Treasure

by W. A. Hoffman

  Pete smirked.

  Theodore sighed. “Aye, much drunken discussion.”

  I supposed there was little help for it. We discussed ourselves endlessly, why should others not? But, of course, we were centaurs, and philosophy was our way. I did not see where it was the way of wolves, or in Pete’s case, lions, or in Theodore’s case – and there I thought I should discuss with Gaston how to categorize Theodore in a world of wolves and sheep: as our good friend and solicitor was surely neither, yet he did not strike me as a mythical creature, either. I smiled a smile only my matelot would understand—once I explained it to him.

  “Thank you for coming,” Gaston said hesitantly. “For bearing the news.”

  “Will you be returning with us?” Theodore asked.

  Gaston nodded.

  “May I ask…?” Theodore began slowly. He sighed and rubbed his temples before gazing at Gaston again, this time with a more solicitor-like mien. “May I ask what the letter contained?”

  “He wishes to lay matters to rest between us,” Gaston said.

  Theodore nodded. “His men said he received a letter from you a year ago. It listed me as a person who might know your whereabouts or how to contact you. It apparently made mention of Will by his given name and title as well.”

  Gaston nodded tightly. “I wrote him. After the incident with Doucette.”

  “But not after you were granted English citizenship?” Theodore asked.

  Gaston and I shook our heads.

  Theodore nodded sagely and frowned. “I did not discuss that with them. As you can imagine, I was quite surprised when this man Vittese appeared in my office.”

  “Vittese?” Gaston snapped, his eyes hard.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “My father’s trusted man,” Gaston growled. “He was the one always sent to fetch me from the schools, and he was the one charged with bringing me to exile. He gave me over to Doucette.”

  “I got the distinct impression he is not fond of you, either,” Theodore said. “In fact, I would hazard a guess he feels his Lord’s business here is folly.”

  “You got the impression…?” I asked.

  “There was little he said concerning your matelot that you would not take offense at,” Theodore said with a sheepish shrug.

  “I look forward to making his acquaintance,” I said.

  “Oh Lord,” Theodore groaned. “I thought as much.” Then he gave a frown and his gaze flicked from one of us to the other. “I feel it would be wise if Gaston remained on English soil, in the company of the Brethren at all times, until this matter is resolved.”

  “You feel they might abduct him?” I asked with alarm.

  “I feel…” Theodore said carefully, “That they perceive him as being of limited mental capacity, and definitely not sane. They spoke of him as if he were a child.”

  Gaston shook his head, and I could see the tears he fought. “Did you speak with my father?” he asked Theodore.

  “Nay,” Theodore said kindly.

  “I was a child when last they saw me,” Gaston said sadly, and left us.

  I asked Theodore, “If I must slaughter a large number of Frenchmen, will there be trouble with the governor or any other?”

  Theodore fought a smile. “I put great thought into that matter as we sailed here; as I think, judging by their demeanor toward your matelot, and your demeanor toward any who disparage your matelot, the deaths of several of these Frenchmen will likely result from this matter. Our beloved Governor Modyford hates the French. I feel there would be no lasting repercussions as long as it occurs on English soil and it can be construed that they prompted the matter. And… as long as the Marquis is not harmed.” His gaze met mine and he sobered considerably. “I must ask: does Gaston bear his father any ill-will?”

  I took a deep breath and answered as truthfully as I could. “He does not feel so at this time. However, if the man does something foolish…”

  “Like show him a whip,” Striker said, and threw his hands wide in apology when I turned to him.

  “Just so,” I said. “Aye, if his father does something that magnificently stupid, then… well, then only the Gods can know. I will meet with the man first to determine his motives. I do not feel that Gaston should meet with him alone, if possibly at all, depending on the circumstances.”

  Theodore seemed relieved by this, but he quickly frowned and studied Striker speculatively before shifting his attention to me. “I feel there are pieces to this matter that…”

  “The Marquis is responsible for Gaston’s scars,” I said. “Personally responsible. Gaston forgives him, as he feels he gave his father just cause.”

  “Good Lord,” Theodore sighed.

  I did not spare Pete and Striker a glance: they already knew that aspect of the matter. None knew why, of course, but that was not a thing I felt they ever need know.

  “He must not kill the Marquis,” Theodore said seriously. “And neither must you. Such a thing would cause a diplomatic incident beyond Modyford’s ability to mitigate.”

  “I understand,” I said solemnly, and I did. Killing a nobleman of any nation was not a thing to be done lightly.

  “If such a thing is to occur, it would be best if you left Jamaica,” Theodore added sadly.

  “I do understand that,” I assured him, and then I slipped outside.

  I found Gaston sitting in the shade of a tree with the dogs. He was a good distance from the house, enough so that he would not have heard the end of the conversation there. He pawed angrily at the tears upon his cheeks as I approached.

  “What is Theodore?” I asked as I sat before him. “He is neither wolf nor sheep.”

  At first he frowned with annoyance that I should pose such a question under the circumstances, and then he smiled with understanding.

  I continued. “I do not feel he is a mythical being, born to be one thing and yet another. Nor do I feel he is a common docile form of livestock.”

  “He is a raven,” Gaston said.

  “How so?” I could not picture Theodore taking flight in any manner.

  “He is intelligent, observant, and solicitors feed off the dead and are the harbingers of doom,” Gaston said, without any seeming insult in the last.

  I smiled and nodded as I thought of Theodore the Raven. “As always, I feel you have seen the truth of the matter.”

  Gaston sighed and met my gaze. “I cannot remember how to don the mask, Will. I can recall what it felt like to wear it. How safe it was: that no one could see my thoughts, like painting my eyes with the Caribe mask. But I cannot find that place in my heart where I need go.”

  “My love,” I sighed. “I do not think the place you go to don the mask is in your heart. I feel it is alien to it.”

  He thought on this. “But, I am not without compassion when I tend the sick, and I wear a mask then, too.”

  “Oui, but it is a different one, I feel. You are at your finest then. Well, perhaps not, not for me anyway, as there is brusqueness and remove to your manner when you are healing and mending that I would not have aimed at my person in other situations. But, oui, you are in control then, and yet not so removed as you sometimes were when wearing the other mask. But, as we have discussed, it is because your Horse is… much engaged with the matter at hand. Or rather, it finds its concerns of the moment secondary to the needs of the man you are healing. But… As we have also discussed, we are centaurs, both Horse and Man, and we need to walk through this world as such. We cannot hide one half or the other in the cave: it does us little good, and it is not truth.”

  “But Will,” he said earnestly, “Sane men do not cry. Grown men do not cry.” He held his hand up to stop the refutation upon my lips. “I know that we are not like them. I know we are different and that we must measure ourselves by one another. But, they… My Father and his men will not measure us by that; and I wish for them to perceive me as sane, and grown, and not the child they knew, the beast they knew.”

  “Were you b
eastly to your father?” I asked.

  “Non, non,” he said quickly. “I was ever decorous about him. He was my father. I did not wish to battle him; I did not feel I could win if I did. But Vittese and the others,” he growled. “I clawed and bit and spat on that bastard every chance he gave me. I hated him.”

  “Was he cruel to you?”

  Gaston sighed and looked away to wipe more tears from his cheeks. “Non, he would not hurt me more than necessary to restrain me. He is the man my father has ever sent to do things that require discretion. I was always one of those things. My father would never retrieve me from a school himself. So after whatever incident made them send me away, I would spend days or weeks, or one time, months, locked away until Vittese would arrive to take me to my next place of exile. And he always had this look about him, like I was a thing to be scorned and despised. I was an embarrassment. And… he was never my father. For years at a time, Vittese was all I saw of my father. I could only imagine how much my father hated me.”

  I embraced him. I was at a loss as to how to resolve our dilemma. The more I thought on it, the more I thought disaster loomed if Gaston tried to become the man he wished to present to them. All his old hurts and angers would seep out of the darkest recesses of his soul and make his Horse ever more difficult to control; and all the while he would be attempting to hold it still with an iron hand upon the reins. Eventually, it would explode beneath him – with righteous indignation if nothing else – and then someone would most likely die. Yet, I well understood his need to present himself as a grown man, a sane and grown man: we so wanted our fathers’ respect.

  “Perhaps if they ailed you could tend them, and thus show them the best you show anyone other than me,” I said lightly. “I could wound them for you.”

  He stiffened in my arms, but then I felt the welcome rumble of amusement in his chest that finally bubbled a little to his lips in a half-hearted huff of laughter.

  He pulled away to regard me. “I wish they could see me as you do, as our friends do, but they are not my friends, and I do not know if I can show them that face, either.”

  I frowned. “Perhaps you should simply show them you. You are a good man. You are loved. You have friends. Damn them to Hell and back if they cannot respect that. And I fear, as I know you do, that they will not. They will never see us as we are: they will only see phantoms of their own devising, and thus they will think what they will. And we have no part to truly play in the matter. So, in truth, if that is the way of it, if they are chained by their habits so that they only see the shadows upon the cave wall, then there is no harm in showing them the truth and in being as you are. If they know you to be mad, no amount of acting sane will change their minds, will it? Look at Striker, and he is our friend.”

  He thought for a time, his eyes holding mine with deep regard, and then he smiled slowly. “You are the one blessed to see the truth of things.”

  I knew not if my words were the truth of the matter, or merely a prayer. I prayed after my fashion anyway as we walked back to the others. I told the Gods that all I dearly wished to see in the resolution of the matter was that Gaston’s father would leave us no worse than he found us: that his visitation should not result in harm coming to Gaston or myself or anyone for which we cared.

  Striker averred there should be enough moon to sail by that night, and so we spent the next hours preparing what we would leave behind to weather our absence, and packing all we wished to take. Gaston and I discussed whether we should dig up our small chest of gold or leave it hidden here. On the one hand, due to some unforeseen circumstance – a thing our lives were often plagued by – we might have need of the money, and it would be difficult to quickly return here and fetch it. But on the other, we knew not where we could safely hide such a princely sum in Port Royal if any were to become aware of it – and it was heavy. We at last decided to take it with us, but not in the chest with the Sable family crest upon it. We dug up that chest and placed the coins in the bottom of Gaston’s medicine chest in neat layers that would not rattle. We would have to remove the gold, and either leave it in someone’s keeping or hide it elsewhere, before we went roving.

  Striker was not pleased that we wished to bring the dogs. Pete was elated. Striker grumbled a great deal. And thus we said goodbye to the goats and chickens, called the dogs to us, and made our way to the boat laden with all the weapons we owned, two bags of personal items, and Gaston’s now extremely heavy medicine chest – not that it had ever been particularly light. We were under way with the evening breezes, sailing quickly about the Point and then east along the southern coast. The sun made its magnificent descent in our wake. I thought it poetically appropriate that we sailed into looming darkness.

  While we had been engaged in packing, our visitors had left us alone and attempted to recover from their night’s excesses. Now that we were all aboard the small flyboat, and there was little to do other than change the sail for each tack, an awkward silence settled over us with the deepening twilight. Striker and Theodore contemplated the sea, the deck, and the sails with frowns and sighs and avoided meeting my eye. I wearied of it quickly. I would have been concerned for its affect upon Gaston, if my matelot had not been deeply lost in his own thoughts, which appeared to be of a distressing nature, enough to cause him to fidget endlessly. This, of course, was not lost upon the others, and even Pete eyed him with concern. I did not think addressing any of their concerns would put anyone at ease; however, I did feel that perhaps addressing the matter from a different angle might be in order: there were things I was curious about. And so I sat before Gaston and took his hands in mine. He appeared both relieved and embarrassed by my attention.

  “From what does your father’s wealth derive?” I asked. In two and a half years, we had rarely discussed his father or his birthplace, and never in regards to matters mundane. “My father’s wealth stems from tariffs he manages for the king, and rents on the family estate.”

  Gaston regarded me blankly for several moments and then frowned in troubled thought.

  Striker spoke into the silence. “Just that? Your father’s not some merchant? You always speak of your damn cousin being involved with his business.”

  I smiled. “Aye, but the business at hand is being a noble and all that entails. Noblemen, whether French or English, are not allowed to engage in anything so base as commerce or practice a trade. In France it is law. If they engage in business not in keeping with their heritage, they suffer dérogeance – they are stripped of their titles. That is why dallying about at court, and maintaining good relations, if not the favor of one’s king or emperor, is important. Without being granted position by the king, or being in his favor to enhance their status and lands, nobles often become poor.”

  “So they can’t work?” Striker asked incredulously. “Even if they want to.”

  “Even if they need to,” I chuckled. “Aye, but if you feel that engaging in the politics of court is not exhausting, time-consuming, and fraught with peril, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “My father does none of that,” Gaston spat. “He is a member of the parliament of Toulouse, but he begs no one for money and we are noblesse ancienne.”

  “You are from the County of Toulouse?” I asked, surprised. Then I teased. “I have heard much of that region but never visited it. It is said to be rife with heretics.”

  Gaston snorted. “I have heard the same: I was ever being insulted for being a provincial at the schools. But the Cathars were destroyed centuries ago, and the Hugenots are all in Languedoc. Toulouse is just old and proud and has seen many emperors come and go. They govern as if the fools in Paris will not always exist.” He sighed. “To answer your question, our seigneurie has several mines and forges: that is where the money comes from.”

  “You mine gold?” Striker asked with a befuddled frown. “But…”

  “Nay,” Gaston said quickly. “Iron and coal, and my father does not own them, he is paid banalités, rents, by the men that do.”r />
  “Your father controls an iron mine and a forge? No wonder…” Theodore said thoughtfully.

  “Aye,” Gaston said with a shrug. “And our land is good for growing wheat. We are quite wealthy without the Emperor’s favor.”

  I regarded my matelot with the bemusement I always felt when he spoke of either his father or his heritage with such pride, but I could understand some of it now: his father was truly a powerful nobleman, not some fool relying on the King’s favor and the machinations of court as mine was. Gaston being disinherited was truly a great blow. He had once stood to gain far more than some farm fields and his father’s name and reputation.

  “I had not understood,” I said quietly in French. “You have lost far more than I could ever hope to gain.”

  Gaston shrugged and sighed. “I have not wished to think about it. I was unfit. That is the way of it. He has his other sons.” He frowned. “They must be men now.”

  I moved so I could embrace him.

  “I have come to resent losing my name and title most of all,” he said sadly. “I do not care about the money.”

  “I know,” I sighed. I found only confusion when thinking of my title. I had seen so many fools with titles over the years, and lived so long without the one I was born to, that I was tempted to say it held little meaning. But I found in my heart that the idea of being a lord held great meaning for me. Commoners were often sheep, and sheep were sheared and eaten. Though I did not wish to consider myself a wolf, having others consider me so was very useful and oft kept me alive.

  We sat in thought for a time, the others not choosing to disturb us even if Gaston’s revelations had given them cause to ask questions, until Pete suddenly remarked, “ThatStarThereBeAPlanet,” and pointed at the sky. “WeSeenItThrough TheTellyScope.”

  I looked at the reddish dot in the sky with surprise and wonder. “Agnes’ telescope arrived?”

  “Aye. ItBeALittleThing.” He indicated a tube the circumference of his hands and perhaps a foot beyond the width of his shoulders.

  “If it weren’t so damn fragile it would be damn useful at sea,” Striker said. “During the day we could see to the Passage Fort from the roof: we could nearly see men’s faces enough to tell if they were smiling or frowning. Rucker says this one cannot be jostled, though, lest the lens move and then it won’t focus or some such thing.”