Queen of the Night (The Revanche Cycle Book 4) (11 page)

Achille looked up at him, walking along the road at his side. “They’ll have to open the gates in the springtime, won’t they? So the farmers can get back to their fields?”

Sykes snorted. “That’s assuming the city’s still standing by the time the frost thaws. Once word of this little ‘rebellion’ gets back to the Empire, either they’ll pound Mirenze to rubble or starve it to death. It’s just like anything else in life, really.”

“How do you mean?” Renata gave him a sidelong glance.

“As bad as things are right now,” he said with a smirk, “it only gets worse from here.”

Renata stared at the walls in the distance, the banded gates defiantly shut against all comers. She could barely make out the rippling flags on the ramparts, the Imperial eagle torn down and replaced by banners of icy blue. Her brow furrowed as she took in the sight. She’d spent her entire life in Mirenze, but at that moment she hated the city. Hated it like it was a living thing, an enemy standing between her and Felix. She wanted to punch it, to tear down its walls with her bare hands and leave it bleeding in her wake.

She shrugged off the idle fantasy. Brute force wouldn’t get them past those gates, but cunning might. Her gaze drifted to the horizon, an idea dawning.

“The port,” she said. “We go in by water.”

“Blockade’s a blockade.” Lydda shook her head. “They’ll be watching the port like hawks. Besides, case you ain’t noticed, we don’t have a boat.”

Renata smiled. “What Achille said got me thinking. They brought the harvest inside the city, and the harvesters along with it. Probably a few holdouts here and there, but I’m guessing there’s a whole bunch of empty farmhouses whose occupants took shelter behind the walls. Preparing for the siege.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Follow me,” Renata said. “I’ve got a hunch.”

They walked across barren fields and rolling dales under a crisp blue sky, frost-kissed grass crunching under their feet. The noonday sun glowed overhead, the gauzy light offering little warmth. Along the coastline, a mile south of the city walls, the wind carried the tang of salt and rot as foam washed up on an ice-white beach.

They found a hamlet there. Just a clump of miserable shacks, windows crooked and doors chained shut, a stout clay granary hanging open and empty. The fields at the hamlet’s edge had been picked clean. Only a few lean crows hopped along the beds of black loam, watching Renata’s party with hungry, glittering eyes.

“Oh, we should loot the place,” Sykes deadpanned with a gesture to the shacks. “All this regal finery, just waiting to be stolen. I can’t believe they left it behind.”

“There’s a reason these hamlets spring up along the coast,” Renata said. “If the annual harvest doesn’t put enough food on the table, there’s another trade you can turn to.”

She grinned as they turned a corner. Propped up on wooden sawhorses, covered in heavy oilcloth, waited exactly what she’d hoped to find. She grabbed hold of the tarp and gave it a tug.

“Fishing,” she said as the oilcloth billowed free. The boat, put up for winter, was a fifteen-footer with its mast collapsed and sails furled up tight. Chips of faded blue paint clung to the weathered hull, a memory of a more prosperous time.

Lydda rapped her knuckles against the wood. “You sure this thing’ll even float?”

“It’ll float,” Renata said.

“Still doesn’t explain how we’re gonna get it into port.” Sykes tapped his sallow cheek. “In case you ain’t noticed, me, Lydda, and the kid are a little pale for this town. Doesn’t sound like Murgardt faces are too welcome these days.”

Renata circled the boat, thinking, and glanced to a storage shed behind the sawhorses. “Not a problem. Can you get that lock open?”

“Easy,” Lydda said. The shed door shattered under her boot, slamming open, the padlock dangling from a broken latch.

“I meant…
pick
the lock.” Renata winced and looked over at Achille. “We’re only taking what we need, and when we’re done, we’re putting it all back exactly where we found it.”

The shed yielded fishing nets and line, and she brought her finds out by the armload as Gallo and Sykes wrestled the mast into place. Getting the boat down to the water was a team effort, the old hull scraping inch by inch in the thick, wet sand, but at long last it bobbed free in the icy waters. Renata waded in, going hip deep and shivering as the waves clung to her legs with frozen hands. Then she tossed her pack into the boat and climbed in after it.

Gallo’s teeth chattered as he followed her on board. He rubbed at his soaked calves like he was trying to start a fire with the friction. “So, what now?” he asked her.

Renata held up one of the stolen nets. “We’re posing as fishers. So we need fish.”

“Great idea,” Sykes said, hauling a rope to hoist the mainsail. The old canvas snapped in a sudden, stiff wind. “Lydda and me will be right over here,
not
doing that. Have fun.”

Hauling in enough of a catch—a net bursting with yellow cod and plump, wriggling sea bass—took hours of hard work. Even with Gallo and Achille’s help, Renata’s arms felt like they’d been pounded with a mallet, her back aching as she dragged their bounty across the boat’s narrow deck. A swell rocked the boat from stem to stern, splashing her face with frozen mist. She looked to the horizon and the line of darkness inching their way.

“Okay, that’s enough fish,” she said. “Looks like a storm coming. Let’s put into port and hope this works.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Achille asked.

She shrugged. “They’ll probably decide we’re Murgardt spies and hang us. So let’s stay optimistic.”

She felt wistful as the fishing boat slowly sailed into the harbor. So much had happened since she fled the city—abducted by bandits and escaping alongside Hedy, the witch. Taking a stand in Kettle Sands and leading the fight against marauding crusaders. She’d seen wonders, nightmares, and gotten dirt and blood on her hands in equal measure.

Still just the same old me, though
, she thought as she tacked the boat toward the dock.
Only difference is, now I know what I’m capable of
.

“So many things I used to be afraid of,” she murmured, watching the shore. Militiamen in heavy leathers and bright blue armbands pointed toward the oncoming boat, raising a shout, thundering up the dock to intercept them.

Beside her, Gallo watched the gathering militia with an uncertain eye. “And now?”

“And now?” Renata lifted her chin. “Aita should be afraid of
me
.”

The boat bumped against the dock, Gallo and Renata the only visible occupants. She nonchalantly grabbed a heavy line and looped it around the nearest post, ignoring the gang of armed men standing open-mouthed on the dock just a few feet away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of the militiamen sputtered. “Identify yourself!”

Renata spun the line into a sailor’s knot, giving it a hard yank and securing the boat against the dock. She looked over and shrugged.

“Renata Nicchi, and I’m fishing.” She nodded to the back of the boat, where the fat nets lay beside a bumpy pile of oilcloth. “Any other questions?”

“You can’t—you can’t
do
that. The city’s under blockade. You can’t just come and go as you please!”

She put one leg up on the rim of the boat, dusted off her hands, and sighed.

“If you think the fish are spies, you’re welcome to interrogate them, but you’ll have to pay me first. Look, we work at the Hen and Caber. Our customers want fish. Fresh fish. And when they don’t get what they want, they start flipping tables and swinging bottles. I’d rather risk encountering a Murgardt warship over getting my nose busted in another barroom brawl. One’s a hell of a lot more likely to happen than the other.”

“
You
might be a spy,” one of the men said, glowering at her with his arms folded tight against his chest.

“Oh, for the love of…” Renata flung up her hand, pointing. “The Hen and Caber is
right there
. One block away. Go ask for Zoe, and tell her Renata and Gallo just got back from their fishing trip. Bring her down here if you want. She’ll vouch for us.”

They obliged, sending two men running while the rest stood guard on the dock, keeping Renata from getting off the boat. Hands dangerously close to the short blades on their belts, like they’d been eager for a chance to use them.

Gallo leaned in and whispered, “You’re sure she’ll vouch for both of us? She’s never even heard my name.”

“Zoe’s smart,” Renata said, her eyes on the militia. “She’ll add it up, don’t worry.”

When the men came back, escorting Zoe between them, Renata wasn’t prepared for the look of astonishment on her friend’s face. Zoe barreled through the militiamen, jumped onto the boat, and yanked her into a bone-crushing embrace.

“You’re alive,” she gushed as she pressed her face to Renata’s ear. “Thank the Gardener, you’re alive.”

Renata patted her back and murmured, “Yes, back from my totally routine and everyday fishing trip, right?”

Zoe caught herself, nodding fast, blinking back tears as she turned away.

“I’ve known them both my entire life,” she said. “They’re practically family. We’re just trying to stay in business, that’s all. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

One of the militiamen shook his head, stepping back as he waved her off. “Fine. You get a pass,
once
. I’d better not see you out on the water again, though. Rules are rules. Next time, I’m running you in.”

As the men walked up the dock in a pack, grumbling under their breath, Zoe took hold of Renata’s hands. Lifting them up, studying her fingers with wide eyes.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Renata blinked. “I…Zoe, whatever’s going on, we’ll talk about it, but I need your help first. And fast.”

She hauled aside the net and the day’s catch, lifting one corner of the bundled tarp at the back of the boat. Underneath, lying flat on their bellies and squeezed side by side, Sykes, Lydda, and Achille looked up at her. Achille wriggled his fingers in an awkward wave.

“I brought some friends,” Renata said.

It was sunset by the time Zoe returned from the tavern with a borrowed wagon, trotting the horses as close to the edge of the dock as she could manage. They waited until a militia patrol passed by before waving for their Murgardt passengers to sprint up the pier and clamber into the wagon. Back at the Hen and Caber, Zoe hustled them up the back stairs while Renata stopped off in the kitchen, handing the fat net of fish to a very surprised cook.

As soon as she stepped into Zoe’s room, her friend rushed over and took her hands again, rubbing her fingers like she wasn’t sure they were real.

“Zoe, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“You weren’t kidnapped, were you?”

Renata shook her head. “No. I’ve been in Carcanna, hiding. Why?”

“Aita…she made it look like she had you. Sent us a chopped-off finger and said it was yours. Felix went after her. That was last night, and…and he’s not been back since.”

Renata’s jaw clenched. She felt winded, like she’d just been punched in the gut.
Last night
, she thought.
If we’d gotten here just one day sooner…no. No time to think about it. Felix is still alive. He has to be.

I have to believe that, because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t
.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. The fear turned into smoldering anger, stoked in the pit of her stomach.

“Stay here,” she told Zoe. “Wait for us. We’ll be back.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find Felix,” she said. “I’m going to save Felix, and then we’re getting married.”

“He…he married Aita. It was some sort of arranged thing with their families. He had to do it—”

“That’s not a problem.” Renata turned to the door, her eyes burning with cold fury. “He’s about to become a widower.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nessa’s coven slipped into Lerautia without a second glance. Just a band of weary travelers, tired of the road and seeking rest in the alabaster heights of the Holy City. They took rooms at the Crooked Beam, a squat brick inn on the edge of a market square, and Mari set out alone to do a little reconnaissance before dinner. She left her leathers and her weapons behind. In her crisp blue linens she could easily pass for a tradeswoman, her callused hands and rat’s nest of hair ensuring she’d never be mistaken for a lady of means.

She hated the forced piety of the city, the iron tree of the Gardener in every window and carved on every eave, an eternal reminder of the war that had gutted her homeland. The tree didn’t bear fruit; it bore swords, swords the Empire used to massacre the Terrai with their false pope’s blessing.

Not that what I was taught was any more real
. She thought back to her talk with Nessa before her initiation. When she learned that the moonseers, the priestesses of her childhood faith, were nothing but witches hiding their power behind a holy veil.

It was all right. Nessa was real. Mari’s new family was real. And her knightly calling—her honor, her duty, and her steel—those were real. That was all she needed.

It wasn’t hard to spot the signs of Imperial control. Cavalry patrolled the boulevards in tight formation, putting on a show with their shiny armor and high-maned steeds. No checkpoints, no serious security—they were waiting for an enemy army to arrive, not a handful of insurgents. Mari stopped at a baker’s shop and traded a few tarnished coins for a small pastry. She stepped to one side and munched on the rare treat, gooey hot and leaving her fingers sticky with white frosting, while she listened to a couple of the locals gab at each other.

She knew she should try to make small talk, slip into the conversation and find out if they had any useful information. Werner had done that all the time, back when they worked together. That had been easy for him. Mari wasn’t good at talking. She knew if she tried she’d say something wrong, and they’d give her funny looks, and she’d want to crawl under a table and die, and they’d all laugh at her. She knew they would. So she finished her pastry and left.