by Lane Robins
Gilly knew he was dead; it gave him breath enough to say, “Maledicte—”
“I’m going to give you to the sea. He’ll think you abandoned him, took his coin and fled to the Explorations. He’ll hate you for it,” Janus said.
Gilly struggled to his feet, rested his hands on his thighs, his right leg buckling, and said, “Rot you, he’ll know otherwise.”
Janus drew back a moment, and Gilly stumbled toward the kitchen door and outside, hoping for a witness, even for the Kingsguard or Echo. A faint rasp of metal set him to fumbling for the handle, the iron slick in his palms, when Janus stepped behind him, as patient and as mad as an outcast wolf. He raised his sword. Gilly closed his eyes, whispered, “Mal.”
· 39 ·
A S THE DOOR TO THE communal cell opened, Maledicte looked up from his seat on the corpses of those who’d died overnight. Damastes slammed the door shut again and Ani, who’d seen the dark welts on his face, laughed through Maledicte’s throat, flecking his lips with blood. Above him, in other cells, people screamed and wept as Ani’s glee rose through the darkness and touched their dreams.
There were rough sounds of argument in the hall and then the door opened again.
“What a mess you’ve made,” Janus said, holding the keys in a casual hand. “Damastes is cowering in his quarters, muttering about rat fever and devils; the kingsguard refused to come inside at all, and here you sit, laughing.” Though insouciant, his voice held a hint of tremor.
“Janus.” The name worked some of its old magic, driving some of the madness back; he fled his throne of corpses, belatedly repulsed.
“I brought your sword,” Janus said. “Thought you might like to come out and use it.”
Maledicte joined Janus at the door, each slow step returning him to himself. He took the sword in his hand, grimaced at the blood on his skin, and said, “I hope Gilly has a bath run. And despite his wishes, I am never wearing gray again, it’s far too funereal.” He forced the words out, trying to collect the courtier’s mask about him, but finding that it didn’t fit as well as it had.
“Are you unhurt?” Janus asked.
“I am,” Maledicte said. “Some of these others cannot say the same. And I want my belongings back.”
Janus drew him into the hall, folded him into his arms. “That jailer—Damastes, he didn’t find out?”
“No,” Maledicte said. He shivered in Janus’s arms. “Let’s go. I want to see the sky.” Tears streaked his face, ran through the dirt and blood; he only noticed them when they trickled into his mouth, bitter with dust.
“Of course,” Janus said, kissing Maledicte’s mouth, delaying their exit.
Maledicte leaned against Janus, smelling the clean heat of the sun on his skin, tasting the sweetness of his tongue against his own. It pushed more of Ani’s madness away, increased his shaking. “Janus, call for a physician.”
“I thought you unhurt?” Janus held Maledicte at arm’s length.
Maledicte shrugged under that piercing gaze. “For them. I don’t know what I let loose in there.”
“It’s an outbreak of rat fever. Common enough in prisons. You’re no witch, Mal, god-driven or not. And as for them? They’re nothing,” Janus said. “They would have rotted here regardless. Come now, Mal, shelve such unreasonable concerns and dry your tears—or do you want Damastes to see them?”
Maledicte let his breath out in relief as Janus reminded him of an enemy to face, shunted the poisonous guilt back, let Ani dissolve it with the clean heat of Her hatred. “He put us underground.” His fingers tightened around the sword hilt; his mouth drew into a hungry grin.
“Mmm,” Janus said. “Why don’t I go talk to Damastes, get your things back? Let you wait in the carriage.”
“The Kingsguard,” Maledicte said, the words filtering through slowly, as if he was still half lost in nightmares. “Why are they here?”
“Did you truly think there would be no penalty?” Janus said. “The town house is sealed against you. They are here to escort you to a hotel, and to make sure you don’t leave it. We’re just trading one cell for another.” Bitterness seeped through his voice.
“I cannot live in a hotel forever,” Maledicte said. “What has Aris planned?”
Janus urged him up the stairs without answering, and Maledicte, sheathed in dirt and stone, was willing to allow evasion, eager to make the sky his own again.
“Look there,” Janus said, laughing. “Damastes is not such a fool as all that.” The piled belongings near the door sparkled in the low light. Maledicte swept them up into his hands, then passed them to Janus, preferring to keep his blade ready.
Maledicte stepped out into afternoon sunlight and winced. The Kingsguard standing beside Last’s carriage stood to attention, then drew back as they saw the naked blade in Maledicte’s hand.
“Where’s Gilly?” Maledicte asked. “I thought sure he’d be here.”
Janus helped him into the carriage, and Maledicte picked up the sheath lurking on the seat cushions. He buckled it on and sighed.
Janus gave the coachman the signal to go, and settled beside Maledicte. A kingsguard passed alongside the window, and Maledicte put his hand on the hilt of the sword.
“Take these back,” Janus said, distracting him from contemplations of flight and murder.
The scatter of small stones and coins made him release the sword so he could catch them before they tumbled from his lap. Moodily, Maledicte sorted buttons from cuff links, stickpin from coins. The pocket watch fell into his fingers again and he pulled it out, setting it to spinning in the sunlight. “You never answered me. Where is Gilly?”
Janus’s silence went on a moment too long, long enough for Maledicte’s interest to turn to concern. “Janus, tell me.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Janus said, tapping the watch in Maledicte’s hands, making it swing. “When Aris told me of your arrest, I went to the town house to collect your belongings. The house was empty. No one had stayed behind—all the rooms were stripped. Your accounts too, undoubtedly. I told you your trust was misplaced.”
“Gilly,” Maledicte whispered, clutching that sudden hurt to his heart. Ani, Her attention diverted from the sky by his pain, turned the hurt around, studied it, and let it drop. There was nothing to be mined; Maledicte had already replaced the pain with wariness and hope. Gilly would return.
“He’s fled,” Janus said. “Count on it. Gone to the sea as he threatened to do so often.”
Janus studied the guards maneuvering outside, his expression hidden. Maledicte turned Janus to face him, stared into the guileless blue eyes, and felt his heart constrict. Roach, Celia, and Ella—all had been helpless before Janus. “Did you…did you kill him?”
“Burn it, Mal,” Janus said, irritation drawing his brows down, his lips thinning. “I begged Aris to free you, swore promises I hate to keep, and all you can ask is if I’ve killed your servant? I did not. Likely he’s decided that our ways are too rough for his tender heart.”
“Lizette died,” Maledicte said. “Seemingly at my hand. Why did you do it?”
Janus cast another glance outside the carriage, at the kingsguard nearest, and leaned forward. “You know why. To punish Gilly, since you won’t let me lay a hand on him. You should be glad of my restraint. And why you sought the brothel in the first place—”
“You murdered Ella, and kept it from me…I despise secrets from you,” Maledicte said, waiting. When Janus only shrugged irritably, Maledicte asked, “What is it that Aris has planned? You seem remarkably loath to mention it.”
“Ennisere,” Janus said. “You’re to live out your time there, on an estate staffed by guards.”
Maledicte thought of maps and distance, but his knowledge was sketchy. Vornatti had taught him about the city and its fashionable retreats. Janus had told him about Itarus, and Gilly had sweetened his dreams with descriptions of the Explorations. Ennisere meant nothing, a foggy blur on an unfinished map of the world. “What of you?”
&nb
sp; “I stay at Aris’s side, and work to further our plans.”
“Your plans,” Maledicte said. “My plan was always simple, god-guided. Kill the earl of Last, and reclaim you. And I have yet to do the first. That child survives—”
Janus said, “Listen Mal, listen to me. I have my schemes. You’re correct. Maledicte is ruined. So let Aris send you to Ennisere, bide your patience only a little. I know of a black-haired boy with pale skin, a poor mirror of you. We’ll kill him, leave his body at Ennisere, and you can become Miranda again, and return to my side.”
“You’re a fool,” Maledicte said. “Miranda with a ruined voice, a distinctive scar, and no antecedents? You may play puppets with the king but he is not so mindless as all that.” He could not keep the threads of his argument together, losing them in the pale calculation in Janus’s eyes, the clatter of hooves outside the carriage, the line of blood marring Janus’s mouth. “You’re bruised.”
Janus touched his mouth. “You struck me, don’t you recall?”
The blood was fresher than that, Maledicte thought, but that too was sucked away in the skirl of feathers within him. Above the coach, the rooks swarmed, darkening the sky prematurely with their wings. “Where’s Gilly?” he asked again.
The coach drew up to the hotel; the horses milled uncertainly as the kingsmen conferred. Finally, two guards dismounted, flanked Maledicte as he and Janus went up the front stair. At the desk, the owner made a surreptitious charm against evil, and Maledicte smiled at him, showing all his teeth.
“The second floor,” the guard said. “Go ahead of us.”
Maledicte walked into the rooms without protest. The quarters were roomy enough, a bedchamber, a valet’s chamber, sitting room, and bath. He peered out the window, drawing back the curtain. “No balcony. No trellis.”
“It’s a prison, Mal,” Janus said, taking a seat on the bed, and waving the guards out irritably. They shut the door, but Maledicte could hear the faint jingle of their mail as they leaned against the wall.
“So it is,” Maledicte said, dropping the curtain. “When am I transported north?”
“Tomorrow,” Janus began and Maledicte growled.
“So soon?” He paced the room, boot heels muffled against the carpet, the blade swinging freely. “For how long?”
“Until Aris—”
“What? Until Aris dies—” Maledicte’s voice rasped in the quiet room, and Janus pressed his hand close over his mouth.
“Hush,” he said. “The guards are just outside.”
“You’re taking it all from me,” Maledicte said. “I wanted the earl dead and you denied me, and I wanted you. Now you’re walking away, because the king asks it of you. Why can’t we just flee? Kill the guards and run for it?”
“A Last doesn’t run, he conquers,” Janus said.
Maledicte let his breath out in a hiss. “You choose playing for power over me.”
“Not over—” Janus said. “With. I want both. You must be patient. Let me plan since your sense seems to have been buried with Amarantha. Trust me. I’ll win through. See us both rich and powerful.”
“It’s all gone wrong in my head. It’s all beaks and wings and blood…. Where’s Gilly? He can make it better,” Maledicte said, slumping back onto the feather mattress.
Janus kissed his forehead. “You’re overtired, overwrought. You should never have had to go to Stones.”
“Not underground,” Maledicte said. “Wings want sky.”
“Not anywhere within those walls. But your discomfort will be repaid. I promise that.”
Maledicte nodded, the words washing over him like the empty chatter of songbirds, soothing but meaningless. He let Janus undress him like a child, stood docilely in the hip bath while Janus sponged the filth of Stones from his body. He tangled his hands in Janus’s pale hair, kissed his mouth, and let his mind drift away entirely. Janus laid him over the bed, kissing, stroking, soothing, and Maledicte clutched him close. When they were done and dressed, Janus gone, Maledicte sat by the window, staring at the sky.
Gilly kept creeping into his mind, the earnest eyes, the worried half frown that had become his common expression; his image was displaced only by Janus, and the slow ache that grew inside Maledicte. He couldn’t keep them in his mind at the same moment; when he tried, all he saw was blood.
Across the room, the sword muttered and whispered until he cradled it in his lap. “I will, I promised you. In exchange for the sword. I’ll spill his blood yet.” Outside, the rooks settled atop the hotel, their chatter quieting.
· 40 ·
R OCKING WATER, AND THE STINK of salt brine and tarred ropes, woke Gilly. He opened his eyes to a room made of shadows and lapping water, fractured and shivering with the pulsing of his aching head.
Alive. Why? Gilly wondered. There’d been murder enough in his face and strength enough in his hands.
Gilly tried to raise himself on limbs that were too numb to support him, and fell forward, splashing face-first into dark water. Panic woke him from his stupor. He scrambled back on unwieldy legs, sucked in air, and reassessed. His hands were knotted in a nest of twine and hemp, his ankles likewise. He was in the bilge of a ship. Gilly let out his breath in horrified understanding. A conscripted sailor.
Was death not enough for Janus; was it suffering he wanted? In the dark hold, dizzy and sick, surrounded by dank water and the strange oil scent of piled metal, Gilly found himself thinking with a clarity that surprised him. He’d been sold for a luna or two to line Janus’s pockets, and more, the ability to tell Maledicte that he hadn’t killed Gilly should Maledicte ask. Gone to sea finally, Gilly thought, and shuddered. Janus had piled the irony even higher; the strange metal shapes could only be bound for the Explorations, to build one of Westfall’s engines there.
He started picking the ropes apart with his teeth, the tar and sodden hemp making him gag. They were still near shore; the slapping of the waves against pilings and other nearby hulls told him that. He had friends on nearly every pier, sailors, harbor clerks, dockworkers, who might aid him. If only he could get free….
The shadows in the bilge massed and roiled as if they were water, stirred by an unseen tide. In the distance, Gilly heard a crow’s call carried on the shrieks of gulls. The shadows seemed to vibrate to its resonance; the pain in Gilly’s head crested and blurred his vision.
He chewed diligently at the knots linking his hands until they gave, but didn’t fuss himself with the tight, salt-sodden loops left about his wrists. Though they chafed and burned, they could wait. He bent to work on the cords around his ankles and a rook flew out of the shadows on silent wings.
It landed on a jut of scrap metal, its talons making no sound as they contracted. Its eyes were matte black, as empty as a doll’s, lacking the shine of a living creature’s, and Gilly swallowed. It opened its beak, fluffed its wings, and bloomed bigger, a crow now, birthed of shadows.
“Mal—” Gilly whispered. The bird fluttered to the edge of the bilge, to the narrow ladder that rose to the deck and freedom. It fluffed its wings, again, and waited, rasping its beak against the splintered wood.
Gilly bent back to the ropes at his ankles, though keeping his head down increased the spinning languor of his body. He wanted nothing so much as to lie down. Instead, he dragged himself to the other side of the bilge and the aid implicit in the metal scraps. The right tool would be quicker than teeth surely, and far more efficient than fingers numbed by swollen wrists.
The ropes parted, surrendered strand by tarred strand, shredding with maddening slowness. When Gilly looked to share his triumph with the crow, he was alone. A flicker of movement pulled his attention upward.
“Mal—” he breathed again. The bird-shade, caught in midtransformation, flopped, wings unwieldy, folding inward, stretching itself tall and thin. A familiar human shape darted up the last rungs of the ladder, pausing for a bare moment to look back before flowing out onto the deck.
Gilly dragged himself to the ladder, up the fir
st rung, sweat collecting on his abused body, chilling him like a layer of hoarfrost. His senses reeled and swam, nearly deserting him entirely. He felt as if he wandered in a dream.
“Mal,” he whispered. Was it Last’s window he was climbing to, hunting the nameless boy, ivy brittle under his gloved fingers, and snowmelt refreezing in his eyelashes, making him blink cold tears? Or was it underground, going further back, before everything he knew, following a staggering boy, newly hatched from Ani’s wings, the sword naked and gleaming in his hands as he climbed into the Relicts.
“Mal,” Gilly repeated, pulling himself up another rung, chasing that delicate phantom. Time stopped, sped up, shadows and light shifting across Gilly’s vision left him standing at the king’s palace, looking up at the high tower, at the slim shape, as black as the blade, standing at bay. Gilly reached up to climb to his aid, and his hand struck empty air. The salt smell of the sea woke him from his dreaming. “Mal….”
No vision this, but a fate he wanted to escape. The foredeck bristled with sailors, drinking away their last hours ashore, telling each other stories, and repairing the fishing nets that would keep them fed on the long journey. The gangplank lay stretched to the pier before them, for easy access to the Relicts’ bars and whores.
Once Gilly would have considered the crew good company. Now, he could only think of them as enemies, and all he could hope was that they had drunk enough to be careless. But so castaway as to watch him escape before their very eyes? He doubted it.
Gilly clung to the top of the ladder, leaned his head against the salt-scoured planks, watched the sun burning down into the sea, setting shadows roaming over the deck. He had lost all sense of time. Were it not for the spider constellation sparking to life in the sky, he could believe he’d slept for years, lost in the bilge.
The shadow, his shadow, divorced itself from its brethren on the deck, and flowed toward him. Not so human-shaped now, it bled outward like watered ink, growing fuzzed around the edges. It wafted toward him, swallowed him in an embrace chilly and dank, and a voice breathed into his skin, like no voice he’d ever heard before. Hurry.