by Heidi Heilig
“We don’t have time for this,” I said. “Where did they go?”
“Come on,” Kashmir said, taking my hand. Then he pointed at Blake. “Not. You.”
“I might be unwilling to shoot you, Miss Song, but I have no such compunctions about your friend.”
“Blake,” I said firmly. “Your father may be heading home with the gold. You have a horse. If you want to help, you could stop him.”
“Or I could find the guards and have you all arrested.”
I met his eyes. “Do what you think is right,” I said finally.
Behind Blake’s eyes, he struggled, but after a moment, he cantered off down the street, toward Nu’uanu Avenue—and away from the garrison at Iolani Palace.
Kashmir glared after him. “I almost wish he’d gone to the barracks.”
“Why?”
“He could have spent the night trying to unchain the doors.” His head whipped around at the sound of voices from the houses down the street, and he swore. “They would still be in their beds if Hart hadn’t looted their houses.” He took my arm. “Let’s go.”
Kashmir led me one block north along the trail of destruction that ended where Beretania met the Cathedral of St. Andrew. The soldiers followed at a swift march, their torches trembling in the night air, and Kash and I listened for more shots and called out for the captain. My heart had climbed into my throat by the time we found him, crouching in the shadow of a tulip tree on the cathedral grounds, but he was unhurt, and he held his revolver cocked in his hands. He swore as we ran to the shelter of the trunk, the soldiers stopping in formation on the grass nearby. “What are you doing here, Nixie?”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to catch my breath as my heart slowed. “Nothing’s going as planned tonight, is it?”
Slate frowned, shifting his grip on the gun. “Hart has his own addictions. Go back to the ship. It’s not safe here.”
“No, Dad. I’m not leaving you.”
The captain turned his haggard face to me and smiled like a sunrise.
“So, Captain?” Kashmir scanned the street beyond the grounds and the wide lawn ahead. The shadows were sharp as knives under the spotlight of the moon. “Where did he go?”
“I lost him,” Slate said. “But he dropped the gold.” The captain jerked his chin toward the center of the lawn; there, stark in the light of the moon, perhaps two ships’ lengths away from where we stood, was the bottomless bag.
I sucked air through my teeth. Where was Mr. Hart hiding? In the shadow of the low stone wall? Under the dark crowd of hedges across the way? Or perhaps in the deep coves behind the limestone columns of the side of the cathedral? I searched, but I saw no one. “It’s a trap,” I said, my blood pounding in my ears—or was that the sound of pursuers, closing in? “He’s waiting for us to go for the bag so he can pick us off.”
“Yeah, well,” the captain said. “If we wait here, someone else will shoot us!”
“Let’s all go back to the ship, Dad.” I plucked at his sleeve. “Please.”
“And leave the map?”
Kashmir turned sharply at a sound I had not heard. “Captain—”
“Hart has the map, Dad, and I don’t think he’s bringing it back!”
“They want the gold,” he said stubbornly. “They’ll make him give up the map to get it.”
“Not if he kills you first!”
“We’ll send one of the soldiers—”
“We have to move, Captain,” Kashmir said urgently.
Slate rounded on him. “Not without the bag!”
Kashmir hesitated only a second before he sped out from the shadow of the tree.
I grabbed at his sleeve but missed; I called after him, but he paid me no mind as he ran across the moonlit grass, ducking, dodging, zigzagging back and forth. He rolled past the bag and came up with it in his hands as the report of a rifle crashed in my ear.
I screamed—something stung my cheek—and one of the clay soldiers beside me exploded into potsherds. But Kashmir was already coming back, and he threw the bag to Slate and barreled into me, pushing me to the other side of the tree and shielding my body with his, pressed close. He had run hard, but I was the one panting. He cupped my face in his hand, his thumb brushing my cheek gently. “Shh. It’s all right.”
Slate grabbed the bag and crouched beside us, his eyes darting about like fish. “Where did that come from?” He pointed his gun this way and that.
Without taking his eyes off mine, Kashmir nodded upward, toward one of the looted houses across the street—just visible through the trees that lined the grounds. “Top floor. Third window.”
The glass had been smashed, and the shutter hung at a crazy angle, wreathed in a pall of gun smoke. I pulled away from Kash and squinted, but all I could see was a deeper shadow, and the long barrel of a rifle glinting in the moonlight. “Is it Hart?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Either way . . .” The captain fired three shots off toward the house—they went wide, but the barrel withdrew behind the shutter. “Let’s go.”
He set off at a run, and Kash followed, pulling me along beside him, keeping the tree and his body between me and the shooter. The soldiers formed up behind us, offering additional protection.
We marched north then, and east, out of the city at a quick pace. The soldier’s feet, rising and falling in rhythm with the drum the general beat, and the sonorous tone of the conch shell were the only sounds in the nearby streets—although far off behind us, the night air jangled with the racket of raised voices, shouted orders, someone wailing. And ahead, the murmur of fear, the soft click of locks, the clatter of shutters closing.
Blake was well out of it, although I could only imagine the row that would ensue when Mr. Hart got home. Although perhaps neither Blake nor his father would speak a word of it. Blake had known of his father’s involvement for a while now. Perhaps they would keep pretending.
Soon we left the city behind and entered the dark roads of the valley. We passed the beautiful estates of the wealthy, which gave way, higher up, to the little grass houses, their cook fires still smoking. We only saw one rider, already facedown on the ground, his horse stamping nearby and whickering gently. The light we carried was the only light on earth, although above us, the brightness of the moon shamed the stars.
We left the road and found the winding path where Blake had shown me his idea of paradise. The smell of ancient loam rose up beneath our tramping feet. It was darker under the trees, and sinister; the path more treacherous, with fallen trees trying to trip us, vines winding around our ankles, and branches ripping at our sleeves. Once, something rustled in the undergrowth, and my heart jumped in my chest, but it was only a rat eating guavas.
As the path narrowed, the warriors began to crush the undergrowth, and I called a halt in the clearing where the village had once stood. “We should leave them here,” I said. “They’ll leave a trail a mile wide if we bring them to the cave. Put out their torches.” Kashmir sprang to, taking the torch from the general and extinguishing it. Eerily, the other warriors followed suit, all at once, and stood in silence, their red eyes glowing in the night like scattered coals from a dying fire.
Slate’s face was pale in the moonlight. “How much farther?”
“Not far, Captain,” I said. “But from now on we’re climbing.”
We pushed into the forest, taking the path hand over foot at times, it was so steep. It hadn’t rained today, at least not near the sea, but the undergrowth was wet here, and the leaves glistened where the moon shone through the trees. It was easy to lose sight of one another in the thicket, and I slowed, not wanting to get lost in the dark. We passed the waterfall, the mist writhing through the rocks like ghosts among headstones, and continued upward with muddy hands and knees.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kashmir said.
“Almost positive.”
Slate barked in laughter, violating the dark. “Confidence! Now that’s the mark of a good N
avigator!”
I paused, throwing back my hand. “Wait!”
“What?”
I listened. My breathing was even louder in my ears than the sound of the rushing water. “I thought . . .” I paused again. “I thought I heard something.”
“Oh, that.” Kashmir stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Yes, amira. Someone’s following us.”
“Probably Hart,” Slate muttered. “Just keep going. We can’t take a stand here. The money isn’t our business. We only need the map.”
“Dad. Do you honestly think he still plans to give us the map?”
Slate was quiet. “He has to answer to Mr. D,” he said, but he sounded uncertain.
“What a cock-up,” Kashmir said. “I should have gone back to his house and taken the damn thing.”
“On our way down?” Slate said.
“Perhaps,” Kash said. “If we make it down.”
We continued up—the cave would offer more cover in a fight—and mercifully soon, the path widened and leveled, leading us through the twisted trees along a windy ridge. I recognized the ledge up ahead, or at least, I thought I recognized it. Steely in the moonlight and slashed with deeper shadows, everything seen by the light of day was always slightly foreign in the dark.
As we entered the cleft in the rock, I found the torches we’d laid by the opening. I lit one gratefully, throwing light over the pit we’d dug and the shovels we’d used to dig it. I leaned out of the cave then, peering into the dark, but it was even harder to see with the light in my eyes, and the only sound was the soft question of a white owl.
I stabbed the torch into the soft sand in the back of the cave and rubbed the mud from my palms, while Slate flung the bag down by the hole. “You deal with the gold.” Then he drew and cocked his pistol, leaning against the wall at the mouth of the cave, facing the trail. “I’ll wait for Hart.”
“Let’s bury it,” Kashmir said, tossing the bag down by the trench. “Grab a shovel?”
I picked up one of the spades and hefted it. It was reassuringly solid in my hands—but no match for a gun. I peeked over my father’s shoulder and into the dark outside. It might not have been Hart in that second-floor window—it could have been one of the men whose houses he had looted. Yet it had to be him; he would not have left the gold behind unguarded. Of course he would have followed us, but here in the cave, we had the advantage. How had he gotten hold of a rifle? Unless . . .
“Stop!” I whirled around, too late. Kashmir dropped the ties; the leather flap twitched, and out of the bag climbed Mr. Hart.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Hart still wore his hat, but he’d pulled the kerchief down around his neck. He gave us a humorless smile and leveled a revolver at me. His hand was much steadier than his son’s.
Kashmir’s hand had gone to his knife, but he dropped his arm to his side. My father lowered his own gun, and when Hart gestured at me, I threw the shovel aside.
“An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hart,” Slate said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Captain. And ah, the charming dancing instructor is still unscathed.” Kashmir’s jaw clenched. “Do pardon my behavior earlier.” Mr. Hart waved his gun. “The heat of the moment, you understand.”
“That’s all behind us.” Slate held out palm in a placating gesture, the hand holding the gun low against his thigh. “We’re just here to bury the gold, like I said we would. But if you want to change the deal with the league, it’s not my business. My only business is with the map.” Slate paused, but Mr. Hart’s smirk hadn’t budged. Slate’s eyes roved from Hart’s face, down his arm to the gun, to me, and then back to the revolver. He took a shallow breath. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought me the map.”
“No, Captain.” Mr. Hart stepped away from the limp bag. Gold coins rolled away under his feet as he walked toward me. The dark center of the steel barrel was like a black hole, pulling me in. “The map would do you little good anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Slate said.
Mr. Hart’s thin lips hinted at the tips of his white teeth. “Do you know, at the very beginning, I was simply grateful to have my debts forgiven? The others would stand to make their fortunes, while I would barely remain afloat.” He reached down and picked up the bag, laughing in delight.
“I would have offered more if I’d known you needed so much.”
“You don’t know how that woman can spend. Spending is one of two things that make her happy. You may guess the other, sir.” He glanced at Kashmir with eyes as hard as coffin nails. “You, and half the men in their fine houses downtown. She wasn’t always like this. It was living here, on this rock, with these heathens; it has changed her. I blame my brother. He was the first. She couldn’t have made it more obvious, naming the boy after him.”
My breath hissed in my teeth, but Blake had told me himself—he had his uncle’s artistic bent.
“Take the money, Hart,” Slate said. “I don’t care what you do with it. What is wrong with the map?”
“Why, nothing, sir,” Mr. Hart said. “But you would find it little use without your ship.”
“My . . . ship?”
“I’ve told you, sir, I cannot stay. By tomorrow the whole island will know what I’ve done. Besides, this climate is too . . . hot for my wife’s temperament. No, she and I will be leaving aboard the Temptation.”
“Fine, yes.” Slate ground his teeth, and Kashmir’s face had gone pale. “We’ll take you away. We’ll start a new life for you, somewhere else.”
“Alas, sir, it is long past time I take my fate in my own hands. I will be starting my new life elsewhere. You will be staying here.”
“You can’t sail the Temptation.”
“I won’t have to. The girl is the expert, you said it yourself.” He hefted the bag and threw me an appraising glance.
“No,” my father said, his voice low. “No, no, no. Take the ship then, take the money, leave her. Just go. We’ll stay here. Come, Nixie, come here.” Slate opened his arms, but Mr. Hart jerked the gun toward the captain.
“Stay where you are,” he said to me. “He wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed, and shooting is a lot easier than drowning.”
I swallowed, but my mouth was so dry. Kashmir had the vest, but the revolver was pointed at my father’s face.
Slate did not quail. “Don’t do this,” he said, his face pale with rage. “Don’t take her from me, because I will kill you if you do. I will hunt you down and I will kill you, no matter how long it takes.”
“Captain!” Kashmir said, but Mr. Hart only smiled.
“So you do understand,” he said. “Why a man would kill for love.” Mr. Hart cocked the revolver.
“Wait!” My voice broke, but I’d found it again. “Wait, please.” Mr. Hart half turned his head, though his eyes—and his aim—stayed on Slate. “I’ll take you wherever you want. Just don’t shoot. Whatever you need.” I racked my brain. “Diamonds. In Arabia. And, uh, gold.” The gun dipped a little, and his eyes flicked to me then. “Gold from the Cibola. El Dorado, you know El Dorado?”
“It’s real?”
“I can take you there. Or Carthage. In Carthage they pay gold for salt.” Tears stung my eyes and I knew, then, just what my father felt: I would do whatever it took. “I can take you anywhere. Anything you want. Only let them live. Please.”
Mr. Hart stared at me for a long moment, then he nodded once. “Throw down your weapons.”
“No!”
“Dad!”
Mr. Hart shrugged, as if in regret. He raised his gun again, but I was out of ideas.
Kashmir wasn’t. His hand flew to his knife, and Mr. Hart whirled around—a shot rang like a bell in the cave and I smelled cordite and iron—but it was not Kashmir who stumbled back. It was Mr. Hart.
He clutched his right shoulder with his left hand, but he did not drop the gun as h
e stared, as we all did, at Blake standing at the mouth of the grotto. The boy stepped forward heavily, into the circle of our torchlight, as though his own feet were made of clay.
“I followed you.” Blake was breathing hard, but his gun was still high in his trembling hand. “I heard it all. Let her go.”
Mr. Hart glared at him while red blood bloomed like a boutonniere on the shoulder of his linen jacket, but then he swung his own hand back up and pointed the gun at Blake. “Put it down, boy.”
“You first.”
Neither moved, and then Mr. Hart smiled again, as bitter as truth. “Just like your father,” he said, and he fired.
Blake fell back into the dark, and I leaped on Mr. Hart’s back, wrapping my arms around his throat. He swung me around as Kashmir came toward him and my legs connected, knocking Kashmir against Slate as I tumbled to the ground.
Mr. Hart pulled up his arm and fired at Kashmir, square in the chest, and I rose, grabbing for Hart’s wounded shoulder and squeezing as hard as I could. He cried out and dropped the gun, but he managed to reach up with his other hand and twist his fingers in my hair until tears stood in my eyes and my own hand opened. Then he grabbed the bag and ran, dragging me along behind him.
We stumbled over Blake’s prone form on the path; he was still moving, reaching out, clutching at Hart’s leg. Mr. Hart yanked out of Blake’s grasp, but I heard the boy’s words, soft and raspy: “Get down.” I tried, but Mr. Hart still had me by the hair. He pushed me into the forest along the narrow path.
“Move!”
Behind us, feet slid through the loam—it must have been Slate—but then came the sound of something ahead: snapping branches and the conch shell and the feet, marching. Our warriors . . . had we brought them this close? But Kashmir had fallen in the cave, so who was sounding the conch? Torchlight shimmered between the trees, blurring in my teary eyes, and I understood what Blake was saying.
“Get down,” I wheezed, sucking in air. “Get down!” Slate heard me, and his footsteps stopped, but Mr. Hart wouldn’t listen.
I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, blind as he shoved me forward. And then he stopped.