The Instruments of Control

by Schaefer, Craig

  He turned a page and slid it across the table toward the brothers. It bore a sketch of a filigreed G and R on a heraldic crest, the letters entwined.

  “The Banco Rossini will become the Banco G-R. And, as its first official act, it will fully acquire my family’s wool business. For a token payment of a single copper coin, of course.”

  “I’m stepping back,” Albinus said. “Staying on the board, just an advisory position, but…I’ve had a good run. It’s time to pass the torch and enjoy the years I have left.”

  Now that you can, Felix thought. Albinus had been one step from a poorhouse before Basilio Grimaldi and his money swooped in to save the day. The old man had no idea who he was bargaining with.

  Only I do, he thought. And only I can stop him.

  Basilio looked between the brothers. “Felix, you’ll be overseeing operations here in Mirenze. Day-to-day management. Calum, your father tells me you’ve done excellent work drumming up business in Murgardt. I’d like to keep you on that, for now.”

  Calum looked pained. “If it’s all the same, I’d really like to spend more time at home. You know, Felix is a great salesman, and administration is more my forte—”

  “Felix,” Basilio said, smiling thinly, “will be busy starting a family with my daughter. Once my grandchildren are born, then I’d be happy to discuss a different arrangement. Why don’t you take Petra with you? She seems like an adventurous young lady. I’m sure she’d enjoy the travel.”

  Calum sank into his chair, chin to his chest.

  “Of course. As you wish.”

  And while he’s roaming far and wide, it’s just me and Basilio at the helm, Felix thought. Which means, as far as he’s concerned, our family business is his to do with as he pleases.

  The why part, that still perplexed him. The Banco Rossini was on its last legs, a pale shadow of the glory it held in his grandfather’s day. What kind of a fool bought new sails for a sinking ship? Even after the merger they’d be staying afloat on Basilio’s purse, between his legitimate income from the wool business and the untold fortunes he reaped from his underworld dealings—

  The answer hit him like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky.

  Felix swallowed and clenched his toes tight, straining to keep his face expressionless. Basilio Grimaldi liked to think himself invincible, but if the spark of hope in Felix’s heart told the truth, he’d just revealed a crack in his armor.

  “Moving on,” Basilio said, “as you might know, the Council of Nine already had a vacancy. I regret that the number of empty chairs has swelled to three with the tragic death of our chairman and the disappearance of another key member. He and his caravan were lost on a trading expedition.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous table to sit at,” Calum said, drawing an angry glare from Albinus.

  Basilio arched an eyebrow. “An august table, young man, and one rooted in centuries of Mirenzei history. We may have an Imperial governor these days, instead of the grand dukes of old, but the council still serves as the silent hand of commerce in this city. I expect to be sworn in as the new chair very shortly, at which point it will be my great pleasure to offer Felix a seat of his own.”

  “You honor me.” Felix forced the words out, bowing his head to hide the disgust in his eyes.

  “I’m only seeing one problem,” Albinus said. “Lodovico Marchetti. The Banco Marchetti has blocked us every step of the way for over a decade now. We’ve had to scrap and claw for every rotten inch of ground. They see this merger coming, they’ll hit us with everything they’ve got. Are you sure there are no legal loopholes they can invoke to stall us?”

  Basilio patted the old man’s shoulder. “What do I keep telling you? You worry too much. The Council of Nine will back us. The Imperial governor is…easily swayed with gifts, let’s say, and I might have a bit of an inside edge with the Marchetti family.”

  “Oh?” Calum said. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing you need be concerned about. But I don’t think they’ll be posing a problem for much longer. All that matters right now is sealing the union between our families. The day after tomorrow, the Rossinis and the Grimaldis will become one—and a force to be reckoned with.”

  “I’m a lucky man,” Felix said, smiling like he meant it.

  That night, when Basilio left and his family turned in, Felix slipped out of bed. He winced as his bare feet touched down on the frigid floorboards. Felix pulled on slippers and threw a heavy robe over his shoulders.

  It wasn’t a simple case of pre-wedding jitters. He had work to do.

  The hearth in his father’s study sat cold and dead. He kindled it, just enough to cast a yellow glow across Albinus’s bookshelves. A treasure trove of heavy leather-bound tomes, covering everything from history to finance to law. He ran his finger along the weathered spines, pulling down this book and that, making space on his father’s desk to study.

  If he was right, Basilio had given the game away. Felix thought he knew exactly why Basilio had designs on the Banco Rossini—and just how badly he needed Felix’s help.

  You showed me your throat today, he thought, opening the first book and poring over dense columns of faded print. Now I need to find the right way to tear it out.

  Chapter Twenty

  In her time tending bar at the Hen and Caber, Renata had met more than a few veteran soldiers. Every one of them, once they’d drunk themselves limber and eager to unburden themselves, described life in wartime much the same way: long stretches of dull boredom that turned to sheer blinding terror in the space of a heartbeat.

  It was like that when the road wardens attacked.

  The Seven-Fingered Men set out along the Rover’s Strait, their ragged train unencumbered by any notion of military discipline. Marco led a rough procession of horses, footmen, and carts, all clattering along the forested road at the speed of a slow walk.

  That was good for Renata and Hedy, at least, since they’d been manacled to the back of their own stolen wagon. No room for passengers, the back piled high with plunder and broken-down tents, so they trudged behind it with their wrists chained at the end of short tethers.

  “They’re going to rest soon, right?” Hedy asked. “They’ve got to stop and rest soon.”

  Stumbling along beside her, Renata forced herself to smile. Someone had to put on a cheerful face, even if she didn’t feel it in her heart.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t like hiking?”

  “My legs are shorter than yours,” Hedy grumbled.

  Marco’s men paid them no heed, some of them outpacing the cart without giving the prisoners a second glance.

  “I still don’t understand it,” Renata said. “You and that mouse mask.”

  Hedy shrugged. “We’re all given names by the Dire Mother, and masks to suit. Master thinks it’s an insult that she named me Mouse because I’m timid and small, but I think he’s wrong. Mice see and hear everything, and they can go where bigger creatures can’t. Everyone underestimates a mouse.”

  “No, I mean…you’re kind. Why would you want to be a witch?”

  Hedy frowned. “We can be kind. Or we can be as cruel as you make us. We’ve been burned, hung, cut up…how kind would you be? It doesn’t matter. Any day now, we’ll all be going to Wisdom’s Grave, and you’ll never hear of a witch again outside of campfire stories.”

  “Wisdom’s Grave?”

  “The resting-place of the first witch who ever lived. The font of knowledge and magic. It will be a homeland for people like me. We always begin our sabbats by asking the Dire, ‘Will you lead us to Wisdom’s Grave?’ And she always responds, ‘Yes, I will.’”

  “So why hasn’t she yet?” Renata asked.

  Hedy stared straight ahead, her lips pursed.

  “She will. When the time is right. It’s a wonderful place, where we can be wild and free. And some cattle may live there, useful ones, but they’ll do as we say.”

  “Cattle?”

  “That’s…well, anyone who isn’
t a witch—”

  “Like me,” Renata said.

  “It’s just a word.”

  “Words mean things, Hedy.”

  “Some mean it harshly,” Hedy said, “but Miss Owl says it’s a compliment. Think about it: cattle give milk and meat, leather and bone. Every part of a cow is valuable. You can’t have a community without cattle.”

  They walked side by side in awkward silence.

  “Hedy,” Renata eventually asked, her tone cautious, “have you ever seen any proof that this ‘Wisdom’s Grave’ really exists?”

  Hedy wrinkled her nose. “Have you ever seen proof that the Eternal Garden exists? But you still think you’ll go there when you die, don’t you?”

  “That’s different. You’re talking about a place here, a place of soil and flesh and blood.”

  “I’m talking,” the girl said, “about the coven who saved my life and gave me something to live for. You don’t know where I’ve been. You don’t get to judge my—”

  The keening cry of a nightjar echoed through the woods. Renata’s chin shot up, her ears perked.

  “Shh!”

  “Don’t you shh me! Just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean—”

  Renata waved one manacled wrist, chains jangling, and whispered hoarsely as the bird hooted a second time.

  “Hedy. Listen. That’s not a bird. That’s a man making a—”

  That was all she had time to say before the battle began.

  Lean men on lean horses crashed through the foliage on both sides of the road, bows already nocked and ready to fire. A random shot whined past Renata’s ear like a furious hornet, as she grabbed Hedy and dragged her to the muddy ground. Their tethers kept them from slipping too far away, but she still hauled the squirming girl about half a foot beneath the back of their wagon. The wooden slats over their heads offered shade but little else as the fight raged around them.

  One of Marco’s men went down with a chest like a pincushion, writhing in agony as he feebly slapped at the arrow shafts that impaled him. A horse shrieked as a running bandit slashed its throat open, collapsing onto its forelegs and sending its rider—a road warden dressed in the blue and brown of the Aglianan militia—tumbling from the saddle. He’d barely hit the dirt before the victorious bandit brought his sword point slamming down into the man’s open-faced helmet.

  Marco strode through the fray with his mighty two-hander, laughing as he swung the massive steel with brutal efficiency, cutting down his enemies and leaving carnage in his wake. He’s loving this, Renata thought with horror, and worse…he’s winning.

  All hopes of rescue shattered like fine-spun glass as the bandits turned the tide. Corpses in blue and brown dropped all around them, outnumbered and outfought by Marco’s band. The Seven-Fingered Men had taken casualties of their own, but it was too little, too late. Renata watched as a lone road warden turned his steed and thundered away, heading off to find reinforcements and raise an alarm.

  A single arrow impaled him through the back of the neck. He collapsed in the saddle. The horse carried his corpse a good fifty feet before it finally slowed to a confused trot.

  For a moment, near silence. Nothing but the fingers of the wind in the trees and whimpering moans.

  “Medic,” one of the bandits shouted, “he’s bleedin’ out! Medic!”

  Now came the scramble to shake off the battle shock, take stock, and save the dying. Boots pounded through the mud as Marco pointed and bellowed orders. Renata and Hedy eased out from under the wagon, nearly entangled in their chains.

  One-Eye stood near the wagon, staring down at a dead bandit with a look of sheer disgust. Renata’s heart pounded. Her gambit could backfire in a dozen ways, but it was all she had.

  “I warned him,” she said softly, just loud enough for One-Eye’s ears. “I warned him we’d be attacked if we took this road.”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at her. He just walked away. Now, though, his glare was fixed on Marco.

  Message delivered, Renata thought. It was a hopeful beginning.

  Once the wounded had been loaded onto carts—and the dead left to feed the forest—the column made double time until they were well away from Agliana. They camped for the night in a hilly meadow, circling the stolen wagons and building fires just big enough to stave off the worst of the night’s chill.

  Back in their tent, chained to the center stake once again, Hedy sat silent. Renata stretched out her leg and parted the skins with the toe of her boot, giving her a narrow peek out at the campsite.

  “Renata?” Hedy asked, her voice small.

  “What is it?”

  “Are we still friends?”

  Renata squinted through the partly open flap, straining to see. Out in the camp, an argument raged around the fire, but she couldn’t make out the words. Just the body language: pacing, fists punching the air.

  “Sure,” Renata said. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “Well…I did call you a cow. On accident.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  She reached backward, found Hedy’s hand in the dark, and gave it a squeeze.

  “We’re in this together,” Renata said. “And we’ll get out of it together. I promise.”

  Out by the fire, Marco shot to his feet. He swung his mighty fist and a bandit’s shadow crumpled to the ground.

  “Uh-oh. Looks like somebody’s angry,” Renata murmured.

  She yanked her leg back and let the flap fall closed when she saw a figure prowling their way. One-Eye ripped open the furs and stomped into the tent, dumping another armload of half-spoiled food onto the grass between the two women. Renata couldn’t miss the ugly purple bruise rising on his chin.

  “Why do you follow him?” she asked as he turned to go.

  “Stupid question. He’s the boss.”

  “The ‘boss’ just got how many of you killed today because he refused to listen? I counted at least five bodies.”

  One-Eye glowered down at her. “You’re a witch. He was probably right not to.”

  “Oh? Does he listen to you when you give him good advice?”

  From the pinched look on his face, Renata knew she’d scored a direct hit.

  “Don’t mean nothin’,” One-Eye said. “Way our band works, Marco’s gonna be in charge ’til the end of the road.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t suppose you noticed how many fingers he’s got.”

  “Ten,” Renata said.

  “Aye, and so did the boss before him. Boss before him, the original, had seven. Hence our oh-so-clever name. There’s only one way to take the boss’s spot. Trial by combat. And there ain’t no man in this camp stupid enough to take him on. So you girls better get used to making him happy, ’cause you’re gonna be doing it for a long, long time.”

  He left without another word.

  Renata weighed their options.

  Poisoning Marco—poisoning the whole camp, if they could manage it—and making their escape was still their best chance. Hedy had the deadly herbs, wrapped in leaves and hidden away, and all she needed was a mortar and pestle to create her concoction.

  How to get them to swallow it, that was the hard part.

  “Hedy, that poison…can a person become acclimated to it over time? So that a small dose wouldn’t hurt them so badly?”

  “Oh yes. Miss Viper, she’s—she’s awful, but she taught me the trick. She’s immune to just about everything. Now she poisons herself for fun.”

  Renata scooted around, her chains rattling, to face her.

  “How long would it take to bring me to the point where I could take a small dose of that stuff and shake it off right away?”

  Hedy looked Renata up and down, brow furrowed as she did some mental math.

  “It depends on age, height and weight, your overall health…for a very small dose, not terribly long, especially not if I push your tolerances as hard as I can.”

  “How hard?”

  Hedy sig
hed. “Let’s just say, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As two dour-faced guardsmen in griffin tabards escorted Dante along a corridor of dank gray stone, he could already hear shouting from up ahead. A stout oak door muffled the voices behind it, but Dante’s ears were sharp enough to hear all he needed to.

  “—telling you, you must arrest her at once!”

  “Again with the tedious ‘musts.’”

  “This,” snapped a third voice, “is the basest sacrilege.”

  One of the guardsmen rapped reluctantly on the door and poked his head in.

  “Er, sire? There’s a gentleman here to speak to you regarding, um, the…matter at hand. He says it won’t wait.”

  “Well,” Dante heard Rhys say, “I suppose I have no choice but to see him. It’s not like I’m the king of Itresca or anything.”

  “Should I…send him away, sire?”

  “No, no, I have a theory that this day can’t get any worse. I seek to test it. Let him in.”

  As Dante stepped past the guard and into the strategy room, he took a quick inventory. There was Rhys, leaning with both palms against the map table, looking exasperated. The bald advisor, Merrion, trying to disappear into the corner behind him. Dante hadn’t met Bishop Yates, but he knew the man by countenance. As for the taller, rail-thin man hammering the other side of the map table with his fist, his forest-green stola embroidered with golden thread marked him as Vaughn, the Cardinal of Itresca.

  He wasn’t supposed to be back from Lerautia yet, Dante thought. Hmm. Possibly a good thing. He approached Rhys and offered him a sweeping bow.

  “Your Highness, my name is Dante Uccello. And I am here to make you a very powerful man.”

  Rhys slumped against the table.

  “He’ll make me powerful, he says. Is there one man in this room,” he asked, “just one, who will acknowledge that I rule this country?”

  “You rule by the Gardener’s grace,” Vaughn said imperiously, “and He can seize your crown just as easily as He placed it upon your head.”

  Yates gave Dante a sharp look. “I know your name. You’re that Mirenzei traitor. There’s a noose waiting for you.”