Night Fires

Chapter 1 London, 1793 HE PUT HIS FINGERS--SPLAYED, AS IF PLAYing a harpsichord--on the chill library window, and watched the fine mist collect upon the glass around each fingertip. He could see it clearly against the dark dawn sky. Then he removed his hand, and blew upon the marks he made. His breath obliterated the fingertip mist in a large, round circle of gray, then the winter chill outside the window permeated, and made it all disappear. The glass clear again, he stared out of it, watching the city awaken with a shivering, hesitant movement. Bakery boys' feet slipped on the wet cobblestones, and the voices of tradesmen shook or groaned while hawking their wares. How very active of them, the man thought. And so very ordinary. A thought that ordinariness would be welcome at some time in his life strayed into his mind, but he shook it off, as well as the accompanying fatigue. A day of rest, and he would be ready for another assignment. His lips twisted. There was no rest for one such as himself. Rest meant time to contemplate life and other ordinary things, and contemplation was only for fools. It was no use contemplating his life. He'd done enough of that already. A closer sound, the tread of firm footsteps, came from behind him, but he did not turn around. It was, no doubt, Sir Robert Smith; a worthy and solid soul, as solid as the sound of his footsteps. The steps hesitated for a moment, perhaps because the library was dim, lit only by the fire in the hearth and a brace of candles. The man by the window allowed himself a smile. Sir Robert was also wise. One did not walk boldly into dark places. "I am here, Sir Robert." The man could hear Sir Robert walk toward him, and at last he turned around. There was no hesitation in Sir Robert's steps as he came closer, but certainly there was in his eyes. My reputation, oh, my reputation, the man thought, amused. "About Marat," Sir Robert said, still watching him. The name was a statement, not a question. A pause, then a small shrug as the man glanced out the window at the lightening sky. "You have access to the papers," he said. "You know whatever you need to know about me and my assignments--and Marat." He walked to the window again, placing his fingers on the glass as he did before and blowing on the finger marks. "Except what I am to call you." Sir Robert moved to the desk and brought out a packet of papers from his coat pocket. His eyes held curiosity. The man almost smiled. He had carried out Sir Robert's orders for almost a year now, and it amused him not to reveal his name. It was safer that way; the less anyone knew of him, the less hold on him they had. He had even rented this town house under an assumed name through a third party, and he had entered it unnoticed. He turned. "You may call me whatever you wish." Sir Robert frowned, irritated. "Yes, and since I know all I 'need' to know about you, I also know you like playing games with your name, Mr. Whoever-you-are." This time the man laughed, a soft sound. "You must allow me some amusement, Sir Robert," he said. He rested his chin on his hand, and tapped his index finger on his lip, as if in profound thought. "You may call me Corday." Sir Robert's hands paused in the straightening of the papers before him. "Corday." He gazed sternly at the man. "As in Charlotte Corday. I do not find the use of that name amusing." "Try to see it as a tribute to a job well done," Corday replied flippantly. "We do not pay you to have someone else complete the assignment." "Ah, but I did complete it." Corday's voice cooled. "Your papers will tell you I have been very successful." He almost sighed. He did not regret what he had done; it was his occupation, and he did it weHarbaugh, Karen is the author of 'Night Fires', published 2004 under ISBN 9780440242512 and ISBN 0440242517.