by Rob J. Hayes
A gasp alerted them both to the presence of another party to their conversation. Both Jacques and Amaury turned slowly to find a woman dressed in the shirt, skirt and cravat of the Lavouré serving staff. She wore a look one part confusion, one part terror and one part anger. The woman took a step back and Amaury stepped after her. Jacques did not agree with violence during a heist as a rule but things were going just a little bit awry and Amaury did specialise in violence.
“Take one more step and I’ll scream!” the woman said with the conviction of one accustomed to being saved by men rushing to her aid. To Jacques’ amazement Amaury froze in his advance.
“Do you know who I am, young lady?” Bastien asked in his most commanding tone.
“You’re Baron Bonvillain,” she responded meekly.
“I am on a very important errand for Duc Lavouré,” he continued. “I suggest…”
“I heard you,” the woman stated firmly. “You said you were robbing him.”
Jacques let out a mental sigh. He hated it when jobs required improvisation like this. “Yes, I did that. Let me ask you another question. Do you know what this is?” A coin appeared in Jacques’ hand as if from nowhere.
“It’s a gold ducat,” she said, her eyes suddenly hungry.
“Very good. Now I’m going to give this to you and you are going to forget you saw us.” He flicked the coin high through the air towards her and she raised her hands to catch it. At the same time Amaury rushed forwards and gave the woman a solid thump across the jaw that put her down like a sack of particularly unconscious oats.
“Was that necessary?” Jacques asked the man.
“Yes,” Roache replied with a smug smile.
“Do you enjoy beating up women?”
The smile faltered. “No. It’s just… she was going to…”
“Well at least help me hide her,” Jacques set to dragging the unconscious woman into the room previously occupied by Amaury Roache. “Now let us go and find this study. And no more hitting anyone.”
“Not even you?” Roache asked.
“Especially not me.”
Jacques left the gold ducat with the unconscious body of the woman. He hated giving away money for nothing but at the same time he felt more than a little guilt over the situation. Not enough guilt to make any real amends; but then monetary recompense, in his experience, was almost always the best cure for guilt and he could already feel the weight lifting from his chest.
“We need to find the stairs,” Jacques said as he closed the door behind him.
“Thought you knew the layout,” Roache said in a snide voice.
“I could have asked that lady back there had you not beaten her senseless,” Jacques retorted.
Roache snorted. “Paying her off would never have worked.”
Jacques sighed. “You might be surprised how often paying someone off works, especially if that someone happens to work for a member of the aristocracy who, it is well known, does not pay them particularly well.”
Roache had to think about that one for a moment before simply shaking his head. “We need to find the stairs.”
It did not take them much longer and, thankfully, they encountered no more of Lavouré’s staff along the way. Upon reaching the second floor Jacques took a moment to calculate his bearings. Roache was not a patient companion and seemed to take great joy in trying to interrupt Jacques’ quiet pondering.
Not for the first time Jacques realised how much he missed Isabel, and not just because Roache made for such poor company. She had been his companion, his confidant, his partner in crime, and his anchor for as long as they had known each other.
It had been love at first sight, for Jacques at least, even before they had formally met. Sneaking in to watch la troupe de Zelaine had been the easy part and, for a teenage Jacques, that had originally been all he had intended, but when he witnessed the beauty and grace of Isabel de Rosier playing the part of Mademoiselle Canary in The Ferryman’s Folly, he was struck as if by lightning. She made the character believable. She made the character come alive. She made the entire audience stare at her while an unnoticed cutpurse snuck throughout the gathered fools and cut their purses. He had known from that very moment that Isabel was capable of much greater things and he had pursued her relentlessly despite her parents chasing him away multiple times, once with rifles and a prop pitchfork which Jacques could attest were at least as sharp as the non-prop variety.
“Which way?” Roache asked in a hiss.
“That way,” Jacques pointed and surprised himself with how confident he sounded despite his desperate picking of a random direction.
After only a minute or so of bare corridors, locked doors and the passive aggressive sighing of Amaury Roache, Jacques stopped in front of a door with the absolute certainty that it was the one he was looking for and the absolute certainty that he also had no way of opening it.
“Where’s the key hole?” Roache asked pushing Jacques aside to get a better look at the impressive metal and glass monstrosity that barred their passage.
“There isn’t one,” Jacques said with a sigh. “It’s a Lindle door.”
“Oh,” grunted Roache. “You think Lavouré has the key on him?”
“I would,” Jacques said as he studied the door. He gave it a light knock with a single knuckle and listened closely for the sound it made.
“Well haven’t you figured out how to break Lindle locks?” Roache prompted. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“I have figured out how to break small, safe-sized Lindle locks,” Jacques replied in a terse voice that betrayed the full extent of his frustration. “However there are two quite formidable problems with this particular lock. First; it is not a safe, and second; it is a door.”
“So?”
“So the technique I have pioneered quite simply will not work on a door, so unless you happen to have a welding torch stowed somewhere on your person and about three spare hours, it is impossible.”
“The Seigneur wants this done without anyone knowing it’s been broken into,” Roache said impassively.
“Another slight mountain of a problem to overcome.”
They both stood there for a long while staring at the barrier that blocked their way and threatened to derail the entire heist.
“So now what?” Roache asked.
Jacques tapped the door again but this time he wasn’t listening for the reply but instead he was already making new calculations in his head. “How do you feel about climbing?” he asked.
Jacques was sitting cross-legged on the rough wooden floor in front of Seigneur Daron’s personal safe. It was a metal cube no more than a metre in each measurement, and was a fairly drab ornament despite the reputation of its creator for making extravagant, gorgeous, eye-catching pieces that served both to increase social standing and stop any and all would-be thieves. That reputation did nothing to deter Jacques.
He had a variety of tools, alchemical mixtures, acidic solvents, and welding apparatus arrayed beside him and of course, every safe-cracker’s best friend and weapon of choice, a phonendoscope, hung from his ears. He placed the diaphragm on the surface of the safe’s door and tapped the metal plate gently, listening closely for any response from inside the door’s mechanism.
Seigneur Daron coughed.
With a heavy sigh Jacques pulled the earpieces out and set the phonendoscope down on a piece of cloth. Knowing how filthy the floor in the Seigneur’s study was Jacques had no intention of letting any of that filth near his ears so neither was it going anywhere near his phonendoscope.
“You’ve been tapping that thing for nearly thirty minutes,” the Seigneur rasped. “Please tell me you have made some progress.”
Jacques nodded sagely. “None.”
The Seigneur sighed.
“This could take quite some time, Seigneur,” Jacques continued. “Not for nothing do Lindle locks have such a prestigious reputation. Never, as far as I am aware, has one been broken.”
“You are not aware of as much as you might think,” the Seigneur returned. “Get on with it.”
“It would be far less difficult if you would impose fewer restrictions.”
“The contents are not to be damaged and it must appear as though the safe has not been tampered with,” the Seigneur said reaffirming his directions.
“And I have only the one chance to get this right as you have provided me with only one test subject,” Jacques pointed out.
The Seigneur grunted.
“I think I will take my time. Feel free to leave.”
The silence that greeted that suggestion spoke volumes of the Seigneur’s trust in Jacques.
Three hours later and Jacques found himself sporting a prolific cramp in his back, an unrelenting itch between his shoulder blades from Seigneur Daron’s stare and a far greater understanding and appreciation of Dominique Lindle and her craft.
The first problem in cracking the puzzle was that every Lindle lock was different, she never made two the same and each one had a hidden keyhole that was most certainly not a hole, and a key that looked very little like a key. To compound his current predicament the Seigneur had not even allowed Jacques to see what the safe key looked like so he was finding it unfathomably hard to determine where to start. The front plate of the safe was mixture of exposed cogs and gears, alchemically tempered glass that was stronger than tempered steel and near invisible to the naked eye and, of course, tempered steel. Frustration only began to describe Jacques current feeling. He hated puzzles he couldn’t solve.
Jacques pushed one of the cogs in a clockwise motion, there was heavy resistance but it did turn. He put the earpieces of his phonendoscope in, placed the diaphragm on the safe and turned the cog again. There was a definite click. The problem was he still had no idea whether that was part of the key to unlocking the damned thing or just a fancy turning cog that looked pretty but served no real purpose. Dominique Lindle, Jacques decided right then, was undoubtedly a genius.
“What about the hinges?” the Seigneur suggested in his rasping voice.
“They are as hidden as your true agenda,” Jacques responded without thinking. “I can’t actually tell if the thing opens up left or right.”
“The faceplate…”
“Again, without having first seen it open I cannot be certain which part of the faceplate can be removed and which cannot. If I tamper with the wrong component it could freeze out the locking mechanism entirely.”
They were both quiet for a while but eventually the Seigneur spoke again. “Would you like the benefit of my experience?” he asked.
“Practising safe cracker are you?” Jacques responded flippantly.
Seigneur Daron snorted. “When a frontal assault will fail try sneaking in through the back door.”
Jacques threw up his arms and let out a loud whoop. “There is no back door! The entire point of a safe is that there is only one way in and it is, for lack of a better term, safe.”
“Make a back door.”
“Make a back door?” Jacques stood up and faced the Seigneur. “This thing,” he thumped the top of the safe and expertly hid the substantial pain it caused, “is made from alchemically-tempered steel. It would take hours to cut through even with the best welding torch I could find and…”
The Seigneur seemed surprised that Jacques had stopped mid-rant. “And?”
“And it would likely destroy anything inside the safe and it would be fairly obvious someone had broken into it,” Jacques continued with little to no conviction. “I need some supplies, I shall return presently.”
An hour later Jacques was sitting in a triumphant pose on top of the very safe that had caused him so much grief. The back plate, all inch and a half of solid tempered steel lay on the floor and the safe was well and truly cracked. Inside and intact sat a veritable fortune of money, jewels and Seigneur Daron’s secrets. The Seigneur was standing close by looking a little less than impressed.
“I gave you two restrictions, Revou,” the Seigneur said angrily.
“The contents are fine,” Jacques responded with a grin.
“Something tells me people will know it has been broken in to.”
Jacques laughed, leapt up from the safe and gave the Seigneur a hard slap on the back. “Not at all, my good Seigneur. Why, once I have the back plate back on, it would take a thorough inspection of the rear of the safe to notice that it has been cracked and I doubt the Duc regularly performs such an inspection.”
“And how are you going to get the back plate back on?”
“Ah well, for that I’m going to need a strong pair of arms and a considerable amount of money.”
Amaury flicked open the lock on the window, pushed the glass panes open and looked down, what he saw did not comfort him. Not only was the moon bright and shining on their side of the mansion but directly below them a small wall surrounded the building, no more than three feet in height if he had to guess but the major problem was that it was topped with black iron spikes. If they fell, even from the relatively minor height of the first or second floor, it would likely prove fatal or at the very least extremely painful.
Revou joined him at the window and looked out at the night. “Perfect weather for a good climb, don’t you think? Not too cold, good light and just a slight breeze in the air.”
Amaury gave him a dirty look, let out a resigned sigh and climbed onto the window ledge. He briefly entertained the idea of throwing Revou onto the iron spikes but only briefly.
Standing on the window ledge outside of the building, Amaury was suddenly struck by the thought that this was not the best of ideas. The truth of the matter was that he had very little climbing experience and, despite the fact that the next ledge was about two metres above him, the idea of falling brought shameful tears to his eyes. It simply wasn’t right for a man of his skills, experience and disposition to be unmanned by something so simple as moderate danger.
“Anytime now, my good man,” said Jacques from inside the window. “We don’t actually have all day.”
Amaury grunted in frustration. “Why am I going first?” he asked.
“Because I’m less than perfectly confident in your climbing ability and I would like to be below you to help should it look like you are struggling.”
Again Amaury grunted and he reached up with his right hand looking for a hold. He found a slight ledge, an indent in the brickwork and jammed his fingers in hard before repeating the process with his left hand. After a short forever he found himself looking for a foot hold and found that too, it certainly wasn’t easy considering he was wearing a pair of polished black loafers designed for discomfort rather than climbing but he made the best of it no matter and all to the whispered encouragement of Revou from down below. Rather than inspiring confidence, all Revou’s mindless chattering accomplished was to make Amaury more angry and more determined to complete the climb just to shove it in the smaller man’s face.
Amaury was about half way through the climb and had moved almost as far to his left as he had upwards when he heard Revou hiss at him to be quiet. Annoyed at the man’s presumption that he was making noise Amaury looked over his shoulder and down at Revou. It was not his best of ideas. From this height the ground looked very far away; it had to be at least four miles down and, with that image, Amaury’s sight began to swim, first swirling to the left and then the right. Amaury clutched the wall and then remembered to breathe, sucking in great breaths of cool night air. He was still staring past Revou, down at the ground when he saw the couple walk into sight. Two men, hand in hand and staring at each other fondly, walked below. If either of the two had the thought to look up there was simply no way they would be able to miss Amaury and Revou stuck to the wall of the mansion like two well-dressed spiders but luckily the two men had no eyes for anything but each other. Amaury felt a slight tug of revulsion at the thought but it was soon swamped by the feeling of abject fear returning tenfold. Once again he clutched tight to the side of the building a
nd tried his best not to stare back down.
It seemed an age passed by the time Revou scrambled up the side of the building beside Amaury. “You know I was starting to think they would never leave, stroke of luck for us though, eh? Two young lovers like that. Very romantic.”
Amaury stared wild eyes at the thief hanging on to the building beside him making stupid small talk. “They were both men,” he forced out through gritted teeth.
“Love knows not gender, nor race, nor creed, nor time,” Revou said. “Polenghast said that. One of the greatest thinkers of his age and a poet. There are rumours that he himself enjoyed the company of other men.”
The pressure between Amaury’s gritted teeth was starting to give him a headache.
“Maybe not the best of times for a philosophical discussion,” Revou admitted. “We’re almost there, Amaury. You can make it, just breathe normally and relax a little, don’t look down. No! I said don’t look down. Now slowly let go with your left arm and reach up. Just a little more, now a little to your left.”
Amaury’s fingers found a ledge, a solid stone ledge that he could get a real purchase on. He gripped onto it with every ounce of strength he had.
“There we go,” Revou continued. “That’s even the window we need. Providence you could say, assuming you believe in the Three Gods. Or maybe just the One God. But you don’t strike me as a secret Arklander. Now move your left foot across a bit, a bit more. There that looks like a good foot hold.”
Before long, with Revou’s constant stream of coaching and mindless babble, Amaury pulled himself up onto the window ledge and stood there, hanging on to the top of the window with his hands and he shook. He’d been to war, he’d faced down armed soldiers with numbers well and truly on their side and he’d done it with stoic determination, not fear. Amaury Roache had once killed a tiger with nothing but a butter knife and here he was shaking like leaf from a height that might not even kill him. The shame of it was almost unbearable and even worse was that Revou had witnessed it, witnessed how much it had unmanned him. It simply wasn’t right that another person should have witnessed the burning shame Amaury had just been through.
