Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  Tris’s eyes fluttered and slid half-closed, and for an instant, he swayed.

  “No,” he croaked, flailing at Jean's chest with weak hands. “Let me go.”

  Jean made a sound of disgust and shoved him away. “Fucking cocktease,” he growled. “Say what you want and get out.”

  Tris rubbed his throat. “I want you to leave Marion alone,” he said with effort. “Resign from the Black Keep and leave. Live in the Martello, the Arsenale, even the Zanzare. Anywhere except near my home. Stay away from my family. Do that, and I'll see you have a purse of gold harpies, a manse, and twice your pension.”

  Jean's black eyes narrowed. “And what about my little golden finch? Cardellino. How could I bear to leave him behind?”

  “He’ll be the highest-paid courtesan in the Colibri, and all yours.”

  Jean's smile was ugly. “He might not consider that a favor.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall, slipped his hand down his own body and cupped his groin, squeezing it and thrusting his hips toward Tris. “Given what I like to do to pretty boys. Sure you don’t want me to show you?”

  Tris realized that Jean was many things, but a rapist wasn't one of them. He recovered his calm. “Think about my offer, southwarden. It's a good one, far better than any deal you’d get from my father.”

  “You rich cunts think you can buy anything.”

  “That's not true.” Tris stood up. His hands were shaking, but he spun the cloak to his shoulder with a practiced, elegant move. “I know I can buy anything. Or anyone. I certainly have the means to do so. I just don't know your price.” He brought his trembling under control and faced Jean. “You should name that price to me soon, Messere Rivard, before the matter is out of my hands. I don't hate you. I don't have any particular ill-will toward you at all, other than the fact that you disturb my promessa and disrupt the harmony of my house, but I’m not petty and these annoyances are insufficient reasons to destroy you. Marion wants to see you happy.” He hesitated, studying Jean closely, his curiosity at this brooding, unpredictable man getting the better of him. “Why will you not let me do this for you?”

  “Do what?” Jean scoffed. “Buy me off?”

  Tris nodded. “Yes, of course. Buy you a better life. I can do that very easily. Why is that so terrible?”

  “Because it comes from you.” Jean turned to the window and rested his hand on the casement, looking down on the courtyard. The black glass threw a gloomy shade on his profile. “All my life, rich bastards have made my decisions for me, told me where to live, where I can go, whose arse I have to kiss.” His mouth twisted. “Even who I have to kill. I don't want anything from you, or your fucking father.” He reached for the handle on the window and pulled the glass closed. “Time for you to scamper home, puss. Don't come looking for me again.”

  Tris heard the threat implied. “Or what?”

  Jean turned. “Or next time I'll find out for myself if you're as pure as Marion thinks you are.” His tongue swiped over his lower lip obscenely. “I'm betting not.”

  Tris backed up a step and Jean's face changed subtly.

  “Off with you now, boy. Don't make me throw you out.”

  When Tris still did not move, Jean crossed his arms. “Or I can send a lowcoach for Marion and you can explain your offer to him.”

  Tris ducked his head, checkmated. “That will not be necessary. I'm sorry we couldn't come to an agreement.”

  “Agreement,” Jean sneered. “Listen to the Silk talk. A bribe is a bribe, boy. Why do I scare you so much? It’s almost as if you don’t realize that Marion and I are the same."

  Tris’s temper flared at the lie. “Marion is nothing like you. You’re a killer.”

  “So is he. He hanged Aureo Marigny with his own hands."

  “A criminal and a butcher,” Tris returned with some of Kon's icy dispassion.

  Jean shook his head. “His father.”

  Tris felt like he was being chased down a street he absolutely did not want to visit. “Marion's father was Sev Casterline. I've seen the records.”

  “Dead before Marion was five years old. Aureo raised him, and Marion sent him to the noose, so don't tell me what kind of man Marion is. I was there.”

  Tris would hear no more of it, but the instant his fingers touched the door, Jean crossed the room and put the flat on his hand on the wood, closing it firmly, trapping Tris in the room. For some reason, that did not frighten Tris as much as it should have.

  “Wait.”

  He was afraid to look up. He'd made a grave error in coming here. What was this peculiar, extraordinary longing in the pit of his stomach? He swallowed. “Why must I wait?”

  Jean's fingers drummed on the wood. “Are you going to tell him what you did?”

  “Marion would not look kindly on the attempted bribery of a city officer.”

  “Oh, Marion's got nothing against a good bribe.” Jean lowered his voice and placed his lips close to Tris's ear. Tris could sense the heat of Jean's body at his back. “Marion knows me very... very... well,” Jean murmured, his deep voice beguiling as a distant storm. “We were lovers since we were boys ourselves. He knows what brings my claws out. Sweet young bait like you, is what. Go ahead and tell him you tried to bribe me, little cat. He won't care.” His forearm stole around Tris's waist. “What he'll want to know is if we were alone.” His big hand rubbed Tris’s belly through his shirt in a slow, tortuous circle. “How long we were alone. What I said to you. If I touched you.” He very lightly kissed the tip of Tris’s ear, the scent of oranges like a blessing. “And you're a poor liar, boy.”

  “Please.” Tris shivered. “Don’t.”

  Jean sighed and withdrew. His menacing, enticing warmth was abruptly gone. For some twisted reason, Tris ached with the loss.

  He scrabbled for the doorknob, flung the door open and fled down the stairs.

  MARION

  Aequora, Vento Quattro

  (Day 24)

  Marion winced in pain as he pointed to the three very young boys who stood holding hands and shuffling their muddy feet. None of the boys spoke Malakhan, or if they did they pretended not to.

  “See that they stay together,” Marion said to Yves. His arm ached where the flesh was stitched together. “Tell the Fat Fathers that they seem attached.”

  “Do you think they're brothers?” Yves smiled encouragingly at the boys. A wave threw spray on the children they stepped away from the seawall, clinging to each other like a row of baby ducks.

  Marion glanced at the pinched, blue-tinged faces. “Perhaps. It’s hard for me to tell with Solari.”

  “Two of the older boys I sent with Piero were azure, too.”

  “I've noticed,” Marion replied shortly. He didn't want to discuss it in front of the children, but Aequora had been bringing in a heavy percentage of Solari males. Perhaps they were at war with the Cwen again. “We'll sort it out later.”

  Yves nodded. “Oh, Lody wants a word with you.” He deliberately retreated from the boys and motioned gently for them to follow. “Are you hungry? Come on, then. We're going to see the fathers at the Villa Merlo. The fathers are very fat, but we must never say so, yes?”

  A smile from the tallest boy. So he does understand. Yves was clever with children.

  “The Fat Fathers have food and dry clothes and big soft beds to sleep in, and you never have to go out on the sea again. Not unless you want to,” Yves said, taking the littlest one's hand.

  Marion left Yves to his job. He found the dark twins with Val fifty feet down the seawall, almost beyond the light thrown by the torches. Lody was struggling with a skinny, pale-faced youth with a shaven head, obviously trying very hard to hold onto the boy without hurting him. Kell stood nearby, ready to grab the boy if he fled. Lody murmured to the gasping boy in low tones, trying to calm him.

  “What's amiss?” Marion asked.

  Val lifted his shoulders in a shrug while picking his teeth with a reed. The mottled burns that marred his features on one side from chee
k to chin were almost invisible in the flickering light. He looked much younger without them. “He's moon-brained, kept babbling about dogs in heat and asking us to bury him in dirt or something. Lody grabbed him before he threw himself over the wall.”

  It would not be the first time the Cwen offered deranged males to Aequora. Even before the Peace, it was stipulated that only healthy men were to be sent. In typical Cwen fashion, the violent criminals and dangerous lunatics emptied from their jails were very healthy indeed.

  Marion assessed the boy quickly: he was a head shorter than Lody, scrawny and underfed, but he was no child. “Take him down.”

  Lody hesitated, his arms locked around the boy's chest. “You sure?” At Marion’s nod, Lody stiffened his legs, turned one knee, and threw the boy to the ground. Kell moved in to help, but the boy gave up all at once; drawing his body into a pitiful ball and crying. Lody threw Marion a pained look.

  Marion sighed and waved the young wardens away. He bent over the boy. “You can stop fighting, son. No one is going to punish you. That's not why you're here.”

  The boy rolled to a sitting position and hugged his knees, his shoulders shaking. “Please,” he moaned. “I want to go home.”

  Even through the tears marring his voice, the boy lacked the deep tones that would come when his voice broke. Not a man yet, but at his age at least some change would be expected. Perhaps the boy was one of those poor creatures that the Cwen castrated.

  Marion looked at the narrow bones of the boy's bare feet and was touched with sudden pity. “This is your home now, piccolo,” he said softly, “and whatever happened, however you came to be here, this is where you'll stay. It's not a punishment. We’ll take care of you.”

  The boy looked up and scrubbed his face with his sleeve. His eyes were bleary and red, the irises pale blue. He cast rapid, ferret-like looks to the left and right of him, his muscles twitching like he would bolt at the slightest noise. “Care?”

  “How old are you?”

  The uneven stubble on the boy’s scalp was silvery blond, and the baldness made his eyes huge. “Twenty.”

  Marion smiled at the lie. “Try again.”

  “Twenty. I'm supposed to go live in the mud with the frogs and rats.” A deep shudder passed through him. “Bitches in heat get what bitches deserve.”

  Marion closed his eyes and sighed. The Orfani decreed that boys over the age of sixteen were sent to the refuge rather than the orphanage, but even if he were younger, Marion wouldn't send this one to the Villa Merlo. An unstable boy big enough to harm littler ones was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

  “You're not going to be sleeping in the mud,” Marion said. “You'll get good food, a bath, and four walls.”

  The boy shook his head and began to titter with laughter. He barked high and shrill.

  Shit, someone's rattled his brains for him. Marion was dismayed. He couldn't send a boy to the men’s refuge. He wouldn't send him to the Solari. They'd just kill him or worse.

  “This one is for the Consolari's judgment,” Marion pronounced regretfully. “Hold him apart from the others and take him to the Gran Consiglio when you're done.” He pointed at the boy. “Watch him close.”

  Marion checked on the children leaving the canal. Most were done crying and looked with interest at the ruins or the rich trappings of the sandolo. Perhaps they sensed Yves’s kindness. Marion watched them and waved as the sandolo lanterns floated down the waterway. It had been a good night.

  He climbed the steps from the canal and returned to his lowcoach waiting on the narrow avenue adjacent to the broken towers of the Horn. He closed the door and shrugged his coat off, letting his head fall back against the upholstered seat. Blessed quiet.

  The door swung open and Jean crawled inside the carriage.

  Marion frowned. “I thought you went with Yves.”

  “I have no desire at all to see those fat bastards at the Merlo.”

  The fathers weren't all that fat, merely older than and not as fit as the wardens. Marion grunted. Actually, they were pretty fat, when he thought about it. “You'd think chasing after boys day and night day would keep a man fit.”

  Jean grinned. “It's done miracles for me.”

  “That's disgusting.”

  Jean made a rude sound. “I’m kidding. God, you’re just like Kon, no sense of humor.” He turned in the seat to face Marion and propped his cheek on his palm. Green lantern light gave his sensual features a sardonic cast. “You’re touchy tonight. Trouble in paradise?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Grooms are supposed to be joyful before a wedding. You’re tense and pissed off. Marriage won’t agree with you.”

  “You don’t know anything about it. You're not in love.”

  Jean's expression lost all trace of mockery. “Neither are you.”

  Marion held up his hand. “Don't. I don't want to hear it and I don't want to argue about Tris again. Just leave it alone, Jean.”

  “He's not who you want,” Jean persisted. “You know you miss me in your bed.”

  “Maybe I do.” Jean knew his body very well. He could admit that he missed the slow, consuming pleasure of a lazy morning fuck with a man he was comfortable with. “But there's more to life than passion and wanting. We had fire between us but we never had any damned peace.”

  “You want a shawl for that rocking chair? Old men get their peace whether they want it or not. Why are you so eager to settle for less?”

  “I’m not settling! Leave it.”

  Jean looked like he wasn't going to for a moment, but he finally turned away and fished in his pocket for a cigarette. He put it between his lips. “Got a match?”

  “They got wet.”

  Jean continued to rummage in his pockets, finding his silver match safe and a store of waxed matches inside it. “Where are you off to?”

  “Castello Rosa.”

  “Castle of the roses, castle of the Sessanes,” Jean muttered. “Castle of the man-stealing pricks. Wouldn't surprise me if little Tris was privy to all of papa's schemes. They're so fucking close.” He struck a match on the door, touching the flame to the paper and puffing. He exhaled a stream of smoke. “Well, is he still a virgin? His ass, I mean. I know you’ve made use of everything else by now.”

  Marion cursed and snatched the cigarette out of Jean’s mouth, then slapped the window open and tossed it. For good measure, he grabbed the silver match safe from Jean's hand and threw that out as well.

  Jean looked utterly shocked. “Marion...”

  “Send me a bill,” Marion snarled. “And shut your filthy mouth about Tris.”

  Jean's surprise faded and his mouth took on a cocky, carnal curve. “Make me. Find a better use for my filthy mouth. Careful though; you don’t want to go home to Prissy smelling like me.”

  “Fuck off, Jean.”

  Jean edged nearer until his breath was warm on Marion's neck. “I could make you smell more like me.” His hand slipped between Marion’s thighs and whispered; enticing, promising. “Tell me you don’t miss it. I know you think about me when you’re jerking off, alone in your bed, the smell of him still on your clothes, hearing him breathing in the next room. But it's not Tris you see when you close your eyes.” Jean nuzzled his mouth to Marion’s ear and a wet tongue slicked the side of Marion’s throat. “I can do unimaginable things to a willing body, lover. I can do tricks for you that your boy has never even heard of.”

  Jean’s hand found Marion’s cock unerringly, gripping him just right, just the way he liked it, the touch so shockingly familiar. Pleasure jolted through him as Jean began to stroke him through his trousers, and god help him, it had been so long...

  “Damn you,” he choked out. “Jean, stop.” His hand closed around Jean's wrist.

  Jean shoved Marion against the door, almost on top of him, and a callused hand slid inside Marion's trousers.

  Marion gasped and arched his back. Jean kissed him, stabbing his tongue deep, and Marion let it happen. Jea
n's mouth was on his neck, pulling his shirt open, kissing his chest.

  He closed his eyes, dazed with desire. He needed it so fucking bad, and Jean was so good at it.

  Then Jean reached up to switch off the light, and Marion saw the gloating satisfaction on his face.

  Marion slammed his arm up, got Jean by the throat, and squeezed. He put one foot on the floor of the lowcoach, twisted his body, and threw Jean off.

  Jean landed half on the floor of the coach and smacked the back of his head against the door. “Shit! That fucking hurt!”

  “You're lucky it doesn't hurt more.” Marion’s throat was so tight it was difficult to force the words out. “I ought to break your jaw. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He buttoned his trousers and scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. His hands were shaking.

  Jean climbed into the seat. “Calm down,” he said resentfully.

  “I’m getting married and all you can think about is how you can ruin it. Damn you.”

  “You’re just mad that I showed you what you really want.”

  “You’ve shown me nothing.” Marion could still taste Jean on his tongue, the herbs from his cigarette. He cleared his throat, pushed the window open and spat. “You showed me that I have a cock and it likes to be touched. That's a trick any whore knows.”

  “Now you're calling me a whore.”

  If Jean said one more word in response, Marion really was going to hit him.

  Something of that smoldering violence must have shown on his face, because Jean lapsed into silence and sullenly turned his face to the window. Marion turned the other way, watching the play of torchlight and counting the stars.

  The hard silence stretched on between them, neither of them willing to give, until it was broken by shouts from the Horn. Footsteps slapped on stone and calls echoed through the Commons.