“Right,” Goffredo said, wincing. “I’m sorry, I know. I was just so excited. I’ve got information for you!”
Marcello nodded, pretending to believe him. Cardinal Blumenthal controlled a voting bloc almost as big as his own, and Goffredo was his junior aide. For the past month, he’d also been Marcello’s pet, feeding him information about Blumenthal’s meetings and plans.
That was what Marcello was supposed to think, anyway. In reality, he’d twigged to their game five minutes after Goffredo made the first approach. He’d confirmed his suspicions by sending some secret allies to meet with Blumenthal, then comparing the real conversations to what Goffredo reported back. Blumenthal had the aide relaying absolute garbage, sprinkled with lies intended to steer Marcello down a losing road.
I’ve played that game myself, Marcello thought. Problem is you sent an amateur.
“Time for that later,” he told the aide. “You’ve been doing good work for me, Goffredo. I think it’s time I brought you into my full confidence and trusted you with something big.”
The poor lad was almost drooling. “I’m ready to help, any way I can. Just name it.”
“We can’t talk here. It’s too dangerous. In town, just off the Via del Rege, there’s a small walled garden. Meet me there tonight. Midnight.”
Goffredo’s head bobbed like a metronome.
Taking his leave, the cardinal stopped into one of the scribal offices and borrowed a sheet of vellum, an envelope, and a quill. He hummed a happy tune as he wrote out a short note, sealed it with a blob of wax, and addressed it with a flourish.
“For Knight-Captain Weiss. Confidential.”
The knights were being quartered in the former guards’ barracks, a stout wooden fort beside the stables on the east lawn. Too many eyes on it, and too open an approach. Instead Marcello went down to the kitchens and found the young son of one of the cooks.
“And there’s another two of these waiting for you when you return,” he said, handing the boy the letter and a pair of copper coins. “Just slip it under the door and run back. If anyone asks you who gave you the letter, tell them it was one of the scribes.”
He waited patiently for the boy to return. No one had stopped the lad or even noticed him dropping off the letter. So far, so good.
Marcello kept a small flat in the city, a half mile from the papal manse and rented under a false name. It was useful for meeting with people who couldn’t, for whatever reason, be seen coming to visit him. After a light supper, he set off into the streets. He walked up a musty stairwell, floorboards creaking under his feet, and jiggled his key in the stiff lock until the tumblers turned.
The decor was minimal. A few cheap wooden chairs and a card table, some spare clothes in a second-hand wardrobe, and a tiny hearth for the winter months. His one concession to luxury was a queen-sized bed with glossy silk sheets the color of a summer storm. He didn’t use it quite as often as when he was a younger man, but the memories always put a smile on his face.
The flat also had a lovely view of the walled garden next door. An olive tree stood in the darkness, its branches swaying in a cool night breeze. Marcello pulled a chair up to the window and sat down to wait.
Goffredo came trundling up the Via del Rege, all alone. He craned his neck over his shoulder while he walked, looking as conspicuous as a waterfall in a desert, but at this hour there was no one on the street to notice. Marcello leaned back in his chair, shrouded in shadow.
“You’re a little early,” he murmured to himself. “Eager boy.”
Goffredo walked under a stone arch and stood beneath the spreading boughs of the olive tree. He paced, stuck his hands in his pockets, took them out again, telegraphing his nerves. Marcello didn’t budge a muscle. He watched the scene below him like a cat spying on a fat little mouse.
Two men came up the street. They wore shabby tunics and hooded cloaks against the chill, looking like any pair of roughnecks out on the town, but they moved with military precision.
“Here we go,” Marcello murmured. “Let’s see how serious you gentlemen are.”
The letter he’d written to the knights’ commander had been short, simple, and to the point: “I know who you really are. Bring one pound of gold to the garden off the Via del Rege tonight at midnight, or I’ll expose you.”
The men swept under the arch and moved in on Goffredo. The doughy young man shook his head, confused, and waved his hands as he spoke. One of the disguised knights shoved him, hard, sending him stumbling back against the trunk of the olive tree. Marcello leaned closer to the window and squinted, trying to read their lips, but it was too dark: all he could make out was their rising anger and Goffredo’s panic.
They drew knives and fell upon him. Goffredo went to the ground with a knight’s hand clamped over his mouth. He writhed on the grass, kicking and squirming, as they stabbed him again and again. By the time they were done, his chest looked like a bloody chunk of ground beef. They left the knives sticking out of his corpse, wiped off their hands, and left without a word.
“Hmm,” Marcello said. “You’re that serious.”
The news wasn’t all bad. Goffredo’s death would throw Cardinal Blumenthal off-balance for a few days, and it neatly resolved that little irritation. Besides, information was power, and now Marcello knew that the papal manse had been garrisoned by men who were willing to commit murder at the drop of a hat.
“Uncomfortable,” he said to the empty room as he pulled his chair back to the card table, “but I’d rather be uncomfortable than ignorant any day.”
He threw on a cloak and locked up behind him, setting off into the chilly night. He walked past the garden arch. In the dark, sprawled on the grass, Goffredo’s mangled corpse went cold. Marcello didn’t give it a second glance.
A pleasant tingle rippled through his bones and quickened his step. There was something irresistible about a good challenge. The imminent danger just added spice. As soon as Dante Uccello was in his hands, he could really get to work.
What’s your game, Carlo? Force us at swordpoint to give you the throne? Arrange “accidents” for anyone who looks like they might lodge a challenge?
You have no idea what I’ve got planned for you.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The scent of stale incense hung in the air of the cluttered workroom. Moldering books piled high on the rough wooden tables, jostling for space alongside soot-stained brass candlesticks, knives and measuring rods, and bundles of dried herbs from the snowy forests outside Winter’s Reach. Bear locked the door and pulled the curtains closed.
He took off his mask and absently rubbed the sweaty blond stubble along his lantern jaw. He knew what he had to do now, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Reporting an act of failure had gotten him exiled to this frozen hell in the first place. At least this time it wasn’t his failure.
Bear rummaged through the mess, taking his time, and dug out a rabbit-fur pouch. Chips of blood-stained bone rattled into his open palm, each one inscribed with a skeletal rune. He crouched down on the floorboards and threw them like a gambler hoping for a perfect roll.
Adherence to duty leads an innocent toward doom, he thought, frowning as he interpreted the scatter of the runes. But not the signifier indicating MY duty. Someone else’s.
He scooped the chips up, shook them, and took another toss. Smile-conceals-dagger. A friend betrays. Tragedy.
“Like I have any friends out here,” he muttered, collecting the chips and putting them back in the pouch. He was too distracted to divine tonight, nothing but gibberish from the runes. Time to quit stalling.
In the middle of the workroom, surrounded by chalk circles etched across the grainy wood, a brass bowl stood upon a low wooden pedestal. Cold, stagnant water filled the basin, with flecks of mold floating on the surface. Bear rolled up his sleeves.
The incantation came to his lips unbidden, rising more from his heart than his memory. He hissed a sibilant litany and held his bare arm out over the bowl. A hu
ndred tiny white lines flecked his frostburned skin under the blue knotwork tattoos, each one the memory of a spell paid for in blood. He raised his white bone-handled knife in the other hand. A raw hunger grew in his belly, surging up, seizing him with almost uncontrollable need.
Then, at the crescendo of the chant, he slashed the knife across his forearm. A quick, shallow cut, just enough to make the blood well up and flow, trickling down into the water. The hunger exploded and was suddenly gone, poured into the magic, leaving him with nothing but a cold emptiness and the pain of the blade.
The water roiled as the blood hit the surface. It swirled in red ribbons, drawing designs that held him transfixed.
“Dire Mother, hear my call,” he whispered.
The water turned black. An image rippled under the surface. The vision showed him a chamber of black stone, almost onyx, glistening wetly in torchlight. Bear frowned. The place was right, but where was his coven’s mistress?
Slowly, from the side of the image, a bone mask leaned into view. Like his, but carved to resemble an owl. Wide eyes peered from behind the owl’s pupils.
“I called to the Dire,” he said, “not you.”
“Bad news,” the Owl told him. “I’ve decided that this is Nobody Gets What They Want Day. The celebration begins now.”
“Is this about what happened in Reinsgrad? Are you still angry at me?”
The Owl blinked. “That’s silly. I’m not angry at you. I hate you. That’s not the same thing at all.”
“We have a problem,” Bear said. “A man from the Banco Rossini came to see the mayor tonight, asking about the alum mines. We must have missed a survey log or a map somewhere. It’s not a local leak. As far as everyone here is concerned, the mines don’t exist and never have.”
“Could be a problem. Where’s the banker now?”
“Gone. Veruca mistook him for an Imperial spy. Sent him home to Mirenze with his tail between his legs, and she cut a piece of him off for good measure. He won’t be back.”
The Owl raised a gloved finger and wagged it at him. “Don’t be shortsighted. Bankers smelling money are like sharks smelling blood. Just less honest about their appetites. You know, you could protect the mines even better with the Brittle Cowl Trick. Oh, but wait. That’s a technique from the Third Aerie. You can’t use those, can you?”
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to take a deep breath before he answered her.
“You know perfectly well that I can’t.”
“That won’t do! I’ll tell you what: to ease the bad feelings between us, I will be happy to teach you. Just let me know as soon as you’ve started menstruating and we can begin.”
Up until that moment, Bear had planned to keep the rest of his news close to his hip, hoping for a chance to turn it to his advantage. Now he couldn’t resist the chance to ruffle her feathers.
“Something else,” he said. “Renault was here.”
The Owl fell silent. She stared at him.
Now it was Bear’s turn to smile. “She had a bounty on Dante Uccello. Some of his friends in the Church want to take him into safe harbor while they fight his treason charges. Want to hear something funny? I decided to tweak her a little, tried to convince her that Squirrel was just some innocent kid who stole one of our masks and got burned for it. She already believes it. I think she’s been torturing herself mad over it.”
“Then she doesn’t have Squirrel’s—” the Owl started to say, then caught herself. Her eyes turned to ice behind the mask. “Never mind. She doesn’t know what torture is, yet. Where is she now?”
“Going to collect Uccello at the docks. Veruca sold him to some pirates she wants dead. Figures Renault will do the job for free. Want me to chase her down, arrange an accident?”
“No,” the Owl said. “Squirrel was my apprentice. Vengeance is my right. No one touches her until I’m ready. As far as the issue with the mines goes, I’m putting Mouse on it. She’s already in Mirenze.”
“Mouse? She’s barely blooded. Why not use Worm and Shrike? They’re the best trackers we…” Bear’s voice trailed off as he answered his own question. “…because you’re going to send them after Renault.”
The Owl just blinked at him and tilted her head to one side, as if he’d announced his discovery that water was wet.
“Do you think,” he said, “maybe we should put our best people to work on a problem that could affect the entire coven, instead of serving your personal vendetta?”
“No.”
He waited, wondering if she was going to follow up with an explanation. She didn’t.
“I expect you’ll relay all of this to the Dire,” he said. “You know, I’ve been doing really good work out here. And I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t you think it’s time I was allowed to come home?”
The Owl threw back her head and let out a screeching cackle. He stood with his fists clenched at his sides, waiting until her hysterical laughter faded into soft, trembling giggles.
“No,” she abruptly said and poked her finger at him. The water in the bowl burbled and the image shattered, gone in a heartbeat.
Bear sighed and dug around on his shelves for a roll of gauze to wind around his cut. Dribbles of dried blood caked his wrist and palm, but the sting was gone. His mind kept wandering back to the Owl’s one slip.
Then she doesn’t have Squirrel’s—
What could Renault have that would prove Squirrel was a witch? He almost dropped the gauze as the answer came to him.
Her book of spells.
The Owl assumed Renault had taken the girl’s book as a trophy. Obviously she hadn’t, which meant writings belonging to the coven were out there somewhere, floating in the wild for anyone to read. Squirrel was the Owl’s apprentice. That made her responsible for the cleanup.
Two questions, he thought as his lips curled in a grim smile. One, how can I use this against her?
Two, who DOES have the book?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Only a handful of lights still shone in the harbor of Winter’s Reach, hooded lanterns dangling from poles at the end of each dock. Trade ships and crab boats slept through the night under the blanket of a gentle, drifting snow.
Mari stood at the end of the boardwalk and looked out at the silhouette of Captain Zhou’s galleon, the Cruel Jest. Even at this hour, patrols walked the upper deck and kept a sharp watch on the pirate’s property. Mari frowned.
They’d see anyone creeping up the gangplank. Swimming around the side of the ship and climbing up the hard way? Not in this cold. Maybe a ruse would work, claiming to be another courier from Veruca. That could get her close enough to strike. If she could take out the sentries on the top deck without raising an alarm…
“There are over eighty pirates on that ship,” said a man’s cultured voice at her back. Mari spun on her heel. Dante Uccello stood in a patch of scrub, his gaunt frame shrouded in a woolen horseman’s cape. He held a light crossbow in his left hand, aimed at her heart.
“Bloodthirsty bastards, too,” he said. “Were you really going to take them head-on? I’ve heard of you, Renault. You’ve got quite the reputation. I just didn’t think you were suicidal.”
“I have a duty,” Mari said.
“A duty to your purse. How much are the Marchettis paying you?”
“Veruca didn’t tell you? I’m not working for them. I was hired by Terenzio Ruggeri to take you to Cardinal Accorsi. He wants to help you. He thinks he can get the treason charges overturned.”
Dante chuckled. “Ruggeri’s an old friend, but a cardinal? Atheists make few friends in cathedrals, and the Church has never been a great fan of my work. Try again.”
“Ruggeri seemed to think,” Mari said, “you have some information that he and the cardinal can make money with.”
“That sounds marginally more believable.”
“You said you’ve heard of me?”
“I like to know who might be dragging me to the gallows,” Dante said. “Besides, Veruca has ta
lked about you once or twice.”
“Then you know I don’t lie.”
“Everybody lies,” Dante said. The crossbow in his hand held its aim unwaveringly. The steel bolt glistened, wet with snowflakes.
“I don’t. My word of honor: I’ve been hired to bring you to the Holy City, safe and unharmed. All you have to do is hear the cardinal out.”
“And if I don’t like what he has to say?”
Mari shrugged. “None of my business.”
“I’m keeping my weapon,” he said.
“Long as you aren’t pointing it at me.”
“That’s fair,” he said.
She nodded at the crossbow. “Starting now.”
Dante lowered his weapon. He unwound the tension from the bow with a tiny crank and unloaded the bolt.
“One question,” Mari said.
“Oh, why aren’t I on the boat right now, being buggered by the good captain and his lusty crew?” Dante smiled and reached into his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurled Veruca’s letter to Zhou. “Because I’m not stupid enough to deliver a sealed letter to a man whom the mayor wants dead, roughly twenty minutes after I find out there’s a bounty hunter in town come to claim me. Veruca Barrett is the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met, but she’s too impulsive for her own good. She learned nothing from me. As for the coffer of ‘tribute’ money I was supposed to deliver to Zhou…well, I’ll just call it a severance package.”
“We should leave,” Mari said.
“Agreed. I’ve worn out my welcome in Winter’s Reach. I assume you’ve arranged transportation?”
“It was eaten.”
Dante leaned in, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Then he stroked his neat black goatee as he thought it over. An impish gleam touched his eyes.
“You’re a risk-taker by trade,” he said. “Up for doing something a little dangerous?”
“Such as?”
Dante looked out across the sleepy harbor.
“We already have passage booked, and the ship leaves in about an hour,” he said. “Our new captain just doesn’t know it yet.”
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