“I believe you,” she said.
Then she turned and strode away, her men falling into step behind her. She didn’t say goodbye. Half a city yet to tour, more damage to witness, more of her people’s sorrow to soothe, more bodies to cart off to the bonfires, more tears to be bottled up in the iron cage of her heart.
* * *
“What was that about?” Mari asked Nessa as the mayor and her troops marched off.
“Job offer. I declined. How’s your shoulder?”
Mari winced as she wriggled it, still feeling the aftermath of Viper’s knife. “It should heal. How’s…um…your hand?”
Nessa glanced down at her withered hand, the gray and dead skin gathering soot-flecked snowflakes. She curled fingers that looked more like bony talons in the morning light.
“The pain is excruciating. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt, really. Wouldn’t recommend the experience to anyone. That’s all right, though. It gives me a reason to focus. Everyone, gather around. We have work to do.”
Vassili, Despina, and Hedy clustered close, the five of them standing in a tight circle. Vassili put his arm around his sister’s shoulder, while she ruffled Hedy’s dirty hair.
“In Lerautia,” Nessa said, “there is a great library. And beneath that library, there is a vault kept under the strictest guard. The Black Archives. It’s a depository for books and scrolls the Church finds…troubling to their sensitive dispositions. I suspect it’s where our dear Pope Livia found Squirrel’s spellbook in the first place. Some of the materials held there, if the legends are true, are ancient. Older than our coven. Older than the Empire. Needless to say, my predecessor forbade anyone from investigating the place. She couldn’t risk us finding anything that might threaten her power.”
“Old magic?” Hedy asked, perking up.
“Old scholarship. If there are any clues to the location of Wisdom’s Grave, that’s where we’ll find them. And, yes, perhaps a lost spell or two.”
Vassili and Despina shared a glance.
“Don’t suppose we might have time for a bit of fun while we’re there?” Despina asked.
Nessa grinned. “It’s the Holy City. I think we can certainly make some mischief before we leave. Introduce ourselves to the locals, perhaps leave them with some lasting memories. Vassili, why don’t you use your Cutting Knife and get us back to Verinia the fast way?”
Vassili brandished his white-handled blade. “I’m so glad you asked. Had enough snow for a lifetime.”
“Wait,” Hedy said, “we’re forgetting something.”
All eyes looked her way. She took a deep breath, smiling brightly, and turned to Nessa.
“Dire Mother, I ask for us all: will you lead us to Wisdom’s Grave?”
“I will,” Nessa replied. The fingers of her good hand entwined with Mari’s. “So hold on tight.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The papal manse rested silent under the starry sky, most of the Dustmen called back to Lodovico’s side in Mirenze. Those who remained, a skeleton crew still clad in their counterfeit armor and the raiment of holy knights, kept an uneventful watch over the pope and his staff.
Nothing to it, Kappel thought, studying the greasy playing cards in his hand. Pope Carlo’s a harmless drunk, and we already put the fear of the Barren Fields into everyone else around here. Easiest job I’ve ever had.
“You gonna play or not?” demanded the mercenary sitting across from him. Kappel flashed a lazy smile and flipped down a pair of cards, drawing groans from around the table.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. Think I’m done taking your money for the night. You boys play nice while I’m—”
The door to the guardroom swung open. One of his men leaned against the doorframe, breathless.
“Sir, I think something’s wrong.”
Kappel shot to his feet. “What is it?”
“It looks like the rest of our men are coming back, but I didn’t get any word from the boss.”
“Coming back?” Kappel frowned. “There’s no reason to. Show me.”
The Dustmen filed out, striding though the empty corridors and onto the front veranda. In the distance, a procession by torchlight. Imperial knights on horseback, an entire company strong, with a man in a cardinal’s robes taking the lead.
“Those…aren’t our men.” The blood drained from Kappel’s face. “Those are real knights.”
“What do we do?”
Kappel swallowed hard and glanced back over his shoulder. He’d been told to keep the manse under control at all costs, and he knew the price for failure. Weiss was not a forgiving man.
He also knew what would happen if they were caught by the Imperials and exposed as impostors. Neither fate was appealing, but one was far more immediate.
“Let’s go. Spread the word: we’re getting out of here while we still can.”
“But…but our orders.”
Kappel grabbed the man by his collar and yanked him close.
“You want to take on a whole company of Imperial cavalry by yourself, have fun committing suicide. The rest of us are leaving.”
The last of the Dustmen fled ahead of the advancing column, disappearing into the night.
* * *
Home again, Marcello thought with a smile, strolling the marble halls with a brace of Imperial knights at his back. Their polished armor rattled as they walked, checking doorways and securing every exit.
They found Carlo sound asleep and alone in his darkened hall. Slumped in his throne, snoring, an empty goblet on his lap and his robes splashed with spilled wine. He barely stirred as as the two knights hoisted him to his feet, dragging him to the door. He snorted, hiccupped, and blinked.
“Hey, wait—what?”
“You’ve had a long night,” Marcello said, walking alongside them. “We’re putting you to bed.”
Realizing he didn’t recognize the men grappling his arms, Carlo started to struggle.
“You can’t touch me like that. Hey—hey, Kappel! Kappel!”
The knights, stone-faced and silent, marched him to his bedchamber door. Marcello opened it for them, and they threw him inside. Carlo went tumbling to the marble floor, grunting as he landed hard on his shoulder, a disheveled mess in ermine finery.
“Wait outside,” Marcello told the knights. “I’ll just be a minute.”
They closed the door behind him.
Marcello waited patiently as Carlo clambered to his feet, still bleary-eyed but fierce now.
“Marcello? What—what do you think you’re doing? I’m the pope, you can’t—”
Marcello hauled off and slapped him, his palm snapping like a bullwhip against Carlo’s face. Carlo fell silent, eyes wide, reaching up with trembling fingers to touch his reddened cheek.
“You…hit me.”
“And if your father had done that once in a while, you little shit, you might have grown up to become a man. It’s over, Carlo. Right now, Imperial troops are on their way to arrest Lodovico Marchetti for high treason. We know. We know everything.”
Carlo’s voice dropped into a stammer.
“V-vico? What’s…what’s he done?”
The cardinal looked deep into Carlo’s eyes. Studied his face. His lips rose in a small, satisfied smile.
“Until this moment,” he said, “I wasn’t sure. I knew you were the banker’s puppet, but I wasn’t sure just how deeply involved you were. You were in on it, weren’t you? The impostor troops and the massacre in al-Tali.”
Carlo’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Marcello chuckled. He put his hands on his hips and took in the papal bedchamber. Lush. Marble and gold and imported furs. Might do some redecorating, he thought.
“Good news and bad news, Carlo. Emperor Theodosius is taking the blame for the massacre. Nobody will ever connect you to it. Your hands are clean.”
The naive look of relief on Carlo’s face was almost adorable.
Almost too sweet to crush. Almost.
“Bad news is, that means we can’t have you running off at the mouth and telling anybody the truth, now can we?”
He staggered back a step, hands up, defensive.
“What are you going to do?”
“Relax, son. Nobody’s going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking. We can’t afford a vacancy in the chair, not until your sister’s been dealt with. But I did like how you handled her. Letting her escape, not so much, but the first part—locking her in her room. It was the perfect way to keep her safe and quiet.”
“That was your idea.”
“Hmm.” Marcello nodded. “I suppose it was. Here’s the situation, Carlo. You’re ill. Gravely, desperately ill. Much too ill for visitors or public appearances. But don’t worry: as your trusted right hand and very best friend, I’ll be carrying your words of wisdom to the outside world. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve grown fairly skilled at copying your signature.”
Carlo shook his head, wearing his desperation on his face. “You can’t do that!”
Marcello’s eyes went cold. He studied Carlo like a viper eyeing a particularly plump mouse.
“And yet,” he replied, “here I am. Doing it. You should just thank your lucky stars that you’re worth more to me alive than dead. I’m not sparing your life for sentimental reasons.”
And once I secure the popular support I need to guarantee I’m next in line for the throne, he thought, I won’t be sparing it at all.
Marcello turned to leave. As his hand closed upon the brass doorknob, a panicky burst of laughter sounded at his back. He glanced over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow.
“You find something amusing about all this?”
Carlo dropped onto the edge of his bed. His eyes wide.
“I was wrong,” he said.
“About?”
“My sister. She wasn’t plotting against me. It was you all along, wasn’t it? You used me, Lodovico used me…Livia was trying to help me. She was the only one trying to help me.”
Marcello shrugged. “You believed what you wanted to believe. And you’ve never been anything, to anyone, but a tool of convenience. Some men are players; some are pawns. If you honestly believed yourself the former rather than the latter, I’m sorry to disillusion you.”
“Livia,” Carlo said. “She’s no pawn.”
“Of course she is. Don’t fool yourself, son. Just like you, Livia could never be anything but someone else’s puppet. She was born to play the part.”
“You’re wrong.” Carlo looked at him, shaking his head, firm now. “You’re as wrong about her as I was. And she’s going to prove you wrong.”
“Do tell. Exactly how will she manage that?”
“She’s coming back to Lerautia. Livia is coming, you know she is. And when she does, she’s going to save me. She’s going to save us all.”
A tiny smile rose to Marcello’s lips, unbidden, as he thought back to his long conference with General Baum. Even now, Imperial troops would be changing course. Fortifying the Verinian beaches, rolling out the siege engines, and waiting like a cat outside a mousehole.
Carlo was right. To legitimize her rule, Livia had to come home and capture the Holy City. But the most resistance she’d be expecting was a brawl with Lodovico Marchetti’s mercenaries. What would she think, he wondered, when she found the might of the Empire itself waiting to crush her under its iron fist?
“Good,” Marcello said. “Let her come.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Saint Lucien’s Night. The streets of Mirenze were awash in the gaily painted dead, a phantasmagoria of bright finery and ghoulish masks, colorful as a peacock’s tail. The wealthy adorned their masks in silver and gold gilt, their carriages inching up the teeming boulevard on the way to the governor’s manse.
One man walked alone. A figure in crimson silk, clad in a wide-brimmed hat and the mask of a devil. His cloak billowed out behind him as he broke from the crowd and strode down a desolate alley, looking for a rough outcropping in the wall. With a grunt he hoisted himself upward, taking to the rooftops.
Felix ran, his boots rustling against crumbling salmon tiles, and leaped across a gap between buildings. He landed in a practiced crouch. After all the practice he’d gotten with Anakoni, navigating Mirenze from above felt almost as natural as taking the streets below. Faster in some places, much slower in others, but he never took his eyes from his goal: the fortified manor perched on the city’s tallest hill. The party was in full swing by the time he closed in, strains of song and chandelier glow seeping out into the night from every polished window.
Sofia was right. He’d never make it through the front gates. As he jumped down to the dew-damp lawn and circled the far side of the estate, seeking an opportunity, he found a better way in: a wrought-iron balcony and an open veranda door.
He weighed the grappling hook in his gloved hands, judged the distance, and gave it a throw.
* * *
When it came to parties, Aita wasn’t sold on the concept. They felt much like idle relaxation in general, a dangerous waste of time that could be better spent earning money or mastering her violin. Still, she had to admit, the Governor’s Ball was a fine place to make contacts for the visible, legal side of her family business.
Besides, she thought, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored wall at the back of the ballroom, I do look amazing in this dress.
She smiled behind her mask, wearing the golden face of a cherub.
“Now that angel could only be Aita Rossini,” Lodovico said. He wore robes of gray ermine, and his mask suggested the snout of a wolf. She chuckled, letting him take her by the hand and twirl on the edge of the dance floor.
“You cheated. You saw my dress before the party.”
“And Weiss did a fine job of picking it out. He’s over by the punchbowl, by the way. I took the liberty of bringing in a little extra security, just in case. Not keen on your dear husband running loose on Saint Lucien’s Night.”
“Please,” Aita said. “His little ‘gang’ is dead, his only safe harbor is sitting at the bottom of the harbor, and if he tries to recruit more men, there’s no rogue in this city who wouldn’t betray him for the reward money. Felix is broken, Lodovico. It’s only a matter of time before he’s found and snuffed out.”
Governor Baumbach approached with arms spread wide, the chubby Murgardt the only one in the bustling ballroom not wearing a mask. His bulbous nose, blossoming with a spiderweb of red veins, crinkled as he beamed.
“Ah, what radiant beauty has the Gardener graced us with on this fine, fine eve?”
Aita allowed him to take her hand, his puffy lips brushing the backs of her fingertips. “Governor. A lovely party. Thank you so very much for the invitation.”
“It wouldn’t be a celebration without you, shining upon us like the sun. And…I’m guessing this fine fellow is Lodovico Marchetti.”
Lodovico bowed his head, chuckling behind his mask. “What gave me away?”
The governor cupped one hand to the side of his mouth. “The guards at the front door told me what the most important guests are wearing. I’ve been pretending it’s my amazing deductive prowess, but I knew I couldn’t pull that one over on you.”
A young man in footman’s livery waded through the crowd, his face on the verge of outright panic. He tugged at the governor’s sleeve.
“Sir, message for you. You need to see this at once, it’s vital.”
“Hmph. Well, it looks like my duties are never done. Please, both of you, enjoy! The night is still young.”
Baumbach waddled away, following in his footman’s wake. Lodovico snickered as soon as he was out of earshot. “New delivery of Murgardt sausages to sign for, I imagine. I’m going to go sample some of that punch, in the hopes that it’s been liberally spiked. Bring you a cup?”
“I don’t drink. And for now…” She paused as the string quartet struck up a jaunty tune. “I think I may dance a bit.�
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“Save the last one for me,” he said and left her on the marbled floor.
Aita let herself slide into the whirl of bodies. A man in red and white, donning a skeleton mask, took her hand and led the way. She laughed, spinning into the hands of another partner, then another—
—and then a man in scarlet, his eyes burning behind the mask of a devil with a cruel-lipped smile, took her by the hands and yanked her close.
“If it isn’t my beloved wife,” Felix whispered. “May I have this dance?”
* * *
They danced.
Always with one of Felix’s hands on one of her own, firm but not crushing, keeping her from escape. They fell into perfect step together, turning, crossing the floor arm in arm to the flow of the music.
“Felix,” Aita said, “this place is filled with the governor’s men and mine. If you harm me, you can’t possibly think you’ll get out of here alive.”
“Such was your mistake. You and Lodovico took everything from me. My family, my fortune, my home, my friends.” They dipped, Aita leaning back against his arm. “What makes you think I intend to get out of here alive?”
They rose up as one. She spun, trying to slip away. He gripped her hand, tight, and pulled her back into his arms. His free hand cradled the small of her back, and they sidestepped together, cheek to cheek.
“Not everything,” she murmured. “What of Renata?”
“Renata will only be safe once the two of you are dead. If I must die to secure her freedom, then so be it. She’s worth that much to me. She’s the one thing you won’t take away.”
They twirled, and she lifted her free arm. Cupping her fingers and beckoning. As she lowered her arm they changed direction, slipping between another pair of dancers and waltzing along the polished marble floor.
A lone man, wearing a featureless black mask filigreed with gold trim along the edges, stepped onto the dance floor. So did three more in identical masks, Felix noted as he and Aita spun together.
“The Dustmen are coming, Felix. Which means you need to make a very difficult decision.”
Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 28