Her chest ached against the bones of her corset, straining against the stays as she panted her way closer to the river. Her skirts tangled around her ankles, twisting around her knees and trying to slow her, but failing. She kicked herself free and pushed onward.

The texture of the streets beneath her changed. They shifted from the wood slats of lifted walkways as those side paths ended, then became the slick cobbles of humidity-damp stones that slipped beneath her feet despite her rubber-bottomed boots. She stumbled and recovered, ran out of steam, and leaned against a large, cool, stone square that turned out to be the foundation of the equestrian statue directly in front of the church.

Gazing up at it, she wondered if it, too, might have some arcane message to pass along. But the rider and horse both kept their silence.

Back behind the church, or somewhere past it, she heard a dull mumble punctuated with gasps and small cries. Catching her breath, she pulled herself together and continued onward, toward the ornate, dark church doors illuminated by fizzing electric torches on either side. She turned to pass them, still tracking the sounds and pushing toward their source.

A tall black fence cordoned off the church’s back yards.

It walled off the gardens.

A crowd was gathering. Josephine joined it at full speed, stopping herself hands-first against the rails, leaving bruises on her palms that she wouldn’t notice for days. She thrust her face between the bars and gazed openmouthed at the scene framed in the vivid green grass of the shadowed yard behind the city’s holy Christian center.

There on the ground, faceup in a state of peaceful repose with arms at her sides, Marie Laveau lay unbreathing, unmoving.

On the lawn around her, items were accumulating. As Josephine watched, three gold coins were pitched through the gate with a prayer, shortly to be joined by hastily improvised bags as small as her thumb. One gris-gris after another went sailing over the fence or through it, to land in a gentle plunk near the serene, still body.

Josephine wrapped her fingers around the chilly bars and struggled to breathe. She watched the small things fly — the ribbons, the coins, the buttons. The bags and beads, the twine-twisted bracelets and bootlaces, the flowers, pebbles, and nails. They accumulated around the queen’s corpse, yet none landed upon her. They gathered like a full-body halo, drifts of clutter, a fog of tiny gifts dredged from pockets and purses.

“No,” she said in half a breath, and with the other half she said, “Not yet. It’s too soon,” she added. “There’s too much I don’t know!”

More mourners gathered, brought to the spot by whatever means had brought Josephine, or by word of mouth filtering from churchyard gardens throughout the Quarter. They joined her at the fence, gawkers who stood with eyes wet and heads bowed, whispering prayers or moaning.

No one heeded the curfew, and as the sun set more fully, the Texians came out to see the fuss. The first who came started with commands to disperse, then saw the uncanny tableau spread out within the fence. They recognized the body lying there and stopped yelling their orders. They, too, joined the lookers at the fence, drawn up close and made quiet by awe, or shock, or some other odd familiarity that told them this was not the time to insist upon anything.

Someone at the back cried, “What’s going on? What’s the meaning of this?” Josephine knew that whoever this was, he’d find his silence, too. But she recognized the voice and turned to spot the speaker. At the nearest corner where the gas lamps were sputtering to light under a colored child’s expert spark, she saw Horatio Korman.

She watched understanding dawn on him and, closely following that, a nervous kind of horror. Their eyes met across the now-crowded side street.

They shared the moment, the fear of knowing — alone, together.

Thirteen

Andan Cly ran his finger over the map as slowly as a man learning to read. He traced the curve of the Mississippi River gently, lifting his hand to see a detail here, a notation there. The map was an older one and it had been abridged, amended, and scrawled across to make it more pertinent to the present situation. This sheet included not only the serpentine bends and miniature ports that dotted the way between the city and the ocean; it also included the canals, both commercial and semiprivate — and the docks that Texas likely didn’t know about.

The electric lamps had been dimmed down to nothing, leaving only the oil lamps and rickety wire-frame lanterns to give them any light.

Outside, there were no sounds of soldiers or rolling-crawlers. No marching feet or passing patrols. The Texians had left — at least, those who were leaving were long gone, and no more were on the verge of exiting, so the time had come to put the finishing touches on the plan before putting it into action.

Night had not yet fallen, but it was coming, and it would be there within the hour — black and thick, a perfect shield from the eyes of anyone too interested in knowing about the giant machine hidden inside the nondescript storehouse.

“These are the forts, ain’t that right?” Cly asked, poking at a spot in the river just past a bend that kinked sharply north and to the east.

“Fort Saint Philip on the north bank, and Fort Jackson on the southern one,” Deaderick told him. “Fully manned, mostly by Confederates.”

“Not Texians?”

“Naw. Texas lets them keep their forts as a matter of show. Makes it look more like a group effort, rather than an occupation. It’s bullshit, and everybody knows it.”

“So the Rebs keep the forts in order to keep their pride. Got it. Are they dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough to steer clear of them, as much as we’re able. They don’t have anything much in the water that we’ll have to bypass — no charges or anything like that. They can’t clog up the waterway with bombs. There are too many merchant ships coming and going to make it worth their trouble. But they do have lookouts aplenty keeping an eye on everyone who passes by — and anyone who goes steaming upriver.”

Fang made a sign. Cly saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Gatekeepers.

“Gatekeepers,” the captain said aloud, since he doubted anyone else but Houjin could understand the message. “That’s all they are.”

“Heavily armed gatekeepers. They’ve got cannon all over the place, and antiaircraft, too.”

Rucker Little noted, “There’s nothing keeping the antiaircraft from becoming antiwatercraft. All they have to do is tip the things on their fulcrum, brace them, and aim them at the waves. A buddy of mine used to work for them, doing maintenance on machine parts and the like. He says they have a pair of antiaircraft shooters mounted on each of the fort’s two river-facing towers, and both of them have been modified so they can shoot up or down.”

“Good to know,” Kirby Troost said.

“We’ll stay out of their way. Out of their sight, anyway. Let me ask you something,” Cly said to Deaderick. “Is there any good reason we have to go right past them? They’re guarding the way to the ocean, but only if we stay in the river.”

“This thing won’t grow legs and crawl, Captain.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. These canals, here and here.” He tapped at them. “Are they deep enough to hold us?”

Deaderick rubbed at his chin. “Maybe. Not that one,” he indicated a sketched-in line at Empire. “But this one might — the one just past Port Sulphur.”

Houjin perked up. “Isn’t that where we landed? When we first came into town? Those Texians made us set down there instead of landing at Barataria.”

“That’s right,” Cly told him.

Rucker sniffed. “Doesn’t surprise me. Texians trying to chase off perfectly nice pirates.”