by Scott Mebus
“What the—” he muttered. A big Hessian in a long blue coat was lying on the floor of the dank hallway, not moving. Rory nudged him once with his toe, ready to leap back if the guard came alive, but nothing happened. The Hessian was either unconscious or dead.
“I’ve got a friend here, I guess,” he said to himself.
“What’s going on?” Hale’s voice demanded.
“Shh!” Rory hissed through Hale’s door.
“How did you get out?” Hale’s voice asked, a little quieter.
“I don’t know, but I’m out.” Rory paused for a moment, weighing the inhumanity of letting someone rot in a prison cell with the annoyance of having this chatterbox along for the ride. It was a tough choice, but finally he sighed, unlocking Hale’s door and pushing it open. A handsome man in a black jacket and hose stood on the other side, his open, honest face smiling widely.
“Well done! Now if we meet any of Kieft’s men, I am a simple Dutch schoolteacher and you are my son Paco.”
“Paco isn’t a Dutch name.”
“They don’t know that!”
“Just keep quiet and maybe we can get out of here alive,” Rory said, turning to run down the hallway. Hale followed, spouting out more aliases to use when they encountered the enemy.
But, strangely enough, no enemy was to be found. All the hallways, with their flickering lights and damp, peeling wallpaper, were empty. Rory opened a few of the rooms, hoping to free more prisoners, but all of those rooms were empty as well.
“What is going on here?” he wondered aloud, and for once, Hale had nothing to say. Rory found a flight of stairs and carefully made his way down them, peering around a landing just in case. Hale’s wooden shoes (he seemed to think all the Dutch wore them) were making a racket, but there was little Rory could do about that. It didn’t seem to matter, as there was no one, not a soul, to be found.
“Did they leave?” he asked.
“Maybe they surrendered and we missed it,” Hale offered. Not bothering to answer, Rory warily approached a door that led to a courtyard, and looking out, he caught his first glimpse of some other living souls in this dreary place.
Two gang boys, with knives out, were slowly advancing on a poor, weak-looking man in foppish clothing. The man had his back to the far wall, and tears were rolling down his face.
“Please!” he cried. “Please, I have a wife!”
“What a baby,” Hale muttered at Rory’s side. The gang boys had almost reached the man.
“The high-and-mighty god is crying!” one gang boy said, smirking. “Not so big now that we’ve got a knife that’ll do you! Yer not long for this world, believe me!”
“I’m not sure if I want his locket,” the other boy said. “God of Ornamental Handkerchiefs seems pretty girlie to me.”
“Hey, I’ll take it,” the first one said. “A god is a god, right? And since we caught him snooping around where he shouldn’t after everyone else had gone, he’s fair game.”
“Please! No!” The god was on his knees, tears streaming down his face. Hale snorted in disgust in Rory’s ear.
“This cannot continue,” he said, grabbing hold of the door handle. Before Rory could stop him, Hale thrust open the door and strode into the courtyard. “Unhand that man! I am but a simple Dutch schoolteacher, but I cannot let you harm him!”
The two gang boys spun, brandishing their knives. Hale immediately threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. You caught me! I’m no schoolteacher. I am Nathan Hale, the famed spy, and I surrender! Do your worst!” The gang boys’ jaws dropped, completely unprepared for Hale’s unconditional surrender. What came next happened so fast Rory could barely register it. Once his tormentors were distracted, the cornered god’s face suddenly changed, the fear dropping away with cunning replacing it. Straightening up, he ran forward, punching one gang boy in the back of the head before sweeping a leg out from underneath the other. He grabbed one of their knives and swiftly stabbed, once, then twice, dispatching both gang boys as quick as a breath. And only a moment had passed.
Hale’s arms were still in the air as he stood frozen in astonishment. Looking past him toward the door Rory waited behind, the god spoke up. “You can come out. It’s safe now.” His voice was strong and steady—nothing at all like the blubbering mess he’d been a few moments before. Rory warily entered the courtyard, stopping beside Hale and nudging him gently.
“You can lower your arms now,” he said. Hale grunted, finally dropping his hands to his sides.
“You’re Rory Hennessy,” the god said, stepping over the dead bodies to walk over to them. “I had heard you’d been captured, but I hadn’t been able to locate your room. I had other business to attend to.”
“Who are you?” Rory asked.
“My name is Robert Townsend,” the god said. “I am God of Spies.”
“Impossible!” Hale shouted. “You’re the God of Ornate Handkerchiefs! I heard them!”
“That was my cover,” Robert said. “Not that it matters now. We’re the only ones left in this unholy place.”
“Did Stuyvesant send you?” Hale asked, and Robert nodded. “Why? He’d already sent me!”
“The more spies the better, I guess,” Robert said, turning away. Rory suddenly realized that Hale had never been the spy. He was the decoy. Now, that was sneaky.
“Where is everyone?” Rory asked.
“I don’t know,” Robert said. “Kieft just called them all into the courtyard and then led them away. I would have left as well, but I heard you were in the building and I wanted to find you. But before I could do that, I spied these two pieces of scum coming up from the basement, in a hurry, talking about some trap they were setting. They caught me before I could overhear any more, and then you came along.”
“What kind of trap?” Rory asked, his stomach sinking.
“I’ll find out,” Robert said. “You stay here, in case something nasty is waiting in the basement. If I don’t return in fifteen minutes, get out of here.”
“I’ll come with you!” Hale announced, but Robert’s steely look beat him back. “Protecting the boy should be our first priority anyway,” he muttered as Robert ran off toward the basement.
Ten minutes passed, each minute tenser than the last. Which was why Rory almost screamed when he heard a new voice speak up across the courtyard.
“Rory! You’re all right!” It was Fritz, riding in on Clarence. The battle roach stopped at Rory’s feet, giving Hale a quick greeting. “I thought I’d have to sneak my way to your cell, but here you are free and clear! Where is everyone?”
“They just left,” Rory said.
“Well, I’ve got a whole army right behind me, so maybe they got wind of that and ran away.”
“An army?” Rory asked.
“You bet. When the council heard you’d been kidnapped, Teddy Roosevelt took it as a sign that it was time to attack. They’re a few minutes away from storming the place. I was supposed to find your cell so Nicholas and the others could grab you in the confusion. But now it looks like we’ll just walk on in unopposed. We might as well just wait here, they’ll be showing up any second.”
“No!” Rory turned to see Robert running toward him. “It’s a trap! The basement is filled with explosives tied to hundreds of god-killing knives! The army will be sliced to pieces in the explosion. Kieft knew you were coming, that’s why they left. Come on, we’ve got no time!”
Rory, Hale, Robert, and Fritz immediately began to run, racing out of the courtyard into an old lobby, past a decomposing front desk, and through the front door into the forest outside. Trees surrounded them, and at first Rory thought they were alone, but then Robert began to scream.
“Fall back! It’s a trap! Fall back!”
The bushes rustled as someone stood up, his form barely showing up in the dim of twilight.
“Robert, is that you? What are you talking about?” Rory recognized Stuyvesant’s voice.
“The whole place is going to blow! Fall back!” Rory a
nd the others crashed into the trees, and suddenly the forest came alive as hundreds of people began to run alongside Rory. They’d gone maybe a hundred feet when the world seemed to explode, the force pushing Rory forward as if he were a kite in the wind. He hit the ground hard as debris fell around him. Something big landed right on his back and fear shot through him as he thought he was dead. Instead a voice spoke right in his ear.
“I’ve got you, Rory,” Bridget breathed as she used her body to protect him from the flying debris. “I thought you were a goner.” And then she burst into tearless sobs.
Robert Townsend made his report to the council as the smallpox hospital burned behind them. Thanks to his warning, their army had escaped serious injuries, though some soldiers had been wounded by the shrapnel. Peter Stuyvesant gave Teddy Roosevelt a dirty look, opening his mouth as if to say I told you so, but Roosevelt was not one to look back.
“So his whole army is just gone?” he asked. “By Jove, that is some feat! They could be anywhere! We should have moved quicker!”
“If we’d moved any quicker, we’d have been inside the hospital when it blew,” Stuyvesant said sourly.
“And now they could be anywhere!” Roosevelt exclaimed. A murmur ran through the council—no one liked that idea one bit.
“No matter where they may be now,” Mrs. Parker said, “they’ll be heading toward the park. That’s where this will all play out, I promise you.”
“I find it more interesting that the foot soldiers, the gang members, have been given knives,” Whitman said. “I’d assumed Kieft was only handing those out to sow confusion among our ranks, not to his own grunts. I can’t believe that Kieft doesn’t know that they don’t care who they kill so long as they get a locket.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care,” Mrs. Parker mused.
“Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants,” Whitman added.
“That’s ridiculous,” Roosevelt said. “What general wants his soldiers killing each other?”
“Someone who doesn’t care who’s left,” Whitman replied. “And those generals are the ones we should be most frightened of, because they will do anything to get what they want.”
Rory recounted his adventures in the smallpox hospital to the Rattle Watch.
“Who do you think left the door open?” Soka asked.
“I have no idea,” Rory answered. “Whoever it was saved my life. Now, if we could only find that last piece of diary . . .”
“We don’t have much time,” Nicholas said. “I think Kieft is about to make his big move. I hoped Roosevelt was going to stop him, but now . . . ” He glanced at Alexa. “I think Roosevelt just wants to fight, which played right into Kieft’s hands! I don’t know if Teddy’s the answer, anymore. Your quest might end up being the one that saves us all.”
“So now we just need to find the home of the Swindler!” Bridget exclaimed.
“Well, what have we found out?” Alexa asked. Rory summarized what they had learned from the sections of Adriaen’s journal. When he finished, a queer look came over Alexa’s face.
“My father never liked Peter Minuit, you know,” she said. “He never liked that the mortal Minuit tried to cheat the Munsees by offering them so little for Manhattan. Of course, Minuit never knew that the Munsees only believed in rent, so in their minds it was never a sale at all. Still, it was an underhanded move. My father felt bad that Minuit faded, of course. But I know he never missed him. The God of Shady Dealings. My dad used to say he was just a thief and a no-good swindler.”
Bridget gasped at the word and Rory leaned forward eagerly. “So you think Peter Minuit is the Swindler?” he asked. “But he’s dead.”
“We don’t need the guy,” Simon mused. “We just need his house. Not that he ever had one.”
“Not a house,” Fritz said excitedly. “A home. We need to visit what he left behind.”
Alexa snapped her fingers, excited.
“His room! It must be in his old room! We have to go to City Hall!”
20
THE HOME OF THE SWINDLER
It is time, Askook,” Kieft said. They were standing at the northern edge of the park, Kieft’s army fanning out under the trees. Kieft was disappointed that his little trap had failed to destroy the council’s troops (although Hearst’s flies had seen them from a distance, someone on the council had instituted a practice of killing every fly they saw, making the intelligence spottier and less frequent), but he took solace in the thought that the pest of a Light had been burned alive. He couldn’t feel the child’s dreams anymore, so he could assume that the wretched boy’s little journey had thankfully come to an end before it could harm Kieft’s plans, which he could finally set in motion. He was not ready to make his main move, though, not yet. Certain . . . groundwork had to be laid. He nodded to the snake-faced Munsee at his side, who stood at the head of a handpicked gang of murderers and thieves. “Are you ready?”
“Of course,” Askook said. He slid his thumb across the blade of his knife and smiled, knowing that tonight would be a very good night indeed. He led his men into the park, heading south toward his old home.
Bridget stared around in awe as Alexa led them down the long, dusty passageways hidden beneath City Hall. Even Nicholas seemed impressed by her confident strides through the dimly lit, old halls.
“I’ve heard of these rooms, but I’ve never been down here,” Nicholas said, giving Alexa a reproachful look. “If you’re such an expert, why didn’t you ever take me on a tour?”
“Yeah, Alexa,” Simon said, smirking. “Why didn’t you ever take us down to the eerie rooms of all the dead gods? It’s a great birthday-party spot!”
“They’re not all dead,” Alexa said, pointing at one room to their left whose door was cracked open slightly. From what Bridget could see through the crack, the room seemed clean and airy, with odd, exotic objects lining the walls. A name was painted over the door in ornate black brushstrokes—IRVING. Nicholas stopped, intrigued.
“Is that Washington Irving’s room?” he asked. Lincoln bounded by him, heading for the door.
“Let’s take a look!” he said, but he didn’t get far before Alexa collared him, pulling him back.
“Entering another god’s room without permission is forbidden, and, even worse, tacky. Come on!”
She dragged Lincoln along, and the others followed, though Bridget would have tried to sneak a better peek if Rory hadn’t been watching her. The passageways seemed endless, with countless intersections and dead ends, but Alexa had no problem steering them onward. Soka looked around with interest, speaking in a low voice to the Hennessy kids.
“We Munsees have nothing like this. It’s like a huge temple!”
“My dad wasn’t too fond of these rooms, to be honest,” Alexa said, overhearing. “He felt like they encouraged the gods to keep secrets from one another.”
“The only secret I see is that being a god is no promise of immortality,” Nicholas said drily as they walked past more dead, dark rooms. Simon didn’t look too happy to hear this, and he held a single china plate to his chest as if it were a security blanket.
“There are plenty of live rooms,” Alexa replied. “But we’re moving into a deeper part of the hall, where the rooms of the first gods are located. Many of those early gods have been forgotten, so their rooms are lifeless and dark.”
“Is my father’s room around here?” Nicholas asked, craning his neck to peer ahead.
“Probably,” Alexa guessed. “But we’re not here for him.” She stopped in front of a dark room. The door stood ajar, and by the faint light of the hallway, Bridget could see books piled up on a nice desk, gathering dust. She peered at the name—VAN DER DONCK. Alexa sighed, her eyes red.
“Though he wasn’t supposed to, my father would take me down here sometimes, to teach me about how even the gods must be responsible to those they serve. There is no power so great that it can never wane, he would tell me, pointing at all the dead rooms. At first I wondered why he didn’t j
ust make that speech in the Portrait Room upstairs, where I could see all the paintings with dead eyes.”
“Dead eyes?” Soka asked, confused.
“All the gods have their portraits in the Portrait Room,” Nicholas explained to the Munsee girl. “If the eyes of the portrait are alive, then so is the god. If the eyes are dull, lifeless paint, then the god is dead.”
“So why not just show me those, right?” Alexa asked. “I realized, eventually, that these rooms were a much stronger lesson. The portraits are just a courtesy, a calling card for the divine. These rooms, however, are a sanctuary, a place that is theirs and only theirs. Some of the gods really do up their rooms, showing them proudly to friends and lackeys. And now look. All that pride come to naught, the rooms empty, the gods forgotten. It was a powerful lesson.”
“So now what?” Bridget asked, hoping they’d enter Van der Donck’s room and take a look around. But Alexa closed the door, and led them farther down the hall.
“Minuit’s room should be around here,” she explained, reading the names above the door as she walked by. The names seemed to be all Dutch—Twiller, Van Tienhoven, Rosenvelt. With their doors shut, she couldn’t tell which belonged to live gods or dead, forgotten ones. But most of them just felt dead.
Finally, Alexa gave a shout and pointed. There it was, above a door that was almost at the end of the hallway—MINUIT.
“Ready?” Nicholas asked them as they gathered around the door. Bridget nodded excitedly.
“Open it already!”
Nicholas nodded to Alexa, who pushed the door inward. They passed into the room of Peter Minuit, to a wholly unexpected sight.
“What is going on?” Alexa asked no one in particular, gazing around in amazement.
“Um, I don’t want to ask a stupid question, but I thought this guy was dead,” Bridget said, frowning. “’Cause it’s pretty well lit in here, and clean, too.”
Indeed, Minuit’s room was immaculate, and bright from the lamps glowing in the corners. Fresh-looking maps lined the walls, displaying unfamiliar places with names like New Sweden. It sure didn’t look to Bridget like the room of a dead god.
