Maledicte

by Lane Robins

  “She used you so hard,” Maledicte said. “How did you fall into her hands…did Livia entrap you?”

  “No,” Gilly said, flushing with embarrassment and revulsion at the resurgent aches of his body. For a moment, he had forgotten pain in hope.

  Maledicte awkwardly rocked him in his arms, Gilly overflowing his narrow lap. “Shh, I’ll take you someplace safe.”

  “Janus,” Gilly said.

  Maledicte stilled, waiting.

  “He found out I let you go to Stones, instead of fighting them off; he beat me, and sold me to the sea.”

  “And Mirabile?” Maledicte’s voice was cool, as disinterested as if these names were those of strangers.

  “She was on the docks when I escaped. I think she had been watching us all,” Gilly said.

  Maledicte’s lips thinned; absently he stroked Gilly’s shoulders. “We’d best get you someplace safe, then. I’ve escaped the Kingsguard. Echo will be hunting me. And Janus—best not chance his temper again. Will the madam at Lizette’s take you in, do you think? It’s near enough.”

  “If we pay her,” Gilly said, dismayed at Maledicte’s cool abstraction, his willingness to ignore Janus’s murder attempt.

  “Mirabile will have coin somewhere,” Maledicte said. “It only remains to find it.” Gently Maledicte set Gilly from his lap, and searched the room. He riffled through a stack of papers, pausing as he found the note from the palace spy warning of Maledicte’s imminent arrest. “Mirabile’s been stealing our correspondence, Gilly.” Gilly made no answer, and Maledicte bit his lip, turned back to searching with more urgency. He found the coin purse beneath the altar stones, and tucked it into his shirtsleeve. In another makeshift safe, he found her poisons and rummaged through, muttering to himself. Then he knelt back beside Gilly. “Drink this—it should fire your blood. I cannot carry you.”

  Gilly couldn’t focus on the vial, only on the red-washed skin of Maledicte’s hands. He flinched. “Drink it,” Maledicte said.

  The liquid, bitter as gall, flamed down his throat, spreading heat to cold limbs. His heart drummed for a frantic, caged moment, then settled.

  “Better?” Maledicte asked, sliding his arm beneath Gilly’s shoulders.

  “Yes,” Gilly said, kissing the frowning face bent so near his own.

  Maledicte pulled away. “Not now, Gilly.” He tugged, and Gilly raised himself into Maledicte’s bracing arms. The temple wheeled around him; the trickle of blood on his cheek shifted direction, dripping over his collarbone and chest. “What was that?” Gilly asked.

  “Sailor’s Dream, I think,” Maledicte said.

  “You think,” Gilly said, licking his lips.

  “Gilly, don’t fuss at me,” Maledicte said, “I’m bone-tired, and doing what I can.” His arms trembled around Gilly’s chest, and Gilly forced himself to his own support, aware again of Maledicte’s slightness.

  “As slight as a girl,” Gilly said, patting the embroidery on Maledicte’s cuffs.

  “Yes,” Maledicte said. “I am. And you’re as big as an ox, and about as easy to steer.”

  Gilly nodded, forced himself to concentrate not on the wonderful warmth seeping through his mind and body, but on the blood-damp footprints they left on the temple floor.

  MALEDICTE SWORE Gilly had stopped again, and weariness was ripping through his bones, weighing him so that he felt he might sink into the earth at any moment. “Come on, Gilly,” Maledicte said, pulling.

  Gilly still balked, and, overbalanced, Maledicte fell up against him, warm skin exposed by Livia’s inadequate cloak. Gilly’s hands wandered again, and Maledicte, trying to secure the cloak, didn’t step away. Damn Mirabile, he thought with a snarl. If she’d wanted him so badly, all she had to do was give him a dose of Dream, and he would have been hers. But she chose to hurt him, instead.

  He shook with a rage that was all his, without the taint of Ani at all. Where was Ani? Maledicte wondered. She’d been still and quiet since the shadow boy’s death, since Mirabile’s death, when he had expected Her to rise screaming from his belly, expected to have to fight Her. But She was silent; it made him nervous, like a sailor beneath a storm-clouded sky.

  Gilly’s hands were under his shirt now, Maledicte noticed with a sudden warmth of his own, tracing lazy circles on his back, slipping lower.

  Blood touched his face, and Maledicte looked up, watched another thin rivulet sneak past the slow crust forming on Gilly’s head wound. Rising to his toes, he licked at it, hoping some of Ani’s healing might be found in his spit. The copper taste woke him to the urgency of moving on, of not being found near Mirabile’s body, of not being found at all.

  Gilly fumbled at Maledicte’s breeches and frowned in drugged puzzlement. “Livia?” Gilly whispered.

  “No,” Maledicte said, stung. He shoved Gilly into movement again, promising himself a confessional with Gilly as soon as he was sober. He had nothing to hide anymore; the unexpected freedom of it washed over his skin. Maledicte was a dead man, on the run, ruined. And he, who had changed his identity once, was free to do so again. The sword twanged against the doorjamb as they passed it, sparking a muttered response from Ani lurking within.

  Not free yet, Maledicte thought, sobered. He had his vengeance to complete, though he knew it was an empty gesture now. Last was long dead and buried, his enemies gone—Kritos, Last, Amarantha, Dantalion, all fed to the crow-bitch, leaving him never sated. If he killed the child, would Ani leave him then, their compact finished with the infant earl’s death? Maledicte felt Her whispering inside his blood, murmurs of agreement and coaxing. Just one more and then he’d be free.

  Free, Maledicte thought, to do what? Change his name, leave the city, leave Janus? The breath fell out of him; his heart throbbed. Janus—back-to-back, fighting the world, only each other at the last. Maledicte, swaying under Gilly’s weight as they shambled up the street like two drunkards, felt clearheaded for the first time in months.

  Vengeance was a cold thing, and his prize…he had bartered his soul for Janus, and his prize was not all he’d expected. Golden Janus, his lover, his most trusted friend, had sent Gilly to the sea….

  Rosy light washed over them, flushed their skin with a false health as they passed beneath the brothel windows. Maledicte dragged a protesting Gilly down the alley and hammered on the back door. When it opened, he drew his sword and levered himself and Gilly past the girls.

  “A room,” he said. “Now.”

  A butterfly flutter of silk told him one girl had run for the madam and likely for whatever protector she hired for the brothel. Maledicte intended to have Gilly ensconced before their arrival. He went toward the stairs, and Gilly, moving by muscle memory, stumbled up them, and chose a room without hesitation. Empty, thankfully, Maledicte thought. He could bribe the whores, but a customer might be another matter. And how long had it been since his escape? Had they posted guards on the streets yet?

  He pressed Gilly back into the sheets, wrapped him in blankets, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Will you forgive him this, too? If he has killed me?” Gilly whispered.

  “You’re not dying, Gilly.” Spoken, the fear was real in the room. Maledicte took Gilly’s hand in his own, sought out the steady throb of the pulse, the warmth of his fingers, and repeated, “You’re not dying. You’re hurt. But you’ll recover. Street urchins get beat worse than this by their parents in the Relicts, and look how well they grow.”

  “Stop crying then,” Gilly said. “If I’m not dying.”

  Maledicte put his hand to his face; it was wet and stinging with tears that he hadn’t noticed. He sniffed them back, letting them add to the pressure within him.

  “I don’t forgive him,” Gilly said. “Even if I’m not dying.” He closed his eyes, blooming bruises and exhaustion spreading shadows under them.

  “Nor do I,” Maledicte whispered. “Not this. Not you.” The door opened again, and the madam stood there without the protector Maledicte had expected. A sudden dism
ay rose in him that he wouldn’t have to fight anyone. He took a slow breath, forcing Ani back again.

  “The girls said it was Gilly,” she spat, seeing Maledicte seated on the bed.

  “It is,” Maledicte said, leaning back so she could see Gilly’s sprawled form.

  “And you’ve done this to him?” she asked. “Like my Lizette?”

  “No, to both,” Maledicte said. “I need a safe place for him to stay. To heal.” He felt as if he were talking at a distance, the room seen down a telescope.

  “He can stay. You try to, and I’ll summon the guards.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Maledicte said. Gilly clutched his hand, and Maledicte returned the pressure absently. “He’s hurt, though. And on Dream. He’ll need stitches for his head, and balm for the rest.” Maledicte dropped the pouch of coins to the floor; the madam scooped it up and disappeared through the door.

  “You can’t go,” Gilly said. “Where are you going?”

  “Away,” Maledicte said. “It seems that killing Mirabile was not wise, despite my satisfaction. I had not realized how much of Ani’s concentration was focused on Mirabile. And now, there’s only me to see to Her whims.” Bile seared the back of his throat; he coughed it back. Gilly pushed himself up to his elbows, eyes going wide, even in his drugged state.

  “Mal, I can hear Her in you—”

  “Yes,” Maledicte said. “Ani’s coming back. I can’t stay near you. It’s not safe.” He stroked Gilly’s arm, felt his other hand seize the hilt of the sword.

  “Mal,” Gilly said. “Let’s leave Antyre. Let’s go to the Explorations, please.”

  Yes, Maledicte thought, yes. Away from the kingdom, away from Ani’s tyranny and Her never-ending vengeance. But he was gagged by the taste of Her feathers and Her searing hatred.

  Gilly touched his throat, traced the god-avert over his flesh with trembling fingers, cooling his heated skin. The obstruction in his throat lifted.

  “Yes,” Maledicte said. “Yes, I’m done with this. With this fruitless vengeance, with ashes in my heart, with—” The heat scalded him, raced up his spine, his throat, scorched back into his belly, his arms; the sword jerked and quivered, demanding that Maledicte remove Gilly’s offensive, charm-using hands.

  Maledicte screamed under the weight of Ani’s will, Her thundering voice demanding his loyalty, his promise completed, obliterating everything else in his mind. The shadows moved inward, blinding him.

  Not Gilly, he thought. Let me finish my compact instead. You are the god of love as well as vengeance; let me leave Gilly alive. Please. Maledicte remembered Gilly saying Ani destroyed the Relicts when Her follower denied her. Maledicte shivered, trying to keep the image of the brothel slipping into the earth at bay. Anything, he pled. Anyone. I’ll bring them to you. Ani bent her head to his first prayer and Her wings fluttered in triumph.

  Maledicte stood, hand on sword hilt, and brushed by Ma Desire, who stood trembling in the doorway, hands full of clean bandages. Her shocked face was the last thing he saw before Ani took complete control.

  GILLY STRUGGLED WITH THE CLOAK, with the sheets, hearing again that stifled raw shriek, trying to get his stubborn legs sorted out so he could rise and go after Maledicte. Ma Desire hurried over and pressed him back. “No, you let that one go to the hell he’s headed for. You don’t go with him.”

  “But—” Gilly said.

  She covered his mouth with her hand. “There’s nothing you can do. He’s wing-bent.”

  “No—” he said, and she tipped a glass against his open mouth, made him sputter even as he recognized the taste of the Laudable. Behind the window, in the night sky, he could see darker clouds flowing lowly across the sky, full of the feather-rasp of flying rooks. A dark cloud in the night, moving through the heart of the city, following their master toward the palace.

  · 42 ·

  M ALEDICTE WOKE TO HIMSELF on the grounds of the palace, staring up at the brick wall of the residential house, with only a dreamlike idea of how he’d arrived. The sky was dark, he knew that, and the rooks were everywhere. Had he flown? He raised his arms, peeled back his sleeves, looking for feathers, but saw only smooth skin, unmarred.

  The light in the window beckoned him; the bars on the frame told him it was the nursery. Maledicte sheathed the sword and reached upward. He pressed his fingers into the brick mortar and it gave, creating a fingerhold. Raising himself one handhold at a time, he climbed, the birds swooping around him, carrying shrouding darkness on their wings, delaying morning.

  On the streets below he could see lamps guttering and being relit against the thick darkness. Being lit against him, loose in the night, and within those glows, the gleaming gilt of the Kingsguard, huddled close.

  A shadow moved across the window, and Maledicte clung to the wall with a predator’s caution and patience. He shook his head, trying to clear this dreamlike sensation from his skin, trying to feel something other than Ani’s fevered determination. Mortar and brick crumbled under his fingers, spat one hand into the air, left him hanging by the other. Below him, duller uniforms mingled with gold and blue: the Particulars with their pistols close to hand. Maledicte shifted his weight gingerly, trying to ease the cramp threatening to destroy his precarious grip on the wall.

  Trust Me. He heard Ani’s whisper, not in his ears, or his mind, but in the tides of his blood. It strengthened him like a tonic, and he clawed another foot upward.

  Sweating, gasping, Maledicte gave himself over to the simplicity of Ani’s will, of climbing the wall. He crept up to the lighted square of the nursery window, braced one foot on the sill, and peered inward. A kingsguard leaned up against the glass, spreading his bulk between the light and Maledicte.

  Hanging motionless, Maledicte watched, wondering why the guard never turned to look outside, then understood. This man was there to watch the inside of the room, secure in knowing that there were guards posted at every entrance, and that the window was barred and, moreover, three stories above ground.

  Maledicte, clinging with one hand to the stone sill above the window and braced by his feet, his ribs pressed against the sharp corner of the sill, reached for his sword. He slid the blade through the age-bubbled glass as smoothly and as cleanly as if it had been through paper, pressed it home before the guard could turn at the tiny chime of breaking glass. The sword bit deep into the guard’s heart, and he stiffened against the pane. Maledicte withdrew the sword, leaving a ring of blood on the glass as the wet sword returned.

  The guard slumped, and Maledicte, clinging to the bars of the window, waited a moment, to see if anyone within the room would object—wet nurse, child, or another guard. But the minutes passed in silence, with only Ani’s urging to be heard.

  He measured his shoulders against the bars, measured his head; the bars were too narrowly spaced for him. Designed to keep small children within, they also kept larger predators out. But as he ran his hands against their iron length, waiting for Ani to act, he realized they didn’t go all the way to the top; their pointed finials stopped before the window did, leaving a gap. Too high for a child to climb to, but for him on the outside—it was the only way in, unless he expected Ani to peel back the bars one by one.

  The gap wasn’t much, a space of eight inches high, and only as wide as the window. Maledicte raised himself up, slid his legs past the iron prongs and slowly, gingerly, worked his way through, the sharp tips pressing against his rib cage, ripping a line through his shirt and spilling a tuft of padding from his corset. Pressed between the bars and the glass, he used the sword hilt to work up the latch.

  Dropping into the room, he landed on the dead guard, and rolled away, came up with the sword extended. He bent and pulled the guard to his feet, using the man’s belt to fasten him to the bars. A brief look in the night-dim nursery would see the man dozing against the window. But he hadn’t played puppetmaster with the body unseen, he realized, as he heard the steady breath catch in surprise.

  Across the dimly lit playroom, Adir
an stared at him. Nested in blankets, surrounded by his blocks, he hadn’t slept in his bed. Ani moved Maledicte’s feet toward the boy. At the end of the playroom, closed in Adiran’s room, a dog barked sharply.

  Adiran smiled up at him, fumbled in the blankets beside him, and held up a hand. Ani smiled and accepted the token, the little porcelain puppet with black wings. She touched Adiran’s head, and said, “Sleep, wingless one.” As he had in Stones, Maledicte felt something transfer through him, not the same toxic wave of sickness, but something small and sharp, a crystalline seed. Beneath his hand, Adiran’s eyes fluttered. Sighing, Adiran folded back into his blankets. The dog scratched madly at the door, and Ani hissed. It whimpered and fell silent.

  “Hela?” The main door started to open, and Ani fought a brief battle with Maledicte over the necessary movement. Blood or stealth? Maledicte won by a bare margin, and ducked behind the carved toy chest, sheltering in its shadowed bulk.

  The guard looked in and about, saw Adiran sleeping, and shut the door again, oblivious of the scent of blood that filled Maledicte’s senses.

  On silent feet, Maledicte ghosted toward the other end of the room and the other bedroom door. He opened it, the sword slipping free, but the wet nurse snored in her chair, her gas light guttering.

  Ani prodded her with the tip of the sword, drawing blood, but no flinch, no waking; surprise and thwarted bloodlust drove Her back again. Maledicte touched her cup; sniffed the dregs of tea. Drugged. He smiled, a lean, cold thing that had more of Maledicte in it than Ani. Janus had been here. Janus was working with him. But where was he? Maledicte turned to search and Ani showed him the crib instead.

  The earl of Last. My enemy. The last death. Maledicte bit his lip at the idea. The freedom from Ani, their goal met, but the idea warred with a simpler image—Gilly’s face, flushed with distress over murdering an infant. Ani snarled within him, reminded him that She had let Gilly live. “I promised,” Maledicte said, took a step forward; the cradle linens seemed crimson with blood, the copper tang of it rich in the air. He curled cold fingers around the hilt. One more, he thought, and inched forward.