Almost done, for real.
Gerard reflected that he was becoming quite the connoisseur of dragging unconscious people into rooms. The sergeant, for example: not as fat as Lord Philippe, but made up for it by being quite flatulent in his sleep. Pierre was, well, he looked frail but he was also damnably heavy. And when Gerard stripped off the unconscious man’s gloves in order to securely bind Pierre’s wrists, he blinked at the sight of those hands. Those are swordsman hands, he thought. Pierre here is no stranger to a blade.
By then Tempeste finished securing the other man, and was looking over at Girard. “Is something the matter?” she asked — and then gasped. Gerard looked around, instinctively, until he saw where her finger was pointing. There was a tattoo on Pierre’s wrist where it would be normally covered by a sleeve. A black diamond, broken in two…
He felt like gasping himself. Or maybe swearing. There were the Chambre Privilège swine, and then there were the Diamants Bruts. Those charming fellows were who the Emperor called on when he wanted the same sort of results as the Chambre, only not done sloppily. That Pierre was one of them, and likely using Gerard as some sort of cover for his own skulduggery, was exceptionally unwelcome news.