Free The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich

muskets smoking. Their guns slammed butt down and ramrods plunged and lifted like Fulton’s pistons as the Germans reloaded.
    With those shots, my ambitions were dashed. What were the Prussians doing in Peter and Paul Fortress a day earlier than planned? And how did they recognize me as the “meddling American” from one hundred yards through falling snow? I’d been betrayed, and if betrayed then news of my role would reach the tsar. I’d go from
dvorianstuo
to bandit and spy, with no title, no estates, and no friends. I was once again ruined and likely to be executed if my emergency escape didn’t work.
    Yet what use is frustration? Napoleon taught that no plan survives the first gunshots, and that a good general plans for every eventuality. I’d test his maxim.
    Fortunately, the light was still dim and flakes were still falling, so obscurity was an ally. Guards collided, or slipped on ice. Shots went wild. I gallumped through snow to the perimeter fortress wall and bounded up icy steps, hearing more cries as I was spotted again. Bullets pinged off stonework. Tufts of snow erupted. Then I was up on the parapet and dashing toward the Neva side of the fortress like a shadowy target on a shooting range. The Winter Palace on the far shore was a blur. The frozen ships in the Neva loomed like offshore rocks. Shots whizzed and hummed with hot trajectories that left flakes dancing in their wake.
    The outer wall sloped slightly to lend stability against bombardment. Even as a line of Russian soldiers scrambled up the interior fortress stairs to intercept me, I vaulted the parapet lip and skidded down the outside wall to another drift. The tumble at the bottom twisted my ankle, but the pain was clarifying. Harry!
    I squatted on the ice of the frozen river edge and unfurled Astiza’s other handiwork, a small chute of silk.
    “There he is!” Shouts above. The bang of more muskets. A chip flayed my cheek and irritation intruded. Why can’t I have a career more suitable to my talents, like paramour to a bored princess, or court jester, or perhaps ambassador to an obscure nation where nothing ever happens?
    The wind snapped the silk taut and jerked me forward, my boots skidding across river ice. I sailed out onto the Neva on heels and rump, teeth gritted against the sore ankle and my chute dancing madly in the wind.
    Now the Prussians were running back out of the Nevsky gate, leaping onto the river ice to chase me. Several slipped and fell. It would be a comedy if not so perilous.
    I clung desperately to my chute, skidding before the wind and kicking up a rooster-tail of snow. As I picked up speed I allowed myself to hope that the most disagreeable part of my mission might be unnecessary. Perhaps I could just slide away into the fog of early morning.
    But then I heard the clatter of horseshoes on ice.
    I looked back. Several mounted men had bounded from pier onto the frozen river, their horses slipping and then finding purchase on the brittle surface. The animals neighed in consternation and excitement.
    Meanwhile the wind began to drag me awry, sending me up the river instead of across to the frozen ships and St. Petersburg. Our invention had gained me precious minutes, but I had to rendezvous with my son.
    I let it go.
    The chute whirled away like a leaf. I coasted to a regretful halt and stood, wincing. Damnation! I didn’t relish the last part of my plan, but choice was shrinking as the horsemen spurred.
    I set off at a limping trot, too pained and unsure of my icy footing to run flat out. Behind, the sound of pursuit was like knives rapping on marble.
    “There he is! Halt, rogue, or we cut you down!”
    I panted, struggling painfully to the place I’d carefully sawn the night before we crossed the river with the casket. Despite recent snow, my disturbance had left a slight depression in the snow.
    My pursuers were closing. I had to give the Prussians pause.
    I un-shouldered my rifle, turned, took quick aim at the lead