Malachite

  Table of Contents

  MALACHITE

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  THIRTY YEARS LATER | Marion

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

  JEAN

  TWENTY YEARS AGO

  MARION

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  TRIS

  EIGHT YEARS AGO

  JEAN

  MARION

  JEAN

  MARION

  TRIS

  MARION

  TRIS

  MARION

  TRIS

  JEAN

  MARION

  TRIS

  MARION

  JEAN

  MARION

  About the Author

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  MALACHITE

  KIRBY CROW

  _____________________________________________

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Malachite, Book 1 of the Paladin Cycle

  © 2015 by Kirby Crow

  Bonecamp Books

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, then please return to your favorite online retailer and purchase your own copy, or any other work by the same author. Thank you for respecting and supporting the hard work of creators everywhere. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.

  Cover Art by Kirby Crow — Editor: Reya Starck

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  “Well, if it isn’t Aureo’s pet cat. Didn’t think you’d show!”

  Jean shrugged. “Here I am.”

  Chal was big for his age, in an age where boys in the Zanzare slums grew like brittle reeds with spindly limbs, bones ravaged by rickets, insides gnawed by hunger and rage.

  Jean Rivard was small, black-haired, big hands and feet but the rest of him still gaunt from the white fever that swept over the islands every spring. Where would he be if Aureo hadn’t seen the promise in his thick wrists and the murder in his black eyes?

  Over the seawall, that’s where, Jean thought. Straight into the mouths of crabs and bottom feeders.

  Chal was a bottom feeder. The older boy had made Jean the offer of a fair fight in the Mire, far away from the eyes of the streets, baiting his lure with the promise of mercy. If Jean should lose, Chal had sworn not to kill him. Jean wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. Plenty of other boys had been. Where were they now, those stupid, stupid boys? Ask the crabs.

  Jean flexed his hands and stood with his feet wide apart on the mound of the Horn. The broken circle of pale ruins surrounding the Horn faded with the falling dark. The marsh was coming alive with a thousand sounds as stars winked into existence against a gray sky. Waves lapped the seawall and salty gusts swirled sand around their bare ankles.

  Chal had dirty brown hair and a shark smile. The death’s head scar on his arm where he’d been branded into the crossbones was still pink and shiny at the edges. He posed twenty feet away with his hands on his hips and smiled before turning his head to spit on the green turf that grew soft and tame on the sacred Horn of the Aequora, but wild everywhere else.

  Chal swaggered a little about the Horn. “Well then, puss. Let’s get on with it.”

  “What’s your rush?”

  Chal’s shoulders were easy, his hands uncurled. Chal was arrogant, and why shouldn’t he be?

  “No point in wasting my time. We both know you’re never leaving here. Say hello to the fish for me.” He slipped his hand under his vest.

  Jean turned his head as if to spit, but whistled low and long instead.

  Chal froze.

  The Mire was a flat expanse of ruined masonry and swamp. Three thousand years ago, an opulent city of towers and castles had stood there. The swamp had been gorging on it for centuries. All across the misty land, crooked black trees veiled in moss thrust their trunks up from the muck and threw long shadows over thickets of reeds and eelgrass.

  From those shadows, twenty small heads rose, and one man.

  Chal jerked his hand from his vest, guilt flooding his cheeks in hues of red. “What the fuck’s this, then?”

  Jean turned a pitying look on the other boy. Chal knew what it was. He just hadn’t accepted it yet. Jean waited for Aureo to join them in the circle, one adult male followed by twenty boys.

  Aureo Marigny was six and a half feet of ropey muscle and menace with a soft step and a charming smile. He was dressed richly in velvet and lace. A golden sunburst pendant hung on a heavy chain about his neck, the red garnet in the center of the rays—as big as a quail’s egg—glinting like fire. Laugh lines were stamped deep in his bronzed skin, haloed by a coiffed head of golden blond hair. My best weapons, Aureo was fond of saying. At thirty years old, he was supreme overlord of the Teschio gangs infesting every island of Malachite.

  In the Citta Alta, the Consolari simply called them gangers, but down in the Mire and the Zanzare, all knew they were crossbones, and they were death.

  The boys formed an outer circle around the ring of turf as Aureo towered over the two boys on the Horn. The eyes of the twenty young watchers were solemn and dry. There’d be no tears today. Aureo didn’t tolerate weepers, and the weak were culled quickly from his ranks. His branco, he called his army of boys, as if they were a flock of sheep. In some ways they were, but every boy had his own specialty of violence or graft. Their one desire was to join the Teschio, to proudly bear the brand on their skin and name themselves crossbones.

  Among the branco, only Chal wore the brand. Chal was talented but viciously petty, and that amused Aureo enough to mark him.

  Jean knew most of the boy’s names. There was Remo the Swan, who could dance. Flame, who had hair redder than wine. Verdi the spy. The Frog Twins. Reed and Mario and Carlo. Pint-sized Franny, who was only a little smarter than a rock, but who could magic a coin out of its owner’s pocket so deftly that Aureo swore the boy had been sired by a wizard. And there was Marion, Aureo’s current favorite, with hair as bright as the sun and ten times as pretty as Remo. Marion had lost his father in a Zanzare street war, the same as Jean.

  The rumor among the branco was that Marion was Chal’s highest target, but Chal hadn’t dared yet, not while Marion was a favorite.

  “Chal, my boy,” Aureo said fondly. His words were so soft, so gentle. A scorpion’s tail hidden under velvet. “Chal, dear heart, give us your knife.”

  “I don’t have—” Chal began. He glanced at Aureo’s gentle expression and surrendered the blade hilt first.

  Aureo knelt. He wiped the edge of the knife on the damp turf several times before he drove it into the ground between the boys.

  “Vendetta laws,” Aureo declared loudly. “One weapon, no interference.” He patted Chal on his hairless cheek. “And no poison either, lovely. Poison is for bastards and traitors. Little Jean is neither.”

  “Oh,” Chal said from between gritted teeth, “he’s a bastard, all right.”

  “Because he outsmarted you?” Aureo chuckled. “If so, we’re all bastards.” He lowered his voice. “I told you to leave off last time, didn’t I? I’d be wading hip-deep in dead boys if you had your way. Think of this as... a penance.”

  Chal shoulders lost their tense set of peril. His lip curled. “Sì, padrone.”

  Jean watched them closely. Chal had probably intended to finish him off quick with the poison, throw him over the wall and return to the Zanzare boasting of another
easy victory. Six other boys had disappeared the same way. The only thing those dead boys had in common was a whisper of talent that had caught Aureo’s eye.

  Taken in all, Chal was a jealous little shit.

  Aureo stepped away to the edge of the circle. “When you’re ready.”

  Chal winked at Aureo. “Don’t go far.” He looked at Jean and sneered. “This won’t take long.”

  He’s right about that, Jean thought. Chal was a head taller and twenty pounds heavier, a seasoned killer. Jean had no kills to his name yet, no family, no reputation. Only that brutal promise that Aureo alone seemed to divine.

  “If you say so,” Aureo returned. “Don’t dawdle, though. A wicked storm is brewing.” He locked eyes with Jean and nodded.

  Chal’s chin lifted as he scanned the sky for thunderclouds.

  Jean reached for his belt and slipped the thin stiletto from the leather sheath. He drew back his arm and threw. The springy blade, no broader than a wasp, sang out with a buzzing whine and buried deep in Chal’s throat.

  A collective shiver went through the watching boys. A few sighed. Some laughed when Chal croaked like a toad and clawed at his neck, his hands running red.

  Only one boy did not move, betrayed nothing. Marion was like a pale statue among living creatures, beautiful and perfect and cold.

  Aureo came back into the circle and nudged Chal with his boot. Chal choked and grabbed at Aureo’s leg with bloody fingers. The knife stuck out of his neck like a quill in an inkwell.

  Red ink, Jean thought. The only ending Chal would be writing was his own.

  “Dear me, aren’t you a mess?” Aureo smiled down at the dying boy. “I told you— no more fucking poison. See what happens when you don’t listen?” Aureo looked into the face of every boy as Chal wriggled in the dirt like an earthworm drying in the sun.

  “Remember this, oh my kittens: Chal was warned, but he chose not to heed me. He chose. When I give an order, you obey it like it came down from Saint Paladin himself. My commands are the word of fucking God.” Aureo pointed at Jean. “Just as I ordered Jean to throw the knife. This was not a duel. It was an execution.”

  Jean stood amazed as Aureo approached him, his eyes fixed on the bloody handprint staining Aureo’s knee.

  “Only one of our own can be commanded to send a Teschio into Jesu’s arms,” Aureo said. He laughed loudly and clapped Jean on the back. “Remo! Bring the iron!”

  The boys gathered round, hooting and chanting Jean’s name, rubbing his hair for luck, pounding his back. He barely felt their hard fists, filled as they were with joy, envy, relief, and no small amount of fear. Chal would not be murdering again. Jean had killed the monster, but what manner of beast was taking his place? Would he be fairer than Chal, or should they fear him? Even Jean didn’t know.

  The boys kindled a fire and Aureo dropped the grinning skull of the branding iron into the coals. Jean smiled carelessly and sat by the warmth to wait for the iron to glow. He drank from the wineskin Aureo offered as the boys dragged Chal over the chipped stone of the Commons to the edge of the seawall and tipped him over. Chal’s legs were still kicking.

  The stars came out. Aureo pulled the red-hot brand from the fire. Jean began to kneel, but Aureo shook his head.

  “Stand tall, prince cat. Kneeling is for slaves and dogs. Teschio have no masters, no law but ourselves. We’re free souls, and until the axeman comes for our heads, no bastard will put us on our knees.” Aureo showed Jean the branding iron, held it near his cheek and let him feel the heat radiating from the metal.

  Jean looked up at Aureo calmly. Come what may, the day was his. He’d shown Aureo that he had no fear of killing or death. Be damned if he’d be scared of a little burn.

  Aureo watched him for a long moment, then grinned and pressed the brand to Jean’s bare arm. Iron met flesh with a sizzle and a curl of steam. Jean gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, but made no sound. His flesh smoked with an acrid stink.

  “Benvenuto alla famiglia,” Aureo pronounced. “You are crossbones.”

  Jean laughed, but he was crying, too. Aureo took Jean’s face between his hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “We’re family!” Aureo grinned and shook Jean until his teeth rattled. “Marion? Where are you? Ah, come here, boy! Come shake hands with Jean! You’ll be brothers when you earn your brand. Won’t be long now.”

  Marion came forward and offered his hand.

  Jean grinned. His smile died when he saw the flat dislike in Marion’s eyes.

  “Congratulazioni,” Marion murmured. He clasped Jean’s hand briefly before looking to the seawall, where Chal’s body had not yet floated into sight. He seemed angry or sad, or perhaps a little of both.

  It was Jean’s first experience with Marion Casterline’s knotty contradictions of morality and justice. He couldn’t see the pity in the result here. “Thank you,” Jean answered.

  “Do you think he’s dead yet?”

  Jean shrugged. “Dunno. What’s it matter?” His arm began to hurt, pain setting in as the fire in his blood ebbed.

  Marion gave him a long, cold look. Jean squirmed under that merciless study. Marion examined him like he was pulling apart some poisonous creature washed ashore.

  “It matters,” Marion said. “Don’t ever forget that it matters.”

  THIRTY YEARS LATER

  Marion

  Aequora, Giorno Uno

  (Day 1)

  Twelve hundred years spanned the gap between the coming of Andreja Paladin and the Teschio gangs. When the Paladin’s broken ship washed up on the shore of the Island of Thieves, the city had been a ruin, flung out like a spent whore over the lapping waves, the hungry sea gnawing away at her foundations.

  Paladin was a shipwright and mariner. He saved the pale lady from the waters and shared his plan with the crew who followed him. Thousands more followed, strong hands to build ships and dredge canals, to reclaim, to raise towers and lay the bricks of the grand palazzos, to plant gardens, flowers, trees. Ships filled the harbor and trade began. A river of merchanteer gold flowed into the city. Ornate bridges spanned and connected the city's housing and merchant districts, castles filled the sky, canals flowed, and barriers that had once kept men apart now brought them together.

  Paladin raised the temples of Jesu and rebuilt the ancient faith that later canonized Paladin himself as a saint. Jesu was the male god of the earth and heavens, but the priests—the masked fathers of the Merlo—followed the creed of Saint Paladin. The chain of islands was named Malachite, the place where every male child, youth or man exiled from the nations of the world could wash up like driftwood and find their lives transformed.

  Centuries passed and the bright city flourished. But inevitably, as with all living things, the rot crept back in.

  ***

  Women ruled. Centuries before the Starless Men murdered Andreja Paladin, Master of Masks, the world had belonged to women. It was the way of things and Marion Casterline accepted it.

  The moonless night was unbearably hot. Marion imagined his skin steaming inside his warden’s coat, trickles of sweat running down his sides, pooling in a ring around his waist where his belt cinched. He swiped his wrist over his forehead and waited on the Horn with the others, narrowing his eyes at the sighing waters beyond the seawall. Listening.

  No lights yet, and no bells.

  An egret burst from the reeds and soared over the lagoon. Night insects swarmed the torches, and deep in the sprawling, briny fens of the Mire, a dragosi filled its throat with air and lowed like a bull.

  Marion could not recall his first Aequora or his first sight of the city. He’d been a small child locked with other children in a cargo hold, and all he remembered of it was the oppressive darkness, the rocking of the boat, and the fearful sound of waves booming against the hull.

  After, there had been the crowds and stink of the Zanzare, scavenging for food, begging. He stole, after he grew into the talent of the art. In time, he had matured into a sly and dan
gerous youth, long-boned and beautiful, no longer a beggar, but a robber and breaker of heads. All long ago, now.

  Marion spat into the grass and looked to the line of black-clad wardens facing the sea. The men were fidgeting and silent, their badges winking dully in the torchlight. Val gnawed his lower lip, the scarred side of his face turned away from the light.

  The dark twins—Kell and Lody—exchanged glances as if seeking reassurance. None even they knew if they were really twins, but they were both of Gathi blood, olive-skinned and brown-haired, and had arrived as castaways of a pirate shipwreck, looking so alike that the name stuck. They were the youngest wardens of the Black Keep, capable and untried.

  Only Silvere was an island of calm, but Solari were an odd people; secretive and aloof as the moon. Their country was ruled by Cathal, an elderly queen whose royal family had been feuding with the Cwen for generations.

  A crescent of high, broken towers ringed the mound of the Horn, known as the Cerchio Paladino in older times. The peaks of the towers vanished into the humid fog. The marsh surrounding them was an unstable swamp filled with crumbling ruins, toxic pools, and two-meter dragosi with poisonous jaws. Gray mud bubbled under the tower foundations as the weight of the ruins depressed the marshy earth. Crowning the center of the Horn was a raised mound of mossy turf, and to the west a line of shattered steps led down to the stone lip of the seawall. For now, the wall kept the hungry waters of the Lion Sea from swallowing the Mire, but it would not hold it back forever. If Tris could not decipher the ancient books that detailed the foundations of the city, much would be lost.

  During the Teschio years, the Mire was so littered with the bodies that a man could not shift from one foot to the other without stepping on the rotting corpse of a ganger, either above ground or below. Marion had put half a hundred men there himself, but Jean’s count was anyone’s guess.

  “Highwarden,” Yves murmured, pointing west.

  In the distance, a small cluster of lights bobbed in the mist over the water. Marion sighed and flexed his hands.