David knocked at that moment, calling, “Good morning, monsieur. I have your breakfast.”
He opened the door, waving a hand to invite the boy and his coffee in. “I told you to call me ‘Nicholas.’”
“Oui, but the manager will fire me if he hears. So, I address you properly.”
“Ah. I understand.” He added sugar and drank some coffee, gesturing for David to do the same. “I need information today. And a hat,” he muttered. “Moulin will deliver the rest of my clothes tomorrow, once he’s completed the final adjustments.”
“Information,” David repeated, his brow creased in deep thought. “What sort of information, Monsieur Nicholas?”
Nico thought about that for a moment, pondering how much he could say without making the boy suspicious. He certainly couldn’t mention anything about sorcerers or magic. Even in his world, there were regions where people believed that magic was the work of demons, and drove out or, worse, killed any witches or other magic-users unlucky enough not to escape in time. On the other hand . . .
“History,” he said, confident that any arrival in a new city would want to learn more of the place and its customs. “How did Paris come to be a city? Who governs it? And not only Paris, but the entire country of France.” He left it at that, figuring any place that could answer those questions would also have other information he might find useful.
David listened, nodding his head, then brightened and said, “Bibliothèque Mazarine.”
It was a moment before Nico figured that one out, despite the translation, since his own culture hadn’t possessed anything like a public library. Sorcerers had libraries of their own, or as in his case, multiple rooms of libraries. But he certainly hadn’t permitted anyone else to use it, other than his brother warriors and the healers. The idea of a public library made so much sense, however, that he was rather ashamed he hadn’t thought of it. Not public libraries of magic, the gods knew, but history and generational stories would have been beneficial to everyone. Unfortunately, thinking that way reminded him once more that he would never be going back. If there were to be libraries in his home world, someone else would have to build them.
“A library. Yes, that’s exactly what I need. But first, my friend . . .” He scowled. “A hat.”
David laughed. “More than one, Nicholas. A gentleman needs at least two, preferably three.”
“What? Do you work for the chaplier?”
The boy seemed to take him seriously at first, and acted deeply offended, but when he saw Nico’s grin, he laughed and said, “If so, I’d have you buy five.”
Nico laughed along, then pulled out Moulin’s card, on which he’d written the address of the hatmaker. “You know this address?”
David nodded. “Oui, when do you wish to leave?”
“Now.”
LESS THAN AN hour into his library search, Nico realized that David’s reading skills were limited, though the boy was manfully trying to conceal it. Nico didn’t blame him. If anything, he cursed himself for not realizing sooner, or for that matter, for assuming the Parisian educational system was any better than the one on his own estate. The only truly literate people in his world had been the sorcerers. The various courts and nobles educated their sons, though not always their daughters, but very few offered any training to servants. And though he thought of himself as a good ruler, he was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t provided his own servants anything but the most remedial level of education. So why would he assume David had access to anything better?
To save the boy’s pride, he muttered about his own inability to read French, and looked around the library for a solution. When he saw two men sitting at a desk with a sign that read, “Bibliothècaires,” he brightened. He wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but it seemed to imply that these two gentlemen took care of the library. So maybe they could at least send him to the right shelves.
When he pointed out the sign to David, the boy’s smile matched Nico’s. They both walked over, but David hung back, making it clear that Nico—who was now dressed as a proper gentleman, thanks to Monsieur Moulin—should be the one to inquire.
Both bibliothècaires looked up when he cleared his throat, but only one responded with a gracious smile and an offer of assistance. The man, whose name was Marceau Girard, listened patiently to Nico’s rather rambling explanation of what he needed, then walked them over to a row of shelves in a far corner that included a great number of loosely bound papers and scrolls along with hardcover books. Gesturing at the collection, he then turned to Nico and, speaking in a low voice, said, “The priests will also have a number of historical manuscripts, though I do not know if they would be willing to share them. Some of them will be quite old, while others are illustrated, which makes them very rare and valuable. You may ask, however. Do the people of your country honor the true faith?”
Since the people of Nico’s world didn’t have any faith, true or otherwise, unless one counted the fickle gods of fate, he nodded his head. “Mais oui.”
Girard smiled in relief. “Ça c’est bon. I must return to my desk, Monsieur. But I wish you good luck in your research.”
“Thank you. Can I . . . ?” He didn’t want to offend Monsieur Girard, but the man had been so helpful. “May I offer a donation to support the library?”
Girard, whose face had donned a pained expression, immediately brightened at the offer. “There is a box at my desk. You will see it when you leave.”
Nico sent David in search of a nearby café, saying he’d meet up with him in an hour, then used his magic to move everything in the collection to a very high shelf in a very dark corner of the library, so that he could return after hours and read at his own pace. He walked down the long line of shelves and turned for the exit when his attention was drawn to a giant sphere which he quickly understood claimed to be a model of the entire world. Fascinated, he took the time to commit every detail to his sorcerer’s memory. He’d be able to draw every nuance of the sphere once he was back in his room. He wasn’t a great artist, but his hand was good enough to draw a circle and the outlines of the various land masses, along with their names. This might very well be the most useful thing he learned in the library or from the priests.
He was feeling more optimistic when he left than he had since arriving in Paris. The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, and he smiled as he strolled down the street to find David waiting on the steps of the café.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said immediately, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “We have no such libraries where I come from.”
“You should not apologize to me, Nicholas. I am at your service.”
“You’re as worthy of basic courtesy as any other, David. So I apologize. Is there still time for coffee?” Nico had decided to skip visiting the priest until after he’d absorbed the materials in the library. He’d always hated research and had rejoiced when his power reached the point where he could take on assistants and apprentices to do it for him. That path was obviously no longer available to him, so he’d have to do it himself. Although his magical abilities would help. He’d used very little magic since his arrival in the city, and his ability was growing stronger by the day, despite the pitiful amount of free magic in this world. But the core of his magic remained as always, allowing him to observe the world around him without conscious thought. That core would die only when he did. As long as his heart beat, it would continue to function, although it worked better when his magic was also at its peak.
For tonight, however, he was finished with research and learning, and worrying over things he had no control of. As powerful as he was, his brain still required time to process the many pieces of information his senses—both magical and not—he’d picked up during the day. Much of which, he wasn’t yet aware that he’d learned. And so, once in his room, he tossed the ridiculous hat boxes on the sofa, fresh
ened his face, and changed his tie, then went downstairs to enjoy his dinner and absorb the city.
“MONSIEUR KATSAROS.”
Nico glanced over from where he’d been studying the people promenading on the wide street, idly wondering if this was the entirety of their evenings. And if so, how he would manage to find the people like himself—magic users. There had to be some, else why would Sotiris have chosen it as his destination? It was barely possible that the sorcerer had cast his fortune to fate, and flung himself into the maelstrom of time and place with no destination in mind. But he didn’t believe that. Sotiris was far too obsessed with controlling everyone and everything around him to have taken such a chance. And the fact that he’d been prepared to leave so quickly when the battle turned against him, told Nico that the bastard had planned for such a possibility. And if he’d planned, he’d have made sure he knew where he was going.
“Monsieur Katsaros?”
Nico realized he’d been staring blankly while his thoughts churned, and looked up at the man standing next to his table. “Yes?”
“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Monsieur Faustin Tasse, the manager of this inn. As you’re dining alone this evening, may I join you for an aperitif? I don’t wish to intrude.”
Then why are you? Nico thought rebelliously, but reminded himself that he needed to learn more about the city and its people. And who better to teach him than the nosy manager of an inn? He didn’t fully understand what an aperitif was, but as it seemed to involve alcohol, he was willing to experiment. “Please,” he said indicating the second chair at the table. “Join me.”
Tasse beamed with happiness and sat down, which had the waiter rushing over to offer assistance. The manager spoke in very rapid French and the waiter went away, only to return shortly with a tray of drinks and food. The routine was repeated several times over the next few hours, since Monsieur Tasse remained for the entire meal. Nico didn’t mind after all, since the man had lived his entire life in Paris and talked non-stop. Nico learned about France’s recent political upheavals, and something called the Bourbon Restoration, which involved a particular royal line, most of whom had lost their heads. Quite literally, apparently, since France was fond of a form of execution called a guillotine, which very neatly removed a person’s head from their body. He found it rather gruesome, but as long as neither he, nor anyone he loved was threatened, he would let it be.
This was not his world, not his estate, nor did he plan on it being such. If he’d dissected Sotiris’s spell correctly, Paris had been his first stop. The question was, why? And of course, where was he going next? Nico might have avoided research whenever possible, but analyzing a spell—any spell—was something he not only enjoyed, but excelled at. He’d worked for weeks figuring out what Sotiris had done, and how. But in his urgency to follow on his enemy’s heels, he’d identified the spell elements for Paris—the first stop—and put off the rest for later.
That was what he should be doing with his time. Not having stupid hats made. He should be sitting in his room and studying the complex damn spell, so he could take the next step—and all the ones after that— in pursuit of Sotiris more rapidly than the enemy sorcerer might expect. And eventually catch up with him.
The meal finally ended, with Tasse waving off the waiter and the bill, saying grandly that he’d enjoyed Nico’s company far too much to make him pay. Privately Nico thought Tasse’s enjoyment had come from having a dinner companion who listened to everything, but rarely spoke. The meal had been pleasant enough, though. Informative, if nothing else.
But though Nico was ready for it to end, he had one question that no one had yet addressed. What the hell did people do for fun in Paris? Late at night, when he woke soaked in sweat from nightmares of Antonia screaming, or his warriors trapped in prisons too suffocating to permit even screams, he knew that the answers he sought were not among the promenading couples and well-lit boulevards. Somewhere in this big city, there had to be taverns like the one he’d passed when he’d first arrived, the one his friend Dorian had warned him was not suitable for gentlemen, which apparently Nico was.
Monsieur Tasse, however, held no such prejudices. At Nico’s inquiry, he chuckled, took a deep puff of his cigar—the proper name for the paper tubes that smelled bad—and winked. “Le Palais Royal,” he said knowingly.
Nick frowned, wondering if Tasse understood his question. What did a royal palace have to do with late night drinking, bad taverns, and dangerous places?
Seeming to understand his puzzlement, Tasse explained with a wave of his hand. “It was owned by one of our Dukes who ran out of money, and turned it into un parc d’attractions. Families attend by daylight, but at night . . . late at night, it is for gentlemen to enjoy. There are any number of less savory activities and people to be found there. And women, mon ami. Les belles femmes.”
Nick neither desired nor needed a woman, beautiful or not, but in a world like this, where magic was rarely spoken of, and mostly considered to be either fanciful stories for a winter’s night, or the devil’s influence, any magic-users would have long ago gone underground, hiding what they were, while offering their services for sale in dusty shops and dark corners. And this Palais Royal sounded like a place with plenty of both for people to hide in.
Chapter Three
WALKING BACK TO his hotel late the next night, Nick knew he’d been wrong about the Palais Royal holding the promise of answers for him, as well as the people he’d thought might provide them. And he was finally beginning to grasp the reality of his situation, something he should have understood from the outset. This world was a much bigger place than his own, though even his own world had been bigger than what he lived in. He’d called his warriors from the four corners of the earth. Did he think they’d traveled from the next town over, for fuck’s sake? No, their journeys to join him had been arduous and taken weeks and months. They’d traveled from places that, for all his sorcerous power and battle prowess, he’d never been. He knew their stories of where they’d come from, only because they told him of these places.
So why in the name of all the gods had he thought the answers he needed would be waiting for him in the one city he’d happened to land in? He’d come here, because Sotiris’s spell had led him here. But what if the bastard had expected Nico to follow, after all? What if he’d fled to Paris, only to throw Nico off his trail? He could be hundreds of years and a thousand cities away by now. Disgusted with his own flailing about, and despairing of ever finding his brothers, his Antonia, he’d waved off the carriage drivers who’d tried to sell him a ride back to his hotel, and instead began walking. He wasn’t worried about finding his way. He knew the streets well enough by now, and if he became turned around, he could always use some of his magic to find his way.
He barely noticed when he turned onto a street that was little more than an alley. All the streets were darker now, as the oil lamps had long since burned out, or been doused. Darkness didn’t bother Nico. His night sight was excellent, and if he needed light, he could always conjure it. But as he walked, head down, deep in thought, he became aware of someone else’s footsteps pacing his own. He kept walking, but shifted his senses outward to discover more than one person shadowing his path.
He wasn’t afraid. In fact, he silently hoped his stealthy friends would come closer. After all, he was a lone man, well-dressed, obviously walking home after an evening at the Palais Royal. Tired, perhaps intoxicated even. Even if he’d lost his money in a game of cards, his clothing and/or jewelry—which he wasn’t wearing, but they didn’t know that—would be well worth the effort. And who was there to witness the death of a man too stupid to comprehend his own peril?
They made their move, and he let them come. Four men in worn and dirty clothes, their hair long and unwashed, hanging around faces that were made ugly not by birth, but by the hatred in their eyes, the bad teeth bared in animal-like snarls. Pi
ty warred with rage in Nico’s mind. If he’d seen these four asking for food by the side of the road, he’d have emptied his pockets between them. Part of him wanted to believe they’d been driven by circumstance to such desperate measures, and he could only imagine the hopelessness that would make a man choose to kill rather than ask for help.
But the other part of him, the part that was walking this dark street in a foreign land and time because another man—one with the wherewithal to enjoy a life of luxury and power, who could have used that power to improve the lives of those who looked to him for protecttion—that man had chosen instead to destroy. To take more than his share from his people, and to punish those who complained. That man had taken everyone Nico loved and thrown them away. He hadn’t known or cared where they’d end up. He’d known only that Nico loved them, and that losing them would inflict a crushing blow on the man he hated with a rage that burned like the fires of hell itself.
Nico spun to face his attackers, surprising them into stillness, but only for the few seconds it took for them to brandish their thin knives, and to snarl their demand that he strip to the skin.
“Or what?” Nico asked. “What will you do if I refuse?”
The biggest of the four, the one who’d voiced the original demand, took a step closer. He reeked of sweat and dirt, and for all his swagger, a touch of fear. “Refuse, and I will kill you, and take what I want.”
“No,” Nico replied, shaking his head. “I think you’d have killed me anyway. So I’m going to kill you instead.”
The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus Page 17