Witchy Winter

by D. J. Butler

  Kinta Jane tapped the side of her cheek and shrugged.

  “Sit, please.”

  She sat and scooted in close to the table. That let her take the stiletto from its sheath on her forearm and hold the weapon ready, but out of sight.

  He stood and shut the door behind her, closing the two of them in alone, then returned to the seat opposite her.

  “You were born with a tongue.” Before she could react, he raised a hand to cut her off. “Please, let me tell you what I know.”

  Kinta Jane nodded, keeping a straight face.

  “You were born with a tongue. You had it removed, willingly, because you saw a vision. You were told the vision first, by your brother René, and then, having tasted a sacred herb in a secret room, you saw the vision yourself.”

  A vision of civilization destroyed, and forced to begin again.

  Of the old world rolled up like a scroll, and its daughter born in fire and blood.

  Franklin’s Vision.

  Kinta Jane nodded, ever so slightly.

  “You found yourself here, traveling north into the teeth of the worst winter in twenty years, because you’re going to Philadelphia. Because you have a message to deliver to a secret location, what Dr. Weishaupt taught us to call a blind drop. There is a seat in the Walnut Street Theater, on the floor, the right arm of which is deliberately loosened, allowing someone who knows it has been so modified to lift the arm, revealing a small cavity beneath. The seat is 17F.”

  Kinta Jane’s heart beat faster. Her grip on the stiletto was slippery with her own sweat, so she wiped both her hands off on her skirt. She stared at the gray-eyed man and tried to keep her face expressionless. Who was he?

  “You would attend a Saturday matinee performance. You would place your message in the dead drop in the arm of 17F. You must do this because your brother René is dead, and you know no one else in the Conventicle to which you have committed your life.”

  Kinta Jane nodded once and tightened her grip on the stiletto, bringing it to the edge of the table so as to be ready for action.

  “My name is Isaiah Wilkes,” the gray-eyed man said. “As a boy, I was an apprentice printer. When my master became a cleric, I didn’t follow him, but instead left printing to become an actor under Walter Fitzroy’s direction. I’m now the head of Philadelphia’s second—or perhaps third—most famous troupe of players. We’re best known for a series of plays we perform on wagonback at Easter, called the Philadelphia Mystery Cycle.

  “But I never lost touch with my original master, nor ever left his service. And when he wrote his famous Compact, he and John Penn also founded their Conventicle, to protect what he had wrought from the apocalyptic flames he’d seen in his vision, and I was one of its first members.

  “In some circles, at some times, I’m known as the Franklin.” Isaiah Wilkes smiled, and the crooked crease broke his face from earnest anxiety into a relaxed warmth. “You couldn’t reach the Walnut Street Theater, Kinta Jane, so the Walnut Street Theater has come to you. It was easy to find you.”

  He reached under his shirt and pulled out an irregular brown object, a tattered bit of leather. The object had a hole punched through it so it could hang on a leather thong—an amulet of some sort, then. She squinted at what initially appeared to be a line of astrological characters, and then pulled back.

  The neatly inked characters spelled out KINTA JANE EMBRY.

  The medallion was her tongue.

  Kinta Jane dropped the knife to the floor. Its clatter rang loud in her ears, but if the Franklin noticed it, he said nothing. Instead, he reached across the table with both hands and wrapped them around her fingers.

  “Will you write for me?” he asked. “Will you write what you would have put into the dead drop?”

  With a trembling hand, Kinta Jane took up the pen. Dipping it into the ink, she drew two large circles, and then quickly sketched out the two sides of the Heron King’s coin she had received aboard the chevalier’s hulk Incroyable: the plow on one side, and the blade on the other.

  She laid the pen on the paper.

  She was crying.

  Isaiah Wilkes looked solemnly at the drawing of the coin and nodded. Reaching into a pocket, he produced a gold coin and laid it on the table. It was identical to the one she had just drawn.

  Kinta Jane gasped.

  “I had this by a messenger from René,” he said. “This coin is the reason I’ve come looking for you. The other members of René’s cell are dead, discovered and killed by the Chevalier of New Orleans. You came as far as you could alone. We’ll go the remainder together.”

  Kinta Jane was full of questions, and frustrated as never before by her muteness. She seized the pen again and gave herself a voice.

  Where?

  Isaiah Wilkes nodded. “To Philadelphia. On the way, we’ll see a wise woman, who may be able to do something about your tongue. Whether she can or not, I need you to come with me as a witness.”

  Witness?

  “The Franklin is a leader, of sorts, though mostly the parts of the Conventicle lead themselves. The Franklin gathers information and acts upon it, and principally what the Franklin does is bear witness. He’s called to bear witness to power, and it turns out that my master was very far-seeing in establishing the Franklin for this role. Brother Onas has fallen asleep, you see, or perhaps he is corrupted, or both. He was to be one of the great bulwarks against the coming of Simon Sword, and instead he’s about his own program, seeking his own power. He must be awoken, and if he cannot be, then other powers must be informed and aroused, who can take his place.”

  Brother Onas?

  “The Emperor,” Isaiah Wilkes said. “You and I must go to Philadelphia and try one last time to speak with Thomas Penn.”

  * * *

  Ahmed Abd al-Wahid hurled the Dutchman to the floor.

  Van Dijk bounced, rolled, and ended very nearly on his feet, an acrobatic maneuver belying his shock of white hair and the avuncular lines of his face.

  “Why are you doing this?” Van Dijk snapped.

  Abd al-Wahid was the only mameluke present. He and his surviving companions had tracked Van Dijk to the house of his daughter and her son, a shipping merchant who worked in precious metals and cloth. Van Dijk was the only member of the City Council they’d been able to find.

  Now Abd al-Wahid delivered the Dutch furniture seller to the chevalier in the chevalier’s office. This room was warded with burning herbs in pots in the corner, with yarn doodles stretched across the window-frames and the door-lintels, and with painted symbols on all the walls. At the far end of the chevalier’s office stood paired Vodun altars, and the chevalier’s pet mambo—or perhaps his captive?—came in at least once daily to offer rum, sugar, tobacco, and other delicacies to the idols worshipped there.

  Thinking of the idolatry, Abd al-Wahid spat. He was careful to spit in the direction of the Dutchman, so as not to give the chevalier the idea that he was expressing contempt for the Vodun witch.

  The chevalier himself appeared to be a Christian, rather than a worshipper of the dark Africk gods. He consulted the mambo as one who needed magic performed, rather than as a spiritual seeker.

  Still, he consulted her.

  It hadn’t worked. The chevalier sat propped in his bed with large pillows, the skin of his face sallow, his pores larger than they should be, his hair thinner than it had been, his movements slow as those of a basking lizard. A spittoon at his feet collected the blood and bile he coughed into it. He worked and slept in the same room and he ate only food the mambo had blessed, which mostly seemed to consist of very bland, simple matter—baked sweet potato, boiled rice, stewed tomato, water. All of it without any spice at all.

  It was a hard fall for a man who was famed for his palate as far away as Paris.

  The chevalier clutched the writing board on his lap with both hands and glared at Van Dijk. “You voted not to approve the quarterly tax returns.”

  Van Dijk rose to a slouch and stared at his o
wn feet. “I argued in favor of approval.” Both men were speaking French.

  The chevalier talked slowly, pausing to inhale with deep breaths that made a wet, rattling sound in his chest. “And yet the published…minutes do not reflect that…Indeed, the recorded vote was…unanimous.”

  Van Dijk shrugged and scratched behind his ear. “I didn’t…I couldn’t…” He was manifestly looking for an explanation of his own behavior that would seem innocent. “The Council votes are usually unanimous. I voted with the others to…to retain their good will. So I could stay on the Council, and maybe next time persuade them to a better outcome.”

  “You’re on the Council because…I put you there.”

  “There are elections.” The Dutchman looked embarrassed by his own words.

  “The Council didn’t do this alone.” The chevalier adjusted his posture with a pained wince, leaning forward with elbows on his desk. “Who put…you up to this?”

  Van Dijk looked out the window.

  “I can think of…three possibilities,” the chevalier said. “The Emperor.”

  Van Dijk snorted and looked confused. “What? No.”

  “The old…Bishop Ukwu. Before his death.”

  Van Dijk shook his head. “No, that man was as otherworldly as a saint. He’d sooner have swallowed live spiders than meddle in politics.”

  “A saint?” The chevalier arched his eyebrows, groaning with the effort. “Interesting. I think you’d be surprised at…how much the sainted former bishop…liked to meddle in politics. But of course…the third possibility is…his son Etienne, the criminal…and new bishop.”

  Van Dijk gulped. “He pressured us.”

  “With threats?” the Chevalier asked. “Arson? Kidnapping? Murder?”

  “With…yes.”

  “And having announced…your disapproval of the returns…you are all now in hiding. He pressured you into this?”

  Van Dijk hesitated. “He suggested it. And he…offered resources.”

  “Do you know where…the others are hiding?”

  “No.” Van Dijk looked up, a ray of light in his eyes. “But I could find out.”

  The chevalier considered this offer.

  Abd al-Wahid rested his hand on his hip, near the hilt of his scimitar. He liked this man Gaston Le Moyne—the chevalier was ruthless. He’d be a worthy prince-capitaine of the order, should he accept the Prophet and say the Shahada. If he contributed his lands to the order, perhaps they could even be given back to him.

  What value would it be to have an Elector of the Empire as prince-capitaine of the mamelukes?

  “What did you hope…to accomplish?” the chevalier asked.

  “You mean, what did he hope to do?”

  The chevalier shook his head slowly. “I said you, and I meant it. Is this an attempt…to get power?”

  “The other councilors…yes. Power. Independence. The death of the old bishop…some say that maybe you were involved. And if you could kill another Elector, you could surely kill a councilor.”

  “Kill a councilor?” The chevalier laughed softly.

  “And therefore you needed to be restrained.” Van Dijk looked up, sudden fear in his face. “This is what the other councilors have said, you understand.”

  “I understand.” The chevalier’s face was a mask. “You only went along with them…to stay in their good graces…so you could better serve my interests in the future.”

  The Dutchman gasped in relief. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “And the young bishop, then? What does he aim to do? I have the money already.”

  Van Dijk shrugged. “He has a fool’s notions. He thinks people can be persuaded not to pay.”

  “He’s right,” the chevalier said. “Indeed, the people of New Orleans…have a grand tradition of evading…every stamp and tariff they possibly can. You Dutch, along with the Catalans…of the bayou and the Igbo of the gulf…keep my men very busy trying to…collect what is lawfully owed.” It was a long speech, for a man who had such trouble breathing. “And I do have…need of the money.”

  “Not me,” Van Dijk hastened to say. “I don’t cheat. I’m an honest merchant.”

  “Which is as much as to say, a chaste harlot. So, the newly minted priest…wearing the mantle of his dead father…wishes to attack my legitimacy. I’m corrupt, a thief…an unjust taker of taxes…he says to those who already resent the…few and light taxes they pay. And if he can get them to pay less…he thinks he can starve me out.”

  Van Dijk shook his head. “It’s a fool’s plan. You’re a richer man than he thinks.”

  The chevalier’s eyes flashed. “I am richer than he thinks. What do you know about it?”

  Van Dijk stepped back, off balance. “Only…only that, having built the furniture for this glorious Palais, I know your lands must bring you much more wealth than the city taxes could. I’m in your service, My Lord.”

  Abd al-Wahid could smell the merchant’s fear.

  “What would you do, in my service…Meneer Van Dijk? How far would you be willing to go?”

  Van Dijk rubbed his hands together. “I’ll vote how you like, of course. We can approve the next returns.”

  The chevalier showed no emotion.

  “I can speak out now,” the Dutchman added. “I’ll speak publicly, and say it was a mistake, and that we should have approved the returns.”

  “What if instead I asked you to…continue to speak out against me, but to report…to me in secret on the doings…of the young bishop?” The faintest hint of a sly smile curled the corner of the chevalier’s upper lip.

  “A spy? A spy, yes!” Van Dijk rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. “I could do that.”

  “I’ll have to punish the councilors, of course,” the Chevalier said.

  “You mean…the other councilors.”

  “All those appearing to be…in rebellion against me. I’ll have to kill loved ones…burn down businesses. I must be respected…and so New Orleans must see the reprisals.”

  “But not me,” Van Dijk said.

  “I could spare your family,” the Chevalier said slowly. “I could merely burn down a…warehouse or two. Perhaps even only a…half-full warehouse. But surely, you see that…I can’t spare you…if you’re to be my spy.”

  “But My Lord Chevalier…it seems harsh.”

  Abd al-Wahid saw where the interview was inexorably headed. He wrapped a fold of his scarf over the mouth of his scabbard to hide the rasp, and then slowly drew his scimitar.

  “Does it?” The chevalier looked amused.

  “Perhaps an empty warehouse, My Lord.”

  “Hmmm.” The chevalier turned his head and looked out the window as if weighing his options. “Kill him.”

  “My Lord?” the Dutchman asked.

  Ahmed Abd al-Wahid ran the merchant through the lungs, stabbing from the side and sinking his blade in all the way to the hilt. Van Dijk pivoted and stared upward in shock as he sank to the floor, dark blood suddenly bubbling from his lips and puddling around his white hair.

  The mameluke withdrew his blade, wiping it clean on the merchant’s carpetlike waistcoat.

  “If he would haggle over this…he would haggle over anything.” The chevalier looked down at the fresh corpse and shook his head. “I could never trust such a man. And his death is just as useful to me…as any information he might provide. I’ll have him hung on the Place d’Armes. Jackson has been there long enough.”

  The chevalier leaned over his spittoon to hack a thick ball of bloody phlegm from his lungs and spit it into the brass container.

  Abd al-Wahid said nothing.

  “But for you and your men, Prince-Capitaine,” the chevalier said, rising and wiping sputum on the back of his sleeve, “I have a more important task.”

  “The poet tells us that everyone has been made for a particular work,” Abd al-Wahid said. “And the desire for that work has been put in every heart.”

  Young Bishop Ukwu must pay for the death of al-Farangi. />
  “What dog?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Come,” Ma’iingan whispered to the boy Landon.

  “And what?” Landon stared, his face a slab of red in the glow from the asemaa fire.

  “Whose men are those?” Ma’iingan nodded toward the other side of the wall.

  Landon again pressed his eye to the thin crack between the boards and looked at the company of six soldiers in black coats, dismounting and hitching their horses to the fence surrounding the asemaa field.

  Could the soldiers see the light inside the drying barn? Ma’iingan hoped not.

  “They’re the Chief Godi’s men.” Landon squirmed like a puppy in discomfort. “Black is the color of the College.”

  “You mean Old One Eye, na?”

  “Yes. He’s an Elector, like the earl.” Landon looked at George hesitantly. “In the earl’s madness, some say that Old One Eye rules alone in Johnsland. I’m not going to fight his men.”

  “I’m shocked you would pass up this opportunity to show what a warrior you are.”

  Landon’s face registered confusion.

  Ma’iingan sighed. “I’m joking, and this isn’t the time for it.” He crossed the barn floor and dragged George Randolph Isham to his feet. With a quick motion, he cut the rope tying George’s hands and began roughly dragging the young man out of his coat and hat. “Those men, you think they’re interested in Landon Chapel, na?”

  Landon hesitated. “No.”

  “They’re looking for George, here,” Ma’iingan continued. “And the Sioux raider who kidnapped him.”

  “You said you were Comanche.”

  “Did I?” Ma’iingan shook his head. “I have a hard time telling Indians apart, some days.”

  “I can never tell when you’re being serious.”

  “Good. I think Old One Eye has caused too much trouble already, so you and I are going to stop him from causing any more.” Ma’iingan tossed George’s hat and coat to Landon. “Put these on.”

  George looked at Ma’iingan with curiosity in his face, and Ma’iingan winked at him.

  He looked at Nathaniel. The boy moaned and stirred. He seemed stronger, louder than he had an hour earlier, but Ma’iingan was afraid to take any chances.