Ring of Fire III

To End the Evening

Barnabas Marcoli gingerly ran his fingers up along the side of his head. Dried blood had already matted his hair into clumps, around a lump half the size of a small goose egg.

This was definitely not the way he had planned to end his first evening free in nearly two weeks.

Barnabas sagged back against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes. From the far end of the room he could hear voices speaking a variety of languages-Italian, mixed in with a flurry of German and something that sounded vaguely eastern European-the sort of mixture that could be found in most places like this in Venice.

Someone pressed a mug into Barnabas’s left hand; his fingers closed around the pewter surface automatically. He hesitated for a moment, and then downed the contents in two quick swallows. The wine was sharp and bitter, not the kind that he normally preferred to drink, but at that moment he didn’t care.

“Easy lad; take a few deep breaths and see if you can get your wits about you before you tear into any more of this miserable excuse for wine.”

Barnabas found himself looking at a tall, lanky man, several years his elder, dressed in plain, slightly worn clothing with a sword hanging at his waist. The stranger had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. From his accent there was no doubt that he was French; his Italian was good but not quite good enough to hide his origins.

“Can I ask a stupid question?” said Barnabas. “What in the hell happened to me?”

“Oh, that.” His companion chuckled. “Seems a pair of ruffians wanted to relieve you of your purse and weren’t too picky in the way they did it. I’m glad I happened along at the right time.”

Barnabas nodded. He remembered how he had been cutting through a narrow alley just east of the American embassy when a man had appeared in front of him and demanded money. Before Barnabas could react, someone else struck him from behind. Everything after that, until this stranger had guided him into the tavern, remained something of a blur.

“Damn,” Barnabas muttered as he reached inside of his shirt but found nothing there.

“Would this be what you might be looking for?” A small burgundy coin bag slid across the table.

Barnabas let out a long sigh. It was true that there wasn’t much money in it, apprentice metal workers weren’t rich, but it was his money. Not to mention the fact that Barnabas knew full well that his cousins would not let him forget it if they discovered that he had been robbed.

“I thank you, sir. My name is Marcoli, Barnabas Marcoli. I owe you not only my life, but my dignity. I will pray for you at mass,” he said. “And who might I name as my Good Samaritan?”

“D’Artagnan, Charles D’Artagnan.”

Barnabas stared at the man for a time.

“I have the feeling that I know of you, sir.” Something about that name was familiar, but the throbbing in Barnabas’s head didn’t help his concentration. He repeated it over and over in his mind; the memory was there, and close, infuriatingly close, but he could not bring it to the surface.

“I think not. I am new come to Venice. Before the little altercation with those ruffians, had you dined?” When Barnabas shook his head, D’Artagnan smiled and motioned for the tavern girl. “Good. Neither have I.”

A few minutes later they had plates of chicken, cheese and bread set in front of them.

“I hope you ordered enough for three.”

Barnabas turned with a start and found a small man dressed in brown sitting next to him. The newcomer looked like he could only be five foot one or two. He had an ordinary looking face with nothing on it that would have distinguished him from anyone else on the streets of Venice.

“I wondered when you were going to show up,” said D’Artagnan.

The small man shrugged, motioning for the serving girl to bring him something to drink. “I was working. After all, we do have a reason for being here besides wenching and drinking.”

“Pity,” laughed D’Artagnan. “Barnabas, let me introduce you to my traveling companion, Aramis.”

“Aramis? D’Artagnan?” Barnabas cocked his head at both men; suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. “So where are the other two?”

“Other two?” said D’Artagnan.

“Obviously, he’s read the book,” said the small man called Aramis, switching from Italian to English.

“Indeed I have,” Barnabas responded, somewhat unsure of his English, but wanting to use it now, nonetheless. “ The Three Musketeers was only one of several novels that Frank Stone, that young man my cousin Giovanna has been making eyes at, lent me. He said they would help me learn American faster. So are you really the one in the book?”

“I suppose I really should to get a copy of that book sometime,” muttered D’Artagnan. “Yes, I am the one that book was about.”

It occurred to Barnabas that there were several things that might be interesting to ask the Frenchman about concerning the events in that book, but the look on the man’s face suggested that this might be a good time to let those questions lie.

“I obviously owe you my life, Monsieur D’Artagnan. If there is any way in which I can repay you, do not hesitate to say so. Had you not come along I suspect I would have ended up face down in the canal,” Barnabas said.

“Think nothing of it,” said D’Artagnan.

“Actually,” said Aramis, a thin smile on his face, “I think that you can help us.”

“I take it you have a plan?” D’Artagnan said in a whisper to Aramis.

In the time that D’Artagnan had known Aramis, he had learned that the small man had a sharp sense of strategy and planning, not to mention the ability to think on his feet. That skill alone had saved both of their lives on more than one occasion.

They spoke quietly because while their newly acquired Italian companion was most probably Catholic, they definitely did not know his political bent. So the fact that the two Frenchmen were in the service of Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, Cardinal Richelieu, the first minister of France, was a piece of information best kept to themselves.

“It isn’t a plan, exactly, just a way that young Marcoli can be of assistance,” he said. “Most of it we will have to make up as we go along.”

The two Frenchmen had been in Venice for just over a week. In that time D’Artagnan had begun to feel somewhat frustrated. He preferred direct action; give him a sword in his hand and an enemy to face, and that was the best of all possible worlds. Aramis, on the other hand, preferred to wait in the shadows unseen, until he was ready to act.

Three months before, D’Artagnan had been summoned, late one evening, to the Louvre by the cardinal. Once there he found himself waiting near the door, while at the far end of the gallery that served Richelieu as an office; the churchman spoke at length with a woman in dark colors who had a Spanish look about her. D’Artagnan presumed that, given the circumstances, she was another one of Richelieu’s agents rather than a supplicant come to beg some favor from the most powerful man in France.

When she departed the woman smiled briefly at D’Artagnan, but had not spoken. As she passed him, D’Artagnan had inclined his head toward her and said simply, “Good evening, milady.”

“When necessary, that woman can be quite as dangerous as you, my young friend,” said Richelieu.

“I shouldn’t doubt it,” D’Artagnan said. “If there is one thing besides the use of the blade that my uncle taught me, it was to be wary of certain women and I think her one of them.”

“Indeed. He sounds like a most wise and practical man. I think you may take after him in some ways,” said the cardinal. Richelieu had made use of the young swordsman several times since, on impulse, taking him into his personal guard. While the results had not always been what he would have preferred, D’Artagnan’s performance had been enough to keep him keenly aware of the young swordsman.

“That is why I am going to trust you with a most delicate mission, one that I think will fit your skills quite well.”

“I am at your disposal, Your Excellency.”

From a drawer in his desk the cardinal pulled out several sheets of paper and passed them to D’Artagnan. One of them was a travel warrant, giving the bearer priority access to transport anywhere within the boundaries of France. The other bore a highly detailed sketch of a face. This was followed by two small bags of gold; expense money no doubt, speculated D’Artagnan. There was one thing that came with working for Richelieu; he was definitely not ungenerous with the state’s money.

“You are to go to Italy. Venice, to be exact. I need you to locate the man whose face is on that paper. His name is Ramsey Culhane. He is the nephew and principal heir of one Jameson Culhane, an Irish Catholic gentleman whom I would appreciate having in my debt,” said Richelieu.

“I take it he is not in Venice of his own accord.”

“Indeed not. There is a matter of a rather large sum of money owed to one of the trading houses in the form of a gambling debt; I don’t have the specifics as of yet. They’ve demanded payment from his uncle or they will kill the wastrel. Under other circumstances I would just pay the ransom myself; however, there are certain alliances that might be put in jeopardy if that were discovered. So we must resort to your unique skills, Lieutenant.”

“It shall be done, Your Eminence. If you have no objection, I will take Aramis with me.”

“Take him. He is useful but at times gives me a headache,” said Richelieu. As D’Artagnan left he saw the churchman spreading several maps of the French-Spanish border areas across his desk.

A goodly portion of the far western districts in Venice were devoted to docks and warehouses. In the time since he had come to the city to apprentice as a metal worker with his uncle, Antonio Marcoli, Barnabas had become quite familiar with the area.

From the shadowed corner where the three men had stopped, Barnabas could see lights from a few torches and lanterns that marked where some people worked, even now.

The streets were never completely empty, even at nearly midnight. It was just quieter as businesses awaited the coming of the tide to bring more cargo in, and daylight to guide transports that would carry the contents of the warehouses away.

The urge to repay his guardian angel had faded in Barnabas the farther they had traveled from the center of the city. Now a small portion of his mind wondered if the two Frenchmen would turn around and help themselves to his purse and pick up a few extra coins selling his body to a medical school.

“I have a feeling that my uncle may not be all that pleased at my involvement with whatever you have in mind,” Barnabas said. “Tell me truthfully, is this thing you want me to do legal?”

“Truthfully, no,” said D’Artagnan. “It is also more than likely going to be dangerous. But I say this without a doubt; should we succeed it will not cause any harm to the reputation of the Marcoli family.”

From under his jacket the tall Frenchman produced a single-shot pistol that he passed to Barnabas. The weapon weighed no more than a few ounces. Barnabas had fired muskets while hunting, but never at another person. He was more at home with the long knife that hung on his belt, although he preferred not to use it unless there was no choice in the matter.

“I hope that I won’t find a need for this,” he told the Frenchman.

“True, but isn’t it better to have something and not need it than to…”

“…need it and not have it. You sound like my cousin, Giovanna.”

“The one whose friend gave you the book about me? A wise woman,” said D’Artagnan.

“Barnabas, do you know this place?” Aramis said, pointing at a small two-story building just down the way. Barnabas stared for a few minutes. Just down from it were the burnt remnants of another warehouse. According to some of his cousins, the place had been set afire four years ago under rather odd circumstances; and, just as oddly, no one had taken over the property, even though, because of its location, it was quite valuable.

“Yes, I do. As far as anyone knows it is supposed to belong to Roberto Salvatore. But according to my uncle, old Salvatore sold the place a few months back to the Kurtz brothers. They’re Austrian, I think, and may even have some Russian connections,” said Barnabas. “What are we here for?”

“Nothing too difficult,” Aramis said. The small man had a slight smile on his face as he spoke that gave Barnabas a chill. It occurred to him that this was the sort of fellow who could as cheerfully slit your throat as share the latest gossip with you. “I just want you to get us inside by telling the men behind that door exactly who you are. The Marcoli name carries weight, even at this ungodly late hour. With any kind of luck that should get us inside the place without things getting too messy.”

As outrageous as it sounded, Barnabas could actually imagine that sort of bluff working with some people. He’d more than once seen his uncle push his way through situations by doing just exactly that.

“You did say,” he repeated, “that this whole matter would not reflect badly on my family.”

“It shouldn’t, if things work out, but you never know,” Aramis said. “Besides, if things go wrong there is a chance that none of us will have to worry about who gets blamed, since we might all be dead.”

Barnabas was overcome with an urge to run, but he blocked that by reminding himself that he did owe his life to the tall Frenchman. Instead, he drew a deep breath and headed toward the warehouse, moving quickly in order to not give himself time to think of reasons why he shouldn’t be involved in this whole matter.

Things had already gone wrong when Barnabas reached the warehouse’s main door. It was open and there was no sign of any watchmen or other sort of guard. From the look on his two companions’ faces, Barnabas was certain this was a discovery that neither of them had expected.

Once they were inside, a short narrow hallway led into the main part of the warehouse. The smell of the canals and the sound of splashing around the warehouse pilings mixed into the darkness.

There were several dozen bales of cloth blocking off one corner of the room where a table with bottles of wine and mugs sat, along with a bowl filled with cheese and a half loaf of bread.

A movement to one side of the room caught Barnabas’s attention. A moment later a man emerged from a door and came charging forward with a large, rather nasty looking ax in his hand. Barnabas attempted to step backward but found his feet tangled among a couple of chairs, and it was only a miracle that kept him on his feet.

D’Artagnan came from one of the bales of cloth and threw himself hard against the stranger. That was enough to make the man drop his weapon and give the Frenchman a chance to fire two quick blows to his opponent’s stomach and chin, putting an end to the fight and the man on the floor.

“Do you always attack a man with an ax with only your fists?” asked Barnabas, not even sure that he had seen what he had seen.

“It worked, didn’t it? Do you know this fellow?” D’Artagnan held his lantern close to the unconscious man’s face.

Barnabas stared at the prostrate form for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do know him. I think his name is Brouila, Mordaunt Brouila. He works for the Quinniaros; they are rivals of the Kurtzes.”

“I wonder if they discovered that the Kurtzes were holding Culhane and decided to cut themselves in on the matter. The ransom that the Kurtzes were demanding was going to be a tidy sum,” said D’Artagnan.

“Possibly. There are two bodies over at the other end of the warehouse, and given the circumstances I suspect they work for the Kurtzes,” said Aramis. “I’m guessing that the Quinniaros got what they came for, meaning Culhane. This leaves us at a loss of where they have taken him. Unless our friend there would be willing to give us the information we need. It is possible that if we can wake him up he can be persuaded to tell us where they went.”

“I would presume,” said Barnabas, “that we are not going to be informing the authorities of what has happened here.”

“Indeed not,” said D’Artagnan.

“Wait, we might not need Brouila. Wouldn’t they want to get off the streets as quickly as possible?” Barnabas asked. The Quinniaros had interest in several ships but that was all that Barnabas knew for certain. But he had heard that they had an interest in a nearby business.

“That would be what I would do,” said Aramis.

“Then I may have an idea on where to find them,” said Barnabas.

Barnabas and his companions found their way through the streets of Venice quickly. Their goal was a building only a few streets from the docks. Sandwiched between two warehouses, it looked like nothing more than offices for the various businesses that operated in the area. Were it not for the single lantern hanging in front of the heavy oak door, it would have been easy to not even notice the dark green door.

“Welcome,” said a woman dressed in emerald and crimson velvet, her long hair hanging in ornate curls, after the three men were admitted.

That she was mistress of the house there was no doubt. She was not young, and according to the tales that Barnabas had heard, Madam Paulette and her establishment had been a fixture in Venice for many years. Her careful makeup and the room’s lighting took at least a decade off her age. The serious look in the woman’s eyes showed that she was no common street whore, but rather a woman who had learned to make her way in the world and cater to a taste for finer things.

D’Artagnan rubbed his chin and studied the place. That it was a brothel was obvious, but Barnabas had already told them that. The windows were masked with heavy curtains. In spite of the hour there seemed to be a brisk business going on, some sailors and a mixed lot of workmen. There were perhaps a half dozen men there, some with drinks in their hands, others talking to women in revealing gowns.

“You would be Madam Paulette?” said Barnabas.

“Indeed, I am. What can I do for some fine gentlemen like yourselves?” she said. On Madam Paulette’s shoulder was a highly intricate butterfly brooch; the stones on it reflected different colors each way that she turned. D’Artagnan suspected that while it looked valuable it might be nothing more than paste. On more than one occasion he had seen that skill and craftsmanship could make paste look like the most valuable jewels in the world.

“I suppose it is your years of experience that tells you we aren’t just sailors out moving from one tavern to another, seeking various entertainments,” said D’Artagnan.

“I’ve learned to recognize those who are in need of the services that we offer here. I do have customers from the lower decks of many of the ships that make port here, but also the ranks and officers have been known to hang their hats in my parlor. From the look of you, your manner and attitude, in spite of the plainness of your dress, you are gentlemen,” she said. “So how may I help you? I presume you are interested in some female company this evening?”

“Were the evening ours, I am certain that passing it in the company of one of the young ladies you employ would be quite enjoyable,” said Aramis. “However, the night is not ours to do with as we would please. Instead, we are seeking some…acquaintances we think might have arrived here in the last several hours.”

Madam Paulette smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. “You would have to be a good deal more exact about who it might be that you are looking for. Business has been good this evening; a number of gentleman callers have come through the door.

“Besides, why should I tell you anything about who has come and gone? My customers, even the lower ranking ones, expect a good deal of privacy. They certainly don’t expect to have their names shouted by the crier in the town square.”

“And they will not be, Madam Paulette,” said Barnabas. “I know that there are members of my family who might grateful for any aid you might render us.”

“And your name would be?”

“Marcoli. Barnabas Marcoli.”

The woman arched her head slightly to one side as she weighed the possibilities.

She turned and headed toward a door at the side of the room. From the smells that were coming from that direction, Barnabas suspected that there might be kitchens somewhere close. Once they were away from the parlor, she turned to face the three men, staring at them and then looking upwards toward the ceiling for a moment before she spoke.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there is nothing that I can do to assist you in this matter. I run a quiet house; I and my girls try to stay out of anyone else’s business. I can think of seven reasons that should remain true. I trust that you can find your own way out. Please convey my respects to your uncle, Signor Marcoli.”

With a turn she vanished through the door into the back part of the house.

It bothered Barnabas that Madam Paulette seemed to be more familiar with his family then he had expected. He sincerely hoped that in the months to come he would not regret telling her his name.

“This is no time to linger,” said D’Artagnan as he motioned for the others to follow him up a stairway at the end of the hall.

Two lanterns lit the narrow hallway, and from behind several doors D’Artagnan caught the sounds of moans and other noises that proved the rooms were being well put to use.

“I should think…this one,” said D’Artagnan, as he came to a door at the far end of the hallway. Barnabas noticed that it was the seventh door.

That was when they heard the sound of something crashing onto the floor from inside the room.

D’Artagnan’s sword slid into his hand, a dagger in the other. Then he kicked the door open. The wood cracked under his heel with a sharp sound, but it was almost masked by the sounds within.

“Stay here,” the tall Frenchman said over his shoulder to Barnabas, who was only a few steps behind him. “Let no one pass.”

Barnabas let out a sigh; with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, Barnabas was more than happy to obey the Frenchman’s instructions.

In the dim light D’Artagnan could see two large apparitions, one wearing a cape and the other a long jacket. A smoking pistol was in the hand of the first man, the other had his arms around a smaller struggling man with sandy hair, who was presumably Culhane. An overturned chair with ropes twisted around it suggested that he had managed to free himself, to the surprise of his captors.

The Frenchman let fly with his dagger. It creased the head of the man holding Culhane, gouging his ear and sending blood flying. The man responded with a yelp and a string of curses equal to those of some sailors.

The other man threw himself at D’Artagnan, using his empty pistol as a club. The Frenchman twisted, hit his opponent in the stomach, and then drove his knee into the fellow’s crotch. Before the first man had gone to the floor, D’Artagnan whirled about and sent the pommel of his sword slamming square into the other man’s face, the sound of a nose breaking confirming its effectiveness. Two more blows with the same part of his sword put the man on the floor at D’Artagnan’s feet.

Like most fights, this one was over quickly, almost before Barnabas could be certain of what was happening. He looked quickly one way and another down the hallway, expecting intruders seeking to discover the source of the disturbance.

The first man rose from the floor with a start, grabbing one of the broken pieces of a chair and diving for D’Artagnan. The blade at Barnabas’s belt came into his hand and went flying, to bury deep into the man’s left eye.

“I’m not sure if Madam Paulette is going to be pleased with the condition you have left her room,” said Aramis, who had several of the house’s bouncers standing behind him. D’Artagnan couldn’t help put notice that the little man also had a pistol in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“No doubt she will vehemently vent her vexation about the matter. She can bill the Quinniaro family. However, I’m sure they paid her well enough to let them keep him here. Besides, I’ll lay you even money that she has more damage than this on any given Saturday night,” said D’Artagnan.

“More than likely,” agreed Aramis.

“You stupid bastards,” yelled the man with the sandy hair as he struggled up from the floor, his Irish accent heavy in his voice. “You almost got me killed! Do you have any idea of how easy it would have been for him to snap my neck? You call this rescuing me?”

D’Artagnan covered the distance between himself and the man in three steps, then grabbed him by the collar of his dirty and stained shirt and slammed him hard against the wall. He lifted him up several inches above the floor.

“Is your name Culhane? Ramsey Culhane?”

“Y-y-yesss!” the man stuttered.

“Well, listen well, Monsieur Ramsey Culhane, and know this. You live because of me and my friends. It would have been very easy to leave you in the hands of these men who would as soon slit your throat and dump you into the canals as listen to your so-called righteous anger.

“Quite honestly, I suspect it is your own fault that these men were threatening your life. Of course, it may not have been, but then again I don’t really care. When you see your uncle again, just remind him that he is now in the debt of Cardinal Richelieu for having you alive. Do you think you can remember that?”

“Yes, I do.” Culhane managed to push the words out of his throat between gasps for air. “I’ll remember it.”

D’Artagnan let Culhane down to the floor, holding the man’s arm to keep him steady. They had taken a couple of steps before he pushed the man up close to the unconscious form of the man in the long leather jacket.

“Remember something else, my ungrateful friend. Your uncle owes the cardinal a favor for the saving of your sorry hide. But it is you who owe me your life. Someday I may come to you and demand that you pay back that favor, and you will,” he growled.

“I understand,” Culhane stuttered before passing out.

D’Artagnan dropped a leather pouch on the table in front of Barnabas as the two men sat at a small table in Madam Paulette’s parlor. The thud when the bag hit the table showed that it was full. The younger man picked it up and spilled out the contents into his hand; mixed in with the silver were a number of gold coins.

“It seems that our adversaries had been paid in advance, and they didn’t spread the wealth around all that much,” said D’Artagnan. “But far be it from me to criticize the house of Quinniaro over their financial dealings, especially when it works out to our advantage.”

“Our advantage?” asked Barnabas.

“I gave Madam Paulette a portion of it, to pay for damages and her silence. Half of what is left is yours. Call it payment for your services this evening and also your silence; the spoils of war so to speak.”

Barnabas stared at the money for a moment; this would more than double the amount of money in his own purse.

“I did not do this for money, but because you saved my life. It was a matter of honor.”

“Quite true, and you’ve more than repaid that debt, not only by helping Aramis and myself. But when you stepped in and saved my life, the scales were balanced. There is no reason you should not get a reward,” said the Frenchman. “Personally, I would suggest you use some of those coins to make some arrangements with one of Madam Paulette’s ladies.”

“Then you are planning on staying?” asked Barnabas.

“Indeed; the soonest we can get passage will be another day or so. The Quinniaros are tied up in Madam Paulette’s cellar and Aramis will stay with Culhane to prevent him from wandering away. Since it is doubtful that the Quinniaros will send others, this is an excellent place to hole up. I suspect I may make an arrangement or two with one of Madam Paulette’s employees myself.”

Two young women, one in green velvet and the other yellow, had entered the room, taking seats on a chaise longue near the door.

Yes, it seemed to him that D’Artagnan had the right idea. Remaining here might definitely be an excellent way to end the evening.