The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  It was well past midnight, what his mother had always called “the witching hour.” A sad smile twisted on his face. His mother had been magic and she hadn’t even known it. She would have been delighted. His father would have hated it.

  Hale walked through the slumbering palace, not sure where he was headed. He just knew that his feet needed to mirror his thoughts—moving, moving.

  He found himself in the empty hallways of Daemastra’s west wing. Moving towards the cuisinier’s kitchen, workshop, lair—whatever the man considered it. Daemastra seemed like the type of man who might work at all hours of the night, but Hale saw as he approached carefully that the room was dark.

  He lit an oil lamp, carrying it with him, running his fingers over books, the utensils, and implements. He wasn’t certain what he was searching for, only that there was something to find.

  Hale opened the icebox, revealing a meticulously organized set of glass vials and jars of various sizes. Each was labeled with a name. He frowned, taking one out, looking at its contents in the light of the lamp. Some sort of white powder. He held up one of the big ones, the size of a large jar that you might keep peaches in. “Martin,” the neat lettering read. He put it back, closing the door with a frown.

  He continued his surreptitious inspection, pulling a book off the shelf. He flipped through the pages before pulling the next. Anatomy. Infectious diseases. Alchemy. Metalworking. Chemistry. There seemed to be no natural science that Daemastra hadn’t studied. Perhaps the man truly was trying to discover a cure for the emperor’s condition.

  Hale put the last book back on the shelf. He tried to open a set of cabinets, but they were locked. Hale smiled. Locked cabinets had worthy contents. He looked around for something to pick the lock with and came up with a small knife and a paper clip. “Thank you, Wren,” he said as he maneuvered the lock open. His smile faded at the thought of her, his elation dimming. What was going on back at the Guild? He sighed. That wasn’t his home anymore. He had lost the right to care about them. This sterile workshop was his home now.

  “Jackpot,” Hale whispered as he pulled open the cabinet doors. The bottom shelf was filled with a dozen black notebooks. He pulled the last one off the shelf, flipping through it. Daemastra’s script was small and neat, his documentation meticulous. Experiment 427? Hale’s brow furrowed. Better start at the beginning. He retrieved the first notebook off the shelf, pulled up a stool, and began reading.

  As the pages turned and the oil in the lamp burned off, Hale’s horror grew. The notebooks went back a decade. It started with Daemastra’s notes on the Aprican Gifted. Cataloging them, studying them. Experimenting on them—oftentimes against their wills. Which infusions had which result. Secrets, leverage. This man lived and breathed the Gifted. Infusions.

  The notebooks documented Daemastra’s own increased vitality as he began using infused products himself. Youth. Intelligence. The healing of the limp that had plagued him since a riding injury years back.

  Hale moved through the notebooks, flipping through the pages, his eyes growing wider and wider. Daemastra’s rise to power. Working as Grand Patrician Evander’s cuisinier. Notes on recipes. Formulas. The coup that had ended King Vespian and Hale’s own father—Daemastra had been integral in aiding Evander’s rise to power. Hale’s mother’s name. Gifted potions to counter the emperor’s condition. The emperor’s condition...

  Hale slammed the book closed. “By the Beekeeper’s balls,” he swore. He ran his hand through his golden hair. Daemastra was keeping the emperor alive. But he was also poisoning him.

  “That crafty bastard,” Hale whispered into the darkness. In a way, it was impressive. Daemastra had made himself indispensable to the emperor. Him, and his twisted obsession with cataloging and understanding the secret of the Gifted and their infusions. By infecting the emperor with a disease that only Daemastra and his “infused formulas” could keep at bay.

  Hale slid the notebook back into its spot. He closed the cabinet, fumbling for far too long while trying to relock it. His heart was hammering in his chest. He was overcome with the desperate need to be away from this place—this room and the secrets it held. He hadn’t had a chance to read through all the notebooks, to find out if they revealed what Daemastra was doing to the bread, but that seemed like a small concern in light of what he’d uncovered. If Daemastra found him here...there was no telling what the madman would do.

  Finally, blessedly, the cabinet lock clicked shut. Hale blew out the lamp, replacing it where he’d found it.

  Hale weighed his options as he hurried back towards the barracks. He shook his head, fighting with himself. There was really only one option, and it was lunacy.

  But there it was. He needed to tell Evander. The man ruled an empire, and he was completely at Daemastra’s mercy. The invasion, the imprisonment of Gifted members, perhaps Hale could end it all by telling the emperor the truth. Or perhaps he would lose his head.

  Hale paused, chewing on his lip. He pulled a silver crown from his pocket. “Heads, I go talk to the emperor, tails, I go back to bed,” he said to himself. His luck had never led him astray. He shoved aside the little voice that told him that luck may not stay with traitors to their friends and countries. He flipped.

  Heads. Well, that settled it. Blooming hell.

  He turned left towards Emperor Evander’s wing. He had only glimpsed the man once since he’d taken over Alesia, since Daemastra had made Hale stand on that balcony behind the new ruler, forced him to look down upon the sea of people whose lives he’d helped ruin. Evander had changed much, no doubt thanks to Daemastra’s poisons. Hale remembered Evander from his youth as a virile man with a hard set to his jaw, a man who hadn’t smiled much. Actually, Evander had reminded Hale a lot of his father, though they’d been mortal enemies in Aprican politics. Now, the man was a shadow of his former self. A puppet.

  A set of guards in white and gold uniforms stood outside the emperor’s wing. “State your business.”

  “I need to speak to the emperor,” Hale said.

  “And I need a good lay,” the man said. “Doesn’t mean we’re going to get it. It’s past 2 a.m.”

  “I know, but I have intelligence for the emperor’s ears alone. Extremely time-sensitive. If I don’t get it to him, his interests could be irreparably harmed. Do you want to be the men responsible for one of the largest travesties in the history of the Empire?” Hale was laying it on a little thick, but the man’s attitude rubbed him the wrong way.

  The guards exchanged a look. “Could send him to the emperor’s steward, let him decide,” the one on the right said.

  The other seemed relieved by this suggestion. “Steward Exita’s chambers are at the end of the second hallway on the right. He will decide if you can interrupt the emperor at this hour.”

  “Thanks, mates,” Hale said, offering a little bow. “You’re a credit to your unit.” He rolled his eyes as soon as he passed by the two men.

  Hale didn’t turn right at the second hallway. He kept going straight towards the next set of guards. “Here to see the emperor,” he said.

  “Not here,” the guard said.

  Not here? Shouldn’t the other guards have just told him that?

  “When will he be back?” Hale said through gritted teeth, trying not to let his annoyance show.

  “Not sure.”

  “About now,” a wizened voice said behind him.

  Hale turned to find the emperor wrapped in a dressing gown, two more white uniformed guards behind him.

  “Sir,” Hale said. “I need to speak to you. It’s a matter of utmost importance.”

  “Middle of the night.” The emperor shuffled past him. He hardly came up to Hale’s shoulder. It seemed Daemastra’s poisons had been effective.

  “Please,” Hale said. He didn’t want to tip his hand before the guards—he wasn’t sure who might be in Daemastra’s pocket.

  “Go,” the emperor barked, opening his door. The two guards were approaching Hale.

&n
bsp; “You don’t even have a moment for the son of Willum Firena?” Hale called as the emperor went to shut the door.

  The emperor froze, turning to look at him. His eyes were milky, but Hale saw the recognition there. “Calladan, was it?” The emperor straightened.

  “Hale,” he said, his voice thick. He hadn’t heard anyone speak of Calladan, his older brother, in years. “The younger son.”

  The emperor sighed. “Come in. Five minutes. I just drank a sleeping draught.”

  Hale shouldered past the guards, shaking one of the men’s hands from where it rested in a less-than-friendly manner on his shoulder.

  The emperor’s chambers were huge, opulent, trimmed in gold gilt, with a dozen lanterns blazing merrily. The emperor waved Hale towards the fireplace before lowering himself into one of two large wingback chairs.

  “I’ll get right to it,” Hale said. “Sim Daemastra has been poisoning you. You’re not sick. Well, you weren’t originally. He made you sick. I found it all in his notebooks.”

  The emperor looked at him through watery blue eyes, the lines on his face shadowed in the flickering firelight. Then he started to laugh—a wet, wheezing sound.

  Hale leaned back, frowning as a hacking fit overcame the man.

  When his deep, phlegmy coughs died down, the emperor looked back at him, seeming to weigh him. “I thank you kindly for your loyalty. I always respected your father, you know. Even though I had him killed. He was an honorable man.”

  Hale furrowed his brow at the non sequitur. “Your Majesty, what about Daemastra?”

  “I’ll tell you this, because in your old age, you get nostalgic. And I’m pleased to see you, this reminder of the old days. But this news, this revelation you bring me—is nothing I don’t already know.”

  “What?” Hale leaned back, shocked. “You—You already know?”

  “When you make a deal with the devil, don’t be surprised when the devil comes to collect.” The king pushed up one of the sleeves of his dressing gown, revealing wrinkled skin covered in sun spots. But beneath... Hale leaned forward, his eyes widening in horror. Lines of black twisted beneath the skin, as if snaking through the emperor’s veins.

  “You don’t have to be a doctor to realize this isn’t natural,” the emperor said, pushing his sleeve back down.

  “What...?” Hale stammered, trying to shake off his shock.

  The emperor sighed. “I was young and power-hungry, and I let Daemastra off the leash, sanctioned his twisted...experiments. His obsession with the occult, with the Gifted, with infusions. He got me results, so I looked the other way and ignored his tactics. Before I knew it, we had run out of Aprican enemies to defeat. I was king, and I was satisfied. It turned out he wasn’t.”

  “Why don’t you have him arrested? Executed?”

  “Besides the fact that I would die? That mattered to me for a while; it doesn’t so much anymore. But my daughter, my grandchildren...I wouldn’t want them harmed. Daemastra knows my leverage points. He’s made it quite clear what would happen to my family if any ham befell him.”

  Hale shook his head. “So you do nothing? Let him have his way with Alesia?”

  The emperor stood on shaky legs. “I suggest you do what I do. Stay out of his way. Beneath his notice.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Hale said softly.

  “Then run,” the emperor said. “You did it once. You made a new life for yourself here. You could do it again.”

  “I don’t know that I could,” Hale said. “Everything I love...it is...it was...here.”

  “Then this is your bed, and I suggest you get comfortable,” the emperor said, shooing him towards the door. “That’s all a man can do.”

  Chapter 14

  “That is, without a doubt, the most idiotic, harebrained scheme I’ve ever heard. It will get us all killed. Or jailed. Or jailed and then killed.” Callidus sat behind his desk, as dark as a storm cloud.

  Wren and Thom sat before him, having just laid out their idiotic, harebrained scheme to ferry Olivia, Lennon, and Marina out of Maradis.

  “Does that mean you’ll let us bring them?” Thom asked, flashing his widest grin.

  Callidus rubbed his temples. “They’re not stray puppies.” But Wren saw him softening, considering.

  Wren and Thom exchanged a hopeful look but remained silent.

  “Beckett is Marina’s father. I’m not going to take her away from her family,” Callidus said. “But Olivia...I do feel responsible for her in a way. After what happened with Kasper and Greer.”

  Thom gave a little victorious shake of his fists.

  Wren smiled despite herself. “And Lennon?” she asked.

  Callidus let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, and Lennon. In for a pinch, in for a pound.”

  “Yes! You won’t regret this,” Thom said.

  “I doubt that very much,” Callidus said drolly. “To pull this off...” He pulled out a little black notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “We’ll need a forged bill of lading from the emperor for the goods, a whole hell of a lot of chocolates to use as cover, boxes to hide our actual luggage, and something to incapacitate Dash, Lennon, and Olivia.”

  “I figured we’d just knock them over the head,” Wren suggested.

  “Oh, did you? Do you want to be the one who has the honor of incapacitating Lieutenant Cardas without getting yourself killed?”

  Wren and Thom looked at each other and shrugged. “We figured you’d do it,” Thom said.

  “No thank you, Thom, no thank you. We’d be just as likely to kill the lot of them than knock them unconscious.”

  “What do you suggest?” Wren asked.

  “I know an apothecary who should be able to get us something that will put them under for a time.” He scribbled in his notebook, scrunching his already thick eyebrows into one long line. “Yes, I think we can pull it off. If you two make all the confections, I can handle the other arrangements.”

  “Yes, Guildmaster,” Thom said.

  Wren and Thom stood in unison. It wasn’t the worst of the jobs, to have to make the chocolate.

  “And don’t eat anything before tomorrow that you haven’t made with your own hands. The last thing I need is to lose you two as well.”

  “Yes, Guildmaster,” Wren said as they headed towards the door, winking at Thom.

  “Why does it sound like an insult when they say that?” She heard Callidus muttering under his breath as she closed the door.

  Wren and Thom spent the next twenty-four hours in the kitchen, mixing and boiling and stirring and pouring. They made amaretti truffles, buckwheat beehives, chai tigers, and spiked earl grey ganache. On and on they poured—orange blossoms and dulce de leche balls and toffee drops and gingerbread squares and peppermint swirls. They cooked until Wren’s feet ached and her stomach yowled from hunger. They took turns stealing a few hours’ sleep on the hard, little bench in the heat of the conservatory, the humid air melting away the aches in their backs and cricks in their necks.

  Wren was swaying on her feet, placing the last of the mezcal macadamia chews into neat rows in tidy brown cardboard boxes, when Callidus appeared in the doorway to check on their progress. He looked over the stacks of boxes tied with twine and merely grunted. “I had the servants bring a packing crate up to each of your rooms. Pack only what you need and then we’ll put the chocolates on top. Be ready in two hours.” He disappeared into the hallway as quickly as he had materialized.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would think that grunt was a compliment,” Thom said.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were right.”

  Wren and Thom trudged wearily up the stairs towards their rooms. Wren tripped over the first stair—only Thom’s arm kept her from falling flat on her face.

  “Did you infuse the chocolates?” Thom asked. “I know you’re clumsy, but even you can usually conquer a set of stairs.”

  Wren looked crossly at Thom. “Some of them. It’s hard not to when you�
�re making that many.” Wren’s gift infused chocolate with good luck, but in the act of infusing, she gave up her own luck for a time. She certainly didn’t feel very lucky right now.

  “Wren, Thom!” Olivia stood at the second-floor landing above them.

  “Hello,” Wren said carefully as she and Thom summited the final steps to the landing. It was strange to interact with Olivia, knowing she was under the emperor’s thrall.

  “You two look positively dead on your feet,” Olivia said, her pretty face twisted with concern.

  “We had a large order of confections to make. An order from the emperor,” Thom said.

  “About that,” Olivia said, walking beside them towards their room. “Why exactly did Callidus want me to come along? I normally handle deliveries to the Guild, not from it.”

  Wren’s mind raced. “Um...I suggested you come along.”

  “Why?”

  Thom and Wren exchanged a panicked look. Wren came up with the excuse. “Because...Lieutenant Cardas. He... I think he likes you.”

  “The Aprican Legionnaire? With the beard?” Olivia said. Her blue eyes widened.

  Thom raised an eyebrow and Wren gave a hopeless little shrug. “Yep. He asked me about you. Since we all have to live with the Apricans now, I figure it can’t hurt to get to know them.”

  “All right,” Olivia said slowly, deep in thought. A smile crept onto her cherubic face. “You’re right. It can’t hurt to be friendly. We leave at what, eleven? A little late for a delivery, isn’t it?”

  “To keep out of sight of the Falconer rebels,” Thom said sagely.

  “Makes sense.”

  They had reached Wren’s door now.

  “I’ll see you both in a few hours,” Olivia said brightly, waving and heading back down the hallway.

  “That was some first-class bullshitting. Dash has a crush on her?” He snorted a laugh.

  “Hopefully, they’ll be too busy flirting with each other to realize our cover story makes absolutely no sense.”