Jerrod
doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.
Ever since Kaspar had slid into the booth across from him at the noodle shop with the news that Prosper Beck was officially back, he’d been brooding. He had always known Beck would return and that, when that happened, his former boss would reach out for him again. He was Beck’s man; he’d sworn it. But he’d underestimated how comfortable he’d gotten in his new life at the Black Mansion.
When had joined Andreyen’s team, he’d instructed himself not to form any attachments. Not to make friends, despite the deliberately congenial atmosphere. He’d failed parlously.
He supposed he’d secretly thought that the collegiality in the mansion was a facade, as false a front as the warehouse he was standing in right now, with its painted signs outside advertising a gambling parlor. Beck had once run games out of the place, but that had been a long time ago. Now it housed something quite different from games of chance.
What had not expected was how genuinely attached to one another the group at the Black Mansion was. He had grown up around criminals; most were out for themselves because they had to be. When the Vigilants came, you ran, and you didn’t look to see if your accomplice was keeping up with you. In fact, you might consider stabbing your accomplice yourself so he couldn’t spill your name in the Tully.
Andreyen Morettus’s crew were nothing like that. They looked out for one another. was a little afraid they might even look out for him.
And then there was Merren. The others—Kel, Ji-An, Andreyen himself—might well have reservations about . He wouldn’t fault them for it. But Merren trusted him. For a poisoner who worked for a famous criminal, Merren was astonishingly trusting in general, but liked to think—
Footsteps on the warehouse steps snap out of his reverie. He has been waiting in the corridor; he goes now to the doorway of the small office and peers inside. The big man behind the desk wears his usual coat of scarlet and silver; somehow it makes his size look even more imposing. “I’m going to bring them in,” says.
He gets a curt nod in response, which is very in character for Beck. makes his way back into the hall, where his two guests have just arrived.
One he knows by name and sight: Artal Gremont. Beside him is the Malgasi woman. hasn’t been told her name, only that she is someone significant in Malgasi circles of power, and that she is determined to talk to Beck. She has long dark hair and a narrow face and is dressed in severely cut black velvet. A gold chain gleaming around her neck is her only jewelry.
“The guard downstairs sent us up,” says Gremont, unnecessarily. They wouldn’t be here if Kaspar hadn’t directed them.
gestures for the two to go into the office and they pass him, neither really acknowledging his presence. He stands for a moment, his hand on the door. This is the closest he’s ever been to Artal Gremont, and he is surprised at the nausea that twists in his gut. has never thought much of the nobility. Though they operate within the bounds of the Law, they cheat and lie and steal just like anyone else. Their belief that they are somehow better seems to him distant and ridiculous. But Gremont is unusual—so loathsome the other nobles had taken the step of sending him away from Castellane. And he’d hurt Merren, the person in the world who least deserved to be hurt.
steps into the office.
“... And you know the city needs a leader,” the woman is saying. She has a heavy Malgasi accent, which isn’t surprising.
“We have a monarchy, here in Castellane, that functions well enough,” says the man behind the desk. “And a King.”
“The Palace is hopelessly corrupt,” the Malgasi woman says sharply. Everything about her is sharp. She has the air of something rapacious, waiting to strike: a bird of prey, or a coiled snake.
“I won’t dispute that.” The man behind the desk folds his hands over his middle. “But there is another King here. The King in the City.”
“He does the bidding of your Palace,” she sneers. “More than you know.”
Interesting, thinks.
“The game is about to change, Beck,” says Gremont, his voice oily. “And you do know what that means.”
The man he calls Beck only shrugs.
“You refer to a redistribution of power,” says quickly.
The Malgasi woman flicks a look in his direction. “As you say.” She nods. “Things are going to change, on the Hill and in the city. Some will fall, and others will be lifted. The Ragpicker King’s day is over. We need someone independent ruling over your streets. Someone I can work with. Can I work with you?”
Small tendrils of alarm unfold in the pit of ’s stomach, quickening his pulse. He’d expected the woman to make some sort of deal with Beck, perhaps buy something illegal. Weapons or the like. This—the implicit expectation that Beck would align with her against the two most powerful forces in the city—sets off every alarm he has.
The woman holds the gaze of the man behind the desk, her stare boring into him. At last, he says, “I’ll have to think about it,” his eyes sliding away from her. “Give me some time.”
Her narrow mouth curls at the corner. “Of course,” she says, and then seems to hesitate, as if something has just occurred to her. “Out of curiosity, why do you hate Conor Aurelian so very much?”
tries to catch the eye of the man behind the desk, but it is too late. He raises his big shoulders in a casual shrug and says, “He is corrupt. All nobles are corrupt.”
“Ah,” the woman says, less of a word than a soft exhale. A moment later there is a flash of silver, as if a metallic bird had launched itself into the air. The man behind the desk falls back, clutching at his throat, where the hilt of a knife now protrudes.
’s hand is at his side before he has time to think, his palm brushing the hilt of his own dagger. Before he can grasp it, he feels himself knocked backward, his back slamming painfully into the doorframe. The woman looms up in front of him, her face inches from his, her raptor eyes gleaming. He’s never seen anyone move so fast.
“Little minion,” she says, her thin white fingers brushing against his chest. “Stop twitching. I’m going to let you live, and this is why: Go back to Prosper Beck—the real Prosper Beck—and tell him Elsabet Belmany is looking for him and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Nor will I easily forgive him for trying to palm me off with a trick.” She grins, a flash of white teeth in the shadows. “Beck can expect to hear from me again, and next time, I’ll turn Gremont loose on him. Gremont loves causing pain, and he’s very good at it—aren’t you, Artal?”
Gremont nods in the dim light, his face blank, and in that moment, realizes how very much under the Malgasi Princess’s control he is. He reminds himself to tell Beck of this later. It’s exactly the sort of thing Beck will want to know.
A moment later, soundlessly, she is gone, leaving alone in the room with Artal Gremont, who is gazing with a mild sneer at the dead body slumped across the table. This, feels, is typical of the nobility: They are willing enough to order blood to be spilled, but don’t enjoy seeing the mess.
“That... wasn’t Beck?” Gremont says.
sees no point in lying. “No.”
“That was stupid,” Gremont says with a little more force. “Stupid of your boss.”
lets his lip curl at the edge. “You’d better fucking hope you never meet my boss.”
Gremont’s eyes darken. Not that is worried. His companion has charged with delivering a message, and she wouldn’t be pleased if Gremont interfered. Gremont knows it, too; he snaps a curse and turns on his heel, stomping out of the room like an angry, oversized toddler.
has already stopped thinking about him. He crosses the room and bends down next to the dead body, looking at the pool of blood spreading very slowly across the table. Looking at the dead man’s face.
Bron. He’d been one of Beck’s for a long time, nearly as long as . remembered Bron learning how to be a passable Prosper Beck: what to say and what not to say, what to wear, the right accent. A little like Kel’s job, had thought, when he found out what Kel’s job really was, and later he wondered if that was where Beck had gotten the idea.
sighs. “May you pass through the gray door unhindered, my brother.”
He touches the other man lightly on the shoulder, feeling the scratchy fabric of the brocade jacket of which Bron had been so proud. Feeling very tired, sinks down into the chair opposite the dead man. He sits there a long time.