Perhaps that wasn’t so funny, after all. The thought reminded me of Geillis Duncan, and my smile faded. Wife of the procurator fiscal in Cranesmuir, she had murdered her husband by dropping powdered cyanide into his food at a banquet. Accused as a witch soon afterward, she had been arrested while I was with her, and I had been taken to trial myself; a trial from which Jamie had rescued me. The memories of several days spent in the cold dark of the thieves’ hole at Cranesmuir were all too fresh, and the wind seemed suddenly very cold.
I shivered, but not altogether from chill. I could not think of Geillis Duncan without that cold finger down my spine. Not so much because of what she had done, but because of who she had been. A Jacobite, too; one whose support of the Stuart cause had been more than slightly tinged with madness. Worse than that, she was what I was—a traveler through the standing stones.
I didn’t know whether she had come to the past as I had, by accident, or whether her journey had been deliberate. Neither did I know precisely where she had come from. But my last vision of her, screaming defiance at the judges who would condemn her to burn, was of a tall, fair woman, arms stretched high, showing on one arm the telltale round of a vaccination scar. I felt automatically for the small patch of roughened skin on my own upper arm, beneath the comforting folds of my cloak, and shuddered when I found it.
I was distracted from these unhappy memories by a growing commotion on the next quay. A large knot of men had gathered by a ship’s gangway, and there was considerable shouting and pushing going on. Not a fight; I peered over at the altercation, shading my eyes with my hand, but could see no blows exchanged. Instead, an effort seemed to be under way to clear a pathway through the milling crowd to the doors of a large warehouse on the upper end of the quay. The crowd was stubbornly resisting all such efforts, surging back like the tide after each push.
Jamie suddenly appeared behind me, closely followed by Jared, who squinted at the mob scene below. Absorbed by the shouting, I hadn’t heard them come up.
“What is it?” I stood and leaned back into Jamie, bracing myself against the increasing sway of the ship underfoot. I was aware at close quarters of his scent; he had bathed at the inn and he smelled clean and warm, with a faint hint of sun and dust. A sharpening of the sense of smell was another effect of pregnancy, apparently; I could smell him even among the myriad stenches and scents of the seaport, much as you can hear a low-pitched voice close by in a noisy crowd.
“I don’t know. Some trouble with the other ship, looks like.” He reached down and put a hand on my elbow, to steady me. Jared turned and barked an order in gutteral French to one of the sailors nearby. The man promptly hopped over the rail and slid down one of the ropes to the quay, tarred pigtail dangling toward the water. We watched from the deck as he joined the crowd, prodded another seaman in the ribs, and received an answer, complete with expressive gesticulations.
Jared was frowning, as the pigtailed man scrambled back up the crowded gangplank. The sailor said something to him in that same thick-sounding French, too fast for me to follow it. After a few more words’ conversation, Jared swung abruptly around and came to stand next to me, lean hands gripping the rail.
“He says there’s sickness aboard the Patagonia.”
“What sort of sickness?” I hadn’t thought of bringing my medicine box with me, so there was little I could do in any case, but I was curious. Jared looked worried and unhappy.
“They’re afraid it might be smallpox, but they don’t know. The port’s inspector and the harbor master have been called.”
“Would you like me to have a look?” I offered. “I might at least be able to tell you whether it’s a contagious disease or not.”
Jared’s sketchy eyebrows disappeared under the lank black fringe of his hair. Jamie looked mildly embarrassed.
“My wife’s well known as a healer, Cousin,” he explained, but then turned and shook his head at me.
“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be safe.”
I could see the Patagonia’s gangway easily; now the gathered crowd moved suddenly back, jostling and stepping on each other’s toes. Two seamen stepped down from the deck, a length of canvas slung between them as a stretcher. The white sail-fabric sagged heavily under the weight of the man they carried, and a bare, sun-darkened arm lolled from the makeshift hammock.
The seamen wore strips of cloth tied round their noses and mouths, and kept their faces turned away from the stretcher, jerking their heads as they growled at each other, maneuvering their burden over the splintered planks. The pair passed under the fascinated noses of the crowd and disappeared into a nearby warehouse.
Making a quick decision, I turned and headed for the rear gangplank of the Arianna.
“Don’t worry,” I called to Jamie over one shoulder, “if it is smallpox, I can’t get that.” One of the seamen, hearing me, paused and gaped, but I just smiled at him and brushed past.
The crowd was still now, no longer surging to and fro, and it was not so difficult to make my way between the muttering clusters of seamen, many of whom frowned or looked startled as I ducked past them. The warehouse was disused; no bales or casks filled the echoing shadows of the huge room, but the scents of sawn lumber, smoked meat, and fish lingered, easily distinguishable from the host of other smells.
The sick man had been hastily dumped near the door, on a pile of discarded straw packing. His attendants pushed past me as I entered, eager to get away.
I approached him cautiously, stopping a few feet away. He was flushed with fever, his skin a queer dark red, scabbed thick with white pustules. He moaned and tossed his head restlessly from side to side, cracked mouth working as though in search of water.
“Get me some water,” I said to one of the sailors standing nearby. The man, a short, muscular fellow with his beard tarred into ornamental spikes, merely stared as though he had found himself suddenly addressed by a fish.
Turning my back on him impatiently, I sank to my knees by the sick man and opened his filthy shirt. He stank abominably; probably none too clean to start with, he had been left to lie in his own filth, his fellows afraid to touch him. His arms were relatively clear, but the pustules clustered thickly down his chest and stomach, and his skin was burning to the touch.
Jamie had come in while I made my examination, accompanied by Jared. With them was a small, pear-shaped man in a gold-swagged official’s coat and two other men, one a nobleman or a rich bourgeois by his dress; the other a tall, lean individual, clearly a seafarer from his complexion. Probably the captain of the plague ship, if that’s what it was.
And that’s what it appeared to be. I had seen smallpox many times before, in the uncivilized parts of the world to which my uncle Lamb, an eminent archaeologist, had taken me during my early years. This fellow wasn’t pissing blood, as sometimes happened when the disease attacked the kidneys, but otherwise he had every classic symptom.
“I’m afraid it is smallpox,” I said.
The Patagonia’s captain gave a sudden howl of anguish, and stepped toward me, face contorted, raising his hand as though to strike me.
“No!” he shouted. “Fool of a woman! Salope! Femme sans cervelle! Do you want to ruin me?”
The last word was cut off in a gurgle as Jamie’s hand closed on his throat. The other hand twisted hard in the man’s shirtfront, lifting him onto his toes.
“I should prefer you to address my wife with respect, Monsieur,” Jamie said, rather mildly. The captain, face turning purple, managed a short, jerky nod, and Jamie dropped him. He took a step back, wheezing, and sidled behind his companion as though for refuge, rubbing his throat.
The tubby little official was bending cautiously over the sick man, holding a large silver pomander on a chain close to his nose as he did so. Outside, the level of noise dropped suddenly as the crowd pulled back from the warehouse doors to admit another canvas stretcher.
The man before us sat up suddenly, startling the little official so that he nearly fell over. The man
stared wildly around the warehouse, then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell back onto the straw as though he’d been poleaxed. He hadn’t, but the end result was much the same.
“He’s dead,” I said, unnecessarily.
The official, recovering his dignity along with his pomander, stepped in once more, looked closely at the body, straightened up and announced, “Smallpox. The lady is correct. I’m sorry, Monsieur le Comte, but you know the law as well as anyone.”
The man he addressed sighed impatiently. He glanced at me, frowning, then jerked his head at the official.
“I’m sure this can be arranged, Monsieur Pamplemousse. Please, a moment’s private conversation …” He motioned toward the deserted foreman’s hut that stood some distance away, a small derelict structure inside the larger building. A nobleman by dress as well as by title, Monsieur le Comte was a slender, elegant sort, with heavy brows and thin lips. His entire attitude proclaimed that he was used to getting his way.
But the little official was backing away, hands held out before him as though in self-defense.
“Non, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “Je le regrette, mais c’est impossible.… It cannot be done. Too many people know about it already. The news will be all over the docks by now.” He glanced helplessly at Jamie and Jared, then waved vaguely at the warehouse door, where the featureless heads of spectators showed in silhouette, the late afternoon sun rimming them with gold halos.
“No,” he said again, his pudgy features hardening with resolve. “You will excuse me, Monsieur—and Madame,” he added belatedly, as though noticing me for the first time. “I must go and institute proceedings for the destruction of the ship.”
The captain uttered another choked howl at this, and clutched at his sleeve, but he pulled away, and hurried out of the building.
The atmosphere following his departure was a trifle strained, what with Monsieur le Comte and his captain both glaring at me, Jamie glowering menacingly at them, and the dead man staring sightlessly up at the ceiling forty feet above.
The Comte took a step toward me, eyes glittering. “Have you any notion what you have done?” he snarled. “Be warned, Madame; you will pay for this day’s work!”
Jamie moved suddenly in the Comte’s direction, but Jared was even faster, tugging at Jamie’s sleeve, pushing me gently in the direction of the door, and murmuring something unintelligible to the stricken captain, who merely shook his head dumbly in response.
“Poor bugger,” Jared said outside, shaking his head. “Phew!” It was chilly on the quay, with a cold gray wind that rocked the ships at anchor, but Jared mopped his face and neck with a large, incongruous red sailcloth handkerchief pulled from the pocket of his coat. “Come on, laddie, let’s find a tavern. I’m needing a drink.”
Safely ensconced in the upper room of one of the quayside taverns, with a pitcher of wine on the table, Jared collapsed into a chair, fanning himself, and exhaled noisily.
“God, what luck!” He poured a large dollop of wine into his cup, tossed it off, and poured another. Seeing me staring at him, he grinned and pushed the pitcher in my direction.
“Well, there’s wine, lassie,” he explained, “and then there’s stuff you drink to wash the dust away. Toss it back quick, before you have time to taste it, and it does the job handily.” Taking his own advice, he drained the cup and reached for the pitcher again. I began to see exactly what had happened to Jamie the day before.
“Good luck or bad?” I asked Jared curiously. I would have assumed the answer to be “bad,” but the little merchant’s air of jovial exhilaration seemed much too pronounced to be due to the red wine, which strongly resembled battery acid. I set down my own cup, hoping the enamel on my molars was intact.
“Bad for St. Germain, good for me,” he said succinctly. He rose from his chair and peered out the window.
“Good,” he said, sitting down again with a satisfied air. “They’ll have the wine off and into the warehouse by sunset. Safe and sound.”
Jamie leaned back in his chair, surveying his cousin with one eyebrow raised, a smile on his lips.
“Do we take it that Monsieur le Comte St. Germain’s ship also carried spirits, Cousin?”
An ear-to-ear grin in reply displayed two gold teeth in the lower jaw, which made Jared look still more piratical.
“The best aged port from Pinhão,” he said happily. “Cost him a fortune. Half the vintage from the Noval vineyards, and no more available for a year.”
“And I suppose the other half of the Noval port is what’s being unloaded into your warehouse?” I began to understand his delight.
“Right, my lassie, right as rain!” Jared chortled, almost hugging himself at the thought. “D’ye know what that will sell for in Paris?” he demanded, rocking forward and banging his cup down on the table. “A limited supply, and me with the monopoly? God, my profit’s made for the year!”
I rose and looked out the window myself. The Arianna rode at anchor, already noticeably higher in the water, as the huge cargo nets swung down from the boom mounted on the rear deck, to be carefully unloaded, bottle by bottle, into handcarts for the trip to the warehouse.
“Not to impair the general rejoicing,” I said, a little diffidently, “but did you say that your port came from the same place as St. Germain’s shipment?”
“Aye, I did.” Jared came to stand next to me, squinting down at the procession of loaders below. “Noval makes the best port in the whole of Spain and Portugal; I’d have liked to take the whole bottling, but hadn’t the capital. What of it?”
“Only that if the ships are coming from the same port, there’s a chance that some of your seamen might have smallpox too,” I said.
The thought blanched the wine flush from Jared’s lean cheeks, and he reached for a restorative gulp.
“God, what a thought!” he said, gasping as he set the cup down. “But I think it’s all right,” he said, reassuring himself. “The port’s half unloaded already. But I’d best speak to the captain, anyway,” he added, frowning. “I’ll have him pay the men off as soon as the loading’s finished—and if anyone looks ill, they can have their wages and leave at once.” He turned decisively and shot out of the room, pausing at the door just long enough to call over his shoulder, “Order some supper!” before disappearing down the stair with a clatter like a small herd of elephants.
I turned to Jamie, who was staring bemusedly into his undrunk cup of wine.
“He shouldn’t do that!” I exclaimed. “If he has got smallpox on board, he could spread it all over the city by sending men off with it.”
Jamie nodded slowly.
“Then I suppose we’ll hope he hasna got it,” he observed mildly.
I turned uncertainly toward the door. “But … shouldn’t we do something? I could at least go have a look at his men. And tell them what to do with the bodies of the men from the other ship …”
“Sassenach.” The deep voice was still mild, but held an unmistakable note of warning.
“What?” I turned back to find him leaning forward, regarding me levelly over the rim of his cup. He looked at me thoughtfully for a minute before speaking.
“D’ye think what we’ve set ourselves to do is important, Sassenach?”
My hand dropped from the door handle.
“Stopping the Stuarts from starting a rising in Scotland? Yes, of course I do. Why do you ask?”
He nodded, patient as an instructor with a slow pupil.
“Aye, well. If ye do, then you’ll come here, sit yourself down, and drink wine wi’ me until Jared comes back. And if ye don’t …” He paused and blew out a long breath that stirred the ruddy wave of hair above his forehead.
“If ye don’t, then you’ll go down to a quay full of seamen and merchants who think women near ships are the height of ill luck, who are already spreading gossip that you’ve put a curse on St. Germain’s ship, and you’ll tell them what they must do. With luck, they’ll be too afraid of ye to rape yo
u before they cut your throat and toss you in the harbor, and me after you. If St. Germain himself doesna strangle you first. Did ye no see the look on his face?”
I came back to the table and sat down, a little abruptly. My knees were a trifle wobbly.
“I saw it,” I said. “But could he … he wouldn’t …”
Jamie raised his brows and pushed a cup of wine across the table to me.
“He could, and he would if he thought it could be managed inconspicuously. For the Lord’s sake, Sassenach, you’ve cost the man close on a year’s income! And he doesna look the sort to take such a loss philosophically. Had ye not told the harbor master it was smallpox, out loud in front of witnesses, a few discreet bribes would have taken care of the matter. As it is, why do ye think Jared brought us up here so fast? For the quality of the drink?”
My lips felt stiff, as though I’d actually drunk a good bit of the vitriol from the pitcher.
“You mean … we’re in danger?”
He sat back, nodding.
“Now you’ve got it,” he said kindly. “I dinna suppose Jared wanted to alarm you. I expect he’s gone to arrange a guard of some kind for us, as well as to see to his crew. He’ll likely be safe enough—everyone knows him, and his crew and loaders are right outside.”
I rubbed my hands over the gooseflesh that rippled up my forearms. There was a cheerful fire in the hearth, and the room was warm and smoky, but I felt cold.
“How do you know so much about what the Comte St. Germain might do?” I didn’t doubt Jamie at all—I remembered all too well the malevolent black glare the Comte had shot at me in the warehouse—but I did wonder how he knew the man.
Jamie took a small sip of the wine, made a face and put it down.
“For the one thing, he’s some reputation for ruthlessness—and other things. I heard a bit about him when I lived in Paris before, though I had the luck never to run afoul of the man then. For another, Jared spent some time yesterday warning me about him; he’s Jared’s chief business rival in Paris.”
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 106
