Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) Page 4

  “But we did.”

  He sighed and looked over at the window of their tiny room. A waxing moon hung low in a blanket of stars. Under their feet, he could still hear the faint but lively commotion coming from the inn’s common room. It couldn’t have been much past midnight.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We did. And that was my call to make. My weight to carry, not yours. So let me carry it.”

  “How? How do you deal with it?”

  Werner stretched one of his legs out, leaning forward to rub at his calf. Another sore muscle. He wanted to blame the weather, but that excuse only carried so far.

  “When I was a younger man,” he said, “I took a bounty on a fugitive killer. I tracked him all the way to the Enoli Islands and found him drinking himself blind in a thatched hut. He pulled a blade on me. Got in a good cut across my arm, too. The bounty was the same, dead or alive, so I finished him off and rode back home with his head in a sack. Easier than dragging a live prisoner for a hundred miles, I figured.”

  “That’s different,” Mari said. “He attacked you.”

  “Let me finish. Turned out, while I was on the trail, his wife found proof that the poor bastard was innocent. He’d been pardoned. If I’d been just a little more careful, if I’d put just a little more effort into the job and brought him back alive, he would be a free man today. Instead I turned his wife into a widow, because it was easier that way. Worst, stupidest thing I’ve done in my entire life, and that is the honest truth.”

  He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, showing her the long, jagged scar that ran a fish-belly-white trail down his bicep.

  “Every morning, I see this in the mirror. How do I deal with it? I promise to do better. To make that man’s death mean something, so instead of a weight that drags me down, it’s a spur to remind me that I owe a debt. My one big debt.”

  Mari stared at his scar. A trickle of cold sweat dripped down the nape of her neck.

  “I don’t know how to pay her back,” she said softly.

  “Why don’t you…why don’t you pray on it for a while,” Werner said. “That always makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”

  Mari nodded. She slipped out of bed and rummaged in her knapsack, digging out an old pewter brooch. The face of the brooch resembled the craggy circle of a full moon, encircled with a ring of faded glyphs.

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” Werner said, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring the jolts of pain in his calf and his back. “Sounds like the common room is still open. Think I’ll go treat myself to a nightcap.”

  He meandered down the smoky steps to the tavern below. A few diehards still lingered, drunks slumped against wooden tables, dozing in their cups, but the hearth fire was down to the evening’s last embers. Werner took a stool at the bar.

  “Whiskey,” he told the barmaid and laid a few of the coins from Terenzio’s down payment on the ale-sticky wood.

  “Looks like you need it,” Renata told him. She made the coins disappear and wiped down a glass with a wet rag. “Why the long face?”

  “A friend of mine is sick. And I don’t know if I can help her. Used to think I could, but now…I don’t know. She’s getting worse.”

  Renata uncorked a dusky, unlabeled bottle and splashed two fingers of whiskey into a glass.

  “You a surgeon or an herb-monger?” she said. “You don’t look the type.”

  “No. She’s not that kind of sick.” He tapped the side of his head, then tossed back the glass and downed it in a single swig. As soon as he set the glass back down, Renata was there with another pour from the bottle.

  “You’re not wearing a ring,” she said with a casual flick of her eyes. “Lover?”

  “Nah. Apprentice. Business partner. Friend. Hurts like hell seeing her in pain. But I’ll stand by her, long as it takes. That’s what you do. It’s just what you do.”

  Renata took down a second glass and poured a splash of whiskey for herself. She raised the glass, catching the lantern light.

  “Here’s to love,” she said, “and how far we’ll go for it.”

  “To love.” Werner clinked his glass against hers. “Sounds like you have someone to care about, too.”

  Renata smiled, sipping her drink. “My fiancé. Twelve hours on my feet, hair ragged, smelling like smoke and stale beer, and he looks at me like I’m a princess dipped in gold.”

  “Hang onto that one. Decent men are hard to find.”

  “You sound like one yourself,” she said.

  Werner chuckled, but he couldn’t keep a trace of sadness from his eyes.

  “No, miss, not me. I’m just making up for lost time, trying to set a few things right while my old bones still let me. I owe some people.”

  “Owe?”

  Werner studied his glass. “Debts. I owe a lot of debts.”

  Chapter Six

  On the far side of the city, a fist-sized chunk of alum rested on Lodovico Marchetti’s desk. Pale starlight streamed through great bay windows and made the white, chalky hunk of stone glisten like a diamond in the rough.

  Lodovico leaned forward in his tall leather chair and stroked the stone with gold-ringed fingers. He looked rough himself, burly with tan, weathered skin, and the unkempt shock of auburn hair he’d inherited from his mother. He could have passed for a dockworker if not for his tailored shirt and silken vest.

  A voice droned, “—will have to pay for the indulgences for our street-level moneylenders to continue operating into the new year, at fifty scudi per…Vico? Are you even listening?”

  Lodovico yanked his hand away from the stone as if it had burnt his fingers.

  “You have my undivided attention,” he lied.

  Simon Koertig leaned against a wall of bookshelves, his polished boots sinking into the plush blue rug. He held a thick, hidebound ledger like another man might hold his infant child and stared at Lodovico over the tops of his horn-rimmed reading glasses. He was a Murgardt expatriate, with wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes.

  “It is good to dream of the future,” Simon said, “but only once the cows are milked and the eggs brought in from the hen house. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “Am I that obvious?” Lodovico said, chuckling.

  Simon nodded toward the chunk of alum. “I think you were about to put that down your pants. And if you do, I’m leaving.”

  “For shame.” Lodovico feigned shock. “I’m not even married to it! Yet.”

  “Yet. Well, to spare you from the horrid boredom of listening to me talk, the bottom line is that the Banco Marchetti is flush with cash for the coming quarter. All of our investments and loans are operating right within the bounds of acceptable risk.”

  “Is that what you call it?” said a voice from the doorway. Sofia Marchetti strode into the room like a force of nature and slammed a fistful of papers down on Lodovico’s desk. Her hair had faded to the color of rusty steel wool and the candlelight caught every line on her once-smooth face, but age hadn’t stolen one ounce of her ferocity.

  Lodovico leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “And good evening to you too, Mother. Have trouble sleeping?”

  “Why are you extending Carlo Serafini another line of credit?”

  “Goodness,” he said, “I don’t know. Maybe because he’s the pope’s son?”

  “He’s a gambler and a drunk, and he hasn’t lifted a finger to repay any of the other loans we’ve given him.”

  Lodovico shrugged. “He’s a gambler and a drunk today. Next year he’s going to be the pope. Doesn’t hurt to spend a little money to keep us on his good side.”

  “This is more than a little money,” Sofia said, rapping her fingernails on the desk. “And there is no guarantee he’s going to take his father’s chair. If the College of Cardinals routs him, they’ll cut him off and he will die a pauper. We’ll never get a bent copper out of him then.”

  “They won’t,” Lodovico said. “Trust me. He’s a good investment.”

  Sofia to
ok a step back, catching something in her son’s tone. She crossed her arms over her gray evening gown, looking from him to Simon and back.

  “You two,” she said, “are up to something.”

  Simon smiled and held up his ledger. “Just running the numbers, ma’am.”

  “I have some irons in the fire,” Lodovico said. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  Sofia leaned over the desk toward him. Her voice dropped low, a warning growl.

  “If you are running some kind of side project with the bank’s money,” she said, “without talking to me about it—”

  Lodovico held up one hand.

  “Mother? With all due respect, Father passed the reins of the Banco Marchetti to me when he died. You were given an advisory position as a matter of courtesy. That’s all you are obliged to do. Advise. I have heard your advice, and now we’re done.”

  She straightened her back, glowering at him.

  “This isn’t over,” she said.

  “For now, it is,” Lodovico said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, tomorrow morning will be laden with appointments and visitors. If you pass by the kitchens, would you mind popping your head in and checking on the servants? They could use your supervision, I think.”

  Sofia turned and strode out of the office without another word. Lodovico watched her go, his expression a mask of stone. Simon let out a long, low whistle.

  “She is going to be a problem,” Lodovico said.

  “Almost unquestionably,” Simon said with an agreeable nod. “She smells blood in the water, but she can’t find a fish to bite. She’ll hunt for one until she’s fed.”

  “Then we will give her one, something to keep her distracted while we get our work done. Let me think about it. Our little weasel from the Rossini family should be visiting us shortly. Sent a message claiming he had urgent news. That would be a first.”

  Soon enough, one of the household servants appeared at the door with their guest in tow. Taviano edged his way into the office, head slightly bowed. The Rossinis’ butler still wore his shabby funeral black.

  “I don’t have long,” he said, almost stammering. “I don’t have any good reason to be out of doors this late, and the cook is a light sleeper.”

  Lodovico leaned back and waved his hands. “Well! That’s good, because I wasn’t going to invite you to breakfast. Speak up. Entertain us.”

  “Felix Rossini has found another source for alum.”

  The smile faded from Lodovico’s face. He sat up in his chair, studying the butler. Simon leaned against the bookshelves and listened, silent as a ghost.

  “Explain,” Lodovico snapped.

  “Winter’s Reach. They have mines, several of them, that are lying fallow. Felix is heading north, personally. He thinks he can broker a trade agreement between the Reach and the Banco Rossini.”

  Lodovico and Simon shared a glance. Lodovico looked back to the butler.

  “He’s leaving soon?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Taviano said, nodding quickly. He looked toward the office door and wrung his hands. “He has booked passage on the Fairwind Muse, a merchant ship.”

  Lodovico steepled his fingers. “Driven little scamp, isn’t he?”

  “He always has been, sir. He thinks this agreement is the key to saving the family business.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Lodovico said with a humorless smile. “Simon, pay the man.”

  Simon counted out a handful of copper coins from his belt purse. He held them out to Taviano, but he opened his hand at the last second and dropped them to the carpet. The coins fell in a glittering shower, scattering in all directions.

  “Oops,” he said. “Clumsy of me.”

  The butler gritted his teeth as he stooped down on all fours to pick up the fallen coins. He shoved himself back up, wincing, and hobbled to the door.

  “Thank you,” Lodovico called out dryly. “Do come again.”

  Simon shut the door behind Taviano and locked it.

  Lodovico sighed. “Have I mentioned lately how much I despise traitors?”

  “It may have come up once or twice,” Simon said.

  “I realize dealing with these sorts of people is the cost of doing business and staying informed, but I don’t have to pretend to enjoy it. So what do you think? Valid threat?”

  Simon shrugged. “Entirely possible. I can check the Imperial register and see if there is any record of a mining operation from the penal-colony days.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of it. I have something more important for you. The Rossinis have been on my mind lately. Tiny fish. The Grimaldis are tiny fish too, but if those families are allowed to join forces…well. Piranha are tiny fish, and that’s the makings of a swarm.”

  “I thought we decided the marriage wasn’t a serious threat?” Simon said. “We were going to leave the Grimaldis alone until stage two of the plan—”

  “It wasn’t, and we were. If the Banco Rossini really found a new source of alum, though? That changes things. Felix Rossini is the key to both deals. No Felix, no alum, and no wedding joining their houses.”

  A faint smile rose to Simon’s bloodless lips.

  “You’re daydreaming again, Vico.”

  “Perhaps I am,” Lodovico said. “Perhaps I am imagining a world where poor, poor Felix Rossini met with a tragic accident in the frozen north, and he never came home again.”

  “You know me. I love making your dreams come true.”

  Lodovico swung his chair around. He got up and wandered over to the window, looking out at the starry night sky.

  “It’s a shame, you know. I met him once.”

  “Felix?” Simon said.

  “At the Feast of Saint Scarpa, last autumn. Smart lad. Good head on his shoulders, quick with numbers. I would have been happy to hire him, if his damned old man would just give up and die. I feel badly about this. Still, there is the grand design to think about.”

  “Can’t afford random variables,” Simon said.

  “No,” Lodovico said, “and young Master Rossini is exactly the kind of person who could cause us problems down the line. Best to avoid the risk. Do me a favor, Simon. No playing with your food this time. Make it quick and as painless as you can manage.”

  Simon set his ledger on the desk. He took off his reading glasses and buffed each lens with his shirtsleeve. His eyes were as dead as a painted puppet.

  “I will see,” he said, “what I can do.”

  Chapter Seven

  At first, Amadeo Lagorio thought someone had run riot inside the merchant’s villa with a can of brown paint. Rusty splashes covered the floor, the walls, the broken windows, even clinging to the curving stairs in dried rivulets as if a gallon of it had come splashing down the steps. Then the coppery rotten-meat stench hit him, and he knew it wasn’t paint.

  The crudely severed head of one of the housemaids stared up at him with wide, glassy eyes, tossed into the corner like a discarded toy.

  “Why?” Amadeo whispered. “Why did you bring me to this terrible place?”

  Gallo Parri, master of the papal guard, was pushing forty and twelve years Amadeo’s junior. Where Gallo was barrel-chested, thick-whiskered, and usually boisterous, Amadeo was a slight, retiring man whose gray hair was receding like an evening tide. Gallo glanced over his shoulder at the broken front door that hung open on one twisted hinge.

  “It’s the constabulary, Father. They won’t set foot in the house until it’s been checked out by a man of the soil. Can’t say I blame ’em. Wherever the Gardener’s love went last night, it wasn’t in this house. They came to me, begged me to fetch a priest. I told ’em I’d get the best man in the Holy City.”

  “I’m no exorcist, Gallo. I’m just a parish priest.”

  The guardsman snorted. “You’re the papal confessor. That makes you plenty important enough to deal with…well, whatever we’ve got here. Look, I don’t think anything’s going bump in the night. It’s just a crime. A damn heinous one, but
a crime, committed by human hands and human evil. It would mean a lot to me if you’d just take a look around and give the all clear, so I can put my men to work.”

  Amadeo took a deep breath and steeled his nerves.

  “All right,” he said, “but next time we’re at the Cloaked Sow, you’re buying the drinks. All of them.”

  Gallo smirked and clapped Amadeo’s back. “That’s the spirit.”

  Every open doorway in the villa offered a new horror. Household servants smashed to pulp, beaten beyond anything that resembled a human body, or literally torn limb from limb. Gallo pointed to a casement window, smashed in from the outside.

  “Figure there were eight, maybe nine killers. They all broke in at once, from all over the house, cutting off the exits. This was planned. Organized.”

  “Who lived here?” Amadeo said.

  “Small-time criminal named Stathis. He wore out his welcome down in Carcanna, so he figured he’d move north and set out his shingle here. He posed as an art dealer, but that was just a cover. He’d smuggle contraband, stolen goods, anything he could get his grubby mitts on. The constabulary never could find the evidence to lock him away. Moot point, now.”

  Stathis lay slumped against his gallery wall, under a blood-splashed painting of a pastoral countryside. The corpse’s eyes were as wide as his mouth, and Amadeo’s stomach churned as he realized what was sticking out of his throat.

  “One of his fingers,” Gallo said, following the priest’s gaze, “with a big ruby ring still on it. Think that’s what choked him to death, in the end.”

  Amadeo looked down at the clotted stumps on the dead man’s hands.

  “Where…where are the rest of his fingers?”

  “Some things, Father, don’t bear too much speculation.”

  An empty purple velvet sack lay discarded at the corpse’s side. Amadeo carefully stepped over it, turning his attention to the gallery wall. A small safe hid in the wood paneling behind a painting that hung open on its concealed hinges. The safe was empty, save for a fat accounting ledger.