Free Terms of Surrender by Craig Schaefer Page B

like this? Don’t you have any care for your immortal soul?”
    “My soul’s been blessed,” Iago said, forcing his swollen lips into a defiant smile, “by Pope Livia.”
    Carlo gritted his teeth. The papers crumpled in his white-knuckled grip.
    “So. This is how Itresca sends its regards, now that they’ve turned traitor against the true Church.”
    “The Itrescan Church,” Iago said, “is the true vessel of the Gardener’s will. The people
will
know it.”
    Carlo turned his back. “Send him home.”
    “Sir?” One of the knights tilted his head.
    “Send him home to Itresca. To my vile sister.” He paused. “But first? Cut out his tongue, that he may never speak another lie about me. And slice off his hands, so he may never write another sinful word. I want him paraded through the streets so the people know the consequences of sin.”
    Marcello sighed. “Holy Father, may I suggest that scare tactics might not be the best way to—”
    Carlo spun on his heel. “
I didn’t ask you!
” he roared, hurling the crumpled papers at him. The cardinal stood impassive as the litter scattered across the polished marble floor. He sipped his wine.
    Trembling with rage, Carlo cradled Iago’s chin in his hand. His voice, once he found it again, came out in a strained rasp.
    “You see? I am a benevolent and merciful pope. Thanks to me, you’ll never be able to commit this sin again. And yes, I forgive you.” He looked to the knights. “Take him.”
    They dragged the beaten man away, and Carlo dropped back into his throne. He waved a tired hand.
    “No audiences today. Everyone out. I want to be alone.”
    Marcello left without another word.
    *     *     *
    “I’m not seeing a problem,” the corpulent Cardinal De Luca said, leaning back on a plush velvet divan.
    Of course you aren’t
, Marcello thought,
because you’re an idiot
.
    He’d gathered his clique in a private parlor just off the College of Cardinals’ meeting hall. The handful of peers who would reliably vote his way and swing others by their influence. A small group—and a treacherous one that wouldn’t hesitate to stab him in the back if it was worth their while—but they had their uses.
    Cardinal Herzog knitted his bushy eyebrows, leaning in to pluck a plump red grape from a silver serving tray. “Livia Serafini’s ‘papacy’ is an outrageous joke. It’s a slap in the face to the entire Holy Empire. Her influence won’t spread. It
can’t
.”
    “
Can’t
is a powerful word, my friend.” Marcello paced the woven carpet. “You’re focusing too much on the girl and not the man behind her. This is a
political
gambit from start to finish.”
    Cardinal Cavalcante, the fourth member of their tiny cabal, leaned back against the wall with his arms folded. “You’re talking about Rhys Jernigan.”
    “Naturally. Do you think that pamphleteer hired a team of scribes, chartered a boat to Verinia, and set out to spread these letters all by himself? That wasn’t holy zeal; it was a propaganda operation. And it won’t be the only one. If King Jernigan can wrest control of the Church, we’ll all be dancing to Itresca’s tune.”
    “Never going to happen,” Herzog said. “The people will never accept a woman as their pope. She’s a condemned witch. A heretic!”
    “Condemned by Carlo,” Marcello said. “How much is that worth if ‘the people’ begin to reject him? We’re in a battle for hearts and minds here, gentlemen, and so far, Rhys Jernigan is setting the terms of engagement.”
    “
You
sold us Carlo.” De Luca jabbed his finger at him.
    “And you’ve profited handsomely. Hasn’t he been a good figurehead? Hasn’t he granted your every request and signed off on every bank note you put in front of him? Don’t claim otherwise. He’s the goose that lays the golden eggs. It’s up to
us
to keep him uncooked.”
    “So we go on the offensive,” Cavalcante said. “Hold public rallies where we burn her in effigy, all