by J A Deriu
They were bantering, talking of the local brothel where the late one had come from. “I wanted to get my money’s worth,” he joked.
“Your head is ugly. The truth is that you were refused service,” another one of them said.
“Be careful with your words, my friend.”
“Be careful with yours. Do not call me friend.”
“All right, shut up,” said the voice that she was familiar with. “It is time to talk of business. You know why you are here.”
“I don’t, actually,” answered a rakish voice.
“I hope it is for payment. I have not been paid in full for my last piece of work,” said the voice that had made the first joke.
The voice that she knew spoke over them with added vigor. “Be silent, will you, and listen. We are here to talk of the business of the empire, and you talk about your own petty matters. It is embarrassing.”
“You are embarrassing. The problems of the empire. Where do we start?”
“Shut up. There is no time for that kind of talk.”
“Did you lower your hand for a weapon? I thought no weapons were allowed in this meeting.”
“I did not. And that was for you not me. Now listen, or I will pull out my pistol.” The grumbling lessened. The familiar voice continued. “You have all heard the rumors that are flooding throughout the Russian provinces. That a prince of the Romanovs has returned and is inspiring the Cossacks to rebel. The worst has been the city of Tula. The rebels are in control with the mayor hanging from a lamppost. The sultan has been forced to send three legions. This should not have happened. The prince was supposed to be dead. I organized it. Unfortunately, I was betrayed. All right. Silence. Don’t be so smug. The contractor was supposed to be the best. She was recommended by the commissioner – did some useful work for him.”
“She? There is your problem.”
“I will ignore that. Focus on the task. The two of these – the prince and this … girl … this scurrilous traitor – must be taken care of.”
“Did you say ‘girl’? Yes, I understand the prince, but a girl? What happened?”
“You are not here to think or ask questions. She did not do the job she was contracted to do, yet she still managed to appropriate the payment. Devious. Very devious, this one.”
“Ha!” One of the men laughed. “So this is personal. She swindled you. Clever.”
“Shut up again, and listen. This is a twofold job. You may choose either target or both. This will be a bounty. The first to succeed will be paid. You can coordinate, or you can act anyway you want. I need these jobs done quickly. Both of them.”
“You should have come to me from the start. Which of these two targets is more important to you?”
She pulled away from the door, straightened, and firmly gripped her knees so that her behind was touching the soles of her shoes. She held out her hands as though feeling the air and clamped her eyes shut. She slowed her breathing to connect with her God and to plunge into the struggle between good and evil. To leave the world of light and enter the world of darkness.
She was ready. Stood and felt to see whether the door was locked. It was not. They were still talking. She visualized where each one of them was. The house belonged to the Mahsusa. It was two stories, a safe place for them to meet. No one else would be in the rooms. There was a fire to keep them warm, and the pantry and cellar would be well stocked.
She put her hand on the door handle. The omens had been good. The pattern of the flock of birds had been as sharp as an arrowhead. She had kept her eyes pointed at the sky and had seen the dark cloud that was shaped like a charging bull. She focused on the door handle and pictured what she would see on the other side. Two sleek daggers were in each hand. Using a loose finger, she turned the handle.
The door was thrown open. The heads turned toward her. Two daggers were airborne. There was movement, but it was not enough to beat the daggers. One of them hit exactly where it was supposed to. The thwack came later. Two pain-filled hands reached for it, but the force of the throw had buried it deep. The second dagger was equally well aimed, but the intended victim was a little quicker, and it dug into a shoulder. She had her sword free and held it firm for the third of the bounty hunters. He had lied to the Mahsusa and reached downward for a weapon. It would be a blade strapped to his lower leg. He was a brute of a man. By the two steps it took her to get to within striking distance of him, he had stood and had the short blade pointed at her. He had his arms out like a bear. His large head was shaved bald like a tavern thug. He scribbled the blade at her. She held her sword elegantly straight and waited for his thrust.
In the meantime, she glanced at the other two. The first still had his hands futilely on the embedded blade with his energy ebbing away. The second was a thin man, a swordsman and a rifleman, she could tell. He was carefully extracting the blade from his shoulder.
The bald thug snatched at her with the blade and then his other fisted hand. It was a brutal shower of strikes that she danced from. The fourth man, the owner of the voice that she knew, had stood and was jostling for a purpose in the violent turn of events behind the thug. She spun her position so that the bald thug would need to change his footing, but not knowing or sensing that the Mahsusa was behind him, he made contact with the back of his leg, touching against a loose leg of the Ottoman, and the bald thug was off balance for a moment. This was all she needed to plunge the sword through the hard flesh of his side. She lost her grip of the handle as she tried to pull it out. The big man thumped to the floor with the sword wagging from his torso.
The Mahsusa stared at her with his mouth agape. She turned to see what had happened to the swordsman. His place at the table was empty. The other bounty hunter had stopped moving, and his hands had fallen away from the dagger that jutted from his chest. She had a short blade attached to her belt. She slid this out of its sheath and looked around the room.
The swordsman had taken a sword from a display mount on the wall. He was standing in a corner and weighing it in his hand. She tried to place which of the talkers he was. He was not the brothel-goer – that was the bald thug – or the money grubber … that was the man dead at the table. There was a chivalry about him. He was the one with the rakish voice and wit. It was almost a shame. Yet he was desperate enough and of low morals enough to turn to the trade of a bounty hunter. The Mahsusa was edging for the door. She needed to be quick.
The swordsman had a lot of flourishes. She moved in a straight line. He danced forward. His sword was double the length of her blade. The steel clashed. Understanding was on his face – she was the bounty. He pushed against her blade in an effort to out muscle her. She held his sword away, and they came close enough to feel the other’s breath before breaking so that they could step back and assess.
The door quietly opened. The Mahsusa would be out soon. The swordsman was patient, a professional. She respected him more with each moment. He was watching her blade-holding hand. He wore a purple vest with a crest on the breast as if he had come from a swank dinner. The other side of the vest was blood from her thrown dagger. The wound was not hampering him. It would … if she had time, which she did not. She dropped her hand a little and let out a long breath. He was cautious. He had noted what she had done to the bald thug – the brothel-goer – and to the money grubber.
She feigned a forward movement. He did not respond. He had the longer sword, and he could wait. The Mahsusa agent had sneaked out of the room. She attacked again, this time not pretending. She pushed her blade against his sword and had enough of it to force it high and hold. He was stronger than his wiry body looked. She used her free hand to punch him in the ribs. He dropped his free hand to defend. They grappled. He pushed into her to try and topple her. The blood from his wound dripped onto her tunic. His strength was hard, and she strained her legs to hold. Their faces almost touched. He had the scent of a gentleman.
; His eye connected with her strange eye, and it was enough to disconcert him for a moment. His grip slackened. His pressure changed. They broke. She slid her blade across his neck. He gave a slight grunt, stepped back, dropped his sword, and clutched his neck with both hands. Blood trickled between his fingers, and he fell into a chair. She ran for the door. She wanted to look back at him, but she had no time. He would be mourned by someone. It was the profession.
She leaped over the railing and landed at the bottom of the stairs. The door was open. She strained her eyes to see through the pelting rain. She could not tell which way he had gone. She looked back inside. There was a hatstand with a seat. She sat on it, dug the red blade into the wood, and crossed her arms. Her success was now in the hands of the undependable. She looked at the blade and cleaned off the blood with a scarf that hung from a hook. She leaned forward and checked outside.
She heard the noise of steps. The door swung fully open. The huge figure of her barbarian held the Mahsusa, Orhan, by the collar of his jacket with an arm wrenched behind his back. A smile came onto her lips. “You have done well,” she said to the barbarian. “Good guarding.”
The barbarian dropped the agent so that he was crumpled at her feet. Orhan looked up at her.
“We need to renegotiate our contract,” she said, businesslike.
“What …” Orhan answered, breathless and dripping wet. “You never fulfilled the contract.” He looked nervously at the barbarian. “It was a double-cross.”
“My actions have good reasons, which are not your business so do not ask. Hmm?”
He glanced at the barbarian and then her blade. “Yes. Yes. I am obviously in a position where I will consider your changed terms.”
“Consider?”
“I mean – agree.”
“Oh, excellent.” She grimaced a smile. “You have put a bounty on me. I must admit that this was unsettling. It is not completely unusual to find a competent bounty hunter. You would eventually. That is why I found you first. You will cancel the contract and report that it was fulfilled. Perhaps by the swordsman gentleman up there so that his family is paid. Unfortunately, he was a casualty himself. This happens. Is this clear?”
Orhan feebly nodded. The barbarian slanted a knee into him. “Yes. Yes. It all sounds reasonable.”
“Excellent, again.” She stood. “There is a caution for this deal. And that is for you. I advise you that when we are finished to check my work upstairs. You will see three of the best that the empire can afford. The caution is if you should renege on our deal, if I have the slightest suspicion that I am a target again, it is you that I will seek. And believe me, there will be no haystack, basement, attic where you are able to hide. You will not even be safe in the throne room of the sultan. And when I find you, I will carve you like a roasted boar. Hmm?”
“Yes. Yes. This will be done. I have no desire to see you again. Your eye. I thought this was a curse. I will gladly forget you.” He lifted his head for a moment. “Why? Why would you betray the empire?”
“This is not your concern. I have changed sides. Now forget me. Good night.” She stepped through the doorway and into the rain. She walked briskly and pulled her hood to cover her head. The barbarian kept pace with her. She looked quickly at him. The rain dripped down his broad face and tangled beard, and then across the bare muscles of his shoulders. “I am proud of you,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
He was fatigued, and he had not made it more than a third of the way around the interior of the cathedral. He stopped to recover his breathing. He used the opportunity to admire. The Catholics certainly believed in grandeur, he concluded. Of both their architecture and threats. He ruefully recalled his meeting with the pope. He lifted his eyes to see how high the ceiling was, but they would not see that far. Instead, he was satisfied to admire the colored shafts of light that angled from the stained-glass windows.
Rovis tapped at his shoulder. “I’ve seen him, sir. He is alone in the side chapel down there.”
“Very good. I will see him. You wait out here.” He followed where Rovis had pointed and passed under low archways to a side passage. The main body of the church could no longer be seen. The dimly lit passageway curved around so that Carsten assumed he was behind the main altar. He came to an opening that looked into a small chapel that had a statue of the Holy Mary at its front and thick candles burning on both sides. Sitting at a pew was a lone man. Carsten moved closer to confirm that Rovis was right.
It was him, yet with a sheepish comportment and not the bravado of the man he had first met. Carsten eased himself along the pew to be near to him. Harry Habsburg was deep in thought or prayer, although his hands were not joined. He only noticed Carsten when they were within talking distance. His eyes narrowed, but his lips were tight.
“I must talk to you,” Carsten said. “You have not answered my requests for a time.”
Harry leaned toward Carsten and forced hushed words through a closed mouth. “This is a silent chapel. You cannot talk in here.”
“Well!” Carsten spoke louder. “This is what you have forced me to do. To stalk you and to be impolite. You have been ungentlemanly in not seeing me.”
“I cannot help,” Harry said and turned to the front. “Be gone from here.”
Carsten slid closer to him. “I will speak in a hushed voice if that helps, but we must talk.”
“I have no intention of releasing the money.” Harry for a moment glanced at Carsten. “Look, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. You have powerful enemies, and I am not entering the fray to become an innocent victim.”
“That is why I want to talk. I have something that changes things.”
“Ha, what could change things? Your enemies are implacable.”
“It does not concern them.” Carsten made a show of turning to either side and making sure that no one was around, even though he could barely see in the gloom. “It concerns you.”
Harry slowly turned to face him. His face’s anger was contained by its curiousness. “I don’t see how.” He grimaced.
“It will be clear, but first I must tell a story,” Carsten said.
Harry crossed his arms and leaned hard against the wooden pew.
“It is a tale from decades ago. True, an old tale, but nonetheless important for its truth.”
“Perhaps get to the point – this is not the place for conferences.”
“I am not a storyteller, so please do not be bothered if my telling is rudimentary. It is the story of two boys. Great friends. Inseparable. It is said that they had an uncanny resemblance to one another. Although they were not related, they were often mistaken. Even by their own family. Together, they were boarders at the most prestigious school for young men in all of New Europa. The school was located in the countryside at the foot of the snow mountains. One day the boys left early to go camping. They were expected to camp for one night. Yet days passed, and they did not return. This made important news, as one of the boys was a prince of the most famous of all the royals of the new continent. The other boy was not discussed. He was a nobody, the son of poor alcoholics, at the school as a charity to meet conditions tied to the school endowments. Ten days passed. Frantic searchers had found no trace. After ten days only one returned. There was immense relief and joy, as it was the prince. The other boy was not spoken of again. The newspapers did not mention him. It was said that this was out of sympathy for the prince, who was too distraught to talk of the matter again. The years passed, and the episode was forgotten. Who knows what had happened to the poor boy? And nobody had cared. The prince became a ruler. A dashing, handsome man who was perfect for the role. A strange thing, however, did happen much later. The prince’s mother would tell a secret on her deathbed. She would make an incredible claim. Her last words were that the boy that had come back was not her son.”
“You old bastard.” Harry’s face contorted.
“I know what you are trying to do.”
“That is good. That is two of us.” Carsten made a show of looking at the statue. “Harry, you are not really a religious man, are you? Or maybe you are, and you are here for absolution. Is that the Catholic way – say enough Hail Mary’s in front of the Virgin, and all will be forgiven?”
“That is not your business. I have no time for failed old men. You can leave now.”
“I will leave.” Carsten placed his hands on the back of the pew that was in front of them. “First, I must state that the inclusion in the story of the words of the dying mother is not something of little worth. They are written down in a transcript that was made by the priest that gave her the Last Rites. And furthermore, I have it on trusted advice that it is not inconceivable – although the priest is also passed – that this written record could surface.”
“This is all very imaginative and of no concern to me. The whole story is another unprovable lie in a world where they exist like blades of grass.”
“It does not matter. Imagine the newsmen feeding on this story and circling like sharks around a struggling swimmer. I know from experience that the story need not be true to be of damage. The cost, effort, and loss of sanity in defending against it are the punishment – especially when they can be easily avoided by simply granting another man nothing but the usual course of business.”
Harry Habsburg lost a little of his rigidity. “This is farcical. Look at what your associations have turned you to. Men like you and I should be conducting business in the towers of commerce with the city as our admiring audience. Instead, we are playing games in empty, hidden corners.”
“It is unfortunate, I agree, but really not that different. I am their benefactor. It is because of me their world expedition began. I cannot leave the Templars stranded. This is what I have accepted. In regard to our dealings, I wish to conclude them as beneficial to both parties. It is with certainty that I can tell you that the priest’s transcript can truly be buried – never to surface.”