Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

Gallo shrugged. He swung up into the saddle, gently patting his horse’s shaggy neck as it whinnied.

  “Then I’ll say a prayer for your soul,” he told her. “Seeing as you’re bound and determined to throw your life away, that’s the best I can do for you. I hope you change your mind before it’s too late. Hate to imagine your fiancé coming all this way just to find your body in the smoking rubble. Think about him.”

  “I do think about him,” Renata said softly, “every day.”

  Gallo nodded. “Then do the smart thing. Run. This town, these people—they’re not your problem. Sometimes you’ve got to take care of yourself. That’s a hard truth, but true all the same.”

  Then his horse turned, and with a flick of the reins, it ambled away. Leaving Renata standing alone at the village arch, the sun setting at her back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gulls squawked and wheeled in the air over Mirenze’s harbor. It was a crisp morning, and the wind carried the stink of fish guts and ocean salt. Felix had taken some of Sofia Marchetti’s “loan” and invested in a sturdy wool cloak with a hood long enough to keep his features in shadow, if he walked with his head down. Given that every cutthroat on Aita’s payroll was combing the city for a one-eared man—not to mention every bounty hunter and freelancer who hoped to earn her favor—his disfigurement was a grave liability out on the streets.

  Maybe I should scoop out an eyeball, he thought, smiling at his own grim humor. They’re not looking for a one-eyed, one-eared man. I’d slip right by.

  Considering the fate awaiting him if he fell into Aita’s hands, grim humor was the only humor he had left.

  He had the inklings of a plan, but he couldn’t do it alone. He needed backup. Rough men willing to get their hands dirty for coin. Most locals fitting that type were the ones hunting for him, though. Then he’d realized there was one place he could find outsiders, hopefully ones who hadn’t heard of the price on his head. His search brought him to the docks, listening to the harbor bells chime as he sized up the foreign sailors and tried to spot any that might be amenable to his offer.

  “Felix?” called out a voice from a gangplank ahead. “Hey, Felix! Over here!”

  He gritted his teeth and looked over to see a lanky, dark man rushing toward him. It was Anakoni, first mate of the Fairwind Muse and—like Felix—one of the only survivors of that doomed ship’s last voyage. Felix waved a frantic hand.

  “Keep it down,” he hissed, his gaze darting left and right. About to embrace him, the islander jolted to a stop and frowned, his glass eye glinting.

  “Felix? What’s wrong?”

  “My name is a liability right now. Don’t speak it lightly, for the sake of your own life. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Anakoni furrowed his brow and nodded. He gestured back at the gangplank. It led up to the deck of a three-masted barque, sailors scrambling like ants to flemish up the lines, stow its cargo, and prepare for sail.

  “On my ship. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Will your captain mind?”

  Anakoni grinned. “You’re talking to him. And you’ll always be welcome aboard Iona’s Sunset.”

  Anakoni’s forecabin sported a lean, curved desk of driftwood. Lush tapestried flags from the Enoli Islands draped the walls, and a small glass-fronted cabinet displayed an array of jugs and jars. Anakoni gestured for Felix to sit, then rummaged in the cabinet for a decanter and a pair of clean glasses.

  “Captain Iona was on contract with the Stockwater Company,” Anakoni said, pouring out brandy the color of burnt honey. “Once I made my way back from the Reach, I inquired about his commission. Every day was money lost, and they needed experienced hands who could pick up the Muse’s trade routes as soon as possible. They helped me get a loan, and…here we are.”

  “You’re all right with sailing to Winter’s Reach? Even after everything that happened?”

  Anakoni handed him a glass. “I’m married to the sea, Felix. Sometimes my wife is gentle, and sometimes she bites. Besides, I’ll die when the gods decree it. Old Man Ochali is still writing my story, so I’d better keep him entertained. I’ve prayed for you, you know, every day since we parted. You, and Simon, and even that…odd sewer rat of a girl.”

  Felix paused with the glass near his lips. Scenting the rich liquor but not tasting. He set the glass down on the desk.

  “Anakoni…it was Simon.”

  He frowned. “What was?”

  Felix told him the story of what had happened when they parted ways. Unmasking Simon’s deception, the long way home, and the bombing of the Ducal Arch. Anakoni’s face went ashen.

  “That bastard. And we saved him. We saved his life.”

  “If it’s any consolation, he hasn’t been seen since the explosion. Almost certain he blasted himself straight to the Barren Fields.”

  “Is it any consolation to you?”

  Felix picked up the glass of brandy. He could still smell the black-powder tang on the air, the haze of smoke and blood. He remembered the screams, the chaos. And the moment he realized his family was gone.

  “Not one damned bit,” he said. “However he died, he didn’t suffer one tenth of what he deserved. There’s still his master to contend with, though: the one who held Simon’s leash. Lodovico Marchetti.”

  Over another two fingers of brandy, the rich liquor warming his gut and driving his anger, Felix shared what he knew of Lodovico and Aita’s plans.

  “I found a copy of Lodovico’s ledgers when I searched Simon’s garret. It backs up what Lodovico’s mother said: he financed production of the crusaders’ weapons before he was officially offered the contract. The fix was in from the very start.”

  “The emperor starts a war, Pope Carlo blesses it, and Lodovico Marchetti profits.” Anakoni drained his glass and slapped it on the desk. “Steel, gold, and blood. That’s what a life on the land reduces you to. Why don’t you come with me, Felix? No hunters will find you out on the blue. We’ll make a sailor out of you yet.”

  Felix let out a bitter chuckle and shook his head, then sipped from his glass. “There’s no home for me without Renata. She’s waiting for me. And I can’t be with her until Aita and Lodovico have been stopped.”

  “All right.” Anakoni shrugged. “So let’s stop them.”

  “Anakoni, this isn’t—I mean, I’m grateful, I really am, but this isn’t your fight. I’ve brought enough pain to your doorstep.”

  The sailor scowled, shaking his head and reaching for the decanter.

  “You didn’t bring it, but I’d like to have words with the man who did. Sharp words. If it’s retribution you’re intent on, the Sunset can linger in port a couple more days while I help you win it.”

  Anakoni splashed another finger of brandy into Felix’s glass. Felix lifted it in a toast.

  “To justice, then.”

  Anakoni lifted his own, clinking their glasses together.

  “To vengeance,” he said and downed the drink.

  “Right now,” Felix said, “Aita is tightening her hold on her father’s throne. The more she does, the more dangerous she becomes. Lodovico had one killer on his payroll; she has a hundred.”

  “So we take her down first. What’s the plan?”

  “We can’t attack her directly, not yet. I guarantee she’s under heavy guard around the clock, at least until I’ve been captured. So we attack her credibility. If it looks like she can’t hold the reins of her father’s empire, then the Mirenze underworld will smell blood in the water. We might not have to take her head-on; we can make her ‘associates’ do it for us.”

  * * *

  Anakoni handpicked five men from his crew. Five men with fists like granite and more scars than Felix could count.

  “They’re the first men brawling, last men standing,” Anakoni told him. “Loyal, too. They’ll help.”

  Felix led his growing pack over to the Strada di Uva, a burgeoning merchant street. Shops squeezed shoulder to shoulder along a lane teeming with greengrocers an
d tailors and cobblers and cartwrights. Smoke from stovepipes drifted up to the cold, stale sky, carrying the smell of peppered and roasted meat.

  Felix watched the crowds in motion, comparing faces and destinations to a hastily scrawled list in his hand.

  “A lot of Basilio’s money came from his extortion rackets,” he explained. “But now that Aita and Lodovico are partners, I have a hunch her men won’t touch any business the Banco Marchetti’s invested in.”

  Anakoni snorted. “Courtesy among vultures.”

  After two hours’ watch, Felix spotted his prey. A short, dour man in a patchy coat, stepping into doorway after doorway only to emerge minutes later without any purchases in his hands. He paused at one shop, passed it by, then another.

  “There,” Felix said, showing the list to Anakoni. “Those two shops have loans from the Marchettis. Big ones. He’s the man we want.”

  Felix and his pack cut through the crowds, stone-faced and relentless as they closed in. Felix’s heart pounded, the same way it had when he faced Hassan the Barber. The sudden eruption of brutal violence that had left Aita’s henchman dead on the blood-streaked floorboards.

  It was a little easier this time.

  Felix tugged his hood lower, shadowing his face. The man ahead ducked into an alley, using it for a shortcut between streets. The opportunity they needed. Felix took one last look around, checking for city guards among the crowd of shoppers, and gave the signal.

  Their quarry never saw it coming. He turned too late, hearing the rushing boot steps pounding behind him, a blitz attack. Anakoni’s sailors grabbed him by the arms and shoved him up against the brick wall, the others clustering around and slamming eager fists into their meaty palms.

  The pack parted for Felix’s slow approach.

  “The money,” Felix said. “Hand it over.”

  “What?” His eyes bulged. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Felix threw a punch into the man’s gut, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

  “The money.”

  “You—you’re crazy! Do you know who I work for? I’m untouchable—”

  The next punch split his lip and broke a front tooth loose. He spat blood, groaning as he twisted in the sailors’ grip.

  “That’s strange,” Felix said. “Pretty sure I just touched you. Want me to touch you one more time, so we can be certain about this?”

  “All right, all right, damn it! Under my coat.”

  Felix pulled back the musty folds of his coat, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale sweat and fear. A heavy leather pouch dangled from his belt, fat with coin. Felix yanked the pouch, snapping the string, and took it from him.

  “You’re all dead men,” the extortionist seethed. “Dead! Do you know what the Grimaldi family does to people who cross them?”

  “You’ve got it backward. It’s you who crossed us. The Strada di Uva is Seven Daggers territory. So go and tell Aita Grimaldi that the next man she sends onto our turf is coming home in pieces.”

  The sailors let him go. He staggered back a few feet, blood drooling down his chin and dribbling onto his coat. Felix took one step toward him, with his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Run,” Felix commanded.

  He ran.

  By nightfall, they had canvassed five more streets and netted two more of Aita’s collectors. Same routine, with varying degrees of injury required, and Felix gave each one the name of a different imaginary gang. On their way back to the ship, with stomachs empty and the streets gone dark, Anakoni tugged open one of the coin pouches and whistled.

  “No small sum. Can’t believe she lets her collectors walk the streets unguarded like that.”

  “Why not?” Felix said. “Her father did, and everyone was terrified of her father. Nobody would dare lay a finger on one of his people. Aita’s just coasting on his reputation. Well. Was coasting. Trust me: today was the easy part.”

  “So what do we do with the money? Give it back to the storekeepers?”

  Felix sighed, and the purse dangling from his belt felt twenty pounds heavier. It was stolen money, taken under threat. It didn’t suddenly become clean now that they’d liberated it from the criminals doing the threatening.

  “We keep it,” he told Anakoni. “We’ll need it to hire more men. By morning the whole city’s going to know that three of Aita’s men got mugged by three different gangs. If she wants to keep her throne, she’ll have to retaliate, and fast.”

  “How will they know?”

  Felix gestured up ahead. The Hen and Caber faced the dockside street, tavern lights blazing and jaunty lute song drifting out into the frigid night.

  “Because,” Felix said, “we’re going to tell them.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the outskirts of Lychwold, just beyond the Itrescan capital’s towering and craggy stone walls, fat black flies swarmed in the dim light of a run-down barn. It was almost humid inside, despite the autumn cold, and stank of horse manure and rotting meat. The first thing a new arrival would see, upon throwing open the great double doors and stepping into the gloom, would be the words painted in a furious scrawl on the barn wall.

  Blood Until Justice Be Done.

  The second thing a visitor would see was the bodies.

  Three of them, stripped naked and bound, their throats slashed. Their guardsmen’s armor and green and black tabards lay in a messy pile at their feet. Upon their chests, crude blades had carved parodies of the Itrescan griffin into their flesh. The men hadn’t been dead for long. The flies clung to their neck wounds, feeding, laying their eggs, giving them black, squirming beards.

  * * *

  “Another one,” Rhys said, staring down at the parchment. Across the strategy table, Merrion wrung his hands, nodding.

  “Yes, sire. Three guardsmen. The barn’s owner found them at daybreak. Same carvings as the incident yesterday, same manner of killing.”

  Rhys tapped the page with a blunt fingernail.

  “House Argall.”

  Merrion squeezed his hands together harder, like they were trying to strangle each other.

  “While we captured the Argall patriarch, his wives and first sons at Livia’s coronation, and the bulk of his extended family when we sent troops to reclaim Colwyn Keep, more than a few slipped away. They are a most populous clan, sire.”

  “And eager to feud, always have been.” Rhys took a deep breath. “Damn it all. This was supposed to be clean. Bloodless. All they had to do was give back my family’s land, and I would have let them walk free. What do they think they can accomplish causing this kind of trouble?”

  “To be fair, sire, these aren’t the acts of a rational strategist. These are acts of rage.”

  Rhys leaned his palms against the table and sighed. “This was politics. I was more than a gracious victor. Why can’t they just accept that?”

  “A thought…did occur.”

  “And?” Rhys said. “Spit it out, man.”

  Merrion glanced up to the black iron chandelier. Fat candles cast shifting shadows across the strategy room, wreathing the ceiling in a faint smoky haze.

  “Your wife, sire, did escape custody. And she may have found a way to reunite with the rest of her kin. And given that you had her arrested by the inquisition, she might be, that is to say…a tiny bit irked at you?”

  Rhys stared at him. “Irked?”

  Merrion nodded. “Irked.”

  “Gardener’s balls. All right, so how do we fix this mess?” He held up a finger as Merrion started to reply. “Without giving the land back. That’s a matter of family honor.”

  “Due respect, sire, but ‘family honor’ just gave us two barns filled with slaughtered men.”

  A hard knock echoed at the door. With a nod from the king, Merrion shuffled over to open it a crack. Cardinal Yates’s pinched face glared through the opening, and he all but forced himself through the door.

  “We have to see him,” he said in an impatient, reedy voice, “at once.”
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  Merrion looked to Rhys, who rolled his eyes and gave a resigned beckoning wave of his hand.

  Yates stormed in with another man in tow, the only one in the room better dressed than the king himself. Guildmaster Byvan smoothed his rich velvet vest with gold-ringed sausage fingers, his rust-red beard close-cropped.

  “A visit from my priest and my banker,” Rhys said. “How lovely. I don’t suppose either one of you has anything pleasant to share.”

  “Livia,” Yates said, “has to be stopped.”

  “The woman is a menace,” Byvan grumbled. “We’re holding you responsible for this mess, Rhys.”

  Rhys arched an eyebrow. “Which mess in particular?”

  “All of it,” Yates said. “She’s taken away the College of Cardinals’ discretionary funds. Outlawed the sale of indulgences. We actually have to justify our expenditures. In writing.”

  Byvan paced the room. The compass-shaped medallion around his neck swung as he walked, dangling on a thick golden chain.

  “She’s raised the minimum tithe from two percent to five percent,” he growled. “She passed an edict last week. All the usual holiday staples, like maple buns on the Feast of Saint Edric or perfume on Saint Alba’s Jubilee? We’re not allowed to mark up the prices on holy weeks anymore, on pain of excommunication.”

  “So she’s interrupting your price gouging,” Rhys said.

  Byvan frowned. “You told me having an Itrescan pope would be good for business, Rhys. I sold the banking and artisan cartels on it. Now it’s my name that’s covered in mud. We’re all losing money hand over fist out there, so she can…I don’t know, feed the poor or some damn fool thing like that. Fix this, or you’re going to be feeling the pinch come winter.”

  “Clarify,” Rhys said, “and choose your words carefully. I’m still your king.”

  “Gold is king,” Byvan said. “And come the cold season, well…if Itresca’s merchants keep losing their income to this new pope’s whims, we might not have enough to pay our taxes.”

  Merrion moved close to Rhys’s shoulder.

  “Sire,” he said softly, “an idea presents itself.”