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Jonathon Jeffers entered the saloon, saw him, and came striding over to the table.

"Sit down and eat something" Marsh said. "Want to have a long talk with you, Mister Jeffers. Not here, though. Better wait till I'm through and then go to my cabin."

"Fine," Jeffers replied, in a distracted sort of way. "Cap'n, where have you been? I've been looking for you for hours. You weren't in your cabin."

"Joshua and I were chattin'," Marsh said. "What...?"

"There's a man here to see you," Jeffers said. "He came aboard in the middle of the night. He's very insistent."

"Don't like to be kept around waitin', like I'm some no-count trash," the stranger said. Marsh hadn't even seen the man enter. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the man pulled out a chair and sat down. He was an ugly, haggard-looking cuss, his long face cratered by the pox. Thin, limp brown hair hung down in strands across his forehead. His complexion was unhealthy, and patches of hair and skin were covered by scaly white flakes, like he'd been in his own private snowfall. Yet he wore an expensive black broadcloth suit, and a ruffled white shirtfront, and a cameo ring.

Abner Marsh didn't care for his looks, his tone, the flat press of his lips, his ice-colored eyes. "Who the hell are you?" he said gruffly. "You better have a damn good reason for botherin' me at breakfast, or I'll have you chucked over the damn side." Just saying so made Marsh feel somewhat better. He'd always figured there was no use being a steamboat captain if you couldn't tell somebody to go to hell once in a while.

The stranger's sour expression changed not a flicker, but he fixed his icy eyes on Marsh with a kind of smirking malice. "I'm goin' to be takin' passage on this fancy raft of yours."

"The hell you are," Marsh said.

"Shall I call Hairy Mike to deal with this ruffian?" Jeffers offered coolly.

The man looked at the clerk with brief contempt. His eyes moved back to Marsh. "Cap'n Marsh, I come last night to bring you an invite, for you and your partner. Figured one o' you, at least, be out and about by night. Well, it's day now, so it'll have to be tonight instead. Dinner at the St. Louis, along about an hour past sunset, you and Cap'n York."

"I don't know you and I don't care for you," Marsh said. "I sure ain't goin' to have dinner with you. Besides, the Fevre Dream is steamin' out tonight."

"I know. Know where, too."

Marsh frowned. "What are you sayin'?"

"You don't know niggers, I can tell. Nigger hears something before long ever' nigger in the city knows it. And me, I lissen good. You don't want to take this big ol' steamer of yours up the bayou to where you're fixin' to go. You'll ground yourself for sure, maybe rip out your bottom. I can save you all the trouble. Y'see, the man you lookin' for is right here waitin' for you. So, when dark comes, you go tell that to your master, you hear? You tell him that Damon Julian is waiting for him at the St. Louis Hotel. Mister Julian is right eager to make his acquaintance."

Chapter Fifteen

New Orleans, August 1857

SOUR Billy Tipton returned to the St. Louis Hotel that evening more than a little fearful. Julian would not like the message he carried from the Fevre Dream, and Julian was dangerous and unpredictable when displeased.

In the darkened parlor of their lavish suite, only a single small candle had been lighted. Its flame was reflected in Julian's black eyes as he sat in the deep velvet chair near the window, sipping a sazerac. The room was full of silence. Sour Billy felt the weight of the stares upon him. The latch made a small, deadly snick when the door shut behind him. "Yes, Billy?" said Damon Julian, softly.

"They won't come, Mister Julian," Sour Billy said, a little too quickly, a little too breathlessly. In the dim light he could not see Julian's reaction. "He says you got to come to him."

"He says," repeated Julian. "Who is he, Billy?"

"Him," said Sour Billy. "The... the other bloodmaster. Joshua York, he calls hisself. The one that Raymond wrote you about. The other cap'n, Marsh, the fat one with the warts and the whiskers, he wouldn't come neither. Damned rude, too. But I waited for dark, waited for the bloodmaster to get up. Finally they took me to 'im." Sour Billy