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had laughed that deep musical laugh of his. But he was not laughing now.

"What will we do, Damon?" Kurt asked. "Are we going?"

"Why, of course," Julian said. "We could hardly refuse such a kind invitation, and from a king at that. Don't you want to taste this wine of his?" He looked at each of them in turn, and none of them dared speak. "Ah," said Julian, "where is your enthusiasm? Jean recommends this vintage to us, and Valerie as well, no doubt. A wine sweeter than blood, thick with the stuff of life. Think of the peace it will bring us." He smiled. No one spoke, He waited. When the quiet had gone on a long while, Julian shrugged and said, "Well, then, I hope the king will not think less of us if we prefer other drinks."

"He makes the rest of 'em drink it," Sour Billy said. "Whether they want to or not."

"Damon," Cynthia said, "will you... refuse him? You can't. We must go to him. We must do as he bids us. We must."

Julian turned his head slowly to look at her. "Do you really think so?" he asked, smiling thinly.

"Yes," Cynthia whispered. "We must. He is bloodmaster." She averted her eyes.

"Cynthia," said Damon Julian, "look at me."

Slowly, with infinite reluctance, she raised her head again, until her gaze met Julian's. "No," she whimpered. "Please. Oh, please."

Damon Julian said nothing. Cynthia did not look away. She slipped from her chair, knelt on the carpet, trembling. A bracelet of spun gold and amethysts shone on her small wrist. She pushed it aside, and her lips parted slowly, as if she were about to speak, and then she raised her hand and touched mouth to wrist. The blood began to flow.

Julian waited until she had crawled across the carpet, her arm extended in offering. With grave courtesy he took her hand in his, and drank long and deeply. When he was done Cynthia got to her feet unsteadily, slipped back to one knee, and rose again, shaking. "Bloodmaster," she said, head bowed. "Bloodmaster."

Damon Julian's lips were red and wet, and a tiny bead of blood had trickled down one corner of his mouth. Julian took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully blotted the thin line of moisture from his chin, and tucked it neatly away. "Is it a large steamer, Billy?" he asked.

Sour Billy sheathed his knife behind him with a practiced, easy motion, smiling. The wound on Cynthia's wrist, the blood on Julian's chin, it all left him hot, excited. Julian would show those damn steamboat people, he thought. "Big as any steamboat I ever seen," he answered, "and fancy too. Silver and mirrors and marble, lots of stained glass and carpet. You'll like her, Mister Julian."

"A steamboat," mused Damon Julian. "Why did I never think of the river, I wonder? The advantages are so obvious."

"Then we are going?" said Kurt.

"Yes," said Julian. "Oh yes. Why, the bloodmaster has summoned us. The king." He laughed, throwing back his head, roaring. "The king!" he cried between gusts of laughter. "The king!" One by one the others began to laugh with him.

Julian rose abruptly, like a jackknife unfolding, his face gone solemn again, and the uproar quieted as suddenly as it had begun. He stared out into the darkness beyond the hotel. "We must bring a gift," he said. "One does not call upon royalty without a gift." He turned to Sour Billy. "Tomorrow you will go down to Moreau Street, Billy. There is something I wish you to get for me. A little gift, for our pale king."

Chapter Sixteen

Aboard the Steamer FEVRE DREAM, New Orleans, August 1857

IT seemed as though half the steamers in New Orleans had decided to leave that afternoon, Abner Marsh thought as he stood upon the hurricane deck and watched them all depart.

The custom was for boats going upriver to make their departure from the levee about five o'clock. At three the engineers would fire the furnaces and start to get the steam up. Rosin and pitch-pine would get chucked into the steamers' hungry maws, along with wood and coal, and from one boat after another the black smoke would start to rise, ascending from the lofty flowered chimneys in tall hot columns, dark pennants of farewell. Four miles of steamboats packed solid along the levee can generate a lot of smoke. The sooty columns would start to blend together into one massive black cloud a couple hundred feet above the river; a cloud