Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (58 page)

‘I’ve known men who can defy pain. You aren’t one of them.’

Tannhauser stood up and drew his dagger.

Paul raised his bloody hands.

‘Wait. We all know the legend of the knight who played chess with Death. Well, I may be playing for my life, but you’re playing for Carla’s. You can’t afford a wrong move at this stage of the game.’

Tannhauser didn’t sit down. He nodded at Paul to go on.

‘This affair had a bad smell from the start –’

‘When did Christian hire you?’

Paul licked the blood on his lips, as if he’d just lost one of his pieces.

‘This afternoon.’

‘For the D’Aubray murders, not mine. You’re the murder man, aren’t you?’

‘A week ago. Christian only told me the particulars of what they wanted, not the why. Perhaps the lickspittle didn’t know himself. But I could see the why right off.’

‘Light the fuse. Start a war.’

Paul reassessed him yet again.

‘Very good. Naturally, I was tempted. There’s a lot of money to be made from a war, especially if you’re one of the few who knows it’s coming. I asked a princely fee to test their ardour. They didn’t quibble. By then, I couldn’t back out, they’d have lost trust in me. These aren’t your usual criminals, though I’m not certain who they are. My sources in the Louvre are weak, I admit. And militants aren’t my clientele.’

‘The Pilgrims of Saint-Jacques. Marcel Le Tellier.’

Paul was even more impressed.

‘I suspected as much. Plenty would like to see that Caesar fall.’

‘He will. And your game goes badly. You’ve told me nothing worth knowing.’

‘I can tell you how and where to hide, you and your wife. When these riots are over, when Le Tellier has been ruined, I can still the troubled waters. I can get you safely out of Paris. Better still, you could stay and get rich with me.’

‘Hiding doesn’t suit my temperament. Carla’s neither.’

Tannhauser stabbed Paul sideways through his fat. The sensation was peculiar. Paul shrieked. Tannhauser shoved the dagger in up to the quillions and left it in place. The blade was a good foot from anything vital. He sat down and watched him quiver.

‘You sent Grymonde to the chapel to bolster your bravos.’

‘Nobody sends the Infant anywhere. He went to warn you that they were there.’

Tannhauser chewed on that but couldn’t swallow it.

‘Why?’

‘Because he is mad, as are you.’

Tannhauser stood up again.

‘Grymonde is in love with your wife.’

By the time Tannhauser took this in, he realised it didn’t much surprise him. Carla was pregnant, and very far from being a seductress; she despised such wiles; but the power of her allure ran from depths that could not be fathomed. She had tamed the lion. Grymonde had spared her. Carla had sent him to find Tannhauser. It would not win Grymonde his life, but Tannhauser felt some affinity with the man. He knew the kind of love Carla could inspire; even if he himself had lately proved unworthy of it.

‘You hired Grymonde for the murders.’

‘Christian asked for him, in particular. The job was meant to draw attention and he’d been told the Infant wouldn’t care, which he didn’t. The Infant would never have worked out that he was going to start a war. On the other hand, if he had, he would have been glad to.’

‘Grymonde is a fanatic?’

‘Only in his own cause, which is destruction, though he doesn’t know that either.’

‘So Carla is in Grymonde’s hands. Where?’

‘Up in the Yards, on the hill near Porte Saint-Denis. He calls it Cockaigne. You’ll not find it alone, Theseus himself couldn’t. Neither could I. And for Carla, time runs short.’

Tannhauser pulled out the dagger. Paul whimpered. He was on the edge of complete submission, yet still clung to his fantasy that this was a game.

‘The minstrel was the most harmless man in the room,’ said Tannhauser. ‘When I killed him, every other man knew he was going to die too. And here is a strange fact. Most men, once their doom is revealed, find it easier to die than to fight. The fighters were flushed, but even they were resigned to the outcome. All of them, except you. Not because you are a fighter, but because you believe that the world needs you. But the world needs no one. It doesn’t need Carla. It doesn’t need me. Here.’

He stabbed Paul in his fat a second time. Paul howled.

‘That’s for sending your scum to murder my wife.’

He stabbed him again.

‘That’s for sending your scum to murder me.’

Tannhauser stropped the blade on the sole of his boot.

He let Paul see the street shit coating its edges.

‘That should be sufficient of Paris to poison you slowly.’

He stabbed Paul a fourth time. Paul sobbed and wobbled.

‘Now your doom is revealed.’

‘You’re a bloody lunatic.’

Tannhauser stabbed him again and left the knife in to soak. Paul twisted and whimpered, his eyes bulging from the bright crimson mask that coated his face.

‘How do I find my wife?’

‘Joco knows, in the Truanderie. He knows Cockaigne.’

Grégoire had seen Petit Christian visit a house in the Truanderie.

‘Joco or Typhaine, a redhead,’ said Paul. ‘Her daughter knows it, too.’

‘I know the house. Which floor?’

‘They’re on the second floor.’

‘And if they’re not there?’

‘Joco’s laid up in bed. Grymonde broke his ribs. He’ll be there.’

Tannhauser stared at him. The Pope clenched his eyes shut. He was still trying for some final, secret victory. Petit Christian. Christian knew about the Truanderie. Grégoire had followed him there. La Fosse had said that they didn’t know where to find Carla; but that had been some time around noon. Now they did know.

‘How long has Christian known where to find Carla?’

Paul stared at him with the fury of utter humiliation.

‘I was waiting for you to walk through that door, man. I was waiting to tell you everything. I wouldn’t have charged you a single copper penny.’

‘I know that. Do you want me to start on your thumbs?’

‘Christian left here over an hour ago.’

Tears swam into Paul’s eyes and rolled through the gore on his cheeks.

He sobbed. ‘In the place where there are no men, be a man.’

Tannhauser said, ‘Hillel.’

From Hillel to Sabato Svi.

To Tannhauser.

To Carla.

To Grymonde.

‘Grymonde quoted the rabbi. Didn’t he?’

Paul’s tears stopped. He looked at him.

‘He said that was why he wanted to find you. That’s why I told him how to.’

‘Are you a Jew?’

‘Do you think they’d let a Jew sit where I sit? I once knew a Jew. He taught me some things worth knowing, the best of which I chose to forget.’

‘Then we share something in common.’

Tannhauser pulled the dagger from Paul’s fat. He wiped and sheathed it.

‘We share something more,’ said Paul. ‘We love not Marcel Le Tellier.’

Even as he sat putrefying, Pope Paul was making moves that would outlive him. Tannhauser grinned, in admiration. He sat down.

‘How do you know Le Tellier?’ asked Paul.

‘Never set eyes on the man. Today was the first I ever heard of him.’

‘Marcel wants to get his hands on Carla, badly. I don’t know why.’ Paul nodded at the slaughter that engulfed his tavern from front door to back. ‘Though, as you appear to appreciate, to wipe a dirty slate clean is always prudent. To that end, he is spending a good a deal of money and taking a good deal of risk, but he can’t use the resources of the Châtelet, not directly. He couldn’t conceal that from those who would step into his shoes, and they would use the fact to bring him down. Catherine de Medici will turn this war to her son’s advantage, even if she didn’t want it. But she will not tolerate a chief of police who uses the Châtelet to aid her enemies. No man is more enslaved to the state than a policeman. Her dwarves would be using Marcel’s head as a footstool within a week.’

Tannhauser said, ‘The Pilgrims.’

‘Garnier, Crucé, Brunel, Sarrett – perhaps other confraternities, too.’

‘The Pilgrims would murder Carla for Le Tellier?’

‘Not a murder, a mission of mercy. To rescue the Catholic damsel from a notorious fiend. The Cockaigne Infant. After today they’ll be feeling like the Life Guards. The captains will leap at the chance. And then she’ll be in Le Tellier’s hands. He has a son –’

‘Dominic.’

‘He will have sly resources, too, guards for hire. In sum, more than enough to take her, dead or alive. Grymonde doesn’t merely not expect it. He doesn’t believe it. He’s the King of Cockaigne. The mighty Infant. He’s mad. But, in truth, it’s just another beggars’ den, a patch of weeds that no one cares to rip up.’

‘Will Marcel lead the expedition in person?’

‘Marcel is no warrior. And he won’t steal the Pilgrims’ glory. The glory will be their only reward, and they’re pious enough to think it a rich one.’

‘Your bravos were told to take me alive.’

‘There was a generous bonus in it,’ said Paul. ‘Le Tellier must have some other use for you.’

‘Unless he seeks his own executioner, I can think of none.’

‘In his shoes I could think of plenty,’ said Paul. ‘For instance: I’d leave you chained in a dark hole for a day, dispose of Carla, then rescue you. I’d prove to you, and whomsoever else, that some other party was responsible for this conspiracy – child’s play, by the way – and let you, and the Religion and the law, in whatever combination, take their course. The other – guilty – party being one of Marcel’s enemies, of course. Two birds with one stone. It would be a fine piece of treachery, but Paris has seen better. Believe me, no one will ever know who had Admiral Coligny shot. I doubt the man who pulled the trigger knows.’

‘Le Tellier has proved all he needs to, to me.’

‘I speak of the possibilities in his mind, which yet can know little of what is in yours.’ Paul spread his hands. ‘Alternatively, he could have your throat cut in the same dark hole – if only you were in it, which I suspect is still his fond hope.’

‘Assassinating a Knight of Malta without their consent is a risky move.’

‘Not if the knight in question murdered his wife and half a dozen innocents. He’d paint you up a regular Gilles de Rais. It worked on Gilles, didn’t it? And from what I know of you, it would be no challenge to make the deception convincing.’

‘What’s the case now – as far as Marcel knows it?’

‘You’re either dead or tied up in my backyard,’ said Paul. ‘Or you never went back to the chapel, and you’re drunk in a brothel, waiting for some
sergent
to find you.’

‘Why would I be drunk in a brothel?’

For the first time, Paul appeared to find him stupid.

‘Because you’d allowed your wife to be murdered by beasts.’

Tannhauser allowed him his morsel of spite.

‘That was beneath me. I apologise,’ said Paul. ‘You’ll find a purse on Maurice with the bonus, if you want it. Thirty
écus d’or
.’

‘The King’s head is always welcome.’

Paul leaned forward, despite his wounds, as if scenting something tasty.

‘There’s plenty more. More than you’d think. But it’s not here.’

‘Then it’s no use to either of us.’

‘You do know such as we could make a fortune together.’

‘Yesterday, perhaps. Today the only ledger I’m keeping is writ in blood.’

Paul glanced at the crossbow on the table. He looked Tannhauser in the eye. Tannhauser saw the nerve he had needed to make himself the Pope of Les Halles.

‘Grymonde is no great thinker,’ said Paul, ‘though he is a philosopher of sorts. He is cursed, as you will see. You won’t mistake him. And he has a shrewd gut, when he has the sense to hear it. He said, “someone is squatting on a dunghill of hate”.’

‘War will turn the dunghill into a mountain.’

‘He wasn’t talking about Huguenots or fanatics. He meant something personal. Something to do with Carla. If not her, someone close to her.’

‘What does your fat gut say?’

‘It agrees with Grymonde’s.’

‘Do you know Orlandu?’

‘No.’ Paul grasped at this last straw. ‘But I can find him for you.’

‘I know where to find him.’

Tannhauser stood up.

‘Don’t you want to know more about Marcel Le Tellier?’

‘Unless you can get me close enough to kill him, I don’t need to know more.’

There was no sense wasting a bolt. Tannhauser chose the
spontone
.

Paul started shivering. ‘If I’ve a last request, Chevalier, it’s that you believe this –’ His voice trembled. ‘I swear that when Grymonde left, it was to try to save your life.’

‘There’s only one who can save his, and it’s not you. Why do you care?’

‘Let’s say I like to think of Grymonde as a wayward son.’

Tannhauser looked at him. Paul dropped his eyes.

‘A pope who sired a king. You could have done worse.’

‘I hope your
gambito
pays off, you black-souled bastard.’

Tannhauser levelled the
spontone
. Paul raised one finger.

‘Have you any idea how much money there is in shit?’

Tannhauser stabbed Pope Paul through the heart.

He collected the purse. He took the crossbow. He turned.

His way to the door was awash with the gore of the slain. Those few flagstones left unpainted were grouted with the run-off. The dead in their stillness rendered a silence that had nothing to do with sound. The headless harpist hadn’t moved from his chair.

Tannhauser felt no scruple and wondered at himself.

He concluded that it was just as well.

The dirty slate was far from clean.

Carla needed him.

He needed her.

He walked the length of the bar and threw the bolt.

He shouldered his way out into the street.

He left the Blind Piper behind him.

Or tried to.

It was almost full dark. He couldn’t see Grégoire. A nearby butt collected rainwater funnelled from the roof. He laid up his weapons and peeled off his shirt, which was plastered to his skin with blood and sweat. He plunged his head in the water up to his shoulders. It was cooler than he expected and welcome. He drank. He rinsed the shirt and swabbed himself down. It felt good. The boy ran across the street with his dog.