The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  “I’m not Patrick’s keeper,” the guildmaster said. “But I have not seen him myself. When you find him, tell him that I don’t look kindly upon my Guild members shirking their duties.”

  With that, the man turned and strode down the sidewalk to a waiting carriage.

  “And I thought Callidus was bad,” Wren said, frowning at the man’s back.

  “Callidus is bad,” Lucas said. “Guildmaster Alban is normally quite pleasant, at least from what Trick has always told me. I wonder what’s gotten him riled up.”

  “The city was attacked last night,” Wren said. “And the king sent Cedar Guards to protect us. Maybe this Alban fellow is as happy about it as Callidus is.”

  “He sent Cedars into the Guildhalls?” Lucas turned, his eyes wide. “Is he mad? Of course the guildmasters will see that as a challenge to their autonomy. And why would he waste those men? The attack wasn’t anywhere near Guilder’s Row.”

  Wren bit her tongue, wishing she could explain to Lucas the real truth behind the king’s concern over the Guilds. She realized she also likely knew why Guildmaster Alban was so upset. He was likely headed to another day of posturing and pontificating at the day’s Accord negotiations. The truth was, the king and the Guilds needed each other and both held sway over a major portion of Alesia’s political power. Neither could force the other’s hand, not unless things changed drastically. With the current standoff, Wren wasn’t sure the Accord negotiations would ever end.

  A sudden thought bloomed to life in Wren’s mind as she pondered it all. Could Trick be Gifted? “What if the same Black Guard who tried to kidnap Thom succeeded with Trick?” Wren asked.

  A skeptical look flashed across Lucas’s face. As if she were a madwoman spouting conspiracy theories. “Wren—” he began.

  “Don’t you ‘Wren’ me,” she said, poking Lucas in the chest. “I know what I saw. It’s funny how when a man’s hand is wrapped around your throat trying to crush the life from you, certain details come into stark relief. The man who attacked me was the Black Guard I saw at the wedding. If your father is unhinged enough to try to attack Thom, why not Trick?”

  “Because Trick is his son?” Lucas shook his head, perplexed.

  “So are you, but he almost executed you alongside me,” Wren pointed out.

  Lucas blanched at that and ran his fingers down her arms, taking her hands. “I believe you saw what you saw. And as much as it doesn’t make sense, nothing much is making sense right now.”

  “So ask your father,” Wren said.

  Lucas sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been putting it off, but I need to go talk to him.”

  “Into the lion’s den.” Wren offered a smile.

  “Wish me luck,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Wren frittered the day away cooking with Thom. The lad had a gift for confections, and he even saved her a few times, when her thoughts wandered off and she left her burner on too high or didn’t stir fast enough. She couldn’t get into the mindset she needed to infuse chocolate with luck, as her thoughts kept turning to the Apricans, the king, the Accord, and Lucas. She needed to talk to Callidus, to find out what had happened at Accord negotiations. And she wanted to talk to him about Lucas. She had known from the beginning that it would be hard to keep the secret of the Gifting from Lucas, but the secret seemed to be growing, its tendrils reaching into other areas of her life. Maybe there was a way to bring Lucas into the fold, to get around the binding wine that wrapped her tongue whenever she tried to share. Lucas had proven himself trustworthy, an ally of the Guild. He had helped her find Kasper’s true killer.

  And so it was that Wren found herself sitting on one of the benches in the Guildhall’s antechamber, mindlessly flipping through the illustrated pages of a cookbook, when Callidus barreled through the doors like a thunderstorm.

  “Callidus!” She popped up, suddenly very much regretting her decision to station herself here as she saw his face.

  He looked furious, and his hair was falling out of its normally-immaculate coif, his tie askew. “What?” he snapped.

  She drew her courage around her like a cloak and hurried to him. “I was hoping you’d share how Accord negotiations went today. Will those soldiers be staying with us for long?” She tried to school her face to be as open and innocent as possible, but whatever goodwill she had gained inviting Callidus to play King’s Quarters with them last night had clearly been annihilated.

  “That is Guild business and not the concern of an artisan like yourself,” Callidus hissed, his thick eyebrows drawing together. He leaned in. “Not to mention, never mention the Accord where you could be overhead. Are you daft, girl?”

  Wren recoiled as if struck, her lips furrowing in fury. “And here I was thinking that perhaps you might have possibly seen the value of letting someone else in to share the burden of running this Guild. It seems I was wrong, and you have everything under control. I’ll go back to rolling truffle balls like an apprentice. That’s clearly the only value I have to this Guild.”

  Wren whipped her head around and marched towards the exit, her fists clenched. As she pushed outside into the orange afternoon light, she let out a hiss of frustration. She needed to know what was going on. And if Callidus wasn’t going to tell her, she would find someone else who would. But first, she needed a bribe.

  Within minutes, Wren was marching up the stairs of the Distiller’s Guildhall, a box of chocolates in hand. She had developed a good relationship with Guildmaster Chandler—it was funny how being framed for murder brought two people together. If Callidus wouldn’t tell her what was going on behind the closed doors of the Accord negotiations, maybe Chandler would.

  The Distiller’s Guildhall was all dark woods and oversized brown leather furniture. Standing in the corner, as out of place as a pig in a candy shop, was a knot of Cedar Guardsmen, their hands fidgeting on their sword hilts. Wren frowned at the sight. Here too? Wren flagged down a servant, who led her to one of Chandler’s artisans, whose name she could not for the life of her remember. She suppressed a smile recalling how Sable had twisted the man in knots with her seductive smile when they’d been trying to get information from him.

  “I’m Wren,” she offered. “I’m hoping to see Guildmaster Chandler.”

  “Bastian. Let me see if he’s open to receiving visitors,” the man said, disappearing inside thick mahogany doors. Bastian. She’d try to remember that this time.

  “I brought chocolates!” Wren called through the crack before it closed in her face with a resounding click.

  She paced the hallway before the door, her shoes silent on the plush carpet. Finally, what seemed an eternity later but had probably been two minutes, the door opened. “He’ll see you,” Bastian said, clearly not pleased that Wren warranted a private audience with the Guildmaster.

  The room’s furnishings were as rich as chocolate cake, the kind that made you slightly ill after two bites. Leather-bound tomes crowded the tall shelves, while the massive wooden desk, credenza, and sofa set competed for space in the crowded room. Wren was half-surprised the thick velvet drapes weren’t pulled shut to complete the look of secrecy and mystery that shrouded the room.

  Chandler, however, looked incongruous in the space, with his marshmallow-white hair and his ash-gray suit and his outstretched hands. “Wren, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure.” He embraced her warmly. “You remember Guildmaster McArt?”

  “Hello,” Wren said, nodding to the other man, who stood by the fireplace.

  Guildmaster McArt inclined his head. “Glad to meet you under happier circumstances than our last encounter.”

  Wren laughed. “I believe I was…falling through the ceiling onto you all?” she said. She had been spying on them, believing Chandler had murdered Kasper over Guild rivalries. In the end, Chandler had been the king’s other chosen scapegoat for the murder.

  “It was one of the more remarkable entrances I’ve witnessed,” McArt said, sinking down into one of the oversized armchairs. In
one hand, the guildmaster of the Cheesemonger’s Guild held a glass of amber liquid while his other sleeve was pinned up, as he was missing most of that arm.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Chandler asked, making his way towards the sideboard ladened with bottles and decanters.

  “No, thank you,” Wren said. The ache behind her eyelids hadn’t totally receded. She wasn’t sure she wanted a drink ever again.

  “Are you sure?” Chandler said, pouring himself a glass. “We just bottled a new rye whiskey.”

  “Another time,” Wren said. “I was hoping I could ask you how the Accord negotiations went today.”

  Chandler exchanged a shrewd gaze with McArt and ushered her to sit on the sofa. She obliged and the cool buttery leather enveloped her. She stroked the tan cushion lovingly. Chandler settled into the other armchair, taking a sip. “Why aren’t you asking your own guildmaster these questions?”

  “I did,” Wren admitted. “He’s too damn secretive; he won’t tell me a thing. But we deserve to know what’s going on. This affects my life too. All of the Gifted’s lives. There are Cedar Guards stationed in the Guildhalls, for the Beekeeper’s sake! He can’t pretend things aren’t going sideways.”

  “So you think you can squeeze the information out of this old man that you couldn’t get from Callidus?”

  “I brought chocolates,” Wren said, handing the box to Chandler with a wide smile. No need to disguise her blatant attempts at bribery. Chandler would either tell her, or he wouldn’t.

  “I will take these chocolates,” Chandler said, “though I will deny to the death that they have anything to do with what I’m about to tell you.”

  Wren pressed her lips together, covering her smile. “Of course.”

  “Chandler,” McArt said, a word of warning in his tone.

  “Wren has proven her trustworthiness,” Chandler said. “Plus, maybe she can talk some sense into Callidus.”

  McArt snorted, taking a sip of whiskey. But he inclined his head, as if giving Chandler his blessing.

  “Accord negotiations are…as you suspected, not going well. The king is using the Aprican attack and movement to make demands of us that he would never have dreamed of before. He wants to station Cedar Guards at every Guildhall, as you no doubt have noticed. Supposedly for our protection. In reality, they are intended to oversee the production of all infused foods, to ensure they all make their way to the king for use in the war effort.”

  “What?” Wren said. “So the king thinks he can station a guard in my kitchen to watch me cook?”

  “Yes,” Chandler said. “And next to my stills.”

  “Unacceptable,” McArt muttered, downing the contents of his glass in one swallow.

  “If we give in to the king now, it’s the end of the Guilds as we know it. Everyone sees this, but there are those who argue that during times of war, we owe the king our absolute allegiance. That we must do whatever we must to ensure he has the resources needed to defeat the Aprican threat.”

  “That’s insanity!” Wren said. “If we give in to the king now, he’ll never give the Guilds back their autonomy. It’s giving in.”

  “See, she gets it,” Chandler said to McArt. He sighed. “I will not yield on this. The king will pry my Guild’s freedom from my cold, dead fingers.” The man’s eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Chandler got a little carried away this afternoon,” McArt said. “Threatened to out the whole secret unless the king renews the Accord as it’s always been.”

  Wren looked at Chandler in exasperation. “That’s exactly the kind of talk that got Kasper killed!”

  “See, she gets it,” McArt said, parroting Chandler’s own words back to him, earning him a cross look from the other man.

  “It wasn’t my finest hour, but the king needs to know. We won’t yield. At least I won’t.”

  “Nor I,” McArt said.

  “Who else?” Wren said.

  “Bruxius of the Butcher’s Guild is with us. Heads of the other infusing Guilds are craven fools, same with the Baker’s. They’d let the king kick them like dogs and snivel for more.”

  “Pike?” Wren said, referring to the dark head of the Spicer’s Guild, known for their trade in poisons.

  “He hasn’t even been there the past few meetings. I’m fairly confident he’ll ignore whatever the king says. So I count him on our side. Alban of the Vintner’s was as rabid as me against the king having his way with us, but he did an abrupt about-face in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t know if his wine has soured or what, but we can no longer count on his support.”

  The mention of Alban piqued her interest. Lucas had thought he was acting funny, too. “Are either of you missing any Gifted Guild members?”

  “No,” Chandler said, looking to McArt, who shook his head. “Why?”

  Wren shrugged. She wasn’t sure if Callidus would want her sharing the information about Thom’s attack, but she didn’t care. They had been forthcoming with her. “One of ours was attacked. We think it might be linked to the king. Just keep an eye out.”

  “We will do so.” Chandler inclined his head in thanks.

  “You can count on Callidus, you know,” Wren said. “Against the king.”

  “He’s playing his cards close to the vest,” Chandler admitted. “It hasn’t been clear whether or not he’s with us.”

  “Letting the king take over the Guild is madness,” Wren said. “He’s ruined enough in this city already without giving him free reign over our lives.”

  “And our coffers,” McArt added.

  Wren’s face darkened. “If Callidus isn’t with you now, he will be. I’ll convince him.”

  Chapter 12

  Hale cracked open a rosy crab claw with vicious abandon.

  “What’d that thing ever do to you?” Thom asked around a mouthful of sourdough bread. Dinner that night was fresh salad greens, tossed with toasted hazelnuts and crumbled cheese; a savory seafood stew brimming with mussels, clams, crab claws and chunks of whitefish; and toasted sourdough slathered with butter.

  Wren had just appeared with a tray of her own and sat down next to Hale, across from where Thom was sandwiched between Olivia and Lennon. It seemed that Thom was quite a hot commodity.

  “Nothing,” Hale said, forcing a lighthearted tone. He was in a foul mood, but that was no reason to take it out on the rest of them. After tossing and turning all night with only his blue balls for company, Hale had gone to talk to Sable. And she had completely blown him off, giving some excuse about paperwork and meetings. Either she didn’t remember what had happened between them last night, or she was pretending not to remember. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “I love this stew,” Wren said, inhaling the vapors from her bowl.

  “Agreed,” Hale said, grunting as he cracked another meaty crab claw between a silver pincer. The claw collapsed with a crack, splattering hot crab juice on Wren’s cheek.

  She squinted, and Hale wiped the juice off her cheek with his thumb before popping it in his mouth.

  “Ew,” Wren mouthed at him.

  Hale grinned, sucking meat out of the claw with gusto. The food was helping. So was the company. Anything to keep him from thinking of Sable. “You feel like such a carnivore when you eat seafood,” he said. He had already developed a significant pile of shells before him, in fact—they all had.

  “You’d probably leave a whole cow ribcage on the table if they’d let you,” Wren said dryly.

  “Do you think they’d let me get away with that?”

  “I can assure you,” Olivia said, “even though half the maids are in love with you, that would be pushing the limit of what even you can get away with.”

  “Noted,” Hale said.

  “I love it here.” Thom leaned back, putting his arms behind his head. “It’s worth it for the food alone.”

  “The company’s not so bad either,” Olivia said, her blue eyes tracking Thom’s every move. Hale hid a smile. A man like Thom would be good for
Olivia. Their new guildmistress wore her heart on her sleeve. She needed someone who would be gentle with it.

  “Some better than others,” Lennon said, ducking his head. “Here comes Marina.”

  The young woman approached, effortlessly lovely in an emerald green dress and colorful wrapped scarf. Her gleaming chestnut hair was pulled back into a messy knot, and her dark-rimmed glasses partially obscured eyes as green as her dress. Wren scowled next to him. Those two really didn’t get along. Well, Marina didn’t get along with many people. Even Hale and Marina’s short-lived romance had been equal parts arguing and kissing. What had he been thinking with that one? Oh, yes, distracting himself from admitting the truth of his feelings for Sable. Story of his life.

  “I see you’ve added another stray to your mangy pack,” Marina said to Hale as she stopped at the head of their table, ignoring the rest of them, including Thom, who seemed to be the subject of the quip.

  “Says the sad little lone wolf.” Hale smiled with too much teeth, leaning forwards, his chin on his hands. “Don’t you have some errands to run for Beckett?”

  Marina’s flawless skin colored, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Lennon, Grandmaster wants you,” she said, avoiding Hale’s gaze.

  “Oh, I see,” Hale said. “You’re on an errand right now. What a dutiful daughter you are.” Marina was the daughter of Grandmaster Beckett, one of their Guild’s most prominent members—and most uptight assholes.

  “Lennon.” She jerked her head, clearly loathing that she had walked right into Hale’s trap.

  “Coming,” Lennon said, getting up and grabbing the rest of his bread. “See you guys.”

  “Oh, Lennon,” Hale called after them, a brilliant idea springing to life. “We’re going out on Nysia Avenue tonight. You should come. By yourself, though. Strays only.” A night of mild debauchery was exactly what he needed to shake off his funk.