Rook(53)

“Tom?” Jennifer called.

Tom brought his knees up to his chest, huddling for warmth, though he knew his leg was not going to like that for long. The cold down here had a way of seeping into the bones, making them ache. “I’m here.”

“Are you afraid to die?”

“No,” he said. “But I hate the idea of not living.” He’d had Jennifer talking for a long time. He liked it when she talked. It kept her from terror and kept him sane. When she was quiet, he was consumed by the irrational fear that someone had spirited her away without him knowing.

“Tom,” she said again. Tom concentrated on her voice in the dark. He could hear the change in it. “I …” She paused a long time. “I told LeBlanc that it was you. The day they cut me. I knew it was Sophie, but I told them it was you. I didn’t want them to catch her, and I needed … I needed them to stop.”

Tom sighed. He knew. But Jennifer hadn’t done any different than he had, had she? “You did the right thing,” he said. When she didn’t answer he said, “It was right, Jen.”

“But in here …” Tom leaned nearer the door, straining to hear. “When LeBlanc came, I told him it was Sophie. Because I couldn’t … make myself live through that. Not again.”

Tom lifted his hands, wrists heavy with the shackles, and rubbed his bearded cheeks. He’d thought as much. Then it was certain that LeBlanc knew the identity of the Red Rook. And he would be a fool not to know that the Red Rook was coming for her brother.

“Tom, I’m sorry …”

“Jennifer, listen to me. None of this is your fault. I don’t want you to think about it again. Not for another moment.” He didn’t know if he would have risked her anger and resentment if the circumstances were reversed. It would be too much of a loss. “And if you don’t stop thinking about it, I’ll be forced to sing you a song.”

The darkness of the Tombs pressed down. “Oh, no,” Jennifer said, her voice small. “Please, Tom. Anything but that.”

They laughed, a weird, incongruent sound in that place. But if LeBlanc knew Sophie was coming, Tom thought, then what was there to prevent him from taking her now? From her bed in Bellamy House, or the Channel ferry, or an Upper City street? What would keep him from just killing her on the spot? He couldn’t think of a thing. And LeBlanc seemed to have allies in the Commonwealth that none of them had been aware of. His sister had enemies on every side, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Now close your eyes, Jennifer,” he said slowly, “and imagine you’re on the balcony of your flat. The tiles are cold, but you’ve got a blanket wrapped around you. You’re camping out, like you and Sophie did when you were little. The sky is black, and you can hear the water of the Seine falling down the cliffs. And I’ve brought you a light, so you won’t be frightened …”



LeBlanc lit his last candle and stepped back, admiring his work. He stood inside a giant circle of fire, dozens of tiny, blazing flames that lit the polished floor of his private rooms, sending bright, flickering light onto the black-painted walls. LeBlanc’s flat, connected by a door to his office, looked like the rooms of a holy man, or a hermit. Serviceable, plain, unadorned. But he knew Fate was soon to offer him better.

His new black and white robes rustled pleasantly as he moved to a table in the center of the circle, draped with a cloth that had been stitched together, half white, half black. It matched the streak in his hair. A coal fire burned in a small brass brazier, and swinging above this, suspended on a tripod, hung a burnished pot filled with water. LeBlanc looked up as Renaud entered.

“You have brought it, Renaud?” The secretary approached and presented a small vial of rust-brown liquid over the candle flames. “Good. Very good. The blood of the brother should be perfectly adequate.”

He set the vial beside the pot. Tiny wisps of steam were beginning to curl into the air. Then he clicked the latch of a plastic box, not reformed, but Ancient, smoothly ribbed and shining black. Inside was a row of four small plastic bottles, also Ancient, two partially filled with a dark liquid, two with white, all fitted with a heavy wax seal. LeBlanc chose one of each color and lifted them to the light. Formed into the plastic of each bottle was the word HILTON.

“This is a dear sacrifice, but I think it is needed, Renaud. When to kill the Red Rook is a decision that lies heavy. But what will be, will be, and therefore has already been. The Goddess will show the path.”

He set the bottles to one side, picked up the vial Renaud had brought, and began pouring Tom’s coagulated blood into the pot that was just beginning to boil. And then the door to LeBlanc’s office creaked open slowly. LeBlanc paused, paralyzed, still in the act of pouring Tom’s blood, while Renaud slipped farther into his corner. Premier Allemande stood looking at them, blinking at the dozens of candles dripping wax onto the floor.

“There you are, Albert,” said Allemande, voice as soft as LeBlanc’s. He was a small man, unassuming, in trousers that were just the slightest bit too long for him. He turned and waved a hand, instructing his escort to wait before he shut the door on them.

“You did not come to the viewing box tonight, Albert. And the last one was so lively, too. She gave us quite a show.” He indulged in a muted chuckle as he removed his spectacles, cleaning them with a handkerchief. The viewing box had been built with such proximity to the Razor that occasionally there was spatter. “We can only hope your Red Rook will be half so entertaining,” he continued. “I am disappointed you missed it. Very disappointed. Or perhaps you have lost interest in the justice of the city, Albert?”