Chapter Two: Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
Rodney Skinner's fingers masterfully twirled a coin about his slender fingers as he followed behind the rest of the League members, thinking to himself about how someday, he'd like to settle down in a town like this. Quaint stone streets, cottage homes, small marketplaces... Not a bad retirement spot. Silently, the League made their way down the charming village streets, sparsely lit by old glass street lamps. Rouen was indeed a marvelous old town, with towering gothic cathedrals, cozy Tudor homes, and, of course, the destination they were now nearing. They had been told to meet the so-called Persian there, at the stroke of midnight.
"The Gros Horloge," Quatermain broke the silence, also breaking Skinner away from his own admiration of the little town. "A massive astronomical clock, built in the seventeenth century."
Dorian groaned, swinging his walking cane forward as he walked with a sort of snobbish aristocratic manner. "Believe me, Quatermain. None of us are quite interested in any history lesson at this moment. I'm sure that I speak for everyone when I say that this little...detour has proven to be nothing more than a nuisance."
"Speak for yourself, Dorian," Skinner said, ceasing his unconscious fiddling with a final toss in the air. "A delightful little town, it is."
"So where is this Persian?" Mina said, fixing the already stiff collar of her coat.
The group neared the gigantic clock that stood above the rich street, an impressive passageway moving right under an ornamented archway. Celestial beings peered down upon them, their frozen faces etched in the stone of the high arch.
"It is beautiful, non," a feminine voice spoke from the shadows, causing the League to whip about to a darkened corner of the arch, Sawyer and Quatermain having drawn their respective weapons. A tall, slender woman emerged from the shadows. Her full black skirts swishing quietly as she neared the group, she wore a classy but somewhat low cut gown, a dark cape with elaborate designs on the trim was about her shoulders. Quatermain lowered his gun slowly, signaling for Sawyer to do the same as the young woman continued toward them. The moonlight shone down on her fair features, a deep red silk scarf hid her most of her hair save for a few loose curls of silky brown.
"Supported by a renaissance arch that had to be rebuilt in 1527, the actual building was a belfry and town hall for many years," the woman continued, "and the clock mechanism was not visible on both sides of the archway until two hundred years after it had been installed in 1389. And it is sixteenth century. Not seventeenth."
"Well, hello there to you too."
Skinner, at first taken aback by the sudden appearance of the rather fetching girl in front of them, chuckled after a moment silence. Whoever she was, she had just managed to shut up the whole lot of moaning and groaning buggers for the first time in what seemed like days.
"Shut up, Skinner," Quatermain said before turning back to the womanwho now stood before them beneath the clock. The chimes began to ring signaling that it was now midnight. "And who might you be, Mademoiselle?"
A second figure emerged from the shadows, coming forward to stand directly behind the young woman, who lowered her eyes from the group as if she were embarrassed by her hasty egression. "You must pardon my young charge, for it was not her intention to surprise you," the man said with a rich Arabic tongue.
"The Persian, I presume," said Quatermain, leaning slightly on his lower rifle with an amused look about him.
The tall, swarthy man shook his head as he slowly looked over each member of the League one by one. He smiled, removing his astrakhan hat to give them a more formal bow.
"I am known by many names. And this must be the newly formed League of Extraordinary Gentlemen." The Persian's eyes stopped on Skinner, as he finally got a close enough look at the peculiar man. "Extraordinary, indeed."
"Well, know that we've made the proper introductions," the still annoyed Dorian spoke up from the very back of the group, "can we be getting along now?"
Skinner's brows furrowed, "Wait a minute now, Dorian. Not every introduction has been made just yet. What about the little girly here?" Skinner smirked toward the young woman with a very reprehensible manner, who hadn't looked back up since the arrival of the Persian. She twiddled with a tiny gold ring on her right hand, rubbing it nervously.
The seemingly aggitated Persianlooked toward Quatermain, choosing to ignore the invisible man's inquiry for the moment. "Yes, well. I suppose we must depart now."
Nemo smiled, extending his arm out toward the riverside. The Persian bowed once more, before turning back toward the young woman, one last time. Feeling her master's eyes upon her, the woman slowly met his gaze. Sadness filled her features as the Persian gingerly pushed a loose strand of her hair away from her face. No words were exchange, for none could be said.
Skinner watched the whole exchange between their newest member and the strange woman who had accompanied him, with a renewed interest. His curiosity not completely sated, Skinner wanted nothing more than to press for the identity of the peculiar stranger, but thought that now was not the time. The League all waited patiently, each suspecting the two before them to be closer than first thought.
A sudden crack in the midnight air startled everyone from their silence. The Persian grunted, his face falling before he slumped forward onto the panicked woman.
"No! DAROGA!"
"Boy, there!"
Sawyer swung around just in time to see the fleeting form of a man dash behind a building. Quatermain pushed him forward, thrusting his Winchester into his hands.
"Come on, boy! He's getting away!"
Sawyer gave a quick look back at the Persian, who was now cradled in the lap of the woman. Mina and Skinner had moved forward, surrounding the two, as the woman applied pressure to an oozing wound in the foreigner's chest. He sighed before scrambling quickly to his feet to follow Allan.
The darkness of the alley's corners seeped out into the streets, as the two men swerved in and out of the path of the fleeing man in front of them. Quatermain raised his rifle, taking aim expertly in the midst of their all-out sprint. With the second time that night, a loud gunshot rang out in the dark air. The man cried out in sudden pain, immediately falling forward onto the ground and stumbling to his back. Sawyer and Quatermain caught up to the fallen man, who clutched at his shin that had been completely shattered by the bullet, which passed clean through. Sawyer harshly pulled the man up to a sit by his shoulder, causing him to cry out once more as a new pain shot through his body.
"Sit up you slimy son-of-a-bitch," the young man grunted through his teeth.
The man snickered through the man up at the two, as he reached into his long jacket pocket quicker than they could see.
Quatermain reached for the small pistol, "Don't let him..."
A third shot rang out, as the man slumped forward lifelessly. The cobblestones below him quickly turned a crimson red as the man's upturned eyes went immediately cold. Sawyer turned away in disgust at the sight of the man who took his own life right before his eyes. Clutching at his stomach, Tom fought hard against the rising bile inside of him. Quatermain sighed, kicking the dead man off of his boot. In all his years, he never had quite gotten used to the sight of a dead man, white or black. It was a waste all of it. Allan bent forward, pushing the man's jacket aside as he sifted through his pockets.
Regaining some of his composure, Sawyer turned back to the older man.
"We better...Wha...What are you doing?"
Quatermain perked up his eyebrow and chuckled at the boy. He reminded him some much of Harry.
"I need information, boy. This guy isn't going to speak, but maybe his pockets will."