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  The king nodded. “The priests will do this,” he said. “And we will pass the orders down to the local councilors, from our council down to the smallest village.” He shot a little smile at Mehuru. “You can organize it,” he said.

  Mehuru bowed low and hid the look of triumph. He would travel to the far north of the Yoruba kingdom; he would speak in the border towns and convince people that slaving was to be banned. He would serve his country in a most important way, and if his mission was successful, he would make his name and his fortune.

  “I am honored,” he said respectfully.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Whiteleaze,

  nr Bath,

  Somerset.

  Thursday 25th September 1787

  Dear Mr. Cole,

  I am Honored and deeply conscious of the Compliment you pay me in your kind letter and your Proposal.

  I was indeed Surprised at the Abrupt termination of our interview before you had explained my Duties or introduced my Pupils; but now I understand.

  It gives me great Pleasure to accept your Offer. I will be your wife.

  My Uncle, Lord Scott, will Write to you under a separate cover. He tells me he will Visit Bristol shortly to give himself the Pleasure of your Acquaintance, and to Determine the Marriage Contract, and date of the ceremony.

  Please convey my Compliments to your Sister Miss Cole.

  Your obdt servant,

  Frances Scott.

  Josiah tapped on the door of the parlor and entered. His sister was seated at the table, the company books spread before her. A small coal fire was unlit in the grate; the room was damp and chill. Her face was pale. Only the tip of her nose showed any color, reddened by a cold in the head. She was wearing a brown gown with a black jacket and little black mittens. She looked up, pen in hand, as he came in.

  “I have a reply from Miss Scott.”

  “She has assented?”

  “Yes. His lordship himself is coming to Bristol to draw up the marriage contract.”

  “I hope it serves its purpose,” Sarah Cole observed coldly. “It will cost a great deal of money to keep a wife such as her.”

  “She will have a dowry,” Josiah pointed out. “If nothing from her father, then her uncle, Lord Scott, is likely to dower her with something.”

  “She will need a larger house and a carriage and a lady’s maid.”

  Josiah nodded, refusing to argue.

  “Her tastes will be aristocratic,” Sarah said disapprovingly.

  “It is a venture,” Josiah replied with a small smile. “Like our others.”

  “In the trade we know the risks. Miss Scott is a new kind of goods altogether.”

  Josiah’s quick frown warned her that she had gone too far. As his older sister, responsible for him throughout their motherless childhoods, she still retained great power over him, but Josiah could always call on the prestige of being a man. “We must take care not to offend her,” he said. “She will find our business very strange at first.”

  “She was prepared to come here as an employee,” Sarah reminded him.

  “Even so.”

  There was a brief, irritated silence. Brother and sister each waited for the other to speak.

  “I’m going to the coffeehouse,” Josiah said. “I shall see if anyone is interested in coming into partnership with us for the Lily. She is due home at the end of November; we need to buy in trade goods and refit her.”

  Sarah glanced at the diary on her desk. “She set sail from Jamaica this month, God willing.”

  Josiah tapped his large foot on the wooden floorboards for luck. The modest buckle on his shoe winked in the light. “You have the accounts for the Lily’s last voyage to hand?”

  “You had better seek a partner without showing them. We barely broke even.”

  Josiah smiled. His large front teeth were stained with tobacco. “Very well,” he said. “But she is a good ship, and Captain Merrick is usually reliable.”

  Sarah rose from her desk, crossed over to the window, and looked down. “If you see Mr. Peters in the coffeehouse, we are still waiting for his money for the equipping of the Daisy,” she said. “The ship sailed two weeks ago, and he has not yet paid for his share. We cannot extend credit like this.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Josiah said. “I will be home for dinner.” He paused at the door. “You do not congratulate me on my engagement to be married?”

  She did not turn from the window, and her face was hidden from him. He did not see her look of sour resentment. Sarah’s marriageable years had slipped away while she worked for her father and then for his heir, her brother, screwing tiny profits out of a risky business. “Of course,” she said. “I congratulate you. I hope that it will bring you what you desire.”

  SIKO WAS UNWILLING TO leave the city of Oyo. He was a city boy who had sold himself into slavery with Mehuru when his parents died. He had thought that with a young man whose career was centered on the court, he would be safe from the discomfort of farming work and rural life. He was deeply reluctant to venture out into the countryside, which he regarded as a dangerous place inhabited by wild animals and surly peasants.

  “For the last time,” Mehuru said abruptly. “Finish packing and fetch the horses, or I shall sell you to a brothel.”

  Siko bowed his head at the empty threat and moved only slightly faster. He was confident that Mehuru would never ill-treat him, and indeed he was saving money to buy his freedom from his young master, as they had agreed.

  “Should we not take porters and guards?” he asked. “My brother said he would be willing to come with us.”

  “We will be traveling along trading routes,” Mehuru said patiently. “We will be meeting porters and guards on the trading caravans all along the way. If there is any danger on the roads, we can travel with them. I am on an urgent mission; we are traveling at speed. You would have us dawdling along the road and stopping at every village.”

  “I would have us stay snug in the city,” Siko muttered into a saddlebag. Aloud he said, “We are packed, sir, and ready to leave.”

  Mehuru nodded to him to load the bags and went into his room. In the corner were his priestly things, laid out for meditation. The divining tray made of beautifully polished wood indented with circular cups filled with cowrie shells, the little purse filled with ash, a cube of chalk, a flask of oil. Mehuru picked them up one by one and put them into a soft leather satchel, letting his mind linger on them and calling for vision.

  Nothing came. Instead he saw once more the prow of a ship, rocking gently on clear tropical waters. He could see a shoal of small fish nibbling at the copper casing of the wooden hull, something he had never seen in waking life. Again he smelled the heavy, sickly smell of sugar and sepsis.

  “What does it mean?” he whispered softly. “What does it mean?”

  He shuddered as if the day were not pulsing with heat, as if he could feel a coldness like death. “What does it mean, this ship?” He waited for an answer, but he could hear nothing except Siko complaining to the cook about the prospect of a journey and the chattering of a flock of glossy starlings, gathering on the rooftop, their deep blue feathers iridescent in the morning sun.

  He shrugged. No ship could endanger him; his journey lay northward, inland. To the north were the long, rolling plains of savannah country, an inland river or two, easily forded or crossed by boat, and then, even farther north—at the limits of the mighty Yoruba kingdom—the great desert of the Sahel. No ship could be a threat to him; he was far from the coast. Perhaps he should see the ship as a good omen; perhaps it was a vision of a slaving ship that would no longer be able to cruise casually off the coast of his country and gather in his country’s children as greedily as a marauding hyena.

  Mehuru picked up his satchel of goods and slung it over his shoulder. Whatever the meaning of the vision, he had a job to do, and nothing would prevent him. He bundled his traveling cape into a neat roll and went out into the brilliant midday sunshine