by Claire Luana
“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 rooms. 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.”
“So why’re we here?” McArt called out.
“To the point. Good man.” Daemastra smiled. His teeth were so white and perfect—large for his thin lips. Wren fought to keep the grimace off her face. Something was off about the man. “We wanted to quell any rumors going around. While the Falconer rebels have been a bit of a thorn in our side, we have made significant progress in rooting them out. There should be no more attacks like yesterday’s explosion in the Guild Quarter.”
“And what of the grain?” Guildmaster Beatrix asked. “I heard half the city’s stores were lost in the attack.”
“There will be no shortage of flour,” Daemastra said smoothly, motioning to the mound of pastries behind him. “Indeed, I hope you have all helped yourself to this morning’s delights. The emperor has the remaining grain under guard. We will work with each of your Guilds to provide access to your allotted quota.”
Mutters rounded the table.
“I assure you, so long as your Guilds cooperate with our modest requests, life under Emperor Evander will be quite unchanged from what you are used to. But a word of caution on that front. The Spicer’s Guild has somewhat...rudely rebuffed our request that they visit the palace to submit to questioning and pledge their loyalty. The emperor will not tolerate such insubordination. As of today, the Spicer’s Guild is hereby disbanded. If you are aware of the location of a Spicer’s Guild member, you are required to report that individual to the Aprican legion so they may be brought in for questioning. Anyone found harboring a member of the S
picer’s Guild will be deemed complicit.”
Sim Daemastra’s words fell over them like a suffocating blanket of fondant. No one said a word.
Callidus’s face was purpling, a vein growing in his neck.
Wren laid her hand on his arm—a warning. Nothing good would come from exploding at this man.
It seemed her warning wasn’t enough. “Disbanded?” Callidus spluttered. “For missing a meeting?”
Sim Daemastra had the wherewithal to look apologetic. “The emperor requires absolute obedience during these delicate times. Perhaps later, when relationships are...strengthened...such a slight would not be as great a concern. But the Spicer’s Guild has made their contempt for the emperor clear. There will be no quarter for such behavior.”
Wren looked across the table at Chandler and McArt. They had been two of the most vocal critics of King Imbris’s overreaching, but neither of them spoke up now. Chandler was picking crumbs of croissant off his plate while McArt stirred his coffee. Neither would meet her eye. She pursed her lips. Had they lost their nerve?
“The emperor bid me to share how much he appreciates your time and cooperation. Are there any other questions?”
Silence. Callidus was just shaking his head, his fists clenched by his sides.
Daemastra smiled, tucking his hands in his strange white robes. “Well then. I know you are all busy people. Please feel free to stay and enjoy the refreshments as long as you like.” He turned and disappeared out the door, followed by his two Aprican guards.
It was a long moment before anyone moved. Bruxius got to his feet first, ambling over to the table at the front of the room to refill his coffee and grab another scone.
Callidus let out a little laugh of disbelief. “No one...not one of you had anything to say to our new overlords? No concerns about the change in policy?” His voice dripped with sarcasm like honey from baklava.
“I’m sure the emperor will secure the best interests of the Guilds, and Maradis,” Beatrix said.
Wren’s mouth fell open. What? What happened to standing together? A united front?
“Oh, you’re sure, are you?” Callidus said, pushing back from the table and pacing behind his chair. “How long before he disbands one of our Guilds for looking at him the wrong way?”
“Don’t give him reason to,” Chandler said. “The emperor is a fair and righteous ruler. If we trust in him, he will bring glory to all the lands of the Aprican Empire.”
Callidus stopped moving. “What?” he asked, exchanging a look of disbelief with Wren. “Is this a joke?”
“He’s right,” McArt said in his gruff tone. “We need to trust in the emperor.” Murmurs of assent sounded around the table.
Callidus was shaking his head, his dark eyes wide. “And do the rest of you feel this way as well?”
Nods. Grunts of affirmation.
Wren looked around the room, craning her head to look at the corners, the ceiling. What in the Beekeeper’s name was going on? Were they being watched, and they were the only ones not in on it?
“Wren, get up,” Callidus said, straightening his gray waistcoat. “We’re leaving.”
Wren scrambled after Callidus, throwing one last look over her shoulder at the seated guild heads. Fear was coiling up from her center with grasping tendrils. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Callidus radiated silent fury as he strode through the polished halls of the Tradehall.
Wren had to jog to keep up.
In the antechamber, Lieutenant Dashiell sat reading a copy of The Maradis Morning. He jumped up when he saw them, tucking the newspaper under his uniformed arm.
Callidus swore under his breath, holding up a hand to him. “We need a moment. Private business.”
And then they were out the door into the dark windswept Maradis morning. Wren pulled her cloak tightly around her before the wind caught it. Dash was wise enough to stay behind in the warmth of the building, though she felt his eyes on them through the panes of the door.
Callidus turned on her. “I thought Chandler was with us.”
She backed up a step. “He was! He is...I don’t know what that was.” Her mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “Just yesterday...you were there. He wanted us to stand united in opposing the emperor’s policies.”
“What changed between then and now? Because he sure as hell didn’t seem to be standing united! They all seemed united against us!”
“I don’t know,” Wren said lamely. “Maybe...they’re being blackmailed again? Like with King Imbris?”
“Or maybe the other Guilds have decided that the Confectioner’s Guild has been on top too long and should be the next to go,” Callidus suggested blackly.
“Chandler wouldn’t... They wouldn’t...” Wren stammered. They had been allies once. Friends. But who knew...in this new world. Perhaps it was Guild eat Guild in order to survive. “If that were true, why did he and Beatrix go to the palace yesterday? Why did they talk to us?”
“To throw us off the scent! To make us let down our guard and think we had allies.”
“Maybe,” Wren stammered. It didn’t fit. Chandler wouldn’t do that. Not after everything their Guilds had been through together. She had saved his life.
Callidus wagged his finger at her nose. “Until further notice, no talking with members of any other Guild without my permission or knowledge. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Wren said. Though she wasn’t sure who she had to talk to anymore. All of her friends and allies were gone. Fled—or dead.
Chapter 10
Olivia paused in the antechamber, the tasks on her to-do list forgotten. There were a half-dozen Aprican legionnaires carrying boxes up the stairway into the Guildhall. What in the Beekeeper?
She caught sight of the man directing it all, acting like he owned the place. Who was he? Olivia clasped her hands behind her back, striding over towards him. “Good day, sir,” she said, trying to keep her annoyance hidden. “What’s all this?”
The man turned to her, his blue eyes shrewd and calculating. He was handsome, like all these Apricans seemed to be. Perhaps a bit generic-looking, she thought with savage evaluation. Though from the way he held himself, he thought himself the Sower’s own gift to the female sex. “Captain Ambrose.” The officer nodded to her, his smile a touch too wide. “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“Olivia Treekin, Guildmistress of this Guild. Usually all shipments go through me. I wasn’t apprised of this one...” She let the sentence linger, her intent clear.
“My apologies, Guildmistress.” Ambrose had the wherewithal to look apologetic. “It’s a gift. Pastries from Sim Daemastra, the emperor’s own cuisinier. An apology for the tardy return of one of your grandmasters.”
“Which grandmaster?” That perked up her interest.
“Grandmaster Beckett,” Ambrose replied.
“Beckett has returned?” Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. Despite Beckett’s treachery towards Callidus, she was relieved to hear he was back. His ways were misguided, and he was a pompous ass, but he had the best interest of the Guild at heart. And most days, he was a lot easier to find than Callidus, who had a way of disappearing on her without a moment’s warning. It would be nice to have a grandmaster around again to consult with when things came up. “Does Marina know?”
“If you’re referring to the comely brunette girl with glasses, then yes, they had a somewhat awkward reunion when we first arrived.” A smile twitched at the corner of Ambrose’s mouth.
“I’ll have to see that he has what he needs,” Olivia said, wanting to be away from this man’s oily charm. “I presume you and your soldiers can see yourselves out...”
“Indeed,” Ambrose said. The uniformed soldiers were already filing down the stairs, their arms empty of burdens. “I suggest you enjoy some of the delicacies we’ve brought. I’d say they’re tasty enough to impress even the Confectioner’s Guild.” Ambrose gave her a half-bow before pushing out the door, h
is soldiers in tow.
Olivia stood for a moment, shaking her head. What an odd interaction. Never mind, though. She was coming to realize that the Apricans were a strange lot. She shook off the feeling and headed up the stairs.
She found Grandmaster Beckett in the library surrounded by Marina, Lennon, and enough pastries to feed a small army.
“Grandmaster!” Olivia crossed the room. “Welcome back.”
Beckett turned and to her surprise, pulled her into an embrace. Olivia suppressed her shock and gave him a hesitant pat on the shoulder.
“I couldn’t be happier to be back home,” Beckett said, smiling broadly. He looked a few pounds heavier, but other than that, none the worse for the wear. Olivia was surprised and relieved. She hadn’t wanted to think what two weeks in an Aprican dungeon would do to a man. It seemed...nothing.
Beckett put his arms around Marina and Lennon’s shoulders, pulling them to him. Both of them looked discomforted, but they pasted on smiles. The relationship between Marina and her father had always been rocky, but Olivia hoped that Marina and Beckett could use the events of the past weeks to start fresh. At least Marina still had a father, even if he was overbearing. Olivia was entirely alone in this world.
“We’re happy to have you,” Olivia said, shoving aside her moment of self-pity. The Guild was her family, and one of those members was home. It was a moment of celebration for all. “I’m glad to see you looking well. And bearing gifts, no less.”
Beckett turned to the boxes of pastries that had been set out on the counter. “Have something! I can attest everything is delicious.”
Olivia shrugged. Beckett released Marina and Lennon from his stranglehold, and the three of them peered into the boxes, surveying their options.
“Strangest reunion ever,” Lennon whispered to Olivia, and even Marina smiled.
“Who knew the Apricans were so into carbs,” Marina said. “You’d think they ban them from the Empire in order to maintain their perfect physiques.”
“The Apricans are what we like to call ‘lucky bastards,’” Lennon said, selecting a frosted donut. “They can probably eat enough for three men without gaining an ounce.”
