Terms of Surrender (12 page)

The Dustmen moved by night. When they reached Mirenze, Lodovico’s mercenaries had shed their knightly raiment, abandoned their holy talismans. Now they prowled through the streets as farmers and artisans, beggars and tinkers, disguised to blend into the crowd. Shadowy men with hard eyes, traveling in groups of two or three, bleeding into the city a few at a time.

They spread out through the streets like a growing stain. An infection in the city’s veins.

Lodovico almost didn’t recognize Weiss. He had that sort of look: one might notice the broad shoulders, the muscular hands made to grip and squeeze a man’s throat, but his bland, agreeable face defied any attempt to remember it.
A good trait for a man in the murder business
, Lodovico thought.

They met at the Grimaldi estate, on the outskirts of the city. Weiss came alone. He wasn’t the type of person who needed a bodyguard. In the foyer, he clasped Lodovico’s hand in a vise grip.

“Did you have any trouble?” Lodovico asked.

“None. I pulled ninety-six men from the papal manse. Left behind twelve.”

“Is that enough, in case of trouble?”

As they walked along a silent corridor, Weiss shot him a steel-eyed glance.

“To control a rabble of churchmen and a pope who spends every waking hour with a wineglass in his hand?
One
would be enough. Kappel, my right hand, just got back from Belle Terre. I put him in charge.”

“I hear the Terrai are enjoying their new toys.”

Weiss snickered. “That’s an understatement.”

“Sounds like everything’s proceeding according to plan, then.”

“Not everything, or you wouldn’t have called us here.”

Lodovico shrugged one shoulder. “Certain people are refusing to cooperate and die for us.”

“What luck. Attending to that is my specialty.”

They found Aita in her boudoir, gazing into a trio of standing mirrors. She turned, holding up a shimmering dress the color of spun gold in one hand and a slightly different dress in burnt copper in the other.

“What do you think?” she asked. “For the Governor’s Ball on Saint Lucien’s Night.”

“The copper,” Weiss said with a nod. “It’ll complement the gold in your hair.”

“Thank you,” she said with a slight curtsy. “Lodovico, your guest has a good eye.”

“For more than dresses. Aita, this is Weiss. Master of the Dustmen.”

“Charmed. Just Weiss?”

The assassin smiled blandly. “Just Weiss. Do you have a mask picked out for the ball?”

“I’m going as an angel,” she replied.

“The irony,” Lodovico said, “may cause the ground to split open and swallow us all. Weiss, Aita’s husband-of-convenience has become strikingly inconvenient. He’s assembled a…well, a gang, and he’s preying on her ‘tax collectors.’”

Weiss rubbed his chin. “What sort of men follow him?”

“Enoli,” Aita said, “according to my people.”

“Islanders? Interesting. Does Mirenze have a large Enoli population?”

“Mirenze is the coin purse of the world,” Lodovico said. “We have everything and everyone.”

“Well, we’ll find your wayward husband. Do you want him dead or alive?”

Aita didn’t take long to decide. “As dead as possible, please.”

“Weiss,” Lodovico said, “just one thing. Rules of engagement. This is
not
Lerautia. This is my city.”

“And?”

He leaned in, eyes hard. “No repeats of what happened in the Alms District. No fires, no massacres. You keep your men
on
their leashes.”

That bland smile again. An agreeable nod.

“Of course,” Weiss replied. “The client is always right.”

*     *     *

Cloaked by shadows, Felix leaned against the alley wall like a perching raptor and waited for his prey.

He and his growing band of followers—twelve now, their numbers bolstered by hiring more roughnecks from the docks with the money they stole from Aita’s extortionists—had started taking more than coin from their targets. Information was a more lucrative prize, and while the street-level scum in Basilio Grimaldi’s empire might have been terrified of their old master, they didn’t hold his daughter in the same fearful regard.

“No honor among thieves,” Anakoni murmured at Felix’s side. “Not much courage, either. One hard look and they show us their bellies.”

“Don’t get too confident. Aita’s going to start pushing back. She doesn’t have a choice.”

Their last target had given up a juicy prize: the identity of Aita’s lieutenant in the Lower Eight. He was a direct line between the cutpurses and thieves of the slums and his mistress on high, and he’d be plump with intelligence about both. Most nights, Felix learned, he was deep in his cups at the Sailor’s Ruin until the small hours of the morning.

So they lay in wait in the alley across the street from the dive tavern, listening to disjointed music and the occasional smash of a glass against a forehead. Smoke drifted from a crack in a grimy window, carrying the stench of cheap cigars and bottom-barrel ale.

The doors opened and a figure stumbled out into the night. Felix squinted. The man had a long chin, beady eyes, and a vicious, thick web of scar tissue that ringed his neck like a choker.

“That’s him.” Felix waved the others closer. He had brought three of Anakoni’s men into the alley with him and stationed five more around the corner.

“You’re certain?” Anakoni whispered. Two more men emerged from the tavern, falling into step with the first. Boiled leather, short blades on their hips, and not a drop of liquor in their bellies.

“If that man isn’t Cut-Throat Scolotti, I think the nickname should be his by right.”

“Fair point,” Anakoni put his fingers to his lips and let out a short, shrill hoot, imitating a night bird. Signaling to the rest of their followers.

They clung to the wall and the shadows, letting Scolotti and his bodyguards clomp on by. Then Felix led the way, padding out and after them, weapons at the ready.

Up the street, the second pack of sailors rounded the corner. Scolotti might have been drunk, but the sight of clubs and leather saps in their hands sobered him up fast. He stopped in his tracks and turned to see Felix and the rest coming up from behind.

One of the bodyguards reached for his sword’s hilt. Felix tensed, readying for a fight—then Scolotti reached out, cupped his fingers over the guard’s hand, and shook his head.

“Stand down,” Scolotti said, his voice a gravelly rasp. He looked Felix’s way. “You’re Felix Rossini.”

He didn’t see any point in lying. “Aita must be spreading the word about me.”

“Show me,” Scolotti said, nodding at the hood of his cloak. “Prove it.”

Felix tugged back his cloak. Scolotti nodded, staring at the scarred nub of gristle where Felix’s ear had been like an appraiser with a piece of fine art.

“Had to be sure,” Scolotti explained. “Thought she might be testing us with a fake. You know, to see who’s still loyal. She’s tricky that way, like her father was.”

“And your loyalty is with…” Felix let the question hang in the air.

“Me. Aita’s ship is sinking. With her father gone and Hassan the Barber dead—nice work on that, by the by—all the old monsters just aren’t around anymore. She won’t hold it together much longer. She’d go down even faster if—just speaking hypothetically—you had a reliable mole inside her organization. Somebody who can feed you information and tell you when and where she’s going to be.”

“And how much would this service cost?”

“Not coin,” Scolotti rasped. “Well, not at first. Nothing stays free forever. No, I need a helping hand. There’s an enforcer on her payroll, goes by the name Maurizio. Big bruiser with a gang of feral street rats watching his back. We’ve got bad blood and I want him gone.”

“Gone?” Felix asked.

“Dead and gone. See, I can’t go after him myself, but everybody knows you and Aita are at war. If you kill him, nobody will suspect I had anything to do with it.”

Felix shifted on his feet, feeling a cold chill on the back of his neck. Stopping Aita and Lodovico—that was justice. It was also self-defense: until they were dead or in prison, neither he nor Renata would ever be safe. Working to break down Aita’s pyramid, all he’d had to do so far was throw a few punches and break a nose or two. Murdering a stranger…that was a new line to cross.

Not the kind you came back from crossing.

“I don’t think you fully appreciate what I have to offer,” Scolotti said. “Aita trusts me. I can
draw her out
. Set up a nice little ambush for you. This war can be over, just like that. All you have to do is help me.”

Felix took a deep breath.

“What,” he said, “would I have to do, exactly?”

“Take him out, any way you want, but
you’ve
gotta do it. And there have to be witnesses. Leave one of his people alive to tell the tale, maybe. Or just stab him in broad daylight in the market square. I don’t care either way. But it’s gotta get back to Aita that
you
did the deed. Then Maurizio’s out of the picture, my hands are squeaky-clean, and it’ll be my turn to help you out.”

“Why not just help me take down Aita?” Felix asked. “Once she’s gone, nobody can stop you from going after Maurizio yourself.”

“Sure. Did I mention he’s got a gang of his own? Oh, and he weighs about three hundred pounds. That’s three hundred pounds of muscle.” Scolotti pointed to the web of scar tissue at his throat. “Last time I went after him myself, he did
this
to me. And believe me, my survival was a happy accident. No, thank you. That’s the deal: you kill the bastard,
then
I’m your man. Take it or leave it.”

Felix stepped back, tugging Anakoni’s sleeve.

“Do you think we can trust him?” Anakoni whispered.

“About as far as I can throw him, but we’ve got leverage. If he doesn’t follow through, it wouldn’t be too hard to expose him and let Aita know what he’s been up to. He has to know that. Besides, he wants her gone too. Helping us is really helping himself.”

“So. We do it?”

Felix’s thoughts drifted back to the Hen and Caber, the night he was framed for Basilio’s murder. On the run and afraid. Then Hassan the Barber appeared in the doorway and changed his life forever.

“
Violence isn’t something you learn,
” he had said, lecturing Felix with a condescending smile. “
It’s something you are
.” He’d kept that smile on his face right up to the moment Felix impaled his hand with a knife. He’d used that same knife to stab Hassan dead. And then, once the euphoria and horror had washed over him in equal measure, leaving him numb and shaking, he’d mailed a grisly trophy to Aita. His declaration of war.

And in wars
, Felix told himself,
people die
.

Then there was the secret part of him, deep down inside. The black chamber in his heart where, when he held Hassan’s severed head and stared into the killer’s dead eyes, he felt nothing but a deep and soothing satisfaction.

That part of him
liked
how it felt. To fight, to struggle, to kill, to survive with bloody hands and bloody teeth. And it wanted more.

Elisavet Sanna stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at Gallo and Renata’s plan. They’d sketched it out across two sheets of parchment, a crude but serviceable map laid out on the tavern table.

“This is going to ruin me,” she muttered, though it sounded more like a resigned
yes
than a flat
no
.

“Based on where the crusaders made camp,” Renata said, “they’re guaranteed to hit your farm first. If we make our stand there, hopefully we can keep them away from the village proper.”

Gallo nodded. “And they’ll do more damage to your farm, rampaging on their own, than this plan will.”

Elisavet narrowed her eyes. “I’m not convinced. But you’re right. Better we lose a finger than an arm. Let’s bring it to the others and see how many friends we really have.”

The answer, once the chapel bell rang and called the people of Kettle Sands back to the village square, was twenty-four. Eighteen men and six women who resolved to stay and fight.

“I won’t tell you what you should do,” Renata said to the gathered crowd. “But the crusaders are two days out, and they won’t be backing down. If you’re willing to fight, stay. If not, flee south to Blueridge. We’ll do our best to rout them here.”

Some stood strong, while others faded back to their huts and homes, packing as many of their possessions as they could before making the long hike south. Already, in their minds, consigning Kettle Sands and its defenders to the grave.

“I won’t lie to you,” Gallo called out to the two dozen who remained. “This is going to be an ugly fight. We’re outnumbered four to one. More importantly, we’ve got something to lose, and they don’t. That means they’ve got the advantage. First thing we need to do is take stock of weapons. Farming implements, carpentry tools, anything you’ve got that’s hard and carries an edge, bring it to the square and we’ll see what we have to work with. If you’ve got any soldiering background—hell, if you’ve been in anything nastier than a fistfight in your entire life—come and see me.”

Renata stood beside him and held up the parchment map. “We’ll work by night, so they don’t see what we’re up to. If we give it all we’ve got, we should have just enough time to ensure a few surprises when they attack.”

“In the end, though,” Gallo said, “it’s going to come down to courage, grit, and more than a little luck.”

One of the men stepped forward. “And faith,” he said. “The Gardener is on our side. Isn’t he?”

Gallo shrugged. “If he’s on
their
side, I’m going to be damn disappointed when I meet him. And he’s going to hear about it, too.”

The weapon roundup didn’t inspire confidence. Almost nothing that counted as a true fighting tool—though Renata was darkly amused to see the pitchfork she’d used to kill Cosimo Segreti among the haul. For now they stored the bounty in the village chapel. Segreti was there, too, lying in state because nobody could decide what to do with the body. Renata eyed the drizzle of dried blood on his crusader’s tunic, his waxy hands folded over his mortal wounds.

The sun was setting as she finished her inventory and left the chapel, the sky turning rich violet. She tilted her head as Gianni rushed up to her with his hands violently waving.

“Get inside!” he whispered in a panicked rasp. “You have to hide!”

“What? Why?”

“Bounty hunters. Two of them, from Mirenze. Looking for
you
.”

Basilio Grimaldi’s men. She furrowed her brow. She’d half expected this, sooner or later, but the timing couldn’t be worse.

“Where are they now?”

He pointed behind him. “Back at the Rusted Plow. They’re flashing around a sketch and offering coin for any information on you. Nobody’s biting, but I think they know you’re here.”

And if they moved on, other hunters might well be on their way. Or, if these two believed she was here and nobody cooperated, they might graduate from offering bribes to offering beatings. She turned on her heel and strode into the chapel. Not to hide, though. She needed something.

*     *     *

Butcherman Sykes, whip-lean and made of gristle, held up the charcoal sketch of Renata for the fifth time. The fingers of his free hand drummed the wooden hilt of the meat cleaver dangling from his belt. He was running out of patience, fast. His partner, Lydda the Hook, flashed a gold-toothed smile. More feral than friendly.

“I can smell guilt,” she announced. “And oh, does this room smell guilty. You
know
where she is. All you have to do is tell us where to find her, and we’ll go away. First one to speak up gets a nice, shiny bag of coin.”

The patrons sat in sullen silence. They were the last defenders of Kettle Sands, most everyone else packing or already on the road out of town.

“And I’ve told you,” Gallo spoke up, “and he’s told you, and she’s told you, and we’ve
all
told you at this point, none of us have ever seen that woman. I’m the only Verinian expatriate in town, and I don’t think that picture’s of me. I don’t look that good in a dress.”

“You.” Sykes snapped his fingers at Gallo. “
You
know where she is. C’mere, old man. I want to have a word with you, up close and personal.”

The tavern door slammed open.

“Have one with
me
,” Renata said.

She’d stripped the shirt of mail from Segreti’s corpse and donned it for her own. It fit loosely, too big for her frame, but she’d cinched it tight at the waist with his thick leather belt. The dead nobleman’s rapier rode on her hip, her hand resting on the ornate basket hilt.

“Unexpected,” Sykes said, “but not displeasing.”

Lydda ran her tongue across her teeth and beamed. “So much easier when our prey comes to us.”

The rapier sang as it ripped from its scabbard. Firm in Renata’s angry grip.

Sykes laughed. “Come on, girl. What do you think you’re gonna do with that thing? You’re a
barmaid
.”

“They called me ‘barmaid’ in Mirenze,” she replied. Then she cast her glance to one of the locals. “What have they been calling me here?”

He lifted his tankard, fixing his gaze on Sykes as he replied with a single, icy word.

“Liegekiller.”

“You’ve found my home,” Renata said. “And even if I run you out of town, once you report back to Basilio he’ll just send more men. Only solution: you
don’t
leave. Ever.”

“Basilio?” Lydda shook her head. “You’re talking ancient history. Basilio Grimaldi’s dead and buried. His daughter’s the top dog in Mirenze now.”

“Dead?” Renata blinked. “What happened?”

“The official story is your lover boy stabbed him. Unofficially, Felix is kicking up a whole mess of trouble, and Aita wants him stone dead before he yaps to the wrong people. She wagers he won’t give up for anything…except you.”

“Aita.” Renata took a deep breath, eyes wide. “She murdered her own father.”

Lydda snickered. “I didn’t say that. And the Mirenze guard don’t see it that way, neither. Either Aita’s boys are gonna catch him or the governor’s will. Either way, your Felix is getting sized up for a noose. It’s only a matter of time. Why not give up and make this easier on everybody? Maybe you’ll get to see him one last time.”

“Of course,” Sykes added, “if you want to do this the hard way, we’ll be happy to test that blade of yours. Think you can handle two against one?”

Gallo pushed himself away from the bar, taking a step forward. Around the room, by silent accord, chairs scraped back on the rough wooden planks and people rose to their feet.

“I think,” Gallo said, “you’re looking at more like…twenty-six against two. How do you like those odds?”

Sykes and Lydda inched closer to each other, almost back to back. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his cleaver. He didn’t draw it. Yet.

Gallo nodded at Renata. “The signorina makes a fine point. We let you leave, you’ll blab to your mistress and she’ll send you right back with reinforcements to boot. This town’s got enough problems to deal with, and one fight too many as it is.”

Renata tightened her grip on the rapier. The last thing she wanted was more blood on her hands, but the hunters had to die.

Unless
, she thought.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Are you on Aita’s payroll, or freelance?”

“We roam where we want,” Sykes said. “Had a job in Lerautia. Didn’t pan out. We made our way to Mirenze and heard about the price on your head. You did all right, kid. Following your trail wasn’t easy.”

“So she’s not paying for your expenses, your travel—all of this comes out of your own pocket until and unless you deliver me to her.”

Sykes shrugged. “Feast or famine. That’s the hunter’s life.”

“So you don’t owe her a thing, including your loyalty.”

Sykes and Lydda shared a glance. The crowd pressed in around them.

“If you’re hinting at paying us to go deaf and blind,” Lydda said, “we can consider that.”

“Do you one better,” Gallo told them. “We’ve got a little trouble to stomp out, and we could use experienced hands. Two nights’ work, and I’ll pay you a fighter’s wages.”

“We aren’t cheap,” Sykes said.

“I’m freshly retired. Spent a long time socking away my coin, too. Name your price, I’m good for it.”

“And after your trouble’s good and stomped?”

Gallo tilted his head, taking in the room. “After is after. Call it a separate negotiation.”

Lydda whispered into Sykes’s ear as she glanced from side to side. He nodded.

“Fine,” Sykes said, “we’re yours for two nights. Show me your money and let’s make this official.”

The crowd relaxed, going back to their seats and their drinks, the hum of low conversation rising over the tense silence. Renata exhaled and sheathed her blade. While Sykes and Gallo talked money over by the bar, she stepped outside. She needed fresh air to calm the tumult in her guts.

Lydda followed her outside. “Barmaid,” she said.

Renata turned, a question in her eyes. Lydda nodded at the rapier.

“Draw your steel.”

Renata slid her blade from its sheath, holding it in an uncertain grip. Lydda walked around her, shaking her head, a sour look on her face. She reached out and pushed Renata’s hand down an inch.

“You hold that thing like it’s a broom. I’m not going into a fight at your side with you looking like that. Damn embarrassing.” Her boot kicked at the inside of Renata’s left foot. “Widen your stance. Mobility’s key. You lock up, you’re good as dead.”

Renata’s eyes widened. “Can you teach me how to fight?”

“In two days? No chance. I can hopefully teach you how to not
die
right away, though, and at least make sure we don’t kill the enemy with laughter. Now pay attention…”