“Don’t see ’em doing much good now,” Joe said, though it was clear from his face that this was all news to him.
“What was your crime, senor?” the commander asked. He offered Joe and Evan tiny glasses of port, which he had not done before. Clearly this was one of the rights to which young Joe was now entitled—as well as the address of senor rather than nothing in particular.
“Don’t know.” Joe shrugged. “Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Came in to Santa Croce to trade for supplies, and was impressed into the work gang. Never even had a chance to see my friends, or tell them what happened. My mother probably thinks I’m dead.”
The commander frowned, and the soldiers shifted from foot to foot. What did that mean?
“A citizen, baseborn or not, may not be impressed. Why did you not tell them? You would have been returned to San Gregorio and received training in the militia, or some other employment, not condemned to brute labor in the camp.”
Joe gazed at him in the manner of one listening to the ramblings of an old man who is not quite all there. “You’ve never been impressed, senor.”
“Of course not. What a thing to say!”
“Then perhaps you do not realize that there is no asking of questions or giving of information. There is simply a cudgel, and a whip, and a cell.” His tone was flat, and the commander’s gaze settled on his face a moment, where the scar of an old knife wound formed a pale comma shape in front of his right ear.
The commander gave a single nod. “Then allow me to correct this error with what powers I possess. When we reach San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, I will have citizenship papers drawn up and filed with the monks at the mission. Once you are in possession of papers, you cannot be sent back to the work gang. Instead, you will have the choice of performing your current service for His Serene Highness, or going on to San Gregorio, which lies north, between there and the capital.”
Joe glanced at Evan. “I will do what I have said I will do.” A ghost of a smile curved his finely drawn mouth. “Can’t leave Evan on his own—he’s likely to get himself hurt.”
“I think you underestimate the man who controls el Gigante, senor.”
Perhaps—when Evan was actually controlling the mechanical behemoth. Outside of it, Evan was just as vulnerable as anyone else to sword or propelled bullet. Perhaps more so, for he was a doctor, a scientist, not a trained military man who, presumably, knew how to avoid being run through or shot.
Who was learning to operate the behemoth now? If the commander was correct, no one would be assigned to replace him, but then again, no one would have deemed it important enough to tell him if they had. Ah well, if some fool climbed into the harness and tipped the behemoth over, or sent it walking into the nearest barracks, it would serve them right. And, if the truth were told, he rather missed the beast. Missed the safety inside the pilot’s cabin, the view of the surrounding countryside, the knowledge that as a giant, he could travel great distances and no one could tell him not to.
As opposed to this present moment, when he was traveling great distances and feeling as insignificant and trapped as ever he had as a child in the small but drafty house belonging to his grandmother.
They broke their journey that night at a rancho set in the middle of acres of orange trees that stretched as far as the eye could see. What a strange time of year for trees to fruit. But there they were in March, branches heavy with orange and yellow, bristling with ladders as men harvested, the air sweet with the scent of citrus. Perhaps this was the source of the oranges each man received in the prison camp.
He and Joe were assigned a room in the mission dormitory with two comfortable cots, no window, and the obligatory soldier posted at the door. After a more substantial dinner than Evan had enjoyed in weeks, he and Joe retired.
“If a man were inclined to escape,” Evan said in a low tone once the door had been bolted behind them, “this would be the place to do it. One could make one’s way halfway back to the mountains concealed by fruit trees.”
“At harvest?” Joe cocked an eyebrow at him. “Place is crawling with workers, and the reward would likely feed a man’s family for six months.”
“They wouldn’t be picking at night.”
“You did see the lock and the guard on our door, didn’t you? I’m getting papers, remember? He ain’t there for me.”
Evan sighed. “Just thinking aloud.”
“Keep it to yourself, then, until you come up with something practical.” Joe paused. “Besides, I promised to translate for you, and it means I get a look at the Viceroy. He’s said to be the same age as me.”
“Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Thereabouts.”
“I wish I knew more about his dreams,” Evan said rather fretfully. “From what de Sola says, they are not pleasant. More like hallucinations, really, since they can occur at any time of day or night.”
“Guess we’ll find out.” And Joe rolled himself up in a blanket that smelled of clean wool and nothing else, leaving Evan alone in the dark with his thoughts.
In the morning, the train waited for them, steaming, at the village platform, and their journey continued. Evan, who had not slept well, nodded off, lulled to sleep by the endless rolling vista that parted only occasionally to show a glimpse of the sea. Thus it seemed to him that they arrived at their destination quickly, in mid-afternoon.
He climbed down to the platform, gawking from the sea on one side to the mission of San Luis Obispo de Tolosa above, commanding a majestic view from a long hill above the fishing village and train station. Its towers thrust up into the sky with authority, and even the tenants, fishermen, and visiting citizens in the square seemed to have an idea of their own importance simply from being there.
Evan and Joe were loaded into a steam conveyance of about a decade’s vintage, and carried up the hill to make their obeisances in the church, be registered, and taken to the rancho.
The rancho itself lay a quarter mile away down a broad gravel avenue that practically blinded one in the sunlight. Cypress and orange trees, fields of lavender, and knot gardens filled with roses even at this time of year lay on either side as they crunched briskly down the avenue.
“It’s like bloody Versailles in miniature,” he murmured. Perhaps the grandee was an educated man, and had made his own tour of Europe.
Joe was silent, his gaze moving from trees to buildings to beds of flowers as though cataloguing everything for future escape plans. If Evan had any sense, he would be doing the same, but he could not. It was all too much to take in—the leap from stinking prisoner to this spreading, sunlit luxury and the prospect of the inevitable fall back again.
He was still a prisoner. Still had no control over his own life. Only his surroundings had changed, and he must not forget it. Even the civility of Commander de Sola was no more than expediency, a means to getting a job done about which he too had no choice.
The conveyance puffed around a circular drive and under a graceful portico draped in a vine with such brilliant fuchsia flowers that it hurt to look at them. Double doors swung wide to admit them into a courtyard nearly as big as the parade ground back at the barracks. Fountains played at either end, flinging up cool water with a sound like music. On the far side, a doorway draped in roses opened and a family trooped down the steps.
“Welcome to the servants of His Serene Highness,” boomed the man at the head of the procession.
“Long may he reign,” responded the commander, saluting smartly while the soldiers followed his lead in perfect unison.
“Welcome to Rancho San Luis Obispo de Tolosa.” The man’s teeth flashed white under a luxurious moustache. The silver on his suit winked enough to blind a man, and his hair was pomaded and brushed back from a noble forehead above a hawklike nose. “I am Ignatio de la Carrera y Borreaga. This is my wife, Liliana, and our daughters Beatriz, Esperanza, and Isabel. Our son is away at university in the mother country.”
While Joe translated rapidly, the
women sank into graceful curtsies, their black, beribboned silk gowns spreading around them like blooming roses. The commander bowed low and expressed his gratitude for their hospitality, then introduced Evan “and his manservant, José, who acts as translator.”
The fierce gaze passed over Joe and stooped upon Evan. “So this is the interpreter of dreams. Far be it from me to deny the wishes of our prince, but I find it strange that a godless foreigner should be given this honor.”
Joe’s murmured translation hitched in the middle, and Evan realized that if he did not call upon the spirit of el Gigante at this moment, he and Joe would be relegated to the likes of the poor sods who cleaned water closets for the duration of their stay here.
He took in the grandee’s person down the length of his nose. “I am far from godless, sir, and you may address me as el Doctor or Senor Douglas. I possess a medical degree from the University of Edinburgh, which boasts the most impeccable reputation in Europe, surpassing even that of the Universidad de Sevilla.”
When Joe finished translating, the three girls gasped and watched their father, clearly expecting him to order Evan into prison, or at the very least, back into the conveyance for a fast trip down to the train station.
The grandee took a long breath that to Evan seemed to increase his size. The red sash wrapped about his waist positively creaked. Then his clean-shaven chin dipped sharply in a nod of acknowledgment. “You are welcome here, Doctor Douglas,” he said in accented English.
Joe opened his mouth to translate, and closed it again.
“Forgive me. I was not informed of your credentials in the manner that I should have been, and misspoke.”
“Of course, sir.” Evan tried to look as calm as though this was not the first time an impossibly wealthy man had apologized to him. “You speak my language very well. Were you educated abroad?”
The grandee smiled. “All the sons of our noble houses are educated in Spain, sir. But I was fortunate enough to spend some months at the very university of which you speak. I was never so cold in all my life, and hope never to enjoy such good fortune again.”
Evan could not help a smile. “There we are in perfect agreement, sir. Though I will say that the whiskey cannot be improved upon, and went some way toward mitigating the situation.”
De la Carrera laughed and clapped him on the back. “That it did, sir. Please, allow me to offer you the small comforts of my home with the assurance that, while we do not stock Scots whiskey, at least it is not cold.”
Evan could not tell who was more astonished—Joe or Commander de Sola. But he was not so foolish as to believe he had just made an ally in this peculiar country. If anything, he had just made it exponentially more difficult for he and Joe to escape.
Taking their cue from the grandee, the ladies clustered around the two of them, giggling and chattering to the point that Joe could only translate in snatches.
“Delighted and honored—so handsome—that must be you, amigo, it can’t be me—dinner at eight—oh, there’s a fiesta tomorrow night in the plaza here when the Viceroy comes—the whole countryside is invited.”
Carried away by the feminine tide, he and Joe were deposited in an airy ground-floor room overlooking the sea that boasted velvet curtains and carved black furniture that had to be two hundred years old. Then, with flirtatious glances from long-lashed dark eyes, the one called Isabel pulled the door closed and he and Joe were alone.
Joe walked over to the basin and ewer and splashed cool water on his face and the back of his neck. “Nicely done,” he said, pulling a towel from the rack and patting himself dry. “You’ll notice they haven’t posted a guard.”
“There must be one outside.”
Joe pulled open the heavy, ornately carved door and looked both ways down the colonnade. “Nope. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”
“It means nothing,” Evan said. “There are thousands of men on this land and every man Jack of them loyal to de la Carrera. They need no guards, for everyone is a guard.”
“Maybe not.”
“I grant you, perhaps there are a few who do not support this way of life, but finding one placed where he or she might assist us will be more than both of us can manage.”
“They might find us.”
“They have no motivation to do so. What are we to them?”
Joe’s gaze was half quizzical, half impatient. “Look at yourself. You took on a grandee and got us put in this room instead of the barn—or gaol. You’re about to have the ear of the monarch. I would say that if we haven’t been approached by midnight, they’ll have lost a bloody good chance.”
“And how do we know who to trust?”
“We don’t trust anyone,” Joe said flatly. “You have a job to do, and I—”
He turned away to hang up the towel and Evan felt a moment of surprise at such a tidy habit. “And you? You’re about to have your citizenship restored and be sent off to join the militia.”
With a snort, Joe shrugged out of the short black jacket and hung it on a peg, then walked to the window to gaze at the ocean lying at their feet in all its vast, unknowable beauty. “Si, that’s what I want. To fight against my own people, in a prison just as real as the one we left.”
“But you would be a free man. And aren’t these your people?”
Joe’s jaw flexed. “My mother became una bruja because they were the only ones who would take her in after he beat her and left her for dead, pregnant with me.”
“Who? Your father?”
“I don’t know who my father is.”
“But you told de Sola—”
“I did. But San Gregorio wasn’t my father. He just happened to be single and of an age to marry a woman who was already pregnant by someone else. A little gold for a wedding gift and it was done.”
“Oh.” Evan sat on the bed. “And he treated her … badly. I’m sorry.”
A quick shake of the head. “Not your fault. He was a blacksmith, so he traveled around to the ranchos. Near Las Vegas he got tired of being tied down, and in these parts, there’s only one way a woman leaves her marriage.”
Evan felt sick. “Then las brujas are not entirely evil.”
“They’re not evil at all.” His movements jerky, Joe spun to face him, and Evan realized too late he ought to have chosen his words better. “They’re clever, and generous, and there is more love in one of their stone villages than there probably is on this whole rancho.” A sweep of his skinny arm took it all in. “The moment I can, I’m going back. There’s someone—” Again, he cut himself off.
Wisely, Evan managed not to ask the obvious question. Instead, he said, “So we are still in this together, then.”
“Don’t know how we’re going to get out of it, but it’ll be together. And then we do our best to take care of business in Las Vegas.” Which was as close as one could get to the river canyons and the place—or person—Joe called home.
Joe offered his hand and Evan shook it, feeling every bit as though he were making an unbreakable vow.
Chapter 14
It could be said of Captain Stan that once he gave his word, he was good for it, which was more than Gloria could say of his men. They were good for giving the appearance of a party of gentlemen and none of the substance, which meant that the only place she could allow herself to be alone in their company was at the card table, and sometimes not even then. They could not be trusted not to hold an ace up their sleeves, protesting ever so sincerely to their captain’s wife that they were as clean as the proverbial whistle.
Fortunately, she was as good at spotting a cheat as each of the four was at being one, so on the whole she came out even. By the third evening, she was able to trounce them so soundly at Cowboy Poker that it was difficult to believe any of them would have the nerve to try cheating her again.
At first her husband had allowed her to play simply to see if the luck she’d had back at Mother Mary’s village was real or accidental. It didn’t take long b
efore he realized that luck was only part of it, and powers of observation combined with an excellent memory had far more to do with the pile of chips in front of her than anything else. The simple fact was that they needed money, and in the absence of a trust fund and dividends, gambling would have to do. Carefully, she secreted the gold and silver coins about her person, with only a few of lesser value in the shabby reticule Ella had managed to find for her in the market.
The captain escorted her from the hotel with its cheerfully raucous gambling parlors to the much more modest inn at the far end of the waterfront below the enormous and imposing mission. “I dare not let you out of my sight, with all the money you carry,” he said as she strolled along beside him, her hands clasped on his arm.
“I am happy to have your company.” She swerved a little to allow three drunken seamen to pass. The ships they had presumably come from were moored along a wooden pier farther down. “I have not forgotten what can happen to a woman alone here.”
“Never forget it for a moment. While you were making your fortune, I was gathering information. I would rather not tell you indoors—may we walk a little farther along the shore?”
“Certainly. The climate here is almost as warm as Italy, is it not?”
“I never got as far as Italy, so I will have to take your word for it.”
The moon had risen over the hills to their left, turning the heaving waves to silver. The lights of the town were reflected in the harbor, tossed in hectic motion as jolly boats came and went out to the frigates, and the air smelled of seaweed and oranges and a medicinal scent that she remembered from Italy as well. Eucalyptus, it was called.
“This should be far enough,” she prompted the captain. “Not even the starfish can hear us.” The tide was low, and creatures of that kind adhered to the rocks below them.
“I’m quite sure they’re being paid by the monks to listen,” he said solemnly, “but I will take the risk. The Viceroy is to arrive tomorrow, and there will be a fiesta.”
Fields of Iron: A steampunk adventure novel Page 14
