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“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 laboring. Ought he to speak? He came as a supplicant 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.
“He was not satisfied. He went to a houngan. The Obeah-man warned him, but—” Her entire face contorted with the effort to hold in her feelings. “The houngan. He had zombies. Rodrigo paid him to kill the beast.”
Grey felt as though he had been punched in the chest. Rodrigo. Rodrigo, hiding in the garden shed at the sound of shuffling bare feet in the night—or Rodrigo, warning his fellow servants to leave, then unbolting the doors, following a silent horde of ruined men in clotted rags up the stairs . . . or running up before them, in apparent alarm, summoning the sentries, drawing them outside, where they could be taken.
“And where is Rodrigo now?” Grey asked sharply. There was a deep silence in the clearing. None of the people even glanced at each other; every eye was fixed on the ground. He took a step toward Accompong. “Captain?”
Accompong stirred. He raised his misshapen face to Grey, and a hand toward one of the huts.
“We do not like zombies, Colonel,” he said. “They are unclean. And to kill a man using them . . . this is a great wrong. You understand this?”
“I do, yes.”
“This man, Rodrigo—” Accompong hesitated, searching out words. “He is not one of us. He comes from Hispaniola. They . . . do such things there.”
“Such things as make zombies? But presumably it happens here as well.” Grey spoke automatically; his mind was working furiously in light of these revelations. The thing that had attacked him in his room—it would be no great trick for a man to smear himself with grave dirt and wear rotted clothing . . .
