Barbara Hambly - 04 Sold Down the River

January sighed, and touched his forehead with one hand, wincing at the mingled pain of bruises and blisters. "I feel like I did twenty rounds with an iron stove and lost."

Gosport asked, "Will you be all right?"

January reached into his shirt, and smiled. The waxed silk was intact. "I'll be all right."

"You know," said Gosport, "I never did believe all them songs Mohammed used to sing about High John the Conqueror, beatin' all the white men and gettin' his people to safety. I'll believe 'em now. I know they're true."

They walked January to the oyster-shell road that ran along the top of the levee, and made sure he was well enough to stand on his own, before they faded like ghosts into the mist. January never saw either of them again.

Monsieur Conrad, of Le Cheniere plantation, had already gotten word that a boat had blown up on the other side of Duncan Point. He ordered his butler to make up a bed for January at once in one of the several cottages shared by the house-servants; only when January offered to show him his freedom papers did the planter say, "Janvier? Benjamin Janvier? Your wife is here. It was she whom my people first brought from the river with the news..."

January just stopped himself from gaping and said instead, "Kiki?" with what he hoped was a blossoming smile.

Monsieur Conrad's face broadened into a grin. He was a gray-haired, pleasant man of German Creole extraction and quite clearly reveled in being the reuniter of lost families. "Even she."

January crossed himself. "Thank God," he said simply. He wasn't quite sure what else to say, not knowing what the cook had told this man; he felt annoyance that she'd manipulate him in this fashion. "I didn't dare hope..."

Kiki was sitting on the edge of the bed in one of the house-servants' cottages. She was wrapped in a quilt, and one of the maids was combing out her mahogany-black hair. She looked up as January came in, and made her eyes melting as she held out her arms. "Oh, Ben! "

"Thank you," she said, after they'd been served with food and left alone. A small fire burned in the cabin's little hearth, making the borrowed refuge warm and pleasant. The servant had helped her braid her hair into strings, and Kiki finished tying them as she spoke. "I was almost unconscious when Monsieur Conrad's people found me. I was gambling that you'd get ashore all right, too. You might have gone anywhere, but at least you wouldn't be hiding like the others.

And if you did come here..."

"How did you know my name?"

And her dark eyes twinkled. "If you were a free man," she replied, "I knew you had to have your papers hidden somewhere. And since Michie Hannibal was like your white kid glove, the place to hide them would have been in his room."

January sniffed. "You're lucky you're here in this room with me instead of Harry. Or whoever Harry sold the other set of my papers to. Now I'll have to deal with having a duplicate Benjamin January at large, stealing pigs and trading guns..."

"Don't be silly, Ben, in a year his credit will be better than yours."

January sighed, and leaned his back against the pillows she'd heaped between the wall and his shoulders. He ached all over and wanted only to sleep. Outside, the fog was losing the light that had filled it all day.

Where would Marie-Noel Fourchet spend the night? They're all right, Shaw had said, meaning he'd gotten to Mon Triomphe in time. If he knew Shaw, the man had come up on a boat to another landing, and checked the lay of the land before going in. Disappearing Willie had probably gone to ground the same time Duffy had imprisoned Mohammed and Pennydip, and Quashie had been waiting, all that time, watching for his chance to rescue Jeanette...

And a good thing, January thought. Otherwise, preoccupied with their own harvests, the other planters wouldn't have seen the burning house until too late. Would have attributed the smoke to the burning of the cane-fields.

He had a mental image of Hippolyte Daubray riding up on the heels of the disaster, offering hospitality with one hand and three dollars and thirty-five cents for Mon Triomphe and everything on it with the other.

In the stillness he was aware of Kiki watching him. "False River Jones told me about your husband," he said. "And your sons."

Kiki turned her face away, and tied up the last of her many braids with string. Her plump face looked haggard in the warm hues of the fire, as if she understood that from those deaths-deaths she'd learned of at the trader's last visit in the dark of the moon-he had guessed all the rest.

"I should say I'm sorry," she said at last. "But I'm not. About Gilles, yes. He was a kind man, a good man. Even when he was drunk he hadn't an ounce of harm in him. I should have realized, after Michie Fourchet beat him for stealing liquor. But I didn't."

"Did you love him?"

"Everyone thought I should have," she said simply, "so I said I did. And then, M'am Fourchet wouldn't have put in her word for me, if I hadn't said it was love. It wasn't enough that Reuben was a wild pig in his soul. It was the love story that fetched her heart. Well, she's only a girl. But Hector was the only man I ever loved."

January was silent, thinking about how a man dies, who drinks the boiled roots of Italian oleander. Thinking about the stripped leaves beneath M'am. Camille's dark hedges, and the mashed bolus of boiled vegetable matter on the midden at Refuge; the veve of hatred drawn above the stove. The dead rats beneath the house.

"I am sorry," Kiki said.

His eyes met hers again, and he read in them her regret, and her understanding that he would have to take her in to the law if he could. Yet he understood, too, that having told Conrad they were husband and wife, there was no way that he could now announce that this woman was a murderess and his prisoner. It would mean a contest of lies, and Conrad might believe her, or call January's freedom papers into question.

All he wanted to do now was ascertain that Hannibal and the others had indeed survived the fire, and then go home.

"It sounds silly," Kiki said at length. "I am sorry. I didn't think of what it would mean-that others would be blamed, and maybe punished, for that horrid old man's death. And at the time I didn't care. I was so-so angry. So crazy with grief."

January said nothing. He remembered the madness of his own sorrow at Ayasha's death.

Remembered too the sick helpless fury he'd felt, his whole time at Mon Triomphe, as if everything beneath his skin were being consumed by slow fire.

"Reuben was easy," Kiki went on, her voice matter-of-fact. "We all of us, as children, played with blowpipes. There was an old mambo in the quarters where I grew up who made them out of maiden cane or straws, and my brothers and I could hit near anything with thorns or slivers as well as peas. Hector and I used to have contests-I was a better shot than he. Even though I marked the walls for Shango and the other spirits of the fire to help me, I didn't really think I could trap Reuben long enough in the mill for him to smother or burn, but nobody would question, then, if the machinery broke."

She drew the blanket more closely around herself. One of the Conrad servants had lent her clothes, a faded yellow calico gown sewn for a woman even more amply built than she, and the bright color warmed her face more than the blacks of mourning that she had worn. Proud, January remembered Mohammed calling her. Proud and strong.

Of course a man like Reuben would take it as a challenge, to break her.

Someone-Mohammed?-had told him how Kiki had nursed her former husband in his injury, when Trinette would not. Looking at her calm somber face he understood now why she'd volunteered.

What the rollers, and shock, and loss of blood hadn't accomplished, she would have made sure of, one way or another.