Unexpected Complications, Chapter 4
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Obiyuki Trope Madness 2023, Semifinal #2: In Love With the Mark
A box from the modiste arrives at the crack of noon, glossy and lacquered and more expensive than any other piece of his wardrobe alone. Two wide eyes are perched above it, half-hidden by a cap, but they scrape up every inch of the front hall, calculating the price of paint and paper, measuring the amount of soot in the grates. It’s clear from the speculative look they lay on him that the assessment comes up short.
“Wouldn’t do if my old lady knew I was in town.” Obi winks, conspiratorial. The boy straightens at the first whiff of gossip like a mutt anticipating a bone. “I’d have to spend my mornings visiting her set, having cake and exchanging cards. I can act as my own butler for a day or two if it means I have the time to woo one of those fair maidens out from under His Highness!”
The little spy grins at that, flashing even more teeth when Obi gilts his palm with a handful of dir. “I’ll expect the next one just as prompt! But...” He leans in, voice dropped to a whisper. “It wouldn’t go amiss if you let a man sleep in.”
“Whatever you say, mister. Er, I mean, milord.” The boy sweeps a bow so messy it wouldn’t pass muster at market let alone at a townhouse in a fashionable part of town. “Thank you kindly.”
There’s a spring in the boy’s step when he bounces out onto the street, not getting more more than a stride from the stoop before some carter starts cussing him out about blocking the road. Still, the kid bounds off, undaunted. And who could blame him? He’ll be getting a tidy little tip from what he gleaned here, that’s for sure.
Obi’s good-humored grin collapses under its own weight, all the sunny disposition lost with the last slam of the door. At least someone’s getting something good from all this.
It’s three flights to his room, the first taken under the curious gaze of the building’s caretaker-- a older woman whose name he only remembers when he’s using it-- and the next two unwitnessed. Or so he assumes; there’s some shuffling behind more than one door while he tours the landings, the hairs on his nape rising as he passes the small, inlaid glasses lenses.
Real or imagined, the glassy eyes imply enough attention to keep the box in his hands, rather than tipped over the rail, destroyed as thoroughly as his chances. If he’d been clever enough, quick enough, then he could have told the boy to scuttle the rest of his order. There’s no point, after all, to showing up plucked and preened like a baron’s son when the one person he’d even bothered to talk to isn’t--
Lacquered edges bite into his palm, even though his gloves. That’s the problem isn’t it? If he’d been clever enough, he’d never have gotten himself into this mess in the first place.
It was never meant to be opened. The box was supposed to sit there on the table, untouched; a testament to how badly he’d fucked this job. Or maybe, to how he hadn’t, since if he’d sealed the deal, then--
I wouldn’t mind being used, he’d said, and it’s terrifying, knowing how much of it he meant, if only it was by you.
Either way, he’s not supposed to touch the damned thing. Not until he can sneak it back out into the rest of the garbage. Maybe put himself there too, for good measure.
He does, of course. Open it. Wraps his fingers right around the lacquered lid and lifts it, protective cloth and all. If he was actually good at following his own rules, he wouldn’t be here, contemplating a life among the rubbish.
Worse yet, he puts it on. Let’s himself don the skin of Lord Obi one more time, piling on every frippery and finery that credit could get him, buckles and buttons and capes alike. When he faces himself in the looking glass, looking every inch the man he pretended to be, he dares himself to flinch.
The suit’s finer than all the ones that have came before; the trousers fit him like a second skin, the jacket cut so close that it no longer makes him broad, the way Miss’s guard dog had been last night, but slender as a whip. Dangerous even, the whole thing black and gold like a coin caught in the shadows, less high society and more highwayman. It’s rich, like he isn’t, and sharp, like he should be. And the cape--
Ah, it’s a thing of beauty. Deep burnished red, it’s dull and lifeless in daylight, but under the palace’s chandeliers it’d be set alight, scintillating as a candle’s flame, just as his miss had looked the first time--
Tevta’s got the market cornered on cruelty, a honeyed voice whispers in his ear, cultured and cool and clear as a bell. Only a fool would think he has her beat.
Obi laughs, a strangled noise in his throat. If only they’d all lived to see this new kind of torture he’s gone and invented just for himself, maybe that sweet voice would be singing a different song.
His fingers clench in the velvet. He’d been a fool to put this on, and a worse one to let his mind wander to h-- that. There’s nothing for it but to strip it off, to shove it and all its glamour back into that box. It should be easy to forget her, to make this debacle just a skip of his knife on his bedpost, and yet--
And yet, all he can think is of the measure of this cape, large enough to fit not just one but two. How if it had been this one he wrapped around her shoulders last night, the ruffled hem of her chemise drifting out beneath it, that hair of hers would shine even in the shadows, a flame that he would fly himself into again and again if only to feel the barest hint of its warmth.
With a curse, it lands in a heap upon his sheets. He’s had a hundred girls in the same position, panting as he pressed them against the wall, chins tilting up and lips begging to be kissed. He’s done it too, and more, guiding them back to piles of hay or silken sheets, drawing their secrets from them with no more interest than a clerk filling columns.
But with her, his heart races even now, barely able to be contained by the cage of his ribs. She’s been so close, flushed with laughter and the dancing, fingers still caught in the shoulder of his jacket. It’d been nothing to lean in, to cut that space down to nothing. Her breath had caught, and his stomach flipped, the anticipation making even the air taste sweet.
Obi’s not one for wishes, but in that one moment, he let himself hope. That she’d let him close the distance. That she might even pull him in herself. That she could want him as thoroughly and completely as he wanted her, and--
And now he’d have better luck collecting that cape of his from the prince himself than ever being alone with her again. Obi might not be a gambler, but he’d shown his hand last night, and she’d made it clear that whatever he felt, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Or welcome.
His eyes clench shut against the sting. Maybe it would have hurt less, if he hadn’t let himself care so much. If he hadn’t bought into her little dream that she could care for him. That he could be worthy of being cared for, one more time.
No use crying over spilled milk and all that. With a flick of his wrist, the jacket fall to the floor, no more substance thank it’s shadow. When one door closes, you jimmy the windows.
He’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.
His blacks might not be made of fancy wools and velvets, but they fit him like a glove fits a hand, stretched to fit and worn in all the right places. As nice as it would be to live in the lap of luxury, every seam tailored to his comfort the moment he put it on, Obi’s no stranger to having to work for his wear.
The faint strain of strings winds its way into the rafters, the vaulted ceiling so high above the floor it might well be a different room entirely. A few nights ago, it would have been impossible to slip up here; the guard had studded the windows, grim-faced veterans glowering out like grizzled gargoyles, waiting for even a sniff of foul play. But with five days under their belts and only two to go, security’s grown lax. It’s the younger knights striding around the perimeter now, more concerned with looking the part than performing it.
Beneath his boots lords and ladies eddy and swirl; a silken ocean hiding a deadly current beneath its smiles. It’s drowned more than one unsuspecting young miss in its time, and it almost certainly will again. Water might drag a girl under, but a court lady will swallow some country count’s little pride and joy whole with a smile and ask for seconds.
But it’s not them he’s here for. No, that would be the guest of honor at this shindig, the man who’s got to sift through a whole kingdom’s worth-- and beyond-- of eligible young misses to find someone with the right pedigree to make his heart sing. Or at least Clarines’ coffers.
Not that Obi can blame His Highness for dragging his feet to the contract table; he’s been everywhere that’s anywhere, and there’s no one he’s found that can hold a candle to what this man has for a measuring stick.
What he can blame him for, however, are those dresses. Shirayuki can swear up and down that angels fly up from where this guy walks, but Obi, well-- there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing the life he’ll take tonight is the responsible party.
If only he could find him.
Ah, now there’s the hard bit. Throwing a knife so it sticks? Obi’s been training on that one since Tevta took him off the streets. Killing a man so swift he hardly knows it’s coming? These knives wouldn’t be burning a brand in his back if that weren’t one of his skills. But sussing out the one silver head among a hundred blondes, a singular needle among this glittering haystack? Now there, there is the challenge.
Some knives in his place might make the mistake of depending on their eyes, squinting down at the press until their heads swam. But Obi’s not some kid fresh from his first kill, thinking swagger and strength can make up for what he doesn’t have in experience. He didn’t climb his way up here to play peek-a-boo with a prince-- no, he’s here to follow breadcrumbs, the kind that are all dressed to be eaten.
It’s different, seeing the crowd from up here, wide skirts buffeting off each other like winds across a plain. There’s no risk of a dust up here, no danger of hot air and cold calculation twisting into anything so natural as disaster, but the pattern of it spirals to a single place, to a corner of the dance floor where--
Where he can’t find any tow-headed princes at all. Damn. The bastard’s got to be here somewhere. It’s his party, after all; be a real shame if all these bright young things showed up only for His Highness to play hooky.
Something catches his eye, faster than a flutter and softer than a sigh. His heart pounds, almost painful, like fists banging against his ribs. It’s her, it swears, but it’s not, it’s not-- just a scarf, lost on a quick turn. It wafts in the air for a moment, free, before plummeting to the parquet, a pool of crimson quickly lost as the press closes in around it.
“Haah.” He sits back on his heels, hands pressed hard enough against his eyes to see stars. “I need to get a grip.”
The mission’s a splash of foam on this scintillating sea, but his heart’s looking for red, catching every flare of a skirt of flutter of ribbon. She’s in his head and his heart and under his skin, everywhere but actually here, dancing the night away.
You’ve been the only good thing about the past few nights, she’d told him. He’d known she meant, you’re the only thing that makes these things tolerable. And now she’s not here. Why would she be when he’s supposed to be there, the Baron of who-knows-where, who didn’t know to leave a mourning mistress well enough alone? Why would she come when he’s taken even--?
White. Right at the corner of his eye. Obi chases it, right to where it churns at the eye of this storm. Hand over hand, passing from one lady to the next, the second princes steps as spryly as a village boy around a maypole. From this distance, he can’t tell if his smile is as warm and kind, the way Shirayuki remembers, or as calculating as his brother’s is on Clarines’ coinage, but it’s clear: this is the prince he’s been waiting for.
Cool crystal slides across his palm, unfamiliar against his fingertips. Two chances to make the hit. One less than usual.
Feels generous now, watching the Younger Highness bobbing like a buoy amongst this stormy sea. There’s six guards he can see, and probably twice that which he can’t, hidden in shadows and silk. If his first throw leans wide, if His Highness misses a step-- well, Obi doubts he’ll be able to make much use of number two.
There’s a trick to this, to making what should be a fifty-fifty shot turn point-up every time, and it all in the grip. Most kids clench up, choking the blade and sending it ass-over-teakettle right to their feet. They think it’s strength that makes the blade fly straight, that makes it sink past skin and sinew to settle into a body.
But it’s not. It’s control.
His fingers tense when he curls them around the knife, just enough to keep it straight between them, but not enough to grip. His wrist tips, lax, but the muscles there are coiled still, ready to let fly. With a flick, he could make it cut through the air with a purpose, as unerring as any arrow.
He just has to wait. The prince is a moving target, orbiting around the gravity of his partners. The hops and twirls and claps might seem senseless to him, the boy who has never played a lord long enough to learn more than the most basic of steps, but there’s a pattern to it, a rhythm. One he can follow, counting beats until Youngest Highness turns just so, his arm thrust out and breast bared, almost welcoming what’s to come.
His breath bottoms out in his chest, every part of him utterly still as his wrist pulls back, ready to loose and his eyes--
See red.
His gloves squeak where they catch the blade, its flight cut painfully short. She can’t be here. He knows that, and yet all he sees is red. Even when he blinks, it’s still there, but now-- now it floats.
Fuck. That stupid scarf. The dancing must have kicked it up again. He’s let himself miss his moment, all because--
A sharp pain blossoms at his wrist, a sting that spreads to his fingers, tingling just before it all goes numb. It’s only instinct that makes him grip tight-- the knife cozened into his palm instead of sent end-over end, stopping this little party before it can really gets started. If he’s honest with himself, he’s pretty sure the edge has bit through the glove, but if he can’t feel it, he can’t worry about it. Not when the hilt that struck him lunges out again, only this time with the point.
One handed, off-balance, and with a narrow margin of error to either side, Obi’s got hardly anywhere to go. He tumbles back, but it’s not enough; the knife scours a line in his blacks, leaving a red smile where there should only be skin.
It hurts like a bitch. The sort of pain he’d nurse like a fine wine, if only his new friend wasn’t there to distract him.
The guy lunges, his arm lifted high to go for the downward swing, a sure way to bury six inches in any body. But even on his back, Obi’s not out of options. Sure, it’s not ideal for his legs to already be tangled, but if there’s one things he knows about messes, it’s that it’s real easy to drag someone into them.
His legs wrap themselves around the one stomped down between them, and with as much strength as he can spare, Obi twists.
They drop, the weight of it sending them sprawling across the beam. But whoever it is, they’re too good to let that be the last of them.,clinging to the rafter until their fingers bleed white.
That’s fine enough for Obi. He doesn’t need a dead body; he just needs space enough to get away, and that involves not being splayed out like a turtle on its back.
The beam might as well be a blade’s edge for the amount of room he has. But there’s nothing for it; his legs coil, knees dipping back to his shoulders before momentum carries him up. His feet wobble and his side burns, but he’s upright, just in time to meet the next thrust of the knife.
“Who are you?” At a glance, there’s nothing to mark his own personal assassin; every inch is covered from head to toe, the only skin laid bare being the strip across his eyes.
He steps in, cross arms stalling the stab mid-swing. This close, he can see even that’s greased black. A professional, then. Little on the smaller side, but Obi knows better to believe age equals experience. “Who sent you?”
His friend’s not one for talking; instead he springs back, crouched and cautious, and yet-- yet-- strangely at home on these rafters. Seems like he’s not the only one who’s been doing a bit of reconnaissance this week. That changes the landscape a little.
It’s Obi who leaps at him now, shoulder tucking into the small guy’s sternum. It’s supposed send him skittering back-- and it does, a few trembling steps-- but it doesn’t knock him off his feet.
Obi huffs, shoulder aching. No one’s ever called him a bruiser, but well, no one’s called him a quitter either.
This time he puts a little more weight into it, hitting the guy while he’s still teetering on the beam. Again, he doesn’t fly back-- the kid must be bracing himself-- but he does fall hard, ass hitting the wood at an angle that would leave most men reeling. He certainly doesn’t take it well-- there’s a yelp, high enough for dogs to hear-- but it doesn’t slow him down. Get right up on his feet, legs shaking and--
And that’s it for the little pouch he’s got, clipped right to his back. The clasp must give, since it its the beam with a soft leather plith, it’s contents spilling out along a the narrow margins. It’s all knives of course, just like his, but one skids a little further, teetering on the edge, close enough to catch the light of the chandeliers.
It scintillates, its inner facets sending light scattering over both their feet. Obi stares, ears ringing, and oh, oh-- it’s one thing to have shorted him a shot, to give him a little challenge before the Underground ushers him into their grave embrace, but to have them handing out chances like candy to whoever asks? Now that gets him.
If that’s the way they want to play it, fine. He rolls his head along his shoulders. Obi’s not above stealing himself another chance.
He lunges for it. Obi’s never been a big guy, but he’s certainly bigger than the one in front of him, and the kid hasn’t forgotten. He slips back, easy as shadow, just out of Obi’s reach--
Only for his boot heel to tap that slice of crystal, just enough to send it careening down below. It’s impossible to hear it crash in the din, but they both see it fall, shattered on the parquet. There’s a gaggle of young ladies with their back to it, all looking around, leaning close to ask, did you hear something, and it’s only a matter of time until they turn--
The kid’s face might be covered, but it doesn’t hide the moment his eyes widen, calculating just how long they have until it happens: until the ladies turn and raise a fuss, until the guards come over and inspect the shards, piecing them together to one career ruining conclusion. Until both their chances two and three are scuttled before time even runs out. Unless...
Unless there’s a body to go with it. A tragic would-be assassin, plummeting from his hiding place. Too much confidence and too little skill, desperate for recognition. The papers would be scathing.
Good thing Obi’s no slouch at math, either. He’s already on the move, scrambling back, trying to turn himself away from any hands that must reach out with a shove on their mind, but--
But it’s not an arm that lashes out, but a leg. A kick.
No, not just a kick but a high sweep, body turned so the leg hits just after the height of its arc. So that the Obi’s chin takes the full brunt of its force.
It’s only instinct that gets him out of the way. Instinct, since he’d survived it a half dozen times before he made it his own.
There’s no follow up to that move; in practice, your opponent never sees it coming. They go down like a sack of bricks, you go home. But he’s still standing, and the other guy--
The other guy’s gone.
Obi sways on the beam, catching himself with a hand. “How...?”
The world gives a sick lurch, twisting in front of his eyes. He gags, raising a hand to his stomach. It comes away coated red.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “Guess that’s not just a graze.”
From below, a cry rises up, the strings shrieking to silence. Somewhere, the clock strikes midnight.
He’s running out of time.
