Queen of the Night (The Revanche Cycle Book 4) (29 page)

*     *     *

Amadeo’s lungs burned, a stitch in his side as he jogged down another lonely hall. He cursed his age, slowing him down, taunting him with memories of what it felt like to be young and fast and strong. He gritted his teeth and kept going. Not too much farther, and he wasn’t going to let Livia down.

Then a man, moving like a blur, barreled out of a darkened side corridor.

Tresler hit him like a battering ram, slamming Amadeo up against the wall and driving a fist into his gut. His hand, clamped over the elderly priest’s mouth, stank of rotten fish.

“Remember me?” he asked. Their eyes met as Amadeo wheezed, struggling to breathe. “Oh, you do. You got away from me twice before, Father. That’s two times luckier than any man alive.”

Another brutal punch knocked the last of the wind from Amadeo’s lungs. Tresler reached down to his boot, and Amadeo heard a slithering metallic sound.

“Don’t see anything you can climb to escape this time. Don’t see any little girls with rocks, either. You’re all out of miracles.”

Amadeo tried to talk. Tresler pressed his hand harder over his mouth and whacked the back of Amadeo’s head against the alabaster wall.

“But it’s not you that you’re worried about, is it? Aw, don’t worry, Father. We’re not gonna kill Livia. She’s going to be an insurance policy, to keep the Imperials from turning Mirenze into a smoking crater. She’ll live.”

He moved closer, squeezing Amadeo between his body and the wall, his voice dropping to a friendly whisper.

“Course, she might not want to after a few days in our company. And once she gets to Mirenze, she’ll spend the rest of her life in a cage. Maybe Lodovico Marchetti will toss her his table scraps.”

Tresler lifted his hand so Amadeo could see what he’d pulled from his boot. A thin-bladed stiletto.

“Just wanted to give you something to think about, while you’re dying.”

Amadeo cried out behind Tresler’s hand as the dagger slid between his ribs, tearing skin and muscle and burying itself deep in his chest.

He shook, suddenly pale, his eyes like sea glass, and inched down the wall to collapse at the Dustman’s feet. Tresler whistled a happy tune as he strolled away.

*     *     *

Livia sat on her throne, shifting anxiously and fighting every urge to call for a pillow or two. Her father’s admonition about the importance of an uncomfortable throne was never far from her thoughts.
If he put up with this
,
so can I
.

To one side of her chair, one of the Browncloaks—ten in all, an honor guard to show a little muscle to the Imperial delegation—stifled a yawn behind his hand. Kailani shot him a murderous look. Livia chuckled as she raised her palm to her lips, the yawn contagious.

“We’re all tired, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry this is taking so long.”

“
You
don’t need to apologize,” Kailani grumbled.

The doors to the throne room swung wide. Kappel stepped through, dropping into a sweeping bow.

“Your Holiness,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

*     *     *

For a moment, Amadeo thought he was outside. A trembling chill seeped into his bones, the rain turning to drifting snow, the night becoming a cold, clear day under a frosty winter sun. The suffering ebbed away as he felt a gentle call, tugging him toward the sunlight. Time to move on. Time to rest.

No
, he thought in a burst of rage and drove his fist against the blood-soaked marble. The jolt of pain brought him back to the hallway, back to clarity, back to agony.

He grabbed the corded hilt of the dagger, still jutting from his chest, and let out a keening cry through clenched teeth as he wrenched it free. It fell from his shaking hands, clattering to the floor.

Then he crawled.

He dragged himself along, forearm over forearm, leaving a slug trail of blood in his wake. Every muscle screamed, every breath igniting a burning hell in his lungs.
No
became his mantra. A drumbeat chant of defiance in his tortured mind, driving him on, one inch at a time.
No
, he wasn’t going to die here, not like this, not now.
No
, he wasn’t going to let the Dustmen win.
No
, he wasn’t going to fail Livia when she needed him most.

No
.

Amadeo reached for a doorknob, his shaking fingers straining. They slipped and he collapsed to the floor. He tried again. This time they clamped down tight, and he hauled himself to his feet. He pressed himself to the wall as he staggered toward the throne room on wobbling, traitorous legs, counting the last breaths in his body.

*     *     *

The meeting had been a pleasure so far. The envoy, Kappel, was courtly and refined, and the knights accompanying him—even the one who came in late, muttering something about an upset stomach—were unflinchingly professional. Livia made small talk, trying to feel out the real reason for their visit.

“Given the sudden change in Church leadership,” Kappel explained, “obviously, we just want to ensure we have good relations from the very start. Say, would it be all right if we walked a bit while we talked? I’ve never actually been inside the papal manse and I’d love to see it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Livia said as she rose, secretly grateful for a chance to get off the throne for a bit. A twinge shot up the small of her back. “I’ll show you the galleries; my father’s art collection was—”

One of the throne-room doors flew open and Amadeo stumbled through, his cassock drenched in enough blood to turn the green to glistening black. He collapsed onto the floor, one hand stretched out before him, and wheezed two words.

“
Dustmen…trap
.”

Kappel lunged for Livia’s arm. Behind him, Kailani didn’t hesitate. Her sword sang from its sheath and swung up in one swift, brutal thrust, shattering Kappel’s spine and punching out through his throat. The Dustmen fanned out, drawing their blades. They had training and teamwork on their side. The Browncloaks had rage. They roared in fury as they swarmed the Dustmen, carving and kicking and battering them down. Livia raced through the fight, dropping to her knees at Amadeo’s side and squeezing his hand.

“Hold on,” she gasped. “I can heal you. I can fix this.”

“Nuh.” Amadeo shook his head. “N-no. Don’t save me.”

“Yes,” Livia said, pressing her hands to his chest. Hot blood spurted against her sticky palms, in tune to the dying rhythm of his heart. “I can
help
you.”

“Your promise. No more magic. No more…hurting yourself. Keep your promise.”

Tears burned in Livia’s eyes. “That was—we weren’t talking about saving
you
. Please, Amadeo, let me do this. Don’t
leave
me. There are bodies here; I can use their blood. It won’t hurt me.”

Amadeo’s lips curled in a weak smile. He reached up with his other hand and stroked her hair with trembling fingers.

“Could
change
you,” he croaked. “The corruption. Not worth saving me if it means losing you. Keep your promise. I’m not…I’m not going far, Livia. Never far.”

His fingers brushed her cheek.

“So proud of you.”

And then his hand fell limp. And his eyes softly shut. And Amadeo Lagorio slept forever.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, over his body. Her tears falling like droplets of melted snow, splashing onto his chest. The throne room was silent when she rose.

Three of the Dustmen lay dead, carved to pieces on the marble floor. The other six had been forced to their knees, glaring defiance with their hands bound behind their backs.

Livia looked them over, one by one. Her gaze fell upon the last of them. The one who had arrived late.

“Did you kill him?” Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet.

“Yeah,” Tresler said, “I did. You gonna cry about it some more?”

She approached him like a lioness closing in on a wounded gazelle. Slow. Deliberate. Her tear-stained face set in stone.

“A man who scorns weeping,” she said, “is a man who knows that no one will weep for
him
. Tell me: do you know his name?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

Livia took a deep, slow breath.

“His name was Amadeo. And he was the best man I’ve ever known. He was my teacher. My mentor. My friend. He was a spot of light in the darkness.”

“Save it for my trial.”

Livia stared at him. “This is your trial. And I find you guilty.”

His cocky sneer faded fast.

“We—we’re unarmed,” Tresler said. “We
surrendered
.”

Livia turned her back on him and walked to her throne.

“Amadeo would have counseled me to turn you over to the city guard,” she said as she sat down, regal and cold. “Amadeo would have encouraged me to show compassion. To find the Gardener’s love in my heart, and express that love in the form of mercy.”

Livia’s hands settled upon the armrests of the throne.

“But Amadeo isn’t here. He isn’t here because you took him away from me.”

She looked to the Browncloaks.

“Kill them all.”

The Browncloaks descended on the bound men, their blades raised, and the still night air became a cacophony of pleading, screaming, and the sounds of crackling bones and wet, tearing meat. Everyone in that room had known Amadeo. Everyone in that room had loved him.

They took their time. The Dustmen died slow. Tresler slowest of all. When they finally let him die, there wasn’t much of him that still looked human.

Livia sat back and watched the butchery, her eyes like winter ice. The stiff-backed throne wasn’t so uncomfortable anymore. She didn’t feel it.

She didn’t feel anything at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Mari stirred from her slumber as a gentle hand rocked her shoulder back and forth. She squinted, eyes bleary, looking up at Nessa.

“Is…is it morning already?”

“No,” Nessa said. Behind her, Hedy was rousing Vassili and Despina. “Dawn is hours away. Come on. We’re leaving.”

Mari sat up fast, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. She rubbed at her sleep-encrusted eyes. “Why are we leaving? I thought we were heading out at first light.”

“Instincts,” Nessa told her. “The longer we’re here, the less I like it. I’ll feel better when we’ve left Lerautia behind. So we’ll get a head start and beat the sun. All right, everyone, now that we’ve got everything worth keeping in orderly stacks, we’ll ferry it out one armload at a time. Once we get the first batch to the coaches, Mari will stand guard while we go back for the rest.”

“Look who gets the easy job,” Despina said, giving Mari a wink.

“Won’t be easy if anyone sees what we’re up to,” Vassili said, “so let’s be quick about it.”

Hedy stood beside Mari as they loaded their arms with manuscripts and maps. The girl bounced on her toes. Mari tilted her head and smiled. “Excited?”

“Aren’t you? The maps all point to
something
the old Dire didn’t want us to find.”

“But we don’t know what it is. Anything could be waiting for us out there.”

Hedy grinned at her. “That’s what makes it an adventure! Whatever waits at the end of the trail, we’ll face it together. As a family.”

Despina took the lead, ferrying her armload of books up the long basalt stairway. Her brother was right behind her. Nessa, the only one with empty arms, lingered behind. She touched Mari’s sleeve and caught her eye.

“I’m thinking,” she said as they climbed the steps, “we may settle in one place for a time. There are years of study in these pages, mysteries upon mysteries to unravel. Do you have any skill at carpentry?”

“I’m no artisan, but I can cut wood and drive nails.”

“Fair enough.” Nessa smiled. “Worm and Shrike will want their own little nest, just for themselves, but I was thinking we could build a cabin like my old one. A bit bigger. Big enough for the three of us.”

Mari looked back at Nessa, lost in her eyes for a moment.

“I’ll build you a palace,” Mari said.

At the top of the stairs, Despina shifted her burden and shouldered open the archive door. She gave Vassili a knowing smile and an eager tilt of her chin as she pushed on through. Words silently passing between them.

She didn’t see the burly silhouette looming before her, or the arc of the broad-headed ax as it whistled through the air.

Despina’s head bounced down the basalt steps as her corpse crumpled to the library floor.

The sound that Vassili made shouldn’t have come from a human throat. It was a shriek of bottomless grief, of incoherent animal rage, of half a world dying. And as Marcello’s men flooded the stairwell, shoulder to shoulder as they charged with blades drawn, the air around him crackled with dark lightning. His veins bulged, growing thick and wormy and coursing black. He charged, barreling into the pack of killers, his hands turned to lupine claws that tore through leathers and spilled a screaming man’s guts onto the blood-streaked tile.

“Get behind me,” Mari shouted, shoving ahead of Hedy as the twin sickles snapped from her belt. “Vassili, come back! Don’t let them surround you.”

“Too late for him.” Nessa drew her Cutting Knife. “Opened himself to the Shadow. He’s already dead. Hold them off, I’m carving an exit.”

Mari held her ground halfway down the stairs as more men came at her, Nessa chanting behind her back, strained and winding syllables weaving in the air. Beyond the door Mari heard the sounds of clashing steel and a frenzied roar, like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap. She didn’t have time to worry about Vassili, not with two swords coming at her at once. She sidestepped one, caught the other in her sickle and twisted hard, ripping it from her attacker’s grip. She spun, following through, and turned his throat into a ragged wet mouth. His partner lashed out with a boot, kicking her hard in the chest and driving her back as she grunted, struggling to keep her footing with her toes at the edge of a blood-slick step.

Mari became a cyclone of steel, her sickles flashing. Another assassin fell, screaming, wriggling down the staircase like a gutted fish. More pressed in, and still more. Mari stumbled down another step, losing ground. Then Nessa’s knife carved the air and tore it asunder. Mari could feel the howling void at her back, devouring air and warmth, the stench of blood mingling with the sweet scent of roses.