Maledicte

by Lane Robins

  “You’d best keep your grip on the reins, or you’ll be at my feet before you know it.”

  “Take your hand away.”

  She stepped back, gloved hands spread wide, laughing. He was at a loss for her shifting moods, at her returning to his side time and time again, and the damn horse kept tugging at his hands. Maledicte could not keep himself from glancing over his shoulder, hoping for aid. But, now leading his steed, Janus was deep in conversation with the duchess of Love.

  “He does the pretty very well,” Mirabile said, leaning her weight against the horse’s velvet side. “I hear he was quite well versed as a lover of women—do you suppose he’s reverting to type?”

  “Perhaps he already has, and the ladies were the anomaly,” Maledicte said, lured into speech. “Some men lose all sense of self abroad, or so I’m told.”

  “So confident in his affections? I hope your loyalty is not misplaced. But let us not quarrel today. Instead, come and have tea with me.”

  “What have we to say to each other?” Maledicte said, his jaw tight.

  “At the very least, tea would grant you an excuse to dismount. Come now, Mal. Is that horse really preferable to my company?” She leaned forward and blew into its flaring nostrils. The entire animal seized under him, going as rigid as a corpse, then it reared, hooves striking at the sky. Maledicte wrestled it down, panting, then dismounted with more haste than grace.

  “I never did like having discourse on an unequal footing,” she said, smiling.

  Maledicte wound the reins in his hands, reconsidering. There was rage in her voice, barely contained. But he was unwilling to back down, or worse, attempt to remount beneath her gaze. He hoped to see Janus returning, escaping the vapid confines of polite first conversation between suitor and sought, but Janus lounged against a tree, one boot propped on a mounting block, smiling down at Amarantha. Even from a distance, Maledicte could see him working to hold Amarantha’s interest. The duchess was his, but Amarantha looked away, plucking fitfully at her gloves.

  Mirabile insinuated her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come and have tea,” she said.

  “It’s early yet—” Maledicte said, looking at the angry shadows in her red-brown eyes. Something shifted and moved behind them, something sleek and dark, drowning his objections, as if her words were law.

  “There, no protests,” Mirabile said. “Such kindred spirits as we should be allies.”

  He walked with her, her hand around his elbow and caged by his free hand. Walking as if they were lovers. The horse? he wondered briefly, dragging his gaze away to look back. Had he loosed it in the park?

  “Here we are,” she said, settling herself onto a marble bench in the shade of a beech tree. A small table, its top a maze of inlaid tiles, had been laid out with a teapot, two cups of wafer-thin china, and a covered tray. Maledicte sat beside her, took the cup she handed him.

  Shadows fell from the tree above, one crow and then another, followed by a slew of rooks, all come to scavenge for scraps. The two sets of birds squabbled and jabbered while Mirabile laughed and threw them tea cakes. Maledicte watched their glossy wings, the slick emptiness of their dark eyes. What could drive a noblewoman to the Relicts? He very much feared he had the answer.

  “Your tea’s growing cold,” Mirabile said.

  The same slick darkness rested in her eyes, Maledicte realized, the blank gaze of a predatory creature. The cup hovered at his lips, smelling of sweet jasmine and warmth, and reflecting the crow-blackness of his own gaze. He set it down with nervous fingers. “I am not thirsty,” he said, standing.

  She rose with him as if they were linked. She collected his cup and swallowed several mouthfuls. “There. In case your fearful heart cried poison, I have drunk from it as well.” She folded his fingers around the cup again.

  Her eyes on his, the hush of the leaves in the faint breeze, and the squabbling crows at his feet all conspired together, making him feel he had stumbled into a dream. But he looked at the shadows in her gaze and forced a smile. “No.” He set down the cup; without looking back, he walked away, ignoring the quiver in his spine that urged him to run before her mask fell again and showed him more than he could bear to know.

  GILLY WAS READING in the parlor when the front door shut with enough force to rattle a sour note out of the spinet. “How was the park?” Gilly asked, as the carved door opened.

  “Vile,” Maledicte said, settling down on a delicately curved love seat. “Janus went haring after Amarantha; Mirabile leeched onto me and tried to feed me dismal tea.”

  Gilly folded the pages of his new book closed with casual fingers, hoping to distract Maledicte from it. A moment’s reflection showed him that Maledicte was unlikely to notice anything. “Mirabile? Are you well? You look…scared.”

  “I am no coward,” Maledicte said, the words quick and hot, ragged in his throat. “At least, I never was before. But something was wrong. Mirabile’s…changed. She had shadows in her eyes, Gilly.”

  “Shadows,” Gilly parroted, heart sinking.

  “I know, such melodrama,” Maledicte said. “But I swear to you—No, I will think no more on it.”

  Gilly shivered, thinking of other eyes, all too often shadowed. “Mal, did you drink her tea?”

  “No,” Maledicte said, turning in his seat and gouging at the upholstery buttons. “I know there’s no rule against declining tea, so you needn’t frown at me like that.”

  “It might have been poisoned,” Gilly said. “She hates you enough for that.”

  Maledicte paused in his destruction of the chair. “I sincerely hope it was. When I chose not to drink, she swallowed it. Perhaps she’s ended herself?”

  “Or found herself,” Gilly said. “Shadows and poison. Mal—you said that she had changed. Could she have sought out Ani’s aid as you did?”

  “I never sought Her,” Maledicte snapped. “As for Mirabile seeking Ani—” His hands clenched on the chair, his voice tightening as he rose. “It’s those damned books you read. You see Her hand everywhere, when the simple fact is that I fled from Mirabile like a frightened child, afraid she’d pour poison down my throat.”

  Gilly seized Maledicte by the shoulders, stilled his restless pacing. Something moved over Maledicte’s eyes, like the reflections of dark feathers, and Maledicte slumped.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Ani supposedly protects Her own from poison,” Gilly said. “Even had you drunk—”

  “You say that—with stonethroat’s effects branded in my voice? You have read far too many tales, Gilly.”

  “But that was before you sealed Her compact. Before you killed Kritos.”

  Maledicte said, “The only gift Ani brings is the only curse She brings, that of resolve and obsession. No more nonsense.”

  “And the sword?” Gilly said, watching Maledicte retrieve it from the divan where Janus had forced him to leave it before exiting the house. “She gave it to you. What might She have given Mirabile?”

  “Gilly!” Maledicte said. “Are you trying to make me fear Mirabile more or less?”

  Gilly sat, the book beneath him rustling as he did so, and Maledicte’s attention shifted like a cat’s. “What’s that? Another tract on the dead gods?”

  “It is,” Gilly admitted, pulling it out and laying it on the floor between them. “Written by Mirabile’s husband, as it occurs.”

  “I should have it burned,” Maledicte said, looking at the gaudy cover with an expression composed equally of wariness and contempt.

  “You gave me the money that bought the book. I suppose it’s yours. Everything is, even me.”

  “No.” Maledicte turned, the shadows fading from his face. “The money I gave you was only your share.”

  “An accomplice to murder,” Gilly muttered.

  Maledicte touched Gilly’s cheek and said, “Don’t fret, sweet Gilly. Or if you must, fret yourself to find something to entertain me until Janus returns.”

  Gilly’s spirits lifted at the familiar
petulance. Or so he told himself, dismissing the touch and casual endearment. Flushing, he cast about for diversion. “Want to learn to play the spinet?”

  “No,” Maledicte said. “Do you know how to play?”

  “Vornatti had me take lessons when he thought it might be pleasant to have private entertainment on command. Before he decided his private entertainments didn’t involve music.”

  “Then play for me. It can’t be worse than the amateur talent they have at the courts.”

  Gilly sat at the spinet, but shifted on the seat, ill at ease. “Stop staring at my back. It’s too much to ask of me, to play and to perform at the same time.”

  Maledicte rose and joined Gilly on the bench. “What if I sit here? Then you cannot mistake me for a critical audience.”

  Gilly set his hands on the keys and ran out a scale. The notes vibrated in the air, going flat as the untuned strings sounded. “Vornatti said my hands on the keys were too big. He was right.”

  “Excuses,” Maledicte said. “I have found one thing you cannot do perfectly and you’re ruining it by making reasonable excuses. Just play, Gilly.”

  Gilly turned his head to object and got lost in the sweep of dark hair sliding over Maledicte’s cheek and throat. He took his hands from the keys, brushed Maledicte’s hair away from his face.

  “Are you going to play that instrument, Gilly?” Janus said from the doorway. “Or are you playing at fashionable music master instead?” At the palpable edge in Janus’s voice, Gilly stood, leaving Maledicte possessor of the bench.

  “I hear you made contact with Amarantha Lovesy,” Gilly said. Behind him, Maledicte picked out notes at random.

  Janus heaved a sigh, came into the room fully, and slung himself into a chair. “What a harridan. Despite her mother’s enthusiasm, she made it clear the only reason she would even consider me was that she coveted Lastrest. All that beauty cannot mask her greed.”

  “Choose someone else,” Maledicte said, head still bent over the keys, adding trembling dissonances to the air.

  “What other wife could grant me a counselor’s support so neatly? Lilia DeGuerre is wed and bred already, and Westfall has no child. No, I’ll wed the bitch, and leave her in the country house she admires so much.” Janus levered himself out of the chair, paced between Gilly and Maledicte.

  “I thought we were to live at Lastrest,” Maledicte said, eyes fixed on the spinet keys.

  “It only needs to be for a little while. So many of the Last countesses have died of childbearing, we can create one more tragedy without much suspicion.” Janus dropped a kiss on Maledicte’s bent head, and pulled Maledicte from the bench. He lifted him onto the low stage. “But as for now—her parents will push her to accept my suit, we’ll put my father in the ground, and you’ll be consorting with an earl before you know it.”

  Maledicte smiled. “You hate her.”

  “Utterly. Set your heart at rest.” Janus bent Maledicte over his arm to kiss his throat. “Gilly, give us a waltz.”

  “Please do,” Maledicte added.

  Gilly thumped out a waltz, ignoring his mistakes and the pitch of the untuned spinet.

  Janus and Maledicte tussled for a moment, hands shifting and regripping, until Janus laughed and said, “Stop trying to lead, Mal.” He raised his voice, carrying the tune himself, humming, a warm, intimate sound in the room. Maledicte leaned into Janus’s arms.

  When the waltz ended, Maledicte said, “Play something else, Gilly. Something that doesn’t want an in-tune instrument.”

  “You don’t ask for much,” Gilly said. But he searched his memory for a folk jig of single notes at a time.

  Janus shifted his grip, and Maledicte laughed, and then they were swinging each other like children, clasping each other’s wrists, pulling and spinning until there was no dance, only the dizziness and laughter, Maledicte’s voice disappearing under stonethroat’s leash. Then Janus stumbled over the sword and swore. “Damn thing. Enough, Gilly.”

  Janus limped over and settled himself on the edge of the stage. “Why do you carry that in the house?”

  “I like to,” Maledicte said.

  “Savage tastes, my dark cavalier,” Janus said, rubbing his shin.

  Maledicte rejoined Gilly and touched the keys with curious fingers. “We really should have it tuned.” He tugged Gilly’s hair. “Maybe even hire an instructor.”

  Gilly laughed. “Is that your subtle way of telling me I’m an abysmal player? I’m not used to such from you.”

  “Say better than some, worse than many,” Maledicte said. “A thing of no moment since you are perfection itself in all other fields of endeavor.” He tucked his legs up beneath him and sat on the floor.

  “A compliment and a sting at once. I applaud you,” Gilly said.

  “Gilly, it’s not too soon to invite the Lovesys to Lastrest, is it?” Janus said, interrupting their banter. “I intend to ask them to Lastrest tomorrow.”

  “Sudden, but acceptable,” Gilly said. “They will be aware of Aris’s command to wed.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Maledicte said, laughter wiped away as quickly as blown sand.

  “The standard visit is a fortnight,” Gilly said. “Add time for travel, laden with luggage and the stops noble ladies insist upon? Three weeks.”

  Maledicte said nothing, still curled up like a boy on the floor. Janus went to his knee. “Mal?”

  “I will go with you,” he said, his voice a bare whisper, as if he recognized the impossibility even as he said it. Gilly heard Maledicte’s breath coming faster, realized that somehow this step had caught him unawares. Maledicte would have to release Janus from his side, and Gilly, looking at Maledicte’s stricken face, wondered if Maledicte would allow it.

  “It won’t be straightaway. Not only must I inform Lastrest’s staff, and Father, but the spoiled chit probably will require a week to pack,” Janus said, kissing the dark hair, tilting the pale face and kissing the tight lips. “But I cannot bring you while I court her. For a title so close to king, the duke and duchess seem willing to overlook you, but that is far easier if you’re not nearby.”

  Gilly caught Janus looking not at Maledicte, but at him, and with an expression very close to hatred. “Gilly will be here. He can tell you stories, play the spinet badly for you, make you laugh. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Rats take it, love, how long can I stand to be apart from you? You may have me running back within a week.”

  Maledicte’s shivering passed to Janus. Gilly saw their past in their trembling bodies, the pain that Maledicte felt when Janus was stolen from his side. Gilly was dwarfed by it, his own uncomfortable urges made irrelevant. He could not see himself anything but an unwelcomed interloper, and it was left to Janus to soothe Maledicte while Gilly sat, trapped at the bench.

  · 21 ·

  G ILLY WALKED INTO THE COOLING EVENING, seeking to clear his head, and found his steps taking a familiar path into the city. At Sybarite Street, he turned toward the brothel with the ship drawn above the door. As it catered to sailors, Gilly found more than simple carnal amusement there; his fantasies of the Explorations were fed. But tonight he bypassed the salon, with its laughing, drinking sailors, and headed upstairs. He tapped on a closed door. It was the night he usually reserved, but he hadn’t let her know he was coming. Just as he decided she was with someone, the door opened and Lizette stood there, rubbing her red hair out of her face and yawning. “Gilly, I thought you weren’t coming.” She kissed his mouth. He leaned into her warmth, her encircling arms.

  “But you look so sad tonight,” she said, drawing him into the room. “That love of yours giving you trouble?”

  “Not mine at all,” Gilly said. “Never was. There’s someone else.” He kissed her neck and stroked her shoulders beneath her silken robe.

  She took herself out of his reach and lit the candles by the bed while he set lunas down on the dresser. “Well, she’s a right fool then. You’re sweet and gentle and generous.”

  Paid com
pliments though they were, Gilly relaxed under them. “My employer already gets those things from me, without needing my love.”

  Lizette drew back. “Your master’s that courtier, ain’t it? Why would you want someone like that?”

  “I didn’t know you followed the court,” Gilly said, settling himself onto the smooth sheets. He paid extra for clean ones on his nights, and she’d been sure enough of his custom that they were freshly laundered, smelling of nothing more than the iron and a faint trace of her perfume.

  “Not the courts, Gilly. Just you. I saw your man once. At a distance and all. Thinks he’s a king, don’t he, the way he walks. But pretty enough to be a girl.”

  “Watch yourself,” Gilly said. “He’s fast with a sword and doesn’t like being called a girl. No matter his tastes.”

  “Mmm, well maybe he’d make a bad girl at that. Too scrawny. Not like me.” She guided his hand to her voluptuous breasts. He bent his head to greet them with a kiss.

  “Lizette,” he murmured.

  “That’s it, Gilly-boy. Don’t waste your thoughts on the likes of him.”

  He stopped her mouth with his and she tickled his ribs until he laughed. She rolled him over, teased him with her trailing hair until he growled and tangled his hands in her locks, pulling her to him, merging his body with hers, thinking yes, Lizette was right. This was simple. This was easy. This was welcoming and warm, and the only shadows in the room were those from flickering candle flames, not unseen gods. But he kept his eyes open, to make sure he didn’t trade the vision of her warmth and curves for the cool, austere, and oft-imagined lines of Maledicte.

  Still, once they’d finished, Gilly left her side after only a cursory attempt at sleep, haunted by the premonitory instinct that warned him he would only dream of Black-Winged Ani. Better awake than that. He slipped out into the night, wending his way home through the back streets, and came across Echo’s Particulars rousting a drunken man from his stupor at the base of a fountain.

  After a passing glance, Gilly paused and went back, exchanging coins for the drunken man’s freedom. Briskly, he walked the man back and forth until he moaned, “At least in a cell, I could have obtained rest.”