Leopard in Exile (43 page)

had little to fear from Old Man Log, as the locals called the alligator.

He knew the sort of information that Jean was after, for he had collected it in a dozen towns in the Gulf

and the Caribbean during their association. But as soon as he reached the city, he knew that this

excursion would be not be like any other.

The sun was rising, driving the mist from the land, and the Crescent City—so called from the shape

imposed upon it by its position between the river and the lake—was stirring to life. When he passed the

Customs House the soldiers standing guard outside looked like painted toys, so rigid were they, and

there was a mute unhappiness to mis most flamboyant of cities mat made Robie's hackles rise. There was

something very wrong here, something that went far beyond the dissatisfaction the city felt in its new

overlord, but it was in the French Market that Robie received his first real news.

The owner of Dulane's Coffee House was not willing to let Robie sit at a table like her regular patrons,

but she was a kind woman who was willing to sell him a steaming fragrant bowl of coffee—black as hell

and sweet as love, as the natives said—and allow him to loiter near the counter as he drank it. He'd had

to use all the charm he'd learned from Jean to gain even that concession, for Dulane's catered to free

persons of color, and Robie was far too fair to pass even as the lightest of octoroons. But none of the

white establishments would have allowed him even this much license, for Nouvelle-Orléans was a city

obsessed with one's station in life even more than it was with the color of one's skin, and Robie did not

belong to either world: rich or poor, white or black.

In better weather, the shop's patrons would sit outside, but it was almost November, and the shutters

which made up the front of the coffee house had been closed and locked long since, driving Dulane's

custom indoors. Robie didn't mind. It was easier to eavesdrop that way, and if few lingered at the tables

at this hour, there were many who came to have a jug or bottle filled on the way to some early-morning

rendezvous.

"They say the Due will burn him. Ay! Such a beautiful young man, too."

Just now his attention was caught by a scrap of conversation flung out by a beautiful young Negress in a

splendid green gown and elaborate tignon who had come to have her basket and bottle filled. Despite the

opulence of her dress, Robie knew she was not one of the serpent-women. They would still be in their

beds after the night's revels, nor did they rise before noon. This dazzling creature was at best a servant,

clad in her mistress' castoffs and sent to buy breakfast for the household.
Funny, isn't it, how you can't

tell slave from free by looking
? he thought sardonically.
Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say there

wasn't any difference between them
.

"He will expect us to come and watch, which is worse," Madame Dulane was saying. "It passes

understanding. If I discovered such a scandal so close to me, I would not make a present of it to the city,

no."

"He wishes us all to know he is
très vigilant
, I suppose," the servant-girl answered. "But poor M'sieur

Corday! It is a terrible way to die, the burning." Her transaction completed, the green-clad fair one went

on her way in a swish of skirts.

"Have you not finished with that yet, you young felon?" Madame Dulaine asked Robie sharply.

"Yes, ma'am," Robie said meekly. He held out his empty bowl. "Is it true that Secretary Corday is to be

burned?" he asked, as one hoping for gossip to prolong his stay.

"Tomorrow night." Madame was about to say more, when one of the French soldiers quartered on the

town came into the shop. Robie and Madame Dulane both froze, identical expressions of wariness on

their faces.

"Good morning, Madame." Outside the shop, the sound of hammering could be heard.

"Good morning,
Capitaine
. You are up early this fine morning."

"I come with bad news, Madame. All businesses in the city are to be closed until further notice by the

order of His Excellency. The people are to remain in their homes."

Robie blinked, trying to disguise his shock. Such an order was unheard-of.

"But why? I will starve. And my patrons—"

"Go home, Madame Dulane." The captain's voice made it clear that there was no point in arguing.

"Everyone must go. The Governor has issued a general order."

He turned toward Robie, but Robie had many years of practice in evading authority. He was already out

the door before the captain had finished moving toward him.

All along Decatur Robie could see the soldiers closing down the market. Tempers flared high as the

soldiers demanded that the vendors leave their stalls and shops—and merchandise—unattended, but

Robie's attention was on the military waggon that stood in the street, surrounded by nervous soldiers.

It was filled with casks of gunpowder and coils of slow match, enough to blow up the entire street. Robie

glanced from the waggon to the row of shops before heading up the street at a quick trot. An explosion

here would do worse than just leave a large hole. Everything in sight was made out of wood.

And wood, Robie knew,
burned
.

Because it was important—or at least, because he knew Jean would think it was—Robie made a hurried

tour of the rest of the city to see if things were as bad elsewhere. The streets were filled with soldiers who

were reading out the Governor's General Order to the disbelieving populace. There were waggons on the

fashionable uptown streets, too, though these were covered with tarpaulins, and Robie could not see

what they contained.

He could guess, though.

Jean won't like this.

"You! Boy!" A soldier shouted behind him and Robie froze. He'd thought he was safe from detection, but

he'd loitered too long.

"Sir?" Robie said meekly. One hand crept into his pocket, feeling through the slit he'd cut in the lining for

the knife strapped to his leg. If he had to, he could slash the man's throat and run. If he had to.

"You're supposed to be at home—if you have a home. If you do not, the Governor can provide you

one."

"No, sir. Yes, sir. I mean, thank you sir, but no. I have a home," Robie said quickly. The ragged

appearance that would have served him so admirably in normal times worked against him now. He didn't

look as if he belonged anywhere.

"Do you?" The soldier's eyes flared with suspicion.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I live on St. Philip, sir," Robie said, doing his best to imitate a terrified townie

boy caught out on a lark.

"Then go there," the soldier said, aiming a blow at him that Robie dodged without thinking. He turned and

ran.

They're burning Corday tomorrow night. That can't be good. And shutting down the city
—
that

has to be worse. What do the soldiers want with all that gunpowder, as if I didn't know? Whatever

it is, I don't want to be here when it happens
.…

Lafitte set an excellent table, and the oddly-assorted conspirators had lingered long over the port

afterward, savoring what was to be their last respite before the revolution.

The Revolution
… All his life, those words had only meant violence, betrayal, and death to the Duke of

Wessex. The French Revolution had claimed his father, had catapulted him into the nightmare play of the

Shadow Game, had been the one thing he had always fought to destroy. Now, against all expectation, he

had become a revolutionary himself, pledged to kill once more, this time in the service of that bloodthirsty

all-devouring goddess.

But this time would be the last.

Jean Lafitte sat at the head of the table, his eyes hooded like those of a contemplative cat. Wessex gazed

across the table at the young man—so unready!—who would be king of a new and independent nation if

their conspiracy prospered.

"Where is she?" Louis asked in despair.

Louis' anguished question roused him from his brooding.

"I don't know," Wessex said honestly. "But wherever she is, Sarah must be there also." And that was the

truth, for good or ill.

"D'Charenton has her," Louis said, too caught up in his own fears to listen. The delicate crystal wineglass

trembled between his fingers, and he tossed back its contents as if they were bitter medicine.

"No." Wessex was certain of that much. "Corday is his private secretary, and entirely in his confidence as

far as I could gather. If your wife—or mine—were in d'Charenton's hands, Corday would have

mentioned the fact, I believe."

"And none of the Brotherhood has taken them," Lafitte offered, putting a comforting hand over Louis' in

an intimate gesture that Wessex found oddly reassuring. There were few men who could feign such

compassion believably, if they meant harm to its subject. "I would have heard of it, believe me,
mon

pauvre petit
. But I will make inquiries none the less. We will find your Queen. And now, I must go.

There is much to do before my fleet sails."

The King of Barataria stood and took his leave.

Lafitte's labors would spell success or failure for the entire enterprise. If the captains of his unruly fleet

could not keep Admiral Bonaparte's ships from coming to the relief of the city, the insurrection would fail.

"Queen." Louis recoiled from the word, as if this consequence of becoming King was one he had not

thought of until now. He shook his head. "She should have been safe. I never should have allowed her to

share my life. What a fool I was."

If you were, Louis, then so was I
. Wessex did not say the words aloud.

It seemed he had barely slept when a hammering upon his door awoke Wessex. He sat up, instantly

alert. The clock over the mantel said it was barely ten—far too early for them to depart. He rolled out of

bed, his hand going at once to his sabre, before he went to the door.

"Wessex!" It was Koscuisko's voice. Wessex unbolted the door. His partner was as disheveled as he,

standing in the doorway barefoot and swathed in a dressing gown of more than oriental splendor.

"What is it?" Wessex demanded. There was some faint noise from below, but not enough to explain

Koscuisko's agitation.

"Robie's back. Corday's been arrested. And that's the good news."

"They're mining the city."

Robie lay sprawled upon the couch in the parlor. His face was grey with exhaustion and pain. Louis and

Jean Lafitte were there, and Lafitte was cutting away the blue coat Robie wore. As he pulled it away the

shocking redness of blood could be seen.

"Leave that," Robie said irritably. "It isn't important."

"It is if you die before telling us what you saw," Captain Lafitte said gently. "Come, drink a little brandy."

"I think I've killed the mare. I'm sorry, Jean. But I had to get here. It's bad. It's very bad." Robie took the

cup in his good hand and drank.

"What happened?" Wessex had taken the time to make a rudimentary toilette and put on his boots. He

entered the room holding his sabre in its sheath. Koscuisko had gone to see what he could do for the

horse Robie had ridden here; as the boy said, he had forced her to the limit of her strength. "Who shot

you?"

"Soldier at the gate. They're sealing the city. You can still get in through the cemetery, but the military gate

is closed, and the one on the Esplanade." Lafitte gave him more brandy and water, and again Robie

drank thirstily, his body trying to replace the blood it had lost.

"You said Corday was taken?" This was the worst news they could have gotten. D'Charenton could

make a saint's statue confess to blasphemy, and Corday was already terrified of him. If he held out

against the monster's persuasion for a day they would be blessed, but even that was not enough time.

"Let me—For God's sake, leave it, Jean!" Robie interrupted himself. Lafitte had cut away the shoulder of

the coat and the shirt beneath, and Wessex could see the wound now. The ball had gone in beneath the

shoulder blade, a bad wound. That the boy had ridden thirty miles after taking it was nothing short of a

miracle.

"It is beyond my skill, I fear. I shall have to send for a doctor." Lafitte looked grim. Barataria was not the

sort of place in which one found physicians of the Royal Society.

"I'll cut for the bullet, if you have the tools," Louis said abruptly. "The Abbe taught me a little of medicine.

Enough to serve, I think." He was white-faced, but determined. Louis would have to probe for the ball to

find and remove it, and the procedure killed nearly as many men as being shot did.

"Serve me right for not putting a knife through you when I had the chance," Robie said, with a painful

smile. "Let me tell it once from the beginning, and then you can do as you like. It's as much as I'm good

for."

In a faint but steady voice, Robie told everything he'd seen in Nouvelle-Orléans that morning—the shops

being closed, the citizens being confined to their homes, the news he'd heard that Corday had been

arrested, to be burned at the stake tomorrow night.

"I always told him he would live to be hanged," Lafitte said in an emotionless voice.

"And the soldiers are going around with casks of gunpowder. I think—I think they are mining the

buildings, to blow them up, eh? They tried to arrest me, but I took a horse from the stable on St. Philip.