by Rob J. Hayes
Jacques took a deep breath and silently congratulated himself on the uncertain look on Franseza’s face before continuing.
“Oh, I do believe he trusts Roache. The man is loyal as a dog, something to do with his military background, I would wager. But you…” he paused. “As you previously said, you sell your services, and therefore also your secrets, to the highest bidder so what happens when someone else bids higher? I honestly do not think the Seigneur will take the risk. So how long before he sends Roache to do to you what you are about to do to me?”
“As if that simpleton could beat me,” Franseza exclaimed loudly but not convincingly. Jacques made a living from lying to people and he could spot a lie at a hundred paces. Still, sometimes people needed their pride massaging.
“Of course in a fair fight you would have him beat ten times down but we both know it would not be a fair fight.”
Franseza opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it again, her eyes went far away and Jacques knew he almost had her. She needed just a little more pushing.
“Franseza…”
“Revou, if you open your mouth again I swear I will put a bullet in it.”
Jacques obediently closed his mouth and went about the arduous process of waiting and praying silently to all three Gods, despite the blasphemy of praying to the Ruiner. Dreadful anticipation had never been his favourite feeling and right now it was proving just why he hated it so.
Franseza abruptly eased the hammer on her pistol back down and holstered the weapon. It appeared she had decided in his favour. “Goodbye, Revou.”
The woman hopped down from her perch on the tool cabinet and headed towards the ladder.
“What about the airship?” Jacques asked. “We have to stop it!”
“Not my problem. Good luck though,” Franseza Goy said without looking as she mounted the ladder and quickly disappeared out of sight.
Jacques looked around the engineering section frantically. He had a wounded arm that was about as much use as a paper lockpick, severe exhaustion that bordered on grounds for passing out, and somehow he had to bring down an airship and save the woman he loved from the man who was twice his size and four times as armed.
In fit of frustration Jacques kicked at the metal housing of the generator. If the engine had any compulsion to give up from the lacklustre beating it showed it not a bit. With a wordless cry that bordered on girlish Jacques gave up, slumped to the floor and scratched at an inch on his right arm that had been bothering him since the bullet hit him. As he scratched, his finger brushed glass and an idea popped into his mind. A very stupid idea.
“You’re lying!” Isabel stated firmly as though her very denial of Amaury’s statement by force of her will would make it false.
Amaury Roache sneered at her, an ugly expression on an ugly face owned by an ugly man. “Nope. Shot him then showed him a few hundred feet drop. Doubt there’s enough left to identify.”
Isabel felt her eyes grow hot and wet and unwanted tears made salty tracks down her face. She wiped them away and her hand came away dark with ruined eye-liner. Amaury softened in an instant and took a step towards her, his hand held out in front of him as though his touch might comfort her. Isabel instinctively took a step back with a look of horror on face.
“You…” Isabel stopped and swallowed down the lump in her throat as she fought to master her emotions. A true actress felt, portrayed, but always remained detached. Right now Isabel was feeling anything but detached. “You kill the man I love and then expect me to fall into your arms?” she asked. “Is that it?”
“I… um… yes?”
Isabel drew in a great shuddering breath and made for the door, brushing past Amaury as she went.
It took the big man a few seconds to respond. “Isabel wait! Please.”
Amaury turned to face her and froze, his hand instinctively going to the pistol holster on his belt. The now empty pistol holster on his belt.
“Isabel…” Amaury said slowly holding up his hands.
Isabel didn’t give him time to act or talk or anything else. She pulled the trigger and after the report of the gun she watched him slump backwards onto the bridge console, his body tangling with the controls and hanging there motionless and empty.
Isabel had never killed a person before. She had never wanted to kill a person. She had never imagined she would kill a person and she certainly had never given any thought to how it might feel. She felt cold and sick and… slow. It was as though her mind and body were both swamped in treacle and any sort of movement involved a great effort of fighting against inertia.
Amaury Roache’s corpse was still bent over on the console. His eyes were open and unfocused, his mouth agape and his jacket stained red with his blood.
Isabel looked down at the pistol. Her hand was shaking. It took a force of will she didn’t know she possessed to stop that shaking but Isabel managed it. It took only a few moments to regain control of herself but she forced her body to calm and her mind to clarity. Then she threw away the pistol and fled the bridge.
Cold wind whipped at her face as she made her way across the foredeck and down onto the main deck. Isabel had no real idea of where she was going, but anywhere was better than the bridge, anything was better than looking at Amaury Roache’s corpse; her handiwork.
Above her the clouds were beginning to break and bright morning sunshine was forcing its way through, lighting lac de la Caché in sparkling blues. It was then she realised they were above lac de la Caché. Amaury had taken them off course but Isabel had no idea why. She saw a parachute trailing away into the lake behind them, the basket attached to the bottom of the chute may have been empty but Isabel couldn’t be sure from such a distance.
As she turned away from the railing Isabel saw a ghost limping towards her. Her mind playing tricks on her, trying to make her believe that Jacques was still alive. Though why her mind would picture him limping, pale, cradling his right arm and shouting at her she couldn’t quite fathom.
“Bel! Roache is somewhere on board the ship,” the spectre said to her.
“He’s gone,” Isabel replied.
“Oh… Good.”
Isabel reached out with a hand and flicked Jacques on the forehead.
“Ow! What the Ruiner, Bel?”
“You’re real!” Isabel didn’t wait for any more confirmation, she threw herself at Jacques and embraced him, holding him close.
“Ow ow ow ow ow ow,” Jacques said. “Bel, the arm.”
She ignored him.
“This really does hurt,” he continued. “I’ve been shot, you know.”
“The ship!” She said finally pulling away from him. “Amaury set it on a different course, locked out the steering.”
“Yes,” Jacques agreed. “The Seigneur plans for The Sunrise to crash into the royal retreat where the Queen is currently giving birth to the royal heir.”
Isabel felt her jaw drop. “We have to stop it.”
“Already done,” Jacques said with a broad smile. “Speaking of which we really should find a parachute and get out of here.”
“Why?”
Just as Jacques opened his mouth to reply an explosion shook the ship and both Isabel and Jacques stumbled into one another. “Foredeck. Go. Now!” he shouted and Isabel didn’t hesitate. Whatever Jacques had done was very likely catastrophic knowing him as she did.
She sprinted for the ladder to the foredeck and took it in a leap and a few easy rungs then reached down to pull Jacques up by his good arm. As she did so, Isabel noticed a strange shift in perception. The deck of The Northern Sunrise was starting to slope towards the aft section. The rear end of the airship was falling.
“The parachute,” Jacques shouted pointing with his left hand.
Again Isabel sprinted but this time uphill as the gradient of the deck became more and more pronounced. With a burst of speed Isabel reached the railing, leapt over it and into the waiting basket. She turned to see Jacques struggling along, half-limping, h
alf-running against the ever-increasing slope. He reached the railing just as the tilt of the airship became too much for him and his legs went out from beneath him.
As barrels, ropes and other debris went cascading towards the rear end of The Northern Sunrise Isabel hauled Jacques into the escape basket, growling and cursing as she did. No sooner was his last leg into the basket Isabel shouted at him to hold onto something and punched the release catch.
The basket shot out into the open air one hundred and fifty feet above lac de la Caché and it was anything but reassuring. The slant of the airship as the basket was released made it twist and turn and flip. Gravity became a fluid thing exerting pressure in every direction all at once. Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and held onto the basket with one hand and Jacques’ collar with the other. Then the chute opened and with one last horrifying lurch the basket righted itself and slowed to a much more reasonable, non-life-threatening speed.
It took a long time before Isabel felt brave enough to force her eyes to open but when she did the first thing she saw was Jacques smiling at her. Warmth spread throughout her chest despite the cold air and she leaned forward and kissed him for what seemed like an eternity.
“Do yua mind if wre wraach tha shep cresh?” Jacques said around Isabel’s lips and she pulled away laughing, unable to contain the smile that broke forth.
As the escape basket slowly glided down towards the water below they watched The Northern Sunrise go down miles from its intended destination. Jacques had disabled the aft generator with his final vial of liquid Ice-Fire and with no electricity coursing through the Vinet crystals the rear anti-gravity fields had simply stopped. The rear end dipped leaving the ship vertical in the air and the fore Vinet crystals simply weren’t powerful enough to keep her aloft.
For a short while The Northern Sunrise struggled to keep in the air but the explosion Jacques had orchestrated had set a fire to raging through the ship and soon it reached the fuel for the thrusters. The resulting explosion ripped the ship apart from the middle, and set Isabel’s ears ringing, and after that she dropped to the lake like a stone, the waters smothering the fire and swallowing the wreckage leaving only stray planks of wood as floating evidence that it ever existed.
The wind was favourable and they were drifting slowly towards the shore but by the looks of things there would be a short, cold swim in their immediate future. Isabel guessed they had a good few minutes before touchdown though so she settled down into the basket and basked in the morning sun.
“So what have you got?” Jacques asked.
“You first,” she replied easily.
“I asked first.”
“I’ve recently experienced the heart-rending grief of being told that you were dead.”
“Oh,” Jacques cleared his throat. “I shall go first. If you would be so kind as to reach into my left inside jacket pocket…”
Isabel did as he asked and frowned only momentarily at the blood stains on his shirt. She found a leather document wallet in his jacket and proceeded to open it. Inside were, predictably, papers.
“Writs of Transport signed by one Seigneur Renard Daron,” Jacques confirmed.
“The names regarding the personage granted transport are curiously left blank,” Isabel said with a smile.
“Well he hardly granted me those documents by grace of good will. He was trying to kill us after all. But the fool actually asked me to break into his own safe, it would be rude not steal anything from him.”
Isabel slotted the papers back into their wallet, conscious of their need to keep them dry, and tucked the wallet back into Jacques’ coat, taking the opportunity to kiss him as she did.
“And you, my darling Bel?” Jacques asked.
“Fifty-thousand gold ducats,” Isabel said with a smug grin.
Jacques snorted out a laugh. “Where are you hiding them? Just how deep are those pockets?”
“Every job we’ve ever pulled, Jacques, every single one,” Isabel said seriously. “I have taken a percentage from and sent that money overseas to the Carter Memorial Bank in Great Turlain.”
Jacques looked truly dumbfounded. “You stole from us. You’ve been stealing from us for years. You great and glorious woman, that’s the most wondrous theft I have ever heard of!”
“A small fortune,” Isabel said.
“Enough to get us back on our feet,” Jacques corrected.
“Enough to get us started,” Isabel replied.
“Enough to get us by until I am healed,” Jacques conceded.
“Enough to get us by until we find one more last job.”
Epilogue - Execution
Almost one hundred years had passed since Cutter’s Square had seen an execution. Most criminals were dispatched in short order by the Constabulary but today marked a special occasion. Today witnessed the execution of fourteen members of the aristocracy. Never before had such a large number of nobles been executed by royal decree but then never before had such a large number of nobles been implicit in a plot to murder the Queen and the heir to the throne.
Renard glanced over at the royal box. The Queen stood tall, regal, fearless, with her new-born son nestled in her arms. The birth had been without incident and two months after the attempt on her life she had returned to Rares to witness the execution of her would-be murderers. She spotted Renard looking her way and stared icy daggers at him.
King Félix lounged in his box, no doubt bored by the wait but eager to see his justice dispensed. He had a glass of wine in his hand and a large alchemical heater nearby to ward off the chill of winter. The fool spent even less time managing the affairs of his Kingdom now he had a son to dote over.
Just as Renard had planned the King had quickly granted his special powers of justice to detain and interrogate any citizen of Sassaille including those of noble birth. There were now only two people in the whole Kingdom Renard could not arrest at will and he very much doubted either the King or Queen were plotting against themselves.
It was unfortunate the test flight of The Northern Sunrise had not gone entirely to plan. The Queen’s survival had been more than an annoyance, as had been the survival of the heir, but neither one were irreconcilable given the passage of time. He would make certain the little Prince never came to power and control of the Kingdom remained true to the Sassaille bloodlines.
The loss of Amaury Roache had been a setback. The man had been supposed to report back on the deaths of de Rosier, Revou and Franseza Goy but, as he had never returned, Renard could only presume the man had died along with the others. He had agents out searching for any of the four but as yet he had received no word. Reports suggested no one could have survived the crash of The Northern Sunrise but Renard never left anything to chance. He would search until he found them or their bodies.
The herald began calling out the names of the accused and each one was punctuated with a shivering aristocrat being manhandled into the firing pen by burly soldiers. Renard shifted his weight with a grumble, cursing his need to maintain his image of infirmary, and shoved his left hand into his pocket in an attempt to warm his freezing fingers. He hated the cold of winter almost as much as he hated the heat of summer.
More names were called; Paul Hees, Joudain de Roe, Vienne de Roe, Thibault la Fien, Hélène la Fien. Renard spotted Comte Ruben la Fien across the crowd. The man seemed to have aged a decade in the last couple of months but he watched the proceedings with a look of grim satisfaction.
The last name to be called was one Gaston Lavouré. Renard couldn’t help but let slip a slight smile. The man had tried to play the game and lost and, judging by the look he sent to Renard, he knew exactly who he had lost to. All members of the conspiracy had protested their innocence but it didn’t matter. Renard’s planted evidence and the attempt on the Queen’s life had damned them all.
Two other names were omitted from the list due to them both already being dead. Bastien and Adeline Bonvillain had been judged and dishonoured posthumously; their names would foreve
r be associated with treachery and treason. That they were never anything more than fictional characters, created by Renard and brought to life by two charlatans best left forgotten, would never be known.
The prisoners were allowed one last look at the King and Queen. Once both had turned their backs, burlap sacks were placed over the prisoners’ heads and the firing squad stepped forward.
A flash of light glinting off a window pane momentarily blinded Renard and he saw the little twinkle far away on a rooftop. A pin prick of light almost half a mile distant.
“Ready,” called the Captain in charge of proceedings.
Renard smiled.
“Aim.”
He had won.
“Fire!”
The shots echoed around the square and the bodies of the prisoners jerked as each one was hit by two bullets, head and heart.
Renard stumbled, his chest suddenly tight and his vision swimming. He looked down to see a spreading patch of red soaking through the clothing on his chest. Looking back up he saw the twinkle of light on the roof tops once more and then it was gone.
He knew all too well only one woman in all of Sassaille could make a shot like that. Then he knew no more.
The Northern Sunrise schematic
Other books by Rob J. Hayes
The Ties that Bind trilogy
The Heresy Within
The Colour of Vengeance
The Price of Faith
