The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  He harrumphed but said nothing more.

  Sable turned to Wren. “The mercantile served as a… black market of sorts. For infused merchandise. The Accord requires us to provide all infused goods to the king, but that’s always been interpreted… a bit loosely. If an infused confection or wheel of cheese or rack of lamb traded between Gifted, what was the harm? None were the wiser, and we could get what we needed. We did it at the mercantile. With it burned down, this black market is hamstrung. We don’t know if it was a coincidence, or someone sending a message.”

  “A message to the Gifted,” Wren said slowly.

  “Right.”

  “A message, kind of like a guildmaster turning up dead?”

  “Exactly that kind of message,” Callidus said.

  “I told you she was quick,” Sable said, and Wren blossomed with pride like a starved plant being watered for the first time in weeks.

  “That’s enough of that talk,” Callidus said. “We’re here.”

  The Council Hall was an ornate building of gray-veined marble. It was long and thin, with two rotundas on either end rising like wings from the building’s crouched back.

  “The Guilder’s Council meets in the west end while the Noble’s Council is to the east,” Sable explained as they summited the broad expanse of marble stairs.

  The Council Chamber sat at the end of a hallway clothed with plush burgundy carpets and paintings of guild tradesmen of old. The Chamber itself was a massive circle with tiered rows of wooden benches stretching towards the soaring dome.

  Sable and Wren settled into seats near the front by Callidus. Wren grimaced, trying to get comfortable.

  “They say they made the seats so hard to discourage council members from pontificating,” Sable whispered.

  “Does it work?” Wren asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Callidus said, keeping his hawk-like gaze straight ahead.

  Wren stifled a smile. As more council members filed in, Wren saw a few she recognized from the gala. She tried to pull from her memory the names Olivia had shared with her but eventually gave up. She was terrible with names. She let the parade of humanity wash over her for a time until one face jumped out at her.

  “It’s Guildmaster Chandler,” she said to Sable, nodding with her head. “Right?”

  Sable nodded and grabbed Wren’s arm in a vise grip as she began to stand. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We need to talk to him, right?” Wren said.

  “After.” Sable pulled her down. “We’ll corner him alone. I don’t want other council members thinking we’re up to something.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  “The Confectioner’s and Distiller’s Guilds have always been adversaries. They’re the two most powerful aperitive guilds and have vied for power for centuries. It’s practically a blood feud at this point. It all started over the crown giving our Guild a better grant of water rights around the city. If it seemed like we were joining forces… the other guilds would get very nervous.”

  “Ancient enemies? You didn’t see fit to tell me this until now?” Wren eyed grandfatherly Chandler with an appraising new eye. “A bottle of whiskey killed Kasper. It doesn’t seem like much of a stretch—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Sable said. “Of course it’s crossed my mind. He’s one of the most obvious suspects. But… it’s almost too obvious. He’s no fool. Why would he poison something that could be so quickly linked back to his guild?”

  “Sometimes the most obvious explanation is the right one,” Wren pointed out.

  Sable’s answer was drowned out by the council chair calling the meeting to order. Any straggling council members took their seats, and the meeting began.

  What followed were four of the longest hours of Wren’s life. Wren squirmed and straightened, becoming more and more certain that the benches had been designed as a sadistic torture device by a disgruntled guildmember. Guildmember after guildmember raised a concern, followed by a discussion whereby it seemed that every council member in the room needed to weigh in, enjoying the sound of his or her own voice for five minutes at least without saying anything of substance. This continued for some time until the chair called for a vote. Half the time, the vote wouldn’t even occur, and the issue would be “tabled” until the next meeting, which Wren presumed meant that the entire useless circus would occur all over again. She tried to pay attention, tried to glean any piece of information that she could add to the puzzle of her situation. In the end, she gave up, glazing over into daydreams where she stood and ran screaming from the room.

  The only interesting part came at the end when the council weighed in on the sentences pronounced by the guilds against offenders caught violating their regulations. “Why does the council have to approve guild sentences?” she whispered to Sable.

  “The crown didn’t want any one guild to become too powerful, to be able to try and sentence offenders independent of the royal courts. But the royal courts didn’t have the capacity to deal with guild offenses. So this was the middle ground that was struck. The guilds have the ability to try their cases and suggest sentences and the council approves or alters them.”

  It was a strangely macabre line of shuffling offenders they brought in, three in all. A master who couldn’t pay his guild fees; a merchant who sold fraudulent merchandise, passing it off as guild-made; and a woman in a tiny southern village who had pretended to be a master seamstress, when she had failed out as a journeyman in Maradis twenty years before. The reach of the guilds was long, and the punishment swift. Wren cringed as the woman was sentenced to losing her two index fingers, so she would never sew again.

  Wren looked at Sable with horror when the woman’s suggested sentence was approved by the council. “She knew the risk,” was all that Sable said.

  Wren felt wrung out and bleary-eyed when the council meeting finally came to an end. They walked out, and Wren rubbed her sore back, groaning. “If I never go to another of those meetings, it will be too soon.”

  “I share your assessment,” Sable said. “But I thought it was important for you to see how the guilds are really run. We need people like Callidus and Beckett to look out for the interests of our guilds so we can attend to more interesting work.”

  Wren nodded, considering this.

  “Speaking of…” Sable tilted her head at a cluster of men talking across the hallway. Chandler was gesticulating wildly, his gray hair askew, a playful look on his lined face. Wren began to move towards him, but Sable stopped her. “Not him. Him.”

  She nodded at a short, weak-chinned man in a brown suit and waistcoat.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The artisan who came with Chandler. Honestly, Wren, you need to pay better attention to details.”

  “I’m excellent with detail when it comes to chocolates,” Wren said. “Just not people.”

  Chandler’s associate was standing a few paces away waiting patiently for Chandler to finish whatever story he was regaling his fellow council members with.

  Sable glided towards the artisan, all feline grace and swishing crimson fabric. The man widened his narrow-set eyes and gulped audibly when he realized Sable was headed his way.

  Wren quickly followed, stifling a smile. Sable would eat this fellow for breakfast.

  “You’re with the Distiller’s Guild, correct?” Sable practically purred. “An associate of Guildmaster Chandler?”

  “Yes, Grandmaster. He’s my sponsor. I’m Bastian.”

  “Wonderful. I don’t want to bother him when he’s knee deep in a story, but we had a question about a fabulous bottle of whiskey we tried and thought you might be able to help.”

  “I’ll try,” the man said, brightening considerably. He clearly knew whiskey and thought he could help.

  “It was a private label. Destrier’s Reserve. Do you know who makes it?”

  “Of course. That’s Guildmaster Chandler’s own label. He makes it himself—a few dozen bottles a year. H
e gives them out personally for harvest gifts and such.”

  “Isn’t there any other way to get my hands on a bottle?” Sable winked at the man. “Surely, you know where they’re stashed?”

  “Any bottles that remain at the guild are locked in the guildmaster’s own locker. He’s the only one with the key. Trust me, Grandmaster; the only way to get one of those bottles is from Chandler’s hands himself.”

  Chapter 27

  Wren was as jittery as a grasshopper as she and Sable walked back to the Guildhall.

  “He did it,” Wren said, angry that it had taken her this long to see it. “Chandler killed Kasper. The guilds hate each other. It fits. By diminishing our Guild, throwing it into chaos, he could raise the stature of his own. Maybe even snag one of our artesian wells he was so desperate for, now that his is running dry. Why are you not excited? We solved it!”

  “You’re forgetting one very important point,” Sable said.

  “Oh? What’s that.”

  “The poison had two parts. Until we know that Chandler had access to the cupcake, we’ve solved nothing.”

  Wren’s excitement fizzled like a fallen soufflé. She had, in fact, forgotten all about the cupcake. She let out a frustrated hiss of breath.

  “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we will take the ferry to Mistress Violena’s in Leads, Hale will charm the guest list out of her, and we’ll have our answer. You need to calm down.”

  “How can I?” Wren moaned. “The king and his hot-poker-happy inquisitor are a week from Maradis. My time is growing short.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Sable said, hiking her dress to walk up the Guildhall’s huge steps. “Now, have you finished your assignment?”

  “What assignment?”

  “I believe I assigned you to make me a batch of mint truffles. Where are they?”

  Wren bit her lip. “I made the ganache, but with all the excitement of the gala yesterday…”

  “I don’t want truffles from two-day-old ganache. You’re a journeyman of the Confectioner’s Guild, not some housewife who doesn’t know the difference between tempering and seeding.” Sable stood for a moment in the antechamber under the chandelier. “I want macarons. And not those disgusting coconut macaroons. Macarons. Four flavors. Pistachio, ginger, chocolate mocha, and lemon basil.”

  “Four types of macarons?” Wren exclaimed. “That’ll take me all night!”

  “You better get working then,” Sable replied coolly before gliding into the Guildhall.

  Wren heaved a huge sigh and headed towards the teaching kitchen. There was little she could think to do to further the investigation before tomorrow. She had better get cooking.

  Wren arrived at the front of the Guildhall the next morning in a lavender frock dress with a neatly-tied box of macarons under her arm. About halfway into the first batch, her raging thoughts had settled into the relaxed, near-meditative state that marked her cooking. Though her heart had panged slightly with thoughts of Lucas as she ground the lavender and the fragrance of the herb escaped into the air, for the most part, her mind was clear.

  Sable wore a self-righteous smirk as she and Hale came down the stairs, and Wren knew then what she had suspected—that Sable had known her assignment was exactly the distraction Wren needed.

  “Feeling better?” Sable said.

  “Much.” Wren grinned. “Plus, macarons!” She hefted the box. She had brought a few of each kind for the trip. Four batches had made a heap of cookies, so the rest had stayed behind in the teaching kitchen.

  Hale pulled a bottle of sparkling wine out of the bag on his shoulder with the pride of a new parent. “We’re going to have an excellent trip!”

  The ferry ride from Maradis to Leads was a fairy tale. They were able to stand on the back deck of the sturdy green boat and watch as the skyline of the city grew smaller behind them. Stately buildings of dark stone, soaring towers of tan travertine, and spires of creamy marble stood silhouetted against the pure blue of the sky and the deeper indigo of the lake. To the east, behind the enclave of Leads, the forested peaks of the Cascadian Mountains stretched tall, as if they could touch the heavens themselves. And to the south, graceful and soaring snowcapped Mount Luminis stood sentinel over it all. The scene rendered Wren speechless.

  “I almost understand why people say Mount Luminis is the home of the gods,” she mused, for once fixing on a sight more beautiful than Hale.

  Hale, who was leaning against the railing, the wind tousling fine hairs from his bun, merely nodded in understanding. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go collect Sable.”

  They walked around the front of the ferry, weaving past other passengers enjoying the idyllic scene. Sable was standing at the front railing of the ship’s prow like a figurehead, her black tresses and forest green skirt streaming in the wind.

  “Sable loves the water,” Hale said, his eyes bright, seemingly filled with the vision of her. “She misses it.”

  “Did she grow up around water?” Wren asked.

  Hale nodded. “She’s from Magnus, from a remote village out on the ice floes. When Alesia colonized the south, they forcibly removed thousands of native children, bringing them here to be ‘civilized.’ Sable included. She doesn’t talk about it much. Perhaps she’ll tell you of it someday.”

  “I guess we’re all orphans in a way,” Wren said, sympathy welling in her. Wren’s life hadn’t been easy, but she couldn’t imagine being ripped from everything she had ever known to be raised by strangers in a foreign land.

  They went to stand on either side of Sable and watched as Leads came into view, an elegant hillside of brightly-painted lakeside houses and half-timbered warehouses. Wren couldn’t help but wonder what secrets this town would reveal.

  Mistress Violena’s estate sprawled across the green lakeshore south of Leads with abandon. It was the grandest house Wren had ever seen, so large she thought it must have rivaled a small palace. It was set in tiers against the lakeshore, with such expanses of lake-facing windows that it seemed more glass than stone. Sable explained that the inside was decorated in the fashion of the Centu Isles, the seafaring clans who lived on islands to the west of Alesia. Pike was Centu, but somehow none of this seemed like Pike—it was all clean lines and low-slung furniture and glazed vases overflowing with orchids. A servant led them out a set of double doors to the backyard, which was less a backyard and more a sprawling estate of its own, filled with lily-clad ponds, stone footpaths, manicured lawns and draping maples. It was on one of those lawns that Wren got her first glimpse of Mistress Violena.

  She was wrapped in a white silk dress, and her pure white hair was cut short—as short as a man’s, but styled artfully about her brows. She squealed like a schoolgirl when she saw Sable, giving her a crushing hug despite the crystal glass she held in one hand and the croquet mallet in the other.

  “Violena,” Sable said, bringing the woman over, their arms still about one another, “this is Hale.” Sable’s words sounded a bit like an auctioneer advertising her prize colt.

  “You are hale, aren’t you?” Mistress Violena said appreciatively, her sharp eyes sparkling with mirth. Her face was deeply lined and her hands were spotted with age, but her body showed no infirmity as she stood straight and true, appreciating a man perhaps forty years her junior, with all the gravitas of a wolf circling an injured fawn.

  Wren found she liked this woman very much. Perhaps she could give Hale a run for his money.

  “And this is Wren, my newest journeyman.”

  “Do you name all your kittens so aptly?” Violena asked, turning her hawk-like scrutiny on Wren.

  “I don’t name them,” Sable said. “It’s serendipity.”

  “Only yourself then?” Violena asked.

  Sable clapped her hands, clearly changing the subject. “Croquet, is it? Do you need partners?”

  “I am in need of a partner.” Mistress Violena cackled. “And I’ll be taking this strapping fellow.” She poked Hale in the thigh with her croquet mallet
.

  To his credit, he managed to keep a straight face.

  “You know the rules, Sable dear. Get yourselves mallets and drinks and be back out here in five.”

  “Drinks?” Wren asked when they began walking back towards the house.

  “It’s how Mistress Violena plays,” Sable explained. “You have to have a drink in one hand, a mallet in the other. Otherwise, you’re disqualified. I’d suggest starting with something easy, like wine. Maybe water it down a bit, though that’s a sacrilege. Start with anything stronger, you’ll be passed out before dinner.”

  Wren gulped and followed them into the cool of the house.

  Mistress Violena was a competitive player, but luckily, Hale kept up, hitting his ball expertly through the wire wickets. Unfortunately for Wren, Sable was also competitive, and Wren didn’t fare quite so well as a partner. Wren’s whacks of the ball became increasingly frustrated and erratic as the game went on. Finally, Mistress Violena approached, counseling her on her form. “It is just a game,” the woman whispered conspiratorially, to which Wren had to stifle a huff of frustration.

  By the time the game was over, Wren was sweaty, tipsy from wine, and absolutely famished.

  “It’s time to retire to the sitting room for cocktails,” Mistress Violena announced, still fresh as a daisy.

  “Hydrate,” Sable murmured to the two of them, deathly serious.

  Luckily, cocktails were accompanied by appetizers—delicate bacon-stuffed figs, hard crackers piled with tomatoes marinated in olive oil and spices, and a plate of the finest cheeses the Cheesemonger’s Guild could produce. Cocktails turned into dinner, and dusk fell over good conversation and even better food—grilled octopus and mint-coated lamb shanks and fresh green salad comprised of arugula and grapefruit. Mistress Violena ate with gusto, and it was leaning back in her chair, stretching out her stomach that she finally turned to Sable and asked why they had come.