George Martin - Fevre Dream

Jeffers leaned on his sword cane. “Shall I accompany you?” he asked.

“I ought to talk to Joshua by myself,” Marsh said, tying his tie with an eye on the mirror. “I don’t relish it though. Why don’t you come on up and wait outside. Maybe Joshua will want to call you in and talk about what we’re goin’ to do.” Left unspoken was the other reason that Marsh wanted the clerk close at hand-maybe he’d want to call him in, if Joshua York didn’t take kindly to the news of Damon Julian’s demise.

“Fine,” said Jeffers.

Marsh shrugged into his captain’s coat and snatched up his stick. “Let’s go then, Mister Jeffers. It’s too damn dark already.”

The Fevre Dream was steaming along briskly, her flags snapping and swirling in a strong wind, dark smoke pouring from her chimneys. Under the scant light of the strange purple sky, the waters of the Mississippi looked almost black. Marsh grimaced and strode forward briskly to Joshua York’s cabin, Jeffers at his side. This time he did not hesitate at the door; he raised his stick and knocked. On the third knock he called out, “Joshua, let me in. We got to talk.” On the fifth knock the door opened, moving slowly inward to reveal a soft still blackness. “Wait for me,” Marsh said to Jeffers. He stepped into the cabin and closed the door. “Don’t get mad now, Joshua,” he said to the dark, with a tight feeling in his gut. “I wouldn’t bother you, but this is important and it’s almost night anyhow.” There was no reply, though Marsh heard the sound of breathing. “Goddamnit,” he said, “why do we always have to talk in the dark, Joshua? It makes me damn uncomfortable.” He frowned. “Light a candle, will you?”

“No.” The voice was curt, low, liquid. And it was not Joshua’s.

Abner Marsh took a step backward. “Oh Jesus God, no,” he said, and there was a rustling sound even as his shaking hand found the door behind him and threw it open. He opened it wide and by now his eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness, and even the purplish glow of the storm-laden sky was enough to give brief form to the shadows within the captain’s cabin. He saw Joshua York sprawled on his bed, pale and naked, his eyes closed, one arm hanging down to the floor, and on his wrist was something that looked like a terrible dark bruise, or a crust of dried blood. And he saw Damon Julian moving toward him, swift as death, smiling. “We killed you,” Marsh roared, disbelieving, and he stumbled backward out of the cabin, tripped, and fell practically at Jonathon Jeffers’ feet.

Julian stopped in the doorway. A thin dark line-hardly more than a cat scratch-ran down his cheek where Marsh had opened a yawning gash the night before. Otherwise he was unmarked. He had taken off his jacket and vest, and his ruffled silk shirt was without stain or blemish. “Come in, Captain,” Julian said quietly. “Don’t run away. Come in and talk.”

“You’re dead. Mike bashed your goddamn head to pieces,” Marsh said, choking on his own words. He did not look at Julian’s eyes. It was still day, he thought, he was safe outside, beyond Julian’s reach until the sun went down, so long as he did not look in those eyes, so long as he did not go back into that cabin.

“Dead?” Julian smiled. “Ah. The other cabin. Poor Jean. He wanted so to believe Joshua, and see what you have done to him. Smashed his head in, did you say?”

Abner Marsh climbed to his feet. “You changed cabins,” he said hoarsely. “You damn devil. You made him sleep in your bed.”

“Joshua and I had so much to discuss,” Julian replied. He made a beckoning gesture. “Now come, Captain, I am tired of waiting. Come and let us drink together.”

“Burn in hell!” Marsh said. “Maybe we missed you this morning, but you ain’t got away yet. Mister Jeffers, run on down and get Hairy Mike and his boys. A dozen of them ought to do, I reckon.”

“No,” said Damon Julian, “you won’t do that.”

Marsh waved his stick threateningly. “Oh yes, I will. You goin’ to stop me?”

Julian glanced up at the sky; a deep violet now, shot through with black, a vast bruised and overcast twilight. “Yes,” he said, and he stepped out into the light.

Abner Marsh felt the cold, clammy hand of terror close around his heart. He raised his walking stick and said, “Stay away!” in a voice gone suddenly shrill. He stepped backward. Damon Julian smiled and came on. It wasn’t light enough, Marsh thought with sick despair.

And then there was a whisper of metal on wood, and Jonathon Jeffers stepped smoothly in front of him, his sword cane unsheathed, the sharp steel circling dangerously. “Go for help, Cap’n,” Jeffers said quietly. He pushed up his spectacles with his free hand. “I’ll keep Mister Julian occupied.” Lightly, with a fencer’s practiced speed, Jeffers darted forward at Julian, slashing. His blade was a rapier, double-edged and wickedly pointed. Damon Julian reeled back barely in time, his smile fading from his lips as the clerk’s slash passed inches in front of his face.

“Step aside,” Julian said darkly.

Jonathon Jeffers said nothing. He was in a fencer’s stance, advancing slowly on the balls of his feet, crowding Julian back toward the door of the captain’s cabin. He thrust suddenly, but Julian was too fast, sliding backward out of the reach of the sword. Jeffers made an impatient tsk. Damon Julian set one foot back inside the cabin, and answered with a laugh that was almost a snarl. His white hands rose and opened. Jeffers thrust again.

And Julian lunged, hands extended.

Abner Marsh saw it all. Jeffers’ thrust was true, and Julian made no effort to avoid it. The rapier entered him just above the groin. Julian’s pale face twisted, and a grunt of pain escaped him, but he came on. Jeffers ran him clean through even as Julian ran up the blade, and before the startled clerk had time to pull back, Julian had wrapped his hands around Jeffers’ throat. Jeffers made a horrible choking sound, and his eyes bulged, and as he tried to wrench free his gold-rimmed spectacles spun off and fell to the deck.

Marsh leaped forward and smashed Julian with his stick, raining blows around his head and shoulders. Transfixed by the sword, Julian hardly seemed to feel it. He twisted savagely, and there was a noise like wood snapping. Jeffers went limp.

Abner Marsh whipped his stick around in one final blow, with all his strength in it, and caught Damon Julian square in the center of his forehead, staggering him briefly. When Julian opened his hands, Jeffers fell like a rag doll, his head twisted around grotesquely so it almost seemed it was on backwards.

Abner Marsh retreated hurriedly.

Julian touched his brow, as if gauging the effects of Marsh’s blow. There was no blood, Marsh saw dismally. Strong as he was, he was no Hairy Mike Dunne, and hickory was not iron. Damon Julian kicked loose Jeffers’ death-grip from the handle of the sword cane. Wincing, he drew the blood-slick blade awkwardly out of his own body. His shirt and trousers were damp and red, and stuck to him when he moved. He spun the blade off to one side, almost casually, and it whipped round and round like a top as it sailed off over the river, before vanishing into the dark moving water.

Julian staggered forward again, leaving bloody footsteps behind him on the deck. But he came.

Marsh retreated before him. There was no killing him, he thought in a blind sick panic; there is nothing to be done. Joshua and his dreams, Hairy Mike and his iron billet, Mister Jeffers and his sword, none of them could take the measure of this Damon Julian. Marsh scrambled down the short stairway to the hurricane deck, and began to run. Panting, he hurried aft, to the companionway leading down from the hurricane deck to the promenade, where he’d find people and safety. It was nearly dark, he saw. He took three thunderous steps downstairs, then gripped the handrail tightly and reeled, trying to check himself.