Maledicte (28 page)

Maledicte stepped out of the warm circle of his arms. “My blade, his heart. What more plan do I need? Set me free to act. Didn’t I rid us of Kritos?”

“Kritos was a rogue and a gambler. That he died as he did was not worthy of comment or even much concern. To beard Last, who rarely leaves the courts, or his estates, is a far thornier problem.”

“I want him dead. Need him dead. Blood flows the same regardless of one’s surroundings. If it goes wrong, if suspicion brands us guilty, we can quit the earldom entirely. We’ll gut his estate and live like kings in the Explorations.”

“Flee like rats? Die like rats, when the money runs out?” Janus said, shaking Maledicte. “I’ll not revisit that life again.” His hands stilled on Maledicte’s shoulders, caressed where they had bruised. “You remember hardship. Even were you minded to risk it again, it would be worse than you think, knowing what we do now. The taste of fresh bread in the morning. The warmth of fireplaces in the winter.” Janus kissed Maledicte’s mouth when he started to speak again, sealing the words away with his tongue.

Janus walked him back toward the bed, and when their lips parted, continued, “The softness of silk on our skin, the luxury of sheets and velvet coverlets. It’s more than luxury, Mal. It’s safety.”

Maledicte fell back into the feather mattress, his shirt falling open, the corset sliding down to his waist. Janus pinned Maledicte’s hands above his head, buried them in the soft drape of down pillows. “I will endeavor to put Last in the path of your blade, winkle him out of his secure areas, but you must wait for it. I don’t intend to lose you to a verdict of treason.”

Maledicte looked up at the pale eyes, kissed the fine scattering of gold down at the back of Janus’s neck. “Make it soon?”

“Very soon,” Janus whispered. “My dark and bloodthirsty cavalier.”

“Time is our enemy,” Maledicte said. “Amarantha must not—”

“Shh,” Janus said, “It’s been near a fortnight without you.”

Maledicte gave himself over to the familiar, marvelous touch; sighing, moaning, biting where such response was called for, and all the time he thought of Last’s machinations working against them. Again he found himself balancing the simple act of vengeance and flight weighed opposite this elaborate charade of parry and counterthrust, of politics and power. The rushing pleasure that lit Janus’s face only dimly touched Maledicte, lost in his thoughts of blood and patience.

Janus disentangled himself from the loose knot of their legs, stretched, and said, a little crossly, “Even whores feign their pleasures.”

Maledicte stroked the furrow on Janus’s brow. “Whores do not have such schedules and schemes as I do. Amarantha is a threat to us. But to kill
her
would be to only delay the problem. Until you deliver Last to my blade, she might quicken and deprive you of your birthright. We must keep her barren until I have Last’s heart spitted.” He slipped from Janus’s grasp, the comforting softness of the bedsheets, and opened his chest of poisons. Dragging his finger along the vials until they sang, he found the first glimmer of pleasure. It wasn’t death, but it was a small vengeance even if it moved through Amarantha instead of Last.

He pulled out a handful of waxed paper twists, each pale green at their heart, and returned to the bed, spilling the papers out between them. “Harlot’s Friend,” he said. “You recognize it?”

“Yes,” Janus said. “Our mothers used such to prevent pregnancy. But Mal, how am I to get her to drink it daily?”

“Daily prevents. Monthly—she’ll miscarry if she’s gravid. Rougher on her, but far easier for you. All you need do is slip it into her wine. Though I warn you now, Janus, I will not tolerate a wait of months.”

Janus tucked the twists of paper into his pockets, sat up and began straightening his clothes, fastening buttons and retying laces.

“Janus?”

“I’d best be back before my absence is noted. Now that Father feels he has the upper hand, he has laid new strictures on me.”

“Were he dead, he could set no such rules.”

“Mal—” Janus warned.

Maledicte looked away. “If you’re bent on leaving, there are fresh linens in my armoire. You’d best have one. I’ve clawed your cravat past discretion.”

Janus searched out the snowy lengths of cloths, sorted through them while Maledicte watched with an amused eye. “The one on the end is starched silk, if that’s what your pampered skin demands.”

“Tie it for me,” Janus said.

Maledicte let the sheets unwind and reached out. “Ever the aristocrat—lift your chin more, hmm? I wear my linens to disguise. You will not leave yours off even for a covert jaunt across town.”

“Dress is the easiest aspect of rank to mimic and a visible sign of breeding,” Janus said, rising to check his appearance. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing the sleek locks. “Westfall may gad about town like a rustic in shirtsleeves and open collar…he has ten impeccable generations behind him. But if I appear with a veneer of dust marring the shine on my boots, it is because I am only a bastard, aping my betters.” Janus curled his mouth in a smile unlike his usual pleasant one. “But a title will change that. Or at least take the whispers from my hearing.”

Maledicte moved Janus’s sweep of hair aside, kissed the nape of the neck, silk stiff under his lips. “When will you be back?”

“Two nights from now. Father and Amarantha attend another wedding reception,” Janus said. “I will creep out of my window like some lovesick suitor, and come courting.”

“Promise?” Maledicte asked.

Janus turned, cupped Maledicte’s face in his hands, pressed their foreheads together. “I swear.”

L
OOKING OUT
over the crowded room, the Duke of Love turned to Last and said, “Has your son forgiven you? I saw him only briefly and thought him a little grim.”

“It matters not,” Last said, sipping from his glass. “His spirit has been too independent for my tastes. This may chasten him. He is too much Celia’s son, willful and selfish.”

“Some of that may be due to venal influences,” Love said.

“Maledicte,” Last growled. “That damned…I’d see him gone, only Aris is unaccountably fond of him.”

“Yes,” Love said. “Have you seen this week’s paper? And Poole’s scurrilous caricature? I’ve set Echo on the artist, but unless Aris objects, nothing will come of it.”

“I missed it,” Last said. “But it can hardly be worse than Poole’s previous images, my brother the king of slavering hounds.”

“It’s vile,” Love said, drew Last aside, and into the quiet recesses of his study. He unfolded the broadsheet.

Last’s mouth parted and his cheeks flushed. The image was drawn with careful simplicity, not the usual cluttered style of the artist, but something designed to be quickly memorable. Maledicte, all dark hair and lush mouth, lounged on the throne, his sword naked in one hand, and in the other—a long leash fastened about Aris’s neck. Aris himself had been drawn so that his face was nearly witless, blindly turning away from the corpse labeled Vornatti at his feet, looking up at Maledicte with adoration. Last’s hand crumpled the page. “Tell Echo to jail Poole. We’ll see if he has influence enough to free himself. And then we’ll know who aids him in spreading such slander.”

“Mirabile, no doubt, started the rumor; her whispers have increased tenfold in scope. And people believe where before they only listened,” Love said. “But that still leaves us with the ultimate source of your troubles and mine. Maledicte.”

Last sighed. “I thought that problem solved once. Dantalion, Vornatti’s displaced heir, sent an assassin, but either the man failed or was bought. I believe Dantalion plans to handle it himself once his position as Antyre’s new auditor is official.”

“A foreign assassin on our shores? Dantalion hunting our courtiers?” Love said, scowling. “Itarus is too free with their manners and too blatant in their hatreds. You should have mentioned such to me or Captain Jasper at once. Had he succeeded with Maledicte, he might have turned his attentions to the throne. Itarus would reward an assassin well for Aris. Still—” He raised his head and met Last’s eyes. “The idea is sound. Perhaps we can accomplish the task on our own. I have a manservant who might be of assistance. A man I’ve used before to rid myself of a troublesome stableboy. Why not a troublesome courtier?”

Last smiled. “Do this thing, and I’ll renegotiate Amarantha’s bride portion.”

Love said, “Let me grant you this as a wedding gift. All you need do is insure Janus’s absence from Maledicte’s side. Despite his posturing, I think the boy only a stripling. On his own, he should prove no threat.”

· 25 ·

L
ATE TE NIGHT,
the town house fell into silence as the maids retired, the cook settled to sleep, and the empty butler’s chambers cooled. In his bedroom, Maledicte alone sat awake. In the hall below, the great clock tolled out the quarter hour, and Maledicte set his book aside. With every chimed note, Janus’s promised arrival grew less likely. With every chime a new fear took hold.

Perhaps Last had drugged Janus and sent him abroad, a prisoner until Amarantha’s worthiness could be proved. Or maybe Last had chosen to gamble the future entirely on Amarantha and had drowned Janus like an unwanted cat. The old wounds on Maledicte’s side and face burned, a scorching reminder that Last had defeated Miranda before, had robbed her of Janus before.

Before Me
—Ani’s whisper throbbed in his blood, turning fears to fury, but without any comfort. Janus had no such protection. Ani’s wings sheltered Maledicte only. Maledicte picked up the sword, dancing his way across the room with it, stabbing and slicing as if his fears could be defeated by bladework. Were Gilly home and dreaming, Maledicte would creep in to find solace in the placid face. He would wake him to hear him grumble and find his fears pushed back by the familiar voice. But Gilly was out, visiting the damned brothel girl.

With a flourish of the blade, Maledicte whirled and took his sudden temper out on the heavy mahogany door. Red wood peeled back like parting flesh and Maledicte sighed.

He discarded the sword, a little ashamed of his tantrums, ashamed of his doubts and fears. Janus would come.

Behind him, the air shifted, the dark scent of the night fogs creeping in. Maledicte turned to see the windows parting and a man surging through. He leaped for the sword, his fingers falling short as the assassin lunged forward, and tumbled them both across the room. Maledicte fell to his knees beneath the brute’s weight, and, snarling, turned to claw at his face.

The garrote caught him by surprise, still warm where the assassin had held it close. It fell over his head, and, sword forgotten, Maledicte strove instead to deter the closing noose. His hands changed direction, forcing panic away for planning. Instead of clawing at the assassin, he clawed at the wire, managing to slip a hand up between the tightening loop and his neck.

Maledicte wheezed for breath, forcing his hand farther through the loop, skinning the flesh on his forearm, and nearing the elbow. If he could only get the wire past his elbow, he could slip out of it, its chokehold vanished with the inclusion of shoulder and rib. But the wire tightened, making it hard to muster the energy needed. Doggedly, breathlessly, Maledicte wormed his arm up another inch; the assassin rolled them both forward and put his knees in Maledicte’s back.

Maledicte could see the sword now, only a yard away, and thought if Gilly were right, if the sword could come to him at will, now would be the time above all. Maledicte’s last breath faded and fled, scorching his lungs with its haste. Where was Ani’s aid now? Or was this assailant unworthy of Her notice, being no part of their bargain…. Maledicte’s blood drummed in his ears; he clawed backward, one-handed, trying to find leverage.

The door flew open and the assassin’s grip slackened in surprise.

Maledicte sucked in air, put his shoulder up, and squirmed through the garrote loop, heading for the sword. His hand was on it when he heard the crash. Turning on unsteady feet, he saw Gilly holding the downstairs poker and standing above the assassin. One look at the huddled form and Maledicte dropped the blade. “You saved me the effort. Do I thank you?” he croaked.

White to the lips, Gilly held his death grip on the dripping iron of the poker as if frozen in horror and Maledicte repented his flippant words.

He took Gilly by the shirtsleeve and steered him away from the corpse, opening his fingers and letting the poker fall.

“I saw him, a shadow going through the window. I didn’t think I’d make it.” Gilly’s voice trembled and faded like an amateur singer at her debut.

“You did,” Maledicte said, pressing Gilly back into the softness of the chair, tucking a blanket around his shoulders. “You’re shaking.” His own composure was returning, the familiar rush of breath and anger, both so essential to him.

“I just—Did I kill him?”

“He’s not like to rise after you knocked that piece of skull loose. Tell me, did you ever play at stick as a child?” Maledicte poured a glass of brandy for Gilly, curled his fingers around the heavy crystal.

Gilly raised the glass to his lips, managed a sip, and then let it settle in his lap again. “Are you hurt?”

“Only knocked about.” Maledicte sat down on the bed and rubbed his throat with tentative fingers. His other hand drummed and twitched with residual nervousness and he started to his feet again.

Gilly passed him the brandy glass. Maledicte tossed it back, coughing as the liquor hit strained flesh.

“He’s the duke of Love’s man,” Gilly said, shifting in his seat so that his head rested against the sheltering side. “I recognized him as I struck. I forget his name, but not his face.”

“The duke? What wrong have I done him?” Maledicte felt as bewildered as a child, the clarity of battle gone.

“The king’s favor, perhaps,” Gilly said. “The scandal of it. Or Last may have borrowed him.”

“Last,” Maledicte said, rather more pleased than not to gain another reason to hate the man. He knelt beside the body and began rifling the assassin’s clothing. An inner pocket yielded a note on expensive parchment. He unfolded it, trying to keep the blood sliding down his arm from obscuring the words.

“What is that?” Gilly said, roused from his shock by the sound of paper. He took it from Maledicte’s hands. “It’s instructions, but no names, not even yours.”

“Well then, if he can’t be useful, let’s get him out of here. I swear he’s beginning to stink.” Maledicte picked up the poker. “Do you have a lucifer on you?”

“You’re not going to burn him?”

Maledicte found a reluctant smile at Gilly’s evident horror. “Only the blood and hair on the poker. He’s far too fresh for that kind of thing. But I am open to suggestions, Gilly. The night will not last forever, and I am tired. You know everything; tell me what to do with him.” Maledicte’s tone was soft, conciliatory.

“I never had to know how to dispose of corpses until I took service with you,” Gilly said. He stared down at the body, at the ruined head, and flexed his fingers. “We bluff.”

T
HEY STAGGERED QUIETLY
down the dim, carpeted hall, past the sweeping main staircase, to the narrow attic stairs, the corpse hanging heavy between them. Gilly’s hands, wet with sweat, slipped on the man’s booted ankles, and he made a hasty catch to prevent them from banging on the stair riser. Maledicte, breathing harshly, signaled a rest, propping the corpse’s torso up along the wall. Gilly looked away from the staring eyes, hating that this was his idea, and so disallowed him complaint—his idea to turn the assassin into an unlucky thief who had fallen to his death.

Maledicte, kicking speculatively at the cooling body, had suggested his bedroom window as the “thief ’s” point of attempted entry, but Gilly pointed out the plush lawn and rose beds below. A man might break his neck, but not open his brain box in such a fall to such a surface.

So they carried his weight toward the high attic window, where the decaying trellis made plausible both an attempt at entry and the successive fall to the stone path below.

Maledicte’s other suggestion—that they claim self-defense, and allow Echo the pleasure of removing the body—Gilly had rejected out of hand, citing the inadvisability of allowing Echo within Maledicte’s rooms at all, given the man’s desire to prove Maledicte culpable of something, anything. Gilly had held his breath until Maledicte agreed, but knew from the look in the sharp, dark eyes that his real motive had not gone unnoticed: If it were a thief and an accident, then Gilly would not have to dwell on the thing he had done….

Gilly looked up to find the dull shine of the corpse’s eyes fixed on him. Something slick and wet slid down the dead face, reminding him of a melting waxwork. Gilly fought bile. No wonder the aristocrats dueled; they could kill someone and be away, even as the body fell. They never had to tidy up after. Maledicte’s cold fingers touched his wrist, startling him.

“Stop gawping. You’ve been blooded now and no distress on your part will undo it. Take his ankles and be done with your vapors,” Maledicte said. “But let me go up the stairs first. If we take him head down, we’ll have to clean the stairs after. The night is long enough without that.”

Death—aristocrats turned it into sport, Gilly thought savagely. He took a step too fast and Maledicte stumbled.

Too near the top and the maid’s rooms to apologize, Gilly merely shrugged. Maledicte tugged again and started up, his hair and eyes slipping into shadows, then the shadows flowing forward and enveloping them entire.

At the top of the stairs, they hesitated, looking for thin lines of light that might betoken a maid still awake. But the darkness was near absolute; only the faint gleam of night sky sketched out the floor beams as they crept by the maids’ rooms and up the last half stairs to the attic proper.

Maledicte set the body down with a sigh, stretched his hands up to the roof, easing his back and shoulders. “Why are the dead so damn heavy?”

“Awkward, not heavy,” Gilly said. “You or I could have carried him alone, were it not for the stairs and our own squeamishness. Cradled like a lover, there’d be little difficulty.” Though looking again at Maledicte’s slight form, he doubted his words.

“He’s stiffening,” Maledicte said, prodding the corpse, then locking his grip around the assassin’s chest so that his hands met and knotted into each other, white-knuckled. “Let’s finish this.”

Gilly shifted his grip from dead ankles to thighs, trying to take more of the weight, seeing the tension in Maledicte’s hands echoed in his neck and shoulders.

“I am going to make Love regret this,” Maledicte panted as they maneuvered the body up to the narrow windowsill.

The corpse stuck for a moment, then it dropped with a rustle of ivy and the sudden burst of black wings. Maledicte and Gilly jumped back as a handful of rooks came in the window, their sleep disturbed, their wings beating like Gilly’s startled heartbeat.

“Did you know they were nesting there?” Gilly asked, when the last rook had found its way back into the sky.

“It’s convenient. Gives him a lovely reason to have been startled and fall to his death. You’ve done well by me tonight, Gilly. My lucky piece, faithful friend.” Maledicte brushed Gilly’s cheek with his lips.

Gilly found himself wondering what all his distress had been for. An assassin who would have killed Maledicte?

Down below, the blurred black shape of the assassin, broken on the pale stones, shifted and seethed. Gilly flinched, and looked at Maledicte, startled at the apparent movement and sick at the thought that perhaps they had dropped a living man. But Maledicte merely smiled and Gilly realized the moving blackness was not the man, but the man covered in feeding rooks.