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“In the bathroom,” he gasped. “My straight razor. Bring it to me.”
I found it in a little black leather bag on the vanity. The razor had a long retractable blade that slipped into the handle. I didn’t think anybody used a straight razor anymore. How did I know this Bennacio wasn’t lying—that he wasn’t really a goon for Mogart, come to kill me? But even if he was lying, even if he was a bad guy, who was I to le
t him slowly bleed to death?
I brought the razor back to him. He sat forward a little, groaning with the effort, grabbed my wrist, and held it tight.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”
He grabbed the razor, placing the edge along my scar, and made a shallow cut just shallow enough to draw blood.
“Oh, my God!” I yelped, trying to pull my hand away.
He tossed the towel aside with his other hand, then brought my bleeding thumb to his side and pressed it into the wound.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“The Sword has the power to heal as well as to rend,” he said. After a few minutes he let go of my wrist. I picked up the towel and put it back on the wound, but already the bleeding had slowed.
Bennacio closed his eyes. His breathing became easier, and for a second I thought he had fallen asleep.
“Who were those men, Bennacio?” I asked, clutching my throbbing thumb.
“Servants of the enemy . . . following me since my return to America.”
Which meant he got stabbed because of me. Why had Mr. Samson sent him to me? Like telling Alfred Kropp about it was going to help them get the Sword back.
I sat beside him and felt like crying, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Bennacio. Everybody around me lately was dying. All because I took something I shouldn’t have. I was like some lumbering, awkward, big-headed Angel of Death.
“You want anything, Bennacio?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I’m really scared right now. Why did Mr. Samson send you here? What’s going to happen now that all the knights are dead? I’m not going to live, am I? None of us are. You said our doom was upon us. I’m thirsty. You want a drink of water?”
He didn’t answer. This time he had really fallen asleep.
15
I watched him sleep for a long time, until I started feeling sleepy myself. There was sofa in the outer room, and I lay on that for a while, but it made me nervous because I couldn’t keep an eye on him.
So I went back into his room and sat on the bed. I must have finally passed out, because I woke up at dawn curled at the foot of the bed, like a big, faithful dog.
When I woke up he was still asleep, so I ordered room service, a plain bagel (since I didn’t know how he liked them), a bagel with everything, a pot of coffee, and an orange juice.
I answered the door to get the food. When I came back, he was awake. I helped him sit up so he could eat. He took the bagel with everything, the one I wanted, but he was the guy with the stab wound, so I didn’t say anything.
“What happened in Játiva?” I asked.
“Samson believed our only hope lay in attacking the enemy in force. I argued against it, but he was the head of our Order, and in the end I acquiesced. We had tracked Mogart to his keep in Játiva, an ancient castle overlooking the city, rebuilt and refortified in preparation for this day. Samson planted a story in one of the British dailies that he was actually in London, attending a conference of foreign business leaders. He had hoped this would lull Mogart into relaxing his vigilance.”
“I guess it didn’t.”
“They waited until we had reached the inner courtyard of Mogart’s castle—and then ambushed us. Fifty men at least. Bellot fell, then Cambon, yet even so we might have succeeded. We bested the front guard and had taken the grounds, when fate turned against us and Mogart appeared with the Sword.”
He took a deep breath. “And, as we fell, one by one, the angels themselves wailed and beat upon their breasts. The Sword was not meant for such work, was never forged to spill the blood of its protectors. We fell back, our hearts filled with dread, but another contingent of the enemy had formed behind us, cutting off our escape.”
“He killed—he killed everyone?”
“It was a slaughter, Kropp. I fell by the gate, wounded, though not mortally, and thus became the sole surviving witness to Mogart’s ultimate treachery, the killing of our captain, the man you call Bernard Samson. What Mogart did to him I will not say here—but it was terrible, Kropp. Terrible! Yet still Samson found strength before he died to tell me to take the message to you, that he had fallen and the Sword is still not safe. In short, that the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Sword are no more.”
I set down my half-eaten bagel. All of a sudden, I wasn’t hungry anymore. I remembered my dream, of the brave men outnumbered in a gray castle, and the man with the golden hair falling.
