Kings and Assassins (32 page)

Ivor laughed after a moment of sheer, startled shock. Janus prized the expression; he hadn't won many such. “Do tell me you won't ask me to put the blade to my own throat, love. I'd do much for you, but I do value my skin.”

“Well I know it,” Janus said. He leaned back on his elbows, made himself vulnerable. The man's curiosity would keep Janus secure for the length of the conversation.

“Do you want me to guess?” Ivor said. “There are many I can imagine you would like removed.”

“Fanshawe Gost,” Janus said.

“The Kingmaker.”

“The throne seeker.”

Ivor frowned. “And if I do this small favor for you, what do I gain?”

Janus found a smile of his own. Rats take it, but he loved dealing with Ivor, with the mind that worked as his own did. Ivor was well
aware of Gost's potential, and it threatened Ivor's bid for the throne as well as Janus's.

“What do you want?” Janus said.

“A throne?” Ivor said, though he smiled. “Or perhaps a night spent with you and your wife.”

If that was true, if Ivor had been serious, Janus would have agreed, despite Psyke's undoubted horror. It would be a small price to pay for Gost's removal and carried with it the possibility of Psyke's affinity for death touching Ivor. But it was the request of a hedonist, and, while Ivor enjoyed his pleasures, he was far too practical to trade a murder of such political worth for something as valueless as a single night of intimacy. Ivor said it merely to watch whether Janus would agree or sputter in outrage.

Janus held his tongue.

Ivor sighed. “Fine, my clever one. I want an audience with the prince.”

“Guards attending,” Janus said. “Half an hour, no more?”

“Stingy,” Ivor said. He set the blade back across his knees, drew out a whetstone, and began smoothing the largest of the nicks.

“It will occasion notice,” Janus said. “Unfavorable notice. The best we can do is confine it to the stricture of a normal call between acquaintances. A half hour.” The rasp of the stone against the blade was really remarkably soothing.

“How do you want him dead?” Ivor said.

“I'd prefer not to be suspected,” Janus said. “My reputation's black enough.”

“I'd prefer to indemnify myself also. I'll hire someone, if you have no objections.”

“None at all,” Janus said, trying to hide his sudden triumph. Ivor paused, looked him over quite thoroughly, so much so that Janus worried Ivor had seen more than the surface of Janus's need to see Gost gone, had seen the hope that Ivor would use the same assassin who had killed the king and, in doing so, allow his capture. Allow Janus to clear himself of blame for Aris's murder.

Ivor laughed, a full-throated yelp of amusement, and Janus stiffened. Ivor's laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started, and he
reached out and yanked Janus to him. “You are such a fool, pet. You think yourself fit to be Antyre's king when you can't even execute a single man? You run to your enemy for aid and think yourself clever?”

Janus wrapped a hand around Ivor's wrist, tried to pry himself free; but off balance, he lacked leverage. The polished blade touched his cheek. Struggling away, sprawled as he was half across the stones, only meant the blade pressed tighter until a thin rivulet of heat swept down his cheek, blood or sweat. He stilled; his heartbeat roared in his ears, his hands fisted, but he stilled.

He swallowed painfully, the angle rough on his neck. This close, he could see the pale scars on Ivor's throat and the pulse beating hard beneath the skin.

Ivor dropped the blade, put his other hand into Janus's hair. “There,” Ivor said. “Don't fight me. It's unnecessary. I will aid you. I simply want my say and to be assured of your attention; you're entirely too practiced at pretending to listen.

“I know Gost's death will please you but is less important to you than your transparent attempt to find Aris's assassin. You may be foolish, but I am not. And Janus—”

The rare use of his given name on Ivor's lips made Janus twitch, garnering a brief spike of pain as Ivor pulled his hair. “A king, even a would-be king, cannot afford to misread the strength of his enemies.”

Ivor shoved, and Janus sprang free, panting, enraged, and stung. His hands shook as he wiped his face. Blood after all, the thinnest smear on his fingers. He crouched, all his Relict instinct urging him to fight.

“Oh, do sit down,” Ivor said. “You're not an animal. And we have a promise to seal. I'll kill your enemy in such a way that absolves you of suspicion, and you will allow me access to your prince.”

“Guarded,” Janus said, though his voice was hoarse, as if all the silent tension in his body had convinced his vocal cords he had been screaming in protest.

“Of course,” Ivor said.

Ivor danced his fingers down his blade's edge, until blood stippled the tips of his fingers. “So, a deal?”

“Yes,” Janus said. Ivor rose in a flash, rubbed his bloody fingers over Janus's mouth and cheek. “There,” he said, grinning. “We've sealed our promises in Relict fashion. With blood.”

Janus lunged away, caught himself halfway to the door, salt scald in his eyes, in his throat. He shook his head fiercely, felt as off balance and as scoured as he had the day he inhaled the acrid exhaust from one of Delight's machines. “Ivor, make him hurt. I want him to hurt.” Someone should share his pain.

He didn't wait for anything further to pass Ivor's lips—amusement, satisfaction, another painful barb. He just wanted to be away.

J
ANUS STRODE THROUGH THE HALLS
, fighting the chill the old wing wanted to press into his bones. His guards, Simpson and Walker, fell in behind him, exclaiming at the blood on his face. Janus tore his cravat free, spat on it, and scrubbed away the blood, throwing the silk at their feet when he was done.

They quailed. Janus didn't wonder at it. He felt murderous, and undoubtedly looked it.

The stairwell beckoned and he clattered down its wide stones; at its base, a young man stepped out to greet him. “Not now, Delight,” Janus said.

Delight drew back, disappearing into the rooms beyond with a haste that confirmed it: Janus was in no fit state to be seen.

He ducked out of the old wing at the nearest exit, the servants' doors to the stables. Behind him, he could hear Walker muttering that nobles shouldn't know the back passages as well as all that, and Simpson hushing him with a hiss and a cough.

Not know the back passages? It was his palace. His city. His country. There wouldn't be a part of it he didn't know.

He paused at the stables, contemplating seizing a horse and riding out the last few moments of daylight, or riding into the city and finding a partner to duel at one of the men's clubs; surely there'd be some fool belligerent enough to challenge him, maybe even Savne or
Blythe…. His lips drew up in a savage grin; he felt the cool air of the approaching night on his tongue, and it sobered him enough to bypass the stables. Instead, he headed along the length of the old wing's outer wall, the fragrant lure of the king's gardens promising reprieve.

But even they betrayed him, beautiful as they were, the greenery going black with night shadows; the empty maze, blooming with starflowers, proved itself to be peopled after all. He heard the piping voices, sound carried on the still air. Young voices, one higher with a commoner's accent, the other aristocratic. Janus rounded a corner, following the leaping mouse emblem, and found Evan Tarrant and Prince Adiran picnicking in the dwindling twilight.

They fell silent when he burst in on them; Evan leaping to his feet, Adiran blinking up at him.

“My lord?” Walker called from beyond the maze. Janus pounced. Evan yelped, but Janus had the boy's upper arm firmly in his grasp and was dragging him back toward the exit of the maze and the palace. Adiran rose and trotted after, his expression worried as Janus took his friend away.

Walker and Simpson traded oaths when Janus appeared with the boys. “Ensure the prince follows,” Janus snapped. Evan whimpered, but Janus hissed at him, and the boy went silent for the long trip back to the nursery. Faintly, Janus regretted hurting the boy, but seizing Adiran would likely get him killed.

The guards outside the nursery panicked at their approach, flinging open the door as if to disprove their eyes, that Adiran was still inside, and drawing their blades when they saw he wasn't.

Janus dragged Evan to the open door, and found his way barred by two lengths of steel. Walker and Simpson drew their swords in return.

A nursery guard said, “Captain Rue said—”

“For the love of sense,” Janus said. “It's too late to make a show of duty when you've allowed the prince to walk out under your noses. Go notify Rue of my presence, if you must.” He pushed past them, Evan on tiptoes to ease the pain of Janus's grip. Adiran followed Evan, and, once they were all inside the nursery, Janus slammed the door shut behind them and released Evan.

Evan jerked away, his face tear streaked; he rolled up his sleeve, a child's desire to see the wound, and Adiran touched the bruised flesh with curious fingers.

Janus paced the room, for the first time noticing how confined Adiran's world was. Janus had always seen it as a palace in miniature, contrasted it to the rubble of his childhood kingdom, not seeing the cage it was. Forty paces from one side of the playroom to the other, not enough room for even a child to run.

It didn't matter, except that it had probably provoked Adiran's wandering. It was easy to blame the guards, but it was likely the guards were no more to blame now than they had been when Maledicte made his way through the palace, Ani clearing his path.

“I'm sorry,” Evan said. His voice was shaky, wary, and Janus felt his temper spark anew.

“I thought you were going to bring Adiran to me if that happened again. Or were you enjoying your playtime so much that you forget there are men who want the prince dead?”

A quick red blush rolled over Evan's face, lingering about his ears. Adiran watched the color spread with apparent fascination. People didn't show much emotion around the boy prince; he might not be mindful, but he was reflective, and those who tended him preferred the boy quiet and calm. Another constraint on an already constrained soul.

It might have been the shadows darkening Adiran's hair, shifting it from tow-headed to a tarnished gold, but Janus doubted it.

Adiran said abruptly, “I'm hungry.” Though Janus had heard the two boys conversing in the maze, Adiran's new ability to speak his mind clearly startled him all over again.

“You walked off without dinner,” Janus said. “That's what happens. Plan your escapes better next time.”

Adiran curled up on one of the floor cushions, sulking as well as Maledicte had ever done. It made Janus wonder how much of Black-Winged Ani's temperament bled through, how much of Maledicte had been Her and not Miranda.

“I could go to the kitchens,” Evan volunteered, though he seemed reluctant to leave.

“Please, Evan,” Adiran said. “Janus can protect me.” Evan got a smile; Janus got something like a smirk, the sweet tilt of Adiran's lips turning sharper.

Janus looked down at the murky shadows moving slowly in Adiran's eyes. There was no gainsaying the progress Ani had made in the boy, changing him from a senseless puppet to a willful child. Evan left the room after another glance at Adiran that made Janus bristle. He commanded Evan's loyalty, not this amalgamation of boy-god.

“What did you do to the nurse?” Janus asked. “She was harder to elude, surely, than your guards.”

Adiran wandered away from him, as airy and distractible as ever, but it was all a sham. The all-too-wary glance over a shoulder warned Janus of that.

Janus settled down in the nurse's chair and, when Adiran passed by on another apparently aimless ramble, he reached out and seized the delicate wrist, drew him close.

“What did you ask Ani for?”

The boy tugged wordlessly at Janus's restraint, face wrinkling in consternation. He pushed, pried with his other hand, small sharp fingernails leaving marks, but Janus held fast. “Tell me, Adiran. Did you ask Her for anything?”

Adiran whimpered, all boy now, blue eyes brilliant with tears and confusion.

Janus shook him. Rue would be back with a swarm of guards, and Janus would be chased out like an unwelcome cur. He needed to know Ani's goals, and the boy was the one who had set them.

The boy's hand, digging at Janus's tourniquet grip, suddenly made progress. Janus jerked away, his skin ripped by unexpected talons. Adiran turned a face, blotched red with tears, and hissed at him, one eye gone glossy black as if the prince, along with having a lesser mind, had a body more easily overset by the god's presence.

God or no god, Adiran could not be let free again; Janus reached out to grab the child.

Adiran hissed,
“Release me.”
Janus's head erupted in pain; he clenched one hand tight to his skull, remembering that gods' voices were too much for mortals to withstand.

He licked cracking lips, and said, “The boy cannot have bound himself to You. He's made no compact, killed no man in Your name. You merely squat among his bones.” His breath was ragged, the pain overwhelming, but he refused to falter, not when She could answer his question.

“You dare,” Adiran,
Ani
, said. “Your kind bows to Me, Ixion. Prays for My attention.” Blood speckled Adiran's chin as the god's voice forced Her way through fragile tissue.

Janus found himself huddled against the wall of the nursery, knees and palms burning, marking his attempt at escape. “Adiran's asked you for nothing. He's not capable of it.”

Ani paced after him, Adiran's head cocked so that the bird eye pinned Janus in place. “
He will be”

Janus shuddered, fell; even when Mal had been possessed, raving, fighting without care, the scent of moldering feathers and blood strong in the air, it was only a ghost of this. Like a child cornered by bullies, a man attacked by hounds, Janus curled around his belly, clamped his hands around his neck, tucked his face tight into the dubious shelter of his own bones.

A crash of wings and a scrabbling at the window broke Her concentration, or more likely, attracted Adiran's attention. He drifted toward the barred window, to the rook pinned there, and carefully plucked a feather from its thrashing form.