Rook(46)

René was stretched full length on the floor, hair undone, one arm behind his head, spinning a coin on the wooden planks, or sometimes tossing it to the air and catching it on an open palm. Sophia had been schooling herself not to notice this, even though his coin had been landing with Allemande’s face up ever since the moon set.

Spear rubbed his chin, voice scratchy and hair miraculously in place. “I don’t know, Sophie,” he was saying, “I’m just not sure it will work.”

The coin glinted and landed face up. “It will work, Mademoiselle,” René said.

“How are you doing that?” she asked him, curiosity too piqued to stop herself.

“The coin is weighted,” Spear replied for him.

René sat up on an elbow. “That is true. The spin is easy, but there is skill in the toss. I will show you sometime. If you wish.”

Sophia sensed danger and looked quickly back to the maps in front of her. “Well, I think the plan is brilliant, Spear. And, anyway, you’re forgetting our biggest advantage.”

Spear sighed. “And what is that?”

She smiled as she blew out their candle. “If LeBlanc thinks he has the Red Rook, then he won’t have any reason to expect that the Red Rook is coming.”



LeBlanc blew out his candle. Dawn was filtering through the tall stone windows, throwing yellow light on the plain, polished floor of his office. There was a light knock at his door. “Come,” he said softly.

Renaud ushered in an elderly Parisian in a neat black suit, the scent of the Tombs still hanging faintly about his clothes. LeBlanc stood, his politeness oily.

“Dr. Johannes,” he said. “Thank you for coming so early. Please, sit.” He gestured to Renaud, who brought a wooden chair before LeBlanc’s desk, the same chair Gerard had used ten days earlier.

“I’ll admit it was a surprise to be asked,” replied the doctor, who had woken to four gendarmes breaking down his door. He sat stiffly, mouth in a straight line. LeBlanc smoothed the long, black, white-collared robes he now wore instead of a jacket, positioning them so as not to wrinkle when he slid into place behind the desk.

“And what is your opinion of the prisoner?”

“A little dehydrated, nothing that access to water would not correct, and crawling with vermin, which is no different than the others. There is significant bruising, and three ribs on the right side are broken. I have wrapped them, and he will need to be still and left strictly alone if he is to walk upright, especially with the leg.”

“And what about the leg, Doctor?”

“A bad break that did not set well. Nearly two years ago, according to him, and that seems right. Still gives him a good deal of pain, I am sure.”

LeBlanc’s fingers tapped the desk. “So in your opinion, Dr. Johannes, could a man with a leg such as the prisoner’s perform … certain tasks? Sword fighting, for instance? Jumping, running, or climbing a wall?”

“There is nothing wrong with the arms, but anything that involves agile movement of the legs is in my opinion impossible. The limb will not bear the weight.”

“Could the prisoner walk without the limp? Even for a short distance?”

“No. The leg is physically shorter now, after the injury.”

“And the more recent cut? It was made by a sword?”

“If so, it was a small and dull one. There is no infection, though how that’s so I cannot say. But the edges of the skin are ragged, not clean. I’d say a knife. Serrated.”

“Like a table knife.”

“Just so. I have wrapped that wound as well.”

LeBlanc glanced toward the back of the room, where Renaud stood along the wall, his long face impassive, then at the doctor, grim and assured of his facts, hands on the bag of medical tools in his lap. LeBlanc smiled.

“Thank you, Doctor. Just one more question, to appease a little curiosity of mine. Some of these tasks we were discussing, could the more … arduous of them, could they be performed by a woman?”

“They could be done by anyone with the proper strength.”

“Even sword fighting, Doctor?”

“Size and muscular development make a difference, of course, but both the male and the female respond to training, Monsieur.”

“And the mental training that goes with such skills? The agility of the mind?”

“No difference under the sun.”

“I see. And others in your profession, would they say the same?”

The doctor, whose brows had gone up at the odd line of questioning, frowned now, confused. “Of course they would. Why shouldn’t they? The idea that women are not fit for certain tasks is based on cultural expectations, not the science of fact. It is an old-fashioned belief coming from the less civilized centuries after the Great Death, and has nothing to do with medicine. Any man of science knows that.”

“Oh, that is unlucky,” LeBlanc said. He waved a hand toward Renaud, who moved quietly forward. “Thank you, Doctor, for giving me so much to think on. Renaud will take care of you. And, Renaud, when you are done, I will need another message sent to our informant in the Commonwealth.”

LeBlanc drummed his fingers on the desk, contemplating one or two things he would have to say in his letter while Renaud came up behind the wooden chair and, with quick and silent efficiency, slit the doctor’s throat.