Malachite Page 14

  He slipped the knot loose on Paris's hands and stepped back to button his trousers. Paris put his hands flat on the desk and pushed up stiffly, his head hanging as he pulled his trousers up with stilted movements, as if he was unaccountably wounded.

  Jean watched him, brows drawing together. “Are you all right?”

  Paris nodded as he picked the knot of the cord from his left wrist.

  “Paris, look at me.”

  “I'm fine,” Paris sighed out. “If you think this was my first time—”

  “It was your first time like this. Don’t be a little prick.”

  Paris hadn't been a virgin, naturally, but Jean could tell when a man had never been conquered before. He took Paris's silence for assent, finished with his clothing and put his hand on Paris's shoulder.

  “Listen, don't think about it too much, aye? You're not the only man who craves it this way.”

  Paris narrowed his eyes at the wall, avoiding his gaze. “And what do you call 'this way'?”

  Domination, mastering. Making your ass mine anytime I want it, slut. “The words don't matter,” Jean said instead.

  “Does Marion like it?”

  He almost didn't answer, but it hardly mattered anymore, did it? “No. He likes being taken, but he won't stand for being under control. There were always some things I needed that he wouldn't give me.” Jean decided to be fair. “Couldn't give me, rather, so I got it elsewhere. So did he, when he needed to. I didn't stand in his way. That’s why I can't...” Jean closed his mouth.

  “That's why you can't understand why he's marrying Tris. If you gave him all the freedom he could want, why didn't it last?”

  Jean smiled. “You're pretty smart for a jailer.”

  “And you're very charming, for a skull-cracking ganger.” Paris rubbed his cheek. “The last man who raised his hand to me got a broken back for his trouble.”

  Jean smiled and tried to pull Paris to him, but Paris jerked roughly away.

  Jean held up his hands. “Sorry. I thought we were still in that place together.”

  Paris shook his head. “Thank you, but we've exited.” He held out the leather cord and nodded at Jean like they'd completed a business transaction

  Jean heaved a dramatic sigh and threaded his bastone with the leather. “I always get invited to the dance, but never home to meet papa.”

  “Hard to bring il principe di cazzo home to meet the fathers.” Paris began correcting the wreck they'd made of his desk. “Tris doesn't have any scars, did you know?” he said with a sly, sidelong look. “Not a one. That's a rare thing.”

  Jean frowned. “I liked your mouth better with my cock in it.”

  Paris laughed. “I do have a way of wearing on people.”

  Jean grunted, amused in spite of himself. He didn't know whether to punch Paris or push him to his knees. “At least we have that in common.”

  “Among other things. Do yourself a favor and don't let Marion see that you wish it were Tris bent over my desk.”

  Jean’s jaw dropped. “I don't—”

  A satisfied smile spread over Paris's face. “Careful. I don't think Marion is the sharing kind anymore.”

  Jean carefully slipped the cord of the bastone back on his hip. He flexed his fingers to dispel the urge to strike out, to throw a punch at the pain eating inward. “He never minded sharing me.”

  “You’re not Tris Sessane. What would you do, if that Silk prince were yours?”

  Lock and key, Jean thought. There wouldn’t be a tower in the city high enough. “Thankfully, he’s not my problem.”

  “Your story is a sad one, warden. Now get out.”

  There was a scuffle of boot-heels in the hallway. Jean turned as a fist banged imperiously on the door. Paris raised his eyebrows.

  Jean shrugged. “It's your door.”

  Paris opened it to find four grim-faced wardens blocking the exit.

  Jean rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Shit.”

  MARION

  The young wardens eagerly abandoned Marion’s side when the sandolo bearing Jean Rivard arrived. They crowded the canal steps like Paladin himself had come to visit, jostling to offer their hands, to escort Jean up to the street, to speak to him, or just to be noticed.

  Marion stood under the guttering night torches and waited. To the south, twenty yards down the seawall, Yves directed ten wardens in offloading the exiles from the familiar green-glassed steamer. A strong gust flattened the torch flames.

  The night was windy and wild, the currents of the Lion Sea choppy and strong. There had been land where the sea was, once. Ancient legends told of a great tremor in the west. The cities of Mira were hurled into the heavens before the soil turned to mud and collapsed beneath the streets. The ocean rushed in, creating a giant whirlpool that sucked the land to the center of the earth. Legends also said that the same cataclysm that destroyed Mira had saved Malachite, for the floods that were devouring the city ceased and marble plazas and foundations that had been drowned for centuries were revealed.

  Foundations afforded a chance to build. Paladin had known that. So, apparently, did the Cwen, who absorbed the Miran refugees and became the strongest nation in the world.

  Marion folded his arms and watched the sea, very pointedly not watching Jean and his admirers. They're like a litter of puppies spying a wet tit, he thought sourly. Men had always vied for Jean's attention. He hadn't minded that, once.

  Years ago, Marion realized that he no longer found Jean's promiscuity charming, or even particularly interesting. He stopped feeling proud of being the companion of a man who commanded such attention. He was still in love with Jean when he had realized it, but it was different. Steady. A low flame that both of them believed would last forever.

  Jean would have married him if he’d asked, but he’d have done it for the novelty and the party afterward. Jean would have spent the honeymoon in the Colibri, fucking an assortment of courtesans in their old flat above the Falena, and he would have expected Marion to happily join in.

  It didn’t sound like a bad life.

  Marion caught Jean's eye and signaled.

  Jean left his admirers and swaggered over to him, a cocky strut in his walk. He winked at Marion. “Buonasera, beautiful.”

  “There’s something you need to see,” Marion said. He turned and moved toward the seawall and the steamer off-loading a new batch of exiles. Jean fell into step beside him. “I'm glad my men didn't have to force you here.”

  “You should be glad for them that I was in a good mood. The next time you send a pack of boys to fetch me, you won’t be getting them back in one piece.”

  “I trust they didn’t interrupt your pleasure.”

  “Only if you count fingering Paris as fun.”

  Marion didn't want to know if that was a joke. For an instant, he considered warning Jean of Kon's half-hearted threat. Jean had enough reason to dislike the Sessane family, and Tris didn’t want Jean in his home anymore. Kon hated Jean, Jean hated Tris, and Tris... Tris didn't hate anyone, but being a Sessane, he would have his way. The back of Marion’s neck prickled with irritation. Why did he attract such difficult men?

  Be fair, he berated himself. You pursued Tris. You risked everything to have him. Nothing is his fault.

  Marion led Jean toward the steamer, holding his hand up to shield his eyes against blowing sand. “I shouldn't have to run you down to bring you to Aequora,” he said. “This is your job, Jean. I was under the impression you wanted to keep it.”

  “This is babysitting,” Jean said easily. “My job is in the Zanzare.”

  “Your job is whatever the magestros says it is.”

  “I'll leave the Sessane arse-licking to you.”

  “You watch your fucking mouth.”

  Jean laughed. “You're easy to annoy since you found Tally. Maybe I should send him a wedding present.”

  “Tris,” Marion said with biting patience. He put his hand on the barnacled ledge of the seawall, feeling the razor-sharp edge
s of tiny shells under his fingers. “T, R, a vowel, and S. If you get confused, just look at his initials. It's not that hard, even for you.”

  “You saying he's smarter than me?”

  “He was appointed city conservator at sixteen. It doesn't need to be said.”

  “Ah, city conservator.” Jean tilted his head back. The wind caught his cowl and pulled at the buttons of his coat. Black curls whipped about his face like snarls of ink. “Kon handed him that rank on a plate.”

  Marion took a steadying breath. Jean would tire himself out with this soon. He just had to hold his temper until then. “Even so, Tris can name every street and canal in the city. The maps he deciphers are five hundred years old and written in a language that no man speaks.”

  Jean cocked his head back. “So... you are saying he's smarter than me.”

  “He’s smarter than everyone. Even Kon.”

  Jean snorted. “God help you, then.”

  “Shut up.” Marion looked out over the waves, eyes narrowed. He pointed. “Look there and tell me what you see.”

  Jean turned and looked. His lips parted in shock. “Paladin's cock,” he swore. “How far is that, one hundred... a hundred and fifty yards?”

  “That's what I make it. Too far to swim.”

  The masthead lights of the Cwen steamer were tilted steeply on their side. Her deck was likely awash by now, the bilge overflowing. The lights vanished for an instant. They reappeared and Marion sagged in relief. The waves were high enough to obscure the searchlights now.

  “Have they moved closer at all since they foundered?”

  Marion shook his head, his mouth set in grim lines. “Not that I can tell.”

  “Then they can't. They've taken on too much water.”

  Jean glanced back at the sandolii tied to the canal.

  “You're not taking wardens out in those,” Marion said at once.

  “It's worth a try.”

  “They're past the lagoon. Deep water. You want to be the one to tell Kell you drowned his brother?”

  Jean rubbed his face. “Can we get a barge up here? A raft, even?”

  “It'll take too long. Hours, against this wind. Plus it's an act of war.” Malakhan ships were forbidden on the western shore during Aequora. Jean knew that.

  “I'm not talking about a ship, just a barge. It's just once—”

  “No,” Marion snarled. “I won't risk every generation of Aequora for one boat.” His heart felt like the veins were filling with lead. “It's not an option. Don’t ask.”

  Jean pushed close to him and splayed a hand on Marion's chest as if he meant to shove him over the wall. The wind tangled Jean's hair and his eyes glittered dangerously. “Then why'd you send for me? Why the fuck did you call me down here? Just to watch those poor bastards die?”

  “Because,” Marion licked his lips. “Because there's another ship we might use.” He watched as the full impact of what he proposed hit Jean.

  Jean’s hand dropped. “Oh, fuck me...”

  They turned as one and studied the glass wall of the steamer. The helmsman stood ramrod-straight, eerily still at the wheel, swathed in goggles and scarf.

  I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it, Marion thought. Yet he was willing to kill the steamer captain, if it would save the boys. There were sure to be many children aboard the sinking ship.

  Jean looked at him with knowing eyes. “This won’t fix what happened.”

  The Reed Gate. The boys in the huts. That awful silence after, and the screams that never came.

  “No,” Marion agreed.

  Jean’s jaw clenched. “Get over there with Yves, close to the stern,” he murmured. He slipped his hand around Marion's neck briefly. “Stay close when we’re aboard.”

  They made their way to the group of new exiles crowding the dock and mingled with them, jostling the grubby orphans, one of whom latched onto Marion's pants leg as if he were a long-lost father. The little boy was skinny to the point of emaciation, with hair so red it was nearly purple.

  “Per favore! Aiutami, padre.”

  “I'm not your papa.” Marion pried the child away and passed him to Yves. “Get everyone away from the wall,” he hissed. “Now!”

  With the silent aplomb he was famous for, Yves left the adult men to his wardens and herded his little charges away like a flock of sniffling lambs. Only the red-haired boy resisted, fiercely trying to break free of Yves to get back to Marion, but Yves swung the child up in his arms and carried him.

  Marion shook his head. The boy couldn't have been more than four. A firebrand for sure.

  He busied himself with raising the ramp and securing it, and when he was confident that neither the exiles nor the helmsman were looking, he slipped his leg over the side of the steamer. Jean followed and they crouched together on the main deck between the winch and the hull, in the shadow of the green-glowing wheelhouse.

  “Wait,” Marion whispered, pressed close to Jean. He could see Jean in the shadows, and so might the exiles and orphans. They weren't far enough away.

  Jean squeezed his leg, then surged forward in the darkness and pressed his mouth to his.

  Heat and softness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed Jean. Had it really been years? His head reeled. He pushed at Jean's shoulder, and Jean pulled away quickly, giving him no time to think.

  Jean put his heel in the rung of the bridge ladder. “Coming?”

  Insanity. Marion shimmed up the ladder after him, throwing a panicked look over his shoulder to make sure Yves was away. The crowd was up the steps to the Horn now. Jean tried the metal handle of the narrow door. Locked. Jean braced his shoulder and slammed it into the metal. It gave like it was made of paper.

  The helmsman fell back and darted toward the wheel, grabbing for something under the helm. Jean punched him. Marion thought the helmsman must have been made of paper, too, the way he went down.

  Marion stood over the fallen body. “Shit, you've killed him.”

  “Wasn’t that the plan?”

  “But I didn’t want you to have to do it!”

  Jean scoffed and reached the haul the helmsman up. Their captive threw an awkward fist and tried to thrash away, and Jean got hold of the leather hood. He snatched it off the helmsman's head. The green goggles fell to the deck.

  Marion saw a narrow face, pale, nearly-colorless eyes, and a blond mustache. He’d suspected the Cwen would not send a woman to deliver exiles, and he was surprised to find himself strangely relieved.

  “Please,” the helmsman begged. “Do not kill me.”

  “We won't,” Jean said at once.

  Marion threw him an annoyed look. Jean shouldn't make promises.

  “No matter. I dead now,” the helmsman quavered in a shaking voice. “Wargas not love the water. The old boats sink. A woman is too precious, too high, to risk so much for men. We die sometimes, but I dead now.”

  Jean shook the helmsman’s arm. “I said we’re not going to kill you.”

  “When wargas know, I die.” The man hung his head and his shoulders hunched inward with resignation. “Other pilot will talk.” He pointed listlessly at the glass, to the foundering lights on the waves. “He know. You here save boys, yes? Pilot talk, get favors from wargas, get soft bed, better food.”

  “Wargas?” Marion prompted.

  “Woman-lords.”

  “If you help us, I’ll do for the other captain,” Jean said.

  The helmsman stared uncomprehendingly.

  “He’ll be at the bottom of the sea,” Jean explained patiently. He made drowning glug-glug noises. “He won’t be talking from there. Yes?”

  The helmsman shrugged. Jean prodded the man back to the wheel.

  Marion slipped outside to cast off the rope.

  It was an uneasy journey out to sea. The wind howled around the wheelhouse like a demon and the heavy fog lashed gray whips at the glass. Salt spray and sea wrack obscured their view. All the helmsman had to guide him were the unsteady lights of t
he foundering ship.

  Marion had no fear of ships, but the unpredictable depths beyond the shallow lagoon frightened him. He wondered if it was because he feared drowning or because he knew that the bodies of so many of his enemies were under the Lion Sea. He imagined them down there, their bones slowly dissolving to fine grit, broken skulls grinning in eagerness, waiting for him to join them.

  They're going to have to wait a long time. He wasn't prepared to pay for his sins yet.

  A high wave slapped the hull and the deck seemed to fall away beneath them. His stomach lurched and he swallowed hard against sudden nausea. Jean smirked.

  “I never claimed to be a mariner,” Marion groused. “Don't look so amused.”

  Jean looked off into the gray distance, to the bobbing lights now flat with the water. His smile vanished. “Not capsized yet. I swear something is dragging them down.”

  The angle did look unnatural. There were few things that could tilt a ship so severely. “Maybe it's caught.”

  Nothing to do but wait out the tense minutes, every wave bringing them closer. The helmsman turned to Marion.

  “Here. Hold wheel.”

  Marion curled his hands around the cool rim. The ship vibrated like a wounded bird through the steel, under his fingers. The helmsman stooped and lifted a hatch, reached inside a tangle of cables and boxes to crank the arsenal of batteries. He returned and took the wheel from Marion, reached overhead to tug down a handle. Stark sodium light flooded the roiling waves.

  The ship in distress was a fishing boat, middling-sized, not belly-up but flat on her side, the ribs of her keel bleached white under the lamps. Waves pounded against her stern and slewed her, yet she did not sink. Marion heard screams on the air, pleading for help.

  Jean leaned closer to the glass. His breath steamed the cool panes. “God,” he whispered. “It's a boom.”

  “Can't be. The water's too deep.”

  “There!” Jean pointed.

  On the waves, Marion saw a dark, round shape roiling in the foam near the fishing boat's hull. It was a barrel, tarred and likely filled with cork: a watertight float with enough buoyancy to keep a heavy chain suspended above the sea floor. There would be two of them at the least. Four was more probable, and with the black tar they would be nearly invisible at night, at least until the Aequora moon waxed full at the end of the month.