Maledicte

by Lane Robins

  “Lady,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “So formal?” she asked, her tone arch. “When we are to be family soon?”

  Maledicte stiffened like an affronted cat.

  Mirabile trilled laughter, and held out her wrist again, showing the bright band of gemstones circling it. Emeralds, Gilly thought numbly. The old bastard’s given her emeralds to match her eyes.

  “From your so-generous guardian,” Mirabile said. She leaned closer to let Maledicte admire the bracelet. “I expect the rest of the set when I return from the country. The necklace, the earrings, the ring…”

  “You’re deluded,” Maledicte said, “a woman who cannot discern the difference between a bridal gift and a whore’s trinket.”

  Mirabile’s green eyes darkened, but before she could speak, Maledicte continued, his voice as delicately acid as it had been the night he faced DeGuerre. “Or are you telling me he offered for your hand? That Vornatti propelled himself from his chair and to his knees before you? I think not.”

  Her smile held with effort. “You had best watch yourself, Maledicte. He is most displeased with you, and I am as elegant and as lovely as you.”

  “But so much older,” Maledicte murmured, and Gilly winced.

  “I see you’re in no civil mood,” she said. “Perhaps your guardian’s lecture will teach you to mind your manners.” She dropped a tiny curtsy toward Maledicte and turned, flirting her skirts as she left.

  Looking after her, Gilly missed Maledicte’s first words, but the sullen rage in them reclaimed his attention. “Did you buy that bracelet for Vornatti and not tell me?”

  “No,” Gilly said, hastily. “No, Mal.” At the black anger in Maledicte’s eyes, Gilly stifled his next words—that likely Livia had done it, and pocketed herself a few coppers as well.

  “Think you that he favors her enough for marriage?” Despite the rage cording his throat, tightening the silken lines of his cravat, Maledicte’s voice was quiet.

  “You said it yourself—it’s a whore’s gift, a trinket he can use to keep her dancing to his tune. And a small price to pay for raising your doubts, I’d lay wager. He’s angry, Maledicte. Not an idiot.”

  “If he wanted to wed Mirabile, he’d have to be, wouldn’t he?” Maledicte said, the flush leaving his cheeks, the tension slackening from his hands. “A woman who’s murdered one husband already and who plots to cuckold her second before the marriage lines are even written.”

  “Still,” Gilly said, “Best go to him now, and take your punishment. Soothe him if you can.”

  “Soothe him?” Maledicte said. “He gave her jewelry.”

  “He’s so angry, Mal, please. Last time, I ended in the stables, while you only had to serve him as I do. He’s angrier this time, and I always pay for it….” He trailed off, unsure where the bitterness in his voice had come from.

  Maledicte’s eyes widened and then he said, “I’ll go to him at once.”

  VORNATTI’S CHAMBER SEEMED SUBDUED, AS if the death bells had shocked it to stillness. Maledicte looked at the room with new eyes, eyes that were looking into the uncertain future. Vornatti was a scarecrow of a man, hunched in a wing chair, drawn up before an unlit fire, dozing, but Maledicte knew better than to presume helplessness. Maledicte looked at the bed, plush heaps of featherdown and velvet and linen, followed the line of the posts up to the ceiling and its obscene fresco of fornicating cupids.

  He found himself amused at Vornatti’s unflagging concupiscence, at the determination that filled the man’s hours. The smile was fragile, though. Though Maledicte flouted Vornatti’s strictures, gave in to his own whims, still he dreaded displeasing Vornatti too greatly, wary of the man’s vindictiveness and temper.

  Vornatti woke, coughed, then said, “Boy, come here.”

  Maledicte turned. Surely he had done this already, the slender youth, the sword, an old man’s lures. He dropped the sword on the cluttered bed chest, beside the potions and formulas, the shaving soap and scent. A bottle tipped with a crystalline ring, but kept its stopper. Maledicte crouched beside Vornatti. “What do you want, Vornatti?”

  The baron’s dark eyes fixed on Maledicte’s upturned face. “You killed Kritos.”

  “I did,” Maledicte said. A denial would only feed Vornatti’s anger. Soothe him, Gilly had pled.

  To that end, Maledicte stood, slipping off his coat, his boots, the stiff, brocaded vest, undressing piece by piece.

  The baron’s eyes softened a little, anger tempered by a more familiar appreciation.

  Maledicte settled gently in Vornatti’s lap, resting his head against his shoulder, as falsely obedient as a young wife, allowing Vornatti’s hand to slip along his thigh. “Echo seems unsuspecting.”

  “Kritos was a fool and a bad gambler; such men come to bad ends routinely,” Vornatti said, absently. His knotted fingers slid upward, traced circles over Maledicte’s hipbones.

  “See there, no harm done. Don’t begrudge me Kritos’s death. In turn, I’ll—”

  Vornatti put a gnarled hand to Maledicte’s lips. “A bargain, my boy.”

  “We struck one already. In the library of your country home.”

  “I am not doddering, Maledicte. I remember our agreement.” Vornatti laid his hand on Maledicte’s head, holding it to his shoulder. “I was wrong.”

  Maledicte waited, heart pounding, wondering whether Vornatti intended to be rid of him. Despite Gilly’s words, Vornatti didn’t seem angry, and that raised nervous hackles on Maledicte’s neck. The old man plotted.

  “You can only lose in this quest of yours. You will always be the outsider, always an object of suspicion, and they will turn on you without hesitation. Better I had let you stab Last in the back than teach you to think of honor and nobility. Antyre is not Itarus to admire the cunning of those trained like assassin princes.”

  Maledicte nipped the fingers so near his mouth, and Vornatti pulled his hand away. “Is that what you have taught me? And here I called your lessons vice.”

  Vornatti chuckled. “Ah lad, your wicked, disrespectful tongue.” The humor faded from his face, draining to melancholy. “I am an old man, Maledicte, and I find myself prey to an old man’s most insidious and foolish disease. I would keep you, your wicked mouth, your liquid eyes, your tempers and tempests, only for myself. Keep you mine alone.”

  Disgust flared in him, twisting his lips. Stay here? Limit his touches to Vornatti’s withered flesh when Janus awaited? Maledicte started to rise, patience gone, blood drumming in his veins; Vornatti tangled a fist in Maledicte’s hair, sent him to his knees by his chair. “Listen to me, boy. Bide your time. Last will keep until you are better established, or until I am gone and cannot watch you fall. My name grants you some safety but not enough for a direct attack. Such can only end in death or prison. Stay with me. Continue as we have been, and I’ll make it worth your while. You know you can trust me to keep my word. Haven’t I kept your other secrets safe, my girl? Stay and I’ll reward you. Make you my ward in truth. My heir.”

  “Do you think I can be bought?” Maledicte asked, fisting his hands in his lap. The sword slid from the chest with a protesting scrape and fell to the rugs below.

  “Haven’t I bought you once already? Now, all I’m buying is your time. You’re a young…man. Last, curse him, is a healthy man. And I, Maledicte, am an old man. My blood fails beneath my skin, but even dying men have favors to bestow. Wait and you’ll have money enough to escape from Antyre when they turn on you, teeth bared and bloody.”

  Maledicte said, “You swore you hated Last.”

  “And I am content to know you will destroy him. I have no need to see it. Perhaps my vengeance should have been taken when my blood first burned. However it occurs, that fire is cold now and I’d exchange chill for warmth. Yours would be preferable. If you persist on your impatient course, I will make do with Mirabile, and set you back to the streets.”

  “You speak to me of vengeance fading, yet you would have me balk and delay? I have not that lu
xury. You had not the spur to act that I have.” Maledicte escaped from Vornatti’s anchoring hand, seized up his shirt, and shrugged it on.

  “Janus,” Vornatti growled.

  “Ani,” Maledicte countered to Vornatti’s scoffing laugh. He had woken, newly aware of Her, Her contentment that he had sealed their compact, satisfaction that more blood would be forthcoming. Vornatti’s prattling of delay made Her shift like a snake coiling to strike.

  Vornatti leaned forward in his chair, hands clutching the padded leather armrests. “Forget the boy; he has surely forgotten you. What can he offer you? He’s only a bastard nephew to a dreaming king. He’ll never be earl, never inherit. Last will see to that, count on it. And he has never attempted to find you. Your desire is one-sided, boy. Stay your hand.”

  Maledicte took refuge in the inane persiflage of Vornatti’s favorite literature. “Why sir, this is all so sudden.” The acid snarl to his voice removed all humor from the words.

  Vornatti’s eyes squinched, peering at him. Maledicte stepped back farther into the shadows, out of Vornatti’s sight, given over to an uncontrollable shaking. He trembled like a spooked horse, from head to toe, while he thought. It was too soon to dispense with Vornatti’s patronage—and inciting his wrath so near the solstice ball—

  “Is that a refusal?” Vornatti asked. “Casting you back to the streets not enough? I could expose you first, girl. Or cast Gilly out alongside you. He’s begun to bore me anyhow, and I know others who seek his services, though they would not treat him as kindly.”

  Maledicte’s shivering ceased as quickly as it had come, his composure restored. “Won’t you even grant me the time to think on it? The heroines in your novels always have time to think on it.”

  “You’re no heroine,” Vornatti said.

  “And you’re no gentleman.”

  Vornatti laughed. “Stay or go. Yes or no, Maledicte.”

  “Damn you,” Maledicte said, plunged away from Vornatti as if he would flee, but then returned. “Yes, damn you.”

  “As greedy and as fickle as I thought. After all, Janus is nothing but a boy you no longer know.” Vornatti leaned forward, took Maledicte’s hands. “Thank me, boy. You’ve learned something it has taken me years to learn: We all outgrow our pasts. Now kiss me and cry friends.”

  Maledicte kissed his dry cheek, amazed that the choked rage within him wasn’t enough to scald Vornatti’s skin. “Shall I send for Gilly, let him dress you for court?”

  Vornatti said, “Call Gilly by all means. We’ll let him know you’re staying. But first—” He drew Maledicte to his lap again, slipped the shirt away.

  MALEDICTE SEETHED QUIETLY while Vornatti tugged at the bell rope, his face carefully controlled while Gilly heard the news. He raised his eyes to see the expression on Gilly’s face: pure, unadulterated alarm. But then, Gilly believed in Ani’s presence, and Vornatti, fool several times over, did not. There was no future but vengeance for him.

  Maledicte ascended the stairs, turning the gas lamps down as he went, leaving a smothering trail of darkness behind him, hoping to balk Gilly in pursuit. Though it had been his choice to stay, the easy temper in his blood also blamed Gilly.

  But Gilly, with longer legs, caught him at the first landing, seized his shoulder. “What are you planning?”

  “Don’t,” Maledicte said, Ani already an angry presence in his blood. To be manhandled was more than he could stand. Heedless, Gilly shook him. “Tell me why you agreed to put off your vengeance.”

  Maledicte put his hand on Gilly’s chest, shoved him away without effort, watched Gilly fly back and hit the far wall. Maledicte’s hands shook, a resurgence of the eager trembling that had beset him in Vornatti’s room, spreading over his entire body.

  “Maledicte?” Gilly said, rising, caution on his face.

  Maledicte slid down the wall, crouched in the shadows, ashamed of himself. “Who else would I be?”

  The name hung in the air between them. Gilly hesitated, then dropped to his knees beside Maledicte. “Lean on me. I’ll help you upstairs. I’ll bring you up some milk, warmed and scented with vanilla and almonds.”

  “As if Ani can be cured like a cold, or Vornatti’s caresses made sweet,” Maledicte said, acid in his voice, then in a different tone. “Thank you, Gilly, my gentle Gilly….” He lapsed into silence as they made their way up the dark stairs, Gilly looking back over their shoulders, as if he expected to see Ani sweeping after them.

  · 14 ·

  O N THE EVENING OF THE SOLSTICE BALL, Gilly and Maledicte found themselves part of a line of coaches, wending their way through the city streets to the palace at so slow a pace that noblemen sauntered from coach to coach, visiting, chatting, flirting, admiring costumes. From his perch on the driver’s bench, Gilly watched it all, and couldn’t help but contrast the general giddiness with his passenger’s stillness. Costumed forlornly as the Heartsore Chevalier, that tragic figure of legend, Maledicte drew the coach curtains whenever nobles drew near, sulking into silence.

  Gilly hated the costume, the sleek white wrappings of vest and coat and pants, hated the crimson touches at wrist and neck; most of all he hated the expression in Maledicte’s eyes, as if this moment might be too much to bear.

  Gilly’s nerves were strung tight enough as it was; hadn’t they left Vornatti home, lost in a drugged sleep when he had meant to attend? Maledicte’s doing, of course, and done so swiftly that Gilly had not understood until he tried to rouse Vornatti. His remonstrance had died when Maledicte turned on him, raging. “Do you think I could have borne it? Hunting Janus with Vornatti draped over my skin? Touching me as if he had my welcome?”

  At the ballroom, Gilly tossed the reins to a waiting stableboy, and opened the carriage door. Maledicte stepped out like a ghost, one hand on the sword.

  Maledicte started up the stairs with Gilly behind, and paused at the great Book of Names. On the last page, recently scribed, his goal was marked.

  Janus Ixion, Lord Last: the name was scrawled with such black finality that Gilly was not surprised to see the next names rough and surrounded by splatters. Janus had destroyed the nib.

  Maledicte touched the ink with his gloved fingers. The ink sank in, still wet, black staining into the red silk gloves. Maledicte wiped his hand against his mouth, shoved past Gilly, and escaped into the night air, past the cloying sweetness of heaped violets and jasmine, lilies and heliotrope, and the slow-burning haze of beeswax candles. Gilly found Maledicte outside, pacing beside the ivy maze.

  “Mal—”

  “It stinks in there, like rot. Do you think anyone has ever told Aris that crushed flowers smell like a grave?”

  Gilly held out a gentling hand.

  Maledicte turned, retched into the leaves. Gilly stepped back when Maledicte looked up. His eyes were wild. His hands shook like those of a man with fever, and his voice trembled. “Comes the moment when everything changes. This idyll dies, and it has been an idyll, hasn’t it? Even with Vornatti’s tempers and demands and threats? I’m feared to see it end.” He stretched up and pressed his lips against the drawn corner of Gilly’s mouth.

  Gilly could smell Maledicte’s skin, scenting faintly of lilac, could feel the smoothness of Maledicte’s cheek against the stubble rising on his own. “Feared of Last? Of Janus? I won’t believe either with the course you’ve set.”

  “Not them. Last is a dead man, and Janus is neither alive nor dead ’til he speaks. I fear myself, Gilly, the brush of feathers in my mind. If Janus spurns me—Her feathers urge me to darker hungers, and Her wings smell of death and bloody iron.” He hid his face in Gilly’s neck, but shied away when Gilly reached up a comforting hand.

  “If Janus spurns me, or remembers me not, there will be nothing left of me. Only Ani’s puppet. But still, there is no going back.”

  “Would you go back, if you could?” Gilly asked, voice rough.

  “No,” Maledicte answered immediately, without the need for thought, his eyes black and very cold. “Why are we st
anding in the dark, Gilly, when the ball awaits? I’ve killed one Last already. Let’s see how many this night holds.”

  Gilly followed him inside, where the nobles’ ballroom had been doubled with the drawing back of the barriers between the king’s ballroom and theirs. While the nobles’ ballroom was painted in washes of blue and dust, Aris’s ballroom was all rose and gold, and so the dancers whirled from twilight to sunrise. Maledicte walked on, unaware, his eyes flicking from one bare face to the next. The Bright Solstice required costumes but not masks; those were saved for winter’s Dark Solstice, where one wore masks to shield identity from the hungry dead.

  Gilly paced beside him, looking for a man he’d never seen, but felt sure he would recognize. As the moments passed, and Maledicte’s expression grew fixed, Gilly whispered, “Follow the gossip, the bent heads. A newcomer leaves such in his tracks. It will lead you to him.”

  Maledicte granted Gilly a shaky smile, then stiffened like a hound on scent. Gilly followed his gaze.

  The young man entering from the balconies could only be Janus Ixion; he was the butter stamp of Last, pale-eyed, gilt-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered. The brief impression Gilly had gleaned from the miniature had been of a vapid nobleman, but he had assumed it due to an artist overeager to please Last.

  But the reality was no better; Gilly felt disappointment turn his stomach. This was the face that had driven Maledicte so far? This was Janus, this elegantly draped figure in blue velveteen and gold? His face was as empty as that of any longtime court roué. Where Maledicte still carried a rat’s wariness, Janus seemed pampered from birth, the perfect son of an aging aristocrat, with an expression as devoid of intelligence as it was of interest. Here, in the glittering heart of Antyre, Janus conveyed only boredom.

  Gilly felt a shiver in the air, turned. Maledicte was no longer at his side, but had disappeared while Gilly gaped. He caught a glimpse of him, moving along the perimeter of the room, following in Janus’s idle path like his shadow.