Everfair (20 page)

Mr. Owen would not be pleased to have to inform the Fabians of such poor results. Well, let him form his own embassy, then. Or perhaps he'd rather send Daisy's son in her place? Both he and George were men, both indisputably Caucasian. Perhaps, because of that, they'd succeed where she had failed.

It was not the worst of her failures. Even now, almost six years later, Lisette couldn't fathom how she'd let Lily get away.
There was no use in wondering,
she told herself once more. No use in lamenting the impossibility of asking Daisy for forgiveness. She should not linger in the lost past.

The Park Avenue car was more conventionally designed than the one she'd ridden from Riverview, with fifteen wooden benches mounted perpendicularly to sleek walls. The windows were large, however, and the aisle free of crowding. This time, Lisette did take a seat without urging. A breeze played gently with the spray of artificial violets on the hat of the woman directly in front of her.

Women were frequently given the names of flowers. Lily, whom she refused to think of. Rose; Rosalie, whom she had taken to be cured. Daisy: the day's eye, sun of her existence. Allowing herself the foolish luxury of remembrance, Lisette rode past Madison. The next stop came not much beyond, but by the time she found the entrance to St. Mary's Park,
l'heure bleu
had fallen. Glancing back, she thought she noticed another former streetcar passenger walking in behind her: the man who had sat immediately ahead of the woman wearing the violet-trimmed hat. Another look as he cleared the shadowy trees planted near the park wall and she became sure.

She kept the same pace: fast, but not too fast, the sound of her bootsoles dulled by the bricks' dampness. Lisette was armed. As casually as she could, she pulled apart the looping handles of her carry-all and undid the buttons fastening its top.

It had been her intention to exit the park along its northwest boundary, following Tessier up to Orchard, site of the Lincolns' home. Instead, she took the path curving southward, toward the seminary. Lights shone from the dormitory windows—already the evening's darkness provided a contrast. But the grounds around the buildings were empty.

The curve sharpened. She could no longer see her pursuer, which would mean he could no longer see her. A short hedge set off a small, sweet-scented grove, ghostly flowers clinging to low branches. She hurried around the obstruction and crouched in the trees' midst, bringing her shongun free. Cool brass warmed in her hand.

Yes. This man
was
following her. The growing dusk concealed his features, but not his attitude and movements as he searched for his vanished quarry. Hesitantly he proceeded further down the path, his head turning left and right as he scanned his surroundings. Lisette blessed her sepia-toned leaf-print dress—valuable camouflage—and rose stealthily, drawing aim.

“Halt!” she commanded.

Her target became gratifyingly still.

“Tell me why I should not shoot you dead.”

He attempted speech unsuccessfully, his throat seeming not to cooperate. A strangled cough and another try: “Mademoiselle? You might prefer to strike a bargain instead.”

“How? A bargain of what sort?”

“Between our governments—an agreement—clandestine aid—”

Lisette refused to let herself relax. “‘Our governments'? Which is yours? How come you to be sneaking about,
spying
on me”—easiest to accuse him of doing what she did—“hunting me as if I were a beast?”

“I—I'm a Pinkerton, Mademoiselle, a U.S. government operative, and I apologize—deeply apologize, profoundly! I never meant to approach you
here
.”

“I'm certain you're very sorry!” She dropped one hand from the shongun, but tightened the other's grip. It was heavy with the weight of the five blades with which she had loaded it. “Lift your arms. High. Where I may see them.” She hoisted her skirts and swung one leg, then the other, over the hedge.

“My identifying papers are in my breast pocket,” he said as she came almost within arm's reach. He must have judged her distance by the sound of her steps.

“I'll satisfy myself on that point later, when we're in company.” Circling around him, she confronted the man to his face. “Walk ahead of me.”

“What an odd pistol!”

“That way.” She waved the shongun to indicate their direction and he turned slowly, with what looked like reluctance.

“Is it indeed a weapon?”

“Watch,” Lisette answered. She lifted its flat muzzle and pulled its trigger, slicing off a blossoming tree limb, which landed with a sigh at the man's feet.

“Noiseless? Impressive!”

No need to tell him the shongun would have to be rewound after its next shot. “Thank you. Now if you don't mind, let's go.” She'd return later to retrieve the poisoned blade.

Should she assure herself that the man was defenseless? That would mean searching him, subjecting herself to the same risk she'd refused to take when invited to examine his papers. If she did so, he'd find a way, no doubt, to take advantage of her nearness—his physique was that of a prizefighter.

At the park's gate, Lisette kept walking but opened her carryall. She shoved the shongun back inside, still aiming it at the man's back. The streetlamp high overhead burned steadily.

Hands lowered to a more natural pose, though well away from his body, the Pinkerton turned his head—enough to see her with one eye. In profile, his forehead sloped outward from beneath his hat brim; his nose was broad, his lips full, his chin jutting. She couldn't tell how dark his skin was. “You're staying with the Lincolns, aren't you?” he asked with hateful assurance.

“Do you know how to go there?”

“Yes.” Of course he did.

It was only two more blocks. The Pinkerton walked unerringly to a gently rounded bank of stone stairs leading up to the Lincolns' wooden porch.

“You'd like me to come in?”

“Please.” She glanced suggestively at the bag inside of which her hand held the shongun. “We can talk. About making bargains.” A servant ushered them through the house's entrance and into the yellow wallpapered room where Mrs. Lincoln and her eldest daughter waited for their guest. Both were scant of figure and sandy of complexion; the mother's face was scattered with brown freckles. Their hair was an impossibly silken black.

“You've met a friend while you were out?” Mrs. Lincoln asked. All the family's members, contacts of Mrs. Hunter's, were jealous of Lisette's time. They wanted her to devote it exclusively to making arrangements for trade between Everfair and those they represented: would-be hoteliers; merchants eager to exploit new markets for their gadgets, herbal formulas, and gambling systems; entrepreneurs looking to Lisette to promote their unnecessary services and help them establish trading bases. Today's excursion to Riverview had been her first escape from such expectations.

“No. Not a friend. He's an agent of some sort. He was following me.” She took the shongun out. “Let's see those papers. Place them there, on the piecrust table.”

If the documents were to be believed, the Pinkerton's name was Cassius Snopes. It seemed unlikely.

While Miss Lincoln stood ready to pull the bell rope and Mrs. Lincoln pointed the shongun at “Snopes's” heart from across the carpet, Lisette removed from his person three palm-sized guns; a folding knife; a small sack filled with lead pellets; a tiny, corked, blue glass bottle of what was probably acid; and a length of steel wire.

“There was no call to do that,” the Pinkerton protested. “I wasn't going to use any of it on you.”

“Good.” Lisette signaled for Mrs. Lincoln to set the shongun down. Her daughter remained at her station. “To do so would have been an enormous error.”

She shut the collection of weapons inside a convenient sewing stand. “Where is Mr. Lincoln?”

“At the Masons,” said his wife. She glared like a tragedian at “Snopes.” “We expect him
presently
.”

“Well. If he interrupts my proposal to you it's all the same to me, if
you
don't mind, Mademoiselle. If you believe he can be trusted, which it seems you might.”

“Is your proposal a long one? Perhaps I should be seated?”

“Not necessarily. I'm supposed to tell you that since U.S. citizens were victims in Leopold's attacks, you'll be getting the support you asked Washington for after all. But in secret. Unofficially. Because—” He shrugged and sighed. “You know.”

Lisette did know.

Because none of the slain Americans had been white.

 

Alexandria, Egypt, September 1903

The caves at Kamina were the home Fwendi had known longest in her short life. But Grandmother's Brother Mkoi prophesied she would die—or worse, be captured—if she stayed there to fight. Therefore, he had petitioned the local Mote to find Fwendi a new home, a new life. Mrs. Albin, their representative in Kisangani, had brought the matter before the Grand Mote, and the Poet and even the queen had become interested.

So, heeding their guidance Fwendi had come here to rendezvous with Mademoiselle Toutournier, escorted from Everfair by Matty, who was quickly becoming her favorite friend. During the open-air meals they shared aboard
Fu Hao,
Matty had explained to her that though Grandmother's Brother was correct, there were always other ways to fight and win, and he was going to teach them to her while they waited for Mademoiselle's arrival. That would help Fwendi not to miss Everfair.

So much to learn. The light. The sea, the desert. Horses. She drove one now, down the near-empty boulevard into the public square, cool with dawn. Began circling the still, silent fountain. The sun rose over the Bourse and shadows flung themselves suddenly to her right. From the horse's feet—
hooves
—sprang a floating darkness like an even larger animal. It kept the same pace, rippling over cobbles and curbstones and—

Matty tapped the flesh of Fwendi's left arm. “That's good! Nice and steady! Now you want to tighten your grip—only a little—on this rein.”

Easily done. Completing the turn, she noted how the horse's shadow—and the shadow of their carriage following it—swung behind them and then was swallowed up in the shadow cast by the Bourse.

“Pull up here.” Matty pointed past her.

“Here?” Fwendi angled toward the street's extreme edge and told the horse in rein-language that she wanted him to stop.

“Yes! And I'll play groom.” Her friend hopped down out of the carriage and went to the horse's head. “Well done, Nash!” He stroked the animal's long brown face. Nash dipped his nose low, resting it on the little man's shoulder.

“If you were to take over fifteen minutes or so upon your errand—”

“But I
have
no errand,” Fwendi protested.

“
If
we had come here on an errand and you were taking a long time,” Matty said, “and the weather were cooler, Nash would need to be walked about so as not to catch a chill.”

“Is he really so delicate? Wouldn't it be better for me to learn how to operate an automobile, then?”

“That, too,” Matty agreed. “However, there are far more horses than automobiles at the British embassy.” That was where they stayed, thanks to her friend's friends.

“Come down and pet him a bit; let him know you appreciate his hard work.”

Tying the reins in a neat knot, Fwendi descended and joined Matty on the ground. The horse shied from her metal hand.

“Just let him get a sniff,” Matty said.

“He did that before, back at the stables!” she objected. “Can't he remember?”

“They're not always the brightest creatures, horses.”

Fwendi tucked her prosthetic under her left arm for a moment to warm it. When she raised it to Nash's nose again, he tilted his head and flared his black nostrils, then ran them up and down the length of the brass, over the leather cuff, and along the web of straps concealed beneath her dress's sleeve. “Shall I move it?”

“If you're ever going to get used to it— Let me hold the bridle, though.”

This model of prosthetic was mostly for show. By flexing her muscles a certain way against the straps, she could bend the jointed fingers; if she crooked the thumb, they would squeeze shut on anything they held. A gear cocked the wrist and a spring released it. It was much less useful than some of her hands. But prettier.

With her flesh hand she caressed the horse's smooth-haired cheek. Done investigating her strangeness, he turned back to Matty, dropping his nose again onto his shoulder, which was not a lot higher than hers any more, Fwendi saw. She was still young, but catching up.

Later that day she selected a different hand to wear. In her opinion it was as beautiful as any. Its polished brass shone brilliantly in the sun streaming through the half-open shutters of the embassy room in which she lodged. But it bore much less resemblance to what most people had at the ends of their arms. Five knives, three of them detachable, stood in place of the fingers.

Matty raised his eyebrows at her choice when she met him on the embassy building's steps.

“I thought our host would like to look this one over,” she explained. Really, she didn't know why she'd picked such an outright weapon to wear.

“Do you perceive Mr. Owen as so bloodthirsty?”

She smiled and nodded.

Their appointment was for afternoon tea. She had watched restlessly while the streets outside the embassy filled as the morning wore on, then emptied again in the heat of noon. Now there was once more enough traffic that Fwendi was happy they took a taxicab.

Its windows were lowered. As they bowled down the avenue toward the harbor, cool air blew against them—more than the wind of their passage, for Fwendi saw how the dust stirred ahead of them and to either side. No trees for shade.