Mazarini was on the floor before he heard the snap of a flintlock. A jet of burning powder roared out through the door.
Somewhere in his—yes! There—his pistol! He tugged at the hilt of the thing through the pocket-cut of his soutanne, at the same time scrabbling across the floor. Out of the door stepped a man—dark-dressed, rough, villainous-looking. Mazarini took in the twist of his mouth where a scar—but he was raising a pistol and Mazarini, cursing, could not get his own free of his soutanne; all he was doing was pulling at his own leg and—
A blast of noise, and scar-face jerked sideways and was crumpling, his face screwed up. Somehow Mazarini could see the detail that his breeches were stained.
Within the room—”Fuck!” Harry was definitely alive in there—another shot. Harry’s shotgun, by the sound.
Silence, then. Mazarini got to his feet, saw that scar-face was down, unconscious and bleeding in several places. He shook at his pistol, drew it free. He rapped the butt against his palm, then hauled back on the lock. His mouth was dry. He sidled up to the door.
From within, a slight noise. The light was behind him; if he went in, whoever was within would see him first. “Harry?” he called out.
The only answer, two shots. The first, the throaty cough of a pistol. The second, Harry’s shotgun. Then a thud. As, perhaps, of a body hitting the floor.
Mazarini swallowed, then thought to check either way along the landing. Movement. “Arrête-là!” he called out, spinning to level his pistol. Whoever it was, a shape at the far end of the corridor by the stairwell vanished. He ran, realizing only halfway down the corridor that he had just exposed his back. He got to the head of the stairs, shouted down: “Stop him!”
“Stop who?” came back the answer, and mocking laughter.
The twentieth century had some things worth the Ring of Fire to bring them back. “Motherfucker,” Mazarini snarled, and felt better for it. On the wall, there was a display of old swords. Better than nothing. He took one down, felt the weight and ill balance of a weapon meant more for battering armor than the singing phrase of steel. He brought it up to a badly balanced mockery of a sabreur’s guard and edged back along the corridor, pistol leveled in the other hand, his back to the wall.
A body flew out of the doorway to his chambers; the fright made him squeeze the trigger. Somewhere, something shattered. Whoever it was hit the opposite wall and landed badly.
“Giulio?” It was Harry’s voice. “You there?”
“I’m here, Harry.”
Harry Lefferts swaggered out of the doorway, the bravo’s pose only mildly spoiled by the fact that he was sucking on the knuckles of his right hand. “Three of ’em, there were,” he said, taking the knuckles out of his mouth. There was a scorch of powder up the left side of his face. His sawed-off shotgun dangled almost negligently from his left hand, broken open and empty.
“Four,” said Mazarini. “One ran.”
“Two,” said Harry, looking down.
Scar-face was gone. The other seemed to be in poor shape. Mazarini bent to see. “Dead,” he said, “or soon will be. I think his skull, perhaps his neck is broken.” The man had fouled himself where he lay, his eyes rolled up white.
Harry was looking left and right along the corridor, his hands reloading the shotgun almost automatically. “Glad Dan Frost never took this ‘un off me. I gave my other one to Becky.”
“Your pistol?”
“I got it. In there.” Harry nodded his head back toward the room. “Stripped down for a little servicing. When these jokers turned up I was behind the screen, taking a leak. Lucky I didn’t have a lamp on, and the bastards didn’t think to check in the wardrobe, which was where I hid.”
“Monsignor!” It was the servant from the hallway. “I heard someone shoot—” He stopped, breathless. “Assassins!”
“Well, that was just as convincing as all hell,” drawled Harry Lefferts. A flick of the wrist and his shotgun snapped shut.
The servant’s face went into a parody of puzzlement. “Monsignor? What did he say?”