The Instruments of Control

by Schaefer, Craig

  Hedy squeezed her hand.

  “You know,” she whispered, “what we have to do next.”

  Renata knew. She rummaged through Marco’s belt purse, finding the key to their shackles, but she didn’t unlock them. Instead, she hid the key in her shoe and led Hedy out of the tent.

  “He’s in a good mood,” she told One-Eye as he approached them. “We’re supposed to cook dinner for all of you.”

  The hungry smile on One-Eye’s face sent a wave of relief washing over her. Night after night, Marco’s men had been subjected to the most sultry, mouthwatering smells Renata and Hedy could cook up, then been denied even the tiniest scraps from their boss’s table. And Marco had eaten the witches’ food for over a week and he was perfectly fine, wasn’t he?

  They cooked up another batch of stew in the biggest pot they could find, ladling it out into bowls, dented mugs, whatever the bandits could scrounge up.

  A couple of the men were even polite enough to say, “Thank you.” Hedy gave them a pleasant smile.

  As her ladle scraped the bottom of the pot, Renata looked to Hedy and whispered, “All right, let’s slip away while we can.”

  Hedy shook her head. “Not yet. I need something from Marco’s tent.”

  Renata was crouched by the wagons, unlocking her chains and shedding her manacles onto the dirt, when the bodies began to fall. Bandits dropped where they stood, bowls tumbling from spasming hands, froth spewing from their lips as their bodies convulsed hard enough to tear muscle and fracture bone. Renata stood in a circle of the dead and dying, the breath catching in her throat.

  We did it. We…murdered them. All of them.

  We murdered them.

  She felt elated and horrified all at once as the consequences of her handiwork played out around her, the air split with desperate wheezing groans and the sounds of men choking to death on their own vomit. Everywhere she looked, she saw bulging eyes and grasping hands and the horror of men who knew they were about to die and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  The flaps of Marco’s tent whipped aside, and Hedy strode out to join her. Eyes triumphant behind her mask of bone.

  To Renata’s left, a man struggled to get words out through a burning throat as he squirmed in the dirt. One-Eye. He looked between Renata and Hedy, eyes fixed on the girl’s mask, realization dawning on his face as the last seconds of his life slipped away.

  “Never,” Hedy told him, “insult a witch.”

  Renata tugged at her arm. “Come on. Hedy, come on, we have to go.”

  “What? Don’t you want to watch? We earned this.”

  “This?” Renata waved a hand at the corpses. “This was murder. We had to do it, it was self-defense, but it’s not something to be proud of.”

  Hedy strolled among the bodies, admiring the dead like a patron at an art exhibit.

  “I disagree. I’ve never felt more proud in my entire life. And you should, too.”

  She reached up and took off her mask. Underneath, she was still the same cheerful, heart-faced youth, flashing Renata a gleaming smile.

  “C’mon. That village isn’t too far, if we take a couple of horses, and they might have an inn. I’d like a real bed to sleep in tonight, wouldn’t you?”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  By night, the open, barred window of Livia’s tower cell caught every gust of frigid wind. Come morning the stone floor would be slick with condensation, soaking through her clothes when she sat down. Her muscles ached and her teeth chattered, and for three nights the best she’d been able to do was slip in and out of an occasional sleep born of raw exhaustion. The rest of the time she lay awake, curled into a tight ball with her back to the window, and counted off the seconds until dawn.

  The people kept her spirits up. The vigil in the courtyard outside Crowcrook Tower grew by the day, watched over by nervous-looking guardsmen on horseback. Tonight she could feel the tension from her perch high above the crowds, the entire gathering just one stray shove or a thrown rock from boiling over into a riot. As dusk fell over the city, though, the mood grew quietly peaceful. Candles ignited, a hundred pinpoints of flickering light held high toward her window. A familiar song rose up to greet her.

  In cold, in dark, in toil and blight

  I may fear, yet shall not flee

  I shall not be silent, will not hide my light

  For thy shielding hand is on me.

  Livia remembered. “Hymn to Saint Elise, Lady of Deliverance.” The same song the survivors of the Alms District massacre sang the night they made landfall in Itresca. She remembered what Amadeo had told her.

  “You know they’re not singing to Saint Elise, don’t you?”

  She bowed her head in prayer, letting their voices wash over her like the wind. She couldn’t feel the cold anymore.

  The door to her cell rattled and creaked open. Dante stood in the doorway, flanked by a pair of stone-faced guards.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  Down a winding stairway, a freckled young woman in a tan linen dress waited with the handle of a woven basket looped over one arm. Dante waved her over.

  “Livia, this is Cifrydd. She’ll be handling your cosmetics.”

  As Cifrydd opened her basket, revealing a clutter of vials, jars, and thick horsehair brushes, Livia waved her hand. “No, no, I don’t wear cosmetics.”

  “You do now,” Dante said. “Cifrydd, just a bit of powder and something to heighten her cheekbones. Don’t do anything about the bags under her eyes. She should look tired but defiant. Pin her hair up, but leave a few strands loose.”

  Cifrydd gave Livia an appraising look. “I can work with this.”

  As Livia submitted, grudgingly, to Cifrydd’s fussy ministrations, Dante paced around her in a slow circle. Judging her from every angle.

  “Rhys is waiting to give a speech, and he’ll have Bishop—excuse me, Cardinal Yates with him. They know what to do.”

  “And me?” Livia asked. “What do I do?”

  “Do what comes naturally. There are certain arts, Livia, that I cannot teach. Judging from your performance during the Feast of Saint Wessel—”

  “It wasn’t a performance,” she said. “It was a sermon.”

  “Judging from your performance, I don’t think you need to be taught. Just go with your heart.”

  “My heart says I don’t need cosmetics,” she told him.

  “Your heart is earnest, but sadly undereducated.”

  “I want people to judge me by the quality of my words,” she said, glowering as Cifrydd’s brush whisked over her cheekbones, “not the fairness of my face.”

  Dante clasped his hands together. “And it would be wonderful if we lived in a world where that actually happened, wouldn’t it? But this is the world that random chance has sentenced us to, and reality doesn’t care to entertain your high-minded dreams. Please, Livia, trust me. I know what’s best for you.”

  Cifrydd stepped back, giving her handiwork a critical eye.

  “Better,” was all she said, packing up her basket. Dante gestured to the guards who had brought Livia down. One held out a pair of open manacles, connected by a stout chain.

  “What’s that for?” Livia said, pinning her arms to her sides. “I’m supposed to be released.”

  “Trust me,” Dante purred. “You’ll understand in a moment.”

  The tall double doors to the Crowcrook swung open with the grating hum of metal grinding on stone. Flanked by the guards, her manacled hands held before her and the chain drooping low, Livia stepped out into the courtyard.

  A hush greeted her. Hundreds of voices fell silent and still. A sea of candles flickered against the dark, mirroring the vivid stars above.

  The crowd parted. In the heart of the courtyard, the hangman’s gibbet was gone. Only the wooden platform remained, surrounded by a cordon of soldiers. Rhys stood serenely upon the platform, wearing his crown and draped in ermine finery, with Yates at his side. Yates looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the worl
d.

  The guardsmen escorted Livia up the short flight of steps to the platform. They stood her in the center of the planks. Below her feet, she could make out the square outline of a trapdoor. All that’s missing is the noose around my throat, she thought, then pushed the image away.

  From nowhere, Miss Owl’s sardonic voice swam back to her, a memory from their conversation in the reflection of her bloodied washbasin. “But witches burn.”

  One of her escorts stepped down from the platform. The other brandished a black iron key.

  Dante was right. Now that the time had come, she knew exactly what to do.

  Pinned under the weight of hundreds of upturned faces, Livia quietly extended her hands. The guard unlocked the shackles and pulled them away.

  She took one long, sweeping gaze across the courtyard and slowly raised her arms to the sky to display her unbound wrists. Her fingers splayed, as if to grasp for the stars.

  As a child, Livia once stood on the bank below a mighty waterfall. She remembered looking up at the endless torrent of water, kissing her face with frigid mist as it hammered down onto the rocks, rumbling like an endless peal of thunder. There was something primal about that sound, something that thrilled her even as it terrified her to the core. And now, as the courtyard erupted with stomping feet and pounding hands and wordless cries of delight, she felt that sensation all over again.

  She froze there a moment, basking in their joy, feeling the torrent of sound buffet her from every side. Drinking it in, like a blooming rose in the summer sun.

  Then she lowered her arms, and the din ebbed back to silence.

  “I will have no man say,” Rhys proclaimed, his deep voice projecting across the courtyard with practiced grace, “that I am not a just king. I heard your outcry over this woman’s fate. And my heart was moved. I investigated the matter personally and interceded with Cardinal Vaughn. What I discovered…chilled me to the core.”

  He gestured for Yates to step forward. The churchman took a deep breath, fingers twitching at his sides, his body a knot of nervous tension.

  “We have discovered evidence,” Yates called out, “that Pope Carlo Serafini is an impostor.”

  Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd, hundreds of widened eyes fixed upon Yates. He fiddled with his green stola, his gaze downcast to one side as he searched for words.

  “This is a grave accusation—the gravest—and I would not dare give it voice if I hadn’t seen the evidence with my own eyes. Livia Serafini is Pope Benignus’s only true heir. Worse, we found proof that Cardinal Vaughn was aware of this and arrested Livia as a gift to Carlo. He intended to use our Church—the one true, holy Church—to lay false charges and murder this innocent woman.”

  Yates cringed as the murmurs turned into scattered boos and shouted epithets.

  “Cardinal Vaughn…fled in the night,” Yates said, shooting a timid look at Rhys. The king nodded solemnly at him. “We believe he is running to Lerautia, to escape justice and to continue supporting Carlo’s…terrible lie.”

  “The Empire might thrive on lies,” Rhys intoned, “and we all know that Verinia will say whatever they must to keep control over the Church and their so-called Holy City. But we are Itrescan, true children of the Gardener, one and all. And we will not be anyone’s pawns.”

  “The Itrescan arm of the Church is calling a conclave,” Yates added. “We have renounced our ties with Verinia, at least so long as they promote their false pope. We will decide, amongst the senior clergy, how to reorganize and who to appoint as—”

  A shout rang out from the heart of the throng. Even disguised with a thick local accent, Livia recognized Dante’s voice at once.

  “Livia! Give us Livia!”

  Another cry, from the opposite side of the courtyard, echoed her name. Immediately a third voice from another direction shouted, “She’s Benignus’s heir! Livia!”

  Were they actors, hired by Dante and seeded throughout the gathering? Was their passion real? She couldn’t tell. As the murmur of the crowd became a commotion, though, she watched the transformation. Another person shouted her name. Then another. The excitement spread like a magic spell, the spectators feeding on each other’s emotions and multiplying them.

  A crowd isn’t made of people, she realized. It’s one person. It’s one person with hundreds of beating hearts.

  Her name became a chant, a fervent mantra punctuated by a forest of fists punching at the night sky. A drumbeat call to battle that rose in pitch with every massed shout, freezing her where she stood.

  Rhys leaned over and murmured in her ear, “Say something pithy before they riot, would you kindly?”

  Her heart pounding, she raised her arms once more. As she lowered them, the crowd fell into a hush.

  “What has happened,” she said slowly, “is a tragedy. Our Church is for all people, in every land. It was never meant to be sundered like this. But there is a disease at its core, an insult to its holy mission and we—Itresca—we are charged with purging that disease.”

  She walked the platform. She swept her gaze across the upturned faces, picking at random, locking eyes for a heartbeat before moving on to the next.

  “Our next pope must, above all things, be a healer. Someone unencumbered by Church politics and without love for material wealth. Someone who will work tirelessly to seal this breach and unite all the Gardener’s children once more…under the watchful eye of this great nation.”

  Scattered shouts went up, calling her name. She waited for them to simmer down, favoring the crowd with a faint, sad smile.

  “It is not for me to say who that person should be. I will leave that to my betters to decide. All I know is, one way or another, I intend to devote the rest of my life to rebuilding this Church. This Church that my father loved so dearly.”

  She clasped her hands to her heart, bowing her head.

  “And if I am called, then by the Gardener’s grace, I will serve.”

  As the courtyard erupted, cheering and foot-stomping louder than before, Rhys waved for the guardsmen. “I said to calm them down,” he muttered as they hustled off the platform, “but still, that wasn’t half bad.”

  * * *

  Back in Rhys’s throne hall, visitors awaited their return. The king drew up short, with Livia at his side, flanked by a team of wary guardsmen.

  “Now what,” he breathed tiredly, “is this all about?”

  There were twelve in all, some men and some women, mostly refugees with a handful of native Itrescans in the mix, and they stood in a semicircle before Rhys’s throne. Each one wore a simple hooded cloak of wool dyed muddy brown.

  Livia recognized the style at once. Back in the Holy City, stealing away from her father’s estate in the small hours of the night, she’d worn a cloak just like theirs on her missions of charity in the Alms District. She’d never revealed her name, so the locals called her the Lady in Brown.

  One woman approached them, pulling back her hood. She was an Enoli islander with blue-black skin and piercing brown eyes, her short hair done in tight, braided knots. Three puckered scar lines marred her left cheek, as if she’d been raked by a wildcat.

  “We saw you preach,” she said, then shot a glance at the guardsmen. “And we saw you taken.”

  Livia looked in her eyes. “I remember you, from the refugee fleet. You helmed one of the boats.”

  “My husband’s boat.” She took a deep breath. “He didn’t make it. Neither did my son.”

  “I’m…I’m so sorry,” Livia said.

  And if you’d never met me, she thought, they’d be alive today.

  “My name is Kailani.” She gestured to the semicircle of hooded figures at her back. “But I am just one of many. We are in agreement: you led us out of the fire. You were blessed by Saint Elise, sent to heal our Church and liberate us from the tyrant Carlo. What happened to you—the interruption of your holy service, your arrest—can never be allowed to happen again.”

  “It won’t. Everything’s going t
o be all right,” Livia told her, trying to sound reassuring.

  “Yes, it will be all right. Because we’re here now. We are your Browncloaks, my lady. And we will defend you with our lives.”

  Rhys arched an eyebrow. “Livia is my guest. She has guards.”

  “Guards that don’t answer to her,” Kailani said. “This woman is our next pope. She deserves a proper honor guard.”

  “Kailani,” Livia said, “truly, I’m flattered, but I’m not worried—”

  Kailani held up one hand, cutting her off.

  “My lady, everyone you see before you has lost someone precious to them. Some of us…some of us have lost everything. Everyone needs a cause to fight for. Something to believe in. Someone to believe in.”

  Kailani rested her hand on Livia’s shoulder and bowed her head.

  “Send us away if you will, but that is the one command we must refuse. We are your Browncloaks, Livia Serafini, and we fight for you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As the sun descended over Mirenze, stretching long fingers of shadow across the city streets, a silent messenger brought Basilio the letter he’d been dreading. He tipped the man with a couple of spare coins and waved him away, retreating to his office to unfold Hassan’s note.

  “She’s guilty,” was all it said.

  His daughter. His own flesh and blood. She’d sold him out to Lodovico Marchetti, gotten his men killed, and cost him his prize.

  A gauntleted fist squeezed Basilio’s heart. He fell into his chair, clutching his chest, taking deep breaths until the pain subsided. The physical pain, anyway.

  His grief gave way to a slow roiling anger in the pit of his stomach. He’d fed her. Clothed her. Educated her. Never denied her a want or a whim. And this was how she repaid her father’s love?

  “What a waste,” he said aloud, crumpling Hassan’s letter in his fist. He threw it to the rug and stomped out into the hall. Ultimately, there was only one thing left to do.