Malachite

by Kirby Crow

Jean put his mouth on the paper and inhaled. The cigarette was fragrant herbs mixed with a very little erba for a nice bite. Jean blew the stream of smoke out and licked his lips. He passed it back to Paris. The cherry end of the smoke flared, illuminating Paris's face briefly with a rosy glow. Jean laid back and admired him. Not as beautiful as Marion, he mused. Not by a long shot, but he has other qualities. Too bad we don't seem to like each another.

  “It could be stronger,” Paris observed, looking at the cigarette accusingly.

  “Then you'd be sucking me off instead of watching the door.”

  Paris coughed on his smoke. “In your dreams, warden,” he said, choking.

  Jean winked and blew him a kiss.

  Their sandolier sat with his back to the pair at the nose of the sandolo and pretended not to hear them. Jean had paid him quadruple the normal fee and hoped it was enough to buy his silence. Always bribe too much, Kon liked to say. The Mire is full of men who bribed too little.

  He saw a shadow in the mists rising off the canal waters, a smudge of darkness framed by torchlight and smoke. Another sandolo turned in from the Canal Catena and began making its way up the Fiore. Jean tched between his teeth and Paris flicked the cigarette into the canal. Jean pulled Paris into his arms and hid his face in Paris's neck as they waited, resisting the urge to grab his cock just to annoy him. This is work, he reminded himself.

  Paris breathed on his neck and stroked Jean's arm, miming lover's play as Jean sneaked glances over the side of the sandolo.

  The sandolo had a lone passenger. The narrow boat clove through the mist and nosed up to the damp stone steps of the Corsair with barely a scrape, then the sandolier bowed, was paid, and the passenger stepped up.

  The harlequin that barred the passenger's way was immovable, great arms crossed as he blocked the entrance with his bulk. Fireflies danced around the footed lamps and made haloes near the flames before diving to their deaths.

  The passenger offered the harlequin a coin. After a long moment, the guardian bowed and waved his hand expansively to the door, declining the coin. Jean's fingers tightened on Paris's back. Paris wiggled around a bit in Jean's embrace, craning his neck to see.

  The harlequin opened the door, but before entering, the passenger turned back to peer cautiously up and down the canal. He let down his gray hood.

  Jean did not react, but Paris did, a quick intake of breath audible only to Jean. Thorn definitely had that effect on men.

  “We need to get out of here,” Jean whispered into Paris's ear.

  Thorn ducked into the Corsair, and Jean nudged the sandolier with his boot. The sandolier reacted without turning, deftly steering them down the canal, into the cloaking night.

  When they were far enough away, Jean sat up. Paris began to speak, but Jean shook his head with a warning look. When they were on the steps of the Gaol and the sandolier was gliding away, Jean heaved a sigh of relief.

  Paris peered at him cynically. “Was that him?”

  Fog wreathed the Gaol tower and the spires of the city, while torchlight played on the smoothness of wet streets and avenues. “It was him,” Jean muttered. He ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Strolling into the Corsair, bold as brass. Fuck me with father Paladin’s cock and be done with it.”

  Paris wrinkled his nose at the blasphemy. “The Zanzare must not be very welcoming to pirates these days.”

  Not with the Fortezza occupied and Dominique’s soldati patrolling the streets in tandem with the wardens. Thorn was trying to move his operations into the Colibri, but how wide and how complex those machinations were, Jean could not guess. Jean had accepted the Archer’s price, but that apparently hadn’t brought him into the confidence of Archer’s men.

  “Is he Starless?” Paris asked.

  “Thorn? I don’t know what he is,” Jean answered truthfully. “I only know who he works for.” Thorn was no kind of kind of pirate he knew of. Nor was he Argenti or ganger. God help them all if the rest of the Starless Men were like him.

  “The Archer will be back,” Paris reminded him.

  Jean nodded. “This year, ten years, who knows? He'll wait and his men will watch for weakness, and when Kon shows his throat, the Archer will tear it out.”

  “The Lion Sea is perilous,” Paris said. “There's always that. We can hope for chaos and storms.” He looked askance at Jean. “And you swore to him. You’ve really stepped in the shit this time, Jean Rivard.”

  Jean smiled. “More like charged into it blindly. What now, jailer?”

  “Now you take what you know to the lord warden.”

  “Not to Kon?”

  “Let Marion take it to Kon, if he chooses. On his head be it. The Sessanes are his family now. And yours.”

  Jean grunted. “I stayed while I was healing up,” he answered, evading the subject. “The food is good and the beds are soft. I was thinking of cutting out soon.”

  Paris tilted his head like a curious bird. “Why? Family is whoever lives under your roof. I heard you were comfortable there. I also heard that Marion has spent much time in the Zanzare lately, and that he’s moved a cot into his quarters at the Keep. He rarely returns to sleep at the Myrtles. Unusual for a newlywed.”

  Jean knew exactly why Marion was hounding the Zanzare. Archer was long gone, but Marion wouldn't rest until he found a way to deal with the man who had taken Tris captive and threatened him. Thorn might have led them to Archer, or at least to where he might have fled, but they had just let Thorn go unchallenged. Jean feared he would live to regret that decision.

  In the carcelero’s office with the door safely closed, Jean took off his coat and draped it over a chair, then fell heavily into the cushions. “This thing has moved faster than I expected,” he admitted. “If Thorn can get inside the Corsair, then he's already in the pockets of the Consolari.”

  Paris hunted through his desk, opening drawers and closing them. “That would not surprise me. By the way... how do you know that Kon isn’t already aware of Thorn?”

  “Because bodies are not floating down the canal. Kon is even more dangerous than Archer, in his own way.”

  “Ah, here we are.” Paris produced a dusty green bottle and brushed his hand over it, looking pleased.

  “What do you have there?”

  Paris took a very small glass from his desk. He poured and pushed the drink across his desk. “Try it.”

  Jean held it up to the light. The liquid was clear as water. “What’s it called?”

  “I'm not sure. Something from Solari.”

  Jean sipped experimentally, coughed, and put it down. “I've never liked anything from Solari.”

  “Then your record is spotless.” Paris downed his own drink and make a face. “The Solari brew it from potatoes. Nearly one hundred percent proof.”

  Jean's eyebrows rose. “Is that legal?”

  “Perhaps not for you,” Paris smiled. “The privilege of office, call it.”

  “You're a tough man to figure out, carcelero.”

  “Does Marion know about us?”

  That surprised Jean. He hadn't marked Paris as the sentimental kind. “Why?”

  “A matter of personal safety.”

  He shook his head. “You don't have to worry about that. Jealousy isn't Marion's style.”

  “Perhaps you don't know Marion as well as you think. He's jealous of me working with Tris.”

  “That's different.”

  “For that matter, so are you.”

  Jean laughed. “You're a hysteric if you think I'm in love with Tris.”

  “I didn't say love, I said jealous.” Paris poured himself another drink. “And yes, you are.”

  “That's ridiculous,” Jean scoffed. “I couldn't care less what puss does with his time. Or his cock.”

  Paris sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at him. “Marion isn't here, Jean.”

  The clock ticked away into the silence. “I don't hate Tris.”

  Paris sighed. “Poor Tris. It won't be easy for him,
being caught between you and Marion.”

  “And you.” Jean rose up and placed his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of Paris, leaning into him, forcing him back. “You want pussycat because you can't imagine him making you do all the things I can make you do,” he murmured close to Paris's ear. “You think fucking that pretty boy will make you normal again, whatever that is.”

  “And you think fucking solves everything.” Paris put his hands on Jean's chest and pushed him away. “Enough sweet-talk. I have work to do, warden.”

  “So I’m warden again.” Jean retrieved his coat and slung it over his shoulder. “Buonanotte, carcelero.”

  “Jean?”

  He halted with his hand on the door. He didn't turn around.

  “Buona fortuna.”

  He breathed easier when he was on the steps of the Gaol. On your head be it, he thought. Well, he couldn’t blame Paris. No sane man would tangle with Kon Sessane without some insurance. Paris didn’t have any, but he thought Jean did. He thought living at the Myrtles meant Kon would not touch him.

  He's so stupid.

  Jean could have whistled for a lowcoach, but the night suited his mood, the air cool with mist and all shapes shrouded in gray. The seasons were changing. It would be winter soon, and then the frigid winds and the high waves would sweep in from the northeast, the trees would turn bare, and the snows would come.

  He didn't mind winter, so long as he had coin enough to keep the heat on, but spring was when Malachite shone for beauty, with flowers bursting from every patch of ground. He found himself hoping for a short winter, and thought about Erzabet. He hadn't seen or heard from her since the Castello Sessane, and he never expected to again. She was in Kon's hands now.

  As are we all. Jesu help us.

  ***

  The beautiful, perfect house in the Myrtles rang with shouts. Jean stepped into the parlor only to bump into Tris fleeing down the stairs.

  He grabbed Tris and held him, glancing up the stairway to see Marion standing with a face like a storm at sea. Then he got a good look at Tris.

  “Paladin's cock,” Jean swore.

  Tris was painted like a Pae, or an Undine after a wild debauch. His eyes were lined with kohl and his mouth was pink as a shell, glossy and luscious. His cheeks blushed with bright rouge and his hair was arranged in rich, tumbled curls. Jean's gaze wandered lower and he saw the outline of Tris's body through the silk wrap. The wrap was dragonfly green and thin as gossamer. The rosy tips of Tris's nipples pressed against the fabric, and lower still was the dark triangle between his legs.

  Something wicked was on the tip of Jean’s tongue to say, but Tris's face was tear-streaked and anguished.

  Jean let him go. “I knew I should have stayed away longer.”

  Tris wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “On the contrary. You should never have left. Marion appears to have no need of me.”

  “Tris,” Marion said tightly from the top of the stairway. His came down and slid between Jean and Tris. “Please. Let's stop this now. You're embarrassing yourself.”

  Tris turned away, trying to leave. Marion made a sound of disgust or annoyance and reached to grab him. The thin silk ripped with an unpleasant sound.

  Tris pulled his torn robe over his bare shoulder, head down in shame.

  “I apologize,” Marion mumbled.

  Jean smelled the musky scent of beer clinging to Marion. How long had Marion been drinking? All day, by the look of him.

  “Marion,” Jean said, “go away.”

  “No. I need to talk to Tris. In private.”

  “What you need to do,” Jean said, “is go away for a little while. Please, Marion.” Tris tried to move and Jean cupped his hand over Tris's shoulder, staying him with little effort. Tris was pliant, unresisting.

  Marion's face took on a rosy hue that said he was seconds from losing his temper. “For once in your life, will you just mind your own goddamned affairs?”

  “I am!” Jean shot back. “What makes you think you're in this marriage alone?” Jean pulled Tris a little closer to him.

  Marion hesitated, staring at the two of them in displeasure. “Paladin's fucking cock,” he snarled. He went back up, punishing the stairs with every heavy, outraged step. The door to his bedroom slammed.

  Jean sighed in relief. For a moment, he had been certain Marion was going to throw a punch at him. He looked down at Tris's bent head and slipped a hand under his chin.

  “What are you doing, kitten?”

  “I thought... it's been days and we still haven't...”

  “Fucked?”

  Tris nodded his head miserably. “I thought he might want something different, something more like what he was used to.”

  “So you painted yourself like a whore. Then what?”

  “He didn't want me,” Tris whispered.

  “You look like a cortigiano, a painted cat who fucks for money. Is that what Marion wants?”

  “No.”

  “That's right.” Jean shook Tris's chin back and forth. “He wants his clean, perfect boy, and he wants you blushing and shy when he decides to come to you. The lord warden wants a virgin between his fine linen sheets, and that's what you're going to give him. Come on.” He pulled Tris through the parlor and into the kitchen, steered him to the sink and took a towel from the table. “Wash your face.”

  “I will not.”

  Jean slapped him, not very hard. Tris held his cheek and looked up at Jean in utter shock. Jean held the towel out.

  “Wash your damn face,” he said very clearly.

  Tris snatched the cloth from him. He wetted it and began wiping away the heavy cosmetics from his eyes and mouth. When he missed some spots, Jean took the towel and finished the job, holding Tris's chin in his hand and scrubbing until all stains of rouge were gone.

  “There.” Jean wet his hand under the faucet and combed his fingers through Tris's hair, ruining the curls. “Now you look fit for a wedding night.”

  Tris pushed him away. His cheek was pink from the slap. “It's not my wedding night. I don't even think this is my marriage.”

  “It's your marriage,” Jean said. “I never wanted a husband. Now I see I should have asked him, at the least. Nothing to be done about that now, but I want Marion to be happy and by god, you're going to make him that way.”

  Tris's mouth trembled. “It's not me he wants.”

  “I hate to admit it, kid, but you are.” And you'll never know what it cost me to say that. “I think Marion and I can finally admit we're finished.”

  “But you've been finished for years.”

  Jean shrugged. “Everyone knew that but me. Marion might have been lying to himself, believing that he ended it, that he walked away and chose someone better. The truth is that we both quit. Look at me. Do I seem like the kind of man who abandons what he wants? Does Marion? I love Marion, but we can’t ever get back to where we began. Too much blood down that road. Don't blame him. It took me years to figure it out.”

  Tris wiped his cheek. “So you're saying Marion doesn’t want me because he’s going through a break-up? That explains why he went with me to the Gran Consiglio and married me and now refuses to touch me?”

  Jean strove for patience. “You're pushing him. He doesn't like to be pushed.”

  Tris sniffed and shook his head, looking away. “I should leave. You should be the one living here.”

  “Oh, for...” Jean didn't have a curse fitting enough. “Do you want me to slap you again?”

  “Don't you understand?” Tris demanded, his voice rising. He crossed his hands over his chest. “You saved my life. You probably saved his life, too.”

  “And you plan to pay me back by giving me your husband? If that's the way you feel, why did you even marry him?”

  Tris flushed, the red flooding back into his face. Jean decided he liked Tris with a little color.

  “I love Marion with all my heart,” Tris said tremulously. “But I don’t think I can have him if I have to
step over you. I owe you.”

  “You're damn right you do, and this is how you're going to settle your debt: You're going to go upstairs, take off your robe, put your sweet little ass into his bed, and go to sleep. Understand? Give him time. He'll be drunk for a few days, or I’ll get drunk and he'll start to remember why we didn't work.”

  “You can't—”

  “Set the terms of my own mark?” Jean put his hands on Tris's shoulders and looked at him steadily. “Do you know how many men I've had?” Tris shook his head mutely. “Neither do I, but I'll tell you this: Marion was the best. I've never had a better lover, so believe me when I tell you that when Marion does come to his senses, you will be a very, very happy boy, hm? Now get to bed.”

  “On one condition.”

  Jean pushed his rising temper away. He had to, or he really would smack the little shit. Or turn him over my knee. “You think you can order anyone around, don't you? What condition?”

  “I want you to go him. Now. Go to his bed, if that's what he wants.”

  When he saw that Tris was serious, he laughed. “You don't want to test me, son.”

  “Please don't call me that.”

  “Whatever you say, puss.”

  Tris gave him a little shove. “Jesu, can't you see that I hate this?” His shoulders shook. “I hate that he wants you. I hate that he drinks alone and glares at the walls when I'm right here, right here,” Tris slapped a hand to his chest, breathless with hurt. “He could have me with a word, but he won't, and I can't stand helpless and watch him suffer. I promise I'll go to the other side of the house or in the basement or anywhere. I won't disturb you. Just take away his pain, even for one night. Please?”

  “Calm down. Breathe.” Jean studied Tris's body in the sheer robe as Tris collected himself. He wondered whether Tris's skin was as smooth as that silk made it appear to be. “Suppose I say yes. Do you even know why we took other lovers?

  Tris sniffled. “I assumed that was your fault.”

  Jean snorted. “No. Marion was no saint, believe me. But my reasons... it was because I had other needs.” When he saw that Tris didn't understand, he swallowed his rising impatience. Did I really expect him to know? “I needed things that Marion couldn't do for me.”