Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  “Do I get a duel? I promise, I’ll play by all the rules. Just like I did when I paid a visit to Bull on my way here. Tell Nessa she’s one follower down. Oh, wait. I’ll have to tell her myself. Because you’ll be dead, too.”

  Mari flicked her wrists. Blood flew from the edges of her sickles, ruby droplets flying in a glittering arc to stain the wood between them.

  Then she squared her footing and prepared for battle.

  * * *

  Cold wind whistled through the abandoned mine. Tunnels sprawled like some ancient beast’s hollowed-out bones, rough and dark. Nessa knew where to go, though. Memories from her childhood spurred her footsteps. Left, then down, then down again, to the steel door at the end. Corroded now, taken by rust and winter, and the lock broke under one sharp tug. The door screamed on its hinges as she pulled it wide, and a fetid smell—like a corpse pile rotting in summer heat—washed out from the darkness.

  It’s such a tiny thing, she thought as she beheld the Misery.

  The black stone glittered like fool’s gold, resting on the floor at the heart of a great ritual circle. Runes and sigils chalked in white, faded ghostly over the years, but she could still feel their rumbling power as her shoes trod upon them.

  “Well,” Muskrat said, standing at her side, “there it is.”

  “You’re certain this will work?”

  “Do you want me to lie?”

  Nessa glared at her.

  “It should work,” Muskrat said. “If we combine our energies, and I take the brunt of the Misery’s poison, you’ll be able to carry it and harness its power…briefly, at least. For as long as my spirit holds out.”

  “Mother.” Nessa paused, a hitch in her voice. “You’ll be destroyed.”

  “Is that a note of sentiment I detect?”

  Nessa stared down at the stone, silent.

  “Well, don’t get soft on me now,” Muskrat added. “And don’t say ‘I love you,’ because I’m not going to say it back, and then you’ll feel very foolish indeed.”

  Nessa looked her way. “Can I say…I’ll miss you?”

  Muskrat nodded. Then she sighed.

  “I suspect, my dear, that I’ll be back one way or another. And so, say my visions, will you. Though you won’t remember it.”

  “Visions and riddles again.”

  “That girl. You made a good choice with her. I just wish I could have given you both a happy ending.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nessa said. “We’ll make our own.”

  Muskrat’s eyes flicked upward. “Gertie’s coming. I can feel her. Give that old monster my regards. So, it’s now or never. Are you ready?”

  “No.” A tiny smile quirked at the corner of Nessa’s mouth. “Let’s do it anyway.”

  She took her mother’s hand. And then she reached for the stone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  By night, standing on the deck of the Iona’s Sunset, Felix could almost imagine his city was at peace. There were no hunters, no one seeking his head for a prize or sizing him up for a hangman’s noose, just the gentle lap of the water against the barque’s hull and the far-off tolling of ships’ bells in the dark.

  “I have to go out,” he told Anakoni. “Meeting with a friend who might be able to help us.”

  “I can come. Or I can send some of our men to watch your back.”

  Felix shook his head and smiled. “Trust me, this is the safest thing I’ve had to do in days. I’ll be back in a couple of hours and we can plan our strategy for tomorrow.”

  Ghosting through the city streets, he almost had to laugh at his destination. The Guildsman’s Seat was a lodging house catering to Mirenze’s aristocracy, and it rented rooms by the hour. Half the regulars were there to share information, and the other half were there to share their bodies—not, as a rule, with their spouses. There was an unspoken agreement that all patrons went collectively deaf and blind when roaming the jasmine-scented corridors, and masks—even outside the season of Saint Lucien’s Night—were not an uncommon sight.

  He’d come here to meet with Aita, back before her father’s murder. Back when he believed he was her partner, not her puppet. Now, he had a new conspiracy and a new set of allies. He made his way to room twelve, rapped on the cherrywood door, and waited.

  The door opened a crack, and Sofia Marchetti peered out. She waved him inside quickly and locked the door at his back.

  “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said, leading the way to a table and chairs, sculpted in flowing Benegali style. Sandalwood curves and delicate grace.

  “As am I,” he replied, pulling back his hood and taking a seat. “Aita’s taken note of the thorn in her side. Instead of pursuing me directly, she targeted an innocent man and had him beaten half to death in the street. I can’t go after her operations again, not at that price.”

  Sofia sighed. “And I’ve heard about the bounty on your head. At least we can’t say she’s not taking you seriously anymore.”

  “How about you? Any luck prying into your son’s plans?”

  “Lodovico has been receiving…unsavory guests at all hours,” she said, “and I don’t just mean Aita.”

  “Let me guess. Murgardt. Soldier types, but no uniforms.”

  “That’s right.”

  Felix nodded. “Some kind of mercenaries, I think. They’re the ones bolstering Aita’s ranks. Be very careful, signora. They’re not shy about hurting people.”

  “Then there’s”—Sofia glanced over her shoulder, casting a nervous look at the curtained window—“the women.”

  “Women?”

  “Robes and veils and gloves, not worn in modesty or mourning, I don’t think. Their…fingers, Felix. Their fingers are too long for their bodies.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “In my home. Coming out of Lodovico’s office once. And one night, emerging from his bedroom door. I asked him who they were. He said ‘consultants’ and refused to discuss it further.”

  She fell silent, the faintest tremor in her shoulders.

  “The more avenues of attack Aita bars to me,” Felix mused, “the more I realize there’s only one way to get at her. A direct strike. Tomorrow is Saint Lucien’s. Do you think—”

  “No.” Sofia said. “I dined with the governor last night. Once I told him I’d be wearing my family emeralds to the ball, he fell all over himself telling me about the security measures they’re undertaking. There’s no way for you to get in. It would be suicide.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Guards at the front gate, checking invitations. And the invitations are personalized this year. I can’t just give you mine, unless you’ve recently become a master of disguise. More than that, all guests must unmask as they enter. They’ll be looking for you, Felix. Trust me. Aita expected you might think of this, and she’s expressed her fears to the governor.”

  Felix frowned, furrowing his brow. “And inside?”

  “A second invitation check at the front door. More security inside, and not just in uniform. Some of the waiters at the ball will be the Mirenze watch in disguise, sniffing for intruders and hiding concealed weapons under their aprons. Their job is to keep the party under guard at all times and constantly move about. No way to slip past them, not for long.”

  “Damn,” Felix said. “The one night of the year I can don a mask and move freely through the city, and Aita and Lodovico will be in the only place I can’t get at them.”

  Sofia shook her head. “We’ll find another way. Don’t be reckless, Felix. You’re my only ally in this fight. I can’t lose you.”

  * * *

  Walking back through the misty streets and feeling the chill seep damp fingers through his woolen cloak, Felix didn’t hear the bells at first. His thoughts were a maze. No, a hallway lined with doors, each one a way to stop Aita and Lodovico, and every rattling doorknob locked tight. He had a dozen ideas and a dozen answers as to why each one would end in fa
ilure or worse.

  Then he did hear the bells, ringing out loud and urgent up ahead, and the pounding of panicked feet. He ran, too, rounding a bend by the harbor lane and squinting at sudden bright light.

  The Iona’s Sunset was burning.

  Townsfolk, constables, and half the drunks at the Hen and Caber had poured out onto the street, watching the roaring flames devour the sinking barque. Timbers snapped as its mainmast collapsed, canvas sails billowing down to feed the raging fire. Even from a block away, Felix could feel the heat washing over his face. And smell the burnt-pork stench of roasting human flesh.

  Maybe they got away, maybe at least Anakoni— he told himself, thoughts racing, grasping at fragile hope. But then his thoughts fell silent, shoulders slumped as he accepted the inevitable truth. Staring at the funeral pyre as it sank, inch by tortured inch, into the icy black waters of the harbor.

  Anakoni was dead. He’d stumbled back into Felix’s life, extended the hand of friendship, dared so much…and this was his repayment. Just like all the others in Felix’s life. His father. His brother and her wife. His household staff, people who had practically raised him from childhood.

  And now Anakoni and his crew. More lives stolen by his enemies. Murdered for the crime of being Felix Rossini’s friend.

  The darkness swirled inside him. Eager and hungry and painting his vision as red as the crackling flames.

  Running footsteps. Searchers in the streets. He turned as a lean Murgardt in patchy leathers looked his way and shouted, “It’s Rossini! He’s over here!”

  The Murgardt drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and charged. Felix didn’t run. He spread his open hands, an invitation to the dance, and bared his teeth.

  Then he lashed out, slamming the flat of his hand against the Murgardt’s throat hard enough to knock him to the cobblestones. Felix dropped down, driving his knee into the man’s wheezing stomach with all his weight, and grabbed his knife wrist. He twisted until he heard bones crack. The knife fell free and he swept it up as bootfalls pounded to his left, a second mercenary running up on him from the side.

  Felix launched to his feet, swinging the knife up in a brutal arc, and drove it hilt-deep between the Murgardt’s legs.

  He yanked it free, blood spilling to the cobblestones, and silenced the man’s shrill shriek by punching the blade through his throat. As his body dropped, Felix heard more footfalls in the dark. More hunters coming.

  He whirled, leaving the wounded and the dead at his back, and fled into the shadows.

  * * *

  Leggieri woke from fitful dreams. The Artist of Mirenze lived alone, a lifelong bachelor by choice, and was accustomed to solitude.

  Seeing the shadow at the foot of his bed, then, was most unexpected.

  “Signore,” Felix said softly, “I fear I require a bit more of your assistance.”

  Leggieri led the way across the silent gardens and through the locked trapdoor, only kindling the lamp in his hand once they’d reached the steps to his private workroom. The soft orange light washed over the tools of his secret trade, his strange arsenal.

  “They’ll kill you,” he said to Felix. “You must know this. Tomorrow night the governor’s manse will be the most secure place in all of Mirenze.”

  “I know the governor’s guards will be well armed,” Felix said. He lifted his chin as he took in the wall of knives. “Just as I know his guests will not be. My wife and my rival have laid their last blow upon me. Torn out the last chunk of my beating heart. Once I’m inside the ball, their lives will be mine for the taking.”

  “Surely there’s another way—”

  Felix spun to face him, enraged.

  “There is no other way,” he shouted. “Everyone who crosses my path, everyone who extends their hand, pays for their kindness with their lives. My allies are dead. My reputation destroyed. My resources, my home, my family business, gone. I have nothing left. Nothing but Renata. And so long as Aita and Lodovico draw breath, she will never be safe. I’m nothing now, Leggieri, nothing but a cornered rat.”

  He leaned close, looming over the artist with fire in his eyes. His voice dropped to a graveyard whisper.

  “But a cornered rat can still bite.”

  Leggieri took a halting step back. A beadlet of sweat glistened above one bushy eyebrow.

  “So be it,” he said. “If you are determined to meet your death, at least I can ensure you don’t meet it alone. Let’s get you properly armed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Viper pushed her shoulders back and sucked a deep breath through her jagged, chiseled teeth.

  “Can you feel that, Mari? The air is different here. They say Winter’s Reach is cursed, that it changes everyone it touches for the worse. You and I both know the reason, though.”

  “The Misery,” Mari said flatly, standing her ground at the opposite end of the fighting pit.

  “Leaking. All these years, spreading its tendrils out, brushing hearts and minds. It doesn’t turn you into anything, though. It just…brings out the darkness that was already hiding deep down inside. What did it bring out of you, I wonder?”

  Mari beckoned with the bloody tip of a sickle.

  “Come and find out.”

  Viper charged, then jumped. Flipping head over feet, launching herself from a handstand, she tumbled across the arena floor with blinding speed. Mari barely had time to react before Viper landed on her hands, twirled, and drove a brtual kick into Mari’s stomach that sent her staggering. Viper somersaulted, landing on her feet in a low crouch, and spun into another kick that swept Mari’s leg out from under her. She fell to the bloody floorboards, thumping hard on her back.

  Mari rolled to her left just as two daggers went flying, chunking into the wood. She scrambled to her feet. Viper drew two more knives from her sleeves and lunged. Mari caught her steel in the curves of her sickle blades, twisted her wrists, broke Viper’s grip, and sent the knives scattering. Before Viper could recover, Mari slammed her forehead down into her nose, feeling cartilage crack against her skull.

  Viper darted back, flashing a lunatic grin, and wiped a drizzle of blood from her upper lip. Bright scarlet smeared across one cheek like war paint.

  “Well, look at that. You’re actually going to make me break a sweat. Playtime’s over. Let’s really fight.”

  She crossed her arms, whipping another pair of daggers from her sleeves and moving in for the kill. Mari raised her sickles, preparing herself, and then—Viper wasn’t there anymore. The witch jumped to the right and vanished, her form boiling away like a heat mirage. Mari felt a tug in the air, a sudden draft, as if it were rushing in to fill the void in Viper’s absence.

  Mari blinked. Turned around, searching the arena floor.

  “Renault,” Veruca shouted, “behind you!”

  She spun just in time to see Viper cartwheeling toward her. Her boot slammed into Mari’s chin, clouding her vision in an explosion of pain. Then Viper flipped back onto her feet and lashed out with a blade. The knife slashed across Mari’s arm, tearing linen and flesh. Mari winced, the cut biting like a hot brand against her skin, and before she could recover, Viper side-stepped into a patch of rippling shadow.

  Mari gritted her teeth. Clutched her weapons tight as sweat trickled down from her brow and burned her eyes. Her blood spattered onto the arena floor.

  The next thing she felt was searing agony as Viper plunged a needle-thin blade through the back of her brigantine vest and into her shoulder blade. She turned, quick, and sliced empty air where the witch had stood just a heartbeat ago.

  Mari dropped one sickle and reached back, yanking the dagger free and letting it tumble from her trembling fingers. Viper’s soft laughter echoed through the air, spilling from every shadow.

  “Coward,” Mari grunted. “Come out and face me.”

  “As you wish,” said the voice at her back as a rustling pop of air washed over her. Mari spun to see a whirling boot, Viper launching into a high spinning kick that crashed a
gainst the side of her skull. Mari hit the floor on her belly, groaning, the room twirling around her in a stomach-churning spin.

  Viper strolled around her, giggling as she shook her head.

  “Coven knight,” she said. “Really. As if you could ever be good enough.”

  Mari pushed herself up on her forearms. Viper ran in, laughing as she drove her boot into her belly. Mari’s body clenched into a fetal ball, wheezing for breath.

  “Stay down,” Viper said. “Haven’t decided how I want to finish you off yet.”

  Veruca shouted from the corner. “Renault, get up. You can beat her!”

  “Shut it, cattle.” Viper glared. “See, Mari, this is the problem. Let one of the cattle put on airs, and they all think they can start talking back to their betters. I can’t believe you thought our coven would want the likes of you. As if anyone would ever want you.”

  Her breath gone, her strength gone, her stomach twisted and her head aching so badly she could barely see, Mari was back in Belle Terre. Down in the mud and beaten by the knights she had thought were her heroes.

  “Nobody wants you, and nobody ever will,” the knight had told her. Crushing her dream under his plated boot.

  “But Nessa wants me,” Mari whispered to herself.

  And smiled. Her shoulder was a wreck, her body near broken, her face and arm cut and bleeding…but she smiled.

  “What was that?” Viper frowned. “You have something to say, cattle?”

  Mari pushed herself up on shaky arms, fighting past the exhaustion and the pain as she rose to her feet. Her sickle firm in her grip.

  “Yes,” she replied. “What I said was, give up now. You’re outnumbered.”

  Viper blinked at her. “How hard did I kick you in the head? The mayor’s a little too tied up to help you right now. You’re all alone, Mari. You’re just a beaten-down little nothing who tried to rise above her station and failed. Miserably.”