and pulled uselessly at the giant's grip with his free hand. Leandro shook his head and giggled at the futile effort, but the grip gave Devlin enough leverage to roll and hammer his massive iron club of a pistol into Leandro's head.
The blow was enough. Leandro yelped off. They stood panting as an English curse and a shot rang out behind them. Leandro shook off the blow in time to see Devlin scrape out his blade with a grin.
In more restful times, Devlin would tell of his surprise as Leandro ignored the sword, put his sweating bald pate down and charged again. Devlin's lungs exploded as the blow took them flying through the doors and into the night.
It was inevitable. It happened in a heartbeat. The two of them went over the balcony. Devlin threw his sword as they fell, twisting Leandro beneath him. The thud of the landing on the stone below winded Devlin. It killed Leandro.
Devlin rolled upwards and left the sleeping giant. Breathing hard, he ran to retrieve his sword, sticking his pistol in his belt. His back ran cold with sweat. He turned and looked up at the dark house. Suddenly the room above was bathed in light and shouts. The guards had mounted the stairs and burst into the fray. More shots. More yelling. It was over then. It had taken seconds.
Devlin spun round and made for the gate, almost pulling it from its hinge; then he was through it and running, off the path and bolting away from the house.
He ran only for a few minutes, wading through waist-tall grass and low trees; then he began to struggle as the land slanted uphill, his chest like a furnace. He had to rest. He glanced behind. The house was no longer visible.
Kneeling down, hidden in the grass, he checked the action on his pistol for damage from the fall. He reloaded methodically, finding comfort in the clicks and snaps from his weapon and its partners, the patch pouch and cartridge box.
The ammo was prepared. A paper-load of powder wrapped round each ball with a twist. Bite, prime, pour, load, ram.
The ramrod refused to find its way home through his trembling hands.
Crouching there, under the moon, brought him back to the Kilkenny fields and his poaching days, years from this place. Killing one thing was as good as another. Blood as a butcher's boy, blood as a poacher, blood as a fisherman, four years of it with Coxon, and Philippe Ducos's blood still staining his boots.
Devlin took out the compass. He would have to head north to find the shore where Peter Sam had landed, having already discounted the bay where his party had arrived since - even if he made it to the boat - a lone man rowing out to the Lucy would be a grand target. Besides, he was counting on any pursuers making that judgement and granting him escape time. He looked up at the volcanic hills. North, over those hills, avoiding the roads, was a hard passage. His crossbelt and sword now hung over his waistcoat, as he bundled the heavy coat in his arms and pressed on.
Valentim, still holding a French dragoon pistol in his right hand, looked over the balcony at Leandro's broken body. 'I want him found!' he yelled to the guards. 'He will make his way to the boat. Do so yourselves. If you cannot find him, if the boat is still there, return to me.' They bowed and ran from the room.
Valentim moved back inside. His foot kicked against something and his eyes fell to watch Devlin's ebony dagger spinning across the stone floor. As if woken from a dream, he picked it up and admired it before placing it cautiously in the sash round his waist. The white raven alighted on his shoulder and preened. He looked down at the dead Alvaro Contes, his friend, and crossed himself. The only breathing sound in the room was his own.
Slowly he turned back to his fallen telescope. Lying his pistol on the balcony chair, he re-erected the wood and brass instrument. A minute later he had sighted it on the Lucy. She sat still, a ship asleep, silhouetted
The blow was enough. Leandro yelped off. They stood panting as an English curse and a shot rang out behind them. Leandro shook off the blow in time to see Devlin scrape out his blade with a grin.
In more restful times, Devlin would tell of his surprise as Leandro ignored the sword, put his sweating bald pate down and charged again. Devlin's lungs exploded as the blow took them flying through the doors and into the night.
It was inevitable. It happened in a heartbeat. The two of them went over the balcony. Devlin threw his sword as they fell, twisting Leandro beneath him. The thud of the landing on the stone below winded Devlin. It killed Leandro.
Devlin rolled upwards and left the sleeping giant. Breathing hard, he ran to retrieve his sword, sticking his pistol in his belt. His back ran cold with sweat. He turned and looked up at the dark house. Suddenly the room above was bathed in light and shouts. The guards had mounted the stairs and burst into the fray. More shots. More yelling. It was over then. It had taken seconds.
Devlin spun round and made for the gate, almost pulling it from its hinge; then he was through it and running, off the path and bolting away from the house.
He ran only for a few minutes, wading through waist-tall grass and low trees; then he began to struggle as the land slanted uphill, his chest like a furnace. He had to rest. He glanced behind. The house was no longer visible.
Kneeling down, hidden in the grass, he checked the action on his pistol for damage from the fall. He reloaded methodically, finding comfort in the clicks and snaps from his weapon and its partners, the patch pouch and cartridge box.
The ammo was prepared. A paper-load of powder wrapped round each ball with a twist. Bite, prime, pour, load, ram.
The ramrod refused to find its way home through his trembling hands.
Crouching there, under the moon, brought him back to the Kilkenny fields and his poaching days, years from this place. Killing one thing was as good as another. Blood as a butcher's boy, blood as a poacher, blood as a fisherman, four years of it with Coxon, and Philippe Ducos's blood still staining his boots.
Devlin took out the compass. He would have to head north to find the shore where Peter Sam had landed, having already discounted the bay where his party had arrived since - even if he made it to the boat - a lone man rowing out to the Lucy would be a grand target. Besides, he was counting on any pursuers making that judgement and granting him escape time. He looked up at the volcanic hills. North, over those hills, avoiding the roads, was a hard passage. His crossbelt and sword now hung over his waistcoat, as he bundled the heavy coat in his arms and pressed on.
Valentim, still holding a French dragoon pistol in his right hand, looked over the balcony at Leandro's broken body. 'I want him found!' he yelled to the guards. 'He will make his way to the boat. Do so yourselves. If you cannot find him, if the boat is still there, return to me.' They bowed and ran from the room.
Valentim moved back inside. His foot kicked against something and his eyes fell to watch Devlin's ebony dagger spinning across the stone floor. As if woken from a dream, he picked it up and admired it before placing it cautiously in the sash round his waist. The white raven alighted on his shoulder and preened. He looked down at the dead Alvaro Contes, his friend, and crossed himself. The only breathing sound in the room was his own.
Slowly he turned back to his fallen telescope. Lying his pistol on the balcony chair, he re-erected the wood and brass instrument. A minute later he had sighted it on the Lucy. She sat still, a ship asleep, silhouetted
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