Venturess Page 6

  I sank down onto the edge of Fin’s bed. I didn’t feel as if I could support myself upright anymore.

  Caro put her hand on my knee. “We aren’t all good, darling, and you know it,” she said.

  I wanted to rebuke her, but my throat closed and I couldn’t find words.

  “I certainly wouldn’t have led you on the way I did last year if there were nothing wrong with me,” Fin added, a bit harshly.

  I couldn’t argue with that. I laughed a little, with a hiccup in it. “The Steps are all bad,” I said. “I know that much.”

  But even as I spoke, I remembered the last night I’d spent at Lampton, when I’d snuck into Stepmother’s room to return my ball gown to her closet. I’d heard her calling out in her sleep for my father, for the man we’d both lost, and I had felt a sympathy for her in that moment that had never quite gone away.

  Now, my father—​he was a complicated man, that was certain. And my mother . . .

  “My mother was good,” I said. “Infinitely good. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be anywhere, without her.”

  “Well, no one will deny it,” said Fin, all briskness. “But you have to admit, it’s much easier for someone to be good once they’re dead.”

  I felt a flash of startled anger and glared at him, my spine iron again, but when I saw the understanding in his face, my retort died before I could speak. We silently shared a whole conversation about parents, dying, grief, and loss, just looking in each other’s eyes.

  Finally I said, “I don’t want to meet Fitz alone. I don’t trust him.”

  “That’s easily solved,” Fin said. He was propped up on the bed now, leaning against several stacked down pillows. His color was better, but his every movement was still painted with pain. “We’ll go with you.”

  “You will not!” I cried. “He might be the one who shot you; I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Fin tried to roll his eyes, then winced and closed them. “Fitz is a climber, Nick, not a murderer. He could hardly use me to his advantage if he killed me.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but I didn’t want to aggravate Fin anymore, so I stayed silent.

  “Even so,” Caro said thoughtfully, “you can’t be left here alone. If someone does try to attack you again, you’re in no condition to do anything about it. You have to admit, Fin, someone shot you today.”

  Fin settled back on his pillows, grimacing in discomfort. “I know.”

  I had always felt that the three of us were so strong together, unassailable. But just then it seemed that if even one of us was in danger, the rest became incapacitated.

  “You can’t go alone either, though, Nick . . . Ah,” Caro said, snapping her fingers. “I know what to do. Fitz will hate it, too, so of course you’ll both be pleased.”

  BEX chattered about horses and reeked of them, too, all through Fitz’s formal supper. The look on our host’s handsome face when he realized his politely phrased barbs didn’t do anything to silence her and that in order to preserve his own sense of etiquette he would in fact have to listen to her talk all night, would have to smell her . . . that alone was worth spending the evening with him.

  I stayed quiet throughout the meal, and just as Bex and I had planned, her constant stream of talk gave me ample opportunity for silent observation.

  Fitz seemed the same as he’d always been: charming at first, witty, but with an edge of cruelty that he enjoyed brandishing at those he deemed less intelligent or sophisticated than himself. He especially liked landing insults that he believed his victim didn’t even notice; several times he complimented Bex on her horsemanship in ways that were meant to emphasize just how coarse and common she really was.

  Bex, of course, noticed every one of those supposedly hidden insults—​they just glanced right off her. If anything, her generosity and knack for storytelling shone out the brighter in contrast with Fitz’s mean-spirited witticisms. I was genuinely enjoying myself, thanks to Bex. I could certainly understand what Caro saw in her.

  The delicious, clearly expensive food did its part to help me enjoy the evening too, from the first appetizer of light, citrus-scented soup to the delicately crisp sugared pears for dessert, as, of course, did the sparkling wine that accompanied each course. Fitz would never stoop to being a less than impeccable host, however little regard he might have for his guests. The meal also made it obvious that he wasn’t giving so much of his family’s money to the war effort that he couldn’t afford a few luxuries for himself. Perhaps he wasn’t as vehemently imperialist as I’d thought.

  “Won’t you join me for tea in my library, Miss Nick?” Fitz said when his manservant, a sullen youth whom Caro had told me she’d never liked, was clearing our dessert cups away. Fitz pointedly looked only at me, but Bex rubbed her hands together and smacked her lips.

  “Ooh, lovely! Hope you’ve got honey for it. I’ve a terrible sweet tooth.” She winked at me and waggled her eyebrows suggestively at the word sweet, and I had to work hard to keep from laughing.

  Fitz pursed his lips and turned away. He had no choice but to serve the tea to both of us in his small, dark, and admittedly beautiful library.

  After we’d finished our first cup, though, even his rigorous sense of correct behavior reached its limits.

  “You know perfectly well why I invited you here, Miss Nick,” he snapped suddenly, putting down his cup and saucer with an ungentlemanly clatter. “Now, will I have the chance to defend myself or not?” He glared sideways at my companion, then at the door behind her.

  I took a slow sip of my tea and looked at him levelly. “You mean the automaton? Why, of course. Let’s talk about it now.” I smiled. “Why did you decide to build a replica of our prince without his knowledge or consent, Fitz?”

  “My goodness,” Bex said, “a real automaton! That’s a fancy notion for a simple stable hand like me, sirrah, but I’ll try to keep up.” She fluttered her lashes in exaggerated innocence, adjusting her seat on Fitz’s white satin chaise longue. Essence of silage and horsehair came off her in waves.

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed and laughed. I remembered every time Fitz had been condescending or cruel in the past—​and all the times, when I’d first known him, that I’d fallen under the spell of his shallow charms—​and I was overwhelmed with mirth.

  “Right,” Fitz said. “I can see this is useless. Go back to the prince, Nick, and tell him whatever you like. Tell him I was the shooter, even, since you’re so obviously determined to vilify me.” He walked to the library door and held it open. “I assume you know your way back,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Fitz,” I said, catching my breath, “if you have anything to prove to me, now is the time.”

  We stared each other down.

  “I can assure you,” Bex said, switching to a perfect imitation of Fitz’s aristocratic accent, “the Heiress Apparent doesn’t extend her favor indefinitely.” And in her own voice, low and menacing: “I’d take this chance if I were you.”

  Finally, his jaw and fists still clenched, Fitz nodded.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  ✷

  “How many?” Fin asked. He was still sitting up in bed and he looked remarkably well, or at least he had until I’d brought back the news.

  I shook my head. “A thousand, at least. They weren’t finished yet, Fitz said—​but if he has the manpower, it won’t be long. A few months.”

  Enough automaton soldiers to kill every last person in Faerie. Their metal bodies were stacked like building blocks, filling up the huge storeroom.

  “Does the king know?” Fin muttered as if to himself. He never called him Father anymore.

  “Fitz said he had Corsin’s approval.” I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but I did. Fin’s father’s health had been failing for years, and as his body weakened, he became more pious, more worshipful of new Estinger technology, and more embittered by his rebellious colony. Fey assassins had killed his wife and then Fin’s older brother; the king’s heart h
ad never recovered.

  “Lord, it never stops!” Fin punched the bed. He used his good arm, but his shoulders lurched with the movement and his face grew drawn. He hissed in pain. “I can never stop it.”

  “Don’t,” said Caro. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Fin twisted the edge of a blanket in his fist. “Why should it matter?”

  Caro stood, her face full of rage, ready to rebuke him, but Fin kept talking. “I’ve tried so hard this past year, so hard, to make some kind of difference, to do something to be worthy of all these opportunities I’ve been given. This title, this power. And just when I thought I was maybe getting somewhere, changing people’s minds, I’m pushed back into the shadows.” His knuckles were pale; he looked down at the blanket and slowly relaxed his hand. “I don’t think Fitz was the one who shot me,” he murmured. “I don’t think he was behind it at all.”

  I had to admit that I agreed with him; I hadn’t seen a murderer in Fitz that night, not someone who could aim a pistol at his future king and pull the trigger. All he could talk of when he showed me the stacks of automatons was how pleased King Corsin was with them, with him; he’d even mentioned the relief Fin would feel when the war was over. By ending the war—​by whatever means—​Fitz hoped only to gain more favor with those in power. If nothing else, killing Fin would pose too big a risk to his career.

  Lord, I despised him. If I still thought he’d shot Fin, I’d have someone easy to blame. He couldn’t even give me that.

  “Who did shoot you, then?” Caro asked, her voice still tight with anger. “A Fey assassin? After everything you’ve done for them?”

  Fin’s laugh quickly turned into a wince when his shoulder moved. “I’ve done nothing for the Fey,” he said, “nothing. In the single year since I’ve even been allowed to speak in public, what’s happened? We’re at war now, full-blown war. Once Fitz and the king get that army moving, we’ll kill them all. I’ve done worse than nothing.” He was staring at a tapestry on the far side of the room, a depiction of an old hero-and-dragon story, and there was longing, almost hatred, in his face. He yearned to see himself in the hero, I knew that, but whether the dragon he battled was the war, or the Brethren advisors who breathed down the king’s neck, or even his father himself, I wasn’t sure.

  “You’re right, Fin,” I said, standing up. “You can’t make any difference here and now. But I know a place where you can.”

  I’d kept Mr. Candery’s letter close to my heart ever since I received it, for the warmth that thinking of my old housekeeper brought me as much as for fear that it might somehow be stolen. I had tried hard to make my workshop secure, but as today had proven, none of us could be fully sure of our safety anymore.

  I took the letter out and handed it to Fin. As he read it through, the warmth started to come back into his cheeks, and his face began to look a little less haggard. Caro leaned over his shoulder and read along, one hand touching his hair; as always, her anger had quickly vanished inside compassion.

  “It’s brilliant,” he said, looking up at me. “It’s perfect. It’s the chance I’ve been hoping for.”

  Caro bit her lip. “How do you know you can trust fer?” she said.

  The Fey pronoun threw me for a moment. “Mr. Candery? I trust him the same way I trust you. He raised me. He loves me.” Seeing the look she gave me, I added, “He’s always used him. He’s only half Fey.” Full-blooded Fey had no gender, and only people who reviled them most—​like the Brethren—​insisted on calling them he and she.

  “No, I have faith in your Mr. Candery,” Caro said. “I meant the Fey leader.”

  Fin sighed, then nodded reluctantly. “Look at this,” he said, “the words he’s underlined. I cannot tell you, first of all. And at the end of the letter: I beg your forgiveness. What if he’s trying to tell you not to come? What if the leader had him write this to set a trap for us?”

  I sat next to Fin and took the letter back, scanning through it for possibly the hundredth time. I was supposed to be the analytical one with the inventor’s mind; how hadn’t I noticed?

  “But see,” I said, “there’s another word underlined, there.” I stroked my finger over Mr. Candery’s writing, as if I could read his intent in the shape of the words. “Trustworthy.”

  They both looked at me. “What do you think it means?” Fin asked.

  I took a breath; I knew he would believe me, whatever I said. I felt the weight of all our futures hanging in the balance.

  I cannot tell you. Trustworthy. I beg your forgiveness.

  I remembered the quiet, gentle way Mr. Candery had moved through the house, had moved through my life; how he’d cared for my mother, and for me, far beyond the duties required by his position. I remembered how he had never hurt me, even with a word; how when Stepmother dismissed him, he’d risked leaving behind illegal magic to help me through the life he knew she’d make hard for me.

  Fin was right; Mr. Candery was attempting to tell me something he couldn’t put in the letter. But I couldn’t believe he would set a trap for me, even if someone was forcing him to do it.

  I looked at Fin on the bed, at the bandage wrapped around his shoulder, the badge of all he’d tried and, he thought, failed to do in Esting.

  I squared my shoulders. “It means we should go to Faerie,” I said.

  ✷

  King Corsin slumped in his throne like a man whose bones had dissolved. His long white braid snaked around his shoulder and down one arm, and he stroked it listlessly. Brethren clerics stood rigidly on either side of him; as always, it was obvious that the real power in the room lay with them.

  Fin leaned on my arm more than we let his father or the Brethren see. He had to look strong for this, had to look capable; we both did.

  Corsin gazed at us with mournful, watery eyes. “You want to leave me?” he asked, his voice a quaver.

  I felt Fin tense next to me, and then I felt the hidden shiver when even that small movement hurt his shoulder.

  “We want to help you, sire,” I said. I held out Mr. Candery’s letter, forcing my hand not to tremble. “We can help the whole country, if you’ll let us. So many Estinger soldiers have died already, and the Fey have still pushed us out to the very edges of the continent—”

  The cleric standing on Corsin’s left side scoffed. “You’re a military expert now, are you? Or a political one?” he asked slowly. “You gave up your right to speak for Esting when you refused to become Heiress.”

  The king looked up at his advisor, then back to me. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You refused to marry my son, my son who loves you. Everyone loved your story.” He sighed weakly. “It was perfect.”

  “Father,” Fin said through gritted teeth, “you know I don’t want—”

  “Yet you called yourself Heiress yesterday,” murmured another cleric, stepping smoothly forward, closer to the throne. “Just as the Heir was nearly killed. And now you produce this letter.” He smiled serenely. “How convenient.”

  Corsin nodded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the cleric’s words.

  “No!” Fin pulled us both toward his father, and he couldn’t hide the shudder of pain the movement gave him. The Brethren watched him impassively. Up close I could see many broken capillaries around the king’s eyes and nose. His skin seemed translucent, sagging, as if it no longer had the strength to hold in his vitals. How old was Corsin—​fifty? Sixty? I couldn’t remember, but he wasn’t old enough to look like this.

  “Please, Father,” Fin whispered. “Listen to me for once, and not to them.” He glared at the closest cleric so fiercely that the man backed up a few steps. “Nicolette is the last person in the world who means me harm. I do love her, and she loves me.” Our eyes met briefly, and I nodded at him, giving permission one last time for him to say what we’d agreed must be said in order for the king to let us go.

  Fin continued, in a louder voice: “If you allow us to take this voyage, you may confirm the news of our engagement.”

  Th
e Brethren murmured to each other in rippling whispers. This story was a powerful one, one they could use to charm the divided people of Esting, to give them a common dream again, a common loyalty to the royal family—​which would really be loyalty to the Brethren. We knew they would twist our story to suit their own ends, but all the while we’d be in Faerie, enacting real change. They might have this frail, broken old man in their grasp, but Fin was stronger, braver than his father. They would not get him in their clutches too.

  Corsin straightened and held a thin, veiny hand out to his son. “The Fey have killed enough of my family,” he whispered. “My firstborn, your brother. Nerali . . .” But his wife’s name proved too much for him to bear. A tear slipped down Corsin’s cheek, and he slumped back in the throne.

  “Which is why the war must continue, sire,” said one of the clerics, slipping closer. “History has proven that the Fey cannot be reformed, cannot be educated or converted. So they must be eradicated.”

  Fin tensed again; if he’d had his strength, I thought he might have hit the man. “Please, Father,” he repeated. “You’re right; there’s been enough death for us. Let me try to make peace instead. Please.”

  The cleric opened his mouth to speak. Corsin kept him silent with a raised hand, and when the king looked at his son, I saw the ghost of the leader he must once have been before grief and dogmatism eroded him.

  “You may go,” he said finally. “Put an end to this . . . loss, if you can.”

  My heart began to thud with relief, even as I felt the cold glares of the Brethren all around us, their anger filling the air like poison.

  ✷

  Late that night I crept back to Fitz’s storeroom. Breaking in was easy when I had so many friends among the palace servants and especially when my target was someone they disliked so much.

  I’d calculated that there were at least a thousand half-​finished automatons in his storeroom. I wasn’t sure how many he planned to create; how many would it take? Did he want only to defeat the Fey or to obliterate them? From the predatory gleam in his eye, and from the way the Brethren advisors had spoken to Corsin, I was sure it was the latter.