Steel's Edge te-4

by Ilona Andrews

  “Probably because it didn’t occur to her that she might catch it. The question is how did a blueblood flower such as Angelia end up with a dock-prostitute rash?”

  Sophie grinned. “That’s an interesting question.”

  “Isn’t it?” Charlotte rubbed her hands together. “I think we’re going to contact Lady Olivia and make sure Angelia gets an invitation to a tea. Mmmmm, about two days should do.”

  “You’re scary,” Sophie told her.

  You have no idea, sweetheart. You have no idea. “Yes, but I’m on your side.” Charlotte reached over and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “You did so well today. It will get easier, I promise.”

  “It was . . . exciting.”

  “I’m so glad.” Charlotte grinned. “Did you notice George?”

  Sophie leaned against the back of the seat. “I know! He is so perfect, it’s sickening.” Her eyes grew wide. “That woman next to me, the one with the green rose in her hair? She leaned over to the other lady, and she said, ‘I bet I could teach him a thing or two.’ And the other woman said, ‘He’s just a boy,’ and the green rose woman said, ‘That’s the best time in a man’s life: they’re easy to steer, and they can go and go and go.’ Can you believe that? She must be thirty! It’s disgusting.”

  Sophie stuck her tongue out and made a retching noise.

  Charlotte smiled. “I don’t think George is in any danger. He does the distant, I’m-above-it-all impression quite well, and the duchess would fry anyone who looked at him the wrong way.”

  Sophie’s dark eyes turned serious. “Is that how it’s supposed to be?”

  “Is it how what’s supposed to be?”

  “Are we supposed to be obsessed with sex?”

  She’d asked it quietly, and Charlotte sensed the answer was very important. “It depends on the woman. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. Some women mature faster, some slower; some actively seek out sexual pleasure, and some don’t value it as much. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  Charlotte tilted her head, trying to get a better look at Sophie’s face. “Which part?”

  “I don’t want to have sex,” Sophie said. “Maybe later. But not now. I have friends. They kiss each other. The boys are . . . you know. Hands.”

  “Mhm.” Charlotte nodded.

  “I don’t like to be touched. One of them tried, and I told him I didn’t like it. He acted as if there was something wrong with me.”

  Charlotte paused. There was so much she wanted to explain, but the little bond of trust they had between them was so fragile. She had to find the right words.

  “There is nothing wrong with you. Your body belongs to you alone. Touching it is a privilege, and it’s up to you to grant it. Some boys—and men—don’t handle rejection well, and they will try to shame you or pressure you into letting them do what they want because they feel entitled. They’re not worth your time. Also, there is nothing wrong with not enjoying sexual touching or kissing. For some girls, their sexual awakening comes early, for some, later. I was almost seventeen before I became aware of men sexually, and even then, it was because of a particular boy I liked rather than men in general.”

  Sophie looked out the window.

  Charlotte couldn’t tell if she had said the right thing or the wrong thing. This is what parenting must be like. The duchess was right. Never knowing if you had done harm or good was awful.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “It’s just that I don’t have anybody else to ask. My sister is gone a lot with William. My aunts always want to know who is it and what’s his name. And I can’t ask Richard.”

  “Oh gods, no, don’t ask Richard.”

  “He would be scandalized.” Sophie pressed her lips together, as if trying to hold something back.

  “If he gets an idea that someone tried to touch you against your will, he’d kill them.” Charlotte cleared her throat and tried to produce a reasonable imitation of Richard’s raspy voice. “I’m going to decapitate that ruffian. Please don’t hold dinner. No need to trouble yourself on my account.”

  Sophie squeezed her lips tighter, but the laughter burst out anyway. “He would say that! ‘I shall bring you his head. You may use his skull as a vase. No use in wasting a perfectly good cranium.’”

  Charlotte giggled. “We’re so morbid.”

  They giggled again. Sophie tried to hold it in and snorted. “Oh no, I’m so unladylike.”

  That only made them laugh harder.

  Finally, they stopped.

  “You can ask me anything,” Charlotte said. “I don’t mind.”

  “What happens next?” Sophie asked.

  “Tomorrow, Richard is going to the club for his weekly card game. It’s possible that Brennan will be there.” Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. There was no danger, she reassured herself. Richard had fooled everyone, except for the old house servant, whom he had replaced. The real Casside and his servant were now safely tucked away in one of Declan’s dungeons. The chance that Brennan would realize that Richard was an impostor was very slight.

  Very, very slight.

  “So what then?” Sophie asked.

  “Then we will make Brennan think he’s being betrayed.”

  * * *

  RICHARD sat at a pentagonal table and reviewed his cards. He had the winning hand. He surveyed the faces of the four other men at the table. Much like the Broken’s poker, the Weird’s council was a game of strategy and bluffing. He’d learned to count cards when he was barely old enough to understand the game. It required a good memory and paying attention. Child’s play.

  To his right, Lord Korban frowned slightly, trying to hide his tells. Next to him, Robert Brennan smiled at Richard from above his cards. The man was unconcerned and completely at ease, as if relaxing at home. He didn’t look like the man whose island slave operation had turned to ash a week and a half ago.

  Lorameh, a veteran of the air force, sat next to Brennan. As a human being, Lorameh was thoroughly unremarkable: pale blond hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, light eyes, neither handsome nor unattractive. He’d known Brennan for a long time, and the two of them treated each other with easy familiarity.

  At Lorameh’s side, Maedoc, his severe gaze fixed on the cards, completed the circle. Where Brennan was carefree, Maedoc reviewed his cards with a deadly serious air, as if the fate of the realm rode on his winning hand.

  If Richard called a challenge, Lorameh would fold, Korban would panic and go in, then change his mind and fold at the first opportunity. Maedoc would stubbornly hold, because although his hand was mediocre, he viewed surrender as the weakest of the options. Brennan . . . His hand was weak, but Brennan was an enigma.

  “Challenge,” Richard said.

  “Accepted.” Korban slid a coin toward the stack of gold in the center of the table.

  “Withdraw.” Lorameh tossed his cards down. “Too rich for my taste.”

  “Accepted,” Brennan said, adding his own doubloon. The corner of his mouth curved.

  “Accepted,” Maedoc growled.

  “Living dangerously, Robert,” Lorameh said.

  “Danger adds spice to a mundane existence,” Brennan said.

  “You just took a voyage to the Southeast Coast, while I slave away at my desk,” Lorameh said. “Of the two of us, my existence is much more mundane.”

  “I was visiting a friend,” Brennan said.

  “A friend with soft curves and beautiful blue eyes perhaps?” Lorameh asked.

  “A lord never tells. Your play, Casside.”

  “Challenge,” Richard said again, and slid a gold coin into the center of the table. There had been a very slight note of command in Brennan’s voice. Brennan had also counted the cards. He knew exactly what sort of hand Richard had. Where was he going with this plan?

  “Withdraw!” Korban dropped his cards.

  “Accepted.” Brennan added more money.

  Maedoc hesitated.

  “Ou
r brave soldier is thinking of surrendering,” Brennan said.

  A light laughter rolled around the table. Richard allowed himself a sparse smile to not stand out.

  Maedoc’s face turned redder. He slid another coin to the stack. “Accepted.”

  What was going on? Richard sorted through the available responses. Casside would keep playing. He was driven by money, and the hoard of gold on the table was substantial. “Challenge.”

  “Another challenge, Casside?” Brennan looked directly at him. “You should make it a big one.”

  His tone was mild, but his stare left no doubt—it was an order.

  “Very well.” Richard slid the entirety of his coins into the center of the table.

  Lorameh whistled quietly. Korban turned a shade paler.

  “Accepted,” Brennan said. He pushed a tower of coins to the center with a careless sweep of his hand and turned to Maedoc.

  Punishment, Richard realized. Maedoc was being punished for the failure of the slavers on the island. He oversaw the slaver muscle. The breach in security was Maedoc’s fault, and now Brennan was publicly humiliating him.

  The big man looked back at Brennan, his teeth clenched.

  “Are you with us or against us, Maedoc?” Brennan asked.

  The muscles on Maedoc’s jaws bulged. He stared at the coins. Of the Five, he was the least wealthy. Both Brennan and Casside had means, but for the other three bluebloods, the lack of funds was a real danger.

  The strain on Maedoc’s face was clearly visible. Richard felt no sympathy for him. The memory of rain-drenched holes filled with children, of the boy with his lips sewn shut, and barely human slaves was too fresh.

  “Well?” Brennan tapped the table.

  “With you.” Maedoc shoved the gold forward.

  “Your move,” Brennan looked at Richard.

  “Triple Royal Charge.” Richard dropped a king, three knights, and an archer on the table.

  Maedoc’s face turned purple. “Double charge,” he croaked, and let the cards fall. Two knights, a squire, a page, and a blacksmith.

  “Two pages, two squires, and a carpenter.” Brennan spread the cards on the table. “You win, Casside.”

  “That’s the lousiest hand,” Korban said.

  “Luck of the draw.” Brennan grinned.

  He rose and slid the money toward Richard. “Take it before we change our minds.”

  Maedoc looked ripe for apoplexy. Richard hid a smile. It said volumes about his own morality, but anything that hurt the Five brought him joy.

  Lorameh had an odd look on his face—he wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he didn’t like it.

  “I think I shall take my winnings home.” Richard swept the coins into a bag.

  “I’ll join you.” Brennan rose.

  They walked out of the club into the night. It had rained. Dampness hung in the air, and rainwater pooled in the uneven cobbles under their feet. The club occupied one of the restored buildings of Carver Castle, and the narrow street curved, snaking its way through the tangle of buildings that had once housed servants, knights, and soldiers. Here and there, magic lanterns cascaded from the walls, their pale lights diluting the darkness rather than banishing it.

  “You played rather aggressively tonight,” Brennan said.

  What would Casside say? “I dislike losing money.”

  Brennan grimaced. “We have all just lost a great deal of money.”

  “How fast can the enterprise be rebuilt?” Richard asked.

  “The efforts are under way now. Six months.” Brennan’s face jerked. An ugly scowl distorted his features, as if the fury inside him struggled to tear through the paper-thin mask of his easygoing demeanor. The man had a temper. Richard filed it away for future reference. “It was the Hunter. Three hundred men and a yearlong hunt, yet they can’t kill one man.”

  The irony was too rich. It was time to carefully push Brennan in the right direction. “One wonders why.”

  Brennan pivoted on one foot toward him. “What are you implying?”

  “I find it odd that these three hundred men can find a set of twins of particular age and coloring but can’t find the Hunter.”

  The passageway widened, circling the main keep. A few moments and they would pass through the arched gate and reach the main courtyard and their phaetons.

  Something moved in the darkness by the arch.

  Brennan halted. Richard put his hand on his rapier. Casside was a skilled fencer—like many bluebloods, he had a proper martial education. The slender sword wasn’t Richard’s preferred weapon, and being divorced from his magic hindered him. Casside couldn’t stretch his flash onto his sword. It was a lost art, known by a select few. And now that he was Casside, Richard would have to make do without it.

  People moved within the arch, ink black silhouettes in darkness.

  Brennan raised his head. “What have we here?”

  Arrows whistled through the air. Brennan’s magic sparked, bursting from him in a brilliant white flash shield, disintegrating the missiles.

  A bright blue flash shot from behind them, threatening to cut Brennan in half. Richard shoved him out of the way. The flash scorched the cobbles between them.

  Richard dashed into the darkness in the direction of the flash, his rapier bare, counting under his breath. One, two, three, four. Another bolt of blue lightning tore at him. The flasher needed four seconds to recharge. The most accomplished magic users could do it instantly, but most needed time to refocus their magic.

  Richard dodged, and the magic scoured the cobbles. The flasher gave himself away. He saw them now, three people waiting in the alcove to the left—the magic user and two fighters.

  Richard charged. One.

  The fighter on the left, a lean, agile woman, struck at him, spinning, her twin wide swords slicing like a razor-sharp tornado. He dodged left, right, left again. Two. The bigger sword grazed his chest, cutting through the doublet. Steel burned his skin.

  Three.

  The woman pressed her advantage.

  Four. He dodged right, avoiding the flash by a mere second, lunged, and smiled as the tip of his rapier burst his opponent’s heart. The woman fell.

  One. The large man behind her leaped, taking her place, chopping at him with a vicious short axe. Two. Three. Richard backed away. Four. His instincts screamed, and he dived left, half a second before another flash bolt cut a gash in the stone wall behind him.

  The axe fighter smashed into him, knocking him off-balance. Too close for a lunge. Richard veered left, grabbed the axe fighter’s right arm, yanking him forward, and smashed the heavy hilt of the rapier into his left eye. The man howled in pain. Three. Richard spun him around and shoved him forward. The flash tore into the axe fighter. The stench of smoking human meat filled the air.

  Richard sprinted, putting all of his speed in the run. Time slowed down, stretching like viscous honey.

  He saw the magic user, a short, overweight woman. Slowly, as if underwater, she opened her mouth, raising her arms. The first brilliant blue spark of the flash formed between her fingers, biting at her skin with roots of lightning.

  He thrust.

  The blade passed under the growing tangle of magic, under the woman’s left breast and into her lung. He’d missed the heart by a hair.

  Richard threw himself left. The magic tore from her in a wide beam. She tried to scream, but the words gurgled in her throat. He dropped the rapier, grabbed her from the side, and snapped her neck with a quick jerk.

  It cost him half a second to recover his sword. Richard dashed back. When he’d sent Garett, his cousin, to hire the thugs to kill Brennan, he warned him to hire enough to make a serious statement but not so many that Brennan would be overwhelmed. As satisfying as it would feel, Brennan couldn’t die. But Richard had never counted on a flasher or a skilled swordsmen. There was a slight chance that they could actually succeed, and their scheme would fall apart before it had even begun.

  He rounded the bend. Br
ennan bent over a prone man, breathing hard, his face an ugly, feral mask. A thick drip of bright red blood spilled from his scalp onto his face. Three bodies sprawled on the cobbles. None of them moved.

  Brennan clutched a man by his shirt and stabbed him.

  The man cried out.

  “Who?” Brennan demand, his voice a ragged growl. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” the man groaned.

  Brennan twisted the dagger in the wound. “Who?”

  “Kordon said . . .” The man’s voice was fading. “He said . . . it was . . .”

  “What?” Brennan yanked him higher.

  “Eagle,” the man whispered. His eyes rolled back in his skull. His body convulsed once, and he sagged in Brennan’s grip. The king’s cousin stared at the limp body, his eyes bulging. He looked deranged. Then the anger vanished, and Brennan pulled his composure back on like a mask.

  “Robert!” Richard sank force into his whisper. “We must leave. There will be questions.”

  Brennan let go of the corpse, dusted his hands, and strode into the arched tunnel, his pace brisk. “Did you bring a phaeton?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll ride in it, then. Can your servants be trusted?”

  Richard hid a smile. He had replaced all of the staff in the house with his family. There wasn’t a single person in that house whose name wasn’t Mar. “Implicitly.”

  “Good.”

  The arch ended, opening into a well-lit courtyard filled with phaetons and horses. Richard stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his clothes, and thrust it at Brennan. “Blood.”

  “Thank you.” Brennan pressed the cloth over the blood. They crossed the space quickly. Richard opened the door of the phaeton, and Brennan ducked inside on the wide bench. Richard climbed in after him and let his fingers fly over the controls. The ornate panel buzzed, the gears began turning, and the phaeton whirred to life. He drove out of the courtyard, maintaining average speed.

  Seven lives were lost. They belonged to professional killers. He felt no guilt but a vague dissatisfaction. Some part of him must’ve secretly hoped Brennan would die.

  Brennan wiped the blood off his scalp. “Well! That was more fun than I’ve had in a while. How about you?”