Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

“Madame,” he said. He looked at Terrye Jo. “Mademoiselle. There is nothing here to rob—this is a prison, not a treasure house.”

  He seemed unusually calm, even with a dangerous weapon wielded by a dangerous person pointed directly at him.

  “We only want one thing,” Sherrilyn said, “and we’ll be on our way.”

  “And that thing is?”

  “One of your prisoners.”

  LeBarre looked suddenly very alarmed. This was a sore point of some sort; Terrye Jo wasn’t sure just why.

  While she tried to figure it out, someone came through the door. “Warden,” he said, “I—”

  Terrye Jo Tillman didn’t have the dramatic flair that Sherrilyn Maddox had acquired as part of the Wrecking Crew, but her reflexes were still fairly good. She whirled, drawing her own pistol, and suddenly found herself face to face with Henri Durant. Her former apprentice stopped speaking and slowly raised his hands in front of him.

  She gestured with her weapon, directing him into the room to stand next to the warden, who stood with a mug in each hand, unmoving.

  “This is very dangerous ground, mesdames,” the warden said. “The prisoner you seek—it would be worth my life to give him up.”

  “Because he ticked off a high and mighty?” Sherrilyn said. “Believe me when I tell you that anyone who’s capable of angering someone important has a friend in a high place who’ll protect him. And you.”

  “This is an…unusual case. The important person is very important indeed.”

  “He’s right,” Terrye Jo said. “The king of France is pretty important.”

  “The king? Non,” LeBarre said. “His mother.”

  “Phillippe de la Mothe pissed off Queen Marie?” Sherrilyn said, sounding incredulous. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be easy, but—”

  “De la Mothe?” LeBarre’s face brightened. “You’re here for de la Mothe?”

  “…Yeah,” Sherrilyn said. “Who did you think we wanted? The Count of Monte Crisco?”

  “Monte Cristo,” Terrye Jo said.

  “I know. Joke. Forget it.” She waved her pistol at the two men. “Just who do you have that’s that important?”

  LeBarre got the alarmed look on his face again. Sherrilyn moved her thumb to cock the hammer of the pistol, but it was more for effect: it was obvious that the warden was scared of something—or someone—more than he was scared of having Sherrilyn Maddox blow his head off.

  “We want Phillippe de la Mothe-Haudencourt,” Sherrilyn said. “Terrye Jo, why don’t you get this other guy to take you to him.”

  “Mademoiselle Terrye Jo,” Henri said, his voice quavering a bit, “I don’t know what—”

  “Wait. You know her?”

  “I trained Henri as a telegrapher,” Terrye Jo said. “So yes.”

  “Then maybe he’ll do a friend a favor,” Sherrilyn said. “Assuming you’re still friends.”

  “I’ll…take you to him,” Henri said. “He is…not a prisoner, though. He is responsible for a prisoner.”

  “Durant—” LeBarre began.

  “You shut up.” Sherrilyn waved LeBarre to a seat at the table; he took two steps and sat, still holding the two mugs and looking bewildered, looking as if he wondered how he could suddenly be at his own dining-table at gunpoint. Still, there was less fear in his eyes than Sherrilyn expected.

  “Lead the way,” Terrye Jo said. She smiled—but didn’t lower her pistol.

  * * *

  Henri Durant did not speak as he ascended the tower stairs ahead of Terrye Jo. She didn’t holster her weapon, but let the edge of her riding-cloak wrap around it so it wasn’t so obvious. Her old friend looked scared and wary; she wanted to reassure him, but she also wanted to carry through the mission—to get the man they came for and get out before anyone needed to blow anyone’s head off.

  Finally they reached the top of the tower. There was a barred door, secured from the outside. A guard lounged in a chair nearby, but jumped to attention as they approached. He reached for his halberd, but froze when he saw Terrye Jo, who made her pistol once again visible.

  “Henri,” she said, waving him over to the guard, “get the keys and open this door.”

  “Mademoiselle Tillman,” Henri said. “Mademoiselle Terrye Jo. It is very dangerous, this thing you are doing. It would be far better if your troop left at once.”

  “We’re here for a reason, Henri. I’m not in command, but the person who is will absolutely kick my ass if I don’t do my part. Now get the door open before I have to do something we’ll both regret.”

  Henri Durant hesitated only a moment more, then walked to where the guard stood. He extended his hand and received a ring of keys, then stepped to the door and inserted the correct one in the lock. He swung the door outward to reveal a reasonably spacious cell; a well-dressed man stood facing the door, with another man sitting at a small table, his head turned away: he seemed to be wearing some sort of metal helm. When he turned, Terrye Jo saw…

  “Damn,” she said. “Not the Count of Monte Cristo—it’s the Man in the Iron Mask.”

  * * *

  Sherrilyn knew that it would be easy to let her attention drift, so she made a point of studying the warden of Miolans while she waited for Terrye Jo to return with Phillippe de la Mothe-Haudencourt. LeBarre had reacted with surprise and annoyance when she’d stuck her pistol in his face, but he didn’t seem to be angry now—he was almost smug.

  “I must commend you for your nerve, ‘Colonel’—assuming that to be a title you deserve,” he said. “That you believe that you can come right in here and get what you want so easily.”

  “‘Nobody move or the nose gets it,’” she answered.

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind. Yes, it’s a legitimate title—I was commissioned by a marshal of France. Thanks for the compliment: yes, I see no reason why we can’t get what we want and get out, no one gets hurt.”

  “Perhaps in that up-time world of yours,” LeBarre said. “But we are not so gullible. As soon as I was informed of a troop of soldiers coming to Miolans, I was suspicious. What’s more, I am completely unconvinced that you are here to ‘rescue’ that popinjay de la Mothe. You want our special prisoner.”

  “Special prisoner?”

  “Please do not dissemble with me, Colonel.” He might have accepted that she was deserving of the title, but it was a sneering tone nonetheless. “You think that you can meddle in the affairs of your betters, but you cannot hope to succeed.”

  “So? What are you going to do about it?”

  “More to the point, Mademoiselle,” LeBarre said, “it is what I have already done about it. You may have found it easy to get into Miolans…but you may find getting out much more difficult.”

  “I don’t think there’s much time,” Terrye Jo said to de la Mothe. Yep, she thought to herself: that’s some nose. “You’d better come with me, monsieur.”

  De la Mothe turned to face the masked prisoner. “He’s coming with me.”

  “Who is he, anyway?”

  “I am not sure,” de la Mothe said. “But I would not condemn him to remain in this state.”

  “Let’s get the mask off,” Terrye Jo said. “Do you have the key?”

  “The warden has it. And I don’t know where he keeps it.”

  She reached into her belt for a second pistol and handed it to de la Mothe, then walked over to the masked prisoner.

  “If you will permit, Monsieur,” she said, and took hold of the lock just below the chin. She gave it a slight tug; it seemed very solid. “With the right tools I could probably pick the lock, but it would be easier if I just used the key.”

  “You are an up-timer,” the prisoner said. “Is that not so?”

  “Yes. I assumed that was obvious.”

  “You go at this problem the way all up-timers do,” he said. “Straight ahead, with no regard for consequences.”

  “Right now, I’m mostly concerned with getting this mission done and getting out of here. Monsi
eur de la Mothe is right, though: no one should be given this treatment. Frankly, I think we should let everybody out—except that this is the middle of nowhere.”

  “I think it’s a splendid idea,” de la Mothe said, without looking away from Henri and the guard. “Though I confess that I don’t know why you’re here.”

  “Because when Sherrilyn Maddox gets an idea into her head,” Terrye Jo said, “she doesn’t let go of it.”

  “Colonel Maddox is here? To rescue me? Très gallant,” said de la Mothe. “L’homme masqué is right: I should have seen her hand in this from the very beginning. She is the most up-timerish of all of the up-timers I have ever met.

  “But it cannot be possible that we will simply ride out of here unopposed.”

  “We’ll see about that. In the meanwhile, we should get downstairs and see what’s happening. Henri,” Terrye Jo said to her former apprentice, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this. Go sit over there.” She pointed at the little table. “And you, Giuseppe, or whatever your name might be—go sit next to him.”

  With weapons still drawn and aimed at Henri and the guard, they backed out of the room, then securely locked the door before making their way down the stairs—de la Mothe helping the masked man to keep him from a misstep.

  * * *

  Sherrilyn’s knee had begun to throb, but she wasn’t about to sit down while she was keeping an eye trained on—and a gun aimed at—LeBarre. She’d relieved him of the cheese knife, so he was contenting himself with bread torn from the loaf. The smell of it was making her hungry, but she wasn’t about to let herself be distracted by that either.

  Through the thick glass windows of LeBarre’s pantry she could see that the rest of the Rangers had organized themselves as she’d ordered. One of the senior men had put his head in and had received orders, and a warning that there might well be visitors, and to find the radio shack and disable it.

  She was just beginning to think that Terrye Jo had been gone too long—what’s the freakin’ delay, child? Ran through her head—when she heard footsteps: two or three sets, coming at speed. She placed herself against a sideboard, where she could keep her eyes on the doorway and on LeBarre, and raised her pistol.

  The first person through the door was Phillippe de la Mothe-Haudencourt, and for a moment her stomach gave a most unprofessional jump. Even in whatever situation he was in here in Miolans, even in the middle of nowhere, it was clear that he hadn’t stopped paying attention to his appearance: the moustaches were carefully trimmed and arranged, his clothes were properly arrayed, and he removed his hat and gave Sherrilyn a most gentlemanly bow.

  “No time for that,” she snapped, but she was far less annoyed than she tried to sound. He seemed to see right through it. But the noblesse only lasted a moment before he stepped aside to reveal a man dressed in rough-spun clothing with some sort of helmet on his head. Terrye Jo was just behind, sharing her attention between the doorway and Sherrilyn.

  “The Man in the Iron Mask?” She looked from the door to LeBarre. “Are you serious? Who the hell has been reading Dumas?”

  “You need to ask,” LeBarre said. “But in all earnest, madame. Everyone reads Dumas. There is someone who has paid particular attention.”

  “Enough of that. We’re going to get that thing off, Monsieur, whoever you are.”

  “There will be consequences,” he said, the headgear making his voice sound strange and hollow.

  “Don’t care,” Sherrilyn said. “Terrye Jo, do you think you can get that off, or will I have to shoot the lock?”

  “I think I have the tools,” she answered, and disappeared, presumably headed for the courtyard.

  “It sounds like our friend the warden has called up reinforcements,” Sherrilyn said to de la Mothe. “He assumes that we’re here for the masked man. Whatever got you put here in this spot, monsieur?”

  “Friends in high places.”

  “Such as who?”

  “Madame,” the man said, “if you unlock this prison and learn my identity, you put yourself and everyone here, even Monsieur le Warden, in extremely great danger. Those who did this will spare no efforts to pursue you.”

  “Let ’em try.”

  “Your up-timer bravado is impressive.”

  “Your up-timer bravado is foolhardy,” LeBarre said. “Like that prancing fool—what’s his name? Leffer?”

  Sherrilyn turned to face LeBarre, pointing her pistol directly at him and cocking the hammer. “Lefferts. Harry Lefferts. Say one more word about him, monsieur, and I will most assuredly blow your head all over this room. Are we clear?”

  “Abundantly,” LeBarre answered. His voice was more level than Sherrilyn would have expected.

  “She means it,” de la Mothe said. LeBarre shot him a nasty look.

  Terrye Jo reappeared in the doorway, rucksack in hand. “If you’d sit down, monsieur,” she said to the masked man, “it’ll be easier.”

  He took up a position on a small settle and placed his hands on his knees. Terrye Jo knelt down and opened the rucksack, pulling out a rolled-up piece of leather; she spread it out, and reached for a pair of small picks. In short order she was working on the heavy lock.

  “I don’t need to wonder how you learned to do that,” Sherrilyn said admiringly. “Army, I’m guessing?”

  “Grantville High,” Terrye Jo said without turning around.

  “Really.”

  “Good thing that’s a long time ago and a long time from now,” she said. “Now let me work.”

  De la Mothe and Sherrilyn exchanged a glance but kept quiet. After a few minutes there was a satisfying click as tumblers fell into place, and Terrye Jo gave the lock a jerk; it opened and came easily off in her hands. She carefully separated the front of the helmet from the shell and drew it up over the prisoner’s head.

  He was a bearded man past middle age, with what remained of a clerical tonsure. His piercing eyes were his most compelling feature, and they looked from LeBarre to Sherrilyn and finally to de la Mothe, who looked extremely surprised.

  “Père,” he said, kneeling and placing his hands on those of the other man. “If I’d known…”

  “It’s all right,” he answered. “It was not intended for you to know. Whatever problems this solves, it creates a host of new ones. Still,” he added running one of his hands through thinning hair that glistened with sweat, “it’s good to get that cursed thing off and take a deep breath.”

  “Care to introduce us?” Sherrilyn said.

  “You don’t know who this is?”

  “We don’t exactly live in a world with cable TV, Phillippe. He’s obviously a priest, but I have no idea which one.”

  De la Mothe scrambled to his feet. “Sherrilyn—Colonel Maddox. I have the honor to present Joseph Tremblay, Cardinal in pectore of the Holy Mother Church. A…confidante and particular friend to the late Cardinal-Duke de Richelieu.”

  * * *

  As they stood in the courtyard, Sherrilyn heard a low, sharp whistle from the wall: the signal for incoming.

  “We need to get all of us out of here,” she said. “But I really am not sure how. We’re not leaving you behind, Eminence,” she added to Tremblay, “but I think you’re the one they want the most.”

  “That is without doubt,” he said. “Though they may not know they are after me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would assume that Queen Marie kept my identity a close secret.” He gestured toward the mask, which Terrye Jo had hung from her saddle. “They may only know that they are to protect a masked prisoner.”

  “If we bug out and there’s no masked prisoner with us,” she said, “they may not bother with us.”

  “If there’s no masked prisoner, Colonel,” Tremblay replied, “they’ll assume that you removed the mask.”

  “We weren’t going to leave it in place.”

  “For which I thank you, mademoiselle. But it causes this predicament.”

  Sherrilyn looked at the ground, and kicke
d the dirt with one boot. This was supposed to be simple. Harry always said that simple plans were the best—in and out, clear objectives, quick solutions.

  Terrye Jo is going to give me such a raft of abuse—she told me so. She said this wasn’t going to be easy, and the girl was right, and there’ll be no way to deny it. They’ll assume we took the mask off.

  Unless they see someone wearing it.

  “Phillippe,” she said, “are you up for a fast ride?”

  “Meaning what?”

  She went to Terrye Jo’s horse and picked up the mask. “His Eminence pointed out the obvious a minute ago—that anyone coming to reinforce Heritage USA here is going to be looking for a prisoner wearing this thing.” She held it up. “We didn’t come to break him out—we came to break you out—but they’ll assume otherwise. So we need to give them what they want: a man in an iron mask, escaping.”

  “And how do I come into this?”

  She didn’t answer, but looked from him to the mask and back again.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “My boys can all ride reasonably well,” she said. “But you’re the best horseman I know. Put this on, and the two of us haul it as fast as we can—they’ll go after us.”

  “And the rest can leave without being pursued. Unless, of course, they split up.”

  Sherrilyn whistled loudly, with a slightly different pitch than the warning. One of the men turned and put up a hand with one finger down.

  “There are about forty men,” she said. “If they stay together we can outrun them. If they split up, we outgun them. Bastien,” she said to an older Ranger standing a few feet away. “You’re in command—you know how this plays.”

  The man smiled in a way that would be disturbing if he were on the opposite side of the fight; to Sherrilyn it was vaguely reassuring.

  “So what do you think, Phillippe? Are you up for this?”

  He gave a dubious look at the mask, shuddering very slightly. “This is a stupid plan.”

  “You’re damn right. But it’s what I’ve got.”

  “Very well, Madame. My fate—and apparently my head—is in your hands.” He reached out his hand and took the heavy metal mask, taking a moment to gaze into its depths.