Maledicte (29 page)

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O
NCE AGAIN
, M
ALEDICTE FOUND HIMSELF
at the heart of scandal; the young courtier nearly burgled by the duke of Love’s own valet. As if that were not enough to keep tongues wagging, the confrontation between Maledicte and the duke, which started with mutual recriminations and threats, ended in Love’s apoplexy and death. And all, rumor had it, without Maledicte even needing to draw his sword, or raise his voice. There were bets laid, trying to guess what it was Maledicte had said. Some rumors said it wasn’t words, but the rudeness that had kept Maledicte from allowing Love and Echo entrance, kept them standing in the cold, morning drizzle. Brierly Westfall, Mirabile’s sweet-voiced mouthpiece, said she had heard that Maledicte cursed Love’s family. Others claimed he mocked Love’s pride and so sent him into apoplectic rage.

When the bets grew high enough midweek, Maledicte entered the game himself, swearing he would tell them what he had said, if the victor would split the spoils. He visited the Horned Bull, over Gilly’s objections of discretion and propriety, and went through the betting book himself, finally awarding a young poet the purse. “It wasn’t so much,” Maledicte said, smiling at the wildest fancies of witchcraft and exotic poisons. “All I did was bar my door and tell Love it was in fear that, as his man was a sneak thief, why should the master be any better? Love had a weak heart. His own temper undid him.”

Poole, the caricaturist, still ensconced in Stones, made the scene his next work when he heard of it: Maledicte, cloaked in shadow, ringed by sly faces, with coins spilled before them all. He captioned it “Betting on Death,” and behind Maledicte’s image, the horned brow of Haith, god of death and victory, loomed. Gilly fussed when he saw it, but Maledicte only grinned.

“You must be more discreet, stay home and be—”

“Besieged by visitors curious to see where first Love’s man and then himself died? No, Gilly, that’s begun to pall.”

But in the midst of all the notes Maledicte received, the invitations to scandalous gatherings, the reawakening interest in the dark cavalier who had been silent for a season, one omission stood out. From Janus, there had been nothing, and Gilly knew it was that which had driven Maledicte out and about, courting his attention.

When Janus came, it was days later and late at night. He came cloaked in secrets and wearing all the signs of a late appointment to a lover’s rendezvous, dark linens, newly applied scent, and barbered cheeks.

Gilly let him in and Janus swept into the parlor as if he knew that since the attack Maledicte had not slept well within his bedchamber. Gilly, following Janus, resented his glib assurance of welcome, even a week late; he was appeased at Janus’s sudden pause at the sight of Maledicte stretched out on the chaise longue beside the spinet. All in dove gray, Maledicte embodied both demureness and danger.

“Was it an assassin? The duke’s man?” Janus said, dropping his cloak over a chair, ignoring the slow slide of velvet-trimmed wool as it puddled over the edge and fell to the floor. Gilly picked it up, draped it again.

“The duke’s man. Your father’s hand. Sit, if you’re not going to drink; Gilly’s teaching me to cheat at pennywhist.”

Janus bent to kiss Maledicte and Maledicte turned his head like an affronted maid, refusing to be turned up sweet.

“That’s a servant’s game,” Janus said, seemingly willing to humor Maledicte’s mood. He settled himself on the chaise, bumping his hip against Maledicte’s.

“Victory is victory, no matter the stakes.” Maledicte stood, stretched in another series of deliberate movements.

Watching, always watching, Gilly was reminded of smoldering fires in Maledicte’s stillness, of hot lampblack, of the mountainous volcanoes abroad, rumbling.

“The body,” Janus said. “Why the charade?” He gripped Maledicte’s hand, tugged him back to the seat, settled him between his thighs.

“I thought a dead burglar would be less commented on than a dead assassin,” Gilly answered when Maledicte did not.

“I wish you had waited,” Janus said.

“Wait, always wait. How you love that song. Should I have just propped him in a closet?” The edge rose in Maledicte’s voice suddenly. “Or send a card, begging Last’s pardon, but could Janus come aid me—I seem to have a corpse in my bedchamber? I was sick of the sight of him, and Gilly was just sick. And you were not here.”

“Father changed his plans and kept me at his side, late into the night, going over land management for land I may never own while I acted the obedient son. But I’m done with that,” Janus said, nestling his face into Maledicte’s hair. His eyes grew blue and bright. “Is your sword sharp?”

“No,” Gilly said, “No.”

“Don’t tease,” Maledicte said, after a frozen moment.

“I am in deadly earnest,” Janus said. “He tried to kill you. He cannot be allowed to try it again. I have flushed our quarry, Mal, goaded them into movement. It is time to hunt.”

“You’re hiding something,” Gilly accused, meeting the gas-flame blue eyes with his own. He wouldn’t flinch. Not anymore.

Janus slapped his gloves back and forth in his palms. “Only that I gambled on our plan, our odds of success, when I am not entirely sanguine of the result. I am not a gambler by nature. But after Father’s attempt on Maledicte’s life, waiting seemed even more of a fool’s game.”

“What did you do?” Gilly asked.

“I poured Amarantha a drink, taking care that she saw—”

“What does it matter?” Maledicte interrupted. “Just tell me where—”

“The docks,” Janus said. “To the
Winter’s Kiss
and thence to Itarus, where they can ally with another who wishes you dead.”

“Dantalion,” Gilly said in Maledicte’s place.

Maledicte seemed uncaring, eyes half closed, a smile curling his mouth. A man lost in a delightful dream of murder. He opened his eyes, pure triumph simmering in their depths. “You doubt those odds, Janus? I’ll slaughter Last ere he ever sets foot on the
Kiss.
”

“You cannot run into the night waving your sword like a barbarian,” Gilly said, standing before the door into the hall and the city outside as if to bar their way.

“Don’t fret, Gilly. It does you no good and cannot change what we do,” Maledicte said.

“We could hire footpads to kill Last for us. Take a page from his book,” Janus said.

“No,” Maledicte said, rising again, as slim as his sword. “What joy is there in blood spilled by proxy?”

“But sword wounds look like nothing else. If you made it appear accidental, an attempted robbery or some such—”

“Burn it,” Maledicte said, settling his sword around his narrow hips. “I have been patient. I will be so no longer.”

“I set a boy to watch the house,” Janus said. “He’ll send word when Last leaves. You’ll wait that long.” Half command, half entreaty, it worked well enough that Maledicte stopped in his forward path toward the door.

Maledicte paced the confines of the hallway, much like the caged animals of the city gardens, waiting, refusing to be drawn into further speech, though Gilly tried. It was nearly dawn before the message came, a one-word note.
Now.
Maledicte was out the door before the paper had fluttered to the tiles.

The rooks fled the roof, creeling and calling; in the stables, the horses shrieked as if their stalls were afire. Maledicte turned and walked into the retreating night, following the sting of salt in the air, and dragging shadows after him like the sweep of dark wings.

T
HE EARL OF
L
AST SWUNG
down out of the carriage and gestured his coachman onward to the silent quay and the waiting Itarusine ship, distinctive with its ice-breaking prow. The tiger dropped from his post behind the carriage, not the usual skinny lad to run messages but a man Gilly’s size. While Last looked after the coachman and crew now unloading his valises, the tiger kept watch, peering into shadows, a hand on his knife. In a dark niche of broken wall and alley, Maledicte’s eyes narrowed. Did Last think a single, extra guard would be enough? Even one so large—Maledicte had long ago stopped fearing men who outweighed him. They all bled the same. Insult lanced through him; that Last, who supposedly feared for his life, would rely on only one guard and his coachman for protection.

The dank, morning fogs hugging the streets and pier reached pale tendrils into Maledicte’s lair and wrapped a cloak of obscurity around Last’s form. Maledicte welcomed the warming trickle of hatred creeping through his heart and brain, Ani’s shared rage eclipsing all else. The foggy fingers touching him slowly tinted to the ink of starless night. He stepped out of his lair, onto the pier, eyes focused on the tall blur that was Last, and the shadows in the alley followed him out, spreading soundlessly, blanketing the wharf in untimely dark.

The tiger, for all his jumping at shadows, was woefully unprepared when Maledicte emerged, blade already drawn and moving. The size, the strength, all for show, Maledicte thought dimly, as he moved past the man falling to the street, blood pouring from his ruined throat. Last would have done better to bring a hound, which at least could have been counted on to bark.

“Last,” he said, when he was a swordstrike away.

The earl spun, one hand clenched the haft of his cane, the other the handle, while he quickly sought sign of the guard. Finding no one, he twisted the cane. It clicked and showed a faint gleam of metal. No surprise showed on his features, only resignation and rage. “He set you on? So be it. You will not dispose of me so easily as you think.”

Maledicte lunged without response, thrusting the blade forward. It made an eager hiss all its own, and the earl parried, using his cane to deflect the blow. The wood split, revealing the sword beneath.

The earl shoved, using the steel core as a lever, and forced Maledicte’s retreat, giving him a moment to strip the sword of its ruined sheath. Maledicte danced forward, and Last evaded the next blow by pivoting on one heel. Last called for help, but the words were swallowed by the black fogs. “Witchcraft,” he spat. “You’re nothing without it. You couldn’t take me without the god’s aid.”

“All She does is hold the world at bay,” Maledicte said, lunging. His sword bit into the bulky coat. Last winced, then clamped the fabric close, trying to use it to disarm Maledicte.

Maledicte hung on to his blade, slipped back, and Last ripped the hampering greatcoat off with a quick agility that made Maledicte snarl.

Last snapped the weighted edge into Maledicte’s face. Maledicte ducked away with no space to spare and ripped the coat from Last’s hand, enraged that the man thought to use it as a shield.

At this long-delayed moment, it became apparent that the earl of Last was a swordsman of some skill, and, of course, was possessed of the urge to stay alive. But Maledicte, shadowed and dark, moving as if he had no more limitations than the fog itself, was merely possessed. Gradually, strike after strike, he began to win.

The darkness was as complete as if the deepest sea had reached up and drowned the city. In its black embrace, Maledicte’s world narrowed to the ring of steel on steel and their panting breaths. There wasn’t even room for rage or triumph; with Last dancing so well with him, all Maledicte could feel was the enjoyment of physical exertion, and the breath-stealing anticipation of blood. The dark sword, ghostly in the fogs, swooped forward and took a bite; Maledicte moaned for Last, the pleasure deep in his belly surfacing. Last cursed and stumbled back, bleeding along his upper arm.

The fog carried the muffled prayers of frightened sailors. Nearby, the coachman called out but Last had Maledicte’s sword pressing him, and no breath to answer.

Last gained ground, took them from the treacherous slick wood of the quay to the cobbled edge of pier and street, but the effort left him bleeding from arm and thigh.

His face, set in lines of desperate concentration, broke and filled with a wild triumph as the coachman blundered into their duelists’ circle. Maledicte danced back and turned, the blade flying from his hand to strike home in the coachman’s chest. The primed pistol dropped from the coachman’s hand, falling onto the cobbles with a crimson roar, its shot spent. Maledicte’s pleasure turned to anger. The coachman thought to interfere; who might next?

Last lunged forward, his blade aimed for the sweat-wet cravat at Maledicte’s neck and Maledicte slipped away in time to save his neck, if not his waistcoat and shirt. The fabric ripped, the dark brocade, the pale linen, the dense cotton, all rent with one swift stroke, baring Maledicte’s moon-white flesh and ending with one drop of blood blooming and fading at his collarbone.

Maledicte growled at the touch of the fog on his skin. He was a body’s length from the coachman’s corpse and his sword, and his temper was turning foul.

This went on too long; every minute brought Last closer to reprieve. The pistol shot would have been heard, and though the fog played havoc with sound, eventually they would be found. Even now, Maledicte heard a woman shrieking, a high, shrill sound that set his teeth on edge. Last hesitated, his face confounded; Maledicte lunged in a long, low dive for his distant sword, even as Last shook the astonishment from his face, and returned to the fight.

Last’s blade missed his tumbling form by a hair’s breadth. More silk ripped; the riband holding his hair slithered down his neck and pointed out how close the blade had come, but the coachman’s body and Maledicte’s sword were within reach. Maledicte’s hand closed on the sharp-feathered hilt of his sword and it slipped from flesh and bone as if a human body were just another hilt.

Maledicte shook the hair from his face and backed Last toward the pier. The duel was done. The set blankness on Last’s face told Maledicte such, the fear unmasked in blue eyes. Maledicte darted out with his blade, a bird’s quick stoop for prey, narrowed his vision to Last’s throat. The man parried at the last, but Maledicte’s blade shrieked over steel and sliced through Last’s ear.

“Who are you?” Last gasped.

“Is that what ails you?” Maledicte laughed, trying to imagine what Last saw. His hair falling loose, shadowing his eyes, the feral snarl of teeth and tongue, the pale skin and delicate breasts bared to the night air…. Were Last less of an aristocrat, he would fear less, but in his experience, women were nothing but playthings and pawns. That one could wield a sword and more, fight him to the death, would be beyond his experience.