The Virtu (72 page)

:Negotiation is supposed to be good for treaty-making.:

I stared at him for a moment, until he lost the battle to keep his face impassive; he was smiling again, beaming, an expression of such simple happiness that it made my heart turn over.

I smiled back at him, and then took his face gently between my hands and kissed him. And I promised myself, as the kiss deepened, as our bodies began to press together, that I would make this treaty work.

No one remarked on either my absence or my return when I appeared in the Hall of the Chimeras the next morning. Nor did anyone appear to notice Mildmay at all. A great fuss was being made of Simon and Rinaldo, and I was glad of it, glad that for once the Mirador was recognizing those who deserved her praise, those who had suffered in her service. I dared to hope I would escape unscathed—until, as Stephen was standing to dismiss the court, he said, “Lord Felix, a word with you please.”

He’d planned it. I knew that, even as I controlled a wince, even as I murmured, “Of course, my lord,” and nodded at Mildmay to follow me. Stephen didn’t normally indulge in that sort of game, but it wasn’t as if I could deny I deserved it.

It occurred to me to wish that I had not taken Malkar quite so slavishly as my model.

“Let us retire to the Attercop,” Stephen said. “I don’t think you want to have this discussion in public.”

“As you wish, my lord,” I said, while my heart sank.

But as we followed Stephen, Mildmay bumped my shoulder gently—so gently it might almost have been an accident, except that I knew better. I glanced over; he met my eyes, and although there was no expression on his face, I suddenly felt better.

Giancarlo was waiting in the Attercop, and my heart sank again. Stephen sat down in the room’s only chair; I swallowed hard and straightened my shoulders.

“Lord Felix,” Stephen said, “I really would like an explanation.”

“An explanation, my lord? Of wh—?”

The look he gave me killed my voice in my throat. “I have a list,” he said. “Starting with necromancy and ending with Simon Barrister and Rinaldo of Fiora.”

“Lord Simon and Lord Rinaldo can surely speak for themselves.”

“If that’s how you prefer it.” Stephen’s smile was not pleasant. “But before Court and Curia, I ask you, kindly explain what you were doing on the night of the thirty-first that has every necromancer in the Lower City on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

The formal phrasing was a bad sign, although I reminded myself to be grateful that Stephen had interpreted “Court and Curia” in this instance to mean one representative of each. Mildmay had warned me that Stephen would find out, and Stephen had.

I took a deep breath, forced my fingers straight, and told Stephen and Giancarlo the truth. The truth of what the Cabal had done, the truth of what I had done in answer. They heard me out in silence, aside from the occasional strangled exclamation, and when I was done, Stephen said, “It feels very odd to say this, but I actually appreciate your tact in not wanting this to become common knowledge.”

“It does no one any good,” I said.

“You realize you didn’t at all have the right to make that decision on your own,” Giancarlo said.

“Yes. But I won’t say I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Felix…” Giancarlo sighed.

“I can’t very well have you burned for heresy,” Stephen said, “since I’d have to have every wizard since the Cabal burned right along with you.” His look was not gracious. “I’ll want to talk to you again, after I’ve spoken to Lord Rinaldo and Lord Simon, but since you’re going to lie to me anyway, I might as well give you a chance to get your story straight. But tell me this, at least.
Is
Malkar Gennadion dead?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And if I asked you how you accomplished it?”

I met his eyes. “I would tell you Mildmay killed him.” It wasn’t heresy for an annemer to kill a wizard, and we’d already established that my protection of Mildmay made other matters moot—including the possibility that the Bastion might come baying for his blood.

Neither Stephen nor Giancarlo believed me, but I didn’t need them to. After a moment, Stephen snorted and said, “All right. Go on then. Clear out.”

Mildmay and I didn’t wait to be told twice. We cleared.

I hesitated in the hall outside the Attercop, wondering whether to go to my workroom, back to my suite, or to the Février Archive, where my research was still unfinished. And then, almost defiantly, I did something completely different. I climbed up to the Crown of Nails, Mildmay following loyally behind.

The day was bright, cold. I went to the battlements and looked at Mélusine spread out below us like a wanton lover. Mildmay stood beside me, and I noticed that he was not looking at the city, but up at the deep blue of the sky, as an angel might, its wings broken, knowing that it would never reach its home again.

We stood together silently for a long time. The words gathered in my throat, pushed against my chest. My heart was beating too hard, and I could feel the scalding blood in my cheeks. It was so inadequate, so stupid. And yet it was the only thing I had that I could say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nice to hear.”

“I hate saying it.”

“I know.”

“Can you…” I looked down at my hands and hated the way my voice got small. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

Another silence. I glanced at him sidelong, afraid to risk meeting his eyes. His face was as unreadable as ever, but I knew that he was genuinely thinking about my question. It was the hardest thing in the world, but I waited.

And after a while, he said slowly, “I don’t know.” What he always said when faced with a question he didn’t want to answer. But he was struggling with it still, and I wished fiercely, uselessly, that words were not so difficult for him.

He bent his head, staring down at his hands where they gripped the parapet, the long fingers, lumped knuckles, the scars and discolorations of injuries that had healed but could never quite be forgotten about. Then he said, “You and Strych… I mean… it ain’t like…” He fell silent again. I continued waiting, feeling as if the entire city held its breath with me. Finally, he said, “I understand.”

And those two words said a great deal. The things we couldn’t say now, the things that we would have to say to each other in the days and weeks and months to come, they were there, but those two simple words from him made it seem possible to me, for the first time, that we could find a way to say them.

“ ‘Isn’t,’ ” I said. “ ‘Isn’t as if.’ Not ‘ain’t like.’ ”

For a minute I thought I’d jumped the wrong way, that even though I knew he wouldn’t want his wounds touched, I’d said the wrong thing, but then he burst out laughing.

“Pax?” I said.

It was an old piece of street slang; I didn’t know why it had surfaced then, but he turned to look at me, and his face lit up in that unsmiling way I had missed so very badly.

“Pax,” he said.