claim to be.”
“Let us not feud,” de Garcia broke in, “Will peace leave us suspicious, where slavery left us amiable?”
“You are right,” Leggitt said, and his face was impermeable. “I do not suspect Patrick – how could a man of my background? But having been so long in a position of authority under Gylain, I have heard many things in connection with the name Patrick McConnell. To tell the truth, I had a great respect for your actions.” He paused, then continued with a sigh. “Your conscience led you to action, while mine led me to treason, to spying.”
Patrick sighed as well, “My conscience did not lead me, but my heart and my pride.”
“You both speak riddles in my ear,” de Garcia said, “For I have been imprisoned these last nine years, and when I last walked free Patrick was but a boy. Who are you?”
“No one,” he replied. “I have been a lover and a warrior, and now I am an exile.”
“Then you are not unlike me, for my youth was spent in passion as well.”
“And strength,” Leggitt answered. “You underestimate my memory, de Garcia, if you think I do not remember your martial greatness. I am a man of the sword, and I cannot but honor your skill with one.”
De Garcia sighed and looked to the sky. “It is my turn to be ashamed,” he said. “For skill with the sword is an unfortunate talent.”
With that, the three men fell silent, unable to escape their memories as easily as they had escaped their prison. Such is the way of life.
Chapter 50
The three escaped prisoners walked the crowded streets of Bordeaux: Leggitt on the right, de Garcia on the left, and Patrick in the middle. On either side the simple buildings crowded over the road, leaving little space for pedestrians. Still, the passers-by made room for the three men to pass, for they had the carriage of warriors.
“You should reconsider your disgust of women, Patrick,” said de Garcia. “They are fickle, perhaps, but that is their charm.”
“A charm for some,” replied the latter, “But can one love the dust, which is thrown about with every gust of wind?”
Leggitt smiled, “I feel the airs of a rejected man.”
“Rejected, betrayed – does it matter?”
“Not in time, and you are young,” de Garcia looked into the sky. “When I was young, I was the same.”
“As was I,” Leggitt said, “But for now, there is the house we seek.”
He pointed to a large mansion that stood at the intersection between three roads, about a mile from the harbor. The harbor itself was segregated from the rest of the city by a row of buildings, the walls of which served as fences or barriers. These surrounded the entire harbor, pushing outward until culminating in the customs house: the only thoroughfare between the harbor and the upper city, as it was called. From the customs house one main road led to the upper city. It split when it reached the outskirts of the palace district, and the mansion rested right in this branch, and thereby overlooked all who came and went from Bordeaux via the ocean. It was for this reason that Leggitt’s friend – an agent of the Hibernian King – kept a place in Bordeaux. During the season that the king spent there, the man could spy without discomfort.
The mansion was surrounded on all sides by a garden, and beyond that by two rows of houses. Its second floor tapered as it grew taller until it became a single tower. Because of the taper, it was not a perpendicular fall from the tower, but a forty-five degree incline. At this time in history, Atilta had been trading with Japan and the Far East for many years. There had been a certain degree of influence on the architecture of Europe, therefore, and this mansion was modeled after a pagoda. Its roof was made of a slippery tile from inland China, its edge bent sharply upward at the edges to prevent water from flowing over the side. They were, in effect, ramps the water could not cross.
A figure could be seen looking out of the tower. Only Patrick was able to see it. He stumbled and came to a stop in the center of the lane, until de Garcia turned to him with a questioning look. Then he mumbled something incoherent and ran up to the others. Yet his face remained dazed, as if he had been struck over the head with surprise.
In a moment, they reached the house. Leggitt led them through the dense garden – cultivated to separate the mansion from the lane – and up a flight of stairs to a doorway that stood ten feet from the ground. He knocked three times and the door was opened by a servant.
“Yes, monsieur?” he said, and his graying eyebrows rose slightly.
“I am searching for the Chevalier de Braunign, de Casanova.”
Upon hearing his comrade speak, Patrick’s face lost what little color it had. He stepped back faintly, hiding behind de Garcia.
“This is his residence,” the servant said, “But he is not in Bordeaux at the moment.”
“Yes, he is,” answered Leggitt. His eyes flashed with impatience.
“No, sir, he is not. I must remind you that I am his butler, not yourself.”
A voice from the inner hallway interrupted him. “Brovil, what is the matter?”
A moment later another man appeared in the doorway and the servant stepped aside. A column blocked de Garcia’s face from the newcomer’s eyes; Patrick was hidden behind de Garcia.
“Leggitt,” he said, “I did not know you were in France. Gylain is indeed busy, if he has both you and Nicholas Montague here.” He paused. “The King of Hibernia knows nothing of your missions, however, and I was surprised when Montague did not stop to debrief me.”
“His mission was too urgent. I was sent for that purpose, de Casanova,” he gave the man a close look, and it was returned with double intensity.
After a pause, the man replied, “Very well, come in.” He disappeared into the house and beckoned them to follow him, though in his haste he did look at either de Garcia or Patrick.
Leggitt and de Garcia entered behind de Casanova, but Patrick hesitated for a moment on the threshold. He looked at the tower and whispered to himself, “I will have my revenge!”
The inside of the mansion was as imposing as the outside, and it was entirely isolated from the bustle of the city beyond its walls. The door opened into a spacious hall, floored with finely-polished mahogany boards and walled with a white plaster; a table stood in the center of the room, with two large volumes and a quill pen upon it. Besides this, the room was elegantly bare. The hall was rounded, reaching its apex in the center of the room some fifteen feet from the ground. The walls came down in a sharp, parabolic angle, extending inward three feet from the ground to create a shelf that wrapped around the interior. It was only broken by three round corridors, each with a doorway inside, some ten feet down. Only the first was open and a glass room could be seen through it, overlooking the garden.
De Casanova led them directly through the open passage without turning to see the two men who walked behind Leggitt. He was a tall man and carried himself with authority. His hair was short and uncombed, but kept in the perfect position by some unknown force. His face was long and narrow: an appearance enhanced by his beard, which was, in fact, no beard at all. Rather, the area of his face around his mouth and chin was carefully shaven, while a beard of sorts grew from the bottom of his ears to his cheeks. This rendered his appearance two-fold: from a straight angle, the side-beard or side-burns made his face seem altogether narrow, and his nose the same; from the side, however, his face seemed wide, and his nose long. These two faces were only connected by his pine-tree eyes, sharp and of the darkest green.
“I did not expect you, Leggitt,” he said, still walking before them with his back to de Garcia and Patrick.
De Garcia walked cautiously, keeping his eyes about him and fingering the dagger he had taken from the armory. Patrick boiled. His face grew more heated with every step as he stared upwards – as if his sharp eyes could pierce the ceiling and see into the tower above.
“It is of no matter, for we will only stay a moment. I am to join Nicholas immediately, but as we left in such haste, we must ask for your support.”
“In gold?”
“Indeed – we must be supplied.”
“Of course; but tell me, when did Nicholas return? I had not heard.”
“It was only days ago.”
Yet, as Leggitt spoke, de Casanova turned as he reached the table and found himself face to face with de Garcia. “De Garcia!” he cried, stepping back against the glass wall and drawing the longsword from his belt.
The untrimmed Spaniard stepped forward, dagger in hand. “So it is – surrender or be slain.”
