THE FAITH:
BOOK I OF THE UPRISING TRILOGY

by
Michael Seeley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:
Michael Seeley on Smashwords

The Faith
Book I of the Uprising Trilogy
Copyright 2012 by Michael Seeley

Smashwords Edition License Notes
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THE FAITH

BOOK I OF THE UPRISING TRILOGY



MICHAEL SEELEY

They've killed the king. They've replaced him with an imposter. Now they want his twin.

Nathaniel Fletcher and Viscount Logan Harling are two young Englishmen on their Grand Tour through Europe. But when they stumble into a plot to kill the King of Riktenburg, it's all they can do to stay alive.
A ruthless secret society known only as The Faith butchers the king, ending the monarchy that has betrayed the divine right of kings. The radicals replace him with a master imposter and order the execution of the dead king's twin brother.
 Logan and Nathaniel are the only ones who can stop Rikenburg from descending into tyranny. But how can they save the kingdom and their own lives when they're being chased by The Faith? 
The Faith is the action-packed opening to the Uprising Trilogy!

This edition contains 10,000 words of extra features from Seeley's upcoming works and other genres!
Includes:
Preview of The Invasion: Book II of the Uprising Trilogy (Coming Late Fall 2012) - A hanging goes awry, and Logan, Nathaniel, and Jacob are called to save Riktenburg again.
Preview of Duty: A Retelling of Waterloo - In addition to writing fiction, Seeley is a Napoleonic historian. His second novel, Duty, asks what might have happened if Napoleon had won at Waterloo.
Dulce et Decorum - Seeley's Napoleonic short fiction is collected in the Men of Eagles series. In this story, a mother offers her son to Napoleon's armies with disastrous consequences.
A Questionable Affair - An insulted man must protect the villain he is also forced to kill in this Steampunk adventure.



For Mandy

Sine Qua Non



Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Acknowledgements
Bonus Material
About the Author
Preview of The Invasion: Book II of the Uprising Trilogy
Preview of Duty: A Retelling of Waterloo
Dulce et Decorum
A Questionable Affair




Chapter I

"Bloody French are back to murdering each other," I said. Noting a lull in our conversation, I had picked up a copy of Le Moniteur left by a previous passenger on the train. Although it was two days old, the following headline caught my eye: "Angry Student Kills — Be Warned!" 
Logan looked up from gazing at the onrushing plains out the smudged glass of the train. Leaning forward he spoke, "What?" When I didn't answer, he said "Nathaniel."
"Just this," I replied at last. I pointed towards the article, and he motioned for the paper. 
"Well," he said after glancing at the headline, "You mustn't believe everything in Le Moniteur. Louis Philippe's got his hands all over it." My friend was right of course. The French king had seized control of the paper, and the publication was slandered for its blatant propaganda. 
"Read it," I said. He nodded, flipped the paper open to see the entire article, and coughed to clear his throat. 
"'Angry Student Kills — Be Warned! Early yesterday morning, the state police received several complaints about a gathering of boisterous students along the Rue des Écoles. The reports warned of shouting, angry cries, and chanting. The mob had taken up residence in the middle of the street, blocking all traffic. Upon seeing the gendarmes, the mob screamed even louder. They hurled slanderous comments about the king, his family, and the entire French government. Next, the devils threw stones. No gendarmes were injured in these attacks.
"'Given the students' predisposition to violence, disruptive nature, and dangerous tone, the gendarmes dispersed the mob by force. These lay-abouts and laborers did not comply, but the police compelled most of them in the end. However, one cluster refused to leave. One gendarme dismounted and began shoving them out of the road. Enraged, one of these student lashed out. He knifed the policeman in the chest and took to his heels. Hearing the strangled cry of the mortally injured man, other gendarmes gave pursuit and took the murderer into custody, tackling him to the flagstones.
'"The criminal is being held at an undisclosed location and will stand trial this coming Tuesday. Given the overwhelming amount of evidence, he will, of course, be found guilty and executed for his crime. The writers of this paper warn all subscribers to be wary of such dangerous elements within the city. Furthermore, to all protestors: justice is swift upon those who defy the peace of France.'" He paused as the tracks shuddered beneath us. "And that's it," Logan finished. 
"Cheery bit of news, isn't it?" I commented dryly. 
"Things are coming to a head." For months, news from the Continent had been spooling through the English papers. Workers and students were out of work, out of bread, and out of patience. Hunger was rampant, and the excesses from before the French Revolution were returning. In the German states, in Austria, and throughout France, anger was brewing. "And our Tour?" he continued. 
I nodded. "I don't suppose it's dangerous enough to warrant a change in plans . . ." 
"Oh of course it isn't. What would our fathers think?" Logan interrupted. Grand Tours aren't simply changed. "Their king will sort it all out. He's got Louis XVI, XIII, and Charles before him to act as guides," my friend spoke. It was very true. Given that the recent French kings had been executed, forced to abdicate, and exiled did not bode well for any man who refused to listen to the Parisian mob. "We'll continue as we are, and hope that our time in Paris won't be interrupted by another Tennis Court Oath." 
I laughed in agreement but changed the subject. My mind kept slipping back though. The article had unsettled me, perhaps more than it had Logan. But I couldn't say what exactly bothered me. Maybe it was a sense of caution. Logan was a Viscount and I a commoner, only his friend. We were just starting upon a Grand Tour, a rite of passage reserved for the affluent. In the end I resolved not to worry too much. How much enjoyment would that bring me?
The train rolled on and on under our feet. I glanced out the window and was again caught by the rolling beauty of my home, England. Her flowing fields and proud trees were a constant reminder of the majesty of our people. It struck me suddenly that it might be years before I saw her beloved shores once more. A small, nagging voice in my head reminded me that the world was full of beautiful places. Eventually I let myself drift off to sleep.
As the day's sun dipped towards the horizon, the rolling, rocking motion of the locomotive came to a halt with a final burst of steam. The nearby sound of gulls filled the silence left by the engine's rest. 
I smiled over at Logan and gave a chipper "Shall we?" before standing and ushering myself out of Compartment 12A and onto the bustling Dover platform. He followed and we collected our trunks and took stock of our situation as we stood in the crowd, isles amid a sea of movement. In the distance, we could hear the chaotic sounds from the wharf. 
Porters carried our luggage, two trunks apiece, as we jaunted down the busy street and finally came to a queue waiting for passage to Calais. Stowing our possessions and inspecting the fine accommodations of a first-class birth, the pair of us tipped our porters and settled in for the short trip to our first foreign land. 
After perhaps a quarter of an hour of lounging about, Logan leaned up from his chair and slapped his knees. "What else is there to do aboard a ship?" he questioned. 
Yawning, I replied, "The journey's only a few hours to begin with." Luckily for my vivacious companion, we had arrived only minutes before the vessel was slated to depart. We had just enough time to hop aboard and take our leave of the porters before she set sail. "There's always the sea," I said offhandedly. The words had scarcely escaped my mouth before Logan had leapt up and was donning his frock coat and rushing towards the door. My laugh rang out through the empty room as I raced to collect my own wardrobe and catch up with the man. 
Finally, I found him along the portside rail of our vessel. While I had seen the expansive ocean before, this particular view was gorgeous. 
The pallid face of Dover's cliffs hung behind us. Majestically, they pushed us forward, and resolutely, they reminded us from whence we came. Ahead, wave after rolling wave painted the movable mass of the sea. Droplets coated the air, and passengers sat about, reading their papers and puffing their cigars. Beneath us, I could feel all the power of those waves. Then, my eye was drawn upwards. Above, the sky stretched like some divine canvas. Quiet clouds drifted in the celestial sea, while the setting sun smiled warmly upon us as her rosy fingers grasped the sky. 
In a word, it was breathtaking.
The two of us stood transfixed as we gazed upon all these wonders. I let a roaring, boy-like cheer escape my throat. The joyful sound echoed across the waves and drew not a few looks from our fellow passengers, but I didn't care.
"You do know how to make a scene, don't you Nathaniel?" laughed Logan, clasping me on the shoulder. 
"I do try, anyway. How else would I steal any attention from your Eminence?" I bowed playfully and jumped back as his kick cut through the air. We dashed about the deck, laughing and pointing towards every new sight that caught our ecstatic eyes. As darkness swallowed all aboard, we returned to our cabin for a night of fulfilled rest. Although the ship would reach France long before the morning, the vessel offered the courtesy of remaining aboard overnight to all privileged passengers. Given our day's travels, we were all too keen to accept this offer of hospitality. 
Opening my eyes the next morning, I immediately noted the decrease in movement. The gentle waves of the harbor lacked the luster and the strength of their counterparts amid the open sea. It was no matter, though. I woke Logan, who complained endlessly in good fun about the noisy cabin-mate. We again retrieved our gear, left the ship, and once more, boarded another train. It seemed that this voyage would involve a lot of monotonous travel. Although the scenery was fantastic, the rolling and often uncomfortable seats of a locomotive are not the best of accommodations. 
Walking towards it, Logan glanced over. "Behave yourself; wouldn't want you to get shot by some gendarme."
I threw him a mock salute. "Welcome to France." 
We stopped talking then and ran to catch the train. Laughing together, we stepped aboard as it threw out a burst of steam and began winding its way towards Paris. 
 
Chapter II

Logan, who had always taken a strange obsession to France, England's most historic, stalwart enemy, lectured on and on about the sites we were passing and the figures who had once resided there. It was all quite fun, and I learned a lot. Not one collapsed monastery or Roman arch would pass by without an anecdote from my friend. I had asked him about his obsession many times, but the constant answer I received was "As a people, they are simply so resolute that I cannot help but be inspired." 
For myself, I found my own curiosity and studies being drawn further south, towards Rome — the world's seat of power for millennia. Although I loathed their burdensome Latin, I was more than looking forward to traipsing among the catacombs and basilicas of that ancient city. 
I'd been to London on several occasions, and the rushing citizens of our own capital were familiar to me. But as we watched the train roll into Paris, I realized that this new city was something else entirely. "Hectic" wasn't the right word for it, for the people there were not rushing to and fro. Instead, the people ambled together, arm in arm, laughing playfully in the French sun. But they conducted business too. I saw several men, lawyers by their attire, arguing over some point. But as we descended once more from the locomotive, I could simply sense something different about Paris: it was a city of life!
And of course, Logan and I took to the city manically. 
After procuring fashionable lodgings and taking the time to stroll through the winding avenues of Paris, we established ourselves within the city. The majestic part of a Grand Tour is that schedules and timetables are superfluous. Logan and I were to be abroad for at least a year, perhaps longer. There was no school-master to regulate our learning, and no commitments to rush onwards to achieve. We simply lived. "C'est la vie" as it were. In that city of extensive wonders, time was easy to forget. We spent days practicing the language among the friendly, raucous venders along the Seine. Hours were lost upon simple pleasures, and untold minutes were devoted to navigating the den of byways that composed the fantastical labyrinth that was Paris. 
And the sites! The Louvre, Notre Dame, the king's new Versailles . . . On and on I could list these. The majesty and overwhelming power of such a land continues to stagger my mind. The Louvre alone possessed nearly a thousand works of art! We stared for hours at the works of Renaissance masters and the intricate stone carvings of sculptors long dead. 
"There's another one!" I called, noting a gargoyle staring down at us. 
"Of course. They're all over the city. Did you know that Louis X decided—" Logan stopped talking then, and I looked over. He was staring as a man shuffled up to us.
The newcomer had a grimy patch over his eye, a decided limp, and a stench like putrid flesh. I hoped he would just walk by, but he angled right towards us. 
"Please kind sirs, do you—"
"No we don't," said Logan cutting him off. "We don't have any extra money, our apologies."
"But my children are starving. Just a few coins would help. With the price of bread so high, we can barely eat." 
I tried to talk, but couldn't come up with anything.
Logan pressed on. "No. I'm sorry. Good day." My friend steered us away from the beggar. As we rounded a corner in the street, he turned to me. "Probably would've spent it on wine anyway." 
I didn't argue. We lost ourselves again in the winding boulevards. 

* * * * *

Upon the grounds of Versailles, wealth took an entirely new meaning. Under the wings of the Viscounts of Harling, I thought I had experienced richness. Banquets had been frequent, physical labor non-existent, and a festive air was often upon us. We had lived like royals at the Shaded Oaks.
Now the Harlings' wealth seemed laughable. 
Only recently opened by the king, Versailles had once been a restricted playhouse of royal splendor. For centuries, the kings and queens of France had basked amid their glory. The chateau itself is impossible to fully describe to one who has never seen it. Room after glorious room, each more adorned than the last, filled the entire building. Paintings, gilded chairs, plush carpets and massive four-poster beds, vases and wonders from the East — we saw all of these in every chamber. As a private residence, it was beyond comparison. 
At one point though, after seeing another of the countless rooms, Logan stopped, transfixed by a painting. The piece showed a quiet country scene. In one corner, peasants labored over their farm, digging rows for planting in the dirt. Elsewhere, a beautiful girl, her billowing clothes hanging off her gorgeous frame, was singing. Maybe she was calling to the laborers; I'm not sure. But, her voice had attracted the attention of a noble hunting party which passed by. These men, all in flashy colors and silken shoes, paused to hear the maiden sing. Their faces though, were not appreciative. 
They were lusting. 
They lusted for the beautiful peasant. And it didn't take an artist or scholar to know what would happen next. The piece was simply entitled "Quarry." 
"My god," whispered Logan. Before I could ask, he moved, rushing into the next room. There, he suddenly stopped and turned back. Now we stood in the hall of mirrors, and the look of pain that crossed his face was reflected again and again along the walls of the long hallway. 
I blinked at him; the look troubled me. When it didn't disappear, and he didn't say anything, I grabbed his arm and drew the man aside. "What is it?" I said. I chuckled. "You look like you're Louis XVI and the mob has come for you." 
He continued to stare at me, ignoring my joke. "The painting," he said at last. As I watched, the sadness I glimpsed flickered into shame. He ran to a window, leaning out and sucking in the fresh air. His wild eyes stared at something. 
I followed and looked, seeing nothing. "What?" I pressed. 
At first, he only pointed. I followed his finger. There, out along the shaded paths, a grounds' crew was busy snipping away at the trees and lawn, ensuring that everything looked perfect. They sweated in the heat, and their clothes were shabby and worn — simple working folk by their looks. I looked at Logan again. "What is the matter with you?"
Finally, he spoke. "We're touring the palace of a king, and those poor devils are slaving to ensure it looks nice."
"So what?" I said.
 "Even after their Revolution, the French are still divided. There're still classes, Nathaniel! This . . . this is what privilege does." He waved his arm around, indicating intricate pottery, gilded tables, and the sheer wealth of the room. 
"And what of it?" I said. Then it caught me, and I slapped him on the back. "Oh, come now! You're not feeling guilty, are you?" His blank eyes gave the answer, and it terrified me. In all our years of friendship, Logan had never once offered any apology for his noble birth. "Logan, you and your family are nothing like these kings. You've . . . you've adopted a peasant family for heaven's sake. My family! Your kindness for the Fletchers—" 
"What of it?"
 "Doesn't that make you an exception to the rule?"
"To you and your family maybe," he said. "But what about the beggars? Those workers? And what about that student in Le Moniteur's article who murdered a gendarme?" 
That trail of logic caught me off guard. "What about some murderer, some bloody criminal?"
"Don't you get it?"
"Enlighten me," I said drolly. 
"That student murdered because the government tried yet again to throw him back into the poverty of his birth. That student isn't the criminal; the gendarmes are." 
I held up a finger, quieting him. "Are you out of your mind? Since when, have you ever thought like this? It's an established tradition, a thousand years in the making, and a good one. People like your family are bred to rule for everyone's benefit. No more of this class nonsense. Your grandfather fought France to stop such bilge, for heaven's sake."
He didn't look at me. "There's never been a need to think like this. It makes me sick. And Nathaniel, aside from a fluke, that tradition you're lauding makes you worthless." 
Despite the public setting, I grabbed his lapels. "What does that mean?"
 Logan stared into my eyes then. "You're a noble too. If not in blood, in practice. You're the reason they slave for the 'better' classes. You're a part of the system too."
I blinked, the world reeling now. "That's . . . that's not true." Even I didn't believe my lie. 
"You're not a noble," he said, not unkindly. "Why aren't you working in the fields now? Why, Nathaniel?" 
"I . . . " 
The impressive luster of the gilded room died. 
I couldn't breathe in the stuffy palace, so we went outside. For miles, we saw the manicured gardens and meticulously trimmed groves of trees that dominated the landscape. Pools and fountains dotted these fields, and brass nymphs and sculpted gods sprayed jets of water from their open mouths into the overflowing fountains. Yet more palaces, still a part of the Versailles' grounds, waited across those fields. We didn't bother entering them. There was too much to see. 
But at every point, poor, exhausted and broken workers cleaned the grounds, slaving over the aristocracy's palaces. I tried not to think of their families back home. My family had been adopted by the Harlings centuries ago for some good deed my ancestor performed for Logan's. By some happenstance, we prospered. 
After Logan's comments, I found that I couldn't meet the eye of the workers, the laborers who should have been me. What's more, as we made our way back out of the grounds and towards our distant lodgings in the city, I began to notice other, less majestic aspects of the Paris I had come to love. Bodies lined the streets. They weren't dead of course, but I couldn't tell from their appearance. I had seen corpses which looked more life-like. These beggars, whose existence I hadn't even allowed myself to acknowledge before, now stared, their gazes impossible to escape. They begged every passerby for a crust and received nothing but curses. 
"Did you notice them before?"
I looked up. "No. And you?"
He shook his head without looking at me. "That beggar who asked us for money . . . He was telling the truth. He had kids. They were starving. And we did nothing." He paused, then laughed bitterly. "We did worse than nothing. We lied to ourselves to ignore his existence." He stared out the carriage's window. His eyes fixed on a pale, old woman who sat in the dirt and swatted at the flies swirling around her ripped clothing. I looked down and felt sick, but our carriage kept rolling.


Chapter III

We didn't speak as we entered a small cafe for dinner that night. Guilt, anger, helplessness — all could attempt to explain how we felt. 
After yet another minute of silence wound down, I grew tired of poking around at my perfectly grilled and impeccably presented swordfish. I glanced over at Logan. "What do we do now?" 
Logan set down his fork and paused. Finally, he said "What is there to do? Abandon the Tour and donate the funds?" 
I shook my head, laughing. "Not the best option. Your family won't accept that. We'd be shamed out of our homes if we returned now. Plus, how would that change anything?"
"It wouldn't, and that's the problem. It's not a small issue. It's massive, and its historic too. But that student felt strongly enough to act. Shouldn't we?" 
"And go knife someone, the first gendarme we find?" I asked incredulously. 
"Well," he laughed, "that'd fix the problem about going home now. I hear French prisons can be rather comfortable."
We chuckled and poked some more at our fish. After a minute, Logan spoke again. "The damndest part is that we're part of the problem." I shot him a look, but he didn't stop. "You're included because you're practically a noble and—"
"I'm no noble," I defended, interrupting him.
He didn't even bother responding to it. "People in Europe are rising up once more. The French started it years ago, but rich bastards like us put them down. Was it worth it, throwing about England's balance-of-power routine?" 
I looked at him, hard. Logan, regardless of his faults, was one of the most patriotic men I knew. "It's not the same in England as in France," I countered. 
"Sure it is! I eat lavish meals every day, and even if I wouldn't admit it, I know that in the countryside, some Englishmen are starving. It's just always been a fact of life. I never bothered to care. It's in the system. The wealthy get richer, and the poor suffer."
"And how does anyone, especially two men like us, change that?" I wasn't angry with his line of thought. I was feeling guilty by now as well. I just doubted that anything widespread could be done. 
"Change the government!" He slapped the table with his palm. 
"Oh for heaven's sake. Now you sound like a revolutionary. That French air, I tell you."
"Don't make jokes Nathaniel. I'm serious about all this. For my whole blasted life, I lived in the Shaded Oaks and watched others cater to my whims. Now, I'm in France, and I see a system that needs changes even more than ours does. They tried at least. We shot them to pieces and burned their lands, but Napoleon and the rest of them tried. What can you and I say?" 
"Suppose we try something then. What will our efforts fix? Two people. How big of a difference will that make?" 
He looked up and fixed his eyes on mine. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, and a vein in his neck pulsated with movement. "Tell that to Robespierre. And all the other men who brought down the king fifty years ago." His eyes flicked away. "How could I be so selfish? How did I miss it!" he said to himself.
"First, what about Robespierre's corruption? How many men were killed because of him? Some Incorruptible . . ."
"That's not the issue. He was a single man, and he made a change. That's all that matters."
"That and Waterloo. But I see your point. And now, in the immediate future, what are we supposed to do?"
"Change something," he said. 
"Ah, pure, definite planning . . . 'change something.'" 
"You think of something concrete then," he hissed, swigging a large gulp from his glass of wine. 
By this point, our conversation had grown heated, and others were beginning to pay attention. Suddenly, a tall man approached us through the crowd, and by his dress and obvious swagger, it was plain that he was an aristocrat. 
Nonchalantly, he sat down in an empty chair by our table. He folded his hands and set a bowler hat next to my wine. It drew my attention for a moment, because an interesting diamond-shaped medallion was attached to the hat. Inset into the medal was a Christian cross, bisecting the diamond's angles. The strange headpiece piqued my curiosity, but then I remembered that some stranger had just sat at our table; my eyes flicked toward him.
His English was accented, but I didn't believe he came originally from France. I couldn't place the accent though. "Pardon my rudeness, gentlemen, but your tone was loud, and I overheard. You want change, is it?" 
Logan spoke before I could. "And who are you?" The clipped query was not polite. My friend was not in the best of moods. 
"Names aren't important, friend. I asked a question." The abrasive voice pooled out of his mouth like some foul drink, and I loathed this interloper immediately. Our appetites gone, I made to stand. The man clamped a hand upon my wrist, buckling it, and I collapsed back into my seat. My eyes flashed, and Logan's arms began to quiver, his face livid. 
"I ask," the bulky man continued, "Because you gentlemen aren't supposed to be the complaining type. You're the leading type. You lead. It's in your blood, and it's your duty." He paused, studying our young faces and attires. "On Tour are we?" he finally said. 
I snapped my hand back from him grasp. "Why don't you leave, friend," I spit, using his greeting. 
His dark eyes glinted, and he grinned. It was not a pleasant expression. "I don't like all this . . . talk recently. Students murdering in the streets and nobles feigning some sort of guilt complex. People like that tend to . . ." His voice trailed off as he spread his hands. 
"I don't believe it," I addressed Logan. 
"Are you threatening us, sir?" he said in turn. 
"Threatening would be telling you we'll kill you and leave your bodies in the gutter if you don't stop your insipid talk of change, the noble's responsibility to give back to the poor, and all that shit. No, I do not threaten." His lips split, the predatory leer reappearing. "Besides, what would you do, anyway?" 
Logan punched him.
The man, big though he was, crumpled out of the chair, and blood flowed freely down his broken nose and through his wispy mustache and long pointed goatee. Shocked, I gave a cry of clipped laughter. It was a nice hit all things considered. 
Around the restaurant, several things had happened. Three other men leapt to their feet. Each was similar in build and dress to our unwanted dinner companion and all were wearing that strange medallion-studded bowler hat. Their hands were suspiciously thrust into their waistcoats. Not a sound carried throughout the room; all conversation had stopped. Every eye was on us. 
Finally, the collapsed villain regained his feet, the goatee still blotted crimson along its lengthy point. 
"Satisfaction." He spit blood. "I'll have satisfaction." Logan bowed in complete contrast to his hasty blow. I stepped forward, taking the ceremonial place of a second. Another man, his hand now removed from his coat, mirrored my move as well, walking up to his bleeding friend. 
Logan, a smug, if serious smile on his face, left to return to our lodgings as I strolled out of the cafe with the other second. 
The minute the other man spoke, the location of their accents came to me. He had the same lilting inflection as our dinner guest, only more pronounced. 
"Conditions?" I asked. 
"Mister Fuchs will fight your man however you wish. Blood is more important than form." The brute didn't strike me as an orator. 
"Certainly. It'll be pistols, traditional form, at sunset tomorrow," I said. His portly neck bobbled in agreement. We set a location and departed from each other's company without another word.

* * * * *

I found my friend lounging about in our lodgings. His arms drooped from unbuttoned sleeves and an uncorked bottle lay nearby. 
"Hello!" he cried, his voice far too loud.
"You started without me," I accused. 
"There's always one of them to spoil the fun." He tossed the bottle towards me, oblivious and forgetting to cork it first. I managed to collect the bottle before the Bordeaux stained the rug too much. Then, taking a long pull, I swallowed the drink without tasting. 
"His name's Fuchs. And you'll be fighting him with pistols tomorrow at sunset. Shouldn't be too complicated." 
My friend gave a stupid smile but made no comment. He had never fought a duel. He didn't appear nervous, but I couldn't be certain. Logan was often able to hide his emotions. But not while drunk; I passed the Bordeaux back to him. Like me, he took a long swig from the bottle.
Then he chuckled, darkly. "Remember how 'formulating' this trip was supposed to be?" I shrugged. Logan's father had said as much. Logan continued. "Well, I suppose killing someone for honor and all that is pretty fundamental to a man's skills." He started laughing, his tone high and airy. 
I sighed. Duels were not something to be taken lightly. The wine hadn't gotten to me yet, and I was still thinking clearly. Logan wasn't. Although neither of us had ever been involved in one, we were well versed in the history of the ritual. For centuries, men had been killing each other in a tradition to recover honor. Deflowered and adulterous wives had seen their enraged husbands cut down by their lovers. Politicians had shot each other over the smallest detail of ideology. Brothers had crossed steel in the rosy dawn for control of land, women, wealth, and a multitude of other things. Regardless of its qualities, the duel was not a light venture to undertake. The insulted was just as likely to die as the insulter, adding, well, injury to insult. 
I won't pass judgment on Logan, but a blow is completely and utterly unforgiveable among gentlemen. Normally, letters would be exchanged offering polite discourse on location, seconds involved, terms, and formalities of the like. Apologies could even be given and accepted. The duel could then be canceled. In our case however, only immediate satisfaction would suffice. Logan had struck the man. No apologies or protestations would change that. The next day, one of the two would bleed. If their shots missed, each gun would be reloaded and they'd try again. It wouldn't be pretty.
These thoughts must have weighed on Logan's mind too, despite the drink. He sat up. "You'll go home, won't you? You'll bring my body home and let them know, won't you?" 
I could hear tension, not fear, in his voice. "Stop that talk."
"Promise me," he insisted. It all seemed irrational to me. If the lad fell, would I abandon him and instead traipse around Europe on the rest of the Tour? 
"Logan, you have my word. The Fletchers always keep that." 
"Like the time you promised to make love to Whinny before I did?" The shift in conversation caught me off guard and I guffawed. Whinny had been a rather social girl we each had once courted. 
"And I did, didn't I?" I said, proud of myself. 
He threw a pillow at me and made to stand. The wine didn't help, so he stumbled a bit. I started to rise. 
Logan held up a hand, cutting me off. "A viscount needs no assistance." The haughty grin on his face broke, and he couldn't keep from laughing. That didn't stop him from ambling out of the room, and I heard him collapse on his bed.
The day ahead promised to be challenging and perhaps deadly. I decided to follow him. I extinguished the lamps and disrobed. Climbing into sumptuous sheets, I again considered the haggard woman we saw along the street, the flies tormenting her. We shared similar heritage, and I was resting upon a massive bed while she lay in squalor. How would I change that? How indeed could I make a difference? Those thoughts flew about me, tormenting me like the beggar's flies in the noon-day heat. 

Chapter IV

The setting sun dropped once more towards the horizon, surrendering her heat. Our carriage clipped up dirt and gravel as its wheels cascaded down the worn path. Sitting through the bouncing ride, I pulled the watch-chain from my waistcoat and sighed. We were late, and it was not proper for a duel. Given our age, we were sure to be looked down upon already by Fuchs, at least two decades older than us. 
"Logan," I snapped. "Why those pistols anyway?" His lengthy selection of new dueling pistols had been the cause of our tardiness. Since he already possessed a fine pair of the weapons, and had brought them along for the Tour, I couldn't see why he needed new ones. 
"It's my life at stake, not yours." 
"I know that, but timing is everything. We're late, and we'll look like fools." I sighed, exasperated. Crossing my arms, I looked past him out the carriage window. 
"You just act like a proper second, and we'll be fine." 
"Don't condescend to me," I growled. 
"Fine, you irritable devil." 
We rode the rest of the way in silence. Neither of us were prepared for the charged emotions we'd come to experience since Versailles. This wasn't our first disagreement since the damned affair began. 
The carriage gave a wide jerk as it halted, and Logan threw open the door. Leaping out, I followed as well. 
We were indeed late, and they were waiting for us. Fuchs, his nose bandaged, the burly second I had met, and a doctor all stood in the windy field. As one, they raised their pocket-watches. Fuchs rolled his eyes. 
"Unavoidable, gentlemen. My apologies," I clipped off as I shook the hands of the second and the doctor. Fuchs and Logan had each retreated to their own empty patch in the tall grass. 
The doctor pulled me close. He shared their accents. "Boy, Otto Fuchs never misses. Does your friend have his affairs in order?" 
I jerked away from him. "Sir, unless you wish to face me on this field, you will speak to me as an equal. We're prepared. Let's get on with it." The German bowed and set his medical kit on the grass. He walked to a space between the two combatants and withdrew a grimy handkerchief from his pocket. 
I had walked over to Logan by then. He turned at the sound, and we clasped arms in solidarity. "Shoot straight; kill the cur." 
"Remember your word," he mouthed.
"Good luck then."
I retreated from my friend and took up a cautious position next to our carriage. The other second stood by me, his arms crossed across his chest. The wind flicked his hair about, and had the moment not been so somber, his ridiculous attempts to quell the movement would have been laughable. 
The doctor beckoned Fuchs and Logan forward. I couldn't hear the little man's words, but I knew the meaning. He would drop the handkerchief on the count of three and then each man could fire at his own will. The duel would continue until someone was hit, even if multiple shots were needed. I clamped my hands together behind my back to quit their twitching. The anticipation was agonizing. The duelists separated and stopped about twenty paces apart.
Then, the doctor shouted the count. "One." I shut my eyes. 
"Two." My breath rushed out of me like a wind.
"Three." I jerked my eyes open as the little cloth dropped. A shot cracked the air, and my eye snapped towards Logan as a cloud of smoke obscured him. 
Frantically, I swiveled my gaze to Fuchs. He was standing, unwounded, a cocksure grin on his face. He deliberately, slowly raised his pistol and steadied it. Logan, for his part, threw out his chest, defying the shot about to come. 
Whether by divine intervention or simple happenstance, a great gust of wind swept the ground as Fuchs pulled his trigger. Logan whipped his head about and I could see terror on his face. Blood began dripping from his clipped ear. 
The seconds approached their counterparts. The doctor was attending my friend as I walked up. Logan was crouching amid the grass, and the doctor stood above him. As the little man dapped at the blood with another cloth, Logan jerked away from his touch. "Another pistol," he shouted, blood flinging from his ear with the movement. 
As he twitched about, I prepared another weapon and passed it to Logan. I leaned close, whispering into his undamaged ear. "Wait this time. Even if he shoots first. Once the cloth drops, you'll be less excitable after a moment if you wait." I rubbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. His veins bulged, and he was breathing heavily. 
Leaving him to his rage, I retreated to the carriage.
"One." I kept my gaze steady on Logan, ignoring the countdown and Fuchs. 
The cloth dropped. A report filled the air. Logan was again hidden amid a cloud. "Damn it!" I hissed. My eyes swept across the field towards Fuchs.
At first, I couldn't find him; the man was gone. I processed it as the doctor sprinted towards his fallen companion. Fuchs' second lumbered forward as well, and I checked my urge to follow. It wouldn't have been proper. Instead, I hurried over to Logan. 
"You lucky, lovable fool!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," he replied sagely. 
His smoking weapon lay limp in his hand, and as I took it from him, the veins in his palm shuddered. Leaving him, I returned to the carriage. Rifling through my pack inside, I found what I was looking for and returned to my shaken friend. 
I thrust the brandy into his palm and forced him to drink. As the first drops trickled down his throat, he shrank into himself. Then, as his hands wiped away the excess from his lips, he drew up to his full height. 
The grass parted behind us, and we wheeled about. The doctor waited, his jaw clenched. "He's dead," the man said simply. Together, Logan and I bowed. As Fuchs' second approached, we returned another bow.
Without another word, we all departed for the separate carriages. 

* * * * *

Days later found us lounging amid our quarters once more, several more bottles of the Bordeaux empty upon the floor. Since the duel, lethargy had weighed on us. 
I stood and ambled about the room, searching for yet another bottle. It had been a long day, and now, almost midnight, we lay about chatting. It was shocking how despondent our social revelation had turned us. It consumed our thoughts and conversations. Had the noble classes always just ignored their privilege? 
My fingers closed on the glass neck, and I hauled it from its display case. Uncorking it, I brought the wine to my mouth. 
Suddenly the glass window nearby shattered as a rock flew through the pane. 
Logan leapt up from his stupor, apathy abandoned. Without a thought, he dived towards his trunk, and rifled through it frantically, finally appearing with a pistol in each hand. He brandished them towards the door.
"They're not loaded, Logan," I chided. A sheepish grin crept his face as he dove again towards his trunk. Instead of hurrying for my own weapons, I walked over and picked up the stone. "Besides, I don't think weapons will be needed." 
The rock was wrapped with a small slip of paper, a leather strap holding the message in place. My fingers nimbly undid the leather and unraveled the paper. The scroll was in French and barely legible. The language was no problem. We spoke French, Italian, and German well. And I couldn't remember how many times I'd conjugated a Latin verb or desired to ram The Oxford Compendium of Passive Verbiage in the Classical Language of the Romans down the throat of Dr. Bidwell, our mousy tutor. Now though, my eyes tracked the words before I tossed the thing towards my friend. 
While he read it, I went to the window, but the street below was empty. 
"'Get out tonight. Fuchs has friends. Signed, Your friend' . . . And what're we to make of that?" Logan said, staring at me. 
"The meaning's rather stark, isn't it?" 
"Well yes, but do we leave Paris? Or just these lodgings? Or do we defend ourselves? And who is this friend?" He ticked the questions off one by one on his thin fingers. I shrugged my shoulders. 
We hypothesized on it endlessly but came to no conclusion. Our evidence was limited all things considered. 
"We've been here only a month. Think of all we'll miss," I said finally. 
"Like the chance to kill more dandies and witness human suffering at its best?" he muttered. 
"You know the second part won't change. At least, not until we go back to England. Maybe we can make a shift there." 
"It's easy to dwell upon, isn't it? But that's all beside the point. Do we leave and if so, where to next?" 
"I think Rome. Maybe a ball or two will lighten our mood," I said. Logan's father knew several important business contacts in Italy, and he had assured us we would be well entertained there. Personally, I was all for traveling to Rome. The wonders of that city had long fascinated me. 
Logan bounced the rock in his palm several times."That all leaves this unexplained."
"Just be thankful for now, and maybe we'll discover everything later." There really wasn't any other option. 
His brow remained furrowed, but he tossed the rock into a trunk. It was followed by the clothes from about the room. I busied myself with the same task, and we soon had our lodgings back into some semblance of cleanliness. Together, we hauled our trunks down the stairs and deposited them upon the landing. We took to the streets to find a carriage to drive us and our luggage to the train depot. 
"What are you looking for?" Logan asked. His voice in the darkness surprised me; the moon was a sliver.
"What do you mean?"
"Ever since we left our rooms, you've been jerking your head about, looking over our shoulders." 
I smiled. "I hadn't noticed." Come to think of it, I felt wary. My palms dripped in clamminess, and every sound sent me looking about. "It couldn't be a trap, right?"
"Of course not," he said. "Besides, we took care of them last time, didn't we?" 
"If by 'take care of them,' you mean 'barely escaped with your life as a result of a lucky shot,' then perhaps." 
"Oh come off it! Luck had nothing to do with—"
Before he could finish, a carriage came bolting around a corner in the street, and we threw ourselves aside to avoid the madman behind the reins. "Fool!" Logan yelled after it as the vehicle raced down the street, kicking up puddles of water from the recent rain. 
"Wait a moment," I started. Turning, I made my way back down the street towards our rooms. Logan protested but followed in my wake. 
The carriage had pulled to a stop in front of the building we'd just left. 
"Any chance of it being a coincidence?" I asked.
Logan chuckled. "Not likely given everything." 
Figures jumped out of the waiting coach and crept towards the building. Without knocking, they cracked the door and strode inside. I heard a muffled cry.
"They tripped on our trunks," hissed Logan smiling. Of course. We'd left the massive things at the foot of the stairs. Given the hour, it hadn't been likely that many travelers would come to the building, so we hadn't bothered to shift them. 
"Is there anything important in your trunk?" I asked. 
He smiled. "Nothing that I'd die to keep." Throughout our whispered conversation, we could see a pair of our suspicious intruders pacing outside, keeping watch. Inside, the group would be making its way to our rooms, hoping to catch the two of us asleep. 
Not wanting to press our luck, we abandoned our goods and our pride to the villains and dashed away into the night. We each had a bit of money on our person, and given the Harlings' contacts, cash would not be difficult to procure. In spite of all this, I still felt a bit ridiculous leaving our trunks behind.
Ducking through various alleyways and backstreets, we paused to take stock of our position. Droplets of rain pattered down around us, and Logan looked miserable. Noting my questioning glance, he spoke. "If I hadn't acted so damned foolish at that cafe, we wouldn't be stuck in this."
"What's a Grand Tour without a bit of adventure?" I asked back. 
"If you call shooting a threatening oaf, abandoning all of our current possessions, and fleeing from murderers in the night 'adventure,' then I suppose this is rather grand."
It was too much, and I let out a chuckle."You do have a point," I conceded. 
Our feet had carried us along for some time. I was starting to question our paranoia. Of course, the cloaked men had been seeking us at our lodgings. The chain of events was too connected for coincidence. But how far would these ruffians go to exact their revenge? Would we need to travel from city to city, watching over our shoulders? To be honest, I doubted it. Regardless of his aristocratic manner and shady friends, the death of this Fuchs character wasn't likely to cause an international chase. The idea seemed ludicrous. 
When I mentioned it, Logan mirrored my thoughts but raised a valid point. "They have two options really. First, they could wait for us at our rooms, hoping we'll return. Or second, they might try to find us at the train station. If they choose the latter, which I think is more likely, what do we do?" 
"There won't be a train to Rome at this time of night. They'll have the entire night to set up any ambush they want."
"Their main problem is spectators though. I doubt any group would be brash enough to commit such a crime in this climate." 
I nodded. We both recalled the riot from Le Moniteur. The Parisian police were becoming more intrusive in order to prevent similar incidents. During our stay in the city, we had seen quite a few patrols to that effect. "It wouldn't hurt to be ready for an attack though."
"How's this," he said. "We board the train at the last possible moment, making a dash towards it. We'll be conspicuous as we run, but they'll have no chance to even see us, let alone snatch us." 
"If they're even there."
"If they're even there," he repeated. "Any suggestions?" 
I had none, and as the rain continued to pour over us, we walked the streets of Paris, avoiding all contact with others, and staying alert to prevent an ambush. We came to the station at last. Unsurprisingly, it was nearly abandoned. However, a few snoring beggars littered the platform. 
I pointed towards a public placard listing certain train times, and our luck held. A train was indeed traveling to Rome the following day. Noting the time of its departure, a fortuitous half-past seven in the morning, we moved away from the station. We nestled down under a lonely birch tree nearby. It provided a wide view of the area, as well as being withdrawn and out of notice from the street. Even so, we kept watch, alternating sleep for the rest of the night.
As the minutes dragged by, I kept wondering what might have happened had our mysterious 'friend' not intervened on our behalf. The prospects weren't pleasant. However, they did manage to keep my mind occupied through the long watch just before dawn. The sun's welcome rays warmed our hideaway and scattered the worries from the long night. Although jarred, we would be fine, and as the miles fell behind us on our route towards Europe's Holy City, the entire ordeal would be forgotten.
I roused my friend as our train moved into position, its engine bellowing steam and smoke like some foul creature. A small group walked towards the waiting locomotive, and the city woke around us. 
Passengers began boarding the train. Logan scanned the group, hoping for a glimpse of someone nefarious, but our assailants, whoever they might be, never presented themselves. The whistle blew, but we didn't move.  The last few passengers ducked aboard, and still, we remained. At last the locomotive started rolling, gaining momentum as it lumbered out of the station. I stood, Logan beside me. Sucking in one last breath, we dashed, all the world like champion athletes. Throwing ourselves up the platform, we hurtled towards our departing train. 
Suddenly, men were shouting. 
Logan glanced behind him and redoubled his pace, outrunning me towards our escape. Heaving in another breath, I renewed my own efforts as we ran, parallel to the lumbering vehicle. Behind me, I heard the footfalls of several more runners, but I gave them no thought. As the last car moved away from the platform, we threw ourselves across the gap and onto the train, grabbing a rail to keep from plummeting onto the tracks.
Whirling about, I saw three men shaking their fists, almost comically, as we made our getaway. They all wore the strange bowlers with the cross-emblazoned medallions. Among them was Fuchs' second from the duel as well as a willowy man, scowling with a heavily scarred face that I would not soon forget. 
Clapping my friend on the back, we shouted an exclamation into the wind as the train picked up speed, propelling us towards Rome.


Chapter V

We slipped inside the last car as the locomotive put on even more speed, Paris disappearing in our wake. Sounds of quiet morning conversation drifted through the car's hall, and I was a bit bemused to see so many passengers cheery at this hour. Not a single compartment remained empty. We had desired a bit of privacy after our evening ordeal. Nonetheless, we walked the length of the passenger cars to no avail. 
During all this, we also introduced ourselves to the ticket-master. Blushing, we explained how we were late for the train and needed to be aboard. In our haste we had neglected to purchase the required ticket. The fellow didn't need to know the actual story. The man, an older gentleman with a bushy white beard, laughed and offered two tickets to us at the normal price.
"And your luggage?" he asked.
I smiled as Logan shrugged. "We travel light," said my friend and turned, wandering back down the passage. I thanked the older man once more and followed Logan. 
We passed the filled compartments again and cursed our bad luck. I peered into one and slid the door open. Inside was a solitary man, asleep against the window. He rocked back and forth with the train's movement and seemed oblivious to the surroundings in his exhaustion. It seemed as private a compartment as any, so Logan followed. 
"So much for a coincidence," I whispered, settling into the seat opposite the sleeping man. 
"Yes. Unless my sight was very much mistaken, that was Fuchs' second."
I nodded in agreement. "That man next to him was quite a sight too. He'd certainly be distinguishable in a crowd." 
"And hopefully that'll be the last we see of any of them."
"Do you really believe that?" 
"Well, why not?" he said with a grin. "We're on our way out of the country, and whoever these fanatics are, they likely have lives in Paris. They can't simply take off on some half-brained vendetta against us. Besides, it was a fair duel. It's not like I murdered the dog." 
"They followed us to our lodgings. As far as we know, they broke into our rooms. They rifled through our possessions. They tracked us down at the train station. It seems plausible that they might follow us further." I ticked each item off on my fingertips, and my companion's face grew longer with each passing word. 
Finally, he acceded. "Alright, alright. However possible it is, there's very little chance they'll find us again. We're hours ahead of any of them, we've no luggage to slow us down, and we can certainly disappear into Rome in a hurry. It's large enough." I must have looked skeptical because he went on. "Nathaniel, there's no way they'll find us again. Believe me, it'd take a miracle." 
"Then let's pray to God they don't receive one." 
At that moment, a harsh, humorless chuckle filled the compartment. My friend's eyes furrowed, and I could feel my irritation growing as well. As one, we turned and regarded our apparently sleeping companion within the room. Appearances can be deceptive it seemed. At our glances, his eyes opened wider, and he sat up in his seat. A guilty smirk crossed his face.
"Well, good morning sir," I said. 
Our mysterious stranger guffawed. Then he leapt up, bowed genteelly, and stuck out his palm towards us. He had a way of talking that spoke of extensive learning; his words were, at times, antiquated and poetic. "Excuse me, I should not have eavesdropped, but there was no available way to alert you that I'd been woken without appearing rude. Again, my apologies. May I offer my name? It's Jacob Douglas. And yours?" 
We shook the proffered hand, offered our own introductions, and took another look at the man. Staring up at him from my seat, it was clear that he was tall. He was young, broad-shouldered, and meticulously dressed in a pale, tailored suit. Without seeming to notice, he even adjusted his cravat back into perfect alignment as he sat down again. His piercing grey eyes possessed a sadness that belied his years, which were quite close to our own. Perhaps he was even on Tour. Something was out of place, but Logan caught it first. 
"Your accent, is it . . . American?"
He smiled, perhaps sadly, and nodded. "Oh yes. Southern to be more specific, and South Carolinian to be exact. My family has raised cotton there for generations . . . Of course, my 'family' is a relative term all things considered." 
The last phrase seemed odd. "And what does that mean?" I questioned. 
"I don't mean to distract you from your conversation. You don't need to hear some dandy drabble on about his own woes. It seems you've some of your own." 
"No, no. Go on," Logan urged, his curiosity apparently piqued. 
Douglas laughed. "Well then. Perhaps you can offer some advice to me, and I'll see if I can do the same for your case." Again, the look of deepest loss clouded his eyes, and it startled me. How could this youth know such agony? Settling back and letting the locomotive rock us, our new companion tried to answer that very question. 
The American spoke simply and gently, his tone washing over us like a spring drizzle. "I mentioned my home. I was born in that great country a little over twenty two years ago, and most of my short time on this earth has been merry. But not all. My father, . . ." He paused here, but gathered his nerve and quickly continued. "My father is a cruel beast of a man. Don't mistake me — he is the epitome of Southern gentility. He would never dream of hitting a woman, least of all my mother. But when it comes to family honor, nothing, I mean nothing, will stop him from getting his own way . . . But we'll come to that eventually."
Logan and I glanced at each other, and an almost nonexistent smile creased my friend's lips. This American had a charming way about him, despite his sad words. We flicked our gaze back to the speaker as he continued.
"If you know anything about the South, I'm sure it has to do with two things: slavery and cotton. Not surprisingly, my family is involved in both. My father inherited a bit of land from my grandfather and about a dozen slaves. Since then, through intricate planning, risky investments, and a damnably fierce work ethic, my father has since increased our holdings to hundreds of acres with hundreds of slaves to work them. Reprehensible or not, the slave trade has made my family prosperous." 
He shrugged self-consciously. "I don't tell you this to brag . . . Although I can see by your dress that wealth isn't foreign to you. But I mention our wealth to frame my story. So, I was raised knowing my upper social standing and instilled with some sense of honor for what my father accomplished. You should also know that I'm the second son. My older brother is an athlete the like of which hasn't been seen since antiquity. He is always performing some feat or another for my family, and my father cannot love him more. On the other hand, I am, well, rather bookish." His face fell a bit at this. The poor man must have been ridiculed for his academia. While he discredited his own athletic prowess, his body certainly appeared capable of sporting; he was tall, broad across the chest, and muscular in the arms. His eyes though, betrayed a quiet nature that could have indeed been prone to studying. 
"My studies have always been the joke of the family, especially my father. He continually nags about the need to actually accomplish something with my life. While my brother is lauded for his fencing and riding, my novels go unread and collect dust. Besides, my father always reminds me that I'm the second son. My brother will inherent the plantation. I must do something to make up for that. I must make something of myself. As to what he expected, I am at a loss.
"Regardless, I took his chiding hard. I used to slink about the house, avoiding contact with the man and his harsh words. Then, I decided I would do something. What are sports but simple parlor tricks done in coordination? Anyone could do those, but it took something special to gain fame in the literary world. So, I would be a famous author, and my stories would be read and respected by people. Pledging this, I left home, and told my family very little. My return would be accompanied by fame and fortune. I resolved. I'd show them all! 
"I gathered up my manuscripts and climbed aboard a train. My path wound through the fields and lonely hills until it reached New Orleans. That raucous city would give me my fame." His chest swelled, and his eyes took on, for the first time, a pleased look. 
"And I was right. People did enjoy my work. 'Enjoyed' may be too weak a word. I was mobbed with praise. I attempted to remain impervious to all the acclaim. I am only human after all. But one particular admirer got the best of me." The ghost of happiness that flashed through his face was gone in an instant, replaced once more by the melancholy weight we had seen earlier.
"Her name was Lilly. Lilly Porter. We met after I read my latest story to a crowded salon. She approached me hesitantly, almost afraid. Quietly, she murmured her praise for my tale, but paused, collecting her courage once more. 'But I don't like the woman. Women don't act like that,' she said nervously but firmly. The character in the story was not terribly important, but I asked her to elaborate. After that, we talked for five hours as the moon wandered the sky like a racing doe.
"I fell in love with Lilly Porter. I fell incredibly, madly, hotly, passionately in love with her. We moved beyond literary talk. I learned everything I could about this quiet, unassuming woman. Long hours I spent questioning her every fancy and taste, studying her passions, and finding the right moment to declare my affections. The time came, and she offered her love back! I cannot express the elation, the pure bliss of that moment! Gentlemen, my life culminated with three simple words from her lips: 'I love you.' The next step was obvious. Her parents had died early, and she lived with a spinster grandmother. Her fate was her own, and she was overjoyed to marry me. Of course, I couldn't do this without my own family's approval, so, filled with wonder, I once more boarded a train. But this time, I was not alone, and literary fame was the least of my accomplishments."
A single tear dripped down our newfound friend's cheek. He seemed not to notice, so we did our best to ignore it as well. I, for one, could see where the man's story headed. I ached for him as he cleared his throat and pressed onward. 
"We interrupted them at dinner. I remember a maelstrom of activity. My sisters rushed me, clinging to my frame while my mother smiled. My father lingered, behind the mass, a grave, ever-disapproving glare upon his brow. My Lilly waited behind me, and after only a moment, the shock registered on my family's face as I led her forward.
"Her face was pale and taunt, her eyes downcast, even as a small smile shone upon her sweet lips. My lady was shyness embodied once again. But I didn't care! I told the family our intentions, and nearly all of them clapped with expectant joy! . . . All except the man I once called father." Here, bitter, unspeakable pain clouded Douglas' eyes.
"The bastard just sat there. He said not a word to Lilly, even when I asked for his approval, his blessing. He just sat there as the family waited around us. He didn't ask a single question of my new love. He did not even acknowledge that sweet angel I loved so dearly. His gaze had found her already, and the worn, simple garment she wore was proof enough of my folly. 
"'Get her out,' was all he muttered. In horror, I looked at him to see if I had misheard. Behind me, a delicate sniffle rent the air and tore my heart. Swinging back, I saw my little Lilly wipe a crystal tear from her golden eyes. She was trying so hard, but her frame was beginning to shake. I rushed to her, and clasped her in my arms. '"Get that out of my home,' I heard again. 
"'Damn you! I see no father here,' was my only reply. I could feel seething anger, unquenchable rage building within me like an ember prodded into flame. I know within my soul that I'd have shot him had I the chance. Lacking my pistol though, we simply left. We returned to our new home, the bustling New Orleans. At night, we lay awake, our hearts melded as one, our bodies entwined in love. I could trace my finger through her wispy locks and whisper gentle words into those mistreated ears. I spoke nothing more of my family, and another year passed." 
He spread his arms wide, indicating the empty seats near him. "But you have eyes. You see no wife here. There's no one left to whisper to my soul in the darkness . . . It was cholera. The doctor told me the rash of cases sprung from a Caribbean ship docked in the harbor. I barely heard. 
"She gripped my hand in those last minutes. Sweat dripped through her black tresses, and her face was flushed beyond recognition. Still she held on, the throbbing of her veins a mirror of my sorrow. Moment by moment, she dropped away as I watched. The doctor had left long before. So, I turned to God. The beads of sweat dropped from her forehead as prayers fell from my lips." More, unnoticed tears were pooling in the man's haunted face. 
"And were they answered? Did God heal the woman I loved? Did God dispel her sickness? You know the answer just as I do. Lilly Porter died in my arms that night, and I died too. Either of you two could shoot me right now, and I wouldn't be offended. Rather, I'd welcome it. But Death, thus far, has been elusive. I cannot find him, much as I'd like to throw myself into his arms. Lilly's waiting, but I cannot bring myself to take my own life. She wouldn't want that. So, I've taken to other things." He laughed lightly."'I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.' Or American at any rate. In these few, unbearably long years since her death, I've hunted jaguars in Brazil and wandered the expanses of India. The great waves of the Pacific will not swallow me, and the bandits of Europe's alleyways deny me the swift demise I seek. Death seems impossible. I go to Rome, hoping that the city of abandon will help my morbid quest or rekindle my desire in life.
"The sales from my books have left me the fortune I wanted. Maybe one day, one day soon, I will meet Lilly again. Or maybe not. You spoke of miracles, and I laughed. My outburst was for your pitiful beliefs." While these words might have been hurtful, even offensive from another's lips, I couldn't find it within my heart to deny this poor man his rage, his hate. The God I loved had let his only joy slip from his grasp, and I could not answer for that crime. So I said nothing. Logan and I only dropped our heads. 
Douglas leaned back, his tale completed. He exhaled deeply, almost therapeutically. I wondered how many men had gained his confidence with the sad story and why he'd trusted us with it so readily.
"Now," he spoke, a tiny grin crossing his lips at last, "You've heard my story, such as it is. Perhaps you'll be willing to share yours? I've gleaned a bit already. I feel dreadfully sorry for abusing your confidences." He leaned forward. 
Meeting Logan's eyes and nodding in response to his unspoken question, I took a quick breath and launched into our own narrative.

Chapter VI

"Wow, that is quite a tale," said our American friend later. 
The two of us chuckled. The insanity of our last moments in Paris was still a little overwhelming. I leaned forward. "And now what do we do? Do you know anything about this Fuchs?" 
Jacob shook his head. "Sorry. I can't help you there, but I'd assume it's likely that you'll be followed, even to Rome."
Logan scoffed. "I've told you. There's no way they could find us. I meant it earlier. It'd take a divine miracle. They only know my name, not Nathaniel's. They don't know where we'll be staying. We have at least a half-day's head start on them. They can't simply abandon their lives to come chase us down. Besides, how important could that one man be?"
The American smiled, spreading his hands. "Those are pretty convincing reasons. But what about the telegraph? A rather nice invention all told. It lets a person in one city contact another person with relative ease. Perhaps your . . . friends have other friends in Rome. Perhaps those men might take offense to Fuchs' death as well. Perhaps they'll even be waiting on the platform when we step off this very train! I wouldn't put anything past these men. From what you say, they sound altogether dangerous and impulsive."
"Well, since they stole our luggage, ransacked our rooms, and nearly captured us as we sprinted to catch a train . . . you might say that," I pointed out dryly. 
Logan sighed and began reaching into his waistcoat. "No amount of talking will fix this problem, and all this chatter is making me nervous. Anyone for whist?" He withdrew a crisp deck of cards as he spoke. 
Jacob groaned. "Oh, you Englishmen and your whist. Every time that infernal game arises, I lose enough money to—" Logan cut him off by pulling the man's large luggage trunk down from the overhead storage. It thumped as he dragged it to the floor, and my friend spread out the cards, cutting off all other protests. 
We lost ourselves in the game for several hours, and as promised, Jacob turned out to be a terrible player. At his insistent behest, we tried American poker next. Perhaps skill in cards is directly related to what game you play, because the man simply fleeced us. 
Outside, the French countryside continued to stream past us. Gentle, rolling fields were filled with farmers and their families all hard at work. Little villages disappeared in a flash as we raced by them. Once in awhile, the train would slow and finally stop as others joined our voyage or departed in turn. 
We eventually left the green valleys of France and began climbing upwards. I marveled at the engineering of our world. The Alps, once unconquerable to all but Hannibal and Napoleon, now could be crossed with relative ease. Blinding snow whipped around us as the train heaved itself up the mountain. I could almost see the steam billowing from the engine and hear the wheels churning up the slope. We wound ourselves around the peaks and within our compartment, the chill of winter was descending. Even in May, these great spires refused to shed their white, adorning mantles. 
Then, finally, we were through the Alps. I would never forget the cold, majestic wonder that waited amongst those stone giants. Then a new type of beauty wandered past us. The Italian countryside was, perhaps, even more beautiful and captivating than the lands of France. Olive trees grew in neat, cultivated groves, and quaint villas dotted the landscape. Horses roamed the fields, neighing to the wind. It was a magnificent sight. 
Within the train the three of us talked on and on, as if we were old  friends newly reunited. We found that despite his past and melancholy burden, Jacob Douglas was an energetic, eccentric, and fast friend. Of course we invited him to continue his wanderings with us. 
"I would be honored. Besides, I think someone needs to keep track of you two, given your start in Paris." 
"That, and you'll be wanting to get your whist money back," Logan quipped. 
"If I recall correctly," huffed Jacob, "You two lost all of that back to me in poker." He patted his pockets with a wink. He continued. "Now, what did our young Englishmen have in mind for the wonderful city of Rome?"
"We can stay as long as we want. Besides, there's no lack of things to do in the city. Thousands of years of history have been stacked up. The Romans, the Catholics, and the Medicis have tripped over each other, building by building for time untold. There's bound to be hundreds, or thousands, of places in which to lose ourselves." 
Logan looked at me, something clouding his face. "You're right of course. But, I think what we saw in Paris will be here too." 
Jacob looked back and forth. "And what is this?" 
"We viewed Louis Philippe's exhibition of Versailles." I paused, collecting my words. "To say it was impressive would be an understatement in the extreme. The sheer glory and overpowering weatlh of the place took our breath away."
"It also took away our innocence," whispered Logan. "For hundreds of years, the French kings lived in a palace to rival Olympus. All the while, the French people starved and bled out for the nobles' whims. The Revolution doesn't matter anymore; France is back to her old ways, and the two of us are part of it." 
The American raised a solitary eyebrow. "And how do you figure that?" 
I spoke up this time. "We're part of the problem because we represent the nobility. Our families don't work."
Logan jumped in. "While we aren't nearly as bad as the Bourbons, we still drain the work force with our idleness. I'd never thought about it that way. I don't think many nobles have; the idea's pretty radical, isn't it? Regardless, we were voicing these thoughts at a cafe in Paris, and that's what caused the duel. That man, Fuchs, took offense to our ignoble sentiments. He tried to correct us. I punched the bastard, and then we fought. Remarkable train of events really."
"Remarkable you didn't get your bloody head shot off," I whispered dryly.
Logan looked at me. "Pardon?" 
"Oh, nothing, nothing," I said smiling. 
Through all of this Jacob waited, a vein marking the pulse in his neck. He seemed at once stressed and nonplussed. He started to speak but coughed, recovered his voice, and began again. "And what will you do then?"
I shrugged. Logan sighed. "That's just it!" my friend exclaimed. "We've nothing really to do. It's not as if we could simply cancel our trip and return home. But at the same time, the moment is ripe for change. Did you see that article in Le Moniteur about the rioting? A few weeks back, the gendarmes tried breaking up a riot and received some resistance." 
"I did see it! About that poor student?" 
"And murderer," I added. 
Logan continued. "Anyway, people are angry, and rightfully so. Maybe we could help them. As a noble, I think I have some pull." 
"In England perhaps, but not in France and certainly not in Rome. You'll be respected, but that's all. When the two of you return home maybe you could work towards something there?" said Jacob.
We chatted endlessly over the issue without really coming to any definite conclusion. We had a problem but no solution. For the time being, we resolved to be kind towards those poor whom we would meet and better their position any way we saw fitting. 
In the meanwhile our locomotive continued on its journey, unaware of the intense moral quandaries of its passengers. The gentle hills and expansive vistas of the countryside were being replaced. Now, feats of engineering, both ancient and modern, were racing by the compartment window. At last, the train slowed, belching steam in protest, and it slipped into the station. 
Descending the train, Logan stretched his legs. He bobbed up and down, arching his back. "Ah, Rome!" he cried, spreading his arms wide. 
I followed him onto the platform, my own limbs tired and unresponsive. Jacob leapt to the ground, beaming. 
"Someone's found a bit of energy," I said.
The American's grin widened even further. "Welcome to the most holy, inspiring, and magnificent city of Europe, my friends. Our plans? I feel something auspicious is in order."
"First, a calming drink before your enthusiasm becomes contagious." I laughed, slapping him on the back. 
"Then, lodgings of course," spoke Logan. "We've several business contacts from which to gain a line of credit. Given our Parisian friends' escapades, we're a bit under-provisioned."
I laughed. "I suppose you might say that." 
Around us, people milled about. Many were rushing to various appointments, while others ambled, their voices chattering. Logan turned towards the others and made to speak, but Jacob held up a finger, his eyes tracking something we couldn't see. 
Wheeling about, Logan followed the American's gaze and swore. "You don't think . . ."
"I think subtlety is foreign to them, all things considered," Jacob replied.
"What is it?" I said, not following the conversation. 
Logan physically turned me, and I noticed how very nice the cross-emblazoned diamond medallions were on a trio of bowler-hats. The three men, thick-set and shifting through the crowd, hadn't seen us yet, or so I surmised. They weren't running towards us, weapons drawn. 
"What is with these men?" Logan pined. 
Jacob grinned. "I think the bullet you put through Fuchs just might have something to do with it all." 
"Thank you for your brilliant observation."
Jacob bowed, his enormous smirk hiding his entire face.
"Not to distract the two of you from your lovely banter, but three men with every intention of murdering us are wandering this way. Perhaps it would behoove us to leave?" I said.
Jacob's trunk was forgotten as we hurried from the scene. It could be reclaimed from the stationmaster later. If we lived.
Our fortune held, and our opponents missed our departure. For our part, the situation was once again perplexing and troubling. This group was persistent if nothing else, and given their presence in two countries thus far, it was safe to assume they possessed ample resources. Besides their obvious anger, admirable drive, and extensive reach, the gang's very actions were maddening. Duels of honor were contained affairs. Although vendettas were not uncommon, most duels went unaccompanied by rampant bloodshed; two opponents fought, and that was that. To be chased through the streets, over train platforms, and across borders by these determined men was downright outrageous. 
"Blasted telegraph," Logan exclaimed hotly as we rounded yet another street-corner in our escape. 
I nodded. "That does seem the most likely culprit, doesn't it? A return to England is sounding better and better all the while." 
"What gives either of you any hope that these villains won't simply follow you there as well? They've been most accommodating in keeping track of your travels thus far." Jacob laughed. "So much for your miracle."
We slowed our pace, certain of our success in eluding the men, before I answered. "It doesn't matter. We're safe for the moment, and if we lose them in Rome, they've no knowledge of our next city." 
"A nice point, but all the same, we need to be on our guard." All nodded at Logan's suggestion and we strolled along, our pace relaxed once more. 
Around us, the city continued to move and breath, almost like a creature, a vast thriving beast of wonder and sadness. As with Paris, we couldn't help but notice the squalor some lived in. Even here, the Christian capital of Europe, beggars waited in the dirt, misery embodied. Young boys, their eyes sightless, pleaded for a few small coins as they stumbled about. 
"I've heard many young boys blind themselves or their friends," said Jacob. "You get more pity when you're crippled like that." I shuddered but couldn't argue with the logic, cold as it was.
We were, for the moment, about as poor as them. Aside from some petty cash, none of us had any anything of value. So, the first order of business was to meet with Logan's father's contacts in the city. To keep out of our pursuers' hands, we'd need a line of credit and soon. William Harling, Logan's father, had accrued many wealthy friends throughout the civilized world in his youth, and there was little chance that they would deny us the money we sought. 
We flagged down a carriage and made our way towards the richest of the viscount's friends, a Mister Adriano Di Luca. Although Logan remembered his name, his address had been lost in our abandoned trunk. Finding Di Luca's home proved long and difficult, but after some time and several rounds of asking for directions, our driver came to the place. Pulling up to his sumptuous townhome, we marveled at the ornate gate blocking the outside world. Looming above us was an antiquated home. Fluted columns surrounded the facade, and a slight footman dashed down the wide stairs leading towards the front gate. 
The swift patters of his feet and welcoming but official smile greeted us as we descended from and paid for the hired carriage. As the wheels of that vehicle clipped down the cobblestones, we explained our connection to Di Luca and were ushered inside by the footman. Entering the home, we were instructed to wait in the vast foyer as the little man ran up the stairs to find his master. 
"Impressive, isn't it?" Jacob voiced, his tone an admiring whisper. 
"The Italians have had a long history of admirable engineering," I answered. 
"Logan, my boy!" A booming voice, speaking in Italian, ended our conversation as the shout echoed through the foyer. Surprised, we looked up. Descending the winding staircase was a massive mountain of a man. To call him corpulent would be an injustice. His great belly bulged, bending and swaying as he lumbered over each step. I was in great fear that the buttons on his tunic would simply burst, so great was the pressure exerted upon them. 
"Logan, Logan!" he cried once more as he reached us. "You look just like your father!" My friend attempted to bow formally and shake hands with Di Luca, but the larger man would have none of that. He simply wrapped his great girth around Logan in a warm, fatherly embrace. I could see Logan's quizzical expression as he was released from the folds of our host. 
"Sir, thank you most kindly for your hospitality." 
The great man waved his paw. "It's no trouble, my boy. I'd be ashamed to ignore the son of a friend." He coughed. "Your father William saved my life once. Not physically of course, it'd take several strong men and a healthy ox for that." Di Luca slapped Logan violently on the back while the three of us chuckled awkwardly at the quip. 
"No, no," he continued. "I was shipwrecked and destitute on the shores of your England decades ago. My fortune was gone with my sunken cargo, and I had nothing, nothing to my name. The Viscount of Harling stumbled upon me and took pity on the vagabond that I was. The man, generous beyond measure, drew money from his personal accounts and offered them, without stipulations or hesitations, to me. I tell you lads, I was stunned." 
He clapped Logan again, this time on the shoulder and nearly knocked the lad over. "So of course I am honored to host the son of a great man and invaluable friend. It's just such a shock to see you here! I had no warning that you would be coming to Rome. What is the occasion?"
Logan smiled sheepishly. "Well sir, my companions and I are on our Grand Tour, and—" 
"Oh heavens me!" Di Luca interrupted, turning to Jacob and I. "I've been such a boor. Please forgive me gentlemen." He offered a slight bow, his stomach collapsing in on itself at the movement. "You've heard my name of course, but I do not have the honor of yours."
I offered my own bow in return and wrung the man's beefy hand. "Thank you sir. My name is Nathaniel Fletcher. Like you and William, Logan and I have been friends since childhood. I was honored to accompany my companion and ensure he stays out of trouble." I winked, and Di Luca guffawed. 
Next, Jacob offered his own greeting. "An American," cooed Di Luca. "I've met few men of your country, but they always promise great entertainment and pure friendship. It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, all of you." 
Next, he suddenly clapped his hands in a flourish. Jacob started at the sound, while Logan and I laughed at the spectacle. Immediately, servants rushed into the room. Many carried platters of fresh fruit, pitchers of cooled water and luxurious wines. The maelstrom wove around us as the valets constructed an impromptu feast and table setting amid the expansive foyer. 
Di Luca offered a warm smile in our direction. "Now then, perhaps a repast while we discuss things, eh?" Then, without further adieu, he lowered himself into the nearest seat and began selecting delicacies from the piles around him. As the servants disappeared from the room, we also took our seats and began enjoying the wondrous delights before us.  
After eating the food for several minutes in contented silence, our host looked us over. "Now gentlemen, what service can I do for you?" 
I smiled, demurring to Logan. Noting my insistent glance, he launched into our tale of woe. "And so, our bags are gone, and we have no money of which to speak," my friend concluded. 
"Ha!" cried Di Luca. "Ha! Adventurous trip indeed! My lads, you best be careful. Now, hmm." He paused, stroking his chin. "The money of course is no issue. I can lend or give you however much you need. My own fortunes have fared better since that shipwreck of my youth. On the other hand, these men have proven rather insistent. I can do another service for you. I have several acquaintances of a . . . lower sort. They often provide me with helpful information, and I pay well to be well informed. Will you allow me to inquire as to this strange gang with their singular hats?"
I smiled. "Thank you sir. You are most kind, and any assistance you offer, we won't refuse." My companions reiterated my compliments, and the larger man again waved dismissively. 
"Believe me," he said. "When you have reached the end of your will, as I had those years ago, a helping friend is worth far more than gold. I am more than happy to assist this time around." 
Again, silence enveloped the table as we sampled various treats: golden apples and crusty pastries that flaked apart in your mouth. The variations present were simply fantastic, and the three of us began to forget about silver-diamond hats, breathless escapes, and capers in the night. Finally, the footman we glimpsed upon arrival bustled into the room, his pattering feet carrying him along. He marched straight towards his employer, bent delicately, and whispered something into the large man's ear. With a snort of surprise, Di Luca thumped the table with his fist.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "My most sincere apologies gentleman! I am late, so very late." His face twitched, and a bead of sweat dribbled down the folds of his neck. "I was scheduled to receive measurements for new attire nearly an hour ago. Your visit took me by such surprise that I quite forgot about it." 
We made to stand, but the man motioned us back into our seats. "No, no. You've had no end of adventures these few days. Eat and rest as much as you'd like. In fact, I would be most honored to continue to serve as your host. We've plenty of rooms to spare, and an old bachelor has little company this time of year. Your presence would be most welcome." 
Jacob nodded his thanks. "If there's no opposition from the others, we would love to accept."
"Wonderful! Most wonderful. Sebastian will show you to your rooms shortly. With your troubles, do you have any luggage?" His voice wavered in embarrassment for our predicament. 
"For Nathaniel and I, sadly no," said Logan. "But Jacob does. We abandoned it at the train station. I'm certain it's been collected by the station's employees by now. It shouldn't be any trouble to retrieve it." 
"Of course, of course. I'll send some of my staff to fetch it right away. In the meantime, we must get you three settled in, and I'll introduce you to my tailor; he does excellent work. He's preparing a simply wonderful suit for the ball this Thursday, and I—" The man broke off his sentence, a large smile engulfing his face. "You must come! You've heard of the Medicis before, I'm sure. Their power's been reduced now, of course, but they still manage to offer the best of parties. And procuring an invitation for you three would be a trifle. I've been friends with the family for decades. They'd never dream of refusing me of anything! And heaven knows they have enough room in their manor. You simply must attend. Think of the fun." He almost begged then, and I wondered if the man grew lonely in his luxurious, empty home. He had certainly grown attached to us in a hurry. But, no matter. He was welcoming, and the three of us accepted the offer. 
The rest of the day was a flurry of activity. Di Luca raced our group across the city and to all the finest shops. We needed new outfits, ceremonial swords and new pistols, shoes, and masks. Finally, we arrived back at the home, exhausted but content and entertained. Shown to our rooms by Sebastian, the valet, we sank into massive armchairs by a small fireplace. We chatted about our change in fortune and let Di Luca's brandy remove all doubts and cares. Surely, we would soon learn our assailants' identities. Then, sufficient efforts could be made to put an end to the madness. 
With these thoughts building up our courage, we disrobed and collapsed into our beds, drifting off into the most wonderful, dreamless sleep. 


Chapter VII

A valet assisted me as I descended from the carriage. Right behind me, Logan and Jacob fell into step as we surveyed the scene around us. Dozens of torches lit an expansive lane bedecked in flowers, fountains, and flowing dresses, while a small road led upwards towards an impressive chateau. The ball would not start for another half-hour, but guests were descending upon the Medici's manor like clouds of locusts. 
Jacob gave a low whistle. "For a ruined family, this is still pretty impressive." 
We nodded in response. The Medici family, the de-facto rulers of parts of Italy for centuries, had experienced a collapse in the last century. Political machinations, bad investments, war, and other factors had led to their downfall. Still, small branches of the family existed, and these continued the mantle of wealth. Around us was evidence enough of that fact. 
"They keep up appearances at least." We turned at the sound, glimpsing Di Luca trudging forward. The majority of his bulk was hidden amidst folds of fine orange fabric. I thought he looked like an overgrown orange, but Roman masked balls apparently demanded some color. I had chosen a subtle green accentuated with a hint of grey. My companions were dressed likewise, and on top of each of our foreheads rested a decorated mask, ready to hide our features when the ball commenced. 
"Even so," continued Di Luca, "they rely more and more upon their rich friends. Their family is indeed dying out. I would be surprised if it's not gone in the next century or so." Without further comment, the large man shuffled forward, expecting the three of us to follow. We did, our feet carrying us through the throng of party-goers. Like our attires, others were adorned in gaudy and flashy gowns and suits. Some had already lowered their masks, and the effect was disturbing in the torchlight. Monkeys, ghouls, clowns, and vague faces of various emotions leered at us out of the gloom. Each mask was unique and a true work of art. 
Many attendees nodded or bowed to Di Luca as he passed, and more than once, our progress was halted as introductions were offered and received.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" A voice cried, loud enough to cut through the many conversations. A servant, bedecked in the Medici livery, stood at the entrance to the manor. "The ball is about to start. If you would like to take your places amid the hall, it would be most helpful." 
At the man's words, the crowd began milling inside, and our group was carried along in its wake. Entering the chateau, I was instantly struck by the size. Of course, splendor was nothing new to me. But Di Luca's comments seemed true. Although their prestige was dying, a simple nobility hung about the entire place. Halls were spacious, and only a few, finely selected portraits adorned the walls. In many places, the gilding was reserved and majestic.
As we moved through the building's labyrinth of corridors, the great hall loomed before us. The sketches I had seen of deep underground caverns came to mind, so expansive was the room. A balcony overlooked the space, and a chamber orchestra was tuning, preparing for the dances to come. Small tables, weighed down with delicacies and drinks, surrounded the perimeter of the hall. And milling about the dance floor were scores of party-goers. As we entered the massive room, we each lowered our masks in turn. In one moment, all identity had been discarded within the anonymity of the plaster masks. My own possessed a long, hooked beak that completely belied my own petite nose. 
Turning, I glimpsed two hideous faces grinning back at me. I added my own smile to my friends'. 
"You know, I haven't been to a ball for nearly a decade," spoke Jacob. "New Orleans would have masked dances around Carnival, but they rarely interested me. Since leaving my family, there wasn't much point in attending social functions of this sort, and after losing Lilly, well, I lost all interest. Maybe I acted too soon; this looks like it'll be marvelous!" I could hear the smile in his tone. That was rare, and Logan and I were pleased to see him happy; a cloud of melancholy rarely left the man. 
Di Luca clapped him on the back. "Lad, if ever there was a place to lose yourself, it's Rome. Enjoy yourself tonight, my friends! And forget about your troubles. That is Italy's draw. She pulls you in and cheers you up!" There was already an empty drink in his one hand, and the other was reaching for another glass from a passing attendant. He was losing no time in finding his own merriment.
Suddenly, without fanfare or introduction, the orchestra launched into a lively waltz. Instantly, the dance floor roiled with movement as couples paired off, and others moved to the sides to watch the spectacle. For their part, Logan and Jacob began retreating towards the perimeter. I followed in their wake, but I had resolved to do some dancing that evening. What good was it to be amid beauty if one didn't participate? Di Luca scoffed good-naturally at our retreating forms before bounding, rather surprisingly given his weight, towards an older woman. She had been chatting with several friends, but Di Luca cut her out of the crowd and genteelly escorted her towards the dance floor, their feet already flowing in time with the beat. 
As the waltz slowed to a halt, we watched Di Luca direct his dancing partner over towards us. Panting, he reached us. A content smile was spread under his mask, and his cheeks were moist with sweat. 
"My friends, allow me the great honor of introducing you to the most graceful, best woman in attendance tonight." The lady in question beamed at us, fanning herself with a dainty hand. Her hair was streaked with grey and plated into a simply braid, but the way she carried herself lent truth to her dancing partner's compliments. Di Luca continued. "Viscount Logan Harling, Nathaniel Fletcher, and Jacob Douglas, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to Madame Alexandra Klein. She is the wife of an esteemed ambassador to Rome." 
Logan bowed in perfect form, kissing her hand. "Oh?" he spoke politely. "And what fair country do you hail from, my lady? Rome is truly blessed to receive such a prize, and your home is sorely slighted by your absence" 
She chuckled, her voice high and airy. "Why, dear me! What a charmer we have!" There was no malice in her voice, and we all became instantly enchanted. "Sirs, my family and I came to Rome from the Kingdom of Riktenburg. My husband has served the king for decades now, and our posting here was a reward for his loyal work." Pride for her family's accomplishments flashed in the lady's eyes, and although a mask covered most of her face, I could tell it radiated pleasure.
"Now, now. Is someone spreading exaggerated rumors about me again?" A kindly man, with a limp in his step, hobbled up and gave Alexandra a delicate peck on the cheek. 
"Marcellus, you old rogue! How are you?" Di Luca cried dramatically, his face flushed but happy. 
He bowed in return. "I have no idea what elicited that scurrilous commentary on my character sir, but you best be careful. I wouldn't want to cause embarrassment by thrashing you, despite my dragging leg!" The two roared, obviously old friends. The newcomer turned to us. "Now, I see that my wife has collected some fine company for the evening. I do not believe I have been given the pleasure." Names were traded all around. As it turned out, Alexandra was not lying. Her husband, the Honorable Ambassador Marcellus Klein, had indeed served the King of Riktenburg for a substantial length of time. As the orchestra's music swirled around us, Di Luca regaled the group with tales of the man's gallantry and diplomatic affinity. To all this, Marcellus humbly denied all and refused to add any embellishments to the tales. I adored the couple. Drawing Alexandra aside, I begged apology for my ignorance and asked to hear more about her native land. 
"Oh, darling," she cooed maternally. "Don't fret. Riktenburg is a country of many things, but not size. In all of Germany, she is loved for her pure forests and loving people. To his subjects, King Martin is practically regarded as a saint nowadays." Her eyes grew misty. "Rome is . . . Rome is nice, but it is not home." 
"And how long has it been? Since your last homecoming, that is." 
She paused in thought. "It must be nearly three years now. There is no time for vacations. Marcellus works with everyone in this city. He has meetings and dealings at the Vatican, with the various government departments, and all the business leaders of Rome as well. We've never a moment to spare. Once in a while, we receive visitors from Riktenburg. Our niece is here now for instance." Her eyes briefly scanned the hall, searching. However, she quickly gave up and returned her gaze to me. "You must meet her tonight, although I'm not sure where she's wandered off. The girl is a marvelous dancer; no doubt she's plying that trade somewhere. 
"I would be honored to make her acquaintance. I had—" Di Luca bounded up, interrupting me. 
"Quick, lad! Another dance is about to begin. I won't have you wasting the moment on someone already claimed, however magnificent she may be." With a wink towards Alexandra and a shove towards me, he separated us. 
The orchestra was indeed launching into another tune. Thankfully, it was a Vivaldi work I was well familiar with. Unfortunately I was standing alone and awkwardly, most dancers already paired for the movement. 
A flickering of motion caught my eye. I turned and began looking full into the eyes of beauty. 
She stood there, a hand extended to tap my shoulder. Her other arm waited patiently by her side, and the folds of her blue gown rippled towards the floor like a rivulet. A mask, the color of impenetrable charcoal, hid all but her eyes. Yet, the green in those eyes smiled at me. 
"Forgive my boldness, sir," she spoke, "but it seems neither of us have a partner, and to waste a Vivaldi piece is nearly a crime where I come from."  
"By all means, my lady. May I have this dance?" My opposite curtsied perfectly and held out her hand towards me. I grasped it and led her onto the floor. As we walked, my feet moved into time with the piece, directing my companion. For her part, she was masterful. The chords circled around us, and within my chest, I could feel every vibration from the orchestra. Their music soared through us, and the dance took my breath away. 
From that first moment, a warm affection for the nameless girl took hold of me. The affection was not romantic, far from it. While she was absolutely beautiful and demanded utter respect, I did not feel the least bit attracted as a lover. Instead, I felt an intense and inexplicable desire to guard and protect her from all harm. It was almost as if a fraternal instinct overtook me at that exact moment. Crazy I know, but those were my feelings. As we whirled about, I found myself wondering who this woman was and if she elicited devotion in all men. 
As the Vivaldi work faded into a quiet resolution, our own pace slowed. As the music stopped, the two of us locked eyes. "My lady, you are the most talented dancer I have ever had the pleasure to meet." 
She blushed, even under her mask. "Thank you, sir. You're most kind." 
"Dear me, in our rush to catch the music, I forgot to introduce myself. My sincere apologies, miss. My name is Nathaniel Fletcher of Her Majesty's England." I bowed gracefully, maintaining eye contact throughout the entire movement. 
"It is good to make your acquaintance Mr. Fletcher. My name is Mercedes Klein of the Kingdom of Riktenburg." 
A slight gasp escaped my lips causing her to start. "My lady, I have only just finished speaking with your lovely family. My friend was kind enough to introduce me to your aunt and uncle; they were simply wonderful. They mentioned your dancing prowess, and I can see now that those stories are more than true." 
"My aunt certainly does like to chat about me, doesn't she?" The girl huffed good-naturedly. "At least, in this instance, I lived up to whatever glowing reputation she spread about me." 
I waved a chiding finger. "More than lived up to that reputation, I'd say. Come, Miss Klein—"
"Call me Mercedes, please." 
"Very well. Mercedes. Let's find that family of yours." 
We strolled, arm in arm, through the roiling throng of masks, color, and excitement. The music had begun once more, and around us, couples danced to the lively piece. Eventually, we came to the end of the great hall. Our group, accompanied by the Kleins, had moved towards an open set of doors. A chilly spring breeze flowed in from the expansive courtyard, and our friends were deep in conversation as Mercedes and I arrived. 
Marcellus clapped his hands. "Ah, you've met Mercedes then!" 
I chuckled. "I have. Your niece is a most charming woman, and her dancing is everything you said it would be." 
"Splendid! You've no idea how proud she makes her family."
"Uncle, please." Mercedes looked at him, mock severity clouding her face. 
He clutched his chest. "You wound me, my girl! All an old man wants is the chance to see his descendents flourish, and what do I get? Rebuked!" The lovely banter had everyone laughing. 
"Nathaniel, I was talking of our home earlier. You ought to visit sometime. Many of the lasses of Riktenburg dance like our Mercedes. It's another bit of national pride we maintain," said Alexandra, patting my arm. 
"My lady, I would love to see your country someday. It sounds simply marvelous. Perhaps on our return to England, we may arrange travel through Germany."
"A wonderful idea," she cooed. "Marcellus' brother would be more than happy to arrange a stay for you." 
"Oh yes! We don't get foreign company often, and I would love to show you my country!" Mercedes beamed. 
"That would be most fun. I haven't been to Germany before, but that's not from lack of desire. Our tutor even forced us to learn German. Perhaps we may finally gain some use from it. If I can speak for the group, we'd be most excited to accept your offer." I smiled in return. 
Di Luca returned then from a brief excursion. He was holding another glass, and his face was redder than ever. "You've come back then?" He cried to us, much too loudly. He turned.  "And you must be the most delightful Mercedes." The large man introduced himself and then turned back towards Logan. "I was just mentioning to Marcellus your recent troubles. Tell them, my boy, tell them!" 
I chuckled at Di Luca's obvious overindulgence and waited for my friend to answer. When he didn't, I glanced over at Logan. His mouth was ajar. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and his eyes remained unblinking on Mercedes. She hadn't noticed yet, I was certain it would be embarrassing when she did. I kicked him discreetly as Jacob answered Di Luca. 
"In America, we like our adventure well enough, but I think I've been put to shame by these two trouble-makers." 
The others laughed. A recovering Logan looked over at me. His face was pinched and his eyes glassy. I shrugged in return. We'd discuss it later, I was sure. The others didn't seem to notice.
 Di Luca turned to Marcellus again, and his speech was still slurred. "There hasn't been a moment of peace for these gentlemen, I tell you! But, who am I to whine about their troubles?" He slapped me on the shoulder. "Let's let them tell it." 
All eyes turned to me. To be honest, I was a bit uncomfortable doting on about the affair. All told, we had been the butt of the whole ordeal. Forced to flee through the night, our bags stolen and rifled through — it wasn't a story I was proud to tell. But we were among friends, and there was no real harm.
It spooled out quickly. "So, we finally arrived in Rome. Dumas himself might have written a novel about us: the three companions strutting off the train into a new city. And then, all of a sudden, we glimpsed those blasted bowler hats once more! Another three ruffians were wandering the station looking for something. Nothing nefarious by itself, but they each wore those distinct black bowlers with the silver diamond medallion. So we ran for it again!" 
"Into my waiting arms!" Di Luca guffawed. We laughed for a moment with him. Then, all of a sudden, we realized that the Kleins were silent. Marcellus' glass had frozen, the cognac nearly to his lips but now forgotten. Mercedes wrung her hands. 
"What?" I said at last.
Alexandra's eyes swelled. "It's the Faith. You're being chased by the Faith!"
Chapter VIII

"The Faith? What's the Faith?" I asked.
Apparently I had spoken too loudly because Mercedes hushed me and drew us close. "Not here. We can't discuss them here. Just know that they're very dangerous, incredibly rich, and will kill you without a moment's hesitation." Her eyes darted about the room. "They could be anywhere, but especially here. The Faith thrives off of social events." 
Jacob sighed. "My lady, I highly doubt such murderous rascals would be allow—"
"Not here," she hissed. "Get out of Rome. They know you're here. They might even know you're at this ball. Come to Riktenburg. We'll talk there. Our family shouldn't even be seen with you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" said the American hotly. They wouldn't listen.
"Until Riktenburg. Good evening." Marcellus reached into his frockcoat. A moment later, he replaced a pencil into the coat and pressed a small piece of paper into my palm. Then the family was gone. 
We stared at each other in disbelief, completely baffled by the Klein's swift exit. Even Di Luca, too drunk to comprehend everything, seemed deflated. Logan still seemed dazed, while Jacob was flushed. I turned to the American.
"Rather a quick departure, hmm?" 
"Not half as fast as rude. There we were, chatting along, and they're gone." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. 
"Logan, are you alright? You seem a bit . . . distracted," I chided playfully.
My friend punched me in the arm. "Leave me be. You got to dance with her. She invited you to their chateau. Next, the two of you'll be—" 
"Oh come off it. I don't fancy her, although she was beautiful. She's all yours, brother." His face remained clouded, and he didn't respond. Furthermore, Jacob was eyeing him. The American's face was gaunt and humorless. I let it go. 
"Given their warning, what're we to do?" Each looked at me and shrugged, helplessly. I just sighed. "For starters, let's leave. I've lost my taste for merriment this evening." 
"Agreed," said Logan. 
"Now, hold on a minute! Lads! Lads! Why the rush?" Di Luca was spluttering, his drink spilling in agitation. 
I patted his arm. "I think we're a bit unsettled by all this. To be honest, I don't feel like partying anymore."
"Well that's nothing another drink won't fix. You've only just arrived." His face curled in on itself; I laughed inwardly as I realized the man was sulking.
Jacob regarded him. "Another night perhaps. But, you enjoy yourself sir. If it's no inconvenience, we'll simply retire for the evening." Without waiting for another protest, we turned and began walking towards the exit. If we caused insult, the man would never remember it the next morning. 
Our heels clicked along the corridor outside the great hall as we pushed our way through the throng. Masked faces continued to swirl about us in a maelstrom of color and hue. We lost ourselves in our thoughts. By the pensive droop of his eyes, Logan was contemplating the beauty which had only just left us. I was thinking about her words. Whatever it was, this group seemed quite singular. 'Faith' seemed to imply religiosity, but the determined, scarred faces of the men we'd seen thus far were far from clergymen. Besides, Mercedes had warned us of their ruthlessness. Given their pursuit, that seemed accurate. I was resolved to learn more about the group. 
We exited the house and strolled along the gravel pathway towards the waiting carriages and the countryside beyond. The manor, like many homes of the rich, was situated some distance outside of Rome. That prevented the common riffraff from getting in their way, at least in theory. Shoes kicking up gravel, we arrived at the carriages and called our own over. I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing bath and a luxurious sleep in one of Di Luca's expansive beds. 
Our valet assisted each of us into the vehicle, where we promptly collapsed onto the seats, worn out. As the carriage started away from the manor, Logan leaned forward. "What's the next course? Do we fly to Riktenburg and learn what the blazes is happening? Oh, and I was thinking. She conveniently forgot anything about directions. How will we find—" 
I held up a piece of paper. "Actually, Marcellus slipped me this as he left. It's his brother's address. They live in Teimsfeld, wherever that is."
"It's the capital," said Jacob. I looked at him. "Marcellus mentioned that," he explained. 
"The capital then. But it shouldn't be too hard to find. She's the niece of an ambassador." 
"And the daughter of the minister of war," Logan piped in. 
"'Et tu Brute?'" I laughed. 
"Alexandra told me," he said. 
Jacob broke in. "Regardless, we'll certainly be able to visit their household should we choose. The real question is if we want to. And if we do, is it to be right away or not?" 
"We haven't seen these bastards since the train station, right? It's been about a week, and nothing's happened. Let's not rush all across Europe, at least not without cause. My guess is that they've either given up or have absolutely no idea where we are," said Logan. 
"Do you recall when these same men were to have absolutely no way or motive for pursuing us once we'd arrived in Rome?" I asked dryly. 
"That's different," he responded. "That only took a telegraph message, and given their inability to find us at the station, they don't have a very accurate description of us. They'll have given up by now." 
"I don't know if I buy that argument, but we'll leave it for now. Whatever else they are, the Faith must be serious. I don't know if I've ever seen someone go as white as Alexandra when we mentioned those bowler hats."
"Did we just turn left?" asked Jacob suddenly. 
"Yes, why?" said Logan. 
"We're going the wrong way now, aren't we? We came from the other direction." His face was pressed to the window, peering out into the darkness. 
"The driver knows his trade and these roads a lot better than we do. If we're going the wrong way, I'm sure it's just a quicker route this time of night," I said. The man sat back, nodding, but he didn't look convinced. 
"And isn't a duel for honor supposed to be an honorable occasion?" exclaimed Logan. "I mean, it's nobody else's business if Fuchs and I tried to kill each other. He could just as easily have shot me down instead. These devils have been chasing us for weeks. It's downright ridiculous." 
"Perhaps if you reason with them like that, it'll change their minds," I said laughing. 
"You have a distinct knack for fun, Nathaniel." 
"I try my best, especially when things turn grim. It keeps things a little less hopeless." 
"Well it's making me irritated." 
"Gentlemen, I really do think the driver's mad. We're getting further and further from the city," Jacob broke in again. 
"Nonsense . . ." Logan started as he looked out the window. His words trailed off as he glimpsed the profound darkness around them. "Good heavens." 
Jacob's eyes widened. "Did anyway even look at the valet driving us? Was he the same man as before?" Logan and I shrugged, and Jacob rapped the side of the carriage, signaling our chauffeur. Instead of slowing, the vehicle sped up. 
"Oh, damnation!" Jacob tried the carriage door; of course it was locked. "Fancy another evening of adventure lads?" He had pulled a revolver from his waistcoat. 
Logan stared at him incredulously. "You brought that to a formal ball?"
The American pulled out another one and tossed it to me. "I brought two," he said. 
"Fine by me," I said, looking over the weapon. As Logan drew out his sword, which we'd all worn as part of the costumes, I continued. "And the plan is what, exactly?"
"I vote for simplicity. We shoot the lock, roll out of the carriage, and run through the darkness. They'll never find us out here," Logan spoke.
"Like they'd never find us in Rome?" Jacob asked, his eyebrows arched. 
"We have no other options. And it's best to do it now, before we stop and exit into the waiting arms of a dozen rogues." 
Without further hesitation, Jacob leaned over towards the door. He placed his revolver against the lock, looked at us to gauge our readiness, and fired. The report echoed through the carriage, and the acrid stench of gunpowder settled around us. The next few moments were a blur of activity. Jacob leapt first, rolling through the dirt as the carriage suddenly slowed. Logan and I followed. I heard a distinct cry of pain as Logan hit the earth. There was no time to check on him, though, because around us, other forms were already whirling past in the darkness. More than one man fired a pistol. Friend or foe, I couldn't tell in the maelstrom of shadows. 
I glimpsed two figures running towards a dilapidated building off the road. Their faces were just visible in the moonlight. I chased my friends, escaping the madness along the byway. As I sprinted, I took a moment to determine our surroundings. Ahead, the carriage had pulled to a stop. I glimpsed movement as the driver descended. Around me, I could hear the whinnying of horses; our attackers had come prepared. Panting, I reached the building, ducked inside, and was nearly impaled upon Logan's outstretched sword. Throwing myself under the blade, I swore.
"Sorry," he croaked. 
Rising, I drew out my own blade and looked about once more. Jacob was crouched at a window, peering out into the night. With curiosity, I realized we were in a church. The ceiling had collapsed long ago, and the floor was devoid of pews or any other religious trappings. Yet, an aged cross loomed down on us from the wall, and the place's architecture was distinctly clerical. Spots of moonlight drifted through the open ceiling, casting a haunting, ethereal mood over the entire place. 
Jacob waved us over. We dashed to him. "As far as I can make out, there are at least five of them: four on horseback and the driver. Three to five odds aren't as bad as they might be," whispered Jacob.
Logan looked behind us, glaring towards the entrance. "Yes, but we've no idea where we are, and there could be a dozen entrances to this chapel. We're trapped."
"Then why aren't they attacking?" I asked. 
"Circling around to kill us from the back, no doubt," said Logan. 
Jacob pointed. "Nathaniel, stand by that column; if they come in through that door, you know what to do. Logan, I want you over there." He pointed towards the back of the church. Gaping holes remained where stained glass had once watched over the faithful. Without questioning our friend's orders, Logan and I hurried to our positions. Jacob continued to stare into the night, his hand clutching his weapons. 
Crouching in the dust behind the column, a bead of sweat dripped down my neck. I snatched my mask down and threw it away. No sense in dying with a bulbous beak on my forehead. The pistol felt warm in my palm. The sword was light in my other. Of course, being a ceremonial blade, it wouldn't last long against anything designed for real fighting, but the weapon was reassuring nonetheless. 
"Nathaniel Fletcher!" A throaty voice cut through the night. I glanced over at Logan. Like the men accompanying Fuchs to the duel, I noticed this speaker's German accent. For his part, Logan was straining to hear through the gloom. "Fletcher!" the voice repeated. 
Jacob pointed towards me, then indicated the entrance; what better time for an ambush than when attempting to parlay. 
"I have a proposition for you, lad," said the voice, closer this time. 
"We'll kill every last one of you bastards if you come nearer!" cried Jacob. 
"Ah, yes. And the American. I'd nearly forgotten about you. Douglas, you're included in this as well. You've all given more resistance than we're used to. I wouldn't wonder if you actually think you can beat us yet. You can't. And it's better to not even try. Our friends can provide a most painful death to people like you. Instead, I'd like to offer a deal, as it were." 
I met Logan's eye. He had not been addressed yet. I shook my head slowly in the inky blackness. The speaker went on. "The two of you have a third man in there don't you? Viscount Logan Harling to be precise. He killed someone very dear to us. This is where you come in, Douglas and Fletcher. If you simply hand—" 
Just then, a cry of agony resounded through the church, and I whirled about. A man, dressed all in black, was struggling with Logan — who clutched a bleeding arm. The assailant had apparently rushed through the entrance only to stumble into my friend. Unfortunately for Logan, the man's instinct had been to drive a short dagger into my companion's arm. I acted in an instant. Cocking Jacob's revolver, I leveled it against my other arm as Logan threw himself back from his attacker, hoping to gain enough room for his sword. The move gave me the opportunity I sought. I pulled the trigger. The rogue dropped, his blood seeping into the grooves of the holy stones around us. Cocking my pistol once more, I waited for any other assaults; none were forthcoming. 
Logan waved me back to my place by the column, nursing his arm. In spite of his scream, the wound wasn't as bad as we originally thought, or so he mimed in the gloom. Jacob motioned for us all to keep our places. Next, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted into the night. "You'd think, out of anyone, a group called the Faith would have the decency to respect the holy nature of God's church." 
"'Thou shall not murder' either, but we tend to compromise that one as well when His will supersedes His commands" came the impertinent reply.
"There will be no deals. Friends don't throw each other to the wolves, whatever the benefits. Come at us, and we'll skewer the rest of you curs too." Jacob spat for emphasis. 
"And how exactly did you learn our name, anyway?" our enemy shouted. 
"Not difficult given your propensity to stick your noses in others' business," threw back Logan.
"There's no reason to be hostile; it's no matter really. It's not like you'll be sharing that information with anyone soon, anyway. Just curiosity, my good man," the bastard called again.
Jacob crawled over to me. "They know we can't wait here forever. I saw at least five men earlier. With the stiff over there, that's four now. Do we rush them?" 
I nodded. "The longer we wait, the more chances they have for ambushing us. I vote we charge while you cover us from that window," I said. I pointed towards his previous position, and the American smiled in agreement. He crept over to Logan. I assumed he repeated the plan, because Logan nodded, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. After stripping another revolver off our dead enemy, Jacob shuffled back towards his window. Outside, we heard muted conversation; others were planning their strategy as well. Inside, Logan and I gave a nod towards our friend, and we slipped back into the night, our weapons drawn. 
We separated. I slunk around one side of the chapel. Logan moved along the other. Each counting towards an agreed-upon number, we would rush them together. I reached the edge of the chapel's wall. I paused, counting down the last seconds. With a frightful roar, I leapt up from my position and ran into the clear. 
The carriage was parked where it had come to a halt. A misty dust from the gravel was still settling amid the moonlight as I finally glimpsed them. Shock registered briefly on their faces. True to Jacob's count, three men waited in the stirrups of chargers, and the valet stood among them, strategizing. Hearing my cry and spotting my form, they lost no time. Two horsemen spurred their mounts towards me, but one was instantly thrown from the saddle, a pistol crack sounding nearby. Jacob, it seemed, was paying attention. 
As a lone rider bore down on me, I had just enough time to register another cry. Logan had broken cover and sprinted to join the melee. All other thoughts were cut off then as I sidestepped the angry horse thundering beside me. Bringing my sword up, I parried the thrust from the man. The ceremonial blade I held reverberated with the blow. It wouldn't take many more to shear the flimsy thing. Anguished cries behind me filled the night, but I paid them no heed. 
My opponent was a skilled rider. It took him no time at all to spin his horse around for another pass. Shouting wordlessly, I raised my revolver and shot several times, too excited to aim properly. The weapon was clutched in my off hand, a fact which didn't aid the process. The bullets went wide, and the horse was upon me once more. Feeling sickened by the waste, I eluded the man's swing and slashed the legs of the passing mount. Of course, it buckled. The rider had the presence of mind to throw himself from the saddle. He hit the ground hard and rolled. Climbing to his feet at last, he turned. 
"Rather cheap move. I'd expect that from a peasant." He sneered. 
"Rather cheap horse. I'd expect that from a scoundrel." 
Without another word, the man came at me. Clutching my flimsy sword, I lunged, countering his charge. He avoided that, swinging his own blade to deflect mine. It'd been months since I'd practiced at fencing, and the neglect showed. In contrast, my man was quick, agile. It was all I could do not to stumble over myself at his fury. At one point, our blades became locked together, each man struggling to overpower the other. In a fit of rage and quick thinking, I brought my pistol up and cocked it. A look of pure dread filled his face as I pulled the trigger, point-blank. Nothing happened. Cursing, I tried again. The chambers were obviously empty. He beamed up at me. That smile disappeared just before I struck him hard in the face with the gun, knocking him back and to his knees.
He never rose.
Letting his own fall and my momentum carry me forward, I stabbed him. The blade, although fragile and made for show, was distinctly pointed, and the weapon sliced through him with ease. I fell to the ground next to the bleeding corpse. 
Elsewhere, things were not as successful. Logan rolled through the dirt, wrestling the valet. Above him, the other man had dismounted, his sword waiting for the slightest opportunity. Just then, however, Jacob rushed from the chapel, his pistols splitting the night air. But as I rose from the ground, my legs straining, silence enveloped us. 
When I reached them, my friends were staring down at the valet, a knife imbedded in his throat. The rider lay nearby, clutching at several gunshot wounds, his movements growing slower by the second. With a last gurgle, he collapsed. 
We waited, eerily quiet. Finally, Jacob pointed towards the driver. "Grim work." 
"It was his own knife," said Logan. His face was flushed, and blood dripped down his body in several places. "He jumped me while I tried to get the other rider. Thanks for the help." Jacob nodded in acknowledgement. They turned to me. 
I shrugged. "It wasn't too bad once I got him off the horse." But all the time, my eyes kept moving to the corpse I had made. I'd killed two men, and the thought troubled me. I wanted to speak, to apologize, or retch — I didn't know which. But I didn't have time for any of those. 
Logan wiped the blood from his mouth, his chest heaving. "We leave tonight. To Riktenburg, Paris, or wherever. I don't care as long as we learn who the hell they are, what they're playing at, and how we stop the bastards!" 
Then he turned and limped off towards the carriage without another word, blood dripping onto the gravel after him. 

Chapter IX

For all of Logan's bluster, we didn't leave that night. It took until dawn to even make it back to Di Luca's home. Taking the carriage, we rode through byways for hours in the general direction of city. As the sun crested the horizon, small clusters of homes began appearing. Soon after, more and more buildings dotted the road, and we began to recognize different landmarks. Finally, the wheels slowed and stopped in front of the estate. I dragged myself down from the driver's seat, my calves throbbing. 
The carriage door opened, and Logan stuck his head out. "My good man? A bit of help, if you please." 
His cocksure smile caused me to pause, and the ridiculousness of the entire situation washed over me. I started chuckling, but this soon degenerated into a rolling guffaw, my shoulders heaving. My friends stepped down from the vehicle and thumped me on the back. Arm in arm, we wandered inside.
 I couldn't speak for the others, but I was simply wrung out, physically and emotionally. Looking down, I noticed my hands were still spotted with crimson droplets. I had never killed before, except at the hunt of course. But a man is not a deer. It didn't matter that we'd been ambushed by scoundrels with every intention to kill us. By my hand a life was gone. But for the moment, I left off the dark thoughts. Logan was staring expectantly at me. 
"Yes?" I asked.
"You didn't hear me, did you? You look worn out. Let's rest for a few hours. But I'm serious; we should leave by tonight at the latest. The sooner we learn what this cult is, the sooner we'll have some peace to enjoy." 
Jacob was already moving up the stairs. Like me, his shuffling feet belied any motivation, and pieces of his costume ball were slipping off his shoulders with each step. We followed him up the stairs and broke off towards our separate rooms. 
I didn't even remember disrobing, but I woke as the sun peaked through the curtains opposite my bed. By the rays' intensity, it must have been hours later. Looking down, I smiled. I hadn't changed in fact. The green and grey costume from the ball still clung to me like dirt. Calling an attendant, I prepared a bath and readied myself for the day, whatever time it was. I selected traveling attire and quickly packed my things. Descending the stairs, I found Logan and Jacob, similarly dressed. Before them waited an arrangement of light pastries and fruits. Jacob was finishing off a pear and smiled up at me through a full mouth. 
Logan inclined his head. "Good morning. Refreshed?"
"Hardly. What time is it anyway?" 
Jacob finished chewing and consulted his pocket watch. "Early afternoon; just after two o'clock."
I joined the pair at the table as my stomach rumbled. Smiling, I grabbed the nearest fruit, a delectable-looking plum. "Any word from our host?"
"Not at all. I'm sure he has no idea we're even leaving today," said Jacob. 
"Speaking of, where are we going? They've followed us through two cities now," I said around the plum.
"Riktenburg, of course," Logan said offhandedly. "Mercedes' family knows about the Faith. They were too scared to talk about them, and apparently for good reason. I killed one of their members in an honorable, fair fight, and the devils want our heads. We're going to find out what they do and how we can appease them before the lot of us ends up dead." 
"Besides, Germany is supposed to be beautiful," Jacob added.
Logan's eyes turned glassy for a moment. "Yes . . . Beauty. Yes! Riktenburg it is, then." 
I smiled, recalling his fawning attention over Mercedes. The woman was exceptionably pretty, and I could easily see how Logan might enjoy seeing the beauty of Germany. "We're agreed then." Snatching another pastry, I rose from the table. "Let's find our host and be rid of this city." The others stood without hesitation, and a servant approached at our rising.
"I'm terribly sorry, but could you awaken your master? Pressing and unfortunate circumstances require us to leave immediately," said Logan to the man. 
The valet shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir. But he hasn't returned from the party yet." 
Logan looked at me, but it was Jacob who asked. "He hasn't returned? Do you know where he is at least?" 
"I'm sorry, no. Master Di Luca celebrates often. He's been known to stay out late." 
"This late?" pressed Jacob.
The valet's face clouded. "Actually no. I can't remember another time like this."
Before any of us could speak, someone started pounding on the entry door. The valet nodded to us and went to answer the summons. 
"That's probably him," said Logan.
"Why would he knock on his own door?" I chided. 
The valet had reached the entrance by now. As he opened the door, a man beckoned him outside. We couldn't see any particulars of the visitor, but the valet followed. They stood outside talking for some time while we chatted; there was nothing else to do. At last, the valet returned. He ushered a constable inside, and we froze. The officer's face didn't look promising. 
He strode over. "Good morning, gentlemen. Did you accompany the master of this house to the ball at the Medici estate last evening?" 
Logan took the lead. "We did, yes. Is there a problem?" 
"Yes. I'm afraid there is. You'll need to come with us. We'd like you to look over the evidence." 
"Evidence of what?" I said. I doubted the government would be pleased with five dead men along the road, ambush or not. 
He didn't answer. He only turned and left the house. We followed, getting into the carriage after him. The driver took off, and we sat in silence as the vehicle clipped along the road. It wound us through the cobbled streets. I stared out as partygoers and peasants walked along together, separate yet intertwined in the beast that was Rome.
Soon though, the passing images grew familiar. We'd retraced the route that morning. I looked at the constable. "Are we returning to the Medici manor?" 
He nodded. "Close enough anyway. That's where it's at."
"Where what's at?" asked Logan.
He didn't answer again. I was starting to question if the officer was simple or our skills in the Italian language were flawed. Before I could think too much though, the carriage pulled to the side of the road at a fork, parking next to several other vehicles. We got out, following our mysterious messenger again. 
"Oh my god," whispered Logan when he saw it.
"The devils." Jacob leaned against the carriage.
I almost retched, the bile leaping up unbidden. 
One fork in the road led to the Medici estate, the other trailed off into the sunny Italian countryside. But in the middle, for all the travelers to see, was our missing Di Luca. 
His fat, bloodied corpse had been nailed to a small copse of trees. Knifes stabbed through his soft flesh into the wood. His arms, splayed out like the Messiah's, drooped even in death. The exhaustion, stupor, and inhuman pain that coated his face told us everything. Despite his drink, he had understood the suffering. 
Beneath the roughhewn crucifixion, a piece of parchment, slightly damp from the dew, had been stabbed into the tree with a dagger. A few officers were studying this. Collecting ourselves, we walked over. 
One of the men was reading it. "' . . . and we can do it again. To those who think us cruel, know that our devotion warrants that cruelty. Mankind is slipping again. Renounce the devil and his works, or bear the same fate as this heathen. God wills it! In Nomine Patris, KW.'"
Our constable turned to us. "And do you know anything about this?" 
I could barely breathe, let alone talk. Jacob had gathered the most strength, because he launched into the entire tale. He told of the ambush and gave a rough estimate of where that church had been. A pair of the officers broke off, returned to their carriage, and drove away towards the scene of that ambush. 
With a sick, meaty sound, the officers pulled the daggers from Di Luca's outstretched limbs. Blood poured from the reopened wounds, drenching their uniforms and the grass below. We turned away. Our constable led us back to the carriage.
"We've already talked with Ambassador Klein. He, and others at the party, indicated that you left long before Di Luca. That, plus the conversation I had with Di Luca's servant this morning clears you. You were back at the house before Di Luca's absence; the timing doesn't work out."
"Thank you," said Logan. "We're shaken up. We didn't know him long, but he was a wonderful host and new friend." 
"My regrets. We'll do our best, but there seems little chance of finding the criminals. A wealthy man like Di Luca has plenty of enemies."
"May we return now? We're planning to leave Rome today. Seeing this, the sooner the better," said Jacob. It felt wrong to abandon our friend, but there was nothing to be done about him; he was past help. Now we needed to survive long enough to avenge him. And that meant clearing out of the city. 
The constable loaded us back into the carriage and we drove back to Di Luca's home. Of course, the servants were distraught, but again, there was nothing to be done. We explained our situation as best we could and warned them to be wary. We packed and thanked them again for their hospitality. 
Fighting a biting wind, we directed the loading of our luggage, and the staff ushered us into another carriage. Inside, we shared a longsuffering glance. The wheels of the vehicle bounced forward, and without further pomp, we were again on the move. No one felt like talking. I let myself relax into the silence and the cushions as hovels and cathedrals swirled past, the sea of humanity flowing around us like a breaking tide. 

Chapter X

Logan rocked with the movement of the train, an ignoble spot of drool forming on his cheek.
"Rather inspiring, isn't he?" said Jacob, a laugh in his tone. 
Blinking out of my reverie, I regarded him. "Jacob, can I ask you something?" 
He froze, his smile fading. Perhaps he sensed the hesitancy in my tone, but he leaned forward. "Anything. What's troubling you?" 
"Have you killed before?" 
"Have I . . ." he repeated. 
"Killed. Have you killed before yesterday?" 
Recognition flashed through his eyes. "Ah. You mean the ambush. Or do you mean Di Luca?" 
I sighed. "Both. I can't help feeling that . . . I don't know. Feeling that we're no better than the murderers who killed Di Luca."
He paused, composing his thoughts. "Ah. We'll come back to Di Luca's death and why we're so very different. But I have killed before, yes. When I gushed my story to you, on the train to Rome, I skimmed over several things. Remember that I wasn't athletic?" 
"Certainly. Your brother overshadowed you. To be honest, I wondered about that yesterday. For being so apparently unfit, you handled yourself rather well."
"Yes, to be perfectly frank, I did. There's only one skill in life I wish I hadn't been forced to learn. I take it you've never been to the South?" I indicated I hadn't. "The South," he continued, "Is essentially a collection of all the worst aspects of European society. The United States doesn't have the nobility, in law anyway. In practice, that's all a lie. You've heard of Cotton Barons, haven't you? Everything you've heard about that is absolutely true. Southern nobility, per se, is determined solely by the amount of money a family owns. That and if your parents and their parents had just as much money. Bloodlines are important still, but no one has titles, so it makes it hard to exclude others on the basis of blood." 
He took a sip of brandy; a train attendant had brought drinks to us awhile back. "The more slaves a man owns, the more cotton he can reap in the year. The more cotton, the more money. The more money, the more noble a man is. This all leads to folks taking offense to everything. 'The European aristocracy practices honor, why can't we?' they reason. So people duel. A lot. So much so that the newspapers are full of the proceedings. It's almost like a game to Southerners. Shooting is the one skill I had to learn, and I can do it very well."
"And have you fought before?" We jumped as Logan let out a sharp snore, his mouth clamping together. I chuckled, but Jacob remained unmoved, his face dark. 
"Four times," he said simply. 
I stared at him, my mouth agape. I shut it. "Oh, that few? Just four?" I said sarcastically. 
"Yes." The response held no pride, no shame, no emotion really. 
"What for?"
"Various reasons for each. I insulted Voltaire's writings at a salon once. Our host didn't take kindly to that. How was I to know the man doted on that philosopher like an overbearing mother? My analysis didn't suit him, and after several long arguments of the subject, he demanded satisfaction. God's truth — that's what I fought for, what I risked my life for. The man wouldn't take my apology if I didn't retract my words, so what was I to do? To back out, I would lose all credibility, and all of my writings would become drivel. Men without honor don't do well in the South, and men of honor don't back down from duels."
"So what happened?"
"He missed. I didn't."
"You say that so callously. What did you feel afterwards? You killed him, I'm assuming."
"He died, yes. I was sad, yes. But it's not like it was murder; the fight was fair, and it was at his behest. Besides, someone who would kill over philosophical opinions was probably better removed from society before he caused more trouble."
"He was a life though. He loved and was loved."
"I don't doubt that, although he had no family to speak of — just his ideas and his money. But life was a game to him, or at the very least a contest. If he couldn't be the winner, of moral arguments or anything else, why bother with life? A man doesn't go into a duel without something on the line. Our sleeping friend here knows that too. I wasn't there, but Fuchs felt strongly enough to issue a challenge, and the game was on. But life's not a game. To take a life is a terrible thing. But to offer it to be taken, as in a duel, is perhaps even worse."
The words were profound, and I needed a moment to process everything. He went on without pause however. "That's not to say I'm a saint. Two other duels I fought over politics at the others' challenges. One was not terribly serious — one shot for each combatant. My man nicked me in the arm." He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a long scar along the entire forearm. "The other man I killed. But, as I said, the others initiated those. Like our fight and Di Luca's death." 
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The bastards crucified a drunken man along a road for all to see. They killed him in a tortuous execution reserved for the basest of characters. They bled his hulk dry and left him for his friends to find. Without cause, without injury, they started a fight and killed a man. Do I need to go on?"
I shook my head. "And us?"
"We fought in defense of our lives from an ambush by these same devils. There is nothing comparable between the deaths we caused and Di Luca's slaughter. They instigated; we reacted." 
I paused for some moments, only breathing. I'd need more time to ponder that. Demurring, I steered the conversation elsewhere. "You mentioned four duels earlier." 
"Yes. The first three others started."
"But the fourth one . . ." I guessed.
He smiled sadly. "Yes. No man is above his own ideals, and I can be a hypocrite too. In the wake of Lilly's death, life ceased to be enjoyable. I've mentioned before that I didn't avoid death, but it came to avoid me. Regardless, no one will insult her memory in my presence without revenge." The comment hovered in the compartment, neither of us responding for a very long moment.
At last, I grinned. "You're a surprising man Jacob Douglas. Remind me to keep you where I can see you."
He laughed, the mood lightened. "Suppose we should wake our sleeping beauty?" 
I laughed but shook my head. "Let him sleep. We all deserve it." Logan had been in and out of consciousness for hours now. Our train had left Rome without incident, and the rest of that afternoon was spent admiring the passing countryside. As with the trip into Italy, the varied landscape and beautiful architecture remained stunning. Eventually, the sun had dipped, and blackness fell. The night had passed quickly, but as dawn crested the horizon, our friend had continued his sleep, allowing Jacob and I the chance to converse. All told, it had been a pleasant journey, a needed escape from the carnage of Rome. 
Now though, as I peered through the glass into the dawn, the landscape had changed. Deep forests surrounded us, and I could almost imagine the clash of Romans and the German tribes, battles long forgotten, and tears uncountable. In every passing tree, drops of dew were falling towards the ground, creating a false sense of rain. Occasionally, a deer would raise its head, sensing the train. Some would bolt, their instincts dragging them from the onrushing unknown. Others would stand, proud and defiant. People were rare, but several man-made paths led through the forests. It was clear that the area was inhabited.
Looking up, I regarded my companions. For his part, Logan continued snoring, the hero embodied. I smiled at that thought. Jacob was engrossed in a newspaper. 
Fleeing from danger and fighting it when the chance had arisen, we had formed a fast bond, the three of us. Friendship is always a powerful tie, but in this case, it was deeper, stronger. I knew that either of these fellows would die defending me, and I felt the same for them. A person reads all sorts of similar rhetoric in history: David and Jonathan, Alexander and Hephaestion and whatnot. But books spoke of a bond where each surrenders himself to become almost one with the other. To me, this had always sounded like propaganda to puff up the subject's ego and reputation. Now, I realized it was all true.
After staring out the window for a while longer, I looked at Logan again. Then I spoke to Jacob. "Maybe now we can wake him. I've no idea where we are, but Teimsfeld can't be too far ahead." When asked, the ticket-master had been more than helpful in describing Riktenburg; he was a native of that small kingdom. The train, we were informed, would be in the capital by midmorning.
Jacob leaned over and shook our friend. Several more attempts finally roused him. Logan jerked awake, his face twitching in excitement. He mumbled incoherently before he got his bearings. "Good morning gentlemen," he murmured, stretching. "You've had a pleasant night's rest, I take it?" 
"Shorter than yours," answered Jacob. 
"Welcome to Germany!" I spread my arms towards the window, all the world like a dramatic performer. Ignoring me, Logan drew out some bread and cheese from a small rucksack. He began to snack, and after a moment, he offered the food around to us. We passed several minutes enjoying the simple fare in silence. 
Our reverie was broken as an employee rushed down the train's corridor. He shouted "Teimsfeld, ten minutes! Teimsfeld, ten minutes!" 
"That answers that question," said Logan between bites of bread. My pulse quickening, I swiveled my gaze towards the window. Even then, the forest was beginning to clear, the trees becoming smaller and more infrequent. They were being replaced by open swathes of ground. Along the horizon, a range of mountains loomed above the train, casting its majestic shadow over the land. The occasional farmstead and cultivated field dotted the landscape, and we finally began to see people. These were invariably poor peasants. They scurried about, ensuring that the farm's chores were all accounted for, and the animals and workers would be ready for the day. I watched them, transfixed. Even as we studied them, these laborers ignored us as our locomotive hurled by.
In an instant, the fields and pastures were replaced. The transition was so quick I almost missed it. One moment, the scenery was an idyllic picture of country living, and the next, buildings of every size surrounded us. Logan shouted in excitement, and a brief laugh escaped Jacob's lips. Like my friends, I was impressed. The buildings were beautifully constructed. Many had traditional German frames. Angular lines sloped to distinctly pointed roofs, shudders were framed expertly, and many homes had a turret attached to the building, almost as an afterthought. Shades of pale yellow and earthy browns adorned everything. Alexandra Klein had not been false. Riktenburg was a stunning land in many aspects.
Letting the cushions draw be back, I smiled, glimpsing Teimsfeld. This city would offer us answers; we would discover, at long last, what the Faith was and why the scoundrels were hounding us. Besides, it would offer the chance to meet more of the enchanting Klein family. If Mercedes' father was anything like his other relatives, our visit would be enjoyable as well as informative. These thoughts pooled about my mind as the train slowed, its engine hissing. At last, we were at rest once more.
"Come on Logan." I called, standing. "Let's see your lover's homeland!" His ears turned red, and he pushed me back into my seat good-naturedly. 
"She's not my lover. Yet," he called over his shoulder. Striding after him, Jacob and I exited the compartment in his wake. The corridor was filled with passengers. Teimsfeld was the main destination on this line. We struggled past them. It helped not having luggage; we'd left that in our compartment, hoping to hire help to cart it to Mercedes' home.
 Reaching our car's exit, we paused, the others looking to me. In a prearranged plan, I was to leave first, look for the Faith, wander around for a bit ensuring our safety, and call the others. Meanwhile, they would wait, weapons ready for any trouble. We didn't expect a gun battle in such a public place, but given the Faith's presence at the station in Rome, we were taking no chances. Being kidnapped once more was not on the agenda. 
I stepped down, shivered, and drew my waistcoat around me. Hunched down, I walked about, avoiding eye contact and shifting my gaze. The distinctive bowler hats were missing. Rising to my full height, I lengthened my stride and returned towards the train.
A hand grabbed my shoulder. 
In an instant, I whirled about, a knife clutched in my fist. Concurrently, my other hand shot out, grabbing the man and shoving him to the ground. The blade lunged towards the throat of my attacker but froze, waiting. It was a youth, no more than twelve. His eyes bulged, and his skin was the color of faded parchment. In one hand, he held a handkerchief. 
"S-sir," he said weakly. "You dropped this." He offered my faded cloth towards me, and I raised him back to standing height. Spluttering apologies, I ushered him away, my cheeks coloring. 
I turned as Jacob and Logan wandered towards me. Logan could barely walk he was laughing so hard. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he weaved, clutching Jacob for support. Even Jacob chuckled a bit. I just crumpled my lips. "It wasn't that funny." 
Logan wiped away a tear. "You should have seen your faces. We watched him come up to you, and as he reached out to tap you, I turned to Jacob. 'This'll be interesting,' I said. Next thing we know, you're practically murdering the boy. All for a handkerchief!" He broke off as he collapsed into another fit of mirth. 
"Nice move though," spoke Jacob. 
"Thank you," I said dryly. "Now, if we've collected ourselves, shall we?" 
Logan bowed. "After you, Great Warrior." I puffed out my chest and strutted off, giving them their show. They caught up eventually. Finding porters for the luggage was no difficulty. In fact, the men we selected even knew the Klein's household.  Our new friends were apparently well regarded within Teimsfeld. Trusting the laborers to their work, we left the platform, walking into the city. Sitting on the train for hours had left our legs sore. It felt wonderful to amble the streets once more. 
"At least we lost the devils. The sooner we find out about this Faith cult, the better it'll be for all of us," I said. 
Jacob shot me a dark look. "Not so loud. Mercedes was too scared to even whisper about them in public. It wouldn't do for us to be shouting their name through the streets." 
Logan said "Good point. Any advantage we can steal is worth our while. Maybe, for once, they won't know where we are." 
"Or maybe we've just been lucky in not seeing them yet. It seems out of character for these men to misplace their quarry," said Jacob.
I chuckled. "I have faith in them yet." The others groaned, and the conversation lulled at that point. None of us had seen Germany before, and our eyes began to wander towards the scenes around us. The Grand Tour had brought us through two major cities thus far. Each was packed with crowds of residents, and the sounds were almost overwhelming. In Paris, vendors had waited along the Seine, hawking their wares. Rome had revelers abounding. All told Paris and Rome were raucous. Teimsfeld was decidedly different. The street we walked along was narrow. Cobblestones flowed unevenly under our feet, and wagon and carriage traffic was scarce. I couldn't remember how many times we'd needed to step out of the way of a cursing driver in Paris. 
It was different here. No one was cursing. In fact, much of the street was silent. We could see several vendors, yes. But they were mostly women, dressed in humble, durable garb. They sold fresh vegetables and fruit or bread piled high in wicker baskets. Dogs, domesticated not wild, circled their masters, begging every passersby to pet them. Children ran about, their innocent squeals a din amid the relative quiet. Water, perhaps from a recent rain, trickled through grooves in the stones, forming puddles in the low places; the children raced through these, splashing about wildly. Homes of brick, wood, and mortar lined the street. Some were brightly painted in shades of blue, but most were covered in modest earthen tones of brown, yellow, and dull red. None stuck out in size or architecture. They were all similar, and I guessed that that didn't bother a single Riktian. 
On the homes were carvings of all kinds. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Proud warriors waited, their beards twisted and braided like the barbarian chieftains of old. Ornate circlets of wood wrapped about columns. Crafted birds seemed animated to flight, escaping from their prisons of pine and oak. Each home was a work of art, while still maintaining its air of simplicity. In Rome, homes like Di Luca's towered over the streets, spreading their marble walls to clasp the riches of their residents. Here, homes were for living. I was coming to like Riktenburg very much. 
We walked, silent in admiration, for several hours. We could have hired a carriage, but the allure of a new city was too strong, and I was enjoying our decision. All the while, we made our way towards the Klein's home. No one expected us. To be honest, we didn't even know if Mercedes would be home. She had been leaving the morning after the ball. In theory, she should have arrived before us. We had left hours after her, but travel can be rife with delays, and there was no guarantee that the woman would be home. It simply wouldn't do to barge in upon her parents with no introduction. If Mercedes hadn't arrived, things would be awkward. 
Finally, after receiving the pleasant help of a passing merchant, we came to the home. The place was large but not sumptuous. I had no idea how well a minister of war would be paid, but I was surprised that the home was not larger. Of course, it would certainly be large enough to host us. We could see at least two wings in the building. Regardless of the simplicity of other Riktian dwellings, this one was smaller than I had pictured for a powerful figure in government. It didn't matter though. Striding up a small staircase, we knocked on the door. The wood reverberated before being swung open. 
A beady-eyed fellow peered up at us through half-moon glasses. He smiled pleasantly, then spoke, "Good afternoon gentlemen. Welcome to the home of Mister Joseph Klein, Minister of War for His Majesty King Martin III." The greeting sounded polished and practiced, almost as if it had been given for years and years, which I'm sure it had. 
"Thank you sir," said Logan, extending a calling card. "My name is Viscount Logan Harling, and my companions are—"
"Ah!" cried the valet. "Miss Mercedes mentioned you would be along soon enough. Come in! Come in! You are expected." He disappeared back into the gloomy doorway. Peering inside, I shrugged towards the others and followed the excitable servant into the home. 

Chapter XI

The Klein home was airy and smelled faintly of pines. As the servant led us through the paneled corridors, I realized that the place was built like a square. After a while, we passed through a pair of wide, thick doors back into the blinding sun. The square was hollow, for an open courtyard spread out before us. Around its perimeter, I could see several other doors leading into the house. A single, wavy birch tree rested in the center of the courtyard, and small cobblestone paths wound through a grassy lawn. As my eyes adjusted to the sunlight, I noticed three figures resting under the tree, lounging in comfortable chairs. Seeing us, Mercedes rose. She dropped her book listlessly and began walking towards us. The others moved as well. By the resemblance, they were her parents. 
The servant stamped his foot. "The Viscount Logan Harling and his companions." Bowing, he took his leave of us. For her part, Mercedes rushed forward and hugged Logan, whose face broke into a wide grin at her touch. As he tried to form words for an appropriate acknowledgment, the woman offered Jacob and me the same familiar embrace. 
She paused then. "Friends, you've no idea how worried I was. I had hoped you would come soon."
"My lady," said Jacob, "how could we not? Your quick departure left us all curious. Then, with what happened after the ball . . ." 
Mercedes looked up, her forehead creasing in worry. Before she could say anything though, her parents reached us. The man was dressed in a grey, finely pressed uniform. Gold braid hung over the shoulder and several medals adorned his breast. He certainly looked the part of the minister of war. Mercedes offered our names and obliged us with introductions in return. "And these are my parents, Joseph and Adele Klein." 
The three of us bowed formally. Rising, I shook her father's hand. "Sir, your daughter was gracious enough to invite us to your fine home. We've already enjoyed your Riktenburg heartily, and we know that will only continue." 
He smiled in return and shook hands with the others. "I received a telegram from my brother in Rome. He mentioned you've been through quite an adventure these few weeks but didn't elaborate, and our Mercedes refused to comment without your presence. We've been eager to meet you. Marcellus spoke quite highly of you, and I trust my brother's judgment." He paused for a moment. "Ah! Here they are." 
As the man spoke, a group of servants was setting up more chairs under the tree, as well as a small table of refreshments. Logan glanced over to me. We grinned. Everywhere we went to, fine foods seemed to show up. Then Joseph led the group towards the birch tree and waved each person to a chair. I noted with some amusement that he placed Adele and himself between our group and Mercedes. 
Noticing our sidelong glances towards the food, Adele tisked. "You boys have been traveling for hours and probably haven't had a decent meal today. Don't be shy." Needing no more encouragement, we selected several treats and tall glasses of wine before again settling into our chairs. 
Mercedes laughed playfully at us. "And you were so timid in Rome. Bring them home and rascals will do anything!"
However, Joseph wasn't much for small-talk, it seemed. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees expectantly. "Now lads. What's your trouble? If we can offer any help, just say the word. Like I said, Marcellus was taken with you. He's a good judge of character, and I won't be the one to argue. Let's hear it," the man said. 
Logan took the lead and briefly explained everything that had occurred since our departure from England. The duel elicited cries of shock from the women and an appreciative nod from Joseph. When he told about the Faith's pursuit, though, Joseph's face grew longer and longer. Finally, my friend related the particulars of our ambush after the ball and Di Luca's murder. Mercedes, who hadn't heard this news, turned completely white, and I was half afraid that she would faint before its conclusion. "And so, sir, we've come here seeking answers at your daughter's behest. Who's chasing us? What is this Faith exactly?" Logan finished in a rush, and it was quiet for several moments. 
Finally Joseph sighed. "That's quite a tale. Certainly found your adventure, didn't you?" We chuckled politely as he continued. "I suppose it's probably best to just start at the beginning. If you'd like to know about the Faith, I can tell you. It's a long story, and very dark in many places . . . but I can tell you." 
"Please, sir. If it's all the same to you, we'd like to have some advantage over these scoundrels, and knowledge is about all we can get at the moment," said Jacob. 
The man sat back, taking a very long pull from his glass of wine. Then, reaching a decision, he spoke quickly. Throughout the long conversation that followed, his wife and daughter spoke not a word. "The French Revolution wasn't that long ago, but it changed everything in Europe when it happened. Politics, warfare, social classes for sure — the Revolution changed all of them. But for now, I want to focus on two things: religion and the monarchy. You see, the Revolution threw out the Church. The French priests and bishops were corrupt, didn't really care for the poor, and they had to go." He chuckled. "Of course, we Germans figured this out three hundred years ago, but that's neither here nor there. No, the Catholics were deposed, and France became agnostic. This troubled people. Many nobles, and not too few peasants, didn't like the change. They didn't approve of the Catholic Church's oppression, but they also didn't enjoy the new French government demanding that they give up their religion. What happened next was worse. How can a revolution, by definition a huge shift in a country's government, occur while the king still lives? You all know that it couldn't. Louis was called a traitor to his people, and they killed the king. Naturally, some groups were upset by this as well. The two groups coincided; those who clung to their faith didn't like seeing the king guillotined by an angry mob. The result was the Faith."
The man paused for a drink. Then he continued, warming to his tale. "I've heard several stories about their beginnings. Most agree that it was a collection of young nobles. They were sick of the changes, tired of the Revolution, and scared for their own necks. If the mob had killed the king, who might be next? Of course, these lads were right, and the Terror followed quickly after. So they formed a group. They were devout Catholics and ardent Royalists. As a combination, that makes for fierce loyalty towards tradition. 
"These men wanted the reinstatement of the Bourbons and the Church without compromise. They wanted a return towards the divine right of kings. God had selected the Bourbon house to rule, and who were the French peasants to say otherwise? Even if the monarchy could be harsh, it didn't matter — the kings were God's elect and to say otherwise was blasphemy. 
"With these goals in mind, they came up with their name, the Faith. Using masks and not at all opposed to violence, these noblemen saw themselves as God's vigilantes, God's righteous judgment on a heathen country. They began stirring up all sorts of trouble throughout the country. They were responsible for prison breaks, allowing dozens of political prisoners and un-collaborating clerics to escape. They robbed government coaches, stealing countless letters and untold quantities of gold. They attended balls and assassinated outspoken revolutionaries. The Faith came to be feared. On a wider scale, these men encouraged the revolts among the Vendeans and the Chouans. Everywhere, these rogues were popping up and sowing violence and discontent. 
"Of course, the government did not sit idle. As the Terror grew, so did hunts for the Faith. Gendarmes smashed down doors, and troops raided chateaus to no end, but the ringleaders couldn't be located. Some members were captured of course. Those poor bastards were tortured within an inch of life over and over again, but they refused to give up their brothers. Nonetheless, they received the guillotine for their bravery. When Napoleon arrived on the scene, he too tried to stamp out these malcontents. The robberies of government coaches decreased but, even so, it was difficult finding members of the Faith. They were well-informed, and the suspected parties were never around when arrests were attempted. Napoleon's plans did little to quiet the devils. In fact, the Faith expanded with his conquests. 
"In Spain, Naples, the Duchy of Warsaw, Germany, and elsewhere, these men recruited. What began as a tiny group of young nobles soon became an entire network. They weren't selective either. If a person believed in the divine right of kings, he could become a Courtier, or what members of the Faith called themselves. People of all social orders and classes flocked to the Faith. Although it was never a massive organization, it far outgrew the band's original logistics. As I said, it was now a network, not a brotherhood. And with networks come leaks. 
"Napoleon used these, and the Faith lost many men, even as France was being pushed back, losing the Napoleonic Wars. Of course, the Faith kept harrying the government until the day Louis XVIII took control. They had finally gotten what they wanted. But when Napoleon came back from Elba, the Faith started their antics again. They snatched government missives off the highway, and supply-lines were obstructed by these religious saboteurs. They'd brought back God's anointed once; they could certainly do it again. 
"And they did. Napoleon was again exiled, this time to that tiny rock, St. Helena. And the Faith was over in France. But the Courtiers were not finished everywhere. Not all of Europe was back to the way things were before the Revolution. No, the Faith couldn't rest yet. People began to grumble again, and other countries had changed their governments. This simply wouldn't do. The Faith set about righting these problems. From country to country, the Courtiers worked. Slowly, they removed leftist radicalism and restored the monarchy to its proper place. And they spread once more. Now, in Spain, the Italian states, and the German states, you can find the Faith. When they acted during the Revolution, the Courtiers wore masks, hiding their identities. It wouldn't do for townspeople to see their faces and report their neighbors' crimes. Masks allowed for secrecy. Nowadays, that's changed a bit. The Faith have taken on a new way to identify their membership. Did you see any of them wearing bowler hats?" 
Jacob nodded. "Out in public, they all had them. And each had a silver diamond on it as well." 
"Yes, that silver medallion, invariably presented as a diamond shape, is their crest. If you get the chance to look closer, you'll find it's more than just a diamond. A cross is etched into the diamond, stretching the entire length and breadth of the shape. The expansive cross represents God's right to choose. The symbol stretches out and down, like God's omnipotent power. The diamond represents man's role in leadership. The top point is the monarchy, closest to the head of the cross, and consequentially, the head of God. Next, the two middle points of the diamond are the monarchy's support: the Church and the Nobility. Finally, the lowest point is the peasantry. As a whole, the symbol is a reflection of the social order according to the Faith. With the absolute monarch at the head of things, everything is in order, so to speak." We nodded. In an objective sense, this was all very intriguing. I just hoped I wouldn't have the chance to see the symbol again.
Logan said "Obviously, they've survived until our time. But why are they chasing us?"
"Oh yes, they're still around. As to their pursuit, that's part of the Courtiers' philosophy. It was the same during the Revolution. Those who exposed the Faith didn't last long. Their mutilated bodies were often found within days. It didn't matter if the deed was accidental, legal, or anything else. The rules were simple: if the Faith was harmed, harm would be returned. In your case, a legal, honorable duel happened. Logan, you killed Otto Fuchs. We'll come to that later, but you gentlemen most certainly harmed the Faith that day. I mean no offense, but I'm actually quite surprised you're still alive."
Before we could ask more about Otto Fuchs' dealings with the Faith, the man continued. "So, they are still active, and their mission is still the same. At least, in part. Except now they've adopted an even more stringent view on absolutism. Placing the various monarchs back on their thrones used to be the main objective of each Courtier. Now, the Faith wants to ensure that each king represents their station correctly." 
"Correctly? What do you mean by that?" I leaned forward.
"An absolute monarch must rule absolutely. Kings must not give one jot what others think or do. The power rests completely and indisputably in their hands. Just think of Louis XIV. Modern trends have shifted towards a restricted, or at least subdued, monarchy. For example, the king is no longer able to destroy people's lands simply because he wants a new palace there. 
"The Faith doesn't like this shift. It doesn't conform to their divine right philosophy. If a king doesn't have the power to do as he pleases, as God wills through his actions, what good is that king? In recent years, the Faith have begun putting heavy pressure on the monarchies to take up their absolute rights once more. They've come in conflict with progressive governments, and the Courtiers have resorted to their practiced violence on many occasions. And this of course explains their work in Riktenburg."
Logan held up a hand. "Please forgive our ignorance, but how did they affect Riktian politics?" 
"Well, you know that Riktenburg is a monarchy. It has been for centuries now, and like many old kingdoms, absolutism was once a practiced art among the Riktian kings. Like many of his peers, our current monarch, King Martin III, practices restraint. He won't be absolutist. In fact, he finds the entire concept laughable. He sees himself as the people's leader and not their oppressor. He's even enacted many new policies towards progressive politics. We're a meritocracy now, more or less. Scores of his ministers and high officials are the sons of millers, tavern-keepers, and farmers. If a man can succeed by his own drive and talent, his bloodline doesn't matter to King Martin. I mentioned that the Faith hasn't taken kindly to Martin's shift in governing style. That might be putting it lightly. In the last decade, more than a handful of ministers have wound up murdered, government coaches have been robbed, and a bomb destroyed part of the royal palace."
"Good heavens! And the Faith hasn't been ousted from your borders by now?" I cried.
"That's just it," Joseph said, sighing. "There's never any connection to the Faith. A few men have been captured in connection with these crimes, but nothing ties the Faith to these men; they're completely clean. The irony of it all is that King Martin refuses to exile or arrest Courtiers without legal proof. An absolutist wouldn't think twice before shooting the scoundrels. He may know that they're as guilty as sin, but without evidence, he refuses to act. All the while, the devils keep up their work. It came to a head about a year ago. And here, young Harling, is where you and your ill-fated duel come into play." He winked at my friend, who perked up at the mention of his name. 
"Your Otto Fuchs is the brother of one Aloysius Fuchs." The man looked expectantly towards us all, perhaps hoping for some sign of recognition. There was none. "Aloysius Fuchs had been a longtime advisor to the monarchy and a sort of Riktian celebrity besides. The man first made a name for himself upon the stage. He is a renowned actor, and his impersonations are incredible. The man is a genius in that respect. Politically, he was also very astute. It came as no surprise that King Martin used his knowledge extensively when he first took the throne. Fuchs was more than willing to help, and he didn't shy away from the power he was given in turn. Eventually, the man was promoted to be the minister of finance. And that's where things started to go awry."
Jacob said "He's a part of the Faith, isn't he? He'd have to be, given his brother."
Joseph tapped one finger lightly against the side of his nose. "Just wait for the story; you'll learn soon enough. So, Fuchs was now a minister, and a powerful one at that. Yet, in Riktian law, the king is able to do what he desires. He is the king after all. His ministers are there to provide assistance and advice, and occasionally attempt to dissuade the king from acting. But a few years ago, Martin began introducing massive new policies. The changes all came from the king's tour of our rural districts. But before I continue, how much do you know about Riktian farming?"
We shrugged helplessly. I thought about mentioning that we saw farms as our train passed through the countryside, but I didn't think that would be helpful. 
The man nodded. "I figured as much. Let me explain. Like much of Germany, our soil can be fruitful and the forests are plentiful. People have worked hard for their wages for centuries on family farms. The countryside is full of history and life, but it can also be a land of great suffering and long toil. In recent years, the condition has improved. Riktenburg has experienced the same boom in industry and technology as England and our neighbors. Advances in agricultural production, as well as technologies have led to better crop intakes and a safer work environment. Given the multitude of new machinery, producers have had to be competitive in selling their tools. Thus prices are low, at least in theory. 
"On his tour about the countryside, the king noticed that the recent increase in farming technology hadn't helped everyone. In fact many farmers, especially the peasant laborers, were continuing to use the same old equipment, even though newer, better farming implements were available for reasonable costs. The king wanted to know why these peasants were still struggling and working much harder than necessary. Why was the new machinery being ignored? So, after returning to Teimsfeld, he looked further into the laws surrounding the countryside. At the end of it all, he found the financial laws to be rather . . . interesting."
"Perhaps a certain minister was fixing prices?" I asked.
"You would be correct. We didn't know at the time how involved Fuchs was with the Faith. That only came to light later. But for the moment, the king found that newer farming technology, as well as seeds, building materials, and land were all incredibly taxed. A levy was placed on all of these items. The end result was the poverty and suffering Martin had witnessed on his rural tour. Aloysius Fuchs is many things, but stupid is not one of them. He cited all manner of legal clauses and longstanding practices to make the taxes appear right. He talked endlessly about social control, propriety, and bizarre economic theories, but the king wouldn't have it. In fact, Martin wandered around the palace for weeks in consternation. If such crippling taxes could be levied without his knowledge, what else might be going wrong in the kingdom? 
"Taken aback by Fuchs' taxes, King Martin began examining other parts of the kingdom. It turned out that Fuchs and several other ministers had implemented laws to belabor the lower classes everywhere. With taxes, mobility restrictions, and business limitations, the Faith had gotten their hands deeply into installing their social order. For a time, King Martin turned into a raging absolutist; the Faith should have been proud. He shifted new laws, ended corruption, threw out old clauses and regulations, and generally made life better for all. Of course, that included the peasantry as well. 
"In a word, Fuchs was livid. He protested at every advisory meeting. He whined through backchannels and even pled with the king in private audiences. But it did nothing to change Martin's mind. The king was furious at having his affairs changed discreetly by Fuchs and others. Finally, it became so heated that the two took to shouting at each other. Truth be told, it was embarrassing. The king respected Fuchs for his assistance when he first took the throne, so Martin was reticent to punish him, regardless of his secretive dealings. Eventually it just became too much. Fuchs was removed from his office and disgraced. He left quietly, but we feared what the man would do next. 
"You guessed it earlier. Fuchs was a Courtier. He was a relatively high member while a minister, but his political downfall shot him to power within the Faith. Courtiers lauded him for his resolve and applauded his commitment to keeping the social order. Soon, he was the leader of the Faith. In the king's government, we were shocked. Martin was amused. He saw Fuchs' increasing involvement in the Faith as a hobby for the disillusioned, disenfranchised politician. What none of us saw was the danger.
"Within several months of Fuchs' downfall, a rash of crimes began all over Riktenburg. Peasants were struck down in the streets and government officials were robbed. Then, a bomb went off in the royal palace. 
"It was incredible and terrible all at once. I was at the palace that day. My office shook with the blast, and we raced into the hall, swords drawn to defend the king. As it happened, we weren't needed. He was emerging from his own chambers, having fallen asleep for a nap and was completely unharmed. The map room, however, was not. The king normally spent much of his afternoons there. Where the room had been, a gaping, smoking hole had awaited our arrival. We stared in shock at the mess and the view out into the royal gardens that the collapsed wall had exposed. Instantly, shock turned to rage at the thought of the assassination attempt. A hunt for information went out through the kingdom. Those responsible were to be caught and made an example of. But nothing conclusive came up. As I mentioned, the Faith was completely blameless in all of this — not one shred of legal evidence could pin anything to them. King Martin grew pensive. Then he grew resolved. While he hasn't been able to convict the Faith, he has been able to vex them.
"After the bombing, the king began even more radical shifts in policy. Before, he was mobilized by economic good-sense. The peasant farmers were using poor machinery to produce poor outputs of crops, and the kingdom was harmed as a result. Social equality wasn't in his agenda. After the attack, things changed. Meritocracy was swept in. Now, ministers, administers, bureaucrats, military officers, and the like gain their position through skill, hard work, and raw talent. Fuchs and the Faith want the absolutist ideals of social hierarchy by bloodline. King Martin wants a kingdom run by the best people. It has taken time, political machinations, and even violence to bring this about, but changes, fundamental changes, are being enacted."
I looked at Logan. What we'd seen at Versailles had been the epitome of opulence and oppressive social castes. Riktenburg was actually working towards new, radical goals. People could be equal in this little kingdom. The idea was wonderful. I began to smile. That grin faded though as Jacob held up a hand. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry, but this simply doesn't line up. If I have it right, the Faith is for absolute monarchy, yes?" 
Joseph nodded patiently as my friend continued. "Yet, the Faith also approves of acting without the king's knowledge, as in the case of Fuchs' taxes. It's also in the habit of resisting the king's will. Finally, the bomb. Would they go so far as to murder the king?" 
"Good heavens, that's their intention. If they could kill Martin and take control, they'd do it in a heartbeat."
"Doesn't that violate their notion of God's anointed king?" Jacob pressed.
"Perhaps I didn't explain it well enough. Are you familiar with the Old Testament?"
We nodded. Religion had been a strong part of our upbringing. The fire and destruction of the Old Testament had been drilled into us by many instructors, as well as our parents. 
"What happened when the Kings of Israel turned to evil? God replaced them with new kings or allowed Israel to be conquered by someone else. The Faith apply that same principle to their ideology. They are the change God demands when a king violates principles like the established social order."
I jumped in. "What about Louis XVI? Wasn't his death a sign that he wasn't ruling justly?" 
Joseph smiled sadly. "The Courtiers are full of contradictions, aren't they? Regardless, to the Faith, the Riktian situation is becoming unbearable. Most people don't recognize the danger brewing around us, but my troops are preparing. There's bound to be another attack on the king." He sighed. "Sometimes, I almost wish King Martin would act without evidence and arrest the whole lot of Courtiers. Unlike the old days, it's far easier to spot them now. They strut about with their silver diamonds like they own the country. Our troops are watching them, but they've five decades of experience in sabotage and secrecy. We can guard King Martin well enough, but the rest of the government is at risk too. The Archduke's been away on a hunting expedition for several months now. I doubt he even realizes how dangerous things have gotten recently." 
I interrupted. "The Archduke? The king has a brother then?" At this point, Mercedes chuckled softly. I hadn't heard a word from either of the women, so it struck me as odd. When I turned back to her father, even he was smiling. "What is it?" I pressed. 
"Of course the king has a brother. He has a twin. Phillip and Martin are the most famous pair in Germany." He indicated his family. "We're just surprised you haven't heard of them."
I chuckled. "Well, to be honest, we haven't had much experience with or knowledge of your kingdom at all, but we're certainly coming to enjoy it." 
"So Archduke Phillip has been away hunting?" Jacob asked. 
"Oh yes. Riktenburg is, under normal conditions, a peaceable country, so the Archduke has had lots of freedom to pursue his hobbies. He's not expected to handle a great load of state business, and he's not greedy for power. His ambition is limited to reaching the height of expertise in the skills he's chosen to focus upon. He's an avid sportsman, and you'll not meet a better fencer. The man often travels during the summer months. King Martin loves his brother greatly, and the two are perfectly content in their respective positions. Of course, the Archduke is sometimes called upon to run things while his brother is away or hosting international delegations. There's still pomp and circumstance for the younger brother. Phillip likes that too. He's a jolly man and quick to throw a lavish party, but he's not caught up in the social nets of the court. As I said, he's often absent from Teimsfeld. But his trip this season may have been unwise.
"Things are heating up in Riktenburg. Even after the attack on the palace, Phillip refused to change his plans. He'd been looking forward to hunting bucks in Switzerland for years, and he'd finally chosen this year for that occasion. I even spoke with him personally, but the man was firm — he was going to hunt. So be it. Who am I to stop him? He's taken a bodyguard of course. The royal family doesn't travel without one, but how twenty dragoons can protect the man against all the unforeseeable disasters out there, I don't know. We can only pray that he sates his thirst for the hunt soon and returns to Teimsfeld quickly. The kingdom needs him now more than ever." As the man paused to take a sip from his wine, I heard a rustling of grass. 
A servant ran past me. His brass buttons bouncing, he raced up towards Joseph and bent towards his ear, whispering something I didn't catch. The minister's face brightened but then his brow furrowed and his grin dropped. He nodded towards the servant and then smiled over at his daughter. For her part, Mercedes was staring at the servant as the man trotted away through the courtyard. Turning in my chair, I could see a woman standing at the edge of the courtyard, just inside the house. As the servant reached her and nodded, she practically ran towards our group. I heard a gasp; Mercedes was smiling wildly now. 
"Eva!" Mercedes called. She rose quickly but paused at something, worry creasing her face. Turning, I looked at the arriving woman. 
For a terrible, beautiful moment, my being was transfixed, and breath would not come to me. If Mercedes was stunning, this Eva was divine, angelic. Short, but lithe, she moved gracefully across the lawn, her black tresses flowing in the small breeze. Her face was flushed and nervous, but her eyes radiated kindness. I smiled at her. She noticed me, and our gaze met. Then she froze, a flash of horror and recognition dancing on her face. I had no time for contemplation on that though. Mercedes bounded up and hugged her. 
"Oh, Eva, it's been ever so long. I can't wait to hear—"
"There's no time," Eva gushed, her breath ragged. Breaking out of the embrace, she faced Joseph. "They're going to murder the king. Today."


Chapter XII

"Eva, slow down. What's going on?" The minister looked worried but also nonplussed. 
The woman's halting breath continued to heave as she explained. "Sir, there's no time! The king may be dead already. Fly! Fly to the palace and tell him."
Joseph grabbed her by the shoulders. "Tell him what exactly? We haven't seen you in months, and now you show up with this threat. What's happening Eva?"
"I've been with them for months now. Kurt and I are — were — lovers. It's over though now. They're killing King Martin, and I won't be a part of it." 
I held up a hand. "Pardon my forwardness, but who is 'they'? Where have you been? Who's Kurt? Who are you?"
Her eyes flashed towards me, annoyance written on her face. She ticked the answers off on her fingertips. "In order, I'm talking about the Faith. I was with the Courtiers of course. I've been in France and Switzerland for months now. Kurt Weber is a Courtier, one of their best. And to you, I'm a friend that saved your life." She nodded towards Logan. "His too." We looked at her dumbly. "Remember the rock that flew through your window?" she urged. 
"Wait, that was you?" Logan sputtered.
"Yes. But we don't have time for this." She turned again to Joseph. "You have to warn the king. I don't know the details, but Fuchs is going to assassinate him today."
The lines on Joseph's face hardened. "Eva, what did they say, exactly? What are we dealing with here?"
She pursed her lips, her eyes rolling up in recollection. "They've been acting in secret for weeks. I was with Kurt and the Fuchs brothers. We traveled around to Paris, Luzerne, Bern, other places I don't remember. After he killed Otto," she shot a finger towards Logan, "some of them went on the hunt for these two, but Aloysius, Kurt, some others, and I returned to Riktenburg. The night of Otto's death, they were furious. That some young blood could kill Otto was a complete effrontery to them, and they were all calling for your deaths. I didn't like it at all. It was Fuchs' own fault; no one needed to punish you two. Kurt wouldn't hear my protests though, so I went on a walk through the streets. They had your address, and I overheard it. Your rooms weren't difficult to find. I saw you two walking about upstairs. I warned you, and you lived because of it. But that's beside the point right now. 
"Like I said, a group of us returned to Riktenburg. We've been in the countryside for a month, at an estate. I wasn't allowed to go everywhere. Certain wings were off limits to me. I wandered into one by accident once, and Kurt was livid. I thought he would kill me. They never told me why. 
"I did start noticing that an extra plate of food was always reserved and carried away from the table at meal times. It was all very odd. Also, I kept hearing snippets of conversation from the staff. They were always talking about 'the guest.' Of course they would whisper, and I could never catch much.
"Then one night, Kurt and I were walking along the grounds. The west wing was forbidden to me, and I never saw anyone enter it. It seemed like it was abandoned. But as we walked about, I saw a light! A lone candle lit up a single window along the second floor in the west wing. All the others were dark. Inside, I could see vague shadows moving about. I asked Kurt about it, but he dodged the conversation and quickly led me back inside. Of course I grew even more curious. What was in the west wing? Why couldn't I go there? Why did everyone grow testy when I mentioned it? And who was this 'guest' the staff mentioned?"
"All very interesting questions," broke in Joseph. "I assume it was a prisoner, yes? Who was it?"
She nodded. "I couldn't ask anyone, but that was my guess too. I finally walked in on a conversation between Kurt and Aloysius. Two nights ago, I heard them talking. Like most evenings, they'd been drinking. That night, they were completely drunk. I walked by the trophy room and heard them shouting and laughing at each other. I was going to walk on, but I heard my name. 
"Kurt said, 'And poor Eva will never find out.' right as I passed the room. There were double doors leading inside, and they were almost completely shut. Only a crack let the sound carry out. Of course I stopped. I checked about, saw no one, and set my ear against the crack. Fuchs spoke next. 'He's been here for weeks, and she hasn't guessed. Besides, I don't even know if we can trust her anymore,' he said. 'Remember Paris? No, it's just as well she never learns. Suppose she tries to talk to him. Or worse, tell the king. The last thing we need is another botched plan. The bomb was supposed to work without a hitch.' 
"Kurt laughed then, darkly. It was the cruelest sound I've ever heard of out the man." Eva hesitated, her lip trembling slightly. I wondered how long these two had been lovers and how recent the separation had been. She forged ahead in any case. "He laughed and then spoke again. 'When you're king, it'll be easy. Shouldn't be difficult. You've played harder roles.' I heard another laugh then. It must've been Aloysius because he shouted. "I have, haven't I? I've been an old woman, an English gentleman, beggars, thieves. Playing a king won't be difficult. Especially not with such a willing tutor!' They both guffawed, and Fuchs continued. 'Who better to teach than the king's brother?' Kurt roared and spoke. 'You've enough practice now, I think. Your walk is becoming just like the king's. And the makeup is impeccable now; no one will ever know. Think of it! Learn from the twin, kill the king, and finish off the tutor! Foolproof. Two days from now, you'll be Riktenburg embodied, and the new king might just have a change of heart about a lot of things." They both exploded in laughter. There, in the darkness of the corridor, I shivered. I'd heard enough, and I dashed away. 
"As soon as I could, I made some pretense to go to the village nearby. Kurt insisted on accompanying me, but I lost him in the town square. It was market day. I caught the first train to Teimsfeld, and here I am. Now, you've heard my story. They've kidnapped Archduke Phillip, and Fuchs will kill the king today. I beg you, please warn the palace." Eva stared hard at the minister.
Joseph's entire frame paused as he mulled over her words. Finally, he released the air and sat up. "Right," he said. "We'll discuss your taste in men and how you came to be with the Faith in the first place later. For right now, thank God for your damned foolishness." The man turned towards us. "Gentlemen, are you armed? Will you accompany me to the palace?" 
Jacob spoke first. "Sir, we have pistols but no swords." He looked at Logan and me. We nodded and he said, "But we are at your service."
Joseph stood. "Good. That will do. We're going." He clutched Eva's hands in his own. "My girl, Riktenburg thanks you. You may have saved the kingdom." 
"They won't thank me if you're too late."
"Very well. Gentleman, we'll take my carriage." As we strode across the courtyard, the women huddled together in conversation. Just as we entered the house, I saw Eva collapse into a chair, drained. For my part, I was enchanted by the mysterious woman. She appeared without warning to offer grave tidings, and yet, she possessed a certain flair and dignity that I found altogether irresistible. But there were more pressing issues for the moment. Courting would have to be postponed. 
The minister alerted his servants and urged them to make speed. We loaded and checked our weapons as the carriage pulled up. Without a moment's hesitation, Joseph leapt into the vehicle, and we followed. The carriage pulled away and began winding its way through the streets of the capital. After the rush of activity, we sat in silence, resting for long moments. Finally, I gathered my courage and spoke. "Joseph, this Eva. Who is she?"
He smiled sadly. "Our Eva Myasnikov is the daughter of the Tsar's ambassador to Riktenburg. Her family's been in the good graces of the Russian government for decades now, so Eva has grown up in Teimsfeld almost her entire life. She and Mercedes met long ago at a royal ball, and the two have been inseparable ever since. However, in recent years, the girl has taken to certain dalliances, and we see less and less of her. A beautiful woman, undoubtedly. Sometimes though, she allows her affections to get the best of her common sense. Thankfully, that's a blessing today." 
I nodded, glancing out the window absentmindedly. The mysteries continued. Eva was not even German. I let my mind wander as the streets raced by, a blur of motion. The passersby stared in open astonishment as our carriage careened past. The streets were rising slightly, and by the look of the houses, we were entering the oldest part of the city. Mason work and ornate wood-crafting bedecked every building. Had we not been so distracted and our travel so rushed, it would have been a pleasant trip. 
Logan cleared his throat, bringing me back to the present. "Do we have a plan, minister? Eva heard the men, yes. And they were to do the deed today. But what are we doing? Double the guards? Will the king be spirited away?"
"We can only warn him," the older man responded. "Knowing how thickheaded Martin can be, he won't run. Of course we'll post more guards. Our immediate job is to make sure he's safe. Next, we'll try capturing the scoundrels in the act. After that, we'll need to talk with Eva more. If she's right, this is absolute evidence of the Faith's guilt, and the king will have no qualms in acting. Eva will tell us where they've lodged and who the members are. God willing, this whole fiasco might settle down after this. There it is." He pointed ahead out the window. 
In comparison to the unassuming buildings around it, the royal palace was massive. The space around the citadel had been cleared, and the emptiness accentuated the building's magnitude. Painted in a pale yellow, the foundational stones of the palace rose up, looming above the grounds. Gardens and small groves dotted the space, and everything was circled by a tall metal fence. Around this perimeter, I saw guards on watch. Some paced back and forth, fine sentries. Others manned small guardhouses, muskets leaning against their shoulders. To me, it looked impenetrable. 
Our carriage raced up to a gate along the street, the only opening through the massive perimeter fence. As we neared it, I shuddered as I saw the top of the fence. Spikes hung forward at a sharp angle. Anyone attempting to climb the structure would need to twist their body almost parallel to the ground to climb around and over the jutting spikes; King Martin was well protected it seemed. Laughing to myself I realized the absurdity of that thought.
At the checkpoint, a royal guard approached the carriage's window, and Joseph leaned out, speaking first. "Soldier, alert the guards! There's to be an assassination attempt on the king today. Sound the alarm and bring me to His Majesty." 
At the announcement, the guard just stared at the minister for a long moment. He was dressed in black, his uniform perfectly arranged. A single scarlet stripe ran up the outside of his trousers, and scarlet tassels on his shoulders and his hat waved in the wind. At his side, an impressive saber bounced, and a wickedly pointed bayonet waited on top of his shouldered musket. More than six feet tall, the man was a prime warrior. And if my guess was right, he was just another common specimen of the royal guard.
Finally he spoke, his voice an efficient rumble. "Minister, those are some heavy claims. We'll sound the alarm, but if it's false, I look to you for explanations." The minister made a bow of gratitude from his seat. The carriage was let through and the guard rushed over towards his commander. This new man uttered a quick curse before mounting a nearby horse and dashing across the grounds towards the palace. Our carriage chased the messenger as we raced to inform the king of the danger. 
Stopping before a wide, long set of stairs leading into the palace, the minister threw open our carriage's door and bolted for the palace. Given his age, I was impressed. The three of us attempted to keep up with the man. Ahead of us, the messenger had dismounted and was practically sprinting. He held his hat and loped up the stairs. Reaching the palace's great doorway, he saluted the guards who stood watch. Still climbing the steps, I glimpsed the messenger exchange some words with his counterpart. Even at a distance, I could see the shock register on the sentry before he too flew off into the palace. Our group finally reached the stair's summit and faced the waiting party. 
"I'm sorry, sir, but the palace is closed as of this moment. There may have been a security breach." The sentry tried to block our passage. 
Joseph huffed. "Out of the way, you! I'm the minister of war, and if His Majesty needs to see anyone right now, it's me. Besides, you wouldn't have a damn clue about any breech if we hadn't just spoon-fed you the information. Step aside; I'm going to see the king." 
Taken back by the ferocity of the man's words, the sentry moved aside. Joseph didn't wait for him to change his mind as we rushed forward into the palace's main foyer. Two winding staircases led up to the upper floors, and a long corridor opened before us. On either side of the halls, countless doors opened into unknown rooms. Around us, servants milled about carrying things, cleaning, and maintaining the efficiency of the building. Bureaucrats wandered the halls, chatting. More guards stood at attention. Elsewhere, a group of soldiers strode into the foyer from a side door. Then, suddenly, a deafening, monstrous clanging filled the room. Somewhere out of sight, a giant bell was being rung.  I glanced around at the sound, but paused instantly. Everywhere, the soldiers had drawn their swords and lowered their muskets. They accosted bureaucrats and servants. They began rifling through each person's possessions and clothing. This alarm was not something to be taken lightly. 
The squadron who had just entered approached us. Their officer, his saber drawn, looked disdainfully around the group before speaking. "Gentlemen, what is the meaning of your presence here?"
Joseph drew himself up. "To see the king. Without us, you'd never have known about the plot or have any reason to raise the alarm. Do you know who I am?" 
I held back a chuckle as the officer tried to answer. "Of course I do minister," he stammered, "But—"
"Then you will take us to the king. Now. I'm no traitor, and I'm not about to let the king to die for your ineptitude." Blustering, the man was a force to be reckoned with, and the officer agreed without further protest. The squad spread out around our group, and we marched down the long corridor. 
Seen from the outside, the palace was large. From the inside, it was a labyrinth. At the end of the main corridor, having passed at least a score of rooms, we reached another foyer. It was a mirror image of the one we had just left, and we took one of the winding staircases up several floors. Reaching the top floor, three more hallways arched out in different directions. Without hesitation, the officer took us to the right. Our heels clicking on the polished marble, we had little time to enjoy the numerous gilded frescos and mosaics that graced the walls. We passed more doors, and I was becoming thoroughly lost. Joseph seemed to know the way, for he didn't look surprised when the officer suddenly opened a nondescript side door and ushered us inside. Once more, we found ourselves facing three more corridors. Now, we took the left and continued the journey. At first, this hallway was like all the others. Doors lined each side, and paintings bedecked the walls. Then, the corridor came to a sharp curve. Up to that point, windows and the occasional lamp had lit our path. In fact, I was impressed by the lighting. Many of the large buildings I'd visited were dark and stuffy. 
But as we turned around the curve in the corridor, the light disappeared. 
With shock, I realized that this entire corridor had been lit by a single window. No lamps hung on the walls. Yet, with the curve, we were thrust into complete darkness. The officer leading us did not pause. Instead, he walked boldly into the gloom and we followed. I was feeling a bit nonplussed when I heard a shouted 'Left!' from up ahead. I pondered this for only a moment until I walked headlong into a wall. Claustrophobia grabbed hold of me, and I could almost see horrors descending out of the darkness. We were trapped in some dark hole! As my breath grew ragged, someone grabbed my arm. 
"Turn left," Logan whispered in my ear. It was one of the most reassuring sounds I'd ever heard.
"Ah," I replied sheepishly. My terror dispelled, I turned left and continued walking through the darkness. For the next five minutes, our leader called out directions and we turned one way or another. With a guide, the route was relatively easy. Without help, it would've been a nightmare. By the time some assassin made their way through this maze, a group of eager soldiers could be ready and waiting at the other end.
At long last we turned a final right and came out into sunshine once more. This time, several skylights filled the hall with warm patches of light. A large set of double doors waited at the end of the corridor. Three guards stood outside it, but otherwise, the space was abandoned. Without pause, the squadron's officer led us forward.
The three guards at the end of the hall presented their muskets warily, but our leader waved a hand. "Albert, you know who I am. I've the minister of war with me. Step aside." The sentry lowered his weapon, knocked on the large door, and swung it open for us as he moved out of the way. 
We made to enter, but the officer held up a hand. "I'm sorry, minister. I know and trust you, of course, but I don't know these men. I'm sure you're willing to vouch for them, but given the situation, we must take precautions. If any of you are armed, I must have your weapons." Joseph tried to protest, but the soldier cut him off. "Sorry sir, but it can't be helped. Surrender your arms, or I won't lead you to the king." 
Grumbling, the three of us withdrew our pistols and handed them over. 
I laughed as Jacob took out a second revolver, as well as a wide knife from his boot. "I come prepared," was all he said. 
The task accomplished, the officer moved out of the way, and we bustled inside. I expected a dark, well-protected bunker in the midst of the royal palace, complete with barred doors, locks, and guards bristling with guns. What we found was a spacious chamber. Light again shone down from various skylights and windows. One whole wall contained numerous panes which provided an expansive view of the palace grounds. Elsewhere, another half dozen guards milled about. Several men stood in a corner conversing. Then, as my eyes continued to track across the room, I saw the king. 
He was perched like an owl upon a small throne in the center of the room. He possessed piercing eyes, cropped black hair, and a sharp, long goatee and mustache. He was hunched over in his chair, his arms resting on his knees, as if he was sulking. I'd never met a monarch before, but King Martin III was not exactly what I expected. He was handsome enough, and he bore the look of command, but he seemed not the bombastic, raging man I had expected of monarchy. Weighed down with melancholy, apathy, or something else, this king seemed resigned. I'm not one to judge regality, but this king was surprising. 
Upon our arrival, the room froze. The few guards reached for their weapons. The conversations ceased. Even the king perked up at the new development. Joseph walked boldly forward and bowed low to the king. Following in his wake, we did likewise. 
"Your Majesty," said the minister. "I raised the alarm. My apologies for disturbing you, but we have reason to believe there will be an attempt on your person today." He paused, apparently remembering us. "Allow me to introduce my companions. Viscount Logan Harling and Nathaniel Fletcher hail from England, while Jacob Douglas comes from America. They have offered their services in defense of the crown today." We bowed again at the introduction, but the king seemed not to notice. 
"I'm honored. Thank you for your willingness," he said distractedly. He turned instead to the minister. "Now, Joseph, what is the meaning of all this? I know caution is key after the bombing, but I was practically kidnapped from my own tea table by the guards. Ushered here and told to wait, I know nothing. What is going on?" 
"Majesty, we learned only this morning of a dangerous plot against you. It didn't come from my channels but from my daughter's friend, Eva Myasnikov. Yes, the Russian ambassador Aleksei Myasnikov's daughter. To mince matters, she fell in love with a Courtier and only just escaped their grasp. She's been living with them for months. Your brother has not been hunting. He was captured somehow and is in their possession in the Riktian countryside. We don't know how, and I don't know where yet. Eva can be questioned on that later. Right now, it was imperative to ensure your safety. While among the Faith, Eva was with the Fuchs brothers. Incidentally, the Viscount here killed Otto some weeks back in a duel. The Courtiers have been chasing them since." The king nodded towards us, a new appreciation in his eyes.
"But that's all beside the point. Eva overheard Aloysius describe a plot to assassinate you. The man plans to murder you today and impersonate you himself somehow. With his theatrical skill, you know that wouldn't be difficult. Besides, the two of you already look alike — same build, same facial structure. If he killed you in secret today, he could impose his own will. All your changes would be lost."
At the news, the king sat straight up, his vulture-like stoop forgotten. He spoke, his phrases all in a rush. "Good heavens!" he cried. "This is too much! Phillip was in Switzerland. I've gotten numerous letters and telegrams from him these last few weeks. They came from Zurich and Bern, not Riktenburg. And you say he's been captured? And they wish to impersonate me! Whoever heard of such nonsense?" He paused for breath, his eyes dancing about the room. "Well, at least Eva reported it all. Now that we know, we must rescue Phillip. I shudder to think about what they've been doing to him."
"Your Majesty, if what Eva says is true, we have evidence. We can finally arrest these traitors and move on with our lives in peace." Joseph paused. "But we have to catch them first. What's been done to secure the palace?" 
At the question, a thick man in uniform stepped forward. He'd been conversing in the corner, but now he walked towards the throne. Joseph whispered to us, "That's General Von Richtofen. He's in charge of the palace's security."
The general bowed to us formally and faced Joseph. "Minister, the palace has been secured as we discussed. At the alarm, our first task was to spirit the king away to the secure room here. That done, all guards on leave were recalled and deployed throughout the grounds. Checks on all persons were conducted, and searches for suspicious objects, signs, and intruders were undertaken. No visitors have been allowed to enter, and the army staff has been notified. Lacking further information on the threat, we haven't done anything more." 
"That's admirable work, general. The king is well protected here, and our planning was well worth it. Fuchs won't be able to get to us here without some difficulty. We're safe."
The double doors flew open, and with muskets cracking, all hell broke loose. 

Chapter XIII

An explosion of sound and smoke ruptured my senses as the entrance doors swung on their massive hinges. My reflexes still worked, however, so I threw myself to the ground, the popping of muskets reverberating through the room. Laying prostate, I took a second to look about. 
The scene was pure chaos.
At the door, more than a dozen men, all dressed in the garb of the royal guard, had taken up a firing line and were shooting down the occupants of the room. Elsewhere, others returned fire, and men dropped, screaming on both sides. The king had been grabbed by someone and thrown into the corner of the chamber; above him stood two guards, reloading and firing as fast as possible. Of course, my friends and I were powerless to resist. Like me, Jacob and Logan had dropped to the floor, preservation taking the lead over courage. 
Smoke from the musket fire was filling the room, and the enemy shot volley after volley into our group. Around us, defenders of the king huddled behind the limited furniture, returning fire when possible, but it was clear to all we were outnumbered and outgunned. Little by little, our forces dwindled. 
"Cease fire!" a voice called out of the smoke. To a man, our attackers lowered their muskets. Our men didn't, and the enemy paid for their hesitancy — two men cried out in pain and dropped to the ground as our shots found their mark.
The king cried "Hold!" before anymore shots were fired. 
The enemy voice spoke again. "Surrender Your Majesty, and no one else will be harmed. 
As shouts of defiance and rejection arose from our side, I looked to the king. About him lay the dead who had thrown themselves between him and the withering fire. He was still huddled in the corner, his clothing askew. A strange silence descended upon the chamber.
King Martin rose, gathering what dignity he could find. He marched forward, striding into the center of the room. Around the monarch, spilt blood dripped and pooled through the grooves of the floor-stones. A pungent taste and acrid smell of gun-smoke hung in the air. Mixed with the silence, the scene was ethereal. King Martin opened his mouth to speak, forming a response to his attackers.
I watched the following scene as if from afar. Vaguely, I noticed movement from the enemy firing line. Then, as one, a report from a musket filled the room and someone cried "Treachery!" The king spun about from the ball's momentum, and the deep wound in his shoulder began adding to the pooled blood. His body bounced as it hit the ground, sliding across the wet stones. Cries of horror and wordless yells of rage arose from our side.
The remaining defenders charged our assassins to a man. As for my friends, we leapt towards the king. In the background, I could hear men dying and weapons discharging. Yet, these sounds were only a distraction. Royal blood soaked into my trousers as we knelt before the wounded king. He smiled sadly up at us, clearly in shock.
Then, all of a sudden, I registered the silence in the room. This thought came an instant before rough hands dragged me to my feet and a blow from a musket butt sent me back down into the mire of blood and gore. Jacob, Logan, and Minister Joseph were thrown next to me. No others survived. All lay sprawled about us, lifeless eyes reflecting in the sunlight descending from the skylights. 
Above us, our attackers loomed. Four of them had bayonets resting inches above our throats, begging us to resist them in some way. As I mentioned, each man was clothed and armed in the uniform of the royal guard, and given their recent performance, all were adept at soldiering as well. 
Nearby, the wounded king struggled to sit up. I watched two of the enemy assist him in this, dragging him to a kneeling position. The monarch clutched his shoulder, and the wound continued to pulsate, gushing scarlet blood onto the floor. I was surprised the man was still conscious.
"Well, gentlemen." The smooth, distasteful voice that had offered surrender earlier spoke once more. The speaker moved out from behind the group of attackers. Even knowing the details behind the plot, it still caught me off guard. The approaching enemy was the king! At least, he had every appearance of being Martin. His green eyes smiled at the victory, and although stained from battle, his long goatee and black mustache were identical to their counterpart. Mask, makeup, or magic I wasn't sure, but for whatever reason, the man whom I assumed to be Aloysius Fuchs looked all the world to be King Martin III of Riktenburg. 
"Valiant, foolish gentlemen," he repeated. "Did you really think you could stand before the will of God and not be crushed?" His words dripped like honey and tasted like bile; I loathed the bastard. 
Jacob scoffed. "If I recall your ideology, sir, shouldn't you respect God's anointed, not assassinate him?" 
"And from what I've learned about you Jacob Douglas, you don't even believe in God anymore — theology lessons from a heathen, indeed. Regardless, we have business to settle first."
He turned towards the kneeling king. "Your Majesty," he said, his frame bowing in scornful mockery. 
"Phillip?" asked the wounded man stupidly. In answer, Fuchs drew out a revolver in a flourish, cocked it, and put a single ball through the helpless king's head. The monarch's body collapsed like a sack of wheat, the rest of us too shocked to utter a sound. 
"Long live the king," said Aloysius with a chuckle. Laughing still, he dropped into the throne, crossing his legs. The laughing ceased as he swiveled his gaze towards us. I wondered if the man might be insane. 
He blinked at us several times before speaking. "Friends, countrymen . . . traitors." With the last word, he shot a single finger at us. His face was gleeful and had the boasting air of one who had just won a lengthy debate or sporting match. "Here's what's about to transpire: As you have apparently found out, the Archduke is currently in our possession. His brother, the king, is dead. We all know that. But the palace doesn't. Teimsfeld doesn't. Riktenburg has no idea. But the best part is that none of them ever will. After your trial and execution for this treasonous murder, the whole ordeal will be long forgotten."
"What?" Logan spat his defiance towards the villain. For his troubles, a Courtier kicked him in the chest, driving him back onto the bloody stones once more. 
"Silence, you cur! You dare to disrespect the king!" the other man spoke. At his words I took another look at him. With shock, I realized he was the man who'd chased us across the train platform in Paris; his massive facial scar was just as hideous in this country as that one. 
Fuchs held up a hand. "Not too violent, Kurt. They have to look at least decently presentable for the public trial. And of course, who wants to see an execution where the victim's worthlessly broken?" Kurt nodded. Given his status, I didn't believe it could be a coincidence. This must be Kurt Weber. I was only surprised at what Eva ever saw in him. He was ugly and cruel as well. For his part, Kurt stepped back. But the bayonet on his musket never left Logan's throat. 
Fuchs continued. "As I was saying, you'll be executed for Phillip's murder. A tragic ambush in the woods of Switzerland. The poor Duke went to hunt the deer but found himself the prey instead. As to that wretch," the imposter pointed towards the dead king, "We'll simply throw him in some unmarked grave." He moved his gaze towards Joseph. "Ah, yes. And our lovely Minister of War Joseph Klein. Now, minister, you'll be continuing as you are." 
Joseph sputtered in protest. "I'll do no such thing, you dog!" Kurt moved to kick him, but Fuchs again held up a hand, clicking his tongue as well. 
Lowering his arm, the imposter continued. "Oh yes you will. At this very moment, your lovely, precious daughter is being whisked away. Some Courtiers made their stop by your home just a few moments ago. You were one of the keys to the kingdom we needed. If we'd have replaced you, people might have become suspicious. No, no. You'll be working with the new government. Or rather, the same government; there hasn't really been a change. Same king and all." 
Joseph made a wordless growl at the back of his throat. I put a reassuring, halting hand on his arm. It wouldn't do to be shot now in some idiotic attempt at revenge. Fuchs let his foot sway, kicking the boot of the dead General von Richtofen. "It's too bad about that one though. I was hoping we'd be able to keep his service. He did know so much about the palace. We stole his wife from their home too. Oh well, easily remedied," Fuchs said. "We'll find a replacement."
He sat back, staring at us for some time. I leered back. He cackled and said "The only problem I find with you all is your lack of vision. You're from the upper classes, for heaven's sake! Don't you long to have things back to what they were before the Revolution? Before Robespierre, Danton, and all those other heathens filled everyone's minds with heresy? God built the social order for a purpose. People like you and me have been bred for leadership. We're above the other classes, because we've been divinely designed to be. That's the Faith. God didn't want the prideful peasants ruining His order. It's an order that's lasted since Christ was on this earth. Who were they to believe they could step in and change His world? No. It won't do. But what's worse are traitors like you and especially our recently departed king. Martin was whoring himself to the masses. By divine right he ruled. And by divine design, he was removed. God gave us the victory today. Remember that. We don't act alone; we carry out His will. God wills it." 
What began as a small chuckle on my lips exploded into a guffaw. "You're mad. You're simply insane! Have you even read the Scriptures? The Messiah's message was about loving your neighbor, not subjugating him into poverty or raising up one man above another to rule them all." 
Fuchs' face visibly darkened. He leaned forward, almost standing out of the throne. "Well spoken for a peasant. I'm not surprised that you cannot grasp the meaning of the Gospels, lower class scum that you are. Please leave the interpretation for those who actually know what they're reading. Regardless, I grow tired of this. You will never learn anyway. Instead, you'll be meeting God soon. Kurt!" He called, standing. 
"Your Majesty?" the other man bowed. 
"Send a messenger; it's time we killed off the baggage. Have Phillip's body brought to the palace, and arrange an honor guard for the occasion. Also, call off the alarm. It's obvious that no plot was attempted here today. Elsewhere though, Riktenburg mourns the loss of one of her royal brothers. Otherwise, it's business as usual. We'll set about changing policies soon enough." At his words, Kurt dispatched two men to carry out Fuchs' orders. 
Then, the pretender turned to Joseph. "Minister. You'll return to your home for the next few days. Be warned. You will be watched. If I so much as suspect you're acting out of line, I will have Mercedes tortured to within an inch of her life. If you continue, it'll only worsen for her. Believe me, Joseph, the Faith has long been well-suited to such a thing. We can keep her alive to suffer more for a long, a very long time." He turned to the Courtiers. "Let's be off." 
Rough hands grabbed me and dragged me to my feet. Looking down, I saw my clothes were in shambles. Blood coated my attire in several places, soot had smudged everything, and several cuts from our rough treatment were already appearing. If presented correctly, we certainly would look the part of treacherous assassins. They bound us of course, but Joseph was free to walk as he wished. However, we all knew that he now had a terrible, human chain. They'd taken his daughter, and he didn't dare risk her life. 
Several Courtiers stayed behind to clean up the mess and gather the bodies. I noticed them remove a long black cloth from a sack they carried. As we exited the chamber, they wrapped the king's body in the cloth; he became a faceless corpse. No one would miss or ever find him. Shakespeare was never so tragic.
 The imposter led the way, his gait impeccable. He carried himself regally, the top half of his body never moving. His hand gripped a sword at his side, and the uniform he wore was easily recognizable as a royal military outfit. I had little doubt that the Archduke Phillip had suffered much before he revealed how the king moved and dressed and acted. But, with time and the Faith's apparent talents, anything could be learned from a prisoner. 
They forced us down the hallway and into the maze once more. I had expected the men to stumble through the darkness as we were without a guide. However, they seemed to know the path as well as the guard, now dead, who lead us before. Fuchs, at the front of the procession, called out the various turns, and we followed. Exiting the darkness, we continued down the long corridors, turning when necessary, and generally taking the same route we had walked earlier. We descended the winding staircase and emerged into the massive main hallway. 
Now, servants and passing soldiers began staring at us. Guards were everywhere, and the buzz of curious conversation filled the hall. Fuchs leaned over to Kurt. "I told you to cancel the alarm," I overheard him say. 
"I did, my liege. They're returning to their stations, I'm sure. We'll make your announcement, and no one will know." I found it interesting that the Courtiers were already playing their roles. To a man, they referred to Fuchs as royalty, even though they all knew the truth about his disguise. 
The group continued its pace, ignoring the blatant stares and whispers. I saw more than one person pointing at us. I walked proudly; they could frame me, but they couldn't make me guilty before my conscience. All the while, I looked for some way out of the mess, and I was sure Logan and Jacob were doing likewise. We reached the entrance to the palace at the end of the corridor. Instead of halting, we were lead to the winding stairs there and traveled back into the upper floors. Reaching the next level, we were thrust through a massive double door. 
It was the throne room. 
People milled about, the latest court fashions flashing. The walls glinted with gild, and the polished wood floor squeaked as we moved. Frescos loomed above, and various candles flickered along the walls. Two large skylights revealed the morning sky, casting large swaths of light into the giant room. Guards lined the perimeter, but a messenger flitted about to each, and slowly, groups of soldiers peeled off and exited the throne room. Kurt had done his job. We'd soon be without guards loyal to the real king. Not that it really mattered though. The real king was dead, and no one would believe a word we said. A man who dressed, looked, and spoke like the king was leading three bloodied captives into the throne room; in a duel of credibility, we were decidedly unarmed.
Reaching the dais, the king paraded up the steps, leaving the Courtiers to guard us. He raised his arms, and the room fell silent in an instant. When he spoke, I panned the crowd, hoping to see some sign that they knew him to be false. I saw none. 
The masterful imposter raised his voice, encompassing the space. "My friends, I come before you with a heavy heart. You must be wondering at the alarm that was sounded this morning. Unfortunately, that messenger was mistaken. There was no plot to kill the king today. Instead, another messenger arrived with the most heart-wrenching news. My brother, your Archduke Phillip, has been murdered."
A collective gasp filled the room, and horrified whispers danced around the space like the sounds of hornets. The false king again held his hand up for silence. "Yes, my dear friends. Phillip is gone. But take heart. He will not go un-mourned, and he will certainly not go un-avenged! For look there!" He pointed a long, accusing finger at us. Around us, I could feel the gaze of every attendant turning to stare at the battered captives. Their rage was palpable.
Fuchs continued. "Yes, Riktians. We have the murderers. You know my brother loved the sport of hunting, and he often spent summers away from us. Yes, even this summer he went to find stillness amid the fields and forests of Switzerland. To spare you the details, these men, foreigners from America and England, lay in wait. As my brother hunted the deer, they hunted him. And they succeeded. Their motives are base, their actions monstrous. But know that judgment will be swift. For now, let us mourn our lost, and remove these dogs from our sight." 
They spat curses at us as the remaining four Courtiers led us away through the crowd. I looked over my shoulder to see Fuchs being comforted by various courtesans and officials. 
"Bastard," I muttered. Then, we were back in the halls of the palace. Now, however, we descended. I can't recall our route, for we were shoved and prodded along through many doors and corridors. Eventually I could tell we were underground by the dank, thick air. We came to a hallway, lit only by lamps. Doors lined the wall. Some were barred, but not all looked to be entrances to cells. 
Our captors paused. "Where do we put them?" said one, a burly man with a thick beard. 
"I don't think it really matters," answered his compatriot. "Kurt just said to drop 'em in the dungeons. It's not like they'll be here for an extended time." 
Before the first man could respond, an ear-wrenching scream filled the hall. It was followed by a voice crying "Oskar! Oskar, help me!" Then, the screaming resumed. I looked around furiously. The sound reverberated around the corridor, but it seemed to come from one of the rooms. Then I noticed the thickset man. His eyes were wide, more shocked than all of us. 
"Do you think she means you?" a Courtier asked him stupidly. 
"And who else would she mean!" said Oskar, his hand fumbling with his musket. His face clouded for a moment, then cleared in an instant. His decision made, he raced to the nearest door and threw it open. 
"Help me Oskar!" The keening was deafening. The summoned man was flying from door to door back down the hallway, throwing them open. Apparently, he found no one inside, because he continued to each door without pausing. Finally, he threw one open and hesitated. 
The scream sounded again. It was a terrifying echo. Oskar looked through the door, then turned back to face the other Courtiers. 
"It's a big room. There's only one lamp at the other end, and I can't see anything besides that. The screaming's from inside though." Another shriek cut him off. When it subsided, he resumed. "Watch them close! It's our necks if they escape." With that, he dashed into the room, his musket lowered. 
The remaining three guards stared at us. "If you three had anything to do with this . . ." said one. We shrugged in confusion.
"Not us. We can't scream that high," said Logan, a cocksure grin on his face. 
An eerie silence fell then. The screaming had subsided, and Oskar's movements had died away in the dark room. 
"What's taking him so long?" asked a Courtier. 
"He'll be a while longer. A lot longer. Drop your weapons," spoke a woman's voice behind us, further up the passage. Our guards wheeled about. 
Eva stood there, a cocked revolver leveled at the Courtiers.

Chapter XIV

Eva moved the pistol back and forth, aiming the barrel at each guard in turn. Despite their shock, our captors hesitated and held onto their guns — not surprising, really. Fuchs would probably kill them for their failure.
"Ah, ah ahh," she said as one man twitched his musket. "Try it and you'll end up like Oskar. I said drop them." They still hesitated. Eva didn't. She flicked her arm and shot the nearest man in the arm. His weapon fell as he clasped the wound and screamed in pain. "I'm not joking. Drop them!" Eva spat. The others complied. "Now step back," she finished. 
As they backed away from the guns, the wounded man leaving a trail of blood in his wake, I dropped down and snagged the bayonet from one musket. Although the edge wasn't incredibly sharp, it worked well enough to saw away the rope binding my arms. Once free, I assisted the others. Eventually, new muskets in hand, we became the captors. 
"Now what?" asked Jacob. 
"We lock them up, and get the hell out of here," snapped Logan. With that, he barred his musket towards the Courtiers."Which of you dogs has the keys?" The tall one offered them without a fight. Eva's violence had made quite an impression on the group. In addition to the key, we pulled three more revolvers off the men. Next, we thrust them into the nearest cell, locking it without ceremony. Hopefully it would be hours before their plight was discovered. 
I turned towards Eva. "Thank you. They came for Mercedes. How did you escape? How did you come here?"
She grinned. "Russian women don't back away from trouble. They did come for Mercedes. I had only just left the house when a carriage raced up. Half a dozen men rushed towards the door. I recognized one of them from my time with the Faith. Of course, they wore nothing distinctive. None of them even had the silver diamond displayed. But I knew that man, and I knew it meant trouble. They burst through the Klein's door, and within moments, were dragging an unconscious Mercedes back out into the street. They threw her in the carriage and raced away. I ran back inside, passing a weeping Adele. I hugged her but wouldn't stay. I dashed to the hunting room, grabbed the first revolver I found, loaded it, and raced here by hired carriage."
"Forgive me for saying this, but you shoot quite well, especially for a woman. I haven't met many women who can shoot," said Jacob. 
"You're from the American South." I chuckled. "Not many belles are handy with a pistol." 
"And you've never been to Russia," said Eva laughing. "Apparently your alarm was lowered because they let me in. You know my father's position, of course. It allows me free access to much of the palace. I arrived right as you were being led into the throne room. I heard Fuchs' lies and his order to take you to the dungeon. Another benefit of being an ambassador's daughter is that you come to learn the palace well. I took another route and beat you here. Then, I hid myself in that room and waited until you arrived. I saw Oskar leading you up by the throne room. The ugly brute's hard to miss. So, when I heard you passing here, I started screaming his name. The buffoon searched for me, just like I anticipated. He's not dead, don't worry. I just clubbed him in the dark. We'll have to toss him in with the others. Anyway, that room is long and runs parallel to this hall. There's another doorway further up the passage." She pointed. "I came out there, in front of you and snuck back. The lot of you were so distracted it wasn't difficult. The rest you know." 
"And now we have to leave," I broke in. Looking down at my appearance, I grimaced. "Our wardrobe's not exactly the best, is it?" Logan and Jacob looked as bad as I did. It wouldn't do to escape once and be captured, which I feared should we leave in our present state. 
"Right," agreed Eva. She smiled wickedly. "I imagine we could find a change of clothes." Without further delay, we snatched Oskar's unconscious body and threw him in with the other Courtiers. Then, muskets lowered, we forced them out of their uniforms. In a moment of chivalry, we threw our own clothes to the wretches. They grumbled and shot us loathing looks during the entire exchange, but our weapons held any further revenge at bay. Of course the uniforms didn't fit us exactly, but it was far better than before. 
Locking the cell once more, we moved quickly back up the hallway. We didn't dare leave by the main entrance. Even with the uniforms someone might recognize our faces from before. Since none knew the truth of King Martin's death, we were fugitives among those who should've been friends.
Luckily, Eva was familiar with the entire palace. With her father's position, she had grown up in Riktenburg, and the palace was like a second home. Without hesitation, she led us through various passages and across rooms. Without her aid, the three of us would have blundered around helplessly. But even knowing the layout, Eva took one or two wrong turns, and we were forced to backtrack. Eventually though, we made it to a stairwell. She turned back to face us. 
"Up these steps are the kitchens. At the back is an exit. It's on the exact opposite side of the main entrance. We'll need a carriage though. I arrived by hired coach, and that's long gone."
Logan smiled. "With the uniforms, it shouldn't be difficult."
She nodded. "Remember that you're seen as the murderers of the king's brother. The Riktians love Phillip. They would easily sacrifice their own lives to prevent your escape. We must be careful."
"We must be fast," I said. "This very minute, a messenger is on his way to actually kill Phillip! After we leave this miserable place, freeing him is our next goal. He's king now. Eva, you have to lead us to that country estate. If they've moved him, we're lost. Fuchs strikes me as overconfident. With luck, we can save the new king."
They all nodded, but Eva tapped her foot. "If we're to have any chance of that, we go now. I'll tell you about that estate in the carriage. Have any of you ever driven one? We'll need a driver." 
Jacob raised a hand. "I've had some practice. I assume it'll suffice." 
"Good." Without waiting for us, she turned and took off up the stairs. I was struck again by her drive. This gorgeous woman was unlike any I'd ever seen. Forceful and decisive, she was breathtaking. 
We followed her up the stairs. At each step, we could hear raucous calls from the kitchens above. The buzz of activity grew louder as we reached the top. Eva threw the door open, and we bustled inside. 
Like many of the palace's rooms, the kitchen was simply massive. It being mid-afternoon, the preparations for supper were well underway. Dozens of chefs and attendants rushed about. They called to each other as they stirred delicious looking concoctions. Our presence instantly drew attention. I assumed it wasn't often that three guards, accompanying a beautiful woman, dashed about the kitchens. 
Logan raised his voice as he shouldered through the crowd. "Make way! Make room! We've important business for the king." At this, the chefs cleared our path, and we passed through the culinary menagerie. In all the mess, no one recognized us, and I breathed a prayer of relief as we reached the back of the kitchens. 
A small, very thick door waited. Eva unbolted it, and demurred for us to open it. The thing was surprisingly heavy, certainly medieval, and would have posed a major problem to any besiegers of the castle. It took all three of us to drag it open. We received curious stares for our troubles, but no one stopped us. 
We ambled through the door, not bothering to close it behind us. Spreading before us were the gardens. The tall perimeter fence was still visible, and guards paced back and forth in multiple places. The kitchen door opened directly onto a gravel path that wound around the palace. Eva explained that, among other things, it led from the palace entrance to a barn and stable complex on the grounds. This structure was used for parking the royal carriages, and we'd need to steal one to escape. With her in the lead again, we strode along the path, attempting to look at once official and nondescript. 
Within no time at all, we had reached the barn. Nestled in a small grove of oak trees and set back from the palace, it was faded and in a bit of disrepair. The palace's grounds' crew apparently had more pressing issues to handle. 
More than a dozen carriages waited in the barn. In sharp contrast to the building, these were immaculate. The regal red and black hawk of Riktenburg's crest was emblazoned on the side of each, and the carriages gleamed in cleanliness. The wheels were well oiled, and as a whole, they looked to be sleek and powerful vehicles. Nearby, dozens of horses milled about happily absorbed in their leisure. Quiet conversations filled the space as well. We could see servants shuffling about, performing chores, and generally seeing to the royal horses. 
While Eva, Logan, and I selected a carriage immediately inside the building, Jacob roused some servants and ordered them to prepare the vehicle. Given his commanding voice and impressive uniform, there was no resistance. In less than five minutes, the stable-men were hitching the last of four horses to our carriage.
We heard the crunch of gravel behind us. Turning, we faced the approaching patrol of soldiers as their leader, a lieutenant, spoke. "And what exactly are you doing?" 
The stable-men attaching a massive roan to the carriage paused. Logan snapped at them. "Keep working!" 
I spread my hands to the lieutenant. "We're doing what you see. Preparing a carriage for immediate departure under the king's business and orders." 
"Oh really?" shot back the man, a bushy mustache twitching in agitation. 
"And what else?" I replied. 
"Carriages aren't boarded here. The carriages are all brought to the palace. With a driver. And a detachment of guards. And a general level of ceremony. None of that is present here." His brows were furrowed, and his hand had come to rest on his saber. I found my own hand sliding towards my sword. 
Just then, Jacob noticed the altercation. He stormed over. "What is the meaning of this!" he shouted at the patrol. As the American stomped up, I took a moment to glance at his lapels. Luckily, he had grabbed the right uniform; Jacob was the same rank as our pestering lieutenant. 
"I was questioning your men, lieutenant."
"We'll get to names later," snapped Jacob. "It'll be nice to include yours in my report. Accosting soldiers while they work. Disgraceful."
The other man took a step back. "Excuse me. I was simply asking for details. Carriages aren't loaded here. And where is your driver?" He shot back, regaining his momentum. 
"I'm the driver. And do you have any idea who you're speaking to? Any idea who this is?" He shot a finger towards Eva, who'd been minding her own business. At Jacob's gesture, she looked up, perhaps curious to find out who she was supposed to be. "This," Jacob continued, "Is Madame Fontaine of Lyons." Confusion clouded the patrol's faces. Jacob kept pressing. "Madame Fontaine," he repeated, as if speaking to naughty children. "You don't know her?" he chided. 
"Well, I, uh . . ."
"You apparently don't know much." Jacob was putting on quite a show. "This just happens to be the late Archduke's special friend." Our opponents' faces turned red, and the lieutenant took another step back, his placating hands spread outwards.
"I didn't know. I'm sor—"
"You didn't know. You just jumped in like some trumped up corporal. You didn't ask questions, you simply listed accusations. Let me answer those charges, you incompetent excuse for an officer." He ticked each response off on his fingers. "We're leaving in secret to avoid further embarrassment and sadness to Madame Fontaine. The three of us are her guards. She doesn't need some massive gaggle of troops guarding her right now. There's to be no ceremony. Mourning souls don't enjoy pomp. As to a driver, I'll be serving in that capacity. Who better than the leader of her personal guard? Does that satisfy you, sir?" He spoke the last as a condescending slur. Then without a regard for the others, he held up a hand and assisted Eva into the carriage.
Then he turned back and stared the other lieutenant long in the face. "Now, if you've nothing better to do, keep standing there. I'll take the time to learn each of your sorry names and demote each of your sorry selves back to the sorry ranks you started from! Otherwise, move! Get out of my sight!" By the end, he was yelling, and the patrol ran to get out of our way. Jacob watched them go, stern-faced, until they disappeared around a group of oaks. 
His face broke down into a quiet laugh. "When you've written about clichés, you're able to spot them. That soldier was a cliché. Throw in some new information and surprise him with ferocity, and he'll never know what hit him."
"Good work all the same." I chuckled, slapping my friend on the back. 
Logan came around the carriage just then. "The horses are all hitched, and Eva said we need to go. Now," he urged. 
"Forceful, isn't she?" said Jacob.
"I don't care if she's the bossiest person I ever meet on God's earth. She saved our lives today," I answered. They nodded in agreement before I continued. "But she's right. Let's get out of here."
We climbed aboard the carriage, Jacob taking the reins at the driver's chair. The gravel spit up from the wheels, and a musky smell of dust floated about as we traveled the short path towards the entrance. Unlike the castle, with multiple exits, the perimeter fence possessed only one exit large enough for a carriage. Our problem was now getting through that one exit without being recognized by anyone. In this, the uniforms might help or hinder. If we were challenged for official papers or were otherwise countermanded by another guard, things would get very complicated, very fast.
Jacob maneuvered the vehicle with ease, passing flowerbeds, small ponds, shady trees, and the occasional pedestrian. As we rode along through the extensive grounds, I turned to Eva. "We have to catch that messenger and rescue Phillip." 
She raised a hand, cutting me off. "And in order to do that, you need me to tell you where he is." I nodded, and she went on. "Like I said before, we stayed at a country estate. I'm assuming it belonged to a Courtier, but I really have no idea. I do know where to find it though. It sits a few miles outside the village of Fielburg. Fielburg is noteworthy for nothing really; it's tiny, pleasant, and only occasionally attracts visitors for the rich hunting in the forests around it. Those visitors are nobles. So Martin built a railroad connecting Fielburg to the outside world. Luckily for us, there isn't a connecting line to Teimsfeld. Your messenger can't simply board a train to get there. 
"The Fielburg line is connected to Luden. Do you know of it?" Logan and I shook our heads. She huffed. "Riktian geography should be your next task after saving the royal family. Luden is the second most important city in Riktenburg, after Teimsfeld of course. Luden was the royal seat for a century or two, until a king decided Teimsfeld was more important. They're quite close, really — only half a day's travel by horse."
"If it's so important, why is there no railroad connecting Luden to the capital?" Logan asked. 
Eva rolled her eyes. "In the first place, I'll tell you if you'll stop interrupting. Secondly, you really do have work to do on your geography. There's no railroad yet because of the mountains." She jerked her thumb north. "If you didn't notice, there's a mountain range just north of the city. It's a narrow range and juts between the cities. Really, it bisects most of Riktenburg. It's made transport by rail difficult, although the king was working on connecting Luden and Teimsfeld by rail. Laying track through the mountains is a long process, so for now the two are only reachable by horse or by walking. As I said, it's not a long journey, only half a day, and the route is well established. That messenger has perhaps a two-hour head start, so you'll need to move swiftly. After arriving in Fielburg, the estate is to the west about three miles. There's a small road that'll lead you there. If they haven't moved him, Phillip will be in the west wing. The house is large, but they won't expect you. You have the element of surprise if you don't botch that somehow. That's lucky at least."
I smiled to avoid swearing. "Today hasn't exactly been our day for luck." King Martin was dead, murdered in front of us. Unless we acted quickly, his brother would follow. To the rest of Riktenburg we were still criminals, and Fuchs would now be sure to hunt us down. The situation was grim at best.
She reached over and patted my arm. "Where there's life, there's hope," she whispered. I nodded. Just then, the carriage slowed to a halt. I could hear voices discussing something, but I couldn't catch anything but the tone. Someone was angry. Glancing outside, I saw the fence immediately before us. We'd reached the main entrance, and Jacob must have been arguing with the guards. I swung open the window a crack.
The muffled voices became clear. "I don't care who's inside. You have to have orders to leave with a royal carriage," said an official voice. I couldn't see the speaker, but I was sure he was an officer and apparently a stickler for rules. It wasn't good. 
Jacob spoke up then. "Blast it, man! My orders have come directly from the king! He didn't write me anything. Send someone back to confirm it. Go ahead, bother him while he's grieving! The Archduke's mistress wishes to leave, to be rid of this place for the moment. And you're refusing to grant her some measure of solace because we don't have a by-your-leave paper! Do you really wish to anger the king?" Jacob had slipped into his authoritative role once more, beautifully shouting at the poor guard. I felt bad for the other man. He was only doing his duty.
Another voice joined the conversation then. "What's going on here? Why the shouting?"
Eva's face blanched completely white. "Oh, for the love of mercy!" she hissed. "That's Kurt!"
Logan and I glanced at each other before simultaneously removing and cocking our revolvers. If there was to be a fight, we weren't going to leave Jacob alone. I began breathing deeply, attempting to calm my nerves, letting the supple leather of the carriage's seats fill my nose. The faint earthy musk of the gardens wafted in through the cracked window, and once more calmed, I opened my eyes. 
Outside, Kurt spoke again. "I asked what the meaning of this was. Who are you?" 
"I'm on special orders from His Majesty."
The first voice, the gate guard, joined in. "He said they're taking away Archduke Phillip's mistress. She wants to leave the palace for a time." 
A heavy pause descended before Kurt finally spoke. "The Duke's mistress? A mistress wants to leave the palace?" Silence fell again. This time, it was almost unbearable. I felt my finger twitching on my revolver's trigger. Fight or flight, I just longed to be free of the whole situation. 
"Let's see her," said Kurt at last. 
The carriage lurched as Jacob threw us forward, urging the horses into a gallop. I heard a scream and out my window, I glimpsed several guards leaping to avoid being run over. Apparently, the gate was not barred because I saw that pass by us next. 
"Shoot them!" cried Kurt. Instantly, the crack of muskets filled the air, and faint thuds filled the carriage's interior as the balls found their mark. I leaned out the window, leveling my pistol. In the swirling dust behind us, several guards stood in a firing line. A few reloaded their weapons while Kurt fired his revolver again and again. Behind them I saw another guard running pell-mell back towards the palace. I fired my own weapon a few times, making them duck, but nothing came of it; the carriage was bouncing too much.
As the choking grit began settling into the carriage, and the intensity of fire dropped off, we sat back in our seats, sighing. Just then, a final shot cracked the air, Jacob let out a bloodcurdling scream of pain, and the carriage swerved. Within a few moments, the vehicle had corrected its course. But from the sound of repeated cursing and moaning above us, I feared the worst. 
I leaned out the window, lifting my voice to be heard. "You're hurt!" 
His response was gritted. "Yes. In the back. I'm losing blood like a sieve."
"Damn. Pull over! You can't drive like that."
"The hell I can't. If we stop now, we're as good as caught. I won't be chasing any messengers though, that's for sure. I need . . . I need a doctor, or I won't be chasing anything soon." 
Eva pushed me aside, replacing me at the window. "You can't go to a doctor. We can't risk it. Fuchs will know you're gone now, and they know you're hit. Doctors are the first places they'll check. Can you last five minutes?" 
"Yes," he called back weakly; it wasn't convincing. 
By her face, Eva didn't believe him either."I know a priest. There's a monastery nearby. They travel the city, healing the poor. They'll help you, no questions asked." She shouted direction out the window, and we wound through the streets, seeking the monastery. 
I could almost feel the chase being roused at the palace. Any minute, swarms of horses would be filling the city, looking for the carriage and hunting us. These loyal soldiers didn't know they were aiding a regicide, but it didn't matter. Killing us in ignorance left us dead all the same. 
Finally, the carriage pulled to a stop before the monastery's walls. I leapt out of the vehicle, dashing forward. Jacob, a massively dark stain spreading across his uniform's jacket, fell into my arms, collapsing out of the driver's seat. I tried to prop him up, but his legs buckled. 
"How bad is it?" he asked groggily. Before I could answer, his eyes rolled into his head and he fainted. Things were grim. I was no doctor, but I'd never seen someone so bloody. We hadn't even removed his coat yet. Logan rushed over then. First, he unbuckled Jacob's belt, throwing off the saber. Next, he grabbed the man's feet, hoisting him up. Together, we lugged our friend towards the cloister. 
In all of this, Eva had knocked on the aged door. Swinging wide on rusted hinges, the door let out an eerie groan. A wizened priest in a simple habit looked out, spectacles dripping down his nose. "Eva!" he cried. "What a pleasant surprise! What's brings you here? I thought you were out of the country for awhile." 
We brought Jacob forward as she answered."Yes, Abbot Baum. But there's isn't time for that. Our friend is hurt—" 
"Merciful heavens!" interrupted the priest, crossing himself. "What happened? He looks mauled!" 
"No, Father. He was shot. The ball's still inside, and we can't take him to a doctor. There isn't time to explain. He'll die without you." 
"Lord have mercy." The little man bowed his head in prayer for a moment. Then, he stepped out of the way and ushered us inside. Logan and I carried Jacob in and laid him on a table at the priest's direction. Several passing monks cried in alarm at the sight before rushing forward to help. 
Eva hovered over Jacob's form for a moment before wheeling to face us. "You've no time for this. Fuchs' man already has hours on you. If you let him through, Riktenburg will be lost. No one will believe us without Phillip now. Go! Catch the messenger before he's gets to Luden. Rescue Philip!" 
Before we could answer, a dozen monks bustled up bearing cloths, boiled water and medical tools. Taking no further time, we left Eva and our wounded friend and raced back to the carriage. The two of us mounted the front, sitting together on the driver's seat. 
With a flick of the reins, Logan and I set about saving a kingdom.

Chapter XV

The horses sprinted through the winding streets of Teimsfeld. Sweat dripped down my arms and neck in small rivulets. I looked over my shoulder again and again. I could practically feel the men chasing us.
"We need to ditch the carriage; they'll recognize it," Logan said, breaking me out of my thoughts.
"Can we afford the time?"
"We must. They know what we're driving. Plus, a royal carriage is easy to track. Most people will notice one of the king's coaches. And we can't take it on a mountain road anyway."
"And where are we to get horses?" 
"A public stable or we'll just steal them!" 
I scoffed, but he cut me off. "Stealing a few horses will be the least of our worries soon. Fuchs is bound to deploy hundreds of soldiers to find us. We're to have murdered the second most important man in the kingdom. The people will rally to find us." 
He was right of course. I began looking about for a stables. Although we passed many riders, none were in a pair. The streets flashed by and curses from pedestrians called after us. It was insane. We had little idea of where to go. Logan just steered us towards the looming mountains, and our chosen streets ran nearer to the shadowy peaks. After a time, the houses began to thin, and the occasional plot of open land began to appear. Then small farms dotted our path, and finally, we were free of the city. To my astonishment, we'd seen no pursuit as of yet.
At last, Logan let out a shout and pointed. On our right, three horses stood saddled next to a small farmhouse. Without a moment to lose, my friend swung the reins about, careening our carriage off the road and onto the small path leading to the house. Clods of dirt flying about us, Logan wrestled the team of horses to a halt and leapt down from the carriage. I followed, adjusting my uniform. 
At our approach, the farmer and two men, who looked to be hired hands, stepped outside, gawking. "G-good afternoon sirs," stuttered the farmer, his brows furrowed. "What b-brings you here?"
Logan waved a hand. "There's no time for that. We need your horses in the king's name. Are they fresh? Are they reliable mounts?" 
The man's face went through a series of emotions. I could glimpse terror, resentment, and confusion all pass before his eyes. "But of course. W-we'd just saddled them for a tour of the fields. They'll serve f-finely." 
"Very well," I said. "His Majesty the king thanks you and will send payment later. If our compatriots follow, we are going ahead to the east." I figured I'd at least attempt to throw off pursuit. They'd likely never believe our diversion, but it was a start.
"One last thing. Where is the mountain road to Luden?" asked Logan.
"Didn't your friend just say you was headin' east? Why do you need the L-luden road then?" 
Logan exploded. "Because a personal guard to the king just bloody asked you, miserable peasant! Tell us!"
The poor farmer quailed before the onslaught. "Yes, good sir. I was only wondering. That path's straight north. In fact, if you just keep going the way you were heading, this road will lead onto the Luden pass. You can't miss it." 
Without another word, we threw our legs into the saddle, mounting with ease. They were indeed good horses, and I was surprised at the quality. Poor farmers generally didn't possess such mounts, but with a prayer of thanks for good fortune, I put it from my mind. Spurring the beasts, we launched back down the road, leaving the unfortunate farmer in a veil of dust. I hoped ill wouldn't befall him. The man had no concept of regicide or political machinations; he was only a simple worker.
Speeding onwards, we passed farm carts, trotting ponies, and walking peasants, all bearing farming tools. In spite of our race, the ride was pleasant. The smell of fresh air and the dark odor of tilled earth filled our noses as the scenes passed by. Amidst the sunlight and gentle breeze, I tried not to dwell on Jacob. All the same, images of his back, covered by a blanket of blood with worried monks swarming about continued to fill my mind. Driving those thoughts away, I forced myself to concentrate. 
Breathing deeply, I urged the horse onwards, propelling it faster with my own fervor. If we failed to stop Fuchs' man, our lives and the country we rode through would be forfeit. Riktenburg would slip back into the mire of corruption and social order, a disease infesting much of the rest of Europe. With each footfall of the animal beneath me, I thought of begging widows, and the poor we glimpsed on the streets of Paris. Philip and Martin were enlightened, just men. One had already fallen for his egalitarian ideas. We couldn't, we mustn't let the other twin die. 
Nearby, Logan's horse galloped neck and neck with mine, its rider stone-faced and frowning in concentration. We'd kill our animals if we kept this pace up for too long, but it was imperative to recover as much distance while we were still on the plains before the mountains. All the same, the ground around us began sloping upwards little by little. Boulders began dotting the nearby fields, and the farmland turned to wild forests of dark trees. 
In time we came to the mountain highway. In contrast to the dusty road we'd just left, this highway was well paved. Large cobblestones, fitted with grooves to lessen erosion, lined the way. What's more, traffic became thicker. Merchants, their wares piled upon rickety carts, filled the road. Other travelers meandered along on foot, their staffs clinking on the stones. Small herds of animals plodded along, their herders cursing the other travelers. Never slackening, our horses galloped through this new mass of people. We refused to pause, causing some to throw themselves out of our way. We ran onwards.
The traffic thinned as we moved further and further up the road. It snaked along through the surrounding trees, an ever climbing forest. Crows screeched their calls through the branches, and the press of the woods bore down on us. Eventually, we slackened our pace, preserving our horses. Trotting along, we came suddenly into a swirling cloud of mist. Ethereal and lonely, the cloud wafted through the forest. I could taste the air, moist and flowing like a spring. All told, the writhing mist felt like death. 
"Spooky, isn't it?" I leaned over to Logan. He nodded silently but refused to comment, absorbed in the fog about us. I settled back into my saddle then, letting the silence fall once more. 
For what seemed like hours, we wandered through this mist. We passed very few people now, our pace having left the afternoon crowds behind. Alone together, we wound upwards along the path through the forest. Eventually even the trees disappeared. Rocky crags replaced them, and I hugged my jacket tighter about me, clapping my hands. Snow clung to certain rocks about us, and the paving on the highway grew more shoddy and worn. It hadn't been replaced in recent decades. All the while, the mist stayed with us.
We wandered, back and forth, along the twisting path. Occasionally, small rocks would roll down the cliffs around us and clatter onto the highway. While quite wide for a mountain road, the path would have been slow and treacherous for a carriage. I was thankful we'd left that behind. 
The road finally began drifting downwards through the curtain of fog. We'd not descended more than an hour before I heard cattle's lowing ahead. Trees had started to appear again, but the fog was still as thick as ever. The sun was beginning to set, and the light was fading even further. As we rounded another curve in the highway, we saw them. A small herd of cattle, all identically white, appeared suddenly out of the mist. Their handlers walked behind, keeping the animals in line. The sight was ordinary until a slight breeze blew a pocket of clarity in the fog. 
Just ahead of the cattle, a man trotted along. On his back was the distinctive black uniform of the palace royal guard. 
"There he is!" hissed Logan. By this point, I was un-holstering my revolver, determined not to let him escape. We spurred our horses on faster, racing towards the cattle. 
"Courtier!" cried Logan into the wind. The man ahead suddenly stopped and turned his horse about, confusion evident upon his face. Seeing our uniforms, a smile splayed across his lips. But even as those teeth parted, the face froze in shock, in recognition. Without a word, he wheeled his mount around and tore off through the mist.
Behind him, we were among the cattle now. "Move, damn you!" I shouted. The poor animals knew no better and plodded along despite our plight. Raising my weapon, I pulled the trigger, shooting the pistol into the air. At the clap, the animals balked and stampeded. Without care for the unlucky handlers, we raced through the now terrified herd. Dashing onwards, we kicked our horses into a full gallop, running pell-mell through the mist and over the scattered stones. Dangerous as it was, we couldn't wait for better visibility. The race was on. 
The path curved this way and that. In the chaos we threw our horses around the bends, dodging traffic. Ahead, cries of anger and shock filled the mist. Apparently our prey was facing the same problems. Birds alighted from surrounding trees at our passing. Left and right we passed walkers, animals, and carts. Nothing slowed us. Tearing through the forest, we panted, our horses foaming at the exertion. Sparks flew from the mount's cobbled feet. Flecks of sweat flew off their flanks. The horses' feet hit the ground and rose, touched and lifted, flying down the path. We'd see occasional, fleeting glimpse of the messenger; his animal was being pushed to its limit as well. 
Then all at once the road opened before us. The highway leveled out, and the mist cleared to reveal a magnificent view. Rolling fields opened their arms, gathering in the sunlight. Birds soared overhead, and the haunting images of the misted, winding mountain pass were forgotten in the summertime visage before us. Past the fields and just ahead, countless buildings formed a city, obviously Luden.
Towards this goal, the three of us galloped. Beneath me, I could feel the horse trembling. The effort was extraordinary. For his part, the Courtier ahead continued to glance over his shoulder, panic evident on his face. Although we were closing the distance, it was still too long for a pistol shot. I worried that if we couldn't catch the man before the city, he'd escape in the unfamiliar streets. Logan must've been feeling the same, because even as it panted for ragged breath, he again kicked his mount, driving it onward. The wind whistled past us in our race, tossing our hair about us in a blur. We'd long ago lost the shakos to our uniforms. 
At our speed, the transition between countryside and city was instantaneous. No sooner had we entered the streets than our horses began dodging the walking residents of Luden. Curses flew all around, but we paid them no heed. The Courtier rose in his saddle, screaming to part the crowd before his galloping horse. We followed in his wake, curious eyes boring down on us. 
"Move!" shouted Logan as a small boy stumbled into the street in pursuit of a ball. His knees shaking and eyes bulging, the little fellow only stood there as we threw our horses around him. More walkers were dispelled when Logan raised his pistol and shot into the air. Like the cattle earlier, the people parted then. Sparks continued to fly from shod hooves, and my thighs quivered with the quaking breaths of the animal beneath me.
As one, the horses flew through the final movement of their ballet. As one, we men knew nothing but the chase. As one, the six beings flew around a final corner in the winding streets of Luden. 
At the station before us, a single, small locomotive puffed steam into the air. 
Even as we reached the platform, reining in our horses amid a shower of grit, the engine began to move. Ahead of us, the Courtier kicked off his horse. The animal had collapsed to the ground, its legs buckling and mouth flecking blood. 
Our enemy sprinted towards the train, his boots sliding along the smoothed wooden platform. In his haste, he sent elegant women sprawling to the ground. He shoved through a crowd of men, sending their cindery cigars into the air. Piled suitcases were kicked, and a general chaos took over as our prey neared his goal. 
By this point we'd left our own dying horses behind. Logan and I raced, our sore feet running in tandem. We too flung bystanders from our path. Just ahead, the Courtier reached the slowly accelerating train. Raising a long arm, he grabbed the rail and started hoisting himself onto the car. 
Without thinking, I lifted my revolver and snapped off a shot. 
Around us, people screamed in terror, bolted from the platform, or simply threw themselves prostrate to avoid the madmen. I lost all sight of the messenger in the maelstrom of panic. Finally, the way was clear once more. The Courtier had been dragged along by the train for a few feet before he fell once more to the platform. His arms lay outstretched, as if in supplication. One leg dangled sickly off the platform's ledge as the train rolled past. 
In a daze, I walked over towards my victim. A single bubbling hole adorned his grisly neck, pulsing, pulsing. Gingerly, I flipped the man over. Looking into his broken eyes, the horror of hubris overtook me once more. In less than a week, I'd stolen the life from three men. I'd been my own god. The empty husks of their bodies were my doing, and these three would never laugh, or cry, or love again. I had done that, and the self-loathing hit me like a blow.
A rough hand shook me then, my thoughts shattering like a humbled truth. His voice a forced whisper, Logan murmured into my ear. "Nathaniel. Get on the train. Now." 
My eyes blinking slowly, my breath caught, I glanced up at my friend. He wasn't looking at me. He craned his head over his shoulder, looking at something. I turned to see, but my vision was so clouded, I couldn't make anything out. The stench of flesh filled my nostrils and I needed to vomit. Drops of sweat coated my hands, and the blood pulsed through my head like an opened spring. Between the throbbing, I heard something. For a moment, I couldn't identify it. Then the sounds warped into voices. Angry, shouting voices.
"There they are, officer!" 
"That's the murderer!" 
Logan grabbed me then, physically lifting me to my feet. "On the train!" he shouted into my face. I blinked stupidly. 
"On the train!" he bellowed again, slapping me hard across the face. As I continued to stand, the world pressing down on me, my friend looped his arms under my shoulders. He spun me around, lifting me in the same motion. Without pause, he hurled me onto the entry stairs of a passing car. 
My face hit cold iron. I snapped back to alertness. Swinging about, I saw the platform filling with angry men, uniformed policemen leading the charge. Logan was running alongside the train, brandishing his pistol at anyone who came near. 
"Stop or we'll shoot!" the voices cried. Actions followed words, and Logan ducked as the shots whistled about him. 
Stumbling to keep pace with the train, Logan ran pell-mell, his frame shaking in exertion. Watching the scene, I realized the danger. Even as he leapt the short distance between the train and the platform, others were preparing to try the same. My pulse still throbbing, I leaned out of the train, grasping the stair rail for support. Swinging my revolver around, I fired off a few rounds, hoping to dispel the pursuit. Bullets flying about them, the police and the mob decided catching us wasn't worth dying for. They dropped off their chase and let the train slip away from the platform. A few turned to regard the dead messenger, but most simply stared in wonder as our locomotive gathered speed and rolled into the Riktian countryside.

Chapter XVI

I opened the train car's door and went looking for Logan. To my surprise the entire car was empty. Whether they'd moved to another coach to escape the murderers or there weren't many people aboard, I didn't know. But as I walked in, I glimpsed my friend collapsed and panting on the ground. The sun was just embracing the horizon, and patches of brilliant, golden light shone through the train's windows. I ran through these splotches and knelt down by Logan, the warm fibers of the carpet brushing my fingers. His face stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed and didn't open at my touch. 
"Are you alright?" I asked peering down at him.
He didn't open his eyes at first but only started to chuckle. The laugh turned into a guffaw, and soon, his whole body was heaving in mirth. 
I punched him in the shoulder. "What's the matter with you?"
He tried several times to answer, but every attempt only brought more spurts of uncontrollable laughter; tears streamed down his cheeks. 
I was starting to get annoyed. "Would you mind acting civilized for just a moment and telling me just what's so comical?" 
Only then did his laughing subside. He wiped a drop from his cheek. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I was lying here collapsed. I had just sprinted like an Olympian to jump onto a train while dodging bullets. Before that I had thrown you aboard as well, galloped an exhausted horse through a crowded city, chased a messenger through a misted mountain pass, escaped certain death at the hands of a madman, and entered the country this morning. Just now you rush over and have the gall to ask if I'm alright." He broke down again, and this time, I joined him. When examined that way, the entire situation truly was ludicrous. For awhile, we just laughed. The sound carried through the sunlit car like a gentle ripple. There was no one to disturb us, and tt last we sat in companionable silence, each lost in our own thoughts. 
I didn't know what my companion was thinking, but my mind kept turning to the messenger, his body thrown across the platform. I saw his dripping blood, and I couldn't dispel the dark thoughts. Logan looked over at me and grasped my shoulder, shaking it. 
"Long day, wouldn't you think?" 
I chuckled weakly. "Yes. But not over."
He sighed. "You're right. And it probably will be longer still after that. I hope Jacob's mending well enough. I haven't seen many gunshot wounds, but that wasn't pretty." 
"He's been shot before. Did you know that? This morning on the train, you were asleep. Jacob and I talked about life and death. The man's fought several duels before. You wouldn't think it from his background in writing, but he's pretty tough." 
"There's no argument here. That night the Faith ambushed us near Rome — he knew his way about a fight. I was, am, glad for his company. I only hope . . ." 
I shook my head. "We've already lost Di Luca and the king. No more of that talk. He'll pull through. All we have to do is rescue Phillip and make sure we're all knighted."
"Ha! Wouldn't that be a sight? Knights of Riktenburg. Our fathers would be proud, at least." He smiled a bit.
"What're you talking about? You're already a noble. My father would probably faint with pride."
I expected Logan to make a joke or laugh, but he'd grown silent. I looked over, gauging his mood. A troubled frown rested on his face, his eyebrows furrowed. 
"Now what's the matter?" I asked. 
He took a moment before responding. "A few weeks ago, we were in Paris. Heavens, it feels like months. We saw Versailles and have been caught up with the Fuchs' brothers and the Faith ever since. That day, we . . . we changed somehow. The beggars and widows in the streets became different, more important. They weren't annoying, shabby window-dressing for the city. They represent a problem, one we've helped create."
I inclined my head, my ears cocked. Our discussion on this same topic had led to the duel with Otto Fuchs and our flight across the continent. 
Logan's gaze drifted out the window towards the sun. As we passed fields of wheat, brilliantly painted with the sunset, he continued speaking, never looking at me. "It took the most excessive palace in Europe to bring us to our senses. I felt sick. My stomach roiled at the thought that I was a part of it all — the pain, the suffering. Then my heart burned in shame to think of my family's reaction. I was bred to lead, not have some silly dalliance with the peasants. It's not what I've been taught. My father would scoff at the notion . . . But in all of it, we have changed, haven't we? That's why we're doing this, isn't it? The one place in Europe even attempting equality, and these hypercritical bastards try to crush them," he spat. 
I hadn't thought of it that way yet. All in a day, we'd raced through the country. We'd learned exactly who are attackers were and what they stood for, and we'd seen the king executed before our eyes. At once terrifying, saddening, and maddening, I'd been caught up in the moment. Out of friendship with the Kleins and led along by Eva's powerful drive, I was simply acting. I was acting out of a sense of justice and virtue as well of course. To kill a blameless king was wrong in anyone's eyes. Logan's words struck me though. Riktenburg was the only bastion of equality in Europe, and we'd be damned to let it fall to the Faith. 
The squeaking hinges on the coach's door jerked us out of our pensive daydream. We wheeled about, our shoulders tensing. Logan made to rise but froze and smiled, almost sheepishly. 
"Is something the matter?" said a gentle voice. Completing my turn, I saw a short, beady-eyed fellow with countless wrinkles. He was puttering towards us, a small pouch clutched in his hand and a nondescript uniform hanging off his drooping shoulders. "Are you two all right?" he repeated. 
I helped Logan to his feet. "We're just fine." I laughed. 
"Oh yes. Just enjoying our own coach as it were," said Logan, brushing dust from his uniform. 
"Well, there're plenty of seats to choose from. We never get many travelers on this line. No one but wealthy huntsmen ever seems to go where we go." He spread his arms about, indicating the empty car. "In fact, you're the only passengers this far back. There's a group of eight tottering women up near the front, but not many others. We've seen a lot of your type recently though of course." 
I shot Logan a look. "Our type?" I asked the man, keeping my tone casual. 
"Oh, you know — the royal guards. There's been tons of you boys riding this line for weeks now. You're heading towards Fielburg, aren't you? That's where all the others have gotten off." Of course. Fuchs' men would have been seen traveling back and forth numerous times, preparing the coup. 
Covering up my hesitation, I spoke quickly. "Oh yes! And how much longer will that be?" 
The old man took out a gold pocket watch then. Flipping it open, he examined it. "It's a bit after eight now. I wouldn't wonder if we're to Fielburg by half past nine." He snapped it shut and shoved it back into his waist jacket. "Which reminds me!" he cried excitedly. "Do you have your tickets?"
". . . Our tickets?" Logan asked dumbly. 
"Yes. Your tickets. To ride the train?" 
"Well you see, we uh . . . don't actually have any. Could we purchase them?"
He smiled paternally. "Of course you can. I'm sorry though, they're about twice as expensive that way. King Martin instituted this on all the railways awhile back. Helps generate a lot of extra revenue from latecomers. But you know that already, working for him and all. You were late, I expect?"
Logan answered first. "We were. In fact, did you notice that commotion on the platform?"
"The commotion? Nope. I don't expect we did."
"Apparently something set the crowd on edge. There was a big panic, people running about and the like. No idea what for, but that's what happened. We only barely pushed through the mob to get aboard."
He nodded. "Hmm, quite strange. Come to think of it, we did hear a bit of shouting, but that's normal too. You get a large enough group of people together, and all kinds of wild things can happen. But anyway, I can sell you your tickets. It's two crowns a piece." Logan and I exchanged a smiling glance. Thank the heavens the people on the train hadn't seen the fiasco on the platform. Then, we wished in our pockets for the money. 
After a minute of digging about without success, Logan sighed, frowning. He held up a silver lira. "Would you accept Italian money?" Of course with all the excitement, we'd had no time to collect Riktian crowns. 
The attendant gave us a look. "You don't have any crowns? . . . But you have Roman coins," he finished, his lips pursed.
"That's right. We've only just returned from Rome — king's business you know. Without a pause for home or rest, we were sent on to Fielburg. Nothing waits for the country's call." Logan shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, yes." The old man patted Logan's arm. "The life of a soldier. But we all do what we can, eh? I don't think I'm allowed to take that coin; it'd take too much trouble to exchange it. How about I just send a bill to the palace? It'll be easy to sort out. You get your coins changed and things will feel more at home again, hmm?" Our bald-faced lie passed right over him. But he was a kind soul, it was a kind offer, and we were not above taking advantage of the free ride. Besides, what better method than to have Fuchs pay for our trip; he'd caused the blasted thing anyway. 
Pumping our hands warmly, the old attendant puttered back up the aisle and exited as suddenly as he appeared. 
I started chuckling again, much more reserved this time. Then, with a flourish, I plopped myself in the nearest seat, stretching back and crossing my ankles. Logan took my idea, doing the same in the seat across from me. 
"How many tight spots are we allowed today? If we have to lie, steal, or chase anyone else, our luck's bound to run out." 
I nodded lazily. "It's all bound to catch up with us sometime."
He raised an eyebrow. "If it comes at all, let's hope it's not this night then." Our conversation trailed off. The train seats were surprisingly comfortable, and I let the worn leather wrap around me as the locomotive rocked. Swaying, we went onwards through the night. The occasional jarring would rouse me, but for the most part, I let myself be carried along uncaring. I could even imagine the passing scenes outside, the deer looking up in fright as the monstrous machine bolted by in the darkness. Eventually I must have drifted off to sleep, for Logan shook me awake some time later. 
"Rise and shine, oh great one," he said.
"You've finally learned your place, haven't you?" 
"Never mind. We're nearly there. That old fellow passed through the car a few minutes back, and the train just started slowing." Now that he mentioned it, I could feel the car beneath us dragging. The swaying motion was less frequent too; we were close. With a final lurch, the train stopped altogether, a gentle reflection of town lights flittering through the car's windows. 
Shaking my limbs, I stood. Logan did the same. 
Glancing over, seeing him in the reflected lamplight, I let out a short bark. "You look quite a sight," I commented dryly. A dark, unidentifiable smudge of something was smeared across his cheek. A long tear in his uniform's sleeve revealed his undershirt, and the jacket's buttons were missing in several places. The jacket, stolen from the unknown Courtier that morning, was too big for him, and it hung limp about his frame in several places. 
"You're no painting of beauty either," he shot back. I was sure my appearance was just as marred as his. The chase and fracas at the platform had left me gritty, sweaty, and generally rumpled. Straightening our clothes as best as possible, we strode through the car and exited onto the platform. 
Fielburg proved to be exactly as Eva described. We were utterly alone on the platform, although just behind us trooped several fashionably dressed older couples. No one else descended from the train. In fact, other than our recent arrival, the station was completely deserted. Several large lamps lit the space, and giant moths swarmed about these lights like pilgrims. The hamlet stretched around us. The streets arched away from the platform like sunrays, and it was obvious that the train station was the town's center. The occasional lamp illuminated the gaping darkness, often showing quant little houses resting in the night. A solitary dog barked, warning his family of the train. The cry of an owl filled the night as one swooped down on some unsuspecting prey. By sunrise, I longed to be well away from this place, Archduke Phillip in hand. 
With nothing but a knowing look between us, Logan led the way down and off the platform and into the town. Walking briskly, but not so fast as to draw unwanted attention, we strode through the dark streets. Following Eva's directions, we wove to the west and arrived at the outskirts of the village. 
"Three miles west, didn't she say?" I asked Logan in the gloom. 
"Yes. It's on some small road, and Phillip will be in the west wing. We'd best keep quiet from now on. No telling who we'll meet." My friend's face was briefly illuminated by the light of the moon, which had just emerged from a bank of clouds. His brows were furrowed, the lines on his face hardened. Within moments though that light was gone, the clouds again submerging the moon under their folds. 
After leaving the rough cobblestones of the village's street, a simple dirt path wound along the perimeter of the town. We followed this. Dark fields spread out to our left, and even the light from the homes was swallowed by the expansive shadows. Our path was bordered by roughhewn fences, perhaps designed to keep out the wilderness. We had nothing but these to guide us so we simply walked, tracing our way along the fence and waiting to stumble upon the road leading to the Faith's country hideout. 
Eventually, we came to a break in fence, a gaping hole in the town's apparent defenses. 
Logan turned to me, whispering through the night. "Is this the rig—" Before he could finish the question, he let out a cry and stumbled to the ground. 
Pulling him up, I tapped the smooth stones with my foot. "By the paving, I'd say that's a good guess; it's the right road. So much for being quiet though," I uttered wryly. He shot me a dirty look which morphed into a grin. 
We turned down the road and descended further into the darkness. Our lane was not wide, and passing carriages would've had difficulties. But for two lonely travelers, the narrow space provided no problems. We meandered along, shown the way by the flitting moonlight. 
We continued walking for well over an hour, completely silent. Eva had said the estate was three miles down the road, so after a while, we began looking about us for our destination. I was just beginning to think we'd missed it in the darkness when we climbed a long, gently sloping hill. Pale trees lined the road here, and a faint breeze rustled the branches. 
Out of the veil, a hand grabbed my arm, spinning me around. 
I confess I let out a yelp in fear, which Logan rushed to cover with his hand. Releasing his grip on my arm, my friend pointed towards a glimmering light that shown through the trees. Exiting the road, we passed under the branches like ghosts loosed upon the earth. 
There, waiting amid a wide grove of towering trees, was the chateau of the Faith.

Chapter XVII

The building loomed over us through the darkness. Even without any light, the structure looked huge. Wings stretched in all directions. From our perspective, it appeared to be shaped like a cross. A single lamp guttered in a window on the second story of the west wing. Otherwise, the entire chateau was bathed in night. 
"What's the plan?" hissed Logan. 
I shrugged my shoulders. "There's no easy way about it, is there? If they've sentries, we can't wander around the grounds."
For a time, the only audible sounds were the crickets wandering through the woods about us. At last, Logan said. "But they won't stop us if we come to the door."
I shot him a look. "What?" 
"The door," he shot back. "If we knock on the door, they'll answer won't they?" The moon broke through the clouds then, and Logan's wolfish smile became visible. "What're we dressed as?"
I caught on then. "Ah, yes. They wouldn't shoot down messengers from Fuchs." 
"That is, if we can get them to believe us. They won't have heard of the coup though; they'll just be dying to hear the news." 
"That's terrible," I scolded, but I couldn't help smiling either. A thought hit me though. "What about the telegraph? Would they have received a telegram?" 
"I didn't see any lines in Fielburg, did you? Besides, with the mountain pass, there wasn't any way to get lines though. If they're still working on cutting the railroad between the country's two biggest cities, I imagine they won't have lines connecting the two either." 
He made a good point, so I let it go. "After they let us in, then what? We can't be bumbling around or it's our lives." 
"Of course. They'll let us in, and then it's simple. Before they rouse the house, we'll take the doormen out. Then we'll go from room to room, dispatching the Courtiers. We needn't kill them, just ensure they don't cause any trouble. Then we find Phillip — he'll be in the west wing — and we get the hell out of there."
I broke in. "Phillip's sure to know the land, and we'll figure out what to do after he's safe. We need to get Eva and Jacob out of the city, stop Fuchs, and rescue Mercedes." 
"Maybe not in that order; all I can think about is that poor girl among those dogs."
"What do you expect from scoundrels? I'd swear Fuchs isn't right in the head." 
"Maybe not, but for now he's king. He can do whatever he wants, and apparently he's a good enough charlatan to prevent others from catching on. I wonder how he did it, the appearance I mean."
"Seems like a good question to ask Phillip. I suggest we do that," I said pointedly. He nodded, and we took off through the darkness. 
The manor was set back from the woods by a short distance and would give a brilliant view of any attackers. Besides, with its irregular shape, the place was as defensible as a castle. 
Exiting the grove lining the road, we strode through the fields towards the chateau. I found my breath suddenly caught in my throat. Trying to calm myself, I took a long moment to breathe the crisp air around us. Whatever her faults, Riktenburg possessed a natural beauty. The air was so clean and untouched. 
The moon escaped her cover again. In the pale light, the manor was even more frightening. Rough-hewn stones crept up the foundations like hands, and gruesome spires reared up from the structure at random points. Gargoyles lined the roof, a feature decidedly un-German, and any secret sect could call it home.
We came upon a gravel lane after a while. Snaking through the grass, we followed the path towards the manor.
Up close, it towered above us and was easily four stories high. For a moment, we simply paused to stare. Then we faced the massive double doors that waited at the base of those captivating walls. Impressively old, they were wider than four men, and would be impossible to batter down without immense effort. 
Taking one final cathartic breath, I raised my hand and knocked.
The wood thrummed beneath my fist, the doorframe shaking. We stood still for long moments, but nothing happening. Then I raised my fist and pounded again. Once more the door shook. Once more we waited. I raised my fist again, but before I could knock, a rumbling filled the entryway. Behind the massive doors someone was raising a bar, and at last the door cracked, a sliver of light piercing the darkness. 
"Who is it? What do you want?" snapped a voice from behind the door. 
"Out of the way, man!" I cried, raising my voice. I figured all Courtiers would be pompous to servants, so it seemed a natural bluff to employ. 
"I asked who you were. I'm warning you," the other man replied. "I've a pistol."
Logan jumped in then. "For all the Saints! We've traveled all the way from Teimsfeld. We're muddy and hungry and the two Courtiers carrying the most important news in Riktenburg besides. Now move." 
"You're from the capital?" 
"No. We're lying scoundrels who simply happen to know of Fuchs' plot and have somehow stumbled upon one of the Faith's manors. Move aside!" I yelled, my voice reaching a new fervor.
The other fellow swung the door open wider. He was dressed in fine livery and obviously a footman, but I wagered he knew everything about King Martin's murder. "Well, how was I supposed to know? Gentlemen, why didn't you use the right entrance? All Courtiers enter by the stables."
Logan blanched visibly, and my mind raced trying to think of something to say. "We're, uh, we're replacements," I gasped at last. "Oskar was supposed to bring the news, but he fell from his horse just as he was leaving. We're here in his stead. We only knew where the estate was, not the particulars."
"Ah. No wonder I didn't recognize the two of you. It's not as if we get many visitors, but you can't be too careful."
Logan nodded. "Yes. And speaking of which, how's our 'guest'?"
The footman scowled. "I can't wait until Fuchs orders his death. The bastard is probably the only one still awake. The bloody man keeps the staff running to and fro, carrying meals and fetching books. It's as if he rules the place. Fuchs ordered us to make him as comfortable as possible. I don't know why. The devil will get the same treatment as his brother, God willing." The man crossed himself, closing his eyes. 
He snapped them open after an instant. "But where are my manners? You've been traveling all day, and you said yourself you're famished. Let's find some soup, and I'll rouse the house. We've all been eager to hear the news." He beckoned us inwards, a smile playing along his eyes if not his mouth. He did indeed have a pistol, which he thrust into his belt. 
We walked inside, but I turned to the man. "Don't rouse them just yet. All's well, and there's no rush. Martin's no longer king. We were successful in everything, but the two of us are exhausted. Let's eat first, and then we can alert the others, huh?"
"Fine, fine," he said. "Nothing simpler. What's your fancy? The boys went hunting earlier today, and there's a buck just skinned if you're in the mood for venison?" 
The unsuspecting man let us from room to room, each more sumptuous than the last. Like the royal palace, the walls were covered in decorations. Countless paintings of residents long dead loomed overhead, the shadows from the footman's lamp playing across them in the dark. Sculpted goddesses paraded their nudity, coming to life through the artists' skill. The heads of animals of all kinds dotted the walls, and crossed swords and various foreign weaponry added a martial touch to the space. 
At one point, our host turned back. "We'll just eat in the kitchens. No need to set up in the great hall is there?" Without waiting for an answer, he trotted ahead. 
"And how many of our brothers reside here, friend?" I asked offhandedly as we passed through yet another hallway. 
"Oh, not too many. Since Fuchs left with his band, we're down to about ten or so." 
"Phillip's well guarded then."
"Of course. Fuchs isn't one to take things lightly. No, we keep men on him day and night. He'll be chained up now, and two guards sleep in the room as well. They're the lightest sleepers you'll ever meet; nothing gets past them. But speaking of Phillip, are we to kill him tonight? I'm assuming Fuchs sent some orders to that. Like I said, I loathe the man."
Logan answered before I could. "We'll get to that later. For now, it's good to know he's guarded, but let's eat. I may faint from hunger." 
"Oh yes, yes! The kitchens are just through the great hall ahead; we're nearly there." As he spoke, we passed under an archway. Although I couldn't see beyond the man's small lamp, my spatial sense told me we were in a large room. We passed near a long table. In the center, I glimpsed a silver diamond etched and painted onto the surface. It gave me pause, and I halted. Starring at it transfixed, I suddenly jumped in agitation.
 There was a pair of gold eyes gleaming out of the darkness back at me.
"What the devil!" I exclaimed. 
"Oh don't mind him," called the servant. "Fuchs' hound, Feral. He scares everyone, but he knows friend from foe." I didn't contradict the man, but I sure hoped the dog would continue to be deceived. As we spoke of him, the German shepherd wandered into the light. He was massive for his breed, and sleek, powerful legs carried him onwards. I had little doubt he could tear a man to shreds if need be. The dog padded after us for a time, but he stopped and laid down as the footman led our group through the great hall and finally into the kitchens. 
As he set about lighting various lamps, the footman looked to us. "And here we are. A bite of soup and venison and you'll be feeling much better. I'll be the first to admit I'm not the best chef in employment here, but I can cook hardy fare when needed," he said cheerfully. Without waiting for us, the man bustled about the kitchen, grabbing a massive soup kettle, setting it to boil, and digging in the spice drawer. As he turned his back, gathering chives, I glanced at Logan. 
My friend was one step ahead of me. 
He'd already drawn his blade, and light danced on the honed saber as Logan approached our host. He slipped the point of the weapon against the exposed neck of the footman. 
Logan leaned forward, and I could barely make out the words he whispered to the other man. "If you value your life, you will be deathly silent, or you will be dead." 
The surprised man arched his back as the sword bit into his flesh, and I could see a single drop of blood roll gently down the blade. "What is this?" the valet hissed. 
"This," said Logan, "is a sword. It's on your neck, and it could be in your neck in a moment. Now you'll kindly turn around. Slowly." In response, the man spun to face us. As he moved, I stepped forward and withdrew our captive's pistol from his belt. I drew my own sword then and leveled it at the hapless man. For a moment, I felt guilty at our betrayal. Then I remembered Fuchs' pistol shot reverberating through the silent room and the king's limp body falling. All guilt disappeared. 
Logan leered at the man. "Your task is simple. You're to lead us to the Archduke. You will be silent. If you agree, your life is your own. If not, I'll gut you without pause, and we'll find the west wing ourselves." 
Just then, I heard a rustling behind us. I wheeled about. A short, powerfully-built man stood there. Blinking into the light, his nightshirt hung about him like an extra skin. "What the . . ." he said stupidly as he glimpsed the scene before him.
"Alarm! Treachery!" 
I spun at the sound. In our distraction, the footman had grabbed a kitchen knife from a nearby cutting-board and was lunging at Logan, bellowing for help. Things were spiraling out of our control, but Logan didn't hesitate. 
Back home in England, he'd always been the best in French fencing, and even as his assailant lunged at him, Logan performed a masterful coup de grâce. He flicked his saber to the side like a rapier, tapping his opponent's knife out of alignment, redirecting and rendering it harmless. Flowing in the same move, he shifted his own blade with a flick of the wrist, which slid it into the other man's neck, cutting off the screaming cries for help. 
I had my own problems. I didn't even glimpse the footman fall. That scene was forgotten as I was thrown to the ground, the other Courtier tackling me in a powerful hug. My saber and the footman's pistol dropped from my fists. Rough palms thrust my face into the planks of the floor. My breath grew short. Spots flickered through my vision. My hands started to feel numb. I was suffocating. In desperation, I bit his hands. The other yelped, and it was just enough to heave him off my body. Lying motionless, I recovered my breath. My vision flooded back. 
"Nathaniel, move!" screamed Logan, breaking me from my reverie. I didn't hesitate, but simply rolled away. The soup kettle crashed into the spot in which my head had been resting and boiling water sloshed everywhere, hissing like mad. 
Having thrown the pot, the remaining Courtier snagged my sword. I looked up to see him fencing Logan. In contrast to the footman, this fellow knew the business of the blade. Logan was being driven backwards, perspiration covering his face. Even as I watched, the Courtier flicked his blade under Logan's guard, slicing my friend's arm like an overhasty surgeon. Logan cried out, blood flowing from the wound. 
I rose up and snatched the wide knife from the dead footman's palm. Without thinking, I leapt through the air. I fell on the man's back, burying my knife in his flesh in the process. Without further struggle the Courtier collapsed, his free arm clutching for the knife, dying words on his lips.
I rushed over to Logan, pushing thoughts of death from my mind. He was crumpled on the floor, gripping the bloody gash on his arm. Despite his efforts the wound pulsed blood, staining his black uniform and sloshing to the floor around us.
"How bad is it?" he asked, his teeth clenched. 
"I can't tell; there's too much blood to see the actual cut, but that can't be a good sign." I stood and went to the Courtier's corpse. Kneeling, I removed the knife from his back and used it to slice a hunk from his nightshirt. Next, I moved to the fallen soup kettle and dipped the cloth into the hot water, soaking it. Returning to Logan, I wiped away what blood I could and wrapped the cut as tightly as possible. It seemed to help, the blood-flow slowing. "Better," I pronounced. 
"We've got to move," Logan responded, his teeth still clasped. "If the house is still asleep, it's a miracle." 
"Who knows," I countered. "It's a big estate, but I get your meaning. We need to get Phillip, and we need to get out of here." Logan made to rise, but made the mistake of supporting himself with the wounded arm. He collapsed in a heap, cursing under his breath. He pushed me away as I tried to help and tried again. This time he was able to stand. He straightened himself, collecting his saber once more. I took the footman's pistol with us; my own weapon was nearly out of cartridges.
Thus composed, we retraced our steps into the great hall, extinguishing all the lamps in the kitchen. Necessity demanded we take a lamp to find our way, but I resented this. It'd make us an easier target if the rest of the house had indeed been roused. We didn't have another option, though, so the lamp went with us. Our heels clicked along the floorboards, the wood creaking in our path. 
As we passed through the massive area, I saw Feral's eyes gleaming through the darkness. I was starting to doubt his intellect. We were certainly foes, and he made no attempt to slow our progress. Watching him, we took off down the nearest hall, this one leading west. Having a terrible sense of direction, I was thankful for Logan's presence. He knew where to go and led us through the unfamiliar spaces.
This darkness was somehow different from the gloom outside. Our lamp emitted a low, wavering flame. It lit the area immediately about us, but the light was powerless after a few feet. The whole manor felt eerie, as if the stones themselves were hostile to our presence. What untold horrors had the Faith committed within these walls? The air pressed downwards like a burden, and I couldn't help but look over my shoulder every few moments. Perhaps I expected Fuchs' dog to come scurrying down the hall and sink his teeth into us. Perhaps another Courtier would raise the alarm and avenge his companions' deaths. Most likely it was only pent up nerves. 
Coming around a corner in the hallway, I banished these thoughts. We'd walked into a perplexing room. The walls rose up and eventually angled into a spire, the roof of which was invisible to our lowly lamp. The room was small and aside from the door in which we'd just entered, three other doors waited in the room. In the center stood a tall wooden cross, its base buried in the floor. The Messiah, a holy look and dying breath upon his lips, stared down at us from its wooden beams. Unwelcome imagines of Di Luca's corpse, his blood soaking the Italian grass, threw themselves into my mind. I shook myself, returning to the moment. 
Like the table in the great hall, a silver diamond was etched along the ground around this simple symbol. Aside from these, there was nothing. 
"A chapel?" asked Logan. 
"That and the center of the manor. Look." I pointed towards the four doors. Each had a large letter painted in silver above the frame. We'd just exited one that had a large "E," the eastern wing.
"What's at the center of the Faith?" I asked, nodding towards the crucifix. 
"Aside from disregarding the Prince of Peace?" responded Logan.
"You know what I mean. It's a nice gesture though." Without further comment, we tried the door leading into the west wing. I was surprised to find that it opened. Eva had mentioned she'd been unable to enter the forbidden west wing. Given her absence though, perhaps it wasn't so surprising. I assumed everyone still at the manor now knew of the coup. 
Striding through the frame, we continued our journey, wandering blindly through the unfamiliar halls. In contrast to the east wing, the west wing was bland. The walls were bare. Even the carpet along the corridor was faded and  musty. The wing had been abandoned. 
I tapped Logan on the shoulder as we passed a staircase. "Wasn't that light on the second floor?" As we'd approached the manor, only one window had been lit. 
"It was, wasn't it? And the footman mentioned Phillip was the only resident still awake." 
He turned to ascend the stairs, but I stopped him once more. "The lamp. Blow it out. We don't want to announce our coming." 
He extinguished the light, and we climbed the aged staircase. At the top of the steps we paused. We were bathed in complete shade, and I could barely make out the hallway. 
Even as I turned to walk further into the gloom, I felt warm breath on my neck. "Look there," whispered Logan, very close to me. 
"Where?" I whispered back. Of course I couldn't see where he'd indicated. 
"To your right, down the passage." I swiveled my gaze, and sure enough, there it was. Perhaps a hundred feet down the hallway was a door. Underneath, a single line of light shone through. While the light was dim, it was enough to illuminate the veiled blackness of the corridor. After our scuffle in the kitchen, we'd kept our swords out for obvious reasons; the firearms we kept in our belts. If the house hadn't wakened, as it appeared it hadn't, it wouldn't do to shoot off a gun. Blades forward, we crept down the corridor. 
As we reached the last few feet before the door, the hall suddenly began reverberating with the clanging of a bell. Somewhere within the dark recesses of the manor, someone was ringing a massive alarm, shaking the walls with its noise. 
"Damn!" cursed Logan. 
Before either of us could move, the door opened. A burst of light from the room filled the darkness, and a tall, slight man rushed out. He gripped a saber tightly in one palm, and even in the reflected lamplight his eyes gleamed with attentiveness. 
"Now, Logan!" I hissed, lunging forward. In tandem, we advanced the last few steps, and stabbed the fellow before his eyes could adjust to the shadows of the hallway. Without a cry, the man dropped to the floor. Although his lips emitted no noise, his body fell backwards, collapsing into the door with a hollow thud. All the while the bell continued to clang. No doubt someone had stumbled into the kitchen only to discover the grisly scene that awaited.
My thoughts were ripped back to the present as a howl of surprise and pain filled the dark corridor. It came from Phillip's room ahead. In the darkness, we hesitated mere feet from the room. 
I touched my friend's shoulder. "The footman mentioned two men slept in the room. There's another left."
"Obviously. And chances are that scream wasn't him. We need to move. Now." 
He made to rush forward, but I grabbed his arm, spinning him around. "I'd bet your life and mine that the Courtier has a pistol pointed straight at the door. Unless we distract him somehow, you enter death, not that door." 
He nodded, hesitation filling his frame. I didn't wait. I tore furiously at the buttons on my jacket. Speed was of the essence. Men were sure to be on their way. Slipping my arms from the garment, I hung it on my saber. It seemed comical, but I hoped that it would work. 
Logan, watching it all, began smiling, a grim display of teeth in the gloom. He moved behind me. His body became taut, his legs poised for a sprint. I crept forward the last few feet and let out a battle cry of excitement. My yell was accompanied by the strange apparatus I held in my hand. I thrust it forward into the middle of the doorframe. Given the darkness, and our waiting opponent's anxiety, I trusted human nature to get the better of reason or observation. 
I was right. 
Shot after shot filled the night, and I could feel the hanging jacket vibrating and jerking with the percussions. As the last pistol cracks ceased, Logan swept around me, dodging into the room with another yell. I dropped the limp coat and surged in behind him. 
Like the fallen Courtier at our feet, our eyes needed a moment to adjust to the changed lighting. An open, ornate apartment spread out before us. It was a large space, divided by furniture arrangements into three distinct parts. A library with towering shelves of books filled a corner, while a group of settees were circled around a fireplace in another. Finally, a four-poster bed rested near a lone window. Of course, it had been Phillip's light that we saw from the grounds earlier.
After surveying the rooms about us, our eyes were drawn to the back wall. Two men in nightshirts huddled there. A long chain trailed from the foot of one to the bed. Glancing up to his face, I stopped. Even knowing that the late king and his brother were twins, it still gave me pause to actually glimpse Phillip. To his credit, he appeared absolutely identical to his brother. The black hair was mussed from sleep, and his goatee hung at an odd angle, but Phillip was his brother's twin — that much was certain. Which also meant that he looked the same as Fuchs in disguise. 
After the shock of Phillip's countenance, the archduke's captor seemed nondescript. He stood behind the prisoner, one hand grasping the Archduke by the neck. Like his dead companion in the hall, this Courtier was tall and thin. The most notable thing about him though was the short knife he held in the other hand. It was dipping into Phillip's throat, drawing blood at the pressure. Our rushing feet halted at the scene.
"If you take another step, I'll slit his throat. I swear it!" The Courtier's eyes bulged in their sockets, and his face was twitching in agitation. From his erratic movements, I had little doubt that he would indeed kill Phillip. 
"Listen, friend," I said. "His life for yours. You've a knife and an empty revolver. Kill the Archduke and your life is forfeit. We don't want to kill you." 
"The hell you don't. There's Roger's body in the hall that says differently." 
"What other options do you have?" insisted Logan.
"I can wait. We can hear just fine." He lifted the knife to point at the ceiling. From above somewhere, the bell continued to clang. "All I have to do is wait and the others will show up."
"You know that we won't let that happen. You've about three seconds to decide. Let him go or you die." As I spoke, I withdrew the footman's pistol from my belt. 
In all of this, Phillip moved not a muscle. I could see large beads of sweet trickling down his throat, mixing with his blood from the Courtier's knife. Suddenly though, the archduke threw his head to the side, colliding with the Courtier's own skull. As the enemy dropped his grip on Phillip in surprise, the archduke dropped to the floor, rolling away from his enemy's reach. 
Logan raised his revolver and shot the man as he lunged to recapture his hostage. The Courtier crumpled, a pile of writhing flesh. 
Phillip stood and dusted off his frame. Logan and I turned to him and bowed low. "Your Majesty," we said in unison. 
A look of confusion crossed his face for a moment. "I believe you gentlemen have me confused with my twin. Martin's the king." He chuckled, and I didn't have the heart to correct him just yet. "But I don't care a jot for any of that. Who are you? How have you come here? Thank God regardless." 
"Sire, we don't have time for any questions. You hear the bell even now. Please dress. We must leave." Logan looked over his shoulder towards the door. 
"Yes, well . . . I seem to be a bit tied up at the moment." The pun would have been funny at any other time, but our very pressing danger was anything but humorous. I walked over to the bed, leveled my pistol at the padlock which cinctured him to the poster and blew the thing to a broken mess.
"Now put on something to travel in. Your Majesty, I can't stress to you how imperative our flight must be. They will kill you. Riktenburg will be lost." 
He moved to a wardrobe and selected an expensive looking hunting outfit. He began donning it, although he had a bit of trouble slipping his still-chained leg into the trousers. "I don't know why you keep referring to me like I'm the king," he huffed as he threw on the jacket. "And they haven't killed me yet. But I could see why you're upset."
Logan looked at me, his face dark and regretful. He turned to Phillip. "Sire, they haven't killed you yet because they hadn't killed your brother." He paused. "Now they have. He's gone." 
The other man froze, one bare leg sticking out of the trousers. "They've . . . He's . . . Martin's dead?" 
Logan nodded. "Now you see the danger. If they kill you, your line is forfeit, and the Faith wins." 
The new king pursed his lips. I couldn't tell if he was trying not to cry or pressing them together to avoid screaming in rage. More than likely it was both. He redoubled his efforts, straightening his clothing, and wrapping the remaining length of chain around himself like an awkward belt. It was a difficult arrangement but something we'd simply have to address later. 
At last the ringing of the bell faded with a final echo. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my ears instantly caught another, more terrifying, noise. 
The hall was filled with the clatter of pounding feet.
"For the love of all the holy!" screamed Logan in rage. The pounding got closer. Logan and I flew about to prepare ourselves. 
"Move!" I screamed at Phillip, thrusting him behind the wardrobe. The piece was ancient, massive, and profoundly thick. We were down to the last few cartridges for our weapons. Even with the footman's extra pistol, it couldn't be a prolonged firefight.
Logan and I ducked behind the four-poster, leaning our firearms across the sheets towards the gaping door. Our sabers were close at hand too if it came to that. Even Phillip had grabbed the fallen Courtier's knife in the fracas. 
A voice from the hall bellowed. "You might as well come out now; it'd be easier for the lot of you." 
"The last time we considered that, you bastards tried shooting us anyway! We'll take our chances I think!" I screamed towards the unseen foes. Once more, my blood was rushing through my veins. With each pulse, my breath grew shorter, more heated. 
"So be it!" the unknown Courtier yelled in return. "But there'll be no quarter, you know!"
"We didn't plan on giving you any in the first place," shot back Logan. He looked to me. "They'll charge, wouldn't you think?"
"The whole lot of them." My teeth locked together in expectation.
From behind the wardrobe, Phillip pointed towards the window. "Not to suggest cowardice, but what about simply leaving?"
Logan pursed his lips this time. "I hadn't thought of—"
A crack from a pistol cut him off, and we wheeled to face the door. Already, two men were streaming through the space. Logan and I raised our own pistols and shot back. In the chaos, I didn't see if anything hit. More men were following. At least half a dozen Courtiers filled the room shooting indiscriminately. We couldn't hope to win. 
"Run!" I screamed. As bullets whistled about, I shot the nearby window, cracking it. I sheathed my saber. Then, sprinting through the gauntlet, I leveled my shoulder and hit the glass without waiting for the others. 
A cold night's wind rustled my hair and I sailed through the window, glass glittering about me like rain. I hit the ground, rolling with my momentum. From the second story, it wasn't a far drop, but it was enough. The wind rushed out of me, and I laid senseless for a few seconds. Behind me, Logan and Phillip hit the earth too. 
I stood, grabbing the others and hoisting them to their feet as well. "Get moving!" I shouted, the adrenaline filling my frame. Logan snatched the pistol from my hand, turning me around. 
"Take the king and run!" he said. "I'll cover you and catch up!" 
I started to ask why he wouldn't follow, but movement near the window caught my eye. A man was preparing to perform our feat and jump from the window. Logan shot him, a wail of pain filling the cool night air. 
Stupidly, another man moved to the window and received the same treatment. I saw now why my friend grabbed my pistol; if they kept at it, he'd need every bullet available. Ahead of me, Phillip was already running through the night. I turned to follow, but as I did, a howling echoed across the fields. I turned back to see the source. 
A dark shadow leapt through the grass, running pell-mell towards us. I took it to be a wolf at first, but the gleaming yellow eyes told me of my mistake. It seemed that Feral had indeed learned friend from foe. The beast was making for Logan, but swerved towards me at my movement. I let the animal rush me, holding my ground. I'd heard of bull-fighting in Spain, but this must've been more terrifying. He leapt towards me in the gloom, his sharpened teeth barred. I dropped to a knee, leveling my saber towards the brute. A sickening, writhing movement on the sword told me of my success. I longed for a pistol to shoot the poor creature. At last, the dog stopped his wrenching with a final jerk. 
Withdrawing my weapon, I turned and sprinted through the veiled darkness after the new King of Riktenburg. 

Chapter XVIII

I jogged through the grass, the long blades swishing against my legs. I shivered in the gloom without my jacket. Ahead of me, Phillip turned to gauge my pace. He slowed, allowing me to catch up. 
"Where's your carriage?" he asked breathlessly looking about.
"We don't have one, sire. We came by train. We raced the man bringing orders for your death. There's much to discuss about today." 
"Apparently," the man said soberly. "As to my own tale, I'm sure you're also curious." 
"Of course, but that'll have to wait until safety." By this point we had reached the grove along the road. We stopped there and turned back to face the manor. The light from Phillip's room was still shining, but now other lamps had been lit. I couldn't hear pistol shots anymore. We crouched down into the recesses of the trees and waited. 
After a short time our hope was rewarded and Logan came sprinting from the house. Of course, in the shade we couldn't tell who it was. I was preparing to advance and attack when he whispered my name. 
"Logan?" I questioned back.
"And who else?" he said with that smug attitude I'd come to love.
"How'd you fare?"
"Good. After you left they tried twice more to leap from the windows. One man even switched rooms, but I saw him break the glass. I shot those down, but I've no idea how hurt they are. Then I waited only a few moments before chasing you. Some of them are sure to follow, so we'll have to discuss anything else as we run," he said, taking off down the lane away from Fielburg. He turned to Phillip. "Your Majesty. They're sure to be watching the roads. Is there anywhere we can hide?" 
The other man huffed along for a few moments before replying. "I've been hunting here several times. Fox hunting. My brother and I own hunting lodges in the area, one not more than a few miles from here." 
"Lodges you say. Is there anything smaller, anything more anonymous?" I pressed. 
"Well . . . yes. There's a couple of hunting shacks we use for wayfaring stations. We store extra food and powder and the like in there. They're tiny affairs, and overgrown by now. I haven't used them in years, and I doubt anyone else has. They're royal property, but hardly popular." 
"Perfect," I said. "And where are they?"
"That depends," he chuckled. "Where are we? I knew I was held near Fielburg, but nothing else."
Logan answered him. "You were a prisoner in a manor owned by the Faith. It rested a few miles west of the village, along this path." 
He wrinkled his forehead in thought. "I know the place. Belonged to a family of wealthy merchants, but I'd no idea they were Courtiers." 
"You likely wouldn't. I imagine they simply provided the lodging," said Logan. "So do you know where those cabins are?" 
"I do. If I'm not mistaken the nearest is about five miles down this lane, in the rolling forest past the village of Octen. It's set back into the woods a bit, but it should be there, God willing." 
"Good fortune at last," I said, my words in time with my feet. "Getting there is next. But first, we need to get off this road. They're sure to have horses, perhaps even dogs. It's likely they'll overtake us, and it wouldn't do to be found on this path." We stepped off the road. 
Occasionally the moon would lance down and light our path through the fields. We moved parallel to the road, far enough away to avoid detection but not too far as to miss sight of any pursuer. The route wasn't difficult, and things were finally going our way. While he didn't speak, I knew that Phillip was longing to know of his brother and how he met his end. We wanted to know about the new king's captivity. How had he been taken, and to what purpose had he been held for so long? Eva had mentioned that Fuchs had used the man as a model for impersonation, but that was too vague. Questions burned within all of our hearts as we raced along through the shade. 
At one point, the clatter of horse hooves pelted up the road. At the sound, we dropped instantly, burying ourselves in the long grass. Peering through those stalks, I saw two mounted men on the road. Their horses were powerful chargers and looked to be impeccably well-bred. I've no idea if we were seen, for the men slowed their mounts to a walk as they approached our hiding spot. Since they made no foray into the brush, I assumed their reduction in speed was more for the animals' sake than for the pursuit. Regardless, the two men looked furtively through the gloom, no doubt searching for us. These Courtiers were well armed, and I'd little hope that mercy would be offered if we were found. The stakes were too high. This great game of cat and mouse was being played for Riktenburg, and for the moment we were the mice. 
The three of us didn't move for a long time as our enemies trotted along before us into the night. Finally, with bated breath, we rose and moved onwards. Now our group had to be careful not to outpace the searching Courtiers. The three of us moved as shades, darting along like whispers in the night. 
As the pale grey of pre-dawn arched across the sky, the two Courtiers returned on the road. Again they were betrayed by the clicking of their horses' hooves, and we had enough time to throw ourselves prostrate in the brush. It was fortunate that they lacked hunting dogs, or we'd been caught for sure. The moist dirt around me possessed that pleasant aroma one can only find in the country, and despite the danger, I nearly succumbed to the sleep which beckoned from that dewy earth. Only Logan's rough shake stirred me, and we rose once more. Glancing behind, I saw the two men just cresting a hill to disappear over its rise. Then we were off again, slinking through the silence. 
At last, Phillip turned us further off the road. I was about to question him, but he pointed ahead. A scattering of rough-hewn buildings dotted the path in front of us. These shapes were blotches of darkness against the lightening sky, and none of their residents had stirred yet. According to Phillip, it was the village of Octen, and by its size, it was even smaller than Fielburg. We traveled around this place, hoping to avoid any contact at all. Until we learned more of Fuchs' intentions, spread the news of his treachery, and gathered men to oppose him, anyone could be an enemy.
Reaching the other side of Octen, Phillip again steered us further from the path. To the west lay rolling fields, perfect for riding and hunting foxes. On the other side, lit ever so faintly by the sun which waited to rise, were woods. This forest towered above us, the great trees looming ominously. Even at a distance I could hear faint whispers of leaves swirling about. Branches creaked against each other, and as we approached, a feeling of darkness swallowed us as we entered this forest.  
Once a helpless prisoner, Phillip was now the leader. Grasping our arms to keep us close in the gloom, he led us expertly through the forest. By familiarity or shrewd skill, the man wound us under the hanging arms and through the grasping feet of the giants about us. 
At last, we came to the hut. 
As Phillip had mentioned, it was indeed overgrown. Rough brambles encircled the space, and vines had snaked their way across everything. In composition, it was mostly of stone, a feature which seemed amiss in the woods. Wooden beams formed the pointed ceiling, and several slits appeared in the walls around the structure. The door was massively thick. The place seemed more like a small fort than a supply depot. As the long tendrils of dawn crawled between the overhanging limbs, we pulled away the worst of the foliage from the blockhouse's door. Next, we were forced to batter the padlock which secured the place. Having broken through this, we took a step back and listened for any sounds of pursuit. Then the three of us ventured inside. 
Like the exterior, the cabin's one room was in disrepair. Barrels of dried meats and other dry goods lined one wall. Another possessed a rack of muskets, pistols, and rifles, with powder and shot to accompany them. A pile of warm throws and furs filled one corner, and several outfits of clothing were folded neatly beside the cloths. Riding tack and saddle blankets formed another space, and in the center of the cabin rested a table and four worn chairs. Without pause, we dropped into these. 
For many long moments, we just sat. Rescued and rescuers, we breathed the musty, damp air. Finally, Phillip put out a hand and tapped it absentmindedly on the table. "Martin is dead. How?" he asked. The slits in the surrounding walls didn't allow much light through, so I couldn't make out his eyes. But I was sure they brimmed with pain.
I took one final breath and launched into the tale. To start, I explained who we were and where we came from. Logan's duel with Otto Fuchs came next, and the story of our subsequent chase through Europe followed. The masque ball. Di Luca's death. Our flight to Riktenburg. Logan added comments, and together, we related how we'd learned of the plot and Phillip's location, how the king had been murdered, and how we'd survived the eventful chase through the mountain pass. I omitted the details of Fuchs' impersonation for the moment; we'd come to that after Phillip's explanation. Through all of it the man remained silent, his face taut.
"We killed the footman and found you in the west wing. They sounded the alarm, and you know the rest," finished Logan, leaning back into his chair. 
"My God of mercy," let out Phillip, placing his head in his hands. 
Not knowing what to say, I grabbed the man's shoulder, squeezing it hard. "Sire, you are the country's leader now, and your brother would be proud of you this night," I uttered at last.
He laughed, a short cackle of pain. "Hardly. To be in the situation at all was folly. But what happened is done already. There's no point hiding the story from you."
We nodded. "Your capture has been on our minds, yes," said Logan.
"I was hunting of course. I'm always hunting. As the spring came on, I traveled to Switzerland to hunt the stags. To be safe I took twenty dragoon guards and we traveled by rail. Once there, we set up in a nice hunting lodge that we'd purchased. It overlooked a beautiful valley, and the snow from the mountain around us was just receding with the sun. And we hunted. My guards and I would trek out into the wild in small groups, and we'd chase the stags. 
"After several weeks of living like this, I took a dozen men out for a regular hunting trip. We'd been unsuccessful for nearly a week, and I was determined to track down our prey. I didn't know that we were being hunted as well. 
"They hit us around a bend in the forest path. We'd normally ride to a clearing in the forest, dismount, and then stalk the deer by foot. While riding along this path, there's a sharp curve. After a while, it became part of the scenery. We rode along blissfully, stupidly. As we rounded the bend that morning though, two huge trees toppled through the forest. One fell before us, the other behind. We were trapped. My men are professionals, and they didn't wait for further evidence of treachery. Some dismounted and see off through the woods to find our attackers. Others formed a cordon around me, guarding me with their own lives. As fast as my men were though, the Courtiers were swifter. It seemed that the trees hadn't hit the ground before they were firing upon us from all directions. The scene was chaos. Wounded horses screamed and men moaned in pain.
"I was ordering my captain to seek better cover. We talked face to face when his body crumpled. He'd been hit in the neck; it was awful. One by one, they shot down my men from the trees. At the time I thought it was miraculous that the bullets missed me. Then with only a few of my guards left they charged us. I consider myself an excellent fencer, and I proved my mettle — the Faith lost three men to my saber that morning. But in the end, it came to nothing. They killed the others and this bear of a man tackled me from behind, pinning my arms. The manacles came next, and I've worn them ever since." With a chuckle, he held the chain that was still wrapped around his ankle. 
"Speaking of which, we should find something to get that off," said Logan. 
"Ha! I've almost grown fond of the damned things, I've worn them for so long. Anyway, they trussed me up and flipped me over. Standing above me were the Fuchs brothers. I'd known Aloysius of course; he'd been in my brother's government. And Otto I'd met once or twice at court functions. But seeing them there was quite a shock. The bastards didn't say a word. They bowed with vicious smiles on their faces and placed a blindfold over my eyes. I never knew what happened to the other guards in my detachment, but I fear the worst." 
"Oh, yes," I said sadly. "Fuchs was sure to snip off the loose ends. I'm sure he killed them. In fact, your brother had been receiving telegrams for months. They were sent from Switzerland and all told of your good health and happy hunting."
Phillip nodded and continued. "Then we traveled. I was always blindfolded when we moved, but I still managed to pick up clues. For sure, we were in Luzern, Bern, and Paris. But I never found out why. Of course they didn't tell me anything, but I often didn't see the Fuchs brothers for several days at a time. Then on other occasions, the two wouldn't leave me alone, especially Aloysius. He'd wake me up at odd hours of the night. I assume the timing was just to be spiteful. Then he'd have me do the strangest things. I'd be forced to walk up and down the hall constantly. All the while, Fuchs would take notes. Then, after a while, he walked along with me, imitating my gait. At other times, he'd sit me down in a chair and draw my features over and over again. As I said, it was the most erratic behavior I'd ever heard of. When they hadn't killed me in the forest, I simply assumed I'd be ransomed, but the months went by and summer came. Still, he drew and studied my mannerisms. He even started to speak like me, using my turn of phrase; it was unsettling . . ." He trailed off. 
"That's how they did it," said Logan sadly.
"How they did what?" asked Phillip.
"Finish your story first sire, and we'll tell the rest of ours."
He nodded. "These sessions continued for many weeks. I would be roused, and Aloysius would have me instruct him in something about court life. I wondered what was happening, and suspicions were forming. But they seemed too far-fetched to me. No one could try them and get away with it." 
I leaned forward. "They did try it, and they have gotten away with it, Your Majesty. It seemed like they wanted to impersonate you?"
"Yes! Exactly! But the thought would be too ludicrous to even attempt. They'd be found out in moments."
"Or one of the best stage-actors in Riktenburg would succeed, and the country would fall under the Faith's tyranny," said Logan dryly. 
Phillip looked at him. "You don't mean . . ."
"Of course," I answered. "Fuchs didn't just kill your brother. He is your brother. With makeup, extensive studying, and the most pernicious dash of gall this country has ever seen, he became the king. Fuchs now looks exactly like each of you. Then as the king, he announced to the whole court that you'd been murdered in Switzerland. Next he accused us of the deed, and we'd have been executed for it if not for Eva's rescue. In the meanwhile the messenger sent here was to kill you. If that Courtier had succeeded both of you would be dead, no one would've been the wiser, and Fuchs could rule the whole of Riktenburg how he desired." 
Phillip sat there, stunned. No one spoke for long minutes as the sun continued to rise. Then the new king leaned forward, small tears lining the corners of his eyes. "He's gone. He's really . . . gone."
There was nothing for us to say.
"Why'd they keep me alive?" Phillip asked at last.
"I assume to keep you as insurance. If the plan had failed and Fuchs and his gang were captured, they had a way out. Your brother would gladly trade you for them."
"He won't have the option now." 
"But you will," said Logan. "You have the option. We'll gather resistance and gut the dog." 
"Or simply show myself in court. He said I was dead. If I show up, he'll be called a liar."
"Sire, there's no possible way you'll get anywhere near the palace. The guards will be replaced, and Fuchs will shoot you down before you can speak. He'll claim you're an imposter, and they'd believe him. As you said, the entire idea is ludicrous, and now that he's in the king's place, he's the king for the moment," I said.
"But not for long," began Logan again. "We need to get Jacob and Eva from the city. Besides, the Kleins will want to help. We can't leave Mercedes to die." 
"Mercedes?" asked Phillip, confused. We explained the role of the minister of war and how his daughter had been taken as leverage. Logan didn't mention his fondness for the girl, so I refrained as well. 
"Joseph must know people who'd fight with us," my friend continued. "We'll find where she's held, rescue her, and take Fuchs when he's traveling or alone. He did it to Martin, and we'll offer him the same." Logan hit the table with his fist. 
"For now though, we haven't slept," I said with a yawn.
"Agreed," said Logan standing. Phillip remained at the table, not moving. At last, he stood and stretched, the chain still wrapped about him. 
"But before anything else, let's remove that." I pointed. We looked about the room for anything that might snap the chain. After a bit, we settled upon a large file. Despite our tiredness, we took turns attacking the fetter. With willing hands and no threat of detection to slow us, we worked feverishly. The metal shavings fell about us, and the filing was the only sound in the room. Our tortured emotions held our tongues from further talk. It took long, delicate filings to proceed; we had to avoid grating Phillip's leg. With a last scrape we cut through the manacle. I flung it aside.
We collapsed like shattered husks about the room. Two cots rested along the floor, and I demurred to the others to take them. For my part, I piled blankets and furs on the floorboards and nested among them. What followed was perhaps the deepest, most fulfilling sleep I've ever experienced. Even as I succumbed to rest, my mind drifted through a cathartic appraisal of our situation. We'd rescued Phillip and kept our lives in the process. All was not hopeless. All was not lost. 
With these gentle thoughts I drifted into unconsciousness, not daring to dream. 

Chapter XIX

Hours later, I stirred, refreshed. Yawning into the sunlight that trickled through the tiny window slits, I lay still. Finally I rose, dusting off my attire. The others were already awake, talking quietly in my absence. 
"Can we risk it?" Logan was saying.
"We can't wait to be found. We'll need initiative. Any peasant will do. They haven't heard the news yet, and they'll likely recognize me," Phillip responded. 
"And what're we discussing?" I asked, blinking to clear my eyes. As one they turned towards me, smiling. 
Logan spoke first. "Good morning. Or afternoon rather. We were discussing our next move. There are several options. But the most dangerous one sounds the best." 
"And that is . . ." 
He continued. "Eva and Jacob are already in the city. Joseph Klein is also in Teimsfeld. To do anything, we'll need their support. The question is how to reconnect with them. Phillip wants to send a messenger, but my vote is to infiltrate the city ourselves. Obviously, there'd be danger."
I considered. "Of course there are problems with sending a messenger. Who can we trust now? But if we go ourselves, the city is sure to be crawling with Courtiers and oblivious soldiers as well. No one knows we're innocent, and the Riktian military will act as such. Joseph can't do anything to inform them because he's trapped too."
Phillip smiled wanly. "All valid points. How do we proceed?"
"Your Majesty—"
He held up a hand. "The two of you saved my life. You're foreigners and shouldn't have any loyalty to me. I think 'Phillip' can suffice. Besides, I'm not officially the king; I haven't been crowned. Strange perhaps, but you're about the most important people in the world to me right now. My life is forfeit in my own land, and I've only two Englishmen who say otherwise. I think we can dispense with formality for the moment." 
I chuckled. "There are certain Riktians who will back you as well . . . Phillip." I had trouble addressing the man this way. "But I see your point. And thank you. Now here's a third plan. They know we've rescued you. They know that Logan and I are traveling together. Let's change that. Three men might be caught, but one can slip through easier. How about I go to Teimsfeld and find our friends? I'll talk with Joseph, hear his next move, reconvene with you two, and go on from there. Besides, Logan's hurt and you're too recognizable, Phillip." What I said was true. The slash along Logan's arm was still fresh, and in a country as small as Riktenburg, there was a high chance that most citizens would know the royal brothers by sight. 
Logan furrowed his brow in thought. "This assumes an awful lot. Jacob's still wounded as well. It looked bad to us, and having one or two days of recovery isn't going to fix that — such wounds don't heal instantly. We have no idea where Joseph is. If Fuchs is holding him at the palace, or keeping him under watch, we'll never be able to get close enough to talk. Both of those are possible, and any mistake on our parts and we're lost. If Fuchs captures you, he will torture and rend your body until you give him our location here. On the other hand, if we send a messenger, there's at least an equal chance of detection. Anyone we send is liable to talk freely or lead Fuchs' men back to us. You know my opinion. What do you say Phillip?" 
The monarch played with his hands for a moment before speaking. "Nathaniel's unhurt and trustworthy. I vote him." 
"It's settled then," I said rising. Having lost my jacket back in the manor, I shrugged the suspenders from my trousers. Unfortunately, I caught one on my shoulder and struggled with it for a few moments.
"What're you doing?" said Logan trying not to laugh .
"Is there anything more conspicuous than a royal guard? If there was, it'd look like me — with only half of an unfitting uniform." I moved towards the wall, pulling down a forester's outfit. The attire was fashionably drab and suitable for the hunt. As this was a royal way-station, its make was of fine material, and the supple cloth actually fit as well as the guard's uniform; if it didn't adhere to my body like a tailored suit, I couldn't complain. Buttoning up the waistcoat, I turned to my compatriots. 
"How do I look?" I asked. 
They took a moment to appraise me. Logan even walked around, scrutinizing me. He stroked his chin delicately and finally nodded in approval. "For the mess you normally are, this isn't half bad," he called with a laugh. 
The banter lightened my mood, and the departure that followed wasn't terrible. The plan was simple. I'd return to Luden by train and then traverse the pass to Teimsfeld, retracing our previous route. Hopefully I'd pick up a ride from a generous herdsman. Riding atop a famer's wagon would offer me some level of credibility. The others would simply wait for me in the hut. They had provisions for at least a week, and if they kept a low profile there was no reason to suspect that the Faith would find them. When I'd met with Joseph and reunited with Jacob and Eva, we'd return to the hut and plan our resistance. 
Smiling at the coming journey, I wandered back through the forest towards the road. Of course I'd be avoiding the Faith's manor along the path. I felt I could skirt around it. The sun was just beginning to set as I walked along, so I'd have the cover of darkness to hide my movements once more. I was happy with my prospects and feeling confident about my success. 
I avoided the village of Octen and walked through the fields parallel to the road. The journey was simple, and despite the proximity to the Faith's hideout, I felt brash. As darkness swept over the fields, I moved quicker. I was determined to reach Fielburg by dawn to catch the first train. Of course I hadn't any money yet, but I hoped the kindly ticket-master would be aboard. The more I thought of it however, the more this seemed a disadvantage than a boon. He'd likely have heard of the messenger's death on the platform in Luden, and he'd certainly connect the event with me if I revealed myself. But wandering through the tall grass along the road, I put those thoughts from my mind. 
I was well rested and the miles went quickly. Only once did I need to duck down and hide. A lone rider came trotting up the road, and while I couldn't tell if he was a Courtier or not, I was determined to take no chances. The rest of the journey was uneventful, and I reached Fielburg before dawn. I again walked down the path around the hamlet's perimeter, retracing my steps from the night before. 
As before, the town was ghostly silent, and the slight guttering of street lamps was the only indication that life resided within this silent place. I found a quiet bench near the train platform, and settled in to wait for morning. Despite my confidence, I was still wary; it wouldn't do to fall asleep and be taken so easily. Given my aristocratic hunting attire, I'd kept the saber; it might have looked out of place elsewhere, but as a noble, I felt I could wear it and avoid scrutiny. As I sat quietly on the bench, my finger slowly traced the revolver resting in my waistcoat pocket. I'd replenished my ammunition at the way-station, and I'd taken extra bullets besides. If things came to a fight, I'd be ready. 
The sun finally rose, spreading her wispy fingers towards the horizon. The town stirred about me, and I was required to greet several passersby. While they regarded me curiously there was no suspicion in anyone's eyes. I was only another wealthy huntsman who wandered through their town. After a while the streets were filled with residents, and the few shops opened along the village's main street. 
My stomach grumbled, reminding me of the needful. I stood up and wandered towards the nearest shop, a humble affair that smelled deliciously of warm bread. Stepping inside, a surprisingly thin baker called out a hello at the sound of the bell above the door. Turning, he placed his hands on the counter and leaned attentively forward. "What's your pleasure?" he asked, beaming.
I ordered two hardy loaves from the man and passed over my Italian lira. The man stared at it for a moment. "I don't think I can take this," he said at last. 
"Friend, you see that it's silver, yes? I'm sorry, but I've just come from Rome and haven't any Riktian money. I need to get to the capital today by train, and the government can't accept this." He continued to look at it. "It's silver," I said again. "I just want enough change to get me to Teimsfeld. You know that a silver piece is worth much more than two loaves and a train ticket," I pleaded. 
He consented at last and passed over a pile of copper crowns. I smiled. It would've been difficult using the train without the proper currency a second time. I couldn't be too careful, because someone could be looking for me anywhere.
I exited the shop and tripped over a passing Courtier. 
I fell in a heap, but he managed to stay on his feet. He pulled me from the ground, collecting his fallen bowler at the same time. Brushing the dust from the silver diamond, he held out a hand. "My sincere apologies, sir. I didn't see you there."
I ducked my head as much as possible, attempting to avoid his gaze at all costs. "It was my fault. Thank you for the assistance," I mumbled. I ducked away without another word, drifting off through the crowd. I didn't run, but I couldn't help moving quickly. The man didn't follow, so I figured I'd escaped. My nervous feet carried me along like a current, brushing past pedestrians and finally climbing the train station's stairs. I checked a timetable. The next train would be arriving within the hour, so I purchased a ticket and snatched up a newspaper from a local boy and sat heavily on the nearest bench. 
Because of the small size of the village, the paper was Luden's evening edition from the night before; the morning paper wouldn't have arrived in Fielburg yet. I sat munching on my bread for a few minutes before I finally glanced at the paper. Flipping the Luden Line open, I coughed sharply to cover my surprised gasp. 
On the front page were three separate drawings. The faces of Logan, Jacob, and myself peered back at me from the print. They were expertly handled and accurate to the smallest detail. They'd even captured the small scar I had along my eyebrow. I shut the paper, instinctively trying to hide the evidence. 
The move was foolish. No one was looking around, and the hue and cry certainly hadn't been raised. Sheepishly, I reopened the paper and glanced at the article. Of course it came straight from the Faith. It told a woeful tale of Phillip's death in a Swiss forest and how the diligent soldiers of the king had apprehended the villains responsible for the deed. The murderers had proven elusive, however, and had even managed to escape from the palace. Along with the images, King Martin was offering a heavy reward for information leading to our capture. We were described as foreigners of the most deadly disposition who'd kill without cause. The palace warned all readers to be exceptionally careful and diligent in the next few days. With luck the devils would be reclaimed, and justice would follow swiftly. 
Despite the danger I had to chuckle. My family had always described us as bumbling friends who loved the games life threw our way. To be described as 'deadly and dangerous' was a far stretch by any imagination. But this thought was tempered by a wave of guilt; had I not proven myself to be deadly in the last week? Blood was on my hands, and no amount of justification could change that.
These pensive thoughts ended as a black train puffed into the station. It came from the opposite direction of Luden, and I wondered how far into the Riktian countryside the line actually went. By this time a small clump of villagers were waiting to mount the train. They carried various bundles, but most seemed to be traveling for a day trip to the city. I smiled as the others went about their daily lives, wishing I could join in their leisure. For my part, I stood, tucking the accusing newspaper under my arm. I strode across the platform.
Just ahead, two men in black bowler hats stepped up to the train. I froze. I had bumped into one outside the bakery. The other was Eva's former lover, the scarred Kurt Weber. He was talking softly with the other man. My breath caught in my chest, but I couldn't resist. I crept near them, listening behind two giggling young women who waited for the train as well. 
Kurt was sneering at the other fellow. "I don't care if they have wings to fly about the country. You will find them! They haven't gotten far, and they're likely to disappear further into the countryside. Look for the duke's favorite places. They'll avoid the royal lodges, but he'll slip up. Besides, he's being led by those idiots. One of them will make a mistake, and I want to be there in time to catch it. His Majesty will want this resolved immediately. There's no telling what'll happen if they wander the countryside indefinitely." 
I almost growled. This villain was droning on about our vexing escape. His mention of the imposter king was nearly too much. I clenched my fists to avoid any idiotic move, but it was with difficulty. 
The other man was wringing his hands anxiously. "Yes, Weber, but we need more time. It's been a day. We can't produce miracles, espec—"
Kurt grabbed the man's lapels, drawing him close and breathing fiercely. The laughing girls didn't seem to notice. "The miracle is how you let him escape. Your one task was holding him until we could proceed, and you let him slip through your hands like water. I didn't come here for posterity's sake. I expected things to be in order, and you idiots botched it all." Kurt let him go, glancing about.
The train stopped then, and Kurt slipped onboard and out of earshot, leaving the unfortunate Courtier in his wake. Obviously I didn't follow. I slipped down the platform and wandered onboard a lonely car. Two elderly gentlemen were discussing the weather as I slid past them, taking a seat near the back of the train. I flipped open the newspaper once more, careful to cover the front page. For a while I read aimlessly through the pages. It wasn't interesting. The only article of note came in the international news section. Things were heating up in Paris; the populace was growing more and more discontent with Louis Philippe, and the violence continued. I couldn't blame them after the poverty we'd noticed. 
The irony of that chain of thought struck me. I was a highly wanted fugitive in a country now ruled by a charlatan. My supposed crime was helping an egalitarian king. The murdered king's only crime had been to respect the people's will and forgo absolutism for enlightenment. 
It was a maddening world. 
The train shuffled forward, and I settled into the movements as we raced towards Luden. Eventually, the old ticket-master puttered into our compartment. After collecting his dues from the car's other passengers he came for me. I breathed a silent prayer that he'd forgotten my face. 
"Ah, our soldier!" he cried warmly. Damn.
I put on a small smile nonetheless. "Good morning to you too sir."
"My, the king has you traveling all up and down Riktenburg, doesn't he? In one place a day and gone the next. No wonder you all keep busy." He looked me up and down. "You've changed attires though. I like it, but not exactly the guards' regular style is it?" He spoke in a rush, a wide smiling beaming across his face. 
"Well you know," I sputtered awkwardly, "We do get around. I've a ticket for you this time though. No need to charge the palace again." 
He laughed. "Of course, of course. You lads just keep up the good work. Did you hear the news about the archduke, God grant him rest?" He peered at me, and it took every ounce of my composure to not leap from the train's window. Given our speed, it was probably for the best.
"I did. And those devils escaped too. They killed a few of our guards." I dropped my head feigning sadness. 
"Terrible matters indeed. Riktenburg will be mourning. You'll catch them?"
"That's certainly our intent." I was growing uncomfortable with the progression of the conversation.
"Good. Now if you have the fare, I'll be on my way." He stuck out his hand, smiling pleasantly, and I was more than happy to hand over my ticket and be rid of the kindly man. Snapping it up, he turned and wandered back up the train.
I rode the rest of the trip in peace. No one bothered me, and I was more than content to sit and brood by myself. I kept taking feverish sidelong glances about the car. Someone had to be watching me, but the elderly gentlemen simply prattled on, not the least bit concerned with me. Trying to quash these worries, I peered out the window. The landscape swirled by in a rush, and I was again struck by the beauty of this country. Under different circumstances, it would be altogether pleasant to ride this line and enjoy the Riktian countryside. I sighed. That wasn't going to happen for a while, perhaps never.
The train finally slowed, emitting great clouds of steam as we glided into the Luden station. The old men gathered their possession and exited the train. Waiting for a time, I followed. I wanted to put as much distance between Kurt and myself. Having thought about it, it was incredibly foolish to have even ridden the same train as him, let alone eavesdropped on his conversation. It seemed I had much to learn regarding cloaks and daggers. After a few minutes, I stepped lightly down the stairs and into the crowd on the platform. 
No one screamed and no one was shooting. The body of the fallen messenger was removed, but a dark blotch of blood still clung to the station's edge. I tried not to look.
I walked away from the crowd, never glimpsing the scarred Courtier. I headed down the nearest alleyway and paused at the end, glancing behind. No one followed, but I continued to dodge this way and that, curving around strange streets for an hour. After this I was sure that no one had followed me, so I struck off in the general direction of the mountain path. I was aided in this by the gorgeous peaks which loomed above the city. While the range was apparently narrow, its impressive length took my breath away. It was no surprise that Riktenburg's two most powerful cities had settled on either side of its shadow. 
Being around noon, the streets were relatively deserted. People were eating with their families or enjoying a respite from the summer sun. After securing a small lunch from a nearby vendor, I walked along, avoiding all contact with those that remained. Eventually I came to the edge of the city and wandered onwards. In all of this I missed the horse I'd had earlier. I only had my two feet to aid me, and the trip was taking longer than expected. 
The occasional farmer or small clump of animals was trekking up the mountain pass. Through these masses, I went onwards. The thrill of the chase was absent, and I was utterly alone. Even as I climbed, the mist waited for me. It swallowed me as the path snaked upwards and the trees disappeared. Near the top of the pass, a kindly peasant asked if I wanted a ride. He was driving a small cart filled with odd bags. I didn't ask about the wagon's contents but hopped aboard. The man was pleasing to chat with, and although necessity forced me to keep my words jaded, his company provided for an enjoyable afternoon. The trip went fast too, which was an added bonus. It felt good to relax my feet, the man's nags pulling us along at a decent clip. 
Towards nightfall we descended down the other side of the pass. The trees began appearing around us again. The pleasing Riktian farmlands loomed ahead, while the buildings of Teimsfeld glinted in the fading sunlight. The man apologized as we neared his farm, and I hopped off with many cries of thanks. He turned down a gravel lane, and I continued towards the city as night fell.
The darkness didn't bother me, but I was a little apprehensive about gaining access to the city. Teimsfeld didn't seem too antiquated, but it still possessed its medieval walls. If these were shut for the night, I'd be out of luck and forced to wait until morning. Of course that would bring the added difficulties of avoiding the crowds. Anyone could recognize me, and the Courtiers would be on me in an instant. 
I finally reached the outskirts of the city and ducked through an open gate just as the guards were shutting down the city for the night. Despite the ride of the generous farmer, the trip had still taken all day, and I was exhausted. There was no rest for the weary though, so I slipped into the menagerie of buildings, trying to remember the route to the Kleins' home. I'd memorized the address earlier, but in the darkness, everything looked the same, and I lost my way many times. I was forced to dodge patrolling groups of soldiers, and the whole time, I was terrified of discovery.
Finally, I came upon a certain corner that I recognized. From there, I traced my way through the dark streets towards the Klein home. I'd resolved to meet with Joseph before looking for Jacob and Eva. As much trouble as I had finding an address that I knew, it would've been impossible tracking down the monastery. I came upon the home and slipped up the entry staircase to pound on the door. With each thud of the knocker, I glanced about, waiting for enemies to pounce. Finally the door opened, and I shoved my way inside. 

Chapter XX

Again, the scent of pines rushed at me as I entered the home. This first impression of smell was stifled by another sense, this one of touch. The barrel of a pistol was thrust into the small of my back. Then a voice breathed behind me. "Turn about slowly or it's your life." 
I complied. And stared in shock at the quiet valet who stared back from his half-moon glasses. 
"You!" he gasped. 
I nodded, smiling. "Good evening." There wasn't much else to say. 
"What are you doing here? You'll get us all killed! Fuchs is sure to be watching the house!" 
"I know, but we have no one else to turn to. Is your master at home?"
"Of course he is. He hasn't been let into the palace since the coup, but we're sure they're watching his every move. The minister could ruin everything for Fuchs. But with poor Mercedes . . . " He trailed off, lowering his pistol.
The valet led me through the home carrying a small lantern to light our path. Striding through the dark corridors, the servant came to a pair of French doors and slipped inside, closing them behind before I could enter. I moved back from the panes and waited in the darkness. 
The door flew open and Joseph raced out, his nightshirt billowing about him. "Nathaniel!" he cried, grabbing me in a hearty embrace. I patted him awkwardly on the back, again unsure of what to say. 
He backed up, still grabbing my shoulders and stared me in the eye. His face looked creased and sunken by the valet's lantern. "You've no idea how good it is to you see you alive. I feared the worst." The minister paused. "However, it probably wasn't a good idea coming here. The Courtiers are sure to be around." 
I nodded. "We had nowhere else to turn."
He chuckled darkly. "I know, I know. It's been two days since the coup, and he's already started the changes. Fuchs has implemented new policies in the palace and dismissed dozens of workers. They're all of lower classes of course, but he claims the need for heightened security since his brother's death. It can only get worse from here. And speaking of, you're alive! Does the Archduke live?" He appeared to hold his breath, his eyes stabbing into my mine. 
"He does. Phillip and Logan are safe . . . for the moment."
"Thank heavens! We play with pawns and kings now. If Fuchs' pawns kill our new king, the country is done for. Tell me everything." 
We moved through the house and found seats in the kitchen. As I launched into the lengthy tale, Joseph drew a bottle of cognac from a small cabinet. For his part, the valet disappeared into the shadowy recesses of the home. We drank lightly as I told of our ragged chase through the pass, the Faith's manor, and the flight through the darkness. I came to the end of the tale and sat back. 
He leaned forward. "How is he taking it? Phillip's a strong man, but there's a limit to anyone's nerves."
I shrugged. "Like you said, there's a limit. When I left he wasn't despondent, but it's all so sudden. If nothing else, he wants revenge."
"We all do." The minister's teeth glinted in the light. "And have you heard from Jacob and Eva?"
I shook my head. "I didn't know which monastery it was or how to find it. I came straight here. We'll need them though."
"Oh, of course. From what you said, Jacob may not be able to travel though. The wound sounded serious." 
"For all I know he may be dead, sir. The guards got him straight in the back. He fainted from loss of blood. It wasn't pretty." 
Joseph nodded. "No sense in speculating until we know something. There's plenty of other things to worry about just now."
"Yes." I paused for a moment. "And sir, what are we planning to do? I assume we're going to fight somehow. And Mercedes. We need to get her back."
He sighed, a long puff of air leaping from his mouth. "That's the problem, isn't it? No one can help us. We can't tell anyone. First off, no one would believe us. Fuchs has already gotten the press to publish some nonsense about your supposed villainy. Did you see the papers yet?" I nodded as he continued. "Plus, if we do tell a soul, and the Courtiers find out about it, they'll kill her. It's a deadly game we run." 
"We have to try at least."
"Yes, yes. Of course we do. What kind of father would I be to leave my girl in their hands? And what kind of Riktian would I be to leave my country in the hands of these lunatics?" 
"Is there anyone deathly loyal to the royal brothers? Can we trust anyone at all? We talked about this with Phillip. We needed to gather a small group and attack him when he attends some state function or is traveling. There'll be less guards, few Courtiers, and we might have some chance at success." 
The minister pursed his lips and didn't respond for a long time. "Do you fence much?" he asked at last.
The question took me off guard, so to speak, and I barked a short laugh. "Excuse me?"
"Do you fence?" he repeated. 
"I do. My master taught me the Italian school. Of course, other than a few occasions this week, I haven't had a chance to practice in a while," I said wryly. 
"There is one man, a fencing master, who would believe us. Simon Duval. He's a Frenchman, but he emigrated to Riktenburg ages ago. We served in the army together, and he's the best swordsman in Germany. He was trained in the French school of course, but has since learned all the styles: Italian, German, and so on. But that's all besides the point. What really matters is that he's incredibly loyal to Martin, Phillip, and myself. We can trust him. What's more is that he runs a school. His students, like him, are some of the finest swordsmen to be had. Plus, they're mostly young bucks like yourself. Adventures are what they dream about. You show up at his school and tell them about the plot, and we'll have fifty recruits before the hour's past. Then, like you said, it's only a matter of catching the fox when he's unprotected. And keeping out of his grasp in the meantime."
"This Simon, where is he?" 
"The school's about fifty miles south of the capital, outside the village of Hemline. His students live there, training. Most of them receive commissions in the Riktian army or travel elsewhere to serve in the military. They're almost always second sons without a chance of inheritance. Like I said, they'll be willing to fight."
"And what will you do?"
He laughed bitterly, the lamplight flickering in his mirthless eyes. "What am I to do? Nothing. They know what I could've done, which is why they took Mercedes. Now they're sure to keep watch on me to ensure I don't do anything stupid. No, I'll act my part and advise Fuchs as the Minster of War. He's kept me on, you know. He refuses to replace me. The people know that Martin and I are, were, incredibly close. They'd suspect something if I was dismissed. Also, he needs my expertise. If any need of the army should arise, I have the best knowledge about it, and he won't dispense that."
"A wise move, I'd say.  But it certainly doesn't help our cause."
"No, it doesn't. But you can. You and your friends managed to save the duke. That's more than something. Find Simon and kill Fuchs. Then maybe Riktenburg can start sorting through this entire mess. I'll send you any information I can, but I can't be too blatant with Mercedes in their grasp." 
"Do what you can, minister. We'll handle the rest. Now I need to see about Eva and Jacob. Do you know where we would've gone to?" 
He chuckled. "There's not terribly many monasteries in the capital. Tell me how you got there again?"
The details were slim, even in my own mind, but I attempted to recall where our carriage had gone after escaping from the palace. It seemed ages ago, and the images blurred together like some kaleidoscope of memory. Joseph finally described what might have been the place and told me how to find it. 
Then he led me through the dark home, passing through the halls in silence. At last we came to a small back door. 
"A good precaution," was all he said about it. 
As I slipped through the door my foot caught on something. Bending down, I picked up a rough object and held it in front of the lamplight. It was the diamond crest of the Faith. 
"What's this?" I asked, showing it to the minister.
He took it from me, quickly pocketing the piece. "Hmm. One of the devils must've dropped it when they took Mercedes. Now you'd best be on your way." 
We clasped hands firmly, and I took off into the night once more. Sneaking through the dark streets, I wondered at my endurance. How long could I keep this up? I doggedly pushed that thought away as I walked beneath the moonlight. I traced my way through the dark city, but soon, I was too lost to continue. I had an address, but without knowing the city it was impossible to find my way. I'd been lucky to find the minister's home in the first place. Lacking other options, I nestled down to wait for dawn in a winding alleyway. I couldn't sleep though. Rats and the occasional dog wandered nearby, and the water from some runoff dripped incessantly. 
Having to wait for the dawn annoyed me. But if I'd be more recognizable in the light, I couldn't help it. Wandering through the streets without a clue was foolish and dangerous. I rested my eyes, feeling my pulse slacken as the luxurious feeling of sitting washed over me like a gentle wave. I breathed in, out, in, out. Each time was cathartic, and the stench of the alleyway was forgotten as I centered myself. My hands grew moist, gently tracing the watery stones around me as I waited for the dawn. It came at last, but I held my pose. When I could hear the bustling of a crowd start to form in the early light I stood, brushed the worst of the dust from my form, and strode into the morning. 
I was painfully aware that people all around me might have seen my face. I walked through their midst, not drawing attention to myself. The streets were confusing, and I found myself lost on unfamiliar lanes over and over. Finally, I got up my nerve to ask for directions; it was a task I normally detested, but under the circumstances, it was terrifying. I approached a well-dressed man with a kindly look on his face. He sat outside a cafe, gently sipping coffee and observing the passersby. 
"Excuse me, sir." I said, approaching him. 
He looked up, a smile on his face. As he saw my face, the smile froze, and his cheek noticeably twitched. "Yes . . ." he said smoothly. "How can I help?'
Even as I spoke, he gave me another look, gazing over my features like a painter studies his subject. This examination gave me the chills, and I had half a mind to leave. He seemed a strange fellow. "I'm a bit lost and I'm looking for an address. Can you help?"
The examining glance disappeared, and he smiled again. "Of course I can. You must be a foreigner; your accent betrays you, sir. Where is it you're heading?"
I gave him the street, but not the number. The entire ordeal had me on edge. 
"Very well. It's a simple route from here. You won't miss it." He proceeded to lay out detailed directions. It was very helpful, and I thanked him warmly, pumping his hand before I trotted back into the street. Out of nervous habit, I looked back over my shoulder. 
The man was gone.
I paused in the midst of the street. Then it struck me, and I began to rush, nearly throwing people out of the way in my hurry. 
"There he goes!" cried an angry voice behind me. I abandoned any chance of anonymity and sprinted. 
"Move, citizens!" I cried, shoving through a waiting pack of busybodies. They shouted in anger as I jostled them out of the way. I didn't take a moment to look behind, but from the shouting, my pursuers — whoever they were — were close. 
"Stop him! Stop that man!" the voices cried. I redoubled my pace, the soles of my feet loping across the ground like a fleeing stag. During all of this, I had reached into my waistcoat and pulled the revolver from within. As the street turned, I glanced behind, breathing hard in the run. Three constables pounded up the cobblestones behind me. They were brawny men but quick-footed and easily kept pace with me. 
I threw myself into a dark alley, knocking crates and abandoned rubble to the ground in my flight. Even as the debris slowed me, the men behind were able to leap over it, closing the distance between us. I threw my arm back and shot wildly behind me. Aside from a startled yell, there was nothing, and I doubted I had hit anything. Apparently my action had inspired them, for three shots bounced off the walls around me, slicing through the stones like razors. I ducked down, collapsing my frame and continued my run. The alley was one of those long constructions that wound through the various buildings of the street, and it forked in several places. I chose erratically, flinging myself down whichever direction seemed best, hoping to lose them in the labyrinth. 
 I eventually exited into the sunlight once more. I skidded to a halt in shock. Looming above me was the royal palace, the perimeter fence directly in front of me. If my problems weren't enough, I'd thrown myself in front of the very maw of Fuchs' layer. I swung to the left and took off down the street once more. People stared curiously at me, but then my pursuers left the alley and cried for help. I swore deeply as several other men took to the hunt, fresh legs helping them keep pace. Loathing myself, I turned and shot once more. This time, a scream of agony answered my move, but I couldn't stop to see the results. I turned onto streets at random, dashing through crowds and around horse carts. I could barely breathe anymore, but I seemed to be gaining on my enemies. Stumbling, I launched into another dark alleyway, splashing water from a puddle in my flight. The water leapt through the air, drenching me in the foul liquid and blinding me for a moment. Spitting to rid myself of the acrid taste and wiping my eyes to regain my vision, I raced through the constricting passage. Above, Riktians hung their laundry to dry, and several low-lying garments were caught in my path and thrown to the ground in a rush. Skidding, I exited into the street again, the shouts of the constables reverberating through the alley behind me.  
It was the right street. 
I recognized various buildings, and I could see the monastery's walls jutting out from the skyline to my right. I raced to the door and pounded on the wood for sanctuary. As with the night before at Joseph's home, the moment the door swung open, I threw myself at the feet of the brothers and begged for mercy, praying for escape. 

Chapter XXI

"What on earth?" snapped the rotund monk staring down at me. 
"For the love of heaven, brother, shut the door," I gasped, heaving on the floor.
"Who . . . What?" His confused face might have been comedic if the door hadn't been ajar. Any second my pursuers might race forward, trapping me and presumably Eva and Jacob, within the walls of the place. 
The fat cleric continued to stand there, so I drew myself from the floor and slapped the door shut despite his protests. 
"Really!" he cried. "Now I must ask again. Who are you? And what're you doing within our confines?"
I started to speak, but a voice from behind called to me.
 "Nathaniel!" Eva was rushing forward and drew me into an embrace. She released me quickly and turned to the other man. "It's alright. He's with us." She turned to me. "And why are you panting?" She said it with a laugh, but I held up my hand.
"I'm panting because I just sprinted miles to get here, avoiding the clutches of some duty-driven Riktian constables."
"Why didn't you lead them away and sneak back later?" Her gaze lanced through me, and I withered before it; she was like some Valkyrie — terrible and beautiful. 
"To be honest, I didn't think of it."
She moved to the door, not looking at me. She slid open a small barred hatch and stared out into the street. "They wouldn't happen to have been a trio of constables, would they?" she asked over her shoulder. 
"That's them."
"You really didn't think, did you? They're not moving this way, but it'd be death for us all if they did. Fuchs wouldn't care a jot for holy sanctuary. The Faith would kill anyone harboring us without a qualm." 
"To be fair, it was all rushed." 
"That's not an excuse and you know it. Thankfully for us, they're moving on."
The monk had left, and we were alone. I turned to her. "How is he? How're you?" 
She sighed. "It's actually better than we might have hoped." She led me down a long hallway, nodding silently to several monks along the way. Small lamps dotted the walls, casting shadows. A pungent odor of incense wafted through the air, and a chill hung over the place. The hallway snaked after a bit, leading us along a winding path through the monastery. We turned through several arched doorways, climbed and descended stairs, and finally came to a sunlit greenhouse. 
After a moment, I realized it wasn't a greenery, but it could easily be mistaken for such. One wall was composed entirely of large windows, the sunlight drifting serenely through the panes. It opened onto a small courtyard where several monks sat reading. Potted plants and flowers of various hues dotted the room, but what I'd taken for a conservatory was actually the infirmary. 
Patients of various conditions dotted the room, their beds exposed to the warm light and wonderful aromas dancing about the space. Some were members of the monastery, while others were simply private citizens who'd come to seek the brothers' help. That seemed rather antiquated to me, considering the doctoral profession. We'd sought out the monastery because the situation had left us unable to trust a doctor. 
I spotted Jacob in a corner. He was shirtless, and a mass of bandages covered his back. Eva glided towards him, her black tresses flowing with the movement. The man in the bed looked up and smiled warmly to see me. "Nathaniel!" he cried, sitting up. He winced at the movement.
"It seems those guards didn't shoot well enough, huh?" I joked, slapping his shoulder playfully before settling into a chair at the bedside. 
"Not hardly. You saw it; the wound wasn't exactly beautiful. But it looked far worse than it was. I lost a lot of blood, but there wasn't much damage done. The shot was at a distance, and the bullet didn't penetrate too deep. Besides, it missed the most important stuff. You know what we Americans are made of. I'll be going strong in no time." 
"I'm no expert on your people, but in every other culture, writers are . . . well you know." 
"Don't make me hurt you." he laughed. 
"If you two are done harping, can we discuss something of actual importance?" asked Eva, her voice lilting good-naturedly. 
I turned to her, folding my hands properly. "But of course, good madam. The menu for this evening's gala? The opera? Perhaps the newest fashions of Teimsfeld? What other topic could possibly be more riveting than the fur over silk debate?"
"No. Actually, I wondered how you were coming along on saving the kingdom?"
"Ah, yes. The kingdom." I laughed. Pausing, I turned serious. "To make a rather incredibly long few days short, here it is." I launched into the tale. "And after sleeping like the dead, I returned to find you two and reconnect with Minister Klein. I've been to see him already, and he's given some help. Logan and Phillip are waiting for our return, and we'll proceed from there," I finished.
The others remained silent during all of this. At the closing, Jacob raised a finger. "And how are we proceeding? From what the brothers have said, the city is crawling with police and guards."
"Before I answer that, how much have you told them?" I asked. 
Eva spoke first. "They know everything. I've known Abbot Baum since childhood. Do you remember him when we first arrived?"
 I shook my head. "Those memories are a bit clouded."
"Anyway, he's the most trustworthy man in the entire city. He was loyal to the king, and Martin even came to him for advice sometimes. It was only natural to tell them. Abbot Baum has already sworn his brethren to silence. We're safe here as long as no one leads the police to the door." She turned a glance to me, but her tone lacked the coldness from before. 
I shrugged sheepishly, and Jacob laughed before speaking. "Did you run into some problem?"
"I arrived by flinging myself through the cloister's door. Some constables weren't too pleased to see me walking around Teimsfeld."
"Back to Jacob's question," said Eva. "What're we doing next? Can Joseph help us, and have we learned about Mercedes yet?"
"As to Mercedes, Joseph knew no more than we did. Fuchs took her, but there's no telling where she is or how she's being treated." The others sighed deeply before I continued. From the tortured look in Eva's eyes, she was dreading the fate of her closest friend, and I couldn't blame her. Mercedes was at the mercy of a lunatic despot. Who knew how Eva would cope?
"But Joseph did have some help for us. The only way out of this, the only way to save Riktenburg is to capture or assassinate Fuchs as he killed Martin. No one will believe the truth. It's too ridiculous. The idea of a charlatan replacing the king is laughable, and that's Fuchs' genius. Ludicrous, but he's done it. Besides, if we show Phillip as proof of our story, Fuchs and the Faith will be on us faster than rain. No. The best plan is to attack the man when he's least guarded, kill him, and present Phillip to the people afterwards."
Jacob leaned forward. "And how does Joseph suggest that we accomplish this? Fuchs is sure to have guards with him all the time." 
"That, the minister didn't say. But he did offer us the means to do it. Eva, have the Kleins ever mentioned Simon Duval?"
"Oh yes, the French swordsman? Wasn't he a companion of Joseph's? I know he's eaten dinner with their family and myself before."
"Yes, he is a swordsman, and a Riktian veteran who served with Joseph in their younger days. The minister feels he is loyal to the royal brothers and will help us. He leads a cadre of young swordsmen at a fencing school. According to Joseph, they're all adventurous young men, and usually go on to serve in the armies of Europe. They're about the closest thing in Riktenburg to soldiers not under Fuchs' command. We'll travel to them, and hide out among their numbers. Besides, it wouldn't be a bad idea to practice our swordsmanship a bit more. I know I've needed mine in the last few days," I said. 
Jacob indicated his wounded back. "Nothing like a bit of sparring to aid recovery." 
"Nothing like you resting for some weeks before even thinking about that," scolded Eva. 
"Regardless," I jumped in, "we can lay low and wait for news. Joseph promised to keep in touch. Fuchs has to slip up. He'll be making public appearances, and he can't be surrounding himself with dozens of guards all the time. He'll mess up, and we'll be there to strike him down like the serpent he is."
"Sounds reasonable. We've nothing else to go off of anyway. Like Eva said, they're looking for us, and sooner or later they'll have us. It won't do to stay in the capital much longer," said Jacob. 
"Speaking of which, how soon will you be able to travel?"
"We're a step ahead of you," he said. "We figured one of you would be coming back if things went alright. If you hadn't, someone would come for us anyway and travel arrangements would be the least of our problems. So we asked the brothers to procure a carriage somehow. It seemed an imposition at first, but one of the monks stepped forward. Apparently, he's the last son of a wealthy Riktian noble. His family provided the carriage without question, and it's waiting here. We can travel whenever you say the word, and I'm well enough to bounce for a bit in the carriage. Walking might be difficult yet, but that'll come soon enough. Like I said, the wound was better than we hoped." 
I nodded, looking to Eva. "Good thinking. Unfortunately the fencing school is outside of Hemline."
She pursed her lips. "And if I'm understanding you correctly, the king and Logan are by Octen, in the opposite direction."
"Exactly. We can't send a messenger. Things are too dangerous for that, so I'll have to return and bring them to Hemline. In the meantime, it's best that you two get out of the city. No sense in risking your lives and the brothers' safety any longer. Eva, you've met Simon before. Would he remember you?"
She nodded. "I imagine. It was a while ago, but I can simply remind him if he's forgotten." 
"Wonderful. You two can go ahead to his school. We'll follow when we can, and things should sort themselves out from there."
Jacob laughed darkly. "'And then we'll drink until we're giddy!' You make it sound so easy. Something's bound to go amiss."
I stared at him. "Do you have some other plan to suggest?"
He grinned. "Of course not, but that doesn't stop me from harassing yours." 
"Fair enough. Now, on another note, have you read the papers?"
Eva scoffed. "Why yes! We simply wandered down the streets asking for the latest edition." 
"Well, if you had, you'd have noticed a rather flattering spread of drawings. They have the faces of Jacob, Logan, and myself plastered for everyone to see. Front page. They're quite accurate. Today, I had to ask directions to find this place. My helper seemed suspicious at first, and when I'd left him, he went and notified the constables. You saw the results of that. People know what we look like and are more than willing to help their king catch the devils who murdered Phillip. We need disguises." 
"For starters, how about shaving your beard?" Eva said. My initial reaction was horror. I was incredibly fond of that feature, and it had only started to grow in fully in recent months. However, my nicely trimmed beard was neatly depicted in the newspapers.
"As much as that would remove all my romantic attraction," I said dramatically, "I suppose it might be necessary." 
"And how about travel by night?" she continued. 
"I tried that. It worked when I knew where I was going, but Teimsfeld is not the easiest city to navigate in the dark. And what about you two?" 
Jacob shot a glance towards Eva. "Well as I understood it, Eva's not even a suspect. As for me, if we're lucky, no one will glimpse me in the carriage anyway. Once we're with Simon, it shouldn't be an issue until later. The next time the Courtiers see us will be the assassination. If we fail, we'll have bigger problems to worry about."
Eva raised a hand. "Not to discredit that, because you have a good point, but who says I'm not a suspect? Oskar, the Courtier I knocked out in the palace, may well have recognized my voice. The fact that they didn't place my face in the paper isn't proof of anything. It was dark enough near the cells that they probably just didn't get a good enough description of me."
"True," I answered. "And that certainly makes you less recognizable to the general public, so we'll take any advantage we can get. But this is all moot until we actually move again. No one should find us in the meantime." 
They both nodded. I stood. 
"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to find some food, a razor, and a bed in that order." Their pattering laughter followed me from the room.

* * * * *

The next few days flew by in a rush. We had agreed to lay low in the monastery, hoping that Fuchs would never hear about my chase through the city. This seemed like a shallow hope, but what could we do? I was certain that Logan and Phillip were becoming more than anxious in the cramped way-station, but it simply wasn't worth the risk to be expedient. Jacob continued to heal, although any large movements sent jolts of pain through his back. It would be weeks before he healed well enough to actually participate in any action we planned.
I had indeed shaved and was getting used to the look. In truth, the change was stark. I felt like a child once more. Eva enjoyed my consternation at the adjustment and made playful jibes to that effect. I found I enjoyed her company more and more. It couldn't last though, and after relaxing amid the brothers' care for half a week, we resolved to set things in motion.
The monks were sad to see us leave. Abbot Baum had joked about how adventuresome it was to have us there. He mourned the king's loss, of course. As Eva said, they'd been apparently very close. But he found us to be a respite from the routine that hovered around the place. Despite their sadness, the brothers were willing to assist us even more. They resolved to conduct subtle forays about the city, listening for any pertinent news. The brothers lavished their meager funds on us. We tried to refuse this money, but they were insistent. In the end, we took the crowns and promised to put them to good use. What's more, the monks raised our petitions in prayer, and I felt deeply reassured at their religious intercession. In the days ahead we'd need all the help available.
With their blessings, Eva and Jacob departed at dawn. Loading Jacob into the carriage proved difficult. The transition elicited sharp grunts of pain from the man, but he refused to complain. We'd cropped his hair short to avoid detection, but even so, every precaution was necessary. As quickly as possible, we sent the vehicle off down the deserted street. The trip to Hemline and Simon's fencing school was supposed to take several days, but once they arrived, the two would brief the Frenchman on the situation. With any luck he'd accept our plea to help and provide a safe-house for our preparations. 
At sunset, it'd be my turn to go.

* * * * *

Finally, I reached the wood outside of Octen. I stumbled through the foliage until I came upon the way station. Creeping forward, I had just lifted my hand to knock on the door when a gun-barrel was pressed against my neck, the metal as cold as ice. A suave voice spoke in my ear, the clipped words dropping like hammer strokes against an anvil. 
"Give me one solid reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand, stranger." 
I swallowed. "Because, Logan, you might regret the conversation you'd have with my mother afterwards." 
My friend swung me about, chuckling. He slapped me on the back as he drew me into a bear hug. "Good heavens, I had no idea. Some man sneaks towards us in the darkness, and you expect me to know who it is? Some people." 
I didn't exactly guffaw. The prospect of being blown asunder wasn't too laughable in the dead of night. Logan led me inside where we found Phillip asleep. "We take the night in watches," explained my friend. 
Shaking the king awake, we gathered around the small table to trade stories. I explained my trip, my meeting with Joseph, and the rendezvous at the monastery. While Phillip had never heard of Simon Duval, the plan struck him as admirable. For his part, Logan gave me no end of grief for my tardiness. 
"We're sitting in a cramped hut in the woods, and you're enjoying the hospitality of a pack of friendly monks," he said. But it was all in fun.
It made no sense to leave that evening, so we again settled into the hut. Logan returned to the woods, guarding us as we slept. After my journey, I readily agreed to the others' proposal that they cover the watches for the evening. The morning would bring more travel. Perhaps we'd finally start righting the mess that had fallen about us like a haze. 
I wasn't sure we could, but sleep took me before anything more pensive grabbed hold.

Chapter XXII

Our horse clipped up the lane churning the gravel with each step. Phillip leaned down, patting his roan before turning to me. "And this Duval fellow — we're sure of his loyalty?"
"No," I answered. "But Joseph is, and that's good enough for me anyway. Do you trust your minister of war?"
"I've trusted him with the defense of the country for more than a decade. I suppose that means yes. I'm just not sure how wise it is to fling ourselves upon the kindness of a complete stranger."
Logan turned in the saddle to face the king. "If it's any consolation, Eva's met him and thinks he's nice."
Phillip chuckled ruefully. "That's actually not helpful. I've met Eva only once or twice, and from what her father Aleksei says at court, she's a free spirit." I smiled inwardly; 'free spirit' was exactly how the woman should be described. I could well imagine how her father, the Russian ambassador, would feel about her dalliances. She was an invaluable addition to our group regardless of her temperament. 
"It's too late to turn back now," I said as our horses turned a corner in the tree-lined path. A building loomed ahead. It was constructed like a Roman or Grecian temple. Fluted columns shot skywards, supporting the roof of L'institut de Duval.
A stash of crowns in the hut had left us relatively wealthy, so we eventually collected horses for each of us and made a surprisingly uneventful trip to Hemline. Phillip was familiar with the territory and he led us expertly through the forests and byways. We camped under the stars and were bothered by no one.
Now I grinned as a I glimpsed the monks' carriage in the trees by the path. We wandered by this and dismounted before the wide steps that led to the entrance of the school. No doorway was visible in the shadows of the pillars, but I suspected one existed. Two youths were just descending the stairs towards us. 
Their attire was singular. Each wore fencing gauntlets and carried honed sabers, but their entire front was covered by a thick leather pad. It appeared bulky and I was surprised at their mobility. I guessed that neither was older than fifteen. I'm not sure what I expected, but when Joseph had mentioned the school's waiting army, this wasn't it. They smiled in greeting but didn't appear to comprehend our visit until they saw Phillip. 
"Sweet heavens," mumbled one, dropping to one knee. The other quickly followed, but Phillip made them stand. 
"I'm not the king," he said.
"Sire, I won't contradict you," returned one of the fencers, but he didn't look like he believed it himself. 
"I see by your faces, gentleman, that our reputation precedes us," I said. 
They nodded. "Your friends arrived and broke the news a couple of days ago. They're eating with Simon right now." 
"You're students here?" asked Logan. 
"Oh yes," replied one. "Follow us." One boy grabbed the reins to our horses and led them towards an outlying building. From its practical look, I took it to be a stable. It lacked all the refined architecture of the structure we were being led into by the other youth. We climbed the stairs and walked into the gloom beyond. The portico narrowed towards a wide door, which the boy swung open with ease. He motioned for us to go first, so Phillip took the lead. 
Stepping inside, we paused, dumbstruck. 
The building's exterior paled in comparison to the space before us. While the outside had been honed to look ancient, the inside was a pleasing blend of modern and old. The school must've been large, but most of the floor space was housed in the single room gaping in front of us. I noticed sunlight streaming down into the massive room from dozens of skylights. My eyes tracked downwards and noticed the room's multiple occupants for the first time. 
About the room's floor, which was finely polished hardwood, dozens of students practiced. Sabers, foils, epees, and even some weapons I didn't recognize flashed beneath the skylights, the reflected sun glancing off the blades like a mirror. In contrast to the boys who led us into the institute, students here were of various ages. Thankfully, most seemed to be about my age. Other boys were present, but these were scarce. The older men were even fewer but still present. They were not old, per se, but in comparison they stood out. I estimated the oldest to be thirty-five. 
The motions within the room swirled about, and I failed to notice Eva and Jacob approach. The latter walked slowly, leaning on a cane while Eva held his other arm. They were accompanied by a handsome, if scarred, man clad in the same attire as the rest of the students. He had a bushy red mustache that matched his flamboyant hair. Seeing our group, he first bowed to Phillip and then wrung Logan's and my hands energetically. Then he backed up a step and smiled.
"I am, of course, Simon Duval, at your humble service. Welcome to my institute." His German was accented in the French inflection, but his words were warm and his grin genuine. 
As he'd been speaking, I hadn't noticed the rest of the room, but once his voice stopped the sheer silence of the space took me off guard. I glanced around. All eyes looked to us, all weapons resting. Simon spread his arm backwards, indicating the mass. As one they bowed to Phillip, a graceful display like a flock of swans descending to land upon a glass pool. 
"My students," said the fencing master. He passed his own gauntlets and saber to one of the pupils and sauntered into the massive room. Without another option, we followed. 
He turned back to speak. "As you can see, this is the main room. In fact, there are only four rooms within the building. I possess a private bedchamber, there are two dormitories, and then this area. We cook, dine, read, lounge, argue, live, and fence all within the space. It wasn't practical to sleep here for the echoing, but the servants and students spend most of their careers within the confines of the space you now see." He said this as if it might be an imposition to some, but I couldn't fathom that; the common room was simply enormous. 
As the group wandered on, I held back a moment to speak with Jacob and Eva. "You two made it without trouble?"
Jacob grinned while Eva spoke. "Yes. Yes we did. Simon recalled me instantly and was more than welcoming. When we told him the news, he was horrified and astounded. He quit teaching for the rest of the day, pawned us off on some attendants, and we never saw him again — strange, really. He was back the next morning though. Other than that we've been well received."
I wondered where the man had disappeared to, but he called out from the front of the group before I could ponder. "Lady and Gentlemen, you must be tired. Perhaps a morning aperitif would be welcome?" Logan's stomach growled noticeably then, and he blushed while Simon chuckled. "I see I am not mistaken. Please don't be shy." 
I was reminded instantly of Di Luca's home, a time at once so recently past and yet so long ago. I stifled the picture of his grotesque, hanging body and moved towards the food. The meal before us smelled delicious and was a collection of German and French delights. "We keep two chefs in service. It helps sustain my bi-national temperaments," Simon uttered with a shrug.
We were all seated, the servants adjourned, and in the hall, the clattering of sabers and cries of excitement provided a pleasant background to our conversation. Sipping delicately from a glass of wine, Phillip regarded his host. "Simon, we are indebted to you and your school. But if I may be so boorish and bold . . . can they all be trusted?" He flicked his eyes towards the many fencers practicing behind us. 
Simon pursed his lips. "I would not dream of contradicting Your Majesty, but you have my word. Each man here is devoted to me in every capacity. I cannot offer that same assurance of their loyalty to you, for there are students from many countries studying here. But the Riktians would sell their lives for Your Highness in an instant, and the rest would follow me into the very maw of Hell. Their loyalty is above reproach, and I have spoken to them of the dangers to come. Not one has shirked from the responsibility." He paused, his nostrils flaring. When he spoke next, I could practically feel the hatred flowing from his veins. "I promise you, sire, that we will take vengeance for your brother and flay the bastard that did the deed, or my life is forfeit." Chills crept up my arm. I would rather stop a locomotive with my bare hands than cross this scarred Frenchman.
Phillip leaned over and patted him gently on the arm. "Your devotion is greatly prized." The other man bowed his head at the praise but raised it moments later, a look of fierce curiosity in his eyes. 
"Now that we're all safe, may I ask what our course will be?" 
Phillip pursed his lips and looked towards Logan and me. I spoke first. "Sir, there is not much we can do but wait. Joseph has promised to keep us informed. Other than this, we can't fight back in any conventional manner. The people will not be with us in this fight. My companions and I have already been branded as the murderers, and our faces are publicly known. Fuchs will not hesitate to kill anyone to cement his control over Riktenburg. He's shown that much already, and despite their name, there are no Christian principles within the Faith."
Simon scowled. "The scoundrels performed pretty well, didn't they? From Jacob and Eva's description, the plot was brilliant and so farfetched, it defies belief. I even had a moment of pause when they explained it. What's more is that I've seen Fuchs act. I saw him in one of your English roles, Hamlet, some years back and believe me, if anyone could play a king, it was him. No disrespect intended, sire."
Phillip waved a hand dismissively. "How well I know. I've chatted with the snake several times at court. He moves regally, and his tongue is sharper than the deadliest knife in all of Germany."
I spoke up again. "So you see, our course is difficult. We can't assault the palace. That would be suicide, and the populace might even resist our attempt. Fuchs has control of the military, so he'll be quick to quench any uprising we might try. No. The only feasible plan is to attack him while he's not guarded."
Phillip spoke up. "The man won't be sitting idle either. After the sorrow for my fake death quiets down, he'll start changing things, you mark my words. The man was always pestering my brother to take a heavier hand against the peasants. Now that he has his chance, he won't squander it." 
"Indeed. With Joseph as our informant we should know more soon enough. Can I show you to your lodgings?" Seeing that we'd finished eating, our host rose and escorted us away further into the institute. 

Chapter XXIII

The following weeks slipped by with little interruption. The last vestiges of summer wandered into the past, and the trees about the school began shedding their leaves like tarnished clothing. We woke each morning colder and colder as rivulets of frost coated the grass. Foliage crunched under foot as we wandered the paths around the institute, and each day carried on much like the previous one. This rest, while monotonous, proved to be therapeutic in a way. We were hounded by no one. Guards did not chase us any longer. 
In fact, we saw no Courtiers, and the school received few visitors. Simon had restricted the students' movements after our arrival. No one was allowed frivolous trips to anywhere anymore. Perhaps it was harsh, but Simon was adamant that our location remain hidden. One word from a drunken pupil and the Faith would descend on us like vultures. 
For several days after our arrival, we simply rested. The common room possessed an extensive library. It felt almost sinful to relax in an armchair by the fire and peruse through the latest work by Dumas. I was rather taken with his style, and Simon, being both a swordsman and Frenchman, had every published work by the author.
Jacob continued to heal and eventually dispensed with the cane for his daily constitutional. Logan and I spent many a night drinking coffee and chatting wildly into the wee hours. 
And Eva grew close. We wandered the forests about the school, never fearful of discovery. We read to each other and exchanged our own bits of poetry. What's more, she told me stories of her life. I'd been enchanted before, but with each snippet of an anecdote she became more real somehow. 
During one such exchange, we nestled down by a shaded pond nearby. As the geese swam about, I asked her how she'd come to be with Kurt and the Faith. I'd seen the man; not only was he an ugly brute, but he possessed a cruel nature. How Eva could find herself attracted to him was beyond me. 
"He's not as bad as all that," she said. "And besides, you're judging him about what you know now. If I'd known he was determined to murder the king, I'd have avoided his advances. As it was, I knew only a bit about the man. He got the scar in the army, you know. He's a veteran of the Riktian cavalry, and he knows a bit about the world. I'd known he was a Courtier, but not exactly what that entailed. In court you hear rumors and all, but nothing substantial. It wasn't until Aloysius was dismissed from the king's service that we all learned how violent the Faith could be. And even then, there was no proof. Nothing connected the Courtiers to the bomb in the palace. Idealistic or afflicted with love, I'm not sure, but I refused to think that Kurt could try to kill the king. He was a soldier, yes, but he wasn't normally violent. After a few goblets of sherry, that'd be different, but every man has his vices." 
"Not every man," I cut in gently, touching her arm.
She smiled beneath her eyelashes before continuing. "Anyway, when Kurt offered to take me around Europe, I was thrilled. Being the daughter of an ambassador can be stifling. I'd sit around the palace gossiping with others my age, but otherwise, there wasn't much chance for fun. Even the royal balls grow old. I tried hunting and target shooting next, but it was still monotonous. My mother, God rest her soul, used to scold me for that, but since she died, Father's been more distant. It's hard to even see him, he's so busy. So I saw Kurt's offer as a chance to do something. See something. Teimsfeld is a pleasant city, but it's not the world. I sent my father a letter after I'd gone; he'd never have agreed to it in the first place." 
I broke in again. "Eva, you didn't tell him? How'd he take it?"
She laughed sheepishly, probably to cover her embarrassment. "I received a scolding telegram soon afterwards, but I was already gone. And I haven't seen him since to apologize."
"You haven't seen him!"
"Well no. I've been a bit busy saving the kingdom and all," she said dryly. "I didn't take time for family matters when I returned to Teimsfeld. I went straight to Mercedes' father and told him everything. You've been with me since, and there's no chance of me contacting him now."
She had a point so I didn't press her. 
"The Faith took me to Switzerland and France. I know now what they did in Switzerland, but I had no idea while we were there. In France, I assume the Fuchs brothers were simply hiding away from Germany. I thought it was all a sightseeing tour. I had no clue. We traveled to enough places, and Kurt always went out of his way to ensure I was enjoying myself. We saw museums and famous landmarks, and all the while the scum had Phillip as their prisoner.
"After Otto died and some of the Courtiers began hunting you, the mood turned foul. When they went to murder you that night, Kurt didn't argue with them, but I wouldn't have it. He's never asked me what I did that night, but he never looked at me in the same way again. I was pretty sure he knew I tipped you off. By the time we settled at their manor near Fielburg, he was glowering all the time, and things were grim. I didn't ask to go home, but I doubt they would have let me. When I overheard Kurt talking with Fuchs, it sealed things. This wasn't the same man I'd known before. He was different, and I wanted no part of him or their plot. So I came to find Joseph." Hearing her story explained further did a lot for me. There was much to think about. 
In addition to the walks and chats, we took advantage of other benefits of our hideaway, namely the fencing. Logan and I had various fencing tutors throughout the years, a blessing really. The Italian school had become my favored method, and I was no stranger to the arts of tempo and the molding of the feet into the timed dance of precision.
But we found new practice and new techniques with Simon and his students. I'd sat watching them drill for a few hours before the master noticed me. He pranced over excitably. "Nathaniel!" he cried. "Have you any background with a blade?" 
His excitement was catching and I mentioned my schooling back home. He was delighted and instantly dispatched a student to bring me a set of gear. I was suited up and prepared for a bout in no time. Simon selected a man my own age and build and squared us off along the piste. I smiled nervously and made some comment about my lack of practice, but the master shushed me and stepped back to observe. 
We saluted keenly and acknowledged Simon. Then we stepped into the match. I lost myself in the steps and rhythm of the sport. The other man won of course — I was too out of practice with the formal rules. But I was able to score three quick points in succession to open the match. I felt this was a good sign. In real combat that'd likely disable my opponent — the whole point of the game, so to speak. 
Afterwards, Simon congratulated both of us on our performances and proceeded to walk us through the match, pointing out flaws he noticed in each of our routines. He tapped my elbow, driving it closer to my side and bringing my guard tighter against my frame. 
He was impressed with my style though and patted me on the back. "In no time, friend, you'll be back in shape and we'll turn you into a fine fencer." The compliment warmed my heart and I thanked him for the praise. From that day onwards, I managed to work with the students and perform some drill every day. I wasn't as intensive as the other pupils. Still, the workouts made a nice break to the monotony, and Logan even joined me. We could tell our skills were improving.
On the day of the first snow, Jacob wandered in from the cold to find the two of us fencing. He blew on his hands, rubbing them together as he shed his cloak. He walked up to us. We paused our drills and smiled at his approach. Although he still moved with a hint of difficulty, his recovery was wonderful, and the man was becoming more and more active.
He pointed towards our equipment as he neared. "Where's another set of gear? I've had enough of lazing around for months. There's going to be a fight eventually, and I have absolutely no intention of sitting behind when it happens. I can shoot well enough, but I haven't fenced in years. Where's Simon?" 
I tried to protest, but Logan waved me off. "He's right. He can walk just fine, and more exercise won't hurt. Besides, Americans are always trouble anyway. He'd never listen to us." 
"That's right," snapped Jacob good-naturedly and went off to find the fencing master. From then on he joined us too. Jacob was right. He wasn't good at first, and it took him awhile to master the basics. But he kept trying, and it was good for his health. As the fall crept towards winter, we all grew more wiry, our reflexes honed by the practice. 
Phillip was rarely seen. He'd attend meals and the occasional fencing practice. But he'd disappear for most of the day without comment, and when present, a dark cloud hung about the man. 
I followed him, out of sight, one morning. After eating breakfast with the group, he snagged a coat, selected a large book from the library, and bustled into the chilly air. He tramped along through the woods, and I lost him after a bit. He must've remained out of doors the rest of day, because I didn't see him again until evening. Just as the sun set behind the trees, I was taking a short walk with Eva when he came trudging back from the woods. We waved in greeting, but he appeared not to see us and continued into the institute. 
"Do you think he's alright?" I asked.
She didn't answer for a long time. "If you'd had your entire life stolen from you, would you be fine? Better yet, if another man removed your brother, killed him and replaced him before the eyes of everyone else, and only you knew about it . . . would you be alright? I don't suppose he'll ever be alright. But perhaps in time he'll accept it." Neither of us spoke again as we wandered back to the school in the advancing gloom.  
Our friends gathered for the evening meal one night. The blades of the common room were silent, all the students were supping, and the setting sun cast her last rays through the room's many skylights. As we took our places at the head table, our quiet conversation petered out as we noticed that Simon wasn't present. He was never late for dinner. I half stood, not sure of what to do. The man bustled in then, so I sat back down. 
He leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, sighing. Under his arm was a rolled newspaper, but he didn't look at this or us for several, long moments. I saw a small tear trickling down his face, coursing into his mustache, and resting among the bushy hairs. At last, he flipped open the newspaper and handed it to Logan, who was closest. 
"They're dead . . . They're . . . dead." He crossed himself and collapsed into his chair. 
Logan read the newspaper while we clamored for news. "Oh heavens," was all he said before flinging the paper towards me. By this point, the murmur enveloping the room was too much, and I began reading aloud to quiet the others' grim curiosity. 
I began with the headline and had to force myself to press onwards."'Traitors To the King Found and Hanged.'" Collecting myself, I launched into the article. "'This week, His Majesty's guards were fortunate to discover new evidence in the plot against the royal family. In the aftermath of Archduke Phillip's murder, the criminals responsible for the terrible deed escaped, killing more in the process. Investigation has since linked their escape with the Catholic brothers at St. Suitbert's Holy Monastery. These monks willingly and wrongfully gave the murderers aid, despite knowledge of their explicit guilt. Christian hospitality is never frowned upon, but to aid, comfort, and help murderers of the royal blood cannot be tolerated. Several monks, including their leader Abbot Baum, were found guilty by special tribunal and hanged at dawn this morning. If anyone possesses any information that will lead to the capture of Nathaniel Fletcher, Logan Harling, or Jacob Douglas, they are strongly urged to contact the palace. Know that all treachery will be dealt with swiftly.' And that's it," I finished. 
The news hung about the table like a dark mist, choking each victim. I heard sobbing, and moved to comfort Eva, her chest heaving in grief. It had been her idea to seek sanctuary there, and she had been close to Abbot Baum as well. For awhile no one spoke, and we let ourselves drown in our own thoughts. The rest of the dinner was understandably quiet. If anyone had doubted it before, we were dealing with a tyrant — one who would shed any blood to gain his ends. 
Every couple of weeks, a messenger from Joseph would arrive and strengthen this notion of fear. At first I was surprised at how he managed to send these messengers and remain discreet. I was worried for the security of both parties, but the information these men carried was too invaluable for us to stop. Phillip had been right. Fuchs was not sitting idle, and changes were falling like hammer-strokes upon the capital. 
Joseph told about the increased troops in Teimsfeld. The false king was protected by more and more men each day, none of whom knew the truth about their master's identity. People were stopped in the streets and searched at random. Petty crimes were dealt with harshly, and the city jails were filling fast. Little by little Fuchs was implementing the Faith's social structure to the letter. Things started with the palace. Over the course of a few days, all those without noble blood of some kind were dismissed from service. Despite their talents, the Courtiers couldn't tolerate the common raff serving their king. Servants with minor nobility in their bloodlines were allowed to stay on, but the others were expelled without notice, and fierce warnings were given should they wish to return. 
This policy soon spread throughout the city. All government jobs were purged of the lower classes, and more than one ministry was shut down for a few days while noble replacements were found for the vacancies. What's more, a new treaty was being formulated with the Austrian Empire. Fuchs had contacted the Habsburgs, inviting a special delegation to Teimsfeld. Rumor had it that a new alliance would take place; Riktenburg would bow to the Austrians economic and military goals. The populace was more confused than angry at the news, but the general sentiment was moving towards rage quickly. The minister of war urged us to continue our work and be prepared at a moment's notice. There were rumors circulating the palace about a coming change in the king's location, but he couldn't say if they were true or not. 
Then, in the dead of night, as a November chill circled the school like a feral wolf, another messenger arrived. 
Simon shook me awake, and I blinked up at him through the darkness of the dormitory. Like the students, we'd been placed in the common sleeping room. Simon had himself been moved, offering his suite for Eva's use. "Get up!" he hissed. 
"What's the matter?" I mumbled. 
"There's a messenger from Joseph. It's important. Help wake the others, and we'll meet in the library of the common room." I stirred at the news, rustling Jacob and Logan as well. We wandered sleepily into the open space and collapsed into the comfortable chairs. After a moment, Eva and Phillip joined us, accompanied by Simon. 
Once we were all settled Simon held up a slip of paper. "Good evening all," he began. "Unfortunately Joseph's messenger had to leave right away, and I took the liberty of responding to Joseph's message myself. After hearing the news, I've no doubt you'll agree with my proposed course of action." He swallowed for a moment, appearing to collect himself. "Fuchs has moved." Our whispered exclamations cut him off for a moment before he held up his hands for silence and resumed. "Yes. On the pretext of relaxing from the worries of the capital and escaping the grief of Phillip's death, he's moved to the countryside. For how long, we don't know, so our movements must be decisive. From his contacts within the palace, Joseph learned that Mercedes is with him. He's staying at the new summer palace in the Vielfurt region." 
I held up a hand. "Forgive the foreigner for asking, but where's Vielfurt, and what's the summer palace?"
Phillip spoke up. "I forget we're not all Riktians here. Vielfurt is the eastern-most region of the county. It's known for its beautiful wooded lakes and rocky ground. It lies in the foothills of our mountains. As for the summer palace, most royal families own one. Our old one has grown too dilapidated for use. Of course we had the money to fix it, but we were hesitant to spend tax funds on the project. It didn't benefit the people, and Martin's egalitarian principles rankled at that. But one of our Austrian neighbors died last summer. He was a wealthy baron and owned a fine castle in Vielfurt; it was right across the border from his estates in Austria. To make a long story short, a treaty several decades back changed the borderline, and his family's property landed on our side. A stipulation for the treaty allowed for the baron's family to keep the land. However, Martin and the baron grew friendly over the years and when he died, he bequeathed the castle to us. So it became our new summer palace. I've actually only spent a week in the place. I spent last summer in Russia hunting bears and hadn't had a chance to visit Vielfurt this year."
Simon jumped in. "So the short of it is that Fuchs has moved there, and we have only a limited time to strike before he returns to the capital. I told the messenger that we'd act. Are we agreed?"
All raised their hands, and it was decided. We announced the news and our intentions to the group at large the next morning. Most took it with calm resolve, but several seemed keen to set out right away. The cooler heads among the group settled these down and raised valid questions to temper the mood. 
"Have we any idea about the palace's layout?" One man asked, stroking his mustache in the skylight's glow. 
"What are the guards like? Just because he's left the capital doesn't mean they're not bottled up and armed to the teeth!" another shouted among the throng. 
Simon held up his hands, quieting the mob. "All very true." He turned to Phillip. "Sire, what can you tell us of the place?"
The other man wrinkled his brow in concentration, and a single bead of perspiration coursed down these grooves. "As I mentioned, I've only been there once and only for a week. Martin was very taken with the place though, so it should be in good condition. The building's made to look like a medieval castle, although it's a relatively new construction. There's two turrets at the north and south ends, and each has an ornate suite of rooms at the top. I imagine Fuchs will take up residence in one of those. Other than that, the details are too few for me to recall. The manor sits directly above a deep lake, and the water's so close it even laps against the foundation. There's woods surrounding the area, and the mountains loom overhead. It's all very beautiful, but I wouldn't have the first clue about how to assault it." 
Simon nodded and turned to face the assembly. "Thank you Your Highness. That's helpful, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. We can't attack without knowing more. It would only do to get us all killed. It's simple really. We'll have to send someone to learn more."
I chuckled, despite myself. The fencing master turned to me. "Something funny?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.
I coughed. "Well you said that like it'd be a walk in the park and not some midnight caper with half a chance of survival."
He smiled sadly. "To the brave, there is no difference." 
The cliché was a bit much, but seeing the others around the room, it was true. No one was reticent of risking their lives in the venture. And when Simon asked for volunteers, every hand shot upwards. Phillip, Jacob, Logan, Eva, and I were eliminated right away for obvious reasons. Still, the sheer amount of eager volunteers forced us to draw a lot. The younger students were eliminated. Then all those without trade skills were removed; our man needed a cover story of some sort. 
Finally the lot was drawn, and a lanky fellow with shockingly blond hair was selected. His name was Rupert. He was apparently a mason's son, and could pass himself off as such. There was likely to be ongoing renovations on the manor anyway. Giving him money for his travels and the purchase of masonry equipment, we sent him off and settled in to wait.


Chapter XXIV

The days following Rupert's departure were unbearably long. The dying autumn left the woods about the school littered with fallen debris, and the naked trees hung overhead like passing specters, swaying to the rhythm of an unknown dirge. Conversation grew stilted and people's nerves were on edge. Each day the straw-haired spy failed to return brought one more day of frustration and worry. 
Eventually we took to conjectures. Supposing he'd been captured in the attempt, we'd be set upon by all sides and rounded up like traitors. Phillip would be murdered, and we'd suffer some ignoble death at the hands of a charlatan. Our fears proved to be ungrounded when Rupert paraded into the common room early one afternoon, a huge smile splayed across his face. 
The poor man was mobbed by all, each shouting questions and slapping his back. It was like the return of a triumphant Roman general, complete with feasting. The institute's chefs prepared untold delights, and all ate and drank with complete abandon. Of course, the hero was not allowed to enjoy the celebration unmolested. Offering a report on everything he'd seen, Rupert barely touched his food. 
He stood before the entire group, at times waving his arms emphatically in the tale. From the resplendent grin on his face, he was enjoying every minute of it. "I traveled by train mostly, but it still took a couple of days to reach the place. I got off at the station and was instantly wary. The town seemed quiet, but I found an old gentleman and asked him where the palace was. He pointed up a road, and I wandered along for a few minutes before coming to a sentry post.  There were lots of guards just milling about, which I expected. What was strange, however, is that these soldiers were being bossed about by three gentlemen in civilian attire."
I raised my hand. "Let me guess: they wore bowler hats with a silver diamond attached to it?"
"How did you know?" he cried.
"Lucky guess," I said.
"Anyway, so these men saw me and bustled over to ask my business. I explained that I was a mason and had been hired to help with the renovations at the castle. It was a bold-faced lie, and I had no idea if anything was actually being worked on. The guard checked with one of the civilians and they waved me right along. So, what could I do? I shouldered my rucksack and took off up the road. It wound around through the woods, always upwards. Eventually, I came to a lake. It wasn't cold enough to be frozen yet, but the edges were crusty with ice. With a bit of snow falling, the whole scene was idyllic. Then I looked up. Right above the lake was the palace, looming overheard like a gargoyle.
"At another time it might have been breathtaking, but it struck me as terrifying then, and I had to will my body to move forward. I presented myself at the gate, a massive affair with two sets of thick doors. We were right — any charge in the front would be suicidal. The guards there all had that same diamond medallion pinned to their breast. They ordered me inside and pointed to where I should go. I soon found the renovations. Parts of the great hall had a light layer of snow about them, and the room was incredibly drafty. Stoneworkers were examining the different cracks and deciding how to proceed. Seeing me, they called me over. Shivering, I complied.
"It's a good thing I actually know the trade, because they welcomed me in and started asking all kinds of questions about my training, what type of jobs I like best, my family, and the tools I'd brought. I hadn't scrimped with the money you all provided, so they were quite impressed with my equipment. It all seemed to help; I'm sure I was nervous enough, but they didn't seem to notice. The next few days, I went about my masonry work. But that didn't stop me from looking around. 
"I scouted the various halls and took note of all the entrances. They've put Fuchs in the north tower. It's secluded and apparently sumptuous, but I never got the chance to check that for myself. After I felt I could, I begged illness, received my pay, and slipped away with no one the wiser." He spread some crowns on the table to everyone's applause. Then, he sat in a chair next to Simon and began wolfing his dinner. 
Simon patted him on the back. He waited a few moments for the man to at least taste his dinner before pestering him again. "What about the entrances? How do we get in?"
Rupert grimaced a bit. "There aren't many, and the ones we might consider using for an assault are fewer still. The place won't be easy to break into. There's one near the kitchens. It's a small door, but it's thicker than the main gate and would be louder than a drum to batter down. There's a garbage chute nearby. A few times a day, they throw the refuse out, but it's above a ledge, and we'd need a ladder. What's worse, it's right in view of the two towers, and we'd be seen in nothing flat. One door to the stables did look promising. It's a metal grate, but it's not thick. When I saw it though, there were lots of guards milling about, and people were passing to and from the paddocks as well. Maybe it'd be less crowded at night, but I'm not sure."
I interrupted then. "Was there nothing else?"
Rupert nodded after a time. "It's a long shot, and I didn't get a long chance to examine it much, but maybe this other one will work. In one of the corners of the great hall, right in the shadows, is a well. More than once, the other masons and I took a break to sip from it. From what I understand, the whole castle uses much of this water. They have a pump to push the water up into the great hall. And the pipe's huge — almost like an indoor pond! I asked and the water comes fresh from the lake. There's no runoff into the water, so it's wonderfully clean."
Jacob grinned. "It comes from the lake, you say?"
Rupert smiled right back. "You've got it. I snuck down to the water, and I could see the pipe sticking out through the castle's foundations. Like the well, it's not small. I didn't have a chance to look further though. A guard wandered up and told me off. I said I was interested in the masonry, but he waved me away. A scary looking fellow; he had a massive scar across his face."
"Kurt," Eva and I spoke at once. 
"So I wasn't able to swim inside or anything like that, but if there's no grate for the water, anyone could swim inside in no time."
"And from there, our man could open the gate and let all the others inside. It'd be like Troy, except with a fish in place of a horse!" Simon clapped his hands as he leaned back in his chair. 
"Rupert, how far was it from the lake to the great hall?" Logan asked.
He tapped the table distractedly for a moment before replying. "Let's see. Not terribly far. The great hall has a window that looks down onto the lake." He pursed his lips. "The water's probably sixty feet down. All told, it'd be maybe a ninety foot swim. Doable, but it'd have to be quick."
I rubbed my chin. "And the whole thing fails if someone's in the great hall at the time. If we blithely exit the well sopping wet, we're done for." 
Simon smiled. "But if they can do it and unlock one of the palace doors, we save lives and valuable time." He turned to Rupert. "Do you think it can be done?"
"I do. But as Nathaniel pointed out, there's more than one thing that can go wrong." He ticked them off on his fingers. "The water's bound to be freezing. The pipe could be blocked. The swimmer might run out of breath. Someone might be in the hall. Someone might notice a soaking-wet man unlocking the palace doors and get suspicious. There's a myriad of things to fail on this one, but honestly it's our best shot. All of the other doors are too thick, too guarded, or too visible to use."
Jacob spoke. "We need a swimmer then."
Logan pointed at me. "As a boy Nathaniel could swim better than any adult I've ever met. He was practically a fish until they started making us learn pointless languages . . . like German." 
Gentle chuckles filled the room, but Simon silenced them with a listless wave of the hand. "Is it true? Can you swim well?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I haven't taken a dip since last summer, but he's right. I used to love the water. If I haven't gotten too much worse at it, the swim itself shouldn't be a problem. It's the other factors I'm worried about." 
"There's no real way to test any of it until we're actually there. What are we thinking timing-wise? Our window can't be too large. The king's bound to return to the capital sometime, and if we miss our chance, it may be months before we have another opportunity. Who knows what kind of damage the blackheart will do to Riktenburg in that time?" said Logan slapping the table for emphasis. 
Jacob took a long sip of wine before speaking. "I vote as early as possible. Leave tomorrow even." 
Simon looked at me. "I'm all for speed. But let's not commit ourselves too soon. If Nathaniel can't handle the swim or is discovered, what will we do then? Leave him to die? Fuchs will torture the life out of the lad to get to Phillip, that's certain." 
"If Nathaniel fails I vote we charge the stables," growled Rupert. "There's no possibility of surprise in that, but if we overwhelm the guards, we might get to the king before they surround him. We'd lose men, but killing the imposter would be worth it."
Cheers filled the room and it took more than one withering glance from their master to quiet the swordsmen. Logan raised his voice above the murmurs that remained. "What about the minister's daughter? Joseph said that Mercedes would be sent with Fuchs to Vielfurt."
I patted his arm. "Obviously we'll look for her too. But Fuchs is the most important catch for now."
"To most people," he muttered under his breath. No one else seemed to notice, and I didn't press him.
The celebrations turned to things more frivolous then. After a seemingly endless parade of dishes, wines, and conversation, the party broke up. The gatherers wandered away to collapse into their bunks. I wished Eva a pleasant sleep before turning to the library. While it was late, I couldn't bring myself to sleep just yet. Something was bothering me, but I couldn't place it. I perused through the pages of a novel whose title I can't remember. The words glided by unnoticed, and I began turning the pages without really reading them. Eventually I stood to pace. I wandered back and forth in the dark common room. All others were asleep. 
Or so I thought. 
"Something on your mind, friend?" came a voice through the gloom. Phillip stepped into the light. 
I smiled. "There is, but I don't know what. Our plans just left me feeling uneasy at something. And you? A bit late isn't it?"
He smiled sadly. "Like you, I find my mind unable to rest. But at least I can place my discomfort." He settled into an armchair, leaning against the leather padding like it was a crutch. I nestled down in a similar one nearby and folded my hands to listen. 
He didn't speak for a long while. At last he flicked his eyes towards mine before regarding the floor again. "All of these people are willing to die for my family. It's not a pleasant thing to have on one's conscience."
I nodded. "Flattering though, isn't it? Besides . . . perhaps they aren't willing to die just for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, death as a sacrifice can be given for one man, but often, it's for the betterment of many. Riktenburg as a place, as a happy country, is worth dying for. Freedom as an ideal might be worth death to achieve. If Fuchs has his way, your land will fall right back into the excesses of pre-Revolution Europe. The French realized these things, and they fought back, despite the death that followed." I waved my hands to indicate the building around us. "Perhaps our friends here know the same thing." 
He stroked his chair's armrest absentmindedly. "Would you die for these things?"
The question caught me off guard, and I had to pause. Would I? Looking back at my life, I'd been a part of the excess. While I hadn't constructed a Versailles or taxed the people into poverty, I was a noble, if not by blood then by practice. I'd lived off the good fortune of my ancestor and hadn't really thought about the justice of any of it. My forefather had saved Logan's ancestor's life and I was a noble as a result. My education, my relationships, my very presence in the room could be traced to my privileged dealings with the Viscounts of Harling. Would I really die to protect a notion that, until very recently, I'd never used in my own life? 
It was a terrifying question, but after some time, I spoke. "Your Grace, I believe I would. There are some things that make death hollow. I . . . I think this is one of those." 
He didn't smile, but there was a bit of warmth in his eyes. "Thank you Nathaniel. You've put some terrors to rest. And I think I will follow. Good evening." Without another word, the man stood and wandered off into the darkness. 
I was left alone to fight my own demons. 

Chapter XXV

A twig snapped and we froze in the darkness, snow trickling down around us. Even such a small offence reverberated through the otherwise silent woods. Next to me, Simon cursed soundlessly. A few feet further away, Eva stiffened. For long moments no one moved.
On my other side, Logan whispered. "Now which fool do you suppose did—" I snapped my gaze towards him, and the withering look shut him up instantly.
Ahead, in the pale moonlight, the summer palace rose up through the sky. The water from the lake reflected like glass, and although fall had bowed to winter, this water had not frozen. I shivered and stamped my foot lightly, flecks of snow falling with each move. Despite its fluidity, I had no doubts about its temperature. 
Seeing no response from the guards we knew to be nearby, Simon waved us onwards then, and the shades flitted through the darkness once more. After Rupert's return, we'd wasted little time in preparing. Weapons were honed, rucksacks were filled, and small groups were dispatched one by one to Fuchs' stronghold in Vielfurt. Nearly fifty swordsmen crouched unseen in the trees. Simon had selected his best pupils. The younger ones had protested hotly when refused, but the fencing master had the final word. I experienced my own resistance when I asked Eva to stay behind. She made endless arguments about how she had rescued us in the palace. 
'I'm more qualified than half of these!' she had cried when seeing the selected warriors assembled. I pleaded, but she would have none of it. Russia didn't coddle their women like other countries, she pointed out angrily. From my experiences with her, this was undeniably true. Her resolve, quick thinking, and forceful personality all spoke to that. Even Phillip tried to persuade her. He himself had needed to be persuaded to stay behind. The man was ready for revenge, but all involved  refused to even consider it. If he fell, Riktenburg was lost. 
If I was honest with myself, I didn't want Eva to go because of the affection I held for her. Should she die . . . But, no. She had forced her way and now crouched with us in the dark forest. I simply resolved to be her guard in the dangers ahead.
So, after debate and endless, if hurried, preparations, our assassins drifted away from the school. Taking the various train routes and walking along highways, we assembled near the palace. Our sheer numbers made the voyage dangerous, but we'd been fortunate. No one had bothered us. 
As before, the plan was both simplicity itself and crazed beyond belief. I would dive into the freezing waters, swim up the drainage pipe if possible, and emerge in the shadows of the great hall. Given the hour, it was less likely that anyone would be lurking within the room, but that danger still remained. Then before hypothermia set in, I would rush down to the kitchens and let in the vengeful horde. Together, we'd arrest or kill Fuchs and snatch Mercedes back from the devils. In theory, not much could go wrong. While the palace was sure to have more than fifty guards, Simon's students were trained artists of the blade, and we had the dead of night from which to spring our surprise. 
I just had to swim up the pipe. 
In the few days after Rupert's return, I'd practiced. I was too nervous to do otherwise. The venture rested almost squarely upon my shoulders. Gasping for life and warmth, I'd descended into the pond near the school and swam from one end to the other. November in Germany is obviously not warm, so I'd only be able to try once each morning and night. Then I'd retreat to the school for a warm bath and hot soup. Even so I caught a chill and was miserable after each attempt. But I was succeeding. In fact I could consistently swim past the ninety foot mark without taking a breath. If the pipe was as long as Rupert estimated, I could physically accomplish the deed. Whether or not it was blocked was another matter entirely. 
The shadow of another passing student plunged me back to the present, and I began moving myself. Step by step, tree by tree, we slunk ever closer, the twin towers of the castle glaring down at us in the darkness. The snow slid from my boots, but more continued to fall from the sky, blanketing the land.
Distracted by the snow, I came around a tree and almost bumped into a sentry. While we were both wearing black, this man possessed a plume on his hat, a signature of the royal guards. His back was to me, but the bayonet on his shouldered musket glinted. Even as I watched breathlessly behind him, the sentry began stamping his feet and clapped his hands together. 
My breath escaped my lips like a fleeing captive, and to my right, I could see the form of a student moving forward. The others would be in the guard's line of sight momentarily. My hands were empty. With the coming swim, others carried my saber and revolver. So, without physical hesitation, I drew my only weapon, a small knife from my belt, and lunged forward. Even as I covered his mouth and opened his throat, my own heart cried out with self-loathing; some mother, some wife would weep with the morning. The man might not even be a Courtier. It was likely that he was only doing his duty. But as the blood rolled gently, almost peacefully, down his neck and my arm, I felt myself nearly collapse with him. The warm scarlet soaked my arm, heating it in the gloom. How many more must die by my hand? Laying him down, I shut his eyes and covered my work by shifting his jacket. 
Elsewhere a startled cry was cut short, the scream ceasing instantly in the cold. The shadows continued to move, and I joined them once more, leaving my fallen crime in the snow behind me. 
The final trees parted. We could see the castle and lake spread before us.  The waters gently lapped against the manor, but the pale gloom cast the castle in a vicious, threatening light. It rose from medieval times, waiting to enclose more victims in its vengeful jaws. As discussed, the others waited amid the last of the trees, covered from view by the naked giants above.
I alone moved forward into the clearing before the lake. 
Crouching low and darting forward, I rushed towards the looming water. As I slunk forward I gazed through the darkness, hoping to catch sight of any sentries before they glimpsed me. I saw none and within moments I reached the water. I walked the shoreline, coming nearer and nearer to the castle's walls. At last, I leaned against the massive stones on the building's foundation and looked into the icy abyss before me. From Rupert's description, the pipe would be directly below me. The shadows were too thick for me to see anything below its surface. I could only hope.
I slipped the overcoat from my shoulders, letting the garment fall listlessly into the snowy brush along the shore. I tightened my belt and ensured my knife was in its place. While distasteful, the object was my only defense against the murderous Courtiers that lay just beyond the walls before me. 
I took in a breath. The air flowed into my veins, catching in my throat by its coldness. I let it out. I took another. With a final, engulfing gasp, I slipped into the water, letting the liquid death wander up my legs and over my head like a welcomed friend. Feeling my body respond to the cold, I kicked off from the shore and began moving silently through the dark towards the pipe. 
I traced my hand along the castle's wall, moving downwards, ever downwards through the watery mist. I cannot describe the chill. Instead I will describe the lack of feeling in the chill. Time, breath, life itself seemed to die beneath that surface. I felt my lungs clenching, although not from lack of breath; I'd taken in a huge gasp. No. Instead they were slowly being clamped down by the bitter feeling that warmth would never be found again. 
Through this fog of pain and disorientation, I fought to move forward. My feet kicked against the pool, and my hands continued to trace the castle's walls, finally coming to the pipe. As Rupert had said, it was massive, and I would have no problem fitting inside. I grasped the edge and flung myself under the top lip and into the tube beyond. Once inside, I clawed upwards, the coldness palpable through my very marrow. Inch by inch I moved upwards. Despite its initial size, the space continued to narrow. My arms scraped the sides, while my feet struggled to maintain the pace I needed to keep in order to avoid drowning. Soon my shoulders began hitting the sides, catching my body in the space. I pressed onwards, scraping my arms along the pipe. I could not stop, for I could not breathe.
Then my arm hit a grate blocking my path. 
For a second my mind froze colder than my limbs in the chill. A sense of death, of closeness, of lack of hope, swirled about me as I was lodged in the cramped pipe. I would die in this hole. I couldn't move. I was trapped. My arms caught. My body would freeze. I would never be discovered. 
Reason took over then, and I grabbed the grate. In all the rush I truly hadn't been underwater that long, and my breath continued strong. This newfound calm drove me, and I ran my hands along the metal, feeling for a weakness. It consisted of two bars connected by a circular loop around the circumference of the pipe. In the cramped cold, I shook the metal, hard. It moved slightly, so I pressed more, throwing my weight and ramming my shoulder up against it. It moved some more. Rust had likely begun to eat away at the thing. I floated back down the pipe, and reversed myself, a feat in the confined space. I locked my arms against the sides of pipe, lodging my body firmly. Then I kicked my feet powerfully against the grate. I felt the water reverberate around me and even heard the blow. Once more I slammed my feet against the thing. I drove my boots a third time into the grate. This time I heard it snap. Wheeling myself about, I examined it once more, and my hand felt the fissure in one bar. Pulling with all my weight, I snapped the bar and shoved it against the wall, opening a space in the middle of the pipe. 
Kicking with all my might, I shot through this space, slicing my arm on the ragged edge of the rusted metal. Even in the darkness, my blood dripped into the icy murk. By now I could feel my chest constricting. The dull pain in my throat was becoming impossible to ignore. I kicked faster and faster, moving upwards, the massive pipe snaking at intervals. 
At last I saw light gleaming above me. Despite the danger, I felt I would drown if I waited another moment. Praying earnestly, I broke the surface. Despite my rush, I was dreadfully conscience of the danger. Only my face cut the water, gasped mouthfuls of sweet air, and then I ducked down. I treaded water a few feet beneath the pool's surface. None rushed to see the disturbance, so after long moments of terror, I slipped back upwards.
Rupert had not lied. The pool in which I floated was massive. One could easily stretch from side to side and not come close to touching both ends. The shadows also covered the space, providing a ready hiding place from the great hall which spread out before me. Still bobbing in the pool, I glanced at my surroundings. Most of the room was in shadow. The only light in the entire space was a small candelabra flickering on a table in the center of the hall. We'd planned well. The room was apparently empty. I stepped out of the pool. As with my practices at the school's pond, the cold was paralyzing. For several minutes straight, I simply rubbed my limbs and stepped about, quietly driving the life back into my members. I hoped it would be enough, because I didn't have the time or materials to change or dry off. 
Instead I sauntered off into the room, my hand now gripping the dagger — the only protection I possessed. Rupert had schooled me endlessly on the twisting halls and staircases of the castle. As I passed the candelabra, I considered grabbing it. In the end though, I discarded the notion as too noticeable and moved on, but not before noting the silver diamond painted onto the table. Fuchs had found time to redecorate, it seemed. 
Remembering Rupert's instructions, I slipped past the center table and down a flight of stairs along one wall. Given the nature of feasting within the great hall, the kitchens were nearby. Bounding down the stairs step by step, I could feel the warmth returning. Turning the last corner, I emerged into the kitchens.
Or rather, I nearly emerged but threw myself backwards into the shadows as Kurt Weber and another Courtier wandered past the doorway chatting. Their backs were to the door, and they seemed too engrossed in each other to even notice me, but I crept backwards all the same. Despite my fear, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation.
"He's making his move tonight, isn't he?" My jaw clenched. How did they learn?
"Why not? It's the perfect time for such things, and you know how His Majesty gets. If he can't get the father to follow orders and stick to the plan, why not the daughter? Besides, if they have a child, it'll make Joseph fall in line again. We've had months of problems with him." The wording gave me pause for a moment. Fall in line again? Since when had the minister been cooperating. What did they mean? 
Kurt laughed sweetly. "Yes, so much for cooperation."
"I'm doubting either will cooperate but that's not the point. We outplayed him, and His Majesty fancies her, so that's that." The words drove ice into my veins and rage into my soul; Fuchs was going to rape Mercedes. Perhaps it was happening even now, and I was crouching in a dark stairwell listening to these scoundrels chat about it. I couldn't make sense of their talk about Joseph though. 
I put it from my mind as one of the two yawned, then Kurt spoke. "I'm going to check the sentries before bed. It's late, and there's plenty to do tomorrow. We think we're close to finding Phillip; the monks left a note that points to Hemline. We'll see. Goodnight." 
Even as he spoke, I heard a loud scraping as he opened the thick kitchen door. Although I couldn't see it, I was sure it must've been heavy. The man grunted mightily — any entrance leading to the outside would be thick enough to require excessive effort to break down. The door finally slammed shut with an audible groan. 
I was waiting like a prowling tiger in the stairwell. I couldn't be sure where the other man would go, but I needed to get moving. If Kurt discovered our attack, things would get troublesome in short order. I shifted my weight, let my legs curl, and prepared to leap. If the man came my way I'd be ready. 
After a few moments though, I heard him rummaging through the kitchen. Sighing inwardly, I began creeping downwards. I stuck my head into the kitchen just far enough to look about. Sure enough, the man, a heavy-set Courtier complete with the signature bowler, had his back to me and was bending down to dig through a larder. I crept forward, knife in hand. I'd kill the fellow before he'd raise the alarm if necessary, but my conscience hoped for otherwise. Passing the cold stove, I picked up a large pan, still unwashed from the evening's meal, and continued my approach. For a moment, I had to contain my laughter as he began humming. Our unfolding drama was almost comical. But then the pan rose over my head, and I brought it down. The force of the blow was great indeed, and I worried I'd killed him on accident, because his body collapsed in a heap before the larder, sliding forwards into the cupboard. 
Pleased with myself, I looked about for rope of any kind, but couldn't see anything that would keep the man secured. One man wouldn't make much difference, and I doubted he'd be rising soon enough to take part in the coming action. So I left him. Dashing to the oaken door, I realized my previous assumptions were correct. The thing was incredibly sturdy. I threw open the bar locking it, and heaved on the handle, drawing the door open. As with Kurt's attempt, the groan it let out was ethereal, a ghastly moan in the otherwise quiet castle. 
The kitchen's lamplight shot outwards into the night, illuminating the light snow. In prearranged fashion, I let out a long, low whistle. Pausing for several moments, I repeated the call and was gratified to see shapes dashing towards me through the gloom: Furies descending upon their unsuspecting, slumbering enemy.


Chapter XXVI

Dozens of swordsmen streamed through the door before Simon appeared, dragging a bound and gagged Kurt in his wake. Eva came next, and the look Kurt gave her was enough for me to growl. As another man handed me a saber and my revolver, I shivered in the cold air from outside and tried not to gut Kurt where he lay. I wasn't dry yet, and the sensation of the wind whistling across the wetness was becoming painful. 
I nodded towards Simon and his captive. "You caught a fish it seems." 
He didn't return my grin. "He did too. Rupert's dead in the snow outside." The announcement caught me like a blow, and I leaned against a counter for support. 
Simon continued. "The poor lad never knew it was coming. All of a sudden, this madmen was among us, almost by accident. Perhaps he was looking for the sentries." 
"He was. I heard him as he left the castle," I said. 
"Anyway, the bastard sees our numbers and takes off running towards the castle to give the alarm. Rupert throws himself in front of the devil, and Kurt stabbed him straight through. It bought us time though, and a few others and I dragged him to ground and bound him up . . . Not a pleasant start to the evening," he said, his voice catching in his throat. 
I turned on the captive but couldn't find words to speak. The man had mistreated Eva and hounded us since the Faith's coup. Finally, I locked eyes with Kurt but spoke to Simon. "He'll get his justice soon enough." My enemy glared back at me, his eyes flashing. 
In all of this Eva, said nothing. I moved to her, and with a slight grin towards Kurt, put a hand onto her arm. "Are you alright?"
"Of course," she said, her breathing hot from her sprint. 
I spoke again, this time to Simon. "I've another captive if we have more rope." 
By this point, there were dozens of people milling about the kitchen. True to the mission they were deathly silent, and some had taken up guarding positions near the stairwell and another hall that led elsewhere through the castle. Without much delay, we threw Kurt and the other prisoner into a large cupboard in a corner of the kitchen. We left them unguarded. If someone discovered them, so be it. We couldn't spare a man to watch them.
I drew Simon, Logan, Jacob, and Eva close and confided what I'd heard between the two Courtiers. If he was defiling Mercedes, the king might be in either tower. Upon hearing the news, Logan's frame froze. He didn't appear to breathe, but his neck began pulsating. I placed a hand on his arm, and his gaze met mine. His eyes were pools of murky oil, but within their depths, an unquenchable, roaring flame was emerging. For his part, fencing master crinkled his forehead for a minute before answering. "It doesn't really matter in the long run. We just need to move quicker," Simon said.
I nodded. "Right. If we split the group, one of us is sure to find him. I'll try her quarters first."
"Very reasonable. You lead. I'll follow towards his tower." 
I looked to Eva. "And you, my dear?"
"I'll go with you. You're bound to need someone to look after your back," she said with a quick laugh. I was thinking the same thing about her, so I didn't argue.
The swarm of assassins took off through the palace. Gathered together, we numbered nearly fifty men, and despite our efforts, someone was bound to hear the mass moving through the dark corridors. Reaching the great hall, we separated. 
Logan, Jacob, Eva, and I led twenty other students south towards Mercedes' tower. Running beside him, I could sense Logan's rage carrying him onwards. Sweat trickled down his brow, and the ragged breath escaping his lips was punctuated with muttered, incomprehensible words. Mercedes was his prize, and the Olympian beside me would settle for nothing less. The legs of the others struggled to keep up as the pair of us sprinted down the corridors. For a brief moment, I was reminded of our childhood together. How many times had I raced Logan under English skies? The games we played so long ago now swept us onwards, and I threw myself forward in the race, dashing around a turn in the hallway. 
In the darkness I didn't see the Courtier. I merely collided with him.
The man sailed backwards, letting loose a foul curse before staring up at us. My collision had stopped the mass behind me. The warm light of a lamp bathed us as the fallen Courtier and I stared at each other. In fact, the new space was well lit by dozen of lamps set into the walls. We stood in a long atrium, a welcoming space with doors all about. A single staircase rose on the other side of the foyer. It spiraled upwards, disappearing into the antechamber's ceiling. From Rupert's lessons I knew this to be the route towards the southern tower. These observations occurred in the moment before I looked again at the fallen man. 
For his part, he'd been studying me intently. As I watched, the shock on the Courtier's face turned to recognition and then utter horror before he screamed an alarm. The shrill, ear-splitting cry was cut short by a pistol shot.
The smoking weapon rested in Logan's outstretched hand.
"Why'd you do that?" I hissed at him. "Let's simply wake the whole palace! That'll help us!" 
He shrugged, a bit sheepishly. "It was instinct. I'm sorry." 
"The shot did nothing the scream hadn't already accomplished," said Eva. 
The Courtier had ceased gurgling, his mouth open forever in rest. But we had larger problems by then. Around us, from behind the other doors in the atrium, I could hear voices. 
I turned towards the swordsmen behind me. "Follow me! We don't have time to fight. Fuchs is either alerted or soon to be. If we miss him, we might never have another chance. Move!" I took off down the foyer but didn't make it three strides before the doors about us opened and angry men stumbled out. Most weren't even dressed, but all had weapons in their palms. 
I skidded to a halt in the face of the newcomers. For a long moment, assassins and guards simply stared at each other, not speaking. Then one enemy spat "Damn," and the battle was on. 
They saw our path instantly, and despite their nightshirts and bleary-eyed condition, our opponents were professionals. Within moments, they'd formed a line before the stairway. After a moment, this line advanced forward, driving the battle towards the looming students. Even as they attacked, one guard ran up the stairs, presumably to warn the king. A brief pistol crack from somewhere nearby brought this messenger to a halt, and he stumbled backwards to slide down the steps, a rivulet of blood flowing along his path. 
I didn't have time to see anything else because another guard attacked me then. Tall, with long arms, the man's saber sliced through the air beside me. I hadn't seen him. Luckily, he'd misjudged the range, and his blade coursed by harmlessly. I swung my own weapon about, facing him. In the days of fencing at Simon's academy, we'd practiced numerous weapons, and I was feeling more than confident with the saber I held. Originally a cavalry weapon, I found the blade to be most fitting. The weight rested easily in my hand, and although heavier than other weapons, it possessed a forceful mobility that melded well with my body. But the slash along my arm from the rusted bar in the great hall's pipe was throbbing too. I couldn't fight forever.
As the guard slashed his weapon down once more, I sidestepped and send a riposte towards his exposed legs. He was too experienced for this though, for he dropped his weapon's tip, curving it to parry my own move. What followed was the most intricate of ballets, the moves and countermoves an intensive game of physical chess. In the end, I caught his shoulder in a passing swipe, and he collapsed in utter terror, cries of agony escaping his lips. There was nothing to be done but move past him and survey the scene. 
A maelstrom of bodies fought in a storm of victory and sorrow. I sought to move towards the stairway, but another man stepped to block my path. He was another supplicant, another dancer waiting to engage in the minuet of death that swirled through the antechamber. Bowing to the inevitable, I moved to confront him. Before I reached him, however, he had collapsed, clutching at his chest. Even as I watched, a crimson tide began staining his nightshirt just above his breast. The bullet wound's mark spread and spread until the guard closed his eyes forever. 
I looked over to see Jacob running towards me, his pistol smoking. 
"What're the chances he hasn't heard all this?" the American shouted at me over the din. 
"Not likely. We need to move. Now!" Our conversation was halted for a minute as another guard leapt at Jacob. I looked on helplessly, unable to intervene. Once the man had been thrown to the ground, his leg a collapsing wound, Jacob looked at me again. 
"Get Logan," I ordered, already moving. I'd seen an opening, and we were going to seize it. Jacob nodded and, having picked out our friend from the chaos, ran towards him. Together, they broke off from fighting and dashed to meet me at the foot of the stairs. By then, the defensive line the guards had originally formed was too intermixed with our men to prevent us from ascending. We'd go alone, but we'd go. Perhaps we'd even catch Fuchs before he fled. 
We pounded up the spiraling steps two at a time. Even so, cries of pursuit followed us, and I turned and clipped off a few shots over my shoulder to dissuade any chase. The battle continued to rage below, and I was painfully aware that more guards were joining the fray. Our men were excellent fighters, but numbers were telling over time, and I feared for them. Even if we all died in the attempt, killing Fuchs was the highest priority. The men knew this before the mission, and their sacrifice was truly worth the cause for which we fought. The thought plagued me but didn't stop me. 
But then a flash of black caught my eye, and I froze. I'd forgotten Eva. 
She was below, slashing this was and that with a light sword, little more than a foil. Her off hand held a pistol, and she shot down two more guards as I watched. Even so, my heart thrummed seeing her in the fray, and my mind screamed at me for my mistake. But it was too late now. If she died, I'd never forgive myself, but there was no way to bring her to me now. Too many guards separated us. With a heated breath, I turned and chased the others upwards.
Panting, we continued ever onwards, the stairs spiraling around and around like a massive auger, throwing us skywards like abandoned earth. The path wound through the atrium's ceiling, and the stones closed about us as we ascended. Logan and Jacob reached the top of the stairwell first. After a moment I followed, and we paused together in the gloom. Like so many other places I'd visited recently, darkness swallowed us. A bit nauseous from the climb, I leaned against a wall for support as we tried to decipher what lay before us. While the dark crowded about us, our eyes eventually adjusted to the gloom and revealed that we weren't completely blind.
"A ladder?" Jacob asked incredulously. 
"Looks like it," I said, walking forward. Along the far wall, a single ladder led upwards to a trapdoor. This hatch was nearly closed, but a trickle of light escaped and lit the rungs below it. From its dim light, I saw we were indeed within the tower, the room a perfect circle. Interestingly enough, other than the ladder, the space was empty. 
Logan held up a hand. "What's that?"
I looked at him. "What's what?"
"That!" he hissed, and I heard it this time. Somewhere above, a woman was crying softly, a series of low sobs echoing around us. 
Then a scream rent the stones. "No!" wailed the voice above. 
Logan's eyes went wide. He roared, throwing himself up the ladder before either Jacob or I could restrain him. Lacking alternatives, we scrambled up the rungs after our impetuous friend, our sheathed sabers rattling behind us. 
The scene above was a picture taken from the darkest dreams of hell.
Exiting the trapdoor, we were bathed in a gorgeous light from dozens of candles and lamps. Ornate rugs and paintings lined the floors and walls, and the tower was a den of opulence. Two tall windows raced towards the ceiling along the room's perimeter, and the airy snow continued to drift by outside. A comfortable, four-poster bed rested against one side, and the room itself was quite large. But as the cries indicated, we were not alone. 
A demon clutched at a maiden on the bed. Mercedes writhed, her face clouded by tears, and her shredded dress hung off one shoulder. Above her, like some vulture of lust, was the man we'd sought for so long. 
Aloysius Fuchs looked the same as he had months before. The black of his mustache and imperial goatee mirrored the darkness outside. But there was the light of fury in his eyes as he whirled to face us. His black jacket, set apart from his guards' by gilded stitching, lay forgotten at his feet. His trousers were askew.
"I thought I told you not to distur—" His raspy, raw voice cut off midsentence as he glimpsed us. The eyes of the monster swelled in horror, but he acted without thought. In a single motion, he snatched his jacket from the ground, drawing a revolver. His strong grasp yanked the poor woman from the bed, hauling her before him like a shield. A delicate, smooth shoulder shone from her ripped dress, and there was animal terror in her gaze. When those wide eyes landed on us though, a glimmer of hope crept onto her face. 
"Logan! Jac—" Fuchs cuffed her, and the exclamation died on her lips. At the blow, Logan prepared to leap forward, but the charlatan wheeled his pistol towards her head.
Everyone froze. 
Fuchs breathed thickly, his frame shaking in rage. "I don't know how you boys got here, but you'll find it rather more difficult to leave." 
"Enjoying your country, you sick bastard?" shot back Logan in a rage. 
"Not nearly as much as killing the heretics of the nation. Do you three realize how touchy things have been with your little plots?" 
Jacob, his revolver now leveled towards the pair, let out a long hiss. "Let her go Fuchs." 
"Fuchs?" he responded. "I don't know what joke you're playing. Or what name you refer to me by. But if you persist in pointing that infernal device at your royal king, things will become decidedly painful." His gaze kept shifting towards the trapdoor — he expected reinforcements. I moved, slammed the thing shut, and stood over it. If we were to be assaulted by the guards below, they wouldn't catch us unprepared. 
 The lunatic across the room continued. "There will be no parlay. You'll lay down your weapons and surrender to your treacherous doom or you'll watch her brains coat the carpet. Her  life's in your hands. Make a choice."
I struggled, trying to buy time. "Killing her, killing us, killing the king! Killing the monks! I know you're a religious man. Damn it, you're the leader of the Faith! What's the point of a God if you go around killing His creations?"
He sighed. "You're still on that, aren't you? We've discussed this already. Do you remember the last time we met?"
I sneered. "I seem to recall you murdering a man in cold blood, yes."
He snickered. "Ah yes. Well, the death of a man who betrayed God is no sin. We, the righteous, act as the Lord's hands. God wills it. His just wrath found a neck and we squeezed. Silence!" This last was directed at the piteous Mercedes. Her frame had began to quiver uncontrollably, and she whimpered, tears again coursing down her flushed cheeks. 
The monster's eyes flicked back towards us. "No. I killed the monks for the same reason I killed the king — opposition to the will of God is too dangerous. God didn't make us equal; God made us noble, and God made us peasant. His will is to keep them separate, and His will is to be enforced."
"And you're the will of God?"
"I said it before. I don't expect a peasant like you to understand. The social order was put in place by the Lord for the very reason we're all here tonight. Without a king who knows his place as the father of his country, people grow unruly, unrighteous, unrepentant. They're children, and they need a strong hand! That strong hand is God's will. That strong hand is the Faith." The charisma in his words dripped like festering honey. I felt nauseated, his very voice an illness. The malady didn't stop though. He spoke on, shaking Mercedes while the pistol bore into her temple. "I grow tired of this. You will surrender to me. Or you will watch her die."
"Look at me!" roared Logan. All eyes turned to him. His face was contorted almost beyond recognition. Sweat pulsed through his scalp, turning his hair into a coiled mat. His very cheeks writhed in agitation, in fury. "If you so much as touch her, I will flay your skin and watch you suffer. I promise you on God and all your false principles that nothing will save you!"
 I had never, in all our time together, seen Logan in such a rage. He looked possessed, and I had little doubt he would fulfill his gruesome promise to the letter if the chance arose.
We all paused as my feet rumbled beneath me. An unseen hand was pounding on the trapdoor, and a voice — a beautiful voice — followed. "Nathaniel, Logan. Open the door! We have the palace. The rest of the guards are blocked in their rooms! Let us up!" shouted Eva.
A look of utter terror crossed the charlatan's eyes before it was replaced by inconsolable loathing. Before he even moved, a strange foresight played the scene before my eyes. What followed seemed like a performance I'd memorized long ago.
Wrenching his arm, Fuchs hurled Mercedes through the window, her body shearing the glass as the shards cascaded down, a transparent waterfall flecked with the blood of the innocent. Image by image, the woman fell from sight, rushing towards the frigid lake which waited below. 
Logan screamed a wordless, animal howl. Throwing himself forward, he launched towards his enemy. But Fuchs was not waiting. Instead, the imposter snapped his revolver towards us and fired. Subconsciously I noticed Jacob buckle beside me, once more wounded. Even as he shot though, Fuchs strode towards the window, offered us one last leer, and dove into the night. 
For a moment the world froze. Breath was entirely absent, and the flickering of lights played before our eyes like tortured scenes of emptiness. For only a moment, there was nothingness. Then the trapdoor opened and Eva and Simon burst upwards. Ignoring this, I looked into Logan's eyes, and the bleeding Jacob was forgotten. 
Together, we moved. Together, we breathed. Together, we lunged, And together, Logan and I soared through the darkness, my friend seeking the girl, I the devil himself. 

Chapter XXVII

We hit the water, our bodies knives cutting silk. With the fall, I'd angled my sheathed saber in line with my legs. It wouldn't do to impale myself. I sank through the sodden darkness once more, my limbs spread out to slow my descent. Kicking off the bottom, I surged through the surface, gulping air. 
Despite the gloom, images wandered about in the night. I first noticed a lone figure swimming hard for the shoreline. Two people floundered together nearby. 
"Mercedes, you must stop moving!" Logan was half carrying the poor girl to the shoreline. 
In her fear and apparent pain, she was resisting mightily. "I can't see!" she wailed. "Where . . . where are we? My eye! Logan, I can't see!" Logan didn't answer but continued moving to safety. I wondered if Mercedes was in shock. She continued to babble and punctuate the night with screams. It was all I could do to not rush over and help my friend. But there lay another problem in the water. 
I kicked out in the opposite direction of the two, chasing the other swimmer I knew to be the imposter king. He cut through the water in front of me and before long was onshore and running towards the woods. I hit the shoreline. The snow-clad reeds crushed beneath my feet as I raced after him. 
The falling snow, the pale moonlight, and the looming trees watched me as my feet churned the snow. For the second time in so many hours, I was sopping wet in the dead of night and freezing for it. I breathed heavily, forcing blood through my limbs, driving my body onwards. For his part, Fuchs leapt from space to space, always in front. He'd almost entered the woods when I redoubled my pace. Slowly, longingly, I caught up. I made to draw my sword, but the water sloshing through the sheath and the numbness of my fingers gave me trouble. Sensing my nearness, Fuchs turned sharply about. I didn't see him until we were rolling through the snow, his fists pummeling my face, chest, and throat. I curled into myself, howling with rage and pain. Somewhere along our chase, I'd lost my revolver. My sheathed saber was no help. I had nothing to fight with but my own guile, and taken by surprise, this wasn't working. 
The heavier man rolled me through the snow. Eventually we cascaded down a small rise, him riding on top of me like some primitive sledge. Using the force of our descent and his extra momentum, however, I hurled the beast from me as we reached the bottom. He flew over my head, and I had time to rise, turn, and draw my sword. 
Perhaps he missed this last in the darkness, for he came at me again. The blade was prepared, and his eyes bulged in the shade as I sliced his arm, a long gash appearing where he blocked the move with his flesh. He flew backwards, the white of his shirt dyed in crimson. We paused, staring at each other for a long moment. 
He ran. 
I started to follow, but he tripped and tumbled to the ground before me. I moved to corner him, but had to twist my arm about to block his sword thrust. My mind whirled to reconcile this new development, but then I looked down. Dead Rupert's face leered at me from the snow. Fuchs had tripped over our friend's body, and the fallen man's sword now rested in the scoundrel's paw. 
"Everything happens for a reason — God's will. One of yours?" Fuchs kicked the corpse, smiling at me, wishing me to attack. I complied, driving the bastard before me in the snow. I'd spent weeks renewing my technique, and although I could respect his skill, the man's blade-work was sloppy. Even so, he was taller, heavier, and more powerful in his movements. In the gloom, force danced with technique and each waited for the other to trip. 
He beat against my saber, each blow a ringing swipe that set my hands to shaking. The vibrations traveled through my veins, and my very arms trembled at his strikes. But I returned my own, however. He was already wounded, losing blood quickly. But so was I, the gash from the rusted pipe still throbbing in the cold. 
I flicked my saber around his guards, nicking him occasionally but failing to land another solid cut. Even so, he cursed with each new wound. We clashed and threw each other back from the stalemate. 
I extended my saber, my arm a continuation of the honed blade. My feet were squared, my form exquisite. I smiled, low and cruel. "Where are your attendants, your Courtiers now, king? Who will rescue you tonight?" 
My tone set him off, for he leapt forward, feinting to my right. I moved to block this, but before I could, he threw a solid swing on my left. I was only able to deflect it, and the blade slid downwards, the point burying itself in my leg. I screamed to the sky as our momentum again took us to the earth. Fuchs rolled upwards, snow flying about. He rose to a crouch. He turned. 
And found my saber waiting at his neck. 
We waited, neither breathing. I stared into the eyes of darkness and shuddered at what I saw. The devil before me had shot a king in cold blood, paraded my friends and I through the palace as vicious criminals, hung men of God without a qualm, tried to rape Mercedes, stolen a country from its people, and thrown his captured land centuries backwards into the excesses of the kings of old. He'd spilt blood in God's name and would do it again in an instant. 
All the same, I couldn't drive my saber forward. I could not kill this monster, God's creation, before me. 
"Drop it," I whispered. His eyes narrowed and he moved a step closer, the sword still in his hand. "I said to put it down, Fuchs." Still it remained. I nudged my own blade forward, a single drop of blood spilling from his neck and racing down my upturned weapon. He dropped his sword and waited helplessly for me to rise. On my feet once more, I backed him up and collected Rupert's weapon, hurling it further into the gloom. 
"What will you do now?" he spat, defiance embodied. 
"Well I suppose, Your Majesty, that there'll be a trial. Under the Faith's rule, an authoritarian king would simply have you drawn and quartered. But Phillip won't. Or he can be persuaded not to. You did murder his brother after all."
Fuchs shrugged, my sword rising with his shoulders. "'Murder' is such a criminal word. I'd like to think we did Riktenburg a service."
"You're insane!" 
He cocked his head, eyeing me through the dimness. "How much?"
I coughed. "How much for what?"
"You want power, Nathaniel Fletcher. I see it. How much will it take to release me? No one would know."
"I would know, and that's enough. You're even crazier than I thought if you're serious."
He roes and stepped towards me. I stepped backwards, the blade still embedded at his throat. If he made a move, I tried to tell myself I'd actually kill him. I looked over my shoulder in the gloom. Logan or the others would have to be coming along soon. I still didn't trust my prisoner, and I was alone. 
"Might we lower the sword for civility's sake?"
I sent him a look. "Did you think of that when your men hunted us like dogs through Paris, Rome, and the whole of Riktenburg? Do I appear to be civil to you?"
He smiled. "You want to be. I see right through you Nathaniel. By the way, how'd you do it? The traitor's twin was supposed to be well hidden. Who told you? Who told you where we had him?" Even as I watched, his eyes swelled. "He did, didn't he?"
"Who?"
"The minister of course." 
"What minister?" The only minister I knew was Mercedes' father.
"Don't play daft. The one whose little whore your friend is helping even now."
I stepped forward, the blade shoving him to the ground. Another scarlet tear flowed into the snow, trickling down his neck. "Be bloody, bloody careful you insolent bastard. Now what does that mean?"
From the snow he stared up at me, his cheeks rumbling with silent laughter. "Ha!" he cried. "You don't know . . . You really don't know?"
"Know what? Tell me!" I screamed. 
"If I hadn't gotten to him first, your little friend, Joseph Klein, would've killed the king without a moment's hesitation." 
I gaped at him. 
"Ha! You really didn't know?"
"Shut up! I don't want to hear your lies!"
"Coming from me or anyone else, it's still the damned truth. I was to be his puppet king while he ran the whole country. Of course I wouldn't have that. He didn't think to guard his daughter. That was that," he shrugged his shoulders.
The man who welcomed me in, who rescued us from the devils — that man was not an enemy. I would not, could not, believe it. "No more. No more."
He laughed a high, airy cry of delight. "Innocence lost, is it? You don't think we found the king that day without help, did you? He was in a secret room for heaven's sake! Before that room was a darkened labyrinth. There's no way that we could've wandered through there twice without help. Your protector, your Joseph, was that help. How did you all get involved in the first place? Wasn't it convenient that we had three foreigners — three men unknown to anyone in the country — on hand to take the blame? To hang for the crime? Ha! Of course Joseph was in on it. It was his plan in the first place. He only needed me for the stage-work."
I thought back over the months. Mysteries fell into place. Our first day in the kingdom, the day of the coup, Joseph had explained the entire history of the Faith. He'd explained it in such detail that we felt we knew the organization by the end of his lecture. Thinking forward, I gasped involuntarily. The night I'd returned to Joseph's house, I'd stumbled on a Faith diamond in the recesses of the home. Joseph had claimed it was there from Mercedes' abduction. But Eva saw the Courtiers burst through the front door and snatch her away moments later; they were nowhere near the back of the house.
"It was his," I mumbled to myself. 
Seeing my expression, Fuchs sneered. "Now you believe. The Faith isn't always unified. My supporters allowed me to take control of the coup, but they wouldn't let me kill him. That would have been easier, but no one would follow me in that. Joseph's just too damn popular."
"It doesn't matter now. None of it matters! You won't live to see Christmas, and Joseph will be arrested," I said. The last felt like bile leaving my lips. The man had befriended us, offered us the chance to bring down Fuchs, provided for everything. To learn that he'd used us, was even now using us, was sickening.
I'd been focused on my thoughts, and I didn't see him start to slide away along the slope. I snapped back to the present though and again dug my sword into his neck.
He laughed bitterly. "You might as well kill me now. It'll save everyone a bit of trouble. Or you might let me—"
"Save it," I snapped. His bribes meant nothing to me after all we'd suffered. He'd never fulfill them anyway, of that I was sure. The snake at my feet couldn't be trusted, and I was growing wary of him in the snow.
"Nathaniel!" The voice came through the dark, and I looked away instinctively. 
It was the opportunity Fuchs was waiting for. The fox kicked out sharply, catching my knee with his boot. My legs buckled, and I flew backwards. Landing, I rolled head over heels, the snow flying about in a cascade of frozen color. Wiping my eyes, I gazed in horror as Fuchs rose. Cries raged behind me, and bullets chased him like wasps. But by the time I recovered, the imposter was sprinting through the night, all thoughts of resistance abandoned. A shot cut the bark from a tree as his side, a naked branch dipped to shade him, and he was swallowed by the woods. 
For a moment I was forgotten, laying there amidst the snow. Around me, friends gave chase, dashing after the escaped man. Their feet rushed by in the gloom while I lay, too shocked, too drained, too cold to move. A hand grabbed my arm at last, pulling me from the ground. I turned, expecting it to be Logan or Eva. An unfamiliar face peered at me in the gloom.
 "I'm uh . . ." it said. "I'm sorry." 
I nodded, not really hearing. I wandered back towards the castle, the breeze in my hair the laugh of a charlatan running through the woods. 

Chapter XXVIII

The hallowed bells of Teimsfeld's largest cathedral cut the air. They rang with joy. They tolled with sorrow. Somewhere beneath their peal, tears were shed. Somewhere else, smiles were given. Riktenburg mourned, and Riktenburg rejoiced.
At the nave of the giant hall, Phillip rose. He turned to face the crowd. And as he did, the ermine cloak surrounding his regal body shifted. He nodded his gratitude to the masses, the crown bobbing on his head. I watched him though. He was not smiling. 
Behind the celebrated man, another figure waited. Or at least, the remembrance of another waited, for we couldn't find his body. An empty casket was buried beneath heaps of black prince flowers, their petals flaking downwards, occasionally drifting to the silent marble floor below. A single red rose — a testament — lay atop these others.
The king walked down the aisle, always nodding at the applause. He slid over the recently installed marble slabs. Each held the body of a monk, the men hung for the king's survival. They would be forever honored for their loss, and they were buried in the royal crypts of the family they saved. Each slab was etched with gilded creases. The golden marks told the story of betray and hope, of the new king's saving and of a bright future for Riktenburg. Although they were gorgeous works of art in their own right, the slabs' very contents gave onlookers a shudder. Religious fanatics had stolen the life from Martin, while monks had given their lives in defense of equality. Above the bodies of these faithful heroes, Phillip glided onwards, no doubt more taken with his own brotherly grief.
As he passed us, I smiled sadly, and he offered a bowed head. Even if I could have heard him above the roar, there wasn't anything to say.
Nothing could change what had happened. Nothing would return Riktenburg to her former self. Nothing could remove Fuchs' stain. Impossibly, he had eluded all snares. Somehow the man slipped through the night and crossed, as His Majesty's spies reported, into Austria. To make matters worse, the traitorous Joseph was gone upon our return. 
I'd told the others of Fuchs' story, and none wanted to believe it. I hadn't either, but the devil in the snow spoke the truth. Somehow the minister had learned of his coming doom, and he too had fled the country, presumably to the expanses of the Austrian Empire as well. 
"Splendid. He looks splendid, doesn't he?" Eva, her hand resting on my arm, shouted into my ear. I turned to her. Despite her words, a pair of tears mingled in her lashes, and the lines of her face belied any festivity. 
"Most regal — a lot he never wanted. . ." I said, my eye on the black princes and the rose. She tracked my gaze and gripped my arm still tighter.
By now Phillip was well past us, flowing out the massive doors of the cathedral and into the waiting crowds outside. Despite the gloomy, mingled emotions that surrounded it, the day felt momentous. The capital had swelled as thousands flocked to see the coronation and funeral. The idea of a sudden, double ceremony had been a rarity in all of Europe, and the press had tripped over themselves at the news of the coup and subsequent months under a false king. Shock was foremost in everyone's minds. None had recognized the charlatan. Fuchs' social purging, summary executions, and planned programs filled everyone with rage, and the papers had a field-day. 
Around us, the sound continued to dissipate as onlookers followed the king to the streets. "Nathaniel!" cried a familiar voice of a woman through the masses. 
I turned, and again hid my grimace of surprise at the sight. Logan and Mercedes strode towards us, arm in arm. Even as I watched she stumbled, catching herself. 
"The depth perception . . . It's taking a while to adjust," she said, lowering her eyes — or her eye rather. Logan patted her hair familiarly and gently stroked the cord that held her eye-patch in place.
"There's nothing wrong with that," cooed Logan. "In no time, no one will even notice." 
I tried valiantly to ignore the tear that fell from her other eye. Eva broke from my touch and wrapped the other woman in an embrace. After a long moment, she brushed the tresses from Mercedes' face and turned back to us. "Let's see Jacob. That'll cheer everyone up, and heaven knows he needs it too." 
All agreed. We finally made our way through the crowd, and we walked along towards Mercedes' home. Our path wound through the city, but the streets were pressed by the mobs of Riktians who came to pay their respects and honor the new monarch.
Snow dotted the roofs, and our breath rose in sheets to the grey expanse above. I'd traipsed through this city in summertime, months ago. Jacob, Logan, and I had swaggered and laughed as if nothing was amiss. Of course, we'd been chased by the Faith even then, but nothing could've prepared us for what lay ahead. Looking at the buildings in the light, my thoughts recoiled, turning to the darkness of the summer now gone. I'd ducked through these streets at night, rainwater dripping about and guttered alleyways providing a welcome hideout. In the gloom, passing patrols had missed me as I dashed to safety. 
Yet the man waiting inside that safe home was a traitor. 
Somewhere, perhaps in the court of the Austrian emperor, Joseph Klein was resting. He'd flown from his country, a raven, a vulture escaping the descending storm. He'd been a friend. Now he was a curse. 
Before melancholy could wrap its coils about me further, we turned a corner. Reaching that now familiar door, I held it open for the group as Mercedes led the way through the halls. 
"Mother!" she called. "Mother!" For obvious reasons the woman in question had not attended the coronation. 
Adele emerged from the library, wiping her hands dry on a cloth. Seeing us, she dropped the cloth in a titter. "Oh, company! You should have warned me Mercedes." 
The girl smiled. "There wasn't time, Mama. The brood demanded to see our invalid."
"I see." She turned a feigned scowl on the rest of us. "Barging through homes like an army. How very rude. I'd expect you to know better." 
I bowed, low and long. "Our sincere apologies, Madam Klein. How may we rectify our guilt?" 
She laughed, a warm flutter that drifted through the home like the call of a bird. "Welcome all of you. Jacob's in the library as usual. He'll be more than happy to see you." She turned then and bustled away through the home. After Joseph's flight and exposure, the woman surprised me with her resolve. Although the country was decrying her family's name, and her husband had become a fugitive, she would not despair. I did not presume to know her pain though. Regardless of his flaws, it had been clear that Joseph loved Adele. Her loss was sure to have stung immeasurably, and I wondered if she would leave the country soon, following him into Austria. 
I cleared away those thoughts as we entered the library. The bookcases loomed overhead, but our eyes were drawn to the man resting in the sunlight. A book in hand, Jacob sipped delicately from a glass of wine, his shattered leg propped up in another plush chair. A tight bandage surrounded the wound, but he was starting to mend. 
He looked up at our entrance. "Ah!" he cried, setting aside the book. "Some visitors at last. I'd started to think you lot had forgotten me. Again" 
I sat, slapping his shoulder. "You're never going to let us live that down, are you?" In the weeks since our coup, Jacob had dropped hint after hint about our actions in the tower. As he lay bleeding, Logan and I had leapt into the night, leaving him. We all recognized the rightness of that choice, but the American loved to chide us just the same. 
Jacob shifted, adjusting his leg."How was the ceremony?"
The others sat, all settling into the sunlit chairs. "It's what we expected," answered Eva. "Martin was loved by Riktenburg. In the course of a few weeks, the people learned that he'd been viciously murdered, they've been ruled by a tyrant imposter, and his body is lost, an unknown corpse somewhere. It's a striking blow. Phillip performed brilliantly though. He never wanted to rule, but I've little doubt he'll do it well." 
We all nodded, our heads bowed. 
Logan looked over. "And you? How's the leg?"
Jacob grinned ruefully. He reached out and tapped the wounded limb. "It'll get better in time." He turned to Mercedes. "Your mother has been most gracious. I've felt right at home here." 
She smiled thinly. "Given my father's hospitality, it's the least we can do." She held her head high, but I knew it stung. Like Adele, a man she loved had been revealed as a traitor. In a way he'd been a better actor than Fuchs, and the cut of treachery was sure to be deep. 
Our conversation drifted towards happier thoughts from there, and we lost ourselves in each other. With the sunlight trickling in, a decanter of wine nearby, and a woman I was coming to love next to me, time seemed to slip away that afternoon. Time is, after all, reported to be a healer, and in time, I hoped to be healed. In all the chaos, I'd lost life and zeal. More than that, I'd lost innocence, and I wasn't sure I could recover from that fall. 
But the world doesn't wait for healing. It rushes onwards, an uncatchable escape through a snowy wood. 
"Excuse me ladies, gentlemen."
We turned at the unfamiliar voice. A messenger, resplendent in the black and scarlet of the king's guard loomed in the library's doorframe. 
Logan rose. "Yes? Can we help you?"
The guard bowed and produced a packet of papers from his jacket. He handed them over, the polished buttons of his coat sparkling. "I come from King Phillip." When Logan didn't open the papers, he continued. "His Majesty sends his greatest respects and requests your presence at the palace immediately."
Eva jerked upright. "Is something the matter?" 
The messenger did grin then. "Oh, no. Everything's fine; no need to get upset." 
I shifted. "What's the reason for the summons then? And immediately?"
He pointed. "It's in the letter, but I can save you the trouble if you'd like?" 
Logan nodded, and the guard's buttons flashed again as he moved further into the room. "You see, His Majesty is beginning to address the problems that occurred under the imposter's reign. As you know, Fuchs sifted through the palace's staff, removing all the lower classes — a distasteful business. I only just returned to duty myself."
Logan shrugged. "Horrid to be sure, but what does that have to do with us?"
 The attendant cocked his head. "Ah. Well there seems to be several vacancies in His Grace's court — places closest to His Majesty. You've heard about Fuchs' purges. What you may not have learned about is our suffering relationship with Austria." 
I perked up. "Austria?"
"We've received certain overtones from the Austrian Emperor Ferdinand. He's taken rather unkindly to Phillip's dismissal of Fuchs' economic and military alliance proposals. The imposter wanted shared resources and military backing. How the emperor fails to see the absurdity of his position is beyond me. It's as if the man doesn't believe Fuchs was not King Martin. It's as if Ferdinand wants war!" The last caught me as strange. Hadn't Fuchs and Joseph both escaped to Austria? Why the political shift now that Phillip was on the throne? 
Before I could mull further, Jacob spoke from his chair. "Is it as bad as all that? There's threats of war?"
The guard nodded. "Oh yes! Of course I'm not privy to everything, but from His Majesty's own lips, Austria is angry enough to shed blood. Lots of it. How Riktenburg is forced to suffer catastrophe after catastrophe, I'll never know. But those are the facts." 
Logan stared at me, his eyes set, his chin locked. I saw his logic had tracked like mine, but we didn't speak. 
The messenger continued. "As I said, there are certain vacancies. The king can think of no men more deserving of these posts. The lot of you have done more for Riktenburg than can be repaid, but the king would like to try."

* * * * *

A steady wind raced our carriage as it wound its way through the capital towards Phillip's palace. Gazing out into the crowded streets, I met the staring eyes of an old woman. Ratty clothes dripped off her frame like fallen tears, and her face was a valley of cracks and fissures. Despite her poverty, she never looked away as our carriage, a royal carriage, rumbled by on the cobblestones. Though her face and twisted spine had vanished in an instant, her memory, her meaning lived in my mind. Why had Martin died? 
He died for this. 
And with the new king's summons, I would live for this. 


Acknowledgements 

Writing a novel is never a solitary process. There are countless people I need to thank for their support, their input, their ideas, and for their love.
First, to Mandy: Thank you as always for the being the beautiful, intricate, complex, and supportive woman I love. For this project, thank you for your beautiful cover artwork.
To Daniel Fry: Thank you for your ideas, your encouragement, and your many hours of conversation with tea. Thank you also for your editing; the help is absolutely appreciated.
To Nathan Lowell and J. A. Konrath: Although you probably didn't know it, your work inspired me to write and threw me onto this wonderful path I'm walking. Thank you.
To Alexandre Dumas, Sir Anthony Hope, William Shakespeare, and all the others: Thank you for walking the path ahead of me.
To all those I missed, thank you too. 
Without you all, these stories would never get written.




Bonus Material
About the Author
Preview of The Invasion: Book II of the Uprising Trilogy
Preview of Duty: A Retelling of Waterloo
Dulce et Decorum
A Questionable Affair




About the Author


At an early age, Michael Seeley found himself devouring tales of adventures in the past. He soon began sharing and shaping these stories; writing quickly followed. A lover of history and fantasy, Michael now writes to show the personal side of the past. The Faith is his first novel. His second novel, Duty, asks what might have happened if Napoleon had won the Battle of Waterloo. His collected short fiction, Men of Eagles, offers new perspectives on the wars of the Napoleonic Age.
Michael has found inspiration from the winding alleyways of Paris, the tall forests of Norway, and the impressive Acropolis of Athens, but he currently resides in the Midwest with his beautiful wife, listening to the winds whisper across the prairie. 
Find out more about Michael at http://www.seeleywrites.com/ .
See his other works for Smashwords at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MichaelSeeley .
If you liked The Faith, I'd humbly ask that you please write a review and tell others what you thought. Also, make sure to sign up for my newsletter at my website and stay connected!




Preview of The Invasion: Book II of the Uprising Trilogy

Coming Fall 2012


Chapter I

"I don't want to see my old lover hang by the neck!" shouted Eva, turning away.
I flipped down the newspaper. "I'm sorry Eva, but it's going to happen. You don't need to watch, but I have to. It's my job, Love." 
She didn't look at me. After a few moments, she said "You understand how I feel, at least?"
I crossed to her. She stared out the window of the apartment — I was already beginning to consider it ours. The sun flecked across her brow and the long tresses that hung down like rivulets distracted me. I stared in silence at her beauty. 
She smiled, without looking. "Find something you like?" 
I coughed to cover my laugh. "You have no idea," I whispered. I grabbed her chin with two fingers and lightly angled it to face me. I kissed her slowly. "Of course I understand. I . . . I sometimes wish I didn't have to see it. But Kurt's verdict needs to be carried out. And who knows if the Faith will try anything. If the Courtiers move in vengeance, they may just kill Phillip, and you know we can't risk that. Phillip's presiding at the hanging. We're going more for his protection than Kurt's death." 
She nodded without speaking. I traced my fingers through those enrapturing locks. She turned then. "Yes, I know it's your job. But I wish it wasn't."
I smiled. "Yes, Love." I patted her shoulder, standing. "It'll be over soon enough. Now, let's be off. It's getting stifling in here." 
A small grin graced her face and she collected a shawl; the spring air still had a bite of the long winter in it. We left the apartment and strode onto the streets of the capital, Teimsfeld. Looking about, I lost myself in the buildings for a moment. Nearly a year before, we'd wandered into this country without the slightest hint of the dangers and beauties it contained. Logan, Jacob, and I had been on the run from unknown fanatics. We'd learned their identities and plans here and watched helplessly as the Courtiers of the Faith killed off King Martin III of Riktenburg. The resulting whirlwind had contained more than a few sorrows. With Phillip, Martin's twin brother, restored to the throne, things were slowly returning to normal. 
Of course, we'd lost a close friend in the fight — Joseph Klein. He hadn't died. Oh no. Riktenburg's former minister of war had proven to be one of the enemy, a traitor playing us like an orchestra. He was a Courtier, and with Fuchs' downfall, he fled. I still couldn't reconcile his disappearance and treachery with our friendship. 
He hadn't run alone, either. 
Aloysius Fuchs had gone with him. He was the master imposter and inhuman monster behind the plot. We'd watched him put a bullet straight through the king's head and laugh as the body fell. 
Both of these traitors had gone into Austria, and it didn't bode well.
Before I could brood any further, Eva tugged my arm. "Perhaps it's too much to actually pay attention while escorting me . . . " she jibed, laughing. 
I bowed. "My most sincere apologies, my good lady. May I take your arm?" 
She gave me a mock curtsey before sticking out her tongue.
I wagged my finger. "Ah ah ahh. That's not very lady-like. Behave now."
She nodded suavely. "Yes, sir. And where are we off to this fine evening?"
I laughed, playing along. "I think we'll try Chez Henri. They've an absolutely superior beef burgundy. It's the best in the city, I'd say."
"'Lay on Macduff,'' she said.
I did. 

* * * * *

"Eva stayed home, did she?" 
"Of course she did, Logan. Heavens, I'd have worried if she came."
"No doubt." My friend, the Viscount of Harling, leaned back in the chair, looking about distractedly. "I can't wait to see this whole ordeal over with. The trial was a madhouse." 
"Yes," I offered simply. 
He wasn't lying. Kurt Weber, Fuchs' second, had been captured in our failed attempt to assassinate the imposter king. In the subsequent months, the man had been put on trial for murder, treason, and several other counts. The trial had been open to the public, a fact Phillip wouldn't compromise on. Although he was as guilty as sin, I had looked on the proceedings with some worry. The galleries were constantly packed with jeering crowds, and Kurt would never find a friend among them. He'd been an accomplice to the killing of one of Riktenburg's most loved kings, and the people loathed him with their entire beings. 
Day after day, the courtroom would fill with a hateful audience. In fact, on several times, when testimony was taken about the Faith's actual assassination, the trial had to pause to quiet the crowd. The judges feared a lynching within the courtroom. I'd been present when Fuchs shot King Martin, so I of course testified in the affair, and the raging crowd made me sweat. They'd been more a mob than an audience. With the conviction and execution verdict, the people had gone mad, celebrating in the streets, and burning effigies of Kurt. It was wild.
 I looked at Logan again. "I just hope things don't get out of hand today."
"Of course," he chuckled.
"And Mercedes? I hope she didn't come."
"Of course not. The mob might very well kill her too, the bastards." Mercedes Klein, daughter to the traitorous Joseph, had fallen in love with Logan. He'd had to brave the same scornful torrent as her. The people of Teimsfeld had not been kind to the Klein family since Joseph's treachery had been made public. In fact, Adele Klein, Mercedes mother, had fled to Austria to be with husband only the week before. 
I heard a noise and jerked towards the sound. Down the opulent hallway, a set of wide double doors were swinging open. "Ah!" I cried. "You're late, but you're here. Did you party a little too vigorously last night?" I called.
Jacob Douglas, the American, sent me a lopsided grin. "Now, you know the answer to that question. Besides, a gentleman never tells."
"Of course not. That's why he asked you," shot Logan. 
"Har . . . har. Anyway, are we ready for this?" Jacob nodded down towards his attire. He wore the same black uniform as we did. It was modeled after the royal guard, but ours had an extra scarlet stripe along both shoulders. The king had needed new attire for our newly-created positions. 
I pointed down towards the other end of the hallway. "No, we're still waiting. It'll be soon enough anyway. Mass and confession aren't always lengthy affairs."
"Well this devil has a lot to confess, so who knows," said Jacob.
Logan nodded. "Quite right, but that's none of our business. Devil or not, he's about to die. I say we give him what dignity he can find." 
Jacob didn't let up. "And what dignity did they give King Martin?"
"Cut it out," I shot back. "We're all nervous enough as it is. We can't change Martin's death now. Let's just make sure things go as planned today." 
The other two nodded as another set of doors opened at the other end of the hall. A tall man wearing the same uniform as us sauntered our way, his fiery hair bouncing with his movement. He possessed a flowing grace
We stood, and I grabbed the newcomer's hand. "Simon. Welcome."
Simon Duval, Riktenburg's finest swordsman, looked back, but his face was devoid of any smile or happiness. "We're ready, gentlemen. The prisoner's finished with his priest. It's almost time. The crowd's ready too. We'll be starting very soon."
"And the king?" 
"He's waiting for you, just through there," Simon pointed back to the doors from which he entered. "I've a few details to attend to." He nodded towards us, turning. "I'll see you on the scaffold." Without another word, he moved away down the hallway. 
I looked at the other two. "Well, friends. We've a king to see." 
Logan chuckled darkly. "'Once more into the fray.'" 
After a short wait, the four guards posted outside led us into the throne room. Normally, the massive chamber was resplendent in decorations and brimming with people. The laughter of courtesans' jokes and the clink of champagne glasses would bounce around the room with wild abandon. Business was conducted here, but celebration was no stranger to the room we entered. 
But not today.
Black tapestries draped the walls, shrouded tears dripping through a silent hall of pain. Only two small candles lit the space. The throne itself disappeared as a faint outline. 
"Your Majesty?" I called into the gloom.
No one answered.
"King Phillip?" said Logan, the voice disappearing in the expanse. We walked closer.
At last, a man raised his head. Like some shrouded phantom, the face the light illuminated was haunted, the eyes sunken. He'd lost weight since he'd retaken the throne, and the accumulated stress was more than visible in his haggard face. Seeing us, the man managed a small smile and a low chuckle. It disappeared just at quickly, and he spoke. "The ministers of monarchical security! Welcome gentlemen . . ." 
We bowed. "You Majesty," offered Logan. 
The king nodded. "I'm to be protected today, am I?"  In the wake of the recent disaster, Phillip had appointed us, along with Simon, to be in charge of his bodyguards and personal safety. When in public, the king never traveled without armed soldiers. They presented a strong presence to any remaining Courtiers or other scoundrels hoping to take advantage of Riktenburg's current recuperation. We'd not had to use our talents yet; no one had assaulted the king. But that didn't mean we let our guard down. They'd killed his brother, and I'd be damned if they would kill him too. 
"They say we're ready. Have you spoken with Simon?" continued Phillip.
Jacob answered. "We did briefly, Your Majesty—"
Phillip cut him off with a hand. "Please. I've told you before. Call me Phillip, especially if we're alone. If you must use 'Your Majesty,' save it for the crowds." The small grin reappeared. "You've saved my life. I don't think we need to stand on ceremony. Now go ahead." 
Jacob laughed. "Yes, Phillip. We spoke with Simon, and he left to prepare the last arrangements. The prisoner has just finished Mass and confession. He's as ready as he'll ever be. The crowds are assembled too. We're the only missing party."
He stood. "Right. Let's be done with it then. The sooner we wrap up these trials and executions, the better. If I never see another diamond medallion or hear about the divine right of kings again, it'll be too soon." Kurt's hanging wasn't the first. Others had gone before, and others would surely follow. Although many Courtiers had managed to flee the palace before Phillip's reinstatement, there was no lack of informants. The Faith had killed Martin, and the people were rallying to avenge their loss. 
We exited the throne room, collected the waiting guards, and continued down the passage. After several turns and a descent down the long stair, we came to the main foyer. We paused, collecting ourselves and allowing another ten guards to join our party before we pushed through the massive doors and ambled onto the palace grounds. 
We could hear the mob even from the palace's steps. "Good heavens. That many?" I said, staring across the grounds. Beyond the palace's tall perimeter fence, a roiling sea of onlookers was waiting. They swirled about, and their raised voices cried for blood. It was like the painted scenes of the French Revolution. Despite the spring air, I shivered; it wasn't the air though. How had Louis XVI felt facing such a bloodthirsty group? Thankfully, I was on the side of the crowds. Kurt, on the other hand . . .
Phillip pointed. "There he is. Let's meet him." I looked to where he indicated. A black carriage, draped in long, shaded fabric was rolling towards the perimeter fence.
"Ah," I muttered under my breath. Kurt was inside this coach of death. The priest would, even now, be continuing to console him as he approached the mob. Guards walked along with the vehicle, ironically protecting the man about to die. It came to the gates and stopped. 
The others had continued moving, so I caught up as we walked across the lawns. "What're the orders for the ceremony, Your Majesty?" I asked.
Phillip looked as if he would correct me for not using his name, but he pursed his lips instead. "The man will be given last words. Whatever his delusions, he remained loyal to his order and was a brave soldier, if a bloody scoundrel. After the final pronouncement, he'll hang, we'll be done with all this, and we'll retire for lunch and the afternoon's business, I think." 
We nodded, and moved closer to the king as we approached the perimeter fence. Despite the dozen guards surrounding Phillip, as well as the fiercely loyal mob, the chaos surrounding the hanging would make for a perfect assassination. As we approached the gates, I noticed Simon waiting for us. At his signal, the guards swung the gates open, and the mob moved aside. A deathly, eerie silence descended. 
We passed the carriage, and despite myself, I looked inside. Kurt Weber sat across from his priest, a large, young man I didn't recognize. The condemned looked calm enough. He had his head bowed, his manacled hands folded gently across his lap. His lips mouthed words I couldn't hear but I assumed were prayers. The massive scar that cut across his entire face moved with the silent words. As I stared though, his head suddenly snapped up. His piercing eyes cut into mine. I paused, transfixed.
This man had loved my intended. He had touched her, kissed her. And she'd loved him back somehow. Yet, I'd seen the man kill in cold blood. I'd watched as he gutted his enemies, and I knew him to be a monster — a religious fanatic who threw down a king into the mire and claimed divine righteousness in doing so. A monster indeed. As we stared at each other, I nodded simply, not saying anything. He inclined his head, blinked once, and grinned. 
I don't think I've seen a more terrifying sight.
But then it was gone, and we moved onwards. The guards formed a cordon, with my friends and I closest to Phillip, and we walked into the mob. The people stepped back, leaving us a corridor to approach the scaffold, which waited at the center of the city square beyond. We walked forward, and the carriage followed in our wake. 
I could see the gnarled scaffold ahead, the single noose moving slightly in the wind, waiting to grasp its lonely victim. We walked along, and although single hecklers called out to the condemned, the once raging mob continued its silence. The carriage tracked its way through the throng. Finally, it came to a stop at the foot of the platform. We led the king up the steps, and the guards split off to form a circle around the base. Logan, Jacob, Simon, and I could certainly handle guarding the king now. 
Waiting atop the grisly stage, I watched Kurt exit the carriage. Although nothing cinctured his feet, he tripped, catching himself with the manacled palms. His priest came next, steadying the prisoner. I couldn't help but remark his size again. The cleric was a granite cliff. His cassock swirled about him like a waterfall as he assisted Kurt up the scaffold. 
As the man reached the top, the crowd found its voices again. A wall of sound rose up, the jeering redoubled. Fruit, rotten vegetables and other objects were hurled towards the platform, and I grimaced. Had society not stepped forward at all since the Middle Ages? A few pieces of pungent refuse hit Kurt, and he stumbled. I was closest, so I reached out and grabbed him, surprising myself. 
There, standing in rot and a mob screaming around us, we locked eyes again. The confidence I'd glimpsed in the carriage had wavered, and he looked at me like a sheep looks before its death. An animal terror was present in his scarred, haggard face. Kurt Weber was running towards death, and he knew it. I leaned in, and for Eva, said "It'll be short. It washes over you." 
As I leaned back, a sense of determined calm now rested in his eyes. He whispered "Thank you," before his priest took him and angled him towards the executioner. A drum started rolling from the cordoned guards along the ground. 
I gulped air, suddenly winded. I moved back towards my friends and stood at attention beside the king, my hand resting on my saber. 
A herald mounted the steps and read the charges. They were long and contained an artful memory of King Martin, as well as a passionate haranguing of the Faith. At their conclusion, the executioner stepped forward. He motioned to Kurt, and the condemned turned. In response to the unasked question, Kurt refused, and the executioner set aside the black sack. Kurt would face his death with eyes open. 
The condemned ascended a small box, planting his feet to wait for the drop. With slow, delicate precision, the executioner settled the noose around Kurt's neck. It rested like an old friend, and I watched Kurt's neck calm, his muscles relaxing. He continued speaking under his breath, praying. 
"Does the condemned wish to share any last words?" bellowed the herald. The king inclined his head, giving the man permission. Kurt glanced over and smiled, then he turned to the crowd, lifting his manacled hands. 
They started to boo him down, but Phillip raised his hands as well, and the mob silenced instantly. 
Kurt drew in a breath and paused. He spoke. "Riktians. My . . . people. I see no friends here." 
"You’re right there!" screamed an unseen woman from the vengeful throng. 
Kurt swallowed but continued. "I see no friends. My friends have either abandoned me, been killed, or never existed. I am . . . I am alone." He drew himself up to his full height. "Yes. I am alone, I am accused, and I will die. But I'm dying justified!" He tried to wave his hands, perhaps forgetting the cuffs that bound him. The result was utterly comical, and the poor man had to wait another moment for the noise to die down. I almost felt sorry for the poor wretch. He looked weak and afraid, piteous even. 
"I was justified in my actions. God Himself called me to my actions, and the foolish thoughts of a wicked king are beneath my worth. I should be lauded, not condemned! I kept the faith. I am the Faith! Kill me, and let your city be plunged into fire and rivers of blood. Know that we are here! Know that the Courtiers do not forget! Let them kill me, for hundreds more will rise to fill my place!" By now, the crowds were screaming over him, and despite my closeness, I could barely hear the man.
At last though, he turned to the priest, and together they said "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritūs Sancti. Amen." 
Then Kurt turned to the executioner and continued. "Do it. I am ready." 
With a look towards the king, the executioner nodded. The crowd screamed, and the executioner kicked the box out from Kurt's feet. 
For a moment, he danced, his eyes bulging. It was sickening. 
But only for a moment. 
I had blinked, and when I looked again, I froze, terror engulfing my frame. Even as I watched helplessly, the massive priest pulled a short-sword from his cassock and slashed. The rope splintered and Kurt dropped squarely on his feet, the noose hanging comically behind him. Without waiting a moment, the priest tossed him the sword and drew another small blade. Together, the two sprinted to the edge of the scaffold and dove into the crowd, weapons slashing. They cleared the cordon of guards with their jump. Next they cut down several foolish onlookers who tried to stop the crisis unfolding about us. The priest drew a pistol and began shooting. Despite their numbers, sheer amazement and fear held the crowd in check.
Then, with a final, triumphant glance back towards the king, the Courtiers streamed through the mob and out of sight. 
I looked at the others. Logan's mouth was agape, and Jacob looked as grim as I felt. "Damn," said Simon before we threw ourselves into the throng, racing after the scoundrels. 


Preview of Duty: A Retelling of Waterloo.

Aiden Rowe, an Irish exile fighting for France at the Battle of Waterloo, repels British enemies along the walls of Hougoumont, finally repaying them for the murder of his parents years before in Duty, an alternate history of Waterloo:

I ducked again as yet another musket ball clipped the makeshift parapet. An infantryman next to me shoved me lower, swearing something about staff officers under his breath. Minutes before, he'd tackled me, saving me from a sharpshooter's deadly ball, so I didn't chastise him now.
"Bloody English," I said. 
He grunted. "Whatever else they are, they're bloody good, and you'd best remember that sir. You can't stick your head out without asking for it to be shot off. Please be careful." 
I smiled at the irony; officers were the ones supposed to mother their men. He seemed a nice fellow though, so I offered my hand. The other shook it, but his eyes kept shifting away from Hougomont's walls into the trees surrounding our newfound bastion. We'd captured the farmhouse but at a twofold terrible cost. First, we'd lost numerous men in the assault. Wellington, it turned out, had shifted the Coldstream Guards to defend the building. These men, crack troops every one of them, had fought and clawed against every attempt to dislodge them. By sheer willpower, and the aid of a couple of light artillery pieces, the gates to the farm had been bashed down. 
We'd lost our share, but it was the British that suffered the most. I looked around. Blood coated the steps leading into the farm's courtyard, and bodies, some wounded and writhing, waited below. They were French and English both, but once our men had smashed their way through the defenses, no quarter was given. The effects of that bloodbath lay about me now. 

I'd gotten mixed up in the mess when the Emperor sent me to check on the progress of his brother. Even as I rode through the fields of death once more, Jerome Bonaparte was being carted away, his arm broken and bleeding from an errant shot. I'd reached the farm only just ahead of a renewed English assault to retake the farm. Violet and I had ducked inside, her hooves stamping around in the courtyard below. I left her there; every hand was needed to defend the parapet. While my place was at the Emperor's side, to risk escape now was certain death. The English were swarming outside like sleighed lovers, and I'd do Napoleon no service if I was killed along the path back towards his vantage point. 
Besides, the blood of my parents cried out for revenge. 
Thanks to the new friend at my side, I'd been spared death. A little overeager, I'd raised my head above the courtyard's walls for only an instant. It had been enough to make me a target, and a quick shove was all that saved me from eternity. 
"Here they come!" cried another voice down the wall. There was no more time for thought. Out of the blissful cover of trees surrounding the farm, men dashed, running pell-mell towards us. 
A great roar of "Vive L'Empereur!" shook the very walls of Hougoumont before countless muskets split the air. For my part, I hoisted my own weapon, again raising myself above the wall. A burly sergeant, his arms clutching a makeshift ladder, was barreling forward like some enraged bull.
I, his matador, put him down. 
Unfortunately for his comrades, his weight sagged forward, and the ladder was dropped. The thick man stumbled into the mud, blood dripping from his chest like falling tears, and the ladder fell beneath him. The other men, who'd helped shoulder the load moments before, were brought to a standstill. Their stillness brought their own ruin, as Frenchmen picked off these easy targets, cluttering the ground with their bodies. 
"Well done sir!" My newfound friend clapped me on the back, a grim smiling flowing along his face. "Those bastards won't be rising anytime--" 
I had turned to look at him while he spoke, but the poor devil never finished. Midsentence, his face disintegrated into a scarlet wash, his head snapping backwards with an audible jerk. Lifeless, the man tumbled backwards and fell, his arms splayed, outstretched like a forgotten martyr. Although I could not help, I watched him plunge towards that sodden ground. Even as I stared, he disappeared into the mass of bodies that already lay within, never again to rise. 
Duty, as always, prevented horror. If men were allowed to actually think, to philosophize during battle, there would few enough victories. Without pausing to mourn the man's death, I dropped powder into my musket, rammed the ball home, finished the loading process, and heaved the weapon upwards once more. 
By now, the English had begun to climb the walls; others carried roughhewn ladders as well. Still more men battered at the farm's gate, their cries filling the air. Frenchmen had gone to meet them, and humanity was abandoned in the vicious hand-to-hand struggle. I saw more than one man, from both sides, sheath a bayonet in an enemy's gut, dropping the corpse to the soil. 

"Help! Help me!" screamed a voice to my right. I snapped my eyes about, searching for the cry. I found it in the face of a boy, his eyes too young, too pure for war. Doubtless he'd been called up with the new batch of Marie-Louises, the term for the boy soldiers which had filled the ranks since Russia. This poor lad had, like those at the gate, been wounded by the sharp steel of a British bayonet. The offending enemy was clawing his way onto the parapet, his legs supported by one of the rickety ladders. 
In his fury to gain purchase on the wall, the Englishman was dragging the wounded, terrified boy back. The lad was about to flung over the wall to be replaced by the enemy. Without thinking, I raised my weapon and danced a finger along the trigger. The recoil shook my arm, but the results were instant. The Englishman bellowed a cry of enraged pain before he disappeared back over the wall, collapsing downwards and dragging the ladder with him. Miraculously, he didn't managed to pull the wounded boy as well.
Instead, the lad collapsed, bleeding onto the parapet. My heart racing, I sprinted over to him. Although my foot slipped through something, blood or grime I wasn't sure, I arrived without calamity. Even in the midst of battle, I knelt, my hands grabbing his shoulders. 
He stared at me, his eyes flickering back and forth, his blood staining my coat. "Am I . . ." he gasped. I wouldn't answer him. Of course he was dying. In the midst of combat, I only held him. A boy, with no place on the battlefield -- a boy hardly younger than myself -- lay in my arms. That was the only comfort I could offer, and when he did slip through that gate, disappearing into eternity, all I could do was lay him down and shut his lightless eyes. 
This was glory; this was conquest: the bleeding out of a child soldier. 

Around me, men fought like animals over the parapet, and more than one soldier was flung from the heights into the melee below. My fingers moved on their own as I reloaded and shot yet another redcoat. Although I hated them for what they stood for, for what they'd done to my family, they were still men, and the swelling of their eyes at the moment of death was almost too much to bear.




Dulce et Decorum

The snows of Russia had ravaged my country, and the Emperor was dredging the countryside. Every able-bodied man or youth was called upon to sacrifice. Nags hardly fit for plough-work were stolen — cavalry-mounts in the making. Bread and grain for troops were seized; wool, cotton, and all other textiles were commandeered for uniforms.
And my Henri was made into a boy soldier. 
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori — that's what they told me when they took him. They said I shouldn't cry. If he ever died, I should be happy! Dying for one's county is sweet and honorable, they said. 
Yes. I watched my son being led away, his child's eyes tracking my face. He waved to his sisters. Henri even stooped to pet his kitten one last time before the sergeant dragged him away by the arm.
* * * * *

Running a farm in the winds of the Loire leaves little time for worry. A husband dead to illness, and an only boy stolen by war, there remained just three daughters and a doddering mother to care for the land.
Months went by without any news. All we could do was keep working. One morning, as the dawn squinted through the barn's slats, I sat milking. My feet slid into the mud under the cow's hooves; I'd spilled warm milk in my distraction, and it now churned the earth. I licked my finger, a spot of warm, smooth milk disappearing down my throat. But the taste was mixed with salt. 
My silent tears didn't go unnoticed. 
Claudette, my eldest, set aside her pitchfork.  She cocked her elbows on her hips, staring at me. "Mother." 
Hiding her motives, she grabbed my arm, and steered me towards the path through our grove. Silence reigned between us as God's song, the wind, rustled each leaf. In this tranquility, she led me through the dipping branches until we came upon the well-known clearing. Then my daughter spoke.
"This endless moping must stop," she hissed, her face piqued. While none would call her beautiful, Claudette still had a pretty figure. Yet, her forwardness and unruly temper had driven away several suitors. I had already begun to fear that we would be spinsters, alone together. Coyly, I denied any such feelings, but even my lie was lackluster. 
She huffed into the otherwise quiet morning. "Henri has been taken away, yes. But he's with the army now. Glory! Excitement! It is a good thing. I, for one, am proud of his service." Without another word, she stormed off back to the farm, leaving me in solitude, a rising sun gently caressing my hair. 
I took a moment to stare into the fields. A ragged cart was tracing its way into town, two dirt-spattered children laughing in the back. They threw hay at each other and squealed without a care. 
My son had laughed once. 
Was it right? Was it honorable that my boy should leave, his hand forced by a tyrant? I once loved the Emperor. But my husband, my Philippe, had died under the weight of Napoleon's taxes. My boy was now stolen. How could I love the Emperor anymore?

* * * * *

For twenty years now, our nation has fought itself and fought others. The fields of France have been watered and furrowed by blood. No one escapes the pervasiveness of unending war. Henri was our contribution. 
Eventually, we began receiving letters. They were brief at first; he hastily explained his lack of time and the details of his new life. Perhaps it was a mother's intuition, but I sensed something amiss within those precious lines. But there was nothing to do. We wrote back, professing our love for our little soldier. Despite my growing fear, life moved on; the harvest came and leaves grew dry and crisp.
We kept hearing snippets of war news. France was again being pushed back towards her natural borders. It seemed that Napoleon could not continue his success. I overheard two aged men talking after Mass. Their mustaches fluttered in the breeze as they described the current situation. News from Germany told of gathering armies. The forces of each side were closing together, and a vicious, tremendous battle of nations was about to unfold. 
Rushing home, I broke the news to Claudette; she smiled, her nationalism evident across the wide grin. She had little doubt that France and the Emperor would finally conquer in the days to come, but I only thought of Henri. Writing a quick letter to our distant son, I prayed for his safety. 
Mélodie, our stoic middle daughter, crept around the kitchen. She ran a cloth along the counters and the knotted table, the soapy water swirling. She paused by me. Grinning, ever silent, she dipped her finger in the suds, drawing stalks of wheat and circling birds.
"See, mother! The harvest," she whispered, giggling. 
I didn't answer. I didn't even smile. I couldn't tear myself from the unseen horror, the grasping arms of war that tried to embrace us here, even in the lonely kitchen. The suds forgotten, Mélodie left.
I set down the quill and stood. The room was silent. I went to boil some water for tea; the mint always soothed me. As I dug in the little jar for the leaves, I had to pause.
Henri had gathered these.
I shook myself and dropped some leaves into the water. “No sense in that,” I muttered. But I couldn’t stop the tears as I set all but one of the usual places for dinner. 

* * * * *

A harvest moon shown through the sky, and the constant breeze trickled through the trees as our reduced family gathered for supper. In spite of her impetuous, occasionally infuriating nature, Claudette is an excellent cook. As always, her onion stew was filling, and the bread was delicious and warm. Our conversation, although reserved, flowed around the table. 
"Valentine, how is your needle work?" I asked my youngest, dipping my loaf into the peppery stew. Bless her heart, the little girl perked up in her chair and beamed at me. 
"Mama!" she spoke. "I have worked at the cross stitch all morning and I belie—" Her voice cut off abruptly, and glancing toward her in surprise, I saw she barely breathed. Turning my chair around to face our cottage's door, my breath caught in my startled throat as well. 
A figure stood there, his form lit by the golden candlelight. He loomed for ages before stepping into the house, swiftly and violently slamming the door in his wake. It was Henri's body, but my son, unbeknownst to me then, was not present in this shade. 
"Henri!" I cried, my voice breaking with joy. I leapt up and rushed to embrace him. His haggard, haunted face stopped me cold. Days of unkempt stubble crept across his face like patchwork, and a massive scar cut through his pale skin along his cheek. Even in the flickering candlelight, I could see there was no life in his eyes; he stared towards the back wall, seemingly oblivious to my words. 
After another rending moment, he spoke. "I am on leave. I am . . . exhausted. Good evening." At that, the phantom silently drifted towards the stairs, climbing to his old bedroom amid the rafters. 

* * * * *

I cannot describe the terrors that followed that night. We finished our meal but only to avoid wasting the precious food. Valentine cried. Claudette's face was stricken. Mélodie kept her eyes closed the whole time, her lids clamped shut so she couldn't see the horror around us.
We did not sleep. The girls feigned it, but my only thought was for Henri. I snuck up the stairs as the moon set, hoping to find him asleep. He was, but his sleep was that of the possessed. My boy writhed like some snake, and his hands clawed the air; his face was a mask of terror, and soft cries of pain or dread escaped his lips from time to time; it was horrifying. I thought of waking him, but I couldn't bring my hands to obey. Feeling a cloud descend upon my soul, I quietly retreated to the hall. I leaned against the frame, unable to tear myself away from the boy. 
I stayed there, never sleeping, until dawn. 
But even the morning couldn't bring relief from this dreamed reality. Chores done, we again sat around the table, pretending to eat breakfast, but in actuality, waiting for Henri to awaken. Finally I could endure no more. I stood. At that moment, however, we heard clanking steps on the stairs. 
The specter, the soldier, my son descended. I fixed my gaze upon his face and a horrified gasp was drawn, unwillingly, from my soul. His face was so shallow, his eyes vapid and devoid of energy. Seeing him in the full light was terrifying. For her part, Claudette dropped the tea kettle in shock. Liquid splattered the table, and a massive clanging resounded as the kettle rolled from the table to the floor. 
Instantly, I was knocked from my feet as a blur of motion struck me. Recovering amid the dust of the kitchen floorboards, I looked over to find Henri's eyes level with mine. He shrank under the table, hiding. From what, I could not fathom. His jaw began opening and closing incessantly, much like a fabled ghoul. Perhaps my son had become a ghoul; I could not understand this change, this demonic possession. I crawled over to him and gently placed a trembling hand over his quivering arm. The stench of gun-smoke, the acrid cling of sweat coated him. I could hear his jaws clattering, his mouth scraping against itself again and again.
He snapped at me. Not with words but with his teeth, like an animal. Instinctively, I drew my hand back, afraid. He curled into himself, much like a beast at bay. I stood up, at a loss for what to do, drowning in a sea of despair. Claudette rushed towards me, and ever the leader, she grabbed me and pulled me out of the house. Dashing back inside, she snatched up Valentine and Mélodie, gathering us in front of the cottage. 
"What's wrong, mother?" moaned Mélodie, for once afraid. I could not answer; silence fell like a curtain around my frame. Then, shockingly, Henri himself emerged into the morning sunlight; yet, his expression was different. Although he looked ashamed, to our surprise he appeared normal again. More normal than the previous evening, more normal than the day of his conscription. My little Henri was his smiling, boyish self again. 
He approached us, and despite his haunted eyes, he was still smiling. The girls drew back, afraid. Seeing this, his grin faltered, and an infinite sadness replaced it. He drowned in that sorrow. But I walked forward. I embraced my son. There was nothing else to be done.
His frame shook as he wept; dew-like drops fell from my eyes as well. Napoleon's army had done something to the son I had once known. He was changed, and the war was somehow to blame. 
We held each other for that silent moment. I never heard the birds. I couldn't feel the stares of my daughters. All of time, all of France froze in that instant. No one existed besides my son. No one else mattered in those seconds. 
I led him away through the fields as Claudette and the others disappeared inside. We wandered the grounds. At last, I gathered my courage. I asked. "What was it Henri? Tell me what you saw there." 
He couldn't answer. He could only hold my hand. All he could manage was to grip, to grasp it tighter than ever before. 
I didn't speak again. I just let the wind twirl my tresses as we stared across the patchwork of fields. 
That night we sat together again at long last. Henri smiled, and I tried not to notice his aversion to loud laughs and the clinking of the tableware upon the plates. He studied his knife, staring at the honed edge, touching it from time to time. When he cut, he slashed through the potato. I ignored this too. 
Finally exhausted, we all settled into our respective beds and descended into that veil of night. But a scream woke me. Rushing upstairs, I heard the piercing, heart-wrenching cry again. Henri thrashed amid his sheets, terror etched like tragic art across his weeping face. The screams continued as I shook him. Finally he woke. 
Sighing, we held each other until dawn. I treasured those moments; truly, it seemed he had only just come into the world. We were returned to that intimate infancy in those brief, quiet hours. I clutched him to my breast, vowing I'd never let him go, struggling to think of a way to keep him from the army. The hours slipped by unnoticed. Dawn crested the horizon, spreading her rosy fingers towards the fields. Finally, I left him, swaddled and asleep. 
I escaped into the dawn's air, wrapping the cloak tighter around my shoulders. I paused in the doorway, taking in the morning sun, troubled, but thankful for his homecoming. I picked up my skirts and strode towards the barn — chores to be done. 
I never reached the stables. A clattering of hooves echoed through the otherwise silent morning. Wheeling around at the sound, I glimpsed four horsemen, soldiers in uniform, gallop into the yard. Without pause, their apparent leader leapt to the ground and marched towards me, a hand gripping his sheathed saber. 
Without pleasantries or introduction, he shouted "Show me the bastard!" Taken aback by his tone and foul language, I simply stood, dumbfounded. A searing pain enveloped my cheek as the mustached officer struck a hand across my face. "Show me him!" he screamed, his cheeks flushed and heated. 
"Who?" I stammered dumbly, cowering now. He raised his hand to strike again, but the girls, overhearing the commotion, raced out of the house and waited uneasily on the stoop. Seeing witnesses, the man dropped his hand. Turning to face them, he spoke again, bile dripping from his voice. "Henri Bonnet lives within this house. We traced him here — a fool running to his own mother. Reveal him! Bring me the coward!" He spit on the ground. Claudette drew herself up to defend her brother, but hearing noise behind her, stopped. She moved to block the door instead. 
The enraged lieutenant, seeing the gesture, stiffened. Drawing his sword, he joined his party, who had since dismounted. The four soldiers walked forward, wary and en masse. The officer grabbed Claudette's arm, flinging her aside. They charged into our home. Sounds of curses, blows, and a scuffle emerged. 
Mélodie had shut her eyes again. Valentine was weeping openly. Only pure shock kept me from mirroring her wet eyes. Finally, the rough men dragged Henri, bleeding in several places, from the home. They threw him down, and in our sight, kicked and spat upon him. 
"Why?" I screamed, unable to contain my horror any longer. "Why? Stop! Why?" I cried. Glancing up, the lieutenant simply glared back at me balefully.
"Woman," he snapped. "Your son deserted in the face of battle; he stole a horse and escaped into the night. If I could legally kill him right now, I would gut the coward where he lies." For emphasis, the cruel man lashed a kick into Henri's bruised and bleeding face. I heard a sick, wet sound as cartilage and bone gave way. Launching myself forward, I tried to pull them off my son. Laughing wildly, the men threw me down. Then, picking up the broken husk of Henri, they lashed him to a spare mount, retrieved the boy's stolen horse from our stable, and abruptly prepared to leave. 
"Have pity!" I cried to them. "He's my only son, my only boy." Tears now coursed down my cheeks.
One trooper turned back. Smirking wickedly, he replied, "Pity is a woman's word."
Without another word, they left us, riding into the hateful, rising sun. Yet in truth, they never did; I still see them. 
In all my sleepless nights, in all my troubled, helpless dreams, I can still see his haunted, empty eyes; I still glimpse my Henri's grieving eyes. 


Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori?
Perhaps the old phrase remains true, but I am sure I cannot say. When I too die, I will ask my son. For on some solitary morning, or so a cold Ministry of War missive explained, a drum spoke into the dawn, the soldiers shot, and my Henri found that honorable sweetness. 

# # # 
If you enjoyed this piece, find more of my Napoleonic short fiction in the Men of Eagles series.




A Questionable Affair

"Damn it, Winston, I know him! The resemblance is so striking!"
The gentleman slammed his fist against the bulkhead, the movement rattling the cramped cabin. 
Winston Ainsworth, his jowls lumbering, offered a tiny smile towards the speaker. His tweed clung to his curves in the heat, and sweat trickled down his brow in small rivulets. "Owen, there will be time for that later. It's getting late, and well . . . I'm famished."
The recipient of Ainsworth’s grin was younger, taller, and normally composed. Owen Ward felt drained; the Irishman's every breath clung to his throat, garroting him. Ward's eyes returned from their distant and unfocused gazing to fall on Ainsworth's corpulent face. "Ha!" he barked. "Ever a man of practicalities. Fine. You lead then." 
Exiting the stateroom, the men ambled toward the airship's bar. The establishment was seedier than the dirigible's great dining room, but Ward enjoyed the shadier locales of life; tonight, a shroud of cigar-smoke and a touch of port would be a wonderful accompaniment to dinner. Given Ainsworth's hunger, Ward thought the man would enjoy the Steamed Cloud's portions as well. 
As they passed each of the hallway's ports, Ward could not resist looking; he never tired of air-travel. The Questionable had been christened in '57, only two decades earlier, and Ward was proudly riding Queen Victoria's favorite ship. Bars, fancy restaurants, theatrical shows, gambling houses, and other entertainments were available for the airship's clientele, and Ward had traveled aboard the Questionable several times as she traversed the globe, striding among the clouds to the various regions of the Empire. 
On this particular occasion, the Irishman and his friend were returning from the Cape Colony en route to Dublin. Although mundane investments had taken them to Africa initially, the two had managed to enjoy their business trip. The lengthy excursion allowed for the pair to reminisce about past adventures and plan for future ones. 
Yet even with the distraction of a looming, enjoyable meal, Ward could not escape his current predicament. If he was right, the consequences would be grave, not that it would change anything. Ward's hand had been forced, and he would act like the gentleman he was. Raised amid the hills of Ireland, he had come to enjoy the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of the upper class. One uncompromising responsibility was the absolute necessity to answer for insults. Yes, Ward would act.
Ainsworth bustled ahead of his companion, apparently forgetting his friend's troubles in light of his own hunger. Chuckling to himself, Ward followed in the portly man's wake. They sauntered along the paneled and steel-reinforced hallways for some time until the passage finally came to the dirigible's great hall. The space held the gambling house, the Steamed Cloud bar, and Chez Mattieu, the vessel's classier eatery. Truly the great hall was a feat of engineering in itself. It was the largest open space on the vessel, and it served as the central hub of the ship; many passengers gathered in its expanse to watch the crowd or find other entertainments to pass the time. Finally Ainsworth noticed Ward wasn't keeping pace, and he turned around to see what the lagging was about. 
As Ward lengthened his stride to match Ainsworth, the larger man spoke. "Seems a bit busier tonight than last," he offered. 
Ward grunted in agreement but made no other reply. Instead, he continued his search, his eyes dancing from face to face across the great hall. His glance tracked each mustache's cut as he sought a glimpse of the face, haunting in its familiarity. As he'd suspected, he finally glimpsed the man sitting at a table in the gambling house. That was where the two had met, and Ward had been confident that his opponent would return to his cards. He was not mistaken.
Ainsworth continued unawares and in a rush. "Yes, it's busy alright. But hopefully that won't delay our meal. You mentioned that the Steamed Cloud would be most accept—" 
"Our friend has returned this evening," said the Irishman. 
The color drained from Ainsworth's face as he glanced around the room. Finally, he too caught sight of the gambling man. "Well there's nothing for that; we just need to watch him and avoid interaction until his seconds arrive. Now Owen, please, let's eat; there's been far too many interruptions this evening . . . Oh for pity's sake!" The last exclamation was offered in exasperation as another interruption presented itself.
Two nobly clad men were approaching Ward and Ainsworth purposefully. One possessed a prosthetic arm whose gears could easily be heard and the mechanical limb swayed in affected life-like movement. The brassy color of his arm contrasted darkly with his scarlet suit. His companion was a short, broad-shouldered fellow sporting Opticior goggles designed to improve vision. Ward had seen similar models several times, but glancing at the lenses' machinery, he guessed that only the richest of customers could afford the version this man sported. It seemed their mysterious antagonist possessed wealthy companions. 
"Which of you is Winston Ainsworth?" spoke the scarlet-clad leader after glancing at a personal calling card. 
"I am." 
"Indeed. You're still willing to act as Mr. Ward's second?" 
"I am, sir. I'd ask for several minutes of your time to discuss particulars," Ainsworth spoke formally. 
This time, the goggled fellow answered. "That's why Mr. Fletcher sent us." Instantly, Ward took in a sudden, sharp breath of air. Ignoring the disturbance, the shorter man continued. "If your friend would excuse us, such matters can easily be determined." Nodding pointedly at Ward, the two men strode off, expecting Ainsworth to follow. After exchanging a few keen words with Ward, the man complied despite his hunger. 
Fletcher. 
The name changed everything, and yet, it couldn't affect anything. What had occurred was already in the past, a past so quickly gone. The insult that would shape Ward's life had only been offered the night before.
The previous evening, Ward and Ainsworth had adjourned from Chez Henri, nourished and slightly tipsy, having consumed more Grecian wine than might have been appropriate. Instead of retiring to their stateroom, as was probably advisable, the two wandered over toward the gambling tables. Once there, the pair had sat among several other patrons. Laughing boisterously, Ward had begun to bet on the cards. The variant of chance, poker, had been imported from America, and its novelty was just enough to be wildly engaging. As such, Ward began placing large bets. Surprisingly, his luck held, and the man began collecting even larger winnings. 
The night's fortune didn't hold. A haggard, yet finely dressed man entered the game. Immediately, Ward had sensed something was wrong, despite his tipsy and adrenaline-induced stupor. Something was decidedly familiar about the newcomer. His face possessed an almost effeminate, curving quality that Ward knew inch by inch, almost as if he had traced the man's jaw in a portrait. Yet even as he was studying the newcomer, Ward was in turn being examined. 
After three or four more hands, the familiar-faced man laid down his losing cards and stood. Ward expected him to walk away, his familiarity fading with the exit. On the contrary, the man walked around the table and stood over Ward's chair. Glancing up, and despite his inhibitions, Ward could glimpse the rage present in the man's glowing eyes. 
"Damn Micks just can't keep from cheating, can you?"
Ward was too shocked to respond, but the challenge needed a rebuttal and soon. Others around the table began to look suspiciously in Ward's direction. Breathing quietly to avoid throttling the man, the Irishman stood. "How dare you?" he hissed, his lips pressed together. 
His newfound opponent only shrugged and silently indicated Ward's pile of winnings. 
"Bastard," spat Ward.
The next moment was a blur of movement. The other man moved fast. In a fluid, single action, he threw out a hand, striking Ward across the face. The latter, a trained boxer, stopped himself from blocking the hit and punching the drunkard in the chest, but only just. Stopping the blow would not have stopped the insult. His face stinging, Ward breathed again. He'd kill the man later, and it'd be more satisfactory. 
Such a blow was utterly unforgivable. Society called for blood. The two men had left, inflamed, and promises were made for imminent satisfaction. Tempers had been so heated that names had not even been exchanged. Rationally, Ainsworth had quietly talked with a friend accompanying Fletcher. This man proved to be Fletcher's second. The two friends of the combatants had arranged for a future meeting.
Now, as Ainsworth walked away with the scarlet-suited figure, Ward felt himself drowning in a cloud of trepidation. He now recognized the resemblance. The name connected his memory to his observations.
Fletcher: a man whom he must save. 
Fletcher: a man whose very actions had sentenced himself to death. 
The contrast was maddening, but there would be no escape from the quandary. Society made no exceptions; a duel would occur.
All appetite gone, Ward turned and left the grand hall. Instead of retreating back toward the stateroom, the man wandered the corridors, his eyes reflecting the dull brass and iridescent silver adorning the walls. Out the viewports, the sun continued its slow descent. For their part, the clouds rose up like waves, engulfing the burning orb. 
The man wandered toward the observation deck that graced the rear of the airship. Ward finally came to the circular room after traveling down several sets of winding stairs. The deck’s walls were sheer glass, and several comfortable chairs had been placed facing the view. Tranquility was embodied within the room's clutches, and many a passenger had willingly been taken in by the observation deck's allure. 
Ward allowed himself to unwind. Ainsworth knew exactly how the Irishman proposed for the duel to take place. He was the challenged, so the terms of the duel were left to his discretion. Ward sunk deeper into the chair, relaxing as fate began to take its course. On the celestial stage, the sun finally lost its titanic battle; sagging downward, the burning sustainer of life bowed. Ward's eyes drooped, and the man lost his own battle to the night. 
The morning found Ainsworth shaking him awake, a nervous expression clouding the larger man's face. "Good morning friend," he spoke.
Ward shifted amid the chair's folds and stretched. On the horizon, the sun was only just breaking the dawn; the time had come. 
"Thank you Winston; I'd hoped you would know where to find me." 
"Never easier Owen, given your patterns." Ward always escaped to the beauties of nature whenever something troubled him; Ireland had taught him well.
"Everything accounted for then?" asked Ward. Ainsworth nodded in return. Together and silently, the pair exited the observation deck. 
The pair met only the crew of the Questionable as they passed through the eerie and deserted halls. They reached their state room. Ward changed his attire, washed his face, drank a small glass of brandy, and snatched up a walking cane. Then, striding back into the hallway, the men steered toward the great hall. Reaching the open expanse, neither of the pair was surprised to glimpse three others waiting for their arrival. Fletcher, the man with the mechanical arm, and the goggled fellow all lingered in the hall. Ainsworth placed a hand on Ward's shoulder, halting him. Next, the friend assumed the official air of the second. He walked forward alone and greeted Fletcher's friends. Pleasantries over, the men retreated to their respected sides of the hall. 
The hall's center had been cleared of furniture. Marble tiles, previously hidden by tables and seating, were now visible. It seemed the airship's designers had specifically planned for affairs of honor. The marbled ground was ideal for a duel, and permission for the occasion had been surprisingly easy to obtain from the Questionable's captain; Ainsworth encountered no difficulties in that respect. 
Ward began to unclasp his jacket. The pale grey leather slipped easily from his shoulders, the coat's long tails dripping toward the ground. Ward undid the top button of his white under-shirt. Finally, he rolled the sleeves of the ornate garment. It'd be easier to see the blood that way. Across the great hall, Fletcher was mirroring his own movements. This done, the two combatants strode forward. Passing Ainsworth, Ward retrieved his cane and grasped his friend's arm in solidarity.
 Next, he withdrew a hidden rapier from the cane's innocent facade. The blade was elegant, perfectly balanced, and finely honed by a Hanoverian craftsman; it was a graceful tool of life and death. Fletcher possessed a similar weapon, a further indication of his opulent social standing. The two were equal — gentlemen of wealth and skill. Each locked eyes and stepped onto the frigid, uncaring marble tiles.
Outside, the sun crested the veiled sea of clouds.
Inside, the thrum of the dirigible's engines churned the air. 
Two hearts beat in unison, and silvered steel crossed within a brass world.

* * * * *

Ward had collapsed again on the observation deck, a pen in hand, a paper present, and a soul grieving. Ainsworth and Fletcher's two friends waited nearby. They drank brandy despite the early hour, and no one talked. It seemed that not even spilt blood would quell the affair. 
Yet, like a crystal dropping, a voice broke the silence, shattering the glass of solemnity. "Damn it, you know Ward," spoke the goggled second, "You might have let him kill you instead, given your relationship." He shook his head, draining his glass.
Sighing, Ward admitted that the thought had crossed his mind. "But I love her too much." He paused again. "I love my own life too much." Grasping all the power of his being, he lifted the pen — a weight far heavier than his crimsoned rapier — and wrote:

Dearest Ariadne,
My loving wife, you almost never speak of Charles, your wayward brother. What you do say is saddened by his fall into gambling and drink. He missed our wedding, and your family ignores the topic completely. All the same, your undying affection is still apparent. 
I found this prodigal son. 
As fate would have it, I also killed him . . .

# # #
If you enjoyed this story, read more of my adventures aboard Steampunk airships here - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/61351 .