Steel's Edge

THIRTEEN

GEORGE stood next to the Duchess of Southern Provinces, or Lady Olivia, as she preferred to be called, and surveyed the glittering gathering of the Adrianglian elite. Not all of them were blueblood, but all were rich or powerful or both. Lady Olivia wore a green bracelet on her left wrist, which signaled that she wished to maintain her privacy, and they were left to their own devices.

Around them, the vast terrace of the Evergreen castle stretched into the night, bordered by tall, pale columns, each supporting a tasteful cascade of flowers growing from marble planters. Dense trees surrounded the terrace on the north and south. To the west, the entrance to the castle’s first floor gaped open, illuminated with golden light. There, the new arrivals paused at the entrance to be announced and recognized before drifting on to mingle. To the right, the trees had been cleared, and the ground dropped to the shimmering waters of the Evergreen Lake. Above burned the sunset, a garish spectacle of red and gold so vivid, it almost hurt.

Standing there, watching people flutter by, George felt a peculiar sense of detachment, as if he were in a dream. The end of spring was an ancient celebration, born in a more violent time, when starvation decimated the population, war was frequent, and human life cheap. The people who’d begun it wore simple clothes and carried savage weapons. They gave thanks to their gods for surviving to summer. Now their descendants floated on, dressed in fine gowns and tailored jackets, aware but unwilling to acknowledge the tradition of blood that gave the festival its roots. But they were still just as brutal as their ancestors. If a threat were to appear, the entire gathering would spark with bursts of lightning as their magic sliced it to pieces.

The George Camarine side of him reminded him of the commonly known facts about each familiar face, while the Mirror agent side served up their secrets. Here came Lady Olla in a beautiful gown of sea-foam green, a white flower in her red hair. She had a penchant for collecting crystal figurines of dragons and a severe addiction to sumah. He knew the names of her suppliers and where they could be found. Lord Ronkor, a former logistics officer and now a transportation supervisor in the Department of the Interior, broad-shouldered, confident, exuded an air of masculine swagger as he took wide strides across the floor. Lord Ronkor enjoyed being spanked by young women and was notoriously quick in bed, according to the prostitutes he frequented. His wife hadn’t noticed—she was carrying on a decade-long affair with her best friend’s sister. Yes, hello, how are you? How’s your cousin, the one working in Kamen Port Authority? Is he still taking bribes? What a delightful scamp.

A small hand rested on his shoulder. “You look distant, my dear.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Apologies, Your Grace.”

The woman next to him frowned with her eyes. Her face remained perfectly pleasant. Her Grace Olivia Camarine wore a gown of deep regal purple. The theme of the festival was nature and rebirth, a celebration of spring, and the hue of her dress precisely matched the clusters of widow’s tear flowers spilling from the planters. Her dark hair was put away into a tasteful arrangement. In her late fifties, she looked twenty years younger, and despite her age and a life that was more than trying, she remained beautiful. She was Declan’s mother, and she had stepped into the role of George’s grandmother as soon as Jack and he arrived in the Edge. That role had been officially chiseled into stone when Declan and Rose formally adopted him and Jack.

“Don’t let them trouble you,” she said.

“They don’t.” He felt a rush of gratitude. Many of the people gathered here would never let him forget that he came from the Edge. Very few of them dared to recall that Her Grace’s mother was an Edge rat just like him. She was above reproach by virtue of her position and success, but he was still a fair target. “I know their secrets.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Gloating?”

“Only a little.”

“See that it doesn’t go to your head.”

He bent toward her and smiled. “Too late.”

“George, you are a terrible scoundrel.”

“Lady Virai wouldn’t have me otherwise.”

“That is, sadly, true.”

The fact that his direct supervisor and the woman in charge of the Mirror was Her Grace’s best friend occasionally made his life complicated, but he’d learned to deal with it.

Lady Olivia’s dark eyes sparked. “Shall we start our little game?”

“As you wish.”

Her Grace slipped the bracelet off and slid it onto her right wrist. Immediately, the current of the crowd changed. Small eddies formed as the nearest lords and ladies found graceful ways to disengage from their conversations in favor of greeting the Duchess of the Southern Provinces.

Lady Olivia hid her amusement in a placid half smile. He hadn’t been present when she met Charlotte, but since then he’d had plenty of chances to observe the two of them. Lady Olivia had liked Charlotte instantly. It was very clear that they were two birds of a feather—neither was born into a blueblood line and both had attained the pinnacle of social achievement. They were astute, adept, and intelligent, and listening to them he had felt slightly out of his depth.

People approached. He uttered pleasantries, making them sound as if he meant them. About ten minutes later, with the crowd at its peak, Lady Olivia turned to him.

“George, have you seen her yet?”

“No, my lady.” He could see the question form on the faces around them.

“She did say she intended to attend?”

“Yes, my lady. You made it very clear to her that she would suffer your wrath otherwise.”

Lady Olivia heaved a martyred sigh. “I’m really not that frightening.”

Nobody laughed. History was a required subject for anyone hoping to achieve any significant position in Adrianglia, and every person within earshot knew about the massacre that ended the Ten Day War between the Dukedom of Louisiana and Adrianglia and who was responsible for it.

“Do check on her for me,” Her Grace prompted.

George bowed his head. A falcon shot upward from its post on the nearest column and streaked away, in the direction of front gate. He concentrated, looking through the bird’s eyes at the string of phaetons. There, latest model, delicate ornamentation, Sophie’s face in the window.

He left the bird soaring. “Your Grace, they are about to arrive. Ten minutes at most.”

“Delightful. Thank you, my boy.”

He slid back into his affectation of boredom, surveying the faces, noting the minute details, as people pulled on polite masks, frantically trying to figure out who was the subject of their conversation. A tall, dark-haired man paused on the periphery of the gathering. Lord Casside. A member of the Five. It didn’t seem like his type of affair. He must’ve gotten a personal invitation from someone he couldn’t ignore . . .

George caught himself. Not Casside. Richard.

He had watched through the eyes of a bat when, two nights ago, Richard’s people grabbed Casside off the dark street. He’d left a club where he’d fenced with his usual partner, turned the corner on the dark street, heading to his phaeton, and three men jumped him. They sealed his mouth, brought him down, thrust a bag over his head, and yanked him into the dark archway. A moment later, Richard strode out onto the street, dressed in exactly the same clothes, walking at exactly the same speed. He walked over to the phaeton, got in, and rode off. George knew this, but when he looked at the lean man across the terrace, his mind didn’t say Richard. It said, “Casside,” and insisted on it.

It had to be some sort of subtle magic, George decided. One of those secret talents the Edgers hid from everyone.

Richard glanced in their direction, looking bored.

CHARLOTTE paused before the entrance to the terrace. Through the doors she could see the gathering: the people, the clothes, the jewels . . . An electric zing of excitement dashed through her. She had done this dozens of times, but that preappearance rush never got old.

Sophie stepped forward and passed a small card with their names and titles to the crier. The man took it, and the child moved back to her place next to Charlotte. She looked a shade paler than when they had exited the phaeton. Poor kid.

Charlotte wrapped her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “It will be fine,” she murmured. “Breathe and hold your head high. Remember—poise. You belong here. It’s your right to be here.”

Sophie swallowed.

“Baroness Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran and Sophie al-te Mua,” the crier announced.

“HERE she is,” Lady Olivia exclaimed.

Every head at their side of the terrace turned to the entrance. Charlotte stepped through, and George blinked. She wore a shimmering gown of delicate blue. It hugged her body. It really hugged her body, showcasing every curve before it flared into a flowing skirt that fell to the floor, and he felt vaguely embarrassed for looking. The top of the dress featured strips of brown fabric that narrowed on the side and spread across the blue skirt, imitating thin, twisted, apple branches. White blossoms, accented with silver, bloomed on the branches. The silhouette was simple, yet the color, the cut, and the pattern combined into an elegant, refined whole, and Charlotte, with her pale blond hair and gray eyes, floated in it, like the queen of spring.

He could almost hear a barely audible collective gasp from a dozen women who realized they had just been upstaged.

George chanced a glance at Richard. The man stood very still, his gaze fixed on Charlotte as she walked across the floor, and despite his new face, in that moment Richard looked nothing like Casside. A mix of emotions reflected on his face, desperation, passion, longing. It lasted for half a moment and looked like torture, then Richard slipped back into Casside, the way one put on a shirt in the morning. He must miss her.

George glanced back at Charlotte and forgot to breathe. Three steps behind her, to the left, Sophie walked across the terrace.

The world took a step back.

She wore a flowing gown of a pale gray with a touch of blue, draped at the top, caught by a sash, then floating in a weightless long skirt. He’d seen that precise color when she unsheathed her sword. The dress shimmered as she walked, slick and fluid, as if the metal of her blade had come to life and streamed over her like liquid, shifting with every movement.

He saw the graceful lines of her neck.

He saw her dark hair and a single pale blue flower in it.

He saw her face.

She was beautiful.

He realized he was standing there like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open, and clamped it shut.

A moment later, Charlotte joined them. Her Grace hugged her, gently. “My dear, I had almost given up hope.”

“I wouldn’t disappoint you if it is at all in my power.” Charlotte smiled.

“And you’ve brought Sophie.” Her Grace opened her arms, and Sophie hugged her. “How can you hide this beautiful flower in that country house of yours?”

“The country is where the flowers bloom the best,” Charlotte replied.

“Oh please.” Lady Olivia made a dismissive gesture that could’ve done a premier dancer proud. “It’s about time for the child to see the wider world.”

“Excuse me, Lord Camarine?”

A singsong female voice tugged on him. George turned. Lady Angelia Ermine stood next to him, wearing a fishtail gown of light powder blue. Her caramel golden hair cascaded in a tumble of locks on her left side, drawing attention to her delicate shoulders and long neck. She was quite attractive, George reflected in a detached way. She also profited from the sale of slave women and robbed them of their future children.

Her escort, a well-groomed, elegant blond man in a tailored russet doublet smiled at him with a sardonic spark in his eyes—Baron Rene, Spider’s cousin. He seemed perfectly at ease and enjoying himself. Two of the Five for the price of one.

George smiled. “May I help you, my lady?”

“Do you happen to know Lady de Ney?”

“I’ve only met her casually. I understand she has a very rare talent. Her Grace holds her in the highest regard. Some sort of family favor.”

“Her dress is divine,” Baron Rene volunteered. He was looking at Charlotte with a distinctly male appreciation.

“It’s probably one of her own designs,” George said, keeping his voice light. “Would you like an introduction?”

“I suppose we can spare a moment or two.” Angelia shrugged.

She was clearly dying to be introduced. George stepped to the side, waited until Her Grace leaned over to Sophie, and caught Charlotte’s gaze. “My lady, Lady Angelia Ermine and Baron Rene.”

Charlotte smiled. “A pleasure.”

Baron Rene bowed, bringing Charlotte’s fingers to his lips. As he bent, George caught sight of Richard’s face. His expression was so perfectly placid, so even, it was slightly alarming.

Baron Rene straightened. Charlotte and Angelia touched the back of their hands to each other. As their skin connected, a tiny tendril of black shot from Charlotte’s hand to Angelia’s. If he wasn’t looking closely, he would’ve missed it.

The two bluebloods said a few more words about the festival and weather and disengaged.

The center of the terrace rumbled. That’s right, he realized, it was almost dark.

The tiles in the middle slid aside. Magic surged in a translucent wall, forming a tall column. Inside it something sparked. Flames burst, roaring upward at the sky, perfectly contained by magic—a perfect imitation of an ancient bonfire.

The bluebloods applauded. He clapped with them, watching Charlotte and Sophie out of the corner of his eye. The ground was prepared. It was up to Charlotte to set her trap.

TIRED, Charlotte descended the staircase from the front entrance where their rented phaeton waited, the driver holding the door open. Sophie walked next to her. They conquered the last few steps, got inside, and sank onto the soft cushions of the seats. The driver shut the door, and, a moment later, they were off.

Charlotte pulled her shoes off and thrust her feet onto the opposite seat. Across from her, Sophie groaned and did the same. They wiggled their toes at each other.

“Ow, ow, ow.” Sophie bent forward and massaged her toes. “Why do the heels have to be so high?”

“First, because they elongate your calves and make your legs look leaner. Second, because you couldn’t possibly do any work in shoes like this, so if you own them, you must live a life of leisure.” Charlotte leaned back. “All in all, it went very well. We owe Lady Olivia a favor.”

“What did you give Angelia?” Sophie asked.

Charlotte grinned. “You saw that?”

“I was looking very carefully.”

“She was already infected with Dock Rot, a very strong, virulent form of herpes. I just coaxed it into an outbreak.”

Sophie’s eyes went wide. “Is that one of the sexual diseases?”

Charlotte nodded. “Oh yes. They call it Dock Rot because it’s often found among port prostitutes. It’s curable, but the regimen is long and expensive, and it’s quite easily preventable through the use of the male sleeve and vaccination.”

“So why wasn’t she vaccinated?”

“Probably because it didn’t occur to her that she might catch it. The question is how did a blueblood flower such as Angelia end up with a dock-prostitute rash?”

Sophie grinned. “That’s an interesting question.”

“Isn’t it?” Charlotte rubbed her hands together. “I think we’re going to contact Lady Olivia and make sure Angelia gets an invitation to a tea. Mmmmm, about two days should do.”

“You’re scary,” Sophie told her.

You have no idea, sweetheart. You have no idea. “Yes, but I’m on your side.” Charlotte reached over and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “You did so well today. It will get easier, I promise.”

“It was . . . exciting.”

“I’m so glad.” Charlotte grinned. “Did you notice George?”

Sophie leaned against the back of the seat. “I know! He is so perfect, it’s sickening.” Her eyes grew wide. “That woman next to me, the one with the green rose in her hair? She leaned over to the other lady, and she said, ‘I bet I could teach him a thing or two.’ And the other woman said, ‘He’s just a boy,’ and the green rose woman said, ‘That’s the best time in a man’s life: they’re easy to steer, and they can go and go and go.’ Can you believe that? She must be thirty! It’s disgusting.”

Sophie stuck her tongue out and made a retching noise.

Charlotte smiled. “I don’t think George is in any danger. He does the distant, I’m-above-it-all impression quite well, and the duchess would fry anyone who looked at him the wrong way.”

Sophie’s dark eyes turned serious. “Is that how it’s supposed to be?”

“Is it how what’s supposed to be?”

“Are we supposed to be obsessed with sex?”

She’d asked it quietly, and Charlotte sensed the answer was very important. “It depends on the woman. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. Some women mature faster, some slower; some actively seek out sexual pleasure, and some don’t value it as much. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t want to do it.”

Charlotte tilted her head, trying to get a better look at Sophie’s face. “Which part?”

“I don’t want to have sex,” Sophie said. “Maybe later. But not now. I have friends. They kiss each other. The boys are . . . you know. Hands.”

“Mhm.” Charlotte nodded.

“I don’t like to be touched. One of them tried, and I told him I didn’t like it. He acted as if there was something wrong with me.”

Charlotte paused. There was so much she wanted to explain, but the little bond of trust they had between them was so fragile. She had to find the right words.

“There is nothing wrong with you. Your body belongs to you alone. Touching it is a privilege, and it’s up to you to grant it. Some boys—and men—don’t handle rejection well, and they will try to shame you or pressure you into letting them do what they want because they feel entitled. They’re not worth your time. Also, there is nothing wrong with not enjoying sexual touching or kissing. For some girls, their sexual awakening comes early, for some, later. I was almost seventeen before I became aware of men sexually, and even then, it was because of a particular boy I liked rather than men in general.”

Sophie looked out the window.

Charlotte couldn’t tell if she had said the right thing or the wrong thing. This is what parenting must be like. The duchess was right. Never knowing if you had done harm or good was awful.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “It’s just that I don’t have anybody else to ask. My sister is gone a lot with William. My aunts always want to know who is it and what’s his name. And I can’t ask Richard.”

“Oh gods, no, don’t ask Richard.”

“He would be scandalized.” Sophie pressed her lips together, as if trying to hold something back.

“If he gets an idea that someone tried to touch you against your will, he’d kill them.” Charlotte cleared her throat and tried to produce a reasonable imitation of Richard’s raspy voice. “I’m going to decapitate that ruffian. Please don’t hold dinner. No need to trouble yourself on my account.”

Sophie squeezed her lips tighter, but the laughter burst out anyway. “He would say that! ‘I shall bring you his head. You may use his skull as a vase. No use in wasting a perfectly good cranium.’”

Charlotte giggled. “We’re so morbid.”

They giggled again. Sophie tried to hold it in and snorted. “Oh no, I’m so unladylike.”

That only made them laugh harder.

Finally, they stopped.

“You can ask me anything,” Charlotte said. “I don’t mind.”

“What happens next?” Sophie asked.

“Tomorrow, Richard is going to the club for his weekly card game. It’s possible that Brennan will be there.” Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. There was no danger, she reassured herself. Richard had fooled everyone, except for the old house servant, whom he had replaced. The real Casside and his servant were now safely tucked away in one of Declan’s dungeons. The chance that Brennan would realize that Richard was an impostor was very slight.

Very, very slight.

“So what then?” Sophie asked.

“Then we will make Brennan think he’s being betrayed.”

RICHARD sat at a pentagonal table and reviewed his cards. He had the winning hand. He surveyed the faces of the four other men at the table. Much like the Broken’s poker, the Weird’s council was a game of strategy and bluffing. He’d learned to count cards when he was barely old enough to understand the game. It required a good memory and paying attention. Child’s play.

To his right, Lord Korban frowned slightly, trying to hide his tells. Next to him, Robert Brennan smiled at Richard from above his cards. The man was unconcerned and completely at ease, as if relaxing at home. He didn’t look like the man whose island slave operation had turned to ash a week and a half ago.

Lorameh, a veteran of the air force, sat next to Brennan. As a human being, Lorameh was thoroughly unremarkable: pale blond hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, light eyes, neither handsome nor unattractive. He’d known Brennan for a long time, and the two of them treated each other with easy familiarity.

At Lorameh’s side, Maedoc, his severe gaze fixed on the cards, completed the circle. Where Brennan was carefree, Maedoc reviewed his cards with a deadly serious air, as if the fate of the realm rode on his winning hand.

If Richard called a challenge, Lorameh would fold, Korban would panic and go in, then change his mind and fold at the first opportunity. Maedoc would stubbornly hold, because although his hand was mediocre, he viewed surrender as the weakest of the options. Brennan . . . His hand was weak, but Brennan was an enigma.

“Challenge,” Richard said.

“Accepted.” Korban slid a coin toward the stack of gold in the center of the table.

“Withdraw.” Lorameh tossed his cards down. “Too rich for my taste.”

“Accepted,” Brennan said, adding his own doubloon. The corner of his mouth curved.

“Accepted,” Maedoc growled.

“Living dangerously, Robert,” Lorameh said.

“Danger adds spice to a mundane existence,” Brennan said.

“You just took a voyage to the Southeast Coast, while I slave away at my desk,” Lorameh said. “Of the two of us, my existence is much more mundane.”

“I was visiting a friend,” Brennan said.

“A friend with soft curves and beautiful blue eyes perhaps?” Lorameh asked.

“A lord never tells. Your play, Casside.”

“Challenge,” Richard said again, and slid a gold coin into the center of the table. There had been a very slight note of command in Brennan’s voice. Brennan had also counted the cards. He knew exactly what sort of hand Richard had. Where was he going with this plan?

“Withdraw!” Korban dropped his cards.

“Accepted.” Brennan added more money.

Maedoc hesitated.

“Our brave soldier is thinking of surrendering,” Brennan said.

A light laughter rolled around the table. Richard allowed himself a sparse smile to not stand out.

Maedoc’s face turned redder. He slid another coin to the stack. “Accepted.”

What was going on? Richard sorted through the available responses. Casside would keep playing. He was driven by money, and the hoard of gold on the table was substantial. “Challenge.”

“Another challenge, Casside?” Brennan looked directly at him. “You should make it a big one.”

His tone was mild, but his stare left no doubt—it was an order.

“Very well.” Richard slid the entirety of his coins into the center of the table.

Lorameh whistled quietly. Korban turned a shade paler.

“Accepted,” Brennan said. He pushed a tower of coins to the center with a careless sweep of his hand and turned to Maedoc.

Punishment, Richard realized. Maedoc was being punished for the failure of the slavers on the island. He oversaw the slaver muscle. The breach in security was Maedoc’s fault, and now Brennan was publicly humiliating him.

The big man looked back at Brennan, his teeth clenched.

“Are you with us or against us, Maedoc?” Brennan asked.

The muscles on Maedoc’s jaws bulged. He stared at the coins. Of the Five, he was the least wealthy. Both Brennan and Casside had means, but for the other three bluebloods, the lack of funds was a real danger.

The strain on Maedoc’s face was clearly visible. Richard felt no sympathy for him. The memory of rain-drenched holes filled with children, of the boy with his lips sewn shut, and barely human slaves was too fresh.

“Well?” Brennan tapped the table.

“With you.” Maedoc shoved the gold forward.

“Your move,” Brennan looked at Richard.

“Triple Royal Charge.” Richard dropped a king, three knights, and an archer on the table.

Maedoc’s face turned purple. “Double charge,” he croaked, and let the cards fall. Two knights, a squire, a page, and a blacksmith.

“Two pages, two squires, and a carpenter.” Brennan spread the cards on the table. “You win, Casside.”

“That’s the lousiest hand,” Korban said.

“Luck of the draw.” Brennan grinned.

He rose and slid the money toward Richard. “Take it before we change our minds.”

Maedoc looked ripe for apoplexy. Richard hid a smile. It said volumes about his own morality, but anything that hurt the Five brought him joy.

Lorameh had an odd look on his face—he wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he didn’t like it.

“I think I shall take my winnings home.” Richard swept the coins into a bag.

“I’ll join you.” Brennan rose.

They walked out of the club into the night. It had rained. Dampness hung in the air, and rainwater pooled in the uneven cobbles under their feet. The club occupied one of the restored buildings of Carver Castle, and the narrow street curved, snaking its way through the tangle of buildings that had once housed servants, knights, and soldiers. Here and there, magic lanterns cascaded from the walls, their pale lights diluting the darkness rather than banishing it.

“You played rather aggressively tonight,” Brennan said.

What would Casside say? “I dislike losing money.”

Brennan grimaced. “We have all just lost a great deal of money.”

“How fast can the enterprise be rebuilt?” Richard asked.

“The efforts are under way now. Six months.” Brennan’s face jerked. An ugly scowl distorted his features, as if the fury inside him struggled to tear through the paper-thin mask of his easygoing demeanor. The man had a temper. Richard filed it away for future reference. “It was the Hunter. Three hundred men and a yearlong hunt, yet they can’t kill one man.”

The irony was too rich. It was time to carefully push Brennan in the right direction. “One wonders why.”

Brennan pivoted on one foot toward him. “What are you implying?”

“I find it odd that these three hundred men can find a set of twins of particular age and coloring but can’t find the Hunter.”

The passageway widened, circling the main keep. A few moments and they would pass through the arched gate and reach the main courtyard and their phaetons.

Something moved in the darkness by the arch.

Brennan halted. Richard put his hand on his rapier. Casside was a skilled fencer—like many bluebloods, he had a proper martial education. The slender sword wasn’t Richard’s preferred weapon, and being divorced from his magic hindered him. Casside couldn’t stretch his flash onto his sword. It was a lost art, known by a select few. And now that he was Casside, Richard would have to make do without it.

People moved within the arch, ink black silhouettes in darkness.

Brennan raised his head. “What have we here?”

Arrows whistled through the air. Brennan’s magic sparked, bursting from him in a brilliant white flash shield, disintegrating the missiles.

A bright blue flash shot from behind them, threatening to cut Brennan in half. Richard shoved him out of the way. The flash scorched the cobbles between them.

Richard dashed into the darkness in the direction of the flash, his rapier bare, counting under his breath. One, two, three, four. Another bolt of blue lightning tore at him. The flasher needed four seconds to recharge. The most accomplished magic users could do it instantly, but most needed time to refocus their magic.

Richard dodged, and the magic scoured the cobbles. The flasher gave himself away. He saw them now, three people waiting in the alcove to the left—the magic user and two fighters.

Richard charged. One.

The fighter on the left, a lean, agile woman, struck at him, spinning, her twin wide swords slicing like a razor-sharp tornado. He dodged left, right, left again. Two. The bigger sword grazed his chest, cutting through the doublet. Steel burned his skin.

Three.

The woman pressed her advantage.

Four. He dodged right, avoiding the flash by a mere second, lunged, and smiled as the tip of his rapier burst his opponent’s heart. The woman fell.

One. The large man behind her leaped, taking her place, chopping at him with a vicious short axe. Two. Three. Richard backed away. Four. His instincts screamed, and he dived left, half a second before another flash bolt cut a gash in the stone wall behind him.

The axe fighter smashed into him, knocking him off-balance. Too close for a lunge. Richard veered left, grabbed the axe fighter’s right arm, yanking him forward, and smashed the heavy hilt of the rapier into his left eye. The man howled in pain. Three. Richard spun him around and shoved him forward. The flash tore into the axe fighter. The stench of smoking human meat filled the air.

Richard sprinted, putting all of his speed in the run. Time slowed down, stretching like viscous honey.

He saw the magic user, a short, overweight woman. Slowly, as if underwater, she opened her mouth, raising her arms. The first brilliant blue spark of the flash formed between her fingers, biting at her skin with roots of lightning.

He thrust.

The blade passed under the growing tangle of magic, under the woman’s left breast and into her lung. He’d missed the heart by a hair.

Richard threw himself left. The magic tore from her in a wide beam. She tried to scream, but the words gurgled in her throat. He dropped the rapier, grabbed her from the side, and snapped her neck with a quick jerk.

It cost him half a second to recover his sword. Richard dashed back. When he’d sent Garett, his cousin, to hire the thugs to kill Brennan, he warned him to hire enough to make a serious statement but not so many that Brennan would be overwhelmed. As satisfying as it would feel, Brennan couldn’t die. But Richard had never counted on a flasher or a skilled swordsmen. There was a slight chance that they could actually succeed, and their scheme would fall apart before it had even begun.

He rounded the bend. Brennan bent over a prone man, breathing hard, his face an ugly, feral mask. A thick drip of bright red blood spilled from his scalp onto his face. Three bodies sprawled on the cobbles. None of them moved.

Brennan clutched a man by his shirt and stabbed him.

The man cried out.

“Who?” Brennan demand, his voice a ragged growl. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” the man groaned.

Brennan twisted the dagger in the wound. “Who?”

“Kordon said . . .” The man’s voice was fading. “He said . . . it was . . .”

“What?” Brennan yanked him higher.

“Eagle,” the man whispered. His eyes rolled back in his skull. His body convulsed once, and he sagged in Brennan’s grip. The king’s cousin stared at the limp body, his eyes bulging. He looked deranged. Then the anger vanished, and Brennan pulled his composure back on like a mask.

“Robert!” Richard sank force into his whisper. “We must leave. There will be questions.”

Brennan let go of the corpse, dusted his hands, and strode into the arched tunnel, his pace brisk. “Did you bring a phaeton?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll ride in it, then. Can your servants be trusted?”

Richard hid a smile. He had replaced all of the staff in the house with his family. There wasn’t a single person in that house whose name wasn’t Mar. “Implicitly.”

“Good.”

The arch ended, opening into a well-lit courtyard filled with phaetons and horses. Richard stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his clothes, and thrust it at Brennan. “Blood.”

“Thank you.” Brennan pressed the cloth over the blood. They crossed the space quickly. Richard opened the door of the phaeton, and Brennan ducked inside on the wide bench. Richard climbed in after him and let his fingers fly over the controls. The ornate panel buzzed, the gears began turning, and the phaeton whirred to life. He drove out of the courtyard, maintaining average speed.

Seven lives were lost. They belonged to professional killers. He felt no guilt but a vague dissatisfaction. Some part of him must’ve secretly hoped Brennan would die.

Brennan wiped the blood off his scalp. “Well! That was more fun than I’ve had in a while. How about you?”

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 this, 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.”