Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  Helmi broke the kiss.

  Viktor gave him a reproachful look. “I don’t suppose you know someone who can do something about his mood?”

  She studied the front of Nels’s captain’s jacket, and her expression changed. “Why don’t we find out?” she asked. “Turo, take the lieutenant to my rooms. I’ll join him once his friend is made comfortable.”

  “See you in the morning.” Viktor waved. “Have fun.”

  “You have until the clock tower chimes four,” Nels said. “Then the coach returns to take us home.”

  Viktor let out a disgusted grunt. “Killjoy.”

  Turo helped an unsteady Viktor navigate through the open door and up the broad staircase. Nels paused until the way was clear. The main passage was wide enough to be called a room in its own right. He watched through the cut-glass panes as Turo saved Viktor from pitching over the banister. Holding his breath, Nels waited to speak until they’d reached the top. “Do I owe you something for …”

  Helmi looped an arm through his and smiled. “Don’t ruin a perfectly good evening with sordid details,” she said. “The lieutenant and I have an agreement.”

  “An agreement?”

  She tugged him into the main passage and then whispered into his ear, “Viktor told me what you did for him at the river, Captain Hännenen,” she said. “Any business arrangements are very much not your concern.”

  Nels swallowed. “Oh.”

  Helmi led him through the crowd in the front room, and the sight of his uniform resulted in drunken cheers. Several partygoers, obviously too drunk for propriety, risked slapping him on the back. The half-naked woman at the pianoforte switched to the national anthem. The verses pursued him into an empty drawing room at the back of the house. Helmi deposited him into a cushioned chair.

  “To be frank, I expected you much sooner,” she said, balancing on the arm.

  The house wasn’t what he had imagined. For one thing, it wasn’t much different from one of his father’s apartments at the palace. The furniture was luxurious and expensive with tasteful brocade seats, silk pillows, and gold leaf trim. Landscape paintings and walls of books lined the blue-papered walls. Small, white porcelain sculptures from Ytlain graced strategic places on the shelves. A larger statue carved from marble occupied the corner. The nude subjects—two angels—were entwined in a nearly impossible embrace. Nels recognized the piece as a duplicate of a sculpture from his father’s collection. Everything was immaculate, shining, and very much dirt-free.

  She watched him take in the room and smiled. “I wasn’t always a courtesan, you know,” she said. “Now. What would you like?” She leaned forward and traced a light finger along the inside of his thigh that left a burning trail in its wake.

  A moment passed before he remembered to breathe. It’s been far too long. “Whiskey.”

  “Mika?”

  Another large man appeared, dressed in a blue silk coat and breeches that matched the wallpaper. “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Get the captain some whiskey. The best we have.” She paused. “Bring the bottle.”

  Mika bowed and left.

  “Anything else?” She moved closer until the silk-wrapped side of an ample breast brushed his cheek. Her left hand played with the ribbon that secured his queue. “What kind of company do you … fancy?”

  Her perfume smelled of roses. He took a deep breath, searching for a suggestion of mint underneath. It instantly dredged up a vivid image of Ilta. He closed his eyes, welcoming the memory of her touch. She’s changed her mind. Am I to wait forever?

  All right. A blond. No. Anything but that. “Brunette.”

  “Done,” she said.

  He felt her move away, and his cheek grew cool. Then fingers pressed a whiskey bottle into his hands—by the smell, the bottle was already uncorked. The room executed a slow spin. He hadn’t noticed it before when his eyes were open. Maybe I’ve had enough. I shouldn’t drink any more.

  “Would you like a glass?” she asked.

  A glass would’ve been better but he didn’t have much faith in his coordination. He shook his head and then drank from the neck of the bottle. Two swallows. I don’t wish to insult. Fine ­alcohol burned down his throat and up the back of his nose, leaving behind a sweet oak taste and a raw feeling of need. Ilta smells of winter roses and mint.

  Don’t think about that right now.

  “Hmmm. I should think Ygret will be to your liking. You’re definitely her type. She’ll be along shortly.”

  Helmi’s warm lips pressed against his cheek. The chair shifted as her weight was removed.

  “Good night, dear Captain Hännenen. I trust you’ll have a very entertaining evening.”

  Do I really want to do this? He took a long drink. Yes. Ilta hasn’t come to the house or written. Time to face the truth. She changed her mind. She doesn’t want me. Can I blame her? Not after what I almost—

  A floorboard creaked. He sensed soft footfalls. When he opened his eyes again, he expected to see a scantily dressed brunette. Instead, his eyes met with a woman dressed in black. Scars crisscrossed her right cheek—otherwise, she was attractive and confident. The set of her shoulders combined with her black coat sent a warning shiver through Nels’s body.

  “Ygret?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Giving him an expression of mild disappointment, she shook her head.

  For a sobering moment, he wondered if his uncle had finally sent an assassin to take care of the family disgrace. The marks on her cheek meant she’d been caught once and was powerful enough to warrant a second chance via a wealthy patron. They also meant she’d be utterly ruthless. He reached for the hilt of his saber before remembering he’d left it behind. Killed in a bawdy house. Ilta will love this. Why now?

  The latest reprimand? The guns? It didn’t matter. His uncle wasn’t the only one with a good reason to kill him. He decided he was too tired and drunk to care. “What do you want?”

  The assassin shrugged. “Your sister wishes a word with you.” Her voice was cultured, amused.

  Nels set the bottle on the floor next to the chair. The room tilted when he stood up, but he caught himself. How does Suvi know I’m here? The answer occurred to him, and then he recognised the woman in the black coat. She let me see her. Tightening his jaw, Nels snatched the bottle from the floor. “Lead the way, then.”

  Suvi’s korva shrugged. Nels followed her through the crowded front rooms and out of the bawdy house. On the street, five Royal Guardsmen stood alert next to a gold-trimmed coach.

  Suvi charged through the gate. “Why didn’t you come to dinner? Mother was disappointed.”

  “What are you doing here?” Nels asked.

  She gave him a disapproving sniff. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “It’s traditional before going to war.”

  She looked up at the mansion. “You’ve taken up with a courtesan?”

  “That was the plan.”

  Suvi wrinkled her nose and whispered, “Why pay? Piritta would—”

  “Who I choose to bed is none of your damned business!”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Of course you didn’t.” He took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Can we please have this discussion later? Preferably after the war? I’ve a pressing appointment to keep.”

  “Why are you angry?” Suvi asked, and then she lowered her voice. “You volunteered for this. I would’ve selected an administrative—”

  “How long have you been spying on me?” He let his anger with Ilta bleed into the question.

  Suvi bit her lip.

  “That’s what I thought.” He executed a wobbly turn on his heel. The iron reinforcing his boots scraped the stone path with a sound that set his teeth on edge.

  “Don’t be upset. Not tonight,” Suvi said. A hint of magic prickled in the air.

  Unlike anyone else he knew, command magic didn’t affect him in the slightest, no matter the strength of the wielder. It was the one usefu
l magical trait that he possessed. And Suvi knows it. Fury curled his hands into fists. He stopped but didn’t turn around. “What do you want?”

  Suvi darted in front of him. “Mother asked me to collect you. She’s frightened.”

  Nels snorted.

  “I thought your fight was with Father, not Mother.”

  “She could’ve seen me yesterday. Tonight, I’m busy,” he said. She’ll say anything to get what she wants.

  “The palace was under quarantine yesterday. It was only lifted today. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  His jaw clenched. “Why haven’t you gone?”

  “Nels, please. Mother has been crying all day. Father has barricaded himself in his apartments. Things are bad at home. You’ve no idea. Mother needs to see you.”

  He lifted the bottle and swallowed once. He hoped the wetness in his eyes was due to the sting of the alcohol. “I don’t care.”

  Suvi shoved him. He lost his balance, landing on his butt in the grass. The bottle fell with a dull clank and rolled. He listened to Helmi’s fine whiskey pouring into the flowerbed. It took two tries to right the bottle.

  Suvi stooped over him and hissed, “You damned idiot! Who do you think pays your debts when you go over your stipend? Who bought you that captaincy so you would have a better chance at surviving? It wasn’t Father, and it wasn’t me alone, I assure you.” She straightened. “Go back into that bawdy house. I’m done.”

  “Wait, damn you.” He struggled to get up from the grass. “I’ll go.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Good,” Suvi said.

  He picked up the bottle, checking its contents against the lamplight.

  “Leave it,” she said.

  “Why should I?”

  Suvi exited the gate without looking back. “It’s bad enough you smell like an alehouse at dawn and look like you’ve been sleeping in a pig trough. It would be nice if you weren’t unconscious, too.”

  His cheeks burned as he set the bottle on the step. When he climbed into the coach, his heart suddenly joined the whiskey in his stomach. “Hello, Piritta.”

  “Hello, Your Grace,” Piritta said. She lowered long, dark lashes around her tilted eyes, and her hand strayed to her hair. It was arranged in the same style as Suvi’s—just as her dress was the same. As usual, he found it profoundly disturbing.

  Sitting opposite Piritta, Suvi slammed her fan on the seat and folded her arms across her chest. She dared him to move it with a glare. Piritta scooted closer to the window and bunched her skirts.

  “It would appear that this is the only seat free,” Nels said to Piritta. “May I?”

  The footman pushed the coach door, and it snapped shut with a certain finality.

  Piritta gave Suvi a knowing grin. “Please.”

  The coach jolted forward, and Nels fell onto the padded bench. He put out a hand to catch himself and found the coach seat unusually warm and yielding. Piritta looked down at the front of her stays. Their eyes met, and she raised an eyebrow.

  “Terribly sorry,” he said, snatching his hand back as if he’d been scorched.

  Piritta’s bowed mouth curled upward. “No need for apologies. It was an accident.”

  Suvi seemed to concentrate on something fascinating on the other side of the window. Only a twitch at the corner of her mouth gave away that she’d seen. Nels folded his arms across his chest and focused on sobering up. The closer they got to the palace, the more difficult it became to keep his eyes open. He now regretted the whiskey in addition to the six pints of ale. The coach bounced and slammed back down on the paving stones. He gripped the upholstery to keep from tumbling into the floor. Fingers brushed his thigh before trapping his knee.

  “Are you all right?” Piritta asked.

  Nels broke free of Piritta’s touch before she could interpret it as encouragement. She’s a souja, and Suvi’s souja at that. Allow her close enough, and Suvi will know everything. Suvi will tell Mother. And then I’ll never have an instant of privacy again.

  Assuming I had any to begin with.

  The coach swayed to a stop in front of the palace, and the footman opened the door. Suvi exited the coach first.

  “We’ll get you cleaned up. Come on.” She turned to Piritta. “Have the kitchen bring coffee to my rooms. And a basin of warm water.”

  “No need.” Concentrating on every step, he stormed past Suvi and headed for his mother’s apartments. The cleats on his boots carved angry lines on the entry’s marble tiles.

  An army of servants scurried about their business. Each stopped with their gaze fixed to the floor the moment he drew near, resuming their duties once he was past. His sister continued fighting with him as if they were alone. The absurdity of it struck him at once. He’d already forgotten what it was like having so many ­“invisible” people watching and listening. No doubt they were getting an eyeful. He could imagine the stories. The family disgrace showed up, filthy and stinking of drink. He clamped down on his emotions with renewed force.

  Suvi’s footsteps pattered behind him, enraging him all the more.

  “How long have you been spying on me?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  She appeared at his elbow. “Why is it important?”

  Throwing open the door to the main passage, he went up the steps. He used his anger to keep his legs steady. “That’s the sort of thing I expect from Uncle, not you. How can you ask?”

  Missing a step, he stumbled and grabbed the banister. He risked a glance over his shoulder. A hurt expression was pinned on Suvi’s face.

  “I ordered Jami to keep you safe,” she said. “Who do you think arranges to get you home when you pass out in the gutter? How do you think you avoided being murdered in the street or robbed since you joined the army? Did you think it was luck?”

  He stumbled up the remaining stairs. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have been better off?”

  “Don’t!”

  “Oh, you’re right. I have been away too long. I’ve forgotten what I am.” Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he turned. She was one step behind. He leaned in until his nose almost touched hers and whispered, “You only need me because you need someone to use. Just like Father. Just like Uncle.” He reached his mother’s apartments and stopped at the door.

  “Please.” The pain in Suvi’s voice wrenched at his anger. “I don’t want to part like this. Not now.”

  He passed a hand through his hair and saw the hand was shaking. It was hard to speak over the emotions trapped in his aching throat. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter. No matter how much I wish it did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re all I have left,” he whispered loud enough for her to hear.

  Her gasp was loud enough to echo down the hallway.

  He closed his burning eyes tight, feeling the hurt he’d inflicted. Damn it, he thought. Why are you doing this?

  “Nels—”

  “I’m sorry,” Nels said.

  Grabbing him in a fierce hug, she spoke Acrasian into his jacket. “Apology accepted, you donkey.”

  He hugged her back. “I believe the word you were looking for is ‘ass.’ “

  “How about ‘stupid horse butt’? Maybe ‘self-absorbed male chicken’? Or—”

  “That will suffice.”

  “Come back home,” she said. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  A pox-scarred Royal Guardsman allowed them into the queen’s receiving room. Fire popped in the hearth. Nels heard the delicate sound of porcelain chiming against porcelain. Two servants exited through a hidden door to the left. Everything was as he had last seen it years before, except somehow smaller. The matching velvet settees were arranged near the fireplace. The shelves of books were on either side of the window. The same paintings hung on the walls. His mother’s lavender perfume mixed with that of coffee, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and other spices he couldn’t name. It sent him back to his childhood at once.

  “Spice c
ake,” he said.

  Suvi nodded, a hesitant smile on her lips.

  “Nels? Is that you?” His mother’s voice was frail.

  The sight of her extinguished the last of his already-cooling rage. There were worry lines in her face he didn’t remember seeing before. She paused in the entry to her bedchamber dressed in a green Ytlainen silk gown. She clutched a hairbrush in her right hand, and her platinum blond hair hung in loose curls around her hips. Her eyes were red and puffy. The hairbrush clattered to the floor. She covered the distance between them in an instant and gathered him in a desperate hug.

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” she said. “I hoped, but I didn’t think it.”

  “You could’ve issued an order.” He choked out the words.

  She touched his face. “It wouldn’t have been the same.”

  A door thumped shut. Suvi was gone.

  He hadn’t meant to say anything, but his mouth moved. The apology was so quiet he hardly heard it. “I’m sorry.”

  After a while, she sniffed. “Are you hungry?”

  His stomach answered for him.

  Smiling, she wiped the wetness from her face and went to the small table where the tea things were arranged. “Sit.”

  He surprised himself by getting to the settee without staggering. While his mother poured tea, he stared at the fire and tried to sort out the confusion of emotions whirling in his brain. Nothing had resolved itself by the time his mother sat next to him with a plate and a hot teacup. Balancing the cup on the saucer, he slid it onto the small table to his left without upending the plate in his lap.

  “So,” his mother said, “I’m not sure what a mother is supposed to say the night before her son goes off to die.”

  “Mother, please.”

  She smoothed her hand over the arm of the settee. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “I mean it. No more irresponsible risks. No more …” She waved a hand at him. “Excess. At least, not unless you know it’s safe. You know the histories. The Acrasians hate us.”

  “We have no love for them, either.”