Felix took a deep breath.
“What,” he said, “would I have to do, exactly?”
“Take him out, any way you want, but you’ve gotta do it. And there have to be witnesses. Leave one of his people alive to tell the tale, maybe. Or just stab him in broad daylight in the market square. I don’t care either way. But it’s gotta get back to Aita that you did the deed. Then Maurizio’s out of the picture, my hands are squeaky-clean, and it’ll be my turn to help you out.”
“Why not just help me take down Aita?” Felix asked. “Once she’s gone, nobody can stop you from going after Maurizio yourself.”
“Sure. Did I mention he’s got a gang of his own? Oh, and he weighs about three hundred pounds. That’s three hundred pounds of muscle.” Scolotti pointed to the web of scar tissue at his throat. “Last time I went after him myself, he did this to me. And believe me, my survival was a happy accident. No, thank you. That’s the deal: you kill the bastard, then I’m your man. Take it or leave it.”
Felix stepped back, tugging Anakoni’s sleeve.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Anakoni whispered.
“About as far as I can throw him, but we’ve got leverage. If he doesn’t follow through, it wouldn’t be too hard to expose him and let Aita know what he’s been up to. He has to know that. Besides, he wants her gone too. Helping us is really helping himself.”
“So. We do it?”
Felix’s thoughts drifted back to the Hen and Caber, the night he was framed for Basilio’s murder. On the run and afraid. Then Hassan the Barber appeared in the doorway and changed his life forever.
“Violence isn’t something you learn,” he had said, lecturing Felix with a condescending smile. “It’s something you are.” He’d kept that smile on his face right up to the moment Felix impaled his hand with a knife. He’d used that same knife to stab Hassan dead. And then, once the euphoria and horror had washed over him in equal measure, leaving him numb and shaking, he’d mailed a grisly trophy to Aita. His declaration of war.
And in wars, Felix told himself, people die.
Then there was the secret part of him, deep down inside. The black chamber in his heart where, when he held Hassan’s severed head and stared into the killer’s dead eyes, he felt nothing but a deep and soothing satisfaction.
That part of him liked how it felt. To fight, to struggle, to kill, to survive with bloody hands and bloody teeth. And it wanted more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elisavet Sanna stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at Gallo and Renata’s plan. They’d sketched it out across two sheets of parchment, a crude but serviceable map laid out on the tavern table.
“This is going to ruin me,” she muttered, though it sounded more like a resigned yes than a flat no.
“Based on where the crusaders made camp,” Renata said, “they’re guaranteed to hit your farm first. If we make our stand there, hopefully we can keep them away from the village proper.”
Gallo nodded. “And they’ll do more damage to your farm, rampaging on their own, than this plan will.”
Elisavet narrowed her eyes. “I’m not convinced. But you’re right. Better we lose a finger than an arm. Let’s bring it to the others and see how many friends we really have.”
The answer, once the chapel bell rang and called the people of Kettle Sands back to the village square, was twenty-four. Eighteen men and six women who resolved to stay and fight.
“I won’t tell you what you should do,” Renata said to the gathered crowd. “But the crusaders are two days out, and they won’t be backing down. If you’re willing to fight, stay. If not, flee south to Blueridge. We’ll do our best to rout them here.”
Some stood strong, while others faded back to their huts and homes, packing as many of their possessions as they could before making the long hike south. Already, in their minds, consigning Kettle Sands and its defenders to the grave.
“I won’t lie to you,” Gallo called out to the two dozen who remained. “This is going to be an ugly fight. We’re outnumbered four to one. More importantly, we’ve got something to lose, and they don’t. That means they’ve got the advantage. First thing we need to do is take stock of weapons. Farming implements, carpentry tools, anything you’ve got that’s hard and carries an edge, bring it to the square and we’ll see what we have to work with. If you’ve got any soldiering background—hell, if you’ve been in anything nastier than a fistfight in your entire life—come and see me.”
Renata stood beside him and held up the parchment map. “We’ll work by night, so they don’t see what we’re up to. If we give it all we’ve got, we should have just enough time to ensure a few surprises when they attack.”
“In the end, though,” Gallo said, “it’s going to come down to courage, grit, and more than a little luck.”
One of the men stepped forward. “And faith,” he said. “The Gardener is on our side. Isn’t he?”
Gallo shrugged. “If he’s on their side, I’m going to be damn disappointed when I meet him. And he’s going to hear about it, too.”
The weapon roundup didn’t inspire confidence. Almost nothing that counted as a true fighting tool—though Renata was darkly amused to see the pitchfork she’d used to kill Cosimo Segreti among the haul. For now they stored the bounty in the village chapel. Segreti was there, too, lying in state because nobody could decide what to do with the body. Renata eyed the drizzle of dried blood on his crusader’s tunic, his waxy hands folded over his mortal wounds.
The sun was setting as she finished her inventory and left the chapel, the sky turning rich violet. She tilted her head as Gianni rushed up to her with his hands violently waving.
“Get inside!” he whispered in a panicked rasp. “You have to hide!”
“What? Why?”
“Bounty hunters. Two of them, from Mirenze. Looking for you.”
Basilio Grimaldi’s men. She furrowed her brow. She’d half expected this, sooner or later, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
“Where are they now?”
He pointed behind him. “Back at the Rusted Plow. They’re flashing around a sketch and offering coin for any information on you. Nobody’s biting, but I think they know you’re here.”
And if they moved on, other hunters might well be on their way. Or, if these two believed she was here and nobody cooperated, they might graduate from offering bribes to offering beatings. She turned on her heel and strode into the chapel. Not to hide, though. She needed something.
* * *
Butcherman Sykes, whip-lean and made of gristle, held up the charcoal sketch of Renata for the fifth time. The fingers of his free hand drummed the wooden hilt of the meat cleaver dangling from his belt. He was running out of patience, fast. His partner, Lydda the Hook, flashed a gold-toothed smile. More feral than friendly.
“I can smell guilt,” she announced. “And oh, does this room smell guilty. You know where she is. All you have to do is tell us where to find her, and we’ll go away. First one to speak up gets a nice, shiny bag of coin.”
The patrons sat in sullen silence. They were the last defenders of Kettle Sands, most everyone else packing or already on the road out of town.
“And I’ve told you,” Gallo spoke up, “and he’s told you, and she’s told you, and we’ve all told you at this point, none of us have ever seen that woman. I’m the only Verinian expatriate in town, and I don’t think that picture’s of me. I don’t look that good in a dress.”
“You.” Sykes snapped his fingers at Gallo. “You know where she is. C’mere, old man. I want to have a word with you, up close and personal.”
The tavern door slammed open.
“Have one with me,” Renata said.
She’d stripped the shirt of mail from Segreti’s corpse and donned it for her own. It fit loosely, too big for her frame, but she’d cinched it tight at the waist with his thick leather belt. The dead nobleman’s rapier rode on her hip, her hand resting on the ornate basket hilt.
“Unexpected,” Sykes said, “but not displeasing.”
Lydda ran her tongue across her teeth and beamed. “So much easier when our prey comes to us.”
The rapier sang as it ripped from its scabbard. Firm in Renata’s angry grip.
Sykes laughed. “Come on, girl. What do you think you’re gonna do with that thing? You’re a barmaid.”
“They called me ‘barmaid’ in Mirenze,” she replied. Then she cast her glance to one of the locals. “What have they been calling me here?”
He lifted his tankard, fixing his gaze on Sykes as he replied with a single, icy word.
“Liegekiller.”
“You’ve found my home,” Renata said. “And even if I run you out of town, once you report back to Basilio he’ll just send more men. Only solution: you don’t leave. Ever.”
“Basilio?” Lydda shook her head. “You’re talking ancient history. Basilio Grimaldi’s dead and buried. His daughter’s the top dog in Mirenze now.”
“Dead?” Renata blinked. “What happened?”
“The official story is your lover boy stabbed him. Unofficially, Felix is kicking up a whole mess of trouble, and Aita wants him stone dead before he yaps to the wrong people. She wagers he won’t give up for anything…except you.”
“Aita.” Renata took a deep breath, eyes wide. “She murdered her own father.”
Lydda snickered. “I didn’t say that. And the Mirenze guard don’t see it that way, neither. Either Aita’s boys are gonna catch him or the governor’s will. Either way, your Felix is getting sized up for a noose. It’s only a matter of time. Why not give up and make this easier on everybody? Maybe you’ll get to see him one last time.”
“Of course,” Sykes added, “if you want to do this the hard way, we’ll be happy to test that blade of yours. Think you can handle two against one?”
Gallo pushed himself away from the bar, taking a step forward. Around the room, by silent accord, chairs scraped back on the rough wooden planks and people rose to their feet.
“I think,” Gallo said, “you’re looking at more like…twenty-six against two. How do you like those odds?”
Sykes and Lydda inched closer to each other, almost back to back. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his cleaver. He didn’t draw it. Yet.
Gallo nodded at Renata. “The signorina makes a fine point. We let you leave, you’ll blab to your mistress and she’ll send you right back with reinforcements to boot. This town’s got enough problems to deal with, and one fight too many as it is.”
Renata tightened her grip on the rapier. The last thing she wanted was more blood on her hands, but the hunters had to die.
Unless, she thought.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Are you on Aita’s payroll, or freelance?”
“We roam where we want,” Sykes said. “Had a job in Lerautia. Didn’t pan out. We made our way to Mirenze and heard about the price on your head. You did all right, kid. Following your trail wasn’t easy.”
“So she’s not paying for your expenses, your travel—all of this comes out of your own pocket until and unless you deliver me to her.”
Sykes shrugged. “Feast or famine. That’s the hunter’s life.”
“So you don’t owe her a thing, including your loyalty.”
Sykes and Lydda shared a glance. The crowd pressed in around them.
“If you’re hinting at paying us to go deaf and blind,” Lydda said, “we can consider that.”
“Do you one better,” Gallo told them. “We’ve got a little trouble to stomp out, and we could use experienced hands. Two nights’ work, and I’ll pay you a fighter’s wages.”
“We aren’t cheap,” Sykes said.
“I’m freshly retired. Spent a long time socking away my coin, too. Name your price, I’m good for it.”
“And after your trouble’s good and stomped?”
Gallo tilted his head, taking in the room. “After is after. Call it a separate negotiation.”
Lydda whispered into Sykes’s ear as she glanced from side to side. He nodded.
“Fine,” Sykes said, “we’re yours for two nights. Show me your money and let’s make this official.”
The crowd relaxed, going back to their seats and their drinks, the hum of low conversation rising over the tense silence. Renata exhaled and sheathed her blade. While Sykes and Gallo talked money over by the bar, she stepped outside. She needed fresh air to calm the tumult in her guts.
Lydda followed her outside. “Barmaid,” she said.
Renata turned, a question in her eyes. Lydda nodded at the rapier.
“Draw your steel.”
Renata slid her blade from its sheath, holding it in an uncertain grip. Lydda walked around her, shaking her head, a sour look on her face. She reached out and pushed Renata’s hand down an inch.
“You hold that thing like it’s a broom. I’m not going into a fight at your side with you looking like that. Damn embarrassing.” Her boot kicked at the inside of Renata’s left foot. “Widen your stance. Mobility’s key. You lock up, you’re good as dead.”
Renata’s eyes widened. “Can you teach me how to fight?”
“In two days? No chance. I can hopefully teach you how to not die right away, though, and at least make sure we don’t kill the enemy with laughter. Now pay attention…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To Giorgio’s ears, the clang of his hammer against hot iron was a symphony. The burn in his muscles, the sweat dripping and cooling on his bare chest and back—that’s what it meant to feel alive. He worked the glowing metal with equal parts strength and care, shaping it to match the picture in his mind. Even a humble horseshoe could be a work of art to be proud of, he reasoned, if you put skill and craft into it.
He froze, hammer raised above his head. A scent tickled his nose. Southern lynx-berries, more tart than sweet.
“Come on out, Viper,” he said. “I know you’re here.”
He turned. Viper glided from the shadows in the dusty corner of his shop like a ballerina, her robes twirling as she spun on the toes of one boot and dipped into a flamboyant bow.
Giorgio tightened his grip on his hammer.
“People underestimate you,” Viper said. “You’ve gotten a lot of use out of that, haven’t you?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
She quirked a smile, flashing a jagged tooth. “Sure you do. Big, dumb Bull with two left feet. Works a forge all day, probably can’t even read.”
“I let people assume what they want about me. Doesn’t hurt me any.”
“No.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “But it can help. Like when you pretend to be so very neutral. An island. A big dumb island. But I know two secrets.”
He narrowed his eyes. Nostrils flaring just a bit. “What’s that?”
“You’re not stupid, and you’re not neutral. You’re serving the Owl. And she and her new pet have been here. Recently.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Viper grinned. “Oh, really? Because your waste pile around back says otherwise. Look what I found.”
She held up her hand. A dented, oversized pauldron—the pauldron from Mari’s old armor—dangled off one slender fingertip. Then she curled her finger and let it clatter to the floor.
He looked from her to the fallen pauldron and back again. Holding a pensive silence.
“I don’t need to ask where they’re going,” Viper said. “That part’s obvious. How are they getting there? Boat? Carriage? And what did you give them?”
He shrugged. Resigned. Only one way this conversation could end, and they both knew it. No sense delaying.
“I gave them my best wishes,” he said, “for a swift victory over the Dire and anyone who stands with her.”
A long, thin knife—a boning knife—slid from the folds of Viper’s robe. She waggled the tip at him.
“Ooh, defiant. Feisty, too. I like that.”
“You’re on the wrong
side, Viper. You should be working with us. The Owl wants to make this coven strong again.”
Viper sneered at him. “Right. With rules. I’m sorry, traditions. You know what the best thing about serving the Dire Mother is? I can kill anybody I want, anytime I want, and she doesn’t care. So tell me, Bull, do the Owl’s boots taste good? You certainly spend a lot of time licking them.”
He squared his shoulders. “You and I both willingly chose a mistress to serve. Mine is a scholar and a teacher. Yours is a parasite. I think we both know who the true Dire Mother is. And if you want to mock someone for being a bootlick, Viper, go find a mirror.”
Her smile vanished. A second knife appeared in her other hand, snaking from her sleeve.
“Not going to help me, then? That’s fine. I’ll bleed the answers out of you.”
Giorgio grabbed his tongs and swung, whipping the unfinished horseshoe at her. The glowing metal blazed through the air and she spun to one side, ripping off her robe, sending it billowing in a single smooth motion. Underneath, she wore her hunting leathers: supple, sleek, and dyed midnight black. She hurled one dagger, then the other.
He threw up his open hand and spat an incantation. The air burst into a curtain of sparks as the first dagger smashed into an invisible wall. The blade hit the ground, the steel scorched black and smoking. The second shot past his defenses and punched into his left arm, impaling meat and muscle.
A host of daggers lined the forearms of Viper’s armor, the slender blades nestling in rows of sheath-pockets. She crossed her arms and drew two more knives, grinning and flicking her tongue over her jagged teeth as she moved in for the kill.
Giorgio grabbed his hammer with his good arm and charged, swinging for her head. She dipped backward, her movements fluid, serpentine, then lunged in to drive a knife into his shoulder. He roared through gritted teeth, trails of blood mingling with his sweat, and brought the hammer crashing down.
Except she wasn’t there anymore. Viper sidestepped and melted away, fading into a patch of shadow.
Then another needle-thin blade tore into the small of his back and speared a kidney. Viper laughed delightedly behind him, then vanished once more.
Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 15