Stormfire (94 page)

A murmur of anticipation ran through the crowd as four cloaked silhouettes filed through the creaking gate of the iron fence; the figure in front gestured gracefully to the crowd, then strode to the center of the courtyard and turned slightly to face the tall, still man in the shadows. Culhane eased off the wall, removed his jacket and waistcoat. Lavalier handed him his rapier, then followed him out to meet
Neri,
who was by now similarly prepared, his second at his elbow.

Colonel
La Rousse
rattled off the obligatory offer to the dissidents to reconsider honorably their intention to enter into combat. The offer was politely declined by both men. The duelists took their positions, arms as elegantly arched as fencing masters on exhibition. The illusion was swiftly shattered. With the swiftness of rattlers preparing to strike, they separated, disengaging with an ominous slither of steel as each sought unsuccessfully to hook the other's guard. White shirts sculpted by torchlight, they warily circled, barely engaging, playing with the ends of each other's blades, tiny counters and feather-touch parries.
Neri
uncoiled in a blurring attack, was parried and riposted with equal swiftness and skill.

Very quickly,
Neri
saw the Irishman was as deadly as himself. Neither his wrist nor his wariness would give out. He would have to be taken by guile. One successful thrust and his rapier would leave its light burden of oily poison in his opponent's body; in minutes the Irishman would falter. Death was inevitable, but long before the poison killed, the dizzied victim would fall prey to his opponent's sword and appear to die of his wounds.

The Irishman lunged.
Neri
countered and fell back slightly, answering the next thrust with a riposte, was
counte
rriposted. He answered in remise; the Irishman parried, then disengaging unexpectedly, attacked in headlong advance, steel ringing. Falling back,
Neri
parried the attack, lunged, but at the instant he attempted a beat, Culhane disengaged and in a split second jabbed him in the bicep.

A disappointed mutter went up among the watchers. They had not expected the Irishman to draw first blood; neither had
Neri,
and his confident smile turned grim.

Ignoring the sting in his arm,
Neri
attacked with the calculated concentration of a serpent slithering after a mongoose. Steel spat fire as he pressed Culhane back toward the dark end of the courtyard, forcing his opponent to rely on his backlit silhouette to distinguish his movements, while Culhane was still illuminated. Sean did not clearly see the
poussée cachée
Neri
made from
prime,
and the Italian gave a triumphant laugh as his point passed into Sean's side. The crowd cried out with muted cheers, but as
Neri
withdrew his sword too easily, he sensed his error. Culhane slipped under his guard to jab at his thigh.
Neri
swore as he slashed downward to beat the point away. He had missed the Irishman's body and ripped through the loose shirt.

Neri,
knowing each moment was precious, tried every trick he had learned as an alley cutthroat. He began to work close, pressing, luring his opponent to try for him, using his body like an acrobat, trying to trip or kick when
corps
à
corps,
using the rapier guard to attempt steel- accented, vicious blows. But Culhane was equally fast and ruthless. Eluding a knee to his groin with the deftness of a cat, he jammed his guard into the Venetian's diaphragm and drove his heel toward Neri's instep, narrowly missing it as the Italian leaped backward. He lunged forward as quickly, catching Sean barely off guard; but the Irishman failed to fall back, parrying strongly instead, and suddenly they were locked, muscles corded, jaw to jaw. His teeth flashing in the torchlight,
Neri
laughed, and sprang back as his opponent did. As they separated, Sean sliced Neri's face. The crowd fell silent.

Suddenly, a prearranged signal ran through some of the officers. Their lanterns doused with a distracting clatter of shields, and
Neri,
with the advantage of the torches, drove home. The culprits cheered as Sean, unable to ward off the entire force of the attack, stumbled back, a dark splotch at his shoulder. Then, as Neri's attention concentrated on the kill, his blade accidentally grazed the bell of Sean's rapier. Momentarily startled, he was off guard just long enough for Sean to counter, then knock his blade from the center of the action. Sean disengaged into
sixte
and lunged. His blade went through the Italian's chest.
                                                                 

The assassin looked surprised, then sagged at the knees as Culhane freed his rapier. Neri's lips tightened, then smiled twistedly through the gore. "Death has wearied at last of her complacent lover, but I do not think she will be more faithful to you." He choked and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Sean looked past his shoulder and eyed the men moving forward in the gloom. He lifted his rapier to Neri's throat. "Tell them,
Neri."
His tongue felt swollen. "Tell them you lied about Gil Lachaise."

Neri's smile became mocking. "I have nothing to recant,
signore.
'He who breathes in pain, breathes truth.' " With a snarl, Culhane cut his throat.
Neri
jerked forward to the pavement.

With a glitter of steal, the nearest advancing silhouette drew his saber, then another flashed from the shadows, and another. Sean braced, trying to detach his mind from the searing throb in his shoulder, trying to keep the ground from undulating like a heaving sea of brick. Cries of "Murder!" echoed off the walls.

The officers were thrown into confusion. "We've got to get out of here!"

"No, kill him!"

A more strident voice snarled, "He fought well despite you damned cheats! Leave him be. Where's your precious honor now? Get out of here and take what's left of it with you!" It was Lavalier, his sword drawn.

The crowd milled, the women shrinking toward the exits, pleading for their escorts to come with them. Some of the military, appalled by the breach of the code, joined Lavalier; others stood uncertainly as the ringleaders blustered.

Lavalier glared. "With all this noise, the police will come. Do you want that? Go! Only your consciences will know what you've done here tonight!"

Marquand grabbed
La Rousse
's sleeve. "Come on. Look at the bastard. Neri's poisoned him. He's done for, anyway. Come on, let's go!"

Lavalier whirled to see Culhane going slowly down on one knee, head dangling as the rapier slid from slack fingers.

The crowd broke.

"He's coming out of it now," Lavalier murmured as his own physician, Doctor Mariot, cleaned the Irishman's wound. Sean's lips and eyelids were slightly swollen and blueish, his breathing labored as he stirred.

The Irishman tried to focus. "Where . . . what's going on?"

Mariot peered into his eyes. "Dilated like a cat's in a cave."

Lavalier dipped a cloth in cold water and wiped his friend's pale face. "You're at my brother's house. That's him, Louis." A slight man, older than Lavalier but with the same shrewd eyes, nodded. Culhane tried to
lift
his head, but dull pain shot through it and he let it fall back on the pillow. His body, too long for the bed, slanted across it with his left foot projecting between its brass bars. His shoulder throbbed sickeningly and he swore under his breath as the doctor briskly secured the bandage knot at his shoulder.

Lavalier laid a hand on his arm. "Take it easy. You've been poisoned, but you'll be fine. Rest now."

Veil of Deceit

Angry voices penetrated the drugged, fitful sleep to which Catherine had succumbed after
Raoul
had sedated her during the night. She restlessly flung a hand over her eyes to shut out the light, wishing whoever was shouting would go away, then caught a trace of brogue in the louder voice. Her eyes flew open. "Moora?" She fought to an upright po- sition, then distractedly brushed a hand across her forehead as the terrifying memories of the previous night returned. Pawing off the covers, she heaved her thickened body off the bed and stumbled toward the door to drag it open. "Moora?"

At the foot of the staircase, Moora paused in mid-tirade, her parasol brandished under Antoinette's outraged nose. Antoinette turned to her mistress for vindication. "I told this . . . lady . . . you were not receiving,
madame.
The general gave strict orders—"

"But I am receiving, Antoinette," Catherine said with an effort. "Please take Mademoiselle Alexandrovna's parasol. I shall call you if we want anything."

Antoinette hesitated. "Madame, are you certain you feel able to have callers? You're not well."

Looking at the haggard young woman who leaned against her bedroom doorjamb as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet, Moora felt inclined to agree with the maid.

"Thank you for your concern, Antoinette," Catherine said quietly, collected now that her head was beginning to clear, "but I wish to speak to my friend."

The parasol held stiffly like a marshal's baton as she stalked to the kitchen, Antoinette wondered how an imitation Russian tart could possibly be an intimate of her mistress.

Moora mounted the steps. In her lilac muslin dress, she might have been a Botticelli naiad, except for her pert straw bonnet trimmed with violets.