Chapter 1477 - Provocation

"Fortunately, he didn't have a single ducat in Naples—otherwise, we'd have a proper Prince of Naples in our midst." The sarcastic young man spoke low, but just loud enough for those nearby to hear. Involuntary laughter rippled through the group.

The Secretary pretended not to notice. He continued regaling a circle of ladies—admirers of his Latin sonnets—with tales of his Italian sojourn, now arriving at the part about his papal audience. Naturally, His Holiness, like every other dignitary the Secretary claimed to have met, had been greatly taken by his "literary talent" and granted him the honor of kissing the pontifical hand. The ladies sighed with envy.

"Respected Baroness," the Count spoke suddenly, breaking a long silence. "I notice a suit of armor on the wall. Might I ask if it is an heirloom?"

All eyes followed his gaze. At one end of the salon, an array of the late Baron's weaponry adorned the wall: longswords, halberds, scimitars, and an assortment of firearms arranged in a semicircle. At its center, supported by a wooden stand, hung a three-quarter cavalry armor. Polished to a mirror finish, it gleamed silver beneath the lamplight.

"Ah, no. My late husband commissioned it in Milan for his induction into the Order of the Leonza. Apart from the ceremony, he only wore it to banquets—"

"Then I make a special request." The Count's tone was polite, his face expressionless. "Please bestow that armor upon me."

Lucrezia nodded, astonished. The Count pushed back his chair and rose without hurry, his upper body ramrod straight. Whispers of surprise passed among the guests. Several ladies screamed when they saw him draw a strange-shaped pistol from beneath his coat—blue-black metal flashing in the candlelight.

Deafening gunshots drowned all other sound. In rapid succession, the Count fired four times. With a final flick of his wrist, the helmet flew from its mount and clanged across the floor.

"Excuse me," Weiss said as the echoes faded and white smoke drifted through the room. "Would someone be willing to verify the hits?"

"Did you hear?" Baroness Ciarlo addressed her black slave, who stood frozen like a statue. "Do as the Count instructs."

The slave returned moments later, carrying the helmet and displaying it to the Baroness. The .44 caliber bullets had punched through the iron visor and exited from the upper neck guard—clean, straight through. As the guests recovered from their shock and craned forward, the slave gestured to his own heart and held up four fingers. "Four holes there," he said slowly. All heard clearly. Some eyes turned to the Count; others fixed on Esteban Sanabria. The man's drunkenness had evaporated. His face was ashen, his body rigid in his chair.

"I have one bullet remaining," the Count said, regarding the colony's wealthiest tycoon. "A man accustomed to entrusting his life to a slab of iron and a pellet of lead learns to be meticulous in planning, measured in speech, and decisive in action—the precise opposite of one who lives by forging bonds, falsifying promissory notes, and dabbling in speculation."

Sanabria's teeth chattered audibly. There was no retreat. He tore off his glove and hurled it at the Count's face, but his arm betrayed him. The glove sailed over the table and landed in a soup tureen. Unperturbed, the Count bent and fished it out, dripping.

"I accept your challenge," he said. "And though I am the insulted party, I grant you choice of weapon. Pistol, carbine, dagger, longsword, saber—even cannon. I accept without objection. Do you understand? Anything at all, even stones. Foolish and laughable, perhaps, but it makes no difference to me. I will certainly win."

"Coward! Bragging liar!" Sanabria screamed, wild-eyed and nearly unhinged. "My grandfather passed down a Saracen scimitar—I've used it to take many a heathen's head. Tomorrow I shall take yours!"

"Then tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. The small woods before Santa Cruz village. We shall see what manner of blood runs in each other's veins." The Count seated himself as though nothing had happened. "Madam, might we have the digestif now?"

"I have dueled with several noble lords in France..." The Secretary, sensing a fresh opportunity to burnish his masculinity, began once more—but a casual glance from the Count made him swallow the rest.

After the banquet, the rain had stopped. Guests dispersed, naturally abuzz with talk of the evening's "entertainment"—by tomorrow, all of Manila's high society would know. Sanabria departed in a daze. The Count kissed the hostess and the Mayor's wife—who kept dabbing at tears upon learning he was to duel—before taking his leave. He did not take the perforated armor. The Baroness retired upstairs; candles were extinguished one by one, and the grand salon that had blazed with brilliance moments ago sank into shadow.

When all the guests had gone, a figure emerged from the dark corridor and entered the salon. A coarse black robe with a deep hood concealed him, so that even the candlestick in his hand did little to reveal his face. The servants cleaning the room stepped around him one after another, as if he were a walking ghost.

The man in black approached the shot-riddled armor, held his candle close to examine it, then searched the floor—but the scattered bullets he sought were gone, likely swept away by the servants. He withdrew a silver peso from his robe, approximately thirty-eight millimeters in diameter, and placed it on the left side of the breastplate. The coin covered all four bullet holes. The hooded figure stared at Weiss Lando's marksmanship. "Too accurate," he murmured. "Either the man is an exceptional shot, or he possesses something very good indeed."

Upstairs, in the brightly lit salon, Lucrezia Ciarlo had played the dignified, cheerful, generous noblewoman to perfection. But once within her bedchamber, she surrendered to a gloomy, sensual mood that permeated the entire room. A chandelier cast dim light over the great bed hung with pink tulle curtains—the finest Chinese tulle, like wisps of smoke. The sheets were Indian cotton, dense and soft. Velvet-embroidered cushions covered the armchairs, as yielding as the bed itself. In an exquisite Japanese censer, incense burned—not the light stick incense favored in Japan nor the sandalwood beloved by the Chinese, but a variety sold only in Constantinople's markets, used in Turkish harems to stir the nerves and kindle desire.

Lucrezia lay in the great copper bathtub at one end of the room, eyes closed as if asleep. Two mestiza maids added hot water carefully, scattering dried gmelina and jasmine petals onto the surface.

Someone entered. Though the girl's steps were soft, her push against the door was more hurried than usual. The Baroness sensed it immediately. "Flora?" she called softly, eyes still shut.

"Madam," Flora said. "The Count sent someone to deliver this."

The Baroness opened her eyes and saw Flora holding a carved lacquer box, its patterned surface glowing deep red in the candlelight. She did not hurry to open it. "Did the Count bring it himself? Where is he now?"

"No—it was brought by one of his..." Flora hesitated, searching for a word, "...attendants."

"He has attendants too?" Madame Ciarlo's interest sharpened. "So he is a genuine nobleman?"

"Madam, I hardly know how to describe him. He might have been Chinese or East Indian—I couldn't tell. But the Count must have recruited him from among butchers or bandits. Men accustomed to killing work. The way he stared at me was like a knife. Yet he came in the Count's carriage and departed in it as well. There is no second carriage like it in all of Manila."

Lucrezia offered a noncommittal smile—but when the box opened, she gasped. Inside lay a compact pistol. Its finely engraved body glowed with soft silver light; the grip was inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl. She had never seen a Derringer, and this one, with its four barrels, was so exquisite it seemed a jeweled toy.

"That is not the weapon that punctured your husband's armor," a gloomy male voice said in Portuguese.

Following the sound, a secret door set into the paneling behind a tapestry swung silently open.

"Come in, Paul," Lucrezia called lazily. Flora set the gun box on the low table beside the tub, ushered the other maids out, and closed the door behind her.

Even if Weiss were sitting across from him now, he would not have recognized this man at a glance—the man who had once shared a ship with him. Survival on the Pratas Atoll, the long journey from Malacca to Zhongzuosuo and then to Manila, the brutal march to conquer Baguio, endless battles, and the grueling work of establishing the arsenal had stripped at least twenty pounds from his frame. Fumes of strong acid had blackened his teeth; acid burns scarred his hands. His face had grown gaunt and weathered. Yet a careful look revealed a fervent passion burning like fire in his eyes—precisely fitting the image of a fanatic that Paul Gaoshan had fashioned for himself.

(End of Chapter)