“Excusez-moi, c’est le chapel de Sauniere?” Geraint said cheerfully, waving his cheap camera in a fair impression of the Idiot British Tourist in Europe.
The men just stood in their way and said nothing. Geraint and Michael took a step forward and one of the Frenchmen did the same, raising his spade and driving the metal into the ground beside the stony path. He spat on the ground before him, and the others stood with arms folded, clubs at the ready.
A further reasonable impression of the British Idiot only got Geraint the grunted statement that the chapel was closed to visitors. An enquiry as to when it would be open got no reply, only a hostile stare. There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to beat a retreat while trying to appear disappointed but unconcerned.
“It could just be paranoia,” Michael said when they were out of earshot. “On their part, I mean.” The men were still standing together halfway up the path. There was no sign of anyone else attempting to ascend it. Oddly, there seemed to be little sign of anyone else in the village, though by now, mid-morning, the houses should have been showing some signs of life and activity.
Stymied, they returned to the car, where the group discussed their options. Michael wanted to retreat to Toulouse, rescue his portable cyberdeck, and get some more research done, leaving Serrin more bookwork to get through. Streak, unsurprisingly, thought the terrain was fine for a covert approach and blasting his way past any obstacle that presented itself.
“Something’s going on up there,” Geraint observed. “They’re not protecting nothing. And we need to see what it is.”
The Sound of an automobile engine began to swell behind them. Their car was pulled just off the road, with enough tree cover to disguise if not conceal them. Streak slipped out of the driver’s seat and vanished into the trees like some predatory woodland animal. A few moments later, a flash of black and silver moved behind the trees and continued on into the village. They ate their bread, pate, and cheese and waited.
Streak did not reappear.
They were getting nervous by the time the black-and-silver reappeared, this time moving in the opposite direction, and not long afterward the elf emerged from the woodland.
“Now I wouldn’t want to get you alarmed,” he said gleefully as he climbed into the driver’s seat and broke himself off a sizable hunk of hard cheese, “but I think someone else was observing the village. Some interesting dark-suited gentlemen with no little in the way of chrome about them, unless I’m much mistaken.
“They just drove in, took a look around, and drove back out again. Couldn’t see much of them with the window tints, but I saw enough. Heavy rakkers. I doubt they came out here for nothing.”
“They just drove around the village?” Michael asked.
“Didn’t stop,” the elf confirmed.
“We’ve got to get into the chapel,” Michael said. “Who knows when they’ll be back-whoever they are.”
“We’ve got their book,” Kristen pointed out. “Let’s go for it,” Streak said.
The second time, all five of them marched up to face the line of peasantry with their crude weapons. Streak inched ahead of the others and conversed in French, Michael explaining to Serrin and Kristen the gist of what was being said. Streak produced the slim leather book and gestured with some animation at the impassive, hulking Frenchmen, pointing to the chapel and appearing very nonchalant.
“He says we just want to return some property that was stolen, and surely someone could come to collect it,” Michael translated.
The men’s hard-lined faces looked puzzled, uncertain. Streak’s request was certainly reasonable enough. At length, the largest of them leaned his hands on the handle of his broad-bladed shovel and grunted simply, “Non.”
Streak’s smile exceeded the determination of the man’s frown as he hefted his Predator squarely at the man’s head.
“S’il vous plait,” the elf said pleasantly. The man didn’t budge a centimeter. us knuckles went a little white on the wooden handle he gripped, but he didn’t flinch.
The impasse was broken when a slender man appeared from the front doorway of the chapel, ducking his head as he emerged even though he was not tall. Everyone looked at him as he descended the stony pathway, a tousle-haired man wearing one of those Italian suits that cost a fortune but don’t advertise the fact. He had the Mediterranean complexion of the other men here, but was otherwise utterly unlike them. As he drew closer, his expression broke into a casual lopsided grin. He shambled up to them, scratching at the crown of his head.
“Do we have a misunderstanding here?” he asked in perfect English.
“We only came to return some lost property, and I’m afraid these gentlemen took exception to our altruism, Streak said.
The man stared pointedly at his gun. Streak lowered it.
“Altruism down the barrel of a Predator,” he said dryly. “An unusual expression of that all too rare and noble emotion, wouldn’t you say?”
“To whom are we speaking?” Geraint enquired. “You may call me Gianfranco” the man said pleasantly. There was a short pause.
He did not ask who they were. The implication was obvious: he already knew.
“We had hoped that a conversation to discuss some matters of mutual interest might not be too much to hope for,” Geraint suggested.
“Then you have hoped in vain” Gianfranco said, still quite affably.
“There is the matter of your Mr. Seratini and the men at whose hands he died,” Geraint fired back.
“There is also the matter of our Monsieur Serrault and the people at whose hands he died,” Gianfranco replied sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me, their are several very well-armed and well-trained men at my instant beck and call and if you don’t turn around and get out of here this instant I will, with some little regret, have to ask them to blast you into a large number of bloody fragments, which my friends here,” he concluded with a glance back at the surly band of peasants, “wilt be able to feed to their dogs. Good day.”
He turned on his heel and marched back up the path. They watched his back until he disappeared through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.
They looked at each other, at the still-impassive Frenchmen and back at each other again. With a shrug of his shoulders, Geraint led them back down the path and to their car.
“So much for that,” Michael said glumly. “Now to Plan B.”
“Which is?” Streak asked.
“I’m working on it,” Michael told him. “I think a strategic retreat is in order.”
Serrin suddenly looked alarmed and clutched at Streak’s shoulder. “Get us out of here!” he said urgently.
“What the-”
“I said, get us out of here!”
Streak fired the ignition, reversed out of their parking spot, and made haste down the road. He was five klicks away by the time the white-faced mage decided it was safe again.
“There was a summoning,” he said simply. “Another minute and the whole hill would have flung us over the rocks and into the valley. Trust me on this one.”
“Fair enough,” Streak said without any trace of his usual bantering. “Back to Clermont-Ferrand?”
“For now, yes,” Michael said miserably. “I don’t see we have any choice.”
Back in their villa, with a large pot of Streak’s preferred tea being dispensed into the cracked cups that came as part of the furnishings, they considered their sharply reduced options.
“Almost all of what we’ve got points here,” Michael said at length. “We have to talk to these people somehow. We’re hardly likely to get anywhere trying to talk to the Inquisition. The Priory know something. I think they know who the decker is. We’ve got to get into that place.”
“Why did the bloke refuse point-blank even to talk?” Streak asked him.