Terms of Surrender (17 page)

Darkness spread over Kettle Sands.

As a bone-white moon rose in the murky sky, Renata felt her chest go tight. Standing on the roof of Elisavet Sanna’s farmhouse, she looked out over the staging ground. House and barn to the south, then a stretch of barren field, then the forest line. And somewhere beyond the forest wall were a hundred men intent on seeing her—and every other living soul in Kettle Sands—dead by sunrise.

Lydda lay flat on her belly at the edge of the roof. Her crossbow was a gargantuan thing, cobbled together from black iron and knotty, gnarled driftwood.

“Me and Townkiller will be keeping watch from on high.” Lydda patted the crossbow’s stock. “Just remember everything I taught ya. And watch your footing!”

Renata swallowed, her throat dry, and nodded. “I’ll see you after the fight, then, if we both make it. Thank you. For all your help.”

“Eh, just don’t die out there. I still might wanna sell you to Aita later.”

Renata clambered down a ladder, then the rickety stairs, to the parlor below. Two dozen men and women waited for her, faces upturned, clutching knives and rusty pitchforks in uncertain hands.

Gallo gave her a nod. “Ready, lass?”

Renata looked out over the gathering.

“Soon,” she said, “they’ll be coming for us. They think they’re entitled to the crops you sweat and labored over. They think they’re entitled to your homes. They think they’re entitled to take your lives, because you committed the crime of standing in their way and saying
no
.”

Her hand rested on the hilt of her rapier, feeling its reassuring weight.

“They’ll give us no quarter, no mercy. I suggest we do the same.” She shook her head. “That’s all. There’s nothing else to be said. You all know what’s expected of you. Let’s get this over with.”

The townsfolk filtered out in silence, taking their positions. Some of them whispering goodbye to one another in the dark. Just in case. One by one, they vanished—hiding behind the barn and in crude dugouts at the edges of the field. Maybe the element of surprise would turn the tide in their favor. Maybe it wouldn’t.

Renata took to the field alone. She stood in the open, cast in moonlight, and waited.

She heard the crusaders before she saw them. The tromping of boots, the crunching of dead branches and dried leaves. The nobleman was the first to emerge from the wood, riding high on his warhorse. Behind him, a line of men. Twenty, then thirty, then another rank doubling their numbers, and another beyond them. Ragged lines, but showing their discipline. They came to a halt at the edge of the field, all eyes on Renata.

“This is your last chance,” she called out, her words carried on the wind. “Move on. Go around Kettle Sands and leave us in peace.”

“
Really
,” the nobleman called back. His horse stomped an eager hoof. “And what will you do if we don’t? You have nothing to bargain for peace with.”

“We offered you the gleanings of the field. You wouldn’t take them. That was the
end
of peace bargaining.”

The rapier sang from its scabbard. She held it high in the moonlight.

“What comes next is war.”

The nobleman spread his hands and laughed in disbelief.

“Fine, then,” he said. “War it is.”

Renata whipped down her arm, cutting air with her blade. A single crossbow bolt whined through the sky over her head, a steel hornet with a razor tip, and punched through the nobleman’s open mouth. He slumped backward in his saddle, blood drooling off the gleaming steel jutting from the back of his skull.

“As you wish,” Renata said softly.

I never even knew his name
, she thought as the crusaders looked at one another in stunned confusion. She braced herself, waiting for the inevitable.

One of the crusaders flung up his arm and pointed. “
Kill her!
” he shouted.

That was the spur they needed. They came for her, a human tide, surging across the fallow field like wasps from a kicked-over hive. Renata cupped her open hand to the side of her mouth.

“Fire teams,” she shouted, “
now!
”

Pairs of men, hidden to the east and west of the field, burst from cover with torches lit. The torches went flying, tumbling in shining arcs to land at the feet of the front line.

Landing in the pools of oil they’d spent hours coating across the back quarter of Elisavet’s field.

The land erupted in gouts of flame, and so did the advance guard. Crusaders screamed as they roasted alive, stumbling, burning, human torches whose flesh charred black even as their throats kept shrieking.

The stench of scorching meat washed over Renata on a gust of night wind. She stood impassive, unmoving, even as her stomach churned.

The back ranks scrambled fast, finally recovering enough to flank. A pack of crusaders charged around to the east—and vanished as the ground slipped out from under their feet. Nothing but muddy tarpaulin stretched over a hastily dug pit. A pit lined with sharpened wooden stakes. She heard their screams as wood punched through lungs and bellies and throats, the lucky ones dying fast.

“Defenders,” she shouted, “rally on me!”

The villagers burst from hiding, taking to the field as the remaining crusaders—thirty, maybe forty, she wasn’t sure—circled the fires and the pits and came for her. The crusaders had armed themselves with branch clubs, cooking knives, anything they could get their hands on. Just like her side. The crusaders shouted in rage, and the villagers shouted in defiance, and both lines met in the heart of Sanna Farm with a crash of steel and bone.

Renata didn’t have to remember what Lydda had taught her. In the heat of the fight, it came naturally. One slash and a crusader went down howling, his guts spilling out across the loam. An upward slice and her rapier split a man’s chin, sending him staggering and clutching his face, stumbling into the tines of a villager’s pitchfork. The villager swung him down, raising the fork and stabbing him again and again as he convulsed on the bloody ground. Two crusaders set upon one of the defenders, laying into him with their makeshift clubs until his skull was nothing but crimson paste. Then one of them gagged on sharp steel as a villager ran up and slammed her carving knife through the back of his throat.

There was no more strategy. No grand plan, no tactics. Just kill or be killed. As Renata strode through the battle, leaving dead and mutilated men in her wake, all she could hear was a frenzied, furious howl of rage.

Oh
, said a tiny voice in the back of her mind.
That’s me
.

Then she found herself standing at the edge of a burning field, bloody rapier dangling in her exhausted hand, with no one left to fight. The battle was over.

The survivors stood around her, gazing down at their handiwork. The bodies, the blood, the softly crackling flames. The groans of the wounded and dying.

“That wasn’t…” one of the villagers muttered, staggering past her. He stared down at the gore-streaked pitchfork in his hands. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. I didn’t.”

Another, with a knife, moved from body to body. Kicking each fallen crusader onto his back and driving her blade into each one’s heart to make sure he was dead. Emotionless. Mechanical. Like slaughtering chickens.

Weeping, to her left. Weeping that became a full-throated cry of grief. Renata stumbled toward the sound. It was the twins, the young crusaders she’d overheard when she spied on their camp. One had a gushing wound along his leg. The other was dead, head cradled in his brother’s lap.

Renata crouched beside him. The live one, still weeping, scrambled to get away from her with a look of sudden terror on his face.

“No,” she said softly. Then she tore a strip of linen from her skirts. She bound his leg as he shivered, stanching his wound.

“I told him,” he stammered, his face gluey with tears and snot. “I told him…it would be fun.”

Renata didn’t answer. She finished tending to his leg.

He looked at her and gave a tiny shake of his head.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” she said and helped him to stand.

Livia looked out over the battlefield, one last time.

They could call it the Battle of the Gleanings
, she thought,
if any historian thought this was worth writing about
. But she knew they wouldn’t. What happened in Kettle Sands wouldn’t merit a footnote in the annals of war, and the lost column of crusaders would be just that: lost and forgotten, a scratched-out line item in some Imperial accountant’s ledger.

The ones who were there, though—they would remember. They would remember the short, terrible night and the long morning after as the sun rose over a cold and lonely battlefield. And there was no glory, no honor, and nothing left to be done but dig the graves.

In Mirenze, death was in fashion. As the autumn shadows grew longer, Saint Lucien’s Night loomed ever closer, and the high streets were abuzz with excitement. Tailors worked overtime to craft elaborate vests and gowns, tailed coats in garish colors and fans of peacock plumage. And then, the masks. Masks of silk, masks of feathers, masks of lacquer filigreed with silver or gold. Masks in every artisan’s window, enticing the street traffic to come in and buy before the revels began.

“I don’t understand this tradition,” Anakoni said. The islander walked at Felix’s side, the men keeping their hoods pulled low and blending into the crowds. “It’s a celebration for a dead man, and you all wear costumes?”

“Not just any dead man. A saint. He was an intercessor, who cast out spirits and demons in the Gardener’s name.”

Anakoni jerked his thumb toward a polished shop window and the gruesome masks resting on a tray of black velvet.

“So you dress up like spirits and demons. To honor him.”

Felix shrugged. “It’s Mirenze. Honestly? We’ll do anything for a good party. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Which got him thinking. He fell silent, working angles in his head.

“What is it?” Anakoni said.

“Every year, the governor holds a masked ball on Saint Lucien’s Night. Anyone who’s anyone will be there. Including Aita and Lodovico.”

“And everyone will be wearing masks,” Anakoni mused. “Still, you want to go
inside
the governor’s mansion? Every guardsman in this city thinks you’re a murderer. I can’t imagine a party like that would be lightly guarded, with so many aristocrats in their jewels and finery about.”

“No. And invitations aren’t easy to come by. Still, it’s an opportunity. Let me think about it, see if I can come up with a way in.”

First, though, it was time to work. Gleaning information from the petty thugs they shook down, one scrap at a time, they’d learned that Aita planned to send her extortionists back to the Strada di Uva
.
This time, with armed guards to protect them.

That was fine. Felix had armed men too, and they filed in behind him and Anakoni one by one until they became a wolf pack. Cutting through alleys, navigating Mirenze’s backways, arriving at the bustling merchant street. And there stood the first “tax collector” they’d robbed, sticking out like a sore thumb with two bruisers in brigandine leather at his back.

“Two bodyguards?” Anakoni snorted, looking back over his shoulder. “We’ve got ten. Bad odds for them.”

His gang snickered. Some with leather saps, some with marlinspikes and cargo hooks scavenged from the ship. Sailors’ weapons, for a sailor-style brawl, and they knew how to use them.

Felix nodded up ahead. “I bet he takes the same route, too. Let’s split up and try to pin them in that alley.”

The extortionist groaned when he saw Felix coming, and again when he turned and saw the rest of the pack closing in on the other side. One of the bodyguards laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, calm and collected. They didn’t seem worried. Not one bit.

They weren’t locals, either. Murgardt, with wispy blond hair and sky-blue eyes. And Felix had their undivided attention.

“You can show your face, Felix,” one said affably. “We know who you are. And we have a message from your wife.”

He tugged back his hood. “I’m listening.”

“This needs to stop. Immediately. Targeting her business operations is unacceptable.”

“
Business?
” Felix wrinkled his nose. “You steal money from innocent storekeepers under the threat of violence.”

The Murgardt shrugged. “Aita’s clients are under her benevolent protection. You’re the one stirring things up. Bringing chaos into the system. You need to stop.”

Felix glanced at the extortionist’s belt. “No, I think
you
need to hand over that coin purse. Now.”

The Murgardt sighed. Then he reached over, yanked the purse free, and weighed it in his hand.

“Your wife is being polite—”

“
Don’t
call her that.”

“Your wife is being polite and giving you a warning. She knows you, Felix. She knows your scruples, and your limitations. Most of all? She knows how to hurt you.”

Felix held out his hand.

“The purse. Now, if you please.”

“On your head be it,” he said and tossed the purse. It landed in Felix’s palm with a heavy jingle. “You should come around tomorrow morning. Say, a little after sunrise. Your wife’s response will be delivered directly.”

*     *     *

“Of course it’s some kind of trap,” Felix told Anakoni. “Telling me exactly where to be and when to be there? She could flood the streets with men and try to smoke me out with sheer numbers. But still, that doesn’t feel like her style. Too direct, too simple. That line he said about knowing how to hurt me…I don’t like the sound of it.”

“What do you think she’s planning, then?”

“No clue. I just know I need to be there. Alone. If she
does
send an army after me, I don’t want any of our people to get hurt. And I can move faster and disappear easier if I’m alone.”

“I’m going with you.” Anakoni caught Felix’s look, and lifted a finger. “I
am
going with you. Whatever Aita’s plotting, I want to see it for myself.”

The next day, before sunrise, they took to the rooftops. The sky glowed with false dawn as they jumped from ledge to ledge, high above the sleepy streets. Practice had helped Felix find his sense of balance. More confident now, faster and light-footed on the treacherous slopes. They found a spot on a flat rooftop with a commanding view of the street, got down on their bellies, and waited.

As dawn broke and the city stirred to life, it was business as usual down below. Pushcarts and pedestrians and the occasional fat wagon rattling past and forcing the crowds to part like a stubborn sea.

“There,” Anakoni whispered.

Felix followed his gaze. The bodyguards from yesterday were back, but they’d added to their numbers. Five in all, they stalked up the street in a tight phalanx.

“
This
is her response?” Anakoni said in disbelief. “To send a few more men? I’m not sure whether to feel insulted or just embarrassed for her.”

“I don’t think so,” Felix murmured. “The collector isn’t with them. Let’s watch.”

They stomped into a butcher’s shop, one of the usual extortion targets, and emerged with the butcher. He was a stocky man in a well-worn apron, and two of the men gripped him by his elbows, almost dragging him.

“Your attention, please,” shouted the Murgardt in front. He was bland-faced and forgettable, wearing a pleasant smile. “May I have your kind attention?”

Foot traffic paused and shopkeepers poked their heads out of doorways, people clustering around in curiosity.

“Thank you. My name is Weiss. You may be seeing more of me in the next few weeks. Or not. It’s up to you. You see, we have a problem. It seems that a vigilante has been stirring up some trouble in our fair city. Striking blows at the people who work so hard to keep you safe and protected. His name is Felix Rossini. He is a murderer, he is a thief, and—as of today—we are offering two
thousand
scudi for information leading to his capture. No questions asked.”

“Damn,” Felix whispered as an excited murmur rippled through the crowd. “Do you think anyone in your crew will bite at that?”

Anakoni took a deep breath. “Not my men. We’ll need to watch the newest recruits, though. Worse, it’ll be impossible to expand our numbers now. Anyone we try to hire can profit more by turning you in.”

“Just…one last thing,” Weiss announced. “We know Felix has coconspirators. This man, for instance: yesterday, his business-tax payment was stolen by Signore Rossini. Did he inform on us? Did he tell Felix when our collector would be passing by? We don’t know. And up until now, we’ve let bygones be bygones.”

He whirled and slammed a fist of stone into the butcher’s face, pulping his nose. Then a swift knee capped with metal drove into the butcher’s groin, dropping him to the cobblestones where he writhed in pain.

“From now on,” Weiss said, “anyone who benefits from Felix Rossini’s unlawful activities, in any way, shape, or form, will be punished accordingly.”

He kicked the butcher in the gut. The man’s smashed nose leaked a stream of blood onto the street while the crowd staggered back, the mood shifting from curiosity to fear. Felix started to get up.

“I have to help him—”

Anakoni grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. “No, Felix. That’s what he wants you to do. That’s what
she
wants you do.
Look
.”

He jabbed his finger at the crowd. More foreigners stood, scattered along the boulevard, pretending to be part of the gathering. Maybe ten in all, covering the street from every angle.

“You go down there, they’ll have you in seconds. If the crowd itself doesn’t tear you apart trying to earn that reward money.”

Felix gritted his teeth.
She knows how to hurt you
, the Murgardt had warned him.

“Felix,” Weiss called out, eyes wide as he scanned the crowd and looked to the alleys. “I know you’re here. I know you’re watching. She has a message for you.”

He spun and drove a booted foot into the butcher’s face, shattering his jaw like glass.

“
You did this
,” Weiss shouted, pointing down at the groaning man. The butcher tried to push himself up and fell, his hand slipping in a spreading puddle of his own blood.

Felix closed his eyes. His head sagged.

“
You
,” Weiss shouted again, punctuating each word with another savage kick to the butcher’s gut. “
Did. This
.”

“Come on,” Anakoni whispered. “Let’s go, before they think to check the rooftops.”

He tugged at Felix’s sleeve. Felix didn’t move.

“And that concludes this morning’s announcements,” Weiss told the crowd, his placid smile back in place. “Please, carry on, enjoy your shopping, and have a lovely day.”

*     *     *

Weiss was pleased. Beyond the light bit of morning exercise, it was nice to fix a client’s problems so tidily. Felix’s little “gang” wouldn’t be growing its numbers, not once word of the reward filtered to every dive bar in the city, and there was a good chance one of his own might betray him. Meanwhile, Felix had learned the price of striking at his wife’s livelihood.

Aita had chuckled when Weiss laid out his plan. “No, you won’t have to do it more than once. Trust me: once he knows we’ll start punishing the rabble in retaliation for
his
offenses, he’ll never try that again.”

“He’ll come at you a different way, then.”

“Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find him
before
he gets any more bright ideas.”

He was working on that.

Schwartzmann had been one of the Dustmen escorting Aita’s collector the day before. They walked together as Weiss made him recount the entire story, every last detail, for the eighth time.

“Ten of them, wait, maybe eleven.”

“
Think
,” Weiss said. “Details are important. Somewhere in your memory is the key we need. Now, you’re certain they were all Enoli islanders?”

He nodded. “Positive. Besides Felix, of course.”

“What about their weapons? Quality steel?”

Schwartzmann shook his head. “Cheap. Mostly saps and a few daggers, better suited to whittle wood than cut men. A few…meat hooks, I think? Wait.”

Weiss’s head snapped his way. “What?”

He held up a finger. “There
was
something. One of the men to Felix’s left. He had an odd one on his belt. It was like…a spike.”

“A spike?”

“A spike, about a foot long, made of…black iron, I think. It had a loop at the top and dangled from his belt on a short lanyard.”

A satisfied smile rose to Weiss’s lips.

“That’s not a weapon. Well, it
can
be, but only if you know how to use it.”

“What was it, then?”

“Marlinspike,” Weiss said. “It’s a sailor’s tool. Used for hitching and untying knots on a boat. I think, after dark falls, we should round up a few free hands and take a stroll down to the harbor. See if any ships with Enoli crew have taken on any…unusual passengers of late.”