The Instruments of Control (The Revanche Cycle Book 2)

by Craig Schaefer

  “I’m not telling you anything. Only that the Misery sleeps in the mine, and sleep it must. Forever.”

  “We thought we’d eradicated every scrap of knowledge about the alum mine,” Fox explained. “You were…surprisingly tenacious in your research.”

  “Yeah, well.” Veruca rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Alum. The Church pretty much has a monopoly on the stuff. You know how much money that mine will bring in once I open it up again?”

  The Muskrat shook her head slowly. “Normally we would take the path of least resistance here. Namely, your death. But you’ve managed to bring this forsaken city under control, amazingly enough.”

  Veruca studied her fingernails. “I am amazing, yes. Also, notice how I’m clearly not afraid of you? You should contemplate that before you sling threats around.”

  “My colleagues and I may need a safe haven in the near future. Keeping you in power makes that possible. No, you cannot reopen the alum mines. As compensation, one of our number will stay behind, as your…court advisor.”

  The man in the bear mask crossed his arms, flexing tattoos of ornate blue knots, and growled. The Muskrat shot him a look.

  Veruca sat up straight, her interest piqued. “My own witch?”

  “Your very own, to serve you as you please, so long as you obey our wishes and forget that the alum mine even exists.”

  Veruca stood. Her boots clicked on the cold flagstone as she approached the clustered visitors. She stuck out her hand.

  “You’ve got yourselves a deal.”

  “Good,” the Muskrat said. She grabbed hold of Veruca’s hand with shocking force. A crackling sensation lanced up her wrist and arm, headed straight for the mayor’s spine. “I should point out that the clause about forgetting the mine exists was quite literal, though. Now…relax. This will hurt less if you don’t fight me.”

  Veruca’s eyes shot open.

  She lay under heavy furs in a tangle of warm, naked bodies. Head heavy with the aftermath of three bottles of wine, she could barely remember how she got there.

  She remembered her dream, though. And she knew, somehow, it wasn’t a flight of drunken fantasy.

  How had Bear come into her service? She strained to remember, but she couldn’t. Her brain just…slid around the edges of the question, a thought too slippery to grab.

  But the dream told her exactly how it had happened. And exactly why her earliest days in power were so hazy in her memory.

  Fuck with my head? Rage simmered in her gut. Play me for a fool? Whatever that thing you hid away in the mine really is, I hope you didn’t need it…because I own it now.

  As for my “court advisor,” he’s got a nasty little surprise coming his way.

  * * *

  And down in the darkness, in a chamber of frozen stone, the Misery shuddered in its endless nightmare. Touched by Livia’s magic from half a world away, and close to waking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Hedy shot up in bed, clutching the scratchy sheets and gasping for breath in the darkness.

  Renata jolted awake, startled, fumbling to light the candle between their beds. The village in the valley didn’t have an inn, but they’d found an elderly farmer—awake with insomnia, and the owner of a vacant bedroom ever since he’d married off both of his daughters—who was happy to put a roof over their heads for the night.

  “Hedy,” Renata said, “what’s wrong? Can you breathe?”

  Hedy waved one hand, shaking her head, and gulped down a swallow of air. She hiccupped.

  “Something…something bad. Something really bad.”

  Renata pulled aside the linens and padded over to sit on the side of Hedy’s bed.

  “It’s all right. We’re safe now.”

  “Not us. It’s not us. It’s…” She sighed. “There are things I can’t explain to you. I took oaths, but…all right. Witchcraft is a…a discipline, and an art. There are rules. Ways to do things, and ways not to do things. When we weave a spell, we draw power from the Shadow In-Between. So we have to be very careful—”

  Renata looked blankly at her. “The shadow in between what?”

  “In between everything. But you have to know how to do it right. If you don’t, if you haven’t been properly trained, you can…open doors that shouldn’t be opened. Tear things that shouldn’t be torn. You can get specks of raw Shadow inside of you. And they don’t come out. They fester. And grow.”

  Hedy stared at their distorted reflections in the farmhouse window. The glow from the oil lamp turned the glass into a ghostly mirror.

  “Somebody,” Hedy said, “somewhere…just made a very big mistake. They called on a power they couldn’t possibly understand. And if they’re very, very lucky, they’re already dead.”

  Renata sat quietly and let the girl catch her breath. Then she reached out, gently touching Hedy’s shoulder.

  “Hedy…I wish you’d come with me tomorrow.”

  Hedy sighed. Her shoulders slumped.

  “You still think you’re talking to sweet, kind-hearted Hedy. Didn’t you learn tonight?” She shook her head. “The Mouse is who I am, Renata. Hedy is the mask I wear.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Hedy stared down at her hands.

  “Well. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t…it doesn’t matter anyway. I have a calling. A purpose.” She looked back up at Renata and gave her a tired smile. “You go to Kettle Sands, and your Felix, and live your life together. And someday I’ll come visit your little inn. We’ll sit down and catch up on old times, and you’ll see I’m doing all right. I promise. Okay?”

  Renata squeezed her arm. “You’d better.”

  Then she pulled her into a hug, surprised by how fiercely Hedy clung to her. Her thoughts drifted to Felix and his promise to kill Basilio Grimaldi.

  Do whatever you have to, she thought, but come to me. Soon.

  * * *

  “Felix,” the terse note read, “we need to talk. Come to my estate at once. Basilio.”

  As he walked through the quiet, marble halls of the Grimaldi estate, Felix tried to keep his emotions in check. He hadn’t spoken to his father-in-law since the explosion at the Ducal Arch. He had no doubt Basilio had spent every minute since trying to find a loophole in Felix’s trap.

  I’ve got enough trouble dealing with Simon and Lodovico Marchetti, Felix thought. You, Signore Grimaldi, are staying right on my hook where you belong.

  Strange. No servants, beyond the tall, grim-faced Oerran at the door who let him in and pointed the way. No guards. Basilio’s home felt like a mausoleum, spotless and cold and hollow.

  He knocked on the door to Basilio’s office. It swung open under his knuckles.

  “Signore?”

  No answer. A cool breeze washed through the room, and Felix wrinkled his nose at a strange, coppery stench. Basilio’s high-backed chair had been turned to face the open window. Brow furrowed, Felix walked around the desk—and froze.

  Basilio couldn’t have been dead for long, slumped in his chair. His glazed eyes stared at Felix, his torn throat gaping and scarlet. Felix shook his head, trying to process what he was seeing.

  The assassins who attacked him on the street, he thought, or any of a hundred other people who wanted the bastard dead. One of his enemies finally got lucky. It was bound to happen eventually.

  His thoughts leaped to Aita. If she was here and the killers found her…he had to find her. Help her, if he could. They were allies, not friends—an alliance that meant nothing now that her father was dead—but he wasn’t going to stand by and let her get hurt.

  A shrill scream jerked his head toward the open window. Aita. Out on the lawns, pointing right at him as he stood over Basilio’s corpse.

  And she was surrounded by a small platoon of armed men, draped in the gold and black livery of Mirenze’s city militia.

  “I saw him do it,” she cried. “He killed my father!”

  As Aita clung to one of the guardsmen, breaking down in
heaving sobs, the others drew their rapiers.

  Felix took a step back, stumbling against Basilio’s chair, and held up his open hands. “No, it’s…this isn’t what it looks like—”

  Half of them charged toward the front door of the mansion, the rest heading straight for the open window. Felix, seized in a blind panic, turned and broke into a dead run.

  Pounding boots and short, sharp shouts echoed through the mansion, sounding like they came from all around him. Lost in an unfamiliar house, the only direction Felix could manage was away. He darted through a cavernous ballroom, so cold he could see a gasp of breath on the air, and down a twisting warren of back passages.

  * * *

  “He will be found,” Governor Baumbach said for the third time. He was a chubby Murgardt with a round, curiously flat face and a nose that blossomed with a spiderweb of red veins.

  “I have absolute faith in the city militia,” Aita responded, sitting diagonal from him on a plush powder-blue divan. A small lacquered table stood between them, set with a porcelain tea service.

  She had draped herself in black, her face shadowed behind a delicate mourner’s veil.

  “I’m just so…so very sorry. Your father was a good man. A great man. And a dear friend of mine.”

  Aita bowed her head.

  “He was. But his ledgers…were in disarray. The family barrister tells me our assets could be tied up for weeks before my inheritance is settled. Months, even. Months without a coin to feed myself, much less keep the bill collectors from the door. The law expects a lady to be well cared for by her husband when she loses her father, Governor, and by her family when she becomes a widow. What of a tragedy like mine, when I lose both husband and father in one day? Am I to be turned out into the streets? Made to beg?”

  Baumbach poured two cups of tea. The faint scent of ginger filled his ivory-walled sitting room.

  “No,” he said. “No, I won’t allow it. I’d be dishonoring Basilio’s memory if you wanted for anything. Aita, do you have any idea why Felix would do this horrible thing?”

  She reached for a teacup, picking it up delicately.

  “I’ve heard rumors. Nothing I can comment on with any certainty, but…you know his family died in the explosion at the arch, yes?”

  Baumbach lowered his eyes. “A tragic day for us all.”

  “Some say that Felix’s father, Albinus”—she paused, lowering her voice—“they say he was some sort of criminal. It’s possible that he sought this merger with my father’s business in order to facilitate some sort of…illegal scheme.”

  “And you think Felix was involved?”

  Aita lifted her veil an inch, taking a dainty sip from her teacup.

  “He was always kind to me, but you know what they say: like father, like son. Perhaps he tried to coerce my father into going along with his plan. I imagine Father refused, things turned violent, and…well. Here we are.”

  “He will be found,” Baumbach said again. “I’ll see Felix hang for this. I promise you.”

  “I have every faith. But again, the reason I’m here: can you help ensure my needs are met?”

  Baumbach gave a vague shrug. “I looked over the paperwork you sent over concerning the Banco G-R. You’re right, there are some extremely odd clauses, and the timing of the registration just doesn’t line up. It seems very suspicious. Now, this third company director, this ‘Renata Nicchi’—”

  “My oldest and dearest friend,” Aita said quickly. “Except she vanished, a week ago. I think…Governor, I think Felix may have murdered her, too.”

  Baumbach took that in, nodding gravely.

  “As the Imperial administrator of Mirenze,” he said, “I’m empowered with a good deal of judicial authority. I think, given the…obscene nature of this tragedy, that I’m comfortable issuing a formal writ on the matter. Until such time as Felix Rossini is brought to justice and we can untangle this mess in the courts, I am granting you full authority over the Banco G-R and its accounts and operations. I would suggest you hire an educated gentleman to supervise it for you. If you need a recommendation—”

  “That’s quite all right.” Aita sipped her tea. “I have just the man in mind.”

  “Again, my deepest condolences. Felix will be found.”

  Aita smiled under her veil.

  “I have absolute faith.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Nessa and Mari walked along the riverbank, side by side. A sudden wind scattered orange leaves in their path and rippled across the swift black waters.

  “Are you excited?” Mari asked. The mud sucked at her boots, but it couldn’t keep the nervous bounce from her step.

  Nessa chuckled and lifted her chin. “Of course. I’ll get the answers I need for my research. But you…oh, I’m so happy for you. This is your day, Mari. Your special day.”

  The end of their journey waited at a bend in the river. A ruined chapel of ivory stone, battered and flame-scorched and forgotten. The fallen husk of a tower lay on its side, sinking into the black mud. Mari stopped short, the breath catching in her throat.

  “Are…are they still here?”

  Nessa nodded. “According to my sources, they’ve never stopped using these old chapterhouses. Last place the Imperials will think to look for them.”

  The chapel doors swung wide, and two of the knights of the Autumn Lance strode forth to greet them.

  They were everything Mari had ever imagined. Tall and proud in suits of coppery parade armor, polished to a mirror sheen, and full-face helms emblazoned with the crest of the royal house. They wore sashes and cloaks of orange and scarlet and elegant swords with swirling silver guards around their red leather-wrapped hilts. Regal. Strong. Bastions of authority and power.

  They were perfect.

  “Why,” one said, his voice muffled under his helm, “are you here?”

  Nessa gave Mari a smile and a nod. Mari cleared her throat, taking a tiny step forward.

  “I’m…I’m Mari, um, Mari Renault, and this is Nessa. We’re, um, I mean—”

  “Ask them,” Nessa whispered, nudging Mari’s shoulder.

  Mari took a deep breath and clasped her hands together.

  “I want to join you,” she blurted.

  “Join us?” the other knight asked, her voice slightly higher than her companion. “You?”

  “Yes.” Mari’s head bobbed. “I want to be a knight. Look, here—”

  She fumbled in her pouch, bringing out her tarnished brooch. The knights wore identical ones, theirs gleaming and pristine at the shoulders of their cloaks.

  “I’ve carried this with me as a beggar’s moon. I don’t wear it, I know I don’t have that right—I mean, yet—but I pray over it every day, and it reminds me to do the right things. I mean, I try to be noble, and tell the truth, and fight to protect—”

  “Enough,” the first knight said. “You are gravely mistaken. You cannot join us.”

  Mari’s face fell. “What…what do you mean?”

  “Our squires are groomed from birth,” the second knight explained. “By the time they’re old enough to pick up a blade, they’ve already spent years in ceaseless training. You’re too old. You’d have to spend a decade unlearning before you could even grasp the simplest of lessons.”

  “But I have experience! Out in the real world! I know things. I can do things.”

  “Recite the core litany of our creed,” the first knight said. “All four hundred and eighty-seven lines.”

  Mari cringed. “I…I don’t know what that is.”

  “Recite the mantra of steel,” his companion ordered her. “Five words. Simple enough for a child.”

  “I don’t know.” Mari shook her head. “But I can learn. I’ll study, I promise! Werner, my teacher, he said I could be a real knight if I tried hard enough, if I was good—”

  “Werner?” the male knight snapped. “That’s a Murgardt name. Your teacher was an Imperial? The enemy?”

  “He’s not,” Mari said, holding up
her hands. “I mean, he was, but now he’s…I mean, he was a good man!”

  “Mari,” the female knight said, her voice softer now. “Whether by ignorance or cruelty, this man played a terrible trick on you. You cannot join us. You never could have. You never even had a chance. I am sorry, but the answer is no.”

  They turned to leave.

  “I can fight,” Mari shouted, her voice edged with raw desperation. “I—I know how to fight. I’m good at fighting.”

  The knights paused. They looked back at her.

  “Don’t embarrass yourself,” the male knight said.

  “Test me,” Mari begged. “Please. Let me prove it.”

  Behind his full-faced helm, the male knight’s eyes flicked towards Nessa. Standing just behind Mari, out of her sight, Nessa gave him a firm nod of acknowledgement. As if to say, “proceed.”

  His sword sang as it slid from the scabbard, the steel gleaming in the sunlight.

  “Very well. Show me your form.”

  Mari drew her batons. A snort of derision echoed from under his helm.

  “A knight doesn’t go to battle with sticks.” He nodded at his companion. “Lend her your blade.”

  “I…I don’t use swords,” Mari said, hesitant as the other knight unsheathed her weapon and held it out to her.

  “You said you knew how to fight. The sword is a knightly weapon. Stop wasting my time.”

  Mari took the blade. She frowned as it wavered in her hand, and she turned her wrist curiously from side to side.

  “The weight is wrong,” Mari said, “and the balance is off. Something’s wrong with this sword. It looks fine, but—”

  “You’re insulting my family sword?” the second knight demanded, “My father’s sword?”

  “And if you don’t regularly train with a blade,” the first knight said, “how could you possibly know the proper weight? Our weapons are made by the finest smith in all of Belle Terre.”

  “Sorry,” Mari said quickly. “Sorry, no, I just…all right. I’ll show you.”