Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  “We can’t let this happen,” Marion said. He spread his hands helplessly. “We can’t.”

  “I’ve already sworn. It was that or no deal at all. I tell you, Marion, I’ve felt safer with Aureo in his rages than that fellow. He’d slit the throat of every man in the city if he thought it would serve him. I said what I had to say to get Tris back. We’ve made deals with the devil before, haven’t we? A lot can happen at sea. We’ve got time.”

  Marion was not sure he understood. “The Archer intends to leave?”

  Jean nodded. “So he says. He's set on the same course that Aureo took thirty years ago, trying to control the city through the gangs. He even says the same damn things, but he's not going to get his army from the Zanzare. We killed them all. Oh, not every last one. There's still a few who remember what the old days were like. They’re mostly drunks or lazy thieves, cowardly bastards without the spine for a true battle. The real killers are gone. We promoted them to the Citta Alta or we buried them in the Mire. The Archer paid the graycloaks to put on that show for you in Paladin Square, but they won’t die for him. They're smarter than that.”

  The Archer would leave and bide his time, and in his absence the city would wait and fear his return. He would become the monster under the bed, the shadow on the moon.

  Be a good lad and go to sleep, or Lord Nera will carry you off...

  Marion felt like weeping. “Tris.” Marion’s voice cracked. Kon Sessane had been more than a friend to him, more than a father. Had all the lies they told together just killed the boy they both loved? “I know you hate him.”

  “I don’t hate him,” Jean answered tiredly. He took Marion’s hand and pressed it against his heart. “And I don’t plan to let him die or be taken away. But you and me, we’re going to have to be the sly bastards playing both sides against the middle, just like old times. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do anything. If the Archer wants my life, he can have it.”

  ***

  Marion crouched with Jean, Silvere, and five wardens in the shadowy interior of an empty fish shop across the canal from the Fortezza. A small bridge spanned the canal, solid but low, offering little cover.

  The fort was a square, squat block made of pale bricks, four stories high with sawtooth merlon battlements lining all sides of the roof. A fortified wall enclosed the small courtyard in front of the fort, and a portcullis spanned the arched entrance. The grille was raised, its winch-chain swaying in a stiff morning breeze.

  Franny strutted back and forth in the courtyard, holding his crossbow held at a high angle on his shoulder for all to see.

  “That is one stupid ganger,” Marion marveled in a whisper. “He’s waving that thing around like a flag.”

  “He always did have shit for brains,” Jean said. “Is there some reason we're not kicking his ass right now?”

  “Because I don't like those arrow slits facing us,” Marion answered. He looked to Silvere. “How many men are inside?”

  “I don’t know. There was a runner an hour ago and the fort emptied. Forty or more men headed west, toward the Mud Gate. My men spotted a ship with black sails lurking near the Spindle, and a number of rowboats roped in the Rio Fulvo.”

  “He’s leaving,” Jean said. “Bastard’s trying to get away.”

  “He’s not leaving with Tris,” Marion declared. “How many do you think are left in there?”

  Silvere narrowed his eyes at the fort. “Perhaps ten.”

  Jean snorted. He stripped his coat off and let it drop. “I'll put down that many by myself.”

  “No.” Marion sighed in exasperation. Of course Jean wanted to charge in. “This is not a plan.”

  Silvere smirked. “Oh, let him go. A prince of cats has nine lives.”

  Jean blew Silvere a kiss.

  “The rest of you, coats off,” Marion ordered. The instant the gangers saw warden black, they would send up an alarm.

  Jean’s shirt followed, then his boots. “Give me a knife. Two are better.”

  Marion only had the one, but Silvere contributed a stabbing stiletto from his belt.

  “I'll be wanting that back,” Silvere said.

  Jean slipped the knives inside his belt, at the small of his back.

  At the gate, Franny swaggered in past the portcullis and disappeared into the fort. The other gangers remained.

  “Stay here until I sing out,” Jean said. He ran his fingers over his scalp, mussing his tousled black hair even further, then slipped a flask from his coat pocket and splashed the contents into his hand. He rubbed it on his face and neck.

  Marion smelled fortified wine, strong stuff that would make even a large man cross-eyed in an hour.

  Silvere chuckled. “What a nice present you make. All you need is a ribbon tied around your neck.”

  Jean clapped Marion on the shoulder. “Be ready. This will happen fast.” Then he walked out of the shop and began a staggering progress across the little bridge to the forte, waving the flask and singing a tavern song off-key.

  Silvere watched with grudging admiration. “How does he get his pants up over those balls?”

  Jean made uneven progress over the bridge without challenge, but as soon as he entered the courtyard, a ganger shouted a warning. Jean waved his arms drunkenly and delivered a slurred, obscene rant.

  In moments, Jean was surrounded by three men. One of them made to seize his arm. Jean turned with the grab and threw a punch that knocked the man off his feet. The second man was heavier and grappled with Jean like a wrestler. The little stabbing stiletto went into that one’s eye. That gave the third man time to race to the chain winch. He gave a shout before Jean caught up with him and cut his throat.

  Jean turned and waved with a bloody hand.

  Silvere inhaled sharply. “That bastardo is a walking hazard.”

  Marion rose and sprinted over the bridge into the fort, Silvere and the wardens close on his heels. The dead man's shout hadn't drawn attention yet, but it might not be long.

  An iron door stood open to the east. If Marion remembered correctly, it guarded a twisting stairway that led to the roof battlements, separate from the main floors. “That way,” he said.

  “They'll know we’re coming,” Jean warned.

  “Then it doesn’t matter how much noise we make. Hold here,” Marion ordered Silvere. “Guard our way out.”

  Two of the wardens went with them. They had made the second level when Marion heard the squeal of the portcullis dropping down. Silvere was securing the fort against attackers.

  Already? Marion thought. They dashed up another flight, jostling in the narrow space. He wondered anxiously where Franny was. He didn’t want to meet that crossbow in a confined area.

  The third and fourth floors were similarly deserted. That only left the fifth and the roof battlements. In the guard room, they found a wide space scattered with straw and broken crates. Two gangers labored at a long table with small tools and piles of black iron parts. Crates of the same dark metals were nearby.

  The kidnapped Aequora boys sat in a pile of straw heaped in the corner, arms around their knees, watching the gangers work with wary eyes. Lody was on the floor, his eyes closed. Kell sat near him, ropes around his legs and hands.

  The gangers turned, big smiles on their faces, obviously expecting someone else. They were typical gangers: canvas breeches, shirtless, leather belts cinched around belly and chest, long hair pulled back into tails.

  Their smiles vanished. “Shit, it's the highwarden!” one of them yelled stupidly.

  Quicker than Marion could see, Jean sent a knife hurtling toward the shouting one. “And Jean!”

  The surviving ganger turned and bolted for the door to the roof. Marion went for him. At that point it didn't matter if the ganger got there first, but he wasn't giving the least shred of advantage to whoever was on the battlements.

  He caught up to the ganger and grabbed a shoulder, already turning, anticipating the knife he knew the man would have in his hand. The
blade sliced harmlessly past his middle and Marion's fist connected with the man's jaw. He felt a bone snap in his finger and his wrist throbbed in pain.

  The door opened. Jean threw himself at it, catching a ganger's arm between the stone wall and the jamb. The ganger howled, and Jean pulled open the door and slammed it again, opening it a third time to grab the ganger by his hair and sling him back into the room. Jean kicked him in the face when he was down.

  Three gangers littered the guard room floor; one dead, two out of commission. Marion could hear Silvere's boots slapping up the stairs. Let that be Silvere, he prayed. We've got all we can handle in here.

  He knelt and cut the ropes binding Kell’s wrists and handed him the blade. Lody’s face was bruised in livid colors of blue. “Will he wake up?” Marion asked.

  Kell shook his head, white-lipped and angry. “I don’t know. They beat him.”

  Jean gritted his teeth and went for the door, bursting through and out into the sunlight of the Fortezza rooftop, Marion close behind.

  Franny was on the far side of the roof, one leg braced against a stone merlon and holding a crossbow aimed at the door. There was a half-completed ballista in the middle of the roof, a cart-sized mechanism of wood, rope, and iron strewn in an organized pattern across the tiles.

  “Not a move, boys!” Franny yelled, his face lit by a wide, mocking grin.

  The sea was behind Franny, and there in the waters, gliding round the curve of the island, was the dark shape of a warship. The Drake.

  “Fucking coward!” Jean shouted. “Put that sticker away and come fight like you have balls!” Jean deliberately stepped in front of Marion. The unassembled ballista would provide some coverage for them, but not enough.

  Especially if Fucking Francis is any good with that thing.

  “I got some balls for you, Jean.” Franny squinted one eye and sighted along the top of the weapon. “Maybe if you suck my hairy ones real nice I'll let you walk out of here with your pair attached.”

  Another ganger was positioned in the western corner with a crossbow. His weapon was smaller than Franny's and he held it uncertainly. There was a third man beside the ganger, a lean fellow with a thin, dark beard, dressed all in black. He held no weapon and his face was hidden by a black cowl that put his features in shadow.

  L’arciere, Marion thought with a shock. He had not been able to see his face in the Gran Consiglio, either.

  Jean stared fixedly at Archer.

  “Every man calm down.” Marion pitched his voice to carry commandingly. “You know what we're here for, Franny. There's no need for anyone else to die.”

  Franny’s jaw dropped. Clearly, he didn't know that anyone had died yet. “You did for my buddies outside? You bastards!”

  “All we want are our people,” Marion said. He could hear Silvere and the wardens reaching the level below them.

  “All of them,” Jean added. “There are more men on the way, Franny. Guardiers, wardens, and soldati. You want to find yourself on a boat to Solari? Keep waving that weapon and you'll see it happen.”

  Archer directed his gaze to Marion and spoke. “Is this how you handle your problems in the Citta Alta, highwarden? Just cast them away when they become too difficult?”

  The voice was cultured and deep, as different from a ganger's speech as a song is to a croak, and it was exactly the accusation that Marion had always leveled at the Cwen.

  The Archer had an aura of command about him, and he was the one man present who was not afraid. His voice was terribly familiar.

  “Tell your men to lay down their arms,” Marion said.

  Archer shook his head. “I give no commands here. My men are free to follow their own wills.”

  “Fucking Francis is about to follow it to his grave,” Jean rumbled.

  “I want Tris Sessane,” Marion said deliberately. “Now.”

  “He is in the Fortezza,” Archer said with a graceful sweep of his arm. “In the company of a unique... person.”

  The woman, Marion thought. “An exile?”

  “Yes. An interesting little thing.”

  “Here now!” Franny bleated. “They can have the Silk but that I'll keep that littl’un for myself if you won't!”

  Archer ignored Franny. “You’re free to take them and go.”

  “Franny will shoot us as soon as we turn our backs,” Jean said.

  “My name is Francis!”

  Archer shook his head. “He will not. You have my word.”

  “Your word?” Marion scorned. “We don't even have your real name.”

  Archer hesitated. “Fair enough.” He flung back his hood, giving Marion his first clear look at him. “I am Daeron Nera.”

  Paladin save us. Marion felt his heart skip a beat. It was Kon. Or not Kon, but a version of him; a bit younger, more hardened. Marion had thought Kon Sessane the coldest man he had ever met. Daeron was colder still, a glacier with a smile like a razor.

  Daeron and Avakon, the lost sons of Lord Nera the Black.

  “Put your weapons down, please.”

  Marion looked quickly over his shoulder, expecting to see Silvere, but it was not him.

  Tris stood in the doorway, an immaculate figure in black velvet and lace, holding a Calaveras revolver in a gloved hand sewn with jewels winking in the sunlight. He stepped forward and leveled the revolver at Franny. Only the low structure of the ballista was between them.

  Marion was shocked to the bone and nearly weak with relief. Tris was alive. Unharmed. Oh god, Tris...

  Tris’s hand did not tremble, and for the first time, Marion hoped Tris had inherited some of Kon's ruthlessness.

  Silvere appeared behind Tris, dragging the lost Aequora woman by her arm.

  Jean had gone quiet and dangerous in a way that sent the hairs on the back of Marion's neck to rising. In another moment, Jean would turn the area into a bloodbath.

  If he can, Marion thought. If we're not all dead first. The fast-approaching Drake and the revolver changed the game considerably.

  Franny laughed at Tris. “Look, it's the pretty ball-breaker come for tea. What are you gonna do with that thing, little prince? Make some noise? Is it a firecracker?”

  Tris drew back the metal hammer of the Calaveras. It gave an ominous clack like breaking the jaw of some animal.

  Tris’s voice was coolly detached. “If you don't lower that balestra, I'm going to make a hole in your head big enough to piss through.”

  Franny waved his hand, causing Tris to track the movement slightly with the weapon. “Eh, stupid little piccolo. How do we know that thing even works? “

  Tris aimed the weapon aside a bare fraction and pulled the trigger. The shot bammed through the air like a thunderclap. Gray smoke poured richly from the revolver's metal barrel.

  The second ganger dropped his weapon, dived for the ground and covered his head. Tris had plugged a deep hole in the pillar beside Franny, sending chips of stone flying and missing him by an inch.

  “It works,” Tris said flatly. He cocked the revolver back again. The chamber of the gun turned.

  Franny pulled back his lips in a hateful snarl. He dropped the crossbow and put his hands in the air.

  Daeron had not moved. He stood unafraid by the high lip of the battlements, hands loose at his sides.

  Tris gestured with his free hand to the guard room, his eyes on Daeron. “Go,” he said to Jean. Jean backed away.

  Marion wasn't moving until Tris did.

  “We're leaving,” Tris said, focused on Daeron. “If you move, I will kill you.” He began to back up, still holding the revolver aimed forward.

  “Boy,” Daeron called.

  “Don't,” Marion warned in a hiss. “Tris, don’t stop.”

  Tris lifted his chin defiantly at Daeron.

  Daeron smiled in triumph. “You sound just like your father when you make a threat.”

  Marion touched his fingertips to Tris's arm. “Mio promessa,” he whispered.

  Tris stared at Daeron for a
long, charged moment. “So do you.” He raised the revolver and aimed it at Daeron’s face.

  Daeron’s smile curdled into amazement. His eyes grew wide.

  The eastern corner of the Fortezza exploded with a deafening sound. Mortar and rock sprayed in all directions, heavy with dust.

  Cannon, Marion thought dazedly. The Drake had fired on them without warning, striking the Fortezza’s facade a glancing blow. The second shot came immediately after, striking the fort at its foundation.

  Marion’s ears rang. A piece of brick clipped him on the temple, felling him against the wall. He landed on his back and gazed up at the reeling sky as dust rained down on him like snow. He groped to his knees. Jean shouted soundlessly and rushed forward, then fell back, an arrow through his arm.

  He tried to get up, and then something hard slammed across the back of his neck. Fucking Francis was his last thought before the world went black.

  He did not remember being pulled from the battlements, nor his last sight of Daeron Nera, or what became of the man. When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground. Tris held him in his arms, the broken outline of the Fortezza rising behind him. A white banner of surrender fluttered from its heights.

  The Zanzare had submitted, then. But with how many dead? Men shouted and ran. A band of grim soldati surrounded them in a protective ring, swords out.

  “Jean,” Marion moaned, his mouth dry as ashes.

  Another face swam into view. Jean knelt and grinned at him. A ragged cut on Jean’s cheekbone made his face into a red mask. His arm was bound in a bloody sling.

  “Told you he was fine,” Jean said loudly, his mouth trembling.

  “Mio amato,” Marion said without thinking, so relieved to see Jean alive that he forgot Tris held him. Only then did Marion see the anguish his words brought Tris. He loves me, Marion thought. He reached up and drew his fingers over Tris’s wet cheek.

  “You shouldn't dress so fine when you come to rescue me,” Marion whispered. “You'll ruin all your pretty things saving my ass.”

  Tris laughed through his tears.

  “Mio promessa,” Marion said, like a prayer.

  TRIS