The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  “Do not forget he is an enemy, Justine.”

  “He is a most useful enemy.” In all of France, she could have found no more perfect associate. There was a core of honor in him, though he would have denied it vehemently. Once he was committed, he would not turn back. “I will use that ruthlessness of his.”

  She ran plans through her mind, as a woman might run a strand of pearls through her fingers, every pearl familiar in shape and texture. “If we are caught, I will see the blame falls upon him and the English. Everything works out perfectly.”

  Eight

  BY THE TIME JUSTINE RETURNED TO THE KITCHEN, Séverine had left.

  “It is too hot. She has gone to play in the loft.” Babette waved to the kitchen window, toward the stable and the shed behind it. She was brushing a dozen wide, fluted circles of pastry with egg yolk, using a little brush made of feathers, making progress with the tartes now that she had less assistance.

  Justine had not eaten, so she stole an apple from the big bowl and dodged away from Babette’s scolding, out to the stable yard behind the brothel.

  The yard was kept in the most perfect order and cleanliness. Madame said—she was very practical—that men would expect to find clean girls in a clean house. Jean le Gros worked in front of the stable door, currying one of the coach horses, keeping an eye on everything. When she walked by eating her apple, he called, “La petite is off that way,” pointing to the shed, and, “That pig-faced piece of dung is gone.” No harm would come to Séverine while Jean watched.

  The storage shed hugged the back of the stable and held all things that were outworn but not yet useless enough to throw away. The loft above the shed was a considerably more interesting place. It was a very secret place, that loft. Hard-eyed men—and some women—came to shelter for a night or two and left under the cover of dark, carrying messages. Some were agents of the Police Secrète. Some were Madame’s own couriers, loyal only to her. Many were sent here by La Flèche.

  That had been her own particular work for La Flèche—hiding those who must flee France, taking them onward to the next link in the chain that would lead them to safety. Under Madame’s orders, she had become a trusted member of the great smuggling organization. That was a noble work in itself, of course. It was also useful to the Secret Police to have an agent within those counsels.

  When the loft was not occupied by desperate people, this was Séverine’s playhouse.

  The door to the storage shed was left open, always, as if nothing of importance happened here. The main room was dull and innocent. She picked her way between feed bags and wooden boxes. A ladder slanted up to the open square in the ceiling. She bit strongly into the apple, held it with her teeth, and climbed the ladder to emerge through the opening of the trapdoor.

  A path was cleared the whole length of the loft, from the small window at one end to the large window at the other. Lumber, broken furniture, shelves of old dishes, crates, barrels, and piles of moth-eaten blankets jostled together on both sides.

  In the relatively empty space below the window, where fugitives made rough beds of straw and blankets, Séverine had invited her favorite doll and a subsidiary doll to take luncheon upon a square handkerchief spread upon the floor. They were eating pieces of bread, small stones, and leaves from the chestnut tree, served on cracked plates.

  “You have come, Justine. I am so happy. We are having dinner, Belle-Marie and her friend and I. Here.” She patted the boards imperiously. “I will share my bread with you.”

  “I am just in time, then.” She pulled herself the last steps into the loft. “I am famished, you know. My morning was busy.” She came and sat and composed her skirts around her. It was not necessary to eat the somewhat dusty bread, only to raise it to her mouth and pretend to eat. “That is very good. You may finish this apple. I stole it from Babette.”

  “We will pretend Babette is a giant and you have stolen the apple from her castle.”

  “That is exactly what I did. I am too clever for any giant. I always escape with their treasure.”

  “You are immensely brave.” Séverine took a bite of apple and held it to Belle-Marie, who presumably ate some.

  “Belle-Marie is looking fashionable today.” The doll wore a little cap with real lace. One of the women of the house was skilled with a needle and had made that cap, and also the apron and the blue dress. Justine accepted the apple from Séverine and took a bite and offered it back.

  “It is Théodore’s turn now,” Séverine said.

  Théodore had been carved from a bit of thick board and wrapped in red cloth. His arms and legs were nailed on and could move. “Perhaps he does not like apples.”

  Séverine giggled. “Of course he does. Jean le Gros made him for me.”

  That was enough of an explanation, she supposed. There was a crude face carved on Théodore and a fine big mustache drawn on in ink. “He is a soldier,” Séverine said. “He is Belle-Marie’s particular friend.”

  So Théodore got his bite of apple. Séverine was content to finish the rest of it. The dolls, after all, had their lovely plates of round white stones.

  Séverine had opened the windows at both ends of the loft. It could not be said to be cool, but a little breeze found its way here, often enough. The loft was shaded by the height of the stable. It was as comfortable a place as any to pass the heat of the afternoon.

  Under the disorder and the deliberately cultivated dust, this was a place of refuge. One could rest here . . . and she was very tired. This last week, her days had been filled with schemes and excitements and work that must be done. Robespierre had fallen. The government had changed. There had been a small amount of riot and fighting. She had been soaked in the rain, not once but twice, and had run the length of Paris a dozen times arranging small matters with huge consequences. She could not remember when she had last slept.

  She said, “I must work tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “It is all right. Babette lets me sleep in her room, you know. She is teaching me to knit. I am making a shawl for Madame, but that is a secret you must not tell anyone.”

  “I will be as silent as soup.”

  “You are very silly. Soup is not silent. Soup goes . . .” and Séverine made a slurping sound.

  “I will be silent as a potato then. Potatoes are the quietest of vegetables.”

  The festivities upon the napkin continued. Séverine discussed the weather politely with Belle-Marie and Théodore.

  Justine took advantage of the decrepit chair that was overturned behind her. Blankets were stacked here, ready to make up rough pallets for the next occupant of this refuge. She pushed them about to make a pleasant softness and leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. In a while, she must go to her room and sleep. For now, she would enjoy being with Séverine, who had abandoned the plates on the floor and was walking both dolls over the tops of some barrels.

  Justine said, “What are they doing now?”

  “We are through with luncheon. We are going to the office of the avocat.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Théodore will give Belle-Marie a nice settlement. He is very kind.”

  She opened her eyes. “What?”

  “He will take her to live in the Faubourg Germain in a grand appartement and buy her pretty clothing. He has promised it.”

  “Oh. Well.” She sat up. She did not feel like dealing with this. She did not know how.

  “She will give him her youth. It is like Virginie, who is giving her youth to Monsieur le Citoyen Barbier. She has a beautiful bracelet from him. She showed me. It has red stones in it.”

  Belle-Marie and her Théodore decided they would go to the park instead. So they jumped from crate to crate, going to the park. Then Séverine pulled a box over to the window and stood on it and looked out to wave at Jean le Gros.

  “Look.” Séverine leaned very far out the window. “Jeanne has brought a new man home. I hope he does not have diseases. Virginie says we will all catch dis
eases because Jeanne has the brains of a peahen and brings home any man she meets in the park. Will we catch diseases?”

  “No.”

  She cannot stay here. What am I going to do?

  Nine

  “WERE YOU FOLLOWED?” THE OLD BITCH SAT DRINKING coffee, glaring at Hawker.

  She wasn’t just any old bitch. She was Carruthers, Head of the British Service for France. She could order him killed just as easy as stirring sugar in her cup. Easier, because she liked sugar and she didn’t like him.

  A fellow might as well talk to a pillar of iron spikes when it came to reasonable discussion. He said, “People don’t follow me.”

  “Really?” Just a well of skepticism, Carruthers. You had to wonder if she trusted her own earwax.

  “I switched back on my trail a dozen times. Crossed the Seine twice. Went all the way down to the Sorbonne. It took me an hour. I didn’t lead anybody here.”

  “He has the skill.” Doyle had all the parts of his gun laid out on the table where he’d pushed his plate away. “It’s his neck, too, if the French stumble in here.”

  “If he’s left a trail here, the French won’t get a chance to kill him.” The Old Bitch picked up her cup and looked over the top. “Tell me what the girl said.”

  He could do that. He started at the beginning—meeting Owl in La Place de la Révolution. “First off, she asked me if I’d seen Robespierre die. Called him the ‘great man.’ But sarcastic-like. I said . . .”

  He knew how to report. He used to do this when he worked for Lazarus, back when the King of Thieves owned his soul, such as it was. When Lazarus wanted information, a fellow gave it to him fast, not wasting words and not making mistakes.

  Working for Carruthers wasn’t all that different from working for the cold-blooded bastard who ran the London underworld, except now he lied and stole for England, and he was likely to get killed by the French instead of dancing in the air on the nubbing cheat.

  He went back over his encounter with Owl, word for word, as near as he could remember. Doyle cleaned his gun. Two more agents came in, took chairs, and listened. Althea—she was the other old lady spy, but fifty times more reasonable than the lead-plated bitch—brought out eggs and toasted bread and laid it down in front of him.

  Maggie sat on a stool to the side of the kitchen under the window. She was five days married. Married to Doyle over there. They were generally within sight of each other when they could manage it. She was spending her honeymoon busy as a cat with two tails, but not the way you’d think. Or not only that. She had maybe two hundred gold louis piled up on a barrel top in front of her. She was counting them into bags and writing out notes, giving orders for La Flèche business she wouldn’t be here to see to, personal. She’d be leaving France tomorrow.

  Maggie was another one who wouldn’t let Bitch Carruthers get peevish and slit his throat.

  He finished up his report with, “. . . said she’d expect me at sunset and I should wear something unobtrusive.”

  They all sat, considering him.

  Doyle fingered the crop of bristle that was establishing itself on his cheek. He hadn’t shaved, since he might need to go out and look scruffy on the streets. “So she says they’re about to close this Coach House operation. You have to go in tonight. That’s not much warning.”

  “I doubt the timing is accidental.” Carruthers had a way of looking at you so you almost doubted yourself. “You saw a dozen children, learning to fight.”

  “Thirteen. They’re doing a good job of it. If Owl is right—”

  “Justine DuMotier,” the Old Bitch corrected.

  “Her. If they learn English as well as they’re learning to fight, they’ll pass for English kids. No problem.”

  A long stare from Carruthers. She turned to Doyle. “Do you believe this?”

  “It’s an elaborate lie, if it’s a lie. Why bother?”

  Carruthers came back with, “The boy’s not worth the trouble of arresting. You are. Are they after you?”

  When Althea went around pouring coffee, she poured some for him too. The cup was thin as paper and the color of blue jewels, with curly gold leaves painted on it. The only time he touched something like this was to steal it. It didn’t feel right, drinking out of it.

  They started talking back and forth, all of them arguing, and left him to eat in peace.

  “If the girl belongs to the Pomme d’Or, then Soulier’s behind this.”

  “. . . and the very wily Madame Lucille. They’re both old enemies of the Jacobin faction, particularly Patelin. This could be aimed at discrediting him.”

  “. . . internal politics of the Police Secrète. The DuMotier girl’s being used by them, at the very least. Probably she’s an agent herself.”

  “If the boy gets caught, it looks like a British operation. That undermines Patelin without pointing the finger at . . .”

  “Which is what they have in mind. Blaming us.”

  “. . . a chance to find out which side Soulier’s supporting in the next . . .”

  The air’s so thick with intrigue nobody’s going to be able to breathe. He put jam on bread and piled the eggs on and rolled it up tight to eat. He had most of that inside him before he noticed he wasn’t doing it right. The Old Bitch had that kind of look on her face.

  No eating with your hands. Just no end to the things you weren’t supposed to do. He started to lick his fingers. And stopped. You weren’t supposed to do that either, apparently. He was damned if he’d wipe jam on his togs.

  “The napkin,” Doyle said.

  He’d laid it on his lap, like you was supposed to, and forgot about it. So now he used it and stashed it away again.

  He said, “I know what we have to do.”

  That stopped the talking.

  “We stop trying to guess what everybody’s up to. I meet Owl tonight, and then we know. I go find out.”

  Althea sat down comfortably in the cushioned chair at the end of the table. “The problem with that, Hawker, is that this smells remarkably like a trap.”

  “And I have no intention of losing my rat to a French trap,” the Old Bitch said. “I’ll send a man to watch the DuMotier girl and see what she does. You,” she looked directly at him, “will stay home.”

  “You’re wrong.” It was out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say it. Stupid.

  Nobody said anything just immediately. Doyle put the cork back in a little bottle of gun oil, tamping it down hard with his thumb. He didn’t seem concerned one way or the other. Noncommittal, if you went searching for the exact word.

  “Explain yourself.” Lots of spiked and rusty edges in Carruthers’s voice.

  “You’re going to have to root out a whole platoon of these Cachés they’ve planted in England. It’ll take you months and you’ll probably miss some. In one night, I can give you thirteen you won’t have to track down.” He glanced around. No expression on any face. “I won’t do anything stupid. If it’s not going to work, I’ll back away.”

  They lounged around, waiting for him to say some damn thing or other. He didn’t know what.

  He said, “You’re not risking much. Just me.”

  Nothing.

  So he said, “They’re kids.”

  Doyle stopped scraping cinder out of the frizzen and set it down. “He should go. I would.”

  “Fine then. We’ll send him into the middle of a Police Secrète power struggle,” Carruthers sounded irritated, “where he’ll be just about useless to me. He won’t see what’s going on under his nose, and there’s no time to teach him.”

  That simple, that easy—he’d won his point. With the British Service he was out of his depth most of the time.

  “Send someone with him,” Althea said.

  “Who’d frighten her off. And I take the chance of losing two agents.”

  Two agents. Carruthers said two agents. Meaning one of them was him. He missed some of what they said next while he was trying to decide how he felt about being an
agent.

  “. . . and more experienced,” one of the men said.

  “We’ll send Paxton.” That was Althea. “He’s young enough to look unthreatening.”

  Paxton. Everybody’s pet. The perfect agent. Paxton wouldn’t forget to use his damned napkin. Paxton probably didn’t slurp his tea. Probably he was no use at all on a job.

  But the Old Bitch thought it was a glorious idea. “Pax will keep him out of trouble. You,” she turned to Hawker, “are walking a fine line. An agent gets to contradict me three times in his career. You’ve used one of them. You will now write a report of everything you saw and heard this morning.”

  “I can’t—”

  “The ink and paper are in the cupboard. Work at this table. Make two copies.”

  Great. Just bloody great.

  Ten

  JUSTINE, WEARING TROUSERS AND SHIRT, WAS INTIMATELY entangled in this small space with the boy Hawker. His knee thrust into her ribs. Her elbow poked his belly. He remained unconcerned to the point of insult. She might have been a large dog or a sack of grain placed in his way.

  “You’re squashing me.” He shoved at her buttocks as if they were melons at market. “Move.”

  “Two people cannot fit here. Frankly, I do not need—”

  “And keep your voice down.”

  She hissed, “I am silent as the grave compared to you.”

  “Like hell.”

  One thin brick wall separated them from the house of the Cachés. The Tuteurs would be downstairs, playing cards or reading, but they would be alert these days, suspicious and vigilant as crows. “This is my project and I—”

  “Are we going to spend all night talking, or are you going to shift your arse out of my lap?”

  She was not the possessor of the body that did not fit here. Hawker created the problem. He was composed of flat and hard muscles that did not budge an inch when she pushed them. He was heavy and uncooperative as wood.

  He was correct in this much—they had no time to waste. She said, “I will scrape the last bricks free. Do not remove them yet. Do not, in fact, do anything.”