Steel's Edge (40 page)

“Come now,” Lorameh said. “You'll feel better after some fresher air and a bit of wine.”

Staying here, watching the two of them, would do nothing except put him at risk of jeopardizing everything. Richard turned, snapping the chain of jealousy and pain that anchored him in place, and followed Lorameh into the castle, where drinks had been set out.

*   *   *

CHARLOTTE
wiggled her toes in the ceramic footbath. Dancing barefoot across the ancient stone wasn't the most pleasant of experiences. She'd stepped twice on some sharp pebble, and the dirt of the stones, although they had been cleaned, was now permanently embedded in her feet. She'd soaped them, scrubbed, and even tried a pumice stone, but the dirt remained. Finally, she had resorted to soaking.

It went so much better than expected. She had made an impression on Brennan and coincidentally a favorable impression upon the Marchesa. Brennan was feeling distinctly possessive. He held on to her a few moments too long after the dance and seemed unwilling to step away from her side. She finally excused herself to the washroom. He waited nearby, but she'd bet that a lone royal cousin wouldn't remain unattended for too long, and she proved right. A group of Louisianan ladies surrounded him, and she quietly made her escape.

She found Sophie at Spider-Sebastian's table, attentively listening as he debated some point of Louisianan politics with some older man and his entourage. While they made their good nights and said thank-yous for the stream of compliments received, Charlotte composed a devastating chewing-out in her head, which she delivered the moment they stepped into their quarters and shut the door. Sophie listened to every word and at the end hugged her, said, “Thank you, you're the best,” and disappeared into her room.

Charlotte stood by the door, staring at it for a little while, not sure what to do, and went to take a shower. And now she was soaking her feet.

Charlotte slumped back in her chair. The room was quiet and dark around her. The glass doors to the balcony were open, and the night wind sifted through the gauzy white drapes. A big, pale moon lit the sky and the stone rail of the balcony. Beyond it, the river stretched, reflecting the moonlight.

How did she even end up here? Eight weeks ago she was just plain Charlotte living her life quietly in the Edge. Now she was attending a royal wedding, her name out in the open. She thought of Lady Augustine. Her surrogate mother wouldn't have approved of airing out the name. The moment her adoption was made public, she'd become a target for the enterprising social climbers. But then the name was the least of her worries. She'd broken her oath. Lady Augustine would be horrified to know how far her star pupil had fallen.

A rope dropped from above, stretching to the balcony.

Charlotte blinked.

The rope was still there.

Feet in dark boots slid into her view, followed by long, lean legs, followed by narrow hips, a muscular chest clothed in dark fabric. Richard.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to get up and splashed water all over the plush white rug. Damn it. And now she was swearing in her head. Wonderful.

Charlotte stepped out of the bath and ran to the balcony on her toes.

He landed on the rail.

“What are you doing?” she hissed in a loud whisper.

“I had to see you.”

“What? Get on that rope. You're going to ruin everything.”

“Brennan isn't everything.”

His face was sharpened, almost contorted, by desperation.

“What is it?” she whispered. “Did something bad happen? Are you hurt?”

He jumped off the rail, pulled her inside the room, and clamped her to him. His mouth found hers, hot, possessive, and demanding. He kissed her as if this was the last time he would see her.

For a moment she almost melted, but alarm won out. “Richard, you're scaring me.”

“Let's go away,” he whispered. “Let's just leave, you and me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don't want to lose you. I love you, Charlotte. Come with me.”

She studied his face. “Are you jealous of Brennan?”

“Yes.”

Oh, for the love of . . .
“Richard!”

“I know that I can't give you a title or riches or—”

She put her hand on his mouth. “Shut up. I have a title and riches. You don't get to abort the plan because you didn't like that I danced with him.”

“You liked it,” he said through her hand.

“No, I didn't.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“I was supposed to look like I enjoyed it, you moron. It's called ‘acting.'”

He looked at her, clearly at a loss for words.

“If you can go under the knife risking death, I can dance with Brennan and parade in front of him in my underwear.”

“What?”

She shouldn't have said that.

“Charlotte?”

“I let him see me half-undressed. I'll model it for you later if you wish. Now you need to get out!” She pushed him onto the balcony. “Get out, get out, get out. And take your rope with you. You're too old for this. I'm too old for this.” She shut the glass doors.

He stood for a long moment, then jumped, caught the rope, and pulled himself up.

Charlotte fell backward onto the bed. Idiot. Moron. He scaled the wall for her like some sort of robber-prince from an adventure novel. Climbed a rope in a fit of jealousy.
Really, who climbs a rope?

A knock sounded through her door. Now what? She walked over, pulling her thin robe tighter around herself, and checked the glass window in the door. Brennan.

“This is highly improper,” she said through the door.

“I'm a highly improper man.”

“Who shall remain in the hallway.”

“Charlotte, I just wish to talk.”

“One moment.”

Charlotte walked over to a communicator and dialed the castle staff. The gears spun and a man's face appeared above the copper half sphere. “At your service, my lady.”

“Robert Brennan is at my door. He wishes to have a conversation. I require an escort.”

The man turned away for a moment and faced her again. “The escort has been dispatched. They will be at your door in twenty seconds.”

“Thank you.”

She walked over to the door and peered through the glass. Moments crawled by. She counted to twenty in her head. At eighteen, a man and a woman in castle uniform rounded the corner and came to a halt by her door.

Charlotte unlocked it.

Brennan sighed. “Chaperones? Are we children?”

“We are adults, which is exactly why I require witnesses.”

He grinned. “Do I scare you, Charlotte?”

“Your Highness, I've seen things that would turn most people's hair white overnight. I don't fear you. I'm simply being prudent.”

He tilted his head. “You undo your hair at night.”

“Of course.” Wearing her hair down wasn't one of the best hairstyles for her. She looked much better with an updo, but her scalp did have to rest at some point.

“Why did you leave?”

“My ward had enough excitement for the evening.”

“The little girl? Who is she to you?”

“She's the daughter of a friend. Her mother is dead, and her father is unfit to care for her.”

Brennan shook his head. “This would be so much better without an audience.”

“And that's precisely why we have one.”

“I'd like to continue our acquaintance,” he said.

“Are you fond of tea in the morning?”

“I could be.”

“In that case, I could give a morning tea tomorrow at ten.”

“In that case, I would definitely attend. Who else will be there?”

“My ward and I. If you're planning to attend, perhaps I will invite a couple of other people to maintain propriety.”

“You seem to be very concerned with propriety.”

You seem to be very concerned with making a profit on selling children into slavery.
“There are times when I can be inappropriate.”

A small, hungry light sparked in Brennan's eyes. “How inappropriate?”

“If you bide your time, perhaps I'll show you.”

He grinned. “You're going to make it into a game, aren't you?”

“If you choose to look at it that way.”

“I love games.” He leaned forward, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “I never lose.”

She leaned toward him and said, pronouncing the words very clearly, “Go to bed, Your Highness.”

He smiled, a self-satisfied, happy baring of teeth, and headed down the hallway.

“Thank you,” she said to the escort.

“Of course, my lady,” they chorused.

Charlotte shut the door, locked it, turned, and ran into Richard.

“I told you to leave.”

He stared at the door with that familiar predatory focus. “I'm going to kill him.”

“No, you won't. You will climb your rope and leave.”

He wasn't listening to her. He wasn't even looking at her. He simply moved to the door, and she knew that she had to stop him now, or he would chase after Brennan and fight him, and their entire scheme would crumble.

Charlotte grasped the back of his head and pulled him down toward her. Kissing him was like drinking spiced wine—the heat of him dashed through her, burning through her body. Immediately, she wanted him.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His tongue touched hers, and she shivered. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, and this time he did see her.

“You have to leave,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Yes. You must go. What if he goes to find Casside, and you're gone?”

His eyes turned dark.

“Look at me, Richard. You cannot kill Brennan until we expose him. You can't do it, or it was all for nothing.” She kissed him again, trying to pull him away from the destructive anger. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He blinked, like a man waking up from a deep sleep, focusing on her.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she repeated. “I love you, Richard. Go.”

“What?”

“I said I love you, you fool.”

“When this is over—”

“Yes,” she told him.

He stared at her.

“The answer is yes, Richard. Yes, I will go with you and live with you in your Lair, because I love you. Now you must leave. Get out of here!”

She pushed him out to the balcony, shut the doors, and made sure to lock them.

Richard looked at her from behind the glass. He had the strangest look on his face, a kind of stunned amazement.

“Go!”
she mouthed at him.

“I love you, too,”
he mouthed, then jumped and climbed back up his rope.

She crossed the room, fell on her bed, and put a pillow over her face. She felt hot and giddy. He loved her. It made everything worth it.

What if he stopped being there? What if something happened, and he was gone?

The anxiety shot her in the heart.
Here it is again. Hello there.

Please,
she prayed silently.
Please, please, please, let it be all right. Please, let it all work out
.

Please
.

SIXTEEN

CHARLOTTE
sat in a chaise on her balcony, sipping bloodred tea from her cup and subtly watching Brennan seethe in his chair, directly across the coffee table. To the right Sophie sat quietly reading a book. To the left, on the divan, the Duchess of the Southern Provinces lounged, drinking her tea in tiny swallows and carrying on a conversation.

He must've expected that Sophie and whoever she had invited wouldn't be much of an obstacle. He could bully most people out of the way by the simple fact of his birth. But Lady Olivia provided an impenetrable barrier. She was older, well regarded, and her influence and power surpassed his. His Highness was forced to behave, and he didn't like it. The small talk was clearly grating on him. He was desperately bored.

Almost bored enough to pick up the album she had placed on the coffee table within his reach. A foot long by a foot wide, bound in luxurious brown leather and embossed with a silver serpent biting his own tail, a symbol of the Ganer College, the album held approximately eighty pages of heavyweight paper interweaved with glassine tissue. It beckoned to be picked up.

Just a little more, Charlotte thought. A little longer.

Lady Olivia launched into a discussion of the agricultural properties of oranges.

Brennan hid a yawn, leaned forward . . . and picked up the album.

Lady Olivia glanced at Charlotte and took a moment to snack on cookies.

“What an exquisite book,” Brennan said, obviously relieved at the opportunity to jump-start the conversation. “Are these members of your family?”

“No, my lord.” Charlotte sipped her tea. “They are my greatest triumphs as a healer. The truth is, we are a vain lot.”

Brennan turned the page and winced. “Dear gods, this child is horribly burned.”

“An unfortunate accident,” Charlotte said. “She was trapped in a barn during a brush fire that had overtaken the village. If you turn the page, you will see that she was considerably better after I was done. Burns are difficult to heal completely, but we had a modest success with her.”

Brennan turned the page. “This is uncanny.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my dear,” the duchess murmured.

She had to keep him looking through the book. “I believe there is a worse case a little further.”

Brennan flipped a page. Another. Another. His hand froze.

Bull's-eye.

“This man.” Brennan turned the album, holding it with one hand so she could see it. A picture of Richard looked back at her. He looked a few years younger. His hair was longer, but the image bore an unmistakable resemblance to the poster of Hunter.

Brennan's quiet voice held the steel overtone of command. “Tell me about this man.”

Lady Olivia raised her eyebrows. Charlotte leaned forward, looking at the image. “This isn't one of the worst cases.”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“Very well. He was a soldier, one of those extremely dangerous, covert types. You know, the sort who are released into the woods with nothing but a knife and a length of rope and retrieved a week later, after they have single-handedly demolished an enemy legion. He'd been very badly wounded. His liver and kidney had been sliced through with a spear, and by the time he was brought to me, he was delirious. He kept recounting his proudest moments in life—being chosen for his unit, his son's being born, and Lord Maedoc presenting him with the Shield of Valor.”

“Are you certain?” Brennan's face had gone completely flat.

“Yes. Fever does strange things to the mind. He went on and on about his son's eyes and Lord Maedoc's demeanor. I believe he got to spend some time with Lord Maedoc after the ceremony, and it was the highlight of his service. His healing took approximately sixteen hours. I was exhausted and had to rest. When I came to check on him the next day, some soldiers had collected him and left.”

“Maedoc?” Brennan repeated. “Was that their commanding officer?”

“Yes. I was upset that the College released him—he was in no shape to travel, really—and so I made the staff get the release order so I could check the seal on it. Is this important?”

“Not at all.” Brennan shut the album and turned to Lady Olivia. “You were telling us about oranges, Your Grace?”

*   *   *

RICHARD
studied himself in the mirror. The man who looked back at him was nothing like him. Stolen face, stolen clothes, another man's sword. They were tools, he told himself. Tools of his trade. She loved him anyway. She loved
him
.

Someone knocked on the door in a rapid staccato. Kolin, his second cousin, glanced at him. Richard nodded. Kolin swung the door open.

Brennan strode in, almost knocking Kolin over. His face shone with grim determination. Behind him Rene paused at the doorway, his face bloodless.

“Get your sword and come with me,” Brennan said.

“Did something happen?”

“Casside, get your sword.”

Richard belted his rapier on. Brennan spun on his foot and marched out. Richard followed him, striding side by side with Rene down the hallway. They climbed the ladder, crossed another hallway, and stepped into a metal-and-glass lift. Brennan punched a code into the panel, and the small cabin slid upward. Stone flashed by, then daylight streamed in. They were rising straight up the side of the castle.

“Hunter belongs to Maedoc,” Brennan said. “He's his creature.”

“Are you sure?” Rene asked.

Brennan turned to him, his face skewed by fury, and Rene took a step back.

“It was quite clever of him. Use the Hunter to destabilize the slave trade, make me appear weak, foster the discontent as all of us lost money. I thought he was too limited for a plan like this, but he fooled us all.”

“What are you going to do?” Rene asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Not just me. All of us.”

The cabin stopped. The gears in the wall turned, the doors opened, and they stepped out onto a narrow balcony, overshadowed by a spire. Far below, the river glistened. They were at the very top of the castle.

At the other end of the balcony, Maedoc and Angelia stood by the stone rail. Angelia's face was bloodless. Fear shivered in her eyes like a small animal trapped in a corner.

“What was so important?” Maedoc asked.

She pointed at them.

Maedoc turned. “Brennan? What's going on?”

“We have a traitor,” Brennan said, closing the distance between them. “The one who's behind Hunter and the attack on the island.”

“Who?” Maedoc frowned.

Brennan jerked a dagger from his sheath and thrust it in Maedoc's right side.

Angelia choked on a scream.

Brennan pulled the dagger down through the flesh with a sharp jerk, his face inches from Maedoc's shocked eyes, and pulled the blade out. The initial thrust probably punctured the lung, Richard decided. The rip lacerated Maedoc's liver.

“What are you doing?” Rene squeezed out. “Robert, what are you . . .”

Maedoc sank against the rail, struggling to stay upright. Brennan stepped over to Rene and thrust the bloody dagger into his hand. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn, you spineless shit. We're in this together. Do it or join him.”

Rene stared at Maedoc. The big man raised his left hand, his right clutching the rail. “Don't . . .”

“I will not suffer traitors in my house! Do it!” Brennan barked.

Rene stabbed Maedoc in the stomach. Blood spurted, drenching the dagger's handle.

The soldier cried out.

Rene dropped the dagger and stumbled away. Brennan picked it up and turned to Angelia. “You're next, my lovely.”

“No.” She backed way. “No.”

“Yes.” Brennan's voice vibrated with fury. “I'll help you.”

He grabbed her hand with his bloody fingers, slapped the dagger into it, and locked her fingers around it with his hand, moving behind her, pushing her toward Maedoc.

“No,” she moaned.

Bile rose in Richard's throat. Finally, the mask had ripped open. Brennan was flying his true colors. To kill a man in a fair fight was one thing, but this—this was a sickening, perverse butchery.

“Come on,” Brennan said in her ear, holding her from behind in a half embrace. “For once, you'll be the one who gets to stick it in. It's not hard.”

Brennan forced her forward, raised her hand with his, and stabbed Maedoc in the chest. Blood gushed. Maedoc groaned.

Angelia whimpered.

“Oh no, there is a little bit of blood,” Brennan said. “But you can handle it, can't you? You think all that money that poured into your accounts isn't bloody? You think those shiny stones in your ears aren't soaked in it?”

She tore away from him.

Brennan turned to Richard and held out the dagger. “Casside. Join us, my friend.”

Richard strode forward, took the dagger, and thrust, between the ribs and up, piercing the heart. Maedoc gasped and sagged to the stone. The light went out of his eyes. The torture was over.

Brennan stared at the prone body. “Look, the three of you. Look very well. You all did this with me. Now we're bound by blood.”

Angelia hid her face in her hands and wept.

“Take his legs.”

Richard picked up Maedoc's legs. Brennan slid his hands under Maedoc's arms. They heaved and threw the body over the balcony into the river below. Brennan picked up the dagger, wiped it on a handkerchief, and hurled it into the water. The blade caught the sunlight, sparking as it flew, and vanished far below.

Rene hugged Angelia and drew her toward the lift. Richard followed them. Brennan remained at the rail, his back to them, his arms crossed.

“He is crazy,” Angelia sobbed in the lift. “He's gone crazy.”

“It will be all right,” Rene told her.

It wouldn't be all right. The house of cards Brennan had built was tumbling down, and Richard was waiting for the right moment to set it on fire. And as the lift slid down, he thought of a perfect way to do just that.

Five minutes later, Richard walked into his quarters. “George! I know you're here.”

A mouse scuttled out from under a bookshelf.

“Find my brother,” Richard said. “We have things to arrange.”

*   *   *

GEORGE
stood in the shadows, leaning on the column, and watched the dining hall fill with people. The ridiculously pretentious book he'd read on Pierre de Rivière claimed that the Grand Dining Hall was a room of “almost painful elegance.” It wasn't. It was a room of opulent old wealth.

The pale walls rose fifty feet high, reaching a glass ceiling so clear, it was invisible except for the three enormous chandeliers suspended from it. Each twelve-foot-wide chandelier was woven of hair-thin metal-and-glass strands in a perfect imitation of a cloud backlit by sunlight. Thousands of crystals suspended by thin wires cascaded from the chandelier, like rainbow-hued raindrops. The wires were invisible from the floor, and looking up gave one an illusion of standing under a spring shower.

The floor was seamless cream marble shot through with veins of silver and gold. Beautiful ornate vines cast out of bronze climbed the walls, bearing crystal- and gemstone-studded flowers. The same vine pattern decorated the chairs and the tables, shrouded in silk cloth. The book claimed that no two chairs in the dining hall were alike. Looking at the detail of the tiny leaves and buds, George believed it. The plates were silver, and the silverware had a gold tint. The room itself was enormous, and a full floor-to-ceiling mirror to his right reflected the space, making it appear even larger.

This space wasn't just old, it was timeless. It would never go out of style by virtue of the wealth concentrated within it. It was a room built by old rich men and women to entertain other rich men and women, none of whom had ever tasted poverty. Just one of those flowers or plates would feed an Edge family for a week. The amount of food they would throw away after the bluebloods were done picking at their plates could sustain a small Edge town for a day.

He had known crushing poverty. He remembered it keenly, and this display of lavish luxury made him nauseous.

Torn shreds of conversation floated about.

“. . . found the body . . .”

“. . . water. Stabbed a dozen times . . .”

“Gods, how horrible . . .”

“. . . the wedding might be postponed . . .”

He caught sight of Charlotte and Sophie. Sophie was walking their dog on a beautiful leash with silver metalwork. The leash looked like it should belong to a fluffy ten-pound puppy with delicate paws and manicured claws. Seeing a large, muscular dog on its end was disconcerting.

Charlotte and Sophie took their seats next to a blond blueblood. He turned, displaying a familiar profile. Spider. Also known as the Count of Belidor. Sophie murmured something. He leaned over with an almost paternal expression on his face and said something. She nodded.

It must've hurt her to sit close to him. George had tried to talk to her about it last night, as much of a conversation as one could manage when one communicated by means of a dead squirrel and voice projection. She said it was so painful, it was almost sweet. He thought about it for a while, but he still couldn't figure out what she'd meant.

He saw Jack drift in through the doors. He moved quietly, sliding between groups of people, and nobody paid him any mind, as if he were invisible. A moment later he stopped next to him. “Hey, Ugly.”

“Hey, Stupid.”

“Can you smell it on me?”

George gave him a look. “No.”

They had spent the last three hours in the room behind the mirror. It was a narrow space used mostly by staff and currently empty. The two of them and Kaldar had pulled apart the thin wooden panels until the back of the mirror was exposed, stripped the protective paint layer, then sprayed a silver solvent on the back of the mirror, turning the reflective surface into simple glass.