Maledicte (19 page)

“He’s a servant. You needn’t reward him for doing his duty,” Janus said.

Maledicte laid a hand on his arm. “Gilly’s my friend.”

Janus sighed, the temper fading from his eyes. “I apologize. It’s only that he’s had your companionship while I’ve been deprived of it. I find myself envious of all the moments I’ve missed, of all the moments he had with you.”

Maledicte’s lips curved. “Pretty words. You’ve been trained well in courtly ways.” His smile faltered. “I suppose you had occasion to practice such things with the Itarusine ladies.”

“As if I could ever care for vapid noblewomen who think of nothing but gossip.”

As they dallied, a shadow fell across them, an approaching nobleman who chose not to step from the path. Maledicte looked up and his face stiffened to feral stillness. “Last.”

Janus smiled, lips curling to malicious amusement. “This should prove entertaining,” he said, voice low in Maledicte’s ear. “But do restrain yourself, hmm?”

Any response Maledicte would have made was stymied by Last’s nearness. “Father,” Janus said, tipping his head. “Have you met Maledicte?”

“To my chagrin,” Last said, his face darkening above his high collar. “Is this the kind of companion you seek? A scandalous courtier?”

“I am not the only scandalous one, surely,” Maledicte said. “Or is my presence so overwhelming that the court can think of nothing but me?” Maledicte felt a vicious triumph when Last’s color intensified. Janus might force him to postpone the kill, but he would not give up baiting the man for anything. Janus’s hand closed on his nape in warning, and Maledicte realized that Aris approached.

“Surely, Michel, you will not add to scandal by enacting a scene on Whitspur Street. After all, what happens in the court can only be reported secondhand in the scandal sheets, implausible hearsay. But lose your temper here, and there are a dozen witnesses who work for the broadsheets. Do try to leash your temper. For once.” Aris joined them, two of the Kingsguard idling at his back and the brindled hound pacing beside him.

Last turned. “Aris?”

“Am I unrecognizable without my crown, brother?”

“You will acknowledge this creature on the streets? In front of the same audience you warn me of?”

“I will,” Aris said, turning his faded eyes on Maledicte. “Though, my impetuous courtier, I remind you that I urged discretion; instead you create the season’s greatest scandal,” Aris said. “How come you to know my nephew?”

“Last’s spurning of Celia Rosamunde sent Janus to me,” Maledicte said, with a little bow in the earl’s direction. “I thank him for it. As for scandal, sire—though I am loath to say it, your court thrives on scandal and spite. Mirabile, and others like her, sell tales to the scandal sheets purely so they can see their gossip in print and picture.”

Last spluttered, and Janus laid a warning hand on Maledicte’s sleeve. Maledicte shook him off, aware of Aris’s gaze on them both.

“Scandal and spite, perhaps. But it also thrives on decorum and rules. My rules, Maledicte. Do you realize they wait to see me banish you? You have put me in a difficult position. To flout my own rules or to displease your guardian when I need his goodwill—”

“Banish me?” Maledicte echoed, his heart skipping for the first time since their conversation began. Banished. Away from Janus? He clutched Janus’s sleeve.

At Aris’s side, Last smiled, savoring the moment. It sparked such bloodlust in Maledicte that he felt his eyes must be reddened with it. The sword could have Last before anyone could pull him back. The world narrowed to red simplicity.

“Did you not swear me an oath that you would never draw your blade in court again? After I stayed your punishment once before?” Aris’s words came from a distance.

Maledicte looked away from Last, his thoughts calming, turning. He rested his hand on the hilt. “I swore…I would never draw it in your presence, sire.”

“You would sidestep my strictures so carefully? Laws are more than the words composing them, Maledicte.”

“I did not think at all, acted the impetuous youth you called me,” Maledicte said, trying to shape words fast enough to soothe Aris. At his back, Janus’s steady breathing brushed his nape, and the sound, the sensation staved off his growing alarm.

“That is no excuse, nor even an acknowledgment of wrongdoing,” Last said.

“Father,” Janus said, his respectful courtesy never faltering. “It is King Aris’s offense, his decision. But should you be allowed a say, so should I.”

Last purpled again at the unexpected insolence.

Aris’s face relaxed at his brother’s discomposure; the tightness left his voice. “What would you say in Maledicte’s defense?”

“Only that deeds are misunderstood all too often. Only that if I took no offense, saw no wrong, and had the blade at my throat, perhaps there was no wrong meant.”

Maledicte would have smiled were he not afraid it would be misinterpreted. But he was pleased and surprised; not at Janus’s defense—he expected nothing less—but at the sweep and subtlety of the words. Janus had changed, had learned the discretion Maledicte forgot when his temper was raised.

“You are presumptuous, Janus. You set your wrongs above the king’s,” Last said. “Perhaps you are not as ready for the court as I assumed, and require another year’s training.” Maledicte went cold. He could not allow Last to take Janus from him again.

“Leave him be, Michel,” Aris said. “I, for one, am pleased to find someone so loyal to a companion. Tell me, Janus, would you be resentful if I removed Maledicte from the court?”

“Saddened, say instead. You are my king, my uncle, my kin, and as such, incapable of wrongdoing.”

Maledicte wanted badly to applaud. Janus had mastered what he could not—the art of cynical humor without the edge that offended.

“Have his words won me a reprieve?” Maledicte asked, unable to keep silent longer.

Last started to speak, but Aris overrode him: “If you swear, without reservation, without duplicitous intent, that your blade stays sheathed within my court. And the gods alone know what the papers will have to say.” Aris lowered his voice, stepped closer. “But Mal, remember discretion.”

“I swear,” Maledicte said, bending his head. He felt the king’s hand hover above it, barely touching his dark curls. He heard Last’s chuff of disgust, watched him stalk off without further word, and raised his eyes to Aris’s. The pale eyes flickered from his to Janus, standing so close, and a quick frown crossed his mouth. He reached out and pulled Maledicte a pace away.

“I accept your oath for a second time, and yet I await an apology,” Aris said.

Maledicte felt his temper stirring and stifled it. Too much was at risk and yet…he could not be other than he was, and his words came out edged. “Shall I kneel before you, here and now, begging you to show mercy, sire? Speak the word and I will prostrate myself before you. My future is in your hands.”

Aris tilted Maledicte’s face up to his own. “Michel would have your tongue removed for speaking so—” He released Maledicte’s chin. “But I am not my brother; I do not seek insult in every speech. I will forgive you, but as penalty, I will steal your companion from you. Janus and I have had little chance yet to speak.”

Aris gestured ahead of him. “Nephew.”

Using the king’s body to shield them from most of the watchers, Janus pressed his lips to Maledicte’s palm before following his uncle. Maledicte shivered, chilled by Janus’s absence, his mood plummeting. He wanted to run after them, refuse to let Janus from his sight. “Restraint,” Janus had whispered, his breath warm in the shell of his ear. “Discretion,” Aris had demanded. Maledicte watched Janus board the king’s carriage and did nothing. When the carriage was gone, he thought of home, the delight gone from the day with Janus. But at the thought of Dove Street, of Vornatti, his plan shifted. He had other tasks to complete before he could return home.

· 17 ·

W
ILL YOU TAKE WINE?”
A
RIS
asked, waving away the young page who brought a sheaf of papers toward him, and closing Janus and himself into his sitting room. “Please,” Janus said, accepting the crystal goblet with graceful hands. Aris studied the lad, liking what he saw—the unmistakable stamp of family blood, the confident manner. He found it hard to believe that the young man had spent most of his life in the worst slum Antyre had.

“Did Celia teach you the ways of the court?” Aris asked, sitting down in a dark, velvet-upholstered chair. The mastiff settled on his boots with a groan, and Aris groaned back. “Off my feet, dammit, Bane.”

“Celia?” Janus said, lowering his goblet and swirling the claret; a ruby whirlpool formed and faded. “She taught me to speak properly, when she remembered my existence,” Janus said. “Her world is bounded by her supply of the old Laudable.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps that explains her absence. I rather expected her to return once your name appeared in the broadsheets, claiming her bloodright, or sols for her part in keeping your past quiet,” Aris said. “You have not seen her since your return?”

Blue eyes met Aris’s, and he was aware that he had startled Janus; yet Aris himself found surprise in Janus’s reaction. Had the boy no family feeling at all?

“I went back,” Janus said, finally. “They were gone.”

“They?”

“Her compatriot,” Janus said. “Another whore. I presume they found a patron, or died of rat fever.”

Janus’s words were empty of emotion, and Aris was bothered by this; surely it was natural for a boy to mourn his mother. But then, whores and addicts did not make for comfortable family.

“How do you and Michel get on?” The door swung open as another mastiff sought out its master, pushing the door with its heavy head. Bane raised his lip, rumbled, and the newcomer settled down near the fireplace.

Janus smiled. “I like his dogs immensely.”

“Only his dogs?” Aris laughed. “My poor brother. But have you no other response to his care?”

Standing, Janus paced the room. “I do not love him. His reclamation of me was too clumsy for that. Yet I am grateful to him for this new life. Should I tell you how I feel for my uncle?” He sat on the floor beside the fireplace and stroked the fine stripes in the bitch’s fur. “Or will you tell me something instead—what you would say that requires such privacy? While I am honored to bear you company, I sense a motive beyond socializing.”

“Of course you’re right. But can you not think of anything you’ve done that might require discreet discussion?”

Janus bent his head over the hound, rubbed her soft ears. Her tail thumped against the granite hearth. “Maledicte,” he said.

“Maledicte,” Aris agreed. “Your father would have me command you cease relations with the lad. Make it a matter for law, not family.”

“Will you?” Janus asked, as if it were only a matter of small importance.

Aris didn’t answer right away; he watched his placid nephew and found himself wondering what Maledicte admired in him, what fire, what source of desire. Aris thought Janus a pleasant addition to their dwindling family, but milk-watered for his taste, and, he would think, for Maledicte’s. A tiny thread of suspicion arose; perhaps Janus played a part. Earnestness and honesty were not common traits for men trained in either royal court, nor, he would think, for the Relicts. But then, he recalled Janus’s arguments with Last and sighed. A man playing the part of utter amiability would work not to offend anyone.

“Uncle?” Janus said.

“Do you love Maledicte?” Aris asked.

“Beyond all reason,” Janus said.

“Rumor declares you bewitched.”

“Only by the oldest magic, that of lover and loved.”

Aris could not help but smile at the romantic simplicity of the declaration. He remembered arguing with Michel in the great ivy bower of Lastrest, arguing his reasons for marrying Aurora Vornatti, an Itarusine noble, and moreover, kin to a man his brother despised. “With Kritos gone, you are Last’s heir,” Aris pointed out.

“I am not heir as yet,” Janus said. “Father feels my progress incomplete.”

“You could aid him,” Aris said.

“By giving up Mal?” Janus said. “Please do not ask that of me.”

“I will not,” Aris said, surprising himself. “You will not be the first nobleman to keep company with a courtier. But you must convince Michel that you mean to honor our line. Do you understand?” Aris leaned forward, resting his hands on the great dog’s back as if it were a lectern, he the tutor and Janus the student.

“I must marry,” Janus said. “Produce an heir. A healthy one.”

“Marry
well.
A girl of impeccable lineage to offset the irregularity of yours,” Aris said. “I have heard of your exploits in Itarus. If there is any accuracy to them, you should have no difficulty with a wife.”

“With the bedding, you mean,” Janus said. His mouth, so long sober, slid into a grin. “No difficulties. But choosing a wife—”

“I could name one for you,” Aris said.

Diffidently, Janus said, “Grant me some time to choose my own?”

Aris set his goblet down. “If you select a bride by the close of the year and present her for approval, you may find your own. If you do not, I will choose for you, and you may be thankful it will be my task and not Michel’s.” The dogs, at Aris’s subtle signal, rose and stretched, their tongues lolling.

Janus stood and waited for dismissal.

“Have you—” Aris paused. “Have you met your cousin yet?”

“I have not,” Janus said.

“Come then, he likes visitors.”

Aris opened the door, releasing the dogs, and the page, slumped against the wall, hastily stood. “Sire, Captain Jasper says will you—”

“Not at the moment, Marcus.”

Janus said, “If there’s something that demands your attention, Uncle…I understand there are some accords to be made.”

Aris strode down the hall, talking over his shoulder, his words clipped. “The Dainanders seek to renew our trade agreement, but like Itarus, they want it all to their benefit and none to ours. They think to take advantage of my ban on Itarusine imports. But they discount the Explorations, which are beginning to bear fruit—the nobles may exclaim all they like over exotic fripperies and sideshow spectacles of savages, but the last six ships from the Explorations brought us corn, rice, and wheat, far dearer to my heart. So, I see no need to cede to Dainand’s unreasonable demands. Let them wait and rethink their avarice.”

“And the Kyrdic delegation?” Janus said.

Before him, Aris stopped, and looked back. “You seem to be well informed.”

“I am Last’s son,” Janus said. “Am I not supposed to take an interest in Antyre’s affairs?”

Aris smiled. “I’m pleased you are. But the Kyrdics may wait also—to be blunt, I am not so sure that they are not a stalking horse for Itarus, with Grigor grown weary of our failure to be annexed. I see no other reason for Kyrda’s interest in our shipbuilding.”

The dogs loped up the stairs ahead of them, rushing down the long hallway. Aris smiled at the sight, his good humor restoring itself in fondness for the brutes. “They’re Adi’s hounds really, and grudge the hours I keep them beside me.”

The nursery guard had let the dogs in and Aris could hear their wagging tails thumping the carpet. The guard opened the door, bowing.

“Papa,” the boy said, rolling on the thick carpet with the hounds. He rose to his knees, saw Janus, and went silent.

Aris tried to see his son from different eyes, and yet the tragedy was still there—the good-looking lad of twelve, who could not be made to think, learn, or even clean himself as a two-year-old might. Thin-boned for his age, he lacked the gawkiness that preceded adolescence. For Adiran, there would be no adulthood, only this fairy-child existence in a boundless present.

The boy darted to Aris, clung to his side, and stared at Janus. Janus bowed. “Your highness?”

“Blue.” The prince advanced, hand outstretched. At the last moment, Janus caught his hand gently.

“Yes, my eyes are as blue as yours.” Janus’s nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell it as an animal could, the wrongness in his boy.

“Adiran, this is your cousin, Janus,” Aris said. “Will you greet him?”

Ten years of training, ten years of repetition, ten years of concentrated effort on the part of Aris, and Adiran responded to the cue with a clumsy bow.

Then he whirled and claimed his boiled sweet from Aris’s pockets. Aris pulled his son into his lap. The boy tucked his head under Aris’s chin and worked on the candy, taking it out to look at it, putting it back in. “He has a sweet nature,” Aris said, “which makes it easier for us and for him. But sometimes I wonder if he’s not aware, imprisoned within his own mind….”

Janus raised his hands, dropped them; his words died away and Aris liked him the better for it.

“My poor son will be king, at least in name,” Aris said. “Itarus will devour him entire.” He shuttered his heart against the pain of that. On the fireplace mantel, the icon of Espit, god of creation and despair, mocked him from Her tangled web, Her laughing mouth at war with Her veiled, teary eyes. Aris, who had removed all other traces of the gods from his quarters, had let this one remain, perhaps simply because it was the loveliest version of Weeping Espit he had seen. It had something of his wife in it, in the way tears caught on Her smile.

Janus lowered his eyes, then said tentatively, “Uncle, you are not an old man. Will you not marry again?”

Aris rocked the child, hearing in Janus’s words the echo of Michel. “I will not risk prisoning another child in a broken mind. You must take that risk for me, Janus. Do not deny me that.” He stood, shifted Adiran’s weight to more even distribution along his hip and side. The boy tangled his thin arms around his father like spiderwebbing, fragile and yet binding. “Can you find your way out, Janus, or shall I have Marcus guide you?”

“Please,” Janus said.

The door opened again and Jasper, the head of his Kingsguard, entered with a cursory bow. “Sire, the antimachinists have burned Westfall’s newest engine, and he expects the Kingsguard to act. We need your command—” Aris sighed at the frustration pinking Jasper’s fair face, and sighed again at Marcus peering around Jasper’s solid form, papers still clasped close. “Of course,” he said, letting Adiran down to play.

Dismissed, Janus bowed, and followed Marcus out, retracing their steps down quiet corridors, stone overlaid with wood and plaster, and was let out into the courtyard, illuminated with hung lamps and candles. From his vantage point in the nursery over the yard, from behind barred windows, Aris watched him go.

I
T WAS LATE EVENING BEFORE
Maledicte returned, and Gilly, hearing his footsteps in the hall, crept away from a dozing Vornatti. He found the hall deserted, Maledicte’s coat abandoned over the stair railing. He finally ran Maledicte to earth in the formal parlor when he heard the sound of quiet laughter.

To his nameless relief, he found Maledicte alone, kneeling before the stage; he had expected Maledicte to return in Janus’s company, braving Vornatti’s wrath.

On the little stage, a toy puppet theater rested. Without looking back, Maledicte said, “See what Janus has sent me?” Maledicte dragged the tiny crow-god across the false world, laughing. Within Ani’s beak dangled the threads of a smaller puppet, jerking as Ani twitched, strings within strings within strings. Gilly raised his eyes, saw the strings extending beyond the theater, saw them stretching beyond Maledicte and himself and Vornatti, stretching to encompass the far reaches of the city.

“Only a fool plays puppets with gods,” Gilly snapped. The day had been one well-devised torment after another; Vornatti still kept his Itarusine inventiveness as well as his temper.

Maledicte only said, “Then many people are fools. These theaters are apparently quite popular.”

“They were meant to tell the gods’ tale,” Gilly said, remembering his mother telling the story.

“Tell it to me,” Maledicte said.

“No,” Gilly said. “You know it already—our demands and dreams drove the gods first to quarreling, then to fighting, and finally, on Baxit’s command, to Their own oblivion. The only way They could escape us.”

“If you think Ani dead, then I wonder that you fear Her at all,” Maledicte said, taking the figure from Gilly’s hand. “Still, I suppose it stands to reason. Baxit seems much like Aris, trying to guide those who, while crying for help, disregard his words.”

Gilly hesitated, a frisson touching his spine. “Baxit? You’ve encountered—”

“Do you think Ani shares?” Maledicte said. “Don’t be a fool. I was merely speculating.”

In the distance, they could hear the bell shrilling as Vornatti, woken, yanked the bell rope.

“Come soothe him,” Gilly said, taking Maledicte’s arm. “And don’t mention Janus.”

Maledicte laughed. “Don’t fret so, Gilly. I brought him gifts. Won’t he be pleased to know I thought of him?”

Gilly hesitated, alerted by something off in Maledicte’s tone. He seemed entirely too blithe, a child with a gleeful secret. “Mal?” Gilly asked.

“I brought something for you too,” Maledicte said, selecting a small parcel layered in translucent cloth.

“For me?”

Maledicte passed him the flat package. “I bought it off your sailor friend, Reg. He swore you would like it, as if I had any doubts.” He took the remaining packages and went toward Vornatti’s room.

Gilly peeled back the gilt-edged organza until the object came clear. It was an etched piece of whale ivory, the lines filled in with ink and gold leaf, detailing an elaborate scene. A feather-clad man climbed stairs toward the clouds, a streak of golden sunlight leading the way.

Gilly smiled, touched out of all proportion. He placed the engraving in his room, amid his small collection of treasures: an elaborate puzzle box Vornatti gave him that held his meager savings, his four books, edges fuzzed with repeated readings, a curved piece of sea glass cradling a twisted seashell, gold on the outside, luscious pink within. He touched the whale ivory at the pinnacle of sun and sky, the gilt warming beneath his fingers.