Three Emperors (9780062194138) by William Dietrich Read Free Book Online

discriminatory.”
    She raised it instead. “You should have knocked.”
    I eyed the purse on the floor. “If the pair of you aren’t working for Talleyrand, who are you?” I stalled.
    â€œScholars of the rose,” Richter said. “Like your wife.”
    He knew of Astiza, too? Could this card cheat know her whereabouts? I felt panic and hope. “Not the same, surely.” I had to anger them into mistakes. The men outside were thundering on the latched and barricaded door and calling for a beam to batter it down. “You’re considerably deformed, Baron, and it’s easier to kiss a man who still has lips, my lady.”
    She flushed, and aimed.
    I charged Richter, holding the bedpost like a lance. He dodged my joust but tripped, knocking one of the candles into the wreckage of the bed, which caught fire. From his knees, the baron swept the poker upward. My bedpost was whacked from my hands, striking a mirror and shattering it into shards. A decanter exploded, spattering the wallpaper with wine.
    â€œStand still!” Nahir cried in frustration, the muzzle of her gun rotating.
    I scrambled for the sword hilt and the purse.
    The apartment door smashed open, men charging, so I hurled the little table in their direction, making Nahir duck. It banged into a knot of sentries, who fell into a tangle, cursing.
    â€œThat sword hilt is useless to a man as shallow and ignorant as you, Ethan Gage,” Richter seethed, coming up behind to brain me with the poker.
    Fortunately, Nahir had struggled back to her feet. “Surrender or I shoot!” She was inadvertently aiming at both of us. I dropped to the carpet, Richter rolled toward the burning bed, and the shotgun went off with a roar, its pellets kicking up a flurry of silk wallpaper and plaster dust.
    The room was filling with smoke, and now shots came from Richter’s guards crouched in the boudoir, punching holes through the fog to drill the room’s paintings. The volley forced Nahir to fall to the floor as well, all three of us scrabbling like worms. So much for dignity.
    â€œStop shooting, you fools!” Richter cried. “Seize him!”
    It was time to leave.
    The sword hilt and the purse were within reach. I grabbed, jumped up, ran, and dove.
    I smashed through glass and fell into blackness toward the Grand Canal, the risk of drowning superior to staying with lunatics. Shouts and shrieks followed my exit. I fell for what seemed endless seconds and hit cold, dirty, and brackish water, making a spectacular splash. I sank to the muddy bottom, pushed off, and surfaced gasping.
    I looked up. The baron’s form was silhouetted in the illuminated window high above, flames behind him. I glanced about. Could I find a boat?
    â€œThere!” Richter shouted, pointing. “Bring him to me!”
    I turned, treading water. Gondolas were bearing down from either end of the Grand Canal. In the bow of each was a caped poltroon with a lantern that illuminated their guns, swords, and pikes.
    I quickly struck out as planned for the Palazzo Grassi, across the canal from Rezzonico, a little heavy in the pockets from purse and broken hilt. The guns on the gondolas went off, bullets slapping water. My strokes accelerated.
    I came to a palazzo foundation slimy with weed and surged onto its stone quay like an otter. Someone took another shot at me from Ca’ Rezzonico, a bullet chipping a cherub. A skiff was moored at the palace’s dock, but the pursuing gondolas were converging, preventing escape by water, and there were no walkways along the canals. With foresight, I had scouted my escape before sunset and now scaled a palace pillar as if it were a tree trunk, using memorized sculptures, balconies, and pediments for hand- and footholds. Gunfire supplied boldness.
    I dragged myself onto a steep tile roof, scrambled to its ridge, and stood, swaying. Below I could hear shouts as the gondolas banged against the quay and