Maledicte (38 page)

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H
ARDLY MURDER,”
M
ALEDICTE SAID.
“A duel.” “His blood, your sword. You cannot deny that.” “Why would I deny it? When I enjoyed myself so much?” Maledicte said, though in truth he had almost forgotten it. Dantalion’s death swallowed under Ani’s blood tide; to find himself accountable for it now—His hands shook but his voice remained light. He tightened the small muscles in his hands, and they too obeyed his will, stilling. The sword hilt shifted against his palm, though he wasn’t aware of seeking it out. The feathers coaxed and whispered against his skin. Gilly’s clothes, scented with Lizette’s passing, kept blood in Maledicte’s mind.

There were only three men after all. He could have his sword through the protruding belly of the nearest Particular without much effort, spill the blood out and dance toward the young Particular to Echo’s left. Already his dewy skin paled at the audacity of arresting a nobleman. If Maledicte gutted the first man, the youngster would bolt. He’d lay sols on the matter. Only Echo promised a fight.

Maledicte sucked air through his teeth, felt it cool the furnace of his blood. Yes or no. Fight or fly—he’d have to chase the stripling if he fled. He’d had enough of witnesses. But three were manageable.

“Maledicte,” Echo said. “Lay down your sword.”

“If I choose otherwise?” Maledicte said, still listening to the clock of his blood, ticking away.

Echo pulled his pistol, cocked it, and leveled it at Gilly’s chest. “Do I need to use your friend as a surety for your behavior? Should I see one gesture that speaks of weapon, poison, or even enchantment, I will kill him.”

Rage reddened Maledicte’s vision; his heartbeat, reacting, deafened him.
Kill them all,
Ani whispered.
Bathe in their blood. Feast on their eyes. Even Gilly. He mistrusted you after all, accused you of something you never did.
The sword rose in the sheath; his fingers coiled down, touched the cool metal of the blade itself.

The violent simplicity of the idea held Maledicte hostage.
Kill them all.

Maledicte felt the movement in the air and he spun on instinct, the sword free of the sheath, registering the shock in Echo’s face even as he did so. It was Gilly moving, only Gilly, and instead of slicing skin and bone, Maledicte twisted the blade, letting the flat of the sword strike Gilly’s broad wrist. It welted the skin and left a fine line of blood where the edge had nipped. But the hand was whole, the wrist entire, the fingers closing on his shoulder. Maledicte panted, watching that slow beading of blood on Gilly’s fair skin.

“Maledicte,” Gilly said. “Be still.” He stepped past him, blocked Maledicte’s view of Echo. “Does the king know you’re here?”

“The king can call me off—he has that privilege. But he need not set me on. There were many witnesses.” Echo smiled. “Maledicte is mine.”

Behind Gilly’s sheltering back, Maledicte started shaking again, this time beyond his ability to control. Stonegate Prison. How could he accomplish Ani’s goal then? How could he even survive, locked in the dark, with constant company—how could he be Maledicte?

The thin thought crossed his mind, a ghost of reason. Echo had not shot Gilly, though Maledicte had drawn his sword; Echo bluffed.

Maledicte bolted for the stairs, for the scent of the sky, and Echo shouted. Behind him, Maledicte heard the report of a gun, but no outcry from Gilly. If he hadn’t been so desperate, he could have wept with relief. But trying to think around the flapping blackness of Ani’s rioting emotions left him little but the frantic intellect of a cornered rat.

Echo’s hard hands grabbed his shoulders and Maledicte kicked back in a Relict rat’s dirty blow. But Echo, though he faltered, was wise enough to have anticipated such a trick. Maledicte twisted to bring the blade to bear, freeing himself from Echo’s clawing grasp, and found himself borne back into the wall by Gilly.

Maledicte fought Gilly’s grip, breath sobbing in his throat. Ani whispered,
Kill him and be gone.
Maledicte gasped his refusal, even as Gilly pulled him closer, clutched him to his body, pressing him between his solid warmth and the unyielding wall.

“Mal,” Gilly said. “Maledicte, please. If you flee now, there will be no Janus, no future, only blood and death.” Gilly’s breath warmed his cheek; his fingers traced soothing patterns on his wrists and back.

Over Gilly’s shoulder Maledicte saw the two Particulars nervously watching, saw Echo’s eyes narrow, and Maledicte hissed at him. Echo took an involuntary step back and Maledicte laughed.

“Hush,” Gilly said. “Hush, this is what we’ll do. Where one man can be paid to do his duty, another can be paid to ease your way. Go with Echo. It’ll be only temporary.”

Maledicte burrowed into Gilly’s warmth, listened to the heartbeat pounding beneath his ear, not as calm as the words Gilly spoke. Beneath the patterns Gilly traced, Maledicte felt Ani retreat, muttering, leaving Maledicte drained but capable of thought.

“You won’t leave me there?” Maledicte said.

“No,” Gilly whispered, stroking Maledicte’s hair, heedless of Echo’s furious gaze. “I promise,” Gilly said, “I will always come for you.”

“Tell him.”

“Yes,” Gilly said.

“He’ll get me free,” Maledicte said.

Gilly nodded. Maledicte reversed his grip on the sword; Echo raised his pistol again, but lowered it as Maledicte handed the sword to Gilly hilt-first. “Take care of this. I’ll need it again.” Then he stepped past Gilly’s sheltering arms, and into the rough grasp of the Particulars.

A
N HOUR LATER,
shoved into a filthy communal cell, Maledicte reminded himself of the satisfaction that had filled him when he had taken Dantalion’s throat, reminding himself that the bloodlust had been worth the price he paid now. The remembered smell of blood kept away the stink of unwashed bodies, of rank straw, of fouled water and illness, soothed the panicky flutter of his heart.

The cell fell silent at his entrance. In his fine clothing, his perfumed hair, he was a world away from their existence. Usually the nobles met with Damastes, the jailer, handed over their valuables for a private cell, for fresh water, for a mouthful of bread not gone blue. But Echo had brushed by the jailer, ignoring the man’s covetous looks at Maledicte’s finery, and forced Maledicte into the common cell. The rattle and thump of the heavy door woke those who had learned to be wary, and made others flinch in their sleep. Maledicte’s heart leaped again at the long rattle of chains being drawn through iron rings, the wooden bar sealing the cell door shut behind him. Caging him. His mouth dried.

Two women, huddled in the corner, averted their eyes, pulling ragged shawls up to cover their faces. Beside them, a man rose to his feet, bare arms showing the dark ink of a conscripted soldier, a survivor of Xipos Island, and undoubtedly an enemy of the aristocracy that had used him and discarded him. Wary, Maledicte watched him stand. “You’re even taller than my Gilly,” he said aloud. The torchlight wavered through the grill on the door, casting ruddy shadows into the room.

“And you’re dressed for pleasure, not prison,” the man said, his voice equal to Maledicte’s rasp. “Those shiny buttons, that stickpin—hope you won’t mind sharing.”

“I do,” Maledicte said. His hand itched for his sword, but when he was Miranda he’d taken on grown men, unarmed, save for a stick. Though even Miranda, half-mad with starvation, might have balked at this fellow.

The man lumbered at him, meaty hands outstretched, and Maledicte laughed. Snatching up a handful of stiff straw, he lunged to meet him, stuck his makeshift weapon into the man’s eyesockets, and twisted. The man screamed, his voice gone high and hoarse. “You’re too slow and fat,” Maledicte said.

He pivoted, aware of others slowly joining the fray, eager for revenge on a noble, for the temptation of riches enough to pay off their petty crimes or debts.

In the back of his mind, Miranda began to panic—she knew what happened to girls who got overwhelmed, torn down—but Ani raised Her wings and Maledicte let his will slip away, gave himself entirely over to Her hungers.

He reached up to the thrashing giant, climbed his shirt, and bit through the skin at his neck. The man fell, whimpering, covering his bloody neck. Ani spat the tiny scraps of flesh out and they were lost on the floor.

The other men hesitated a moment, and Ani grinned a bloody smile at them. In the corner, the women gibbered, whether in support or terror he couldn’t tell. Ani sucked in a breath, took in the foul vapors of the room, of the death lingering in corners, and spat it all back out. Black foam flecked the floor where his spit landed, splashed on their faces.

“Rot you,” Maledicte said. “Rot you all.”

They backed off, hands touching their faces, wiping the spittle away as if it burned them.

Maledicte’s throat itched as if his saliva had been caustic. He reached for a water pail, skimmed the top of it, and drank the clearer water below. Where his lips touched the dipper, the metal blackened, Ani moving through him in waves of heat.

“What’s all this?” the jailer said from the doorway, keys jangling self-importantly. He checked on seeing the big man whimpering in the middle of the floor. Maledicte looked at Damastes blankly for a moment, trying to recover the courtly ways that Ani had eclipsed.

“He wanted to share the things I’m saving for you,” Maledicte said, touching his jeweled cuffs, his gemstone-buttoned vest, the fine weave of his coat.

“You shouldn’t be in here. Not with the likes of them. You’re Quality,” Damastes said. “Quality”—he drew the word out again, raising his head to stare Maledicte down. His eyes were the color of dirty slate, and oddly opaque, his hair a faded brown, as if he took his coloring from the stone and earth around them.

“I’ve always thought so.” Maledicte said. “Shall we adjourn to your office? Maybe have some wine sent in. That water is foul.” His flippancy felt strained.

The jailer nodded, his eyes assessing. “Yes, let’s talk about your situation.” He bowed with as much mockery as Maledicte had ever managed, and gestured him out of the common cell.

As Maledicte passed through the doorway, guards fell in step beside him from the places on either side of the door, letting Maledicte see that as greedy as Damastes was, he was also wary.

Echo and his damned interference again, Maledicte thought. The jailer was unlikely to treat his other noble patrons with such caution. Too often now, Echo had created obstacles for him. Maledicte, walking down the narrow hallway, ignored the stone walls, the damp, spending his thoughts on sweeter dreams of killing Echo. His fingers curled, seeking the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, the familiar memories of it were so strong, so real that he felt the weight of the blade waiting, smelled the steel tang of it in the dank air.

His hand snatched at empty air; he faltered in his steps as the sense of steel faded to nothing, like smoke in his grasp. “Keep moving,” a guard said, reaching out to prod Maledicte into motion. Maledicte evaded the careless hand and started up the uneven stairs he had been pushed down barely an hour before.

The jailer’s office and quarters were only cells with their walls knocked out, leaving cut masonry edges visible. Narrow windows allowed an unbarred view over the approaching street, but were too thin to permit egress. Around the room, heaped on elegant furniture, jumbled piles of aristocratic castoffs gave the impression of a disorganized pawnshop. Small jewels spilled over the edge of a mahogany dresser, gleaming like water, pouring into the half-open drawers. A riot of chairs made the room a maze of gilded legs and scrollwork, of tapestry and velvet and leather. At the heart of the room, a clerk’s desk, all pigeonholes and paperwork, rested. A fireplace peeked out from behind a stack of dust-felted books.

Idly, Maledicte bent and picked up a pocket watch from a pile of others. Lapis sails, a nacre ship, enameled on washed gold. He swung it from his hands, the chain slipping through his fingers with the heft of a living serpent.

“Sit,” Damastes said.

Tucking the watch and chain up his cuff with the same economy of motion that he had used while card-sharping, Maledicte felt more at ease. If the jailer and his guards missed his small theft, they were not so observant as he feared. He turned his attention to choosing a chair, looking at gilded legs, carved frogs, or lions rampant on leather.

“This is not a shop for your perusal,” the jailer said, brows drawing down over hooded eyes.

“No,” Maledicte said. “A shop would be better organized, and considerably cleaner.” He hauled a lady’s chair up, all delicate legs and filigree, took care to sprawl over it, overflowing it.

Damastes sat in a velvet chair opposite, put his filthy boots up on a carved ivory footstool that creaked under their weight. Maledicte flickered his eyes downward, studied the worn soles of the jailer’s boots.

“All this plunder and you need new boots,” Maledicte said. “Is it false economy that hinders you, or do you just not know a decent shop?” Over the man’s shoulder, he watched the night sky split by darting bats and the sleek flow of rooks.

He was minded to draw this bickering out as long as he could, lulled by the sight of the sky. Only underground for minutes and already he felt buried alive. It was Ani within him who loathed the dirt, he knew; the underground dark had always been Miranda’s friend, her kingdom found beneath the beds, beneath the rubble, beneath the storm-cloud overhangs of stone eaves.

Damastes grinned at him, brown teeth in a turned-down smile. “Say what you want. I’ve been abused by aristocrats before—but remember, you’re here to beg for my favors.”

“Is that what drives you?” Maledicte said. “All this stolen wealth and it means only humbled aristocrats to you? You’re a fool. You could buy yourself a title abroad and live like a lord. If it’s begging you want, I have nothing to offer you.”

“Make him kneel,” Damastes said, his strange, slaty eyes hardening.

They reached for him; Maledicte evaded their hands, stepping behind a wing chair, making them stumble over the heaped greatcoats he pushed from its seat.