Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  She tilted her head, and said sweetly, “You valued Maledicte so much, you ran him through with your blade, then imprisoned him in your country estate. Or was he never your possession? He left you, after all.”

  Janus grabbed her, slammed her back against the wall, and Psyke laughed. “I was so frightened when we were wed. I'd never known men beyond a single kiss, and then there you were, my husband, my enemy, my duty…. You treated me gently then.”

  Janus breathed hard for a moment, trying to put away the red tide before his eyes. Her hand curled around his forearm, scratching lightly, and he turned his gaze downward. “Don't fret,” she said. “I'm sturdier now. Well able to withstand you.”

  She reached up and pulled his mouth toward hers, her lips hungry, her tongue questing; and he let all his immediate questions go as his skin woke to need, woke to its own loneliness. The sudden urgency of it made him pause, made him cautious, but Psyke writhed in his arms, and his body yearned in a fashion entirely uncharacteristic of him.

  Loneliness, he thought, and best stamped out with Psyke, here and now, than fall prey to it later. He drew her over to the bed, finished unlacing her chemise, removed that final stocking, and she twined her arms around his neck. “You feared to unwrap me the other night, my murderer.”

  “Not feared,” he growled. “Never feared.” He pressed her into the mattress, the clean, sweet scent of rosemary rising from the linens. She clawed at his back, making him rise, and she reached for his buttons, pulling his shirt off with as much haste as Dahlia had taken with Psyke's gown. His cravat and collar stayed behind, choking him until he removed them himself, flung them to the floor. An imaginary Padget wailed at him, and Janus bit back an oath. If he was concerned with what his valet would say, he was coming perilously close to being just another aristocrat.

  Psyke's hands worked at his breeches with a bewildering boldness, her lips bitten and reddening. Janus helped hasten the task, and then they were pressed together again, their bodies working against each other in concert, trying for mutual satisfaction all the more elusive for the unlikeliness of finding it.

  Janus gasped as Psyke sank her teeth into his shoulder. He was no innocent, no stranger to women's bodies, but Psyke was fast becoming like no woman he had bedded before. Not a clueless sycophant or a bored aristocratic lady, not a prostitute—all of whom had seen only his superficial self, his title, his wealth, his golden looks.

  Psyke saw deeper, saw as deep as Mal had, but where Maledicte was his conspirator, Psyke was his enemy; and still she took him in, her hips shifting to meet his, deepening their connection, her nails crosshatching the ridge of his spine, her breath ragged in his hair.

  The sting of her nails, the sharp edges of her teeth against his jaw, made him ponder poison even as he stifled his moan against her skin, nuzzled sweat from her cheek. Would such explain her unusual boldness? Had Celeste sent Psyke to bed and kill him?

  She shivered against him, echoing his shudder. He grabbed her hands, tasted each of her fingernails, finding only salt and the faint hint of his own blood. No poison there.

  Psyke whimpered into his shoulder; he worked a hand down between their bodies and turned that whimper into a soft wail and a long series of shudders.

  Entangled by her sudden pleasure, he plummeted quickly after and disengaged himself. He lay beside her, and she drew the sheet over herself.

  The aroma of their dinners cooling made his stomach growl, and he rose to investigate what the kitchens had sent, judging the state of Cooks aggravation by the complexity of the dishes: stew meat and bread meant they might as well be chastened children. But the chafing dishes revealed tiny roasted hens, so delicate that the bird came apart in his hands, the juice dampening his skin with salt and oil. He licked it away, curling his tongue into the crevice between thumb and forefinger, feeling as feral and as hungry as he ever had in the Relicts.

  Psyke joined him, draping her dressing gown over her shoulders and fastening the buttons herself “Your breeches,” she said, “are on the floor.”

  He tugged the sheet from her bed, wrapped it about himself partially to annoy her, partially because his breeches were too tight to promise comfort at the moment.

  She made a face, but no further comment on his manner, and he was oddly grateful. Meals in the palace had turned into rather an ordeal. If he could get through even one in peace, it would be a pleasant change.

  Psyke nibbled at her own fowl with hungry unconcern. Her right hand disarticulated it, wing from breastbone with aristocratic ease and a single gilt-tipped fork; her left held paper spread open on the low table.

  Janus felt his temper spike uncertainly. She was poring over the letter he had liberated from the study.

  “Can you read that?” he said.

  “Can you not?” she replied. “The Ixions have always been trained in High Antyrrian.”

  “And the Bellanes?” he asked. “What need had your family to learn the king's language? Did your family aspire to the throne?”

  Psyke sighed. “My family was the throne once. Did you study only recent history?”

  “I was rather pressed for time,” Janus said. “Keeping myself alive in the Itarusine court was a bit more involved than I had bargained for. Then I returned home and found things even more complicated.”

  Psyke made no comment, but instead began to read aloud:

  Inasmuch as Aris's murder has left the people unsettled and his assassin still free, we suggest that to soothe public unrest, the following measures be taken:

  That Janus Ixion, bastard nephew to the king, be taken into custody until such time as his guilt can be proven.

  That Adiran Ixion, heir to the throne, be given into the Duchess of Love'scare, since the palace nursery has been proven unsafe once before, resulting in the duchess's grandson's death.

  That the counselor Warrick Bull step down, and allow Edwin Cathcart, Lord Blythe, to step in as regent, choosing his own counselors.

  Psyke said, “Need I continue?”

  Janus laughed. Blythe was an idiot and a transparent one, a lord with an overabundance of self-importance and no common sense. He said, “Did Blythe sign it himself? The duchess won't like that. Him laying out her hand so soon.”

  “It's unsigned,” Psyke said. “Coward, I suppose. A rare sin you lack.”

  “Careful,” Janus said. “That ran perilously close to approval.” He reached out and tugged on one of the long tangles of her hair, idly sleeking it with his fingers. She brushed his hand aside, and bent back to her meal, her dressing gown sliding over her pale skin.

  “Will you tell me,” Janus said, “who marked your flesh?”

  Psyke set down her fork with a noticeable clatter; her hands shook, and she tucked them beneath her dressing gown, as if the room had suddenly grown chill. “I crawled beneath the altar to get to Aris, and rose too soon. There's no great secret there. The deepest of hurts linger as the pain works its way to the surface.”

  “I'm familiar with such injuries,” Janus said. “We fought with stones in the Relicts.”

  She rose and faded back into the inner bedchamber without another word.

  Janus applied himself to the second covered dish, found it was rabbit wrapped in pastry and very tender. No wonder DeGuerre had complained; rabbit was a commoner's dish, suitable for grounds-keepers and staff, hardly the thing to grace a noble's table.

  Janus reached over and collected the letter again, trying to make sense of the words and the meaning Psyke had ascribed to them.

  Let 'em whistle for it, Bull had written. As well he might to such a litany of ridiculous requests. But to write that rejection, not beside the paragraph with his own name, but Janus's, the only request anyone was like to consider …

  For a moment, Janus wondered whether Bull could be trusted. Hadn't he offered advice earlier? Or he could be setting up an elaborate charade meant to lead Janus into trusting him. And that was all presuming Psyke's translation was truthful.

  Janus put his c
hin in his hands, missing Maledicte, the comfort of knowing who his best ally was. A rustle behind him made him turn. Psyke stood in the doorway. “Come, see how well you can bruise me.” She dropped the gown, let him admire the red bloom of his bite mark on her neck, and disappeared into the room.

  He took the time to secrete the letter away again—perhaps Delight could read High Antyrrian; he seemed prodigiously well educated—and then followed his wife.

  ♦ 13 ♦

  FINE SPRING DAY, THE newsboys proclaimed as they progressed, pleasant enough that Last's mad start at the docks should be well attended. Janus, jostled between Fanshawe Gost and Evan Tarrant on one coach bench, with guards lining the outside, thought the weather not as fine as the criers declared, though attendance swelled as if it were. In older times, the people gathered for hangings, too, with every bit as much interest.

  He reassured himself. He and Delight and Chryses had argued, but the steam engine they showed today would impress the sea-dependent city, show them a quicker way to sail, and one not reliant on the fickle wind. Best yet, it wouldn't profit Itarus in any way: the treaty was about tithed funds and goods, about keeping Antyre de-fanged.

  The crowd gathered, pressed back by sheer number until some of them found that having their curiosity assuaged would in no way make up for standing so close to the rubble that marked the edge of the Relicts. Those lingering there would see nothing but their purses picked.

  Westfall's cronies were on the docks, an assortment of aristocrats and well-heeled merchants, watching with interested eyes to see what Janus had done with their funds, with Westfall's reputation. They stood closest to the docks, recognizable in their serviceable clothes in practical colors, dun and cream and gray, though still of cloth finer than most people would ever see.

  They leaned up against the old iron cannons gone white with salt, old sentinels for a war long lost, and watched Delight, skirt clad, barking orders at two young men forcing a laden cart slowly toward the clearing guarded by several smocked men.

  If Westfall's followers watched in interest and hope, there were others that made the kingsguards draw closer to the noble coaches and lay their hands on their weapons.

  Anger and dissatisfaction turned down mouths and shuttered eyes. Patched jackets, sleeves rolled up, bared arms corded with muscle, wiry with hard use.

  “Antimachinists,” Evan spoke, his clear tenor startling in the otherwise quiet coach. Fanshawe Gost shifted, his eyes flicking over Janus as if to ask was it usual that his servants spoke freely in his presence. Completely heedless of the surprise and disapproval, Evan continued, “They're troublemakers and I don't like the look in their eyes. Mutinous, if we was on board ship.”

  “A wise child,” Gost said, after a moment during which Janus failed to chastise the boy. “The country is much like a ship, and we must pull together.”

  Janus let out a breath so he didn't argue with the idealism Gost revealed there. He chose instead to be pleased that Gost showed some symptoms of egalitarianism; the more Gost showed himself interested in men's capabilities, the more likely he was to throw his support behind a clever and determined bastard.

  Evan grimaced. “Then the country's been scuttling herself, and ain't that a pretty thing to think.”

  “Evan,” Janus said, a halfhearted warning. His attention was all for the tarpaulin-covered cart. The burdened horses were sweating, their hides lathered with effort and the stress of the shoving, roisterous crowd. Whitsonby and Georgie, two of Delight's most reliable assistants, rode in either side of the cart, pitchforks in hand. Currently, they were using the smooth end of the handles to encourage curious people out of their way, to keep their hands, and protests, at a distance.

  Janus narrowed his gaze, stepped out of the coach for a better glance—he hadn't thought the engine could be laid so flat. If they'd taken it apart completely … well, their unwelcome audience might grow weary and wander away while it was reassembled or they might treat the demonstration as a most unsatisfactory entertainment and hurl missiles.

  “There have always been reactionary elements in society the ones who cling to the past, to the traditions even when they benefit no one,” Gost said. “Think of them as the fuel that keeps clever men's minds active. Without them, we would merely—”

  “Without them, more'd get done,” Evan said. His pointed chin stuck out mulishly “Beggin your pardon, but it's true. An' they're only getting worse. Used to be they were countryside only, breaking the spinning engines, breaking the mills. Used to be they threw rocks or burning garbage to express themselves, and scattered when they saw the guards come.”

  “And now? Do tell me,” Gost said. His hands tightened on the gloves held in his lap.

  Janus thought he saw Evan's point. This crowd of people pushed their way to the front, heedless of the Particulars in their midst, the mounted guards with pistols in their sashes, watching from above. And when shoved, they shoved back. Horses shifted and snorted uneasily, small continuous bursts of respiration as if the city itself breathed in anticipation.

  “Now, they're organized. Now the blighters have guns instead of rocks.”

  If the boy wanted Gost's attention, he had it. The man's dark eyebrows arched. “Pistols are expensive.”

  “My da said they started off the leftovers of soldiers that King Aris left jobless when the war ended.”

  “Your father?”

  Janus shifted his weight on the carriage's doorstep and diverted Gost from his question. “Seems reasonable enough to me. Cared for, the weapons would last.”

  Evan was more valuable than he might appear, and Janus wasn't minded to hand the key to Captain Tarrant's obedience over to anyone, even a man who would be a formidable ally.

  “You assume they'd have reason to care for them,” Gost said. “The war was decades ago, and people's memories are short.”

  “Not in my experience,” Janus said. “Grudges are long. These men are soldiers' sons, brought up poor, brought up with nothing but a sense of what they're owed, what their fathers were denied.”

  “My da says they want blood and don't much care whose. Like your mutineers who think any rule's better n this. My da says they're no better than Relict rats.”

  Janus reached through the window and cuffed Evan gently. Tarrant's son or not, he didn't care for comparisons being drawn between the city's agitators and himself. The boy subsided.

  “You're here to watch, to learn, and, if needed, run messages between myself and Delight, not ramble on as if you're in the kitchens.”

  “No,” Gost said, “I find myself interested in the boy's speech. I find myself shamefully surprised that a child cares for politics.”

  “Ain't politics,” Evan said, though he said it quietly and with a sidelong glance at Janus, ensuring that he was allowed to speak his mind. His warning given, Janus merely nodded. “It's just the way things are. Best to know who's got the power, and who wants to take it away.”

  “I wouldn't worry yourself about that rabble,” Gost said. “Pistols, they may have, but I sincerely doubt any of them could find the funds for the shot. Your surname, boy?”

  Janus twitched, suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of Ivor's first question to him, that probing desire to know will this person be of any use to me?

  “Evan Tarrant, sir.”

  “Your father's the… privateer?” Gost hesitated briefly, before judging the boy wouldn't have heard the contempt often attached to that word. It was a delicacy Janus approved. Evan was an amiable boy, and kept so, would be a useful tool, while sullenness would lead to the same seething resentment that plagued the city streets.

  “My da works for the king,” Evan agreed easily enough. “Didn't want me along cause it's risky work.”

  A shout interrupted them and Janus found himself sharing the step with a small serious boy. Evan wormed his way out past Janus's arm and said, “It's that feller Harm. I shoulda known. Mr. DeGuerre said things got worse when he took over the antimachinists. He ain't
no soldier's get. He's Itarusine.”

  Gost said, “Harm's an Antyrrian name.”

  “He's not dumb,” the boy allowed. “Not to walk around on our streets with a foreign name, telling our men what to do.”

  “And he's in charge of the antimachinists?” Gost smiled down at Evan and Janus felt himself bristling, all his attention drawn from the pushing and shoving crowds, the cart still making its way through the horde. Evan was his, rats take it, and if Gost wanted a spy, he could find and nurture his own.

  So possessive of what's yours, Maledicte whispered, haunting his memory.

  “Partly,” the boy said. He preened a little under Gost's attention. “There's factions.”

  “There are always factions,” Janus said. The shouting grew louder, picked up other voices behind it, and was overridden by the Particulars' bells as they moved in to squelch them.

  Evan pointed at the cart, which had cleared the last obstacle. “Oh look,” he said, “it's starting.”

  Janus stepped down, setting dust stirring beneath his feet. Before he could reach Delight, Evan hopped out after him and seized his arm.

  “Mr. Gost says will you wait in the carriage, please,” he got out on one breath. “Says the crowd's too risky to put you at its heart.”

  Another glance around: the antimachinists beginning their tedious chant of “Break it down, tear it down, burn it down.” The mounted guards drew closer, and the crowds nearest them cried out as iron-shod hooves shifted, scraping shins and crushing bare feet.

  “Going to be a right spectacle. But Mr. Gost is right. We're close enough.” Evan's eyes were cheerful, his cheeks flushed with excitement, too young to understand how dangerous a riot could be.

  Gost was right. The Last coach was in the first ring of spectators, a bright gem as blue as the sky above the ocean. Janus's gaze, traveling seaward, granted him the view of a ship at the horizon, flying Itarusine sails. One of Ivor's fleet, keeping itself busy by patrolling the territory they wanted to claim for their own.