Steel's Edge (37 page)

“Let my people take you home. Head wounds sometimes have hidden consequences. Robert, don't gamble with your health. We don't know how many of them there are. Perhaps there is another group . . .”

“Fine, fine.” Brennan waved his hand. “Ruin all my fun.”

Richard rose. “I'll tell them to have the phaeton ready.”

“Casside?”

“Yes.”

“I won't forget what you've done for me today,” Brennan said.

“What would you have me do?” Richard asked.

“Act normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. I'll call on you when I'm ready. This promises to be a brilliant game, and I intend to enjoy every moment of it.”

FOURTEEN

CHARLOTTE
sat across from Angelia Ermine and watched the other woman attempt to ignore the burning itching under her lacy Sud-style tunic. They sat on a verandah of Lady Olivia's city house, at a delicate table carved out of a solid piece of crystal. The table bore a dozen desserts and three different teas, which the six other women present at the gathering seemed to be enjoying. What Angelia would've enjoyed most of all would be a good scratch, possibly with some fine-grade sandpaper. Unfortunately for her, Her Grace was telling a charming story from her past, and the half dozen other attendees hung on her every word. Excusing herself wasn't an option.

“And then I told him that if he was going to stoop to that level of rudeness, I would be forced to retaliate . . .” Her Grace appeared completely engrossed in her anecdote, except for the occasional brief glance in Charlotte's direction.

The itching must've reached torturous levels, because Angelia gave up on maintaining an attentive facade and locked her teeth. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her disease had reached its peak, and Charlotte had been quietly spurring it on. Any other woman would've sent her apologies and stayed home, but Angelia was too much of a social climber. She was a minor blueblood, her bloodline undistinguished, her achievements mediocre, and a tea with the Duchess of the Southern Provinces was a lure she couldn't ignore.

Charlotte sipped tea from her cup. The refined taste, tinted with a drop of lemon and a hint of mint, was uniquely refreshing. She'd have to beg Lady Olivia for the recipe.

“And then I slapped him,” Her Grace announced.

The women around the table gasped, some genuinely surprised, some, like Charlotte, out of a sense of duty.

“Excuse me,” Angelia squeezed out. She jumped to her feet and ran from the table.

A shocked silence claimed the gathering.

“Well,” Lady Olivia said.

“With your permission, Your Grace, I should check on her,” Charlotte folded her napkin.

“Yes, of course, my dear.”

Charlotte stood up and headed toward the washroom. Behind her, Lady Olivia inquired, “Where was I?”

“You slapped him,” Sophie helpfully suggested.

“Ah yes . . .”

Charlotte left the verandah, crossed the sunroom, and stopped by the washroom. Hysterical sobs echoed through the door. Perfect.

Charlotte slid a key from the inside of her sleeve, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Angelia froze. She stood before the mirror, her tunic thrown carelessly to the floor. Bright red blisters covered her body, some as big as a thumbnail, surrounded by smaller ulcers, like some sickening constellations. Some had broken open, weeping pus.

“Oh my goodness,” Charlotte murmured, and shut the door behind herself.

Emotions cascaded across Angelia's face: shock, indignant outrage, fury, shame, contemplation . . . She hovered between them, trying to choose the right one, the one most to her advantage. It lasted only a few seconds, but Charlotte saw it clearly. Angelia Ermine's sweet and often vacant face hid a strategist's mind. Charlotte would have to be exceptionally careful.

Angelia clamped her hands to her face and cried. Appropriate emotion, sure to gain sympathy. Charlotte squeezed the key in her fist. Angelia had stripped motherhood from dozens of women. If only she could kill her. Oh, if only.

“Shhh, shhh.” Charlotte forced soothing calm into her voice. “It's all right.”

Angelia bent over the sink, weeping like a hysterical dove. “Oh, Lady al-te Ran. Look at me.”

Very dramatic. “Do you know what illness this is?” Charlotte asked.

The woman sobbed. “Look, it's on my neck now. Everyone will see.”

Nice misdirect, my dear. It won't work.
“You're wearing lace with raw silk fibers. Raw silk tends to aggravate Dock Rot.”

Angelia choked on her tears.

That's right, I know exactly why you're bearing these sores.
She was sleeping with Brennan, who was by all indications possessive. Likely he was her only current lover, but she wasn't his only entertainment. Brennan had visited a professional and brought back this disease as a present for Angelia.

“It's all right.” Charlotte feigned hesitation. “Look, this is your secret. I have my own secret, too. I will help you with yours if you promise to keep mine to yourself. Will you do that, Angelia?”

The woman nodded.

Charlotte reached over and touched her, fighting revulsion. Helping Angelia turned her stomach. Charlotte let her magic seep into the afflicted body. She found the disease and forced it into dormancy, spurning the skin cells into regeneration. The blisters burst, dried, and healed, turning into faint red stains.

“Oh my gods,” Angelia whispered, for a moment forgetting about putting on a show.

Charlotte looked at the two of them in mirror, standing close to each other. “Feel better?”

“You're a healer!”

“And you can't tell anyone, Angelia. No one. Healers are not safe outside of their colleges. We're forbidden to do harm, and we're easy targets. Do I have your promise?”

“Of course. Anything.”

Charlotte picked up Angelia's tunic. “Here, put this on.”

The younger woman slipped into the tunic. Charlotte straightened her hair. “As beautiful as ever.”

Angelia sniffed. It was an adorable sniff. It would've worked even better if she weren't a monster.

“After today, you must call on me. Healing you completely will take a much longer session, and we don't have time. Chin up.”

“What will we tell them?”

“We'll tell them you had an attack of food allergies. It will be fine. The duchess knows about me, and she trusts my judgment.” Charlotte opened the door and held it. “Do you know who's responsible for exposing you to this atrocity?”

“Yes.” Angelia's face turned grim.

“I don't know who he is, and it isn't my place to ask, but you should know that this disease is easily preventable. He didn't use a sleeve, probably letting you shoulder the burden for preventing a pregnancy, but potions and pills do not prevent the spread of diseases.”

“It was very selfish of him,” Angelia said. If her voice had substance, it would've cut. “But then, that's what men are—selfish pigs.”

“Well, I'm outraged on your behalf. Not only is he being unfaithful, but he is forcing you to suffer the consequences of his infidelity. I hope you let him have a taste of his own medicine.”

The younger woman turned to her, her face puzzled. “What exactly do you propose?”

Charlotte shrugged, scorn dripping from her. “He is cheating on you. Perhaps you should show some interest in a mutual acquaintance he considers beneath him. Someone masculine.”

“Someone who may threaten his ego,” the other woman said.

“Indeed.”

“I know just the man.” Angelia smiled.

“What a beautiful smile.”

“You know, Charlotte, I believe we will get on quite well.”

“I surely hope so. Come now, before we are missed.”

*   *   *

CHARLOTTE
stood on the balcony of her house. The sun had set, but the sky was still lit with the wake of its passing. The house faced a park, and the evening wind rustled in the branches. Tiny insects, luminescent with green and orange, chased each other through the leaves.

Two days had passed since she healed Angelia in the bathroom, followed by another three-hour session at her house. The poisoned tree should've borne fruit by now, and it was time for an update.

Somewhere out there, Richard waited, just as she did. Charlotte hugged herself.

She missed him. She missed the easy intimacy and the feeling of being held, not just physically, but emotionally. When they were together, she didn't have to face things alone. She hadn't realized until now how much she needed that closeness. In the worst time of her life, she had leaned on him, sometimes without realizing and sometimes consciously, and now he was gone. It felt like something had been ripped out of her.

Is that what love felt like? She had barely met him, but she felt like she knew him, intimately knew him better than she had known anyone in a long, long time.

She wondered if he missed her.

A bluebird landed on the rail of the balcony and held unnaturally still.

“Hello, George.”

“Good evening.” George's voice emanated from a point somewhat higher than the bird's head.

“I still don't understand how you do this.”

“It's a technique I learned in the Mire. One of Richard's relatives is an accomplished necromancer, and Richard took me to see him.”

“Is he ready?” she asked.

“Yes, I'm in contact with Richard as well.” George paused. “He says hello.”

She wished they could meet, but meetings could be observed, and communication via magic devices could be intercepted. This was the only safe way.

“I attended Lord Caraway's lunch,” George reported. “Lady A spent the entire time hanging on M's arm and his every word.”

“Good.” Angelia was paying attention to Maedoc. Brennan would notice it, especially now that Richard had put the idea of Maedoc's betrayal into his mind. With luck, he might view Angelia's sudden interest in the retired general as a sign of her switching loyalty.

“Richard says that you are brilliant.”

“Please tell him thank you for me. How did the attack go?”

“Richard says that the attack went as planned, but B didn't take the bait.”

Damn it.
“He didn't buy M's betrayal?”

George paused. “No. Richard says that he underestimated B. B judged the attack as too obvious. He's likely making inquiries into the rest of the players.”

Brennan didn't trust anyone, even an ally who stood next to him in a sword fight. This was bad news. “Are we going to Step 2?”

“Yes. He sends his sincere apologies. He hoped to keep you from being involved.”

It was up to her to execute Step 2. In the planning stage, Richard had hoped that the attack alone would be enough to make Brennan suspect Maedoc. In the event it failed to do so, she had to provide a confirmation of Maedoc's guilt to Brennan. Since Richard and she acted independently, Brennan had no reason to suspect a conspiracy.

Before they started the game, Richard had his brother plant a file in the records of the Military Archive. The image of Richard's face was now tied to the fabricated identity of a veteran of the Adrianglian Army, who had served a number of years under Maedoc. The Five knew what the Hunter looked like, and now it was up to her to connect the dots between the Hunter and Maedoc, and present it to Brennan.

“No apologies necessary. I need some things. I didn't have to infect A. She already carried Dock Rot. B isn't faithful to her, just as Richard anticipated. I need to track down the prostitute he's sleeping with.”

“Her name is Miranda,” George said. “She works out of the Palace of Delights on Griffon Avenue in the Lower Quarter.”

Sometimes Richard was frighteningly thorough. “Tell him thank you.”

“He says he misses you.”

“I miss him, too.”

“Please be careful.”

“You, too,” she murmured.

The bird spread its wings and shot into the air.

She missed Richard. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him, his eyes, his muscular body, the smile on his lips . . . Her memory conjured the feel of his skin against hers and even his scent. She missed him so much, it almost hurt. The sooner they destroyed Brennan, the faster they could be together. Assuming he still wanted her.

She'd sensed a certain distance between them before they left, as if he was consciously building a barrier between himself and her. Something had changed between them. She wasn't sure what, but it troubled her.

Charlotte stepped inside. Sophie sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, a book spread in front of her. The wolfripper hound sprawled on the floor next to her.

“I need your help,” Charlotte said. “We're going to visit a dangerous part of town.

Sophie uncoiled from the couch. “I'll get my sword. Can we bring the dog?”

“Of course.”

Half an hour later, wrapped in a hooded cloak, Charlotte dropped two gold doubloons on the counter of the Palace of Delights. “Miranda.”

The proprietress, an older woman in a crushed silk gown, didn't even blink. “Second floor, blue door.”

The blue door opened into a comfortable room with a canopy bed, all in various shades of red. The sheets were black silk. A thick red rug hid the floor. The furnishings were rich but slightly vulgar.

A moment, and a woman walked through the door. She was slender, blond, and doe-eyed. She saw Sophie.

“I don't do kids.”

“Let's talk.”

“Who about?”

“Brennan.”

“I don't know any Brennan.”

Charlotte opened her wallet and dropped a coin on the desk. Miranda's eyes widened. That's right, a gold doubloon. Charlotte added another to the first, making it clink. Another doubloon. Another. Five now. Five doubloons was probably more than Miranda made in a month.

“I could just take the money,” Miranda said.

“I'd cut off your hand before you touched it,” Sophie said. Her eyes were glacially cold. Miranda looked at her and took a small step back.

Six doubloons.

“Once I stop dropping coins, my offer to pay for your information is withdrawn,” Charlotte said. “Better make up your mind.”

Seven.

She held the eighth doubloon between her fingers for a long moment. Miranda sucked in a breath. The coin clinked against the others on the table.

Charlotte sighed.

“Fine!” Miranda shrugged. “I'll tell you. Money first.”

Charlotte let her sweep the gold off the table.

“He comes, he fucks, he leaves. If you're looking for state secrets, he doesn't share.”