Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (25 page)

It'd happened so fast, had been so
ferocious, that she was momentarily stunned. “My God, Tyler.”

Bending to grab their target
beneath his arms, he turned back and grinned. “Impressed?”

“I damn well am.” For once, she
didn't mind admitting it.

“Good. Please continue, but back up
while you're at it.”

Ty dragged the soldier in through
the first open door, depositing his limp frame in the shadows with no more than
a cursory glance. “Nothing but a bunk and footlocker, but the bunk is made up
with new blankets.” He nodded to the next door. “We’re in the right place.”

She mimicked his position, flanking
the door, pressing her back flat against damp stones. Pistol at the ready, Ty
grasped the knob and turned. Nothing.

“Locked,” he whispered. “Why?”

“Philipe?”

Ty shook his head, already working
free his lock picks. “Too pedestrian. LaPorte could have slipped free in
minutes.”

Her disappointment was tempered by
thrumming curiosity at the information. Ty was mercifully fast for his part;
the pick went in and the old latch turned with barely a protest.

She caught the flicker of a candle
over his shoulder, set atop a rough stool across the room. Someone had been in
the room recently, and by not extinguishing the light, Olivia guessed he didn’t
mean to be gone long. The idea gave her pause. There were no hatches or windows
in the barracks chambers. If she and Ty were caught inside, their only retreat
would be a fighting one. She recalled LaForce, how her cell had often protected
more than imprisoned her, and stepped in behind with renewed confidence.

There was nothing special about the
room, and it was the same size and design as the one across the hall. It was
boxy, with stone walls and a low timber ceiling. A splintered wooden bed frame
huddled in the shadows of one corner, piled with quilts, as though frightened
of intruders after decades left alone and forgotten. At its foot sat a boxy
chest, too awkward and weighed down by its iron bands to be moved anywhere
else. The small table beside the bed, the one holding the candle, was weathered
and obviously original to the room. There were other, finer things, however,
that Olivia recognized as far more recent additions. Against a wall opposite
the bed was a writing desk, portable but no less fine in construction than a
stationary piece of furniture. An ermine-trimmed black velvet cloak hung from a
peg on the wall. Beside the bed lay a small Persian carpet that protected feet
from the chill of a packed earth floor. While she wondered at the useless
improvements, Ty picked up the candle stick and began to poke about.

He leaned over the side table,
rifling its contents, and Olivia moved in for a better look. Here was nothing
particularly exciting: paper scraps, matches, pearl earrings, and a black
velvet cuff pinned with a matching ornament. She recognized them as part of the
jewelry Thalia had worn the night before. There was no possible way the woman
had carted all her creature comforts out to the chateau in the intervening
hours since Philipe had been taken. Olivia’s stomach churned at the realization
that the baroness had been making preparations in advance, maybe for weeks. Ty
claimed a piece of paper from the bedstead and glanced it over. “Just a list.”
He tucked it back with the other belongings.

“Check the desk,” she instructed
with a glance around, “and I’ll check the bed.” They had to pick up the pace
before Thalia came back or the guard across the hall came to. With a nod, Ty
crossed the room while she went to work on the foot locker. Rusted iron
weathered by time cried out at her intrusion as she lifted the lid. Nothing was
inside but cobwebs, straw, and some moldy wool that might have once been socks.
She dropped the lid, not bothering to dig further.

Beside the trunk Olivia spotted a
box, half under the bed and nearly lost in the room’s deep shadows. It’s red
lacquer paint was chipped at the edges, black leather handle worn thin from
use. She waved a hand to Ty. “Come here, and bring the candle close.”

He crouched beside her, resting the
candlestick atop the trunk and filling her little alcove with warm light. She
grasped the box and pulled it out. It was smaller than she had expected, square
and deep like a lady’s traveling case. The lid closed as a baffle, fixed with a
sturdy lock set into the wood. She swept a hand at it. “If you would, major.”

Ty replied with a grim smile, stuck
his pinkie finger inside the lock and pulled. Four miniature screws gave way
and the mechanism tore free of the wood. Contempt colored his words as he
hefted the lock; a professional insulted by a shabby challenge. “This might keep
out servants and children,” he tossed the lock behind the bed, “but that’s
about it.”

“Sounds as though I don’t even need
you,” she quipped, parting the lid and ignoring Ty’s scoffing. Light spilled
inside the case, and Olivia knew instinctively that they’d found the evidence
they’d sought for so long. Thalia’s handwriting was not as a familiar, but she
would recognize Fouche’s anywhere. She took just a moment to unfold the first
one, Ty leaning around for a look over her shoulder.

He pointed the third line, at a
familiar name. “Fouche’s directions regarding LaPorte.”

Nodding her agreement, she refolded
the page and bundled the stack together. “There’s a pouch at my waistband. If
we have to separate, if something goes wrong, make certain it goes with you.”

To her surprise, Ty didn’t protest
or tease while she stuffed the letters into her dress. He tensed, staring at
the floor, then got up and replaced the candle, leaving her to wonder at his
silence.

He leaned into the hall, waiting,
glancing left and right and waiting again. Then he stepped out and waved for
her to follow.

“Intrus! Depechez, intrus!”
We
have intruders!

The words seemed to come from
nowhere, and, as if by black magic, two men had appeared before them. Ty turned
and shoved her by the shoulder, stumbling her back down the passage the way
they’d come in. “Out, out! Ladder to the right of the door.”

Thank God he'd noticed it on the
way in. They would never survive if they were forced to flee across the
courtyard. They would be easy targets, presenting backs to their foes’ muskets.
Up, for now, was their best option.

Strange they'd heard nothing during
most of their search. There was no time to explore the sinking suspicion that
their infiltration had been anticipated, and even detected. By the number of
boots trampling the floor behind them, she would have guessed an entire
garrison had been installed there. Not that she was turning to look, out the
door grasping for a rung, gaining the top of the ladder on Ty's heels. They
covered the wall-walk side by side at a breakneck pace until they reached the
next tower.

They ran through the arch and onto
a wooden trestle. There, they were forced to halt. Ahead of them was a rickety
wooden bridge that looked barely capable of supporting itself, let alone two
desperate people.

From the darkness of the arched
tower doorway ahead of them, three bayonets appeared. The soldiers gripping
them were indistinct in the low light and revealed more by their threats. She
tensed, and Ty moved half behind her, shielding her. More shouts and footfalls
echoed from behind them; at least three more were coming. She looked wildly to
Ty, forcing down a rising sense of panic.

Panting, Ty glanced around and
jerked at her sleeve. “Brace yourself, Dimples. We're about to hit a rough
patch.”

Rotating her feet gingerly until
they were back to back, she cocked her head over one shoulder. “Your English
knack for understatement never fails to astound me.”

Pulling one pistol from her belt,
she felt Ty's hand brush her hip and knew he was following suit. She didn't
bother to raise it. No sense tiring her already exhausted arm until her targets
were a bit more fixed.

A captain, guessing by the
ridiculous height of the shako perched atop his egg-shaped head, emerged ahead
of them, still keeping his distance. He pointed and motioned to the soldiers
keeping equal distance on the path behind them.

Get out here, cowards. Step out
and shoot them!

She couldn't see Ty's side of
things, but she heard someone snort.

You shoot first, you ass! They both
have pistols!

Two pistols against ten times as
many muskets, and the soldier was still afraid. Olivia wondered where Fouche
had harvested such a cowardly bunch.

Now her officer waved his fist.
There are only two of them, imbecile! We'll all shoot them, if you're so
worried about a little lead!

Ty's gripped her arm, pushing.
“Olivia, time to go...”

She plucked a vial from her belt,
third one from the left and clenched it between her teeth. Then she raised and
fired point blank into her band of three, her pistol's report nearly
indistinguishable from Ty's as he fired into the opposite group.

Rotate half a turn. Turn face to
face.
She counted through the movements, timing every motion, an ear on Ty
insuring they were in sync.

Facing opposite sides of the bridge,
they jumped backward in unison, their feet going over the edge at the same
moment on either side of the path. For a breath she was weightless, flying, and
then her fingers caught the trestle's edge. She released the vial, listening
for a tell-tale crack of glass against the stones below. Splinters bit into her
fingertips, wooden planks tearing what remained of her nails. The burn lasted
only a moment; she let go and was falling again, boots striking the
cobblestones below. They came together again, huddling close below the bridge
in a cloud of smoke billowing from her diversion. Soldiers above fired down
fruitlessly, deafening her but unable or unwilling to bend far enough over the
edges to get a good shot.

Ty’s elbow dug her side. “Now!
Run!”

Out through the old gate, into the
dry moat. She stumbled at the top of the sloped foundation, nearly catching a
face full of stone. Ty's quick grasp caught her dress, and together they slid
into the trench with two men already stumbling behind.

Beside her, Ty turned and fired.
Only a click. He threw that pistol away with one hand, catching the spare she
tossed him with his other. That shot rang true. A cry at their backs became a
wet gurgle, then a thump against the ground. She heard the other soldier plant on
the ground, smartly unwilling to go on without reinforcements.

They were in the deepest part of
the moat now, at the foot of the gatehouse and just rounding its corner. She
prayed for cover after the turn, a place to shelter and retrench. Ty skidded to
a stop ahead, throwing up both hands.
Not an encouraging sign
. Seconds
later, faced with the locks of ten muskets clicking into place, she understood
why. She froze, panting, hands mirroring Ty's.

Stomping up behind, the captain
grabbed her hair, jerking her down as he passed. “Descendre sur vox genoux!” he
panted.
Get on your knees.

She looked to Ty, who nodded. “For
now.”

It wasn't over. They could still
fight. Escape. The men around them had no idea what they were in for. She
trusted Ty; she’d be ready for whatever came next.

“How did I know?” A too-familiar
voice sent a chill through the sweat cooling at her spine. “You, Olivie de
LaValette. I know all about you now. But you, major...” Thalia, clad in black
velvet from her tiny tricorn to the toe of her slipper, circled them and came
to a stop before Ty. She leaned in, graceful and poised, and hooked a finger
under his chin, coaxing his eyes to hers. “I so desperately wanted to be wrong
about you.”

Unbelievably, he grinned. “But you
weren't wrong. Quite accurate, all those things you said about me while we were
under the sheets.”

A slap, that's what Olivia
expected. Instead, Thalia's hand caressed Ty's jaw. Leaning forward, she
pressed her lips to his before he could wrench away.

The moment she could get close,
Olivia would wrap her hands around Thalia's throat and squeeze until it was
pulp.

While Ty spit her out, Thalia
straightened and shook his spare pistol at them both, the one she’d just
claimed from the small of his back. She clucked her tongue.

Olivia felt her first real pause at
Thalia's expression: Not anger, or outrage. Nothing much at all, save a firm
set to her full lower lip. What was happening was a business arrangement, an
appointment. Nothing more. She knew the game.

Thalia straightened further, waving
a hand at someone behind them. “Bring him.”

A commotion arose at their backs.
Multiple pairs of boot steps and something like a dragging sound. A soldier
came into view, passed her by, and she saw he was in fact dragging something.

No, it was
someone.
Philipe.

Barely sensible, face bloody and
swollen beyond recognition, he fought his captor even while he leaned on the
man for support. Thalia moved to him. When she reached out to stroke his face,
Philipe flinched, like a beaten dog, and Olivia's heart broke.

Thalia looked to them sadly, as if
they'd disappointed her. “You came for him, I presume. I knew you would. But
now that I have you, he's really of no use to anybody.”

It happened before she could
understand, before she could comprehend that it was occurring.

Thalia's hand flew to Philipe's
chest. The hand holding the pistol she'd taken from Ty. Not even the deafening
report or the cloud of smoke acquainted her with the truth. Not even Ty
screaming beside her.

She was cold inside and out. Time
slowed to a crawl.

Philipe crumpled to his knees and
hung there, and his eyes moved to hers. A long moment passed, and then his
light went out. He fell forward, hands outstretched, and was still.