Kings and Assassins (33 page)

Love, vengeance, but nothing of mercy in Her
, Janus thought, dragging himself to slouch against the door. Not even for Her own creatures. Adiran dropped the feather and reached for more. The bird slowly stopped thrashing.

Janus watched Adiran, watched Ani slowly disappearing, working Her way beneath the boy's skin, like a warship easing its way through the shallows.

By the time Rue and the guards arrived, with Evan hot on their heels, a tray in his hands, it was only Adiran standing there, with a handful of bloody feathers.

J
ANUS FLED TO HIS CHAMBERS
, rinsed the taste of scorched blood out of his mouth with a scouring wash of whiskey, then took
a deeper swallow to numb his abused flesh. He fell into the soft chair by the dark hearth, closed his eyes.

He had been foolish; perhaps Ivor was right to assign him such an epithet. He hadn't thought of Black-Winged Ani's presence in Adiran as a direct threat to him. He hadn't killed Aris, after all, was innocent of the crime that brought Her. But he'd forgotten something so basic it bewildered him. Vengeance was far less concerned with justice than it was in sharing one's pain with the world. It mattered less who had committed the crime than who Adiran deemed guilty. It had been so with Mal: Kritos had done the deed, but Ani fixed on the Earl of Last.

Janus now regretted the bargain he had struck with Ivor. The last thing he needed was Ivor in proximity to an eager god. He rose and sought the deeper recesses of his chambers, discarded his coat, hung it neatly over the wardrobe hook, ready for Padget to sponge it clean.

Disturbed, tired, sore, he unlaced his shirt, his breeches, wondering where Padget was. In his bedchamber, he found at least part of the answer. Psyke was asleep on the counterpane, her night rail rucked up to reveal the pale flesh of her calves.

Padget wouldn't have stayed with the countess in residence. Janus could ring for him, but… Janus's shadow, wavering in the low gaslight, crawled over Psyke and she woke all at once, like a startled animal sensing a predator's approach.

“My bed linens are fouled,” she said by way of greeting and explanation. “Delight left them covered in soot and blood. Will you grudge me yours?” Her eyes were steady on his, clear as they had not been for some time. Her voice, polite even behind the blunt words, was hers alone, the sweet tones familiar.

“There are maids,” he said. “You could send for fresh linens and spare yourself my company.”

“Ring for them, if my presence disturbs you. I'd rather sleep than wait for the maids to debate belowstairs which of them must serve the countess of death.”

“They're cowards all,” Janus said.

Psyke smiled at him, bitterly amused. “Then lie with me. You look fatigued, and I've warmed the bed for you.”

“I've tasks yet to be done,” he said.

“You're nearly undressed.” She rose, her gown falling about her legs like the drift of city fogs at night, pervasive, enveloping, unhealthy. She touched the laces undone at his throat, ran a fingertip across his skin in a lover's touch, beckoning him. He shuddered. First Ani, now this….

“Shall I ring for Padget and have him finish the task? Or may I turn my hands to it?”

Janus stepped back, all too aware of the dark scales on her skin; the fine, pale lawn of the nightgown let them show through where they now had crept over her collarbone.

“Perhaps later,” he said.

She wove her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, raised her mouth to his and whispered, “I saw you kiss Maledicte like this once. As if you were drowning, and he the air you sought. I wanted it. Wanted it badly enough that when Aris asked if I would wed you, I agreed.”

He jerked away, rubbed his hand over his lips, tasting blood once more.

“You're surprised,” she said. “You must have known you were sought after, even given your birth.”

“I had no need for a wife,” he said.

“I needed a husband,” Psyke said. “Sisters who wanted to be wed, a widowed mother with no fortune left to speak of—the sum Aris offered would have seen them live well. Instead, it saw them buried with dignity.” She shivered once, eyes closing, not against tears, he thought, but against something more insidious, the encroachment of one long dead.

Her jaw tightened as if she fought words not her own. Janus took her fisted hand, opened the fingers, and kissed the palm. “Psyke,” he said, claiming her.

Her eyes opened, blue as forget-me-nots, oddly grateful. “It was your passion,” she said. “You presented one face to the court: gracious, assured, bored. You presented another in his arms. You showed depth of feeling—”

Janus shook his head, suspicious of her sudden outpouring.
Maybe this was another ghost after all, or an especially tricky one. He slipped her grasp; her words died away her face hardened.

“I didn't know then, though Aris warned me, that your depth of feeling was all for selfish pursuits.”

“For the country,” he said.

She paused in her instant retort, sat again on the disturbed bed. “Not then. Aris was right about you then. It was greed and pride that made you kill your father, along with a healthy dose of fear. I'm not certain what drives you now.”

“Aggravation mostly,” Janus snapped. He tightened the laces on his breeches, left the ones at his throat hanging. “And, as you've said, a healthy dose of fear. The Itarusines want our country, and most of our people don't care. The poor can't imagine life will improve, and the rich assume it won't change.”

He didn't wait for her response, whatever it would be—he had to admit defeat here: She was utterly a cipher to him and would likely stay that way. Instead, he collected his blade, strapped it to his hip, and headed back into the hall, irritably waving the guards back to their posts. “Best watch over the countess. I can care for myself.”

It felt good to walk the halls by himself, to hear only his footfalls and not the awkward shuffle of two guards unused to a nobleman who walked at a pace quicker than a stroll.

His peace lasted only for one hallway and a flight of stairs. Bull caught him up as he reached the main floor. “You missed dinner, Last.”

“Feared I'll starve? I'm a far better judge of hunger than you'll ever be.”

“Easy,” Bull said, raising a hand. “I have no desire for argument.”

“Then choose your words more carefully,” Janus said. “I'm in a brittle mood.”

“Then you'll be in a worse one when I'm through,” Bull said. He fell into step alongside Janus, and took his arm. “All I meant was that I needed to speak to you and you were nowhere to be found. Or so the pages said.”

“If you have need of me, best hunt out my personal page. The others …” He shrugged. “Well, they fall under Savne's command,
and he, despite appearances, loves me not. I have been in the palace for the entirety of the day. A very long day. One you propose, if I understand you correctly, to make longer and more maddening.” Despite his tone, Janus found himself oddly grateful for the man's stolid and ordinary presence.

“This way.” Bull led Janus through the anteroom, gaslights turned so low that they seemed more like distant stars than promises of light. The darkness echoed about them, and Janus rested one hand on the hilt of his saber, kept his footsteps quiet, his breathing quieter, the better to hear any potential ambush.

“Here,” Bull said, and opened one of the doors into a tiny meeting room. It was the smallest of the alcoves and the only one that held no servants' passage behind it, no possibility of an eavesdropper.

Bull turned up the gas lamp on the desk, nodded. “Go ahead. Close us in.”

Janus shut the door, drew the velvet hangings over it, muffling whatever sound they would produce.

“What is it?” he asked. He leaned against the dark blue curtain, let it close about him like the sky at twilight, restful and intimate.

“Gost's called a session of Parliament tomorrow.”

“To name the regent,” Janus said. It was the only possibility, and Gost had proven himself quick to seize possibilities. With Aris's death, with the suspension of the usual social season, many of the lords in Parliament had returned to their country estates, leaving only the aimless and the sycophantic.

“That's my assumption,” Bull said. “I wasn't informed or invited to attend. Not a lord. No matter that I've been Aris's counselor for five years.”

“I wasn't invited either,” Janus said.

“But you can attend,” Bull said. “They can't bar the door to you.” He sank down into the sturdy chair beside the table, no gilt spindles here, only solid craftsmanship. In this court, where appearance was nearly everything, this chamber was too small, too ugly, and too far away from the throne room to be in demand.

“Aris solicited my opinions. First on matters of money, then business, then in his political life. I've grown accustomed to speaking my
mind, but doing so has confirmed Gost's fears about my suitability. Rumor has it he intends to have Blythe stand beside him as second regent.”

Bull looked gratified at the chuff of disgust this elicited from Janus, more so when Janus allowed himself to drop faint praise in Bull's path. “Gost fears that you might be listened to.”

“Last,” Bull said, “I cannot attend, but you must—”

“Oh, I'll attend,” Janus said. “You needn't talk me into it. Though I think all my presence will mean is that we will learn those who vote for Gost and against us.”

“That's something,” Bull said. “To identify your enemies.” He smiled, reached out and took Janus's hand, shaking it briefly. “Though I believe you have more difficulty identifying would-be friends.”

Janus wanted to trust the man, and that worried him. It was easier in some respects, to assume everyone was his enemy, but if Antyre was to change, he would need allies.

“In the interim, rest; you look fatigued. You'll need your wits about you if we're to stop Gost's ambitions.”

Janus stifled his retort. Bull smiled at him. “Advice doesn't mean belittlement, Last. Nor does taking it mean weakness.” He stepped past him and disappeared into the quiet halls once again, leaving Janus possessor of the room with a slew of new facts to consider.

Three tight-paced circuits of the room later, Janus fled it himself, having decided that whether Bull was an ally or not, his advice was sound.

Janus sought out the old wing, thinking wistfully of his once-hated chamber; it would likely be empty still, if unaired and the feather beds put away. Bypassing a double rank of soldiers reminded him of another option and one that required far fewer stairs.

Fatigue was dragging at his heels, eroding his control, his nerves; and when Delight flung open the door to shout out requests for more paper, Janus jumped back, slamming his shoulder into the wall, saber coming to hand.

“Last,” Delight said, “I've not got anything set up yet. Nothing to show.”

“A bed?” Janus said. He pressed past Delight, vision narrowing.

“Haven't you one of your own?”

“Death's in it,” he muttered, and spotting a chaise not yet covered with crates or papers, changed his plans. A feather mattress was nice, but hardly a necessity. The chaise would do just as well. “I've Parliament to attend in the morning. Wake me at seven. I'll kill anyone who wakes me earlier.”

HE
P
ARLIAMENT BUILDING WAS, LIKE
so many of Murne's other structures, repurposed from the days of gods and intercessors. Once it had been the shared cathedral of the five gods. At least it had traded dignity for dignity, unlike the smaller temples all too often turned to meet mercantile needs. One of Espit's largest temples lay at the very heart of the Sybarite Street district, her altars turned platforms for beds in Murne's most licentious brothel.

The carriage, a faceless hire coach, circled the building, and Janus slid back the hatch to stop the driver when they came around to Baxit's entrance. Janus stepped through the columns, carved and painted with scrolls recording Baxit's dictates. He could see the tail end of the curving stairs that led to Nagas entrance with its fanged mouth. One dandy ducked his head too late, and lost his high-topped hat to one of Nagas teeth.

Janus entered Parliament's marble hall while the doorman was still calling out his title. He took a quick, vindictive pleasure in the surge of glances and whispers.

The cathedral's inner face had been altered far more than the outside, creating a central open space holding a single podium where the five-sided altar had stood. A new level rose behind the podium, built of painted wood cannibalized from icons sized as tall as the building.
Rows of spectator seats crowded tightly into the narrow mezzanine, tilted slightly forward so as to give a better view of the speaker.

Aris had originally approved the addition of the mezzanine to house the most prosperous and influential commoners, to give them a chance to speak. But there had been such an uproar at the idea that Aris had allowed the subject to be forgotten. Janus thought it was one of Aris's better ideas, well worth pursuing in the coming years. In the meantime, the mezzanine held the aristocratic overflow; those without prestige or power, those who came to see their laws passed secondhand.