Master of the Game

by Jane Kindred

  “But the square was full of angry rioters.” Helison sighed and shook his head. “How can all of my subjects have misunderstood me so? The Fallen believe I mean to rule them with an iron fist, and the Host think I’m unfit to rule because I’m too soft on the Fallen.”

  “If you want my recommendation, sire, I would suggest this is not the time for grand gestures toward a people who are clearly unappreciative. Would it not be better to capitulate to the Host than to the Fallen? For the sake of Her Supernal Majesty’s safety and that of your unborn child, let the Liberation Decree go.”

  The principality stared at him icily for a moment before he spoke. “As it so happens, I do not want your recommendation, Major. You may leave me.”

  Phaleg cursed himself for being so blunt. The principality was invested in an almost painfully naïve idealism of what the ruler of Heaven ought to be, and opposition to his ideas couldn’t just be forced upon him. He saw himself as a paternal figure to his subjects, and despite the evidence of rebellion and insurrection bubbling up under the Elysian veneer of supernal veneration, he imagined a father’s firmness was all that was needed to keep Heaven in line.

  It would be up to Phaleg now to be on the alert and ensure the queen’s safety. In the wake of the grand duchess’s death, and with such ugly rumors flying, he couldn’t take any chances. At least he’d managed to persuade the principality to send a full platoon as escort for the queen and the young grand duchesses on their return to Elysium. Though Phaleg couldn’t imagine anyone being so base as to take the lives of young girls to achieve their aims, they were, after all, willing to murder a pregnant woman.

  Phaleg’s sense of urgency increased that evening when Lebes returned early, having received a message from the palace almost as soon as he’d arrived in Arcadia by a servant sent on horseback at a gallop. The queen and the little grand duchesses were expected the following morning. If the Traditionalists were going to act, it would be on the road to Elysium or swiftly following her arrival.

  Phaleg rode out after dark with his most trusted men to meet the queen’s coach, appointing himself as her personal escort. The coach had stopped at an inn for the night, just a few hours north of Elysium, and Phaleg sought a private audience with the queen to tell her of her cousin’s death.

  Sefira’s hands went to her round belly at the news, instinctively protecting the baby within. “Sweet Heaven, no.” Tears that were no artifice ran down the habitually stoic and supernal chiseled face. She might have had a rivalry with her cousin, but it was clear she had also cared for her. They had, after all, spent their girlhoods together in Arcadia. They both had the same delicate grace, though Sefira’s features were less soft and her hair was the darker golden shade typical of Arcadian nobility. “And the baby?”

  “Stillborn,” said Phaleg.

  The queen lifted one hand from her belly to cover her mouth. She looked faint, and Phaleg led her to a chair. “Do they know, was it…?”

  “A boy,” he said quietly.

  She shook her head, wringing her hands. “Poor Lebes. And little Kae! Oh, how cruel! This doesn’t happen to the Host. Does it?” Sefira was becoming overwrought. “Oh, it’s horrible, horrible that it should happen to anyone. But pure blood is healthier—that’s what they always say.” She pinched her cheeks sharply as though trying to calm her own hysteria. “No. I’ve always thought we’d fall to violence, not to frailty.”

  It was a disturbing sentiment and reminded him why he’d come. “Your Supernal Majesty, I don’t want to alarm you, but I ought to warn you there has been unkind slander against you and the principality. I suppose it’s angelic nature to seek some cause, some blame, for events that have none.”

  Sefira’s agitation stilled, and she stared at him with her shrewd, deep celestine eyes still damp with tears. “They’re saying I did something to harm her, to bring this on.” There was no question in her voice. “I never wished her ill.”

  “Of course you didn’t, Your Supernal Majesty. Please, don’t take it to heart. I just wanted to warn you so it wouldn’t come as a surprise, should any unkind words reach you.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m also concerned for your safety. There are some among the Host who…” He paused, trying to find a way to put it delicately.

  “Who would rather see my brother-in-law on the throne than my husband.” The queen was no fool. “And they would come at him through me?”

  Phaleg folded and refolded his gloves in his hands. “My intelligence suggests they seek to prevent the birth of an heir so Grand Duke Lebes will seem the more viable ruler. His Supernal Majesty would not have had me tell you of this. He dismisses it as the grumblings of detractors who would not dare to act against the throne. But I believe they are in earnest, and I cannot in good conscience stand by and keep this from you after what I’ve uncovered. They seek to get you alone in your carriage on unsafe ground—a muddy road or weak ice on the river—and stage an accident.”

  Sefira folded her hands in her lap and contemplated them, seeming to consider his words, before gathering her reserves and regarding him with her usual staid composure. “You are my husband’s Chief of Security.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And you are loyal to him—yet not so loyal that you would follow his word on this matter.”

  Phaleg swallowed. “Your Supernal Majesty—”

  “If my husband has seen fit to dismiss these concerns, I will abide by his wisdom. The wife of a principality has social obligations. I cannot hide inside the palace.” She let the proper veneer slip for a moment and gave him a kind smile, one gloved hand absently stroking her belly as if to calm the child. “Your intentions were unimpeachable, Major Phaleg. I appreciate your warning. I won’t mention this to my husband.” This last sentence bore a tone of dismissal.

  Phaleg bowed. “Thank you, Your Supernal Majesty.” He had done all he could on this front, and her dismissal wasn’t so much a rebuke of his disobedience or a refusal to heed his warning as it was the decorum required of a queen. His only recourse now was to try to prevent any threat from reaching her.

  He rode ahead in the morning to scout the way, and his men followed at the rear to ensure no one ambushed the queen’s party from behind. The remainder of the trip into Elysium proved uneventful, but more unsettling news met them when they arrived at the palace. Grand Duke Kae had gone missing—and Ruslan with him.

  After a meager breakfast of porridge and butter at the flat revealed that the kitchen hadn’t been as well stocked as it ought while Anzhela was away, Belphagor headed to the market. He and Vasily had spent the night sleeping on the floor of the parlor, after staying late to comfort Anzhela and calm the boys. Anzhela had offered to go to the market, but he’d insisted she stay put. She’d had enough to deal with in the last twenty-four hours.

  He was heading back with a rucksack full of groceries when a commotion on the riverbank side of the market caught his attention. At first glance, it seemed some young pickpocket had been apprehended, and then he caught sight of the tiny thief’s pale golden curls and porcelain complexion. This was without doubt an angel of the nobility. How had he ended up here? With thoughts of the fletchers weighing on his mind, he couldn’t ignore it. Among the trafficking he’d helped to end, there had been a small but lucrative trade in stolen angels along the Celestial Silk Road.

  The demon holding the little angel by the back of his collar shook him roughly. “Your kind hasn’t taken enough from demons, you think you can just walk into Raqia and take what you like?”

  “He wasn’t stealing,” a young voice implored. “It’s my fault. I didn’t explain to him how the market worked.” Belphagor couldn’t see him in the crowd yet as he pushed through, but it was Ruslan.

  “Didn’t explain to him how not to get caught, you mean,” the vendor growled.

  Belphagor reached the front of the crowd. “What’s he stolen?” He reached to untie the purse on his belt. “I’ll reimburse you.” He deliberately ignored Ruslan’s gaze.

>   The demon scowled at him. “It’s not the cost, it’s the principle. He needs the sort of beating his people no doubt dole out to their demon servants on a daily basis.” Beside him, the angel, who was evidently the young Grand Duke Kae, appeared to be taking this calmly, though his grayish-blue celestine eyes were as wide as saucers.

  Belphagor pinned the angel with a hard gaze. “What did you steal, boy?”

  “I ate a meat pie,” he answered promptly. There was no defiance in his tone, and no real fear, just a sort of surprise that he was being treated so brutishly.

  Shaking out a few small facets that were more than generous for a single meat pie, Belphagor handed them to the vendor and took Kae’s collar from his grasp. “These are my boys. I own the demon, and it seems he’s brought me another houseboy. Not my fault if the Host can’t keep track of their brats. Good work, Ruslan.” He turned the angel’s face up to his with a rough hold on his jaw. “If you’re as good at scrubbing floors as you are at arrogant entitlement, I’m sure we’ll get along nicely.” Snapping his fingers at Ruslan, he turned the angel about and led him away from the kiosk along one of the cobblestone streets without looking back.

  When they were well enough away, he paused and took off his coat to put it on the little grand duke. The snow had stopped falling for the moment, but it was far too cold for the fancy indoor jacket the boy had on.

  “Sorry about that, Your Highness,” he said as he buttoned it. “It seemed the easiest way to get you out of your predicament. And I’m very sorry to hear of your loss.” The boy nodded with uncanny adult grace in acknowledgment. Belphagor turned to Ruslan, following closely behind them. “And exactly how did you two get into this predicament?”

  “I ran away,” said Kae. Belphagor raised an eyebrow and glanced once more at Ruslan.

  “He overheard the grand duke telling the principality he couldn’t take proper care of a boy all alone. He wants Kae to stay at the supernal palace with his cousins.”

  “And you don’t care for your cousins?”

  Kae shrugged. “They’re all right for girls. But Ruslan told me all about Raqia and the Demon Market. He said he knew of demon boys who live in a house together and get to do as they please.”

  Ruslan looked chagrined. “I didn’t mean for him to try to come here. He snuck out, and I came after him.”

  Belphagor sighed. They didn’t need any more Lost Boys—and they certainly didn’t need any runaway royalty. “Your father must be very worried. I’ll send word to have Major Phaleg come return you two to Elysium. I doubt whether having me as an escort would be viewed with anything but suspicion. In the meantime, we’ll wait for him at the flat to get out of this cold.”

  Silk frowned with disapproval when Belphagor sent Tilli and Danila to fetch Phaleg. “I don’t want him in my home.” He peered through the kitchen door, open just a crack, at the boys in the parlor surrounding the little grand duke with fascination in front of the fireplace. “Phaleg, I mean. Not the little boy. I’ve nothing against him.”

  “Are you never going to forgive him for doing his job?”

  The gray eyes narrowed on him. “Spying on me was doing his job? Lying to me was his job? Discrediting the Fallen is his damned job?”

  Belphagor’s mouth twitched. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I’ve been involved in all three of those activities.”

  “Yes, well, had we been sleeping together at the time, you’d be out on your ass, too. Even if you are my landlord.”

  Crouching before the woodstove to stoke it with a few firespirit breaths, Vasily glanced up at them. “You were sleeping together?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Ruby.”

  Vasily closed the door of the stove and stood, brushing off his hands. “Not one I’ve ever heard you use before. And I’ve actually slept with you. Several times.” When Silk began setting the table, placing the plates heavily against the wood without responding, Vasily traded knowing looks with Belphagor. “As little as I care for Phaleg personally—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I think he was good for you. And I think you’re being too hard on him.”

  Silk dropped a plate on the table from too great a height, and the plate cracked. “What is with you two?” He turned about and pressed his back against the table, looking like a cornered wildcat—and possibly just as dangerous. “Why do you care what goes on between Phaleg and me? How is this any of your business?”

  “We’re just concerned,” said Belphagor. “You’ve seemed unhappy lately.”

  “And you seemed very happy when you were tormenting that insufferable angel,” Vasily added.

  Silk laughed humorlessly. “Let’s just drop the subject, shall we? I don’t want to hear anything more about him.”

  Silk stayed in his room with the door shut when Phaleg arrived, and Phaleg pretended not to notice his absence. Belphagor took the angel aside before he left with the boys to find out how the riots had worked out.

  “The principality was greatly disillusioned and disheartened by it all. Yet he still insists signing the decree is the right thing to do.” Phaleg’s expression was troubled. “And I’m beginning to think he’s right.”

  Belphagor watched the conflict on Phaleg’s face with interest. “What happened to ‘it’s the wrong time’?”

  “Oh, I still believe it is. But maybe there will never be a right time. Maybe the principality is obligated to do what is just and not what’s expedient, regardless of the consequences.”

  “Well, listen to you, Major Phaleg.” Belphagor smiled. “It seems our noble principality’s ideals are rubbing off on you.”

  Phaleg shrugged, his shoulders heavy. “Ideals won’t make a bit of difference when civil war erupts.”

  Belphagor inclined his head. “Perhaps it won’t come to that.”

  “If the Traditionalists manage to carry out their plan, Helison will act. It will be too late, but he’ll act.”

  Trenadtsataya

  He couldn’t put off the rematch with Kezef any longer. Regardless of celestial politics, Belphagor owed it to the girls from the Fletchery to finish the game once and for all.

  It was standing-room only in the Brimstone as demons crowded around to see if their bets would pay off. Belphagor arrived at the table with Vasily at his side, and Kezef cut the wingcasting deck with a smirk.

  “Very considerate of you to bring the currency right to the table. Saves me the time of having you fetch him after I win.”

  Vasily’s eyes kindled, and he made a threatening move toward Kezef, but Belphagor stopped him with a hand against his chest. “Keep still, boy,” he ordered. When Vasily turned his outraged expression on him, Belphagor gave him a significant look, reminding him of their agreement. Vasily sat without another word. Belphagor had allowed him to look on so long as he managed to sit quietly throughout the game. One word, and he’d be banished to their room to wait it out, no matter how long the game took.

  Fortunately, Belphagor didn’t intend for the game to take very long.

  Kezef dealt, and Belphagor cast. Kezef called the die accurately. Belphagor laid a card on the pile, and Kezef took it. Except for their calls, they played in silence, and the fierce concentration was infectious. Observers held their breath with every play, letting out a collective, audible gasp when Kezef handily swept the first two rounds. He had only to win three in a row to take the match and the tournament. Belphagor was counting on Kezef letting down his guard, and he wasn’t disappointed. It wasn’t much, just a slight slip in concentration as the demon prepared to declare victory.

  At the opening of the third round, Kezef cast the die, and Belphagor deliberately missed the call, pretending to be flustered. Kezef raised his brow and watched Belphagor toss down a card—seemingly at random and born of frustration.

  The demon couldn’t resist a dig. “I almost feel guilty taking your boy at this point. But I am looking forward to hearing him beg for the complete degradation he and I both know he desires.”

  Vasily half r
ose from his chair with a low warning growl in his throat, but before he could get into trouble, Belphagor cast the die, and Kezef’s swift call drew everyone’s attention. The die landed on a corner, teetered near the face matching the elemental creature Kezef had called, and then made a final flip to the adjacent face.

  Kezef was obviously trying to keep his expression neutral as he perused his hand, but Belphagor caught the slight muscle twitch that gave away his tension. The cards he held must be a near-perfect hand if giving one up would cost him his lead. The demon set one down and took up the die, but Belphagor had already taken the discard, and he laid his cards face up on the table: Principality, Dominion, Seraph, and Aeon of tricks. For Kezef to hesitate over the loss of a single card from a hand of seven, he could only have been nursing a scarlet or ebony wing. The discarded Aeon had given Belphagor fourchoir. Since a wing consisted of a full choir and a fourchoir together, the best hand Kezef could have remaining couldn’t be any higher than Belphagor’s.

  Kezef laid down his hand: fourchoir in the suit of facets. A rare tie. This meant Belphagor had another three rounds to win, as neither could count this one. With neither the victor, they each rolled the die to see who would deal this next round. Kezef won the deal with a fire-element creature to Belphagor’s earth. He dealt. They perused their cards. Belphagor cast. Kezef lost his call and surrendered a card without hesitation; his choice of discard had been immaterial, which meant he had nothing viable. Belphagor ignored the discard to give Kezef the idea he was close to a winning hand already.

  Kezef cast. Belphagor called and missed, and surrendered a card with an air of misgiving, reinforcing the idea that he’d been close, but now had lost a needed card—hence, the same situation Kezef had been in for the previous round, which should give Kezef the impression Belphagor had been on the verge of another wing. The misdirection paid off as Kezef played his hand too quickly, putting down another fourchoir. Belphagor smiled and laid down a pristine ebony wing, a hand that needed one less card than a regular wing.