The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

there were eight… Oh no. “There are nine,” I said, disappointed. “There’s another mast sticking up behind the ship on the left.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what city it is?”

“I have no idea.”

I blinked. “So there’s no right answer?”

“There often isn’t.” Walsingham shifted in his chair. “The purpose of my question, then: Can you understand it?”

If there was no right answer… then the answer wasn’t what mattered. Instead… “It was about me,” I said. “What—or rather how—I think.”

He nodded. “You are acceptable. You may inform Ashcombe of this.”

Was I being dismissed? I began to rise. “Yes, Master.”

“Never call me that.”

I flushed. “Sorry, Ma—uh… my lord. I thought—”

“I am your master,” Walsingham said, “and the title brings no shame. Nonetheless, you must avoid calling me so, even in private.

“Keep this in your mind always: Our association is to be secret. So, from this day forward, your only master is Woodrow Kirby, apothecary. If you must refer to me publicly—and you should avoid this wherever possible—refer to me only by my title. I am Lord Walsingham, or His Lordship, the Earl.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Of course,” he said, “your role will not remain a secret. Nothing ever does. But, at the very least, we can avoid hastening the discovery. Tell me about your mission in Paris.”

His abrupt change of topic threw me. “I wrote some letters to Lord Ashcombe—”

“I read them. I wish to hear the story directly from you.”

I’d already begun to recall my trip, while I’d been waiting for Walsingham to speak. Now I told the tale out loud, beginning with the attempt on Minette’s life in Oxford, up to the execution of the traitors outside the Bastille, and the discovery that Rémi—the head servant at Maison Chastellain, and who called himself the Raven—was behind it all. When I finished, the spymaster studied me.

“You are an excellent storyteller,” he said.

“Um… thank you, my lord.”

“And you are an equally excellent liar.”

CHAPTER

14

THE SPYMASTER’S EYES BURNED INTO me.

“My lord?” I said, flustered. “I swear, everything I told you really happened—”

“I believe that,” he said, still quiet. “And yet, your story does not add up. There is something you are not telling me. Your lie is a lie of omission.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Because he was right.

The one thing I’d left out of my letters, the one thing only Tom and Sally knew, was that the Templars weren’t dead. Their ancient order still existed, after all these centuries, operating behind the scenes, in secret, to protect the world from descending into chaos. After we’d discovered this, I’d promised a Templar priest, Father Bernard, that I wouldn’t spread the word. And I hadn’t.

“My lord…” I had no idea what I was going to say. So I was relieved when Walsingham raised his hand to silence me.

“It is a spy’s job—your job—to keep secrets,” he said. “I will not begrudge you that. But you must understand: You work now for His Majesty. Whatever personal secrets you hold, you may not keep, if they threaten the king. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I will ask you: Do you know of anything that is a danger to His Majesty?”

The Templars were no threat to Charles, I was certain. In fact, they’d told me the opposite: They’d often worked to thwart plots against the French king, Louis XIV, even if they hadn’t always succeeded. So my answer could be true.

“No, my lord.”

“You received a message. May I see it?”

Again, that abrupt change of topic threw me. I reached into my doublet to hand him the letter I’d found in my shop.

He studied it carefully, silent.

An oath was made, a promise sworn

To those who wished to bind him.

But he returned, and offered scorn

And so they come to find him.

You will know the key when you see

the truth. Remember Paris.

M O I U R H J B X A M G X B H B L L

He stared at a blank space on the wall, as if he were looking out of a window, instead of at empty plaster. He remained that way for a few minutes. Then he spoke.

“Do you know what the riddle means?”

“The first part? Um… no,” I said.

“You hesitate.”

“Well… I have an idea. My friend Tom suggested it, actually. I think it might refer to the king.”

“Why?”

I went through our discussion from yesterday. “At first, I thought it might be about me. Because the letter was left for me, and I’d just returned, like it says. But I haven’t broken any oaths”—not even now, when Walsingham had called me out for lying about Paris—“so I don’t think it fits. His Majesty also returned, when he got the throne back in 1660. And there have been two murders in the palace already. I don’t know what promise he’s supposed to have scorned, but I’m guessing it relates to those deaths.”

The spymaster remained silent, staring at the wall.

“Do you think it refers to the king, my lord?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Whom do you think is the threat?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

That was unexpected. “All right.”

He turned back to meet my eyes. “I stay silent because of something critically important you must understand.” He spread his hands. “This—this moment here—is the most dangerous time in an investigation.”

I’d figured the most dangerous time was when the bullets started flying. “Why is that, my lord?”

“The human mind,” he said, “is exceptional at recognizing patterns. So good, in fact, that when there are no patterns, we invent them to fill the gaps. Once a man’s mind is fixed on what he believes is the truth, nothing else can be real. If he finds evidence that supports his theory, then he is correct. If he finds evidence that refutes his theory, does he rethink his beliefs? Very rarely. Instead, he dismisses the evidence, or finds some way to twist it so it will fit his view of the world. He simply refuses to see.

“I have a theory. I believe it is correct. But I do not know