“To hell with your Code Duello, suh, there is no honor between snakes. Texian rules, draw and shoot!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Serpent, the Horseman, and Simon Sword.
Berkeley shivered though the day was only cool and he was fully dressed in waistcoat and coat, with a warm horse beneath him. He had cast the Tarock an hour earlier, standing in a commandeered keelboat, being ferried across the Ohio River by grumbling Germans. He knew well the place where he was headed; he recognized Wisdom’s Bluff towering above him and he remembered clearly the events of fifteen years earlier.
He had only given the order for the kill, of course, promising to make Bayard a sergeant for his success as well as to pay him cash, knowing the Frenchman was always in debt and forever pestering his fellow Blues for loans. Berkeley had given the order and he had stood by, prepared to intervene and kill Kyres Elytharias if necessary.
And it had been his job to intercept Bayard after the deed and eliminate the Frenchman. He’d waited in the rain with saber drawn, planning to impale the murderer without warning.
But Bayard had come upon him craftily from behind, seen his drawn sword and escaped, and then fought and escaped William Lee as well, and then disappeared. Berkeley had been duly promoted, and Thomas had in time become emperor, all without suspicion. At least, without meaningful suspicion, without any suspicions that had threatened to unhorse the conspirators. All as the cards had promised, because of course, when Thomas Penn had put the scheme to him, Lieutenant Daniel Berkeley had cast his Tarock before he’d taken any action at all.
The Serpent, the Horseman, and Simon Sword.
Standing on the keelboat, he’d just stared at the cards numbly. He hadn’t drawn any of the Minor Arcana since…since before he’d left Philadelphia. It could not be a coincidence. It was impossible.
For weeks, the cards had been speaking to him. Personally.
And who was speaking through them? God in His Heaven? The Necromancer? The dead Lion of Missouri, Kyres Elytharias, manipulating Berkeley from beyond the grave? Berkeley was willing to believe each of those was a possible actor. He was unwilling to surrender his soul to any of them.
Maybe the cards spoke with the pure voice of Fate. Maybe surrender was the only option.
Now the Tarock had brought him here, again, to the bluff. Thomas feared discovery or a challenge from Kyres’s child, and Berkeley feared the mailed fist of Fate. The Serpent depicted a bronze-colored reptile, winged and mounted on a forked stick, spitting fire from its jaws with a crescent moon behind it, and he saw at once it could only mean this place; he remembered the long, low mound on the height.
There was something wrong with the Horseman card, and Berkeley had stared at it long and hard before he realized what it was. The Horseman must be him, Daniel Berkeley, he’d known that as soon as he’d seen the horse and rider turn face up, but still something had caught his eye and tickled the back of his brain and he’d stared until he’d realized what it was.
In the Tarock that Daniel Berkeley owned, and had owned for years, the Horseman was a soldier in a red coat, riding a white horse.
But the card he had turned up on this day, identical in all other respects, showed a man whose horse was gray and whose long coat was blue.
Berkeley had shivered and stared. He’d checked the back of the card to be certain it was his, and examined the image again.
And again.
Something had happened to the card. Someone, some power, had altered it.
Fate. Was he to suffer violence on the bluff?
And Simon Sword—judgment, again, the blond boy with the sword.
The Serpent, the Horseman, and Simon Sword.
Blazes!
Berkeley had thrown the Tarock into the water, watching the cards float apart in the keelboat’s wake. He’d shuddered to gaze upon them, imagining that he could see their images spreading apart in the choppy flow, and that each and every card was now printed with the grinning image of Simon Sword, long blades swinging back and forth in the water, an army of judgment and death.
The beastkind had been waiting for them at the foot of the bluff. Not attacking, but looming menacingly. They looked as fitting an instrument of judgment as any. As soon as Berkeley had reassembled the Blues on dry land, he’d given the order to fix bayonets.
If Fate came for him today, by Hell’s teeth, she’d have a fight on her hands.
Now he sat tall in the saddle, the parson and the surviving Lazars at his side, facing two different mobs of fighting men, standing at right angles to each other like three sides of a square, with the fourth side occupied by the long, boulder-strewn slope up to the top of Wisdom’s Bluff.
Fate was a fickle and vengeful mistress.
The gendarmes sat still on their horses, too, armed and armored like the Blues. But for the gold fleurs-de-lis they bore on their chests and livery and the absence of the tricorner hats, they might have been a companion unit of Imperial troops. The chevalier stared back at Berkeley, puffing on a long cigar. His Creole seneschal rode calm and inscrutable at his side. Berkeley found the chevalier formidable, but he could talk to the Frenchman, understand his reasons, and perhaps negotiate with him, if necessary.
The beastkind, on the other hand, were alien. He’d killed plenty of feral beastmen and beastwives in his time, and had occasional conversations with their more lucid kin, but he’d never faced a large number in the field. And these beastkind, for all their pawing, stamping, slobbering, and wild-eyed stares, were not feral; they were armed and armored like knights and they stood in ordered ranks.
Beyond any strangeness Berkeley could have imagined, at their head stood a short blond man in buckled shoes, brown coat, and knickerbockers. Berkeley remembered the little man from the cathedral and assumed he must be a wizard, or some kind of beastman whose animal nature was occulted. He’d flown away from the cathedral’s rooftop, after all, in the shape of a bird.
“May we assume,” Father Angleton called out to the chevalier, “that our interests are aligned? Or that they may become aligned? We wish to return this child, Sarah, to her uncle.” His tongue and ear were still black, which gave him a queer appearance, partaking something of the beggar and something of the corpse.
“Do you, now?” the chevalier called back.
“Yaas. We serve the emperor. This is our only errand. We have no quarrel with you, My Lord. Will you help us?”
“A week ago she was a pretender.” Le Moyne blew a cloud of smoke their way. “I’m impressed she has managed to matriculate into the Penn family.”
Angleton looked abashed, so Berkeley stepped in. “Are we then at an impasse, My Lord Chevalier?”
The chevalier laughed harshly. “In New Orleans we prefer the term Texian standoff, in honor of our neighbors. And I don’t know yet.” He turned in his saddle to face the blond man. “Who are you then, and whom do you serve?”
The two Lazars shifted restlessly, looking at each other.
“I know the man’s face.” Du Plessis frowned slightly. “His name is Jacob Hop, he’s a Dutchman and a deaf-mute, and until the Incroyable burned down in that terrible accident, he served you, My Lord. He was an assistant to the man Prideux. I am surprised to see him here.”
Prideux! Could the Creole possibly mean Bayard? Or was the better question whether he could possibly mean anyone else? The air around the bluff was thick with ghosts, and Berkeley half expected to see Kyres Elytharias himself rise from the tall grass. Perhaps he should not have thrown away the Tarock.
The chevalier regarded the Dutchman.
“It pleases me that you managed to escape the accident,” he said. “I find it peculiar that you’re at the head of a column of beastkind, but I welcome you back into my service. I welcome the beasts as well, if they’re willing. Do you speak for the beastkind? You may nod to acknowledge me again as your master.”
“The beastmen are mine,” the little Dutchman agreed. Once Berkeley got over the astonishment of hearing a man described as deaf and mute speak, he found his accent not at all Dutch. It sounded musical and enchanting, like some stage actor’s invented elocution. “I will not serve you, Chevalier Le Moyne, and nor will I throw in my lot with Thomas Penn, or with any of the weak and benighted children of Eve. I have business of my own with the Queen of Cahokia, and you are well advised to stay out from under my feet.”
Berkeley saw the chevalier’s Creole stiffen in his saddle. Did he dislike beastkind? Was he, too, shocked to hear words coming from the mouth of a deaf-mute?
Bang!
Berkeley twisted in the saddle, thinking for a moment that the shot must have come from one of his men; the dragoons all sat on their horses, tautly disciplined, weapons undrawn.
The shot had been fired from the hill. Two hundred eyes swiveled at the same moment as Berkeley’s, turning to see who had pulled the trigger.
It was a woman, who had ridden two thirds of the way down the hill unnoticed during the confrontation. She was tall and beautiful and had long dark hair. She wore a white and gold dress that had been elegant once, but was now filthy with the dirt and stains of hard travel. Her saddle was plain and poor, not matching her dress at all, and she rode a large white horse that looked, to Berkeley’s eye, more like a coach horse than a lady’s palfrey. She held in the crook of one arm a long stick, at the end of which fluttered a tattered square of white cloth.
She lowered one smoking pistol (fired straight up into the blue sky), but she had a second gun in her lap. “My name is Catherine Filmer, and I come as herald of the Queen of Cahokia,” she called. “The queen invites you to a conference. She bids you send a delegation of two men each.” She surveyed them all with cool eyes. “By men, Her Majesty does not mean Lazars. She bids you identify your envoys to me before we ascend.”
The chevalier recovered first. “I’m Gaspard Le Moyne, Chevalier of New Orleans. I’ll join you, and I’ll bring my aide, René du Plessis.” He nodded to indicate the Creole.
“Very good,” Catherine Filmer said.
Angleton had regained his power of speech, and jumped in. “I’m Father Ezekiel Angleton of the Order of St. Martin Luther, and with me will come Captain Sir Daniel Berkeley, representing His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Thomas Penn.”
Berkeley looked up at the top of the bluff and felt the burden of fate on his shoulders.
The Serpent, the Horseman, and Simon Sword.
“Agreed,” Filmer said, and Berkeley thought her eyes lingered on him a little longer than they did on the others. He might have enjoyed that thought in another moment, but here and now it made him nervous.
Long Tom Fairfax made a sour face and looked at Ezekiel Angleton.
“Silence, Lazar!” Angleton barked.
Then the Martinite turned pale, stared at the two Lazars, and scratched at his own blackened ear. Had the priest gone mad, rolling around in the fire and now hearing voices?
“Yes,” the blond man said, staring down the white-eyed ghoul. “Keep your place, or I will blast you into the void whence you came.” He turned to address Catherine Filmer. “I will come. As your mistress well knows, I am two men.”
What in Blazes? Berkeley felt gooseflesh on his arms and back at the odd declaration of the little fellow, and the chevalier’s man looked positively stricken. The lady herald, though, didn’t question it.
“Understood.” She turned to make her way back up the slope. “Follow me.”
* * *
The sky overhead was a brilliant pale blue, a cool breeze furred its way through the short hair of his head, and Bill was armed to the teeth. His own horse pistols (loaded and primed) hung in the long pockets of his battered red coat. Obadiah’s smaller-bore guns (loaded and primed) were tucked into his belt. Various powder horns hung around his neck, along with picks and powder measures. At his left hip hung his heavy cavalry saber (sharp enough to shave with), and in his boot he carried a knife.
A fight seemed unavoidable now, and as Cathy turned and headed back up the slope, with a handful of men in her wake, Bill itched to take the initiative. Sarah wanted to confer, and he hoped she was successful, but there were three small armies at the foot of the hill, and she couldn’t talk all three out of wanting to capture them…or worse. He didn’t think talking her way out of it could possibly be her plan, in any case. Surely, Sarah must be seeking to play all the forces off each other until she could convert one of her pursuers into an ally.
Maybe she thought they could take a hostage.
One of the men drifting up the hill behind Cathy Filmer was Daniel Berkeley. Bill had known and respected the younger Berkeley, but now he was a traitor and he deserved to die. Bill would like to ambush Berkeley, simply kill him out of hand in a surprise attack; he’d given Kyres no more warning than that. He refrained, though—his queen had called for a truce and a parley, and he would honor it.
Calvin Calhoun was armed too, with rifle loaded, war axe in his belt and lariat carefully coiled beside it, and a hunter’s knife in his boot. The Appalachee prowled the stone plaza like a mountain lion sniffing for prey. He also carried a silver knife that belonged to Sarah, which she hadn’t wanted to touch—maybe she was expecting to have to cast spells, and didn’t want the silver on her person.
Hopefully.
What she did have was the Sevenfold Crown on her head and the golden sword of Cahokia thrust through the shoulder straps of her satchel. She had the Orb of Etyles in the pouch, along with other oddments Bill had only glimpsed that looked like hexing paraphernalia, such as bird feathers and twigs. She was dirty and tired, but her eyes were defiant—defiant and alien, or maybe divine, with their piercing look and unmatched colors. She leaned on her burnt wooden walking staff but she looked, Bill thought, like a queen.
His queen.
She had a lot of sand, to be standing so coolly in the face of all the assembled men who wanted her captured or dead. Kyres would be proud.
Cathy regained the top of the hill, tossed her white flag of truce into the trees, tied up her horse, and took her place behind Sarah and to one side, where she reloaded her fired pistol. Her guns were the Lafitte weapons, and she had carefully loaded one of them with their last silver bullet, the only one not fired in the melee at the St. Louis Cathedral.
Bill and Cal stationed themselves each a couple of paces to either side of Sarah, hands free and weapons in easy reach.
The chevalier and his man du Plessis arrived at the plaza next. They dismounted and du Plessis hitched their animals to a tree. The chevalier waited, finishing the last of a sweet-smelling cigar and then grinding its stub out with his heel on the smooth stones of the plaza. The smear of ash looked like a cancer on the white stone.
Then the Imperial officers arrived, the Martinite and Berkeley. Bill reminded himself as their boots clicked onto the stones of the plaza that the Martinite could work magic, and that Berkeley deserved to die. The priest looked determined, but stricken; he was frightened of something.
Berkeley looked resigned.
As well he should. Bill marked the man for death in his mind’s eye.
Finally, on foot, but not any slower than the horses he followed, came Jacob Hop. Simon Sword, Bill told himself, there is no Jacob Hop. Or the Heron King…Bill still didn’t quite understand the relationship between those two names. Simon Sword winked and Bill bristled.
The chevalier and du Plessis faced Bill; Angleton and Berkeley faced Cal; Simon Sword stood between them, facing Sarah.
“We have—” the chevalier began, but Simon Sword upstaged him, stepping forward and executing a deep, elaborate bow.
“Your Majesty, you have my unalloyed respect,” intoned the blond man. “You have come so far.”
Sarah slightly inclined her head. “You are kind, sir.”
The chevalier moved swiftly to regain the ground he had lost, bowing deeply himself, and followed in an even deeper bow by the Creole du Plessis. “Your Majesty, we are pleased to be invited to this conference. We have a gift, and an offer to make you.”
“A gift,” Sarah repeated neutrally.
“For your man, really,” the chevalier explained, rising from his bow, and he signaled with his hand to du Plessis.
The Creole reached slowly into his jacket (Bill casually inched his hands closer to the grips of Obadiah’s pistols while the man made his move) and brought out an unruly mass that untangled in his hands and became…Bill’s black perruque and hat.
“I believe,” the seneschal said, “you left these in my master’s home inadvertently.”
Bill looked to Sarah for direction and she nodded. “I did.” He stepped forward to take back his property. The perruque didn’t fit as well over his short hair as it had over a bare scalp, but the hat felt good on his head.
The hat felt right.
“I thank you kindly for the return of my hat, suh,” he said to the Creole. “I regard it as a signal personal favor.”
The Creole nodded.
“You’ll understand, of course, that if my queen so desires, I shall still be obligated to put a bullet between your eyes.”
Du Plessis nodded and laughed. “Likewise, Sir William.”
“This is a farce.” The Martinite’s face was pale and lined, and he had ashes smeared on his tongue and on one ear.
“You forget your place, Father!” Bill barked. He pointedly put his hands on Obadiah’s pistols.
“Indeed,” the chevalier agreed.
Simon Sword raised his eyebrows to show impatience.
The chaplain gritted his teeth and then executed a quick, forced bow. In a more leisurely, determined fashion, Berkeley joined him.
“If we have satisfied the ludicrous protocol of this nonexistent court,” the Yankee continued, his face red with frustration, “your uncle commands you to come with me.”
Bill drew both small pistols in one quick motion, pointing them at the Imperial officers. The other armed men jumped, startled by his move, but no one tried to draw, to Bill’s mild disappointment—in particular, he had gone for his guns half-hoping it would give him the pretext to shoot Berkeley.
“I’m afraid you have not satisfied protocol, suh,” he snarled. “You may not address Her Majesty in such tones. Perhaps you should try again. I recommend you start with another bow. Both of you.”
The chevalier looked amused; the priest looked infuriated, but forced himself into another bow, Berkeley doing the same. “Your Majesty,” Angleton said, choking out the title, “your uncle—”
“Are you an Elector?” Bill asked, pulling back the hammers of his pistols. “A king? A count, perhaps? Do you even own land, Yankee?”
“Your Majesty—” the Roundhead ventured.
“Bow again!” Bill had a hard time not grinning, especially when he saw the black look of rage on Berkeley’s face as the two Imperials bowed another time. “Court Speech, you dog!” He shot a quick glance over Angleton’s shoulder down the hill, to reassure himself that the three small armies at the foot of the bluff were staying put.
“Yaas. Your Majesty,” the priest said again, “thine uncle—” he looked irritably at Bill to be sure he’d be permitted to continue, “hath sent us to return thee to Philadelphia.”
“Did he?” Sarah’s voice was flat and unemotional.
“We have come a long way, Your Majesty.” The Martinite looked as if he were spitting out his own teeth.
“I see that you have,” Sarah agreed. “Was this thy purpose, Father, when thou didst come to Nashville to shake thy Yankee pistol at me? I confess it seemed less an invitation from a beloved uncle and more a kidnapping.”
The Martinite paled further, his face twisted.
“I have a better offer to make, Your Majesty,” the chevalier reminded her.
“Yes, My Lord Chevalier,” she acknowledged, “I am interested to hear it. I expect we are all interested.”
“Come back to New Orleans with me,” he suggested. “Be my guest. Avail yourself of all my wealth and power in pursuit of restoring yourself to your lands and your thrones.” The Frenchman looked sideways at the Imperials as he made this last insinuation; the Martinite blanched, but Berkeley just looked irritated.
“I wonder if I would be safe in New Orleans,” Sarah mused. “It’s a rough place, as I’ve learned for myself.”
The chevalier nodded deferentially. “I understand that the emperor’s officers threatened your person very impolitely in Nashville. I assure Your Majesty that they do not have the power to be so impudent in my New Orleans.”
“No,” sneered Bill, “in New Orleans they’re reduced to murdering defenseless old clerics. But then, suh, in New Orleans they are men of low character and cowards.”
He immediately worried he’d gone too far. Sarah’s expression, though, continued to be cool. Maybe she expected him to go after Berkeley. Maybe she wanted him to.
Maybe that was part of her plan.
Berkeley glared at him and Bill arched a cold eyebrow.
Sarah stepped smoothly back into her dialog with the chevalier. “You might keep me safe from them, My Lord Chevalier,” she said, “but who would keep me safe from you?”
The chevalier smiled wolfishly. “Your Majesty would not wish me to be harmless, I believe. You would instead wish me to be dangerous and powerful, and tied to you by strong shared interests.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “Shared interests such as blackmailing my uncle?”
The Imperials fidgeted.
“Yes,” the chevalier agreed. “He’s our common enemy. Your Majesty should not discount the strength of having a common enemy as a unifying bond. It’s a much better bond than love, or family ties.”
“I must say, Your Majesty,” Bill drawled, “that I don’t feel much pity for Thomas Penn in the matter of this extortion. He’s a snake and a vile murderer, and deserves nothing but contempt and a painful death. As do his accomplices.”
Bill let his pistols slowly drift sideways as he spoke, until they both pointed at Berkeley. The captain of the Blues was lobster-red in the face.
Sarah nodded and continued. “Do we have other common interests, My Lord Chevalier? Surely, the unifying effect of a common enemy can last only until that enemy is defeated.”
“We share the Mississippi,” the chevalier pointed out. “You and I together could pinch the Memphites between us and cut the Germans off entirely. We would control all the river’s traffic, which would bring, I assure you, great wealth.”
“Or you could control it alone,” Sarah countered, “if you had the management of my inheritance. Then all that wealth would flow into your coffers in New Orleans. Surely, that would be even better for you.”
“We share a proximity to the Great Green Wood,” he added. “That is a common danger to us and to all civilization and an enemy that will not go away. And, Your Majesty, you could marry one of my sons.”
“I need not be an enemy,” Simon Sword objected. “Indeed, I have only ever tried to befriend Her Majesty. And Her Majesty has other marriage options she may yet wish to pursue.”
“I reckon she could do a sight better’n marry the son of a jumped-up mayor,” Cal growled.
“You have just finished lecturing me on the weakness of family ties,” Sarah pointed out, “and New Orleans has not always been safe even for the sons of the chevalier.” She ruminated. “Yes, My Lord Chevalier. I can think of many reasons why you might wish to control me and my lands and thrones. I cannot think of even one reason why I would wish to be controlled.”
Berkeley spat. “Blazes! This is too much!”
“Silence, you pox-ridden whoreson traitor!” Bill roared.
“Have you something to say to me?” Berkeley raged, spinning on Bill. His veins bulged at his temples.
“What, suh, are you surprised to hear yourself called ‘traitor’ and ‘murderer’?” Bill snapped back. “Are these not the traditional names for a man who stabs his lord in the back? Or do you object merely to the adjectives?”
“Stop!” the Martinite yelled, but Berkeley stepped past him.
“It’s easy to talk tall with guns in your hands, Will!” he shouted.
Bill wore a condescending sneer on his face, but he felt grim satisfaction. His chance had come almost without coaxing. “Your Majesty,” he said, keeping Obadiah’s pistols trained on the other man, “I’m in your service and subject to your command. May I have the honor of disposing of this traitor for you?”
Bill thought he saw Sarah’s hands shake, ever so slightly. “Please do, Sir William,” she said. “But I insist that you survive. I shall continue to require your services for some time to come.”
“Your Majesty,” Bill protested mildly, “I’m wearing my lucky hat.”
“You are the challenged,” Berkeley growled, “name your weapons.”
“To hell with your Code Duello, suh,” Bill shouted back at him, “there is no honor between snakes. Texian rules, draw and shoot!”
Berkeley’s eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded, and Bill tucked Obadiah’s pistols back into his belt. He held out his elbow as he had at the chevalier’s ball and escorted Sarah to one side of the stone plaza, seating her with Cathy on a stone bench.
“Fear not, Your Majesty,” he said, “I am in my element.”
Sarah nodded. “I need you alive, Sir William,” she reiterated.
“I share your preference.” He smiled.
“So do I,” Cathy said.
Bill sighed. “Mrs. Filmer, you’re a conundrum to me. I don’t know what can possibly be between us, and I may yet have a living wife. Still, I believe I am deeply in love with you.”
Cathy rose to her feet and kissed him with the sweet, wise, tender kiss of a woman who knew herself and absolutely knew what she wanted. “We’ll have time, Sir William.” She rejoined Sarah on the stone seat.
Bill looked Calvin Calhoun closely in the eye as he gripped him by the hand. “Cal, if I fall, it’s your job to kill the son of a bitch. Absolutely no matter what.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Cal. “I’ll tomahawk the skunk and hang his pretty scalp over my fireplace. Jest don’t fall.”
“The hair is a wig.” Bill grinned. “And don’t worry, I won’t.”
Bill moved back to the center of the plaza. It had become a short stone lane, with Sarah and her companions on one side and her assorted pursuers on the other—aside from Berkeley, who faced Bill down the center of the aisle. He had his two horse pistols in his belt. The sun was overhead and the brim of Bill’s hat shaded his face.
“You look like a fish, suh,” Bill called, making a show of stretching his fingers, “surprised to find himself suddenly thrown upon the shore. But then I shouldn’t be shocked. While I have spent recent years killing men in the Quarter, you have been prancing about the ballrooms of the great houses of Philadelphia, dining out on your dishonor.”
Berkeley only squinted, which was not enough. Bill wanted him angrier. Angry and rash and anxious. Bill was fairly confident that he was a better shot than Berkeley, but Berkeley was more than good enough to put two big holes in Bill.
“Your long horse pistols will be slow to draw, tucked as they are into your belt.” Bill eased his hands nearer the grips of Obadiah’s guns. “If you choose to make a career of violence, young man, you may consider acquiring a pair of holsters such as the Texians use, that hold your gun low on the hip.”
Berkeley said nothing.
“Mind you,” Bill continued, “speed is rarely a factor if you have the luxury of shooting your man in the back.”
“Shut your mouth!” Berkeley sprayed spittle from his lips.
That was better.
“Make your shot count, you verminous weasel,” Bill further counseled. “I intend to leave your body for the beasts. And you will have noticed that I am carefully facing you, so as to render you impotent.”
Berkeley drew. As the other man jerked his pistols quickly from his belt, Bill pulled out his borrowed guns at a more deliberate pace.
Berkeley leveled one pistol at Bill—
Bill stepped to his left, quickly, falling into a sudden dash, left because if he was going to draw Berkeley’s shot wild, he preferred it to go wild away from Sarah and Cathy, rather than in their direction.
Bang!
Bill felt the first shot punch through his thick red coat with a pfft! and tear his flesh under one arm, along his ribs. The wound burned. He gasped and held his fire, still running left, secretly pleased to know he’d only been grazed.
Behind him he heard surprised shouts and the crashing sounds of men throwing themselves aside as Sarah’s pursuers came under the stern glare of Berkeley’s other gun.
Bang!
Berkeley’s second shot hit Bill in the flesh of his upper left arm, and he dropped the gun in that hand. Judas fortune, that wound had just finished healing. Bill staggered back, rocked on his feet by the impact of the big gun’s bullet. His vision blurred for a moment.
Hell’s Bells, maybe he’d made a mistake.
Bill regained his balance and his sight in time to see Daniel Berkeley bearing down on him, raising his naked saber in his hand and yelling incoherently. Bill took careful aim, exhaled smoothly, and pulled the trigger. Bang!
Berkeley staggered, a crimson fountain spouting in the blue field of his waistcoat. He was too good a soldier, though, to stop and meditate upon his injury, and he rushed forward again, mad fury in his eyes.
Bang!
Bill shot him with Obadiah’s other pistol, snatched up from the smooth stones. He shot a little too quickly and the bullet went a bit astray, burying itself with a thunk! in Daniel Berkeley’s thigh. Berkeley fell to one knee. Bill dropped both of Obadiah’s guns and slipped his right hand into the pocket of his coat.
Berkeley laughed, rising unsteadily to one knee, and then, with an effort, to his feet. “You’ll have to fight me hand to hand now, old man.” He coughed, spattering blood on his lips, chin and sleeve. “Draw your sword!” The captain of the Blues lunged forward in an off-balance attack.
“No, suh, I will not.” Bill raised the horse pistol, still shrouded in its long pocket, aimed it at the center of Berkeley’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Berkeley crashed backward onto a stone bench. He lost his grip on its hilt and his sword rattled away across the plaza. His blood spurted out on the white stones.
With some awkwardness, Bill reached with his right hand into his left pocket and pulled out his last loaded pistol. He looked carefully at the clutch of Sarah’s pursuers (the Martinite registered shock and dismay in his smudged face, but the other men were unperturbed, and the chevalier looked pleased) and then at Sarah (her face was darkly satisfied, and she nodded) and then stepped close to stand above the fallen man, a pistolero angel of death.
“I won’t insult you by inquiring whether you wish quarter, suh,” he said. The captain of the Blues stared at him wild-eyed. “You won’t insult me with a confession or an apology.”
Berkeley’s breath rattled in his throat. He hacked and coughed, and spit a small string of defiant bloody phlegm, mostly onto his own chest.
Bill nodded, pointed his last loaded gun at Daniel Berkeley’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. Bill’s final shot echoed off the surrounding trees and died away into silence.
No one spoke.
As the sound dissipated, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Berkeley was dead, which was some measure of justice, but Sarah was still surrounded by dangerous foes. By an act of will, Bill forced himself to scoop up Obadiah’s guns and begin reloading the long horse pistols.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost a member of my delegation,” the Martinite priest said.
Bill kept reloading.
“Your choice of companion was your own, Father,” Cathy told the man.
“Yaas.” He was pale, sweaty, and trembling despite the cool afternoon. He looked ill. Had the fool been eating charcoal? “And nevertheless, I have summoned reinforcements.”
Bill heard footfalls in the leaves. He finished priming and looked up, pointing his one loaded gun. Standing at the edge of the plaza were the two remaining Lazars, both grinning thin-lipped, humorless grins. Their tattered, rotting brown coats flapped in the breeze.
“It falls to me. Very well, then, I shall see that the Emperor Thomas’s interests are adequately represented,” Ezekiel Angleton said.
Sarah stiffened.
Bill wasn’t sure, but he thought that as he heard the man’s voice with his ears, he simultaneously heard it in his mind. The mind-voice was dry and crackling and it sounded vaguely familiar to Bill.
It sounded a lot like the voice of Robert Hooke.
“We’ll be a delegation of three now.”
The Lazars grinned.