by D. J. Butler
“You are thinking of Talega, perhaps.”
Etienne nodded. “The moundbuilders are not all identical. And some of them are great slavers, too. Isn’t that funny, that a people who are so proud of their own liberty keep slaves? Maybe it was proximity to the Memphites that led them to it. Pyramids on one side of the Ohio, mounds on the other, eh?”
“The kings of the Ohio had been keeping slaves for hundreds of years before the Prester and his sons ever sailed up the Mississippi,” Thalanes said. “And the paradox isn’t all that strange; a society that sees freedom as a man’s greatest good can think of no greater punishment than to take that freedom away from him.”
Etienne nodded. “You are Eldritch?”
“Hey, there!” Calvin snapped. “Be polite.”
Etienne waved him off. “A Firstborn, is that the polite term? Here in the Quarter we mostly use epithets—iggy, frog, dago, schnitzel, yankee, limey, cracker, bathead, minnie, serpentspawn, kraut, you understand. I know my manners are unfit for polished society. I deal with rough men and I make no apologies. The important thing is that we understand each other.”
“Man’s kingdoms and God’s needn’t have the same power structures.” Thalanes felt he was undercutting Chigozie, though he hoped only slightly. The pattern on Etienne’s waistcoat continued to nag at him.
Did it have some iconographic meaning? Some New Orleans saint?
“But you cannot mean no princes of the church!” Etienne gasped.
“Believe me,” Chigozie said wearily, “that would make me as happy as it would make you. Probably happier.”
“Etienne.” Sarah pushed forward into the center of the conversation. “I was hoping you could help me.”
Thalanes kicked himself mentally—he should have foreseen the possibility that Sarah would jump in and take control. How would Etienne respond? Would Thalanes lose the progress he’d made in the conversation so far? As long as she didn’t slip into her Appalachee patois…
He felt nervous, and he saw an uncomfortable look on Cal’s face.
By contrast, Cathy looked completely composed and self-assured.
Etienne hung paused in mid-thought while he absorbed this new development. “Excuse me, I do not know who you are.”
“My name’s Sarah Carpenter,” she said with a defiant glint in her eye. “These men—” she indicated Calvin and Thalanes, “serve me, and your brother agreed to help me by bringing me to see you.”
Etienne looked dumbfounded.
Thalanes held his breath, waiting to learn how this turned out. He willed Cal to keep his mouth shut; he would talk with the young man later, try to soothe any injured feelings he might have.
Etienne smiled. “Sarah Carpenter, Queen of Priests, with the bandaged head,” he said, and then laughed out loud. “Excellent! You will fit in very well here in New Orleans, you are picaresque enough to be one of us already.”
“I’m not a dancing bear,” Sarah objected.
“No? Disappointing. Very well, Queen Carpenter, tell me what you believe I can do for you.”
“I’m looking for another servant of mine,” Sarah said. How far would she push this approach? “I been told—I understand you may know him.”
“I know many people,” Etienne agreed. “I am a sort of priest, too. I minister to all the gamblers, drunkards, and whores of New Orleans. Is your missing servant such a man?”
At the words I am a sort of priest, too, Thalanes knew where he had seen the image. It was a vevé, an icon of Vodun significance. Every loa had its vevé, or beybey, which was its beacon and which stood in for it, in certain ritual circumstances. Why was Etienne Ukwu wearing a vevé? And to which loa did it belong? And did the vevé have something to do with the old man at the crossroads?
He wished he were not so ignorant. He doubted he could ask Chinwe these questions without wounding him. And he was certain he couldn’t ask Chigozie.
“She seeks Bad Bill,” Chigozie said.
“Bad Bill is your servant?” Etienne laughed again, and Sarah nodded defiantly. “Well, I must warn you, Queen Carpenter, that I think you will find him a very poor help. Bill was once an employee of mine, but he was an unreliable drunkard, and I had to let him go.”
“I’m forgiving.”
“How long has he been in your service?” Etienne asked.
“Not long,” Sarah said cagily. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
Etienne took something small from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it; Thalanes saw a flash of silver as he replaced the object.
Finally, the bishop’s son shook his head. “I would like to help you, Queen Carpenter, because you are amusing, but I am afraid I do not know. The chevalier’s men took him two weeks ago, and I have not seen him since.”
Thalanes had recovered from his surprise at recognizing Etienne’s decoration. He was keenly disappointed that Etienne had no information to share, but pleased Sarah had navigated the conversational shoals.
“Thank you, Etienne,” he said.
“You got anything of Bill’s?” Sarah continued as if Thalanes hadn’t spoken. “Clothing of his, mebbe?” It was a good question, and Thalanes both kicked himself and felt proud of her, despite her slouching accent.
Etienne looked at Sarah through narrowed and calculating eyes. “Are you a witch, then, Queen Carpenter?”
“What do you care if I am, houngan?”
Chigozie hissed, and Etienne furrowed his brows.
“What do you know about houngans?” Etienne demanded.
“I read books,” Sarah said. “I see an old man at a crossroads with a dog and a key, I know who he is. Jest like when I see you, I know who you are.”
Thalanes almost fell over in surprise.
Etienne laughed, but a little uneasily. “What exactly is under that eye patch you wear, girl?”
Sarah stared back at him without flinching. She did look like a stage witch, with her eye patch and her horse-headed ash staff, burnt black and stained sulfur-yellow.
“An eyeball,” she said.
“And what does that eyeball see in me?” he wanted to know. “Who do you think I am?”
Sarah slowly and deliberately removed her eye patch and looked Etienne in the face. He breathed in through his teeth, whistling slightly, but didn’t look away.
They stayed locked in each other’s gazes for long seconds.
“You’re Ofodile Etienne Ukwu,” she said. “You’re the bishop’s son.”
Etienne sat down, looking suddenly heavier and older.
Sarah put her eye patch back over her face.
“Very well,” said the bishop’s younger son. “It is none of my affair why you want Bill. I used to have a Kentucky rifle that belonged to him, but I sold it in satisfaction of his debts.”
“You have nothing, then?” Sarah pressed him.
“Nothing,” he agreed, and then furrowed his brows. “Except…” He turned back to his desk and plucked a scrap of paper from between the pages of his ledger. “I have this.” Sarah reached out to take the scrap, but he held it back. “It is worth money to me,” he told her. “Cash.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“It is a claim ticket. Before your man Bill was arrested, he pawned his sword and pistols. This is his ticket. I intend to go reclaim the weapons from the pawnbroker, at a price that is very reasonable for weapons of such quality.” Etienne grinned broadly.
“How much?” Cal asked.
“Very direct, my cracker friend. Are you sure you would not like to work as a debt collector?” Cal scowled at him in answer. “Three Louis d’or would make me happy.”
“I can’t reckon it’s even worth one looey to you,” Cal disagreed. “You ain’t exactly short of guns ’round here. I’ll give you a shiny Philadelphia shilling.”
Etienne frowned, looking at the same moment a little pleased, or at least entertained. “Yes, my men use guns and I need a good supply. Three Louis d’or.”
“And yet in the two week
s you had it, you ain’t turned in the claim ticket. Besides, you got better things for your men to do.” Cal dug a finger into the purse at his belt and tossed a single coin to Etienne, who caught it mid-air in his free hand. “One looey, it’s all I got, take it or leave it.”
Etienne rapped the Louis d’or against his desk and then set the coin down. “One is not enough. I am not trying to dicker with you, my cracker friend, I am telling you that I know I can redeem these pistols, resell them and make three looeys. If you can give me three looeys directly instead, so much the better for me. Otherwise, you are out of luck. And the truth is, I do not need the money, anyway.” He gestured at the office around him. “I have money.”
“And I ain’t bargainin’ with you, either,” Cal said. “I ain’t got three looeys. What do you need? I ain’t got time to work it off for you as a sticks and stones man, whate’er that may be. You need a tomahawk? A lariat? A good Kentucky rifle?”
A light flickered in Etienne’s eyes and he handed the single Louis d’or back across the desk. “I would like a lock of Queen Carpenter’s hair,” he said.
“Go to Hell,” Sarah said.
“That is hardly diplomatic, Your Majesty,” he protested. “And it does not respect my faith. A lock of a pretty girl’s hair brings good luck. I am in the business of gambling, Queen Carpenter…would you deny me the luck I need?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I would. So listen close, because I’ll be a-makin’ you one offer, and one offer only. Iffen you don’t take it, I walk away and we’re done.”
“I am listening.” Etienne’s facial expression was focused.
“You give me the claim ticket.” Sarah stared Etienne hard in the face. “You will also give me however much money it is that I will need to redeem the ticket. In return…I will owe you a favor.”
* * *
“Bill, ’e ’as sent for you!”
A light shone in Bill’s sleep-thickened eyes and something wooden thumped in his ear. His shoulder shook. Dreams clattered away, draining out of his skull, dreams of riding horseback, of drill, of barked commands and the acrid smell of black powder burning across a field of bleeding men.
“If you mean Old Scratch, suh, tell him he’s too late. I’ve sold my soul to the army.”
“Bill, it is ze chevalier’s men!” Bill forced his eyes open and found Bayard Prideux standing above him with a lantern, shaking Bill by the shoulder—
within reach.
Bill grabbed Bayard by his wooden leg and rolled away, jerking Prideux off his feet.
Foot, rather.
The Frenchman executed an unplanned one-legged hop backward and planted himself solidly onto the deck, the air whooshing out of his lungs and the lantern flying against the wall. Bill staggered up and found he was still holding the wooden leg, a leather strap with a shattered buckle dangling at the end of it.
“Ze chevalier!” squealed Bayard.
“Damn the chevalier!”
And any other Frenchman who stood between him and justice. Bill brought the peg leg club down hard. Bayard flung up his hands defensively, and Bill hit his forearm with a loud wet crack!, the leather strap whipping around to further sting the murderer.
“Bill! What are you doing?” Bayard shrieked.
Visions of his murdered friend and lord, Kyres Elytharias, flashed before Bill’s eyes, and he continued to pummel the downed Frenchman.
“Do not—”
crunch!—
“mistake me—”
thwack!—
“for a friend!”
Bill found himself standing above Bayard and looking down, his chest heaving. As his blood cooled and his head cleared, he saw the lantern had shattered, spraying burning oil across the wall.
A curtain of flame rose from floor to ceiling.
Bayard trembled slightly.
“Suh!”
Smash!
Bayard lay still; justice was served.
Bill threw the peg leg aside. He’d killed many men in his career, but he’d never killed anyone whose death he’d wanted more than Bayard’s. Still, looking down at the French traitor’s broken body, he felt no satisfaction.
In the end, he and Bayard had been too similar—old, broken warhorses, isolated in their stables and waiting to die.
Bayard might have the key to his shackles in his pocket, but Bill couldn’t bring himself to care. Sally might be alive, but he couldn’t know, because she hadn’t written him, not one damned time. That was hard, however much he admired the woman for keeping her promises, even when the promises were terrible threats. Cathy…he thought of Long Cathy’s long brown hair and gentle voice and felt a warmth inside…he cared for Cathy Filmer, and in other circumstances he might even have loved her.
Bill wished he had a king to serve again, a banner to ride under. But he was an exile, and a cheap killer, and those days were gone.
The fire crackled as it spread along the floor, sending up an inarticulate jangle of whimpering and moaning from the lost souls chained in the Incroyable’s hold. He looked into the flames to welcome them, and he fancied he could see Bayard there, already roasting on the Devil’s spit. Well, you rotten French bastard, I’ll have a spit of my own soon enough.
But there were others who belonged in Hell too, for what they had done.
His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Thomas Penn.
And the other…the ‘ozer’ that Bayard had been afraid of. Whoever he was.
Bill couldn’t let himself die—he still had justice to seek. His muscles aching, he dropped to his knees to fumble through Bayard’s pockets.
Bayard had a ring of keys. Bill snatched it and began shoving keys one at a time into the lock on his shackles, trying to find the one that would set him free. The heat from the flames grew more intense.
The lost souls began to scream.
Click.
Bill unlocked himself. He crouched, rubbing the painful chafe-wounds on his wrists and ankles and looked up to find an exit.
The fire was a solid wall now, cutting him off from the ladder. Bill heard the dying screams of the other prisoners, and the choking as their lungs gave out. The air filled with bitter gray smoke. He looked around him, the fire providing the best illumination he’d had since he’d been imprisoned. There were no windows, no hatches, no other ladders, no escape.
Something was moving on the far side. A thick plank was shoved through, and then another, and a third. They fell to the deck and made a causeway across the fire. Across the flames Bill saw a man—features unrecognizable through the smoke and the dancing orange light—beckoning to Bill to come out.
“Hell’s Bells.”
Bill lurched across the wooden bridge. He arrived at the other side coughing, his eyes and lungs seared, and the unknown man took him by the arm and half-dragged him up the ladder. Bill couldn’t see for the tears pouring from his eyes, and he cursed as his bare toes repeatedly kicked the solid wood.
The cool night air soothed his face as he stumbled onto the deck, coughing and spitting. His vision still swam, but Bill could make out enough now to help his rescuer get him to the side of the ship. Other men moved around in the night, shouting.
“The gangplank is gone.” His rescuer spoke with a soft French accent. “Can you climb?”
Bill nodded. His rescuer—a tall, fit man with iron gray hair, who looked familiar—gave Bill a hand over the lip and onto the ladder, and Bill scrambled down a few rungs on his own.
Then other men grabbed him, pulling him to safety on an adjacent, smaller ship.
A yacht.
A very expensive yacht, trim and sleek. It was large for a yacht, with two masts and elaborate carving in the woodwork, the ship of someone very wealthy or very powerful or both. Bill’s eyes were clear now and as his rescuer followed him down the ladder and joined him on the yacht, they opened wide in surprise.
“I see I’ve chosen the right man,” his rescuer said. Bill could only stare, open-mouthed.
His rescuer w
as the Chevalier of New Orleans.
Bill said nothing. He didn’t know what he could say to the man who had imprisoned him, the man who had sheltered Bayard Prideux, the man who had blackmailed the emperor.
The man whose son he’d killed.
A wool blanket was thrown around Bill’s shoulders and he stared about the yacht. All of Bayard’s men—the frog imbeciles and also the surprisingly verbal deaf-mute Hop—stood against the rail, watching the Incroyable burn. As Bill looked at him, Jake met his gaze and smiled. Men in gendarme uniforms dropped from the hulk to the yacht, and then the yacht pushed away from the burning ship and turned out onto the Pontchartrain, its sails bellying gently in the cool night breeze.
“Excuse me,” the chevalier said, and stepped down a ladder in the center of the deck, disappearing into the hold.
Bang!
Bill heard a gunshot and wheeled to look. One of the French morons crumpled overboard into the water, his skull blown open by a gendarme. The other imbeciles squeaked and honked in protest as the chevalier’s men raised pistols to dispose of them similarly.
Jake! Bill wanted to cry out, but didn’t. But where was the little Dutchman? Bill couldn’t see him anywhere. Had he been shot first, and was he already overboard, silting up the Pontchartrain with his bones?
In any case, there was nothing Bill could do.
The chevalier reappeared, holding a long bundle wrapped in cloth under one arm and a bottle in the other. “Come with me, Captain.” He turned and walked toward the slightly raised back of the ship. Was that the poop deck? Bill followed, and found himself alone with the chevalier.
Before them lay a spangle of glimmering yellow that was New Orleans. What Bill saw was the Pontchartrain docks, ill-lit this late at night, but beyond them and behind the city’s walls rose a more general glow where the all-night neighborhoods lay.
Bill heard further gunshots, and then the whimpering sounds stopped.
Would his head be the next one shot? Or might he be given food instead?
The chevalier uncorked the bottle and handed it to Bill. Bill couldn’t read the label in the darkness, but he could smell the bourbon. “Honor,” he toasted the chevalier, taking a sip and passing the bottle back. He wanted to take a bigger drink, but now wasn’t the time.