one of the natural levees this area abounded in. His coat, vest, hat, sword, and boots were gone, and
with them his store of weapons. Off to his left, he could see a stretch of open water, its surface
mirror-still. Enormous trees grew up out of the water as if they were the tent-poles of heaven. Escape
from this place would be impossible without a boat… and a map.
As his senses cleared further, he could hear sounds behind him; the normal clatter of a small enclave or
encampment of perhaps twenty people. Wessex spared a moment to hope mat he had become the prey
of ordinary smugglers or outlaws. He would back himself to talk his way out of such a situation alive. If,
on the other hand, these people were connected with the dancers he'd seen in the badlands last night…
"Hello, scrawny li'l w'ite man," a deep voice boomed. Its owner walked into his line of vision, and
Wessex was hard-pressed not to show his astonishment.
It was a woman—a coal-black woman nearly seven feet tall, muscled like a young bull. Her skin was the
true ink-black of the pure-blooded African strain and her white tignon was festooned with a cluster of
bright red turkey-feathers. She wore a man's red flannel shirt and a necklace of amber beads that hung
down past her waist. Her blue broadcloth skirt was hitched up almost to her knees, and her enormous
feet were bare. Gold bracelets sparkled on her wrists and she wore immense gold rings in her ears, and
when she smiled, she exposed teeth as white and strong as a wolf's.
"I be Annie Chris'mas, de na'chural dau'tah ob de typhoon an de lightnin'-quake. I kin out-fight,
out-drink, and out-work any man on de Rivah, an' alia my chirruns is kings an' queens. I kin see sperruts
an' ha'ants an' I know where de mandrake an' de nigh'shade grow. Alligator fear me, copperhead fear
me, an' you do well to fear me, l'il w'ite man, c'oz I wring you' neck lak a chicken an' pop you in my iron
pot to cook, I do'an lak what you say to me."
Wessex regarded her imperturbably from his position of submission. So this was the legendary Annie
Christmas of whom the Louisianne Briefing Book had spoken: a half-mythical creature known and feared
all along the Mississippi, who, so local rumor ran, could outdrink, outwork, and outfight any man on the
river. Unfortunately, it had been unable to tell him where her loyalties lay. "Good afternoon, Mrs.
Christmas. I am the Duke of Wessex. Perhaps you would be good enough to untie me, so that we might
converse in a civilized fashion?"
The gigantic Negress threw back her head and roared with laughter. "I be Annie Chris'mas, Dook, not
her Missus—ain' nobody on de Rivah do'an know me an' mine. But 'cep'n you, mebbe. Dat'll change,
w'ite boy, before you sees Jesus."
The immense Amazon folded her arms and regarded Wessex through heavy-lidded eyes. So might a
tigress turned human mercilessly regard her prey.
"W'at you doin' on de bayou, w'ite boy?" she asked. "W'at you doin' spyin' on us?"
Wessex had never felt himself at quite so much of a disadvantage. Obviously the woman wanted to make
sure of him, and Wessex had no idea of how much she already knew, or even in which direction her
interests lay. He had no recourse but to stick close to the truth and make a great play of his innocence.
"I am a guest at one of the houses near here. I went out for an evening stroll and lost my way, then I
heard the drums. Believe me, I had no desire to trespass on any of your local… observances."
"
Voudou Magnian
be de judge o' dat, Dook. He be callin' you to him, wif de gris-gris we put agains' our
enemies. Hey you! Caesar! Remy! You come 'long now."
At Annie's shout, two well-muscled swamp-rats, one white, one black, appeared. Wessex noted, with a
faint pang of distress, mat one of them was holding a long coil of rope.
"Remy, you get dat rope up ovah a branch. We string him up a li'l, den we ax him again."
Remy grinned widely at the thought, but the one called Caesar looked troubled.
"Dis a real fancy w'ite man, Annie. Maybe dey pay down in de Town to gets him back. When Cha—I
mean Momus—gets back, we coulds ax him."
"Maybe an' maybe! An' maybe he a spy fo' dat black snake in de City! I'se ketched him, I gets ter kills
him. He doan be tellin' nobody nothin' den."
Caesar moved around behind the tree to cut the ropes which bound Wessex, while Remy turned away,
hefting the coil of rope in his hands.
From an impartial point of view, Wessex did have to admit that Annie Christmas' approach had the
virtues of caution and simplicity, little though it recommended itself to him just at this moment Once his
hands were freed, Wessex thrust himself to his feet, thinking of nothing but seizing whatever opportunity
Fortune presented to escape. To his surprise, neither Caesar nor Remy tried to stop him. Remy glanced
casually over his shoulder, saw Wessex free, and went back to his attempts to sling the rope over a
sturdy branch, as Annie Christmas came forward in a wrestler's crouch, her enormous muscled arms
outstretched.
"Come on, Dook," she crooned. "Dance wid Annie."
In that moment Wessex decided that taking his chances with the alligators and swimming for it would be
a better choice than wrestling this black Amazon, but it was not one he was allowed to make. With
lightning quickness Annie rushed forward.
Wessex struck first, a blow that would have stunned a man and felled an ordinary woman. Annie grunted
as his fist struck her, but then seized him by the arm and pulled him toward her. Wessex lashed out with
his stockinged feet—desperate to do anything rather than be enfolded in that destructive grip—but he
might as well have been a child, for all the reaction Annie Christmas showed to his blows. She crushed
him against her in a brutal embrace.
"Doan wants ter hurts you, w'ite boy. Annie wants you ter stay nice an pretty fo' de hangin'."
Wessex struggled for air and could not breathe. The world went grey about him, and slowly, without
conscious volition, he ceased to struggle. He was still aware, but the world seemed far away and
unimportant. In that moment, Annie spun him around in her grasp, holding him with his arms twisted up
behind him as Wessex gasped for breath. His feet did not touch the ground as she walked over to the
place she had chosen.
"Get to it, Remy, yo' lazy scoun'rel. An you, Caesar, you keep hoi' o' dat tail o' rope."
Wessex felt the rope settle around his neck, but before he could react, he was pulled from his feet by the
noose about his throat. He grabbed it—Annie had neglected to tie his hands behind him—and tried to
ease the pressure about his throat, but the noose was made, not as a proper hangman's noose, but as a
slipknot, and it had pulled tight, choking him. As Annie took over the rope, Wessex was hauled twenty
feet into the air, still laboring to force his fingers between the rope and his throat.
"Annie Christmas! What you doin' dere, girl?"
Dimly, against the thundering of blood through his veins, Wessex heard the outraged bellow. Suddenly
the rope went slack, and Wessex plunged to the ground to land with a jarring thud. Half-strangled, he
rolled to his knees and worried the rope over his head, flinging it as far from him as he could. Then he
could do nothing other than drag the breath into burning lungs for a few moments.
"Oh, dis jus' keep gettin' better an' better," a familiar voice said mournfully from above him.
Wessex looked up and met Gambit Corday's eyes.
Hie volatile Acadian who had spared his life once before looked as if he had aged twenty years, not two,
since the last time Wessex had seen him. Charles Corday had been an assassin in the pay of France, and
had dressed like an apprentice ratcatcher. Now he dressed in the first stare of fashion, from his
bottle-green wasp-waisted coat to his striped silk waistcoat and white-topped high-heeled riding boots.
"What you doin' here, cher?" Corday asked.
"Taking the air," Wessex answered. His voice was a rasp, and he coughed with the effort of speech.
Corday reached out a hand to him, and with its help, Wessex gained his feet.
"Girl, what you got to say for yo'self?" Corday demanded of Annie. Her former compatriots were
nowhere to be seen, and Corday seemed completely unafraid of the enormous woman.
"We foun' him at de
Voudou Magnian
, an he din't give no good account of hisse'f," Annie said. "So
I't'inks I string him up a li'l."
Corday gazed from Annie to Wessex, obviously unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. "Well, dat a
good't'ought,
p'tit
. But I know dis man, an' he doan be talkin' to jus' anybody who romance him, no. I
take him along an' hear what he have to say, eh?"
With an arm about Wessex's shoulders—as much as a show of favor as for support—Corday turned him
and walked toward the encampment whose presence Wessex had only guessed at. It was an interesting
sight—a jumble of tents and shanties, all carefully camouflaged to be invisible from any distance, and the
tent that Corday chose as their destination was seen to be uncommonly well appointed once Wessex
gained its interior. It looked, in fact, remarkably like the tent of a field commander, including the detailed
map pinned to the center of the table. Wessex glanced at it—it was a map of Nouvelle-Orléans and the
surrounding plantations, and there were colored pins and flags studding its surface.
"Here. Drink dis." Corday shoved a glass of whiskey into Wessex's hand. The Duke drank gratefully,
coughing this time only a little. He handed the glass back to Corday and seated himself in a chair.
"I'm surprise' your partner didn't rescue you. Though I don' t'ink a bullet could kill Annie. She tough, her."
Corday's English improved as he regained his composure, but his casual reference to Koscuisko did little
to quiet Wessex's nerves.
"Your fortunes, at least, seem to have unproved since I saw you last," Wessex said, nodding toward
Corday's coat.
"Hahn. Dis't'ing," Corday said in disgust. "I 'ave move up in de wort' since I see you last, Your Grace. I
am now de Governor of Nouvelle-Orléans' private secretary, me."
"You?" Wessex said, unable to conceal his surprise.
Corday made a rueful face and pushed his unruly auburn hair out of his eyes. "De Black Pope mak' me
do dis, so he't'ink. 'Charenton, devil damn him to hell, t'ink I just,"—Corday spread his hands, at a loss
for the proper word.—"nobody. So he use me for his plans, an' tak me into his confidence, him, an'
I't'ink my soul nevair be clean again."
"You're the last person I'd expect to hear talking about a clean soul, Corday," Wessex mocked. "How
many men have you killed?"
"No' so many more den you, Your Grace." Gambit flung himself into a chair with untidy grace, pouring
himself a generous measure of the whiskey before pushing the bottle toward his guest. "So. Ask me w'at
dat white spider's plans are, you. Dat why you follow me here from de Clouds, hahn? I should 'ave
known you would be close by. But you are a fool to follow de drums, cher, and dat's de trut."
Obviously Corday believed that he and Koscuisko were working together, and that he had fallen prey to
some terribly clever plan of theirs. Wessex had no desire to disabuse him of mis error.
"So you are working for the White Tower these days, Corday? It's a dangerous double game," Wessex
said. Hie compassion in his voice was feigned, but there was real pity behind it, for a man who had
worked closely with the Due d'Charenton for so many months.
"No' for de W'ite Tower, Your Grace. I do dis for La Belle Louisianne." Corday drank the whiskey
down as if it were well-water, and after a moment he seemed to breathe easier.
"You wonder why Bonaparte send 'Charenton here, you—but us, we wonder why 'Charenton come,
eh? W'at is it here dat he want so bad? Den we figure, he lookin' for de King—de true King. Only dat
ain't it. Or not all of it."
"Louis," Wessex said. But Corday did not seem to hear.
"So I come wid him. Talleyran', he't'ink I wan' to come because I get de chance to settle old scores,
hahn? But I got no old scores to settle, me, excep' wid France an' Englan'. La Belle Louisianne mus' be
free, an' we mus' be free to stay wid her."
"Hie Acadians," Wessex said, realization dawning. "You're working for the Free Acadians."
"W'at you't'ink, I do dis for my healt'?" Corday demanded crossly. "No. All dis time, nobody can agree
w'at to do, but if we 'ave de true King, we form an alliance an' t'row de Tyran' out Cajun, Creole,
Frenchman, Baratarian, dere's Ian' enough here for all to live free."
Almost a century ago Acadia, a French colony on the coast of Prince Rupert's Land, had passed from
French into English hands. The French inhabitants had been dispossessed by the Scots settlers, and
forced from their homeland south into French-held Louisianne. Wessex knew that the Acadians still
mourned their lost homeland. That loss would make them even more unwilling to be dispossessed again.
Wessex smiled thinly. Here was a feast of information, though gaining it had obviously cost Corday
dearly. Yet though Wessex was willing to bet Corday was telling all he knew, Corday had mentioned
only Louis Capet, and not the Grail.
"True—if you can find Louis, and if Louisianne will rise up in support of him. But revolution is a tricky
business, as the French have learned to their cost."
Corday groaned, holding his head and resting his elbows on the table. "It all come to bits, Your Grace.