Swordsman's Legacy

by Alex Archer

  “Such a simple task,” he hissed. His alligator loafers clicked crisply across the marble floor. “And you actually admit you allowed a woman to get the upper hand over the two of you? Three-hundred-pound behemoths with guns?”

  He eyed both men, but they remained silent. As they should.

  Jacques walked to the wall and stopped, eye level with the exquisite sword he’d obtained two years ago off the Spanish coast. An eighteenth-century saber of blued steel inlaid with gold. A real pirate’s booty. “Which of the two of you is responsible?”

  Silence.

  And then.

  “He is, Monsieur Lambert.” Thornton had spoken. From the corner of his eye, Lambert could see he hung his head so eye contact was impossible.

  Gripping the hilt of the Spanish sword with his left hand, Jacques tore it from the rack. Turning in a swift spin, he thrust the blade through the center of Thornton’s heart. He pushed the blade steadily, stepping forward as it glided through flesh, thick muscle and cartilage as if through an aged soft cheese.

  Thornton’s mouth gaped. His eyes went wide, unseeing. Blood drooled from his mouth. But he still stood. Jacques did not have to support his weight. Yet.

  “See how the blood runs down the center of the blade?” Jacques said. “That divot in the blade is called a blood groove. There is a misconception that it is there to allow the blood to flow down the blade. But in fact, it is there to prevent suction when removing the blade.”

  The other man had nothing to say. Until—“But…he was right. It was my fault.”

  “Magnanimous of you to confess, Manny.” Jacques slowly withdrew the blade from Thornton’s chest. “There. You see? A flat blade would have given a struggle to remove.” Blood spattered his wrist and the front of his white Armani shirt. Such a bother.

  “Why didn’t I kill you instead, you wonder?”

  The man nodded, a cross between a yes and a no.

  “I’m not much for tattlers, truth be told. There now, catch him as he falls. And do carry him out before he bleeds on the floor. Italian marble is so difficult to clean.”

  The man caught Thornton as, indeed, his body teetered forward. It was an obvious struggle to contain the behemoth, but Manny managed to hook him under the arms and drag him from the room.

  “No mistakes next time,” Jacques called as the door closed.

  He drew up the sword before him and observed as the blood pooled at the base of the blood grove and drooled over the swept hilt. “I’d preserve this DNA evidence if the idiot weren’t such a loathsome individual.”

  Drawing the blade across the sleeve of his opposite arm, he cleaned away the blood then returned the sword to its position on the wall. A closet with a dozen clean white shirts waited in the adjoining room. He walked inside and sorted through the shirts, all identical, and each bearing a simple white embroidery of the pirate’s skull and crossbones just over the left breast.

  “A woman, eh?”

  Manny had described her as young, athletic and gorgeous. Also, she had been fearless.

  “This adds a new twist to the adventure.”

  8

  Rapier clutched firmly in hand—no way was she letting it out of sight now—Annja stalked into the foyer of Ascher’s home.

  The lights were on.

  From around the corner, and inside the den, Ascher dashed out. “Are you safe? I took chase after the thief…”

  “So did I.” She crossed an arm over her chest, but held firmly to the sword in her other hand. While not exactly angry with Ascher, she was troubled. “Where were you? I didn’t see you outside.”

  “You have the rapier!”

  Annja wasn’t feeling the Frenchman’s elation. Nor did she trust him at this moment. “Where were you?”

  “I took after a man out the back door. It was wide open. The thief must have entered that way.”

  “But I chased someone through the front yard and over in front of the barn. Do you think there were two of them?”

  “Annja, your cheek. Are you hurt?” He reached for her face, but she flinched.

  “Rope burn. You’re so cavalier about this, Ascher. Your house has been broken into. You’ve been robbed. How are the lights on?”

  “It was the circuit breaker. Someone must have thrown the switch.”

  While Ascher had gone to get the blanket for her? And then to get to the sword so quickly and not run into Ascher, who should know his own home in the dark? There must have been two of them.

  The same two she’d battled outside the forest? Annja hadn’t given either any capacity in the brains department—at least not to plan so successful a heist.

  “The map is gone,” she said.

  “It is?” He stepped back into the den, and Annja heard a growl, and what sounded like a fist punching into the butcher’s paper. “I thought they wanted—Bastards!”

  “It’s probably crumbled to flakes by now,” she muttered. “There is no way a thief could have had the forethought to know what the map would be like and what precautions would be required to keep it in one piece.”

  “Annja…” Ascher rubbed a hand over his tousled hair. Sweat glossed his forehead.

  “Did you see me fighting the thief out by the barn?” she asked.

  “No. It was too dark, but I heard struggling. Is that how you were hurt? I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll live. So you heard commotion?”

  “Oui. I thought I heard someone run by me, so I took chase. I gave up at the edge of the property. The neighbors grow wheat. There’s a freshly plowed field that edges my property. Impossible to run through the clods of dirt with any speed. I figured I must have been chasing a ghost.”

  “I didn’t hear a vehicle. Whoever it was had to have parked far away. Your driveway is very long.”

  “Yes, but the main road is half a mile to the east, across the wheat field. If the thief had a flashlight, he could have made a quick escape.”

  “We should go investigate. Grab a flashlight,” she said.

  “It’ll be daylight in less than an hour.”

  “By then the thief will be long gone.”

  “He’s already gone, Annja!”

  “Have you no yard lights or a searchlight? I can’t believe the lack of—”

  Annja stopped herself and pushed out a breath through her nose. It wouldn’t help to argue. Nor would traipsing across a field of plowed-up dirt get them any answers. She had to accept that the map was no longer in hand.

  Deciding that if she remained, this night could only get worse, Annja stepped back outside through the open doorway. There were too many questions and she hadn’t a notion which one to ask first.

  Rose-and-violet strands of light dashed across the sky, promising a gorgeous autumn day. Ascher joined her on the front stoop. He touched her shoulder. Annja shrugged him off violently. No Frenchman’s charm was going to soften her suspicions.

  “I’m sorry, Annja. I know the map was the real treasure,” he said.

  “No, this was the treasure. Knowing that there really is a sword. Proof.” She pressed the hilt of the rapier to her cheek. The cool steel burned against the spot where the rope had whisked her. The weapon had been handled so inelegantly since its unearthing, she was ashamed to think about it. “The map would have merely been an added bonus.”

  “Surely many millions of added bonuses,” he said.

  She wasn’t in the mood for a snarky Frenchman right now. “Not like we expected it to really lead to something, right?”

  “We’ll never know without opportunity to look at it.”

  “I’m going back to Paris. There’s nothing more I can do here.” Paris was an hour northwest. A motel bed sounded like heaven. “Will you bring me the velvet bag for the rapier?” she asked.

  She reasoned Ascher couldn’t have anticipated this would happen. But the man rubbed her the wrong way right now. Something about this didn’t feel right. She needed clarity and peace. To be alone to sort through the little facts she had. To t
hink.

  He returned from the foyer and placed the bag over her arm. Annja took care to pull it over the weapon. “You have the keys for my rental?”

  He stroked a hand over her hair, and this time she didn’t flinch away. “I’m sorry. My security system was working, but who can know what it will be like to catch a thief in the dark. There must have been two. They gave us the slip. I will call the police. You should leave the rapier here as evidence,” he said.

  Annja clutched bagged sword to her chest. Evidence. Yes, but she had only just obtained this treasure, and it seemed there were people who had an interest in taking it away from her.

  It’s not yours.

  She knew it wasn’t. But neither did it belong in the hands of a thief or a treasure hunter.

  If she kept it, it would be safer. Unless Ascher ratted her out to his conspirators.

  Or had the thief gotten what he wanted? How many people in this world could be aware of the infamous sword? Only scholars and historical researchers. Maybe a few zealous Alexandre Dumas fans—such as herself. But then to have further knowledge of the hidden map? Not any more than a handful, she figured.

  That left her and Ascher.

  “Did you post about the map online, Ascher?”

  “You have read all that I’ve posted about the sword, and you know I was very cautious to simply conjecture, never admit that I thought I was close. Annja, do you not trust me?”

  “Take a look at the evidence from my point of view. There’s a lot to be said for your guilt. What about this guy who took your kidney?” That incident still blew her mind. “How did he find you?”

  Ascher shrugged. “He followed my personal posts to the Nash gentlemen. I don’t know how he did it, but you know there are hackers who can do that kind of thing.”

  Yes, there were. Which was why Annja used a false name when online and half a dozen different addresses for her e-mails. Impossible to trace.

  “I need some sleep. And I’m taking the rapier with me,” she said.

  “You dare to show up and take off with the sword? My find?” he asked.

  He was right. She had waltzed in and claimed it, which made her as much a pothunter as the thief. But Ascher had proved himself incapable of keeping valued archaeological evidence safe.

  She had an idea.

  “I want to have it looked at. Authenticated. The map is gone, so until we find that, we’re both out of luck, eh?”

  Ascher shrugged a hand through his thick hair, his gaze fixed to the velvet bag in her hand.

  “I’ll bring it back,” she reassured. “I promise.”

  VACILLATING BETWEEN following Annja and remaining at home, Ascher reasoned that to follow her now would get him nowhere. But to remain at home could prove even more dangerous. Lambert was sending his men even as he stood in the entryway watching Annja drive away in the rental car.

  Acting upon impulse, Ascher sprinted through his house, gathering up supplies. A change of clothes, a backpack that he kept stocked with a cell phone, passport and a flash disk of all his important financial and personal files.

  He stopped by the circuit breaker in the cellar and switched everything off. Just in case.

  From the safe behind the bar he retrieved a stack of euros totaling a couple hundred. Normally, he kept a thousand in cash on hand. He’d forgotten to restock the last time he’d had to make a quick departure.

  He had this escape scenario down pat.

  Swinging into the den, he retrieved one vital essential, and then ran outside to his car.

  ROUX LIVED in a gorgeous estate south of Paris. When Annja arrived it was around 7:00 a.m. The guard at the perimeter gate admitted her with a nod and a smile.

  Henshaw, fit out in smart butler’s livery, greeted Annja, and informed her Roux was out for the evening. Meaning, he hadn’t returned home since last night.

  The man kept the same hours as her, though Annja figured he’d probably had a much better time at it than she had last night.

  Initially she was hesitant to accept the guest room Henshaw offered for her to rest, as Annja knew Roux wasn’t always happy to see her. Finally, lack of sleep trumped her reluctance. After a long, luxurious shower, she snuggled into what were probably Egyptian cotton sheets of extremely high thread count. Nothing but the finest for Roux.

  Within minutes, Annja fell asleep.

  9

  It was such a delight to see his protégée wander into the study around two in the afternoon. In Roux’s mind she was a protégée; in Annja’s, she was probably more of a partner, or more likely, a woman of her own means.

  Possessed of a gorgeous athletic figure, she wore khaki cargo shorts and rolled-down socks and hiking boots with style. The T-shirt stretched across her ample bosom was wrinkled, perhaps from being tucked inside a duffle bag. She had an awful tendency to pack her essentials as if a nomad.

  Roux set aside the day’s copy of Le Monde and, seated in his leather chair behind the desk, nodded at Annja’s entrance. Her chestnut hair drifted across a shoulder and her bright tiger eyes, as always, held a smile much longer than her mouth ever did.

  “I thought you were across the channel?” he offered. “To what pleasure do I owe your company, Annja?”

  She ran a hand through her long, unbound hair. Crossing the marble floor in, admittedly, the largest room in the estate and stuffed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and assorted ephemera collected through the ages, she stopped at the desk and set a velvet sword bag before him.

  “Joan’s sword?” he asked, but knew it could not be.

  Oh, it could be, but, no, she would not give up the job just like that. Nor could he reason that the sword would allow itself to remain fully formed out of Annja’s grasp. She had developed sentiment du fer for the sword, a feel for the blade. And it, in turn, answered dutifully to her commands. It was an extraordinary duo of deadly blade and feminine prowess.

  He had oft wondered if Annja would ever grow wary of the great responsibility put upon her by carrying the sword, but had faith that she would meet most challenges, and those she could not, would at the very least stand before and show her teeth with a defiant snarl.

  “It’s good to see you, Roux,” she said. “I had hoped to get a chance to stop by. I’ve been filming a segment for the show at Stonehenge, but I’ve become sidetracked.”

  “Another calling?”

  “Not exactly. Maybe. I’m not sure.” Her lack of confidence granted a tender blemish to her tough facade. “Actually, I had hoped it would be a sort of vacation. A self-serving venture.”

  “A most delicious undertaking, those tasks that serve ourselves. It is a fine man who can feed his soul so that others will reap the benefits. But it’s not so much the vacation you had hoped for, I can judge from your grim expression. Show me your prize, then. Let’s get this figured out.”

  She withdrew a rapier from the velvet bag and presented it to Roux.

  “Yet another sword?” he asked.

  “A girl can never have too many swords.”

  He stood and accepted it with a finger at midblade where the foible began, and two fingers to the gold hilt. “Ah, this looks familiar.”

  “It does?”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  Poker face dropped, Annja’s excitement gave Roux a bit of a chuckle. Interesting, some of the things that lit this woman’s fire.

  He looked over the rapier, carefully handling it by the blade.

  “I guess I expected something more ornate,” she offered, “coming from the queen of France, and especially during the baroque period.”

  “That’s the beauty of the sword—any sword. It is not the exterior, but the talents within, if you will. What the sword master folds into the steel is the true estimate of its value. This particular rapier, though, has more than a fine blade to its merits, if rumor holds truth.”

  Annja crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a smirk on him. “Tell me what you know.”

  He did admire her challen
ging nature. Not about to rush out with details until she first heard his side of the story. Just so.

  Turning the rapier about and tracing the gold hilt, Roux’s thoughts journeyed back three centuries to a sweet time that hadn’t seen him in the ranks, but rather socializing with the soldiers in the king’s army and the many women who followed them about. Fan girls, they would call the sort nowadays. Lusty wenches was what he’d called them back then.

  Room and a fine meal had set him back no more than a few thin coins. The wenches had been free. He’d marveled at the excess the French royalty enjoyed, while the subjects—well, it would be another hundred years or more before the Revolution.

  “The Croix-de-Lorraine tavern, every Tuesday night. A musketeer favorite,” Roux said. “Louis XIV was struggling to get Mazarin in hand, while the cardinal much preferred the aging Queen Anne’s company. Er, I do believe Mazarin died not too soon after. The musketeers had been disbanded—no, they would face disbandment—but not for another decade. And then they would be resurrected, and yet disbanded again. When was that? I believe the year 1650…or, something—oh, the year is not important.”

  “You served in Louis XIV’s army?” She pressed both palms to the desk. Eagerness flashed in her amber-green eyes. Roux did love those eyes. Bewitching. So much there that he could never know, but worth the exploration of soul required to learn what he could.

  And he would. All in good time.

  “I did not serve the Sun King, finding my tastes at the time led me to debauchery and drink.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Ah, you think to cut me, but you merely make me smile, Annja.”

  “It wasn’t a cut,” she said with a teasing smirk. “You know who this rapier belonged to?” she prompted, fishing for his truths before she would offer hers.

  “Whose weapon is this? That Gascon fellow. What was his name?” He feigned consideration, though only to see the fire in her eyes spit off a few sparks. “A musketeer, I believe. He garnered a certain bit of postmortem fame after that adventure novel was published. Ah, yes, Charles de Castelmore. A fine fellow with adventure flooding his veins.”