“What did you do now?” Anne growled at Adu as he walked over, a grim look on his face.
“It’s a war song,” Adu said. “You’re going to war.”
“War? The fuck I am,” Anne said. “With who?” Adu pointed to the Amazon the king was now quietly addressing, the bald woman with the iron claws.
“Her,” he said. “Her name is Nourbese Edenausegboye Sosi Ayawa.”
“Nor-beec-e, Eden, what?” Anne said.
“She’s the supreme commander and war chief of the Ahosi,” Adu stated. “If you win, you get her job.”
“Her what? I don’t want her bloody job!” Anne said. Belrose had removed a small flask from his pocket and handed it to Anne.
The music was building in tempo now, the clapping and singing growing louder, faster, more frenzied, as if the music itself were a living entity, demanding action.
“I asked you to get us supplies, directions and an escort,” Anne said to Adu, “and you pick a bloody row for me with the queen of the fucking Amazons!”
“You’re grasping it perfectly,” Adu said. “Things … moved quickly. Negotiations are always fluid, you know.”
“You leasing bastard,” Anne said, taking a sip on the flask. “What happens if she wins?”
“She keeps her job,” Adu said. “And you’ll be dead, also. It’s to the death. You die.”
Anne drained the flask and handed it back to Belrose, whispering something to him as she did. “You’re bad as a bitch’s back leg,” she said to Adu as she tightened her headscarf to hold back her hair and removed any excess gear. “When this is over, you and I are going to have words, thundery voice and that trick you did with the fire notwithstanding, and you are going to give me some straight peggin’ answers as to who the hell you are and what the hell you’re trying to do to me.”
“Fair enough,” Adu said, taking Anne’s burdens. He placed them on a bench. “You make it through this and you deserve those answers.”
“So what are the rules to this daft game?” Anne asked. Across the room, Nourbese Edenausegboye Sosi Ayawa had strapped a nasty-looking short blade to her belt, and was twirling two long, heavy sticks of wood in her iron-clawed hands. Her gaze was cutting into Anne.
“No formal rules,” Adu said. “This is ritual combat to the death. The Fon don’t consider war a game, so anything goes.”
“Good,” Anne said as her pistol came up. She fired the flintlock at Nourbese, whose eyes widened in comprehension. A shower of sparks sprayed from the frizzen, accompanied by a thunderous explosion from the wide barrel. A section of the back of the king’s throne shattered as the ball struck it. Nourbese, unwounded and hurtling toward Anne, let loose a warbling shriek as she swung one of the heavy wooden sticks at Anne’s head. Anne brought up the still-smoking pistol and parried the first stick. Her second flintlock came up to gut-shoot the Amazon, but when Anne pulled the trigger, nothing happened.
“Shit,” Anne had time to utter. The other fighting stick came down on the flintlock, setting off the faulty primer and the pistol boomed as it blasted the floor of the courtyard, scattering debris. Anne head-butted Nourbese and there was a crunch as Nourbese’s nose broke, driving the Fon warrior back a few steps. Anne advanced, swinging the two heavy pistols as she did. Nourbese parried with her fighting sticks and the two women circled, trading blows and parries at a blinding pace.
Nourbese spit bright red blood into Anne’s eyes and pressed her attack with the sticks. One caught the pirate firmly in the forearm. Anne felt something pop and the arm dropped, the pistol thudding to the floor. Blinded, she swung wildly with the other gun and felt it connect with Nourbese’s jaw. The war chief stumbled back and skidded to the ground. The court was roaring with cheers and boos. The music continued at its breakneck tempo, voices raised in song, almost feverish.
Anne wiped the blood from her eyes with her throbbing injured arm. It still worked, but not well. Nourbese was getting to her feet. Anne howled and charged her, launching herself at the Amazon and tackling her just as she was about to stand. Nourbese managed to drive a foot into Anne’s stomach as the pirate crashed down onto her, driving a fist into Nourbese’s already broken nose. The force of the kick knocked Anne off and she rolled across the floor a few feet away.
Both women struggled to recover enough to get up. Nourbese made it up first and drew her blade. She crouched low and circled Anne, who was just recovering her breath. Anne rolled forward, tucking her head as Nourbese lunged with the sword, missing. Anne came up on her feet and spun, putting all her weight into a wild roundhouse punch. Nourbese side-stepped it and slashed again with her weapon, opening an ugly wound across Anne’s upper stomach. Anne gasped at the sharp pain and lashed out, landing a weak uppercut on Nourbese’s bruised chin with her injured arm.
It bought Anne a few seconds, enough time to get some distance between her and the sword. She glanced at Adu, who was sitting on a bench. He was looking at her with an expression of stone. Anne drew her cutlass, and went to en garde position. The expression on Adu’s face slipped for a moment and Anne saw the disappointment peek out. Nourbese advanced, smiling now, as best she could with a swollen jaw. She said something in Fon.
“I don’t speak your damn language,” Anne said in very poor French as they circled. She dropped her weak arm, keeping it close to her chest and the gushing wound. Anne pulled up her sash in a feeble attempt to use it to help hold her guts in. Both women were looking for an opening; their blades were close to the same length, so neither had that advantage.
“I said, I’ve fought old, incontinent Yoruba women that gave me more of a challenge,” Nourbese replied in French. “Some champion you are. You’re not worthy of Oya’s treasure.”
“Okay, I don’t exactly speak a lot of French either,” Anne managed to say. “I don’t know who the blazes Oya is, but you can peggin’ have her!”
Anne lunged with her blade. Nourbese handily parried it, and flashed out with her iron finger-claws. Anne felt burning pain rip through the upper shoulder of her already badly injured arm. She hissed and that was enough distraction for Nourbese to disarm her with a forceful downward sword break across the blade of her machete. Anne’s blade clattered to the floor. Nourbese’s claws flashed out again as the pirate tried to stagger back. Anne swept her head back, and that saved her throat from being opened by the iron claws. A few strands of her long, red hair floated to the slippery, blood-soaked floor.
Anne slipped and fell back onto her ass. Her whole left arm was burning and soaked in blood. Her belly wound gushed and the shadows in the chamber seemed to lengthen and distort at the fraying edges of her vision. The music, the voices, the singing and the shouting echoed and distorted. Nourbese tossed aside her bloody blade and moved toward Anne, crouching low, her claws at the ready.
Belrose began to draw his sword, but Adu placed a cautioning hand on the former Musketeer’s shoulder. “No,” Adu said.
“She’s lost too much blood,” Belrose said. “I’ve seen this before, we have to help her.”
“I’ve seen it too,” Adu said. “If you act, Agaja will kill all of us.”
“Just know this,” Belrose said leaning in close to whisper in Adu’s ear. “She told me if she dies, you die, and she’s already paid me more than enough gold to do her that honor.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Adu said.
The music was sounding strangely familiar to Anne now, as she sat stuporous, bleeding out on the floor. All the pieces were there … the fiddles, the drums … yes! It was a port, a jig. A little strange in some parts but in others exactly the same. A peggin’ bloody jig.
The flickering fires of the audience chamber became the familiar shadowy corners of a hearth-lit tavern. The voices raised in song and shouting in anger. She was eight, and she had run away again, to hide in the crowded harbors and ports of London. This was before … no, keep that away. You don’t need it now; you never need it. All the people from every part of the world, all the sounds and smells,
and the ships—those beautiful, tall, glorious ships—promising adventure, and distant worlds, promising a new life, a new Anne.
The inns and taverns were where she’d hide until her ma or da found her and dragged her home. Da usually beat her for running, for hanging out in those places. It was worth the beatings, just for the music. She used to love to watch the dances, the jigs, so full of wild abandon, wild lust for life. The music was like it was singing the song inside herself, wild, vital, pure, free. The memory was warm and safe, just as it had been when she was a little girl, and she was beginning to pull it up about herself, like a favorite quilt, when she saw the kite, perched on the bar, looking at her with golden eyes brimming with secrets.
“Get up, girl,” the kite said. It was a woman’s voice, she almost knew it, an old woman. “Get your narrow little hindquarters up, or you die here. What do you want more, to be living or to be dying? Make your choice, stick to it. In or out?”
The dancers on the tavern floor drifted about, spinning and twirling in time to the mad music. The panther moved through them like hungry smoke, like the cool mist crawling along the hot jungle floor. It was coming closer, closer. It was a woman, Nourbese, now, her claw already wet with Anne’s blood. Closer still. The kite perched on the king’s broken throne.
“Time’s up,” the kite said, “piss or get off the pot.”
Anne groaned and clutched tighter at her belly wound; her eyes fluttered, then closed as Nourbese struck. Anne tossed the contents of the torn paper cartridge of black powder, tucked into her sash, into the Amazon’s eyes. Nourbese shouted in pain and reached instinctively for her eyes. Anne kicked up as hard as a pissed mule, driving Nourbese’s clawed hands back into her own face. The warrior fell back, pulling her claws free from her bleeding, swollen face. Nourbese’s one good eye, red and tearing, squinted open.
Anne managed to stand while Nourbese was recovering. Her awareness swam away for a moment, but she stayed on her feet. She heard the jig thrumming in her ears and she shuffled toward Nourbese, sliding to her blind side. She jabbed hard with her remaining good arm and connected with the warrior’s face, with the eye that was swollen closed. Anne followed up with another punch low, then a low kick, and then another strike to the chin, all in time to the music.
“What the hell is she doing?” Adu asked.
“Dancing?” Belrose said. “It like’s she trying to dance a jig.”
Nourbese pivoted to try to see, but Anne was already driving her fist into Nourbese’s open eye. Nourbese lashed out and the claws sank into Anne’s stomach again. Blood spilled from Anne’s mouth as she gurgled, but she refused to give ground, refused to drop. Anne screamed in pain and smashed her forearm into Nourbese’s throat. The Amazon made a choking sound and fell back onto the floor, and lay still. A roar went up from the court. Anne tried to bow, but almost fell over; blood splashed out of her, and she looked up at King Agaja and laughed, crimson spilling from her split lips and mouth as she did.
Anne dropped on top of Nourbese, grabbed one of her limp hands and pulled off a bladed finger cap. She placed the small blade next to Nourbese’s throat. She looked up at the king. His face said nothing, which in itself said something. She looked to Adu; his face was as the king’s. She looked down at Nourbese’s swollen, bloody face. She knew what both men, what the blood-drunk crowd, wanted her to do, almost willed her to do.
“Ream scrap, luv,” Anne slurred through swollen lips. “Real flash, but I’d rather hold a candle to the devil than have your job.” Anne dropped the finger blade. She looked up at the king, spit a fat glob of blood at his feet and collapsed. As her awareness drained away with her blood into deep darkness, Anne’s last thought was, Where had that damn bird gotten to?
13
The Seven of Wands
Charleston, South Carolina
May 20, 1871
The stentorian voice of the bailiff silenced the murmur of the courtroom. “All rise, the Court of Common Pleas for the County of Charleston is now in session! The Honorable Judge O. E. Davenkirk presiding! All who would make petition before the court approach!”
Judge Davenkirk was a jowly man in his seventies, with gray hair swept back from a wide face, with uneven, florid patches. His eyes were brown and a little watery. He wore the traditional black robe, with a bit of shirt collar peeking out from under it. He sat down with a bit of a wheeze and a groan. The sharp crack of Davenkirk’s gavel stilled the last whispers in the room.
“Y’all be seated,” the judge said, glancing at Maude and smiling slightly.
The courtroom was already uncomfortably warm and humid and it was only nine A.M. An early morning May shower had turned mostly to steam, making the Charleston air heavy, hot and damp. Maude sat at one table with Arabella Mansfield. Bella was dressed in conservative attire. At the other counsel table was her father and his attorney, Andrew Rutledge.
Rutledge was a slender whip of a man, with dark hair that was rapidly graying, slicked back and parted sharply down the middle. His eyes were blue, bright and sharp. He whispered something to Martin and Martin chuckled and glanced at Maude and Arabella.
Martin looked as if he had recovered from his injuries and looked as healthy and formidable as ever. However, Maude noticed the slight stiffness in his movements and knew her father was far from recovered but had no intent of showing any weakness.
For her part, Maude was wearing an expensive, but subdued, dress of dark green with white silken ruffles at the collar and sleeves. Her hair was styled in a tight and proper chignon. Arabella had urged her to dress feminine and attractive but to make sure she looked business-like as well.
“I want you to get the judge’s attention,” she said, “but not hold it, if you get my meaning.”
“Why?” Maude had asked.
“Men are drawn to attractive women,” Arabella said. “They pay attention to them initially, but if the woman comes off as too attractive they diminish in the man’s estimation, they become an objet d’art, not a person to be heard.” Maude realized the strategy was very similar to the rules of camouflage and seduction Gran had taught her. Maude shook her head. “It’s a balancing act,” Arabella continued.
“Isn’t it always,” Maude said.
“All right, let’s see if we can’t clear the docket quickly today,” Judge Davenkirk said. “’Fore it gets too blessed hot!” He glanced to his bailiff, “First on the docket, Cooley?”
“Stapleton v. Anderton,” Cooley announced loud enough for the principals and those in the gallery to hear. “All those involved in this matter present in the courtroom?”
“Andrew Rutledge for the defendant, your honor,” Martin’s lawyer said, standing and bowing slightly at the waist.
“Good to see you again, Andy,” Judge Davenkirk said, nodding and smiling to the lawyer.
“Arabella Babb Mansfield for the plaintiff, your honor,” Bella said, standing. Judge Davenkirk’s face dropped from the smile.
“I thought you were her sister or somethin’,” the judge said. “Up there to give her some comfort and such. You trying to tell me you’re a lawyer, young lady, ’cause this here is a court of law and I don’t take too kindly to pranks in my courtroom. Did Judge Horn put you up to this? Neil’s always been a mischievous fella.”
Bella didn’t miss a beat, she didn’t even blink. She picked up a packet of documents from the table. “Permission to approach, your honor?” Davenkirk nodded, gesturing for the documents.
“I submit these for the court’s approval,” Arabella said. “This is verification of my admission to the state bar of Iowa…”
“Your honor!” Rutledge interrupted, standing. “This is absolute nonsense! This woman could be the plaintiff’s scullery maid for all we know…”
Bella continued to look at the judge. She waited for Rutledge to take a breath and then continued as if he had said nothing. “… and this packet of documents includes affidavits from several of the clerks of the Iowa District Court attesting to my successf
ul passing of the bar examination, and my swearing in as an officer of the court, as well as letters of recommendation from numerous judges, sitting and retired, at both the state and federal jurisdictions. You will also find numerous letters of commendation from…”
“Your honor!” Rutledge raised his voice higher than before. “I must strongly object to this preposterous mockery of our sacred legal process! The plaintiff has access to competent legal counsel certified by this state’s bar! She could pick any of dozens of reputable male attorneys here in Charleston that would pass muster to practice law in this court, instead…”
“… letters of commendation from numerous attorneys and academics, for your honor’s examination,” Bella concluded, again calm and even-tempered. Maude was impressed by how unruffled Bella was; her body language, her respiration and pupil constriction all reflected that she was as still as a mountain lake. She presented the papers to Cooley, the bailiff, and Cooley looked to Davenkirk for guidance. The judge took the papers from the bailiff.
“What about that, Miss Stapleton?” Davenkirk asked as he leafed through the papers. “You could have picked a local attorney, why Miss Mansfield here?”
Maude stood. She nervously cleared her throat and looked toward the table for a moment. She was neither nervous, nor needed to clear her throat. They had anticipated this question being asked and they were ready for it. After an interval of a second or two, Maude looked up and matched Davenkirk’s gaze. “Your honor, my father is a very wealthy and influential man in Charleston,” she began. “I didn’t feel that I could find representation locally that he didn’t personally know or that he couldn’t influence to not take my case.”
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