Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  “I’ve already made my decision.” He gritted his teeth, keeping to the tempo, watching as the four men slowly closed in.

  “No, you haven’t. The decision is, which one of us do you kill?”

  “Meaning?”

  They turned and strutted with clasped hands outstretched. Aita pointed their bodies, directing their dance toward the punchbowls. And Lodovico, idly sipping from a crystal glass.

  “You’ll only have time to murder one of us before the Dustmen or the governor’s guards take you down. Lodovico sent Simon after you. Planted the bomb at the Ducal Arch that killed your family. I framed you for my father’s murder, true enough, but who scored the more grievous wound?”

  “I was saving him for last.”

  He led the dance as they whirled, moving in the opposite direction now.

  “This is the last. And consider this: I’m not a vindictive woman. The only reason I’ve sent hunters after Renata is to draw you out of hiding. Once you’re dead, I’ve no reason to waste another bent copper pursuing her.”

  They drew close, inches between them, eye to eye behind their masks, and the string quartet fell silent.

  “Kill Lodovico and spare me,” she whispered. “And die knowing that your lover is safe. Look into your heart, Felix. You know I’m right.”

  “My heart,” Felix echoed. “I’m afraid, signora, that I can’t do that tonight. You cut it out of my chest.”

  Bells chimed, filling the air, reverberating deep in Felix’s bones. Up on the balcony that rounded three-quarters of the room, a man leaned against the railing with his arms held high.

  “It’s the midnight hour,” he cried. “Unmask! Unmask!”

  Aita took a step back. The four Dustmen inched closer, ten feet away on every side.

  “Yes, my dear husband,” Aita said. “Unmask.”

  They reached up as one. Aita’s golden cherub lowering to her side, revealing her delicate, porcelain face, and Felix tugging away his devil mask to expose the ordinary man beneath.

  The ballroom doors thundered open. The governor charged into the room, a dozen militiamen at his back. He raised an accusing finger, face contorted with rage.

  “Arrest that man,” he bellowed.

  “Ha,” Aita said with a smug-looking smile that vanished when she realized where the guards were going.

  The crystal glass tumbled from Lodovico’s hand and shattered as they seized him by the arms, hauling him across the ballroom floor.

  “Lodovico Marchetti,” the governor announced, “you stand accused of high treason against the Murgardt Empire. You will be returned to the capital in chains to face trial and punishment for your heinous crimes. May the Gardener have mercy on your contemptuous soul.”

  The room broke into confused murmurs, the partygoers milling about, watching as Lodovico was dragged from the ballroom.

  Felix looked to Aita.

  He flexed his left wrist, and the dagger Leggieri had given him—nestled in a leather sheath on his forearm with a quick-release catch—dropped free. He caught it by the corded hilt.

  A glint of steel caught his eye as Aita lunged at him—a stiletto blade in her delicate fist, drawn from concealed folds in her gown. He leaned right, twisting, dodging her attack by inches, and lashed out with his dagger.

  The tip of the blade sliced along her pale cheek. Gleaming droplets of blood flew like scattered rubies, spattering onto the ballroom floor.

  Aita cried out, staggering back, clutching her face. Felix turned as one of the Dustmen charged, and he met him with his dagger, ramming it into the man’s heart once, twice, then letting his body drop to the polished marble. Screams split the air, the crowd stampeding, and Felix almost didn’t hear the whisper of a short sword hissing from its sheath. He turned and ducked as two feet of steel chopped the air just above his head, snipping a few wild strands of hair. He grabbed the Dustman by his scalp, yanked him close, and rammed the dagger’s blade between his teeth.

  The hilt jutted from his mouth as he let out a gurgling scream. Felix let go of his blade, ripped the sword from the Dustman’s grip, and kicked him away. The mercenary fell, still screaming, thrashing on the bloody marble as he tugged at the dagger and spat shattered teeth.

  The two remaining Dustmen danced around him, blades in their hands, trying to get an angle of attack. And more coming: the governor and a pack of his guards, drawn by the sounds of panic. Too many to fight. Felix saw his chance and ran, dodging as the guards tried to pen him in, his avenues of escape shrinking by the second.

  His back thumped against the wall. They closed in on him like hunters facing a cornered lion, slow and cautious.

  “Felix,” the governor said, “surrender at once! You have to pay for what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve done?” He broke into a feral grin. “I assure you, signore, my work has not yet begun. And Aita?”

  She glared at him, her hand pressed to her cheek. Scarlet rivulets dribbled out between her fingers and ran down her wrist to stain her silken gown.

  “Tonight, I claimed a few drops of the blood you owe me,” Felix told her. “Soon, I promise you, I will return for the rest.”

  Then he reached to his side, his free hand gripping the stout rope anchoring the chandelier above the dance floor. Three quick chops of the sword and the rope frayed, then snapped. The iron chandelier came soaring down, shattering marble as it crashed to the floor at the guards’ backs, and the rope hauled Felix off his feet. He launched upward, kicked out his legs, and flung himself free, hitting the second-floor balcony in a tumbling roll.

  Then he ran for the open veranda door, clambering over the balcony rail and grabbing the waiting rope, sliding down to the manicured lawns below. Shouts echoed all around him, the pounding of boots and the strobe of distant lanterns, but he couldn’t lose his wild grin as he raced through the shadows.

  Whatever crime had finally put an Imperial noose around his rival’s neck, Lodovico was out of the fight. And Felix had proved tonight, with his own blade, that the untouchable Aita could bleed just like anyone else. He’d find a way. Finish the job, without sacrificing himself in the bargain, and make his way back to Renata just as he’d promised. In that moment he felt more alive than he had in a lifetime, his cold fury turning to elation, to raw and burning hope, and he vowed to never let that feeling slip from his grasp again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Lodovico sat in sullen silence. His wrists, clamped in cold iron, weighed heavy on his lap.

  Across from him, sitting on the opposite bench of the coach, two of the city militiamen glared daggers at him.

  “They say you sabotaged the crusade,” one demanded. “That true?”

  “No,” Lodovico said softly, “apparently it’s my crusade that’s been sabotaged.”

  The other frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  He didn’t answer. He felt like he was drowning on dry land. The soil closing over his head and the darkness tugging him down.

  What had given him away? Who had? Carlo, he thought. That half-wit bastard was too unstable, too given to drunken ramblings, to be trusted for long. Lodovico should have had him killed the second he endorsed the crusade.

  He should have done a lot of things.

  If they know about the weapons, he thought, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out the attack on al-Tali was a fraud. It’s all over. The Empire will regroup. It won’t wage war against the Caliphate. It will push back against the Terrai, and it will bounce back stronger than ever.

  And Mirenze will never be free.

  Father, I’m sorry.

  He hung his head, the coach swaying as it rumbled through the streets.

  “Said they’re sending a cavalry detachment to come collect you,” one of the guards told him. “Don’t know why they’re even bothering with a trial. What do you think they’ll do? Hang you? Drawing and quartering?”

  “Too good for this scum,” the other grumbled. “If he did all they say he did, ough
t to burn him at the stake.”

  If, Lodovico thought. He had one tiny sliver of hope left. His insurance policy, the warehouse stuffed with Caliphate riches and “proof” of the counterfeit armor. If he could somehow get word to the Dustmen—have them move the warehouse to the capital and pin all of his crimes on the emperor—he might yet survive this.

  No less of a failure, but better a living, breathing failure than a dead one.

  He was contemplating his options when the horses drew up short, the coach rumbling to a stop. One of the guards cracked the door and poked his head out.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Damn drunk passed out in the middle of the road,” called down the driver. “Hold on. I’ll give him a good kick and get him out of the way.”

  They waited.

  And waited.

  “What’s taking so long?” one guard muttered, pushing open the coach door and starting to climb out.

  A crossbow bolt streaked from the darkness and hit him right between the eyes. His body fell back, convulsing, skull shattered and brain speared. The other guard launched himself out the opposite door, drawing his sword and crouching low.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

  Lodovico went for the dead guard’s belt, snaring his heavy ring of iron keys. Heart pounding, feverishly hunting for the one that would unlock his manacles. Through the open door, he saw the last guard turn, his jaw dropping with a look of abject horror on his face.

  “What are you—” the guard breathed. Then came another thunk of the bowstring and another hornet whine. The bolt ruptured the guard’s throat and nailed him to the side of the coach. His body dangled, limp, his legs twitching.

  The key turned in Lodovico’s trembling fingers. The manacles fell free, clattering to the floor of the coach.

  Slowly, holding his breath, he peered out into the darkness. No movement, just a sleeping street under a cold and full autumn moon.

  He stepped down from the coach.

  An apparition loomed from the shadows, slinging an unloaded crossbow across his back.

  “It’s all right,” rasped Simon Koertig. “I’m here.”

  He still wore his dandy clothes, his silk cravat, but the outfit and the voice were the only things Lodovico recognized. Simon’s body was a charred horror, melted lips pulled back in a rictus, mad blue eyes bulging from a face that was more lobster-red burn tissue than flesh. He held up one twisted, flame-ravaged hand in greeting.

  “I had a little accident,” he said.

  How, Lodovico thought, paralyzed at the sight. How is he still alive?

  “I knew you would need me,” Simon said, shambling closer. “And I was right. I was here for you, Vico. I’m always here for you.”

  Lodovico had sworn to kill him. Sworn to Aita and to himself that he’d put Simon down like a rabid dog if he ever laid eyes on him again. His obsession with Felix Rossini had led to the deaths of three hundred people—Lodovico’s people, the assassin’s zeal striking a cruel blow to the very heart of Mirenze.

  The impaled guard’s sword was just a few feet out of reach. Easy enough to snatch it up and run Simon through. Easy enough to take revenge for the innocent dead of the city he’d sworn to save.

  A city that still needs salvation, Lodovico thought. And I need help to set Mirenze free, more than ever.

  “Vico?” Simon asked, a question in his bulging eyes.

  I can’t bring back the three hundred dead, Lodovico thought, but I can still save thousands from tyranny. And their children, and their children’s children.

  In the big picture, it’s a tiny sin after all.

  He embraced Simon, pulling him close, and kissed his ruined cheeks.

  “Welcome home,” Lodovico whispered, and a single gluey tear dribbled from Simon’s eye.

  * * *

  They dumped the bodies and stole the militia coach, racing through the moonlit streets.

  “It was an insurance policy,” Lodovico explained, “just in case anyone sniffed my way once the dominoes started to tumble. Forged evidence to pin the attack at al-Tali on the emperor himself. Once I moved the goods to the capital and leaked the news to the right people, it’d be easy enough to duck any fingers pointing my way.”

  Simon let out a grunting giggle. “I wondered why you had me buy all those imports then stash them away.”

  “Always have a backup plan. All we need to do is plant the evidence, then lay low and watch the wildfire spread. With luck, they’ll forget all about me, at least long enough for us to regroup and find a fresh angle of attack. We can still do this, Simon. The dream isn’t dead yet.”

  The bay door rattled up, and he stood on the threshold of an empty warehouse.

  “No,” he breathed. Striding inside, looking wildly at empty shelves that were starting to collect dust. “No, no, no!”

  “We’ve been robbed?” Simon said, head tilted.

  “Of everything,” Lodovico shouted, whirling to face him, throwing his arms in the air. “We have been robbed. Of everything. This was it. This was the last chance to keep the wheels in motion.”

  “We could still get lucky—”

  “Luck does not topple empires. The plan called for maximum chaos, Simon. Maximum chaos. If the Empire has any chance to rally its forces and rebuild, there goes any hope of setting Mirenze free from its shackles. It’s over. We lost.”

  He slumped to the flagstones, shoulders sagging, head in his hands.

  “We lost,” he echoed, his voice broken.

  He’d fed a war in the west and broken a war in the east. Driven a stake into the heart of the Empire’s ambitions. It should have killed the beast. Instead, once they finished unraveling his schemes and regrouping, it’d be as if nothing he’d done, nothing he’d risked and fought for, had ever happened. All he’d managed to do was destroy his family’s name once and for all. The Marchettis would be remembered as a clan of traitors, if they were remembered at all.

  “So,” Simon said. “What do we do now?”

  Something sparked in the depths of Lodovico’s heart. The memory of his father’s face.

  He lifted his head.

  “We do what my father would have done if he hadn’t been murdered by cowards.”

  Lodovico rose to his feet, eyes hard as steel.

  “We defy them, Simon. We defy them all. It’s funny. They just did me a favor, in a way. So much time I spent on these schemes, and I always had an exit strategy. Always had to be careful, to think as much about my long-term survival as I did about getting the job done.”

  He spread his hands and smiled.

  “Now they’ve branded me an outlaw and a traitor? So be it. As of tonight, I have nothing left to lose. If this road ends at my tombstone, that’s all right. Freedom is a fine thing to die for.”

  “I’m with you,” Simon said.

  Lodovico clasped his shoulder. “I know. Let’s be off. I have some deals to make tonight, and then we need to pay a visit to an old friend.”

  * * *

  Governor Baumbach stirred in the still of the night, startled awake from a dream of his motherland. He’d grown accustomed to the life of an expatriate over the years, but it was times like this—alone in his bed, just before dawn—when he remembered how much he’d left behind in the name of serving his emperor. He’d been picturing the rich aroma of his mother’s sausages, sizzling in a black iron skillet.

  He wasn’t sure what had woken him. He lay still, floating in the silence, easing back to sleep—then, from below, the sound of breaking glass sent him lurching up. He threw back the furs and set his feet down on cold hardwood, wincing.

  Damned bodyguards, he thought, probably got into the leftover wine from the party. He pulled on his slippers and yanked the sash of his robe tight over his gut, determined to punish someone for interrupting his sleep.

  He found one of his bodyguards right away. The man was slumped on the floor in the hallway, out cold, propped against the wall with his legs s
prawled like a fallen doll.

  “Ridiculous,” Baumbach snarled, storming up to him. “This is what I pay you people for? Come on, up with you.”

  He reached down, giving the man’s shoulder a rough shake—and the blood turned to ice in his veins as the bodyguard’s head lolled to one side. Revealing his slashed throat.

  The governor staggered back, staring down at the blood flecking his fingertips. “S-someone?” he tried to call out, his voice a breathless squeak. “Anyone? Help?”

  The only response, echoing up from the first floor, was a slow and rhythmic thumping.

  He followed the sound, pressing his back to the wall as he inched his way down the staircase. He bit his bottom lip, swallowing down a scream, when he saw the two corpses at the bottom of the stairs. More of his men—he thought, going by the bloody and torn uniforms—but they looked like they’d been savaged by wild animals.

  And from just around the corner: thump. Thump. Thump.

  Baumbach rounded the bend and froze. A muscular, bland-faced Murgardt was clutching one of his guards by the face and slamming the back of his head against the wall. From the look of his skull, and the smears on the splintered wood, he’d been at it for a while now.

  Weiss turned, dropped the corpse, and gave Baumbach an affable smile. “Hello, there. We wondered when you were going to wake up. Please, won’t you come this way?”

  He extended a bloody hand, gesturing to the open door at his side. Soft orange light glowed from the governor’s study, candles lit against the dark of night.

  Baumbach’s feet moved on their own. He was too afraid to do anything but obey. As he stepped into his study, Weiss followed him in, drawing the doors closed at their backs and standing at his shoulder.

  Lodovico Marchetti sat back in the governor’s armchair, legs crossed, a glass of sherry nestled in the cradle of his hand. To his left stood a horribly burned man, a walking corpse dressed in gentleman’s finery. To his right, a pair of women in funeral gray gowns, gloves, and mourning veils. Their fingers, too long for their hands, wriggled bonelessly like sea anemones.

  “Governor,” Lodovico said. “Thank you for joining us. I realize it’s an odd time for a meeting, but seeing as you’ve branded me a traitor and sold me—as you’ve helped sell this entire city—to your Imperial brethren, my mobility by daylight is…temporarily hampered.”