“Who wants to know?” Jean-Claude asked, intrigued. Everything from the man’s sword to his casually aggressive stance marked him as a hired blade. Though Jean-Claude still wore his own sword, he was acutely aware that he was not at his best. Should he call for the custodian, or Mario? He wanted the man to talk, which was much more likely if he perceived Jean-Claude as helpless.
“I have a message for you,” the fellow said, stepping into the messy room. His eyes were very hard despite his neutral tone. Not good.
“Very good,” Jean-Claude replied, groping for his money bag as a means to readjust his grip on his crutch. “How did you know to find me here?”
“Followed you from the citadel,” said the swordsman, his hand drifting nonchalantly to his rapier’s hilt.
“I was hoping you’d show up. I assume the message is payment on delivery?” The thought of money had to distract a mercenary. “Who sent you?”
The swordsman hesitated. “He is a man with a scar.” He drew a line down his cheek.
Thornscar. Jean-Claude’s heart thudded so hard it almost drowned out the pain in his leg. Not dead or discommoded after all. “And what did he have to say?” He shook a few coins into his hand.
“He said you were a nuisance.” The mercenary drew his sword. It was a silky movement, not sudden or jerky. A man who wasn’t expecting it might have been flummoxed by its smoothness, its body-language illusion of peace. Jean-Claude had seen men run through by such ploys before they ever realized their danger.
The swordsman lunged. Jean-Claude flung his handful of coins in the man’s face. The man flinched. It skewed his aim. Jean-Claude twisted. The blade ripped through his doublet but only creased his skin. He surged off his good leg, swinging the crutch as a cudgel down on the crook between the man’s neck and shoulder. The meaty shock reverberated up Jean-Claude’s arms. The swordsman’s eyes rolled up and he pitched forward to his knees. Jean-Claude came down on his right foot. His wounded leg buckled and he sprawled on the floor. Red sparks swirled before his eyes, and white-hot agony burned up his leg.
Behind him, the swordsman convulsed, vomiting onto the floorboards. Jean-Claude was not in much better condition. Even though he had been expecting pain, it took him a dozen precious heartbeats to force himself up on hands and his good knee. His whole body shuddered, but he balanced well enough to plant his crutch and thrust himself upright, and none too soon; the swordsman finished retching and gathered himself to stand.
Jean-Claude brought the crutch down on the back of the man’s head. He slumped like a dropped pudding. “Nuisance, am I?” he said between racking breaths. “I’ll give him nuisance.”
By this time, the landlord-caretaker and his crew had taken note of the ruckus and hurried into the doorway, shock on their faces. Jean-Claude jabbed his finger at the caretaker. “You, se?or. This is the second time I have been attacked in your building, and you will have my undying curse if you do not aid me now. I want this man tied up, securely, and somebody fetch my driver.”
Several very busy minutes later, the bound swordsman had been loaded crossways on the floor of the chaise. Jean-Claude sat over top of him, resting one boot on the back of his neck. His vision still swam as if he were sky sick, but his stitched-up wound had not started bleeding again. Maybe after today he’d be able to let it rest and heal properly.
To the building’s nervous caretaker, he said, “If anyone comes asking after us, we’ve returned to the citadel.”
The caretaker gave profuse assurances that he would pass the words on precisely.
Mario flicked the reins and set the coach in motion. “Is this the surprise you were expecting?”
Jean-Claude closed his eyes and tried not to feel the carriage jostling. “I had hoped to draw my adversary out, or why else would I have come back?”
Mario’s eyebrows rose. “Risky.”
“I was the best bait I had to offer.” Better to be thought a clever madman than a lucky fool. “Once we leave sight of the building, take us around another way and head for the docks.”
*
Jean-Claude steeled himself against nausea as he limped up the gangway onto the Santa Anna, Mario and their prisoner in tow. Captain Santiago met him on deck, a quizzical expression on his face.
The captain raised a curious eyebrow. “Se?or musketeer, you are truly the last person I expected to see here. You have made your distaste for skyships quite plain.”
“And so this will be the last place anyone will come to look for me,” Jean-Claude said. “I am in need of a private location to interrogate this man.”
Santiago scowled. “You know I can’t allow that. This is a royal courier and—”
“This man was hired by the man who tried to burn your ship out of the sky. I hope to follow his lead back to his employer.”
Santiago skipped a single beat and then said, “I will have the turret emptied. The noise of repairs in the hold should serve to mask any screams you may elicit.”
The swordsman squirmed and shouted muffled protests through his gag.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Jean-Claude, lurching onto the deck. Thank the Builder the ship was not heaving right now, or Jean-Claude would have been joining it.
“Welcome aboard.”
Navigating the steep, narrow stairs taxed Jean-Claude’s strength and patience, and climbing back up was going to be worse, but eventually he and Mario, with the help of two burly sailors, bumped and banged the swordsman into the Santa Anna’s belly turret and secured him to a turvy mast.
Jean-Claude dismissed the sailors, but Mario took Jean-Claude aside and said, “I must stay. If he had managed to kill you, it would have been on my head. Don Angelo ordered me to keep you safe.”
It was Jean-Claude’s turn to be surprised. “I would not have warranted he prized my life so highly. Did he say why?”
“For la princesa’s sake.”
“That is good to know. I thank you.” But did Don Angelo mean for Mario to be a guard dog or a scapegoat?
Mario’s expression soured. “I have not done a very good job so far. When he finds out I failed to prevent you being attacked—”
“So don’t tell him. In fact, I recommend you don’t mention this little incident at all. I won’t, and our friend there sure as doomfire won’t, either.”
Mario looked relieved. “What are you going to do with him?”
“I’m going to start by talking to him. How it ends is up to him.” Jean-Claude ripped the gag out of the swordsman’s mouth. The man glowered at him—his close-set eyes were pits of hatred—but he held his tongue.
Jean-Claude sat down across from him on the butt of a cannon. “So, se?or … I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Nufio,” he muttered.
“Ah, very good. Se?or Nufio, shall I present you with your options, or shall we skip the preliminary threatening and get right down to you telling me what I want to know?”
“What happens if I answer your questions?”
“As soon as I verify the veracity of your story, you will be set free on solid ground. If you lie to me, we leave out the part about solid ground. A man proven to be dishonest once is not to be trusted a second time.”
The swordsman took a moment to mull this over, but only a moment. “He didn’t pay me to die. What do you want to know?”
“The man with the scar who hired you to kill me; what was his name?”