showing off just how important they really are. They’re expecting us, after all. We wouldn’t want to disappoint them. And then we can poke holes in a few. That, they will not be expecting. Think what a thrill it will give the assembled mourners. It will be the talk of the town. The duchess will be utterly forgotten.” Alec jabbed at the sock’s hole, which was not getting any smaller. “Not that she won’t be forgotten soon, anyway. She’s got no power anymore, has she? These people are no longer interested. They’ll pay their respects, because everyone’s watching, and then they’ll go right back to trying to figure out who’s giving the most important dinner parties now that she’s gone. She never liked me, you know. I’m rotten at dinner parties. No conversation. And I slouch. She likes people who are good at things. You impressed her. She’d like it if you went. Did you ever work for her?”
“Never. You know that.”
“Go now, then. Go up to the Hill, and show everyone you know how to behave properly. Just because I’m a disgrace doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“Why would I want to go there without you?”
“Why would you want to go there
Richard put his hands on Alec’s shoulders. “Let’s not,” he said, “go anywhere at all.” He could feel the tension radiating along his arms.
“How blissful,” Alec drawled. “How domestic.”
Richard reached down to uncover Alec’s palm. The marks that scored it were vivid red, but the skin unbroken. It was only a darning needle. Richard raised the hand to his lips. The palm was hot and burning.
So it looked like everybody was going to the Duchess Tremontaine’s funeral except Alec. And he was probably the only one actually invited. The rest of Riverside was just going to turn up along the route, which would run from her big house on the Hill to the Stone City outside of town. The nobles would ride in procession behind, and everyone would line up to watch them, which was just fine with us. Nothing better for pickpockets than a good colorful procession—and nothing makes a man want a whore faster than being reminded of mortality.
If Alec wanted to hide the letters that kept coming, Richard wasn’t going to say anything. If Alec wanted to stop crossing the river into the city, wanted to give up excursions to the booksellers and the theater, well, he got that way sometimes. The books were all too old, Alec claimed, and the theater played nothing but comedies. He detested comedies. Alec was drinking all the time. It made him loose-limbed and clumsy, quarrelsome and fanciful. It didn’t mean anything, Richard thought.
Then, on their way home from the market, there was a strange swordsman fixed at the end of the alley, blocking their way. The stranger’s sword was sheathed, but loudly and clearly he spoke: “I bear challenge to David Alexander Tielman Campion, Duke Tremontaine—”
For a moment, Richard didn’t even understand the words. “What the hell?”
“Just kill him,” Alec said.
Richard drew his sword. “I’ll take the challenge.”
The other man drew and saluted.
“Is it to the Death?”
“I hope so,” said Alec. “They can hardly expect me to give up the Duchy of Tremontaine for First Blood.”
It was all over town. Alec was heir to Tremontaine. And on either side of the river, people were waiting to kill him before they’d let him into Tremontaine House. Lucky for him he had the greatest swordsman in the city at his side day and night to defend him. The rules were the rules. As long as St. Vier was there to take the challenge, honor was satisfied. The nobles had laid out those rules themselves, to keep them from killing each other off when there were better men to die for them. All St. Vier had to do was always be there—and never lose.
By the third challenge, Richard was getting curious.
“Is this usual when people inherit?” he asked, stepping around the dead man in the street to clean his sword.
Alec wiped his sleeve across his face. He’d barely had time to register the challenge before Richard struck the final blow. “No, it’s my goddamned relatives. Contesting the succession.”
“What’s to contest? Weren’t you always her heir?”
Alec scraped something off the sole of his boot against a corner of a wall. “No, Richard. Did you think I was holding out on you all this time?”
He had, actually.
What everyone wanted to know was
Not that we didn’t enjoy the challenges. Nervous swordsmen from the Hill paid good money to find out where his young lordship might be. We told them where he
“So who was it, then?” Richard sheathed his sword, but kept his hand on the pommel as he walked.
“No one. She wouldn’t name an heir while she lived. Maybe she thought it would make her immortal. Maybe she just couldn’t decide.”
Climbing the dark, narrow stairs to their rooms, Richard watched with extra caution for signs of intruders. He opened the door first and waited until it was shut behind them to say, “So she died without naming an heir, and it automatically goes to you?”
“No, Richard.” Alec flung his robe down on their only chair and said with entirely unjustified elaborate patience, “Haven’t you been listening? She did name me. Finally. At the end.”
He fished behind
“See? It’s all very official. Chosen, chosen, chosen. Like a prize rosebush at the fair. By a dying woman they probably nagged to death until she just gave them a name to shut them up.”
Richard admired the elaborate writing, heavy and black, looped and angled. “So you are now the Duke Tremontaine?”
It was the first time he’d said it aloud. It sounded very strange.
Alec snapped the paper shut, using the seals as ballast.
“Well, that depends, doesn’t it?”
“On what?”
“On whether I live to the end of the trial period.”
“There’s a trial period?”
“Oh, yes. It’s open season on me until the thirty days of mourning have passed.”
“And then?” he dared to ask.
“It’s over. We’re safe. I just have to last that long. Then it’s not my problem anymore. Or yours.”
“But if you don’t want the duchy—”
“Who says I don’t want it?”
“
“I want,” Alec said, untying Richard’s shirt, “to make them sweat. Don’t you?”
It was a little harder when they started sending down guys we knew. Steffi’s kid, Luxe, who’d been so proud when that fancy uptown swordmaster took him on, and then Steffi never shut up about how her kid had finally gotten himself an important job as some noble’s own house swordsman, and that’s why her boy never came to see her anymore. When Luxe showed up at Rosalie’s, she was thrilled. I have to admit he looked good, well fed and strong, dressed in new clothes. They were not any noble’s colors, though. We thought he was off duty, but he wasn’t. He bought a round for everyone, and then he said, “So what’s new?” or “What’s happening around here?” or something.
We all looked at each other. He had to know.
