Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  Several patrons had exited the Sun Lion and the adjoining cafes, joining the gathering crowd staring at the sky. Among the crowd of merchants and customers were the usual messengers, a few patrolling guardiers, and one red-robed consolari who rushed toward the Gran Consiglio. An alarm bell began to ring for the guardiers.

  Every eye was looking up as Marion abandoned the arcade. He ducked into a long access hall that ran the length of the great stone edifice of the Gran Consiglio, racing for the stairs.

  Flamboyant grilles set into the walls of the building for ventilation and light allowed him to hear the outraged exclamations as the leaflets were read in the square. A second alarm bell sounded for the wardens, and Marion knew the city would be under curfew tonight, with armed soldati patrolling the Myrtles. Dissident actions set a fire under the Consolari as sure as any attack.

  Marion’s stride was effortless, but it was nine stories to the upper balconies. He knew the way so well he could have recounted it in his sleep, but his calves ached by the third set of stairs. By the sixth, the large muscles in his thighs burned like fire. He thanked Paladin he still had his breath. His pulse raced and his face turned warm, but he did not tire. On level ground he could run all day.

  He counted the levels and knew the next turn could put him straight into the arms of the graycloaks. Or perhaps they were only hired men, lackeys of the argenti too stupid to know their acts were a death sentence. Any man convicted of sedition would be banished or hanged. The Consolari took a dim view of rabble-rousers, and graycloaks were no better than gangers in their eyes. Such high stakes made ordinary men into perilous adversaries.

  He ran down the long, open balcony that spanned the length of the palais, seeing no one. The lace stonework couldn't be hiding them, not unless the culprits were hanging over the side by their fingers. He passed several large, mullioned windows, the blue glass shot with bars of lead. There was no sound of booted feet, no running. He came to the end of the balcony and turned the corner.

  An ogee arch yawned into a dark space. The chamber was old, one of the many rooms under repair in the palais. Sheets draped the furniture and dust was thick on the floor, but a glint of light like a shard of mirror turned to the sun winked in the gloom.

  He stepped carefully into the chamber. He gasped as he recognized the shape of the glittering thing, and yanked it from the nail with shaking hands.

  The golden sunburst pendant was the size of an egg, a huge red garnet in its center of the fine metal rays. On the back, engraved deeply in script: Non Omnis Moriar. Not all of me shall die.

  Aureo’s necklace. Marion felt dizzy. He'd sworn by the brand on his arm that he was Aureo's man, that he was loyal. For years, that was exactly what he was, until he grew into his own man and saw Aureo for a sadistic murderer drunk on his own power.

  The Teschio cared nothing for a man’s conscience. Marion had killed men for betraying the same vows he had sworn. Had he really expected to escape a similar judgment?

  Marion turned in a circle, knowing he'd find nothing else. The leaflets were a distraction, the true message already in his hand. He stumbled to the rail and looked down, seeing men far below picking up the pages and reading, passing the sheets back and forth. Some of them looked up. He backed away until he was out of sight, his back against the wall. His spine touched the unyielding stone and he slumped down, holding the threat against his chest.

  Every thump of his heart was a drum marching his hopes away. He looked at the pendant again, hoping to be wrong, but he knew this object. His fingers had touched it as a child, and Aureo had worn it every day of his life

  Death comes easily to men. If you truly want your enemy to suffer, don't kill him. Just take away everything he holds most dear, all he loves and lives for. Then you can watch him die every moment he draws breath.

  Marion had let peace lull him into thinking it couldn't happen all over again, the gangs couldn't come back, the violence couldn't return. A few years of calm... was that all his life's work was worth? Was this how they intended to make him pay for what he'd done to Aureo? And Tris. What did they have planned for him?

  Marion heard a scraping sound and turned just as a low twang like the plucked string of a harp reverberated in the chamber.

  The arrow bolt took him through the meaty part of his upper arm, the force spinning him around. He stumbled and went down. A man stood in the arch, the sun behind him, turning his body into a faceless black outline.

  Marion cupped his shoulder. Hot blood poured over his fingers. This is it, he thought. This is the moment I die. He looked at the sun-limned shadow in the arch. “Get it over with, bastard,” he panted.

  “I’m not going to kill you.” The shadow kept the crossbow aimed, a second quarrel loaded. “Not today.”

  Marion tried to rise, but froze when the man raised the crossbow higher, aiming at his head.

  “I said I would not kill you. Not unless you make me.”

  The man’s accent was strange. Marion had heard traces of it before in the city; an odd lilt on some words that was almost musical.

  “Who are you?”

  “You may call me L’arciere.”

  “The fucking Archer himself,” Marion spat, one knee on the floor. “You don’t look like much.”

  A rich chuckled echoed in the chamber. “Do I not?” Archer cat-stepped closer. He sighted down the length of the crossbow at Marion, features still obscured by the angle of light. “It’s a pity we don’t have time to talk. I’ve waited such a long time to meet you, Marion Casterline.”

  Archer swung the crossbow at his face.

  ***

  Marion woke to shouting and the sound of breaking glass. He cradled his bandaged arm and rolled out of bed, groping for the wall to steady himself. The dottore’s drugs were strong. He could feel them in his blood, blurring the edges of the room, turning the shouting voices downstairs to the baying of wolves.

  He made it to the top of the stairway on legs shaky as a newborn colt, wearing breeches and nothing else. “Tris! Here... who’s here?” Idiot, he thought. If it was the Archer, he’d just given himself away. But no, he had posted wardens in the courtyard and by the canal. Hadn’t he?

  Tris appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shaken and pale. “Marion, go back to bed.”

  “Heard voices,” Marion slurred. He reached to steady himself against the marble balustrade. “What’s amiss?”

  “Nothing. All is well.”

  “Doesn’t sound very well.”

  A warden moved into sight behind Tris. Wild black hair, face like an angel. A sexy angel. Bell'angelo.

  Marion grinned sloppily. “Salve,” he chuckled, holding his arm, which throbbed like a bad tooth with every syllable. His head ached fiercely.

  Jean smiled back. “Hello.”

  Tris looked from Marion to Jean before carefully taking hold of a baluster, as if he needed support as well. “Southwarden, would you please assist my promessa back to his bed?”

  Jean stared at Tris for a long moment. He nodded and came up to Marion, putting his arm around Marion’s waist. “Enough for one day, bello. Time for sleep, aye?”

  Marion blinked at Jean, not entirely sure he was awake. He pointed his good finger in Jean’s face, touching his nose. “Be nice to Tris.”

  “Uh-huh. Andiamo. Move your ass.” Jean patted Marion’s hip and led him back into his bedroom.

  His bedroom. Tris didn’t share his bed. Not yet. “My bedroom,” Marion said, nodding, as if Jean were privy to the conversation in his head. “Not for long.” He grunted painfully as Jean helped him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

  Jean held a cup to his lips. “Just water. Then you can sleep.”

  Marion drank greedily. Jean eased him back, moving a pillow under his arm.

  “You’re a fucking mess,” Jean murmured, touching the bandages over Marion’s brow. “That’s what you get for chasing graycloaks all by yourself. Idiota.”

  Marion pointed at Jean again. “Be nice to
me, too. I’m hurt.”

  “Not much. The dottore said the arrow skipped along the top of the muscle. You’ll be fine. A day’s rest and you’ll be back doing stupid things again.”

  Marion sighed blissfully and closed his eyes. “I really like Tris,” he whispered. “So soft and sweet.” He grinned. “Like a little cat.” He heard the slide of metal against wood as Jean removed the sunburst pendant from where it hung on his bedpost.

  “I thought this fell into the sea,” Jean said wonderingly, rubbing his thumb over the gold. “Have you had it all this time?”

  Marion shook his head. He had thought he dreamed the necklace at first, but Tris had found it in his pocket. “He had it. The Archer.”

  Jean hung it back on the bedpost. His hand sought Marion’s. “So he was right, after all. Not all of him died.”

  “I’d hang him again if he was here,” Marion muttered. “Bastard. Stay dead.” He yawned hugely. His thoughts became fractured, like they were all slipping downhill, running away from him, and he knew he was saying things he shouldn’t. “I’d kill him a thousand times for what he did.” His eyes closed.

  Jean frowned and leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  Marion jolted back awake, terrified of what he might say. “Nothing. Just that he was a bastard.” He saw the worry on Jean’s face. “Don’t mind me. The drugs, aye?”

  “Aye,” Jean agreed softly.

  “Keep watch tonight,” Marion murmured, feeling himself sinking. “Protect Tris.”

  “Tris is a little mad at me right now.”

  “Not mad. Not really. He just doesn’t want to share me.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Jean hummed. “Would you mind sharing him?”

  Marion roused himself to open one eye in outrage. “Yes. I mean no. No. He’s mine. Keep off, cazzo.”

  Jean grinned and patted his good arm, and Marion felt the scratch of whiskers followed by the soft warmth of Jean’s lips on his cheek. “All yours. Si, amato.”

  Yes, beloved.

  TRIS

  Aequora, Diciotto

  (Day 18)

  He had never visited the Black Keep before, only passed by the shadow of the bulky tower with its windows of dark glass, like ducking under the wing of a raven. Thick stone walls and courtyards further separated the wardens from the ordinary men of the city.

  Wardens were separate in any case, isolated in their authority. The cinereal color of the stones served to remind the city of that dominion. There had always been wardens, but wardens had not always possessed such power. Tris recalled a period in history where the masked fathers of the Merlo had occupied the Gran Consiglio, and before them the veiled Undines, licentious priests of Paladin who were now ranked little higher than courtesans, while the fathers now spent their days raising chickens, tending children, and growing fat.

  That is what comes from mixing sex with politics. It was Kon's phrase. Tris had to smile. His father could be shockingly right sometimes.

  The guardpost warden challenged him before recognizing the gold and garnet rose brooch holding his cloak at his shoulder.

  “Maestro Sessane,” the young man bobbed his head and stepped aside. “The highwarden's chamber is on the first floor. We are all praying for his swift recovery.”

  “Thank you. The wound was minor.”

  The young warden turned his head and spat onto the ground. “Have no fear, maestro. We will root the traitors out.”

  “One must first swear loyalty to be a traitor to it.” Tris craned his neck to look up at the height of the tower keep. “Where might I find the southwarden?”

  “At the top. In the cockloft.”

  His mouth turned up dryly. How apropos. He looked closer at the warden. “I know you. Melody, isn't it?”

  “Lody, maestro, if you please.” Lody smiled, and Tris noted they were nearly the same age and that Lody was handsome, with oak-brown hair, olive skin, and a snubbed nose. His wide, dark eyes were his best feature. “Me and my brother have been to the Myrtles. You remember?”

  “Very clearly.”

  Marion had commandeered the help of Lody and Kell to move them into their new house, and Tris remembered being struck by how close Lody was to his brother. Marion had called them the dark twins. There were few true brothers of blood in Malachite, but he knew Lody's story: that he and Kell were Gathians who had come to Malachite as castaways, their ship broken on the waves of the Lion Sea, the small boys washing up on a fragment of the shattered hull.

  Lody actually remembered the shipwreck, and the pirates of her crew. Tris had asked Lody dozens of questions, until Marion declared they would never get moved in if he kept the helpers chattering. Marion had been living in the Black Keep for months prior to that. He had quit the Colibri on the first day they kissed. Tris had not asked him to move, but he had not disapproved, either. A warden making his home in the Alley of Sparrows was no disgrace, but one could not expect to marry a Sessane and live there, much less adopt a child.

  “How is your brother?” Tris asked. He found he liked looking into Lody's eyes. He saw a hopefulness there, as if Lody expected something wonderful to happen at any moment.

  Lody grinned. “Busy. He wants to make Northwarden one day. I told him he has a lot of work to do!”

  Tris laughed with him. “Warden Silvere worked the docks when he was a boy. His father is a stevedore. Tell your brother I wish him well.”

  “Si, maestro.”

  He thanked Lody and crossed the busy courtyard, ignoring the stares and turned heads. So many men in black, like a flock of rooks pecking for corn. He knew it was an uncharitable thought. The wardens protected the city, kept order. They had to, otherwise men would descend into chaos and violence.

  Or so Kon said. Tris would have liked to believe that men were better than dumb beasts; that they could live together in peace. But he had no proof and history disagreed with his fine notions. Wiser to rely on the words of those who had seen battle and could read the hearts of men. The only heart Tris knew was his own.

  The climb was longer and darker than he expected, but finally he opened the topmost door of the keep and found Jean sitting under a window, peeling an orange.

  Jean arched an eyebrow. He wore a linen shirt under his coat, open to the waist and showing a good deal of bare skin and muscled torso. “Are you lost, piccolo?”

  The room was spacious and faintly chilly. It was appointed more like a monk's cell than a warden's post, candle nubs everywhere and messy with papers and scrolls, but one could not fault it for the excellent view.

  Tris shook his head. “Far from it.” He unpinned his cloak and let the heavy velvet slide off his shoulder like a fall of treacle.

  “How’s Marion?”

  “The dottore came again this morning. The wound is clean, thank Paladin. He’ll keep the full use of his arm.”

  Jean nodded. “Marion’s tough as an old barnacle. I’ve seen him hurt a lot worse than that.”

  “The problem is keeping him in bed until we know there will be no fever.”

  Jean smirked as he quickly skinned the orange. He discarded the peel and popped a section into his mouth. “I know how to keep him in bed. Too bad you don’t.”

  Tris remembered Jean’s face when he came to the Myrtles after hearing that Marion was shot, the wild look in his eyes as he shouted and stormed his way into the house, then the softness and relief as Marion appeared. As difficult as that was, Marion’s happiness at seeing Jean had been worse to bear.

  “His chambers are on the first floor,” Jean said dismissively.

  Tris realized Jean assumed he had come on an errand to fetch something from Marion’s office. He draped his cloak over Jean's parchment-strewn desk and perched on the edge of it, folding his hands in his lap. “It's you I came to see. We need to talk.”

  “Do we?” Jean kept his face turned to the window as he chewed.

  “Perhaps not, if you persist in ignoring me. I wouldn't recommend taking that path.” Tris gathered his courage.
“We have something in common, you and me. I’ve always known about Marion’s feelings for you, but I assumed you were no longer in love with him.”

  Jean snorted a laugh. “Love, he says. What do you know about love, boy?”

  “Don’t scorn me, southwarden. Your career may depend on it.”

  The dark glower that gathered on Jean's face was like a storm cloud rolling in from sea. “Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

  “No.” Tris shook his head firmly. “No, I don't make threats. I'm not very good at it and my father taught me to play to my strengths.” He smiled thinly. “I'm here to ask a favor of you. If you grant my request, I'll see to it that you're given a house, a generous pension, and anything else that might please you.”

  Jean gave a husky laugh, rich with amusement. “The bambino is here to bribe me.” He spat a seed onto the floor. “You don't know the first thing about pleasing men.”

  It was too early to play his hand, but Tris brought out the card anyway. “What about Cardellino?” He watched Jean's reaction carefully. “Yes, spies are expensive, aren't they? Almost as costly as courtesans. One as pretty as Cardellino is very costly. He doesn't know what pleases you yet, but he could. If you could afford him.”

  Jean's reaction was to surge forward and grab Tris by the throat.

  For a man holding him by the neck, Tris noted that Jean was exquisitely careful not to bruise him. He could breathe, he just couldn't get away. The desk was at his back and Jean was pressing into him. Jean grabbed him by the hip and jerked him up effortlessly, seating him on the desk like he weighed no more than a kitten. A tower of papers toppled, slid, and pattered softly to the floor.

  “That's really why you're here, isn't it?” Jean breathed against his cheek. “I know your game. Do you want me to show you what real men like, boy?”

  “No.”

  Jean wedged a knee between his legs and forced his thighs open. “Are you sure?” Jean's hand closed tighter on his throat and his lips brushed his ear. “Say the word, little one, and I'll teach you things even the Pae don't dream of.”

  Tris struggled to loosen Jean's grip, but Jean's hand was molded from iron. Immovable. Sudden anger hit Tris like a slap, but with it came a warm current running under his skin. Though he was deeply affronted that Jean dared to misuse him this way, there was something... something in the way Jean forced his will upon him, the way Jean's muscled body seemed to demand his concession, his silence. His surrender.