“I’ve heard from the JADL that several hundred of the captured refugees from the Schröder are all now on this place called Rathlin Island, not far from Belfast. That’s where they’ll be deporting anyone they catch. The island is quarantined and the waters around it patrolled. They’ve been told that any unknown boats trying to leave the island will be sunk,” Jack was saying, scowling. “They’re acting like these poor people are carrying a plague.”
“We know better,” JoHanna said. “They’re just people. Nothing more. But if our group is found…” She let the statement hang for a moment. “Jack and I have firmed up everything with the JADL,” JoHanna was saying. “All the drop-offs are set. But we’ll still have half a dozen of the refugees with us when we reach Cincinnati—they’ll be picked up there and taken to Charlotte, where their contact is a guy called Theodorus, supposedly some wealthy joker who’s a big donor to the JADL.”
“There ain’t nothing easy or safe about any of this for anyone in this room,” Jack interjected. His Cajun accent was nearly as thick as JoHanna’s. “We’re still days away from Cincinnati with the stops we’re scheduled to make. We’ve already had one visit from ICE, and I’d be surprised if there ain’t more. From what I’ve heard, there’s lots of official types interested in finding Nurassyl, especially. And this Theodorus wants us to make certain he gets to Charlotte.”
Jeremiah sniffed at that. “There’s already been people snooping around that cabin, and I’ve heard some of the crew wonderin’ about the meals that keep gettin’ sent up there. The rumors from the crew are all over the place: that there’s some big-ass star holed up there with his or her entourage who don’t want to be seen, or that it’s one a’ them aces or jokers doing the same, or that the people in there came down with a nasty communicable disease they picked up traveling. Hard to keep it from the crew that there’s people in there, and then havin’ the passengers pick up on it.”
“All of which is bad, if it means anyone on the boat gets curious enough to try to find out the truth. We’ve used the ‘steam leak’ excuse once already,” Captain Montaigne said. She glanced around the room as she said that, as if expecting to find Wilbur, but her gaze never found him. “Okay. I’ll talk to the crew personally and impress upon them that if I hear any of them gossiping about this, they’ll be off the boat the next time we dock. Maybe that’ll stop some of the speculation.”
“Hell, make ’em swim for it, Cap’n,” Jeremiah said, and everyone chuckled.
“In the meantime, let’s try to make our handoffs in the sanctuary cities go smoothly. There’s another one coming up.”
Wilbur had heard enough. He slipped out of the room, though he was fairly sure one of those inside would notice the newly dripping wall, not that it mattered.
It was dusk when Wilbur emerged from the captain’s stateroom. Just looking out from the bow of the deck’s promenade, he knew where he was from decades of being on the river: they were passing Woodstock Island, Mississippi, on the port side, with the town of Greenville on the starboard.
The lights of Greenville were sliding by on the eastern bank just beyond Archer Island. Greenville was already dotted with lights in the evening; little-populated Woodstock Island was a featureless green darkness with several hawks circling against a backdrop of clouds tinted red and orange by the setting sun. Several pleasure craft were still out in the main channel, though he knew many of them were heading back to their respective docks and harbors for the night.
The sight was one on which Wilbur lingered for several minutes.
He was cool enough now that he didn’t need to make certain that he wasn’t visible in the near-darkness. He moved down the promenade of the texas deck and slipped into stateroom 3. Now that several of the Kazakhs had left the boat, both this stateroom and the other down on the main deck were somewhat less crowded than they’d been before, but quarters were still tight. Jyrgal was in the main room, sitting in a chair in front of the coffee table, on top of which a lamp, minus the shade, had been laid. Aliya, his wife, and Nurassyl were sitting on the floor near Jyrgal along with a few other of the Kazakhs, watching. Wilbur noticed that the mittens were gone from Jyrgal’s hands … and—like his son, Nurassyl—he didn’t have hands. His arms ended in amorphous blobs, and set in them were steel instruments: a pair of needle-nosed pliers on one, and a screwdriver and clamp on the other. He was fiddling around in the light socket of the lamp. He glanced up and Wilbur saw that he noticed the door streaked with water.
“Wilbur,” Jyrgal said, and Wilbur allowed himself to become visible, though he was little more than a nearly transparent wisp, as cool as he was. Jyrgal gestured with the tools on his arms, snapping the needle-nose pliers open and shut. “The lamp, it was broken. It is fixed now.” As Wilbur watched, the tools seemed to dissolve, the stubs from which they’d protruded turning a furious red that faded to pink as they shortened and settled. Aliya rose quietly from the floor and went to Jyrgal, holding his burlap mittens, which she tied gently over the stubs of his arms. Another of the jokers took the lamp, plugged it into a wall socket, and turned it on—the lamp lit immediately, and Jyrgal smiled. “Good,” he said. Nurassyl clapped softly with his own shrouded hands.
“How…” Wilbur began, but he was interrupted by a loud roar from the adjoining room as someone shouted in Kazakh, and there were two other voices—one female, one male. Jyrgal frowned and moved quickly toward the argument. Wilbur moved with him, passing through the wall and through a steam line so that he could suck in the energy there. He emerged from the wall to see the beaver-like joker Erzhan confronting the male joker—Tazhibai—who Wilbur had briefly inhabited early in the voyage, and the long-armed but short-legged young woman who’d obviously been upset by what Wilbur had done. The two young jokers were holding hands; it was obvious that the two wished to be with each other, but that Erzhan was furious at seeing them together. Jyrgal, as well as the village elder Timur, went to Erzhan, and there was a rapid-fire and heated exchange in Kazakh, with plentiful gesticulations toward the would-be lovers. Finally, Timur led Erzhan back into the other room, while Jyrgal spoke to the two.
After a few minutes, Jyrgal came over to Wilbur. “I’m sorry. The girl is Aiman, and she is Erzhan’s daughter. She and Tazhibai, well, they have fallen in love, but Erzhan disapproves of Tazhibai. He would have Aiman marry someone else, and so…” Jyrgal shrugged. “Is it this way here in your country?”
“Sometimes,” Wilbur answered. “But here, usually, the young are allowed to find their own love, even when parents disapprove. My wife and I … that’s how we … I saw her and just knew…” he began, then stopped. Memories burned inside him. “But I lost her when this happened.” He waved his hand toward his own body. Filaments of steam moved, then fell back into place.
“I’m sorry for you, Wilbur.” He looked back toward the lovers, who were holding each other and whispering. “I sometimes wish it were the same for us, but it’s not. A father’s wishes hold much power, and Erzhan still believes in the old traditional ways.” Jyrgal looked toward the door of the other room. “I should go and speak with Erzhan. Perhaps Timur and I can convince him that he must become more … modern. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Certainly,” Wilbur told him, and Jyrgal bowed his head briefly and left. Wilbur watched Aiman and Tazhibai for a few moments more, then turned and left through the outer wall of the room and out into the evening.
Wilbur drifted down into the Bayou Lounge just as the Jokertown Boys were starting their set. Roger Washburn, aka The Amazing Ravenstone, the leader and one of the two original members left of the once-famous pop group, was at the mike, dressed like a caricature of a riverboat gambler: top hat, fancy vest, a lace shirt, goatee, and an eye patch. His black raven sat on his shoulder. Toward the back and on one side of the small stage was an array of keyboards, with the other remaining member of the boy band behind it: Gimcrack.
Wilbur had seen hundreds of acts playing on the boat, and he thought the Jokertown Boys were one of the weaker g
roups ever hired: lots of cheese-laden patter from Ravenstone, magic tricks, and songs that had been played to death long before now—though Wilbur had to admit that Roger played a halfway-decent fiddle. Still. It felt as if he were entering a new circle of hell, one that Dante might have invented if he were still around: the Circle of Cheesy Musical Acts. Wilbur far preferred a good “Naw’lins” Dixieland jazz band who could also execute a driving habanera.
To make the lounge even less tolerable, Kirby Jackson was there as well, dressed as always in an expensive suit. He seemed to be enjoying the act, which was enough to make Wilbur scowl.
“Now, we’d never advocate frequenting a house of ill repute,” Roger was declaiming as he strapped on an electric guitar. “Would we, Lenore?”
The raven on his shoulder stirred, flapped its wings, and croaked out, “Nevermore!”
“Well, not anymore, of course,” Ravenstone answered. Wilbur sighed, though some in the audience gave a chorus of sympathetic chuckles, even while most of them seemed more interested in their drinks and their companions than in the Jokertown Boys. “But back in New Orleans, there were a few places like that, and this is the tale of one of them.”
With that, Gimcrack played the opening chords of “House of the Rising Sun,” Roger’s guitar joining in. Wilbur sighed again and glided unseen past the patrons to the wall next to the stage. He put his hand through the wall as Roger began to sing the first verse with his surprisingly low voice; Wilbur felt for the steam pipe hidden behind it and drew in enough steam that he could feel it coursing through his arm. He kept the steam focused there and now felt for the electric cable feeding power to the stage outlets as Roger finished the first verse and started into the second. Finding the power line, he closed his steam-laden hand around it and into it, holding the grip until he felt the water condensing and beginning to drip on the copper wires, shorting them. There was an audible snap as the circuit breakers cut power. Wilbur felt the tingle in his arm.
The PA went abruptly and mercifully silent, Gimcrack’s amp and keyboard dead, the stage lights dark.
Roger lifted a finger alight at the tip with a small flame—another of his stock magic tricks. “It appears that we must have critics among the ghosts of the Natchez,” he said loudly—Wilbur snorted laughter at that inadvertent half-truth. Over at the bar, he saw Jack shaking his head as he prepared drinks. “We’ll take a short break while the stage crew fixes the problem. Just a blown circuit, I’m sure. Don’t leave; there’s lots more to come. Drink up!”
Wilbur had already left, though, passing through the wall of the Bayou Lounge. He told himself that he’d only been performing a small service for the boat’s passengers and thinking about Eleanor and how he’d never have had the Natchez at all if it weren’t for her.
Late the next night, Wilbur saw Captain Montaigne knock once on Kirby Jackson’s stateroom door. He moved close behind her, slipping past her as Jackson opened the door and stood aside. Jackson closed the door behind Montaigne and gestured her to a chair as Wilbur stood nearby. Jackson sat at the small desk in the room, swiveling the chair to face the captain. He gestured to his laptop on the desk.
“I’ve reviewed your new offer to buy out my shares in the consortium, Captain. I have to admit that I’m surprised you and Ms. Potts could come up with that kind of additional funds. Stunned, in fact. You must have saved every penny we’ve ever paid you; either that, or the two of you have borrowed well beyond your means. It’s obvious that keeping the Natchez on the rivers means a great deal to you. Such sentiment is very … admirable. I’m very impressed.”
Montaigne gave the man a tight-lipped smile. “I’m glad you’re impressed, Mr. Jackson. So do we have a deal, then?”
Wilbur knew the answer before the man even started to shake his head: it was in the amusement lurking behind his eyes and the way the corners of his lips curled slightly. “I’m afraid not.”
Montaigne let out an exasperated huff of air. “Mr. Jackson, we’ve nearly doubled our previous offer, far more than you could possibly make simply selling your shares on the market. I don’t understand…”
“That’s obvious, Captain. You don’t understand. I’m taking the long view and not the short-term. First, we would both have to admit that Natchez is already in need of serious renovations, which will be expensive, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Why, just last night in the lounge, the stage electricity went off and had to be repaired. So whether Natchez stays on the river or not, whoever owns the boat is looking at a large investment in refurbishing her—and spending that money to scrape by and barely break even on the river seems counterproductive. Having the Natchez docked in Cincinnati and running as a riverfront casino and attraction will, on the other hand, result in far more profit for me in years and decades to come—and the other consortium shareholders, of course. More than any offer you could possibly give me now.” Jackson rose from his chair; Montaigne rose with him. “As I said, Captain, yours is a very generous offer, and had you made it even a year ago, I would have happily accepted. But not now. I’m sorry.” Jackson opened the stateroom door. “I’m sure you can understand.”
Wilbur wanted Montaigne to get angry, to shout at the man, to do something, anything. She didn’t. She only stared at him, and the slump of her shoulders told Wilbur all he needed to know. Montaigne said nothing; she moved past Jackson and out onto the promenade of the texas deck. Jackson shut the door behind her.
Wilbur had gone to the desk. He put his hand on and through the laptop’s keyboard, letting the moisture he held soak into the device. He saw the screen shudder and go dark, and he lifted his hand.
He knew what Eleanor would tell him if she could: You’re just being petty, Wilbur. It doesn’t become you. You’re a better person than that.
She would be right, but it still gave him a small twinge of pleasure.
Wilbur slid through the wall of Jackson’s stateroom and out onto the deck. He didn’t know how long he stood at the rail there, just staring out into the night: an hour or more. Suddenly, a black shape flapped out of the gloom and past him: a large raven.
As an omen, it couldn’t bode well.
Find the Lady
By Kevin Andrew Murphy
ROGER WASHBURN DOZED FITFULLY, almost waking to the clank of his stateroom door against the battered brass corners of his antique steamer trunk. Its sides were black, vaingloriously emblazoned with THE AMAZING RAVENSTONE, some turn-of-the-century conjurer who had left no other record of his passing.
Mr. Dutton, the skull-faced business mogul of Jokertown, had had it in the back of his magic shop, using it as a display stand for chapbooks and penny tricks. Roger had bought it with his first paycheck from him and taken the stage name for his own.
The open door swung idly with the roll of the boat, and to its other side, also swinging, but from the hook of a wrought-iron stand bolted to the stateroom floor, hung a vintage parrot cage, its door similarly ajar.
No parrot dwelt inside, but this was not unusual. No parrot had resided there for a long while. The cage belonged to Lenore, Roger’s pet raven for more than twenty years, since he found her and her sister Annabel Lee in Central Park, knocked out of their nest by a storm.
Annabel, like her namesake, had perished. Lenore, unlike her namesake, had thrived, learning many clever tricks over the years. Sometimes too many.
The boat listed again, banging the door against the steamer trunk, louder this time, and Roger woke with a start, seeing both open doors and then the unbolted padlock on the floor, his lockpicks beside it.
Roger stared. His eyes were an intense blue and attractive in the way that only a born showman’s can be, though few ever saw the left. He customarily concealed it with layers of secrecy: a flip of tawny blond hair over a black silk eye patch hiding a blackout theatrical contact that made it appear as a mysterious orb of jet to anyone allowed to see past the first two veils of deception. Roger’s horns were black as well, though quite real, and firmly attached to his sku
ll, three inches long, and devilishly becoming, burnished blacker with a bit of mustache wax.
Everyone who glimpsed his horns beneath the magician’s top hat Roger usually hid them with assumed they were a gift of the wild card, a minor joker to go with his ace, that being countless parlor tricks.
Everyone was wrong.
Roger was a latent, living under the wild card’s almost certain promise of death or disfigurement since childhood. His brother, Sam, an artist, had as well until his card turned in high school, giving Sam fountain pens for fingernails and a lion tail similar to the one their friend Alec sprouted when he turned into a unicorn. A few months later, after one too many times of being beaten up and called “nat boy,” Roger decided he would cheat, forcing or at least forging a card from the deck himself.
A dik-dik, a small African antelope stolen from the Brooklyn Zoo, “donated” its horns, transplanted by Hodgepodge, Jokertown’s back alley psychic surgeon. And once Roger had mastered all of the tricks sold by Dutton’s magic shop, Cameo, a trance medium most thought to be a fraud, channeled the spirit of Blackwood the Magnificent, a legendary magician of the pre–wild card era who had taken his secrets to his grave along with a silver pocket watch.
Now Roger possessed Blackwood’s secrets. And his pocket watch, too.
But Roger’s most precious possession was Lenore. He gasped her name, then once again, louder, but querulous. “Lenore…?”
He scrambled for his eye patch, snatching it from the nightstand and skipping the contact, grabbing his dressing gown, a long black crushed-velvet smoking jacket with THE JOKERTOWN BOYS appliquéd across the back in gold thread and scarlet brocade with matching reinforced epaulets to serve as raven perches.
Roger forced his pounding heart to slow, his panic to ebb, lessons he had learned from Houdini borrowing Cameo’s form courtesy of a pair of handcuffs borrowed from Dutton’s collection. Houdini had taught him these meditations as the way to survive the Water Torture Cell, but they were more precious to Roger as a way to survive the wild card. The alien virus often expressed itself when the mind felt the surge of extreme emotion, and as everyone knew, the deck was stacked against him, with nine jokers and ninety black queens for every ace.
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