Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  “So you’ve made your morning oblation?” Gilles was very devout, but not of the school that thought the Ring of Fire—and up-time technology—was the work of the Devil. Thank God, Henri thought to himself.

  “Oui, of course. The curé asks after you.”

  A likely story, Henri thought. “He knows that I keep faith in my own way.”

  Gilles sniffed and dropped into the other seat beside the work table. The chair legs seemed to cry out in protest. “Really quite singular,” he continued. “One of the prisoners was at the mass, if you can imagine.”

  “Well, the curé doesn’t like Hell or Purgatory, certainement.”

  “Non. It was the special prisoner, Henri. He was all the way in the back of the chapel away from everyone, except his valet de chambre, that la Mothe fellow. He was wearing gloves over his hands—I saw them when he crossed himself—and a heavy cloak and hood that completely concealed his face. The Dottore told me that it’s a wonder he could see where he was going.”

  “Dottore Baldaccio attends Mass? I thought he was a man of science.”

  “Even men of science bow before the glory of God,” Gilles said, his face assuming a beatific smile. “And I will have you know that Dottore Baldaccio is a particular friend of mine, and takes a great interest in the work I do here.”

  “Does he indeed.”

  Gilles gave Henri a curious look, as if trying to determine some hidden meaning; then, finding none, returned to his subject. “The prisoner has not been there before,” Gilles said. “I wonder why he was permitted to attend. Perhaps he is a monk or priest. Still, he made no confession.”

  “How could he? No one is permitted to speak to him.”

  “Well, that’s true enough. But if he is a monk—imagine, a monk sent here to Miolans!—shouldn’t he have a confessor?”

  “Maybe he confesses himself to Sieur de la Mothe.”

  Gilles frowned. Humor was something of a foreign language for the big Savoyard, especially where it intersected with matters of the Church. “Well,” he said at last, spreading his hands. “Who knows with these things.” He rubbed them together as if he was about to make fire. “Are you ready to be relieved?”

  “Well past,” Henri said. “Have a good shift.” He stood, patted Gilles on his broad back and walked through the narrow door and down the steps, on his way into the cool morning air.

  A few hours later, Gilles laboriously took down a message from a source he’d never heard of: it was something routine, a visit by a troop of soldiers heading along the road to Turin. He finished making a fair copy and carefully filed it away. By mid-morning there were a half-dozen messages piled on top.

  In the highlands near Chambery

  “I still don’t like this plan,” Terrye Jo said, squinting up at the sky, which was filled with low clouds. “I feel like we’re riding into Mordor.”

  “That’s more than a bit melodramatic.”

  “Sherrilyn,” she said, “it’s a freakin’ prison. If anything goes wrong all they have to do is throw us down the stairs.”

  “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “What makes you so sure? Do you feel it in your knee like a change in the weather?”

  Sherrilyn glared at the younger woman, tightening her grip on her horse’s reins. Terrye Jo would have bet on white knuckles inside her riding gloves.

  “Are you asking me to kick your ass? Look,” she said, frowning like she used to do when the PE class wasn’t behaving, “no plan is perfect, but this one is very, very simple. We are a troop of soldiers—”

  “I know. I sent the message. It wasn’t Henri who took it: I didn’t recognize the fist. It was someone new, someone not very good. They may not have even gotten it right.”

  “So much the better. So, as I was saying: we’re a troop of soldiers headed for Turin. We just want to stop to water and fodder our horses. Once we get inside—”

  “We all pull out our weapons and say, ‘nobody move or the nose gets it.’”

  “Come again?”

  “Sleeper. Woody Allen. Forget it. What possibly makes you think that even if we are able to get your friend out, they won’t come after us? They have soldiers—guards—”

  “You told me that the warden was a boob, and that they didn’t have many guards because they relied on being remote to keep prisoners from escaping.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Nowhere. Wildernessville.”

  “They have a radio.”

  “We take the crystal.”

  Terrye Jo thought about that for a moment, then said, “this is really one of those things where no one does anything until we’re well away, and then all they can do is complain.”

  “Right. And who are we going to get in trouble—King Gaston? We don’t like King Gaston. Marshal Turenne? The duke of Savoy already doesn’t like Turenne. Believe me,” Sherrilyn said, “once we get Henri away and back to the marshal, he’ll thank us for it.”

  4

  Miolans, Savoy

  Warden LeBarre poured another glass of what he supposed was excellent wine into Phillippe de la Mothe’s glass. He smiled his insincere smile, and de la Mothe returned it in equal measure.

  “So tell me, monsieur,” LeBarre said, sipping from his own glass. “How are you getting on with your charge?”

  “With the mystery man? I attend to his needs, which are few; we talk—”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know.” There was a hollow space beneath the floorboards of the tower room where the masked prisoner was kept; LeBarre’s inept spies had a great deal of trouble keeping quiet. “We talk about inconsequential things—the weather, the lives of the saints, that sort of business. All rather boring, really.”

  “It is for the best that way. But…surely you have your suspicions as to his identity.”

  “I am firmly committed to keeping my head attached to my shoulders, Monsieur le Warden. Whatever I privately think, I do not intend to discuss it with you or anyone else.”

  “Yes, yes, of course…still, who could be counted so great an enemy to have this punishment?”

  “I would say that the punishment is mild when compared to some of the pleasures your torturers inflict. He is well-fed; he sees the sunlight, and is permitted a few books and the freedom to move about. You even very graciously permitted him to hear mass a few days ago.”

  “But the mask—”

  “Compared to fetters and hot iron pokers, it seems a mere inconvenience.”

  “Perhaps we should have one fitted up for you.” He laughed with equal insincerity.

  “You have consistently told me that I am a guest here, rather than a prisoner. It might have been that the king wished to condemn me to this or that, but his royal mother decided that she had a better use for me. I would not want to impair my usefulness even to satisfy you.”

  “I…only meant—”

  Invoking Marie de Medici, even if not by name, was enough to make LeBarre shudder in fear; if the matter were not so serious, and if—and it pained de la Mothe to even think thus—the goodwill of the prison’s warden were not crucial to his good health, he might have laughed in his face.

  “Her Highness the dowager queen does what she wishes, but does it largely out of the sight of the king. If it is far from the center of real power, so be it—but you doubt her influence, and her capability to do mischief, at your own peril, monsieur.”

  “I do not…I do not doubt it in the least, Monsieur de la Mothe. I would not dream of doubting her in this matter. And if you ever have the honor of an interview with her, I hope you will convey my fondest respects.”

  Of course, you insipid little worm, de la Mothe thought. As if I’d ever get a chance for an audience with Marie de Medici…though she seemed to be on the outs with Gaston.

  She couldn’t be scheming against him, could she?

  “Should that ever happen,” de la Mothe said, “I will not hesitate to do so.”

  * * *

  De la Moth
e took the prisoner his meals three times a day: a small pétit dejeuner early in the morning—a small sweet roll from the warden’s own kitchen and a dish of weak coffee; a bowl of some sort of stew in the afternoon, usually with an apple that de la Mothe cut into sections so that the masked man could manage to eat it; and a light repast after vespers, usually again whatever the warden had on his table—mutton most often, as LeBarre seemed to favor it.

  His charge was always gracious and polite. Inside his apartments he didn’t bother with the hood: de la Mothe always got a good view of the locked, masked helmet, reflecting the light through the windows or the flicker of candles, which he was permitted, and which he carefully husbanded between uses. The latter were only to be used when de la Mothe himself was present, and it was he who was to take a spill from the fire and light it.

  On the evening after his tête-a-tête with LeBarre, de la Mothe had brought the dinner up as usual and had lit the candles. The masked man was reading slowly from his breviary, his soft whisper echoing weirdly from within his metal prison. He did not acknowledge his keeper, which was a little surprising; after a few minutes, de la Mothe rose and walked over to the table where the prisoner was intently reading. He wasn’t sure what he might do—rap on the helmet? Tap him on the shoulder? When suddenly the man reached out and with a surprisingly strong grip pulled de la Mothe’s hand down to the table, palm splayed flat.

  The masked man lifted his head, and de la Mothe could see the eyes through the shadowed holes. They were fierce, feverish, reflecting the flickering candle light. He did not speak; but de la Mothe felt something under his palm.

  The prisoner nodded once, very slightly, and let go of de la Mothe’s hand. He lifted it and came away with a small scrap of cloth: a scapular, bearing a worn image of a radiant heart—the Sacred Heart of the Saviour.

  “It opens doors,” he said in an almost inaudible whisper.

  Anyone listening to the exchange, and it was almost certain that someone was, would likely be unable to make any sense of it.

  De la Mothe took the scapular and began to tuck it into his wallet, but the masked man softly clapped his chest with his open palm. De la Mothe stopped; he nodded, briefly kissed the image, and pulled it over his neck and settled it over his breast under his blouse.

  He walked over to the corner where the fire threw light and shadow into the room. “You know, my friend,” he said, “I begin to doubt whether either of us will ever leave this place alive.”

  “We have an audience for our conversations, I do not need to remind you.”

  “I don’t care,” de la Mothe said, turning to face the room. “The warden tried to play at questions with me this afternoon—he wanted to know if I had any suspicions as to your identity. I assured him that who you are, what you are, is nothing I care to discuss in public. But it troubles me to think about it, about who and what would anger the dowager queen of France so much that she would do—”

  “She is a very dangerous woman,” the prisoner interrupted, holding up a hand. “She is not the king, and she is not the Lord God.” He genuflected, and de la Mothe followed suit. “But…” he raised his hand to the metal mask that covered his face. “She appears to be well-read in up-time literature, and she does have a macabre sense of humor. I have learned to be patient, Monsieur de la Mothe. You, too, must be patient.” He clapped his hand to his chest once more, as if to remind him of the small gift that had passed between them. “And trust in Divine Providence.”

  “Until—”

  “As long as necessary, my friend. As long as necessary.”

  5

  Miolans, Savoy

  Henri had become fairly comfortable at the fortress—he was liked and respected, holding the responsible position of head telegrapher. It was not often that he felt a cold chill.

  A few mornings after the conversation with Gilles about the special prisoner, he was taking his early constitutional along the main parapet. He looked out at the road leading west toward Lyon, and saw a troop of soldiers approaching. They bore no banner and, while obviously well-equipped, wore no livery or uniform.

  He asked the use of a spyglass from his friend Guillaume, an older pensioner among the guards, and gazed through it. To his surprise, it seemed that the column was being led by a woman—possibly an up-timer—and that riding beside her was another woman. With a start he recognized her.

  What in the name of all the saints is Mademoiselle Tillman doing here? He thought. And what is she doing riding with a group of soldiers?

  It was then that the cold chill struck with full force.

  This couldn’t happen in a void—someone must know about it. There must have been a message, but he didn’t remember recording one.

  He took the stairs two at a time down from the wall, crossed the courtyard and to the tower where the telegraph was located. The wide wire array caught the morning sun as he ran inside, bounding up the stairs as quickly as he could.

  Gilles was sitting at the apparatus, painfully tapping out some message with one beefy finger. When Henri came in, he sent the last few characters and then turned to face him.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Did you record a message regarding the arrival of some soldiers?”

  At first the big Savoyard looked at Henri as if he was speaking a foreign language, but then the question seemed to register. He nodded and gestured toward the “in” tray.

  Henri reached up and pulled down a small stack of pencilled messages, all carefully numbered and dated, in various hands including Gilles’ blocky script and his own more careful lettering. There was nothing regarding soldiers—

  Then, suddenly, he saw that a slip of paper had fallen down behind the shelf. It was from three days earlier, and noted that a troop would be coming from the west, stopping to water and fodder their mounts.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Yes. Yes…nothing critical. Go back to work.”

  “You’re sure? I remember getting that one, Henri. I didn’t recognize the call sign.”

  Henri took the message and tucked it into his vest. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “If I—”

  Henri jerked a thumb at the apparatus. “Aren’t you supposed to be listening?”

  Gilles took the hint, put the earphones back on, and hunched his shoulders—a sign that he was concentrating.

  * * *

  Henri was torn: clearly there was something about to happen—and the fortress was unready. If he hadn’t picked out Terrye Jo Tillman, who he considered a friend but who he hadn’t heard from in ages, his duty would be clear: go directly to the warden and inform him exactly what was coming. But he had, and things were more muddled because of it.

  Up-timers had been proscribed in France by order of King Gaston. If she was here—if the two Grantvilleuse women were here—they might be escaping that proscription. He had nothing against Terrye Jo: in fact, as far as he knew, neither did His Grace. These soldiers might be friendly. But the warden might misinterpret things, for whatever reason…

  He hesitated long enough that the troop reached the bridge over the foss that surrounded the fortress, and was slowly crossing it, by the time he resolved to go down to the warden’s reception room.

  * * *

  “Let me handle this,” Terrye Jo said to Sherrilyn as they dismounted in the courtyard. She could already see Warden LeBarre walking quickly to meet them.

  “Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle—” he began, clearly unused to such exertions—and also clearly not in possession of her name.

  “Tillman,” she said. “Monsieur LeBarre. I was here last spring with His Highness King Gaston.” She smiled her best disarming smile. “You made some insightful remarks about the cruel world of up-time.”

  “Mademoiselle Tillman,” he said, panting just a bit. “Insightful? Ah, yes. The tortures.” He smiled in a slightly disturbing way. “Have you come back to observe?”

  “No, monsieur. Nothing l
ike that. I am traveling with this troop, and they have need of water for their mounts, and to rest and fodder them before we travel on. I told the colonel—” she gestured to Sherrilyn, who was standing next to her horse, innocuously adjusting the strap on a saddlebag—“that you had been most hospitable, and that it would be an ideal place to stop. I hope this is not too great an imposition.”

  “Imposition?” He blinked, looking at two dozen well-armed soldiers in his courtyard. He glanced nervously at the walls; there were eight or nine guards, two with flintlock muskets in none-too-good repair, the rest with halberds that had seen very little use. “No, not at all. In fact, I—I was just taking my breakfast. Perhaps you would care to join me, mademoiselle.”

  “We’d love to.”

  “We,” he repeated, glancing again at the soldiers. “Mademoiselle…my table is very modest, very small—”

  Terrye Jo smiled again. “I meant only myself and the colonel. The rest of these fine lads will remain in the courtyard.” She beckoned to Sherrilyn. “Breakfast?”

  “Breakfast,” she repeated, nodding. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “After you, monsieur,” she said, gesturing toward the main hall.

  LeBarre turned and led them across the yard and under an archway. Terrye Jo and Sherrilyn followed close behind. As they passed from the bright sunlight into the dim coolness of the building, Sherrilyn caught Terrye Jo’s eye and nodded.

  LeBarre’s small dining room was just off the main hall, and the table was set with bread—still warm, from the smell—a wedge of cheese and three apples. There was a pitcher and a ceramic mug on the table as well. LeBarre turned to his pantry cabinet and pulled down two additional mugs…and when he turned around he found himself face to face with the business end of a handsome reproduction of an 1861 Colt pistol.

  “This can be very easy,” Sherrilyn said softly but menacingly, “or very, very hard.”