Kings and Assassins (19 page)

Where had Adiran obtained a feather? It had been new, or Evan's face wouldn't have betrayed concern at its rumpled state. When had Adiran begun to understand the concept of trade?

Under questioning, Evan admitted to accompanying the prince on his perambulation until they'd made one full circuit of the upper floor and returned to the nursery.

“The guards there?”

“Sleeping,” Evan said, and his voice dipped, knowing that something had been very wrong and very unreported. Janus wondered if Rue had heard; Rue would be his ally in this. Adiran was far too vulnerable and valuable to be allowed to walk the halls alone, hound by his side or not.

The clock struck, tolling nine times, and returned Janus's attention to the here and now. It also brought the unwelcome realization that there was a distinct line between being tardy and being unforgivably rude.

Evan squirmed and said, “Can I have my feather back?”

Janus picked up the draggled feather and handed it to the boy, though he was oddly unwilling to do so. It felt like proof in his hand, but proof of what? Ani's interest in the kingdom? Or something simpler, sweeter: a tangible sign of friendship. That envy touched Janus again; and this time, reluctantly, he named it loneliness.

Evan, biting his lip, did his best to smooth out the barbs, the damage done by the sojourn in his pocket, and Janus, who remembered all too well the pain of broken treasures, held his hand out again.

He melted a bit of sealing wax—crimson shot through with gold dust—and repaired the cracked rachis. Evan smiled, and Janus felt obscurely happy at the boy's pleasure. But then, Evan's problems were small and easily remedied. If only Antyre could be so easily repaired, or people's hearts turned.

The boy's pleasure was soothing but meaningless; there was no wisdom or power behind it. Tarrant's boy was bright enough, a clever monkey, but hopelessly innocent.
Fourteen
, Janus thought,
and a privateer's son should argue otherwise
, but Tarrant had chosen to keep his son sheltered. When Janus was Evan's age, Ivor was teaching him the proper way to hold a blade and to converse pleasantly while poisoning someone.

“Evan, do you know if Lady Last returned in time for dinner?”

Evan nodded. “She's eatin' in her rooms. She … didn't look so good, sir.”

Janus muttered, “You should have seen her the other morning.” But the memory that brought with it—Psyke gray, her skin stiffening with chill—made him greet Evan's confused “Sir?” with “Tell Cook I'll be dining with the countess in her quarters.”

Evan tucked the feather away in an envelope Janus liberated from the desk. As an afterthought, Janus scrawled his name across the end of it, so that should Evan be caught with it, he wouldn't be suspected of pilfering expensive stationery. “If you see the prince out again, direct his path to me if I'm in the palace. Otherwise, seek Rue.”

Evan trotted off, the envelope with feather tucked neatly into the inner pocket in his jacket. Distracted, trying to figure out how a squad of guards fell asleep all at once without outside intervention, and yet no harm had come to the prince, Janus made for the old wing and found his rooms stripped, stopped at Psyke's and found them emptied also.

A quick bark of rueful laughter touched him. Perhaps he should have had Evan lead him to his quarters after all. Savne had done as Janus asked and that eased some of the knot of trouble in his chest. Janus wanted to believe it was a portent of things to come.

He backtracked his way through the quiet halls, past the closed doors, into the dining hall, hearing DeGuerre's voice raised in sharp protest, probably at Bull's newest expenditure reports; the man was determined to keep the palace finances afloat, even if it meant removing luxuries from the dining table. Janus, who thought the Antyrrian food too fussy, too many flavors fighting for notice, rather enjoyed meals since Bull had begun supervising the cooking staff's expenditures.

DeGuerre, on the other hand, opined if he wanted to eat like a commoner, he could go down to any tavern. Janus wished he would, wished DeGuerre would see what the general public considered eating well; the man might learn to be appreciative after that.

Janus left the quarrel behind, glad it had nothing to do with him for once, and sought his new rooms. Once he had sent Padget, still
fussing, off for the evening, his rooms were everything pleasing. Where the old wing's walls were stone, sheathed in threadbare tapestries, the central wing offered creamy plaster and wallpaper, the granite floors traded for plush carpets and allover warmth. The fireplace was ringed round with a mantel and hearth, instead of being a stony, dark pit crusted with embedded ash and icons of old gods.

Someone had taken advantage of the mantel already; a folded letter waited for him. Janus broke the seal, a crest unfamiliar to him—a spreading oak with deep roots—and found himself screwing the stiff paper into a knot a moment later.

Chryses had been right, damn him, and Gost was hasty; the demonstration had been arranged and in the most public place imaginable.

Janus threw the letter into the fireplace, and turned away. He couldn't even object. For the demonstration, they needed water deep enough to float steel to display Delight's steam-powered boat. And better the ocean than setting the palace servants to filling the old and empty fountains that ran the edges of the garden.

Doing such would turn their demonstration into a toymaker's display. The nobles might approve, but it would be another social event, much like Aris's funeral; any solemnity would not only be lost but trampled underfoot. Still, Janus would have preferred a discreet demonstration in a quiet cove, with an audience they could trust not to throw rocks.

Perhaps, if this display met with reasonable approval, Janus would build a demonstration hall for intelligent and inquisitive audiences, who might genuinely want to be educated in the wonders that a rational mind could create.

He dropped a lit match onto the crumpled paper in the fireplace,
turned, and caught the reflection of the flare in a row of crystal carafes on the dresser opposite.

Janus ran his fingers along the carafes offering him his choice of liquid refreshment, including the temptingly opened bottle of
Absenté
, transferred from his previous quarters; a few swallows of that and the edge would be gone from his day It would be foolish though, to trade wariness for languor, when he meant to dine with his sharp-witted wife. He recorked the bottle.

The bottles would be better emptied and refilled under his watch before he drank from any of them—he was not Maledicte, not proof against poisoning—but their presence was welcoming nonetheless. A tray full of goblets, crystal and metal, all etched with the Last hourglass crest, made him sigh.

So ostentatious, and so foolish. An invitation to poison, but his father wouldn't have cared for that, confident in his name and power. He had been an excessively proud man, so much so that even after fifteen years and three wives dying in an attempt to give him an heir, it still took a command from the king for Last to reclaim his bastard son.

“We taught him that pride spared him nothing, didn't we?” Janus murmured, remembering that blackest of nights on the dock when he and Maledicte had cut the man down.

A swath of heavy, blue curtain drew his attention; it was on the wrong wall to veil windows. He pulled the curtain back, collecting a sparse handful of dust—it seemed he wasn't expected to pass this fragile barrier—and found the gilded door to the connecting rooms. He pressed the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it opened, sent him into the quiet rooms beyond.

Moving through the sitting room, and into the private rooms beyond, he found Psyke seated before her dressing table, gazing blankly into her mirror. Evan had been right in his assessment. She
didn't
look well—her shoulders rounded forward, all proper posture fled, her skin seemed gray with either fatigue or pain. Even as he watched, her hands flew up to cover her ears. She shook her head, once, twice, and murmured, “Enough of this nonsense.”

“I quite agree,” Janus said. “You spend too much time with Celeste;
her spite will make you ill. It spills out and taints everyone about her.”

Psyke jerked, nearly fell from her stool, hands flailing and knocking a tiny perfume vial over. It cracked and the oil seeped out, chokingly strong and smelling of funeral rites, myrrh and moss and something sweet laid over foulness. Janus rubbed his nose, opened his mouth to complain about her choice of scent and found himself distracted by her bare toes, peeking through holes in her stockings.

He knelt beside her, seized her left ankle in his hand, his fingers enveloping the dainty joint with ease. The silk was ruined, its soft ivory stained and splattered, and the sole—he traced a finger beneath the arch of her foot, ran it toes to heel, and felt only tender skin. “Have you been dancing so fervently on my grave that you've worn your slippers through? Your celebration is premature.”

She shook her head. “My time is my own.” Her voice was ragged, but not as hostile as he had expected. It was nearly breathless.

“Not when you spend it with my enemies, sweet.” Her skin was chill beneath his fingers; he traced the sweep of her ankle up beyond her heel, up until the flesh warmed beneath the thin wrapping of silk. She shivered, her eyes darkened, but in welcome or distaste, he wasn't sure.

“If I thought that, I would forever dine alone,” she said. “Surely, you wouldn't want that on your conscience? Your young wife become a recluse?”

“I'd bring you books,” he said, “and you could read your afternoons away. You used to do so and come to my bed with ink stains on your fingers and lips. Surely that was a more pleasant way to spend your time?” He stretched up on his knees, stroked her hair back from her face, her shoulders; the strange dark bruising still clung to her skin, the marks of hands other than his own. She closed her eyes against his touch, the gentle exploration of a type they hadn't shared since their return to the palace.

“Would that I could,” she said. “But I find it hard to recall past pleasures now.” She shifted from his touch, but slowly. The blueness of her eyes caught him unaware, pinned him. “Times change, and pleasures must be forsworn in the name of duty.”

“Stick to pleasure,” Janus suggested. “Duty treats you ill.” He tugged the thin wool away from her shoulders, kissed the edges of the bruise, tasting smoke and musk, and something
other
. He shivered; it tasted oddly like old books and knowledge, not so much a flavor as an impression.

Her hands settled on his shoulders, balancing herself as he pressed closer, and the gentle weight reminded him of their first night together, bonded as man and wife, and never mind that he was bound already—by blood, loyalty, and the past—to Maledicte. Or that Psyke was bound to Aris, in much the same fashion, by the blood of her slain family, by her loyalty to the crown. Their first coupling had been careful and wary, the movements of two strangers who had little in common and uncertain interest in finding such.

“It's often the nature of duty,” she said. “But if a task is unpleasant, does that mean it should be shirked?”

Janus pulled back from his exploration of her skin, though his body protested the space between them. Still, her tone had been so honestly questioning, he wanted to see her expression. It was strained, a little desperate, and he felt it echo in his own chest. He stood, idly straightening up the tipped perfume vial, and wiping his fingers with a handkerchief.

“I have done many unpleasant things out of necessity and in the name of survival,” he said. “I've waylaid sailors on the streets and beat them senseless for what poor coin they carried. I've eaten scraps stolen from dogs and seabirds, netted dead fish, and made sickening meals of them.”

“You've killed men,” she said. Her lips tightened.

“I thought we were speaking of unpleasant tasks,” he said. “Yes, I've killed men, and enjoyed doing so.”

Her breath caught, a painful gasp in her throat.

“That,” he said, “does not include Aris, by the by.”

“Your father?” she asked.

“Nor him,” he said. “Maledicte had that privilege. Still, you were asking about duty, I believe, and not for a list of my varied misdeeds. The truth is, my sweet, the more I attempt to do in the name of duty to Antyre, the more people despise me.”

He heard the frustration in his voice and shut his teeth on further words. Psyke would report to the duchess, who would be pleased to hear of his failures. But it galled that even simple tasks such as sending food to the poorest denizens could not be accomplished without all parties involved treating him with suspicion: the nobles he solicited for funds, the Particulars he asked to oversee distribution, the Relict rats who hid rather than face armed men.

Did no one see that poverty was a danger of its own? The hungrier people were, the more likely they were to grow dangerous. Time passed, and soon no amount of charity would restore them to peace.

“My duty,” she murmured, interrupting his cycling thoughts, “was to Aris.”

He knelt beside her once more, folded the layers of her skirts upward, fine-brushed dark wool and pale linen slip. She stiffened, but made no attempt to stop him. “To the man? Or to the memory?” Janus asked.

“Before you lecture me on holding too closely to the past, consider yourself,” Psyke said. “Or will you lie and tell me you've forgotten Maledicte.”

He paused, hands curving around her thigh. “Perhaps not,” he said finally. “But at least no one doubts my sanity. There are rumors that Aris's death has turned your mind.”

“Rumors you planted,” she said.

“You're the noble lady who's chosen to gad about without shoes, as if you were a savage from the Explorations,” he said. He found the tops of her stocking, unbuttoned the garter, and peeled the silk away. “You blacken your own name without my aid.”