The fool goes down, taking the four boys behind him with him.
“Oh dear,” Rickensdale says into the surprised silence.
The same weariness and resolution I saw on Apollo’s face is now in his voice. “I hope that will suffice to relay my intent. I demand satisfaction.” He does not wait for a reaction, and indeed Bartleby seems incapable of doing ought but staring up at him with wide and suddenly sober eyes.
Apollo exchanges a few whispered words with Rickensdale and turns back to us. This time Les gets out of his way, his anger apparently sated or sobered. A moment later we’re all in the hall with the door closed. It opens again and a servant steps through to bow to Apollo and lead us up the corridor away from the kitchen. We follow him into a small drawing room, where he leaves us.
I do not know why we are not on our horses. Then it comes to me: this is real; the next step is the discussion of terms: a thing that cannot be done in a room full of wagging tongues. Duels are illegal, after all.
“Tonight?” Pike asks, pulling the wig from his head and running his fingers through his black hair.
Apollo nods. “I think so.”
“How will we get rid of the men?” Pike asks.
“Go to the Stag and slip out the back?” Les suggests.
“You’re all mad!” I hiss.
The door opens and Bartleby, his friend Greyson, and our host, Rickensdale, enter. Bartleby is a good deal less disheveled, with his hat in his hand and his eyes on the floor.
Greyson speaks for them. “He was—is—very drunk.”
“I’m not,” Apollo says coldly. “One way or another, I never want to hear another aspersion against my family.”
Bartleby’s and Greyson’s eyes go wide with surprise.
“The matter will be well known,” Rickensdale says quietly and gestures vaguely toward the ballroom full of surprised and already gossiping lordlings and whores, all soon to depart and spread word throughout London.
“Yes,” Apollo says and sighs. “It will ruin both our lives. I suggest we see to the matter tonight, or perhaps at dawn. That would probably be better for pistols. I suggest you agree to pistols, because if I get near you with a drawn blade, your death will be slow and painful. With a pistol, you at least stand a chance.”
The realization of what he is about closes my ears, blurs my eyes, and weakens my knees such that I stagger to a chair to collapse and stare blankly at the flames on the hearth.
I’m sorry.
He means to run away—to go into exile as a criminal—rather than inherit our father’s title. Father cannot disinherit him, so in time, Apollo will have to be declared dead. Then I will be the heir. I will never be free of it unless I, too, die.
Better you than I.
Bastard!
It will break our mothers’ hearts. It will cause no end of trouble for Dada. It will only engender more rumors and gossip—which I will be forced to endure.
And he will have to go away. I might never see him again. In all the ways my poor heart can see, he will die this night.
Angered, saddened, and stunned beyond the expression of emotion, I somehow get my feet beneath me and follow my brethren from the room and building, mount my horse, and listen to Les and Apollo provide our Praetorian guard with a simple and disingenuous recounting of the night’s events thus far as we ride to the Bloody Stag tavern. Once there, we leave our horses with the men and slip inside, commandeering—by dint of previous lavish gratuities—the somewhat private table in the back room, safely away from the raucous crowd of ne’er-do-well young gentlemen in the front. Pike, Les, Apollo, and I scoot our chairs close to huddle at the far end of the table while James talks to Henri in the doorway. I do not see Art. I vaguely recall Apollo talking to him before we entered.
“Uly?”
I look at Apollo as if from a great distance. Suddenly, everything is clear and loud.
“You cannot do this!” I hiss.
“He can’t turn tail and run now,” Pike says. “It’s better if he runs as a criminal with his honor intact.” He looks to Apollo. “I’m sure we can get you on a ship. Shouldn’t be one of ours. They’ll look for that. But Father knows every captain in port.” He sounds happy, excited even.
“I know,” Apollo assures him, his gaze still on me. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Uly. I didn’t plan on it happening tonight, but… I just can’t do it anymore. Or perhaps I can, but I can’t foresee doing it for the rest of my life. I kept hoping something, or perhaps someone, would come into my life and change things. But that’s a very slim hope. My future life is just not what I want. This life now isn’t even one I would choose. And I can’t believe the Gods would wish for me to be miserable forever.
“And I love our parents. I can’t imagine parents I could love more. How could I? But they made things so damn complicated. It’s just not fair. They made their path in order to get what they wanted out of life. I have begun to think we must do the same.”
He’s correct, and it hurts so badly it seems difficult for my heart to beat.
“I don’t want it to end yet,” I say through tears. “I’m not ready.”
He appears perplexed for a moment until understanding dawns. “I don’t know whether I am, either. The fear does not feel bad, though. It feels like a door opening.” He smiles. “My Horse is ready. I have faith the Gods will not hate me for this. I believe they have some other fate for me.”
I consider my Horse and find myself remembering the stubborn gray pony I had as a child, the one who would not leave the stables when it rained. I have never had to worry about controlling my Horse; it’s more that my energies have been directed to talking the damn animal into doing anything at all. Occasionally, it does prick its ears and want to chase Gypsy dancers or fall in love with women I cannot have.
I think of the Gods and see them seated around some great golden table. They remind me of our parents. They created a complicated and difficult world and seem perpetually amused and unhelpful with our attempts to make our way through it.
They made their path in order to get what they wanted out of life. I have begun to think we must do the same.
We are startled by a pistol’s retort and turn to find a brawl breaking out in the tavern’s front room, as it often does here. For a moment, as my brothers and friends stand, I consider pushing my way toward the front door and finding Henri or one of the buccaneers and telling them what Apollo is about so they can fetch our fathers and end this stupidity; but no, I was raised to be a more honorable man than that. I meekly follow Pike and my brothers into the back corridor and up a ladder to the roof, and from there across to the next building and the next and eventually down into another alley, where I expect to find Art waiting with our horses. But he is not, and we begin to walk, careful to stay in the shadows lest our guards realize we have escaped them.
Just when I am beginning to wonder whether we will walk the several leagues to the appointed dueling site, we reach a livery stable and Pike and Les go in to hire horses. They have been gamboling like colts, delighted with this great adventure, while Apollo and I tread stolidly in their wake, each contemplating the potential for doom. At least that is what I assume my brother has been doing: his expression has surely mirrored my dark heart. To the credit of our Praetorian guard, we have twice had to hide from searchers. And to the credit of London’s two-legged vermin, we have thrice had to stare down would be thieves as we traversed alleys where young gentlemen are not often seen. These things only added to our respective moods.
As we wait, I try to learn more about my brother’s plan—a thing I feel I do not know as I should. “One of the men has surely been sent home by now, to tell them we are missing. And what of James? Surely they will ask him. He is honorable and strong of heart, but what if they set Aunt Sarah on him? And where is Art? I can see him standing in the face of his mother, but his father?”
Apollo chuckles. “You have been brooding. I made sure Greyson and I were the last
to leave the room. We agreed on a different location—one no one else present heard. Before the Stag, I told Art to meet us there with one of the sets of dueling pieces. I told Les to hire a coach and driver.”
I sigh. I do not ask if he thinks Art can sneak into and out of the house. I think he can. The enterprise will not be discovered before the duel—unless Bartleby has a moment of cowardice. I doubt that will occur: even if he is too scared to shit, he will not dare to face his father after running from the illegitimate offspring of his father’s rival. He will drink more and arrive on time.
“What happens after?” I ask. “I will not go home and face our parents while you skulk about waiting to board a ship—even if I do not know where you are.”
He appears stung. “Nay, of course not. Afterward, we will all go home. Who better to secret me away somewhere than our parents and family? And despite all this, I would never leave without saying good-bye. And,” he shrugs, “I do not have everything with me that I wish to take. And I imagine I’ll need more money than the lot of us is carrying.”
I am relieved—somewhat. “Where do you wish to go?”
“The colonies. Virginia and the northern ones, not the Caribbean.”
I am trying to recall what little I have heard of them when a coach rumbles out of the livery with a mismatched team, two dim lanterns waving on long poles, no footman, and a rumpled and unfamiliar man driving. The door opens as it draws alongside the alley mouth and Les waves us inside. We clamber in and Pike knocks on the front wall. The coach rumbles off.
“I am glad I had nothing else to spend my coin upon this night,” Les says. “He knows we’re up to no good and wanted twice his going rate.”
Apollo shrugs and hands Les his purse.
“Oh stop,” Les says and pushes it away.
“You’ll need it,” Pike says frowning. “We’ll all need more money.”
“That’s why we’re going home after; before scattering to the four winds,” Apollo says.
Pike slumps in his seat. “Not looking forward to that part. My father will be fine with it, though. Jealous I’m going and not him, but…” He shrugs. “Even mother expects me to go sometime.”
Les is quiet, this turn in the conversation apparently having taken at least one of the four winds out of his sails.
We reach the secret dueling site sooner than I expect. It is a cemetery I have never had cause to visit before, and I wonder how long Apollo has been planning this. Les instructs the driver to wait for us on a nearby street, and we slink over the wall and into the shadows, making our way among the stones. We find shelter from the rising wind in a mausoleum. The interior of the building is hidden enough that we dare to light a fire with wood gathered from the brush. If a watchman sees us, we will have to bribe him. Fortunately, we should not need to wait long: the sliver of the waning moon has just risen into a graying sky.
Three of us are alarmed to hear hooves quietly clattering nearby, but Apollo is relieved. He rushes out and I hear him speaking. He returns with Art and, to my amazement, Athena.
Art sets a heavy bag down and looks us over. “WeSawSomeOthers AwaysOver. YouMightWantTaGoLook.” His gaze is on Les, who nods agreement and hurries out with Pike in his wake.
I address Athena. “Are you here to talk sense into him?”
I know she is not, but hope persists, and if not that, why is she here? Did she catch Art sneaking about?
Athena pushes her hood back and her mane of copper curls glows in the firelight. Her expression is the same sardonic smirk Art now wears: it is their mother’s.
Art is the one who speaks. “Uly, TakeOurHorses O’erToTheCoach. StayThereIfYaWant. ProbablyBeGood IfSomeone MakesSure’EStays.”
I look to Apollo. He is frowning, first at Art and then me. “You don’t want to see this, do you?” he asks.
I am flummoxed. “My brother in his first duel? Do you feel I have not the stomach to see Bartleby shot?”
“He should see,” Athena says. “For veracity.”
Before I can puzzle what she means by that, she approaches me, stepping so close I feel compelled to back away lest we come chest-to-chest. She does not stop, and I back into the wall, and then we are chest-to-chest. She is not tall—standing at least a head shorter than I—but I find her presence so imposing I feel I am looking up at her even when I am looking down.
She speaks in a husky whisper. “Take the horses to the coach. Check on the driver. Find Les and Pike. I need to speak to my brother, and Art is his second.”
I feel I must protest even if everything she says makes sense—which I do not feel it does—but the feel of her body lightly pressed to mine and my growing erection make it difficult to think. Then her lips are on mine, and my heart thuds painfully, and I cannot breathe or think at all. Frantic, I push her away and scramble down the wall and out the door to stand trembling on the step.
From inside I hear Apollo say, “You are such a bitch, we should call you Lucretia.”
“Why?” Athena asks. “I don’t fuck you, and I haven’t poisoned anyone—yet.”
I am such a fool to be so easily manipulated. I dive down the steps and gather their horses. I am tempted to simply mount one and ride home. To Hades with all of them. But no, I march toward the gate.
“Halt! Who the Devil are you?” The watchman is as surprised as I am. He pokes the lantern toward me like a weapon, his other hand beginning to fumble with the club at his belt.
I am angry well beyond my usual good sense. I pull my purse from my belt and fling it at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. “Be gone and be quiet if you know what is best for you. We are not here to disturb the dead.”
He feels the heft of the purse, and regards me with wide eyes before apparently realizing part of what he is being paid for is discretion. He drops his gaze, nods quickly, and sketches a bow before hurrying back into the cemetery gatehouse I had almost blundered into in my anger and the dark.
Cursing, I mount Art’s horse and lead Athena’s in search of the coach. I find it in the lee of a warehouse. I am relieved to see the team still hitched and huddled together. I do not see the driver until I draw near and the door opens for him to poke his head out.
“Ya be needin’ me now?” he asks.
“Not yet. I need to leave these horses here.” I pray Les paid him enough, because I surely have no more coin. Apparently he did, because the man clambers out and assists me in tying the horses to the rear of the coach without further question or any complaint.
I march resolutely back up the street and in the cemetery gate, not caring if I am seen by anyone. The sky is gray now, and I see a cluster of people off between the stones. I go there instead of returning to the mausoleum, thankful when I approach that Pike and Les are among them and I am not blithely walking up to Bartleby’s host alone. As I close on them, I am dismayed to see that his party has grown. In addition to Bartleby, Greyson, and Rickensdale—who I assume would not miss this event for all the dancing girls in Persia—there are five other cloaked figures. None appear to be any older than we are, though, and thus not any sort of authority.
“Art arrived with Athena,” I tell Pike and Les.
“Why?” my brother asks.
I shrug. “I do not know. They sent me out to hide their horses at the coach. It is still there, by the way. I also encountered the watchman and paid him. He seemed amenable.”
“What did you tell him?” Pike asks with narrowed eyes.
“That we are committing murder,” I grumble. “Nothing, you fool. That it was not his concern.”
Pike at least appears to be apologetic.
We do not have long to wait before Apollo and Art approach, without Athena. Art is carrying a finely tooled wooden case containing one of the best pairs of pistols in the house. I realize my earlier concern: the one Athena so deftly silenced. Art cannot be Apollo’s second. He is a stable boy as far as Bartleby and the others are concerned. Art hands the case to Les.
“Let’s be done with t
his,” Apollo says and wipes his eyes tiredly, looking more like a man at the end of a tedious lecture than one about to engage in a matter of life and death. I worry as I watch him lean on a stone while Les and Greyson load and exchange pistols. When the two combatants move to take the pieces and stand back to back, Apollo moves as drunkenly as Bartleby. Neither of them can manage the ten steps straight ahead without guidance from their seconds. My stomach is clenched and lined with lead as they finally turn to face one another. I thank the Gods this is an English gentleman’s duel and not one of the buccaneer affairs we were told of as children. They have agreed to first blood only. Gods willing, they’ll miss wildly and the matter can be laid to rest without even that.
Rickensdale gives the order to fire. We hear the pop and fizzle as Apollo’s hammer comes down: a flash in the pan. He looks skyward and smiles at the Gods as Bartleby’s pistol roars. There is a thud. It is far more metallic than I ever imagined a ball striking flesh might sound. Apollo falls back, landing hard on the gray grass.
A moment of stunned silence follows; then everyone is in motion, running toward Apollo. I fall on my knees beside him, my hands on his chest. He is stiff and still. I feel the blood. It is cold. I stare at it in wonder. I look up and find Rickensdale opposite me, his gaze on my bloody fingers, his face aghast.
“Is he dead?” Bartleby warbles from behind Rickensdale.
“You bastard!” The rest of my howling is incoherent as several people struggle to prevent me from tearing Bartleby’s face to pieces. Bartleby runs. A hard blow connects with my jaw and I see bright flashes followed by blackness.
I wake in the coach. I am slumped on the seat next to Pike, opposite Athena and Les. All of us have our feet pulled up so as not to have them on or under Apollo’s body on the floor. Athena is staring intently at Apollo’s covered face with dry eyes. Pike is staring out the window.
Les meets my gaze, his eyes red and puffy above tear-streaked cheeks. “We’re almost home.”
“How will we tell them?” I ask.
Better You Than I Page 3
