Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  Delight spotted Janus and leaped off the tarpaulin-covered cart, his homespun woolen skirt nearly catching on the cart wheel, his long red braid flaring out like a thrown torch; Georgie and Whitsonby objected as the covered objects slid with Delight's hasty exit. Janus shook off Evan and went to meet him.

  Delight joined Janus and said, “All this spectacle. All this anticipatory censure… Reminds me of my first presentation at court.” His mouth twisted into something not quite a grimace, not quite a smile. He hooked his arm into Janus's as if they were merely two friends out for a stroll, as if Delight weren't dressed like a woman, and a lower-class washerwoman at that.

  Janus sighed and said, “I'd worry less if it were. Both the Antyrrian court and the Itarusine are easily swayed by style. Gost, on the other hand, wants substance, so do try not to be flippant with him.”

  As if his words had summoned the man, Gost came through the aristocratic side of the crowd, stern in the face of a dozen social smiles. He dropped a polite nod to Janus, then in Delight's direction. “Last. The coach? You are too careless with your person. Ma'am.”

  Delight, caught in years of habit, curtsyed, then scowled, and stomped back toward the cart. Gost's bewildered eyes lingered on the snap of Delight's skirt resisting the long strides Delight took. “One of your … engineers?”

  There was no point in dissembling when Gost could take the note of Seahook's lease and see who held it, or when Delight cut such a figure. “Dionyses DeGuerre, the admiral's son. And, yes, he is one of my engineers.”

  “Is he possessed of his reason? Why would he choose, of all days, to wear such preposterous attire?”

  Janus found himself bridling unexpectedly. “I haven't felt the need to inquire into Delight's private actions. As long as he builds what I need—”

  “And you were trained in Itarus? You spurn information?” Gost didn't need to say more, or even turn a direct glance Janus's way.

  “I've all the information I need. Enough to know Delight is worthy of my trust,” Janus said.

  “As you please,” Gost said. His eyes stayed on the swaying woolen hem of Delight's dress, frowning. “Is that Chryses DeGuerre?”

  Janus blinked, first at the ease of recognition in Gost's voice and then in dismayed realization that the man was right. Chryses made his way through the crowd, a noble's greatcoat, embroidered and tucked at the waist, thrown on over his laborer's wear, and joined the engineering apprentices by the cart. Chryses slapped the side of the cart; Georgie jumped down to join him, and Whitsonby began to unload the first covered object into their arms.

  No friendship weakened the instant misgivings he had at Chryses's presence. Their argument at Seahook had proven that Chryses's sentiments were directed toward immediate profit; Janus had trusted Delight to lead his brother into sense. In a crowd full of antimachinists, Chryses's arrival was both an act of betrayal and a disaster.

  Chryses had accused Janus of selfishness, but what else could this be but selfishness of his own? Chryses was weary of playing the spy, spending his days with the antimachinist agitators, his nights bent over plans, and so he broke cover in the most overt fashion possible.

  Given the incongruous size of the covered objects, Janus wasn't surprised to see the new cannon unveiled instead of the tiny steamboat. Furious, but unsurprised. He moved forward, and Gost caught his elbow. “Something amiss, Last?” His lips turned slightly upward, a grimace against the sunlight or a delicate indication of amusement.

  Janus said, “You knew this would happen. You expect me to fail. You've met with Chryses.” The letter Gost left had said this, and Janus cursed himself for a fool for not understanding that it meant Gost had met with Chryses, perhaps even the same night Janus and Delight had waited for him.

  “Calm yourself,” Gost said. “I am no more fond of failure than you.”

  “Release me,” Janus said. Gost's hand tightened on his elbow, shot pain through the joint, and turned Janus's objections to a hiss.

  “To enact a scene before the assembled court and public? I think not. Does a king rush around like a child in a temper? Show your mettle. Allow your men to do as you directed.”

  “Disaster—”

  “Disaster either way,” Gost said. “I watch you. You are a clever young man, but much too self-satisfied, prone to temper when thwarted.”

  Janus pulled free, took two strides forward, then forced himself to a halt, breathing harshly. There were only two types of words that were so unpalatable: absolute truth and absolute lie. Gost's words rang against the fragile parts of his mind that woke him at night with doubts, with the enormity of the task facing him. Difficult enough to bring himself out of the gutter, trying to raise a kingdom back to glory When the people who should care most were actively hindering him?

  Janus found himself shaking with anger and dread, his arms tight wrapped about his chest as if he were a chastised child again, seeking the only comfort he could find.

  The second cannon was on the ground. A mutter of interest rose from sailors among the crowd as they began to catalog differences between the new cannons and the old ones bolted to the docks. Admiral DeGuerre, speaking with Warrick Bull, stiffened and stared.

  Delight stretched, rubbing his back after the cannon was set down, and smiled in Janus's direction; Delight's smile faltered, no doubt at Janus's expression. He leaned close to Chryses, gesturing concisely, that near sign language the twins used with each other, and Chryses shook Delight off.

  All Chryses to blame then, Janus thought, and Delight fed some line about Janus's changed opinion. Chryses rolled the cannons side by side, and waved at Georgie and Whitsonby, who began haranguing the crowd as if it were market day and the cannons nothing more than merchandise. In the bay, an old dinghy drifted slowly out to the mouth of the harbor, having been pushed into the current by Whitsonby. Janus followed it with his gaze and bit back a groan. Beyond it, in the distance, the Itarusine sail flared, moving closer—the last people he could want as witnesses.

  The antimachinists had traded their shouts for whispers. Perhaps they didn't see the cannons as kin to the hated engines that threatened their livelihoods. Or perhaps they were simply waiting for the right moment; the wary hunger in their leader's face argued such. Harm stood tall and still, his hands clenched tight on each edge of his jacket, focused entirely on the cannons, while Delight's apprentices shouted hoarse praise for the new cannon, extolling the strength and distance attainable.

  Focused almost entirely on the cannons; Harm's gaze flicked to the crush of aristocrats and settled, for a telling moment, on Prince Ivor Grigorian.

  Whitsonby stepped back from one of the old cannons that had been roughly scraped clean, signaling ready. Its fuse lit, the cannon went off with a roar and a plume of acrid smoke; the ball, sent hurtling outward, fell far short of the tide-caught dinghy.

  The crowd laughed and jeered; Chryses held up his hands, flashed a bright smile before turning his attention to the new cannons—thinner, lighter, mounted on wheeled platforms, and oddly decorative. Delight's trademark, that twist of brass curling around the base.

  Janus found himself wishing for a misfire, for the months of work to come to nothing. A failed experiment would be the source of a thousand jibes and scorn, would hamper Janus's movement through society. The aristocrats preferred a villain to a fool. But to succeed?

  Ivor clapped politely as the second cannon was wheeled into position, the clamp locked on the platform's wheels. Janus hated that Gost was right; he wanted nothing more than to wrest Chryses away from the cannons and into the arms of the muttering antimachinists.

  The fuse lit and smoldered; the second cannon fired and the sound of it silenced the crowd. Where the first cannon roared, this one howled—the sound of a whirlwind grinding ground. The old dinghy's side exploded, a plume of water rose like a pale, enveloping shroud. When the spume faded, splinters rode the waves while the dinghy sank as if Nagas coils had crushed it.

  The crowd erupted. One man, sou
nding more like a child than an adult, cried, “Again! Again!”

  Chryses laughed, bowed, playing to the people, playing to his father's disapproval. Harm had disappeared, Admiral DeGuerre's face was grimly set, and Ivor Grigorian looked as if he shared Chryses's triumph. It was that smugness that shattered the last of Janus's control.

  Without meaning it, Janus found himself across the intervening space, knocking the long match from Chryses's hand as he reached to light the fuse of the reloaded cannon.

  “You fool,” Janus said. His hands were tight on Chryses's neck, and his own throat was sore with the only restraint he could manage, keeping himself from shouting. “Do you understand what you've done?”

  “Showed Gost what we're capable—”

  “Showed Itarus the weapon that's meant to put holes in their ships. Given Ivor a perfect reason to act the auditor and censure us. Or do you forget we're under treaty with them, our country a slave to their wishes? Our purpose, Chryses, was to build a future, not flaunt our disobedience. You wanted your father's attention? You have it. What you've lost? My trust and that of the antimachinists. What do you think Harm will do, knowing now that you're—”

  “He always knew,” Chryses said. His voice was tight. “My name is known. He thought me disowned, disgruntled, seeking vengeance. He will still think it.”

  “When your demonstration was so arguably a success?”

  Chryses laughed at him. “When you're so obviously unhappy with it? I believe Harm might be more convinced of my allegiance than before. If you send me back to play spy, he'll likely raise a toast in my name.”

  Janus found himself thinking quite calmly that if Chryses could say such irritating things then he, Janus, wasn't holding tight enough. He remedied that, watched Chryses go purple and blotched.

  Then there were hands over his, two sets. One pair was work roughened, frantic. Delight's voice was a running, distressful murmur in his ear, alternately berating and soothing. The second set of hands was gloved and impartial. They pinched the nerves in Janus's arms, and when his hands palsied, pulled them away from Chryses's throat.

  Gost stepped back as Chryses dropped; Janus panted, his hands twitching.

  “Antyre and its peoples are overfond of violence,” Gost said. “Your demonstration only exacerbates that. I had higher expectations of your engines, Last. I had higher expectations of you. A king should have better control of his subjects and, most important of all, of himself.”

  With that, Gost walked away, back stiff and straight, gait relaxed as if he were simply taking his leave of a garden party, leaving Janus behind in the chaos.

  Chryses stumbled to his feet, aided by the wary apprentices. Delight pointedly kept his hands on Janus's arms, both a quiet restraint and a reproof to his brother, a visible choice of whose side Delight had taken.

  Janus wished it mattered to him that Delight was his, but Delight's company was as scandalous as it was helpful. A clatter of carriage wheels diverted him, gave him a glance of Psyke being driven away. He expected her to look triumphant at his failure, but instead her gaze was inward directed and deeply worried.

  ♦ 14 ♦

  SYKE HESITATED AS SHE ENTERED the Duchess of Love's dining room and saw a new set of bones awaiting her. The bones before had been distressing, so enormously out of place in the duchess's home, but Psyke had named the woman's attempt at witchcraft desperation, the actions of a powerful woman who suddenly found herself powerless when it most counted. But this—

  This smacked less of desperation and more of deliberate wickedness. If only it weren't so necessary. Nights spent listening to Aris's ghost reliving his murder had worn her nerves until she felt that Janus's death might be the only thing that could grant her rest, be it just or unjust.

  A dark-gowned woman, slim and veiled, jerked at the duchess's snapped command and continued sifting dark, clotted powder into a tiny vial. Holes marked the long bones of the skeleton's legs and arms, and Psyke, trained in at least the preliminaries of human biology, connected the two. Bone marrow; the stuff of life and the malignant heart of a dozen poisons.

  Psyke's attention wavered when Mirabile ghosted up beside her, a phantasm of sound and scent more than vision.

  She brushed by Psyke, indignation lending her weight and heft. For a moment Psyke saw the drift of soiled feathers and white silk, as if Mirabile, in death, still wore the costume from the night she went mad and murderous. Mirabile whirled, granting Psyke a quick glimpse of reddening eyes, a crow's beak, before fading back to a spiteful voice. Does it please you to see me thus? My bones laid out for your purposes? The power I fought for, scavenged?

  “It's foul,” Psyke answered without thought. Her other ghosts were never so direct. Never so prone to talking to her. Instead, they spoke elliptically, nearby, like gossip overheard. But Mirabile, as she had in life, made her presence felt.

  “It's unpleasant to be sure, but so many of women's tasks are,” Celeste said, pausing in her instructions to the veiled girl. “All you need do is slip this into his food—”

  “I will not,” Psyke said, and it was her own voice, not Aris's complaint or Mirabile's spite. Just her own, quiet and steady, drawing the line she chose not to cross.

  “It's no less necessary than disposing of a rabid animal. He will destroy everything he touches.”

  Psyke shook her head. “And if Janus dies before we have a strong replacement, Prince Ivor will step in. The country—”

  “The country,” Celeste said, “fawned over Maledicte and Janus while they destroyed my life. You will do as I say.”

  “No,” Psyke said. “I came to you for your aid in finding evidence of Janus's wrongdoing, not to dabble in witchcraft and treason.”

  “If you truly believed that, you would have gone to the city Particulars, to the guards and soldiers. Take the poison. Remove Janus.”

  Psyke took a step away from the table, leaving Mirabile's ghost behind, a swath of fading mist embracing her own bones.

  The veiled girl spoke, startling Psyke, who had thought her nothing more than another of Celeste's servants, but that she would interrupt the brewing quarrel argued otherwise.

  “Lady Last,” she said. “Think on this, if you will. These bones, Mirabile's bones, are contaminated so thoroughly by the god that they can cause death. What do you think has happened to Janus, who embraced his god-touched lover so often? Can his soul be anything but corrupt? Would you have one such on your throne?”

  Psyke let herself be diverted by the veiled girl's accusation. “There's no evidence at all that Janus is corrupt in any fashion more than human. There never has been. Aris charged me with finding such, and I found nothing beyond arrogance.”

  “Corruption may run deep,” the girl said. “Such things are often hard to find, like rot moving through wood. By the time it's discovered—”

  “It hardly signifies,” Celeste said. “Whether he is corrupted by Ani or not, he must be removed.”

  Psyke shook her head again, distaste and doubt warring within her.

  The duchess sucked in a quick, furious breath and said, “Go wait in the drawing room, think on the wrongs Janus has done you, me, the kingdom, and when you've come to sense, I'll bring you the poison.”

  Psyke left the two women, would have left the house entirely save that the coachman refused to take her without the duchess's command. So Psyke waited in the shrouded drawing room, the drapes still pulled tight, locking death and grief inside. A maid tiptoed into the room, whispered a slur of questions in a frightened country accent that could have been anything from an earnest wish as to her mistress's doings or a query as to Psyke's preference in tea.

  I'm thirsty, Mirabile complained, and hungry. I miss tea cakes.

  Psyke shook her head. “Nothing, thank you.” Mirabile hissed in frustration and faded. Psyke sat on the divan, wishing her nerves could be put to rest. It was hard to find the center of calmness that was the foundation of a lady's poise when she felt she was either cursed or mad, wh
en her allies were discussing witchcraft as the best method of removing her husband from power. Her father would have called it treason.

  A man's voice came to her ears, a whisper as faint as the brush of a cat against skin. My wife has always been a most fearsome enemy.

  Psyke rose and turned hastily, skirts hissing against the upholstery, and caught a shiver of movement, the portly shade of the Duke of Love fading away before she could decipher his intention. Were his words warning or praise?

  Her shoulders ached coldly. She stretched them as best she could, given the constraints of fashion—tightly-laced corset and the close-fitting silk bodice. Rising, she rubbed at the bony knobs of her shoulders, finding them both oddly numb and tender where those strange bruises lingered, the all-too-tangible reminder of Aris's murder.

  She shuddered, remembering the cold grip that had both sheltered her and forbidden her to die for her king. Psyke pressed into the soft embrace of the heavy, black drapes, parted them to the daylit world outside, so far from her trouble. If she had died then …

  She leaned her cheek against the windowpane, letting its coolness wick away the need she felt for hot tears. An equally cold touch, delicate as a fallen petal, landed on her bared nape, and left a tiny spot of chill dampness behind. Her eyes flew open in shock, her fingers to her neck, testing the contours of what had felt, undeniably, like a kiss. The coldest and most hesitant kiss she had ever imagined, but tender, nonetheless. As tender and sweet as the first kiss Janus had pressed to her skin.

  In the glass, dizzying her with the shifting intricacy of its reflection, something, someone stood behind her, close enough that she should feel a breath. But there was nothing. No living sign at all—no breath, no warmth, no heartbeat. Not even one of her ghosts; it lacked the tattered glamour of Mirabile's gown, the faded gilt of Aris's bent head. Instead, something vast stretched out behind her, eclipsing the rest of the room. Shadows layered on shadows, and within them, the expectation of eyes, a face, not quite human. It recognized her gaze and bent its head, the heavy cowl hiding its face, its demeanor … expectant.