Maledicte (5 page)

But the three counselors would be hard to convince. Like Last, the duke of Love was a traditionalist, and would condemn Janus for the irregularity of his birth. But perhaps he could be bought; he had a marriageable daughter. DeGuerre was a believer in blood and a military man; he might accept the bloodline, and ignore the lack of marriage papers. After all, Celia was an admiral’s daughter. And Westfall, despite his trappings of egalitarianism, had a young man’s awe of the royal blood, even watered down.
A bastard king?

The boy murmured at his side, waking him from his political reverie. “This could be his?”

“It is impossible to allow him the earldom and not put him in line for the throne,” Gilly said. “So it’s unlikely, but I suppose, if Last died suddenly—”

“He will.” The boy touched the sword hilt, smiled a little, then stared at the empty spot again. “The throne. This house?” Incredulity laced the boy’s voice at the idea of the house more than of the throne. Gilly understood that. The throne was so far distant from his experience it might as well be a dream, but the possibility that Janus could live in a house like this—

“The king has but one child, and that one born simple. He whiles his time away in padded nurseries, playing with dolls. There are few members left in the house of Last. The king, the earl, and their nephew, Kritos.”

“Kritos,” the boy said, a bare whisper.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway; Gilly snatched at the boy to drag him back up the stairs, but the boy eluded him, passed through another door. “What’s this room?”

“Last’s study,” Gilly said. He closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.

The boy skimmed around the room, pocketing trinkets: an enameled snuff box, a gold-handled letter opener, a quill pen and an ink bottle, a silver paperweight, and a crystal carving of Baxit, the cat-headed god of indolence and reason. He unearthed a gilt-edged porcelain dish of old toffees and, after a quick sniff, put two in his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed. Then he tilted the rest into his shirt. As a visible afterthought, he dropped the delicate dish into his sleeve as well. Gilly bit back a laugh. “We must go. The horses—”

The boy investigated the books on the shelves, touching brightly colored leather bindings and tracing his finger over the gilded titles. Sitting at the desk, the boy used the letter opener to pry open the locked drawer. Sheaves of paper curled out.

“Let me see,” Gilly said, reading. “Creditors, debts, and bills from Kritos. Such a wastrel. Won’t please Last, that’s for certain.” A smile quirked his lips. “Perhaps Kritos will drive Last to apoplexy and spare you the trouble.”

The boy’s eyes sharpened, went black with rage, and Gilly felt the smile vanish from his lips as if it never existed.

“I dream of killing him,” the boy said, “his blood painting my blade, his cry in my ears as I touch his heart….” His fist tightened around the hilt, fingers whitening as if he meant to withdraw it.

“Because of Janus,” Gilly said, stepping back out of reach of the boy’s sword, edgy again. He had almost forgotten this boy’s vendetta in a strange enjoyment of this leisurely housebreaking.

“Janus,” the boy echoed. Something softer warmed the bleak fury in his eyes, and his grip lessened. His face grew still and troubled; Gilly wondered what the boy was thinking on—his bloody plans for Last, or the butler’s unwelcome confirmation that his prey had slipped his grasp. In this quiet state, the boy was malleable, allowing Gilly to usher him out of the study.

After a brief consideration of the state of the ivy, Gilly dragged the boy down another flight of stairs to find a ground-floor window. Gilly dropped out into the deep snow, and then held up his hands. “Come on.”

“I don’t want your help,” the boy said, flinging himself into the snow and frost.

“At least put on your coat,” Gilly said, reclaiming them from the snow-bank, and flinging the boy’s at him.

The boy snarled and Gilly walked on, leaving the boy to flounder his way through the drifts, hampered by the heavy coat. Gilly reached the coach long before the boy, climbed into it, and sat, sipping hot, whiskey-laced tea from the flask. The boy staggered up, white from head to toe with blown snow, and shuddering with chill. His eyelashes were frosted and his face showed signs of suspicious dampness. Gilly wondered if the boy had been crying as he fought his way down the drive.

The boy clung to the edge of the coach, panting, shaking, soaked through. Again, Gilly offered a hand. The boy flinched, put his hands over his face, and then let out a sigh. He reached out and Gilly tugged him into the coach, rapped on the roof to let the coachman know to start.

“What’d you do? Swim your way through the drifts?” Gilly asked, peeling the sodden coat from the boy’s arms and back. “I’ve heard that in Itarus there are sports like that, where bored lordlings drag themselves behind sleighs, but I don’t think even they manage to get so much snow packed into their skin.” He pulled a woolen blanket from their basket, draped it around the boy, then passed him the flask. “Drink this. It’ll warm you.”

The boy’s teeth chattered on the edge of the flask, but a faint tinge of color seeped into his cheeks after the first few gulps. He looked up at Gilly with a cringing wariness. “Can I get to Itarus?”

“If you sell everything you stole from Last’s house and that sword, you might have enough. But then what? You’d be alone, hunting Last, hunting Janus in a country where you didn’t speak the language. In a country of poisoners and duelists who’d make mincemeat of you before you ever reached your goal.”

The boy turned his face, drew in a breath and held it. In his lap, his hands clawed at each other. “If I stay—”

“If you stay, you’ll wait out the year in comfort, in warmth, fed well, with a man who can explain the ways of the court and the aristocracy—who might even aid you.” Gilly took the flask away from the boy, drank another draft, more for the whiskey in it than for the warmth. He felt like a procurer.

The boy wrapped the blanket tighter and tucked his head into it, like a bird ducking its head beneath its wing.

This time, Gilly found no need to break the silence of the ride and the ever-darkening sky.

Chrisanthe greeted them at the door with a sour “He’s been waiting for you. Having fits, thinking you was tipped into a ditch.”

Gilly went straight into the library, shrugging off the lashings of snow that adhered to his sleeves and hair. The boy’s footsteps followed, but Gilly didn’t look back. The boy had to make his own decision.

He knelt down. “How was your day, old bastard? Did Chrisanthe give you your Elysia?”

“Near broke the needle off in my arm, stupid cow. But you’ve come back and you’ve brought the boy with you.” He patted Gilly’s cheek. “We’ll feast. Stir up Cook.”

Gilly returned, the cook’s grumbling ringing in his ears, to hear Vornatti speaking. “Well, boy, did you find we were telling you true?”

The boy didn’t reply in words; instead, he opened his pockets and showed Vornatti the small valuables he had pilfered, laying them out like offerings. Vornatti reached forward and picked up the little crystal figure. “Baxit. Not surprising. Some men are too stubborn to give up on the past.”

“You can have it,” the boy said. “The other things too. For my board.”

Gilly raised a brow, waited for Vornatti’s response, to see if he would let the boy buy himself a position as guest.

“I don’t take renters. And I have trinkets enough,” Vornatti said. “Keep these trifles to decorate your room.”

The boy sucked in his breath, moved to the fireplace, stared out at the snow. Finally, moving as stiffly as a wounded man, he walked back toward Vornatti, hand on sword hilt. Gilly tensed, but the boy only scooped up the fallen toffees, the little dish, and took a step back.

“You’re staying then?” Vornatti said, reaching out to fold his fingers in the boy’s hair, caressing the dark, snow-damp locks.

The boy remained still with a small but visible effort; his eyes flickered again to the fireplace, to the fur coat shedding its icy rills of melted snow, to Chrisanthe grumbling in under the weight of a laden tray, and said, “Until spring.”

· 4 ·

I
WON’T DO IT,”
the boy said, taking a step back, away from Gilly, closer to the door and escape.

Gilly, sweating with effort, emptied another iron kettle full of near-boiling water into Vornatti’s bath. Pushing the steam-damp hair from his face, Gilly assessed the boy, standing as rigid as a nervy horse, looking at the sloping marble tub with every evidence of horror.

“You will,” Gilly said. “You stink. And you likely have lice. Two things Vornatti doesn’t much care for. You’re lucky he’s been as patient as he has. He had me scrubbed the very first moment he brought me home, and I was far cleaner than you.”

“You die if you wash in winter,” the boy said, taking another step back at the next gush of water added.

“That’s ridiculous,” Gilly said. “My mother scrubbed us all once a week, no matter the season. Vornatti insists on a bath daily, and you’ve seen his advanced age.”

“I don’t want a bath,” the boy said, withdrawing like a repulsed cat. “If my stink keeps him away, so much the better.”

Gilly grunted as he hefted another of the water-heavy kettles. “You’ll have one. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you want to be held down and scrubbed—” He ignored the boy snarling and drawing the sword, and continued, “or whether I leave you here with the soap and your dignity. Think, boy—at best you’d avoid the waters tonight—but you’d find yourself drugged again, and bathed all unwitting. The baron may be an old man, but his sense of smell is keen.”

Letting the last kettle fall with a clang, Gilly wiped his hands on his breeches, then opened an armoire. “There are dressing gowns here. Put one on while you dry off and you’ll catch no chill. We’ll find you clothes later.” The boy’s eyes were still wild, and Gilly sighed, let the vexation in his tone ease. He supposed, to a boy like this, brought up city-poor, immersion in water might be frightening.

“I’ll leave you the key to the door. You know, boy, some people, myself included, enjoy a bath after a cold day. The water is very pleasant—as long as you don’t let it grow chill.” He laid the key beside the bath and left the boy, sword still drawn, staring at the steaming water.

T
HE CLOSING DOOR
woke the boy from his stillness. Reaching forward, he closed the key in his fist, then turned to the door. He turned the key in the lock, tested the latch, then set the sword down on a wide bench.
Vornatti must sit there,
he thought,
before his bath, drawing off his clothes. No,
he thought, his mouth twisting,
Vornatti sits there and
Gilly
draws off his clothes.

The boy touched the steaming water with cautious fingers, setting off small ripples. He put his fingers to his mouth, then sat in Vornatti’s chair. Toeing off his boots, he hesitated, looking at the locked door once again. He leaned his head against the door, listening; the dense wood gave back only silence.

Gingerly, the boy rose and unfastened the rough strip of canvas that made his belt. His breeches sagged past his knees and he stepped out of them. His stained linen shirt cloaked him from neck to thigh, and after another wary moment, he pulled that off as well with the air of a conjurer.

And with a conjurer’s touch, the moment changed. One moment a grubby, skinny stripling boy stood before the bath—the next, a young woman, unbinding another strip of dirty canvas from across her budding chest. Her side was mottled dark with old blood, spilled from a wound that had healed long since. She touched the flaking residue, touched the pale pink weal of the whip mark, frowning.

Taking up the soap, she held her breath, then stepped into the bath. After her first shuddering moment, when the heat of the water and the chill of the air warred over her, she calmed, sank down into the water.

Nerving herself, she took a breath and ducked her head; she came up to a sudden draft in the room. Spinning, water slopping over the edge, she clawed at the rim of the bath. Vornatti laughed, closed the door behind him. “Looking for this?” he said, taking cautious steps forward, holding her blade. His eyes glittered.

“Get out,” she said, clutching the soap with shaking fingers.

“You have so much to learn,” he said, voice full of amusement. “You’ve learned two things now already. One—a door that is locked can be unlocked. Guard your secrets accordingly. Two—keep your sword by your side. A blade’s no good, no matter how sharp, if it’s out of reach.”

He settled stiffly onto the bench, and leaned forward, his eyes lingering on her skin. “A girl, then.” He smiled. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a girl.”

She threw the soap at him; he raised her blade and bisected the soap, then winced. “Elysia only takes the pain away, my girl, it doesn’t restore youth. This sword is a young man’s weapon.”

“It’s mine,” she said, surging out of the water, snatching it from his hand.

“Forgive me,” Vornatti said. “But tell me then—was it chance or choice that made us take you for a lad?”

She pulled on a dressing gown, sank into a sulky heap near the fire. “I am not a fool. A girl with a sword is asking only for someone to take it from her.”

“You intend to face Last as a boy.”

“Would he face a girl? I think he would not. I think he’d call forth his coachman to beat me down again, and ride on.” As she spoke, she tapped the tip of the blade on the hearth, chipping bits of brick loose like old blood.

Vornatti leaned forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. “What’s your name, girl? After all, we’re to be intimates. I’d like to know what to call you, what
Janus
called you—” He broke off, the sword pressing up against the crepey skin of his neck.

“What he called me is of no matter. That girl is dead. And you don’t need my name, don’t need it to call me to heel. After all, I’m rarely to be out of your reach. Unless—” The sword shifted a tiny, meaningful increment.

“Will you kill me? Then what? Flee my home back into the snows, as desperate as you came?”

“I’ll rob this place blind,” she said, rising, the blade steady, depositing a line of brick dust against his pale skin.

“And what about Gilly? All I need do is call out—then your secret would be shared with one more.”

“He’d probably thank me for killing you,” she said.

“Would he? If he had to go back to the farm where he came from, bury his wit in the soil? Till the fields alone, next to the graves of his family, dead of the plague? He has no one, no one but myself, and nothing but what I provide. I own him as surely as I own my horses, which would suffer if set free.” Vornatti pushed the blade aside, touched her face, her neck. “It’s not so much I want from you. A name.”

She shivered as his fingers spidered into the vee of the dressing gown, cupped her breast, touched the curling scar beside it. “I will not give it.”

“You’re too thin,” he said, withdrawing. “Get Gilly to feed you more. If I wanted to stroke drawn skin and bones, I’d find my pleasure in myself and spare myself troublesome chits and lads.”

He slumped back on the bench; she took advantage of the space to move away.

“So tell me, girl,” he said, voice growing weaker. “Shall I have Gilly find you breeches or a skirt?”

“Breeches,” she said.

Vornatti dozed, jerked awake. “Well, I own I’m glad not to share your secret with Gilly. He’s a devil with the maids. Thinks I don’t know he spends his allowance on willing barmaids in Graston village.” He coughed, breathed heavily for a moment, studied the heap of her fallen clothing.

“You bind your breasts? The scant handfuls that they are? Well, I can help you there. One of my—friends was an actress who specialized in male roles. Her corset should fit you and be more secure than any length of linen. Come now, girl, aren’t you going to thank me? It’s not every man who’d help a girl find vengeance….”

He patted his cheek, his mouth. Clutching the robe closer about her, she leaned forward, touched his cheek, his lips with her own. Vornatti smiled.

“Let me tell you one thing more, if boy you’ll be: To play the part, you must believe the part—forget who you were. Rumor and gossip are everywhere in this country, even when it involves insignificant little chits like yourself.”

“That was the mistake Kritos made, thinking me insignificant enough to leave me alive,” she said,
he
said, the suppressed savagery in his voice enough to stifle Vornatti’s smile.

G
ILLY, WAITING OUTSIDE
the baron’s quarters, went in at the sound of the slamming door. Vornatti staggered over to his wheeled chair, panting. Gilly took the handles and drew him over to the bed. Vornatti laughed. “Such a lovely surprise under the filth, Gilly, you’ve no idea….”

The door to the bath slammed open; the boy stalked out, clad in Gilly’s old breeches and shirt, long ago outgrown. He shot Vornatti a look composed of equal parts anger and wariness, but the black look Gilly earned was all rage. Gilly stepped back under the weight of it.

“I’m tired, Gilly,” Vornatti said, holding up his arms. “I won’t want dinner.”

Gilly put him to bed and went after the boy. He hadn’t gone far; Gilly stepped out, and found himself skipping back against the door, the sword at his chest.

“There were two keys,” the boy said. “You let me believe—”

“Enough,” Gilly said, too tired to be wary. He ducked the sword and, cat-quick, seized the boy’s thin wrists in his hands. The boy kicked his shins, and Gilly, remembering squabbles with his hot-tempered little brother, twisted the boy’s wrists sharply, making him drop the sword. When the boy still fought, twisting and biting, Gilly lifted him by his wrists, dangled him in the air. “Enough,” he repeated. It had always worked on his brother, on fighting dogs, and feral cats. It worked now. The boy sagged in his grip, wiggling only a little.

Gilly released him. The boy fell to the floor. Gilly winced as the boy turned a wary face up to him.

“Sorry,” Gilly said. He picked up the sword; the curling hilt scraped his knuckles, and the whole thing seemed to whisper against his palm. “Here,” he said, “take it.” He thrust it out at the boy, regretted touching it at all. It hadn’t felt quite like steel, felt born, not forged, and malign by nature. Perhaps it
had
been god-created, but such artifacts were few and jealously hoarded. Gilly fisted his hand, ridding himself of the sensation it left behind. With growing concern, he watched the boy sheathe it: Where had the boy found such a blade? He knew better than to expect an answer were he to ask.

“Are you hungry? There’s dinner waiting. It’s venison again. It’s mostly venison all winter. You’ll be sick of it come spring.”

The boy stood. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“You’re skin and bones,” Gilly said, wondering if he was always doomed to argue with the boy.

“So he said. But why I should gain flesh simply to please his lecherous—” The boy’s jaw snapped shut; his eyes blazed.

Gilly took the boy’s elbow in his hand, walked him toward the library, wanting to be, if not friends, at least amicable, if the boy’s temper could allow such a thing. To that end, Gilly said, “I know something that might make you feel better.” He drew the boy past the books to the frosted doors. They stepped outside into the winter night; their breaths fled from them like ghosts.

Gilly bent, pulled up a handful of broken marble, snow-dusted. “It’s the old facing from the house. I like to get my anger out this way.” He hefted the fragments, tested the weight, and pivoted, hurling the missiles at the orchard. The rocks hit the nearest tree, scattering icicles.

Gilly collected another handful, thinking of Vornatti giving him precise instructions regarding keys and bathing rooms. He sent another tree-load of ice to the ground, letting the sound drown out his guilt.

He handed the boy the next stone, cold and damp with snow. “Imagine you’re throwing your anger, your frustration out.” Another game he’d played with his brother, who could only be distracted from his tempers, rarely soothed.

The boy closed his eyes, his jaw clenched, the scar flared red, and then he threw. The stone sailed forward, effortlessly hitting the tree. Icicles cascaded, but before Gilly could hand him another stone, the next tree shed its icy teeth. Then the next and the next, until the entire orchard was crashing and shattering with one thrown stone. Gilly caught a shuddering breath at the glittering wreckage the boy had made.

V
ORNATTI RUSTLED PAPER
in his lap, unfolding the envelope. Gilly watched, intrigued. Usually the old bastard tossed Gilly his post, trusting Gilly to file away the gossip, the bills, Aris’s reports on profits sent to Itarus, and to act on the few business letters he received. But this letter lacked the creamy color of Antyrrian vellum, was tinted slightly blue, nearly translucent. The thick lines of script shone through the paper.

“What think you of this?” Vornatti said, passing the letter to Gilly.

Across the library, the boy looked up from his contemplation of Vornatti’s book.

“Read it aloud, Gilly, since it concerns our young friend.”

The boy shut the book, not bothering to mark his page. And why would he, Gilly thought, when he could only be looking at the pictures, and not the text?

“Gilly,” Vornatti warned.

“Sir,” Gilly said, began. “It’s from Itarus,” he said, surprised. “How did you—”

“I have my ways, Gilly. You’d do well to remember that.” Vornatti closed his eyes. “Read.”

“It’s a copy of a letter from Kritos to Last,” Gilly said. The boy stiffened, silent. Gilly angled the letter to get the most of the firelight on the crossed words.

“Michel, cousin, while I acknowledge that you have come to Itarus as I requested, I did not intend for you to dally within the foreign court, and leave me with your ill-begotten, ill-tempered bastard son. He is unmanageable. A feral dog would have more gratitude. A rabid animal would have shown less rage. We’ve had to lock him in the turret, to keep him from escape attempts. If we were not on Ice Island, he would have succeeded. I can not even enter his room without his attack.