Read Online The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti - Free Book Online

felt the man’s hand on his, as if he were a friend.
    â€œYou’re right. I’m obligated to help you. After all, I have nothing aga inst you.”
    â€œClose the shit shoots,” Marcas cried out.
    â€œIt’s not that simple. I’ll ask three questions, which a Mason with a pure heart should find easy to answer. If you give the correct responses, I’ll save you. This should be fun, don’t y ou think?”
    Marcas examined the cracks and loose stones around the grate. Even if he did find a place that looked weak enough, he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to smash through. He had rammed the grate so many times already, his shoulder ached. The man threw out the first question.
    â€œWhy do we wear a sword?”
    â€œFuck you. To shove it up your ass,” the inspector spat out with a mouthful of fil thy water.
    The killer shook his head.
    â€œNo, no. It harks back to the knightly orders we descend from. I’ll give you another chance. What purpose does the swo rd serve?”
    â€œFor initiations! Any idiot knows that.” Marcas’s face was now pressed against the grate.
    â€œWhat is the flaming sword? Choose your answer carefully, because there’s some disa greement.”
    Marcas was fighting for air. The flaming sword, the flame-bladed sword… That was something they learned later on the Masonic path. “It’s the venerable master’s sword, the staff of Moses, the snake of knowledge . Dammit!”
    The rusty edges of the metal grate were scratching Marcas’s lips. “It’s a symbol of the light,” he cried out.
    The water stopp ed rising.
    â€œCongratulations. You know your Masonic catechism well. We could copyright this game, don’t you think? We could call it Questions for Brethren.”
    The man’s face danced before his eyes, and Marcas could barely hear his words. The water had stopped rising, but it wasn’t retreating. He couldn’t breathe. His vision was blurry. He arms were weak. He let go and starte d sinking.
    Everything w ent black.

26
    ÃŽle de la Cité
    March 14, 1355
    J ehan Arthus slipped a rope through a hook in the ceiling. Flamel had heard about this kind of torture. The suspect would hang by her wrists until her tendons failed under the weight of her body. Her muscles would be next. In a matter of hours, she would be nothing more than a dislocated puppet, still alive, swinging from the rope.
    A knock shook the door. It was one of t he guards.
    â€œMilord, the seigneur from the other night wants to talk to you. Imm ediately.”
    â€œStay here, Flamel. I won’t be long. This visitor is a member of the royal court. I gather the king is impatient. Their guest is taking too long to start talking.”
    The door closed, and the lock clicked. Nicolas opened his writing satchel. He unrolled his parchment and began sharpening his pens. He turned away from the naked woman on the stone. He couldn’t look at those eyes filled with pain and innocence. He couldn’ t bear it.
    He smoothed the goose feather with the back of his hand and opened his glass ink vial.
    Behind him, he heard a convulsive movement on the table. The girl was shaking—from fear, no doubt. Flamel had an urge to turn around and pull the gag out of her mouth. But such a rash act would cost him his life. Frightened by the notion of his own folly, Flamel focused on the long wooden table where the torturer had laid out the tools o f his art.
    He paled at the sight of the foot press: heavy wooden plates that tightened around a victim’s foot. And the thumbscrew, which crushed flesh and bones and to re nerves.
    Since the great Cathar heresy and the witchcraft epidemics, torture had become a real science. The Inquisition carefully codified its use. A suspect could suffer for weeks on end without dying or even losing consciousness. When it came to breaking a human’s will, it seemed that anything was