The Confectioner's Guild, page 23
“Relax, Wren, it won’t hurt you,” Chandler said. “It’s only to ensure that you tell us the truth.”
Her eyes rolled wildly as he neared her head until she looked up and caught Lucas’s gaze.
He was poised over the domed edge, his face white and furious, his hands clenched into fists. He was going to try to rescue her. He couldn’t compromise himself. Whatever happened to her, he couldn’t come down here.
She stilled and shook her head slightly, pinning him to his spot with her gaze. No, she tried to tell him with the force of her look. I will not let you risk yourself for me again.
So she opened her mouth and let the syrupy sweet liquid dribble down her throat.
The big man released her. Wren coughed, swallowing thickly.
Chandler took her hand and helped her sit up.
The big man looked at her with an appraising eye. “She’s got more fight in her than I thought.”
She glared at him, suppressing a growl.
“Now, we want to ask you some questions,” Chandler said. “What is your name?”
“Wren Confectioner,” she said. The words felt sweet on her tongue.
“Now, I want you to tell me your name is Melissa,” Chandler said.
Wren looked at him, blinking.
“Please, indulge me.”
She sighed. “My name is Mel—” As she tried to say the syllables, the flavor on her tongue turned to ash, to a taste of rot and death fouler than she had ever known.
She coughed and staggered off the table, gagging in the corner. Her shoulders heaved as she retched up saliva and bile.
“What guild are you a member of?” he asked. “Quickly now, tell me.”
“Confectioner’s,” she managed with a shudder. As she said the word, the flavor in her mouth transformed back to caramelized sugar with a hint of raspberry.
She panted with relief, standing and wiping her mouth.
Chandler took her by the shoulders and led her back to sit down in a chair by the table. “Now you see what we are dealing with.”
She nodded sullenly, shuddering at the memory of the taste in her mouth.
“Why did you really come here?”
She closed her eyes, wondering if she was signing her own death certificate. But they would know if she lied. She couldn’t suppress her reaction to that taste. “I came for evidence of Kasper’s murder.”
“Evidence from who?”
“From you,” she said, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze.
He appeared genuinely taken aback. Was he such a proficient actor? He looked to the other two, who came around and stood with Chandler, watching her.
“You think I murdered Kasper?”
“Yes,” she said, watching him for a tell, for a sign that his surprise was feigned. She saw none.
“Why?”
“Because of the note I found from you, threatening Kasper.”
“What note?” the one-armed man asked, drawing nearer.
“It was… hidden in Kasper’s drawer. It was vague but said that Kasper had threatened to reveal guild secrets, and if he did, he wouldn’t last much longer.”
“How do you know it was from me?” Chandler asked.
“It was signed ‘C,’ and the handwriting matched yours.”
Chandler let out a surprised bark of laughter, turning and pacing across the room. “Well, gentlemen,” he said. “We wondered why he didn’t try to frame anyone worthwhile, and now we know. He was playing the long game.”
“I don’t understand,” Wren said. The men ignored her.
“If the note was in Kasper’s desk, then whoever took over for Kasper would find it and suspect you,” the muscled man said to Chandler. “Subtle.”
“Tell me”—Chandler turned to Wren—“were there any other clues that made you suspect me?”
She was struggling to keep up. They were acting like Chandler wasn’t the murderer. Was it an act for her benefit? But if Chandler had killed Kasper, wouldn’t it be easier to just kill her too? Wren’s head was spinning.
“Girl,” the big man said, “answer the question.”
She glared at him. “Your wife was at the party where my cupcakes were served. Only one was eaten at that party. The rest were taken, poisoned, and given to Kasper.”
“Bianca?” Chandler blinked. “Genius.”
“If the girl took the letter, then Callidus won’t be able to discover it and suspect you. Did you remove the letter, girl?” the man with one arm demanded.
“My name is Wren,” she said through gritted teeth. “And yes, I removed it. Now will someone tell me what in the Sower’s name is going on here?” Dare she hope… it didn’t seem like these men intended to kill her. And if not, she wanted answers.
Chandler chuckled, pacing more. “We can use her. She can help. Agreed?” He turned to the other two.
The one-armed man glowered but gave a curt nod.
“Agreed,” the big man rumbled.
Chandler pulled up a chair across from her. “What I’m about to tell you is of the utmost secrecy. I did not kill Kasper. I had nothing to do with it. That letter was a forgery.”
Wren felt herself coming unglued. If it wasn’t Chandler, then where did that leave her? Leave Lucas? Back at the beginning. Worse than the beginning. “Take the ice wine, or whatever it’s called,” she said. “Or I won’t believe a word you say.”
“Show some respect—” the one-armed man began, but Chandler held up a hand.
“Fair point.” He motioned for the other man to hand the bottle to him and took a swallow. “Satisfied?”
Wren crossed her arms before her and nodded.
“Now. The substantial fellow to my left is Guildmaster Bruxius, head of the Butcher’s Guild. This fellow to my right is Guildmaster McArt, Head of the Cheesemonger’s Guild.”
Wren eyed both of them, uncomfortably aware of the amount of power contained in this room. She was definitely out of her league.
“Together with Guildmaster Kasper, we formed a loose coalition of interested guildmembers. We were concerned with the direction Guild relations were taking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure your guild has told you that the Gifting is kept absolutely secret.”
She nodded, wondering what Lucas was making of all of this. Could she explain it to him if he already knew? Or would her throat turn to fire anyway?
“The king has kept a firm grip on the Gifted and infused foods, using them to cement and grow his power and the power of his followers. Technically, he is supposed to have access and control over all infused products. But there was a bit of an informal agreement, a market of sorts, where the guild members and heads could exchange and trade these goods.”
“Right,” she said. “The mercantile that burned down.”
“So you’re not entirely in the dark,” Chandler said. Was that a spark of respect in his eyes? “The decline of our informal market didn’t start with the fire. It started two years ago with the Red Plague.”
Wren shuddered, thinking of the plague that had swept through Maradis and Alesia, taking one in five souls with it. Commerce had shut down for weeks as the plague had ravaged the land, moving on as swiftly as it had come, leaving bodies and wails of sorrow in its wake.
“A member of the Baker’s Guild had a cure to this plague. The guildheads petitioned the king to abandon the Accord and disseminate the cure. It would have required us to reveal some truth about the Gifting, but not everything.”
“The king refused,” McArt said, his words hard.
“So we decided we would do it anyway,” Chandler said. “Only the Gifted Baker’s Guild member disappeared and was never seen again. Even the guild members couldn’t get the cure. Many died. Including my daughter. And grandchildren.” The words caught in his throat.
Wren looked between the men, at the sorrow that flashed across their features. Truly, everyone had lost someone in the plague.
“The plague entirely spared the royal family and loyalists. Suspicious, don’t you think?” Chandler said.
Wren nodded woodenly. Olivia had mentioned her suspicions about the part Willings had played in the Red Plague. She wasn’t surprised to hear that the king had saved his own hide at the expense of his people. That was the reality of life each day in Maradis. But clearly, it had shaken these privileged guild members to the core.
“After the plague, the market between guilds was shut down. We reestablished it somewhere else, and then a few months later, the building was condemned. Our guards were being bought, turned against us as spies. We established runners for a while, but they would disappear for a few days, only to turn up with their throats cut. It’s an increasingly tiring game of cat and mouse. The king is determined to control all Gifted and infused goods. This has become unacceptable to us.”
“He oversteps and overreaches,” McArt added. “He forgets how much he owes the guilds. The Gifted.”
“The Accord is up for renegotiation next month. Kasper had made it clear that the terms would be radically different this year. The games had to end. The guilds would accept nothing less than control of their own infused goods. If not, we would expose the truth of the Gifted to everyone. When you’re made guildhead, you’re released from the binding wine. So the king knew the threat was real.”
“And you’d neutralize the king’s most powerful weapon,” Wren said, realization growing. She set aside the new revelation about the binding wine. That there was a cure. She’d have to worry about that later.
Chandler continued. “But before any of this could occur, Kasper was found murdered.”
“And a mysterious threatening letter is found, pointing suspicion to the king’s next most outspoken opponent.”
“Killing two birds with one stone,” Bruxius said.
“So, our dear Wren, can you think of no one besides me who might be behind Kasper’s death?”
The realization sank in. “The king,” Wren breathed. “The king killed Kasper.” Wren kept her eyes averted from Lucas. Would he believe his father capable of such a thing?
“A man as important as the king doesn’t do his own dirty work,” McArt said. “He had help. Someone on the inside.”
“A Confectioner’s Guild member?” Wren asked. “I thought for a while it was Callidus, but I don’t think so anymore.”
“And why would he plant a letter for himself to find?” Chandler said. “It was all but certain that he would take over the guild when Kasper died.”
“Someone else.” Wren sagged in her chair, faces flashing before her. How well did she really know anyone at the guild? Sable? Hale? What if they had purposely misled her from the beginning, pretending to help her to more successfully frame her? Beckett or Marina? And then there were so many more guild members she didn’t even know. Faces she had seen, names on a page. She couldn’t start again from scratch after all this time. Time for her and Lucas had run out. “I don’t know where to begin,” she admitted, despair welling within her. Just an hour ago she had been so certain that it was Chandler, that they were drawing near to the truth. Now there was another layer of the onion to peel. And she was getting awfully sick of onion.
“Would your mistress, Sable, be amenable to our cause?” McArt asked. “We’ve been hesitant to approach her. But she may have connections that can help us discover the truth.”
“I… I think so,” Wren said. “I think she can be trusted. But… I can’t be sure.”
“We’ll have to take the risk,” Bruxius said.
“If she’ll come, bring her here tomorrow night at the same time. We’ll share our intelligence openly, and see if we can piece the puzzle together,” Chandler said.
“All right,” Wren said, standing, sensing that she was being dismissed. That was fine by her. She wanted out of this room, to be away from these men. To be able to breathe and think.
“And Wren,” Chandler said. “This time you can come in the front door.”
Chandler’s men escorted Wren up the long gravel drive and out the front gates. They offered to take her back in a carriage, but she insisted upon walking. Finally, reluctantly, they abandoned her, depositing her on the long tree-lined street.
Wren began walking back towards Guilder’s Row, keeping her steps slow.
A man dropped down in front of her onto the sidewalk from a tree branch. Wren gasped and reared back in surprise, clutching her chest. “Lucas,” she said. “You scared the sugar out of me!”
“Now you know how I felt when I saw you go tumbling headfirst into the hermitage! Gods, Wren, how reckless could you be?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, sullen at his reproach.
He let out a deep breath and took her face in his hands. His touch was gentle, reverent. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I promise. I’m so glad you stayed out of sight.”
“I felt like the biggest coward east of the Cerulean Sea, just sitting there and watching them hurt you. They could have poisoned you!”
“But they didn’t,” she said, taking his hand in hers and beginning to walk again. “And we learned so much. It’s a blow, realizing that it’s not Chandler, but at least we have new allies in the hunt. We’ll figure it out,” she said with more certainty than she felt.
“Wait, you aren’t telling me that you believe all that business. It’s obviously Chandler! He concocted a great story, sure, even with all the nonsense about Gifts and cures and whatever else he was babbling about. But there’s no way my father would kill a guild head.”
Wren stopped in her tracks, her hand halting Lucas like a tether. “Wait, what? It’s not Chandler,” she said. “That wine they made me drink…” She felt her throat tightening. Curses! She thought him overhearing about Gifts would loosen her tongue. No such luck, apparently.
“I don’t know what they made you drink, except that it made you retch like poison. That doesn’t prove him innocent—that he forced some strange substance down your throat.”
“He drank it too,” she said. “He…” Blooming flaming wine! The words roared within her, on the tip of her tongue. She had to tell him! To make him understand.
“The Gifted…” She doubled over, one hand on her knee, another on her burning throat.
“Wren, you’re not well. Let me get you back to the Guildhall. We’ll figure out a way to put the case together against Chandler.”
“No,” she cried, tears prickling in her eyes from the pain of the wine that sealed the truth in her. “It’s… your father.”
“No?” Lucas said, his hands forming into fists at his sides. “I’m telling you, my father may be obsessed with power and even cruel at times, but he has to be to do his job, to keep the country secure against his challengers. He doesn’t resort to political assassination. If you think otherwise for some mad reason, then tell me why I should believe you right now. Tell me what was going on in there. What all of that meant. Gifts and infusions and wine that makes you wretch. Tell me the truth. Or I can’t help you.”
“Lucas,” she croaked, taking a shuddering breath. Tell him anything! Something! She tried to skirt the truth, to find the edges of the hold the power had on her, words she could say, clues she could give him. But all she could manage is “I… can’t.”
His face hardened. “Then I’m done helping you. Because if you can’t trust me, Wren, how in the Sower’s name can I trust you?”
He whirled on his heel and stalked down the street, leaving her clutching her throat under the dark boughs of an elm tree.
Wren walked back towards the Guild Quarter with only her misery for company. Lucas hated her. His final words—the fury and hurt in his expression—twisted at her gut. She didn’t know what was worse, her panicked realization that she had lost one of her few allies when she needed him the most, or the ache in her heart left by his absence.
What chance did she have against a foe like King Imbris? She had never paid much attention to politics, and now, for not the first time, she wished she had. She knew of his brutal colonization of the Magnish Clans in the South—an entire civilization sacrificed for minerals and glory. She knew that he handpicked boys as young as ten to train for his legendary Black Guard, leaving their families with nothing more than conciliatory words of duty and honor. She had heard that his aggressive trade deals with Tamros had weakened its economy and peace-loving people to the point where Aprica saw it was ripe for the picking. The rumors said there hadn’t been a day since he had been crowned where there wasn’t the head of at least one “enemy” staked by the palace gates. The man was a locust, gobbling up Alesia’s plenty with a ceaseless appetite. As far as she could tell, his only redeeming feature was that he had managed to father children as kind as Lucas and Virgil.
Wren’s rumbling stomach steered her to a restaurant open all night. After sliding into a wooden booth in the back, she ordered a bowl of lamb stew. The stew was greasy and the crust of bread was hard, but she finished it all and ordered another. She was famished.
The lone waitress took pity on Wren, and after clearing her dishes, left her alone to marinate in her dark thoughts. Wren’s body felt heavy and tired, and her eyes scratchy and raw, but she couldn’t go back to the Guild and sink into her heavenly bed. A cell and a date with the inquisitor waited for her there. Somehow, she had found herself homeless on the streets of Maradis once again. She had meant what she’d said to Mistress Violena. It seemed the gods were punishing her.
By the time the sky began to lighten in the east, Wren knew what she had to do. She needed to get into the Guild to talk to Sable, to share what she had learned from Chandler and the others. At this early hour, no one should be up. It was a risk, but she didn’t know what else to do.
Wren circled around the back of the Guildhall, using the servants’ entrance. The hallways were dark and silent, lit only by the watery light coming through the windows. Wren padded up the stone steps, keeping to the shadows as she poked her head around the corner to survey the second floor hallway. It was deserted. She slipped silently to Sable’s door, knocking lightly.
