The Instruments of Control

by Schaefer, Craig

  “’Cause I ain’t keeping you alive for your cooking skills. Need you to do some magic. Do whatever you gotta do to make sure none of my boys get hurt on the raid. Some kinda…protection spell. You can do that, right? And before you answer, understand this: if the next words outta your mouth aren’t ‘yes, sir, I can,’ there’s gonna be consequences.”

  Renata looked out toward the village.

  Of course she couldn’t. And from what she understood, neither could Hedy. They could fake it and hope sheer luck kept any of Marco’s bandits from harm, but that was a dangerous risk to take. If his men actually believed they were protected by witchcraft, they’d be more reckless, more likely to take stupid chances.

  And then there were the villagers to think about. How many people lived in that tiny hamlet? Forty? Eighty? A hundred? How many would suffer and die at the hands of Marco’s gang while she and Hedy stood by and watched?

  None, she thought, making up her mind. Not one of them, not while I’m still breathing.

  “Yes, sir,” she hissed, “I can.”

  Marco clapped his hands and waved One-Eye over. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Take ’em back to my tent, so they can get started on my dinner.”

  As they trudged back, their chains rattling, Renata leaned over and whispered in Hedy’s ear. “We do it tonight.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You aren’t ready!”

  “It’s tonight,” Renata whispered. “It’s tonight or never.”

  Chapter Forty

  A thin trickle of sweat ran down Hassan’s neck and under his leathers, tickling his back. It was a cold morning, cold enough that he’d seen his own breath in the air when he first arrived, but he’d been crouching in a thicket for nearly three hours and the wait was getting to him. He rubbed a dirty hand across the back of his neck, smearing it with grit.

  “Been a while since we had a job like this,” said the man to his side. An Oerran like Hassan and part of his original gang. Only a few of them remained, replaced over the years with local mercenaries and cutthroats who had caught Basilio’s eye.

  Hassan spread branches with his fingertips and peered down the hill at the trade road below. They were far enough from Mirenze that the city’s towers were a pale tan blot on the horizon, and no one had come this way in hours.

  “Bit different from back home,” he replied, voice distracted as his keen eyes squinted into the distance. He spotted movement on the road, slow and steady, but so far away it could have been a column of ants.

  “Easier pickings,” his old friend said, slinging a well-worn bow from his shoulder. Its limbs were carved from elk antler, with a grip wrapped in faded red leather. “These Mirenzei. Soft hands and unburnt feet. At least Caliphate merchants knew how to put up a good fight.”

  “Don’t get overconfident. Remember who we’re robbing. Lodovico Marchetti’s not like most Mirenzei.”

  Hassan had brought eighteen men from the city, camped with him in the thicket or down by the road, spread out among the sparse tree cover. Everyone had a job to do, from the marksmen tasked with killing the lead horses and any guards riding escort, to the newbloods—most of them the kind of scum who’d kill their own mothers for a bent copper—tasked with leading the charge once the caravan was brought to a dead stop.

  Easy. Done it a hundred times. So why wouldn’t his shoulders unclench?

  The movement in the distance grew closer. Now he could make it out: no question, it was their target. Two teams of draft horses, each lumbering along with two lashed-together wagons in their wake. Four carts, Hassan thought, idly doing the math, hundreds of spears bundled on each one. If they’re only shipping the spearheads, could be enough to outfit an army. In my youth I’d have crossed the desert with no water for a chance at a prize like this one.

  They’d covered the wagons, lashing heavy leather tarpaulins over the tops and sides. “Wrapped ’em like a present, just for us,” snickered the man at Hassan’s side. He didn’t share in the levity. As the caravan approached their hiding place, and the underbrush filled with the whispers of arrows sliding from quivers and nocking into bows, he realized what was wrong.

  No guards, he thought, no escort. The lion’s share of the Banco Marchetti’s wealth is tied up in those wagons, just waiting to be snatched away, and Lodovico sent it unprotected.

  Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. If he’d been leading his old band of raiders, he’d have stayed hidden in the dunes and let those wagons pass in peace. No bandit ever survived by taking foolish risks, and a target that screamed come rob me, I’m helpless could only be a trap. Those were the old days, though. Now he worked for Basilio Grimaldi, and Basilio wouldn’t take “it felt wrong so I called off the raid” for an answer. He’d be lucky if he left the man’s office with all of his fingers still attached.

  Resigned, he put his fingers to his lips and blew two short, sharp whistles.

  A hornet whirlwind of arrows hissed in response, streaking from the overlook. They peppered the lead team of horses, the harnessed beasts stomping, frenzied, crashing down onto their forelegs and trying to shake the arrows loose as they died. Another pair of shots impaled the lead driver to his perch. Bloodthirsty war cries split the air as the advance line burst from cover, charging for the wagons with blades and clubs raised high.

  The man at his side shouldered his bow and drew a stout, curving sword from a sheath on his hip. Hassan grinned and clapped his back.

  “Get to it,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  His smile faded as he crouched back into the thicket and settled in to watch.

  The first line of raiders reached the wagons just as the tarpaulins whipped away. The sideboards, built with a concealed hinge on the inside, fell to the road like a ship’s boarding ramp.

  Hassan’s men found themselves staring at a firing squad. They had just enough time for the shock to register before a line of crossbowmen, twelve on each wagon, six to a side, spat steel death in their faces. Hassan watched a bolt punch through one raider’s throat, knocking him off his feet. Another fell to the dirt, squirming, a shaft impaling his guts and jutting out through the small of his back.

  The crossbowmen dropped their weapons and drew their blades as one, moving with rehearsed coordination. Hassan’s men were butchers at best; Lodovico’s mercenaries had skill, teamwork, and precision. The counter-ambush swiftly became a massacre, one raider after another cut down in a typhoon of razor-edged steel.

  Hassan had already left.

  Creeping back through the thicket, he turned and sprinted as soon as he’d gotten enough distance from the carnage. Screams and clanging metal echoed at his back, but he didn’t need to watch: the ending was a foregone conclusion.

  * * *

  Basilio drummed his fingers on his desk. He stared out the window. He looked at Hassan. He went back to staring out the window.

  “A decoy caravan,” he repeated for the fourth time, as if Hassan might give him a different answer.

  “Waiting for us, yes.”

  “He knew.”

  Hassan leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs. “My men watching the blacksmith confirmed the shipment was rolling. The real caravan must have taken a different route out of the city.”

  Basilio’s fingers froze in mid-drum, hovering an inch over the polished mahogany.

  “And that’s all he had to do.”

  Hassan shook his head, frowning. “Meaning what?”

  “Lodovico knew we were coming,” Basilio said, “and he knew where the ambush was set. All he had to do was change the caravan’s route at the last minute. Instead, he arranged an entire decoy caravan and an ambush of his own, just to slaughter my men. What did he get out of that? There’s no profit in it.”

  “In my homeland, we’d say he just shared his water with you.”

  “Meaning?”

  Hassan shrugged. “He spat in your face.”

  Basilio pushed back his chair. He stood slowly and walked to the windo
w with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “He does enjoy sending messages, doesn’t he? Perhaps it’s time we sent one of our own.”

  “I can kill him now?” Hassan perked up.

  “The first thing we need to do is find a pair of loose lips. Someone in this house betrayed us. Someone carried our plans, in detail, to Lodovico Marchetti’s doorstep. You know how I feel about betrayal.”

  “I have a theory,” Hassan said.

  “Oh?”

  “You aren’t going to like it.”

  Basilio turned to face him.

  “Never mince words with me, Hassan. You know better. Give me the facts, and let me decide how I feel about them.”

  “Aita,” he said, letting the name drop like a brick at Basilio’s feet.

  Basilio’s lips pursed into a tight, bloodless line.

  “That,” he said, “is not amusing.”

  “I’m not much for jokes,” Hassan replied. “I’ve caught her sneaking around the house at all hours, never more than a stone’s throw from your office door. She was furious at you for making her marry that Rossini boy. More furious than you know, I think. Forget that she’s your daughter for a moment. Can you honestly say it’s impossible that she betrayed you?”

  Basilio dropped back into his chair, his gaze fixed somewhere a thousand miles past Hassan’s left shoulder.

  “Aita,” he said.

  “It would have been easy enough for her to spy on us. Easier still to whisper empty promises into Lodovico’s ear.”

  “I knew she was angry,” Basilio said. “She’s like her mother, a very headstrong young woman—”

  “You mean stubborn and spiteful. I’ve seen camels with more pleasant dispositions. If she wanted to lash out at you—and she did—what better way than to let your enemy do the job for her?”

  “Aita,” Basilio repeated a third time. This time more firmly. The idea sinking in.

  Hassan sat in silence, giving him time to work it out. Basilio steepled his fingers and stared up at the ceiling. After a few minutes’ thought, he let out a heavy sigh.

  “Take her,” Basilio said. “Take her and get the truth out of her.”

  “By such means as…” Hassan said expectantly, the question trailing off.

  Basilio locked eyes with him.

  “No permanent damage,” he replied. “No scarring her face. Nothing that will hurt her chances of giving me a grandson. Beyond that, do whatever you need to do.”

  “And when I’ve wrung her dry?”

  “If, on the chance she’s innocent…” Basilio shook his head. “I’ll make it up to her somehow. I’ll buy her a horse. She likes horses, doesn’t she?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Hassan said.

  “When she was a little girl, I think she loved horses. I seem to remember that. That was a long time ago, though, and…it’s like I just came home one day and this strange, cold thing had taken my daughter’s place. When do they stop being little, Hassan?”

  “When they sell you out to your rival and get eighteen of your men slaughtered.”

  “Right, right.” Basilio rapped his knuckles on the desk. “If she’s innocent, I’ll make it up to her. If she’s guilty, though—if you are absolutely, one hundred percent certain she did this—send for me at once.”

  “And then?”

  “I have no tolerance for traitors,” Basilio replied. “Especially when it comes to my own flesh and blood. I’ll kill her myself.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Renata and Hedy set about their work in grim silence. They’d gone over the plan a dozen times, knew every detail by heart—they’d just expected, and needed, more time to pull it off.

  Odds are we die tonight, Renata thought grimly, watching Marco saunter across the bandit camp, but at least I’ll give that bastard a scar to remember me by.

  One of the bandits had taken down a stag on the day’s march, and Marco wasted no time claiming the choicest cuts for himself. Between the two of them, it didn’t take long for Renata and her “apprentice” to dress and butcher the beast, sectioning off a slab of venison steak guaranteed to make Marco’s mouth water.

  Instead of searing the steak over a fire, though, they made a stew.

  While Hedy cubed the steak and browned it over the campfire in a black iron skillet, Renata sorted through the best of their meager supplies. Onions, a couple of garlic cloves, some potatoes and carrots, fresh stream water, and a handful of flour to thicken the mixture—it all went into the pot. They added the meat, filling the air with a savory aroma that made Renata’s stomach growl.

  Then Hedy added her “spices” to the pot, stirring the deadly powder through and through. Not a lethal dose. Just enough to cripple. “You sure about this?” she asked, looking across the fire at Renata.

  “No.” She smiled softly. “I’m scared to death. But we have to do it. We have to try, for those villagers’ sake. It’s okay if you’re scared too, you know.”

  The girl stared into the pot, her voice almost placid.

  “I’m not scared. Well, not too much. Master Fox taught me a trick for that. Want to know how it works?”

  “A trick?” Renata asked.

  “You just think about someone you hate.” Hedy’s gaze drifted across the clearing, pausing over every bandit she could see. “And you think about how much you want them to die. And the more you hate them, the less scared you’ll feel.”

  “Hedy…” Renata tilted her head back, eyeing her. “When we’re done here, if we survive this…you should come with me.”

  “Come with you? Where?”

  “Kettle Sands. Felix, my fiancé, is going to meet me there once he takes care of some problems back home. We’re buying an inn, and there’ll be plenty of work if you want it. You could…you could stay with us. If you wanted.”

  “Kettle Sands.” Hedy stirred the pot, watching the stew bubble. “Middle of nowhere. Why there?”

  “It’ll be peaceful and quiet. And warm most of the year, and there’s a beach. Me and Felix, we need a fresh start. Seems a better place than most to give it a try.”

  Hedy smiled lopsidedly and shook her head, still stirring.

  “That sounds very nice. I hope it’s everything you want it to be. And I’m very thankful for the offer. But…that’s not for me. I know where I belong, because I know who I am.”

  Renata looked at her, uncertain.

  “You’re Hedy.”

  Hedy chuckled, but there wasn’t a trace of mirth in her eyes as she looked up from the stewpot. Just an icy, single-minded focus.

  “No,” she said. “I’m the Mouse. And tonight, I’ll prove it.”

  Each taking one handle, they lugged the stewpot into Marco’s tent and cleared the table. He rubbed his meaty hands together in anticipation.

  “Now that smells like a feast,” he said, rising to join them.

  “Only the best for you,” Renata replied. She set out two carved wooden bowls and a pair of spoons and ladled out a heaping helping of the stew. She sat beside Marco, with Hedy on his other side.

  He squinted. “Only two bowls?”

  “I’ve got a tummy ache,” Hedy said. “We made it extra spicy, the way you like it, but I can’t eat it.”

  “S’what you get for smarting off,” he grumbled, then looked to Renata. “All right, witch, prove it’s safe.”

  She stared down at her bowl, picking up her spoon with a faint sigh of resignation. Now or never, she thought and swallowed down a mouthful of the poisoned stew. He waited, watching her like a hawk, until she’d had three more spoonfuls.

  He couldn’t hold off any longer. He dug into his bowl with gusto, licking his fat lips and grunted approval as Renata poured him another ladleful.

  Now it’s just a matter of time, Renata thought, watching the bandit chief’s face, and we’ll see who it affects firs—

  The sudden cramps hit her like a fist to the gut, making her eyes water. She clenched her hands under the table, squeezed her toes, trying
desperately not to give it away. Marco caught the grimace on her face.

  “What’s wrong with you? Both of you’d better not be getting sick. Ain’t takin’ any excuses tomorrow morning.”

  A moment later, he found out exactly what was wrong with her. The big man twitched, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and put both hands to his stomach.

  “You poisoned—you poisoned us both, you crazy bitch—”

  He opened his mouth to yell for help. Renata threw herself onto him, pushing her hand against his mouth, using her weight to haul him off the bench and down to the skins lining the tent’s floor. If he screamed, if he did anything to draw attention, they were as good as dead.

  Marco rolled and threw a punch, smashing his fist into Renata’s left eye. Her vision blurred, but she clung to him, flailing, forcing her fingers into his mouth. He bit down hard enough to break the skin, and she strangled back a yelp. All the while the poison rode her spine like a horseman trying to break a wild stallion, digging spurs into her hips and kicking hard.

  She yanked her hand away but now he couldn’t get anything out but a wheezing, whistling moan, his throat convulsing. His eyes rolled back in his head and he swung again, his open hand clawing for Renata’s eyes. She fought him off, barely, both of them rolling across the tent.

  Hedy leaped onto his stomach, driving her knee into his gut. As he opened his mouth in a silent scream, she grabbed the ladle from the stewpot—aiming the handle toward his parted lips like the tip of a spear—and rammed it straight down his throat.

  “Eat it,” Hedy hissed. “It’s your dinner. Eat all of it.”

  She shoved down with all her might, every push forcing the foot-long ladle another inch or two down his bulging throat. Marco’s head thrashed, his shoulders bucking as he struggled to breathe, but she held the iron tool in a merciless grip.

  Then he fell still.

  Marco’s glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling. The cup of the ladle stuck out between his broken teeth, dribbling a few last drops of lukewarm stew onto his chin.

  Hedy shoved herself off his corpse and rolled to the floor beside Renata, gasping for breath. Renata trembled, fighting to stay quiet as the last of the poison ran its course and left faint trails of fire in her veins.