Read Online Benjamin January 3 - Graveyard by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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you nor nobody else goin' around sayin' such a lie or you're gonna be in some trouble yourself.”
January felt them behind him, glancing at one another, looking at the Constable, thinking about the cells they would return to after leaving this room. The silence was crushing.
“If your sister thinks the jail's so goddam unfit she shouldn't have killed a man. Sit down.”
January stood for a moment more, caught between his rage and that silence. He had been a slave and had lived in the quarters until he was eight, old enough to know what all slaves and prisoners know about keeping their mouths shut.
“I said sit down.”
He lowered his eyes respectfully and sat.
“And you keep your opinions to yourself, boy, if you don't want to be took up for contempt.”
He bowed his head, the flush of fury-heat rising through him almost depriving him of breath. “Yes, sir.”
“Olympia Corbier, you are hereby remanded to custody of the city jail until the seventeenth of July of this year, when you will be tried by the Criminal Court of the State of Louisiana for your crime. Is there a Stefano DiSilva in this room? Stefano DiSilva, you're accused of willfully causin' a disturbance in Mr. Davis's gamblin' parlor on Bourbon Street. . . .”
January caught up with Shaw in the arcade outside. “That wasn't a real wise thing of you to say, Maestro,” the Kentuckian remarked mildly. Whatever coolness had tempered the morning was now long gone, the sunlight molten in the Place d'Armes; the crowds around the covered market had thinned. Close by their feet a couple of Chickasaw Indians remained, still peddling powdered sassafras and clay pots from a blanket spread on the Cathedral steps.
“It was the truth.”
Shaw spit, and actually got the tobacco juice into the gutter, for a miracle. “I'd be mighty careful who you said that to. What with the hoo-rah concernin' the Bank of the United States, and everybody in a panic about interest, and elections comin' on, and summer business bein' slow generally, there's a lot of folk in this town who wouldn't take kindly to talk of epizootic fevers scarin' away investors.” He glanced sidelong as Councilman Bouille stalked out of the Presbytere doors and held his silence until he was some twenty feet farther down the arcade. His thin, rather light voice was gentle. “Truth may be a shinin' sword in the hand of the righteous, Maestro, but unless you got one whale of a shield that sword may not do you no good.”
January drew in a deep breath, trying to let his rage dissolve. Bouille's slaves trailed at his heels, back across the Cathedral steps and into the Cabildo again. January wondered what the men had done and how many silver bits the Councilman was going to pay over to the city for their “correction.” The custom of the country, he told himself, and wondered why he had come back here from Paris. Going insane from grief wouldn't have been as bad as this, surely?
“I take it,” he said, “that Isaak Jumon's body was never found?”
The Kentuckian shook his head. “Though I sorta wonder how your sister knowed that, right off as she did. That boy Antoine says he was sent away from this strange house in a carriage and let off someplace he doesn't know where. He wandered around for hours in the pourin' rain, he says, till he got hisself home again. But he did see his brother die. He was real clear on that. And there's a lot of territory to cover, swamps and bayous and canals all around this city where a body coulda been dumped, and we'd never be the wiser. We didn't just light on your sister out of arbitrary malice, you know, Maestro. When I asked her last night where she'd been Monday she wouldn't give no good account of herself, nor could that gal Célie neither. . . . Yes, what is it?” A Guardsman came running from the Cabildo, calling Shaw's name.
“Trouble over to the Queen of the Orient Saloon, sir.” The man saluted.
“It's nine o'clock in the mornin',” said Shaw
January felt them behind him, glancing at one another, looking at the Constable, thinking about the cells they would return to after leaving this room. The silence was crushing.
“If your sister thinks the jail's so goddam unfit she shouldn't have killed a man. Sit down.”
January stood for a moment more, caught between his rage and that silence. He had been a slave and had lived in the quarters until he was eight, old enough to know what all slaves and prisoners know about keeping their mouths shut.
“I said sit down.”
He lowered his eyes respectfully and sat.
“And you keep your opinions to yourself, boy, if you don't want to be took up for contempt.”
He bowed his head, the flush of fury-heat rising through him almost depriving him of breath. “Yes, sir.”
“Olympia Corbier, you are hereby remanded to custody of the city jail until the seventeenth of July of this year, when you will be tried by the Criminal Court of the State of Louisiana for your crime. Is there a Stefano DiSilva in this room? Stefano DiSilva, you're accused of willfully causin' a disturbance in Mr. Davis's gamblin' parlor on Bourbon Street. . . .”
January caught up with Shaw in the arcade outside. “That wasn't a real wise thing of you to say, Maestro,” the Kentuckian remarked mildly. Whatever coolness had tempered the morning was now long gone, the sunlight molten in the Place d'Armes; the crowds around the covered market had thinned. Close by their feet a couple of Chickasaw Indians remained, still peddling powdered sassafras and clay pots from a blanket spread on the Cathedral steps.
“It was the truth.”
Shaw spit, and actually got the tobacco juice into the gutter, for a miracle. “I'd be mighty careful who you said that to. What with the hoo-rah concernin' the Bank of the United States, and everybody in a panic about interest, and elections comin' on, and summer business bein' slow generally, there's a lot of folk in this town who wouldn't take kindly to talk of epizootic fevers scarin' away investors.” He glanced sidelong as Councilman Bouille stalked out of the Presbytere doors and held his silence until he was some twenty feet farther down the arcade. His thin, rather light voice was gentle. “Truth may be a shinin' sword in the hand of the righteous, Maestro, but unless you got one whale of a shield that sword may not do you no good.”
January drew in a deep breath, trying to let his rage dissolve. Bouille's slaves trailed at his heels, back across the Cathedral steps and into the Cabildo again. January wondered what the men had done and how many silver bits the Councilman was going to pay over to the city for their “correction.” The custom of the country, he told himself, and wondered why he had come back here from Paris. Going insane from grief wouldn't have been as bad as this, surely?
“I take it,” he said, “that Isaak Jumon's body was never found?”
The Kentuckian shook his head. “Though I sorta wonder how your sister knowed that, right off as she did. That boy Antoine says he was sent away from this strange house in a carriage and let off someplace he doesn't know where. He wandered around for hours in the pourin' rain, he says, till he got hisself home again. But he did see his brother die. He was real clear on that. And there's a lot of territory to cover, swamps and bayous and canals all around this city where a body coulda been dumped, and we'd never be the wiser. We didn't just light on your sister out of arbitrary malice, you know, Maestro. When I asked her last night where she'd been Monday she wouldn't give no good account of herself, nor could that gal Célie neither. . . . Yes, what is it?” A Guardsman came running from the Cabildo, calling Shaw's name.
“Trouble over to the Queen of the Orient Saloon, sir.” The man saluted.
“It's nine o'clock in the mornin',” said Shaw
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