A Tyranny of Petticoats (13 page)

He gestured to the sofa. “Please, Miss Vesper, it wasn’t my intent to offend you. I only wish to know a bit more about you. Your reputation is . . . unrivaled. Yet all of my information about you has been secondhand.”

Klio returned to her seat but remained wary. “What would you like to know?”

“A great deal.” Stuart’s brow furrowed. “But I don’t expect you to indulge all of my curiosities.” When Klio didn’t take to his teasing comment, he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. “Let me show you my good will by answering your question. The Coven and the sidhe have been on good terms for the last three centuries. The goblins are brutes and they hate the Coven, but they despise secret plots and assassination and have only disdain for human wars. They’re a savage lot, but they couldn’t care less about who wins the Game. If the goblins want me, or anyone for that matter, dead, they’d prefer to attack at high noon and stick heads on pikes for all to see. If it wasn’t against the Old Laws, they wouldn’t bother showing up at the Game.”

“I understand.” Of all the factions, Klio viewed the goblins as the least threatening — if only in this particular venue. They wouldn’t break the rules of the Game, and they would spit at the suggestion of loopholes.

“The necromancers are not unlike the goblins,” Stuart continued. “They’ll have bodies enough from the carnage while it’s being waged.”

“So the vampires and the wolves.” Klio had already arrived at that conclusion before she boarded the ship, but she appreciated Stuart’s confirmation.

“The vampires have ties with Southern planters that go back to the first colonial settlements,” Stuart said. “And the wolves haven’t made it known whether they support the Union or the Confederacy. The stubborn beasts refuse to ally or confer with any other faction. Since they made their support of the British known before all the other factions declared for the Americans in the War of Independence, they’ve gotten it into their furry heads that the rest of us colluded against them. If they win the Game this time, we won’t know on whose behalf we’re fighting until they deign to tell us.”

Taking Klio’s passive expression for approval, Stuart said, “And now it’s your turn. Your face is veiled, but I would have you reveal yourself — figuratively speaking, of course. Who are you, Miss Vesper? What tales have you to tell? I imagine them to be extraordinary.”

“I’m certain you have ways of finding out almost anything about me,” Klio replied.

He shrugged. “Yes, but I’d prefer to hear what you have to say about yourself. For instance, the Coven believed your kind no longer existed. Too many generations of intermarriage with mortals. It’s gone that way for most creatures outside the factions.”

“The bloodline has been diluted,” Klio said. “But on rare occasions the old traits manifest. Some choose to keep those qualities hidden, but my grandmother encouraged me to embrace my heritage. She knew that it would require a life of isolation, but I agreed with her. I preferred to leave my home rather than suppress my powers.”

“Your man — the djinn.” Stuart rubbed at the stubble on his chin absentmindedly. “Is it the same for him?”

“Yes.” Klio ground her teeth at Stuart’s description of Whitby as “her man” for the second time despite having corrected him. She and Whitby had been drawn to each other because of their shared histories. Both of them were relics of days past, abandoned by family. Forsaken by the world.

“Was it difficult to find your way?” Stuart asked. Something flickered in his gaze. Klio wouldn’t have named it sympathy. “Sixteen is young for someone to have already established the professional repute you possess.”

“Every life faces its trials at some point,” Klio said, keeping her expression passive. “Mine came earlier than most, but I have thrived nonetheless.”

Klio’s powers had manifested in the twelfth year of her life, the same night her belly cramped and she woke with blood on her underclothes. Coming of age hadn’t been the beginning of a transformation from girl to woman. It had marked the moment at which she would no longer be part of the family she’d known but would walk in a different world. Apart. And, until she met Whitby, alone.

Stuart’s gaze shifted to Klio’s arms, sheathed from fingertip to elbow by silk gloves. “May I see them?”

“I’m a professional, Hamilton.” Klio smoothed her skirt before folding her hands on her lap. “Not a performer.”

“That’s a shame.” He sighed.

Klio smiled for the first time since she’d arrived in Stuart’s cabin. “You’re the only person I know who has longed to see what my gloves keep hidden.”

“But those who’ve had the privilege to see —” Stuart’s eyes were alight with eagerness. “Do they find your secret to be marvelous?”

“I don’t know, Hamilton. They’re all dead.”

Whitby had gone by the time Klio returned to her cabin.

Klio stood in the middle of her sitting room, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Though he played the role of servant, Whitby was much more of a partner. He scouted and strategized with her before she entered the field of combat. While she fulfilled a contract, he acted as her eyes and ears around the perimeter of any kill site. Ever alert, Whitby secured the locations in which Klio did her work. Should she get into trouble, he would come to her aid. If Whitby had deemed it necessary to begin his surveillance of the steamboat immediately, Klio didn’t doubt his judgment, but she would have taken comfort in conversation with her closest friend before the work of the night began. Selfishly, she’d also hoped to steal a few moments of laughter at the expense of the snobbish Mr. Stuart. Klio and Whitby had little regard for the archaic customs and exclusivity of the factions. Mr. Stuart was the embodiment of all those traits they found intolerable, but that shared dislike could have offered a much-needed reprieve ahead of what would be a span of tense hours as the night grew long.

Despite the taciturn nature Whitby presented to the outside world, to Klio he was confidant, adviser, and irreplaceable man-at-arms . . . so to speak. Although clients contracted for Klio’s services, she split payment evenly with Whitby. Like his djinn ancestors, Whitby commanded magics that could mold the perceptions and actions of those around him. He could more than hold his own in a fight. But the
Fortuna
was a far different arena from those in which they usually battled. If Whitby came by information Klio needed, he would find her. She needn’t waste her time worrying about anything else.

Klio changed her clothes and went back to Stuart’s quarters. Talbot opened the door, and upon entering, Klio found her client freshly shaved and boasting a head of neatly combed hair. He shrugged on his jacket.

“I trust all is well, Miss Vesper?”

Klio nodded.

He smiled, casting an appreciative gaze upon her form. Like Stuart, Klio had taken the time to shed her traveling garb for clothes more suitable for the night’s event. Her gown was emerald satin, but its shade bore a depth that gave the fabric a mottled effect whenever she moved — a quality emphasized by her skirts’ fullness, which spread around her like the broad leaves of an exotic plant. The gown’s low-cut bodice had a dusting of lace that shimmered the white and silver of moonstone, and while her neck and shoulders were bare, Klio’s arms remained sheathed in black silk from elbows to fingertips. A veil of the same lace at her bodice kept her eyes from view.

“You make me regret that you accompany me for business tonight,” Stuart said. “I’d much prefer an evening of pleasure with you at my side.”

“Think on the pleasure of living rather than falling prey to your opponents,” Klio replied.

With a snicker, Stuart offered Klio his arm. “I would be pained at your rebuff, Miss Vesper. But instead I’ll take comfort in how difficult it is to lead you astray when your path is set.”

“That would be wise of you, Mr. Stuart.” Klio hooked her arm around his elbow. “Very wise.”

The confines of the ship limited the number of spectators who could attend the Game. Even so, Klio marveled at the array of onlookers.

Tiered rows of seats ascended from the floor of the deck, allowing a clear view to those unfortunate enough to be seated farthest from the players. The rows had been divided into six sections. Entrance into each section was carefully monitored to ensure there would be no mingling between the factions. In other settings, interactions between the groups wasn’t unheard of, but at this juncture, with so much on the line, such meetings could prove too volatile.

Klio walked at Stuart’s side to the front of the Coven’s section. The seats in each row were filled with richly dressed men and women, most bearing haughty expressions that vanished when they turned smiles of admiration or envy on their appointed champion. Those appreciative looks became curious, suspicious, or downright disdainful when they shifted from Stuart to Klio.

The opinions of these witches and warlocks troubled Klio not at all, but her skin crawled with the power that emanated from their ranks. The use of any kind of magic was strictly forbidden at the Game, both to prevent cheating and to protect the players from an arcane assault. That restriction, however, couldn’t prohibit existing magic that seeped from the very pores of this faction. They reeked of it.

The Coven wasn’t unique in its power, only in the form it took. To one side of the Coven were the sidhe. While the air around the Coven crackled with magic, the sidhe bathed in starlight. Fireflies and songbirds danced in the air around them as they indulged in food and drink. It was difficult to look upon the faeries without longing to join them; to gaze on their beautiful forms was to hear the song of a siren. A beautiful torment.

An altogether different lot sat on the other side of the Coven. While the sidhe suffused their surroundings with the tinkling chimes of their chatter and the silvery cascades of their laughter, the goblins offered a cacophony of screeches, roars, hisses, and snarls. Their ranks were made up of the small and gnarled and the tall and stick limbed, with skin in every hue of green, purple, brown, and gray.

Beside the goblins sat the wolves. Of all the factions, the wolves had the fewest spectators. Many of the rows in their section sat empty, and the handful of attendees was half human and half wolf, the latter roaming the aisles restlessly.

The next two factions, necromancers and vampires, were indistinguishable in their ghost-pale skin, but the necromancers favored hooded robes that shadowed their faces, while the vampires were attired in the finery of the moment, interested in attracting admiration rather than avoiding attention.

Klio’s gaze moved from group to group. The wolves might present the most significant risk — the absence of spectators could be the result of others aboard the ship yet not at the tourney, giving them the chance to stir up trouble elsewhere. The vampires were difficult to assess. The atmosphere of their section emitted ease and celebration, but few creatures could rival vampires when it came to deception and misdirection.

“It’s time.” Stuart drew his arm away from Klio but surprised her when he caught her hand in his and lifted her silk-gloved fingers to his lips. “My life is in your hands.”

Crackling anticipation exploded into shouts, roars, and applause as the six champions descended the steps from their sections to take their seats at the round table where the Game would be played: the hooded necromancer, whose robes obscured even his or her sex; the pale vampire woman with flaxen curls piled atop her head; a goblin with chartreuse skin and long bony fingers; a wolf in human guise, hulking and resentful as he glowered at his opponents; the faerie with skin like bark and hair of leaves; and finally Stuart, a warlock who approached the table with the swagger of someone who’d already won.

As the pastimes of each era changed, so changed the Game to mirror the world of the war whose fate was to be decided. Klio knew that the Game had taken many forms: the hunt, a footrace, a match of wits. In 1861 the Game would be poker.

The dealer was a woman called Naomi. Not precisely a woman — a shade, the spirit of a mortal summoned for the sole purpose of serving this role. Her neutrality was guaranteed by the summoning itself, a feat accomplished by the cooperation of a delegate from each faction.

While Naomi expounded upon the rules of the Game, Klio began to sweep the room with her eyes, alert to any sign of danger. The first hand was dealt. Play began.

No visual cue caused Klio alarm. Rather, a subtle prickling along her spine made her turn just in time to catch a figure darting out of her peripheral vision. The furtive quality of movement was enough to compel Klio to investigate. She felt a pang below her ribs as she wished Whitby were with her and could remain to watch the Game.

Keeping her stride casual and her expression diffident, Klio traced a path to the place she’d seen the figure vanish. She briefly considered the door that offered exit, but instead turned her attention to the space beneath the rows of spectators. This deck of the
Fortuna
had clearly been repurposed to host the tournament. Whether it served as a dining hall or ballroom under normal circumstances, the tiers of seating had been erected for temporary use. Below the rows of spectators was a skeleton of wooden beams that supported the weight of those above.

Klio glanced at the exit once more, then slipped into the darkness beneath. She couldn’t see her prey, but a trail of magic lingered that she could follow. What she sensed at the moment was simply power, the potential for devastating acts but not the execution of such. Whoever she pursued commanded the arcane with prowess.

After loosening each of the fingers of her gloves, Klio slid them off and tucked them into the small silk purse that hung from her wrist. Her skin warmed, and she felt the shifting of her flesh in anticipation of a fight.

Tension hummed in the air as the crowd above vacillated from rapt silence to outbursts of delight and dismay. Klio moved with light steps, taking care to avoid catching her full skirts on the crisscross of wood beams. She ducked, twisted, and shimmied, letting her gaze float freely to spot any sign of her quarry. Parting her lips, she took a breath, hoping to pinpoint the elusive figure, but the mingled odor and taste of so many bodies packed into this enclosed space made it impossible for her to discern anything specific.