Terms of Surrender (23 page)

It snowed soot in Winter’s Reach.

The wind brushed the charred stockade wall and ran its fingers along burned-out storefronts and hovels, kicking clouds of black dust into the air and sending it swirling through the city streets. Veruca strode with a platoon of Coffin Boys at her back, touring her dominion, assessing the damage. Here and there, offering a touch of her hand or a kindly word. Brushing a finger of ash from a child’s upturned face.

The one thing she wanted to do, the one thing she couldn’t do until she was back in her mansion and safe behind locked doors, was let out the grief that was tearing her heart to pieces. No, that wouldn’t do at all. She was the mayor. First among equals. The captain of their ship. They needed her to be as hard and cold as winter itself.

Have to give the people what they want
, she thought, hiding her sorrow behind a tight and steely-eyed smile.

“Mayor.” Another of her boys ran up, pointing. “We found them.”

She followed his finger. Mari, and her…friends, lined up on the street. Veruca raised her chin and sauntered over to them, making a beeline for Mari.

“On one hand, you warned us about the invasion and saved me from that maniac Bear. Without your help, the city would have been lost.”

She swung her gaze toward Mari’s companions. The closest, the one with the soot-spotted glasses and withered hand, met her hard eyes with a look of defiance.

“On the other,” Veruca said, “if you people hadn’t used my town for a dumping ground, would the Imperials have come in the first place?”

“Eventually,” Nessa said.

“But not last night.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not last night.”

Veruca glared at Nessa.

“Her ‘liege,’ I take it.”

Nessa’s only response was to put a possessive hand on Mari’s shoulder, fingers curling tight.

“You get a pass,” Veruca said. “I want the one who stole my memories. The woman in the muskrat mask.”

“You’re half a day too late.” Nessa pointed back toward the mountains. “If you want the Muskrat, check by the mouth of your shiny new alum mine. There’s nothing left but bits of shattered skull.”

Veruca’s eyes narrowed. She looked to Mari.

“Is she telling the truth?”

“Every word,” Mari said.

“Suppose that score’s settled then. Not the way I wanted it, but…none of this is.” Veruca rubbed her chin, thinking. “You. Glasses. Follow me.”

Nessa arched an eyebrow, but she followed in the mayor’s wake as they stepped just out of earshot.

“I’m not going to thank you,” Veruca said, “considering you helped to ‘fix’ a problem your own people created. That said, you did help. Listen, Bear’s dead, and I need capable hands. If you and your…coven want to stay on, I could find work for you. Good-paying work.”

“A flattering offer, but we have places to go and an appointment to keep.”

“Where are you going?”

“Paradise,” Nessa replied.

“No such thing.”

“Then we’ll just have to create one.”

Veruca fell silent. Her gaze kept flicking back to the witches in the snow. And Mari.

“It must be exhausting,” Nessa said.

Veruca frowned. “What?”

“You and I aren’t so different,” Nessa said. “Except sometimes, I can take my mask off.”

“You want to see me without my mask? Really?”

Veruca moved in, standing almost nose-to-nose with her. Her voice dropped to a low growl.

“Mari was mine first. I taught her. I trained her. She was the best soldier I ever had. And if I can’t have her back, then understand one thing: if you hurt her, I will hunt you. I will find you. And I will fucking kill you.”

“She belonged to the war first, Veruca, and the war taught her. Everything since then has been nothing but higher education. But if it sets your mind at ease…no.” She wore a small, lopsided smile as she glanced over at Mari. “Hurting her is the last thing in the world I want to do right now. And that’s me, with
my
mask off. Satisfied?”

Veruca stared into Nessa’s eyes, as if searching for the truth. She nodded.

“I believe you,” she said.

Then she turned and strode away, her men falling into step behind her. She didn’t say goodbye. Half a city yet to tour, more damage to witness, more of her people’s sorrow to soothe, more bodies to cart off to the bonfires, more tears to be bottled up in the iron cage of her heart.

*     *     *

“What was that about?” Mari asked Nessa as the mayor and her troops marched off.

“Job offer. I declined. How’s your shoulder?”

Mari winced as she wriggled it, still feeling the aftermath of Viper’s knife. “It should heal. How’s…um…your hand?”

Nessa glanced down at her withered hand, the gray and dead skin gathering soot-flecked snowflakes. She curled fingers that looked more like bony talons in the morning light.

“The pain is excruciating. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt, really. Wouldn’t recommend the experience to anyone. That’s all right, though. It gives me a reason to focus. Everyone, gather around. We have work to do.”

Vassili, Despina, and Hedy clustered close, the five of them standing in a tight circle. Vassili put his arm around his sister’s shoulder, while she ruffled Hedy’s dirty hair.

“In Lerautia,” Nessa said, “there is a great library. And beneath that library, there is a vault kept under the strictest guard. The Black Archives. It’s a depository for books and scrolls the Church finds…troubling to their sensitive dispositions. I suspect it’s where our dear Pope Livia found Squirrel’s spellbook in the first place. Some of the materials held there, if the legends are true, are ancient. Older than our coven. Older than the Empire. Needless to say, my predecessor forbade anyone from investigating the place. She couldn’t risk us finding anything that might threaten her power.”

“Old magic?” Hedy asked, perking up.

“Old
scholarship
. If there are any clues to the location of Wisdom’s Grave, that’s where we’ll find them. And, yes, perhaps a lost spell or two.”

Vassili and Despina shared a glance.

“Don’t suppose we might have time for a bit of fun while we’re there?” Despina asked.

Nessa grinned. “It’s the Holy City. I think we can certainly make some mischief before we leave. Introduce ourselves to the locals, perhaps leave them with some lasting memories. Vassili, why don’t you use your Cutting Knife and get us back to Verinia the fast way?”

Vassili brandished his white-handled blade. “I’m so glad you asked. Had enough snow for a lifetime.”

“Wait,” Hedy said, “we’re forgetting something.”

All eyes looked her way. She took a deep breath, smiling brightly, and turned to Nessa.

“Dire Mother, I ask for us all: will you lead us to Wisdom’s Grave?”

“I will,” Nessa replied. The fingers of her good hand entwined with Mari’s. “So hold on tight.”

The papal manse rested silent under the starry sky, most of the Dustmen called back to Lodovico’s side in Mirenze. Those who remained, a skeleton crew still clad in their counterfeit armor and the raiment of holy knights, kept an uneventful watch over the pope and his staff.

Nothing to it
, Kappel thought, studying the greasy playing cards in his hand.
Pope Carlo’s a harmless drunk, and we already put the fear of the Barren Fields into everyone else around here. Easiest job I’ve ever had
.

“You gonna play or not?” demanded the mercenary sitting across from him. Kappel flashed a lazy smile and flipped down a pair of cards, drawing groans from around the table.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. Think I’m done taking your money for the night. You boys play nice while I’m—”

The door to the guardroom swung open. One of his men leaned against the doorframe, breathless.

“Sir, I think something’s wrong.”

Kappel shot to his feet. “What is it?”

“It looks like the rest of our men are coming back, but I didn’t get any word from the boss.”

“Coming back?” Kappel frowned. “There’s no reason to. Show me.”

The Dustmen filed out, striding though the empty corridors and onto the front veranda. In the distance, a procession by torchlight. Imperial knights on horseback, an entire company strong, with a man in a cardinal’s robes taking the lead.

“Those…aren’t our men.” The blood drained from Kappel’s face. “Those are
real
knights.”

“What do we do?”

Kappel swallowed hard and glanced back over his shoulder. He’d been told to keep the manse under control at all costs, and he knew the price for failure. Weiss was not a forgiving man.

He also knew what would happen if they were caught by the Imperials and exposed as impostors. Neither fate was appealing, but one was far more immediate.

“Let’s go. Spread the word: we’re getting out of here while we still can.”

“But…but our orders.”

Kappel grabbed the man by his collar and yanked him close.

“You want to take on a whole company of Imperial cavalry by yourself, have fun committing suicide. The rest of us are
leaving
.”

The last of the Dustmen fled ahead of the advancing column, disappearing into the night.

*     *     *

Home again
, Marcello thought with a smile, strolling the marble halls with a brace of Imperial knights at his back. Their polished armor rattled as they walked, checking doorways and securing every exit.

They found Carlo sound asleep and alone in his darkened hall. Slumped in his throne, snoring, an empty goblet on his lap and his robes splashed with spilled wine. He barely stirred as as the two knights hoisted him to his feet, dragging him to the door. He snorted, hiccupped, and blinked.

“Hey, wait—what?”

“You’ve had a long night,” Marcello said, walking alongside them. “We’re putting you to bed.”

Realizing he didn’t recognize the men grappling his arms, Carlo started to struggle.

“You can’t touch me like that. Hey—hey, Kappel!
Kappel!
”

The knights, stone-faced and silent, marched him to his bedchamber door. Marcello opened it for them, and they threw him inside. Carlo went tumbling to the marble floor, grunting as he landed hard on his shoulder, a disheveled mess in ermine finery.

“Wait outside,” Marcello told the knights. “I’ll just be a minute.”

They closed the door behind him.

Marcello waited patiently as Carlo clambered to his feet, still bleary-eyed but fierce now.

“Marcello? What—what do you think you’re
doing?
I’m the pope, you can’t—”

Marcello hauled off and slapped him, his palm snapping like a bullwhip against Carlo’s face. Carlo fell silent, eyes wide, reaching up with trembling fingers to touch his reddened cheek.

“You…
hit
me.”

“And if your father had done that once in a while, you little shit, you might have grown up to become a man. It’s over, Carlo. Right now, Imperial troops are on their way to arrest Lodovico Marchetti for high treason. We know. We know everything.”

Carlo’s voice dropped into a stammer.

“V-vico? What’s…what’s he done?”

The cardinal looked deep into Carlo’s eyes. Studied his face. His lips rose in a small, satisfied smile.

“Until this moment,” he said, “I wasn’t sure. I knew you were the banker’s puppet, but I wasn’t sure just how deeply involved you were. You were in on it, weren’t you? The impostor troops and the massacre in al-Tali.”

Carlo’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marcello chuckled. He put his hands on his hips and took in the papal bedchamber. Lush. Marble and gold and imported furs.
Might do some redecorating
, he thought.

“Good news and bad news, Carlo. Emperor Theodosius is taking the blame for the massacre. Nobody will ever connect you to it. Your hands are clean.”

The naive look of relief on Carlo’s face was almost adorable. Almost too sweet to crush. Almost.

“Bad news is, that means we can’t have you running off at the mouth and telling anybody the truth, now can we?”

He staggered back a step, hands up, defensive.

“What are you going to do?”

“Relax, son. Nobody’s going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking. We can’t afford a vacancy in the chair, not until your sister’s been dealt with. But I did like how you handled her. Letting her escape, not so much, but the first part—locking her in her room. It was the perfect way to keep her safe and quiet.”

“That was
your
idea.”

“Hmm.” Marcello nodded. “I suppose it was. Here’s the situation, Carlo. You’re ill. Gravely, desperately ill. Much too ill for visitors or public appearances. But don’t worry: as your trusted right hand and very best friend, I’ll be carrying your words of wisdom to the outside world. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve grown fairly skilled at copying your signature.”

Carlo shook his head, wearing his desperation on his face. “You can’t
do
that!”

Marcello’s eyes went cold. He studied Carlo like a viper eyeing a particularly plump mouse.

“And yet,” he replied, “here I am. Doing it. You should just thank your lucky stars that you’re worth more to me alive than dead. I’m not sparing your life for sentimental reasons.”

And once I secure the popular support I need to guarantee I’m next in line for the throne
, he thought,
I won’t be sparing it at all.

Marcello turned to leave. As his hand closed upon the brass doorknob, a panicky burst of laughter sounded at his back. He glanced over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow.

“You find something amusing about all this?”

Carlo dropped onto the edge of his bed. His eyes wide.

“I was wrong,” he said.

“About?”

“My sister. She wasn’t plotting against me. It was you all along, wasn’t it? You used me, Lodovico used me…Livia was trying to help me. She was the only one trying to help me.”

Marcello shrugged. “You believed what you wanted to believe. And you’ve never been anything, to anyone, but a tool of convenience. Some men are players; some are pawns. If you honestly believed yourself the former rather than the latter, I’m sorry to disillusion you.”

“Livia,” Carlo said. “She’s no pawn.”

“Of course she is. Don’t fool yourself, son. Just like you, Livia could never be anything
but
someone else’s puppet. She was born to play the part.”

“You’re wrong.” Carlo looked at him, shaking his head, firm now. “You’re as wrong about her as I was. And she’s going to
prove
you wrong.”

“Do tell. Exactly how will she manage that?”

“She’s coming back to Lerautia. Livia is coming, you know she is. And when she does, she’s going to save me. She’s going to save us all.”

A tiny smile rose to Marcello’s lips, unbidden, as he thought back to his long conference with General Baum. Even now, Imperial troops would be changing course. Fortifying the Verinian beaches, rolling out the siege engines, and waiting like a cat outside a mousehole.

Carlo was right. To legitimize her rule, Livia had to come home and capture the Holy City. But the most resistance she’d be expecting was a brawl with Lodovico Marchetti’s mercenaries. What would she think, he wondered, when she found the might of the Empire itself waiting to crush her under its iron fist?

“Good,” Marcello said. “Let her come.”