AHMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Boy, you're wanted."

  Ah, that voice again. The very devil himself calls me from my slumbers. No doubt he has new torments to inflict upon my young life. I thought to pretend sleep longer, but that never seemed to work. Better to answer and get it over with.

  "Leave me alone. It's barely morning."

  "Morning? The sun's past midday. Get up."

  I soon felt the toe of Remy's leather boot prodding through a ragged hole in my shirt, nudging several of my bare ribs as he continued with his tirade.

  "King Jules requests your presence."

  King Jules, he says, as if this second devil in my life were the anointed ruler of France and all its holdings. Even the least of us knew this so-called king was nothing more than a base-born tyrant who had seen fit to crown himself with a lofty title. At most, he ruled our motley underworld of thieves, beggars, counterfeiters, and trollops, and did it through fear of his personal wrath. That, and his grim bodyguard of muggers and dark-faced assassins used to enforce his every dictate. All souls within his grasp paid tithes out of their hard earned coins that each managed, by one means or another, to separate from the unwary citizens of Paris. It seemed the compass of Jules's fiefdom stretched from the old Roman ruins atop the Buttes Chaumont down to the River Seine, on across the bridges and deep into the shadowed backstreets of Paris. Even so, Jules was no king of royal blood like our young Louis the XIV, our Roi Soleil, our true Sun King.

  To avoid another nudge in the ribs, I opened one eye and glared at Remy, but my tormentor was not one to be put off that easily.

  "What, I wonder,” he mused aloud, “could Jules possibly want with an orphan pickpocket? Especially one who is so..."

  "I pay my share at tithing time,” I quickly interrupted, “just like all the rest."

  "...so incompetent,” he finished. “One who barely graduated from Mother Margaux's School for Orphan Pickpockets. I suspect that Mother threw you out rather than suffer further embarrassment from your lack of talent."

  "I can pick a pocket as well as any other."

  The Chevalier rubbed his chin. “The fact that you believe so troubles me."

  He shook his head slowly, then stepped out through the open doorway of our hovel, a simple structure consisting of nothing more than three remnant walls of a small storeroom in one of the villa's outbuildings. A scrap of oiled canvas stretched overhead served to keep out rain and some of the wind. Just beyond the rubble doorway, the Chevalier paused long enough to give parting words.

  "Tarry at your own peril, boy. Jules does not brook delays of his grandiose schemes, and it seems you are to have some involvement in his latest one.” Then he turned and started off.

  "I'm not afraid of Jules,” I retorted as I threw a rock at the Chevalier's back, but that meddling popinjay was already beyond my range. He had no idea how lucky he was. Bah, enough of him.

  Now that I was fully awake, with no chance of returning to sleep, hunger pains gnawed at my belly. Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I scrounged through a leather pouch kept tied at my waist. Tucked somewhere in this bag, among all the other small objects of value to me, was a wrapped length of blood sausage recently liberated from a common laborer who had obviously intended it as part of yesterday's noon meal. Had the man been more vigilant of his possessions, no doubt it would still be his. Of course, in thinking back on the incident, the lingering scent on the man's lunch basket should have warned me that my victim spent his days toiling in the endless sewers of Paris. I had been better served to have found a victim with a less fragrant job and a more decent lunch.

  Preparing now to break my morning fast, I almost bit deeply into this meat delicacy when its slightly off aroma tickled my nostrils. I held the sausage closer to my nose and sniffed. That one quick whiff warned I had waited too long in this autumn heat. The meat was slowly turning. Still, I was hungry and my next meal could be a ways off. I sniffed again. No, not good at all. My appetite fled. Wrapping the blood sausage back in its scrap of cloth, I returned the package to my leather pouch. If nothing else, I'd find a way to slip the tainted sausage into the Chevalier's evening soup and let him be sick for a couple of days. It would serve him right for all the trouble he dealt me.

  Still scheming on ways to even the score against Remy, I made my way to the enclosed yard where Jules usually held his private court. And there his majesty lounged upon his throne, a high-backed wooden chair that had seen grander times. Its cushioned seat of once-rich fabric was now threadbare and faded. Stuffing poked awkwardly out of rents in the cloth. Yet, Jules sat with his left leg resting over one arm of this declining chair as if the whole world were his. A wine goblet dangled from the fingers of his right hand.

  "I am here as requested,” I blurted out with small attempt to restrain my sarcasm. My resulting bow was much exaggerated.

  Jules's eyes went narrow. He appeared to study me closely. I feared I'd gone too far this time, but then his face gradually creased in a smile, and I assumed I was safe after all. I grinned back.

  "It was good of you to come so quickly,” said Jules. “I have a very important job for you."

  An important job. Ah yes, if no one else, Jules had a true appreciation for my light-finger talents.

  "What would you have me do?"

  Jules motioned me closer and lowered his voice. “I have it on good notice that the Abbess of the Benedictine Convent currently has a purse of gold coins in her possession."

  "I see,” I replied, but I really had no idea as to what he had in mind, other than he desired to somehow separate the Abbess from her gold and I was to play a part in this separation.

  "The Abbess,” he continued, “has business matters to attend in the city. As such, she will walk along a certain street this afternoon. In doing so, she is always careful to let few men, other than the Monastery Door Keeper, get close to her person."

  Jules paused and appeared to have a weighty decision working on his mind. “What I need is a young boy, someone with a look of innocence, but one who has the proper skills to relieve her of her purse.” He spread his hands as if to embrace me. “Without her knowledge, of course."

  There came a long moment of silence between us. His eyes gazed into mine with a look of expectancy.

  Oh.

  Suddenly I realized this was my chance to prove myself to all in our little community. I moved quickly into the void. “I will not fail you."

  Jules smiled again, but I must admit such contortions of his facial muscles always seemed to give a wolfish cast to his countenance. I was tempted to remark to him on this aspect of his appearance, but he can sometimes be touchy about the slightest comment, and I had no wish to lose the prospect of earning a few gold coins.

  "I know you won't fail me,” he replied, “and as your payment for this job, you may keep one fourth of all you acquire from the Abbess."

  "One half is a better amount,” I bargained.

  Jules raised his right hand, palm forward, and curled his fingers. Immediately Sallambier, a hulk of a man, appeared out of a nearby nook and stepped to the right of Jules's throne. The hulk's mangled nose had the appearance of having once collided with the sharp edge of a paving brick. It was said that Sallambier had afterward lost his sense of smell. No matter to me, he was merely one more of King Jules's killers. I had no business with this man.

  "One third to you for your services,” concluded Jules as he watched for my reaction, “and no more."

  Standing silently at Jules's side, Sallambier removed a long knife from the leather belt at his waist, using its pitted blade to slice chunks off a large red apple held in his other hand, and then stuffing those chunks into his maw of a mouth. No emotions showed on his pockmarked face, but his eyes seemed to linger on the vicinity of my bare throat.

  Ha. The meaning of that look came quite clear to me. Even I knew that further bargaining on my part was obviously at an end.

  "Done,” I said, figuring I had already gotten more than I had hoped for when the day b
egan.

  "We are agreed then. Sallambier will take you to a place of advantage along the Abbess's route. All you need do is acquire her purse and bring it to me."

  "And then we'll divide the coins?"

  "Of course."

  I waited to see if there was more, but my audience with King Jules was evidently over. Although I did notice him occasionally wrinkling his nose and glancing about as if something faint were in the wind.

  Sallambier grabbed my elbow and led me onto the dirt path winding down from the Buttes Chamont and on past ancient stone quarries in the lower land. These open pits and underground tunnels from Roman times were now used as refuse pits by the citizens of Paris. A place for garbage and human outcasts. A hiding place for deserters from the army. I pulled my elbow free of Sallambier's grasp and fell into step behind him. Twice, he looked back over his shoulder to be sure I still followed.

  After a long walk, we crossed a stone bridge over the Seine and passed by the great chains which would be stretched across the road by the nightwatch when curfew fell. Moving deeper into the city, where we were mostly ignored by the throngs of farmers, wives, and tradesmen going about their daily business, we made our way to a house near the building where the Abbess had business to conduct. Here, we waited in a doorway shadowed from the sun by the building's overhanging second story. Citizens crowded the street, parting once for a drover moving a few sheep to market, and once for a line of chained convicts being prodded along by stern-faced bailiffs. We averted our faces from the convicts lest one call out in recognition and ruin our scheme. Their passing gave a flutter to my stomach.

  Hours dragged by. Gradually, I became bored and found myself nodding off in the autumn heat, when Sallambier suddenly reached over and flicked my ear with his thick index finger.

  I started to yelp in protest but caught the warning in his face. He pointed at the doors to the building across the street. My gaze went to the Abbess and her Door Keeper descending upon the paving stones and proceeding in our direction. We waited until they passed. Then quickly, we stepped out of our doorway and moved into position, me behind the stout Abbess, while my newly appointed warden, the hulk with the mangled nose, edged closer to the elderly Door Keeper.

  "Now,” whispered Sallambier in his grating voice which seemed seldom used.

  "In a minute,” I muttered back.

  I took a breath and prepared to steel myself.

  "Now,” he whispered again.

  "Not yet,” I murmured.

  All would have gone well in the next couple of minutes, except Sallambier shoved me forward before I was truly ready. My right hand was barely reaching for the purse at her waist when his abrupt push from behind caused my left forearm to crash into her plump right hip.

  She squawked in disgust and whirled in my direction.

  My right hand had already lightly encircled her purse, but her sudden turn toward me drew the purse strings taut against her belt, and she felt the tugging at her waist. She quickly seized my right hand with both of hers, holding on with all the fervor of a drowning woman. And then she filled her lungs and screamed.

  That high pitch split my eardrums.

  Farmers and housewives, all the passing citizens of Paris, stopped their activities to see what was causing such a commotion.

  I struggled to get free.

  The Door Keeper rushed in to help his employer, but someone in the crowd jostled the old man, knocking him to the street. That's when I saw Sallambier stepping forward to politely assist the Keeper up from the paving stones, brushing him off and apologizing for any mishap. Several times, the old man tried to break away from Sallambier's helpful grasp, but he only succeeded in barely brushing the left shoulder of his Abbess with his outstretched fingertips.

  At this new touch to her person, the Abbess paused in surprise, swiveled her head away from me, and drew in another deep breath.

  I didn't wait for the second shriek. Taking advantage of this distraction, I wrenched my hand loose from the Abbess's clutch. Somehow, in all the turmoil, she managed to maintain hold on her precious purse still tied to her belt. No matter that, I ran for my very life, all the way to the Buttes Chamont.

  At last, safely back at the ruined villa, I ducked into our hovel and collapsed on my bed, panting for breath. Sweat coursed down my heated face.

  What to do now? I had escaped one trouble and was left confronting another. What could I tell King Jules? I'd obviously failed him. No purse to split two ways, even if my share was only to be a third. Of course, had I gotten the purse as planned, I could have lightened its contents a little before giving it to Jules for the agreed upon dividing. No chance of that now.

  This whole mess of me being caught in the act was obviously all Sallambier's fault, but since his intervention with the Door Keeper allowed me to escape from the Abbess, I needed to be careful laying any blame on him. He might take it wrong, plus I obviously knew who Jules would then side with. No, no, I'd have to come up with a very good story for Jules, a believable one.

  Two hours later, I was still polishing the details of my excuse and wondering if maybe it might just be best to hide out in the quarries for several days, when someone quietly entered the hovel.

  "You were lucky to get away."

  I quickly recognized the Chevalier's voice behind me and tried not to flinch.

  "That's because Sallambier kept the Door Keeper from getting at me,” I muttered. “Otherwise, I'd been locked up in the prison for sure."

  "So, that gargoyle-faced assassin is now your hero?” inquired Remy in his know-it-all way.

  "I didn't say I liked him, only that he helped me out of a predicament. Unlike some who pretend to be my friend and then act otherwise when trouble comes."

  "Oh, he definitely helped you."

  I detected a faint hint of sarcasm.

  "How would you know?"

  Remy sat down at the far end of my bedding and faced me.

  "I was curious as to Jules's sudden interest in your pickpocket abilities, so I followed you and Jules's assassin into the city."

  "I didn't see you there."

  "Then you can say I did my job well. In any case, I watched Sallambier deliberately push you into the Abbess."

  "His timing was bad,” I freely admitted, but then I paused to consider Remy's statement. This was a good turn for me, now I had the Chevalier as a witness to verify my excuse to Jules.

  I continued with my narrative. “But then you also saw Sallambier help me by detaining the Door Keeper."

  "No, boy, the assassin did just as Jules no doubt instructed him to do."

  "How so? Jules gave no such instructions to the man in my presence."

  "I'm sure he didn't, but when Sallambier helped the Door Keeper up from the street and dusted off his clothing, he was actually busy making wax impressions of keys hanging from the Keeper's waist. You, my little friend, were supposed to be caught, a diversion to allow Sallambier to do as Jules intended. If necessary, you were expendable."

  "What?"

  "Exactly, so I contemplated what purpose Jules would have for keys to the Benedictine Monastery."

  My feelings were still wrapped up in the betrayal of being taken for a fool. However, the Chevalier's words did explain why the Abbess's purse had felt lighter than Jules had led me to believe. That meant Jules had lied. He didn't really believe in my stealing talents. Oh, he and that mangled-nose monstrosity of his were going to pay for their trickery just as soon as I found a means for revenge. But in the meantime, I couldn't help being curious about the keys.

  "And what did you decide about his purpose?” I inquired.

  Remy gave me that arrogant smile of his. If he only knew how much I hated that look of having superior knowledge.

  "The Door Keeper always carries at least two main keys on his person, one for the monastery itself, while the second key is rumored to fit the staircase door leading down from the interior of the Val-de-Grace Church."

  "Stairs descending beneath th
e church?” This was new. I crossed myself. “You mean, down into the eternal fires for heretics and sinners?” For good measure, I made the sign a second time.

  Remy laughed.

  "There are some who would call it a staircase leading to sin, but most, like me, consider it merely to be a source of very worldly pleasure."

  I was confused. “What's on the other end of this staircase?"

  "Do you not listen to gossip in the marketplace, boy? Perhaps you are too young and it is a matter of history now."

  The Chevalier could be exasperating at times like these.

  "Just tell me."

  "Very well. After our Sun King was born, his previously barren mother promised the Benedictine nuns that she would build them a church as thanks. But there was a problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "When the original architect, Francois Mansart, started the foundation for Val-de-Grace, he found a great emptiness beneath the ground."

  "An emptiness like the pits of Hell?” I tried again.

  "No, this emptiness was one of the network of tunnels from the old Roman stone quarries. What better place for the Benedictine monks to store their alcoholic beverage of brandy, sugar, and aromatic herbs? Thus, the monks built a staircase from the church down to the tunnel. That second key supposedly fits the door that goes down. It's my guess that Jules plans to steal the Benedictine liquor after Sallambier finds where it's hidden."

  I nodded my head in understanding, but had no idea yet how to use this information to my own advantage.

  Remy stood up to leave. To me, he seemed in a hurry.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To keep an eye on Sallambier while he makes his false keys from the wax molds. When he is almost finished, I will go before him and hide in the church to see if I am correct in my assumptions."

  I rose from my bed and headed for the door.