Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  Janus allowed himself a vulgar shrug, enjoyed the way both men twitched in instant disapproval, and made no answer beyond that.

  Predictably, DeGuerre spluttered at him, words made incomprehensible by his agitation.

  Gost, in contrast, settled back again, that shadow of suspicion hooding his eyes. Janus turned his expression as blank and as guileless as he had done during his first days in the Antyrrian court, and smiled.

  He had no intention of sharing his plan with Gost. He had been gulled by the man, and it rankled. Though Janus distrusted altruism on principle, he had believed in Gost's offer of aid, forgetting that men who played games with power were uniformly ambitious. The result of such carelessness? Gost's first suggestion of aid had led to the demonstration at the docks.

  No, Gost was no ally, but another like Ivor, one he must take by surprise.

  DeGuerre left the room with an ill-mannered slam of the door that set the dust on Aris's bookshelves falling like ash.

  Gost said, “You make an enemy of one who might otherwise be an ally.”

  “Do you speak of yourself or of the admiral? I prefer his honest frustration and temper to your more calculated words.” Janus sat in the chair opposite Gost, stretching his feet out before him, and studying the shine of his boots. His hand dropped to his hip and rested there, above his sword hilt.

  “Your father did you a grave disservice when he chose to have you schooled in the Itarusine court. You exhibit the worst of their manners—insolence and distrust.” Gost's face betrayed no sentiment other than a faint, fatherly disappointment. A practiced liar indeed.

  Janus nearly laughed, freed by the realization that if Gost was an enemy he needn't court his approval any longer. “It wasn't schooling he sent me there for but disposal, a way to placate Aris's demands for my reinstatement as father's heir and to please himself The Itarusine court's notoriously dangerous. Unfortunately for my father, Ivor found me useful, Aris recalled me home, and well, we know the rest.”

  “You slaughtered your father,” Gost said, “and fed him to the sea.”

  “Not I,” Janus said.

  “Your lover,” Gost said.

  “Unproven,” Janus said. “Though I will admit Mal's desires sometimes exceeded sense.”

  “Indeed,” Gost said. “It seems to be a flaw of youth.” He rose and left Janus in possession of the king's study.

  Janus's satisfaction faded between one heartbeat and the next. All very well to name Gost enemy, but the recognition of it didn't make the man any less powerful. Gost commanded respect; held a fortune earned in Kyrda's court, safe from Itarusine predation; had the friendship of the Kyrdic king; and, if DeGuerre and Bull supported him, owned the majority of the Kingsguard.

  Gost might even have been behind the attempt on his life. Janus had only Psyke's word that Harm had been behind it, and how could he trust the word of a woman who spoke with the dead and counted the Duchess of Love among her friends?

  Janus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tangled his hands in his hair. Enemies on every side, yes, and he was accustomed to that, but never before had he needed to turn them to allies. Even having Maledicte by his side would fail to help toward that end.

  Turn the knife outward. It had been all the advice Mal had ever given him. Advice that had served them so well in the Relicts. It was the same thing now. Stop hurting himself with doubts.

  Stop his enemies, yes, but recognize that Ivor took precedence over the rest. Ivor commanded a near army of loyal men, brought to Antyre with him, in the very walls of the palace, playing at being simple servants; he owned men in the streets, Itarusine merchants who were likely more than they appeared. But Janus knew Ivor and the Winter Court, and knew they were not without fears of their own.

  Janus's idea turned and twisted in his mind as he added and discarded elaborations, hunted for the perfect plan. He collected the broadsheet lying over the arm of the chair, folded it back to the caricature, and thought of Poole, in his privileged prison cell, high above the crowded and diseased lower levels. There was the place to start.

  BEFORE LEAVING THE PALACE, JANUS thought to visit Adiran, see how the boy fared. After the tantrums had ceased, he'd heard nothing from the nursery save gossip.

  The guards outside Adiran's door made way when Janus approached, ushering him in, then, as he passed, Janus heard one of them heading away from the door, undoubtedly notifying Rue of his visit.

  The low table was set for lunch and Adiran looked up from his plate, leaning away so the maid could finish cutting his meal into bite-size pieces. She set the fork into the boy's lax hand.

  Adiran smiled, wide and sunny, and Janus joined him at his low table, fishing in his pockets for a sweet.

  The nurserymaid said, “Not'til after he eats, my lord,” then paled and removed herself from his reach.

  Janus laid the waxed twist of paper on the table, and Adiran peeled it open to reveal a crimson chunk of rock sugar.

  “Thank you,” Adiran said clearly.

  Janus blinked. Courtesies were rare in Adiran's world. The boy was only tangentially aware of people at all, though Aris had worked with him. Perhaps it was simply table etiquette, drummed in by rote practice; the maid seemed unsurprised, even as she disapproved.

  “It's a single piece,” Janus said, “hardly enough to ruin his appetite.”

  “His appetite's not good,” she said. “He doesn't do enough to wake it.”

  “I suppose not,” Janus said, after some thought. Done with his candy, Adiran reached for a piece of venison, and the maid coughed.

  Janus caught the boy's hand, and held out the fork. “Use this,” he said.

  Adiran took it, though he sent Janus a glance much less sweet than usual. He poked at the meat with the fork clutched tight in his fist, little bursts of frustration.

  “I can watch him.” As the maid hesitated, he said, “Or do you think my manners so barbaric I cannot even instruct a child….” He let his tone grow sharp and cold, watched her pale.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, dropping a curtsy and taking herself out of the room.

  Adiran watched her go, and dropped the fork, plucking the meat from the tines and eating it defiantly from his fingers.

  Janus laughed, and let the boy eat as he would. Intelligent or not, the boy did have a will of his own. Gost, no doubt, intended to use it to prove the boy was fit to be king. It was what Janus would do, if he felt inclined to hide his goals: Pretend the boy had recovered well enough to rule but keep him confined and pretend to receive direction from him.

  Janus snitched a piece of the venison, ate it, and watched Adiran eat the rest of his meal faster, protecting it from Janus.

  When the food was gone, the boy pushed his way into Janus's lap and started rooting through his pockets. There was no more candy to find, but Janus let the boy collect the tiny dagger he carried in his waistcoat, a last-ditch weapon should his sword be taken from him. Adiran tilted it back and forth, watching the shine of the blade in the room. “Would you like it?” Janus asked. “It's not a toy, but you have enough of those.”

  Adiran stopped fidgeting and tilted his head up to meet Janus's gaze. Completely still, completely silent, those blue eyes watched Janus with a strange intensity. “It's only a thought,” Janus said. “Even toys might pall if that's all you're allowed. Though best not to let your maid see it. Consider it a birthday gift. Likely your first.”

  Adiran laid the dagger on the table, walked his fingers up the blade, leaving fingerprints on the steel.

  “Do you want me to tell you a story, Adi?”

  Still looking at the knife, Adiran nodded, the reflection of his eyes blurred shadows in the blade.

  “When I was your age, I had a birthday as uncelebrated as yours. Yours is tainted by the death of your mother. Your father mourned her loss so much that even though he loved you, he couldn't celebrate your birth. Typical of Aris, if you ask me. In my case, though, there was no celebration because my mother wished
I had never been born. When I turned thirteen, Miranda kissed me. Not in play, not to make mock of our whorish mothers. But because she loved me.

  “I miss her, Adi. I feel incomplete without her.” He pressed his face into Adiran's knotted curls.

  A dark weight rose up through him, the cold chill of Ani's voice not as he had always imagined it, harsh and cold, but a childish treble that stung his ears deep inside, made him clap a hand to them, expecting blood.

  Then you shouldn't have used her. Betrayed Her

  Adiran's hand fisted around the dagger's hilt.

  Janus pushed the boy from his lap, snatched the dagger from his hand, breathing hard and fast. Adiran blinked at him, quiet and entirely too watchful, a predator's eyes in a boyish face. But the intensity of his gaze faded. Adiran yawned and held out his hand for the dagger.

  “Please?” he said.

  Janus kept the dagger close for a long moment, then passed it over, along with its sheath.

  Janus sat down again, numb. The boy's intelligence was no greater than before, though Gost might find it so, did Janus choose to acquit him of duplicity in the matter. It was simply that Adiran was no longer alone in his soul. As much as Janus wished to deny it, he could not. As Maledicte had been a composite personality, comprised of Miranda and Ani, so Adiran grew into something more. Something new and dangerous, though right now, with Adiran leaning up against his hip in sleepy contentment, it was hard to believe. Could the boy, flawed as he was, even hold the god's attention?

  Vengeance, Janus thought bleakly. Love and vengeance and a beloved father murdered. Ani would take notice.

  The double doors to the nursery opened wide, giving Janus a glance at a squad of guards, with Rue at the head, the mastiff Hela at his side.

  Hela jerked out of Rue's grasp and began to bark, deep furious notes that filled the nursery. Rue gestured sharply and a guard dragged Hela back into the corridor, still barking and growling.

  Rue bowed briefly to Janus and said, “Might we speak?”

  “Of course,” Janus said. He gave Adi a gentle shove toward his toys, and followed Rue into the hall.

  Hela had calmed, and was being led away on a heavy chain. Rue watched the guard go and sighed. “Bane's already been transferred to the stables. I had hoped Hela would stay manageable.”

  It was Adiran, Janus thought. The dogs knew, sensed the god's presence lurking within the child, knew and hated Her.

  “The guards believe Maledicte left a taint in the room, and that's why the dogs bark and growl so, where once they loved to be.”

  Janus bridled, but Rue's face was only quietly thoughtful; in fact, when he saw Janus's expression, he shook his head in apology. “I'm sorry. You cannot like hearing such rumors.”

  “I've heard worse,” Janus said. He felt oddly anticipatory. Since Aris's murder, Rue had been occupied in chasing a killer most likely long gone, in separating rumor from truth and fears. That he spoke with such civility to Janus argued that perhaps he accepted that Janus was innocent of regicide. But then again, Rue had been polite during the worst of it, when the smell of Aris's blood still soured the air.

  “I would ask a favor of you, sir,” Rue said.

  Janus raised a brow, leaning back against the flocked wallpaper of the hallway. It rustled against his sleeves, whispering like the scratching of rats. The muscles in his back tightened, though he endeavored to be still.

  “Adiran is the prince of the realm,” Rue began. “The last of the blood—”

  “Hardly that,” Janus said.

  “Legitimate bloodline, then,” Rue corrected himself. “As such, his life is not his own. For the good of the public confidence, I ask you to stay away from the child.”

  Janus had expected something of the sort from the moment Rue mentioned Adiran's rank. It was enough in itself to make him bridle, the idea that this guard thought to tell him what to do. Coupled with his sudden and new awareness of Ani's presence, it seemed unwise to leave Adiran alone to listen to Black-Winged Ani.

  “I think you'll find that I'm the only one who can understand him,” Janus said.

  “He has the nurse to see to his needs; and, as he is, he has no desire for more.”

  “Are you so certain?” Janus said. “Adiran's wits improve, thus making him capable of boredom and discontent.”

  “Your concern does you credit. I will ensure that the nurses report any of Adiran's progress to you.”

  Janus bit back any further argument. This was a battle that could be fought later; it was insulting but hardly injurious. “If it will help reassure the people in these uncertain times, I can do little else but agree.”

  He nodded stiffly at Rue, got a nod in return, and stalked away, trying to keep calm. It shouldn't rankle so much; Adiran, after all, was nothing to him. Nothing but his only family.

  Janus pulled his temper in tighter, and thought, as his mood had gone so foul, perhaps now would be the ideal time to visit Stones.

  STONEGATE PRISON LOOKED MUCH AS it had on Janus's last visit, an edifice of leprous stone, flaking under the pall of soot, riddled with dark slits like rents in an old shroud, and as quiet as a tomb. Appearances, though, Janus knew, were deceptive. This peace was as false as a courtesan's smile, and hid the same sort of ugliness: disease, murder, madness.

  Inside the walls men, women, and children were packed as closely as animals in market pens, punished for crimes that the noble class committed often and without retribution.

  It only took a few owed sols to send a merchant or working-class man to Stones, ensuring the ruin of their health and status. The nobles, though, were extended credit until there was no hope of repayment; ironic that a good portion of the debts that destroyed the merchants were caused by the nobles who couldn't be bothered to pay their bills on time. Or at all.

  As his carriage neared the prison, the wheels stuck and churned, the gravel drive unraked and in humped furrows. After the third such jolt, Janus tapped the roof of the carriage. “I'll walk.”

  The horses drew to a halt, and Janus stepped out. The air was foul, and he pressed a sleeve to his face, feeling oddly as if the past had impressed itself upon his present. Hadn't he and Miranda watched Kritos come out of this very same carriage, hand up to ward off the stink of the Relicts? Had he been so long away that he had become unable to bear the stink of unwashed men?

  The wind rose, coiled miasma about him, and Janus coughed until his gorge rose. This stench had little to do with life and everything to do with death. He stepped out of the shadow of the carriage while the guards' horses bridled and danced, and looked again at Stones.

  The narrow strip of gravel leading up to the barred front door was on firm soil, rutted and hollowed and uncared for, but firm. The rest of the courtyard—the dirt was turned and turned again, rich loam showing through, studded with flies rising in small buzzing spirals like smoke.

  Simpson's and Walker's familiar faces were grim, repulsed, and Janus nodded at them. “Inside's like to be worse,” he said. The wind shifted; Simpson gagged audibly, and nearly set Janus to doing likewise.

  “My lord,” Walker said, his face pale beneath the disfiguring blotches on his cheek. “There's plague inside. The charnel pits are full, thus the ground turning. The very air is riddled with disease.”

  “Your concern is noted,” Janus said. He assumed the man feared for his own well-being and not Janus's. The scars on Walker's face were old echoes from the man's battle with a past plague. Janus had a matching array of scars tucked beneath his arm where blisters had burst as a child, though his scars were far lighter. Ella, Miranda's mother, for all her sins, had had a deft hand with folk medicine.

  Janus might fear a relapse of the plague himself had it not been proven to him that for those who survived, the plague's grasp grew weak on them ever after. A later bout of it during his time in Winter Court had left him unmarked, though others died.

  Janus continued on his way, though Walker was right: the air was weighted with disease, so strong
a presence that the air seemed smudged by it. Walker conferred briefly with Simpson, and Simpson went back to stand guard over the carriage and coachman. Not an illogical assignment, Janus reflected. Times were uncertain; his carriage might be attacked for any number of reasons from penury to politics, while he would be safer than usual inside a prison. His enemies preferred to strike in the dark and from behind.

  Walker hastened to Janus's side. “My lord, may I ask your business here?”

  “No,” Janus said. He narrowed his eyes at the first dim stretch of the tunnel entrance, trying to recall his prior visit. Then, he had been focused on retrieving Mal.

  The halls were dark, dirty, and narrow; the ground beneath his boots soft with dirt and spilled blood; and the stink seemed embedded in the very stone. Janus took his sleeve from his face, forced himself to breathe it in. Wasn't this the stench of his childhood, the odor of poverty without pride or expectation? Wasn't this what he intended to eradicate from his kingdom?

  “Such a sour face. Is my prison not to your liking, my lord?” Damastes growled when Janus entered the head jailer's chambers. Janus wove his way through the man's rooms, crowded to the ceiling with a collection of bribes and favors that encompassed everything from jewelry to furniture, and drew up a seat before the man's desk, a delicate piece of furniture in the latest fashion, all gilt edges and painted wood. A dish of herbs burned sluggishly, the scented smoke pushing back some of the prison stench.

  “The prison's fine; it's only the wrong people are in it,” Janus said.

  “Come to take someone else out, my lord?” Damastes asked. “Last time, it was the courtier Maledicte. I was surprised to not find you here in his place, after what he did.”

  “Perhaps you should be more cautious with your tongue, man,” Janus said. “You address a peer.”

  “Ha,” Damastes said. “A jumped-up bastard—” He broke off to cough, a long, liquid sound that told Janus exactly why Damastes felt so free to disparage him. The man was dying.