Chapter 13 The Duelist of Aix-en-Provence
Thirteen
The Duelist of Aix-en-Provence
The duelist dropped down from the iron gate without a sound under the cover of night. She’d never hated this more.
Her hose were too tight. The doublet didn’t accentuate her form.
Her long locks of hair, that she was proud to have, were almost invisible beneath her headwear.
She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to look like this.
She hadn’t minded it quite so much until then, when her garb and the mask she wore was her only allowance to confidently carry a sword at her hip.
As the duelist, she was fascinating. As a woman, she was unnatural.
All of this was wrong. She wanted to wear her plain rapier with a nice dress and her hair showing. She wanted a permit to carry it like anyone else. She didn’t want trouble; she was pretty sure she provided enough on her own from saying stupid things and doing everything wrong.
Oh, boudiou. Dorotèa wanted to cry as she slipped towards the rough stone of the city manor.
She’d never felt so fraudulent and wretched.
Her mind screamed for her to run back to the hospital and throw herself at Oste’s feet, because her big mouth running unchecked hurt as much as running from him did.
Still, staying right then would have been another pain.
She’d assumed the worst, and he’d proved to be anything but.
She messed everything up—she always did.
It hurt. He hurt. She could barely see through her conjured images of him—beautiful and considerate, funny and cranky. She adored him. She couldn’t stand him.
There was so much she loved.
Dorotèa gripped the rose trellis and began to climb.
She was nimble, quick, and, in her opinion, deplorable.
She loved being a woman. She’d never have it any other way.
She loved her body. Loved her dresses, her elegance, and all the mannerisms and duties her family never did a proper job of teaching her.
She loved her capacity to carry another.
She loved the idea of another caring for her for once in her life.
She wouldn’t have wanted to be different, no, because she wanted to be one, with this soul, this body.
She liked how it looked. She enjoyed what it seemed capable of doing.
She was delighted by how strong it was, too. She could fight. And run. And climb…
And climb she did.
When Dorotèa made it up to the balcony, she slid her hand under her mask and covered her mouth to stop from throwing up. How many times had she said ‘woman’ as though it was a dirty word? Fraudulent resentment still tasted like bile in her mouth.
All this time she’d assumed Oste’s misgivings were due to her sex; never had she imagined that they came from a place of care.
Dorotèa knew she needed to tell him.
And by God, she was certain she loved him.
Her frustrated fury bid her enter Conseiller Clau’s estate.
Dorotèa was scarcely aware of what she was doing, only that she needed time, and needed to accomplish something.
Aix was tainted by two dead girls. Beautiful ones who had deserved better, and deserved the chance to be able to protect themselves.
She had no idea who she’d have become if her father hadn’t shut himself in a room with her and drilled, drilled, drilled until there was no maneuver left that she didn’t know.
“You’ll study this like you’re my son,” he’d told her.
But I’m your daughter, she’d thought, and not said.
A plate of cheese still sat on the outside table, so Dorotèa wasn’t surprised to find the balcony door open, saving her the trouble of forcing her entry. She pushed it open in relative silence.
She wore darker clothes, now, for her self-imposed mission, but her mask and sword never changed. It was the same old blade she’d always used: dull but perfectly balanced for someone of her size and shape. It was a stark contrast to the Venetian mask that glowed like the moon.
The estate was dark and quiet. She’d not disappeared to quickly grab some air, but left the hospital entirely and waited until nighttime when few souls stirred.
Any respectable person would have finished eating and retired for the evening.
Clau would have. More women than usual, too.
They whispered to each other in packs how much they feared meeting the same fate as Frances.
Dorotèa’s eyes scanned the room she entered.
There was a neatly made bed against the wall, complete with a canopy; and the interior smelled strongly of sandalwood incense.
From afar, she’d watched him make use of the room through the windows and identified it as his bedroom.
The place was entirely forgettable. The furniture was wooden, vintage from the previous century without being remarkable.
A pot full of common lavender rested on one of the dressers.
A large portrait was hung above that, and the subject, who must’ve been some distinguished relative, looked like anyone’s uncle.
She glanced sideways at one of the attached doors. A tiny flicker of light danced beneath the frame from the barely-visible crack. If this was his bedroom, then the adjacent room had to be…
Dorotèa twisted the knob and slipped within. In one, two, three steps, she’d darted across the room and leapt onto the desk in Clau’s study. Her rapier was leveled at his throat before he could scream. The presence of the blade so close to his neck garnered a squeaking whimper and nothing more.
The Duelist of Aix-en-Provence spoke exactly as she’d always been. She let her words come out with the upwards lilt she bore as a woman.
“Scream, and I will gut you. Try to fight, and it will be the last thing you ever do.”
Clau, a greying man of about fifty, pressed his back against his flimsy chair. Sweat sprang from his brow almost instantly, and the inkwell he’d knocked over in shock dripped its contents onto the expensive rug beneath the desk. He raised his shaking hands.
“The duelist?” he choked out.
“Who else would I be?”
“You sound like—”
“Veritably, I am,” Dorotèa affirmed, and she gave her blade a nudge forward. Clau released a quiet gurgle. “What’s in my hose is of no relevance.”
“Why—”
“Why am I here?” Her eyes flashed. “That’s a very good question, Conseiller Clau.”
He shuddered. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Neither do I, truthfully, as tempting as it is. I could argue that I’m here because part of me wants to stick you with this for hiding your daughter.
She was a beautiful girl. Don’t claim to have given her the best life you could have, because that isn’t true.
I think she’d have liked this pretty roof over her head instead of money to stay quiet. ”
“How do you—”
“Marie,” she hissed as she poked his neck with the rapier. He flinched, but she kept it from breaking skin. “You paid for a quiet funeral away from here. Do your other children know that they had a sister? What would they think if they did, I wonder?”
Clau’s chair tipped back as he pressed harder against it. She snatched his collar with her other hand to stop him from toppling, but he pleaded again. “Please, please.”
“Tell me this, and I’ll know if you’re lying, Conseiller. Did you love her? Did you cherish her, or was she little more than an irritation?”
Clau closed his eyes, and when he opened them they were slick with tears. “I loved her.”
Dorotèa leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “You showed it poorly.”
“I did what I could to—”
Dorotèa cracked her hand across his cheek but regretted it immediately. If Clau’s next whimper didn’t summon anyone, the sound alone might have. She gritted her teeth and shook her head.
“If you say something like that, you’re supposed to mean it.”
Clau shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your apology doesn’t mean anything to me. I want something else.”
She watched his throat quiver from a deep swallow. Clau inclined his head, so she continued.
“You’re going to tell me anything you might have forgotten to tell the viguerie,” Dorotèa continued, “and you’re going to tell me everything you know about six men I’ll name for you.”
“A-And after that…? Will you…?”
“Do this, and I will not harm you. Only God will be left to judge you, I’m sure. I pray that you will be punished by knowing you could have done more. What I give you is the weight you must carry knowing there are many girls like Marie who ought to have had more than their lot.”
He swallowed again. “I… I answered honestly, and I told them everything I know.”
Dorotèa’s wrist twitched on her rapier. It danced in front of his neck. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not, I’m not. I… I felt guilty for the life she had. I should’ve—I wished I’d—God, I gave the truth, I swear it. I told them everything I could think of.”
“Mmh. And you’ll give me more truth, now? You’ll tell me about these men?”
“I will. I swear.”
Dorotèa narrowed her eyes at him. She watched his rapid breathing that matched how much he shook. It was his tears that made her continue, however. They rolled so slowly down his cheeks.
“They’re watchmen.” Dorotèa breathed in and recalled the names. “Gigale. Tirel. Paneton. Camsas. Bouchier. Duperat.”
“I… don’t know most of them.”
“Then tell me who you do know.”
“Why? What will you do?”
“I want justice, same as you apparently do, Conseiller. I don’t want any other girls to die, and a second one already has.”
Clau’s mouth fell open, and he clapped a hand over it. He dug his clean fingernails into his jowls and held his breath for a long beat. Dorotèa let her hold over her blade soften and lowered it another inch, knowing, at long last, he was no risk to her.