Eric Flint's Blog, page 269

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 12

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 12

I slipped it into my pocket and the three of us headed back toward the cart.

Considering what I had seen out here, and what I had found on Howell’s corpse, I was convinced that our skinhead was nothing more than he appeared: a jackass domestic terrorist who had been killed by a conjurer. There had been no sign in the restroom of a magical battle, and the killing spell had hit Howell in the chest, suggesting that the conjurer who killed him hadn’t bothered to sneak up on him. Howell was no weremyste. But then why was he murdered with magic?

Kona drove us back to the apron, where the plane originally designated for flight 595 still sat, sunlight gleaming off of its wings and tail. We got out and started to walk back toward the jet bridge and terminal. As we did my eyes were drawn again and again to the aircraft.

I halted. “Did they ever figure out what was wrong with the plane?”

Kona shook her head. “I don’t think so. Just some warning message on the console that wouldn’t go off — something about the hydraulics maybe? I don’t . . .” Comprehension hit her at last, widening her eyes. “Shit.”

“What now?” Kevin asked. “What are you guys talking about?”

“There wasn’t any sign of magic on the bomb or Howell’s bag,” I said. “But I’d bet good money that there is on the plane itself. That’s why it never took off.”

“Magic can keep a plane on the ground?”

“Magic can foul up the instrumentation or the hydraulics, or pretty much anything else you can think of.” To Kona I said, “What was the exact warning light? Do you know?”

She flipped open her small pad again and scanned her notes, frowning. “I’m not sure I wrote it down.”

“The message was ‘F/CTL Flaps Fault,'” Kevin said. When both of us stared over at him he lifted a shoulder. “What? I remember stuff like that. I can’t help it.”

“He’s handy to have around,” I said to Kona.

“He is.”

“I think I need to see the plane.”

I should have known that it would be crawling with mechanics. We walked around the exterior and found two guys working on the left wing. They had the flaps propped up and were examining the hydraulics inside.

“Can I come up and take a look?” I called to them.

They paused in what they were doing to stare down at me.

“You know anything about planes?” one of them asked.

“A little bit.” I lied.

They shared a glance and one of them shrugged. “Sure, come on up.”

I climbed the latter and stepped onto the wing, taking care to avoid the spots marked “no step.” I knew that much, at least.

I peered down into the guts of the wing, amazed that these guys could make sense of the wires and mechanisms. I certainly couldn’t. But I wasn’t trying to; I was searching for the glow of magic, and to my disappointment, I saw none.

I examined the flaps as well; nothing on them either.

“These are the flaps that weren’t working before?” I asked.

Another glance passed between the men. “These are the flaps,” one of them said pointing to several different panels. He pointed to a few other surfaces. “These are the spoilers and the ailerons. You want me to show you the tabs and slats, too?” So much for convincing them that I knew anything about planes.

“No, that’s all right.”

“To answer your question, yeah, these are the ones that aren’t working.”

“Except there’s nothing wrong with them,” his friend chimed in. “Least nothing I can see.”

“We could probably figure out the problem if we were in the hangar,” the first guy said, “but the police wanted the bird to stay right here.”

I nodded, squinting against the glare coming off the wing. It was possible that in this light I simply couldn’t see whatever magic was there. “But so far you’ve found no problems.”

“Nope. The crew reported a cockpit warning about the flaps, and you don’t mess around with that. And when they tried to test the hydraulics before taxiing to the runway, nothing happened. You sure as shit don’t mess with that. Now though . . .” He shook his head. “Now everything seems okay.”

“Gremlins,” the second guy said, flashing a toothy grin.

The first one nodded. “Yeah, gremlins. That’s the best I’ve got.”

“All right guys,” I said, climbing back down off the wing. “Thanks.” Once on the ground again, I asked Kona if she could get me inside the cockpit to see the console.

“I don’t know, Justis. The Federal boys weren’t exactly eager to give us access to Howell’s body. But they were downright possessive when it came to the plane. At one point I thought they were going to pull down their zippers and start marking territory. You know what I mean?”

“So you don’t think you can convince them to let me take a quick look?”

“I’m not sure I can get myself inside, much less you. This is the FBI we’re talking about. The only people they like less than local cops are local PIs. But let’s give it a try. The worst they can do is say no.”

We walked around to the side of the plane, where the boarding stairs had been rolled up to the cabin door. There was no one guarding the stairway, so Kona and I climbed them, both of us trying to act like we weren’t doing anything wrong.

Before we reached the top of the stairs, though, we heard voices coming from inside.

“This isn’t going to work,” Kona whispered.

“I’m going to try something. Don’t freak out, all right?”

“This isn’t the time for you to try something.”

“It’s the perfect time. Stay calm.”

I scanned the apron; aside from Kevin, who was trying to pretend he didn’t know us, there was no one nearby. Convinced that the coast was relatively clear, I mumbled another camouflage spell. Seven elements again: the FBI guys, me, the interior of the plane, the dim light of the cabin, the bright daylight, the boarding stairs, and the FBI guys again. I hadn’t seen the interior of this plane, but I could make out the color of the carpeting from where we stood on the stairs, and I had been in plenty of passenger jets over the years; they all looked pretty much the same.

As with the spell I’d cast the night before, I repeated the elements to myself six times. On the seventh, I released the spell.

“Justis, what are you doing?”

“Can you still see me?”

She eyed me like I was nuts. “Uhhh, yeah. Why?”

“Because if I did the spell right, the guys on the plane won’t be able to.”

“Did I lose track of the days? Is tonight the full moon?”

“I’m not hallucinating. I cast what’s called a camouflage spell. Weremystes can’t make themselves invisible, at least I can’t. But with this magic, I can hide myself from specific people. Those guys in there shouldn’t be able to see me. Trust me on this.” I felt like crossing my fingers, or knocking on wood. Because really, I wouldn’t know for certain that the spell had worked until I entered the plane. But I was operating under the assumption that it had.

“So what do you want me to do?”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 33

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 33

“Ed,” Rebecca said. “Are you trying to tell me that in your so clever up-time world there were people who believed that someone who was dead was secretly alive? A popular figure, an — an entertainer — had somehow made up his own death?”

“You’d be amazed what things people believed up-time.”

“I guess I would. So . . . you think that Cardinal Richelieu is dead and people think he is still alive.”

“Or he is alive, and is content to have people think that he is dead.”

“People like Monsieur Gaston,” Rebecca said. “I have met Richelieu. He’s a brilliant man, Ed: one of the most perceptive men I’ve ever met — and quite charming, too. Even cut off from his base of power, he would be a formidable enemy. If he is still alive, he is Gaston’s enemy. As is the queen, wherever she is.”

“Our ambassador in Paris said that there’s a rumor at court that she’s gone back to Spain with the baby,” Ed said. “I don’t believe it, but it’s the sort of thing that would be put about to discredit her.”

“By Gaston’s people.”

“No doubt. So if she’s not in Spain — and not in Paris — then where is she? And where is Richelieu?”

“You mean, ‘Elvis.'”

“Yeah. Elvis in a red robe.” He smiled. “Well, considering some of the stuff he was wearing at the end of his career, it wouldn’t be too far off. It would have to be covered with sequins, though.”

Auxerre, France

“Look at the happy family reunion,” Artemisio said, looking out the window at the group at the edge of the trees that bordered the courtyard, sheltering from the rain.

“His brothers?” Terrye Jo pointed down at the three men.

“Donna Teresa!” He pulled on her arm. “Attento.” He gestured, and she squatted down, below the level of the window.

They were in the loft of the almoner’s house of Saint-Germain d’Auxerre, looking over the inner courtyard. Monsieur Gaston had been installed at the bishop’s palace, and most of them remained there, while Gaston and his gentlemen-in-waiting had come here. To view the frescoes, he had said to his wife before departing.

Terrye Jo would have been just as happy to stay and read, but Artemisio Logiani — who had somehow attached himself to Monsieur Gaston’s party as a household servant — was determined to follow along, and begged her to come with him.

If the frescoes are beautiful enough to be viewed by a prince, Donna, he had said to her, then I must compare them to your loveliness.

Which somehow, impossibly, had led to their present location. While they were walking around the edge of the courtyard, trying to keep dry, a party of horsemen had arrived at the porter’s gate. Artemisio had pulled her aside into the almoner’s house, and they had made their way to the upper floor.

“A bird’s eye view,” he had said.

“Of what?”

“We shall see.”

But not be seen, she thought now, wondering if she’d been pulled into a Mark Twain adventure. Hell, she added: the whole freakin’ seventeenth century is a Mark Twain adventure.

“His brother and his father,” Artemisio said. “Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Monsieur François de Vendôme’s brother Louis, and his father the duke, César, are exiled from the realm. His Majesty the king — ” and here Artemisio stopped and crossed himself, looking toward heaven like a side character in a Renaissance painting — “sent the duke away for conspiring. Well, actually, Cardinal Richelieu did it, but that’s the same thing. And now here he is, with his two sons. Who knows what they’re here for.”

“But this is what you came to see, isn’t it, Artemisio?”

“Well,” he answered, “not necessarily this, Donna. I didn’t know what it was about, but I heard . . . you know how servants talk . . .”

“I certainly do.”

“Well, I heard that something big and important was going to happen when we got to Auxerre. And here we are, and here it is.” He peeked very carefully over the sill, and Terrye Jo did likewise.

The three men — clearly François: she could clearly make out his features; and two others, one young and one older — seemed very happy to be together. The older one, the duke, was speaking to his two sons. He paused for just a moment and looked around, as if he was trying to determine if he was being spied upon.

Terrye Jo and Artemisio ducked back down.

“What do you think this big and important thing might be?”

“Well, you know,” Artemisio said. “It’s all above me. But if I were to guess, I’d say that the duke is here to pledge allegiance to Monsieur Gaston — and get a pardon.”

****

“Father,” François said quietly as they walked slowly down the stairs to the crypt. “This is a perfect place for Gaston to betray us.”

“Yes,” César de Vendôme said. “It is.” He did not look away, but continued to stare straight ahead, walking slowly down the stairs. “But he would not go to all this trouble — at least at this point — to do so. He still needs us.”

By now, several weeks after he received the ball fired from Richelieu’s pistol, the duke’s injury had completely healed. As was often true with head wounds, it had initially looked much worse than it really was. His son Louis, on the other hand, was still recovering from the great gash in his side left by the king’s sword. He was lucky to have survived at all.

“For what does he need us?”

The duke shook his head. “I am not sure. But there is still something.”

“I am not sure either — ”

César stopped walking and turned to his son. He leaned close, so that their escorts could not easily hear.

“Do you trust me, my son?”

“Of course. With my life, Father. You know that.”

“Then you must rely on my judgment. Now and in the near future. Gaston d’Orleans has already betrayed me after a fashion. It is now our task to make sure that when he pulls the noose tight, his own neck is caught in it as well.”

François was accustomed to his father’s stern gaze: it was how he always pictured him — proud, noble, with a hint of scarcely-concealed anger. This expression was different in a way: totally serious, focused, intense.

“I will do whatever you ask.”

“Then I ask now that you do nothing. And say nothing. I want you to remember that our time will come, François.”

“I understand.”

César stood straight, and they began to descend once more.

In the abbey of Saint Germain d’Auxerre, beneath the frescoes in the crypt, the brothers had placed the sub-prior’s chair on a small platform. It was something short of a throne, but was sufficiently elevated above the floor that it gave the appropriate separation that the prince desired.

The Vendôme men walked through the open area and between a pair of tall support pillars, looking straight ahead at Gaston d’Orleans, presumptive king of France. César did not spend a moment of attention on anything other than the figure of his half-brother.

He acts as if it is a throne, he thought to himself. Though Louis would not have received me thus if I had returned to court.

He put the thought from his mind: he leashed his anger and curbed his desire to draw his sword. The gentlemen in waiting radiated hostility: it was if they found his presence an affront.

He is not the king, César thought to himself. He wishes to be. He may be. But not yet.

He stopped a few paces from the dais and made a leg. François, a step behind, did the same. Not a deep obeisance, but a mark of respect rather than homage.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 32

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 32

PART III: THE VIRTUE OF PRUDENCE

Government by the dictates of reason

Chapter 19

May 1636

Magdeburg, USE

“There’s just no relief, is there, Rebecca?”

Ed Piazza leaned his head on his hands and rubbed his temples. It had been a long year: the Crown Loyalist revolt, the uprising in Saxony, the war in Poland, the business in Italy, Lefferts’ antics in the Balearic Islands, whatever was going on among the Turks — and now this.

“Relief.” She laughed. “Try being one of God’s Chosen People for a few years and you’ll understand what ‘no relief’ means. This — pfah! — this is just diplomacy.”

“I’m trying to figure out what the ruckus in France means for us,” mused Piazza. He rose and went to the window of his office. Like the office itself, the window was on the small side and provided no view of the Elbe, as was considered prestigious. Instead, the window looked out over an alley.

On the positive side, the alley was kept much cleaner than most such in the USE’s capital. If Ed opened the window and leaned out, he’d be able to determine the reason for that unwonted tidiness. Just half a block to the south he’d see part of the royal palace and, beyond it, Hans Richter Square.

He didn’t mind, though. Given the pollution in the Elbe coming from the factories south of the city, the river was not all that nice a sight anyway. And the political situation called for as much discretion as possible. The unpretentious office tucked away in an unpretentious (if very large) government building was just part of that. Since the collapse of the counter-revolution launched by the Swedish chancellor Axel Oxenstierna a few months ago, the precise nature of political authority in the United States of Europe had become…

Murky, he thought. Let’s leave it at that.

Wilhelm Wettin was still the prime minister, even though he’d been up to his neck in the Swedish chancellor’s plots and schemes. Luckily for him, though, he’d balked at outright treason and been pitched into a cell by Oxenstierna. That had been enough — just barely — to save him from the imperial wrath that came down on the plotters after Gustav Adolf recovered from his brain injury and Oxenstierna was shot dead by Colonel Hand. Where many others had been stripped of their titles, positions — even their lands, in some cases — Wettin had come out of it officially unscathed.

Still, in the real world the prime minister’s authority was now threadbare. The political coalition he’d led, the so-called Crown Loyalists, was in outright tatters. Most people expected that when the next election was held — which would be soon, even if no specific date had been set yet — the Fourth of July Party would come back into power. And although no public announcement had yet been made, it was an open secret that Mike Stearns had already told the emperor that he did not intend to run for office again.

Which left, as the most obvious person who’d assume the post of prime minister if the Fourth of July Party won a majority in Parliament, the man who was currently the President of the State of Thuringia-Franconia — Ed Piazza. Who’d moved to Magdeburg weeks earlier, leaving the running of the SoTF in the capable hands of the province’s vice president, Helene Gundelfinger.

In fact if not in name, Piazza was running a shadow government whose claim to being a “shadow” was thin at best. Still, he tried to keep up appearances. Hence the humble office — and hence also, the fact that he was using that humble office to deal with foreign affairs. Rebecca was here because she was serving him for the time being as his informal (and very unofficial) secretary of state.

All things considered, alleys do not make for interesting scenery. After half a minute or so contemplating its nonexistent wonders, Ed turned away from the window and moved back to his desk.

“I know that King Louis XIII was never what you’d call our friend,” he said, easing into his seat, “but Gaston is a real wild card. He came down on the side of Borja, and from what I’ve been able to tell, he’s had his hand in every major plot against his brother for a dozen years. He’s got to be involved in this.”

Rebecca gestured toward the stack of paper on Ed’s desk. “The intelligence reports say that it was a band of outlaws that attacked the cardinal’s party. Gaston was not there. He may have been visiting his mother at the time.”

Ed flipped through the sheets until he pulled out the one he wanted. “Let’s see. Marie de Medici. Does that name mean what I think it means?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Intrigue and conspiracy. Medici . . . Strozzi . . . Colonna . . . they’re pretty much all the same.”

“Great. She strikes me as a real beaut. Louis exiled her too, from what I read.”

“Just before the Ring of Fire. She forced him to choose between his mother and his minister. She’d been dominating his life ever since Henry IV was killed, and I think Louis was tired of it. He wanted Richelieu to take care of things for him so he could hunt and paint and act like a king looks.”

“He always was a bit of a wimp, I guess.”

Rebecca hesitated for just a moment, as if she was trying to locate the definition of the word wimp. “You underestimate him, Ed. Do not take the portrait of him in that Three Musketeers movie for good coin.”

“Which Three Musketeers movie? There have been a jillion of them.”

“Don’t be silly. The one with Charlton Heston playing Richelieu. The rest — pfah.” She made a dismissive gesture. “The real Louis XIII is — was — quite an athlete, for one thing. He rode to war in Mantua, and against rebellious Huguenots. My impression was that he simply didn’t like the day-to-day parts of the role and wanted to leave those to Cardinal Richelieu.”

“Who is — who was — very good at it.”

“Is, I think.”

“The report says the ambush party killed everyone,” Ed said. “Richelieu’s dead also, isn’t he?”

“The body of the king was carried back in state,” she answered. “It was buried in a great ceremony. Nothing was said about His Eminence the cardinal. Certainly someone so important would have been publically laid to rest as well.”

“Big funeral.”

“With bishops and archbishops. Several of each, I would expect. There are a few there now, from what we hear — but not the number that would be there to perform the memorial for the man who’s run the whole country for a dozen years. So if he is dead, the body hasn’t been recovered.”

“Or he isn’t dead at all. He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s Elvis? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Ed leaned back in his chair. “Elvis. Elvis Presley. He was a singer, a big star performer. They called him ‘The King’. When he first started he was young and strong and everything, every girl’s dream.” He smiled; Rebecca frowned. “Anyway. As he became more and more famous he got fat and — strange. Eventually he died, big funeral . . . they turned his house into a museum — Graceland, the king’s home. Except that over time people kept reporting that they’d seen him here and there — ”

“Performing?”

“No, but there were people pretending to be Elvis, dressing up like him. But that’s not what I meant. There were ‘Elvis sightings.’ He was washing dishes, or waiting for a bus, or shopping, or something else. So the rumor started that the king wasn’t dead at all. It was some sort of giant hoax. He was working for the government undercover; he was getting ready for a big comeback; organized crime needed to believe he was dead.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 11

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 11

Chapter 5

I hadn’t seen the PPD’s bomb squad in action since leaving the force, and even as a cop I dealt with them no more than three or four times in six years. They weren’t called upon all that often, but when we needed them, we sure were glad to have them.

Kona pulled up next to several police cruisers and the bomb squad truck, and we both climbed out of the cart. Kevin Glass, Kona’s new partner stood near the cars, watching as the bomb disposal robot picked through the contents of a duffle bag some fifty yards away.

Nearby, a cop was in the process of removing his disposal suit: more than eighty pounds of Kevlar, ballistic plastic, and steel plating. The helmet, which reminded me of something an astronaut would wear, had a fan inside of it, but that was small consolation under a desert sun in this kind of heat. The cop was soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his head. But he was grinning, which I took to mean that whatever danger there had been was past.

“What’s the story?” Kona asked Kevin. “Was the bomb real?”

“Oh, it was real,” Glass said. “Hey there, Jay.”

“Hi, Kevin.”

I still referred to Kevin as Kona’s “new” partner, but the fact was, she’d been with him for over a year. He was only “new” in that he wasn’t me, a fact that still rankled. Not that it was his fault. Kevin was a good guy and, from all that I had seen, a good cop, too. He’d shaved his head, which made him look older than his years. His eyes were dark, his skin a rich, warm brown. He had an easy smile and the build of an athlete. I wanted to like him, and I wanted him to like me. But we remained wary of each other. For my part, the mistrust was born of foolishness: I was off the force, Kona needed a partner. I had no right to be resentful, but I was.

Kevin was younger than I was and had been a detective in Homicide for maybe three years. He probably felt that I was judging him, and that Kona was constantly measuring his performance against mine. I doubt that she was, but I could understand why he might feel that way.

Basically it was mess, and it would remain that way until I found some way to bridge the gap between us.

“It was designed to work on a plane,” he went on, speaking to both Kona and me. “The guys say it would have gone off at about twenty-five thousand feet, and that there was enough explosive to blow a huge hole in the fuselage. We got lucky.”

Kona and I shared a quick glance, and Kevin’s expression grew guarded. This was the other reason he hadn’t warmed to me yet. Kona and I had a way of communicating that came from years of friendship and professional rapport. She didn’t have that yet with him, and he was as aware of this as I was.

“They haven’t found anything else in the suitcase?” Kona asked.

“Not yet.”

“Can we see the bomb?”

Kevin nodded and started toward a small device that lay on the concrete, also some fifty yards from where the cars were parked, though in a different direction. Kona and I followed.

“They wanted to detonate it,” Kevin said, over his shoulder. “But I held them off until Jay could see it, like you asked.”

Kona nodded once. “Thanks.”

“Is it safe?” I asked, slowing.

“Relatively. They clipped the wires, and even if they hadn’t, it’s not like we’re at altitude. The bomb guys said it would be really unusual for it to go off under these conditions.”

“That’s reassuring,” I muttered, falling in step with Kona again.

“You an expert in bombs, Jay?”

I shot another glance Kona’s way. She was staring straight ahead, her lips pursed. She had been telling me for months now that the best way to improve my relationship with Kevin would be to end all the secrecy that surrounded my conversations with her, conversations that almost always revolved around spells and magic. I knew she was right.

“Not really, no.”

“So then what are you looking for?”

“Magic.”

He stopped; so did Kona and I.

“What?”

“I’m looking for signs of magic.”

Kevin turned to Kona, some quip on his lips. But her expression didn’t change, and his smile wilted. “The two of you are jerking me around.”

“I left the force because I’m a weremyste,” I said. “I go through something called the phasing every month on the full moon.”

“I’ve heard of phasings, but I never . . .” He blew out a breath. “This is for real?” he asked Kona.

“Listen to the man,” she said.

“Kona’s known for years, and over time she’s learned to recognize the signs of a magical crime. When she sees something she can’t explain, or when she’s certain that spells were used in a murder, she calls me.”

“The Blind Angel killings,” he said, breathing the words.

“That’s right. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Leaving the force was–”

He held up a hand, stopping me. “No apologies necessary. So you think there was some kind of mojo involved in all of this today?”

“The guy in the men’s room was killed with a spell,” Kona said. “I knew it as soon as I saw him.”

“How?” Kevin asked. “There wasn’t a mark . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. A small laugh escaped him. “Magic. Damn.” He faced me again. “So, what do you look for?”

“Stuff that you can’t see — the residue of spells. A flare of color that’s left after a conjurer casts. Although,” I said to Kona, “coming out here might have been a waste of time. If Howell was a sorcerer and he used magic on anything there’d be no sign of it now. Magic dies with the runecrafter. Besides, a conjurer doesn’t need a bomb to bring down a plane.”

“Check it anyway,” she said. “Just in case.”

I did, and as I expected there was no magic at all on the bomb. A few minutes later, the bomb squad guys gave us the all clear and we walked to the duffle bag and examined that as well. Again, there was no residue on it. But while we were searching through Howell’s stuff, an idea came to me. I picked a loose sock out of the bag and held it up for Kona to see.

“Can I take this?”

“Oh, sure, Justis. I mean its evidence in a murder and terrorism investigation, but we always like to give souvenirs to the tourists who join us for bomb searches, so help yourself.”

I stared back at her.

“You’re serious?”

“I know it could get you in trouble,” I said. “Though it’s not as though the evidence guys will be counting socks. But it might allow me to see what Howell saw in the final moments of his life.”

“You’ll return it?”

“I’ll give it back to you. You’ll return it.”

Kevin was watching us, a small frown on his face. “You two always like this?”

She nodded. “It’s not pretty, is it?” Her attention on me once more, she narrowed her eyes. “Sure, take the sock, but for God’s sake, keep it out of sight and get it back to me before we leave the airport.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 31

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 31

Chapter 18

Dear Dad,

Today we arrived at the Castle of Miolans in Saint-Pierre d’Albigny. It’s in the mountains, about halfway between Turin and Lyon. Monsieur Gaston doesn’t exactly travel light: he has a half-dozen gentlemen at arms, along with servants and guards — along with his wife and her ladies in waiting and servants and whatever. And me.

He is headed for Paris, where he’s going to become the king of France. You might have heard by now that the king, his brother, is dead; there was some sort of ambush. I can’t tell you more than that but I’ll know more when we get there. He decided that he needed a telegraph operator and I was drafted.

I have to tell you about this place. It’s a fortress in the mountains that belongs to the duke of Savoy. A while back they turned it into a prison, and the prince had to take a tour, and asked me to come with him . . .  

****

“Monsieur,” the warden said, fawning painfully. “I cannot adequately convey how honored we are to have you visit.”

“I will soon no longer answer to that title, Monsieur LeBarre.” Gaston said. “As you know.”

“Of course,” LeBarre said. He was a short, sweaty man with stubby fingers and deep-set eyes in a pudgy face. “Of course. My deepest, sincerest apologies.”

Gaston’s facial expression did not change from the very slight smile, and he did not answer.

“Majesty,” LeBarre added, looking at Gaston and then down at the floor.

“Quite.” Gaston’s smile inched slightly upward. “Show us your wonderful fortress.”

LeBarre bowed slightly and then scurried away. Gaston followed leisurely, along with his entourage.

“Our château was build more than six hundred years ago, Majesty,” LeBarre said, glancing over his shoulder to see if the prince was following. He was in luck. “It belonged to the family Miolans, who have since emigrated to the New World, and now it is the property of His Grace the duke. His grandfather . . . or was it great-grandfather? Or possibly great-great-grandfather?”

“His ancestor,” Gaston said.

“Yes. Of course. My apologies. His Grace’s ancestor converted it for use as a prison. My grandfather was a warden, then my father, then my uncle — ”

“Not you?”

“I was too young,” LeBarre said. They had reached the end of a corridor, where a guard in a metal cuirass and helmet stood guard in front of a banded oak door. He held a stout halberd, and had a brace of pistols. “But I came into the position when my uncle . . . when there was an unfortunate accident.”

He fumbled at his belt and drew out a ring of keys; from where Terrye Jo stood, it looked like a stage prop from a play. The guard stood aside, and LeBarre inserted a large ornate key into the door lock. He turned it and, with the help of the guard, swung the door wide to reveal a broad set of stone stairs leading down.

And from below, they began to hear noises: moans and cries, as if from people in pain or despair, mixed with the sound of rattling chains.

Terrye Jo was at once reminded of a story that made the rounds of the sensational “newspapers” that were always on racks at supermarket checkout counters up-time. Some miners — or some guys in a submarine — found a crack in the earth or at the bottom of the ocean and through it they could hear the moans and cries of souls suffering in Hell. The sounds from below made her think of it.

“If Your Majesty wishes, we can tour the dungeons,” LeBarre said, looking pointedly at Terrye Jo and adding, “though it might not be suitable for . . .”

“She is an up-timer,” Gaston answered, looking back at her. “I am told that the entertainments of her time depicted many things far more barbaric and violent and shocking than anything we might witness here.”

LeBarre looked unconvinced. Terrye Jo was so surprised by the exchange, particularly Gaston’s response, that she didn’t answer for a moment. Finally she said, “How many prisoners do you keep here, Monsieur LeBarre?”

“Let me see.” He scratched his chin. “Winter was somewhat cruel to us this year,” he said. At that moment there was a particularly painful scream from somewhere beyond the door. “I believe we have one hundred and sixty-five at present. Thirty of them are in Hell — ”

“Excuse me, Monsieur?”

Gaston smiled, as if he already knew something she didn’t.

“That is one of our dungeons, Mademoiselle,” LeBarre said, smiling unctuously. “Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, Treasure, Little Hope and Great Hope. Hell is for the . . . most particularly recalcitrant.”

“I am sure that its punishments are suitably severe to warrant the name,” Gaston said.

“We would not want to disappoint the duke,” LeBarre responded. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Gaston repeated.

“But I am sure they would be . . . tame compared to your up-timer entertainments,” he added, with the slightest bow to Terrye Jo.

She gave an annoyed glance at Gaston and then looked away.

No, she thought. They hadn’t had dungeons in the 20th Century, unlike the civilized 17th. But they did have genocides and Holocausts. They’d had wars that killed millions of people. They’d had weapons that could destroy the whole world, and her country had been the only one that ever used them. TV was full of these things, and full of cop shows and Westerns and war movies and horror flicks. And sometimes they’d laughed all of that off like it was nothing.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said.

I have to admit I was surprised what Gaston said about ‘up-timer entertainments.’ Nothing like having a down-timer look at a movie review book and decide that we’re all into homicide and zombies and whatever. We’re so used to thinking about all the civilized stuff we lost and how much more violent and primitive down-time is, that it’s hard to see up-time the way they see it.

So we toured the dungeons, and they were pretty much what you’d expect, but worse. There’s one thing that ties us together though, up-timers and down-timers: after a while we’re indifferent. LeBarre, and the prince, and all the down-timers just took the dungeons in stride. It was surreal, like a horror movie, except without the popcorn.

It took us six more days to reach Lyon. Each place we stopped was another chance for Gaston to play the part of the heir advancing toward his kingdom.

Then the fireworks started . . .

Gaston was pacing back and forth, cursing under his breath. The only other person in the room sat patiently, almost indolently, waiting for Monsieur to return attention to him.

“I cannot believe that you are showing such recalcitrance,” Gaston said at last. “De la Mothe. Pierre.” He let his angry face relax into a smile. “In view of the changes to the realm, I need to know that I can count on every loyal subject.”

Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt nodded, smiling in return. “I would not want you to believe anything else.”

“Then you need to answer my question.”

“I wish I could, Monsieur — ”

Gaston stopped smiling.

“I wish I could, Your Royal Highness,” De la Mothe said. “I wish I could tell you where Marshal Turenne’s army has deployed. He did not choose to confide in me.”

“You are on his staff.”

“I have served on his staff,” De la Mothe said. “I do not presently have the honor to be in his service, or indeed in his company.”

“That much is obvious.”

“It was his contention that there was an imminent threat from the Spanish. I would assume that the army has moved to intercept it.”

“To the south?”

“I would assume so, Sire.”

“I have installed my telegraph operator and her equipment,” Gaston said. “She has been provided with the — code, is it? — for Turenne’s telegraph. He — it — does not seem to be responding.”

“There are a hundred reasons for a telegraph system to fail. These devices are based on up-time technology, Your Highness, but they lack the reliability of actual up-time equipment.”

“My telegraph operator says that the equipment is remarkably reliable, Philippe. There are only a few ways in which they can fail. And one of them is simply turning the device off. Is that the problem? They turned it off?”

“It would have to be disassembled during maneuvers, Highness. If the army is on the march, there would be no way to use it.”

“So the army is on the march.”

“As I said — ”

“He did not confide in you.” Gaston began to pace once more. “They have headed south. Not toward Paris, but south.”

“That is my impression, Highness.”

“I had hoped to have it accompany me on my progress to the capital.” He stopped walking. “Very well: he shall have to come to Reims for the coronation, to give fealty to me once I have come to the throne.”

De la Mothe did not answer. For several moments Gaston frowned at him, as if expecting some acknowledgment, but none was forthcoming.

“You shall travel with me, my lord de la Mothe. As we travel, you will bring me up to date on Turenne’s army.”

He wasn’t real happy with Lyon. I heard about his interview with de la Mothe, who got left behind or something; he’s like a nobleman out of The Three Musketeers: a dandy with lace and a fine wig, with a big nose, the kind that gets you into fights when someone makes fun of it.

We’re still on the road to Paris now, but I’m posting this from Dijon, where the Bishop has what they say is a reliable service. I hope it gets to you soon, and I’ll write again when I get to Paris. Like just about every place else down-time, I’m amazed at the places I’m going. There are supposed to be up-timers there — maybe I’ll see someone I know.

I know you’re worried about me and want me home. I want you to know I miss Grantville and I miss you, but I have to make my own way. I feel like I’m at the center of big things, but I think everything will eventually work out.

Say hi to everyone for me.

Love

Terrye Jo

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 10

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 10

“Talk to me, Justis,” Kona said, after I’d stared at the kid for a good minute or two. “Was I right? Was he killed with magic?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But this magic is . . . it’s weird. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, that’s what I want to hear right now.”

I tore my eyes away from the swirling glow to scan the rest of his body. I saw no blood, no other wounds or bruising. Of course he had a lot of tattoos, including at least half a dozen swastikas on his neck and arms, which made bruising a bit harder to find. But I was sure that the spell to his chest had killed him.

“A spell hit him here,” I said, tracing a line across his heart with my finger, but taking care not to touch him. “Aside from that I don’t see any magic on him. We could turn him over to check for signs of a second conjuring, but I don’t think there’s much point.”

“Do you recognize the color?”

I shook my head. “I don’t even recognize the kind of magic that was used against him. It doesn’t look like any spell I could cast.”

“Is that because of the spell, or the guy who cast it?”

This was one of the things that made Kona such a great cop — the best I’d known. She would have been the first to admit that she was out of her depth; she knew next to nothing about magic. But she had asked the perfect question, one that cut to the very core of the matter. One that I couldn’t yet answer. First Billie, now Kona. It seemed that I was giving my friends a free education in magic: “Runecasting 101.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “In the past I’ve only used magical residue like this to find the conjurer. Someone who knows more about this stuff than I do might be able to tell us what kind of spell was used against him, but I can’t.”

I scrutinized the glow for another few seconds, trying to commit to memory the color and quality of the residue. I covered the body again, and straightened.

“What do you know so far?” I asked.

Kona pulled out the small spiral notepad she kept in her blazer pocket. “We know more than we usually do this early in an investigation, but so far we haven’t been able to make much sense of it.” Opening the notebook, she went on, “The victim’s name is James Robert Howell.” She glanced up, her eyes meeting mine. “I swear, Justis, I think he went by Jimmy Bob. As you can tell from his hair style and the lovely art work he’s wearing, he was a skinhead, I’m guessing with ties to a bunch of white supremacist groups. We pulled his luggage, and found that it held a bomb with an altitude-sensitive trigger. The bomb squad guys aren’t sure yet when it was set to detonate, but the way these things work is that you reach that level, the air pressure changes enough to trip the mechanism, and boom, no more plane.”

“How do you even get a bomb onto a plane these days? I would have thought that the TSA could find any explosives in a checked bag.”

“Usually they can. This was a pretty sophisticated device. They’re still trying to figure out exactly where the system broke down.”

“Who else was on board? For that matter, where was the plane going?”

“Both good questions. This was American flight 595, a non-stop to Washington Reagan. And the passenger list included Mando Rafael Vargas and several of his aides.”

I let out a low whistle. “So you think that mister white supremacist here had it in mind to assassinate one of the most prominent Latino leaders in the country.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what the Feds are thinking.”

“Sounds about right. The FBI guys are letting you play in their sandbox?”

“It’s my sandbox,” she said. “I’ve made it clear to them that this is my goddamned sandbox. But yeah, for now at least they’re playing nice and they’re eager for any help we can give them.”

“How soon was the plane supposed to take off?”

Kona nodded, an eyebrow going up. “Well, that’s where all of this starts to get very interesting. Flight 595 was supposed to take off a little before nine o’clock this morning.”

“What?” I bent down again, uncovered Howell’s body a second time. “So how did he end up in here? Why isn’t every person on that plane dead already?”

“The plane had mechanical problems. It pulled back from the gate, a red light came on in the cockpit, and it wound up sitting on the tarmac for about two and half hours while mechanics tried to find the problem. At that point they gave up, rolled it to the gate again, and had everyone deplane, intending to move them to a new aircraft. While they were waiting, someone killed Howell. We found the bomb in his luggage a short time later.”

“That’s some coincidence,” I said.

“Exactly what I’m thinking. I need you to put your magic eyes on a few more things for me, and maybe a few people, too.”

“People?”

“I want to know if our murderer was on the plane, and I know you can tell from looking if someone’s a conjurer.”

“Just because a conjurer is on the plane, that doesn’t mean he or she is the killer.”

She frowned. “I know that. You know I know that. But it would be a place to start, right?”

I couldn’t argue. “I’ll ‘put my magic eyes’ on whoever you want me to.” I shifted my attention back to Jimmy Bob. “What do you suppose Pete Forsythe is going to say was the cause of death?” Forsythe was the Medical Examiner in Phoenix, and had been since way before I joined the police force.

Kona shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“From what I’m seeing, I’d guess that the magic slashed through him — I don’t know if it simply stopped his heart or caused a heart attack, or a rupture of some sort.”

“Does it matter?”

For some reason I felt that it did, though I couldn’t say why. “It’s not the kind of spell I would cast.”

“Well, I’d hope not.”

I grunted a laugh but then grew serious again. “No, I mean that if I was going to murder someone, and if I intended to attack his heart, I’d seize it with a spell, make sure it would appear to anyone who cared that he’d died of a heart attack. And maybe this sorcerer did that, but a spell like this . . . It seems odd.” I covered him again, stood.

Kona was watching me. “Go ahead and say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking right now.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “All right. It’s almost like whoever killed him didn’t care how it would look.”

“Except that they did it with magic, which most of us can’t see.”

“True. But that’s all the more reason to make it seem like a natural death — why would you draw attention to what you’d done by flaunting the spell?”

“I can’t help you there, partner,” she said. “I think all of you weremystes are crazy.”

“Or at least headed that way, right?”

“At least. Come on. Let’s go see the rest of it.”

I followed her out of the men’s room to the nearest of the gates. A TSA official swiped a card and pulled open the gate door, allowing us to walk down the jet bridge. Halfway between the gate and the open end of the bridge, the heat hit us, a fist of stifling air. I pulled off my bomber. We exited onto a stairway that led down to the apron, and climbed into what was essentially a golf cart. Kona released the brake and steered us out of the apron and onto a roadway that ran parallel to the runways and led toward an open area near the western edge of the airport.

“Where are we going?” I asked, raising my voice so that she would hear me over the rush of hot wind and the constant roar of aircraft.

“To check out a bomb.”

I nodded. “You know how to show a guy a good time.”

She grinned. “Don’t tell Margarite. She’ll be jealous.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 30

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 30

“I welcome you to this solemn occasion,” he said. “Beloved in the Lord, when the Savior sent out his Apostles, he said unto them, ‘Go ye, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you.’ He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved. Through baptism men are cleansed from their sins, made partakers in the meritorious redemption of Jesus Christ, taken into the society of the faithful and into the Church of Christ, fitted to obtain a share in all the treasuries of grace, with the management and administration of which Christ has entrusted his church.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to Anne, “it is an honor to receive you here in the sight of God, and to receive your son, a gift from God, the source of all life, who seeks to bestow His life upon him. What name do you give to this child?”

“Louis,” she said. “Louis Dieudonné — a gift from God.”

“What do you ask of God’s Church for Louis?”

“Baptism — the grace of Christ.”

“Louis,” the bishop said to the baby, and then looked directly at Anne. “Dost thou desire to obtain eternal life in the church of God through faith in Jesus Christ?

“He does,” she said.

“Who shall stand as godparents for this child?”

Katie stepped forward from her position to stand beside Achille.

“We will,” Achille said.

“Are you ready to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christian parents, in the sight of God and within the body of the Holy Catholic Church?”

Achille was ready to answer the second question, but Katie said, “We are ready.” It drew a sharp look from the knight of Malta, but he softened it to a mild wry smile.

The bishop dipped his right hand in the baptismal font and then stepped directly in front of Anne.

“The Lord himself has appointed baptism with water, accompanied by the invocation of the Trinity, to be the outward sign of the grace which is communicated through this blessed sacrament. It is thereby intimated that as the body is purified by water, so the soul is purified by this sacrament from whatever in it is displeasing to God.

“Now, the community of Christ welcomes this child with great joy,” he said. “The Lord Himself hath said: ‘This is life eternal, that they may know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent. If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments, and that thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and thy neighbor as thyself.'”

He drew a cross on little Louis’ forehead, and then as Anne unwrapped a bit of the swaddling, upon his breast. “Receive the sign of the holy cross, to remind thee that thou openly profess thy faith in Christ crucified, and glory not, save only in the cross of Jesus Christ our Lord; and to remind thee that thou love from thy heart Him who hath died on the cross for thee, and that as He bids thee thou shouldest take up thy cross and follow Him.”

Bishop Léonore leaned forward and breathed very softly on Louis’ face; the baby looked up at him smiling. “May the powers of darkness, which the divine Redeemer hath vanquished by his cross, retire before thee that thou mayest see to what hope, and to what an exceeding glorious inheritance among the saints, thou art called.”

Mazarin handed the bishop a small towel, with which he wiped his hands. Léonore then placed a small bit of salt on the tip of his right index finger and touched the baby’s tongue. Louis made a small frown.

“Louis,” the bishop said, “receive this salt as an emblem of wisdom; the Lord grant it thee unto everlasting life.” He then laid his hand on the baby’s forehead.

“O God, thou author of all wisdom, look graciously down on this thy servant Louis and preserve him ever in thy fear, which is the beginning of wisdom, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He then touched Louis’ ears and mouth and said, “Ephphatha, that is, be opened. As the Savior gave the power of hearing and of speech to a man that was both deaf and dumb by the use of these words, and by touching his ears and tongue, so may he strengthen thee through his grace, that thou mayest be ready and willing to hear his words, and mayest joyfully proclaim his praise.

“Does Louis now and for all time renounce the lusts of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life?”

“He does,” Anne said.

Mazarin handed the bishop a small dish that had oil in it; he dipped his fingers in it and touched Louis’ breast and forehead.

“For the war against evil, and for the practice of good, thou needest strengthening through the grace of him who hath redeemed us from our sins. Therefore I anoint thee with the oil of salvation in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.”

He then touched the edge of his stole to Louis’ cheek and said, “Louis, receive the white raiment of innocence. Preserve it pure and unspotted until the day of Jesus Christ, that thereby thou mayest enter into eternal life.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize thee Louis Dieudonné, the Gift of God.”

Anne wrapped the baby once more, then took the bishop’s ring and kissed it. He placed his hands over hers and smiled.

“Majesty,” he said. “I am in great fear of what might come next. I wish you would reconsider your course, and remain here, or accompany me to Chartres as my guest.”

“I wish I could accept your offer,” Anne answered. “But a prince who would stoop to killing his own brother would not scruple to kill a woman and child.” She looked up at Mazarin. “I am in safe hands.”

“My brother has offered to accompany you, I know. He has pledged his faith to Holy Mother Church, but I dispensed him from any duty he owes to my see so that he can go.”

“I am most appreciative, Your Grace.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“You have done a great deal already,” Anne answered. “I would only ask that you pray for us as well. All of us.” She glanced back at Katie. “We are in God’s hands now. All of France is in God’s hands.”

“Indeed, my Queen,” the bishop said. “But you always were.”

The last that Katie and the rest of the royal party saw of Château Baronville was of Bishop Léonore and the servants of the castle standing outside watching, as their carriage pulled away into the morning light. The duke of Uzès and the bishop stood a little apart from the others, and as they watched, Léonore made the sign of the Cross.

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 09

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 09

“Sorry. You wouldn’t believe the traffic around the terminal.”

“Actually, I would.” She cast a glance my way. “Everything okay with Billie?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

She led me toward the end of the gate area, past clusters of cops and agents. And as we walked, people paused in their conversations to stare at us.

Usually, Kona by herself was enough to draw gazes. She was tall and willowy, with dark eyes, the cheekbones of a fashion model, and short, tightly curled black hair. Her skin was the color of coffee, and she had a thousand watt smile, though it wasn’t in evidence today. But as many people were watching me as her; fallout, no doubt, from the Blind Angel case.

“You’re a celebrity,” she said.

“I’m a curiosity. The disgraced cop who solved one last case.”

She gave a low snort of laughter.

“Hold it, Shaw!”

I knew that voice. We both stopped. Cole Hibbard, the commander of the police department’s Violent Crimes Bureau, was striding in our direction, his face ruddy beneath a shock of white hair. To say that Cole and I hated each other did an injustice to the depth of our animosity. He had once been my father’s best friend, a colleague in the department. When my Dad’s mind went, Cole was the first to turn on him. When my mother and her lover were found dead, he was at the fore of those accusing my father of the murders. And years later, when I was on the force, struggling with the phasings and their effects on me, he was the one who pushed to have me fired and then forced me to resign in order to avoid that final disgrace.

“Who authorized you to call him in?” Hibbard asked, gesturing toward me but refusing even to glance in my direction.

“Sergeant Arroyo, sir.”

“Well, he didn’t clear it with me.”

“I’m sure he meant to, sir.”

“I don’t care what he meant to do–“

“Commander,” I broke in, “can I talk to you for a moment?”

Kona laid a hand on my arm. “Justis . . .”

“It’s all right,” I told her.

I faced Hibbard again. He stared daggers at me, appearing unsure as to whether he should be pissed or amazed at my audacity.

“I won’t keep you long,” I said.

I thought he’d refuse, but after a few seconds he gave a single jerky nod, pivoted on his heel, and walked to a bank of windows nearby.

“This is a bad idea, Justis.”

“Maybe. It wouldn’t be my first.”

I joined Hibbard by the window and gazed out over the apron and runways. Planes had been pushed back from all of the terminal three gates. They sat on the sun-baked concrete, motionless, abandoned, heat waves rising from their fuselages. The other terminals hummed with activity, and even as I stood there a jet raced down the nearest runway, its nose angling upward.

“What the hell do you want?” Hibbard asked in a snarl.

“Believe it or not, Commander, I didn’t come here to embarrass you or cause problems.” I kept my voice low, even, the way I would if I was trying to calm a cornered dog. “I came to help.”

“We don’t need your help,” he said.

“The head of your lead homicide unit, and your best homicide detective disagree with you.”

“Screw you.”

“You can send me away; we both know you have that authority. But for better or worse, I’m famous now — the former cop who brought down the Blind Angel Killer. If I leave, it’s going to raise questions. You’ll give your answers, I’ll give mine. How do you think that’s going to play?”

He said nothing. I had him, and we both knew that, too. In the weeks since I’d killed Cahors, a lot of people in Phoenix had been asking why I’d been forced to leave the department in the first place. More than a few had suggested that if they’d let me stay, the case might have been solved sooner and lives might have been saved, including that of Claudia Deegan, the daughter of Arizona’s senior U.S. Senator, and the Blind Angel’s final victim.

If Cole demanded that I leave the airport, and this case dragged on for more than a few days, he’d have real problems.

The truth was, I found the talk about me and my firing more embarrassing than gratifying. I took no satisfaction in seeing my former colleagues on the force second-guessed in this way, especially Kona. But I had slept better at night over the last month or two knowing that Cole had to have been squirming a little bit.

“Fine,” he said, the word wrung out of him. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was striding away before I got the words out. I watched him go, then walked back to where Kona still stood.

“What did you say to him?”

“I asked him how he was going to explain to the press and his superiors why he had chased away from a crime scene the guy who killed Arizona’s most notorious serial murderer.”

“You are a piece of work, Justis.” She raised a hand to keep me from answering. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it,” she went on, voice dropping, “but these days I have to confess to feeling a little sorry for Cole. With all that’s on our plate right now?” She shook her head, in a way that told me there was more going on in the homicide unit than I knew.

“Something else I should be helping you with?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. But just because you and I got rid of one wack-job, doesn’t mean there wasn’t another one waiting to take his place. Know what I mean?”

The one wack-job would have been Cahors. “You’ve got another serial killer?”

“That surprises you?”

“Not really.”

“We’re keeping it quiet,” she said, whispering now. “The patterns aren’t clear yet, and it may not be one guy. But inside 620, the pressure’s pretty high. And Hibbard bears the brunt of it. I’m not saying you should buy the guy a beer, but as much as he might hate you and your Dad, he’s also dealing with some shit right now. You know?”

I nodded. “If I see him again, and he doesn’t shoot me on sight, I’ll give him a break.”

“That’s all I’m saying. Come on,” she said, leading me toward a men’s room that had already been cordoned off with yellow police tape. “Our victim’s in here.”

We stepped into the rest room, the noise from the terminal fading to an echoey background buzz. A toilet in one of the far stalls flushed repeatedly, its automatic mechanism obviously malfunctioning, but otherwise no sound came from within the tiled space.

A body, covered with a white cloth, lay by a row of sinks.

I hesitated, but at Kona’s nod of encouragement I squatted beside the corpse and pulled back the sheet, revealing the body of a young man, his head shaved to blond stubble, his face pock-marked as if he’d had bad acne. He was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with the words “America for Americans” printed in block letters across the chest.

I didn’t need to search for evidence of what had killed him; it was right there in front of me, a shimmering blur slashed across his chest.

All spells left a residue, a glow tinged with color that no one but another weremyste could see. Each sorcerer’s magic was a different color, a different shade, and each faded at its own pace. The more vibrant the color, the more powerful the sorcerer.

But this residue was unlike any I had seen before. Most of the time, magic in this form reminded me of wet paint. It was brilliant and it gleamed, but it was opaque. Even the glow left behind by the spells of Etienne de Cahors, who was the most powerful conjurer I’d ever encountered, had those same basic qualities.

Not this spell.

Whoever had killed the kid lying in front of me had left behind a flare of power that had more in common with Namid’s sparkling clear waters than with the residue I was used to seeing. It had color — a deep, rich green that reminded me of early spring leaves — but I could see through the glow to the dead man’s shirt. More, the residue seemed to be alive; it shifted and swirled, like a sheen of oil on top of a puddle.

 

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 08

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 08

Chapter 4

Billie and I had decided early on in our relationship that we were permanently off the record as far as her reporting was concerned. She wouldn’t try to get stories out of any of my investigations. It was an easy agreement to reach, because few of my usual cases — really none of them — involved anything that would interest her readers.

But our arrangement became a bit more complicated when I was called in to help out the Phoenix Police Department. Those investigations were far more intriguing, and thus just the sort of thing she would want to cover. We had met during one such case, and it had involved sorcery, one of the state’s most prominent politicians, and a serial killer whose crimes were as sensational as they were gruesome. Now the PPD needed my help again, and the case appeared to involve magic, murder, and perhaps an attempted act of terrorism.

Billie studied me as I finished my call with Kona, green eyes narrowing, the expression on her lovely face shrewd, knowing.

“What was that?” she asked, as I put away my phone.

“Kona needs my help.”

“I gathered that much. With what?”

I sighed, holding her gaze, a smile creeping over my face.

“What?” she demanded, her voice rising, though she was trying not to laugh.

“We should get our food to go,” I said. “I need to get to the airport, and I would suggest you do the same, though obviously we have to drive separately.”

Her eyes widened. “Fearsson, are you giving me a tip?”

“I’m doing no such thing. I’m simply saying that you might find it useful to make your way to the airport.”

She grabbed her computer bag. “I’m going now. I’ll eat later.”

“If you go now, Kona will know how you found out and I won’t ever be able to help you out again.”

She twisted her mouth, and for an instant I could imagine her as a kid, pondering some scheme that was going to land her in big trouble. She must have been cute as a button. A handful, but cute as a button.

“At least wait for the food,” I said.

“All right.” She hung the bag over the back of her chair again. “What did Kona tell you?”

“This dessert menu has some interesting things on it,” I said, reaching for one of the folded cardboard menus sitting on the table by the salt and pepper shakers and bottles of hot sauce. “We should come here for dinner one night.”

“Fine,” she said, her expression sharpening. “I’ll find out on my own.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Tell me about your case. The one you solved.”

“There’s not that much to tell,” I said, still reading about the desserts. “Though it did end strangely. The guy I caught took a couple of shots at me. He should have hit me, but he didn’t. It almost seemed like someone cast a spell to save my life.”

When she didn’t respond, I set the menu aside. She was staring at me, her face as white as our napkins. I guess it should have occurred to me sooner that I might be better off keeping those details to myself.

“You almost got shot again?”

Crap.

“Yeah. But I’m fine. Like I said, someone was watching out for me.”

“Someone, but not you.”

I’d long imagined that it would be nice to have someone in my life who cared about what happened to me, who wanted to be certain each evening that I was safe at home. Turns out, the imagined version is easier to deal with than the real thing. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate Billie’s concern, but I also didn’t want her worrying about me all the time.

“I’d taken all the precautions I could, but I . . . messed up. It was an accident, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. I stumbled over something and let the guy know I was there before I was ready to disarm him.”

“And he shot at you.”

“He missed.”

The waitress arrived with our food.

“I’m very sorry,” I said to her. “Something’s come up, and we need these to go.”

She forced a smile, muttered a less-than-heartfelt “No problem,” and took the plates away again.

Billie continued to stare at me, her cheeks ashen except for bright red spots high on each one.

“Fearsson–”

“Billie, this is what I do. If I was still a cop, I’d be on the streets every day, taking more chances than I do now.”

“If you were still a cop, you’d have a partner watching out for you. You wouldn’t have been alone with this guy.”

The problem with getting involved with someone smart was that she was right more often than not, and way more often than I was. I shrugged, conceding the point.

“You say that magic saved you?” she asked, lowering her voice.

I nodded, wishing I’d had the good sense to keep quiet when the chance presented itself.

“But not your own.”

“That’s right.”

“Was it Namid?”

We hadn’t been together for long, and at the beginning I had tried to keep from her the fact that I could cast spells, the fact that I was subject to the phasings and was slowly going mad. And even after I told her, she was slow to believe it all and slower still to accept that she could be part of my strange life. But she had come around far sooner than I’d had any right to hope. Her ability to make that simple leap, to guess that Namid had been the one to save me, was evidence of how far she and I had come in little more than two months.

“That was my first thought, too. But no, it wasn’t him. I don’t know who it was.”

“That frightens me even more than someone shooting at you.”

I thought about asking her why, but realized I didn’t have to. Some nameless magical entity or entities keeping me alive for reasons unknown? Yeah, I didn’t like the sound of that either. If they could save my life, they could take it, and since I didn’t know why they’d intervened in the first place, there was always the danger that I would disappoint them, or piss them off in some way.

The waitress came back with a couple of take-out boxes, which she placed on the table.

“Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

She walked away. Billie ignored the food.

“I’ll be careful,” I told her. At her raised eyebrow, I added, “More careful than I’ve been.”

“I like you, Fearsson. I’d rather you didn’t get yourself killed.”

I heard in what she said an odd echo of Namid’s words from the previous night, and another shudder went through me. I covered it with a shrug and a nod. “I appreciate that.”

We both stood, and I followed her out into the street. Once we were outside, she planted herself in front of me, and I thought she might say more. But instead she kissed me, her forehead furrowing as it had before.

“Call me later, okay? I want to know you’re all right.”

“I will.”

I watched her hurry off toward her car and then walked back to the Z-ster.

I was on the western edge of Mesa, a few blocks from where it gave way to Tempe. Sky Harbor Airport wasn’t far, and I made good time getting there. Once in the airport loops, however, the nightmares began. Navigating any airport can be a headache, but add in a murder and a bomb threat and all hell breaks loose. It took me close to forty-five minutes to get from the east entrance to the Terminal Three parking garage, and once there I had to argue with a uniformed cop for another ten minutes before I convinced him to call Kona so that she could authorize him to let me park and join her in the terminal.

Once inside, I saw that the place was crawling with cops, FBI, bomb squad guys, TSA officers, and a few suits from Homeland Security. Kona met me in the food court and escorted me through the north security checkpoint. It was the first, and no doubt the last time I would ever get my Glock through there without a question or even a quirked eyebrow.

“You took your time getting here,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I’ve had a helluva time putting off the guys from the coroner’s office, not to mention the Federal boys.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 29

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 29

Chapter 17

Chateau de Baronville, Beville-le-Comte

The ringing of bells awaked Anne from a restful sleep. She could feel the deep pain from labor still, but her exhaustion had been deeper. Even before opening her eyes she reached down to feel her chest: after seven and a half months it felt strange to be without the life that had inhabited her womb.

Strange, she thought. And wonderful.

She knew that the infant would be with a wet-nurse nearby; yet she wished to hold her son, to look upon him. He had only been in her arms for a few short minutes just after his birth before he had been taken away and she had descended into sleep.

She opened her eyes to see the young woman who had been her midwife and doctor: she was sitting in a padded chair, dozing, a coat wrapped around her. It had clearly been a long night for her as well.

“Mademoiselle Katie,” she said, and when the young up-timer woman did not answer, she repeated herself, pitching her voice somewhat louder.

Katie Matewski stirred and then awoke fully, startled. She looked across at Anne and rose quickly, shrugging off the coat and coming to the bedside. “I . . . I beg your pardon, Majesty,” she said in passable French. “I must have drifted off.”

“Do not trouble yourself. Tell me — why are the bells ringing?”

“I’m not sure, my lady. I can go and see. Are you in discomfort? Are you –”

“I am very tired, but I seem to be well. Please go and inquire, and give my compliments to my lord of Uzès.” Uzès was the first gentleman of the bedchamber: he was the first on hand at the queen’s arising and the last on her retirement.

“By your leave,” Katie said. The curtsy was not exactly to court standards, complicated perhaps by the fact that the young lady was dressed in a man’s trousers. If this had been a down-timer, a subject of the kingdom, there might be some slight affront — but she was an up-timer, from whom all sorts of informalities were expected.

Katie opened the bedchamber door and stepped into the outer room. Mazarin was there with Uzès and another man whom she had never seen. He was dressed for travel and looked as if he had come far and ridden hard.

She closed the door behind her. The three men stopped their conversation as Katie appeared.

“How does the queen?” Uzès asked.

“She has just awoken,” Katie said. “I haven’t examined her yet but she seems well. I had a little nap myself, but left word that I should be notified if there was any problem with mother or child.”

“The baby is doing well,” Mazarin said. “But grim news has arrived.”

“Is that why the bells are ringing?”

“Yes,” Mazarin answered. “There has been an ambush. The king is dead.”

“Dead? What happened? An — an ambush?”

The stranger gave a bow. “Mademoiselle, my name is Étienne Servien. I have the honor to serve His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu. We were on our way to this place when we were viciously and violently attacked. My master was severely wounded, and His Majesty the king was slain.” He was distraught as he spoke the words.

“The queen must be told,” Katie said.

“More than that,” Mazarin said. “She must be made ready to travel, and right away. We must leave Beville-le-Comte as soon as possible: there may be a further attack on her person.”

“And the baby –”

“He is in terrible danger,” said Servien. “He is the king of France now, and he has many enemies, none greater than his uncle. It is certain that Gaston was behind the attack. The assassins were led by César de Vendôme, the king’s — and Gaston’s — eldest brother, a légitimé. Gaston will now seek to have himself crowned king.”

“He can’t do that,” Katie said. “Can he?”

“He can,” Mazarin answered, “though he should not. But this is a circumstance often governed by power, not propriety.”

“So who exactly is Vendôme? I thought we were talking about Gaston.”

“César de Vendôme is the king’s eldest half-brother, Mademoiselle,” Mazarin explained. “Before Louis and Gaston were born, King Henry the Fourth of fond memory fathered three children by his first mistress, Gabrielle d’Estrées. César is the oldest of the three. His younger brother Alexandre died in prison several years ago, and his younger sister is now the duchess of Elbeuf. They were all declared légitimés — recognized for their royal blood, but ineligible for further preferment. In a different world, César de Vendôme might have been king of France; while in this one, he has become a regicide.”

“Did he become king in my ‘different world’, Monseigneur?”

“No,” Mazarin said. “He is just as much a bastard in your up-time history. He engaged in further intrigues, including participation in a cabal against me.” He smiled briefly, the strange twists of time and history bemusing him and pushing aside the gravity and tragedy of the situation. “He has many grudges against Cardinal Richelieu, and evidently had enough resentment against his lord king that he did not hesitate to put him to the sword as well.”

“Will he attack us here?”

“No,” Mazarin said. “Because we will not be here. We will be elsewhere.”

****

Near dawn, the royal party was assembled in the chapel of Baronville to baptize the child. The first wan light was straining to pass through the thick glass windows. The room was lit with several small candles. Anne, less than twenty-four hours after childbirth, looked radiant and regal, wearing a traveling dress that hung loosely on her frame, a beautiful necklace that reflected all the light in the room, and a small circlet on her head. She held the baby — the rightful king of France — in her arms, and to Katie she looked like the most beautiful woman in the world.

Achille, the brother of the Bishop, stood beside her, in the full regalia of a Knight of Malta, his hat tucked under one arm, his hand on his heart.

The rest of the group, including Monsieur Servien, stood nearby, except for Mazarin, who was to assist Bishop Léonore in the baptism.

Katie had found a dress to wear. She realized, just a little before the gathering in the chapel, that she didn’t feel proper dressing casually in church, even if it was just for a short ceremony; old habits die hard.

The castle servants had been gathered into a choir, and as Bishop Léonore entered the chapel, they began to sing. Mazarin, who waited near the altar, his hands joined in prayer, accompanied them.

Si introiero in tabernaculum domus meae si ascendero in lectum strati mei si dedero somnum oculis meis et palpebris meis dormitationem et requiem temporibus . . .

Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor my eyes lofty; neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me . . .

Katie didn’t recognize the psalm, but the hastily-gathered singers gave a good account of it; the bishop made his way forward with little ceremony, until he reached the front of the chapel and turned to face the others. He carried his bishop’s crook and wore his alb and surplice; he had intended to perform the service after the baby’s birth, but probably wasn’t planning to do it under such strained circumstances.