Felix’s voice was soft. “What did you do, Werner?”
“I…civilized her. Like rehabilitating a fighting dog. Slowly, carefully, I won her trust. Then I set about teaching her a new way to live. Taught her to honor her religion, her heritage, just…in a safer way. Did you see that brooch she carries around?”
“Her beggar’s moon, sure,” Felix said. “What of it?”
“It belonged to a Terrai knight. See, the one thing Mari remembers of her father, besides watching him die, was when he’d read to her from this big book of fairy tales. Stories about valiant knights and chivalry. Honor and justice. She jumbles these things together in her brain. It’s the only happy memory she has, from a time when life made sense. When it was fair.”
“Werner.” Felix stared at him. “What did you do?”
“I plucked that brooch off a dead knight’s corpse,” Werner said, “after I ran three feet of steel through his gut. Course, she doesn’t know that. Mari’s gotten it in her head that the ‘holy order’ it belonged to is still out there, somewhere, and if she lives up to their ideals, they’ll find her someday and make her a real knight.”
“Gardener’s rain. She doesn’t know, does she? She doesn’t know you fought in the war.”
Werner loomed over Felix, suddenly furious.
“No,” he hissed, “and you’ll not say a damn word about it! Far as she knows, I went straight from your family’s employ to hunting bounties for a living, and it needs to stay that way for both our sakes. It’d destroy her if she knew.”
“Why are you doing this, Werner?”
Werner turned his back on Felix. He leaned against the railing with both hands, looking out toward the distant mountains.
“You can’t understand what it was like out there. The Terrai weren’t some oppressed, noble people being picked on by the big, bad Empire—”
“Murgardt did invade them.”
“Yeah. Empires do that. Your people at least had the good sense to save themselves. The Terrai poisoned their own wells and salted their own fields just to spite us, and that was only the start of it. I remember my first time out as an officer, greener than green, leading my men up a merchant road. Ragmen, far as the eye could see. You know what a ragman is?”
Felix shook his head, mute.
“They’d take a prisoner of war and skin him alive. Then they’d drape the skin back on the body and impale him on a pole. Ragman. If you got taken captive by the Terrai, that was the best thing that could happen to you. Every man in my squad carried a mercy knife, so they could slit their own throats if we got overrun.”
“I don’t see what this—” Felix started to say.
“The Terrai were slavers. During the Plague Summer, they deliberately infected their slaves with the Blistering Fever and set them loose, aiming them right toward our forces. Eventually my squad had a crossbowman whose only job was to shoot down any refugees in sight before they reached us, because we couldn’t tell the difference between the genuine escapees and the infected ones. Even escaped prisoners of war. Even our own men.”
Werner turned back toward Felix. His face was chiseled from stone, and his eyes seemed focused on something a thousand miles away.
“We didn’t call them the Terrai,” he said. “We called them the Wolves in the West, because that’s what they were to us. Feral animals. That made it easier, see. Easier to fight savagery with savagery. Easier to justify grinding an entire nation to dust under our boots, because ‘they had it coming.’ By the end of the war, we were just like them.”
“And Mari?”
Werner leaned against the railing and sighed.
“I saw her in that tavern and said to myself, ‘This is my legacy.’ This feral, fucked-up, broken girl. What happened to her was done under my flag. In my motherland’s name. That’s on me. So I decided to fix her.”
“Fix her,” Felix echoed.
“There’s an herb, a root that grows in the desert. The Caliphate feeds it to their elite soldiers. Makes their minds…pliable, to help with their training.”
“You drugged her? You drugged her and you brainwashed her.”
“I civilized her, like I said. For her own good.” Werner shrugged. “So maybe what she believes ain’t exactly real history. So maybe she thinks if she lives up to some made-up creed, the heroes from her father’s fairy tales will show up and make her a real knight. Who’s it hurting?”
“Her. It’s a lie, Werner. This isn’t…this isn’t right. And you’re not the man you used to be, if you think it is.”
Werner shot another furtive glance toward the bow, making certain she couldn’t hear them. He leaned in close, murmuring in Felix’s ear.
“None of us, none of us who fought our way out of that nightmare came back the way we used to be. As for Mari, I gave her something to believe in and ideals to live for. More important, I taught her to take all that anger and hide it away, to shove it deep down inside and never, ever let it out.”
Felix watched as Mari took a step forward. Her boot slid on the damp deck, breaking her concentration and throwing off her rhythm. Her placid expression suddenly turned to utter fury, and she whipped her arms down, sheathing her batons and squeezing her hands into fists. She closed her eyes and took a long, ragged breath, steadying herself, mouthing the words of a prayer until the serenity returned.
“Best hope she keeps believing,” Werner said softly. “Because the rage bottled up in that girl’s heart could burn the whole world down.”
Chapter Sixteen
“There was a time,” Basilio Grimaldi said as he trudged down a cramped stone tunnel, “when we didn’t have to hide like rats just to meet.”
His hair, gray and receding, was slicked back in a widow’s peak. A heavy mantle hung across his shoulders, joined with a hammered brass clasp at his shoulder. At his side, Terenzio Ruggeri grunted in agreement. Basilio tried not to wrinkle his nose. The tannery master bathed in cheap perfume, cloyingly sweet, but it didn’t conceal the stink of dung that clung to him like a sheen of sweat.
Beyond a pair of oaken doors, casks as tall as a man filled warehouse racks from floor to vaulted ceiling. A stained ramp rose up to a pair of wooden vats for pressing fresh olive oil. At the heart of the room stood an oval table with nine high-backed chairs. The rest of the guests were already there.
In the old days, under an ice-blue flag, the Council of Nine had been the unofficial rulers of Mirenze. Each man on the Council was handpicked from the city’s elite families, captains of industry and finance. They charted the city’s rise and measured its steps to greatness.
Now the city’s colors were black and gold, and the Council had to meet in a dusty warehouse, far from the eyes of Imperial watchdogs who believed they’d been disbanded long ago.
This is still our city, Basilio thought, exchanging handshakes and gruff nods as he took his seat at the table. My city.
“Let’s get started,” Costantini said. The old man was stringy and lean, like a twist of overcooked beef. “First things first, a bit of unpleasant rumor. Dante Uccello has poked his head out of his hole. Allegedly, he’s up in Winter’s Reach.”
Did Terenzio’s hands tense on the table? Basilio silently noted the man’s reaction.
“Not our problem,” Terenzio said quickly. Too quickly, Basilio thought. Interesting.
“The treason charges stand,” said another of the Nine.
“Charges,” Costantini said, “we only levied as a make-peace for the Marchetti family.”
“Exactly,” grunted the man across the table from Basilio. “There’s no profit in going after Uccello. If the Marchettis want their revenge so badly, let them hire their own bounty hunters.”
Basilio watched as the table easily came to agreement. He couldn’t resist tweaking the situation a bit, just to see how Terenzio would react.
“We have to remember,” Basilio offered, “that while the Marchetti family is not a part of our…austere gathering, not anymore, they still wield cons
iderable influence in this city. If we don’t make at least a token attempt at capturing Signore Uccello, we could earn their ire.”
“Uccello is—” Terenzio started to say, then paused. The tannery master took a halting breath and tried again. “If Uccello is in the Reach and out of hiding, he’s almost certainly found himself a position in the government there. Sending bounty hunters operating under Mirenzei sanction would be a dangerous provocation. That’s reason enough not to get involved.”
Basilio smiled thinly as the table quickly swung back into accord and the issue was set aside. He nodded toward the one empty chair.
“We should discuss our vacancy. Signore Leone was a fine man and representative, but his spirit—Gardener grant him rest—cannot vote. It is high time that our humble council was back to its full strength.”
Terenzio raised his hand. “Before we do, I have one new matter to raise. An opportunity. Half of you gentlemen, like myself, own businesses that require a steady supply of alum in the manufacturing process.”
“And we pay out the damn nose to the Banco Marchetti for the privilege,” one of the Nine grumbled.
Terenzio’s eyes went sharp. “How would you like to break their backs?”
That got everyone’s attention.
“We all know that the Banco Marchetti has a stranglehold on the alum market, thanks to their friends in the Church,” the tannery master said, “but the papal mines aren’t the only source. Look east. The Oerran Caliphate is rich with alum, and they’re eager for Mirenzei silver. I’m launching a new trading company—”
“Hold on,” Costantini said, scowling. “You’re forgetting something, or conveniently leaving it out. The easterners are heathens, which I personally couldn’t give two squirts of rat shit about, but it’s a poison pill. The instant the Banco Marchetti feels like they’re losing market share, Lodovico will pull the same trick his old man did decades ago. He’ll put pressure on the Church, and the next thing you know, we’ll be hearing sermons from every pulpit about the ‘sins of buying pagan alum’ as opposed to the good and faithful kind that says its prayers every night. I don’t care how good a deal the Caliphate can offer us. I’m not fighting the pope.”
A murmur of agreement spread across the table, but Terenzio shut it down with a wave of his hand.
“What if I could guarantee that you won’t have to?” he said.
Costantini slouched back in his chair. “Explain.”
“I have some pieces in play. More than that I can’t share, but I’ll do better than promise a return. I’ll back your stakes. I will cover, personally, out of my family coffers, every last scudo you invest in this project plus a guaranteed five percent return. If anything goes wrong, if the expedition fails for any reason at all, you get your money back plus five percent just for your good faith and friendship. Now what do you say to that?”
What they say, Basilio thought wryly as a commotion erupted all around the table, is ‘Take my money, please.’ A sure thing was hard to come by, and the families of the Council were old and honored, but that didn’t always mean wealthy.
He should know. He was blackmailing three of them.
* * *
The Grimaldi family crest adorned sandstone gateposts in hammered brass. The crest depicted a dragon rampant, the scaled beast clutching the world in its claw. Basilio gave it a passing glance and a contented smile as his coach rattled through the open iron gate and up the pebbled drive to his countryside villa.
The sweet strains of a violin echoed through the cold halls. Basilio followed the sound, making his way past stone-faced servants in black livery who stood still as statues. The music grew louder as he approached the door to the banquet hall, where the tan marble floor was polished to a mirror sheen.
Aita Grimaldi danced as she played her violin, cradling the delicate instrument in the crook of her arm while she spun across the floor in lazy circles. Her eyes were closed, and a wave of platinum blond hair shone in the light from the chandelier. Basilio leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms, watching. She looks like an angel, he thought. A dreaming angel.
She played one last, lilting chord, a strain that echoed with loneliness and regret, and ended her song. Basilio uncrossed his arms and clapped his hands slowly. The echoes of his applause rippled across the room. Aita’s eyes snapped open and her brow furrowed.
“A beautiful piece, my dear.”
“I didn’t play it for you,” Aita said.
Basilio sighed. “You’re still angry.”
“You say that as if there’s some reason I wouldn’t be. As if there’s some reason I ever wouldn’t be.”
“You’re twenty-five, Aita. Your mother and I were married at sixteen. People are starting to talk—”
“Then let them,” Aita said.
“A woman your age should already be married and with children, and Felix Rossini is a perfectly fine match. I’ve met the man. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and his family’s banking connections will help our business grow.”
“Oh? The business I’m not allowed to have any part of? That business?”
Basilio spread his hands. “Aita, that is not your place. You are a fine, healthy young woman. You should be raising a family, not fooling with wool merchants and accounting ledgers.”
She pointed the tip of her violin bow at him.
“‘Wool.’ Please. I know what we really do for a living, Father. And you know I know it. So let’s not pretend.”
“Then you know why it’s no place for a woman.” His eyes darkened. “My word is final, Aita. You will marry Felix Rossini, you will cement this alliance, and you will learn to be happy about it. All your life I have given you everything, everything you could possibly want. You will give me this.”
She replied by cradling her violin, turning her back to him, and playing a new song. A faster piece, almost discordant. Basilio stood in the doorway and listened for a while, waiting to see if she’d turn around. She didn’t.
Hassan the Barber waited for him in the hallway. Frowning, Basilio waved a hand, beckoning him along. He had a sudden distaste for his daughter’s music.
Hassan was tall, falcon-eyed, and dark as chiseled basalt, an exile from the Oerran Caliphate. He’d been a raider once, boss of a bandit gang, until he’d tried to plunder one of the Grimaldi family’s caravans. Basilio made him a better offer. The Mirenzei knew raw talent when he saw it.
“Bad time for bad news?” Hassan’s voice was a basso rumble.
“How long have we worked together? The faster I know about a problem, the faster I can solve it. I want sugarcoatings on my biscotti, not on my information.”
“The Rossini boy is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where? Gone fishing?”
“Gone north,” Hassan said. “He boarded a merchant ship bound for Winter’s Reach. We’re not certain why.”
“With or without that peasant girl he’s been rutting with?”
“Without. She’s still in Mirenze.”
Basilio waved a dismissive hand as they walked.
“He’ll be back, then,” he said. “Just the same, keep an eye on the girl. What was her name?”
“Renata Nicchi.”
“Renata,” Basilio echoed, his lips curling like he’d bitten into a rotten apple. “Gutter trash. He actually thinks he’s going to run away with her. Isn’t that precious?”
“I can solve that problem with one little cut.”
Basilio shook his head. “No. I want the girl alive for now. Alive and under my thumb, she’s leverage. Dead, she’s nothing. Felix is as headstrong and rebellious as my daughter, but there is one crucial difference. I have ways to hurt Felix. He’ll do as he’s told, once I’ve explained the facts of life to him.”
“There is something else,” Hassan said. “Confirmation. The Rossinis’ butler is a spy for Lodovico Marchetti. We’ve seen him coming and going from the estate.”
“Vico. There’s one we should have sliced out of the picture years ag
o. I told the Council, you never kill a man and leave his son alive. A boy with a tombstone for a father grows up wanting one thing and one thing only: blood for blood. I should know.”
“As far as we know, he believes his father’s death was a suicide.”
“And if he ever learns the truth,” Basilio said, “Lodovico Marchetti is going to be a serious problem. Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Chapter Seventeen
Down in the galley of the Fairwind Muse, the cook stood lethargically over a boiling pot, ladling out the last of the ship’s stores to a line of hungry sailors. Felix waited along with them, getting a raised eyebrow when he asked for three servings.
“Not for me,” Felix said.
Once he explained where the food was going, the cook sent him on his way with three hunks of boiled beef and three stale fistfuls of hardtack precariously piled on a dented plate. His first stop was back at the helm, where Iona took a serving off his hands.
Felix bit into a chunk of beef, chewing thoughtfully as he went looking for Mari. She wasn’t hard to find, still out on the deck and practicing her fighting forms even as stray snowflakes left wet spatters on her face and patchwork armor. Her only concession to the cold was a heavy woolen cloak with a ragged hem, like something she’d fished from a noblewoman’s trash.
“Bad news,” Felix said. “This is the last shipboard food we’ll get until the return trip. Just think: you’re actually going to have to eat real, hot meals in a genuine inn. Can you endure it?”
“The horror,” Mari deadpanned, sheathing her batons. She took a chunk of beef from Felix’s platter and lifted it to her mouth. She was about to take a bite when a strangled sound turned her head.
A sailor staggered up the gangway from belowdecks, blue-faced and choking. He took three steps and collapsed onto the deck, twitching, white foam leaking from his puffy lips and nose. Mari’s gaze darted to Felix, her eyes hard as stone.
“Did you eat any of that?” she snapped. “The food! Did you eat it?”
“Two bites, but what—”
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