive crane screeched and whined as it hoisted a crate from the hold of a ship. Three more tall-masted ships in the harbor waited their turn, wallowing slightly with the waves, snug inside the floating iron walls that girded the deep bay.

  Dominique Sessane, captain of the soldati and charged with defense of the city by sea, was twelve years younger than Kon. His body was as slender and graceful as a fine blade. His curling hair was a deep brown and gave him a deceptively boyish appearance. A long silver scar bisected one eyebrow, half of his cheekbone, and the left side of his upper lip, giving his mouth a permanent snarl. His eyes were a deep and intense blue.

  Kon had taught Tris his numbers and had read endless stories to him when he was a child, but it was Mika who stood watch over his fevers, spooned his medicine, and threatened the ghosts under the staircase.

  A metal torchiere on the deck flickered and snapped. Only the mizzenmast of the multi-decked sailing ship remained, throwing a long shadow like a spike over the quay. The humid air was like soup, so thick that Tris fancied he could taste the sea on his tongue.

  “Papa?”

  Dominique frowned.

  “I've missed you.”

  Dominique glanced at the lowcoach and spied Paris. “What are you doing with that peacock? Changed your mind about Marion?”

  “I have not.” Tris took a few steps up the gangway. The Gryphon had been a trade carrack, a roomy vessel capable of holding her own even against the deep ocean. Her sailing days were done now. All her internal rigging and sails had been removed, and a wooden roof had been built over her tall aftcastle. She served now as the floating offices of the Arsenale and as living quarters for dock bosses and stevedores.

  Dominique shook his head and moved back, allowing Tris the deck. “Your father's been searching for you. He sent his men down here to pester me three times, says you disappeared with Dell'Acqua.”

  Oh Jesu. “What did you say?” />
  “I reminded him that you're too old for babysitters, and that I didn’t know where you were, but if you were fucking Paris then good for you.”

  “I'm not sleeping with Paris.”

  “No? Too bad. It would take the stuffing out of that cocksure man of yours. Why'd you bring him here, then?”

  “He threatened to call his guardiers if I went into the Arsenale alone.”

  “So he’s not as stupid as I thought. Well, what do you want?”

  Tris clasped his hands together nervously. This wasn't going well. Mika was still so angry with him. He had been furious about the position that Tris had put him in, then madder still when Kon placed the blame on his husband instead of Tris.

  Through it all, Dominique held his hard silence, refusing to speak to Tris, either to blame him or forgive him. That had hurt the most. His parent's separation had persisted for months, but until now, he'd never believed the break between them might be permanent. He bowed his head.

  “I know I've said it before, but I'm sorry.”

  Mika turned his gaze to the harbor, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “You're not a little boy anymore. This is worse than 'I'm sorry'. You told me it wasn't serious.”

  “It wasn't!” Tris protested. “I never expected it become more than... than what I thought it was.”

  “You asked me to lie for you, boy,” Dominique growled. “Paladin's cock, I wasn't covering your ass for stealing an apple. It wasn't child's play. When a man asks you to lie for him, he keeps his word in return. Now Kon doesn't trust me.”

  “Father knows why you did it. He understands. He forgives you.”

  Dominique snorted and waved a mosquito away from his nose. “Spoken like a child. No. He doesn’t. Not anymore. A man who deals in lies doesn't want to hear them in his own bed.”

  “But he loves you.”

  Dominique shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Trust among family is a sore point with him.” His hand went to his shoulder and rubbed it as if it ached. “You don’t know everything.”

  That sounded ominous. There were undercurrents between Tris’s fathers that he'd never been privy to, pasts that they held close and secret even from him.

  “I'm sorry,” Tris said. “I never meant to hurt you or cause trouble, I swear it.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I thought I was just a passing interest for Marion. I never imagined he would want to marry me.”