Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  Nestor had delighted in all things Kinnish, and had insisted that I both train him how to secret away the odd bit of paper as well as teach him how to discover other people’s hiding places. Of course, Christiana had been the natural target for our lessons, and Nestor and I had spent many an afternoon and evening rooting through the house, poking into corners and prying back baseboards in search of his wife’s hidden marginalia. She had played along well enough, even going out of her way to leave special messages and false trails for us—that is, until our search had turned up a small packet of papers from behind a loose piece of paneling in Christiana’s armoire.

  I was the one who had found the parcel, but Nestor was the one who had read the papers within it. I’d been politely but sternly excused after that, and hadn’t quite made it out the front door before the yelling started. Christiana didn’t speak to me for months after, and Nestor was dead within the year. I couldn’t help but wonder if my missing that piece of molding might have resulted in him still being here.

  Past and gone, Drothe. Mind on the matter at hand.

  Even though it was obvious, I started with Christiana’s desk. I decided to focus on finding any hidden papers first, and only worry about striking a light later, once I had things to go through. I can read with my night vision, but not well, and I don’t welcome the headaches and nausea the effort brings with it.

  The secretary, armoire, bookshelves, and side tables followed. Going through her closet was like diving into a cave filled with lace cobwebs and silk stalactites, assuming it’s possible to find caves that smell of talc and cedar. After that, I moved on to the bedding, baseboards, decorative carvings, and pictures on the wall, not to mention the seams in the curtains.

  By the end, I had a small pile of papers and a fair amount of splinters to show for my effort. I found a small firebox next to the fireplace, put a candle wick to the carefully banked coals inside, set myself on the floor at the foot of the bed, and examined my plunder.

  Nothing. Or, rather, plenty of somethings if I were looking to blackmail any number of people at Court, but that wasn’t what I was here for.

  I considered the closed doors and the parlor beyond. Sara wouldn’t be a problem if I wanted to turn the room, but was there really a point? If Christiana was going to secret something personal away, she wouldn’t do it out there, where the practiced eyes of a visitor mighty notice something out of place. If it were anywhere, it would be here. And I hadn’t been able to find it.

  She’d gotten better; there was no doubt about it.

  Damn her.

  I pushed myself to my feet, walked over to the bell rope on the wall, and pulled.

  If I was going to have to wait for my sister to come home, I might as well ask Josef to bring me up dinner and something to drink. Something strong.

  Chapter Nine

  I was just finishing off the last bits of a small plate of shredded pork done in a spiced vinegar sauce when I heard the key turn in the kitchen door. A moment later, it opened and Christiana entered the room.

  “Still here, I see,” she said as she closed the door behind her. I’d been locked in the kitchen since ringing for Josef, and while he’d been apologetic, he’d also been firm: I had to stay put until the mistress returned. That Christiana had brought neither footmen nor Josef in with her told me we weren’t going to be pulling punches in front of the help this time. “I thought for sure you would have weaseled your way out by now.”

  “I didn’t want to be rude and leave before I’d finished eating,” I said, pointing not only at the pork, but also the salad of spinach, sweet onions, olives, and chickpeas Josef had put together for me. “Besides, you have Graybird locks on the kitchen doors. They may not be Kettlemakers like you have outside, but they’re still a pain to deal with. Especially on an empty stomach.”

  “I had good advice when it came to the locks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Who said I was talking about you?”

  Oh.

  Christiana came the rest of the way into the room. It was a fair-sized place as kitchens went in this part of town, with a hearth I couldn’t quite stand up in, a wall of shelves filled with jars and bricks of exotic spices, a flour cabinet, two small butcher’s blocks, and a larger main worktable standing near the center of the space. A pair of lanterns hung overhead, and a couple of tapers had been scattered around the room to drive back the deepest shadows. I was seated on a stool at one end of the table; Christiana stayed at the other end.

  She’d clearly taken the time to change since she’d come home: Baronesses simply did not appear in public in a plain linen overdress with a chemise underneath. Still, being Christiana, she made it seem fit for an imperial ball. The lines of the fabric hugged her figure ever so slightly in all the right places, accenting her every movement even as they hinted at deeper mysteries and grace beneath. Her deep brown hair was still piled atop her head, held in place by a pair of ivory and jade combs, made all the more elegant by their simplicity. A trace of deep burgundy clung to her lips, not fully wiped away, complementing the depth of her complexion.

  Sebastian might have taught my sister many things, but one skill he’d never needed to school her in was the ability to present herself to the best possible advantage. That was something she’d been born with.

  As for the veneer of restraint she was barely holding on to now? That was all our stepfather’s doing. I recalled that it had been a long, arduous time in its crafting.

  Christiana took the stool at the far end of the worktable, rested her chin in her palm, and regarded me with winter-sky eyes.

  “You did a hell of a job on my room,” she said. “It’s going to be a day or more before Sara and Josef get it back together properly.”

  I dug an after-dinner ahrami seed from the bag around my neck and slipped it into my mouth. “You’re getting better at stashing things,” I said.

  “Mmm.” Christiana looked down and began tracing knife patterns in the wood with the first two fingers of her right hand. “You know,” she said, “I was in the mood for dancing tonight. Not with words, but with people and music. I was at the rarest of balls: one where, for once, there was nothing to be gained by maneuvering. The host is from a little city called Esterov in the provinces: poor enough and far enough out that no one at Court gives a damn about what he thinks or who attends his parties.” She smiled faintly. “He’s an adorable little man, with a plump, clucking wife, a pair of wide-eyed, left-footed sons, and a daughter that could bring the city to its knees if she knew the first thing about using the charms she’s been blessed with. As it is, she’ll probably marry some backcountry knight who doesn’t know how lucky he is, and be deliriously happy for it.

  “They’re renting a manse for the season and invited half the Lower Court to the fete. Of course, only a couple dozen of us came, but they were thrilled all the same. And we were happy to be there. Because it didn’t matter.”

  Christiana looked back up at me, and the smile faded from her face. “Do you know how rare that is, Drothe? For me to go to a ball and not have to give a damn about what I say or which jests I laugh at or who I do and don’t spend time with? To simply just dance?”

  “Ana,” I said. “I didn’t—”

  “And do you know what it feels like to be pulled away, to have to make excuses, because your fucking brother has just broken into your house and rung for dinner service? Do you have any idea what it feels like to come home from that to find your window broken and your maid drugged and your bedchamber torn apart? After you’ve set that part of yourself aside for the night? After you’ve dared to hope that you might, just might, be able to relax and truly enjoy yourself for a couple of hours?”

  I thought back to when I had lived above Eppyris’s apothecary’s shop; about my conversations with Cosima, his wife, and how we had talked about everything and anything other than Kin business; about how I hadn’t been able to bring myself to speak to her, let alone her husband, after Nicco had cri
ppled the apothecary in an attempt to get back at me.

  I remembered how good that had felt back in the shop, how rare and freeing it had been to just be: not Kin, not Nose . . . just Drothe. It had never occurred to me that my sister, the dowager baroness, might feel that same weight, might crave that same release, if only for a night, or even for a dance.

  Yes, I knew what it was like.

  I lifted my cup and took a sip of mead. It was fortified C’unnan, which meant it was sweeter than I liked.

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “Well, now you do.” Christiana knuckled a spot on her forehead for a moment and stared off toward the embers Josef had unbanked in the hearth. “Did you even consider asking me?” she said at last. “Did it occur to you that I might have told you whatever it is you want to know, might have given you what you needed, if you’d just asked?”

  “It occurred.”

  “And?”

  “And I know better.”

  Christiana glared at me sidelong. “You know nothing.”

  I slammed the cup down on the table, making her jump. “Fine,” I said. “You want to know why I didn’t ask? Because I don’t work that way. I hunt for information; I take information; I use information; I sell information. It’s a commodity for me. If I come asking for something from someone, it means there’s going to be a price involved. I’ve asked before, Ana, and I don’t like paying what you charge.”

  “You think I don’t understand that?” Christiana waved her hand toward the kitchen door and the house beyond. “I’m a fixture of the Lower Court, and not unknown in the Upper. Do you honestly think I don’t know what it means to trade tidbits and keep score? Angels! It’s politics, Drothe, and I’ve been doing it since before I became a baroness. It’s how I live my life.”

  “I know your life,” I said. “I’ve done enough baggage work and house cracking for you to understand what ‘cost’ means in your world. It’s not the same in mine, not by half.”

  Her face went white. “You know nothing!” she said again, this time nearly screaming. “You know nothing about what things cost at Court, or what I’ve paid! The costs are different in the gutter? Cleaner? How dare you—”

  But she was cut off by the kitchen door creaking open and Josef poking his head in. “Madam?” he said. His voice was both apologetic and stern at the same time: I’m here if you need me, and don’t you dare send me away if you do.

  Christiana stiffened for a moment, and then pulled her composure around herself like a shawl. She brushed sharply at her skirt. “We’re fine, thank you, Josef.”

  “Madam.” A sharp look at me, and the door closed.

  Christiana took a deep breath. “My point, Drothe, is that I’m your sister: You could have asked.”

  I laughed in her face then. I couldn’t help it. This, from the woman who had sent at least two assassins after me over the years; who had blackmailed me into helping her set up rivals at court; who had had me forcibly removed from the premises at her husband’s funeral. Oh, yes, blood was such a strong bond between us.

  Christiana’s expression soured at my laughter. “Fine,” she said. “Be that way. But you can’t tell me you stuck around for the food and the cultured conversation.” She leaned forward and put on the sisterly smirk I remembered so well from our youth. It made me want to choke her even now. “You couldn’t find what you wanted in my rooms, and you needed to talk to me. You,” she said, now almost singing the words, “need to ask meeee.”

  I scowled and raised the cup to my mouth, only to discover I’d cracked the bottom and let all the mead leak out. Too bad. If I ever needed honey on my tongue, I expected it was now.

  “I’m guessing the price has gone up since you walked into the room?” I said.

  “You don’t even want to know.”

  I pushed the mug and plates aside and rested my elbows on the table. I hadn’t wanted to be this forthright with her—not about this.

  “I need to find Degan,” I said. “I know you two have been exchanging letters. I want to see them. I want to know where he is.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting: laughter, disdain, dismissal, to be told to mind my own damn business—none of them would have been terribly surprising. What I got instead was Christiana going red in the face.

  “You want what?” she shouted. I almost looked to the door to see if Josef would stick his face in again, but knew better than to take my eye off my sister just now. Instead, I settled myself onto my stool and leaned forward into her gale.

  “You heard me,” I said.

  “And what makes you think I have any letters from him?”

  “Please. Don’t insult me.”

  “Then don’t insult me by asking to see them.”

  “I have to find him, Ana.”

  “Why?” She took a step forward. “What’s so important that you have to find him now, three months after you drove him away? Does he owe you money? Did you forget he has a secret you need?” She leaned forward. “Or is it just that you feel the sudden, burning need to betray him again?”

  That’s the thing about family: They know how to cast verbal knives better than almost anyone. And each one of Christiana’s struck home. Deep.

  I slowly levered myself to my feet. Even with the table between us, Christiana took a small step back.

  “I’m going to assume that’s you barking,” I said, “and not Degan. He’s better than that.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, a vicious grin perching on her lips.

  I ignored the jab—and the damn mental images it brought to mind—and pushed on. “I don’t know what he told you, or what you dreamed up on your own, but I’m not about to explain or justify myself to you.”

  “You will if you want to know where he is.”

  “You don’t want to push me on this one, Ana. Tell me and let it go.”

  Christiana crossed her arms and raised her chin, so that she was studying me along the line of her nose. I knew that look: She was digging in. Damn it.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. You couldn’t find what you wanted on your own, and I don’t think you’re willing to go any further with me. Not with Josef and my footmen waiting in the hall. And besides, we both know I wouldn’t tell you if it came to that, anyhow. Not that it ever has. Or will.”

  “You forget: I found some of your other letters,” I said. “I can make trouble for you without raising more than a finger. The right words in the right ears, and your secrets will be winging their way toward Court before noon tomorrow.”

  A moment of alarm in her eyes, quickly covered. Christiana shrugged, rustling the fabric of her dress. “Go ahead,” she said. “But making my life harder won’t make yours any easier.”

  We stared at one another across the table for what felt like a long time after that. It was the cabin and the dirt floor and the argument over this toy or that rule all over again. Back then, our mother could have been counted on to bring the peace, or at least separate the warring parties; later, Sebastian would have foiled the fight by a judicious application of lessons and chores and practice regimens, invariably doled out in proportions that somehow punished us both worse than we each thought the other was getting.

  Except now it was just us: Now there was no one else to break the stalemate. And, like it or not, I was still the big brother.

  Damn you and your lessons, anyhow, Sebastian.

  I’d never given Christiana the full story behind Degan’s disappearance: about the argument he and I had had over the imperial Paragon’s book and where it should ultimately go. Degan had wanted to return it to what he saw as its rightful owner—the emperor—mainly because he felt it was his job to do so as a degan, what with the Oath to protect the Empire and all. I’d needed the book to save my ass from Shadow, not to mention protect Christiana and Kells from the retribution the Gray Prince had threatened to dole out if I failed to deliver it. And, of course, I’d already promised it to Solitude, which had been a whole
other mess.

  The tricky part was that Degan had put himself on the line with his order by helping me in the first place. He’d known he would likely end up going against another degan—Iron—and still he’d exchanged the Oath with me. By the time I’d applied a piece of portable glimmer in the form of a knotted rope to the back of his head, Degan had already sealed his fate: Paragon’s journal or no, he was outcast from the Order by his actions. My taking the book had only added betrayal to injury, and even then, the noble bastard had shown up at the last minute to help save me from Shadow.

  Then he’d vanished. Which, when you thought about it, made sense. He was anathema to the rest of the degans, a target to be hunted down. It was why I’d concocted the whole story about Shadow and Degan’s sword in the first place—a feeble attempt to make amends for what I’d done, too little too late.

  But that wasn’t the main reason he’d disappeared, not to my mind, anyhow. Degan had vanished because there was no reason for him not to. He’d sacrificed everything for friendship and duty, and in return his friend had stolen away his one chance to fulfill that duty. I’d stolen it away.

  That wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to admit, especially to my sister. Especially since she and Degan had been mooning over each other for years. Especially since I needed her help to find him.

  Problem was, this was Christiana, and she wouldn’t settle for, or be fooled by, anything less than the truth at this point. So I told her. Oh, I explained and I justified and I shaved as many ugly edges off as I could, but in the end, I spilled like a Lighter under the knife. Hell, maybe I’d needed to all along.

  Not surprisingly, it didn’t go over well.

  “You son of a bitch,” she hissed.

  I was on my third ahrami by then. This one went in and down almost without being chewed.

  “What the hell did you want me to do?” I said. “Shadow was ready to dust you and Kells if he didn’t get his hands on some imperial glimmer.”