by Emerson, Ru
Chris gritted his teeth. “Gotta. Your old man finds me down here, shivering like a—”
“He will not come back this day,” Ariadne said flatly. “I told you, did you think I lied to make easy for you? But I know his ways; he likes causing pain but only if there is purpose to it. Just now, he has no more cause to tell Maurice to hit you.”
“Oh, yeah? I can think of a few causes.”
“He sees only this of Eddie and Dija,” she broke in hurriedly. She’d gone pale; Chris clamped down on his lip cautiously and said nothing else. “He has difficulties of his own; with his plans for France and my uncle Philippe, he will be busy for some time, to find a way to make all that come right.”
“Good.” He wasn’t sure he could believe that; if she did, he wouldn’t dissuade her, though.
“Yes. The chair—I only thought, it might be better if you were in it, the soft one, if—when Aleyza comes.”
“Ah—right.” The old woman who’d organized the—the Anlu? she’d called it? Those like Ari, who’d had enough of macho violence, anyway. Well, terrific. He’d had enough of macho violence himself.
He was suddenly reminded of the women in his mother’s Wicca, back in L.A. all those years earlier. As if women already made antagonistic by the macho types would really care what he felt; anything with testosterone was the ipso facto enemy. Still, maybe not. Not everything was black and white, and Ariadne had an in with those women.
She was waiting for an answer, he reminded himself. “Good—idea.” He shook his head as she held out her arms to help him. “Let me. See if I can make it up. If—they can get us out of here—ouch! damn!—I swear there’s something broken in there! If they can, I’d better be able to move out on my own feet.”
She nodded sharply. “You think once more; good. It is”—she drew the small, plain silver English watch he’d bought her out of her breast pocket, glanced at the window once more—“it is nearly the hour for tea.”
“I hope—” Chris set his teeth, dragged himself up on the side of the bed and swayed there for a moment, then drew himself upright and managed the five steps that brought him to her overstuffed reading chair. She got both arms under his good elbow, helped him ease himself down into it. He sat there for a long moment, eyes closed, breathing in fast, shallow pants so as not to aggravate his ribs any more than they already were, to get the room back in focus when he did look at it once more. Not to puke again. “God,” he said feelingly. “I hope something really does come of this. Your women. I—don’t think I can take another dose of Maurice.” He remembered something. “What—was that, at the end? What your father said to you?” She shook her head; she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me,” he insisted. “What he meant, about Maurice doesn’t like you.”
“Just that”—She shrugged, would-be casual, but her face and the set of her shoulders were tense—“that I tried to kick him once, just before you came, in a bad place. Because he took advantage of my other maid, Honorine, and made her—with child. I wanted to kill him, but I knew—not enough then about men—and so, I did not properly hurt him, I bruised only his pride. And he—he has not forgotten. What pain I caused, or what I intended.” She shook her head; salt-stiffened hair flew around her face. “We forget Maurice, ourselves—all that!—for now.”
“Everything? Don’t think so. What your father said, after the bit about Maurice?”
“I told you last night; you heard him as well. And Lucette, earlier. My uncle in France has learned of the Zero, and he is truly angry. Uncle Philippe has the honor my father does not, or their father. And so, my beloved papa thinks, which of the people around me wishes my doom? And he sees the tale as my doing, that I wrote to Uncle Philippe and exposed his dealings in that drug.”
“Oh, jeez,” Chris breathed. Dupret, letting Maurice pound on Ariadne—“We gotta get you out of here!”
“Not,” Ariadne said flatly, “without you, my Chris. Ever in my life. Wait.” She stepped back, listened a moment, then shook her head. “I thought there were voices below. Those cuts; I had better clean them.” He shook his head; she held up a hand. “You know what a cut becomes in a climate like this.”
“Like it’s gonna have time to get gross and kill me—”
She shook her head again. “No. Say nothing like that. I clean the cuts and cover them both. Is it not better if you cannot look upon that?”
“Got—” He glanced at his arm, swallowed. The line of dried blood on his forearm was starting to throb unpleasantly. His fingers were swollen, the handkerchief stiff. “Got a point, lady. Mmm. Go for it.” He could hear her rustling around in the washing; two men conversing outside the window in low voices and someone laughing derisively. Yeah. Big, tough Rhadazi, poke him with a knife and he pukes. Great. Knew I didn’t like blood, ‘specially my own. That, though—That he’d turn white and stutter, practically whine and crawl—Well, his reaction had definitely served the purpose: convinced Dupret he was telling the truth, bought them some time, like he’d planned, even if he hadn’t planned on getting—cut. Or acting like a total chicken-shit. If he could get the pair of them out of here before the Frenchman learned otherwise—get Ari out, anyway—I literally cannot take another dose of Maurice. I almost talked before. This time—jeez, I don’t know if I could stop myself. What was Mom’s old line, I’d tell secrets, make up secrets, just don’t hit me. He hissed as a cool, wet cloth touched his bare forearm.
“Shhh,” Ariadne soothed. “I am careful.” She eased his fingers, cloth and all, into a bowl of cool water.
“Do—what you gotta.” He set his jaw, kept his eyes closed, and let her work. Surprisingly, she was extremely gentle. Once she’d finished, he opened his eyes and managed what must be a pretty mangled-looking smile. “Thanks. Feels better.”
Again to his surprise, she laughed, very quietly. “Ah, you lie. But such a polite lie.”
“Still. Your old man comes in, sees this, he’s gonna think—”
“He knows already.” Her cheekbones were notably red, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “When Maurice cut you, what I said to him—never mind. He knows.”
“Yeah. Know what? We got lousy timing, both of us.”
“Timing?” She frowned, shook her head, but held up a hand when he would have spoken again; this time she was visibly blushing well into the throat of her shirtwaist. “Yes. Well. I see. We mend this of timing, once we are from French Jamaica.” She crossed to the small balcony and closed the doors. “It is too warm, I know, but quieter if Lucette—” She caught her breath sharply as the door latch clicked sharply; Lucette came in, followed by a stooped, elderly woman in black taffeta that made a high-pitched, irritating, swishing noise with her every slow step. She was supported by a woman with white hair and blue-black skin who wore a loose dress of red, yellow, and blue cotton and an enormous high-piled head scarf of all three colors together. Her dark feet were bare. Ariadne bowed to the older woman, then smiled and stepped forward to clasp the black woman around the neck. “Tante Emilie,” she murmured, and kissed her cheeks in turn. “Madame Aleyza,” she added more formally to the elderly Frenchwoman.
Aleyza let Emilie assist her into a chair at the table, waited until she was made comfortable, a cushion under her feet, a glass of peach-colored liquid at her elbow. “Mademoiselle Ariadne,” she said in reply; her French was precise, her voice high and shaky with age. She cast a black glance in Chris’s direction; he considered attempting to get to his feet—manners, he reminded himself warily, stuff like that counted among her class, and this woman might be all the hope they had at the moment—but he doubted his legs would hold him. Ariadne cast him a sidelong glance, made a discreet chopping motion with her hand; stay where you are, both clearly said.
Lucette stepped forward. “Miss—” She held out the magic-tinged rose and curtseyed deeply. “Madame Ariadne, this is yours, of course. I—your pardon for the blow—”
Ariadne gripped her hand, closed her fingers over the rose, and drew her back to her feet
. “No. Time, as you say, is short, and I know why you struck me, what my father has done with you, after I left this house. How much chance you had to tell him non. Not your fault. This of my father, first; tell me quickly what there is in France.”
Lucette nodded sharply. “Yes. Two days ago, Le Chat came to port, with all the brandy still aboard her, and a message; he was there to take it and he returned to the house in a full fury. These rages—”
“I know the rages,” Ariadne said. She glanced at Chris; Lucette paled, bit her lip. “Go on.”
“The rages worsen, you do not know how much of late—” Chris frowned; Lucette’s French was rapid, oddly accented, and his ears rang, anyway. This last was easier to understand for some reason. “Dupret has the Moorish disease,” he said. Aleyza glanced in his direction; her lip curled, and she looked away at once, dismissing him as male and so, beneath count. He’d expected it, really; it still rankled. “Ask Peronne,” he added as Lucette stared at him.
“Ah, Dieu!” Lucette paled, her skin muddy under the bright cosmetic as she suddenly understood. Ariadne gripped her fingers, hard.
“Yes, I am sorry you learn it so, but the disease can be dealt with, remember that.” Oh, jeez, Chris realized bleakly. Way to go, big mouth. She’s only sleeping with the dude, which means—
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Ariadne cast him a quick glance, shook her head the least bit.
“Yes,” she said. “It seems likely Henri Dupret has the Moorish disease. The rages, if nothing else. But that aside for now, if you can, petite.”
Despite suddenly haggard eyes, Lucette managed a weak smile. “You always call me that, as if I were half your size, instead of the other way about.”
“Not nearly so small. Pay heed, Lucette.” Ariadne patted her cheek. “Aleyza or another of the women will help you, there are powders my mother’s kin create with the aid of the old gods, swear you will obtain the powders and faithfully take them, petite,” Ariadne urged. “In the chance it is truth, the disease.” Silence. Lucette finally nodded; her mouth drooped. “This of the message, though—from France?”
“Yes.” Lucette nodded, seemed to gather scattered thoughts, and nodded again, sharply. “I waste time… The old Due has had a fit; he is unable to speak and his entire left side does not move. Your Uncle Philippe, he says the old man does not know him two days of three, and there is a crise in the east, the King impatient for victory in the war there—”
“As always,” Ariadne put in. “And so?”
“Philippe, he takes the charge, and sits in your grand-père’s seat on the King’s council, and somehow he learns that this southern drug has been spread among the eastern armies, and that it has come because his papa the Due d’Orleans ordered it, and his frère Henri was willing to send the drug to France. Philippe, he is in a fury, and in the letter, he says to Henri, ‘You have vast holding in Jamaica Frangaise, you have wealth and power there, and from this day on, it is all yours: I take no percentage, levy no tax—and you, in turn, make no claim upon me, or the house of Dupret, or anything in France you may have once thought to hold.’ So, your uncle. And Henri—I have seen him in a black rage, but never so strong as this.” She caught hold of Ariadne’s fingers. “He said perhaps this man, or that, or this captain or another—but finally and so certain he had it that it was you, miss, who wrote to your uncle once Henri could not censure your letters, that it was you who brought this calamity upon him.”
“I did not—” Ariadne had been shaking her head for some moments. She, too, was very pale, though not the ashen white Lucette had turned. “Had I thought of it—but I did not. So unfortunate, if I had, I could have created so much more hell for him than what he now sees. No matter. If he thinks I did as much, he will kill me, simply because the rumor might be true. No—he will have Maurice do murder. Henri Dupret kills only those against whom he duels, not those who could not meet him in gentleman’s style, and I, after all, am only female.”
She kept her hold on Lucette’s fingers, turned to Aleyza, who had been watching the two with great interest. “The gods know that I have suffered for true, Aleyza,” she said flatly. She caught hold of Lucette’s rose, held it out; her words took on a definite chantlike rhythm. The rose pulsed deep red. “Anlu, the power and the strength upon me; Anlu, the will and the way through me; Anlu the aid of my own and the light against the dark.” Silence. “Look at this, Aleyza,” Ariadne said finally. She flung one arm wide to include Chris. “Look at him! See what my father has caused done, what Maurice did, all to protect Dupret’s fortune that comes from Zero! And when he learns Chris lied to purchase for him and me time to get away from French Jamaica, he will kill us in such a fashion that—” She stopped, stared. Aleyza was laughing, a high-pitched, old woman’s cackle. Ariadne’s aunt took one nervous step back, and appeared to be trying to vanish against the whitewashed wall.
“Ah, yes,” Aleyza said finally. Her eyes were bright with tears of laughter, and she still chuckled wheezingly. “Oh, yes! By Anlu! You dare! Only you would have such arrogance!”
“I do swear!”
“Swear by our society, by the rose—swear by the very male God of the French Catholics, what does it matter? You ask my aid—our aid, and my presence in this house, old and ill as I am, and all for—you wretched girl!” Ariadne still stared at her. Aleyza laughed again. “It has often occurred to me, Miss Ariadne—or shall I say, instead, Madame Cray?—to wonder how it would be when one such as yourself found herself possessed by a man? Not simply given to a man but—well, yes! One so passionate against is so often passionate for, especially among women!”
Ariadne pulled herself together, let go of Lucette’s hands altogether, and took two steps to stand over the old woman. “Among women? What do you dare say of me, madame? I had no choice in the marriage! You know as much! But if you think Chris is like all men—”
“All men,” Aleyza said flatly. “All. Men. Once you would have said exactly as much, young woman. And now—you’ve set aside your oaths and bargained maidenry for the marriage bed of this ‘Chris,’ have you?”
“How dare you?” Ariadne whispered.
Aleyza laughed once more. “You think I don’t know about men and marriage beds? I was wed once, I had a man take me on that bed, not once, but many times! And I swore—never mind what I swore. You would never understand, would you? Because you accepted, where I rejected! You’ve bowed down, taken his coin, his name, his clothing for your back! You’ve turned squarely against us and all you swore to uphold. And now, because a whim of fate blew you into the grasp of a man not as—as amenable as this—this ‘Chris,’ you beg for my aid—not for yourself, oh, no!—but for this ‘us’? My own dishonor cries against such a thing, and against you, Ariadne!”
8
Ariadne stared at the old woman, her mouth open and her eyes wide with shock. Chris shifted slightly but kept his own mouth prudently closed; this Aleyza patently wanted nothing from him, and anything he tried to say could only make matters worse. From behind the older woman’s chair, the dark woman Ariadne had called tante sent her eyes his way and shook her head very slightly; her index fingers were crossed over her breast and he could suddenly see the silver rose hanging there. It glowed briefly as he watched, a deep, warm, and possibly warning red, then faded to plain silver once more. Emilie’s eyes flickered toward her elderly companion; she compressed her lips.
Ariadne shook herself; Aleyza brought her chin up, and waited. “That you dare say such a thing to me,” Ariadne finally managed. She spoke very softly but anger edged the words. “After all the years I have endured in this house, under that fiend who is my father; after what I did for the women of French Jamaica, and for you in particular!”
“The past is dead,” Aleyza countered flatly. She primmed her lips. “Like my husband. Whatever you did for any here, or any of us—you turned that to nothing when you put yourself and that”—she cast Chris a withering glance—“that man together as ‘us.’” She held out her arm, turned her
head slightly. “There is nothing for me to do here, Emilie, Lucette.” She was panting slightly as the two women hauled her to her feet. Ariadne gazed at her, arms still folded. “I pity you, you foolish young woman,” she said.
An unpleasant, short silence. Ariadne’s lip curled. “Not half so much as I pity you. Tomorrow, there is the small chance I will grow less foolish, but you will remain old and stupid.”
Aleyza stood very still; her skin flushed a muddy, mottled red and she turned to let Emilie aid her from the room. Lucette dithered, then murmured, “There may be another way, trust me and do nothing yet.” Aleyza snarled at her from the hallway; Lucette hurried out, pulled the door to, and slammed the bar into place.
Ariadne stood very still, eyes fixed on the door. She sighed finally, very faintly, turned, and knelt at Chris’s side. “I did not mean to put you to such a test.”
“I know.”
“She—does not like men. I just—never thought she so hated all men. Not beyond sense.”
“Well—she’s got her reasons obviously.”
“Oh. Yes, well. She has. Or had; she has been a widow nearly two years.” The corners of her mouth quirked briefly. “Robbed and stabbed in an alley, or so everyone said.”
“Ah.” He coughed painfully, swore under his breath as his lip began bleeding again. Ariadne got back to her feet, went into the washing, and came back at once with a squat mug of water and a wet cloth. “Listen—you don’t think she’ll want to kill you now, do you? Have you killed, because you know so much about them, because you’re one of the enemy now?”
Ariadne shook her head. “There is not one of the Anlu who would dare come against me.”
