Page 7 of Mistress of Bones

V

THE COUNT

The count leaned in to study the masterful brushstrokes, haphazard at close distance, yet inexplicably detailed once the eye took in the whole painting.

Emiré de Anví disliked how something could reshape itself so easily.

He enjoyed order in his life, things set in a certain way.

At only twenty-six, he was already set in his ways: his black hair, tumbling down in natural curls over his shoulders and upper back; his cheeks, shaved clean every morning without fail; his clothes, always of the same elegant cut, the same materials, the same colors—white and creams and golds.

He held a black wide-brimmed hat with a full soft white plume, and he tapped it impatiently against his breeches.

This painting in front of him, a portrait of the late Sancian queen, was an abomination of everything he sought in life.

Like the rest of the palace, it was encased in an ornate frame. It hung on a beige wall supporting an ornamental ceiling full of molded waves covered with a dusting of Anchor. This palace, the Heart of Cienpuentes, was the pinnacle of centuries dealing in Anchor.

Fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.

De Anví abandoned his perusal and strode down the long hallway, his dress ankle boots echoing against the polished stone floor with each measured step.

The desperate yearning to escape the palace’s confining enclosure he kept locked inside, although it resurfaced from time to time, like when he paid his daily visit to His Majesty.

His Majesty, being five years of age, couldn’t care less about his daily visits. The feeling was reciprocated.

Emiré de Anví hated the little bastard.

It had been just over two years since the queen’s death, and a year and a half since the attempted kidnapping of her child, an affair De Anví had helped unravel and which had earned him his current position in the Royal Guard.

A position he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t hoped for, and quite resented, but which had been granted nonetheless.

The guard standing by the end of the hallway bowed his head when he drew near. A muttered “Your Honor” escaped him.

As second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, the Royal Guard, greetings like this were a given and went unnoticed. His position allowed him free roam of the palace and gave him the kind of life the Heart had created for itself: fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.

He came upon another set of guards, who opened the big, heavy wooden door leading outside.

Without breaking his stride, he trotted down the stone steps, fitting his hat on his head and pulling his half cape over his right shoulder.

It was too warm to bother with one, but De Anví would wear it all the same.

He kept his pace even, avoiding carts, horses, and their manure.

Twilight was upon the dozens of islands that made up the Anchor city of Cienpuentes, shadowing the buildings in contrast with the darkening sky—no longer the pink hue of winter, but the beautiful deep blue of early summer.

Houses rose two and three stories in height; narrow bridges connected them over his head, and broader ones connected the islands over the flowing water of the River Espasesmo.

The wide streets surrounding the Heart gave way to the meandering flagstone paths of the city as he made his way to his favorite tavern.

Now that the official mourning for the queen was over, the silent halls and rooms of the Heart would soon be filled by summer balls and celebrations given by Regent de Fernán in honor of the child king.

What a bleak handful of months, of years, waiting for him, stuck in the palace like a dog on a leash, waiting to see who died first—the master or the pet.

“Count de Anví.”

De Anví, waking from his musings, found himself in a shadowed alleyway running by the river’s edge. The sight was familiar—he took this route every other day. Ahead of him, three men in dark clothing blocked his passage, black masks covering the upper halves of their faces.

One stepped forward. “Your Honor, our employer would like a word with ye.”

De Anví cocked his head. “And who might that be?”

“You’ll find out when you get there.”

“I think not, then. Tell them to schedule an appointment—I am on private business.”

“We must insist,” the man said, adding a small growl.

Did the man think he would be cowed by dogs? “Your wishes are of no matter to me.”

The man’s hand went to his sword. The two behind him copied his movement. “Then we shall make it your business.” He began to unsheathe the rapier.

De Anví’s hand gripped his own Valiente, a present from his late father.

One foot glided backward, and his body turned sideways.

He was isolated, but the narrowness of the alley worked in his favor.

Here, they could not surround him. Here, they’d be stuck in line like ducks after their mama.

Then it would be a simple matter of pushing their corpses into the water and letting the river’s current work its wonders.

He suddenly craved the excitement, the risk of a fight.

Pride would not allow him to intentionally fail, but he could always be bested.

One missed feint and a rapier between his ribs, and then the Lord Death would be to blame for the promises his death would break, even if De Anví had only made them to himself.

The man’s rapier slid out of its sheath. “Come now, Your Honor. Don’t make things difficult for yourself.”

Things had never appeared simpler, in De Anví’s opinion. He brought out Valiente and pushed his half cape aside, allowing for a full range of motion.

His opponent’s eyes narrowed. Did he think him a man of words and not swords? If he were brought up in Cienpé, perhaps, but De Anví was bred and raised in the countryside, where fights erupted at a moment’s notice and the paths at night weren’t always safe.

He pressed forward, the other man raising his rapier in response, waiting to see who would attack first.

De Anví decided he had a liking for it, to start something rather than be dragged into it.

Valiente pierced through the air, its path met by his opponent’s rapier, De Anví’s mind on the next move, and the next, and the one after that.

After the man parried the count’s initial attack, he attempted a strike in return.

De Anví blocked it easily, pushing forward and aiming for the man’s shoulder.

A rapier could sever things besides veins, and De Anví had always preferred the subtle tearing of tendons and muscles to bloody shows of conquest.

His attack was parried again, easily. They were testing each other, figuring out their speed, their accuracy, their reflexes.

The man lunged for De Anví’s arm. Valiente met his rapier, the ensuing rasp filling the air over the murmur of the river.

The man’s companions remained silent behind him, waiting, bored. Curious. De Anví would have expected them to cheer or jeer or try to join in.

But then, these men didn’t want him dead. If they killed De Anví, how would their employer talk to him? That explained the half-hearted attacks coming his way—they were not a matter of skill but of necessity. De Anví’s opponent sought to maim, not kill.

This fight would not give him the satisfaction he craved, but perhaps he could still find some sport in it.

“What’s this?” cried a new voice from behind the men. “My, what luck—a show of underhanded tactics!”

De Anví and his adversary stopped. The two men in the background turned to glare at the newcomer.

The front man’s attention didn’t waver—he trusted his companions to deal with the new danger—and De Anví allowed himself a spark of intrigue.

Hired criminals did not usually trust one another this much.

“This is not your concern,” one of the men told the newcomer. “Scamper.”

“Scamper, you say,” the newcomer answered. “What am I, ten?” His rapier was halfway out of its sheath, the glint of the little Anchor left in the river’s bottom reflecting on the metal.

Miguel Esparza knew how to make an entrance, De Anví had to admit.

The men’s leader, realizing he was stuck between two combatants in a narrow passage, pushed his rapier back into its scabbard.

“Another time, then.” Giving his back to the count, he motioned the other two toward the end of the alleyway.

De Anví felt a pang of disappointment at the men’s easy capitulation, his heart still beating an eager rhythm.

“Not so fast,” Esparza said. “Who are you and what do you want with His Honor?”

“Not your affair,” the man in front of him said. Before Esparza could reply, he’d shoved past him, the other two following.

“Hold,” Esparza demanded. “On the City Guard’s order!”

But the men’s steps had hastened into a half run, and in the next breath, they were out of sight.

Esparza cursed before turning to the count. “Where is your shadow?”

De Anví rearranged his half cape and closed the distance between them, gesturing for the other man to walk ahead of him. “Which one?”

“Not the one under your feet.”

“I told Tonio not to come with me tonight.”

“Tonio should know better than that. A count, a high-ranking member of the Royal Guard walking alone without his personal protection? One day, Death might receive your invitation.” Esparza clucked. “And what of your other shadow?”

“The Witch,” De Anví answered, his jaw tightening, “I’ll meet later.”

“Don’t mind me if I tag along for now.”

De Anví didn’t mind, still hungry for something more since the masked strangers had given so little.

They emerged from the alleyway and crossed onto the next island. A few minutes later, they took their usual seats in the small hole of Casa Rojita. Ale promptly followed.