by Lane Robins
A shadow came between him and the light and he looked up. Maledicte hesitated on the stair. “Are you well, Gilly?”
“Well enough for having Echo in the house three days after a murder.”
“Watch yourself,” Janus snapped. “Echo will be snooping for days. Only Aris’s interest sent him off so soon.”
“And sooner or later, someone will tell him of my chest of poisons and potions. It will be a sore disappointment to him that Vornatti died of nothing so exotic,” Maledicte said.
He drifted up the stairs after Janus, paused again. “Gilly, I’ll need your help.”
Gilly nodded, wondering what Maledicte wanted now.
“Vornatti’s Antyrrian ledgers need to be copied. The private ones that detail all the funds diverted back to Aris. You needn’t worry about copying Vornatti’s hand, just the information,” Maledicte said, continuing up the stairs, untying his black cravat, slinging his black coat over the banister.
“It may take days,” Gilly said. The private ledgers filled nearly an entire shelf.
“Then it takes days,” Maledicte said. “Aris wishes to see those ledgers gone, and as he barters so nicely for them, I cannot help but think they may have other uses in the future. And don’t fret, Gilly, I’ll stay out from underfoot while you work.”
“You’re in mourning, Mal. Your activities must be curtailed—”
His only answer was the flutter of tossed paper as Maledicte continued on his path up the stairs.
Gilly smoothed the paper out, the thick foolscap, the weight of the seal against his palm letting him know that this was Aris’s letter in truth, and not some convenient forgery.
Maledicte,
Let me express my condolences for your loss, and relay an unusual request. As you have no doubt been aware, a financial agreement existed between myself and your guardian, wherein he arranged certain figures to the benefit of us both. As I cannot rely on the next auditor to be so amenable, please bring me those ledgers. In recompense, I am prepared to grant you dispensation from whatever scandal-broth your impetuous heart contrives to create.
Aris
The request, couched so openly, in a letter passed hand to hand, left Gilly breathless. The king was perhaps the fool the newspapers called him to think Maledicte’s behavior might always be so easily condoned. Maledicte’s own nature stirred trouble, but with Ani’s wings urging him on, Maledicte was capable of anything. And Aris thought to dismiss all trouble with a smile and a gracious word. It went beyond foolishness and into madness.
ARIS ENTERED THE THRONE ROOM from the king’s entrance at the rear of the dais. By the main door, two of the Kingsguard stood to attention, dressed in the armor the palace etiquette required, enamel over steel, Last blue over silver. The elaborate gate that closed off the anteroom was drawn back, showing Aris his petitioners—two Dainanders in their customary gray cloaks, and on the receiving end of their horrified gazes, Maledicte. Though he was dressed in gray as they were, it was entirely evident that he held none of their abstemious views: His grays were silk and satin, his hair curled and glistened; they wore wool and linen, and kept their hair cropped close.
Aris hid a smile as he nodded greetings. With Maledicte a visible reminder of Antyre’s decadent court, the straitlaced Dainanders’ eagerness to return home might outweigh their avarice. Aris waved Maledicte forward, and once he had entered, the guards shut the anteroom gate on the waiting emissaries.
Maledicte dropped into a bow as he approached Aris; it felt amused to Aris, as if Maledicte mocked the role of court and courtier, the positions of king and servant, when they were only two men.
Aris settled himself on his throne, conscious of his own smile. “You came. My request done?” His gaze flicked to the single book held in a gloved hand.
“Delivered to your quarters, I believe. Your Captain Jasper seemed most eager to relieve me of the burden.” Maledicte offered up the ledger he held.
Aris opened it, and Maledicte said, “Careful, the ink may still be damp.”
Wariness replaced the pleasure Aris had felt. He tapped the open book with an agitated finger, smudged the ink, and said, “So I see.” He waited for an explanation.
“Vornatti’s hand was crabbed and nigh unreadable, quite gave me the headache looking at them. I thought to spare you that pain.”
“The originals?” Aris asked.
“Quite safe,” Maledicte said. “I am careful of my possessions.” The dark gaze that met his was confident, and under its power, Aris bit back his first instinct to shout for the guards.
Aris tore his eyes from those dark ones, and said, “My brother thinks you dangerous.”
“What courtier is not?” Maledicte said. “I have a sword to let men’s blood, and a wit to make them wish their wounds fatal. But I am hardly the only such in your court.”
“I could wish otherwise,” Aris said, impetuous himself. “It makes me feel less a shepherd of my people and more a serpent charmer.”
Maledicte smiled, and uninvited, dropped to sit on the stair, looking up at Aris. “I am charmed,” he said.
“And yet you deny me what I asked for.”
Maledicte sighed, traced the horned image of Haith worked into the side of the throne. “Vornatti had the training of me, sire, and so I am constitutionally unable to part with anything of such potential value.”
“Your intentions?” Aris’s anger roiled, turning belly-up, and exposing that thread of betrayal and hurt that lay beneath it. This young courtier had drawn his liking from the first. Aris had imagined the sentiment returned.
“I have none.”
“Then give them to me,” Aris commanded.
“I will not,” Maledicte said.
Aris let his breath out, stung and chilled at once. “Little fool. I am your king. Should I so command, you must obey. To do otherwise is treason.”
“I will not,” Maledicte repeated.
Aris put his hand beneath the mulish jaw and tilted the dark eyes to meet his own. “I could have the guards take your stubborn head from your shoulders.” Aris slid his other hand around Maledicte’s jawline, into the silken curls. “I do not think your stiff neck will prove obstacle enough for steel.”
“Can you truly fault me for my caution? My craving for security in a world where I’ve known so little?” Maledicte met Aris’s eyes without fear or apology. Aris contemplated the face turned up to his, his fingers moving idly through Maledicte’s hair, feeling the fineness of his neck and skin, the sleek curve of the skull, the rough touch of the boy’s scarred cheek against his fingers. Maledicte smelled of lilacs, and Aris found himself staring into the wide, dark eyes as if they were the only thing in the room.
Aris was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that he was breathing faster, that his touch had turned to a caress, that Maledicte had woken long-dormant desire he thought gone with his dead queen. He started to withdraw his hands, and Maledicte caught one in his own gloved hand, caged the palm over his mouth.
“Please, Aris.” Maledicte’s breath warmed Aris’s palm, and Aris was wholly mindful of the soft brush of lips against his skin. The rasping voice was as intimate as any Aris had ever heard; that agile tongue swept out, licked ink from Aris’s fingertips.
Aris took his hand away, hid the warmth of it against his side. Maledicte’s lips curled.
“Leave us. We dismiss you from our presence.” Aris took his refuge in unusual formality of speech, uncomfortably stirred.
Maledicte rose and bowed. He backed down the dais stairs, then bowed again and turned toward the door and the guards, the slim line of his back a gray smudge in the white room. Only after he had left was Aris able to recall the ledgers denied him. A brief spurt of bewildered irritation rushed his veins: Maledicte thought he required the ledgers to protect himself from Aris? When he had just proven to his satisfaction that words and touch alone would suffice?
· 19 ·
Women, by their nature, are more susceptible to sudden nerve-storms, to crying out to the gods f
or succor. However, they are also fickle creatures, no more able to hold to one course than a ship without its sail, and their petty outrages often die stillborn on their lips, forgotten as the next emotion crests. Though there are histories of women summoning the aid of gods, few are substantiated, and indeed, I have never met the woman determined enough to deserve a god’s attention.
—Darian Chancel, “On Theology”
G ILLY, TELL ME ABOUT THE debutantes this year. The king has it in mind for me to wed.”
Janus was in smallclothes only, his hair sleek along the thick column of his neck. Gilly held the shaving basin and mirror steady for him, studying Janus surreptitiously. Janus’s skin was marked with scars, wounds neglected and healed without care. The young noblemen of the court had hides of gilt and marble; Janus recalled to mind the older generation, the ones who had fought and bled, the ones who had their history etched into their skin. Gilly wondered if Maledicte’s skin carried that same violent history.
Watching, Maledicte lounged amid rumpled sheets, fully dressed, admiring Janus.
Janus nicked himself and flinched at the spot of bright blood. “You keep this thing too damn sharp,” he said.
“What purpose has a dull blade?” Maledicte said. “But I’ll act your valet.” He sat and smoothed the bedsheets, reaching for the razor.
“You’re too fond of sharp edges to play barber,” Janus said.
Maledicte subsided back into the massed pillows, propping himself on his elbows. “And so I find out how much you trust me.”
Janus pounced, rolling Maledicte into his arms for a lazy kiss.
“You’re bleeding on me,” Maledicte said, rubbing the smear near his mouth. Janus bent, licked the smudge away.
“There are several acceptable candidates, depending on your intentions,” Gilly said, unwilling to watch more of this play.
“I want my birthright,” Janus said, voice muffled by the soft skin of Maledicte’s throat. “The title and all it entails.”
Maledicte wrestled free of Janus, sat behind him, tilted Janus’s head back. “Consider while I shave him.” Maledicte collected the basin and razor over Janus’s objection.
“Amarantha Lovesy,” Gilly said, after several moments of reflection.
“The duke of Love’s daughter? She’s no debutante, too old and serious-minded, mad about books and horses. Father told me of her,” Janus said, nearly getting a mouthful of soap.
“And above a bastard’s touch,” Gilly said. “Except she’s blotted her book, got caught with her skirts up with a stablehand. But she’s got breeding, and she has a reasonable dowry. Besides being a counselor’s daughter.”
“Aris expects an heir. Is she barren?” Janus said.
Gilly shrugged. “Nothing’s been said. But she’s not so old as all that.”
“Is she pretty, Gilly?” Janus asked. “I’ve not laid eyes on her yet.”
Maledicte’s fingers tensed about the razor.
Gilly recalled his first court attendance with Vornatti and his first sight of Amarantha. A girl near his own age and as far removed from his farming sisters as to be a separate race. Lady Perfection, the court called her. When her skirts had foamed over Gilly’s boots in passing, he had nearly melted with desire.
“Very pretty,” Maledicte said, before Gilly could.
“Beautiful,” Gilly amended.
Maledicte snarled; his hands clenched about the razor’s handle, and Janus put a hand up to keep the blade away.
“I suppose a beautiful wife is more palatable than an ugly one. Why hasn’t she wed, Gilly?” Janus asked, still caging Maledicte’s hand and the razor.
“Her father’s holding out for a title. Even now. Rumor has it he’s been thinking of an Itarusine duke, and so regain some of his money that’s fled abroad with the Itarusine tithe. But your title might prove more tempting with its hint of the throne for future generations.”
“Still, she’s old,” Janus said.
“If you don’t want her, Gilly can bed her. He’s already admitted to finding her desirable.” Maledicte’s voice was edged.
“I won’t share with Gilly,” Janus said.
His light eyes met Gilly’s and Gilly deciphered the warning as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. “I might find myself saddled with a farmboy’s brat for heir.”
Maledicte slapped him, a blow that reddened his newly shaved skin and filled the room with its impact. Janus winced and seized the razor again, tugging it from Maledicte’s hand.
“Oh, then bed your beautiful wife yourself.” Maledicte shoved Janus forward and surged off the bed. Soapy water splashed Janus’s lap.
Janus ignored his tantrum and said to Gilly, “Amarantha it is, then.” Wedding the Lovesy chit turns a necessary marriage into more than a way to please Aris. Love’s support would be invaluable in my quest for the title.”
“She has her pride. She might not accept,” Gilly said, watching Maledicte’s face. He touched Maledicte’s wrist, intending to soothe, but Maledicte twitched away, all nerves and temper.
“Does she truly have a choice?” Janus asked. “With Aris urging me to wed, and her father eager to see her settled before she finds another stablehand to liven her days? Tell me, is she still considered respectable? I’ve no desire to be burdened with a socially unacceptable wife.”
“She is Love’s daughter,” Gilly said. “Her sins can be forgotten with a ring.”
“Enough,” Maledicte said, voice cracking.
Janus’s face softened; he held out his arms. “Come here, my dark cavalier.” Maledicte dropped to his knees before Janus and put his head in his lap.
Janus stroked his dark hair, then said, “What else can I do, Mal? If not Amarantha, who then? Will there be anyone you accept?”
“I hate them all,” Maledicte whispered, voice edged.
“So will I, I promise,” Janus said, brushing aside Maledicte’s hair to kiss the back of his nape.
Maledicte turned his mouth away when Janus sought it, but said, “Gilly, arrange for Janus to meet Amarantha. Find out where she goes, what she does, what she likes. Treat her as any other enemy we mean to vanquish.”
GILLY RETURNED TO THE HOUSE in the afternoon after a series of meetings with his fellow servant-spies and informants. Though most of them had revolved around Amarantha, Gilly had taken the time to meet with a maid in the Westfalls’ employ, to discover if Mirabile had yet returned. The answer had been no, but Gilly, watching the girl’s eyes slip away from his, wondered if she were truthful. The last they had heard of Mirabile’s doings had been the coachman’s report. After Vornatti’s funeral, he had followed her to the edge of the Relicts and balked while she delved farther in, her skirts vanishing into the winding rubble. The Relicts and their denizens should have been the end of her, but Gilly had uncomfortable doubts. Mirabile was a dangerous woman.
The castle of rooks on the roofline muttered growling agreement and Gilly shivered, slipping inside the house without looking upward, afraid of catching their black gaze. Inside, he found Livia waiting to intercept him. “Watch yourself, Gilly. Once Lord Last left—well, he’s in a temper right enough. He threw the kettle at me. Broke the mirror on the landing, too.”
Gilly looked up the dark stairs. “Why don’t you go out?”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” she said. Livia held out her hand, and Gilly, conscious that her pay wasn’t due for another week, passed her a handful of coppers. “I’ll give you a luna also, if you take the other two maids with you.”
“Those dull mice?” she complained, but nodded.
Gilly took the stairs two at a time and paused. Livia hadn’t said Maledicte had used the bronze serpent in the hall to break the mirror. The glass was still caged by the frame; only a few silvery fragments from the heart of the shattered mirror dotted the carpet. He stepped over them, tapped on Maledicte’s door, and opened it on a curse.
Maledicte sat on the bed, sawing cravats apart with the shaving razor. The floor around him
was littered with scraps of mangled linens and thrown objects: a boot on the hearth, the water basin beside the wall, a long splash before the upended kettle near the door. “Whose throat are you wishing cut?” Gilly asked.
“Mine,” Maledicte said, his face blotched with tears and temper. Grief wrapped the sulky lines of his mouth. Gilly’s heart turned over.
“His marriage,” Gilly said.
Maledicte rubbed his swollen eyes. The razor moved perilously close to his skin and Gilly took it away, folding it closed.
Maledicte’s eyes darkened. “I wasn’t done.”
“Why don’t I pour you a drink instead?” Gilly looked over at the liquor tray, littered with broken crystal. “Or better yet, let’s finish the job you’ve started, and frighten out Cook tonight. We’ll raid her kitchen, find out what spirits she’s been snaffling from your cellar.”
“I’m not a child to be humored,” Maledicte warned.
“Why shouldn’t I humor you?” Gilly said. “You look like your heart is breaking.”
Maledicte let Gilly tug him to his feet. “When he marries—”
“Shh,” Gilly said. “It’s remarkable how much improved things seem after a drink.”
“An attitude like that, it’s a marvel you’re not a sot,” Maledicte said, but allowed Gilly to lead him down the stairs, past the grand, empty, and shadowed rooms into the warm recesses of the kitchen. The cook looked up from her chopping, startled.
“We won’t need you tonight,” Gilly said.
The woman eyed Gilly, flickered her eyes over Maledicte’s face, and pulled off her apron. “There’s bread in the oven. Be a good boy, Gilly, and don’t let it burn or you’ll have no toast tomorrow.”
When she had bustled away, Maledicte said, “She likes you.”
“She’s a motherly sort. If you weren’t so off-putting, she’d never leave you be. She thinks you need feeding up.”
“Is that motherly?” Maledicte said. “My mother wasn’t like that.” He settled down at the scarred wooden table, the unusual surroundings distracting him from his tantrum, and poked at the chopped almonds with the knife tip.