Ashiol found Heliora to be no help at all. She didn’t bother disguising her impatience as he invaded her perfumed tent to rant about the death of Livilla’s courtesi, and speculate who had done it. Who would dare?
He did not want to think it was true — that Mars might have done this to Livilla, of all people. It would mean that Ashiol knew none of them at all, that his history with the Creature Court meant nothing.
‘I don’t have any answers for you,’ Hel said finally, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tisane. She looked unwell, but Ashiol pushed that out of his mind. He would deal with that later.
‘You must be able to see something.’
Heliora twisted her face into an ugly expression. ‘Why must I? What have you done for me lately, Ducomte Xandelian? Why exactly should I give a flying frig that someone is running around killing Livilla’s courtesi, or anything else to do with the Court?’
That took Ashiol aback. Hel had always been professional, above and beyond anything else. ‘You’re still the Seer.’
‘Not any more, I’m not.’ She set down her cup and gave him a hard shove, right in the middle of his chest. Surprised, he allowed her to push him out of the tent. ‘I’m done, Ash. I quit. No more Seer. Go away!’
Ashiol could have argued, but the crazy look in her eyes made him think better of it. Obviously he was going to have to wait for her to get back what sense she normally had, before she would be of use to him again.
In the meantime, he could still smell blood on his skin. Time to do something about that.
Ashiol returned to the Palazzo, and made for the deep tiled bath in his rooms, not bothering to call servants to heat the water. Instead, he filled it from the pump and let his animor mist out of his fingers until the water steamed.
That was better. His muscles and his mind began to relax as the heat of the bath pressed around him. Ashiol closed his eyes, just breathing.
Was this a direct hit on Livilla, or part of a larger, bloodier pattern? Impossible to know. He had to find out if Mars was guilty before the rest of the Court ripped him apart. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t even bother to send for wine.
The door opened a little while later, and Ashiol knew it was Isangell without opening his eyes. She entered the bath chamber, her feet making a soft sound against the tiles.
‘Would your mother be happy to know you were here?’ he asked, dipping his head all the way underwater before surfacing. He could still smell the boys’ blood, and between that and the extra pulse of animor, he was in no need of a drink.
Meat, though. He would need to eat something, and soon.
‘Of course not. She’d probably try to have the lictors assassinate you.’ Isangell sat primly on the ridiculous chair by the mirror. Ashiol had never used the thing. Four sticks of sugar and a puff of satin did not count as furniture in his world.
He shook water from his hair and then looked at her, really looked at her. Her hair was unbound, her feet bare, and she still had on the same festival gown she had been wearing that day. She smelled faintly of blood and ashes, though her skin had been scrubbed clean. There was one dried spot of blood near her ankle. ‘A little informal, aren’t we?’
‘I like this dress. I don’t want to take it off.’ Isangell plucked at one of the leaves of black silk, and smoothed her fingers over the flame-coloured skirt. ‘I’m hiding from Mama,’ she confessed. ‘She was shouting so much, it gave me a headache.’
Ha. Anything that upset Aunt Eglantine was all right by Ashiol. ‘What did you do, use the wrong fork at lunch?’
‘No,’ said Isangell. ‘I cancelled the rest of the Sacred Games. And the whole Ludi Victoriae. The Mercatus can stay, as it’s basically just a big market, but the cavalry parade from the second day is gone.’
The words sank in slowly, but Ashiol wasn’t sure what to think of them. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly serious.’
He felt laughter bubble up inside his chest. Crazy. Isangell was crazier than Heliora and then some. This was what they got for putting a nineteen-year-old demoiselle in charge of the city. ‘What the seven hells do you think you’re doing?’
‘You’re the one who said festivals were pointless,’ she reminded him.
‘I was teasing you. That’s my prerogative, I’m not the Duchessa d’Aufleur …’ Oh, holy shit, Aunt Eglantine was going to blame him for this. Ashiol was lucky the priests weren’t banging down the doors of the Palazzo already, threatening to overturn the government.
In fifty years, no one had cancelled the Sacred Games. Or any festival, that he knew of.
‘Silly Ash.’ Isangell slid to the floor next to the sunken bath, all arms and legs and tangled hair. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. There was a ceremony practically every day this month. Cerialis will be calmer; I’m sure I will be able to cope again by then. There’re only half a dozen or so.’ She laughed, a wretched baby-giggle. It didn’t sound at all like her. ‘Then again, maybe I won’t. Maybe they can all just get used to it. No more festivals.’
Ashiol had always been the black goat of the family. It was oddly charming to have been eclipsed by his baby cousin. And yet — no, there was something wrong here.
‘That’s not all,’ Isangell said gravely, leaning down. ‘I’ve made a decision about my husband.’
This was more alarming. ‘You said you’d wait,’ Ashiol said cautiously. The last thing he wanted to deal with was some clumsy Great Families oaf poncing around in scarlet and purple thinking that sharing Isangell’s bed gave him power over anyone or anything. ‘Weren’t you going to parade the Great Sons around for a couple of years before you made your choice?’
‘I don’t want one of them,’ Isangell said, smiling in a way she never had before. There was something of Livilla about it. Predatory. Run away, his inner cats yowled. ‘I want you,’ said the Duchessa.
Fucking hells. Ashiol stared at her in horror. ‘Isangell, I am not going to marry you.’ What an appalling idea.
‘But it’s perfect,’ she said, sliding a little closer. Another inch or so and she would be in the bath with him, pretty silk gown and all. He would have to have a word with Velody. Putting demoiselles in flame-coloured frocks obviously brought out unwanted bridal inclinations. ‘You already serve as my consort in all but deed. No one could protest …’
‘I protest,’ Ashiol snapped. ‘We’re cousins —’ But yes, he deserved the derisive laugh that statement earned. Marrying cousins was a Ducal family tradition. One of many reasons why Aunt Eglantine ground her teeth whenever she laid eyes on him. She had seen this coming, right from the start.
What could he say? He remembered Isangell’s birth, had bedded his first lovers while she was toddling around in ruffled robes. The whole idea was revolting. He couldn’t touch her, not like that. As for the idea of making him share responsibility for the damned city … no, no, no.
‘It’s all right,’ she said softly, reaching out a small hand to touch his wet chest. ‘Don’t you see? Together we can make this city what it’s supposed to be …’
That was enough. Ashiol stood up, rivulets of water running from his nakedness as he climbed out of the bath, towering over her. ‘If I wanted you, don’t you think I’d have taken you by now?’ he growled. Deliberate cruelty, it was the only way. ‘Go back to your dolls and dresses, Duchessa. If this city is too much for you, give it to someone else. But stay away from me.’ He pulled on his leather trews and black shirt, searched for his boots. Where the bloody fuck were his boots?
‘You can’t leave me,’ Isangell said in a shaking voice.
He couldn’t listen, couldn’t dwell on whether he had shattered her. He had to push her away so hard that she would never try this stupid pantomime ever again.
‘I won’t let you leave me.’
‘I can,’ Ashiol said flatly. ‘I will. You broke the accord between us, and that changes everything. I’m gone, Isangell. You won’t see me again.’ He looked at her just once before he le
ft. There were droplets of bathwater staining the orange silk of her dress. Her face was wet too, probably with tears. He didn’t care, not now, not after this. Had she wanted this all along? Had the wide-eyed innocence all been some kind of act to get him to agree to a marriage? ‘Give my love to your dear Mama.’ For once, he was doing exactly what Aunt Eglantine wanted.
Normally he would leave by the windows, but not this time. He didn’t even waste time looking for those damned boots. Everything in these rooms belonged to or had been gifted to him by his precious cousin, who had sworn she wanted nothing from him in return. Ha.
Ashiol, the Ducomte d’Aufleur, strode out of the Palazzo barefoot, by way of the main corridors. It was probably for the best that no one tried to stop him. His mood was murderous.
Velody and Delphine had given up speaking to each other, both far too cranky and frustrated. Delphine could not get over Velody failing to share her rage. Velody had sent a mouse to let Ashiol know what had happened, but she refused to take Delphine’s melodramatics seriously. Rhian devoted all her attention to making sure Crane’s soup bowl was never empty, as it was more rewarding than trying to make peace between the other two. Crane was quiet at the best of times, and knew better than to speak up when the demoiselles were all in this kind of mood.
Finally the door darkened and Ashiol strode in. He was a mess, with damp, straggly hair around his neck. He had hardly managed to button his shirt properly, and his feet were bare. Anger radiated from him, hot pulses that practically bounced off the walls. It made Velody want to lick his skin.
‘Is the Duchessa really serious?’ Delphine demanded of him. ‘She can’t mean to cancel all the festivals forever.’
Ashiol barely even glanced at her. ‘We have to find Mars,’ he said to Velody. ‘Fast. Before things get out of control.’
‘He’s already killed two people,’ Velody said. ‘I’d say they were already out of control.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said grimly. ‘Out of control is what happens when Livilla gets hold of him. She’s crazed right now. We can’t afford to lose another Lord.’
‘So you lied when you told her you would avenge her boys?’ Velody was surprised how much that offended her.
‘No oaths were sworn,’ said Ashiol.
‘Are you sure it was Warlord?’ Crane said unexpectedly. ‘It doesn’t seem right.’
‘Nothing has been right about this damned Court for as long as I can remember,’ Ashiol growled. ‘We’re crazy and we make each other bleed. What else is there to know?’
Velody looked at Crane. ‘What are you thinking?’
The young man looked serious. ‘For a start — since when does a Lord cut open someone else’s courtesi, and not stick around long enough to quench them? I’m used to the Lords and Court making no sense at all, but … it’s just not selfish enough.’
Velody glanced back at Ashiol, who had calmed down enough to take a seat at the table. He didn’t seem to notice that Rhian had put a bowl of soup in front of him the second he sat down. ‘He has a point,’ he grunted.
‘If it wasn’t Warlord, then where is he?’ Velody asked. ‘Doesn’t he live with Livilla? Finding him shouldn’t be that hard.’
Ashiol shrugged, glancing at Crane. ‘He has his own territory down there. Doesn’t he? Can’t imagine Garnet welcomed him to break bread with him and Livilla that often.’
‘Warlord took over the Museion,’ said Crane. ‘After Garnet took it away from you.’
There was something cold and horrible about Ashiol’s face in that moment. ‘Makes sense,’ he said, and lifted the spoon to his mouth, eating without thinking. ‘What’s in this?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Vegetables,’ said Rhian quietly. ‘Herbs. Salt.’
Ashiol stared at it, as if wondering where the food was. Velody understood that much. Her craving for meat had intensified since she came into her powers. Pulses and nuts didn’t cut it any more.
‘He’s not at the Museion,’ Macready announced, appearing in the kitchen doorway. He took one look at Ashiol and relieved him of the confusing bowl of soup, slurping it standing up as if it was a mug of tea. ‘Priest and Poet have taken the place apart down there. No sign of him anywhere in the Arches.’
‘How is Livilla doing?’ Ashiol asked.
Macready just looked at him. ‘You really gave a frig, you’d not have fled the second you prised her talons from around your neck.’
‘You go too far, sentinel,’ Ashiol said in a dangerous voice.
‘So sorry, my King. Did I forget to show you proper respect? I’m mortified, so I am.’ More slurps. ‘Is there anything you need from us, Majesty?’
‘Where did Dhynar live?’ Velody asked. If it was true that Warlord had taken over Dhynar’s courtesi, might he not have taken over other things of his?
‘He wouldn’t be there,’ Crane blurted. ‘Lords don’t move into the territory of a fallen Lord straightaway, it’s not …’
‘Not the done thing?’ Velody said lightly. ‘You may not have noticed, seigneurs, but your world has changed quite a bit lately. I don’t think the old rules necessarily apply.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Ashiol muttered. ‘So, you intend to return to the Arches and hunt down our murderer?’
‘Apparently I have nothing else to do, since the Duchessa cancelled a month’s worth of Sacred Games and half my commissions will no longer be needed.’ Velody stood up. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’
Ashiol just looked at her, and she smiled. He would follow her, of course. They all would. She was the Power and Majesty.
9.
Macready walked through the Arches, following closely behind the two Kings with Kelpie at his side. It had been a job and a half to get Crane to nest instead of coming along, but the lad was sleep deprived enough that they were able to bully him into resting.
‘The Museion was mine,’ Ashiol said in a low voice to Velody. ‘Garnet kept Tasha’s den after she died and he became a Lord. Lysandor and I went to Priest for a while. Then, when I became a Lord, I took the Museion as my territory. It stayed mine until … much later. Garnet took it from me towards the end. He must have given it to Mars as a reward for something, to keep him sweet.’
Macready and Kelpie exchanged glances. Oh, aye, they remembered those times. Dark days indeed.
‘Couldn’t you have taken it back when you returned to Aufleur?’ Velody asked. ‘You’re a King, Warlord is only …’ She swallowed whatever she had been going to say, but they all knew she had thought it. Ha. Getting the hang of the hierarchy now, aren’t you, my lovely? Kings beat Lords, Lords beat Court, everyone beats the sentinels, tralala.
‘I never even thought of taking territory again,’ Ashiol said, bristling up like a broom head. ‘I just wanted to run away from this fucking city. Still do.’
‘Should I have territory?’ she asked him, still keeping her voice low. ‘Does it — make me look less powerful, to live only above ground?’
‘It makes you unpredictable,’ he said. ‘Don’t lose that, Velody. Once they figure you out, they will own you. All of them.’
It was a while since Macready had been down this end of the Arches. There were more collapsed tunnels around here, and steps crumbling away. They emerged into the covered courtyard where the Museion stood — a half-broken building shaped like a temple, surrounded with marble statues and smashed columns. Ashiol looked as if he was being pulled in a dozen different directions at once.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Velody said, displaying a certain amount of tact.
‘Plenty of beauty in the Creature Court,’ Ashiol grunted. ‘Doesn’t mean much.’
‘He’s not here,’ Macready felt the need to point out yet again as they stepped inside the temple.
‘There’s something of him,’ Ashiol said, his dark head moving back and forth like an animal on alert. He darted forward, around heavy shelves that had once been piled up with fancy books. There were still some vases and other sculptures here and there —
most of them chipped or broken. Forgotten antiquities. Rubbish, basically, though Ashiol had never thrown any of it away, and it looked as if Warlord had made few changes.
The Kings both went very still. Macready could smell what they did, if he concentrated. Blood. It was almost a subtle tang after the massacre in Livilla’s rooms. But once you knew it was there, it could be nothing else.
Kelpie made a noise, just a small one, which was odd for her. Ashiol dragged aside a heavy statue of an ancient warrior to reveal a splash of blood, not fresh enough to be wet, on the pale flagstones. He licked a finger and rubbed it roughly against the surface, inhaling the scent. ‘Mars,’ he agreed. His eyes went distant.
‘What is it?’ Velody asked.
‘That scent,’ Ashiol said, his head moving back and forth as he tried to work out the puzzle. ‘There’s something …’ Then his eyes fell on Kelpie, and his lips curled back in the hiss of a displeased cat.
Macready tensed, ready to stand between them if he had to. What the hells was going on?
Kelpie folded her arms, looking unsurprised at his reaction. ‘None of your business, Ash.’
‘Oh, isn’t it?’ Ashiol advanced on her. ‘What do you know, Kelpie? What have you been keeping from us? Where is he?’
‘I don’t know that,’ she flung back. ‘Why would I know?’
‘Because,’ he said, teeth bared, ‘I know who your lover is now.’
‘You’re slipping if it took you this long,’ she said defensively.
Macready stared at Kelpie, as shocked as if she had turned up to battle in a frilly frock. ‘Oh, lass,’ he said, and he wasn’t careful enough to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
‘Don’t you dare judge me,’ she flung at him. ‘We don’t always have a choice.’
Ashiol prowled around her, nostrils flaring. ‘Are you saying he forced you?’
‘No, I’m not saying that,’ muttered Kelpie. ‘I’m saying I didn’t have a choice. And I don’t know where he is. Warlord doesn’t share secrets with me.’
The Shattered City Page 12
