Robin found himself in command of no fewer than fifty-two archers. A skeleton crew of eight—including Jacques, Pierre, and Verne—had remained aboard the Belle Dame.
As the men gathered together for the march to New Chicago, Robin quietly asked Claude de Ves what he’d said to Verne in the salon.
“Eh?” De Ves chuckled. “Merely that he is too valuable to chance in such an attack as this. We will need his mind to restore the city and the technocracy to its
I former glory. How can he do that if he is dead—from old wounds, or from new ones?”
“Very logical.”
“Indeed, it is logic to which Monsieur Verne listens best.”
Robin divided the party into three groups, one led by Claude de Ves, one by Little John, and one by himself. “We stand less chance of being spotted if we move quickly and in small groups,” he told them. “Little John, follow me in five minutes. Claude, follow five minutes after Little John.”
They nodded their understanding. De Ves translated for the Frenchmen.
“Remember,” Robin told his group, “we will be the first ones to run into any trouble. Should guards challenge us, shoot first and ask questions later. We have plenty of arrows; don’t be afraid to waste them.”
He looked his men over one last time, making eye contact with each and every one. They all hefted their bows, shifting impatiently, like hounds eager for the hunt. At last Robin nodded, convinced they were ready. With a sharp whistle, he turned and padded softly into the darkness. They followed right on his heels.
The journey took one of the longest hours of Robin’s life.
Every noise in the night, every creaking branch, every rustle of leaves grated on his nerves. He would pause, motioning his men to silence, and listen. Usually it was the wind, or a passing animal. Twice patrols of Capone’s men passed within yards of where they crouched; Capone’s men talked loudly to one another, their swords and shields making occasional metallic clangs. They were
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arrogant in their strength, convinced they were invulnerable here, Robin thought. He let them pass unharmed to maintain the night’s fa§ade of normality.
They circled the stinking mire of Pisstown, keeping upwind as much as possible. The northern side of the stockade faced out on a sea of tree stumps sprinkled with little copses of saplings; the forest had been cleared for hundreds of yards around New Chicago for its wood. Like phantoms they drifted from hiding place to hiding place until they were twenty yards from the stockade walls.
While the others waited under cover, Robin and Will Scarlet jogged over to the side gate Robin had scouted during his time in the city. Robin pressed his ear to the wood and heard deep snoring from the other side. The lone guard had fallen asleep at his post.
He mimed it to Will, who had taken out the long, thin strip of brass Verne’s men had prepared. Nodding, Will inserted the strip between the door and frame, working it carefully upward. It caught on the bar. Will shifted left, then right, then up again, and the bar lifted out of place.
Using his fingertips, Robin pushed the door back. Will reached inside, caught the bar, and lowered it silently. They both slipped inside.
Next to the gate they found a guard sprawled in a high-backed wooden chair, his mouth open. He was snoring softly. Robin nocked an arrow and leaned forward until its tip pricked the man’s throat. He came awake with a frightened mew.
“One more sound and you’re dead,” Robin said. “Will, tie him up.”
Will Scarlet did as instructed. In minutes the guard was firmly bound and gagged with strips cut from his
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own clothing. He could do nothing but stare at them with wide eyes.
Turning, Robin pushed the gate completely open and motioned toward the saplings. In groups of three and four, the rest of his band crossed into the stockade.
As they entered, Robin reminded everyone where to go and what to do. “Watch for a flaming arrow,” he said. “That will be our sign that the attack has begun.”