20 #2
No sign of recognition. Myria spared a wolfish chuckle, gathering her files just slowly enough to leave them in plain view.
“I came with suitably low hopes,” she said. “This lot! Careless. Spineless. And the election! All those chinless lackwits parading about, expecting you to give them money . . .”
“No lover of the praetors, eh?” asked Evander, gathering up a sheaf of papers. His gaze flicked almost imperceptibly across them, lingering on the calculations at the foot.
That’s right. Take a good, long look.
“I’d respect them if they’d brave a risk and earn their fortunes.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed,” he said, lifting a business card from the ground. “You’re meeting Praetor Valorus?”
There was no crass gleam of opportunity in his eyes, but she knew he’d caught the scent. Myria flashed the man a sharp look and plucked the card from his fingers. She painted her countenance with hesitation—eager to pry, hesitant to betray a disadvantage.
“What of it?” she asked, stern and guarded.
“Only that he . . . may not be a suitable investor for a speculative venture,” said Evander. “He’s a known conservative, as much in finance as in politics.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Myria. “Nonetheless, my business demands a praetor.”
“Then I’d recommend demanding a different one,” Evander replied, handing over the last of the papers. “You’d be better served by an investor with a spine.”
“I could throw eggs at the Praetorium all day without hitting one,” she said, buckling up her briefcase. Her companion smiled and offered a handshake.
“As a member, madam, I’d commend it as a pastime. Julius Evander, at your service.”
Myria let her mouth fall open by a fraction, then closed it with a snap of teeth. She fixed him with a testing look, as if realizing how he’d let her rattle on. Then, she relented and took his hand in a hard grip.
The thought went trembling through her for a moment. She stood hand in hand with her enemy.
And you still can’t stab him.
“Carina Cafferty,” she said. “A praetor? You might’ve said.”
“You might’ve stopped. It does the spirit good to hear someone else insulting them. In all sincerity, though, is your meeting with Valorus set in stone?”
“Why? Saw something of interest in my confidential papers?”
She laid a reproving emphasis on the last two words, but Evander only smiled.
“Evasion doesn’t become us. There’s no love lost between me and Valorus. I could make you a better offer.”
“I’ll believe it when I hear it.”
“Come with me, and you shall.” He gestured to the Divitorium. She sized him up for a moment, half-frown and half-smile, then snapped a business card into his glove.
“Not this very moment,” she said, “and not here. Are you at liberty tomorrow night?”
“After the seventh hour, yes.”
“As am I. I’ll be at the Celestium. Half past, sharp.”
“I suspect it’s never less than sharp where you’re concerned, ma’am,” he said, a familiar flicker of amusement in his face.
There he is.
The narrowed eyes, the tilted head . . . that expression hadn’t come from Evander’s face. The curtain had parted, just for a moment, and there stood Vixius behind it.
“I’ve an ample supply of bluntness too, when called for,” she said, then turned away and waved over her shoulder. “Half past the hour, Praetor.”
With that, she stalked up the stairs, leaving the fifth lord of the grayside smiling in the square behind her.
“He took it,” said Myria. “He’s meeting me tomorrow night.”
Leo smirked, and Lysander went so far as to close his book to pay attention. Even Felix cracked a smile.
“Hook, line and sinker?” Cassia asked eagerly.
“Well, hook. I’ll start to reel him in tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Leo, swiping a bottle of their ill-gotten gains from the table.
“You’ll drink to anything,” Lysander muttered.
“I see no cause to let it go stale. Here. Tyrant’s Rum.”
“Surprised they had that glop in Arcadium Hall,” said Cassia, proffering her glass.
“Pah. Steels the soul,” Leo replied, pouring her a measure. “Besides, I’ll need all the steel I can get, if this works. I’m next on the menu.”
“Indeed. Disguise all in order?” asked Myria, waving down the glass he offered.
“Same face I’ve worn for the last three years. Wasn’t hard to turn it from illusion to reality. Here, soldier boy. Have a taste.”
He thrust a glass at Felix, who took it with the caution of a man sensing mischief. He risked a sip, then winced and gasped for air.
“Empire’s grace,” he said civilly, setting down the glass.
“Like licking the deck of a whaler,” Cassia agreed with relish.
Myria raised an eyebrow. Tyrant’s Rum was the sort of thing people drank when they didn’t want to live anymore, but hadn’t worked up the nerve for cut-and-dried poison.
Nonetheless, Leo braced himself and took a mouthful.
It was half a minute before he could draw breath again without wheezing.
“And suddenly, death has lost its sting,” he rasped.
“Well, now we know what happened to Leo’s voice,” said Cassia.
“Had to be done. The fifth lord holds few terrors after a pint of that stuff.”
“Just as well. Back to work, chaps,” said Myria, clapping her hands to bring them to attention. “Leo, finish drawing up those papers. Cass, the phaeton. Lysander, rest. We’ll need you firing on all cylinders for what’s to come.”
With that, she withdrew to the kitchen, where she snatched a ginger biscuit. Felix scuffed in after her like a bored puppy.
“What can I do?” he asked. A pang of sympathy caught her. Even now, she could see that volatile energy spurring at him, forbidding him to stand still. She knew the pain of confinement when her whole spirit longed to be in action.
“Nothing yet, old boy,” she said. “Give it a few more days.”
“But you haven’t even told me the scheme.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Why not? I could start preparing.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard the old Safaran tale,” she said.
“There was once a despot who’d killed a long succession of his wives, making the new lass rather nervous of the task ahead.
To stave off a messy fate, she’d tell him a riddle each night.
If he wanted to know the answer, he’d have to leave her alive.
She’d tell him the next night, and on it went. She lived.”
“And?”
“I’m your new wife.”
To her surprise—and, it seemed, his own—he laughed.
“Spare me. Still . . . are you alright?”
“I’m always alright,” she said, ignoring the abrupt change of topic. “Why?”
“Well . . . what was it like?” Felix asked, his black gaze locking suddenly to hers. “Meeting him. Knowing you were close enough to kill him.”
Myria hid a frown. He was a strange one. Those little sparks of sensitivity seemed to come from nowhere. It was unusual, not being able to pin a man down.
Indeed, he perplexed her more by the day.
There’d been an odd edge to his tale of how he’d lost his powers.
Rehearsed, she fancied. Nor did it make much sense of the centurion’s generosity to the man.
It was a soldier’s duty to defend his commander, and she doubted Valora gilded the way for every arcani who took a blow for her. He was hiding something.
“Oh, I had no hope of killing him,” she said. “He has patrium curses stitched into every inch of his clothing. But, to answer your question . . .” She pondered for a moment, then brightened. “None of your business.”
He chuckled and leaned back against the counter. “Well, if you ever want to bend an ear about it, mine’s on duty.”
“Decent of you,” Myria said with a quick smile, “but do recall, we’re enemies. I don’t trust you.”
“I’ll take that as an insult,” he said cordially.
“By no means, sir. It was a compliment.”
Myria reached the threshold of the Celestium at the chime of seven.
A spring storm was brewing overhead, and warm, fat raindrops thickened in the dark.
Anticipation stirred like bottled lightning in her chest. That night, she’d be pinned for hours at her former master’s table with no way out.
If her disguise didn’t baffle his eyes—if her words didn’t withstand his wit—she’d soon be dead.
Standard operating conditions, she thought with a grin.
She spun out her umbrella on the steps, and the doorman bowed her into the Celestium.
Her heels clacked on the marble as she marched to the table, swift and poker straight.
A glass dome curved above her head, revealing storm clouds blackening in the night.
Threads of lightning split the velvet black.
Myria had barely taken her seat before Evander appeared. He was dressed in all his usual splendor, sporting a scarlet coat traced with exquisite gold embroidery and a waistcoat to match. That flamboyance was a far cry from her former master.
He smiled and took the chair across from her. The waiters swept in, setting cutlery and offering wine. They made their orders, neither stinting on the price, then sat back to survey each other.
“Sharp enough for you, Madam Cafferty?” said Evander, gesturing to the clock. Myria inclined her head.
“Grand enough for you, Praetor?” she answered.
An arcanic thrill raced through the glass, and the Celestium began to lift into the air.
They rose swiftly, clearing the building tops, then passing the Praetorium spire.
In moments, they were hovering amid the breaking storm.
The airship signal lights winked white beneath them, and Nemorian fire shimmered on the far-off sea.
Evander glanced over the edge and smiled.
“Delightful,” he said. “Were you eager for a captive audience?”
“It never hurts to force a man to hear you out.”
“Does it often require force?”
“In Aerin? It’s not uncommon,” she muttered, running a fingertip across her knuckles.
“I’d heard as much,” he said with a low laugh. “Did Valorus call for it?”
“I treat my business dealings in the strictest confidence, Praetor,” she said. He only grinned and set down his glass.
“Discreet. Good. Still, if you’d not weighed him and found him wanting, I doubt you’d be here.”
“Do you,” she said tonelessly.