The Confectioner's Guild, page 10
Callidus, in a gray velvet jacket that had all the summer cheer of a funeral, was rooting around the library while the boy made his case, lifting up cushions and searching under chairs.
“If you told me what you were looking for,” Lennon said, “ I could help you find it. See how helpful it would be to have a sponsored?”
Callidus scoffed, his black hair shaking above his brow. “I’m looking for my damnable notebook,” he said. “It’s a black moleskin.”
Wren’s eyes widened as she spotted the notebook on the far cushion. Fool! She had been on the same couch as all of Callidus’s secret thoughts and she hadn’t even seen it!
Callidus’s search grew closer and her heart fluttered into her chest. If he found her here, he would never believe that she hadn’t been reading it. She grabbed the notebook, snuck another peek around the corner of the sofa, and slid it across the tiled floor in one silent movement.
“Here it is!” Lennon said, retrieving it with a victory cry. “You have to sponsor me now.” The boy wore a sheepish grin as Callidus snatched the notebook from him.
“Thank you,” Callidus said. “I would have found it myself in a moment.”
Wren rolled her eyes. It must have been a physical impossibility for Callidus to be nice to another human being.
“I’m not sponsoring anyone. I work better alone, and I don’t need to draw Grandmaster Beckett’s ire by stealing away his journeyman. Why do you want to move?”
Lennon looked anywhere but Callidus’s eye. “I just… I can’t be there anymore. I need a change. I admire your skills as a confectioner, and you aren’t sponsoring anyone. I’d stay out of your hair…”
“Like you’re doing right now?” Callidus arched an impressive eyebrow.
“Please, sir. If you’re going to be guildmaster, you’ll need someone to help you, an ally…”
Guildmaster? Wren thought, her blood chilling in her veins. So it was true what Hale had said. Callidus would likely be leading the guild, and her life would be that much more difficult.
“We all have burdens to bear,” Callidus said, his dark eyes shrewd. “Now I have errands to run and a meeting with the Grand Inspector. Make yourself scarce.”
“Yes, sir,” Lennon said glumly.
Wren let out a whooshing breath as Callidus left the room, leaving a conspicuous vacuum in his absence. How had she missed the notebook? She’d had a critical piece of evidence within inches of her, and she’d completely missed it. Stupid, stupid. She would never prove her innocence with that kind of crack detective work. She bit her lip. Why was Callidus going to see the Grand Inspector? What “errands” was he running? She had missed one chance to learn more about Callidus; she wouldn’t miss another.
She sprang to her feet, her decision made. She grabbed the newspaper in case she needed cover for her spying and hurried through the hallways of the Guildhall. She caught a glimpse of Callidus’s bleak gray coat in the distance, passing through the front doors out into the bright afternoon.
A smile ghosted across her face when she saw that Callidus was walking, not taking a carriage or horse. She slipped into the crowd after him.
As it turned out, Wren rather enjoyed tailing a suspect. Her palms were sweaty and her heart galloped in her chest, but she hadn’t felt so alive… well, since she had roamed the streets as a member of Ansel’s gang of orphans. She stiffened when she passed a pair of puffed-chest Guards in their ruddy-brown uniforms—Cedars, as the population called them—but they just nodded to her, one even flashing an appraising smile. Back then, she had to be invisible to the world, sink beneath the notice of marks, rival gangs, and Cedars alike. Now, there was only one set of eyes she had to avoid.
After an hour of following Callidus, her enthusiasm faltered. So far he had visited a barbershop (no doubt to pick up more of whatever magical concoction kept his hair so well-coiffed) and a music shop with a fiddle on its sign. A music shop? Perhaps he was really just… running errands.
She found herself a park bench while he went in the shop and sat under the shade of a magnolia tree, reading the paper. The front page story told of a fire that had enveloped a building on the edge of the Guild and Central Quarters. The building had been a specialty foods market owned by the Spicer’s Guild. The fire appeared to be arson, but there were no suspects. She scrunched her lips, pondering. From what Hale had said, anything involving the Spicer’s Guild was suspect. But she didn’t have the foggiest idea what it could mean, or if it had any connection to Kasper’s killing.
As she turned the page, keeping a keen eye for Callidus exiting the music shop, she grew still. The next article told of King Imbris’s efforts in Tamros, their neighbor to the north, to arrange peace terms with the Apricans. Wren remembered the precise moment Master Oldrick had shared that Aprica had invaded Tamros—his solemn face, his hands covered in powdered sugar. There was no question that Aprica’s superior resources and army would crush the Tamrosi, especially when the Tamrosi royal family and ruling class had been decimated by the Red Plague. There was only the lingering question of whether the Aprican king would be satisfied with Tamros or set his sights on more juicy prey to the south. Alesia. As it turned out, the Aprican king had paused, content to enjoy his spoils for a few years. But no one in Alesia was comfortable having the might of Aprica’s army next door, especially with the “border exercises” the army had been performing as of late. It was all troubling and worrisome. But that wasn’t what set Wren’s teeth on edge. It was the final line of the article. The king’s delegation had completed the current phase of negotiations and was returning. In two weeks’ time.
Wren let the newspaper fall, the breath stolen from her lungs. She had only two weeks, if that. She had thought she had a month. A month at least, to feel the sunshine on her face, savor loganberry jam on her biscuits, and enjoy laughter with Olivia and Hale. Did she truly believe she could solve this mystery—understand this spiderweb of guilds and royal interests—in less than fourteen days? She felt tears of panic sting her eyes and blinked them away. There was no way.
Callidus chose that moment to exit the store, a storm cloud of gray and black amongst the bright colors of the passersby. She struggled to her feet and followed on numb legs, feeling the weight of this new information settle upon her.
She navigated the crowds in a daze, only coming back to herself when she realized Callidus had stopped, and she had practically run into the back of him. She spun in a desperate circle and slipped behind a stand of flowers, peeking through peonies and primroses. The scene before her swam into sudden focus. Callidus stood before the charred remains of a building, the massive blackened skeleton that had once been the Spicer’s Guild market.
“You’re acting very suspicious, miss,” said a wizened voice behind her. She whirled to find the proprietor of the flower stand, a wrinkled man with a dandelion puff of downy hair. “Perhaps I should call the Grand Inspector over?”
Wren looked back and realized that Callidus was now shaking hands with a tall, vigorous man in a rust-brown uniform.
Her mind whirled for an excuse as she turned back to the man. “You’ve caught me,” she said. “I’m… following that fellow. I’m… in love with him… and I was hoping to gain some insight that will help me win his heart.” She smiled weakly, trying not to retch at the thought of being in love with Callidus.
The man softened. “I imagine a lovely young lady like yourself only need tell the fellow. No need for all this cloak and dagger.”
“You’re right, of course. But I’m… shy,” she said lamely, her mind struggling for an excuse. “I need to do things in my own way. I don’t suppose, for the price of… one of these bouquets of peonies, you’d let me stand here and read my newspaper for a few minutes?”
A crinkled smile touched the man’s blue eyes. “I suppose that won’t hurt anyone.”
Wren paid the man as he wrapped up her flowers in brown paper and twine, and she turned her newspaper over, all the while keeping a keen eye on Callidus and the inspector. She couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but there was no way she could get closer, as she would be completely exposed in the streets surrounding the charred block of building. She sighed, watching Callidus gesticulate towards the building. What could he be saying?
An image on the back page of the newspaper caught her eye, a fine portrait of a handsome young man and woman in old-fashioned clothing. When she saw the headline, the ground tilted. It was Kasper’s obituary. The caption on the portrait read Francis and Iris Kasper. Her heart twisted at the sight of them, so young and full to the brim with dreams. Had Kasper gotten to live the life he had hoped for? Had anyone?
“Wren,” a voice hissed.
She started.
Lucas loomed before her, standing tall in a chestnut houndstooth suit. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice low.
“Buying flowers,” Wren said lamely, retrieving the bouquet of pink blooms from the little man, who was looking from her to Lucas with more than a little suspicion.
Lucas looked over his shoulder and took her arm, gently but firmly steering her into the shadow of an alley.
Wren stilled herself, ignoring the way her skin warmed beneath his touch.
He turned to face her. “You can’t be here, Wren. Callidus is already trying to get me thrown off your case. He’s telling the inspector I’m too involved.” He made air quotes around the last word.
“Is that what they’re talking about?” She peered around the corner, fear rising within her.
“Yes, and the fire. But you really can’t take these risks. Let me do my job.”
Wren bristled and brandished the newspaper at him like a weapon. “Two weeks, Lucas. The king will be back in two weeks. I know you vouched for me, but I don’t even know you! Not really. I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
He grimaced and took one of her hands in his own. His was warm, calloused. It was hard to focus on his words, with his touch filling her senses. “Trust me. I will do everything in my power to find Kasper’s killer. As if… my own life depended on it. And I’m not asking you to do nothing. Just don’t take stupid risks. Callidus could have turned around at any moment and spotted you.”
“I know,” she said, suitably chastised. “There was this notebook…” She sighed. Though a voice in her head still cried that she couldn’t trust him, it was growing softer. She found she wanted to trust Lucas. Being able to count on him… truly… it would go far to calm the ever-present sense of dread that coiled within her. She searched his slate-gray eyes for any hint of guile and found none. But what if he betrayed her? Ansel had. Brax. Her father. But what if he doesn’t, the other part of her whispered. “I’ll be more careful,” she managed.
“That’s all I ask. Have you learned anything at the guild?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “My sponsor, Sable, doesn’t think it’s Callidus. Though I’m not convinced. Obviously.”
Lucas frowned, his wide mouth turning down in thought. “Did she say why?”
“She’s more the ‘sweep in, make a broad pronouncement, sweep out’ type of person. Light on the explanation.”
“Helpful. Did she have any alternate theories?”
“Other guildheads? It looks like something might be going on with the Spicer’s Guild?” Wren motioned to the burnt wreckage of the building.
“The timing is suspicious, but I haven’t seen any other links between the arson and Kasper’s killing.” Lucas glanced over his shoulder and saw that Callidus and the Grand Inspector had parted. “I have to go. Don’t hang around here. Please. You remember the signal, if you have something to tell me?”
“I remember.”
“That’s my girl.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with an armful of flowers and a stomach full of butterflies.
The Grand Assembly of the Confectioner’s Guild took place the next day.
Even before dawn, when Wren found herself inexplicably wide-eyed and awake, the Guildhall was buzzing like a beehive, filled to bursting with drones flitting every which way. She managed to navigate through the busy halls to the library to make herself a cup of coffee before retreating back up the stairs.
She found herself ducking through the little door out onto the roof, entering that lovely land of vegetables and rooftops and solitude. The thin fabric of her cornflower blue dress, which had been delivered last night washed and pressed, did little to ward against the crisp chill of morning. Her skin pebbled against the cold, and she gripped the warmth of her coffee mug tightly, letting its fragrance wash over her.
She found a bench to sit on in the far corner of the rooftop, smiling shyly at two servants who were hard at work harvesting zucchinis and kale for the guild. She closed her eyes as dawn’s first rays broke over the horizon, turning the inside of her eyelids sherbet orange. She sighed. She needed this moment. To regroup. To prepare herself for the madness of the day. And—she opened her eyes, letting them fall on the newspaper she’d brought, safely tucked under her arm—to say goodbye to Kasper.
She had only known him for an hour—less in fact. But somehow she felt she had seen inside him, and what she had seen was good. Most men she had known were rotten at the core, if you peeled the layers far enough, you got to some hard pit filled with hubris and self-loathing, violence and desire, all grown together in a tight little ball. But not Kasper. He had a caramel center. Sweet and soft and golden. He hadn’t deserved to die.
She sighed. It was never those who deserve to die who found such a fate. Her brother’s face swam to view in her mind’s eye, shaggy brown hair that he refused to cut falling over his eyes, dimpled smile with a faint scar on his upper lip from when he had fallen out of the big cottonwood tree. That same youthful face, bloodied and battered, screaming at her to hide. She scrunched her eyes closed, as if it could shut off the images too. It was the curse of her memories of Hugo. She couldn’t think of him without thinking of all the rest. And she did everything in her power not to think of all the rest.
Wren found that her hands were shaking and set her coffee cup down, afraid to spill on her dress again. She wasn’t sure Greer’s matronly generosity extended to a second spill a second day. She shook her hands out and shook Hugo from her mind. With a deep breath, she turned to Kasper’s obituary.
It told a tale of chubby twins growing up on the windswept peninsula of Nova Navis. A young boy making saltwater taffy at the local mercantile. A prodigy found by a master and brought to Maradis to learn the art of confectionery. A sister following, and the star-touched siblings that had captivated the aristocracy with laughter and chocolate.
It detailed Kasper’s meteoric rise to the head of the guild, his tireless negotiations on behalf of the guild, days filled with trade and tariffs and taxes. Tragedy, with the loss of Iris Greer’s husband, and the deaths of Carter Greer’s family following close behind. Finally, philanthropy, efforts to improve conditions for Maradis’s poor and downtrodden, hospitals for victims of the Red Plague, public health, education, work release programs for the debtors’ prison. Tears stung Wren’s eyes. This man had not only been good, he had done good. What had she done with her own miserable sixteen years that was worth one fraction of this man’s value?
“Wren!” Olivia was making her way through the rows of green, her blonde hair dazzling in the morning sun, a flattering blush-hued dress hugging her curves.
Wren brushed the tears from her cheeks, feeling foolish. Here she was crying over Olivia’s granduncle, and she hadn’t even known the man. Not truly.
“Are you all right?” Olivia asked, concern written across her cherubic face.
“Fine!” Wren managed with unconvincing brightness. “It’s bright up here this morning.”
“It is,” Olivia said with a hint of disbelief.
“What are you doing up here?”
“Grabbing some chives for the eggs,” Olivia said. “Grandaunt sent me. It’s madness down there already. The hall is bursting at the seams. All our guest rooms were full last night, and we had to put people up at the inn down the street. The whole Guild is here.”
“To vote on the new guildmaster, right?” Wren asked.
“Many of them,” she said. “The new leader will set the tone for the Guild for years to come. Everyone wants to get in the good graces of whoever it will be. But they’ve also come for the Appointment Gala.”
“Appointment Gala?”
“Tomorrow night. You’ve not been to one? For one of the other guilds?”
“We didn’t get out much,” Wren said. Too busy working and making Master Oldrick money, she thought. “How did they manage to pick a name that sounds so grand and boring in one breath?”
Olivia let out a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure who came up with the name. But after a new guildmaster is appointed, the Tradehouse hosts a gala with the other guild leaders and some of the king’s family and cabinet. A gala is the event of the season. They don’t happen every year, of course. Only when…” She trailed off.
“When a guildmaster dies.” Wren grimaced.
A dark shadow passed over Olivia’s face at the mention of Kasper, but she recovered quickly. “That’s why I had you order that dress! With the gold and blue flowers.”
Wren wracked her brain. She had tried on so many things on their whirlwind shopping trip, she was only half-sure which garment Olivia referred to.
“I remember. I’m looking forward to it.” Wren smiled weakly. She wasn’t sure she could get through the bustle of this day, let alone a gala with the other guilds and nobles and royals. It sounded terrifying.
“You’ll be fine,” Olivia said, seeming to see the weariness in Wren’s face.
A servant hurried up behind Olivia, a look of near panic on her face. “Olivia, miss. Cuisinier Brandywine says he can’t find any more bacon in the larder. Half the guests haven’t eaten yet.”
Olivia groaned. “There should be at least five more pounds in there.” She turned to Wren. “I need to go. If the cuisinier can’t find the rest, we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
