Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) (22 page)

Felix found Taviano across the street from the greengrocer’s. The sight of a gathering crowd and the sound of murmurs and gasps drew him across the rain-damp cobblestones. He stood up on his toes and peered over onlookers’ shoulders to get a better look.

The butler was dead, stabbed and dumped in a blind alley. Someone had taken Felix’s revenge for him—and cut off any ties to Taviano’s secret master.

“Did anyone see it?” he said. He could barely muster the force to breathe, let alone speak. The wet air had gone thin.

A woman in a calico dress, clutching a wicker shopping basket to her chest, shook her head. “A terrible thing, sir. A terrible thing. I was the first to see him. Just…lyin’ there like that. The constables should be here soon enough.”

Felix shoved his feelings aside, forcing himself to focus on the grisly sight. No blood on the cobblestones. Taviano’s murder had happened somewhere else. Load the body into a coach, pull up to the alley, shove him out when no one was looking…it would have taken no time at all.

His shoulders sagged as he turned and walked away. There didn’t seem to be any point in staying. A block later, walking numbly, he realized which way his feet had pointed him.

The Hen and Caber
, he thought.
It’s time. I’ve got to face Renata. Show her what Winter’s Reach made of me.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed the black coach rattling alongside him, pulled by a pair of shaggy horses in a slow trot.

“Felix,” called a voice from inside. The coach stopped.

The door swung wide, and Basilio Grimaldi gestured toward him.

“Get in. We need to talk.”

*   *   *

“So,” Basilio said as the coach started to roll, “headed for the docks, are we? Bit of an early dinner at the Hen and Caber?”

Sitting on the bench opposite him, Felix felt sick.
How does he know that? WHY does he know that?

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Basilio said. “Felix, you need to understand something about me. I despise small talk. Straight answers, honesty, the unvarnished truth, these are the traits I admire in a man. You were planning on leaving my daughter standing at the altar, weren’t you?”

Felix almost denied it, then caught himself. Half of him had planned to tell Renata it was over. Half had wanted to take her and go, run away together tonight, and damn the consequences.

No. More than half. He’d do whatever it took to save his family, but breaking up with Renata wasn’t on the table. Looking back, finally honest with himself, he realized it had
never
been on the table.

He and Renata were going to Kettle Sands and starting their new life together. No matter what.

“No,” he told Basilio, finding a quiet confidence. “I would have disappeared long before the wedding, to spare Aita that humiliation. I also intended to write her a personal apology to make sure she knew my leaving wasn’t about her.”

Basilio nodded. “You are an honorable man, Felix. I like you. Always have. What do you know about the Council of Nine?”

“My grandfather was a member, before the Banco Rossini fell on hard times. They used to advise the Duke of Mirenze, though I’m told the duke was more a puppet than anything else. They basically ran the city.”

“We still do, just…more quietly than before. A chair has opened up, a rare occurrence, and I want it filled by a man who will vote exactly how I wish. That man is you.”

“Vote how
you
wish,” Felix repeated.

“You will marry my daughter, I will use my influence to reverse your family’s downfall and make you worthy of the nomination, and you will take your position on the Council as your grandfather’s legacy. I will make you a very wealthy man, Felix, and you will show your gratitude by obeying me without question. Is that clear?”

“Not even a little,” Felix said, shaking his head. “Why would I do that?”

“I told you. Because I’ll make you wealthy. Oh, right. You need more incentive. How about Renata?”

“I can’t be with Renata if I marry Aita.”

Basilio leaned back. His gaze was cold, reptilian as he studied Felix.

“I’m talking about Renata’s continued safety.”

Felix blinked. “Signore Grimaldi…are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m threatening her. Listen and understand, as this is very important: Renata is safe so long as you do exactly as you’re told. If you disobey, she will be abducted. She will be taken to the basement of a secluded house on the East End, where a number of unfriendly men will spend the next few days doing extremely unpleasant things to her. Then she will be released, possibly missing a tiny piece or two. And this will happen to her again, and again, and
again
, until you learn your place.”

Felix stared at him. The coach rumbled along.

His hand was in his belt pouch, fingers closing over the handle of his father’s knife before he realized he was doing it.

“Felix,” Basilio said softly, glancing down at the pouch, “is that a weapon in your hand?”

Felix nodded. “Yes, Signore Grimaldi. Yes, it is.”

“You never struck me as the kind of person who carries a blade.”

“I’ve been to Winter’s Reach,” Felix said. It felt like the only way he could explain it.

Basilio leaned forward on the bench, closer to him.

“Have you ever taken a man’s life, Felix?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“The first time,” Basilio said, giving him a fatherly smile, “is very difficult. Harder than you think.”

“And the second time?”

“Much easier. You understand now, that wool is not my family’s only business. Yes?”

“Yes,” Felix whispered. The horn hilt of the knife felt smooth against the pad of his thumb.

“Your father. Your brother and his wife. Renata. These are the people who will suffer from now on, if you choose to be foolish. These are the people who will be rewarded, if you choose to cooperate. You’re a responsible man. A man of honor. Now prove it to me.”

Felix’s forced himself to unclench his fingers from the knife, one at a time. Slowly, still staring into Basilio’s eyes, he rested his empty hand on his lap.

“I believe,” Basilio said, “that one day, we will look back and laugh about this moment. And here’s your stop.”

He rapped sharply on the roof of the coach. The driver, from his perch above the cab, reined the horses to a stop. Felix opened the door and stepped out onto a street nowhere near the docks. The mist in the air had turned to a light, cold rain. The stump of his ear ached under its velvet wrap.

“Smile,” Basilio said from the coach window. “You’re about to marry a beautiful woman and come into great wealth. Most people would call this a lucky day.”

“Perhaps the old ducal archive in Mirenze,” Dante said. He sat on the velvet sofa in Cardinal Accorsi’s library, cradling a cut-crystal glass filled with whiskey in the palm of his hand.

“No, no, we’ve searched there,” Marcello said as he paced the marble floor. “Trace your father’s last few years before he died. Think back. Did he keep any spare apartments? Did he have a mistress, perhaps?”

“I’m sure he had five or six. It would help if you would explain exactly what you’re looking for.”

“Some private correspondence, extremely pri—”

A thundering crash echoed from down the hallway. One of the cardinal’s guards ran into the room, wide-eyed and breathless, and slammed the library door shut behind him.

“Sir! That man, the guest from earlier today, he’s going on a rampage in the foyer!”

“Werner?” Dante said, looking from the guard to Marcello.

“Rollo’s gone out the back,” the guard said. “Going to raise the district watch. Stay here. I’ll keep you safe.”

Shouts sounded behind the library door, punctuated by heavy thuds and the sounds of breaking furniture. The guard drew a thin-bladed rapier from his belt and pressed his back against the door, drenched in panic-sweat.

He shouldn’t have been worried about the door.

Mari hit the library window in a sprint, tucking her head down and hitting it at full speed. The glass exploded, spraying glittering shards through the air as she flew into the room, hit the ground, rolled on her shoulder, and came up in a kneeling crouch. One of her batons flung free from her outstretched hand, whipping toward the hapless guard and slamming into his forehead. He crumpled and dropped, out cold.

She jumped up, charged Marcello, and grabbed his collar faster than a viper’s bite. Flecks of broken glass hung in her ragged hair, catching the sunlight like diamonds. She shoved the cardinal up against the wall of books, making the shelves rattle, and spoke in a feral growl.

“
You lied
.”

“What’s going on?” Dante said, looking between them.

“He was going to kill you once he got what he wanted,” Mari snapped. “More hunters coming. Bad people.”

“That’s—that’s,” Marcello stammered, “that’s preposterous. Just look at her, this girl is clearly deranged.”

Dante shook his head. “Perhaps, cardinal, but in my experience, she’s the nobler sort of deranged. You, on the other hand? Perfectly sane but not very trustworthy, are you?”

The library door flung open at a kick from Werner’s boot. He was red-faced and panting, and fresh blood flecked his tunic and the ends of his fighting staff. None of it appeared to be his.

“Bells ringing out back,” he panted. “Constabulary’s on the way. We have to go.”

Mari shoved Marcello to the floor, stalked across the room, and crouched beside the unconscious guard to pick up her fallen baton. Dante shrugged and downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, tossing the glass over his shoulder. It shattered on the floor.

He offered a bow to Marcello and said, “Cardinal, your whiskey was exquisite, but your hospitality was abominable. I shall not be inviting you to Solstice dinner, and you can consider yourself officially removed from my gifting list.”

Mari was already gone, clambering out the window and onto the lawn. Dante followed her.

“Perfectly good door back here,” Werner called out. Then he sighed, slung his staff over his shoulder, and followed them.

Now they could hear the bells, clanging loudly at the far end of the rolling lawns, calling all swords to defend the cardinal’s villa. Dante pointed east, breaking into a run.

“This way, to the stables. I’m sure the good cardinal won’t mind lending us a horse or three. Only the best for his guests, after all!”

“Do you know what he wanted?” Werner wheezed, still trying to catch his breath from the fight.

Dante grinned like a wolf. “Not exactly. The important thing is, whatever he’s looking for, I know
exactly
where it is.”

*   *   *

Constables burst into the ruined library, boots crunching on broken glass. Firm, reverent hands hoisted Marcello to his feet and brushed the dirt from his cassock. They asked if he was hurt. He barely heard them. He was a thousand miles away.

Two years of planning. Two years of meticulous research and study, two years of waiting like a trapdoor spider for all the pieces to fall into alignment.

Two years wasted in the blink of an eye.

Dante was supposed to lead him to his father’s letters. That was the key to his entire plan. Without them, Marcello had nothing. Worse than nothing: he’d put all of his eggs in one golden basket, and with Benignus at death’s door and Carlo about to ascend to the papal throne, he had nothing left to bargain with.

Maybe his plan could still be salvaged. He waved off the constables and poured himself a drink to steady his nerves. Then he dispatched a messenger to the Rusted Nail, where he hoped the ruffians he’d hired would still be waiting for orders. His letter, scribbled in haste and sealed with a rough blob of scarlet wax, went straight to the point:
“Two other hunters in my employ have betrayed me and taken Uccello. They are fleeing the city now. Find them. Kill the hunters. Bring Uccello back alive. Crippled is fine.”

He wasn’t hurt, he told the constables, just a little twinge in his shoulder from when he’d fallen to the floor. Had he seen the robbers who broke into his villa? Sadly, no, he had not. The last thing he wanted was for the law to get hold of Dante and hear his side of the story.

After sending everyone away, he stood in his library in silence. Broken glass pooled around his russet slippers. He stared out the broken window, eyes fixed on a distant bell tower.

Carlo’s ascension was inevitable. Lodovico Marchetti’s backing, the occupation of the papal manse by brigands masquerading as knights…whatever his endgame was, Lodovico was going all-in.

“I need to reposition myself on the chessboard,” Marcello mused aloud. “Make sure that whatever happens, I’m in the perfect place to reap an advantage.”

The gears of his mind turned with clockwork precision, forging a simple and direct plan: a sacrifice play.

An hour later he sat in the conference room in the papal manse, across the polished mahogany table from Carlo. Alone together in the candlelight, with a pitcher of red wine resting between them. From the smell on his breath, it wasn’t Carlo’s first of the day.

The rumors are right
, Marcello thought.
His drinking is getting worse
. He felt a faint glimmer of optimism.

“Wine?” Carlo said, nodding to the empty cup at Marcello’s left hand as he filled his own to the brim.

“No, thank you, but you’ll certainly want one. Perhaps two, given what I have to say.”

“I was surprised, hearing you wanted to talk to me,” Carlo said. His brows knitted. “I thought you didn’t like me very much.”

Marcello put on his most ingratiating smile. “Carlo, you’re still so young. Politics—especially politics in the College of Cardinals—is a viper’s nest. Plots within plots. To succeed, you must never let on what you really feel. The truth is I’ve supported you all along. Given my feuds with your father, though, a public show of support would just breed suspicion. I’ve allowed people to believe what they will about me, while privately putting good words in the right ears.”

Carlo thought for a moment, as far as his wine-fogged brain would allow.

“Guess that makes sense,” he said.

“My public veil of disapproval has also ferreted out some potential troublemakers in our midst, people who think they’re safe coming to me with their complaints against you. I have some very bad news, Carlo. There’s a conspiracy in this house, right under your father’s roof.”

In the hall outside, a knight’s boots clunked heavily against the marble flooring. Carlo shot a nervous glance in the direction of the sound, then pushed himself up in his chair, squaring his shoulders.

“A conspiracy?”

“A conspiracy,” Marcello said, nodding grimly, “to dishonor your father’s wishes and deprive you of your rightful throne. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, Carlo. You don’t know how much it pains my heart—”

“Tell me!” Carlo said, leaning closer.

“Amadeo Lagorio,” the cardinal said.

Carlo shook his head. “No. No, that’s not right. Amadeo is my friend—”

“It gets worse, dear boy. Your sister is helping him. As well as that mute Rimiggiu, your father’s man—”

Carlo looked like he was about to cry. “L-Livia?”

Marcello folded his hands. “She resents that you’re Benignus’s favorite. She always has. You know that, don’t you?”

“She…she has. Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. It’s like she
wants
to hate me.”

“And Amadeo? Think it over, Carlo. Is he your friend…or hers? Maybe they’ve been laughing at you all this time. Spying on you. Plotting against you every time your back was turned.”

Carlo didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The storm clouds brewing behind his eyes told the cardinal what he needed to know. The seeds of betrayal found fertile soil in that drink-addled heart, and Carlo looked like he was waging a war between feeling hurt and feeling furious.

“Search their rooms, have someone follow them quietly. I’m sure you’ll find proof in short order,” Marcello said. “I’m telling you this, because I want to make sure you know where I stand. I am your friend, Carlo. Your
only
true friend in this house. I’ll help you every step of the way, from here to your father’s throne and beyond, because I believe in you. That is…if you want my help. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to.”

Carlo looked like a true believer in the presence of a living saint.

“I want it,” he said softly. “I…I had no idea this was going on. I need your help.”

Marcello inclined his head, all benign grace, and reached across the table to clasp Carlo’s hand.

“I’m your man,” he said.

“What should I do? About Amadeo and Livia?”

Marcello shrugged and pretended to think it over. “Well, Amadeo is the real trouble-maker, isn’t he? Livia’s not as smart as you are, Carlo. She could never have come up with this on her own. Perhaps keep her under house arrest, locked away until you can marry her off in some favorable alliance. She can still be of use in that manner. Think of her as a valuable piece of property, to be held in safe-keeping until the time is right to make the most of your investment.”

“Good. That’s a good idea. And Amadeo?”

Marcello sighed. “He’s a source of turbulence, in a time when we need clear, calm waters. Denouncing him or exiling him won’t work. The people love him too dearly. What else can we do with a turbulent priest, Carlo? Can you think of anything that might…permanently fix our little problem?”

Carlo slouched back in his chair and sipped his wine. The knight’s armored boots clopped by in the hallway outside. Carlo’s eyes narrowed.

“I think I just did,” he said.

Marcello put a few more sweet words in Carlo’s ear, kissed him on both cheeks, and took his leave. Sealing Amadeo’s fate was a shame, he thought, but it only amounted to a bit of stray housecleaning. The pope’s confessor was too popular, his voice too loud among the common rabble. One way or another, he would have become an obstacle to Marcello’s long-term ambitions. Best to remove him now and, better yet, let Carlo take the actual risks.

As for Livia, the girl was an annoying nuisance. This would silence her quite nicely. Marcello whistled a happy tune as he strolled out of the papal manse, basking in the sunlight and feeling like things might still be going his way.