He felt like an animal, and he thought of the way Marek had bared his teeth before the attack in the room, like some kind of ape. He looked over at Kate and saw that she, too, was crouched and tense as she moved forward.
For some reason, he found himself thinking of the seminar room on the second floor of the Peabody, back at Yale, with the cream-colored walls and the polished dark-wood trim, and of the arguments among the graduate students sitting around the long table: whether processual archaeology was primarily historical or primarily archaeological, whether formalist criteria outweighed objectivist criteria, whether derivationist doctrine concealed normative commitment.
It was no wonder they argued. The issues were pure abstractions, consisting of nothing but thin air — and hot air. Their empty debates could never be resolved; the questions could never be answered. Yet there had been so much intensity, so much passion in those debates. Where had it come from? Who cared? He couldn’t quite remember now why it had been so important.
The academic world seemed to be receding into the distance, vague and gray in memory, as he made his way down the dark hillside toward the river. Yet however frightened he was on this night, however tense and at risk of his life, it was entirely real in some way that was reassuring, even exhilarating, and—
He heard a twig snap, and he froze.
Marek and Kate froze, too.
They heard soft rustling in the brush to the left, and a low snort. They stayed motionless. Marek gripped his sword.
And the small dark shape of a wild pig snuffled past them.
“Should have killed it,” Marek whispered. “I’m hungry.”
They started to continue forward, but then Chris realized that they were not the ones who had frightened the pig. Because now they heard, unmistakably, the sound of many running feet. Rustling, crashing in the underbrush. Coming toward them.
:
Marek frowned.
He could see enough in the darkness to catch glimpses of metal armor now and again. There must be seven or eight soldiers, moving hastily east, then dropping down, hiding in the brush again, becoming silent.
What the hell was going on?
These soldiers had been back at the dirt path, waiting for them. Now the soldiers had moved east, and were waiting for them again.
How?
He looked at Kate, crouched beside him, but she just looked frightened.
Chris, also crouching, tapped Marek on the shoulder. Chris shook his head, then pointed deliberately to his own ear.
Marek nodded, listened. At first he heard nothing but the wind. Puzzled, he looked back at Chris, who made a distinct tapping motion against the side of his head, by his ear.
He was saying, Turn on your earpiece.
Marek tapped his ear.
After a brief crackle as the sound came on, he heard nothing. He shrugged at Chris, who held up his flat palms: Wait. Marek waited. Only after a few moments of quiet listening did he become aware of the soft, regular sound of a person breathing.
He looked at Kate and held his finger to his lips. She nodded. He looked at Chris. He nodded, too. They both understood. Make no noise at all.
Again, Marek listened intently. He still heard the sound of quiet breathing in his earpiece.
But it wasn’t coming from any of them.
Someone else.
:
Chris whispered, “André. This is too dangerous. Let’s not cross the river tonight.”
“Right,” Marek whispered. “We’ll go back to Castelgard and hide out for the night outside the walls.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Let’s go.”
In the darkness, they nodded to each other, then they deliberately tapped their ears, turning their earpieces off.
And they crouched down to wait.
In a few moments, they heard the soldiers start to move, once again running through the underbrush. This time, they were going up the hill — back toward Castelgard.
They waited another five or six minutes. And then they headed down the hill, away from Castelgard.
:
It was Chris who had put it all together. Climbing down the hillside in the night, he had brushed a mosquito away from his ear, and the movement had inadvertently turned his earpiece on; not long afterward, he had heard someone sneeze.
And none of them had sneezed.
A few moments later, they had come upon the pig, and by then he was hearing someone panting with exertion. While Kate and Marek, in the darkness beside him, were not moving at all.
That was when he realized for certain that someone else had an earpiece — and thinking it over now, he had a pretty good idea where it had come from. Gomez. Somebody must have taken it from Gomez’s severed head. The only problem with that idea was—
Marek nudged him. Pointed ahead.
Kate gave the thumbs-up sign and grinned.
:
Broad and flat, the river rippled and gurgled in the night. The Dordogne was wide at this point; they could barely see the far shore, a line of dark trees and dense undergrowth. They saw no sign of movement. Looking upstream, Chris could just make out the dark outline of the mill bridge. He knew the mill would be closed up at night; millers could work only during daylight hours, because even a candle risked causing an explosion in the dusty air.
Marek touched Chris on the arm, then pointed toward the opposite bank. Chris shrugged; he saw nothing.
Marek pointed again.
Squinting, Chris could barely discern four wisps of pale smoke rising into the sky. But if they came from fires, why was there no light?
Following the riverbank, they moved upstream, and eventually came upon a boat tied to the shore. It thunked against rocks in the current. Marek looked toward the opposite shore. They were now some distance from the smoke.
He pointed to the boat. Did they want to risk it?
The alternative, Chris knew, was to swim the river. The night was chilly; he didn’t want to get wet. He pointed to the boat and nodded.
Kate nodded.
They climbed aboard, and Marek rowed them quietly across the Dordogne.
:
Sitting next to Chris, Kate found herself thinking of their conversation while crossing the river a few days earlier. How many days had it been? It must be only two days ago, she realized. But it seemed like weeks to her.
She squinted at the far shore, looking for any movement. Their boat would be a dark shape on dark water against a dark hill, but they would still be visible if anyone was looking.
But apparently no one was. The shore was closer now, and then with a hiss the boat moved into the grass along the banks and crunched to a soft stop. They climbed out. They saw a narrow dirt path that followed the edge of the river. Marek held his fingers to his lips, and started down the path. He was going toward the smoke.
They followed cautiously.
A few minutes later, they had their answer. There were four fires, placed at intervals along the riverbank. The flames were surrounded by pieces of broken armor atop mounds of earth, so that only the smoke was visible.
But there were no soldiers.
Marek whispered. “Old trick. Fires give false position.”
Kate wasn’t quite sure what the “old trick” was meant to accomplish. Perhaps to indicate greater strength, greater numbers, than you really had. Marek led them past the row of untended fires, toward several others ranged farther along the riverbank. They were close to the water, hearing the gurgling of the river. As they came to the last fire, Marek abruptly spun on his heel and dropped to the ground. Kate and Chris dropped, too, and then they heard voices, singing a repetitive drinking song; the lyrics were something about “Ale makes a man slumber by fire, ale makes a man wallow in mire. . . .”
It went on interminably. Listening to the lyrics, she thought: This is “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” And sure enough, as she raised her head to look, she saw half a dozen soldiers in green and black sitting around a fire, drinking and singing loudly. Perhaps they had been ordered to make enough noise to justify all the fires.
Marek pointed for them to go back, and when they had moved a distance away, he led them off to the left, away from the river. They left behind the cover of trees that lined the river, then were again slipping through open, cleared fields. She realized that these were the same fields where she had been that morning. And sure enough, now she could see on the left faint yellow lights in the upper windows of the monastery as some of the monks worked late. And the dark outlines of thatched farm huts, directly ahead.
Chris pointed toward the monastery. Why weren’t they going there?
Marek made a pillow with his hands: Everybody sleeping.