Free MV02 Death Wears a Crown by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

discretion, some indication that the wife or daughter of a high-ranking officer has been found in the wrong bed?”
    “Nothing of the sort,” said Victoire bluntly. “Not that I am privy to what my husband bids me carry,” she added mendaciously so that she would no longer be pressed for juicy details.
    “We will keep your secret for you, whatever it is,” promised another of the travelers, a portly man of middle years who carried a case filled with upholstery material.
    This time Victoire did not respond, for she realized that it would be impossible to convince the schoolmaster or the other passengers of the truth—that she was traveling the least expensive way she could because she could not afford any other transportation, and not because she was attempting to deliver the dispatches in secret.
    “Your husband must be a very crafty man,” said the cloth-factor, his prominent eyes bulging a little. “To think of sending you on such a mission, and by such a ruse.”
    “He is,” said Victoire, watching the other passengers nod, smug in the knowledge that they were now privy to a state secret.
    “Do not worry, Madame,” said the schoolmaster. “We will not ask you any more awkward questions. We are aware when we ought to keep quiet.”
    Victoire knew better than to suppose it was so.

THE OFFICER watched until the footman had left the room. Then he unfolded the newly cleaned and braid-covered uniform coat over his desk. As he expected, a folded piece of vellum fell onto the desk. Carefully setting the coat aside, he read the note.
    It had begun; the sacred mission was under way. He was to watch for anything that might warn the mission had been compromised. Its last line implied he should kill anyone that got too close or threatened the mission. It was signed by the secretary of the monarch, to whom he had once pledged loyalty. He had broken that oath.

    * * *

    Their next posting inn was halfway between Abbeville and Pont-Remy, where they arrived shortly after sunset, the lanterns on the coach doing little to augment the fading light. The ostlers hurried out to greet the passengers and tend to the team, and were at once gratified and alarmed to discover that the Guard escort had assigned itself the task of watching after one of the passengers.
    “You must assign her a private parlor; she is the wife of an important officer carrying secret dispatches,” ordered Corporal Feuille to the landlord as he entered the Vigne et Tonneau ahead of the rest. “She is under our protection.”
    The landlord glowered, then wreathed his pliant face in smiles. “Of course, of course, of course,” he enthused. “I will tend to it at once.”
    “And be certain that a servant sleeps outside of her room tonight,” said Corporal Cruche. “She has important information entrusted to her that must not fall into the wrong hands.”
    Victoire looked at the two soldiers in exasperation, and said to them as calmly as she could, “It might be wise not to discuss my mission.” The fear that she had succeeded in mastering reasserted itself.
    “You may rely on our discretion,” said Corporal Feuille, bowing to her a little as he stood aside to permit the other passengers to enter the inn. “We have been warned about the danger of too much loose talk, and we are guarding against it.”
    “Do you think so?” Victoire asked, but the question was lost in the general babble of arrival.
    Within the hour all the passengers had been assigned rooms and had their luggage deposited in the proper chambers while the landlord presided over the taproom, serving generous amounts of red wine to wash down the lamb stew he offered his guests.
    Victoire dined on collops of pork cooked with mushrooms in a heavy wine sauce in the isolation of the private parlor; there had been no mention of cost, but she knew it would be more than what the others were paying for their simpler fare. “I am convinced your intentions are good,” she remarked to Corporal