“As do I,” Fox said.
“I’m not always so sure. And where’s Hedy? Went by the Hen and Caber last night. They said she quit her job and left. She liked that job.”
Fox snorted. “You aren’t likely to see her again. She was taken by bandits on a forest road. I told the little fool exactly how to escape, and she disobeyed me.”
Giorgio blinked. “But…you are going to rescue her.”
“Why? I told you, she disobeyed me. A disobedient apprentice is dead weight. If she manages to escape on her own and begs my forgiveness, maybe I’ll take her back.”
Giorgio’s hammer crashed against his anvil, a sound like thunder exploding across the shop and rattling the walls.
“She’s a little girl,” Giorgio bellowed, red-faced with rage, “and your apprentice. You have an obligation to protect her—”
“I have no such obligation. She’s not blooded yet, not a full member of the coven.”
“Taken by bandits.” Giorgio paced in front of the forge, the heavy hammer swaying dangerously in his fist. “Do you even know what they’re probably doing to her right now?”
“Of course. And if she survives, she’ll look back on her experience as a valuable life lesson. Lesson being, this is what happens when you don’t do as I say.”
Giorgio stopped in his tracks. He raised his arm, pointing the head of the hammer at Fox.
“You need to leave. Now.”
Fox raised his chin. “Or else what?”
The forge darkened, shadows spreading across the wall at Giorgio’s back like skeletal wings. The glowing coals shifted from hot orange to seething purple and midnight blue.
“You’re the Dire’s assassin,” Giorgio growled, “but I’ve never seen you work. Maybe I’ll put you to the test. My steel against yours, and my craft against yours too. And maybe you’ll have a ‘sparring accident.’”
Fox wavered on his feet, uncertain. His eyes narrowed.
“We’re brothers by bond,” Fox said, “coven mates. You can’t strike me. It’s forbidden. The Dire would have your throat for it.”
“Accidents,” Giorgio said, “happen. Now get out.”
* * *
Imbecile, Fox thought as he stormed out of the blacksmith’s shop, slamming the door behind him. Useless, oafish—
“Ooh, somebody’s good and angry,” said the young woman at his side. “Wounded pride?”
He hadn’t seen her arrive, slipping up alongside him on the crowded street and falling in line with his furious stride. She was nineteen or so, a lean and tanned Itrescan who wore heavy robes and concealed her face and her rust-red hair under a sackcloth hood. When she turned to smirk at him, the paint edging her eyes caught a ray of afternoon sun. Streaks of bronze pigment, carefully applied to resemble the scales of a serpent.
“Viper. I hope I don’t need to repeat any of that conversation,” he said, ignoring her comment.
“Heard every word, I did. Hmph. I’m not that good? He’s got no idea.”
“He’s also our link to tracking the Owl,” he told her. “He’s forging some…odd equipment for her. She’ll come to pick it up herself, or she’ll send Worm and Shrike. When she does, follow them. We have to find Squirrel’s spellbook before they do. It’s concrete proof of her negligence.”
“You think that’s what she’s after? Bear’s convinced the three o’ them are running down those bounty hunters who got Squirrel roasted in the first place.”
“I cannot fathom,” Fox said, “that the Owl would waste her time on a vendetta against a couple of nobodies, in the name of a worthless, failed apprentice, when a document that could ruin her in the Dire’s eyes is floating around out there somewhere. She’s insane, but she’s not that insane.”
“Maybe she’s just that confident.”
Fox grabbed her by the arms and shoved her into an alley, backing her up against a crumbling brick wall. Viper bared her teeth at him and hissed. Her upper canines were jagged, brutally chiseled to points.
“Listen to me,” he said. “What we’re undertaking here—going up against the Owl and her little clutch of followers—is the most dangerous thing we have ever done or ever will do. Don’t contradict me. I give the orders. You follow them to the letter.”
“Get. Your hands. Off of me. Now.”
He let go of her. Viper didn’t stop baring her teeth until he’d taken two steps back.
“Just…do as I tell you,” Fox said, waving an awkward hand.
“I’m not your apprentice anymore, master,” she hissed, “but I’ll play my part. It’s going to be fun. And once we’ve exposed her, if the Owl and her parliament flee from the Dire Mother’s judgment, so much the better. Then we can hunt them down.”
Fox eyed the young woman, wary. “You’d enjoy that, would you?”
“You’ve been the Dire’s assassin for a long time,” she said. “Maybe it’s time for you to step down and hand the title to someone younger and more deserving. I’m helping you because when I take the Owl’s head it will prove to the Dire one simple truth: that I’m a better killer than you’ll ever be.”
“Have a care,” he told her. “There’s a storm in the air, and it’s going to shake this entire coven to its foundations.”
“Oh? Imagining a promotion in your near future?”
“Our Dire Mother won’t live forever,” he said. “Especially not without the Owl to protect her. As our slow-witted friend said, accidents happen. Change is coming, girl. Stay on my good side.”
Chapter Fifteen
Another night fell over the bandit camp. Renata and Hedy huddled together in the cold, their wrists shackled to the center pole of their tent by short chains. Their tethers didn’t give them room to lie down easily, so they kept their backs to the rough wooden pole. Not that they’d been given blankets or bedrolls to lie on.
Renata’s stomach clenched as the tent’s furs flew open, and she felt Hedy tense up beside her. The one-eyed bandit, his skin flecked with scars, stomped into the tent. He threw an armload of food to the dusty ground: a couple of hardtack biscuits flecked with blue mold; a bruised apple; and a twisted chunk of overcooked, flame-scorched meat. It was the first meal they’d been given all day.
“Eat up,” One-Eye said. “Boss is gonna need you tomorrow morning. Dangerous road ahead, and you’d better be ready to steer us the right way.”
“Could we get some blankets?” Renata asked. “Please?”
One-Eye stopped in mid-turn, shooting her a murderous look. Renata nodded at Hedy. The fourteen-year-old kept her trembling face downturned.
“She’s freezing,” Renata said. “Please.”
One-Eye looked at Hedy. He sighed. “Yeah, fine, I’ll see what we’ve got in the wagons.”
When he left, Renata picked up the apple, brushed it off on her sleeve, and pressed it into Hedy’s hands.
“Here. You need fruit. Keep your strength up.”
“You should take it,” she said, not meeting Renata’s eyes. “This is all my fault.”
“Nonsense. We’re going to get out of this. We’re going to be fine.”
Renata picked up the chunk of meat, dusted it off, and tore it into two ragged strips. The meat was burnt black, smelling of charcoal and dirt, but her mouth watered and her stomach growled like she’d been served a cut of exquisitely-marbled steak.
“We fooled him once,” Hedy said, her voice soft. “And that was luck. My master isn’t coming to save us, Renata. We’re all alone.”
Chains rattled as Renata turned. She took gentle hold of Hedy’s chin, lifting her face.
“Fine, then,” Renata told her. “We’ll just have to save ourselves.”
One-Eye came back just long enough to hurl a pea-green blanket at them. A ratty moth-eaten thing that smelled like a chamber pot, but it would stave off the cold better than nothing at all. Renata spread it over their laps.
“I’ve been in the middle of some barroom brawls, working at the Hen and Caber,” Renata said. “All right
, I’ve been in the middle of a lot of brawls. And you know what you do when the punches are flying and the furniture’s breaking all around you?”
“Duck?” Hedy asked, uncertain.
Renata smiled. “You look around, fast, and you grab the first thing you see. Then you figure out how to put it to good use. That’s what a brawl is: improvisation under pressure. And that’s exactly what you and I are going to do. So first, let’s see what we’re working with. I know you’re only an apprentice, but what can you do?”
Hedy thought about it while she chewed on a bite of apple. Renata bit off a mouthful of meat. It had a bitter, greasy taste, but it quieted the rumble in her stomach.
“Cantrips. Little things. Turn a meal bad, or curdle milk. I can snuff out a torchlight with a fistful of shadows. Most of my early training is all herbcraft. Healing poultices, remedies…poisons, but I’ve never actually poisoned anyone.”
“That’s good. It’s a good start.” Renata had another bite of meat, thinking it over. “Are there any poisons you can make with local ingredients? Things you could smuggle back if I convince Marco to let you go herb-scrounging for me again?”
Hedy bit her bottom lip. “A couple. Widowkiss. Hangman’s delight. The problem isn’t the herbs. I need tools: a mortar and a pestle, something to grind and mix with. And how will we use it? They won’t let us anywhere near their food.”
“You let me worry about that part. Improvisation, remember? I’ll figure it out. You just get the herbs and smuggle them back here. If we’re very lucky, you won’t need to use them. If I’m judging the road right, we’re about a day’s walk from Agliana.”
Hedy squinted. “What about it?”
“It’s a trading post, and they take their roads seriously. Outriders and patrols, all eager and hunting for bandit trouble. There’s a chance you’ll run into them. Just tell them everything and point them in this direction. They’ll keep you safe.”
“But Marco will kill you—”
Renata put her hand on Hedy’s shoulder. “And that’s another thing you need to let me worry about. Just get the herbs. I’ll do the rest.”
The next morning, two grim-faced bandits shoved their way into the tent at cockcrow. They unchained the women’s manacles and pushed them outside. The first rays of dawn brushed the sky with pale light, filtering through the tangled trees.
Small cooking fires sent up wispy, faint smoke, the men of the camp rousing themselves for a busy day. Marco stood by their stolen wagon, arms crossed, looking like a monument chiseled from stone and barely restrained rage.
Rough hands shoved Renata and Hedy to their knees in the dirt. Renata stared up at Marco, expectant.
“We need to break camp,” Marco said. “Been here too damn long, and I know thief-takers ride these roads. I’m not looking for a fight, least not one against heavy cavalry and veteran soldiers.”
“No,” Renata said, “you like your victims to be defenseless and unarmed.”
“Aye, that’s the truth of it. Makes the killin’ so much easier. Now we need to put at least seven miles behind us before sundown, and twelve would be better. There are two roads we can take: the Rover’s Strait and the Coinroll. Both of ’em come too close to Agliana—and Agliana’s garrison—for comfort. You, witch, are going to pick the road. Find us a safe and quiet route.”
“You’re not worried I’ll send you in the wrong direction?”
“Not even a little. Remember what I said happened to the last one who tried that? Don’t think I won’t feed you to the wolves. And if you think you’re gonna get rescued by the militia, think again. I said I don’t want a fight with the locals. It’s a waste of time and resources. I didn’t say we wouldn’t win.”
“I need supplies for the divination spell. Herbs.” Renata glanced at Hedy. “Woundwort, fletcher’s eye, and a fistful of autumn mint. Got all that?”
Before they’d slept—at least for a scant few fitful hours—Hedy had drilled Renata on the names of some local herbs so she’d sound convincing. Marco bought it. He strode into his tent and came back out with the ornate brass hourglasses, one in each fist. He shoved one toward Hedy’s face.
“You got an hour. Go!”
As Hedy scurried off, running like a rabbit for the woods at the edge of the bandit camp, Marco chuckled.
“You better hope she comes back,” he told Renata.
“Somehow,” Renata said, “I’m not too worried about that.”
* * *
Hedy took her reckoning by the rising sun, keeping it on her left as she sprinted through brambles and brush. The Rover’s Strait lay just ahead, and a chance at freedom if she was lucky enough to cross paths with an Aglianan militia patrol, but first things first. She crouched low in a patch of wild weeds, comparing leaf patterns and colors against her memories, figuring out what she had to work with.
Widowkiss offered a kindly death. Its victims simply fell into a gentle, dreamless sleep and never woke up again. Hangman’s delight, though, that was an invention of cruel minds. She remembered Fox describing, with great delight, how its victims’ muscles would contort and tear with horrifying force. Strangling them from the inside.
So, she thought, picturing Marco’s brutish face. Hangman’s delight it is.
Hedy had never poisoned anyone, but she couldn’t imagine a better place to start.
She plucked tinkers’ ears, wide leafy golden fronds, and rolled the other ingredients up inside to keep them safe. Two sheaves, one slipped into each of her shoes. She felt them squish against her feet as she tromped through the underbrush. For Renata’s “spell” she just gathered up an apron-load of random weeds and colorful bits of lichen.
She eyed the hourglass. It was running down fast, perilously fast, and she had to be sure to give herself enough time to get back. What she found, coming out of the brush and walking the long dirt road, made her heart soar.
Tracks. Hoofprints in the dust, and they looked fresh. Fresh and deep, she thought, and no cart-wheel grooves. No, there were at least a half dozen riders, maybe more, and they were no merchants. Hedy followed the road with one eye on the ground and one eye on the hourglass.
Still, she could only go so far. With less than a quarter of the purple sand left in the upper glass, she forced herself to turn around and trudge back toward the bandit camp. Back to her nightmare. Every nerve, every instinct screamed at her to drop the hourglass and run as far as she could until she reached civilization. Instead, she gritted her teeth and kept walking.
Renata was there for me. I’ll be there for her. Both of us get out of this, or neither of us does.
* * *
Hedy returned to camp as the last grains of sand sifted into the bottom of the hourglass. Renata rose as Hedy approached holding a bundle of brightly colored herbs in her apron. She moved to take them, and Hedy leaned in toward her.
“Patrols on the Rover’s Strait,” she whispered, and Renata gave her the slightest of nods.
“I need a map,” Renata told Marco.
What I really need, she thought, is a plan. Steering the bandits toward the patrol was an appealing—and obvious—thought. With any luck, they’d be rescued, or they could at least slip free during the fighting.
But what if Marco was right? What if his bandits won? The bandit chief claimed he’d mutilated and murdered a man for that very offense, walking his gang into danger, and Renata saw no reason to disbelieve him. She couldn’t risk her and Hedy’s lives like that, gambling that the thief-takers would beat Marco’s men.
At the same time, steering him the other way was no better. Nothing said there weren’t patrols on the Coinroll road. It wasn’t like she really had a magic spell to find out. The best-case scenario was a free and open journey, and that would accomplish nothing but keeping them in chains for another miserable night.
The manacles around Renata’s wrists chafed when she moved her arms and felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. Her best chance of escape was making a ‘mistake’ that led the ba
ndits into a fight. It was also her and Hedy’s best chance of getting killed, if Marco blamed her for it.
But what if, Renata thought, I’m not the one making the mistake?
Marco led her to an open tent with maps spread out upon a knife-scarred table. A handful of his men gathered around, curious to watch his “pet witch” at work.
Good, she thought as she sprinkled her herbs over a map and made slow, swaying motions with her outstretched fingers. I need an audience for this.
Renata had worked at her father’s inn since she was old enough to polish a glass, and she’d spent most of that time tending the bar. The years had taught her more than how to pour a drink or duck a flying chair: they taught her about people. How to read them, how to keep a customer entertained or give an ear for his sorrows. Now, she realized, that skill might be the only thing standing between her and a grisly death.
She chanted gibberish under her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, putting on a show. Pretending to concentrate, brow furrowed, she gasped out her imaginary tension on a gust of held breath.
“So?” Marco said. “What route do we take?”
She didn’t answer right away. Renata looked in his eyes, held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and to the side.
“Take the—” she paused, as if reconsidering her words at the last second. “Take the Coinroll. There are patrols on the Rover’s Strait.”
Marco squinted at her.
“Look me in the eye,” he said.
She obeyed, pretending reluctance. Marco’s thugs gathered closer around them.
“Which road,” he said slowly, “is safe?”
“The—the Coinroll. Don’t take the Rover’s Strait. It’s dangerous.”
She dropped her gaze again. Marco studied her in silence, his frown deepening.
“You lying bitch,” he growled. He looked to the others. “Pack up! We’re taking the Rover’s Strait.”
“No!” Renata cried, feigning terror. “I’m telling you, that road’s being patrolled. You’ll be attacked if you do that!”
The Instruments of Control Page 9
