The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(6)

His brother had looked at him straight on, the quiet in his eyes showing through the outlandish Mohawk tattoos.

“No,” he’d said softly. “But after a time, ye find ye’re in a different place than ye were. A different person than ye were. And then ye look about and see what’s there with ye. Ye’ll maybe find a use for yourself. That helps.”

“Aye, fine,” he said, under his breath, and squared his shoulders. “We’ll see, then.”

* * *

To Rakoczy’s surprise, there was a familiar face behind the rough bar. If Maximilian the Great was surprised to see him, the Spanish dwarf gave no indication of it. The other drinkers—a pair of jugglers, each missing an arm (but the opposing arm), a toothless hag who smacked and muttered over her mug of arrack, and something that looked like a ten-year-old girl but almost certainly wasn’t—turned to stare at him but, seeing nothing remarkable in his shabby clothing and burlap bag, turned back to the business of getting sufficiently drunk as to do what needed to be done tonight.

He nodded to Max and pulled up one of the splintering kegs to sit on.

“What’s your pleasure, se?or?”

Rakoczy narrowed his eyes; Max had never served anything but arrack. But times had changed; there was a stone bottle of something that might be beer and a dark glass bottle with a chalk scrawl on it, standing next to the keg of rough brandy.

“Arrack, please, Max,” he said—better the devil you know—and was surprised to see the dwarf’s eyes narrow in return.

“You knew my honored father, I see, se?or,” the dwarf said, putting the cup on the board. “It’s some time since you’ve been in Paris?”

“Pardonnez,” Rakoczy said, accepting it and tossing it back. If you could afford more than one cup, you didn’t let it linger on the tongue. “Your honored … late father? Max?”

“Maximiliano el Maximo,” the dwarf corrected him firmly.

“To be sure.” Rakoczy gestured for another drink. “And whom have I the honor to address?”

The Spaniard—though perhaps his accent wasn’t as strong as Max’s had been—drew himself up proudly. “Maxim Le Grand, a su servicio!”

Rakoczy saluted him gravely and threw back the second cup, motioning for a third and, with a gesture, inviting Maxim to join him.

“It has been some time since I was last here,” he said. No lie there. “I wonder if another old acquaintance might be still alive—Ma?tre Raymond, otherwise called the Frog?”

There was a tiny quiver in the air, a barely perceptible flicker of attention, gone almost as soon as he’d sensed it—somewhere behind him?

“A frog,” Maxim said, meditatively pouring himself a drink. “I don’t know any frogs myself, but should I hear of one, who shall I say is asking for him?”

Should he give his name? No, not yet.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But word can be left with Madame Fabienne. You know the place? In the Rue Antoine?”

The dwarf’s sketchy brows rose, and his mouth turned up at one corner.

“I know it.”

Doubtless he did, Rakoczy thought. “El Maximo” hadn’t referred to Max’s stature, and probably “Le Grand” didn’t, either. God had a sense of justice, as well as a sense of humor.

“Bon.” He wiped his lips on his sleeve and put down a coin that would have bought the whole keg. “Merci.”

He stood up, the hot taste of the brandy bubbling at the back of his throat, and belched. Two more places to visit, maybe, before he went to Fabienne’s. He couldn’t visit more than that and stay upright; he was getting old.

“Good night.” He bowed to the company and gingerly pushed open the cracked wooden door; it was hanging by one leather hinge, and that looked ready to give way at any moment.

“Ribbit,” someone said very softly, just before the door closed behind him.

* * *

Madeleine’s face lighted when she saw him, and his heart warmed. She wasn’t very bright, poor creature, but she was pretty and amiable and had been a whore long enough to be grateful for small kindnesses.

“Monsieur Rakoczy!” She flung her arms about his neck, nuzzling affectionately.

“Madeleine, my dear.” He cupped her chin and kissed her gently on the lips, drawing her close so that her belly pressed against his. He held her long enough, kissing her eyelids, her forehead, her ears—so that she made high squeaks of pleasure—that he could feel his way inside her, hold the weight of her womb in his mind, evaluate her ripening.

It felt warm, the color in the heart of a dark crimson rose, the kind called sang de dragon. A week before, it had felt solid, compact as a folded fist; now it had begun to soften, to hollow slightly as she readied. Three more days? he wondered. Four?

He let her go, and when she pouted prettily at him, he laughed and raised her hand to his lips, feeling the same small thrill he had felt when he first found her, as the faint blue glow rose between her fingers in response to his touch. She couldn’t see it—he’d raised their linked hands to her face before and she had merely looked puzzled—but it was there.

“Go and fetch some wine, ma belle,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “I need to talk to Madame.”

Madame Fabienne was not a dwarf, but she was small, brown, and mottled as a toadstool—and as watchful as a toad, round yellow eyes seldom blinking, never closed.