by Eric Flint
Time to meet your nonexistent maker, you hypocrites.
* * *
Klaus looked up from fumbling the match against the fuse, saw:
—Huc’s bomb splinter through the fourth window;
—three Hibernians running at him, led by that damned Moorish ambassador of the USE;
—faces and then more faces, turning toward him, mouths opening, shouts emerging, accusing fingers rising.
He loped toward the same window as Huc sprinted away, began swinging his smoke bomb by the wooden handle with which it had been fitted, and thought: I won’t miss. I won’t. I can do this. And then—
—then I’ll run like hell.
* * *
“Down, Ambassador!”
Before Sharon could react, a Hibernian—one she’d never met and whose name she didn’t know—had tackled her from behind. Despite a mouthful of dust, she prepared to give the man a short but vigorous tongue-lashing—
And couldn’t think of words—any words—as two .40-72 Winchesters started roaring only a few feet overhead.
Somehow, the big assassin who was swinging the second bomb managed not to go down right away, although he was being hit by slugs made famous for their ability to stop lions, and even water buffalo.
But on the fourth or fifth clothes-shredding, blood-misty impact, he stumbled with a childlike whimper and the bomb spun out of his limp fingers just before he stretched his length upon the dry street.
By which time, the screaming panic of the noonday traffic made it almost impossible to hear the warning that Sharon was now chorusing with the Hibernian who had tackled her:
“Bomb! Bomb!”
* * *
Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz had just emerged from his unsuccessful attempt to convince Achille d’Estampes de Valençay and Giancarlo de Medici that, since they were now both nobles and cardinals, they owed it to their respective nations and Church to not go marching around in military gear and risking their necks as Urban’s unofficial bodyguards. Maybe he could at least persuade Léonore to do differently when he relieved him back at the cloister this evening.
As they left the small sitting room, Ruy again prevailed upon their apparently nonexistent sense of balance in the universe. “My lords, but the pope has guards. Many of them.”
“A pope can never have enough guards,” Achille retorted flatly as he led the way out of the room—and stopped as the middle window on the opposite side of the receiving hall exploded inward, a smoking bag at the midst of that glittery storm of knifelike shards.
“Bomb!” he cried, even as gunfire erupted out in the street.
Ruy, eyes always scanning, already knew where the pope was: about twenty feet beyond the midpoint of the receiving hall, where he had stopped, hands folded, to listen to the irregular musical offering of the new Swiss Guard. Ruy’s eyes fixed their positions, picked out subtle differences in posture and size, noticed the new helmets that possibly concealed more obvious differences. But that realization and its implications, all registered in a fraction of a second, had to wait. He charged around Achille, whose reflexes kept him only a few feet behind Ruy, and screamed, “Shield the pope!”
The bomb hit the ground with a thump—perhaps eighteen feet behind the rearmost of the pope’s guards. Who performed as Owen and he had trained them.
The one at the front of the triangle—Daniel O’Dempsey—spun around, grabbed Urban by the front of the cassock, and twisted into a fall so that the pontiff went under him. The two in the rear spread themselves wide as they dropped to their knees, becoming overlapping human shields. Sergeant Eubank threw himself on top of Daniel, shouting orders to the other Wild Geese—
Which were never heard.
The bomb went off with a broad, earsplitting boom. The two kneeling Irishmen went down, shrapnel tearing a bloody ripple across the closest one’s neck and back, despite his cuirass and buff coat. The sound in Ruy’s ears was suddenly displaced by muffled silence and daggerlike pain. The hangings on the walls, the furniture, the servants, two of the other Wild Geese and one of the Burgundians went down under a hail of small projectiles—which, Ruy realized, had sliced into his own arms and legs, spalled off his cuirass, clipped the end of his nose, all in the same instant that the shockwave staggered him back a step.
Achille stood impassive in the storm, bleeding from half a dozen wounds of indeterminate severity.
Giancarlo’s fury came out as a hiss. “My face! They cut my face!”
Ruy started forward again, saw Achille shouting, even as he did the same, but was unable to hear his own cry any better than the Frenchman’s, but knew he was howling the same thing:
“The pope—does he live?”
Chapter 39
Gasquet once again envied Norwin the speed of his tactical reflexes: the Swiss was up and moving even before the last of the weak fragments had finished spattering harmlessly into the entry hall. Shouting warnings against assassins coming in from the street, Eischoll waved the servants back into the kitchen—even while he set about opening all the covered trays that had been tagged with a short band of red ribbon. He’d have the weapons in hand in a second, but until then—
Gasquet made for the main door, where the two terrified Burgundians kept turning from the acrid smell of the bomb inside the palace, toward the sustained gunfire outside. He stood straight, put all the military hauteur he could muster into his voice: “Bar the door, you fools! They mean to get in among us!”
One of the Burgundians hopped to the task immediately, and had run the beam halfway across the doors before he paused, then turned back toward Gasquet, perplexity rapidly converting into doubt. In a moment more, it would become suspicion.
Gasquet closed the distance in a single step, had his dagger out and in the man’s throat before a cry escaped him.
The other soldier, still paralyzed by surprise and fear, snapped out of his trance with a start. He drew his sword into a wide backhanded cut at Gasquet—who bent and snatched the wheel-lock off the belt of his first victim. He had it up, cocked, and leveled as the second Burgundian’s blade arced in toward him. But rather than rush—undue haste defeated more men in combat than the skill of their foes—Gasquet took the time to dodge the cut. As he’d thought, the Burgundians were like most rear echelon troops: no better than their equipage.
Before the man could recover from his wide roundhouse slice, Gasquet leveled the gun at the center of soldier’s chest and pulled the trigger. He had a vague impression of a bloody splatter as the large ball tore through ribs and lung, but didn’t stop to look. Sightseers on a battlefield rarely lived to fight again.
Gasquet scanned the room: more than half of the men had clustered near Norwin, scrabbling for whatever weapons had been concealed in the covered trays. A few more were bearing down on the remaining Burgundians, who seemed to have realized that even though they had swords and their attackers only had daggers, that they were severely outclassed.
Finally, Gasquet’s eyes grazed across the trays that had been abandoned on the landing—two of which had red ribbons tied about their handles. He sprinted toward them.
* * *
Larry Mazzare charged out the door of the great hall two seconds after the last of the shrapnel had finished peppering and chipping the scenes painted on the receiving hall’s walls. To his surprise, vinegary old Vitelleschi, who had started at his heels, had overtaken him by the end, arriving at Urban’s side one stride sooner than the up-timer. As von Spee brought up the rear, Ruy joined them, and—speaking slowly and loudly—admonished them: “Eminences, you are running in the wrong direction.”
“I shall not leave my pope,” Vitelleschi almost spat.
Turlough Eubank ignored the exchange; he was busy checking the dogpile of three Wild Geese atop one pope. He rolled a bloody-backed Irishman off the heap. “MacDonald is dead.” A quick check on the next. “McCarew is breathing, but he’s got more holes in him than a sieve.”
Danny O’Dee shrugged out from under hi
s unconscious friend, shouted. “I’m okay!”
Nodding, Eubank reached down and helped Urban to his knees. “His Holiness is alive.”
Urban, wincing at every sound, looked at the faces around him, and, seeing Larry, grabbed his arm. “Lawrence, you must ensure the safety of the attendees. Go. Now.” And, seeing the frown that Larry could feel growing on his face, added: “No argument.”
Turlough Eubank had grabbed Danny by the collar and waved over two of the Wild Geese who had been on the outer periphery of the bomb. He pointed at the short staircase leading down to the foyer, where there was a chaos of movement, some of it apparently violent. The sound of a single gunshot rebounded from the palace’s stone walls; they all looked up.
Ruy rattled out orders. “Sergeant, take your men and hold the staircase.” Achille and Giancarlo made to follow Eubank. Ruy barked at them as if they had been raw recruits. “No. The three of us guard the pope until O’Neill arrives.”
Achille sneered. “Arrives? What do you mean?”
Ruy drew his .357 magnum revolver and rapier in a single, fluid, cross-body motion. “It is a contingency plan. The colonel has a group nearby, to ensure the evacuation of the pope.”
Urban, shaking his head and fighting to get his legs under him, stopped to stare at Larry. “Obey me, Cardinal Mazzare: protect our guests.”
Larry, bitterly hating the task that would take him from the pope’s side, also discovered a quick pang of gratitude bound within the regret: it seemed, at least for the moment, that he would not have to kill as he had at Molino. He turned and sprinted back to the council chamber, shouting for two newly arrived Wild Geese to help him secure the doors.
* * *
Gasquet turned at the sound of gunfire: Norwin had snatched up a pistol and fired it at two of the Burgundians who had been retreating toward the kitchen. Hit in the torso at point-blank range by the large caliber balls, one fell spurting blood and shrieking. The other slumped over with a curse, trying to maintain a hold on his sword. One of the Swiss was there, leaped past the faltering blade and was atop the soldier, dagger raised high. It fell. The struggle ceased.
Gasquet, leaping up the stairs to the landing, half expected what he found when he flung away the lid of the first ribboned tray: three pepperbox revolvers, identical to those used by the Wild Geese. A clever choice, given it was the only rapid-firing gun with which any of them were already familiar: both he and Norwin had drilled their men on the dangers of the gun, and also how to operate it. He got one in either hand, reached behind; Donat and Manel were there. Each grabbed one.
Meanwhile, Gasquet, checking on the rest of the fight in the foyer, saw it was already resolving. Brenguier had been trailing Norwin, saw the two Burgundians go down, saw the last three shy back toward the staircase leading to the receiving hall. The big Occitan grabbed Chimo by the collar and charged them. Although the two assassins were only armed with daggers, the soldiers did not wait to try their chances; they fled up the stairs, one throwing down his sword.
Which was the reminder Gasquet needed. “Grab a sword!” he shouted at his men. “You’ve got five shots and then you’re out.”
“He’s right!” shouted a new voice. Two porters emerged from the kitchen, each armed with a bloodied meat-cleaver. “The back door is clear,” continued the older one, who was bent and had an alarmingly disfigured face. He swung around toward Gasquet. “Don’t forget the grenades.”
Gasquet blinked, turned toward the second tray, opened it, and discovered several pots of hardened jam. Except that each one had a wick protruding through their tightly fitted covers. But lighting them? Maybe a candle from the trestle table would do—which was when he noticed that embedded in the wax along the back of the candles was another cord: a slow match.
Gasquet grabbed them all and jumped down toward where the rest of the men were arming themselves with pepperbox revolvers from the serving tray and swords from the dead Burgundians’ hands. The sight made him smile.
So far, so good.
* * *
Sharon Nichols ducked her head as the second bomb went off, its fuse having burnt down over three seconds that felt like an eternity.
But instead of detonating with the same brutal roar that had resounded within the palace mere moments before, this one went of with an anemic pop—at which, smoke began gushing out of it. By the time she was back on her feet, Sharon could barely see the palace.
She started toward the growing smoke, but a strong hand grabbed her arm. She turned, annoyed.
It was Finan. “Pardons, ma’am, but now yer jes’ being foolish. This is our job.” Hastings, looming behind the little Irishman, nodded sharply.
Sharon shook her head. “I’m perfectly fine, and we need to get those—”
“Ma’am, it’s us, without you, who need to get the assassins. Your job is to make sense of all this mess when the shooting’s over and use your gift of diplomatic gab to settle all the ruffled feathers. An’ it’s true enough you won’t be able to do either job if you’re dead. Which would slay me sure enough, too.”
Hastings nodded again. “He’s right. Your husband would kill us if we allowed you to get any closer. Now, stay here. Please, Ambassador.” And together, he and Finan led six other Hibernians toward the smoke.
Sharon, fists clenched, was still searching for a rebuttal when they vanished into the thick white haze.
* * *
Norwin sped around to the men, making sure each had one of the pepperbox revolvers, or, in two cases, double-barreled snaphaunce pistols. Gasquet split the grenades between himself, Brenquier, Donat, and one of the Swiss who he knew had a good arm.
The disfigured porter trotted over, limping and listing, the other—a round-shouldered ox of a man—trailing in his wake. “Aren’t you ready, damn it?”
Gasquet lifted his chin. “And who are you to ask?”
“The handler who got you the guns, damn it. Now, let’s kill this bastard pope.”
The hulking fellow behind him nodded, touched a much larger grenade to a slow match hanging at his belt, and threw it with surprising grace up the stairs into the receiving hall.
* * *
Danny O’Dee was right behind Turlough Eubank as they neared the stairs, drawing his pistol a moment after the sergeant did—and just before a fuming grenade crested the top step. It took a surprisingly high bounce, headed straight toward them—
The sergeant dove for the smoking bomb. Danny blinked: is he tryin’ ta kill himself?
But Eubank’s long dive allowed him to get to the bomb before it could hit the ground again: he swatted it with one hand, sent it wobbling toward the left-hand wall—
The grenade exploded before it got there: a ragged bark that sent out smoke and fragments along with a shock that felt like a kick to Danny’s chest.
He hit the ground, heard bits of metal keening overhead like distant bees, got half a breath back into his constricted lungs, reeled to his feet.
A man—one of the Swiss fer feck’s sake!—was charging up the stairs, a double-barreled pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. Closer to him, one of the Wild Geese was on his back and not moving, and the other rising slowly, shaking his head. Eubank was pushing himself off the floor as if he was fighting up through a pool of half-frozen molasses; his arms were quaking as if he was trying to lift a millstone.
The world still tilting and muffled as if by a foot of cotton, Danny cocked the hammer of his pepperbox. He swung it toward the man who had just reached the top of the stairs, put the front sight in the hammer’s triangular aperture, drifted it up to his target’s abdomen, and squeezed the trigger.
The pepperbox hardly jumped—its heavy cylinder/barrel combination had been cast as a single piece of metal—and the man staggered, the ball splashing a red hole into his left shoulder. Danny worked the cocking handle on the pepperbox, brought it up—but not before the wounded assassin discharged his own pistol straight at Danny’s head.
Danny O’Dee, like most yo
ung soldiers, had imagined his death. It had taken hundreds of forms—but never involved being shot between the eyes at close range. He felt a ringing impact above his brow, saw a brief, bright flash, and then felt himself falling backward. And as he did, a greedy, swallowing darkness came at him.
And gulped.
* * *
Gasquet saw Manel totter at the top of the steps, blood streaming out of the wide, ragged hole in his left shoulder, a piece of his scapula showing like the stub of a broken tooth.
The other four who were already armed reached the top of the stairs, pistols at the ready.
* * *
Ruy kneeled and waved the others lower as several shots were traded at the head of the stairs. The only one of the Wild Geese who’d been on his feet—Danny O’Dee—staggered and then fell his length on his back.
Achille was incredulous. “We are crouching like cowards. Why? To surrender?”
“No, to become smaller targets.”
Eubank had reeled to his knees and was scrabbling uncertainly after his pepperbox. The other Irish trooper knocked down by the grenade had risen, gun in hand. He began firing just as four more of the assassins crested the stairs, pepperbox revolvers in all their hands.
Mierda! Ruy drew aim with his .357, regretted not being a better marksman with the admirable weapon, felt movement at his back.
The soldier in him wanted to fire; the security chief for the pope forced him to glance around.
Von Spee was still trying to get the somewhat disoriented Urban down to his knees. And Vitelleschi had stood again—stood straight upright and directly between Urban and the assassins, his chin raised, his eyes closed.
Mother of God, no—!
Ruy threw himself backward against Urban’s shins. The pope dropped with a startled cry at the same instant that the enemy’s pepperboxes roared in a savage sustained chorus.
The Irishman at the head of the stairs, already specked with blood from the fragments of the bomb and then the grenade, was hit at least three times, red mist marking where each of the point-blank bullets went through his buffcoat and body, more rounds spanging into his cuirass. Eubank leveled his weapon at the enemy line, firing steadily, bullets chipping dusty white chips of marble from the lip of the stairs, others going over the heads that ducked in response. Dazed, he kept cycling his weapon even after the hammer fell and nothing happened.
