Julius 15, 1669

St. Cyr pulled off his dust-covered gloves and waited patiently as the masked men inspected him, roughly rubbing their fingers over his palms and sniffing them for the tell-tale scent of dye. With a sharp nod they let him pass. His exhausted horse was led away into the winding back streets.

Good. He was in time. Weary but relieved, St. Cyr ducked low through the tavern door, out of the early morning sun and into shadowed darkness. More guards stood there, cold-eyed and watchful. Beyond them, exiled Montaignan nobles warily glanced toward the door, inspecting the newcomer.

A sword rose, and St. Cyr stood still. Only a year ago, this might have been unforgivable impudence, but now it was merely caution ... and years as a diplomat in L'Empereur's service had taught him the value of self-control.

"Name?"

"Valentine St. Cyr."

The guard who didn't hold the threatening sword turned to address the nobles.

"Who vouches — "

"Valentine!" Jean-Christophe emerged from the crowd, arms wide. "You made it!"

The sword fell and the guards relaxed. The crowd's murmur grew again as people looked away and resumed their conversations. Another noble; another member of the counterrevolution.

"I rode here as fast as I could when I got your message." St. Cyr embraced his uncle, who put an arm around his shoulders and led him deeper into the royalists' makeshift headquarters. "I didn't want to be late."

Jean-Christophe pulled his nephew closer to the fire and inspected his face.

"No, but you look terrible." His voice was rough but kind. "I don't know if I can permit you to come along with us after all, Valentine. Your deshabille might disgrace the family name. Hasn't Mignard been taking care of you?"

"I left him behind, bringing the rest of the horses and our bags. He didn't like it, but this will be too dangerous for him ... and it isn't his fight."

"Very well, then; I shall forgive you the sweat and the dust this once. I wish I could offer you a bath and a change of clothes, but it's almost time. Come, I can pour you a glass of wine, at least."

"I can think of nothing I'd like more," St. Cyr sighed, dropping onto a bench. His normally pleasant face hardened. "Except revenge."

"That, too, we'll have today. You make twenty, and that is more than enough to roust that Parliamentarian pack of curs." Jean-Christophe poured the wine and handed the glass over. "It's Vodaccean, I'm afraid. Eisen isn't known for its vineyards."

"Vodaccean, eh? Then I trust you've already tested it for poison." St. Cyr drank deeply, visibly relaxing at last. "Mon dieu, that's terrible. But at least it cuts the dust."

"Young St. Cyr, is that you?" Another man manuevered his way through the Montaignan crowd. He was Jean-Cristophe's age, well into his sixth decade, but thin and wiry compared to Jean-Christophe's hearty country bulk. "When will you learn to travel like a noble?"

"Lord Matthieu, mon ami!" St. Cyr stood again and embraced his old mentor, feeling a surge of pleasure. "Thank God you're well."

Matthieu laughed shortly.

"No peasant dogs will ever corner this old fox into a hole, St. Cyr. Ah," his face sobered. "But my condolences over the loss of your parents. Jean-Christophe told me what happened."

"I wish I'd been there." St. Cyr's expression darkened. "I should have been there."

"Nonsense. None of us expected such a thing." Jean-Christophe sighed deeply. "I understand that Phillip and Clarette were killed on the very first day. That day! Everything was chaos — I barely managed to lead my own family out, and the servants...." He shook his head. "There was no hope for them."

"Your brother must have been taken by surprise," Lord Matthieu said grimly. "So many of us were. It was a terrible, treacherous attack, but cleverly enough planned. I'd give much to find the villain behind it."

"Have you been back?" St. Cyr asked his uncle.

"No. Not yet. When I heard L'Empereur was dead, we fled across the border, then joined the government-in-exile here."

"The news from Charouse isn't good," Lord Matthieu said softly. "Many of our properties have been looted and burned. They have occupied the palace and renamed it 'Chateau du Parlement.'" The St. Cyrs made disgusted noises. "And the slaughter ... they say the streets before the courthouse run red with the blood of our kinsfolk."

"But it all stops today," a woman's voice broke in. "Valentine, mon cher, I thought I heard your voice." She brushed past the others. St. Cyr rose and they held each other tightly a moment, then kissed with the affection of old friends. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"And I'm relieved to find you safe, Louise," St. Cyr replied, holding her face between his hands a moment longer. "I had nightmares that you were trapped and killed..."

"After today we shall have no more nightmares," she said fondly, patting his cheek. "I claim you as my companion in our little danse de vengeance. Although I must say, you've been a better-dressed partner."

St. Cyr looked down at himself and ruefully brushed at the dust and horsehair that covered his riding pants. She laughed.

"You — "

A delicate crystal chime cut through the voices, and everyone in the tavern fell still, turning.

The woman who set down the wineglass was heartbreakingly lovely - Marie-Catherine, L'Empereur's daughter. Beside her was her sister, Anne, and Anne's husband, Jean-Marie Rois et Reines. All three wore their royal finery, but the women were in military breeches and all three were bare-handed, jeweled swords girt around their waists. Firelight played from their gemstones and gold, limning them in light.

"It is time," she said simply.

Rustling filled the room as the Montaignan nobles set down drinks, loosened swords, and primed pistols. All had dressed in their best, as if to show the upstart Parliament that not even exile could shake Montaignan sang-froid; but their gloves were off, and blood-red hands gripped their weapons tightly.

"Bonne chance," Louise whispered. St. Cyr kissed her, and both drew their swords.

The royals and the rest of the country's most talented sorcerors tore open the Portals, the fabric of space ripping to the sound of faint screams. Blood dripped from the Portals' edges, the same color as the hands forcing them open.

One by one the Montaignan nobles chose a Portal and stepped through, eyes closed and hands linked against the ever-present temptation to step off the walkway and into damnation.

Eternity in a moment; and then the screaming of the Portals was lost in the screaming beyond them. St. Cyr opened his eyes and stepped quickly to the left, out of the way of those who followed.

The Portals had been opened into the fledgling Parliament's chambers, formerly L'Empereur's glittering throne room. Deputies and councilmembers milled in a confusion of fear and outrage as red-handed nobles descended upon them like hounds from the Church's hell.

St. Cyr fended off a blow and Louise stepped in, skewering the deputy who'd made it. She gave St. Cyr a brilliant smile and moved forward, her lady's rapier a blur of silver before her. St. Cyr walked behind her, eyes moving restlessly as he searched the crowd. Years of diplomatic training governed him even now: Seek to win the most strategic goal and the smaller ones will fall into place.

There — he recognized the dark, thin, intense Guadet from the sketches that had been smuggled across the border. Guadet, whose sarcastic tongue and skilled oration had spurred the Council on to increasingly inhumane decisions. His sword was out and he was cursing, words easy enough to read on his constantly moving lips.

St. Cyr's eyes narrowed as he guaged the best path to his goal. He took the high road, leaping to one of the long meeting tables that had been installed in the throne room and running across to intercept Guadet before he reached the door. He threw himself forward, shoulder slamming into the closed door before Guadet reached it. The impact jarred him, but he'd prevented the deputy from slipping out of the chamber.

A diplomat should construct his strategy so as to avoid leaving his opponent an easy means of escape.

The sly orator recoiled, sword tip rising. St. Cyr set his back to the door and lifted his own blade, smiling tightly.

"St. Cyr," Guadet spat. "I've heard of 'le joli diplomate.' The princess must be scraping the bottom of the barrel, for here are the dregs before me."

"I'm not surprised that a jumped-up cowherder wouldn't know his vintages," St. Cyr replied flatly. Sword tips darted forward, touched, leaped back. "I owe you for my parents' lives, you bastard."

"I wasn't there."

"Your words were."

Guadet lunged. St. Cyr parried hard, driving the sword away and down and shoving forward. Guadet spun to recover, parrying St. Cyr's instinctive thrust.

Someone else stumbled past them and died against the door, covered in blood.

Guadet feinted, but St. Cyr, whose job had long accustomed him to seeing through bluff, struck. The thin deputy recovered with lighting speed and again their blades struck, slid, and parted again.

"You nobles just don't understand, do you?" Guadet exclaimed. "Your time is over! We've shaken off your unholy reign in the name of God, and nothing you can do will stop the inexorable tide of Freedom."

"Your tongue moves swiftly enough; what of your sword?" St. Cyr drove forward, feinting, thrusting, parrying.

A confused opponent is likely to let slip a vital concession.

Guadet slowly moved back, eyes narrow as he sought an opening. The two were closely matched; both were more comfortable sparring with words than with swords, and while St. Cyr had been taught swordplay as a youth, Gaudet had been fighting regularly ever since the bloody Septimus uprisings.

A shot rang through the high-ceilinged throne room, deafening everyone. For a moment both sides hesitated, and then they lunged forward again with renewed ferocity.

St. Cyr's sword drew a line across Guadet's forearm and the thin man swore. Sweat ran down his face; he was beginning to breathe heavily. St. Cyr pressed forward again, ignoring his own weariness.

"That's the problem with being filled with hot air," St. Cyr growled, stepping forward again. "No. Long. Term. Endurance." Three blows drove Guadet backward. The orator fought defensively now. Another line of red appeared across his white shirt.

"What would you know of endurance, you decadent — limp-wristed — bedroom toy?" Guadet gasped.

"You'd be surprised what the bedroom can teach a man." St. Cyr stepped forward again. "For example, it taught me to keep — my — sword — up!" With a quick move he batted Guadet's blade aside and snapped his sword tip across the orator's throat.

The orator stared at him a moment, then collapsed in an arterial spray.

When a concession has been won, the diplomat should not pause to gloat, but move briskly on to the next order of business.

St. Cyr ran his sleeve across his face, wiping Guadet's blood away, and plunged back into the massacre.

The attack on the throne room took less than an hour, but then followed the long hours of accounting. From the palace, the bloody-handed Montaignan nobles tore Portals to other revolutionary strongholds, ruthlessly hunting down their opponents. St. Cyr travelled with Louise and his mentor, Lord Matthieu, who -- even in the midst of such historic events -- couldn't help but lecture pedantically on Porte as he took them from one fray to another.

The coup d'etat occurred in the morning, shortly after Parliament had begun it's day's work. By night the royal family was in control again.

Each member of the treasonous Council of Eight had been killed in the initial attack. Their bodies, and the bodies of the rest of those killed in Parliament, were set on display. It was a gesture worthy of L'Empereur, and it would be the last such.

St. Cyr gazed at the lamplit bodies, trying to feel the same satisfaction at rest that he'd felt in the heat of battle.

"You look pensive. Do you have regrets, mon amour?" Louise asked, arm linked in his. She was as filthy and blood-covered as he.

"No. They deserved to die. But...."

"Yes?"

"Their deaths haven't brought back my parents."

"No. Of course not." Louise turned to him and brushed back his hair from his face. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"I suppose." He sighed and looked away from the bodies. "Lord Matthieu says that battle is merely an extension of diplomacy, but I have always seen it as diplomacy's failure. Yet, what else could we have done?"

"Perhaps you should not be so quick to dismiss Lord Matthieu's words. One cannot negotiate with madmen and fanatics."

"You're right. Every time I disagree with Lord Matthieu, it turns out that he is right." He looks down at his red hands with a moment's wry reminiscence. "But forgive me, mon amour. I'm keeping us from our bath."

"Yes, you are." Louise tugged him along, pulling his arm closer. "And, as tomorrow I suspect there will be a great deal for a diplomat to do, we'd best get you cleaned up and well-rested as soon as possible."

"Rested, ma fille charmante?"

She smiled up at him and patted his arm knowingly.

"Well, Valentine, cleaned up, at least."