by Eric Flint
Nichols nodded slowly. "Father Montoya is . . . wise. And what of you? Why do you do this—will you go home, then, to Ndongo? Settle there when you are done with the seeds?"
Mbandi looked away, to the far wall, and far past it. "I cannot go home. There has been word through the Company, from Luanda. A new king in Kabasa palace, set there by Portugal. The true king is long dead. His sister, Nzinga, fought on for years from islands in the Kalandongo River, gained allies, seized another land's throne. Now she is queen of Matamba, kingdom to the east, riding on spears back into Ndongo. There will be more kijiko. The saying is 'the victors eat the country.' No one will talk of seeds there, with killing to do and wealth that walks. I cannot go home." He shifted, looked down to Nichols. "I think it is the same with you, Herr Doctor? We have a Kimbundu word: malungu, a fellow-traveler on a ship that will never return. You and I, we are malungu. It is not the distance. Men may cross any distance. It is the changes . . . the time."
"Yes," said Nichols. He reached out and gently closed the atlas, smoothed the spine.
"I do this for Father Gustav." Mbandi blew out a hard breath. "This is his crucifix. This is his robe. You asked what I wanted. Only what Father Montoya wants—your help.
"I cannot make men grow these cinchonas. It needs years, nearly as many as a man's to grow of age. I cannot keep them growing after I move on, when another man may come and raise another crop; cannot ask a family to squat on a jungle slope and wait. People must live. . . . And it is dangerous in places. If there are Imbangala about, I must hire them as guards or face them as enemies."
"You need gold, then," said Nichols.
"Yes. Beads, if you have fine ones. Good iron nails. Horses."
"A fifteen-year supply of trade goods? That will take time," said Nichols. "Months, perhaps. Governments move slowly. No matter. There will be much to talk about while you wait."
Mbandi blinked. "But—No, Herr Doctor. There is very little time, and I have lost much of it already. Winter is colder each day. The harbors will freeze, the winter storms will close in. I must leave within ten days at most, or I will lose half a year; and I do not know how many years I have."
Nichols nodded slowly, thinking a moment of rats and fleas. "None of us do. . . . But if we cannot decide in that time?"
"Then I must leave without help, and do what I can."
"Very well. You must tell me exactly—" Nichols glanced aside at the thump of the door knocker. "Busy day. Excuse me." He rose, made his way to the front door, opened it.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Nichols."
Nichols recognized the creased face and well-pressed cassock immediately. "Hello, Father, I wasn't expecting you."
Father Kircher pursed his lips and made a whooshing sound. "No one expects the Grantish Inquisition," he cackled.
"Oh, for—" Nichols leaned against the wall for a moment to gather his strength. "Who showed you that?"
"Heinzerling, of course."
"Of course . . . Seriously, how did you know so fast?"
"Of your visitor?" Father Kircher smiled benevolently, shifted to German. "Ah, Herr Doctor, by that darling girl whom I shall one day steal away from your wearying service, and place in my own—that is, the Company's. At a higher wage, too."
"Margritte. Figures." Nichols stayed with stubborn English. "I'll double your offer, Father."
"Generous, but can you afford such?"
"Sure, I'll dock half her pay for gossiping. Come on, he's in here." Nichols gestured the Jesuit past him in the hallway, swung shut the door, and hurried after, brushing past Kircher into the study. "Mbandi! This is Father Kircher, one of our Jesuit priests. If you would . . ."
He checked words and step alike as he caught sight of Mbandi's face: startlement, even fear, and then hardening, a man locking down his emotions. Caught off guard, or just caught? he thought an instant; then—"Father Kircher, this is Matthias Mbandi. He has just arrived from South America." Nichols knew Kircher well enough to afford Mbandi the courtesy of not saying, "claims to have just arrived." The Jesuit would frame the statement as such from logic if nothing else.
Mbandi lifted his chin slightly. "Good day, Father."
Kircher inclined his head. "It's considered an honor to welcome a procurator," he replied, adding with another nod to Nichols: "Ah, a Jesuit provincial representative, sent to report and negotiate in Rome . . . It's never been my privilege before."
"I have not come to report," said Mbandi. "To protest, perhaps. Or to testify . . . There will be no more procurators from Uruguay province. Nor a father-provincial to send them. Father Montoya may perhaps already be dead."
Kircher's smile dissolved. "What has happened?"
"Father Montoya has left the Company. There was a letter I was to have—" He shook his head. "No matter. You must believe me when I say that Father Montoya will have no further dealings with those who have abandoned him and his people. I thank you for the welcome, but I cannot accept it either. I, too, have renounced the Company. I will walk the world alone."
"If what you say—" Kircher paused, visibly shifting his thoughts from Jesuitical strategy to the human scale of a weary, wary man; Nichols warmed to him for it. "Matthias, many who study to become full Jesuits never succeed in their lifetimes, and some who do, fail in a task, and are punished—but there is no casting out. There is room in God's service for all. If you have come so far, in such urgency, then do not fear anything at the end of your journey. I am offering no punishments."
"Again, I thank you. But while I may yet fail in my task, I do not leave because of failure . . . not because of my failure, or Father Montoya's. Because of our abandonment. I will serve man, and God, upon my own, with more loyalty than I have seen offered to him and me. If you had seen—"
"Matthias! This is wrongful!"
"—if you had seen, when San Ignacio fell, when, when the paulistas began herding together their cattle—"
"Mbandi," broke in Nichols. "He does not know. You may tell him what you told me."
The traveler collected himself. "I—Of course. When we received the orders to withdraw . . ." He sketched the events much more bluntly than he had when speaking to Nichols, either from urgency or from no need to convince—or to sway. He finished, leaving three men standing silent in the room for a time, while the fire chuckled to them.
Kircher broke the silence first. "Your letters and your money were stolen. What was not?"
"The burden I will carry now."
"Cinchona seeds," said Nichols. "A large quantity."
"That would require a large effort . . . Did you gather them yourself, Mbandi?"
The traveler set his face. "That was Father Gustav's work, and Father Montoya's gift. To the United States of Europe, in hope of assistance. And to Africa, merely in hope."
Father Kircher visibly weighed his next words before he spoke them. "That is the act of a generous and good man. But it is also that of a provincial of the Company, serving its authority—and subject to it. As you state you were when you took up this burden."
"Do you claim the seeds for the Jesuits, then, Father?" said Nichols, keeping his own voice calm.
"No. That is not my place—and this man is your guest, Doctor. But I must raise the subject. In fact, there is a great deal to decide here, and you will agree that is more than may be judged by a medical official. Nor, thankfully, by myself."
"You intend to refer to the superior? Isn't he attending in Rome?"
"I believe this is a matter not for God, but for Caesar," said Kircher dryly. "President Piazza, in this case . . . Matthias, know that you are welcome at the Company dwelling. Please know that, always."
The traveler bowed silently; Kircher turned away and rustled from the room.
"He will appeal to the ruler here, then?" said Mbandi after the door had closed. "To this president?" At Nichols' nod, he hunched. "We should hurry, if you know a quicker way. The first to speak in a dispute is often the victor."
"With some men, yes." Nichols sighed
. "Not this one. It will not be an . . . official meeting. And you are exhausted. You may rest here; I will summon Margritte to keep company with you."
"I should be there," said Mbandi.
"You will truly not speak with Father Kircher?"
"I have renounced the Company," repeated Mbandi, as though stating the obvious.
"Do you realize how this will appear to anyone judging a . . . dispute?"
The traveler shrugged. "Appearances are no concern to me."
"Trust me; it would be a concern to this president." Nichols deliberately sat at his desk again, and reached across it. "We have some little while. Would you like to see the atlas again?"
"Ed, it's phenomenal. There's a whole other Thirty Years' War going on in Angola!" Nichols turned in his pacing as he spoke. "1624 to 1658, civil war, raiding, treaties broken like pie crust. Nzinga becomes queen, eventually, and cuts some deals with the Portuguese. It doesn't end well. Nothing really did there . . ."
He turned again. Seated at the upstairs taproom's single table, Governor Ed Piazza watched him steadily. A mug of small beer rested beside him, untouched; the location had been chosen to make this meeting as unofficial as possible, not for the beverages. His slight slump wasn't inattention; a Croat musket-ball had smashed ribs and a shoulder blade, two years ago, as he defended the high school he'd once been principal of.
"But look what the Dutch did in Java! A pound of seeds that an English botanist got to them, and in a few years they had plantations of cinchona. Hundreds of thousands of trees. And there's places all over Africa with mountain rain forests. Zaire, Cameroon, Tanzania, Rwanda. You remember our Rwanda, Ed? Jesus, what if we could stop that four hundred years in advance? Or keep Leopold's butchers out of the Congo?"
Governor Piazza nodded. "It would be a hell of a thing to be able to do, yes." He was a small thin-faced man; smaller behind a coarse-planked table. Pain had whittled down his features during a convalescence extended by work. His lips were often pinched, as they were now—as they'd been when Nichols dug a flattened chunk of lead out of him, sharing half an ampoule of morphine with another casualty. He'd offered Piazza the bullet as a keepsake. No, Doctor. Trophies are for sports.
"And with our half, maybe we can beat the Dutch to Java. Or trade it to them for something. Who cares, as long as the stuff gets grown cheap enough? Montoya's a goddamn genius."
Piazza glanced to this right, where Father Kircher sat. "Jesuits have a reputation for being . . . thoughtful. No question there. But, James—in this time, a thoughtful man will give his courier a letter, to back him up and confirm the details. Parchment. Seals. Something official. Did this man bring a letter of some kind?"
Nichols' enthusiasm faded. "Well, no. He told me about that—Montoya wrote several letters for him to bring, but he got sick in Lisbon, and some bastard stole his purse. Money, letters, all gone, but they didn't think anything of a bag of seeds."
"I see. And, Father, you aren't yet able to confirm if he's even a Jesuit, that's correct?"
The priest quirked a smile. "You mean, a secret handshake? I'm afraid not. It will take some time to contact Rome and obtain the routine reports from that province."
"More than ten days, I'm guessing."
"Yes." Kircher turned a palm upward. "They might show his name, if nothing else. I am sure that if I spoke to him at length, it would become clear if he had been even a lay brother . . . but he declines."
Nichols shifted on his feet. "We've established why he does. I doubt he'll change his mind, either."
"Well, that's possible. I've known stubborn folk before." Perhaps it was coincidence that Piazza held Nichols' eye at that moment. "If his story is true, he'll need to be stubborn . . . But these letters bother me. He had them long enough to memorize—then at the last stop of the trip, they're gone."
"It is possible," said Kircher, "that—with no offense to you, Doctor—that this man calling himself Mbandi has intercepted a genuine courier, robbed him, and wishes to take a great gamble to gain great wealth."
Nichols frowned. If they risk much, they want much. "But then he would have the letters, the proof, anyway."
"Any such letter would describe the bearer in detail—appearance, scars, and so forth. Would this man have visible scars?"
Nichols nodded grimly. "I'd guarantee it."
"Then an imposter could not use them." Kircher sat back slightly, closing the logical loop.
"It'd be one hell of a coincidence that an imposter would be black, though. Maybe in South America it wouldn't, but to travel all the way here is a long way to go for any payoff."
"True enough . . ." Piazza tented his fingers. "Here's the thing, James. When I was in the State Department, we had one spice trader turn up who claimed he'd spotted Prester John's balloon over Ethiopia. He wanted one of our aircraft to fly there, to force it down so he could interrogate the crew and find the lost kingdom's riches. He'd split it evenly with us, of course—that was only fair, since we would provide the aircraft."
Nichols couldn't help a grin. "You sent Harry to talk to him, right?"
"Yeah. He bounced a few times on his way out."
"Not a real bright sales pitch. No balloons yet."
"Poetry travels, it seems." Piazza cracked a brief smile. "We tend to forget that while at first we only saw down-timers through our history books, now a lot of them only see us through our books, or a garbled version of them . . . James, there's a word I need to use. It's not a nice word."
Nichols tensed. "I've heard 'em all."
"Mountebank."
"Ouch." He tried to smile. "They got some nasty ones here. Yeah, I'll say it too—con man."
"A lot of people want our help, and a lot of them need it; some don't. When I was a principal, it was kids. In State they were princes; now they're traders. But some things never change, and a con man always tells you what he thinks you want to hear. James, by now half the world knows who you are, and has an idea what you want." Ed turned up one palm. "I suppose now's where you suggest that maybe I don't believe him because he's black?"
"I guess so," said Nichols dryly. "And then you say that I'm too eager to believe him because he's black." It was hard to argue with Piazza in some ways; he was too damn calm.
"Glad we got that out of the way, then. I think he's impressed the hell out of you, but not because of that."
"He said some things would have sounded better if he had lied, but with our books, we could check everything, so he didn't bother. Very, ah, Jesuitical."
"Yeah." Piazza sighed. "Were there battles at Kabasa in 1619? Yes, I think we can check that. Was a farmer named Mbandi captured by the Portuguese there? James, even history books about Europe don't name foot soldiers. We can't see that closely. Although, maybe . . ." He looked to Kircher; the priest shook his head.
"Okay, but are you suggesting he knows that? How could he know exactly what information we're missing?"
"Probably not," Piazza conceded. "But he can guess that we can't confirm the seeds either."
"Oh, shit. Why not?" Nichols blinked. "And how would he—"
"It sounds like everyone's blundering around Peru with no idea just what to look for. Therefore, we probably don't know. Because anyone who got the information about cinchona existing at all would not have stopped looking until they got everything of ours that they could."
"Ed, were you a Jesuit?"
"You'd be surprised how smart high school kids can be. Some were bigger than me, I had to outthink them . . . But, no, we can't verify these seeds. I've seen the crop species lists—even Stone's stuff. I'll check with Willie Ray at the Grange to be certain, but you said there's dozens of species even of this one kind of tree, and most are useless for quinine, right? It's just birdseed to us." Piazza added without smiling, "We could set up a greenhouse and plant samples. Might get a testable result in ten years."
"Great. I can be a gardener when I retire. Does it matter? What do we have to lose?"
"Reputation, for one. Mounteba
nks don't exactly keep low profiles. You've read Kipling? 'And Danny fell, and he fell . . .' If this country of, ah . . ."
"Ndongo."
"Right, Ndongo, if it's in a state of civil war, we could be sending a rogue into it with enough wealth to seriously affect things. He could just be a failed bark-cutter who'd like to be a king, or make one—or break one. We're not about to start busting up Africa ourselves . . . Or he could be perfectly sincere—right now—but change his mind in six months."
