Broken Wings

by Judith James

  Stepping calmly around the body and its widening pool of blood, Gabriel barred the door and went to immerse himself in the fountain. He spent several minutes scrubbing away all traces of de Sevigny, his touch, his scent, his blood. When he was done, he began rifling through the count's trunks, throwing the treasures he found there haphazardly onto the silk-covered bed. A pair of leather riding boots, a finely made burnoose, and copper-plated leather gloves. He opened another trunk and smiled slightly, pulling from it a sword belt and a cuirass ornamented with gold calligraphy, made of black steel plates and chain.

  Retrieving the dagger, he sat on the edge of the bed and began working at the iron around his ankle. Loose fitting and flimsy, it had been meant for decoration, a sign of ownership, and he was able to pry it open with little difficulty. He put on gloves, trousers, boots, and cuirass, and cinched the burnoose with the sword belt, before going to examine the weapons that decorated the wall. He hadn't felt naked without his clothes, but he had without a weapon, and now he equipped himself with short sword and pistol, as well as his Toledo blade. Drawing the blade with a lightning flourish, he whirled it about in a dazzling sequence of maneuvers before sheathing it. It felt good to be armed again.

  Scooping gold and jewelry from a casket beside de Sevigny's bed, he wrapped them in a silk cloth, tying them into a small purse and tucking it under his robe. People saw what they expected to see, and he was no longer a slave. Now he was a wealthy renegado. All was quiet. He needed a moment to plan and gather his thoughts. Peeling an orange, he sat back in the window seat, one leg dangling down, and gazed out into the night.

  Chapter

  28

  The guards would have to be killed. There could be no one left to identify him or raise an alarm. His freedom and his life depended on it. He had managed to avoid bloodshed in the past, except for the German, and de Sevigny, of course. It hadn't been necessary. Now he was pumped with energy, still fueled by his hatred, and Davey had trained him well. He supposed he would accustom himself to it. He drew the Spanish steel from its scabbard with a metallic hiss, tossing and catching it contemplatively, pondering his first move. The only real advantage he had was surprise. He would need to be silent and quick.

  Retrieving the chain from where he'd dropped it on the bed, he wrapped it loosely around his left forearm and strode to the door, sword drawn. Lifting the bar, he kicked it open and stepped out into the corridor. The startled guard hesitated a moment, blinking, surprised and confused, not recognizing him in his warrior's garb. That split second of indecision was his last, as the silver blue blade sliced down, cutting through artery and bone. His lips were still twitching as Gabriel stalked down the hall.

  He loosened the chain as he went, unwrapping a three-foot length and swinging it, gathering momentum. The doors to the suite opened outward. The guards stationed on the other side of the door were conditioned to prevent entry, not exit. They were sitting at a table rolling dice when he burst upon them. The chain whooshed and swooped through the air catching one on the temple, felling him instantly. The second man gave a shout of anger and leapt at him, his scimitar cutting downward in a death stroke. Gabriel threw himself flat and the sword whistled above him, slashing through empty air. Lashing out with the chain, he caught the man around the throat, strangling the breath from him and jerking him down to the floor. Cursing, praying no one had heard the cry, Gabriel gripped the chain with both hands and twisted as his opponent struggled for his life, kicking and heaving, his hands desperately scrabbling to loosen it. A jerk, a sudden snap, and he lay still.

  Panting for breath, Gabriel leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor. He'd been months without proper practice, his ribs were still tender, his arm ached, and he had yet to fully regain his strength. He was fortunate no one had heard. The hardest part was before him. At last count, there were at least three men at the guard post on the lower floor.

  Edging stealthily down the staircase, he kept his back to the wall, sword drawn and chain at the ready, hiding in shadow as he surveyed the area. One man was lounging back in his chair, his feet resting on a battered desk, eyes closed. Another had his back to Gabriel, and was leaning against a pillar smoking a long Turkish pipe and looking out onto the courtyard. He couldn't see the third.

  Bursting into the hall, he sent the chain snaking through the air, felling the sleeping guard so quickly he never woke up. He let go of the chain as the second man jumped him from behind, shouting for help as he grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head back to cut his throat. Gabriel managed to grab his wrist before the blade descended. Turning into him, he tripped him and threw him to the ground, kneeling on his chest to slice his throat. Catching a glimpse of move­ment reflected in the dying man's eyes, he whirled to his feet, wheeling to strike, catching the last man through the heart.

  Chest heaving, rasping for breath, he stumbled to the desk and rifled through the drawers, finding two sets of keys. Hooking a lantern with his fingers, he opened the door to the cellar, starting down the stairs. "Valmont? Chevalier?"

  Le Chevalier de Valmont sat up, blinking with surprise. "St. Croix? Is it you?"

  "Out, e'est moi."

  "Bon Dieu! What's happened to you? You look like a desert prince!"

  "Never mind that now. I'm leaving, Valmont. There's not much time, and I want to be as far from here as possible before daybreak. Do you come with me?

  "Yes. Yes, of course!"

  "Good. Try your chains with these while I work at the door." Gabriel tossed him a set of keys.

  "What... how ... what's become of our guards?" the chevalier asked as he worked at the lock. "Ah, there, I have it!"

  "They're dead."

  "All of them?" he asked incredulously.

  "No, there should be two more on the roof, and two at the front gate."

  "What is your plan, and what of our ... patron?"

  "De Sevigny is no more, and my plan is to escape," Gabriel grunted, giving the cell door a shove with his shoulder and forcing it open. "Come, follow me."

  "How do you know him? Was he your lover?"

  "I wouldn't call it that," Gabriel said sourly. "I was little more than a child, Valmont."

  "You are not his catamite, then?"

  "No! Leave off, Chevalier," he said dangerously, "or remain behind. I do not care to discuss it."

  Chastened, but still curious, the chevalier followed Gabriel up the stairs. Surveying the carnage in the hall, he eyed his companion with newfound respect. Stepping fastidiously over the two dead bodies on the second floor, he was surprised to see yet another corpse as they entered the luxurious apartments at the end of the hall.

  "Bon Dieu, mon ami, you frighten me! Where did you learn to fight like that?" "My cousin taught me."

  "The privateer captain? Who is this cousin of yours?"

  "He's called Gypsy Davey."

  "Is it so? I have heard of him. He is a famed captain of mercenary. They say none can best him. How fortunate for you to have such a man as your teacher!"

  "Yes, very. Shall we take our leave now, Valmont?"

  "Yes, indeed, my dear."

  "Come," Gabriel motioned, "you can equip yourself in here."

  Two things caught the chevalier's immediate attention as he entered their former patron's bedchamber. One was the bubbling fountain splashing against the tiles, and the other was their former patron's corpse, lying splayed on the floor in a pool of blood. "You've been terribly busy, I see. And very... efficient. In fact, St. Croix, I would have to say that you are one of the most efficient men I have ever met."

  "Hurry up please, Valmont. Take what you need and let's go."

  "Yes, of course, after I have availed myself of a bath."

  "We haven't the time."

  "J'y suis, j'y reste. Go without me if you must, Gabriel. You smell sweet as sin, but it's been six months since I've felt clean and I am covered in filth. I will bathe."

  "Hurry, then," Gabriel said, pulling out clothes for him.

 
The chevalier happily immersed himself in the fountain, scrubbing away months of filth and grime before contentedly dressing himself.

  "Et Men, mon frere. What is our plan from here?"

  "We will remove the sentries on the roof, slip down to the stables and take some horses, remove the guards at the front gate, and quietly leave town as two wealthy renegados. You speak their language fluently, we both speak the lingua Franca, and if we are well armed and mounted, no one will question that we are what we seem."

  With Valmont's help, Gabriel's plan unfolded exactly as he'd hoped. Well before dawn, they slipped out of the gate and moved quietly through the town, and by sunrise they had left Bilda well behind and were approaching the Atlas Mountains. The night's adventures had eased the awkwardness between them, and they grinned at each other, intoxicated with their success and the taste of freedom. At midmorning, they sighted a large caravan ahead of them, and a party of horsemen approaching fast from the east. Gabriel reached for his sword, but Valmont grasped his arm, staying him.

  "They are not from Bilda. They come from the wrong direction, mon vieux, and there are too many of them to fight. We must brazen it out, or flee."

  Wheeling to face them, Gabriel let his horse dance beneath him, and threw back his cloak, displaying his weapons and armor. We are not runaway slaves. I am a renegado, a wealthy and dangerous man, and it will be as Allah wills, he thought with a grim smile.

  They rode up in a cloud of dust, a motley collection of hardeyed Turks, Moors, and Europeans, milling around Gabriel and Valmont, horses snorting and prancing, bridles jingling, encircling them and crowding them together. Gabriel eyed them impassively, steadying his mount while the chevalier gave them a broad grin. "Good day, brothers," he said in flawless Arabic. "May Allah, peace be upon him, guide you and keep you safe. Is there so little room on this wide plain that you must inconvenience us with your dust?"

  Good, Gabriel thought. He knows how to play this game.

  The one who appeared to be their leader, a blond, blue-eyed, bearded giant in a combination of Turkish garb and Spanish armor, motioned the other men back. "Your pardon, friend. We protect yon caravan and could not help but be curious as to why two strangers with swords and pistols should follow so close."

  "Why? Do you take us for thieves?" Valmont said with rising indignation, placing his hand on his sword hilt as Gabriel did the same.

  "I mean no offense, brother. We are merely doing our job. I would simply know who, and what you are, and why you are here."

  "We are renegados, just as you. Our formal em­ployer has angered the Dey, and we thought it prudent to seek employment in Morocco, at least through the winter months while the ships are in port."

  The blond man nodded, and then turned to look at Gabriel. "And you, brother. What's your story?"

  Gabriel shrugged. "Mohammed pays better than Jesus does, friend."

  Everyone broke into laughter, and the tension eased. "Serve with us then, brothers. The mountains are dangerous, and we travel the same route. You can help us protect the caravan, and you will be safer with us than alone. My employer is a wise and generous man. We go to meet him in Meknes. He will pay you. He may even offer you further employment."

  They had little choice but to accept. It was a generous offer given their supposed circumstances, and they would have surely aroused suspicion had they refused.

  ***

  Trained to fight, intrepid and used to the company of rough men, Gabriel and Valmont fit easily into the mercenary troop, and they were always careful to prostrate themselves in the dust, heads toward Mecca where the prophet lay entombed, whenever everyone else did.

  The rough and desolate mountain passages were home to numerous bandits and robbers, mostly poor and desperate Berber or Kabyles tribesmen, and ambush was a constant threat. Some days they rode ahead with the vanguard, checking each hill and pass, exposed, vulnerable, and alert for danger. At other times they traveled in the rearguard, shaking dust from their robes and spitting grit from their teeth, guarding the caravan from being waylaid from behind. On good days they rode along the flanks. There were several skirmishes along the way. They lost two of their men and slaughtered upwards of a score of bandits, bows and arrows being no match for muskets. Gabriel supposed he should have felt some pity, but he didn't have any left.

  Crossing the frontier into Morocco, they traded ragged bandits for garrisons of soldiers, and snow-capped mountains for fortresses capped with severed heads on pikes. There were wellmarked roads now, olive groves and farms, and vultures lazily circling overhead. The current sultan, Mulai Slimane, had been fighting a civil war for control of the country with factions from Fez and Marrakech. It resulted in a poor harvest for simple folk trying to raise their crops and families, and a bountiful one for mercenaries and other agents of war.

  They arrived in Meknes at sunset as the plaintive call of the muezzins drifted over the city, summoning the faithful to prayer. They prostrated twenty times before Mecca, and entered the city. Gabriel and the chevalier had decided they would take their leave here, and head for the coast. They hoped to attach themselves to a corsair crew for the spring, so that they might find a way to slip across the sea to Europe. Unfortunately, el Inglezi, their captain, had other ideas.

  "I cannot allow you to leave, brothers. You have been very helpful, it is true, but your circumstances trouble me. Two Europeans, leaving Algiers in somewhat of a hurry, and now in a great rush to head for the coast. I would be lax in my duties if I did not investigate further. What if you are not who you say? What if you are slaves, trying to escape? I have only your word. Show me that you are circumcised, and I may believe you." He motioned to his men. "Hold them, and we shall see, eh?"

  Eyes flashing, Gabriel threw back his cloak and drew his sword so quickly it sparked. "You are welcome to try. .. brothers."

  The chevalier had drawn his scimitar and stood behind Gabriel so that they were back to back. "This should prove interesting, mon frere."

  "Now, now," el Inglezi laughed, raising his hands placatingly, motioning his men back with a shake of his head, "there's no need for that. Not every convert is circumcised. It is the custom, surely, but not an absolute requirement. Perhaps you are just who you say you are. I will present you to my employer, as we have already agreed. He needs good fighting men. There is much opportunity. He is a great and important man. If you serve him, none will dare to question you, yes? I shall introduce you tomorrow. Now go and take your ease, gentlemen. You've earned it."

  They were escorted to an agreeable little house complete with pleasant furnishings, three timid servants, and a cook. They could not fail but notice the guard posted pointedly outside the only exit. After a bath, a shave, and an excellent meal of lamb, wine, and honeyed apricots, Valmont turned lazily to Gabriel and belched. "Pardon me, dear fellow. I do believe, Gabriel, that we have just met the civilized version of a Mohammedan pressgang."

  "I believe you are correct, Jacques. It is far superior to slavery or impalement, though. I propose we bow gracefully to the inevitable for now."

  "I agree, my friend. Oh, look! How delightful!" The chevalier sprang to his feet with even more alacrity than he'd shown in battle, as two nubile, giggling young women were ushered into the room. "Mais c'est charmant!" Performing a courtly bow and grinning from ear to ear, he escorted them gallantly to the pile of cushions that served as their fauteuil. "God in heaven, St. Croix, but these Mohammedans put a lot more effort into recruiting a fellow than your British friends do! I am quite overcome. Have you a preference, or shall we share?"

  "I leave it to you to carry the day, Chevalier."

  "But there are two, St. Croix, one for each of us."

  "I feel certain you will rise to the challenge," Gabriel said, gathering his pallet and retreating to the covered gallery.

  "A votre sante" the chevalier said, raising his glass in a toast and watching Gabriel's retreat with puzzlement. What was wrong with the fellow? Understanding dawned, and he gave a slight
shrug. Chacun a son gout. It wasn't to his taste, but St. Croix was a solid enough fellow otherwise, quickwitted, and coolheaded, and damned good with a sword. Dieu, but it had been over six months! With a playful growl, he scooped up his female companions, one under each arm, and they dropped together in a giggling, groaning heap amongst the cushions.

  Gabriel sat on the gallery sipping his wine. It was not uncommon for renegados to drink alcohol, despite the Muslim prohibition against it. They would do without pork, even their foreskin, but they would not do without their liquor. The stars were brilliant. Venus was rising over the horizon, and for a moment he thought of Sarah and their last moments beneath the ancient oak. Pain clutched at his heart, worse than anything he'd endured through blows or broken bones, and he winced and shuddered before taking a deep breath and willing it away.

  He didn't deserve her anymore. Perhaps he never had. His sins had multiplied in this seductive, alien land. He killed for pay, he'd murdered a man in his own bedchamber with his own knife, he'd sold his soul for revenge with a single kiss, and he regretted none of it. He frightened even himself. He had promised to love, honor, and protect her; but that promise had been made by someone else. All he could do for her now was protect her from the man he'd become. He couldn't afford anything soft, anywhere inside him. He pushed her firmly from his thoughts.

  El Inglezi came the next morning to take them before Meshouda Murad Reis, a Scottish adventurer and corsair captain of some renown, formally known as Peter Lisle.

  "Well, gentlemen, here you are, converts both of you, sons of the Prophet, or so my captain tells me," he greeted them. "What's more to the point, he tells me you can find the pointy end of a sword. I'm no fool, gentlemen, but I am short of soldiers, and I'll be needing crew in Algiers when I return in the spring. So..." he said, steepling his fingers, "I can send you back to your master, to do with as he sees fit. I can turn you over to the authorities here, which might be most unpleasant... or ... you can serve me and be well paid for it."