The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  “You know him,” Hawker said.

  “Antoine Drieu. He is a corrupt and wicked man.”

  “Was. He was corrupt and wicked. Now he’s just inconvenient.” Hawker methodically laid the bits and pieces of everyday life beside the corpse—a tinderbox, a watch, a penknife, a silver toothpick case. Deft and unconcerned. He made no wasted motion. “Was he one of those Tuteurs at the Coach House?”

  “He works in . . . He worked in Lyon. But he was of the Jacobin faction. The Coach House is wholly their operation. He may have come there from time to time. He . . .” she made herself say it, “. . . he liked to mistreat children.”

  “Ah.” Hawker did not ask one question. He saw too much with those cynical dark eyes. He guessed too much about her.

  “I have not seen him in more than a year.” Drieu was dressed for travel in dark pantaloons and coat. The strip of light crossed his plain gray waistcoat, horrible with blood. The shiny red was a blow to the eyes.

  “If you’re going to throw up, go do it somewhere else.” Hawker did not look up at her, which was delicate of him. He continued to turn out pockets. “The first one’s the hardest.”

  She wanted to tell him this was not her first killing, that she waded to her ankles in gore every day of the week, but there is nothing more pointless than telling lies that will not be believed.

  “It helps if it’s somebody you hate,” he said. “Next time you might give some thought to how you’re going to dispose of the body.”

  “I know how I am going to dispose of the body. I will give him to you. You will leave all the papers you find upon the ground there and not attempt to steal them.”

  “Me? Nothing here for me.” He turned his attention to Drieu’s valise. “Just a pile of travel documents. Looks like he was leaving France. Not fast enough as it turns out. And they are useless to me unless I grow six inches and get thirty years older all of a sudden. I’m keeping the money.”

  “I do not give a damn what you do with the money.”

  “Owl. Listen to me. You always strip the corpse. Otherwise you might as well tuck a note on him saying, ‘This was business, not stealing.’ Always take the money.”

  She knew many spies—good and bad, skilled and clumsy, some nearly as young as she was. She had never met one like him.

  If she had been with anyone else tonight, she would be dead. He had been keeping an eye on the street. He lifted his head from his pillaging of valises. “Looks like your friends have finally showed up. We may brush through this more or less intact.”

  A sliver of moon, white as bone, hung in the sky, giving no light. An old woman hobbled out of the darkness toward Pax, bent over, leaning on a cane, approaching slowly so he would have time to study her. It was Blackbird.

  “She doesn’t look like much.” Hawker buckled the bag and stood up.

  “That is her genius. We are in luck. They have sent us one of the best of the smugglers, with a hundred lives saved at her hands. She will take the Cachés to safety.”

  “Good. Because I am sick and tired of dealing with them.”

  Tiny and barely lit, the figures of a shrunken woman and the tall Englishman leaned together, talking. A shadow ran across the road. All was going well. “It won’t be long now.”

  Hawker said, “That’s ten. We’re done.”

  “There are more.”

  “Three of them aren’t coming.”

  She did not understand at once. Then she did. “Damn you. Oh, damn you to hell. You left them behind.”

  “It’s their choice.”

  Her hand went to the gun that hid under her shirt, heavy and hard and cold upon her belly. She must go back. “You’ve made it more dangerous. I’ve wasted—”

  Hawker grabbed her, jerked her around, and slammed her back to the wall. “Stop it.”

  “I will not leave three children in that house. I will not. Never.”

  He gave a hard push to keep her there. “They won’t budge. You’re not going to throw the others away trying to save three of them.”

  “You do not tell me what I do and what I will not do.” Rage boiled from her heart till she choked with it. Till she could not speak for the thickness in her throat. “No one says what I must do. I decide. I—”

  “They decide. Not you.”

  She twisted, viciously, against the cage of his hands. He was incredibly strong. She threw herself, all her strength, against him, and it was nothing.

  Then she was free. Suddenly and completely free. He released her. He stepped away. “Go ahead. Go in and convince them, Citoyenne Golden Tongue. Get yourself killed like a bloody fool.”

  “And you are an idiot.”

  “I’m not idiot enough to blunder in there, thinking I can change their minds.”

  “You did not try hard enough.” But she stood where she was, shaking. With anger. With fear. With great and terrible grief. “You did not try.”

  “We were lucky to get any of them out. They think it’s a trap.”

  She knew. Oh, she knew. She had lived her months in captivity when she was a child whore. Trusted no one. When men came to free them, she had hidden in her room, trembling, hugging Séverine. She had feared them all, even Madame. “They do not know what will happen to them. They cannot know. They do not understand.”

  “You aren’t going to convince them.”

  “No.” She made a fist. Slammed the stones of the wall, hurting herself, making no noise. “I will not let this happen. I will not lose three children.”

  “Then you’re going to lose them all. These kids . . .” he jerked his thumb to the far end of the street, “the ones we got out . . . those ten kids are a mouse hair away from panicking and running back into the cage. They’ll do it if we don’t move them along.”

  “I will wait then. Wait until they leave.” Her body shook and she could not stop it. “When they are safe, I will go into the Coach House and drag the others out.”

  “Not short of knocking them over the head and tying them up, you won’t. You think anything else, and you’re just stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  He listed the reasons this could not be done. He would not be silent, though she interrupted him and sneered at him. Everything he said, she already knew and did not want to admit to herself. He battered her mind with his certainty. His relentless common sense.

  He ended up, “. . . at which point those Tuteurs are going to come pounding up the stairs and gut you like a fish.”

  “I have been taught to fight.”

  “I don’t care if you’ve been taught to fly like a bird. They’ll kill you. They won’t even raise a sweat doing it.”

  The night was silent and heavy with heat. Tiny and far away, Blackbird gestured to the children. Each in turn slipped around the corner, out of sight, moving as small, slight darknesses rippling the greater darkness. Ten of them.

  I have saved only ten.

  Those last three would not be persuaded. She knew that in the pit of her belly. In her heart, in the cold reason of her mind, she knew that. She shivered under her skin, sick with the bloody murder she had done and this corpse that waited at her feet. Sick with failure. “If I do not go back, I condemn them to hell.”

  “Close enough.” There was light to see his lips twist. To guess at the expression in his eyes. She did not want pity from him. “You can’t save them.”

  “I must try.”

  “That’s not running an operation. That’s a complicated way to commit suicide.” He let her think about that. “Either way, you’re dragging me along with you.”

  “This is nothing to do with—”

  “If you go in, I go in. You decide if you lead me in there to get killed.” He did not look like a boy when he said that. She did not doubt for one instant that he would follow her back into the Coach House.

  On the stage of her mind, she could see many ways to die. Nowhere did she see a way to save the last three Cachés. “They are children.”

  “They’re not a
ny younger than you.”

  She stood with her hands empty. It was defeat. “You are a bastard.”

  “My mother always swore she was married. I kind of doubt it. Owl, I’ve had longer to think about this than you. If I could come up with any way—any plan at all—we’d do it.”

  “I will not forgive myself for leaving them behind.”

  “Most of us have something to keep us awake at night.”

  “You make light of—”

  “The hell I do. You think I don’t have nightmares?” They stood awhile, looking at each other. He said, “If they weren’t trained fighters, I’d try it.” He nudged the valise with his foot. “You get rid of this.”

  She would scatter the belongings of a dead man across Paris. Leave a shirt rolled behind a drain spout. Stuff a boot into some gutter.

  She realized, suddenly, that her hands were covered with drying blood, sticky and somehow slimy. The lantern disclosed the slumped dead body. Overhead, the stars burned steadily, pitiless in the night sky, watching her, knowing her for what she was. Not brave. Not passionate. She was so much the realist, so cowardly, that she would leave three children to fall into hell.

  If she had still possessed a soul, it would have died tonight.

  Down the street, the drama of the Cachés’ escape was coming to a close. The children were gone. Blackbird followed, limping around the corner, playing the feeble old woman. Citoyen Pax stepped back and disappeared into shadow.

  She said, “Your friend Paxton is headed this way.”

  “We’ll start carrying corpses out of the vicinity. Hold a minute.” Hawker shifted his body, not blocking her path, just getting her attention. “Take this.”

  He had pulled a knife from somewhere, like magic. He held it by the blade, offering her the hilt.

  “Your knife?”

  “You shouldn’t walk around without one.” Neither of them glanced to where her knife reposed in the chest of Citoyen Drieu. “Go ahead. I have a couple more on me.”

  “You are very provident.” His knife was warm from being next to his skin. She felt this when she tucked it away beneath her shirt. “I will return it to you.”

  “Keep it. We aren’t going to see each other again.” He had become entirely sober. Greatly serious. “I got something to say.”

  He was wrong in that much. They would meet again. In the small world of spying, it was inevitable. And the next time they met, they would no longer be allies. “Tell me.”

  “Go with the Cachés.”

  “It is my intention. I will follow till they are safe. You need not worry.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, go back to that brothel you call home, you collect your sister, and get out of France. The Cachés are going. You go with them.”

  How strange this hard young English spy was in agreement with Madame. He said almost what Madame had said. “I have no intention of leaving France.”

  “Then you’re a fool. You’re living in a goddamned whorehouse. You’ve got your sister there.” He chopped his hand down. “You’re trying to be a bloody damn spy. Of all the stupid—”

  “You are a spy. True, you are only the very junior, new spy. The damp chick of a spy, fresh from the shell. But—”

  “Will you be quiet and listen?” He ran his fingers up into his hair. His eyes swept left and right as if the words were floating in the air. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “We are not talking about me either. At least, I have no wish to discuss this.”

  “When I go spying, it’s better than what I was. Better than what I used to do. I’m making something of myself. But you’re not like that. You’re . . . you’re books and eating neat and using a handkerchief. You have all that inside your skin.”

  “I have not the least idea what you are talking about.”

  “You’re quality. Stop playing with the notion of spying. Go to England. Be quality.” He shook his head, impatient.

  It was so simple. Why did he not see? “’Awker, I am a whore. I have been a whore for two years.”

  “Then leave that damned brothel and stop being one.”

  “I do not mean yesterday and the day before. They do not touch me at the Pomme d’Or. No one, not in the least instance. Not one finger.”

  “Then you’re not a whore.”

  “It does not change anything. It is too late. I cannot become clean again. I cannot be—”

  He snorted. “You can be any damn thing you want to be. Go to England. Change your name. Lie through your teeth.”

  “For some things, there is no lie big enough.” Did he imagine she had not thought of this? The knowledge of what she was lay down at night to sleep beside her. Stared at her from the mirror every morning. “I was a child whore in the most fashionable and degenerate house in Europe. Many men came to me while I was in that dreadful place. There will always be men who know me.”

  That silenced him. It was the truth, and they both knew it.

  She said, “I can escape France, but I cannot escape what I am.”

  Hawker raised his hand as if he would touch her, but stopped, deliberately short. He let his hand drop. “What about Séverine?”

  “I will take care of her. I have always taken care of her.” She knew what she must do, of course. She had made her decision. The sorrow of it expanded in her chest so she could barely breathe, it was so huge. Before she turned and left she said, “I will protect Séverine. I will do whatever is necessary.”

  Fourteen

  WHEN THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN CRAWLS OUT OF bed and staggers over the horizon, evildoers head off home and solid citizens take to the streets. In his disreputable past, Hawker would have been yawning his way back to his own den of thieves as the sun came up, having finished a long night of assault with intent or maybe breaking and entering.

  He’d reformed, even if he still headed home at daybreak. Last night, he’d disposed of a corpse, picked himself a heavy pouch of coin off the dead man, and palmed a packet of documents, some of which might turn out to be interesting. It wasn’t much different than his old life, when you came right down to it.

  He walked harmlessly alongside Doyle and Maggie and their bits and pieces of baggage and the donkeys. The sky was turning milk white, with most of the light coming from the east, behind them. The air was stuffy and flat. It was going to be scorching hot later on. The city was just going on the griddle.

  Doyle had decided to leave Paris, since there were a number of men thirsting for his blood right now. He was also getting Maggie away safe, the political situation having become unsettled. Every time the good citizens of Paris got unsettled they started pulling aristocrats out of the houses and hanging them from the lampposts. Maggie was an aristo. Time for a cautious man to take his wife home to dull old England.

  Doyle strolled at donkey pace, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets, portraying stolid and stupid to anyone who might take an interest. He kept an eye behind them and to the right, motioning Hawker to scout ahead and watch the left-hand side.

  When they turned the corner and left the Rue Palmier, Owl was ahead, waiting for them.

  She sat on the steps of a big respectable house, getting away with it because they were still in the damp and poorly lit dawn and the householders hadn’t come out to chase her away. She dressed like a housemaid—neat, with a big white mobcap on her head and a thick, plain fichu knotted on her chest. Owl had shoved a brown leather bag to the side of the steps, which might be important. She held Séverine on her lap.

  Owl said, “Good day to you, citoyens. It is a pleasant day to be walking free under the sun, is it not?”

  “Very.” Doyle came up beside him. “You’re waiting for us?”

  “For Marguerite, though this is a matter of interest to you as well.”

  Owl was . . . wound tight. She cradled her sister, gentle-like, but look close and you’d see her hands clamped like iron on the kid’s dress, as if any minute Séverine was going to fall off her lap and get eaten by rats.r />
  The streets were empty as a beggar’s pouch. Nothing out of place and no tick of movement. The donkeys weren’t twitching their ears. But Owl was scared of something, or angry about it, or both.

  Maggie went over to Owl, and they settled in to chat like market women passing the time of day. Looked like everybody was going to pretend like the donkeys and the bags were just decorative and nobody had anywhere in particular to go, least of all to the gates of Paris, and there was no hurry to get out of this town before something untoward happened.

  Doyle’s hands kept being unconcerned and innocent, down near his knives. He gazed idly across the windows everywhere and kept close to Maggie.

  They should be safe. Owl would never, under any circumstance on earth, put her sister in danger. But what the hell was going on?

  Owl passed Séverine over to Maggie and they discussed the sprat for a while. Nobody in any of the houses coughed. Nobody came walking by. It was so bloody quiet they could have been standing in a painting. He distrusted quiet, just on general principles.

  Funny how Owl looked different, sitting there without the kid in her arms. She looked alone, folded in and closed up with her arms around herself. She said to Maggie, “You were right. A whorehouse is no home for a child,” which was what everybody had been telling her. She said, “A war is coming.”

  There was another giant revelation for you. War, riot, mayhem . . . It was all coming. Owl and him would be on opposite sides.

  He eased his way back to keep an eye up and down the street since everybody else was talking single-mindedly and not paying attention to the surroundings.

  Owl looked back and forth from Doyle to Maggie, making quick, brittle little comments. Maggie held the kid. It looked natural, like they fit together.

  Then, word by careful word, staring into Maggie’s face, Owl said, “You will take Séverine as your own. You will take her away from France and keep her in safety. You will watch over her. You, yourself.”

  Take Séverine? What was this?

  “She will be no trouble on the road.” Owl was talking fast now, not giving Maggie a chance to answer. Owl’s hands pushed at the air as if she was shoving objections aside. “She has learned to be quiet. She will go with you willingly when I tell her she must. She knows to say nothing at all and to answer to any name she is given.”