The Hotel Under the Sand

by Kage Baker

  “Are you all right?” she asked. He pushed up the swim goggles he was wearing and glared at her.

  “Of course I’m all right,” he said, in a very grown-up voice considering he looked as though he were a couple of years younger than Emma, who was nine. He was a head shorter than she was, too. “What are you doing in my hotel?”

  Emma scowled at him. “It’s my hotel,” she said. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Masterman Marquis de Lafayette Wenlocke,” he said. “The Eighth.”

  Winston, still standing in the doorway, gasped. “Who?” he said.

  The little boy brushed sand off his jacket. “I am the last of the Wenlockes. You may address me as Master.” He folded his arms. “All you people are trespassing on my property, so you can just leave. Except for you,” he added, looking at Winston. “You look like a servant. You can stay.”

  Mrs. Beet, who had come out on the verandah, said, “He’s a Wenlocke, sure enough. Look at him!”

  On first glance, Masterman wasn’t anything like the man in Mr. Wenlocke’s portrait. He was small and pale, with big green eyes that reminded Emma of the eyes of the mermaid. His hair was fair and curled. He had a rather pointed chin, though, and as he smiled, Emma thought he did bear a resemblance to Mr. Wenlocke. Above the left-hand buttons of his uniform tunic was a patch with the words PAVOR NOCTIS MILITARY ACADEMY.

  “Where did you come from?” Emma asked him, not very nicely, actually.

  “I escaped,” said the little boy. “I always knew I would have to, one day, because it was only a matter of time before Uncle Roderick and the lawyers had me murdered. So I built a helium-powered flying machine and flew away to the Dunes.”

  “Oh, you poor little mite!” said Mrs. Beet, though Shorty in her arms was snarling at the boy. “Are you hurt?”

  “Hurt? Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Masterman, putting his nose in the air. He stepped forward, as though he were going to stride up the steps, and promptly fainted.

  Emma knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help grinning a little as she caught him. Mrs. Beet cried out in consternation, and made Captain Doubloon come down the steps and pick him up. A bit grudgingly, Captain Doubloon tossed the boy over his shoulder like a sack of laundry and carried him into the Lobby.

  They laid him down on one of the sofas while Winston ran to fetch a glass of water for him.

  “He’s cold as ice,” said Mrs. Beet, throwing her shawl over him, “and he looks as though he hasn’t eaten in days. And what was all that about people wanting to murder him? The poor baby!”

  Emma felt a slight pang of conscience at having taken an instant dislike to him. So she brought a pillow to prop up Masterman’s head while Winston tilted the glass and got him to drink some water. Masterman coughed and sat bolt upright, staring around. Then he lay back, smiling.

  “My hotel,” he said. “It’s just as I thought it would be.”

  “It’s Emma’s hotel, you little lubber,” said Captain Doubloon. “On account of she salvaged it. How’d you even know it’d been found again, eh?”

  “I didn’t,” said Masterman. “I decided I’d come dig it out myself. I built a flying machine and I knew I could build a machine to excavate our hotel, if I could only get to the Dunes. I’m a Wenlocke! I’m a genius at inventing things. All of us Wenlockes are brilliant inventors, except—” and his lip trembled as though he were going to cry—“except that there’s only me left. I’m an orphan.”

  “Out of that whole big family?” said Mrs. Beet, horrified.

  “Things were bad for us, after the hotel sank,” said Masterman.

  “Then who’s Uncle Roderick?” said Emma.

  “He’s not really my uncle,” said Masterman with a sneer. “He’s just my guardian. He’s been plotting to do away with me ever since I was four.”

  “Is he trying to steal your fortune?” asked Winston.

  “Yes, but mostly he just hates me,” said Masterman. “So he sent me off to a horrible school, where everyone was mean to me for no reason. He was hoping I would catch my death of cold when the other boys stole my blankets, or starve when the other boys locked me out of the mess hall. And if that didn’t work, he was hoping I’d be sent off to fight in a war and get killed.”

  “A Wenlocke fighting in a war!” said Mrs. Beet. “Why, Mr. Wenlocke told me no Wenlocke was ever a soldier; they just sold guns to both sides!”

  “But I was smarter than he was,” said Masterman smugly. He lay back. “And now I’d like some hot soup and crisp toast, please.”

  “I’ve got a nice Tomato Bisque on the range, Master Masterman,” said Mrs. Beet, and she hurried down to the Kitchens.

  “Can I do anything else for you, sir?” said Winston, wringing his hands. Emma and Captain Doubloon looked at each other.

  “You can tell me what this pirate and this girl are doing in my hotel,” said Masterman.

  “Pirate! What pirate?” said Captain Doubloon. “I’ll have you know I’m an honest sailor, with a legally binding claim on the treasure what’s hid in this here hotel, as was given to my ancestor by your ancestor. And that young lady is a castaway with a legally binding salvage claim, on account of it was her got the hotel out from under the sand in the first place! We knows our rights, see?”

  Masterman listened to all this and he began to stroke his chin, just as though he were practicing stroking a beard to a point.

  “I see,” he said, when Captain Doubloon had finished. “Well! Here I am, a poor orphan, all alone in the world—and now you tell me I can’t even live in my great-grandfather’s hotel, because you got here first.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” said Winston. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant!”

  “Aw…” Captain Doubloon looked embarrassed. “No, I s’pose not.”

  “We just mean you have to share,” said Emma firmly. “Or we can walk out of here and you can try to run a hotel all by yourself. And what are you going to do when the Storm of the Equinox comes again?”

  Masterman turned pale at that, and looked so small and frightened she felt sorry for him. “But I’m not very good at sharing,” he said, and started to cry.

  “Don’t worry,” said Emma, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll teach you.”

  “Look here,” said Captain Doubloon in a whisper. “Why don’t we get on with hunting for me treasure?”

  Unfortunately, sailors don’t know how to whisper very well, so everyone heard him. “Oh, oh, you’re taking away my treasure too—” sobbed Masterman. “And me a poor little mite at the mercy of wicked uncles and lawyers!”

  “Now, Master Masterman, just you cheer up,” said Winston. “You’ll feel much better about everything once you’ve had a hot meal. Look, here’s Mrs. Beet with your soup and toast, and the toast looks ever so crispy!”

  “I’m going for a bit of a walk,” muttered Captain Doubloon, as Mrs. Beet came into the Lobby bearing a laden tray. He stumped away down the corridor, and Emma followed him.

  “Good thing the brat didn’t land in the sea, square in a school of sharks,” he said.

  “Awk! Walk the plank!” said the parrot. “Splash! Glub glub glub!”

  “He would probably talk them into biting each other,” said Emma.

  “That’s true,” said Captain Doubloon, and gave a surly laugh. “Well, maybe a smooth talker will come in handy, if we’re going to run a fine hotel. But don’t you let him talk you out of your share, dearie.”

  After Captain Doubloon had walked off his temper, they went back to the Lobby. Masterman was very meek and quiet the rest of the afternoon, and said very nice things about Mrs. Beet’s cooking when she served them all dinner.

  Then they put him to bed in the Master Suite, and though the bedroom there was just as cold and frightening-looking as the office had been, he snuggled down happily in the enormous bed. He curled up like a kitten and went to sleep at once.

  Emma went to bed in what she had now decided was definitely her room. Captain Doubloon and Mr
s. Beet stayed up very late, talking together in the Bar. And faithful Winston went marching back and forth all night between the two children’s rooms, to be certain they were safe.

  14

  THE SILVER KEY

  WHEN EMMA GOT up the next morning, she looked out all the windows in the turret room to see if there were any new pirate ships anchored offshore, or any other strange aircraft about to crash into the hotel. But she couldn’t see any, and Mifficent the doll (for Emma had given her a name) smiled but said nothing.

  Masterman came down to breakfast early and surprised everyone. He had seemed like the sort of person who would sleep late. He had not put the military academy uniform back on. Instead he had gone into Mr. Wenlocke’s wardrobe, and put on one of his black suits. He had to roll up the cuffs of the long trousers, and the sleeves of the swallowtail coat and shirt, and the scarlet silk waistcoat came down almost to his knees. He looked like a stage magician who had shrunk himself, but he was very proud.

  “I’ll never wear that uniform again,” he announced. “It may be that this is a little big for me, but I’m sure Mrs. Beet can fix it.”

  Mrs. Beet stopped in the act of serving kippers to Captain Doubloon. Her eye blinked in a nervous kind of way. “Fix your clothes? Oh, dear, Master Masterman, I’m only a Cook! I was never very good at sewing!”

  “I can’t sew either,” said Emma calmly, sprinkling sugar on her oatmeal.

  “But who’s going to tailor for me?” said Masterman, pouting.

  “I’m sorry to say I only know how to sew on buttons, Master Masterman,” said Winston. He looked hopefully at Captain Doubloon. “But I do believe all sailors know how to sew. Am I correct, Captain?”

  “Aye, matey, you are,” said Captain Doubloon, grinning in a way that was not really very nice. “And if his little lordship is a good boy, why, I’ll take a hitch in his waistcoat for certain.”

  “Awk! String him up from the yardarm!” said the parrot.

  Masterman ignored them, looking disdainfully at the breakfast table. “Hm! Kippers and oatmeal. How very nice. But I think, dear Mrs. Beet, that I need waffles with real butter, not margarine. And real maple syrup, not that maple-flavored stuff. And a tall glass of cold milk.”

  “Margarine!” said Mrs. Beet, her eye flashing in indignation. “What sort of cook do you think I am, young man?”

  “The very best cook in the whole world,” said Masterman, with a smile of sugary sweetness that made him look about four years old, and a limpid gaze. Mrs. Beet’s wrath faded. She chuckled, and tousled his hair.

  “You do know how to talk to ladies, don’t you? Little scamp. I suppose it won’t be much trouble to mix up a waffle for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Masterman smugly, as she went back to the Kitchens. Captain Doubloon glared at him.

  After breakfast they went to the Ballroom to continue the treasure hunt. Winston climbed back up into the orchestra gallery, and leaned over its edge to look at the Queen of the Moon.

  “She’s holding a little jar with a lid,” said Winston. “It looks like the lid might come off.”

  “Can you reach it?” said Captain Doubloon.

  “No. I expect I’d better go fetch a ladder,” said Winston.

  But Captain Doubloon leaned down and grabbed Masterman by the scruff of his neck. “No need!” he said. “The lad here will just go aloft.”

  He hoisted the little boy into the air, as high as his arm would reach. For a moment Masterman just hung there, too surprised to be angry. Then he made a jump and caught hold of the Queen of the Moon, clinging there with his arms around her neck. Holding tight with one hand, he reached for the silver jar with the other. His expression was grimly determined.

  As she watched, Emma thought to herself: He’s braver than he looks. She began to like him, just a little.

  Masterman lifted the lid on the jar and reached in. “There’s a key!” he exclaimed. “And a piece of paper.” He pulled them out triumphantly. “Here I come!”

  He let go of the Queen and fell. Captain Doubloon caught him and set him on the floor.

  “Bravo, sir!” said Winston, hurrying down from the gallery. “Well done!”

  “What’s the clue say?” asked Emma.

  Masterman unrolled the paper and stared at it a moment. “Oh, I can’t read this handwriting,” he said, handing the clue to Emma. “It’s too messy. You try.”

  I’ll bet he can’t read very well, thought Emma, but she took the clue and read aloud:

  “‘The Red King will tell you himself,

  But only the brave and swift

  Can get under his guard.’“

  “Red King?” said Captain Doubloon. “Sounds like a card game.”

  Masterman stuck his nose in the air. “That just shows how much you know,” he said. “The Red King is the greatest treasure anybody can have. So my great-grandpapa meant that…um… the treasure itself will tell us where it is?”

  “Actually, sir,” said Winston, trying not to hurt his feelings, “I believe there’s a figure of a red king in the Theater.”

  15

  THE RED KING

  WINSTON LED THEM from the Grand Ballroom down a flight of stairs, to a pair of doors all painted in red and gold. A smiling mask decorated the right-hand door, and a sad mask decorated the left-hand door.

  “Here we go,” said Winston, opening the doors wide. “The latest thing in theaters! Suitable for Shakespeare or vaudeville, and not only that—we have one of these newfangled cinematograph screens and projectors!”

  “What’s a cinematograph?” asked Emma and Masterman at the same time.

  “Er—you know.” Mrs. Beet gestured as though she were turning a crank. “Moving pictures?”

  “Ah! Old-time movies, to be sure,” said Captain Doubloon. “Where’s this Red King, then?”

  They looked around. There were a hundred red velvet seats, and red velvet curtains across the front of the stage, all embroidered with golden laurel leaves. The lighting came from eight carved figures, a little bigger than life-size, along the two walls. Each one held up a candelabrum with little electric bulbs in it. They wore white drapes as though they were supposed to be gods and goddesses from mythology, all except for the third figure on the left-hand side.

  “That’s the Red King,” announced Masterman, and raced down the aisle toward it. Emma followed him closely, and the two children stood staring up at the Red King.

  He was dressed in very old-fashioned robes, all in shades of bright red. One hand held up the candelabra, but the other hand held a sword. He had an emblem on his chest, showing a round sun with pointed rays.

  “Well?” said Captain Doubloon, puffing for breath as he caught up with the children. “The Red King will tell us hisself? I don’t hear him doing no talking.”

  “Maybe he’s got a speaker hidden in him,” said Emma.

  “The middle of that sun emblem looks an awful lot like a button,” observed Mrs. Beet. “What happens if you push it?”

  Captain Doubloon reached up, meaning to press the sun on the Red King’s chest, but suddenly the arm with the sword swung down. The captain staggered back, narrowly avoiding having his other eye put out by the point of the sword. “Awk! Abandon ship!” screamed the parrot, fluttering away to the safety of one of the theater seats.

  “HALT!” roared a scratchy-sounding voice that seemed to come from behind the door. “AWAY, THOU BASEBORN CHURL!”

  “Dear heaven!” said Mrs. Beet. “You don’t suppose he’s got some kind of guard walled up in there, looking after the treasure?”

  “No,” said Emma. “It sounded more like an old record to me. A recording,” she added, for Mrs. Beet looked confused.

  “Oh! Like one of Mr. Edison’s phonograph cylinders?”

  “That’s what it must be, all right,” said Winston. “Because that was Mr. Wenlocke’s voice!” He stepped forward and reached for the emblem on the Red King’s chest, but once again the arm with the sword swung out. Winston ducke
d, but his hat was knocked off. “Gee whiz!”

  “WHO DARES TRESPASS ON MY ROYAL DOMAIN?” bellowed the scratchy voice.

  “You don’t understand,” said Masterman. “Notice what he said? ‘Baseborn churl’? ‘Royal domain’? He means the treasure isn’t for just anybody. Only a special person, like one of us Wenlockes, can get to it.”

  “I’ll bet you’re wrong,” said Emma. She stepped close to the Red King, as quickly as she could, so that by the time his sword came swinging down she was behind his arm and out of danger. She pressed the sun emblem on his chest. The whole round emblem popped out at one side, like a little door opening. Behind it was a keyhole. “Haar!” cried Captain Doubloon. “Where be that key?”

  Masterman pulled it from his pocket, sighing sadly, and handed it over to Captain Doubloon. The key went into the lock and turned—and, without a sound, the wall panel beside them slid open.

  16

  COLD HARD CASH

  BEHIND THE PANEL was a room, not much bigger than a broom closet. You could never have fit a broom or a mop in there, though, or even a feather duster. Every inch of space inside was filled with neatly stacked wooden boxes, except for one small shelf containing a little cylinder gramophone.

  “That’s the source of the voice, and those are Mr. Wenlocke’s strongboxes!” said Winston. “I recognize them.”

  “HAAR!” said Captain Doubloon. “Oh, Grandad Doubloon, see what you missed by not learning how to read?”

  He grabbed the topmost box and hauled it out. Producing a crowbar from inside his coat (Emma wondered what else he had hidden in there), he wrenched the lid off the box.

  Emma was a little disappointed by what was inside. There were no jewels, no pieces of eight or golden bracelets. She saw only smooth squares of gold, lined up like so many bars of yellow soap. Each one was stamped with the letter W.