Power & Majesty

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  She gazed at him with bleak eyes. ‘And where are your hands, Poet?’

  Poet reached down and drew her to her feet like a true gentleman. Gravely, he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You know we have to do this.’

  ‘If you use this opportunity to kill him,’ Heliora said fiercely, ‘I will hurt you in ways you cannot imagine. I will search the futures for the worst death anyone will ever experience and visit it upon you tenfold.’

  He dabbed her on the nose with his thumb. ‘You’re very cute. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  She looked past him to his courtesi, the bulky Halberk and the boy, Zero. Between them, they carried a hessian package. As they lowered it to the floor, Heliora caught a glimpse of the shiny silver contents and her blood went quite cold within her veins. ‘Poet, no!’ She lunged past him, but he held her wrists so hard that his fingers bruised her bones.

  ‘Has to be done, little one.’

  ‘Not the net,’ she pleaded, struggling in his grip. ‘Poet, please. It was the worst of all the things Garnet did to him! I promised you I would dose him for the whole nox!’

  ‘So you did,’ said Poet pleasantly. ‘But you can see why I don’t trust you. Your loyalty is to Ashiol first and the Creature Court second. You only agreed to help me so as to give your precious Ash the escape route he desires, to ensure that Velody truly succeeds Garnet as the Power and Majesty. You already regret what you have done—how am I to be sure you didn’t give him half a dose, so that he had time to wake up and save the day?’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ she screamed, still wriggling to get free. Poet was using his whole body to keep her still now and, for all his lack of bulk, he was remarkably strong.

  ‘Hel, you know that you will die between now and Saturnalia,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘It doesn’t have to be this nox.’

  ‘Swear you won’t kill him while he’s helpless she sobbed. ‘Swear by your blood!’

  Poet pushed both her hands behind her back and held them fast with one of his own. With the other hand, he used a long fingernail to nick a cut in the soft flesh of his lower lip, allowing blood to well up there. He leaned in and kissed Heliora, not a polite kiss this time, but a hard melting of lips and tongue. His blood tasted of power, and his skin smelled of cinnamon. ‘I swear on my blood that I will not kill him while he is helpless, and my prisoner,’ he murmured into her mouth. ‘Where would be the fun in that?’

  Hel wrenched herself away from him and watched, helpless, as the two courtesi handled the shimmering net of skysilver, spilling it all around Ashiol’s body and binding it fast with ropes and hessian. They were careful not to touch it themselves, their hands protected by thick gloves.

  Ashiol twitched and shuddered as the net engulfed his skin, but the potion Hel had put in his tea was heavy enough that he did not regain consciousness. He would dream of burning pain, she had no doubt of that. He would wake screaming.

  ‘I hate you for this,’ she said to Poet.

  ‘Not as much as our Ashiol is going to hate you when he wakes up,’ Poet replied cheerfully.

  41

  Macready knew which way the wind was blowing—fringed shawls and beaded headdresses—and he was quite happy to leave Crane to watch the lasses while they played dress-ups, thank you very much. Also he could do with a change of clothes himself, which meant a return visit to his nearest nest.

  Two blocks from Via Silviana, Macready smelled ferax and slowed his trot. It was late afternoon and there were too many people around for him to comfortably draw his blades in preparation for an attack.

  He might be safer if he kept to the populated streets, but if he dived into the nearest side alley now, he could have the comfort of Tarea and Jeunille to counter whatever Lord Dhynar was planning to throw at him.

  It had been too long since his lasses had seen action. Macready headed for the alley, sliding his hands under his thick brown cloak to find the green hilts of his skysilver blades.

  Five ferax bodies fell from the rooftops above to land at the far end of the alley, shaping themselves into the gleaming Lord form of Dhynar, Ferax Lord. ‘Macready,’ he said with one of his more annoying grins.

  The long blade of Tarea snicked out from under Macready’s cloak. He held her steadily, aimed straight at Dhynar’s bare chest. ‘Something to say to me, my Lord?’

  A soft padding sound alerted Macready to the presence of Dhynar’s courtesi. He knew without looking that there were nine creatures filling the alley mouth behind him: two brighthounds, two darkhounds, two stripecats and three slashcats. He wasn’t outnumbered. In their animal form, courtesi were particularly susceptible to the bite of a skysilver blade—even attacking him all at once, they would be cautious enough that he would have the advantage.

  ‘I don’t bandy words with servants,’ said Dhynar lightly. ‘I just want something that belongs to you.’

  ‘It’s considered polite to ask before borrowing a man’s possessions,’ growled Macready, swinging his sword in a slight arc.

  Dhynar stepped back in a graceful motion, as if he had all the time in the world. ‘You’re right, sentinel. I’m mortified by my own lack of manners. Throw down those shiny trinkets of yours and I might let you live.’ He grinned a little harder. ‘Please.’

  Macready braced himself. His first move would have to be to throw his back against one of the side walls of the alley, to give himself the best chance against attack from both directions. ‘You just know you’re going to have to make me.’

  ‘So I am,’ said Dhynar, and he took another leisurely step backwards.

  ‘I have to say, your battle tactics are none too intimidating at the moment,’ said Macready. ‘A true challenge means stepping forward, don’t you know?’

  ‘Just giving my friends some space,’ said Dhynar. ‘It’s their party.’

  Shapes twisted around the ferax’s ankles and crept forward into the alley. A group of slender greymoon cats and brocks gathered at Dhynar’s feet. Warlord’s courtesi. Nasty. No one had seen that particular alliance coming. Macready breathed out, tensing himself for a more challenging fight than he had expected.

  The shadows moved again, and two large young-eyed wolves joined the cats and racoons. Livilla’s boy.

  Macready swallowed. Movement above caught his eye. The sky was full. Livilla’s ravens and Warlord’s bats lined the guttering on the buildings, rubbing wings with a mixed flock of gulls, plovers and sparrows. Priest was in on this too. Either that, or Dhynar had the power to control nearly all the courtesi of the Creature Court. Macready wasn’t sure which was the more unpleasant thought.

  ‘As I said,’ Dhynar said cheerfully, ‘I want your blades. They’re necessary for this evening’s entertainment.’

  ‘You know you’ll have to take them from me,’ Macready repeated. His voice was only slightly hoarser than before; he was rather proud of that.

  Dhynar shrugged and stepped even further back into the shadows. ‘As you wish.’

  The hounds leaped first, a beat ahead of the others. Macready swung his back to the wall and brought his sword around to slash at the creatures. The wolves pounced from his right side, even as the lower creatures swarmed at his feet and the vicious stripe- and slashcats screamed into view.

  With rapid, stabbing sword and knifework, Macready was somehow managing to hold his own, until the flying creatures descended and he went down beneath a harsh cloud of beaks and feathers. Teeth sank into his legs and, torso, and as he bent his head down to protect his eyes from the screeching hordes, long claws raked agonisingly into his back.

  Somewhere beyond the mêlée, Dhynar, Ferax Lord was laughing.

  Preparing Velody for the Court that nox was, at least, a project all three women could share. When Rhian and Delphine had finished with her, Velody was sheathed in a disturbingly sensual sapphire flapper frock, an inch or two shorter than she was comfortable with, edged with fine silk fringe. Delphine had begged it from Velody for her last birthday, even paying for the expensive fabric
herself, but had never worn it because the loathed Maud, one of her dance-club cronies, had acquired a similar dress and managed to wear it first in public. That, and as Delphine had discovered upon first trying on the dress, the sophisticated dark jewel colours had the unfortunate tendency to make her look washed out.

  With Velody’s dark hair and grey eyes, the sapphire dress was inspired. Despite the various glittering and impractical shoes Delphine offered her, she chose calf-high boots with a sensible heel, keeping in mind the long walk underground to reach the centre of the old city.

  Velody hadn’t specified where the Court was to take place, and was uncertain as to where would be most appropriate. She would have to ask Ashiol when he arrived.

  She wore shining paste earrings that were quite convincing as sapphires, and a long necklace of dark mock-pearls that could, she supposed, be used in a pinch as a weapon.

  ‘I wish you’d let me cut those locks off,’ Delphine sighed, but Velody was still unwilling to go that far in the name of fashion. She dressed her hair in the silvery net of a snood to keep it out of the way. The darkness of her hair was set off by a garland of summer violets. Rhian had sent one of her street runners to the docks to purchase the flowers especially.

  It was dusk by the time Velody descended the stairs, and found Crane waiting for them at the foot. He had slicked up for the occasion, dressed all in black, his knives prominently displayed and with no sign of the usual ratty brown cloak. His stained-glass saint of a face took her breath away as he gazed up at her, but she kept a firm hold on herself. No more flirting with teenagers. You’ve got enough problems.

  ‘No swords?’ she asked as she reached him.

  ‘Good smithery takes longer than a day,’ said Crane with obvious regret. ‘I wish you’d told Priest next week for this Court. I might have been properly armed by then.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Where’s Ash? I need to talk to him before we go below.’

  ‘Kelpie’s looking for him. He gave her the slip after we came up from the Arches, but she reckons she’ll catch up with him when he swings by the Palazzo for a change of clothes. He hasn’t got any stashed anywhere else.’

  There was something troubling about Crane’s face, or perhaps the set of his shoulders. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Velody asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. But they should have been here by now.’

  Delphine barrelled down the stairs wearing a shameless faux-silk wrap that covered almost everything, but looked as if it might not at any moment. ‘You look pretty,’ she said, eyeing up Crane. ‘Where’s the short one?’

  ‘Macready? He takes a little longer to get pretty,’ said Crane with a straight face.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least.’ Delphine scrabbled around for the nearest pair of street shoes and pulled them onto her feet.

  ‘You’re not going out like that,’ Velody protested.

  ‘Just down to Maia’s. I need to see if she has my white frock.’ The laundress whose home and business occupied the premises only two doors down was a useful friend of Delphine’s.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ said Velody. ‘You’re not going out this nox?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Delphine shot over her shoulder. ‘If I can’t come to your party, I’ll find one of my own. Back in a minute!’ She scrambled towards the back door.

  Velody sighed. ‘It’s not a party!’ she yelled for the dozenth time that afternoon. ‘Oh, what’s the use?’

  She could see a filtered pattern of sunset-coloured light through the workroom windows. It was getting late. ‘When was Ashiol going to meet us here?’

  ‘Long before now,’ said Crane. ‘Something must have happened.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ She knew she was starting to sound panicky, but couldn’t bring herself to try and preserve false majesty in front of Crane. ‘I can’t hold Court without him. I don’t even know where to go. Where is it usually held?’

  Crane stared at her. ‘What do you mean, usually?’ Now he was sounding panicky.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I mean, I assume down below, but that place is a labyrinth…’

  Crane was horribly pale. ‘You didn’t specify a place when you called the Court? How did none of us notice that?’

  ‘If you mean when I told Priest we could have a Court, you were all too stunned to notice much of anything.’

  ‘A time,’ he went on urgently. ‘Did you specify a time?’ Velody had never seen him look so fierce.

  ‘Of course I did,’ she said crossly. ‘This nox.’

  ‘Velody, that means you’ve given them free rein to obey your call to Court at any time this nox—and anywhere. I can’t believe we let you do this,’ he added.

  ‘Not here,’ she whispered. Her insides felt cold. ‘Crane, they wouldn’t come here. They couldn’t. Each of them swore a blood oath to keep their distance—’

  ‘The call to Court overrides all oaths,’ he said grimly. ‘Even those made in blood. It’s their sacred duty to attend you—and without limits placed upon them, they can interpret that duty any way they like.’

  Delphine’s name caught in Velody’s throat and stayed there. ‘Stay with Rhian,’ she flung over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen.

  ‘I shouldn’t leave you!’ he protested.

  ‘I’ll only be a minute!’ She tore out the back door and through the yard, out into the lane. ‘Dee!’ she shrieked. ‘Delphine!’

  Halfway down the lane between Maia’s laundry and their own gate a crumpled faux-silk robe lay in the dirt. There was no sign of its owner. Velody swung back through her gate, and almost smacked into the chest of Dhynar, Ferax Lord.

  He wore red leathers, his gingery hair slicked back in something like a formal style. His eyes gleamed dangerously at her. Even as she was taking in the shock of him being here, here, he fell to his knees and bowed his head to her. ‘Majesty. I see I am the first to obey your summons.’ He flashed a toothy smile up at her. ‘I wasn’t always known for my extreme piety. You must bring out the best in me.’

  His ferax scent was all around her, and there was nothing of a fight in it. She glared down at his innocent face. ‘Where is Delphine?’

  Dhynar’s smile creased into a puzzled frown only momentarily before bouncing back into a wider grin than ever. ‘I don’t think I know a Delphine.’

  She smiled back, grimly. ‘I think you misunderstand me.’ Her right hand shaped itself into a chimaera claw, blazing with power. She reached down and pressed the claw into his face. ‘Where is my friend?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, ‘you mean the little blonde. She tried to stop me getting through the gate. You really should have warned her about that. Trying to stop a loyal member of the Creature Court fulfilling his sacred duty—well, that’s just about the worst crime there is. She had to be punished.’

  Velody let out a wild scream that was more bird than mouse—a primal sound of pain. She slashed Dhynar hard across the face and threw herself on him.

  ‘Velody, not like that!’ yelled someone—Crane—from a long way away.

  She was beyond thinking. Her chimaera hand carved chunks out of the Ferax Lord, but the rest of her was human and scrabbling with pure rage.

  He punched her in the stomach, and everything fell out of her. He had won the fight—she could tell that by his scent if nothing else. How was that even possible? A single punch. But he was still punching her, wasn’t he? The pain was tight and hot and continuous in her stomach. As she rolled free of Dhynar, her body sagging on the hard paving stones, she saw the green leather-wrapped hilt of a knife sticking out of her flesh.

  She knew this knife. Her name was Jeunille. It couldn’t be her steel twin, as Velody was all but immune to the touch of ordinary metal now. Skysilver though—oh, yes, it was burning like skysilver.

  ‘Macready,’ she said in a gasp that barely managed to emerge from her dry throat.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ smirke
d Dhynar. ‘The lovely Delphine isn’t the only one of your friends I’ve seen this nox.’

  Velody wasn’t alone with the Ferax Lord. There were others around them, leaning in to see her pitiful state for themselves. Mars the Warlord’s dark features, the painted face of Livilla, the curious smile of Priest, and finally Poet, who blew her a kiss.

  ‘Don’t be sad, Lady Power,’ he said brightly. ‘We’re not planning on losing you. This is just another lesson in the life of the Creature Court. I’m afraid Ashiol has been neglecting your education.’

  Velody coughed, and tasted blood on her lips. She was cold all over. Do they really think a belly wound won’t kill me? It feels pretty bloody mortal. Ash is going to be furious when he finds out…

  ‘I suppose we must let him through,’ drawled Livilla.

  ‘It would rather spoil the joke if we didn’t,’ said Priest.

  There was the sound of a scuffle, and then Crane was with Velody, kneeling over her, his own knife drawn. It was the steel knife. She didn’t know if he had a stupid pet name for it, as Macready did. Saints. Was Macready dead? She couldn’t imagine him giving his lasses up so easily.

  ‘Won’t do much damage with that,’ she managed painfully.

  ‘It’s not for them,’ said Crane. He held the steel blade to the side of his throat, pressing it hard until blood welled along the edge. ‘Do you trust me, Velody?’

  She stared at the bright red tear in his skin. What is this—a suicide pact? ‘I…’ was all she managed to say. Pain twisted in her belly.

  He lowered his throat over her. Even with a knife in her gut, the close proximity of his body was disturbing. His blood smelled fresh and exciting. ‘Drink,’ he urged her.

  She stared at him in horror. The vision of Poet’s limp body in Ashiol’s arms, feeding from him like a greedy spider, flashed into her mind and would not leave. It was one thing to offer her blood to others, but to drink it herself? What the seven hells had Ashiol turned her into?

  ‘Velody, please. With mortal blood the skysilver can’t hurt you. The wound will heal. It’s the only way.’