Kings and Assassins (16 page)

The duchess snatched at Psyke again, and Adiran tensed, his soft mouth tightening into an unhappy frown. Psyke rose to her feet, brushing her skirts, and followed the duchess out of the nursery, rather than upset Adiran.

Expecting Celeste to guide her into one of the many empty rooms along the hallway, Psyke found herself stumbling instead down the main stairs, past the throne room and antechamber and outside into the pillared arcade. She blinked in the daylight, the crisp spring air with a few lingering hints of smoke from the cool night previous.

Psyke leaned back, breathed deep, but the sun and the sky failed to lift the weight on her skin. Her shoulders ached dully, as if the black bombazine she wore were heavy enough to bruise her flesh. The duchess's carriage waited; the duchess, handed up into the coach, tapped her foot once. Psyke straightened her shoulders, and took the coachman's hand.

The coach moved slowly through the crowded streets, giving Psyke a view of the public's mood. The wealthy merchants waiting to see the regent or regents—or whoever they could voice their worries to—had faces writ with confidence or concern. The general rabble
of pickpockets, gamesmen, and harlots preying on the crowds were all focus and determination: Who knew when such ripe pickings would walk the streets again, and so distracted? But there were a disturbing number who left the carriage's path wearing masks of quiet fury. Men who looked like displaced farmers. Beyond them, jostling and picking fights, were the young men of several classes who had nowhere to direct their ambition in the overcrowded city.

Aris had tried to quiet this aimless hunger in recent months by allotting each ship that sailed for the Explorations a handful of open berths, a spur to those seeking life and profit elsewhere. It had been one of the few points she and Aris had quarreled on: What kingdom could benefit by its people fleeing it? But Aris had only accused her of listening overmuch to Janus, and dismissed her concerns.

The jolt and clatter of the coach wheels smoothed to a hum as the coachman guided the horses into Garden Square, where the pavement was smooth as tile to provide a gentler ride for those of the most genteel blood. Psyke, looking curiously about her, saw mossy stone walls behind the homes, hiding the elaborate private gardens that gave the square its name and the cachet of the most sought after residences.

How often had Psyke heard her mother say that if only they lived in Garden Square all her daughters would be wed and wed well, that there was nothing for eliciting proposals like a young girl in a bower of roses. Gwena, Psyke's youngest sister—brittle tempered, always quick to defend herself from slights, imagined or otherwise—had retorted that the young ladies of Garden Square had more than a backdrop of flowers to their advantage—they had extraordinary dowries, and if their mother would be so kind as to oblige—

The Lovesys had held ownership of their Garden Square manor for six generations. Amarantha Lovesy, Celeste's daughter, married so briefly to Michel Ixion, the former Earl of Last, had brought nearly thirty thousand sols with her to the marriage, as well as several priceless pieces of personal jewelry. Psyke knew the amount of the dowry exactly; Janus had told it to her once, giving her an explanation for Celeste Lovesys hatred that had little to do with Maledicte or Amarantha's murder.

Greed, Janus declared, was the duchess's driving force, not grief.
After all, at Amarantha's death, and the former earl's death, Janus had inherited it all.

Psyke's fingers clenched on her skirts, remembering with a cold shock that in her jewel box, she had Amarantha's best parure. Janus had brought the set to her, its necklace composed of elaborate links of alternating sapphires and pearls.

He'd left it for her, awkwardly, in the first days of their marriage, with a comment that they suited Psyke far more than they had ever suited Amarantha, whose beauty, he claimed, was too hard for bright stones. Psyke had been appalled at the tactlessness that gifted her with a dead woman's most recognizable jewels and at the furtive pleasure she felt that Janus admired her at all. The pleasure had lasted until she realized the other set famously worn by Amarantha—gold pieces with onyx and ruby—Janus had gifted elsewhere.

Now Psyke gritted her teeth, feeling the fool. The onyx and ruby parure, or what was left of it, had resurfaced the day they moved from Lastrest, the country estate, to the palace. The stones had been pried out, the gold twisted and broken by a too-hasty hand and discarded in a linen room. With Aris's death fresh in her memory, Psyke redrew the past. Janus had given the parure to Maledicte—a bizarre gift for a young man, but Ani was crow enough to be fond of glitter. Psyke groaned, and Celeste condescended to acknowledge her presence for the first time in many minutes.

“Whatever is it that pains you?”

“Maledicte dwelled at Lastrest and I didn't notice. I could have stopped it all. If only I'd been less blind, Aris might live.” She rolled her head, fought tears.

“Don't dramatize yourself, girl,” the duchess said. “Maledicte is dead.”

“Maledicte killed Aris.”

The carriage halted at the Lovesy mansion, and the coachman came to open the door. The duchess said, “We need to refine your strategy. Maledicte's name is good for waking fright in those too dull to be roused any other way—”

“It's true,” Psyke said, though the passion was already gone from the retort.

Celeste merely sighed. “What does it matter whose hand it was; Janus is to blame. That we can agree on. Your husband is all things malignant, and worse, he has been very industrious. Petitioning Parliament for funds for his disgraceful privateers, his silly experiments, food for the rabble. I never thought to find myself grateful for an Itarusine presence here, but without Prince Ivor, Last would be further ahead in his plans.”

“Ivor's no gift,” Psyke said.

“Don't be argumentative,” the duchess said, finally allowing the coachman to hand her down. “It's unbecoming.”

Left with only Celeste's retreating back, Psyke hesitated in the carriage, irritated and contemplating commanding the coachman to drive her back to the palace. The coachman coughed, an arm outstretched to take her weight. “Your hand, milady. The horses wait on you.”

She scrambled out of the coach, feeling like a debutante who had just fallen headlong over her hem before an audience. Stone chips stung her feet. The duchess had whisked her away from the palace so swiftly, that Psyke had forgotten she had spurned her slippers.

As Psyke trotted to catch up with the duchess's longer strides, the woman turned a brittle smile on her. “Without Ivor to goad him, to distract him, Janus might pay more attention to Bull and DeGuerre. As it is, he has merely dismissed them as weak, apparent from the manner in which he deals with them. But should he gain some sense—both men are easily wooed. Admiral DeGuerre, for one, is watching Janus most carefully—always jealous that the title went to his brother's family. Janus could own him simply by declaring the Marquis DeGuerre's exile permanent and the title passed to the admiral's side of the family.”

“Aris is dead—murdered,” Psyke said. She walked past overgrown climbing roses that snagged her skirts. She paused to free herself from the thorns. The roses were white, mostly withered, and scentless; the thorns pricked her fingers. “The admiral would not collude with a regicide simply for a title.”

Celeste swept through the doors opened by two curtsying housemaids. “Don't be naïve, girl; you are too old for schoolgirl dreams and
in too important a position. Men have always bartered with their enemies when it suited them. Aris's court has been static and small natured, ambitious men locked into petty struggles. His death opens the door for change. Fortunes rise or fall in times such as these.”

Psyke was silent, thinking about it. She turned automatically toward the open parlor door, caught in years of tradition. An afternoon call, no matter the circumstance, meant the parlor and tea, perhaps a stroll in the gardens after if the weather was particularly fine. Celeste reached out and took her arm, cozed it against her side. “The dining hall upstairs, please. I have something to show you.

“I think our time to stop Janus is limited. Did you mark Gost and Janus at the graveyard together?” At Psyke's nod, Celeste continued. “Gost can increase Janus's power immensely.”

“He's been out of the court for years,” Psyke said, but the flash of angry disappointment in Celeste's eyes made her stop, pull her arm free, and think. She traced the carvings on the banister, imagining the elaborate curlicues as Janus's plans, twisting behind the scenes. “Gost might support Janus simply because he… doesn't know Janus,” she said, “only the rumors, which are easy to discount for a man who is notoriously fond of fact.”

“Exactly,” Celeste said. “After ten years among the ascetics in Kyrda, turning their frivolous child prince into a man of well-restrained power, Gost has been vocal about disliking what he's seen on his return. A court in twilight, fading away. We must show Gost that Janus's schemes are flawed, dangerous, and that Janus is the spit of every wolf that threatens our kingdom.”

“How?” Psyke said. “Gost tends to impatience with females.”

They entered the dining room, and Psyke's question fled her mind. Suddenly she was no longer sure she wasn't lost in another vivid nightmare. The Duchess of Love bestowed a benign smile on her, and moved to the table and the thing on it.

Her gloved hands, jet crystals dangling from the fingertips, made tiny, melodic chimes as she stroked the tabletop, over the skeleton that was laid out as tidily as if it were nothing more than a place setting. The linen tablecloth browned where the sodden bones pressed and the marrow leaked.

Psyke pressed her shivering back against the doorframe for support. Her shoulders throbbed, and there came an instant of silence that engulfed her body, leaving her stranded in a space as soundless as the grave. She thought she heard a tiny, pained whisper rising from the bones before Celeste's voice broke through, as calm as if the table were set for dinner. “Now that the gods have returned, if one can so judge by Ani's presence in Mirabile and in Maledicte, we shall have divine aid in ridding our kingdom of the blight—”

Psyke found her voice, or what was left of it. She said, “You can't mean to call upon Ani! It was Her doing that Maledicte became a threat at all.”

“Calling on Her would be inappropriate and, as it stands now, unnecessary. We have other means at our disposal.”

Psyke held back, wanting to leave, afraid of the fervor in Celeste's eyes. A breath of air, a draft in the pleasant room, made Psyke feel as if someone had come to stand beside her. She wished someone had so that she could turn, shelter her face in a strong shoulder. Avoiding the bones decaying on the table, her gaze sought refuge elsewhere but found no relief: the sideboard held knives and age-spotted tracts with lurid covers of men dying in agony.

“Come, come,” the duchess said. “Come see, here is your fear undone—Maledicte gone to mortal clay—and we will use it against his own lover.”

Closer to the body, a smudgy shimmer seemed to rise from the bones, like a ripple of air on an overhot day. In contrast, the cool draft moved more silkily about Psyke, resting against her skirts and ringleted hair without disturbing them. That whisper came again, borne in her bones and blood.

“It's not Maledicte,” she said, her voice a distant surprise even to herself “It's witchcraft you've planned, bones that have been touched by the gods to power your spells, but this—this was just a boy.”

The history of flesh coated the bones even as she spoke—a young man, peak faced, with dark hair, a gaping wound in his chest and surprise in his expression. Having dressed his bones in flesh, she undressed his past piece by piece. A city lad, prone to consumption, like his mother, like his father, and sold to the country—

For his health
, a shadow breathed in her ear, a cold, furious whisper.
Or so they told him
.

—and farming was hard, so hard, too hard, and there were riches back in Murne, so he packed his best shirt, stole a pair of good breeches from the farmer, and sought the city again. The ships caught his eye—

No intelligent captain takes a boy like that on
, the voice continued,
too sickly, too pretty. It's nothing but trouble
.

—and no one wanted him except the brothels, so he learned to shrug the pain and shame off; with enough cheap
Absente
to drink, he learned to like it—

A familiar story and save the ending, too dull to be borne
, the voice whispered, insinuating.
His looks attracted the wrong man, and he found a blade in his heart. He found a lord asking for him, a shining man with blond hair, eyes bright blue
. Psyke disliked the arch amusement of this ghost, a voice familiar but unrecognized, tried to shy away. Her face felt hot, her skin cold. Her mouth was as dry as if she had been eating clay.

Pain burst against her arm, the sharp edge of crystals pressing into her soft skin. The images, the whispering ghosts, blew away like smoke, taking all that knowledge with them. She blinked at the duchess standing beside her and repeated the only thing she knew. “It's not Maledicte.”

The duchess's hands tightened again, and Psyke thought the crystals must be causing Celeste pain as well as they gouged her fingertips. The woman's lips compressed as tightly as her grip. “These are the very bones that hung above the palace. I paid the guards a fortune to divert them from the grinders and the sea tides. They are Maledicte's—”

“They are the bones of a prostitute, likely murdered so that his hair, his bones could be sold to decadent noblemen and women as gruesome conversation pieces. Here, my dear, you must see… the very bones of Maledicte, the murderer….” Psyke said, acid mockery scouring her throat. She yanked her arm out of the duchess's grasp, heard the fabric rasp free. “They have no power over him at all.”

The duchess stared at her in such a way that Psyke thought if she were the woman's daughter, she would have had her ears boxed. “You
have always been a fanciful girl,” she said, though their worlds had never mixed. Still, it was clear that the duchess had a marked preference for her own assumptions. “There is a time and place for stories, but you have long outgrown it.”