Chương 54: Welcome

It took Amélie some time to find a carriage. By the time she did, it was an hour or two past midnight. Drizella paid the sleepy driver in earnest and promised him more gold if he reached Boulogne quickly enough. It was important they arrive before sunlight.

"Boulogne is where that great army camp is," said Amélie, her voice tired, once the carriage was off and they sat inside.

"You were some sort of time-looper soldier there?"

"Yes."

"So..." Amélie continued through a yawn, "I'm guessing the reason we're going is for you to settle some score. Someone in Napoleon's army?"

"Yes."

"Well, if it's someone low profile... I'll help, but—""You won't be in danger," Drizella said.

"Oh, that..." Another yawn.

"That's good to hear." Amélie settled into the corner of the seat, and within a few minutes she was asleep. Drizella didn't sleep. She sat motionless in the dim shadow of the carriage, staring at nothing. A few hours later, Drizella nudged her awake.

"We're here." Amélie groggily followed her out into the cold night air. The sun had not yet risen.

"Holy Mother of God," said Amélie, rubbing her eyes as the Boulogne camp unraveled before them.

"This place is huge!"

"We're not going to the camp," said Drizella.

"A few miles ahead, there's an observation post overlooking the English Channel."

"Oh, that far..." Amélie complained, and then, glancing at Drizella's limping leg, "Let me help you." She drew Drizella's arm across her shoulders and took her weight, the shovel still in her other hand.

"Like this. Or we'll be at it half the morning." Drizella's leg was worse now; she could scarcely put weight on it at all. So the arrangement was faster, and she allowed it. They covered the remaining distance in under an hour. She looked around. Even in the dark she knew the place perfectly. There was the hill were her patrol squad camp, they had played cards and laughed, but kept Napoleon safe besides.

It was also where the white-robed assassins had come up the slope and killed them all, after Napoleon had sold her off. Near the cliff lay the observation position: the coastal artillery platoon, the batteries of cannon, and there, Napoleon's personal cavalry guard. Drizella walked a few steps to the side. Right about here, Napoleon would stand—pacing, jumping, ordering everyone about, animated as ever. This was the last cycle, and she couldn't be certain it would be the same. But she thought it would.

Napoleon had spent every cycle rehearsing this moment to sink a handful of English ships, and only now, in the last cycle, would it truly count.

"So..." Amélie started hesitantly, "I gather we've arrived, but... what are we supposed to do here?"

"Like I said," said Drizella, "dig a grave for me. Right here." She pointed.

"But, seriously... I don't understand—"" S t a r t d i g g i n g." Amélie paled, but she took up the shovel and began to dig. The soil wasn't rock hard, but it was slow, exhausting work. Soon she was panting heavily, her muscles burning and palms blistered under a layer of sweat and dirt, yet she pressed on in determination.

"That's enough," said Drizella, when the grave was the right length and nearly two feet deep.

"Oh... good..." Amélie leaned on the shovel, her chest heaving.

"Good This is... not for me, is it? The grave, I mean."

"I'll lie inside," Drizella said, "and you'll cover me over. Make the ground look as natural as you can, then leave, and take the shovel with you."

"So... like that? That's it?" said Amélie.

"Will you even be able to breathe?"

"I will."

"All right. Fine." She nodded. Then she looked away, some lost expression crossing her face.

"I suppose... we won't see each other again. I suppose I... I'm really not sure what to do with myself, now that this is all over. I suppose..." Drizella looked at her for a moment.

"If you're stupid," Drizella said, "you can go to Widow Claire's—the small house with the red door just past the North Gate. Ring the bell on the table twice. This is how you contact with Juliette and the Thomas Thomas. You can work for them. If you're smart, you'll find yourself a comely, well-off man to marry and live a normal life." Drizella searched her pocket and drew out a small purse of gold coins. She pressed it into Amélie's hand.

"Here. I won't be needing it anymore."

"I... thank you..." Drizella lowered herself into the grave, awkward with her bad leg, and lay back against the cold earth. Amélie began to spill dirt over her—slowly at first, over her legs, then faster, until most of her body was covered. As the dirt reached her head, Drizella drew out a page she'd torn from a book at the ball. She rolled it into a straw and set it between her lips so the end just peeked above the soil, enough to draw breath through. Then she closed her eyes. Amélie finished covering her.

She lingered a long moment. Then Drizella heard her footsteps drawing slowly away. Lying buried in the earth gave the puppet no discomfort at all. In fact, it was lovely. Quiet, still, underground. Almost dead, but not yet. Now she waited. For him. For Napoleon. Drizella the puppet knew that Napoleon's betrayal had caused the real Drizella great grief. Her role had been to protect him, and for all her nonsense, Drizella had taken that role seriously; she'd thought a great deal about the emperor's safety.

She had even daydreamed about doing the job splendidly—making the emperor proud, receiving a medal of honor from his own hand. She knew it hadn't been personal for Napoleon. The deal he'd made was simply profitable, and Drizella was nothing to him—a pawn, gladly sacrificed. That was what made it all the more infuriating. To be looked at as though she were nothing. As though she were trash. That was why revenge against him mattered so much to the real Drizella. And so it mattered to the puppet too.

Napoleon was a careful man—paranoid, even. Come morning he would be ringed with security: a patrolling squad or two across the hills, his personal cavalry escort from the Imperial Guard, the artillery platoon, his personal guard. None of it would matter. His assassin would rise from beneath his very feet. She would kill Napoleon. It would be her last act, the last thing she would do for Drizella, and then, at long last, it would all be over—this joke of an existence. This novel's true home is a different platform.

Support the author by finding it there. Drizella lay in her grave for a few blissful hours, until she heard noises. Shouted orders, the stamp and snort of horses, the ponderous creak and rumble of cannon being hauled into position. It took time, but once everything was set, the noise died away. All but one sound— Napoleon's endless chatter Through it, and through the faint tremor of the ground beneath so many boots, she could tell more or less how near he was.

"Adjust the elevation on battery three! Calculate for the tide!" He was lecturing his officers, referencing his time-loop journal to predict artillery trajectories. He is close, Drizella thought. Moving closer.

"No, shift the reserve cannons to the eastern ridge!" No... he's moving away now.

"When the HMS Naiad rounds the point, we strike!" His voice swelled with triumph. Yes. He's coming back. Closer... closer still...

"No, that's wrong!" he shouted.

"Move the 24-pounder back—that's what caused the trouble last time!" Now! Drizella gripped both pistols and commanded the puppet up—out of the earth like a spring released. Through the dust and sand sheeting off her face, she saw him: his eyes gone wide and white as her figure erupted from the ground. But he was a foot farther off, and more to the left than she had judged. When she tried to correct her footing her bad leg buckled beneath her, and she stumbled.

She caught herself, straightened, brought her pistol up—but by the time she looked, Napoleon already had his own pistol leveled at her chest. A beautiful golden piece, chased and engraved, fit for an emperor. He pulled the trigger. CRACK! The lead ball struck her chest, driving the air and something vital out of her. Her grip failed; the pistol dropped; and Drizella fell back into her grave. The shot, or the shock of it, seemed to drain all the strength from her body.

She willed the puppet to move, to stand—but nothing happened. Her vision blurred. She willed it again, and again, to no avail.

"His Majesty!" someone yelled—a lieutenant, a general, she couldn't tell.

"His Majesty!"

"God's teeth," Napoleon cursed.

"What in blazes was that thing?"

"A necromancer's work," said one of his aides with conviction.

"The dead, raised up to kill you—a clever last-cycle move. Check the perimeter! There may be more!" They all shifted, glancing about nervously. Down in her grave, Drizella found she could still draw a thin, shallow breath. She tried to move a single finger, and slowly, discovered that she could. While they searched about for more of the risen dead, rather than filling her full of lead, she found that, little by little, more of the puppet's body consented to obey her will.

Even as she barely breathed, and warm blood leaking from her chest, she thought she could will the puppet up again. One last time. She gripped her third and last loaded pistol. She willed the puppet to sit up in the grave, saw Napoleon's back to her, aimed, and fired. CRACK. She hit him—but Napoleon only stumbled a few steps before turning to face her. He must have been wearing a mail shirt beneath his coat. Drizella had been a fool, right to the very end.

"You shot me!" Napoleon said, more surprised than hurt, and calm enough for all that. He turned and called to his soldiers.

"Shoot it! All of you—then take its head off, or whatever it takes to stop the thing." Three soldiers leveled their muskets at her. But Drizella's body was answering her again, and with an unnatural, jerking speed the puppet got to her feet. Two crooked steps, a lurching turn on her bad leg, and she threw herself at Napoleon—wrapping arms and legs around him, clinging with everything the puppet had left.

"SHOOT HER!" he screamed. But they couldn't, not now, not without the risk of putting a ball through the emperor of France. Her weight bore him down, and the two of them went over, tangled together, rolling across the ground. The soldiers tracked them with their muskets, hunting an angle, too afraid of missing. Napoleon punched her in the face, hard. It did nothing.

"GET THIS UNDEAD MONSTER OFF ME!" he screamed, panicking now." I' m D r i z e l l a." Drizella said." I' l l e n d y o u" For a moment Napoleon looked into her eyes. And yes—even having seen her only once before, there was recognition there. Then horror. He struck her again. But Drizella calmly willed the puppet to free one arm and draw the hunting knife from her belt, and she drove it toward his throat.

The point bit into the skin, but Napoleon caught her wrist, and for all her borrowed strength she could not force it the rest of the way. So she bit him.

She sank her teeth into his wrist and felt blood and flesh give in her mouth. Napoleon screamed. She bit again, and again, until his grip loosened—and the knife sank, slowly, so slowly, into the emperor's neck. She leaned close, to his ear, and whispered, " W e l c o m e t o h e l l" Napoleon's men finally tore her off him—pulled the two of them apart—and a moment later they shot her dead. The puppet was free.

"Welcome to heaven!" Napoleon woke to find an angel standing over him—a beautiful girl, a halo bright above her head and six wings folded at her back. It was hard to know what one ought to do or say in such a situation, so he simply swept off his hat, held it to his breast, and gaped.

"You died in the living world," the angel said with a radiant smile, "and your soul has chosen to rise up here—to the higher realm, to heaven, to dwell among the angels."

"I... I suppose I always knew I belonged in a place like this," Napoleon stammered, looking at his hands.

"But dying to that... abominable creature. I could have done so much more. The invasion of Russia, I would have won it. England, too. I had the whole of the world in the palm of my hand."

"All of that is behind you now," the angel beamed sweetly.

"Here, only goodness and harmony remain."

"Yes... of course… harmony is it?" he echoed, "I suppose it will only take a little time to adjust."

"Of course," the angel beamed.

"You'll have all the time in the world. Look around you—every single day in heaven is a happy day." He looked around and gaped again. He seemed to be in a town, but a town so clean and colorful it hardly seemed real. The houses and buildings looked to be carved from a kind of marble—greens and purples and yellows that somehow blended into one another. And there were a great many figures strolling about. Yet only some of them looked human.

Others were angels, and still others were a sort of animal-folk, walking upright on two legs, with the heads of birds and bears and cats and dogs, and lush, colorful fur. They walked, and talked, and played, every one of them with a smile fixed upon their face. Napoleon found himself wondering whether one was permitted to hunt them for their meat and fur, or whether they were to be treated as some manner of people.

In the middle of the square stood a great fountain of white marble, and from it flowed water in every color of the rainbow, each band running neatly separate from the next. He had never seen anything like it, and he went over, fascinated. The angel trailed after him.

"Incredible," he said.

"What is this liquid?"

"Taste it," said the angel, still smiling. He cupped his hand and lifted a little of the red to his mouth—and his eyes went wide. Strawberry. He tried the yellow: lemonade. The blue: blueberry. Every band a sweet juice, the sort served at the grandest balls. Not even his personal cook kept such variety, and here it lay, free for the taking, for every citizen regardless of station.

Napoleon began to wonder at the implications—what became of rank and riches when even the poorest man could drink like a king—before his attention drifted back to the fountain itself. How could the liquids hold so perfectly separate, in such clean lines? What craft was involved? Or was it simply magic?

"Sir—sir, is that you?" A man was crossing the square toward them—human, ordinary-looking, dressed in simple white. When he drew near he made a small bow.

"Your Majesty."

"And you are?" He straightened and presented himself, "Corporal Jean Girard, sir. Third Company, Twelfth of the Line. A week ago, I was aboard The Ville de Lyon when the English intercepted us. I fell in the shootout defending the vessel." Napoleon laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Then you died as a true son of France, corporal, a hero, with your face to the enemy. There is no finer end for a soldier."

"Thank you, sir."

"But it seems all that is behind us now," Napoleon said, looking around, his hands clasped behind his back.

"We find ourselves in a new and strange land. Since you've been here a week already, you can show me about. We might begin with a local tavern," he said, smiling.

"Or anywhere that serves a decent wine." The soldier looked distressed now, and it was the angel who answered.

"Oh, we don't have alcohol in Heaven! Intoxicating beverages are unhealthy, encourage violent behavior, and cloud moral judgment!" Napoleon let out a dry laugh, glancing at the soldier.

"Is she joking now?"

"No, sir." The soldier's distress deepened.

"She never is, sir." Napoleon's smile faded.

"Bloody hell!" he said.

"What manner of heaven is this?" The corporal turned ghost-white.

"We do not use coarse language in Heaven either," the angel said. Her smile remained fixed, but her voice had taken on a slight edge. Then two more angels swept down out of the sky and alighted not five feet away. These wore a kind of light white harness over their tunics, and each bore a sword at the hip. They had only two wings, and their halos were black. They did not smile.

"Please, sir," said the corporal, his voice shaking.

"No cursing. They have a... a Rehabilitation Centre here. So..." Napoleon looked at one of the angel guards, and she returned him a hard, level stare. And something in him—his soldier's instinct, perhaps—told him he was in danger.

"You ought to smile," said the six-winged angel, in a bright and encouraging voice.

"You're in heaven, after all."

"Please, sir," the pale corporal urged—with his eyes, with a small, desperate nod. A small orange kitten happened to wander past. The corporal looked suddenly relieved; he scooped it up and pressed it into Napoleon's hands.

"Pet it, sir. Please." Napoleon looked at his trembling corporal. Then at the angel guards again—and felt the cold sweat break out over him. He petted the kitten. And he smiled.