Fevre Dream (20 page)

“Valerie has told me much of him. He is old, Abner. Older than Simon or Katherine, older than any of us. His age itself disturbs me. Now he calls himself Damon Julian, but before that name he was Giles Lamont, the same Giles Lamont whom that wretched mulatto served for thirty futile years. I am told he has another human thrall now—”

“Sour Billy Tipton,” Valerie said with loathing.

“Valerie is afraid of this Julian,” Joshua York said. “The others also speak of him with fear, but sometimes with a certain loyalty as well. As bloodmaster, he took care of them. He gave them sanctuary, wealth, and feasts. They feasted on slaves. No wonder he chose to settle where he did.”

Valerie shook her head. “Leave him, Joshua. Please. For me, if for no other reason. Damon will not welcome your coming, will not cherish the freedom you bring.”

Joshua scowled in annoyance. “He still has others of our people with him. Would you have me abandon them as well? No. And you may be wrong about Julian. He has been in the grip of the red thirst for uncounted centuries, and I can soothe that fever.”

Valerie crossed her arms, her violet eyes furious. “And if he will not be soothed? You do not know him, Joshua.”

“He is educated, intelligent, cultured, a lover of beauty,” York said stubbornly. “You said as much.”

“He is
strong
as well.”

“As with Simon, and Raymond, and Cara. They follow me now.”

“Damon is different,” Valerie insisted. “It is not the same!”

Joshua York made an impatient gesture. “It makes no difference. I will control him.”

Abner Marsh had watched them argue in thoughtful silence, but now he spoke up. “Joshua’s right,” he said to Valerie. “Hell, I looked in his eyes once or twice myself, and he nearly busted every bone in my hand the first time we shook. Besides, what was it you called him? A king?”

“Yes,” Valerie admitted. “The pale king.”

“Well, if he’s this pale king of yours, it stands to reason that he’s got to win, don’t it?”

Valerie glanced from Marsh to York and back again. Then she trembled. “You haven’t seen him, either of you.” She hesitated a moment, tossed her dark hair back with a pale slender hand, and faced Abner Marsh squarely. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Captain Marsh. I do not have Joshua’s strength, nor his trust. I have been ruled by the red thirst for half a century. Your people were my prey. You cannot befriend your prey. You
cannot
. You cannot trust them either. That was why I urged Joshua to kill you. You cannot just cast aside the cautions of a lifetime. Do you understand?”

Abner Marsh nodded warily.

“I am still uncertain,” Valerie continued, “but Joshua has been showing us many new things, and I am willing to admit that perhaps you can be trusted. Perhaps.” She scowled fiercely. “But whether or not I was wrong about you, I am
right
about Damon Julian!”

Abner Marsh frowned, not knowing what to say. Joshua reached out and took Valerie’s hand in his own. “I think you are wrong to be so fearful,” he said. “But for your sake, I will move with all caution. Abner, do as you wish, tell Mister Jeffers and Mister Dunne. It will be good to have their help if Valerie is right. Choose the men for a special watch, and let the rest ashore. When the
Fevre Dream
steams up the bayou, I want her manned only by our best and most reliable, the bare minimum needed to run her. No religious fanatics, no one who is easily frightened, no one prone to rashness.”

“Hairy Mike and I will do the pickin’,” Marsh said.

“I will meet Julian on my own steamer, in my own time, with you and the best of your men behind me. Be careful how you tell Jeffers and Dunne. It must be done correctly.” He looked at Valerie. “Satisfied?”

“No,” she said.

Joshua smiled. “I can do no more.” He looked back at Abner Marsh. “Abner, I am glad you are not my enemy. I am close now, my dreams at hand. In beating the red thirst, I had my first great triumph. I would like to think that here, tonight, you and I have fashioned a second, the beginning of friendship and trust between our races. The
Fevre Dream
will steam on the razor edge between night and day, banishing the specter of old fear wherever she goes. We will achieve great things together, friend.”

Marsh didn’t care overmuch for flowery talk, but Joshua’s passion reached him nonetheless and he gave a grudging smile. “Got a lot of work to do before we achieve any goddamned thing at all,” Marsh said, gathering up his walking stick and getting to his feet. “I’ll be goin’, then.”

“Fine,” Joshua said, smiling. “I will take my rest, and see you once again at twilight. Make certain the boat is ready to depart. We’ll get this done with as quickly as we can.”

“I’ll have our steam up,” Marsh said as he took his leave.

Outside, day had come.

It looked to be about nine, Abner Marsh thought as he stood blinking outside the captain’s cabin, after Joshua had locked the door behind him. The morning was dismal; hot and muggy, with a heavy gray overcast that hid the sun. Soot and smoke from steamers on the river hung in the air. There’s going to be a storm, Abner Marsh thought, and the prospect was one he found disheartening. He was suddenly aware of how little sleep he’d gotten, and felt inutterably tired, but there was so much to do that he dared not even consider a nap.

He descended to the main saloon, figuring that breakfast would give him some spirit. He drank a gallon of hot black coffee while Toby cooked him up some boiled beefcakes and waffles, with blueberries on the side. As he was eating, Jonathon Jeffers entered the saloon, saw him, and came striding over to the table.

“Sit down and eat somethin’,” Marsh said. “Want to have a long talk with you, Mister Jeffers. Not here, though. Better wait till I’m through and then go to my cabin.”

“Fine,” Jeffers replied, in a distracted sort of way. “Cap’n, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours. You weren’t in your cabin.”

“Joshua and I were chattin’,” Marsh said. “What . . . ?”

“There’s a man here to see you,” Jeffers said. “He came aboard in the middle of the night. He’s very insistent.”

“Don’t like to be kept around waitin’, like I’m some no-count trash,” the stranger said. Marsh hadn’t even seen the man enter. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the man pulled out a chair and sat down. He was an ugly, haggard-looking cuss, his long face cratered by the pox. Thin, limp brown hair hung down in strands across his forehead. His complexion was unhealthy, and patches of hair and skin were covered by scaly white flakes, like he’d been in his own private snowfall. Yet he wore an expensive black broadcloth suit, and a ruffled white shirtfront, and a cameo ring.

Abner Marsh didn’t care for his looks, his tone, the flat press of his lips, his ice-colored eyes. “Who the hell are you?” he said gruffly. “You better have a damn good reason for botherin’ me at breakfast, or I’ll have you chucked over the damn side.” Just saying so made Marsh feel somewhat better. He’d always figured there was no use being a steamboat captain if you couldn’t tell somebody to go to hell once in a while.

The stranger’s sour expression changed not a flicker, but he fixed his icy eyes on Marsh with a kind of smirking malice. “I’m goin’ to be takin’ passage on this fancy raft of yours.”

“The hell you are,” Marsh said.

“Shall I call Hairy Mike to deal with this ruffian?” Jeffers offered coolly.

The man looked at the clerk with brief contempt. His eyes moved back to Marsh. “Cap’n Marsh, I come last night to bring you an invite, for you and your partner. Figured one o’ you, at least, be out and about by night. Well, it’s day now, so it’ll have to be tonight instead. Dinner at the St. Louis, along about an hour past sunset, you and Cap’n York.”

“I don’t know you and I don’t care for you,” Marsh said. “I sure ain’t goin’ to have dinner with you. Besides, the
Fevre Dream
is steamin’ out tonight.”

“I know. Know where, too.”

Marsh frowned. “What are you sayin’?”

“You don’t know niggers, I can tell. Nigger hears somethin’, before long ever’ nigger in the city knows it. And me, I lissen good. You don’t want to take this big ol’ steamer of yours up the bayou to where you’re fixin’ to go. You’ll ground yourself for sure, maybe rip out your bottom. I can save you all the trouble. Y’see, the man you lookin’ for is right here waitin’ for you. So, when dark comes, you go tell that to your master, you hear? You tell him that Damon Julian is waiting for him at the St. Louis Hotel. Mister Julian is right eager to make his acquaintance.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

New Orleans,
August 1857

Sour Billy Tipton returned to the St. Louis Hotel that evening more than a little fearful. Julian would not like the message he carried from the
Fevre Dream,
and Julian was dangerous and unpredictable when displeased.

In the darkened parlor of their lavish suite, only a single small candle had been lighted. Its flame was reflected in Julian’s black eyes as he sat in the deep velvet chair near the window, sipping a sazerac. The room was full of silence. Sour Billy felt the weight of the stares upon him. The latch made a small, deadly
snick
when the door shut behind him. “Yes, Billy?” said Damon Julian, softly.

“They won’t come, Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said, a little too quickly, a little too breathlessly. In the dim light he could not see Julian’s reaction. “He says you got to come to him.”

“He says,” repeated Julian. “Who is
he,
Billy?”

“Him,” said Sour Billy. “The . . . the other bloodmaster. Joshua York, he calls hisself. The one that Raymond wrote you about. The other cap’n, Marsh, the fat one with the warts and the whiskers, he wouldn’t come neither. Damned rude, too. But I waited for dark, waited for the bloodmaster to get up. Finally they took me to ’im.” Sour Billy still felt cold, remembering the way that York’s gray, gray eyes had touched his own, and found him wanting. There had been such bitter contempt there that Billy had wrenched his gaze away at once.

“Tell us, Billy,” said Damon Julian, “what is he like, this other? This Joshua York. This
bloodmaster
.”

“He’s . . .” Billy began, fumbling for words, “he’s . . .
white,
I mean, his skin and all is real pale, and his hair ain’t got no color in it. He even wore a white suit, like some kind of ha’nt. And silver, he wore lots of silver. The way he moves . . . like one of them damn Creoles, Mister Julian, high and lordly. He’s . . . he’s like you, Mister Julian. His
eyes
. . .”

“Pale and strong,” murmured Cynthia from the far corner of the room. “And with a wine that conquers the red thirst. Is he the one, Damon? He must be. It must be true. Valerie always believed the stories, and I mocked her for it, but it must be so. He will bring us all together, lead us back to the lost city, the dark city. Our kingdom, our own. It
is
true, isn’t it? He is bloodmaster of bloodmasters, the king we have waited for.” She looked at Damon Julian for an answer.

Damon Julian tasted his sazerac and smiled a sly, feline smile. “A king,” he mused. “And what did this king say to you, Billy? Tell us.”

“He said to come to the steamer, all of you. Tomorrow, after dark. For dinner, he said. Him and Marsh, they won’t come here, not like you wanted, alone. Marsh, he said that if they come to you it’s goin’ to be with others.”

“The king is strangely timid,” Julian commented.

“Kill him!” Sour Billy blurted suddenly. “Go to that damn boat and kill him, kill ’em all. He’s
wrong,
Mister Julian. His eyes, like some damn Creole, the way he looked at me. Like I was a bug, a no-count, even though I come from
you
. He thinks he’s better’n you, and them others, that warty cap’n and this damn clerk, all dandied up, let me cut him, bleed him some all over them fine clothes of his, you got to go kill him, you
got
to.”

The room was silent after Sour Billy’s outburst. Julian stared out the window, off into the night. The windows had been thrown wide, so the curtains stirred lazily in the night air and street noises drifted up from below. Julian’s eyes were dark, hooded, fixed on distant lights.

When at last he turned his head, his pupils caught the gleam of the single candle flame again, and held it within, red and flickering. His face took on a lean, feral cast. “The drink, Billy,” he prompted.

“He makes ’em all drink it,” Sour Billy said. He leaned back against the door and pulled out his knife. It made him feel better to have it in hand. He began scraping crud out from under his nails as he spoke. “It ain’t just blood, Cara said. Something else in it. It kills the thirst, they all say that. I went all over that boat, talked to Raymond and Jean and Jorge, a couple others. They told me. Jean kept ravin’ about this drink, about what a relief it was, if you can believe that.”

“Jean,” said Julian with disdain.

“It
is
true, then,” Cynthia said. “He is greater than the thirst.”

“There’s more,” Sour Billy added. “Raymond says York has taken up with Valerie.”

The stillness in the parlor was full of tension. Kurt frowned. Michelle averted her eyes. Cynthia sipped at her drink. All of them knew that Valerie, beautiful Valerie, had been Julian’s special pet; all of them watched him carefully. Julian seemed pensive. “Valerie?” he said. “I see.” Long, pale fingers tapped on the arm of his chair.

Sour Billy Tipton picked at his teeth with the point of his knife, pleased. He’d figured that bit about Valerie would settle it. Damon Julian had had plans for Valerie, and Julian did not like his plans disturbed. He’d told Billy all about it, with an air of sly amusement, when Billy had asked him why he’d gone and sent her away. “Raymond is young and strong, and he can hold her,” Julian had said. “They will be alone, the two of them, alone with each other and the thirst. Such a romantic vision, don’t you think? And in a year, or two, or five, Valerie will be with child. I would almost bet on it, Billy.” And then he had laughed that deep musical laugh of his. But he was not laughing now.

“What will we do, Damon?” Kurt asked. “Are we going?”

“Why, of course,” Julian said. “We could hardly refuse such a kind invitation, and from a king at that. Don’t you want to taste this wine of his?” He looked at each of them in turn, and none of them dared speak. “Ah,” said Julian, “where is your enthusiasm? Jean recommends this vintage to us, and Valerie as well, no doubt. A wine sweeter than blood, thick with the stuff of life. Think of the peace it will bring us.” He smiled. No one spoke. He waited. When the quiet had gone on a long while, Julian shrugged and said, “Well, then, I hope the king will not think less of us if we prefer other drinks.”

“He makes the rest of ’em drink it,” Sour Billy said. “Whether they want to or not.”

“Damon,” Cynthia said, “will you . . . refuse him? You can’t. We must go to him. We must do as he bids us. We
must
.”

Julian turned his head slowly to look at her. “Do you really think so?” he asked, smiling thinly.

“Yes,” Cynthia whispered. “We must. He is bloodmaster.” She averted her eyes.

“Cynthia,” said Damon Julian, “look at me.”

Slowly, with infinite reluctance, she raised her head again, until her gaze met Julian’s. “No,” she whimpered. “Please. Oh, please.”

Damon Julian said nothing. Cynthia did not look away. She slipped from her chair, knelt on the carpet, trembling. A bracelet of spun gold and amethysts shone on her small wrist. She pushed it aside, and her lips parted slowly, as if she were about to speak, and then she raised her hand and touched mouth to wrist. The blood began to flow.

Julian waited until she had crawled across the carpet, her arm extended in offering. With grave courtesy he took her hand in his, and drank long and deeply. When he was done Cynthia got to her feet unsteadily, slipped back to one knee, and rose again, shaking. “Bloodmaster,” she said, head bowed. “Bloodmaster.”

Damon Julian’s lips were red and wet, and a tiny bead of blood had trickled down one corner of his mouth. Julian took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully blotted the thin line of moisture from his chin, and tucked it neatly away. “Is it a large steamer, Billy?” he asked.

Sour Billy sheathed his knife behind him with a practiced, easy motion, smiling. The wound on Cynthia’s wrist, the blood on Julian’s chin, it all left him hot, excited. Julian would show those damn steamboat people, he thought. “Big as any steamboat I ever seen,” he answered, “and fancy too. Silver and mirrors and marble, lots of stained glass and carpet. You’ll like her, Mister Julian.”

“A steamboat,” mused Damon Julian. “Why did I never think of the river, I wonder? The advantages are so obvious.”

“Then we are going?” said Kurt.

“Yes,” said Julian. “Oh yes. Why, the bloodmaster has summoned us. The king.” He laughed, throwing back his head, roaring. “The king!” he cried between gusts of laughter. “The
king
!” One by one the others began to laugh with him.

Julian rose abruptly, like a jackknife unfolding, his face gone solemn again, and the uproar quieted as suddenly as it had begun. He stared out into the darkness beyond the hotel. “We must bring a gift,” he said. “One does not call upon royalty without a gift.” He turned to Sour Billy. “Tomorrow you will go down to Moreau Street, Billy. There is something I wish you to get for me. A little gift, for our pale king.”