Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

A Crappy Fighter

Mr Ambrose would really have been proud of my time-saving skills. I had my gun out and my horse at a gallop in about half a second. Still, I hadn’t even come around the inn before I heard the second shot—and a cry of pain.

Don’t let it be him. Please, don’t let it be him!

I dashed around the corner—and froze at the sight that met my eyes.

Mr Ambrose was on the ground, kneeling behind his horse. Shot?

No, thank god! He’s taking cover.

But a moment later, another shot rang out, and his horse balked, and raced off into the night, taking away with it any cover it had provided. And cover was urgently needed. Riders were streaming down the road, rifles raised, ready to fire. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but with the way they were moving—swift, orderly, precise—they didn’t need to.

Soldiers.

And I could guess from whose army.

The first man took aim.

My hand moved before I was even consciously aware of it. In the blink of an eye, my pistol was level with my eye.

Bam!

The man went down.

Unfortunately, this led to his dozen or so friends noticing me—and so did Mr Ambrose. Cold, sea-coloured eyes bored into me.

‘Mr Linton, get back!’

Ha! Not on your sweet wallet!

I only retreated a few steps, until I was just around the corner of the inn, then crouched down, half hidden behind the wall. Once more, I raised my gun.

Bam! Bam!

One more man went down.

Only one? Damn, I have to get more practise!

‘There! That one! Get ‘im!’

The other soldiers apparently didn’t agree. They took aim, seeming quite determined to make sure I never again had the chance to practise shooting people. Spoilsports!

Bam!

‘Again, you miserable louts!’

Bam!

I flattened myself against the wall—just in time. Something stung my arm. When I looked down, I saw a tear in my sleeve, and a small trickle of blood.

‘Hey, you bastards! That was my best tailcoat! It was almost new!’

Really? That was my response? I really had to start spending less time with Rikkard Ambrose.

Be honest, Lilly. That’s not very likely, is it? If you get out of this alive, that is.

Carefully peeking around the corner, I raised my gun again.

Bam!

Another soldier went down—but the others steadily continued to advance. Damn! Once they were around the corner, I’d be a sitting duck. I had to get out of here! I had to find some way to get to Mr Ambrose.

Just then, a door in the inn wall behind me swung open, and a portly Frenchman stuck his head through the crack.

‘Au nom de Dieu, quelle est ce bruit—?’[44]

‘Oh, hello.’ I gave him my best I-love-Frenchmen-and-don’t-mind-you-eat-frogs smile. ‘I wonder…could I come inside?’

A shot whizzed over my head and blew the Frenchman’s hat off.

‘Merde!’

Jumping back inside, he slammed the door in my face, locked and bolted it.

‘Thanks so much!’ I called after him.

Another ‘merde’ came from inside in reply. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I was in deep, deep merde.

Or…maybe not deep enough?

An idea struck. Whirling around, I dashed along the inn wall and into the stables, to the one place I might—just possibly—survive. Merde. Merde, merde, merde, merde!

Only moments after I had settled into my comfortable, wonderfully-smelling hiding place, half a dozen soldiers burst into the stables. I could hear the others outside, taking up positions to guard the entrance.

‘Where is the little bastard?’ One soldier asked in a thick cockney accent. If there had been any doubt that these weren’t Frenchmen, it was gone now.

‘Don’t know, sarge.’

‘Well, search! ‘e can’t ‘ave gone far.’

The soldiers approached. I held my breath. And not primarily because of the soldiers.

Merde, merde, merde!Really very, very much merde!

The soldiers came even closer, and then, their rifles raised, they—

—they stepped past me.

I let out a sigh of relief. Then I silently cursed myself. That was the last bit of fresh air I had left!

‘’e’s not in the horse boxes, sarge,’ came a voice from somewhere behind me.

‘Not in the haystack, either,’ came another from the left.

‘Keep searching! ‘e can’t have just vanished into thin air.’

Thin air? The air here is definitely getting thin, my friend.

I needed to breathe. But right now, breathing in did not seem like a good idea. I felt my face turning blue as the soldiers continued to ransack the stables. They seemed pretty determined to be thorough. So far they’d stayed away from my hiding place, for obvious olfactory reasons. But what if—

Bam!

‘Bloody ‘ell!’ Whirling around, the sergeant raced to the door—and ducked just in time to dodge a bullet.

‘It’s those two bloody bastards!’

Mr Ambrose! He was still out there, totally outnumbered, probably desperate to get to me. Crap, crap, crap! If only I wasn’t stuck in so much crap! I had find some way to help!

‘You there!’ The sergeant shouted to the men standing guard outside. ‘Go take care of them!’

Six men.

Six against two.

I had lots of respect for Karim’s killer instincts. And as for Mr Ambrose—well, he was Rikkard Ambrose. But still, those odds seemed just a little too risky. Particularly when dealing with professional mercenaries in the service of a certain lord.

What to do?

Well…

If I’d asked that question with my mind, there could have been many answers. I didn’t, though. I asked my heart. And the blasted thing was already decided.

Help him!

A moment later, a large dollop of merde hit the closest soldier in the back of his tête. He stumbled forward, and had a nice little tête-a-tête with a horse’s derrière. What do you know? I was getting the hang of this French thing after all.

‘What the—arglmph!’

The soldier’s comrades stared horrified at their muck-splattered companion getting intimate with an equine ass. It would be another second or two before they realized what was going on. A second or two was all I needed.

Bam! Bam!

‘It’s him! Get hi—’

Bam!

‘—iiargh!’

Four rifles came up. I dived down behind the only cover I had.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!

Thank God for shit.

Now there’s a sentence I had never thought I would ever use. Raising my revolver, I pointed it over the pile of refuse, aiming as well as I could without exposing myself.

Click!

What? No, no, no! Not click! It’s supposed to go ‘bam’, dammit!

‘’e’s out of ammunition! Get ‘im!’

Merde!

And this time, I wasn’t referring to horse crap.

I was just starting to fumble for more bullets when, from outside, I heard sounds approaching. But…that couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t be…hoof beats? The entrance was still guarded by gunmen. Who would be crazy enough to ride at a line of rifleman at full gallop?

Oh no.

No, please, no.

Cries and shouts exploded outside. Gunfire roared. A moment later, the stable doors burst open, and what looked like a horse trough riding on top of a horse rushed inside. Then, the bullet-riddled horse trough was hurled aside, revealing Mr Rikkard Ambrose, eyes blazing like glaciers in the arctic sun. The two soldiers on whose heads he dropped the horse trough probably didn’t appreciate the sight as much as I did.

Neither did the two soldiers who were still standing, apparently. They raised their rifles.

My hands moved in a flash. A new bullet was in the chamber before I had taken another breath. A split second later, it slammed into the first soldier’s head. He dropped to the ground, dead as a doornail repurposed for coffin manufacture. His comrade cursed and, with his bayonet, lashed out at me. Or at least he tried to. With one swift tug on the reins, Mr Ambrose whirled his mount around, and its hooves lashed out, scything through the air. They slammed into the soldier’s head, throwing him backwards, right into…

Well, let’s just say the undertaker would have to do a lot of cleaning.

Suddenly, there was silence in the stable. Outside, we could hear the sounds of fighting still going on. Either Karim was on a rampage, or we had somehow received reinforcements. Knowing Karim, I was betting on the former. Still, right now, I didn’t care. In that moment, there was only Mr Rikkard Ambrose and me, and the silent little space around us.

‘What were you thinking, Mr Linton?’ His voice was a spear of ice, his eyes swirling oceans of darkness. ‘Risking your neck like that? What were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking about you,’ I told him.

‘You…you…’

We moved at the same time. It was as if some inextricable force drew us towards each other. I dashed forward, he sprang down from his horse, ran towards me, and…

.,..backed away?

‘Ynk! Arg! Ng!’

Never before in my life had I heard Rikkard Ambrose utter such sounds. Concerned, I stepped forward.

‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

‘I will be, as soon as you step away. What have you been doing to yourself?’

‘Me?’ I blinked, nonplussed, and took another step forward. ‘Whatever do you mean? I–’

And then the penny dropped. Or should I say the road apple?

‘Oh.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That.’

‘Yes. That.’

I considered for a moment how best to answer—then smiled, batted my lashes like a prima donna and sidled closer. ‘Do you like my new perfume? It’s called aux du cheval-merde.’

Mr Ambrose gave me one of those looks. The looks that said ‘you are an insignificant worm’ to anybody else. The looks that said ‘I love you’ to me.

‘I sincerely hope you did not pay very much for it.’

From outside, another gunshot sounded. We exchanged glances—and then started moving as one man.

God! Did I really just think that? I had to get back into a skirt pronto!

Outside, there was utter carnage and utter Karim. Three bodies of soldiers were already lying on the ground, with the two remaining ones cowering behind trees, trying to hold off the big Mohammedan and his fellow fighters.

Wait a minute…fellow fighters?

Yes, there were other people there. And they were on our side? Were they crazy, or had they just not met Mr Ambrose yet?

But then I caught sight of a big black hat, topped with red, white and blue, and I knew those weren’t just passing strangers willing to help. Not at all. A grin spread across my face, and I turned to Mr Ambrose.

‘You don’t happen to have another horse trough, do you?’

‘Pardon, Mr Linton?’

‘A horse trough. Preferably one with water in it, this time? I have a feeling I should make myself a little more presentable.’

Mr Ambrose glanced over at the battlefield in front of the inn—then nodded, and led me behind the stables, where another horse trough stood next to a big puddle and wild clusters of hoof marks.

I threw him a censorious look. ‘You know, you really shouldn’t have pulled that foolish stunt with the horse trough. You could have been killed!’

He raised one eyebrow about half a millimeter. ‘It’s not the first time I risked my life for something I wanted.’

I froze. My gaze found his face. Suddenly, the distance between us seemed far too great.

‘Mr Ambrose…I…’

‘Don’t.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t look at me like that. Not while you’re covered in horse manure.’

I cocked my head, batting my lashes. ‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Because the cleaning bill for my clothes will come out of your pocket.’

Right then and there, I almost considered it worth it. But then I heard shouts from around the corner of the house, and I realized the fighting was coming to an end. We didn’t have time for this. Plenty of horse shit, but no time. Quickly, I ducked and stuck my face into the horse trough.

‘Phhrrtt! Phhrz! Grgl!’

Holy Moly! How did horses manage to drink this stuff? It was ice cold, and the smell was hardly better than the stuff it was meant to remove. Well, at least it got me marginally cleaner. By the time the last shot had fallen, I was clean as a whistle. Maybe only by the standards of whistling sewer cockroaches, but none of us are perfect, are we?

‘Sahib!’

I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. And there he was: at the head of a line of French soldiers I wouldn’t be calling frogs while they had rifles and I only had a half-loaded revolver, Karim strode towards us, the fierce gleam of victory in his eyes. He came to a halt in front of Mr Ambrose, opened his mouth—and coughed.

‘In the name of the…What is that smell?’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Hey! I just washed myself.’

‘Karim.’ Mr Ambrose stepped forward, gaining his bodyguard’s attention. ‘You were victorious?’

‘Indeed, Sahib. Thanks in part to this gentleman.’

He gestured to the French officer beside him, and the man stepped forward, saluting. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Ambrose. I’ve been sent to…Bon Dieu!’ Pulling an embroidered silk handkerchief out of his pocket, he waved it in front of his nose. ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’

‘I’m washing again, all right? I’m washing again!’

‘I’m Mr Rikkard Ambrose.’ Completely ignoring my diligent attempts to scrub behind my ears in the horse trough, my dear employer stepped forward and inclined his head. ‘May I assume that you were sent here by a certain concerned politician?’

‘You are as wise and discreet as His Excellency the minister intimated.’ The French officer gave a small bow. ‘Indeed, Monsieur, you are correct. His Excellency thought you might require some aid. And when he received your message—’

Sputtering and spraying water in all directions, I resurfaced from the horse trough. ‘Message? What message?’

Glancing over at me without bothering to turn his head, Mr Ambrose raised one eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘While we were at Jacques’ charming establishment, I paid someone to take a message to a certain politician we met yesterday, asking for reinforcements. Didn’t I mention that before?’

‘No. Somehow you neglected to tell me that fact before I risked my neck in a harebrained dash to suicide!’

I glared at him, demanding to see some guilt on his face.

But this Mr Rikkard Ambrose. He didn’t have a face, just a stone bust attached to his torso. Giving up, I plunged my head back into the horse trough. I’d set his ears on fire later!

‘Blldiag blablbdaa lmalablablabldlaa?’

‘Lblablda ddldkd dklal ak abblaoble.’

Who knew? The most incompressible language I had encountered so far on my travels wasn’t French, Spanish, or even Portuguese, but my own, listened to from underwater with my head stuck inside a horse trough. Maybe all English speakers should walk around with horse troughs on their head. It might encourage them to become bilingual.

Before I could come to any deeper underwater philosophical conclusions, however, my air ran out, and I had to resurface. I came up just in time to hear the French gentleman enquire: ‘…correct in the assumption that your mission is of a time-sensitive nature?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Very well. I shall detain you no further, then. Do you need someone to take care of your wound?’

‘Not currently, no. I have a very, very diligent nurse with me.’

‘Nurse?’ The French officer glanced around. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s hiding,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as deadpan as a recently murdered cooking pot.

‘No wonder. Poor dear, she must ‘ave been frightened to death by this massacre. Such matters are no place for delicate ladies. She’s probably shivering in a corner somewhere.’

I felt a sudden desire to plunge his head into the horse trough. But before I could, the inn door opened and the innkeeper cautiously stuck his head outside. Once he saw that bullets were no longer flying, his caution evaporated instantly, and he burst into the open, gesticulating wildly.

‘C’est un outrage! Les citoyens honnêtes ne peuvent-ils pas aller de leurs affaires quotidiennes en paix en France de nos jours? Je vais me plaindre au maire! Je vais me plaindre au gouverneur! Je vais me plaindre au—’[45]

‘À moins que vous ne souhaitiez vous plaindre à Sa Majesté le roi, vous feriez mieux de fermer la bouche tout de suite!’[46]

The sharp voice of the French officer cut the man off. When he caught sight of the sabers, rifles, and uniforms, his eyes widened, and he retreated.

‘Leave,’ the officer advised Mr Ambrose. ‘We can ‘andle this. You have your own work to do. We’ll take care of the bodies and make sure this little incident will not fall under further scrutiny.’

My dear employer nodded—about as much of a ‘thank you’ as you could expect to get from Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Marching over to the nearest horse, he swung himself onto its back before anyone noticed it wasn’t his, and gave the animal the spurs.

‘Come, Mr Linton!’

‘Coming, Sir. I just—’

‘And leave the horse trough!’

Sighing, I let go. I was just about to get my ears clean!

Grabbing my own horse, which—clever beastie!—had somehow actually managed to stay alive and present, I galloped after Mr Ambrose. Karim was on my heels, luckily for my feet in a metaphoric manner. We rode silently through the night, the rising moon now our only pursuer. Time in this silent, shadowy world seemed like a distant concept. We rode, and rode, and rode.

It came suddenly. One minute, we were riding along, and the next—

‘There!’

Karim’s arm pointed into the darkness. Even squinting, it took me a moment or two to make out what he was seeing—but when I did, there was no doubt we were at the right place. The coach was standing right in front of the inn. It was huge, and even through the shadows I could vaguely see the giant forms of the lions rising on their back paws to form the crest of the East India Company. Right next to it was the crest of the earl.

Reining in my mount, I came to a stop next to Mr Ambrose.

‘What now?’

In the moonlight, his face looked as if chiselled from white marble.

‘Now we do what we came to do.’

‘And if it doesn’t work?’

The only answer was silence.