Unicorn Vengeance (4 page)

Whimsy, he scoffed. What had he hoped to gain? ‘Twas impossible that she could know what he did. Impossible. And even if she knew, by some fantastic twist of fate, who would believe the tale of a lutenist who worked in the street? None of repute. He was seeing threat where there was none and letting his customary fears outside the security of the Temple gates take root where there was no soil.

Clearly ‘twas no more than that. A squire took his horse's reins, but Wolfram barely noticed the boy, so lost was he in his thoughts.

‘Twas evident he would have to recover the coin. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, telling himself that he was foolish to have any doubts about listening to her music again.

‘Twas only music, and naught had he to fear. The problem would be solved, the coin would be safely within his grip again before he had to make an accounting to the Master. None would ever know that Wolfram had erred. ‘Twas simple.

Before he could even leave the stable, a clerk granted him the summons to the Master's office. In that dread moment, Wolfram was certain that that esteemed man must have guessed what he had done. He felt his color rise guiltily and forced his pulse to resume its normal pace.

Impossible ‘twas that the Master could know. Impossible, but the wedge of doubt within Wolfram could not be dislodged.

* * *

The pale-eyed stranger had disappeared so completely that Genevieve wondered if indeed she had imagined his presence. Was she not hungry beyond belief? Mayhap her overwrought imagination had conjured him from naught. Mayhap she had not seen him at all. Mayhap the twilight played tricks with her vision.

Mayhap she had been a fool of the worst order to come to Paris. Genevieve confronted the silent square dejectedly as the shadows drew long and cold. The gate creaked behind her as the keeper lowered it against the night and she strolled dejectedly away.

Naught had changed, and ‘twas easy to wonder whether she had conjured him in her mind alone. She shivered suddenly, feeling more solitary than ever she had before.

The sight of the coin reposing on the cobblestones brought her up short. Genevieve straightened carefully, but it moved naught. It glinted in the golden light of the setting sun, and the very sight of it granted her fears a cursory dismissal.

He had been here. But she would not take alms from a killer. Genevieve spun away as disappointment flooded through her.

She had failed to strike the telling blow she had vowed to take. Frustration rose hot and heavy within her breast, and Genevieve fairly stamped her foot. She had seen her enemy and done naught! She had not even learned the man's name! Curse her foolishness! She spun around with the germ of an idea, but the gate was barred and the keeper gone from sight.

Not that that man would have told her anything, she concluded bitterly.

For her indecision, Alzeu's murderer still stalked the streets. Curse her own slow thinking! And in addition, naught had she to show for her attempt to earn some coin. Naught for her belly, naught for shelter on this night when the wind felt fit to bring a flurry of snow. Genevieve shivered again, cursing the threadbare nature of her cloak.

Her gaze dragged unwillingly back to the coin on the cobblestones.

Naught had she but the coin a murderer had cast her way. He alone had seen fit to salute her skill. Genevieve's heart twisted in indecision as she eyed the coin that could be her salvation this night. Wrong ‘twould be to take the coin and enjoy the patronage of Alzeu's killer, this she knew without doubt.

As though to challenge that assertion, her belly growled in discontent. Genevieve chewed her lip indecisively. The coin caught the light, as though ‘twould deliberately tempt her to pick it up. Dark clouds rolled over the city.

A chill wind frolicked across the roofs and jostled loose shingles. Shutters were slammed shut on a home across the way, and the scent of a freshly kindled fire taunted Genevieve's nostrils. She fancied she could smell roasted meat and readily imagined the scene before many a hearth. ‘Twould storm this night, of that she had little doubt.

Genevieve took a step forward, then stopped. ‘Twas improper to accept his coin.

But should she leave it, another would undoubtedly pick it up. Well enough she knew that it had been destined for her. A warm dinner ‘twould buy, and mayhap modest shelter for this night.

Genevieve looked to one side and the other, as furtively as if she meant to steal boldly from another. Then she darted forward and pounced on the coin, snatching it up and burying it deep in one of her pockets, as though she could not bear to look upon it.

Well it seemed that the coin burned against her flesh.

She glanced around again as though seeking witnesses to her deed and clutched her lute protectively to her chest. No one had glimpsed her betrayal of her family, though indeed knowing the truth within her heart might well be punishment enough. Genevieve gathered up her cloak and glanced back to the gates where he had disappeared without a trace. Those gates were closed against the night, which granted Genevieve an idea.

The stranger could not leave that enclosure this night once the gates were closed. And on the morrow, she would return here at first light, or even before, that she might see him again. Or mayhap the day after. If naught else, he would have to leave the shelter of those walls one day, and Genevieve would be ready.

No matter that the keeper would not let her pass. She would be here, watching and waiting. He would not pass her again without tasting her retaliation! Well would that one regret the day that Genevieve de Pereille found him in Paris.

“A
h, our
Italien
returns,” the Master commented with his usual slow smile of welcome.

The colloquial reference to his trade never failed to make Wolfram cringe inwardly, but he strove to make no sign of his discomfort. The Master might as well have called him an
empoisonneur
to his face. Much to his annoyance, Wolfram felt his color rise slightly, and felt all too aware of the presence of the esquire who had shown him in.

Next he would be obliged to travel as an astrologer, and any fool would know his task. Had the Master taken leave of his senses to flaunt Wolfram's occupation so openly?

Well it seemed that his encounter with the lutenist had served to make him more sensitive than was his wont. He fidgeted and forced himself to think of other matters.

The esquire was unfamiliar. Though truly that should have been no surprise. But a month past, another had aided the Master of the Temple. It could be naught else but a strategy to constantly change aides, and ‘twas a wise one at that, for none toiled here long enough to sense any patterns in the Master's routine. No guest would be recognized or repeat visitors noted by a new assistant. A small safeguard ‘twas to ensure no word of what transpired within these offices filtered to the outside world.

‘Twas eminently logical, and if naught else, the Master was logical beyond compare. Wolfram respected that. Logical men seldom erred, and he slept better knowing the only one who knew his identity was of the same ilk as himself. He shot the Master a telling glance, disliking that he had made such a fundamental slip before that esquire.

Well it seemed that the Master stifled a smirk.

Wolfram bowed, then straightened to shake the older man's proffered hand. The Master flicked a dismissive finger at the esquire. The young man bowed his head and disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind himself. The Master regarded Wolfram with barely concealed amusement.

“Something troubles you?” he inquired archly.

Wolfram cocked a brow. “I would not presume to comment on your affairs,” he said stiffly. The Master chuckled, and Wolfram looked to his superior in alarm.

In but a month, the man had clearly taken leave of his senses.

“Deaf as a post, he is,” the Master confided in a devilish whisper. The Master's glittering eyes convinced Wolfram both that his thoughts had been read and that the older man spoke the truth. His ears burned with the knowledge that a jest had been made at his expense, and he took the indicated seat with less than his usual grace.

He cursed the music again that had so addled his wits. How could he have forgotten the Master's wit? All was well here. Wolfram took a deep breath and heard his voice recover its usual tone.

“Of what use is a deaf esquire to you?” he asked with polite curiosity.

“‘Tis a great convenience when dealing with those who tend to have loose tongues,” the Master confided with reassuringly familiar decorum. “Should I manage to find a deaf esquire who was also mute, I would be the happiest man in Christendom,” he added dryly.

Wolfram was surprised enough by the comment that he could not completely quell his snort of laughter. He covered the slip with a discreet cough and looked up to find the Master's expression genial.

“All went well, I assume?” he inquired.

“Better than might have been anticipated,” Wolfram acknowledged carefully.

The Master eyed Wolfram for a long moment, as though he sought to identify something different in his manner. Wolfram did not squirm beneath that piercing scrutiny, though his pulse increased with the conviction that the Master could glimpse his innermost thoughts.

Impossible that he could know about the coin. Impossible.

Something flickered in the older man's gaze, and Wolfram was less sure than he might have liked to be. The flame of the candle sputtered in the tallow, and well it seemed that ‘twas suddenly uncommonly warm in the office. Wolfram fancied something trickled down his spine, and he counted his pulse in his ears as the silence stretched long between them.

“I trust you will leave me to celebrate alone, as always?” the Master asked finally.

The question caught Wolfram completely off guard. So convinced had he been that an accounting would be demanded on the spot that he blinked dazedly. He gazed uncomprehendingly at the proffered carafe of eau-de-vie for a long moment before realizing what was transpiring.

“Nay. I would join you this time,” he said, his voice mercifully more steady than he had feared it would be. The Master shot him another of those piercing glances but refrained from comment as he placed another glass beside the one already on his desk. “A long ride has it been this day,” Wolfram added, completely unnecessarily. This time his voice betrayed him in the lie and wavered more than intended.

Curse the lutenist and her nimble fingers.

And her ruddy bowed lips.

That thought stunned Wolfram with its unexpectedness, though the vivid image of those very lips startled him yet more. He had not even realized that he had noticed them, let alone that the sight of them was imprinted on his mind. His chest tightened with the certainty that they would be soft and warm, and he wondered what wicked demon had taken possession of his mind.

Clearly he had best address the matter of the coin as quickly as possible.

He drank the unfamiliar eau-de-vie too quickly to not be surprised by its strength. That the Master chuckled as Wolfram coughed was no consolation. When finally he caught his breath, he fired the older man a hostile glance decidedly beyond the privilege of his station.

“Mayhap ‘tis a time to drink like Templars, as the saying goes,” the Master jested blithely. Wolfram winced at the fallacious if familiar expression.

The Master, much to Wolfram's confusion, seemed to find the popular saying amusing. He took no heed of Wolfram's less positive response as he drained his own glass. Wolfram waited expectantly for the Master to echo his own flinch at the strength of the liquor, but the other man merely bared his teeth as he swallowed and then exhaled in sharp satisfaction. His gaze was still incisive as it locked once more with Wolfram's.

“More?” he asked brightly.

Mayhap the imbibing of liquor was not as infrequent for the Master as it was for Wolfram. The very idea gave Wolfram pause, and he eyed his superior dubiously. The Master, undeterred, arched a brow high, and Wolfram imagined for the barest instant that that man mocked him.

Ridiculous.

“Nay.” Wolfram declined with a hasty frown, unwittingly giving voice to his thoughts. Clearly he was imagining matters that were not there. The Master merely saw fit to celebrate his success at Montsalvat. ‘Twas no more than that.

Even if the imbibing of liquor was specifically against the Rule. After all, the Master was free to make exceptions when he saw fit. ‘Twas a luxury of his exalted station.

‘Twas in the Rule.

Wolfram recalled that the Master had always had a bottle of eau-de-vie at the ready. Although he had always declined to share the toast before this night, he wondered suddenly how often the Master saw fit to imbibe.

Preposterous! Clearly the music of the lute had befuddled his thinking. He gave his head a shake, and the room cavorted before his eyes for a long moment in a slow spiraling dance before settling to rights. This was the Master he sat with, the only man on the face of the earth he saw fit to trust.

Wolfram corrected himself savagely. The only man
worthy
of that trust.

“And what of our petty lordling?” that man inquired conversationally. Though his manner was casual, there was a thread of intense interest underlying the Master's tone. Wolfram watched the Master top up his glass and drain it again, before filling it and replacing the stopper in the bottle. “Was he wealthy and ambitious beyond doubt?”

“Nay.” Wolfram shook his head disparagingly. He let the warmth of the liquor relax him and permitted himself to speak freely. The Master was, after all, asking him for information that he alone could supply. “Indeed, I near thought the matter a poor jest at his expense. The village has fallen into ruin for lack of use, and the fortress is a shambles. Long has it been left to crumble, and naught of value was housed within its walls. There was naught to eat and only swill unfit for dogs to drink.”

“Ah.” Wolfram noted with relief that the Master sipped from this glass. The older man frowned thoughtfully. “But no doubt he had mustered an impressive army?”

“Nay, again,” Wolfram supplied with a solid shake of his head. “The company were hired hands, and of the lowest order at that. No doubt have I that they departed with the rising sun.”

“Indeed? Not the sort of men one might want at one's back.” The Master snorted with open disdain, and Wolfram could only nod agreement. “Interesting, that is.”

“Aye, and a pretty tale he spun for me of his legacy,” Wolfram added, feeling that the liquor had betrayed him into speaking more than was his wont. No matter, though. ‘Twas the Master alone who listened.

His superior fired him a piercing glance that might have prompted his suspicions, had it come from another. “Indeed?” he asked with a casual air that was clearly feigned. “What manner of tale was this?”

Wolfram shook his head deprecatingly. Incredible ‘twas that he knew some tale that the Master did not, and a surge of pride filled him that he might have something of merit to tell. “Well it seemed that Alzeu de Pereille fancied he had a divine right to the throne,” he informed the older man, not caring that his skepticism showed.

Surprisingly, the Master did not seem to share his condemnation, though Wolfram was too warm to care.

“Indeed? And he told you freely of this?” he asked carefully.

“Aye,” Wolfram agreed easily. “‘Twas a high-winded bit of whimsy, to say the least.”

The Master traced a circle on his desktop with a fingertip and dropped his gaze to follow that finger's path. “What else did he tell you?” he asked silkily. Wolfram shrugged and frowned as he tried to recall.

“‘Twas a tangled tale, and in truth, all I gleaned was his conviction in his divine blood right. The man was besotted when I arrived, and ‘twas no small task to make sense of his mutterings. It occurred to me that he might simply be using the gullibility of others to his own advantage.”

“I see.” The Master smiled an inexplicably secretive smile and leisurely topped up his glass once more as Wolfram's curiosity grew tenfold in expectation. Here lingered a tale he would dearly like to know in truth. The Master made him wait, then finally gestured in dismissal. Wolfram swallowed his disappointment with an effort.

Well it seemed that the time for confidences was not ripe.

Wolfram rose hesitantly, his mind filled with more questions than answers. The Master ignored him, and he abruptly recalled his place. The Master knew best, and obedience was the cornerstone of the Rule. His stomach burning from the unfamiliar liquor, Wolfram did his Master's bidding.

Something nameless prompted him to glance back from the threshold, only to find the Master's lips pursed. The older man held the glass of liquor up so that the candlelight rendered its contents the very shade of liquid gold. Wolfram could not help but wonder what thoughts filled that man's mind.

Whimsy, he snorted impatiently as he turned away. If this ‘twas that liquor did to a man's mind, no need had he to taste its heat again.

* * *

The next morn dawned a sullen autumn day.

Slate-bellied clouds rolled across a sky of disgruntled blue, and there was a newly vicious bite of winter in the air. The surly mood of the weather was echoed in the expressions of those who listened to the lute's music. Genevieve was disheartened by the lack of coins falling to the cobbles before her.

But hours since he had stood before her, and already Genevieve was beginning to despair that the stranger would ever pass this way again. Both her mood and the weather were echoed in the melancholy tune she plucked. Woefully she admitted that her choice of tune might well be another factor contributing to her meagre earnings.

The daylight had brought a thousand questions to plague her. What would she do if he never passed through those gates again? What if there was another gate to the enclosed Temple? Genevieve dared not risk missing him by scouting around those walls in the daylight, yet once the gates were closed, ‘twould be too dark to wander alone.

What if the assassin saw fit to send her to join Alzeu? There was a thought that stilled her heart and made Genevieve's resolve falter. Little enough expertise had she to stave off one such as he, and yet again she marveled at her own audacity.

Curse her own foolish impulsiveness! But what should she do, now that she was in Paris, penniless and far from home?

Indecision plagued her, and Genevieve feared she had made a poor choice in this pursuit. A particularly dark cloud slipped over the sun, and her fingers stilled beneath its cold shadow. Mayhap ‘twas time she went home, to face whatever she might find there. Mayhap she had been an idealistic fool to ever think that she could claim vengeance for Alzeu.

‘Twas naturally in the darkness of that despairing moment that he came again.

Genevieve knew he was there before she even looked. At first, she dared not believe ‘twas so, but she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her as surely as if he had touched her. Her heart skipped a beat, but still she forced her fingers to continue to pluck out the tune while she thought furiously.

He had returned! Here was the second chance she had sought.

But what should she do?

Her pulse leapt in her throat, and Genevieve heard her fingers falter on the strings. Despite all her intent to do so, still she had not devised a plan of any sort. Too late it seemed that she had wasted time worrying about whether this moment would ever come and not what path to pursue if it did. Indeed, she had not thought further than this, and her mind scurried to devise some reasonable course of action.