She traversed two halls and a short flight of stairs, all carpeted in velvet. After that came what she sought: a door, and a number. Suite 5-A. She stared at the letters—neatly engraved on a flamboyant golden plaque—and suddenly wondered what the hell she was doing here. What did she think was going to happen? What did she want to happen? She nearly turned around and started home then and there, but the anticipation of Gresham’s certain scorn kept her from doing so. What’s the matter? he would demand. Lose your nerve? And after he had tried so hard to talk her out of coming here in the first place!
But Andrys Tarrant’s haunted face could not be banished from memory so easily, nor his eerie likeness to the Hunter dismissed so casually. At last she forced herself to raise up a hand and knock on the suite door, her heart pounding. You have a legitimate errand, she reminded herself. He’ll respect that, if nothing else. Again she tried, but there was no response. What if he wasn’t in? That was a real possibility, but not one she had prepared herself to face. Would she have to come back later and do this all over again?
“You’re gonna have to hit harder than that, honey.” The voice came from a uniformed maid several doors down the hallway. A heavyset woman, middle-aged, she grinned broadly as she told her, “They were up till all hours, that lot.” When she saw Narilka hesitate, she urged, “Go ahead, hit it like you mean it.”
She drew in a deep breath and did as the woman suggested. The sharp blows resounded in the hallway, and she half-expected some other lodger to appear to investigate. But long seconds passed and there was still no response. She knocked again, even harder. This time there was a shuffling sound from within the suite and murmurs of what might have been a human voice. She stepped back, wishing she could still the wild beating of her heart. Why couldn’t she face this man calmly?
After a moment the ornate handle turned and the heavy door swung open. “I thought I ordered—” Andrys Tarrant began. And then he saw her—saw who she was—and all speech left him. For a moment he just stared at her, his green eyes wide with astonishment. It was clear that she was the last person in the world he had ever expected to find on his doorstep.
At last he whispered hoarsely, “Mes Lessing.”
He was dressed in a loose white shirt and crumpled pants, and had obviously just rolled out of bed. His golden-brown hair was tangled about his head, his eyes faintly bloodshot. He blinked heavily and drew in a deep breath; he was clearly struggling to compose himself. “I didn’t ... I’ m sorry ... I thought it was breakfast.”
She glanced toward the hall window with a smile, acknowledging the fading sunlight. “Little late for that, isn’t it?”
He brushed the hair back from his face with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly; a lock of hair fell back across his eyes as soon as he released it. “I had a late night,” he managed. Then a smile flitted across his face: awkward, self-conscious, but sparked with genuine humor. “Or maybe I should say, a late morning. I didn’t expect company today, that’s for sure.” Least of all you, his expression seemed to say. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn’t make some apology for disturbing him and just give him the item he had left in the shop, so that she could beat a hasty retreat. It seemed a more merciful course for both of them. But then he stepped back, giving her room to enter. “Come in. Please.”
She did so, acutely aware of his closeness as she passed by him. “If this is a bad time—”
“Not at all. Really.” He closed the door gently behind her; she barely heard the latch snap shut. “We played late, that’s all. I should have been up hours ago.” He dared to meet her eyes then, and it seemed to her he hesitated. “Forgive my poor manners. If I’d thought it was you at the door ...”
The words faded into silence. He brushed awkwardly at his crumpled attire, ran his hand again through his mussed hair; he was clearly not accustomed to receiving women in such a disordered state. “I’m hardly dressed for company,” he dared.
Despite herself she smiled. “It’s my fault. I should have let you know I was coming. If you’d like to change ...” Why did his awkward vanity attract rather than repel her? So many other men with similar qualities had done just the opposite. “I can wait.”
He brightened visibly at the suggestion. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I’m sure,” she assured him.
She was offering him more than a minute in which to change his clothing, she knew that. She was giving him time to adjust to her presence, a few precious moments of privacy in which to compose himself. And she’d be giving herself the same thing, too. She wondered which of them needed it more.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he told her. “I promise.”
His bedroom was apparently at the far side of the parlor; he made his way there hurriedly, awkwardly, clearly conscious of her gaze upon him. Not until he was safely inside, with the door shut behind him, did she dare to draw in a deep breath and try to relax. Infinitely grateful that circumstances had gifted her with a minute in which to do so.
She looked about at the apartment he had chosen, a master suite in one of the city’s most expensive hotels. The parlor was as lavish as the lobby had been, but infinitely more tasteful. It was decorated in the Revivalist style: high vaulted ceiling, polished stone floor with finely patterned rugs, slender windows with stained-glass caps. The furniture had been chosen to match that style, all except for half a dozen gilt chairs that were gathered around a table at one end of the room. Those were lighter and more graceful in form than the rest of the decor, and were clearly inspired by a later period; the stylistic mismatch seemed jarring to her, but she doubted that the hotel’s guests would be sensitive enough to notice it. There were cards strewn across the table and two dozen bottles of various sizes on and about it. Drawing closer, she saw piles of wooden chips set before two places, others scattered across the silken tablecloth. There were several bottles on the floor as well, and one bright red thing that winked at her from underneath a chair. She leaned down to see what it was, then picked it up. A woman’s shoe: high-heeled, velvet covered, smelling faintly of wine. Holding it in her hand, imagining its owner, she felt suddenly faint. What am I doing here? What do I know about this man? She tried to put the shoe down, but her hand wouldn’t release it. This isn’t my world.
“I bought that for two hundred, so she could stay in the game.”
It was Andrys, dressed now. He walked toward her with an easy grace, as if his confidence had been restored along with his attire. Gently he took the shoe from her and placed it on the table, his fingers brushing hers as he did so; the touch left fire in its wake. “I’d have gotten the other one, too, if her luck hadn’t changed for the better.”
He had put on a sleeveless jacket, black velveteen with narrow bands of dull gold trim; it fit him tightly, a deliberate contrast to the flowing white sleeves which accentuated his shoulders. In such attire, with his golden-brown hair gleaming, his green eyes alive with flirtatious energy ... no woman could resist him, Narilka thought. Least of all she, who had so little practice in such things.
“How was your luck?” she managed.
He grinned. “Pretty good, until about three a.m. After that ... it’s all kind of hazy.” He ran a hand through his hair again, as if trying to force it back into place; it fell back in his eyes as soon as he released it. “So what brings you here, to this den of iniquity? I can hardly believe I made such a good impression the last time we met.”
She managed to look away from him long enough to find the object she had brought for him; drawing it forth from her shoulder bag she explained, “You left this at the shop.” Rolled canvas, nearly two feet in length: she held it out to him, an offering. “Gresham was going to mail it, but parcel service is pretty slow around here; I thought you might need it sooner than that.”
He didn’t take it. He didn’t respond. For a moment he just stared at the rolled-up canvas with an odd look on his face, as though it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see. At last he s
aid, in a voice that was strangely distant, “Did you look at it?”
She shook her head.
With a sigh he shut his eyes. “I thought I might have lost it on the street. I made myself go back and search, but there was no sign of it. I think I was ... relieved.” He put his hand on the roll of canvas but didn’t take it from her; his hand was so close to hers that she could feel its heat. “I guess I owe you an explanation” he said quietly. The words were clearly hard for him. “That other day, in your shop—”
Someone knocked on the door then, hard; the sharp noise made Narilka jump.
“Room service,” he muttered. He went to answer it. She followed more slowly, the canvas roll still in her hand. What was inside it, that upset him so greatly? It had taken all her self-control not to look at it there in the shop, when she had found it, but she’d wanted to respect his privacy. Now a part of her regretted that choice.
Andrys opened the door, and a uniformed hotel employee wheeled a small cart into the room. When he was done Andrys reached into his jacket pocket for a suitable tip, then spilled coins into the man’s hand without even checking their value. What was such small change to him? His manner made it clear that he expected the servant to withdraw immediately, and the man was quick to obey. The tray he had brought in was neatly laid out with breakfast, Narilka observed, each item in its place, each accessory expensive: toast and pancakes on a silver tray, coffee in an engraved carafe, slices of pale fruit and some nondescript cereal in bowls of translucent china. All of it balanced on a fussy little cart that suited the hotel’s lobby better than it did this sleek Revivalist chamber.
Avoiding her eyes, Andrys studied the hotel’s offering. At last he shrugged. “It seemed a lot more appetizing when I ordered it yesterday.” He lifted the coffee cup and studied it intently, as though its rim harbored some great secret. Refusing to look at her. Finally he put it down, and after a long and awkward silence dared, “Have you eaten?”
The question startled her. “I’m sorry?”
He looked at her then, and the intensity of his gaze made her heart skip a beat. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked again.
Despite herself she smiled. “Most people have, this time of day.”
“Recently?” he amended.
“I had lunch. That was a while ago.”
“Then come to dinner with me. Please. I hate to discuss serious matters on an empty stomach. And this ...” he faltered for a moment, then continued with forced humor. “This place is hardly conducive to confession.”
Though she knew she should leave the question unasked, she couldn’t help but voice it. “Is that what this is about? Confession?”
Something sharp and hot flashed in the depths of his eyes. Pain? Fear? Maybe both. He turned away. “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
“What about this?” She held out the canvas toward him, offering him its secrets.
He reached out and closed his hand over hers. Warm, strong fingers: the touch was electric. This close to him she could smell his cologne, subtle but sensual. A delicate musky scent, precisely calculated to appeal.
Men that attractive are dangerous, Gresham had warned her. Especially when they know their own power.
Sweet, sweet danger. She could drown in it, gladly.
He whispered: “Bring it.”
He led them to a restaurant. It didn’t surprise her that he knew such a place, a shadowed hideaway where lovers might whisper sweet endearments in the privacy of high-walled booths. Doubtless he had brought women here before, for more blatantly amorous purposes. The hostess gave them a table near the rear of the restaurant, in a section that was all but deserted. In such a place one might comfortably court a lover, she thought. Or share terrible secrets. Or both.
They ordered drinks, a house wine, and braised fillets of a local fish. They made small talk over sauteed dumplings, frothy mousse, steamed coffee. He asked about her work, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the details of her art. Was that real enthusiasm, or a prelude to seduction, rehearsed so many times with so many women that it now seemed natural to him? How could one hope to tell them apart? In return, she asked him about his journey to Jaggonath. She discovered that he had never traveled out of his region before this, but she could not get him to tell her why he had done so now. And through it all she waited, watching as he tried to build up his courage, drawing strength from rituals of courtship so familiar to him that he probably could have played them with his eyes closed. Sensing the darkness that was within him, not knowing how to address it.
At last he pushed his coffee away with a sigh and shut his eyes. It seemed to her that he was in pain—or remembering pain, perhaps. Finally he dared, “The other day ...” It was clearly meant as a beginning, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. After a minute, hoping to help him, she urged, “At the shop?”
He nodded stiffly, then looked away. “God, this is so awkward. I just want to explain....”
When he faltered once more she prompted softly, “Go on.” Her hand rested upon his, a gentle reassurance. “I’m listening.”
At last, with great effort, he managed, “What do you know about Merentha?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “A few basics from history class, and from seismics. Very little, really.”
“My family’s lived there for nearly ten centuries. They ... you might say we founded the place. Thrived there. It was a well established family, highly respected, active in civil service through most of its generations. Its founder ...” He faltered then, and shook his head as if rejecting that line of disclosure. “I was the youngest of the main line, but there were others. So many others ...” She could feel his hand trembling now beneath her own. “Five years ago ... I was out all night....” He lowered his head, his shoulders trembling, and raised up his other hand as if to shield his face; clearly he was remembering that time, reliving some secret pain. “Just like any other night,” he whispered. “Or so it seemed. I came home ... I had no idea anything was wrong, you see, no reason to expect it.... I came home.” He looked up at her, but his eyes were focused upon another time, another plane. “They were dead,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he relived the past. “Murdered. All of them. The floor was covered with their blood....”
He lowered his head once more, overwhelmed by the memory. She longed to comfort him, to seek out some gentle words which would bring him back to the present, but the shock of his revelation had left her momentarily speechless. Because she knew about this tragedy. She remembered it. And the family name which had seemed vaguely familiar to her now sharpened into clear and horrible focus.
“That was you,” she breathed. Remembering the headlines. Bloody details splayed across local newspaper headings for months, exploitive articles that dwelled on every horrific aspect of the crime. And on every perceived weakness of the one survivor. “You.”
He managed to look up at her. “I was wondering how long it would take you,” he said bitterly. “The murder of the century, they called it. It must have made all the papers.”
Stunned, she whispered, “They thought you did it.”
He nodded tightly. “They wanted to punish someone, and I was the obvious candidate. The youngest son of the Tarrant line, selfish, undisciplined, the black sheep of the clan ... it was no great secret that the family and I fought a lot, usually about money. And it was likewise no secret that the slaughter of every other Tarrant had guaranteed me an inheritance that many men would kill for. As you can see,” he said bitterly, indicating his person: the rich clothes, the fine jewelry, the air of easy wealth. “Only I would never have killed for that. Not my own family! I could never....”
She tightened her hand about his, and it seemed to her that his pain flowed through the contact. Maybe it did. Maybe the fae was so stirred by his emotion that it allowed her to glimpse the very core of his despair, unmasked by social repartee, unfettered by the bonds of language. The sheer intensity of it left her breathless. She could only hope that the same
faeborn link would allow her to give something of herself in return, if only a shadow of emotional support. Even that little, she sensed, was more than he’d had in years.
“Of course not,” she whispered.
He took a deep drink of wine; it seemed to lend him strength. “The trial lasted over a year,” he told her. “It seemed like forever. A year of having to relive that dreadful night over and over again, so that strangers could pick it apart for incriminating details. I thought I’d go crazy. I nearly did. There are whole segments of time I don’t remember now, parts of the trial I’ve blocked. I was so close to the edge back then. Once I even tried to give up all the money, to sign away my inheritance in the hope that they would take that for proof of my innocence. I guess it seemed the only way, at the time. My lawyers stopped me. Thank God.” He laughed bitterly; his hand tightened into a fist beneath her grasp. “What did I know about earning a living? What did I understand of poverty? They knew. They gave me meaningless forms to sign, and didn’t tell me the truth until the fit had passed. Thank God for them. Thank God.”
She made her voice as gentle as it could become. “So what happened?”
“The state let me go, in the end. Not because it judged me innocent, but because it considered me incompetent. I was a wastrel, a freeloader, a waste of human life ... but I wasn’t a murderer. Wasn’t capable of murder.” He drew in a deep breath. “They had that right, at least. Maybe all of it. I don’t know.”
“Don‘t,” she whispered. “Don’t think that.”
He lowered his head again, trembling. “I didn’t want to tell you. God knows, I didn’t want to tell anyone. But when I tried on the armor at your shop ... it all came back to me, then. All of it at once, all the blood and the fear and the hopelessness....”
“Why?” she asked him. Trying to understand the connection. When he didn’t answer for several long seconds, she pressed him gently. “What does the armor have to do with all this?”
In answer he disentangled his hand from hers—reluctantly, she thought—and reached across the table. The canvas roll had been tied shut with a slender cord; unknotting it, he set the string aside. He made room to spread the canvas out on the table, then did so. Handling it gently but firmly, hands trembling as he unrolled it. It was an old piece which had been torn and repaired more than once; stripes of tape had yellowed across its back, eating into the linen canvas. As he unrolled it, she saw aged paint, a webwork of fine cracks, the edges of a piece that had been hastily and carelessly hacked from a larger painting—