Mari looked back. She stared at the bloody ax. She took a deep, halting breath.
“I…enjoyed…killing those men. It felt…it felt good. My blood pounded and my stomach got all warm, and…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down toward her lap.
“Good.” Nessa smiled, gently rubbing Mari’s shoulder. “Very good. And it’s natural to feel what you felt. Nothing bad. Nothing shameful. Now come, let’s—”
She stopped abruptly, ears perked as the sound of hoofbeats echoed from up the road. Two riders, maybe three, moving fast.
“Hold a moment,” Nessa said, keeping a hand tight on the reins. “Could be trouble. We’ll let them pass us.”
A pair of riders in light leathers and high riding boots, their shoulders decorated with the braided golden cord of an Imperial scout, thundered past. They leaned low in their saddles, eyes forward, kicking up a dust storm of dirt and dead leaves in their wake.
Mari had almost started to relax when the lead rider pulled back on the reins, wheeling his horse around. Her muscles clenched.
“Let me do the talking,” Nessa murmured. The riders pulled short alongside the wagon. Their steeds stomped the dirt with iron-shod hooves and snorted as the scouts swung down from their saddles.
“You two,” said the closest, a balding soldier with a belly that strained the laces of his breastplate. “Off the cart. Now.”
His partner couldn’t have been more than seventeen, freckled and wide-eyed. Mari couldn’t guess what had gotten him assigned to a tour of duty in Belle Terre—maybe just the luck of the draw—but he gaped at her as she slid down off the wagon’s perch right behind Nessa.
“She’s got weapons,” the youth said, pointing a shaky finger at the batons on Mari’s belt.
“For our protection,” Nessa said smoothly. “We’re academics from Verinia, come to Belle Terre on a research project.”
“Then you should know you ain’t allowed to carry any,” the older man said. “Let’s see your papers.”
He moved up on Nessa, looming over her and pushing his shoulders back, trying to cow her with his size. The younger soldier did the same to Mari, but on shaky legs and with eyes that couldn’t meet hers.
“I’m sorry,” Nessa said, flashing a charming smile. “What seems to be the trouble, sir?”
He pointed up the road and growled, “Trouble’s a cabin filled with dead Imperials five miles that way, same direction you’re coming from.”
The younger man squinted at Mari’s armor, studying the splotches and stains, nearly black on faded brown leather. “Is that…is that blood?”
“Oh, yes,” Nessa said, her smile growing wider. “We killed them. Slaughtered them, really. The ax is still in the cart. Would you like to see it?”
The older man went for his sword just as Nessa lunged at him with the tiny knife she’d been concealing in her hand. She punched the tip through his left eyeball, burying it to the hilt. He clutched his face, staggering back and screaming. The boy was faster. He drew his blade as the batons cleared Mari’s belt. She caught his steel between her sticks, twisted hard and tore the weapon from his grip, then lunged out with a kick that shattered his kneecap under the heel of her boot.
“See?” Nessa said cheerfully, fetching the ax from the cart and holding it high. “This was the murder weapon. What’s that? You want to take a closer look? Why, I’m happy to oblige.”
The older man shook his head, pain-maddened and half blind, and tugged the knife from his eye socket. Fluids guttered down his cheek as he waved the knife wildly, trying to defend himself.
The first swing of the ax took his arm half off at the shoulder, splintering bone and tearing red, glistening muscle. Nessa wrenched it free, her blood-spattered face beaming, her voice conversational as she took another swing and chopped into his thigh.
“And how’s the investigation going? Do these wounds look like the ones on the other victims? Sir, you’re going to have to calm down. I can’t understand a thing while you’re shrieking like that, and it’s very important that we study the evidence.”
The boy was down in the dirt, one leg twisted and worthless, scrambling for his fallen sword. Mari kicked the blade out of his reach then stomped on his outstretched hand. Bones cracked under her boot, drawing a howl of pain.
“So what do you think?” Nessa asked, standing over the older man as he collapsed to the roadside. “Is understanding the experience of those men helpful to you? Because I do so want to be helpful.”
“Please,” the boy begged Mari, cradling his broken hand against his chest.
“Shut up,” she growled, torn between covering him and watching Nessa.
“This has been a refreshing conversation,” Nessa said. She raised the ax high above her head for one final blow. “But I’m afraid my companion and I simply must be off. What’s that? You need to see our identification? Yes, yes, of course. Here you go.”
The ax whistled down, burying itself deep into the soldier’s skull. His body twitched, letting out a rattling sound from deep in his throat, then lay still.
Nessa turned, looked between Mari and the younger soldier, and waggled her fingers at him.
“Mari, you didn’t have to wait for me. Go ahead. Kill him.”
Mari blinked. “He’s unarmed.”
“So?”
“He can’t—Nessa, he can’t even walk. He’s defenseless.”
“Please,” the boy stammered, trying to pull himself away on his elbows. He squirmed in the dirt, his useless leg flopping to one side.
Nessa tossed the ax into the underbrush, glanced at her bloody hands, and strode toward her.
“Mari. Other patrols ride this road. His friends will find him. They’ll rescue him. Then they’ll catch up with us.”
“I won’t—” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise! Just let me go.”
The scent of blood clung to Nessa’s body like an exotic perfume as she circled Mari, leaning close to murmur into her ear.
“I killed that man in self-defense. He attacked me. You saw it.”
Mari nodded slowly. In her mind’s eye, she could see it that way. Yes. He was reaching for his sword. He would have killed her.
“But that doesn’t matter,” Nessa said. “They’ll call me a murderer. And they’ll separate us. They’ll take me away from you. And you’ll be all alone.”
“Please,” he begged. Tears smeared his freckled cheeks. “I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say it was an accident.”
“An accidental ax murder,” Nessa said, “that’s a rich one. You know he’s lying, Mari. He’ll talk. They’ll catch us. They’ll hang us without a trial. That’s what their kind calls ‘justice.’ He dies, or we die.”
“No,” he cried. “I didn’t even want to be here—”
“Nature, Mari. The wild commands it. Listen, even the birds have gone still from fear, smelling the beasts in their midst. You are a predator. So is he. Only one of you can survive to see tomorrow. He dies, or we die.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Mari whispered, but her fists tightened around the hilts of her fighting batons.
“If he lives, I will hang,” Nessa murmured. “You are a knight. Please. Protect me.”
He didn’t have time to scream. Mari stepped forward, shoved his hand out of the way, and brought one baton slamming down to crush his nose in a burst of blood and cartilage. She raised her weapon and swung it down with all her strength, again and again, until his face was a raw, red, caved-in ruin. She kept beating him long after he’d stopped breathing, until her arm finally gave out.
She stood over his corpse, staring down at her handiwork, her breath ragged.
Nessa lightly touched her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“It was him or us,” Mari said.
“That’s right. Now set their horses running and help me drag these bodies into the woods. We’ll cover them with leaves. We can camp a few hours up the road. According to the map, there’s a stream ahead, and we
could both do with a bath.” She chuckled and pushed her blood-spattered glasses up on her nose. “We appear to have gotten ourselves a bit messy.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“It’s a bit much,” Rhys said, waving his silver goblet to take in the feast hall. “I know.”
A cold draft whistled through the vast stone room, making the candlelight dance and sprouting gooseflesh on Dante’s arms. The king and his guests sat clustered at the far end of a forty-foot-long feasting table, still bearing the knots and whorls of the ancient tree its architect felled to make it. A pair of mounted stag heads hung over the biggest hearth Dante had ever seen, and the fire within was humbled by comparison.
Right now, Dante imagined, Mari Renault is deep in prayer, contemplating ascetic virtue.
“I’m sure it’s quite lively when the room is full,” Dante said.
“And I’m sure some of us aren’t accustomed to dining in civilized company,” Cardinal Vaughn said from across the table. “Much less in the presence of royalty.”
Dante held up a finger. “Not true. I was most recently the honored guest of Veruca Barrett, mayor of Winter’s Reach.”
“What were her dinners like?” Rhys asked.
“Oh, quite lively. When bored, she’d occasionally pick two guests at random and order them to copulate on the dining table for everyone’s viewing enjoyment. Or, if sufficiently intoxicated, she’d start a brawl with whoever was close enough to punch. I was, unfortunately, most often seated directly to her left.”
“Disgusting,” Bishop Yates said, sitting next to his superior. “And people allowed that to go on?”
“When Veruca Barrett invites you to sup, it’s generally ill-advised to refuse her hospitality.”
Servants came around with platters piled high, laying out a feast for the four men. Trays bore joints of chicken dressed with fresh spinach, salads topped with glistening poultry liver, fresh oysters on a bed of greens, and a pot of sweetened mustard. Wine, thick and dark and red as heart blood, splashed into waiting goblets. Rhys reached across the table, scooping up an oyster with his fingers and slurping it from the shell, and his guests did the same.
“So what’s this about?” Vaughn said with his mouth full, chewing like a cow. “And why hasn’t the Serafini girl been sent back to the Holy City in chains yet?”
“I sent the messenger away this morning,” Rhys said casually. “We’ll not be obliging her brother’s request.”
Yates’s jaw dropped. “He’s the pope. You have to oblige him.”
“Now what have I told you, at least a hundred times, about the words ‘have to’?”
“Information has come to light,” Dante said, “regarding the legitimacy of Carlo Serafini’s reign.”
Vaughn glared across the table at him. “Hold your tongue. You speak of the Holy Father.”
“I shall not, and I do not.” Dante hoisted his goblet and swallowed down his wine. “For there is no Holy Father to speak of, unless you want to discuss the recently buried one. Your beloved Carlo is a fraud.”
Yates slapped his palm against the table. “Your majesty! This man is a blasphemer and a heretic. You have to silence him at once.”
“One more time,” Rhys said, holding another oyster halfway to his puffy lips and narrowing his eyes to slits. “Say ‘have to’ just one more time and see what happens.”
“You gentlemen have been deceived,” Dante explained. “We all were. The truth of the matter is Carlo is a bastard. He’s also illegitimate.”
Vaughn pushed his chair back. “That’s it. I won’t sit here and tolerate this.”
“Cardinal.” Rhys held out his goblet to one side. A servant quickly stepped up, filling it from a silvered decanter. “I am your king. You leave the table when I grant you permission and not one second sooner.”
“You forget your place,” Vaughn said, jabbing his finger at him as he rose. “Your kingship comes through the authority of the Church and the Gardener alone!”
Rhys snapped his fingers, looking almost bored. The guards at the feast-hall doors stood at attention. Rhys slouched sideways in his chair, leaning on one arm, to address them.
“If he tries to leave, cut him down where he stands.” Rhys straightened up and glanced over at Vaughn. “I know my place. Do you?”
Vaughn sat back down.
Dante reached for a chicken leg, smearing it with spinach. “Jests aside, it’s true. We have indisputable evidence that Carlo is invalid to rule. We’ll show it to you after we dine, but we thought it best to sound out your feelings on the matter.”
Vaughn and Yates looked sidelong at each other, hesitant.
“He speaks truth?” Yates finally asked, looking to the king.
Rhys hefted his goblet. “Every word. Carlo’s on his way out. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“If true,” Vaughn said, his gaze drifting across the table, “a replacement would have to be elected from the College of Cardinals. Cardinal Accorsi was the kingmaker last time around, but he went all-out to support Carlo.”
Yates’s head bobbed as he spoke. “If Carlo falls, Accorsi’s credibility will be ruined.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow,” Dante murmured into his wine goblet.
“I…yes,” Vaughn said. “Yes, now it becomes clear. For once, Your Highness, I understand your machinations. A sudden power vacuum means an opportunity for Itresca to lead the way. If our new pope is Itrescan, it puts you in a position of strength when it comes to dealing with the Holy Empire.”
“You’re a quick one,” Rhys said.
Vaughn leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands with a happy sigh.
“And you want me to be that pope. You’re going to commit your resources to supporting me, all the way to the Holy Father’s throne. This is such an honor! I humbly accept.”
“Actually,” Dante said, “we’re thinking of going with Carlo’s sister instead.”
Caught in mid-swallow, Yates lurched forward and spat a mouthful of wine back into his goblet. He cupped his fist to his lips, coughing.
Vaughn scowled. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Oh, he’s serious.” Rhys nodded at Dante. “Livia’s the only real heir. She’s got her old man’s blood and a good part of his wit.”
“She’s a woman,” Vaughn said.
“Yes,” Rhys replied. “I noticed her tits, you see, so I’m not at all shocked by that dramatic revelation.”
“You’re influential men,” Dante said. “Your support—your endorsement—would go a long way toward swaying the rest of the Itrescan clergy. May we have it, please?”
“Insults piled upon blasphemies,” Vaughn snarled at him. “The very idea of a woman sitting upon the papal throne…if you weren’t a damned heretic, you’d have some measure of the madness you’re proposing. Never.”
Rhys clapped his hands, summoning the next course. Servants swiftly brought around bowls of soup, plump wild mushrooms and rice simmering in a white cream broth. Dante wagged his spoon at Vaughn.
“Far be it from me to question the magical and whimsical rules of your social club, but she is Benignus’s daughter. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
“No.” Yates slurped loudly from his spoon and shook his head, swallowing. “The cardinal is correct. Canon law is clear. Livia cannot be ordained. That fact alone renders her bloodline meaningless.”
“But laws change to favor those in power,” Dante said. “We have that power now. We can rewrite the rules as we please.”
“It’s not about power; it’s about faith. This is the Gardener’s will. A woman’s role is to nurture and support man, as the sun to the soil, not supplant him.”
Dante arched an eyebrow. “Asked him yourself, did you?”
“It’s doctrine,” Yates said. “The cardinal can explain it better than I can.”
Rhys snorted. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Vaughn sat stock-still, spoon half raised to his open mouth, eyes wide. He
twitched. A faint gurgling sound escaped his throat as the spoon slipped from his hands, splashing hot soup across his lap and clattering to the flagstones.
“Sir?” Yates shoved his chair back, jumping to his feet.
Vaughn crashed to the floor as his body seized up, muscles going rigid as iron. He thrashed on the ground, his head beating against the stone, and a burbling white foam leaked from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. He gave one mighty kick, legs bucking together, then fell still.
Yates crouched beside him, pressing his hand to the fallen man’s neck as he looked over his shoulder at the king. “He’s…he’s dead.”
“How unfortunate,” Dante said. “But that’s the trouble about using wild mushrooms in a broth. Every once in a while, if you’re not very, very careful, you get a poisonous one.”
Rhys scooped up a spoonful of soup and slurped it down. “Fortunate that the three of us are just fine, isn’t it…Cardinal Yates?”
“You should sit back down and join us,” Dante added. “Your soup’s getting cold.”
Yates rose on trembling legs, almost pulling himself into his chair. He stared at his bowl in timid silence as the corpse of his superior cooled on the floor.
“Your Highness.” Dante looked to Rhys. “I could be wrong, but I think our friend here is taking some time to reevaluate his stance on Livia Serafini. Maybe his recent surprise promotion, and the influence he’ll enjoy at her side, is improving his perspective.”
Rhys grunted into his wine goblet. “That so? I hope you’re right. Be a damn shame if he was as stubborn as his predecessor.”
Yates sucked his lips between his teeth and bit down. He reached for his cup, nearly dropped it from his trembling hand, and quickly set it back down again.
“Upon reflection,” Yates stammered, “My objection may have been…premature. I think Livia Serafini would make an excellent pope.”
“And you can’t wait to tell everyone you think so,” Rhys said, eyeing him grimly.
“So excited,” Yates said. “So…very excited.”
Rhys broke into a grin, leaned over, and slapped Yates’s shoulder. “Hah! See? You’re back in your king’s good graces, just like that. This has been a very good dinner, very productive. We have to do this more often.”
The Instruments of Control Page 22
