by D. J. Butler
“These are impressive preparations,” Bill said.
“Good components means the spell is less…costly…for me,” she explained. “Also, it will be easier if you swap wigs with the prisoner. I’m going to make you two trade faces, and being able to leave out the wigs’ll be a small mercy.”
The others gagged and bound du Plessis in the meanwhile, and he exchanged perruques with the seneschal. Then for good measure he extracted his lucky hat from inside his waistcoat, cramming it down over the little man’s head. The hat was too big, like a man’s hat on a child’s head.
Sarah rubbed the Bill-hair-spoon against Bill’s cheek and tucked it into the seneschal’s pocket and then repeated the operation the other way around. Bill acquiesced with all the grace he could muster.
Finally, she mumbled some hic, haec, hoc Latin, and suddenly Bill was looking at himself, bound and gagged, under his own hat brim.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I beg you to stay here. I’ll take this man upstairs and retrieve the letter, then meet you here again. If he’s telling the truth, I should be back directly, so if I’m not, it may be necessary to flee.”
She nodded; she understood. Did she, too, fear a trap? “Be careful, Sir William,” she said. “I’ll keep up your illusion until I see you again. Your life’s much more important to me than the letter.”
His queen called him Sir William. Bill almost forgot to hear the voices of the whisky calling. Bill grabbed his second pistol from the bundle, refreshed the firing pans of both guns, and stuck one in his belt.
“Move,” he said, prodding the other man out into the hall.
Now du Plessis walked slower, and Bill guessed at the direction of the other man’s thoughts. If this was a trap, the seneschal would try to lead Bill into it. Bill pressed his gun firmly into the Creole’s ribs. “If you run, suh, I’ll shoot you.”
In the kitchen, du Plessis turned to head back toward the light and movement of the ball, but Bill forced him by main strength straight across, past the maelstrom of cooks fussing over exotic dishes and up the narrow servants’ stairs on the other side. This time, no doubt due to the gun in Bill’s hand, they spared a little more attention, but they all quickly saw their master’s chief servant in charge and went back about their tasks.
“I can’t believe the basilisk etouffé is genuine, suh,” Bill joked to du Plessis as they climbed to the second story. “The chevalier may be that wealthy, but he is not that generous.” The shorter man glared at him.
Two stories up (the second story was quiet, and its narrow halls suggested servants’ sleeping quarters and maybe storerooms), du Plessis turned to a large doorway that led out of the dark servants’ wing and back into the golden-lit, saint-plastered main portion of the Palais.
Bill reined his prisoner in.
“Understand very clearly, suh,” he said, “that at this moment you look like me just as much as I look like you. If anything goes wrong, I will simply shoot you dead and walk away, and none of your fellow-servants will be any the wiser for a good long time. You hold your life in your own hands, and much more precariously than you hold mine.”
The seneschal nodded, eyes downcast, and then he led Bill down a long hall to a closed door. Gloomy-faced saints stared down at him from the walls (Bill only recognized Robert Rogers, the famed white devil Wobomagonda, rangy and sharp-eyed and leaning on a notched walking stick), and the hall was otherwise empty.
“Where are the guards?”
The Creole nodded twice to indicate direction, once at each door adjacent to the one by which they stood, up and down the hall.
“Any particular signal?” Bill stared into the other man’s eyes. He felt he was staring into his own eyes, underneath the brim of his own hat, which was unnerving, but he kept his snarl tight and angry.
Du Plessis shook his head no. Bill took a deep breath, then pulled open the door, dragging his prisoner inside.
Behind the door was a spacious office. After the parade of the sanctified Bill had endured, he was relieved to find the walls of this room bare, other than doors leading to adjoining rooms right and left. A modest table stood in one corner of the room and bookshelves in another, and near the shuttered windows squatted a solid wood desk bearing writing implements and paper.
“The chevalier is a more modest and practical man than I’d imagined, suh,” Bill whispered to his prisoner. “Unless…this is your office, isn’t it, and not his at all?”
The Creole nodded and Bill snorted a short, suppressed laugh. “Where’s the letter?”
Du Plessis nodded at the desk and then, when Bill had maneuvered him behind it, touched one drawer with his knee. Bill opened the drawer and found a single sheet of paper, folded and yellowed with age, on top of a stack of ledgers. He tucked his pistol into his belt, took the letter and unfolded it for a quick look.
French. Of course it was in French.
Dammit.
“Arrêtez-vous!” barked a harsh voice.
Bill started to raise his hands before he remembered that as they saw him, he was the seneschal. With a forced calm, he looked up and saw a squad of soldiers filing in through each of the three doors to the room. They were the chevalier’s men, in blue and gold, and half of them held up pistols but the other half held knives—knives that, if Bill was not mistaken, looked to be made of silver.
Not only had it been a trap, but the chevalier had known Sarah was a magician. He almost shook his head in appreciation, but had the presence of mind to look to the bottom of the letter, where at least he could read the large signature: Bayard Prideux, in a frilly hand.
Bill tucked the letter inside his waistcoat.
Silver, he suddenly thought…magic…
Bill took a step back into the corner of the room, dragging du Plessis with him. The spoon in his pocket felt conspicuous and heavy. If those daggers got too close to him, his disguise might suddenly fall away, and at fifteen or twenty to one, he didn’t like his odds.
He needed to get out the door, fast.
The soldiers lowered their weapons and relaxed, a strong contrast to the tension Bill felt in his own limbs. One of them was talking to him, some kind of sergeant, by the extra gold on his uniform, and Bill concentrated to listen. “Voulez-vous homina homina avec le frou frou prisonnier wah wah doo wop au chevalier?”
Bill’s heart sank; that had been a question. If he ran, he might surprise these gendarmes and slip through them, but he’d never get out of the Palais alive. Worse, they’d raise the alarm and his queen would be trapped. As would Cathy.
But what else could he do?
De Plessis, beside him, fidgeted.
“Monsieur?” the sergeant prompted him.
“Oui,” Bill said decisively, growling to disguise his voice.
Then he drew his pistol and clubbed du Plessis on the back of the skull. The Creole collapsed. Bill stepped over his body and made for the exit, not looking back and navigating to pass through a cluster of soldiers armed with pistols, rather than silver knives.
He was across the room, marching resolutely, the gendarmes he passed nodding informal salutes.
He was out and into the hall. He patted his waistcoat and heard the reassuring crinkle of paper. He hoped the letter was genuine. He hoped Bayard had told him the truth, and the letter identified the other man who had participated in the murder of Kyres Elytharias, the ozer man whom Bayard had so feared.
He hoped that René du Plessis was unconscious, or if not, that the gendarmes would leave the seneschal bound and gagged at least until Bill could get down to the pantry and tell Sarah she needed to extend her illusion.
His hat had stayed behind.
He hoped the sacrifice was worth it.
* * *
Cal reeled.
The chevalier’s seneschal had made the great sign of distress, had done it clearly and deliberately, and Cal had ignored it. Cal had already betrayed the trust his grandfather had put in him by inducting him into masonry and raising him, in a sin
gle night, to the degree of Master Mason. Cal had lain awake at nights watching the stars and reviewing in his mind the signs and tokens and passwords and due-guards, anxious not to forget them. The Elector had told him he could use them to call on fellow Masons for help.
And then a fellow Mason had called on Cal, and Cal had ignored him.
Even Sarah had recognized the sign of distress. And of course, she was right; she wasn’t a Mason, and she had no obligation to assist the man.
How had the seneschal known Cal was a Mason, though? Cal didn’t carry any visible sign, like the square and compass and letter G. Had his induction been published, somehow? Had word been carried to New Orleans?
No, that was ridiculous. Obviously, the fellow had needed help and had made the sign of distress in the hope that someone in the party would recognize it and come to his aid.
And Cal had let him down. Jerusalem, he didn’t think the Elector had made him a Mason to get him to work against Sarah, but he still felt bad.
“Mrs. Filmer,” he said, “I’m right glad we found your friend Bill.” He wanted to distract himself from his own thoughts about Freemasonry, but he also meant his words as a peacemaking gesture. Cathy’s presence made him uncomfortable, and she probably knew it.
“Why thank you, Calvin. I’m glad, too…mostly.” She laughed softly, a sound too feminine to be a chuckle and too mature to be a giggle. “He can be a handful. And I must admit that I didn’t expect to spend the evening standing in a closet. I’d much rather be outside dancing. Are you a dancer, Calvin?”
“Cal dances,” Sarah interjected. “He does a rain dance, the dance with death, the song and dance, and, on a rare occasion, if he really has to go and is holding it in, he can shake a leg in a truly impressive pee-pee dance.”
Cal was caught off guard and groped for a response, but nothing came to him. Obadiah laughed, and Cal balled his fists. Sarah might trust the Englishman, but Cal hadn’t forgotten that he’d once punched her in the face.
Without a warning knock, the door swung open. Everyone threw their masks back up, and Cal nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of René du Plessis, white powdered wig askew and pistols in his belt.
He grabbed for his tomahawk, but Obadiah caught his hand.
“Your Majesty,” du Plessis said to Sarah in the voice of William Lee, bowing slightly, “I have the letter.” Cal nodded a grudging thanks to the Englishman, who shrugged and nodded back.
Bill’s face again became his own. He produced a folded paper and gave it to Sarah, then handed his pistols to Obadiah, who tucked them back into the bundle of equipment.
“Thank you,” Sarah said.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you its contents,” Bill apologized, “as it is completely written in Frog, which was Bayard’s native ribbit, and in the deciphering of which I have no art. I suggest that we examine the letter when we have a little more leisure, and that now we make a straight line for our borrowed carriage. I fear our discovery is imminent, and I suggest you maintain the illusion on du Plessis as long as you can—it may buy us precious time.”
Sarah took the letter, her face a slab of stone, and tucked it inside her shirt. “Agreed.” She marched past Bill and into the hall, mask rising as she exited the closet, leaving Cal wondering about the pee-pee dance comment. Did he have grounds to be mad at her…or was she mad at him?
“If we’re detained, Your Majesty,” Cal heard Bill say as they passed back through the servants’ quarters, “your escape is our only priority.”
The ball continued as before while Cal followed Sarah and Bill back through the ballrooms toward the exit. The wait inside the china closet had felt eternal, but they had only been in the building an hour or so, and the evening was still young. He saw both Sarah’s and Bill’s heads shift and become unfamiliar, strangers’ heads on his friends’ bodies, and the bundle in Obadiah’s arms again became a fat, yawning feline.
Could they really just walk out?
Cal wished he were holding his tomahawk.
The ballrooms made Cal feel like a poor, dumb hick. Light sprang from lamps and sconces on all the walls and glittered off gold, silver, and bronze everywhere. Huge paintings hung on all the walls in polished frames, and Cal had no idea who and what they were paintings of. Even the people shone with jewelry and fine cloth, and Calvin reckoned there wasn’t a person at the ball who wasn’t wearing more wealth on his or her body than Cal had handled in his entire life. Windows glared down at him, windows two stories tall, taller than any house on Calhoun Mountain and tall as most of the trees, shouting at Calvin that he was unwelcome.
Cal shook off his feeling of unease. Sarah needed him.
They passed beside the Igbo quartet leading a room full of New Orleans’s good and great in some sort of courtly jig. In a second ballroom, a hurdy-gurdy and pipes played a rousing tune that sounded almost, though not quite, Appalachee, and the Venetian-masked notables galloped a vigorous reel familiar enough that Cal could have joined in. The third ballroom they crossed swayed back and forth to the elegant triple-time rhythms of a small orchestra, and the dancers waltzed so scandalously close to each other that Cal blushed.
They reached the front door. Footmen were still welcoming in guests, announcing each to the attendees who drank and chatted in the front hallway.
This is it, Cal thought, we made it. Now they would just walk out the door and disappear into the night.
Only Sarah and Bill had stopped. They stood in a slightly awkward spot, impeding entrance to the hallway, which awkwardness was only made worse by Cal’s joining them. A footman hissed through a forced smile to urge them to move on.
“What is it?” Cal still felt stung, and he tried to keep that feeling out of his voice.
Sarah turned and walked back into the ballroom, Bill at her shoulder. Before he wheeled and followed in their wake Cal got a good look out the front door, across the courtyard, and past the gatehouse. Massed in front of the Palais were the Imperial House Light Dragoons, and Cal thought he saw the rotting brown coat of one of the Lazars.
Sarah led them back into the orchestra chamber, where the waltz had ended, a round of clapping was dying out, and the dancers were moving back to clear a large space in the center of the room. Without warning, Cal found himself standing at the edge of the clearing; he felt exposed. He looked back to see if they could retrace their steps, and saw Obadiah and Cathy crammed up behind him, with more guests packing the room behind, making inconspicuous retreat impossible.
He caught Sarah’s gaze (Sarah now wore the face of a blond-haired girl with a strong jaw and a German complexion); even through the illusion he could see she was tired. She pushed to try to get through the crowd, but the crowd pushed back, and she stopped.
Another round of applause started, louder this time, and Sarah joined in, turning with the rest of the crowd to face into the empty space. Cal followed her lead. They couldn’t break through this throng without being obvious, so best to fit in and lie low.
A man stood alone in the center of the room. He was tall and thin, with dark hair beginning to go gray, and his clothing looked like the ornate, dazzling original of which the gendarmes’ uniforms were pale copies—blue and gold, with the stylized three-pointed flower in the detail of it, and a very complicated necktie. He must be the chevalier.
The applause ended, but before the chevalier could speak, there was a commotion at the far entrance to the ballroom. Someone cried something in French, the crowd writhed and jostled and then coughed up a harsh-faced man in a blue and gold uniform.
René du Plessis, the chevalier’s seneschal, wigless, bald, and wearing his own face.
Jumpin’ Jerusalem.
Cal resisted an impulse to turn and slam his way through the crowd—even if he got through, the footmen and soldiers at the door would stop him cold. His best bet was to continue to play it cool and try to stay hidden. He looked at Sarah to confirm her illusion was still in place, and it was. She also stood still, watching the sce
ne unfold.
Did her insides feel like a mass of seething worms, as Cal’s did?
The Creole bowed to his master, approached and whispered something; the chevalier’s face grew cold and hard. As they spoke, du Plessis turned, scanning the crowd.
Could he detect them? Might the seneschal have something that let him see through Sarah’s illusions? Might he recognize their clothes?
A cold rivulet of sweat trickled down Cal’s spine.
“Voilà!” du Plessis shouted, pointing at Cal, and then followed up with some more French.
The crowd exploded.
Jerusalem.
Well, he’d failed to help a fellow Mason when he’d been in trouble, but Cal would be damned before he’d fail to help Sarah. At least he could provide cover for the others to get away.
He turned and saw Obadiah at his shoulder (he knew him by the cat) and, gritting his teeth against the visual strangeness of what he was doing, Cal dropped his mask and shoved his hand into the feline’s chest. He planted his fingers in a mass of wood and steel and found his war axe. Pushing Obadiah back into the crowd, he yanked free the tomahawk and spun to face the chevalier.
Lord hates a man as won’t stand up for his friends.
“Oh Lord, is there no help for the widow’s son?” he cried.
And he charged.
* * *
Cal got nowhere.
Bill, standing next to the brave young Appalachee, watched him thrown to the ground in a shower of discarded Venetian masks. Gendarmes shoved guests aside at the entrances, struggling to get into the room, but it was the crowd itself, the assembled eminences of New Orleans, that grabbed Calvin.
Say what you will of New Orleans, but even its gentlefolk were hard as nails.
As was Cal, who thrashed with fists and feet and gave as good as he got.
Bill grabbed Sarah’s arm to whisper into her ear. “Run! Calvin’s distracting them!”
But even as he said it, he knew the crowd surging around them was too thick, and too many gendarmes pushed their way. Sarah regained her own face, eye patch and all, and Bill ducked, hoping the chevalier hadn’t seen his head protruding above the crowd.