Malachite Read online

  Kon watched him. “What names would you give them tonight?” He knew the constellations, and the name of every bright star and in what season it would appear. His memory was prodigious and exact. He had only to see a thing once—a book, a face, a map—and it was engraved on his mind forever.

  Tris’s own mind possessed a similar precision, but he never imagined himself as more intelligent than his father. He folded his arms behind his head, trying not to seem too interested as the sandolier steered them into the Canal Averla and the boat began to drift indolently through the raucous and colorful Colibri. Kon always seemed to know what he was thinking.

  “Oh, I don't know,” Tris said. “There's one who looks like a man with a hood. We'll call him Caution. I see another that looks like a bird carrying a hand in his beak. We'll name him Ill News, and the hand Bad Deeds.”

  Kon glanced momentarily to the dark sky. “I see one like a ribbon wrapped around a tree.”

  “The Lovers Went Dancing. Too easy.”

  Kon made a hmpf sound and narrowed his eyes challengingly at the stars. “That one is a man holding a cup.”

  Tris grinned. “I'll call him Marion. Why are you humoring me tonight? You haven't played this game with me since I was a little boy you couldn't keep off the roof.”

  “Perhaps I'm trying to recapture something.” Kon hesitated. “Tell me, did you have a happy childhood? Do you have any complaints about the manner in which I raised you?”

  Tris sat up slowly. “What's this about?”

  “Please answer me.”

  “Father, no. I have no complaints. What I didn't have was playmates. I would have liked to go to academy with the other children, but considering that only half of those boys are still alive today, I understand why.”

  “I couldn't risk you like that.” Kon's jawline was tight as he tilted his head back to gaze at the stars. “When the white fever comes, the children share it between themselves so quickly that...” He spread his hands. “I knew you were lonely much of the time. I was sorry for it.”

  “I cannot blame you for protecting me.”

  “Well, it's done at any rate. Now you're grown and the fever is no longer a threat to you.” Kon studied his son. “What I didn't know was that you'd fall in love with the first man who caught your eye.”

  Now where the devil is this going? Kon never made idle comments. He was leading the conversation to a point he'd already decided on. Tris decided to bite.

  “Marion didn't just wander in the front door like an apple-seller. He's been your friend for years.”

  “We work together,” Kon temporized. “That's not the same as being friends.”

  “But you like him. You're fond of him.”

  Kon waved his hand. “Of course, of course. Would I have consented to give you to him, else?”

  “Father, I'm not a puppy you handed to Marion in a basket.”

  Kon leaned back on his cushions, looking at him.

  And here it comes. Tris let a strategic moment pass before he shook his head. “That won't work. You're not going to make me reconsider my engagement by acting smug, like it was all your idea. It was not your idea. Papa Mika can attest to that.”

  Dominique was a sore point, and Tris realized too late that he shouldn't have mentioned him. “Sorry.”

  “Yes, he can attest to that quite in detail,” Kon growled. “He shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “You're young. Mika is a man and he should have known better. He should have known me better. I'll never forgive him.”

  “Oh? I heard you two last week. Sound carries amazingly well in a castle.” Tris settled back on his cushions again. “I thought two boars were fighting over a mushroom.” He chuckled when Kon poked him in the ribs.

  “Impudence,” Kon grumbled. “Arrogant brat.”

  “Guilty,” Tris replied with vast satisfaction. He had never won a joust with Kon before. He pointed up to the stars, and to one group that he fancied a resemblance to a quiver of arrows. “And I think I'll name that one Forfeit.”

  “Forfeit it is.” Kon rubbed his chin slowly, his mood shifting. “You know, lamb, just because Mika and I enjoy each other doesn't mean we're reconciled. I miss him. When he misses me, he wanders 'round, but I don't think he's coming home.”

  A cold feeling gripped Tris’s heart. “Do you mean ever?” He couldn't bear to think of Mika living aboard the Gryphon or of Kon alone in his huge castello. He reached for Kon's hand. “Don't you want him to come home?”

  Kon sighed, watching the stars. “Yes, I do. I love him. Like you and Marion, he was much younger than me when we married. He makes me happy.” He paused, seeming to be lost in memories. “But,” he said, “I'm not a very easy man to live with, and Mika lied to me. I reacted... badly, and he has not forgiven me for it. Not yet.”

  “What did you do?” Tris whispered, his eyes round.

  “You only need to know that it was excessive. I understand deceit. A man uses it wisely like any other tool of ambition, but from family... no. I cannot tolerate dishonesty under my own roof. That's not what a family is.” Kon smiled and squeezed Tris’s hand. “Give me some time, eh? And don’t worry your head about Mika.” He looked away. “He can take care of himself.”

  ***

  A hulking harlequin in turquoise and gold guarded the doors of the Corsair. The man stood with arms crossed, his painted eyes moving behind the bright, gilded mask. An ornate dagger was thrust through the harlequin's tasseled belt. Tris peered at it narrowly and saw that the pretty weapon was intended for serious use.

  On either side of the Corsair's entrance were the remnants of life-sized marble statues, eradicated by stonemasons until all that remained were pairs of smooth, dainty feet on columns that now served as lantern bases. There were several such leftovers in the Gran Consiglio, and Kon had told him they were the remains of sculptures of nude women. Such images were forbidden in Malachite, though naked male bodies—real and made of marble—could be seen almost anywhere.

  The side of the sandolo scraped the canal wall as the sandoliers poled it to the steps. Tris pitched his voice to an undertone. “Do they truly need such a guardian here?”

  Kon's eyes flicked over the harlequin. “Mika's taught you well.”

  Mika could discern fighters from fishermen with a single glance, and knew at once where a man hid his weapons on his body, if he were a skilled warrior or a brawler, calculating or impulsive. Tris was in awe of such talent and had paid careful attention to Mika's lessons, but some instructions were forbidden. He now knew how to recognize and measure a threat, but on Kon’s orders, Mika had never even shown him the proper way to hold a sword.

  The narrow metal nose of the sandolo bumped into the steps leading up to the door of the Corsair. “Mika can read men like mariners read the sea. He showed me how to keep my eyes open, that's all. Jesu forbid that I actually pick up a sword and learn to be a man.”

  Kon stepped briskly out of the sandolo and onto the wide steps, the stones wet with canal waters. He turned and offered his hand. “If that was sarcasm, you've picked the wrong target to fling it at. Swords do not make a man.”

  Tris slipped his hand into Kon's. “You educated me the way you thought best, yet you still find it amazing that I can tie my shoes by myself.”

  “Nonsense. I find nothing at all amazing about that.”

  Waves lapped at the sides of the canal as they mounted the few steps to the cramped, lush courtyard of the Corsair. Kon showed the harlequin a square brass coin stamped with a motto of two crossed swords. An entry key, Tris surmised. The harlequin murmured his respect—“Onorato”—and swung open the heavy wooden door for them.

  The first sight Tris was greeted with in the minor atrium was a fire-breather. A blond man in skin-tight leathers and outlandish orange boots danced slowly on a round table wielding two fiery batons and a mouth full of flames. When the danseur twirled, Tris saw that the seat of the man's breeches was neatly cut out to
display his buttocks to the watchers. Another man, naked save for a thin strip of leather around his waist and a black mask, wandered the crowd with a white parrot perched on his arm. The parrot collected coins for his master by issuing obscene insults when prompted and laughing on cue. With each coin the bird collected, the masked man passed it a sunflower seed from his mouth.

  A willowy, auburn-haired cortigiano clothed in veils performed Paladin's Surrender to a group of admirers. In his childhood, Tris had prayed to Paladin for many things, a brother among them. Kon declared that such reverence proved he was gullible and scolded him for being taken in by fairy tales. From that day, Tris said his prayers in private, but he wondered now if a dance could not also be some manner of prayer.

  He watched wide-eyed and fascinated as the dancer enchanted one man after another with beauty and grace, and he thought about which one of them would pay for the privilege of having the courtesan that night, and how much and in how many ways.

  Kon allowed him to stare at the spectacle for several minutes, then slipped his arm into Tris's to steer him past the crowd and into the grand atrium of the salon.

  Tris glanced up as they entered the wide space and gasped in awe. Though only two stories high, the rectangular atrium of the Corsair was tiled in brilliant emerald glass with geometric patterns of latticework interwoven with climbing rose vines and leaves. Round tables with mosaic surfaces were scattered throughout the atrium, and a number of carved, velvet-padded chairs. Lining the walls were numerous arched and painted doorways, and Tris could see many occupants in the smaller rooms beyond.

  Men were dicing, playing cards, eating, drinking, and laughing. Some were dancing, others were kissing or even making love in the shadowed corner alcoves. A group of musicians—he couldn't see how many—played an uninhibited melody of sultry percussion and woodwinds from behind heavy drapes sewn with a pattern of masks.

  The air smelled of heavy incense and spilt wine. Tris looked at Kon with a delighted grin. “This is fabulous.” He hadn't intended to be so enthusiastic, but it was altogether too new, too exciting.

  Kon took a seat on an upholstered divan in a reserved room in the direct middle of the west side—where they could still witness everything happening in the salon—and put his boots up on a padded bench. He crooked a finger for a waiter.

  Seating in the private rooms differed from the plain, sturdy chairs in the atrium. There were two divans and the dining table, but there was also a comfortable chaise longue where one could sit or recline as he chose, or even sleep, if sleep in such a zoo were possible.

  Tris listened to Kon order a lavish meal of beef and onions, a plate of fresh clams, pasta with olives, a salad of green peas and garbanzos, herb bread, butter, honey cakes, aged wine, sugared grapes, even a dish of lemon ice. Kon also bade the man leave the bottle of wine.

  When the waiter retreated, Tris slid a guarded, sideways look to Kon. “Expensive,” he observed.

  Kon pursed his mouth and waved his hand.

  Tris’s heart sank. “I called forfeit too soon, didn't I?'

  “Oh, predictably soon,” Kon replied airily.

  Tris rubbed his forehead. “I knew it was too easy. Why'd you sit there and let me congratulate myself?”

  “You were having such a good time. You know I hate to interrupt your fun.”

  Actually, Kon seemed to delight in interrupting his fun. Tris felt like swearing but knew it would be bad form. He'd lost. He should accept it with grace. Anything less really would be humiliating. “Exactly who is joining us for dinner, father?”

  “Can't you guess?”

  “I could, but I shan’t.” He could run through a hundred names, but all had an equal chance of being true or false.

  “Then we agree to let it remain a mystery until the fellow appears?”

  He didn't like that idea any more than the fact of losing. “If I capitulate, will you tell me who we're expecting?”

  “Perhaps.” Kon picked up his wine glass, held it to his lips, but did not drink. “I'm waiting.”

  Tris felt his face turning hot. “Oh god, you're going to make me say it? You haven’t made me say it in years.”

  Kon looked down into his glass, swirling the wine to stir the aroma. He sniffed it delicately. “This really is excellent. Remind me to have a case sent home with you. A highwarden should acquire a taste for good vintage, or at least be able to distinguish it from the ones that taste like pigeon shit.”

  Tris felt like banging his head on the table. “‘I am a scampering sheep,’” he recited crossly. “Baa baa baa.”

  “Thank you,” Kon said pointedly. “And don't mutter. If you have to say something against your will, never let the other man know what you're feeling.”

  Tris thought of the beautiful actor and Paladin's Surrender. He sat up straight and gave Kon the most brilliant, artless smile he could manage. “I'm having a wonderful time. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  Kon threw back his head and laughed. He poured a glass for Tris, still chuckling. “Here, drink your wine, lamb. You'll need it.”

  “And why is that?” Tris tasted the wine and held it on his tongue, detecting subtle notes of cherry and vanilla amid the bold and musty tannins. Kon had an excellent palate for wine. Marion couldn't tell good wine from grape juice, but Tris liked the frequent tang of beer on Marion's mouth. He wondered if it was because he’d begun to associate it with kissing.

  Kon settled back in his chair and lowered his eyebrows, giving him a mysterious look.

  “You're so handsome, father, but you don't do playful well. You just wind up frightening people.”

  “Do I frighten you?”

  “Frequently.”

  At that, Kon looked less satisfied. “That is not my intent.”

  “Mika was afraid of you,” Tris said, then felt slightly ashamed at Kon’s startled look. “Sometimes,” he temporized.

  “That’s dismaying to hear.”

  Tris imagined a mask of iron forming over Kon’s features, shutting him out. Suddenly, he wanted to see that mask crack. He slid his finger down the damp stem of the wineglass. “I sometimes wonder, father,” he said, “if the only reason you agreed to the marriage is because Marion is the man you really wish was your son.”

  “Nonsense.” A splash of red stained Kon's high cheekbones. “How's your wine?”

  He nodded and took a large drink. He nearly choked on it when Paris Dell'Acqua entered from the atrium.

  Paris's mouth turned up at the corners, but he didn't smile. Paris's smiles never reached his eyes, as if they were independent organs separate from his body, never anchored to how he actually felt. Tris often suspected those eyes were mocking him in some subtle way, as if Paris possessed a secret that he didn't. It was one of the reasons he had declined Paris's offer of marriage. The other reasons were more complicated.

  “Good evening, Paris,” Tris managed.

  Paris bowed. “Tris. Magestros. Am I late?”

  “Everyone becomes late at this hour,” Tris said. He studied Paris. The carcelero was handsome enough, confident, powerful in rank. Any man would think himself lucky to have Paris's attention. And yet, Tris didn't. He scooted over to make room as Paris took a seat on the divan beside him.

  Paris straightened the lines of his silken shirt, which was a burnt umber trimmed with threads of yellow to compliment his cardinal-red vest. On his lapel was a bronze brooch in the shape of a winged eye, the symbol of the guardiers. “It was good of you to invite me, magestros. I don't get to visit the Colibri very often. Have you ordered dinner?”

  Kon nodded. “I took the liberty. I pray you enjoy it, and have a pleasant evening.” He stood and reached for his cloak.

  Tris half-rose from his seat. “But... surely you're not leaving?”

  “It's Aequora, son, I have a great deal of work to supervise tomorrow. Gallivanting around the city all night is a game for the young. I know you understand.” Kon took Tris’s hand and kissed it, then bent his arm over h
is middle and gave a courtly bow to Paris. “Buonasera, carcelero.”

  Paris smiled widely. “And you, signore.”

  Tris could have slapped both of them. Kon looked at Tris a last time and nodded, his mask in place. Tris could glean nothing from him, how he was feeling, what his intentions were.

  “Goodnight, lamb.” Kon regally flicked his cloak over his shoulder and strolled out.

  Tris flopped back into his seat and looked glumly at Paris. “What are you smiling at?”

  Paris leaned back. “Tricked you here, didn’t he? He didn’t tell you I was invited. If you’d known that, you wouldn’t have come.”

  “Why do you say that? We're still friends.” Tris sipped his wine again, but the taste was spoiled.

  “Are we? You’ve been avoiding me since you became Marion Casterline's promessa.”

  “That's not true. If anything, you've been avoiding me. I know we don't see each other as much as we used to, but I don't know how to react when you continue to pursue me after I’ve made my engagement public.”

  “I’ve known of your engagement longer than anyone. You told me first, remember?”

  “Then why don't you stop? I honestly want to know.”

  Paris touched the fine-woven linen of the tablecloth with a finger, as if testing its softness. “Because until the minute Marion becomes a Sessane, there's still a chance you might change your mind.”

  “Marion is keeping his own name,” Tris quibbled. He moved his legs restlessly, unhappy at being so close to Paris and having no inoffensive way to move. “I don't want to change my mind. Why can't you just take no for an answer?”

  “How do you know what you really want? How could you? Marion is the first man to hold your hand, the first one to court you and kiss you.” Paris gave him a silky smile. “Though not the second.”

  Tris downed all of his wine nervously in one gulp. “I wish you wouldn't bring that up. That was a mistake. I was angry at Marion and hurting.” It was only a kiss. A moment of weakness, he thought. Nothing more.