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