And there in an armchair was Revelation Wellesley, looking entirely unlike herself in a green silk dress. She had changed the way she held herself too; she was quick and precise on Agamemnon’s deck, but she looked languid now, and she had taken on a glassy, arsenic-brightened quality just like a certain sort of rich lady always had.
‘My goodness,’ she laughed, sounding like an idiot. Joe could have kissed her. Her French was brilliant. ‘You really do have a good selection. How is it that so many lovely slaves have committed crimes?’
Slave auction. Right. Jesus, could people just walk in like that? And where the hell were they going to get that kind of money? The English fleet seemed to have sixpence between them, and even then, it was probably a fake sixpence off an illegal mint.
‘Oh, sometimes we sell debtors to clear their debts. Minimum ten years of service,’ the warden explained, jolly. In the corner, Herault was leaning against the arm of his chair, clipping a cigar.
Joe hadn’t seen because he was on the periphery of the lamps, and very still, but Kite was there too. He looked terrible, new cuts and bruises everywhere, chains on his wrists, and he wasn’t wearing enough for the cold. Joe looked away. Too fast: Herault had been watching him, and he noticed. Joe frowned to ask why he was being stared at. Herault made a vague spinning motion with one hand. Just going along. But he glanced back at Kite, and for no reason that Joe could see, he flicked the chains. Kite flinched, then looked annoyed to have flinched.
‘This lady wants to buy one of you,’ the warden continued, and smiled in the hopeful way of someone who wanted them all to look much more thrilled than they were. ‘Say hello.’
There was a murmured chorus of hello-madames.
‘Well?’ Wellesley said in her exquisite French. ‘What’s your going rate?’
‘Fairly standard,’ the warden began.
‘Fellow on the end’s an unconfirmed d’Lioncourt,’ Herault put in. Joe couldn’t believe this was happening, but then, if Wellesley had walked in here with Kite as a prisoner, with her French like it was, in that dress, then there was no reason for anyone to believe she was anything other than what she said. The wife of a captain or an officer, she must have told them. Even if Herault had been waiting for Kite, it was pretty bloody convincing.
Wellesley snorted. ‘No pedigree certificate, no worth. And he’s in a hell of a state.’
She haggled. The warden and Herault assured her that she was being silly, and that she was out of date in her notion of the worth of a slave. She assured them just as civilly that she knew the price of a slave perfectly well, thank you, having consulted the financial papers that morning for the stocks.
In the end she bought all four of them for not very much. While she wrote out what might have been a cheque, and the other three men nodded at each other, anxious because of course they had no idea if they were going to somewhere better or worse than Newgate, Herault came up to Joe. He gave him a long, appraising look.
‘Your lucky day, Tournier.’
Joe kept his eyes down. ‘Yes, sir. Madame seems like a wonderful lady.’
Herault still didn’t seem to have finished appraising. ‘Before you go, just something to ask. Do you know this man?’ He nodded towards Kite.
‘I … no, sir. Why?’
‘That’s all right then,’ he said, and shot Kite.
Joe didn’t see where the bullet hit. All he saw was that Kite collapsed. Joe’s lungs stopped working.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Wellesley snapped into the silence. ‘What the hell was that for?’
Herault was still watching Joe.
Joe copied the other prisoners. He let his eyes go wide and his expression still.
‘He’s alive,’ Herault said. ‘But I’ll shoot him in the head unless you tell me where he got you.’
‘Fuck it,’ Wellesley said in English, and Joe had never seen anyone look as surprised as Herault did when she took a gun out of her pocket and shot him in the chest. ‘Someone get the captain. Come on, Tournier, and you three – now, move, hurry up—’
Joe fell down on his knees to catch Herault’s shoulder. ‘What happened to the Kingdoms? You let them go, where did they go?’
‘Let them go?’ Herault said faintly. He was already deathly white. ‘No … no. We shot them. And then Madeline … hanged …’
‘Tournier,’ Wellesley snapped, and wrenched him away.
They were outside. Outside, just like that. There was a tall gatehouse that led out onto a tiny cobbled street, a portcullis above the gateway: the main entrance of the Bailey. There, just along the road, was St Paul’s; and the busy crossroads just beyond, full of people who probably didn’t know they were walking right above the underground tunnels of the prison.
Joe couldn’t think. He could hardly speak. That she had managed to pull off something so ludicrous had made the world spin, and so had how precarious an idea it had been. It had relied, completely, on his having said nothing to Herault – on his lying right from the start, even. Kite must have known he would, but that was unsettling, because Joe hadn’t known what he was going to say until he was saying it.
He expected someone to yell and chase them, but no one was yelling or chasing. There was just Wellesley behind him, steering him away from the gaol and into the street, past St Paul’s, away, away. Some of her men were leading the other three Newgate prisoners down different roads. He heard a faint whoop that must have been one of
