“Oh, no you don’t,” he panted and made a running leap for the edge of the pit. He grabbed the edge and hauled himself up, scrambling in pursuit.
Veruca had almost made it to the back door when he caught her. Rough hands slammed her hard against the stone wall, Bear’s hot, furious breath washing over her as he pressed in close.
If she was afraid, she didn’t show a hint of it.
“All right,” she said, “this changes the situation. Don’t do anything rash, Bear. I’m worth more to you alive than dead.”
He lifted one hand. The transfigured flesh shimmered, his fingers tipped with silver claws, poised for a killing blow.
“I doubt that,” he hissed. Then he paused. He was off the script now. Everything he’d been told to do for years—serve Veruca while keeping her in the dark and protect the Misery’s secret—was all up in the air, thanks to the Owl. I’m in charge now, he thought. I get to decide.
They didn’t respect him—he knew that. No matter how hard he studied, no matter what he accomplished, the whole coven thought he was good for nothing but grunt work. Now was his chance to prove them wrong.
“He called me tedious. Do you believe that? Tedious.”
Veruca stared up at the poised claws. “What? Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He lowered his hand and gave her another hard shove, keeping her pinned against the wall. She wasn’t struggling, but he liked how pushing her made him feel. Powerful.
“Think, Bear. Stick with me, and you can profit.”
“Profit from you, you mean. Tell me, Mayor…how big of a bounty do the Imperials have on your head?”
The first glint of nervousness showed in Veruca’s eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“The queen of a rebel colony? Brought to Rhothmere Keep in chains? They’ll shower me with gold. Oh, and the things they’re going to do to you…well, you’ll have some time to think about that. See, you’re going to help me bait a snare first. My ‘friends’ are all hunting the Owl directly. But I’m smarter than them.”
“Sure, Bear,” Veruca said, slow and cautious. “You’re smart. You’re very smart.”
“Mari Renault’s arm in arm with the Owl now. There’s…something between them. I’m not sure what. Point is, if Renault’s anything, she’s stupidly loyal. And she used to work for you, didn’t she? When she finds out I’ve got her old boss, she’ll come to the rescue like the storybook knight she thinks she is. Saving the damsel in distress. I’ll challenge her to a duel of honor, one with terms set so she can’t possibly win. She’ll say yes. She won’t be able to help herself.”
“Why? What’s the point?”
“Because,” Bear said, “once I take Renault down, I’ll have another hostage. A hostage the Owl wants. And she’ll walk right into my trap.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lodovico Marchetti hadn’t heard his guests arrive. He sat at his desk, nursing a glass of whiskey and idly poring over a map of the east. Right about then, if all was well, the crusade would be bogging down on its way to the Caliphate’s borders. No grand shipment of weapons, meager resources, the start of a cascade of disasters. He smiled as he imagined it. If fate was kind, the would-be crusaders would start pillaging Carcanna’s fields and farms, taking what they could before heading home in defeat. Given that Carcanna was an Imperial ally, that’d make for another fine thorn in Emperor Theodosius’s side. Another stroke of the razor, bloodletting his empire one cut at a time.
“Why didn’t you warn us?” hissed the furious voice on the other side of the desk. He jumped, startled, looking up at the gowned and veiled woman who stood before him. One of the Sisters of the Noose, garbed in drab funeral gray.
“Warn you? About what?”
A thin coil of silken rope flipped effortlessly over his head, clutched by an unseen assailant, and snatched tight around his throat. Lodovico bucked in his chair, struggling to breathe, tugging at the cord as it bit into his neck.
“Livia Serafini is a witch,” hissed the veiled assassin, stabbing a gloved, accusing finger at him. “She slaughtered our sisters.”
“I didn’t know,” Lodovico croaked. Black spots blossomed in his vision, blood roaring in his ears. “I swear it—swear it on my father’s grave. I didn’t know! Why wouldn’t I have warned you if I knew? What’s my profit? Think about it!”
As his vision faded to black, the world swimming away and leaving him in echoing darkness, the sister snarled. She chopped the air with her hand. The rope went slack.
Lodovico slumped against his desk and heaved for air, baring an angry red welt on his throat as he feebly tugged the cord loose.
“We lost eight of our own. You only gave us one girl-child in payment. The scales are imbalanced. You owe us.”
Even as he wheezed, forcing himself to sit up straight in his chair, Lodovico’s eyes went hard. “That…was not the deal. The deal was a life for a life. The child’s for Livia’s. You owe me.”
“The terms are what we say the terms are.”
Lodovico shoved his chair back, pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed his glass and staggered to the credenza, refreshing his drink from a cut crystal decanter.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were businesswomen. I thought you had a reputation for integrity. I guess that was a pile of horse dung, much like your reputation for getting work done.”
The sister froze, a reptilian hiss echoing from under her heavy veils. Her companion, the one who had wielded the noose, stood silent and statue-still in the corner of the office.
“You dare much,” she whispered.
Lodovico tossed back a swig of whiskey, wincing as he swallowed.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? As soon as Carlo figures out I can’t follow through on my promise to kill Livia, that’s it. He’s off my leash. He’ll call the whole damn crusade back to regroup and wage war on Itresca, just to silence his sister.”
“And?”
“And? And? And it’ll take them about that long for everyone involved to compare notes and realize that the weapons I bankrolled for the crusade were never sent. Meanwhile, if the Empire pulls back its troops thanks to Carlo’s little murder tantrum—because Theodosius isn’t going to attack Itresca, no matter how much the pope whines and stomps his slippered feet—then said troops are not busy dying in the desert like I very much need them to be doing right now.”
The sister fell silent.
“I cannot stress,” Lodovico said, gesturing with his glass, “how important it is that Livia Serafini dies. So, please. Get back out there, and do the job I paid you for.”
“We will not. She is…dangerous.”
Lodovico slumped against the office wall, arching an eyebrow.
“And you aren’t? Why in the world are you so afraid of one unarmed woman?”
“She is not unarmed. And we will not pursue her. We have already lost too many of our kind.”
“Well,” he said, “that puts us at an impasse. I am, signora, a deeply unsatisfied customer. What are you going to do about it?”
“You owe us. Seven children, to replace our fallen.”
“This again.” Lodovico sighed. “And you owe me an assassination. You’re asking me to pay for goods that haven’t been delivered yet.”
“We will pursue the target of your choice,” she hissed. “Just not her.”
“Well, then, guess I’d better give it some real thought. To make sure I get my sin’s worth.” Lodovico downed his drink and nodded to the door. “Now get out of my office. I have to figure out how to clean up this mess before Carlo wises up.”
Once they left, gliding on silent feet, he poured himself another drink. That turned into three or four as a late autumn storm brewed outside his window and the skies turned gold and black.
His next guest came in the proper way, escorted by his doorman. Aita wore a veil too: exquisite black lace, to match her silk mourning gown.
“You make a beautiful orphan,” Lodovico said, sl
umping back in his chair. “And soon a ravishing widow, I hope.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about.” She paused. “What happened to your neck?”
“Labor dispute.”
“I need your help. My darling husband has decided to go on the offensive. Three of my tax collectors, beaten and robbed in the street. Supposedly by three different gangs, but they all gave me the exact same description. It’s Felix, I’m sure of it.”
“I told you he was dangerous. I saw him when he came back from Winter’s Reach. He wasn’t the same man. Your tall friend learned that the hard way.”
Lodovico looked to his half-drained glass, eyes narrowed. He’d seen the present Felix mailed to Aita the night he was meant to die. Hassan the Barber’s severed head, with a simple two-word note nailed to his forehead: “You’re next.”
“I underestimated him,” Aita said. “Once. I won’t make that mistake again. I know exactly what he’s doing: he’s trying to undermine me. The story in the streets is that three different gangs have openly defied me and I couldn’t stop them. I can’t have this, Lodovico. Not now. I’m fighting on a hundred different fronts to keep my father’s empire under control. One slip and I’ll lose everything.”
He contemplated his glass. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I have to respond to Felix’s challenge with force. Overwhelming force. I want to hire more men and flood the streets with steel until he’s brought to his knees. But I’m still rebuilding most of my father’s more lucrative operations, and coin is tight at the moment. So I need a loan. A big one.”
He laughed. “From who? The Banco Marchetti is stretched to the breaking point until the Empire begins repayment on their line of credit. Do you know how much that great caravan of weapons cost?”
“But…I know you’re not actually delivering those weapons to the crusaders. You’re going to sell them, like my father would have if he’d managed to steal them from you.”
“Now why would you assume that?”
Aita leaned forward in her chair, brow furrowed.
“Because if not, you’ve just nearly bankrupted your own family business. Why?”
Lodovico shrugged. “For the cause. For the dream. I told you, signora. I warned you fairly: it’s not money that drives my passion. I’ll burn down more than the Banco Marchetti before my work is done. And history will celebrate me for it.”
“You’re…you’re a madman.”
“I may possibly be. I am certainly drunk, however, and it is unquestionably late. With these two facts, we might reasonably surmise that my judgment at the moment is faulty. Which is why I’m going to lend what aid I can. Bring me a fresh parchment and some ink.”
He hunched over the desk, nudging his empty glass aside as he dipped his quill and wrote out a letter in quick, jagged strokes.
“Most of the Dustmen are in residence at the papal manse in Lerautia, keeping an eye on Carlo and making sure none of the cardinals get unwise ideas about a coup. It’s safe enough, at this stage in the plan, to recall them to Mirenze and leave only a skeleton crew behind. So, your very own company of murderous, battle-hardened mercenaries. Does that suit your needs, signora? Am I not a considerate partner?”
“Don’t act as though this is a gift,” Aita told him. “Felix is coming for your head, too.”
“And yet, he’s evidently chosen to destroy you first.” Lodovico folded the letter and reached for a cylinder of wax colored midnight blue. He paused, tilting his head. “I wonder: does that mean he hates you more, or that he’s saving his most terrible vengeance for me?”
“That’s a question I’d rather leave unanswered,” Aita said. “Summon the Dustmen. And we’ll hunt.”
* * *
Later that night, naked under sheets of silk and heavy furs, Lodovico tossed and turned as he slept off the liquor. He was stone sober when he woke, jolted awake in the darkness with a pounding behind his eyes and the sudden sense that he wasn’t alone.
Three figures stood in silence at the foot of his bed. The Sisters of the Noose. They’d been watching him sleep.
“Felix Rossini,” one said.
Lodovico rubbed the crust from his eyes. “What of him?”
“He can be the death we owe you, and then you can repay us properly. Let us kill him. Say the word.”
“Are you ladies going to lurk in my home like inconvenient ghosts until I do?”
No response.
Tempting, Lodovico thought. Felix was dangerous—even more now that he’d gotten a taste for killing—and with the Livia situation dangerously close to spiraling out of control, he was a wild card Lodovico didn’t need in the mix. They’d bring him Felix’s head by sunrise, with ease.
Then a snatch of memory came to him unbidden. He’d been so small, watching with awe as his father put nail to wood in the little workshop behind the family estate. It was a birdhouse, sleek and sanded and built to last.
“You see, son, there’s a tool for every job. Choose the right one, with patience and care, and you’ll never go wrong. So, shall we go see how the birds enjoy their new accommodations?”
And with that, Luigi Marchetti scooped up the birdhouse in one arm and his son in the other, putting him up on his shoulders and striding out into a warm spring morning.
In his bed, in the dark, Lodovico shook his head. “No,” he told the sisters. “The Dustmen can handle Felix. You…you I want to hold in reserve. Just in case.”
“We won’t wait forever,” one of the sisters hissed.
“Oh, I think you would. But you won’t have to. It’s nearly time for my final act. Now, if you ladies don’t mind, I’d like to get another few hours’ sleep. Let yourselves out.”
The sisters faded back, silent as death, melting into the shadows.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Renata bustled from table to table at the Rusted Plow, a dented tray in her arms. After dark was the only time the Plow came to life, the common room filled up with locals taking the opportunity to relax and catch up with their neighbors. After the commotion at Sanna Farm, everyone had a lot to talk about.
The Plow had a different air from the Hen and Caber back in Mirenze. The tips were miserly—the locals didn’t have much to give—but the hearth was warm and the music lively, and the closest thing to a barroom brawl was occasional good-natured shouting over a bad hand of cards. It was easy for her to sink into a familiar rhythm, passing out tankards, filling oil lamps, trading small talk with the clientele, and making sure everyone was happy. All the same, she kept her ears perked, trying to get a read on the local mood.
Walking back to the village square after her talk with that old Verinian soldier, she’d started to see things his way. She had every right to make a stand in defense of her new home. What she didn’t have was the right to expect anyone else to. Trouble was looming, and when the storm finally broke it would pour down hard and fast.
So what do I do? she asked herself. Encourage everyone to leave while they still can? Abandon their homes? What’s the right thing to do?
She listened, to hear which way the wind was blowing. It wasn’t hard. As the beer flowed and the night stretched on, the chatter grew louder and more boisterous. She caught snatches of conversation here and there as she made her way back to the bar for another tray of drinks.
“—built that cottage myself, with my own two hands. Both my sons were born under that roof. Damn me to the Barren Fields if I let some northern scum have it for their own—”
“—half a mind to march up there right now, find the biggest man in their camp, and punch him square in the nose. That’d sort that lot out—”
“—weren’t even armed, and the one that was, the barmaid took down.” A red-faced patron grabbed her wrist, slurring as he lifted her hand. “Let’s hear it! Three cheers for Renata the Liegekiller!”
Renata forced a smile as the others at his table drunkenly cheered, then she gently extricated herself from the man’s grip and sidestepped aw
ay.
They might feel different in the morning—nothing bolstered courage like fresh anger and alcohol—but it sounded like most of the tavern was in favor of standing their ground. Which will be fine as long as that soldier was wrong about the others on their way, she thought. Big difference between warning off a dozen hungry men and facing a hundred or more.
Too many questions, too many maybes, and nobody was going out to get the answers the village needed. As the night dragged on and the crowd started to dwindle, she leaned against the bar and caught Gianni’s attention.
“Heading out,” she said.
The barman arched an eyebrow. “Out where?”
She gestured in the general direction of the village gate. “Out there. Need to satisfy my curiosity about something.”
“You’re about to do somethin’ I wouldn’t approve of if I knew what you were up to, aren’t you?”
Renata nodded. “Absolutely.”
He took down a tankard from behind the bar, idly polishing it with a faded rag.
“All right then,” he said with a shrug. “Just don’t go and get yourself killed. You do that, I’ll have to find a new buyer for this place. I’d like to retire before I’m dead.”
Up in her tiny garret above the bar, she held a pair of shears and sighed at her reflection. “It’ll grow back,” she told herself.
Then, with stroke after whispery stroke, her tresses tumbled to the floorboards. She cropped her hair close, snipping away bangs and curls, leaving behind a short, boyish mop. The linen bandage roll was next, winding and squeezing around her torso. She grunted as she yanked the bandage tight, strapping down her breasts and flattening her silhouette.
Gianni, rooming across the hall, always left his door unlocked. She helped herself to a pair of his patched, baggy trousers. Then she donned a cheap woolen cloak, seams worn and its hem stained with mud, and pulled the hood up. The figure in the glass made for a passable if feminine young man. As long as I keep my mouth shut, I should be fine, she thought.
Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 12
