The admiral came back to where Bren was sitting, hovering over him, his walking stick resting in the crook of his arm in a gesture that was at once gentle, like holding an infant, and somehow threatening.
“I would very much appreciate that, Bren. I could tell, the moment I met you, that you were special.” He paused for a moment. “But please, do me a favor.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Be very careful. This thing Jacob Beenders stole . . . there are some very dangerous men after it.”
CHAPTER
12
PAWN’S GAMBIT
Bren began working on another letter to his father that night. It was hard. He loved his father, he just didn’t know what to say to him, and trying to think of what to say made his head hurt. He massaged his stiff neck, which reminded him he still needed to get the coin from Mr. Black. Not having it in his possession just made him more anxious.
He finished the letter, and this time stuck it under the flowerpot on the windowsill. His father would find it eventually, after he was gone. No other letters this time, though. He didn’t want to look foolish again if his plan failed.
“Time for bed, Mr. Grey,” he said, snuffing his candle and crawling under the covers, patting the top of his blanket to encourage the cat to join him. Mr. Grey studied these desperate attempts at affection for a minute or two before hopping up into the window and disappearing into the night.
“Fine,” said Bren, who closed his eyes but couldn’t fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried.
He kept thinking about the paiza, if that’s what it was. There was no doubt the admiral wanted it badly, but why? Was it truly valuable? Or did it possess some power? He thought of the warning on the front, and the attack in the alley. He didn’t believe in magic—at least, he didn’t think so. But how to explain what had happened?
He also kept picturing the hidden symbols on the back. Did the admiral know about those too? Or was that a hidden message made by Jacob Beenders, either for himself or for someone else? Had Beenders meant to give the paiza away all along, or was it simply the desperate last will and testament of a dying man to the last person he met?
At some point he fell asleep, but tossed and turned. Soft steps up and down the ladder, and later warm breath on his neck, half roused him to discover Mr. Grey crouched on his chest. The cat pawed at the open collar of his nightshirt a few times, but when Bren tried to pet him he jumped from the cot to the windowsill, meowed at Bren, and disappeared again. Bren fell back to sleep.
At dawn Bren dressed quickly and left the house while his father still slept. On his way out he stopped by his father’s drafting table, where he saw that the map of Map was almost complete. Part of Bren thought that if he didn’t escape before his father put the final strokes in place, he would never get another chance. As if every stroke of ink were sealing his fate.
From home he went to the Gooey Duck for breakfast and to see Beatrice one last time. He looked around at all the grizzled seamen. A year from now, or eighteen months, Bren would be the one recounting tales of his Far East adventures, of combing islands filled with sapphires and rubies, and sailing seas teeming with huge fish and sea serpents.
Half an hour later, he used the spare key Mr. Black had given him to enter the bookstore. Inside he lit one of the store lanterns and took it to the counter. Mr. Black had told him once about how the best hiding place was plain sight—it confounded the way men’s minds work. Bren knew Mr. Black had a strongbox in his back room; he even knew where it was. There was also the chance Mr. Black had taken the paiza home, but he doubted it.
He went behind the front counter, where The Poisoner’s Handbook had been shelved next to other ordinary-looking books. Bren pulled it down and opened it, searching its compartments until he found the paiza, still attached to his mother’s necklace. He smiled. If he was right, he really did have a piece of Fortune now. A genuine one.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from the back, and Bren dropped the book and quickly slipped the necklace over his head.
“Mr. Black?”
“What on earth are you doing here, Bren?”
“I—wait, why are you here?”
“It’s my store.”
“You know what I mean,” said Bren. “Did you sleep here or something?”
Mr. Black wearily rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Actually, I did. When I came in yesterday, it looked as if my store had been burgled.”
“Really?” said Bren. “What was stolen?”
“That’s just it, I can’t find anything missing. It was just the vague sense that things had been gone through.”
“So you decided to sleep here and stand guard?” said Bren.
“Oh that, no, I didn’t mean to stay here all night. I was trying to discover something about our mysterious object here, and before I knew it . . .”
“And did you?” said Bren, hoping to stop Mr. Black before he went looking for the now missing paiza.
Mr. Black shook his head. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Bren. “I’d better get to work. I’ll stop by later.” He felt a pang of guilt as he said this, but Mr. Black would understand, in time. But before he could leave the store, Mr. Black noticed The Poisoner’s Handbook on the floor.
“What’s this?”
He picked it up and saw what it was, and he and Bren just looked at each other.
“Bren, why were you rummaging through my things?”
“I wasn’t!”
Mr. Black opened the cover and probed one of the drawers. He closed the book, setting it down with a sigh.
“Bren, what are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Young man, if you weren’t up to something, you would have just asked me for the paiza. Tell me why you felt the need to steal it back.”
“It’s not stealing,” said Bren. “Jacob Beenders gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“The dead sailor,” said Bren. “The admiral knew him. And Beenders stole it from the Order of the Black Tulip. . . . it’s a long story.”
“And so you told the admiral you have it?” said Mr. Black. “To impress him? Hoping he might reward you by taking you aboard the Albatross?”
Bren wanted to deny this, to prove he wasn’t so childish as all that, but the prickly mask of embarrassment on his face gave him away. “For your information, I admitted that I had seen Beenders, but not that I had the paiza.”
“Why not?” said Mr. Black, and Bren could feel himself being cornered. “If you consider this man, this stranger, so trustworthy, why did you hold back?”
“I—I’m not sure,” said Bren. “But I do trust him. He was born a commoner and stowed away on his first ship. He’s made something of himself.”
“So has your father.”
“You don’t trust anyone,” said Bren. “Tell me when I’ll ever get another chance to board a Far Easter. How many people have you met who have ever done that?”
“Bren—”
“You’re the one always telling me that life offers more education than what passes for schools around here.”
“And you pick the most inconvenient times to actually listen to what I say,” said Mr. Black. He looked squarely at Bren. “I simply cannot allow you to do something I feel is not in your best interest. And quite possibly dangerous.”
Bren looked at him. He knew how much Mr. Black had cared about his mother, and how much he cared about Bren. But Bren was convinced he finally had a way to leave Map, to change his life, and he wasn’t about to pass that up. He pulled the necklace from inside his tunic and showed Mr. Black the paiza.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Black, really. But it’s not up to you.”
Bren had gotten good at avoiding the harbormaster, and he made it to the end of the pier, where the Albatross was docked, without being arrested or shot. He didn’t have trouble getting a crew member’s attention, either—as soon as he approached the ship, an armed man near the front called out, “Who goes there?�
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“Bren Owen.”
“State your business.”
“I’m here to see Admiral Bowman. Tell him I have what he came here for.”
Bren felt exposed, standing alone at the end of the pier as the sun rose higher and the sky, which looked like a smear of jam, filled with squawking gulls scraping for a morning meal. He wondered if Mr. Black would come after him.
Before long, Admiral Bowman and Mr. Richter, along with another man, were standing at the front of the ship.
“Hello, Bren,” said the admiral. “What a pleasant surprise. You said you have something for me?”
Bren tried to swallow, but his throat was full of sand.
“The thing Beenders stole,” he managed to say. “The coin, or the paiza, whatever it is . . . that’s really what you came here for, isn’t it? Not for what’s on the front, but on the back?”
The admiral cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Richter and the other man, whose face was all rough edges and sunburn. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Bren looked around, picking up a piece of driftwood and walking to where the pier gave way to sandy ground, packed firm by the surf. He took the driftwood and carefully began drawing the hidden symbols from the back of the coin in the sand. Even as he did so, the surf began to rise higher, eroding his work. He looked up at the deck of the ship.
“You’re very clever, aren’t you?” said the admiral.
“So what do you want for it?” said Mr. Richter. “Money?”
The admiral laughed. “Heavens, no, Mr. Richter. Our clever young friend is an adventurous spirit. He wants to come with us, isn’t that right, Bren?”
“Yes, sir.”
The third man said, “We have all the crew we need. He’d just be another mouth to feed.”
The admiral glanced at this man and then said to Bren, “I’m going to lower the gangplank. Come up to the side of the ship.”
Bren had been both hoping and fearing the admiral would ask him to do this. He waited for the plank to be lowered, then slowly marched his way to the deck of the Albatross. The three Netherlanders didn’t let him any farther than the edge of the ship.
“So you have the paiza on you now?” said the admiral.
Bren shook his head. “I hid it.”
“Bah!” said the third man, and before Bren could stop him, he had reached out and pulled the necklace from inside Bren’s shirt, jerking him forward in the process. There was nothing on the lanyard but the black stone his mother had given him. The man cursed and pushed Bren backward, nearly sending him tumbling back down the gangplank.
“You don’t trust me?” said the admiral.
“I do trust you,” said Bren. “But not everyone,” he added, glancing at Mr. Richter and the other man.
“But can I trust you?” said the admiral.
Bren hadn’t expected this. He already knew he was trustworthy.
The admiral laughed. “Well, go get it then.”
“It’s already on the ship,” said Bren, at which point the other man cursed him roundly.
“Now, now, Mr. van Decken,” said the admiral. “That’s no way to talk to a young man. Please, Bren, excuse my first mate. He’s a fine seaman, but not always good company.”
“I’m not lying,” said Bren. “But you’ll never find it without me.”
Just then, there was a commotion at the other end of the pier, and the harbormaster was running toward the Albatross. Right behind him was Bren’s father. And following them like an avalanche of doom was Rand McNally.
“Ah, the obstacles to your happiness,” said the admiral. “How unfortunate.”
“Bren! Wait!” called his father.
Bren’s heart sank. Mr. Black must’ve ratted him out.
“Bren, what are you doing?” said his father, now standing at the bottom of the gangplank, his face red from running.
Bren looked at the admiral and then at his father again.
“Bren,” said the admiral. “I would never force you to leave your family, but there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Careful now!” said Mr. Richter, but the admiral shushed him.
“Now, Mr. Richter, our young friend here—he needs to know what’s at stake.”
Looking Bren square in the eye, the admiral said, “I pride myself on being true to my word. When you asked me what my business in Map was, what did I tell you?”
Bren thought back to their walk from the River Dory. Why does anyone come to Map? the admiral had said. And then Bren remembered the first words that had come out of Jacob Beenders’s mouth.
“It’s a map,” said Bren. “The hidden image—it’s a map!”
The admiral smiled.
“Not just a map, Bren. The most extraordinary treasure map you can imagine.”
Bren looked at his father again, whose mouth hung open but who seemed at a loss for words against the admiral’s temptations.
“I make you this solemn promise,” the admiral continued. “Come with us, and you shall have your just reward. I can’t promise your safe return—no captain can guarantee that; every journey is fraught with danger—but I can promise you that if we do make it, your life will never be the same.”
Bren looked at his father again. He could tell what he was thinking, that he wanted to defend the life they had now, but that it would be no use. Instead, Bren’s father turned to Rand McNally. The one man who could overrule them all. His word had been scripture in Map for years now, and whether there really was an alliance in the works or not, Bren doubted the admiral would take him away if McNally forbade it.
“You can choose to stay,” said the admiral. “But I do need that map, and I’m not leaving here without it.”
Bren was suddenly aware of the boat rocking beneath his feet, bobbing in the choppy waters of the harbor, as if to remind him that he would never be on firm footing if he chose this path. He had never expected that it would be so hard to leave with his father there pleading with him to stay. But then Rand McNally did a most unexpected thing. He stepped between David Owen and Mr. Hannity, using his massive arms like a wedge, and spoke directly to the admiral.
“I say let the boy go. He’s been nothing but trouble here, and I can’t seem to knock sense into him. Maybe you can.”
Bren’s father was dumbfounded.
Admiral Bowman smiled broadly and stepped back, extending his hand as if to invite the queen herself aboard his ship.
“Well, Bren? It’s up to you.”
PART TWO
THE LOST VOYAGE OF MARCO POLO
CHAPTER
13
A MOUSE AND A ONE-EYED MAN
Bren thought about how often he had sat on the bluff above Map’s harbor, longing to see the inside of a ship. He had pictured himself striding the decks, climbing the masts, capturing the wind with a turn of the sails, breathing the fresh sea air. He had imagined his cozy bunk and the fellowship of the men, the hot meals prepared by a real cook, and the sense of purpose that came from serving as part of a crew.
Now, finally, he was inside a ship—and not just any ship, but the flagship of the world’s greatest navy—and he couldn’t see a thing. He was in total darkness, confined by iron bars, and the only smell was the foul stench of the bilgewater sloshing just below him.
Bren was in the brig, the small prison cell in the hold of the ship. He had been there for . . . he had lost track of how long he had been there, actually. As the Albatross had pulled away from Map, Bren had watched his father fade into the background, a look on his face that filled Bren with sadness and robbed him of every ounce of joy he had expected to feel when he finally left home on a ship. He had called out, “I’ll be back! You’ll see!” at least once. Maybe more. But then the other man—the one the admiral had called Mr. van Decken—had grabbed Bren and pulled him away from the rail.
“We’ll see, indeed,” Mr. van Decken had said. “Now tell us where you hid the map.”
Swallowing a lump of fear
that threatened to choke him, Bren had refused. Not until they were out at sea. Far enough away that they couldn’t bring him back to Map.
“You may regret that when the only place to leave you is the open sea,” was Mr. van Decken’s reply. And then he had promptly rewarded Bren’s insubordination by ordering him to be held in the brig. The admiral didn’t object.
Down there, in the total darkness, the rocking of the ship, instead of thrilling Bren, made his head swim and turned his stomach sour. The smell of the bilgewater didn’t help. In all the seafaring adventures he’d read, none of the heroes had ever been seasick.
At one point Bren heard a hatch open and saw a faint light descend into the hold. He hoped it was someone coming for him, but no, it must have been the cook or the purser. He watched the light move away again, and soon the hatch slammed shut and Bren was once again in complete darkness. He lost count of how many times this happened before he began to lose hope he would ever be set free.
“What have I gotten myself into,” he said to the darkness.
The waves of nausea came and went, and in between, he slept. A day, a week, a month, he wasn’t really sure. He dreamed that a small boy kept coming to his side and giving him water and broth.
Another time, Bren woke from sleep, not knowing whether it was day or night, to find seawater sloshing along the floor and the ship rolling violently. He heard the faint sounds of yelling and running from above, and of hatches being closed. A storm. He tried to stand but hit his head on the iron ceiling. He had forgotten he was in the brig. The throbbing pain atop his head combined with the lurching ship brought his seasickness back full force, and he sat back down and closed his eyes.
This can’t be happening. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
The next time the ship pitched upward, Bren was thrown against the bars of the brig, and up came his last meal. And with it came the bronze paiza.
The round medallion hit the deck and rolled through the bars of the brig before Bren could stop it.
The Vanishing Island Page 9