The Instruments of Control (25 page)

The crusade moved, but slowly.

Cosimo Segreti called himself the son of a duke, though his family’s “duchy” was nothing but a backwater village in the belly of Verinia, too far from Imperial roads to draw tax collectors or the notice of anyone important. When the call to crusade rang out, he was one of the first to sew the silhouette of the iron tree onto the chest of his tunic and take up arms for the cause. It was the right, devout, and faithful thing to do.

Besides, he was bored. He’d grown up hearing stories of the plunder from the last war with the Caliphate, of young men returning home draped with jewels and pearls looted from the desert. Now was his chance for adventure and glory, maybe the only chance he’d ever get.

So he took his brother’s horse and his father’s lance and led a ragtag column of men toward the borderlands. They were peasants, farmers mostly, who had thrown everything they owned into sacks and taken up the tree. Some did it for the faith; some did it for the chance at improving their lot with a fistful of Caliphate gold. Cosimo didn’t care about their motives, so long as they fought bravely when the time came, while he commanded from the rear.

Mercy
,
but they’re slow
, he thought.

They could only move as fast as their slowest man, and with the exception of Cosimo, every crusader was on foot and carrying his life on his back. Fifteen miles of progress was a good day. Eight was more typical. And as they passed through each new village, picking up more followers and adventure-seekers to grow their ranks, the pace only became more sluggish.

As they reached the Carcannan border, one more land to cross before the desert, Cosimo’s sense of tedium turned to slowly growing worry.

They’d been promised supply caravans. Food and weapons for the peasant levy. As he met up with other columns and joined forces on the road, their wedge of the crusade growing by the day, none of the promised support had appeared.

Are we in the wrong place?
he wondered, cupping his hand over his brow to scan the horizon as his horse clopped along.
Are they behind us? Ahead of us?

Most of his men had nothing to face off against the heathens with, nothing but bare fists and harsh language. Scattered fights over the rapidly dwindling rations had already started to break out around the nightly cook fires. No casualties yet, but it was only a matter of time before the hungriest crusaders grew desperate.

Cosimo knew he’d have to figure out a solution, and soon. He hated the idea of looting a farm or two for a little extra food—Carcanna was an Imperial client-state and an ally—but it was starting to look like the only option.

Though in our sad condition
, he thought bitterly,
we could be driven off by farmers with pitchforks.

They promised us a weapons caravan. Said it was all being handled, not to worry. Damn it all, where are our spears?

*     *     *

Ophelie Leclerc crouched in a muddy thicket before a tray of varnished wood. Small bones nestled in her pale, cupped hands, fresh ivory streaked with stains the color of strawberries. Off to her left, in the clearing proper, the glow of the bonfire and the triumphant howls of drunken dancers were a distant distraction.

She rattled the bones and tossed them onto the tray. They rolled and scattered, like a constellation of stars. Stars made of human finger joints. She studied the pattern, holding her hand over the tray and tracing lines only she could see.

Turning tide
, she thought,
momentum.

Branches snapped at her back. Judicael bent down and embraced her from behind, his slender arms wrapping around the sleeves of her wolfskin robe.

“And what do the bones say, my love?” he asked, leaning his chin on her shoulder.

She turned her head, baring her teeth and growling at him. He laughed. She jerked her neck and bit at his cheek, hard enough to leave a ruby welt.

“They say that when the moonseer goes into the wood for contemplation, you
don’t
interrupt her.”

He growled back, playful, and bit her neck. She groaned and shut her eyes.

“There are other things we could do in the woods,” he murmured.

“Mm. You’ve got your blood up. I think we can do something about—”

One of the rebels, a disheveled youth barely out of his teens, crashed through the underbrush.

“Sir! M’lady!”

Judicael rolled his eyes, patting his wife’s shoulder as he rose.

“Timing isn’t your forte, is it, son? C’mon, out with it.”

Panting, he pointed behind him. “Up the road, about a mile out. Caught ourselves a wagon train. Imperials.”

“Excellent! Bring it in. Prisoners, too? Always good for morale.”

“That’s the thing, sir.” The rebel shook his head. “The master of the caravan? He
wants
us to bring them in. He says he’s looking to meet you.”

Judicael looked at Ophelie. Ophelie looked down at the bones.

“Do it,” she said.

Wagon after loaded wagon curled around the edge of the campsite, the longest merchant caravan Judicael had seen in years. Wealth like that didn’t come to Belle Terre, not anymore. He turned his attention to their visitor, a blond Murgardt in huntsman’s leathers. Like the rest of his team arrayed at his back, he looked far too confident for his own good.

“You wanted to meet me, hmm?” Judicael asked him. “That’s not something I hear often, not from
your
countrymen.”

The visitor inclined his head. Just an inch.

“We’re the Dustmen,” he said. “We have no country. My name is Kappel, but you can call me what you please.”

“I’ll call you a dead man if I don’t hear an explanation in short order. You should know that coming here is suicide, but you don’t look suicidal to me. So what’s this about?”

“You have a friend in Mirenze,” Kappel said. “A supporter of your cause. A strong believer in the rights of sovereign nations, and an enemy of Imperial aggression.”

He led Judicael to the closest wagon and hauled down the tarpaulin. Judicael’s eyes widened.

Spears. Flawless steel heads, lethally sharp, on sanded and perfectly balanced shafts. Better weapons than his rebels could steal or scrounge in a year.

Hundreds of them.

“A gift,” Kappel said, gesturing to the wagons. “To show his affection and support.”

Judicael reached in and pulled out one of the spears. He turned it in his hand, tested the tip of his finger on the head—inhaling between his teeth as it drew a droplet of blood—and grinned.

“And what does our ‘friend’ suggest we do with this unexpected gift, I wonder?”

“I imagine a charismatic man like yourself could raise a good-sized levy from the nearby towns,” Kappel pretended to speculate. “Arm them, train them up quickly—spears are good weapons for that. Then there’s Fort Blackwood, not too far to the east. I hear, thanks to the troop recall, they’re down to quarter strength.”

Judicael studied the spear. “I’ve heard that too.”

“Well…” Kappel shrugged. “I can’t speak for your friend in Mirenze, but if it was me? I’d go slaughter them all.”

“You and your friends here,” Judicael said, gesturing to the crew, “are about to make history.”

“Really? How’s that?”

Judicael put back the spear and clasped Kappel’s shoulders.

“You’ll be the first foreigners to ever find this camp and walk away with your lives and your skins intact. Please, go tell my ‘friend’ how grateful we all are for his gift. And should he need anything—”

“We’ll be in touch,” Kappel told him.

“Is it true?” Zoe asked. In the alley behind the Hen and Caber, under the light of the moon, the pox scars on the barmaid’s heavily rouged cheeks were almost invisible.

“Come on,” Felix told her. “You know me better than that.”

“The things they’re saying about you.” She grabbed his hand. Squeezed. “You have to get out of Mirenze.”

“I know. Renata’s going to meet me in Kettle Sands. I told her—”

He paused.
I told her to meet me there once she heard Basilio was dead. Not exactly a testament to my innocence.

“—to meet me there,” he finished. “But there are guards at every gate, and I don’t have enough coin to hire passage on a ship.”

Zoe rubbed her chin, appraising him. “Can’t help with the coin, but you’re just about my brother’s size. I can get you some workman’s clothes and a hooded cloak. We’ve got an ale shipment coming in first thing in the morning, and the merchant owes me a favor or three. You can pose as a day hand and slip out on his cart.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

She waved a hand at him. “Please. Renata’s practically my sister. I’m not letting her man hang for murder while she’s mooning for you in Kettle Sands. Just promise you’ll send word once you’re both safe and away, so I can read the happy ending.”

She hustled him through the smoky, crowded tavern and up the back stairs to her tiny room on the second floor. It wasn’t much to speak of, just a bare straw-stuffed mattress and a knife-scarred table by a window overlooking the alley.

Zoe came back up a few minutes later with a charred cut of meat on a small tin plate. “Here,” she said, “I imagine you haven’t eaten. Just sit quiet up here and wait. We’ll sort this all out come sunrise.”

His stomach growling, Felix sat alone in her room and sawed at the meat with a nearly blunt knife. He had time to think. Time to catch his breath.

It was all right.

Renata would get the news of Basilio’s death eventually and make her way to their new home. He’d meet her there, once he slipped out of Mirenze. Who’d go that far to track them down? They’d change their names, make up a new past, and blend in. A new life. A clean break.

He’d lost the family business. So what? He’d only cared for his family’s sake, and they were gone now. True, he didn’t have the coin to buy that tavern in Kettle Sands, but if Felix had one talent, it was making money. He’d figure something out. Take whatever work he could at first, just to put a roof over their heads, and sort things out from there.

“A fresh start,” he said to the empty room. He liked the sound of that.

He bit a chunk of meat from the tip of his knife, burnt gristle crunching between his teeth. It tasted like ashes, but his stomach was too empty to argue as he swallowed it down.

The door squeaked as it swung open. Felix glanced up, expecting Zoe.

A tall Oerran man shut the door behind him.

Felix set the knife down on the table.

“You’re the servant at Basilio’s estate,” Felix said. “The one who let me inside and pointed the way to his corpse.”

The man touched his curled fist to his chest in salute. “They call me Hassan the Barber, and I am no man’s servant. Pleasure to meet you, Felix.”

“Let me guess. You’re with Aita. You killed him and set me up. That was her plan all along, wasn’t it? To use me, then throw me to the wolves?”

Hassan shrugged. “Aita
is
the wolf. And I couldn’t say it was always the plan. She’s a very…tactical woman. An opportunist. She changes her approach from moment to moment to make the most of her resources. And I’m sorry to say she found a much more useful ally to throw in with.”

Felix shut his eyes for a moment.

“Lodovico Marchetti.”

“Afraid so,” Hassan said, strolling toward him. “Removing you was a precondition of their new partnership.”

“
Why?
What the hell did I ever
do
to him? Why does he keep trying to kill me?”

“As far as I understand, it was simply business at first. Then he was afraid you’d come after him seeking revenge. It’s not personal, Felix. You’re just…in the way.”

“Well, take a message to Aita for me. Tell her I’m leaving Mirenze for good. She wins. Congratulations. Just…ask her to take care of my family’s staff. I don’t care about the house, but I promised I’d keep them employed. She’s got to be able to find jobs for them somewhere.”

Hassan shook his head. He pulled out the chair across from Felix, wood squealing on wood, and sat down.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’re all dead.”

Felix froze. Hassan smiled at him, almost gleeful, an unspoken dare in his eyes.

“Dead,” Felix whispered.

“Massacred. Then someone burned your family estate to the ground. I understand they’re still counting the bodies. Happened just a few hours ago.”

“Why? Those people—they were
innocent!
They had nothing to do with this! Why would you hurt them?”

Hassan touched his fingers to his chest. “Me? Oh, no, you misunderstand. It wasn’t me, and I have no idea who did it. Could have been any number of people, which is the point you seem to be missing.”

“
Enlighten
me,” Felix said through gritted teeth.

“As far as the world knows, you murdered Basilio Grimaldi, the Puppet Master of Mirenze. A man with a thousand allies. A thousand people who owed him loyalty and respect. People who desperately want to earn Aita’s favor, now that she’s taken her father’s throne. And every one of those people knows your name. You think Aita and Lodovico are your enemies? Felix…you have a
thousand
enemies now. Your only safe haven is a cold and shallow grave.”

“Tell Aita,” Felix said slowly, his heart pounding against his ribs, “that I’m
leaving
. I don’t care about revenge. I don’t care about any of this. I’m leaving, and she’ll never hear from me again.”

“Come now,” Hassan said, almost fatherly as he rested his palms flat on the table. “You know that’s not good enough. As long as you live, there’s a chance—a slim thread of a chance, but still a chance—that you could prove your innocence. No loose ends.”

“So you’re here to kill me, is that it?”

Hassan shrugged. “You should thank me. Most of the men hunting you would make you suffer before you died, for days. Or weeks. Or months. Aita’s ordered me to make it quick. She doesn’t hate you. I think she was actually quite fond of you, as fond as she’s capable of being. She just needs you to die. So before we do this, would you like to pray? I can give you a minute or two. I’m not in a hurry.”

Felix let out a short, sputtering laugh, a sound on the edge of panic.

“You think I’m just going to let you kill me?”

“I think you’re too afraid to do anything else. I made my first kill when I was twelve years old, Felix. I’ve spent my entire life learning to study a man. To read his future in the droplets of sweat on his brow, the hitch in his breath. And do you know what I see in you?”

“Tell me.”

“Softness. Weakness. I don’t say that as an insult. You’re just…like most men, really. You’re smart. I’ll give you that. Clever and quick. But you don’t have a stomach for violence.”

“Do you know,” Felix asked him, “how I lost my ear?”

Hassan showed his teeth. “Of course. It was the first fight you’d ever been in, and you lost. Not exactly a convincing argument.”

“But I learned from it,” Felix said.

“Not enough. Violence isn’t something you
learn
, Felix; it’s something you
are
. When it comes down to that single, defining moment—kill or be killed—most men freeze. They freeze and they die. So yes. I’m here to kill you. And I will, because I’ve killed men exactly like you a hundred times before. That’s just how it is.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“And how exactly,” Hassan said, his voice dripping with condescension, “would you do that?”

Felix swept up the knife and plunged it down through the back of Hassan’s right hand, impaling it through the table.

As Hassan let out a high-pitched shriek, Felix grabbed his plate and smashed it across Hassan’s face. Then he shot to his feet, seizing the edge of the table with both hands and flipping it over.

Hassan tumbled to the floor as the knife ripped free, leaving a jagged gushing wound in his hand. Felix turned, snatched up his chair, and swung it like a club. The chair cracked against Hassan’s skull, falling to pieces. Hassan roared, pain-maddened, and charged into Felix shoulder-first. He slammed him against the wall, both hands curled around the knife, trying to drive it into Felix’s stomach.

Felix caught his hands. Struggling against Hassan’s strength as the blade inched closer and closer to his belly, he curled his fingers and dug them into the knife wound. Small bones cracked and bloody skin peeled back as he gouged at the back of Hassan’s hand. The knife fell free, clattering to the floor, and both men dove for it.

Hassan was faster, but Felix threw an elbow, smashing his nose, buying him a second to fumble at the blood-slick handle. Then he thrust it up with both hands as hard as he could.

Hassan froze. Wide-eyed, he trembled. A trickle of blood ran from his gaping mouth.

The hilt of the knife jutted from his sternum.

Felix scrambled backward on his hands, pushing his back to the bed, staring at what he’d done. Hassan twitched once more, let out a faint gurgle, and died.

Felix didn’t know how he felt. Too many emotions hit him at once, a thunderstorm in his guts. Horror and shame and relief and elation all knotting together, and he leaned to one side and vomited, muscles cramping, until nothing was left but a faint trickle of bile. His chest kept convulsing, as if it could pump all the poison from his heart.

It wasn’t over. Aita wouldn’t let him go.
Couldn’t
, now. She would send more killers, and they’d hunt him—and Renata—to the ends of the world. Then there were all of Basilio’s old allies, the ones who stood to earn her favor if they delivered Felix’s head on a silver platter.

One man against an army of shadows.

Zoe stood in the doorway, mouth agape, a scream trapped in her throat.

“I’m sorry.” He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, wobbling. “I have to go. It’s not safe here, and I can’t put you in danger.”

“But how will you get out of town?”

Felix looked at Hassan’s corpse and shook his head.

“I won’t. There’s work to be done. And I can’t leave Mirenze until it’s over.”

*     *     *

Aita strolled through the shadowed ballroom in her father’s estate—
Mine
, she thought with a faint sense of contentment—and cradled her violin. She played slow, lilting strains, still feeling twinges from the wound she’d suffered in the explosion at the Ducal Arch. Just a faint scar remained on her arm, but the doctors had warned it might pain her for a while.

That was all right. The music was worth it.

One of her servants stood in the ballroom doorway, a box in his hands. He cleared his throat. She lowered the violin’s bow and glanced his way.

“I’m sorry, Signora, but a package was just delivered for you.”

More sympathy gifts from well-wishers
, she thought, already bored by the notion. “Very well, set it in my office.”

“It’s, er, not
just
for you.”

Aita frowned. She took the box—about a foot long on each side—and tucked her violin under one arm as she carried it down the hall.

“For Signora Aita Rossini
,” the label read, “
and for Signore Lodovico Marchetti
.”

She set it down on her father’s old desk, kindled an oil lamp to see by, and tore open the lid. She stood there, silent and motionless. She stayed that way for a very long time.

Hassan’s severed head stared up at her. An iron nail impaled his forehead, fixing a tiny handwritten note just above his glassy, open eyes. It bore just two words.

“You’re next
.”