Swordsman's Legacy

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“I have been forced to look differently upon this discovery. The people who want the rapier,” he stated slowly, his vision now directed at the tabletop, “have ensured, by use of devious means, that I will hand it over. But it is merely the sword they want, not anything that we may find inside it.”

“You intend to hand this valuable artifact over to a collector?” Annja asked.

“Collector or weapons enthusiast? I don’t know what he is, or why he wants it. All I know is I’ve but one kidney remaining, and haven’t the desire to lose the other.”

Annja straightened. He’d lost a kidney? What was he talking about?

Ascher drew up the back of his shirt to reveal muscular and tanned flesh. A long red scar, where his left kidney should be, looked angry and new.

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” He tugged down the shirt. “But it is not a lie, Annja. I did not want to deceive you, but the truth is so humiliating.”

Not sure what to say to his confession, she made the conclusion that whoever Ascher was dealing with was not the friendly sort. And this so-called treasure hunt just took a dangerous curve downhill.

“Someone injured you so grievously that you lost a kidney. For a sword?”

He nodded. “It was insurance that I would comply. I value the one I have remaining.”

“But—” Incredible, yet the scar did appear new. He could have injured himself doing any number of things, mountain climbing, bike racing or whitewater rapids. But Annja sensed he spoke the truth.

Even so, she thought. “I can’t allow you to hand d’Artagnan’s rapier over to a private collector,” she said.

“Then we will come to arms over that.” He tapped the table. The butcher paper crackled. “It is my favor to you, Annja, to warn you in advance of my intentions.”

“Fair enough.” So what would she do? Grab the sword and run?

Not without first looking for the real treasure.

“Let’s do this, then,” she said.

Placing the gloved fingers of her left hand about the hilt, a test wiggle concluded the pommel was firmly attached. Wincing and closing her eyes as she torqued her grip, she tried the pommel again. Fine particles of dirt sifted to the paper. The dry aroma of limestone lifted in tendrils.

“Is it moving?” Ascher wondered enthusiastically.

“I don’t know. I think I’m just twisting off the debris. But…maybe. It’s giving.”

“Really? Don’t break it,” he said.

“Break it? What do you care? You’ve probably already alerted Monsieur Kidney Stealer to come pick up his prize. Have you?”

Ascher shrugged. “I don’t contact them—they contact me.”

“I think…yes, it is moving.”

“Let me see.” Ascher leaned in as Annja twisted the pommel loose and carefully removed it from the hilt.

Holding the round piece upon her palm, Annja flicked away particles of dirt. Interesting how the sword, though encased in a wooden box and velvet bag, had become encrusted with so much soil. Of course, the box had been split down the center. Centuries of dirt had sifted through.

The pommel was the size of a silver-dollar piece in circumference. It was convex, and heavy to counterbalance the weight of the blade. Both sides of the piece were impressed with a design.

“The coat of arms,” she blurted out, recognizing the design on the pommel.

“The Batz-Castelmore coat of arms?”

“Yes,” she said, elation lightening her tone. “Two castles and the eagle. The queen went to great lengths in having this gift handcrafted and personalized specifically for d’Artagnan.”

“Do you think they were lovers?” he asked.

“What?” Drawn back to reality by that conversational detour, Annja eyed Ascher’s enthusiastic smirk. “Lovers?”

A waggle of his brows preceded a shrug. “Anything is possible.”

True. There was no documentation that would lead anyone to believe the real Charles Castelmore had an affair with the queen of France, yet novelists and filmmakers had alluded to it over the years. And Annja couldn’t deny it a salacious fantasy that she could consider placing to her favorite musketeer.

Only problem was, Dumas had placed d’Artagnan in the story earlier than actual history, which had made him closer to the queen’s age. In reality, Annja wasn’t sure of the age difference, but a guess had to place the musketeer and the queen at least thirty years apart, the queen being older.

She set down the pommel on the white butcher paper. A few digital pictures were needed.

Ascher tilted the end of the hilt toward her, revealing the open inner chamber. The inside was no wider than a man’s thumb. She took a few more pictures.

“Annja, you must do the honor,” he said.

This was it. As usual when on the verge of what she felt to be a fortuitous historical discovery, Annja grew intensely calm and almost zen. Now was no time for frantic excitement. The joy came in careful exploration of what was once only a mystery or legend.

She bent to look down. There was something inside the hollow hilt of the seventeenth-century rapier.

“Careful,” Ascher coached.

“It’s a rolled paper. Do you have a—?” Bent-tip tweezers slapped onto her palm before she could finish the request. “Thanks.”

She knew the slightest jolt could damage the centuries-old paper. If she tugged too hard or clasped the tweezers too tightly, she risked tearing the parchment.

Annja drew in a breath through her nose, and went for it. A roll, about four inches long and tightly coiled, slid out easily.

Ascher redirected an overhead lamp to focus on the roll that she set before the rapier blade. The roll wobbled, then stopped. The twosome exhaled in unison.

“Do you think it is?” she whispered.

“The map!” Ascher said. “To the real treasure.”

“Yes,” she answered, surprise softening to agreement. A relieved exhale unraveled the tightness in her core she hadn’t been aware of until now.

“Rumor tells the map will lead to a treasure,” Ascher whispered. “A treasure the queen wanted d’Artagnan to have in thanks for all he had done to serve France and its king.”

“Right. But it wasn’t for chasing after missing diamonds for her collar, as Dumas wrote,” Annja said. “Though there may have been a morsel of truth to that.”

“That was pure fiction! There is no historical record of the diamond studs,” Ascher said.

“Yes, but never say never, eh? It is alluded that the treasure might have been a collection of jewels the queen had received over the years from her lovers,” Annja replied.

“Evidence she wished to be rid of, for some might have placed her to having an affair with Mazarin.”

“And what better way to do that than give them away. This sword was a gift for heroic deeds such as defeating the Spanish at Lille while the king marched his troops to help, or heading the vanguard at La Rochelle, while the king dallied at Fontenay.”

“Yes!” Ascher’s excitement vibrated between them, bouncing against Annja’s chest and throat. “Let’s have a look.”

“We can’t yet,” she said, poking the map with the tip of the tweezers. It was rolled so tightly, that she could not think to unroll it and risk it crumbling to flakes. “We’ll need…”

“Humidity. We can relax the parchment by steaming it. I’ll boil some water.”

“We should wait,” Annja said.

A panicky look deflated Ascher’s joy. “Why?”

“We need a good six to eight hours for the humidification process.”

“I know—I’ve done it before. Ah, you are tired? You can rest while I begin.”

She ran a hand over her scalp, wishing for a good solid eight hours of sleep. Heck, she’d take four. The sun had yet to rise. She should be sleeping. Normal people were sleeping right now. Couldn’t she manage one day as one of them?

But to be truthful, normal wasn’t interesting to Annja.

Ascher possessed unbounded energy. But she did not trust him with the process on his own. There were many things that could go wrong if he did not have the proper equipment. One could not simply boil water and steam the roll open. A humidity chamber had to be created and the parchment had to be protected from droplets with a sheet of Gore-Tex.

“Maybe if I had some coffee,” she muttered.

“I can do that. Be right back.”

T HE PHONE RANG in the kitchen and Ascher picked it up on the first tone. He barely said, “Hello,” when the voice on the other end began to berate.

“You know the new kidney is not completely developed. You risk your very life by refusing to hand over the sword today.”

“You got the sword, I just—”

“I know my swords, Vallois. This is sixteenth century,” Lambert said.

“Perhaps the queen gifted her musketeer with a family heirloom?”