Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  Michelle stiffened and flipped open her fan. Her voice was icy calm. “Funny. He didn’t seem to mind at the salon. Did you, Artus?”

  “What?” Elora stared at him. “Did you? Is this true?”

  Artus’s mouth flopped open, but only made a honking sound. “Uhhh . . . see . . . I didn’t know that . . . well . . .”

  Michelle cut between him and Elora. “He sees right through you, Elora. What, do you think if you hook him, he’ll make you princess? Artus isn’t like that.” She slid an arm through Artus’s and smiled up at him. “He’ll only marry for true love.”

  Artus’s eyes widened. “True . . . true what?”

  Michelle leaned against him. “Tell her. Tell her how you and I kissed in the street, beneath the spring sky.”

  Elora’s lower cheeks were turning red. Her mouth was fixed into a firm line. “You bastard!”

  And she slugged him in the stomach.

  Artus, who had spent almost three years being sucker-punched by a gnoll, took the hit well—it barely hurt. It was, however, rather shocking. “What the hell?”

  Elora had him by the collar. She was shouting. “You listen to me, Artus from nowhere! You and I are going to be married, understand? Married!”

  Michelle pushed Elora off him. “Leave him alone! He’s too good for a vulture like you!”

  For the briefest instant, Artus found himself free of entanglement. He dove into the crowd. Kroth’s teeth! He ran a hand through his hair. What was that all about?

  He stopped. He thought about it. What was that all about? Think like Tyvian . . .

  Married, Elora had said—not lovers, married. Why would she be so hell-bent on marrying him? He thought back to all their conversations—there had only really been three or four of them, altogether, even though he was pretty certain she had been coming to the House of Eddon for months before she introduced herself on that night . . .

  Artus’s mouth formed into a perfect O as everything slid into place. She thinks I’m going to be a prince! That was it—that was literally all she cared about. Gods, she had talked about it as her job—“bring honor to my house.” What could be more honorable than marrying a prince? She, Valen, Ethick—they had all tried to play him. Butter him up, make him their pal . . . just so Elora could get her hooks into him. It was all so obvious, he felt like an idiot for not realizing it.

  Artus shook his head. There was more to it—there had to be—but he couldn’t think about it right now. He needed to get the messages to the counts, and quick, before Tyvian and he wound up with firepikes in their faces. He had already caught a glimpse of a magestaff winding through the crowd—the Defenders were here.

  Artus threw caution to the wind and was a bit more forceful heading to Countess Velia’s side. He pushed a few people aside, stepped on a few toes, and then he was there. She was in her chair, elevated a half head above Artus, peering through a viewing glass mounted on a copper wire. He bowed. “Your Grace.”

  Velia cupped her hand and motioned him to rise. “Yes? Who are you?”

  “Artus of Eddon.” He pulled the letter from the pockets in his cape. “I have a message for you from my uncle, Waymar.”

  She peered down at it. “Very well—you may present it to me. Though your lack of decorum reflects poorly upon your uncle.”

  Artus had a few things he wanted to say to that, but couldn’t say any of them in public, so he gave her the letter and sought to slip away again. He did not. Instead he ran full tilt into Valen Hesswyn. He knew who he was immediately—he wasn’t wearing a mask anymore.

  Artus stepped back. Somebody had worked a lot of glamours on Valen’s face to hide the bruises Artus had left there, and they hadn’t quite pulled it off. The young man’s eyes were bloodshot and angry. “Valen,” he began, but he didn’t get to finish.

  Valen slapped him with a glove. “That was for my cousin Elora, whom you have dishonored. And this . . .” He slapped him again. “. . . is for my friend Ethick, whom you have also dishonored, and this—”

  He tried to slap Artus again, but Artus ducked. “I get it—we’re in a duel, right?”

  “The day after tomorrow, swords—first blood. Take off your mask—there should be witnesses,” Valen growled.

  Behind Valen, his staff poking above the heads of the crowd, Mage Defender Argus Androlli looked in Artus’s direction. He froze. He couldn’t take off his mask—not now. “Uhhh . . . in just a second.”

  Valen looked alarmed. “This . . . this is a matter of honor, you foreign dog!”

  Androlli cocked his head and headed toward them. “Excuse me? One moment, gentlemen . . .”

  Artus nodded, half speaking to both Valen and Androlli. “Oh. Okay.” He picked up Valen’s glove, weighed it.

  Then he turned and ran off with it. Behind him, he heard Valen gasp. “Hey! Hey, you can’t do that!”

  Tyvian danced with Adatha Voth with as much concentration as he had spent in any duel in his life. He had the viper by the head—let go of her wrist, even for an instant, and he was as good as dead. Draw attention to her, and the Defenders would be here in the blink of an eye. No—he had been lucky to grab her wrist when he had. Now, if she wanted to make the kill, she needed to pretend to dance with him and, if he wanted to escape, he needed to find a way to neutralize her without causing a fuss.

  “How long can you keep this up, exactly?” Voth whispered in his ear as he dipped her over one knee again.

  “My stamina, my dear, has never been in doubt.” Tyvian smiled. “You, however, are in over your head.”

  Voth laughed. “Short jokes—how original.” She flexed her forearm within his grip. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

  They spun, Voth’s good hand wrapped around his waist. “That is the general idea,” Tyvian said. “So, what’s Davram’s angle, here?”

  Voth tried again to press her trapped hand downwards. Tyvian, again, redirected her momentum into a spin. Her gown flared outward as he guided her. One more complicated maneuver, and she was pressed up against him again. Their lips almost touched. “Please, Tyvian—I’m a professional. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Actually I don’t.” Tyvian tried to bend her arm back toward her face, which only pushed her backward. “I’ve done all my killing recreationally, so far.”

  When they were right beside the orchestra, Voth let herself fall into a dip and Tyvian was obliged to catch her. One of her legs snaked between his and tried to kick him in the groin, but he snapped his knees together to trap her there. They stayed there for a moment, awkwardly counterbalanced. Grimacing, Tyvian looked up to see he was eyeball-to-eyeball with the concert master. “Maestro.”

  The man curled his moustache and smiled knowingly. “Signor,” he said, “I have just the dance for you and your love.” He raised his baton. “Revien Nu Kassar!”

  The first few bars of the dance were enough to clear the floor. Tyvian knew the dance, of course—it was probably his favorite. Intense, powerful, passionate, the Revien Nu Kassar was the dance of lovers, their bodies pressed closely together, cheek to cheek, heart-to-heart, legs intertwined. Of course, he had hitherto only danced it with a woman he was intending to bed. Not kill.

  Voth smiled at him. “Your move, smuggler.”

  “No doubt.” Tyvian grinned back at Voth and, pulling her up, flung her across the dance floor. She spun gracefully, sliding like a top and stopping right on the beat, her shoes clapping to the floor in unison, her arms raised. An open space had formed around them. The eyes of hundreds of Eretherian nobility watched their every move from behind colorful fans and over the rims of goblets.

  The strings thrummed with heartbeat intensity as he and Voth came together. At this point in the dance, they were to join. Amateurs who danced the Revien simply clasped fingers like children holding hands. A true Revien was supposed to be more than that—it was supposed to be sensual, breathtaking in its passion. This one, Tyvian decided, would be no exception.

  Voth swung in with her left hand, a
iming to scrape his arm or hand. Tyvian saw it coming. He spun his right side away from her—she missed—and then he caught her from behind, his left hand locking down on her left wrist and snaking up to envelop her whole hand. If Voth were a weaker person, he might have been able to crush her hand right there and press the deadly needle against her own palm, but Voth was not weak. She stuck her middle finger straight out, so any attempt to crush or break her hand would have brought his own thumb too close to the needle. She gasped as he pulled her back against him. They were cheek to cheek, with Tyvian behind and her in front. She put her free hand up and rested it against his cheek.

  Their audience applauded.

  They danced across the floor, their steps mutually trying to trip the other, but without making it look like they were trying to trip the other, resulting in what looked a lot like very complicated footwork. When they got to the edge of the crowd, another shift would have to take place. Another chance for Voth to slash him.

  The end of the dance floor. Voth flew away from him, trying to get her hand loose, but Tyvian kept control of her arm, sliding his hand down and pushing her away before she could swipe back at him. When she spun around, he was there. He ducked her slash at his face and pulled her toward him, so her arm was sent over his shoulder. She wrapped her hand down, ready to pierce the back of his skull, but Tyvian’s hand was there to meet it. He caught her wrist again, this time just next to his left ear, and pulled her so she could get her fingers close enough to scratch his face. His other hand caught her knee and, with her leg up around his hip, he dragged her across the floor again as the music swelled to its zenith.

  He and Voth were eye-to-eye, nose to nose. “Kiss me, Tyvian. One last time before you die.”

  Tyvian could feel her heart beating—fast and steady, like a hunting cat on the chase. Her lips were there, slightly parted, soft and pink and perfect. He closed his mouth. “Sorry, Adatha,” he said. “That first time was a mistake.”

  She answered with a wry grin, “Your loss, Reldamar.”

  Around them, the crowd hung on their every movement. Women were fanning themselves, men stood motionless, their eyes burning with envy. There were at least two more passes in the dance. Tyvian’s luck was not going to hold out for that long. He had to shift tactics.

  At the edge of the dance floor, Tyvian threw Voth off him, raking his right hand across the back of her left as he did. She spun beautifully and stopped, elegant as a bird of prey. Her good eye glowed with anticipation.

  They closed again. Tyvian reached for her hand, but she disengaged—a feint!—and spun, much faster than before. Tyvian tried to retreat, tried to block—he couldn’t; she was too fast. She slapped him across the cheek, grinning with victory. Her hand clapped against his face like a peal of thunder.

  But there was no prick. No blood. Voth held up her hand.

  There was no ring.

  The orchestra fell silent. Everyone stared as Tyvian straightened from the savage blow, a handprint glowing on his cheek. “Looking for this?” He held up his right hand. There, held between thumb and forefinger, was Voth’s poison ring.

  Voth looked at him for a long moment. The hall was silent. Then, she laughed—long and hard. “Well played, sir.” She curtsied. “Until we meet again.”

  And that was when the Defenders stormed the dance floor, shouting and pointing firepikes and flashing their armor all over the place. Tyvian stood still, careful not to provoke an attack, and watched Adatha Voth melt into the crowd, people stepping out of the way as she went. “What a woman,” he breathed.

  Chapter 27

  Masquerade’s End

  Tyvian didn’t bother trying to escape the cordon of Defenders that was forming around him. There was something familiar about the experience—nostalgic, even. He found himself smiling. It wasn’t that he was enjoying it, precisely. He just felt like his old self again.

  A troop of Defenders invading an Eretherian party would have been enough to cause a stir at any time. A troop of Defenders invading this party was downright scandalous. The assembled peerage was visibly shocked, masks notwithstanding. Indignant protests and theatrical outrage spread through the assembly. The Defenders—who, per regulations, could not be native Eretherians and serve in Eretheria—ignored it all. They stayed focused on Tyvian, their visors down and their firepikes lit.

  Argus Androlli was dressed in the uniform gray robes and mageglass helmet of a Mage Defender, his staff held in the crook of one arm. His dimpled grin and fetching five-o’clock shadow was insufficient, however, to hide the Rhondian’s unbearable smugness. “Well, well, well—look who we have here.”

  Tyvian shook his head. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” The ring gave him a little pinch, but Androlli’s smug little grin soured a bit. Worth it.

  “Don’t be coy. Admit you are caught.” Androlli flicked his fingers and spoke a word. Tyvian’s mask was pulled from his face and dashed on the ground.

  Tyvian pointed at the mask’s crumbled pieces. “I assume you will pay for that, correct?”

  An old man, as wide as he was tall and armored in silver mail, stomped out of an alcove in a pillar. He bore a staff taller than he was and had a white beard that stretched to his knees. “I am the Guardian of Peregrine Palace. None may pass here without my permission! Who disrupts the Blue Party?” He bashed the staff against the floor twice. It made an unusually thunderous booming noise, loud enough to make it seem like the walls should shake. Being mageglass, they did not.

  Androlli looked around, as though just realizing what he was in the middle of. He gave the Guardian a stiff, shallow bow. “My apologies, sir. This is Defender business—it will be over shortly.”

  “No!” The Guardian shouted, “This is a peaceful event! Your invasion is an unspeakable transgression! You must leave at once!”

  Androlli’s mouth tightened. “We will be on our way, then.” He waved to his men. “Take him.”

  Tyvian rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “I decline to depart.”

  The Defenders barely registered his objection, continuing to close in, but with perhaps a bit more caution. Tyvian’s reputation preceded him.

  The Guardian stepped in front of Tyvian. “If this gentlemen declines to depart, you may not detain him by force.”

  Androlli rolled his eyes—he’d evidently had enough Eretherian etiquette for one day. He waved his hand and a telekinetic wave shoved the Guardian aside. “And how, exactly, do you propose to stop me?”

  The Guardian stood straight, wrapped his thick, hairy fingers around his staff, and pounded against the ground once. From nearby, some women screamed as a ten-foot tall golem of silvered steel stepped out of an alcove, complete with massive, seven-foot sword. “Tread lightly, Mage Defender. I would have words with Master Andair over this.”

  Androlli frowned. “Then we are at an impasse. If he declines to depart and I may not force him, then I decline to depart and you may not force me. Is that not correct?”

  The Guardian tugged at his white beard, his bushy eyebrows pressed together, but he said nothing. Androlli had him there.

  At this point, the counts had found their way to the heart of the ruckus. There was Velia Hesswyn in her sedan chair; Countess Ousienne on the arm of her young husband, Count Duren of Vora, his massive moustache so broad and sharp it could be considered a weapon; and Count Yvert of Camis, a skinny little old man in a wig so large, it looked as though he were being eaten by a llama. It was he who spoke first. “Who is this impostor—this foreigner wearing le bleu roi?”

  Ignoring Yvert, Duren waved a letter in the air. “What is the meaning of this?” Good, Tyvian thought, Artus found them all.

  Androlli looked at the counts. “This man is a criminal!”

  Tyvian tsked. “I don’t believe that’s ever been proven in a court of law.”

  Androlli rounded on him. “Only because you set the courtroom on fire!”

  “I set myself on fire,” Tyvian said, shrugging. “The courtroom was a
bonus.”

  “It matters not what he has or has not done!” the Guardian said. “As a guest, he may not be detained.”

  Androlli’s face darkened. “Per ancient tradition and law, the Defenders of the Balance have jurisdiction to enforce the laws over all the lands of Eretheria, and no man—count or otherwise—may negate that right!”

  Tyvian nodded. “Yes, but as we’ve just established, your attempt to grab me here, in the middle of the Blue Party, is expressly illegal. Not to mention rude.”

  Androlli’s face turned the exact same color red as it had when Tyvian had invalidated his testimony in Keeper’s Court in Saldor over a year ago. It filled Tyvian with unspeakable joy. Androlli growled, “When they realize who you are, these people won’t protect you!”

  “Well?” Count Yvert of Camis waved his cane at Tyvian. “Who is he?”

  A rough and dreadfully familiar voice boomed out from the other side of the hall. “He is Tyvian Reldamar—international smuggler, criminal, and killer. And I finally have him right where I want him.”

  Tyvian felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. “Banric Sahand.”

  Sahand walked to the front of the crowd, with people fairly leaping to get out of his way. His mask was a full-face Volto of a laughing demon. He cast it aside as he came closer and folded his massive arms. “Now, let’s watch you weasel out of this one, Reldamar.”

  The other counts present seemed visibly uncomfortable in Sahand’s presence, as did Androlli. Nobody said anything, though. Tyvian decided to fill the void. “You, sir, are on foreign soil in violation of the Treaty of Calassa.” He looked at Androlli. “Shouldn’t you be arresting him?”

  “Who do you think told him you’d be here?” Sahand laughed at him. “No, young Argus there knows what he’s doing.”

  Tyvian cocked his head to one side. “So, you were expecting me?”

  Sahand spread his hands. “A trap for a trap, wouldn’t you agree? You destroy my bid for glory, and now I destroy yours.”

  Gods, why does everyone think I want to be king?