Dead water - Barbara Hambly [96]
He had never in his life expected the extent of jeopardy that he now stood in, with the money vanished, and the near-certainty of arrest and detention—and possible hanging—facing him when the boat reached Mayersville.
“Régine,” he said, his voice carrying softly in the darkness, “I beg your pardon. I lost my temper, and spoke to you as I shouldn't have. I was only trying to help a young girl under my protection. I was afraid, and angry. I need to speak to you. I need your help. Please speak to me and I swear my oath I'll tell no one you are here.”
Go ahead and tell the world I'm here, piano-player, if you think it'll do you any good. No one will find me.
Thu had to know she was here by this time, even if he had not on that first day when he'd called out, Who's there? January could swear—almost—that Thu had been near the hatch above when he had glimpsed the movement of skirts in the shadow. The steward had always impressed January as a sharply intelligent young man, but intelligence didn't mean a man wouldn't be cowed by a voodoo.
January's own luck since Queen Régine had spit in his face had certainly not been anything to boast about.
And there were other ways of buying Thucydides's assistance than superstitious awe. Voodooiennes were artists in secrets and information, buying, selling, trading knowledge and the power that knowledge gave. The presence of Thu's brother in chains on the vessel qualified as a lever whichever way you looked at it.
And, voodooiennes were never above paying top price for what they needed, whether that was protection, information, or hands to do work in places where they themselves could not go.
Good God, he wondered suddenly, did Queen Régine invest her money in the Bank of Louisiana as well? Did she get on the boat, not in pursuit of me, but in pursuit of Weems?
She'd been in a position to see everything that went on, over the past week. Could Thucydides be working for her, or at least supplying her with information . . . ?
In which case he, January, wasn't safe anywhere on the boat.
“Your Majesty,” he whispered desperately, “please . . .”
But watching silence was his only reply. A moment later Hannibal's musical whistle sounded in the passway above: Oh hide me in the rock, O Lord, O Lord. . . .
Since there was no way of knowing whether the approaching company was black or white, someone who could be talked around or someone potentially genuinely dangerous, January backed hastily out the door and closed it behind him, and crouched, waiting, in the dark of the narrow stairwell. “My dear Gleet,” said Hannibal's voice from the passway, with just enough trace of drunken slur to it to convince January that his friend was as sober as a judge—or as sober as Hannibal ever got. “Just the man I've been looking for.”
“Damn shame,” groused Gleet heavily. “Damn shame, to hang a well-set-up boy like yours. Complete waste . . .”
“Particularly,” said Hannibal, “since Ben actually was asleep in my stateroom the whole time and never laid a finger on Weems.”
“Oh, of course, of course!” Gleet hastened to agree. “But a white man, you know . . . I'm afraid once the sheriff gets hold of it, there'll be no way around hanging him. Do you really work for the Bank of Louisiana?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Hannibal. January snapped the padlock shut, and stole up the steps like a shadow just as Hannibal maneuvered Gleet out of the passway and onto the promenade beyond. “But in nothing like the capacity our friend Mr. Molloy seems to quite sincerely believe. You and Cain were out that night, two or three times—you heard nothing? Saw nothing?”
As January looked around the corner, Gleet shook his head, and spat a long stream of tobacco juice onto the deck, so close that it fouled Cissy's skirt. If looks could maim, there would have been blood on the deck as well as tobacco juice, but the nursemaid said nothing, and Gleet either didn't see her glare or didn't care.
“Like I told the Colonel,