PROLOGUE

London, 1821

“WAKE HIM UP,” said James, and the hard-faced shipman promptly lifted the wooden pail he held and threw its contents into the face of the man slumped and restrained in front of them.

Water slapped Marcus, splashing him into consciousness, coughing and gasping.

Even dripping, chained, and beaten, Marcus had a nobility to him, like a knight-gallant in a faded tapestry. The arrogance of the Stewards, thought James. It lingered, like the stinking miasma of the river, though Marcus was manacled to prohibit all movement, in the bowels of Simon Creen’s cargo ship.

Down here, the ship’s hold was like the insides of a whale ribbed in wood. The ceiling was low. There were no windows. Light came from the two lamps that the shipmen had hung when they had dragged Marcus in here, perhaps an hour ago. It was still dark outside, though Marcus would have no way to know that.

Marcus blinked wet eyelashes. His dark hair fell into his eyes in dripping strands. He wore the tattered remains of the livery of his order, its silver star stained with grime and blood.

James watched the horror rising in Marcus’s eyes as he realized he was still alive.

He knew. Marcus knew what was going to happen to him.

“So Simon Creen was right about the Stewards,” said James.

“Kill me.” Marcus’s throat scraped with gravel, as though seeing James meant a full understanding of what was happening. “Kill me. James. Please. If you ever felt anything for me.”

James dismissed the shipman beside him, and he waited until the man was gone, until there were no sounds but the creak of water and wood, and he and Marcus were alone.

Marcus’s hands were chained behind his back. He was sprawled awkwardly because of it, unable to right his balance, thick chains binding him with no give to the four heavy iron brackets of the ship. James’s eyes passed over the massive, immovable iron links.

“All those vows. You’ve never really lived at all. Don’t you wish you’d been with a woman? Or a man.”

“Like you?”

“Those rumors,” said James evenly, “aren’t true.”

“If you ever felt anything for any of us—”

“You strayed too far from the flock, Marcus.”

“I beg you,” said Marcus.

He said the words like there was a system of honor in the world, like all you had to do was appeal to a person’s better nature and goodness would prevail.

The self-righteousness of it stuck in James’s throat.

“Beg me, then. Beg me on your knees to kill you. Do it.”

James hadn’t thought Marcus would do it, but of course he did—he probably loved it, on his knees in an act of martyring self-sacrifice. Marcus was a Steward, had spent his life keeping vows and following rules, believing in words like noble and true and good.

Marcus moved awkwardly, unable to balance without his hands, finding a new posture within the chains with humiliating difficulty, his head lowering, his knees spreading on the planking.

“Please. James. Please. For what’s left of the Stewards.”

James looked down at that bowed head, that battered, handsome visage that was still naive enough to hope that there was a way out for him.

“I’m going to stand at Simon’s side,” said James, “while he ends the line of Stewards. I’m not going to stop until there’s no one left to stand in your Hall, until the last of your light flickers and goes out. And when darkness comes, I’ll be standing next to the one who will rule it all.” James’s voice was precise. “You think I felt something for you? You’ve forgotten who I am.”