by Rob J. Hayes
Franseza called a halt to the procession and thumbed upwards. A rusty iron ladder led twenty feet to a concealed chamber that subsequently opened into one of the mansion’s pantries. The tunnels ran underneath half of Rares and their existence was known to only a select few people, their maze-like directions and multitude of openings to the surface were known to even less.
“You’re certain?” asked Renard. He himself had gotten lost underground on occasion and had once, rather embarrassingly, found himself in a brothel when he meant to be in Baron Laene’s summer home.
“I don’t make mistakes,” Franseza said her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Well, up you go then.” Renard waited while Franseza began the climb and once she was a good few rungs above him put hand and foot to grimy metal and followed her up.
The chamber that led to the pantry was cramp for the three of them but Renard wasn’t about to complain about Franseza being a little too close, the woman was firm all over. He took a moment to settle into his usual hunch and, taking his cane from Amaury, affected his limp. It had long been Renard’s assessment that everybody lied, all of life was a big lie, especially life at court. The winners were most usually the ones who lied the most and best and his ability to lie and cheat and, on occasion, steal were a big part of how he got to his current position. A position he was loathe to give up. The concealed door to the pantry slid open without so much as a sound and, taking Renard’s arm, Franseza led the way through into the mansion that he had purchased for his two newest employees.
They found Isabel de Rosier and Jacques Revou in one of the first floor studies. They had procured an alchemically powered miniature phonograph and were busy dancing to an outdated piece of music titled The Raven’s Mourning by Esther Buckét. Quite where they had managed to find the little phonograph was a mystery, as it would have cost something in the range of one hundred gold ducats. A small fortune and one which he knew neither of them currently owned, and more so Renard had to admit a curiosity over how his spies had missed the procurement.
“Ahhh, Seigneur Renard,” Jacques Revou said spinning Isabel de Rosier and letting her go so she artfully slumped onto a waiting sofa. “Monsieur Roache,” the charlatan continued with a practised bow then held out a hand to Franseza. “Mademoiselle Goy, would you care to dance?”
“Of course,” Franseza said with a beaming smile, “but not with you.”
Amaury laughed. Renard did not feel so jovial; he limped over to the sofa and carefully lowered himself next to Isabel de Rosier. “No, please, don’t help,” he complained to her as he sat down.
“I’m afraid we quite didn’t hear you come in. Rather preoccupied, you might say,” Isabel said with a smile and a conciliatory pat on Renard’s arm. If he hadn’t known any better he might actually have believed the woman, her lie was so convincing.
“I see you’ve helped yourselves to the good stuff,” he said gesturing to the desk upon which stood a bottle of one hundred and ten year old cognac.
“Your man Amaury did forcefully instruct us to help ourselves,” said Jacques Revou.
“I believe that may have been a hint, my love,” Isabel de Rosier chimed in. “Perhaps you should fetch Seigneur Daron a glass, we wouldn’t want to seem inhospitable in our new home.” She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Quite the luxury you’ve given us, Seigneur, a little bare but Monsieur Roache assured us that little issue would soon be resolved.”
“Not sure I remember saying that,” Amaury said with a frown.
“Of course you did, my good man,” Jacques Revou replied having found not one but three spare glasses and, having filled each one near to brimming, proceeded to hand them to Franseza, Amaury and finally to Renard.
Amaury drained the glass in one swift motion, wincing as the cognac coursed down his throat. Franseza placed her glass on the nearest corner of the desk; the woman never touched a drop of alcohol as far as Renard was aware and he was aware of everything his employees got up to. He himself had no such issue with the consumption of alcoholic beverages and, at length, took a miniscule sip, swirling the liquid around his tongue to savour the taste, before swallowing it down. A good cognac was a balm to the soul and it was, without a doubt, very good cognac.
“If we’re all satisfied with a good drink to hand,” Isabel said from beside Renard, flipping open the catch on a pocket watch. “I would appreciate it if we could get on with business. Time is money for people of our profession.”
“That’s my watch,” Renard said in a flat tone. The woman was clearly showing off having picked his pocket. “And your profession is now working for me.”
“Charming,” she said handing back the watch with an affronted look.
“Now now, dear,” Jacques cut in. “I do believe Seigneur Daron was just about to tell us exactly what it is he intends us to do for him.”
“Other than the occasional bout of house sitting?”
“Well of course.”
All eyes in the room focused on Renard; there was a time he might have found that unnerving, but these days he found it a mild irritation at best. He took a long, loud sip from his glass, forcing everyone to wait on his pleasure and revelled in the brief silence from the two charlatans.
“For nine months I have been meticulously setting up a cover to install two of my own people into the ranks of the Sassaille nobility, starting with the lowest echelon at first but with a mind to quickly move them higher.”
“You want us to spy for you?” Jacques asked in a voice laced with doubt and doused in suspicion.
“Precisely,” Renard continued.
“And you spent nine months setting up a cover for this?” Isabel asked. “Now I’m no expert shadow conceiller, but it seems to me that bribing an existing member of the aristocracy would be a far easier undertaking.”
“I’m not interested in what is easy,” Renard said in a terse tone. “I’m interested in what works, and I’ve yet to meet a member of the nobility that wasn’t just as fickle as, and even less trustworthy than, the common alley cat.”
He caught the two charlatans shooting each other a look. “You want someone you can trust so you attempt to coerce a couple of, as you well know, thieves into working for you?” Jacques asked. “I’m certainly not attempting to instruct you on how to run your affairs, Seigneur Daron, but…”
“I can trust you,” Renard started with a dirty smile, “because I know you don’t have a choice. Co-operate and we all get what we want. Betray me and I promise you, you’ll get nothing but the noose.”
“Not a firing squad?” Jacques asked.
Again Renard flashed his dirty smile. “I’ll make certain it’s the noose.” He saw the thief rub at his neck, already imagining a coil of tough hemp choking him out of his merry existence, then look to his partner. He saw the fight go out of the man’s eyes.
“What are our covers?” Isabel de Rosier asked. Unlike Jacques Revou’s flat resignation to his fate, the woman still held a cold steel core of defiance flashing around behind her ocean blue eyes. Renard respected her for that, but that respect would not stop him from breaking her.
“Amaury, the files,” Renard said, and the man stepped forward handing one sheaf of papers to Jacques and a second to Isabel. “In there you’ll find all the information on the covers I have created. You will notice there are many blanks; I presume actors of your… calibre will want to add your own flourishes and touches to truly make the characters your own.”
Both Isabel de Rosier and Jacques Revou opened their respective files and began leafing through the pages. Renard had presumed both of them could read and now he was gratified to know that he had, once again, guessed correctly.
“Duelists?” Jacques asked in a high voice that bordered on breaking.
“Gentlemen duellists,” Renard corrected much the same way he would a child who had mispronounced a word.
“Gentlemen duellists made nobility by way of land ownership,” Isabel continued, her eyes still
skimming the page.
“A gift from their previous, extremely satisfied, employers Marquis Jean-Luc van Elmer and his wife the Marquise Roachel van Elmer. A lovely couple who will corroborate your covers to the letter lest a small previous indiscretion of theirs become public knowledge. Under the employee of the Maquis and Marquise van Elmer you;” he gestured to Jacques, “Baron Bastien Bonvillain, fought twenty one duels against encroachers from Arkland, various members of the Sassaille lesser nobility, and one disgruntled postal worker.” He looked at Isabel. “Baroness Adeline Bonvillain fought thirteen duels for her previous employer, mostly of the same ilk, sans the unfortunate postal worker.”
“Gentlemen duellists?” Jacques Revou repeated.
“Yes,” Renard said with a sigh. “Professional duellists fighting for their betters to prevent the risk of loss of life while settling disputes in the time honoured fashion of killing the other person.”
“Well yes, undoubtedly the gentlemanly way but…” Jacques paused and looked to Isabel before continuing. “I have never shot a pistol in my life. I have never had need to and I have never particularly wanted to. We steal and we lie, but we are thieves, not killers.”
Amaury snorted out a laugh.
“While you’re working for me, you’ll be whatever I require you to be,” Renard snapped. “Of course if you play your characters right you’ll also never need to be a killer, only to appear as one. The threat of violence is often a much better deterrent than violence itself.” He watched as Jacques theatrically slumped into the chair behind the desk.
“We own some small holdings just inside the Marquis’ borders, not enough to be considered important, but just enough to be named Baron and Baroness.”
“Indeed,” Renard continued, “but the country life, and I assure you Marquis van Elmer’s lands are just that, was too much of a bore so you have recently purchased a home right here in Rares. From here you’ll join in the ranks of the socialites and work your way from the bottom feeders to the top. I assume you are up to such a task?”
“What’s the ultimate goal?” Isabel asked.
“For now concentrate on establishing yourselves within the nobility. They will of course be wary at first, but they will also find you fascinating curiosities. You will need to turn that curiosity into friendship and trust, and then report everything you see and hear to me.”
“How long do we have?” Isabel asked.
Renard might have smiled, but it would have given his pleasure away. The man had known his place the moment he realised he had no choice, the woman was now learning hers. “You will officially move into the mansion in two days’ time, after the staff have arrived and all the furniture has been delivered. You will need to have your characters established and your covers memorised, inside and out, by then. The first event you will be invited too is in just eight days, Comte la Fien’s birthday ball, and you will most certainly be the talk of it. By then Amaury and Franseza will have taught you the basics of how to act and look as though you are used to the martial arts. You may not know how to fire a pistol but you will damn sure look like you know. They are harsh teachers, but I have instructed them not to leave any visible marks.”
“How kind of you,” Jacques whined from behind the desk. “You could always just have them play your little charade. It would be a terrible imposition, us already having come all this way, but I do believe we would manage.”
“Amaury and Franseza have their skills, but acting is not among them. It is far easier to teach you how to look dangerous; than it is to teach them how to look like they belong with the pampered, self-serving fools that comprise the aristocracy.”
“Doesn’t sound like you hold much respect for your betters,” Jacques shot back.
“On the contrary, I have the utmost respect for anyone who is useful. I even respect you, Baron Bonvillain, but I cannot abide useless people and many of my betters, as you put it, are far beyond the realms of usefulness. They are, however, unfathomably devious and that is where you two come in.”
“Is there anything else we should know?” Isabel asked. “Anything not in these files?”
Renard fixed her with a stare. “Try not to steal anything. I understand this may be difficult for you, but if things start going missing people start getting suspicious, and while your covers will stand up to most any scrutiny, I find it is always better not to tempt fate.” He sipped the last of the cognac from his glass and let it slowly drain down his throat like a trail of liquid fire. “Amaury and Franseza will be back tomorrow to check on your progress. I suggest you spend the remainder of the day memorising those files and establishing your characters. Franseza, if you would be so kind.”
“We’ll let you see yourselves out,” Isabel said as Franseza gently helped Renard off the couch. He winced and held his back as though he were in immense pain and sent an acidic glare at the charlatan.
“The same way you came in, no doubt,” Jacques continued, not looking up from the file.
“Do try not to get lost,” Isabel said smiling. “We would hate that ever so much.”
Renard grumbled and made for the door, he couldn’t decide whether the comments were as innocent as they seemed, or if the two thieves had already found the tunnel entrance. The truth was they were too smart by far, but if Renard knew one thing it was simply that he was smarter.
Amaury dropped the last couple of feet from the ladder and his left boot landed on the Ooze. The creature let out an angry hiss but it was pinned to the floor and couldn’t get away. A moment later an odd smell like burning leather filled the tunnel as the thing began to dissolve his boot. He quickly lifted his leg and the creature slithered away, he watched it disappear into the darkness then hurried along after the Seigneur and Franseza.
“Do you really think we can trust them?” Franseza asked. “I don’t.”
“Not a chance,” Amaury agreed. “They’ll play along while the Seigneur has them by the balls but as soon as they get a sniff of freedom…”
“Yes they are currently working for me because I give them no other choice,” Seigneur Daron said, striding along without a hint of the limp or hunch he usually adopted. “But soon they’ll want to keep playing along. Why is that, Amaury?”
Amaury scratched his chin. “Uh, because…” The Seigneur liked to do this, he’d pose questions that made Amaury struggle to find the answer all in the name of educating him. “They’ll enjoy it?”
“Precisely. Men and women like our two charlatans back there are easy to control once you understand them and I understand them better than they do themselves. Money isn’t the point for them, they enjoy the charade, pretending to be something they’re not and I’m offering them the chance to play the biggest part they’ve ever played on a stage they never dreamed of. As soon as the prospect sinks in they’ll be falling over themselves to do as I ask.”
“And if they don’t enjoy it?” Amaury asked, knowing full well it would sour the Seigneur’s good mood but it was a question that needed asking. Back in the military they were trained to always plan for the worst.
“Then, as you so eloquently put it, Amaury, I have them by the balls.”
“I see a lot of opportunity,” Jacques said, his head still deep in the file.
“For what, dear?” Isabel asked though in truth she already knew.
“For general thievery, of course. Imagine the treasures locked away in those mansions that we will have easy access to, even more so, we will be invited in to.”
“I do believe our new employer firmly stated there is to be no stealing,” Isabel pointed out.
“Did he? I must have missed that little addendum. Besides, I’m certain he didn’t mean it as an absolute.” Jacques looked up from the file and grinned, Isabel couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m thinking Baron Bonvillain should be terse, a man of few words and the threat of deadly action expressed in his bearing.”
Isabel read through the part of the file that detailed the Baron and Baroness’ marria
ge. She looked at her finger, they would need rings. She and Jacques had long ago decided never to marry, they had never taken to the idea of ring wearing especially as it tended to leave a pale band of skin underneath and that could tip off an astute mark to their being played. “Do you think you can play terse?” she asked Jacques.
“I believe it will be a test of my skills but I am at the top of my game. I also think I should grow a moustache.”
Isabel had never really liked facial hair, especially not on Jacques. The man could grow a beard in mere days, and had on occasion, but kissing him through his beard had never been an act she considered pleasant. “If you believe it to be necessary.”
“I do. A horseshoe moustache, I think would be best, like the current fashion in Great Turlain. It will help to generate a menacing air.”
“I read the Baron is a crack shot with a pistol and a terror with a cavalier sword whereas the Baroness is overly competent with a dagger and a veritable sniper with a rifle,” Isabel frowned at Jacques. “Do you get the feeling our characters may be somewhat based on our counterparts, Monsieur Roache and Mademoiselle Goy?”
“I think it likely and more than so. No doubt Seigneur Daron had originally intended for them to play the parts but, as he claims, it is not so easy to teach a thug to be a gentleman as it is to teach a gentleman to be a thug.”
“What I don’t understand is why our new employer has a false limp,” Isabel mused aloud.
“The limp isn’t real?” Jacques asked.
“Most certainly not. It’s a good imitation, good enough to fool most, but a limp is a very difficult thing to perfect. The truly skilled actors would pick it up just as I.”
“What about my limp?”
Isabel hesitated. “It’s passable, my love.”
“I believe I’ll take that as a compliment. Why would Seigneur Daron pretend to limp?”
