Ruy, though, didn’t seem to be suppressing any kind of humor. “The door has been forced.” He stepped up and pushed it open. “Dona—ah, Sharon. Please remain outside.” A moment later, moving quickly and silently, the Catalan was through the door.
Sharon and Billy looked at each other.
“Like hell,” said Sharon. “If there’s trouble, he’s not facing it alone.”
Billy nodded and went in, Sharon on his heels.
Once inside, they found themselves in something of a vestibule. A narrow staircase led up on the left. At the end of a short corridor, on the right, a door stood open. Sanchez himself was nowhere in sight.
Sharon decided he couldn’t have gone up the stairs that quickly. “That way,” she hissed, pointing to the door.
Billy nodded again and hurried toward it, Sharon crowding him as closely as she could.
So closely, in fact, that when Billy came to an abrupt halt as soon as he passed through the door, Sharon collided with him.
“Goddamit,” she heard Billy mutter. Sharon was surprised at the anger in his voice. She hadn’t bumped into him that hard. But then, looking over the lieutenant’s shoulder, she realized that the curse had been directed elsewhere.
Oh, damn.
They had entered a very big room, lit only by windows along one wall. Despite the narrowness of the windows, the lighting was rather good this time of day, with the afternoon sun shining through. It was the sort of central kitchen-and-taverna that the USE embassy itself contained. Sanchez was standing near a small table toward the center of the room, staring at six men crowded around a much larger table at the back. The men were staring back at him. Most of them were seated. Judging from their postures, Ruy had caught them completely by surprise. They seemed to be doing something with documents spread out on the table.
All of them, alas, were armed. Sharon thought so, at least. She couldn’t see any guns in evidence, but two of them were bearing swords and all of them had knives of one sort or another scabbarded to their waists.
Ruy swiveled his head and looked at her. Then, his lips quirking, brought his gaze back to the strangers. “Why am I not surprised?” she heard him murmur. “I predict it will be a stormy courtship.”
Suddenly—the Catalan could move very quickly when he wanted to—Sanchez plucked off his hat and sent it sailing toward a row of coat-pegs on the far wall. The hat landed atop one of the pegs and perched there neatly. Despite everything, Sharon almost burst into laughter. Only Ruy would make sure of that detail!
“Lieutenant Trumble,” Sanchez said loudly, “I will rely upon you to keep Dona Sharon safe. These are Ducos’ men. I recognize three of them.”
The word Ducos seemed to break the paralysis of the strangers. One of them shouted something which Sharon didn’t understand, although she thought it was French. An instant later, working together, all the men still seated had upended the big table and tossed it aside. And all of them were drawing out weapons.
Three swords, damnation! One of the men seated had been armed with one also. Sharon hadn’t spotted it beneath the table. The others simply had daggers. Big, nasty, sharp-looking daggers.
Sanchez planted a boot on the small table next to him and sent it flying against the same wall his hat was resting upon. For all the smooth ease of the motion, the table shattered when it hit the wall. One of the legs landed five feet away. There was now a clear fighting space in the center of the room. Ruy’s hands went to his waist. The rapier and main gauche came out easily, hissing their steely way.
For just that instant, as the Catalan’s back and shoulders swelled in the act of drawing his blades, Ruy Sanchez reminded Sharon of nothing so much as a cobra flaring its hood. She’d long understood that the man was deadly, beneath the veneer of wit and drollery. The veneer was gone now. Not a trace of it left. Ruy Sanchez was once again in a familiar place—and he was almost sixty years of age. He’d survived that place before. He intended to survive it again.