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THE GAME CALLED REVOLUTION

Scott Kinkade

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is primarily a work of fiction. While it is based on historical figures and events, the author has taken great liberties with the story. Any resemblances to living people are coincidental.

 

No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced without the expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

 

THE GAME CALLED REVOLUTION

 

Copyright © 2011 by Scott Kinkade

 

First edition February 2012

 

Second edition August 2012

 

Third edition September 2018

 

Fourth edition May 2019

 

Cover by Ramon Macairap (monmacairap@gmail.com)

 

ASIN: B0049B2CRA

 

 

 

 

For Don Odom, and his appreciation of history.

 

Thanks also to the guys who shared with me their knowledge of France, its history and language.

 

 

 

 

 

PART I

Le début des ennuis

(The Beginning of the Trouble)

1

 

 

 

Paris, France, July 14, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 9:50 a.m.

Eight ramparts eighty feet tall. A large moat. Steam cannons. The Bastille was a veritable fortress within the city of Paris.

Jacques du Chard, one of only a few prisoners left within the Bastille, lounged on his bed. With his sandy-brown hair, simple shirt and grey leggings, the young man did not stand out at all.

At that moment it was deathly quiet within the chamber occupied only by him and five other empty cells; the few guards who kept watch over the room had left about ten minutes ago to go welcome some visitors. There weren’t even any rats scurrying about; contrary to popular belief, the prison was not infested with them.

His thoughts kept going back to that strange message that had appeared on the walls of the adjacent cell the other day. What did it mean? All he knew was that that cell belonged to the Marquis de Sade until just recently. None of the guards would tell him anything; they were keeping their mouths carefully shut.

The whole thing was very interesting.

The door of the chamber opened. Four people entered the room. He couldn’t get a good look at them until they arrived in the candle-lit center of the chamber. At the head of the group was the Marquis de Launay, the governor of the Bastille, whom the prisoner was familiar with. Jacques would have recognized his fancy brown suit embroidered in gold, along with his white hair that hung limply off either side of his head, anywhere.

The other three were wearing form-fitting suits of silver armor. Jacques recognized them as members of the Ordre de la Tradition, a special group of knights—along with various other exceptionally talented individuals—who had been recognized by the king of France for outstanding service in the military, and who answered only to him. They embodied the knightly traditions of honor, discipline, and chivalry, which meant they did not use guns—only bladed melee weapons. Knights were very rare nowadays, but these individuals were allowed to wear suits of armor made from irodium, a revolutionary metal developed by the English. Irodium was lightweight, easy to move in, and could withstand a large amount of punishment (but was very expensive to manufacture). The two larger knights each carried a sheathed broadsword at his side.

A female voice said, “It’s dark in here.”

The voice came from the knight in the center who was somewhat shorter and slenderer than the ones flanking her. Rather than the broadsword of her larger counterparts, she carried a rapier with a golden hilt bearing the image of a radiant face, in honor of the Sun King Louis XIV (predecessor of the current monarch of France).

She—along with her two subordinates—stepped forward into the light. She didn’t look to be older than thirty years of age; she could have even been the same age as him. Her auburn hair fell to the middle of her back in a braided tail, and Jacques noted the purple eye patch over her left eye, along with the flowing purple skirt which opened around the middle of her irodium leggings. Her radiant skin was especially striking to Jacques.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said. “Might you be the one they call ‘Jeanne la Juste’?”

 

***

 

She looked at him with indifference for a moment, and then responded, “Yes. My name is Jeanne de Fleur. I’m a knight with the Ordre de la Tradition.”

“Ah, I thought so. You are well known among the Third Estate.” The Estates General was composed of nobility, clergy, and commoners, respectively. “Ah, but you’re supposed to call them the National Assembly now, yes?” The commoners had recently broken away from the other two Estates—with whom they had long been at odds —and declared themselves the National Assembly (although a few members of the clergy and nobility joined them).

Talkative one, isn’t he? she thought to herself. “Actually, last week they became the National Constituent Assembly,” Jeanne said. She then turned to de Launay. “Where is this message you spoke of?”

“It is in the cell to the left of the forger’s there.”

He escorted the three knights into the cell next to Jacques’. It was a spacious cell, easily twice as large as the others and clearly meant for someone of importance. The bed in the cell was also a cut above those normally given to prisoners.

On the wall above the bed there was a series of words carved into the wall: “On July 14 the greatest joke will be told.”

“And you believe this was written by Monsieur Donatien Alphonse François, the Marquis de Sade?” Jeanne asked upon examining it.

“No one else has occupied this cell since the Marquis was transferred out ten days ago,” de Launay said.

“Didn’t you question him about it before he was transferred?” Jeanne said.

The governor shook his head. “It didn’t appear until yesterday.”

“Well, then it couldn’t have been him,” said the gruff voice of the knight to the right of Jeanne. He was a good foot taller than she, with a neatly-trimmed beard and almond-colored skin. He obviously wasn’t entirely of European ancestry.

“Pierre is right,” Jeanne said. “If the message didn’t appear until yesterday, what makes you think the Marquis is the one who wrote it?”

“It wasn’t carved with a knife. The Marquis wasn’t allowed to have sharp objects in here. The message was written with a transparent, slow-acting acid he had smuggled in. Once it reacts with oxygen, the acid will begin dissolving whatever it has been applied to. The process is gradual and can take over a week depending on the concentration of the corrosive.”

The knight to Jeanne’s left examined the message. He was a young man with long dark hair, slightly smaller than Pierre and less muscular, but still larger than Jeanne. “So, the Marquis applies this to the wall—I’m guessing with a brush since we know he was allowed to write his perverted works in here—and is then transferred out, knowing the acid will soon burn his message into the wall.”

“Yes, Victor,” Jeanne said. “The question is: Why? Why would he go to the trouble of doing this?

From over in the next cell, Jacques said, “Maybe it’s all a joke, no? I hear the Marquis de Sade is a real piece of work. We have all heard the stories. He kidnapped girls and did horrible things to them. They say he is the most twisted man in the world.”

Jeanne grit her teeth slightly at being reminded of the Marquis’ crimes. “I am not his biggest supporter.” She turned her attention from Jacques back to the message on the wall. “However, I think we are missing something important.”

Pierre cocked one eyebrow inquisitively. “Such as?”

“The message seems to suggest that something will happen on July 14. That’s today.”

“So it is,” Victor said.

“You don’t suppose the Marquis is throwing you a surprise party?” Jacques retorted.

Jeanne gave him a stern glance. “Be quiet, you rogue. This is serious.”

Suddenly a guard burst into the room. “My Lord! It’s terrible! The people….!” He stopped to catch his breath.

“What are you babbling about?” de Launay demanded.

“There is a mob of people outside! At least a hundred of them, and more keep arriving. They’re yelling something about us keeping political prisoners here and abusing them. Their leader is demanding we remove the steam cannons aimed at them and allow a civilian militia to take control of the Bastille.”

The color rapidly drained from de Launay’s face as he took in the guard’s ominous words. “T-Those fools! The cannons aren’t aimed at anyone in particular. They’re here for the defense of the people! And there aren’t any political prisoners here; just the one forger.”

“What are your orders, sir?”

The Marquis de Launay paced the room while racking his mind to come up with an answer. Finally, he said, “Remove the cannons. I’ll go speak with their leader.” He turned to leave with the guard.

Jeanne started after him. “I’ll go with you. My knights and I can help defend you.”

“Are you really prepared to cut down the people you have sworn to protect?” Jacques said with a slight grin.

Jeanne stopped. “Well, I—”

“And so many of them!”

“You stay here,” de Launay said, visibly scared. “If I meet them with armed soldiers, it will just anger them more. Besides, as skilled as you three are, I doubt even you could hold off all of them.”

“I don’t know about that. I could hold off a lot of men,” Victor happily declared.

Jeanne ignored her subordinate’s inappropriate comment; she was used to his quips by now. “Very well. We’ll stay here and continue to investigate the message.”

The Marquis de Launay and the panicked guard left the chamber, leaving just Jeanne, Pierre, Victor and Jacques.

Jeanne walked over to the wall next to the door they had entered through. Jutting out from the wall was a rubber tube with a wide handle. She dialed a number on the panel below the tube and began speaking. “de Fleur to Minuit Solaire. What’s going on outside?” The Minuit Solaire, or Solar Midnight, was the airship of the Ordre de la Tradition. It was supposed to be anchored on a telegraph pole outside the prison. However, Jeanne’s communiqué was met with silence. “I repeat: This is Commander Jeanne de Fleur. Come in, Minuit Solaire. What is your status?”

Again, there was only the crackle of static.

“If the mob turned their attention to our airship, the Solaire may have had to retreat,” Pierre said.

Jeanne frowned. If the mob was violent enough to threaten their vessel into retreating, that was bad news; her crew wouldn’t leave her without a very good reason. She didn’t need to say it, though. Pierre and Victor no doubt were thinking the same thing. She just hoped her crew on the airship was all right.

“What more can we do here?” Victor said.

Jeanne went back into the cell and began to feel about the walls. “The Marquis de Sade loves to milk his jokes for all they’re worth. Stopping with a cryptic message isn’t his style. I bet he hid another piece of the puzzle for us to find.”

Pierre and Victor helped her look around the cell. “Did he know the Bastille would be