Swordsman's Legacy

by Alex Archer

  “What kind of archaeologist are you to not know the value of such a thing?”

  “Part-time, Annja. Archaeology is not my principal interest.”

  He had that right. Theft and destruction of property topped this treasure hunter’s list. “You bloody treasure hunter!”

  “I wear the epitaph with pride.” He gave a cocky rub of his knuckles against his chest. “Without treasure hunters millions would still be sitting on the seafloor. But look closely, my frantic American friend. It is a copy. I promise you I am not so ignorant to have damaged the original in such a manner.”

  “Copy?” Annja breathed as she really looked at the paper. It was bright white. Not aged and yellowing. A gray streak ran along one edge where the toner had dusted the copy. “Mother Mary, you scared me, Ascher.”

  “Just a bit of humor. I had no idea you’d believe it even for a moment. Now, do you want to help, or will you hinder?”

  “Help?” Annja crossed her arms. How could the man be so cavalier after such a stupid joke? “I don’t trust you, Frenchman.”

  “Ah, so we are the snippy American this afternoon?” he said.

  “Don’t even go there or you’ll force me to—”

  “To what? Lay me out like you did those thugs in the forest. Very impressive. I’m still wondering about that one. Come, Annja, let me see your fire.”

  That was exactly what he was trying to do, wasn’t it? See the snippy American blow a cog and lose it. Well, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

  Zen, Annja, calm yourself. Move beyond frustration, she told herself.

  “Look, I am sorry, Annja. After I—”

  “Stole it?”

  “It’s not theft when one keeps it in the same place it was discovered, is it?”

  She huffed. So her conjecture had been right. He’d had the map the whole time. “Who helped you? I followed a man into the yard. Dueled with him.”

  “You are very skilled with a sword. Which one did you grab from my collection? I didn’t have time to look.”

  “That was you I dueled with in the dark?” At the time she had thought her opponent was missing some very easy strikes. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. What a guy.

  “Plans have changed, Annja. I was desperate and had to keep the map myself to ensure its safety.”

  “Where is it now?” she asked.

  “In a security safe. No one can lay hands to it but me. Anyway, after you left with the rapier, I created a humidity tank and it unrolled nicely. It wasn’t too fragile, as expected, but the idea to copy came to mind. Lamination seemed the best way to preserve the paper copy, especially for the task we are about to undertake.”

  “What plans have changed? The one where you dupe me out of the rapier and the map? I don’t understand why you invited me here if—” She caught his lifted brow. A rogue’s smirk of interest. “Oh, don’t tell me you just invited me here to—That stupid wager with the Nash brothers?”

  “To get to know you better, Annja. But also to share the discovery of d’Artagnan’s rapier. It is as much yours as mine. Don’t you feel our connection?”

  “Please.” She’d been lured here so the man could flirt with her? He did enough of that online. So why hadn’t she at least suspected that after his initial phone call?

  Because, Annja, you are easier to charm than you are to take out with bullet or blade.

  It was painful to admit, but true. She was not a shrinking violet, but neither would she ever claim to know a man’s mind. Or her own, for that matter.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go after the treasure?” she asked. “Maybe I would have invited you along. Did you ever consider that? Why the sneakiness?”

  “You invite me along? Ha! La Directrice! You see? You have already taken over this operation. I knew that would happen. Whenever a woman gets her hands into the mixture—”

  “You—” Ah, hell, he was right to make the accusation, she realized. She did have a tendency to step up and want to lead. And why not?

  “You’ve suspected since we met online that tracking the map was my ultimate goal,” Ascher said.

  “Yes, but for your own gain, or someone else? BHDC doesn’t care about the rapier any more than you do, right? That’s why you had to steal the map. Are you going to hand it over to them, or keep it for yourself?”

  The man slapped his arms across his chest. An evasive glance made Annja uncomfortable.

  “You are very much like me, you know that, Annja Creed?” he said.

  “I’m not a sneak, or a thief,” she retorted.

  “Touché. But you do like a good adventure. And a challenge.” He walked around to stop her from completely turning away from him. A flock of foraging pigeons scattered behind him. “I know if I ask you to trust me you will balk. It is your right. There is nothing I can do to restore your confidence in me, so allow me to earn it.”

  “By telling me everything?” she asked.

  “By showing you I can be honorable. I admit stealing the map was sneaky. I had intended to hand the rapier over to BHDC and wipe my hands of them, but someone decided to take it with her when she left me this morning.”

  “You could have said, ‘Hey, Annja, I need that. My kidney is at stake.’ Hell, what am I saying? Will they come after your last kidney if you don’t hand over the rapier?”

  “Monsieur Lambert had followed my posts online—in which, as you know, I was very careful not to mention the map—and discussed only the sword.”

  “A sword that contains a treasure map. Imbecile.”

  “Your harsh words have no effect on this adventurer’s heart.”

  Talk about a Gascon set on serving one goal and ignoring the needs of others to the detriment of personal honor. He was going for the gusto, nothing less than valor. This man was exactly like d’Artagnan, she thought.

  It was impossible to believe BHDC would merely seek a sword, when the treasure map was the more valuable. The corporation must know about the rumored map. On the other hand, if BHDC sought historical DNA, then perhaps the rapier could be deemed a prize.

  Ascher gazed across the river to the opposite bank where seagulls dived for scraps left behind by tourists.

  “They do know about the map,” Annja decided. “And that still makes us a target.”

  “I will protect you, Annja. No one will hurt you if I am able to stand before you.”

  “If you are able, Mr. Missing Kidney Guy. I think I’ll take my chances on my own. Professional fencing is a world apart from down-and-dirty sword fighting.”

  “You don’t think I have what it takes to protect you?”

  She could sense his guard go up. The indomitable male pride that most wore silently, until they were challenged, or forced to defend it. She’d grant him that. Admittedly, he wore it well, bold eyes and muscles flexing as they itched to display their strength. She frowned.

  “So, let’s take a look, oui?”

  Annja tugged the map from the man.

  Tilting her head to the left and then the right stretched out the tension riding her neck. All right, anger dropped. Back to business.

  Ascher pointed to the torn edges at the lower left corner of the map that appeared as a fine gray line on the copy. “Someone ripped off the most important part. The key or scale. There is no way to navigate without it because I cannot determine which is north, south or west.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “No, Annja, that piece was missing when I unrolled it.”

  “You sure it hadn’t disintegrated decades earlier?” she asked.

  “If I had the rapier, I could inspect the interior of the hilt for paper fragments, but…”

  “I wish I had the original map to verify what you say is true.” She examined the map closely. The edges of the missing corner were serrated and thin, showing more discoloration in shades of gray toner, similar to the three intact edges of the map. It was also more intentional than a tear, perhaps cut at a jagged edge. But why?

  As
cher turned the map upon her palms, showing that no part of it was marked by a directional compass. It was impossible to tell which side was up and which was down.

  “If we can determine the directions,” he said, “then we can decide where the starting point must be.”

  “There is no mark to beginning,” Annja said.

  “No, but I think this here might be the X that marks the spot. Look closely,” he said.

  At the center of a tangle of lines was a small device, about half the size of Annja’s smallest fingernail, but unmistakable in design.

  “A fleur-de-lis?” she said.

  “Exactly. The symbol of Paris and the royal insignia. That is where we will discover the treasure,” he declared.

  Annja turned the map to the right, but it didn’t make any more sense. “And what, exactly, is this a map of? The streets of Paris? The turns and lengths are too short and curve too much. I know Paris’s streets can be short but—”

  “I believe this thick line is the Seine, but cannot be positive. It was faintly red on the original. That would make this portion the right bank if you follow the curve of the river. I’m guessing this map is the labyrinthine aqueducts beneath the city,” Ascher said.

  The aqueducts. Or perhaps the catacombs. A series of tunnels would match the curving lines much more than an aboveground street did.

  “There are tunnels beneath the Louvre—it was the royal palace at the time this map was produced,” Ascher said. “I’d guess if a queen were going to hide a treasure, she wouldn’t venture too far from her comfort zone.”

  “Unless she sent a lackey to do the job,” Annja said.

  “Trust a lackey with a treasure?”

  “I cannot picture Anne of Austria traipsing about some dank, dark tunnel. Why ever hide the treasure? Why not simply present it to d’Artagnan?” she asked.

  “Perhaps it is because the treasure was baubles from lovers she wished to dispose of privately. No royal ceremony to hand over illicit love gifts.”

  They had conjectured during their online chats that the queen had indulged a few lovers in her lifetime. Ascher had suspected d’Artagnan had gifted her the jewels, which made little sense if the man had never had money to hand. Although, the queen could have known of his financial situation and sought to return the man’s gifts, purchased in a foolish moment of devotion.

  Annja couldn’t help but wonder if Cardinal Mazarin—or even Richelieu, his predecessor—had held Anne’s heart. They were the most common assumptions by historians, as well.

  “Okay,” Annja said. “We’re hunting for gifts from indiscreet lovers. So where do you think the royal palace should be on this map if this wide line is the river? Doesn’t it appear as though the fleur-de-lis sits right on that line?”

  “Perhaps, but I pray the queen did not expect d’Artagnan to dive for the treasure. Certainly the key to the map was placed in the southwest corner as is common with most maps?”

  “Not always. It could be the northeast corner. See?” She handed him the laminated copy.

  Looking over the tangle of twisting lines, none marked, but merely creeping like snails’ trails across the paper, Annja tried to orient it to a specific direction. The thick line that dissected it did so very evenly. The river should curve rather sharply at the west end. And even though the left bank was less dense and smaller in area than the right, it was impossible to determine which was which for the way the lines had been drawn. And there was no island marked on the thick line, which would indicate the Île-de-la-Cité.

  They would definitely need a key. The missing corner of the map.

  “This map didn’t appear to have been removed for centuries,” Annja said. “I wonder if d’Artagnan removed the key? But before or after he’d found the treasure?”

  “He did not find the treasure,” Ascher said with assurance. “We know that, Annja.”

  “Maybe. The documents of his holdings after his death detailed very little in personal or property, but…no, you’re right. He couldn’t have found it. D’Artagnan strikes me as the sort who would have reveled in a fortune and perhaps have given at least part to his family. So, what’s the plan?” She couldn’t help but be intrigued.

  “We could mark out the map aboveground,” Ascher suggested. “Walk along the river to see if this wider line coincides.”

  “Aren’t there like five hundred miles of tunnels beneath the city of Paris? This will be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack,” Annja said.

  “Indeed, what else have we but to try?”

  She did like his optimism.

  “Besides,” he added, “there were probably only a quarter so many tunnels two hundred years ago.”

  “Which will only make navigating three times more difficult. The lines won’t match the current system of tunnels,” Annja pointed out.

  “Just like an American to always see the negative.”

  “I think I resent that,” she said.

  “By the way, where is the rapier?” Ascher’s voice sounded right near her ear. She twisted and found herself face-to-face with him. His bold blue eyes swept across her face. “In the car?” he asked, looking around.

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  “You promised we would trade,” he said.

  “Not until I know you can be trusted.”

  “I’ve told you everything. What more do you want? Blood? I’ve already sacrificed a kidney! I must have that rapier.”

  “Not until we’ve found the treasure and you’ve given me reason to return it to you.”

  She tugged the map from his grip and crossed the bridge to the north side of the Seine. She would head toward the Louvre down the quai de Gesvres, figuring that if a queen were to hide a treasure, most likely she would place it close to where she resided.

  “ANNJA IS RETURNING for the sword,” Roux instructed Henshaw as he strode into the guest room she had slept in that morning.

  “I’ll tend the room, sir,” Henshaw said.

  “Right. I want to check she didn’t leave anything behind.”

  Their conversation about DNA and genetic testing had got Roux to thinking. Why hadn’t he considered such a thing before? It could answer the one question that occurred to him relentlessly since meeting Annja Creed and watching her take command of Joan’s sword.

  “There must be something in here,” he muttered.

  The bed sheets were rumpled and pushed back. Bright sunlight beamed upon the pillow. The impression of her head still dented it. Roux leaned over the bed to inspect. He was looking for something most particular—there!

  From beneath the pillow he tugged a long single strand of chestnut-colored hair. Holding it high before his face, he inspected both ends in the sunlight, and found the small root still attached to the end.

  “DNA evidence?” he murmured. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  12

  They left their cars outside Notre-Dame and decided the best course would be to walk up to the Louvre and then try to figure from there if the map matched any landmarks. Not that landmarks would help if the entire map were of the underground tunnels.

  It was nearing 6:00 p.m. and the streets were clear before the dinner rush that would see the rue de Rivoli tight with traffic and the riverside packed with the workforce eager to get home.

  The shops were still open, hawking musty books and frayed treasures from the past. Annja found herself straying toward one particular stall with huge green bins of books displayed.

  Ascher tugged her back on target.

  They passed three main intersections where the bridges connected to the island. The Louvre in sight, their pace had decidedly picked up. Ascher grabbed her again.

  “What’s the problem?” Without waiting for Ascher’s answer, Annja tracked their circumference with a twist of her waist and to each side.

  Three young men following them, apparent because they were the only ones beating a determined trail in their wake. Not dressed in thug suits, but inst
ead, running shoes and camouflage trousers and loose sweatshirts.

  “They look like street punks,” Annja commented. “The kind you see skateboarding in herds before the city hall.”

  “Do you see skateboards?” Ascher slipped a hand into hers. Their pace sped to a slow jog. “They’ve been following us since Notre-Dame,” he said.

  “BHDC?”

  “Who can know?”

  “Well, if you’re not sure, that means you’ve got more enemies than you’re letting on to, Frenchman.”

  “No time to argue.” He gave a tug to Annja’s hand, and then released it as he took off. “Run!”

  While she had never been one to question intuition, the idea of running away from mere—Annja flashed a look over her shoulder. The punks had begun to run.

  “Right, then. Run it is.”

  She took off after Ascher, noting he wasn’t in mind to run around the iron fence before him. Instead, he leaped onto the short stone wall the fence poles were anchored into. Climbing the iron hand over hand, his sneaker toes gouging into the iron poles, he pinnacled and levered himself over the top.

  “Show-off.” Annja went for the same move.

  She landed the other side with bent knees and arms out to balance. Instantly, she realized they’d entered the yard behind the Louvre. No doubt, security cameras had spied their illegal entrance. But she didn’t give it another thought as their pursuers charged to the fence and began the same climb.

  “Time to lose the apprehension,” she muttered, taking off at a dash. It was onward and straight forward from here.

  “You coming?” Ascher called as he sped across the grassy lawn outside the medieval structure that had been modified for centuries and was now the preeminent museum of the world.

  He darted for a low brick barrier, made the top and then leaped, disappearing in a flying, arms-out balletic move.

  “Right behind you,” she said.

  The man was a traceur, a practitioner of parkour. Annja was now getting a hands-on session with a master. She’d never done it herself, but it was all about running the landscape—including buildings—taking the shortest route, as fast and safely as possible. Physical agility and quick thinking were required. It was about escape or chase, whichever side you put yourself on.