The King's Eye

Chapter 38

Jacques

"Please, monsieur." On his knees, the man before me begged for his life. "S'il vous plaît, épargne-moi." A small cry left him as I palmed my dagger. "I have a child. A wife who needs me."

Taking a long draw from the cigarette that was almost burnt out, I blew the air out through tightly lined lips, letting the smoke warp around my nostrils. It always ended like this. Them begging. "If you would answer my questions," I flicked the butt away. "I would let you live." I took a step forward, watching as the front of the man's pants darkened with piss. "But you haven't answered any of my questions."

"I told you," he panted. "All of the printing presses along the docks are involved. Every last one. It's how they get so many out."

I thought over his words, considering. "Yes, but who do they bring them to...to distribute?" The gash along his brow from where I had hit him was seeping blood in a small stream between his eyes. The bridge of his nose askew from being broken. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. "The wisteria house? Burnt to the ground. And the distributor?" I laughed, unintentionally. "He's disposed of."

"That's impossible."

"Whose his replacement?"

"He isn't dead," the man shook his head, wincing. "I spoke to him only hours ago. Alive and well."

"It wasn't the Duke?"

"Francis?" Tilting his head back the man belly laughed, a tear coming to his eye. "You are an idiot if you think that man was brilliant enough to handle anything other than finances for it all. Even that he didn't do well."

Grabbing at the collar of his shirt, I hauled him up onto his feet, bringing him to eye level. All amusement suddenly vanished from his face. "Then who the hell is running it?" I shook him. "Who?"

He shook his head once more. "I cannot tell you that."

"Then I cannot let you live," I answered, dropping him back to his knees. The crunch of bone against the cobblestones made my stomach churn, but there was work to do.

"Marat." His whole body trembled as he tried to sit up straight, "Jean-Paul Marat. He pays young boys to distribute them throughout the city, gives them a single livre in exchange."

I rolled my eyes. Marat came from a good family, he could afford to spare more francs. "Where do they meet to pick up the pamphlets?"

"Outside a brothel," he hesitated as if he was ashamed. "A closed brothel."

I unsheathed my dagger, flipping it around in my hand. "Thank you, his majesty appreciates your cooperation." The words were not sincere as we locked eyes.

He looked horrified as he watched my movements, closer and closer to him,"You said you wouldn't kill me if I—"

It took one slice to cut his sentence off, wheezing air quickly replaced with gurgling blood. Gently I pushed him back with a shove from my fingers at his forehead, opening the slice just enough to see it pulse as he fell back into a pile of broken crates. "I lied," I answered, watching him reach for me, his hands opening and closing in last attempts to be rescued. No one ever lives, and as the thought left me I began to hum the tune that had always silenced out the last breaths. My mother's voice carrying deep within my mind.

Taking out another cigarette, I flicked a match across the brick of the building and lit it. Quickly smoke filled the air, silence reminding me of the body next to me. It was always like this. Every time.