Rachel Caine: Prince of Shadows

• • •

Mercutio was a strong ally of Montague, but much more than that: He was my best friend, and Romeo’s as well. Mercutio had once refused to race off with my cousin, calling it a wild-goose chase, and Romeo had—rightly—declared that Mercutio was never there for us without also being there for the goose. In short, he was a brawler, a jester, and one other thing . . . the keeper of a great many secrets.

He kept mine, as the Prince of Shadows, and had for years, but his own secret was far more dire. He was in love, but his love, if discovered, would be more disastrous than Romeo’s failed flirtation. It was not simply unwise, but reckoned unnatural by Church and law alike.

I had never met the young man Mercutio adored, and hoped I never would; secrets of such magnitude were far easier to hold in ignorance. Romeo and I regularly sent notes to Mercutio’s family’s villa explaining his absences, pretended to be carousing with him while he slipped away in secret to a rendezvous. Upon occasion, when Mercutio was fully in his cups, we listened to his torment in never seeing his lover’s face in the light of day.

But those bouts of passionate longing were rare in him, and the Mercutio the world knew was a bright, sharp, hotly burning star of a man. He was widely admired for his willingness—nay, eagerness—to take risks others might call insane. Romeo and I knew where the roots of that dark impulse grew, but it never made us love him less.

This night, he might have knocked and cried friend at the palazzo doors and been granted an easy entry, but that was not exciting enough.

Instead, he climbed our wall.

The first I knew of his arrival was the sound of a fist pounding the shutters of my room. The noise not only made my servant Balthasar bolt to his feet in fright, it pushed me and Romeo to stand and draw swords. Romeo might be innocent, but he wasn’t stupid. Assassinations were as common in Verona as brawls.

I went to the window and lifted the catch, and then gazed for a moment in silence.

Mercutio laughed breathlessly as he dangled precariously over a three-story fall to hard stone. “Well?” he gasped out. “Stab me or let me in, fool; I’m seconds from testing my wings!”

I held out my left hand and took his, and pulled him over the sill. He turned his slithering entrance into a tumbler’s roll and bounced to his feet. There was a sense of trembling joy about Mercutio; I climbed walls purely as a matter of necessity, but he seemed to delight in tempting death. His cat-sharp face was alight, dark eyes wickedly gleaming, and he tossed his loose curls back from his face and saluted Romeo with casual elegance. “I hear there is dire trouble afoot,” Mercutio said, and took a seat at the table with us. He held up his hand without looking, and Balthasar—well versed in the ways of my friends—placed a full wine cup into it. “How unexpected that is!”

“How did you do that?” Romeo asked. He went to the open window and leaned out, examining the sheer stone wall. “Maybe you really can fly.”

“I had an excellent teacher,” Mercutio said, and winked at me. “Ben, did you know your too-sly servant is plying me with your best vintage?”

“Hardly the best. He knows better than to serve the best to the worst,” I said. “Montague has a front door; were you aware?”

He shrugged and drank deeply. “Boring,” he said. “Did you know that by my climbing walls in public view, half the city believes I’m the legendary Prince of Shadows? It greatly enhances my legend.” He sent me a sideways glance, acknowledging the irony. “And besides, how am I to keep in practice for these small intrigues if I simply walk up and announce myself?”

“By all means, use my family walls at any time to hone your skills. Should the hired bravos see you, you’ll also get practice in dodging arrows.”

“A benefit I will treasure. Now, whom are we here to conspire against?”

“Poetry,” I said. “Namely, Romeo’s poetry.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Inadvisably sent, at the least.”

“Oh, my,” Mercutio said, and smiled slowly, full of delight. “These verses must be scandalous. Stuffed with humiliating details, I presume.”

“Worse. They’re signed.”

He whistled. “Well. I salute you, Romeo. You don’t go halves when you plunge into the maelstrom. What else?”

“They’re inside the Capulet palace.”

Mercutio stopped whistling at that. Stopped laughing, too. He went as quiet as he ever did, although there was still a faint vibration in him; he was never completely still. “Surely retrieving them is not on your mind.” I’d burgled the Capulet house only a few months ago; there were unbreakable rules to my secret life, and one was to never visit the same enemy again after they’d been so badly embarrassed. Their smugness would have turned to rank suspicion. I would triple my risks.

“My grandmother says we must have them back,” Romeo said. “If they’re discovered, my name and the lady’s will be filthy jokes in the square. Worse, she’ll be punished. Badly punished.”

“A Capulet? Why do we vex ourselves with that? Never a Capulet born who didn’t deserve to suffer; I’ve heard all of Montague say it often enough.”

“Not Rosaline,” said Romeo. “She is kind, and good, and beautiful. You’ve seen her, Mercutio. Is she not wonderful fair?”

“Wonderful,” Mercutio said without enthusiasm. “Her eyes are two of the brightest-shining stars in all the heavens, et cetera. . . . Ben, good or bad, the girl’s a Capulet, and her danger is her own affair.”

“True,” I said—also without enthusiasm. “But there is Romeo’s reputation to consider.”

“Ah, me. How many of these florid declarations did he pen?”

“Six,” I said.

“Perhaps seven,” Romeo amended. He sounded properly abashed about it, as the night wore on and his wine did not. “It was not wise, but she is beautiful. I love her entirely.”

Mercutio gave me a look. “Stab me and save the Capulets the trouble. Isn’t Rosaline the bookish one?”

“Yes. It’s possible she never even read his scrawlings, only burned them.”

“That would have been eminently sensible,” my friend agreed. “But I suppose we have to be sure, if your grandmother requires it.”

“If m’lord Capulet discovers them, he’ll make a mockery of our family, even as he punishes his own.” I loaded the title with all the scorn it deserved. Capulet was no lord; not a drop of noble blood flowed in his veins. To be fair, none coursed through Montague veins, either . . . but in Verona, the merchants counted for more than the merely wellborn.

Mercutio traced the fine silver decoration on his goblet with a fingertip as he considered the issue. “She was destined for the convent anyway. It might be enough to dispatch her there immediately before her disgrace is common market gossip.”

“Capulets are not known for their restraint. Remember the lady Sophia? Better for all if these damning letters are put to the fire. To be sure of that, we must find them.”

We fell silent. Mercutio reached for the pitcher on the table and splashed more wine into his cup.

“Her rooms face the garden,” Romeo said. “There are two balconies. Hers is on the right, as you face it from the wall.”

We both looked at him with identical expressions of surprise, and to cover his sudden embarrassment, Romeo held up his hand for a cup. Balthasar handed him one. When I started to protest, he showed me a water jug.

Good man. I didn’t need Romeo’s wits wandering tonight. “And how would you know?” I asked. “You swore you were not alone with her.”

“I can climb as well as you.”

Mercutio batted him on the back of the head. “A Capulet wall? And when did you perform this miracle?”