Читать книгу City Of Swords - Alex Archer - Страница 14

Chapter 7

The largest oil painting on the wall—lit museum-style in an ornate gold frame above the wainscoting—was a portrait of a well-dressed man with an abundance of black curls that fell past his shoulders. His face was all angles and planes, his eyes hooded and intense. There were other paintings, too, and all of them looked as if they’d been rendered by the Old Masters.

The room they were displayed in was opulent, the furnishings new, but not modern. Brocade cushions on white high-backed chairs. Settees, low tables, candelabras, a thick rug on the floor shot through with metallic threads. It all looked to be a carefully arranged tourist exhibit. There was even a velvet rope stretched across one section of wall to keep people from getting too close to the paintings. But this wasn’t a public exhibition. It was simply a favorite spot in Dr. Lawton’s warehouse in Paris.

He nudged back a heavy drape and peered out the window, looking down on the loading dock and at another warehouse across the street. The neighboring structures were busier—one supplied grocers, another automotive dealers. In reality the automotive supplier was a front for stolen cars coming into Europe from the United States. Dr. Lawton found the operation distasteful and intended to turn them in when he wrapped up his own business in this area.

His antiques storage warehouse was a front, as well. He cluttered the lower level with all manner of objects he purchased legally. Some of them were even rare finds. Although one object that had arrived a short time ago couldn’t fit into that category....

He heard a sound behind him.

“Dr. Lawton,” Sarah said, “we’re back.”

“I know. I saw the car and the van arrive.”

“It took longer than I thought it would, going to that dink-burg of a town, and—”

“And?” He didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s downstairs. Archard has it. Do you want to—”

“Of course.”

“Should I have him bring—”

“No. I’ll come down.”

He stepped away from the window and let the drape fall back, paused and then turned to see the girl. Woman, he corrected himself. But just barely. She was young. Beautiful, though he had to really look to see it. She unwittingly dimmed her loveliness by wearing baggy shirts spouting slogans and pictures of whatever rock band she was into. This evening she sported a white skull and crossbones with bat wings and A7X in big block letters. Her makeup did nothing to improve her appearance. She wore thick eyeliner and layered on the mascara. Smudges of shimmering green and blue paste covered her lids and tapered to points. Her lipstick was dark. Unnatural. Never red.

“We got into Paris a few hours ago,” she said. “But I needed to clean up and change. My clothes got pretty well shredded.”

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to explain.

“It was worse than those rock-climbing walls at the gym,” she began. “Not the big part of the sword. It was just hanging out there in the open...right where your research said it would be. But the tip of it...” She held out her hands so he could see all the cuts and broken fingernails. “It was exactly like the legend you taught in class. Roland had tried to throw the sword away, off the cliff, so the enemy wouldn’t get it. But the blade hit the stone, and a piece of it broke off and stayed there.”

“And the monks displayed the point that fell.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “They never bothered to go get the other piece. I had a hell of a time in the dark, finding the spot where that little shard was in the cliff. Then I had a hell of a time getting it—”

“God guided your hands,” Dr. Lawton said. “And brought the pieces together so that they could be reforged.”

“Uh, yeah.” She waited, fidgeting in the ensuing silence.

He watched her for several moments, knowing she couldn’t keep her tongue from wagging.

“So...who’s going to get this one? Archard? I figured it would be Archard because of Roland’s significance. He thinks it’s going to be his sword. He’s down there drooling over it. Are you—”

“Yes, Durendal is to be Archard’s sword.” A longer silence settled over them.

Finally she broke it, stuttering, “Am I going to... Are you going to—”

“If there are enough, Sarah. I do not intend to leave you out.”

He turned his back to her and faced the large portrait. “He died on the twenty-eighth of January. It was the seventh day since he’d taken to his bed and after his final Holy Communion. Did you know that?”

Sarah shook her mass of short blond curls. “I’m not much of an historical scholar,” she admitted. “I tried to be. Loved your courses. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit like I did, but—”

He gruffly cleared his throat. “He was seventy-two years old, forty-seven years into his reign. Twice my age when the pleurisy killed him.” Lawton slowly paced in front of the painting. “Buried the same day, in Aachen Cathedral. The rush wasn’t necessary—it had been so cold and the disease hadn’t touched his outward appearance. A count in Aachen claimed to have found and opened the tomb, finding the corpse inside sitting on a throne, decked out with a crown and scepter, the tight flesh over the bones incorrupt. God-touched.”

Sarah appeared to be in awe, but the professor suspected it was for his benefit.

“He died depressed. He hadn’t been afraid of death coming—that comes to all men. But he was afraid of being incomplete.”

She tipped her head in question.

“There were things left undone,” Lawton explained.

“But you will finish those things,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“Together, we will finish those things.” He paused and turned to regard her again. “If your belief grows stronger. If I can sense in you an honest interest and desire. If you shed your youthful curiosity. If you follow me honestly.”

“I do. I—I will.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “If you are to be one of my twelve, you must convince me, Sarah.”

“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.”

“Then prepare for another foray. Now, shall we...” He glided past her toward the stairs, inviting her to follow. “Shall we see Roland’s Durendal?”

The big staircase was a wrought-iron, circular one he’d imported from an ironworks in Scotland. It ended in the center of a massive room filled with crates and forklifts—the trappings of a warehouse. An illusion he found satisfactory.

Dr. Lawton approached Archard, who was kneeling in front of one of the smaller crates, now draped with a length of velvet. It was as close to an altar as could be arranged here. The lighting was poor, which helped hide the true nature of the building, but the makeshift altar was directly beneath one of the fixtures.

“Dr. Lawton,” Archard stated solemnly.

“Durendal,” Lawton said. “Our mission has begun in earnest.”