It was a harsh choice, but it was reality. In reduced circumstances, survival was all. There was no time for mercy, for hesitation, or for sentimentality. They all knew it—even Rizzetti himself.
With Rizzetti stretched out between them, slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness, the other four survivors huddled around the fire. They were too tired to speak, and they were hungry and thirsty too. When the brigands had attacked they had escaped from the caravan with little more than a few skins of water between them and a pouch of dried goat’s meat. That meat was now gone, as were the two small lizards they had managed to capture and share between them.
William looked up as something gave a harsh, cawing cry out in the desert—a nocturnal bird or some as-yet-unseen predator? He had encountered many strange beasts on his travels, and hopefully, if he survived this night and the following days, would encounter many more. He stared into the darkness beyond the fire, but could see nothing. It was as if the world had been swallowed in a black void.
Suddenly, perhaps stirred into wakefulness by the night cry of the unknown animal, Rizzetti opened his eyes. His dry lips parted.
“Tell the story,” he croaked, looking at Bouchard.
Bouchard stared back at him silently. Since escaping the brigands he had kept himself to himself—sitting alone, not helping them hunt, find wood or tend to Rizzetti. William wasn’t sure whether the Frank’s mood was caused by the trauma of the brigands’ attack or whether he was simply sulking over the loss of his precious saddlebags. Perhaps it was a little of both.
“Tell me,” Rizzetti said, his voice desperate—as though Bouchard’s story was the only thing that could provide him with the impetus he needed to recover.
Bouchard sighed, then caught Pero’s eye, who nodded at him fiercely.
His voice flat and weary, Bouchard began. “North of the Silk Road… past Xian… north northeast… three hundred leagues north, there is a mountain of jade. Pure jade. And a… a fortress…”
His voice tailed off. He stared into the fire. He picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers.
“The powder,” Rizzetti said. “Tell us about the powder.” When Bouchard didn’t respond, his voice became harsh with anger, the warrior in him breaking momentarily through the fever that was weakening his body. “Tell us!”
Bouchard looked around the fire, registered the flinty gazes of the other men staring at him. Clearing his throat, he said, “The black powder is stronger than arrows. Stronger than siege walls. It is a weapon so powerful it can destroy a dozen men at once…”
As he began to speak, William saw a change come over Bouchard; saw that the Frank’s own words were galvanizing him. He listened to Bouchard’s heavily accented voice slowly growing stronger, powered by his own enthusiasm. An enthusiasm born of greed.
“It is an alchemist’s potion that transforms air into fire. A fire that reaches out so quickly that it blinds all in its path. A fire so loud that it makes men deaf.”
His eyes were shining now, his excitement growing.
“Two dozen men are all I need. Hard, blooded men to make a journey in this life of shit that is finally worth the gamble. Together we will find the fortress and the powder and make the world our own!”
He leaned over the fire, eyes aflame and teeth gleaming as he smiled his wide smile.
“Why risk your life for princes or priests who care not whether you live or die? Why wager your souls for gods you don’t believe in, in wars that prove nothing but making other men rich? Let us take hold of our own destinies, mes amis! Let us journey together to the hidden fortress of black powder and the fortune th—”
It was here that his spiel came to an end. Without warning, Najid’s arm swept forward and across, the blade of his scimitar flashing in the firelight.
The movement was so swift, so precise, that for a split-second William wondered whether he had imagined it. Bouchard was still kneeling on the other side of the fire, staring at them. Now, though, his eyes were bulging and his mouth wide open in shock.
Then a black line appeared across his throat. A black line that immediately began gushing dark fluid. The fluid spattered into the fire, making it sizzle and spark. The Frank’s hands fluttered towards his opened throat as he began to gurgle.
With shocking suddenness the life fled from his eyes and he keeled over, his body thudding heavily to the ground. His right foot twitched for a moment, and then became still.
William and Pero looked at Najid, who was staring sourly at Bouchard’s body. The Turk calmly wiped the blood from his scimitar and re-sheathed the weapon. Then he looked at his companions and shrugged.
“I’ve grown sick of his story. He has been telling it for six months now, and still we are no closer to finding this precious powder.”
Pero and William looked at one another, as if uncertain how to respond.
Then Pero said, “I want his boots.”
“I want his saddle,” croaked Rizzetti from his recumbent position beside the fire.
William saw Najid’s face harden, saw his hand straying once more to the hilt of his scimitar. Quickly he rose to his knees, hands upraised in a calming gesture.
“Fair plunder,” he said quickly. “Choose and challenge.”
There was a moment of tense silence, all eyes on him. Then Pero and Najid both nodded abruptly, and Rizzetti murmured his weary assent.
Bouchard’s possessions—those, at any rate, that he hadn’t lost in the raid or when the horses had been cut free—were strewn across the ground close to the fire. After much negotiation the choice items (the silver talents, gold coins and precious stones; the weapons and bags of seeds; the drawings of the Holy Land and the diagrams of medieval machinery) had been divvied up into four equal piles. Now all that was left were the personal items, a random collection of wax seals and copper eating utensils, a sewing kit, an ivory comb, a pewter flask.
Pero was perched on a rock close to the fire, one of Bouchard’s trading bags between his feet. Reaching in he said, “And now we come to the final item.” His hand emerged, clutching a lump of dense black rock. “The magnet. Who wants it?”
“Not me,” Najid said. “Too heavy.”
“Rizzetti?”
Weakly the Italian shook his head.
“I’ll have it,” William said, and grinned at Pero. “Unless you want to fight me for it?”
Pero pursed his lips a moment, then tossed the rock in William’s direction. Instead of opening a hand to catch it, William simply raised his iron-gauntleted arm. The rock flew towards him, and—clank!—stuck hard to the metal. The magnetic attraction was so strong that William had to grit his teeth and pull hard, the muscles bulging in his arm, before he was able to pry it loose and tuck it beneath the folds of his tattered and grimy chainmail Hauberk.
“I’ll take the map as well,” he said.
Pero narrowed his eyes.
“Come on, Pero,” William said good-humoredly. “You know you can’t read. It’s wasted on you. Hand it over.”
Pero let out a ragged sigh, and then grudgingly reached into his new left boot—one of the ones he had pulled from the feet of Bouchard’s corpse—and extracted the map he’d secreted there. With the resignation of a man who knew he’d been out-maneuvered, he handed it to William, who slipped that too into his Hauberk.
“It’s a strong moon tonight,” William said, looking up at the fat white disc in the sky. “When the horses are fresh, we move.”
“To where?” Najid asked.
“North. If they keep after us we’ll kill them in the mountains.”