“All right.” I took a deep breath, released it slowly. “In the meantime, let’s talk about color and why I’ve been making you learn the wheel.”
She was a very good student that afternoon, although I had the lowering suspicion that she was being attentive more for my sake than her own. I tried to hide my nervousness, knowing it was both futile and ridiculous. But I hadn’t worked formally as a martyr since Malkar bought me—Malkar was a tarquin beyond any possible doubt, but he had no use for the rituals and rules by which Mélusinien tarquins and martyrs played their games. And I hadn’t submitted to anyone—not voluntarily anyway—since Shannon. Except for Isaac Garamond, and that had been something else entirely, and uglier.
Corbie’s shift at her brothel, the Brocade Mouse, was from six till midnight; I gave her our second room key when she left, then bathed carefully, tying my hair back while it was still wet, and chose the most reputable of my very limited wardrobe.
Corbie had drawn me a map showing the way from the Fiddler’s Fox to the Althammara with a little fox to mark the Fiddler’s Fox and an elaborate seven-pointed star to mark the Althammara. There was a clock face to show the Clock Palace and enough other landmarks that I thought I’d even be able to find my way back home in the morning.
I left the Fiddler’s Fox early, just in case, and I took a dose of hecate before I left. I reached the Althammara at quarter of ten, fifteen minutes before the start of what the Corambins called the cereus watches. I gathered my courage and went up to the desk. “I have an appointment with the Duke of Murtagh.”
Clearly I looked more foreign than depraved, for the desk clerk said, “Yes, sir. His Grace said you should go straight up when you arrived. He has the entire top floor.”
“Thank you,” I said, and climbed the stairs as slowly as I could.
The door at the top was closed. I knocked and was presented with a manservant of a type I recognized from the Mirador: different plumage but the same bird. “I have an appointment with His Grace,” I said; it was marginally easier the second time.
“This way, sir,” the manservant said and led me into a sitting room appointed in a warm red. “You may wait for His Grace here.”
“Thank you,” I said. He gave me an infinitesimal nod and departed. I summoned up everything I’d ever learned—from Lorenzo, from Malkar, from Shannon—and picked a spot where the candlelight would catch the streaks of white in my hair. What couldn’t be hidden should always be flaunted. And then I did not pace or fidget. I waited.
I didn’t have to wait long. I heard a man’s voice, rich as brandied cream, saying, “Good night, Kay,” and then the swift clatter of boot heels, and the Duke of Murtagh entered the room almost before I realized that he had been talking to Kay Brightmore.
The duke was Mildmay’s height, slightly on the tall side for a Corambin, with thick, sleek, wheat-colored hair, a few shades paler than his skin. His eyes, deep-set and surrounded by a network of fine lines, were dark golden amber, and they widened appreciably on seeing me. “Goodness gracious. Am I expecting you?”
“I have an appointment,” I said and was gratified when my voice came out neither uneven nor shrill. “For twenty-two o’clock.”
“Then I was expecting you. But I wasn’t expecting you. Hold still.” I lifted my chin in an old, old reflex and held still while he circled me. “I will have to commend my secretary,” he said finally. “The bedroom’s this way.”
“You have your secretary—” I began and then bit my tongue, but he glanced back as he led me down the hallway opposite the one he’d emerged from, and his face was alight with humor.
“I know. Shocking, isn’t it? But a duke can’t negotiate these matters personally—one more reason, should you need one, to avoid becoming a duke at all costs—and Wyatt actually seems to enjoy fulfilling my more outrageous requests. Here we are.”
The bedroom was exactly what I expected of a duke’s bedroom in a lavish hotel. Murtagh closed and locked the door behind us and said, “Now. Tell me your name.”
“Felix, Your Grace.”
“And you are neither Corambin, Usaran, nor Ygressine. Where are you from?”
“Mélusine, Your Grace.” And I raised my hands to show him my palms.
His eyebrows shot up.
“I’ve taken hecate,” I said and could not quite keep the bitterness out of my voice when I added, “I’m perfectly safe.”
“I’m guessing,” said Murtagh, “that there’s quite a story here. And that you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” he said. “Not in the bedroom. In here, ‘sir’ is good enough.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and a frisson of cold nostalgia went through me.
“That’s good,” Murtagh said and stepped closer. “So, Felix from Mélusine, you know that I’m a flame?”
It was only barely a question, but he paused, so I said, “Yes, sir.”
“And are you a shadow?”
Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? I had been trained as a martyr; my earliest memories of sex were also memories of pain, and that had only been reinforced, first by the clients of the Shining Tiger and then by Malkar. After Malkar, I had tried to renounce the whole game of tarquins and martyrs; I hadn’t wanted to want it. But I had failed and failed abysmally. There was something there that I needed, somewhere deeper in my heart than could be rooted out. But I hadn’t wanted to be a martyr, hadn’t wanted to be that vulnerable, so I had tried the tarquin’s role, and it had been as addictive as phoenix. But I couldn’t be trusted with it. Whether I wanted to or not, I needed to give that power to someone else.
And there was the truth. There, ugly and humiliating as it was. I could not do without and could not be trusted with it. I could become a monster, could become Malkar. Or I could . . . I could . . .
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Good,” said Murtagh, who in the eerie way of the best tarquins had somehow divined before asking the question that it would be hard for me to answer. He stepped up to me, utterly unfazed by the difference in our heights, put his hand at the back of my neck, and dragged me down—not brutally, but firmly—for a kiss.
I melted into it helplessly, overwhelmed as much by my own self-realization as by his strength. When he chose to let me go, I was panting, dazed, and my sex was as hard as iron.
“Perhaps I’ll give Wyatt a raise,” said Murtagh. He crossed the bedroom with his quick, decisive stride, and dropped into the armchair by the window. “Undress for me. Slowly.”
I’d been trained to do this, too. I undressed slowly as instructed, out of long and ingrained habit leaving my shirt for last. Murtagh was more lavish with praise and appreciation than any tarquin I’d ever known, and I wondered if that was just how flames and shadows interacted, or if he could see how nervous I was.
For I was nervous, and getting more nervous by the second. I might have been trained to do this, as I kept telling myself, but it had been years upon years since I’d done it successfully. Malkar had found my professional skills merely amusing, and I had two ignominious failures, with Ingvard Vilker and with Gideon, to remember. What I had done with Isaac had been to punish myself, and while Isaac was cruel, he was no tarquin. It was not the same.
I finally took my shirt off and stood, trying not to shiver, while Murtagh got up and came over to examine me.
“You’ve clearly done this before,” he said, lifting my left arm to examine my tattoos.
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you’re about to shake yourself apart.” He moved behind me and stopped. “Ah. Is this why?” And a fingertip ghosted along the topmost of my scars.
“No, sir. Well, not exactly.”
He came around in front of me again and said, “Explain.”
Do you have all night? I nearly said, but bit it back. “The scars make me . . . They don’t make me nervous. Unless you’re going to change your mind.”
“Oh, far from it,” he said
, cupping my genitals with one hand. “But go on. That’s only half the question.”
I settled on a partial truth. “It’s been a very long time since I did this professionally.” As if to underscore the point, my wretched body betrayed me. My erection had softened while I took my clothes off, but now it was hardening again with no more encouragement than the still warmth of Murtagh’s hand.
“How interesting,” murmured Murtagh. He stepped away again, and I barely kept myself from lunging after him like a starving dog after a marrow bone.
Murtagh looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my straining flesh until my face burned, then smiled a predator’s smile and said, “Undress me. Slowly.”
I obeyed. He was broad-shouldered, heavy boned, his chest densely furred. Scars on his hands and forearms, and an ugly mess, red and puckered, on his right biceps. “Desperen Field,” he said. “I was lucky not to lose the arm.” I put my mouth on the scar, very gently, and had the reward of feeling him shiver.
When he was naked, his erection matching mine, he said, “On your knees.”
I knelt. My mouth was already opening for him when I felt the ribbon slide out of my hair, felt his fingers against my scalp.
“Don’t,” I said, jerking back, and then I froze.
Murtagh looked down at me, one eyebrow lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
I realized, belatedly, but very sharply, another reason he made me nervous. He reminded me terribly of Malkar. And the realization was making me harder.
Slut, Lorenzo’s voice said, half-approving, half-contemptuous, and I groped for words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, but you did,” Murtagh said, as gently as Malkar might have, “and we’ll discuss the penalty for that later. For now . . .” He reached, deliberately slow, grabbed a double handful of my hair, and pulled me back to him. But even then, although it stung, he gave me time to follow. He didn’t hurt me. And that wasn’t like Malkar at all.
Chapter 6
Kay
Murtagh, having been increasingly vile-tempered for most of a week, was in an almost alarmingly sunny mood on Martedy morning. He came in singing to breakfast and wished me good morning with every audible evidence of sincerity.
“Are very cheerful,” I said cautiously.
“I had an excellent night,” he said, and I followed the sounds of him sitting down across from me. The table at which Murtagh liked to eat breakfast was east-facing, and I could feel the sun. “And I have come up with five new plans to thwart and discomfit Glimmering, at least three of which should actually be practicable, so, yes, I suppose I do feel rather as if the world is a pearl resting on the palm of my hand.”
“I may like you better crabby,” said I.
He just laughed and said, “Hush and let me pour you some tea.”
Over breakfast, Murtagh told me at great and extravagant length the first of his five new plans. I had nearly finished my tea when Tinder coughed and said, “Your Grace, there is a gentleman wishing to see you.”
“Has he provided a name?” said Murtagh
“Edwin Beckett,” said Tinder. “He said that you would know him, Mr. Brightmore.”
I did, at that. “Will the bloody man not leave me alone?”
“I think perhaps we are not at home, Tinder,” Murtagh said. “Kay?”
“Is the man who was there when you came,” I said. “Has a maggot about the Clock of Eclipses.”
“And wants you to sponsor him? Did he not see it was a bad time?”
He made me laugh despite myself. “No, not that. He corresponded with Gerrard and seems to think I can tell him . . . well, I know not what in sober truth.”
“You don’t have to speak to him.”
“No, I might as well. I fear otherwise I will never be rid of him.”
“Well, I shan’t leave you alone with him at any rate,” Murtagh said. “All right, Tinder, show the gentleman in.”
I was grateful for Murtagh’s support. Hast become so timid, Kay? So girlish and shy? But I had not liked Edwin Beckett and his politely bullying manner, and, no, I did not want to speak to him alone.
He entered on a profusion of thanks and apologies, directed at Murtagh rather than me. Murtagh noticed, too; I heard it in his voice when he said, “I understand you wish to speak to Mr. Brightmore.”
“I do,” said Edwin Beckett, “although I would also be very grateful for the chance to speak to Your Grace about my work.”
“Ask me your questions, Mr. Beckett,” said I. “Let us have done with this.”
His questions this time took a quite different turn, and I found myself saying, “No,” in increasingly horrified and vehement tones.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Brightmore,” said Beckett. “Sex is an entirely natural part of our lives and the most profound and ancient source of power that we know.”
“I assure you,” I said, “Gerrard Hume was not having orgies with his followers, either under Summerdown or anywhere else!”
“I take it,” said Murtagh, “that that is the direction your research has been tending?”
“Oh, not just tending, Your Grace. I’m quite convinced that the great release of power which comes with orgasm is the only possible method of starting the Cymellunar machines. They say it was what gave life to the Automaton of Corybant, which was surely the greatest achievement of the Cymellunar magicians.”
“Until it went mad and killed them all,” Murtagh said.
“That’s a superstitious tale, told by those who don’t understand,” said Beckett. “And beside the point. Think of the achievement of making such a construct move under its own power!”
“Quite,” said Murtagh. “By orgasm.”
“Exactly! It’s the only way. Although I have had only very limited success as of yet, I am sure it’s only a matter of time. So to speak. I am sorry Prince Gerrard did not follow my advice.”
“I am not,” I said.
“I meant that if he had, he might be alive. And the political situation in Caloxa might be quite different—although in that, of course, I have no interest.”
“Because Bernatha isn’t part of Caloxa,” said Murtagh.
“I have never felt it should be counted as such,” Beckett said earnestly. “In all our history, we have never—”
Murtagh’s foot nudged mine, and I knew what he meant as clearly as if he’d said it. “Have you other questions, Mr. Beckett?” I said, interrupting him with perhaps more relish than was seemly.
“Ah,” he said. “No. It seems clear that Prince Gerrard’s tragedy was a result of not following my advice, which, while very sad, does mean that I need not curtail my own efforts. Thank you, Mr. Brightmore, you’ve been very helpful.”
“I hate to think so,” I said under my breath; Murtagh kicked my ankle and said, “If you have any literature, Mr. Beckett, you would be welcome to send it to my secretary, Mr. Parsifal Wyatt. All of my business goes through him, you see. I find it the best way. Tinder will see you out. Good day!”
And we were rid of Edwin Beckett.
Felix
It was another two days before Corbie netted me another “involved” client, in which time, with the full saint that the Duke of Murtagh had given me, I succeeded in paying off much of the debt to Practitioner Druce, leaving us four banshees and sixteen hermits still in the red when Corbie came in and said, “I’ve got another one.”
Mildmay still had a high fever, although the steam-tisanes were having a definite effect. He hated them, cursing me weakly and coughing and coughing. But the stuff coming out of his lungs was dreadful colors, and I could not help but feel that getting it out of his body had to be better than leaving it to fester. I couldn’t tell if he knew where he was, or who I was, but at least he hadn’t tried to get out of bed again. Possibly, he couldn’t, for in the wake of overexertion, his leg clearly pained him as much or more than his chest.
“Another one of what?” I said absently. I was wondering if it w
ould be helpful or otherwise to introduce Corbie to the concepts of noirance and clairance now. Just because I found them tremendously useful didn’t mean they would be of any help to a novice.
“You know,” said Corbie.
“Oh. Right.” I shook myself out of Ynge. “When?”
“Tonight. All night again. And they’ve got a list of things they want as long as your arm.”
“What kind of things?”
“Well, this, for one.” She pulled a black silk blindfold out of the pocket of her skirt.
“Gracious,” I said. “What melodrama.”
“And they got a specific place they’re going to fetch you from, and you’re not to know anybody’s name—there’s gonna be a bunch of ’em—and—”
I cut her off. “Corbie. Do any of their demands involve necrophilia?”
“Nec-what?”
“Having sex with dead people.”
“There’s a word for that? Lumme. No. No sex with dead people.”
“There’s words for all kinds of things. How about coprophilia or urophilia?”
“Well, I know what the ‘philia’ is now, but what about the rest?”
“Shit and piss,” I said, just to see the look on her face—which was entirely worth it.
“You’re making that up,” she accused me.
“No, actually, I’m not. But they’re things I won’t do. Like necrophilia.”
“Well, they don’t want anything like that.”
“And I don’t do women.”
“I told ’em that, too. They didn’t seem to care.”
“Then they can have as many peculiar demands as they want.”
“All right,” said Corbie. “I’m gonna take you, and that blindfold, to Our Lady of Fogs at twenty o’clock tonight.”
“In the middle of your shift?”
“My night off.”
“I didn’t know you had nights off.”
“I got lucky,” she said sourly. “So I’ll sit with Mildmay again.”
“Corbie, are you—”
“It’s fine,” she said. “We’re gonna make a boatload of money tonight anyway. So it’s just fine.”
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