Mary Gentle Read Free Page B

and this woman seemed tiny in front of me.
    The plump shape of her lip moved under the drawn-down edge of her hood. “Be quiet and listen. You are Rochefort, not de Rochefort. You are not a noble. You are a duellist and known murderer. You have no power of your own; all derives from being Sully’s chief agent. You have made so many enemies in the service of the Duc that if he falls, it is doubtful you would get out of this city alive. Who else have you but him?”
    The dimness of the room was a blessing; I was not sure I controlled my anger closely enough to keep it from my face.
    Lightly, as I decided which way I would make my exit, I said, “Still less chance that you can bribe or threaten me into doing anything against his interests.”
    Her apparent silliness—which might be protective in a court of men—gave way to shrewdness. “No, and it is not Sully whom you will damage. It is Henri of Navarre. You must have Henri killed.”
    Stupidly taken aback, I said, “Henri of Navarre? Henri Quatre? The King? ”
    She gave me no time to adjust my thoughts. The hands that held the edges of her cloak together now moved, ticking off points on her fingers. “You are Sully’s spy. It is your business to keep him secure. Because he is closest to the King, it is your business also to know who threatens Henri. We do not try to bribe you—you do not live high, keep an expensive mistress, have family, known bastards, or gambling debts. You are not of the nobility. All you have is your position of power, and we will take that away from you if you don’t do as we order.”
    I spoke in ironic amazement. “And I am to kill a king? Who is the Duc’s friend and protector? That will be a way to get myself valued in his service!”
    There is nothing here I need take seriously, I concluded. Although I should warn M. le Duc that Queen Marie is, in her first fit of excitement, something of a loose cannon…perhaps listening to agent provocateurs of the Spanish, the Huguenots, the Jesuits. And that he should now take seriously any rumour that she wants her husband dead.
    In her creaky player’s whisper, Marie de Medici said, “You must know of conspiracies to assassinate the King—”
    “There are always conspiracies against King Henri,” I said, giving myself the pleasure of interrupting the Queen of France, since she came disguised and could therefore hardly protest. “I believe the total stands at sixty-three attempts at assassination, over the years. Or is it sixty-five?”
    “And there are some current. One of which must succeed. Tomorrow, Rochefort. It must be tomorrow.”
    It was true I knew of two, perhaps three, ripe conspiracies—that was not unusual. Henri contrived to make enemies of most of Europe at one time or another, if only by rescuing France from two generations of civil war and building her into a nation of great power.
    “Regrettably, madame,” I said, “no man gives me orders but the Duc de Sully. It is my job to see these threats come to nothing.”
    Her temper flared in a sharp whisper. “You will see why you must do as I say! Gaston!”
    The Queen raised her hand and signaled. One of the black oak doors opened, and two more men dragged in another man between them.
    Maignan! I thought, shocked—I did not give myself away by speaking aloud.
    The bullet-headed man was dressed in a rumpled night-shirt, his head bare. He hung between the two courtiers, his feet dragging across the paved floor, rucking up filthy rushes as they dragged him in. At her gesture, one of the men seized Maignan’s fleshy ear and pulled his head up. Even in this appalling light, a line of white was visible between his almost-shut eyelids.
    “He was taken from inside the Arsenal,” the woman said. “Drugged; removed from his room; brought here.”
    I am one man against ten; all armed, most with pistol as well as sword. Maignan cannot walk, never mind run….
    Maignan’s heavy lids flickered. Either drugs or strong drink had