The Confectioner's Coup

by Claire Luana

  General Marius disappeared through the tent flap.

  Wren turned to Hale. “I don’t like this. Didn’t you say that Sim whoever chased you halfway to Alesia?”

  Hale nodded grimly. “There’s no way in hell I’ll work with that spooky bastard. Or with the Apricans at all. I like Marius, but King Evander killed my father. I just went with it on the ship to buy us more time to think.”

  “And now?” Wren gestured around.

  “Now…it seems we’re screwed,” Hale said, rubbing his face. It was bad. But Hale had been in worse predicaments before and he had escaped those. They would get through this. Somehow.

  Wren groaned. “I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been better off diving off the ship. Or trying to break out of the carriage.”

  “We’d be dead if we had done either of those two things, and now we’re alive. So I think we made the right choice so far.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed before the tent flap parted and the strangest man Wren had ever seen entered the tent. He was thin and gaunt, yet he stood straight as an arrow and had a certain vitality to him. He wore white robes trimmed with gold, as if he were some sort of priest. His skin was unmarred by the lines of age, but it was stretched too tight, too shiny, as if there were something unnatural about his youth. He had a full head of dark brown hair, and his hairline seemed as if it swooped too low. Though all the trappings of youth and health were pulled around him, the man seemed…ancient.

  “Hello,” the man said, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robes. His voice was as slippery as oil. “I am Sim Daemastra.” His eyes fixed on Hale, and a smile spread across his face. Somehow the smile was even more horrible than his regular face. Wren hadn’t thought that was possible.

  “I heard that our prodigal son had returned. Hale Firena, in the flesh.”

  “I’m not sure it qualifies as a return if you invade my country,” Hale muttered.

  The man let out a little peal of laughter. “Always the comedian. Nice to see there are some constants in this world. Tell me, how is your mother?”

  “She died in the red plague a few years ago,” Hale said.

  Daemastra’s face fell. “I’m so sorry to hear that the light of a star such as hers was extinguished.” He walked closer to Hale, leaning down to examine him until he was almost nose to nose with him.

  Hale sat back in his chair, as straight as a board, trying to ignore this Sim Daemastra’s obvious scrutiny. “But perhaps her light hasn’t been completely extinguished. I hear you’re a member of the Confectioner’s Guild.”

  “I am,” Hale said. What normally carried a sense of pride came out hesitantly.

  “And you as well.” Daemastra turned his gaze on Wren, making her skin crawl.

  “Yes,” she breathed. Wren sat on the edge of her chair, feeling like a flighty doe who’d caught the scent of a predator.

  “Some remarkable confections come out of that Guild,” Sim Daemastra said. “I pay attention to such things as a cuisinier. Confections so good they’re almost magic.”

  Hale let out a forced bark of laughter. “Magic. Nonsense. Now if we could find a way to keep the chocolate from ending upon our customers’ hips… Then people would come from the world around to buy it.”

  Wren pasted a smile on her lips at Hale’s terrible jest. At least he was trying to divert this man from the topic at hand. She should help. It felt somehow like they were too close to the fire.

  “We’ve been brought here against our will,” Wren said. “General Marius seemed to think you would persuade us to aid your cause.”

  “Done with pleasantries, are we? Very well.” Sim Daemastra sat down in the chair Marius had vacated and leaned forwards to retrieve a slice of cheese from the platter. He smelled sour, like vinegar. “Well, the general tells me that there is conflict between King Imbris and the Guilds. I believe I can give you a better offer. If you’re willing to help us. Feed us certain…useful information.”

  “And what is your better offer?” Hale asked.

  “I can offer you and your Guilds total autonomy when our king takes over Alesian rule. A seat at the table. King Evander must dispense with the threat presented by King Imbris, but he does not desire to rule here. Too cold and soggy.” The man shivered.

  “Total autonomy?” Hale said. “Too good to be true. You must want something from us.”

  “Well, a few tiny things. There are certain raw resources the king is interested in. A small yearly tax of your revenues, to fund the king’s efforts in bettering the lives of the people of Alesia. We would want you to join your knowledge with ours in furthering the culinary arts. And a tithe of one particularly gifted Guild member every few years, to join the ranks of Aprica’s Aperitive Guilds. To further cement our working relationship. We’d send a Guild member to you from time to time, so they could learn at the side of your masters. A cultural exchange, if you will.”

  Wren and Hale exchanged a look of veiled alarm. A tithe? It sure sounded like Daemastra would try to steal their Gifted. And Aprican Guild members living with them? Spying on them? It would be worse than King Imbris.

  “Anything else?” Wren asked, trying to keep the man talking. She didn’t know what else to do. She felt an irrational need to grasp the heavy key hanging on the chain around her throat under her dress but clasped her hands together, stilling them. The key was there. If they could figure out a way to escape from the camp without getting killed, they might have a way back into the city. But that was a big if.

  “There might be a few other odds or ends as we work out the terms. But that’s the basics. I know you may feel that Aprica does not have Alesia’s best interests at heart—”

  Wren couldn’t stay silent. “You’re laying siege to Maradis. People will die.”

  “Unfortunate casualties of war. There must be sacrifice sometimes in the furtherance of the greater good.”

  His words chilled her.

  A bell began to ring outside the tent, loud and insistent. Shouts and the sounds of movement permeated the tent’s canvas walls. Sim Daemastra was on his feet in a flash.

  “What’s that?” Hale asked.

  “The camp is under attack,” Daemastra said. “Stay here. You will be safe.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter 21

  Hale risked a glance outside, peeking through the tent flap. He heard a scream, then the clashing of steel on steel. “I can’t see a damn thing,” he said, frustrated.

  “Would the king be foolish enough to take their bait?” Wren asked, her hands clutched in the fabric of her cloak.

  “Maybe he thought he could make a precision attack under cover of darkness. I don’t know.” Hale turned in a circle, throwing his hands up. “This might be our only chance to escape, but I don’t want to walk out with you into the middle of a war zone. It’s not safe. I don’t even know how we’d get back into the city.” There was no way they could walk up to a gate and expect not to be killed. In his mind, Hale turned the city around from its various angles. The walls stretched miles and miles—could they skirt all the way around the city without being spotted and killed? Could they make it to the harbor and try to sneak back in the way they’d come? But they had no boat…Hale didn’t like feeling this unsure, this powerless. But war was out of even his league.

  “We go,” Wren said resolutely.

  “I appreciate the reckless abandon, but how would we get in, though? We’d be shot on sight before we got within one hundred yards of a gate. The Cedars won’t give us the time to explain the situation.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Wren said, reaching down the front of her dress and pulling out a silver chain. “I have a way inside.”

  Hale leaned in, inspecting the ornate silver key. It looked heavy and old. “What is that?”

  “Lucas told me about some old escape tunnels that run under the city. There are apparently tunnels paralleling each of the gates. He gave me his key.”

  “And why are you just telling m
e this now?” Hale asked, excitement welling in him. Maybe they could salvage this mess after all.

  “It wasn’t relevant,” she said defensively.

  “Well it’s sure as hell relevant now,” Hale said. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the tent’s entrance. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not sure where exactly the tunnel leads—” Wren began.

  “Who cares where it leads?!” Hale said. “It could lead into Callidus’s bathroom and I wouldn’t care, so long as we’re back in the city.”

  Wren wrinkled her nose. “What side of the city are we on?”

  Hale peeked out into the darkness. The sounds of battle were growing closer. They would need to risk it. “Northeast side, I think. I saw the Lyceum towers. Did Lucas tell you anything about how to find this tunnel?”

  “There’s a tunnel close to each of the gates,” Wren said. “Marked by a stone falcon. I say we try to work our way west, towards the People’s Gate.”

  “So we need to find a tiny stone falcon on a dark section of wall in the middle of a battle?” Hale groaned, his elation dimming slightly. Still, it was better than nothing.

  “That’s not a huge stretch of wall,” she said with obviously-feigned optimism. “We can find it.”

  Hale grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Stay behind me. Be safe.” If anything happened to Wren…his chest constricted at the thought. Nothing would happen. He would protect her. They’d make it home.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she mumbled, heaving in a breath.

  They thrust through the tent flap into a melee. The dark night was filled with torches, flashing steel, and screams. Apricans in pale blue and white uniforms wielding great broadswords clashed with dark uniformed Cedar and Black Guards, who appeared to be barely holding their own. The Apricans fought like berserkers.

  Clutching Wren’s hand in his, Hale dodged between the tents, heading towards the blackness of the looming wall. To their right an Aprican speared a Cedar Guard, his sword sliding all the way into the other man with a squelching sound. Hale’s stomach seized, and images of the last battle he’d been in threatened to surface in his mind. His brother, Cal, bleeding on the ground, his skin growing paler and paler. Hale shook his head, ridding himself of the images. He couldn’t risk being distracted.

  The circle of torches where the Aprican king had staked Prince Casius was visible in the distance. Men swarmed the area, doing desperate battle. The prince had been helped down, and two men in black uniforms were hauling him towards the city wall.

  “They came for the prince,” Wren said, stumbling over something and falling to her knees. Hale hauled her, practically lifting her bodily off the ground.

  “Come on,” he said.

  They wove between tents, cutting a diagonal path towards the wall that kept them away from the main mass of the fighting. They stumbled into a clearing, a square of sorts between tents. Two Cedar Guards stood across a cookfire, their eyes wild, their swords drawn.

  Hale stopped cold, putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Wren stumbled to a stop beside him. “We’re friends….” Hale began, but the bloodlust of battle had taken the soldiers. Flame it! He didn’t want to fight these men. But it seemed he would have little choice; one of the soldiers let out a battle cry and raised his sword, darting towards them.

  Hale kicked his booted foot out and connected with the cookpot, sending embers and scalding stew all over the charging soldier.

  The man screamed and fell to his knees, releasing a keening sound that Hale was sure to hear in his nightmares. The other soldier jumped across the mess at him, swinging his sword.

  Hale pushed Wren out of the way, realizing too late that that the force of his shove had sent her tumbling into the grass a yard away. Thoughts of Wren fled as Hale ducked to miss the soldier’s swinging sword. Hale moved on instinct, swinging his fist into the man’s gut, followed by a powerful blow to his temple. The Cedar Guard fell to the ground, the sword dropping from his unconscious hand. Hale let out a breath, willing his thundering heart to slow. Just because he was big didn’t mean he liked fighting. Because fighting involved possibly dying.

  Hale offered a hand to Wren, who took it with an expression in her eyes that seemed like awe mixed with something else. Fear. Guilt surfaced as he remembered the feeling of his hand grasped around her delicate throat, the rage that had flooded him at the thought that she had poisoned Sable, drowning out all reason. She had every right to be afraid. “I’m sorry I shoved you. Are you all right?” he asked as gently as possible.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice small. “Thank you.”

  Hale leaned over and picked up the sword, then took a knife from the unconscious man’s belt. He flipped it and handed it to Wren, who took it in shaking fingers.

  Hale picked up her hand, twining his fingers through her thin cold ones. He resumed jogging towards the wall, towing Wren along behind him. The sounds of the struggle were growing fainter as they got farther from the Alesian attack.

  “They were ours,” Wren mumbled behind him. “Why didn’t they just listen to us?”

  “Men don’t listen when their blood is up,” Hale said. “There’s no ours right now but you and me.”

  They continued through row after row of tents until they emerged onto a broad strip of green grass paralleling the wall. “Back,” Hale whispered, holding his arm out. They retreated into the shadow of a tent, peeking out to look either way. In the distance, they could see torches on the ramparts and hear the twang of bowstrings.

  “Covering their withdrawal, most likely,” Hale said.

  “I can’t believe the king sent his men out like that,” Wren said. “What if he sent Lucas out with the attack? What if he’s out here?” Wren started forwards, and Hale gently grabbed her shoulders, steering her back into the shadows. “The king wouldn’t risk his own flesh and blood. And even if he did, what good could you do throwing yourself in the fray to find out?”

  “We need to get inside,” Wren said, biting her lip. “I have to know he’s all right.”

  “Fine by me. We head to the right, towards the People’s Gate? We think it’s that way?” Hale pointed along the dark stretch of stone.

  Wren peered up at the stone expanse, looking one way, then the other. She squinted. When looking towards the right, the torches from the wall were blinding. “I think so. I don’t like exposing ourselves against the wall.”

  “It sounds like the Alesians have retreated. If we stay low, we should be okay,” Hale said with more certainty than he felt.

  “Let’s go.”

  They darted towards the wall, staying low to the ground. The night had grown chilly, a cold wind blowing off Spirit Bay. Hale’s boots and socks were soaked in the wet of the grass, his shirt soaked through with the cold sweat of fear and adrenaline.

  They made it to the wall and crouched alongside it, Wren practically hugging it. “Good wall.” She patted its rough stone. “Reveal your secrets to us.”

  “Sweettalking it?” Hale whispered. “I’m not sure that’s going to get us where we need to go.”

  “It can’t hurt. Sweettalking has got you through just about every scrape, hasn’t it?”

  Hale let out a low chuckle. “Fair point, my little raven.” He made a kissing sound.

  “I didn’t say seduce it,” came Wren’s wry voice.

  “Come on,” Hale said. “Before I betray Sable with this statuesque lady. Stay low.”

  They half-crawled, half-walked along the stretch of stone, Hale’s knees and back aching in protest. If they lived through this, he was definitely getting a massage. He ran his hand along the wall’s length, letting its familiar roughness calm his raging nerves.

  They cleared the edges of the Aprican camp until Hale could only see darkness, and the lights of a few small homesteads in the distance.

  “We’ve got to be close to the People’s Gate,” Hale said. “We’ve been walking for a while.”

  “What if we missed it?
” Wren said, looking back in the darkness.

  “We didn’t miss it. This old girl will show us the way.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said, but then she stopped in her tracks. “Wait,” she hissed.

  Hale crouched, and they were both silent for a moment while Wren felt the wall to the left and the right. “Does this feel like a carving?” Wren took his hand and placed it on the wall.

  Hale explored with his fingers, feeling around the piece of stone. There. There was an opening. A hole. “Yes! And I think this is the keyhole.”

  A low murmur of voices sounded in the distance, and Wren and Hale looked at each other in alarm. The whites of her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Wren had tucked the knife he had given her in her belt while they’d walked, but she drew it out again now.

  Wren pulled the key out as well while Hale peered into the darkness where the voices had come from. A row of buttons glinted. Another. He could just make out two men walking along the wall. “Patrol,” he whispered. “I think Aprican.”

  “It’s not turning,” Wren said, looking nervously over Hale’s shoulder at the approaching men. They were perhaps a few hundred yards away. They’d be upon them in another minute.

  “Just our luck,” Hale said. He didn’t relish killing those two men, but he would if it came down to it. “Let me try.”

  Wren relinquished her position and Hale grabbed the key, wiggling it in the hole, trying to turn it this way and that. “Hmm,” he said, removing the key and looking at it in the moonlight.

  “Hale.” Wren let out a panicked hiss as the men walked closer. They were practically upon them.

  He blew on the key, said a prayer to the Beekeeper, and shoved it back in again, turning it. Wren was pressed to the wall next to him, her hand drumming on his back frantically.

  Finally, blessedly, the key turned in the lock with a creak of protest. The wall swung open, causing them both to tumble into a dark passageway.

  Chapter 22

  The patch of wall swung shut as fast as it had opened, leaving them in utter, overwhelming darkness. “Hale,” Wren said, her voice echoing in the black. She had landed on her hands and knees, and now she searched around blindly, her hands coming into contact with nothing but dirt and rocks. Then, blessedly, soft skin.