Mission Improbable

Oh, was he ever glad to be out of that damn tavern. As soon as the air hit his senses, however, Philip could smell the pong of fresh death mingling with the older gloom that still fragranced the city. There wasn't a moment to lose.

He kept close to Ffoulkes, waiting to see what would come next. Moreau as their guide could prove a grave mistake, or one orgasmic smile of Lady Luck. The next few hours would shine the light on the result of that gamble.

'We shouldn�t further divide our numbers,' the baronet heard Andrew say. 'We�re already splintered into four distinct groups . . . depleting our man-power.' Most of the league, if not every last member was in Paris. He paled as Ffoulkes shot him a meaningful look. Philip nodded in understanding. They could not afford to be scattered like ants throughout the place, there needed to be a solid plan. 'What about Vigor?' the man asked him. Glynde's lip twisted, trying to remember, but was forced to shake his head. He'd been to busy studying their new 'allies' to pay much attention to young Holte's accounts of who was to be found where.

'We don't want to lose anymore men in this god-cursed city!" Andrew grumbled, sending a grin to settle on Philip's face. Ffoulkes looked quite determined, and though this mission seemed all but impossible, Philip could almost hear the other man's brain at work. "I won't wager how many of those puppies are likely to leave their skins here." he said, looking after those following the departing marquise, hoping to god she wasn't as treacherous as...he closed his eyes on the thought.

The sound of Ffoulkes's laugh strartled him out of his bleak thoughts. 'The one thing we still own is a measure of surprise.' Philip's eyebrows aimed for the sky when Wallescourt seemed to appear out of nowhere. Philip nearly laughed as well as Ffoulkes issued Jeremiah his orders. The man was always so quiet, it was easy to forget his presence, even when he wasn't hiding.

He decided to pay attention, trying to puzzle together what Andrew was planning. His smile was quickly fading as Ffoulkes' words seemed to contradict his earlier statement of not wishing to split them up any more than they already were. '...just head straight for Dover, got it?'

"Dividing our numbers..." Philip finished for him, more than a little confused.

'...we concentrate everyone on those two fronts, minimizing our losses as well as the chance that our allies are not to be trusted.'

Philip breathed a sigh, and his smile reached his eyes for the first time since hearing that the Pimpernel had been taken. "Yes," he felt like celebrating. "we are dancing the same dance, after all." Chauvelin had underestimated Bakeney's seconds - as had Philip. Andrew seemed to have a gift of strategy all his own. The baronet no longer felt the need to understand every order given. Instead he nodded happily, and waved Andrew on. Moreau joining their ranks no longer bothered him as much. There was a bit of a fail-safe now. Though still dangerous as all hell, and very unlikely to succeed, their efforts to find their commander now looked more improbable than impossible. The odds were shifting ever so slightly in their favor.

As they hurried along, Philip felt as though a million poisonous spiders ran up and down his spine. He acknowledged the sensation, and let it pass without action, knowing full well what had brought it on. The baronet had caught the man watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

'Paladin of the Third Estate..' Hastings had named him. Though a familiar title in connection with the name, a nagging sense of unease nibbled at Philip's mind. There was a bigger alarm the name had raised in the baronet's subconscious. Moreau...What did he want of them?

He glanced back, and met his eye. A smirk settled on the other's face, as though he was mocking the Englishman's fading memory. Either the man was enjoying some sort of private joke at his expense, or he was attempting to flirt. Philip raised a brow. The baronet suppressed the very infantile urge to trip the paladin, and returned his gaze to the path in front of them, hoping that grinning like a loon wouldn't prove to be Moreau's most useful trait. The last thing they needed now was a jester or, worse yet, the unwelcome advances of another Plancher...

Sir Andrew, wearing an officer�s epaulettes, led his few troopers in a quick march toward La Force. A tidy group they were in spit-polished boots and neatly plaited hair, an altogether professional-looking bunch of seasoned recruits.

As they pulled up at the stairs leading up to the main door of the prison, Andrew thought he saw a flash of light, then blinked the improbability away. There was no one about but the two tired-looking sentries slouching on either side of the entrance. Pru took a minute to adjust his hat before returning to rigid attention.

�Apr�s vous, mon capitaine,� Wallescourt said in a slurring, sneering tone that was just loud enough so that the guards could hear. This bit of contempt was something he�d suggested would draw attention from Sir Andrew, and Ffoulkes was prepared for it.

Suddenly two new faces appeared at the door, and Andrew realized the flash of light had not been imagined � it had been a flash of sun striking an obscenely large silver belt buckle, worn by the slovenliest man Ffoulkes had ever encountered. He felt the guards� eyes fasten on him and his body stiffened before all four of them burst out laughing.

�Pardon?� he asked breathlessly as Pru shook his head. �Silence!�

Andrew stormed up the stairs, coming nose to nose with the ugliest of the group � the one with the belt � and demanded, �Are you the fool who demanded reinforcements?�

Ugly only grinned.

�Are you not aware that Satan�s imps are loose all over the damned city? It�s mayhem out there!� Ffoulkes waved over his shoulder at the sleepy street, then shouldered his way through the guards, who stood in a stunned huddle.

�Come on,� Wallescourt muttered and the rest of the league followed Andrew�s lead, shoving through the door. Glynde took the trouble to step on Ugly�s toes � the man howled as if he had bunions. Ffoulkes glanced at Glynde as he pulled up beneath a lantern that spread a dull orange light over the aged panelled walls. God, the place felt like they�d fallen down a rabbit-hole!

�This way,� Ffoulkes called, and his troops reformed and marched along the hall to a Holland door with the top half swung wide open, while the bottom half remained closed. A skeletal old man raised filmy eyes at them and blinked through thick spectacles.

�Capitaine De Launay reporting,� Ffoulkes said. The old man blinked. �I know what you�re thinking,� Andrew said in a tired-sounding tone. �I�m his brother � Vive la R�publique!� Snapping to attention, Andrew heard the league follow his lead behind him and they clicked their heels together and saluted in spit-spot English fashion.

The old man blinked again. �Eh? Laver? What do you wish to wash?� Andrew�s shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes and his lips moved in silent prayer as he bade God to give him patience. He spun round and startled his friends with a laugh. �I suspect we can do as we wish. Pru, let�s execute a precision about-face so that Monsieur Moreau might lead us to our destination.�

As they quick-marched past the main door, Ffoulkes observed that Ugly was standing in the middle of the road, arguing with one of the guards. No need to worry about anyone showing undue concern over their arrival, it seemed.

The bloody fool, Andrew thought as he faced the door, both locked and barred. Damnation, but Percy had really fixed it this time! Andrew had warned him there were better ways to defeat Chauvelin, but no, Percy had to confront the man directly. Had to wave the red flag right under his nose. Bloody fool!

"Right citizen," Andrew said, accenting the second word. "I believe you said something about having the key."

He looked over his shoulder at the guard hovering just outside one of the doorways, fingering a musket and looking a trifle worried. Obviously that was where they were keeping Blakeney. Ffoulkes flicked his eyes back to Moreau; really the key was the least of their worries when aligned against the guard, Chauvelin, the thickness of the door, the narrowness of the hall and the number of interruptions they were liable to encounter from here back to the door.

Oh, the irony of it all! Chauvelin thought as he paced predatorily around the near-corpse. He was protecting a man he�d as soon see dead � and Chauvelin most certainly wanted Percy dead. Now more than anything else. The vision of Sir Percy Blakeney on trial, barely able to stand much less comprehend the sentence throw at him � death! Sir Percy mounting the steps of the guillotine as the people spit on him and hurl their missiles at him. His head dropping into the basket, only to be snatched up and held aloft to the crowds� cheers. �The Fate of all who stand against the Revolution! The Scarlet Pimpernel is dead!� And Chauvelin brought his fall.

All for the greater glory, he reminded himself. �You�re death will be my crowning glory,� he muttered in the direction of the cot.

In his mind he was waiting to hear a great crack as the mobs splintered the door, but the distance for that entrance wouldn�t have carried such a sound. No, their entrance was heralded at first by a feeling, then the sound of screams. �Listen carefully, Sir Percy. Perhaps you may hear your wife.�

With Percy in the same fit as he was, Bathurst doubted there would be a rescue anytime soon � a bit of luck for Whore Cabarrus, whose neck he�d snap if he got the opportunity. If there was a rescue it would be Percy first off and only after would they look to saving his skin, which meant a long, long wait. �If they wait any longer they needn�t bother,� he muttered feverishly to himself.

Despite his care, he was certain one of his nailless toes was infected and would soon spread to the others, infecting the rest of the leg and eventually� well, he doubted the Frenchie would keep him around long enough for all that. Word was that Chauvelin and his cohorts were planning to side-step the trials and go straight to the execution, but inciting the people to wipe out the prisoners in their cells. The guards outside his cell where making wagers on which would be the first prison attacked. Evil bastards.

God had never made a race more despicable than the French!

Today, he heard little. The guards spoke in whispers. They�d even forgot to bring him the meager scraps that had sustained him since his capture � no use wasting food on the dead. If they were going to come in here however he�d break a few noses and heads before they took him down. He was bigger than the average frenchie and wouldn�t go down without a fight.

<Andre-Louis>

Moreau allowed Sir Andrew a glimpse of his Committee Pass, nestling in his coat pocket. "That's my key." he hissed "and provided Chauvelin's not around it'll let us walk into Blakeney's cell and cart him away at our leisure. Now, Bathurst's in the main block," he gave the directions the Teresia had given him. "The Citizeness tells me he's in a bad way. Chauvelin tortured him and made her watch... damned fool nearly blew her cover! Blakeney on the other hand is in Saint Bernard's Court, that way." he indicated with his head in the opposite direction. "The choice is yours Sir Andrew... both together or one at a time? I must go with you if you are to have any hope of rescuing your chief, but my pass should not be needed to gain access to Bathurst."

As he waited for a reply, Moreau wondered what Teresia was doing. Was she really going to close the net on all of them? Moreau had little to fear. He could say truthfully that he was part of her plan, but did he want to be? He'd gone searching for the Pimpernel on de Batz's request, because it suited his objective - to end the terror in order to marry Aline. Freeing the man would aid that goal, locking away his entire league would end in some very public executions... those trying to over-throw the new regime would be disheartened, discouraged, disillusioned... it could set everything back months!

'The choice is yours, Sir Andrew," said Moreau, then paced back a couple of feet as if Andrew needed space in which to think.

Bathurst or Blakeney? Which would be the more difficult "eviction"? Bathurst, injured, would weigh a ton and a half - it would likely take three, maybe four, men to carry him out. Blakeney, on the other hand, would be able to walk and would therefore move more quickly.

As Ffoulkes puzzled, he gazed impassively at Moreau, the infamous swordsman, and wondered again just what the man was playing at. The trouble with men who played both sides was that no one ever knew when they would turn their coats. Moreau was surprisingly good looking - for a Frenchie - and younger than Sir Andrew would have expected. So many of the demmed revolutionaries seemed to have only recently left the school room; their heads were still full of idealisms and their attitudes were so unyielding! Moreau was clean - squeaky clean - in a city where water was hard to come by. What did that say about the man? He had clean fingernails, too. And eyes that were cold. Deliberating. Nearly opaque, giving away nothing.

If Moreau was going to betray them, it would come while one group was freeing Bathurst and Ffoulkes was in the cell with Blakeney . . . a hand, heavy and hard dropped onto Andrew's shoulder. He startled and found himself looking into Moreau's straight-forward grey eyes.

"Choose. Quickly," the swordsman hissed through his teeth, impatience narrowing his eyes to slits.

Andrew paled. "We should retrieve Bathurst first." Andrew's head swum with uncertainty. God, god, was he making the right decision? "He's injured and it will take all our man-power to move him."

Moreau removed his hand with a curt nod, then stilled, looking at the door before them. Cocked his head, alert as a cat. Andrew's mouth went dry.

Damn, damn, damn! Ffoulkes swallowed his words, his heart hammering as the lot of them thunked their way up the stone steps, sounding like a regiment on the run. Well, whoever was behind them knew they weren't alone, that much was for certain.

For all that Andrew's hands were frozen with fear, his palms were sweat-slicked . . . which he discovered as he grabbed for the handle of his sword. Oh, God, he didn't want to die here in France! Rescuing Blakeney and thumbing his nose at Chauvelin was one thing, but he was too young to become a pile of bones in this God-cursed place.

Andrew reached out and tweaked Moreau's coat-tail; the swordsman turned, his face hardened by his thoughts. Mere minutes ago Andrew had imagined the man handsome; now Moreau's mouth was a rigid line, his grey eyes stony cold, and Andrew remembered with a shock that he was keeping company with a professional killer.

His breath came out in a hot rush. "I just thought of something. Let the rest go to rescue Bathurst. You and I should be able to manage Blakeney."

Now everyone had stopped on the stairs, turned and were staring in confusion at Sir Andrew. "Devinne and Wallescourt will have Vigor to aid them, and MacKenzie and Kulmstead are on the doors - well, they're supposed to be, at any rate. God, I hope Fanshawe is downstairs with a wagon! Uh, Wallescourt, were you able to make contact with him?"

"Aye sir. Saint Denys and Galveston have a wagon and they were going to hide it just beyond the prison gates. It's dark by now and without a torch no one will know it's there."

"I just hope we can find it then."

Wallescourt rolled his eyes expressively. "Look Ffoulkes, Fanshawe is waiting by the stairs to lead you right to it."

In the silence that followed, there came a scream, so shrill that it penetrated the prison's ancient stone walls. Wallescourt shuddered. "What was that?"

"Don't ask," Devinne said and every one of them thought of the massacre that everyone in the streets had been speaking of. Was it now? Tonight? Here? Andrew could hardly breathe as the thought to hold of him.

"Look," Devinne said, "I say we get moving one way or the other. We're going for Bathurst, yes?"

"Yes, go," Ffoulkes said. "Go for Bathurst. If you can't get him in, say, 10 minutes, leave. Just go. Better we limit the number of dead, because you'll be dead if you delay."

The troop moved on in the direction of Bathurst's cell. Moreau turned to Ffoulkes and looked sullenly expectant.

"I forgot one important thing," Ffoulkes said hurriedly, "Chauvelin doesn't know we're here. Numbers and force are not necessarily the issue. I'm a passin' fair swordsman myself and we should be more than a match for whatever we have to face. Let's just get Blakeney and walk him out as if we had a pass and orders. I'm dressed as a lieutenant after all, and you're a deputy � we have the rank to take him to . . . uh, the Palais de Justice. For questioning, let's say."

<Andre-Louis>

A passin' fair swordsman... that told Moreau volumes about the undercurrents of hostility that had been coming from the Englishman. My sword's bigger than your sword, and all that! Actually, from the confident way Sir Andrew held the weapon Moreau guessed he was being modest about his abilities. Six, thought Moreau with a macabre sense of detachment... Sir Andrew Ffoulkes would be a six stroke challenge, maybe even seven, or eight if he got really lucky. Moreau had faced few that would take so long to disarm.

"Right," replied Moreau, wondering whether it was all just folly, for no sword was ever a match for a well-primed pistol. "But sheath your sword and slow down. No deputy ever runs. If we are to be convincing, we must behave as they would expect." He followed Sir Andrew back towards the passage leading to St Bernard's Court.

Pretending a confidence he didn't feel, Ffoulkes sheathed his sword and deliberately slowed his steps. The stink of the prison was giving him the willies - it must be that. Normally, he was able to . . . another blood-curdling scream stopped him cold. He glanced over at Moreau who had also stopped walking, holding his head cocked to one side.

"Wasn't that closer than the last one?" Andrew asked, flushing with embarrassment at the way his voice cracked. "It sounded like it was right below us" - but no sooner had he said it, than Andrew realized the sound was even closer than that.

There was a commotion at the end of the corridor just out of view. A man yelled in fear, the shout was abruptly silenced, followed by the sound of a stampede. . . coming in their direction. Every curse word Andrew knew in French vanished out of his head and he turned back toward Moreau in silent dread.