Leopard in Exile (34 page)

Wessex had determined that his potential needs had been as well supplied as if he were in fact here in his

official capacity.

Money, in the form of impeccable gold napoleons, went into the hollow heels of his boots as well as into

his wallet. His knives and pistols took their accustomed places in his coat. His rapier and

sword-cane—here Wessex hesitated, then chose the rapier, as the heavier and slightly more reliable

weapon. He had no identity papers, but those would be relatively uncommon in a port the size of

Nouvelle-Orléans, and easy enough to acquire in any case.

What he would do when he reached the city, Wessex had not yet decided.

It is a matter more difficult than perhaps it first seems to make one's clandestine egress from an unfamiliar

country house in the early evening, but His Grace the Duke of Wessex had a great deal of practice at this

obscure art, and gained the front steps without incident. It was to Mr. Baronner's advantage to hold

himself insensible of the comings and goings of his guests, and so Wessex was not terribly concerned

about being accosted by his host. While Koscuisko had been heading in entirely the opposite direction,

Wessex had no faith in his remaining absent, and so speed was of the essence.

A long broad avenue stretched from the front door to the distant iron gates—a distance, Wessex

estimated, of over a mile. Beyond the gates Wessex could see a road which would be his eventual, but

not immediate, destination. He began walking away from the house at an angle, briskly, but not as if here

were running away.

The plantations of the New World had much in common with the great country houses of the old. Each

was as much a small village as a single domicile, with outbuildings scattered about its grounds. Moving

without haste, Wessex found one that suited his needs. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Not all plantations had ice-houses, but Baronner had served them ice with their juleps, and so Wessex

had known to look for one. In winter, ice would be harvested from shallow ponds and even from the

river itself, cut into chunks and stored between layers of burlap and sawdust for later use. Wessex seated

himself upon the shelf that ran around three sides of the room and felt the marblelike chill sink through his

trousers. After the muggy heat of the day, the cool of the ice-house was particularly welcome, though it

would be an uncomfortable place to remain for very long.

It was not necessary to have a hidingplace that would be safe from an earnest search, for Koscuisko

could not search for him without admitting to their host that Wessex's absence was not an expected and

deliberate thing—a confession which would undoubtedly cause the already-skittish Baronner to withdraw

his assistance. All Wessex need do was wait here long enough for full dark to cloak his movements and

then take to the road. He could borrow or even steal a horse at the next plantation he passed.

And then… ?

In Nouvelle-Orléans, he would have all the advantages of a great urban center at his disposal. Wessex

backed himself to bluff his way both into and out of the local White Tower listening post, if need be; he

would certainly be able to discover if Sarah, or Louis, or even Meriel, were there, and lay his plans

accordingly. As for d'Charenton, at the moment Wessex was minded to let him alone, so long as their

paths did not cross. D'Charenton was France's problem. Let France deal with him.

And as for Bonaparte's quest for the Hallows… well, even assuming they
did
exist (a point upon which

Wessex was doubtful), if the Corsican could master them all, who was to say he didn't deserve the

laurels of victory?

It was an idea he would never have entertained five years ago, or even two, but more and more these

days, Wessex was being forced to the conclusion that he must withdraw entirely from the Shadow Game.

It seemed he was developing an inconvenient sense of ethics, a fatal thing for a spy. With a faint sense of

relief, Wessex realized that he would be glad to leave the chessboard of Europe to other players and

retire into public life.

If he were allowed to.

If Sarah were still alive.

Not for the first time, the specter that had haunted his every hour since his return to England thrust its way

into the forefront of his consciousness. Sarah might be dead even now. Six weeks had passed since

anyone whom Wessex had talked to had seen her alive. Those forces that had so easily swept Louis up

in their net might have taken her as well, with the same casual malice.

If that were so—

Let it not be so
. Awkwardly and painfully, Wessex petitioned the Power that he had not entreated since

the day his father had vanished forever into France.
Let it not be so
.

For. if it were, Wessex need have no further fear of making old bones.

Illya Koscuisko strolled, quickly but without haste, in the direction of the slave quarters. He had been

told in Baltimore to make himself available for a briefing from a local contact who would wait for him at

The Clouds. His man would find him—if he did not, Illya was to try at the same time each evening for the

next three days, after which he was to go on—alone—as best he could.

Dead or in London
. The orders Paris Station had passed him about his partner still ran, loath though

Illya was to consider the fact. While he was in London delivering Rutledge, he had been briefed in place

of Wessex for the d'Charenton matter, but he had been sent to assess the situation in Louisianne, not to

act upon it. London still wanted Wessex to pull the trigger, for the Duke had experience in executing

sorcerers and could do it in safety. That Wessex should be traveling to New Albion on business of his

own instead of going to ground, or that Illya should have disregarded his orders far enough to first follow,

then kidnap, the Duke, was something Misbourne had probably not contemplated.

"
Probably" is not "certainly
," Illya reminded himself. It was entirely possible that Wessex was even

now sailing under secret orders of his own, and that the search for his missing Duchess was merely a

cover story. Stranger things had happened in playing out the Shadow Game, but somehow Illya doubted

that this was the case, this time. He had known Wessex a long time, but the cool, imperturbably

indifferent political he had known existed no longer. That man had vanished like morning frost under the

glow of Roxbury's sun, and the Wessex who remained cared passionately about too many things. The

English, Illya told himself wisely, were not made for passion, and he feared its effects on his friend.

He'd hoped he could tempt Wessex back to the Game by bringing him along to Nouvelle-Orléans. If he

could not do that, at least he could keep him safe from capture and execution by another of the White

Tower's agents. If not for Wessex's intervention, Illya himself would have been dead long ago, and Illya

longed to return the favor.

Still, it would have been easier if the two of them could have been open with each other as of old. Not

only was Illya not entirely certain Sarah was missing—though, given Wessex's half-mad behavior, he was

inclined to credit her voyage and disappearance—he could not imagine what reason had brought her to

the New World in the first place, assuming she had indeed come. Wessex presumably knew, but had not

confided in him.

Illya shook his head regretfully. The only thing more stubborn than an Englishman was an Englishman in

love, and Illya felt he recognized the symptoms.

His peregrinations had brought him across the wide lawn and its pastel outbuildings, through a stand of

cypress, and into another world entirely.

Here rows on rows of tiny shanties of unpainted wood stood huddled together. Some had small gardens

beside them, others only the broom-scrubbed dust of a Louisianne dooryard. In the pale dust, children

too young to work played elaborate games with twigs and pebbles for toys. The field laborers, men and

women alike in garments of shapeless canvas, walked slowly through the late-afternoon sunshine in the

direction of the communal kitchen in which their evening meal was being prepared. Some glanced at him

curiously as they passed, but most kept their eyes downcast and averted.

This was the
barracoon
, the habitation of the human property whose ownership was permitted by the

infamous Black Code of Louisianne. It had been written in 1724 to govern the conduct of the blacks in

Louisianne. While it admitted the possibility of manumission, its penalties were some of the harshest in the

New World.

Slavery was a difficult notion for Illya to comprehend. The soldiers of every army in the world were

worse fed and worse treated than the slaves of a Louisianne plantation, but they were still free. The

servants of every noble house, the serfs of Illya's homeland, impoverished and exploited as they were,

still possessed that elusive quality of freedom that these people did not. It was—his mind scrabbled for

some comparison—like a soup without salt. There was no difference that could be seen between the free

and the unfree, but there was a difference nonetheless.

"
Baas—
is it true?"

Illya stopped. The woman who had served them in Baronner's library stood in the doorway of one of the

cabins. It had no door, only a length of faded calico hung over the entrance that the woman held back

with one hand, ready to retreat into the poor shelter of her home at any moment.

Illya took a step closer. "Is what true?" he asked, his voice as low as her own.

"You've come from
faraway
—" her voice made the phrase into one word, as perhaps it was in her mind

"—and we hear—is it true what the English say, that they make a law that nobody can own anybody no

more?"

Her eyes were wide with born hope and fear. She was risking much in even speaking to him. His

displeasure could get her killed. Under the law, her life was worth nothing more than an arbitrary amount

of money. Under law he might kill her, but he could not murder her any more than he could murder a fish,

or a bird.

"Yes," Illya told her in a low voice. "It is true. No Englishman may own a slave, and any slave who

reaches English soil is free."

"Free…" the woman whispered.

"It is called Wilberforce's Anti-Slavery Bill. It has been law since March of this year—law in New Albion

and Prince Rupert's Land both. If you can get North, you will be free," Illya told her.

"They kill you if you run," the woman said flatly, the animation suddenly fading from her face. She

dropped the curtain and retreated, and Illya found himself staring at a blank expanse of fabric.

He shook his head, suddenly angry with himself. What right did he have to fill the girl's head with

unattainable dreams? He did her no favor by doing so. He turned away and walked on.

At last he reached the edge of the slave cabins, and was standing on the edge of a verdant and tangled

patch of primal Louisianne. Even this late in the year, the land was as lush as the dreams of an opium

eater, a labyrinth of trees and vines and pools of black water.

"So,
Anglais
, you 'ave kep' our
rendezvous
, hahn?" an oddly hollow voice asked in heavily-accented

English.

"I am not English," Illya replied, also in that language. He turned slowly toward his interrogator.

The man facing him was dressed like any Orléannaise lordling, but his face was concealed by an

elaborate mask of gilded and painted leather such as revelers wore at Carnivale. Illya recognized the

mask as that of Momus, the Greek deity of mockery and misrule who had become the patron of the wild

celebrations that signified the beginning of Lent. It was the mask which distorted his voice and made him

impossible to recognize, but Illya had a sudden notion that the masked man recognized
him
, for he took

a step backward and raised a hand, as if to ward off a blow.

"No," he said. "You are no'
Anglais
, and dat de trut'. But I was tol' an Englishman would come."

"Plans have changed. Are you Momus?"

"If you are Janus, den I am dat ol' man of de moon, me." It was the sign Illya had been told to expect

back in London.

"The moon brings lunacy," he answered, giving the proper countersign.

"It is a crazy worl' we live in,
n'est-ce pas
?"

Sign, countersign, and confirmation. They could proceed.

"What do you have for me?" Illya asked. All he knew was that "Momus" was a well-placed local who

had been feeding information about d'Charenton to Lord Q of the White Tower for months. Illya hoped

the man would be able to tell him something fresh about the local situation.

"De news is no' good,
cher
. Gove'nor 'Charenton is a fien' out of hell. He worship de Black One in de

cryp' under de Cat'edral de Sain' Louie. He mean to mak' hisself King here in de New Worl', an' have de

power of de anoint' King, him, lak' de ol' Kings in de Ol' Worl'."

The power of the anointed kings, the kings of the land, came from the sacred marriage with the land.

Henry had made it upon his accession, and Prince Jamie would make it in turn. Illy a's own father had

pledged to the land, for he had been of noble blood. It was access to this power which Napoleon had

lost by executing the old king, for the Revolution had destroyed any who might have helped him