Crown Jewel (9 page)

He went first to the palace, but it took only a few minutes of listening in the right places to realize that the murder had not happened there. Slipping away, he tried to remember where Lazzaro's house was located. He ran his tongue over his lips at the thought, but it was not a detail he had ever thought he would need to know. The Duke of Nascimbeni was not the sort of man he had ever imagined—

Nascimbeni, of course. The old Wine Quarter, now purely residential. Lazzaro had a manor house there, right up against a small, private inlet. It had once been a wine warehouse, the private inlet letting in the boats that brought wine from vineyards up and down the coast.

Moving quickly through the streets, Celeste made his way to the Lazzaro's home. When he reached it, a rather heavily-muscled servant was manning the door. "His grace is not receiving guests."

"Obviously not, when he is in my bed on the far side of the city," Celeste replied, and displayed the signet ring with which he had foolishly refused to part. "I am here in regards to your recent troubles."

"Shove off," the man said. "No fancy ring gets by me, poppet. You'll have to do better."

Celeste smiled, smooth and cool. "Very well. Tell his Highness that Celeste has arrived."

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased that Celeste knew of Benito's presence. "Wait here," he ordered, and then vanished inside. He reappeared only a couple of minutes later and said, "Come on, then." Turning around, he led the way through the enormous, old, and incredibly beautiful house. The stonework, the wood, the paintings, the sculptures…Celeste had never before envied another man's fate, or even his possessions, but he really would not mind the Bellerosa piece hanging in Lazzaro's foyer.

Shaking his head at himself, Celeste focused on the matter at hand and braced himself for whatever was to come as he entered the study to which the steward had led him. Prince Benito smiled tiredly as he saw Celeste. He sat at what must be Lazzaro's desk, drinking a glass of brandy. "Ah, Crown Jewel, I did wonder if it was you he raced off to see. How is he?"

"Asleep," Celeste said. "He was quite distraught."

"Asleep?" Benito echoed, clearly surprised. "How in the names of all the gods did you manage that?"

"The same way I exhaust all men who come to see me," Celeste replied.

Benito's expression changed from surprise to knowing speculation, and Celeste liked it as much on Benito's face as he had on Tula's. "Yet most men pay you and I sense Lazo did not, and that is not the Crown Jewel I know."

Celeste said nothing, for what was there to say? It was true. Instead, he asked, "Do you know the poison that killed … I am sorry, I do not believe Lazzaro ever gave the man's name, or I did not properly note it."

"Santino," Benito sad, "and by some miracle, he is still alive. Only barely, mind you; he could still die. If he survives until tomorrow morning, he should recover fully."

Relief flooded through Celeste. "That makes good hearing, Highness. Do you know the poison that was used?"

Benito nodded and tossed back the last of his brandy, before replying, "Royal rose. A good choice, I must say. Whoever the bastard is, he does know his business."

Celeste frowned, "That's illegal to grow now, and the fines and penalties are severe enough that most do not bother." No one had been happy about it either, when Benito's grandfather had outlawed the plant. It had been useful for many things, but it had been too often used as a poison, to the point where it really had been a bane to the kingdom.  Even Marco would not touch the stuff, despite the fact that it had been even more popular that dream smoke .

Something flickered, then; an old memory. Surely not. The coincidence would be too much and they had parted ways with him … but Marco had never been pleased about that. What if they had met up again after Celeste had left Marco to immerse himself in becoming a jewel?

"I need to look into some things," he said to Benito. "If you need Lazzaro, you know where to find him. My people are watching out for him. If you should need to contact me, best to leave a message there and someone will find me. I bid you good day." He swept Benito an absent bow and left.

Outside, Celeste weighed his options, then summoned a rickshaw and told the driver to take him to the Entertainment Quarter quickly. He flipped the man a silver piece when they arrived and clambered out of the seat, brushing dust from his clothes even as he started walking. He did not bother going to the teahouses; while they would undoubtedly provide information, it would take too long and he would have to scrape the useful bits from the lies and half-truths people gave him. No, Celeste had better ways of spending time and coin. If he was hunting who he thought, then he would do better simply to head to the lairs where the monster likely lurked—the dream smoke dens. He hated the dream smoke dens; there was nothing like a room full of fools and lunatics with no control over themselves to put a man completely off humanity. But he had unwittingly helped make this mess and he would set it to rights.

Celeste headed for the Theatre District again, walking away from the teahouses toward the far end of the Theatre District where only the inhabitants ever went. Visitors never saw that corner of the glamorous world of the stage—the shops and boutiques where costumes and paints and everything else was made, the warehouses that stored old sets, props, even entire buildings that had been torn down and hidden away until they could be used again for something else. Some of the buildings also granted access to the Catacombs.

The crown had ordered the Catacombs sealed up once and for all several years ago, on the grounds that they were too dangerous for the average person and provided prime fodder for breeding criminal elements—all of which was true, since the authorities had a damned hard time hunting down the scum that hid in the Catacombs. They still had trouble with it, although much less than they'd had before. Those portions of the Catacombs that could still be accessed were mostly given over to the secret, opulent chaos of the dream smoke dens. The majority of
those
were right there in the Theatre District, because separating the dens from the Theatre District was like trying to separate sex from the Pleasure District.

It took only a few coppers and the right smile to gain access to a den—but three hours and half a dozen dens later, Celeste still had not found any hint of the man he sought. He hung on the fringes of the latest den, looking on the dream smokers with contempt. They were everything he despised in people multiplied by a hundred—out of control, pretending to be shameless when they really came here to hide from their shame; people who tried too hard to be something they weren't and wasted all of their energy avoiding themselves. They were even worse than actors, and it did not surprise him in the least that most of them were of that profession.

All of the dream smoke lingering in the air was making Celeste's head spin and his eyes sting. He was getting nowhere this way—it was time to try something else … he just was not certain what. Abandoning the den, Celeste fled the warehouse section altogether.

Breathing in relatively fresh air, he contemplated what to do next—and stubbornly ignored the voice that kept urging him to return to the House of Peace and Lazzaro. There was absolutely no guarantee that Lazzaro would still be there; he had probably woken up and immediately set to work on finding the killer his own way. If he had not done that, then likely he would have returned home to face Santino's death, although Celeste hoped instead that Lazzaro was met with the good news that Santino would definitely live.

Celeste also was not certain he was ready for the discussion that they would likely be having soon. He did not know how he wanted it to play, or even what he wanted to say—what he wanted to hear. To what he would agree, if Lazzaro asked. He was so
close
to his goals; a few months was nothing after years. Was he really stupid enough to throw all that away because he was enamored of Lazzaro?

The fact he had just admitted he was enamored was answer enough and it was not an answer he liked— not even a little bit. In fact he rather hated it. Oh, to have never met the damnable Duke of Nascimbeni!

Stubbornly ignoring the urge to return to his room and see if Lazzaro was there, Celeste headed for the teahouses instead. The back of his neck prickled, but he was so lost in thoughts of Lazzaro that he noticed it a moment too late. He froze as a knife pressed against his throat, the pressure not quite enough to break skin. "Beautiful evening, sweet," a soft, sibilant voice murmured in his ear. The voice was older, harder, colder, but the underlying evil in it had not changed a bit.

Handsome. Clever. Arrogant. He was everything that Lazzaro had described the killer as being to Celeste all those weeks. Celeste had hoped never to see him again, the evil young man who had joined his band of thieves for a very short time, before Celeste had lost all patience and thrown him out.

Closing his eyes, Celeste drew a deep breath, steadying himself. Slowly opening his eyes again, he turned his head, the kiss of the blade stinging sharply as it drew the barest line of blood. Meeting the dark blue eyes he had fervently hoped never to see again, Celeste greeted, "Beautiful evening, Ezio."

*~*~*

Lazzaro did not do idle well. Neither did he take well to being thwarted. Unfortunately, he found himself enduring both of those, when the only three things he wanted to do at present, he could not. He wanted to see Santino; Benito's note informing him that Santino was alive and chances were good he would survive through to morning had made Lazzaro all but weep in relief. He had wanted nothing more than to race home and see Santino for himself—but Santino needed rest, and so it was better to leave him alone.

The killer needed to be found; Lazzaro very much wanted to find the bastard and slit his throat and be done with him once and for all … but to find him, Lazzaro needed Celeste, and he had no idea where Celeste had gone.

More than anything in the world, even seeing Santino, he wanted Celeste.

There was very little point in going home; Lazzaro was better off waiting at the House of Peace for Celeste's eventual return. Having no other means by which to spend his time, Lazzaro decided to be nosy. The paperwork scattered across Celeste's table proved to be mostly financial in nature—Celeste's accounting, that of the House of Peace, and the wages and contract details of the other jewels in residence. He also found a long list of names; it took him a few minutes to realize the names were all false, some sort of code to hide the real names of the individuals who visited the House of Peace. It also detailed the monthly average each one paid. Given the number of sovereigns involved, Lazzaro thought it would not be hard to decode the list—but his interest was not in the sexual appetites of his peers.

No, his only interest was in Celeste and doing whatever was necessary to keep him. A couple of hours after nosing through all of the documentation, he rang the little bell at his elbow. The door opened a moment laterand the green-eyed woman stared at him. "Yes, your grace?"

"Sorry to bother you," Lazzaro said. "I wonder if you know best how I can arrange to have three people brought to me?"

The woman smirked. "That depends on what you be wanting them to do, your grace, and how long you expect them to do it."

Lazzaro threw his head back and laughed. "Even in my youth, I was not that adventurous. No, I need my solicitor, a notary, and to see the mysterious Pio who apparently owns this establishment."

Her brows shot up to her hairline. "What do you want him for? Your grace," she tacked on belatedly.

"To relieve him of the House of Peace," Lazzaro replied.

"I see," the woman said. "You want it? Celeste will not be pleased with you. He's never admitted it, but everyone knows he's angling to buy it from Pio."

Lazzaro just smiled. "Celeste will be pleased with me when all is said and done, even if he will be quite put out to begin with."

She laughed. "You really have him twisted, your grace."

"It is probably more accurate to say we are twisted together. What is your name, by the way?"

"Tula, your grace," she said, and swept him an impressively graceful curtsy. "I am the Master of Pain in the House of Peace. All sadists and masochists must be vetted by me, jewels and customers alike, before they can work here or patronize the establishment."

Lazzaro smiled. "That is not a test I would want to undertake."

Chuckling, Tula replied, "I will see your people are fetched, your grace. What is the address of your solicitor? Have you a particular notary you would like summoned?"

Lazzaro rattled off all of the information she required and thanked her as she left. He fervently hoped his idea worked; if it did not, his only fallback was to kidnap Celeste, drag him home, and tie him to Lazzaro's bed until he succumbed. That plan had more than a few flaws.

He went over the paperwork again, making certain he had missed no minute detail, and then began to draft the necessary paperwork. His solicitor was more than capable of it, but everything would move much faster if he only had to polish up what Lazzaro had already written.

Just as he was finishing, the door opened. The slovenly, hungover, hard-eyed man who slowly walked into the room without even a half-hearted knock could only be Pio. "Who the hells are you?" Pio demanded. "Why are you here without Celeste, and where is Celeste?"