Louvois stepped closer, his hands clasped together. “Sire, thank God. The woods and the town are thick with conspiracy. We must get you to Paris at once.”

The other boot dropped. “We are not going anywhere.”

Louvois hesitated. “But – the councils of war – the generals are all waiting for you in the Louvre.”

Louis stood with regal defiance, noticing among the myriad faces the sharp, aquiline countenance of the somber noble Montcourt, whom Louis could not tell was frowning or smiling. “Invite the generals to dinner,” the King said, his attention back on Louvois. “Bring the war here.”

Fabien found little pleasure in the daintier things of life, but he did savor power. Men who gained power were those who deserved it. Power had its responsibilities. And its privileges.

The youngest of the would-be assassins stood in the center of the poorly lit prison cell. And while youth had its bravado, it also had its emotional weaknesses.

The boy’s bare feet were shackled. His body was streaked with mud, blood, and piss. His face was contorted in an attempt to hide the dread that his trembling arms belied.

On a wooden table lay one of the boy’s co-conspirators, an older man, naked, breathing rapidly and shallowly. He was held in place with leather straps, drenched in sweat and filth, the end of one leg a raw, bloodied stump. On a second table lay the instruments that Fabien found most useful in torture – a hammer, blades, a pair of farrier pliers and other smaller instruments, one a kindly dentist might use in another setting, another circumstance.

Fabien eyed the boy indifferently.

“You will have been given a name,” he said. “A friendly face. What was the name?”

The boy, unable to take his eyes from the mangled fellow on the table, shook his head. His eyes hitched in terror.

Fabien walked to the table with the instruments.

“Only…only Calderon knew!” the boy blurted out. “He said we’d receive word.”

Fabien reached into his shirt and pulled out the map he’d retrieved at the arrest of the assassins. He pointed to the code at the top.

“This?” he asked.

The boy whispered, “I’ve never seen that before.”

Fabien had guessed as much. The boy would talk but it would take a bit more encouragement.

Turning on his heel, Fabien selected the pliers and hammer, weighing them in his hands and then moving to the bound prisoner. He looked at the body to choose the best place to start. Then he slammed the hammer into the prisoner’s lower leg, crushing the bone and flattening it against the wood of the table. The prisoner, who had been nearly unconscious, woke with a hellish shriek. The boy wailed.