Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  “And that’s as it should be,” Marion said earnestly. “From that first day, you knew I was a Teschio.” He took Tris’s hand and placed it on his upper sleeve, over the scars Tris had seen many times. “Few men who bear this brand are still alive. This is more than a scar. It represents a lifetime of blood and pain. It’s a journey I shared with someone. He’ll always be my family. I can’t change that, but it doesn’t mean that Jean is the only man in my heart. That was never true.”

  Tris went silent, thinking. He was not ready to allow himself to hope again. Not yet. His fingers traced the raised edges of Marion’s brand through his shirt.

  “We are very different people, but I think I understand,” he murmured. Marion was not going not like what he had to say about Jean. “Now it’s time for you to understand me.”

  MARION

  “I want the criminal found,” Kon said. “The Archer, as he names himself. Put a bounty of fifty thousand gold on his head. He'll run out of friends very quickly. The bounty will stipulate that he is to be delivered unharmed, of course, but I cannot speak for what happens to him afterward. He’s a hazard to the public.”

  “A bounty that high might draw more attention than we want to our shores,” Marion pointed out. As well as no small amount of suspicion. Few would believe it had anything to do with a damaged fort. Kon was painting a target on his chest.

  “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Kon said shortly. “The bounty stands.”

  “As you wish, magestros.”

  The late afternoon sun slanted though the stained glass windows of Kon's library, splashing color throughout the room.

  “What of the Zanzare?” Kon asked, turning to Jean. “How goes the occupation of the Fortezza, southwarden?”

  Jean sat with his back to the window, the sun painting colors in his curling black hair. The right side of his bruised cheek had turned to astonishing shades of blue and purple. His arm was no longer in a sling, but his face was drawn with lingering pain. The arrow wound had been deep.

  “Better than expected,” Jean said. “Almost friendly, since the soldati began handing out rations. Hungry men need soup, not promises. The Zanzare doesn't want the old days back any more than you do.”

  “If it keeps the peace, I don’t care if they dine on soup or seawater,” Kon said uncharitably. “But you, southwarden. I owe you a personal debt. I will see it paid in full.”

  Kon was less cold than he normally was toward Jean. Even Tris raised a brow at the change.

  Jean, however, smirked and bowed mockingly from his chair.

  Don't push it, Jean, Marion thought. Couldn't he see that he'd won?

  Erzabet giggled from her seat beside Dominique on the couch, a high, musical sound both alien and attractive. She was dressed today in a fine shirt and wool trousers that a wealthy boy of Malachite would have worn, a velvet vest buttoned tight over her torso to hide the slight contours of her chest. She sat close to Dominique and let him charm her.

  Marion stared at them in amazement. He would not have believed Dominique capable of being charming, but Erzabet was smiling and obviously at ease with him. She had shed much of her oddness and fear.

  Marion was loathe to just turn the woman over to the Sessanes, but as he watched Dominique offer her tea and pay court to her like she was visiting royalty, he lost some of his indignation.

  Dominique rose from the couch. “Can I show you the paintings in the gallery?” he asked her.

  Erzabet demurred and blushed like any pretty boy would have in the presence of a famous artist or Consolari. “I’d like that.”

  “Better take a guide,” Jean piped up. “Mika doesn’t know a paintbrush from a mop.”

  “That’s still more than you know about it,” Dominique retorted. “And you don’t get to call me Mika anymore.”

  Jean winked saucily at him.

  Dominique and Erzabet went strolling down the hall, their voices fading, and Marion was amused. In light of his new and astonishing knowledge about Kon's past, he wondered if Dominique was strictly as devoted to Kon as he appeared to be. Kon had better hope so, he thought. That woman makes a rather lovely man.

  Kon reached into the pocket of his black robe and handed Marion a golden badge. “Don't lose it again, please.”

  Marion turned the bright thing to the light, admiring the brooding green and black of the malachite contrasting with the gold. “Thank you, magestros.”

  “The soldati returned it, but you'll need a new warden's coat. I assumed you wouldn't want to wear anything that had been on the back of a ganger.”

  Marion smiled. Kon liked to forget that once upon a time, they were all gangers in this room, real or pretended. All save Tris.

  Tris wandered over to the glass display case and slipped the Calaveras revolver from the lining of his jacket. He held it up casually to show Kon before placing it on the glass.

  Kon was appalled. “Tris, that weapon is—”

  “Dangerous. Deadly. I know.” Tris placed the revolver carefully on the bed of velvet beside its twin and closed the glass lid. “It's an effective weapon, but it makes it far too easy for men to kill each other, even with no skill and lesser strength. I see now why they're forbidden.”

  “You’re not a mercenary,” Kon said in a hard voice. “I’m not going to venture a guess where you obtained that, but please don't ever embark on anything so foolish ever again. You’re not suited to it.”

  “He did well enough for his first time,” Jean put in.

  Kon threw a glare at Jean. “Be that as it may, no matter how well he acquitted himself this one instance, he will never do it again.” He stared Tris down. “Do I have your word?”

  “Yes,” Tris agreed quietly. “I'm not deceived about my abilities, father. You’re right. I’m not a fighter.” He glanced at Jean. “Since we’re being so honest, will you answer a question for me?”

  Kon waited.

  “My mother,” Tris said. “Who was she?”

  Kon gave Marion a cold look. “You told him,” he said heavily.

  Marion nodded. “We had a long talk, yes. I'm not sorry for it.”

  “Will you tell me about her?” Tris asked. “Please?”

  Kon’s back was stiff, his mouth drawn with sudden displeasure. Typical, Jean thought. Kon hated any situation where he was not in total control.

  “There's not much to tell,” Kon said. “She arrived on the first night of Aequora and the old magestros hid her here. That was his custom, you see. Now it’s become mine. It gives them time to decide if they want to leave the city or join the fathers at the Villa Merlo.” He ducked his head, as if he found it hard to look at Tris. “We became friends, and then more than friends. It was strange to me, to find myself caring for a woman, when I never expected to see one again. I'd already lived in Malachite for many years by then. Less than a year later, I held you in my arms, but she decided she did not want to live the rest of her life pretending to be a man.”

  Tris’s voice was small. “She didn’t want to take me with her?”

  “What, take an infant into exile?” Kon scoffed. “How long would you have survived? Even if she had asked, I wouldn’t have allowed it. I gave her gold and put her on a boat to Solari.” He paused. “Her name was Tamra. I offered to give her sanctuary here in the castello, with you. She would have been able to be near you and watch you grow. She left when you were four months old. That was the last time I saw her.”

  The silence dragged on.

  “You have the look of her, you know,” Kon said softly. “You inherited my coloring, but your beauty is hers. Your eyes, the shape of your mouth. I find that a comfort; that no matter where Tamra is or what has befallen her, she's still here, in you. You’re not the only blood-son in Malachite. There are others, the sons of the Consolari, some officers in the Orfani, and some of the patrician families. Those who can be trusted with such a great responsibility.”

  “And she never sent word,” Tris stated quietly, as if confirming somethin
g to himself, or leaving something behind.

  Kon spread his hands. “When she left, she knew there was no way back. You're my son and I love you. I'm sorry if I've hurt you.”

  “You haven't hurt me,” Tris said absently. His passed his hand over the glass pane covering the revolver. “You've saved the women of the Aequora from terrible fates. How could that harm anyone?”

  “Don’t be coy,” Kon said with an edge. “You know what the public opinion of this matter would be, the upheaval it would cause. Just ask your promessa.”

  “Husband,” Tris said calmly. He looked at his father with his chin held high. “We were married at the Gran Consiglio this morning.”

  Jean jerked his head up. He looked at Marion, and for a second all Marion could see was the loss in Jean's eyes. He didn’t tell you to hurt you, he wanted to say. But he owed it to Tris to keep silent. Tris deserved more than having to beg to know where he ranked in Marion's priorities, or wondering if he would go back to Jean out of habit or simple need. Tris deserved everything he asked for.

  And Jean? I had to make a choice. It wouldn't have been fair to either of them.

  That he had chosen Tris, after Tris had offered him such a clean break, was a shock to Marion. He kept remembering that moment when Tris stepped onto the battlements of the Fortezza, how his heart had fluttered in terror at the thought of Tris being killed or maimed, of losing him and never seeing his smile again, or the way he lit up when Marion walked into a room. There was something profound between him and Tris, a sweetness and strength in the bond they were just beginning to explore. All they needed was time.

  He had discovered he could not give Tris up, after all. Not even for Jean.

  Kon looked from Tris to Marion. His aristocratic nose flared and his mouth turned even further down. “Congratulations. I wish you happiness.” He went to Tris and wrapped his arms around him. After a moment, Tris hugged him back.

  Kon smiled only when Tris returned his embrace. He patted Tris's soft hair gently and kissed his forehead. “Don’t be angry with me for the secrets I’ve kept. They were meant kindly. Mi dispiace.”

  “I’m not angry. There no point to being angry with you. I've tried it before and it never works. If you’d changed anything about your past, neither of us would be here. Because of what you did, I exist. You've given me a life that other men can only dream of.”

  Kon kissed Tris’s cheek and shook him fondly. “Well, you would not be alone in your anger,” he said briskly. “I've been summoned to the Gran Consiglio, who will have stern words for me. Yvon Moro himself delivered the documents of subpoena.”

  “Are you in trouble?” Tris worried.

  “Oh,” Kon waved his hand negligently. “There's little they can do to me. I could name ten sins of theirs for every one of mine, and unlike my colleagues, I keep records.”

  Tris chuckled. “I expected as much. No man gets the better of you.”

  Kon glanced to Marion. “Almost none.” He cleared his throat and looked to Jean. “If the southwarden wishes, I will summon a sandolo to take him home.”

  “No,” Tris said.

  Kon looked at him with his black eyebrows raised.

  “Jean is going home with us. The Myrtles are far more secure than the Colibri, and he needs someone to look after him until he's better.”

  Kon stared Tris down, and Tris seemed to shrink a little under Kon's hard gaze, but he stood his ground gamely, refusing to relent.

  “Jean belongs with us,” Tris said.

  Kon was not pleased. “Such kindness on your part is unnecessary, my son. I'll send for the dottore. He'll be cared for excellently, I promise you.”

  “No.” Tris looked back at Jean. “He found me in the Zanzare. He helped me when I asked it of him. He could've stood aside and risked nothing, let me go my own way. If he had, I’d probably be dead. With me gone, he would have had Marion back, and no one could possibly blame him for what happened. He saved my life, even when he believed I was taking Marion away from him.” Tris walked slowly to Jean’s chair and stood over him.

  “Looks to me like you took him anyway,” Jean sneered. All trace of his former courtesy to Tris had vanished.

  “Not for the reasons you think. Not to win. Do you really believe I'd marry a man out of spite?”

  “Why not?” Jean massaged his shoulder and shifted in his chair, as if trying to find a position that wasn't painful. “You're a Sessane, aren't you?”

  Tris pulled an amused face and tilted his head. “You have me there.” He suddenly he put his knee onto the chair and knelt very close to Jean. “But you've forgotten something... the Sessanei are unpredictable.” And then he kissed Jean.

  Jean stiffened for a bare second, his eyes going wide. For an awful second, Marion thought that Jean would shove Tris away, but then Jean opened his mouth and allowed Tris to kiss him, even slipping his hand around the back of Tris's neck and pulling him in deeper.

  Marion stared at them, his former lover and his husband, feeling an overwhelming pride in Tris. He was right. I don't know him at all. But I want to. More than anything, I want to.

  Tris cupped Jean's face and tenderly kissed both his cheeks. He looked Jean in the eye, nose to nose. “You should come live with Marion and me,” he murmured. “It's where you're needed.”

  Kon paled and clenched his hands into fists. “You cannot take Jean into your home. Not to live there. You cannot.”

  Tris rose. “It's my home, father. I will.”

  Kon turned on Jean. “Despite my personal gratitude, you are not welcome in my family.”

  Or anywhere near my son, loomed large and unspoken.

  “None of us are where we belong,” Tris answered. “And most of us don't get what we deserve. Be that as it may, this is the life we have and Jean’s place is at the Myrtles, so you better start accepting it.” Despite the fresh determination in his voice, Tris wavered under Kon's wrath. “Please, father. Accept it for me.”

  A muscle in Kon’s cheek twitched with the effort of holding his temper in check. He turned stiffly to Marion. “You knew about this?”

  Marion nodded uncomfortably. If Tris could stand up to Kon, he could, too. “It was Tris’s idea. His condition of taking me back, more like. I told you he would be making his own decisions. You agreed.”

  “Yes, as long as they are truly his decisions and not some pitiful maneuver to keep you.”

  “Tris doesn’t need tricks to keep anyone in his life,” Marion snapped. “He’s the finest man I know. I’m the one who’s honored to be with him.”

  Kon was silent for a long moment, rigid and unsure. “My son is your husband, Marion Casterline, not your paramour's whore. I demand that you have a care for his name and his reputation. I charge you with that. If you do not, family or no, I will see that you deeply regret it.”

  Kon appeared like he would berate Tris again, but then he spun around and left the library, the snap of his robe in the air serving as a last comment. The library door closed sharp behind him. Not a slam, but almost.

  “What do you want to wager on that dottore showing up?” Jean said smartly, and Marion wanted to smack him.

  “Whatever else my father may be, he is not petty. He will send the man.” Tris said. He clasped his hands together, and Marion saw they were steady. Tris suddenly tugged a lock of Jean’s black hair in reproof. “That doesn't mean he won't have you knifed in some dark alley and pitched into the canal if you provoke him. Do us all a favor and at least try to behave when you're in the Citta Alta.”

  “What about the brothels?” Jean mouthed off.

  “You may display your usual style when you're wallowing in filth.”

  “Why, thank you, pussycat.”

  Tris sighed. “He's going to make me regret this, isn't he?”

  Marion swallowed hard. “Probably. It's how he deals with being in love.”

  “Love,” Jean scoffed. “I'm never saying that stupid word.” He used his good arm to pull Tris down into his lap. Tr
is settled against him, his pale cheeks burning with a sudden blush.

  Looking at them together made Marion feel both angry and generous, as if he yearned to give something of himself while jealously guarding it at the same time. The poets said that a narrow line divided hate and desire. Maybe Jean was figuring that out, or perhaps he was.

  Jean’s hand moved higher up Tris's thigh, and Tris slapped it away.

  Marion shook his head in annoyance. “Jean Rivard, if you try to get my husband into bed before I do, you won't have to worry about an arrow ending you. I'll do it myself.”

  Jean only laughed.

  “Come on,” Marion said, slipping his hand under Jean’s arm. “You look awful. Let's get you lying down.”

  Together, they helped Jean to his feet.

  “Bed,” Jean said, winking lewdly at Tris. “Just where I wanted to go.”

  Tris clucked his tongue. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Signore Rivard.”

  JEAN

  Paris puffed on the cigarette before handing it to Jean. “Any time now,” he murmured.

  The hired sandolo rocked gently on the waters of the Canal Fiore, a waterway that flowed south past the Corsair. In the humid dark, they reclined on silken pillows and snuggled close together like lovers out for an evening ride. Their uniforms were abandoned for the night, Jean in a borrowed shirt of Marion's, Paris in a violet vest embroidered with leaves and pale gray trousers. The stars above were obscured by the long veils of swiftly passing clouds, flashing brightly between drifts.

  Jean kept an eye on the closed door of the Corsair and its harlequin guardian. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “So I was told.”

  “By your spies.”

  “If I had spies,” Paris said with a smile.

  Paris was keeping something back. That was typical of Paris, who never missed an opportunity to gather information and hoard it like gold. Maybe he was holding back because he wanted to keep his fingers safely out of Kon Sessane's affairs, at least publicly.