“You all heard that while you were pretending not to eavesdrop,” Rhys said, “so I won’t repeat myself. Get her a bath, get some food in her belly, and find her a stateroom in the guest wing. Tell the queen’s seamstress she’s got some work to do, too. Go on now, off with the lot of you.”
The servants bundled Livia off, ignoring her protests. Once they were gone, Rhys stared into the distance and drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne.
Eirwen glanced sidelong at him. “You’re thinking, love.”
“I am,” he said. “That I am. Excuse me.”
He stood up and stalked out of the hall, giving a wave. The man who had been standing in the shadows behind his throne, watching the audience without a word, fell in at the king’s side. He was tall, in his sixties but spry and lean, with long yellowed fingernails and a shorn scalp.
“Do you believe her, Merrion?” Rhys shot a hard-eyed look at his advisor as they walked down a drafty stone corridor.
“Every word, sire. Her body language said she told the truth, at least as she understood it. I’ve already dispatched runners to my agents in Lerautia and Mirenze, to gather further intelligence.”
“Seems to me, the entire point of paying for a network of spies is that I’m warned about things like a Church coup before they happen.”
“It is entirely possible that my agents have already sent their dispatches back, bursting with information, but they simply haven’t arrived yet.”
“It is entirely possible that I’ll shit out a rhinoceros,” Rhys said, “but I wouldn’t bet gold on it. So where’s the profit in this mess?”
“Carlo will need to keep things quiet,” Merrion said, “and remove any challenges to his authority.”
“He’ll need his sister. He’ll need her corpse, anyway.”
“Quite so.”
Guards in green and black tabards, a rearing griffin emblazoned on their chests, stood fast at attention as they approached. One opened the door for them, closing it in their wake.
Octagonal walls encircled the strategy room, with a black-iron chandelier dangling over a broad, round table. There were no chairs: Rhys thought better on his feet, and he expected his generals and ministers to do the same. A map of the realm lay unfurled on the table, pinned down with marble paperweights in various colors and shapes.
“So.” Rhys rested his fingertips on the table, looking over the map. “What do you think Carlo will give us if we sell his sister back to him?”
“The Church is wealthy. We could request a permanent stake in one of their investments. Their alum mines, perhaps.”
“No, no,” Rhys said, shaking his head. “An edge like this is worth more than money. I’m thinking about the hills, Merrion.”
“House Argall’s lands? But your wife—”
“My wife is a very lovely lady, from a family of inbred mongrels. Mongrels sitting on valuable land they stole from my family two hundred years ago. And they’re heretics, aren’t they, Merrion?”
“That would be a hard case to make, sire. The Church has never considered the Tertulliate creed as anything but a minor disagreement on a minor point of doctrine. It’s frowned on, but nothing more. Pope Benignus never really spoke about them one way or the other. I think he assumed, given their small numbers, it was best not to give them any attention.”
Rhys rapped his knuckles on the map. “And Benignus is worm food, isn’t he? There’s a new king of the god-botherers, and we’ve got something he wants. And what are god-botherers really good at?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know your thoughts, sire.”
“Inquisitions,” Rhys said.
“Inquisitions?” Merrion echoed.
“Think about it. All we need is for Carlo to declare that the Tertulliates are dangerous heretics. Unlike our Imperial cousins, we control the Church in Itresca, not the other way around. A few of your pet bishops can churn the waters, and there we have it: a legitimate, inarguable reason to throw all of House Argall in chains and confiscate their lands. For the glory of the Gardener, of course.”
“And your wife, sire?”
Rhys stroked his beard, staring down at the map.
“Is it just me, Merrion, or has she been looking a bit…old lately?”
“As you say, sire.”
“I want two of your men following Livia at all times. Let her think she’s free to come and go as she pleases, no sense alarming her until we come to terms with Carlo.”
“And,” Merrion weighed his words, “if he would prefer that his problem simply…disappears?”
“Use poison. Something quick and painless. She’s done nothing to deserve worse, not on my account anyhow.”
Merrion steepled his fingers. “If I may point out a slight flaw in your plan?”
Rhys leaned against the table and glared at him.
“I don’t know, Merrion. Would I want my spymaster and presumably the smartest man in all of Itresca, save for myself, to point out a problem I should be aware of? Does that sound like something a wise king would want? Yes. Yes, it does. Speak.”
Merrion winced. “Livia’s value lies in the threat that she poses to Carlo, yes? She knows his secret. Therefore, for his safety, he must eliminate her. We aim to profit by facilitating this.”
“That’s the gist of it, yes.”
“But.” Merrion held up a finger. “That means we must reveal to Carlo that we know her true value to him. Which means…we know his secret. And for his safety, he must eliminate us.”
“Bugger,” Rhys said.
“As you say, sire.”
“All right, all right. Let me think on this. In the meantime, keep Livia on a short leash and let me know what you hear from your men in the field. Also, I want a full audit of the keep’s security by tomorrow morning. And bring a few of your specialists in.”
“Sire?”
“According to his sister,” Rhys said, “Carlo’s got a small army of killers on his payroll. If this situation gets out of hand and he decides to play rough, we may need to test your assassins against his.”
Merrion offered the king a thin smile.
“I can assure you, they’ll relish the challenge. You’ll be perfectly safe, as will the woman. Livia Serafini is your pawn to play, and sacrifice, as you see fit.” He paused, holding up one finger. “While you’re here, there was another matter. Unrelated, but it might be noteworthy.”
“Spit it out, then.”
“Costantini, chairman of the Council of Nine in Mirenze—”
“That’s still around? Thought the Imperials dissolved it when they took over the city.”
“Reduced in power, but not gone,” Merrion said. “Costantini was just assassinated. Drowned in his own bathtub, and all of his guards slaughtered. That very same evening, Basilio Grimaldi, another member of the Nine, was ambushed and wounded by assassins.”
Rhys grunted. “Two less Mirenzei in the world. No great loss. Still, keep an ear out. Their strife might be our gain. Besides, they’re due for one more killing.”
“Why do you say that, sire?”
“Old saying,” Rhys walked to the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Murders always come in threes. And if anyone loves a good murder, it’s a Mirenzei.”
CHAPTER THREE
Seagulls circled over the blackened corpse of Lerautia’s Alms District. The path of destruction carved through the heart of the city slum like a spear, from the eastern curtain wall down to the edge of the docks. Rats squirmed through the wreckage, beady-eyed and fat. While the constabulary had cleared the streets in the wake of the inferno, burnt and twisted bodies still choked the ruined buildings.
The rats will be happy for weeks, Simon Koertig thought as he strolled across the flame-scorched cobblestones. What eats rats? Cats?
Two feral children peered out from an alleyway, dirty and ragged. Simon pushed his horn-rimmed spectacles up on his nose and gave them a cheerful smile.
People. Hungry rats eat people; hungry people eat th
e rats. Elegant symmetry. All is well here.
A few blocks over, where the ramshackle streets had escaped the fire’s rage, he passed a couple of men with hard eyes and the bulges of knives under their cheap laborers’ clothes. They gave him a once-over as he passed, sharing a wordless glance.
Fellow hunters, Simon thought. But not very good ones. No, not very good at all, wearing their malice on their sleeves. Go home, gentlemen. You and I are hunting the same prey, which means you should just give up and go eat a rat for dinner.
A hostel stood on the corner, with a chalked sign out front advertising rooms by the week or the month. It was the third one he’d visited in the last hour. He stepped into the foyer, his nose wrinkling delicately at the reek of mildew and stale sweat.
He took one look at the matron behind the counter, at the bags under her eyes and the way she pressed her palms to the counter to keep them from shaking, and he knew he had the right place.
“Where is he, please?”
She shot a furtive glance across the empty room, toward a staircase in the back. Then her head sagged down again, and she stared at her feet.
“Two men were just here, out-of-towners like me, from Mirenze,” Simon said. “They frightened you. Threatened you. But you didn’t tell them. You didn’t tell them about the man hiding upstairs.”
She had a denial on her lips, but she was too afraid to let it out. Simon reached out, gently took her chin in his fingertips and lifted it up, capturing her gaze.
“I won’t threaten you,” he said softly.
“Room twelve,” she whispered.
Simon smiled and walked toward the staircase.
“Please,” she said.
He stopped and glanced back at her, tilting his head.
“My daughter,” the matron said. “He has my daughter. He says if…if I told anyone he was here, he’d kill her.”
Simon thought about that for a moment.
“Hmm,” he said. “This might be interesting after all.”
Sure enough, the response to his polite knock on the door to room twelve was a girl’s sharp squeal and a muffled voice shouting, “I’ll kill her! I’ll cut her damn throat!”
Simon leaned close to the door and called back, “I’m sure you will. Lodovico Marchetti sent me, and I’ve come all the way from Mirenze to speak with you. May I come in, please?”
Faint shuffling sounds. The click of a hook latch coming undone. Simon gently pushed the door open while the man on the other side jumped backward, hauling his captive with him.
He stank of piss and fear. Filthy bandages encircled the man’s head, wrapped across his face and covering his nose and one eye. Blood had soaked through the cheap fabric and crusted it, leaving a dark trail to show the path of his wound. One trembling hand clamped the shoulder of a girl in a torn and dirty dress, maybe seven or eight years old, and the other held a filleting knife to her throat. Simon wasn’t sure whether the hostage or her captor looked more panicked.
He closed the door behind him, taking a second to capture the room. Small, he could cross from one side to the other in three long strides. No other doors. One window, overlooking the street. A cot thick with fleas.
“I don’t know her,” Simon said.
The bandaged man blinked. “Huh?”
“Her.” Simon nodded to the little girl. “I don’t know her.”
“S-so?”
“So why would I care if you killed her? The entire point of taking a hostage is taking someone who people care about. That way you can exercise leverage. She is, however, distracting the both of us. So why don’t you let her go, and we can discuss this like reasonable adults?”
He blinked again.
“Signore Marchetti sent you?”
“He did,” Simon said. “I’m here to help. So, please. The girl.”
The bandaged man pulled the knife away from the girl’s throat and gave her a hard shove. She landed on the floor and scampered into the corner, curling up in a ball with her knees to her chin and her arms wrapped tight around her legs.
“Help me to understand something,” Simon said. “Three of you were sent to assassinate Basilio Grimaldi. Three of you. Dustmen, blooded killers, with a very good reputation for results. And yet, two of you are dead, and Signore Grimaldi is very much alive and expected to make a full recovery.”
“It wasn’t like that! He had bodyguards. At least six of them! They came out of nowhere, jumped us from behind. We never had a chance.”
“Really. There were six bodyguards with him, and not only did you manage not to see any of them before the attack, but they ambushed you? They ambushed your ambush? Were these…invisible bodyguards? Or did they dive down down from the air, like birds?”
“Hey, laugh all you want,” the bandaged man snarled. “We did the best we could out there.”
“But I’m not laughing,” Simon said. “So. You were wounded in your epic struggle with the invisible flying bodyguards and you went to ground, knowing that men from House Grimaldi would be scouring the streets to find you. You fled all the way to Lerautia. That was actually a wise decision. Likely saved your life.”
“Thank you. Finally, some credit—”
The stiletto dagger appeared in Simon’s hand like a magic trick. It dropped from his sleeve as he lunged in, two quick steps, and punched the slender blade through the side of the bandaged man’s throat. He gurgled, spitting up blood as he collapsed to his knees and feebly pushed at Simon’s arm.
“Saved you from them,” Simon said. “That’s the good news, for us, because it means they can’t torture you for information. The bad news is your services are no longer required.”
Crimson spurted from a ruptured jugular as Simon yanked the dagger free. The bandaged man gurgled one last time and keeled over, crashing on the floor in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood.
Simon studied the stiletto in the light from the window, taking a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wiping it down. He glanced at the girl. She stared up at him, huddled in her torn dress, two days of dried tears plastered to her dirty cheeks.
“Did he hurt you?” Simon asked casually.
The girl nodded.
“If you live long enough,” he said, “you will meet a great number of men. And they will all want to hurt you.”
He crouched and set the stiletto down on a rough floorboard between them.
“You should learn how to use this.”
The girl stared at the knife. A smear of fresh blood still clung to the shiny steel.
“When I was your age,” Simon said, “I practiced on a watermelon at first. Gives you a feel for the real thing. Go on, pick it up.”
She reached out slowly, like the dagger might turn into a snake and bite her. Then her small fingers curled around its corded hilt and she drew the weapon close to her. Clutching it in both hands now, pressing it to her heart. A charm of protection against the terrors in her mind.
“Take good care of that,” Simon told her. “I may want it back someday.”
He whistled as he strolled back down the rickety staircase. One man’s ruin was another man’s opportunity, and for Lodovico’s vendetta to be complete, Basilio Grimaldi still had to die for his sins against the Marchetti family. There was only one name on Simon’s mind, one face he saw every time he closed his eyes: Felix Rossini, the only target who had ever escaped him. The only contract he’d never closed.
Felix was about to marry Basilio Grimaldi’s daughter.
“Vico said I couldn’t go after Felix again,” Simon mused aloud, “but accidents do happen. Oh, this is going to be a wedding to remember.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“It’ll be a wedding to remember,” Calum said. Felix Rossini looked up at his older brother and tried to put on a convincing smile. Calum was broad-shouldered and shaggy and wore his expensive clothes like he’d been forced into them at knifepoint. Nothing ever fit him quite right, and he wore his discomfort like a badge of honor.
“Long overdue,” was all Albinus said. Their father walked on Felix’s other side, his cane thumping against the bare, water-stained floorboards of Rossini Hall.
Outside, muddy storm clouds gathered in the autumn sky over Mirenze. Felix knew this without so much as a glance out the cracked and grimy windows. He could feel the pressure of the gathering storm. It made the stump of his severed ear, concealed under a band of velvet, ache like it was being sawed off all over again.
When he closed his eyes, he was back in Winter’s Reach. Pinned like a bug on the bloodstained arena floor while Veruca Barrett mutilated him, spurred on by the roaring crowd.
He couldn’t hate her, though, knowing how she’d been duped. No, his hatred was reserved for a special few. Like the man standing in their family’s dining room, nursing a cup of wine and staring out at the growing darkness.
“Storm’s coming,” Basilio Grimaldi said, turning from the windows and lifting his cup. “And what better place to wait out the rain than with family and friends?”
Felix had heard about the attempt on Basilio’s life, but the only sign of its aftermath was a heavy bulge at the hip under Basilio’s belted tunic. Felix imagined it was bandages and padding, pressed tight over the stab wound. Basilio’s movements were stilted but if the injury pained him, he was too stoic to show it.
“Truer words seldom spoken,” Albinus said, hobbling over to throw his arm around Basilio’s shoulder. Basilio embraced him tightly, then looked to Calum.
“And this must be Felix’s brother. You’re a big one!”
Calum gave him a sheepish grin. “So I’ve been told, sir.”
“I’ll want to talk to both of you about my ideas for the Banco Rossini and our little merger. Could I…just have a moment with my future son-in-law? Albinus, if you could fetch those papers…”
Albinus grunted. “Calum, go check on the kitchens. See if supper’s nearly ready.”
Basilio waited until both men had left the dining room. Leaving him alone with Felix. They stood side by side, looking out the windows as the sky turned to mud-streaked gold.
The Instruments of Control (The Revanche Cycle Book 2) Page 2