Grim Lions (The Templar Wars Book 1) Read online

  Carsten continued. “This is what young people would call a feasibility discussion. Pretend we are in a café, relaxed.”

  “I am listening,” she replied, her face returned to shrewdness.

  He felt assured, comfortable, his breathing calm. The mysterious figure had sent him someone of immense appeal.

  Chapter Three

  Clavdia did not journey to her apartment as planned. Instead, she boarded the train in the underground station of the Cheval headquarters to cross the city to her office. She stood on the crowded, barely lit train that jostled while it shook along the track and began to recover from her stupefaction. The meeting had played out slowly. It was past midnight, but as always, the Metropolis was frantic, full of activity, overwhelming with noise. Every part of the train was occupied. Night workers, itinerants, and wanderers, most sleeping, some talking, others singing, humming, one another’s breath in their faces. The train was glum and slow. Energy levels were low. It had been a damp, cold day, and the power generators had been exhausted by the millions clinging to their heaters.

  She disembarked from the train at the French Quarter and moved with the flow of the crowd up the three flights of stairs to the surface. On the concourse, in spite of the drizzle, the market stalls had been erected and were trading, and the cults were touting their philosophies, searching for recruits. It was a throng, as always, and she could not see more than three bodies in front of her as she navigated. She passed the food stalls. The smell of human movement was overwhelmed by the aromas of fried chicken and vegetables, and her ears encountered the calls for business, urging the purchase of the night’s special. An evangelist, slightly elevated above the hordes by a wooden box, prophesied the coming darkness in a certain and grim-eyed fashion. The crowd lost some density as she moved through, clearing the path, as more gravitated to boards being burned in metal bins for warmth. She pulled up her collar and tightened it to her neck. At the end of the concourse, she came to the wide steps leading to the mercantile sector. The crowds thickened again. Groups of student radicals on one side were taunting the Christian Unionists on the other, drunkenly singing a song the patriots despised. “Old Wellington lost his head at Lucerne. The Turks never gave it back.” Of course, she understood. It was the two-hundred-year anniversary of the infamous battle. There would be violence between the two groups later. The Unionists were waving their huge white flags, marked by red crosses, with vigor. They were badly outnumbered by the radicals, though. The security forces would not come out for this, so she judged that the pavement would be covered by spilled blood in the morning, only the drizzle dispersing it.

  The Montgisard Corporation Headquarters was among the hundreds of towers in the mercantile district. It was a third of the size of the largest. She arrived at the high iron gates protecting the building. There were at least a dozen security guards on duty, in their dark-blue uniforms, with the M of the corporation in white across their breasts. They had their rainwater-dampened caps firmly pulled down on their heads and high upturned collars covering most of their faces. The chief recognized her and signaled for two of his lieutenants to swing the gate open. “Early start, madam?”

  “Late night actually, Captain.”

  The stern face produced a frown that quickly became a grin. “Something big happening, madam?”

  “There always is, Captain.” She smiled back.

  “Elevators are out of action, madam, due to power shortages. I’m afraid it’s the stairs.”

  “I don’t mind. God bless you, Captain.”

  “You too, madam.”

  The gate closed behind her, and the guards turned their eyes back to the boulevard.

  She climbed the stairs to the twelfth floor. It was empty. Not a light was on in any of the rooms. Her room was at the far end of the hallway. She unlocked the door and observed via the moonlight that everything was as it should be. A file was left open on her desk, the last one she had been working on. Scribbled notes across the page. There was a list of messages left by her secretary. Another list in her own handwriting of urgent matters needing attention. The first thing was to get a fire going in the fireplace for some warmth and light. In minutes, the fire was crackling. Across from the hearth was a leather couch. She slept on the couch more nights of the week than not, saving three hours of traveling time. She opened a cherrywood closet, hung her jacket, and took out her loose exercise clothes. Behind the couch were chairs and her desk, close to these bookshelves populated mostly by the corporation’s lore and also crammed with many classic and modern business-oriented volumes. The oak-paneled walls held painted scenes from the corporation’s history. Steamships plying the rough seas; a branch office from a century ago with a tramcar passing; a portrait of a balding, bespectacled, worried-looking old man, the longest-serving president.

  For moments she contemplated the words of Carsten Cheval. Everything he had said made sense. It was a perfect plan, audacious, with a massive payoff and minimal drawbacks, maybe. It was too soon to think about. She would need to pray and meditate first. She took off her shoes. There was a thick carpet between the hearth and the couch. She positioned herself on her knees on this carpet. It was already warm as her knees buried into the wool. She crossed herself by touching her forehead, chest, and shoulders with her fingers and began a loud recital of her prayers. This lasted twenty minutes. She crossed herself when finished to close the prayers and sat on the carpet, crossed her legs, tightly closed her eyes, and rested her hands on her knees. It was thirty minutes before she moved again.

  Once the prayer and meditation were completed, she sat at her desk and began to contemplate what Carsten Cheval had proposed. He would seed into a Montgisard Corporation subsidiary company the funds necessary to raise the force. He would do this in an anonymous fashion. If the powers of the Metropolis found out his political agenda, it would be destroyed before it began. He was too intertwined with the aristocracy of the Metropolis for this to be allowed. The House of Cheval was too intertwined. However, Montgisard Corporation was not beholden to the plutocrats. It was an upstart, only about a hundred years old. The rulers would laugh at the story, plot for it to fail, and move on to their next cocktail. It would be the comedy of the city for a month, scorned and ridiculed in the press. But what if it didn’t fail?

  Cheval had said, “I will provide whatever is necessary for it to succeed, and I know if I have done this, it will succeed, as if from a vision.” She had tried to question him further on this, to be more specific. “You would know the talk of my wealth,” he said. “It is all true. Your task is to create the entity for this adventure. It should be a specific-purpose entity, with scant oversight, tight personal control, and only yourself, or those you solemnly trust, as directors, agents, or officers of the company. When you have it ready, soon, notify my man, Rovis, of the information he will need to know, this being the name and the bank for the banking. I assume Montgisard Merchant Bank. Ample funds will be deposited. They will not have my name, or any name. The funds will be deposited as cash, gold, bonds, diamonds, anything anonymous. You will say the funds were seeded from private donors, all of them, who wish to be anonymous.”

  The old man had thought about everything carefully and clearly had a mind able to conceptualize on a grand scale. “Your most important task,” he had continued, “a task I contend that you are most able to complete, is the task of choosing the leadership for this expedition. And this leadership I am referring to is the leadership of men and women in the midst of calamity, action, and bloodshed when the fight is against the wall or in the thrall of victorious ecstasy.” He had suggested that she personally recruit a cadre of leaders from the military academies, not directly, as that would be forbidden, but to put out the word and let them come to her.

  The smell of the burning wood filled the room. Her hand hovered over one of the telephones on her desk. She would call Rovis, his butler. This mysterious figure would be working through the night. She should tell him the plan was impossible, and this was a misery she wouldn’t endure. She looked at the black bulky telephone and put her hand to her eyes instead. She needed sleep.

  A sharp tapping came at the door. She was stretched on the sofa. It was too short for her length. Her legs were folded in a position she found comfortable. Ten minutes’ worth of closed eyes on the sofa was worth an hour in a bed. The fire was dark. Some light was coming through the slats of the blinds. She opened the door. It was Franz. “You’re here,” he said briskly. “We’ve been waiting.”

  “I was on my way.” She tucked in her shirt. “Paperwork.” She waved at the desk.

  Franz was athletic. He took three steps at a time. She kept up. His breathing was normal when they reached the lowest basement. A lamp hung at the edge of the open space. Franz jogged into the room, dodging the thick pillars and exposed pipes. Greta and Pedro sat on wicker mats. “Good morning, Templars,” she said, marching into the light.

  “Is it morning?” Pedro smiled.

  “Morning, Commander,” Greta said, standing.

  Franz picked up the wooden swords. “Who’s first? Are we warming up?” His angular features and lean body were stark under the lamp. He tossed a sword to Clavdia. She grabbed it and swished it through the thick air.

  “Shall we get to the action? Busy day today.” She practiced slashing. “Three on one.”

  “Ha.” Broad-shouldered Pedro laughed as he lifted himself up.

  “Busy day, Commander.” Greta weighed a stick in her hands. “But do you really want to spend it in a hospital?”

  “You have a busy day. What about me?” Pedro lamented. “I’m off to a house for the aged on the other side of the bay, begging for donations. The order hasn’t
even provided a sterling for the cost of the ferry. Out of my own empty pocket, that’s coming. Misers.”

  “Make them laugh, Ped,” Greta advised.

  “Three on one,” Franz said with a serious face. “The three of you against me. I give you no chance.” Clavdia slashed. Before he could lower his sword, she had whacked him on the thigh. “By the head of Saint Euphemia, wait until I’m ready.”

  “You are part of the three, not the one,” Clavdia advised, grinning.

  They lined up against her. Legs braced, swords gently moving. Pedro thrust his stick forward. His dark hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail, which swung loosely. Clavdia dodged and lowered her wooden sword quickly, smacking his fingers. He yelped. Franz was lashing a hit, which she checked, and then on the follow-through, while ducking a Greta attack, she stabbed Pedro in the chest with the end of her stick, knocking him back. His stick rolled onto the concrete floor. He lay back on the floor, defeated, hands folded behind his head, laughing.

  Clavdia steadied to stab and fend off. The sticks were moving so quickly, they could barely be seen. Greta, short and sturdy, a blur of maize-colored hair, thrust wildly, exhausting herself. She gasped for air a second too long. Clavdia caught her under the chin. Greta threw down her stick, cursed, and sat on her rear at the end of the mats next to Pedro, agitatedly feeling her chin.

  Franz steadied his sword. “One on one, mademoiselle,” he said, deadpan.

  “One on one, soldier boy.” She smiled back, her mouth a narrow opening.

  They stalked each other. Clavdia, eagle eyed, watched his hands as she moved to the end of the mats. He sparred, feinting to strike. His lean, muscular body looked as if it had a reservoir of energy. He darted forward. She dodged and attacked. He blocked. They kept going, the same routine. Greta and Pedro cheered from the sidelines. She stepped over an oily puddle from a leaky pipe, and defended, moving to the end of the mats, back foot on the dirty concrete. She showed him she was happy to defend, noticing that his guard was getting lower each time he recoiled from a strike. He slashed again, all his energy, the end of the stick a finger from her nose. His follow-through was greater than normal. She lunged, stinging him in the rib cage. “Ha!” She yelled to celebrate her victory. Franz groaned, felt his chest, and smirked resignedly.

  She bent over, let the wooden sword clatter to the ground, and placed her hands on her knees. “Well, lucky we aren’t at camp.” She panted. “After that, you’d be doing laps of the cross-country course, with a sack of rocks on your backs.”

  “Harsh, but likely.” Pedro laughed. “Those camps are like Genghis Khan wrote the discipline rules.”

  “Not to mention,” Greta continued, “we’d be confined to our rooms. Or, I mean, cells. To contemplate, with dried biscuits for dinner.”

  The laughter echoed through the underground space.

  They continued exercising. At the end, sitting, relaxing, sharing a water bottle. Clavdia had an elbow on her knee, the other leg stretched out. Pedro was lying on his back. “Why so busy, Commander?” he asked.

  “Montgisard business,” she answered. “Finance committee, meetings, three proposals that are overdue, a tenant who hasn’t paid, managers who want to talk.” She groaned. “I’d rather be a Templar all day, but who pays the bills?”

  Pedro whistled. “Sounds ugly, but I’d trade you for the old folks.”

  “I’m demolishing today,” Franz advised. “I don’t mind that. A sledgehammer in the hand.”

  “Wish I was with you,” Greta said. “I’m auditing, a lot of fat ledgers my companions until sundown.”

  “Have any of you read about what’s happening in the Qing Kingdom?” Clavdia asked.

  “The Qing Kingdom,” Pedro answered. “Is that where the tea comes from, and the other stuff, the narcotics?”

  “The porcelain too,” Greta added. “My pa collects the plates.”

  “What’s happening there?” Franz asked.

  “It looks like the Ottomans are going to invade.”

  “The Ottomans?” Pedro asked. “I thought they were invading into the American wilderness.”

  “American wilderness,” Franz echoed. “By the head of Saint Euphemia, I hope not. I love the stories from the American West. Hardy souls making a living in the harshest world, against the elements, the natives, and grizzly bears.”

  “Yes, maybe there too,” Clavdia said, “but they are certainly preparing to invade the Qing Kingdom. They have amassed an army on the border, in league with the Mughals. The reports are that they are waiting for the northern spring, when the roads will be hard.”

  “Don’t the Ottomans have enough of the world?” Pedro said. “Leave the tea and plates for someone else.”

  “Is this serious?” Greta leaned forward.

  “It is.” Clavdia nodded. “As serious as a master’s scowl.”

  “Well, I wish someone would stop them.” Greta sighed.

  “I agree,” Franz said. “Centuries of invading and conquering. It isn’t right. Used to be our lot, Templars, who’d make a stand against these barbarians. I hope the Qing have a lot of Templars.”

  “They don’t have any Templars,” Clavdia advised.

  “Well, we should send them some,” Franz said. “The meanest, craziest ones there are. That’ll learn the Ottomans a lesson.”

  “Sounds right, Franz.” Pedro laughed. “I’m right after you.”

  Greta nodded. Clavdia watched their faces, interested.

  Chapter Four

  The crowds at the roulette tables were three people deep. Family heirloom diamonds on display. The dense smoke from cigars overhead. Nico watched the most crowded of tables, his inebriated mind trying to make sense of the chaos. Everything happened to the second. The croupier, with a youthful, handsome face and greased-back hair, watched with an eagle eye, knowing instinctively when to guide his hands rhythmically over the table to magically stop the gamblers from moving. The gamblers had also known the last second to act and place their tokens before he intervened. There was something exciting happening at this table. The ladies’ dresses, fancier, more colorful, more spectacular than the other tables. The men’s shirts whiter and their faces more handsome than anywhere else. Also, the table had more tokens than any other table. There were stacks next to precarious stacks of the vibrant tokens, almost no room left to see the green surface of the table. On the completion of a spin, when the ball sat in one of the numbers of the wheel, there were equal cheers and grimaces, only the sources changing from the previous spin.

  The cheers echoed again as another spin ended and the croupier surveyed the winners and the spoils that would be kept for a turn. Nico, the only male wearing an untied tie, elbowed to the front of the table and, without stopping, reached for the piles of tokens with both his hands, gathering them up, and to the gasps of the audience, messed all the different-colored tokens. The croupier outstretched his arms to stop him but, beaten by Nico, gaped in horror. A lady who had placed a winning bet screamed. A champagne flute toppled. Nico had his hands overflowing with tokens and threw them high into the air. Their flight impacted all corners of the room, and all heads turned toward the table. Nico brushed his arms across the table, scattering the tokens he hadn’t managed to pick up. He laughed as he did this. The other patrons staggered back from him, creating room for the first of the black-clad security guards to place a thick hand on his collar and pull him close so that his arms could be held from moving farther. Nico struggled, but his slight frame was no match for the muscled security guard, and even less so when another guard arrived to clamp him further, this time around the neck. Nico’s eyes were covered, and he couldn’t see as he was being dragged across the floor. He could hear the patrons cheering and scurrying, hollering, while looking for their tokens.

  When the guards had him in the elevator, they let him see again. One of them had his large finger on the button for the basement. The three security guards were all ugly, scarred, and shaved bald, their breathing and muscled smell dominating the confined space. Fingers dug into his arms as if they could rip them off as easily as dealing with chicken wings.