The eyebrow dropped and the scowl doubled down. “I am not playing with you. This is not an exchange, I will tell you what I need and you will ...”
“Really, Mario, this meeting could be beneficial to both of us. I request parley,” Boots said, “May we step back from the edge of ...”
Cigar man cuffed him on the head, knocking him off balance. He toppled into the table, his porcelain straw falling from its perch behind his ear and onto the table, snapping in two. “Violence,” Boots finished.
The other two men closed on Boots while Mario spoke. “My friend, I was hoping to come to an understanding sooner, and without blood.” He paused and smiled, “Well, without much blood, but you have made the decision for me.” He nodded at the man next to Cigar man, who was not tall but built like a brick of muscle. “Senhor Boots is it?” Mario asked, looking at Boots.
Boots nodded.
Mario returned the nod and glanced back to the man next to Cigar man. “Juan, Senhor Boots is being difficult, please bring some understanding to him so we can continue with our meeting.”
Juan nodded and stepped towards Boots, delivering a fist to the abdomen and knocking him back against Cigar man. The thug grabbed him around the shoulders, steadying him for another punch, but as Juan stepped in a second time, Boots took the opportunity to drive one piece of his drink straw into Cigar man’s hand.
The man screamed and released Boots, who stepped toward Juan blocking his punch and delivering one of his own to Juan’s throat. Juan staggered back, choking, and sank to one knee. Cigar man yanked the straw from his hand and threw it to the ground, his face pure rage. Boots spun backwards, driving his elbow into Cigar man’s nose and sending him to the ground. The third man jumped toward Boots but immediately gasped and sank to the ground, as Persi’s left pointed walking shoe found its target between the man’s legs. She saw a glint of steel and turned to see Mario pull a rather large knife from his waist. Persi’s arm swung up, her thumb cocking the trigger of her revolver and Mario stopped mid-step.
“That is quite enough foolishness, Mister Mario.” Persi said in her most dictatorial voice. “Please sheath the knife and stand down or I shall be forced to bring about more pain.”
Mario looked between the two, suddenly realizing what he thought were soft city chickens, ready for a good plucking, were actually eagles and he was the prey. He replaced the knife and smiled. “Perhaps you are right, I will grant you parley, in the old meaning.”
Persi smiled. “Good, a very smart decision. I can see why you are the leader.”
Mario said something in Portuguese and the men stood shakily and limped around the building to the front. He pointed to the chairs, “Please, it is safe. Even in our trade, we respect parley.”
Boots seated Persi then himself. “Well, then, Mister Mario, perhaps you can answer a question or two for us,” Boots began, “and for that information ...”
Suddenly the fourth man, the one they hadn’t seen, ran from a door in the back of the bar, a machete held high over his head. “Ahh!!!” he yelled.
Persi reached for her pistol but before it cleared its holster, the man stumbled and fell, Mario’s knife sticking from his chest.
They both looked at Mario.
“I told you, we respect the rules of parley. Though I will miss him, he acted rash and paid for it.” Mario said.
“Thank you,” Boots said.
Mario shrugged, “It had to be done, but it will harder to tell my aunt.”
Chapter 52 – Mario Tells His Story
“Perhaps before someone else acts ‘rash,’ we should complete our business.” Boots said. “As I was about to say, we are willing to pay you for information.”
“And this information will be about what, exactly?” Mario said, waving at the woman in the door. When she came, he spoke to her and she left quickly, briefly glancing at the dead body lying next to the table.
Persi lay her pistol in her lap while Boots continued. “We need to know about a ship. An airship that moored here several days ago.”
“The name?” Mario asked.
“A large schooner called the, Jewel of the South,” Persi said.
Boots observed a series of emotions cross Mario’s face, then dropped his gaze. “O navio Diablo,” he said.
“Yes, I agree, it is the devil’s ship,” Persi said.
The woman from bar stepped from the door and Persi reached for the pistol in her lap but paused when she saw that the woman carried a tray of drinks, and a young boy followed with another tray of food stuffs.
“Well, then where is this devil ...” Boots began but was cut off by Mario making slashing signs across his throat.
The woman and boy set the food and drinks on the table, then left without speaking. Before they could start again, there was yelling from the bar and seconds later, Cigar man and Juan stepped slowly from the door.
Persi’s hand grabbed her pistol and Boots laid his revolver on the table without removing his hand.
“O corpo de Angelo?” Juan said, pointing at the dead body lying next to Boots.
“Este e parley, understand?” Mario said, then looked at Boots. “My mother wants her nephew’s body removed. They understand the rules of parley apply.”
“Yes, please. It has been a sad morning, and a ... parodia?” Persi tried.
Mario bowed agreement, and smiled softly. “Caricatura, a travesty.”
He signaled to the men, who picked up the dead man and moved away from the building and down an alley.
“You seem to have a good grasp of English, Mister Mario,” Persi said.
“Yes, British missionaries came when I was a child,” he said.
Persi arched an eyebrow. “Mister Mario, ‘travesty’ is not a word missionaries would take time to teach.”
He smiled, “Possibly not, but they teach them in British boy’s schools. The missionaries took me back with them when I was ten, stole me actually, and decided to give me a better life. If I have anything against the British it is that they seem to have little respect for the culture of others. In all, I spent five years in England, was doing well in school, heading for a seat at Oxford but then I felt something was wrong at home and decided to run away.
“So at fifteen, I hopped a ride on a ship running freight and four months later, returned to Natal. When I arrived, I found mother and my baby sister near starvation. I used what money I had, not a lot by your standards, but enough to buy this bar for my mother.
“I quickly learned how to deal with the local underground markets. My education was helpful and I was hired by a local boss to help him keep track of his ... assets. My boss was killed a year later by a rival gang trying to take over this part of the city, but I had been light handed in my enforcement of owed debts, even helping widows and orphans and I successfully held off the takeover with the help of the community. I removed their boss and even gained a little territory.”
“A heartwarming story,” Persi said sarcastically, pointing at Boots, “but why all this thuggery?”
“Oh, I have no qualms when it comes to removing money from American and European travelers who saunter into my territory as if they own the place and we are all their worthless servants. If you remember, I was kidnapped by such people.”
Persi nodded, “Very well, but what about the, Jewel of the South? Do you have any information that might be useful?”
“Useful to what end?” Mario asked.
“We need to stop it. There is a person on it who cannot be allowed to ...” Persi said, then paused, looking for the appropriate word.
“Live, my love,” Boots finished, looking at Mario. “The man in charge is evil and cannot be allowed to live.”
Mario crossed himself but looked relieved. “For two favors, I will do anything you ask and give you access to any resources I have at my disposal.”
Boots tilted his head, “And why the change of heart?”
“This ship, Jewel of the South, moored here three days ago, late in the
afternoon and left the next morning, early. After it had lifted and was far out over the ocean, heading east, this community, ‘my’ community found that people were missing, twenty-five in all. Mostly street children, but some were not, like my sister, Giselle who is twenty and was returning from my aunt’s. I want her back. That is my first request.”
“And your second?” Persi asked in a husky voice, caught by the soft emotion in this violent man’s voice.
“Kill this man,” he ground out between his teeth. “Kill him in the most painful way possible.”
Persi looked at Boots, near tears. He had initially discouraged her from becoming emotionally involved as an agent, though he was the junior agent and could not enforce his wish. “I believe we have a concord,” Boots said. “Now we need all the details you can give us.” He lifted his gun from the table and slid it back into the harness under his coat. Persi left her pistol on her lap, knowing situations could change quickly, but two hours later they were both safely back aboard the Swan. Mario used an aethergraph at the airfield to transmit a message to a contact in Pointe-Noire, Congo. He met the agents at the ships brow and passed a sealed envelope. “My friend, Jacques Fernandes, will watch for your arrival.”
“He is not Congolese?” Boots asked.
Mario smiled, “No, he is from Natal. He had to leave several years ago, a misunderstanding with the police. He needed someplace to rest so I sent him to Africa to establish an office for our new trade company. He has my highest confidence.”
“Honor among thieves, as it were?” Boots asked.
“Yes, and he is my brother,” Mario said with a smile.
“A brother, you didn’t mention ...” Persi began.
Mario held up a finger, then brought it close to his mouth. “We don’t talk about him. We did send him to Africa after all,” he said in a whisper. “These are the problems that come with killing policia, even if the pig was corrupt, taking payments through the abuse of wives, daughters ...”
“And sisters?” Persi finished for him.
A shadow crept across his face. “Especially sisters, as I hope your Duke will discover.”
Boots shook hands with Mario and he and Persi left the bow.
The next morning, they were in the air, watching their departure from Brazil with nothing but ocean ahead.
Chapter 53 – Setting Course for the Congo
Their crossing went without issue. The weather was fair and the winds, if not completely in their favor, at least did not blow against them.
Mario had been good to his word and stocked their hold with supplies. To Persi’s delight, a large compartment was filled with green coconuts and the cook told to serve the water as a beverage, and use the meat as he could.
She continued to research the odd book of the Old Ones but made little further progress. If they were going to defeat Duke Narcissa, it was unlikely it would be through their use of the dark magic contained in those pages.
On the evening of their third day, around six o’clock, they spotted the coast of Africa and an hour later dropped their brow onto a mooring tower on the western edge of Pointe-Noire, Congo around midnight. Nothing was open and the streets were clear so when all disembarked, the Nightwalkers were loosed with instructions not to cause any trouble.
Genevieve ordered the brow lifted so they could schedule just one security watch, thus maximizing the number of her men she could send to their berths. “I don’t believe the Nightwalkers need our brow, floating only thirty feet from the mooring tower, they can easily jump aboard when they feel the need.” The crew crawled into their bunks, thankful for a safe trip.
The next morning, Persi and Boots ate breakfast, then departed the ship, and after questioning the airfield staff as to the location of bars frequented by visiting crews, they walked to the market. The market was splendid, filled with both food and items used daily by locals, and items made specifically for the European tourists, whose ocean-going ships moored at the port.
They did not find Mario’s brother but the owner of the bar, Gerald Mombutu, told them much the same horror story Mario told them in Natal. Jewel of the South moored yesterday morning. Crew came ashore to relax and conduct the same types of treachery and vice that most crew did, then left early this morning before dawn. As the sun rose over the ocean, family and friends began to report missing people. Gerald reckoned ten children and five over the age of thirteen had been taken. “Dae come in and steal da children,” he said, in broken English with an accent so heavy both agents had to strain to understand. “Where do dae go? Da slavers, dae gone, who buys dem? It is no sense.”
Persi and Boots agreed. “Monsieur Mombutu, please tell your community, we are tracking this man, hunting him and his ship, and we will bring him to the end he deserves.”
Gerald nodded understanding as they left and returned to the Swan. Mario’s brother had been there and gone, dropping off basic food stuffs.
“Genevieve, is there any reason we could not leave before nightfall?” Persi asked. “The Jewel has a few hours on us and if we could catch her in the air, I believe she would be particularly out gunned.”
The captain stood dressed in a provocative brown skirt that sat atop a tan laced underskirt that stopped several inches above the ankles of the brown knee-topped boots she wore. The polished brass buckles on the boots reflected the late-morning sun as they stood on the upper deck. Her sword, dangled from a wide dark-brown belt as usual, but today an old double-barreled cap-lock pistol was stuck through the belt on her other side. A tube, attached to the breach of each barrel twisted twice and attached to the upper section of a robust handle. A pneumatic assist, perhaps. Persi thought.
She repositioned the quaint little tri-corn hat atop her shiny black hair before answering. “If, and I mean ‘if’ we can get water and coal loaded before the airship’s services leaves for the night, then yes. Currently we are having difficulty matching the connection between the airfield’s water hose and the Swan’s tank service connection. However, Corbano and his men are working on it, and I believe will be loading water within the hour.”
Persi nodded, and went below deck to see what the cook had readily available.
****
Through the ingenuity and hard work of the staff and crew, the Black Swan was ship shape by four o’clock and they made preparations to lift by five. At four fifty-five, Boots watched as the boatswains took their positions at the mooring lines. On the bridge, Persi stood at the navigation table, watching the captain at the airships control section, legs spread and hands behind her back. A heavy block of a man stood between her and a bank of communication tubes. “Mr. Swilington, prepare to lift and disembark Pointe-Noire airfield on my mark,” Captain Genevieve said loudly.
The man next to her popped to attention, placing one hand on a brass tube. “Prepare to lift, Ships Control aye.” Then he spoke into the tube, “Engine room, prepare to lift. Surface deck, all hands to the mooring cables. Prepare to lift.” He let his hand droop with the tube and spoke to the two men at the at the ship’s control section, “Ships Control, prepare to lift. Senior Chief Haney, shift 250 gallons of ballast aft, and shift ten cubic feet of hydrogen aft to forward. Airman Jones, Airman Smith, ready for lift.”
“Helm is ready to lift, sir,” Airman Jones responded.
“Control Surfaces, ready to lift, sir,” Smith said.
From beside Persi, the large man she knew only as, ‘Bull,’ looked up from his chart, “Navigation, ready to lift.”
He returned his gaze to his charts, picking up a pencil with his huge fingers, and jotting something down in a logbook. Persi was unsure as to if his name was earned due to his huge size, his pudgy bovine face, or his deep and resonant voice. She smiled thinking, No one would guess this man’s occupation.
Swilington turned to the Genevieve, “The ship is ready to lift, Captain.”
The Captain smiled, never bored with listening to the flow of proper communication. “Very well, Mr. Swilington, lift the ship.”<
br />
“Lift the ship, aye,” he replied, “Boatswains, lift on my mark.”
From his position topside, Boots watched as the men stepped to the mooring cables and gripped their individual release lever.
Swilington’s voice barked from the tube, “Three, two, one, lift.”
At the word, lift, each Boatswain leaned into the leaver, unlocking the cable from the ship. Once the cable had popped and fallen away, the man stepped back and held his hand high.
A minute and a half later, Chief Boatswain Philip’s yelled into the tube. “Cables away, the Black Swan is floating free.”
“The ship is un-moored, aye,” Swilington said into the tube. “Smith, full back on the ailerons, Jones, rudder straight ahead.”
The two young airmen, repeated each order.
“Two hundred and fifty-one gallons pumped aft, and ten cubic feet of gas shifted forward, sir,” Haney reported.
“Ballast shifted, aye. Good timing Senior Chief, well done.” Swilington said, his eyes locked on the bank of gauges in the control section.
Persi felt the floor tilt under her as the nose of the Swan rose, and the view from the bridge window was that of shadowing clouds and a dimming sky. Philips voice jumped from the tube. “The ship is clear on all sides. Standing down crew, setting Airman Zelinski as topside lookout.”
Swinlington leaned toward the hanging tube. “Standing down, setting topside lookout aye. Send a hearty well done to your team, Senior Philips.”
“Will do, sir,” Philips answered.
“Jones, make your course 090. Smith level out at ten thousand feet. Senior Chief, shift gas and water as needed to level the ship and maintain level.”
“Set course to 090, Helm aye,” Jones said, turning the wheel gently to the left until the compass point aligned correctly.
Smith held a lever in one hand and a wheel, smaller than that of the helm’s, in the other. “Level out at ten-thousand feet, Ships Control, aye. Passing through seven hundred and fifty-five feet, sir.”
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