by Kat Ross
The man’s eyes flicked over Balthazar, lingering on the Grand Cross of Saint Stephen. Balthazar drew himself up to his full height. He stared down his nose, adopting the icy glare of an aristocrat on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
The officer gave a quick nod. “Of course, my lady,” he murmured. “Sincere apologies for the error.”
They passed through the glass doors into a long two-tier gallery with a skylight set into the coffered ceiling. A string quartet played at the far end. Waiters with flutes of chilled champagne moved through the crowd. As Balthazar anticipated, most of the men wore military dress with ceremonial swords. For some reason, the nobility loved to play at being soldiers. He looked for Bekker, but he hadn’t arrived yet. Marisa led him among the knots of partygoers, pausing to make introductions. Balthazar acted the charming companion even as his gaze kept flicking to the door.
“You seem distracted,” she said when they were alone for a moment.
Balthazar took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and gave one to Marisa.
“I can’t help myself,” he said, sipping his champagne. “You look ravishing tonight.”
She wore a cream-colored gown with emerald earrings and a matching choker. The flattering light shaved a decade off her age and he remembered her breathless laughter as they’d run down to the sea barefoot in the darkness two decades before, fleeing a silly party much like this one.
“So do you,” Marisa replied softly. “Perhaps I’ll give you a private tour when the speeches are over.”
Balthazar smiled, swallowing a stab of regret. No matter how the night ended, she would suffer for it, but there was no going back now. “Which one is Count d’Ursel?” he asked.
Marisa scanned the room. “Over there,” she said, discreetly tipping her head. “Next to the Hieronymus Bosch painting. With the moustache.”
The count was in his middle forties, thin with heavy-lidded eyes and a long nose. His mouth was utterly dwarfed by the moustache. He looked like a stern, uncompromising sort.
“I can introduce you,” Marisa said. There was a question in her eyes, but she didn’t voice it.
“No, I was only curious. I hear he’s an abolitionist.”
“Yes. A staunch Catholic. They’ve set their sights on the Zanzibari slavers.”
“And what does Leopold think of them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think he minds. They’re not interfering with his governance in the Congo.”
Balthazar caught movement in the upper level of the gallery. Four of Bekker’s men appeared in the shadowed archways where they could look down on the proceedings but keep out of sight of the guests. A minute later, Bekker himself strode into the room. The murmured conversation rose a notch. Heads swiveled to watch him. He wore a high-collared scarlet coat with silver embroidery and snug white trousers tucked into shiny boots. Light brown hair swept back from his youthful face. His gaze passed over Balthazar, then swung back. He took in the sword, expressionless. Then he smiled and allowed himself to be drawn toward a knot of partygoers.
Balthazar turned his back on Bekker and wandered over to one of the paintings, a triptych of the Temptation of Saint Anthony.
“What’s the man of the hour donating, anyway?” he asked Marisa.
“Two works by Hans Memling. I think one by Rembrandt and another by Petrus Christus.”
“Generous of him.”
“I suppose so.”
A stillness came over the room as the orchestra stopped playing. A contingent of the Rijkswacht took up positions on either side of the door. There was a pregnant pause. Then a footman announced the king with much fanfare and Leopold entered with his wife.
Somewhere in his late fifties, he was tall and sported a bristling, square beard. Not a man who looked like he smiled often. Bekker approached and made a low bow. The rest arranged themselves in order of precedence and Balthazar lost interest in watching the protocol. Of far greater interest were Bekker’s four men, but he saw no direct way down from the balcony and didn’t think they’d be a hindrance when the time came.
“I shall present you,” the baroness said, taking his arm.
Balthazar could hardly refuse. He’d claimed he always wanted to meet Leopold. So they made their way along the receiving line until they reached the king and queen. Marie Henriette was a pale woman who looked unnervingly like her husband. Balthazar sensed little warmth between them.
“Your majesties.” Marisa gave a graceful curtsy acknowledging them both.
“Baroness de Smet.” Leopold inclined his head. His father, Leopold I, had been darkly handsome, but the son had that unfortunate inbred look, all nose and no forehead.
Marisa gave Balthazar’s name and the king coolly assessed him.
“You’re in the Habsburg line?”
“An offshoot,” Balthazar demurred. “My mother’s third cousin was Princess Maria Antonia.”
Even after all these years, it still amused him to impersonate a blueblood. He’d been born in a hovel of Karnopolis’s pleasure quarter and spent his childhood consorting with thieves and prostitutes. In most ways, their company was preferable to the glittering sharks he swam with now.
“That’s an interesting blade.” Leopold studied the saber at Balthazar’s hip. “Cavalry?”
“A family heirloom. They call it a szabla. It’s descended from the time of King Batory.”
Leopold nodded, losing interest. “A pleasure to meet you, Count Koháry.” His cool eyes rested for a moment on Marisa. “Baroness.”
Thus they were dismissed. The speechifying began and Balthazar pretended to listen, studiously ignoring Jorin Bekker. He kept leaning in to Marisa, whispering little nothings that made her stifle laughter, and eventually, as he hoped, Bekker appeared to relax. The king called him up and Bekker told a few anecdotes about the paintings. He was visibly basking in the warm glow of the audience and Balthazar had a sudden insight into Bekker’s heart — or the shriveled lump that passed for it. He craved respectability. Being fawned over. And it entertained him no end to gull these people into thinking he was one of them.
The evening dragged on. Bekker no longer paid Balthazar much attention. He was too caught up in his moment of glory. Balthazar allowed Marisa to lead him around to various groups. Trays of canapés appeared, pastries and savories and sweets. Laughter grew louder, faces reddened with food and drink. Once, Bekker did catch his eye. Balthazar glanced at Count d’Ursel, then back at Bekker, raising his glass in a silent toast. Bekker gave an almost smile and turned away.
Then someone exclaimed about one of the paintings, summoning Bekker over to discuss some detail, and Bekker amiably complied. He stood with his back turned, gesturing as he expounded.
Balthazar’s pupils dilated. “Excuse me for a moment,” he murmured to Marisa.
She was chattering with friends and gave him an absent nod.
Balthazar started across the room, a little unsteady on his feet, beelining for a waiter with a tray of champagne to Bekker’s right. He swiped a hand across his brow and hooked a finger into his collar, as if trying to loosen it. In the gallery above, he sensed four sets of eyes fixed on him.
Balthazar looped around a knot of people. Bekker was ten feet away, still talking.
“….and Memling painted it while he was living in Bruges. The Last Judgment has a very colorful history. The triptych was commissioned by a local agent of the Medici family, but when he tried to send it to Florence, the ship was captured by a privateer. The Medicis filed a lawsuit that dragged through the courts for years….”
The scene snapped into sharp focus, Bekker’s voice fading to a distant hum. Adrenaline coursed through his blood. He saw only Bekker’s head, the curve of his jaw, half-turned, Adam’s apple bobbing. It was like a red cape to a charging bull.
Two more steps and his hand dropped to the hilt of the szabla. The weight of his body shifted to his left foot. The right would kick the man at Bekker’s side out of the way to allow a clean sweep.
>
Bekker seemed to sense something amiss for he stopped talking and began to turn…. Too late.
The sword was an inch out of the scabbard when glass shattered and the room erupted into chaos.
18
Anne watched Miguel Salvado break the rifle down and stow it in a long canvas bag. It had taken approximately two seconds for the first bullets to travel across the park. He’d reloaded twice more. The second and third shots also hit home. Jean-Michel already waited at the open hatchway. They slid down the ladder to a dim landing and raced down the stairs. The building was devoted to offices. On a weekday, there might have been a few hardworking souls still at their desks, but it was late on a Saturday and the floors were dark and deserted.
Jean-Michel cracked open the door to the alley, then nodded. They stepped out and walked swiftly for the Rue Ducale. The plan was to wait at the hotel. But when they reached the street, Anne stopped. She touched Miguel’s arm. “I’ll meet you there,” she said.
He frowned. “Where are you going?”
She glanced at the park. It was impossible to explain. But the moment she heard the crack of the rifles, the unease in her gut had worsened. Worsened to something that made her want to vomit.
She’d heard the men reloading to either side, the snap of the trapdoors chambering the next round in the breech, the cocking of hammers and smell of gunpowder, Jean-Michel’s soft curse as his first shot went wide. But she was no longer on the rooftop.
For a minute, she was back in that village just before the Feast Day of Saint Mary Magdalene. She remembered walking down the main street, scrawny chickens pecking in the dust, even scrawnier children, hollow-eyed and big-bellied. How the women had stared. And she remembered the voice in her head that told her to keep walking straight on through and not stop until she was miles away. The voice she’d ignored because she was tired and saw a sign for an inn.
It was exactly like a hundred other villages she’d passed. Nothing in particular stood out, no overt sign of danger, but she’d sensed something was wrong there, or would go wrong. Terribly wrong. And she hadn’t paid attention to her instincts.
But she would now.
Jean-Michel shook his head, his handsome face alarmed. “No, no—” he began.
Anne walked away. By the time she looked back, they were gone. They had no choice. If they were caught on the street with those rifles, they were both dead. And it wouldn’t take long for the soldiers to figure out which direction the bullets had come from.
Her steps quickened as she crossed the park. Chaos reigned in front of the museum, soldiers rushing to and fro trying to control the crowd pouring down the front steps. Landaus raced away in every direction. Her gaze was drawn to a lone man at the edge of the park. He was the only person not moving. Clumps of agitated bystanders had gathered, craning for a better view, gesticulating and talking, but he stood apart, simply watching. Then he turned his head and she saw the scar on his jaw and she knew him.
Lucas Devereaux. Balthazar’s man.
Anne swore under her breath and started towards him, but a landau careened into her path, nearly running her down. By the time she regained her feet, Devereaux had vanished.
It’s all gone wrong.
She knew it in her bones. Anne lifted her skirts and started to run.
Leopold was instantly engulfed in a ring of gendarmes. They swept the king and queen toward a side door as two more shots rang out, sending a hail of glass into the gallery. Balthazar spun away just before Bekker noticed him and then he was caught in a stampede for the exits, though no one seemed to know which way to run. He fought his way to Marisa, who’d been knocked to the floor in a pile of voluminous skirts. Balthazar helped her up and escorted her to three of the Rijkswacht. They were trying their best to funnel panicked guests into a corridor leading to one of the wings.
“Get out,” Balthazar snapped at her, more harshly than he intended.
Marisa blinked, her eyes wide with shock.
“They’ll take care of you,” he added in a gentler tone.
“But where are you going?”
Balthazar didn’t reply. He was already striding after Bekker, who had vanished through a door at the far end of the gallery. One of the gendarmes called after him, but Balthazar quickened his pace. He entered another long gallery with dark, gloomy paintings, the din fading behind. The only gas jets were at the crossings and he kept to the shadows.
That would be his life if he failed. A creeping, cringing existence, always looking over one shoulder. He had no intention of killing the crusading Count d’Ursel, or of persuading Marisa to sell a single fishing dingy to Bekker. The jig, as they say, was up.
But he had a blade and in the name of the Holy Father, he intended to use it tonight.
Then he heard footsteps ahead. Balthazar rounded the corner at a jog.
“Bekker!” he shouted.
Jorin Bekker turned back with a frown. He was flanked by his men, all four carrying swords. Bekker waited for Balthazar to catch up.
“What the devil is going on?” Balthazar asked, feigning breathlessness.
“An attempt on the king,” Bekker growled, striding ahead as Balthazar fell into step behind them. “Anarchists no doubt. They infest this city like vermin.”
He was probably right, Balthazar reflected. Gabriel D’Ange would never take a potshot with a rifle. Leopold was the obvious target. It all smacked of some amateurish plot.
Again, his hand fell to his sword hilt. They were approaching another intersection. He knew Bekker’s men would look to the right and left. An opportunity would present itself.
Much later, Balthazar would recall the sequence of events that followed with wry amusement, although they weren’t very funny at the time. If he hadn’t been thinking of Gabriel at that precise instant…. Ah well, but he was.
They reached the juncture. As expected, Bekker’s men checked the crossing gallery. The left side was empty, but on the right, two of the Rijkswacht in their braided uniforms approached. They looked harried and were talking quietly to each other. Then the one in front saw Bekker.
“You cannot be inside here!” he barked in Flemish. “We will escort you out.”
The gendarmes drew closer, boots ringing on the stone floor.
Bekker sighed and halted. “It’s not necessary—”
The second gendarme, who walked behind the first, looked up. He had a thick blonde beard and hooked nose…. But the pitiless gaze. Balthazar would recognize it anywhere. And Bekker, with his preternatural luck, chose that precise moment to glance back at Balthazar, who was unable to control his reaction. It was nothing dramatic, just a slight widening of the eyes. But it was enough.
Bekker jerked around. He grabbed the nearest necromancer and shoved him into Gabriel’s path. The man screamed as Gabriel’s blade sliced down his arm, then dropped in violent convulsions. Before he’d stopped twitching, Bekker had a set of chains in his hands. Black lightning shot down the gallery. It met the sanctus arma in a shower of sparks.
Balthazar stepped back, blinking away the afterimage. He wasn’t going anywhere near that fey power. He could no longer wield it himself. Only those who used the chains continuously for many, many years could call it down. Nasty stuff, black lightning. It carried a price, as did all things of power. Each time it was used, someone of the necromancer’s blood would die. It might be a child, or a parent, or a cousin seventeen times removed. This was why it was forbidden to the Order. Naturally, Jorin Bekker couldn’t care less.
The floor cracked and a revenant began crawling out, strings of colorless hair hanging across its ghoulish features. Bekker kicked the thing away and it fell to Gabriel’s sword.
Along the vast, dim gallery, portraits of Dutch and Flemish nobles stared down at them with disapproval.
Julian Durand — for he was the other gendarme, Balthazar saw — engaged with the three remaining necromancers. Balthazar was about to give him a hand when he heard a sound from the left gallery. He turne
d just in time to see Jacob Bell hurtling toward him, chains spinning.
The last loyal lieutenants.
Balthazar drew his saber. He didn’t wish to fight, but Bell didn’t appear open to explanations at the moment. Balthazar spun at the last second and the chains flew past his shoulder. Bell circled away. He was a large man, as tall as Balthazar and with a long reach. Getting inside his guard wouldn’t be easy.
Behind him, Balthazar heard the hiss and crackle of power, a scream he hoped was from one of Bekker’s men. Julian seemed to be making short work of them, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Bell.
Balthazar made a little come hither gesture, which earned a disdainful look. He knew a few things about Bell from Lucas, who kept dossiers on anyone who was anyone. Bell had brains and cunning. He was a fox.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Julian Durand pursuing a necromancer down the gallery.
Balthazar brought his sword around in a low sweep, aiming for Jacob’s legs. Bell deftly pivoted away and used the momentum to bring the chains whipping across Balthazar’s back. That hurt like hell. But it was worth it when Balthazar grabbed the end of the chain, hooked a foot around his ankle, and yanked Jacob straight into his blade.
Lucas invented that move after the Picatrix when the two of them were sparring one day. He would be pleased that it worked so well in practice.
Balthazar eased him down and withdrew the saber. Bell stared at the ceiling, his mouth opening and closing in dry croaks.
“First time through the heart? I know. I’ve been there more than once. But you’ll be right as rain in a few minutes.” Balthazar smiled coldly. “Don’t say I never did you any favors, Mr. Bell.”
He looked up to find Bekker and Gabriel still deadlocked. But Bekker seemed shaken, pale and sweating. He backed away, Gabriel advancing with his sanctus arma. The blade shone in his hands, absorbing Bekker’s fey power like a sponge, and Balthazar wondered if he ought to just run for it, because once Gabriel killed Bekker, he’d notice his brother in the Order lying skewered on the floor and Balthazar didn’t particularly want to be there when that happened.