The River of No Return

his feet. He carried his favorite fowling piece, in case he scared up any game. He would take a long walk all around the periphery of the estate. Greet whichever of the tenants were left. Maybe take a detour into the village and pay his respects to the vicar.
    “My lord.”
    The voice came from behind him. A northern voice. Jem Jemison’s voice. Nick turned, and there he was.
    He was dressed as a civilian, not as a soldier. Of course. But it surprised Nick. Somehow he had pictured Jemison still in those sun-faded, dust-dulled regimentals. The only true scarlet left had been their armpits and beneath the white straps that crossed their chests. X marks the spot.
    “Jemison.” Nick held out his hand.
    Brown hair and eyes as black as a Spaniard’s. They’d used to tease him about that. But Jemison was unteasable. Nick remembered watching him in the firelight, as the men laughed all around them, making cruel fun of one another. That thin, alert face in the flickering glow, like a fox’s mask when it turns and watches the baying pack of hounds that chase it.
    It was only when he felt Jemison’s hand in his own that Nick remembered; he was a marquess and Jemison a commoner. He pulled his hand away and nodded instead.
    Jemison’s mouth twitched—was he amused? But then he bowed, with precision. “Welcome home, my lord.”
    “Thank you.” Nick looked the man up and down. The last man he’d seen before jumping. Well, the second to last. For Nick had certainly seen the Frenchman, seen the look in his eye.
    “I killed him,” Jemison said.
    Nick blinked. “Excuse me?”
    “Why?” Jemison looked puzzled.
    “I mean, what did you say?”
    “The dragoon. I killed him.”
    “I see. Thank you—I suppose.”
    “No need to thank me. I didn’t save your life.”
    “No. Of course not.” It was a heavy debt, owing a man your life. Jemison wasn’t claiming those dues. He was up to something, though.
    “He fell, you see, after you disappeared,” Jemison said, his voice flat. “He lunged to kill you, and then when you weren’t there he overbalanced and tumbled. I crushed his head with my rifle butt.”
    Nick nodded, his eyes never leaving Jemison’s. Painted into that blunt portrait of a death was the thing Jemison was really telling him. He had seen Nick disappear, and he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t. “Are you the one who blabbed about my disappearance?”
    “That was Peel. Everyone thought he was crazy.”
    “And you didn’t corroborate his story, I take it.”
    “I keep myself to myself.”
    “Where is Peel now?”
    “Dead of a fever.”
    Nick rocked back on his heels and looked up at the sky. “So you are telling me that you are the only one left alive who saw. Peel and the Frenchman are both dead.”
    Jemison shrugged. “I’m not telling you anything.”
    Tell no one. The third rule of the Guild. And yet here was this man, this enigmatic Natural northerner. This man who had been with him at Badajoz. Nick sucked in his cheeks, remembering standing beside Jemison on the city wall on the third day of the sack. Down below in the square two soldiers of their own regiment were dragging a girl out of hiding, calling to their comrades who were lounging, drunk, in the shadow of the gallows Wellington had erected to try to scare the men out of their mad rampage. So far it wasn’t working. Jemison had turned to Nick with those knowing eyes and said, conversationally, “I bet you five guineas we can shoot them both and not hurt the woman.”
    Those black eyes were looking at him now, with the same look. Nick heard himself speak, as if from a distance: “When I disappeared, I—”
    “My lord.” Jemison held up his long, narrow hand, and Nick closed his mouth. “I’m not telling you anything. And you’re not telling me anything, either.”
    Nick raised his eyebrows. The man was bold.
    Jemison nodded once, as if in acknowledgment of that unspoken judgment. Then he bowed, turned, and walked away across the lawn.
    * * *
    Nick strode up along the line of trees that marked the edge of Darchester’s land. It was still early in the morning; the dew sparkled on the grass and the sky was blue. But the pleasant walk he had anticipated had turned into a pilgrim’s progress, and Nick feared the Slough of Despond lay dead ahead. For God’s sake, to come face-to-face with Jem Jemison of all people. Not that he disliked the man, by any means. But Jemison knew . He had been at Badajoz, and then he had