by Baird Wells
It'd happened so fast, had been so ferocious, that she was momentarily stunned. “My God, Tyler.”
Bending to grab their target beneath his arms, he turned back and grinned. “Impressed?”
“I damn well am.” For once, she didn't mind admitting it.
“Good. Please continue, but back up while you're at it.”
Ty dragged the soldier in through the first open door, depositing his limp frame in the shadows with no more than a cursory glance. “Nothing but a bunk and footlocker, but the bunk is made up with new blankets.” He nodded to the next door. “We’re in the right place.”
She mimicked his position, flanking the door, pressing her back flat against damp stones. Pistol at the ready, Ty grasped the knob and turned. Nothing.
“Locked,” he whispered. “Why?”
“Philipe?”
Ty shook his head, already working free his lock picks. “Too pedestrian. LaPorte could have slipped free in minutes.”
Her disappointment was tempered by thrumming curiosity at the information. Ty was mercifully fast for his part; the pick went in and the old latch turned with barely a protest.
She caught the flicker of a candle over his shoulder, set atop a rough stool across the room. Someone had been in the room recently, and by not extinguishing the light, Olivia guessed he didn’t mean to be gone long. The idea gave her pause. There were no hatches or windows in the barracks chambers. If she and Ty were caught inside, their only retreat would be a fighting one. She recalled LaForce, how her cell had often protected more than imprisoned her, and stepped in behind with renewed confidence.
There was nothing special about the room, and it was the same size and design as the one across the hall. It was boxy, with stone walls and a low timber ceiling. A splintered wooden bed frame huddled in the shadows of one corner, piled with quilts, as though frightened of intruders after decades left alone and forgotten. At its foot sat a boxy chest, too awkward and weighed down by its iron bands to be moved anywhere else. The small table beside the bed, the one holding the candle, was weathered and obviously original to the room. There were other, finer things, however, that Olivia recognized as far more recent additions. Against a wall opposite the bed was a writing desk, portable but no less fine in construction than a stationary piece of furniture. An ermine-trimmed black velvet cloak hung from a peg on the wall. Beside the bed lay a small Persian carpet that protected feet from the chill of a packed earth floor. While she wondered at the useless improvements, Ty picked up the candle stick and began to poke about.
He leaned over the side table, rifling its contents, and Olivia moved in for a better look. Here was nothing particularly exciting: paper scraps, matches, pearl earrings, and a black velvet cuff pinned with a matching ornament. She recognized them as part of the jewelry Thalia had worn the night before. There was no possible way the woman had carted all her creature comforts out to the chateau in the intervening hours since Philipe had been taken. Olivia’s stomach churned at the realization that the baroness had been making preparations in advance, maybe for weeks. Ty claimed a piece of paper from the bedstead and glanced it over. “Just a list.” He tucked it back with the other belongings.
“Check the desk,” she instructed with a glance around, “and I’ll check the bed.” They had to pick up the pace before Thalia came back or the guard across the hall came to. With a nod, Ty crossed the room while she went to work on the foot locker. Rusted iron weathered by time cried out at her intrusion as she lifted the lid. Nothing was inside but cobwebs, straw, and some moldy wool that might have once been socks. She dropped the lid, not bothering to dig further.
Beside the trunk Olivia spotted a box, half under the bed and nearly lost in the room’s deep shadows. It’s red lacquer paint was chipped at the edges, black leather handle worn thin from use. She waved a hand to Ty. “Come here, and bring the candle close.”
He crouched beside her, resting the candlestick atop the trunk and filling her little alcove with warm light. She grasped the box and pulled it out. It was smaller than she had expected, square and deep like a lady’s traveling case. The lid closed as a baffle, fixed with a sturdy lock set into the wood. She swept a hand at it. “If you would, major.”
Ty replied with a grim smile, stuck his pinkie finger inside the lock and pulled. Four miniature screws gave way and the mechanism tore free of the wood. Contempt colored his words as he hefted the lock; a professional insulted by a shabby challenge. “This might keep out servants and children,” he tossed the lock behind the bed, “but that’s about it.”
“Sounds as though I don’t even need you,” she quipped, parting the lid and ignoring Ty’s scoffing. Light spilled inside the case, and Olivia knew instinctively that they’d found the evidence they’d sought for so long. Thalia’s handwriting was not as a familiar, but she would recognize Fouche’s anywhere. She took just a moment to unfold the first one, Ty leaning around for a look over her shoulder.
He pointed the third line, at a familiar name. “Fouche’s directions regarding LaPorte.”
Nodding her agreement, she refolded the page and bundled the stack together. “There’s a pouch at my waistband. If we have to separate, if something goes wrong, make certain it goes with you.”
To her surprise, Ty didn’t protest or tease while she stuffed the letters into her dress. He tensed, staring at the floor, then got up and replaced the candle, leaving her to wonder at his silence.
He leaned into the hall, waiting, glancing left and right and waiting again. Then he stepped out and waved for her to follow.
“Intrus! Depechez, intrus!” We have intruders!
The words seemed to come from nowhere, and, as if by black magic, two men had appeared before them. Ty turned and shoved her by the shoulder, stumbling her back down the passage the way they’d come in. “Out, out! Ladder to the right of the door.”
Thank God he'd noticed it on the way in. They would never survive if they were forced to flee across the courtyard. They would be easy targets, presenting backs to their foes’ muskets. Up, for now, was their best option.
Strange they'd heard nothing during most of their search. There was no time to explore the sinking suspicion that their infiltration had been anticipated, and even detected. By the number of boots trampling the floor behind them, she would have guessed an entire garrison had been installed there. Not that she was turning to look, out the door grasping for a rung, gaining the top of the ladder on Ty's heels. They covered the wall-walk side by side at a breakneck pace until they reached the next tower.
They ran through the arch and onto a wooden trestle. There, they were forced to halt. Ahead of them was a rickety wooden bridge that looked barely capable of supporting itself, let alone two desperate people.
From the darkness of the arched tower doorway ahead of them, three bayonets appeared. The soldiers gripping them were indistinct in the low light and revealed more by their threats. She tensed, and Ty moved half behind her, shielding her. More shouts and footfalls echoed from behind them; at least three more were coming. She looked wildly to Ty, forcing down a rising sense of panic.
Panting, Ty glanced around and jerked at her sleeve. “Brace yourself, Dimples. We're about to hit a rough patch.”
Rotating her feet gingerly until they were back to back, she cocked her head over one shoulder. “Your English knack for understatement never fails to astound me.”
Pulling one pistol from her belt, she felt Ty's hand brush her hip and knew he was following suit. She didn't bother to raise it. No sense tiring her already exhausted arm until her targets were a bit more fixed.
A captain, guessing by the ridiculous height of the shako perched atop his egg-shaped head, emerged ahead of them, still keeping his distance. He pointed and motioned to the soldiers keeping equal distance on the path behind them.
Get out here, cowards. Step out and shoot them!
She couldn't see Ty's side of things, but she heard someone snort.
You shoot firs
t, you ass! They both have pistols!
Two pistols against ten times as many muskets, and the soldier was still afraid. Olivia wondered where Fouche had harvested such a cowardly bunch.
Now her officer waved his fist. There are only two of them, imbecile! We'll all shoot them, if you're so worried about a little lead!
Ty's gripped her arm, pushing. “Olivia, time to go...”
She plucked a vial from her belt, third one from the left and clenched it between her teeth. Then she raised and fired point blank into her band of three, her pistol's report nearly indistinguishable from Ty's as he fired into the opposite group.
Rotate half a turn. Turn face to face. She counted through the movements, timing every motion, an ear on Ty insuring they were in sync.
Facing opposite sides of the bridge, they jumped backward in unison, their feet going over the edge at the same moment on either side of the path. For a breath she was weightless, flying, and then her fingers caught the trestle's edge. She released the vial, listening for a tell-tale crack of glass against the stones below. Splinters bit into her fingertips, wooden planks tearing what remained of her nails. The burn lasted only a moment; she let go and was falling again, boots striking the cobblestones below. They came together again, huddling close below the bridge in a cloud of smoke billowing from her diversion. Soldiers above fired down fruitlessly, deafening her but unable or unwilling to bend far enough over the edges to get a good shot.
Ty’s elbow dug her side. “Now! Run!”
Out through the old gate, into the dry moat. She stumbled at the top of the sloped foundation, nearly catching a face full of stone. Ty's quick grasp caught her dress, and together they slid into the trench with two men already stumbling behind.
Beside her, Ty turned and fired. Only a click. He threw that pistol away with one hand, catching the spare she tossed him with his other. That shot rang true. A cry at their backs became a wet gurgle, then a thump against the ground. She heard the other soldier plant on the ground, smartly unwilling to go on without reinforcements.
They were in the deepest part of the moat now, at the foot of the gatehouse and just rounding its corner. She prayed for cover after the turn, a place to shelter and retrench. Ty skidded to a stop ahead, throwing up both hands. Not an encouraging sign. Seconds later, faced with the locks of ten muskets clicking into place, she understood why. She froze, panting, hands mirroring Ty's.
Stomping up behind, the captain grabbed her hair, jerking her down as he passed. “Descendre sur vox genoux!” he panted. Get on your knees.
She looked to Ty, who nodded. “For now.”
It wasn't over. They could still fight. Escape. The men around them had no idea what they were in for. She trusted Ty; she’d be ready for whatever came next.
“How did I know?” A too-familiar voice sent a chill through the sweat cooling at her spine. “You, Olivie de LaValette. I know all about you now. But you, major...” Thalia, clad in black velvet from her tiny tricorn to the toe of her slipper, circled them and came to a stop before Ty. She leaned in, graceful and poised, and hooked a finger under his chin, coaxing his eyes to hers. “I so desperately wanted to be wrong about you.”
Unbelievably, he grinned. “But you weren't wrong. Quite accurate, all those things you said about me while we were under the sheets.”
A slap, that's what Olivia expected. Instead, Thalia's hand caressed Ty's jaw. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his before he could wrench away.
The moment she could get close, Olivia would wrap her hands around Thalia's throat and squeeze until it was pulp.
While Ty spit her out, Thalia straightened and shook his spare pistol at them both, the one she’d just claimed from the small of his back. She clucked her tongue.
Olivia felt her first real pause at Thalia's expression: Not anger, or outrage. Nothing much at all, save a firm set to her full lower lip. What was happening was a business arrangement, an appointment. Nothing more. She knew the game.
Thalia straightened further, waving a hand at someone behind them. “Bring him.”
A commotion arose at their backs. Multiple pairs of boot steps and something like a dragging sound. A soldier came into view, passed her by, and she saw he was in fact dragging something.
No, it was someone. Philipe.
Barely sensible, face bloody and swollen beyond recognition, he fought his captor even while he leaned on the man for support. Thalia moved to him. When she reached out to stroke his face, Philipe flinched, like a beaten dog, and Olivia's heart broke.
Thalia looked to them sadly, as if they'd disappointed her. “You came for him, I presume. I knew you would. But now that I have you, he's really of no use to anybody.”
It happened before she could understand, before she could comprehend that it was occurring.
Thalia's hand flew to Philipe's chest. The hand holding the pistol she'd taken from Ty. Not even the deafening report or the cloud of smoke acquainted her with the truth. Not even Ty screaming beside her.
She was cold inside and out. Time slowed to a crawl.
Philipe crumpled to his knees and hung there, and his eyes moved to hers. A long moment passed, and then his light went out. He fell forward, hands outstretched, and was still.
He was dead.
In that moment, so was she.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Breathing deeply through her nose, Olivia fought of a wave of nausea brought on by the latest fingernail from which she’d been parted. A surprisingly timid soldier stood before her, pale and looking slightly sick. He was the last man standing, after she’d driven the others off over the last hour. He was young, and obviously ‘torture’ hadn’t been mentioned among his duties when he’d enlisted. He’d gone to it without much enthusiasm, and when she’d shown very little reaction to having her nails pulled he’d almost balked. Then a far less reluctant captain had entered and forced him to continue under threat of death. She wasn’t surprised; Napoleon brooked no dissent from among his army, on the battlefield or in the dungeon. If they believed anything they could manage would hurt her after losing Philipe, she welcomed them all to try.
After Philipe had been shot, she’d been in shock, numb to everything around her until they’d roughly shoved her into a hard wooden chair. That had been a warning that she needed to gather her wits, to stay alive now at all costs. The intelligence concealed inside her dress had doubled in value, with Philipe to avenge. Any hope for escape meant observation, paying attention enough to notice the room around her. It was truly medieval, one of the chateau’s older sections. Crumbling stone and rough timber beams, iron- grated windows high overhead. Dark, dusty, and oppressive; fine venue for what was to come.
Philipe’s death and Ty’s voice ringing out from a nearby cell, telling her not to fight, not to resist, had almost worn through her reserves. She knew the unspoken meaning of Ty’s words: Live to fight another day. Olivia wasn’t certain she possessed the self-discipline for biting her tongue, sitting bound, and letting the guards take what they wanted. Coming to her senses, her fugue had been replaced by something far stronger, far more enduring.
Rage.
It was for Ty alone that she had endured, fought, and used every trick she had. She had lived through far worse at La Force. It hurt but pain was momentary, but it wasn’t enough to break her. It wasn’t enough to dull the seething cauldron that made her thirst to trade places with Thalia. To do more to her. To do worse.
They must have had her well over an hour, shut up in the stone chamber. The sky hadn't changed outside, not from the little sliver she glimpsed through bars dividing a narrow window high on the wall. Three fingernails in more than an hour? Amateurs. Novices. Guards of the old republic could teach them a few tricks. Obviously veterans would be needed by Napoleon in the field, and Thalia had been forced to cobble together whatever inept, inexperienced men she could find.
Instead, Olivia was teaching her captors a thing or two. They had tied only her arms to the hulking wo
oden chair. She could see their inexperienced reasoning. She certainly wasn't going to get up and run away under that sort of weight, but she could do a lot more with her legs than flee. They’d learned that the hard way.
It had taken some time and a great deal of threatening to get her a fresh pair of jailers. The exchange between the men and their captain had been audible even through her heavy door. When they entered, she had expected a certain amount of mollification, shifting eyes and nervous glances. Striding in, the men instead looked bent on getting revenge for their brothers. That would never do. She'd begun to cry, sob. Begged for a moment to remember her brother, a loyal subject of Napoleon, killed by the Allies. She waved hands, as much as her ropes would allow, beckoning the men in and asking them to pray with her. Using their piety to plant a foot in one guard’s groin when they complied had earned her a second slap to the mouth.
It was time for a new tack.
While one soldier dug through the battered leather tool bag in search of pliers, she ran a boot up the back of his leg. “I am a virgin, monsieur,” she breathed.
“No, you're not.” He didn’t look up.
She pitched her voice low, trying to find a balance between inviting and innocent. “Wouldn't you like to be certain?”
He turned, mouth agape.
Lifting her foot, Olivia stroked his calf and then hooked her leg over the arm of her chair. “If your friend goes outside, we can settle the matter.”
Unfortunately for him, she and his friend had already made a similar deal during his brief absence from the room. Only, she had warned the first soldier that his companion seemed exceedingly jealous and might try to interfere.