Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Does he?” Grey said dryly. “Of anything specific?”


That seemed to help; Rodrigo nodded vigorously.

“You don’t be close to the governor. Stay right away, as far as you can. He’s going to—I mean…something bad might happen. Soon. He—” The servant broke off, apparently realising that he could be dismissed—if not worse—for talking about the governor in this loose fashion. Grey was more than curious, though, and sat down, motioning to Rodrigo to take the stool, which he did with obvious reluctance.

Whatever an Obeah man was, Grey thought, he clearly had considerable power, to force Rodrigo to do something he so plainly didn’t want to do. The young man’s face shone with sweat, and his hands clenched mindlessly on the fabric of his coat.

“Tell me what the Obeah man said,” Grey said, leaning forward, intent. “I promise you, I will tell no one.”

Rodrigo gulped but nodded. He bent his head, looking at the table as though he might find the right words written in the grain of the wood.

“Zombie,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “The zombie come for him. For the governor.”

Grey had no notion what a zombie might be, but the word was spoken in such a tone as to make a chill flicker over his skin, sudden as distant lightning.

“Zombie,” he said carefully. Mindful of the governor’s reaction earlier, he asked, “Is a zombie perhaps a snake of some kind?”

Rodrigo gasped but then seemed to relax a little.

“No, sah,” he said seriously. “Zombie are dead people.” He stood up then, bowed abruptly, and left, his message delivered.



NOT SURPRISINGLY, Grey did not fall asleep immediately in the wake of this visit.

Having encountered German night-hags, Indian ghosts, and having spent a year or two in the Scottish Highlands, he had more acquaintance than most with picaresque superstition. While he wasn’t inclined to give instant credence to local custom and belief, neither was he inclined to discount such belief out of hand. Belief made people do things that they otherwise wouldn’t—and whether the belief had substance or not, the consequent actions certainly did.

Obeah men and zombies notwithstanding, plainly there was some threat to Governor Warren—and Grey rather thought the governor knew what it was.

How exigent was the threat, though? He pinched out the candle flame and sat in darkness for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, then rose and went soft-footed to the French doors, through which Rodrigo had vanished.

The guest bedchambers of King’s House were merely a string of boxes, all facing the long terrace and each opening directly onto it through a pair of French doors. Grey paused for a moment, hand on the muslin drape; if anyone was watching his room, they would see the curtain being drawn aside.

Instead, he turned and went to the inner door of the room. This opened onto a narrow service corridor, completely dark at the moment—and completely empty, if his senses could be trusted. He closed the door quietly, glancing over his shoulder at the French doors. It was interesting, he thought, that Rodrigo had come to the front door, so to speak, when he could have approached Grey unseen.

But Rodrigo had said the Obeah man sent him. Plainly he wanted it to be seen that he had obeyed his order. Which in turn meant that someone was likely watching to see that he had.

The logical conclusion would be that the same someone—or someones—was watching to see what Grey might do next.

His body had reached its own conclusions already and was reaching for breeches and shirt before he had quite decided that if something were about to happen to Warren, it was clearly his duty to stop it, zombies or not. He stepped out of the French doors onto the terrace, moving quite openly.

There was an infantryman posted at either end of the terrace, as he’d expected; Robert Cherry was nothing if not meticulous. On the other hand, the bloody sentries had plainly not seen Rodrigo entering his room, and he wasn’t at all pleased about that. Recriminations could wait, though; the nearer sentry saw him and challenged him with a sharp “Who goes there?”

“It’s me,” Grey said briefly, and, without ceremony, dispatched the sentry with orders to alert the other soldiers posted around the house, then send two men into the house, where they should wait in the hall until summoned.

Grey then went back into his room, through the inner door, and down the dark service corridor. He found a dozing black servant behind a door at the end of it, minding the fire under the row of huge coppers that supplied hot water to the household.

The man blinked and stared when shaken awake but eventually nodded in response to Grey’s demand to be taken to the governor’s bedchamber. He led Grey into the main part of the house and up a darkened stair lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tall casements. Everything was quiet on the upper floor save for slow, regular snoring coming from what the slave said was the governor’s room.

The man was swaying with weariness; Grey dismissed him, with orders to let in and send up the soldiers who should now be at the door. The man yawned hugely, and Grey watched him stumble down the stairs into the murk of the hall below, hoping he would not fall and break his neck. The house was very quiet. He was beginning to feel somewhat foolish. And yet…

The house seemed to breathe around him, almost as though it were a sentient thing and aware of him. He found the fancy unsettling.

Ought he to wake Warren? he wondered. Warn him? Question him? No, he decided. There was no point in disturbing the man’s rest. Questions could wait for the morning.

The sound of feet coming up the stair dispelled his sense of uneasiness, and he gave his orders quietly. The sentries were to keep guard on this door until relieved in the morning; at any sound of disturbance within, they were to enter at once. Otherwise…

“Stay alert. If you see or hear anything, I wish to know about it.”

He paused, but Warren continued to snore, so he shrugged and made his way downstairs, out into the silken night, and back to his own room.

He smelled it first. For an instant he thought he had left the tin of bear-grease ointment uncovered—and then the reek of sweet decay took him by the throat, followed instantly by a pair of hands that came out of the dark and fastened on said throat.

He fought back in blind panic, striking and kicking wildly, but the grip on his windpipe didn’t loosen, and bright lights began to flicker at the corners of what would have been his vision if he’d had any. With a tremendous effort of will, he made himself go limp. The sudden weight surprised his assailant and jerked Grey free of the throttling grasp as he fell. He hit the floor and rolled.