The Confectioner's Coup

by Claire Luana

  Wren gave Lucas an incredulous look. “Are you kidding? Secret passageways? Like in a mystery novel?”

  “I know, it sounds crazy, but they date back to the founding of the city. This key opens all of the passageways from outside the city or inside. They’re marked with little carved falcons. I want you to have this.” He pressed the key into her hand. The metal was heavy and warm.

  “I can’t take this,” she said. “What if you need it?”

  “Everyone in my family has one. If things go south, I’ll probably be with one of them.”

  Wren heard the unspoken second half of that sentence. “Or…you’ll be dead,” she said quietly, her mind railing at the thought. This was getting far too real.

  “I’m hoping for the first.” He gave a crooked grin. “But at least with this, you and your friends in the Guild can get out of the city. Go to Centu or Nova Navis…I don’t know. Somewhere safer than here.”

  Wren’s heart melted at his concern, mingling with her fear for him into a confusing cocktail of emotions. That he would give up his chance to be safe, for her… “Are you sure?” she asked, shaking her head. She didn’t like this. “You’re sure you don’t need it.”

  “Positive,” he said.

  She slipped the chain over her head and tucked the key into her shirt. The key was a comfort, hanging there heavily between her breasts. A way out. Safety. As much as she hated taking it, she was grateful to Lucas for giving it to her. “Thank you,” Wren said, giving him a thorough kiss. “I hope I never need it.”

  “Me too. My money is on the army getting washed away,” Lucas joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t think the sun-worshiping Apricans know what they’re in for with a Maradis winter. I bet two hundred days of drizzly rain will be enough to send them packing.”

  Wren smiled. “Why do they even want Maradis, anyway? Isn’t Aprica filled with gorgeous beaches and green rolling fields of orange trees and wine grapes? What do they want with us?”

  Lucas frowned. “There’s a lot of speculation among the Councils about that. We do have resources they don’t have. Forests filled with wood. Water. They say there’s been a terrible drought in Aprica the last several years. I don’t know—maybe King Evander is just bored. Wants a new playground.”

  “Is there no end to the pomposity of men?” she muttered.

  “Likely not,” Lucas said. “We are a hopeless gender, the lot of us.”

  “They say acceptance is the first step,” Wren joked.

  “First of many,” Lucas said, taking a massive bite of one of the pastries and smiling at her through a mouthful of maple frosting.

  “You’re disgusting,” Wren protested halfheartedly, though in truth Lucas could look handsome rolled in a mud puddle. “I should probably get back to the hall. I shouldn’t wile away the whole day with you.”

  Lucas stood too, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. Wren examined a fern in a stand in the corner, trying very hard not to stare.

  “Interested in company?” he asked. “I plan on stopping by the Vintner’s Guildhall this morning to see if I can find hide or hair of Trick.”

  “Sounds lovely,” she said. “Though you should probably put a shirt on.”

  “I don’t know. You seem to enjoy this look quite a lot,” Lucas said, giving a twirl before her.

  She seized a pillow from the nearby armchair and threw it at him.

  He dodged with a grin as she pointed to the bedroom and commanded, “Shirt.”

  Chapter 11

  Wren liked walking with Lucas. As they strolled down the sidewalk, hand in hand, she felt far more cheerful than she knew she had any right to be with a hostile army headed their way. Lucas had changed into a pair of gray houndstooth pants, a soft cotton shirt with a line of buttons halfway unbuttoned, and a pair of red suspenders. When he had emerged from his room, fitting a newsboy cap over his dark hair, a small part of Wren had melted like chocolate in a double-boiler. She wasn’t sure what it was about Lucas’s style of handsome that appealed to her so much, only that she was well and truly smitten.

  The walk was over far too soon; it seemed only a blink had passed before they found themselves standing in front of the Vintner’s Guildhall. A soaring arched trellis climbing with grapevines escorted them in off the street, beckoning them towards the massive wood-and-iron hall. As Wren reached for one of the solid door handles, the monster door swung open, startling Wren back into Lucas. A handsome older man with white hair and striking dark brows maneuvered past them, a flick of his gaze telling her that while he recognized her presence, he didn’t care in the least.

  “Guildmaster,” Lucas said, catching the man’s forearm before he could escape.

  The man stopped and turned, deep blue eyes roaming from Lucas’s grasp on his arm to Lucas’s face. “I’m in a hurry,” the guildmaster said, freeing his arm with a jerk. The man’s coat was a fine velvet the color of wine. Or blood.

  “I only need a minute of your time. I’m Inspector Lucas Imbris. My brother Patrick is a member of your Guild. Do you know where I could find him? I haven’t heard from him lately and I wanted to make sure nothing has happened.”

  “I’m not Patrick’s keeper,” the guildmaster said. “But I have not seen him myself. When you find him, tell him that I don’t look kindly upon my Guild members shirking their duties.”

  With that, the man turned and strode down the sidewalk to a waiting carriage.

  “And I thought Callidus was bad,” Wren said, frowning at the man’s back.

  “Callidus is bad,” Lucas said. “Guildmaster Alban is normally quite pleasant, at least from what Trick has always told me. I wonder what’s gotten him riled up.”

  “The city was attacked last night,” Wren said. “And the king sent Cedar Guards to protect us. Maybe this Alban fellow is as happy about it as Callidus is.”

  “He sent Cedars into the Guildhalls?” Lucas turned, his eyes wide. “Is he mad? Of course the guildmasters will see that as a challenge to their autonomy. And why would he waste those men? The attack wasn’t anywhere near Guilder’s Row.”

  Wren bit her tongue, wishing she could explain to Lucas the real truth behind the king’s concern over the Guilds. She realized she also likely knew why Guildmaster Alban was so upset. He was likely headed to another day of posturing and pontificating at the day’s Accord negotiations. The truth was, the king and the Guilds needed each other and both held sway over a major portion of Alesia’s political power. Neither could force the other’s hand, not unless things changed drastically. With the current standoff, Wren wasn’t sure the Accord negotiations would ever end.

  A sudden thought bloomed to life in Wren’s mind as she pondered it all. Could Trick be Gifted? “What if the same Black Guard who tried to kidnap Thom succeeded with Trick?” Wren asked.

  A skeptical look flashed across Lucas’s face. As if she were a madwoman spouting conspiracy theories. “Wren—” he began.

  “Don’t you ‘Wren’ me,” she said, poking Lucas in the chest. “I know what I saw. It’s funny how when a man’s hand is wrapped around your throat trying to crush the life from you, certain details come into stark relief. The man who attacked me was the Black Guard I saw at the wedding. If your father is unhinged enough to try to attack Thom, why not Trick?”

  “Because Trick is his son?” Lucas shook his head, perplexed.

  “So are you, but he almost executed you alongside me,” Wren pointed out.

  Lucas blanched at that and ran his fingers down her arms, taking her hands. “I believe you saw what you saw. And as much as it doesn’t make sense, nothing much is making sense right now.”

  “So ask your father,” Wren said.

  Lucas sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been putting it off, but I need to go talk to him.”

  “Into the lion’s den.” Wren offered a smile.

  “Wish me luck,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Wren frittered the day away cooking with Thom. The lad had a gift for confec
tions, and he even saved her a few times, when her thoughts wandered off and she left her burner on too high or didn’t stir fast enough. She couldn’t get into the mindset she needed to infuse chocolate with luck, as her thoughts kept turning to the Apricans, the king, the Accord, and Lucas. She needed to talk to Callidus, to find out what had happened at Accord negotiations. And she wanted to talk to him about Lucas. She had known from the beginning that it would be hard to keep the secret of the Gifting from Lucas, but the secret seemed to be growing, its tendrils reaching into other areas of her life. Maybe there was a way to bring Lucas into the fold, to get around the binding wine that wrapped her tongue whenever she tried to share. Lucas had proven himself trustworthy, an ally of the Guild. He had helped her find Kasper’s true killer.

  And so it was that Wren found herself sitting on one of the benches in the Guildhall’s antechamber, mindlessly flipping through the illustrated pages of a cookbook, when Callidus barreled through the doors like a thunderstorm.

  “Callidus!” She popped up, suddenly very much regretting her decision to station herself here as she saw his face.

  He looked furious, and his hair was falling out of its normally-immaculate coif, his tie askew. “What?” he snapped.

  She drew her courage around her like a cloak and hurried to him. “I was hoping you’d share how Accord negotiations went today. Will those soldiers be staying with us for long?” She tried to school her face to be as open and innocent as possible, but whatever goodwill she had gained inviting Callidus to play King’s Quarters with them last night had clearly been annihilated.

  “That is Guild business and not the concern of an artisan like yourself,” Callidus hissed, his thick eyebrows drawing together. He leaned in. “Not to mention, never mention the Accord where you could be overhead. Are you daft, girl?”

  Wren recoiled as if struck, her lips furrowing in fury. “And here I was thinking that perhaps you might have possibly seen the value of letting someone else in to share the burden of running this Guild. It seems I was wrong, and you have everything under control. I’ll go back to rolling truffle balls like an apprentice. That’s clearly the only value I have to this Guild.”

  Wren whipped her head around and marched towards the exit, her fists clenched. As she pushed outside into the orange afternoon light, she let out a hiss of frustration. She needed to know what was going on. And if Callidus wasn’t going to tell her, she would find someone else who would. But first, she needed a bribe.

  Within minutes, Wren was marching up the stairs of the Distiller’s Guildhall, a box of chocolates in hand. She had developed a good relationship with Guildmaster Chandler—it was funny how being framed for murder brought two people together. If Callidus wouldn’t tell her what was going on behind the closed doors of the Accord negotiations, maybe Chandler would.

  The Distiller’s Guildhall was all dark woods and oversized brown leather furniture. Standing in the corner, as out of place as a pig in a candy shop, was a knot of Cedar Guardsmen, their hands fidgeting on their sword hilts. Wren frowned at the sight. Here too? Wren flagged down a servant, who led her to one of Chandler’s artisans, whose name she could not for the life of her remember. She suppressed a smile recalling how Sable had twisted the man in knots with her seductive smile when they’d been trying to get information from him.

  “I’m Wren,” she offered. “I’m hoping to see Guildmaster Chandler.”

  “Bastian. Let me see if he’s open to receiving visitors,” the man said, disappearing inside thick mahogany doors. Bastian. She’d try to remember that this time.

  “I brought chocolates!” Wren called through the crack before it closed in her face with a resounding click.

  She paced the hallway before the door, her shoes silent on the plush carpet. Finally, what seemed an eternity later but had probably been two minutes, the door opened. “He’ll see you,” Bastian said, clearly not pleased that Wren warranted a private audience with the Guildmaster.

  The room’s furnishings were as rich as chocolate cake, the kind that made you slightly ill after two bites. Leather-bound tomes crowded the tall shelves, while the massive wooden desk, credenza, and sofa set competed for space in the crowded room. Wren was half-surprised the thick velvet drapes weren’t pulled shut to complete the look of secrecy and mystery that shrouded the room.

  Chandler, however, looked incongruous in the space, with his marshmallow-white hair and his ash-gray suit and his outstretched hands. “Wren, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure.” He embraced her warmly. “You remember Guildmaster McArt?”

  “Hello,” Wren said, nodding to the other man, who stood by the fireplace.

  Guildmaster McArt inclined his head. “Glad to meet you under happier circumstances than our last encounter.”

  Wren laughed. “I believe I was…falling through the ceiling onto you all?” she said. She had been spying on them, believing Chandler had murdered Kasper over Guild rivalries. In the end, Chandler had been the king’s other chosen scapegoat for the murder.

  “It was one of the more remarkable entrances I’ve witnessed,” McArt said, sinking down into one of the oversized armchairs. In one hand, the guildmaster of the Cheesemonger’s Guild held a glass of amber liquid while his other sleeve was pinned up, as he was missing most of that arm.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Chandler asked, making his way towards the sideboard ladened with bottles and decanters.

  “No, thank you,” Wren said. The ache behind her eyelids hadn’t totally receded. She wasn’t sure she wanted a drink ever again.

  “Are you sure?” Chandler said, pouring himself a glass. “We just bottled a new rye whiskey.”

  “Another time,” Wren said. “I was hoping I could ask you how the Accord negotiations went today.”

  Chandler exchanged a shrewd gaze with McArt and ushered her to sit on the sofa. She obliged and the cool buttery leather enveloped her. She stroked the tan cushion lovingly. Chandler settled into the other armchair, taking a sip. “Why aren’t you asking your own guildmaster these questions?”

  “I did,” Wren admitted. “He’s too damn secretive; he won’t tell me a thing. But we deserve to know what’s going on. This affects my life too. All of the Gifted’s lives. There are Cedar Guards stationed in the Guildhalls, for the Beekeeper’s sake! He can’t pretend things aren’t going sideways.”

  “So you think you can squeeze the information out of this old man that you couldn’t get from Callidus?”

  “I brought chocolates,” Wren said, handing the box to Chandler with a wide smile. No need to disguise her blatant attempts at bribery. Chandler would either tell her, or he wouldn’t.

  “I will take these chocolates,” Chandler said, “though I will deny to the death that they have anything to do with what I’m about to tell you.”

  Wren pressed her lips together, covering her smile. “Of course.”

  “Chandler,” McArt said, a word of warning in his tone.

  “Wren has proven her trustworthiness,” Chandler said. “Plus, maybe she can talk some sense into Callidus.”

  McArt snorted, taking a sip of whiskey. But he inclined his head, as if giving Chandler his blessing.

  “Accord negotiations are…as you suspected, not going well. The king is using the Aprican attack and movement to make demands of us that he would never have dreamed of before. He wants to station Cedar Guards at every Guildhall, as you no doubt have noticed. Supposedly for our protection. In reality, they are intended to oversee the production of all infused foods, to ensure they all make their way to the king for use in the war effort.”

  “What?” Wren said. “So the king thinks he can station a guard in my kitchen to watch me cook?”

  “Yes,” Chandler said. “And next to my stills.”

  “Unacceptable,” McArt muttered, downing the contents of his glass in one swallow.

  “If we give in to the king now, it’s the end of the Guilds as we know it. Everyone sees this, but there are those who argu
e that during times of war, we owe the king our absolute allegiance. That we must do whatever we must to ensure he has the resources needed to defeat the Aprican threat.”

  “That’s insanity!” Wren said. “If we give in to the king now, he’ll never give the Guilds back their autonomy. It’s giving in.”

  “See, she gets it,” Chandler said to McArt. He sighed. “I will not yield on this. The king will pry my Guild’s freedom from my cold, dead fingers.” The man’s eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Chandler got a little carried away this afternoon,” McArt said. “Threatened to out the whole secret unless the king renews the Accord as it’s always been.”

  Wren looked at Chandler in exasperation. “That’s exactly the kind of talk that got Kasper killed!”

  “See, she gets it,” McArt said, parroting Chandler’s own words back to him, earning him a cross look from the other man.

  “It wasn’t my finest hour, but the king needs to know. We won’t yield. At least I won’t.”

  “Nor I,” McArt said.

  “Who else?” Wren said.

  “Bruxius of the Butcher’s Guild is with us. Heads of the other infusing Guilds are craven fools, same with the Baker’s. They’d let the king kick them like dogs and snivel for more.”

  “Pike?” Wren said, referring to the dark head of the Spicer’s Guild, known for their trade in poisons.

  “He hasn’t even been there the past few meetings. I’m fairly confident he’ll ignore whatever the king says. So I count him on our side. Alban of the Vintner’s was as rabid as me against the king having his way with us, but he did an abrupt about-face in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t know if his wine has soured or what, but we can no longer count on his support.”

  The mention of Alban piqued her interest. Lucas had thought he was acting funny, too. “Are either of you missing any Gifted Guild members?”

  “No,” Chandler said, looking to McArt, who shook his head. “Why?”