by Lane Robins
“He had no reason to injure her,” Janus said.
“None at all?” Aris said. “Not even for you?”
Janus’s eyes widened and he laughed. “Once Amarantha wed Last instead of me, Maledicte ceased to notice her at all. As for more…elaborate motives…” He paused, as if feeling his way. “I am not unaware that had Auron died, it might have been seen as beneficial to myself. But this sequence of events? No, if you want inducements to violence, consider Dantalion himself. He saved the babe. He put Antyre in Itarus’s debt. He will collect.”
“You know what he will ask?” Aris said, gesturing for Janus to rise. He grew dizzy looking into the pale depths of Janus’s eyes, so like water shifting beneath thin ice.
“The Itarusine court is much occupied with honor. Dantalion’s disinheritance must rankle like salt in an open wound. But if you owe him a boon, and if Maledicte is suspect and out of favor—”
“You think Dantalion would kill Amarantha merely to regain his inheritance?” Aris leaned against the wall, jostling the cradle and setting Auron to fussing. Absently, he smoothed the blanket, stroked the soft skin until the drowsy complaint stopped.
“Men have done worse for less. Still, I think it more likely the accident was only that, and Dantalion capitalizes on it, cleverly shaping events to his benefit,” Janus said.
“Maledicte hated Michel and he died. Amarantha believed he sought her death as well and she is dead. Elaborations aside, how do you know he did not kill them both?”
“I was with Maledicte when Father died. I swear he did not strike the blow. As for Amarantha—did Maledicte ride after the carriage like a highwayman, shatter their wheels all unseen and send them to their deaths? Or are you imagining poison in a court so fearful that no one partakes of refreshments since the Dark Solstice?”
“If I had those answers,” Aris said. “There would be no need for this conversation. But Maledicte—”
Auron made a sleepy sound of contentment, and Janus smiled down at him. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”
Aris hewed doggedly to the topic. “Janus. My first condition—Maledicte holds some books for me that I would require returned.”
Janus nodded understanding. “The Antyrrian audits. I believe I can put my hands on them. Your second stipulation, sire?”
“Should you become guardian, you will not be allowed the freedom you have now. You will not live in Maledicte’s house, but the palace only. You will never bring him here, and indeed I prefer you not see him at all. His situation becomes too—irregular.”
“A perfect model of a courtier,” Janus murmured.
“With an empty house full of blood and feathers,” Aris said.
Janus flinched, his composure faltering. For once, Aris could read a thought in his nephew’s face—astonishment and dismay that Aris had visited Maledicte’s house. “An accident,” he said. “Startled birds, nothing of moment—”
“Janus,” Aris said. “It has been borne in on me that I’ve been a fool. I would like to see you escape that same realization. Of late, I have done nothing for Antyre but watch it, dreamlike, crumble. I’ve woken now; I have Auron and his future to protect. Do not think me blind.”
Janus worried his lower lip like a schoolboy, and Aris felt some of his anger mellow. “Whatever hold Maledicte has on you, whatever has happened, with your knowledge or not, it stops now.
“If you must keep him, you may. But you will do so as men keep mistresses, discreetly, and never at the expense of your own responsibilities. I will find you a wife, and you will wed her. And should you misstep—”
“What, then,” Janus said. “Banishment?”
“Yes,” Aris said. “But not for you. Your slightest misdeed will see Maledicte sent beyond your reach.”
· 33 ·
A LONE AT A TABLE IN THE BACK, Maledicte surveyed the tavern with an incredulous eye. The Seadog had been the height of imagined luxury to him and to Janus not so long ago. They used to peer in at the smoky rooms, at the jewel tones of firelight on Naga’s scales fetched up from the deeps, on sea buoys hanging from the crossbeams like necklaces of great sea creatures. The men themselves all seemed made of coin, scattering moon spills of silver over the teak bar with careless fingers. Miranda, who rarely held more than one luna in her palm, and that clutched tight, had leaned against Janus’s shoulder and marveled at such wealth.
Now the Seadog was evident for what it was, a run-down shanty near the edge of the pier, patronized only for its proximity to the salt-weary sailors and by nobles recovering from their visits at the cheapest brothels, the drug dens, and gaming tables so rigged that two nights running saw them in different surroundings. Even now, Maledicte watched two young nobles ruefully and dazedly taking stock of themselves, cataloguing damage done to their purses or persons.
Fools, he thought. They might think themselves beggared, but their clothes, their boots, even their perfumed hair meant money down here, and yet, they stood in the heart of the lamplight.
He sank farther back into his corner, into the dark shadows of his dimly turned lamp. It cast a dying glow over his table, made the bottle burn with hidden lights. Maledicte poured the contents into his glass, straining it through sugared mesh.
“You never got that here,” Janus said, settling into the seat opposite him.
Maledicte paused in his pouring and smiled, taking up a broken chunk of brown sugar, and grating it over the whole. “No, absente is definitely beyond the Dog’s cellar.” He took a sip, but the warmth that moved through him had less to do with the liquor than Janus’s arrival. “You found me.”
“Always,” Janus said. “Though I admit to a few false starts before I remembered the Seadog. Vile place, really.” Janus studied the smoky room with a contemptuous glance.
“We thought it so fine,” Maledicte said. He closed his eyes, trying to overlay one image on another.
“We were fools,” Janus said, taking the bottle from Maledicte’s grasp. “And absente is nearly as vile. It drives men mad.”
“I’m already mad,” Maledicte said, a whisper in the lamplight. “Haven’t you realized? Gilly does. And as for the absente—I haven’t offered you any, so you needn’t sneer at it.”
Janus edged his seat around the table, drawing closer to Maledicte. “Mal, I need you to listen to me.”
“I always do,” Maledicte said, taking another languid sip. Janus removed the glass from his hands, set it on the floor beside him.
“Aris went to Dove Street and found the house as we left it, bloodied,” he said. “Aris suspects that you caused Amarantha’s death, more so than he ever did for Last. I don’t understand why, but you must be prepared. What will you say if he charges you in her death?” Before Maledicte could answer, Janus leaned in. “I did my best, shifting his eye to Dantalion, but can you keep it there?”
Maledicte stroked the line of Janus’s jaw, admiring the gold-stubbled sheen in the lamplight. “I suppose. Best just to stay clear as long as I can.” He frowned, reaching for his glass on the floor. Right now, its bitterness leavened with sweet suited his mood.
Janus said, more to himself than to Maledicte, “Who knew he would grow so suspicious so swiftly?”
“We should have planned for it,” Maledicte said. “Even the most docile of men might choke on the death we served him. Still, had I known—I would have let him kiss me longer, instead of fleeing like a virtuous maid.”
“You let Aris—” Janus said, rage flickering in his eyes. “You risked the intimacy, the scrutiny? He’s no stripling to be blinded to the difference between man and woman. In his arms—”
“He discovered nothing, near drunk on his own unhappiness,” Maledicte said, allowing Janus to tug Maledicte into sharing his seat. “And I? I was thinking of you dancing attendance on Psyke. He took me by surprise and meant little of it. Unreasoning jealousy will be your downfall,” Maledicte said, shifting his weight until he sat on Janus’s lap. “So possessive of what’s yours…”
Ja
nus cut his words off with a kiss, careless of spectators. Maledicte laughed against his lips and the triumph in it bled through. “But you’re mine too, aren’t you? It’s still just us against the world.”
“Of course,” Janus said, drawing his mouth back to his. “Of course.”
Maledicte turned his mouth up for Janus’s kiss, closed his eyes at the familiar warmth of Janus’s tongue touching his own.
“Such a tender moment.” The voice cut into their intimacy, and Maledicte felt Janus stiffen with recognition. A dark man, heavyset and tall, his words accented in the Itarusine manner. Maledicte stood and smiled. “You must be Dantalion, Vornatti’s despised kin.”
“And you, Maledicte,” Dantalion said, eyes widening slightly. “You, the dark cavalier of Aris’s court? A puling youth with a sword too good for him?”
Maledicte’s hand dropped to the sword hilt, even though he saw Echo appear behind Dantalion. “Janus, next time, try to avoid leading the bores to us?” Despite his easy words, he felt the surging wingbeat in his blood, the rage that they dared interrupt an all-too-rare moment of pleasure. He knew he should feel caution; Dantalion and Echo were an alliance that meant him nothing but ill.
“My uncle’s catamite,” Dantalion said. “I’d heard such things about you. I nearly believed them, but you’re barely worth my sword at all.”
The other patrons, sailors and scattered nobles, watched with avid eyes in dulled faces.
“Mal,” Janus said, laying a restraining hand on his forearm. “You mustn’t.”
“But I want to,” Maledicte said. His eyes never left Dantalion’s. He felt the dreamy tone lace his voice, the languor of the absente reaching his head. All he wanted at this moment was the sound of steel and sweep of flashing metal. He savored the unwinding of Ani’s coiled hatred, its warmth seeping through his bones.
“Waiting for an excuse?” Dantalion asked, then struck. Janus tried to deflect the blow, but Dantalion was too close and too fast. Maledicte caught Dantalion’s fist in his own. Dantalion’s eyes grew thoughtful at the speed of it.
“That will do,” Maledicte said, releasing the man’s fist. “Shall we duel?”
“No,” Janus said, rising, interposing himself between the two men.
“I never thought you a coward, Ixion,” Dantalion said. “And I had planned on spitting you next.”
Maledicte drew his sword in quick economy of motion, evading Janus’s grasp. “You have to take me first,” he said.
“Mal,” Janus said, voice low. “I don’t like this. It reeks of calculation. Echo is trying to—”
Maledicte grinned at him. “I don’t care.” He wondered what was in his face that made Janus blanch so, but lost that in the delight welling in him. To be free of another cur that nipped at his heels—the lure was too great to deny.
“Outside, think you?” he asked Dantalion.
“The cobbles are slick with dew,” Dantalion said, shaking his head. “And the alleys too full of those who would interrupt our sport for the coin we carry. No, we’ll stick to tradition and the dueling grounds at the park.”
Janus grasped Maledicte’s hand once more, held him back when he would have followed. “It’s a trap, Mal.” As if to underscore his words, Maledicte noticed Echo slipping away, his task obviously accomplished.
“It doesn’t matter,” Maledicte said, touching Janus’s cheek. “Don’t you see that? If not now, then later. Dantalion means to see us all dead.”
“But now, when you’re near drunk on absente—”
“Drunk on blood,” Maledicte whispered into Janus’s ear, laughed at the expression on his face, the whisper of feathers in his mind. He pulled free of his grip and followed Dantalion into the gray-dawning sky.
DAWN BATHED THE MEN in the park in pearly light and cast their shadows like spider-legged creatures over the lawn. Maledicte stood before Dantalion, sword unsheathed, dangling lazily from his hand.
Dantalion leaned close and spoke at length, his words lost in distance, but Maledicte’s face darkened. All that, Aris saw as the carriage drew close, and more, Janus pacing madly behind the fighters. Janus drew forward and Maledicte pushed him back, his eyes never leaving Dantalion’s blade.
Echo was right, Aris thought. Maledicte did intend to duel Dantalion, flaunting his disobedience. But as they approached, Aris found himself dwelling not on the illegality of it, but the monstrously uneven odds. Dantalion was head and shoulders above Maledicte, and muscled with it.
Beside him, Echo sank back into the seat, smiling. Dantalion’s blade was of the Itarusine style, heavy and curved, the length of a man’s arm. A savage weapon. And Maledicte’s dark, slim blade seemed more a child’s toy in comparison, though wickedly sharp.
Dantalion stepped forward, and the duel began.
“Should we intervene, sire?” Jasper said. “Before it goes further?”
“We can always cry halt,” Echo coaxed. “I am interested in seeing Maledicte’s ability.”
Aris nodded, his eyes on the two figures. Maledicte made a sound like a laugh; it carried over the still air, and raised the hackles on Aris’s neck. It wasn’t a sound he associated with men, but the sound of feeding birds on a battlefield. Dantalion took a hasty step back as Maledicte darted in, as agile as a crow in flight.
Dantalion struck back, his great curved sword carving the air, but missed Maledicte entirely. His blade bit only Maledicte’s black-fluttering sleeves.
Maledicte danced forward, his sword skidding along the width of Dantalion’s blade, raising sparks of outraged metal, and ending with a little flourish at the end that nearly touched Dantalion’s shoulder. Dantalion jerked back, pivoted his weight, and came on again, thrusting, parrying, slicing at Maledicte’s delicate form.
Dantalion dripped sweat, growing ponderous under his own weight. Maledicte, facing him, seemed as intangible as a shadow. His blade wavered, judged, and then they were moving again; Maledicte thrust forward, extending his arm, his blade, and kept himself out of range of the returned slash. His blade took the force of Dantalion’s parry, unyielding. Aris let out his breath, watched the narrow focus of concentration on Maledicte’s face, the dark glee in his eyes, and knew Dantalion was going to lose. That Maledicte had enough skill to have killed Last and anyone else he chose.
“End it,” Aris said.
Maledicte swept forward, danced under Dantalion’s swing, not bothering to parry, and put his blade across Dantalion’s throat. Dantalion jerked back at the last second, and the blade left only a wet red line behind.
“In the king’s name,” the guard called, spurring his steed forward. “Halt!”
Maledicte fell back, out of the reach of Dantalion’s sword, his teeth bared. “Your salvation,” he spat, spreading his arms like wings, inviting Dantalion’s stroke. “Too much a coward to finish this?”
Dantalion lunged, and Maledicte flowed backward until Dantalion was overextended. The sword slipping past him, Maledicte reached out with his free hand and caught Dantalion’s arm against his body, prisoning it, the sword useless. With agile fingers, Maledicte pinched the nerve inside Dantalion’s elbow; Dantalion cried out and dropped his blade.
Aris breathed a sigh of relief to see the battle so neatly won, and then Maledicte reached forward with his sword hand and inscribed the same line over Dantalion’s heaving throat.
This time, the blood was not content to spill over a thin trench, but spouted instead. Maledicte released Dantalion’s arm and grabbed his hair, yanking his head farther back, widening that bloody smile. Blood sprayed Maledicte’s face, his shirt, his sword, and ran in steaming droplets onto the fresh spring grass.
Aris froze; the duel had been won. Had Aris any remaining doubts about Maledicte as a killer, they were gone now. Watching the blood fountain under Maledicte’s manipulation, he found it impossible to see any trace of the impetuous young cavalier he had so often declared him to be.
When the blood slowed, Maledicte shoved Dantalion’s body away. He wiped his b
lade on the grass, tore handfuls of the grass up to wash the mask of blood from his skin. When the guard put his sword at his back and commanded him to be still, Maledicte settled the sword on the ground. He stood, bloody hands dangling; the sword quivered on the grass.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
“I cried halt,” Aris said.
“He would have killed me had it been his chance,” Maledicte said, his voice uninflected, a quiet rasp. “He has tried to do so by proxy, and would have done so again. Should I have turned my back on a dangerous enemy?”
“If you had proof, you could have petitioned me,” Aris said.
“Proof is all too often hard to find,” Maledicte said, his words a bitter echo of Aris’s own.
Janus said, “Dantalion forced the fight.” He put his arms around Maledicte, heedless of blood, heedless of the guardsman’s expression.
Aris sat silent, and Janus said, “Uncle,” a quiet plea, his eyes eloquent.
“I asked for your discretion,” Aris said. “This is very far from discreet. A member of the foreign courts, murdered—and it was murder I saw, Maledicte, you had him disarmed, and yet you struck….” Aris rubbed his hands over his face.
Echo said, “I’ll have him taken to Stones immediately.”
“No,” Janus said, his voice as abrupt, as commanding as Aris’s was not. “You set Dantalion on; you are as guilty of his death as Maledicte. Please, Aris, let me take Maledicte home. Let him be prisoned there until you decide his fate.”
Aris could not think around the blood in his mind, this surfeit of death. But Echo had presumed—that was as clear to him as Maledicte’s act of murder. And the ledgers were not yet in his hands. To act now would risk them.
“No, I see no need for the cells. Not yet. Take him home, Janus. Remember our bargain. I am more desirous than ever of you fulfilling your end.” Nerving himself, Aris stepped down from the coach, and joined the two men. He reached out and touched Maledicte’s blood-spattered face. Blank black eyes looked back at him, as enigmatic as a starless night. “Maledicte, tell me why.”