before.
"Until I call for you," Lafitte answered, meeting his eyes. There was a silent clash of wills—king-regnant
and king-to-be—that made Illya hold his breath, but Louis capitulated, as he must.
"Then I will be in my room, catching up on my sleep. Come, Robie. You would not wish to misplace me
again." Louis pushed himself to his feet and walked quickly from the room. Robie, who had not finished
eating, flung down his fork and hurriedly followed.
"Perhaps someday you will tell me how you overpowered my young watchdog long enough to lock him
in the cellar," Lafitte said to Illya when the others were gone.
"I am saving that story to beguile a long dull evening," Illya answered gravely. "Is it too forward of me to
ask where we are going?" he added, after a pause.
"To visit an acquaintance of mine who will know better than I how things stand in Nouvelle-Orléans. And
to present King Henry's gracious proposal to him, so that he may make it known in the proper quarters."
"After which Louis and I go free?" Illya suggested.
"After which, we determine when we will strike," Lafitte corrected him silkily. "Once Louis is crowned,
and Louisianne liberated, we will see."
There was a proverb about riding a tiger, and though Illya could not remember its precise wording, he
knew that tiger-riding wasn't considered a gateway to a long and healthy life. Unfortunately, he had no
choice. Having been forced to make his offer of England's support to Lafitte instead of to Momus'
people, he must take what came.
And hope he returned alive from riding the tiger.
The first part of their journey was accomplished aboard the
Pride of Barataria
, which today flew the
colors of Imperial France and kept a sharp watch out for any of the ships of Bonaparte's navy. Though
the tittle fleet could not be everywhere, Admiral Bonaparte's patrols had cut severely into the privateer
activity in the Gulf, or so Illya gathered from the talk among the sailors on deck. After an hour or so
under sail, the
Pride
put in at a sheltered inlet, and Illya, Lafitte, and four crewmen proceeded by ship's
boat into the bayou.
It was eerily quiet, for once they were off the open water, the enormous cypress trees with their freight of
hanging moss tended to muffle sounds. Distances were deceptive here; Illya was willing to bet that he
was not more than ten miles from The Clouds, though the landscape seemed that of another world
entirely.
"If Momus is not mere, he can be sent for. I know of no other way to reach him. If he wants me, he goes
to a certain shop in Royal Street and leaves a message for me to meet him. If I want him, I go to a certain
fishing camp on the levee that is a refuge from Imperial justice. It is a game for boys. He is Momus. I am
Triton. It amuses—and perhaps it is a safer thing man to have our names run free to reach d'Charenton's
ears."
"Do you know who Momus is?" Illya said, unable to keep the shock from his voice.
"Of course not He wears a mask, as do I," Lafitte spoke as to a backward child. "You have met him, I
think. Do you?"
Illya did not answer.
The new day's beginning made the horrors and excesses of the old seem faintly unreal. Wessex rose at an
early hour, dressed, and shaved himself once more with Corday's razors. A young mulatto girl brought
him strong chicory-laced coffee and a plate of hot fragrant beignets. As he ate, he became aware of a
sudden undercurrent of excitement running through the camp. It was not the sudden shouting of men
under attack—had he heard that, Wessex would have taken his chances on a lone escape. It was more
as if some sudden news had come, and a moment later Corday entered the tent to confirm Wessex'
guess.
"Bad news, Your Grace. We do no' depar' at once, eh? Triton is comin' to call—an' he would no' do dat
if dere were no' somet'ing importan' he 'ad to say to me, hahn? So we mus' wait until he comes."
"
Triton has the Bourbon heir
." When Corday had said that last night, Wessex had assumed he meant
that Louis was dead. But if it were only a code-name——
"Triton is a man? You mean King Louis is alive?" Wessex asked incredulously.
Corday stared at him, looking faintly surprised that Wessex had ever thought otherwise. "Of course. He
'as been hostage in Barataria since de spring, de Young King. But Lafitte will no' give him up for asking,
eh, an' I canno' take him. But I console myself, me, dat if I canno' take him from dere, 'Charenton canno'
do so eit'er. De two o' dem 'ave bargain' for mont's, an' so long as dey do, de Young King is safe."
"If d'Charenton sent one dispatch to France with this information, Napoleon would send a fleet that even
the King of the Gulf could not turn aside," Wessex pointed out.
"He will no' do dat. He wan' de Young King for himse'f. De Black Pope no' like dat, if he knew,"
Corday said with a ghost of his old playfulness. "But who will tell him, eh? Not I."
So one of Talleyrand's blades had finally turned and cut his hand. Wessex could not entirely suppress a
smile at the thought. Corday was Talleyrand's creature no longer. He flew free of his master's hand at
last, playing his own game for his own reasons, and Wessex was surprised to find how much he envied
him.
"Very well. We wait. I've never met a god of the sea before."
An hour later Triton and his delegation entered the camp.
For this meeting, oddly enough, Corday donned a mask. It was of gilded leather, and covered his face
completely, giving his voice a spectral echo. He offered Wessex a loo-mask of black silk: "You nevair
know when you meet old Men's, Your Grace," and Wessex had put it on, tying the strings behind his
head. A poor disguise, but unexpectedness was the best disguise of all.
Wessex walked out of the tent, following Corday. The other delegation was already on land—their
leader, who must be supposed to be Triton, was wearing a mask of green silk that covered half his face.
Its eyeholes were rimmed in gold embroidery, and the rest of his costume was of a piece with the
mask—elaborate, dandified finery. Wessex supposed this must be one of Lafitte's high-ranked
lieutenants. With him—suddenly Wessex was glad of the mask—was Illya Koscuisko.
This was an unwelcome surprise—and not for Wessex alone, to judge by the way Corday recoiled.
"I'm sorry not to be properly dressed for the occasion, but it didn't occur to me that I'd be needing a
mask this long before Carnivale," Koscuisko said, seeing Corday and Wessex. "How nice to see you
again, M'sieur Momus."
So Koscuisko had met Momus before? Interesting. It lent a certain unnecessary corroboration to
Corday's tacit claim to be leader of the Free Acadians.
"Why 'ave you come?" Corday/Momus demanded unceremoniously of Triton.
"For the pleasure of your company," Triton responded, with a deep mocking bow. "And I suggest that
you hear what I have to say in private."
Corday glanced around. There were half a dozen of his lieutenants watching with open interest, and more
of his men gathered nearby, trying to watch without seeming to.
"Come wid me, den," he said, motioning toward his tent.
"Go back to the boat and wait for us," Triton told his sailors. "And if any of you is drunk when I return,
he can resign himself to swimming home."
Without waiting to see how he was obeyed, Triton strode ahead to Corday's tent. Corday followed, but
Wessex dropped back to walk beside Koscuisko. He knew a mask and a borrowed suit of clothes
wouldn't deceive his partner for long, and could see no value in continuing the masquerade.
"As you see, I thought I'd look up old friends," he said in a low voice.
"How charming. Momus is Corday," Koscuisko answered without missing a beat.
"And Triton?"
"Lafitte."
"Does he have Louis?"
"Yes. And—" But Koscuisko could say no more, for they had reached the tent.
Momus and Triton were seated on either side of the long table, the map of Nouvelle-Orléans between
them. As the symbol stood, so stood the reality. Lafitte could control the Gulf. Corday could rally the
city. Neither man had the power to take or hold Louisianne alone.
Corday sat back and gestured to Lafitte to refresh himself. There were bottles of whiskey, rum, and
brandy on the table, this last direct from French cellars.
"I 'ave not a great deal of time, Triton," Corday said. "I mus' be back in de city by noon."
"I have come to place a proposition before you," Lafitte said smoothly. "We shall throw off the yoke of
France, free the slaves as the English do, and open the Port to English shipping."
Corday stared at him for a moment and then began to laugh, the sound echoing from the grimacing
burnished mask he wore.
"Oh, cher, you are too kind, to come all dis way to cheer me so," he said at last. "Now, why 'ave you
truly come?"
"Recently, I had the good fortune to entertain an emissary of King Henry of England," Lafitte said.
Corday started to look at Wessex, then stopped himself. He looked instead at Koscuisko, the mask
impassive. "And?"
"Count Koscuisko suggests that the King will back Louisianne as an independent nation, providing only
that we end slavery and open the Port to English goods. As a member of the Grande Alliance, we will be
entitled to call upon England's help if the Emperor should decide to contest the issue."
"De people will fight," Corday warned.
"To keep d'Charenton? You surprise me. What we hear in Barataria is bad enough. The reality must be
worse."
"Who will lead dis new Louisianne? Will Lafitte give up Louis to be her king?" Corday asked stubbornly.
"De Sons o' de Sun deman' a king, an' de Acadians will accept one, so long as he does no' rule
absolutely. De Creoles will accep' dat too, I't'ink, if dey are promised a say in't'ings."
"And what of Lafitte?" Triton asked archly. "What do you think he should get for giving up his rich prize?"
Sitting beside Corday, Wessex had the sudden notion that Corday knew very well who was behind the
mask of Triton. These identities were a legal fiction between them, nothing more.
"He can 'ave a pardon for himself an' his men, lettairs of marque agains' France an' her allies, and to be
Firs' Minister—if he can deliver de King alive. My people will agree to dis."
"It has taken you long enough to become reasonable," Triton said.
"I 'ave seen worse den pirates,
cher
. An' I do no' care who rules La Belle Louisianne, so long as Acadia
remains a part of her. Yes. I will make dem accep' it."
"Do you think this can work?" Lafitte asked, and suddenly the artifice, the pretence, were gone from his
voice. He leaned across the table and stared into his opposite's eyes.
Corday reached up and slipped the mask from his face, laying it down on the table.
"Yes, Jean. I't'ink it can work. Let me send messengers to de cells of de ot'er groups an' call a gen'ral
meeting. Show dem de King, an' let him speak to dem. But it mus' be done soon. Before de t'irty-firs'.
'Charenton mus' be dead before he do what he will do den, and Louis mus' be ready to tak' his place."
Lafitte absently pulled off his green silk mask, and leaned forward, black eyes glittering. "Tell me."
If Corday's explanation was not precisely illuminating, it was clear on one point: that after d'Charenton
performed his black Hallowmas ritual, it would no longer be possible to kill him.
"And how will we kill him now?" Lafitte said. "That has always been a troublesome point. For myself, I
had meant to take him prisoner only."
"That matter is taken care of," Wessex said, laying his own mask upon the table. "I am the Duke of
Wessex, related by blood to the King of England, and I will kill your sorcerer for you as I have killed
others before him. For what it's worth, I also guarantee King Henry's terms. Neutrality or membership in
the Grand Alliance as you please, but free shipping and an end to slavery in an independent Louisianne."
"Well," said Koscuisko, "nice to see you back on form, Wessex. Louis will be pleased."
"We are going to talk later," Wessex promised his friend meaningfully.
"I can get them into the city," Lafitte said of the two politicals. "I will bring the two of them and the King
to the meeting. We can hold it at Dédé's—"
"She is dead. All de
Voudous
'Charenton can fin', he tortures for de secret o' de
Voudou Magnian
."
"What can he want with them?" Koscuisko asked, puzzled. "d'Charenton is a Satanist, not a witch."
"He wan' de power of de land itself, to be King in de old way, he say," Corday answered. Koscuisko
shook his head, still puzzled.
"Then we will use the brickyard in Congo Square," Lafitte decided. "Tell them that. The brickyard, in
three days' time."
"I hope your business in Nouvelle-Orléans was no' too urgen', Your Grace," Corday said, smiling
engagingly at Wessex as he rose to his feet A terrible burden seemed to have been lifted from his
shoulders with Lafitte's commitment to the Rebellion, and for the first time he seemed like the Gambit
Wessex knew of old.
"It can wait," Wessex said briefly. A revolution backed by the Governor's private secretary and abetted
by the King of the Gulf was likely to be brief and bloodless, and he'd already made up his mind to kill
d'Charenton.
"Then all is well," Corday said. "I will see you in Congo Square in free days' time, Jean."