The discussion turned to the package captured two days earlier. “It’s on its way to you,” said the cheerful-voiced Janus. “Let us know when you receive it.”
Finally, the meeting became interesting—at least, from Luca’s perspective. The Janus twin began to speak again, this time channeling the gruff voice. “This is Killigrew speaking for New Phoenicia. We have organized a treaty between France and Savoy to drive Spain out of the Italian peninsula. Master Della Porta, we need your Alchemae troops to protect the French king and the Duke of Savoy. We fear that Spain will try to have them killed before the treaty can be fully implemented.”
Luca nearly jumped with excitement. This is my chance! The Spanish Empire will reward me handsomely—restore our family to our proper place in the Kingdom of Naples—if I can stop this treaty. Now I have to figure out the best method of doing that—and who can be trusted to help me.
The meeting continued. The discussion had now turned to a problem in the Tsardom of Russia, a more contentious topic. Luca would normally have found it fascinating to watch the different voices of the twin arguing with each other. This time, he no longer paid much attention as he began to make his own plans.
SIXTY-FOUR
A clearing on the outskirts of Paris, France, Early Evening, Friday May 14 1610
Father Carracci sat alone in his carriage reading. He looked up as Luca and Ruben entered and sat down opposite him. “The word’s been spreading all over Paris this afternoon,” Carracci said, “that the king is dead. I gather that you succeeded.”
Luca nodded triumphantly. “We certainly did! Ruben turned himself into a duplicate of that fanatic who was at the palace demanding to see the king. I bribed one of the palace guards with my transmuted gold, so that we could find out exactly where the king was going this afternoon. Then we got ourselves into position. As soon as we saw the king’s carriage heading towards the Rue de la Ferronnerie, I bribed two cart drivers with more instant gold, so that they blocked the street. Ruben did the rest.”
Carracci turned his attention to Ruben, who stared back blankly. “Oh, right,” said Carracci, “You’re still in that trance.” Carracci turned to Luca. “Ruben won’t remember anything that’s happened while he’s been enchanted. I thought that was best, for all our sakes. I’m not sure that Ruben shares our desire to protect Spain’s interests in Naples. I’m so glad that you came to me with your plan, Luca.”
Luca nodded. “I don’t understand why the French people have been so willing to believe in Henri IV’s supposed conversion. It’s always been obvious to me that he was still Protestant at heart, and simply pretended to be Catholic in order to claim the throne.”
Carracci smiled. “That’s exactly how I saw him as well. And I was prepared to take any action, pay any price, to ensure that Protestant pretender did not gain any more footholds on Catholic soil.”
Carracci looked at Luca thoughtfully. “You do realize, Luca, that you won’t be able to speak of this to anybody at the Academy? Master Della Porta will not be happy if he should learn that we killed Henri IV. He was more than willing to carry out New Phoenicia’s instructions—it suited his insane dream, to see the Roman Empire reinstated. His goal was to have France, Savoy, and Spain battling amongst themselves, creating a power vacuum which he somehow thought he could exploit.”
“My lips are sealed, of course,” said Luca, “as long as you live up to your part of the bargain, to use your connections in the Church and in Spain to see my family reinstated to its rightful place in the Kingdom of Naples.” He smiled at the thought.
Carracci nodded and then spoke swiftly. “ḥēthē yōdzayin ʾālepnūndālet nūnʾālep mēmʾālep rēšyōd.”
Luca froze. His face went completely blank. Father Carracci bent over and peered into the young man’s eyes which were now, like Ruben’s, uncomprehending. Carracci shook his head softly. “I’m sorry, Luca,” he said, although Luca could no longer understand him. “I can’t take that chance. You’re too much like me—you would try to exploit any weakness to achieve your aims. You would use your knowledge of my part in this regicide to destroy me.”
Carracci stepped down from the carriage and walked around to the back, where his luggage was stored. A few moments later, he had retrieved the rapier that had been part of his civilian costume in Pisa. Thus armed, Carracci strode to the front of the carriage and untied the horses from the hitching post to which they had been secured. He climbed up to the driver’s seat at the front of the carriage and, after carefully stowing the rapier beside him, gathered up the reins, preparing to begin the long return journey to Naples.
That ravine I passed a week ago, on the Mont Cenis pass, Carracci thought as he tugged on the reins. That would make a nice burial spot. Very deep and deserted and no unwanted witnesses.
The horses slowly began to pull the carriage in response to Carracci’s urging.
SIXTY-FIVE
23 Rue de la Ferronnerie, Paris, France, Afternoon, Friday May 14 1610
The pounding on the appartement door intensified. “Open up, in the name of the king!”
Sounds of splintering wood followed, as whoever was on the other side mounted a savage attack on the door.
That wood won’t last for long. Ravid quickly looked around for an alternative exit. Niall, gesturing frantically, pointed to the skylight far above. The distance might not have been very great when there was an upper floor, but the skylight was now a long way from where the team currently stood on the ground floor.
Ravid wasn’t convinced. How is the team going to reach that?
As if Niall had read his mind, the Irishman stretched his arms up, up, up, his fingers reaching and then unlatching the skylight. Meanwhile a jagged hole appeared in one of the wooden door panels as the attack intensified. Niall waved frantically to Lochloinn. Once he had the Scotsman’s attention, Niall pointed to Martin.
A hand snaked in through the newly created hole in the door, reaching around for the door key. Lochloinn rushed over to Martin, carefully hoisted the Englishman’s body over his shoulder and then, using Niall’s stretched body as an impromptu ladder, began climbing towards the skylight.
At that moment, the door was driven open by the combined pressure of what turned out to be at least six soldiers, their red and blue livery proclaiming that they belonged to France’s elite Quarante Cinq, the royal guardsmen. The soldiers rushed into the room, pikes lowered and ready to attack—and then came to a crashing halt. Most of the room was plunged into darkness as Martin, despite his precarious position on Lochloinn’s shoulder, had recovered enough to use his powers.
The leading guardsman, unsighted, nevertheless stabbed out with his pike—until a hand reached out from the darkness and touched the soldier’s outstretched arm. Instantly, the guardsman froze in place. Good—Sean has recovered enough to use his powers of paralysis, realized Ravid.
Before any of the other guardsmen could move, Elias announced to them, in French: “The assassins have escaped through the back door. If you hurry outside now you should be able to capture them.”
The Quarante Cinq guardsmen—except for the temporarily paralyzed soldier—responded to Elias’ powers of persuasion by turning and feeling their way towards the door. Once outside, they shared the news with their comrades. “They’ve gone—they escaped out through the back door. Quickly, follow them.”
Martin was still being carried upward by Lochloinn. The Scotsman continued to climb, using Niall’s body as a ladder, until he finally reached the skylight and was able to bundle Martin through and onto the roof. Niall, relieved of the dual weight of Lochloinn and Martin, gamely called down. “Who’s next?”
“Don’t worry about us, Niall,” whispered Ravid. “Just get yourself to safety.”
Once Niall had done exactly that, Ravid summoned his wings and made two flights up to the skylight, first carrying Elias, and then a second time for Sean.
Ravid’s team then made their way across a series of rooftops, leaping, stretching, o
r flying across any gaps too wide to navigate on foot, only pausing once they were well away from the Les Halles region. Meanwhile the Quarante Cinq guardsmen searched fruitlessly at ground level.
While the team took a few moments to rest, Ravid considered their next move. The super-powered team was obviously from somewhere in Naples—but which part? He mind-called Jesse.
Once he had completed his mind-talk with Jesse, Ravid turned to his team. “We need to leave Paris. It will easier to avoid the guardsmen if you each make your way out of the city separately. Meet at Dijon in a week—another Outcast Angel, Zophiel, will join you there.”
“I’ll be takin’ Martin wit’ me,” volunteered Lochloinn, “odderwise he won’t be goin’ far wit’ that leg.”
“I’ve asked Jesse to send a healer to Dijon as well,” said Ravid. “Hopefully he’ll be able to fix up your injuries.” Martin nodded thankfully.
The team shook hands with each other and prepared to split up. Elias came over for a quiet word with Ravid. “What about you, Ravid? What are you planning to do?”
“Before I leave Paris, I’m going to have a little talk with Bishop de Richelieu.”
SIXTY-SIX
A Few Days Later
Smolensk, Tsardom of Russia, 5.30 a.m. Wednesday May 19 1610
Shamar landed lightly on the hill overlooking the Russian walled city of Smolensk as dawn broke over the besieged city. He dismissed his wings with a thought and stood for a few moments taking stock of his surroundings.
From this elevated perspective, it was clear why Smolensk had not yet fallen despite nine months under siege by the forces of the Kingdom of Poland. The entire central core of the city was encircled first by a moat and then by massive outer stone walls that shrugged off any blasts from the heavy guns fired by the Polish attackers. Inner walls provided a further layer of protection for the determined defenders. If any cannon does manage to blow a hole in one of those outer walls, it’s unlikely that the attackers will be able to reach it anyway—the parapets behind the walls are bristling with Russian soldiers armed with arquebuses and muskets, thirsty for blood. They’ll eagerly pick off anyone attempting to reach the city, especially when they try to cross the moat.
Shamar turned his attention to the forces besieging the city. Normally at this hour of the morning, most would have been asleep—a siege is a long-term action, so early morning attacks are not common—but the previous day’s arrival of King Sigismund III of Poland had clearly spurred his local commanders into a pointless display of action intended to impress the royal entourage.
The attackers’ camp hummed with activity. Infantrymen could be seen moving into position near the front line, firing largely ineffective shots at the Smolensk defenders. Every few minutes one of the Polish cannon would roar into life, belching fire and smoke and a single cannonball which would hurtle itself inadequately at one of the city’s walls, serving merely to dislodge a few stone splinters from the grimly unmoved fortification.
In response, Smolensk defenders took occasional potshots at Polish positions. The Polish camp was only slightly out of range, and some of the Smolensk attempts were too close for comfort—fragments of musket shot bounced off the ground, forcing the attackers to take cover.
Dozens of Polish and Ukrainian Cossacks on horseback, armed with long pikes, rode purposefully around the camp. I’m not sure what they’re expecting to skewer with those pikes, they certainly don’t have any hope of using them anywhere within musket range of the walled city.
Shamar mind-called Jesse.
Jesse was quick to reply.
said Jesse,
SIXTY-SEVEN
Smolensk, Tsardom of Russia, 5.45 a.m. Wednesday May 19 1610
A short time later, Polish sentries hailed Shamar as he approached the main camp.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
Security was tight with the king in the camp. Shamar smiled—in such circumstances, his own supernatural abilities came into their own.
“You know who I am,” he said, “I’m with the king’s entourage. I arrived here yesterday.”
The two Polish soldiers manning the forward guard post looked at each other and nodded. Shamar’s heavenly gift was that when people looked at him, they saw a close friend who they unconsciously recognized as being on their side, whose word they would take at face value.
The guards readily allowed Shamar to have unfettered access to the camp—and everyone who saw him treated him as one of their own, despite his inappropriate clothing and lack of documentation.
Shamar walked through the camp, nodding and smiling. He was warned not to get too close to the city below, lest the Russian snipers use him for target practice.
A group of otherwise-vigilant guards recognized Shamar—or believed that they did—and he was soon directed to the command tent close to the front line, where the king was talking with his generals. Once he entered the tent, Shamar inspected the Polish and Ukrainian troops inside, searching for anyone who didn’t belong.
Shamar had barely begun his inspection when, out of the blue, King Sigismund spoke to those around him.
“What was that? I didn’t understand you?”
His generals looked at each other. One, braver than the rest, spoke up. “Majesty, we didn’t say a word.”
“Of course you did,” said Sigismund irritably. “I’m not deaf—I heard you, plain as day. I didn’t understand the language, that’s all.”
The king paused, listened. “There you go again. What is it you’re saying? Speak in Polish or be damned!”
The generals looked at each other, embarrassed and perplexed. Whatever was happening here, they didn’t want the common soldiers to see it. They ordered everybody out of the command tent except senior officers and the king’s staff. Shamar, of course, was left alone—those who saw him were convinced that he h
ad a perfect right to be there.
That makes my task much easier, thought Shamar. He took a close look at those who remained in the tent, as the king shouted out again. “What do you want? Leave me alone!”
One of the king’s aides attempted to calm him down, but the king was having none of it. “Don’t waste your time with me. Find whoever’s shouting at me. Make them stop!”
Everyone in the tent was now openly staring at King Sigismund. Everyone, that is, except one Ukrainian Cossack officer, who was actively attempting to avoid looking at the king. Is he trying to be polite or does he have another agenda, wondered Shamar.
Shamar took a closer look. He saw a very young man, overweight, greasy black hair, wearing an ill-fitting Ukrainian Cossack uniform and sweating nervously. Surely he’s too young to be an officer. He must be the one.
Shamar walked up to the purported Ukrainian officer and spoke to him in Napoletano. “Hi. I’m Shamar. Don’t I know you?”
The soldier smiled, in recognition and relief. “Of course—Shamar. Nice to see you again. I’m Niccolo.”
“Right, Niccolo, of course,” said Shamar. “Stop what you’re doing for a moment. We need to talk.”
Niccolo was instantly wary, but Shamar’s apparent status as a friend gave sufficient reassurance that Niccolo paused his mental bombardment of the Polish king.
Shamar made a further suggestion. “Let’s take this conversation outside the tent, shall we, so we don’t—talk about matters that others here don’t need to know about.”
“I don’t think anyone else here speaks Napoletano,” objected Niccolo, before agreeing to Shamar’s request. “Still, we should take appropriate precautions.” He bent down, picked up his pack, and followed Shamar outside the command tent. There was a deserted area in front, a few feet down the hill from the tent.
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 19