The assembled crowd of Japanese settlers quickly dispersed once the fighting started. A few stayed and watched in horror as the life-or-death battle played out before them.
Farahilde’s spirit was more than up for the fight, but while she was in excellent physical condition, she was also rusty. She hadn’t been in a real battle in quite a while. Her reflexes strained to keep up with the sudden demand.
As they circled each other and exchanged slashes and strikes, she noticed Jeanne was also fighting someone. Farahilde couldn’t afford to waste time worrying about her friend; Jeanne was more than capable of handling herself in a fight, and Farahilde needed to stay focused on her own.
The enemy swung at Farahilde’s head, and she just barely managed to dodge the attack—merely getting a superficial wound across her right cheek. She swung back, but the enemy ducked and she only got the hood which was instantly torn to ribbons.
With the attacker’s disguise compromised, he or she ran off into the forested area surrounding the festival grounds. On the way, though, the enemy stumbled and dropped one of the stilettos. Rather than lose time retrieving it, the enemy kept going.
***
Deschanel’s lackeys suddenly retreated into the woods. They had proven better fighters than Jeanne had expected, but she had given a good account of herself nonetheless.
She adjusted her wig—which had come loose during the fight—and ran over to where Farahilde was examining some sort of weapon. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, fräulein. What did you expect?”
Jeanne noted the stiletto. “Did your attacker drop that?”
Farahilde nodded. “I have a pretty idea of who it was.”
“The ones who attacked me were Deschanel’s lackeys. The one who attacked you was probably—”
“Deschanel herself. That scum! She won’t get away with this.”
Jeanne, however, suddenly noticed an engraving on the weapon Farahilde was holding. It was a black skull. “Not good.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve seen that insignia before. It belonged to a secret unit of the French Army.”
“What kind of unit was it?”
“The worst kind. They were known as Les Ombres Impies—the Godless Shadows. They specialized in assassinations and other stealth kills. They did the kind of dirty work that could never be made public. I was once offered a position within their ranks. I declined on moral grounds.”
“So what happened to them?”
“King Louis XVI’s conscience eventually caused him to become disgusted with the unit. He ordered it disbanded six years ago. The members of Les Ombres Impies were reabsorbed into the French Army. At least, they were supposed to have been. It looks like Napoleon has brought them back.”
“So then Deschanel—”
“Must have been one of them, yes.”
Even if that was true, it didn’t make sense to Farahilde. “But why did she attack me?”
Jeanne shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t think of any reason Napoleon would want you dead, especially since you helped him seize power.” Jeanne suddenly noticed the wound on Farahilde’s cheek. “Farahilde,” she started, “Did her weapon do that to your face?”
Farahilde wiped the blood off her face. “Yeah, but that’s all she was able to do.”
“Listen very carefully,” Jeanne said. “I need you to remain calm.”
“What are you talking about, fräulein?”
Jeanne took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Every weapon used by Les Ombres Impies was coated in poison.”
“Wait—wha…?” Her words ended abruptly. Her eyes continued to stare straight ahead, but Jeanne knew the poison had already taken effect. Farahilde fell forward and Jeanne had to catch her.
Things had gone from bad to worse. If Jeanne didn’t act quickly, Farahilde Johanna would be dead within the hour.
***
That had gone precisely the way Deschanel had wanted. She had cut Farahilde Johanna with her poisoned blade, thus ensuring her imminent death. Not only that, but Deschanel had done it in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest doctor. The Austrian wretch was as good as dead.
As she ran through the woods, she reflected on her role as a killer. For her, it wasn’t simply a calling; it was fate, inexorably etched in the stars. During adolescence a disease had wiped out her reproductive system even before it could develop. A few years later she killed her abusive father. That was when she knew she was not meant to give life, but to take it.
And take it she did. She had never even bothered to count the number of people who had died at her hands. She existed to kill and she didn’t question it. Even after Les Ombres Impies was disbanded she continued to think of herself as merely an instrument of death.
She met up with Emil and Jean-Louis at the designated rendezvous point along the northern shore of Potomac Park. The lights of Washington could be seen in the distance as her subordinates gave her their report.
“The secretary didn’t see your faces, did she?”
“No, Commander,” Emil said.
“Good. You left her unharmed, I trust?”
“She didn’t leave us unharmed,” Jean-Louis retorted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, Commander,” Emil said, “That woman managed to put up a hell of a fight. I don’t know who or where, but she’s received advanced combat training.”
“Interesting,” she said.
“Not only that, but I coulda sworn she was wearin’ a wig.”
“A wig?”
“Yes,” Emil replied. “During the fight her hair shifted significantly. I’m not certain, but underneath she appeared to have hair more the color of yours.”
“And she knows French!”
“Does she, now?”
“Yes, Commander. She spoke to us in excellent French,” Emil said.
Deschanel stood silent for a moment while she took in everything that had just been told to her. The President’s secretary was a formidable fighter, had auburn hair, and spoke French. Suddenly it all fell into place. Deschanel began laughing maniacally.
“Uh…Commander…?” Emil said nervously.
“Don’t you get it?” she said. “We’ve found our target!”
“You mean that broad is actually the former commander?” Jean-Louis asked.
“Of course. She thought that by ingratiating herself with the President she would be safe from us. But we’re going to expose her, and when we do, she won’t be safe anywhere.”
“And then we’ll drag her back to France?” Emil said.
Deschanel laughed again. “Don’t be ridiculous! Someone with her skills could never be held prisoner for the journey home. And besides; the Emperor no longer has any use for her now that he has me. We’re going to kill Jeanne de Fleur and leave her corpse to rot on foreign soil.”
“What about Farahilde Johanna? She’s bound to oppose us,” Emil said.
Deschanel immediately dismissed his concerns. “Don’t worry about her; I cut her. She’ll be dead by sunrise. And just in case she somehow survives, I have a plan that will ensure she is destroyed along with her brother and fiancé.”
Chapter X: The Race to Save the Absolute Darkness
Potomac Park, Washington, December 12, 1792 (Infini Calendar), 7:45 p.m.
Jeanne, along with Kyoko’s husband Tatsu, carried Farahilde’s limp form into their house which lay on the southern bank of Potomac Park.
It was a modest Japanese-style house barely big enough for two people to live in. They put Farahilde down in a small space that passed for the living room. A small pillow was placed under her head.
Farahilde was burning up. Jeanne didn’t possess an excellent knowledge of poisons, so there was no telling what was currently running through the young Austrian’s body. They put a damp cloth over her head, and Kyoko administrated an herbal remedy, a foul-smelling green liquid they poured in Farahilde’s mouth. This seemed to slow down the spread of
the poison—as evidenced by her heartbeat not racing quite as much afterwards—but without the antidote she would not survive the night.
To make matters worse, Jeanne knew from personal experience Les Ombres Impies never carried the antidotes to any of their poisons with them. After all, what reason did assassins have to possess the means to save their victims? Furthermore, those killers spent years building up immunities to their own deadly weapons, so they had absolutely no use for antidotes. That meant there was a very real possibility no salvation for Farahilde existed on this continent. She could very well die here, far from home.
Jeanne lamented the fact that she no longer had the God’s Eye. She had spent her life silently cursing its existence, but with it she could surely have identified the poison used on Farahilde and created an antidote. Alas, it disappeared after the incident at the Tuileries. Up until now, she had been rejoicing its long-sought absence; now she wished it was still locked inside her left eye.
A doctor was sent for, but the news he delivered was grim at best. “I’m afraid I don’t have the cure to her ailment.”
“Isn’t there any hope for her?” Jeanne asked.
He pondered this for a moment, as if unsure if he should tell her what he was thinking. “There is one very remote chance. However, the odds of it working are almost zero.”
“Just tell me what it is. I’m willing to try anything if it might save her.” She meant it completely. Farahilde had saved her two years ago when she was at her lowest point. Jeanne was determined to return the favor.
“Well…you see…it is said the Piscataway people have the ability to divine cures to any ailment.”
“The Piscataway?” Jeanne had heard of them, but she had never actually seen one and so knew very little about them.
“The Piscataway are an Indian tribe north of Washington. I’ve heard they can go into a sort of trance which somehow tells them how to cure even sicknesses they’ve never seen before. If you take your friend here to them…well…it may be her only hope.”
Jeanne clenched her fist in a show of determination. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
***
Jeanne returned to the President’s Palace to tell Leopold II and Frederick what had transpired. She found them in George Washington’s office ironing out the treaty. “Poisoned!” Frederick exclaimed. “What are we going to do?”
“Calm down, young Frederick. Farahilde won’t be saved if we panic,” Leopold said. He seemed almost indifferent to the tragic news.
“Indeed,” George Washington concurred. “The action we take must be swift but calculated. First tell us if you know who did this.”
Jeanne shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I wasn’t able to get a good look at them.” She didn’t enjoy lying to the American President, but she knew they didn’t have time to deal with the faux Jeanne de Fleur and her lackeys right now. They needed to stay focused on finding a way to save Farahilde, and besides which—it would have been merely her word against Deschanel’s.
“That is a shame,” Washington said. “How, then, are we to find the antidote?”
“The doctor said the only chance of saving her lies with the Piscataway people to the north.”
“The Pi-scata-way?” Leopold said.
“They are indigenous to this region. At the very least, they were here when my ancestors first came to this country,” Washington explained.
Jeanne was getting impatient. “Mr. President, I ask your leave to go and meet with the Piscataway.”
Washington shook his head. “I’m afraid it is not that simple, Mary. They don’t speak English, and our only interpreter recently died of scarlet fever.”
She felt their hopes dying before her eyes. It seemed all was lost. “Is there no one in this city that speaks their language?”
The President turned his gaze away from her. “There is…one person. However, he is a bit…odd.”
The spark of hope reignited at that moment, and she was determined to seize it. “It doesn’t matter what kind of person he is. If he can communicate with the Piscataway, we must ask his help.”
A curious look came over Washington’s face. “Mary, I have known you to be a very kind person, but your concern for your new friend would seem to equal that of her own kin. Why do you care so much about her?”
“Well…” She wasn’t ready to admit the truth, not yet. It would be far too difficult to explain at this point. “It was my responsibility to look after her! She has been mortally wounded because I wasn’t vigilant. I must therefore do everything I can to save her.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy the President. “Very well, then. If you are so determined to save Farahilde Johanna, I will allow you to venture into Piscataway territory to ask them for help. But first you will need to go see the only man in town who can communicate with them. His name is Edward Q. Huffington, and as I said, he is a bit odd. That is the reason we have not hired him as our official interpreter.”
Frederick suddenly stepped forward. “I will go as well. Farahilde is my future bride and I cannot stand by as she lies dying.”
Jeanne nodded in understanding. “Very well, Frederick. Let us make haste to see this Edward Q. Huffington.”
Washington gave them the man’s address, adding, as they left his office, “Please remember that you will be dealing with the Piscataway as representatives of these United States.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Rest assured we will act accordingly,” Jeanne said.
***
Edward Q. Huffington’s flat, December 12, 1792 (Infini Calendar), 9:00 p.m.
Jeanne and Frederick rushed to the residence of Edward Q. Huffington, a second-floor flat located a few miles southwest of the President’s Palace.
They knocked on the door and it was quickly answered by a man in his late thirties with short brown hair and mutton-chop sideburns. “Yes?” He was wearing a dark vest and matching slacks, obviously business attire. Jeanne was expecting a more colorful character because of what Washington had said.
“Mr. Huffington?” Jeanne inquired.
“That’s right: Edward Quincy Huffington, court clerk. Come in, come in.”
They went into his flat. The room was small and with very few furnishings aside from a low table in front of a couch. The table was covered in a pile of what were presumably legal documents. A burning lantern hung from the ceiling above the table. Edward Q. Huffington had apparently been working late when they arrived. “I apologize for calling on you at this late hour—” Jeanne started.
Huffington cut her off. “Oh, not at all, not at all,” he said, standing in front of the table and rubbing his hands together in what looked to Jeanne like heavy anticipation. “That you’ve come at this hour means you must want some help very badly, and I do so looooove to help.”
Jeanne was put off by his bizarre declaration. This must be what the President had meant, then. “Mr. Huffington—”
“Call me Edward, please, please.”
“Ah—all right. Edward, we do, in fact, need your help. Desperately, in fact.”
Huffington began rapidly stomping his left foot while moaning in what Jeanne thought was—but really hoped wasn’t—ecstasy. “Ohhhhh, I so love to help people.”
Could it be that this man got a surge of sexual joy from helping people? Jeanne was no stranger to sexual deviants—having spent time with the Marquis de Sade—but she had never heard of such a thing.
She exchanged a confused look with Frederick. Nevertheless, she had to stay focused. “Edward, I understand you can speak the Piscataway language.”
He seemed to still be lost in his own depraved world. “Huh? Oh, yes. Sometimes they bring complaints before the federal government—broken treaties and the like—and I am called upon to…help.” That set him off again, and he resumed stomping the floor and moaning. “Ohhhh, I wish I could do more for them.”
Jeanne now realized it would be the easiest thing in the world to secure this man’s help. “Edward,” she sa
id, in the sweetest tone she could muster, “if you help us tonight, it would mean the world to us.”
“Ohhhhh! It would?”
“Absolutely. In fact, you could end up saving a life.”
He howled in pure pleasure. After several moments, he stopped. “If you’ll just give me a moment, I need to…uh…get changed.”
Jeanne was thoroughly disgusted, but she said nothing. She didn’t keep quiet out of tact; words simply failed her.
While she and Frederick waited for Edward Q. Huffington, they went out into the street where they were soon met by an arriving steam carriage. In the cab was the prone form of Farahilde. Jeanne had sent for her so they could take her to the Piscataway. Jeanne could only pray the native people of this land would agree—and were actually able—to help.
Farahilde was sweating profusely and her jaw muscles kept clenching. She was clearing suffering greatly, even in her unconscious state. Jeanne knew perfectly well what it meant. “Kyoko’s medicine is wearing off.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” Frederick asked, his voice full of concern over his dying fiancé.”
Jeanne picked up a metal canister that was resting on the floor. “We can give her some more. I had some brought here. But it’s only a temporary measure; it probably won’t prolong her life by more than a few hours.”
Edward came out and joined them. “Sorry about that. I’m ready to go now. And don’t worry; even if I help greatly, I won’t have to change again for a while.”
“Ah…that’s…good,” Jeanne replied. “Edward, you can ride up front next to the driver. With our friend lying across a whole seat in the cab, there will only be enough room for Frederick and myself.” She was very glad it had turned out that way. She didn’t want to be around Edward Q. Huffington any more than necessary.
***
While Jeanne and Frederick sat across from Farahilde in the steam carriage, they couldn’t help but stare at their dying friend. “I don’t like this: sitting here and not being able to do anything for her,” he said.
Secrets of the New World (Infini Calendar) (Volume 2) Page 9
