Queen of the Night (The Revanche Cycle Book 4) (5 page)

“Please.” Lodovico’s voice was crisp and polished. “Please, my friends, there’s more to hear.”

He waited until the crowd fell into a pensive silence. Shifting, on a razor’s edge, hundreds of bodies tensed like hungry panthers ready to pounce.

“I am no one,” Lodovico said. “But I am a son of Mirenze. My father fought for our city’s independence. I have done nothing so brave. Merely unmasked the traitor before you and the assassins—these ‘soldiers’ you see here—who slaughtered so many of our people.”

Lodovico rested one hand on his heart, eyes downcast in mock solemnity.

“My friends, we stand at a moment of crisis. The Empire is coming. You’ve heard this traitor’s confession. You saw the troops, the ships, setting off to conquer Winter’s Reach.
We are next
. So I have one question to ask you: when the Murgardt hordes darken our doorstep…will we kneel, or will we fight?”

“We’ll fight!” a man cried from the edge of the square, spurring shouts of agreement and more raised fists. Lodovico held back a smile. Aita had seeded the square with her own people, actors ready to spur on the crowd.

“I have a plan,” Lodovico said, “to save this city. To keep us strong, and safe, and independent once more. Independent forever, as we were meant to be. As we were
born
to be. A free Mirenze!”

He threw up his arms and basked in the roar of the masses, bathing in the alchemy that turned anger and loss to zealous rage. The people united in furious defiance, their shouts echoing over the rooftops.

“We need a new militia,” Lodovico called out, “a fighting force to guard our streets, our citizens, our
children
. And to that end I am calling every able-bodied patriot to present himself at the governor’s manse. Do you love your homeland, this city that has given you so much? The time has come to prove it. Join the militia—join
me
—and together we will secure Mirenze’s future.”

He waited, his shoulders back, his chin raised high, until the shouting died down.

“One last thing before I leave you. A matter of justice. The Empire drove a dagger into all of our hearts the day they bombed the Ducal Arch. The day
this
man gave the order to slaughter our innocent, for no reason but to wound us.
The Empire did this to us
. And today, our revenge begins.”

The governor looked to Lodovico, his eyes bulging with terror. A slow, wet stain spread down the leg of his linen trousers.

“You said,” he stammered, soft as a mouse, “you said you’d let me go.”

Lodovico put his hand on the governor’s shoulder.

“I think these fine citizens might take issue with that,” he replied.

Lodovico gave him a shove. The Dustmen stood aside and the crowd surged in, falling on the governor and the bound soldiers at his back, shrieking their grief and fury as they tore them to pieces with their bare hands. Lodovico turned and strolled to the coaches, flanked by Weiss and his guards. He didn’t bother looking back.

*     *     *

“I think that went well,” Lodovico said, watching the crowd through the carriage window. Men ran behind the carriages, cheering, punching at the air, ready to join the new militia and take up arms for their city.

“You’re a madman,” Aita snapped, sitting beside him. “So you whipped the idiots into a frenzy, well done. What’s that going to accomplish when the Imperial army
really
comes knocking at our door? Are you going to drive off the catapults with a rousing speech or two?”

“No.” Lodovico clasped his hands in mock prayer. “The Gardener will do it for us. Weiss, can you get word to your men at the papal manse?”

Weiss shrugged. “Lerautia is a two-day ride from here. My messenger can do it in one.”

“Tell them to grab Carlo and bring him back here.”

“A hostage?” Aita arched a delicate eyebrow at him.

“An honored and willing guest,” Lodovico replied. “Lerautia has lost its glow, and our dear Pope Carlo is going to do something unprecedented: relocate the Holy City.
Mirenze
will become the new heart of the Church, and all the world will know it.”

Aita tilted her head. “And if the Murgardt decide to invade, they’ll be laying siege to the seat of their national religion and risking the life of their own pope. That’s a nice little morale killer, I have to admit.”

“It’ll give them pause. Enough pause for us to make new plans. We’ll have time to strengthen the city, harden it against a siege.”

“You’re still wagering one city’s walls against the might of an angry empire,” Aita observed.

“Wagering my life, in fact.” Lodovico leaned back in his seat. “I find it exhilarating. Don’t you?”

Lines had already formed at the gates of the governor’s estate, would-be soldiers ready to fight for their city. While Weiss and the other Dustmen set up impromptu tables, registering each man’s name and sorting them into regiments, Aita took Lodovico aside.

“
Alone
,” she said flatly, glaring at Simon as he tried to follow them.

They stepped into the parlor, and she shut and locked the door before stabbing an accusing finger at Lodovico.

“You said.” She seethed, the scar on her cheek twisting. “You said you’d kill that creature if you ever saw him again.”

“Simon?” Lodovico shrugged. “He’s more valuable to us alive.”

“To
you
. He may be more valuable to
you
alive. I still have an ache in my arm when I play my violin, thanks to the bomb he tried to
kill
me with.”

“To be fair, signora, he was trying to kill your husband. You were merely walking at his side. And what’s good for me is good for you. You wanted this partnership, Aita. You demanded it. Now you have it, until death do us part.”

“You may have your ‘patriotic militia’ by the light of day,” Aita said, “your little army, but
I
command the armies of the night. Mirenze’s underworld answers to
me
. Would you like to find out what they’re capable of if I let them off their leashes?”

“Could you?” Lodovico asked, his tone light. “The Dustmen have heard rumblings in the taverns. Whispers in the back alleys after your, ah, embarrassment at the Saint Lucien’s ball. Some are starting to wonder if you’re truly your father’s daughter.”

Aita’s fingertips absently brushed the scar on her cheek.

“I was a fool, asking you for help with Felix,” she said. “Simon couldn’t take him down. Neither could the Dustmen. Clearly, I need to do exactly what my father would have done in this situation.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll find him myself,” she said. “And then I’ll throw a lovely dinner party for everyone who doubted me. So they can watch as I kill him with my own two hands.”

CHAPTER FIVE

At that moment, Felix Rossini was already in Aita’s grip. At least, in the grip of her lieutenant. Cut-Throat Scolotti, master of the Lower Eight, paced the splintered floorboards of his slum citadel with his hands on his hips. Dressed in shabby finery, chin raised to show the webwork of scars that ringed his neck like a choker of white lace as he gazed upon his prey.

“You stupid, stupid bastard,” he rasped.

Felix stood on a mildewed carpet decorated in faded beige swirls, one elbow held tight by a man on either side of him. Scolotti’s men, professional leg breakers with stout wooden truncheons on their belts. Felix shrugged, his expression placid.

“I’ve been called worse.”

As Scolotti walked past a frosted window, cracks in the glass washed his weathered face in dusty rays of light. He stepped over to a rickety table by the door, where they’d tossed Felix’s confiscated gear: a brass-buckled belt lined with two knife sheaths and a host of pouches and snaps. Scolotti drew one of the knives—a short, wickedly sharp blade made for paring flesh—and held it up between his fingertips.

“So this was your plan,” he said. “You were just gonna walk in here, into
my
house, and kill me. Just like that.”

“More or less.”

He put the knife on the table.

“We could’ve been partners, Felix. I was willing to help. Would have handed you Aita on a silver platter.”

“Sure,” Felix said. “And all I’d have to do to earn that help is murder a man’s children. Sorry, no deal.”

“You think you can afford scruples?” Scolotti unsnapped one of the belt pouches, drawing out a herringbone lockpick. “That’s cute. Y’know, you got something I never had.”

Felix leaned in, and the men at his sides gave his upper arms a hard squeeze to pin him in place.

“What’s that?”

“A choice. See, rich boy, I was
born
in the Lower Eight. I was eleven years old first time I killed a man. I killed him for half a loaf of bread. This is my world. You’re just a tourist, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Benito Abbaticchio said that too,” Felix reflected. “Right before I murdered him.”

Scolotti paused, his fingers stroking the web of scars at his throat. A nervous tic.

“Little-Hand Benito,” he said, “from the Red Alley Rakes.”

“The very one.”

Scolotti turned his head and spat on the floor. “Bull.”

“Truth. Check into it. He’s been missing since yesterday morning.”

“I know he’s
missing.
That doesn’t mean
you
had anything to do with it.”

“I had everything to do with it.” Felix met his gaze, his voice as cold and smooth as a river in winter. “See, once they started punishing civilians, I had to stop going after Aita’s extortionists. I figured I’d hunt bigger game. Kill enough of her right-hand men, and the rest might get fed up enough to take Aita down for me. You were just number two on my list.”

Scolotti jabbed an angry finger at Felix’s face. “And I said
bull
. My boys caught you breaking into this place like a first-time amateur. You made enough noise to wake the dead. Never would have gotten anywhere near me. No chance you went up against Benito.”

“I took a trophy,” Felix replied. “Want to see?”

Scolotti squinted at him. Hesitant.

“Show me,” he said.

Felix nodded to the belt on the table. “Third pouch from the left.”

The thugs at Felix’s sides held him fast as Scolotti turned his back. He pulled the belt over to him, found the fat black leather pouch, and pried open the brass buttons holding it shut.

A metallic whisper, the sound of a trigger pin sliding free, and the pouch exploded.

A cloud of thick white smoke, like the billowing torrent from a forest fire, blasted into Scolotti’s face. The foul-smelling smoke gushed out, filling the room, the pouch rumbling and clanking as the contraption inside did its work. Felix flexed his wrists and the twin daggers up his sleeves, held in spring-loaded braces against his forearms, dropped into his ready hands. He drove the blades down, spearing one of his captors in the gut and the other in the groin, tearing free of their grip as they cried out. Then he spun, whirling on the shabby rug like a dancer, and slashed red ragged lines across their throats.

Coughing, one sleeve pressed to his face, Scolotti stumbled for the door. Felix’s eyes stung as he plunged through the blinding smoke in pursuit. He reflexively took a deep breath, the tainted air coming back up in wet, hacking coughs. Out in the hall, just ahead of him, Scolotti leaned against the worm-eaten wall and choked as he dragged himself away. Still coughing, Felix staggered up behind him, raised his arms, and drove his daggers into Scolotti’s shoulder blades.

Scolotti fell with a shrill scream, thrashing on the dirty floorboards. Felix threw himself onto his back. One dagger wrenched free with a bone-grinding twist, and Felix brought it down again and again, puncturing Scolotti’s lungs and chipping at his spine. Footsteps thundered up the staircase, the rest of Scolotti’s dogs coming to their master’s rescue. Felix shoved himself up off the wide-eyed corpse, let out one last hoarse cough, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away smeared with spittle and scarlet.

The hallway ended in a cracked, frosted window. The other end was filled with angry faces: five men in tattered leathers, gripping knives and bludgeons. Felix reached down to his ankle, yanking a black iron globe the size of a small lemon from the concealed sheath under his pant leg.

“Sorry, gents,” Felix said, “I’ll see myself out.”

He gave the lemon a twist and hurled it down the hallway, where it rolled to a stop between them. The men froze, eyeing the contraption, not sure what to expect.

It gave one feeble kick, jolting on the floor, and let out a thin trickle of smoke with the sound of a tired wheeze.

“Oh, hell,” Felix sighed.

He hit the window in a full run, shoulder-first, breaking through and diving to the alley floor below. Electric pain tore down his arm as he hit the broken cobblestones and rolled. Shattered glass rained down, chiming like crystal bells, glistening cherry-red in the sunlight. One of Felix’s knees turned traitor, buckling as he tried to stand, feeling like it’d been smashed with an iron bar. He gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, forcing himself to lope and then to run. Losing himself in the warrens and back alleys of the Lower Eight, and hiding crouched in the shadows of a burnt-out hovel until he was sure he’d made his escape.

*     *     *

Beyond a cellar door in the corner of a small, private garden, down a steep and narrow flight of steps, lantern light bathed Leggieri’s workshop in a warm glow. Felix perched shirtless on a stool beside a drafting table, wincing as the Artist of Mirenze wound strips of white linen around an arm streaked with cuts. Behind him, walls bristled with the tools of the assassin’s trade, from fine-bladed knives to lengths of razor wire and fans of sharpened steel.

“I am concerned,” Leggieri said, “at the rate you seem to be accumulating injuries.”

Felix gritted his teeth as the older man tied off the linen, faint trickles of scarlet seeping through.

“One of the gaspers didn’t work. Fortunately, the first one did, or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”