My Lady Quicksilver

Twenty-eight

“You wanted Mercury?”

The voice startled her as Mordecai shoved past, pushing her out of the way roughly as he stared cockily at the Council. “Well, ’ere I be.”

Shock tore through her, freezing Rosalind in place. All she could see were Lynch’s furious eyes as he glared at her. He froze too, turning his gaze on the sturdy mech.

“Afraid o’ just one man.” Mordecai laughed. “Look at you all. Perched up ’igh in your Ivory Tower. And ’ere’s me, got to you even ’ere.”

The prince consort shoved to his feet, his eyes glittering with icy rage. But at least they were no longer resting on Lynch.

“I want his head,” he snapped. “Bring me his head!”

The Master of the Coldrush Guards gaped at the prince consort, shooting Lynch a disappointed look. As Maitland moved toward Mordecai, Garrett stepped between them.

“You’ll honor your word?” Garrett dared to ask. He looked nervous; no doubt he was. None of them had expected this. “Lynch brought down Mercury. You said it was his life or the revolutionary’s.”

“Then get him out of here.” The prince consort’s hungry gaze never shifted.

Lynch slowly pushed to his feet. Garrett bowed and stepped out of the way, his hand finding hers in the shadows of his body. She squeezed it back.

Mordecai glanced over his shoulder. She stared at him, an almost inexplicable sense of sadness sweeping through her. How truly she’d underestimated him.

He gave a loose one-shouldered shrug before turning back to the Council. “Aye, kill me then. And know that I’ll die a ’ero. They won’t ever forget me, out there in the streets. And they’ll finish what I started, what we ’umanists started. Your days are numbered, you pasty maggots.” His laughter bounced off the roof. “You think this ends this?” he shouted. “You think my death will stop us ’umans from risin’? This is just the start!”

“Seize him!” the prince consort screamed.

Mordecai’s words echoed in the chamber, but she knew who they were aimed at. Use it. Use this chance. Do what neither of them had managed so far. His sacrifice floored her. He’d already been dead, but at least this way he earned them a chance.

The Coldrush Guards grabbed his arms and yanked him to the brass circle cut into the marble floor. His knees were kicked out from underneath him, the whites of his eyes flaring as they yanked his head back. Rosalind jerked, her fist tightening around Garrett’s. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t find that inner coldness that protected her at times like this. She felt it as the sword rasped over Mordecai’s throat, and swallowed hard against the lump in hers.

“Mount the head on the tower wall,” the prince consort said coldly. “Let the masses see what happens to those who dare defy me.” His voice rose. “Let them come at me and see how defiance ends! I will not be cast down. Not by you. Not by that horde of filthy unwashed humans! You are cattle!”

Then the sword slashed down, blood spraying over the marble floor. Mordecai’s body jerked, blood fountaining from his throat, then it hit the ground.

So quickly. Without even a formality. Rosalind stared at the spreading pool of vermillion on the alabaster tiles, as they dragged the body away. That could have been her. Should have been, except for this one small act of mercy—of heroism. Heat sprang up behind her eyes.

You won’t be forgotten, she vowed. And neither would her own pledge. He hadn’t given her this chance for nothing.

Garrett squeezed her fingers. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand. But Lynch was alive. And so was she and somehow they had pulled the wool over the prince consort’s eyes.

She could hardly breathe for the lump in her throat. And then she saw Balfour.

He watched her with those emotionless black eyes, his lashes so colorless they were almost white. Not a fool. He never had been and he knew; she saw it in him. He alone of the Council had watched her foot shift as she made to step forward, to claim the name of Mercury. She watched swift expression dance across his face as he made the connections. He was the one who’d sent her to spy on the humanists, on Nathaniel. After years of believing her dead, she had suddenly shown up, just as the name of Mercury was on everybody’s lips.

One word and he could condemn them all.

But he didn’t say it. The moments ticked by and he glanced down, toying with the signet ring on his finger. Strain tightened his face. He’d never once betrayed his prince, yet at what cost would this take? What would he demand of her?

She looked for Lynch, frightened and unsure. Their gazes locked and she knew that he understood her fear.

“You’re lucky your man has your best interests at heart,” the prince consort said to Lynch with an oily smile as he settled in his chair. “If he’d stayed his arrival another minute, he would have been able to cast aside the label of temporary Guild Master and replace it with permanent.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand loyalty then, Your Grace?” Garrett again.

Lynch cut him a look and shook his head in warning.

The prince consort stared at Garrett for an uncomfortable minute. “Oh, I understand loyalty.” His smile vanished. “Lynch, you may go.”

Rosalind let out a breath. Please. Let them get away from this awful place.

But Lynch paused, turning to face the council, his boots almost in the puddle of blood Mordecai’s body had left behind. “I do believe you promised something else, Your Grace. Some incentive, should the revolutionary be brought to justice.”

Silence.

Barrons stepped forward, clad entirely in black velvet with a ruby dangling from his ear. “You swore that you would revoke Sir Jasper’s rogue status and name him one of the Echelon.”

The prince consort’s smile died. “So I did. Thank you for reminding me of that, Barrons.”

“My pleasure.”

“And so I declare it. Sir Jasper Lynch,” the prince consort called. “I officially revoke your rogue status and name you one of the Echelon.” A nasty little smile twisted his mouth. “As such, I strip you of the title of Guild Master of the Nighthawks. No blue blood could remain amongst the rogues.”

“I agree.” Lynch straightened.

He was up to something.

Drawing all eyes, Lynch took a step back, his boot heel cutting over the brass circle. Then another, until he stood fully within it. He met the Duke of Bleight’s gaze and gestured with a mocking little twitch of his fingers. “This has been a long time in coming, Uncle. I challenge you for the duchy of Bleight. First blood.”

The prince consort’s grip tightened on his chair, his face going white with fury. And Rosalind understood what Lynch had planned. Her heart leaped—then fell. If he won this fight, he became a duke and would join the council. There would be no place for her at his side.

But he would be free of the threat of the prince consort’s power. Safer perhaps with power of his own. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny him that.

The Duke of Bleight slowly levered himself to his feet, his ancient face expressionless. Most duels were to the death. Not only was Lynch offering a reprieve, but in the Echelon’s eyes, an insult. Would his pride overcome his fear of mortality? They all knew how uneven this match would be, even Bleight.

The rest of the council waited with bated breath.

“I accept, you little cur.”