Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  He'd done it quickly enough; the rapid pace his heart set told him so. Usually, there were six or more guards stationed near the wide, glass-paned entrance doors, and once Rue and Janus had their say, there'd be six again. But currently there were only two guards, looking as lathered as the horses, as if they expected smoke and flame to come rushing in on them at any moment.

  They got Ivor and his blade instead. Two quick slices; he had the first guard's spine cut through before the other turned, and then he opened that man's belly. He left them lying there, and sought out the servants' stairs, allowing himself a moment to regain his breath in the quiet stillness between the dark walls.

  Adiran was on the third level. His guards would still be there: Ivor doubted they'd move for anything less than total cataclysm.

  He had two choices now: to take them on, by himself, or to take the time—possibly too much time—to collect his assassin from the tower.

  He realized, not without a little regret, that she, too, would be guarded, and fighting off her guards would attract attention that would make collecting Adiran, even with her aid, that much more difficult.

  Ivor climbed, counting steps; the servants' stairs ran half floors occasionally, to make space for linen cupboards and dumbwaiters.

  He slipped through the narrow, concealed door into the hallway, and the influx of fresh air made him aware of the scent of smoke, burned flesh, and horse sweat he carried with him. He shucked off his coat, tossed it back into the stairwell, hoping to leave most of the scent behind. He would prefer not to rouse the guards sooner than he must.

  Ten steps down the silent hall, heart thumping, a smile on his lips—it all came to this moment. Janus, my pet, he thought, it would have been wiser to join me. Adiran will hunt you to the ends of the earth once I name you Aris's killer and Antyre will be mine.

  ♦ 28 ♦

  HERE WAS NO DOUBT THAT Ivor had set the blaze deliberately, Janus thought, looking in at the wreckage, at the bleeding, burned men being carted away, nor that he had done it to aid his escape. The question was, had Ivor had more purpose than simply escape?

  Fire was classic distraction, Janus thought. It was also a weapon. Perhaps it was meant to do only as it had, free Ivor, and burn Delight's—

  Delight let down his skirts, wiped at the soot streaking his fair skin, and said, “We kept it out of the engineering wing. He failed there.”

  Rough laughter came from one of the men slung between the arms of two guards. “Failed?” the man wheezed, through a face raw and pitted.

  “Dmitry,” Janus said. He recognized the man only by the chain around his neck and its great silver locket that held a picture of the royal family.

  “He burned me like I was of no more account than the maids,” Dmitry choked out. Janus waved a hand at the nearest guard, then when the man only gazed back in blank dismay—exhausted or shocked—Janus said, “Delight!”

  Delight swayed over at once, dropped to his knees beside Dmitry and Janus. “Have you charcoal?” Janus asked.

  “Rather too much of it, I think,” Delight began, and then understanding dawned. He patted at his pocketed skirts, finally pulling out a stub of charcoal and, better still, a leather-bound notebook.

  “Dmitry,” Janus said, “will you have your revenge on him?”

  “I will.” Dmitry coughed, left blood on his lips and teeth; his eyes rolled up in his head, his sclera yellow.

  Janus reached out, pressed the stub into the man's burned hand. Dmitry stiffened, neck arcing, jaw going rictus tight, then when he eased, Janus said, “Sign your name.”

  “Dying, not a fool,” Dmitry gasped. “Write first. I'll not sign a blank confession. Don't trust you, either.” His free hand clutched Janus, left hot, wet circles on his already heated skin. “In Itarusine, mind you.”

  Janus took the charcoal stub back, wrote as neatly as he could, though the situation was hardly conducive to calligraphy, the book propped unsteadily against his thigh. Ivor Sofia Grigorian sent the assassin, X, to kill King Aris of Antyre. Witnessed by Dmitry …

  “Your surname?” Janus asked. Dmitry roused himself with a jerk and a groan.

  “Grigorson,” he said on a breath. Grigor's son. Dmitry's mother must have been wildly ineligible for him to be denoted a bastard in a court full of children born out of wedlock.

  Janus added it, wondering if Ivor had known. Or cared. He pressed the charcoal into the man's hand a second time, and Dmitry made his signature on the page before he died.

  Janus folded the book closed, passed it to Delight. “Don't write over that, please. No matter how clever you are or how much paper you need.”

  Delight sighed but made no other retort. Instead, he reached over Janus's shoulder and closed Dmitry's eyes. Delight leaned against Janus, rested his face against Janus's back. “It's over, then,” Delight said. “You've proof that Ivor sent the assassin. We can greet Grigor's missive with one of our own, and when Rue catches Ivor—”

  “Failed,” Janus murmured. Dmitry had laughed. “Rue! Where's Rue?”

  “The stables, my lord,” a guard answered. “Seeing if Ivor's steps can be traced through the mess the horses made.”

  “Get him back to the palace,” Janus said. He felt cold and sick, all his triumph draining away. He knew now why it had felt unearned. It was. “He's after Adiran.”

  Delight said, “Are you sure?”

  “A boy with a god waiting to be roused inside him? A boy who's a weapon waiting direction? Ivor doesn't need Grigor's support, doesn't need anything but Adiran and Ani.”

  “He'll accuse you of killing Aris,” Delight said, understanding finally what Janus feared.

  “I should have understood before. Always at least two purposes,” Janus said. “Succeed at both and when you've mastered that, try for a third.” He hesitated a moment, turned back to a guard, and said, “In-crease the guards around the assassin's cell—if she's still within.”

  “You think he's capable of overwhelming the guards?” Delight said. He tripped over the rough hem of his skirt, but Janus shot out a hand, and yanked. Delight stumbled but stayed upright.

  “Much as it pains me,” Janus said, “I must admit him capable of nearly everything.”

  They took the carpeted stairs in silence, their footfalls leaving soot stains and blood, and as they reached the landing Delight said, “Why not Grigor?”

  “What?”

  “Why not tell Adiran that Grigor killed his father?” Delight asked. “Why involve you?”

  “Don't be stupid,” Janus snapped. “Not now. Even should Adiran, guided by Black-Winged Ani, kill Grigor, there'd be brothers and sons and ambitious women left behind. Ani, sated, would withdraw Her aid, and the god is not so biddable as to work through all those obstacles first, saving Grigor for last. I could barely hold Maledicte in check and he was ever on my side.”

  Delight fell back, either out of breath or startled by Janus's implicit admission. It didn't signify much. Not when Ivor could be whispering poison into Adiran's ear, dooming Antyre. If Adiran came after him, Antyre would lose both of them and be easy prey for Itarus.

  Janus skidded as he reached the top of the stairs; his boot slipping on the marble. He thought it was soot, until he saw the guard lying in blood beyond it. A bruise blacked his temple, but he breathed.

  Ivor was hurrying, indeed, Janus thought, to leave the man alive. It gave him a brief spurt of hope. Perhaps he could catch Ivor with the boy, confuse the situation, though Black-Winged Ani, given the choice between killers to seek vengeance upon, would probably take both their throats.

  Still, the living guard was evocative. If Ivor was in so much of a hurry, it was likely he meant to make his stand elsewhere.

  The ships, Janus thought. He'd take Adiran to the ships if he could, learning to corral Ani's power to best effect.

  Janus's hopes dwindled as the silence of the hall struck him. If Ivor were still present, there would be struggle. A boy's pained whimper caught his ear, coming from the
prince's nursery. He hesitated a moment, drew his blade. One-armed wasn't the ideal way to face Ivor; out of breath and agitated would see him dead.

  Correction, he thought drily. Black-Winged Ani could see him dead no matter his state, no matter his weapon. Terror washed over him like the flux, like the icy water of the winter sea that he had been forcibly bathed in. As then, Janus refused to let it shake him.

  He wished, however, that he had Psyke at his side.

  The boy's whimper sounded again, the choked-off sobs of a child in pain. Janus stepped into the room and dropped his blade.

  “Evan,” he said. There was a tangle of guards at the far wall, one groaning, the other sporting a broken arm, whose bone jutted free of flesh.

  Janus afforded them only a cursory look—they'd live—and bent over Evan. “J-janus,” the boy whimpered, his hands clutched over his belly.

  “Shh,” Janus said, “hush, let me look.” His heart throbbed; his throat felt thick.

  “Adiran stabbed—” Evan's face ran wet with tears. His cheeks should have been blotchy; instead they were bloodless. He grabbed at Janus. “I want my da—” and suddenly Janus was holding a limp child. He gathered him up, though his bad arm trembled, and he had to roll the boy closer to his chest. Blood wet his shirt and skin.

  No guards, Janus thought wildly. There were always guards. He had spent cumulative hours bemoaning the fact, and now… he was on his own.

  He headed for the stairs, trying to peer over the boy's jutting shoulder, the limp fall of his neck. “Rue!” he shouted and, by the gods, the man was there.

  Rue swore. “The prince?”

  “Gone with Ivor,” Janus said. “Help me get Evan to the physician. He's been gut stabbed.”

  Rue winced. “Kinder perhaps to let him go—”

  “No,” Janus said. “He has to live. Antyre depends on it.”

  He took the stairs with a stride that tried to combine the nearly impossible mixture of haste and care, remembered the guard at the landing, and stepped over him. Rue caught up, his face white and set.

  “Run ahead,” Janus said. “No matter who Sir Robert's helping, this boy must come first.”

  Rue shot him a look mingled of horror and doubt, but he darted ahead, unimpeded by any burden but fear.

  Janus, watching him go, nearly slipped. A quick shoulder under his steadied him, though his rescuer, Psyke, protested the effort it took. Janus checked Evan's security in his arms, tilted the boy's head back so his shallow breathing cooled the sweat on his neck.

  “His mother's frightened,” Psyke said.

  “His mother's dead.”

  “She still knows her child,” she said. Her voice was serene, her expression not. “What's happened? I heard shouting and there's the stink of blood in the halls.”

  “Ivor.”

  “Did he strike Evan down?” Her fingers, wound into his sleeve, knotted. “Did he take Adiran?”

  “He took Adiran. But Adiran dealt Evan's blow—”

  “The compact,” she breathed. “Ani's compact.”

  “Can you slow his death?” Janus asked.

  “I…” For a maddening moment, he thought she meant to deny it, but she finished, “I only deal it.” As if in emphasis, the boy's breathing stuttered, his body twitched and spasmed, and Psyke nearly sent Janus down the stairs as she recoiled.

  “Forgive me,” she said, backing away, taking the stairs one at a time, her eyes on him. “Save the boy.”

  “Psyke—” Janus called. She paused. “There must be something you can do.”

  “Haith brings death,” she whispered. “I can do nothing.” She turned and fled, bare feet soundless, sure-footed even in the spilled blood.

  Janus found Rue coming to meet him, and though the man offered, refused to give up his burden.

  “Do you know where Ivor will go? Delight said you thought the docks, but the gates will slow—”

  “Ani will not be slowed, should she choose otherwise,” Janus said.

  Sir Robert came out, blanched, and said, “Just a child!” He took Evan from Janus's arms, asked tersely, “Is it your blood or his decorating your shirt?”

  “His,” Janus said.

  Sir Robert hissed when he saw the wound.

  “Will he live?” Janus asked. Rue leaned close to hear the answer.

  “It's not so bad a wound,” Sir Robert said, after an investigation that had Evan whimpering, even unconscious. “It's shallow and untutored, a narrow wound, dealt by a weak man or—”

  “A child,” Rue murmured. “The prince.” Dawning realization showed in his eyes; he drew a hand over his face and leaned back against the wall.

  “On a man, I'd say he'd heal and well. But it's a foul big wound on a child….” Sir Robert's face went grim and set; he called out to his aide to bring Laudable and plenty of it.

  Janus laid a hand over the man's wrist, tightened his grip. “Evan has to live.”

  “Oh, his father's one of your privateers, I understand, but—”

  “If he dies,” Janus said, “if he dies, then Adiran has given his soul into Ani's keeping. If he dies, Antyre's future goes with him.”

  Sir Robert's lips thinned, and he bent over the boy, determination replacing the pity in his eyes.

  THE NIGHT WAS DARK, FULL of lingering smoke that clung to the greenery around the palace. Ivor's flames had burned hot, had succeeded in getting a foothold in the stables, and the soft grasses of the gardens were hummocked and pitted with the marks of horses being hastily led away from the flames. Janus stumbled over one of the ruts, saved himself from falling by catching at a thorny climber. He didn't know whether to be grateful or dismayed that his grip failed, sending him to a knee but sparing him a palm studded with thorns.

  A form ghosted out of the night, and Janus shifted his weight, trying frantically to get to a stance where he could draw his blade, its sheath grating against the dirt. “My lord,” Simpson said, and Janus found himself pathetically grateful that it was a familiar face. Then he remembered the pistol shot aimed at him during the duchess's arrest: Simpson had been among the guards in the throne room.

  Still, Janus took the hand held out to him, allowed the guard to pull him to his feet. And if his hand fell again to his sword hilt, Simpson said nothing but merely slid his gaze over it, then took a judicious step back once Janus had his feet again.

  “We need horses for riding,” Janus said. “Steady tempered. I need an escort to the docks.”

  Simpson—his hands stained with soot, exertion painting darker streaks along the sides of his shirt, his coat long ago discarded—looked as if he wanted to protest, but stifled it.

  Instead, he nodded. “I'll inform Rue.”

  FULL NIGHT WAS ON THEM now, moonlight seeping slowly through the sea fogs, the smoke that blanketed the city. The sounds of their horses' hooves were muffled, and they went slowly, despite the lanterns they carried, despite the lamps lit along the streets. The guards' faces were grimly set, and Janus's heart echoed it. The night sky settled heavily upon him: the raspy flutter of wings as the rooks sought their destination; the swelter of fire pits that burned in the poorer neighborhoods—dug deep, cheap burials for those who died of the plague.

  Janus shivered; his mind felt empty, all his cleverness stripped away. He had no plan, at least none he could feel any certainty of, surely nothing Ivor would laud, only a tangle of fear, desperation, and the drumbeat rage in his blood that Ivor would not have his country for the asking of it.

  If Sir Robert saved Evan, then perhaps Adiran could be turned from the precipice, from committing his soul to Ani's cruel guidance. The boy had always been sweet natured and biddable. If Evan survived, if Ivor could be separated from Adiran—perhaps matters could still be saved.

  Likely though, Janus thought, his mood going grimmer, Ivor would have Adiran blooded again, simply to be sure the compact was sealed. If the boy had been willing to injure his only friend—Ivor would have little trouble beyond the limitations of Adiran's str
ength. Ani gave nothing of Herself until She had been fed Her bloody measure of devotion.

  A single plague victim, lying in a feverish stupor, would prove no difficulty even for a weak child to dispatch, given a sharp enough blade. But Ivor feared the plague… perhaps he would trust to Evan's death now, escape the city….

  The fragility of his hopes appalled Janus. He had never held to anything so delicate, preferring the security of careful planning, of sure knowledge and countermoves.

  Instead, he was left with this, depending on Ivor's fears of the plague, on a child's good nature being more intrinsic than his hatred, and on the only certainty he had left: that if all else failed, if he and Adiran fell, and Antyre after, he would take Ivor with him so that he would be shorn of his triumph.

  At least he could pride himself on that much, that even in despair and failure, he would attempt to take his enemies with him, rather than retreat into the apathy that Aris had nurtured so long.

  They left behind the wide streets of the merchants' shops and homes, the horses filing into lines of two or three abreast. Simpson guided his steed to Janus's left, and a red-bearded soldier took his right as their little procession of guards and soldiers headed into the Relicts and the piers beyond. There were other paths, but the docks that jutted out from the Relicts were the ones that had the clearest path to the sea, the deepest waters where the deep-bellied, long voyaging ships made their beginnings and ends.

  The Relicts were silent as they rode through; and the soldiers, younger, less seasoned than the Kingsguard, were visibly uneasy. These soldiers had never fought for anything other than their own prestige, had never used their blades and pistols for anything other than show.

  One of the soldiers behind them started at some imagined movement, jerked his horse to an ungainly halt, bumping into another soldier, the whinnies of two protesting horses as a result.