City of Swords

by Alex Archer

  And then it would be hers.

  Dr. Lawton had officially named her one of his paladins before he left for Spain, and said as such it was time to claim her weapon. He’d presented her with a few choices. At the time, she’d thought this would be the easiest to obtain. She didn’t tell him that, though. She’d said the history of it entranced her, and she thought her inner spirit most fit that of the man who’d once wielded it.

  “I agree,” Dr. Lawton had said. “This blade would suit you.”

  If she could find it.

  Thirty-five minutes left.

  “Damn, Archard.” As much as she railed against his company and his insistence that he run things, she wished he was here. He would have made her case the museum during the day, exploring the exhibits, reading up on the history, playing the tourist. It’s what he’d ordered in Rocamadour and Stirling, and both thefts went off without a hitch. But he was in Spain with Dr. Lawton, getting a sword the legal way, and she’d told them she could handle this mission. The voices in her head told her she should be in charge.

  After all, she’d done such a good job on the initial cleansing foray in Rouen, leaving no solid clues for the police with the slain Buddhists and Scientologists. She’d gotten herself and the twins in and out, and then she’d returned to Paris with a triumphant accounting of their bloody activities.

  Sarah hadn’t wanted to spend the time scouting the place out in person. The voices in her head always chided her for pretending to be a tourist. Besides, she’d looked it up on the internet. Unfortunately, the website didn’t reveal just how humongous this place was. She’d seen a picture of the sword and noted which room it was in. She’d borrowed the glass-cutting kit from Ulrich and had a piece of cloth in her pack to wrap the sword in. She’d dressed in tight-fitting black-and-gray clothes so she’d look like a shadow as she skulked through this place, and her shoes were ballet slippers…soundless.

  Thirty minutes and she’d looked through every nook and cranny of the room the sword was supposed to be in. She found the case where it had been. Empty.

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  There was a card in the case, and she’d pulled out a small flashlight to read it. God, it was dark in this museum. To conserve electricity, there were lights only in the halls, and they were dim. She started to read the card, and then she heard the sound of footfalls.

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.” The voices in her head chanted far worse profanity.

  The security guard. Noting the curtains in this room, heavy fabric, brocade or velvet, she hid behind one. Sarah was small and knew she wouldn’t disturb the folds enough to draw attention. A light came on and the footsteps grew louder. She heard the sound pant legs make when they rub together, and imagined the security guard being on the portly side to cause the material to rub like that. She listened as he made a circuit of the large room. The light flicked off, and she waited a few breaths before looking out. Gone.

  She glanced at her watch. Twenty-five minutes left.

  Sarah didn’t want to run from this empty-handed. If she didn’t get this sword, maybe Dr. Lawton would de-paladinize her. Maybe it would be months before she could regain his favor. She skittered to the empty case and flicked on her flashlight.

  Removed for restoration.

  No!

  She took a few deep breaths. Fought the icy feeling that had seeped into her arms and legs. If Archard had been here, if they’d visited this museum as tourists, she would have known the sword was gone. Dr. Lawton was going to be seriously pissed.

  She slunk from the room and started toward the back staircase, passing through an incredible space with a high, octagonal dome ceiling. The lighting was sparse and the decor dark, but Sarah swore she’d never been in a place so beautiful. Gold leaf and stucco ornamentation were everywhere. She’d like to kick herself for not following Archard’s lead and scoping the place out during operating hours. To see everything well lit would be amazing. But to leave without her prize…

  Wait a minute. The sword was being restored. Was it being restored here? When she’d been on the museum website, she’d read about their labs in the basement.

  The Kunsthistorisches was a fine-arts museum, with staff to do restoration on its paintings. That’s what the place was known for—the work of the masters that hung on the seemingly never-ending walls. Paintings had been displayed here for more than a hundred years, the building commissioned originally so the Hapsburgs’ art collection could be seen by the public.

  Sarah looked at her watch when she hit the lower landing. Fifteen minutes to go. If she left right this minute, she’d have a little time to spare to make it to the alley and the rental car. But the prize… The restoration lab was only one floor down, if she correctly recalled what she’d read on the website. Damn, if only she’d paid more attention, hadn’t been so cocky.

  She hurried down the rest of the steps and emerged into a corridor almost as dark as a cave. The only light came from right above her head and the far end, both sporting two words, one in German, the other in English: Ausfahrt/Exit. She pressed herself against the wall and listened. Not a single footfall. She’d noted the presence of only three guards since she’d come in here. Sarah had expected more…and maybe there were. It was a big, big place, after all. But maybe they’d grown a little lax with security. It had been a decade since Cellini’s Salt Cellar had been stolen, recovered a couple years later. At the time it had been the greatest theft of an art treasure in Austria.

  If Sarah found the sword, would her theft surpass it?

  How many minutes did she have left? She glanced toward her watch and then stopped herself.

  “Just do it,” she growled.

  She inched down the hall, pausing at doors and shining her flashlight in through the windows. On the third stop she found a workroom filled with tables. She almost kept going, but then spotted a shield on one of them.

  “Bingo.” The door was locked, but there looked to be nothing modern or high-tech about it. She reached into her pack and pulled out a set of picks the German had given her. She knew how to use them. That had been one of the first skills she’d picked up after joining Dr. Lawton’s group. She made the sign of the cross over her chest, not that she was Catholic—Methodist born and raised—but the gesture gave her a small measure of confidence. “Dear God, please let Ulrich have knocked out any surveillance down here.” A moment later, the tumblers clicked and she was inside.

  Hurry, she admonished herself, flashing the light over each table. Spears and more shields, a chunk of breastplate…what were those doing in an art museum, anyway? And one sword.

  She drew in a deep breath, discovering that the air was overly cool down here. Maybe important in restoration work. “Be it,” she whispered. “Dear God, be it.”

  Sarah practically floated toward the table. The sword lay on a piece of feltlike material. A study lamp of some sort stretched over it. She flipped the switch.

  “Ah, this is mine.” She tried to swallow the words, which she’d spoken too loudly. Immediately, she glanced over her shoulder to the door, which she’d forgot to close behind her. Whew, no one there to hear her.

  First it had been Attila’s, and now it was hers. Her fingers touched the blade.

  Attila the Hun had thought he was destined to rule the world. His reputation had earned him the title the Scourge of God. His sword, the Sword of God.

  Sarah wrapped her right hand around the pommel and marveled at the decorative gold work. A disc at the handle’s base was worn but looked almost globelike, perhaps reflecting the warlord’s plan to conquer the world. The delicate designs were worn in places, especially along the guard that curved upward and inward like the sweeping horns of a bull. Was that what they were restoring? Some of the fine details? She would have to ask Crescendo.

  Sarah hoped whatever it was that needed restoring was basically finished. She didn’t want Crescendo to have this weapon any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Her sword.

&nbs
p; Hers to help in the cleansing. She couldn’t wait to show this to the twins and to gloat over it. Especially as Gaetan didn’t have his “named” sword yet.

  This one? Sarah’s very special sword. The Sword of God, it was called, and Tiew. Attila had named it Tiew after his ancestors’ war god.

  “Tiew,” she said, trying out the sound of it. “Sarah and Tiew.”

  Attila had ruled the Huns for almost two decades. His empire was vast, from the Urals to the Rhine, from the Baltic Sea to the Danube. He’d plundered the Balkans, invaded Italy, but couldn’t capture Rome.

  Could she help Dr. Lawton capture Rouen with this?

  It felt good in her hand.

  Her hand. She turned her arm so she could see her watch.

  Time was up.

  More than up.

  She dashed out of the room, holding Tiew close and knocking one of the shields off a table in her rush. It made a harsh clanging sound that echoed off the walls and followed her out into the hall. For a moment she couldn’t recall which way she’d come, with two exit lights offering her ways out. She picked the closest and ran.

  Out the door and up the stairs, feet pounding on the steps. Sarah didn’t try to be quiet; the possibility of a quiet exit had been dashed with the clanging shield. Lights were coming on upstairs, and she heard the crackle of something. Maybe an alarm or walkie-talkie; maybe some intercom buzzing a warning. Her heart pounded in her throat.

  Would Ulrich have left without her? It had been quite a few minutes more than an hour. But he wouldn’t have abandoned her, would he? She was one of Dr. Lawton’s chosen paladins. He couldn’t leave her!

  Up another flight of stairs and down a hall she’d been through before… The smug faces painted centuries ago stared down their noses at her, the landscapes a blur of watercolors and oils as her feet slammed across the marble.

  Someone shouted, “Stopp. Halt!”

  Obviously they were shouting at her. Two voices. And obviously she wasn’t going to stop. If she did, she’d be arrested, jailed until she was Archard’s age.

  Sarah ran faster, falling when she rounded a corner, dropping Tiew. She popped up right away, grabbed the sword again and raced for the back exit she’d come in. Her side was on fire, she was running so fast, and it felt as if her kneecap was busted. But she couldn’t be running like this if it was broken.

  Dear God, she prayed, don’t let the sword be broken, either. Had she ruined it when it hit the marble? She couldn’t have damaged her sword, her instrument to help Dr. Lawton cleanse his chosen city.

  “Faster!” she screamed, as if that word could somehow make her legs pump harder.

  Then she was behind the building and across a parking lot, flying into the Vienna night. It wasn’t especially chilly, but she was freezing, her teeth chattering. Her clothes were soaked with sweat, her skin dotted with it.

  Sarah sprang into a small park and hid behind a tree, taking in great swallows of air as she listened to the sirens. How many? Checking for a number gave her an excuse to stand there and catch her breath. One, two, definitely three. Lights came on outside the museum, and the flashing lights of police cars joined in. The station must not have been far.

  She ran again, having gotten her bearings. The alley where the rental car had been parked was less than a block away. Sarah cut toward it, darting from tree to tree and then dashing across an intersection, away from the museum. Lights played across the palatial structure, revealing people milling on the steps. She clung to the buildings on this side of the street, slipping under awnings and pausing in crevices to watch the scene. The sirens had stopped, but there were even more lights, a police van. There were gawkers out on the street, too. Where had they come from? Apartments? Bars? Didn’t matter; she had to get out of here before they looked down this block.

  In the alley, she felt a little better. It wasn’t as dark as when they’d parked here. The lights from the museum stretched to the ends of the alley. Sarah tried to calm down…but failed. She tried to at least breathe slower, and managed that. She stumbled toward the spot where Ulrich had left the car.

  It was gone.

  Sarah held the sword even tighter against her and wedged herself into a narrow space between buildings. Could a paladin cry?

  What was she going to do? Her purse, passport, airline ticket, change of clothes…all that was in the car with Ulrich and Crescendo. What the hell was she going to do?

  The tears came hard and her shoulders shook. She heard voices, but they were from a good distance away, people calling to one another. Not the voices in her head; they’d gone silent. Listening to the distant voices gave her something to do, something to occupy herself so she wouldn’t think about prison. It was police or security guards talking.

  “Dieb.” Thief.

  She admitted she was that…but for a righteous cause.

  “Schatz.” Treasure. Did they even know what was taken yet? She doubted that. They probably wouldn’t figure out just what was gone until the museum staff came in to take a look.

  “Frau.” Woman. Someone had gotten a look at her.

  “Judendiche.” Youth. Teenager. They hadn’t gotten a good look.

  Sarah needed to pee. She clamped her legs together and looked up, hoping for some divine intervention to this crisis.

  “Get in.”

  She yipped in surprise. Ulrich had brought the car back with its lights off, pulling in so quietly that she hadn’t heard it coming. Get in. Get in. Get in.

  Dr. Lawton said Joan of Arc had heard voices. Maybe Sarah could be like Joan. Dr. Lawton was like Charlemagne, Archard like Roland. She could be—

  “Get in now,” Ulrich snapped.

  Sarah slid into the backseat next to Crescendo.

  “I found my sword,” she told them. “Ulrich, Crescendo, meet Tiew. It never left Attila’s side, and now it won’t leave mine.”

  “Oh, yes, it will,” Ulrich said as he exited the alley and pointed the car away from the museum and the assembly of police cars. “Tiew will be carefully packed away in the belly of our chartered plane before midnight.” He said something else, but Sarah wasn’t listening. She was thinking about what outfit she would wear when Dr. Lawton presented her and Tiew to the other paladins. Maybe she’d go out and buy something new. Her take from the cash box of the Buddhist bookstore was burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe the voices in her head would help her pick something appropriate.

  “My sword,” she said, patting the pommel.

  Crescendo leaned close and rested his chin on her shoulder. “And now we’re going to get mine, sweet Sarah.”

  Her eyes grew large.

  “We’ve got another stop in Vienna,” he explained. “One of Charlemagne’s swords is on display at the Imperial Treasury. It’s not far, and with the police distracted at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, it should be easy.”

  Ulrich looked into the rearview mirror, turned on the car’s lights and sped up. “And, Sarah, this time if you’re not out in an hour, we really will leave you behind.”

  Chapter 24

  The pain medication made her head fuzzy, and when it started to wear off and the nurse came in to offer her more, Annja declined.

  “The police officer outside would like to talk to you,” the woman said. She was polite and smiled sweetly, a practiced expression that Annja thought was only half-genuine.

  “I’m so tired, I think I’ll sleep for a while. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”

  “Her.”

  “Tell her, then.”

  The nurse shut the door on her way out and Annja kept surfing.

  Angurvadal was the first one she came to, a sword whose name meant “Stream of Anguish,” Frithiof’s weapon. But Frithiof the Bold was a mythical Norse character, and so Annja skipped on to the next.

  Ar’ondight, the sword of Lancelot. Another skip.

  Balisarda, sword of Rogero and supposedly crafted by a sorcerer…another piece of fiction.

  Colada. Annja stopped at that one.
It was another of El Cid’s swords. She bookmarked it. A real sword, it might be a legitimate target of Dr. Lawton’s. She’d get back to it, figure out where Colada was and if it could be obtained, legally or otherwise.

  Corrougue, sword of Otuel, another possibility that she bookmarked. Otuel had been a Saracen ambassador to Charlemagne, and history claimed he was rude and imperious. He’d challenged Roland to a duel, fighting first on horseback. Both horses died in the fight, and the two men continued their brawl. At Charlemagne’s urging, all the spectators prayed for Roland to survive and for Otuel to convert to Christianity. Scholars record the incident as a miracle: a snow-white bird had appeared and perched on Otuel’s shoulder. The Saracen ended the fight that very moment, called Roland his brother and became a Christian.

  Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, Edward the Confessor’s blunted sword. She saved this one, too. She remembered actually seeing this sword somewhere, probably a few years ago in a museum. Could it also be a target?

  Annja heard the door handle turn, and she closed the laptop and feigned slumber. “Sorry, regulations,” the nurse said, waking her out of her pretend sleep to take her blood pressure. “It’s a little high. You should rest. Relax.”

  After she left, Annja resumed her search.

  Flamberge, or Floberge, another of Charlemagne’s swords, was pictured in its display case in a museum in Vienna. It was reported stolen less than a day ago. The sword had also been used by Rinaldo, one of Charlemagne’s twelve peers.

  “Damn him. Just how many swords does the man need?”