The Confectioner's Truth

by Claire Luana

  “Lucas!” Trick called from the kitchen below, startling Lucas out of his thoughts. “Do you see that? There’s a ship!”

  Lucas looked through the telescope again. The ship was close enough now; he recognized the blue stripe of the Heronette. He sighed in relief. Assuming there weren’t Aprican soldiers hiding on that vessel, it would bring news and food other than stale bread and canned vegetables. “It’s the Heronette,” he called before turning and taking the steep steps down to the house’s main level.

  “Where’s Ella?” Lucas asked, surveying the lunch Trick was putting together for them. His younger brother had managed to transform their sad store of vittles into appetizing-looking sandwiches with cured salami, pickled carrots, and creamy brown mustard. Lucas’s stomach growled, reminding him it was well past noon.

  “She’s down by the beach on her log,” Trick said. His brother’s gray eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy. Lucas wasn’t sure if it was from the crying or the wine, but he thought the latter. He supposed he didn’t look much better. His own hair was getting long, and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He stifled a sigh. He’d thought he was doing the right thing by letting Trick and Ella grieve in their own ways, but maybe he’d been fooling himself. Maybe he was just being a coward.

  Trick pulled off his apron, throwing it on the counter. “We should go down and warn her before they circle into the cove and scare her to death.”

  Lucas and Trick headed out the back door, grabbing coats and hats as they went. October had not been gentle this year, especially way out here. They picked their way carefully down the rickety staircase to the beach below. The beach in the island’s little cove was rocky and strewn with kelp and bleached driftwood, not the type of place one would like to spend the summer. But it was the best place for rowboats to come ashore, and the curve of the island provided shelter from the wind for any boat that wanted to anchor there.

  Wrapped in a coarse woolen blanket in the emerald green plaid of the Imbris clan, Ella was sitting in her usual spot. Her blonde curls were greasy and snarled from the wind. Her face was sallow and blank. The sight of her like this pained him deeply—it was as if her fire had gone out completely. And Lucas had no idea how to rekindle it again.

  “Ella!” Trick called.

  She turned slowly.

  “The Heronette is back,” Trick said.

  Lucas offered her a smile, but she merely nodded.

  Trick and Lucas sat down on either side of her, and Lucas wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into his side, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “Are you warm enough, Ella?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, but she leaned her head against his shoulder, burrowing into him.

  Trick scooted against her other side, wrapping his arm around Ella’s waist, tucking his fingers inside the fringe of the blanket. They stayed like that, looking out across the glassy dark water, until the Heronette glided into view.

  Captain Guinyson was a Maradis native and the son of an Alesian naval officer. The sight of him—with his bushy brown beard, navy cap pulled low, and gray woolen sweater—brought a smile to Lucas’s lips. “He looks like home, doesn’t he?” Lucas murmured.

  “Isn’t this home now?” Ella said flatly.

  Trick and Lucas exchanged worried glances over her head.

  “Ahoy!” Guinyson called as the rowboat ground up against the rocks. One of the sailors jumped out, pulling the boat in farther.

  Lucas and his siblings stood to greet their guests. “We’re glad to see you returned,” Lucas said.

  “Ready to eat something other than salami?” Guinyson asked with a warm laugh.

  “You have no idea,” Trick replied.

  It turned out Guinyson had been busy filling his little vessel with goods from Port Gris, the capital city of Nova Navis. “Oban told me to treat you all well, so I brought what I could,” he said, waving at the barrels of pickled meat, flour and butter, and canned vegetables and fruits. Trick almost looked happy pawing through all the new offerings. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a wire cage.

  “Crab pot,” Guinyson said. “We got you a net for fishing and a special shovel for clam digging, too. I figured you’d enjoy some fresh seafood.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas said, grateful that he’d have something to fill his time. “What news from Maradis?”

  The smile dropped from the captain’s face. “It’s what you’d expect. I suppose it’s not as bad as it could be. The Apricans are requiring people to swear loyalty oaths.”

  “Any news of the Guilds?” Trick asked eagerly. “The Vintner’s—or the Confectioner’s?”

  Lucas looked sidelong at Trick. Why was Trick interested in the Confectioner’s Guild? Perhaps because he knew Wren was in the Guild?

  “More of the same,” Guinyson said. “As long as our friends keep their heads down, they should be all right. Not everyone is, though.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucas asked.

  “There’s a rebellion brewing.” The captain’s brown eyes sparkled. “Some Maradians got ahold of the Aprican black powder. They’ve been causing a lot of trouble for our new rulers. They go by the name the Falconers,” he said, casting a meaningful glance at Lucas.

  Lucas’s stomach twisted. The Falconers. On the one hand, it buoyed him to know that there were still people in Maradis loyal to his family, who were committed to resisting the Aprican occupation. But on the other hand, he didn’t want anyone killing in his name. And if these people wanted an Imbris back on the throne...he wasn’t sure he was willing to do that. To sit in his father’s chair, to seize the mantle of power, violently no less...

  “What do these Falconers want?” Lucas asked.

  Captain Guinyson reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “You can find out yourself. I’ve got a letter for you from the Falconer himself.”

  Chapter 8

  Hale wanted nothing more than to set this piece of paper on fire and watch it burn. But a summons from Sim Daemastra wasn’t something you could ignore.

  “Don’t worry, Firena,” Lieutenant Ambrose called from the end of the dining table, taking a swig of ale. “I hear he’s real tender the first time.”

  “You’d know,” Hale said, standing and grabbing the heel of pumpernickel bread from his plate. “Lead the way,” he said to the servant who had delivered Daemastra’s summons, ignoring Ambrose’s scowl. The man was a buzzing fly—annoying but harmless. Hale knew that he headed where the real danger lay. Daemastra’s workshop.

  Sim Daemastra was holed up in the west wing of the palace, nestled against the sea wall. Hale hadn’t set foot in this wing in the few weeks since he had been serving the Apricans and was struck by how empty the area seemed. Hushed. Why did the man need so much space? Perhaps because Daemastra and his patricians did most of the ruling? The emperor was rarely seen, confining himself to his chambers. Hale wasn’t sure why Evander had even wanted this country if he wouldn’t even set foot outside to enjoy it.

  The page led Hale into a large, open kitchen filled with white-veined marble and ivory tile. Massive silver ice chests were set against the far wall, and a broad expanse of counters were covered with papers and measuring implements.

  The page fled the room as Daemastra turned. The man looked much as he had when Hale had seen him at the Aprican camp a few weeks ago. Preternaturally smooth skin and white teeth, blond hair as thick as a pelt. He wore the same strange attire he had then, a bastard combination of a cuisinier’s jacket and a priest’s robe. He wore the same hollow smile.

  “Ah! Mr. Firena.” Daemastra strode over and shook his hand. The man’s thin fingers were cold and dry. “So glad you could join me.”

  “Sure,” Hale managed, trying to figure out what exactly struck him so wrong about this kitchen. It looked innocuous, but...then it hit him. The smell. The kitchen didn’t smell of spices and chocolate and fresh herbs. It smelled like...a hospital ward. Chemicals and bleach. What was the man making in here?

  “I suppose
you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you. I’ve requested a transfer of your post, and the emperor has granted it. You are to be my assistant.”

  Hale’s blood slowed in his veins. “What?” His voice was flat. Yes, he knew he deserved to suffer pain and torment in this life for betraying his friends and failing Sable, but this?

  Daemastra ignored Hale’s poorly veiled shock. “I do important work here, Hale. I need someone with your talents and your discretion in my corner.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Daemastra pulled two stools out from under the butcher block island and motioned to one. “Please.”

  Hale found himself sitting, trying, he suspected unsuccessfully, to hide his distaste for this man.

  Daemastra clasped his spindly fingers before him on the countertop. “I’m going to tell you something that very few people in this empire know. So few that if I catch a whiff of this around the palace, I’ll make sure you meet with a very unpleasant end.”

  Hale nodded. He could hardly imagine an end that was more unpleasant than spending his life as this man’s assistant. Gods, even Daemastra smelled bad. Like meat starting to turn.

  “The emperor is not well. Not well at all.”

  That piqued Hale’s attention, drawing him back from his self-pity. “What do you mean?”

  “He has a degenerative condition. In fact, the only thing keeping him alive is a potion I concocted after years of effort.”

  “A potion?” Hale asked warily.

  “Let us be frank with each other, shall we? We are to work closely together. I know all about the Gifting—the infusion of magic into food. Perhaps you think it is unique to Alesia, but it is not. Certainly more prevalent here, but no. Your mother was Gifted, as were a select few Apricans. I have been studying this magic for the last thirty years. Only in the last two has my work taken on such an urgent character.”

  “Studying it? How?” Hale wasn’t surprised to hear Daemastra confirm what he himself had long suspected. Hale’s mother’s wines had been prized throughout Aprica. She had been Gifted.

  “Cataloguing it. Identifying factors that influence its efficacy, its potency. Determining if it can be recreated, and under what conditions. Figuring out where the magic comes from.”

  “And have you? Figured out where it comes from?”

  “Oh yes. I will explain it, all in good time. I know where it comes from, I know how to recreate it, I know how to combine different types into something new. The only thing I do not know is how to make it permanent.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “I have found a cure for the emperor’s condition. But I must continue to make the potion every few days. The ingredients...are rare and hard to come by. I desire a permanent fix. That is what brought us here to Maradis. Where magic was born.”

  Hale blew out a breath, shaking his head. “You invaded...for our knowledge? Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “The secret of the Gifting was the most carefully guarded secret of the Imbris crown and the Guilds alike. Perhaps the only thing they could agree on. There would be no free exchange of information.”

  “Okay,” Hale said. There was some truth to that. “But what’s this all got to do with me?”

  “You are extremely Gifted yourself. You know the Gifted in the city, you know the personalities. You can help...persuade them to lend me their aid in my quest.”

  “I’m no one’s favorite right now. They’d as soon gut me in the dark as help me.”

  “I have a feeling that the winds of political favor will be blowing our way quite soon.” Daemastra’s wide smile made the hair on the back of Hale’s neck stand on end. ”Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Fine,” Hale said slowly. He didn’t trust this man as far as he could throw him. As far as he knew, every word exchanged in this kitchen was a lie. But until he knew Daemastra’s real angle, it was best to be cooperative.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know. Take this afternoon to process and come back tomorrow at 9 a.m. We’ll get started.”

  “Great,” Hale managed, standing. “See you tomorrow.” You creepy old bastard.

  Hale hurried from the kitchen into the hallway, feeling like spiders were crawling up his back. He kept himself from breaking into a run through sheer force of will. He wanted away from the strange man.

  He crossed another hallway and a distant voice called out down the corridor to his right. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Hale stopped, his heart in his throat. He wanted to keep walking, but something made him turn. He took a few quiet steps towards the voice, which called out again. “Hello?”

  The voice was emanating from behind a heavy wooden door. In the center was a small window covered by crossed bars of iron. Hale peered in.

  A face appeared directly across from Hale’s and he jumped back with a startled cry. “By the Sower, man, you scared the sugar out of me!”

  A thin, wiry man stood on tiptoes to peer through the little window. “Are you with them?” he asked, his voice thin and high. His graying hair was unkempt and he had a smudge of flour on one cheek.

  Hale furrowed his brow. “Them...the Apricans?”

  The man gave a manic nod.

  “I...sort of,” Hale said. “It’s complicated.”

  “Can you get me out of here?” the man asked, turning the wild intensity of his gaze onto Hale.

  “Who are you? Why are you being held?” Hale stalled.

  “Name’s Liam. And they’re making me bake. Day in and day out. I only get a few hours to sleep. Bread, pastries, croissants, sticky buns, doughnuts—” Liam continued to name every kind of bread and pastry product under the sun.

  What in the Beekeeper? Another strange comment swam to mind. Beckett pleading with him: No more bread. “Why do they need that many pastries? That much bread?”

  Liam swallowed, looking away nervously. “They’re special.”

  “Flaming hells.” Hale stepped forward, his voice low. “You’re Gifted.”

  The man’s brown eyes locked onto his. “You know.”

  “Confectioner’s Guild,” Hale said, pointing a thumb towards himself. “What’s your Gift?”

  “Baker’s Guild magic is the magic of love,” he said. “My gift makes love grow and bloom. It’s very wonderful magic.”

  Love? Hale’s mind spun. That didn’t seem too nefarious. Why would the Apricans want his man? Why were they keeping him here? “Could it make you fall in love with someone awful? Or someone you hated?”

  Liam shook his head. “It only affects love that’s already within you. I can’t create love. Well...” He hesitated.

  “What?” Hale hissed. “Tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

  “It might be nothing. But...there’s something funny about the yeast they bring me. It’s already working. I think they might be making something new.”

  “New?” Yeast? Hale thought of what Daemastra had just told him. That he understood the way the Gifting worked. He could recreate it. Combine it. This strange cocktail had Daemastra’s tainted fingerprints all over it. But what was he making?

  “Please get me out of here,” Liam said.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Hale said. “But I’ve got to go now. Hang in there.”

  “Wait!” Liam hissed, but Hale hurried back down to the main corridor.

  Two Aprican legionnaires passed, one holding a tray of food. For their prisoner, no doubt.

  Hale’s mind raced as he walked through the hallways. This baker wanted Hale to help him. He wasn’t sure he could do that. He wasn’t sure if he could help anybody. Least of all himself.

  Chapter 9

  The next day, Wren found herself at another godsforsaken meeting. Callidus, together with all the guild heads, had received a summons he hadn’t dared refuse—from Emperor Evander himself.

  They arrived at the Tradehall a few minutes early and were ushered into one of the long meeting room
s. A table at the end of the room was piled with an array of breakfast pastries—sugar-crusted scones, flaky croissants, glistening puff-pastries with frosting drizzled across them.

  Callidus glowered at the display. “Trying to bribe us with our own food. Blond bastards,” he thundered.

  “How about I get us some coffee?” Wren managed weakly, gravitating towards the carafes like a moth to a flame.

  “Black,” Callidus barked.

  Wren fetched their coffees and they found two seats at the table. The room was filling in now with Guildmasters she recognized. Chandler and his pale artisan Bastian, one-armed Guildmaster McArt, Bruxius of the Butcher’s Guild, Alban of the Vintner’s Guild, Beatrix of the Baker’s, and a few she didn’t recognize. One swaggering figure was suspiciously absent.

  “Where’s Pike?” Wren whispered. The head of the Spicer’s Guild, and their ally, had been grievously wounded in the attack that had killed Sable. But according to Callidus’s sources, he’d been recovering.

  Callidus frowned. “He should be well enough to attend, at least from what Rizio told me.” Rizio, Pike’s second-in-command, was absent as well. She didn’t recognize any of Pike’s Spicer’s Guild members, with their silver piercings and dark scowls.

  The guild members settled around the table, and the doors at the far side of the room opened. One man entered, the skeletal cuisinier Sim Daemastra.

  “Where’s the emperor?” Wren whispered.

  “Do I look like the man’s secretary?” Callidus retorted.

  Wren sighed, taking a sip of her coffee.

  Daemastra held up his long, spindly fingers for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen. The emperor sends his regrets. He is an extremely busy man and was called away this morning.”

  That announcement was met by grumbles and mutters around the table.

  “The emperor has asked me to appear on his behalf. As a fellow cuisinier, I can assure you that I understand the concerns that come with your position and responsibilities. The emperor values the Guilds highly and looks forward to working together. I must thank you all for coming to the palace individually to answer our questions; it has helped us immensely.”