Steel's Edge (30 page)

Richard cleared his throat. “That's a wild exaggeration. I was a quarter-dead, at most.”

Kaldar swiveled toward him and peered at his brother's face. “That's two jokes in less than an hour. You feeling all right?” he asked quietly. “Feverish, eh?”

“I'm fine. Get out of my face.”

Kaldar looked at her, then back at Richard, then at her again.

Charlotte sat down. The three men sat.

“The monarchy survives because the bluebloods like it,” she said. “Most Adrianglians like it. It's an idea that appeals to them on some level. The king has less power than the collective Assembly or the Council, for example, so he can be overthrown. But we like to pretend we're still a warrior nation under a single strong leader, and we idealize the throne and those who sit on it.”

“Or stand close,” Richard added.

“The bluebloods don't fear laws,” she continued. “Some of us still think they don't apply to us. We fear only public judgment. The public has judged the royal family to be paragons of virtue. We can't fight that, or we'd have to rub the blueblood noses in the fact that their long bloodlines don't bestow them with nobility of spirit the moment they pop out of their mothers.”

Richard nodded. “The bookkeeper on the island is a prime example—she was so committed to Brennan, her eyes practically glistened at the thought of him. In her mind, he could never do anything base.”

Their minds ran on parallel tracks. “We can't fight the system,” Charlotte agreed. “But we can tarnish one individual. To crush the slaver ring, we have to get Brennan to admit to an act so base, so at odds with the standard of blueblood behavior, that society will have no choice but to judge him as defective. He will be viewed as a freak, unworthy of his pedigree. Anything he engaged in would become unclean. The bluebloods will destroy him just to escape the taint.”

“I like the way you think,” Kaldar said.

Richard nodded. “I agree. The public disdain and disgust must be so severe that it would cause a cry of outrage. The slave owners must recognize that being discovered would make them instant social pariahs. That's the only way the institution of slavery can be rooted out.”

Richard rose and walked to the board. “Brennan built this organization. He made it efficient, resilient, and profitable. We don't know why. He doesn't need the money, and if it ever became public, he'd lose everything. Something must've compelled him to create it. He cares a great deal about it. When we fought the Hand, we suffered setback after setback, but we didn't break until the end.”

A muscle jerked in Kaldar's face. “Erian.”

The half brother Richard had mentioned. “I don't understand,” Charlotte said.

“Our youngest brother betrayed the family to the Hand,” Kaldar said.

“What happened to him?”

“He disappeared,” Richard said.

“Richard let him go,” Kaldar told her. “He saw Erian walking away, and he let him go. We'll all regret this one day, mark my words.”

“Back to Brennan. We make him think he's being betrayed,” Richard said. “Make him think there is a coup and one of the others is trying to take over. It will drive him over the edge.”

“You'll need at least two people for that,” Kaldar said. “A single person stirring up trouble is too easy to trace. You need at least two people pretending to act independently. And you're right out, my dear brother, because your mug has by now reached Brennan's desk.”

“I can do it,” Charlotte said. “They don't know me. I don't even have to pretend to be anyone but myself.”

“Okay, that's one,” Kaldar said. “But I can't help you and neither can Audrey. The Mirror would have our asses, and, besides, we're on call. The Grand Thane Callis is marrying Marchesa Imelle de Lon in a month. Why couldn't that old geezer find himself an Adrianglian woman to marry, I'll never know. There is a realm full of old ladies waiting for him, but no, that old goat had to go to Louisiana to get himself a wife.”

The Grand Thane never concerned himself with playing by the rules. Roughly eighty years ago, when Rogan Brennan sat on the throne, his sister Solina Brennan married Jarl Ulrich Hakonssen of Vinland in the north. After Rogan, the crown passed to his son Olred, which made Jarl Ulrich Grand Thane, a title traditionally held by the king's oldest uncle. As Grand Thane, he had defended the realm, leading the Adrianglian Army and Fleet to victories in the Ten Year's War. Olred managed to get himself killed before he produced an heir. Because of Jarl Ulrich's foreign birth, Solina couldn't assume the throne, and their daughter Gallena became the monarch of Adrianglia. Now Gallena's son sat on the throne. The Grand Thane was father to the previous queen and grandfather to the current king and Brennan, but he had kept the title that made him famous. Charlotte had seen him twice from afar: he was a massive, battle-scarred bear of a man, famous for his magic, physical might in battle, and roaring voice. Lady Solina had died almost fifteen years ago, and now he finally chose to remarry. She imagined he didn't want to spend the twilight of his life alone.

“Anyone who is anyone in both Louisiana and Adrianglia will be at that wedding,” Kaldar continued. “The entire Mirror is on full alert.”

“That would be an excellent place to expose Brennan,” Charlotte thought out loud.

“It is, but I can't be the one to do it. I tried to hint at it to Erwin, who is in charge of operations for my unit, and he shut me down, fast. You're still short a player,” Kaldar said. “You need that overlap of influence. That's the way that con works. You must work completely independently from two different angles toward a common goal.”

“Perhaps I—” George said.

“No,” all three of them answered in unison.

“You have your future to think about,” Charlotte told him. “If we fail, Brennan will make it his mission to ruin you in the most gruesome way possible.”

“Not only that,” Richard added, “but you are well-known and well connected. If you fall, you will drag your sister, your brother-in-law, and your brother down with you. You can help, George. But you must do it covertly.”

“We're out of luck,” Kaldar said.

“Not if I become Casside,” Richard said.

What?

“Come again?” Kaldar asked.

“I've met him,” Richard said. “He wouldn't be difficult to impersonate. You said yourself, there is a strong resemblance between us.”

“You're good with prosthetics, I'll give you that.” Kaldar crossed his arms. “But this isn't some meeting in the middle of the night in a dimly lit tavern. You don't look enough like him to pass, and if you glue shit to your face, it will be clearly visible in the bright lights of all those ballrooms.”

“Not if it's under my skin,” Richard said.

She realized what he was saying. “Facial surgery?”

He nodded.

Charlotte stared at the picture, comparing the two faces. Richard's chin was too sharp, his nose bridge too low, his features too defined, and the eyebrows too high . . . No, too much, too many differences. It would never work.

“You're insane. Who's going to do this?” Kaldar demanded.

“Dekart,” Richard said.

Kaldar frowned.

“Who is Dekart?” she asked.

“He is a defector from Louisiana,” Kaldar answered. “They were going to exile him for some creative surgeries, and he turned tail and ran across the border into the waiting arms of the Department of the Interior. What makes you think he'll go for it?”

“I have access to the Camarine and Sandine combined finances,” Richard said. “Dekart needs money.”

“Ridiculous,” she told him. “You're going to trust your face to some defector?”

“Charlotte is right. The man is an artist with a scalpel, but you'll still die on the operating table,” Kaldar said.

“Not necessarily.” Richard looked at her.

No. Not in a million years. “Forget it.”

“Charlotte . . .”

“I said forget it!” She got up off her chair. “I would have to continuously heal you while the surgeon cut at your face. Look at your chin and look at his. It means cutting the living bone, Richard, and reshaping it. I will have to regrow it beyond its natural shape. Do you have any idea how difficult that is? I've assisted in reconstructive surgeries before. I know exactly what's involved. What you're proposing is suicide. There is no guarantee I can keep you alive. Best-case scenario, you would be disfigured. Worst case—dead. It's too dangerous.”

He simply looked at her.

“It's too dangerous, Richard. I won't do it. One slip of the blade, one overlooked infection, and you'll be gone.”

“Charlotte,” he said quietly. “You don't have to assist. I can hire a healer.”

“First, then you will die for sure. Second, no healer is going to do this for you. It's suicide.”

“What other way is there?”

“I don't know, but this isn't the way.”

“I'm willing to take the risk,” Richard said.

“I'm not!”

“I ask that you respect my commitment,” he said.

The words lashed at her. She had said the same thing to him when he tried to dissuade her from going with him. They had agreed that they would keep their relationship from interfering with the mission. If they hadn't made love and he was simply a man she knew, she would caution against the operation, but she wouldn't become borderline hysterical trying to prevent it.

But they had made love. And she was in love with him, whether he felt the same about her or not.

The words tore out of her before Charlotte could catch them, but she had summoned her poise, and when they came out, she said them calmly, with a touch of distance. “What if I lose you?”

“You won't. You're the best healer of your generation.”

*   *   *

RICHARD
lay prone on the table under the harsh sterile light of the surgeon's lamp. From this position, he had an excellent view of Dekart, a short, lean man, dressed in surgeon's robes. His face had a look of complete concentration as he reviewed his instruments. On the table in front of him, an imager presented Casside's face, enlarged to twice its normal size. The imager captured one's likeness completely, and Dekart was very good.

Charlotte stood next to the surgeon. Her face was glacially cold, her iced-over beauty almost sharp enough to cut. He was on the receiving end of the coldest stare he had ever seen.

Dekart's daughter-assistant tightened the last leather belt, pulling Richard's left arm tight against the surface of the table. The buckle clicked, locking. He was strapped in.

“Suicide,” Charlotte said.

Richard smiled at her.

Ever since he pointed out that she was thinking with her emotions, Charlotte had shut them down. She had argued for three days with cold, flawless logic, trying to overwhelm him with facts. She explained the operation in detail as they sat by the fire. She found an anatomy volume on the shelf and detailed how easily a scalpel could cause damage. She threatened him with the lingering, chronic pain that came with reshaped bones and nerve damage. And when they made love, she took his breath away. She was trying to give him a reason to back off.

She had no idea she only made it worse. He wanted to keep her away from using the darker side of her magic at any cost. He had come up with a plan that would call for him to bear almost all of the danger. She wouldn't have any cause to kill anyone. It hinged on his having Casside's face, and so he had listened to everything she said and acknowledged the full validity of her arguments, but he refused to budge.

Dekart began drawing lines on Richard's face, holding the ink stick in gloved hands. “How proficient are you in healing, my lady?” His voice was soft and quiet. A slight Louisiana accent tinted his words.

“I'm the Healer,” she said in a brisk tone.

“I understand you are a healer,” he said.

“Not ‘a.' ‘The,'” she said.

Dekart glanced at her. “You will forgive me if I don't believe you. The Healer worked miracles until she retired. Still, you must have some ability, since my patient places such confidence in you. Such procedures are . . . quite gruesome. I ask that you restrain yourself from healing until I ask, or you will prematurely heal the changes I will make.”

Charlotte fixed Richard with a deadly gaze. “If you die, I'm coming after you. Don't expect a peaceful afterlife.”

It must be excruciating for her, he realized. If their roles were reversed, and she lay on the table, while he was forced to watch her face being cut open and mop up the blood, could he do it?

“Dekart, give us a minute.”

The surgeon gave a one-shouldered shrug, and he and his assistant stepped out.

“Did you have a moment of clarity?” she asked. “Should I undo the belts?”

“I'm sorry for making you do this. It must be difficult for you.” He couldn't let her realize why he was doing it. If he did die, she would never forgive herself.

Her narrow eyebrows rose. “Have a care, my lord Mar. First you ignore my advice, now you insult me. I assure you that watching living flesh sliced by a surgeon is nothing new to me. Contrary to your expectations, you are not that special.”

She was furious with him. “If I could trade places with you, I'd . . .”

Her eyes sparked with anger. He'd clearly said the wrong thing.

She reached over and slapped him.

“If you could trade places with me, I'd die on the operating table. You deposited the responsibility for your survival on my shoulders against my will. Don't offer me empty platitudes.” She turned away from him and walked out of his field of vision. “He's ready.”

The door swung open. A moment later, Dekart loomed over him. “Please don't damage the patient. If you feel the need to injure him, kindly do it on other parts of his body.”