Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(89)

Captain Accompong was a surprise. He was very short, very fat, and hunchbacked, his body so distorted that he did not so much walk as proceed by a sort of sideways lurching. He was attired in the remnants of a splendid coat, now buttonless and with its gold lace half missing, the cuffs filthy with wear.

He peered from under the drooping brim of a ragged felt hat, eyes bright in its shadow. His face was round and much creased, lacking a good many teeth—but giving the impression of great shrewdness and perhaps good humor. Grey hoped so.

“Who are you?” Accompong asked, peering up at Grey like a toad under a rock.

Everyone in the clearing very plainly knew his identity; they shifted from foot to foot and nudged one another, grinning. He paid no attention to them, though, and bowed very correctly to Accompong.

“I am the man responsible for the two young men who were taken on the mountain. I have come to get them back—along with my soldiers.”

A certain amount of scornful hooting ensued, and Accompong let it go on for a few moments before lifting his hand. He sat down, carefully, sighing as he settled.

“You say so? Why you think I have anything to do with these young men?”

“I do not say that you do. But I know a great leader when I see one—and I know that you can help me to find my young men. If you will.”

“Phu!” Accompong’s face creased into a gap-toothed smile. “You think you flatter me and I help?”

Grey could feel some of the smaller children stealing up behind him; he heard muffled giggles but didn’t turn round.

“I ask for your help. But I do not offer you only my good opinion in return.”

A small hand reached under his coat and rudely tweaked his buttock. There was an explosion of laughter and mad scampering behind him. He didn’t move.

Accompong chewed slowly at something in the back of his capacious mouth, one eye narrowed.

“Yes? What do you offer, then? Gold?” One corner of his thick lips turned up.

“Do you have any need of gold?” Grey asked. The children were whispering and giggling again behind him, but he also heard shushing noises from some of the women—they were getting interested. Maybe.

Accompong thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. What else you offer?”

“What do you want?” Grey parried.

“Captain Cresswell’s head!” said a woman’s voice, very clearly. There was a shuffle and smack, a man’s voice rebuking in Spanish, a heated crackle of women’s voices in return. Accompong let it go on for a minute or two, then raised one hand. Silence fell abruptly.

It lengthened. Grey could feel the pulse beating in his temples, slow and labouring. Ought he to speak? He came as a suppliant already; to speak now would be to lose face, as the Chinese put it. He waited.

“The governor is dead?” Accompong asked at last.

“Yes. How do you know of it?”

“You mean did I kill him?” The bulbous yellowed eyes creased.

“No,” Grey said patiently. “I mean do you know how he died?”

“The zombies kill him.” The answer came readily—and seriously. There was no hint of humor in those eyes now.

“Do you know who made the zombies?”

A most extraordinary shudder ran through Accompong, from his ragged hat to the horny soles of his bare feet.

“You do know,” Grey said softly, raising a hand to prevent the automatic denial. “But it wasn’t you, was it? Tell me.”

The captain shifted uneasily from one buttock to the other but didn’t reply. His eyes darted toward one of the huts, and after a moment he raised his voice, calling something in the maroons’ patois, wherein Grey thought he caught the word “Azeel.” He was puzzled momentarily, finding the word familiar but not knowing why. Then the young woman emerged from the hut, ducking under the low doorway, and he remembered.

Azeel. The young slave woman whom the governor had taken and misused, whose flight from King’s House had presaged the plague of serpents.

Seeing her as she came forward, he couldn’t help but see what had inspired the governor’s lust, though it was not a beauty that spoke to him. She was small but not inconsequential. Perfectly proportioned, she stood like a queen, and her eyes burned as she turned her face to Grey. There was anger in her face—but also something like a terrible despair.

“Captain Accompong says that I will tell you what I know—what happened.”

Grey bowed to her.

“I should be most grateful to hear it, madam.”

She looked hard at him, obviously suspecting mockery, but he’d meant it, and she saw that. She gave a brief, nearly imperceptible nod.

“Well, then. You know that beast”—she spat neatly on the ground—“forced me? And I left his house?”

“Yes. Whereupon you sought out an Obeah man, who invoked a curse of snakes upon Governor Warren, am I correct?”

She glared at him and gave a short nod. “The snake is wisdom, and that man had none. None!”

“I think you’re quite right about that. But the zombies?”

There was a general intake of breath among the crowd. Fear, distaste—and something else. The girl’s lips pressed together, and tears glimmered in her large dark eyes.

“Rodrigo,” she said, and choked on the name. “He—and I—” Her jaw clamped hard; she couldn’t speak without weeping and would not weep in front of him. He cast down his gaze to the ground, to give her what privacy he could. He could hear her breathing through her nose, a soft, snuffling noise. Finally, she heaved a deep breath.