City Of Swords

Sarah and Archard mingled with the tourists, many of them praying softly, their voices lost in the strains of a chant coming from the nearest chapel. Archard prayed, too, though she couldn’t hear him. She just noticed his lips move and his thumbs rub against the base of his candle. She hadn’t been to church since she’d lived with her parents in Delaware, but she wasn’t irreligious. Deciding that it would be appropriate to copy the others—and that God might actually pay attention here—Sarah bowed her head and prayed that she wouldn’t screw up.

An hour later, she and Archard tossed their candles and hid in an alcove of the Basilique St-Sauveur, where they waited until the last tourist left. Sarah guessed that it was early morning, maybe two or three, judging by how tired she was. The buzz from the coffee had worn off a while ago, and now she had an urgent need to find a bush to squat behind.

“I’ll see to security,” Archard whispered. She had to strain to hear him. “In a few minutes I’ll meet you inside the Chapelle.”

She watched him leave, and then slipped outside to pay the rent on the coffee. There was no one milling around—a good thing. But she knew the place would be bustling in a handful of hours...especially if she and Archard succeeded.

Sarah returned to the alcove, counted to one hundred, then glided next door to the Chapelle Notre-Dame. Archard said there was security, and she had no doubt it was high-tech, though decidedly out of place in the old buildings. The Black Madonna, which she’d read about in a tourist pamphlet in one of the souvenir shops, was the focal point of this building. Hopefully, the bulk of the security efforts were tied to the Madonna. Sarah waited a second count of one hundred. Still no Archard.

“Great,” she breathed. So far she’d done nothing illegal; she could hightail it out of here and go back to her studio apartment on Avenue Georges V. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and went through the arch. When she didn’t hear any alarms go off, she let her breath out. She pulled a tiny flashlight out of her pocket, cupped her hand over the top and aimed it around until she found what she was looking for. Then she switched if off, tiptoed to the wall and took off her shoes. She didn’t want the hard rubber soles marring the wall or squeaking. She tugged a pair of tight-fitting gloves out of her pocket and wiggled into them, though she wasn’t especially worried about leaving fingerprints. She’d never been in trouble before. Still, it was a precaution.

Where was Archard?

She felt along the wall and found the natural cracks in the stonework. Wedging her fingers in, she slowly and quietly pulled herself up. The muscles in her arms bunched and her chest tightened. Nerves. Sarah thought of the chant she’d listened to earlier. The sound had been soothing. Relax. She pulled herself higher, relying only on her handholds, her feet spread in a ballet dancer’s second position against the stone.

Relax.

Sarah felt a ledge and gripped it. The pain in her fingers helped her focus. A little higher and there was a second ledge, which she pulled herself onto, resting her knees. Finding a good handhold, she leaned backward, one arm outstretched, fingers searching...searching...finding a beam. She wrapped her arms and legs around it and inched out upside down. If she fell, she might break a leg or something. It probably wouldn’t kill her but would get her in a world of trouble, and Dr. Lawton would be furious.

Where in the hell was Archard?

Farther. A little farther. It was so dark in here. She was on the underside of an overhang, and the shadows were making this more than a little difficult. The flashlight wasn’t an option. It had been risky using it the first time. A dozen or so more inches and...there! Her eyes managed to distinguish the blackness just enough. She clamped her legs tight on the beam, stretched out and wrapped her fingers around the pommel. The sword was suspended from the ceiling just beyond the archway. Sarah cursed herself for not looking closer when they’d taken the tour this afternoon. Maybe she could have asked one of the monks what was holding it. She tugged without success.

“Dammit!” The whispered word bounced off the stone and came back at her.

She inched out farther, pulled harder, ground her teeth together and gave it one more yank.

She heard a loud snap.

A little too loud. Sarah wished she hadn’t drunk so much coffee. The voices in her head encouraged her. You can do this. You can do this now. The sword still wasn’t free, just loose from one of the cords. How many were holding it? Didn’t matter. She’d come too far to stop. She pulled again, as hard as she could, and was rewarded with a second snap and the sensation of falling. She managed to catch herself with her legs, but was dangling, her free arm flailing, the sword grasped in the other. Made of iron, the weapon was heavy. She squeezed the pommel tight so she wouldn’t drop it.

“C’mon. C’mon.” Sarah drew herself up, wrapping her free arm around the beam and wedging the sword against her chest. Getting back to the wall took what felt like an eternity, and then another long stretch of time passed before she reached the floor. She laid the sword down very slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound against the stone, then put her shoes back on and picked the blade up again.

She plastered herself against the wall, taking even, shallow breaths and listening. No footfalls. Nothing except her heart pounding thunderously. Her back against the blocks, she crept along the alcove, stopping every few steps to listen again.

Now to get out of here.

The sky was lighter outside than when she’d gone in the Chapelle. No, she decided, the inside of the building had just been dark in contrast. Only minutes had passed, not the hours it had felt like. Light from the scattering of streetlamps in the Basse Ville, the part of the town below the cliff, seeped up like the glow from a halo.

Sarah pulled in a sharp breath when she heard a footfall against gravel. A monk! No, not one of the monks. It was Archard. He came around the side of the Chapelle and headed toward her.

“Where the hell were—”

He set his finger to his lips and took the heavy sword from her. Then he nodded toward the stairs. “Hurry,” he whispered in her ear.

“Where were you?” she persisted in a murmur.

“A little more security than I expected.” He pulled her into a niche between the buildings and then grabbed her hand, tugging off her glove and touching her fingers to the tip of the stolen sword. It was broken, jagged. “So it is real. See? The genuine one. You did great. Now get the rest of it. I’ll meet you at the car.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a small GPS device. It blinked softly with her coordinates. From another pocket he produced a chisel. “And, Sarah, speed would be good.”

Getting “the rest of it” proved much easier said than done.

They motored out of the village at dawn, her bleeding fingers gripping the steering wheel of the Peugeot, her clothes torn, her knees badly scraped and every inch of her throbbing.

Chapter 5

Annja couldn’t sleep.

She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of sweatpants. Her stomach churned and a bitter taste settled in her mouth. She’d had another nightmare—images of fire swirling all around, bright red and orange, hurtful in their intensity. Like before, there was a face in the flames. Sometimes the face was her own, and she woke up from those nightmares sweating.

She was drenched in sweat now.

Slipping on the athletic shoes that had set her back half a paycheck, she stood and stretched, stuck her hotel key card in her pocket and reached for a fresh T-shirt.

She wanted to be home, curled up on her bed, shutting out the god-awful blare of the Brooklyn traffic. She could sleep through that ruckus, somehow even found it comforting. But in France she often had nightmares. Not always, but enough that she wondered why she bothered to come back. Why hadn’t she told Doug to get someone else for these segments?

She looked at the clock on the nightstand. One forty-five.

A quick run. That ought to get her through this. Certainly safer than picking a fight with a gang of punks outside one of the city’s old train stations.

She made sure the door clicked shut behind her, and then padded past the bank of elevators to the security door at the end of the hall.

She eased that shut behind her, too, wincing at the grating sound it made, and jogged down from the eighth- to the seventh-floor landing, turned and headed toward the sixth. The air was fusty and stale.

The stairwell, dimly lit with energy-saving spiral fluorescent lights, probably wasn’t intended to be used by hotel guests. Emergencies and power outages, Annja figured, and for guests like herself who couldn’t sleep. The walls were painted a hospital-green, reminding her of avocado dip. They and the security doors were thick enough that she shouldn’t disturb anyone’s beauty sleep.

She laughed as her feet hit the fourth-floor landing and she picked up speed. She loved to run.

Annja felt the beginning of an exercise burn in her chest as she reached the first floor and wheeled around to start the jog back up. The smell of cleanser lingered like a thick fog. She thumbed the button on her iPod and then inserted the earbuds, not once missing a step or losing her cadence.

Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries played just loudly enough to muffle her breathing and her slapping shoes.

Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit. As much as Annja loved Elmer Fudd, she flipped the button to bring up another piece. Balakirev’s Islamey. She set her feet in time to the beat and felt the piano riffs travel up and down her spine. The music swelled as she again neared the eighth-floor landing.

Up twelve more floors, to the top of the hotel, before returning to her room for a welcome shower and a few hours of good sleep. That was the plan. She felt wired, as if she’d just thrown back six cups of coffee. Maybe she’d do two circuits instead. That’d be enough. Yeah. Better than a sleeping pill.

As she hit the tenth floor, Balakirev reached a mancando section. Over the whisper of the piano, Annja heard the scrape of a door opening somewhere above her. A snippet of conversation drifted down, and then she heard the pounding of feet. Two more insomniacs.

Annja pressed herself against the wall of the eleventh-floor landing as they thundered toward her—two young women she’d seen in the restaurant during dinner. They sported hot-pink Wales Wrunners T-shirts. They smiled as they bounced by. She recalled reading about a marathon in town in another day or two. These were no doubt entrants.

At the sixteenth-floor landing, Annja nudged the button on the iPod again, wanting something a little livelier. Mikhail Glinka’s Kamarinskaya blared, and she ran faster.

The burn in her chest had spread to her neck. Her face was flushed from the mild exertion and her heart rate was up. The stale air reached deeper into her lungs, and she felt a sensation in her legs that wasn’t quite an ache, but was telling Annja that her muscles were stretching from the climb. It was a good feeling.

She turned her head and blew a hank of hair out of her eyes. She set her feet to the beat as she neared the uppermost landing. Annja brushed the door to the roof with her fingers, leaving four thin streaks of sweat, then spun on her heel and started back down.

She passed the Wales Wrunners again on the sixth-floor landing. They were coming up this time and pressed themselves against the wall to let her continue. Common runner courtesy. One of the girls said something, but Annja couldn’t hear her over the Glinka.

At the bottom the cleanser scent again assailed Annja—bleach or floor polish or both. She touched down on the landing, brushed her fingers against the first-floor door and then started up. She took fuller, even breaths now.