The Confectioner's Coup

by Claire Luana

  Wren suppressed a snort. The thought that Hale was just a humble anything was laughable.

  “We’ll be the judge of that. Come on up.” The man rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Let me do the talking,” Hale said under his breath as he moved their little rowboat against the hull of the Aprican vessel. “You first.”

  “Don’t look up my skirt,” she said.

  “I’m a consummate gentleman,” Hale said, feigning injury.

  “Says the guy kissing his sponsor on the countertop of the test kitchen,” Wren retorted, grasping the slats of the ladder. She hadn’t meant to see, but when she had peeked her head around the corner…

  Hale’s reply was lost in her skirts brushing past his face as she began to climb.

  The ladder was wobbly and thwacked against the wood of the boat, but she made it to the top in a few seconds. The two sailors helped her over the side, and she managed to heave herself onto the deck with a little dignity left intact.

  Wren looked around, blinking in disbelief at the sight. The ship’s decks were polished to a shine, the railings lacquered and covered in gilded-gold scrollwork. Ropes were coiled like neat little snails, and the crisp white sails were tidily reefed. But it wasn’t the bizarre museum-like quality of the boat that astonished her. It was the crew. It was like a dozen versions of Hale, if the copies had been slightly munged in the duplication process. Impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles bulging from shirts and coats. Golden-blond hair and lean, tanned faces, eyes as blue as the sky on a summer day. As she looked at them, she realized there were differences, one was shorter and a bit stouter, another had a wide forehead and a tan beard. But overall, the look was astonishing.

  “Welcome to the Holliander,” the man who had ushered them aboard said. He fixed a plumed tricorne hat atop his blond head. “I’m Captain Dysom.”

  Hale had reached the top of the ladder and ignored the sailor’s outstretched hand, springing over the railing. “Where should I tie up the boat?” He held a rope in his hand that trailed down to their little dinghy.

  “See to it, sailor,” the captain said, nodding to the other fellow, who took the rope from Hale without a word.

  Hale and the Captain looked each other up and down. “You don’t look like you’re from around here, friend,” Dysom remarked.

  “Don’t imagine it’s any of your business,” Hale retorted. “Now like I said, we’re just a husband and wife out for a little crab fishing. You get sick of beef after a while, you know.” Hale threw an arm around Wren and pulled her to him.

  Wren offered her best simpering smile. “You can see our crab pots from here,” Wren said, pointing at the bright yellow buoys just visible in the distance.

  “Dangerous times to be out of the harbor,” the captain said. “With war on the horizon.”

  “We have no problem with you lot,” Hale said. “This is king to king. It doesn’t need to concern ordinary folks like us.”

  “You keep saying you’re ordinary folk.” The captain leaned in. “But would ordinary folk be visiting the Alesian king’s beach home?”

  Wren’s breath hitched.

  “What’re you going on about?” Hale was sounding more rural the more their story unraveled.

  “We saw you through our spyglass,” the captain said, unsheathing his sword with an ominous ring of steel. “We know you work for King Imbris. And we intend to extract every bit of information we can from you.”

  Hale and Wren exchanged a look of dismay. Not good.

  Wren’s mind searched desperately for a plan as a crewman locked irons on Hale’s and her wrists and shoved them forwards. Hale had to duck his head as they descended the stairs below deck and continued through a narrow corridor.

  The sailor opened a carved door before them and shoved them inside.

  Wren stumbled over the threshold, falling to her knees on the carpeted interior.

  Hale growled at the sailor, turning so he blocked the doorway with his bulk.

  The captain laid the sleek tip of his sword on Hale’s collarbone, his demeanor calm. “Inside, sir.”

  Hale stood stock-still for a moment, eyeing the captain.

  The fool is going to get himself killed, Wren thought. “Hale,” she barked.

  Hale turned and entered the room.

  It was a captain’s stateroom, with broad-paned windows across the stern of the vessel that let in weak rays of dying light. The sun was setting. Lanterns had already been lit and hung from the ceiling and from hooks on the walls. The room itself was tastefully decorated in whites and pale blues and grays. Hale helped Wren up and into one of the two crisp white velvet armchairs that flanked a little brazier, a polished marble table of white and gray veins between them. On the wall hung a portrait of their captain, as well as a map of the Western Reaches…Aprica to the north, Tamros, Alesia, Magnus to the far south. Well, it wasn’t Magnus anymore, but an Alesian colony. The islands of Centu stood out amidst stylized killer whales, while the right of the map held only vague lines. Perhaps no one knew what was beyond Ferwich territory in the east.

  The soldier had left and the captain was pouring two glasses of a clear liquid from a crystal decanter. “Rum? For me?” Hale said. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s not for you,” the captain growled, unbuttoning the stiff collar of his jacket and taking a swig.

  Rum? Wren didn’t think she had ever had the stuff, though she knew certain confection recipes that incorporated the liquor. She almost laughed at herself for focusing on such a mundane detail. Here they were, captured by the enemy, likely to be tortured for knowledge they didn’t even have. Tears pricked her eyes as the memory of her last encounter with torture swam into her mind, unbidden. Killian had slid a hot needle under her fingernail, sending searing pain all the way up her arm. It had been such a small thing, yet she knew he had just been warming up, knew there were so many other ways to hurt a person, to maim them irreparably. Especially a woman. Wren’s lungs suddenly felt tight, as if they were trying to forcefully expel all her air. Her breathing grew ragged.

  Hale stood and rubbed her back, which was awkward to do with his hand shackled with irons.

  “What are you doing?” the captain asked, clearly alarmed to see Hale out of his seat.

  “She’s having a panic attack,” Hale said. “No doubt because she’s been plucked out of the sea by a boat full of hostile invaders. Lean forwards, Wren, and breathe slowly.”

  She did as instructed, feeling foolish for letting her anxiety overtake her, but willing to try anything to get air back into her chest.

  The tension began to ease, and she nodded at Hale. “I’m okay,” she said.

  Hale was sitting once again when another man strode in. Wren straightened to meet the new visitor, drawing in a shuddering breath. He was tall, like every Aprican, with sandy blond hair and a tanned, weathered face with a slicing scar on the right side of his chin. His white jacket bore even more medals and decorations, marking him as someone important. What was it about these Apricans and white? The man’s green eyes were shrewd but calm. Almost gentle. Wren relaxed in her chair ever-so-slightly.

  Captain Dysom handed the other glass of rum to this fellow. The other man took a small sip and set the glass down. “So here’s what the tide dragged in.”

  “We observed them in the king’s residence. We believe they work for him.”

  The white-jacketed man was studying Hale with the intensity of a falcon diving for a mouse. “You look familiar,” he said.

  Wren looked to Hale and realized that he wore a similar expression—half-confusion, half-recognition.

  “So do you.” Hale cocked his head, as if trying to place the man’s face.

  “Are you Aprican?”

  “Yes.” Hale stood, offering a manacled hand. “Hale Firena.”

  Recognition flared in the man’s eyes. “By the sun god himself.” He took Hale’s hand and shook it. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it, turning to the ca
ptain. “I’ll question the prisoners alone, Captain.”

  “But…” the captain protested.

  “But, General, is what I think you mean,” the man said. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, General.” Captain Dysom saluted and slunk out, glaring at the trio over his shoulder. Wren hid a smile with a cough.

  The general closed the door and pulled up one of the chairs from the little dining table across the cabin. “I’m General Jax Marius. I helped you and your family escape Se Caelus after King Evander’s coup.”

  “That’s it!” Hale said. “I remember! You came to our house, you…dropped me like a bad habit.”

  “I believe you were coming at me with a very warlike yell.” General Marius chuckled. “You had spirit, I’ll give you that. Not a lick of brains.”

  Little has changed, Wren thought, but she held her tongue. “I’m Wren Confectioner.” She held out her shackled hands to shake his.

  He took it. “Let me get these irons off you. Nowhere to go but into the drink anyway.”

  “He left the keys on the credenza.” Hale nodded to the ledge where the bottle of rum sat.

  “Idiot,” the general muttered before returning with the keys and removing both their irons. “Now, since we’re old allies, perhaps we can spare each other the unpleasantness. Will you tell me the truth about your relationship with the king? Do you indeed work for him? Because if you do, I would advise you to get out while you can. Being an ally of King Imbris is going to become a very dangerous status in about twenty-four hours.”

  “The army will be at the walls by then?” Hale ventured a guess.

  General Marius inclined his head in affirmation.

  Wren’s heart sank, though she knew it had been only a matter of time. Maradis would be under siege in less than a day.

  “The truth is, we don’t work for the king. Wren and I are both members of the Confectioner’s Guild. You must know, the Aperitive Guilds have significant political power in the Alesian government.”

  “We had heard as much,” General Marius said. “Though I don’t know why a bunch of bakers would have so much power.”

  Hale snorted. “Is Daemastra still sitting at the right hand of King Evander?” Hale asked. That was the cuisinier Hale had mentioned. The one who had taken too much interest in people with uncanny abilities. Wren shuddered.

  “Fair point,” the general said. “All right, so you’re members of this Guild. That doesn’t explain why you were in the king’s residence on Dash Island. We had been watching it, hoping he would send someone of importance there for safety.”

  “We were hoping the same, in a way,” Wren said. “We suspect the king has kidnapped a member of our Guild. We were looking for him, hoping he might be located here. He wasn’t.”

  The general looked between them, stroking the scar on his chin. “So there is discord between the king and his Guilds?”

  Hale sighed, nodding. “There’s discord between the king and just about every sector of Alesian political and economic society. He’s not popular. And the Aprican threat has only made him more…”

  “Desperate,” Wren muttered.

  “I was going to say ruthless. He’s like a wounded dog. Just as likely to lash out as his owner as any intruders at this point.”

  General Marius considered this, and a long moment passed before he spoke. “I would like to take you to camp to speak with our leadership. Perhaps there is a way we can work together. For a more prosperous Alesia.”

  “You mean spy for you?” Hale said.

  “Our king desires to leave Alesia as an independent territory after King Imbris is dealt with. Ruled by Alesians, governed by Alesians. Certain…tributes will be paid to Aprica, and Aprica will have a say in the direction Alesian politics takes, but our king does not have the time or interest to rule three countries. We’ve set up a similar situation in Tamros.”

  “I heard there were enough heads on pikes in Terrasia to line the walls of the entire palace. Is that the type of self-rule we can expect to enjoy under King Evander as well?” Hale countered.

  Wren blanched. She hadn’t heard such a horrible thing.

  “There are always certain…personalities who need to be eliminated. Who will never see the benefits that could come from Aprican rule. It’s unfortunate and distasteful. But sometimes necessary,” General Marius said, his mouth twisting.

  “If we say no, what will be done with us?” Wren asked. “Will we be allowed to go on our way?”

  “Unfortunately…no,” the general said. “I know Hale, so I would be able to ensure that you had comfortable accommodations. But you know too much at this critical juncture of our campaign here to let you go. Perhaps after the war is won.”

  “So we come with you as guests, or as prisoners,” Hale said.

  The general nodded.

  Hale exchanged a look with Wren. “Guests it is.”

  Chapter 20

  Night had fallen by the time Hale, Wren, and their captors reached the Aprican camp. The ship had sailed to a harbor a few miles north of Maradis, and then they had taken a carriage the rest of the way, backtracking towards the city. Hale stepped down from the carriage, offering his hand to help Wren. Gods, Maradis’s walls were close. The Aprican siege had begun.

  General Marius led them through the camp’s neat rows of tents and cookfires towards a large white tent emblazoned with the golden sunburst of Aprica. Hale’s emotions had been roiling ever since he’d laid eyes on the man. The general’s presence transported Hale back to that night in Se Caelus when his friend Roan had run in, breathless, to tell them that Hale’s father had been murdered in Evander’s coup. Marius had followed soon after, sent by an old family friend to help them escape, but Hale hadn’t given him time to explain that, attacking the man with a wild fury. Marius had subdued Hale in seconds, leaving his backside—and his ego—bruised. And now Hale found himself again with his life in the man’s hands. And worse, he had gotten Wren into this mess, too. Five years had passed and it seemed nothing had changed. Hale was still charging into situations without thinking them through—trusting his luck and his charm to get him out. He felt a fool. No wonder Sable had pushed him away. She deserved a man, not an idiot teenager. What had happened to the new Hale? Less than a week had passed and he had already reverted to his old ways.

  General Marius held the door flap of the large tent open for them, but Wren paused before she entered, her brown eyes fixed on a sight a few hundred yards away. Hale followed her gaze to where a man was tied to a pole in a clearing of tents, surrounded by a ring of torches. He would be lit up for everyone on the walls to see. Even from here, he looked bloodied and barely coherent.

  “Who is that?” Wren asked.

  “Prince Casius,” Marius said simply, without a hint of apology. “He was captured during the raid on the harbor.”

  They ducked into the tent. “Why is he tied up there for everyone to see?” she asked.

  “It’s a test,” Marius explained, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher on a lacquered table and downing it in one swig.

  “What kind of test?” Wren asked, taking the words from Hale’s mouth. She seemed to have recovered some of her strength from her moment of panic on the ship and now stood with her shoulders thrown back, her head high. Wren had a way of donning a hard veneer when necessary. It seemed that skill was serving her well now.

  Marius answered. “We need to see what kind of adversary King Imbris is. Is he the type that ignores his son and leaves him to rot, accepting the cold, calculated loss? Is he hot-blooded—driven to a rage by our insolence? Is he a brave, idealistic man who will stage a rescue? Or will he be merciful and send an arrow into his son’s heart to end his suffering? A test.”

  Anger coursed through Hale, heating him. It seemed that all these years later, Evander was still playing with people’s lives like they were pawns on a Fox and Geese board.

  Wren sank into a nearby chair.

  Hale sat in the chair next
to her and patted her knee.

  She offered him a weak smile.

  Hale examined the interior of the tent, searching desperately for some way out of this mess. The furnishings were surprisingly cozy—patterned Ferwich lanterns hung from the ceiling, giving off geometric patterns of light on the functional furniture. No crisp whites here, but blues and greens. There was a bed, a writing desk, a stand that held a suit of armor. “Is this your tent?” Hale asked.

  “It is,” Marius said. “I thought you’d be more comfortable here. I can sleep with my men.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Hale said.

  Marius unbuttoned his jacket and drew over another chair along with a tray of fruit and meats and cheeses, which he set on the little table between Hale and Wren. “Eat,” he said. “I’m going to get the king’s chief advisor, Sim Daemastra.”

  Hale stiffened at this, his hand frozen in the act of popping a grape in his mouth. Sim Daemastra was here? It didn’t surprise him, but somehow, he had still harbored some futile hope that he wouldn’t have to see the man.

  “You know him,” Marius said.

  Wren looked at Hale quizzically.

  “I do,” Hale said carefully. Perhaps the only consolation of Hale’s mother’s death two years ago was that she would be spared the Aprican occupation of Maradis. Hale was more convinced than ever that his mother had been Gifted, though he didn’t think she’d understood what that meant. But Daemastra did. Hale felt it in his bones. Daemastra knew of the Gifting and was searching for Gifted. What Hale didn’t know was why. Hale continued as the silence stretched. “He always showed a peculiar interest in my mother.”

  The general nodded. “That’s right. I vaguely remember that. Well, he’s still as creepy as hell, but I’ve come to trust him over the years. You can, too, if you agree to work for us. He has an uncanny ability to get things done. We wouldn’t be nearly as far as we are today if he hadn’t been at the king’s right hand.” Marius stood. “I’ll go fetch him, if he’s available. He’ll be interested in discussing how you might be able to help us.”