Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

My heart stopped beating.

Just like that. It froze up. I froze up. Nothing worked anymore. Not my arms, not my hands, not even the smallest finger on my hand. There was only a single thought in my head, over and over again.

Please, no! Don’t let him be dead! Don’t let him be—

‘Damnation! That hole will cost a fortune to mend!’

Thank you, God! He’s alive and well!

A familiar, tall, dark figure hit the ground beside me, and before he’d even had time to straighten, I swooped down on him, crushing him to me.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course I am all right, Mr Linton. Cease this exuberant display of emotions. Knowledge is power is time is money.’ A shot sounded from beyond the wall. ‘Especially when people are firing at you. Move!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘And hand me a piece of cloth. I have to stop the bleeding before it ruins my whole tailcoat.’

Muttering something not very polite about skinflints, I tore a strip out of my shirt and thrust it into his hand. My feet never stopped moving. ‘Here!’

‘Adequate.’

‘Would it kill you to say “thank you”?’

Behind us, more gunshots sounded.

‘No, but the bullets might. Run!’

We dashed away, across the pitch-black street. A few moments later we heard the loud thudding of footsteps behind us, and suddenly Karim was at our side.

‘They’re right behind us, Sahib! Some have run to open the gate and pursue us on horseback. Where now?’

‘Down here! Come!’

Veering off to the side, Mr Ambrose dashed down another street, and then another. Behind us, the sound of pursuit grew louder and louder. I was just about to demand where the hell he thought he was leading us, when he slid into an alleyway that even the grimiest beggar in Paris would have considered below his standards. Coming to a stop in front of a door, he knocked, four times quickly, two times slowly.

‘Jacques, laisse-moi entrer!’[40]

A moment or two later, the door was pulled open a gap, and a suspicious eye appeared. When it recognized Mr Ambrose, it widened, and so did the gap. The man beyond, whoever he was, grinned from one side of his face to the other.

‘Mon Dieu! C’est toi! Entrez, entrez!’[41]

The door flew open, and the fellow on the other side practically dragged us inside, while he let loose a flood of French so convoluted probably not even Napoleon would have been able to understand it. I scrutinized him, trying to figure him out—with absolutely no success. He didn’t look as if he were Mr Ambrose’s agent, or employee, or in any way connected with him. Dressed in baggy trousers and a shirt with enough holes to qualify as a fishing net, he looked like….well, I wasn’t exactly sure what he looked like. I could only be sure what he was not: a Parisian fashion designer.

The rest of the people in the room didn’t look any better. There were sailors smoking cheap clay pipes, factory workers with stains all over their clothing, children tumbling around on the floor and on each other, and a general chaos of looks, smells and people that would have been enough to make most fine ladies back in London faint with horror.

Lucky me, I wasn’t a fine lady.

One thing I did notice, though. Despite the fact that their clothing was pretty drab all around, nearly everyone was carrying some bits of clothing in the bright colors red, white and blue.

I leaned over to Mr Ambrose. ‘Who,’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth, ‘are those people?’

‘Revolutionaries.’

‘What?’

‘Well, perhaps it is not quite correct to call them that at the moment, seeing as there currently is no revolution in progress. But these are what the French generally refer to as sans-culottes.’