Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  “I need supplies. I'm nearly out of shot, and the men will mutiny if the larder's not refilled. Permission to keep some of the captured goods for ourselves?”

  “Just don't get caught selling them,” Janus said. “And if you sell them ashore, make sure none of the goods end up on the Itarusine tithe ships. They'll be hunting supplies also, and I don't like to think what Ivor would say if he found his ships were buying the same merchandise twice.”

  Tarrant gave him a wry salute and took a long sip from his flask, offered it. “Drink?”

  Janus took the flask, raised it up, sniffed, and smiled. Itarusine brandy. He took a grateful swallow, letting it warm the chill from the sea air's kiss.

  Tarrant shifted on the strand, pebbles grinding beneath his weight, preparing to go, and Janus found other words tumbling from his mouth, low and urgent. “That other commission I asked of you? Any word?”

  It was madness to even ask. It had been anger and grief that had driven him to ask Tarrant the first time, careless words that could doom his reach for the crown. Madness to remind Tarrant of it, yet Janus couldn't help but ask.

  Tarrant said, “Precious little,” as if he didn't understand how badly Janus needed to know. Discretion or sheer uninterest, Janus didn't know which, and it woke him sweating some nights that he had handed Tarrant such a weapon. But it had always been a failing of his, this inability to let go of something that had been his. To let the past fall gracefully away.

  “Your dark-haired youth, scarred at cheek and chest. Sounds distinctive enough, 'til you go and mix in with Itarusine born crews, all crow black and battered. No woman either, tall, dark haired. I assume the scars are the same? And that it's your youth attempting to escape notice?

  “Women are rare on ships, at least those that travel more than the distance between Itarus's court and our own. I've heard no gossip about one such.”

  “There might be a man acting as companion,” Janus said. He grudged the words.

  “So you said before. Blond, a servant.”

  “He, at least, should be easy to find,” Janus said. “He fancies himself a sailor, and has no reason that I can see for hiding himself away.”

  “By your indulgence,” Tarrant said. “If he knows you at all—well, he might guess at the murder in your eyes and keep his passage quiet.”

  Janus said, “He only need fear me if he still travels with my black-haired boy and you've heard nothing? I was certain that they were headed for the Explorations.”

  “There's your problem,” Tarrant said. “The Explorations are full of folk who just wanted to start anew and are willing to pay for the privilege. Gossip only goes so far, even between crews. Your need for discretion hampers me. If you permitted, I could send word ashore to the settlements in the Explorations—”

  “No,” Janus said.

  Tarrant nodded, but there was a certain knowledge in his eyes that Janus would eventually ask for that, as inevitable as a drunkard returning to the tavern. An amused curl took his mouth; he said, “At your leisure, then. I'll be waiting.”

  Janus couldn't allow that smugness to prevail, nor could he afford to antagonize Tarrant. Fear, he thought, was not an easy currency here. Tarrant would strike rather than bow his head. The best Janus could do was remind him that Janus wasn't the only vulnerable one.

  “Your son is well,” Janus said. “Settled nicely in the palace and at my side most days.”

  Tarrant nodded, his voice gone rough. “Piracy's no life for a child. But you tell him I think on him.”

  “I will,” Janus said, and let the matter drop. No need to belabor something they both understood. Instead, he took out the pouch he'd prepared for just this meeting, containing a scatter of currencies and gems such as a pirate captain might be expected to carry.

  Tarrant tucked the money pouch Janus handed him into his rope belt and said, “I'd best be going. Tides wait for no one. If you have further instructions, you can leave them for me with the Gazelle, as usual. But it may be a fortnight or more before I collect them.”

  Janus helped him maneuver the dinghy out into the chill water, watched the man push off from the jagged rocks with confidence and long practice.

  He climbed the stairs again, more quickly now that he had the tide raising the breeze at his back. He shivered, wet with spray, and when he reached the house, he saw that Delight had had a moment's thought to spare from his notes. A collection of towels and warmed water waited him.

  He made use of them, chasing the chill from his hands, wiping the salt from his face, smoothing the damp-born curl from his hair before returning to Delight and the parlor turned tutorial hall.

  Chryses had arrived from his spying among the antimachinists, clad in an open linen shirt and hemp breeches, his hair darkened to brown with dirt and sweat and dye. Delight curled beside him, sitting closer than the books piled on the settle required, and sipped his tea.

  Chryses scribbled notes on paper with a rough-tipped nib whose sound reminded Janus of mice scratching.

  More supplies, Janus thought. Chryses was as rough on his possessions as Maledicte, and Janus grew weary of interpreting blotched and blotted writings.

  “Janus,” Chryses said. He made to rise, hampered by the welter of Delight's skirts and his own obvious weariness. “How goes it?”

  “I spoke to Gost,” Janus said, was rewarded by Chryses's exhaustion sharpening to full wakefulness.

  “Oh? And what did the lord of all our hopes and futures have to say?” Delight said. He slouched against the high back of the settle in a way that would have had the ladies of the court muttering imprecations on his upbringing.

  “Delight,” Chryses said. “Gost can—”

  “I know,” he said, “but I don't like our futures riding on a man known to be a stickler and a prig.”

  “Better that than one of the useless, uninterested lords,” Janus said before Chryses could. “Gost has offered us a platform and a chance to prove our engines to him.”

  “So gracious of him,” Delight said. His mouth turned down. “Does his support truly mean so much?”

  “Only the difference between me taking the throne by force or with grace and the will of the majority,” Janus said. “An important distinction, I think you'll agree. Celeste Lovesy is my most vocal opponent, DeGuerre a close second. Given time, I can deal with Celeste. Gost, on the other hand, may sway your fath—”

  Delight held up a hand; Chryses rolled his eyes. “You avoid his name as if it were the plague, Di.”

  “He didn't disown you” Delight said. Or do you forget—”

  “The admiral then,” Janus interrupted. Their squabbles, once rare, had become increasingly more common and more vehement, the stresses of the circumstances wearing on them.

  “If we turn Gost to our favor,” Janus said, “the admiral will follow.”

  Chryses paced across the room, threw open the double doors that had led once to a ballroom, and now to the heart of their workshop. The scent of metal and oil overwhelmed the sea fog. “Choose as you will,” Chryses said. “Which machine will you rest our future on?”

  ♦ 9 ♦

  ELIGHT FOLLOWED JANUS AND CHRYSES to the back of the house and through the great double doors. They were oak, darkened with age and exposure to the salt air, and Georgie, their assistant who was equal parts engineer and artist, had carved into them a rough likeness of Weeping Espit, that reluctant patron of creative endeavors. The salt-damp air condensed sleekly in the lines of her robes and her face, and ran wet on high tides. Beyond the door lay the ballroom, overlooking the encroaching sea.

  No one danced here any longer; the tiles were buckled where the foundation had shifted with the falling away of the cliff. Now the ballroom was full of hulking metal shapes, drafting tables, and a near constant eddy of paper. The scent of salt warred with that of charcoal and grease, of gas lamps burning at all hours.

  So as they entered, Chryses merely turned the key on the nearest lamp, collecting it in their travels t
hrough the ballroom. Janus walked as fastidiously as a cat, Delight thought, moving without apparent effort among metal works, wooden frames, and assorted tarpaulin-covered shapes. He paused at the first table, to touch the machine there.

  Delight was rather proud of that one. It lacked the grander purpose of their best designs, but it worked reliably and meant money for those who owned it. The small mill was a series of cogs and gears and graduated rotating stones, capable of grinding even the coarsest meal to a fineness that the noble markets would pay highly for, and did so without effort by man. For the farmers who saw their best grain shipped to Itarus, a mill such as this would allow them to make a living off the lesser grains.

  Still, Janus passed it by, and Delight wasn't surprised. The mill was useful, but to collect Gost's approval they would need something completely new.

  Chryses said, “No, not the mill. Perhaps the shipbuilder, if Delight can weight the arms properly.” Delight's attention roused to irritation. He pushed a hank of hair from his face to snap at Chryses, but stopped at the expression on Janus's face. Chryses had taken him by the sleeve, was guiding him around the room as if he were a recalcitrant child; and his hands, covered in dirt, were passing the smudges on to Janus's sleeve.

  Delight decided he didn't need to say anything. Given the clear displeasure in every line of Janus's body, he wasn't inclined to hear anything Chryses had to say.

  “We have too much labor and not enough jobs; Gost won't be pleased by a machine that encourages the situation to worsen. In any event, our country's shipbuilding skills are not in question.” Janus took a tarpaulin off another pile and wrinkled his nose at the sharp alcohol reek beneath. “A still? Do tell me this isn't behind your inspiration. Gost's already made it clear he thinks this country needs less drinking and license.”

  He dropped the tarpaulin back over the mechanism. Delight hid a smile; from the distaste in his voice, one would think Janus an abstemious sort, but he'd shared Absente with the two of them often enough, let his eyes go soft and dreaming, building their future in words.

  Chryses, always smart, never wise, answered back, voice hot with irritation. “Never mind the still, with regards to the shipbuilder, you miss the point. We have an abundance of labor to be sure, but it's all unskilled. Those with the skill are too busy working to teach. The shipbuilding machine would allow them time to teach the brighter of the unskilled.”

  “And the rest become crews to staff the ships? No, Chryses, we have enough of our people leaving Antyre for lives abroad. We want something to convince them to stay, to convince Gost that we can salvage a future.”

  “It's a security matter, as well,” Delight said. The two of them turned angry glances on him, and Delight busied himself with tying up his skirts, tucking the long hems into the garters beneath his knees. He smoothed his stockings and caught Janus watching, gaze gone puzzled instead of angry, and smiled. He wandered into the hall proper, closer to his brother and Janus, and keeping careful distance from the edges of the machinery. Skirts were a problem but one he had chosen to live with. “Could we risk that the Itarusines would not benefit also? Tarrant tells me that Itarusine sailors have been promised a bonus for any ship plans they can gather.”

  “Tarrant told you this?” Janus asked.

  Delight quirked his lips. “He's been a-sea for quite some time. I think he forgets who and what I am. When he offloads material for us, and takes on our cargo, he often stays for tea and flirtation.”

  Chryses shook his head. “Be careful, Dionyses.”

  Delight felt himself surge into the anger Chryses could provoke so easily these days. Words hovered on his lips, accusations whose time for speaking had passed years ago; Whose carelessness was it that saw me disowned, that put me into this costume? But that wasn't entirely true. Delight had chosen to keep the skirts at first in answer to the scandal sheets that had dubbed him DeGuerre's Delight; now he kept the skirts to build a layer of obfuscation between his brother and himself. Chryses spent his days in the antimachinist crowd, spying on its charismatic leader, Harm, who claimed his terrible scars were the result of one of Westfall's engines. With company like that, it seemed best that the engineer known to be creating the machines be as distinctive as Chryses was nondescript.

  Janus coughed and brought his attention back to the problem at hand. “What about the communication device? Gost's been abroad for a long time, understands better than most the importance of quick information.”

  “No progress at all,” Delight said. He grimaced. “The flashes of light reach farther than flags, but it is still hampered by the same problem. If there's no one in the line of sight, the message drops. It works well enough for inland villages, but you wanted it for the sea. Perhaps…”

  He fumbled in his pockets for the charcoal again, then recalled he had left it beside the mill. He moved off to collect it and heard Chryses's half-mocking, half-fond mutter, “Head full of inventions, that one.”

  Chryses stroked a line along an exposed piece of brass tubing, waiting to be cut. “Whatever we choose, it must be sturdy, flameproof, and easy to defend. Harm's no fool. I've learned that he watched you talking with Gost at the funeral and has spent the past few days urging the antimachinists to be ready to act and act decisively. They think, not unreasonably, that this is the best chance to make their opinions known to the new leaders. They hope DeGuerre and Bull are less supportive of our machines than Aris, Westfall, and you.”

  Janus bit his lip, obviously annoyed. “This city turns on an engine of gossip. Chry, do you have any inkling where the antimachinists will choose to strike?”

  “The demonstration you give for Gost seems likely. Best not have it here, or we'll be burned out by nightfall.”

  “Gost said nothing about a public event,” Janus began, but Chryses's laughter stopped him in mid-speech.

  Mistake, brother mine, Delight thought. Janus had a temper at the best of times, and as his frustration soared with each obstacle, it only increased. To laugh at him, flick him on his pride—well, Janus was a young man, after all, and prone to acting on instinct. But he was also thoughtful and dedicated to the kingdom in a way that so few of their leaders were. Hadn't he heard Janus worry aloud about a population growing ever more split between starvation and gluttony? About a country growing ever more stagnant as the doers and thinkers sought their fortunes in the Explorations, where their profits would not be taken by Itarus?

  Hadn't Delight watched as Janus tried vainly to rouse the city Particulars into rebuilding the Relicts instead of simply controlling them?

  “Of course the demonstration will be public,” Chryses said. “How else will Gost gauge the public interest? What else could counter public opinion of you as a murderer when your own wife spoke against you?”

  Delight's breath caught. Mewed up in Seahook as he was, he was the last to receive the gossip. He had seen the illustration in the papers, of course, but… “Did Psyke truly speak against you?” he asked.

  Janus growled but made no denial. Delight swallowed. If Psyke believed it to be so … Could Janus have done it? They'd heard him rail against Aris often enough, calling him a blight, an obstacle to progress, a scholar whose curiosity had been eroded by despair.

  Janus was capable of murder, that Delight knew for certain. Hadn't he disposed of the antimachinist who had followed Chryses home, dispatching the man with a single blow of a wrench snatched up from the nearest table before Chryses and Delight could do more than gape? Janus had picked the man up, heedless of blood, and dropped him casually off the edge of the cliff, following him down more sedately on the stairs, to kick the ruined body into the sea.

  “Look, Last,” Chryses said now, heedless of the man's temper—as if he hadn't watched murder done or never dreamed that wrath could be turned their way. Chryses, Delight thought, was shortsighted and overconfident. Always had been. “I say use the cannons. The remodeled cannons are… showy, and the admiral would approve. We have a full complement of them. A bit of target
practice would be spectacular, make Harm and his bullyboys think again about fighting us. It might even make Itarus think twice.”

  Chryses grinned with easy malevolence, and Delight read the truth of it. Chryses was tired of spending his days playing spy among those who would destroy everything he chose to create.

  “No,” Janus snapped. “The cannons are for the privateers, and can we afford to have questions raised when Tarrant starts using them?”

  “It would be worth it—aim one above the crowd, scare the anti-machinists into obedience.”

  “And have Itarus take notice of our manufacture of weapons?” Janus said. “No, Chryses. Show some sense.”

  Chryses turned his back, shoulders tight, the very picture of a man muttering imprecations under his breath.

  Janus said, “Best not get in the habit of arguing with me. If our plans come to fruition, I will be your king; and while there's always a place for counsel, the decisions are ultimately to be mine.”

  Chryses whirled on him; the bronze scales behind him rocked and clattered to the floor, spilling gunpowder. “We help you because we helped Westfall. We help you because you promise us a better life. Do you think I enjoy this? I was brought up in the court, had an estate to inherit—one of such size that it took a horse all day to traverse—and now I spend my nights in this pantomime of a court and my days in the company of rabble, trying to keep abreast of their intentions. You came from nothing to riches. It's harder in reverse.”

  Delight moved forward hastily, too hastily; his skirt, even looped to knee height, caught on a pile of levers, tore, and sent him and the metal spilling across the floor. Neither Janus nor Chryses noticed, too intent on each other.

  “Sacrifices need be made for a cause,” Janus said. “Weather this discomfort now and have—”

  “Sacrifices?” Chryses said. “Your sacrifices have been conveniently lacking. You live at court, you keep your estate. You wed Psyke Bellane. Where's your sacrifice? You don't make sacrifices. You offer others up. Like your lover, Maledicte. Did he believe in your better days?”