The Virtu (6 page)

When we’d been going east, it hadn’t mattered so much, because, for one thing, we’d been following the route Mavortian von Heber had chosen, and for another, Felix had been crazy, and Gideon had thought that would keep the Bastion from noticing him. Which looked like it had worked, because, I mean, they hadn’t. But Felix wasn’t crazy now, and if he was where the Eusebians could feel him with their spells—however the fuck
that
worked, and I didn’t know and didn’t want to—my understanding was they’d know right off he was a Cabaline, and then we might as well kiss our asses good-bye.

So there wasn’t no point in trying to finesse it. We wanted to circle either way to the north or way to the south. I couldn’t see that there was much to recommend either direction—going south we ended up in the duchies that were sort of a part of the empire and sort of their own thing, and I’d heard enough gossip going east to know we didn’t particularly want to fuck with them, but going north took us up into Norvena Magna, and all I knew about that was it was likely to be extremely fucking cold. And then when we wanted to swing south again, there were all kinds of little countries that had hacked themselves out a space where none of the big players cared enough to come and get them, and I’d learned when I was doing smuggling runs for Keeper that who was friends with who changed pretty much by the hour, and none of ‘em had much use for Marathat to begin with. At least going south we wouldn’t have to wonder.

I didn’t particularly like either plan, but then I remembered something that made the decision easier. We were pretty far south on Troia’s coastline—I’d found a little square labeled
gardens of nephele
on one of the Midlander maps—and so going north would take longer, take us farther out of our way, and moreover would mean, almost as sure as eggs are eggs, that we’d have to go through Aigisthos, the capital of the Empire of Kekropia. And I remembered just how much Gideon had said we didn’t want to go there.

We’d have to go around to the south.

I looked at all them little duchies, like a particularly crazy kind of crazy quilt, and thought, Kethe, I hope we can pull this off.

When I opened my eyes to Diokletian’s bedroom, I was relieved to discover myself still in the chair, exactly as I had been when I went into my trance. Diokletian was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, knees pulled up and his face buried in his hands.

I stood up, deliberately noisy. Diokletian did not move. I wanted simply to leave, wanted it in the same way one wants water to quench a thirst, but I knew that would give this silly, rather tawdry contretemps a kind of weight and meaning that it did not deserve. So I said, lightly, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said, still without moving. “Please, just go.”

“This isn’t the end of the world, you know.”

That got his head up; his face was ashen and his yellow eyes staring. “What, to discover that I’m lusting after a man? And that man quite possibly my own son?”

“You aren’t lusting after me. You’re remembering her. And I may very well
not
be your son.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the point.” He stood up, staring at me now with pain in his eyes. “I love my wife, my daughters. I never felt for my wife what I did for Methony, and I have never, thank the Tetrarchs,” the hint of a wry smile crooking the corners of his mouth, “felt anything for my daughters that even remotely resembles what I feel for you.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, you were right. I don’t like you. This is something else. This is some madness in my blood. I would never… I don’t know what happened there, in that…”

“Nothing to worry about,” I said. “Neither of us is going to act on it—”

“And if we shut our eyes and put our fingers in our ears, it’ll just go away? I had expected better of you.”

“Well, Mildmay and I will be leaving the Gardens soon, so it’s not as if—”

“Soon? How soon?”

“A few days.”

“You’re
leaving
?”

“Of course I’m leaving. You didn’t think I was going to settle down here for the rest of my life, did you?”

His gaze shifted away from my face.

“Well, I’m not,” I said.

“Because your brother doesn’t want to.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s true, is it not? You are leaving because your brother does not want to stay.”

“Diokletian, I thought we—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Mildmay doesn’t want to stay, that’s true, but neither do I.”

“You’ve seemed very happy here.”

“Of course I’m
happy
, you nitwit. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“There’s something I have to do. In the Mirador.”

“The
Mirador
?”

“It is my home,” I said, treading carefully now among the truth, the lies, the omissions and evasions. “I… I am needed there.” To repair the damage I did. Yes, indeed, the Mirador needed me, although there was a good chance I’d be tied to a stake with the flames licking my ankles before any of them calmed down enough to realize it. But that, too, didn’t matter.

Diokletian snorted. “After the abysmal job they did taking care of you I don’t think—”

“You don’t understand the circumstances.”

“Then explain them.”

And that was the last thing on earth I was likely to do. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m not accountable to you.”

“I had thought your gratitude might run a little deeper,” he said bitterly.

“Gratitude? What does that have to do with anything?”

“We saved your life—you and your trained bear—”

“
Don’t
talk about him that way.”

He gave an impatient jerky half shrug. He hadn’t been trying to bait me; that was genuinely how he thought about Mildmay. “We saved your life, your sanity. We’ve fed, sheltered, and clothed you for the past three months…”

“I didn’t realize I was running up a tab,” I said, in Marathine because I didn’t know the word in Troian.

“What?”

Back into Troian: I wasn’t about to let him condescend to me about my language skills. “I didn’t know anyone was keeping score.”

“What? Of course not!”

“Then why are you trying to make me feel guilty about it?”

“We have done a great deal for you, and although we did not do it with thoughts of recompense, I
did
think—”

“That I’d—what? Join your covenant? Be your acolyte?”

“You’re being unfair.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “
Unfair
? And trying to talk me out of leaving by reminding me how much I owe you—
we did not do it with thoughts of recompense
.” I mimicked him savagely and was pleased to see him flinch. “That’s the epitome of impartial fair dealing?”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not. And I
am
grateful, but it has no bearing on the matter. I have to go back.”

“Xanthippe will not be pleased.”

“And I will be sorry for it, but I am still leaving. As soon as Mildmay and I can be ready.”

It was an exit line, and I took it.

Having been through one unpleasant scene, I decided there was no sense in wasting the aggrieved feeling of martyrdom and set out to find what I fully expected to be another, possibly even more unpleasant.

Astyanax was where he always was at this time of day, holding court in the atrium of the Nephelion, his crowd of sycophants around him. He smiled when he caught sight of me, and it was a good effort, but I had been Lord Shannon Teverius’s lover for five years, and it took more than this boy could muster to turn my knees to water.

I made my way to him through his resentful clique and said, “We need to talk.”

He caught the seriousness. “Talk? What? Is it—”

“Not here,” I said, because I owed him that much. “Come on.”

He came, and I was glad of his docility, although I knew it would have bored me senseless if our affair had been protracted. For the first time I thought clearly, It is good to be leaving.

I made for a particular bench in the middle of the formal part of the gardens, where no one could approach us without being observed and where, from the main thoroughfares, we would be merely another pair of red-haired men.

Astyanax sat down beside me, his face worried. “Felix, what is it? What’s going on?”

“I thought I should tell you privately,” I said, keeping my voice light and unconcerned, as if I did not think this situation was about to explode in my face. “Mildmay and I will be leaving in a couple of days.”

“
Leaving
? You mean, for good?”

“We’re going home,” I said simply, as if every word in that sentence did not carry its own fraught burden along with it.

“Is it… is it because of me?”

I bit down hard on the inside of my lower lip and did not laugh. “No, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s just time for us to leave.”

“Is that what I am to you? Nothing?”

“No, not nothing. But this isn’t true love, if that’s what you were thinking.”

I had meant it as a joke, but the deepening crimson of his face and the there-and-gone flash of a snarl told me that that was
exactly
what he had been thinking. And not in regard to his own feelings, either.

I burst out laughing. I knew it was the worst possible reaction, but I could not help it. I wasn’t sure I would have been able to keep from laughing even if there had been a knife at my throat.

He shot to his feet and started away, as stiff and bristling as an offended cat.

I choked down my laughter. “Astyanax, wait!”

He stopped and turned. There was a strange mixture of affront and hope on his face, as if he thought I might yet change my mind, declare my true feelings for him. I said, “We don’t have to part like this. Our… liaison was mutually satisfactory, and—”

“If you dare to say, ‘I hope we shall always be friends,’ I will hit you,” he said, his voice high and trembling. Indignation, not heartbreak: he was wounded in nothing but his vanity.

I raised my eyebrows. “No, frankly, my hope is that we never see each other again—a hope which is growing stronger and more heartfelt with each passing moment. But I would prefer us to part amiably.”

“Ha!” he said. I could tell that he was longing for a more stinging retort, but could not find one. He turned on his heel and stomped off. This time I let him go.

When I was sure he was well away, I got up and started for Mildmay’s room, to tell him that unless some catastrophe intervened, we would be leaving the Gardens the day after tomorrow.

It was time to go home.

I had to ask how to find Thamuris’s room.

We’d be leaving in the morning, and there was some kind of party tonight that Felix said I had to go to. So this was my last chance to talk to Thamuris. And I didn’t have nothing to say to Thamuris, but it seemed like the least I could do was go and say nothing to his face.

I stood for a moment outside his door because this was going to be a bitch, no two ways about it. Then I took a deep breath and knocked.

Nothing happened for a while, but about the time I was wondering if I should knock again or try the doorknob or just go the fuck away, Thamuris called, “Come in!”

He was laying in bed, propped up on enough pillows to stock a small hotel. “Mildmay.” He didn’t sound much of anything, and I just hoped he wasn’t pissed off under all that laudanum. After a moment, he went on, “Sit down. I’m sure there’s a chair somewhere.” One hand twitched in a feeble sort of wave.

There was a chair, right beside the bed. I sat down, said, “Thamuris,” and waited until he turned his head. His pupils were down to almost nothing. It was like he had a pair of gorgons in his head instead of eyes.

“Me and Felix, we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Going back to your blind city?” There still wasn’t much of anything in his voice, but he gave me a smile.

“Um. Yeah.”

“Good.” He let out a breath like he wanted to let out a bunch of other stuff along with it. Like his life. “You weren’t happy here.”

“No,” I said, because there wasn’t no point denying it. “I’m just sorry… I mean, I know you ain’t-happy here, either.”

“No,” he said, “but…” And then he lost track of whatever he’d been going to say. Powers and saints, I hate laudanum. But it was better than where he’d be at without it, even so.

We sat for a while, and then he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For… using you. Xanthippe was right. It was abominable of me.” His breath shortened up, and I guess there for a moment we were both praying for him not to start coughing.

This time it went on by him, so I could say, “It’s okay, really. I let you. I mean…” It wasn’t like what that fucker Astyanax had done, laying a compulsion on me to make me answer his questions. And I couldn’t even care that he’d done it to help cure Felix. All there was for me was how much it’d hurt and how much he’d liked hurting me.

“You trusted me, and you should not have,” Thamuris said, with a break in the middle where the cough almost got away from him. I was going to have to go soon, because however much time he had left, I didn’t want him to have less of it—or spend more of it coughing—just on account of me. But he caught his breath and said, sounding almost like he had the first time I’d met him, “Do you know why I’m here?”