Part 69 (1/2)

”Since about six months after Madam and her Paraden husband had the final court ruling on their separation. The one that gave Madam some major blocks of shares in Paraden family holdings,” Sam said. At Ford's stare, he winked. ”Significant, eh?”

”She's a ... ?” Ford mouthed the word Paraden without saying it.

Sam shook his head. ”Not of the blood royal, so to speak. Maybe not even on the wrong side of the blanket. But in her heart, she does what she's paid to.”

”Does my aunt know?”

Sam frowned and pursed his lips. ”I've never been sure. She's got some hold on your aunt, but that particular thing, I don't know.”

”They want her quiet and out of their way. No noise, no scandals. I'm surprised she's survived this long.”

”It's been close a few times.” Sam shook his head, as he helped Ford brush his teeth, and handed him a bottle of mouthwash. ”It's funny. Your aunt's real cautious about some things but she won't do anything, if you follow me.”

Scared to do anything, Ford interpreted. Scared altogether, as her friends dropped away year by year, alienated by Madame Flaubert. He smiled at Sam in the mirror, heartened to find that he could smile, that he looked marginally less like death warmed over.

”I think it's about time,” he drawled, ”that my dear aunt got free of Madame Flaubert.”

Sam's peaked eyebrows went up. ”Any reason why I should trust you, sir?”

Ford grimaced. ”If I'm not preferable to Madame Flaubert, then I deserved that, but I thought you had more sense.”

”More sense than to challenge where I can't win. Your aunt trusts me as a servant but no more than that.

”She should know better.” Ford looked carefully at Sam, reminded again of the better NCOs he'd known in his time. ”Are you sure you didn't start off in Fleet?”

A Sicker in the eyes that quickly dropped before his. ”Perhaps, sir, you're unaware how similar some of the situations are.”

That was both equivocal, and the only answer he was going to get. Unaccountably, Ford felt better.

”Perhaps I am,” he said absently, thinking ahead to what he could do about Madame Flaubert. His own survival, and Auntie Q's, both depended on that.

”Just don't let her touch you,” Sam said. ”Don't eat anything she's touched. Don't let her put anything on you.”

”Do you know what it is, what she's using?” Sam shook his head, refusing to say more, and left the cabin silently. Ford stared moodily into the mirror, trying to think it through. If the Paradens were that angry with his aunt, why not just fall her? Were her social and commercial connections that powerful? Did she have some kind of hold on them, something they thought to keep at bay, but dared not directly attack? He knew little about the commercial side of politics, and nothing of society except what any experienced Fleet officer of his rank had had to meet in official circles. It didn't seem quite real to him. And that, he knew, was his worst danger.

The confrontation came sooner than he'd expected. He was hardly back in his bed, thinking hard, when Madame Flaubert oozed in, her lapdog panting behind her. She had a net bag of paraphernalia which she began to set up without so much as a word to him. A candlestick with a fat green candle, a handful of different colored stones in a crystal bowl and geometric figures of some s.h.i.+ny stuff. He couldn't tell if they were plastic or metal or painted wood. Gauzy scarves to hang from the light fixtures, and drape across the door.

”Don't you think all that's a little excessive?” Ford asked, arms crossed over his chest. He might as well 182.

start as he meant to go on. ”It's my aunt who believes in this stuff.”

”You can't be expected to understand, with the demonic forces still raging within you,” she answered.

”Oh, I don't know. I think I understand demonic forces quite well.” That stopped her momentarily. She gave him a long hostile stare.

”You're unwell,” she said. ”Your mind is deranged.” ”I'm sick as a dog,” he agreed. ”But my mind is clear as your intent.”

Red spots showed under her makeup. ”Ridiculous. Your wicked past merely a.s.serts itself, trying to unnerve me.”

”I would not try to unnerve you, Madame Flaubert, sweet Seraphine, but I would definitely try to dissuade you from actions which you might find unprofitable . . . even . . . dangerous.”

”Your aura is disgusting,” she said firmly, but her eyes s.h.i.+fted.

”I could say the same,” he murmured. Again that s.h.i.+fting of the eyes, that uncertainty.

”You came here for no good! You want to destroy your aunt's lifel” Her plump hands shook as she laid out the colored stones on the small bedside table. ”You are danger and death! I saw that at once.”

Quick as a snake's tongue, her hand darted out to place one of the stones on his chest. Wrapping his hand in the sheet, Ford picked it up and tossed it to the floor. Her face paled, as her dog sniffed at it.

”Get away, Frouffl It's contaminated by his evil.” The dog looked at Ford, its tail wagging gently. Ma-dame Flaubert leaned over, never taking her eyes off Ford, and picked up the stone. He watched, eerily fascinated, as she held it up before her, crooned to it, and placed it back with the others.

If he had not watched so closely, he would not have seen it. Her hands were hardly visible, what with ruffles drooping from her full sleeves, dozens of bracelets, gaudy rings on every finger. But they were gloved. Her fingertips were too s.h.i.+ny, and when she held the stone, one of them wrinkled. Ford hoped his face did not

183.

reveal his feelings as he watched her fondle the stones, squeeze them. And watching with that dazed fascination, he saw the squeeze that sent something from one of those ma.s.sive rings, to be spread on the stones.

Contact poison. He had thought of injections, when Sam warned against letting her touch him. He had thought of poison in his food, but not of contact poison working through intact skin. Had that been the paralyzing agent that had held him motionless before while she claimed to commune with spirits over him? He was no chemist or doctor so he had no idea what kinds of effects could be obtained with poisons working through the skin.

He tried to let his eyelids sag, feigning exhaustion, but when Madame Flaubert reached out, he could not help flinching away from her. Her predatory smile widened.

”Ah! You suspect, do you? Or think you know?”

Ford edged farther away, telling himself that even in his present state he had to be a match for any woman like Madame Flaubert. He didn't believe it. She was big and probably more powerful than she looked. As if she'd read his thoughts, she nodded slowly, still smiling.

”Silly man,” she said. ”You should have had the sense to wait until you were stronger. Of course, you weren't going to be stronger.”

He couldn't think of anything to say. His back was against the cabin bulkhead. She was between him and Ae door, holding up a purple stone and rubbing it slowly. He could feel every square centimeter of his bare skin. After all, how much protection were pajamas?

”All I have to decide,” she gloated, ”is whether it should look like a heart attack or a stroke. Or perhaps a final spasm of that disgusting intestinal ailment you brought aboard.”

He was supposed to be able to kill with his bare hands. He was supposed to be able to take command of any situation. He was not supposed to be cowering in his pajamas, terrified of the touch of an overdressed fake spiritualist with a poison ring. It would sound, if 184.

anyone ever heard about it, like something out of the worst possible ma.s.s entertainment.

He clenched one hand in the expensively fluffy pillow Auntie Q had provided the invalid. He could use that to s.h.i.+eld his hand. What if this murderous old bag had put poison on his bedclothes, too? He felt cold and shaky. Fear? Poison?