The Instruments of Control (17 page)

Maybe I died
, Felix thought.

If the afterlife looked like his bedroom at Rossini Hall, with the fading embers of a fire glowing in his hearth, it wouldn’t have startled him much. Nothing could, now.

He breathed like a living man. He could think like one, he supposed, but his thoughts felt like molasses dripping through a sieve. Someone had patched up his cuts and scrapes, covered them in an ointment that smelled faintly of honey and lemons, and they didn’t hurt anymore.

He couldn’t feel a thing.

He lay under the furs, warm enough to sweat, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling.

Maybe I should have died.

He’d been lucky. That was what everyone said. Lucky he’d been ahead of the blast, lucky that the bend of the alley had forced the explosion back, east of the Ducal Arch, straight into the oncoming parade. Lucky that he and Basilio had survived with bruises, and the nail in Aita’s arm was the worst of her injuries.

The scene behind them, that was what he saw every time he closed his eyes. The screaming victims, the ones who weren’t blessed with a quick death, writhing on the ground in unendurable pain. The body parts, ripped and flung like the limbs of a dozen rag dolls. The river of blood that guttered down the cobblestones, wide and red and stinking of copper. The smoke and the rubble.

He was lucky.

Luckier than his father, his brother, and his sister-in-law, who had promised they’d be right behind him.

Felix had been found squatting in a pool of blood, blind mad and howling. He’d found Calum. Part of Calum. They told him it took four men to drag him away from the wreckage. He didn’t remember any of that.

Bed rest
, the doctor had said in the hall, just outside his bedroom door.
Mild food and quiet
.
An ailment of the nerves
.

The cook rattled and thumped her way through the door, carrying a serving tray in her shaky hands. She set it down on his bedside table. A wisp of steam rose up from a porcelain bowl of chicken broth, next to a dull pewter spoon.

“Thought you might be hungry.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He searched for words, managing to get out a soft “Thank you.”

She took a step back, lingering.

“Nobody’s taken, y’know, responsibility yet. Lot of rumors flyin’ about, but it’s all guesses.”

They were behind us because Father was sick
, Felix thought for the hundredth time that morning.

He was sick because I spent the night pouring drinks down his throat
.

“I am,” he said. “I’m responsible.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would you say such a horrible thing? That’s not true at all.”

“The party, my party, the night before the wedding. Father—” Felix shook his head, fumbling for words. “I encouraged him to join in. He was slow, held back in the procession, his headache—”

“And so what if he was?” the cook said, her hand fluttering. “Did you pack a keg with black powder and nails? Are you the monster who set it off?
That’s
the only man what ought to be held responsible for what happened out there. I’ll tell you two things I learned from twenty years of serving this household: Albinus Rossini, bless his soul and Gardener love him, never needed to be
encouraged
to drink. And he never stopped whining the next morning, neither. Give him a thimble of sherry and he’d claim to be stomach-twisted from it.”

“He was back in the crowd, and Calum and Petra with him, because—”

“Because they were. And damnation on the beast who laid that powder keg in their path, but damnation on his head alone. And you, just look at you. Layin’ up here, mopin’ and lookin’ for reasons to hate yourself.”

“My father is dead.” Felix lolled his head on the pillow to look at her with bloodshot eyes. “My brother and his wife are—”

“Gone, yes, and we’re all grieving. We’re grieving for them. It’s not about
you
. That’s not honest grief. You turned their memories into knives, and you’re just layin’ up here, stabbin’ yourself in the heart with ’em over and over again.”

The cook loomed over his bed, glowering down at him.

“Like it or not, you’re the last of the Rossinis. That means you’ve got responsibilities to meet. The world won’t stop movin’ just because you don’t want to go outside. You’re the master of the house now.
Be
the master of the house. We
need
you.”

She leaned in closer, her voice grave, eyes boring into him so fiercely he shrank back under the furs.

“And Renata needs you,” she said. “Don’t be thinking for a second me and the rest of the household staff don’t know about all the fishy business that’s been going on around here. We cook your meals. We mend your shirts and wash your linens. We hear
everything
. Maybe not all the details, but enough to know you didn’t give up the only woman you’ve ever loved just to make your father happy. If you won’t get out of bed for your own sake, do it for
her
.”

She scooped up the tray and the soup bowl, leaving nothing behind but a wisp of steam. “No more of this. If you want to eat, you’ll come down to the dining hall and eat properly. It’ll be waiting for you.”

With that, she swept out of the room.

The beast who laid that powder keg in their path
. Her words echoed in his mind. Basilio had just survived an assassination attempt. They’d used daggers, that time. Maybe his enemies had decided to step up their efforts.

Another face crossed his mind. Another name, one that made his guts clench in fury.

Simon
.

The madman had poisoned an entire shipload of innocent people just to get at him. Setting off an explosion during a wedding procession? That’d merely be an encore to a man like Simon.

His thoughts turned to Lodovico Marchetti. The most likely suspect. The one man who’d stood to gain from leaving Felix dead in Winter’s Reach and stopping his plan to rebuild his family’s fortune.

“And if I find out you’re the one who gave the orders,” Felix growled, “then may the Gardener show you mercy. Because I
won’t
.”

He threw back the furs and got out of bed, standing on shaky legs. Raw determination pushed him to the wardrobe, got him dressed, and dragged him through the family hall.

In the foyer, at the bottom of a curling staircase, the household staff had waited for him. The cook, the groundskeepers, the maids. A skeleton crew, too few for a house this size, but they’d stayed on through thick and thin. And they’d waited for him. They knew he’d come downstairs.

As he descended to join them, a scattering of applause rose up to greet him. He held up his hand. Their expectant faces pinned him in place at the foot of the stairs.

“I should say something, I suppose,” he told them. “Something besides thank you. We’ve taken blow after blow, none worse than this, but…but you’re still here. And so am I. When I went to Winter’s Reach, I promised to save this house, to save your jobs, to
build
. And here, today, let me renew that vow.”

He struggled for words, curling his hands.

“I’ve known most of you since I was a child. You’re not mere servants. You’re family. And whatever happens, you will always be my family. I promise. I won’t let you down.”

“Hell,” one of the groundskeepers drawled, “we knew that. Just wanted to see if
you
still did.”

Felix gave him a firm nod and looked to the cook.

“Marta,” he said, “I’ll be taking my luncheon in the dining room today. No more broth, please. Something robust, with peppers. Need a little fire in my stomach for what comes next.”

“What comes next?” she asked.

It was a good question. He had to get a tighter noose around Basilio’s throat to wrest control of the Banco G-R out of his hands. With Basilio neutralized, then he could find Renata. Then there was Aita. Once she learned what Felix had done, the “poison pills” he’d woven into the paperwork to threaten Basilio’s fortune—and hers, by extension—there was no telling how she’d react.

But that could all wait. First, it was time to have a private chat with Lodovico Marchetti.

I’m going to look him right in the eyes
, he thought,
and ask if Simon’s his man
.

And when he denies it, he’d better pray I believe him
.

The Crowcrook cast a long and ragged black shadow across the outer courtyard. A tower of dark gray stone, it leaned jaggedly as it rose up, narrow in some spots and fat in others, like a precarious pile of mismatched hats. It was one of the oldest buildings in Lychwold and served one of the oldest purposes: housing the city guard, along with their prisoners.

One cell, at the tower’s peak, was reserved for the condemned awaiting their date with the hangman. It was barely more than a box of bleak stone ten feet on a side, with a cot, a stained wooden bucket for a chamber pot, and a single round barred window that looked down onto the courtyard. It gave a fine view of the gallows, as the architect had intended.

Livia knelt with her head bowed, the stone hard and frigid against her knees, and prayed.

Tried to, anyway. Her thoughts were a turmoil, a whirlwind that swept her away and knocked her off balance. How had everything gone so wrong? She’d taken a chance, reached out with her heart, won them over—and in a heartbeat, it was all stolen away.

Small men
, she thought,
small pitiable men and their pitiable laws that they never think to question. Not so long as they’re the ones benefiting from them
.

It was over now. She’d be brought back to Lerautia in chains, where she’d already been tried and convicted. She’d not be allowed to speak—Carlo couldn’t risk that. Her heart wrenched as she thought to her stateroom in King Jernigan’s hall, and Squirrel’s spellbook, hidden under her mattress.

They’ll find it eventually. And when they do, they’ll call it proof that I am just what Carlo says I am. A witch and a heretic. Reason enough to ignore everything that’s been said and done. Reason enough to ignore the truth.

And when we’re dust and bones, all history will remember is the good Pope Carlo and his wicked sister
.

She gritted her teeth until her jaw shook, squeezed her nails into her palms hard enough to leave scarlet welts, driving back the threat of tears with her pain.

To the Barren Fields with you all
, she thought bitterly.
I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing you hurt me. I’d hurt myself first, a thousand times, before allowing you that pleasure.

The banded oaken door, the only way out of her prison, rattled and groaned as it swung wide. Her visitors were the last two people she’d expected to see: Rhys Jernigan and Dante Uccello.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.

The king folded his arms and shot a look at Dante. “Took the words out of my mouth. First he convinces me to have you arrested, now he’s—”

Livia was on her feet in a heartbeat. “You?
You
arranged this?”

Dante favored her with a patronizing smile. “Of course I did. And now that the three of us are united at last, I can explain why.”

“You told me why,” Rhys said. “To throw some red meat to the god-botherers and shut them up.”

“Yes. Right. I lied a little. Sorry.”

Dante swung the cell door shut. Rhys and Livia both converged on him, as confused as they were furious.

“Let’s start by considering the angles.” Dante held up his hands to placate them. “King Jernigan. You thought about selling the signorina here to her brother, to extort favors out of him. Of course, that plan fails when you realize that it would make
you
Carlo’s next target. Hmm. There must be a way to exploit this dear lady and her family ties, but how?”

Rhys bristled. “How did—you
couldn’t
know that.”

“It’s the first thing I’d have considered if I was in your shoes. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Livia. It’s beneath you. As for you, you’ve got a queen’s heart but a pawn’s leverage. Or you
did
, until I gave you a helping hand. Have you looked outside lately?”

She cast an uncertain glance to the barred window.

“Go on.” He made a shooing motion at her. “It won’t bite.”

Livia edged to the window. Down below in the courtyard, at least two hundred faces stared back up at her.

“They’ve been there since you were brought in,” Dante said. “And a few more are coming by the hour.”

Livia frowned. “What do they want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dante chuckled. “They want
you
. You’re a sensation.”

“She’s no dancing cow,” Rhys muttered.

“You’ve a talent for turning a crowd,” Dante said. “I saw that in you, even when you didn’t. You drew them in and won them over;
I
did the rest. Finding their weak spots and selling them what they needed. Selling
you
.”

Livia turned from the window, glaring at Dante. “To what end? You told me that celebrating Saint Wessel’s feast would save my life. It’s done the exact opposite,
because
of you!”

Dante paced the cell, stroking the stubble on his chin.

“Did it? Did I? Or did I just stoke the fires of your fame? You’re not seeing the whole picture.”

“Neither am I,” Rhys said, “so you’d best get to painting.”

“Let’s consider Lerautia. We all know that Carlo is a sterling example of the priestly breed. Venal, incompetent, and a puppet. Whose puppet? The College of Cardinals’? I’m sure they’ve been tricked into thinking so. No, I sense a greater hand at work. A steadier hand.”

“You’re talking about Lodovico Marchetti,” Rhys said. “I’ve a man in Lerautia, he’s convinced Marchetti is some kind of war profiteer. That he’s engineering a crusade so he can sell
carpets
.”

Dante held up a finger as he paced. “Grievously doubtful. The carpets, I mean. Ultimately, we can agree that Carlo is a puppet. His reign is as stable as a house built on sand. And therein lies your opportunity. The more Carlo works to push the Empire into a third crusade—a war which, I promise you, none of Theodosius the Lesser’s ministers want, and a war they
certainly
cannot afford after decades of laying siege to Belle Terre—the more precarious Carlo’s position will become. Theodosius is a fool, but his underlings are considerably more reasonable.”

Rhys knitted his brows. “What sort of opportunity?”

Dante stopped in his tracks. He extended his hand to Livia and smiled.

“Offering an alternative option. The Empire is beholden, at least in public matters, to kneel at the feet of the Church. There’d be an uprising if they didn’t—their devout citizens wouldn’t stand for a ‘heretic’ on the throne. But nobody says it has to be
Carlo’s
ring they kiss.”

Livia’s jaw dropped. “You’re talking about an anti-pope. Creating a schism in the Church.”

“I’m talking,” Dante said, “about Pope Livia Serafini, long may she reign.”

Rhys snorted. “A woman on the papal throne. You’ll have a hard time selling that idea.”

“Not as hard as you might think. Livia has a gift. She can sway the people—the growing vigil outside this very tower bears the truth of that. And don’t forget the power of national pride. Once we get everyone puffed up about the glory of having the first Itrescan pope, wresting the Church’s seat of power from Verinia, you’ll be surprised how quickly her regrettable lack of a cock will become a secondary concern.”

Rhys fluttered his hand at the barred window. “The ‘people’? Who gives a damn what they want? The peasants think what they’re told to think. You really believe a man like Cardinal Vaughn will accept this plan of yours?”

Dante shook his head. He had a tiny, amused smile on his lips as he went back to pacing, his shoes whispering on the rough stone floor.

“In any society,” he said, “the elites are the most resistant to change because they benefit most from the status quo. This can be remedied. If a man is corrupt, and most men are, simply demonstrate how change will personally benefit him. Offer incentives to cooperate.”

“And if he’s a true believer?” Rhys asked.

“Then
remove
him.”

“Remove?” Livia echoed.

“A single rock falling is nothing,” Dante told Rhys, ignoring her question, “but if enough fall at once, you get an avalanche. Build a groundswell, a cult following, among the citizenry. Appeal to their hearts on all fronts. For the nationalists, she’ll be a symbol of Itrescan power. For the romantics, she’ll be a symbol of triumph over unthinkable adversity, an unbreakable spirit to kindle their hearts’ fires. For the women—well, I should hope
that
appeal’s obvious. It doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive, either, though we’ll need to spruce up her wardrobe. She should have gowns tailored to draw the eye to the bust, without being too obvious about it.”

“Wait.” Livia held up her hand. “Slow down. And stop talking as if I’m not in the room. This is absurd, and I won’t do it.”

Dante almost stumbled, falling off his stride. He blinked at her.

“Livia…I’m offering you the papacy. You would be the most powerful woman in the world. Arguably the most powerful woman who ever lived.”

“Why? So I can be a painted doll propped up in a toy throne? So you can scheme behind my back.” She flung out a hand, pointing to Rhys. “And so he can, what, use the Church to extort favors from the Holy Empire?”

Rhys shrugged a shoulder. “I was mostly thinking about the money. Gold flows like wine where the Church is involved. The Murgardts
would
have to toe the line with me, though, wouldn’t they? It’s an appealing thought.”

Dante stepped closer to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she angrily jerked away from him.

“Livia,” he said, his voice soft and smooth, “this is the way of the world. No ruler is crowned by the Gardener’s good grace alone. You know this. There are deals. Negotiations. Concessions. It’s ugly, and it’s rough, but it’s also unavoidable. Yes, we’ll benefit from your ascent, but does that mean you couldn’t do wonderful things with a church of your own? Holy things? Sometimes the end justifies the means.”

Livia turned her back on the men. She walked to the window and looked down to the square below. It felt like more people stood there, massed in a silent crowd and staring up at her prison tower, than there were just a moment ago.

“I made an oath,” she said, her voice strained, “to purge my father’s church of corruption. I will not be a party to
further
corruption, even in the name of reform. I won’t stain my soul with that sin.”

“So you’ll let Carlo drive it into the mud,” Dante said. “You’ll let it be pillaged by the College of Cardinals. You’ll let it be puppeted and twisted and broken beyond any hope of repair, all to protect
your
precious soul.”

Livia’s stomach clenched. Her eyelids snapped shut. In her mind, she was back on the deck of that fishing boat, leading the refugee fleet away from Lerautia. The Alms District burned behind them, the raging fires consuming the ramshackle buildings and the corpses of the dead with equal hunger.

None of it had to happen. She’d found a spell in Squirrel’s book, a spell to help her escape. She’d tricked Carlo into giving her a parakeet to “keep her company.” A blood sacrifice to power the magic. And she’d stood beside the birdcage with a knitting needle in her hand and…stalled. And stalled some more.

When she finally found her nerve and cast the spell, it was too little, too late. She’d waited too long, too afraid of committing an unforgivable sin. Long enough for Amadeo to launch a rescue, and for the massacre that followed in retribution.

Never again
, she had told herself, looking back at the burning waterfront. Hundreds died because she hesitated, because she feared for her soul more than she cared for her people. And now Dante was putting her promise to the test. She spoke softly, aloud but to herself, as if trying the words on to see how they felt.

“My father’s church,” she said, “is more important than me. The
people
are more important than me. And I have to use whatever tools I’m given to make things right. No matter the consequences.”

The men said nothing.

“I’m listening.” Livia turned from the window, locking eyes with Dante. “Tell me more.”