Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  Rhys didn’t look at him. His eyes locked with Byvan, the two men staring each other down. “Let’s hear it.”

  “It seems to me that House Argall’s complaint isn’t really with you at all. Livia was the one who signed the order of inquisition. And no proof connects you to it. None but her own word.”

  “And if Livia goes away…” Rhys trailed off.

  Merrion nodded. “There’s a good chance House Argall will come to the treaty table and end these attacks.”

  “So,” Yates said, “we all have an interest in seeing a change in Church leadership.”

  Rhys drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Then he shrugged.

  “All right. I’m open to suggestions.”

  “The principle of an Itrescan Church is still sound,” Yates said. “We can survive this schism and come out on top, which is good for everyone. We just need a better leader at the helm. One who understands the realities of the situation.”

  “Yes, yes, you want to be pope,” Rhys said. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”

  Yates shook his head. “No, what I mean is we have to be delicate about how Livia is removed. The peasantry, for reasons I cannot fathom, utterly adores her. We need to keep that groundswell, that momentum, if we’re going to outshine Pope Carlo’s best efforts.”

  “She can’t go out in disgrace is what you’re saying.” Byvan stroked his beard. “The first Itrescan pope has to be remembered as a saint.”

  “Better yet,” Yates said, “a martyr.”

  Merrion reached across the strategy table. He picked up one of the polished markers, a chess knight in red marble about the size of his fist, and stroked it with his thumb.

  “Sire,” he said, “returning House Argall’s land is still out of the question?”

  “Returning my family’s land, which they stole first, you mean. And yes.”

  “I was just thinking how calamitous it would be if Argall rebels, lashing out against the Holy Church, murdered our beloved pope. Of course, the entire clan would be declared outlaw and hunted to the last man. Exterminated, with righteous cause.”

  Merrion set the marker back down, squarely on the map of the Argall-held highlands. With the flat of his hand, he brushed it aside.

  “Clean sweep.”

  Rhys stared at the map, a slow smile rising to his lips.

  “We keep our shiny new Church, we get a new pope who dances to the right tune, the Argalls are nothing but a hated memory…everyone wins. If my wife is declared outlaw, I can even get my marriage annulled.” He glanced at Yates. “I can, correct?”

  Yates nodded quickly. “I’ll see to the paperwork.”

  Merrion held up a finger. “The only difficulty is getting them to do the deed.”

  “What d’you mean?” Rhys squinted at him. “Just hire some assassins and dress them in Argall tartans. Done.”

  “Hired killers have been known to brag, especially if their target is the pope. No, exposure would be too risky. We need the Argalls themselves to do it. If we leak Livia’s movements and pull your guards away at the right moment, giving them a window of opportunity…”

  “Her guards are the problem,” Rhys said. “Those damn Browncloaks are lunatics, and she’s never without a handful of ’em following her like baby ducks. I’ve seen them training to fight, out in the courtyard. They’re more dangerous than they look.”

  The room fell into silence, the four men contemplating the problem.

  “Would they leave her side,” Yates said slowly, “if she asked them to?”

  Rhys shrugged. “I suppose, but why would she?”

  “Say a close friend of hers, a confidante, had something to tell her in private. Then she’d be alone and vulnerable.”

  “You’re talking about a traitor,” Rhys said.

  Yates nodded. “Someone close to her who we can bribe, or at least convince that removing Livia is the best thing for the Church and the country.”

  “Dante Uccello,” Merrion said. “He’s loyal to no one but himself.”

  “Exactly,” Rhys replied, “which is why he’s just as likely to run to Livia and share our plans, and then we’d really be sunk. No. Not Uccello. In fact—Merrion, make a note. The hour Livia dies, I want Uccello’s corpse laid out right next to her. I don’t care how you do it, just kill him.”

  “But your deal to aid in the conquest of Mirenze—”

  “Would have yielded pocket change, if it succeeded at all. Uccello is too much of a wild card. I want him gone.”

  “So,” Byvan said, “who’s close to her? Who does she trust, and who can we use?”

  Again, the room fell silent.

  * * *

  Amadeo woke with a scream lodged in his throat. He shot bolt upright in bed, his linens soaked in icy sweat.

  The nightmares were back.

  They hadn’t tormented him since the night of the Alms District massacre. Before that, though, during the intrigue at the papal manse, they’d been a nightly plague. Visions that felt, sounded, smelled as real as life. Visions of sea monsters, and burning houses, and black smoke in the sky over the papal manse. And the dream that stuck with him more than the others—the one he’d been contemplating since his talk with Sister Columba.

  Running down a blood-soaked hallway, trying to get to Livia but never reaching her.

  “You can’t save me,” she said.

  “I’m coming! Don’t go.”

  “This is just a mask.” Livia reached up to tug at the skin under her eye. The flesh yielded under her fingernails, tearing to reveal the glistening muscle and bone underneath.

  Tonight, he’d dreamed about Livia again.

  First, though, was the owl. He’d faced the image of a great and terrible horned owl, rippling as if reflected upon ink-black waters, with dire yellow eyes that bored into him like needles. A splash broke the water and banished the image.

  Now came Livia. He saw himself walking at her side along a lonely stretch of frost-licked road. Uneasy on the slick cobblestones, leaning close for support. He watched, disembodied, circling above like a bird, as Livia tumbled to the ground.

  He stood beside her. Looking down at the dagger jutting from Livia’s heart, and at the bloodstains on his hands.

  Sitting up in bed, awake, shivering, Amadeo stared at his fingers and palms. Making sure they were clean.

  He washed and changed, slipping into his forest-green cassock, and left his chamber in search of something to eat. Up the corridor, Sister Columba hobbled his way.

  They met in the middle and paused.

  “Have you had a chance—”

  He held up a hand. “I’m looking into it. I promised I would, and I am.”

  She nodded, grim-faced, and walked away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Cardinal Accorsi walked along a dank stone tunnel, the rock seeping wet and stinking of raw sewage. Torches flickered from black iron wall sconces, guttering smoke and casting barred chambers in baleful orange light. It was like some painter’s fever dream of the Barren Fields, he thought—and a distant, shrill scream reminded him that for some of the residents, it might as well have been the real place.

  “Don’t get many men of the soil down here,” the jailer at his side said. A ring of heavy keys jangled on his belt. He tugged the belt up, under his bloated gut.

  “A mission of mercy,” Marcello replied. “I understand you have a prisoner due for some…harsh chastising this afternoon.”

  The jailer chuckled and ran a hand along his sweaty, stubble-ridden jaw. It was an ugly sound.

  “That one, yeah. The Holy Father’s direct orders. It’s no easy thing to cut out a man’s tongue and chop off his hands and still keep him alive. Gotta cauterize each cut fast and with just the right heat. Some people use a torch for that. Amateurs. A coal, heated to glowing, that’s the right tool for the job.”

  “Charming. Well, I’d like to take the man’s last confession, while he’s still capable of giving it.”

  They s
topped at a narrow cell door. The jailer fumbled with his keys, finally finding the one that threw the lock with a thudding clank. The door groaned as it swung wide.

  “Kind of you. Well, hope it gives him a little solace. Just let me know when you’re done. I’ll be up front.”

  “Much obliged,” Marcello said and stepped into the cell. It was barely bigger than one of his closets, the hard stone floor strewn with straw that stank of piss. And there was Iago, Livia’s pamphleteer, beaten senseless and propped up in one corner like a discarded doll. His wrists were shackled to a long iron chain, ending in a ring bolted to the back wall. Marcello didn’t see the point; with his puffy eyes and rasping breath, the prisoner wouldn’t be a threat to a kitten.

  He crouched down and put on a fatherly smile.

  “Iago. Your name was Iago, yes? Do you know who I am?”

  Iago squinted with his one good eye and gave a tiny shake of his head. Marcello took one end of his green stola, embroidered with elegant golden thread, and held it up to Iago’s face.

  “I’m a cardinal. A servant of the pope.”

  “Which pope?” Iago rasped.

  Marcello glanced over his shoulder. Purely theatrical, he knew they were alone. Still, he gave his voice a conspiratorial pitch as he replied, “The true one. Pope Livia.”

  Iago let out a relieved sigh. “Are you…here to get me out?”

  “I am. But first, we have to debrief you. I’m secretly working for King Jernigan, keeping an eye on Carlo. He sent you, too, didn’t he? With those letters?”

  “He did.” Iago swallowed. “I’m just the first. There are others.”

  Marcello struggled to keep the smile on his face. He’d expected as much, but hearing it from the man’s own lips was a grim confirmation. Soon those letters branding Carlo a bastard would be plastered all over the Holy City and beyond.

  “And were you given any other orders?”

  “Not this time. Last time…watch Lodovico Marchetti.”

  The cardinal furrowed his brow. “Marchetti? Why?”

  “Month before the attack on al-Tali…he rented a warehouse. In his own name, not his family bank’s. Filled it with trade goods from the Caliphate. Things that will be impossible to get in the west, now that the crusade is underway.”

  “War profiteering,” Marcello said.

  Iago gave a weak nod.

  “A month before the war,” Marcello added.

  Another nod.

  Marcello felt the scales falling from his eyes. From the Banco Marchetti’s early support of Carlo during Pope Benignus’s last days, to the hired killers masquerading as knights and occupying the papal manse, it all led to a singular conclusion.

  Lodovico Marchetti wasn’t just profiting from the war. He’d started the war. And ensured he had a pliable, brain-addled pope under his thumb when he did it, to bless the crusade that everyone knew Emperor Theodosius wanted so badly.

  Marcello had his suspicions. Proof that Lodovico knew the crusade was coming was the final confirmation he needed. There was only one problem.

  “It’s too small,” he said aloud. “One warehouse? Just one?”

  “That’s what King Jernigan said,” Iago replied. “Nobody would go to that much trouble just to sell a warehouse of goods at marked-up prices. If he had ten warehouses, maybe. A hundred. But it’s just the one.”

  Marcello leaned closer. “Where was this place?”

  “Mirenze.” Iago lurched into a wet coughing fit, shoulders shaking, and took a rattling breath. “Fourteen—fourteen Strada di Rocce Rosse.”

  “Good, good. And as for our true and righteous pope, what’s her next move?”

  “She’s coming.” Iago nodded, his good eye distant. “She’s coming to overthrow Carlo and purify the Holy City. She’s going to save us all.”

  “When?” Iago didn’t respond, and Marcello gave his shoulder a hard shake. “How many men? Stay with me, son, this is important.”

  “Don’t—don’t know. King Jernigan’s men. On loan. He’s backing the invasions.”

  “Plural? More than one?”

  Iago nodded again. “Mirenze, too. Promised Dante Uccello the city. Lerautia first, then Mirenze. Wipe it all clean. With Carlo gone, the Empire will have to bend its knee to Livia.”

  Marcello contemplated the spy’s words. He patted Iago’s shoulder.

  “You did well, son. Well indeed. This is valuable information.”

  “Will…will you get me out of here now?”

  “Of course.”

  Iago didn’t see the cardinal reach casually under his cassock, or the thin, bone-handled knife strapped to his calf.

  “Here,” Marcello said gently, taking his manacled hand. “Let’s get these off you.”

  One quick cut sliced him open from wrist to elbow, one hand clamped over the battered spy’s mouth. It wasn’t hard. Marcello clung to him, holding him close as he wheezed and kicked and his veins spilled free.

  “Shh,” Marcello whispered in his ear, “almost done now, almost…there we go.”

  He pulled his hand from Iago’s dead lips and let the spy’s arm slump to the floor. The back of his hand lay flat in a spreading puddle of blood. Marcello stood, checking his cassock with a critical eye, making sure he didn’t get any on him.

  He shut the cell door behind him on the way out.

  “You,” he shouted, storming up the hall and barging into the jailer’s tiny office, “are in serious trouble. Don’t you search prisoners before you bring them in here?”

  “He was searched. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Marcello gaped at him. “What’s wrong is that he had a knife. Man tried to kill me with it and nearly succeeded. Then he said he’d die before betraying his mistress and slashed his own wrist.”

  The jailer jumped to his feet, kicking his stool over. “Is he dead?”

  “As a stone, no thanks to you. If I were you, I’d get rid of that body and come up with a good story about an escape. If the Holy Father finds out that he died because of your incompetence, well…somebody’s losing his hands and tongue today. Might well be you.”

  The jailer wrung his hands, pacing.

  “I’ll…I’ll take care of it. Please, don’t say anything. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “A lot to ask?” Marcello said. “Yes, lying to my lord and master and the sainted head of this Church is a lot to ask. Fortunately for you, I’m a man of charity and mercy. I will hold my silence, for your family’s sake.”

  * * *

  Mirenze was two days’ ride from the Holy City, and the velvet-padded bench of his personal coach didn’t make Marcello’s back ache any less by the end of it. Every bump and jolt in the road felt like a mule kick to the base of his spine. His traveling companion wasn’t much for scintillating conversation, either. Cotton-Eye Vinz had come by his nickname fairly—one eye rheumy and white, the other sharp and black—but by the end of the trip Marcello thought “Mumbles-to-Himself-Incessantly Vinz” would have made a better moniker.

  “Never did get to ride in one of these fancy coaches before,” Vinz muttered for the eightieth time that morning.

  “My largesse is boundless,” Marcello replied. The streets of Mirenze rolled by outside the window, teeming with foot traffic and pushcarts, merchants calling out above the din.

  “Still don’t get why we gotta go all this way to check out some warehouse.”

  “It’s not some warehouse, Vinz. It’s a warehouse that doesn’t seem to have a reason to exist. And that intrigues me. As for your role, well, I don’t expect they’ve left the front door unlocked and wide open for me.”

  “Never go in by the front door,” Vinz said sagely. “You get spotted that way.”

  “There, you see? You’re a veritable criminal mastermind. What ever would I do without you?”

  They were close enough. Marcello rapped the roof of the coach and the driver reined back the horses. As they jolted to a standstill, Marcello leaned toward the windo
w and gave the street a hawkish stare.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Vinz told him, “for a man of the soil, you get up to some shady business.”

  “All for the greater good. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining about the money. Come on. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  He swung open the coach door and stepped down onto the street, waving for the driver to stay put. Marcello had traded his formal greens for humble, homespun clothes and left his gold and jewels in Lerautia. In a crowd he could have passed for an old farmer or a traveling peddler. He strolled with his steps brisk and chin held high, and Vinz hobbled along in his wake.

  The warehouse was right where Iago had promised. A box of unassuming pale brick, with high, barred windows and a sturdy loading door wide enough to accommodate a wagon train. Vinz led the way now, scouting down an alley and waving for the cardinal to follow. A door, recessed in a narrow alcove, sported a black iron padlock the size of a man’s fist.

  “Keep an eye out.” Vinz crouched and fished out a handful of jagged picks from a concealed pocket under his belt. Marcello watched the street, trying to look casual. Soon enough, the opened lock tumbled to the cobblestones with a clatter.

  “All right,” Vinz said, “let’s see what this hidey-hole is hiding.”

  Wonders.

  Gold glinted to the rafters, hammered metal catching the light from the high windows and casting it across the dusty gloom. One tall rack bore coils of Oerran carpet, ornate tapestries that took years to weave. Vases and pottery, picked from the finest of Caliphate artisans. While Vinz limped from shelf to shelf, his mouth gaping, Marcello strolled the racks with a discerning eye.

  “It’s amazing,” Vinz said. “This stuff is worth a fortune!”

  Marcello nodded, contemplating. “It is. But it’s not what I’m looking for.”

  Vinz popped up on the other side of a shelf. “What is?”

  “A reason.”

  Vinz held up a brooch of polished gold, shot through with delicately spun silver. “Can I have this?”

  The cardinal shrugged. “Call it a tip for good service.”

  A half-open crate caught his eye. A suit of armor nestled in a bed of wood shavings. Lacquered and new, with the conical helm and brass lion mask of an Oerran outrider. Out of place here, amid the finery. Quality armor wasn’t cheap, but only a rare and dedicated collector would want to buy it outside the Caliphate.