by Rob J. Hayes
“It’s the latest thing,” Roache claimed picking up the second pistol, slightly larger and longer but otherwise identical. “Alchemically charged duelling pistols. They don’t even use gunpowder anymore. Chamber loading,” he flipped open the chamber of the pistol and slotted a single metal cartridge into the aperture before snapping it shut again, “six shots.” He pointed the pistol down the range at one of the wooden targets. “And boom.”
Isabel had expected a flash and an acrid smell as with most normal pistols but there was neither, only a loud crack as the pistol fired and the centre of the wooden target splintered. A wispy white gas leaked from the barrel end of the pistol but soon dissipated.
“Fascinating,” Jacques exclaimed rushing forwards to look into the box and picking up one of the metal cartridges. “Instead of gunpowder it must use some sort of compressed gas that expands exponentially when the base is exposed to sufficient kinetic shock such as the hammer on the pistol. It’s not actually the pistol that is alchemically charged but rather the ammunition. I wonder which gas they use and how they manage to compress it into the cartridge…”
“You ever fired one?” Roache asked with a grim smile. “Either of you?”
“No,” both Isabel and Jacques said in unison.
Baroness Adeline Bonvillain stepped into the brightly lit hall on the arm of her husband and to the ring of her own name in her ears as the announcer made certain that every last man, woman and rogue insect knew exactly who had just stepped over the threshold. They were greeted by many a passing look, a few casual glances and one outright sneer but none of those lingered as to do so would be unseemly and that was the last thing any of the true nobility wanted.
“Time to be charming,” the Baron said so quietly only Adeline could hear.
“But not too charming,” she admonished Bastien right back.
Baron Bonvillain stopped a passing servant, a tall drink of water in a suit that didn’t quite fit him. “You there. A glass of champagne for my wife and I’ll have a glass of fruit brandy, nothing younger than eight years mind.”
Adeline approved of her husband’s choice, an older vintage might have raised the ire of Comte la Fien and a younger might have made the Baron seem simple and foolish.
“Of course,” the tall drink of water bowed as was appropriate. “We have champagne from the Vallée de la Roe, Vallée de la Sans and Meraine.”
“Which region does the Comtesse prefer to drink from?” Adeline asked fixing the servant with a blue stare.
“I believe she prefers the champagne from Meraine, Baroness.”
“Then I shall defer to her good judgement.”
The servant bowed again and scuttled away as Adeline and Bastien turned to regard the room. They would need to make contact with the Comte and Comtesse as one of their first priorities and make sure to thank the couple profusely for their invitation to such a grand affair. In truth Adeline would be somewhat amazed if they found anybody more important than a Comte in attendance but flattery was often a good way into people’s graces, especially those who expected to be flattered.
Adeline gave a minute tap on her husband’s arm. A small indicator they had worked out years ago as a way of drawing the other’s attention to something. Bastien locked eyes onto the Comte immediately and set off, leading Adeline towards their quarry.
The Comte la Fien was a short man but not overly so and he well made up for his lack of height in his broad shoulders and stout physique. He was perhaps a little portly, as many men of his age tended towards, but he looked for all the world as though he could happily wrestle a small bear and likely win. He wore a thin strip of hair across his top lip that one might have considered to be a moustache, if one were drunk, and his hair he wore slicked back along his head with some substance that looked to have been harvested from one of the ooze creatures that frequented the sewers of Rares.
Beside the Comte, the Comtesse completed the strange pair. Where her husband was short, the Comtesse was tall. Where he was broad, she was skinny to the point of ill health. Her dress was a deep crimson, to match her husband’s suit and, in the current fashion of Rares, hugged her figure atrociously and did little to hide the bones that showed through her skin. Her face was taught and Adeline could barely imagine an expression making it past her stern features but the Comtesse’s hair was something else entirely and perhaps her only redeeming feature. Her hair was blonde, the colour of rich cream, and suited her complexion perfectly. It hung down low towards the small of her back and yet not a hair of it was out of place. Adeline would have happily paid a fortune for hair like the Comtesse had despite its lack of practicality.
“Comte la Fien,” Bastien said with a slight tip of his head. “Comtesse.”
Adeline mimicked her husband’s bow with a curtsy, content to let him perform the introductions.
The Comte did not look perturbed by the introduction but regarded the new comers with cold scrutiny. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“An oversight I intend to rectify immediately,” the Baron said returning the Comte’s cold stare. “Bastien Bonvillain, at your service. This is my wife, Adeline Bonvillain.”
“Ah, the new Baron, is it? These two are professional duellists, don’t you know,” he said to his wife who, if anything, looked even less impressed than before.
“Gentlemen duellists, Comte. We don’t just fight for anyone but only for those who have too much to lose. Besides, we’ve left that particular life behind now.”
“I hear you’ve killed a dozen men.”
The Baron said nothing, he had never been one to boast about his duels but Adeline was more than happy to do that job for him. “It’s actually closer to two dozen, Comte.”
“All for Marquis van Elmer?” the Comte pressed.
“Most,” Bastien admitted. “A couple were for myself.”
“Hmm,” the Comte grunted. “Never trust a man not willing to defend his own honour.”
A barbed comment and no mistake, any slight against the Marquis was an insult Bastien and Adeline were honour-bound to defend. Bastien’s mouth moved into a tight smile. “The Marquis does not believe in crossing swords or exchanging bullets with anyone of lesser rank, Comte.”
“Quite right,” the Comte agreed with a sneer. “He’s an old man too, past his prime. I myself fought in two duels in my younger days.”
“I was not aware,” Bastien said in a measured voice. “Did either of your opponents live to tell the tale?”
“HA! I should say so. We wrestled.”
“Hand to hand combat?” Bastien exclaimed. “You are a braver man than I, Comte.”
Adeline caught a slight roll of the eyes by the Comtesse but ignored it as was proper.
“I’m a champion, you know?” the Comte continued. “Of both the Taran and Ssaine styles. Come, I’ll show you my trophies.”
As the Comte led Bastien away, Adeline found the Comtesse staring down at her. She may have only been a few inches taller than Adeline but the Comtesse made those inches count. “You are also a duellist?” the Comtesse asked coldly.
“Hardly a ladylike profession,” said the smaller woman beside the Comtesse. Adeline glanced at her and disregarded her in an instant as either a lesser Baroness or, more likely, the wife of a Seigneur.
“I completely agree,” Adeline said gracing the Comtesse with her smile. “Which is why the Marquise van Elmer, being fairly strong of opinion and more stubborn than any man I’ve ever known, had need of a proxy to duel in her place. The Creator saw fit to gift me with a keen eye and a steady hand so it fell to me to defend her honour.”
The woman beside the Comtesse made a derogatory noise but the Comtesse nodded, her face softening a little around the all-too-visible bones. “A noble gesture, taking your mistress’ place.”
Adeline smiled and decided to change the subject while she was ahead and settled on abject flattery. “If you don’t mind my asking, Comtesse, how do you manage to make your hair shine so?”
Jacques ducked a wild swing at his head, pushed away a jab to his ribs and danced backwards attempting to disengage from the woman. She followed him doggedly.
“Must I really fight against Franseza?” Jacques called out as he dodged again.
“This isn’t fighting,” he heard Roache say quietly to Isabel.
“I heard that!” A punch caught him on the arm and he stumbled away rubbing at the numb area which in turn cost him a hit on the other arm. “I’m not really one for fighting, especially not against a woman.”
“You think you’re ready to take on me do you?” Roache laughed through his stubble.
Franseza halted her pursuit of Jacques and eyed Roache darkly. “You don’t think I can beat you?” she asked Roache.
Roache paused before answering and Jacques welcomed the respite in his pummelling. They were apparently in Franseza’s home, though she claimed she rarely spent so much as a night there, and were busy teaching Jacques how to at least look as though he knew how to take part in a fist fight. Isabel was apparently exempt from the exercise as women did not fight. Franseza was busy proving that sentiment incorrect and Jacques had to admit she did not pull her punches.
“You’ve got a gentler touch than me,” Roache eventually said with a smile.
Franseza shook her head and thumped a punch into Jacques’ chest while he was paying more attention to her exchange with Roache.
Jacques took the hit well. He stumbled back a step, caught his legs up in the feet of the single chair that occupied the room and went over the back of it, pulling the chair down with him. As his back hit the floor he rolled away most of the force, picking up the chair by its back with one hand and springing back to his feet, brandishing the chair in front of him as if Franseza was a circus lion.
“Ha! Back. Back, I say!” he said with a grin, jabbing the chair at the woman who looked more amused than anything else.
“Is there any real point to this?” Isabel asked in a voice that Jacques knew meant she was annoyed. “You wanted to teach Jacques to look like he knows how to fight. Instead, Franseza, all you’re doing is tenderising him and teaching him how to run away.”
“Half of any fight is running away,” Roache said sagely.
Isabel glared at Roache who in turn glared right back. Jacques shrugged, placed the chair back on the floor and worked his right shoulder in its socket while Franseza rolled her eyes and wandered over to the single window. It was raining outside, the type of rain that comes down in sheets distorting the world into shades of dull grey and, as it was nearly pitch black due to the lack of moon, a darkness darker than black.
“Fine,” Jacques heard Roache say through a clenched jaw. “Franseza, you take over with de Rosier.” The big man advanced towards Jacques with a distinct menace in his step. “We’ll accept you well know how to run away, Revou. Now I’m going to teach you how to stand and fight.”
“You see!” Comte Ruben la Fien exclaimed loudly pointing at the painting. “I dislike Heliographs by nature, prefer to pose for a painting.”
Bastien looked up at the painting which, it had to be said, covered much of the far wall of the study. In fact the entire room was not so much a study as a giant trophy cabinet dedicated to the Comte. There were shelves with belts, shelves with trophies, pictures of the Comte standing alone and triumphant, and smaller pictures of the Comte standing with others but still looking mightily triumphant.
“I still have the belt from fifteen years ago for the Ssaine championship. Retired with it, you see. Nobody ever managed to take it from me.” A proud, faraway look entered into the Comte’s eyes as he remembered his youth.
Bastien looked at the belt. It was an old thing and no mistake but the gold still shone brightly in the lantern light. No doubt the thing weighed as much as it looked, and with all the gold, gems and gilding, it looked heavy. Bastien wagered the Comte polished it daily and let no hands but his own touch the trophy.
“It would take a fierce man to win all these,” Bastien said with respectful nod. “I am most glad you are retired, Comte, I would certainly hate to duel you.”
“Ha!” the Comte exclaimed, thumping Bastien on the back so hard it took everything he had not to wince in pain. “You flatter me, Bonvillain. Never been much of a pistol man, myself. You’d likely shoot me dead before I got the damned thing out of the holster.”
There was an art to flattery, not just knowing when to give and withhold but also when to receive and when to refuse; choosing incorrectly with a man like Comte la Fien could easily be a reprehensible mistake.
“I can’t see a situation where we would ever find out,” Bastien said deciding to accept the Comte’s compliment for what it was.
“Too true, Bonvillain, too true,” the Comte grinned apparently pleased by Bastien’s choice and the Baron set about showing himself internal self-gratification though he made certain to keep his demeanour carefully void of it.
“Ahh,” the Comte continued. “Here comes another young stud like yourself, Bonvillain. My eldest, Thibault.”
Bastien gave another slight bow of his head. “Vicomte.”
Vicomte Thibault la Fien was very much the offspring of his mother and father. He was taller than the Comte, easily as tall as the Comtesse, and thinner too but still stocky. His face was long, just as his mother’s but held flesh much more like his father. His eyes were dark and cool and held a spark of fierce intelligence. He gave Bastien a measured stare that was almost bordering on ill-mannered before he broke the tension by speaking.
“You’re needed upstairs, father,” the Vicomte said in a honeyed voice. “Marquis Toulard has locked himself in a closet.”
“Again?” The Comte shook his head in exasperation and started for the doorway, muttering to himself as he went. “Damned old fool. Last time he ended up urinating all over…” The last of his words were lost as he stormed from the study.
Bastien found the Vicomte still fixing him with a cold stare. “If you’ll follow me, Baron Bonvillain, I’ll direct you back to the main hall.”
“Take the card from my hand,” Jacques instructed Amaury. Isabel was watching him make a fool of the bigger man while Franseza gave her a style of hair more fitting for a woman new to her position and unsure of the current trends in Rares. Usually she disliked anyone but Jacques cutting her hair but Franseza appeared to have an uncanny way with scissors.
Amaury took the card from Jacques’ hand and looked at it.
“What is it?” Jacques asked.
“You’ve already seen it,” Amaury pointed out.
“Regardless, tell me what card it is.”
“Two of Earth,” Amaury said.
“Now put it back in my hand the way it was.”
Amaury turned the card around to face Jacques and slotted it back between his thumb and index finger. Jacques smiled. Isabel smiled with him.
“What card is it?” he asked Amaury.
Amaury sighed. “Two of Earth.”
“Now take the card from my hand,” Amaury did as he was bid. “What card is it?”
Amaury snorted out a laugh and flipped the card around to face Jacques. “It’s still the damned Two of Earth.”
“Hmm,” Jacques said stroking at his chin. “I suppose I must have done something wrong.”
Amaury nodded emphatically. “Or you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“Maybe,” Jacques admitted. “What time is it?”
Amaury thrust his hand into his pocket to find his watch and came up empty. He quickly checked his other pocket then looked up to find Jacques holding his watch and grinning from ear to ear.
“Give that back,” Amaury said in a dark voice.
“Of course, of course,” Jacques said handing back the watch.
“Comte Ruben la Fien,” Isabel said to break the tension between the two men. She didn’t like exposing their planning routine to Amaury and Franseza but the two had become their constant shadows of late and they desperately needed to prepare for the
upcoming affair.
“Short man, middle aged but still as strong as a boar,” Jacques replied. “Champion of multiples styles of wrestling, back in his day, and about as proud as they come. He’s good friends with Marquis Toulard, Marquis la’Ran, Duc Lavouré and a number of other Comtes, many of whom participated in those very same sports to which he was champion. He speaks plainly, is not afraid to say what is on his mind, and has a bit too much fondness for brandy and occasional gambling. Oh, and he is utterly devoted to his wife though one struggles to understand why.
“Comtesse Hélène la Fien,” Jacques shot right back.
“Born the second daughter of Duc and Duchess Frelain she married below her station though not, as most sources will claim, for love. She is tall and suffers from a dietary malediction; we are yet to discover which. The Comtesse is utterly dedicated to her three children and uses her many, many contacts to further their ends. She is a budding alchemist and good friends with Madame Lindle…”
“Stop moving so much,” Franseza ordered brandishing a set of shiny scissors in front of Isabel’s face and giving them a very audible, very menacing snip.
“The Comtesse also suffers from fairly extreme claustrophobia,” Isabel completed making every effort to keep her head from moving.
“What’s that?” Amaury asked.
“A fear of enclosed spaces,” Jacques said. “I believe she has been known to have anxiety attacks from time to time.”
“Indeed,” Isabel agreed.
“How does knowing something like that help?” asked Franseza.
“Building bridges, my dear Mademoiselle Goy. You might be surprised how even the slightest morsel of information can help build a friendship.”
“Baron Paul Hees…”
“I much preferred to carry out my previous profession outside, if at all possible,” Adeline said with a smile. It certainly wasn’t the smoothest subject change given the previous topic had been the current state of clothing fashion in Rares and how many women were taken to wearing less than was traditional while attending open air balls. The Comtesse shot her a quizzical look. “The open air and the feel of nature, such as it is, around me was always far more comforting and relaxing than the cramped confines of the indoors.”