A different man appeared at the doorway, dragging a boy along with him. He looked Ziafiata over and furrowed his brow. “You. You look familiar to me. Who are you?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ziafiata’s heart was beating so fast that she was sure the man could hear it, but she forced herself to appear outwardly calm. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, sir. Now, there is very little time.” She reached for the boy. “If I do not deliver the child, the consequences I face are severe. Give him to me.”
The man furrowed his brow. “You look like Federo’s daughter herself—Ziafiata Abrusse.”
“Oh!” said Ziafiata, forcing herself to laugh easily. “People say that to me all the time. I’ve never seen her up close. Are we really alike?” She preened, lifting her chin and turning her face this way and that.
The man scrutinized her. “Well… there is a resemblance, yes, but your chin is not quite like hers, I don’t think.”
Ziafiata touched her chin, laughing again. “I think it is a compliment, just the same?”
“Yes, certainly,” said the man gruffly. “You are both quite pretty.” He pushed the boy through the doorway. “I guess you’d best be off, then?”
“I must indeed.” Ziafiata took the boy’s hand, but he wrenched it away from her, looking up at her with a defiant look in his eye. She tried to give him a look with her eyes that communicated all was well, but the boy was having none of it.
“Boy,” said Chevolere in a gruff voice, hand on his pistol. “Take her hand.”
The boy looked up at Chevolere. “I don’t have to do anything you—”
Chevolere suddenly swept the boy up off his feet and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Of course.” Ziafiata started after him, casting one glance over her shoulder at the tower and then quickly turning back to Chevolere.
They walked to the end of the block and turned a corner.
“Put him down,” she said to Chevolere.
Chevolere did, and the boy shrank from them.
“It’s all right,” said Ziafiata. “We’re taking you someplace safe.”
* * *
It was nearly dawn by the time it was all settled.
Ziafiata and Chevolere watched the sun rise over the water as they stood on the docks. A boat containing Geolli, his son, and the boy’s mother had just sailed off into the horizon. Chevolere hadn’t been pleased about arranging for the boat or about giving Geolli money to help him get away, but he’d done it when she pressed.
She was less surprised about this than she should have been, she supposed, but somehow, she’d known that she had an influence on Chevolere, that she’d tamed her beast, and that he would do her bidding. She found it gratifying, and she could see that Chevolere found it alarming.
This early the docks were mostly empty. There were a few fisherman setting off in the early morning light, but Rzymn was not a city that thrived on a wholesome commerce such as fishing. There were two types of people in Rzymn—those connected to the Order of the Flamme and those who were connected to Rzymn’s criminal enterprises. Very little existed otherwise.
So, there was no one around to hear when she turned to him and said, “What did Allicionne do to get her out from under the debt? What was it that killed her?”
Chevolere sighed. “I’m sorry I ever started explaining any of that to you.”
She shrugged. “If you hadn’t, I would have let Geolli kill you.”
He scoffed. “Oh, is that so? I think not. You enjoy making use of me too much. Use of my resources, use of my money, use of me in a musqueteer uniform.”
“I like the way you look without your mask,” she said, raising her eyebrows lightly. This was the truth. She’d been rather mesmerized by his face. If she hadn’t been so nervous trying to get that boy free, she wouldn’t have been able to take her eyes off him. Now, even though his mask was firmly in place, she could see his features beneath it, and it made him look different, somehow.
“Of course you do.” He glowered at her.
“I don’t think you’re nearly as bad of a man as you pretend to be,” she said.
“You’re wrong about that,” he said, turning to look at the sun struggling into the sky. The water reflected back purples and oranges and reds.
“Tell me,” she said. “About Allicionne.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I shall guess, then,” she said. “It was prostitution. She sold her body, and there was nothing left of her, and that is why you said what you said to me.”
He turned to look at her. “It was worse than that.”
She waited.
He turned back to the water. “There were men, some of them carales, rich men, and they were willing to pay a great deal of money for a virgin. Your father set it all up, and he took their money. He was there, but then I was too. I watched it.”
“Your sister wished you to—”
“No, of course not. She tried to keep it from me, and I followed her, to spy on her, and I saw it happen. They were savage with her. They were insatiable. And when it was over, she was bleeding and bruised and mangled.” His voice had gone dull. “It took her weeks to recover the physical wounds, but internally, she never recovered.”
“I thought… This wasn’t what killed her?”
“She was with child,” said Chevolere. “She didn’t want to be, and she made me go and buy her something, some tea that she could brew to expel it from her womb. But after she drank it, she started bleeding, and she never stopped, and I went seeking help, but nothing could be done, and she bled and bled and bled until she was gone.”
Ziafiata didn’t say anything. She gazed at the sun rising over Chevolere’s shoulder. His back was to her. All the teasing lightness from before was gone now. She felt sorry she’d pressed him and made him speak of it all. She felt ashamed of herself.
The silence between them stretched on and on.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “How old were you?”
“Twelve,” he said. He didn’t turn around. “I went to your father in my grief. I suppose they did not stop me because I was so young and they did not consider me a threat. I stormed into one his taverns while he was playing cards with his men and I tried to stab him. I didn’t get very far, of course. He disarmed me and plucked me off of him and threw me on the ground while I sobbed and screamed at him about what he’d done to my sister. He just laughed and gestured around and said, ‘Is not the world going on without her?’ As if that somehow was supposed to prove something. He kicked me in the stomach a few times and had two of the men throw me out, but he said it wasn’t worth his time to kill me. I don’t suppose he’d remember it, or recognize me, but I didn’t want him to know who I was either, so that is why I decided to wear the mask.”
She nodded. But that didn’t matter, because he couldn’t see her. So, she simply waited.
He didn’t say anything else.
“The other men you killed are the ones who hurt your sister, I suppose?” she said. “My father is the only one left. You saved him for last.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t touch women because of what you saw,” she said.
“The entire idea of it disgusts me,” he said. “And when I had to attempt to… when I threatened you…” His voice shook, and he stopped speaking.
She clasped her hands together. She wanted to offer some kind of sympathy, some kind of comfort, but every word she thought of sounded inadequate. So, she said nothing.
“And I did it for nothing,” he said, his voice bitter. “All of that scheming, and your father lives, and I have no way to get close to him.”
“What if I helped you?”
He turned on her. “What are you saying?”
“We could trick my father. Make it look as if I managed to make you fall for me instead of your terrorizing me, and that you now do my bidding. I could say that I convinced you to let me go. And then, once he welcomed m
e home, I would help you get inside. You could stand over him while he cowered in his bed. I know you said it doesn’t matter, but I imagine you’d rather confront him, wouldn’t you? You’d rather do it face to face?”
“Why?”
“You know I hate him,” she said. “You threw that in my face when you first spoke to me.”
He shook his head. “He’s your father. No matter how much you hate him, you don’t want to be involved in plotting to kill him.”
“I might want something else in return,” she said.
“Oh?” he said.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about what I might trade with you if you changed your mind about wanting to…” She didn’t say the words “bed me.” It was better not to. She cleared her throat. “I mean that I’ve been thinking about what I might want if we struck a bargain between ourselves.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the Abrusse family,” she said. “I want to be a street queen.”
His lips parted.
“It’s not unheard of,” she said quickly. “Maria Caputio ruled the family for ten years in the stead of her husband, and she was purportedly the most ruthless and bloodthirsty head of that family ever. And I think I could do it. I think… I can’t think of what else I’d do with myself.”
“How would I help with that?”
“You’d offer us deals on cainlach and iubilia,” she said. “And you’d help me get in to speak to my father’s caporegimes. If I don’t have their support, I won’t be able to hold the position as queen.”
“They won’t follow you if they think you betrayed your own father.”
“They will. Ruthlessness trumps loyalty,” she said. “You have the connections to set up the meetings. And I’d need your money to buy things—suitable clothing, for instance. Perhaps wine and food if I wanted to invite them for a meal. I’d need your help to do it.”
He shook his head.
“Once we had killed my father, you and I would have an alliance. I could provide protection to you and your assets,” she said.
“Did you ever consider a thing like this before I took you captive?”
“Well, no, but I was frightened all the time back then. All I thought about was escaping my father and finding Diago, and then—”
“Then I made you kill him, and now you’re unfeeling and cruel and you want to be the head of a crime family.”
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
“Didn’t I? You said it yourself. I manipulated the situation so that Diago would take advantage of you and break your heart. And before that, what I did to you, the way I frightened you—”
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I feel strong now, Chevolere. And… I don’t know, there is something flattering about your interest, and—”
“Stop.” His nostrils flared.
“I’m not cruel,” she said. “I’m the one who insisted we rescue the little boy, aren’t I?”
He walked past her on the docks.
“Chevolere, where are you going?”
“I have to think about it,” he threw over his shoulder. Then he turned away from her and picked up the pace. His cape flared out behind him as he moved off the docks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marta stretched, running a rag over one of the tables in the tavern. “You’re going to get crumbs everywhere, aren’t you?”
“I’ll wipe them up,” said Ziafiata, who was eating bread fresh from the ovens. It was a bit crumbly. Steam was rising from it, and the butter she’d put on it was melting in the most wonderful of ways.
“See that you do,” said Marta. “I don’t have time to follow you around and clean up all your messes.”
“I’m sorry, Marta,” said Ziafiata.
Marta sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not in a good mood this morning, I have to admit. My roommate kept me up all last night talking about the King of Dumonte, and I wanted to tell her to shut up and let me get some rest, but I didn’t dare.”
“Why not?” said Ziafiata. “It seems to me it’s only fair to ask someone to be more polite.”
“Well, I stay at the boarding house on Tertio Street, and my roommate and I lucked into a deal two years back. If either of us were to break the lease agreement, it would be null and void, so we have to stay there, together, and sometimes it’s torture. I like her well enough, I suppose, but she talks a lot.”
“Was it a very good deal?” said Ziafiata. “Couldn’t you afford to find a different roommate, or to strike out on your own?”
“I couldn’t,” said Marta. “But she could. So, as long as she’s happy with me, she stays, and I have to make sure she stays happy.” She sighed. “Anyway, anything you ever wanted to know about the King of Dumonte, I now know, so ask me anything.”
“Why was she talking about the King of Dumonte?”
“Didn’t you hear? He’s in Rzymn.”
“I didn’t,” said Ziafiata. She mused on this, chewing on her bread. When she swallowed, she said, “He’s the one who’s the firestarter, isn’t he?”
“Used to be,” said Marta. “Apparently, he no longer has any magic.”
“How does that work?” said Ziafiata.
“I don’t know,” said Marta. “It’s what they say. He was dead set on attacking every other country, wasn’t he? That war with Fonte was going to go on for decades, they said, and suddenly, he retreated, and then… nothing. They say it’s because he lost the ability to start fires, and therefore couldn’t fight anyone anymore.”
Ziafiata crammed the last of her bread in her mouth.
“That’s not what my roommate wanted to talk about, of course,” said Marta. “She wanted to talk about the fact that the Queen of Islaigne is with him.”
“Well, she’s his wife, isn’t she?” said Ziafiata, swallowing her last bite of bread.
“No,” said Marta. “Their marriage was dissolved, and then the king married—”
“Oh, yes, I remember this now,” said Ziafiata. “He has a new queen, and she’s already provided him with an heir. How old is that boy now? Eight? Ten?”
“Something like that,” said Marta. “I don’t know. My roommate, however, is convinced that the Princess of Islaigne is the daughter of the King of Dumonte as well.”
Ziafiata snorted. “The children are both about the same age. He was busy.” She furrowed her brow. “If the two of them had a child together, why did they dissolve the marriage, and on what grounds, because a marriage that produces children—”
“In Islaigne, the rules are different, I understand,” said Marta. “And that’s what my roommate wants to speculate, because she finds it all so very interesting that they’re traveling around Rzymn together, their daughter in tow, acting as if they’re married, staying in the same suites together, in fact, and flaunting this with no regard for the Queen of Dumonte, who must be horrified at the embarrassment of his public infidelity.”
“Yes, it does seem rather awful for her.”
“But,” said Marta, “apparently, the king is rarely even in Dumonte, spending all his time on expeditions north in Islaigne, along with the queen, and his kingdom is essentially run by some advisor, a former pirate, of all things.”
Ziafiata furrowed her brow. “This is all rather a lot to take in. No wonder your roommate didn’t want to sleep.”
“You find it interesting, then? Because I think it’s frightfully dull.”
Ziafiata chuckled. “Yes, that’s why you’ve memorized every aspect of it.”
“Oh, no, there’s far more she chattered about. She spent hours detailing all of the places they’ve been sighted together and talking about people who’ve sketched out the little princess’s face to try to determine who her father is. Also, I think she’s rather got some kind of crush on the king, who’s supposedly good looking. I’ve never seen him myself.”
“I have,” said Ziafiata. “A long time ago, from far off. He was quite young then, still a boy. Gangly. He didn’t look goo
d to me then.”
The front door to the tavern opened and Chevolere came in.
Both she and Marta looked up.
He came directly for her table and plopped down in a chair opposite her. “Why do you want it?” he said.
“Marta and I were talking,” said Ziafiata pointedly.
“Well, you’ll have to finish that later.” Chevolere glanced up at her. “Bring me some coffee, Marta.” He turned to Ziafiata. “You? Coffee?”
“I’ve had some, thanks,” said Ziafiata. “I don’t think you should order Marta around like that.”
“I’m her employer,” said Chevolere. “I think that’s exactly what I should do.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Marta. She took her wet rag and hurried off in search of coffee.
Chevolere turned his light, light eyes back on Ziafiata. “Have you ever even considered what it would be like to run the entire Abrusse family? It’s not easy work. It’s brutal.”
“I think I can bear it,” she said. “There’s much I can endure.”
He was quiet, and then he looked down at the table. “True,” he said quietly. “You are quite strong and stubborn.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it,” she said. “There has been talk of either of my two elder sisters’ husbands taking over in the event of my father’s death. But he is not pleased with either of them. My sisters both married in haste, eager to get out from under my father’s roof, and they did not pick their husbands with great care. If they had, perhaps they might have considered men who my father would have picked as successors.”
“And you? You couldn’t have considered Diago Caputio a viable successor, and you seemed rather preoccupied with him.”
She stiffened.
“Sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t say his name?” His voice was soft, apologetic.
“No, I don’t care.” Her voice was emotionless, because she didn’t care. Even so, thinking of Diago made her think of his demise, and thinking of that…
“Did you think of some other man as a husband, then?”
“No,” she said. “As you say, I was preoccupied with Diago, but I didn’t think I could ever really marry him. And if I did, I would be subsumed into the Caputio family. I would no longer be an Abrusse.”
The Beast of the Barrens Page 11
