Ganymede

Ten

Josephine waited on the bayou dock between Wallace Mumler and Chester Fishwick, with Anderson Worth, Honeyfolk Rathburn, Dr. Polk, and Deaderick Early standing by. Much as Deaderick had wanted to ride along, his sister and his doctor had given him such grief about it that eventually he’d decided it’d be easier to do as they said.

Josephine didn’t enjoy treating him like a child, but men were childlike when they were sick or injured — she knew that for a fact, and sometimes it was simply easier to insist, so long as it was for his own good. She would have done anything to keep him safe, and she suspected he would do whatever he wanted the moment her back was turned.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. His arms were folded across his chest, one of them held a bit awkwardly because of the bandage. His injuries could have been much worse, and so far, nothing had begun to fester. His strength was returning with his appetite, and though he shouldn’t have been up and around so much — he should’ve been resting, damn him — she had to admit that for a man who’d taken two bits of lead, he looked very well.

Still, she eyed him constantly, looking for signs of weakness or a worsening state. Every breath that came with less than perfect ease, every small stumble, every wince and cringe … she cataloged them in her head and played them over and over again, constantly trying to assure herself that all was well, and he was fine.

He was a cat with eight lives left. Or seven: one lopped off the total for each bullet.

Together the small group watched the water where Ganymede was once again fully submerged. Sealed inside it were Captain Cly, Fang, Houjin, Kirby Troost, and Rucker Little — who had volunteered, knowing the risks. If anything, he knew them better than the Naamah Darling’s crew.

Josephine had wanted to call Rucker aside before he got on board; she wanted to have a private word with him, explaining that Cly and his men didn’t know the whole truth. She hadn’t been straightforward with them, because she was afraid that if she’d given them the numbers, they would’ve balked. She’d told Hazel and Ruthie to lie, and lie they had. Ruthie’d quietly confirmed it for her while the men inspected the vessel.

“What did you tell them?” Josephine had whispered.

Ruthie had whispered back, “That it was safe. That it worked just fine.”

“And no one died?”

“Hardly anyone. I think that’s how Hazel put it. Just McClintock.”

“Jesus,” Josephine had blasphemed under her breath. “I hope nobody tells them the truth.”

“I hope they do not die,” Ruthie had added.

Josephine hoped they survived, too. She wanted nothing more than a living, breathing, successful crew to emerge from Ganymede out in the Gulf of Mexico, at the airship carrier Valiant. But deep down, in a hard, dark little corner of her heart she did not care to confront … she was glad it was Cly taking the risk, and not her brother.

Bubbles sputtered to the surface and stopped. A wide ripple cut concentric circles across the lake and then, with an almost silent click of gears and the slip of lubricated metal, the mirrorscope’s small round lens poked up through the low ripples — like an alligator’s eyeball on a thick steel stalk.

The mechanical eye dipped once, and resumed its position.

“That’s the signal,” said Chester. “They’re doing okay.”

But Josephine noted, “They haven’t left the dock yet. I’ll hold my cheers until after I’ve seen them take it out for a lap.”

“Show a little optimism,” her brother urged. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“It was. And Cly is good, but I guess we’ll see how good.”

Honeyfolk said, “I’m not sure that’s fair. He might be the greatest pilot who ever flew, but Ganymede might still be more than he can handle.”

Josephine wanted tell Mr. Rathburn that she was sure he’d be fine, but she kept silent and watched, because it was easier than making proclamations she was too nervous to believe in. She wrung her hands together without even noticing, squeezing her fingernails into her palms and staring down hard at the lake. “They don’t know the risk. They don’t know how bad it’s really been — how many men have died in that thing.”

Deaderick didn’t look at her. “Yeah, well. That was your idea, too.”

The ripples lurched, then shifted, and began to move.

The mirrorscope eye swiveled and aimed forward. It cut through the water’s surface cleanly, leaving only a tiny wake to mark its passage. Then it gave another quick dip and retracted again, leaving nothing to indicate that the craft had passed except for the squawk and parting of a group of ducks, bending reeds, and the peculiar sense that something heavy was just out of sight.

“They’re doing it,” she breathed.

“I’ll take the small engine rower and see about guiding them,” said Wallace Mumler, reaching for a rope that hung off the pier’s side. He drew the rope with several long, hard pulls of his arms, looping it between his hand and his elbow, until a little craft was drawn out from its hiding spot under the gray slats. Two long poles were crossed atop it, and cradled in the boat’s bottom was a trumpet-shaped device approximately the size of a tuba.

Mumler jumped down inside the small boat and used the poles to leverage himself across the water in the direction Ganymede had gone. Upon locating it, he used one of the poles to pound two whacks against the hull. Then he dropped the horn into the water, holding it by a rubberized tube that ended in an ear-pad shaped like a bun. He held this pad up to the side of his head and hit the ship again.

Then, hearing something he liked, he flashed a thumbs-up signal at the observers on the pier. “They’re good!” he said.

It wasn’t the world’s most sophisticated system, and it wouldn’t work very well when the water was deeper, but the short system of knocks and replies served for training purposes. In case of emergency or more complex communication requirements, Morse code would be the signal — performed with a hammer inside the Ganymede, and with one of Mumler’s poles from the surface.

While Josephine watched, there was a moment of concern when the ship dug itself into a submerged bank of silt and mud, but with Wallace’s guidance and some crafty maneuvering within the ship itself, Ganymede was extracted and continued its explorations.

After an hour of tense examination, the sun was going low and gold in the sky, and Josephine started to relax.

Ruthie had joined the party sometime before, arriving late because she’d paused to brew herself a cup of coffee before strolling to the scene. She’d watched the proceedings in silence, since there was little to say and, frankly, little to see. But now she raised the question, “Ma’am, should we head back to the Garden Court tonight?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t leave Hazel for too long. She handles herself all right when it comes to being in charge, but she doesn’t like doing it. Besides, if anyone notices we’re both gone, it might not look good — and I don’t want anyone looking too close at the house.” She then asked Chester, “Do you think … it’ll be tomorrow night? Or the night after? We have to move this while the admiral is still within range. Last I heard from Edison Brewster, the Valiant will be in the Gulf only until the end of the week. Texas is eyeing it too closely for them to risk staying any longer.”

“Is Texas dumb enough to attack something that big?”

“They attacked Barataria and were successful. That can only make them cockier than they already are. The airship carrier isn’t a sitting duck, but the longer it leaves its anchors down, the more time Texas has to round up trouble.”

Chester nodded unhappily. “I know you’re right, but I don’t like it. We can’t rush this, Josie.”

“We can’t take our own sweet time about it, either,” she warned.

“It can’t be tonight,” he told her. “You’ve got to be patient.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because tonight we have to take her overland. We need to get her into position, to dump her into the river. Then, the night after, we can launch her. There won’t be time to do both, not before sunrise. And moving something that big, it’s dangerous as hell under the best of circumstances. If the sun comes up and catches us, we’ll be found out for sure.”

“Damn it all, I hate it when you’re right. How far is it to the river from here?”

“If we can get the ship a tad north and west of here, it’ll be maybe five miles. But it won’t be five fast miles, and we’ll be mighty conspicuous as we go. The plan is to haul it over to New Sarpy and stash it in one of the warehouses on Clement Street.”

“And it’ll be almost dawn by the time you’re done.”

“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Assuming Rick didn’t use up all the luck we’re owed in one lifetime, eh?”

Deaderick said, “Nah. I’m sure I left some for this week. We might have to scrape the barrel’s bottom for it, but we’ll make it work.”

“Ma’am?” Ruthie asked.

Josephine patted at her hand to reassure her. Then, to the men, she said, “Things are under control here, aren’t they?”

“As controlled as they’re going to get,” said Honeyfolk. “Now it’s up to that crew to figure out what they’re doing. There’s nothing we can do to help from here, so you might as well head back, if that’s what you need to do. We’ll send someone ahead to let you know when we’re coming downriver, and you can catch up to the assist-boats in the Quarter. Someone’ll pick you up.”

“Ruthie, looks like you get your wish — and we’re heading home.”

“Mais non, madame. You do not understand. I wish to stay here.” She shot Deaderick a protective, almost possessive glance. “I will watch out for the men, eh? Someone has to keep them out of trouble. I will ride with the assist-boats, when they help lead the ship down the river, d’accord?”

Under different circumstances, Josephine might’ve put her foot down, but in truth, she didn’t want to leave the men either — and at least Ruthie could send messages, report back, and watch to make sure Deaderick didn’t overexert himself. If Josephine couldn’t remain, Ruthie was the next best thing.

“Fine, Ruthie. That’s fine. And you’ll keep me posted, won’t you? If anything changes, or, or … happens?”

“You know I will.”

An hour later, Norman Somers had deposited Josephine back at the Metairie lot near the street rail station, and shortly after dark, she was back in the Quarter.

Two Texians stopped her about the curfew, but all they did was demand that she find her way indoors. She assured them that she was on a mission to accomplish that very thing, at which point, one of them recognized her and escorted her back to the Garden Court.

She thought about inviting him inside, in gratitude for delivering her back to the house without further stops or inquiries. It was always good to play nice with the men who could shut off her customer base. But not tonight. Instead, she gave him a round of thanks and shut the front door behind herself. Until it was fully closed, her escort struggled to peer past her, then gave up and left when the front room curtains were drawn.

In the lobby, Hazel Bushrod was lurking near the large desk by the stairs, keeping watch for customers. When Josephine walked in, Hazel leaped up from her seat and seized her with a hug. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so glad you’re back!”

“Thank you, Hazel. I’m … I’m glad to be back, too.”

“Liar.”

“No,” said Josephine. “I’m mostly telling the truth. It’s good to be back in a place where it’s not just me and Ruthie in a skirt. The company of men is one thing. The company of men and only men … that’s another.”

“How’s Deaderick? Is he—?”

“He’s fine. Or he will be fine. He’s up and around too much, that’s for damn sure. If I had my way, he’d be lashed to a bed and forced to rest like a civilized man who’s recovering from a pair of bullet holes … not running the show as a member of the walking wounded.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow and asked, “You left Ruthie at the camp?”

“She insisted.”

“Then he might get lashed to a bed yet.”

“Oh, you stop it,” Josephine said, but she smiled. And she added, “But I want to thank you for sending Cly out, like you did. He was as well prepared as anyone could expect, and I appreciate it. But now that I’m back, I don’t suppose you could cover things for me just a few minutes longer, could you? I’m absolutely filthy from that camp, and if I don’t get a bath soon, I’ll chase away whatever customers we have left, now that this damn curfew is taking hold and sticking.”

An hour later she was back, freshly dressed and feeling fully human once more. Her hair was pinned and free of leaf litter or moss scraps, and there was no more peat beneath her fingernails.

Hazel was no longer alone in the lobby.

On the love seat under the frontmost window, much to Josephine’s surprise, Fenn Calais was happily chattering with Marie Laveau.

At first impression, they nattered as if they’d known each other for a lifetime already, but as Josephine descended the stairs and overheard more of the conversation, she realized that impression was misleading. It was a “getting to know you” chat of the strangest sort — the elderly voudou queen and the somewhat less elderly Texian, who was testing out his precious few words of French and getting a friendly, giggling reaction from the woman. She corrected him gently.

“Non, Mr. Calais. You spell the t on the end, but you do not say it. You let the word end a few letters from its conclusion. Say it again: vraiment. Say it, and don’t close your mouth at the end to make the t sound. It’s not so hard, vraiment,” she added with a wink.

“Ma’am, I just cannot do it to save my life. I think the French are the only folks on earth who are harder on their vowels than us Southerners. And if I never master it, c’est la vie!”

She laughed and said, “Now I know you’ve only been teasing!” Then, upon seeing Josephine, stalled and perplexed on the bottom stair, she said, “Ah, my dear. There you are. Hazel told me you were in the bath.”

“Madame Laveau, yes. Hello. Welcome to the Garden Court. Can I … can I get you anything?”

“Non, sweet dear. Only your time, if I might impose.”

“At any time. Ever.”

Fenn took this as his cue to relocate, saying, “I suppose Delphine is starting to wonder where I’ve gone off to. Perhaps I’ll just rejoin her.”

“Have a good evening, Mr. Calais,” Josephine told him, never taking her eyes off the woman ensconced on the firmly padded seat. When Fenn was gone, she took his place. She did not bother to ask how her visitor made it past the curfew. Instead she asked, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Laveau took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m here because you’ll be receiving a visitor, any minute now. A gentleman.”

“This is a certain kind of business,” she murmured, half joking but half nervous, too.

“Not a customer, a visitor. And I’m not telling your fortune, dear one. I’m here to prepare you for the introduction. He’s a man you’re likely to treat with hostility, insofar as you’re able. But I’m here to tell you, you must not do that.”

“I don’t understand.” Josephine frowned over at Hazel, who looked back anxiously.

“He’s a Texian. But he’s no part of your … present interests. He wishes to consult you, about the Dead Who Walk.”

“Ma’am Laveau, I try hard to be a hostess, and in this city that means I am compelled to be civil to many Texians, whether I like it or not. I’m sure I can find it in my heart to be polite to this one. Why is he coming here? Why would he think I know anything about the zombis?”

“He’s a Ranger, dearest. An investigating man, for a matter requiring careful investigation. And he’s coming here because I suggested it,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning close. She held Josephine’s hand tighter, and Hazel drew in her breath with a tiny gasp — reminding them both that she was in the room.

The hands that clasped Josephine’s were as thin as twigs, despite the woman’s otherwise stout appearance. Gas lamplight twinkled on the silver of her rings, and on the red, blue, and green of the gems or colored glass found therein. The queen smelled like sandalwood and sage, feathers and dust. And in her eyes, sunken with age, there smoldered a deep, grim light.

“Child, do you know how long I’ve walked this world?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Eighty years, give or take, as the Lord gives — and the Lord takes. I do not think I shall live to enjoy another one.”

“Ma’am, don’t talk that way.”

She released Josephine’s fingers and gave them a loving pat. “Why not? Such is the way of things, isn’t it? Time turns us all, and I’ve danced longer than many. I do not regret a single tune.” Her smile slipped, only a little. She restored it and continued. “But that’s why you must speak to this Ranger. He will help you, when I’m gone.”

“Ma’am, I am very confused. A Ranger?”

“Speak with him,” she pleaded. “New Orleans is home these days to worse than Texians, dearest. The zombis grow in numbers every day, and soon even the most determined nonbeliever will be forced to face them. They must be managed now, before they become unmanageable. And I will not be able to help. These Texians who you hate so much, they are only men — only living men, and most of them would leave as happily as you’d have them gone. While they are here, you must work with them. We do not always get to choose our allies.”

Josephine sat back, staring hard at Mrs. Laveau. Was the woman dying? She looked healthy, given her advanced age. But there was something … less about her. Something missing, or lacking — something that had been stronger in their previous encounter, not even a week ago. “People have … I’ve heard that you were controlling them. Has it been true, all this time?”

“Yes. And no. I can urge them, and guide them. As you saw, I can often stop them. But bend them to my will? Command them to do my bidding?” She fluttered one elaborately jeweled hand in a gesture of bemused contempt. “Not at all. Though if it comforts people to feel that they are controlled, so let them be comforted.”

“I think I understand.”

“I knew you would. We’re two of a kind, you and me.”

“You flatter me to say so.”

“You and I both understand, as women of color and women of power … that power is too often in the eyes of the beholders.” Her right hand drew up into a closed fist, a pointed finger. The finger aimed between Josephine’s eyes. “And let me give you some advice, eh? One devilish old crone to a devilish young one: Never, never, never diminish yourself by correcting the beholders out of modesty. When your beauty is gone, when your money is spent, and when your time in this world runs low … the one thing you’ll take with you into the next world is your reputation.”

Footsteps outside on the stoop came uncommonly loud, or so Josephine thought. She started at hearing them, the scrape of hard heels on the stones, and then on the steps.

Marie Laveau brightened. “Ah. Here he is now.” She rose to her feet and Josephine rose with her, in perfect time to the door opening.

It let in a gust of air that smelled sharp and softly sour, like the river before a storm. And it let in a Texian.

He was approximately Josephine’s age, perhaps as young as forty, with a truly outstanding mustache occupying most of the acreage below his nose and above his mouth. It spread like a pair of wings, as if at any time his face might need to take flight. Despite the warmth of the evening, he wore a duster and, instead of the military leather boots of the enlisted boys, proper snakeskin cowboy boots.

Josephine thought he looked familiar.

If he knew what kind of business Josephine operated, it didn’t inhibit his manners. A shapely suede hat the color of old bones rested atop his head until he removed it, revealing a pressed-down swirl of dark hair that was beginning to go light at the temples.

He said, “Ladies?” And he shut the door behind himself.

“Yes, please come in,” Josephine said, too late for it to mean anything.

Marie Laveau added, “Nice to see you again, Ranger. I’d stay and chat, but it’s time I went on my way. My daughter is expecting me, and now that I’m so old, she worries if I’m gone too late.”

He held his hat in his hands and opened the door to let her pass, then closed it again behind her, shutting the old woman out into the night, where she preferred to be — and where she met no resistance. She was gone as quietly as she’d arrived, without even footsteps to remind them that she’d ever been there in the first place.

The Texian frowned, looked back and forth between Josephine and Hazel, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Pardon me, I was just wondering how she’d navigate the curfew home. And then I realized that she’s got her ways, and I shouldn’t worry about it.”

Hazel actually smiled, and Josephine’s mouth tightened involuntarily into something similar. “She got here on her own, she’ll get home on her own — I have no doubt of it. I’m sorry, but she didn’t tell me much and I’m not sure why you’re here.”

He came forward, seeming uncertain of how to proceed politely. Settling for a small bow in her general direction, and then one to Hazel, he told them both, “I’m Horatio Korman, a Ranger of the Republic. Are you Miss Josephine Early?”

“Yes, that’s me. Mrs. Laveau said that you and I should have a talk.”

“That was her recommendation, yes.” He glanced back at the door, as if not quite believing she’d really gone. “I get the feeling people tend to follow her recommendations.”

“Perhaps we could step into my office, upstairs. Hazel, I hate to ask you for yet another favor, but do you mind watching the parlor a little longer?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” she said, but her eyes were wide with curiosity, and a silent demand that she should be told all about it later. “I’ve been here this long, a little longer won’t matter. Besides, it’s been slow tonight, what with the curfew and all.”

Horatio Korman said, “Yeah, I’m real sorry about that. I mean, I didn’t do it. But. You know what I mean. I wish it weren’t the case.”

Upstairs she guided him to the wood seat with the shoulder-height back and padded arms that faced her desk, which she then sat behind. The show of authority might not have been called for, but it was as Laveau had said about power in the eyes of the beholder. She wanted the Texian to behold that he was on her business, her property, in her city.

The Ranger was not particularly ill at ease, not as far as Josephine could see. He was composed and confident, bordering on arrogant even just sitting there, but he’d shown a small sign of respect to both Josephine and Hazel on her premises, which was not something every Southern man did. She’d give him that much credit, but if he wanted more, he’d have to earn it.

She opened the conversation by saying, “You aren’t stationed here in New Orleans, are you? Rangers aren’t military, are they?” She wasn’t absolutely clear on the distinctions between the designations.

“No, we’re not part of the military, and no, I’m not stationed here. Not precisely.” He rested his hat on the chair arm and crossed one leg over the other, his ankle upon his knee. “I was sent here to look into a situation y’all been having, down by the river. Sent as punishment,” he mused, nearly to himself.

Josephine’s tone was icy. “I beg your pardon?”

Realizing her displeasure, he clarified. “The Republic wants me out of its hair, so to speak. My superiors wanted to get me out of Austin for a while, and I suppose someone figured the river was far enough away that I couldn’t bother them too much.”

“Are you a difficult man, Ranger Korman?”

He didn’t exactly answer. “Boy, if they think I’m difficult…” His voice trailed off, then returned. “There’s worse trouble than me weighing against Texas. Maybe not yet, but soon. And bad.”

Josephine went straight to the meat of it. “Zombis. That’s what Madame Laveau calls them.”

“The walking dead men? Same thing?”

“Same thing.” She nodded. “And it surprises me to have a Ranger under my roof, wanting to talk about it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Up until Betters and Cardiff went missing, you couldn’t convince Texas anything was wrong down by the river. Not for love or money, and believe me, I tried both.”

“Pardon me for putting it this way, but nobody would believe you. I know, because I’ve been trying to warn them for months — and I’m one of their own. Nobody wants to hear it.”

Josephine looked him up and down, reaffirming her initial impression that this was a dyed-in-the-wool, run-of-the-mill, straight-out-of-the-mold upstanding Republican, at least by all appearances. Why would he meet resistance from his own men?

Horatio Korman eyed her back, likewise weighing something as he assessed her. Coming to a decision, he said bluntly, “Mrs. Laveau said you were there the night Colonel Betters and Lieutenant Cardiff were killed. She said you saw what happened. I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Early, but right now we’ve got Texians down on the riverbanks hunting something they don’t understand — trying to defend this city from it—” He tapped his finger on the armrest to emphasize the point. “And they’re having the shit scared out of them. I was directed here on the basis of other people’s reports, soldiers and merchants who’ve worked down there, people with friends who’ve gone missing. My boss sent me to New Orleans to get me out of their way, yes — but they might’ve done us all a favor.”

“And how’s that?” she asked cautiously, giving away nothing.

“Because no matter what you tell me, I’m likely to believe it and likely to help you. These … zombis, or whatever Mrs. Laveau wants to call them. I’ve seen them myself, and I know what they’re capable of.”

“You’ve been down to the river?”

“No, and that’s the bad part. It’s a national secret at the moment, but those things, those zombis, they’re not just down by your river. They aren’t just in New Orleans. They’re in north Texas, and the turf west of that, too — all the way to the Utah territories and maybe farther west than that. Texas is getting positively lousy with them.”

A shiver went tickling down Josephine’s neck. “Are you … are you sure?”

“I’ve seen them myself, at the Provo pass. Seen them by the hundreds. And I almost didn’t escape to sit here now and tell you about it.”

“But how could they possibly be anywhere else? Lots of folks think they’re a voudou thing — spell-blind or ritual-maddened men, maybe even created by Marie Laveau herself! Lord knows half the city thinks she’s in charge of them.”

“Count me in the other half,” Korman said dryly, his mustache bobbing. “And you, too, I bet.”

Slowly, she bobbed her head in the affirmative. “Yes — me, too. Tonight she said we had to learn to manage them now, before they become unmanageable.” The thought made her head hurt. Then her exhausted brain caught up to something else he’d said a moment before. “I’m sorry, did you just now say you’d seen hundreds of them?”

“That’s right. Mexicans, and other assorted folks they’d picked up along the way. They’d been migrating, if you could call it that. Maybe wandering is more like it, but they roamed from a spot southwest of Oneida all the way up to the Rockies.”

“Dead men?”

“Women, too.”

“Dear God,” she breathed. “If only we knew what was making them — what was causing them, I mean.”

His mustache bounced upward at the corners. He was smiling. “Ah, that’s where me and you might have some useful things to tell each other. Nobody believes what I tell ’em, same as nobody believes you when you say that the dead are walking. That’s why you didn’t report what happened to those men, isn’t it? You thought McCoy — or whoever was in charge until he got here — would’ve thrown you in the clink, figuring you had something to do with their deaths.”

“Of course that’s why,” she lied. She’d kept the information to herself because if she’d shared it, she would’ve had to explain what she was doing following the men. And that’s what would’ve gotten her thrown in jail. “They were swarmed, Ranger Korman. Absolutely overwhelmed. Two Texians, armed to the teeth, and there were too many of the things for it to matter. What’s doing this? You have to tell me!”

“I’d be happy to tell you. Goddamn, I’ve been telling the world, but the world isn’t listening. Zombis happen one of a couple of ways, all of it going back to a very strange gas that’s being toted down from the Pacific Northwest.”

Stunned full of questions, Josephine had no idea what to ask first. She stammered, “Gas? A gas? From where?”

“Gas, you heard me. Like hydrogen, only not like hydrogen at all. This gas comes out of the ground, and it has something to do with volcanoes — that’s all I know.”

“They have volcanoes in the Northwest?” she asked, mystified. “I had no idea.”

“At least a couple of ’em. Best I can figure, from talking to a whole bunch of folks between here and there, this gas is mostly collected in a little podunk backwater of a place — some port city in the Washington Territory called Seattle.”

Seattle? Where Cly was living?

She sat there openmouthed, struggling for words and not finding them.

The Ranger continued. “This gas is sometimes called blight, and it’s not hard to figure out why. By the sound of things, it basically killed that little city. The locals had to wall it off and abandon it.”

“I … I didn’t know.”

“Hardly anybody does. No one wants to talk about it, not anymore. Thirteen years ago, the city’s former residents petitioned the Union to see if they’d accept Washington as a state. They thought if they were part of a country, and not just a distant territory, maybe they’d see some tax money or some military help. As far as I can tell, they gave up a few years later. With the war going on, the Federals weren’t looking to take on any new responsibility — least of all, responsibility thousands of miles away.”

“So … what happened to the people who lived in the city? The ones who abandoned it?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Either they moved back East, or maybe they stayed out there. Might’ve gone to Tacoma, or Portland. Might’ve gone up north to Canada.”

“All of this…,” she began, trying to arrange her thoughts into words. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I will say that it sounds far-fetched.”

“Dead men walking around a riverbank sounds far-fetched, too.”

“I’ll be the first to admit it, and both of us know it’s true. But this gas … why would anyone store it, or transport it? And what would anyone do with it?”

His smile swelled. “You’re asking the right questions. The gas is processed through some method or other. Distilled, or something like that. Then it’s dried down to a yellow residue, which can be cooked up and smoked, or snorted, or even swallowed.”

“But why on earth would anyone—?”

“Miss Early, have you ever heard of a substance called sap?”

“Like … like tree sap?”

“No, ma’am, like yellow sap. That’s the most common term I’ve heard for it, though I’ve also seen it called cracker piss, sick sand, and a few other things. It’s a drug, something like opium but a whole lot stronger and a whole lot cheaper. Soldiers are taking to it left and right, looking to escape the war, as you do. As anyone does.”

“And it’s made from a poisonous gas?”

“Deadly poisonous. So deadly, it kills you without stopping you. I’d heard tell that this sap has been finding a place among sailors, and with the young Texians, too — the ones sent far from home, especially. The lonely men, or bored men. Men without the sense to know any better, or men who’ve lost so much already that they don’t care.”

“It starts with a gas.”

“Yes. The gas itself turns people into zombis faster, more directly. Breathing it will kill you deader than a stone before you know what’s happened. But the drug does it slow. It takes time — time to build up in a man’s body, time to work into his blood. And gradually: not all at once, but in time…”

“In time, the men who use the sap become zombis?”

“Men who’ve used too much of it, for too long.”

“But you said a group of Mexicans in Texas … they weren’t all using the sap, were they?”

He shook his head. “No, no. A dirigible from Seattle was carrying a big load of gas, and it crashed out in the desert — right on top of them. It’s a long story,” he added fast, as if he wished to cut off commentary. “But that’s what happened to them, and it could happen here, too. Out at the airyard, or at the pirate docks — anyplace where dirigibles come and go, moving the gas around. Any leak or failure of their equipment could unleash it.”

The shivers on Josephine’s neck went down to her knees, which were beginning to tremble against her will. “How much gas are we talking about, Ranger? How much will a dirigible hold? How many people could one load of gas—?”

He held up his hands, and thereby his hat, which dangled from his left one. “How much gas depends on how big the dirigible is, and what kind of equipment’s on board. The one that turned some seven hundred Mexicans and their kin was pretty big. One of the biggest, I’d say.”

“Seven hundred!” she exclaimed. “And out in the desert? Here in the city, we have that many people on a given block at the right time of day or night. More than that down at the market on a Saturday, to be sure! And the market isn’t terribly far from the—”

“Ma’am, let’s not panic yet. I don’t know all the factors that make up a tragedy with this sap; I’m still learning, myself. All I’m suggesting is that maybe it’s one reason you’re getting such a population of the things here, collecting at the riverbank. It’s possible someone wrecked a craft and it’s leaking, or it happened once before. Or maybe with all the servicemen, and sailors, and pirates, and airmen … maybe you’ve got a whole lot of men here who are looking to escape their problems. Now I’m asking you, Miss Early, can you tell me anything at all that might help me out, given what I’ve just told you? I’m aware that I’m in a house of … that I’m in a ladies’ boarding house, and it sees a great number of visitors from the kinds of men I’m talking about. So I’m asking you, and praying to God that you’ll cooperate with me even though I’m sure you’ve got no great love for the Republic … do you know of your clients abusing any substance that might fit this bill?”

She took a deep breath and said quietly, “Yes, I do know. They don’t call it sap here — they call it devil dust—but that’s what you’re looking for, Ranger Korman. You’re looking for the men who make and sell devil dust.”

He snapped the fingers of his free hand and said, “I knew it! And I don’t suppose you could point me toward anyone involved in the manufacture or distribution of this devil dust, could you? Obviously I’d never mention it was you who sent me.”

“I can’t,” she admitted. “None of my ladies are allowed to touch it, or anything like it. This isn’t that kind of place, and these aren’t those kinds of women, no matter what you might think.”

“I never said—”

“I know what you did and didn’t say. But I can’t help you find it, unless…” She rose from her seat, pushing it aside. “I know someone who might have an idea.”

“A customer or two?”

“He’s more like a resident, these days,” she muttered. “A Texian. I wouldn’t accuse him of using the dust, but if anyone could point you toward it, it’d be Mr. Calais. Let me see if he’s indisposed.”

Horatio Korman rose from his seat and waited for her to lead the way again. “He lives here?”

“He might as well. Wait here. I’ll knock, and bring him up.”

Down on the second floor, she stood outside Delphine’s room and rapped in her most businesslike fashion. Momentarily it was opened by the girl in question, mostly dressed.

Behind her, Fenn Calais was seated in a pair of pants and nothing else. He looked up from a chessboard. “Miss Early?”

“Mr. Calais, you’re up. Excellent. And I’m glad I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Only the whipping this girl is giving me.” He scooted off the bed, which he was using as a seat, with the board on an end table. “You never do give room and board to the dumb ones, do you, Miss Early?”

“Not if I can help it. Could I possibly have a word with you? In my office? Momentarily?”

“Should I dress?”

“It’s up to you. There’s a Ranger present, if that makes a difference.”

He nodded solemnly. “It does.” Rather than reaching for his shoes or shirt, he grabbed his hat, jammed it onto his head, and said, “Let’s go.”