Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 7

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In certain wealthier corners of Lerautia, the Holy City, stood rough wooden pylons about the height of a man. Citizens were welcome to tack up notes for their neighbors—at least, the ones who could read—such as reminders about local events and warnings of troublemakers and missing property. More daring wags sometimes took advantage of the pylons’ relative anonymity, posting scraps of vulgar doggerel.

  The seven pages that appeared on a pylon one cold morning, nailed up overnight in secret, were something entirely new. New enough to draw a crowd of onlookers who murmured and pointed and read bits aloud to their illiterate friends, spreading the word, until a red-faced militiaman shouldered his way through to see what the fuss was about.

  He tore down the pages, but copies had already appeared on four other pylons scattered across the city. And they were drawing crowds of their own.

  * * *

  Some days, Cardinal Marcello Accorsi mused, it’s better to be the kingmaker than the king.

  From the way Carlo had been ranting, storming back and forth across the green-veined marble of his papal throne hall, this was definitely one of those days. Marcello watched quietly from the edge of the room, taking sanguine sips from a cup of red wine and measuring the situation.

  The tall double doors to the hall rattled open and two knights from the papal guard strode in, dragging a prisoner between them. Their ivory tabards and gleaming mail didn’t comfort Marcello a bit; he knew now that Carlo’s “knights” were nothing but mercenary killers, hired by Lodovico Marchetti to protect his investment in the new pope. The cardinal kept his head down and his ears open when they came around. He still hadn’t worked out Marchetti’s game, and that irked him. He only knew they both had a leash around the same man’s neck and if they pulled the wrong way, one of those leashes might snap. Or Carlo’s neck might.

  The prisoner squinted, his nose broken and one of his eyes swollen over like a rotten grapefruit. The knights forced him to his knees as Carlo approached.

  “Was it him?” he demanded.

  One of the knights handed Carlo a sheaf of papers.

  “We caught him red-handed, tacking these up to replace the ones that got torn down this morning. It took some convincing, but he led us back to his rented rooms. He had over two dozen copies. Every copy is perfect, down to the ink color. He didn’t do this alone; you’d need an entire team of scribes to pull this off.”

  Carlo stared down at him, imperious.

  “What is your name?”

  The prisoner lifted his head, spitting his answer through broken teeth. “Iago.”

  “Iago,” Carlo repeated. “Can you read, Iago?”

  “Aye.”

  Carlo paced, clutching the copies in his hand.

  “So you know what these letters say. What they claim.”

  “Aye.”

  Carlo stopped pacing. He turned, incredulous.

  “These letters call me a bastard. Ineligible for my rightful post as the Gardener’s emissary. Why would you spread lies like this? Don’t you have any care for your immortal soul?”

  “My soul’s been blessed,” Iago said, forcing his swollen lips into a defiant smile, “by Pope Livia.”

  Carlo gritted his teeth. The papers crumpled in his white-knuckled grip.

  “So. This is how Itresca sends its regards, now that they’ve turned traitor against the true Church.”

  “The Itrescan Church,” Iago said, “is the true vessel of the Gardener’s will. The people will know it.”

  Carlo turned his back. “Send him home.”

  “Sir?” One of the knights tilted his head.

  “Send him home to Itresca. To my vile sister.” He paused. “But first? Cut out his tongue, that he may never speak another lie about me. And slice off his hands, so he may never write another sinful word. I want him paraded through the streets so the people know the consequences of sin.”

  Marcello sighed. “Holy Father, may I suggest that scare tactics might not be the best way to—”

  Carlo spun on his heel. “I didn’t ask you!” he roared, hurling the crumpled papers at him. The cardinal stood impassive as the litter scattered across the polished marble floor. He sipped his wine.

  Trembling with rage, Carlo cradled Iago’s chin in his hand. His voice, once he found it again, came out in a strained rasp.

  “You see? I am a benevolent and merciful pope. Thanks to me, you’ll never be able to commit this sin again. And yes, I forgive you.” He looked to the knights. “Take him.”

  They dragged the beaten man away, and Carlo dropped back into his throne. He waved a tired hand.

  “No audiences today. Everyone out. I want to be alone.”

  Marcello left without another word.

  * * *

  “I’m not seeing a problem,” the corpulent Cardinal De Luca said, leaning back on a plush velvet divan.

  Of course you aren’t, Marcello thought, because you’re an idiot.

  He’d gathered his clique in a private parlor just off the College of Cardinals’ meeting hall. The handful of peers who would reliably vote his way and swing others by their influence. A small group—and a treacherous one that wouldn’t hesitate to stab him in the back if it was worth their while—but they had their uses.

  Cardinal Herzog knitted his bushy eyebrows, leaning in to pluck a plump red grape from a silver serving tray. “Livia Serafini’s ‘papacy’ is an outrageous joke. It’s a slap in the face to the entire Holy Empire. Her influence won’t spread. It can’t.”

  “Can’t is a powerful word, my friend.” Marcello paced the woven carpet. “You’re focusing too much on the girl and not the man behind her. This is a political gambit from start to finish.”

  Cardinal Cavalcante, the fourth member of their tiny cabal, leaned back against the wall with his arms folded. “You’re talking about Rhys Jernigan.”

  “Naturally. Do you think that pamphleteer hired a team of scribes, chartered a boat to Verinia, and set out to spread these letters all by himself? That wasn’t holy zeal; it was a propaganda operation. And it won’t be the only one. If King Jernigan can wrest control of the Church, we’ll all be dancing to Itresca’s tune.”

  “Never going to happen,” Herzog said. “The people will never accept a woman as their pope. She’s a condemned witch. A heretic!”

  “Condemned by Carlo,” Marcello said. “How much is that worth if ‘the people’ begin to reject him? We’re in a battle for hearts and minds here, gentlemen, and so far, Rhys Jernigan is setting the terms of engagement.”

  “You sold us Carlo.” De Luca jabbed his finger at him.

  “And you’ve profited handsomely. Hasn’t he been a good figurehead? Hasn’t he granted your every request and signed off on every bank note you put in front of him? Don’t claim otherwise. He’s the goose that lays the golden eggs. It’s up to us to keep him uncooked.”

  “So we go on the offensive,” Cavalcante said. “Hold public rallies where we burn her in effigy, all throughout the Empire. Make sure the people hate her so much that she can’t get a foothold here.”

  Herzog nodded, speaking through a mouthful of mushed grapes. “We could make it known that she’s a whore. That Rhys put her on the throne because she spread her legs for him.”

  “Farm animals,” De Luca said, perking up. “We can say she fucks horses. No? Too much? Too over the top?”

  Marcello put his hand to his temple. He felt a headache coming on.

  “May I suggest, gentlemen, that we take a more high-minded tack? A charm offensive, perhaps.”

  “For Carlo?” De Luca asked. “He hasn’t got any.”

  Cavalcante nodded. “Truth. Easier to smear Livia than to puff up Carlo. He’s best kept well out of the public eye. What’s the problem, Accorsi? Why wouldn’t you want to attack her?”

  Marcello had a unique stance on the issue, being the only man in the room who knew the claims in those letters were real. He’d gone to great trouble and expense to try and
steal them for himself, only to have victory snatched out from under his fingertips by a wretched pair of bounty hunters.

  The real enemy isn’t Rhys Jernigan, he thought. This trouble has Dante Uccello’s fingerprints all over it. Livia is HIS project. And his weapon.

  And I’m not entirely sure they’re going to lose. Better to hedge my bets, just in case I need to hitch my wagon to a new team of horses at the last minute.

  “It’s unnecessary,” he said. “Our bigger concern, right now, is this disaster of a crusade.”

  Herzog scowled. “You mean this glorious and righteous crusade.”

  “Says the emperor’s third cousin,” Cavalcante muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “It is mismanaged,” Marcello said, ticking off points on his fingertips. “It is floundering, and it is most of all wasteful. Have you seen the reports coming back from the front? The Imperial infantry columns and the peasant levies haven’t even crossed paths, the supply lines are barely functional, the whole mess is bogged down in Carcanna, and half the ‘glorious and righteous’ crusaders don’t even have weapons. At this rate it will be a miracle if they even reach the Caliphate without the whole enterprise falling apart.”

  Herzog chewed another grape. “The Gardener will provide.”

  “With all due respect to your relation, only two people want this crusade: Carlo and Emperor Theodosius. And no reign lasts forever. With the Imperial treasuries bleeding dry and the banks closing in, Theodosius’s ministers would love to end this madness.”

  “I’m still not seeing a problem,” De Luca said.

  “Because if Theodosius goes,” Marcello said, “and we have Pope Carlo preaching war, and Pope Livia preaching peace…which Church do you think the Imperial government will start believing in?”

  The room exploded in argument, with Cavalcante and Herzog talking over each other, shouting over each other as they threw up their arms. Marcello poured himself a fresh cup of wine and sank into his thoughts.

  Carlo only wanted this crusade because Lodovico, his puppet master, wanted it. The banker’s motive was money, no doubt. War profiteering. Good luck cutting Lodovico’s strings, though, when the papal manse was infested with his hired killers. Marcello had seen enough to know Lodovico’s men would strike without hesitation if they sensed a threat; in fact, he’d seen it happen firsthand. His survival, so far, had depended on keeping his head down and staying out of Lodovico’s way.

  That was no longer an option.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Most days the village square of Kettle Sands was an open market, with patched burlap tents popping up around the old stone fountain and blankets laid out with produce and pottery. Today though, the villagers gathered in a teeming crowd, packing the square from end to end, and only one item was on display: the corpse of a dead crusader.

  Renata could barely think over the din, the clamor of voices arguing back and forth, fingers pointing, and angry eyes—too many angry eyes—squarely set on her. She couldn’t look away from the pale corpse, still bearing the needle-fine rents in his bloody tabard where she’d murdered him with a pitchfork.

  “What if we just give her to them?” called out the local smith, wearing his fear on his face. “Maybe they’ll just punish her and leave the rest of us alone.”

  Elisavet Sanna glowered and shouted back, “Nobody’s givin’ her to anybody! Renata stood up for me and my boy. Where were you when it happened?”

  Gianni stood close to Renata, the old barman almost paternally protective. “It’s not her they want. You heard her: they’re after the food.”

  “Where’s Constantin?” called a woman’s voice from the back of the crowd. “He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do!”

  Gianni shook his head. “The mayor’s gone, and he ain’t coming back.”

  “Then he had the right idea,” said a grizzled voice at the edge of the square, “and the rest of you should do the same.”

  The crowd parted for the barrel-chested newcomer, dressed in dusty leathers and leading a broken-down horse by its reins. Elisavet put a hand on her hip and turned his way.

  “Another outsider. You one of them, come to deliver more threats?”

  Gallo Parri snorted and thumped his chest. “You see a black tree on me? No. I’m just an old traveler who hoped to find a new home here. On the road I crossed paths with a company or two of Imperial soldiers on their way to the desert. They’re not your problem. Neither is the little band of frightened children playing soldier and camping by the forest line.”

  “What is, then?” Renata asked.

  “Their friends.”

  Gallo stood up on the low stone rim encircling the village well, raising him a head higher than the crowd. He pointed east.

  “Three days ago, I passed a column of crusaders heading this way. Moving slow, all on foot, with taut bellies and hungry eyes. This lot outside your village? There’s only twelve of them”—he paused, nodding at the fallen body—“okay, eleven now. But the others will be here soon.”

  Gianni squinted at him. “How many?”

  “A hundred men. Maybe more.”

  A ripple of panic quaked through the gathering, murmurs and low whispers rustling in the air like autumn leaves.

  “They’re lost,” Gallo said. “Off course. Near as I can tell, the central column of the crusade’s somewhere a few dozen leagues west. This lot’s cut off from the supply lines. They’re just trying to get to the desert and join back up with the main force. They won’t make it without food, though.”

  “Well, they can’t have ours,” Elisavet said. “I’m not letting my family starve for them. This isn’t our war!”

  Nods of agreement all around, but Renata could see the worry in their eyes.

  Gallo shook his head, his eyes hard. “You think you’ll have a choice? Miss, let me tell you who these men are. They aren’t soldiers, and they don’t fight under discipline or codes of arms. Some of ’em are fighting to get rich, thinking they’ll come home laden with Caliphate gold. Some of ’em are fighting for the Gardener’s glory—and there is nothing in this world more dangerous than a man who honestly believes that his god wants you dead. Some just like the idea of raping and killing their way across a foreign land and getting paid for it.”

  He turned on his stone stage, casting his gaze across the square.

  “That’s not an army coming your way. That’s a horde of locusts in human skin. And once they get here, they’ll come into this village and they’ll take what they please and cut down anyone who stands in their way. The best thing you can do for yourselves, and your families, is leave. That’s what I’m doing, anyway. Lovely village you’ve got here. Too bad it couldn’t stay.”

  He stepped down from the stone, gave his horse’s reins a gentle tug, and walked away. The crowd parted like waves, closing ranks in his passing, momentarily silent.

  It didn’t take long for the shouting to resume, the tranquility broken by ferocious arguments from one side of the square to the other, but Renata didn’t stay to listen. She followed him. Down the dusty, winding lane to the village arch, shadowing his path until he finally stopped and looked back at her. He stared, expectant.

  “You’re a soldier,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She strode up, pointing to his horse’s saddlebags and what she’d spotted as he walked by. The faded pommel and leather-wrapped hilt of a short blade poked out of one deep satchel.

  “Yes,” she said, “you are.”

  “No,” he replied, irritated, tugging down the satchel flap and hiding his weapon. “I’m not. Not anymore.”

  “These people could lose their homes, their belongings, everything they’ve worked so hard for.”

  “They’ll lose more than that if they stay. Don’t see what you want me to do about it.”

  “Help us,” Renata said. “Help us…I don’t know, create some defenses, come up with a plan to stave them off.”

  Gallo blinked. He held u
p a finger and nodded in mock-realization.

  “Oh. Oh, I see. What I should do is rally the townsfolk into a militia—a militia with no experience and no weapons—in less than three days and lead a heroic charge that sends the crusaders scurrying and saves the village without a single life lost. And then we can all shout ‘huzzah!’ and eat blueberry pie.” He put his finger down. “That’s for children’s stories, young lady. You know what will happen if these people don’t run? They’ll be slaughtered. War is a messy, nasty, filthy business, and I won’t be responsible for encouraging you to learn that the hard way.”

  He turned to leave.

  “I’ve seen violence,” Renata said. “I’ve…I’ve killed men.”

  He paused and looked her square in the eye. Taking her measure.

  “I believe you,” he said. “But it doesn’t change a thing. Tell me something: why do you care?”

  She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “That accent, your skin—you’re not Carcannan. You’re Verinian, like me. You’re no more a local here than I am. So why do you care? Just pack your bags and move on.”

  Renata looked back toward the village. The sun had started its slow descent, turning the sky behind the chapel spire to tangerine cream.

  “My fiancé and I,” she said, “have a plan. And a dream. This village is where we’re going to start our lives together. Start fresh and leave the past behind us.”

  “There are other villages.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “What I endured to get here,” she said, “and what I can only imagine he’s enduring right now…no. This is our new home. This is our dream. And I am sick—I am sick to death—of evil-minded bastards who take what isn’t theirs and prey upon the weak just because they can. Leave if your conscience lets you, but I’m staying.”