NOVEL WEB Chapter 21: Leaving Paris
In the early summer of 1516, under a black pirate flag marked by a white hourglass, a great pirate stood tall like a departing hero. Petals danced in the air, and thunderous cheers echoed around him...
But just a few blocks away, the truth was less romantic.
From a stinking pile of trash in an alley, a fat grey rat scurried out, its fur glistening with grease. Judging by its bulging belly, it had either eaten well or was about to give birth. Beside that same pile of filth, two filthy children—so smeared with grime that even their genders were unrecognizable—dug through the refuse with hollow, feverish eyes and ribs so sharp they might slice open the air. Compared to them, the rat was a symbol of success.
The alley reeked with an indescribable stench—fermented layers of human and animal waste. In a city without sewage or sanitation, it was a daily ritual for those living above street level to dump their chamber pots out the window, the foul contents splattering onto the cobblestones bathed in golden morning light.
This was Paris.
Not the slums—just another face of the "City of Flowers."
A boy stood under the shadow of an awning, holding the reins of two horses. He wore a plain headscarf and had the quick, sharp eyes of someone who had grown up watching the streets like a game board. The stink of the city didn't disgust him—it grounded him. It reminded him he was home.
His gaze flicked over the surroundings, automatically assessing the value of anything worth stealing—or anyone worth robbing.
A wooden door creaked open nearby. A tall man stepped out, cloaked in grey, his hood pulled low over his face. His coarse wool cloak might have passed for common, but his boots were soft leather, and the silver spurs on his heels glinted faintly. He did not look around.
The boy turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a plump man in a black robe sidling up beside him, rubbing his hands.
"You're waiting for your master, aren't you?" the man asked with a greasy smile. "Sixteen copper coins—just a quick moment. Freshly minted! We'll be done before he even returns."
He jingled a coin in front of the boy's face like bait. The boy's eyes involuntarily flicked to the flash of metal.
Just as he was about to speak, the fat man gave a sudden cry of pain and crumpled to the ground, gasping and clutching his stomach. The foul contents of the alley welcomed him.
"Apologies," Hayreddin said casually, now standing where the fat man had been. He twirled a riding crop lazily in his hand, then looked to the boy. "You were tempted—for a copper coin?"
The boy gave a lopsided grin. "Can't help it, Captain. You're the one who made me wash my face."
He wasn't wrong.
His skin was too clean for this part of town. Even with tattered clothes, his fair cheeks and wide eyes were bound to attract trouble.
Muttering something, he rubbed a dirty hand against the alley wall and smeared fresh grime onto his face and neck. The polite young man from yesterday was gone—replaced by the streetwise brat who belonged in a place like this.
Hayreddin mounted his horse without another word.
Nick slung herself up onto her horse and trailed behind him. "Captain! No breakfast?"
This morning, it hadn't been Hayreddin himself who left Paris under showers of petals and cheers. A red-haired crewman had worn the captain's coat and taken the carriage in his place. Meanwhile, Nick—the Assault Captain—had been dragged out of bed at three in the morning to work.
And now, apparently, breakfast was canceled too.
"Not here," Hayreddin muttered, nose wrinkled against the smell.
"But once we leave the city, all we'll have are stolen turnips," Nick whined. "The smell just means the city's alive. What's really bad is when it's too quiet. That means plague."
Hayreddin said nothing.
"I'm just saying," Nick grumbled. "No food here, fine. But can we grab some flatbread for the road? Or an apple? I saw a fruit cart! Captain? Captain?!"
So ended the Paris mission.
As the city walls shrank behind them, the golden-stoned buildings of Paris—beautiful and foul—receded into the distance. The Seine curved lazily around them, indifferent.
Hayreddin's departure had been kept secret. By the time Karl and Victor awoke, they found only a nervous decoy and a short note that read, "You go first." Once their mission in Paris was complete, Hayreddin and Nick veered off the agreed route and rode toward Marseille. On horseback, they easily outpaced the main group.
By June, the continent had exploded into full summer.
The vast forests of central France rolled in green waves under the sun. Along the Loire, Nick crouched at the water's edge, chewing a raw turnip, watching the current drift lazily by. This mission had been a letdown—no duels, no danger, and not a single proper French meal.
A ferry drifted downstream. Nick tossed the turnip greens aside and shouted, "Hey! Over here!" She quickly yanked off her boots and socks, stuffed them in her bag, and ran barefoot into the shallows, her feet splashing.
"We've got horses too!" she hollered.
"Stop yelling," Hayreddin said. "The boat's coming."
"Huh?"
"Your voice is about to crack," he said without turning around. "You keep shouting like that, you'll sound like a broken bell by next year. Let Karl handle the yelling from now on."
Nick blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the captain's concern.
"So... where are we going?"
"Marseille."
"That's where the rest of the group is headed, right?"
"Yes. But I seem to recall someone insisting on trying real French food."
Nick grinned. "Aye, Captain."