From under his jacket the tall Frenchman produced a single-shot pistol that he passed to Barnabas. The weapon weighed no more than a few ounces. Barnabas had fired muskets while hunting, but never at another person. He was more at home with the long knife that hung on his belt, although he preferred not to use it unless there was no choice in the matter.
“I hope that I won’t find a need for this,” he told the Frenchman.
“True, but isn’t it better to have something and not need it than to...”
“...need it and not have it. You sound like my cousin, Giovanna.”
“The one whose friend gave you the book about me? A wise woman,” said D’Artagnan.
“Barnabas, do you know this place?” Aramis said, pointing at a small two-story building just down the way. Barnabas stared for a few minutes. Just down from it were the burnt remnants of another warehouse. According to some of his cousins, the place had been set afire four years ago under rather odd circumstances; and, just as oddly, no one had taken over the property, even though, because of its location, it was quite valuable.
“Yes, I do. As far as anyone knows it is supposed to belong to Roberto Salvatore. But according to my uncle, old Salvatore sold the place a few months back to the Kurtz brothers. They’re Austrian, I think, and may even have some Russian connections,” said Barnabas. “What are we here for?”
“Nothing too difficult,” Aramis said. The small man had a slight smile on his face as he spoke that gave Barnabas a chill. It occurred to him that this was the sort of fellow who could as cheerfully slit your throat as share the latest gossip with you. “I just want you to get us inside by telling the men behind that door exactly who you are. The Marcoli name carries weight, even at this ungodly late hour. With any kind of luck that should get us inside the place without things getting too messy.”
As outrageous as it sounded, Barnabas could actually imagine that sort of bluff working with some people. He’d more than once seen his uncle push his way through situations by doing just exactly that.
“You did say,” he repeated, “that this whole matter would not reflect badly on my family.”
“It shouldn’t, if things work out, but you never know,” Aramis said. “Besides, if things go wrong there is a chance that none of us will have to worry about who gets blamed, since we might all be dead.”
Barnabas was overcome with an urge to run, but he blocked that by reminding himself that he did owe his life to the tall Frenchman. Instead, he drew a deep breath and headed toward the warehouse, moving quickly in order to not give himself time to think of reasons why he shouldn’t be involved in this whole matter.
Things had already gone wrong when Barnabas reached the warehouse’s main door. It was open and there was no sign of any watchmen or other sort of guard. From the look on his two companions’ faces, Barnabas was certain this was a discovery that neither of them had expected.
Once they were inside, a short narrow hallway led into the main part of the warehouse. The smell of the canals and the sound of splashing around the warehouse pilings mixed into the darkness.
There were several dozen bales of cloth blocking off one corner of the room where a table with bottles of wine and mugs sat, along with a bowl filled with cheese and a half loaf of bread.
A movement to one side of the room caught Barnabas’s attention. A moment later a man emerged from a door and came charging forward with a large, rather nasty looking ax in his hand. Barnabas attempted to step backward but found his feet tangled among a couple of chairs, and it was only a miracle that kept him on his feet.
D’Artagnan came from one of the bales of cloth and threw himself hard against the stranger. That was enough to make the man drop his weapon and give the Frenchman a chance to fire two quick blows to his opponent’s stomach and chin, putting an end to the fight and the man on the floor.
“Do you always attack a man with an ax with only your fists?” asked Barnabas, not even sure that he had seen what he had seen.
“It worked, didn’t it? Do you know this fellow?” D’Artagnan held his lantern close to the unconscious man’s face.
Barnabas stared at the prostrate form for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do know him. I think his name is Brouila, Mordaunt Brouila. He works for the Quinniaros; they are rivals of the Kurtzes.”
“I wonder if they discovered that the Kurtzes were holding Culhane and decided to cut themselves in on the matter. The ransom that the Kurtzes were demanding was going to be a tidy sum,” said D’Artagnan.
“Possibly. There are two bodies over at the other end of the warehouse, and given the circumstances I suspect they work for the Kurtzes,” said Aramis. “I’m guessing that the Quinniaros got what they came for, meaning Culhane. This leaves us at a loss of where they have taken him. Unless our friend there would be willing to give us the information we need. It is possible that if we can wake him up he can be persuaded to tell us where they went.”
“I would presume,” said Barnabas, “that we are not going to be informing the authorities of what has happened here.”
“Indeed not,” said D’Artagnan.
“Wait, we might not need Brouila. Wouldn’t they want to get off the streets as quickly as possible?” Barnabas asked. The Quinniaros had interest in several ships but that was all that Barnabas knew for certain. But he had heard that they had an interest in a nearby business.
“That would be what I would do,” said Aramis.
“Then I may have an idea on where to find them,” said Barnabas.
* * *
Barnabas and his companions found their way through the streets of Venice quickly. Their goal was a building only a few streets from the docks. Sandwiched between two warehouses, it looked like nothing more than offices for the various businesses that operated in the area. Were it not for the single lantern hanging in front of the heavy oak door, it would have been easy to not even notice the dark green door.
“Welcome,” said a woman dressed in emerald and crimson velvet, her long hair hanging in ornate curls, after the three men were admitted.
That she was mistress of the house there was no doubt. She was not young, and according to the tales that Barnabas had heard, Madam Paulette and her establishment had been a fixture in Venice for many years. Her careful makeup and the room’s lighting took at least a decade off her age. The serious look in the woman’s eyes showed that she was no common street whore, but rather a woman who had learned to make her way in the world and cater to a taste for finer things.
D’Artagnan rubbed his chin and studied the place. That it was a brothel was obvious, but Barnabas had already told them that. The windows were masked with heavy curtains. In spite of the hour there seemed to be a brisk business going on, some sailors and a mixed lot of workmen. There were perhaps a half dozen men there, some with drinks in their hands, others talking to women in revealing gowns.
“You would be Madam Paulette?” said Barnabas.
“Indeed, I am. What can I do for some fine gentlemen like yourselves?” she said. On Madam Paulette’s shoulder was a highly intricate butterfly brooch; the stones on it reflected different colors each way that she turned. D’Artagnan suspected that while it looked valuable it might be nothing more than paste. On more than one occasion he had seen that skill and craftsmanship could make paste look like the most valuable jewels in the world.
“I suppose it is your years of experience that tells you we aren’t just sailors out moving from one tavern to another, seeking various entertainments,” said D’Artagnan.
“I’ve learned to recognize those who are in need of the services that we offer here. I do have customers from the lower decks of many of the ships that make port here, but also the ranks and officers have been known to hang their hats in my parlor. From the look of you, your manner and attitude, in spite of the plainness of your dress, you are gentlemen,” she said. “So how may I help you? I presume you are interested in some female company this evening?”
“Were the
evening ours, I am certain that passing it in the company of one of the young ladies you employ would be quite enjoyable,” said Aramis. “However, the night is not ours to do with as we would please. Instead, we are seeking some...acquaintances we think might have arrived here in the last several hours.”
Madam Paulette smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. “You would have to be a good deal more exact about who it might be that you are looking for. Business has been good this evening; a number of gentleman callers have come through the door.
“Besides, why should I tell you anything about who has come and gone? My customers, even the lower ranking ones, expect a good deal of privacy. They certainly don’t expect to have their names shouted by the crier in the town square.”
“And they will not be, Madam Paulette,” said Barnabas. “I know that there are members of my family who might grateful for any aid you might render us.”
“And your name would be?”
“Marcoli. Barnabas Marcoli.”
The woman arched her head slightly to one side as she weighed the possibilities.
She turned and headed toward a door at the side of the room. From the smells that were coming from that direction, Barnabas suspected that there might be kitchens somewhere close. Once they were away from the parlor, she turned to face the three men, staring at them and then looking upwards toward the ceiling for a moment before she spoke.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there is nothing that I can do to assist you in this matter. I run a quiet house; I and my girls try to stay out of anyone else’s business. I can think of seven reasons that should remain true. I trust that you can find your own way out. Please convey my respects to your uncle, Signor Marcoli.”
With a turn she vanished through the door into the back part of the house.
It bothered Barnabas that Madam Paulette seemed to be more familiar with his family then he had expected. He sincerely hoped that in the months to come he would not regret telling her his name.
“This is no time to linger,” said D’Artagnan as he motioned for the others to follow him up a stairway at the end of the hall.
Two lanterns lit the narrow hallway, and from behind several doors D’Artagnan caught the sounds of moans and other noises that proved the rooms were being well put to use.
“I should think...this one,” said D’Artagnan, as he came to a door at the far end of the hallway. Barnabas noticed that it was the seventh door.
That was when they heard the sound of something crashing onto the floor from inside the room.
D’Artagnan’s sword slid into his hand, a dagger in the other. Then he kicked the door open. The wood cracked under his heel with a sharp sound, but it was almost masked by the sounds within.
“Stay here,” the tall Frenchman said over his shoulder to Barnabas, who was only a few steps behind him. “Let no one pass.”
Barnabas let out a sigh; with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, Barnabas was more than happy to obey the Frenchman’s instructions.
In the dim light D’Artagnan could see two large apparitions, one wearing a cape and the other a long jacket. A smoking pistol was in the hand of the first man, the other had his arms around a smaller struggling man with sandy hair, who was presumably Culhane. An overturned chair with ropes twisted around it suggested that he had managed to free himself, to the surprise of his captors.
The Frenchman let fly with his dagger. It creased the head of the man holding Culhane, gouging his ear and sending blood flying. The man responded with a yelp and a string of curses equal to those of some sailors.
The other man threw himself at D’Artagnan, using his empty pistol as a club. The Frenchman twisted, hit his opponent in the stomach, and then drove his knee into the fellow’s crotch. Before the first man had gone to the floor, D’Artagnan whirled about and sent the pommel of his sword slamming square into the other man’s face, the sound of a nose breaking confirming its effectiveness. Two more blows with the same part of his sword put the man on the floor at D’Artagnan’s feet.
Like most fights, this one was over quickly, almost before Barnabas could be certain of what was happening. He looked quickly one way and another down the hallway, expecting intruders seeking to discover the source of the disturbance.
The first man rose from the floor with a start, grabbing one of the broken pieces of a chair and diving for D’Artagnan. The blade at Barnabas’s belt came into his hand and went flying, to bury deep into the man’s left eye.
“I’m not sure if Madam Paulette is going to be pleased with the condition you have left her room,” said Aramis, who had several of the house’s bouncers standing behind him. D’Artagnan couldn’t help put notice that the little man also had a pistol in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“No doubt she will vehemently vent her vexation about the matter. She can bill the Quinniaro family. However, I’m sure they paid her well enough to let them keep him here. Besides, I’ll lay you even money that she has more damage than this on any given Saturday night,” said D’Artagnan.
“More than likely,” agreed Aramis.
“You stupid bastards,” yelled the man with the sandy hair as he struggled up from the floor, his Irish accent heavy in his voice. “You almost got me killed! Do you have any idea of how easy it would have been for him to snap my neck? You call this rescuing me?”
D’Artagnan covered the distance between himself and the man in three steps, then grabbed him by the collar of his dirty and stained shirt and slammed him hard against the wall. He lifted him up several inches above the floor.
“Is your name Culhane? Ramsey Culhane?”
“Y-y-yesss!” the man stuttered.
“Well, listen well, Monsieur Ramsey Culhane, and know this. You live because of me and my friends. It would have been very easy to leave you in the hands of these men who would as soon slit your throat and dump you into the canals as listen to your so-called righteous anger.
“Quite honestly, I suspect it is your own fault that these men were threatening your life. Of course, it may not have been, but then again I don’t really care. When you see your uncle again, just remind him that he is now in the debt of Cardinal Richelieu for having you alive. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Yes, I do.” Culhane managed to push the words out of his throat between gasps for air. “I’ll remember it.”
D’Artagnan let Culhane down to the floor, holding the man’s arm to keep him steady. They had taken a couple of steps before he pushed the man up close to the unconscious form of the man in the long leather jacket.
“Remember something else, my ungrateful friend. Your uncle owes the cardinal a favor for the saving of your sorry hide. But it is you who owe me your life. Someday I may come to you and demand that you pay back that favor, and you will,” he growled.
“I understand,” Culhane stuttered before passing out.
* * *
D’Artagnan dropped a leather pouch on the table in front of Barnabas as the two men sat at a small table in Madam Paulette’s parlor. The thud when the bag hit the table showed that it was full. The younger man picked it up and spilled out the contents into his hand; mixed in with the silver were a number of gold coins.
“It seems that our adversaries had been paid in advance, and they didn’t spread the wealth around all that much,” said D’Artagnan. “But far be it from me to criticize the house of Quinniaro over their financial dealings, especially when it works out to our advantage.”
“Our advantage?” asked Barnabas.
“I gave Madam Paulette a portion of it, to pay for damages and her silence. Half of what is left is yours. Call it payment for your services this evening and also your silence; the spoils of war so to speak.”
Barnabas stared at the money for a moment; this would more than double the amount of money in his own purse.
“I did not do this for money, but because you saved my life. It was a matter of honor.”
“Quite true, and you?
??ve more than repaid that debt, not only by helping Aramis and myself. But when you stepped in and saved my life, the scales were balanced. There is no reason you should not get a reward,” said the Frenchman. “Personally, I would suggest you use some of those coins to make some arrangements with one of Madam Paulette’s ladies.”
“Then you are planning on staying?” asked Barnabas.
“Indeed; the soonest we can get passage will be another day or so. The Quinniaros are tied up in Madam Paulette’s cellar and Aramis will stay with Culhane to prevent him from wandering away. Since it is doubtful that the Quinniaros will send others, this is an excellent place to hole up. I suspect I may make an arrangement or two with one of Madam Paulette’s employees myself.”
Two young women, one in green velvet and the other yellow, had entered the room, taking seats on a chaise longue near the door.
Yes, it seemed to him that D’Artagnan had the right idea. Remaining here might definitely be an excellent way to end the evening.
Cap and Gown
Jack Carroll
On the Ely road
Summer 1634
It was when he heard the split-second hiss of Nathan drawing his sword that Richard realized he was in a bad spot. He was down on one knee in the road. He broke off searching for whatever had gotten into his shoe, and flicked his eyes upward. Nathan was a few yards away, pivoting to face two men rushing from a thicket with knives in their hands.
Richard didn’t need to be a soldier like Nathan to grasp the geometry of the tactical situation. These were robbers, and they were separating, trying to catch Nathan between them.
Richard swept back his coat from where it had fallen forward, and frantically snatched at the pistol on his belt. There was no way to get a clear shot at the farther attacker, but Nathan was turning toward him and stepping forward to strike first with his longer reach. The nearer man, though—no time to aim properly. The instant he fancied that his gun pointed the right way, he fired. The man cried out, and spun around to charge Richard. Richard barely had time enough to get his pistol up to eye level in a two-handed grip. He aimed it roughly at the middle of the man’s chest, as he’d been taught, and fired again. The man staggered, but didn’t fall. Not yet. Richard thumbed the hammer back and was about to fire a third time, when Nathan struck his adversary from behind and ran him through.