Dragonfly in Amber Read online

  “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 you 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.

&nb
sp; “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.”

  I rested my elbows on the battered table, and parked my chin on my folded hands.

  “I’ve made rather a mess of things, haven’t I?” I said ruefully. “Got you off on a fine footing in business.”

  He smiled, then got up and came behind me, bending to put his arms around me. I was still rather unnerved from his sudden revelations, but felt much better to feel the strength and the bulk of him behind me. He kissed me lightly on top of the head.

  “Dinna worry, Sassenach,” he said. “I can take care of myself. And I can take care of you, too—and you’ll let me.” There was a smile in his voice, but a question as well, and I nodded, letting my head fall back against his chest.

  “I’ll let you,” I said. “The citizens of Le Havre will just have to take their chances with the pox.”

  * * *

  It was nearly an hour before Jared came back, ears reddened with cold, but throat unslit, and apparently none the worse for wear. I was happy to see him.

  “It’s all right,” he announced, beaming. “Nothing but scurvy and the usual fluxes and chills aboard. No pox.” He looked around the room, rubbing his hands together. “Where’s supper?”

  His cheeks were wind-reddened and he looked cheerful and capable. Apparently dealing with business rivals who settled contentions by assassination was all in a day’s work to this merchant. And why not? I thought cynically. He was a bloody Scot, after all.

  As if to confirm this view, Jared ordered the meal, acquired an excellent wine to go with it by the simple expedient of sending to his own warehouse for it, and sat down to a genial postprandial discussion with Jamie on ways and means of dealing with French merchants.

  “Bandits,” he said. “Every man jack o’ them would stab ye in the back as soon as look at ye. Filthy thieves. Don’t trust them an inch. Half on deposit, half on delivery, and never let a nobleman pay on credit.”

  Despite Jared’s assurances that he had left two men below on watch, I was still a bit nervous, and after supper, I placed myself near the window, where I could see the comings and goings along the pier. Not that my watching out was likely to do a lot of good, I thought; every second man on the dock looked like an assassin to me.

  The clouds were closing in over the harbor; it was going to snow again tonight. The reefed sails fluttered wildly in the rising wind, rattling against the spars with a noise that nearly overwhelmed the shouts of the loaders. The harbor glowed with a moment of dull green light as the setting sun was driven into the water by the pressing clouds.

  As it grew darker, the bustle to and fro died down, the loaders with their handcarts disappearing up the streets into the town, and the sailors disappearing into the lighted doors of establishments like the one in which I sat. Still, the place was far from deserted; in particular, there was a small crowd still gathered near the ill-fated Patagonia. Men in some sort of uniform formed a cordon at the foot of the gangplank; no doubt to prevent anyone going aboard or bringing the cargo off. Jared had explained that the healthy members of the crew would be allowed to come ashore, but not permitted to bring anything off the ship save the clothes that they wore.

  “Better than they’d do under the Dutch,” he said, scratching the rough black stubble that was beginning to emerge along his jaw. “If a ship’s coming in from a port known to have plague of some kind, the damned Hollanders make the sailors swim ashore naked.”

  “What do they do for clothes once they get ashore?” I asked curiously.

  “I don’t know,” said Jared absently, “but since they’ll find a brothel within moments of stepping on land, I don’t suppose they’d need any—begging your pardon, m’dear,” he added hastily, suddenly remembering that he was talking to a lady.

  Covering his momentary confusion with heartiness, he rose and came to peer out of the window beside me.

  “Ah,” he said. “They’re getting ready to fire the ship. Given what she’s carrying, they’d best tow it a good way out into the harbor first.”

  Towropes had been attached to the doomed Patagonia, and a number of small boats manned by oarsmen were standing ready, waiting for a signal. This was given by the harbor master, whose gold braid was barely visible as a gleam in the dying light of the day. He shouted, waving both hands slowly back and forth above his head like a semaphore.

  His shout was echoed by the captains of the rowboats and galleys, and the towropes slowly lifted from the water as they tautened, water sluicing down the heavy hemp spirals with a splash audible in the sudden silence that struck the docks. The shouts from the towboats were the only sound as the dark hulk of the condemned ship creaked, quivered, and turned into the wind, shrouds groaning as she set out on her last brief voyage.

  They left her in the middle of the harbor, a safe distance away from the other ships. Her decks had been soaked with oil, and as the towropes were cast off and the galleys pulled away, the small round figure of the harbor master rose from the seat of the dinghy that had rowed him out. He bent down, head close to one of the seated figures, then rose with the bright sudden flame of a torch in one hand.

  The rower behind him leaned away as he drew back his arm and threw the torch. A heavy club wrapped with oil-soaked rags, it turned end over end, the fire shrinking to a blue glow, and landed out of sight behind the railing. The harbor master didn’t wait to see the effects of his action; he sat down at once, gesturing madly to the rower, who heaved on the oars, and the small boat shot away across the dark water.

  For long moments, nothing happened, but the crowd on the dock stood still, murmuring quietly. I could see the pale reflection of Jamie’s face, floating above my own in the dark glass of the window. The glass was cold, and misted over quickly with our breath; I rubbed it clear with the edge of my cloak.

  “There,” Jamie said softly. The flame ran suddenly behind the railing, a small blue glowing line. Then a flicker, and the forward shrouds sprang out, orange-red lines against the sky. A silent leap, and the tongues of fire danced along the oil-drenched rails, and one furled sail sparked and burst into flame.

  In less than a minute, the shrouds of the mizzen had caught, and the mainsail unfurled, its moorings burnt through, a falling sheet of flame. The fire spread too rapidly then to watch its progress; everything seemed alight at once.

  “Now,” Jared said suddenly. “Come downstairs. The hold will catch in a minute, and that will be the best time to make away. No one will notice us.”

  He was right; as we crept cautiously out of the tavern door, two men materialized beside Jared—his own seamen, armed with pistols and marlinspikes—but no one else noticed our appearance. Everyone was turned toward the harbor, where the superstructure of the Patagonia was visible now as a black skeleton inside a body of rippling flame. There was a series of pops, so close together they sounded like machine-gun fire, and then an almighty explosion that rose from the center of the ship in a fountain of sparks and burning timbers.

  “Let’s go.” Jamie’s hand was firm on my arm, and I made no protest. Following Jared, guarded by the sailors, we stole away from the quay, surreptitious as though we had started the fire.

  7

  ROYAL AUDIENCE

  Jared’s house in Paris stood in the Rue Tremoulins. It was a wealthy district, with stone-faced houses of three, four, and five stories crowded cheek by jowl together. Here and there a very large house stood alone in its own park, but for the most part, a reas
onably athletic burglar could have leaped from rooftop to rooftop with no difficulty.

  “Mmphm” was Murtagh’s solitary observation, upon beholding Jared’s house. “I’ll find my own lodging.”

  “And it makes ye nervous to have a decent roof above your head, man, ye can sleep in the stables,” Jamie suggested. He grinned down at his small, dour godfather. “We’ll ha’ the footman bring ye out your parritch on a silver tray.”

  Inside, the house was furnished with comfortable elegance, though as I was later to realize, it was Spartan by comparison with most of the houses of the nobility and the wealthy bourgeois. I supposed that this was at least in part because the house had no lady; Jared had never married, though he showed no signs of feeling the lack of a wife.

  “Well, he has a mistress, of course,” Jamie had explained when I speculated about his cousin’s private life.

  “Oh, of course,” I murmured.

  “But she’s married. Jared told me once that a man of business should never form entanglements with unmarried ladies—he said they demand too much in terms of expense and time. And if ye marry them, they’ll run through your money and you’ll end up a pauper.”