by Lane Robins
He returned to the wall of ivy and stared upward. Gilly estimated that he had at least eighty pounds over the boy, but the ivy showed no breakages from the boy’s ascent. Maybe it would hold his weight, he thought. Or maybe he would plummet to the snow beneath and break a leg or his neck.
Gilly took off his coat, dropped it over the boy’s, firmed his gloves around his fingers, and began to climb. Ivy leaves crumbled beneath his hands; the vines stayed firm, until, within an armspan of the window, they started to peel away from the mortar. Gilly lunged upward, hooked his hands over the sill, and pulled himself inward, landing on the dusty floor of an unused bedchamber. He wrinkled his nose, repressed a sneeze and a sneer that Last couldn’t get good servants either, and set off tracking the boy’s damp footprints.
He found the boy standing in the shadowed alcove of a long hallway. “What are you—”
The boy put an icy hand over Gilly’s mouth, drew him into the alcove. “There’s someone coming.” His whisper warmed Gilly’s ear.
They watched the maid carrying the bundles of whites pass them and head down distant, uncarpeted stairs.
“What are you doing?” Gilly repeated.
“Learning my enemy.”
Gilly sighed. “I can tell you about him. And in the comfort of Vornatti’s library. Or at his dining table if you’re hungry again.”
The boy wandered into the hallway, looked down the stairs into a dim long room, near bare of furnishings. “What is that?”
Gilly peered over the boy’s shoulder. “Portrait gallery. Pictures of his ancestors.”
“He knows what they all look like?” The boy was impressed by that, by the simple fact that the earl of Last knew who fathered him, who fathered his father, and so on, and more, could trace images of himself in their features. “I want to see.” He descended the stairs and Gilly hastened after him.
The nearest panel was blank. The boy turned to Gilly, his face demanding explanation. Gilly, keeping a nervous eye and ear out, said, “That’s for the next earl, the current earl’s son. The portraits go by birth order.”
“So this is Last?” The boy walked on to the next portrait, heading farther into the house, farther from the window and escape.
Gilly caught him up. “Yes. This is Michel Ixion, the fourteenth earl of Last.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Is it like him?”
“Enough,” Gilly said. The boy touched the painting, put his palm flat against the canvas, then drew his hand into a claw as if he might start tearing at it, as if he could slake his bloodlust on a picture. Gilly tugged the boy away, memories of rural superstition making his skin crawl, thinking of pins stuck in dolls and left on altars for godly intercession, never mind that the gods could not answer.
The boy’s wrist trembled against Gilly’s hand, the fine bones taut under Gilly’s fingers, but he didn’t resist. His eyes fell on the blank panel again and his breath caught. “This is for Janus?”
“It’s unlikely. He is a bastard, no matter the story they intend to put out. It’s far more likely that Last means to use Janus as a bargaining chip in his next marriage—a tangible, albeit scandalous, counter to the rumors of tainted blood.”
Even as Gilly said it, he wondered, Why legitimize the bastard at all? It wasn’t like Last, a stalwart traditionalist, to fly in the face of custom, to not only recognize his bastard son, but to legitimize him. But maybe someone had commanded him…. Gilly collected rumors for Vornatti, and at the heart of them was the king, that melancholy scholar who’d been saddled with the burden of the throne—a burden he could set down only for an heir. Last was no solution—only a year’s difference lay between the two—and Kritos, though younger, was a wastrel, a gambler, and a fool. Perhaps Aris, trapped on his throne, dreamed of Janus.
But the three counselors would be hard to convince. Like Last, the duke of Love was a traditionalist, and would condemn Janus for the irregularity of his birth. But perhaps he could be bought; he had a marriageable daughter. DeGuerre was a believer in blood and a military man; he might accept the bloodline, and ignore the lack of marriage papers. After all, Celia was an admiral’s daughter. And Westfall, despite his trappings of egalitarianism, had a young man’s awe of the royal blood, even watered down. A bastard king?
The boy murmured at his side, waking him from his political reverie. “This could be his?”
“It is impossible to allow him the earldom and not put him in line for the throne,” Gilly said. “So it’s unlikely, but I suppose, if Last died suddenly—”
“He will.” The boy touched the sword hilt, smiled a little, then stared at the empty spot again. “The throne. This house?” Incredulity laced the boy’s voice at the idea of the house more than of the throne. Gilly understood that. The throne was so far distant from his experience it might as well be a dream, but the possibility that Janus could live in a house like this—
“The king has but one child, and that one born simple. He whiles his time away in padded nurseries, playing with dolls. There are few members left in the house of Last. The king, the earl, and their nephew, Kritos.”
“Kritos,” the boy said, a bare whisper.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway; Gilly snatched at the boy to drag him back up the stairs, but the boy eluded him, passed through another door. “What’s this room?”
“Last’s study,” Gilly said. He closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.
The boy skimmed around the room, pocketing trinkets: an enameled snuff box, a gold-handled letter opener, a quill pen and an ink bottle, a silver paperweight, and a crystal carving of Baxit, the cat-headed god of indolence and reason. He unearthed a gilt-edged porcelain dish of old toffees and, after a quick sniff, put two in his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed. Then he tilted the rest into his shirt. As a visible afterthought, he dropped the delicate dish into his sleeve as well. Gilly bit back a laugh. “We must go. The horses—”
The boy investigated the books on the shelves, touching brightly colored leather bindings and tracing his finger over the gilded titles. Sitting at the desk, the boy used the letter opener to pry open the locked drawer. Sheaves of paper curled out.
“Let me see,” Gilly said, reading. “Creditors, debts, and bills from Kritos. Such a wastrel. Won’t please Last, that’s for certain.” A smile quirked his lips. “Perhaps Kritos will drive Last to apoplexy and spare you the trouble.”
The boy’s eyes sharpened, went black with rage, and Gilly felt the smile vanish from his lips as if it never existed.
“I dream of killing him,” the boy said, “his blood painting my blade, his cry in my ears as I touch his heart….” His fist tightened around the hilt, fingers whitening as if he meant to withdraw it.
“Because of Janus,” Gilly said, stepping back out of reach of the boy’s sword, edgy again. He had almost forgotten this boy’s vendetta in a strange enjoyment of this leisurely housebreaking.
“Janus,” the boy echoed. Something softer warmed the bleak fury in his eyes, and his grip lessened. His face grew still and troubled; Gilly wondered what the boy was thinking on—his bloody plans for Last, or the butler’s unwelcome confirmation that his prey had slipped his grasp. In this quiet state, the boy was malleable, allowing Gilly to usher him out of the study.
After a brief consideration of the state of the ivy, Gilly dragged the boy down another flight of stairs to find a ground-floor window. Gilly dropped out into the deep snow, and then held up his hands. “Come on.”
“I don’t want your help,” the boy said, flinging himself into the snow and frost.
“At least put on your coat,” Gilly said, reclaiming them from the snow-bank, and flinging the boy’s at him.
The boy snarled and Gilly walked on, leaving the boy to flounder his way through the drifts, hampered by the heavy coat. Gilly reached the coach long before the boy, climbed into it, and sat, sipping hot, whiskey-laced tea from the flask. The boy staggered up, white from head to toe with blown snow, and shudderin
g with chill. His eyelashes were frosted and his face showed signs of suspicious dampness. Gilly wondered if the boy had been crying as he fought his way down the drive.
The boy clung to the edge of the coach, panting, shaking, soaked through. Again, Gilly offered a hand. The boy flinched, put his hands over his face, and then let out a sigh. He reached out and Gilly tugged him into the coach, rapped on the roof to let the coachman know to start.
“What’d you do? Swim your way through the drifts?” Gilly asked, peeling the sodden coat from the boy’s arms and back. “I’ve heard that in Itarus there are sports like that, where bored lordlings drag themselves behind sleighs, but I don’t think even they manage to get so much snow packed into their skin.” He pulled a woolen blanket from their basket, draped it around the boy, then passed him the flask. “Drink this. It’ll warm you.”
The boy’s teeth chattered on the edge of the flask, but a faint tinge of color seeped into his cheeks after the first few gulps. He looked up at Gilly with a cringing wariness. “Can I get to Itarus?”
“If you sell everything you stole from Last’s house and that sword, you might have enough. But then what? You’d be alone, hunting Last, hunting Janus in a country where you didn’t speak the language. In a country of poisoners and duelists who’d make mincemeat of you before you ever reached your goal.”
The boy turned his face, drew in a breath and held it. In his lap, his hands clawed at each other. “If I stay—”
“If you stay, you’ll wait out the year in comfort, in warmth, fed well, with a man who can explain the ways of the court and the aristocracy—who might even aid you.” Gilly took the flask away from the boy, drank another draft, more for the whiskey in it than for the warmth. He felt like a procurer.
The boy wrapped the blanket tighter and tucked his head into it, like a bird ducking its head beneath its wing.
This time, Gilly found no need to break the silence of the ride and the ever-darkening sky.
Chrisanthe greeted them at the door with a sour “He’s been waiting for you. Having fits, thinking you was tipped into a ditch.”
Gilly went straight into the library, shrugging off the lashings of snow that adhered to his sleeves and hair. The boy’s footsteps followed, but Gilly didn’t look back. The boy had to make his own decision.
He knelt down. “How was your day, old bastard? Did Chrisanthe give you your Elysia?”
“Near broke the needle off in my arm, stupid cow. But you’ve come back and you’ve brought the boy with you.” He patted Gilly’s cheek. “We’ll feast. Stir up Cook.”
Gilly returned, the cook’s grumbling ringing in his ears, to hear Vornatti speaking. “Well, boy, did you find we were telling you true?”
The boy didn’t reply in words; instead, he opened his pockets and showed Vornatti the small valuables he had pilfered, laying them out like offerings. Vornatti reached forward and picked up the little crystal figure. “Baxit. Not surprising. Some men are too stubborn to give up on the past.”
“You can have it,” the boy said. “The other things too. For my board.”
Gilly raised a brow, waited for Vornatti’s response, to see if he would let the boy buy himself a position as guest.
“I don’t take renters. And I have trinkets enough,” Vornatti said. “Keep these trifles to decorate your room.”
The boy sucked in his breath, moved to the fireplace, stared out at the snow. Finally, moving as stiffly as a wounded man, he walked back toward Vornatti, hand on sword hilt. Gilly tensed, but the boy only scooped up the fallen toffees, the little dish, and took a step back.
“You’re staying then?” Vornatti said, reaching out to fold his fingers in the boy’s hair, caressing the dark, snow-damp locks.
The boy remained still with a small but visible effort; his eyes flickered again to the fireplace, to the fur coat shedding its icy rills of melted snow, to Chrisanthe grumbling in under the weight of a laden tray, and said, “Until spring.”
· 4 ·
I WON’T DO IT,” the boy said, taking a step back, away from Gilly, closer to the door and escape.
Gilly, sweating with effort, emptied another iron kettle full of near-boiling water into Vornatti’s bath. Pushing the steam-damp hair from his face, Gilly assessed the boy, standing as rigid as a nervy horse, looking at the sloping marble tub with every evidence of horror.
“You will,” Gilly said. “You stink. And you likely have lice. Two things Vornatti doesn’t much care for. You’re lucky he’s been as patient as he has. He had me scrubbed the very first moment he brought me home, and I was far cleaner than you.”
“You die if you wash in winter,” the boy said, taking another step back at the next gush of water added.
“That’s ridiculous,” Gilly said. “My mother scrubbed us all once a week, no matter the season. Vornatti insists on a bath daily, and you’ve seen his advanced age.”
“I don’t want a bath,” the boy said, withdrawing like a repulsed cat. “If my stink keeps him away, so much the better.”
Gilly grunted as he hefted another of the water-heavy kettles. “You’ll have one. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you want to be held down and scrubbed—” He ignored the boy snarling and drawing the sword, and continued, “or whether I leave you here with the soap and your dignity. Think, boy—at best you’d avoid the waters tonight—but you’d find yourself drugged again, and bathed all unwitting. The baron may be an old man, but his sense of smell is keen.”
Letting the last kettle fall with a clang, Gilly wiped his hands on his breeches, then opened an armoire. “There are dressing gowns here. Put one on while you dry off and you’ll catch no chill. We’ll find you clothes later.” The boy’s eyes were still wild, and Gilly sighed, let the vexation in his tone ease. He supposed, to a boy like this, brought up city-poor, immersion in water might be frightening.
“I’ll leave you the key to the door. You know, boy, some people, myself included, enjoy a bath after a cold day. The water is very pleasant—as long as you don’t let it grow chill.” He laid the key beside the bath and left the boy, sword still drawn, staring at the steaming water.
THE CLOSING DOOR woke the boy from his stillness. Reaching forward, he closed the key in his fist, then turned to the door. He turned the key in the lock, tested the latch, then set the sword down on a wide bench. Vornatti must sit there, he thought, before his bath, drawing off his clothes. No, he thought, his mouth twisting, Vornatti sits there and Gilly draws off his clothes.
The boy touched the steaming water with cautious fingers, setting off small ripples. He put his fingers to his mouth, then sat in Vornatti’s chair. Toeing off his boots, he hesitated, looking at the locked door once again. He leaned his head against the door, listening; the dense wood gave back only silence.
Gingerly, the boy rose and unfastened the rough strip of canvas that made his belt. His breeches sagged past his knees and he stepped out of them. His stained linen shirt cloaked him from neck to thigh, and after another wary moment, he pulled that off as well with the air of a conjurer.
And with a conjurer’s touch, the moment changed. One moment a grubby, skinny stripling boy stood before the bath—the next, a young woman, unbinding another strip of dirty canvas from across her budding chest. Her side was mottled dark with old blood, spilled from a wound that had healed long since. She touched the flaking residue, touched the pale pink weal of the whip mark, frowning.
Taking up the soap, she held her breath, then stepped into the bath. After her first shuddering moment, when the heat of the water and the chill of the air warred over her, she calmed, sank down into the water.
Nerving herself, she took a breath and ducked her head; she came up to a sudden draft in the room. Spinning, water slopping over the edge, she clawed at the rim of the bath. Vornatti laughed, closed the door behind him. “Looking for this?” he said, taking cautious steps forward, holding her blade. His eyes glittered.
“Get out,” she said, clutching the
soap with shaking fingers.
“You have so much to learn,” he said, voice full of amusement. “You’ve learned two things now already. One—a door that is locked can be unlocked. Guard your secrets accordingly. Two—keep your sword by your side. A blade’s no good, no matter how sharp, if it’s out of reach.”
He settled stiffly onto the bench, and leaned forward, his eyes lingering on her skin. “A girl, then.” He smiled. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a girl.”
She threw the soap at him; he raised her blade and bisected the soap, then winced. “Elysia only takes the pain away, my girl, it doesn’t restore youth. This sword is a young man’s weapon.”
“It’s mine,” she said, surging out of the water, snatching it from his hand.
“Forgive me,” Vornatti said. “But tell me then—was it chance or choice that made us take you for a lad?”
She pulled on a dressing gown, sank into a sulky heap near the fire. “I am not a fool. A girl with a sword is asking only for someone to take it from her.”
“You intend to face Last as a boy.”
“Would he face a girl? I think he would not. I think he’d call forth his coachman to beat me down again, and ride on.” As she spoke, she tapped the tip of the blade on the hearth, chipping bits of brick loose like old blood.
Vornatti leaned forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. “What’s your name, girl? After all, we’re to be intimates. I’d like to know what to call you, what Janus called you—” He broke off, the sword pressing up against the crepey skin of his neck.
“What he called me is of no matter. That girl is dead. And you don’t need my name, don’t need it to call me to heel. After all, I’m rarely to be out of your reach. Unless—” The sword shifted a tiny, meaningful increment.
“Will you kill me? Then what? Flee my home back into the snows, as desperate as you came?”
“I’ll rob this place blind,” she said, rising, the blade steady, depositing a line of brick dust against his pale skin.