The Northern Sunrise Read online

  The Northern Sunrise

  by

  Rob J. Hayes

  Copyright © 2014 by Rob J. Hayes

  (http://www.robjhayes.co.uk)

  Cover design © 2014 by Real Tidy Design

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook may not be re-sold.

  For Vicki

  For all the love, support and inspiration you give

  And for never complaining about having to stand on tip toes

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – One Last Job

  Chapter 2 – Retirement

  Chapter 3 – An Offer Too Bad to Refuse

  Chapter 4 – Residential Uprooting

  Chapter 5 - One More Last Job

  Chapter 6 - The Arrival of the Bonvillains

  Chapter 7 – You Never Forget Your First Time

  Chapter 8 - Aftermath

  Chapter 9 - A Study of Zoological Origins

  Chapter 10 - Varying Degrees of Honesty

  Chapter 11 – A Real Man’s Weapon

  Chapter 12 – Tears

  Chapter 13 – Treachery and Treason and Tea

  Chapter 14 – Night-Time Liaisons

  Chapter 15 – Misdirection

  Chapter 16 – Just Enough Rope to Hang Themselves

  Chapter 17 – Fight Night

  Chapter 18 – The King’s Peace

  Chapter 19 – Thunder and Lightning

  Chapter 20 – High-Flyers

  Chapter 21 – The Northern Sunrise

  Chapter 22 – That One More Last Job

  Chapter 23 – The Truth

  Chapter 24 – Another One More Last Job

  Chapter 25 – A Life-Ending Fall

  Epilogue - Execution

  The Northern Sunrise schematic

  Other books by Rob J. Hayes

  Chapter 1 – One Last Job

  “Duc Valette is the key.”

  “The younger one?” Isabel asked.

  “Mhm,” Jacques agreed. “I suppose we could use the older Valette, but he is married and well known to be an unrepentant letch.”

  Isabel gave him a withering look. “I would really rather not have a repeat of the Bonneire incident. Thanks to your, shall we say, less than perfect research, I had to hit Baron Bonneire over the head with a candlestick.”

  “But at least when he woke he couldn’t even remember you had been there.”

  Isabel sighed. In the face of Jacques’ unwavering good humour and optimism she found it very hard to stay angry at him and the Bonneire incident was well and truly water under the bridge. “So Valette the younger,” she prompted.

  “Quite,” Jacques continued, “The Comte de Çavine Bruno Lesod Valette; heir to the entire Valette estate. He’s young and handsome with a chiselled jaw and a full head of hair, though if his father is any indication, he may be losing that soon. Comte Bruno is an accomplished horseman, a deadly swordsman, and a gifted pistolier. He has almost as many medals as he has trophies in the fields of rowing, wrestling and that new sport from Great Turlain, the one with the rackets and the balls.”

  “Tennis?”

  “Mhm, probably. But for all Bruno Valette’s feats, accomplishments and worrying ability with all manner of dangerous weaponry, he has one vital flaw. His chivalry,” Jacques said with a grin.

  “Some people might think chivalry to be a strength, not a flaw,” Isabel said.

  “Not us though.”

  She grinned. “Maker no. The chivalrous ones make for the easiest of marks. Although they don’t tend to get hit over the head with candlesticks quite so much.

  “So all I need to do is make sure I’m in some kind of trouble and Comte Bruno, being the chivalrous gentleman that he is, will rush to my rescue.”

  Jacques nodded. “You’re thinking of the ‘drunken lady unable to remember whom she came with’ approach.”

  “It works with chivalrous fools and letches alike,” Isabel agreed. “Though with a considerable less feature of violence with the former and, if Comte Bruno is as formidable as you described I would rather not attempt to overpower him.”

  Isabel slipped into the ballroom from one of the side doors that led from the pantry and smoothed down a wrinkle in her dress. An unfortunate side effect of not actually being a part of the aristocracy, or even the minor peerage, was that neither she nor Jacques received invitations to affairs such as the Valette Winter Solstice Ball. However, a lack of invitation had never stopped them from attending and subsequently using the cover of such events to further their own fortunes.

  She took a moment to absorb the sights, sounds and smells of the ball. A low, open fire burned at the far end of the hall radiating warmth and light; none of the aristocracy in the more central areas of the kingdom used open fires any more preferring instead to use electrically charged alchemical fires, but here on the outskirts people were known to be a little more old-fashioned and the Valettes certainly had enough money to be as old-fashioned as they liked. No fewer than four chandeliers hung from the ceiling each with a hundred candles, again an old-fashioned practice but Isabel had to respect the elegance and beauty and danger of four hundred tiny flames burning above the people gathered below; after all who didn’t enjoy being showered in molten hot wax from time to time.

  The walls of the ball room were a bright, newly-painted white with a host of decorative pillars and an equal number of alchemically treated windows that people could see out from but not in to; an expensive and modern procedure that seemed at odds with the use of real fires.

  Two wide staircases led up to either end of a balcony that looked over the hall and a further single staircase led to a second more secluded balcony. Isabel knew that the second balcony would be for Valette family members and favoured (and invited) guests only. Comte Bruno Valette may even be up there right now, she would have to catch him as he toured the lower sections, but for their ruse to succeed she would need to wait a few hours yet. A drunken woman at the end of the night might beg assistance, that same drunken woman so early in the night would be considered unseemly and rude.

  Men gathered together in small groups, those allied by family ties or business relationships, and women gathered in equally small groups allied by social standing and current popularity. This would be both the hardest trial of the night and where her ruse was most likely to be broken. She would need to insert herself into one of the groups without rousing too much suspicion or irking any of the other women.

  Fashions changed amongst the aristocracy as often as the direction of the wind and here, in the city of Çavine, they were a little behind the times. Most of the women wore brightly coloured dresses with a multitude of patterned frills on the skirt. The dresses stretched all the way down to the floor to hide the women’s feet and were completely sleeveless by design allowing them to be worn with long sleeved gloves that ran almost to the elbow. They were, Isabel decided, hideous and she was, in Çavine at least, ahead of the current fashion trend which put her distinctly out of fashion.

  “What else do I need to know about him?” Isabel asked in a voice loud enough to carry through the closed door as she smoothed down the dress and picked off a long brown stray hair; one of hers, Jacques’ hair was much shorter and a dark mahogany colour that resisted almost all attempts to dye it.

  “Well the local gossip has him liking demure women prone to over-ambitious flattery,” Jacques replied in an equally loud voice. Isabel spotted the door opening and shut it before he could peek in. “Spoil sport.”

  “I’m not wearing anything yet, Jacques,” she said. “If you come in now we both know how it will end.”

  “Rather pleasantly, I imagine.”

  “Yes but not very productively.”

  “I suppose that’s all in ho
w you define productive.”

  “Very differently to your definition.” She pulled her attention back to the dress. It was sleek and light, designed to hug her curves and accentuate her bosom. It was a deep blue colour, very similar to her eyes and perfect for her dark complexion. It ran from her neck down to her ankles and all along her arms before finally looping around each middle finger. It was the very height of fashion in the capital.

  “So I should complement him on his physique, flatter his ego, and laugh at all of his jokes,” she said.

  “Precisely,” Jacques replied from the other side of the door. “He suffers from that same problem that most hideously successful people do, he’s very proud of his success.”

  “Emphasis on his success and not his family’s?”

  “Mhm, I would say that would be the safe bet,” Jacques said before quickly adding. “Not that I ever bet.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “It’s not a bet if it’s a sure thing.”

  “Considering our line of work I think you would well know, there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”

  Isabel heard him sigh from the other side of the door. “You are, of course, correct though I wish you weren’t.”

  While they had been talking Isabel had been skilfully applying makeup and dabbing herself with perfume, a lavender fragrance enhanced and altered alchemically to be both pleasant and discreet. Now she slipped into the dress and tugged it into position before smoothing it down. It would be a chore to walk in like this, but it would be worth it towards the end of the night. She looked at herself in the mirror, affected a playful half-smile and opened the door.

  Jacques’ mouth dropped. “You look…” he said accidentally dropping his upper-class accent.

  “Could it be Jacques Revou is actually at a loss for words?” Isabel asked not dropping her smile.

  He cleared his throat and re-established his accent. “Well if anyone could conjure such an effect it would be you, my lady.”

  It was abject flattery and she knew it but that wasn’t to say she didn’t enjoy it. Isabel knew she would never be the most beautiful woman in the world, and the majority of the time neither would she be the most beautiful woman in a room, but he had always treated her as if there were no other worth his time.

  “I think…” Jacques began with a frown and then clicked his fingers, reaching into the jewellery box on the table and pulling out a single jade earring and carefully attaching it to Isabel’s right ear. “Perfect,” he finished.

  Some might think attempting to climb a thirty feet tall wall, on a brightly moonlit night, wearing an expensive suit made from the finest material and bordering on the height of fashion; well some might consider such a thing as insanity. Jacques had almost certainly been accused of far worse than a lack of sanity in his time and he was just as certain at least some of those accusations were true. Today though he was without a doubt in his right mind. Climbing the wall was not a lapse in judgement, it was part of a well-constructed plan and, unfortunately for him, it was completely necessary. While Isabel would be doing the majority of the job alone this time she was not able to sneak in the tools she would need, nor would she be able to extricate herself from the area afterwards without his help.

  He reached up with his right hand and fumbled for a hand-hold. After a few seconds of scrabbling he managed to dig his gloved fingers into a slight nook and continued his climb.

  The worst thing about free climbing was not, as most people who did such things would no doubt attest, the fear of falling. While it was true that Jacques was currently a good twenty feet up with nothing but solid stone cobbles below him and no safety harness to prevent an untimely demise, and it was also true that glancing downwards would bring on a sudden wave of vertigo, neither of those two factors were the worst thing about free climbing. Jacques had an itch. Actually he had three itches that he could count and none were in particularly scratch-able positions given that letting go of the wall would cause a short and painful plummet. Itches were without a doubt the worst thing about free climbing. They were also, he had to admit, the worst thing about being tied to a chair but he sincerely hoped that that activity would not be taking place this evening.

  Jacques’ left hand found a ledge. He looked up and realised the top of the wall was upon him. A short sigh of relief later and he pulled his head up over the ledge to look into the grounds below. Just as he had suspected there were no patrols. Why would there be? None of the common folk in Çavine were fool enough to try to sneak in and anyone of any import was already invited. No doubt there would be a couple of guards at the gate armed with rifles and short-sabres but the gardens remained thankfully silent and empty, something to be unrepentantly glad of as he still had to climb down from the wall.

  He thought about dropping his pack to the ground, it would make the climb a little easier at least but he knew some of the vials inside were fragile and, although they were very well wrapped in a protective cloth, he couldn’t take the risk any would break, especially not the liquid Ice-Fire.

  Jacques swung a leg over the wall, then the other and slowly began lowering himself, wishing all the while he could have used a rope.

  It was almost a surprise when he finally touched down on solid ground. He felt flowers crush beneath his feet, their long green stems snapping and the petals flattening into the dirt. It was unfortunate but at least no one would notice the damage to the beautiful tulips until morning. By then both he and Isabel should be long gone.

  Jacques pulled off his climbing shoes and gloves and stuffed them into one of the side-pockets in the bag, then he pulled out a proper pair of sandals designed to go with his suit and slid into them. He hid the bag in a large and particularly bushy bush, brushed off his suit and strode towards the rear of the mansion, towards the garden entrance to the ballroom.

  “You’re certain you’ll be able to make it over that wall?” Isabel asked with a grin. “It is rather tall and you are not as young as you used to be.”

  Jacques opened his mouth and made an affronted grunt from deep within his throat. “I will have you know, my lady, I am still a young man. Some might say I’m in my prime.”

  “They must be the ones that don’t know you.”

  He scowled. “Suffice to say I can make it over the wall but I’ll need to hide our bag of tricks while I mingle with the gathered rich and powerful.”

  “You could skip the party and only scale the wall when I need you,” Isabel pointed out, already knowing how he would reply.

  “And miss Çavine’s social highlight of the year? I would be remiss if I didn’t at least make an appearance and suffer old Lord Faffel’s insistence that I look exactly like his late eldest son.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t recognise you,” she said.

  Jacques laughed and leaned back into his chair, rocking it onto its back legs. “Of course he will recognise me. He will first insist I am his late son, visiting from beyond the grave, then he will fawn and tear up and tell me stories of how much of a gentlemen his son used to be.”

  Isabel fixed him with a stern stare. “No stealing!”

  “Oh, I’ve long since given up stealing from that old fool, my lady. It lost its challenge after we tried to steal that old family sword of his.”

  “Mmm,” Isabel sighed, remembering. “He caught us and insisted you take it as it obviously belonged to you and you needed it to fight in a war.”

  “It doesn’t really feel like stealing if they just give us the loot, does it,” Jacques agreed.

  “No. Don’t steal from anyone else either while you’re there,” she insisted. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  “But…”

  “We won’t need anything else if this goes off without a hitch!”

  He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Promise me, Jacques Revou.”

  Jacques took Isabel’s hands in his own, stared into her deep blue eyes and nodded. “No.”

  Isabel spott
ed a likely group. Four women led by Baroness Illesia la’Tet, a minor noble from the border with Arkland and an ageing socialite. Isabel would need to establish a fiction of some social standing before inserting herself into the group. The Baroness would welcome any social peer regardless of whether she remembered meeting them before, and her orbiting group of ladies were little more than bottom-feeders barely nobility themselves. It was all a matter of timing.

  Timing was, however, a dual-edged blade. She needed to wait for the right opportunity but if she remained standing on her own for too long she would begin to attract the wrong kind of attention, the kind that questioned her right to be there at all. When Isabel spotted the Lady Ermine Valette making the social rounds she knew her opportunity had come. The Lady Ermine was the eldest daughter of the Duc and Duchess Valette but still younger than Bruno and, therefore, not the heir. She was also very much the female version of her older brother.

  The Lady Ermine was tall, and muscular with broad shoulders, and slim hips. She had a strong jaw, prominent cheek bones and dazzling blue eyes. Despite her masculinity the Lady Ermine somehow managed to remain a true feminine beauty, her muscular arms and back and broad shoulders only serving to increase her strange allure. She was never short of admirers and yet remained unmarried.

  Isabel waited until the Lady Ermine was passing Baroness la’Tet’s group and approached with all the confidence she could muster.

  “Lady Ermine,” Isabel said with a curtsy and a slight incline of her head. “It is a pleasure and an honour to see you again, and may I add your dress is truly something to behold.”

  The Lady Ermine was in fact wearing a dress of very similar design to Isabel’s. While it was true that frills and billowing monstrosities were the current fashion in Çavine, the Lady Ermine would never be seen in one; as such a garment would only serve to accentuate her masculine attributes by hiding her more feminine ones. Instead, she wore a slim, skin-hugging dress of yellow silk that clung to her curves, brought attention to her bosom and softened the angles of her face. It was, Isabel had to admit, of ingenious design.

  The Lady Ermine turned to Isabel with a wary gaze, her eyes ran her up and down and a smile lit her face, an action that only served to exaggerate her strange beauty. “I see I am not the only woman to prefer something with a little less… puff.”