by Eric Flint
The sand in the glass ran out with the invariable appearance of suddenly increased speed. Javier reflected that life probably felt like that, too, when one came closer to its end. He reached over, turned on the radio, waited for the first signal, and hoped the earlier clouds did not portend difficult weather to the south and equally difficult transmissions. If so, he might be here for as long as four hours, working the same signals over and over again until the messages were complete. The mere prospect of such a dull routine drew forth a great sigh from him, and Javier de Requesens y Ercilla freely admitted to himself that he sighed a lot. It was, after all, the inevitable burden of a refined and sensitive soul such as his.
The radio crackled and began emitting a stream of coded signals, the first of which was a cipher that indicated that he was to receive a message before sending his report.
Javier rolled his eyes. More work. Well, at least the signal was clear, so he might not have to endure the additional burden of suffering through the monotony of oft-repeated messages.
* * *
Estève Gasquet glanced at sudden movement in the narrow street that separated his attic rooms and the small chapel that stood beside the entry to the Hospital of the Holy Spirit. It was one of his men—Peyre, from the size of him—who disappeared beneath his field of view, no doubt soon to pound up the narrow and rickety stair. Sure enough, the accomplished Pyreneeian strangler’s heavy tread began thumping closer. Which meant that an incoming message from Rome was likely.
Gasquet turned his back to the narrow dormer window. He wished he could shut out the smell of fish and infrequently removed garbage that were the hallmark aromas of the hospital district: an overcrowded cluster of shabby buildings shoved up against the walls separating them from the quays where the northern curve of the Doub’s oxbow bent the river and accelerated its flow toward the bridge. Still, as flophouses went, this was better than most. It was clean, if dingy, and while the neighborhood was anything but appealing, it was mostly safe. The much maligned Protestants of the city had increasingly drifted into this quarter since the failed Huguenot attack half a century ago, paying a price in prejudice for an incident that few of them had supported. Those Jews who did not make their living out in the Battant congregated here also, probably because the presence of the hospital seemed to prick the consciences of most of those whose prejudices might boil over into violence. Somehow, the typical bigot’s dusk-stimulated appetite for thrashing or raping a few nonbelievers was undermined when they could hear the Hospitallers just a few doors away, murmuring vespers and beseeching the Holy Spirit to fill them with greater depths of charity and humility. Gasquet did not quite sneer at that thought: what idiots they all were, one half sacrificing themselves to help those halfway to the grave, and the other half risking violence without any hope of gain. All fools driven by ideas, beliefs, urges as insubstantial as the dead ancestors who had imposed these rituals upon them, rather than inculcating them with an appreciation for the only thing that mattered, the only thing that was tangible in this material world: material gain.
Beyond the old sheet that he had hung as a privacy blind—no sane leader ever lived without some physical boundary that reminded his men of the separation in their status and station—Gasquet heard Peyre emerge into the attic, breathing heavily. “News,” he gasped.
Estève pushed around the side of the sheet, strode toward Peyre. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Two things,” Peyre panted. “First, there’s a message at the drop.”
Gasquet nodded, glanced at the smallest of his six men, Chimo. “Get it.”
The little Catalan was on the narrow stairs and heading down before Peyre could wheeze out. “Not yet.”
Gasquet frowned. “Why?”
“You’ll want to send a message of your own. Now. Before decoding the new instructions from Rome.”
“I’m guessing that’s due to the second bit of news you have for me.”
Peyre nodded, finally straightening back up. “The Swiss. They’re on the way.”
“All of them?”
“No, no. Just the ones who know to look for us. I saw them all come into town a while ago. They split into two groups to look for lodging. One group is headed this way.”
“So they found the message drop outside the Battant. Good.”
“Very good,” Peyre suggested. “Word is there are no rooms left in the Buckle. Everything is taken. Stables, attics, cellars.”
Gasquet’s lieutenant, Donat Faur, drew alongside, nodding. “Makes sense,” murmured Estève’s fellow Prouvènço. “The militia has been warning people that, after today, there will be no new entries allowed.”
“You mean they’re closing the city?” Chimo squawked.
“No,” Peyre corrected irritably. “Anyone who has been allowed to enter up until now is either known personally or has been given a written pass with a seal. Same thing for boats on the Doub: they either have papers or they have to find mooring over in the Battant. The last of those permissions were issued today. And anyone with a pass has been told to expect to be detained at the Porte Boucle until someone can be found who remembers providing them with the pass. Personally.”
“So we won’t be sneaking anyone else into the city by using a ‘borrowed’ pass, then,” Faur muttered with a bitter smile.
“Not unless we want to attract attention. No: we have all the forces we’re going to have.”
“Which is why I figured you’d want to speak with the Swiss, find out how many more bodies we can count on.”
Gasquet nodded, heard faint voices in the street, threw back his privacy sheet, glanced down.
“Looks like they’re here. Brenguier,” he said, gesturing to the swart, rangy Occitan lounging in the far shadows. “You speak the best German and spent time in Geneva, so you’ll meet them downstairs. Make your greeting of them public, like they’re friends, people you’ve known for years.”
Brenguier nodded, shifted the scabbard of his large dagger to his back, pulled his loose shirttails over it, and pattered down the stairs quietly.
Chimo chewed determinedly on one unwashed cuticle. “I hope there are lots of them. The Swiss, I mean.” He looked around the attic. “But then they won’t fit.”
Gasquet managed not to roll his eyes. “They are not staying with us. We need to stay separated until we act. We will coordinate through drops, but we have to set them up first, get an idea of their numbers, agree upon a new code.”
“Why? No one’s found our messages, so how would the pope’s soldiers know our code?”
Donat breathed deeply, as if sucking in an extra reserve of patience for Chimo. “No one’s found our messages so far as we know. But if they have, then now is when we must change the code: the one time we will see our allies and make our plans face to face. Otherwise, if the opposition has deciphered the code we’ve been using so far, they would begin learning our true intents.”
“Yeah, okay—but wouldn’t it be safer not to meet at all then? Just to tell the Swiss to use a new code when we put out the next drop?”
Gasquet heard the sound of more feet mounting the stairs; three pairs, if he was correct. And he did not want Chimo to still be displaying his ignorance—and stupidity—when the Swiss came through the door, so he explained the matter sharply: “We don’t have any jointly agreed upon drop point in this city, dolt, so how would that work? And even if we did, how would they know the first message from us wasn’t actually from the opposition, using our code, to trick the assassins among the Swiss to reveal themselves?”
Chimo’s mouth was hanging open slightly. “But—”
“No more questions, Chimo. We don’t have the time to get it all through your thick skull. Now, we meet our allies.” Which means I have another job to do: to let them know that I’m in charge and that they’re here to follow orders, not give them.
Chapter 6
The heavy, muffled tread on the stairs suddenly became sharper, louder as a blond head with a pageboy hair
cut crested the floorboards where the attic communicated with the lower level. Another head, black-haired and tousled, followed. Brenguier waved a hand over the lip of the stairwell, signaling that he would remain below, on the lookout.
The two Swiss were in ratty garments that might once have been military uniforms. The blond one waved off the stares from Gasquet and his group. “Pontifical Guard rags. Don’t laugh; they got us in.”
“That and the choir boy who thinks he’s our leader,” the other added. “Hard to believe he can be stupid enough to think men of our experience would follow him here to try to commit holy suicide by pledging ourselves to a doomed pope.”
The first shrugged. “Von Meggen’s from a known family. That means something to lots of people. Sure meant something to the armored fools who saw us through the toll-gate today.”
Gasquet leaned his left shoulder against a rafter. “Not all of the pope’s men are fools. Don’t underestimate them.”
The blond one looked at him. “So who are you?”
“I’m Gasquet. The man who’ll be giving you your orders.”
The one with the tousled hair started to push forward. “Hey, who do you think—?”
His friend held him back. “So you’re the one getting instructions from Rome.”
Gasquet did not need to answer, so didn’t. “And who are you?”
The blond one, realizing that there was not going to be any congenial give-and-take, evidently decided to stake out his own territory by making the limits of his deference clear: he grabbed a chair, swung it under him, sat. “I’m Norwin Eischoll. My companion is Klaus Müller. There are four more of us who were sent to join the choir boy as cover for our mission. Two others attached themselves along the way. Their papas were not former Papal Guards; they were just hoping to hire for coin and see Italy. But I think we may be able to convince them to consider joining our mission for a better sum.”
Gasquet shook his head. “I don’t have any money for more sell-swords. If you bring them around, you’ll have to pay for them out of your own pocket.”
Norwin smiled. “Will I? If the enemy doesn’t take care of them, I can shortly afterwards.”
Gasquet nodded slowly, returned the smile, thought, He’s practical, focused, ruthless. He’s a good addition and will control the Swiss well. And he’s too dangerous to be left alive once we’re done. Probably thinking the same about me. Well, that’s the nature of our business. “And how did you get the weapons through the gate?”
Norwin shook his head. “We didn’t. Instead of meeting the contact to get them, we got a message indicating that security was too tight at the Pont Battant, and they were being brought in another way.”
Gasquet waited. “And?”
“And what?”
“What’s the other way?”
Norwin smiled. “You’re not the only one getting confidential messages, Gasquet. We were assured they’d be ready soon enough. The day after we secure permanent lodgings, Klaus here is going to go to the fountain of Neptune in front of the Carmelite abbey at noon. He’ll stand there for ten minutes with a big, uneaten roll. And then he’ll return to us. A runner will come to our rooms by the end of the day. He’ll have the location of a dead drop for all subsequent messages.” Eischoll’s smiled broadened. “From the look on your face, it must sound familiar.”
Gasquet was suddenly glad that the orders from Rome had been very explicit about him being in charge—because he would not have liked having to vie for control of the operation with Norwin Eischoll. “Somewhat.”
“They’re a pain in the ass,” Müller pronounced loudly.
Gasquet squinted at him. “They are the only way we can be safe from each other.”
“What do you mean?” he asked before he saw Norwin’s stone-hard expression.
Too late not to embarrass your leash-holder, Müller, Gasquet exulted silently. “I mean,” he said in a languorous tone that left enough space for everyone to mentally insert the implicit addition of “you dolt” after the first two words, “the same puppetmaster is pulling our respective strings through different channels. And since he is getting reports on each of us from the other, he will know—immediately—if either of our groups fails to obey orders and follow the plan. If it was just one of us in contact with a controller, how could Rome be sure of knowing if we were betrayed from within, or discovered and eliminated? Hell, the opposition could then use our codes to tell our puppetmaster just what he wants to hear, while nothing of the kind would actually be going on. But with two of us, reporting on each other to the same puppetmaster, he has independent confirmation of our obedience.”
Klaus had only blinked twice during the explanation. Gasquet had expected more. Perhaps the big Swiss was not so much stupid as impatient. “Still don’t like it,” he grumbled. “It would be easier if we were all one group, with one set of orders.”
Norwin jumped in before Gasquet could, evidently determined to end what was, for his side, an exchange which featured the mental capabilites of his underling in a most unflattering light. “Klaus, there are seven men in this room. Add our seven, then maybe some more. Much more likely that such a large collection of men, without apparent employment, would be noticed quickly. Besides, one team had to prepare the ground here, and the other had to contact the choir boy and push him to get moving in this direction.”
Gasquet nodded, determined to keep any hint of admiration out of his voice or face. “And you were that push?”
Norwin shrugged. “It had to be someone who knew the cantons, who knew where to find and how to poke old grievances.”
Gasquet nodded indifferently, determined not to show any of his curiosity. How had Norwin been recruited? How had Borja been made aware of his existence? Gasquet would never know, any more than Norwin would ever be allowed to discover how Borja had come to retain Gasquet. Or how Borja had known, even before the actual mission was revealed, that Gasquet was familiar with Franche-Comté, fair with a pistol, good with a sword, and quite capable of leading men who would have to be retained and constrained during a long preliminary period of inactivity. Which was finally—finally—coming to an end.
“And you,” Norwin Eischoll asked with a jut of his chin, “How many more do you have stashed away in the city?”
“Enough,” Gasquet answered, wishing the answer was more than enough. “Several of whom you’re going to encounter tomorrow if you got the invitation you were supposed to get for St. John’s cathedral.”
Norwin sat up slightly. “So you’re going to be there, too?”
“Not exactly, but four men I’ve been controlling will be. One word of caution: for the first few seconds, keep a firm hold on your choir boy’s collar. Don’t let him run and play with the grown-ups until you have some targets.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It won’t be for you, not if you keep your own men back.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Norwin rose. “We need to have a contingency in case one of our two groups, or their controllers, are compromised.”
Gasquet nodded. “Sensible. Here’s what we do: every day we hang a different garment out to dry. Tomorrow a sock, Wednesday a hat, Thursday one glove, Friday a shirt, Saturday pants, Sunday a cape. We each send someone walking by our lodgings—and we’ll know yours soon after you move in—every morning. If any other garments are seen, or if a garment is seen on the wrong day, or there is no garment hung out at all, it means that group is not able to comply and must be considered compromised. The first order of business will be to drop a message to any controller we have left. They’ll pass along new instructions, including if and when we reapproach the compromised team. After that”—Gasquet shrugged—“we’ll have to react based on the circumstances.”
Eischoll nodded. “We need to be getting back.”
“Yeah,” Klaus muttered, “to report our failure at finding lodgings. Freiherr Ignaz von Meggen will be most disappointed with us.”
Without offering or receiving a wave of farewell, the two descended the stairs.
Donat crossed his arms. “Well, that was interesting.”
Gasquet was already scribbling a message in code. “I suppose. I just wish we knew more about them.”
“I’m sure they feel the same way. And with good reason. They have no idea where we’re from or who we know here.”
“True. But other than our basic weapons”—Gasquet glanced at the loose pile of swords, wheel-locks, and daggers under a leak-proof table in the center of the room—“it’s us who are waiting for them to deliver.” He held the message out to Chimo. “Run to the drop with this, and bring back the one that Peyre saw there already.”
* * *
Returning from his evening constitutional, Javier de Requesens y Ercilla tossed his hat on the waiting hook, was delighted to see it alight as he meant (which happened about two out of every five times, but that was only an incentive to further practice!), and congratulated himself on the elegant simplicity of the drop points he had arranged. In the course of his walk, he always made sure to step in some mud (at least, he always hoped it was mud), which necessitated him to stop and use his walking stick to dislodge the worst of it from the sole of his shoe. He always did so by leaning against one of three shingled buildings. There, while ferociously jabbing at the sole of his shoe with the walking stick in his right hand, he sneaked a finger beneath the edge of one of the shingles. Thus he would detect—and if so, remove—a narrow reed of just enough girth to hold a coded message from the operatives that Borja had presumably seeded here shortly after learning that Urban had taken refuge in Besançon. Each day of the week meant a different shingle to check and of course, most of the time, there was nothing to be found. But this day, although he had not expected any reply to his message until the next morning, he found a message tube already waiting for him.
