Julius 16, 1669

The sun was barely lightening the sky when Valentine St. Cyr, yawning, buckled his sword belt as he met his uncle and Lord Matthieu in front of the de Champaigne apartments.

"Forgive me," he apologized. "I fell asleep."

"Really?" Jean-Christophe said dryly. "I hope she wasn't disappointed."

"Someday, young St. Cyr, you are going to be in the wrong bed at the wrong time," Lord Matthieu reproached him. "A diplomat needs to exercise more discretion in his choice of ... hobbies."

"You're right, of course, my lord," St. Cyr said meekly. He was certain that Louise's friendly company would never be a danger to him, but he knew better than to argue with his mentor. Matthieu had taught him everything he knew about diplomacy, and the old sorceror could still argue circles around him. "Thank you."

Matthieu shook his head with disgust.

"Are you two ready?"

The St. Cyrs drew their weapons and nodded. Matthieu reached out, red hands nearly black in the dim morning light, and tore open a Portal. In moments they disappeared and the Portal closed behind them, leaving only the whisper of a scream and a few drops of blood on the cobblestone street.

News of Charouse's change of regime had apparently reached the St. Cyr estates late that night; the three stepped through into Valentine's room to the sound of shouting. Jean-Christophe and St. Cyr ran out into the hallway, swords gleaming, shouting their servants' names.

Lord Matthieu proceeded more cautiously.

"Master St. Cyr!" One of the maidservants dropped to her knees when she saw St. Cyr turn the corner. Her hands reached out imploringly. "We've been waiting for you! The traitor — "

"Where are they?" he demanded, glaring at her. Her fear was real, at least.

"The carriage house," she stammered. "Tied up in the carriage house."

"Let's go," Jean-Christophe said tersely. Uncle and nephew pounded down the stairs together, ignoring the men and women who recoiled against the walls, terrified, at their passage. Out the door, around back, to the carriage house.

A small mob milled outside, arguing. As soon as the two men turned the corner, the arguing stopped and everyone turned, flinching as their eyes fell on red hands gripping sword hilts.

A stout elderly woman stepped forward first and dropped a curtsey. She wore a peasant's smock, but both men recognized Celie Mignard, the estate's housekeeper.

"Lord St. Cyr," she said, addressing Valentine. Her voice was steady. "We have the traitor in the saferoom."

St. Cyr swallowed, pulling himself together. Her mode of address — calling him by his father's title, instead of the "Master St. Cyr" he'd heard from her all his life — had shaken him more deeply than he'd expected.

"Thank you, Celia," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Would you please gather everyone in the kitchen? We — we will want to ask questions."

"Of course, my lord," she said, with another curtsey. Behind her, the servants and locals glanced nervously at each other.

"Lord Matthieu will be there," Jean-Christophe added harshly. Faces paled at the well-known Porte sorceror's name. "Do whatever he says."

Celie curtseyed again, handing over the saferoom key. Jean-Christophe brushed past her, his nephew hard at his heels. The men and women around the carriage house drew back from them, glancing nervously at each other.

Every Montaignan estate had at least one saferoom, carefully built and monitored to avoid any Blooding of the construction materials or furniture. The rooms were used as meeting rooms, storage for valuables, and in some cases, prisons.

The room in the St. Cyr carriage house usually performed the latter two functions.

Now Jean-Christophe unlocked the door and threw it open to find the head gardener huddled inside, bruised and bloodied.

"Girard," St. Cyr identified him. "Our old gardener's cousin. He's only been with us a few years — "

"He unlocked the gates and let the rebels in," Celie said behind them. She'd come in unnoticed and stood demurely by the doorway, hands folded in her disreputable country smock. "It was early morning, when everyone was still asleep."

Jean-Christophe surged forward and picked up the man bodily, slamming him against the saferoom wall.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

Girard feebly shook his head, eyes wide.

"He's lying," Celie said calmly. "Many of us saw him. You may ask us...." even she faltered a moment, "under sorcery, if you must."

"Wait," St. Cyr said tightly, laying his free hand on his uncle's arm as the man cocked his fist. "Let's make sure before we kill him She could be lying."

Celie gave him a disapproving look, lips pursed, but he ignored her. Nobody could be trusted anymore — not even the Mignards, who'd been with his family for seven generations.

His uncle glared at him, then nodded and dropped the gardener back to the floor.

"Maybe." Jean-Christophe said, looking down at the man with loathing. "But if he's guilty...."

"Then we'll both watch him die," St. Cyr finished flatly.

They locked Girard back up and followed Celie to the kitchen.

Lord Matthieu had taken matters into his own hands with the quiet efficiency that had made him a top diplomat. The assembled servants and farmers sat an arm's length apart from each other, silent, eyes wide and faces pale. Matthieu had left the doors to the dry goods storage room open, turning it into a small inquisition chamber. He faced the door; the young woman he was questioning had her back to it.

"There you are." The elderly man stood, waving the St. Cyrs inside. "Pray continue this, and I will remain outside to ensure that none of this rabble speaks to each other."

St. Cyr nodded sharply. Matthieu would ensure that no story was crafted in the kitchen while they questioned their suspects in the storage room room. It was possible that the servants had all betrayed them and had worked out a cover together — but if they hadn't, keeping them from coordinating their stories now was paramount. And if they had ... St. Cyr was certain that between he and his uncle, the truth would eventually come out.

And so it did, in bits and pieces over the next few hours. The stories were confused and confusing, contradictory and fearful. But little by little the St. Cyrs were able to reconstruct the night of the revolution, and the weeks that followed. They didn't use sorcery — sensing truth wasn't part of a Porte sorceror's repertoire. But neither did they let the commoners they questioned know that. Just the sight of their red hands, as they sat and listened, made the peasants grow pale, and St. Cyr's diplomatic training helped with the rest.

The gardener Girard had led the armed rebels into the estate, aided by a kitchen maid whom he'd been courting. They'd crept into the house without raising an alarm until they'd already laid hands on St. Cyr's parents.

Jean-Christophe and Valentine St. Cyr listened grimly as the story took shape. At times they had to leave the room and pace outside the house until their tempers had cooled enough to return.

Lord and Lady Sty. Cyr had been dragged out of bed. Their hands had been bound behind their backs and their mouths cruelly gagged. Those servants who'd tried to defend them had been ruthlessly cut down.

By dawn word had gone out through the farms that the revolution had come. Some had fled; some had huddled down and kept their heads low; and some had charged out to the St. Cyr estates to join in the looting and killing.

That morning the lord and lady had been beaten almost to death. Members of the angry mob had taken turns raping Lady St. Cyr, and eventually both had been hung. Later, their bodies had been mutilated by the blood-maddened peasants and paraded around the local village as prizes.

St. Cyr wanted to vomit. He'd heard rumors of such things while in Eisen, but to imagine them happening to his own parents....

Celie had fled in the chaos, taking the youngest maids and kitchen help with her to her niece's farm. Other servants, too, had taken to their heels, unable to save the lord and lady and unwilling to be put to the same fate. They'd hid with friends and family and waited.

"We knew you would come back," Celie said simply. "But we thought it would be sooner." She sounded reproachful.

"I have made a list," Lord Matthieu said, entering the small room before either St. Cyr could answer. He laid two pages on the table before them. "Of the names of those peasants all agree were revolutionaries, and of those all agree remained loyal. Of the others, we cannot be certain."

Both St. Cyrs searched for, and found, Celie's name on the "loyal" list. St. Cyr felt himself relax minutely. He hadn't been certain what he'd have done if the Mignards had proven disloyal. They'd been part of the family as he'd grown up, and he'd always believed them beyond reproach ... until the revolution had shaken his faith.

Girard's name was on the "traitor" list.

"Celie," St. Cyr said, standing. "Gather the people whose names are on this list and bring them into the house. Tell them to set things back into order. I will — I'll talk to them later. Lord Matthieu, what should we do about the traitors?"

"Most will have fled as soon as they heard you were back," Lord Matthieu said gravely. "I'll call for volunteers to hunt them down, promising leniency to any man who so proves his loyalty to the St. Cyrs."

"Tell them we'll pay a bounty," Jean-Christophe said fiercely. "Two guilders for each traitor's head."

"Three if the traitor is brought in alive," St. Cyr added softly. He met his uncle's eyes. "We'll want to kill some of them ourselves, Uncle."

Jean-Christophe nodded brusquely. Lord Matthieu opened his mouth as if to say something, then reconsidered and left to make the announcement.

The two St. Cyrs remained still, gazing at each other. Celie quietly took the list of loyal retainers and slipped out.

"What shall we do with Girard?" Jean-Christophe asked, cruelly thoughtful.

"Something painful."

"And public."

"Slow?"

"A quick death would be too easy for him."

They fell silent, mentally running through the possibilities. L'Empereur's reign had taught Montaigne a number of creatively painful methods of death.

Outside, frightened servants tiptoed around the mansion, doing what they could to restore the looted and vandalized estate to some semblance of order.

In the end Lord Matthieu convinced them to give Girard up to the law, rather than wreak their own prolonged vengeance on the man. That he was able to convince them was a credit to the elderly statesman's diplomatic skills, for both St. Cyrs wanted to wash their hands in the man's blood. But he dissuaded them from killing Girard on that first day, and on the next day they proceeded to Jean-Christophe's mansion only to find it burned to the ground, his vineyards ruined. In the pain and fury of that discovery, their immediate anger with the traitor was diluted with rage at others.

The next day Celie led them to the hidden graves where Lord and Lady St. Cyr's bodies had been taken after the revolutionaries had finished with them. The two men slowly and silently dug up the rough pine crates — nothing more than packing boxes stolen from the vineyard storage houses — and moved them to the family tomb. As soon as proper coffins could be made, the bodies would reinterred with respect.

St. Cyr invited his uncle's family to live on his estate until, or unless, they rebuilt their own; he had already been summoned back to court. The new government had much to do in preparation for Marie-Catherine's coronation. Jean-Christophe accepted. Lord Matthieu returned to Charouse to inform the family and return to his own duties.

On the third day a Court-appointed judge and executioner arrived on the St. Cyr lands, accompanied by a small guillotine on a wagon. St. Cyr suspected that Lord Matthieu had pulled strings, fearing that if something weren't done soon, Girard wouldn't survive his captivity. He begrudged the man a merciful death, but understood Lord Matthieu's reasoning. As usual, the old man was two steps ahead of the rest of them. The only way to reassert normality in Montaigne would be to reestablish law's supremacy over vigilante justice.

The executions were well-attended, and the traitors' deaths loudly cheered, but neither St. Cyr could help but watch the crowd with skepticism, wondering which among the cheering men and women still harbored a revolutionary fire in their hearts.