Revenant Eve (22 page)

The fiddler joined his voice to the reedy melody. The two were far better as a duo. The audience began once again to be pulled in by the song, as the regal player signaled for more of whatever was in his cup. The other two gave him the hairy eyeball, and I wondered if Regal Guy was drinking up their profits.

Aurélie was staring at that regal.

The song finished, and Hautbois Guy started up another song on his
sheng
. The regal player put down his mug, said something in a rude undertone, and Hautbois Guy stopped, set aside the
sheng
, and took up his first instrument. Fiddle Guy lifted his bow.

Regal Guy crashed his fingers on the keys, Hautbois Guy started pumping, but not quick enough for the regal player, who stopped and cursed his fellow musicians. They started again, and this time the trio got through the simple melody of the “Hymn of 9 Thermidor,” a Revolutionary song commemorating the downfall of Robespierre. Most of the audience joined in, roaring out the chorus,
Il ne fut brisé que par toi / Il ne fut brisé que par toi!

The audience showed their approval by tossing a few low-denomination
assignats
and
centimes
into the upside down cap in front
of Fiddle Guy’s left foot. The musicians then swung into the bouncy tune called “Ça ira” which eventually came over to the Yankee side of the Atlantic as “It’s Okay.”

This time the entire inn joined the song. They sang so loud that their noise drowned out the missed notes and jagged timing of the regal player, who swayed on his stool. None of the audience seemed to notice his bad playing—except Aurélie, who watched intently from between an enormous man wearing a grocer’s apron and a Revolutionary veteran in a threadbare uniform, who leaned on a stick. When the song ended, Regal Guy swallowed down the last of his wine, then got up abruptly, fumbling at the buttons of his breeches as he shoved his way drunkenly through the crowd.

The other two struck up a rollicking melody on fiddle and hautbois, “La Carmagnole,” which Aurélie had played back in Jamaica. It was a popular dance melody, adapted like many popular songs into a typically bloodthirsty Revolutionary tune.

Aurélie looked from the regal to the hat with its coins to the players, then she eased around the veteran and approached the regal.

The two musicians glanced her way, exhibiting only a mild, distracted surprise. The dark-haired one with the striking face seemed to be staring right at me, but I knew it had to be a trick of his gaze, for nobody else had seen me. Sure enough, he returned his attention to his fiddle.

Aurélie put her hands on the keys. Some of the audience laughed to see this sprig pop out of nowhere, but Hautbois Guy obligingly began to pump.

Aurélie played, hesitantly at first, rapidly gaining assurance. The regal was old and wheezy, its inner workings clunking, but she stayed squarely on the beat. At the end of the song, the audience gave a genial shout of approval for the “boy” who gave them a cheeky grin. This time, it was she who launched into another French air.

The two musicians joined right in. She kept a steady beat, and on the second verse the fiddle player began to curl out riffs and experimental arpeggios. People began to clap and stamp, and things were swinging along nicely…

And then Regal Guy reappeared. He howled a curse, made a fist, and tried to knock Aurélie off the stool.

She ducked under the blow and whirled away, but the tip of her extra-long shoe got caught in the twine attached to the bellows, and she hit the floor with a splat. Her hat came loose. She nipped it up and clapped it onto her head, raising a howl of laughter.

The regal player, instead of reclaiming his stool, decided to go after her. Aurélie rolled to her feet, one hand to her hat, the other yanking her pistol free.

Regal Guy staggered back. Half the audience did as well. Some of them exclaimed in her favor, others in Regal Guy’s favor, as the unloaded pistol wavered in her trembling fingers.

Then Fiddle Guy put bow to instrument and played a complicated cadenza that caught attention. “Leave the boy alone,” he said into the moment of relative quiet, his French marked by a faintly guttural accent. “At least he can play, Jules. You have only been playing at playing.”

Laughter and a shout of approval went up.

Jules responded by shouting threats at Aurélie.

“Run, boy!” several shouted.

Aurélie’s chin came out. Her gaze flicked revealingly to that hat with the coins. She wanted the share of the take that she’d earned. Even a few centimes would buy her a stale bun.

The audience began shouting advice: “Stand up to him, little bantling!” “Shoot him, and let’s have some music!” “A fight, a fight!” Then a nasal teen voice cat-called mockingly, “Afraid to pull the trigger?” as a butcher’s apprentice hefted a squashy vegetable on his palm, ready for throwing. From the bulging pocket in his apron, he’d obviously come prepared for his own style of entertainment.

Aurélie glanced around, then turned the pistol upside down and shook it. Of course no ball rolled out of the barrel. A gust of laughter rose. This was better entertainment than mere music.

Sympathy promptly swung back her way—for the moment. Jules threw his mug at her. He was too drunk to aim. She dodged easily and
flipped up the back of her hand in the age old gesture of repudiation, used by the boys at Port Royal.

Maddened by the resultant laughter, Jules charged her; a tactical error, because the entire inn howled him down as a coward. He lurched toward Aurélie, who leaned to avoid his swinging fists. She reversed the pistol the way Anne had taught her and whacked the side of his knee. Jules hit the floor, bellowing curses.

At that point customers shifted as a force of nature thrust violently through, and there was the innkeeper, a massive man of about fifty, with two brawny sons or nephews flanking him. Efficiently, and with no gentleness, they took hold of various parts of Jules, hauled him up, and made for the door. The guy shouted in inarticulate rage as customers pelted him with their recreational garbage.

Aurélie thrust her pistol back into her breeches, straightened her hat, then looked up at the two musicians. Hautbois Guy apparently did not notice. The cap covering his greasy, tangled hair was the only thing visible as he twiddled with the reed on his instrument. But Fiddle Guy flicked his bow in a magnanimous gesture toward the regal. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “You may call me Mord.”

“Mord?” Aurélie repeated doubtfully. “‘Bites’?”

“‘Murder’ in German and Lithuanian,” Mord said with an air of mockery. “A very good name for an ex-soldier with no pay. And my companion is Jaska.”

“Yas-ka?” Aurélie repeated.

The bow wrote in the air, J-A-S-K-A. “Jaska. And you, bantling?”

“René,” Aurélie said firmly as she sat down at the regal.

The crowd roared approval, and so began an evening of music.

There was very little talk, no more than an exchange of songs, or chords, between pieces. Aurélie, long accustomed to playing accompaniment to Cassandra’s singing, already knew how to match tempo, and so the three soon found a mutual rhythm that permitted both hautbois and fiddle to take off on flights of embellishment, which were generally hailed with appreciation.

When at last the crowd began thinning as people went home, they played the “Marseilles” as their last piece. Aurélie stood up uncertainly, and Mord said, “Will you share our meal, Citizen René?”

“Yes,” Aurélie said, with heartfelt conviction.

The innkeeper heaped three plates from the last of the night’s menu, extracted from the hat some coins for the broken mug, then left them to eat.

Aurélie took a stool next to Mord. She avoided whatever meat was swimming in its sauce, in favor of small potatoes, and oh glory, she practically inhaled the apple compote with cheese crumbled over it.

For a time, nobody spoke. Three mugs of something frosty appeared. Aurélie took a gulp of hers, then coughed, her eyes watering. Before anyone could say anything, she took another determined gulp, and only betrayed a gasp. Her face was flushed when she finished the ale, but at least she’d downed it on a full stomach, which lessened the effect.

At any rate, she was steady enough when Mord counted out a portion of the take and gravely offered it to her. As she tucked it into her waistcoat pocket, he said, “You know that Jules will be waiting outside to crack your skull.”

“Jules?” Aurélie asked.

“Our late and unlamented third,” Mord said. “We have had ill luck with finding a third. He’s our—what, Jaska?—our sixth in as many months?”

Jaska shrugged as he pulled a knife from one pocket, a piece of reed cane from another, and resumed the painstaking process of carving it.

Mord said, “Considering our success this night, I think we owe it to you to see you to safety. Where’s your house?”

“Haven’t one,” she said, and at two muted looks of surprise, she flushed and added, “I want to find a ship to Jamaica.”

Mord gave her a sad smile. “As well seek a journey to Mars. You’ll find no ship sailing to Jamaica from this side of the Channel, and only warships going to Saint-Domingue, which, last I heard, was still claiming independence under Toussaint L’Ouverture.”

“I have heard that name,” she exclaimed, then clipped her lips shut.

“Rumor has it that he was a slave before he became a military man. He is now leading a revolt for freedom.”

“Do the warships go to his aid, or against him?”

“Rumor is unclear. In any case, you would have to make your way to the harbor at Brest, or Toulon, to volunteer.”

Aurélie lifted her chin. She was a little soused, or she would never have talked as much as she did. “I will not go on a warship if they fight for slavery. It is evil.”

“Agreed,” Mord said. “Agreed. For all forms of slavery, including serfdom.”

Jaska ducked his head in a nod and returned to carving. Mord said, “You are a little young, but from the bravado with which you pointed your piece, it is to be hoped you know how to load and fire a pistol?”

“I do,” she said.

Jaska put away his reed and knife, and led the way back to the corner where their instruments lay. They packed up quickly, Mord putting the regal in its leather case. Jaska shrugged his arms through the straps so that the thing hung against his back. Last, Jaska plucked a tattered, ragged-hemmed cloak from the corner, disclosing their own weapons: A cavalry sword, a rapier, two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of shot suspended from a walking stick, long enough to double as a quarterstaff.

With a quizzical air, Mord offered the rapier hilt on to Aurélie, who took it in hand. She checked the balance with a couple of expert swipes. Mord’s brows twitched up as he grabbed the cavalry sword, leaving the walking stick to Jaska.

The three moved out, the two men ahead of Aurélie. She held the rapier nervously, her gaze intent.

As expected, Jules was lurking well out of the cone of light from the inn door. He had four other toughs at his back. All drunk, or maybe they were just rotten fighters. The five rushed at Aurélie and her two new companions.

The fight was over in about ten seconds flat, as Jaska and Mord neatly whacked, tripped, and thumped them in a practiced display of divide and conquer. Aurélie got in a good lick when she stuck her sword between
the legs of an attacker who tripped and fell with a splash into the nasty murk in the street.

Jules lay groaning a few paces away. Mord stood over him with one scruffy boot on Jules’s chest. He rained a few
centimes
onto the man, and a few badly crumpled
assignats
. “Your share. I wish you luck getting value for the paper,” Mord said cheerfully. “The journey should inspire you to reflect upon the principles of virtue. In trade, we shall take the regal. Which is more than fair, as I am reasonably certain you looted it during your excesses in La Vendée. But musical instruments must be played and, if possible, played well, or life becomes more absurd than it already is. Farewell, Citizen.”

Mord wiped the mud off his sword with the hem of his cloak, sheathed it, hefted his violin case more securely over his shoulder, and started off, Jaska following, limping badly. Neither said a word to Aurélie, who hesitated, then dashed after them, their sword still in her hand.

By then she was yawning almost continually, stumbling with exhaustion. She followed them into the misting rain, looking neither right nor left, but trusting to the two as they skipped down a couple of alleys, crossed a churchyard, and then entered the church’s barn.

There were no animals, as the church had long ago been looted. The guys climbed to the loft, where a few remnants of stale, limp straw still lay about. Jaska gathered them in the weak light from a candle stub that Mord lit from his tinder box.

“Palatial quarters,” Mord said with satisfaction. “Rain, do your worst. You are still with us, young René? Musicians should stay together. We shall be snug here.”

“We and the fleas,” Jaska said in a low murmur. He had an accent, too.

Aurélie looked from one to the other and down at the warped boards of the hayloft. She set the sword down, yawning, lay down, curled up…