Dragonfly In Amber

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 di

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.

“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 u

“Di

“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 a

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 begi

“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.