Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) by Craig Schaefer Page A

said. “So please. Take this. Spend it wisely, for them.”
    She stared at the coins in his hand, calculating, then nodded. She snatched the money up.
    “I’ll take care of it,” she said.
    Walking back up the long, shadowy streets in the wake of the setting sun, Amadeo had time alone with his thoughts. Much as he wanted to believe otherwise, Benignus’s days were numbered. Once he passed, it would either be Carlo on the throne or someone handpicked by the College of Cardinals.
    Bene was a good man, but Amadeo could see the selfishness in his final wish: he wanted to think the best of Carlo, to imagine the reckless and callow youth growing into a seasoned and wise pope. Amadeo wasn’t sure if that was even possible, despite his oath to try to make it so. On the other side, the College was just as self-interested. They—or specifically, Cardinal Accorsi and his band of conspirators—would pick a candidate who danced to their tune, someone who wouldn’t threaten their control of the Church’s purse strings or upset the status quo.
    Nobody, in all this mess, was trying to figure out which candidate would be the best for the
people
. Livia was right. The Church was broken.
    And I’ve been the lazy apprentice
, Amadeo thought,
sailing along blithely and letting other people decide our fate
.
Enough of that
.
It’s time to roll up my sleeves and do what I can to help before it’s too late
.
    The first step, he reasoned, was to have a long talk with Carlo. Amadeo needed to know if he could really afford to uphold his vow to Benignus. The matter of the smuggler’s ledger still weighed on his mind.
    A four-horse coach stood in the pebbled horseshoe drive outside the papal manse. The livery of the Banco Marchetti emblazoned its polished doors, and twists of gold leaf adorned the black-stained wood. A bored-looking drover sat up on his perch, huddled under a heavy cloak. Amadeo frowned. Representatives from the bank came from Mirenze to visit the court on a regular basis—they held the contract to work the papal alum mines, after all—but this was after business hours, and he hadn’t seen a meeting scheduled in Benignus’s appointment ledger.
    “The Holy Father?” said one of the maids, pulled aside by Amadeo in the gilded foyer. “No, he’s sleeping. No visitors, not since three bells.”
    “But there is a coach outside. Someone from the Banco Marchetti is definitely here.”
    The maid nodded and pointed up the hall. “Oh, that was for Carlo. They’ve been in the conference room all afternoon.”
    His feet moved faster as he paced up the hall, brow furrowed. Why was Carlo meeting with the Marchettis? He didn’t have any authority to do business on the Church’s behalf. Amadeo almost knocked, coming up on the closed and ivory-inlaid door. Then he caught himself.
    Looking in all directions, biting down on his sudden sense of guilt, he crept close and knelt down to press his ear against the keyhole.
    “…how we’re going to
sell
you,” said a gruff voice on the other side. It sounded familiar to Amadeo, but he couldn’t quite place it.
    “…care what they…” answered Carlo’s muffled voice, softer and farther away from the door.
    “Because they can still mount a succession challenge. Don’t get overconfident, Carlo. Now is the time for you to be on your best behavior. Especially after that idiot Stathis went and got himself killed. Just get your father on board, and I’ll do the rest.”
    Amadeo couldn’t make out Carlo’s next question. He leaned closer to the door, pressing himself against the wood. The other man’s answer came in a lower, harder tone, and it sent a chill down Amadeo’s spine.
    “…because that much blood won’t wash clean.”
    Chairs scraped back against marbled floors. Amadeo jumped up, padding backward as fast as he could, and looked around to make sure nobody had seen him eavesdropping. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and walked forward as the conference