Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  With Delight playing dead in Psyke's bed, Janus's wife had crept into his. Given what he knew of Psyke's unnatural ally, of her predilection for dying and resurrecting in her sleep, Janus chose to stay awake rather than lie beside her. Dahlia's death had been lingering and painful from all accounts.

  “You look tired,” Delight said.

  “You look… fashionable,” Janus said. Though Janus had sent the men's clothing along with the women's, he belatedly regretted doing so. Delight, dressed as a man, made sober by sorrow, seemed more a threatening stranger than the eccentric inventor Janus had learned to count a friend.

  “I presumed it a veiled request,” Delight said, “to not scandalize the delicate sensibilities of the court.”

  “Dress as you please,” Janus said. “Do as you please, only aid me with these encroaching and maddening throne thieves!” He tossed down the latest demands from Itarusine merchants and from the antimachinists who had shown the poor taste to flaunt the destruction of Seahook and sign their names to the parchment. The Particulars were out arresting them now.

  Delight stepped back, wariness showing in the line of his body, in the way his hands spread out, carefully held low. “Last—”

  “Be easy, Delight. I'm not like to take your head off when I need it to keep Antyre from becoming nothing more than an Itarusine colony.”

  Delight dropped into one of the wing chairs by the empty hearth and said, “I'm hungry.” He gestured toward the tray of sandwiches at Janus's side. “May I?”

  “I wouldn't,” Janus said. “I didn't recognize the maidservant who brought them, and she seemed oddly unfamiliar with the palace. The wine's quite safe.”

  Delight gaped a moment, and then said, “You… poison … how can you live like this?”

  “As I've always lived,” Janus said. “Cautiously.”

  A man clad in the oiled, gray greatcoat of a city Particular put his head in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the captain said to tell you, we got three of the troublemakers, tossed em into Stones. You want us to see them executed?”

  “How does the prison fare? When I was there a few days ago, it seemed vile enough to serve as punishment for all but the worst offenders to the crown.”

  “There's sickness, so we heard. We didn't go in beyond the gates, much,” the Particular said. “Sickness is affecting even the guards, which makes the food rounds a little less'n regular, if you understand.”

  The man reached into his greatcoat pocket, and Janus tensed, hand falling to his sword hilt.

  “The jailer gave me something for you.” The Particular passed him a handful of papers bound neatly into a square, bowed, and left.

  Janus opened the packet and found three thick sheets tucked within, scribbled, smudgy drawings of prisoners in extremis, crouched over food bowls, locked in a cloudy charcoal brawl. Incorrigible, he thought, and set the images aside for the words written on the wrapper itself.

  It should come as no surprise to you that I've managed to ingratiate myself with the common people. They, after all, understand that I have a care for them. So your punishment falls far short of what you intended, and, as such, you might as well return me either to freedom or to my singular cell.

  Janus laughed. Did the man think he was being subtle?

  “Good news?” Delight asked.

  “Poole,” Janus said, “carefully not asking for release though he wants it.”

  “You locked him up?” Delight asked.

  “No,” Janus said. “Apparently my father and I had one thing in common after all. Even if it was only hatred of a caricaturist. It's strange how you notice these things once it's too—” He stopped his careless words. Delight's face shuttered. He wrapped an arm about himself.

  “Where will I work?” Delight asked. “I want to get back to work. Tarrant… Oh! Tarrant won't know about the fire; he's supposed to rendezvous with us—”

  “The whole hillside's charred,” Janus said. “He'll find someplace else to drop anchor, and send us a message.”

  “So slow,” Delight mourned. “And the roads full of antimachinists.”

  “They're people, not locusts,” Janus said. “There's a finite number of them. Don't borrow trouble; we've quite enough of it as it is.” He poured Delight a glass of the wine, handed it to him, though the man eyed it with a mixture of desire and horror.

  As if getting the worst out of the way, he took several large swallows, and sighed when he didn't fall dead on the spot. “Who's trying to poison you?” Delight asked.

  “Most recently?” Janus asked. “I'd assume Lord Blythe. He was most annoyed that I chose not to respond to his demands.”

  Delight groaned. “He was a horrible nit when I was a boy. Sounds as if he's only gotten worse.”

  “The duchess encourages him,” Janus said. “Still, his attempts are transparent and virtually harmless. It's Psyke I have to beware.”

  Delight, leaning back in the chair, started forward, eyes narrowing. “What have you done to her? She's gone mad. You fault the duchess for encouraging Blythe's fancies, but you do the same to Psyke, humoring her.”

  “Not encourage,” Janus said. “Acknowledge the change in her, yes.”

  “She thinks she's followed by Haith!” Delight said. “You could see her to the physician.” The wine in his cup sloshed as he gestured.

  “You seem very ready to condemn her,” Janus said.

  “Madness can be cured, if caught soon enough, if she can be taught what is real and what is false.”

  “And you know which is real better than she,” Janus said. “Is it still mad if the facts are on her side?”

  “Yes,” Delight said. “The gods are gone, and, if truth be told, I doubt they ever existed at all, beyond men's desire for a greater power to instruct them.”

  “Ani exists in tangible form,” Janus said. He understood Delight's position, had held it himself until Miranda's collaboration with Ani created Maledicte.

  “I thought you a rational man.”

  Janus sighed. He didn't have the time to waste on this. “Rational enough to know that belief is unnecessary in the face of facts. The gods exist, Delight, whether we wish them to or not. I can only work toward a world where they are not needed. To make them disappear as they once pretended to do.”

  Ruthlessly, he changed the subject. Remarkable how irrational a rational man could be.

  “I'll have your new workshop set up in the palace itself. The first and second story of the old wing are taken up with Ivor and his staff, but the ground floor and dungeon might be ideal. It connects to the stables and the gardens for ease of delivery, and, as added benefit, Ivor's men will be less likely to set it afire if it's beneath their feet.”

  “What's to keep them from viewing my progress?” Delight asked.

  “A score of kingsguards,” Janus said. “I've so many soldiers following me around, I'm sure we must have a surplus. I'll speak to Rue for you. In the interim, feel free to ring for a meal. If you make clear it's not for me, there should be no trouble at all.”

  ♦ 21 ♦

  MITRY MUST APPROVE OF YOU,” Ivor said. His voice echoed in the stone surrounds and faded against the rolled-up carpets. The amusement on his face lingered.

  “Does he approve of anyone?” Janus asked. “He's always so sour.”

  “He allowed you entrance, didn't he, pet, when I am most assuredly not prepared for company. Or did you tell him you've come to fence?”

  When Janus arrived, he found Ivor's servants had been busy turning the dining room into a makeshift salle, rolling the carpets to bare the smooth stone beneath—better for sure footing—the furniture piled against the wall, a pyramid of dark wood in the dimly lit room. The servants were dismissed, sent off to find Ivor more lamps, the better to light the room. Meals were pleasant in dim surroundings, but blade work was best done in the light.

  Ivor raised his saber in a mocking imitation of a dueler saluting his opponent. For a moment, Janus wanted to take the challenge o
n; the assassination attempt of the week previous had only whetted his appetite, not sated it, and here was an opponent who would not only meet his blade but be eager for it.

  The tip of Ivor's blade sketched a quick slash toward Janus's throat at a distance far enough it couldn't be misconstrued as an actual threat, yet it was enough to cool Janus's enthusiasm. Ivor was a strong bladesman, a better duelist, and while Janus doubted Ivor would try to kill him in the Antyrrian palace, a serious wound, meant to slow and distract, could easily fit itself into his schemes.

  Janus shook his head. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Ivor scrubbed a towel through his hair, tossed it aside, letting it land over yet another ubiquitous idol of Haith, and took a seat on the single remaining chair in the room. “Have you come to join me for dinner, then? It'll be a few hours, yet,” Ivor said.

  Janus shook his head, and Ivor smiled. “Cook will be sorry to hear it. She likes your appetite.”

  Ivor set down the blade and took up a tin of oil and a polishing cloth. He sent a thin stream of oil onto the blade, let it spill down, illuminating nicks in the metal by creating tiny waves.

  Janus saw the polishing cloth grow snags as it swept over the tiny imperfections: Ivor's weapon was both well cared for and hard used, a visible reminder of duels won, lives lost.

  Janus sat on the pile of the rolled rugs, feeling much like a foreign dignitary of the Kyrdic court, and said, “I came to see if you would make good on your claims of friendship. I came to see if you would kill a man for me.”

  Ivor laughed after a moment of sheer, startled shock. Janus prized the expression; he hadn't won many such. “Do tell me you won't ask me to put the blade to my own throat, love. I'd do much for you, but I do value my skin.”

  “Well I know it,” Janus said. He leaned back on his elbows, made himself vulnerable. The man's curiosity would keep Janus secure for the length of the conversation.

  “Do you want me to guess?” Ivor said. “There are many I can imagine you would like removed.”

  “Fanshawe Gost,” Janus said.

  “The Kingmaker.”

  “The throne seeker.”

  Ivor frowned. “And if I do this small favor for you, what do I gain?”

  Janus found a smile of his own. Rats take it, but he loved dealing with Ivor, with the mind that worked as his own did. Ivor was well aware of Gost's potential, and it threatened Ivor's bid for the throne as well as Janus's.

  “What do you want?” Janus said.

  “A throne?” Ivor said, though he smiled. “Or perhaps a night spent with you and your wife.”

  If that was true, if Ivor had been serious, Janus would have agreed, despite Psyke's undoubted horror. It would be a small price to pay for Gost's removal and carried with it the possibility of Psyke's affinity for death touching Ivor. But it was the request of a hedonist, and, while Ivor enjoyed his pleasures, he was far too practical to trade a murder of such political worth for something as valueless as a single night of intimacy. Ivor said it merely to watch whether Janus would agree or sputter in outrage.

  Janus held his tongue.

  Ivor sighed. “Fine, my clever one. I want an audience with the prince.”

  “Guards attending,” Janus said. “Half an hour, no more?”

  “Stingy,” Ivor said. He set the blade back across his knees, drew out a whetstone, and began smoothing the largest of the nicks.

  “It will occasion notice,” Janus said. “Unfavorable notice. The best we can do is confine it to the stricture of a normal call between acquaintances. A half hour.” The rasp of the stone against the blade was really remarkably soothing.

  “How do you want him dead?” Ivor said.

  “I'd prefer not to be suspected,” Janus said. “My reputation's black enough.”

  “I'd prefer to indemnify myself also. I'll hire someone, if you have no objections.”

  “None at all,” Janus said, trying to hide his sudden triumph. Ivor paused, looked him over quite thoroughly, so much so that Janus worried Ivor had seen more than the surface of Janus's need to see Gost gone, had seen the hope that Ivor would use the same assassin who had killed the king and, in doing so, allow his capture. Allow Janus to clear himself of blame for Aris's murder.

  Ivor laughed, a full-throated yelp of amusement, and Janus stiffened. Ivor's laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started, and he reached out and yanked Janus to him. “You are such a fool, pet. You think yourself fit to be Antyre's king when you can't even execute a single man? You run to your enemy for aid and think yourself clever?”

  Janus wrapped a hand around Ivor's wrist, tried to pry himself free; but off balance, he lacked leverage. The polished blade touched his cheek. Struggling away, sprawled as he was half across the stones, only meant the blade pressed tighter until a thin rivulet of heat swept down his cheek, blood or sweat. He stilled; his heartbeat roared in his ears, his hands fisted, but he stilled.

  He swallowed painfully, the angle rough on his neck. This close, he could see the pale scars on Ivor's throat and the pulse beating hard beneath the skin.

  Ivor dropped the blade, put his other hand into Janus's hair. “There,” Ivor said. “Don't fight me. It's unnecessary. I will aid you. I simply want my say and to be assured of your attention; you're entirely too practiced at pretending to listen.

  “I know Gost's death will please you but is less important to you than your transparent attempt to find Aris's assassin. You may be foolish, but I am not. And Janus—”

  The rare use of his given name on Ivor's lips made Janus twitch, garnering a brief spike of pain as Ivor pulled his hair. “A king, even a would-be king, cannot afford to misread the strength of his enemies.”

  Ivor shoved, and Janus sprang free, panting, enraged, and stung. His hands shook as he wiped his face. Blood after all, the thinnest smear on his fingers. He crouched, all his Relict instinct urging him to fight.

  “Oh, do sit down,” Ivor said. “You're not an animal. And we have a promise to seal. I'll kill your enemy in such a way that absolves you of suspicion, and you will allow me access to your prince.”

  “Guarded,” Janus said, though his voice was hoarse, as if all the silent tension in his body had convinced his vocal cords he had been screaming in protest.

  “Of course,” Ivor said.

  Ivor danced his fingers down his blade's edge, until blood stippled the tips of his fingers. “So, a deal?”

  “Yes,” Janus said. Ivor rose in a flash, rubbed his bloody fingers over Janus's mouth and cheek. “There,” he said, grinning. “We've sealed our promises in Relict fashion. With blood.”

  Janus lunged away, caught himself halfway to the door, salt scald in his eyes, in his throat. He shook his head fiercely, felt as off balance and as scoured as he had the day he inhaled the acrid exhaust from one of Delight's machines. “Ivor, make him hurt. I want him to hurt.” Someone should share his pain.

  He didn't wait for anything further to pass Ivor's lips—amusement, satisfaction, another painful barb. He just wanted to be away.

  JANUS STRODE THROUGH THE HALLS, fighting the chill the old wing wanted to press into his bones. His guards, Simpson and Walker, fell in behind him, exclaiming at the blood on his face. Janus tore his cravat free, spat on it, and scrubbed away the blood, throwing the silk at their feet when he was done.

  They quailed. Janus didn't wonder at it. He felt murderous, and undoubtedly looked it.

  The stairwell beckoned and he clattered down its wide stones; at its base, a young man stepped out to greet him. “Not now, Delight,” Janus said.

  Delight drew back, disappearing into the rooms beyond with a haste that confirmed it: Janus was in no fit state to be seen.

  He ducked out of the old wing at the nearest exit, the servants' doors to the stables. Behind him, he could hear Walker muttering that nobles shouldn't know the back passages as well as all that, and Simpson hushing him with a hiss and a cough.

  Not know the back passages? It was his palace. His
city. His country. There wouldn't be a part of it he didn't know.

  He paused at the stables, contemplating seizing a horse and riding out the last few moments of daylight, or riding into the city and finding a partner to duel at one of the men's clubs; surely there'd be some fool belligerent enough to challenge him, maybe even Savne or Blythe…. His lips drew up in a savage grin; he felt the cool air of the approaching night on his tongue, and it sobered him enough to bypass the stables. Instead, he headed along the length of the old wing's outer wall, the fragrant lure of the king's gardens promising reprieve.

  But even they betrayed him, beautiful as they were, the greenery going black with night shadows; the empty maze, blooming with starflowers, proved itself to be peopled after all. He heard the piping voices, sound carried on the still air. Young voices, one higher with a commoner's accent, the other aristocratic. Janus rounded a corner, following the leaping mouse emblem, and found Evan Tarrant and Prince Adiran picnicking in the dwindling twilight.

  They fell silent when he burst in on them; Evan leaping to his feet, Adiran blinking up at him.

  “My lord?” Walker called from beyond the maze. Janus pounced. Evan yelped, but Janus had the boy's upper arm firmly in his grasp and was dragging him back toward the exit of the maze and the palace. Adiran rose and trotted after, his expression worried as Janus took his friend away.

  Walker and Simpson traded oaths when Janus appeared with the boys. “Ensure the prince follows,” Janus snapped. Evan whimpered, but Janus hissed at him, and the boy went silent for the long trip back to the nursery. Faintly, Janus regretted hurting the boy, but seizing Adiran would likely get him killed.

  The guards outside the nursery panicked at their approach, flinging open the door as if to disprove their eyes, that Adiran was still inside, and drawing their blades when they saw he wasn't.

  Janus dragged Evan to the open door, and found his way barred by two lengths of steel. Walker and Simpson drew their swords in return.