feet.
D’Artagnan came from one of the bales of cloth and threw himself hard against the stranger. That was enough to make the man drop his weapon and give the Frenchman a chance to fire two quick blows to his opponent’s stomach and chin, putting an end to the fight and the man on the floor.
“Do you always attack a man with an ax with only your fists?” asked Barnabas, not even sure that he had seen what he had seen.
“It worked, didn’t it? Do you know this fellow?” D’Artagnan held his lantern close to the unconscious man’s face.
Barnabas stared at the prostrate form for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do know him. I think his name is Brouila, Mordaunt Brouila. He works for the Quinniaros; they are rivals of the Kurtzes.”
“I wonder if they discovered that the Kurtzes were holding Culhane and decided to cut themselves in on the matter. The ransom that the Kurtzes were demanding was going to be a tidy sum,” said D’Artagnan.
“Possibly. There are two bodies over at the other end of the warehouse, and given the circumstances I suspect they work for the Kurtzes,” said Aramis. “I’m guessing that the Quinniaros got what they came for, meaning Culhane. This leaves us at a loss of where they have taken him. Unless our friend there would be willing to give us the information we need. It is possible that if we can wake him up he can be persuaded to tell us where they went.”
“I would presume,” said Barnabas, “that we are not going to be informing the authorities of what has happened here.”
“Indeed not,” said D’Artagnan.
“Wait, we might not need Brouila. Wouldn’t they want to get off the streets as quickly as possible?” Barnabas asked. The Quinniaros had interest in several ships but that was all that Barnabas knew for certain. But he had heard that they had an interest in a nearby business.
“That would be what I would do,” said Aramis.
“Then I may have an idea on where to find them,” said Barnabas.
Barnabas and his companions found their way through the streets of Venice quickly. Their goal was a building only a few streets from the docks. Sandwiched between two warehouses, it looked like nothing more than offices for the various businesses that operated in the area. Were it not for the single lantern hanging in front of the heavy oak door, it would have been easy to not even notice the dark green door.
“Welcome,” said a woman dressed in emerald and crimson velvet, her long hair hanging in ornate curls, after the three men were admitted.
That she was mistress of the house there was no doubt. She was not young, and according to the tales that Barnabas had heard, Madam Paulette and her establishment had been a fixture in Venice for many years. Her careful makeup and the room’s lighting took at least a decade off her age. The serious look in the woman’s eyes showed that she was no common street whore, but rather a woman who had learned to make her way in the world and cater to a taste for finer things.
D’Artagnan rubbed his chin and studied the place. That it was a brothel was obvious, but Barnabas had already told them that. The windows were masked with heavy curtains. In spite of the hour there seemed to be a brisk business going on, some sailors and a mixed lot of workmen. There were perhaps a half dozen men there, some with drinks in their hands, others talking to women in revealing gowns.
“You would be Madam Paulette?” said Barnabas.
“Indeed, I am. What can I do for some fine gentlemen like yourselves?” she said. On Madam Paulette’s shoulder was a highly intricate butterfly brooch; the stones on it reflected different colors each way that she turned. D’Artagnan suspected that while it looked valuable it might be nothing more than paste. On more than one occasion he had seen that skill and craftsmanship could make paste look like the most valuable jewels in the world.
“I suppose it is your years of experience that tells you we aren’t just sailors out moving from one tavern to another, seeking various entertainments,” said D’Artagnan.
“I’ve learned to recognize those who are in need of the services that we offer here. I do have customers from the lower decks of many of the ships that make port here, but also the ranks and officers have been known to hang their hats in my parlor. From the look of you, your manner and attitude, in spite of the plainness of your dress, you are gentlemen,” she said. “So how may I help you? I presume you are interested in some female company this evening?”
“Were the evening ours, I am certain that passing it in the company of one of the young ladies you employ would be quite enjoyable,” said Aramis. “However, the night is not ours to do with as we would please. Instead, we are seeking some…acquaintances we think might have arrived here in the last several hours.”
Madam Paulette smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. “You would have to be a good deal more exact about who it might be that you are looking for. Business has been good this evening; a number of gentleman callers have come through the door.
“Besides, why should I tell you anything about who has come and gone? My customers, even the lower ranking ones, expect a good deal of privacy. They certainly don’t expect to have their names shouted by the crier in the town square.”
“And they will not be, Madam Paulette,” said Barnabas. “I know that there are members of my family who might grateful for any aid you might render us.”
“And your name would be?”
“Marcoli. Barnabas Marcoli.”
The woman arched her head slightly to one side as she weighed the possibilities.
She turned and headed toward a door at the side of the room. From the smells that were coming from that direction, Barnabas suspected that there might be kitchens somewhere close. Once they were away from the parlor, she turned to face the three men, staring at them and then looking upwards toward the ceiling for a moment before she spoke.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there is nothing that I can do to assist you in this matter. I run a quiet house; I and my girls try to stay out of anyone else’s business. I can think of seven reasons that should remain true. I trust that you can find your own way out. Please convey my respects to your uncle, Signor Marcoli.”
With a turn she vanished through the door into the back part of the house.
It bothered Barnabas that Madam Paulette seemed to be more familiar with his family then he had expected. He sincerely hoped that in the months to come he would not regret telling her his name.
“This is no time to linger,” said D’Artagnan as he motioned for the others to follow him up a stairway at the end of the hall.
Two lanterns lit the narrow hallway, and from behind several doors D’Artagnan caught the sounds of moans and other noises that proved the rooms were being well put to use.
“I should think…this one,” said D’Artagnan, as he came to a door at the far end of the hallway. Barnabas noticed that it was the seventh door.
That was when they heard the sound of something crashing onto the floor from inside the room.
D’Artagnan’s sword slid into his hand, a dagger in the other. Then he kicked the door open. The wood cracked under his heel with a sharp sound, but it was almost masked by the sounds within.
“Stay here,” the tall Frenchman said over his shoulder to Barnabas, who was only a few steps behind him. “Let no one pass.”
Barnabas let out a sigh; with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, Barnabas was more than happy to obey the Frenchman’s instructions.
In the dim light D’Artagnan could see two large apparitions, one wearing a cape and the other a long jacket. A smoking pistol was in the hand of the first man, the other had his arms around a smaller struggling man with sandy hair, who was presumably Culhane. An overturned chair with ropes twisted around it suggested that he had managed to free himself, to the surprise of his captors.
The Frenchman let fly with his dagger. It creased the head of the man holding Culhane, gouging his ear and sending blood flying. The man responded with a yelp and a string of curses equal to those of some sailors.
The other man threw himself at D’Artagnan, using his empty pistol as a club. The Frenchman twisted, hit his opponent in the stomach, and then drove his knee into the fellow’s crotch. Before the first man had gone to the floor, D’Artagnan whirled about and sent the pommel of his sword slamming square into the other man’s face, the
