Black Madonna

14

Serrin fell asleep in a car in England and woke up in one traveling through the south of France. Squinting at the sunlight, he rubbed his stubbly chin and tried to focus his vision. The delicious aroma of hot coffee offered itself to his senses. He grabbed the plastic cup and drank greedily while Geraint resealed the flask.

“Oh, spirits, that was good,” Serrin said with real gratitude. “Where are we?”

Ten minutes out of Clermont-Ferrand and what looks like a pretty decent rural chateau, judging by the trid picture library,” Geraint told him. “You’ve been asleep since the night with Hessler.”

“Right,” Serrin said doubtfully, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Er, right.”

“What happened?” Michael spoke with an artificial cheeriness that Serrin didn’t detect.

The elf rubbed his chin, sat up and stretched to get the stiffness out of his back, and smiled at Kristen.

“Hmmm?” He thought deeply for some seconds. “Frag me, I can’t remember a thing. Honestly. It’s a complete blank.”

He turned back to Kristen and, ignoring the rest of them, leant and kissed her on the lips.

“Ugh, morning breath,” she giggled, then grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him long and hard.

Merlin was right, Geraint thought to himself. Whatever magic Hessler had used to banish the memories, he must have added something to stop him worrying about the amnesia too. That was good of him.

“Stop shagging in the back there!” Streak berated them jokingly. “Puts me off my driving. I have this horrible tendency to voyeurism.”

“Frag off,” Serrin said cheerfully, giving Kristen a hug.

He was in unusually good humor this morning. More after-effects of whatever magic Hessler used on him, Geraint thought. From what he knew of Serrin, mornings were usually good candidates for avoiding his company.

“Here it is. Must be this whitewashed one at the end of the road,” Streak said happily.

“That’s not whitewash,” Michael complained, peering through the windscreen.

“Well, whatever it is, we’re booked into it. Now give me a hand with the guns and grenades in the back,” Streak said as he unbuckled himself and opened the driver’s door.

“Seeing the look on Michael’s face, he laughed. Only kidding, mate. Honest.”

“That’s a relief,” Michael said. “We came here to talk, not wage war.”

‘Nah, I mean I can handle ‘em myself,” Streak said with an evil grin and hefted the first of the metal cases.

Within the hour they were close to the small village, their hired car-much humbler than the Westwind that Streak had left to be collected in Taunton and returned to the rental firm-negotiating the narrow roads with no little difficulty. The rockiness of the hilly terrain was stark, even with the green coat of spring on the hillsides. The land looked, somehow, as if reluctant to allow the new growths of the season. There was something unforgiving about the hills and mountains, the ragged treeline, the harshness of the light here.

Their plan was for Michael and Geraint to take an initial stroll into the village, to climb the ascent to the place that had come to be known as Sauniere’s chapel, and to observe what they could. They would formulate further plans on the basis of those observations. Serrin didn’t want to risk any astral assensing, since he’d been forewarned of the likely presence of mages watching for anyone doing just that. Kristen would stay with him. As for Streak, they didn’t plan to need his French for conversing much with the locals at this stage.

Sauntering into the village, Michael and Geraint chatted casually about the weather and the grandeur of the scenery as they headed toward the road up to the chapel. They didn’t get far. Half a dozen sturdy French peasant farmers, each bearing a walking stick that looked very like a club, or else a spade or pitchfork, slowly congregated together from various directions and barred their Way.

“Excusez-moi, c’est le chapel de Sauniere?” Geraint said cheerfully, waving his cheap camera in a fair impression of the Idiot British Tourist in Europe.

The men just stood in their way and said nothing. Geraint and Michael took a step forward and one of the Frenchmen did the same, raising his spade and driving the metal into the ground beside the stony path. He spat on the ground before him, and the others stood with arms folded, clubs at the ready.

A further reasonable impression of the British Idiot only got Geraint the grunted statement that the chapel was closed to visitors. An enquiry as to when it would be open got no reply, only a hostile stare. There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to beat a retreat while trying to appear disappointed but unconcerned.

“It could just be paranoia,” Michael said when they were out of earshot. “On their part, I mean.” The men were still standing together halfway up the path. There was no sign of anyone else attempting to ascend it. Oddly, there seemed to be little sign of anyone else in the village, though by now, mid-morning, the houses should have been showing some signs of life and activity.

Stymied, they returned to the car, where the group discussed their options. Michael wanted to retreat to Toulouse, rescue his portable cyberdeck, and get some more research done, leaving Serrin more bookwork to get through. Streak, unsurprisingly, thought the terrain was fine for a covert approach and blasting his way past any obstacle that presented itself.

“Something’s going on up there,” Geraint observed. “They’re not protecting nothing. And we need to see what it is.”

The Sound of an automobile engine began to swell behind them. Their car was pulled just off the road, with enough tree cover to disguise if not conceal them. Streak slipped out of the driver’s seat and vanished into the trees like some predatory woodland animal. A few moments later, a flash of black and silver moved behind the trees and continued on into the village. They ate their bread, pate, and cheese and waited.

Streak did not reappear.

They were getting nervous by the time the black-and-silver reappeared, this time moving in the opposite direction, and not long afterward the elf emerged from the woodland.

“Now I wouldn’t want to get you alarmed,” he said gleefully as he climbed into the driver’s seat and broke himself off a sizable hunk of hard cheese, “but I think someone else was observing the village. Some interesting dark-suited gentlemen with no little in the way of chrome about them, unless I’m much mistaken.

“They just drove in, took a look around, and drove back out again. Couldn’t see much of them with the window tints, but I saw enough. Heavy rakkers. I doubt they came out here for nothing.”

“They just drove around the village?” Michael asked.

“Didn’t stop,” the elf confirmed.

“We’ve got to get into the chapel,” Michael said. “Who knows when they’ll be back-whoever they are.”

“We’ve got their book,” Kristen pointed out. “Let’s go for it,” Streak said.

The second time, all five of them marched up to face the line of peasantry with their crude weapons. Streak inched ahead of the others and conversed in French, Michael explaining to Serrin and Kristen the gist of what was being said. Streak produced the slim leather book and gestured with some animation at the impassive, hulking Frenchmen, pointing to the chapel and appearing very nonchalant.

“He says we just want to return some property that was stolen, and surely someone could come to collect it,” Michael translated.

The men’s hard-lined faces looked puzzled, uncertain. Streak’s request was certainly reasonable enough. At length, the largest of them leaned his hands on the handle of his broad-bladed shovel and grunted simply, “Non.”

Streak’s smile exceeded the determination of the man’s frown as he hefted his Predator squarely at the man’s head.

“S’il vous plait,” the elf said pleasantly. The man didn’t budge a centimeter. us knuckles went a little white on the wooden handle he gripped, but he didn’t flinch.

The impasse was broken when a slender man appeared from the front doorway of the chapel, ducking his head as he emerged even though he was not tall. Everyone looked at him as he descended the stony pathway, a tousle-haired man wearing one of those Italian suits that cost a fortune but don’t advertise the fact. He had the Mediterranean complexion of the other men here, but was otherwise utterly unlike them. As he drew closer, his expression broke into a casual lopsided grin. He shambled up to them, scratching at the crown of his head.

“Do we have a misunderstanding here?” he asked in perfect English.

“We only came to return some lost property, and I’m afraid these gentlemen took exception to our altruism, Streak said.

The man stared pointedly at his gun. Streak lowered it.

“Altruism down the barrel of a Predator,” he said dryly. “An unusual expression of that all too rare and noble emotion, wouldn’t you say?”

“To whom are we speaking?” Geraint enquired. “You may call me Gianfranco” the man said pleasantly. There was a short pause.

He did not ask who they were. The implication was obvious: he already knew.

“We had hoped that a conversation to discuss some matters of mutual interest might not be too much to hope for,” Geraint suggested.

“Then you have hoped in vain” Gianfranco said, still quite affably.

“There is the matter of your Mr. Seratini and the men at whose hands he died,” Geraint fired back.

“There is also the matter of our Monsieur Serrault and the people at whose hands he died,” Gianfranco replied sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me, their are several very well-armed and well-trained men at my instant beck and call and if you don’t turn around and get out of here this instant I will, with some little regret, have to ask them to blast you into a large number of bloody fragments, which my friends here,” he concluded with a glance back at the surly band of peasants, “wilt be able to feed to their dogs. Good day.”

He turned on his heel and marched back up the path. They watched his back until he disappeared through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.

They looked at each other, at the still-impassive Frenchmen and back at each other again. With a shrug of his shoulders, Geraint led them back down the path and to their car.

“So much for that,” Michael said glumly. “Now to Plan B.”

“Which is?” Streak asked.

“I’m working on it,” Michael told him. “I think a strategic retreat is in order.”

Serrin suddenly looked alarmed and clutched at Streak’s shoulder. “Get us out of here!” he said urgently.

“What the-”

“I said, get us out of here!”

Streak fired the ignition, reversed out of their parking spot, and made haste down the road. He was five klicks away by the time the white-faced mage decided it was safe again.

“There was a summoning,” he said simply. “Another minute and the whole hill would have flung us over the rocks and into the valley. Trust me on this one.”

“Fair enough,” Streak said without any trace of his usual bantering. “Back to Clermont-Ferrand?”

“For now, yes,” Michael said miserably. “I don’t see we have any choice.”

Back in their villa, with a large pot of Streak’s preferred tea being dispensed into the cracked cups that came as part of the furnishings, they considered their sharply reduced options.

“Almost all of what we’ve got points here,” Michael said at length. “We have to talk to these people somehow. We’re hardly likely to get anywhere trying to talk to the Inquisition. The Priory know something. I think they know who the decker is. We’ve got to get into that place.”

“Why did the bloke refuse point-blank even to talk?” Streak asked him.

“Because we don’t have anything they want,” Michael guessed. “They know everything we do and they don’t want us getting involved.”

“Then this”-Serrin clutched at the book he’d retrieved from Streak-“isn’t of any importance to them.”

“Which means-”

“Which means what’s in it doesn’t matter,” Serrin mused. “I don’t understand that. It has to matter, somehow.”

“Great. Let’s slot around worrying about textual analysis when what we need to do is talk to Gianfranco down the barrel of a gun,” Streak said. “I can get a couple of guys from over the border. Not that I put much store in the Spanish by and large, but I did merc work with ‘em and they might be able to get here by nightfall.”

“I can deck into their Matrix system and close down every alarm, servo, and automatic protective device they’ve got in there,” Michael said. “Hell, I can even get into the French grid, arrange it so they haven’t paid their bills for ten years, and get ‘em disconnected. Turning off the juice is very simple, and the effects can be devastating.”

“They’ll have a generator,” Streak pointed out. “Everyone around here does. But we could take those rakkers.”

“Oh, sure,” Serrin said sarcastically. “Bullets and grenades aren’t the problem. You’re forgetting something. I felt the power they’ve got up there. They could crush us like bugs with magic. Try using your pistols and grenades against that.”

“You can buy us enough time,” Streak cajoled.

“Right. I can make you a paper parasol for when the ten-kilo hailstones rain on your head,” Serrin told him.

“Look, I’ve got disabling stuff. Paralyzant gas grenades. Tasers. Smoke canisters. If we get surprised, we can buy enough time to get in, get one guy out of there-it’s all we need-and run like frag. What else have we got?”

“You can make your phone call,” Geraint said slowly. “Get those guys you trust. Then we’ll see.”

Streak was up and out of his chair before Geraint had even finished the sentence.

“Are you sure about this?” Michael asked earnestly.

“Of course I’m not bloody sure,” Geraint said, taking refuge in another cigarette. “But we don’t have any time, and it’s obvious they’re not going to talk peaceably. If we’re going to see this through I don’t think we have any other option. Why don’t you start getting into that data in earnest? If Sneak’s bringing people over the border, that gives you a couple of hours at least. About time you and Serrin came up with more than bulldrek from all that stuff.”

His voice was reproachful, and Michael wondered about that as he retreated to his deck. It’s almost as if he’s more motivated than I am, but it’s meant to be my show, he thought, not with resentment, but with curiosity and some puzzlement. Is it only that his own fortune might be threatened if our decker brings down the entire Matrix? Hardly. Not with all the land and property he owns. So why…

He forgot all the idle speculation as he began preparing the analytic frames. By the time the heavy raps came on the front door, it had long grown dark and Michael was completely oblivious to everything around him.