Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

Grey thought it unlikely that there was a plethora of men wearin

g the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant colonel on the premises of King’s House at that very moment, but nonetheless bowed, murmuring, “Your servant, Mr. Dawes. I’m afraid Mr. Warren has been taken . . . er . . .” He nodded toward the open French doors. “Perhaps someone should go after him?”

Mr. Dawes closed his eyes with a look of pain, then sighed and opened them again, shaking his head.

“He’ll be all right,” he said, though his tone lacked any real conviction. “I’ve just been discussing commissary and billeting requirements with your Major Fettes; he wishes you to know that all the arrangements are quite in hand.”

“Oh. Thank you, Mr. Dawes.” In spite of the unnerving nature of the governor’s departure, he felt a sense of pleasure. He’d been a major himself for years; it was astonishing how pleasant it was to know that someone else was now burdened with the physical management of troops. All he had to do was give orders.

That being so, he gave one, though it was phrased as a courteous request, and Mr. Dawes promptly led him through the corridors of the rambling house to a small clerk’s hole near the governor’s office, where maps were made available to him.

He could see at once that Warren had been right regarding both the devious nature of the terrain and the trail of attacks. One of the maps was marked with the names of plantations, and small notes indicated where maroon raids had taken place. It was far from being a straight line, but nonetheless, a distinct sense of direction was obvious.

The room was warm, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. Still, a cold finger touched the base of his neck lightly when he saw the name Twelvetrees on the map.

“Who owns this plantation?” he asked, keeping his voice level as he pointed at the paper.

“What?” Dawes had fallen into a sort of dreamy trance, looking out the window into the green of the jungle, but blinked and pushed his spectacles up, bending to peer at the map. “Oh, Twelvetrees. It’s owned by Philip Twelvetrees—a young man, inherited the place from a cousin only recently. Killed in a duel, they say—the cousin, I mean,” he amplified helpfully.

“Ah. Too bad.” Grey’s chest tightened unpleasantly. He could have done without that complication. If—“The cousin—was he named Edward Twelvetrees, by chance?”

Dawes looked mildly surprised.

“I do believe that was the name. I didn’t know him, though—no one here did. He was an absentee owner; ran the place through an overseer.”

“I see.” He wanted to ask whether Philip Twelvetrees had come from London to take possession of his inheritance, but didn’t. He didn’t want to draw any attention by seeming to single out the Twelvetrees family. Time enough for that.

He asked a few more questions regarding the timing of the raids, which Mr. Dawes answered promptly, but when it came to an explanation of the inciting causes of the rebellion, the secretary proved suddenly unhelpful—which Grey thought interesting.

“Really, sir, I know almost nothing of such matters,” Mr. Dawes protested, when pressed on the subject. “You would be best advised to speak with Captain Cresswell. He’s the superintendent in charge of the maroons.”

Grey was surprised at this.

“Escaped slaves? They have a superintendent?”

“Oh. No, sir.” Dawes seemed relieved to have a more straightforward question with which to deal. “The maroons are not escaped slaves. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “they are technically escaped slaves, but it is a pointless distinction. These maroons are the descendants of slaves who escaped during the last century and took to the mountain uplands. They have settlements up there. But as there is no way of identifying any current owner . . .” And as the government lacked any means of finding them and dragging them back, the Crown had wisely settled for installing a white superintendent, as was usual for dealing with native populations. The superintendent’s business was to be in contact with the maroons, and deal with any matter that might arise pertaining to them.

Which raised the question, Grey thought: Why had this Captain Cresswell not been brought to meet him at once? He had sent word of his arrival as soon as the ship docked at daylight, not wishing to take Derwent Warren unawares.

“Where is Captain Cresswell presently?” he asked, still polite. Mr. Dawes looked unhappy.

“I, um, am afraid I don’t know, sir,” he said, casting down his gaze behind his spectacles. There was a momentary silence, in which Grey could hear the calling of some bird from the jungle nearby.

“Where is he, normally?” Grey asked, with slightly less politesse.

Dawes blinked.

“I don’t know, sir. I believe he has a house near the base of Guthrie’s Defile—there is a small village there. But he would of course go up into the maroon settlements from time to time, to meet with the . . .” He waved a small, fat hand, unable to find a suitable word. “The headmen. He did buy a new hat in Spanish Town earlier this month,” Dawes added, in the tones of someone offering a helpful observation.

“A hat?”

“Yes. Oh—but of course you would not know. It is customary among the maroons, when some agreement of importance is made, that the persons making the agreement shall exchange hats. So you see . . .”

“Yes, I do,” Grey said, trying not to let annoyance show in his voice. “Will you be so kind, Mr. Dawes, as to send to Guthrie’s Defile, then—and to any other place in which you think Captain Cresswell might be discovered? Plainly I must speak with him, and as soon as possible.”

Dawes nodded vigorously, but before he could speak, the rich sound of a small gong came from somewhere in the house below. As though it had been a signal, Grey’s stomach emitted a loud gurgle.

“Dinner in half an hour,” Mr. Dawes said, looking happier than Grey had yet seen him. He almost scurried out the door, Grey in his wake.