Cainlach was a substance created to be used in warfare. It had a debilitating affect on anyone who consumed it, making them dizzy and confused. However, it had the side affect of also producing sexual arousal, and so it was sometimes used to enhance pleasure, or for other, darker purposes—to create arousal where there was none, in order to seduce an unwilling subject.
“Truly, how do you sleep at night, knowing that you sell the stuff?” said Remy.
Chevolere chuckled, low in his throat. “You’re the same King Remy who torched battlefields and burned thousands of men to death?”
One of the musqueteers stepped forward. “The king is not to be—”
Remy held up a hand, stopping the other man’s speech. “Yes, you’ve made your point.”
“Burning to death is such an agonizing way to die,” mused Chevolere. “And in the end, all the countries have seceded again, and Dumonte rules nothing but its own lands. What was it all for?”
Remy spread his hands. “Destroying all the cainlach in the world wouldn’t make up for such a thing, I don’t suppose, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”
Chevolere nodded slowly. He opened his mouth to speak, but the door to the tavern opened again, and a woman came through. She was also escorted by men with pistols, though they weren’t wearing musqueteer uniforms, which was shocking, considering no one besides musqueteers could even shoot a pistol. There were two of them. She was swathed in a black cloak as well, and she pulled the hood away from her face to look around the room. When she did, Ziafiata caught a glimpse of her hair, which was flame-colored.
The Queen of Islaigne, then.
The woman’s gaze fell on Remy and his contingent of musqueteers, and she hurried over toward them.
Remy got to his feet, intercepting her. “Fleur, please tell me you have not come into the streets of the Barrens on your own. Have you lost your mind?”
“I brought Bisset and Gagnon.” She gestured behind her at the armed men.
“Who’s with Margo?” said Remy.
“She’s surrounded by musqueteers and my own guards as well. I did not leave her alone.” The queen folded her arms over her chest. “You’re really trying to do this, then? Don’t you know it’s foolish, Remy?”
Remy took her by the arm, as if to try to steer her away from everyone else, but she shook him off.
“What do you think will happen if you destroy all his cainlach?”
“There will be a cainlach shortage,” he said.
“Yes, which will be filled by someone else,” she said. “Someone else will sell it to another man to distribute it.”
“Then I’ll buy that supply as well,” said Remy, glaring at her.
“Oh?” said the queen. “I suppose you’ll have to hope that another musqueteer happily overhears another conversation while he’s out gambling and you can make pointed inquiries to discover that person’s identity as well.”
“I will find out,” said Remy. “I have the resources and the time to root out every source of the poison—”
“It’s noble of you.” She put her hand on his arm. She moved closer. “And I understand why. Of course I do.”
He backed away from her, shaking his head.
“Remy, it is not the cainlach itself that is evil but the men and women who use it to hurt others,” she said. “We must punish them. When people see how badly it goes for anyone who uses it, they will think twice about it.”
“Punish them?” said Remy. “Starting with the Queen of Dumonte?”
“Well, perhaps you could leave the mother of the future king out of it,” said the queen, shaking her head.
“Coralie never gets punished,” muttered Remy.
“Coralie has been punished many times over,” countered the queen.
Remy gestured behind him at Chevolere. “This man has been promised a great deal of money from me. I can’t back out of the arrangement now.”
“I’m sure this man would rather you leave his cainlach business intact rather than dismantling it,” said the queen. She peered around at Chevolere. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
Chevolere got to his feet and bowed to the queen. “We are honored by your very presence here, of course.”
“Oh, don’t,” said the queen. “The last thing we need is attention, here, in the Barrens.” She shook her head at Remy. “Really, you’re not usually so reckless.”
Remy sighed. “If I bought just one shipment—”
“That would be pointless and expensive,” said the queen. She nodded at Chevolere. “Release him from any obligation to make a purchase from you, if you please?”
“There is no obligation,” said Chevolere.
“There,” said the queen. She looked up at Remy with tenderness in her eyes. “You see?”
“So, I should do nothing?” said Remy. “That is what you are saying?”
“When you said you would take me back to Rzymn, this is not the sort of activity you promised me,” she said, and her voice had deepened suggestively.
Remy laughed low in his throat. “Yes, we’ll leave. Perhaps it is foolish.”
“I never called you foolish, love,” she said, reaching up to brush her fingers over his face.
He caught her fingers and kissed them.
Ziafiata stared. They really weren’t attempting to hide anything, were they? What was their connection? Was the Princess of Islaigne Remy’s daughter? And what did his wife think of all this? Had she really used cainlach on someone? Ziafiata had far too many questions, and she couldn’t ask them, not of royalty.
Besides, they were leaving now, with all their musqueteers and the other armed men. They were wrapping their dark cloaks tight and going for the door. Soon, they had all disappeared into the darkness and the door had closed behind them.
The tavern was quiet for a moment, everyone staring in their wake.
And then the conversation started again, and then the music picked back up, and all was as if nothing had happened.
“A king and queen in my tavern,” whispered Chevolere.
“Yes,” said Ziafiata. “It’s rather exciting. And they’re quite mysterious. Have you heard the rumors of all that passed between them?”
Chevolere turned to her, smirking. “You’re as bad as Marta.”
“I am not,” said Ziafiata. “Although I bet her roommate will be beside herself when she finds out they were here.”
“No one will believe it,” said Chevolere. “Even the people in the tavern don’t know what they saw. And I’ve not profited a bit from the experience, so perhaps it is as if it never happened at all.”
“I don’t understand why those men were armed,” said Ziafiata. “They weren’t musqueteers, but they had guns. Only the musqueteers can control the living flame, unless they were like the king, who was blessed with the power of the living flame and could start fires with his mind. But, then, apparently, he can’t anymore.”
“If he could, I imagine he would have burned the cainlach himself,” said Chevolere. “It is all quite curious. And I wouldn’t think the Order would be pleased to allow even the Queen of Islaigne to flaunt their secrets.”
“What secrets?”
“It’s not living flame in the guns,” said Chevolere.
“What? Of course it is,” she said.
“Anyone can shoot one of those guns,” said Chevolere. “It’s a matter of aiming it and pulling the trigger. It’s nothing mystical. No magic involved.”
Her lips parted in astonishment. That couldn’t be. She’d been taught her entire life that the Order was in possession of the living flame, and the musqueteers were the proof.
“I know this from my dealings with pirates,” said Chevolere. “I’m sure you’re aware they use cannons on their boats, and they’re quite willing to steal rifles and pistols and musquets and put them to use as well.”
She furrowed her brow. “I… I hadn’t thought about pirates.” But she had heard that pirates took down ships with cannons, and
she had never examined it. Why not? Was she particularly stupid? Maybe it was only that when something was passed down as sacred knowledge, one didn’t think to question it. “You buy your cainlach and iubilia from pirate shipments.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Don’t go spreading this about, however. The Order leaves us alone here in the Barrens, for they are corrupt, and they partake far too much of our businesses and pleasures. We all know that the carales don’t follow their vows. But they are ruthless with anyone who wants to take their power. Without the living flame, they are nothing. They will defend that with everything they have.”
“No, of course,” she said. “I will keep it to myself.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chevolere watched when Ziafiata procured herself another glass of ale. But she did not drunkenly make her way into his quarters, and he found he was almost disappointed by that. Why, he didn’t know. There was nothing he could do with her if she were to show up.
And it wasn’t as if she would wish him to do anything, either.
She might not truly loathe him, but she was only working with him because it served her purpose. He didn’t have any illusions that she was attracted to him. His obsession with her was utterly one sided.
He lay awake for far too long hoping for her arrival, though, and then his sleep was interrupted by one of the tavern workers knocking on his door in the early morning to say that word had come back from Donato.
Chevolere got up and dressed and opened the door. “Wait. You can tell the news to both Ziafiata and I.” He crossed to knock on her door.
“What?” she called from within in a sleep-ravaged voice.
“News from Donato,” he called back.
The door was wrenched open only a moment later. She was only wearing her shift, and her hair was in a messy braid. It was sticking up on one side, and he liked that. She was adorable and eager and her knees and calves were bare. He wanted to stare at them, but he forced himself not to.
The news was that Donato had agreed to a meeting that evening. He would host them both in his home on the other side of the city for dinner. But he wanted a significant amount of iubilia to accompany them or he wasn’t interested in meeting at all.
Chevolere readily agreed to the terms, sending his employee down to convey the information to the messenger from Donato.
“Thank you,” said Ziafiata, giving him a radiant smile before she disappeared back into her room.
When he saw her later, she was dressed and coiffed, and he missed the way she’d looked with her hair askew.
For the first time, he began to consider what would happen if Ziafiata did manage to take over her father’s business interests. She would leave him, and she wouldn’t be around all the time. He wouldn’t see her in the tavern, begging ale from the bartenders, and he wouldn’t see her with her hair mussed from sleeping, and he wouldn’t see her bare calves or toes…
Well, that would be better. She was distracting.
He spent the rest of the day gathering up the iubilia he would need and then getting ready for the dinner with Donato. Ziafiata came out in a similar dress to the one she’d worn to meet with Linguio, though this one was a deep emerald green.
He had a difficult time tearing his gaze away from her, so he resolved not to look at her, but she made it difficult because she stood so close to him.
“I was thinking,” she said, “is it really so bad if they think we’re sharing a bed?”
He swallowed very hard.
“I don’t think it’s so bad,” she said.
“Perhaps not,” he managed.
When they arrived at Donato’s home, the man at the door wished to divest them of all their weapons, and this made Chevolere nervous.
But Ziafiata assured him it was standard procedure for a dinner amongst those in a crime family, that weapons were always left behind. She said that no one would be armed.
However, when they arrived in the dining room, there were at least six musqueteers, all with pistols in their holsters. They were being paid off by the family just as Chevolere paid his own musqueteers. He wished he would have brought some of his own.
Ziafiata seemed surprised to see the musqueteers. When Chevolere asked her about it, she murmured that she was certain they wouldn’t stay during the dinner.
They did, however.
The dining room was overly ornate. The accents of the walls were gilded in shimmering gold. There were large, gilded-framed portraits as well. The dangling chandelier overhead dripped glitz and precious metals. The tablecloth was embroidered with gold as well. The plates were edged in it. Even the silverware was jewel encrusted.
Donato sat opposite them as they were served soup in golden bowls. “I know it might be customary to wait until we’d gotten to dessert to talk business, but I find I am more curious than I can say about what this is all about. Could we talk about it now?”
“Why not?” said Ziafiata, eyeing the musqueteers. “It is a simple matter of wanting to sell you some iubilia. I know that the men under you sometimes make use of it. Indeed, sometimes it is given out as a reward. We could supply it for you.”
The plan was to establish a relationship with the caporegimes. Once they were used to dealing with Ziafiata, then when she stepped into place as head of the family after her father was gone, they would be all the more likely to fall into line and back her claim.
“But we get our supply from your father,” said Donato. “I don’t think he’d be pleased to have his cut taken out.”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t have to know. I remember hearing him complain about the overuse of iubilia amongst his men. He rations it, does he not?”
Donato sat back in his chair, surveying her. Abruptly, he turned to Chevolere. “This is your doing. It’s well known that you have some quarrel with Federo Abrusse. Now, you have his daughter dancing like a puppet, sir, but I can see the strings.”
“This wasn’t my idea,” said Chevolere.
“If you think I wish to weaken my own street lord in order to strengthen the position of the Beast of the Barrens—”
“It’s not about him,” said Ziafiata.
Chevolere sighed, turning to her. “This is why it’s bad if they think we’re sharing a bed, you see?”
She nodded.
“We’re not,” said Chevolere, turning back to Donato.
But what he saw when he turned was not Donato, but rather a whirl of movement, and he couldn’t make out what it was. His instinct was to duck, and so he did, but he wasn’t fast enough, because it struck him.
Pain.
He put his hand to it.
He was bleeding.
And now, he was putting it together. That whirling thing had been a knife. Donato had hurled it at Chevolere’s head. It had sliced into his cheek, and now blood was getting all over his mask.
Blazes. It wasn’t easy to get blood out of leather. Luckily, he had spares, but not with him.
And why was he thinking about his mask when Donato had another throwing knife in his hand?
Donato was on his feet. “Federo knows that you have some quarrel with him. He knows you wish him harm. He knows you wish to use his own daughter against him. This is from Feder—”
A crack interrupted him.
A red hole opened up in the middle of Donato’s face, shattering the bridge of his nose.
Donato swayed on his feet and then fell forward, face splattering in his soup.
Chevolere turned to see that Ziafiata was holding a gun. She must have gotten it from one of the musqueteers, all of whom were now moving towards her.
Chevolere leaped for her. “Stop!” he shouted at the musqueteers. “Whatever Donato is paying you, I’ll double it.”
One of the musqueteers lifted his pistol.
“Triple it!” said Chevolere, pointing at the man.
He lowered his pistol.
Chevolere looked around at the others. “Are we agreed?”
“One of us is going to have to
claim to have shot him,” said the musqueteer with the pistol. “It can’t be known she did it.”
“What if I want it known?” said Ziafiata.
“Blazes, Ziafiata.” Chevolere glared at her.
She glared back. “We’ll say I threw a knife at him.”
“It doesn’t look like a knife wound,” said one of the musqueteers.
She shrugged. “I want the credit.” She turned to Chevolere. “You’ll pay them more to make it work?”
Chevolere let out an annoyed sound.
“I did just save your life,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” he said. “But I think I saved yours, too, because if I hadn’t intervened—”
“We could start a fire,” said one of the musqueteers. “If he was burned, no one would know how he died.”
“Perfect,” said Ziafiata.
“I expect to be paid for that idea,” said the musqueteer, giving Chevolere a smile.
“Of course you do,” said Chevolere.
Ziafiata snatched a napkin up from the table and pressed it into Chevolere’s cheek. “You really are bleeding, aren’t you?”
He flinched at her touch, putting his own hand up to take the napkin and moving backward. “Thank you,” he said. “And, of course, everyone will be paid.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chevolere tried to clean the bloody mask on his own, but he wasn’t having much luck. He thought it might be ruined. He stood at the basin in his quarters, the water stained with his own blood, and gazed at himself maskless in the mirror.
This was all growing more complicated, wasn’t it? He hadn’t signed on to help Ziafiata kill all the caporegimes in the Abrusse family, and he wasn’t sure how it helped her if she did. Who was to say that Donato’s replacement would be any more agreeable than Donato had been?
There was a knock at his door.
“One moment,” he called. He dried his hands on a towel and went to find another mask. He tied it on as he walked to the door to open it.
It was Ziafiata.
“Something I can do for you?” he said. Of course it was Ziafiata. Who else would it be? It was late now. The tavern was closed. The music had stopped nearly three-quarters of an hour ago. There was no one else in the building besides her.
The Beast of the Barrens Page 13