Rook(63)

Sophia stared at him, dumbstruck. Was he really talking about the money? She was sick to death of the money. “I don’t …”

“No. Let me say. We agreed to leave these matters until after the Rook’s mission is done, and it is wrong of me to … to put you in such a position. And the situation, it is … ridiculous, is it not? We do not even know each other.”

They didn’t? In some ways, he seemed to know her better than Tom. “But …”

“Do not concern yourself. You are right. There is no reason to discuss it again.”


The glass with the Ancient fragments had all been replaced inside the box now. He reached out, lifted her hand, and kissed it, a frown on his forehead. She could feel the heat in her face, a pricking sting behind her eyes. If she’d been a satellite before, then maybe this was how it would be to fall through the sky in a blazing ball of fire.

“We should go and help the others. That would be best, no?”

No. No, that would not be best at all. He was setting her hand gently back in her lap, but she did not let go. The frown on his forehead deepened, she opened her mouth to speak, and then the back of her neck prickled, tingling with the pressure of a gaze. Sophia’s head whipped around.

“Spear!”

René sprang to his feet as Spear pushed her bedroom door open a little wider and ducked inside. Sophia stood more slowly, that guilty, uncomfortable feeling in her middle warring with all her newly freed truths. How long had he been standing there? René slid his hands into his pockets, looking at Spear with the blue eyes heavy-lidded.

“When did you get back?” she asked. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I was on my way to the farmhouse now.” His face was like a metal casting. “I just stopped for … Tom had oil in the sanctuary.” He held out a bundle wrapped in sacking. “I’ve brought you our project.” He’d looked at René when he said it, a particular emphasis on the word “our,” before his cool eyes went back to Sophia.

“They’re done downstairs, Sophie. Don’t you think we should go now …” He nodded toward the dark corridor. “Before you run into someone you shouldn’t?”



LeBlanc stepped carefully around the filth of the street, turned the corner, and was almost immediately confronted by the guard of Allemande. They surrounded their premier, swords drawn, standing at one end of an Upper City boulevard that no longer resembled a boulevard. Barricades that were equal parts scrap wood and pieces of fine furniture had been piled across either end of the block, one of them still ablaze, illuminating the bodies and broken glass that lay on the pavement.

The drawn swords parted, and Allemande stepped through. “Premier,” LeBlanc said. “I have only just arrived. Could I ask for a few moments to assess the situation? And I would prefer to have you wait in my office.”

Allemande’s eyes blinked beneath the glasses, a few of the guards showing surprise.

“For your safety, of course, Premier. I would like to be certain the area is secure.”

“Yes,” said Allemande slowly. He looked about, and then chuckled. “I would like to be present for your interview with the commandant of the Upper City, I think. He has much to answer for. As do you.” The premier put his hands behind his back. When LeBlanc had bowed he strode away with his jangling men, looking a bit like the runt of a litter. A very cunning runt.

LeBlanc watched him go. He had no need of a guard; he was in the hands of Fate. He put his pale eyes on a gendarme standing before a little stone and concrete chapel, unbroken, vibrant red glass showing behind the boarded-up windows. The greatest concentration of the dead were piled before its door, city blue scattered among the other varying colors of cloth. LeBlanc approached cautiously, holding his robes above the blood and muck.

“They tried to take back a chapel, Ministre,” the gendarme said. He was young, voice a little high.

“Are there any live ones?”

“I don’t think so, Ministre. They fought to the last.”

How wise of them, LeBlanc thought. “And who are they?” He looked down at the body in a stained brown shirt near his feet and pushed gingerly with the toe of his shined shoe. The body turned, the man’s eyes wide open and vacant, a gaping sword wound in his chest. Beneath the bloody grime on his face, painted on one of his cheeks, was a red and black feather. LeBlanc looked at the man for a long time, then raised his eyes to the shaking gendarme.

“Tell your commandant that he is to come to my office,” LeBlanc said, voice oily soft. “That he may give me a full report on his failure to maintain order in the Upper City.”

The gendarme scuttled off, nearly at a run. Renaud stepped up from the shadows as LeBlanc reached into his robes and removed a small black sack from the inner pocket. He emptied a single Ancient coin onto his palm, stamped with the year 2024, cupped his hands together, and shook. The coin inside his hands rattled against his skin while he closed his eyes, lips moving silently. Then he pressed the palms flat, the coin still between them, and slowly opened his hands, presenting them to the air like a supplicant. Renaud leaned forward to see. The coin was on facade.

“The will of Fate is no!” LeBlanc snapped. “The Rook lives until the appointed day.” Renaud stepped back a pace, but LeBlanc’s voice regained its preternatural calm. “I believe the Goddess wishes to increase my enjoyment of the Red Rook’s death with each delay.” He put the coin away and turned over another body, blotting the shine on his shoe, showing another face with a painted feather. This time it was a woman. LeBlanc stepped back.