The Instruments of Control (The Revanche Cycle Book 2)

by Craig Schaefer

  “Vultures,” Basilio muttered.

  Felix glanced over at him. Basilio caught his look, then nodded toward the crowd.

  “Vultures, boy. Never forget that. They’ll take everything you have, if you let them.”

  You’d know better than anyone, Felix thought. He held his tongue. For now.

  The ceremony began with the blessing of the bride. Aita appeared in the cathedral arch, silhouetted by the sunlight at her back and draped in golden silk. A shimmering metallic veil covered her face. Her four handmaidens, garbed in pristine white, stood around her. They carried a pall high above her head, the golden silk draping around her. The five women walked up the aisle as one.

  Aita was a spark of the sun come to life, serene and beautiful, but the sight of her made Felix pine for Renata.

  Soon, he thought. Just hold on a little longer, Renata. I’m coming.

  The priest was young, with a hand-me-down stola that drooped past the rope belt of his cassock, and he almost stumbled over his own feet as he rushed to perform the first blessing. Aita held out her slender hands, and he traced whirling designs on her palms in dark soil. Then he washed them clean with water from a porcelain decanter.

  The handmaidens swooped back and pulled away the pall, letting the light wash down, shimmering over Aita’s dress and her golden curls. Felix moved to stand at her side. His formal black contrasted with her glow.

  “Man,” the priest said, his voice cracking as it carried through the cathedral, “is the Gardener’s soil. Man is the vehicle by which our Creator’s gifts manifest in the world, blossoming forth from this imperfect ground.”

  The priest swung his gaze to Aita.

  “But the soil without the sun is nothing. The most fertile ground can raise no crops, not without the touch of the life-giving sun. And so it is with man and woman. We are gathered here today to celebrate one such union, the marriage of Felix Rossini and Aita Grimaldi. This is a bond to last a lifetime, a bond that none dare sunder. And so I ask both of you, before we proceed: is it your heart’s desire to be united in holy matrimony, until death do you part?”

  Felix looked to his bride. Her eyes were sharp behind her veil, a fellow performer in their secret charade.

  “It is.” The words just rolled off his tongue.

  “It is,” she lied too.

  The priest held up a cord of leather dyed deep green. Felix and Aita held out their arms, his right and her left, and he bound them at the wrist.

  “Felix Rossini, do you take this woman as your morning sun? Do you swear to protect her and your offspring, to nurture and adore her, to keep her shielded from harm until the end of your days?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Aita Grimaldi, do you take this man as your soil? Will you uphold him, be faithful unto him, and cleave to his word and his strength? Will you shine upon him, as the Gardener wills, so that the work of his hands and the sweat of his brow be always holy and true?”

  “I will,” she said.

  “And is there anyone present,” the priest called out, “who has reason to stand in their way? Would anyone voice dissent in this sacred place? Or shall the Gardener’s will stand unquestioned?”

  Funny, Felix thought, that’s not the usual way that line goes. He wondered how much Basilio had paid the priest to change it to something entirely more threatening. If the wording didn’t do the trick, the way Basilio glared at the congregation probably would have cowed any naysayer into silence.

  “No one? Then by water and wind, by earth and light, let our Creator’s will be done. Felix and Aita, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Their wrists still bound, Felix leaned in with his free hand and lifted Aita’s veil. “Make it look real,” she commanded under her breath.

  It felt like kissing a dead fish. He lingered just as long as he had to, hearing the hooting and applause of the congregation at his back, and then pulled away. The priest unwound their cord, coiling it neatly on the altar before rolling it up in a sheet of deep-brown silk.

  Albinus’s hand shook as he gave Felix’s shoulder a feeble squeeze. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  “Well done,” Basilio said. “Now let’s get this procession underway. There’s quite a feast waiting for us in the governor’s manse.”

  “Just…one moment.” Felix held up a finger. “I need a word with you, Signore Grimaldi.”

  Aita shot him a sidelong glance, while Basilio shook his head and chuckled. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will wait until we’ve been properly feted. And please, call me Father.”

  “I don’t think that it will. And I don’t think that I shall.”

  The smile vanished from Basilio’s face.

  “Fine, then.” He looked to the priest. “You have an office?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s my private—”

  “Good. We’ll be using it. Stay out until we’re finished.”

  Basilio gave an impatient, beckoning wave and stalked toward a low wooden door. As Felix turned to follow, Aita caught his arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  He paused only for a moment, locking eyes and lowering his voice to give an answer for her ears alone.

  “Fighting back.”

  Basilio waited in the priest’s tiny office. It wasn’t much more than a cell of pale stone, with a high window to let the light shine down over a desk cluttered with moldering books. He turned, expectant, as Felix walked in and shut the door behind him.

  Felix’s heart pounded as he stared the bigger man down. No turning back now, he thought and swallowed hard.

  “Well?” Basilio said. “Out with it.”

  “I didn’t understand, at first, why my family was such an attractive target for you. I mean, putting me on the Council of Nine, that’s obvious: you’re trying to control a majority of votes. Do that and you basically hold the strings to Mirenze’s entire economy. But that could be anyone. You could marry Aita off to some random street peddler and put him in that chair. So it had to be something more.”

  Basilio’s bushy black eyebrows knotted. “And what conclusion did you draw?”

  “The Banco Rossini’s fallen on hard times. You didn’t want this union for our wealth—we haven’t got much of it left. You didn’t want it for our banking power, because the Banco Marchetti’s been stealing clients and business out from under us for years. It wasn’t something we had, so it must be something we can do.”

  “Get to the point, boy.”

  Felix’s pulse was racing and he had to fight to keep his hands from trembling at his sides, but still he smiled.

  “Signore Grimaldi, you have too much money.”

  Basilio put his hands on his hips. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Your criminal enterprises extend throughout Verinia, even into Imperial territory. That’s a lot of coin, and you can only explain so much of it as profits from your legitimate wool business. I figure you must have massive stockpiles of wealth just sitting out there, waiting to be claimed. Ah, but if only you had your own bank. We’re in the business of moving money, after all. Shuffling it around. Transforming it. The purpose of this merger—the Banco G-R—isn’t to make money at all, is it? It’s to clean the money you already have, hide your wealth, and keep you safe from the tax collectors.”

  Basilio shrugged. “It’s true. A fake account here, an imaginary client there, a few dozen loans which will only be repaid on paper…it’s all simple enough. I generate far more profit than I can safely explain as a humble wool merchant. The Banco G-R will change all of that.”

  “Except I’m afraid it won’t.”

  Basilio took a step toward him.

  “You’d best explain yourself, boy. I don’t like your tone.”

  “It’s simple, really. As you arranged, the Banco Rossini purchased your wool business. We’ve been reformed as the Banco G-R, you and I are on the board of directors—oh, it’s all been done as you wished, and the union was sealed the moment I married your dau
ghter. There’s just the matter of the amended paperwork. The revised agreement that went on file first thing this morning.”

  “Felix.” Basilio curled one thick hand into a fist. “What did you do?”

  “Oh, it’s not what I did. It’s what my father did, though he was too drunk to realize it.” Felix stepped closer, leaning in toward Basilio. “He sold me the Banco Rossini. He’s out. So is Calum. I am the sole owner of the family business. And speaking of family businesses, you just sold me yours.”

  Felix held up a single, shiny copper coin. It caught the sunlight and glittered.

  “I believe this was the token payment we discussed.”

  He flipped it toward Basilio, the coin clinking to the flagstone at his feet.

  “Pleasure doing business,” Felix said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Basilio bellowed like a bear as he charged, wrapping his hands around Felix’s neck and squeezing. Straining to breathe, blood roaring in his ears, Felix lashed out with a vicious rabbit punch to the wound in Basilio’s hip. Basilio let go, stumbling back against the priest’s desk. He clutched his side as he wheezed.

  “You dare—” Basilio said in a puff of strained breath.

  Felix leaned against the wall, red-faced, getting his wind back. “Someone needed to do it. Now tell me how you’ll kill my family, hurt the people I love, destroy my life. Come on, let’s hear the threats. Tell me about the doom I’ve just brought down on my head, because that never gets tedious.”

  “You have…you have no idea—”

  “See, under all the money and the power and the muscle, I know what you are.” Felix shook his head. “You’re nothing but a bully. A cheap thug with delusions of grandeur. And I’m done being pushed around. You thought I was weak? Some soft-handed coin counter who you could turn into a puppet? Understand one thing, and you’d better get it right.”

  Felix pushed himself away from the wall. He strode toward Basilio with fire in his eyes, standing toe-to-toe with him.

  “I am Felix Rossini, heir to the Banco Rossini and a legacy that goes back to the first days of Mirenze. My family helped to build this city. We’ve been here in times of plenty, and we’ve survived the lean years too. We’ve survived everything our enemies could throw at us. You’re just the latest parasite to try to profit off the sweat of our brows, and we’ll survive you too.”

  Felix jabbed Basilio in the chest with his index finger, punctuating his words, leaning close enough to feel the man’s hot breath on his face.

  “I am Felix Rossini. And you will respect my name.”

  “This changes nothing,” Basilio hissed through gritted teeth. “You tricked your father into signing a fraudulent contract? Good for you. Child’s play. He’ll disown you once he finds out what you’ve done and sue for control.”

  Felix gave him a bitter laugh. “And he’ll hire a barrister with what money? He has nothing. Oh, don’t misunderstand, I intend to see that my family is given a generous stipend. They’ll live comfortably. But they won’t be manipulated by you, either. I’m taking them out of the fight. This is between you and me.”

  “That’s your next mistake. You bought your family out? Bought my business? So what? I’m still a director of the Banco G-R, which means you’ve taken nothing from me. I still have authority here.”

  “Sure you do. All three of us do. Majority vote rules, of course.”

  “All…three?” Basilio’s eyelid twitched.

  “Of course. We hired a third director to help oversee the Banco G-R’s operations. And her name is Renata Nicchi.”

  “Your little tavern tramp. Cute. And when she’s dead,” Basilio snarled, “a lofty title won’t help her much, will it?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to do that. See, my little revisions included a pair of restructuring clauses.” Felix held up a finger. “One. If Renata should go missing or be harmed in any way, I have the authority to fill not only her vacant seat at my discretion, but yours as well. Let me make it clear as sunlight: if anything happens to Renata, you get the boot. And I keep…well, everything you own, I suppose.”

  “And what happens,” Basilio asked, “when you go missing?”

  Felix smiled. “That’d be the second provision. As senior partner of the Banco G-R, if I disappear or die, the company is…I think ‘unsustainable’ is the word I used. And it is to be immediately liquidated.”

  “Liquidated,” Basilio echoed.

  “And the proceeds donated to appropriate charities for the betterment of the city. Orphanages, churches, you know. It’s a poison pill. Renata dies, you lose everything. I die, you lose everything. You like to hold people as hostages. I did you one better. I’m holding your money hostage. And you like your money a lot more than you like people.”

  “The presence of hostages,” Basilio said, “generally implies demands are forthcoming.”

  “That’s right. Call off your dogs. Leave Renata alone.”

  “And?”

  Felix shook his head. “There’s no ‘and.’ You can still use the bank to launder your money. I’ll meet you halfway on that. Any other business decisions, we’ll discuss as partners and equals. Treat me well, and I’ll do the same for you.”

  He lowered his head and his tone, locking eyes with Basilio.

  “But if you threaten me or anyone I love, ever again,” Felix said, “I’ll burn you to the ground and piss on your ashes.”

  Basilio’s voice was a graveyard whisper. “This isn’t over.”

  “It is for now. We have a reception to attend.”

  Aita waited just outside the door, with eyes that seared into Felix like hot coals. She wore her questions on her face, but Felix couldn’t answer her here, not while she was still masquerading as Basilio’s devoted daughter. Tonight, he thought, the honeymoon. Plenty of time to talk behind closed doors. He wasn’t sure if his move would help her dream of destroying Basilio’s empire, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  Basilio wore an ominous silence. Felix couldn’t guess what he might be thinking. Part of him didn’t want to know.

  His father sat on the edge of a pew, looking pale. Petra patted his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Go on ahead,” Calum said. “Petra and I will walk with Father once he’s ready to leave.”

  “We’re a family,” Felix said. “We should all go together.”

  Calum shot a furtive glance over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen him this sick in a dog’s age. Old man can’t drink like he used to. He’ll be fine. He’s just moving slow. Go on. He can’t walk alone and I don’t want to hold you up. We’ll meet up at the reception. We’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

  Felix pulled him into an embrace. They kissed each other’s cheeks, then pulled away. Felix turned and offered Aita his arm.

  “Shall we?”

  They swept out of the cathedral arm in arm, with Basilio stalking in their shadow. They joined the procession—a small army of celebrants and revelers, strutting peacocks and the city’s elite—in a stream of people that flooded toward the Ducal Arch.

  * * *

  In a silent second-floor garret, at the edge of a dusty shaft of light from the cracked-open window, Simon crouched like a trapdoor spider. Waiting. The rope in his hand felt like a lifeline, pulling him from an ocean of despair.

  No, he thought, peering out the window and down to the broad, shop-lined street called the Triumphal Ribbon. This is a gallows rope. So many necks, so little time.

  The first mob of people rounded a corner at the bottom of the street. Some walked in twos and threes, some with a gaggle of followers, leading the procession from the cathedral to the governor’s mansion. All headed for the Ducal Arch.

  Simon had passed that way himself, just before dawn, disguised under cover of darkness. It had taken hours to haul the Infernal Machine from the artist Leggieri’s workshop, concealing the device amid a clutter of beer barrels and driving the wagon as slow as he dared. The uneven cobblestones left him wincing at every bump under his wh
eels. Contrary to Leggieri’s predictions of doom, though, he’d made it across the city in one piece.

  The Ducal Arch, some twenty feet high, straddled the road. Its stones were the color of a sandy beach and engraved with sigils and marks from dozens of hands. Back in Mirenze’s glory, before the Imperial conquest, each new ruler of the city would mark the dawn of his reign with a hammer and chisel. Some left their initials in the stone, others dates, and a few—the more capable masons in the lot—left scrawling mottoes or family crests. Though the practice had been abolished, the span of stone still stood, a slice of living history. I’m surprised the Imperials didn’t tear it down, Simon thought.

  His eye traced the spiraling vines and wreaths that adorned the arch’s legs, decorated with a riot of flowers for the wedding procession.

  He was more than happy to fix the Imperials’ oversight for them.

  Directly below his garret stood a small vintner’s shop. All delicate teak wood and dark glass bottles with feminine curves. The owner had been surprised when Simon told him the shop would be closed for the wedding. He’d been even more surprised when Simon slashed his throat from ear to ear. His corpse lay behind a counter, well out of sight, with the windows shuttered and the doors securely locked. Simon needed peace and quiet to work.

  He’d placed the Infernal Machine to one side of the arch, in an alley between shops. Unscrewing one of his cart’s wheels, he left it slumped on the cobblestones and artfully strewed the ground around the deadly barrel with random clutter, making it look like some peddler had a mishap. Broken-down carts weren’t a remarkably uncommon sight, especially not in the merchant district, and the whole mess was far enough out of sight that most passersby wouldn’t even notice it.

  The horses, he’d spared, leading them off a fair distance before letting them trot free.

  A slender length of rope wrapped around the machine’s trigger hinge, concealed under a blanket. The line ran to the front step of the vintner’s shop, slipping under the locked front door. From there it led across the darkened floorboards, around a corner, up a short flight of stairs, and ended in Simon’s curled left hand. His fingers stroked the pale, silky fiber as if it were a lover’s hair.