Poison

by Megan Derr

  The clerk took the card, but did not look at it. He smiled politely and said, "Of course, your grace. You'll be in the green court room. It's in the west wing, second hall, third door on the left. Would you like an escort?"

  "I can show him," Noire said from behind Ailill. He turned and smiled in sleepy greeting, envious that Noire looked tired, but aware and completely at ease.

  "You look as tired as I feel," Ailill commented.

  Noire nodded in agreement. "Come on, I'm sure they will not keep you overlong. They are neither one inclined toward wasting time."

  Ailill grunted and followed him through the wide halls of the palace, finding the entire place as confusing as he had when he'd visited the other day. "I should have brought the jewels and returned them at the same time, but I did not think about it until too late. Your message leaves me thinking that there are bigger concerns afoot."

  They lapsed into silence as Noire easily navigated the palace until they stopped in front of a dark wooden door from which hung a placard with the gold-stenciled words 'Occupied'. Opening the door, Noire stepped inside, then turned and bowed Ailill into the room.

  It was a simple enough space, big enough to hold a small court session, though not more than thirty people total. The walls were papered in green with a gold and white fleur-de-lis design. The carpet and seat cushions were dark green as well, all the wood a deep, rich gold.

  Ailill approached Freddie and Gael then dipped into a low bow, rising when Freddie bid him. Behind them, the door closed with a faint click. "Your highnesses, how might I serve you?"

  "Would you care for anything to drink?" Freddie asked. "Sit, sit. Have some tea. Why do all my Beasts look as though they are ready to fall over? A good breeze would do you in, so sit. Have tea." She all but shoved him down into his chair, and then shoved a tea tray at him.

  Amused, but forbearing comment, Ailill poured himself a cup of tea and drank half of it in a go. "Much better," he said. "Thank you, highness. How may I be of service to you?"

  "Do you know the White Eagle, Lady Elianne?"

  "No, I have not had the pleasure of meeting her grace. I have always heard only good things about her, however, and look forward to meeting her."

  "Regretfully, I cannot say when you will get that chance. She has been poisoned and is currently in a coma," Gael said grimly, and Ailill listened, horrified, while he explained all that had happened the previous day. By the time they were done, he had forgotten his tea entirely. "We would like you to look into the matter. Quietly, if possible, and warn us if you cannot continue to do it quietly. You are an insider, but an outsider, which we feel makes you ideal."

  Ailill dipped his head and shoulders in a shallow bow. "I am honored that I can be of use, though I regret the purpose to which I am being put. I will spare no effort to solve the mystery. Unless you require I linger, I will go home and prepare to leave immediately for her grace's home. Whatever clues might remain, I will find them."

  "I don't think there's any reason for you to linger here," Freddie said. "Thank you for the assistance, White Panther." She kissed his cheek. "Blessing of the Three. Go safely."

  He bowed again, then left, only getting lost once on his way back to the receiving hall.

  So someone had likely tried to murder the White Eagle—but who, and why? She was an old woman and well-liked. Was it related to the ceremony, or personal?

  Personal made more sense, since everyone stood to lose if the ceremony failed. Unless, of course, it was Pozhar all over again and somebody benefited if the Ceremony failed. But he could not believe that of Verde, not when they had always worked so hard for what the other countries had worked against. But, there was no point in theorizing before he had more information. Best to look around the estate as well as the temple where the murder took place and see if that turned up anything. Then he would speak with Lady Elianne's family. If it was a personal matter, they were the likeliest source of the culprit.

  If not family, he would move on to colleagues. Outside in the pavilion, Ailill climbed back into his carriage and ordered the driver to take him home. Leaning back in his seat, propping one ankle on the opposite knee and bracing his chin in one hand, he stared out the window, lost in thought.

  Depending on how he traveled, based on what Freddie and Gael had told him, it would take two to three days to reach the estate. He would prefer to reach it in two, but there was no telling how long his investigation would take. Best to pack thoroughly and spend the extra day on the road, though he was not looking forward to being trapped in his carriage for so long.

  Sighing, he waited impatiently for them to arrive home, all but throwing himself out of the carriage when they finally arrived. Bursting through the front door, he immediately headed for the stairs.

  His butler chased after him. "Your grace—"

  "I am going on a trip, and I must leave at once. I will be gone several days, at the very least. If I am to be more than a month, I will send word," Ailill said, cutting him off. "If anyone inquires, tell them you know nothing about it, and I'll return when I return. Where—"

  "You have a guest, your grace."

  Ailill shook his head, but reached reflexively for the calling card presented to him on a silver salver. He motioned impatiently. "I don't have time for a guest. Send whoever it is away and tell them I will see them when I return in a few days."

  "Yes, your grace."

  "Where do we keep the trunks? I need a small one to hold clothes and such for at least a week."

  "I will have something suitable brought out of storage, your grace," the butler murmured and slipped away back down the stairs as they reached the top.

  Ailill stood in the hallway a moment trying to sort his thoughts. Pack. Would it be better to go on ahead himself and leave his belongings to catch up to him later? Yes, that idea had merit. Then he could leave straightaway and trust the packing to Andre. That sounded shockingly noble-like—perhaps he would adjust to being one yet.

  That reminded him of the guest his butler had mentioned. Who would bother to come visit him? One of the Beasts perhaps? Oh, he supposed it might be Verenne; he really should finally go see her, as she was the only other Beast he had known before he left. Well, that could wait until he got back. Ailill resumed walking toward his bedroom to speak with Andre before he left and glanced down reflexively at the calling card as he went to tuck it away—then froze midstep, nearly losing his balance.

  Ivan Mikhailovich Kozlov, Duke of Vaklov

  The Duke of Vaklov? That was the title of the Minister of Magic, wasn't it? Why would whoever had been given that Duchy when the Minister was arrested be visiting him? Why would any of the nobility from Pozhar be paying him call? The only people he knew in Pozhar were Ivan and his men ...

  He glanced at the name again. Ivan Mikhailovich Kozlov. Ivan. That was too much coincidence. But surely not? Was it possible?

  "Wait!" Ailill bellowed as he turned and bolted back down the stairs. "Wait!" he called again, stopping his butler right as he opened the door to the front parlor and nearly knocking his head against it. "Never mind, Gautier. I'll see my caller after all, thank you. If you could see the packing is taken care of and the travel carriage readied?"

  Gautier looked at him in surprise, but then quickly schooled his expression and tipped a bow. "Yes, your grace. I will fetch Andre and see he attends your packing. The carriage will be ready in a half hour."

  "Thank you," Ailill said. He let go of the door to fix his clothes and smooth his hair back down, trying to regain his calm, though his heart was thudding too hard and fast in his chest for calm to be achievable.

  He stared in surprise, mouth falling slightly open. The last time he had seen Ivan he'd been dressed like the merc he was: cheap, rough clothes; good leather armor; sword and half a dozen daggers; hair unkempt; always smelling of sweat and horse, except when he smelled of sweat and sex.

  The Ivan before him was dressed in clothes as costly as his own, his jacket a deep, smoky gray th
at made his hard eyes almost pretty. His hair had grown out slightly and was a little disheveled, but far tidier than Ailill had ever seen it.

  "Vanya?" he finally asked, realizing he was staring like a nitwit.

  Ivan laughed. "I was starting to think you did not recognize me."

  "I admit you've gotten prettier since I last saw you," Ailill said, smiling. He closed the parlor door and strode across the room, holding up the calling card. "When did you become a duke?"

  Rolling his eyes, Ivan replied, "When I handed over the Minister of Magic. His majesty decided that throwing me into nobility was more appropriate than throwing me into a prison cell. Thankfully he did not also try to make me a Minister. That position was retired." He hesitated, then said, "You are looking well, Ailill. Much better than when last I saw you."

  "When last you saw me I was flopping about like a boy after his first binge," Ailill drawled, fighting an idiotic grin, unable to say exactly why he was so happy to see Ivan. He knew he had missed him, and definitely missed sleeping with him, but the joy keeping his heart thudding rapidly in his chest ...

  Well, he would figure that out later. Smirking, Ailill asked, "So are we done being polite, Vanya? Or are you too proper now that you're a duke to kiss me?"

  Ivan made that growly sort of noise that Ailill had always loved and grabbed his wrist, pulling him slowly closer. Sinking his fingers into the hair at Ailill's nape, he tilted Ailill's head and said, "No title is going to make me that proper."

  Ailill laughed, but it was immediately cut off by Ivan's mouth, as rough and hot as Ailill remembered. He had always liked that best about Ivan: he did not hesitate about what he wanted. He enjoyed it and was not impeded by things like titles.

  Groaning, Ailill wrapped his arms around Ivan's waist, took the kiss deeper, and pressed as close against Ivan as he could get. He was ravenous, desperate, aching to have what he had so sorely missed for the past two years. Drawing back, gulping in breaths, loving the way his lips throbbed, Ailill said, "Here I worried you would not remember me."

  Ivan laughed softly and dragged his tongue across Ailill's lips, goatee scraping where it touched skin. "Now how could I forget you? If anyone was likely to be forgotten, your grace, it was a lowly merc."

  "A lowly merc who is now a lofty duke," Ailill said, amused, and then he went right back to kissing him, hating it when reality could no longer be ignored. Drawing back reluctantly, he said, "I want nothing more than to invite you upstairs to my bedroom and keep you there for a long time, Vanya."

  Raising his brows in silent query, Ivan replied, "Why can't you?" He smirked. "Somebody else in it? I can throw them out, I think."

  Ailill laughed. "Don't be absurd. No, I have been ordered to handle a very delicate matter by the Triad. I must leave immediately to carry those orders out. I nearly had my butler throw you out until I actually read the calling card."

  "I see," Ivan said, and he slowly let Ailill go. "I suppose I shall wait for you to return then, unless you would like assistance? If you can have assistance?"

  "Oh—I hadn't thought about it. It's ... well, it's not as if you haven't dealt with similar matters before. And they appointed me precisely to gain an outside perspective. If you really want to spend part of your trip here investigating a murder with me, by all means."

  Ivan smiled slow and hot, gray eyes burning. "As long as it's only part of visit. I have very firm plans for the other parts of my plan."

  "I should hope so," Ailill said, and was not certain who initiated the next kiss, but did not particularly care. He cared for nothing save the way Ivan's mouth burned and consumed, the hot hands that slid over his body as if they had never forgotten the shape of it.

  They needed to be going. There was work to do. But Ailill could not make those thoughts take hold, could not do anything except hold tightly and keep kissing Ivan. Only the burning need to do more, to strip them both and go until they collapsed from exhaustion, finally forced him back. "Come on," he said, drawing a ragged breath and clearing his throat. "I need to pack. We're going to be gone several days."

  "If you have a footman to spare, I'll send him to collect my things from my lodgings. I have not yet unpacked, so it should be quick enough. By the time he returns, we'll likely be ready to go."

  Ailill nodded. "I'll send the footman to you." He fled the room before they wound up fucking on the floor and caught Gautier in the hallway. "Find someone to fetch his grace's belongings; his grace will tell you where."

  "Yes, your grace," Gautier replied. Ailill smiled in thanks, then raced up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. Only that morning he had been wondering why he would need such a large room, or such a large bed. Looking at the bed in question, he had ideas aplenty. Filthy, exhausting, utterly marvelous ideas that did not help his cock go down.

  Andre was bustling around the room, gathering and packing far more than Ailill would have thought to include. He paused as he caught sight of Ailill. "Nearly done, your grace. Was there anything in particular you wanted included?"

  "I'm sure if I can think of it, you've already packed it," Ailill said. "I've a guest. He is joining me on my journey, but is having his belongings brought here. See they find space with mine here. He's from Pozhar, so see to it that someone procures food and drink he would favor for when we return."

  Andre bowed. "Of course, your grace. Is there anything else?"

  "No, I don't think so. Thank you for having everything ready so quickly. I would not manage being a duke without you." He smiled briefly, gave the room a last look over, lingering longingly on the bed, and then turned and went back downstairs.

  Ivan was waiting in the front hall, looking at the various decorations on the wall. "I'm impressed with all that you managed to acquire in your travels," he said, pointing to a painting of Zhar Ptitsa. "I remember stealing a number of paintings by this artist. They're not cheap. That was back in my early days."

  "I see," Ailill said. "I wonder if I bought it from one of the men who paid you to steal it. Have your things been delivered?"

  "Yes," Ivan said. "I kept one case and left the rest here."

  Ailill nodded. "Did none of your team come with you?"

  "No, I left them behind to attend the estate. I told them I was perfectly capable of traveling alone. I'm not sure they believed me, but they listened."

  "I'm surprised they did," Ailill said with a laugh. "A pity, I would have liked to see them again. They were good men, your team."

  Ivan smiled and reached up to rub his thumb over Ailill's lips, then bent to kiss him again briefly. "They said to tell you hello. Shall we be off then, your grace?"

  "If we must," Ailill said with a sigh and led the way outside. The servants finished loading everything onto the back of the carriage, then bowed as Ailill and Ivan approached.

  Looking to the coachman, Ailill said, "Take us to the country estate of Lady Elianne Poulx. Do you know it?"

  "Yes, your grace. Three day journey, and we'll probably spend an hour just crossing the river."

  Ailill grimaced. "Ah, yes, the river. Well, there's nothing for it. I leave us in your capable hands."

  "Your grace," the coachmen replied, and then climbed on top of the carriage as Ivan and Ailill climbed inside.

  A couple of minutes later they were off, and Ailill settled back in his seat with a sigh, not looking forward to the journey ahead of him. "So how long are you planning to stay, Vanya?"

  Ivan shrugged, sprawling in his own seat, seeming to take up the whole of the carriage. Ailill wished it was at all feasible to spread himself across Ivan's lap. "I made no definitive plans. I thought I would arrive and see how everything went."

  "That makes good hearing," Ailill said. "The ceremony is three months away, and I fear things will not be very pleasant until it is over—especially now this murder has been placed in my lap."

  Cocking his head, Ivan said, "Yes, tell me more of this murder."

  "Attempted murder, actually, but the White Eagle is in a c
oma," Ailill said. "Someone attacked her in her private temple and killed her manservant. She tried to escape down into a secret room, but somehow her attacker poisoned her first, or managed to poison her while she was hidden away. Part of my job, alongside figuring out who did it, is determining how the deed was done. The timing is the worst part."

  "You think it has something to do with the ceremony?" Ivan asked.

  Ailill shook his head. "Who would stand to benefit by the ceremony failing? No, the people of Verde work too hard and hope too desperately for someone to ensure yet another Tragedy. Who would purposely sacrifice an entire country for one person?"

  "The same type of people who would sacrifice an entire country to save one little thief," Ivan replied. "The same type of people who poisoned you two years ago."

  "Ah, yes, there is that," Ailill said with a wince. "I have heard Holy Zhar Ptitsa is returned to Pozhar and the country flourishes."

  Ivan nodded. "Yes, he has returned. The country prospers—no more excessive snow, the crops grow well again, and people just ... they just seem happier. The ups and downs are not as extreme. Fires, I am a duke instead of dead. I think you must not discount that someone wants the ceremony to fail."

  "But who would benefit from that? It seems far more likely that it is a crime of passion, a personal vendetta of some sort."

  "Perhaps, but the timing makes me wonder," Ivan said pensively. "I guess we shall see. You make a very pretty duke, but you do not look very happy to be one."

  Ailill sighed and slumped, some of the weight sliding from his shoulders as he realized he did not have to pretend in front of Ivan. "I hate it. I give orders, I bow and scrape, I am scheduled to attend all manner of luncheons and dinner parties ... and I hate every moment of it. You seem to be adjusting much better. Being a duke suits you."

  Ivan shrugged. "I am a poor noble, really, but I am used to being in charge. Being a duke is not so different than being the leader of a mercenary band, at least in that respect. Thankfully, my men have taken up the challenge with me. They've adjusted remarkably well to being respectable. Luka rules my estate with an iron fist; I think if anyone tried to take it from us they would find the Jagged Mountains less frightening."