Amadeo stared at his wine goblet.
She truly is on her way out, he thought. She’s dying. Or…changing. She says she can control it. But can she?
Gardener forgive me for even asking the question…but are these men right?
“I’ve made discreet inquiries,” Cardinal Yates said. “If Livia is…removed, and promptly, there would be widespread support for an immediate call to canonization.”
“Canonization,” Amadeo echoed, his voice hollow.
Yates nodded. “Saint Livia. Would you like that, Amadeo? She would be remembered as the greatest of women. A giant in the pages of history. You can make that happen for her.”
“We can’t get at her directly,” Merrion said, “not with her Browncloaks watching her like hawks every hour of the day. But a friend, someone close to her, could lure her to a secluded place to speak in private.”
Rhys reached over and put a firm hand on Amadeo’s shoulder.
“You wouldn’t even have to get your hands bloody,” he told him. “Just lead her to the right spot. We’ll do the rest.”
Amadeo swallowed hard. He hated himself for the next words he spoke, even before they spilled from his lips.
“And…she wouldn’t suffer?”
Merrion shook his head. “Quick and painless. You have my word.”
Amadeo pushed back his chair.
“I need to think about it,” he said.
“Don’t take too long,” Rhys replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Maurizio—Maurizio the Mountain, Felix soon learned he was called—wasn’t hard to track down. He was a goliath, as broad as he was tall, with a squat bald head marred by patches of stubble and razor nicks. Down in the Lower Eight, on broken streets where lepers sat with empty begging bowls and peddlers tried to foist off the day-old fish they couldn’t sell up-city, Felix tugged his hood down and trailed his target through the crowd.
“What do you think?” Anakoni asked, pacing alongside him.
“I think I’d be a madman to get in a fair fight with him. He could crush my skull in his hands without breaking a sweat.”
Even so, part of him wondered what it would feel like. The struggle, the furious fight to bring the giant down. Like hunting a mammoth. His thoughts, distracted, flickered back to his battle with Hassan. The way his blood roared as he wrestled for the knife, digging his fingers into Hassan’s wounded palm and snapping small bones, hurting him—
“Felix?”
He blinked. Looked at Anakoni.
“You…went away for a moment.”
Felix gave a nervous chuckle, shaking off the memory.
“I’m right here.”
“No,” Anakoni said. “It was something in your eyes.”
They watched as Maurizio squeezed his bulk through the doorway of a seamstress’s shop, people scrambling to clear his path. Then they waited. Soon he emerged with a small leather purse in hand, hooking it to his rawhide belt.
“Extortion,” Felix murmured. “Even in the slums. These people barely have two coppers to rub together, and Aita still makes them pay for the privilege of doing business here.”
They followed the Mountain on his rounds, stopping in at some shops and skipping others, eventually making a full circuit of the Lower Eight. His final stop was the Sailor’s Ruin. Felix and Anakoni edged by one broken window, watching him. He ambled over to Scolotti’s table in the back, where he traded his now-fat purse for a handful of tarnished copper.
“Am I seeing wrong?” Anakoni whispered. “He’s making less money than the people he’s extorting from. I could earn more in a day with a fishing pole if the water’s good. Is he simple?”
Felix’s face tightened.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “He needs to go. First him, then Aita and Lodovico.”
First, though, he needed a weapon. A simple knife had brought down Hassan the Barber, but a man like Maurizio would use it for a toothpick. Good weapons weren’t easy to come by. Mirenze had its share of shady characters, but it wasn’t some frontier town where men walked around with blades on their belts, not unless they were soldiers or some nobleman’s bodyguard. Then there was the matter of the entire city watch hunting for him. If he showed his face in a high-end smith’s shop, good odds that someone would recognize him and turn him in.
One of Anakoni’s sailors had a solution. More of a rumor, really, but he’d heard it enough times to believe it. That was how Felix and Anakoni ended up in the overgrown gardens of Leggieri, the Artist of Mirenze.
They stood on a pebbled path and watched as the artist, keen-eyed, wearing a dusty smock and a scarlet slouch-brim cap, circled a wooden plinth with hammer and chisel in hand. The marble block on the plinth was slowly transforming into the torso of a nude woman, arms languidly twisting above her headless neck.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard or what you believe,” Leggieri said, “but I am nothing more than a humble artist. Weapons? Please. Pope Carlo himself commissioned one of my statues. Why in the world would I dabble in contraband?”
Felix spread his hands. “Please. We wouldn’t ask if our need wasn’t dire.”
“My need, which is most dire, is for you two ‘gentlemen’ to leave my home at once. If you persist I’ll be forced to—” He paused. Squinting at the shadow of Felix’s chin under the heavy hood. Then he took a halting step backward. “You’re…you’re Felix Rossini.”
Anakoni tensed, ready to jump in if Leggieri screamed for help. Felix shook his head.
“I am, but please, wait. Whatever you’ve been told about me, it isn’t true. I’m an innocent man.”
Leggieri held his ground, eyes still narrowed. Studying Felix as if he were a block of uncut marble.
“I dine with the governor sometimes,” he said. “He has a great many things to say about you. He said you murdered your father-in-law.”
Felix pulled back his hood, looking the other man in the eye.
“It’s a lie. I was framed, by my wife and a man named Lodovico Marchetti. The same man whose hired killer planted the bomb at the Ducal Arch.”
The color drained from Leggieri’s face.
“The bomb,” he whispered. “Were you—were you there? When it happened?”
Felix nodded slowly.
“My family died in the explosion. My father, my brother, my sister-in-law. Murdered by the same people who want to see me hang for a crime I didn’t commit.”
Leggieri turned his back, shoulders slumped as if weighted by stones. He whispered something to himself. Then he turned.
“Do you…know who the killer was?”
“His name was Simon Koertig. I’m fairly sure he died in the blast.”
The artist’s gaze went distant. “If we’re all very fortunate, yes. So you plan to stop these people? To exact vengeance for their crimes?”
“To exact justice,” Felix replied.
Leggieri raised a shaky hand and pointed his chisel at Felix.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”
* * *
Once he had equipped his visitors for the fight to come and seen them off into the streets of Mirenze, Leggieri trudged back down into his secret workshop. Pale yellow light cast shifting shadows across his handiwork. The wall of knives, the bins of springs and strange-colored glass vials. The sheaves of parchment, each page bearing another dream-inspired schematic, littering every workbench.
And the drawn curtain over the alcove in the back.
Just as he had a hundred times before, he pulled open the curtain and stared down at the empty flagstones where the Infernal Machine had once stood.
“Damn you, Simon,” he whispered in a quavering voice. “I didn’t know what you were going to do with it. I didn’t know.”
The silent alcove mocked him, an endless reminder of his sin. He yanked the curtain shut and turned his back.
I didn’t know, he thought, but in his mind’s eye all he could see were the flames and the corpses and the brok
en ruin of the Ducal Arch.
He wasn’t strong enough to take revenge on Simon, if he still lived, and those who pulled his puppet strings—he made weapons, he didn’t use them—but perhaps he’d found someone who could. Perhaps some divine providence had steered Felix Rossini into his life, allowing him to grasp a tiny measure of redemption by helping him.
Then again, probably not.
Back in the garden, Leggieri studied the marble but set down his tools. He couldn’t find the figure in the stone, not today.
* * *
Dirty, crumbling tiles crunched under Felix’s shoes. He and Anakoni were silhouettes in the dark as they crossed the treacherous rooftops of the slums. One foot slipped, a tile breaking and skidding, clattering to the empty street below.
Anakoni grabbed Felix’s wrist. Gave him a questioning look. Felix nodded, got his footing back, and they moved on. Taking to the high ground had been Felix’s idea. If Maurizio had his own gang, as Scolotti claimed, he wanted an eagle-eye view of the trouble they were about to walk into.
They’d come equipped for the job. A thick coil of rope dangled over Anakoni’s shoulder, ending in a steel grappling hook.
On Felix’s back, a crossbow.
Torchlight below. Two of the town militiamen, making their rounds. Felix and Anakoni dropped low, pressing flat to the shingles until the warm glow of light faded into the distance.
Maurizio’s lair, according to Scolotti, was an abandoned warehouse on the west end of the Lower Eight. It was built of stout stone and good timber, a relic of the older days when this neighborhood had been a prosperous market district. The wealth had moved out, and the rats had moved in. Then even the rats moved out, leaving what remained for the hungry and the desperate.
The next roof was a six-foot jump. Felix forced himself not to look down. He just steeled himself, stepped back, and made a running leap. He hit the other side, fell, rolled on his shoulder, and came up in a low crouch. Anakoni landed beside him, graceful as a cat.
This was the place. Old skylights looked down into the derelict warehouse below, the glass long gone and only splintered wooden frames remaining. Felix crept to the edge, peering downward.
It wasn’t much of a home. Cast-off furniture covered in moldy tapestries, the stone floor stained and pitted from the rain. Feral children in rags, the oldest no more than fifteen, huddled together to stave off the cold night air.
Is that the “gang” Scolotti was talking about? Felix thought. They’re no threat at all.
“All right,” Anakoni whispered. “Soon as he shows up, shoot him down. Then we can slide down the rope, make sure everyone gets a good look at your face, and run for it. Easy as that.”
Felix unslung the crossbow, notching a razor-honed steel bolt and gripping his weapon tight.
Then the door rattled open, and Maurizio the Mountain came home. Felix had followed the man for two days. He knew his lumbering gait, his movements, his body language.
Until that moment, he’d never seen the man smile.
His face lit up as the children jumped to their feet, running to him, throwing their arms around his bulk. The smallest tried to climb him. He laughed, scooping the boy up and putting him on his shoulders.
“Wait until the children are clear,” Anakoni whispered. “Don’t want to hit one by accident.”
Felix paused, frowning, but he still raised his weapon. Locking the Mountain in his sights. Following him as he led the children across the gutted warehouse and set down his knapsack. He handed out the bounty of his work: chunks of crusty bread wrapped in tattered butcher paper, passing out the meager feast and making sure everyone was fed.
He stepped back and gave Felix the perfect angle.
That sinuous darkness in his guts rose up, whispering in his ear. Wrapping him in eager warmth, the anticipation of the kill. His life is yours. Squeeze the trigger, and he dies. Easy. Simple.
“What are you waiting for?” Anakoni nodded at the weapon. “Do it. Take him down.”
One shot, and Scolotti would give him Aita. Then Lodovico, and then this would all be over. Just one shot. Felix imagined the bolt punching through Maurizio’s skull, the spattering blood, the giant crashing down.
His fingertip caressed the trigger.
You can kill them all, the darkness whispered. Aita and Lodovico. Burn them down. Destroy them, take revenge for all they’ve stolen from you. Remember what you stand to gain. Remember why you’re doing this.
Felix blinked.
Then he set the crossbow down.
“No,” he whispered.
Anakoni stared at him. “No? What are you doing? This is the chance we’ve been waiting for!”
Down in the warehouse, Maurizio sat with one of the children on his knee, listening and nodding as the ragged little girl talked to him.
“It’s not a gang, Anakoni. Scolotti was lying or too dumb to know better. They’re his children. Not his by blood, probably, but he’s protecting them. Look at them. He’s all they’ve got.”
“But we can end this. Kill him, and you get Aita in trade.”
“And we will get her. Just not like this.” He unloaded the steel bolt. The darkness receded, frustrated, cheated. “I remembered why I’m doing all this. Renata. I’m doing it for Renata.”
Anakoni shook his head, not following.
“She’s waiting for me, Anakoni. She’s waiting to be reunited with the man she fell in love with. And the man she fell in love with would never pull that trigger. We’re going to take Aita and Lodovico down, believe me—but we’re going to do it the right way. So that when I finally see Renata again, I can look her in the eye.”
Anakoni sighed. “Feh. I suppose you’re right. Still, a waste of an evening.”
“Not at all.” Felix smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “We did see Scolotti with a fat purse of coin earlier. How about we stop by and relieve him of his burden? Not for us, this time. I think, come morning, some shopkeepers in the Lower Eight need to find a nice little present on their doorsteps.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The defenders of Kettle Sands made preparations through the night and slept when they could, posting a watch at every approach to the village. Renata worked, napped, and trained. Sparring with Lydda left her with bruises on bruises, the mercenary gleefully punishing her for every misstep and hesitation.
The flat of Lydda’s blade slapped Renata across the back, knocking her to the dust in the village square. She landed on her knees, hard, gritting her teeth against the pain.
“You’re dead,” Lydda said, “again.”
Renata pushed herself back to her feet and squared her shoulders.
“This,” Lydda said, tapping her own temple, “is gonna get you killed. You’re distracted. What’s itching at you?”
“Why do you care? You were going to deliver me to Aita before Gallo hired you.”
She shrugged. “Still might. But right now you’re my client, and you’re payin’ to be kept alive. You’re not making my job any easier with your head stuck in the clouds. What’s your problem?”
“My problem,” she said, “is that right now, half the population of Mirenze is hunting for my fiancé’s head and the other half thinks he’s a murderer. And between here and there are about a hundred mad-eyed crusaders who want to hang me—or worse—for killing their leader.”
“Ooh. So mooning about and worrying is going to save his life, is that how it works?”
Renata frowned. “No. Obviously. But what else can I do?”
Lydda sat on the rim of the village fountain, kicking one boot back against the crumbling stone.
“I had a dog, once.”
“A dog,” Renata echoed.
“Mm-hm. See, I struck out on my own early. My da had a thing for the bottle, and when he got drunk, he got handsy.”
“I’m…I’m sorry.”
Lydda waved an idle hand. “Ancient history. Anyway, I was out on the open road, half-starved and doing whatever I could to surviv
e. Then I found this dog. Mangy old mutt, white and shaggy, with one bad eye and half his tail bit off. But he liked me. And I liked him. So we walked together.”
She leaned back, glancing down into the fountain at her back, then looked over at Renata.
“Found out early I was good at fighting. Not so good at winning. Got real good at taking a beating, but that doesn’t pay. So there I am, bare-knuckling it for a prize purse in some shithole tavern, getting pounded as usual, and I look over. I see the dog there, watching me lose. And I realized something.”
Renata tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“If I lost, it wasn’t only me that wasn’t gonna eat that night. And that meant I wasn’t fighting for me anymore. I was fighting for him. This stupid dog I kinda loved. So I got up, dusted myself off, and dished out the ass-kicking of a lifetime. Dog got a steak.”
“What happened to the dog?”
Lydda’s gaze sank, just for a moment.
“Died one night. Don’t know why. Just went to sleep next to me and never woke up again. Point is, your head’s all wrong. Don’t worry about your man. Fight for him. Keep him in sight when the battle’s raging all around you and the blood starts to spill. He’s counting on you to live through this. Don’t let him down.”
She hopped off the fountain and drew her blade, nodding at Renata. “Now let’s try that move one more time.”
Renata drew, the rapier easier in her hand now. A little more certain as she dropped into a duelist’s stance.
“So,” she asked, “who do you fight for now?”
Sunlight glinted off Lydda’s golden tooth as she smiled. She nodded toward the village gate, where Sykes was drilling a few of the villagers in how to use their makeshift weapons.
“Him. And he fights for me. Together, we can’t be beat.”
“So you’re…together?”
Lydda’s smile turned wistful.
“Nah. He insists he’s the type that ain’t into women. Still…maybe someday he’ll come around. And I’ll be here when he does.”
Their blades met. A parry, a quick lunge—and Renata’s back hit the dirt, her leg swept out from under her.
Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 18
