The Instruments of Control (7 page)

Sofia Marchetti’s once-flaming red mane had faded over the years, turning to the color of tarnished steel, but age hadn’t stolen the fire from her eyes. Eyes that narrowed to venomous slits as she stood behind the desk in her son’s private office, paging through the leaves of an oversized ledger.

Lodovico had been quick to share his good news: the emperor was demanding a crusade to smite the heathen east, and his ministers had approached the Banco Marchetti to fund the war effort. She told him she was happy. She told him she was proud.

And she might have been, if he hadn’t turned her house into a den of secrets and lies.

One of my husband’s old business associates is murdered in his bathtub
, she thought,
and another stabbed by ruffians in the street. And both attacks happen on the very same night, for no reason anyone can explain, that the Caliphate breaks a decades-old truce and invites a crusade.

And all of this happens after Lodovico lavishes money on Benignus’s drunkard wastrel of a son, who looked like a long shot in the fight to take his father’s throne. Getting into his good graces and putting us in the perfect position to make a fortune from the Empire’s latest war. Nobody could have known this would happen.

Her fingers traced the last few entries in the ledger, reading them again, checking and double-checking the dates to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

But you knew, Lodovico, didn’t you? You knew
.

Before, Sofia had worried that Lodovico was involving the family business in some reckless scheme.

Now she worried that he might be a murderer.

Not directly, of course. She had already checked that. Lodovico had spent the night of the assassinations gorging himself at the Harvest Vine Inn in front of a hundred witnesses, with an expensive courtesan on his arm. You couldn’t buy a better alibi.

And you can buy killers, too
, she thought.

“Oh,” said a voice from the doorway.

Simon Koertig stood on the threshold. He blinked at her, off-balance, and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

“I was expecting Vico,” he said.

“He went into town for breakfast. I’m here now.”

“You…shouldn’t be in his office.”

Sofia slammed the ledger shut.

“This office is in
my house
,” she said, “and I will enter any room I please.”

“Speaking as Lodovico’s personal accountant,”—Simon pointed at the ledger—“and given that you hold a purely advisory position with the bank, those records should only be reviewed under proper supervision.”

“Or?”

He tilted his head. “Or?”

Sofia stalked across the room like a panther.

“Or,” she said, standing before him with her hands on her hips, “you’ll do what about it?”

He took a step backward.

“I’ll—I’ll have no choice but to make a formal complaint to the board.”

“That’s fine. I’m done here. I’ve seen everything I need to.”

It wasn’t true, but she knew her words would get back to her son.
Put a little fear in him
, she thought,
and maybe he’ll slip up and show me his hand
.

Besides, what she’d seen in that ledger disturbed her to the core. She just needed help making sense of it.

*     *     *

Felix and Aita weren’t the only ones using the Guildsman’s Seat for their secret meetings. Sofia’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings as she walked, cloaked and veiled, down the dusky hall toward the suite on the end.

It was the same every time. She’d agonize over sending the note asking for a meeting. She’d hold her breath as she put the sealed envelope in the courier’s hand, loosing an arrow she couldn’t call back, then lament doing it. The response would come within an hour—always
yes
, always
now
—and she’d walk to the door at the end of the hall like a prisoner marching to the gallows.

She knocked. He knew she was there, he had to know, but he made her knock anyway. Three long taps, three short. Then she waited.

The door finally swung open, and Basilio Grimaldi gave her a hungry smile.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the room without a word. The door had barely closed before he tore off her veil, carelessly tossing the black lace to the floor, and pressed his lips to hers. Growling into the kiss, taking what he wanted.

“You made me wait.” He bit her bottom lip, a sharp, fast nip. “Over a month since you last called on me? You’ll pay for that.”

I know
, she thought, and her legs trembled.

“Couldn’t get away,” she whispered, “and business before pleasure. I found something in Lodovico’s ledgers. First, have you heard about the request from the throne? Theodosius the Lesser is finally getting his holy crusade, and the bank is putting up part of the money to make it happen.”

“Of course I’ve heard. You aren’t my only spy.”

“I am
not
,” Sofia said, glaring, “your
spy
.”

Basilio smiled—then his hand clamped down on the back of her neck, dragging a gasp of pain from her throat.

“In this room,” he said tenderly, his lips brushing hers, “you are whatever I say you are.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know.” He chuckled, stroking the back of her neck. “So. The ledger. What did you learn?”

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“According to the terms, the Banco Marchetti will help finance food and weaponry. The Empire plans to raise a peasant levy to form the rank and file of the invasion, and crusaders can’t fight on religious zeal alone. They need steel in their hands and food in their bellies.”

“And you’ll be repaid when? After the bloodshed is done?”

“Annual installments, with a handsome finance fee added. It’s a good arrangement, provided the Empire stays solvent.
Such
a good arrangement, in fact, that my son acted on it before it was offered to him.”

Basilio squinted at her. “How do you mean?”

“According to the ledger, he’s already paid for the weaponry. It’s being forged as we speak. He issued payment three days
before
the emperor’s emissaries approached him.”

“He has an inside connection,” Basilio murmured. “Influence within the emperor’s house.”

“And he already has Pope Carlo on a leash, everyone knows that. I suspect he had Carlo exert some pressure there.”

“Pressure,” Basilio said, “now there’s a word I enjoy. Tell me something: how stretched are your family coffers right now?”

“To the breaking point. The cost of the weapons alone, and the supply caravan to get it to the front, is staggering. We’d never take a risk like this, well, for anyone less than the emperor himself.”

“So if something were to happen to that shipment…”

Sofia’s eyes widened. A faint smile rose to her lips.

“It would be a disaster.”

“A survivable disaster, for the Banco Marchetti. But the board would have to think very hard about your son’s recklessness. They’d consider replacing him as the chair. Perhaps with an older, more experienced member of the family.”

“You…can make this happen?”

Basilio stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingertips.

“You adorable little traitor,” he said.

“He betrayed
me
,” Sofia said. “My husband’s wishes were clear: he expected us to work together. Instead, Lodovico shut me out of the family business two days after Luigi’s burial. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”

“Yes, you would. And yes, it would be my great pleasure to clear the path for your proper ascent. I enjoy helping my friends.”

“Spare me,” Sofia told him. “Your daughter is marrying the heir to the Banco Rossini. If I take my son’s place at the head of the Banco Marchetti, that gives you influence over half of Mirenze’s economy.”

“A little more than half, I should think. And more than Mirenze. If I do this, I expect to be made a partner in your family business. A silent partner. With full access to the Banco Marchetti’s books, and complete oversight of your operations.”

“You ask too much.”

“I’m not asking,” Basilio said. “Tell me, do you remember the night we first met, during the Feast of Saint Scarpa? So many years ago, but it’s one of my fondest memories. The way I pushed you up against the wall, with your skirts hiked around your waist and your husband in the very next room. How I clamped my hand over your mouth to keep you from crying out as I thrust—”

“How could I forget?”  Sofia crossed her arms. “You won’t
let
me.”

Basilio grabbed her by the throat and shoved her backward, pressing her against the door. She tried to push back, squirming, but he grabbed one wrist with his free hand and pinned it to the wood. He smiled as he nuzzled her cheek.

“I’d been planning on blackmailing you. Can you imagine my giddy delight when I learned I didn’t
have
to?”

“
You
can’t imagine,” she said, “how much I loathe you.”

“And yet that flush in your cheeks isn’t a sign of anger, my dear. And when you undress for me, which you’re going to do momentarily, I believe I’ll find your underthings…a bit damp.”

“
Wool merchant
,” she seethed, pushing helplessly against him with her free hand. “You’re a pig and a thug.”

“And the only man who understands how to give you what you really want. It’s funny. If I hired a harlot, and did to her the kinds of things I do to you, I’d have to pay her twice: once for the service, and a second time to be silent about it. You, I get for free. What does that say about you, I wonder? I mean, you’re literally cheaper than a dockside whore.”

“Whoring’s an honest profession,” Sofia said, “unlike your own. And I’m not surprised you’re familiar with it, considering the only way any woman could stand your company for more than five minutes is if you paid her not to leave.”

Basilio laughed. His hot breath washed across Sofia’s neck as she struggled between him and the door.

“I make people’s dreams come true,” he said. “That’s an honest profession. Case in point: I’m going to give you the Banco Marchetti. And in return you’ll give me, oh…everything.”

“Big talk, but you can barely keep your own house in order. The Council of Nine can hardly fill out a dinner table now. And rumor has it, Terenzio Ruggeri’s caravan was in al-Tali the night the Caliphate attacked.”

For a heartbeat, Basilio’s smile faltered.

“Powerful men make powerful enemies,” he told her. “I’m looking into the matter. Everything is under control.”

“That’s what it’s all about with you, isn’t it? It’s not about the money. It’s the power. Controlling everyone around you.”

“That’s what power is for,” he said. “I even control you.”

“Is that what you like to tell yourself?”

He let her go. Basilio took two steps back, showing her his open hands.

“There’s the door,” he said. “Go ahead. Walk out. I’m not stopping you.”

Sofia put her hand on the doorknob.

Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and let go, turning back to face him.

“See?” he said pleasantly. Then he grabbed her by the hair, spun her around, and hurled her to the floor.

She landed, disheveled and sprawled out on the plush brass-colored carpet, and scampered backward in a sudden panic as he loomed over her.

“We’ll consider this an object lesson,” he said. “Now get undressed.”

Their trysts always ended the same way. Sofia, naked and trembling and curled up in a fetal ball on the bed, lost deep inside of herself. Basilio, drained and distant. He’d released all of his hunger and pent-up aggression onto her body and when he was finally done there was nothing left but…nothing at all.

They never talked when they were finished. She never looked at him. He stared at the curve of her back as he dressed, watched the faint shake of her shoulders, and he felt like he should say something. Something concerned. Something kind.

He didn’t know how, so he just walked away.

His coachman waited outside in the rain. Soon Basilio was back at Grimaldi Hall, safe behind wrought-iron fencing and a platoon of hard-eyed guardsmen dressed in the family’s black livery. As safe as he ever was, anyway.

“When I was a younger man,” he said, sitting in his high-backed leather chair, “people tried to kill me all the time.”

The tall, lean Oerran man sitting on the far side of the desk, his head shorn and his skin as dark as chiseled basalt, let out a rumbling laugh.

“I know,” Hassan the Barber said, “I tried to kill you myself.”

“You came closer than anyone. It was a spirited attempt. If I recall, I made you a job offer on the spot.”

“It made for an exciting negotiation, yes.”

Basilio thumped his hand on the desk.

“And that’s why this is so confounding. All my old enemies are
gone
. You and that rabble of desert raiders, Vinchi’s crew, that Carcannan syndicate we went to war with…everyone’s either retired, dead, or working
for
me.”

“Just because someone works for you,” Hassan said thoughtfully, “doesn’t make them your friend.”

“I’m aware of that. Any one of them would stab me in the back if they thought it was to their advantage. I’m grateful you’ve never pretended you wouldn’t.”

Hassan spread his hands and smiled. “We are what we are.”

“So I make sure there isn’t any
reason
to rebel. My people are paid well. They’re all tasked with watching each other. They know the rewards of loyalty, and they know the punishments of betrayal. I don’t work with lunatics, and I don’t work with drunkards. My world is clockwork. Stable. Predictable. And yet…”

His voice trailed off. He swiveled in his chair to look out the rain-slick window. Through the wet haze, he watched slate-gray clouds roil in the afternoon sky.

“So I’ve been fixated on finding a traitor inside my organization. Thinking one of you must have planned to take my empire, my fortune, by force. Foolish. It blinkered me.”

“A new challenger?” Hassan asked.

“Yes, but…not for my business. Not for the power, not for the
money
, as I’d assumed. Nothing so rational as money. Consider this: I was attacked on the same night Costantini died, and nobody’s seen Terenzio Ruggeri since he left on his trade run. There’s a rumor floating about that he died in the al-Tali massacre.”

“An attack on the Council of Nine, then. It’s the one thing you all have in common.”

Basilio turned away from the window, looking Hassan in the eye.

“Not the only thing. Twenty years ago, the three of us arranged the death of Luigi Marchetti. He was a madman, agitating against the Empire, trying to start a revolution. He would have gotten half the city killed.”

He pushed his chair back and walked over to the window, listening to the rain pelting off the glass.

“I told them,” he said. “I told them when we did it: you never kill a man and allow his son to live. A boy with a tombstone for a father grows up wanting one thing, and one thing only.”

“Revenge,” Hassan said.

Basilio thought back to the night of the attack. He’d been tapping his way along the paving stones, enjoying the brisk night air, when he spotted the two men coming up fast behind them. They gave themselves away, and when they moved to strike, he was ready for them.

One of the would-be killers had said something, a heartbeat before Basilio cut him down. He never got the chance to finish the sentence, but he’d spoken two words. Two little words.

He knows
—

“There is a very good chance,” Basilio told Hassan, “that Lodovico Marchetti just tried to murder me.”

“Have your men bring him here, and let me go to work on him. He’ll tell us everything before the sun rises, I promise you that.”

Basilio waved his hand. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say yes. There’s something else, though. I’ve known Lodovico since he was a toddler. Bright boy. Frighteningly bright. Ferocious chess player, too. Always thinking five moves ahead. And he harbored grudges. Oh, did he harbor grudges.”

He frowned, contemplating Lodovico, thinking about the assassination attempt.

“It’s too
small
.”

Hassan tilted his head. “Small?”

“I tracked the man who murdered my father to the coldest, loneliest edge of the Empire. I had money, by then, and I had killers under my command, but I had to do this
myself
. I needed him to look in my eyes, to feel my rage. I needed him to know why he was dying. I needed him to
know my father’s name
.”

“You sound almost affronted that Lodovico didn’t kill you himself.”

“Not affronted, Hassan. Worried. And if Ruggeri was killed in al-Tali…think about it. Lodovico is building his relationship with the Church, tightening his hold on the pope, and now he’s making inroads into the Imperial government. All of this just before a war breaks out?”

Hassan shrugged. “I’m a simple man, Basilio. Explain it to me.”

“I think all three of us were meant to die on the night of the al-Tali massacre. He didn’t do it himself, man to man, because we mean that little to him. His rage is far greater than that.”

He walked back to his desk, fingertips resting lightly on the dark, polished wood. Drumming faintly.

“I think,” Basilio said, “Lodovico was making a statement.”

“A statement? To who?”

“That’s the question that worries me.”

“Let me kill him,” Hassan said. “He won’t do much plotting once I’ve snipped his head from his shoulders.”

Basilio sat back down. He shook his head.

“Tempting, but no. Whatever he’s onto, it’s big. Very big. And I want it for myself. Case in point: the Banco Marchetti is providing financing for the crusade. Lodovico just laid out a prince’s ransom for a caravan of weapons, so all the good little peasants can march across the desert and kill in the Gardener’s name.”

“What of it?” Hassan asked.

“Steel in wartime is like honey in times of peace: expensive, rare, and you never have all you want. Hundreds of freshly forged spearheads might well be worth their weight in gold on the black market…especially if we cause their scarcity in the first place.”

Hassan barked out a laugh and slapped his armrest, grinning.

“You want a caravan robbed? Now
that
Hassan can do.”

“Not just robbed. I want it to disappear from the skin of the world. Then we’ll see how Lodovico reacts. Perhaps we’ll have a chat with him then, once he’s been pushed to desperation.”

“Never play with your food.” Hassan wagged a warning finger at him.

Basilio chuckled. “No, no, I’m just…curious. So we’ll stir the water. Introduce a bit of chaos to Lodovico’s grand design and see what happens.”

“And earn a tidy profit in the doing.”

“Exactly so,” Basilio said. “I have a wedding to pay for. On that note, any progress on finding Renata Nicchi?”

“Our hunters are combing Mirenze, but they think they’ll need to widen their net. Felix most likely sent her to another city.”

“She’s a barmaid. How far can you go on a barmaid’s pay?”

Hassan shrugged. “That depends on how motivated you are.”

*     *     *

Neither man heard the light footsteps in the hall outside Basilio’s open office door, or caught a glimpse of shadow from the figure pressed to the wall. Aita was too well practiced for that. Her eyes widened as she eavesdropped.

Lodovico Marchetti
, she thought.
There’s a name worth knowing. Influential, has resources, and wants my father dead. A lovely combination of virtues.

Felix will have his uses, to be certain…but perhaps it’s time I consider an upgrade in allies
.