1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  Ruy turned to leave. “And the attack on St. Jean? A way to convince us that the Swiss could be trusted?”

  “Of course. Easy enough, since they killed the attackers.”

  “You are a brute.”

  “Why? Because we hired men I meant to send to certain death? Tell me, Spaniard: in your time, have you not seen your precious Empire—or even yourself—do the same?”

  Electing not to answer the main question, Ruy retorted. “It is not my Empire. It never was.”

  “No. Of course not. You’ll take anyone’s coin, I suppose.”

  Ruy smiled. “Enjoy your stay with us. And expect to repeat your tale many times in the coming days.”

  Ruy stepped out of the room quickly, but not before the man could shout at his back: “I’m looking forward to it!”

  Ruy did not slow down until he had left the servant’s wing, had emerged back into one of the main hallways. He folded his hands behind his back, let O’Neill catch up before asking, “Are there any other survivors?”

  O’Neill shook his head. “Not many.” He sighed. “That’s the problem of having troops who are good at what they do: the Hibernians and my Wild Geese are a tad too gifted at killing. And the bastards who didn’t get an extra bullet or blade in ’em, well, your lady-wife has had her hands full of our own men’s guts. So most of the assassins she could have saved have gone to their deserved judgment in the meantime.”

  Ruy frowned. “That is a pity.” He let his lips straighten. “But not a very great one. Now, where did I leave my wine?”

  Chapter 43

  Turning the corner and entering the salon from which they’d begun, Ruy found that he and O’Neill were not alone. Corporal Finan stood to attention, as did the soldier behind him—

  Ruy blinked, then grinned more broadly than was probably appropriate for so senior an officer as himself: “Daniel O’Dempsey! I am delighted to see you! But surprised.”

  Danny O’Dee saluted, letting a lopsided smile creep onto his face. “With respect, Colonel, I think yer asking why the divil I’m not dead?”

  Ruy chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”

  Danny tapped the rim of his helmet: there was a deep dent in it. “Hit the metal, knocked me cold, but here I am.”

  O’Neill slipped around Ruy, clapped his man on the soldier, took a seat. “I always said that hard head of yours would come in handy one day, Danny.”

  O’Dee turned a baleful look on his commanding officer. “Sahr.”

  “Yes?”

  “Surely a man of yer wit and breedin’ can do better’n that.”

  O’Neill sighed. “I’m afraid that’s the best I’ve got at the moment. Judging from the look of you two, and that you were lying in wait here, I suspect you have reports?”

  “That we do, sahr.” Danny O’Dee paused. “Seems a tad ironic, me carrying the final casualty tally, Colonel.”

  “On the contrary.” As Ruy sat, he felt the smile ebb away from his face. “Who better than a man back from the dead?”

  “Aye, sir, as you will. We count fifteen attackers including the inside man and the ones out front and back. All dead except for two.”

  “We just had words with their handler. Who is the other?”

  “Don’t know, sir. He’s still unconscious.”

  “Very well. Our losses?”

  “Counting the dustup at the rear gate, five of our own lads dead, six too wounded for duty, sir. I doubt two will serve again.”

  O’Neill nodded glumly.

  Ruy raised his chin. “The Burgundians?”

  “Six dead, one wounded, sir. Might not see the dawn, though.”

  “The Hibernians?”

  “Except for a few bruised shoulders from a frontal assault on the door, all fit and ready for duty, sir.”

  “Minor wounds among our men?”

  Danny looked abashed. “Sorry, Colonel Sanchez. Haven’t got the count on it yet. But I think it’s safe to say, ‘almost all.’” He absently rubbed his own wrappings.

  “Thank you. Corporal Finan, what news from you?”

  “Medical update, sirs. Your wife, m’lady Nichols, is still operating on Father Vitelleschi. Dr. Connal is assisting her. Father Alatius has er, em—‘stabilized’ the rest, along with Cardinal Mazzare.”

  “Any casualties among the staff?”

  “One minor wound to one of the servers who was in the foyer when the shooting started. And the major domo—well, the assistant major domo—is missing.”

  Hardly a surprise. “Very well. Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. Technical intelligence report, sir.”

  Ruy eyed the little corporal narrowly. “Did my wife teach you to use that term?”

  “Aye, sir. She did, sir.”

  “I see. Well, what have you to report?”

  In answer, Finan held up a pepperbox revolver.

  Ruy stared at it. “I do not understand.”

  “Sir, this is ours.”

  “Yes, they were clearly procured from the same source—”

  “No, sir. I do not mean ‘like’ ours. I mean it is ours. Well, more accurately, it’s yours, Colonel O’Neill.” He paused. “From Rome. From the ambush at the Insula Mattei.”

  O’Neill—who, like Finan, had been there personally—was out of his seat in one rapid motion. “Impossible,” he said, but his voice was one of denial, not conviction.

  “I wish I could say it was, sir, but…well, here: look for yourself.”

  O’Neill took the weapon in his hands, looked it over, stopped when his eyes fell upon the grip. “It can’t be.”

  Ruy rose also. “What is it, Owen?” When his friend did not respond, the Catalan looked to Finan. “What is it?”

  “The initials, Colonel—they’re his cousin’s: the late Earl John O’Neill’s.”

  Owen’s hands had tightened and whitened around the weapon. “Is this a message from Borja? Is this a jab back at us?”

  “Or,” Finan added in a low tone, “it may simply be a matter of using the most advanced weapons they could bring to hand. All the other guns lost there were recovered from the assassins, sir.”

  Owen, still grasping the gun, turned on his heel, made for the door. “Well, I think I know just who to ask—”

  Ruy intercepted him. “Owen. My friend. Not now. Let us think on this, first.”

  Finan shifted his feet. “Sirs, there’s something else you’ll want to be knowin’.”

  Ruy turned back to him. “And what is that?”

  “Yer wife and I: we found more of our equipment in the cellar next to the priory. That’s how she knew the attack was comin’. That’s why she ran up in the street, had already rallied some of the Hibernians when the bomb-throwers stepped forward.”

  “What do you mean, ‘found more of our equipment?’”

  Finan told him.

  Ruy and O’Neill exchanged long stares. Ruy frowned. “Six bedrolls, you say?”

  “Aye, sir: six.”

  O’Neill rubbed his chin. “And all unused? Could there be another group of assassins at large here?”

  Finan cleared his throat. “Begging the colonels’ pardons, the ambassador thinks there’s just one more assassin at large.”

  Ruy snapped his fingers. “Of course. Six bedrolls, and the guns were a match for the ones used by the dogs we eliminated at the flophouse overlooking the cemetery. But, including the one we found dead in the street, there were only five of them.”

  O’Neill nodded. “So one is still on the loose: the one who knifed the bastard who got out the window.”

  Finan’s tone was deferential. “Seems so, sir. And it seems the missing one went back to the cellar at least once. Looks like he grabbed some of the quicklime that had been left there to ward off the rats.”

  “So,” Ruy mused, taking up his wine again, “we apparently have at least one assassin left in Besançon.”

  O’Neill, his anger cooled by grappling with the new and broader mystery before them, sat. �
�Aye, and if he’s the ruthless bastard who almost killed the lot of us in Rome, then he’s the most dangerous of all. We need to double the guard on Urban. Now.”

  Finan looked down slightly. “Of course, sirs. Although, if we do, then there won’t be enough left to oversee the house-to-house search for this slippery fish, or any other thugs who might still be hoping for a shot at the pope.”

  O’Neill shook his head. “Much as it pains me to say it, Finan, we’re here to provide security troops, not investigators. We let the Burgundians do the searching.”

  “Pardon my saying so, Colonel, but that means no real searching at all.”

  Ruy and Owen smiled crookedly at each other, after which O’Neill regarded the corporal carefully. “You’ve been doing a wonderful job, Finan. There’s always room for you back in the Wild Geese, if you get tired of the Hibernians.”

  Finan folded his hands behind his back. “Now, that’s a very kind offer of you, sir. But as you might recall, I served under Colonel Preston.” He cleared his throat. “A matter of my family background, as it were.”

  O’Neill shook his head, his smile growing more crooked. “A lot has changed in a few years, Corporal. Not the least of which is that my cousin John”—he hefted the revolver meaningfully—“is no longer in charge of my tercio. So his—well, shall we say religious preferences?—no longer determine recruitment.” O’Neill put down the pepperbox and folded his hands. “I suppose we’re all getting a bit more ecumenical, these days.”

  “As you say, sir,” answered Finan carefully. “And I’ll think on your offer with much gratitude, m’lord. But for now, I’m happy where I am. And after all, without me, they can’t properly call themselves the Hibernians, can they? I’m practically the only bog-hopper in the lot.”

  O’Neill chuckled, saluted. “Carry on, Corporal. You too, Danny. But be sure not to say a prayer tonight.”

  Danny stopped, dumbfounded. “But…but, sahr: it’s the day I should be prayin’ hardest, yeh? Thanking the Lord for a wondrous strange deliverance, I’d be.”

  “Yes, and letting His angels know right where you are. Who knows? Cheating death that way, they might come back after yeh.”

  Danny O’Dee gulped, saluted and hastened out on Finan’s heels.

  When they were both out of earshot, Ruy frowned at O’Neill. “Owen, that was cruel.”

  “Nah; that was just keepin’ ’im on ’is toes. Now, where’s that wine of yours?”

  “It is sherry, and you do not care for it.”

  “It’s wine and it’s been a long day. Now, give it here.”

  * * *

  Standing next to the door at the other end of the long, tight tunnel, Otto heard women’s voices on the other side. But this time they were there for only a minute and then faded away. They spoke very quickly, and in French, a language Otto had a very hard time remembering.

  But at least they weren’t men’s voices, the dangerous ones who spoke with the accent of Irishmen. It had been a long time since he had heard those voices. Maybe they had left?

  On the other hand, each time the women’s voices had come and gone, he had also detected the faint smells of food, particularly hot bread, from the other side of the door. That made Otto very happy, both because he liked bread a great deal and because he was very proud of his sense of smell. Heinz had often called it the very best of his six senses. Which confused Otto, since there were only five senses. He had asked Heinz, one time, what the sixth sense was. “Common sense,” Heinz had said seriously, then laughed and slapped him across his broad round back and said it was just a joke. Otto had smiled, because he liked Heinz, his friend. But he didn’t really get the joke. At all.

  As Otto continued to smell the bread, he discovered it was now making him sad, because it made him realize how hungry he was. Maybe, just maybe, this tunnel came up in a bread shop, and the Irishmen had come to search it several times, but had now given up? It seemed as good an explanation as any other, and besides, if it was a bread shop, Otto could eat and figure out where to go next.

  That thought frightened him all over again. And made him even more hungry.

  As Otto did when he was distracted by too many confusing thoughts and feelings, he stopped paying attention to any of them and simply acted: he pushed open the door.

  Or tried to: it seemed to be held on the other side. But he could feel that the resistance had been weak; the door had wobbled outward away from him almost half an inch before it refused to budge further. So Otto stepped back and leaned into it with this shoulder. Hard.

  The door sprang open and Otto almost fell into the dimly lit room. Not a bread shop, but a kitchen, lit by a single, dim oil lamp: an old open one with a wick floating free at its center.

  There was no bread around—it must have been taken away—but he could smell food. And best of all, there were no Irishmen or anyone else.

  But as he crept around the kitchen, still on his toes, searching for where the food smell was strongest, he heard movement. Overhead. On the next floor. And now, he heard feet on a staircase. Maybe they were coming down; maybe they were going up. He couldn’t tell.

  And he didn’t wait to find out. Creeping through the kitchen, he came upon two linen closets: too small to hide in. Then a hallway that led out into a big, dark room: that could be dangerous.

  Finally, just as he arrived at the very back of the kitchen, he saw a door between two large casks. It was a light door, the kind he could easily break if he was not careful. So, very slowly, and using just the tips of his fingers, he tugged on it, and after the gentlest of pressure, it popped open.

  It was a pantry, filled with food. Particularly hard cheeses and hard sausages, which, he realized, had been the source of the food smell he had been following.

  Leaning the door almost entirely shut behind him, he wandered to the back of the storage room, where a number of barrels and casks stood. His nose told him there were winter vegetables in them—beets, radishes, maybe even rutabagas—but his eyes told him what he really needed to know: this was a good place to hide. He started to wriggle carefully in amongst the casks, then paused. He was still hungry.

  Otto reversed his path, reached out, clutched a length of hard sausage and a mountaineer’s cheese to his round chest, was about to hide himself again, realized he wasn’t done. He stepped back out, peered around the dim room, found what he was looking for: a cheese knife. He grabbed that, tiptoed to the door, closed it, and felt his way back to and between the barrels and casks.

  He would wait a while, until he could be sure it was night. Then, he would try to sneak out. But until that time, at least there was food. He sighed, cut into the cheese, lifted a sliver to his mouth and smiled for the first time in hours.

  Chapter 44

  Larry Mazzare looked around the room, satisfied with the furnishings, with the two Wild Geese at the equivalent of parade rest with weapons drawn, and with the utter lack of any way into or out of the room other than the door toward which he was drifting.

  Urban looked up from the large, cushioned chair in which he had sat while Father Leo Allatius had extracted two unnoticed bits of shrapnel. One had cut into the pontifical left buttock, one into the right thigh. “I should be by Muzio’s side.”

  Larry shook his head. “No, you should be here under close guard, with troops along all the corridors.”

  Urban almost smiled. “I can only imagine the prioress’s discomfiture.”

  Larry almost smiled back. “She’s bearing up quite well. I suspect she may want one of those pieces of shrapnel as a relic.”

  Urban actually laughed at that. “A relic? That would have to come from a truly holy being, not me.” He put on a theatrically somber face. “She may have the fragment from the leg. The other lacks, well, sufficient papal gravity. Although it certainly has more comic value.”

  Larry nodded. “I’m sure she’ll make do with either. Now, I must be going. Is there anything else you—?”

  Two knocks on the door.
<
br />   Larry paused. The Wild Geese waved Urban out of his chair, set up behind two tables in cross-fire positions.

  As they did, another knock sounded, then a long scraping noise down the jamb, then two more fast knocks.

  The leader of the two Wild Geese, Turlough Eubank, said, “Enter,” at the same moment he cocked the hammer on his pepperbox revolver.

  The door opened slowly, revealing Tone Grogan. “Some visitors for His Holiness, Sergeant.”

  Eubank frowned. “His Holiness is not to have visitors.”

  “I know, but the colonels passed these on. Matter of state, as it were.”

  “Well, then, don’t leave the door open: come in.”

  Tone stood aside: Cyril Lucaris, Johann Gerhard, and John Dury entered, hands folded in front of them, their heads bent in what looked like a synthesis of contemplation and respect.

  Urban waved away objections. “You are very welcome here, gentlemen. I have little variety of refreshment to offer, but I am sure a bottle of wine could be loca—”

  Gerhard shook his head, waving away the offer. “We do not wish to intrude for that long. We are here to bear the good tidings of the colloquium and…and to share a few words.”

  “Then please be seated.”

  Larry resumed his move toward the door, nodding to the newcomers. “Excuse me, but I wish to ensure you have the privacy you requi—”

  Lucaris held up a hand. “Your presence is not merely anticipated, but much desired, Cardinal Mazzare. Please: we shall not begin until you, too, are seated.”

  Larry smiled tightly and took the seat he had hoped to avoid taking.

  Urban folded his hands. “Now, what are these words you wished to share?”

  Gerhard smiled. “Well, naturally, we wished to express our relief and gladness at the news that you had not been harmed, a sentiment shared by all of—”

  Lucaris interrupted with almost savage abruptness. “My Roman brother, my thoughts of you have not always been…charitable. Indeed, even since arriving here as your guest, pride and suspicion have kept me from asking our Lord and Savior to forgive my unkind spirit and hostility. But now”—Lucaris squared his shoulders—“I wish to say that I consider it a great blessing upon all of us that you were saved from the work of assassins this day.”