Maledicte (32 page)

· 29 ·

T
HE FIRST SIGNS OF SPRING
inside the city limits were the groans and creaking of the ice breaking up near the docks, moaning like live things in torment. Maledicte had slept badly this winter, and would have slept a good deal worse, saving Janus’s presence and the gossip mill turning from him to Mirabile. As the Dark Solstice deaths faded in urgent memory, his rumored part in it fell beneath the waves of Mirabile’s continued depredations.

The slaughter of the Westfalls paled beside the subsequent deaths of the four kingsguards who had run her to ground. All four men were found rent and eyeless, and on that violent topic, tongues wagged. Mirabile, some cried, was a phantom, returned to plague the living. A witch, cried others, and one who meant to curse the aristocracy. Others, more cautious, whispered of returned gods and Ani’s touch, whispered so quietly that only Gilly, sifting information, heard that rumor.

One further tidbit kept bored tongues busy. The whisper that Aris had chosen Janus to replace Westfall as counselor. The rumors claimed first that this was merely Aris’s way of leashing his scandalous nephew and keeping the last of a line close. More acidly voiced rumors said that Aris always liked one of his counselors to be in touch with the common folk, and what was more common than a bastard?

Still the season passed, with Janus often at the palace, acting as Aris’s aide. It was Janus who greeted foreign merchants at the dock, haggling for Aris, and spurning the bulk of the Itarusine cargo. And it was Janus, or so it was murmured, who met with Captain Tarrant, that pardoned war pirate, to strike a surreptitious bargain, smuggling those same spurned Itarusine goods into the country, thus relieving the exorbitant prices on staples, and silencing some of the protesting poor. But if Janus spent his days at Aris’s beck and call, his nights were Maledicte’s exclusively.

Even with Janus’s near-constant presence, Gilly knew that Maledicte was more often haunted than not, nights given over to nightmares, and saw, with increasing regularity, the shadows drifting in Maledicte’s eyes as Ani, stymied, made Herself felt in a hundred small black tantrums and nightmares. From the brittle tension that rose between Maledicte and Janus, from the near-resentful looks Maledicte cast Janus on occasion, Gilly thought he understood what had happened. As of yet, he had not found a tactful way to ask for confirmation.

Tonight, Gilly came in with the groaning of the ice, feeling as grave as if it were he doing the moaning. He had, in his hand, the instrument that would shatter their fragile peace.

“Do you know you have frost in your hair?” Maledicte said, lounging in the hall with a glass of wine in his hand. “And you look chilled through.” Maledicte set his glass down on the empty receiving salver. As Aris had requested, Maledicte had refused to attend any of the makeshift festivities, though in truth, few had requested his presence. Maledicte dusted the frost from Gilly’s coat and sleeves. Parchment crackled like breaking ice, and Maledicte tugged the paper from Gilly’s hand.

“What’s this? A note from Lizette? Does your ladybird know how to write?” Maledicte teased. Gilly reached for the letter, but Maledicte evaded him.

Taking up his glass again, Maledicte propped himself against the wall, and began to read the gathered gossip and speculation Gilly paid Bellington for.

The glass splintered in his hand. “When did you know about this?” Maledicte demanded.

“Just this afternoon,” Gilly said. “I got word from the solicitor and went down to the docks to talk to the captain of the
Kiss.
He confirmed it, said she was showing signs even on the journey out.”

Maledicte let out a strangled sound—whimper, snarl, or both together, combined of rage and despair. “We should have thrown her into the sea with her damned husband. But who would have calculated the odds to be so against us? Five years it took for Last to seed his previous wife, and several slips after that. But Amarantha—wife for a bare sennight—” His breath sobbed in his chest, unequal to his rage.

“What’s the matter now, the soup served cold?” Janus asked, coming into the hall. As he looked from Gilly to Maledicte, the bored humor drained from his face.

“The countess of Last, Amarantha Ixion, is near to term with your father’s child, and she returns to lay claim to the estate and title.” Maledicte belatedly noticed the broken glass in his hand. He opened his clenched fist, let the shards patter down like rain from his unmarred skin.

Janus blanched. “A blow to be sure.” He raised his hand to his forehead, rubbed the narrow spot between his eyes. “Is it Father’s child for sure? Not some bastard thing she’s using to gain control of the estate?”

“If it is not your father’s babe, it is so close that we will never prove otherwise,” Gilly said.

“What do we do?” Maledicte said. “If the child is born, if it is a boy, our plans are thrown over, Janus.”

Janus stroked Maledicte’s dark hair. “You’ll just have to kill her before she gives birth. But be careful, Mal. Aris seems most…interested in your activities. Echo counsels mistrust, while I scoff, and yet we only attain stalemate. Best we heed Aris’s obsession, and be discreet in her death.”

W
HEN
A
RIS SENT A RUNNER
to Janus, informing him that he would be sent to meet Amarantha’s ship with the royal carriage and a slew of guards, Maledicte said, “I don’t suppose you could drown her by accident.” He said it with no particular energy, lounging on the chaise, slowly moving to fill the area that Janus had vacated.

“No,” Janus said, though his lips quirked.

Maledicte marked the smile with one of his own. “At least we know that Aris holds you innocent of your father’s fate, to send you to fetch Amarantha.”

“He sends me with an armed escort. That argues no particular trust,” Janus said, pulling his coat on, settling the shoulders, and checking the lines in the mirror.

“Well, you did murder Last,” Maledicte said.

Watching from the chair beside the parlor door, Gilly raised his head sharply. Janus cast him a baleful look, and spoke to Maledicte. “We are not discussing this again. You killed him, I merely sped him on his way.”

“All your own way,” Maledicte said, still lazily. “The fun of patricide and treason and none of the blame.”

Janus stooped, pulled Maledicte up, and shook him, once. “Enough. What do you want me to do to apologize?”

Maledicte smiled at him. “I can’t think of anything.”

“I can,” Gilly said, drawing two sets of eyes to him. “Wouldn’t it be appropriate to have a welcoming celebration? Urge Aris to hold one.”

“She wouldn’t attend,” Maledicte said. “The letters our spies sent said she had become quite mad with suspicion. To expect her to attend a ball, where others have died—”

“Take it up with the king. If Aris commands it, she will attend,” Gilly said, his mouth dry as he argued for murder. But if Janus meant to see Amarantha dead, Gilly would do what he could to ensure Maledicte’s survival. Without a plan, Maledicte would be far too prone to give in to Ani’s careless bloodlust. And unlike Last, a pregnant Countess would rarely be alone.

Gilly let out a shaky breath. Perhaps this was a second chance to free Maledicte from Ani’s touch. There was no earl of Last, but Amarantha was the titular head of the line—perhaps her death would be enough; perhaps whatever had been done the first time to invalidate Last’s death, Maledicte could undo. It came to him, suddenly, that he was hoping for the death of a woman with child, and his whole body rang with the shock of it.

Janus paced the room. “If Aris agreed, it would be a well-guarded thing, Mal. I doubt you could you kill her there.”

“Mirabile did well enough,” Maledicte said. “You gave me aid when none was wanted, Janus. Give me aid now when I ask for it. Our enemies grow like the hydra. One dead, two created. Let’s destroy this head before we have to kill an infant as well.” Maledicte’s voice shifted.

“Be as honest with yourself as you were with me when you accused me of patricide. Were Amarantha not gravid, you would not need to raise your sword. Infanticide is your goal, Mal. Can you stomach it?”

“I have no choice,” Maledicte said, “if you would be earl.”

After Janus left, Maledicte sank onto the chaise and covered his eyes. Gilly went to his side, hesitant, then reaching out, took one hand. Maledicte’s fingers curled around Gilly’s.

“He killed Last?” Gilly asked, shying away from future murders in favor of past ones. But the confirmation of his fear laced his heart with dismay. If Janus had done so, was it any wonder that Ani lingered, foul-tempered and growing? “That could not have satisfied Ani.”

“In all your books,” Maledicte said pensively, “all your pamphlets and gossip, have you ever heard that Ani can be satisfied? Mirabile seemed to think otherwise.”

“Tell me what happened,” Gilly asked. “How you meant to kill Last, and instead had Janus kill Last and some sailors.”

Maledicte raised his eyes, ringed with sudden weariness. “If you know that, you know it all. We should have taken Amarantha then. If I had, I would not be facing this now.”

“You could wait,” Gilly said. “Perhaps the child will be female, or, like Adiran, will be born flawed, unable to inherit. Or it may die of its own accord, as Last’s most recent son did. Murdering Last is one thing, this is another.”

“Enough, Gilly, I am done with talking about it. If Amarantha attends the party, she dies.” Maledicte burst from the chair, yanking his hand from Gilly’s, and stormed toward the door. He paused at the last moment and turned back, his voice ragged and wild. “I cannot have this, Gilly. I cannot take on your conscience. I need to be free to draw blood at will, be it man, woman, or babe. As there are deaths behind me, that is all that is before me as well. Do not weaken me.”

· 30 ·

S
NOW SPOTTED THE FIRST BRAVE
leaves of the spring crocus. Maledicte looked up at the leaden sky, and at the faint sparks of spiraling white drifting down to edge the palace grounds. “Spring?”

Gilly, attending him, said, “Snow’s not unheard of this early in the season. But it is damaging to silk. Best go in now.”

Maledicte smiled at him. “Oh yes, because spotted silk is a terrible sin.” The fey cheerfulness to his manner made Gilly’s stomach ache. He had seen this before. It was as if Ani, knowing Maledicte’s plans, was curled up in sulky approval, sated before the act as She never was after.

“I think you just don’t want to be alone in the dark with a murderer,” Maledicte said, tugging Gilly’s tied-back tail of hair.

“Mal, hush,” Gilly said, looking around. No one was within earshot, but his heart pounded all the same. Halfway to the king’s court, in the winter-riven lines of the garden, with the stables at their back—Gilly couldn’t imagine what Maledicte was playing at.

“Admit it, Gilly. You fear me.”

“Fear
for
you,” Gilly said, taking Maledicte’s arm and pulling him deeper into the skeleton of the garden. He pressed Maledicte back into the prickly embrace of a hedge, its leaves only faint smudges of starting greenery, and said, “What ails you?”

Maledicte closed his eyes, letting the snow lay ephemeral patterns on his skin. Gilly touched Maledicte’s cheek. Had it not been for the quick, cold nip of snow melt, the dampness on his palm could have been tears. “Mal?”

“I am,” Maledicte said, opening dark eyes. “I am afraid to be alone in the dark by myself.”

Tongue caught, Gilly could say nothing.

“I do things I never expected I could. And that’s cause enough to fear, but more, I do not feel alone in my own mind, in my own skin. She’s there, wanting out. It’s getting crowded, Gilly. The person I was, the person I am, and the crow. We’re all jostling for ascendancy, and I don’t know who’s going to win.”

Gilly opened his mouth; Maledicte put his gloved hand over it. “Listen, Gilly. If Ani wins, leave me. Don’t stay. I would never hurt you, but She would devour you entire. Promise me.”

Gilly shook his head, and Maledicte frowned. Footsteps crunched on the seashell paths as a coachman walked steadily into the dark, undoubtedly heading for the wall the stable staff used as a privy. “Come on,” Maledicte said, ducking under Gilly’s caging arms.

Turning in the direction of the court, Gilly found himself walking alone. Maledicte had gone back the way they had come, heading into the stables.

Gilly caught up, trying to move soundlessly, grimacing with the effort. Maledicte smiled at him when he arrived. “Watch for anyone coming?” He went down the silent rows of detached coaches. Twenty feet away, stableboys fed horses, rubbed them down, and cleaned the stalls.

Maledicte ghosted along the rows of coaches until he reached the glossy blue of Last’s coach, gone drowned and greenish in the flickering lamplight. Maledicte climbed onto the coachman’s bench and insinuated his hand into the juncture of carriage and seat, recovering a worn flask. He joined Gilly again in the sheltering darkness of an unused stall. “Hold this,” he said. He stripped off his jacket and felt inside the seams. Gilly watched, mouth falling open. As Maledicte pulled out two tiny crystal vials, Gilly said in a furious whisper, “You brought poison to court? After what happened to those girls? You are mad.”

“We’re not in court,” Maledicte said, “and these vials never will be.” He levered out the wax stopper and trickled a thin syrup into the coachman’s flask. Closing the flask’s lid, he sloshed it gently.

“You’re going to poison the coachman?” Gilly said.

“Would you prefer me to stalk into the court and strike Amarantha dead by blade, or pour her a drink and have her fall at my feet? This way is more chancy, but far more likely to pass as accidental.”

Maledicte sloshed the flask a moment more, then opened it and sniffed. “Perfect.”

“And if he drinks it all now? While waiting for his masters?”

“I’m counting on it,” Maledicte said. “Janus is supposed to goad Amarantha into flight. Failing that, my presence alone should do it.” He looked over Gilly’s shoulder and scowled. Two stableboys had skived off their chores and crept into the coach aisle, and were playing dice in the carriages’ shadows.

“Rats take it,” Maledicte muttered.

“We’ve time,” Gilly said.

“That we do not,” Maledicte said. “Dantalion is too careful. He will not allow his coachman to linger in the yard with the others, playing cards. He’ll want him here. Guarding the carriage against saboteurs.”

“Give it to me, then,” Gilly said. “I look enough like a coachman. I’ll return it; those boys won’t remember me at all.”

Maledicte relinquished his hold on the flask and Gilly sauntered out into the lamplit alley between coaches. The two boys paused in their game, bodies wary, ready to bolt should Gilly show any signs of noticing them.

Gilly realized halfway to Last’s coach that his was more than a little errand that Maledicte could not do, that what he was doing would result in at least one man’s death, maybe more. But the fear that if he balked Maledicte would choose a more dangerous path kept him from freezing in his tracks. “Don’t ask me to kill for you,” he had said once. Now it seemed he volunteered.

Feeling as if he ascended the gallows, Gilly climbed to the bench. He had just reached to return the flask when he heard the cry. “Hoy! What’re you doing?”

He turned, aware of the two stableboys scattering—directed at them or not, the words were too close to the ones they dreaded—and found Dantalion’s coachman staring up at him.

“Get off of there—hey, that’s mine,” he said, his indignation darkening to suspicion and anger. He held out his hand for the flask and Gilly, seeing no alternative, put it in his hand.

“What were you doing with that?”

Gilly, reaching for a plausible explanation, was forestalled by Maledicte. “I asked him to find me a drink,” Maledicte said.

“There’s fancy guff inside. What d’you need mine for?” The coachman scowled at the slim aristocratic shape.

“The last time drink was taken within those walls, people fell dead. Call me overcautious,” Maledicte said, leaning against the stall.

“Mirabile killed fillies,” the coachman said, but after another sneering look, he continued, “though you’ve got more than a touch of the mare about you, don’t you?”

Maledicte’s cheeks flushed, and he dropped his hand to where his sword hilt would have been, had he not left it in the hay when he removed his jacket.

Assessing that motion, the coachman paused. “You’re that one, aren’t you? That cursed cavalier my master natters on about. Maybe you’d better have my flask after all. Take a drink of it, just in case.” He tossed it to Maledicte.

“Too gracious,” Maledicte said, tilting the tarnished metal to his lips.

Gilly’s heart was in his mouth, choking back protest, as he watched for the trick, the movement that betrayed that Maledicte was not really swallowing mouthfuls of his own poison. A trickle of adulterated whiskey ran from the edge of his mouth, and it was too much for the coachman.

“Here! Leave me some. Gi’ me that.” He snatched it from Maledicte’s hand. He shook the flask, and swore. “Drank near half of it, damn you.”

Maledicte wiped his mouth with a lazy hand. “That stuff ’s rot; you really should get your employer to give you better.”

The coachman spat on the floor, and Maledicte moved the tip of his polished boot away from the glistening, wet spot with a moue of distaste. “And people find my manners lamentable? Gilly, bring my coat with you.” He stalked off without waiting for reply.

“I don’t envy you your master, boy,” the coachman said.

Gilly jammed his shaking hands into his coat pockets. “He pays well.” His words were near as hoarse as Maledicte’s, tight with dread. Dread that Maledicte drank his own brew. Dread that the coachman would drink and die and make Gilly a murderer.

Gilly cast a frantic glance into the gardens, but Maledicte had disappeared from sight. His stomach clenched to the point of pain, imagining Maledicte fallen, convulsing. Would Ani protect him? With Last’s death denied Her?

He snatched up Maledicte’s coat, hearing a faint rip as the embroidery snagged on the baled hay, and hurried toward the stable doors. Gilly looked back once to see the coachman take a great pull from his flask, making Gilly a murderer.

After a few panicky moments, he found Maledicte back in the quiet shadows of the thorny hedge again. His eyes glittered like black water. “Did he drink?” Maledicte asked. Coatless, he seemed smaller, more fragile than he was.

“Did you?” Gilly asked, his voice trembling, a bare whisper.

“You saw me,” Maledicte said.

Gilly tugged at him. “Let’s go home. We’ll find you the antidote. Or maybe you won’t really need one. Ani protects Her own, right? But we can’t risk it.”

Maledicte slipped from his grip. “Gilly, I’ve already taken it. Two vials, remember? You were afraid I was dying? I don’t trust Ani that far. And I’m not stupid enough to die in an attempt on Amarantha’s life. Not when it’s a chancy death at best. I think I’m offend—”

Gilly seized him close, held him, heart beating against his own. This close, Maledicte surprised him by not being awkwardly tall or broad; he fit as snugly in his arms as Livia did. Maledicte sagged against him, giving Gilly license to let his hands rove down across the narrow back and slender hips, pulling him closer still. Maledicte looked up at him, and Gilly bent; at the last, Maledicte avoided his mouth. Gilly’s kiss ended on the slightly slick length of the scar on his jaw. He tasted the flesh there, a tongue tip at a time, and Maledicte made a faint sound in his arms, of appreciation or protest, Gilly wasn’t sure.

Gilly’s clever fingers transmitted a piece of information to him. “You wear a corset?”

“I eat too much,” Maledicte muttered, and while he didn’t take himself from Gilly’s arms, nonetheless Gilly was aware of some wary withdrawal.

Gilly touched the line of his jaw, guided Maledicte’s mouth toward his own, but even as he did, desire faltered to curiosity. The lean bones of Maledicte’s arms and legs argued against such a need.

Maledicte’s sigh against his skin stifled curiosity, and Gilly pressed his suit, aware of his own hunger made evident in the fit of his breeches, his thighs against Maledicte’s.

“Let me go,” Maledicte said. “Enough, Gilly.” The whisper was faint enough that Gilly could ignore it if he chose. But while the tremble in Maledicte’s back, the kneading of his hands on Gilly’s chest urged him on, Gilly was all too aware that Maledicte’s desire did not equal his own, that if they were to step apart, there would be no telltale swelling to mar the smooth fit of Maledicte’s breeches.

“Gilly,” Maledicte’s voice was more urgent. “Let me go, or I’ll make a eunuch of you.”

Startled, Gilly released him. Maledicte staggered away, fell to his knees, and vomited in the hedges. Snow hares rustled and darted away from his sudden descent into their domain. Gilly crouched beside him and Maledicte gasped that he was well. Gilly drew Maledicte’s hair from his face while he was sick.

Maledicte rose and took steps back to the main path, sat down on a stone bench, covered with a thin drifting of blown snow. He wet his hands with it, the snow melting at his touch, and wiped his face. “Sometimes the antidote is worse than the poison.”

Gilly sat down heavily by his side, his heart feeling overtaxed. “I thought you were dying.”

“We’ve had this conversation,” Maledicte said. “And it led us—” He put snow in his mouth like a child. It reddened his lips.

“Led us where?” Gilly asked. It hurt to do so, to probe at the disconnection between them, but he was no more capable of not asking than he was of walking away.

“Astray,” Maledicte said. “Decidedly astray.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, traced images in the frost at their feet. Raven wings, eyes, a sword. “I am his entirely, remember. What I do, I do for him.” His mouth twisted, as if he found the fact not as much of a boon as it once was.

“And he’ll be looking for you,” Gilly said, standing and holding out an arm.

Maledicte hesitated, then took Gilly’s arm. As they walked toward the yellow glow of candlelight and warmth, the drifting voices that held an edge of fear, Maledicte said, “Besides, Gilly, I’m no partner for you. You need a nice girl, one who’ll give you babies, not ask you to kill them.”

Gilly let out his breath. “Lizette’s a whore, and no fonder of me than she is of my money, and our little Livia’s a spy. Yet I care for them both. So what’s the addition of one murderer to my affections?”

“Livia—a spy?” Maledicte said, his eyes hooded by speculation.

Gilly bit his lip, but words once said were impossible to cage again. “She has far more coin than she should and she creeps out nights. And none of our trinkets or teaspoons are missing. Unless she’s thieving other houses, it’s information she’s selling.”

“A spy,” Maledicte said, dismay in his voice. “And we have such secrets to sell.” He drifted up the lawn, boots leaving dark tracks in the rime, and paused. “Perhaps we can turn it to our advantage. Do nothing directly until we know who’s buying.”

“Dantalion,” Gilly suggested.

“Or Mad Mirabile, or even Aris, as unpalatable as that thought is. We’d best find out.”

Gilly nodded, a little shamed that he had needed telling.

Maledicte looked toward the lit rooms, spills of light raying out like slow lightning, flickering in the wakes of skirts and coats, and his mouth tipped into a deeper frown. This near, they could hear the forced gaiety, the musicians sawing out newly written tunes, lest anyone be reminded of the Dark Night deaths. “Gilly, go prepare the coach. I will enter only long enough to spook Amarantha, if Janus has not already done so. Tonight, I prefer my nest.”