Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1)

by Craig Schaefer

  “I may end up a pawn or a king,” Dante said aloud, “but one thing is inarguable. Like it or not, I am most definitely back on the chessboard.”

  He didn’t need to sleep on his decision. He knew what he had to do, or at least the first step.

  He had some scribal tools in his belt pouch: a slim vial of squid ink, a bent quill, a scrap of parchment. That was all he needed. Sitting cross-legged by the crackling fire, he set to work.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Some inns were built for rest and comfort. The Guildsman’s Seat was built for pleasure and secrets. It was the sort of place to meet a mistress for a pleasant hour before going home to the family, or for a shady rendezvous with an informant to trade stolen knowledge for coin. As Felix walked through the dimly lit foyer, the room broken into little pockets shielded by cherrywood lattice screens and leafy ferns, he wondered if Taviano had ever come here while he was selling out the Rossini family.

  Every time Felix thought of Taviano, he thought of Simon. Every time he thought of Simon, the stump of his ear throbbed.

  Room eight stood at the end of a hall lit by bronze candle sconces. The faint strains of a violin, sad and slow, drifted through the dark lacquered wood.

  He knocked. The music stopped.

  A chain rattled and the door opened a crack. Aita’s eye peered through, framed by a dangling golden curl. She recognized him, nodded, and let him inside.

  The inn didn’t skimp on luxuries. Silk sheets the color of hammered bronze draped a feather bed, bracketed by more wooden lattice screens. Double doors opened onto a veranda, where Felix saw a violin propped up against the ironwork railing.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  “Music is my solitary indulgence,” she said, closing the door and locking it. She swept past him, beckoning him deeper into the suite, and gestured to an ornate chair in the curving, delicate style of the Benegali east. “Sit, please.”

  He took a seat. She paced the rug slowly, scrutinizing him.

  “You know my father’s business?”

  “I’m starting to get an impression,” Felix said. “He spelled out the consequences of not going along with his plans.”

  “Mm-hmm. He’s not bluffing, in case you’re wondering. He never bluffs. Neither do I.”

  “I got that impression, too. What is this, round two? You can’t threaten me more than he already has, Aita.”

  She stopped pacing.

  “I’ve been told,” she said, “by people who put stock in such things, that I’m not unattractive.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Felix said with a careless shrug.

  “My father has offered you money, social prestige…and me. Most men would jump at the chance.”

  “A cage with golden bars is still a cage.”

  Aita’s painted lips curled in the faintest of smiles.

  “You passed the first test. What’s more important, Felix? Money or power?”

  He slouched back in the chair. “Power, obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re back to the same place we started. Your father will give me money, as long as I do what I’m told, when I’m told to do it, and never buck against the reins. Money doesn’t set you free. Power, though, that means you can make your own choices. Where are you going with this, Aita?”

  “I am my father’s daughter. I’ve spent my lifetime studying him, learning from him…more than he realizes. I’m also a better judge of character. He thinks you’re weak. Easily cowed into submission. I know better. Tell me: what do you want, more than anything in the world?”

  He didn’t have to think about it.

  “Her name is Renata,” he said, and she nodded in understanding.

  “I’ve heard stories about your trip to Winter’s Reach. They say the mayor herself carved your ear off.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you want revenge?” Aita asked. A spark of curiosity glimmered in her eyes.

  “Not against her. I don’t care about Barrett. She was tricked. I want the assassin who did the tricking, a Murgardt calling himself Simon. And I want the person who sent him.”

  “You know who it was,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “There was only one man who had a motive to sabotage my mission and drive my family under. Lodovico Marchetti. I just can’t prove it. Yet.”

  “And when you have your proof, what will you do then? Will you kill this man?”

  Felix looked out the open veranda doors, out to the starry night sky.

  “I’ll burn his world to the ground.”

  “Because death is too easy, too good for him,” Aita said. “You want him to live long enough to see his legacy in ruins. His plans undone. Vendetta.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I feel the same way,” she said, “about my father.”

  Felix turned, blinking at her.

  “My father orchestrates a criminal network from here to Carcanna. His power is absolute. Among the vermin of the underworld, his name is synonymous with terror.” She scowled, seething. “That, Felix, is my birthright. The birthright he has denied me. He has made it ever so clear that I am nothing but a tool, a convenient pawn to be played in games of marriage and alliance. An empty-headed trophy who will, he steadfastly prays, bear him a grandson who can properly take the reins of his empire when he’s ready to retire.”

  “These are dangerous words,” Felix said.

  “No, they aren’t. Because you won’t tell him about this meeting. You won’t say a word, because we both want the same thing: Basilio Grimaldi, broken. You would have your freedom, and I would have his empire for my own.”

  Felix folded his hands on his lap. Now it was his turn to study her, reading the fire in her eyes and the steel in her voice.

  “It sounds to me,” he said, “like you have a plan. What do you want from me, exactly?”

  “Pledge yourself to me. Help me to tear my father’s works down, from the inside. In return, I will help you to prove Lodovico Marchetti’s guilt and find the assassin he sent after you. We’ll both enjoy the revenge we’re entitled to.”

  “This sounds dangerous,” he said. His tone was curious. It was an observation, not a complaint.

  “The most dangerous act you’ve ever contemplated. We’ll be walking a razor wire, Felix. One misstep and we tumble into the fire together. My father reserves the most terrible of fates for those who betray him.”

  Felix weighed his words carefully, deliberating.

  “I was already planning on killing him,” he told her.

  Aita smiled. “I hoped you’d say that.”

  He rose from his chair, walked across the rug, and offered her his hand.

  “Partners?”

  She clasped it, firmly, and looked him in the eye.

  “Partners. For now, we play along. Earn my father’s trust if you can. Be obedient, but not too obedient. He’ll expect a tiny bit of resistance. Once we’re married and have more leeway to slip away from his watchful gaze—not to mention a natural reason to be alone together—our real work can begin. As for your Renata, send her somewhere outside the city, the farther the better. I know you must ache for her, but it’s—”

  “For her safety, I know. Already done.”

  Aita flashed pearly teeth. “Resourceful. We’re going to get along just fine. I have a good feeling about this.”

  Felix walked towards the door. He paused, glancing back. “Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I turned down your offer?”

  “Oh, Felix,” she said. “You never would have left this room alive.”

  * * *

  Shrouded by shadow and a light mist of rain, Hassan the Barber stood on the far side of a puddle-spotted street and kept his eyes on the gilded doors of the Guildsman’s Seat. Sure enough, there went Aita, alone and unchaperoned. Half an hour later, the Rossini boy came skulking out, shoulders hunched and spending more time watching his back than looking where he was going. No, Felix Rossini was no t
hreat. He didn’t have a head for intrigue or the training to know what to do with it. He belonged to a softer world than the one the Grimaldi family trafficked in.

  Aita, though, she was a different matter. While her father stayed blissfully, even stubbornly unaware, Hassan had discreetly charted her comings and goings over the past couple of months. Noted her midnight escapes from her bedroom window, and her furtive trips to spy in Basilio’s office and pore over his ledgers.

  Now she’d drafted her fiancé into her schemes. Interesting. Knowing Aita, she’d throw him to the wolves as soon as he’d played his part, whatever it was. She was as ruthless as her father. That was exactly why Hassan wouldn’t say a word to Basilio about any of this.

  Hassan had been born to a raiding clan. He’d seized a headman’s necklace with the edge of his scimitar and the force of his will. When Basilio Grimaldi first met him, Hassan could smell the opportunity an alliance promised, like spice on the desert wind. He’d learned to play the good and faithful servant. He still had a raider’s heart, though, and loyalty was a fool’s game.

  He imagined Aita and Basilio as two fat merchant caravans, heading straight toward each other on a narrow road. They’d collide, in time, scattering treasure and blood across the sands. In the end, only the vultures would profit.

  Hassan was a vulture.

  Scheme your little schemes, girl, he thought as a slow, hungry smile rose to his lips. I’ll keep your secret. For now.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Amadeo and Gallo stood hunched over a map of Lerautia long into the night. Flickering candlelight cast a yellow glow across their faces and the sweaty stubble on Gallo’s cheeks.

  “An hour or so before dawn, it’ll be a skeleton crew,” Amadeo said, tapping the map. “Most of the impostor-knights will be sleeping here, in the barracks. Columba said there’s two guards stationed outside Livia’s door at all hours, though.”

  “So stealth won’t work,” Gallo said with a shrug. “We go loud, instead. A distraction. Look, the barracks are on the east side of the manse. One good fire could draw the entire household in that direction. While they’re all dealing with the emergency, we slip in, grab Livia and Sister Columba, and make our escape.”

  Amadeo nodded. “We’ll need a cart. Columba can’t ride a horse. And we’ll need to leave. Nowhere in the Holy City will be safe. I say we hire a boat and have it waiting. We’ll sail east. Itresca’s no friend of the Empire and barely faithful to the Church. I think the king would grant Livia sanctuary just to tweak Carlo’s nose.”

  “Agreed. I love this city like it was my mother, but it’s time to move on. Someday, Gardener willing, it’ll be worthy of its name once more.”

  “With the curtain walls between the districts,” Amadeo said, tracing his finger along the streets, “we’ll have to pass through two gates, here and here, to get to the docks. Any chance the constabulary will help us?”

  Gallo snorted. “None. They’re all either corrupt or blindly loyal, meaning they’ll do whatever Carlo and that rat Accorsi tell them to. Assume they’re hostile.”

  “That means we need to control those gates before the rescue, so we can shut them behind us and cut off any pursuers.”

  “I only have six men left,” Gallo mused. “The others all left the city, following their reassignment orders. We need more help, which means we’ll need more boats.”

  “And we’ll have them. This is the Alms District, Gallo. Everyone here knows Livia. They just don’t know that they know her.”

  Gallo frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Trust me,” Amadeo said, patting his back. “Gather your men, and let’s go out to the piazza. We’re about to make some new friends.”

  * * *

  Livia perked up every time the door to her suite opened. Sister Columba inevitably puttered in with a tray, eyes downcast, shadowed by a stone-faced knight who barked her into silence if she so much as said a word. Columba would set the tray down on the table by the hearth, turn and leave, and the door would close once more. Sealing Livia in her tomb.

  This time was no different. A meager dinner on the tray, some slices of smoked turkey and a small plate of steamed mussels in some sort of cream sauce. Something caught her eye, though, as she sat down to eat. A tiny corner of parchment poking out from under the plate. Her heartbeat quickened as she slipped the letter out from its hiding place, unfolded it, and began to read.

  “Father Amadeo lives. He and Signore Gallo are planning a rescue. They come tonight, a few hours before sunrise. Have faith, and trust in the Gardener’s love.”

  Livia crumpled Columba’s note in her hand, suddenly fearful. Not for herself, for them.

  They’re going to get themselves killed, she thought. Carlo’s mercenaries will chop them to pieces before they even get inside. They’re going to die, and it’ll be my fault.

  They were fools. Heroes, but fools. There was no way she could help them from here, though, nothing she could do unless…

  Her gaze drifted over the threshold into her bedroom. Squirrel’s book still rested under the mattress.

  They’ll die if I don’t, she thought.

  They’ll die tonight.

  She took up paper and a quill and wrote a quick note.

  “Brother, now that I’ve had time to think and reflect on my deeds…how can I tell you how sorry I am? I know how much I’ve hurt you, how I’ve broken your heart, and thinking of you in pain just tears me apart. I don’t expect your forgiveness. Not now, maybe not for years, but I pray by the Gardener’s grace that someday we might reconcile and be siblings once more.

  “I only ask one thing of you, one small token of grace. Could you send me a pet to keep me company in my rooms? A cat, perhaps, or a bird. Just a small thing, to brighten my hours and hasten my thoughts toward salvation. With penitent love, Livia.”

  She folded the note, and slipped it under her door. She heard one of the knights outside bend down and pick it up, then clank away up the hall to deliver it.

  Now it was all up to Carlo.

  Not long after, the door opened, and one of the knights marched in carrying a cage of worked iron. Inside, a yellow parakeet warbled from a wooden perch. The knight set the cage in the corner of her room and left without a word.

  Livia sat there for a while. Watching the happy little bird. Hating herself. Looking for another way. Not finding one. Two hours passed before she found the resolve to take the next step.

  Then she went to fetch two things. Squirrel’s book of spells, and one of her knitting needles.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Under the light from the crystal chandelier, the concentric rings of the council auditorium were a swamp of tension and stale sweat. The members of the College of Cardinals gathered in cliques and wolf packs, huddling together in soft argument, the room filled with the feuding drone of fifty tired, angry voices.

  One man walked alone. Cardinal Accorsi strolled through the gilded chamber, his shoes clicking softly on the pristine marble floors, and just listened. He counted five feeble conspiracies, each backing their own man for the papal throne but waiting for someone else to stand up and formally issue a challenge to Carlo’s claim.

  The ten knights who stood around the edges of the room, in formal plate and fully armed, might have had something to do with that.

  Nobody wanted to say what everyone was thinking: the knights were a threat. A show of muscle, intended to cow the cardinals into rubber-stamping Carlo’s ascension. Marcello could tell it wasn’t working. They were getting angrier with each passing hour of debate. Not angry enough to risk retaliation, but enough to drag these hearings out forever.

  “—nothing says we have to vote at all,” Marcello overheard Cardinal Cavalcante say to a knot of hangers-on. “Let the bastard stew for a week. A month! When the people see an empty throne and cry out for leadership, that’s our chance.”

  Marcello swooped in with a smile.

  “Our chance to look incompetent, you mean. No, friend
s, we only have one way out of this situation. We need to put Carlo on the throne.”

  Jaws dropped. “Wait,” Cardinal De Luca said, sweat glistening on his double chin. “You’ve been against Carlo from the beginning. Why the change of heart?”

  Just the opening he needed. Marcello raised his voice a bit higher, projecting like a stage actor, as he made the sale.

  “Because in a battle with an empty throne, gentlemen, we will lose. Do the people know how hard we work, the webs of negotiation and compromise that keep their Mother Church running? No, nor should they! They see a leader. One leader. One leader who, in their eyes, we are denying them. A week? A month? They’ll be crying out, all right. ‘Carlo! Give us Carlo!’”

  Cavalcante folded his arms. “Carlo is a drunkard.”

  “He is. Do the churchgoers in Murgardt know that? In Itresca? In half of Lerautia, his own hometown? No, they do not. Weaknesses can be concealed. Witnesses can be gently encouraged into silence. All the masses know is that he is Benignus’s son. Benignus, whom they loved, remember.”

  Cardinal Herzog wandered over from a neighboring clique, trailed by three of his own sycophants. His bushy eyebrows quirked. “It sounds as if you’re advocating putting an unfit man at the helm.”

  “I do not dispute that he is unfit,” Marcello said. “I dispute that it is the helm. Gentlemen, the Church is a mighty engine. Every steeple from here to the Murgardt hinterlands, every priest and pardoner, every faithful follower, is a cog in that machine. And who keeps it running? Who repairs it when it breaks? We do. Benignus was a good man who we all admired, but he was only one man. We benefited from his guidance…but can anyone here say that we needed his guidance?”

  “The people need a strong leader,” De Luca argued. “They need a pope who champions them, who brings the Gardener’s light to the world.”

  Marcello nodded. “And that is a polite way of saying ‘figurehead.’ Carlo Serafini is weak. But his weakness can be our strength. We can tailor his message, his rule, and create the next great pope.”