The Eagle and the Viper by Loren D. Estleman

Author:Loren D. Estleman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

* * *

The Viper fancied he could smell the French capital.

The odor was a pungent blend of horseshit, coal smoke, and perfume. Likely it was imagination, a lingering sense-memory from his last visit. A sign at a crossroads pointed the way to the village of Pontoise, three miles distant.

A pistol barked.

His mare pitched between the traces. The shot was so close a stench of sulfur swept Paris away from her nostrils. Her master hauled back on the lines with both hands. That kept him busy while the man who’d fired stepped into the road facing him with a fresh pistol in his right hand. The one he’d fired smoked in the left.

“Stand to! Just twitch, and it’s a ball between your eyes.”

The man wore a jerkin over a filthy shirt and trousers and a greasy tricorne hat cocked over one eye. The one visible was red as a cherry. A twisted nose ended in a hook. His bared teeth alternated gold with black, like the Indian corn the Americans were always trying to fob off as a New World delicacy.

The Viper sat motionless, still holding the lines. His pistol remained in his belt. “Stay calm. You’re welcome to my purse, such as it is. I’m not carrying anything worth my life.”

The red eye flicked toward the back of the cart. His victim crept a hand toward his belt.

Cold touched the bone behind his left ear: The steel of a musket. “A twitch, my friend said.”

He left the hand where it was. He had not heard the man’s companion creeping up from behind.

“Throw it out, friend. Let’s hear it hit the ground.”

He tugged out the pistol and flung it to the side. It struck the earth with a thud.

“I knowed he had it!” Tricorne’s tone was shrill. “I wanted to draw him out was all.”

“’Course you did, Crusher. I’m just here to shut the back door, like we agreed.” The muzzle pressed tighter against the Viper’s mastoid. “Now stand down and show us what’s in the cart.”

Crusher’s friend had a seaside drawl; the other’s was gutter Paris.

The Viper stepped to the ground, and with two firearms following his progress circled to the back of the cart and flung back the canvas covering the valise. The man with the musket looked disappointed. He was fair, younger and taller than his companion, and wore a blue uniform coat shorn of insignia, filthy breeches, and broken stovepipe boots. A military deserter, beyond doubt. “Empty your pockets.”

The Viper hesitated, for effect. Crusher’s pistol burrowed into his lower back. The Viper drew out his wallet. His hand shook, the thumb exposing the corner of a five-pound note.

Crusher snatched the wallet, lowering the pistol to dig inside.

His partner spread the Viper’s coat with the muzzle of his musket. “What’s in the belt?”

“Communiques. Nothing of value.”

“Take it off.”

He fumbled with the buckle. His fingers were like sash weights, clumsy and inert. He cautioned himself not to overplay his hand.

“Crusher.”

The man in the tricorne hat obeyed, stepping in to tug at the belt, turning his pistol aside.

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