by Vic Connor
“I noticed your attempts at bargaining with her did not come to fruition.” Juanita smirks.
“Maybe you should have gotten me a Dutch Master Haggler as mentor, instead of so much weapon training? All those arduous hours learning how to wield a sword don’t seem to be paying off right now…”
“Perhaps you’ve met the clockmaker?” asks Van der Kaart suddenly, raising her gleaming blue eyes from her notes and looking at Uitzli. Our little sister seems enamored with the lantern clock and the soft whirling and ticking and tacking of its gears. “Herr Gottfryd, I mean. Perhaps you met him when you escorted Hendricks to Aztekenstad for that menial boodschap of mine?”
“If by ‘menial’ you mean ‘had to exchange blows and bullets with Barboza’s dogs and minions to get there,’” I say, “then yes, I think we met him. An old white-haired Austrian wearing inch-thick glasses, right?”
“I wouldn’t call him old, by any means,” she says, “but his hair is white, and his eyepieces are thick, ja. And that clock is his craftsmanship.”
“May I ask in exchange for what did you receive it?”
“You may, and I may consider you rude for doing so,” she says, “were I not aware of your extenuating journey, as we’ve already discussed. But if you must know, in exchange for a map.”
She grins, daring me to question her further, so I bite. “A map of what, pray tell?”
“A very detailed map of Wieden and, particularly, its Freihaus.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that city.”
“A small neighborhood outside Vienna’s city walls,” she explains. “Where Herr Gottfryd was born and raised, and learned his clocksmith craft.”
“Really? One would think he’d need no map to navigate that city, then…”
“But,” she says, “as time passes and memories grow dim, one may need such a map to remember the streets where one has spent his childhood and youth.” The glint in her eyes becomes hard and sharp. “Not all of us are on this side of the Atlantic on our own free will, Mister Russel, nor could we return to our homelands if we wanted to.”
Whoa. I hadn’t considered this. “You mean like outca—”
Uitzli laughs and claps with delight as the clock strikes two and a tiny monkey-like creature performs a minuscule somersault, making bells jingle. Miyu’s eerie giggle soon follows, dripping from behind the Noh mask. Even Abe’s low, raspy chuckles join the mirth.
“Three minutes now,” Van der Kaart declares. She returns to her notes and jots something down furiously, as if worried a sudden idea may slip her mind should she not write it on paper. “Just three minutes.”
Two and a half minutes later, Inktmeester strolls back across the street, like a child leading the two grown-ups that follow just behind him.
“Well, well, lookie ‘ere,” says Abe, as a hostile hiss snakes from behind the Noh mask.
One of Inktmeester’s followers is a Viking-looking bureaucrat: tall as Abe, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, long blond hair and eyes so blue they’d make most male models cry with envy. Instead of carrying a chest plate and wielding a broad-axe, though, he wears a silk shirt, matching tie, and thick glasses, and carries a few folders tucked under his arm.
The other, also dressed and combed in European fashion, is Axolotl.
Van der Kaart introduces the Viking bureaucrat as Jan Bakker. “Our Opzichter’s right-hand man.”
“The Opzichter has many hands,” the man replies.
“Oh, I’m well aware, my dear Jan,” she says. “But none stronger nor swifter than you.”
His face is unreadable; if he is flattered or bothered by her remark, he doesn’t show it.
“As for our other guest,” Van der Kaart says, “I believe you’ve already met?”
“We have,” Axolotl confirms.
“Ya thinks?” growls Abe. “First time, ya be a slave. Next time, ya be some pagan first mate. Now ya be … what, mate?”
“I’ll side with our pirate friend this time,” I say. “I won’t claim to have met, let alone know, somebody who seems a different person each time our paths cross.”
“And somebody whose truth is veiled by subtle yet strong powers,” Juanita adds. “Although I shall admit, your gift saved our lives last time we faced Barboza’s henchmen.”
Van der Kaart rubs her hands as if predicting she’ll enjoy this conversation immensely. “Well, well, well,” she says, “this meeting is already far more interesting than I had expected, and I’d expected a lot.”
The Viking bureaucrat raises a hand in a gesture that indicates he is accustomed to being obeyed. The Commanding Aura that radiates from him floods the room: we all shut up.
“I shall be brief,” he says. His English is excellent; I think his modulation is better than mine. He turns to Van der Kaart and me. “You two have a private deal, the ins and outs of which are none of my concern, except in that you—” he jabs a thumb at me “—seek to retrieve a book belonging to Barboza.”
“That he stole from my father, killing him during the theft,” I say. “And for this, Barboza will pay. Dearly.”
“This would be your version of the story,” he says.
“It be mine too,” adds Abe. “Book got stolen, sure as hell awaits me on my death.”
Jan sizes Abe as if considering what would happen if they came to blows, the pirate armed with his cutlass and the bureaucrat wielding a folder and rolled paper. I have to say, I’m not sure where my money would be. After a moment, he says, “This is a matter between Barboza and you.” Jan turns to Van der Kaart. “While you seek to trade a map for one of Barboza’s codices.”
“Legally and rightfully obtained,” Van der Kart agrees. She walks over to the table and neatly folds my map lying there.
Jan addresses again the mapmaker and me. “And you two plan to use your trading of the map and codex as a ruse to also acquire, by underhanded means, the first book that you—” he looks at me “—claim was stolen from you. Is this correct?”
I bob my head left and right in noncommittal agreement.
For the first time, the Viking bureaucrat’s expression becomes readable: a subtle, sly grin. “I believe,” he says, “I have an offer to make.”
Can this wait until later in the evening? We’ve just returned from a tiring journey…
Is it the kind of offer we won’t be able to refuse?
By all means; we’re all ears.
[Nod and say nothing.
Yeah, right. I’d love to roleplay hard-to-get, or maybe smartass, but let’s be polite while cutting to the chase. “By all means, Mister Bakker,” I reply, and assure him we are all ears.
“I know you’re already aware there’s no love lost between the High Priest of Tlaloc and Señor Barboza,” Jan begins. “The High Priest is certain Señor Barboza is in league with those among the Aztec wishing him ill and who have attempted a most nefarious poisoning against the High Priest’s beloved daughter.”
“They did not just attempt, sunrise man,” Juanita corrects, “but succeeded. Were it not for the combined efforts of She of the Jade Skirt and Lord of Here and Now, the poor child would have suffered a horrendous death.”
The Viking nods. “I’m well aware of your involvement in this matter. I didn’t mean to diminish your participation.”
“And High Priest Tlaloc hasn’t forgotten it, either,” adds Axolotl.
“We’re all on the same page, then,” I say, placing a placating hand on Juanita’s shoulder. “Carry on, please.”
“As you can imagine,” Jan continues, “High Priest Tlaloc would like nothing more than to get irrefutable proof of who among the Aztecs is Señor Barboza scheming with. Proof that, it is safe to assume, Señor Barboza will not willingly disclose anytime soon.”
“Which is, my friends,” Axolotl says, “what I was attempting to find, myself, infiltrating as a slave. The ruse took months of work, as I was apprehended, publicly convicted and shunned, marked as a slave—” he massages his left shoulder �
�—and sold in Villarica to one of our agents, who then resold me to work in Señor Barboza’s estate.”
Abe spits. “Ya looks like ya be survivin’ less than a day out there in t’ fields, mate.”
Axolotl takes the jab well. “I’d like to believe I’d last at least a week, but your point stands: they sold me not for my aptitude for sugar-harvesting, but rather for my reading skills.” He nods to Juanita. “I can read not just a handful of sunrise languages, but I’m fluent in other ancient writings, like the vanished Maya. Few outside Tenochtitlán’s walls can do so, and my skills were of great value to Señor Barboza.
“He can read the Aztec language quite well himself, I’ll admit, and many ancient European languages too. He also understands one old language which, like ours, is written in glyphs rather than letters…”
“Egyptian?” I say. “Chinese?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replies. “He mentioned a great desert, and the statue of a great lion with the face of a man, and pyramids taller than those of Tenochtitlán, although this last detail is surely an exaggeration.”
“Egyptian,” I say again, “and he didn’t exaggerate. What’s more, Kokumo, back in Tepetlacotli, will confirm those pyramids are huge. But never mind. You said you translated Maya writings?”
“I did. Mostly records of whatever geographical knowledge the Maya had.”
“Why would Barboza be interested in that?”
“Again, I wouldn’t know,” he says. “But what matters to you and I, my friend, is that whenever I had the chance, I sneaked around Barboza’s offices. I found many letters from those in Tepetlacotli with whom Barboza is in league. It would be more than enough proof of their scheming.”
“I’m glad you did,” I tell him, “but why would it matter to us?”
“Because this proof is locked in one of the safest rooms in Señor Barboza’s villa—his private study, where he keeps his most valued possessions. Your father’s book, for example. Which I know is there, because a few of its pages contained transcriptions of Maya records that Barboza wanted me to translate.”
“How can you possibly know it was my father’s book?”
“Because I remember your name, Russel, ingrained on the cover.”
A-ha. “Let me guess,” I say, “you’ll help us sneak into the study so we can get Father’s book back, but in return, you want us to steal the condemning letters, too.”
He nods meekly. “I’d have stolen the letters myself, had things not gone horribly wrong and had I not had to flee where you found me.”
I study his face for a few moments, trying to collect my thoughts. I don’t see any reason to mistrust his words. Van der Kaart and Jan Bakker are polite enough to let me ponder things in peace.
I glance at Father’s map on the table. “Imagine we somehow get into Barboza’s villa under the excuse of being Madame Van der Kaart’s agents, there to exchange the map for the codex she wants. Imagine, also, we manage to sneak into Barboza’s study and liberate the evidence you want, along with Father’s book.
“Leaving aside how the heck we could possibly pull that off, and assuming we succeed, Van der Kaart gets her codex, I get Father’s book, and Axolotl gets his proof…” I turn to Jan. “So, of the two questions I have, the first would be—what do you get out of this?”
He smiles widely. “Can a man not freely offer his help when a good cause calls for it?”
I burst out laughing. Abe follows half a moment later.
Juanita smirks. “I believe my companions suspect your motivations may not entirely be based on generosity.”
After Abe and I quiet down, Jan says, “Some people are fond of collecting books.” He gestures around the workshop. “Some collect maps. Our Opzichter collects favors.”
I realize what’s going on as I see Axolotl nodding in agreement. “I see,” I say. “You couldn’t care less about her codex, my book, or the letters our Aztec friend wants. But the High Priest of Tlaloc will owe the Opzichter a solid if you help us this time.”
“One can’t have too many gods on their side, our Opzichter thinks,” Jan states plainly.
Abe curses under his breath. “Bah. Pagan idols.”
“Besides,” Jan continues, unfazed, “you’d be wrong to believe we couldn’t care less. The High Priest of Tlaloc isn’t the only one on Isla Hermosa harboring no good feelings toward Señor Barboza.”
Alright. So other schemes are going on, but I have to keep my eyes on the prize. “That would be the ‘why’ of your help,” I say. “But you haven’t given us ‘what’ or ‘how.’”
“Your plan to get into Señor Barboza’s villa is simple and solid,” he responds. “He has agreed to Madame Van der Kaart’s trade, so likely he won’t suspect the person delivering him the map he seeks. There remains the problem of the locked doors and drawers, though.” He looks at Abe, then at Juanita, then at me; he doesn’t bother with Miyu or Uitzli. “Which one of you is the expert thief?”
I glance at Juanita.
She raises a hand in protest. “My bees could get into that room, if it has a window—”
“It doesn’t,” Axolotl tells her.
“—but even if it had,” she continues, “they could carry nothing away from there as they leave.”
“I don’t suppose,” I offer, “that lock-picking is a skill I used to have?”
“I am afraid not, my child.”
“In this case,” I say to Jan, “I’d bet all of our silver that, before we leave, we’ll need to handle the lowly task of finding a good enough thief.”
Jan smiles. “I’d gladly take that bet, were I in need of silver. You’re wrong, friend: Providing you with a thief is the help I’m here to offer you.”
Really? The Viking bureaucrat is also an accomplished thief?
“My apologies,” I say. “I’d never have guessed you were a Master Burglar.”
It’s Jan’s turn to laugh out loud, along with Inktmeester and Van der Kaart. “Good Heavens, no,” Jan manages, wiping tears from his eyes. “I pray I never lose the keys to my house, or I’d have to sleep in the street.”
“Or have to cross the street,” Van der Kaart suggests. Jan chuckles to what has to be another one of their private jokes.
“If you don’t mind,” I ask, “where shall we meet this thief of yours?”
The little bald gnome waves his hand.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
“Aangenaam.” He smiles.
It takes them a bit of time to convince us they are not joking: Inktmeester really is the burglar Jan was referring to.
As Jan said, their plan is simple and solid enough that it might work. Barboza expects to receive the map from a Van der Kaart’s agent; if Inktmeester himself delivers it, Barboza may even feel honored. The item Barboza has agreed to trade for the map is an old Aztec codex. Neither Van der Kaart nor Inktmeester will tell us why they want that codex in particular, but Inktmeester doesn’t read Aztec. That’s where Juanita comes in: Inktmeester will present her as his Aztec translator, and will request Barboza allow her to study the codex at length to make sure it’s the one Inktmeester wants…
…and, while Juanita does so, Inktmeester will sneak past locked doors to retrieve both the letters Axolotl needs and my father’s book.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask Juanita.
“The mapmaker’s plan looks sound,” she tells me. “And, of the five of us, I am the only one El Morisco has not seen up close. The sunset warrior, the pirate, and you have all fought him face to face—he will remember you.” She tugs on her poncho. “I will have to wear different clothes, just in case, but I doubt Barboza’s minions can tell one brown face from the other.”
“Even if we pull this off marvelously,” I say, looking at Van der Kaart, “and come back here before Barboza finds out what happened, he’ll realize soon enough that we’ve stolen from him. And he’ll know you two were involved. Are you not concerned about that?”
A grim glint settles behin
d Van der Kaart’s eyes. She glances at the lantern clock on the wall, then back at me. “As I’ve said, Mister Russel, not all of us came to this side of the Atlantic of our own free will. And, as Meneer Bakker has so aptly put, the Opzichter loves collecting favors. Collecting, and calling them in from time to time.” She softens her expression into a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about what will happen if you pull this off, Mister Russel.” Her tender hand rests on the bald gnome’s shoulder. “I’d rather worry about how you’ll accomplish this.”
Sveta was smiling brightly; I can’t fully describe how relieved I felt.
“He’s back home,” she told me. “Your dad, they discharged him from the hospital.”
Man, what I wouldn’t have given for functioning legs in that moment, to jump up and down right there in the Lobby. “So, all is well?” I asked.
“Well, you know…”
“Yeah, I know. Silly question. His clock is still ticking down fast, but I meant this episode. Did Doctor Miller say it was under control?”
She smiled. “Yes. And your dad will feel even better after you win this one, Jake. You’ll see.”
“Let’s hope so.” I raised crossed fingers.
We leave Duurstad the following day, before sunrise. Barboza’s plantation isn’t far, and we should be there by mid-morning.
Miyu, Abe, Uitzli, and I wear our usual, worn-out clothes, although three shiny, new additions have been made to the makeshift gun rack that my left crutch has turned into. As we closed our deal yesterday at Van der Kaart’s shop, the Viking bureaucrat placed three beautifully crafted, long-muzzled pistols over the mapmaker’s table.
“Hendricks has told me,” Jan Bakker had said, “that you’re more of a long-range shooter, are you not?”
The three new guns—Langesnuit, Jan Bakker called them—aren’t much heavier than my common pistols, but their lengthy barrels create a different balance.
“In the hands of an inexpert shooter,” Bakker continued, “they are worse than the usual models: too slow to draw, too cumbersome to aim. But a seasoned marksman, as Hendricks claims you are, should find faraway targets easy to strike.”