by Vic Connor
“Thanks,” I reply. “We have returned for…”
He smiles. “We have been over this, friend. You know the rules in our town: polite will take you far.” His hand makes a welcoming gesture, allowing us to pass. “Do not rush with such haste this time, and do visit the Lachende Dame. That’s our only advice to returning visitors.”
I tip my wide-brimmed hat to him, then grab my crutches and swing forward.
De Groot and his men give Uitzli a double-take—her silvery hair and milky skin no doubt look a little off, even in a town where many citizens are blonde—but she doesn’t seem to hold their interest for long. It’s Miyu who is once again the focus of their attention, just like the first time we entered the city.
As we pass, Van Dyk whispers to Hendricks, “Leuke reis?”
“Zeker ja,” Hendricks says.
“Zelfs met de polearm lady?”
Hendricks laughs good-heartedly. “Geen geluk,” he replies, shaking his head. Van Dyk joins his laughter.
We walk toward the Opzichter’s tower. Most inhabitants must be at their homes, for there’s hardly anybody out enjoying the warm night.
“What be so funny, me mate?” Abe asks Hendricks, once we are out of earshot of de Groot and his guards.
“Nederlands humor,” Hendricks smirk. “Not like British humor.”
Abe scowls at him, as if wondering if the Dutchman is pulling his leg.
“Long enough day, folks,” I announce. “Let’s get to Van der Kaart’s shop. The mapmaker said, ‘before sunset,’ but there’s always hope.”
We make our way through the deserted streets, the first stars twinkling above us.
The Opzichter’s tower seems busy, with candlelight shining out of every window. But the doors and wooden shutters on Van der Kaart’s shop are closed.
I lift the heavy door knocker and hit the plate once, twice, three times; the sound of metal over metal reverberates like church bells during a funeral.
My paltry optimism of getting the bonus schematics grows thinner and thinner as minutes pass without reply or even a sound from the inside.
I strike the plate twice again: the somber bells seem to mourn for our vanishing hopes.
I lift the door knocker again…
“Ze is daar niet!” shouts a soldier guarding the Opzichter’s tower, from across the street. “Je verspilt je tijd!”
“She’s niet here, the kaartenmaker,” Hendricks translates. “Waste of time.”
I sigh, my shoulders hunching in defeat. “Well,” I say, “you can’t win them all, can you?”
“You cannot, my child.”
No, I guess you can’t. “All right,” I say. “At least we got back here. We may have lost that sweet bonus, but we’ve completed the main task: We escorted our good friend Hendricks all the way to Tepetlacotli and back.”
The Dutchman nods. “Ja.” He pats the bulging pocket where he’d stashed the small box he received back at the Aztec town. “Goed werk.”
“An’ we be findin’ our lil’ angel, me lad,” Abe rumbles, a huge hand resting over Uitzli’s shoulder.
Yeah, we did. Screw lost bonuses, let’s focus on the four fifths of the glass that are full. “So, what now, crew?”
“We should try to rest and recover, young Jake, and knock on the mapmaker’s door first thing tomorrow.”
“Bier fixees alls…” advises the Dutchman.
“Hah!” Abe bellows, patting Hendricks on the back. “Dutch humor not be so different from English, aye?”
“Tlaxcalan wisdom would agree at this stage,” Juanita says.
Uitzli hugs Abe’s arm as if it were a huge tree trunk. I doubt she has an opinion on beer, but she doesn’t seem inclined to disagree, either.
Like a snake sneaking into a cave, Miyu’s right hand reaches inside her left sleeve and pulls out the tinkling pouch of silver coins that Axolotl gave us. The Noh mask tilts backward: it really seems to smile.
Crutches under my armpits, I raise my hands in mock defeat. “I surrender. Lachende Dame it is.”
By the sound of the patrons’ merry, drunken laughter, you’d say the tavern’s name—the ‘Smiling Lady,’ as Hendricks translates it—is quite apt. Judging by its owner Hillegont, it’s either wishful thinking or some form of subtle Dutch irony I don’t grasp.
Hillegont walks around with a perpetual scowl on her face, wrinkling her nose as if we all stink—which most of us do, I have to agree—and her lips seem as used to smiling as my legs are to running marathons. Glaring at her customers like a Sergeant about to bark frustrated orders at a lousy bunch of worms she’s been ordered to whip into shape, she doesn’t even bother taking orders. She offers only one thing to eat (fish stew) and only one thing to drink (beer), and serves both by plopping plates and tankards on the tables, grunting and growling as if she were feeding stray dogs for whom she holds no love.
Her stew is out of this world, though. Maneesh and his frigging crew have pulled it again. The steaming bowl comes with a layer of lard so thick you can feel your arteries clog just by looking at it, and both the bowl and the spoon are so filthy that no sane human being, no matter how starved, would eat with them.
But such criminal amounts of grease give the grim Hillegont’s broth its heavenly taste. When I manage to overcome my initial disgust and allow the rational part of my brain to remind me none of this is real, and that my real body can’t get sick or poisoned or suffer a heart attack from it, and when I blissfully dive head-on into this festival of grease…
“Damn, this is good!” I blurt while slurping and chewing and struggling not to scald my tongue from gulping down too fast. “Damn good!”
“Domkop,” Hillegont grunts, and I don’t need Hendricks’ translation to know it’s probably Dutch for “thank you, kind sir…” Or not. She pulls my empty bowl from under my nose and tosses a full one on the table, splashing grease all around it and sending searing droplets flying everywhere.
The pirate and the Dutchman are a bowl ahead of me; their munching and swallowing confirm they share my opinion of Hillegont’s soup.
A dozy, cozy warmth spreads across my chest and arms; I can almost feel it stretching down to my thighs and calfs.
Uitzli and Juanita clean their bowls at a steady pace. Our little sister keeps glancing at Abe and me from time to time, smiling as if she needs our reassurance that she’s using her spoon the proper way. Juanita seems to regain her strength with each spoonful.
Miyu, on the other hand…
“Does she ever eat?” I whisper to the witch.
“I have never seen her do so, my child. Only drinking from that beaked jar of hers, and that only on few occasions.”
The Noh mask turns slowly, and the onyx beads fix on me. The mask tilts slightly to the right.
“I can’t help wondering if you ever eat, Miyu-san,” I tell her.
Crystal-like giggles float in the air while she covers the mask’s mouth with index and middle finger, as if what I’ve just said is the funniest thing in the world…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
…or the dumbest…
“Our lance lady, she not be eatin’ nothin’ since she joineds us,” Abe confirms. “Aye, aye, Ol’ Abe knows, me lady,” the pirate says as the Noh mask swivels to face him, “ya nae be wantin’ nothin’ said ‘bout t’ past; Ol’ Abe be shuttin’ his big gob now.” He drives a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “’Cept fer eatin’.” He chases the spoonful with a long draw from his beer mug. “An’ drinkin’!” He opens his mouth wide, like a tenor singing an opera; an earthquake of a belch reverberates across the crowded room.
Miyu’s sparking giggle follows it; from nearby tables, several patrons join in raucous laughter.
“De Engelsen kunnen drinken!” shouts somebody among the laughter.
“What he be sayin’, Dutchman?”
“The Englishen can drink.” Hendricks laughs. He empties half of his own mug, beer foam dripping down his shaved chin, and does his
best to emulate Abe’s belch.
“Bah,” smirks Abe. “That be t’ best ya can do, Dutchy?” He takes a long swing from his tankard and pulls his head backward. Walls, windows, and tables rattle under the onslaught of his behemoth-sized eruct.
Hoots and cheers erupt from every table, followed by throats gulping and bellies inflating as other patrons follow Abe’s lead.
Miyu and Uitzli join the choir of laughter, the samurai covering her mouth, our little sister flashing her tiny, pearly-white teeth.
Even Juanita cannot help chuckling. She shakes her head, looking like a kindly teacher in charge of cute, unruly kids.
Hillegont the grim tavernkeeper isn’t the least amused, glowering as her low opinion for her customers appears to strike rock bottom. She refills mugs with a humongous pitcher, though, until she reaches our table and finds out I haven’t touched my beer yet.
“Domkop,” she sneers again, eyes brimming with contempt.
“Turkse granen voor hem,” Hendricks tells her.
There’s a flicker of grudging interest in the way her right eyebrow raises. She takes my mug away and moves to the next table.
Laughter and belching resonate around the room for quite some time, one feeding and encouraging the other, until bellies are full and throats are coarse.
Hillegont returns and hurls in front of me a mug as greasy as the bowls of fish soup. My nose picks up the scent immediately: coffee.
“There’s no way in hell…” I mutter to myself. Our grim host doesn’t wait to find out if I’ll drink or not, leaving me to it.
I carefully pick the filthy mug, reminding myself nothing is real and it’s safe to take a sip…
…and then, I confirm: Maneesh and his crew must be cheating, because there is no way coffee served in such a soot-coated cup should ever taste this good. Or any plausible way to explain why a downtrodden Caribbean tavern should have it, let alone brew it so perfectly.
I sigh with pleasure as I take a second sip, relishing the suspension of disbelief Istoria’s algorithms can demand from my senses.
“Con su permiso, señor…”
My cup freezes midair; Hendricks pulls out a gun before I have time to blink, and Abe drops his mug and gropes for his cutlass.
The Noh mask, though, spins left and right, as if saying, “There is no need for that.”
The man stands by our table, head bowed as if asking for permission, or perhaps forgiveness. He seems vaguely familiar. Against his chest, a little like a shield, he holds a worn-out hat—not unlike mine, but much more modest.
The slave hunter.
He’s one of Barboza’s men that we bumped into on our way to Tepetlacotli while they were tracking escaped slaves.
“You are Lopez,” I say. “The one with the whip. You were in charge of the dogs.”
“I was, señor,” he replies, eyes cast down. “You heal me after the fight, and you heal Sable, too, and let Juarez and I live.”
I look around the room: Drunken patrons, some of them still trying to emulate Abe’s belching prowess while the majority have passed out from too much beer. None of them seem threatening; Lopez is the only Spaniard I can detect.
“I am alone, señor,” he assures me. “Sable is with me into this city, but…” He casts a nervous glance toward Hillegont “…the owner no welcomes dogs in her taberna.”
[Remain silent]
Speak up. What do you want?
What can we do for you, my friend?
I remember De Groot’s advice: Polite is always a good first choice. “Please tell us, my friend,” I say, “what can we do for you?”
His eyes meet mine. “Nothing, señor, nothing. I only want to thank you for let us go alive.”
[Remain silent]
Good. Anything else?
There was no need for further bloodshed, my friend.
“The fight was over,” I say, “and there was no need for further blood to be shed, my friend.”
He seems to consider what to say next.
[Remain silent]
What?
Are you sure there is nothing else we can do for you?
Let’s play it a little tougher; I remain silent while he struggles for words. A few awkward seconds go by, then he nods and walks backward. “Gracias, señor,” he says, “muchas gracias.” He turns around and leaves the tavern.
“It appears he had something else to share with us, young Jake,” Juanita observes.
I take a sip of coffee to gather my thoughts. “Yes. It seemed like he wanted to say something else.”
“Ya wants Ol’ Abe to go drag ‘im back, lad?”
“No. He’ll find us if he needs to,” I say. “He wasn’t looking for trouble.”
The pirate takes a long, loud sniff. “Nay,” he confirms. “Night bein’ as calm ‘n’ quiet as ya can hopes it t’ be.”
Juanita cups her hands and blows into them. Half a dozen black dots come buzzing out, dart toward the door and buzz out into the street.
I nod to her. “Glad to see you can pull your tricks again.”
“I am old, my child. But I am not dead yet. And I told you: It is best to start a journey well rested. Speaking of which, this fine establishment has rooms upstairs, and we have 20 silver coins after paying for our dinner. Shall our party spend the night here, young Jake?”
(Cost: 2 silver coins) Yeah, let’s stay here tonight.
What other options do we have?
No. Let’s find a better place.
No. Let’s find a cheaper place.
I turn to Hendricks. “What other options do we have?”
“De Gouden Ganse,” he says, raising five fingers. “Or de Bierglas.” He raises one finger and arches an unconvinced eyebrow. “Prinses Amalia, too expensive.” He shakes his head. “Or, de straat.” He points at the street and wrinkles his nose.
I take another look around as I finish my coffee.
“We be walkin’ an’ fightin’ enough fer one day, lad…” Abe notes.
“Aye,” I say. “Ye be right, Abe me mate. Jus’ the bad habit of always thinkin’ too much, ye knows me. We’re here, not all of us are sober, we have the funds… Let’s stay at the Lachende Dame tonight. And first thing tomorrow, we pay a visit to our good friends, Inktmeester and Van der Kaart.”
29
X-less
“Ah, Hendricks’ battle-hardened travel partners return,” says Van der Kaart. Her tone is solemn, but in her blue eyes shines the familiar, annoying private-joke-I-am-not-sharing glint, which seems to be the mapmaker’s trademark. “Right after dawn, as industrious folks are wont to do: Early to rise and early to bed, as my dear Mother—God bless her—always used to say.” She wears the same plain white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, wool breeches, and soft leather boots she had when we met her three days ago.
Inktmeester, the stout hatless gnome with rimless round glasses and an impish smirk, sits in what seems his default spot on a stool behind the large table covered with piles and reams of papers.
We came for our map.
We have escorted Hendricks on the round trip to Tepetlacotli, as you asked us to.
About dawn, and sunset…
Do we still get that bonus? Worth a shot, surely…
“About dawn,” I say, “and sunset…”
She clasps her bony hands in front of her thin chest and turns to the lantern clock on the wall. “Oh dear, what a terrible, terrible shame,” she says, somewhat sarcastically. “It would appear it’s later than yesterday’s sunset.”
“Well,” I say, “we were still hoping, you know…”
“All I know, Mister Russel, is that one should never reward tardiness. What would the world come to if we were to encourage vices as if they were virtues?”
“A fair point, Madame Van der Kaart,” I concede. “We’re too late to deserve one of your bonus schematics…”
…but on time for our map. Hand it over, please.
…but we escorted Hendricks as you requested, and you specified
no deadline for the main quest.
“This is true,” she agrees after I point out we escorted Hendricks as requested. “Hendricks came to our shop earlier, before returning to his guard’s duties, and delivered what we needed.” She looks at the impish gnome on the stool who slowly nods. “And Hendricks mentioned your aid was invaluable in dealing with a few unexpected encounters along the road.” She raises her needle-like fingers to stop me from opening my mouth, correctly predicting that I’d gladly bring up those speed bumps to insist once more on the bonus schematics. “Therefore, while it is mildly disappointing that you didn’t make as much haste as you, perhaps a little too arrogantly, implied you would, you fulfilled our main request. Therefore—”
Quest Completed!
Van der Kaart’s Boodschap
Escort Hendricks back to Duurstad
“—it’s only fitting we also honor our commitment.”
The little bald gnome pulls out what, at a quick glance, looks like a thin notepad. It turns out to be a large map folded many times to fit in a pocket.
Quest Completed!
Find Your Father’s Map
I stare at the folded paper, disheartened. This sucks: No VPs for finishing such a big quest?
“What be wrong, me lad?” Abe whispers behind me.
Inktmeester repeats the gesture, offering me the map.
Juanita places a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, my child?”
“Yeah,” I say. I guess the reward lies in advancing the main storyline?
My crutches knock softly on the wooden floor as I propel myself forward. Abe, Juanita, and Uitzli follow behind.
“Would you lend us your table to look at our reacquired map, Madame Van der Kaart?” I ask.
She does so with a magnanimous nod. She clasps her hands behind her back and stands tall and as straight as Miyu’s spear.
My bound legs pressed against the edge of the table for support, I unfold the map. My fingers probe gently at the creases. It’s huge—like those old road maps Dad keeps in our car’s glove compartment because he doesn’t like the GPS telling him where to go—and worn out. Unfolded, it’s roughly square-shaped, each side about three feet long. The contours of Isla Hermosa are neatly drawn in black ink: rivers, forests, a lake, several hills, and mountains, all etched in great detail. On the side of an ample bay in the bottom right corner, Duurstad is marked with what I guess is the heraldic version of a tulip. Villarica, represented with a proud lion standing on its hind legs, sits on an estuary on the top right. A ziggurat denotes Tepetlacotli on the bottom left end of the island.