Steel's Edge te-4 Page 33

  Richard sorted through Casside’s possible responses. “You have a strange idea of fun.”

  “You always were a cautious man, Casside.” Brennan gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Come on. You must’ve felt alive there for a few minutes.”

  “I was keenly aware that I was alive. I wanted to stay that way, too.”

  “And you did. All that fencing paid off. Don’t fret, Casside. You weren’t the target. They went straight for me.” Brennan grinned that infectious smile that made him famous. “A shame they didn’t provide more of a challenge.”

  If Richard didn’t have irrefutable evidence that Brennan was responsible for hundreds of broken lives, he could’ve imagined that he might have liked this man.

  In ten minutes, Richard parked in front of Casside’s mansion and ushered Brennan inside. Orena, his second cousin, met them in a foyer, saw Brennan bleeding, and made big eyes. “Alcohol, salve, rags,” Richard told her. “Quickly.”

  Brennan winked at the woman. “Is he always so demanding?”

  Orena bowed her head and escaped.

  “Your people are very serious, Casside.”

  “They’ve known my family for a long time. They don’t take their duties lightly.” Richard led Brennan into the study. Orena reappeared with medical supplies, followed by Aunt Pete.

  “They are both trained surgeons,” Richard assured Brennan.

  Brennan leaned back, offering the gash on his forehead to Orena. “Do you think you can make me pretty again?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  In ten minutes, the gash on Brennan’s head was washed, disinfected, and sewn up. His own wound required only dressing and some butterfly bandages. The women departed, taking bloody rags with them.

  Richard slumped in a chair. “I abhor violence.”

  Brennan looked at him. “Don’t we all, my friend? Don’t we all.”

  Richard nodded. Casside had never sought military service, a fact Brennan likely knew. He reached for a pitcher filled with red tea and made his hand tremble as he poured it into the glass. The glass spout of the pitcher knocked against the rim of the glass.

  Brennan rose. “Let me do that.” He took the pitcher from him and filled two glasses.

  “Thank you.” Richard gulped his drink.

  “It really took the wind out of your sails?” Brennan watched him carefully.

  “Not at all,” Richard said, making an obvious effort to keep the glass steady. “I just want to know who and why. What in the world is the ‘eagle’?”

  Brennan drank from his glass and studied it. “Good tea. The eagle is on Maedoc’s family crest. His father was known as the White Eagle. Maedoc, in his own time, was called the Dark Eagle. His son, provided he chooses a military career like the four generations before him, will be some sort of eagle as well. Beautiful tradition, isn’t it? There is a subtle elegance in the old blueblood lines.”

  “Maedoc?” Richard raised his eyebrows. “I suppose he knew exactly where you would be. I’m sure losing the money hit him hard, but murder? Why?”

  “A bid for power, perhaps.” Brennan turned the glass right, then left, studying the play of light in the raspberry red tea. “He might have grown tired of my leadership. The attack on the island destabilized our little enterprise. It would be an excellent time to make a bid for the new head wolf, and he means to take my place.”

  Beautiful. Richard leaned forward. Brennan had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. “Maedoc can’t run this operation. He knows it. Not only that, but the three of us wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Brennan furrowed his eyebrows. “Please. Rene hates Adrianglia for holding him back. He doesn’t care who’s in charge as long as he’s permitted to profit from thrusting a stick into our realm’s gear. Angelia is a twisted creature; she will follow whoever hands her the biggest diamond and whispers sweet nothings in her ears while pouring coin into her purse. And you, well, you seek the money. You’re for sale, my friend. That’s how I got you in the first place. I’m too old for illusions—friendship and loyalty are fine qualities, but the voice of ethics grows weak in the face of riches.”

  The plan hinged on throwing suspicion on the retired general. Both Rene and Angelia were too weak for Brennan to ever see them as a true threat. Of all of them, only Maedoc could pose a serious challenge to Brennan’s rule of the slaver trade, and Brennan had to view the threat as significant or it wouldn’t topple him off-balance.

  “Maedoc was in charge of the security of the island,” Richard thought out loud.

  Brennan gave him a sharp glance. Icy and calculating, that stare gripped Richard and for a second he felt the same calm that descended on him when he faced a fighter with a naked blade glaring at him from across three feet of open ground.

  Inside Richard’s head, an alarm wailed. Careful. Careful, now. Don’t be too obvious.

  “Do you know how the island was sacked?”

  Yes or no? What was the right answer? “Not the particulars.”

  “The bandits pretended to be slaves and commandeered our ship. Drayton, that moron, must’ve let them right on board. They sent all the right signals and were permitted to enter the harbor and dock in plain view of the fort. Witnesses say that a crew of slaves began to disembark. They slaughtered the slavers meeting them and spread through the island, hitting precise targets. One group attacked the fort, the next hit the barracks, the third opened the slave pens. Beautiful, isn’t it? Daring. Imaginative. Risky.”

  Brennan paused, offering him an opportunity to make a contribution. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. He was watching him too closely. He needed a neutral answer. “It’s difficult to admire them knowing how much money we stand to lose.”

  “Divorce yourself from finances for a moment. Think of the brazen elegance of it. This raid is everything Maedoc is not. Oh, he’s hailed as a brilliant tactician, but I’ve studied his military record. Maedoc is a bull, my friend. He sees the target and plows toward it. Deception and sleight of hand are quite beyond him. If he wanted to replace me, he would’ve attacked me directly. Not only that, but why would he identify himself as the Eagle? Why not simply make up a name? In fact, why give a name at all? Those were contract killers; their bargains are simple: money for a life, their quarry or their own.”

  Brennan didn’t buy Maedoc’s treason. Richard’s disappointment was so sharp he could taste it. He buried it, in the same deep place he buried his guilt and memories. Nothing could show on his face. He had hoped to spare Charlotte from getting involved, but Brennan was too logical and too cautious. She would have to implement her part of the plan. Damn it.

  Brennan took a deep gulp of the tea. “No, this matter is a lot more complicated. The mind that conceived the raid is likely the same mind that would cash in on the ripples it would cause. That person would seek to utilize my weakness to his or her advantage. We know that this person is deceitful and sly. This person would have considered the possibility of failure and would take precautions to point the finger at someone other than themselves. Therefore, the culprit can’t be Maedoc. It’s simply too obvious, even for him. No, it’s one of you—Rene, Angelia, or perhaps even you, my friend.”

  Richard sat the glass down. “What are you implying?”

  Brennan grinned, another charming smile. “Oh, relax, Casside. You’re at the very bottom of my suspect list. I don’t believe platitudes or assurances of loyalty, but I do believe that tremor in your hand. You simply don’t have the guts for it. You wouldn’t have put your own life in danger.”

  “I’m inclined to take that as an insult.” Richard stood up from his chair.

  Brennan sighed. “Oh, do sit down. You’re brave enough. I’m not impugning your courage. You can’t help the simple biological reaction of your body. The point is, we have a traitor in our midst. I intend to find them out.”

  He smiled.

  “This is so much fun, Casside. And here I was planning to be bored.”

  “I will take boredom instead of t
his, thank you. Are you tired? You’re welcome to stay the night.”

  Brennan waved his hand. “No. I need night, wind, life. A woman. Perhaps I’ll pay Angelia a visit although she really is too much trouble. She enjoys being coaxed, and I’m not inclined to bother. Do you ever go slumming?”

  “No.”

  “You should.” Brennan’s face took on a dreamy quality. “It’s good for the body and occasionally the soul. There is a wonderful place down in the Lower Quarter. They call it the Palace of Delights. Ask for Miranda.”

  “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.