Leopard in Exile (44 page)

There was no one at the smithy—I went there first…" The last words came out in a slurred mumble, then

Robie's head lolled to the side in exhausted unconsciousness.

Lafitte met Wessex's eyes.

"So. We have no choice but to hazard all upon one throw of the dice,
mon ami
. It is not the fight I would

wish for, but it is the fight we have,
hein
?" Lafitte said.

"D'Charenton means to destroy the entire city—to burn it down around its people," Wessex said in

disbelief.

"Burn down the city?" Koscuisko asked, entering from the terrace. There was blood on his hands and he

looked grim. Wessex decided not to inquire after the fate of Robie's mount.

"Apparently this is that great dark ritual Corday said he was planning," Wessex said.

"But that's foolishness," Koscuisko protested. "Corday said that d'Charenton was trying to make the land

marriage that the Kings make in order to bind himself to the land. But he can't do that by slaughtering

everyone in the city—the Art Magickal just doesn't work the way d'Charenton fantasizes."

"The people will be just as dead," Lafitte said grimly. "And you will be king of nothing, eh, my Louis?"

"Not if we stop him," Louis said. He looked to Wessex.

"Illya and I will go to Nouvelle-Orléans at once. I may be able to find Corday and bring him out. I

imagine I can certainly find d'Charenton," the Duke said grimly.

"The soldiers will shoot you down in the street," Lafitte said.

"I have some experience in moving about a city under martial law," the Duke answered.

"I will send a messenger to Momus'—Corday's—people," Lafitte said. "And I will take my fleet and

meet Admiral Bonaparte at the mouth of the river. He will come when he sees the city burning, if he has

not orders to come before. But before I do,
petit
, I will find for you the tools you require to save my

young friend."

Lafitte went off to issue his orders, and Louis remained behind to tend to Robie, leaving Wessex and

Koscuisko to make their own preparations to enter Nouvelle-Orléans.

Wessex must execute the sorcerer d'Charenton, but this time he had no blessed silver bullets nor

rune-marked sabre to aid him as he had on other occasions. The shield of his rank and his bloodline

would have to be enough to protect him from the death-curse of d'Charenton's blood.

He dressed with care from a selection of garments provided by his host: grey coat and breeches, a

weskit of green linen embroidered with fine silver, a plumed beaver cockade. He oiled and honed his

rapier, using a stone to bring its edge to ultimate sharpness. All he had to do was to deliver the killing

blow, by any means at his disposal. It would be for others to cut off d'Charenton's head, to bury his body

in unhallowed ground, to take his heart and burn it before the altar of the church.

The pistols Lafitte provided were beautiful things, their barrels inlaid with red and green gold in a pattern

of flowering pomegranates, their butts of ivory inlaid with sapphires and emeralds. Princely weapons, a

pirate's plunder from one of the Spanish treasure ships. He cleaned them, debated with himself, and

decided to charge them just before they reached the city—any earlier, and the powder would certainly

shake from the pan as he rode. It would be best of all to charge them just before firing, but he might not

have the luxury of so much time, and the chance that they would fire was better than nothing.

His riding boots had been polished by one of the servants to glassy brilliance. While he had been

dressing, another servant had brought the documents that on any other occasion would have certainly

allowed him and Koscuisko free passage through the city of Nouvelle-Orléans. They might be useless

now, but again, any chance was better than none.

He wrapped a long sash of pale green silk about his waist and thrust the pistols through it, far enough to

the sides that the drape of his coat would conceal them, then belted on his sabre. The enameled gold of

its basket-hilt sparkled redly against the silk. It was an old weapon, something that was his own rather

than a product of the White Tower artificers, one that he had called upon many times. He only hoped it

would serve him as well as it had served his grandfather.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it to behold his partner.

Koscuisko was dressed as a priest, in a long black soutane that nearly brushed the ground.

"Impersonating a priest? Do you think that's wise?" Wessex asked mildly.

"It might gain us some small advantage," Koscuisko answered gently, holding his flat, wide-brimmed hat

before him. He lifted it slightly, showing Wessex the pistol that lay beneath. "And it's always nice to be

able to surprise people."

"Considering how much d'Charenton has surprised us thus far, it would be only kind to return the favor,"

Wessex agreed. "He may have given orders to execute all priests, you know."

"I do not think he will dare that until he is ready for his trap to close," Koscuisko said. "At most, I think

he will be holding them prisoner, possibly in the Capuchin convent. If things work out as I hope, I can

reach such prisoners and gain their aid to rally the populace against d'Charenton."

"If things work out," Wessex echoed. He did not need to say more. The situation in Nouvelle-Orléans

was too volatile for any plans they made to survive their arrival. "At least we have two days to

plan—today and tomorrow. He will burn Corday tomorrow evening, then conduct his ritual—whatever it

might be—the following night. If he's still alive to do it."

"We'll hope he isn't," Koscuisko answered.

They reached the city late in the afternoon, making a wide circle about it to approach from the northwest.

Their destination was an isolated house that had frequently provided their pirate host with a place to leave

shipments bound for the merchants of the city. There they would be able to leave their horses and gain

fresh news, for Rampart Street, as the name implied, was the northernmost stretch of the area surveyed

for the city.

But when Wessex dismounted and knocked at the door of Lafitte's safe-house, there was no answer.

"Odd," he said aloud. He glanced at Koscuisko, who was as bemused as he.

"Perhaps they are hiding from the soldiers."

"Perhaps," Wessex agreed, and led his mount around behind the house.

There the two men found the carriage house containing the carriage and its horses, a pen with a few

chickens, and nothing more. They tried the house—the kitchen door was not locked—and found the rest

of the house deserted. In the dining room, the dinner service was laid, the meal on the plates half-eaten.

Wessex placed his fingers lightly on the side of the tureen that stood on the sideboard.

"The soup is still warm," he announced.

"Could they have been taken by the soldiers?" Koscuisko asked.

"But why?" Wessex asked. "I suppose it's too late to wish I'd read Magie rather than Classics at

University." The life of a spy was always uncertain, but on this occasion the stakes were as high and the

odds as long as any in his career, and this time Wessex knew he could not console himself with the

knowledge that another agent would take his place on the Chessboard of Night if he failed. If he failed

here, there would be no recouping the terrible loss. This time, all that stood between Civilization and a

Long Night of unimaginable barbarism was the Duke of Wessex.

Koscuisko shrugged. "If d'Charenton's mad anyway, he's probably not following a recognized magical

system. But if the army has taken these people on d'Charenton's orders, it means that they are still

backing him, and that's not good."

"We'll leave the horses here anyway," Wessex decided. "Horses would draw too much attention. We

need to get to the house on St. Philip—without being arrested, for preference."

It was the end of October, and even at this hour the sun was already westering. In a few hours it would

be dark.

The first word they had of trouble ahead came when the flatboat upon which Sarah and Meriel rode was

hailed by a man on the side of the river.

"If you're bound for Dixie, you're out of luck! The docks are closed!"

"New Orléans closed!" the captain shouted back. "What do you mean?"

"Put in!" the other roared. "You're a fool to go on!"

Swearing furiously, the captain gave the order to put in. It took an hour with the sweeps and

bushwhacking—holding the plankboat hack against the pull of the current by putting a line around a tree

on the shore and hauling from the deck—to berth the hundred-foot-long craft, but when it had moored,

the man who had hailed them from shore hopped aboard. Fortified by a dipper of Nongela, he told his

story.

"Day before last, the soldiers come down to Tchoupitoulas Street and start cutting the barges loose to

drift downriver. You never seed such consternation, with the hoors skreelin' and men cursin' and the like.

The crews tried to stop 'em, and the bluebacks opened fire. Kilt a couple dozen or so, but we was

holdin' our own until they brought up the cannon. I wasn't minded to face chain, so I up and lit out, but I

heered Dixie's been closed up tighter'n a sporting-house on Sunday."

"Is it plague?" the captain asked, puzzled. "This isn't fever season."

The man shrugged. "All I know is, if you're bound for Dixie, you might as well go home now. Won't get

shot at so much, anyway."

"Excuse me, sir? Is there a problem?" Sarah asked. She'd been listening all along with growing concern,

for Meriel's mysterious business was what drew them to Nouvelle-Orléans. She was careful to speak

submissively, for the rivermen were always eager to pick fights with the Indians, and the disguise that

concealed her sex was a fragile one.

But the captain was too occupied with his own problems to pay much heed to her. "Are you deef, boy?

There's trouble in Dixie. I dasn't go down river until I find out what it is."

"I could go for you," Sarah offered carefully. "My people are waiting for me. Perhaps they have heard

something."

Now the captain did look at her, studying her face hard and long as if to read her soul.

"There's a dollar in it for you if you do," he finally said, showing her the coin and then returning it to his

pocket.

"Thank you, sir," Sarah said, doing her best to sound like one of her own coachmen. She turned and

hurried back to Meriel.

"We have to get off here. There's trouble in the city."

"Yes," Meriel said, her voice remote. Sarah felt like shaking her friend, but dared not while they were

among these rough strangers.

"Come on, then," she said.

The two women went over the side, and floundered through the knee-deep shallows to the shore. There

was a broad and well-traveled tow-path there, and only twenty miles or so separated them from the

northern border of the city. The morning air was chilly, but the walk would soon warm them. Sarah set

off at a brisk trot, Meriel behind her.

She slowed once she was out of sight of the keelboat, but kept on walking. This was a well-traveled

area, and the keelboatmen—the
mauvais Kaintocks
with which local mamas threatened their children if

they misbehaved—were not people she truly wished to meet. Soon she found what she was seeking—a

narrow track, almost invisible, that led them off the tow-path.

"Where are we going?" Meriel asked, when they were well off the main track.

"Nouvelle-Orléans—I hope," Sarah answered, pausing to take a sighting from the sun. "There seems to

be trouble there."

"Yes…" Meriel answered slowly. "A great evil seeks to be reborn in that place."

"Meriel, if you would plainly tell me what you know and why we are going to Nouvelle-Orléans—and

what you are going to do when you get there—it would be a great help to both of us," Sarah said with

barely-concealed exasperation.

There was a pause before Meriel answered, and Sarah could see her, once again, considering how much

of the truth she could tell her friend. In that moment Sarah could happily have shaken Meriel until her

teeth rattled. There was no need for all this mystery!

"We must go to the Cathedral de Saint Louis," Meriel said. "I can find the way, once we are there. That

is all I can tell you, Sarah. Please don't ask me anything more."

"To the Cathedral," Sarah said with a sigh. "Well, perhaps the holy fathers will give us sanctuary once we

get there—I have a feeling we're going to need it. Come on, then. It will take us most of the day on foot

to get there." Trying not to be as irritated as she really felt she had a right to be, Sarah turned and began

walking in the direction of the city once again.

His body hurt. But he was still alive, and he did not think he had talked. It was a small but real

consolation to the man who hung in chains in a niche in one of the dark catacombs beneath the city.

Charles Corday still did not know what had happened to bring him to this fate. Perhaps there was no

reason for his arrest Perhaps it was only another symptom of d'Charenton's growing madness. He

remembered coming to the Governor's office—the soldiers—and men awakening, chained half-naked to

one of the drawing engines deep below the Cabildo.

D'Charenton had been there, with the terrible child he had made his pet. He had accused Corday of

treason, of esoteric crimes that Corday barely understood. He had accused him of being Talleyrand's