by Lila Dubois
A hall extended off the kitchen on one side, and opposite that, an entire wall of glass offered a panoramic view of the ocean. Huge sliding-glass doors had been pushed open, eliminating the division between outdoors and indoors, and the breeze that fluttered past was flavored by the sea.
“Come,” Greta said. “I’ll remind you that your loyalty is to the Masters’ Admiralty, above even your territories. If you’re asked to keep secret anything you learn here today, then you will do so.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command.
“Of course, ma’am,” Tristan said.
They stepped out onto a balcony that had been built off the side of the castle. It was made of dark wood that was just now starting to bleach in the sun. Sophia looked around, and realized that from the gate and main entrance to the building, the pitch of the roof would hide the balcony from view. Below them was manicured grass that gave way bit by bit to rocky terrain before ending in weather-worn cliffs. Pristine white boats bobbed gently, the docks clean and well cared for.
Behind her someone sucked in a breath, and Sophia whirled. She’d headed right for the railing, wanting to take in that view and let the ocean play with her hair. In doing so, she’d walked right past the fleet admiral without even realizing he was there.
She too gasped when she caught sight of one of the most powerful men in Europe.
He sat hunched in a large wicker chair, a blanket over his legs, two sweaters draped around his shoulders. He looked up at her and smiled, his eyes bright with intelligence in a face that was gaunt and marked by lines of pain.
Tristan moved first. He carefully drew his sword, setting the tip against the decking. Then he knelt, bowing his head, both hands on the handle of his sword. “My lord,” he greeted the fleet admiral.
“Rise, rise, Tristan. Though it’s nice to see someone who treats me with the kind of respect I deserve. The ladies are full of sass.” He grinned, as if pleased by the word. Kacper Kujakski still retained some of his Polish accent.
Tristan raised his head. “My lord, how may I serve you?”
Greta poured her husband a glass of water from a pitcher that waited on the table beside him. “Drink, Kacper.”
“See what I mean, no respect.” He took a long sip of water, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his mouth. Some of the water spilled down his chin. Greta took the glass and dried his face with a corner of the blanket.
The fleet admiral looked around at each of them. No one spoke or moved. His eyes hardened, the joviality replaced by an incredible force of will. “Sit,” he commanded.
Sophia found the first empty chair and sat down.
“My body is old, not my mind. I am not dying. I have arthritis. But lack of physical strength can be misconstrued as weakness of will. I have mellowed somewhat in my old age.” Kacper looked at Greta, and for a moment that jovial expression returned. Then it was gone so suddenly, Sophia wondered if she imagined it. “But I am the fleet admiral of the Masters’ Admiralty. You will not look at me with pity, because I would take that as a sign of disrespect. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He stared at each of them in turn, and Sophia could only hold his gaze for a moment before she looked away.
When they’d each been stared into submission, Kacper let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve still got it, Gretie.”
“Of course you do, schnucki.”
“Now then. I got a call from the admiral of England telling me that I might be in danger, but probably I’m not, but maybe, so one of his knights is coming to tell me about it.” Kacper grunted. “That man was a born politician. He can talk without saying anything.” The fleet admiral’s gaze turned to Sophia. “Imagine my surprise when the knight arrives and he has with him the princess of Rome.”
Sophia’s cheeks heated with both embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because she had no right to be called princess. It was her father’s arrogance that had started the trend. And anger, because as false as the title might be, she’d spent her life trying to live up to it, and the people of the territory of Rome respected and loved her. The amusement in Kacper’s tone felt as though he were insulting not just her father, but everyone in Rome who used that appellation.
“Tell me.” The fleet admiral’s attention had returned to Tristan while she fought with her emotions. “Why do you think I’m in danger?”
“I am not the one who should explain it, my lord. Mr. James Rathmann decoded the clues.”
“Good.” Kacper raised his voice, and in a sharp, commanding tone said, “To me.”
Armed men appeared from inside the living space, leapt up over the railing, and even slid down from the roof.
Tristan leapt to his feet, his sword in hand. Not that it would do much good against the automatic weapons the men all carried.
Each man wore a black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and a black tactical vest. The tactical vests had a small gold logo embroidered on the shoulder—a profile of a man in a Greek-style helmet.
Sophia leapt to her feet and wrapped herself around Tristan. “Wait, wait! It’s the Spartan Guard.”
Tristan vibrated like a live wire, his body humming with tension.
“Put the sword away, my knight,” Kacper said, not unkindly. “Though it does you credit to see how well and how fast you reacted.”
Tristan’s tension eased with painful slowness. “They’re the Spartan Guard? They were not so…”
“Military and imposing last time you were here?” Kacper asked. “Yes. I have a new captain of the Spartan Guard. Mateo Bernard. He’s changed how they operate.”
One man stepped forward. Mateo’s stereotypical dark coloring would have betrayed his Castilian blood if his first name hadn’t. However, Sophia was struggling to make Bernard, a very French moniker, fit. “Sir, please go inside. This area isn’t secure.”
“There’s nothing but the sea here, and I like the fresh air.” Kacper hit Mateo with a look, and the other man glanced away, but not before holding the fleet admiral’s gaze for far longer than Sophia had been able to.
“This is one of England’s knights,” the fleet admiral said. “He’s here because he and his companions think I’m in danger. If there is a threat, you should hear about it.”
“Sir.” Mateo made some complicated hand gesture. Four of the nine guards who’d appeared took up positions on each corner of the deck. The others disappeared, two of them leaping over the side of the balcony. Sophia resisted the urge to run to the railing and see if their broken bodies lay mangled on the grass three stories below, or if they’d sprouted wings and flown away.
Mateo stood, hands behind his back. Tristan sheathed his sword, but did not resume his seat. When Sophia headed for the chair she’d occupied before, Tristan caught her elbow, guiding her into the chair he’d vacated.
“Stay close,” he breathed as she sat.
Kacper watched all of this with a hard, intelligent gaze. He turned his head toward James. “Mr. Rathmann, tell me why you think I’m in danger.”
Chapter Ten
James reached into his pocket and Mateo tensed. When he pulled out a small bag containing five coins, he shook it, making the coins jingle. Mateo relaxed a fraction, then nodded, as if giving James permission to continue.
James’s gaze slid over to Tristan, who stood, facing Mateo. Tristan raised one brow. James decided to err on the side of caution—he wasn’t being a coward, he just really didn’t want to get shot—so he handed the bag to Tristan, who walked it over to the fleet admiral.
Their leader raised his hand, turning it palm up. His fingers were curled and gnarled like a vulture’s claws, and his hand shook.
Once the bag was in his hand, Greta reached out and took it, pouring the coins onto her own palm and holding her hand so Kacper could see it.
James opened his mouth, planning to explain the meaning of each coin and then his line of reasoning. He stop
ped, reminded himself that time was of the essence, and instead said, “We think the Domino is going to try to kill you.”
The fleet admiral’s head snapped up. “The Domino?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked at the coins in Greta’s hand. “Where did you find these coins?”
James looked to Sophia, who said, “Three bodies were discovered on the lands of my father’s villa outside Rome. They were members of Rome, a trinity. One of them was a finance officer. The coins—there are many more than that—were found, along with art and some artifacts, in the cave where their bodies were left.”
Kacper nodded once. “And you, Mr. Rathmann, were brought to Rome to discover the meaning in the coins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what meaning did you find?”
“The main coins to focus on are the one with the mask, the smaller silver one, and finally, the one that’s blackened on one side.”
Greta rearranged the coins in her hand. James resisted the urge to walk over and do it for her. It made him antsy to see other people handling his coins. She wasn’t wearing gloves. The oils from her hands—
Focus.
“The coin with the mask is meant to represent the Domino. In English—”
“A black half mask is known as a domino,” Kacper said. “Over the years, there were a few sightings, and he always wore a black mask.”
Tristan tensed. “I was unaware of that, sir. Isn’t that information that the knights should have?”
“Since the last confirmed sighting was in 1730, it was hardly high priority,” Greta snapped.
Tristan’s posture didn’t change, but James was close enough that he could feel the tension rolling off the knight. Sophia, seated in a chair beside Tristan, must have felt it too, because she reached out and touched his hand.
“Dominos, the game pieces, are a relatively modern invention.” Kacper’s tone was far milder than Greta’s had been. “Every man who holds the title of Domino has a different signature.”
“Holds the title?” Tristan asked. That was an odd way of phrasing it.
“We know that the Domino always has an apprentice. As he ages, becoming too old to take on our knights, the apprentice becomes the Domino and kills his mentor.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“In 1840, the body of an old man was found with a single domino piece in his mouth. There was a letter in his jacket saying that he had served bravely and died a hero’s death.”
“Served?” Sophia slid forward on her chair, looking at Kacper and Greta. “Served what? Served whom?”
Rather than answer, they looked at James. “Tell us about the other coins,” Kacper ordered.
“The next is an ancient Greek coin. The coins in your hand are just a sample of what we found, but I know, for reasons I want to tell you but won’t because there isn’t time, that it’s an obol.”
“Obol?” Kacper bowed his head, the position making him look even older and more hunched. “Two obols was the price souls paid to be ferried across the river Styx.”
James blinked. The fleet admiral had an amazing memory, and an amazing mind, if he’d put it together so quickly and remembered what obols were. Most people learned something of Greek and Roman mythology in school, but the information faded into the recesses of their mind by the time they were adults.
“And this represents death?”
“Yes, sir. While obols have continued to be a unit of currency even in modern times, I believe they were meant as a threat. That you would need them to pay the ferryman.”
“When I die, I doubt there will be a ferryman,” Kacper mused. “I agree with you, Mr. Rathmann. An astute deduction. And the final coin?”
James was enjoying getting the chance to discuss coins with such an attentive audience. “There were nine coins issued by the Vatican. At first we thought that meant the church was involved in some way.”
“The church, as an enemy, is not what it once was.” The fleet admiral sounded almost wistful.
“Uh…yes…it’s terrible when your enemies don’t live up to the hype.” James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “All the coins had either the Christogram of the Jesuits or an image of the Pope that had been damaged, blackened. The Black Pope is sometimes used as a title for the Superior General of the Society of Jesus. But, if I remember my society history correctly, the position of what we now call the fleet admiral was, at one time, called the Shadow Pope.”
“Yes, that was a title my office used.” Kacper raised a shaking, gnarled hand and poked awkwardly at the coins on his wife’s palm. “Your conclusion is that the Jesuit coins, and this one, with the blackened image of the modern pope, were all meant to represent me?”
James sat back, palms flat on his thighs to avoid clenching his hands into nervous fists. “Yes, that was my conclusion.” He put a slight emphasis on the word “my.” From the fleet admiral’s tone, he wasn’t convinced what the coins meant. James didn’t want this to reflect badly on Tristan or Sophia.
“You told both admirals, in Rome and England, what you’d concluded?”
“Yes.” Did the fleet admiral think he was wrong? Had he insulted him in some way? James could feel Sophia looking at him, but didn’t glance in her direction. “Though we thought it was the church, and that’s what we told them—the admiral of Rome, I mean—first.”
“A simpler, cleaner interpretation of the evidence.”
“But the final two coins I brought should make it easy to see that I’m right.” James spoke quickly, wanting Kacper to understand. “These weren’t stacked with the others—they weren’t placed in a special order to create a message. There was just a large pile of similar coins. See, it’s a Manx penny with the triskelion and a commemorative English five-pound coin featuring Admiral Lord Nelson.”
There was a beat of silence. The guards at the corners of the deck looked at one another, then at their leader, Mateo.
“That’s certainly direct,” Greta said.
“Exactly.” James sighed in relief. She got it.
“But,” Kacper said, “it could mean only that the Domino wanted to prove he knew our secrets—he knows where this place is, knows our current name. It could be a sign that the Domino is going to try to ignite an old rivalry between us and the church. That he might kill the Superior General of the Jesuits and frame someone among us for the death.”
James suddenly felt very, very stupid. Those were all logical possibilities.
Sophia looked at him, chagrin pulling the corners of her mouth back in a wince.
“Yes, sir,” James said. “It could mean that. We—I mean I—wanted to speak to you. Better safe than sorry.”
“And your admirals wouldn’t convey the warning, would they?” Kacper laughed weakly, then started coughing. Greta picked up the glass of water and instead of handing it to the fleet admiral, held it to his lips.
He took a sip, and then took the glass from Greta.
The glass shattered in his hand.
At first James thought Kacper had gripped the glass too hard, but the sound of shattering glass was accompanied by a meaty thumping noise that didn’t make sense.
Mateo shouted, “Attack!” and dove forward, lifting the fleet admiral out of his chair and racing inside, holding the older man as if he were a child. A second man grabbed Greta and hustled her inside.
What the hell was going on?
Tristan’s sword was out, and he grabbed Sophia by the arm, lifting her to her feet and shoving her behind him. He scanned the edge of the balcony and the sky.
James jumped to his feet. “What’s going on?”
“Down!” Tristan snapped.
James obeyed without conscious thought. Tristan’s voice rang with authority. James dropped into a crouch behind his chair. His knee screamed in protest at all the sudden movements.
“Sophia, I’m going to start backing up, stay behind me, close to my body.” Tristan’s voice was eerily calm.
<
br /> “What is happening?” Her accent was thicker than normal.
“The fleet admiral was shot.”
“Eh?” James nearly stood, just so he could see if Tristan was fucking with him, then decided that was a terrible idea.
The black-clad Spartan guards were scrambling up over the railings, taking positions behind the guards who were still in their respective corners, and manning the corner that was empty because one of the original four men had hustled Greta inside.
James stayed crouched behind his chair, trying not to think about the likelihood that either his head or ass was probably sticking out. The shooter—
That thought made him pause. Where was the shooter? There was nothing but sea and sky. Even if there had been someone with a long-range rifle on higher ground toward the center of the island, the entire manor shielded the deck from view of the land. He tried to peer at the tops of the boats, but even those didn’t rise high enough.
Tristan and Sophia appeared beside him, footsteps in synch. Sophia was gripping the sides of Tristan’s shirt, her shoulders hunched, head down. Tristan was looking up, scanning the sky, sword held ready in his right hand. They were walking backwards, one step at a time.
“James,” Tristan didn’t look at him as he spoke, “on the count of three, I want you to run.”
“Bad idea,” James said immediately.
“You need to get inside.”
“I could start dragging the chair—”
“No, it would make too much noise. We need to be quiet to let the Spartan Guard listen.”
“I don’t run, mate.”
Now Tristan and Sophia were past him, closer to the glass wall of the house than he was. Sophia peeked around from behind Tristan, her dark eyes wide with shock and fear.
“Your knee?” Tristan darted one quick glance at him.
“Yeah.”
“Fast walk?” Tristan asked.
James grimaced. His knee was screaming at him, but at least it was already bent. The part that hurt was going from straight-legged to bent, and that’s why he avoided that motion when he walked, limiting the amount of pain he was in.