Leopard in Exile (45 page)

creature—half-tree—but then, mysteriously, began to rage against him for stealing from him the treasure

d'Charenton had come to the New World to find.

Corday had protested his innocence, but then d'Charenton began to turn the wheel, and all he could do

was scream. As he lay there in agony d'Charenton had played with him as if he were a living puppet,

cutting him with a razor, over and over again, to see the bright blood flow.

He would have begged for mercy, Corday thought, if Mam'selle McCarty had not been there. The

avidity in her bright eyes sickened him; the way she dabbled her hands in his blood as if it were a child's

paints and licked her fingers afterward.

He
did
beg, later, when the hot irons were brought and applied to his feet. It seemed that the room was

filled with shadows, nebulous hooded shapes that stood behind d'Charenton, waiting. He had begged

them to make d'Charenton believe him, he had sworn that he had stolen nothing from his sadistic master.

He even confessed to being Talleyrand's creature, but vowed—and it was true—that since he had come

to Nouvelle-Orléans he had told the Black Pope nothing—
nothing
!

But his words did not help him. D'Charenton continued to toy with him, until at last the hooded shapes

had drawn nearer, muffling Corday in their dark cloaks. After that he remembered nothing, until he had

come to himself here, goaded back into consciousness by pain.

I am afraid
, he thought in shame.
I cannot bear for him to do that to me again
. But d'Charenton's

victims lived days, even weeks, in his care, and d'Charenton would surely come to him again. Corday

would have wept, but no tears would come, only an empty burning behind his eyes.
Blessed Virgin, you

have a soft spot in your heart for sinners like me. Holy Mother, take away my fear
....

There was the sound of footsteps along the passage that led to his place. Corday whimpered, heart

hammering in his chest, desperately trying to console himself with the knowledge that it was many

footsteps, heavy footsteps, and d'Charenton did not bring soldiers with him when he came to amuse

himself with his victims. Blurrily, he saw the light of a torch—one eye did not work, for some reason, and

the other was blinded and watering at the sudden harsh light. But Corday could see that d'Charenton was

not with them, and the knowledge made him weak with relief, though the muttered oaths of the soldiers

when they saw him was worse than any mirror. Several crossed themselves, and one turned aside to

avoid looking at him.

"Are you men or old women?" the sergeant demanded roughly. Jingling the keys, he advanced on

Corday and loosened his shackles.

To have the weight taken off the torn and abused muscles of his arms and shoulders was a blessed relief,

but then his feet touched the floor and the pain of the harsh stone on the livid burns made Corday scream.

The sound was harsh and faint, forced through a dry throat and over cracked and bleeding lips.

"Get up." The sergeant kicked his ribs with relish. "God's Death, but it's cold down here," he observed to

no one in particular. "Never mind. You'll be warm where you're going, eh?"

Corday forced his good eye open. "Where…?" he managed.

"Where all good heretics and traitors go. Into the fires of Hell. Bring him. If he can't walk, drag him."

They dragged him out into Cabildo Square, the place of execution. For a brief instant, he felt almost

grateful that he was to be spared d'Charenton's further attentions, but then the knowledge of his fate

made him recoil with horror.

He was to be burned alive.

Wessex and Koscuisko entered the city proper an hour before nightfall. Most of the houses they passed

on the way into the city had boarded-up windows—another gubernatorial edict, Wessex had learned

when the two of them at last reached the Maison Lafitte on St. Philip. The door of that house was

opened to him by a young man who introduced himself as Pierre Lafitte and quickly swept them inside.

"I am Jean's brother—we do not look so much alike, eh?—and you must be the men he told me to

expect. He said nothing of a priest," Pierre finished doubtfully, looking at Koscuisko.

"Never mind that now," Wessex said. "What do you know of the state of things here?"

Pierre was able to tell him little that had happened since the soldiers had begun confining the citizenry to

its houses at dawn this morning. Even the slaves were forced to remain indoors. The city was under

martial law enforced by d'Charenton's soldiers and the special militia he had recruited. The Swamp had

been burned, and the flatboat city on Tchoupitoulas Street had been cut loose to drift downriver. Those

who opposed the Governor's edicts, or who did not have homes to go to, had been confined in the

Arsenal next to the Cabildo. He had heard rumors that the convent had been burned, that those who

opposed the Governor's orders were being shot without trial, that the militia and a squad of

quickly-deputized bullies recruited from among the Kaintocks were looting the city and keeping the

people in their houses, killing any they found on the streets…

"Rumors are all we have, my friend," Pierre said, pouring glasses of wine for his guests. "We heard the

militia go by a few hours ago, and many people were taken away, but surely they were too many to

burn? It must be only that the governor wants witnesses to his latest folly. He is a man of much punctilio,

is the Due d'Charenton."

Pierre had brought the visitors into the dining room, where the windows were hung with heavy black

cloth to keep the light from showing to any watchers in the garden outside. Without question, the brother

of Jean Lafitte was used to the niceties of receiving clandestine visitors. He poured a decent vintage, too,

and Wessex found his nerves glad of the anodyne. This silent, deserted,
victimized
city was like nothing

he had ever encountered in all his years of playing the Shadow Game.

"He cannot expect to keep the people imprisoned like this for long," Koscuisko said, shaking his head.

"They won't stand for it. They'll be out of food soon—if they aren't already—and willing to risk the

soldiers."

"Perhaps d'Charenton doesn't care," Wessex said. The actions of a madman did not follow the dicta of

common sense, and despite Corday's opinions, Wessex was certain d'Charenton was mad beyond the

constraint of greed or self-preservation.

"Perhaps once the executions are over, we will be let to come out again," Pierre offered. The light from

the candles flickered over his face, making it difficult to judge his expression, but his voice was hopeful.

"Have you heard who is to be killed tomorrow night?" Wessex asked, probing for fresh intelligence.

Pierre shrugged fatalistically. "I do not know who is to be burned with poor Corday, but the Governor

never executes fewer than a dozen. At first—the city was a wilderness, and any measure that would end

the lawlessness seemed good. But now… ? It has gone on too long."

Wessex glanced at his partner. Koscuisko looked unwontedly grave.

"Pierre, I need to get to the Cabildo to see the Governor," Wessex said. "What is the shortest way?"

"You cannot possibly," Pierre protested. But Wessex insisted, and Pierre finally produced a map of the

city—complete down to the location of each outbuilding and garden—and showed Wessex how he must

go to reach his destination.

"Stay off the streets, my friends," Pierre said. He moved the candelabrum to the edge of the map, away

from the detailed drawing of the Vieux Carré. Single candlesticks, their candles unlit, held down the

corners of the curling roll of parchment. "If you go through the back gardens—and take care not to be

seen—you should arrive safely at your destination, God willing."

Wessex drained the last of his wine and set down his glass on the polished red mahogany surface of the

table. He got to his feet, reclaimed his cloak and hat, and checked his pistols. There were no more

preparations to be made. It was time to go, and to take what the Fates sent him.

Koscuisko stood as well. "I'll go with you as far as the Cathedral and see if I can free the good fathers. If

I can create a distraction there, you may find it easier to get to d'Charenton."

A successful distraction might well cost Koscuisko his life, something neither man mentioned. This was

their job. The sacrifices were familiar ones, if not easy. And Wessex had come to realize that there came

a day when they were at last impossible.

But not today. Today I will do what I came to do. Whatever the cost, I will prevail.

Pierre put out all but one of the candles and led the two politicals into the kitchen before dousing that last

feeble flame. In the darkness, the agents slipped from the house and across the back garden of the house

on St. Philip. The moon was dark, so they did not need to fear being seen by its light… or by any other,

because no lights showed, anywhere in the city.

Queen of Heaven, Queen of Hell

(Nouvelle-Orléans, October 29, 1807)

T
he Due d'Charenton ran his fingers—their long nails black and encrusted with dried blood and

worse—over the surface of the elaborate horoscope that was spread out upon his desk. It had taken him

months to complete, working on it only on those nights when the moon was void-of-course, in transition

between two of the houses of the Zodiac; drawing the sigils in the blood of an unbaptized virgin, and he

believed what it told him absolutely.

The time for the sacrifice was now, tonight. The blood would spill, the screams of the damned would

ascend to Heaven, and among them would be the sacrifice that would call the Grail out of hiding and into

d'Charenton's grasp. This was what he had promised to his Master, and the time left in which

d'Charenton could fulfill his bargain grew short.

The Grail for his life. The Grail for his freedom from the pains of Hell, and for power and dominion

Eternal. He would call the Cup to him with the sacrifice of royal blood, and profane it with the blood of

innocents. Through their deaths he would secure all that his Master had promised him so many years ago.

He had meant the sacrifice to be Louis de Bourbon, for the blood of the Young King was the most

powerful that d'Charenton could secure. Lafitte had balked him there, but d'Charenton had made other

arrangements. Jerome Bonaparte, brother of the Emperor, stood chained to a stake in the square, and

beside him the Bishop of Nouvelle-Orléans—a prince of the Church—and Charles Corday, a lord in his

own land, and a representative of the power of France. The power of the Old World and the New, and

of the Holy Church—surely the three of them would constitute a fitting sacrifice in Louis' place?

If there were blood enough spilled, it must be so. And d'Charenton planned to deliver up the entire city in

sacrifice. At the moment the pyres beneath the three stakes were lit, so would the fuses be lit throughout

the city. There would be explosions, and, through the wreckage, fires would spread taking everything

with them, until the entire city had become a holocaust to the greater glory of d'Charenton's Master.

He went to the window and looked out. Barricades had been built around the square to hold back the

crowds that the soldiers were herding here to bear witness—all the aristocracy, all those who had

mocked d'Charenton and opposed his will. The power of the blood was stronger than their empty piety,

and their corruption would add power to what he planned here.

The blood…

From his vantage point, d'Charenton could see over the wall of the holding pen that was filled with young

female slaves commandeered from homes throughout the city. He had wanted to use the virgin daughters

of the aristocracy, for bloodline and breeding were important to him, but prudence had counseled that he

begin more simply. The people would contest the destruction of their property, but would bear it as

another tax imposed by France.

But the deaths of the Negresses would only be the beginning. The square would run red with blood, and

hot with the power released with its spillage, and then would come the burning, and in the smoke of that

sweet incense his reward would come. D'Charenton felt a warm coil of pleasure at the thought. So much

blood. So much terror—the
jeunes filles
watching as their sisters died, knowing their turn was next.

Surely it would be a pleasing sacrifice to the Lord of Despair.

He turned from the window to his mirror. As befit an aristocrat upon such an important and formal State

occasion, d'Charenton wore an elaborate dress of black velvet worked with rubies and gold upon the

cuffs and facings. Over that, he wore a hooded sleeveless robe of red silk, open at the front,

embroidered with cabalistic symbols worked in the hair of virgins. He had robed himself in magic, and the

multitude would adore him, just as it would adore his Master.

Turning from the mirror, d'Charenton checked the clock that stood in the corner, and consulted his

horoscopes one last time.

It was the appointed hour.

It was time to begin.

The sergeant had given him water infused with
coca
leaves after they had chained him to the stake. Not

out of pity, Corday realized, but so that he would be alert for what was to come. His face ached with a