Aurélie put her hands on the keys. Some of the audience laughed to see this sprig pop out of nowhere, but Hautbois Guy obligingly began to pump.
Aurélie played, hesitantly at first, rapidly gaining assurance. The regal was old and wheezy, its inner workings clunking, but she stayed squarely on the beat. At the end of the song, the audience gave a genial shout of approval for the “boy” who gave them a cheeky grin. This time, it was she who launched into another French air.
The two musicians joined right in. She kept a steady beat, and on the second verse the fiddle player began to curl out riffs and experimental arpeggios. People began to clap and stamp, and things were swinging along nicely…
And then Regal Guy reappeared. He howled a curse, made a fist, and tried to knock Aurélie off the stool.
She ducked under the blow and whirled away, but the tip of her extra-long shoe got caught in the twine attached to the bellows, and she hit the floor with a splat. Her hat came loose. She nipped it up and clapped it onto her head, raising a howl of laughter.
The regal player, instead of reclaiming his stool, decided to go after her. Aurélie rolled to her feet, one hand to her hat, the other yanking her pistol free.
Regal Guy staggered back. Half the audience did as well. Some of them exclaimed in her favor, others in Regal Guy’s favor, as the unloaded pistol wavered in her trembling fingers.
Then Fiddle Guy put bow to instrument and played a complicated cadenza that caught attention. “Leave the boy alone,” he said into the moment of relative quiet, his French marked by a faintly guttural accent. “At least he can play, Jules. You have only been playing at playing.”
Laughter and a shout of approval went up.
Jules responded by shouting threats at Aurélie.
“Run, boy!” several shouted.
Aurélie’s chin came out. Her gaze flicked revealingly to that hat with the coins. She wanted the share of the take that she’d earned. Even a few centimes would buy her a stale bun.
The audience began shouting advice: “Stand up to him, little bantling!” “Shoot him, and let’s have some music!” “A fight, a fight!” Then a nasal teen voice cat-called mockingly, “Afraid to pull the trigger?” as a butcher’s apprentice hefted a squashy vegetable on his palm, ready for throwing. From the bulging pocket in his apron, he’d obviously come prepared for his own style of entertainment.
Aurélie glanced around, then turned the pistol upside down and shook it. Of course no ball rolled out of the barrel. A gust of laughter rose. This was better entertainment than mere music.
Sympathy promptly swung back her way—for the moment. Jules threw his mug at her. He was too drunk to aim. She dodged easily and flipped up the back of her hand in the age old gesture of repudiation, used by the boys at Port Royal.
Maddened by the resultant laughter, Jules charged her; a tactical error, because the entire inn howled him down as a coward. He lurched toward Aurélie, who leaned to avoid his swinging fists. She reversed the pistol the way Anne had taught her and whacked the side of his knee. Jules hit the floor, bellowing curses.
At that point customers shifted as a force of nature thrust violently through, and there was the innkeeper, a massive man of about fifty, with two brawny sons or nephews flanking him. Efficiently, and with no gentleness, they took hold of various parts of Jules, hauled him up, and made for the door. The guy shouted in inarticulate rage as customers pelted him with their recreational garbage.
Aurélie thrust her pistol back into her breeches, straightened her hat, then looked up at the two musicians. Hautbois Guy apparently did not notice. The cap covering his greasy, tangled hair was the only thing visible as he twiddled with the reed on his instrument. But Fiddle Guy flicked his bow in a magnanimous gesture toward the regal. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “You may call me Mord.”
“Mord?” Aurélie repeated doubtfully. “‘Bites’?”
“‘Murder’ in German and Lithuanian,” Mord said with an air of mockery. “A very good name for an ex-soldier with no pay. And my companion is Jaska.”
“Yas-ka?” Aurélie repeated.
The bow wrote in the air, J-A-S-K-A. “Jaska. And you, bantling?”
“René,” Aurélie said firmly as she sat down at the regal.
The crowd roared approval, and so began an evening of music.
There was very little talk, no more than an exchange of songs, or chords, between pieces. Aurélie, long accustomed to playing accompaniment to Cassandra’s singing, already knew how to match tempo, and so the three soon found a mutual rhythm that permitted both hautbois and fiddle to take off on flights of embellishment, which were generally hailed with appreciation.
When at last the crowd began thinning as people went home, they played the “Marseilles” as their last piece. Aurélie stood up uncertainly, and Mord said, “Will you share our meal, Citizen René?”
“Yes,” Aurélie said, with heartfelt conviction.
The innkeeper heaped three plates from the last of the night’s menu, extracted from the hat some coins for the broken mug, then left them to eat.
Aurélie took a stool next to Mord. She avoided whatever meat was swimming in its sauce, in favor of small potatoes, and oh glory, she practically inhaled the apple compote with cheese crumbled over it.
For a time, nobody spoke. Three mugs of something frosty appeared. Aurélie took a gulp of hers, then coughed, her eyes watering. Before anyone could say anything, she took another determined gulp, and only betrayed a gasp. Her face was flushed when she finished the ale, but at least she’d downed it on a full stomach, which lessened the effect.
At any rate, she was steady enough when Mord counted out a portion of the take and gravely offered it to her. As she tucked it into her waistcoat pocket, he said, “You know that Jules will be waiting outside to crack your skull.”
“Jules?” Aurélie asked.
“Our late and unlamented third,” Mord said. “We have had ill luck with finding a third. He’s our—what, Jaska?—our sixth in as many months?”
Jaska shrugged as he pulled a knife from one pocket, a piece of reed cane from another, and resumed the painstaking process of carving it.
Mord said, “Considering our success this night, I think we owe it to you to see you to safety. Where’s your house?”
“Haven’t one,” she said, and at two muted looks of surprise, she flushed and added, “I want to find a ship to Jamaica.”
Mord gave her a sad smile. “As well seek a journey to Mars. You’ll find no ship sailing to Jamaica from this side of the Channel, and only warships going to Saint-Domingue, which, last I heard, was still claiming independence under Toussaint L’Ouverture.”
“I have heard that name,” she exclaimed, then clipped her lips shut.
“Rumor has it that he was a slave before he became a military man. He is now leading a revolt for freedom.”
“Do the warships go to his aid, or against him?”
“Rumor is unclear. In any case, you would have to make your way to the harbor at Brest, or Toulon, to volunteer.”
Aurélie lifted her chin. She was a little soused, or she would never have talked as much as she did. “I will not go on a warship if they fight for slavery. It is evil.”
“Agreed,” Mord said. “Agreed. For all forms of slavery, including serfdom.”
Jaska ducked his head in a nod and returned to carving. Mord said, “You are a little young, but from the bravado with which you pointed your piece, it is to be hoped you know how to load and fire a pistol?”
“I do,” she said.
Jaska put away his reed and knife, and led the way back to the corner where their instruments lay. They packed up quickly, Mord putting the regal in its leather case. Jaska shrugged his arms through the straps so that the thing hung against his back. Last, Jaska plucked a tattered, ragged-hemmed cloak from the corner, disclosing their own weapons: A cavalry sword, a rapier, two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of shot suspended from a walki
ng stick, long enough to double as a quarterstaff.
With a quizzical air, Mord offered the rapier hilt on to Aurélie, who took it in hand. She checked the balance with a couple of expert swipes. Mord’s brows twitched up as he grabbed the cavalry sword, leaving the walking stick to Jaska.
The three moved out, the two men ahead of Aurélie. She held the rapier nervously, her gaze intent.
As expected, Jules was lurking well out of the cone of light from the inn door. He had four other toughs at his back. All drunk, or maybe they were just rotten fighters. The five rushed at Aurélie and her two new companions.
The fight was over in about ten seconds flat, as Jaska and Mord neatly whacked, tripped, and thumped them in a practiced display of divide and conquer. Aurélie got in a good lick when she stuck her sword between the legs of an attacker who tripped and fell with a splash into the nasty murk in the street.
Jules lay groaning a few paces away. Mord stood over him with one scruffy boot on Jules’s chest. He rained a few centimes onto the man, and a few badly crumpled assignats. “Your share. I wish you luck getting value for the paper,” Mord said cheerfully. “The journey should inspire you to reflect upon the principles of virtue. In trade, we shall take the regal. Which is more than fair, as I am reasonably certain you looted it during your excesses in La Vendée. But musical instruments must be played and, if possible, played well, or life becomes more absurd than it already is. Farewell, Citizen.”
Mord wiped the mud off his sword with the hem of his cloak, sheathed it, hefted his violin case more securely over his shoulder, and started off, Jaska following, limping badly. Neither said a word to Aurélie, who hesitated, then dashed after them, their sword still in her hand.
By then she was yawning almost continually, stumbling with exhaustion. She followed them into the misting rain, looking neither right nor left, but trusting to the two as they skipped down a couple of alleys, crossed a churchyard, and then entered the church’s barn.
There were no animals, as the church had long ago been looted. The guys climbed to the loft, where a few remnants of stale, limp straw still lay about. Jaska gathered them in the weak light from a candle stub that Mord lit from his tinder box.
“Palatial quarters,” Mord said with satisfaction. “Rain, do your worst. You are still with us, young René? Musicians should stay together. We shall be snug here.”
“We and the fleas,” Jaska said in a low murmur. He had an accent, too.
Aurélie looked from one to the other and down at the warped boards of the hayloft. She set the sword down, yawning, lay down, curled up…
EIGHTEEN
“…NEUFCHATEL?”
“No. That’s where Jules will come looking if he finds himself a gang. Let us make for Yvetot. We can hear as much there.”
“Better, perhaps. We’ll move up the Seine. It’s bound to serve as a conduit for talk as well.”
Aurélie’s eyes popped open to the sounds of the men’s soft voices. The light was weak, watery blue. She turned her head. Mord sat cross-legged on the floorboards, scraping the beard from his sharp chin with his knife. He looked romantically dangerous, with his startlingly pale skin, his long dark hair loose on his shoulders, and a baldric across his chest for the cavalry sabre.
When he noticed Aurélie, he said, “Awake?” He held out the powder horn. “You may use some of ours if you are not planning to rob us.”
Aurélie’s voice, which was normally husky, sounded even more hoarse. “I am not.”
“Well, then.”
Jaska pulled out his knife, but instead of attending to the stubble on his chin, which, like his hair, was the color of cookie dough, he pulled out his unfinished reed to work on. Aurélie loaded her pistol.
Though both guys kept their hands busy, I got the feeling they were watching obliquely, and I think Aurélie was aware of that covert scrutiny, too. Her cheeks showed dull red as she quickly loaded her pistol, then looked about. A broken leather strap hung from a beam overhead, probably once attached to a cow’s halter to keep her still for milking. She took aim and shot.
The strap gyrated wildly, and when it slowed, a hole was visible along one edge.
“That pistol throws right,” Mord observed.
“Yes. And I pulled too far left for balance,” Aurélie said as she placed the hot pistol inside her mashed hat.
“Nonetheless, a fine shot. I believe I have an extra cross belt somewhere here.” Mord dug through his shapeless haversack. Out came a shirt even dirtier than the one he was wearing, another capped powder horn, a clinking bag of pistol balls, a second knife, and then a rolled item that turned out to be the cross belt. “Observe! Frogged for the pistol.” He pointed out the loops.
Aurélie wrestled her way into the thing, which was ridiculously large. The pistol hung down to her thigh. She yanked on the buckles until she got the belt fitting more or less across her front. James’s overlarge shirt and waistcoat thoroughly smothered her contours, rendering her shape indistinguishable.
Mord had expertly rolled the greatcoat he’d slept under and affixed it to the back of his cross belt in the efficient manner of European soldiers. Below that went the haversack. “We are about to depart, Citizen René,” he said as he checked his pistol a last time, then slung it into the side frogs. “You can either come along or stay here and sleep. You may keep the regal.” He pointed at where it lay. “But I suggest leaving the area, as Jules will be seeking retribution as well as our earnings.”
Aurélie sat up and swallowed painfully. It was clear from her wince that she had a pounding headache, but she said, “I am ready.”
She hefted the regal, her feet planted wide. I couldn’t tell how heavy it was, but anyone who has ever carried a heavy backpack knows that a long hike under a lot of weight can get pretty grim.
Before she could wrestle it over her skinny shoulders, Jaska nipped it from her fingers and slung it over his own back, then pulled on his own cross belt, all without speaking.
Mord had a sabretache—a pouch, usually part of a cavalryman’s uniform—connected to his cross belt, the front defaced by fire, the edges of what had been a regimental coat of arms, blackened. He slung the cavalry sword from the dangling slings.
Mord picked up his violin case and followed Jaska around to the back wall of the barn, free fingers working the front flaps of their trousers. Aurélie’s steps faltered when she realized what they were doing. She backtracked hastily and scooted across the barnyard to the scruffy hedgerow, where she could hastily relieve herself without any witnesses. When she was done, she scampered out to meet the two on the road, twitching her clothing straight.
They didn’t give her a second glance as they set out at a brisk pace under clearing skies, splashing along the muddy, rutted road. Jaska still walked with a limp, using the stick to balance against a stiff knee.
Time blurred. When I jolted into awareness, I discovered Aurélie lagging behind at a painful shuffle, the mud in the lane sucking at her shoes. Every step made her wince. Those past few days, she’d mostly spent lurking and hiding; she hadn’t had to walk all that far in James’s shoes.
When Mord and Jaska stopped at a well in a deserted circle of burnt-out farmhouses, she sat down on a fence stump and pulled off the shoes, her breath hissing between her teeth. Mord worked at the well as Jaska went off exploring.
The shoes had rubbed blisters into her ankles right through the stockings. Her mouth tightened into a pale line as she stuffed the stockings into her pockets, and flung away the shoes as hard as she could. She made certain the edges of her breeches covered the necklace, applied handfuls of mud to her feet and ankles, then stepped carefully onto the muddy ground.
A few steps later Jaska limped into view, the shoes in either hand. “You steal these, René?” He shrugged, not waiting for her to answer. “A good soldier learns never to waste good footgear. These can be remade by a cobbler.”
Jaska’s French, unlike Mord’s, was educated, what the Parisian upper class
would call pure. A few years ago, that accent could have won him a free trip to the guillotine—and probably still could, if he was a Royalist deserter. He seemed to remember that, for he looked around quickly with a frown. Though Fouché’s spies were nowhere to be seen, he thrust Aurélie’s shoes at her and walked back to the lane.
She silently took the shoes and off they set.
Occasionally she winced at rocks, but the lane was muddy, which protected her feet somewhat. They made one more stop for water at a clear-running stream. Again, Aurélie availed herself of the bushes. “Oh, Duppy Kim, I am so very hungry,” she whispered when she was done, but said nothing to the guys when she rejoined them.
If they were testing her, they must have decided she’d passed, because midday found them in a tiny village, no more than a scanty circle of slant-roofed cottages around a tiny church. They entered a small, dilapidated inn. The woman who owned it scowled when two tall young men ducked under the doorway, but her expression changed to smiles when Mord held open a grimy hand, disclosing coinage.
Within a short time the three of them sat at a rough-hewn bench in the inn yard, facing a big plate of stale bread and canard a l’orange, with a lot more cabbage than duck. To wash it all down they had pear cider.
Aurélie sent occasional considering glances at her silent companions as they wolfed down their meal. When she was done, she surreptitiously slipped to the dog the bits of duck.
So far the guys had been decent enough, but they looked like a couple of rough articles. From the way they fought, my guess was deserters, or else their unit had been disbanded after the Peace of Amiens.
Mord drank the last of his cider, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and picked up his violin case. That was the signal to get moving again. They walked out of the tiny village down a lane, with spring growth on either side. Jaska presently dug a hand into his pocket—Aurélie’s head turned sharply, a flash of fear widening her eyes—but then her lips parted when his grimy fingers emerged with a jaw harp, and he began to play a tune with a quick, catchy melody.