1

Jean woke to the sound of his own breathing, a relieving sort of sound, the rough, quiet sighing as his chest fell, a faint whistling as he breathed in again. It quickly annoyed him, as he tried to close his eyes again, and he rubbed the flat of one skeletal hand against his nose, sniffing lightly from the irritating hay. Looking over the side of the loft, he noted that neither the German sun nor her people had roused just yet, though the lovely mare below whinnied softly in the blue light. The horse would ease his journey considerably, but a horse would be hard to hide. She whinnied again as he groaned sorely, folding one foot into his lap and examining the blisters of his journey before he shod them again with what remained of the wood and leather, a disguising pair of poorly crafted peasant shoes to begin with.

Breakfast consisted of the last bit of sausage he had tried to save, slowly spoiling in his pocket the last few days. Even as his stomach moaned, Jean savored the rancid taste and climbed weakly down the ladder to the ground and to the stores of oats, gorging himself on them until he was left slumping sickly against the sack. Running a hand through his hair, thin and slick with grease, he could only ponder how long it had been since he’d been able to stop and bathe—a month, he thought, though he had caught a rain and a light shower a week prior, which had only caused his feet to become more mangled and clothes to dry stiffly about him. Licking his cracked lips, he at last gave in to the object of his greedy stare since the previous night, the well beside the little German cottage.

Eyeing the dark windows all the while, he crossed the open yard and set shaking hands to the pulley, drinking from the pail when at last it reached the stone brim, scrubbing furiously at his grimy face and arms. A faint golden light caught his attention when at last these desires had been quelled, and he turned to glance over his shoulder at the window again, meeting the gaze of a middle-aged woman in her sleeping bonnet and a curious, light-haired boy fighting to look over the high sill.

“Entschuldigen Sie bitte,” he offered meekly, attention turning instead to the German farmer, who shared the same light and disheveled hair as his child. The man bore a reaper threateningly, accustomed to cutting down what Jean had discovered the night before to be a rather unsatisfying crop of barley.

“Gehen Sie,” he cut in sharply, far from pity to the criminal looking stranger. The fellow had thin, narrow features like a rat, his black eyes all but hidden by his dripping locks and poorly shorn beard. “Geh!” He ordered again, causing the Frenchman to jump and retreat a few steps backward and finally turning to continue on his road toward Denmark, only looking once over his shoulder when he heard the pail drop back into the well, the farmer still standing defensively beside it.

He hadn’t been sure how adamantly they would pursue, but returning to an area now well-populated with the British and their allies as much as the French themselves, Jean assumed they at least wouldn’t expect him there. If he reached Denmark…then he could go anywhere.

“Monsieur Badeau.”

Three men stood at the door of the Polish homestead, only one of which he faintly recognized from the Consulate’s ball three or four years earlier. He wore the same aristocratic scowl, full of the smugness Jean had come to expect and detest in his colleagues. The middle of the group was a younger and more handsome man, with a stronger jaw, clean cut, and short blonde hair carefully arranged to accent his features.

“Allow me to introduce myself—may we?” Gesturing inside, he smiled more genuinely despite the cold glint in his gray eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jean opened quickly, noting at least that they were not enemies—or at least shouldn’t have been given normal circumstances. Welcoming them in, he showed them to a humble sitting arrangement, leaning forward in his own seat to see what this was all about, a knot already forming around his stomach. Gabby…they’d learned about Gabby and thought it was him? Surly that would have been addressed on a lower level for the man’s own desertion… but combined with Estelle’s disappearance. He couldn’t be trusted so distant, with such an easy escape and unsteady reputation even regardless of his staunch imperialist partner.

Smiling, Jean lifted his brows lightly, playing off the solemn air with practiced skill. “Are we being withdrawn? The Emperor’s moving in already?” With a laugh, he answered his own question. “What a glorious day this is, gentlemen. I hardly thought I would live to see the conquering of all of Europe. Shall I bring you gentlemen a bottle of wine? It’s hardly French, I’m afraid, but—”

“Monsieur Badeau,” the younger man interjected, his smile becoming less patient. “Our observations here are not yet complete. In fact, the information you two have been delivering so far has proved relatively useless.” Noticing Jean’s over enthusiasm, he continued. “I believe you’ve actually been expecting such developments as these now before you, so you can hardly act surprised. Indeed, despite what the people in Aix-en-Provence have claimed, it seems to me your days for acting are well on their last leg. You will be returning to Paris to undergo trial yet again, given a few new developments in your case: your wife and brother gone from the country, your leaking of information. Yes, now you are starting to realize, I think.”

Jean’s blanched face reflected the statement, even as he stuttered to deny the accusations. “I trust,” the man continued above the stammering, “that I shall not need to place you in shackles to return you home, Badeau.” He continued to sit cockily, tilting his head curiously for an answer, while the surlier fellows stood to apprehend him.

“I trust you can expect that much, yes,” Jean answered curtly, pursing his thin lips angrily, even as fear continued to undo him beneath the surface. “I am, after all, innocent of these charges you lay against me. My wife, Monsieur, the contemptible slut, left me—and stole a great sum of money, I might add.” He stood as well, facing off with the shorter man beside him. “My brother was a loyalist in the Revolution, quite accustomed to pinning himself against his government since the monarchy has been forced out. No doubt, considering his fondness towards my wife—as much time as they spent together in my absence, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the source of the leak and they’d gone off together!” He was careful not to mention his knowledge of the unmentioned Sylvestre. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and smoothed his shirt, forgetting for a moment that he was not in the costume of a pompous Frenchman to match his words.

“Now, gentleman,” he stressed the word again to display his own contrary belief, as he forced a similar cold smile. “I would be more than happy to produce documentation in Paris to support my claims. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall gather my things and leave notice for my companion.” Accompanied by the largest of the three in this task, he played about his bedroom, packing clothes and important papers. The rosary, he found on the desk, running his fingers lightly over the smooth wooden surface, his thumb across the string of beads… He tucked the trinket in his jacket pocket instead, knowing the heavy suitcase would not be tugged along with him. He straightened the stack of papers on the desk, staring out the window into the maze of Polish streets. The pair of gunshots stirred the other two from their seat, though each shot had failed to meet its mark.

Monsieur Gautier lay slumped against the wall holding his shoulder, while Monsieur Badeau disappeared in the market crowd holding his side, grateful for the first time at being so thin.

As he walked, Jean examined the scar at his side, a faint purple pink now against his pale skin. He ran his fingers over it, then over the prominent jut of his ribs, like a worn old English greyhound, no longer fit to race. And as had become habit every day, as his lead heavy feet scraped along the path toward the next settlement, Jean held his rosary before him, fingers moving gracefully from bead to bead, from prayer to prayer. By nightfall, a deserted shack proved itself a decent shelter, despite the roof being half caved in. By nightfall, the hunger he had at last put to rest burned wretchedly in his gut once more, barring him from sleep and reducing him to tears until a quick bite on his ankle stirred him. Hardly fearing the source of the attack, he leapt upon the creature, feeling a lump of fur whisk through his fingers, another brushing past his leg as he madly clambered for the small rats, each escaping his grasp in the overcast night.

For some time, his fingers groped only dirt until Jean sat back on his feet, howling bestially and gripping his lice infected hair. “Pourquoi? Porquoi mon Dieu?” With only the striking of thunder as answer, he screamed toward the sky, bathing him in its wan light through the broken roof. And tearing the rosary from his pocket again, he hurled it against the opposite wall, no great distance from him. “Why are you doing this to me?!”

The rain fell only in the neighboring valley, though the sound helped nurse him off to sleep. The following morning, he discovered the shack had been built beneath an apple tree. Resting there for a few days, he managed a small meal, lighting a fire with a piece of flint and the top of a hoe from the shack to cook the less desirable portion of the meal. Inside, beside his recovered rosary, he also found an old pair of boots and in grateful tears and some semblance of comfort, a jacket full of apples over one shoulder, Jean continued the tedious journey once more.

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2. Claude Marie Meursault:

All the way through Germany and France, Claude had considered the words of the moody German, smiling fondly at random points along his road and nodding to his fellow travelers in a manner quite unlike him. This new approach certainly hadn’t been evoked by any actual affection towards the moody doctor due to his obvious and outspoken dislike for all Claude stood for, but the Frenchman had found some heavy element of sincerity in the man’s care for his patient all the same. It wasn’t that he owed the man anything physically or in memory with thanks and sums exchanged; the man didn’t insist upon such recompense. No, he certainly hadn’t saved his life out of necessity, not out of expectation for reward. Claude had wondered at various times along the path if, because Reinhart had such a relationship with his God, if he had prayed for his inert ward. More often, however, he wondered what it would mean to him if the doctor had.

Though he expected this internal quest to tire him and the subject to drop, it continued to pop up, a pleasant theological discourse recalling his classical education for the Sophistic self-guided point and counter point. Whether or not he hoped to prove himself an adept atheist was uncertain, though at the least, he could say the doubt left him with the semi-definite title of agnostic. Damn, how obscure the world had become with such an unrealized lapse of time.

Yet after a general show of unmasked surprise by the people, by Fouché, by the emperor, business continued as it always had. True, they were more surprised by his story than by his survival, it seemed—the fact that the horror story of continuing German occult practices matched with the exact tale told by Jean Badeau, even as he denounced the man as a fiend and traitor who sought the destruction of their good people. These malicious tones he only heightened when informed that the actor had fled the country soon after all his family. How true was the Greek gift at prophecy, when the word ‘actor’ translated to a ‘liar.’

The business of Paris distracted him for a short while, all internal musings diminished with growing worldly concerns. His worth as a spy had been compromised due to the publicity of Badeau’s trial, not to mention the near capture in England. With his powers of persuasion proving fully intact, however, Claude assured his colleagues that unlike some spies, he had taken the utmost care in protecting his identity while in England. No one would remember his face, more malleable even than the theatre pouffe’s, he claimed. There was still work to be done in England, work he refused to trust to his son, a novice in the most dangerous of affairs. Most of all, and this he dared not reveal to Fouché, there was a woman of some influence with the English forces who had, in his overconfidence, been made aware of his occupation. It was excuse enough for everyone else that he was the most versed in Badeau’s mannerisms from their forced companionship that he could quickly locate and dispose of the traitor before too much harm was done. Luckily, his own death saved him from any untimely exposure, and if God was willing to spare him, let him ally to the French cause as well if he felt so inclined. Why else spare a man such as himself? That action alone was enough to prove that either God had no mercy… or no reason.

“Yes, I expected nothing less from her, if the truth be told,” he answered his son with a fond smile, packing his thick suitcase with its worn, lower-class appearance. “But I told her when I left that--love her though I believe did at the time, who can know for sure?—Events were drawing me elsewhere. As a good husband, I would continue to support her and let her find love and pleasure in my equal or better. I’m pleased to hear it is finally so.” He heaved down on the case a few times before being able to close the front latches.

“Hardly,” Marie countered smiling, toying with an ornate letter opener with a carved ivory handle. “He’s an arrogant Spaniard with the worst French accent I’ve ever heard. Military wealth—he has no tact, no education, and the man’s a helpless drunk all too eager to squander your money before she can lay hold of it.”

“You thought you could turn the bastard on his heels at the sight of you all done up and ready to ruin yourself for the glory of France?”

Marie lifted his lip a little, a sarcastic, aristocratic smile perfectly resembling the restrained sneer of his father. “Now that I’m a man, I thought it time to find you—only to hear news of your death. Perhaps I wanted a share in the glory. Perhaps I wanted to know you at last—like Theseus to Aigeus. Sums are enough for shallow whores eager for security. I wanted something more.”

Smiling half-heartedly, Claude crossed to his writing desk, taking out a sheet of parchment, dipping a dusty pen in an ink well, and tracing a line of neat scroll across the golden surface. “Don’t call your mother a whore, Marie.” He stood again after completing the short note, offering it to his son, as he freed his hands to grip him gently by the shoulders. “Soon I can devote all the time you require, that we both require. You do not know how often I’ve thought of you these past years, even if it may not seem so. You may stay here. Keep aloft of the happenings. Join in the dogged politics; you have as quick a tongue as when you were a bratty child, haha.

“But write to me as often as you like, Marie. All I ask is that you write only in English and only addressed to James Mallory. Send it by this post through Germany to this address. My answers may be slow as a result, but they will come. Don’t mention anything about my work or France. This is only for the two of us.” He patted both shoulders again, smiling and embracing the young man. “Come and join me to the docks at least. I’m eager to hear just now of all your pursuits and adventures.”

Shaking his head, Claude stirred easily in the uncomfortable bowels of the ship, feeling his stomach swaying unsteadily with the choppy waters of the English Channel. A moment later, dressed in ratty peasant’s attire, the Frenchman stepped onto English soil unquestioned and began to push his way through the mob lingering about the docks and through the market to locate a cab. His small cottage just outside the city would prove much less conspicuous than the exposed apartment Jean had chosen for his role, and a splendid location from which he could easily dispose of corpses.

Claude Marie Meursault:

While the stout German woman busied herself with the dishes, Claude saw little alternative but to be submitted to the duties of beating rugs and sheets out with a flat woven bat of sorts, often covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve or cravat, sometimes retreating the area for a moment to cough and wheeze dramatically at the side of the house before feeling able to continue. Certainly, during their previous assignments in England, Jean had been the one to really dirty his hands. Claude found it much easier to appease his goals with secrecy, cunning, mysterious cab accidents, poisons, listening at doors and windows. In the most extreme, a gun shot in the middle of a deserted alleyway suited him much more than sneaking into a man’s house to stab him in his sleep.

Claude sneered. What the devil was wrong with peasants? At the very least, Frau Busch behaved most civilly. Though he found the Germans overall to be outstanding in their moral solidity, their impeccable character, he had always found women in general to be better behaved than their savage companions. The courage of Zenobia in defending Rome from the Sassanid Empire only to be humiliated by her Emperor, captured and marched through the streets of the capital as a criminal; the wisdom of the female ascetics that followed Jerome to Israel, besting even him in their knowledge of language and the Bible once freed from oppressive marriage for chastity dedicated to their God; the fortitude and loyalty of a mistreated race in duty to their country and their home—surely all these points verified the superiority of women. Perhaps that's why women of every nation seemed able to call each other 'sister.' And why should the even-keeled stoicism of high-ranking men be favored over the emotion displayed by others? he wondered, beating the sheet again with less reaction than before. Was it not emotion that fueled the love of one’s country, that provided the passion with which one defended their views as upstanding, that reigned in a man of evil from terrible deeds for fear of the consequences?

Where did he fall in such a rigid spectrum?

Sighing, Claude shook his head, tucking the handle of the wand in the back of his breeches and beginning to take down the sheets and fold them neatly, stacking them to carry them inside. More fortunate for the nerves perhaps not to dwell on such things, he supposed, but why did he feel such guilt, such depravation in imprisoning these three women? Self-interest soon clouded these musings, whatever the case, and closing his arms awkwardly around the tower of cloth, working the doorknob with his elbow, the Frenchman staggered inside and stowed the pieces away in a closet. A conspicuous hole in the corner caused another frown to pass his lips, and he nudged a rat trap into the mouth of the opening contemptuously, not even bothering to bait it.

Of course, already familiar with Diana’s habit of managing his household—not entirely against his pleasure considering the state of it, Claude supposed it would be best to warn her of the trap in the event she had some purpose in mind for the sheets. He certainly had no wish to summon a doctor to the cottage on account of a broken finger or some infection. Heavens, how much more complex the conspiracy would become in such a case. Certainly, there were far fewer doctors that spoke little enough English or were elated enough to find work that they would fail to notice Mrs. Kennedy’s distress. And certainly his handsome stories would not pass unexplored under the glass of a learned man working against the very will of God. Should they not let the diseased die or suffer if it was His will? Claude did not imagine he ever would understand the thought processes of such hypocrites, but he also supposed he’d never been sick enough to consider them a great addition to society. He thought of Reinhart and grimaced knowingly.

The door opened quietly. Perhaps that was why she’d chosen the room, when all other hinges, it seemed, would herald her escape. Hannah was sleeping peacefully on the bed, tiny lips pursed lightly in consideration of some bizarre dream, while her mother sat elegantly at the writing desk. The complete renewal of Claude’s suspicious demeanor required only a moment’s hesitation, and crossing briskly with heavy steps, he plucked the paper from over her shoulder, drawing a thick scribble of black across the lower half. Yet with only the recipient read, Claude snorted, taking on a pose of detestable cockiness as he flicked the light page back carelessly before her.

“Your husband?” He scoffed, lip rising in that characteristic French sneer. Had he realized how similar his explanations to Ewa had been, that Archie had truly died at sea, he may not have felt so inclined to torment her, trampling on her noble husband’s grave. “Did you think he could speed you some rescue from the Mediterranean? Did you think he could really help you?” Turning his head lightly to the side, he narrowed his eyes, shaking his finger at her as if in some greater revelation. “No—no, perhaps you thought to out wile your gullible French captor? A letter to the sea with nothing but the usual affections, when perhaps you meant to send the oblivious German to a different friend, one that could more easily recognize your danger, reading between such carefully crafted eloquence?

“You listen to me, Diana,” he continued threateningly, drawing closer still. “If you so much as think of getting in touch with anyone, be it your husband or Admiral Hart himself, I will not hesitate to make you regret your decision. If you are not so cautious with your own life, consider the ignorant nurse. I know, at least, that you patriots are less willing to betray the innocent. If it comes to it, however, consider too how dear Mr. Kennedy might remember you, the cruel mother orphaning her child—his child, all in the name of a county that will pass in a few centuries regardless of what you do now. I doubt it would suffice to tell you I would treat her well.”

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3. Angelo Torricelli:

The soft sighing of slow southern waves beating against the hull outside matched the steady rhythm of the boy’s, the reassuring rise and fall of the thin chest with its ribs even more pronounced with each intake of breath. Josiah looked peaceful lying their on his cot, angelic with his light hair sprawled over a down pillow, sheets of rich silk wrapping his form provocatively as in the paintings of the Renaissance. A priest had told him once that the robe sin the painting had been added later to cover up all the nudity of the classical style, and that was why the clothing covered only very little. What he’d been doing talking to a priest would forever remain a mystery. Angelo smiled and sipped his morning wine, watching Twig’s foot twitch lightly in his sleep.

The last two days had been stressful. In fact, he had never regretted his responsibilities as captain of the ship and wondered if the trouble amounted from the uncivilized nature of his crew, his own ineptitude, or a devastating combination of the two. At the very least, his lack of ability as an authority figure seemed well established with his mates, and perhaps that was the source of their behavior. Angelo had been frustrated to punishment as rarely as he captured a decent prize, and as evident as it often appeared that the crew was on the edge of mutiny, the captain’s benevolent attitude often proved enough to ward such harsh sentiments away. The Italian preferred to be liked, whether or not his skills were appreciated, to be seen as a member of the crew, but too many of the ship’s number had served under the rigid but dependable structure of the British navy. They seemed the keenest to revolt without results.

Angelo sipped the wine again, finishing off the glass and frowning, running a hand through his hair. It had grown to his ears in thick dark curls by this point, as they were rounding the tip of Africa to pick up more supplies in Madagascar. In this dreadful place, the civilized Brits would be the least of their worries, and he knew the rag tag crew wouldn’t be intimidating any fellow pirates that had their eye on the quick little vessel. Raising Madagascar, a pirate nation of sorts so far removed from a modern world of wigs and cravats (so removed, in fact, that they may not have even realized, as Angelo, that wigs were out of style), had proved a source of great anxiety in light of recent events. Bart had been removed from his newly appointed position due to Dagfinn’s explanation of events. Before reaching England, Bart’s loyalty had been unquestionable, but even he was bound to turn his teeth on him after such a humiliation. A frightening number of the crew voiced their disapproval of Dagfinn’s assessment, if not enough to sway the democratic vote. They knew, as Angelo did, that the Norwegian was not to be crossed. Perhaps they also knew as he did that their few successes had been at the hands of the gifted master. In fact, if any mutiny were to come, the man was likely to instigate it himself, though he seemed too proud to seek help from any of the barbaric pirates. Had all this amounted from his relations with Twig? How ironic to at last feel a connection with one of his partners after unheard of promiscuity only to be countered now by the justice of democracy. Damned Greeks, not to be trusted even when bearing gifts… Perhaps it was Rousseau’s support of political upheaval, but no one ever said the French were trustworthy either.

Blaylock got off with the punishment intended for Twig, for provoking a fight with a fellow shipmate. Twig got off with a warning for giving in to the provocation, but compared to the navy life the drummer had been stolen from, Angelo knew how swayed the justice would appear. Another stroke of luck was the distraction provided by new ship mates. After spying the approaching ship, many had been ready to loosen the tense air with a bit of cannon practice, but a peaceful rendezvous arranged by flag at least loosened their schedules by providing two more hands for duties in the scantily manned crew. At the very least, for the moment Jack and Jesse would be in a tougher spot than he would. Would they join the mutiny building over the last few years without knowing the nature of their captain or their crew? The numbers remained close on either side. One more slip, though…and those numbers would shift. Depending on the extremity of his mistake, he’d be kicked off in port, left to starve on an island, drowned, keel-hauled, or who knew what else…his friends and supporters alongside him, Twig. Maybe in that respect Dagfinn’s advice would be for the best.

Just let me get to India…If I can just make it there, the smuggling will make up for all the other losses. Smuggling I can do—charm, deceit, crafty escapes… Hermes would be the patron god of such characteristics. After stealing the cattle of Apollo on the first day of his life, Hermes had appeased his wrathful brother by giving him many marvelous gifts, the very lyre for which the god of prophecy came to be known. If he could appease the crew with a few lavish feasts, festivities, perhaps they would spare him long enough to achieve the fame and riches they longed for as well. Luck… he really needed a stroke of good luck for just a few days.

The golden light, bobbing slowly up and down with the motion of the Sirena, began to blink against Twig’s eyes as it filled the cabin. Angelo smiled lightly again, inclining his head forward to watch the young man awaken, running a hand admiringly along his tanned cheek with its dots of adolescent stubble. “Did you sleepa well, Josie?”

Ex-Captain Angelo Torricelli:

The way the light shined in the window, Angelo was certain he was dead, was watching the pearly gates get further and further away as if he hadn’t been certain throughout his life that religion was true, and he was willingly denying any semblance of a religious life. It was too cold to be hell, of course. He had never bothered reading Dante…Maybe there was a level of hell for those who hated the cold and another for those that hated the heat—fire and brimstone to starboard, hailstorm and hurricane to port.

At last, he shifted his gaze from the light, blinking as dark spots hovered about a familiar room—not hell, but close enough to it in his condition. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone, the second that the ship was quiet as the grave, and the third that his map and pistols were gone from the table. Another shiver sent pain shooting through his body, turning his stomach like a tossing storm. Curling around his middle, he waited for the feelings to pass, trying to overcome the dizziness as he tried weakly to sit up and investigate matters.

Angelo tried to tell himself that Twig must have taken command in his stead—the reason for the boy’s absence, but he couldn’t shake his suspicion of the British master, the doctor with his questionable loyalties…not to mention the disgruntled Norwegian. The idea that he may have been poisoned, that this was not some pestilence raining down from heaven to damn him for sodomy and greed, quickly hardened his disposition, and he swung his legs over the hammock, choking back on the feelings of nausea and sinking to his knees again before a chest. Producing the key from a secret compartment in the lid, he unlocked it, rummaging through random treasures he’d acquired over the years until he found a dagger with an ivory handle and a small, concealable pistol. By the time he loaded it, Angelo found himself in a sweat, the room darkening for a moment.

Shaking the dizziness and fatigue off once again, he locked the chest, returning the key to its hiding place and glancing at the door, wondering if it had always appeared so far away—if it would even be open if he got there…if Twig wasn’t out there either. Mutiny—he never would have gone along with it, but without him, nothing stood between himself and death, he reasoned. Of course, all the reasoning brought him no closer to the door and brought him no strength to attempt bringing himself there. Tucking the weapons in at his waist, covering them with his shirt, he leaned heavily against the wall, calling for Josiah, trying to raise his strained voice to reach the boy outside.

He’d kill whoever put him in such a state, and with Twig on his side, it wouldn’t be hard to convince the good doctor to come in to check on him—if he didn’t manage to faint before shooting the bastard.

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