The Confectioner's Truth

by Claire Luana

  “Hmm?” Hale lifted his head, peering at the interloper through slitted eyes. “What?”

  “Sim Daemastra’s asking for you. Now.”

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through Hale’s system, jolting him awake. “All right,” he said, running a hand through the tangles in his long hair.

  “Now,” the legionnaire said before moving on.

  Though morning light streamed through the narrow windows, Hale was groggy with fatigue. He blew out a breath. His conversation last night with the emperor felt like a strange dream.

  He quickly dressed, running to the washroom to splash water on his face and relieve himself.

  He strode towards Daemastra’s wing, pulling his hair back into a bun. Gods, he hated this uniform. It made his skin crawl. Maybe the emperor was right. Maybe he should run. Get as far away from here as he could. He could suffer punishment for his betrayal in some other way, rather than helping the monsters who’d killed his father and invaded his city. Hale sighed. No. He was one of those monsters now. This was what he had sown when he’d sold out his city and his Guild. He didn’t deserve escape.

  Hale rounded the corner into Daemastra’s workshop and came to a startled stop. Talking to Daemastra were two men he hadn’t expected. One he knew—Steward Willings—and one he didn’t—a brute of an Aprican legionnaire even taller and more muscular than he. A scar across the man’s upper lip seemed to twist his expression into a permanent sneer.

  “Ah, young Firena. So kind of you to join us,” Daemastra said, clapping his bony hands together. “You look positively exhausted. Trouble sleeping?”

  Alarm bells rang in Hale’s mind. Did the man know something? But no, how could he? The emperor would have no reason to sell him out to Daemastra. But he had no reason to protect him either… “You try sleeping in a barracks with twenty snoring men,” Hale replied.

  “Very good. I understand you know Mister Willings. And this is Lieutenant Oosten. They’re both assisting me with a special project.”

  “What kind of special project?” The hairs on the back of Hale’s neck prickled in alarm.

  Willings replied. “Sim Daemastra is creating an elite force within the Legion. The Golden Guard. Only the strongest and most capable warriors have been chosen.” That snake, it made sense that he had cozied up with a leech like Daemastra.

  “I get why he’s here”—Hale nodded towards the hulking soldier—“but why you?”

  “Hale.” Daemastra tsked. “Mister Willings will be leading this force for me. Overseeing their training and their...conditioning.”

  It was all Hale did to suppress a snort. Willings was a weasel, yes, but soldier, no. These men wouldn’t respect him. Why had Daemastra made such a poor choice? He was normally more...shrewd.

  Daemastra continued. “I’ve been working on a special formula. Something that will give my Golden Guard an edge over the rest.”

  Sly smiles stretched across both men’s faces, chilling Hale to his core. Flaming hell. Daemastra planned to give these warriors some sort of infused concoction. What would it do to them?

  Oosten seemed entirely clueless as to what he was signing up for, standing like a statue, his meaty arms crossed before him.

  “Oosten, if you please, would you mind sitting down in this chair?” Daemastra said, going to the icebox to retrieve a syringe. The chair Daemastra spoke of reclined like the chairs of the Dentist’s Guild, but, Hale saw for the first time, it came equipped with leather restraints. Hale’s stomach flipped.

  Hale was overcome with the mad urge to warn the soldier, but he didn’t even know what he was warning him against. So he stood mute as Daemastra injected a strange milky liquid into the soldier’s arm.

  Willings leaned forward, his dark eyes shining with anticipation.

  Oosten began to shake, his huge body wracked with convulsions.

  Willings and Hale stepped back, but Daemastra stood still, pulling one of his little black notebooks off the counter and writing in it.

  Soon enough, the convulsions stopped. But something else was happening. The man’s face was transforming—his features pulling and twisting. The wrinkles by his eyes, the scar twisting his lip—they smoothed out, leaving him youthful and...handsome. The soldier’s body was growing too, his muscles bulging even more than they had been, his legs lengthening until the chair creaked from the weight.

  Oosten groaned, gritting his teeth against the changes, panting through perfectly-straight blindingly-white teeth.

  Finally, the metamorphosis was over.

  The room was still and silent but for Oosten’s ragged panting.

  Hale shut his mouth, realizing it had been hanging open. This—This was Gifted magic? He had never seen anything this profound. The magic of the Confectioner’s Guild was a subtle thing, sneaky and sly. There was nothing subtle about this.

  “Marvelous,” Willings said. His pockmarked face was rapt with possibility as Oosten swung his huge feet onto the ground. He towered over Hale, over all of them, his face devastatingly handsome, vibrating youth and health. He was like...a god. Like the Sower come down from his golden fields to the ground to sup with mere mortals. This...whatever this man was...people would worship it.

  “Try out your new body,” Daemastra said, motioning towards the man.

  Oosten jumped, nearly crashing into the ceiling. He darted into the corner of the room, impossibly fast. “Everything’s so clear,” he said. Even his voice was attractive—a deep and resonant baritone. “I...I understand so much.”

  “What’s 435 multiplied by 9087?” Daemastra asked.

  “3,952,845,” the man responded, as if Daemastra had asked him to add one plus one.

  Willings looked towards Daemastra, who did a quick calculation in his notebook. Daemastra nodded in appreciation. “Correct.”

  “Remarkable,” Willings said, reaching out and petting the man’s chiseled arm.

  “The best of the Guilds. Strength and prowess from the Butcher’s Guild. Beauty and virility from the Distiller’s. Intelligence from the Cheesemonger’s and health from the Cuisinier’s. Wit and magnetism from the Brewer’s Guild. It should last several hours, per my prior experiments. Go test it out. Take good notes, Willings. I’ll expect a full report.”

  “Absolutely,” Willings said eagerly.

  Oosten was holding a silver tray, examining his face in the dull reflection. “I’m prettier than him.” He pointed to Hale.

  “Indeed.” Daemastra chuckled. “Enjoy. Now, there will be some adverse effects when it wears off. Nausea, vomiting, achiness. Take it easy and rest the remainder of the day.”

  Oosten nodded eagerly and ducked out the door.

  Willings hurried after.

  Hale stood in stunned silence as the men left. He had to admit, he was impressed. Truly, none but a madman would risk such a strange concoction...but it was remarkable.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Daemastra said.

  Hale managed a nod.

  “Once the formula is complete, we’ll be able to create a whole legion of super soldiers. Young, virile, intelligent. The best humanity has to offer.”

  “Will they even be human at that point?”

  “Of course.” Daemastra’s voice was smooth as silk. “Just...improved.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve never thought of using this on yourself,” Hale countered.

  “What man doesn’t want to be young and handsome forever? I wouldn’t deprive myself of the benefit of the culmination of my life’s work.” Daemastra turned, putting his notebook back in the cabinet with the others.

  “And the emperor?” Hale asked. He was dangerously close to a forbidden topic, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Of course, the primary aim of this work is to find a cure for the emperor’s ailment. He will be the first recipient once I am sure it is safe.”

  “Of course,” Hale parroted. Daemastra’s plan was beginning to come into focus. Once he became god-like, he could dispatch the emperor, claiming the mon
arch had finally died of his wasting sickness. And who would the people of the Empire look to for new leadership but the man who had stood beside the emperor through thick and thin? Emperor Evander only had one daughter, and she’d been married off to a minor Aprican Patrician years ago. Her children were still young. They’d be no match for Daemastra.

  Daemastra interrupted his circling thoughts. “Hale, you’re a tall fellow. Would you grab that pitcher on that shelf?” Daemastra pointed to a glass pitcher on the top shelf.

  Hale suppressed his irritation but crossed the room, reaching up to retrieve it for the strange man.

  He felt a prick in his arm. He looked down to find Daemastra pulling a syringe out of his bicep.

  “What—?” Hale began, but the ground tilted beneath him. The pitcher fell from his hand, shattering on the ground. The sound was far away. “What did you do?” he managed.

  “Now, Hale, it’s best to sit down.” Daemastra steered him towards the ominous reclining chair.

  Hale collapsed into it. His heart was thundering in his chest, his blood boiling in his veins. He tried to shake off his daze. “What did you do?”

  Daemastra narrowed his gaze. “Do you think anything goes on in this Empire that I am not aware of? Did you think you could visit the emperor without my knowledge?” Daemastra paused, but it seemed more of a rhetorical question, because when Hale didn’t answer, the man continued. “I had hoped we would be able to work together as allies. But I see that your old allegiances still hold sway over you. It’s my fault, really, for overlooking it. It’s my job to see you’re properly motivated.”

  “What did you do?” Hale tried again. His voice sounded strange. Like he was underwater. He looked down at his body, to make sure it was still there. His hands... He held up a hand. Black veins were creeping down his hands, like oil-slicked spiderwebs. Black like he’d seen beneath the emperor’s paper-thin skin. “What did you do?” He raged again, trying to push out of the chair, but the room was spinning.

  “Since you and the emperor are so friendly, I thought you’d appreciate the same treatment. I’ve infected you with the same poison. If you don’t get the antidote from me on the dot every morning, you’ll die a quite gruesome death.”

  “Why...?” Hale managed. “Why me?”

  “I need your luck to perfect my formula.”

  “Fine,” Hale said, fighting through nausea and panic. The man was well and truly mad. “I’ll cook for you. As much as you want. Like the baker. Just give me the antidote.” The part of his mind that was still lucid cursed at him for sharing that he knew about the baker. The rest of him didn’t care. It would reveal anything to stop feeling this way. Self-preservation was a powerful force.

  Daemastra chuckled. “Hale, there’s so much you’ve yet to learn. The formula doesn’t used infused food. It needs something much more potent.” Daemastra pulled up a little wooden tray on the side of the chair, using the leather restraint to strap Hale’s hand down. He quickly secured the others straps around Hale’s chest and feet.

  Hale tried to fight—to fend him off—but he was so weak. Delirious. “What...you mean?” His tongue was thick in his mouth.

  “Do you know where magic comes from?” Daemastra stood by Hale’s side like a patient tutor. Something glinted in his hand.

  Hale tried to focus on it. A knife. A butcher knife. He jerked away, but the straps held him. He was as weak as a mewling lamb.

  “I didn’t either,” Daemastra continued. “It took me years of experimentation to determine where it comes from. The pure, unadulterated essence of a Gifted. It’s in their bones, Hale. Their bone marrow, to be precise.”

  “What?” Hale managed. Fear coursed through him as the swirling room focused and narrowed to a pinpoint. On the knife in Daemastra’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, Hale. I always start small. I may need more in time. All of it, if you’re what I’m looking for. But for now, I’ll start small.”

  The knife flashed in the air, dropping like the blade of a guillotine.

  Chapter 18

  Wren had never been at sea before. Now that she was here, she wasn’t firmly convinced that she ever wanted to be at sea again. She stood at the bow of the ship, her feet braced against the endless undulating waves. She kept expecting a vessel flying a flag of sky blue with a sunburst of yellow to appear behind them on the horizon, but so far, none had. The Black Jasmine was blessedly fast. There was only the sullen gray sky above, the endless slate-blue water below, frosted with whitecaps like peaked meringue. It was disconcerting, being so exposed. Here, it felt like the Piscator could reach his hand up at any moment to pull her down into his watery kingdom.

  “Breakfast,” Thom said, coming up to stand beside her against the rail. He held out a meager offering—a hard biscuit and a cup of oily-looking coffee.

  “Thanks.” Wren took both, licking the tang of salt off her dry lips.

  “Hardly Guild fare.”

  “At least it’s not infused with magic to make you fall in love with the emperor.”

  Thom clinked his dappled ceramic mug against hers at that.

  “Are they still at it?” Wren nodded back towards the stairs to the lower cabins.

  “I almost think they’re enjoying it at this point,” Thom said.

  Callidus and Rizio had been shouting at each other the better part of the night. Between their row and Olivia and Dash bellowing from the little locked cabin they’d been thrown in, it hadn’t been a restful night below deck.

  Wren had emerged onto the deck before dawn, desperate for some peace.

  The sailors on deck eyed her with a mixture of disdain and downright hostility, no doubt thinking these new charges were far more trouble than they were worth.

  The wind gusted and Thom shivered, wrapping a thick navy blanket around his shoulders more tightly. It was the type that looked more scratchy than warm, but she supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers, now that they were as good as refugees.

  “You still chilled? Should we go below?” Wren asked.

  Thom’s face was pale, his hair gnarled and unkempt from his heroic plunge into the harbor’s frigid waters. “It’s more peaceful out here, but I should probably go inside. I just can’t seem to get warm.”

  “I need you healthy,” Wren said, following him across the deck, washing down a bite of dry biscuit. Sweet caramel, the coffee was strong. Almost undrinkable. Did they just boil the grounds in the pot? “I still can’t believe you jumped in after him. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Neither did I,” Thom said. “We used to swim in Lake Viri a lot as kids, so I figured I wouldn’t drown. I just didn’t realize how blooming cold it would be.” After Thom had plunged after Dash, he had managed to right the unconscious man, holding him aloft in the dark water. A frenzied shouting match between Callidus and Rizio had resulted in a life ring being thrown down, secured under Dash’s armpits, and they had both been hauled up on board. They’d stripped off the men’s wet clothing and bundled them in blankets next to a stove in the captain’s cabin, where Wren and Callidus, after securely tying Dash, had rubbed the life back into the two men’s icy limbs.

  “How’s Dash doing?” she asked.

  “All right, I think. He’s mostly sitting in sullen silence, though he did thank me for saving him. Olivia...” Thom shook his head. “She’s another story.”

  When they had added a warmed-up Dash to Olivia’s little cell in the lowest hold of the ship, Olivia had glared at them through angry red-rimmed eyes, calling Wren and Callidus traitors and thieves and worse. Wren hadn’t stuck around to hear more; it was too disconcerting to hear such vitriol coming from Olivia, normally such a sweet person.

  “She seemed to have calmed down a little,” Thom said. “But she’s furious at us.”

  “Do you think she’ll ever forgive us for stealing her away from the Guild?” Wren wondered out loud.

  “I think so.” Thom coughed. “Once the infused bread wears off.”

  Wren
hoped he was right. “Shall we see if we can find Callidus?” Wren asked, searching for a change of subject as they plunged into the dark gloom of the hallways.

  “If we must.” Thom let out a rueful laugh.

  Their Guildmaster wasn’t hard to find. Raised voices sounded at the end of the narrow hallway, emanating from the Captain’s cabin.

  Wren went first, knocking on the door with more confidence than she felt.

  “What?” two stern voices barked from inside.

  Wren and Thom exchanged a silent look of mirth. “They’re perfect for each other,” Thom whispered.

  “It’s Wren and Thom,” she called.

  Callidus appeared in the open doorway, his hair disheveled, dark smudges under his eyes.

  “We were hoping to talk with you,” Wren said.

  “About?”

  “I don’t know, where we’re going, what we’re going to do with our prisoners...you know, our entire future?” Wren said, exasperated.

  Callidus rolled his eyes but stepped aside, allowing them entry.

  Rizio’s state room was the only place in the ship that had a little breathing space. The thick wooden paneling was painted white, and a soft rug with a Centu design of rolling waves cushioned their footsteps. A large bed was built into the back wall, which was lined with small leaden windowpanes.

  Rizio stood at the small table in the corner, holding a mug identical to the one in Wren’s hand. “How are you feeling, Thomas?” Rizio asked, his dark eyes keen.

  “Okay,” Thom said, slowly sidling towards the little stove in the other corner of the cabin.

  “Ask my cook Nicolas to give you some hot broth. Take some to the other man, too. It’s important to keep your core temperature up. Exposure to the Piscator’s hallowed hall is no small thing.”

  “So, where are we headed?” Wren asked.

  “Centu,” Callidus said. “According to Rizio, there’s a small bay on one of the eastern islands that is well known for being an...off-the-record meeting area. It’s called Forgotten Bay.”

  “I believe I called it a den of cutthroats and pirates,” Rizio said, settling into one of the little chairs and crossing his booted feet.