Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  “I’m going with you.” Anakoni caught Felix’s look, and lifted a finger. “I am going with you. Whatever Aita’s plotting, I want to see it for myself.”

  The next day, before sunrise, they took to the rooftops. The sky glowed with false dawn as they jumped from ledge to ledge, high above the sleepy streets. Practice had helped Felix find his sense of balance. More confident now, faster and light-footed on the treacherous slopes. They found a spot on a flat rooftop with a commanding view of the street, got down on their bellies, and waited.

  As dawn broke and the city stirred to life, it was business as usual down below. Pushcarts and pedestrians and the occasional fat wagon rattling past and forcing the crowds to part like a stubborn sea.

  “There,” Anakoni whispered.

  Felix followed his gaze. The bodyguards from yesterday were back, but they’d added to their numbers. Five in all, they stalked up the street in a tight phalanx.

  “This is her response?” Anakoni said in disbelief. “To send a few more men? I’m not sure whether to feel insulted or just embarrassed for her.”

  “I don’t think so,” Felix murmured. “The collector isn’t with them. Let’s watch.”

  They stomped into a butcher’s shop, one of the usual extortion targets, and emerged with the butcher. He was a stocky man in a well-worn apron, and two of the men gripped him by his elbows, almost dragging him.

  “Your attention, please,” shouted the Murgardt in front. He was bland-faced and forgettable, wearing a pleasant smile. “May I have your kind attention?”

  Foot traffic paused and shopkeepers poked their heads out of doorways, people clustering around in curiosity.

  “Thank you. My name is Weiss. You may be seeing more of me in the next few weeks. Or not. It’s up to you. You see, we have a problem. It seems that a vigilante has been stirring up some trouble in our fair city. Striking blows at the people who work so hard to keep you safe and protected. His name is Felix Rossini. He is a murderer, he is a thief, and—as of today—we are offering two thousand scudi for information leading to his capture. No questions asked.”

  “Damn,” Felix whispered as an excited murmur rippled through the crowd. “Do you think anyone in your crew will bite at that?”

  Anakoni took a deep breath. “Not my men. We’ll need to watch the newest recruits, though. Worse, it’ll be impossible to expand our numbers now. Anyone we try to hire can profit more by turning you in.”

  “Just…one last thing,” Weiss announced. “We know Felix has coconspirators. This man, for instance: yesterday, his business-tax payment was stolen by Signore Rossini. Did he inform on us? Did he tell Felix when our collector would be passing by? We don’t know. And up until now, we’ve let bygones be bygones.”

  He whirled and slammed a fist of stone into the butcher’s face, pulping his nose. Then a swift knee capped with metal drove into the butcher’s groin, dropping him to the cobblestones where he writhed in pain.

  “From now on,” Weiss said, “anyone who benefits from Felix Rossini’s unlawful activities, in any way, shape, or form, will be punished accordingly.”

  He kicked the butcher in the gut. The man’s smashed nose leaked a stream of blood onto the street while the crowd staggered back, the mood shifting from curiosity to fear. Felix started to get up.

  “I have to help him—”

  Anakoni grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. “No, Felix. That’s what he wants you to do. That’s what she wants you do. Look.”

  He jabbed his finger at the crowd. More foreigners stood, scattered along the boulevard, pretending to be part of the gathering. Maybe ten in all, covering the street from every angle.

  “You go down there, they’ll have you in seconds. If the crowd itself doesn’t tear you apart trying to earn that reward money.”

  Felix gritted his teeth. She knows how to hurt you, the Murgardt had warned him.

  “Felix,” Weiss called out, eyes wide as he scanned the crowd and looked to the alleys. “I know you’re here. I know you’re watching. She has a message for you.”

  He spun and drove a booted foot into the butcher’s face, shattering his jaw like glass.

  “You did this,” Weiss shouted, pointing down at the groaning man. The butcher tried to push himself up and fell, his hand slipping in a spreading puddle of his own blood.

  Felix closed his eyes. His head sagged.

  “You,” Weiss shouted again, punctuating each word with another savage kick to the butcher’s gut. “Did. This.”

  “Come on,” Anakoni whispered. “Let’s go, before they think to check the rooftops.”

  He tugged at Felix’s sleeve. Felix didn’t move.

  “And that concludes this morning’s announcements,” Weiss told the crowd, his placid smile back in place. “Please, carry on, enjoy your shopping, and have a lovely day.”

  * * *

  Weiss was pleased. Beyond the light bit of morning exercise, it was nice to fix a client’s problems so tidily. Felix’s little “gang” wouldn’t be growing its numbers, not once word of the reward filtered to every dive bar in the city, and there was a good chance one of his own might betray him. Meanwhile, Felix had learned the price of striking at his wife’s livelihood.

  Aita had chuckled when Weiss laid out his plan. “No, you won’t have to do it more than once. Trust me: once he knows we’ll start punishing the rabble in retaliation for his offenses, he’ll never try that again.”

  “He’ll come at you a different way, then.”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find him before he gets any more bright ideas.”

  He was working on that.

  Schwartzmann had been one of the Dustmen escorting Aita’s collector the day before. They walked together as Weiss made him recount the entire story, every last detail, for the eighth time.

  “Ten of them, wait, maybe eleven.”

  “Think,” Weiss said. “Details are important. Somewhere in your memory is the key we need. Now, you’re certain they were all Enoli islanders?”

  He nodded. “Positive. Besides Felix, of course.”

  “What about their weapons? Quality steel?”

  Schwartzmann shook his head. “Cheap. Mostly saps and a few daggers, better suited to whittle wood than cut men. A few…meat hooks, I think? Wait.”

  Weiss’s head snapped his way. “What?”

  He held up a finger. “There was something. One of the men to Felix’s left. He had an odd one on his belt. It was like…a spike.”

  “A spike?”

  “A spike, about a foot long, made of…black iron, I think. It had a loop at the top and dangled from his belt on a short lanyard.”

  A satisfied smile rose to Weiss’s lips.

  “That’s not a weapon. Well, it can be, but only if you know how to use it.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Marlinspike,” Weiss said. “It’s a sailor’s tool. Used for hitching and untying knots on a boat. I think, after dark falls, we should round up a few free hands and take a stroll down to the harbor. See if any ships with Enoli crew have taken on any…unusual passengers of late.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Amadeo rose with the dawn. He’d had no dreams, no prophetic visions. Just silence. He bathed in frigid water, feeling numb inside and out as he rubbed a rough cloth over his arms and chest. Like bathing a corpse, he thought.

  Merrion waited for him in the hall outside his chambers. He gave the priest a questioning look.

  “Everything is ready,” Amadeo told him.

  They’d arranged to release one of the Argalls from inquisition custody, setting him loose with a message from Amadeo. Requesting to meet, and parley, with them. Once the rebels had heard his plan, they were eager to cooperate.

  The Argalls wanted blood.

  “Excellent,” Merrion said. “I’ve arranged to withdraw all security from the western side of the keep. All gates will be unbarred, all doors unlocked. Where will you…do it?”

>   “The gardens,” Amadeo said. “It feels appropriate.”

  Merrion reached out and clasped his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing. For your Church, for Itresca—the people will never know it, Father, but you are a genuine hero.”

  Amadeo pulled away, holding up an open hand.

  “Please don’t touch me.”

  He walked away.

  Outside the kitchens, he crossed Columba’s path. She scurried over to him.

  “Father, they told me—”

  “Not now. We’ll talk after.”

  Livia was enjoying her breakfast in the feast hall. The table was lined with courtiers and diplomats, cardinals and their aides, and she held court with the patience of a sage. He edged toward her shoulder and leaned in, waiting for a break in the conversation.

  “Livia?” he asked. “A word?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at the sight of him. She pushed back her chair. “Everyone, if you’ll excuse me for a moment?”

  A quartet of Browncloaks followed them to the door.

  “Livia,” Amadeo said, “would it be possible to have this conversation in complete privacy? It’s…a sensitive matter. And somewhat embarrassing for me.”

  Livia nodded, looking to the Browncloaks. “Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.”

  “My lady,” one said, “you shouldn’t be alone.”

  Livia chuckled, kindly, and took Amadeo’s arm.

  “I scarcely think I need to be protected from my best friend,” she said. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  He led her to the gardens.

  It was a fine, clear morning. Cold and crisp, and a light breeze carried the scent of roses. Oaken double doors swung shut at their back, leaving them alone amid the flower beds. They strolled together in companionable silence.

  Then the gate at the far end of the walk opened wide, and Queen Eirwen strode into the gardens. A queen in rags, her noble finery dirty and tattered, her once-plump face gone sallow. And a sword on her hip.

  She wasn’t alone. Eight men walked with her, daggers in their hands, and eyes that burned like black coals steeped in fires of raw hatred. Every one of them fixed on Livia.

  Amadeo untangled his arm from hers as the Argalls spread out, encircling the two of them. He took a step back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  * * *

  When Amadeo left the gardens, he walked alone.

  He went to his chambers, sat on his bed, and stared at the wall. Waiting. Hours passed. Then, a knock at the door.

  “Father,” the messenger said, “King Jernigan requests your presence in the feast hall.”

  “Of course,” Amadeo said.

  As he walked into the vast, drafty hall, closing the door behind him, Rhys stood from his chair and lifted his goblet in a toast.

  “Here he is! The man of the hour. Three cheers for Father Amadeo!”

  Merrion lifted his goblet as well. “A friend to all Itresca.”

  “A friend to our Mother Church as well,” Cardinal Yates added with a smile. “Her champion and her savior. Father, you have single-handedly changed the course of history this day. I hope you take pride in that.”

  “Changed our fortunes, too,” Guildmaster Byvan said with a laugh, tossing back a swig of wine. “Now that the bitch is gone, we can get back to business as usual.”

  Amadeo fell into a chair. Staring at the twin stag heads mounted over the feast hall’s massive hearth. Their eyes as glassy and dead as his.

  One more celebrant sat at the table, though she had no goblet before her. Sister Columba. She hobbled over, leaning in close.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He looked her in the eye. “You understand why I did it, don’t you? I did it for you, Sister. If I hadn’t, you would have, and you’d have borne the weight of mortal sin. I did it to save your soul from damnation.”

  She clutched his hand as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “You saved us all, Father. You saved us all.”

  “Damn right he did,” Rhys said, “so someone pour that hero a drink!”

  A silver goblet was placed before him, wine splashing like fresh blood. Hands slapped his back, squeezed his shoulders. Laughter and delight. Amadeo sat unmoved. They ignored him and Columba for a while, making their plans and scheming their schemes. Eventually, though, Rhys looked his way again.

  “You know, for someone who just won the undying friendship of the most powerful men in Itresca, you’re looking awfully glum. We can’t exactly throw a parade for what you’ve done, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be rewarded. What do you want? Just name it. How about your own chateau on the coast? Hell, how about the highlands? Now that I’ve got the justification to have every last Argall put to the sword, there’s going to be plenty of rich land to build on.”

  “A promotion in the Church, perhaps?” Yates suggested. “Easy enough to arrange for my friend Amadeo, especially once I’m wearing the papal miter on my head.”

  Byvan snorted. “Best way to reward any man is with cold, hard coin. Let him buy his pleasures on his own time. What do you say, Father? Could a jingling sack of gold turn that frown around?”

  Amadeo thought for a moment.

  “What I want more than anything in the world,” he finally said, “is the one thing we so rarely ever receive in life. Certainty. The certainty that I made the best choice out of a handful of bad options. But the die is cast, and my choice can’t be unmade. I committed a grave betrayal today.”

  Merrion shook his head. “All for the best. Livia needed to go, Father. You know this.”

  “Oh, not her,” Amadeo said.

  He let out a sad, resigned chuckle.

  “I betrayed you.”

  The great oak doors burst open. And Livia strode into the feast hall with twenty Browncloaks at her back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Browncloaks fanned out, covering every avenue of escape, as Livia stalked toward the great table with cold fury in her eyes.

  “Betray the woman I raised as a daughter?” Amadeo said softly, looking at Rhys. “I may have my doubts. And I may have my fears. But I could never turn my back on Livia.”

  “But…how?” Merrion stammered, turning to Livia. “My men saw the Argalls arrive inside the keep, armed and out for blood. They confirmed it! Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Because I gave them the one thing it seems none of you are capable of,” Livia replied. “Honesty.”

  * * *

  Amadeo had made his choice. And he chose Livia. His head swirled with doubts: the conspiracies and powers arrayed against her, her own recklessness, the witch contagion that might turn her into something unspeakable…but in the end, it came down to the simplest of reasons.

  “Because I love you,” he told her, meeting secretly in her chambers. “And no matter what happens, I always will. I’ll stand with you until the end.”

  Livia clasped his hand. Dante Uccello paced the floor, brow furrowed.

  “All well and good, but love is a poor weapon against the machinations of kings and bankers.”

  “To the contrary,” Livia said, “love just saved my life. That’s a fine weapon indeed.”

  “We need to craft a response. One that not only stops this cabal in its tracks, but ensures they can never rise up again. Mark my words, signora: never take vengeance by half measures. If you strike a man, you must burn him to the ground. Utterly. Otherwise, you invite your own doom.”

  “We start with the Argalls,” she said. “I have an idea. Risky, very risky, but it’s the only way to set things right.”

  As the three of them worked to outline their plan, debating into the late afternoon, Dante cast a nervous glance to the door.

  “Good. It’s all settled then. While you undertake the plan, I’ll be making myself scarce. If King Jernigan is intent on your death—and he didn’t recruit me into his plans—it strongly suggests I’m next in line for the ax. I’ll come back when the deeds are do
ne.”

  From there it had all happened as the conspirators believed. The released prisoner, the secret meeting between Amadeo and the rebels, and the confrontation in the keep’s gardens. As the Argalls circled, Queen Eirwen drew her sword.

  “I’m sorry,” Amadeo said, looking between Livia and Eirwen. “These aren’t optimal conditions for a meeting. But I think you two have been needing to talk, quite badly.”

  “I’m still not convinced there’s anything to say,” Eirwen replied.

  “It was your husband’s doing,” Livia said. “He wanted this inquisition, to steal your family’s lands.”

  “Of course it was his doing. Do you think I’m simple? But the quill was in your hand, Livia. You signed the order. You put my family in chains and cast them out of their homes. I believed in you.”

  “I had no choice.” Livia shook her head. “It was that, or lose the papacy. Lose that and we’d have no weapon against Carlo, no way to take back the Church. It was for the greater good.”

  Eirwen stared at her. “The greater good. A boy died on that cathedral floor. Cut down because he was trying to protect his mother. Tell me, and tell me true: can you look that woman in the eyes and tell her that her son’s death was ‘for the greater good’? Can you do that for me, Livia? Because that will surely comfort her in her grief.”

  Livia bowed her head.

  “No,” she said. “I…I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You think sorry can make up for what you’ve done?”

  Livia strode toward Eirwen. And sank to her knees on the pebbled walk. She tilted her head back, the queen’s blade inches from her bared throat, and clasped her hands behind her.

  “I came here to try and make things right. To find a solution. But if I need to die for the wrongs I’ve committed against you and your family…then take my life. I am begging your forgiveness, Eirwen. If blood is the price for it, then strike swift and deep.”

  Eirwen stared down at her in silence, the blade wavering in her trembling hand. Then she sighed. The sword rasped as it slid back into its sheath.