Kings and Assassins (21 page)

He reassured himself. He and Delight and Chryses had argued, but the steam engine they showed today would impress the sea-dependent city, show them a quicker way to sail, and one not reliant on the fickle wind. Best yet, it wouldn't profit Itarus in any way: the treaty was about tithed funds and goods, about keeping Antyre de-fanged.

The crowd gathered, pressed back by sheer number until some of them found that having their curiosity assuaged would in no way make up for standing so close to the rubble that marked the edge of the Relicts. Those lingering there would see nothing but their purses picked.

Westfall's cronies were on the docks, an assortment of aristocrats and well-heeled merchants, watching with interested eyes to see what Janus had done with their funds, with Westfall's reputation. They stood closest to the docks, recognizable in their serviceable
clothes in practical colors, dun and cream and gray, though still of cloth finer than most people would ever see.

They leaned up against the old iron cannons gone white with salt, old sentinels for a war long lost, and watched Delight, skirt clad, barking orders at two young men forcing a laden cart slowly toward the clearing guarded by several smocked men.

If Westfall's followers watched in interest and hope, there were others that made the kingsguards draw closer to the noble coaches and lay their hands on their weapons.

Anger and dissatisfaction turned down mouths and shuttered eyes. Patched jackets, sleeves rolled up, bared arms corded with muscle, wiry with hard use.

“Antimachinists,” Evan spoke, his clear tenor startling in the otherwise quiet coach. Fanshawe Gost shifted, his eyes flicking over Janus as if to ask was it usual that his servants spoke freely in his presence. Completely heedless of the surprise and disapproval, Evan continued, “They're troublemakers and I don't like the look in their eyes. Mutinous, if we was on board ship.”

“A wise child,” Gost said, after a moment during which Janus failed to chastise the boy. “The country is much like a ship, and we must pull together.”

Janus let out a breath so he didn't argue with the idealism Gost revealed there. He chose instead to be pleased that Gost showed some symptoms of egalitarianism; the more Gost showed himself interested in men's capabilities, the more likely he was to throw his support behind a clever and determined bastard.

Evan grimaced. “Then the country's been scuttling herself, and ain't that a pretty thing to think.”

“Evan,” Janus said, a halfhearted warning. His attention was all for the tarpaulin-covered cart. The burdened horses were sweating, their hides lathered with effort and the stress of the shoving, roisterous crowd. Whitsonby and Georgie, two of Delight's most reliable assistants, rode in either side of the cart, pitchforks in hand. Currently, they were using the smooth end of the handles to encourage curious people out of their way, to keep their hands, and protests, at a distance.

Janus narrowed his gaze, stepped out of the coach for a better
glance—he hadn't thought the engine could be laid so flat. If they'd taken it apart completely … well, their unwelcome audience might grow weary and wander away while it was reassembled or they might treat the demonstration as a most unsatisfactory entertainment and hurl missiles.

“There have always been reactionary elements in society the ones who cling to the past, to the traditions even when they benefit no one,” Gost said. “Think of them as the fuel that keeps clever men's minds active. Without them, we would merely—”

“Without them, more'd get done,” Evan said. His pointed chin stuck out mulishly “Beggin your pardon, but it's true. An' they're only getting worse. Used to be they were countryside only, breaking the spinning engines, breaking the mills. Used to be they threw rocks or burning garbage to express themselves, and scattered when they saw the guards come.”

“And now? Do tell me,” Gost said. His hands tightened on the gloves held in his lap.

Janus thought he saw Evan's point.
This
crowd of people pushed their way to the front, heedless of the Particulars in their midst, the mounted guards with pistols in their sashes, watching from above. And when shoved, they shoved back. Horses shifted and snorted uneasily, small continuous bursts of respiration as if the city itself breathed in anticipation.

“Now, they're organized. Now the blighters have guns instead of rocks.”

If the boy wanted Gost's attention, he had it. The man's dark eyebrows arched. “Pistols are expensive.”

“My da said they started off the leftovers of soldiers that King Aris left jobless when the war ended.”

“Your father?”

Janus shifted his weight on the carriage's doorstep and diverted Gost from his question. “Seems reasonable enough to me. Cared for, the weapons would last.”

Evan was more valuable than he might appear, and Janus wasn't minded to hand the key to Captain Tarrant's obedience over to anyone, even a man who would be a formidable ally.

“You assume they'd have reason to care for them,” Gost said. “The war was decades ago, and people's memories are short.”

“Not in my experience,” Janus said. “Grudges are long. These men are soldiers' sons, brought up poor, brought up with nothing but a sense of what they're owed, what their fathers were denied.”

“My da says they want blood and don't much care whose. Like your mutineers who think any rule's better n this. My da says they're no better than Relict rats.”

Janus reached through the window and cuffed Evan gently. Tarrant's son or not, he didn't care for comparisons being drawn between the city's agitators and himself. The boy subsided.

“You're here to watch, to learn, and, if needed, run messages between myself and Delight, not ramble on as if you're in the kitchens.”

“No,” Gost said, “I find myself interested in the boy's speech. I find myself shamefully surprised that a child cares for politics.”

“Ain't politics,” Evan said, though he said it quietly and with a sidelong glance at Janus, ensuring that he was allowed to speak his mind. His warning given, Janus merely nodded. “It's just the way things are. Best to know who's got the power, and who wants to take it away.”

“I wouldn't worry yourself about that rabble,” Gost said. “Pistols, they may have, but I sincerely doubt any of them could find the funds for the shot. Your surname, boy?”

Janus twitched, suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of Ivor's first question to him, that probing desire to know
will this person be of any use to me?

“Evan Tarrant, sir.”

“Your father's the… privateer?” Gost hesitated briefly, before judging the boy wouldn't have heard the contempt often attached to that word. It was a delicacy Janus approved. Evan was an amiable boy, and kept so, would be a useful tool, while sullenness would lead to the same seething resentment that plagued the city streets.

“My da works for the king,” Evan agreed easily enough. “Didn't want me along cause it's risky work.”

A shout interrupted them and Janus found himself sharing the
step with a small serious boy. Evan wormed his way out past Janus's arm and said, “It's that feller Harm. I shoulda known. Mr. DeGuerre said things got worse when he took over the antimachinists. He ain't no soldier's get. He's Itarusine.”

Gost said, “Harm's an Antyrrian name.”

“He's not dumb,” the boy allowed. “Not to walk around on our streets with a foreign name, telling our men what to do.”

“And he's in charge of the antimachinists?” Gost smiled down at Evan and Janus felt himself bristling, all his attention drawn from the pushing and shoving crowds, the cart still making its way through the horde. Evan was
his
, rats take it, and if Gost wanted a spy, he could find and nurture his own.

So possessive of what's yours
, Maledicte whispered, haunting his memory.

“Partly,” the boy said. He preened a little under Gost's attention. “There's factions.”

“There are always factions,” Janus said. The shouting grew louder, picked up other voices behind it, and was overridden by the Particulars' bells as they moved in to squelch them.

Evan pointed at the cart, which had cleared the last obstacle. “Oh look,” he said, “it's starting.”

Janus stepped down, setting dust stirring beneath his feet. Before he could reach Delight, Evan hopped out after him and seized his arm.

“Mr. Gost says will you wait in the carriage, please,” he got out on one breath. “Says the crowd's too risky to put you at its heart.”

Another glance around: the antimachinists beginning their tedious chant of “Break it down, tear it down, burn it down.” The mounted guards drew closer, and the crowds nearest them cried out as iron-shod hooves shifted, scraping shins and crushing bare feet.

“Going to be a right spectacle. But Mr. Gost is right. We're close enough.” Evan's eyes were cheerful, his cheeks flushed with excitement, too young to understand how dangerous a riot could be.

Gost was right. The Last coach was in the first ring of spectators, a bright gem as blue as the sky above the ocean. Janus's gaze, traveling
seaward, granted him the view of a ship at the horizon, flying Itarusine sails. One of Ivor's fleet, keeping itself busy by patrolling the territory they wanted to claim for their own.

Delight spotted Janus and leaped off the tarpaulin-covered cart, his homespun woolen skirt nearly catching on the cart wheel, his long red braid flaring out like a thrown torch; Georgie and Whitsonby objected as the covered objects slid with Delight's hasty exit. Janus shook off Evan and went to meet him.

Delight joined Janus and said, “All this spectacle. All this anticipatory censure… Reminds me of my first presentation at court.” His mouth twisted into something not quite a grimace, not quite a smile. He hooked his arm into Janus's as if they were merely two friends out for a stroll, as if Delight weren't dressed like a woman, and a lower-class washerwoman at that.

Janus sighed and said, “I'd worry less if it were. Both the Antyrrian court and the Itarusine are easily swayed by style. Gost, on the other hand, wants substance, so do
try
not to be flippant with him.”

As if his words had summoned the man, Gost came through the aristocratic side of the crowd, stern in the face of a dozen social smiles. He dropped a polite nod to Janus, then in Delight's direction. “Last. The coach? You are too careless with your person. Ma'am.”

Delight, caught in years of habit, curtsyed, then scowled, and stomped back toward the cart. Gost's bewildered eyes lingered on the snap of Delight's skirt resisting the long strides Delight took. “One of your … engineers?”

There was no point in dissembling when Gost could take the note of Seahook's lease and see who held it, or when Delight cut such a figure. “Dionyses DeGuerre, the admiral's son. And, yes, he is one of my engineers.”

“Is he possessed of his reason? Why would he choose, of all days, to wear such preposterous attire?”

Janus found himself bridling unexpectedly. “I haven't felt the need to inquire into Delight's private actions. As long as he builds what I need—”

“And you were trained in Itarus? You spurn information?” Gost didn't need to say more, or even turn a direct glance Janus's way.

“I've all the information I need. Enough to know
Delight
is worthy of my trust,” Janus said.

“As you please,” Gost said. His eyes stayed on the swaying woolen hem of Delight's dress, frowning. “Is that Chryses DeGuerre?”

Janus blinked, first at the ease of recognition in Gost's voice and then in dismayed realization that the man was right. Chryses made his way through the crowd, a noble's greatcoat, embroidered and tucked at the waist, thrown on over his laborer's wear, and joined the engineering apprentices by the cart. Chryses slapped the side of the cart; Georgie jumped down to join him, and Whitsonby began to unload the first covered object into their arms.

No friendship weakened the instant misgivings he had at Chryses's presence. Their argument at Seahook had proven that Chryses's sentiments were directed toward immediate profit; Janus had trusted Delight to lead his brother into sense. In a crowd full of antimachinists, Chryses's arrival was both an act of betrayal and a disaster.

Chryses had accused Janus of selfishness, but what else could this be but selfishness of his own? Chryses was weary of playing the spy, spending his days with the antimachinist agitators, his nights bent over plans, and so he broke cover in the most overt fashion possible.

Given the incongruous size of the covered objects, Janus wasn't surprised to see the new cannon unveiled instead of the tiny steamboat. Furious, but unsurprised. He moved forward, and Gost caught his elbow. “Something amiss, Last?” His lips turned slightly upward, a grimace against the sunlight or a delicate indication of amusement.

Janus said, “You knew this would happen. You expect me to fail.
You've met with Chryses.” The
letter Gost left had said this, and Janus cursed himself for a fool for not understanding that it meant Gost had met with Chryses, perhaps even the same night Janus and Delight had waited for him.

“Calm yourself,” Gost said. “I am no more fond of failure than you.”

“Release me,” Janus said. Gost's hand tightened on his elbow, shot pain through the joint, and turned Janus's objections to a hiss.

“To enact a scene before the assembled court and public? I think not. Does a king rush around like a child in a temper? Show your mettle. Allow your men to do as you directed.”

“Disaster—”

“Disaster either way,” Gost said. “I watch you. You are a clever young man, but much too self-satisfied, prone to temper when thwarted.”

Janus pulled free, took two strides forward, then forced himself to a halt, breathing harshly. There were only two types of words that were so unpalatable: absolute truth and absolute lie. Gost's words rang against the fragile parts of his mind that woke him at night with doubts, with the enormity of the task facing him. Difficult enough to bring himself out of the gutter, trying to raise a kingdom back to glory When the people who should care most were actively hindering him?

Janus found himself shaking with anger and dread, his arms tight wrapped about his chest as if he were a chastised child again, seeking the only comfort he could find.