Chapter 24 #2
The air in the thermal quarter felt warmer than that in the other enclosed roads of Cordeliers.
Perhaps it was the lingering heat from the baths.
Perhaps it was how long the night had drawn on with little yet to show for it.
Oste had undeniably grown more fatigued, and he ran his hand through his hair with a sigh as he made peace with it.
His eagerness to complete this task and his desire to flee into the comfort of his bed were at war with each other, and he again contemplated what it would be like to live a life where he didn’t constantly feel at odds.
As they breached one of the small hills, Oste looked down at the road and wondered if he was crossing over the waterways or tunnels right then and there.
He’d never bothered to map from above exactly where the one the Huguenots used and that he was familiar with passed through, and it was hellish enough orienting oneself down there; keeping track of the exact buildings and streets above at the same time was a tall task.
Another familiar wink of silver from ahead made Oste’s focus snap back.
He followed its trajectory to identify another barrel from a musket, even if it didn’t shine as much as the one possessed by Camsas did.
The two men exchanged a glance, then hastened, and after a few additional steps the watchman started to grow more definition until he was, at last, identifiable.
The insignia on his side cape and large, haughty frame exposed his rank and identity straight away; Capitaine Tirel crossed their paths first.
Oste supposed he couldn’t fault anyone thinking Tirel was better used by the army; his well-honed brawn and height made him look the part of a veteran or chevalier.
His experience with a blade and gun could have even been overlooked for a frame like that, if he’d actually been unskilled.
But he’d not have been named a captain if that was the case, and was every bit the bearer of that title.
That Dorotèa managed to tell him off at their wedding was an accomplishment.
He didn’t look like a man who was ever told anything, even though their encounters had been relatively friendly, considering.
Tirel marched with purpose all the way until he was in front of the pair, then rocked back into a halt. The force of his boots and shift in his impulsion struck the cobblestones with a loud thud, which matched the new pounding of Oste’s heart.
“Capitaine Tirel,” said Jehan, picking up the motions once again.
“Lieutenant?”
“I am conducting kit inspections.” Jehan looked down at his boots, then let his visage drift back up. “I’d like to see your gun first, if you please.”
“Of course,” Tirel answered with his dry lilt. He handed the musket over, then tucked his hands behind his back. “The business with the girls again, is it?”
Oste almost flinched, but the lieutenant was far smoother in response. His voice was level and calm. “I am conducting inspections on all the men in Cordeliers this evening, Capitaine.”
“Ah. You brought Docteur Lézin, so I assumed.”
“I am studying field injuries,” Oste retorted. “I’m gracious Lieutenant de Filhou has brought me along.”
Jehan, for his part, turned the musket over, then handed it back. Tirel took it with a trained confidence and attached it to his person again. When the lieutenant called for his sword, the man obliged.
“I suppose I ought to thank you on behalf of my brothers in arms, if they find themselves in an unlucky state,” Tirel told Oste. “It’s been an ugly business out there no matter how you look at it, what with the warring and those girls. I was pleased when you returned to work, Docteur.”
Jehan ran a glove down the sword. “Indeed.”
“I remember your gift. It was kind of you.” He offered a crooked shrug. “Can’t be easy, serving as captain in a district going through this,” Oste tried.
He shook his head. “No, not at all. The outcry and fear is just as dangerous.”
“Mmh,” Jehan shrugged. He handed the blade back. “Dagger.”
He sheathed it and did as directed. The pretty little weapon caught swathes of moonlight and betrayed the rivulets of golden hues and colorful embellishments in its make. Oste twitched when Jehan procured it between them both and let him draw in close to take a look.
Baselard. Straight crossguards.
“Are you any closer?” Tirel asked.
Jehan inclined his head. “We have some excellent leads.”
Oste clenched his jaw so tightly he was certain he’d crack his molars. Inlaid crossguards. An enamel pattern. Jehan turned it over to show it at all angles. Precious stone inlay. The pattern creating diamonds on each side. His breath caught.
“Well, you have my support and respect,” continued Tirel.
Jehan’s eyes drifted back onto Oste. He lingered as his friend held his breath. One last flip of the blade. There, two thirds down from the tip. The tiniest chip in the metal. The smallest imperfection.
This man was a monster.
Jehan smiled and laid the dagger flat on his palm while he held the hilt with his other hand. “Well-maintained. Thank you. I don’t usually get to work with blades so pretty.”
“From what I hear, it hardly rivals the beauty of those poor ladies.”
Oste glanced up. He didn’t rightly know why he opened his mouth. It was some impulse, some lingering curiosity and disdain he couldn’t fully shake. “But you knew Marie quite well?” he questioned hesitantly. “You watched over her. Dorotèa—Marie’s father said as much.”
The other two men froze. Jehan’s eyes slowly raised from the blade. “I thought you didn’t know her.”
It all happened too quickly for them to have grieved saying the wrong thing.
There was no training in the world to have prepared Jehan and Oste for the rapidity of violence in the grapple made for the dagger.
Any and all joviality in Tirel’s eyes was gone when he snatched his hands out towards the baselard precariously poised on Jehan’s palm.
The lieutenant tried to draw back and protect it in an angled withdrawal, but a harsh grip closed over his wrist, and before the young man could so much as breathe, it was falling through the air and caught.
“Jehan!” Oste cried before any blood was drawn, as though some part of him knew he’d despair, knew there was no easy way out of this. Instincts bade him draw his rapier from his side, but before he managed it, the first droplets of crimson were flying, and Jehan was staggering back.
There was no time to process the wound the lieutenant took, not when Tirel, dagger poised, caught him again. Oste didn’t allow the captain to succeed with a third strike. When the baselard was brought down, he caught it with his rapier and made the street burst with noise from the deafening clang!
Oste was denied his opportunity to celebrate his defense and make a push of his own.
Tirel’s boot connected with his leg, and Oste shouted when he stumbled.
It was drowned out by the rising screams of people who’d been drifting about the main street of the thermal quarter.
He found himself glad for it. Panic would send the right people running here.
If he could just hold off the captain for long enough…
No. He didn’t need to. When he sprang back up to his feet, Oste was faced with Tirel’s disappearing back as he made a run for it. He lunged a step himself, but the groan behind him made the physician put a stop to that. He whirled.
“Jehan!” Oste shouted again, then crouched down to become level with the lieutenant, who had fallen down to his knees. Oste looked left and right before he did any assessment, and locked eyes with a woman frozen some ten paces off. “Get a constable! Get all of them! Now!”
She bolted. Jehan shook his head and lifted his head enough to meet Oste’s eyes.
He spotted the hallmarks of confusion in his friend’s, wide and unblinking, and prayed he’d not slip quickly into shock.
It was more than plausible with how much blood there already was.
It came out heavily from a puncture in his arm, which caused him more worry than the smaller one he identified by the lieutenant’s hip.
Oste told himself that Jehan took his advice to heart, and went out of his way to avoid taking the damnable baselard to his gut.
“Oh, fuck,” Jehan breathed. “Merde—fuck. He actually stabbed me.”
“Hold still.” Oste kept steady. The quarter around him quieted when his focus set in.
His hands moved towards Jehan’s belt and worked at the fastenings.
It was a quality thing, made of fine, dark leather in a narrow weave and finished with silver buckles.
He felt bad about ruining it. Oste shook off the purse and sheath then brought it up to Jehan’s arm, where he started to fasten it as a tourniquet.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
But you’ll live, Jehan, you’ll live. It’s little more than a scratch. ”
“I only take offense to the lie you just told me,” the lieutenant rasped, then released a string of curses when Oste drew it tight. “Oste!”
“I need you to stand. I’m getting you to the hospital. Apply pressure here—right here. If someone can go fetch al-Anezi, there’s no one better at legations, so—”
“No, no! Listen to me first!” Jehan hissed as Oste hauled him up to his feet. He steadied the lieutenant. “A—Ah… He’s made a run for it.”
“I saw that. But you’re hurt.”
“Forget… that! A watchman should be here… very soon. But Tirel—Tirel will leave through the underground. More than likely, he will—where he won’t be seen.”
Oste blinked. “I assume as—”
“Oste!” Jehan grabbed his collar with a bloody hand. “You’re not listening to me! The nearest entrance is in Le Dauphin. Is Dorotèa still there?”
He stumbled back like he’d been shot all over again.
His heart had been pounding before, but now it was off to the races, rushing headlong like one of the Camargue horses running full tilt after the bulls.
Horror etched itself onto his face. Two old friends locked eyes, and the darker ones, taut with pain, narrowed in challenge.
“Go. Go!”
Oste drew his sword, and for once, his mind and legs aligned. The night swallowed a man who chased after his heart.