by Vic Connor
Abe grumbles, seemingly unconvinced. “Why in hell would he allows any of us’n—”
“For this here map, me mate,” I interrupt. “He wants to buy it; he’ll want us to deliver it to his doorstep.” I look at the mapmaker. “And Madame Van der Kaart is offering us to broker this deal. Right?”
“Would it be a fair deal, Mister Russel?”
“It would,” I reply. “As long as it comes with no other strings attached.”
“None on our end, Mister Russel, I assure you,” she says. “Then again, if I were you, I’d perhaps be concerned about his right-hand man showing up during the exchange.” Her cold blue eyes stare at my bound, broken legs. “Whom I believe you’ve already met.”
We haggle back and forth. The mapmaker is willing to send word to Barboza that she may have the map and arrange its delivery, but she wants more information from me than merely pointing to a place in the map.
“I’m interested in the ‘where’ part, Mister Russel,” she says, “but we’d be truly motivated to help you if we knew ‘what.’ What’s in that place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t remember?”
I look to Juanita for help.
“I believe you never knew, young Jake,” the witch says. “You mentioned that your father indicated a specific place on this map when you were a child.” She frowns, staring at Inktmeester first, then at Van der Kaart. “You also told me your father said not to tell anybody about it.”
“Father also told me he’d be back from London soon,” I remind her. “So I guess not everything will happen as he wished it to.”
Juanita nods, still fixed on Van der Kaart.
“Are you not curious yourself, Mister Russel?” the mapmaker asks. “Let us be plain here: our objectives align. I am curious about what this map hides, and so are you. What kind of battle-hardened traveler would you be if you were not itching to find out?” For once, her blue eyes lose their mocking spark and show excitement and curiosity, instead. “What kind of son would avoid seeking what his father died to discover? All I ask is that you find out, come back, and share your findings with us. And in return—” her finger moves to Barboza’s villa “—we help you with your quest for vengeance.”
Heh.
Quest indeed…
Very well: We’ll come back with our findings, and you’ll help us with Barboza.
I’m sorry: My father told me not to share this information with anybody.
Easy.
“Very well,” I agree. “We have a deal: we’ll find out what the map points to, and come back to tell you what and where.”
She nods. “We have a deal.”
“All right, crew—”
New Quest!
Explore Sawed-Off Peak
“—looks like there is an exploration party in our very near future.”
I turn right as soon as we leave Van der Kaart’s shop, swinging on my crutches as I lead the way to Duurstad’s main street. Abe, Uitzli, and Juanita follow right behind me, but Miyu stops as she passes through the door.
“Matte,” she says.
I halt, unsure if that was a warning. Scanning the street and the rooftops of the houses around us, I see Lopez standing near the two bored soldiers guarding the entrance to the Opzichter’s tower.
“He ain’t be lookin’ for no trouble, that one,” Abe observes, even though his own hand has crept near his cutlass’ hilt.
“He seems in trouble himself,” Juanita adds, “by the scared look in his eyes, and how he hunches his shoulders like under a great weight.”
“Or it may be just an act,” I say, “and he is spying on us.”
“It would be rather dumb of him to do so in plain sight, my child.”
“Perhaps that’s what he wants you to think. Have you thought of that?”
Abe, not in the mood for thinking, crosses the street in a few big strides. One of the two guards gives him the briefest of glances, as if confirming we pose no threat to them; Lopez shrinks in his place as the pirate approaches but doesn’t move away.
“What ya be lookin’ at, Spaniard?” barks Abe as he nears.
“I have come to give warns to Señor Russel,” Lopez answers, loud enough for me to hear him.
I scan the street and rooftops again, left and right, to make sure this isn’t some trap, but there’s nobody else in sight and I’m sure the two soldiers will not tolerate any trouble right outside the Opzichter’s tower. I beckon Lopez to come closer; he does, staring at the ground, with Abe two steps behind him.
“We meet again, my friend,” I say. “Yesterday afternoon, at the Lachende Dame … that may have been a chance encounter. But not now. Why?”
“Not follow, Señor Russel, no,” he replies. “I knew you want to come here—” he jabs a finger at Van der Kaart’s shop “—so I come here to wait for you.”
“Lucky for you it wasn’t a long wait, then…”
He smiles shyly. “Good luck, sí.”
“How did you know we wanted to come over here? Did you eavesdrop on us at the tavern?”
He looks confused.
So does Abe. “He dropped what, me lad?”
Juanita rolls her eyes. “He means the Spaniard was listening to our conversation.”
“No, señor, no,” Lopez protests. “I—I… yo…” he stammers. “Ricardo Ibañez was my best friend, señor.”
Memory Unlocked:
Failed Ambush (2 of 2)
I raise my two dueling guns and open fire against El Morisco; my bullets ricochet against the yellowish mist enshrouding his chest. He moves toward me, raising scimitar and short axe; his pikemen walk in a line, three on each side.
“Abe!” I yell. “Take Lugo and Juarez, the two pikemen on the right! Miyu: hold the three pikemen on the left!” I pull two other pistols from their holsters and keep walking forward. “The Morisco and Ibañez, they are mine!”
I let my fingers caress the grip of the pistol on my right hip; perhaps it is now when Quick Draw will be useful?
“If you are here to avenge your friend’s death…”
“Ricardo is not dead, señor,” he clarifies. “El Señor Barboza was too angry to only kill him.”
I look at Abe and Juanita, who have as much clue as I do about what is he talking about. But there’s no threat I can sense from Lopez; my hand moves away from my weapon. “You’re not making much sense, my friend,” I say.
“Perdón, señor,” he apologizes. “You spared my life. I am in your debt, so I come to warn you: el Señor Barboza knows who you are and knows about the map.”
“Well.” I smirk. “Had you told us that yesterday, at the Lachende Dame, maybe we could have gotten a better deal out of Van der Kaart.”
He lowers his head. “Sorry, señor,” he apologizes again. “I was surprising to see you and scaring.”
“How do you know what you’ve just told me? And why are you so scared, if I may ask?”
“You killed Diego Armando, el Señor Barboza’s favoritest dog,” he whispers. “I did not dared return and tell him his dogs died and his slaves ranned away…”
I exchange glances with Abe and Juanita.
Abe grins. “Ya spineless worm, ya. Ya be fleein’ from Barboza and came to hide yarr worthless hide ‘ere.”
Lopez’s jaw clenches as his eyes narrow, taking the insult like a physical blow.
“Come on, Abe,” I admonish. “There’s no need to be rude.”
“Regardless of his manners,” Juanita says, “there is truth in what the pirate has said. You came here to avoid going back to Barboza’s estate, lest he punish you greatly for returning without dogs and slaves.”
Lopez’s mouth slackens as he nods. “I didn’t wanted to be lashed. Or, worse, selled, like Ricardo Ibañez.” He looks at me. “Ricardo was a pikeman. He went with el Señor Barboza and el Morisco to Villarica when you attacked them. He was…”
I finish the sentence for him. “He was one of those who kille
d me. Don’t worry. It wasn’t personal; he was following orders. And, as you can see,” I add, tapping my index finger to my chest, “he didn’t kill me too much.”
“But it was Ibañez who taked the valuables from your dead body, Señor Russel,” he says. “While El Morisco and the others chase your friends when they retreat. Ricardo told me when he returned to Barboza’s villa: He gives your guns to El Morisco, but he keeps your map for himself and he sells it in Villarica in secret. ‘For payment for all the silver that Barboza owes us,’ he told me when they returned from Villarica.
“But Ricardo spended too much of that silver on good wine, and when drunk he telled what he did to too many people. Somebody told el Señor Barboza about the map and he was furious.” He pauses, as if afraid to put into words what happened next. “El Señor Barboza telled El Morisco to lash Ricardo a hundred times,” he finally confides. “Then he cures Ricardo, and he sells him as a slave to the Aztecs to go work on their silver mines in Zacatecas.”
Abe spits on the ground. “That bein’ one God-awful fate…”
Juanita nods grimly. “Worse than death,” she agrees. “One cannot fault you for not returning to Barboza after we slew his dogs.”
Lopez nods, eyes full of sorrow. “That is all I want to say, Señor Russel. I don’t know what is in your map, but I can tell you el Señor Barboza was furious to know Ricardo hided it from him and selled it. The same day I was leading the dogs to chase the slaves, others were going to Villarica to chase the map. El Señor Barboza thinked it was very important. That’s all I know, Señor Russel, I swear.”
“Wait,” I say. “How did Barboza know my name?”
“Your father’s dueling pistols, young Jake,” Juanita explains. “El Morisco took them from your dead body. They have your father’s name engraved on the grip.”
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
Lopez raises his palms. “I don’t know nothing about pistols, Mister Russel. I taked care of the dogs; I never see’d the guns.”
I nod. “Thanks for the warning. What will you do now?”
He lowers his head. “I am not sure, señor.”
Abe chuckles. “Ya better never be settin’ foot outside dis Dutch ditch again,” he says. “Unless it be a ship headin’ far, far away from Barboza.”
“They say the Supervisor here is fond of Alanos,” says Lopez, nodding toward the Opzichter’s tower. “As pets, not for chasing slaves. Maybe he has a job for me.”
“Anything else you’d like to talk about with us, my friend?”
“No, Señor Russel.” A shadow of a sad smile appears on Lopez’s lips. “Thank you for sparing my life.”
“A pity some dogs had to die,” I reply honestly. “But you’re welcome.”
He nods, then walks away.
When he’s out of earshot, I turn to Juanita. “The map is key in connection to whatever is in the book that Barboza stole from Father. No doubt about that.”
“As I said in front of Van der Kaart,” the witch adds, “I am certain you never knew what it was. It is not something you forgot.”
“Well,” I say, “It’s good to at least be on the same page with everybody else.”
I raise my eyes to look at the Western hills over the roofs: the early morning sun shines on their peaks. “Let’s find out.”
30
London Fog
Van Dyk, Brouweer, and our good friend Hendricks stand on guard duty at Duurstad’s exit this beautiful morning. Our favorite Dutch gunslinger looks sharp and cleanly shaved as if he’d spent all night sleeping tight and all dawn preening and brushing and grooming himself and his clothes, rather than engaging with Abe and the rest of the Lachende Dame patrons in a beer-drinking and belching chorus. He even seems to have taken the time and trouble to polish his pistols: Their grips and muzzles shine under the early sun.
In contrast, we look like a road-weary pack of vagabonds with a knack for collecting every last speck of dust and mud on our ragged garments.
Hendricks won’t be joining our party this time around: Van der Kaart’s previous boodschap to Tepetlacotli was a side job for him, and now, he has returned to his duties as one of Duurstad’s slightly bored defenders.
“Goed success, vrienden,” he says, tipping his hat to us.
“Thanks,” I reply. “Good luck to you—” I make an exaggerated gesture of scanning the jungle and the dunes surrounding the city “—and may you prevail against the barbaric hordes about to ransack this fine town of yours.”
Hendricks laughs; Van Dyk whispers a translation to Brouweer before they, too, join the laughter.
“Monotoon,” says Van Dyk.
“Real boring,” says Hendricks. “Maar dat is de werk.” He shrugs.
“On a serious note,” I add, “thanks for your help. We’ll sorely miss your firepower.”
He tips his hat again, looks at me for a few seconds, then draws one of his well-polished flintlock pistols. Holding the gun by the barrel, Hendricks offers it to me.
“Miss me niet,” he says.
Balancing clumsily on my crutches, I examine the gun, holding it in both hands. The muzzle is shorter than that of my common pistols, and the weapon feels lighter overall—surely features a shooter relying on Quick Drawing guns non-stop would appreciate.
“Thanks,” I reply. “This is a most welcome gift.”
He smiles and raises a finger. “No gift, no. Loaning. Bring back.”
“Done deal. I’ll bring it back to you in one piece.” I rearrange my three other pistols so Hendricks’ gun—the easiest to Quick Draw—is on my right hip and the Spanish Pistolón, my brutal last recourse, is still at my back. “It’s also good no longer having four guns,” I add. “Our polearm-wielding lady doesn’t like that.”
A hiss from behind the Noh mask agrees. “Shi,” she says. “Bad luck.”
Hendricks and the others are tactful enough not to inquire us about where we’re going. They tip their hats as we head for the dune overlooking Duurstad.
Her energies recharged, Juanita leads the way, the zig-zag coral snake patterns wiggling on her poncho. I follow closely behind, my crutches now second nature, wooden limbs that feel oddly natural. Abe and Uitzli walk together: The giant pirate makes sure that our little sister—her head and shoulders shrouded in cloths—finds her steps as her sight worsens the higher the sun climbs in the sky. Miyu guards our group’s rear, the Noh mask swaying left and right as the black onyxes inspect the tropical forest.
We cross the bridges heading north toward Villarica. The clump of hills and knolls that form the middle of the island, the final destination of this journey, lie westward on our left, while the sound and the breeze from the sea comes from our right.
Abe’s nose and Juanita’s bees sniff and scout ahead to warn us of trouble and danger, but for once, things go according to plan: No random encounters, no perils or foe waiting to meet us along the way.
When we reach the crossroads where the paths to Villarica, Duurstad, and Tepetlacotli meet—the same crossroads near which Abe, Miyu, and I spent the night while Juanita sneaked into the Spanish town for clues about Uitzli’s whereabouts—we turn west, following the Northern Road.
“Where did we ambush Barboza, by the way?” I ask.
Juanita answers without looking back. “Do you mean where did we try to, my child?”
“I was wondering, yeah. Another memory that keeps eluding me.”
“’Bout half a mile after the crossroad, me lad,” Abe grunts behind me.
“Why there?”
“Because you insisted it was a good spot, young Jake.”
“There be nothin’ wrong with t’ spot, lad. Problem be their numbers: thems be too many o’ thems.”
“Why didn’t we avoid engaging them?”
“Ol’ Abe be no captain, lad,” he admits. “When ya says ‘Charge,’ Ol’ Abe charges.”
“We may have prevailed,” adds Juanita, “if not for Barboza’s Moorish lieutenant, and above all his
dark priests. We surprised them, and you were…”
“Quicker on my feet, I’d imagine.”
She nods.
“All right,” I say, “in case this memory keeps evading me, remind me not to charge head-on next time we meet Barboza.”
The witch glances back, as if about to say “I told you so,” but instead continues walking in silence.
We soon arrive to the portion of the path where Lieutenant Ramirez and his men tried, and failed, to stop us. I tip my hat’s wide brim as we walk through.
“At least this fight went well,” I point out. The bodies have been removed, and there are no traces left to tell the story of our struggle.
“Bein’ honest with ya, lad,” says the pirate, “thems fights been goin’ much better than Ol’ Abe thought, ya bein’ a cripple an’ all.” He chuckles softly, as if enjoying a private joke, then shares it. “Usin’ yarr legs less, but usin’ yarr brain more, aye?”
“My crutches help me avoid foolishly charging forward, that much I have to thank them for.”
“In your defense, my child, you used to prefer blades to bullets, and would switch to swords as soon as you closed the distance with your foes,” notes Juanita. “But you liked to close the distance too recklessly, perhaps.”
“Aye,” Abe agrees, and there is a strange heaviness in his voice. “Yarr ol’ self sure liked to be chargin’ head-on, me lad…”
Memory Unlocked:
The Old Sea Dog (2 of 3)
The first sailor lies dead with two of my bullets in his heart.
The other will soon die: A blizzard of furious bees engulfs him, their buzzing so loud that the sailor’s screams sound muffled inside the swarm.
I toss my smoking dueling guns to the ground and draw my rapier.
“Don’t be foolish, lad,” warns the third sailor. Huge as a mountain, a bushy beard covering most of his face, a filthy yellowish-orange bandana tied around his neck. “Thems guns, ‘em may gives ya a chance.” He draws a cutlass so large that a strong man would need two hands to wield it, and sneers at my thin blade. “To hunts dis ‘ere whale, ya’ll need somethin’ bigger than the darn toothpick of yourn.”
