Ava's Revenge

by Teyla Branton

  We investigated the entire area from the outside and formulated a plan, noting the positions of the few patrolling guards. In the fading evening light many of the exhausted slaves in the courtyard resembled sacks of flour lumped on the ground. Evening came early in April and could be deathly cold, though tonight it was still relatively mild. I hoped the good weather would hold.

  A child’s cry cut through the night. A child who by morning might never see his mother again.

  “Wait for the signal,” I told the others. I was going inside to find Frances.

  Locke and Ritter nodded, fanning out along the perimeter. I didn’t have to tell them to watch for the patrol. Locke and Ritter both knew their job, and I’d signal with the pistol I carried in my holster under my coat if things got out of control.

  Getting inside shouldn’t be a problem. I carried a crate of white cotton shirts that matched those the slavers distributed, and while I was older than most delivery boys, I knew how to get through. I approached the two guards at the gate entrance, my eyes down on the ground.

  “What you got there?” With the squeak of a leather boot, one of the guards stepped in front of me. He reeked more of eau de l’homme than I’d smelled on any man since Simon had grunted over my body after a full day of work in the fields. His long brown hair looked greasy enough to oil my gun.

  “More shirts. They need ’em before morning. Gotta get them Negroes up to snuff.”

  “Who they for?” asked his partner. His hair fell into his mean eyes, and a vertical scar ran down the center of his cheek from his eye to his jaw, looking awfully similar to the fake one Locke had fashioned across my cheek. I hoped he didn’t expect me to trade war stories.

  “Oh, it’s that tall dude. Should be in the courtyard. Mister, uh . . .” I was gambling a little, but there seemed to be too many slaves in the courtyard to belong only to Johansson, and for now I didn’t want to be remembered in connection with him since I planned to steal Frances and her family away from here. Reaching out, I used my proximity to push into the long-haired guard’s mind. There his thoughts ran in a stream that resembled sand angling from the top right of my vision and vanishing near my lower left, each grain representing a thought, and not always a conscious one. I saw almost immediately what I needed. “Mister Armstead,” I said.

  “He ain’t that tall.” This from the first man, who was rather short.

  I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Everybody’s tall to me.”

  He barked a laugh and puffed out his chest. “That’s true enough.”

  “You’ll find Armstead’s Negroes that way.” The mean-eyed fellow threw out an arm in the opposite direction I wanted to go. Oh well.

  I took a step forward. “Thank you.”

  “Wait.” Hard fingers gripped my shoulder. Mean-eyes, of course. “Don’t you got somethin’ for us? You know the rules. It’s after hours.”

  I pulled a bottle of gin from under the shirts. “Right. Almost forgot.” They took the bottle, laughing greedily, and didn’t stop me from hurrying away.

  Before long I was weaving around the clumps of people, many dead to the world after their gruesome march, their dark skin blending into the night. Every so often a sob reached my ears, but for the most part an eery silence reined. A silence of despair and hopelessness.

  I ducked around a tent that tonight was being used as a bathhouse. Several guards were peeping in, watching a group of slave women through large gaps in the cloth. Some women used their bodies as shields for others as they bathed. I burned with anger. I could take out all the guards but not before they raised an alarm. I angled away from the tent.

  Somewhere a deep mournful voice was singing, words in a language passed down by their fathers. I’d learned several dialects, but this one wasn’t familiar, and I understood only a few words. The notes caught at me, begging for freedom, for escape. I pushed on.

  I found Frances and her family in a group beyond one of the smaller buildings. She sat holding her daughter, Mabel, a child of ten, who was wrapped in a thin blanket. Tears marked Frances’s face as she rocked back and forth soundlessly. Her husband, James, lay on a tarp, his arms spread protectively over their two teenage boys’ huddled forms, giving the children what warmth he could. James was gaunt and looked miserable. He had to be exhausted, but his eyes were open and searching the sky. Searching for what?

  I didn’t know.

  I approached slowly. Fear blossomed in Frances’s eyes as she spotted me. “Don’t worry,” I said, in my own voice. “I have something for you.”

  “They give us clothes already,” she said.

  James sat up, abruptly becoming aware of my presence. His fists clenched. He was wearing the white shirt, plain pants, and sturdy shoes of a slave about to be sold.

  I glanced around, fearing that some of the other slaves nearby would hear. There was little hope of privacy. I had to get closer. James moved as I did, clearly ready to protect his wife.

  I went to my knees at her side. “It’s me, Ava O’Hare.”

  Frances’s eyes widened, and she motioned for James to squat down with us. “Thank de blessed Lawd,” Frances said. “I knew ya’d come.”

  I didn’t tell her that we almost hadn’t made it in time. If Betsy hadn’t sold everything she owned and sent a rider to me with a message to meet her here, if she hadn’t been able to find out that the slaver Johansson was heading to Natchez, and if we hadn’t ridden hard to beat them here, everything would have worked out differently. My anger burned again. Too many ifs.

  “My baby,” Frances said. “She burnin’ with fever. James carried her most all de way from de North. I cain’t lose her.”

  “You won’t. But we have to move closer to that building back there. Next to it there’s a length of wood fence. James, wake the boys and tell them to go there. But have them circle around. We can’t risk drawing attention.” I flicked my eyes in the right direction. “Go slow. Don’t call attention to yourself. You know how the guards are.” They wouldn’t shoot unless they had to, because they considered the Negroes valuable livestock, but killing one that was trying to escape would bring about less guilt than putting down an old horse.

  “Yes, Miss.” James’s eyes met mine, hope replacing his former desolation. “Thank ye fer comin’.”

  “Hurry,” I said. Some of the sleepers around us were waking now, and though we’d been quiet, their eyes were watchful.

  I arose and said louder to Frances in my practiced male voice, “Come with me. I have medicine to dose the child. Mister Johansson won’t be happy if he can’t get a sale tomorrow. If you’re lucky, you’ll go together. But only if she’s better.”

  A sob caught in Frances’s throat at the words that we both knew were truth—or would have been if I hadn’t come. But we’d gone only a few paces when Frances whispered. “What ’bout de others?”

  “Others?”

  “More’n sixty-five of us, I think.”

  I stepped closer to her, accidentally bumping her in my shock. “Sixty-five? Taken from the North?”

  “’Bout forty from de North. We was met partway by others come from Virginia. And dat man what brought de others—” She gave me a frightened look, her eyes glistening in the darkness. “I never saw de like. I think he de real boss man. Put me in mind of Massa Ritter. But meaner.”

  Ritter would correct her if he’d heard Frances use that title. He wasn’t anyone’s master, he’d say, but some habits were hard to break, and Frances wasn’t about to change now. Her description bothered me, because Unbounded were different from other people, but to people without my gift, it came across as striking beauty and confidence. In a rich drawing room where everyone looked their best, it wasn’t as noticeable, but in a setting like this, where so many men were missing teeth, had scars, or were withered by the sun, Unbounded always stood out.

  “De others,” Frances said into the silence. “They has chillens.”

  More children. My mind raced. One thing at a time. Think about the
others after you free Frances.

  “You!” a shout came from across the courtyard.

  Frances stiffened. “Let me do the talking,” I said. Not that she’d speak anyway; she looked too frightened. Even if I had to fight my way out, I trusted that Ritter and Locke would be ready to back me up.

  A man came striding across the sea of captives, those who were awake cringing away from him and his two companions. His life force glowed dimmer than everyone else’s in the area, signaling a blocked mind.

  That wasn’t all my ability confirmed. Mortals could also block, those who learned how, but this man was definitely Unbounded, and that meant the Emporium was here.

  I WOULD HAVE GUESSED THAT he was Unbounded even without my ability by the way he carried himself. As if he owned not only the Forks of the Road but all of Mississippi. Emporium Unbounded saw themselves as gods, and all mortals as little more than slaves to be used and discarded as desired. If they had their way, this place would someday see white flesh mixed in with the black. Even if combat wasn’t his ability, this Unbounded was likely trained, and the double pistols at his sides certainly weren’t for looks.

  Yet as long as he didn’t share my ability and couldn’t tell that I was Unbounded, I still had an advantage. The two mortals accompanying him had bright life forces, but they carried rifles, useless in close fighting. They would not be a concern unless I let down my guard. I reached into my crate and began moving objects.

  “What’s going on here?” the Unbounded demanded.

  I briefly met his stare before looking down like any subservient would. He wasn’t an Unbounded I’d ever met or one we had listed in our files. He also hadn’t seemed to mark me as Unbounded, so he didn’t share my particular ability. “I am employed by the city of Natchez. As you know, we can’t risk an outbreak of disease, which is why we have the Forks set up away from town. I am examining this child. She might be contagious.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Only an assistant.” I let a little derision slip into my voice, telling everyone within range know that I considered treating “livestock” beneath even an assistant.

  He gazed down into the crate I carried, but instead of the white shirts, the top items were now bottles of chemicals and powders. “You do not have permission to remove them from the courtyard.” Arrogance dripped from the words.

  “That won’t be necessary. Are you Lucias Johansson?”

  “Nah. He’s John Cardiff,” said one of the henchmen. “Johansson works for him. These Negroes are his property.”

  When Cardiff didn’t refute him, I said, “I need space to check this child.” I pointed to a place some ten feet way from a length of wood fencing. Not where Ritter and Locke waited, but it would have to do.

  Cardiff’s gaze fell on Mabel, and I took the opportunity to study him. Dark eyes framed by thick black lashes. A head of dark hair that was slightly wavy and looked freshly washed. A narrow, recently shaven, face that would have been compellingly attractive except for the cruel set of his jaw. Clean clothes that fit his figure well and not so much hinted at but screamed wealth.

  I wanted to stab my knife into his heart.

  He pointed a finger at Frances. “Put the child down over there and get back with the others. The assistant here will bring back the whelp if it survives.”

  Ignoring Frances’s swift intake of breath, Cardiff jerked his hand, and one of his goons jabbed his rifle into her, keeping well away from Mabel. Frances stumbled forward. At the place I’d indicated, she laid Mabel down, tucking the thin blanket around her small figure.

  Frances stared at me, her eyes pleading. “Please, Massa, keep my babe safe.” I knew what she was saying, for me to save Mabel and the rest of her family, even if I couldn’t come back for her.

  “Git!” said the man with the rifle at her back. “I see you back here, and I’ll put a bullet through yer head!”

  Frances fled. Without another word, the Unbounded and his companions turned and stalked away.

  Now what? I felt Mabel’s forehead. She moaned and her eyes opened with a fluttering.

  “Shush now,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Who are you?” Her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “I’m a friend of your Aunt Betsy.”

  “They took my book,” she murmured, tears filling her voice. “Said Niggurs like me can’t read. It was my only book.”

  “I’ll get you another one. I promise.”

  I sent my mind out, reaching for Ritter and Locke. I hoped they were close enough. There. A life force near the fence. Ritter. And he was even more angry than usual. I felt the emotion, though not the reason.

  Making sure no one watched me, I whistled. Seconds later, Ritter knelt by the fence.

  “What about the guards?” I asked.

  “They won’t bother us. Where’s Frances?”

  “I’ll have to go back for her.”

  “Scoot the child closer.”

  I heard a sawing noise as he worked at the bottom pole. I held up a bottle, pretending to examine its contents, but in reality, I was searching for watching eyes. “There’s a man over there paying us a little too much attention,” I whispered. “You’re in enough shadow that he won’t be able to see you, but he’ll certainly notice if I push her through the fence.”

  The sawing stopped briefly. “You’d better have a talk with him.”

  I bent closer to Mabel and whispered. “This nice gentleman is a friend. He’s going to take you to your daddy. Don’t make any noise. Understand?”

  She nodded, the fear in her eyes tying a knot in my throat.

  “If you can’t get Frances out at the original location,” Ritter said, “meet me at the rendezvous. We’ll formulate another plan.”

  Giving Mabel a comforting pat, I stood and walked toward the slave who’d kept glancing in our direction, the only man awake in a group of huddled people. He was a big man with a prominent forehead and arms that went on forever. But like James, he was gaunt and appeared exhausted.

  “You sick?” I asked. “I work for the city. We can’t have sickness spreading to the town.”

  “No, Massa, I ain’t sick.” His voice was higher than I expected and docile.

  I saw a rag sticking out of his pants and the slight darkness of a stain below the knee. “Roll up your pants.”

  He blinked. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong.”

  “I’ll help you. Please.”

  He blinked in surprise at my words. Still, with great reluctance the big man rolled up his pant leg. The rag he’d tied around his calf was soaked with blood.

  “I’m going to have to look at it.”

  The knots were too tight to untie, and he made no objection when I took scissors from my crate and cut it off. A gaping wound met my efforts. “This needs stitching.” I looked around and grabbed a stick from the dirt, handing it to him. “Bite down on this. Sorry, but it’s going to hurt.” I’d seen men take fever and die from lesser wounds.

  I splashed alcohol around the wound and began stitching. I wasn’t a healer, but every Renegade learned to patch people up. To the man’s credit, he didn’t utter a peep, though rivulets of sweat rolled down his face. When I had finished with fifteen neat stitches, I used clean bandages to wrap it, then I handed him a pill from one of the bottles. “Take this. It’ll make sure you don’t get a fever.”

  He swallowed it without question. The drug was one that our Renegade healers had invented for mortal use, though we estimated that it would be another hundred years before mortal technology began to catch up. We’d helped fund studies involving mold, but there was only so much we could do without making our existence known. The slow-release antibiotic would stay in the man’s system for a week—hopefully long enough. If the night weather didn’t turn warmer soon, or if he wasn’t given a blanket, he still might not survive.

  I glanced back to where I’d left Mabel, but she was gone. “Musta gone back to her momma,” the big man said, seeing my gaze.
r />   “Guess she’s feeling better. Look, in this many days”—I held up two hands and then one more—“these threads have to come out. The swelling will have gone down. All you do is cut off the knot and pull it out. One of the women should be able to do it for you.”

  He nodded. “Fifteen days.”

  I had underestimated him. Over the years I’d made sure the slaves on my plantation could count and read, and I’d given secret lessons to their families who lived nearby, but many slave owners felt doing so was dangerous to their superiority. “That’s right. Fifteen days.”

  It took a few more moments to extract myself from his exuberant thanks, but the more time that passed without alarms being raised, the more likelihood that Ritter and Locke had managed to get James and the children free. Now if I could do the same for Frances, we’d be in the clear.

  I didn’t fool myself that Johansson wouldn’t eventually notice five missing “slaves,” and Cardiff was even less likely to let it slide. But my plans for disrupting Johansson’s entire operation had to wait now that there was an Emporium agent in charge. We’d need more Renegade agents and deeper intel on their operation before we moved on them, because in all probability, this was only a small percentage of his business, and we would need to bring it all down to save even more people.

  Tenika Vasco of the New York Renegades was descended from Angolan Unbounded, and she’d be more than happy to pose as a slave to infiltrate his operation. Her ability was called hypnosuggestion, and she could talk any but the most resistant to coming around to her way of thinking. Plus, she was a strong soldier, so she’d be safe enough if we kept an eye on her. I didn’t like the idea of delaying anything, especially in light of the other people stolen from the North, but that couldn’t be helped. Unless I could come up with another plan—and fast.