Commedia della Morte (45 page)

“The cook is in the taproom, cutting slabs off the roasted pig, so we’re not likely to be noticed.” Roger nodded.

“Or so we trust,” said da San-Germain, a faint, mordant smile curving his lips.

“How long will it take you to get down the stairs?”

This was a crucial problem, and da San-Germain weighed his reply carefully. “If I don’t use the cane, perhaps three minutes: with the cane, two.”

“Then we should start down in ten minutes.”

“I concur,” said da San-Germain.

“What of Feo?” Roger asked a few minutes later.

“He’ll be at the side-gate. Is it open, do you know?”

Roger patted his pocket. “I have the key, and I oiled the hinges while you were asleep, after I’d been to the posting inn.”

“Provident as always,” da San-Germain said. “Is there anything else you have anticipated that I have not?”

“I have sacking to wrap our boots if we need to be silent,” said Roger, his faded-blue eyes revealing little of the satisfaction he felt. “And I have lengths of cord, to tie up the Guards.”

“My apologies, old friend,” said da San-Germain. “I have been inexcusably lax. You have thought of everything.”

“As you would have done, had you not been injured. I will neaten the room,” he declared, and went to gather up the bones from the rabbit that had served as his supper and piled them neatly on the tray that the serving girl had brought up while da San-Germain had been resting. He said nothing more until da San-Germain glanced at the clock on the mantel.

“Time to be gone,” he said, getting to his feet and setting his cane aside.

Roger picked up a small bag that bulged. “You will bring your English cloak?”

“Certainly.” He took it from the end of the bed and hung it over his arm. “I assume you have the pistols in there?”

“Yes; they’re charged and ready. There’s also a duck’s-foot. It’s old-fashioned but it serves its purpose. The six barrels are all ready.”

“Very good,” da San-Germain approved as they went out into the hall; he looked in both directions and was glad that he saw no one. “Let us go down.” He began to ease himself down the stairs. “Remember to speak with a German accent when we stop the coaches. The Guards will take note of it when they make their report.”

“Of course,” said Roger. “What of Feo?”

“His accent is enough as it is,” da San-Germain said, and went down another step.

There was a good deal of noise from the taproom that covered the sound of their descent. As they reached the lower hall, Roger went ahead of da San-Germain, making a swift surveillance of the kitchen, then, satisfied that the room was empty, motioning to da San-Germain to follow. They went through the kitchen rapidly, without incident, and into the kitchen-yard, where they kept to the shadows to avoid attracting any attention while they took stock of their situation. The stable-yard appeared to be vast as the Piazza San Pietro in Roma, and as exposed; they stopped again to determine how best to cross it.

“There’re two ostlers by the main gate,” da San-Germain whispered. “We’ll have to go along the wall. It will take a little longer, but it will be safe.”

Roger peered into the darkness, and was able to make out the two ostlers who kept their post by the main gate, smoking their pipes and engaging in a desultory conversation. “Should we put on our cloaks?”

“I think so,” said da San-Germain, and pulled his around his shoulders; the deep-brown wool served to conceal him where he stood in the shadows.

When Roger had donned his cloak, he raised the collar so that only the upper half of his head was visible above it. “Hats?”

“Not yet. They’re distinctive enough to be identified later, if it comes to that. Keep them under your cloak until we’re outside the city.” Da San-Germain eased his way along the wall, not moving quickly, but steadily, toward the side-gate, having recourse to his cane only once; he reminded himself that he had endured much worse at the hands of Timur-i and Srau’s cousins, memories that kept him moving. Ten paces from the side-gate, he stopped at the sound of two cats challenging each other to battle on the wall above them.

The ostlers looked toward the sound; one of them picked up a pebble and shied it at the animals, cursing good-naturedly. Only when they had resumed their meandering conversation did da San-Germain and Roger move again.

At the side-gate, Roger took out the key and carefully turned it, cringing at the faint sound of moving wards that ended in a snick. “It’s open.”

Da San-Germain went through ahead of Roger, making a swift scrutiny of the alley. To his relief, he saw Feo in the shelter of the door opposite the side-gate, lounging against the iron-work grille. He hurried across the narrow pave-stones to where Feo waited. “You’re here in good time.”

“Fortunate, isn’t it?” Feo’s irreverent smile glinted.

“For you as well as us,” da San-Germain responded without amusement. “We may jest when we’ve done.”

Roger opened his bag and brought out the green Bohemian sleeved cape, handing it to Feo as he said, “You’d best put this on after we pass through the city gate. I’ll dispose of it before we get back to the Jongleur.”

Feo took the Bohemian cape and folded it with the lining out. “Part of our disguises?”

“Yes,” said da San-Germain. “Tell me what you’ve found out.”

“The transfer will go according to plan, but some of the prisoners will be held back and moved tomorrow as announced; from what I heard, they’re shifting the riskier ones tonight. The Guards think the notion is foolish, but they know that orders are orders, and there is extra pay for night escort. The prisoners being moved tonight are the ones deemed to be most dangerous, which probably means rich. I couldn’t find out who they were, but it’s likely your kinswoman is among them.”

“How likely?” da San-Germain demanded in a whisper.

“If she’s rich and she isn’t ill, she’ll be in one of the coaches, probably the one in the middle.” Feo lifted his chin. “So, do we go or not?”

“We go,” said da San-Germain, with a side-long glance at Roger. Quelling his doubts, he moved to the end of the alley and gazed out at the street, trying to take in as much as possible without exposing himself to notice: there was a small, rowdy group in front of the tavern at the corner, where gambling was allowed, and occasional cock-fights were held; beyond them a pair of street-sweepers were pushing their well-laden barrow toward the riverbank; four merchants on horseback with a train of pack-mules loaded with casks and crates were approaching from the south; and three thin women shivered with cold as they strutted toward the men in front of the tavern, seeking customers among them.

“We can fall in behind the merchants,” Feo suggested. “That will get us across the place and into another street.”

“If we make it seem we are part of their company, we aren’t likely to attract much attention,” da San-Germain agreed. “Be ready to slip in after the mules pass.” He could feel his hip tightening and willed it to relax; he could not let himself limp now.

“Ready?” Feo asked as he moved, adopting the same plodding pace of the half-dozen attendants leading the mules.

Roger and da San-Germain followed after him, taking him as their example, and paying no heed to the stares of the attendants.

Approaching the nearest attendant, Feo murmured, “Footpads tried to rob us; we need cover,” and nodded his thanks at the glimmer of understanding in the man’s eyes.

Nothing more was asked or said as they went on across the place, where they left the merchants’ train behind for the long, twisting, dark street that led to the old Saone River Gate.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Oddysio Lisson in Venezia to Cataline Utoc in Marseilles, written in French, carried on the Eclipse Trading Company ship
West Wind,
and delivered twelve days after it was written.

To the distinguished merchant Cataline Utoc of Utoc & Fils in the port of Marseilles, greetings from Oddysio Lisson of Eclipse Trading Company in Venezia on this, the 19
th
day of October, 1792,

My dear Utoc,

I have in hand your letter of September 22
nd
, and I thank you for the efforts you have made on behalf of my employer, Ferenz Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain: I know it cannot have been easy to gather such intelligence. While your people did not discover where he is, they did find out where he isn’t, and that, in its way, is most useful. If you should learn anything of him, I ask you to send me word as quickly as possible. From what I have been able to learn, there have been many changes in France in the last few months, and reports received here are causing a great deal of alarm. If half of what we’re being told is true, how very sad for France.

Would you advise me on what would be best to do? I implore you to be candid with me, for I am in such a dither that I can hardly clear my thoughts enough to consider the problem sensibly. I am considering sending a few of my men to France to make inquiries regarding il Conte. He has, as you know, been traveling with a theatrical troupe, but that may have changed, and since we have had no word from him or about him, I believe it is part of my duties as his factor to do what I can to locate him and discover if any mischance has befallen him. Yet with all the dreadful accounts coming from France, I think it may be possible to increase his danger if there should be inquiries made regarding him. Were you in my position, what would you advise? What little information your agents were able to glean is sufficient to convince me that seeking il Conte out could have exactly the opposite result than what I am hoping for: it could attract notice that would be detrimental to him, and to his trading company.

If there is someone you know who could be of use in sorting out this conundrum, I ask you to send me his name and where he may be found, for I am presently of the opinion that having a Frenchman rather than a Venezian pursue this matter would be prudent at this time, but that may be a misapprehension on my part. As you can see from what I have written, I am of two minds in regard to this state of affairs, and I am certain that nothing I can do or say at this point will answer the problem that confronts me.

You can understand why I am eager to proceed, but in what way do I go? And to what end? How can I gain the information I seek without jeopardizing my inquirer and his object of inquiry? Yet I must do something, and soon. There are ships in need of refitting, and ships that are ready to set out, but without il Conte’s approval, their captains are reluctant to set to sea. Il Conte gave me letters of authorization, but for those captains not based in Venezia, they are dubious about accepting my orders without the certainty that they are il Conte’s as well. In order to keep trading, I must know what has become of il Conte, and the sooner I know, the better.

Whatever guidance you can provide me, I will welcome, and thank you from the depths of my heart for it. Truly, I haven’t any plan that would seem workable at this time, yet it is apparent to me that I must do something, which is why I importune you in this way to lend your wisdom to my predicament.

With a humble heart, I commend myself to your good offices, and thank you for your service on my behalf. May you find rich rewards for your kindness here on earth as well as in Heaven.

Oddysio Lisson

Factor, the Eclipse Trading Company

Venezia

5

In the taproom below, the clock was striking ten, its unmelodic clang penetrating the clamor of the patrons; in her room, Photine sat in front of her mirror, putting the finishing touches on her make-up. She moved the candles a little closer to the shiny surface, then leaned forward and painted the lip rouge on her mouth, taking care to keep the color even. When she was done, she put the small pot of reddened woolfat-and-wax aside, sat back, and subjected herself to critical scrutiny. “This is for Enee,” she whispered over and over to herself, making a litany of the words. “You know how to handle men, my girl,” she told her reflection. “This man is little more than a clerk; Enee needs his good-will. I will secure it for him, if it’s in my power.” Since she had received the invitation from Deputy Secretary Charlot to call at his house to discuss Enee’s case, she had been of two minds. Was he actually willing to accept a bribe to set her son free, or was this a ploy to get her alone with him for other reasons? That was the one possibility that bothered her, and deprived her any trace of a thrill she might have had from such an undertaking; she had seen enough of men to know that they often sought to take advantage of women through their greatest vulnerability—their children. “If it’s my body he wants, so be it, so long as Enee is released,” she said with the firm commitment that she used when she played Antigone, even while trying to decide if she were presenting the appearance Charlot hoped for. Was this what Deputy Secretary for Public Safety Vivien Zacharie Charlot desired? She had tried for a careful mix of matronly and courtesanish. Would he find her pleas convincing? Would he be willing to spare her son? She was still a little perplexed by his agreeing to speak with her about Enee—she had been told by several Guards that the Deputy Secretary did not grant interviews to anyone with a relative in custody, and so had not expected the invitation that had arrived the day before, asking her to call at his house at ten-thirty this evening. “Remember, he’s a man; he will welcome flattery as his due; you know how to do that,” she advised herself.

A ragged chorus of
En Avaunt
rose from the taproom, and the stomping of feet for the verse. It grew steadily louder, then quieted when the innkeeper bellowed something at the singers.

Photine let the stirring melody spur her to action. “It would not do to be late,” she said. Then she frowned at her face in the mirror, once again trying to decide what his purpose might be. “This is for Enee,” she told herself again, resuming her inspection. If only she knew more about his tastes, she could shape her appearance to suit his fancy, but as it was, she would have to find a way to make the most of the evening or leave Enee to the capricious mercy of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Courts—a thought that left her queasy. Deciding at last that she had done what she could to make herself compelling, she blew out her dressing-table candle and got to her feet, her taffeta petticoats rustling as she moved. Her corsage was simple—white silk embroidered with pale flowers, with a small ruff around the Italian neckline—and complemented the light-green sash that set off her figure admirably, and made the silken skirt flare over the very moderate bolster-roll beneath. She took her evening cloak—a fashionable garment of super-fine wool lined in pale-blue satin—and drew it over her elegant attire, picked up her muff by thrusting her left hand into it, and after a last glance in the mirror, let herself out of her room, moving as quietly as she could along the corridor. It would be difficult to explain to her troupe what she was doing, going out so late at night—she reminded herself that her departure had to be clandestine, “For Enee’s sake.”