Old Dry Ashes stopped before the entry and motioned Matthew in. With the most mixed emotions of dread and propensity he'd ever experienced, Matthew parted the leather curtains and went inside.
Once more the dimness of light within at first limited his vision. Then, gradually, he made out the figures of two women, both of sturdy size, with long silver hair and dressed in deerskins decorated with beads, brightly-hued feathers, and totems. Their faces were painted, one yellow with red around the eyes, the second half-blue and half-green. They both held round wooden rattles with, presumably, dried beans or corn inside. An essence of some kind had been applied to the central firepit, for the crackling flames showed colors of blue and purple. The sweet, musky smell of burning spices was all but overpowering. Clay pots and jars stood about, in a variety of sizes. And hanging in what appeared to be a hammock sewn from beaverskins was a figure tightly wrapped in white cloth, like a babe in swaddling.
Only Greathouse's head was visible. His eyes were closed, his sweat-damp face gray except for daubs of red and yellow that had been applied to chin and forehead. The two medicine sisters were keening and chanting in low voices as Matthew approached, and did not pause in their vocal utterings to the spirits when Matthew stepped between them.
Matthew thought Greathouse looked eighty years old. It seemed that the flesh was starting to tighten around the skull. Matthew felt a start of alarm because he couldn't tell if Greathouse was breathing or not. Then one of the medicine sisters took a drink from liquid in a red cup, sprayed it between her teeth onto Greathouse's face, and Matthew saw him flinch, if almost imperceptibly.
"Hudson," Matthew said, as the medicine sisters chanted and shook their rattles through the musky-scented smoke.
Greathouse's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood-shot and dark-hollowed, they searched for a face to go with the voice.
"I'm here," Matthew said, and touched the man's swaddled shoulder.
"Matthew?" It was a weary whisper; the voice of a man who was saving his strength to fight for his life.
"Yes."
"Where the hell are we?"
"An Indian village. Not far from Fort Laurens."
Greathouse made a noise of either pain or interest, it was hard to tell which. "How'd we get here?" "They brought us."
"I can't move." He frowned, obviously disturbed by his lack of freedom. "Why can't I move?"
"You're all wrapped up. Don't try to move. I imagine they've put something on your wounds, and you don't want to-"
"Shit, what a mess," Greathouse said, squeezing his eyes shut again. "That box. Damned box. What was in it?"
"I don't know."
There was a long moment in which Greathouse didn't speak. Matthew was aware that the medicine sisters had withdrawn to the other side of their shelter, probably to give him the opportunity to convince Greathouse's spirit not to fly away from the body.
"Well," Greathouse whispered, his eyes opening again, "I was a prince of fools wasn't I?"
"How could you have known?"
A small tide of anger rippled over the man's face. "I am paid to know. It's my job." He winced as fresh pain hit him, and let the anger go in order to lessen his torment. "In the well. I remember that. You wouldn't let me go under."
"That's right," Matthew said. "I'm not going to let you go under here, either. I forbid you to die."
"Oh do you?"
"Yes, I do. I forbid you to die because my education is not yet complete, and when you're up on your feet again and we're back in New York I intend to continue my lessons in sword-fighting and, as you put it, the art of combat. So you're not to die, do you hear me?"
Greathouse gave a grunt that might have been a muffled laugh. "Who died," he said, "and made you king?"
"I'm just telling you, as your associate." It was a difficult task for Matthew to keep his voice steady.
"I see." Again, Greathouse was silent for awhile. His eyes closed, the eyelids fluttered, and then he brought himself up to the world once more. "I suppose if the young master Matthew Corbett commands it, then I'll have to obey."
"You've been through worse than this," Matthew said. "I've seen the scars." "My collection's growing. Like it or not."
Matthew tore his gaze away from Greathouse's face and stared at the ground. The fire popped and hissed behind him. He knew what he had to do now; he knew this was the moment. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Listen," Greathouse whispered. When Matthew looked at him again, he saw that Greathouse wore the crooked hint of a smile. "Something amusing. The work I was doing. For Lillehorne. Hired me to find out if his wife, the Princess is having " Once more he hesitated, and winced at a passing thrust of pain. "Sexual relations with the new doctor in town."
"Dr. Mallory?" "Yes. Him."
Matthew knew that Jason Mallory and his wife Rebecca had come to New York from Boston about a month ago, and set up residence at the north end of Nassau Street. Mallory was in his late thirties and as handsome as his black-haired wife was beautiful. He doubted that the good doctor would wish to dally with the needle-nosed, frankly unattractive Maude Lillehorne when his own lady was so comely.
"Told me Princess sees him three times a week," Greathouse went on. "Says she comes home in a sweat. Red-faced, and trembly. Can you imagine it?"
"No, I can't."
"Won't tell Lillehorne why she goes. Just that that she needs him." A savage little grin moved across Greathouse's mouth, which Matthew took to be a good sign. "And listen the thing is " He couldn't speak for awhile, until he'd recovered some strength and breath. "There are four other wives. Seeing Mallory. For unknown reasons. He must be hell of a ram." Greathouse shook his head, as much as he was able. "Me I'd like to ram his wife."
Greathouse then lapsed into silence, and the grin slowly faded. His eyes closed and Matthew thought he'd drifted to sleep, but then he said in a barely audible voice, "God, I'm tired."
"You're going to be all right," Matthew told him. "It'll take time, but at least you'll have another interesting story to tell." And then he leaned closer to Greathouse's ear, and he said, "I'm to blame for this."
Greathouse said, "What?" His eyes were still shut, his mouth slack.
"I've caused all this. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid."
"Afraid? Of what?" The voice was almost gone.
"Of what you'd think of me." Matthew's heart was beating harder; even with Greathouse in this condition, it was difficult to get the words out. "I've deceived you. When I went to the Chapel estate that day I found the tunnel I also found some money."
"Money," Greathouse whispered.
"Eighty pounds worth of gold coins, hidden in a lockbox made to pass as a book. The money is in my house, right now. It's enough more than enough to buy Zed's freedom. I didn't tell you, because " The moment of truth had at long last arrived, and its fruit tasted bitter indeed. "Because I wanted all of it," he went on, his face as agonized as Greathouse's now was peaceful. "I found it, and I thought it should be mine. Every last penny of it. When we turned off the pike, I should have told you. I wanted to, but I thought, maybe we could get Slaughter's money. I thought we could trick him as you said, and everything would be all right.
"I'm sorry," Matthew said, "that you have to pay for my mistake. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. But listen to me, Hudson. I'm going after Slaughter, and I'm going to bring him back. Before God, I can't live knowing what I've let loose. Can you hear me, Hudson?" He clasped his friend's shoulder more tightly. "Can you hear?"