by Claire Luana
With little grace, Olivia collapsed onto the bottom stair of the staircase leading to the second level, a tear winding its way through the soot on her face. She buried her face in shaking hands. Trick went and sat by her, his hand on her back offering silent comfort.
Their escape had been a close thing. The adrenaline of the moment was leaving him now too. Now that they had achieved some semblance of safety, he felt empty and heavy all at the same time. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the floor and go to sleep.
“Bran and I will see about getting’ us some food and water,” Ansel said, taking charge. At this moment, Lucas didn’t really care, and so he let him.
“The plan has changed, but our objective’s the same. Break into the palace, rescue Wren, Thom, and Callidus, and kill the emperor,” Ansel said.
Ella let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, is that all?”
“Ella—” Lucas started.
“Don’t Ella me, Lucas,” she said. “The plan was shit before, and it’s double shit now. We’ve lost the printing presses; we’ve lost Killian, so we’ve lost our diversion; and we’ve lost the chocolate. Except that little melted puddle we still have. I think the plan is pretty much in tatters.” Her voice rang in the stillness of the warehouse.
“So what would you have us do?” Trick stood. “Turn ourselves over to be executed? We have to do something.”
“I’m tired of doing something.” Ella closed her eyes, sighing. “Can’t we just go back into exile? Live out our lives...on the beach or something?”
“We saw what would become of us,” Lucas said. “They found us. It’s not an option.”
“We just need to reform the plan,” Ansel said. “What’re our resources?”
Silence.
“Killian showed me the signal to start the attack by his people. The Falconer’s Gambit, he called it. So we could still use it as a diversion,” Lucas offered.
“The cart we took to the newspaper office had two crates of infused chocolates in it,” Bran said. “I doubt they noticed it on their way to kill us. We can go back and get them.”
“The infused foods should wear off in the next twelve hours,” Olivia said. “Maybe we can call on some of our old allies.”
“Olivia’s right,” Trick said. “There were people at my Guild who were with me once. With us. Maybe they can be again.”
“We still have my men, and Griff’s boats,” Ansel offered.
“You’re still with us?” Lucas asked, his eyes narrowing.
“We don’t get paid if we don’t get Callidus or Pike back,” Bran said.
“And I ain’t leaving Wren,” Ansel said. His voice lowered. “Not again.”
“So that’s the plan?” Ella asked, incredulous. “Blow some stuff up, run into the palace with a bunch of mercenaries, and hope that the Guilds will have woken up enough to back us?”
“It’s about as likely to succeed as the first plan,” Trick said.
“So not at all,” Ella retorted.
Olivia stood, staring down Ella. “At least we’d be doing something. I don’t know about you, princess, but I’d rather die fighting for my home than cowering any longer.”
Ella narrowed her eyes but didn’t take the bait. “You may get your chance,” was all she muttered.
Lucas let out a breath. Gods, his sister could be trying at times.
“When can you have your men to the palace?” Lucas asked.
“If Bran and I head back to the ship, we’ll haveta rendezvous at Dent Island. But most of the men could attack by sea, which is easier than getting’ all of ’em through the entire city unseen. So…by midnight tomorrow.”
So soon. Gods. “How do we know that you won’t just head back to the ships and leave us?” Lucas asked.
“Don’t ya trust me?” Ansel grinned wolfishly.
“Not particularly,” Lucas said.
His smile died on his lips. “Fine. If it settles your nerves, I’ll stay with ya. I’ll send Bran back. That work?” He turned to Bran, who nodded.
Lucas crossed his arms over his chest. “Have Bran send some of your men into the city. A dozen. To help us get into the palace if we have to fight our way in.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” Ansel said.
“Midnight tomorrow,” Olivia said. “I’ll see which of the Guilds I can talk to by then.”
Lucas rubbed his stubble-covered jaw, frowning at the smear of black that came off on his fingers. “So we have a plan. Tonight, let’s try to get some food in us and sleep. Maybe a change of clothes, if we can manage it. Tomorrow at midnight, we rescue the confectioners, and retake the palace.” Or die trying.
Chapter 41
Hale couldn’t refuse a summons from Daemastra, as much as he might have wished to. When the man called, he came.
He braced himself for what he knew he would see as he rounded the corner into Daemastra’s workshop, but even then, it was like a punch to the gut to see Guildmaster Pike strapped to the strange chair. He blew out a breath as he tried to school his features into some semblance of neutrality. He didn’t want Daemastra to know that he knew the man. That they’d once been considered allies, after a fashion.
Pike was unable to hide his surprise when Hale stepped into the room. “Hale?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Daemastra. No doubt performing the mental calculus, wondering if he could leverage Hale somehow to get himself out of this predicament. Hale wanted to tell him not to waste his time.
“How’d you get mixed up in all this?” Pike asked. Dark circles ringed his eyes; his voice was hoarse.
“It’s a long story,” Hale managed. Part of Hale didn’t want to know what secrets the man had spilled under the influence of the ice wine. The other part was desperate to grab the man by his shirt and shake him until he told. Had he given up Wren? The Imbris heirs? Had he given Daemastra the magic he needed to complete his formula? He stilled his hands at his side.
Daemastra smiled his tight-lipped smile. “You two know each other?”
“We’re acquainted,” Hale said.
Captain Ambrose appeared in the doorway, his uniform starched and perfect. “Sim Daemastra. A moment.”
Daemastra inclined his head and strode into the corridor to speak with Ambrose.
Hale wasted no time, hurrying across the room to Pike’s side. “Does he have Wren? Thom and Callidus?” he hissed at Pike.
Pike nodded wearily. “Probably. They sent men to round them up.”
Hale cursed under his breath.
“Your magic. Did you tell him of your magic?” Hale whispered.
“Not yet. He wanted to know the location of the others first, and then some soldier interrupted him. What does he want with me? With my magic?”
“Tell me what your Gifting is, and I’ll tell you,” Hale said.
Pike narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Hale looked towards the door, his heart hammering. He still heard Daemastra’s and Ambrose’s voices in the hallway. “This is the room where you will die. And your bones will be ground into dust to power Daemastra’s twisted magic. He thinks your power will make infusions last forever. He thinks he can turn himself into a god. Tell me that’s not the case.”
Pike had gone pale. “Help me! Get me out of here!”
“I can’t even help myself,” Hale said. “We’re both doomed. But maybe...if you tell me, maybe I can stop him. Somehow.”
Pike hesitated, but then his head drooped. “I’m a cursed man anyway, without her. I suspect you know a thing or two about that.” Sable. Pike had loved her too.
Hale nodded. “This world...it’s a shadow without her.”
“Sometimes I want to stand at the edge of a cliff, just to feel something again. Something other than sorrow. Even if it’s fear. Or pain.”
“If you’re on the cliff, make it mean something. Tell me. Your Gift. Could it freeze time? Stop things?”
Pike shook his head. “No. My Gift speeds up time. It would make an infusion pass more quickly if there was
truly some way to combine them.”
Hale blew out a breath. “Is there someone in your Guild who has the power to stop time?”
Pike glanced towards the hallway. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “In the breast pocket of my jacket, there’s a vial. Get it.”
Hale reached inside the man’s velvet jacket, his fingers brushing several small vials.
“Which one?”
“The one with the black cork,” Pike said.
Hale peered into the darkness and pulled it out. A tiny vial with a black cork.
“That.” Pike nodded towards it. “That would do what the man wants. It is a member of my guild’s make. I’ve kept some with me, since I was stabbed. To...slow things down if I was ever wounded again.”
Hale pocketed the vial. “Lie,” Hale said. “Tell him what he wants to hear. That your Gift would extend the power of an infusion and make it permanent.”
“I can’t,” Pike said. “Even if I’m willing to sacrifice myself, I drank the ice wine. I can’t lie. But...” His eyes lit up. “Grab the other vial. With the white cork.”
Hale reached in his pocket again and pulled it out.
“It’s my infusion. It should speed things up. Make it wear off. Then I can lie and he won’t know.”
Hale pulled the stopper off and tilted it into Pike’s mouth.
Daemastra rounded the corner back into the room.
Hale straightened hastily, his hands flying behind his back, corking the empty vial. He slid it into his pocket where Pike’s other tiny vial lay.
“Apologies we got interrupted,” Daemastra said. “Now, I’m sorry I had to change our deal on you, but we are living in unique times. Tales of the unique Gifting of the Spicer’s Guild have traveled as far as Aprica. I must ask, and it’s very important you tell the truth. What is the power of your Gift?”
Pike looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Why should I tell you a thing, you snake?”
Daemastra sighed. “Guildmaster Pike, we’ve been through this time and again. Resisting only wastes your time and mine. The ice wine is infallible. I ask you again. We’re in a bit of a time crunch, as Captain Ambrose just informed me. The city is beginning to wake up from its delicious infused dream, and I’d like this business to be resolved before they do.”
So that was what Ambrose was reporting. After the death of the baker, people were starting to get their minds back again. No wonder Daemastra was anxious to get his potion perfected—his Golden Guard formed. His own powers secured.
“What is your Gift, Guildmaster Pike?”
Pike’s dark eyes flicked to Hale’s, and Hale prayed that the contents of the vial had worked. He was as good as dead in Daemastra’s hands, even if Daemastra learned the truth that Pike wasn’t who he was looking for. But if he lied...Daemastra would think he had his final ingredient. And just maybe two doomed men could save them all.
Only in Maradis would a series of secret messages be arranged via coffee shop. When Killian had told him the secret signal to start the Falconer’s Gambit, Lucas had let out a startled bark of laughter. But Killian had been dead serious.
The bell tingled as Lucas opened the door to the Bitterbird Cafe, one of his favorite coffee shops. The shop where he’d first met with Wren what felt like an eternity ago. The proprietor was in the back, stacking chairs. “We’re closed,” he called without looking up. He was a thick man named Ruach, the second generation of his family to own this shop. He roasted the best coffee in Maradis, importing his coffee beans from lands to the east of even the Ferwich territories.
Lucas wore a newsboy cap low on his brow, and his scruff was long enough to pass for the beginnings of a beard. No one had recognized him on the street as Lucas Imbris, the missing heir to the Alesian crown. But Ruach had known him. It was a risk, coming here. If the man was in Daemastra’s thrall—if the bread infusion hadn’t worn off yet—he could turn Lucas in yet. But if he was in Alesia’s thrall, the gambit was forfeit anyway. The best way to know for sure was to see what the man did.
“Was hoping I could place a last-minute order,” Lucas said, taking off his cap.
Ruach straightened, setting a chair upside down on the table before him. When he saw Lucas, his brown eyes widened. “By the Sower,” he breathed. He looked around, striding past Lucas towards the door, flipping the lock. He began closing the wooden shutters on the tall shop windows. “Are you mad, coming here? Every man, woman, and child knows your face. You’re a wanted man.”
“I was hoping that I still had allies in the city,” Lucas said, shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to exude a calm he didn’t feel.
Ruach closed the last shutter and turned. He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. Then he crossed the room and enveloped Lucas in a tight embrace, clapping him on the back.
Tension drained from Lucas, and he patted the man back, a lump growing in his throat.
“It’s flaming good to see you,” Ruach said. “I’m so sorry about your family. Tell me you’ve got a plan to boot these Aprican bastards for good.”
“That depends,” Lucas said. “Could you make me the largest coffee you have? Black. Extra strong. Extra hot. With a sprinkle of pepper?” It was the code Killian’s men had agreed on. Nothing any normal person would order.
Ruach’s furry eyebrows rose. “Aye. That I could,” he said slowly. “When would you like it?”
“As soon as you can make it. Midnight if you can manage it.”
He nodded, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “I better get to it then.”
Ruach hurried into the back of the shop and returned with a bowler hat and cloak. He blew out the remaining lanterns before unlocking the front door, letting Lucas out before him and locking it behind them.
Lucas put his hat back on. A spitting Maradis rain had started.
Ruach offered his hand. “God speed, Lucas Imbris.”
Lucas shook it. “Do this for me, and you have my eternal gratitude.”
“You on the throne would be enough for me. Make those blond bastards pay.”
Lucas turned left and Ruach turned right, hurrying in the direction of the next coffee shop, Black Bean, White Cream.
Lucas cut into an alley where Ansel was waiting, leaning against the brick wall. “Well?” he asked.
“He said all the right things,” Lucas said. “It’s looking good.”
“Let’s see if he meant ’em,” Ansel said, shoving off the wall.
Ansel and Lucas walked onto the street, cloaks pulled tight against the rain. This part of the plan was the riskiest. If Ruach was indeed loyal to the Falconers, he would place the same order Lucas had at the next coffee shop down the line, then notify those he was in charge of to place their charges. The next coffee shop owner, if loyal, would do the same. Killian had set it up that way, so no one knew who all the other Falconers were, in case someone was compromised. But it was possible to activate the entire network of cells by a single order of the trigger phrase.
Ruach was a dim shadow ahead of them, hurrying up the street. If he went to the next coffee shop, they knew he was loyal. If he headed towards the palace to report that he had seen Lucas...if he had just been pretending...well, Ansel would take care of him. Lucas really, really hoped it didn’t come to that.
Ruach reached Black Bean, White Cream and pulled open the checkerboard door, heading inside. Lucas blew out a breath, grinning at Ansel. He couldn’t help himself. “He did it.”
“Your man came through,” Ansel said.
“Now let’s just hope everyone else down the line is as loyal,” Lucas replied.
Chapter 42
Wren sat in the corner of their cell, her back pressed to the cool walls. She wanted to sink into it, to disappear until she was no more. Maybe then these feelings, these thoughts, would be gone too. Lucas was dead. She hadn’t seen a body, but she had seen the pyre that had once been the Maradis Morning building, greedy flames licking to the sky. Their hands and feet had been bound—
there was no way they could have escaped. Lucas was dead. Lucas and Trick and Ella. The last of the Imbris line. Olivia. Poor Olivia, who had only ever been kind and as sweet as syrup. Far too sweet for this world. Ansel and Bran. The last of her Red Wraith clan, only so recently resurrected. Her mind didn’t want to believe it.
Thom and Callidus seemed similarly numb with shock. Their Aprican guards had thrown them all into a cell together, little concerned that they would get up to anything. They were well and thoroughly defeated.
“Do you think they made it out alive?” Thom asked. His boyish face looked like it had aged years, tear-stained and puffy.
Wren knew she should lie for him, but she didn’t have the energy. “I don’t see how.”
Thom buried his face in his arm, his shoulders shaking.
Callidus laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and Thom leaned into him, sobs wracking his thin frame.
Wren wondered if she had run out of tears, for though the sight of Thom crying moved her, her own eyes were dry.
She had cried so many tears in the past months. For Kasper. For Sable. Virgil. For Hale, a dear friend lost to the dark of his own grief. For their city, their freedom. She had cried for Lucas, for how things had ended between them. For the thought that he had gone to his grave hating her, feeling nothing but scorn for her. Heat flooded through her as she tried to banish the thought of the flames limning his stately profile. It had been her last glimpse of him. It seemed that she was wrung dry of sorrow. But the horrors weren’t over, were they? For her and Thom and Callidus. For Pike, if he was still alive. They were just beginning. She didn’t know what she wished for. A clean death? A chance to live? Perhaps it would not be so bad, to make chocolate all her life with a shackle around her ankle. Surely, it was a better life than many. But Willings’s words from the carriage chilled her. What had he meant, that she would long for the days under King Imbris?
