by Rob J. Hayes
“Wonderful,” said Marquis de Roe in a tone so dry Adeline imagined the word was even now hunting for the nearest water source. “We should just start calling Sassaille, Little Turlain.”
“Joudain,” Duc Lavouré said in a reproachful voice.
“I know, I know,” Marquis de Roe grumbled. “It just doesn’t seem proper having Great Turlain blood sitting on the throne.”
Bastien snorted. “There’s already Turlain blood on the throne…”
Something about Bastien’s voice made her cringe but before Adeline could hear the rest she found Baroness Theepwood addressing her. “… have you seen it?”
Adeline turned her attention to the Baroness. “I’m terribly sorry, dear. I was miles away. I think it might be the wine. It brings back some very powerful memories of my youth. It may be one of the berries used. We used to pick them back on the farm…” Adeline trailed off knowing that the reminder that she came from humble origins would help the women to forgive her behaviour.
The Baroness smiled. She was a plump woman, small and round and soft and Adeline found that she like her and found her comforting amid her current companions. That she and the Baroness Theepwood were of the same social rank also did wonders to endear Adeline to the woman. “It’s quite alright. They say smell is inextricably linked to memory.”
“Really?” asked the Duchess Valette.
“Oh yes,” the Baroness said nodding enthusiastically. “They study such things at the University. My eldest son, Windsor, is involved with that particular study.”
Adeline paid special note to her other companion’s expressions. Windsor was a Great Turlain name and the Marquise de Roe grimaced at the sound of it.
As if sensing the Marquise’s displeasure, the Baroness changed the subject abruptly. “So have you seen it? The play.”
Adeline took a sip of wine. “Which play was it again?”
“Abel Yon. It’s a gruesome tale but lively and full of wit. It’s about an alchemist who is ridiculed as a fraud but stumbles upon a potion that keeps a person’s body young. The only problem is the potion’s secret ingredient is human heart blood.”
“That does sound gruesome,” the Duchess Valette complained. Adeline strained her hearing to eavesdrop on the men’s conversation but the Baroness Theepwood continued loudly.
“That’s not yet the worst of it. The very same men that ridiculed the alchemist as a fraud come into her shop to buy the potions for their wives and the alchemist kills them.”
The Duchess Valette frowned. The Marquise de Roe gasped. The Baroness Theepwood continued.
“The alchemist then uses the heart blood of the husbands to make the youth potions and sells them to the wives.”
“That’s awful,” the Marquise exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” the Baroness said nodding in a way that set her cheeks wobbling. “She gets her just deserved though. The wives eventually deduce what has happened and confront the alchemist only to find the woman has been taking too much of the potion and has begun to age backwards. They find her as little more than a girl and they…”
“I am not entirely certain I want to hear the rest of this, Baroness,” the Duchess Valette said in a way that brought her full social rank to bear.
Baroness Theepwood paled and closed her mouth.
In the lull that followed Adeline heard something that made her blood go cold.
“…about it, Bonvillain, show us these legendary shooting skills of yours.”
“Fetch me a rifle and I’ll shoot a feather off a duck from a thousand metres.” It was the voice of Jacques Revou, not Bastien Bonvillain, and he was undoubtedly drunk.
Isabel could feel the eyes on her back. She could feel them watching her. She could feel them waiting. The hushed breathing, the whisper of skin on clothing as they looked at each other. All waiting for her. She lay on the ground in a most unladylike fashion and fixed her target in her mind.
She pulled the trigger to a bang that nearly deafened her it was so close and found herself glad of the little sponge Amaury had given her to put in her right ear.
Isabel took a deep breath and looked down the range at the target. There was a little smoking hole in the white of the paper target, just to the left of the outermost circle. She sighed.
“Better than Revou,” Amaury said. Isabel could hear the smirk on the man’s face without seeing it. She chose to ignore it. Jacques could fight his own battles, if he so chose, but she doubted he would in this case.
Isabel put an arm underneath her to get up but Franseza appeared by her side. “No you don’t.” The woman handed Isabel another rifle round and pointed down towards the target. “That target is at about one third of the maximum distance of that rifle and you aren’t getting up until you’ve hit the centre circle. Aim all the way down the barrel of the rifle, don’t use the sights they might be misaligned.”
“You gave me a rifle that doesn’t shoot straight?” Isabel asked incredulous.
“No I didn’t,” Franseza said with a touch of colour coming to her cheeks. “That there is my personal rifle and the sights are perfect. I set them myself. That doesn’t mean the next rifle you use will have aligned sights so it’s better to know how to shoot without them.”
“The next rifle?” Isabel grumbled. “I would really rather there wasn’t a next.”
“Line up the target,” Franseza continued. “Take a breath, hold it. Ease the trigger and listen to your heartbeat. Fire in between the beats.”
Isabel slotted the new round into the chamber and relaxed back into position with the rifle butt wedged firmly into her right shoulder. She took a moment to listen to the hushed silence and found it comforting. The thing about being an actress was that Isabel always performed best with an audience. She loved the attention and the spotlight though she would never admit to such a thing to anyone but Jacques.
Sighting down the barrel she took aim at the centre of the target and took a deep breath.
“Not so deep,” Franseza said.
Isabel let out her breath and took a few more before sucking in a half lungful of air and holding it. She listened to the thump thump thump of her heartbeat and eased the trigger down. A loud bang later and Isabel let out her breath in a ragged sigh.
“Much better,” Franseza said. It was about as close to a compliment as Isabel was ever likely to receive from the woman.
“Pretty and good with a gun,” Amaury said awkwardly.
Jacques remained silent.
Isabel looked down the range to find the new smoking hole just barely intruding onto the centre circle. She smiled. She hated guns but she liked being good at things.
“Good enough, I reckon,” Franseza said. “Your turn, Revou.”
Isabel disentangled herself from the rifle and pushed to her feet letting Jacques take her place. He smiled at her as he lay down with the rifle.
Isabel liked being good at things but she accepted there were things she was not good at. Jacques did not. He didn’t let it show but Isabel had known him for too long. His poor aim grated on him atrociously.
“Same as de Rosier,” Franseza said. “Aim down the barrel. Breath. Fire between heart beats.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Amaury said with a smirk. “I’ve never seen a man hit a target behind him but if anyone can do it, it would be Revou.”
Barbed silence greeted Amaury from every corner of the firing range. Isabel willed Jacques to hit the target.
The rifle fired echoing down the range. Jacques looked up. There was not a new hole in the target.
Some part of Jacques deep down registered that he was drunk. Not just drunk, he was what his old thieving friends referred to as swimming in it and that meant he was an easy mark. Only it wasn’t the good old days and Jacques Revou wasn’t an easy mark for anyone. Jacques Revou was an impossible mark. Some part of Jacques deep down registered that he was Bastien Bonvillain and that confused both of them.
Isabel was around somewhere but for the life of him J
acques couldn’t see her. Of course, he had to admit, he couldn’t see much past a general blur unless he squinted really hard and that made his eyes hurt.
“Are you certain you’re sober enough to fire a gun, Bonvillain?” the Marquis de Roe asked with a broad smile and ruddy cheeks. The Marquis looked as drunk as Jacques felt and that was pretty damned drunk.
“My friend it is possible you have not heard about the time I shot and killed, uh, Yarro Maine.”
“An Arklander?” asked the Marquis.
“I’ve heard of Yarro Maine,” Duc Valette put in. He was, if anything, as red-faced and unsteady as Jacques. “Notorious bandit by all accounts. Some say he believes he’s doing it all in the name of their God. Performs his own funeral rites on every man he kills and I heard tell he kills a lot.”
“Killed a lot,” Jacques said with what he hoped was his most smug grin. “He doesn’t do it so much anymore.”
Duc Lavouré looked confused. “I’m certain I heard just recently that Maine is still alive. A fellow told me he left off working the Arkland-Sassaille border and now robs from their other border.”
Jacques took a deep swallow of the wonderful brandy he was holding, at least he thought it was brandy, more to give his brain time to come up with a feasible story. His mind rebelled for a second then gave up the fight and agreed to his terms.
“Quite right, he is still alive,” Jacques said with a knowing grin.
The entire group looked confused for a moment. It was Vicomte la Fien who broke the silence and the man had the absolute audacity to look stone cold sober. “You just said you shot and killed him.”
“And so I did,” Jacques replied again with the grin. “I was set upon by Maine and his gang just the other side of the border…”
“I’ve heard Maine attacks couples on the road,” the Marquis said seriously. “It tends to make men more compliant when their wives are at the point of a barrel.”
“Indeed,” Jacques said trying to ignore the rifle a servant had just arrived with. “However I was not with, uh, Adeline at the time. Her being back at Maquis van Elmer’s estates. No I was all on my own and looking to be quite the easy target, I would wager.”
“Highwaymen,” Duc Valette grumbled followed by a hiccup. “Always preying on the easy targets.”
Everybody turned to the Duc as if he was about to say more, perhaps some sort of here before unknown insight into the mind of the average highwayman. Instead the Duc took a deep swallow of his dark brown intoxicant and met everyone’s eyes with a challenge to defy him. No one did.
“He got more than he bargained for that day, I can tell you,” Jacques said. “Bastien Bonvillain is no easy target.
“Now when it came down to it I had heard of him and him of me and the both of us where eager to know who was the better man, so to speak, so we decided on a good old fashioned duel. Now I am certain I don’t need to tell you Yarro Maine is famous for being quick as a whippet with a pistol but I’m no slouch either.
“So there we were. He surrounded by his gang of highwaymen and I also surrounded by his gang of highwaymen and both of us with the deadly intent of killing the other.” Jacques paused to let the tension of the story rise, that and to let his brain catch up with his mouth. “I saw his hand twitch towards his pistol, a small sign but a sign nonetheless to an experienced duellist like myself. Quick as a snake, fast as lightning I drew and fired in one smooth motion. His bullet grazed my hip. Mine took him in the gut.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the Marquis who had, it was common knowledge, fought with the savages across the Brimstone Seas. He knew how bad a gut shot could be. Jacques on the other hand had never fought in battle, nor shot a man, nor seen a man shot but he had read extensively on the subject of medicinal practices and knew more than most men on the subject. He knew a slight tang of bitterness to the end of the story would help it slide down easier.
“It took five hours for Maine to die. I stayed with him to the last. A sign of respect to a fellow duellist. It turned out he was just an old soldier taken to banditry to feed his family after the Arklanders disbanded their armed forces in favour of armed zealots.” There was a grumble of agreement from both Duc Valette and Marquis de Roe. “He said the mere name of Yarro Maine was enough that most robberies went off without a shot and ordered his men to let me go on the promise I would not go spreading word of his death. I agreed, of course, and I would take it as a personal kindness if you all did not spread this story.” Another murmur of agreement. “His brother took up the name, I think, or cousin. There was definitely some relation and a striking resemblance.”
“What does this have to do with your being drunk?” Vicomte la Fien asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Jacques said in an affronted tone.
The Vicomte looked as cold as a cube of ice as he stared at Jacques. “You told this story in relation to the Marquis asking you if you are sober enough to fire a rifle.”
Jacques had to think about that for a moment. “You know, Thibault, I do believe you are right. Well I am certain if I can beat Yarro Maine in a duel I can fire a rifle while a little tipsy.”
Everybody laughed at the jest. Everybody but Vicomte la Fien laughed at the jest.
“This one is my personal rifle,” Lavouré said taking his weapon from the servant. “Crafted by Avery Verne himself and he considered it to be one of his finest pieces of work. It’s never shot a man, I’m afraid, but it has killed its fair share of pheasants, the odd deer, and one very unruly monkey.”
“A monkey?” Duc Valette asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it.” Lavouré smiled at the rifle and then proffered it to Jacques who took hold of it just like a man who knew how to fire one and made a show of looking it over with a critical eye, which is to say he squinted at it furiously and hoped nobody noticed his mild swaying back and forth.
“A beautiful gun,” Jacques said. Some part of him deep down worried that he could hear himself slurring his words. “I hope one day to own a Verne weapon of my very own.”
The Vicomte la Fien frowned. “Is that pistol at your hip not an Avery Verne?”
Jacques looked down at the holstered pistol hanging from his belt and then back up to meet the Vicomte’s eyes. He gave the man his most apologetic smile. “I meant my own Verne rifle, of course.”
“Of course.” The Vicomte looked far from convinced.
“Well said, well said,” said the Marquis de Roe. “After all a pistol is all fine and well for a duel but a rifle… A rifle is a real man’s weapon!”
Jacques squinted down the range into the darkness. He was certain there had been targets down there just a short while ago but all he could see now was a vast area of dark nothing.
“Should we put the lights on down the range?” Duc Lavouré asked. “I believe I had alchemical light orbs installed a while back. Percy, did I have alchemical light orbs installed a while back?”
The old servant stirred from dozing in a chair out of the way. “Yes, Duc.”
“I thought as much,” Lavouré agreed. “I’m fairly certain I installed a switch somewhere.”
“Leave them off,” Vicomte la Fien said. “A marksman of Bonvillain’s calibre should have no problem shooting in the dark. I can just about make out the target from here. He should be fine.”
“Quite so,” Jacques agreed. “Excellent night vision is the key.” Some part of him deep down realised he was setting himself up for a monumental fall.
“Impressive,” Lavouré said looking suitably impressed. “Well the range is yours, Bonvillain. Have at it.”
Jacques looked down at the rifle in his hands and then down the range towards, where he presumed, the targets were located. If there was one thing Jacques Revou hated it was being bad at something, if there were two things then people knowing he was bad at something came a close second. It suddenly dawned on him that he had not a hope in the Creator’s Hall of hitting the target and Bastien Bonvillain should be able to make the sh
ot, not that Bastien Bonvillain would have agreed to the challenge in the first place. He had dropped out of character and the mistake would cost him the credibility of his character. Jacques began to sweat.
“Have you fine gentlemen contrived to get my husband drunk and then place a rifle in his hands?” Isabel’s voice drifted over to them. Jacques mentally corrected himself; the voice belonged to Adeline Bonvillain, his wife.
Adeline made a quick apology to the women and approached the group of men with a frank and fairly disapproving look on her face.
“He, um, quite insisted really,” the Marquis de Roe said guiltily.
“Adamant, you might say,” agreed Duc Valette.
Adeline gave them all a stern eyeballing before resting her disapproving gaze on her husband. “How much have you had to drink, Bastien?”
“Well, I, uh, only a little…”
Adeline walked over to her husband and gently plucked the rifle from his hands. “You have had altogether too much to be playing with guns.”
“Yes,” Jacques agreed as Bastien. “You are most likely right, my dear.”
Adeline nodded firmly and looked around the rest of the men, her gaze stopping on Vicomte la Fien for just a moment. “I on the other hand am feeling more than sober enough to play with guns and this is a very fine gun indeed. An Avery Verne, if I am not very much mistaken. Bastien has always wanted a Verne rifle, haven’t you, dear ?”
“Indeed,” Bastien agreed, stepping back in line with the other men.
“Right then. Down the range is it?” Adeline asked. “A hundred yards or so.”
“Yes,” Lavouré agreed and gestured to the range. “Please go ahead.”
Adeline scuffed at the wooden decking of the veranda obviously hesitant to get her green dress dirty. “May I have a cushion?” she asked.
Duc Lavouré goggled. “Oh yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry. Percy, a cushion for the Baroness Bonvillain.”
Percy began to stir from his chair. “Two cushions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Adeline requested.
Percy stood slowly, picked two cushions from the chair he was lounging on and brought them to Adeline before returning silently to the very same chair.
