Pyres of the Sixth Ward Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Tim Paulson. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission excepting brief quotations for use in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  Cover design and internal illustrations by Mark Smith Illustration

  First Edition: January 2020

  Ikkibu publishing

  Other books by Tim Paulson:

  Arcane Renaissance series:

  Path of Ruin

  Betrayal at Goliath Gate

  Coming soon!

  Boneknight

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who helped make this novella possible but especially my extraordinary wife and sons who supported me in every step of the process.

  Additional thanks to the following invaluable people, creatures, artificial beings and human like entities:

  Milo

  Hal 9000

  Blizzard

  Spiders

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  End

  Pyres of the Sixth Ward

  August 1572

  On the first sunny day after a long period of rain, two men stood apart in an open park on the outskirts of Pigalle in the ninth ward of the city of Pallus. They were surrounded by a small crowd of well dressed onlookers. One of the two, the far better dressed, stood tall with his long nose angled decidedly upward, pulling at his thin waxed mustache. The other, wearing the cheap sweat stained work clothes of a craftsman, had his long brown hair hastily tied behind his head with a spare candle wick.

  A crisply dressed attendant approached holding a case.

  “You have selected the rapier for your duel. Please, take one.”

  Monsieur De la Cour stepped forth. “As I am the aggrieved party in this matter. I will select first, of course.”

  “You! You're... You're nothing but a stuffed shirt! You think you intimidate me with your lace collar and your golden snuff box? You've never worked a day in your life!”

  De la Cour smiled wanly. “Why, I'm sure you're right. Thank God for that!” he said as he took a sword from the box.

  Several chuckles issued from the crowd.

  The younger man turned to face the rest of them. “ What about the rest of you? Are you just as accomplished as this man? Living off the money of others? Making wild accusations! Disgusting!”

  De la Cour raised his rapier toward his face, inspecting the blade closely. “Please do not insult my guests any more than they are already offended by your foul odor monsieur candle maker.”

  More laughter from the onlookers, especially one woman who was holding a satchel of potpourri to her nose.

  “If you had only agreed to my terms we would not be in this position, I think? Hmm?” De la Cour said as he stepped back and slashed his chosen blade through the air several times. “This will do nicely.”

  “Disgusting,” the young man said again, grimacing. “Your terms were unacceptable.”

  “Yes, well I plan to renegotiate with your corpse. I've a feeling he'll be far more amenable,” De la Cour said with a smile.

  “You! You!” The young man spat on the ground, pointing an angry finger.

  The attendant gestured again toward the box. “Please, monsieur, select your sword.”

  “Do not touch that blade my man!” said a man's voice from the edge of the crowd.

  “Pierre no!” said a woman's voice.

  De la Cour raised an eyebrow in annoyance, turning his head toward the commotion. “Who dares interrupt this lawful gentleman's duel?”

  The man pushed his way through the crowd. He wore the uniform of the Pallus guard and the insignia of captain. Pausing to bow deeply, he removed a large brimmed hat.

  “I am Captain Jacques De Voulon of the Pallus guard from the sixth ward. Please excuse my tardiness.”

  The woman ran in behind, wrapping her arms around the young man. “Pierre no! I told you this was a mistake! We should leave Pallus!”

  “Marie! We cannot! Please go, leave me to do this in peace,” the young man replied.

  “Get this woman off the field!” De la Cour shouted. “I demand to know the meaning of this affront! Why has a guard captain from a different ward come? As I said this duel is entirely within the law!”

  Jacques stood, replacing his hat upon his head. “You are quite right Monsieur De la Cour. I would not dream of interrupting your duel.”

  “Then kindly take yourself from the field!” De la Cour snapped.

  “My apologies. That I cannot do,” Jacques replied. He put a white gloved hand squarely on the candle maker's chest, pushing him out of the way, back toward the crowd.

  “Monsieur please!” the man protested but the young woman clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “What?! Explain this outrage!” De la Cour demanded, pulling so seriously on his own mustache it was a wonder the hair did not tear out by the root.

  Jacques faced him, bending over the dueling case, wherein a single rapier made of what appeared to be well fashioned steel lay. “ It has come to my attention that the man behind me is my cousin, three times removed sure, but most assuredly it is the case.”

  “Preposterous!” De la Cour said.

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd.

  “And as such, knowing quite well that my poor cousin was so woefully unprepared for a duel with a gentleman like yourself, being as he is merely a maker of candles, I rushed right over at the request of his beloved wife...” Jacques frowned and looked behind him. “What's your name again my dear?”

  “Marie!” she called back, having ushered her husband nearly to the edge of the crowd.

  “Yes of course, Marie!” Jacques said with a smile. “At the request of Marie to serve as her husband's champion.”

  De la Cour grumbled and waved his hand dismissively. “So be it... I will dispatch you first and then your idiot... cousin.”

  Jacques took the remaining rapier from the case. The attendant bowed, closed the case, and stepped back. “Now why would you do that? Having killed me would your honor not be satisfied?” Jacques asked.

  De la Cour snorted, his eyes darting to the departing couple, in particular to Marie. “My honor will not be satisfied until I have that girl.”

  Jacques nodded. “As I suspected.”

  “En garde!” De la Cour said with a sneer.

  “En garde,” Jacques replied, raising his sword to the ready position.

  The first strike came more quickly and from a different angle than Jacques might have expected had he not spoken to several others about De la Cour. He parried it easily but with a sloppy swiping motion intended to enrage his opponent.

  “Oh you think you're that much better do you?” De la Cour snapped as he lunged forward.

  Jacques smiled, parrying again before responding with a sharp series of slashes and thrusts that drove his opponent back, causing gasps from the assembled oglers. He finished it with a poke that neatly severed one of the buttons from the man's very expensive waist coat. That was a thing the man might have removed if he'd expected to have an actual duel rather than an easy victory.

  The day was hot and the air moist, but not enough for the amount of sweat pouring from De la Cour's brow. Jacques had to admit, he was enjoying it, as he slashed twice more, clanging his blade against De la Cour's, preparing him for the final
thrust. It would go directly through this detestable man's black empty heart.

  De la Cour dropped his sword.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” he said. “Surely a man of honor such as yourself wouldn't kill a man who's dropped his rapier?”

  Jacques sighed. “Of course not. We can reset.”

  De la Cour bowed. “How generous of you monsieur captain,” he said. Yet as he picked up his sword he did something to it, something odd. He sprinkled a powder upon the blade. Jacques only barely saw the movement.

  “Did you drop your snuff as well?” he asked.

  De la Cour returned to reset in front of Jacques at the center of the crowd, “Oh yes. I do apologize. Things are just falling from my person. How unfortunate.. FOR YOU!” he yelled as he vaulted forward, slashing directly at Jacques's face.

  Only his training saved him. His instructor's voice always drilling him about the penultimate importance of maintaining position and distance in a duel. Instinctively as the other man's rapier came on, he backed off. This was why, when rich man's blade cut his own in two, the tip only severed the lower portion of Jacques's goatee, and not his throat.

  More gasps from the crowd as Jacques backed off from the next wide slash and barely dodged the thrust that followed, trying to come to terms with what had happened. Why was the man's weapon glowing that pale blue?

  De la Cour's sneer became a wild and gleeful grin. “Die you papist fool!” he said as he lunged yet again. “You cannot run from me forever!”

  Somehow Jacques doubted his opponent would show him the same mercy were he to drop his weapon. He had to think and fast.

  Whatever the man had put upon his blade had come from his snuff box. Though it surely was not snuff, that didn't mean a little of his own couldn't help.

  Luckily, in his enthusiasm for murder, De la Cour had become somewhat overzealous. His slashes and thrusts were overly powerful and therefore poorly targeted. It gave Jacques crucial seconds to find his opening and exploit it with a feint followed by a forward roll, past his adversary, through the mucky terrain.

  Someone in the crowd shrieked with surprise at this maneuver.

  Jacques stood, holding up half a sword, pulling his own snuff box from the pocket of his waist coat with his other hand.

  De la Cour laughed heartily. “I must admit, that was an interesting performance. Unfortunately you've done little more than prolong the inevitable and soil the clothes your corpse will be buried in. Assuming you have any money and they don't strip you and toss you in pauper's pit.”

  Jacques backed off again but met his enemy's blade with the remnant of his own. Once again a solid two inches was severed effortlessly. It was as if he held up only a stick to De la Cour's steel. What had he done? Was his own blade of inferior quality? If so, why had it held up so well earlier? No, it must have been whatever had come from the man's snuff box.

  Luckily, Jacques had his own snuff box which he opened and hastily scooped the contents out.

  “That will not help you monsieur guard. You have no idea what you've stepped into here,” De la Cour said as he reared back for a deep thrust.

  “Oh it's not for me,” Jacques replied. “This is for you!” he said and blew the wad of snuff directly in the path of the man's face.

  De la Cour's rapier had already struck however, piercing directly through Jacques waist coat but at the side, not the center, for he had twisted at the last moment.

  The man erupted in a chain of coughs and gasps, uttering a single choked yelp as Jacques plunged his shortened but still sharp blade, into the center of man's neck before wrenching it to the side. This would make sure to afford ample exit for the poor excuse for a gentleman's tainted blood.

  The crowd was eerily silent save for one gasp.

  De la Cour collapsed to the ground, eyes wide with terror, grasping with claw like fingers at his neck. Hot red blood gushed all over the man's exquisitely tailored clothes.

  “Cheat!” yelled one man from the crowd.

  “Machiavellian papist!” yelled another.

  Jacques bent and picked up De la Cour's blade, which still bore a slight blue glow, and turned toward the speakers.

  “If you feel I've won this duel unfairly, please step forth. We can settle it right now.”

  No one stepped up. In fact several of the gentlemen onlookers took a half step backward, as if they planned to flee if he approached. Cowards.

  “I thought as much,” Jacques said. He waved at them with his off hand. “Go on then, I'm sure there is some other carnage for you to spectate. Be gone with you.”

  There was much murmuring that followed but no more shouted challenges.

  “Monsieur De Voulon!” Marie said, her embarrassed candle maker in tow. “Thank you so much for your help. If not for you I'm certain my husband would have met his end.”

  Jacques nodded to her. “As am I!” he said. “That's not a comment on his manhood, merely an observation that Monsieur De la Cour was a cheating scoundrel. He used this... device to gain an unfair advantage,” he said, gesturing with the faintly glowing blade. It seemed to have lost much of its luster however. Apparently the effect of the man's powder did not last very long.

  “What was wrong with your sword? Was it made to be weak?” the young man asked.

  “It was not, as far as I can tell,” Jacques replied, bending down to retrieve the snuff box from the dead man's coat pocket. Inside was most definitely not snuff but a kind of dark powder. In the light it gave off an iridescent purple hue.

  Could this be the veil powder he'd heard so much about? Wasn't that supposed to be for the new veil muskets? How could it work also on a sword?

  Intriguing.

  “Then how did he cut it so easily?” Marie asked.

  “That, my dear Marie, I shall endeavor to determine. Please, come with me,” Jacques said, pointing toward the carriage in which he and the lady had arrived. “I will take you home but first, please, explain exactly why it was necessary for me to intervene?”

  “Why because Pierre would have been murdered!” Marie replied.

  Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Pierre, are you given to insulting noblemen on a regular basis? I ask because this will be the last time I heed your lady's entreaty.”

  “Then... you're not my cousin?” Pierre asked.

  Marie sighed. “Oh Pierre, I love you, but you really can be a fool.”

  Pierre threw up his hands. “I'm just a candle maker woman, what do you want from me?”

  Jacques shook his head. “Please, love birds, please. Pierre just tell me what happened?”

  Pierre grimaced. “It's my shame that I do not make enough from my business for us to afford a place without my wife working as well. It's that damned veil powder from Faustland. It's cheap and cleaner than oil lanterns or even candles. Everyone has taken to using it. I wish-”

  “About De la Cour,” Jacques said as he ushered them into the carriage, closing the door behind them.

  “Yes, of course.” Pierre said, looking down. “Marie took a job working for that pig last year and the entire time he's been trying to sleep with her. She has refused him many times and finally he seemed to stop trying. We thought that might be the end of it.”

  “It never is with men like him,” Jacques said.

  “You are right, it was not!” Marie said. “When a cow on his estate died last week he accused me of witchcraft. He said if I did not acquiesce to his demands he would make the accusation public. He says he knows the magistrate, that they are in the same league. He said I would surely be convicted, tortured and burned but not before he had his way with me in jail, along with every other man there!”

  “That is why I went to his house and called him a liar!” Pierre said.

  “Did you think you'd win a duel with a noble?” Jacques asked.

  “I thought he would have pistols and God willing I might have a chance,” Pierre said. “We are in the right after all. God is on our side.”

  “Men like De la Cour never lo
se to men like you Pierre. If he'd given you a pistol, you can be sure it wouldn't have fired, certainly not accurately,” Jacques said.

  Indeed, he too had had a close call. His poor goatee would have to be trimmed. The thought made him look down at the sword in his hand. Now that the glow had gone there was something to be seen about its construction after all. It had a waving pattern of dark lines along the blade, like the stripes of a cat. He had never seen its like.

  “Well thank you so much for saving him. I don't know how we can repay you,” Marie said.

  “Can either of you read?” Jacques asked.

  “I can,” Marie replied.

  “Good.” Jacques produced a letter from his waist coat which he handed to Marie. “The man I just killed has powerful friends. You will both need to leave Pallus immediately. Inside this envelope is the address of a man in the town of Kassis. Do you know where that is?”

  “No,” Marie replied, taking the letter.

  “It's just south of Poisson. The man's name is Philip. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Thank you Monsieur Voulon but what would I do in such a place?” Pierre asked. “I doubt even there candles are selling.”

  “Philip has recently lost his eldest son. He is an older man who very much needs help with his business. He is also honest which is sadly in short supply these days.”

  The carriage stopped.

  “Oh Monsieur Voulon, thank you so much for everything!” Marie said, hugging him.

  “You're welcome and don't worry about payment. I've been hearing complaints about De la Cour and his dueling practices for some time. Pallus is no poorer for being rid of him I assure you.”

  He shooed them out and leaned back in the carriage, fishing a silver flask from his pocket from which he took a generous pull.

  “Good God that was a close one,” he said with a sigh, crossing himself.

  * * *

  The carriage took Jacques across town, down the Rue Oubourg, across the Seine, to the back alley behind the Saint Germayn garrison house where he exited, pausing only to pay the driver, before making for the back entrance.