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“Not among us,” Accompong said, very firmly. “Before I say more, my Colonel—do you believe what you have heard so far? Do you believe that we—that I—had nothing to do with the death of your governor?”
Grey considered that one for a moment. There was no evidence; only the story of the slave girl. Still . . . he did have evidence. The evidence of his own observations and conclusions regarding the nature of the man who sat before him.
“Yes,” he said abruptly. “So?”
“Will your king believe it?”
Well, not as baldly stated, no, Grey thought. The matter would need a little tactful handling . . . Accompong snorted faintly, seeing the thoughts cross his face.
“This man, Rodrigo. He has done us great harm by taking his private revenge in a way that . . . that . . .” He groped for the word.
“That incriminates you,” Grey finished for him. “Yes, I see that. What have you done with him?”
“I cannot give this man to you,” Accompong said at last. His thick lips pressed together briefly, but he met Grey’s eye. “He is dead.”
The shock hit Grey like a musket ball. A thump that knocked him off balance, and the sickening knowledge of irrevocable damage done.
“How?” he said, short and sharp. “What happened to him?”
The clearing was still silent. Accompong stared at the ground in front of him. After a long moment, a sigh, a whisper, drifted from the crowd.
“Zombie.”
“Where?” he barked. “Where is he? Bring him to me. Now!”
The crowd shrank away from the hut, and a sort of moan ran through them. Women snatched up their children, pushed back so hastily that they stepped on the feet of their companions. The door opened.
“Anda!” said a voice from inside. “Walk,” it meant, in Spanish. Grey’s numbed mind had barely registered this when the darkness inside the hut changed, and a form appeared at the door.
It was Rodrigo. But then again—it wasn’t. The glowing skin had gone pale and muddy, almost waxen. The firm, soft mouth hung loose, and the eyes—oh, God, the eyes! They were sunken, glassy, and showed no comprehension, no movement, not the least sense of awareness. They were a dead man’s eyes. And yet . . . he walked.
This was the worst of all. Gone was every trace of Rodrigo’s springy grace, his elegance. This creature moved stiffly, shambling, feet dragging, almost lurching from foot to foot. Its clothing hung upon its bones like a scarecrow’s rags, smeared with clay and stained with dreadful liquids. The odor of putrefaction reached Grey’s nostrils, and he gagged.
“Alto,” said the voice, softly, and Rodrigo stopped abruptly, arms hanging like a marionette’s. Grey looked up, then, at the hut. A tall, dark man stood in the doorway, burning eyes fixed on Grey.
The sun was all but down; the clearing lay in deep shadow, and Grey felt a convulsive shiver go through him. He lifted his chin and, ignoring the horrid thing standing stiff before him, addressed the tall man.
“Who are you, sir?”
“Call me Ishmael,” said the man, in an odd, lilting accent. He stepped out of the hut, and Grey was conscious of a general shrinking, everyone pulling away from the man, as though he suffered from some deadly contagion. Grey wanted to step back, too, but didn’t.
“You did . . . this?” Grey asked, flicking a hand at the remnant of Rodrigo.
“I was paid to do it, yes.” Ishmael’s eyes flicked toward Accompong, then back to Grey.
“And Governor Warren—you were paid to kill him as well, were you? By this man?” A brief nod at Rodrigo; he could not bear to look directly at him.
The zombies think they’re dead, and so does everyone else.
A frown drew Ishmael’s brows together, and with the change of expression, Grey noticed that the man’s face was scarred, with apparent deliberation, long channels cut in cheeks and forehead. He shook his head.
“No. This”—he nodded at Rodrigo—“paid me to bring my zombies. He says to me that he wishes to terrify a man. And zombies will do that,” he added, with a wolfish smile. “But when I brought them into the room and the buckra turned to flee, this one”—the flick of a hand toward Rodrigo—“he sprang upon him and stabbed him. The man fell dead, and Rodrigo then ordered me”—his tone of voice made it clear what he thought of anyone ordering him to do anything—“to make my zombies feed upon him.” He shrugged. “Why not? He was dead.”
Grey swung round to Captain Accompong, who had sat silently through this testimony.
“And then you paid this—this—”
“Houngan,” Ishmael put in helpfully.
