Steel's Edge (34 page)

The anxiety ate at him. “Sounds like you have things in hand.”

“Yes.”

“Should we go through the plan again?” They had gone over it a dozen times, but the moment he left, events would spiral out of his control.

“You will travel to the capital and replace Casside. You're planning on kidnapping him on the way to his weekly card game, which he will attend. The attack on the island likely made Brennan furious, and the four bluebloods under him will strive to maintain the status quo out of sheer self-preservation. You will kidnap Casside, remove his retainers from the house, and your family will detain them until we're done.” She invited him to continue.

“In two days, you will make an appearance at the Spring's End Ball,” Richard said. “You will make an impression on Angelia Ermine. You will befriend her. It's likely that she is sleeping with Brennan.”

“You said that before,” Charlotte said. “What makes you so sure?”

“Do you remember that speech Brennan had written while in Academy about leadership as the true purpose of the monarchy?”

She nodded. They had read it to each other out loud.

“He wants the throne. He thinks he's destined to rule, but he will never acquire the crown,” Richard said. “He's too far removed from the line of succession. It's killing him inside. The slaver ring is his kingdom, and Casside, Angelia, Rene, and Maedoc are his thanes. He would demand absolute loyalty from them. Angelia is young, unattached, and attractive. He would want the satisfaction of owning her completely.”

“Angelia is scum. I'll have to strain not to kill her.” Charlotte shook her head. “While I'm working on her, you will stage an attempt on Brennan's life, making him think that Maedoc is trying to kill him.”

It was a difficult plan, one that demanded that both of them surrender their best weapons. He would have to use his sword without the benefit of the flash technique, but she wouldn't be able to use her magic either. That fact filled him with relief. Still, killing Brennan would have been so much easier with it.

Suddenly Charlotte stepped toward him and embraced him. Her lips touched his. He kissed her deeply and tasted desperation. “Are you afraid?”

“I'm terrified,” she said.

He held her to him. “I wish I knew what to say,” he murmured. “I wish I had the right words.”

“Tell me what will happen if we win,” she asked.

“If we win, I will find you,” he told her. “And if it's in my power, we will never be apart again. If you will have me.”

“And if I won't?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I'll probably beg. Or do one of those stupid dramatic things men do to win women over. If we still lived in the time of knights, I'd just unhorse anyone who stood in my way.”

“I'll hold you to it,” she whispered, and kissed him back.

*   *   *

HER
Grace, Lady Jane Olivia Camarine, Duchess of the Southern Provinces, was flawless, Charlotte reflected. She looked to be in her late forties although likely older since her son, the Earl of Camarine, was past thirty. Her tunic and trousers, a gorgeous emerald green and cream, were tailored with a deceptive simplicity that masked her thickening waist while playing up the duchess's curves. Her hair, artfully layered on her head in twin plaits, elongated her round face. She wore a single piece of jewelry, a wedding ring crafted from spider-silk-thin tendrils of gold. It was both extremely expensive and superbly tasteful. She stood on the terrace, next to a picnic table, bathed in morning light.

“Look at the way she stands,” Charlotte murmured, as she and Sophie followed Jack to the table. “Chin tilted upward to make the neck appear thinner; light on the left, so it will play up the draping lines on her tunic. Long vertical lines, like those, make you appear thinner. You must always be aware of the light and know your best angles.”

“Your Grace,” Jack said. “May I present Charlotte de Ney and Lark.”

“Sophie Mar,” Charlotte murmured under her breath.

“And Sophie Mar,” he intoned.

Charlotte curtsied. Next to her, Sophie sank down gracefully.

“What a pleasure to meet you both.” The duchess smiled warmly. “Children, do you actually want to be here?”

“No,” Jack and Sophie chorused.

The duchess grinned. “Broderick fixed the fountain in the pool.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder in a distinctly unblueblood gesture. “Flee while you can!”

The two teenagers took off down the wide white stairs toward the pool gleaming in the middle of the lawn. At the last step, as if by some signal, they broke into a run, flying across the grass. Jack spilled out of his clothes. Sophie grasped the hem of her gown.
Dear Dawn Mother, please let there be something under it.
The gown flew off, revealing a small bikini. The two teenagers leaped in unison and vanished into the water.

“They planned this, didn't they?”

“I'd imagine so,” Her Grace said. “Shall we?”

They sat at a table.

“I remember you. You were only fifteen at the time, but I recall you escorting Augustine al Ran.”

“I'm flattered,” Charlotte said.

“So is it Charlotte de Ney?”

There was no point in hiding. “Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran, Your Grace.”

“I thought so. Jack mentioned that you've been living in the Edge for the past three years. Have you been to see your mother since your return?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“The boys have given me a summary of your plan. Is it true? A Brennan is dealing in slaves?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The duchess looked at the two teenagers splashing in the pool. “I knew his parents. They were nice people. Capable, morally upright, conscious of their responsibilities. I wonder if they know. I doubt it. As a parent, you always worry and wonder if you went wrong somewhere, if something you said or did caused your child to stray from the path.”

“With all due respect, he did more than stray,” Charlotte said. “You wouldn't believe the horrors I've seen.”

A shadow passed over the duchess's face. “Perhaps I would. I will help you, my dear. We have a duty to bring him down.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

An outraged howl came from the pool, followed by Sophie's laugh.

The duchess sighed. “Sophie doesn't trust many people. I've tried to forge a bond, but she very politely keeps me at arm's length. If Sophie chose, she could live with her sister, but she selected not to do it. She holds herself apart, but she seems to respond to you. It's a precious connection. Please safeguard it.”

THIRTEEN

GEORGE
stood next to the Duchess of Southern Provinces, or Lady Olivia, as she preferred to be called, and surveyed the glittering gathering of the Adrianglian elite. Not all of them were blueblood, but all were rich or powerful or both. Lady Olivia wore a green bracelet on her left wrist, which signaled that she wished to maintain her privacy, and they were left to their own devices.

Around them, the vast terrace of the Evergreen castle stretched into the night, bordered by tall, pale columns, each supporting a tasteful cascade of flowers growing from marble planters. Dense trees surrounded the terrace on the north and south. To the west, the entrance to the castle's first floor gaped open, illuminated with golden light. There, the new arrivals paused at the entrance to be announced and recognized before drifting on to mingle. To the right, the trees had been cleared, and the ground dropped to the shimmering waters of the Evergreen Lake. Above burned the sunset, a garish spectacle of red and gold so vivid, it almost hurt.

Standing there, watching people flutter by, George felt a peculiar sense of detachment, as if he were in a dream. The end of spring was an ancient celebration, born in a more violent time, when starvation decimated the population, war was frequent, and human life cheap. The people who'd begun it wore simple clothes and carried savage weapons. They gave thanks to their gods for surviving to summer. Now their descendants floated on, dressed in fine gowns and tailored jackets, aware but unwilling to acknowledge the tradition of blood that gave the festival its roots. But they were still just as brutal as their ancestors. If a threat were to appear, the entire gathering would spark with bursts of lightning as their magic sliced it to pieces.

The George Camarine side of him reminded him of the commonly known facts about each familiar face, while the Mirror agent side served up their secrets. Here came Lady Olla in a beautiful gown of sea-foam green, a white flower in her red hair. She had a penchant for collecting crystal figurines of dragons and a severe addiction to sumah. He knew the names of her suppliers and where they could be found. Lord Ronkor, a former logistics officer and now a transportation supervisor in the Department of the Interior, broad-shouldered, confident, exuded an air of masculine swagger as he took wide strides across the floor. Lord Ronkor enjoyed being spanked by young women and was notoriously quick in bed, according to the prostitutes he frequented. His wife hadn't noticed—she was carrying on a decade-long affair with her best friend's sister. Yes, hello, how are you? How's your cousin, the one working in Kamen Port Authority? Is he still taking bribes? What a delightful scamp.

A small hand rested on his shoulder. “You look distant, my dear.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Apologies, Your Grace.”

The woman next to him frowned with her eyes. Her face remained perfectly pleasant. Her Grace Olivia Camarine wore a gown of deep regal purple. The theme of the festival was nature and rebirth, a celebration of spring, and the hue of her dress precisely matched the clusters of widow's tear flowers spilling from the planters. Her dark hair was put away into a tasteful arrangement. In her late fifties, she looked twenty years younger, and despite her age and a life that was more than trying, she remained beautiful. She was Declan's mother, and she had stepped into the role of George's grandmother as soon as Jack and he arrived in the Edge. That role had been officially chiseled into stone when Declan and Rose formally adopted him and Jack.

“Don't let them trouble you,” she said.

“They don't.” He felt a rush of gratitude. Many of the people gathered here would never let him forget that he came from the Edge. Very few of them dared to recall that Her Grace's mother was an Edge rat just like him. She was above reproach by virtue of her position and success, but he was still a fair target. “I know their secrets.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Gloating?”

“Only a little.”

“See that it doesn't go to your head.”

He bent toward her and smiled. “Too late.”

“George, you are a terrible scoundrel.”

“Lady Virai wouldn't have me otherwise.”

“That is, sadly, true.”

The fact that his direct supervisor and the woman in charge of the Mirror was Her Grace's best friend occasionally made his life complicated, but he'd learned to deal with it.

Lady Olivia's dark eyes sparked. “Shall we start our little game?”

“As you wish.”

Her Grace slipped the bracelet off and slid it onto her right wrist. Immediately, the current of the crowd changed. Small eddies formed as the nearest lords and ladies found graceful ways to disengage from their conversations in favor of greeting the Duchess of the Southern Provinces.

Lady Olivia hid her amusement in a placid half smile. He hadn't been present when she met Charlotte, but since then he'd had plenty of chances to observe the two of them. Lady Olivia had liked Charlotte instantly. It was very clear that they were two birds of a feather—neither was born into a blueblood line and both had attained the pinnacle of social achievement. They were astute, adept, and intelligent, and listening to them he had felt slightly out of his depth.

People approached. He uttered pleasantries, making them sound as if he meant them. About ten minutes later, with the crowd at its peak, Lady Olivia turned to him.

“George, have you seen her yet?”

“No, my lady.” He could see the question form on the faces around them.

“She did say she intended to attend?”

“Yes, my lady. You made it very clear to her that she would suffer your wrath otherwise.”

Lady Olivia heaved a martyred sigh. “I'm really not that frightening.”

Nobody laughed. History was a required subject for anyone hoping to achieve any significant position in Adrianglia, and every person within earshot knew about the massacre that ended the Ten Day War between the Dukedom of Louisiana and Adrianglia and who was responsible for it.

“Do check on her for me,” Her Grace prompted.

George bowed his head. A falcon shot upward from its post on the nearest column and streaked away, in the direction of front gate. He concentrated, looking through the bird's eyes at the string of phaetons. There, latest model, delicate ornamentation, Sophie's face in the window.

He left the bird soaring. “Your Grace, they are about to arrive. Ten minutes at most.”

“Delightful. Thank you, my boy.”

He slid back into his affectation of boredom, surveying the faces, noting the minute details, as people pulled on polite masks, frantically trying to figure out who was the subject of their conversation. A tall, dark-haired man paused on the periphery of the gathering. Lord Casside. A member of the Five. It didn't seem like his type of affair. He must've gotten a personal invitation from someone he couldn't ignore . . .

George caught himself. Not Casside. Richard.

He had watched through the eyes of a bat when, two nights ago, Richard's people grabbed Casside off the dark street. He'd left a club where he'd fenced with his usual partner, turned the corner on the dark street, heading to his phaeton, and three men jumped him. They sealed his mouth, brought him down, thrust a bag over his head, and yanked him into the dark archway. A moment later, Richard strode out onto the street, dressed in exactly the same clothes, walking at exactly the same speed. He walked over to the phaeton, got in, and rode off. George knew this, but when he looked at the lean man across the terrace, his mind didn't say Richard. It said, “Casside,” and insisted on it.

It had to be some sort of subtle magic, George decided. One of those secret talents the Edgers hid from everyone.

Richard glanced in their direction, looking bored.

*   *   *

CHARLOTTE
paused before the entrance to the terrace. Through the doors she could see the gathering: the people, the clothes, the jewels . . . An electric zing of excitement dashed through her. She had done this dozens of times, but that preappearance rush never got old.

Sophie stepped forward and passed a small card with their names and titles to the crier. The man took it, and the child moved back to her place next to Charlotte. She looked a shade paler than when they had exited the phaeton. Poor kid.

Charlotte wrapped her arm around Sophie's shoulders. “It will be fine,” she murmured. “Breathe and hold your head high. Remember—poise. You belong here. It's your right to be here.”

Sophie swallowed.

“Baroness Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran and Sophie al-te Mua,” the crier announced.

*   *   *

“HERE
she is,” Lady Olivia exclaimed.

Every head at their side of the terrace turned to the entrance. Charlotte stepped through, and George blinked. She wore a shimmering gown of delicate blue. It hugged her body. It
really
hugged her body, showcasing every curve before it flared into a flowing skirt that fell to the floor, and he felt vaguely embarrassed for looking. The top of the dress featured strips of brown fabric that narrowed on the side and spread across the blue skirt, imitating thin, twisted, apple branches. White blossoms, accented with silver, bloomed on the branches. The silhouette was simple, yet the color, the cut, and the pattern combined into an elegant, refined whole, and Charlotte, with her pale blond hair and gray eyes, floated in it, like the queen of spring.

He could almost hear a barely audible collective gasp from a dozen women who realized they had just been upstaged.

George chanced a glance at Richard. The man stood very still, his gaze fixed on Charlotte as she walked across the floor, and despite his new face, in that moment Richard looked nothing like Casside. A mix of emotions reflected on his face, desperation, passion, longing. It lasted for half a moment and looked like torture, then Richard slipped back into Casside, the way one put on a shirt in the morning. He must miss her.

George glanced back at Charlotte and forgot to breathe. Three steps behind her, to the left, Sophie walked across the terrace.

The world took a step back.

She wore a flowing gown of a pale gray with a touch of blue, draped at the top, caught by a sash, then floating in a weightless long skirt. He'd seen that precise color when she unsheathed her sword. The dress shimmered as she walked, slick and fluid, as if the metal of her blade had come to life and streamed over her like liquid, shifting with every movement.

He saw the graceful lines of her neck.

He saw her dark hair and a single pale blue flower in it.

He saw her face.

She was beautiful.

He realized he was standing there like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open, and clamped it shut.

A moment later, Charlotte joined them. Her Grace hugged her, gently. “My dear, I had almost given up hope.”

“I wouldn't disappoint you if it is at all in my power.” Charlotte smiled.

“And you've brought Sophie.” Her Grace opened her arms, and Sophie hugged her. “How can you hide this beautiful flower in that country house of yours?”

“The country is where the flowers bloom the best,” Charlotte replied.

“Oh please.” Lady Olivia made a dismissive gesture that could've done a premier dancer proud. “It's about time for the child to see the wider world.”

“Excuse me, Lord Camarine?”

A singsong female voice tugged on him. George turned. Lady Angelia Ermine stood next to him, wearing a fishtail gown of light powder blue. Her caramel golden hair cascaded in a tumble of locks on her left side, drawing attention to her delicate shoulders and long neck. She was quite attractive, George reflected in a detached way. She also profited from the sale of slave women and robbed them of their future children.

Her escort, a well-groomed, elegant blond man in a tailored russet doublet smiled at him with a sardonic spark in his eyes—Baron Rene, Spider's cousin. He seemed perfectly at ease and enjoying himself. Two of the Five for the price of one.

George smiled. “May I help you, my lady?”

“Do you happen to know Lady de Ney?”

“I've only met her casually. I understand she has a very rare talent. Her Grace holds her in the highest regard. Some sort of family favor.”

“Her dress is divine,” Baron Rene volunteered. He was looking at Charlotte with a distinctly male appreciation.

“It's probably one of her own designs,” George said, keeping his voice light. “Would you like an introduction?”

“I suppose we can spare a moment or two.” Angelia shrugged.

She was clearly dying to be introduced. George stepped to the side, waited until Her Grace leaned over to Sophie, and caught Charlotte's gaze. “My lady, Lady Angelia Ermine and Baron Rene.”

Charlotte smiled. “A pleasure.”

Baron Rene bowed, bringing Charlotte's fingers to his lips. As he bent, George caught sight of Richard's face. His expression was so perfectly placid, so even, it was slightly alarming.

Baron Rene straightened. Charlotte and Angelia touched the back of their hands to each other. As their skin connected, a tiny tendril of black shot from Charlotte's hand to Angelia's. If he wasn't looking closely, he would've missed it.

The two bluebloods said a few more words about the festival and weather and disengaged.

The center of the terrace rumbled. That's right, he realized, it was almost dark.

The tiles in the middle slid aside. Magic surged in a translucent wall, forming a tall column. Inside it something sparked. Flames burst, roaring upward at the sky, perfectly contained by magic—a perfect imitation of an ancient bonfire.

The bluebloods applauded. He clapped with them, watching Charlotte and Sophie out of the corner of his eye. The ground was prepared. It was up to Charlotte to set her trap.

*   *   *

TIRED,
Charlotte descended the staircase from the front entrance where their rented phaeton waited, the driver holding the door open. Sophie walked next to her. They conquered the last few steps, got inside, and sank onto the soft cushions of the seats. The driver shut the door, and, a moment later, they were off.