Kings and Assassins (17 page)

The duchess swept over to the bellpull, and gave it a firm yank. When the maid appeared, she kept to the doorway as if she couldn't wait to be dismissed from the room; skeletons, Psyke thought, were no doubt an inexplicable change in their routine.

“Bring us fresh water,” the duchess said. The maid bobbed her head and disappeared without a word. She tapped her hand against her skirts, a rustle rasp three times, and a scrabble of nails on wood responded, as her little lapdog leaped off a chair and came to her.

The duchess placed the little dog on the table; it squirmed and wagged its stubby tail, climbing over the bones until she urged it to lie down.

The maid returned with a crystal decanter on a tray, two goblets, and a tiny bowl. At the duchess's imperious nod, she put it down on the table, though the tray rattled as she reached the bones.

The duchess reached into the rib cage of the skeleton, removed a small piece of chalk. “It's been resting in the place of his black heart,” she said, “and should be quite steeped in poison by now.”

“It's harmless,” Psyke said, but she watched as the duchess tipped the chalk into the decanter, removing her glove and tossing it away as if it had been contaminated. She swirled the water, raised it to cloudy sediment, seemed bewildered that there was no quantifiable change—
rank superstition
, Psyke's father would have said, and the chill of disapproval in his voice marked the return of the cool weight at her back.

That other voice, the one Psyke knew she would recognize if she only allowed herself to, sneered and said,
Wrong materials. She might as well spit in it and expect her own hatred to do the job
.

The duchess poured the water into the crystal bowl and set it before her dog. Psyke drew back in surprise and distaste. The pained satisfaction on the duchess's face said the lady expected the poison to work; she would prove Psyke wrong though it would cost her a beloved pet.

The dog lapped, splashing water over its fuzzy
muzzle
and across the linen cloth. When it was done, it leaped down and frisked about the duchess's feet, worrying at the beadwork on her skirts.

After several minutes, the duchess reached down with a hand that shook, and collected her dog to her breast. She smoothed its cotton-fluff fur with her bare hand; it chewed on the crystal-tips of her glove and growled.

Psyke found herself talking again, channeling that sneering, unwelcome voice. “Witchcraft was your only plan? Hardly what I would expect of a lady of your stature. Are your wits all geared to the lesser battles of bad manners and scandalous dress? No stomach for striking one's enemies head-on?” The voice faded away as rapidly as it had overtaken her, leaving her dizzy and faint. She leaned her weight on the back of a carved chair, her fingers stroking the soothing scrolls of painted wood until her heart slowed.

“Mind your tone,” the duchess said, though it was pro forma and had no real heat behind it. She rang the bell again, and when the maid reappeared, she said, “Dispose of that.” The sweep of her hand encompassed the mess of water, the crystal decanter, the bowls, and the skeleton itself.

The maid looked dismayed and no wonder, Psyke thought, faced with such a chore, but the duchess began speaking again. “If guile will not serve us, we will have to act directly, and that is a more chancy prospect. Your husband is not foolish enough to leave us an easy avenue of attack.”

“Need we attack him at all?” Psyke asked. “Captain Rue will find proof against him, and the court will judge him. We only need keep him from killing Adiran—”

The duchess's face froze into a mask of perplexity and disapproval.“Vacillation is a sign of a weak mind, Psyke. I am perfectly capable of judging him, proof or no proof, and I would think you able to do the same. Judge your husband by the caliber of his enemies—right-thinking men like Hector DeGuerre, like
Aris
—and by those he deems friends, killers like Maledicte.”

Psyke frowned, let her gaze fall to her skirts. Was the duchess right to act so swiftly? Psyke thought of Adiran in the nursery, of
Janus discovering the boy's unaccountable improvement, and imagined the bloodshed that would result.

“You have a plan?” Psyke asked. She felt oddly disloyal, and chastised herself for it. Janus might have been kind to her in the past, gentle with her, but it had been a sham, a pretence to distract her from the truth that Maledicte lived. Janus had killed her king, had lied to her, had…

Killed her
, a shadow whispered. Psyke shuddered but remembered those strange, cold dreams, and the effort it had taken to wake.

“… will continue my research,” the duchess said, her skirts flaring as she turned away from Psyke, leaving her with the nagging sense that she had missed her cue. “If these bones played me false, well, there is another to be unearthed. In the interim, I suggest you gentle your husband, so that, like my pup, he will take poison from your hand.” She collected one of the philosophical tracts and left the room.

Psyke followed, but diverged from the duchess's path to tell the duchess's coachman to return her to the palace. Once safely enclosed and hidden by the black drapes covering the windows, Psyke let her posture slump, her tears rise. Janus was a threat to Adiran, to the kingdom—his ambition trumped any ideals he spoke. He had to be stopped. But, oh, she hated the duchess's eager grasping for the gods and their cast-offs. Psyke had seen the gods at work, seen Mirabile, aided by Black-Winged Ani, murder her friends, her family.

Psyke believed the problems of men should be solved by men.

She leaned forward and put her face in her hands. She had wanted the Duchess of Love to agree with her, to aid her against Janus; she had that now, but the taste of triumph was bitter.

rince
I
VOR
S
OFIA
G
RIGORIAN HAD
intended to make another attempt on the nursery but found himself turned back by a guard at the base of the stairs. Rather than cause a scene, Ivor merely shifted his goal, heading for the open pavilions where the nobles gathered and gossiped. Mid-afternoon and the scandal was being passed as freely as the tea and cake. Rumors blew on the breeze, brushing against eager ears and dispersing as quickly as they had come.

Ivor sat down in a low chaise near a wide window overlooking the gardens, smiled at Lady Secret, sitting nearby like an overblown peony. Fifteen minutes later, Ivor was coaxing out the rumors he wanted to hear most, the ones centering on Prince Adiran.

The stories overlapped, contradicted, built on one another:
The boy was witless and always had been. The boy had been shamming for years, dilatory by nature. The boy had been hidden, Aris's secret weapon, or victim of Aris's paranoia. The boy was recovering, through Sir Robert's medicine, through Aris's tender care, through intervention by the gods…
.

The rumors spun endless variations on a single tune: The prince might be fit to rule.

Ivor found it hard to accept; he had seen the boy. The prince had been brought down to dinner often enough, as if he were a son to be proud of, instead of weak and soft and simple as an infant.

Grigor would have made quick work of any son born so flawed. The icy waters that surrounded Itarus were a boon to families who wished such burdens gone discreetly.

But the Antyrrian softness benefited him. Without Adiran, Aris's death would have put Janus squarely on the throne. With Adiran … well, Janus was forced to play Ivor's game, a tangle of politics, politesse, and power.

Ivor hid his smile—the lord on his right was bemoaning a lost wager—by studying the glossy tiles at his feet, a mosaic of a sea serpent speared by Antyrrian sailors.

Janus Ixion thought himself clever, thought himself worldly and competent. Perhaps by the standards of the Antyrrian court he was. But Ivor had been playing this game far longer and his stakes were equally high: if he rid Antyre of Janus, there was a throne to be won.

Quick footsteps pattered over the tiles, the soft pad of smooth-soled shoes, and Ivor turned in time to see a palace page bowing before him. “Prince Ivor, I've a message….”

The quick tumble of dark hair; slim, pale neck; and a single piercing eye, black as a raven's—Ivor's breath caught, for once startled out of his poise. Though his throat felt dry, his hands were steady as he sipped his tea. “I'm sure it can wait,” he said. The page nodded, and faded away. The nobles about him, gossip hounds all, had never bothered to raise their heads.

Had Janus been here … Ivor's teacup chattered quietly as he set it down.

He forced himself to participate in another round of gossip—this centered on the Countess of Last and her erratic behavior—though he wanted nothing more than to leave, to chase the page. But nothing drew attention so much as a man attempting to avoid it.

Recovering, he made his farewells, and sought a less traveled corridor to have the inevitable conversation in. As he passed the audience hall, where petitioners usually waited to speak to the king, the page fell into step beside him, a slim, gray-clad shadow.

Ivor ducked into the nearest private nook, one of many arranged to be convenient to the audience hall for the times when a petitioner
might find himself suddenly needing new information, yet reluctant to cede his position in line. As long as a man didn't dally in the nook, his place would be waiting, held by a palace servant.

The room was near as small as a servant's bedroom, though considerably better appointed. A single brocaded chair devoured most of the space, and Ivor sat in it, the fabric rasping against his clothes, his skin.

The page drew the curtains closed behind her.

“I cannot afford to be seen with you,” he said. “Be quick with your explanations. I thought you a-sea by now.”

She leaned on the wall opposite, though in such close quarters it meant only that she leaned her body away from his; her ankles in neat palace slippers, rested between his own. Overall the poise bespoke her comfort with him rather than her obedience. When her first words, then, were not her excuses, but rather discursive commentary, he was not as surprised as a prince should have been.

“I think you forget who I am,” she said. “There's no wrong done in a page speaking to a noble. Even a noble like yourself.”

“You are no page, no matter how well you wear the guise.” The small spots of ink on her gloves took the temper from his response. For her to go to that extent, to ape not only the clothes of a page but also to take on some of the hazards of always being handed parchments wet with ink, reminded him of her devotion to duty. She would have a reason for lingering in Murne.

“True,” she said. “Nor am I a guard, a maid, or a merchant making a delivery, though I have been all of those today. A palace is not an easy place to remain unseen, unless you give them something to look at.”

“Oh yes,” he agreed, all silken anger rising. “And to be all those things when you wear an eye patch—how unnoticeable is that? When Rue searches for my one-eyed valet who flirted with a stable boy on our arrival.”

“I did no such thing,” she said. “As for the guises?” She shrugged her head forward, slipping back into the page's subservient hunch in answer. Her hair covered much of her face, and he sighed.

“Guard wore a helmet,” she said. “Maid a bonnet, and the merchant? Well, he was quite a
dashing
merchant and wore vast quantities of feathers hanging low from his cap.”

He gritted his teeth, and she stepped away from the wall, coming forward and settling in his lap. After a quick glance at the closed curtain, he rested his hands on slim hips. “You cannot afford to be seen. There was a witness.”

Her confidence faltered. She licked her lips, bent her head in true discomfort. “There was,” she whispered. “I saw her briefly, before it all changed. Ivor, you must be careful.”

“Of Lady Last? She saw you, but her own fears took root and so she saw the one you resemble so greatly. Mal—”

His assassin placed a quick, hard hand over his mouth. “No. Say no names associated with those above and below. They take an interest.”

Ivor felt his heart skip a single beat, a visceral reaction to the obvious fear in her voice. He drew back, freeing his mouth; her nails scraped lightly across his shaven cheeks. “They? Go on.”

“I saw Lady Last.” She continued, her voice going quieter and quieter until he was listening with his forehead pressed to hers, as if her meaning could be carried to him by vibration. “She stepped into shadow and one of the five gods woke and embraced her. She disappeared before my eyes.”

“And you're sure your dread over the task didn't influence you to fear immortal judgment? You made rather a mess of things, I understand. Not least by your continued presence here.”

“I did go down to the sea, I swear on my unspoken name, I did. But I had to rid myself of Challacombe first, and the god confounded me so that the tunnels twisted. By the time I reached the port, my fisherman was gone, and the docks were crowded with the Particulars and kingsguards.”