by D. J. Butler
Two staircases provided access to the penthouse. The directors came up the large spiral staircase made up marble and sat in the southern two-thirds of the room at a massive dark-stained oak table. There were twelve directors—a bit of a Cahokian number, but also a pious nod to the twelve apostles or the twelve tribes of Israel. Their number included two clergymen and a publisher of some kind—Isaiah recognized the manic look in the eye and the ink-stained fingers.
The rectangular table accommodated sixteen chairs, presently containing thirteen Dutchmen. The one non-director was the company’s Secretary, a bony man with an iron bun of black hair behind his head, whose face looked as if he were perpetually sucking on a lemon. His name was Van Dongen.
While the directors waited, the company’s kitchen staff prepared food. Pannenkoeken, appeltaart, dried fruit, fried poffertjes, oliebollen flavored with cinnamon, and a selection of light wines and liqueurs made the assortment more of a dessert than a meal. None of the directors had yet touched the food, though; they sat waiting and murmuring among themselves.
Van Dongen sharpened several quill pens and neatly ordered a bottle of ink and a thick stack of foolscap.
None of them knew what the emperor wanted, but they were very anxious to hear. “Franklin is just the sort of unofficial messenger who can be used to send a confidential offer,” one director huffed.
“Confidential,” another answered, “and completely deniable after the fact.”
“Yes, yes,” Adriaan Stuyvesant huffed. “We’ll paper it up thoroughly afterward, when the time comes.”
A clerk in a gray frock coat preceded the emperor’s man. “Meneer Temple Franklin,” he said simply, and then descended again out of sight.
“Meneer.” Franklin chuckled and rubbed his belly as he climbed into view. He wore a blue frock coat whose gold thread suggested the Empire’s colors; a kerchief peeking from a breast pocket was embroidered with the ship, eagle, and horses, as well. “How I enjoy the sound of that! So Republican, so egalitarian, and above all, so frugal…you pare not only your cheese, but also your titles. We are all meneers here, are we not?”
“There are the serving women,” one of the preachers said. “We customarily refer to a woman as mevrouw, rather than meneer. I believe your Pennslander Germans would say fraülein.”
Franklin cast his eye toward Wilkes and the young women. He curtsied along with them.
“Also, some of us are directors,” Adriaan Stuyvesant said loudly. The brusqueness of the comment—even more pointed than the preacher’s, and nearly to the point of being rude—recaptured Franklin’s attention. “One of us is even a chairman.”
“Oh, how embarrassing,” Franklin said. “Forgive me my democratic aspirations.”
“Your grandfather did indeed have such aspirations,” Stuyvesant said. “Lord Thomas’s grandfather may even have had them, agreeing as he did to the Assembly title of Mr. Emperor. But the man you serve is known for rather contrary inclinations.”
Franklin spread his hands in a gesture of admission. “True. And yet I’ve come with olive branches in all my pockets, Mr. Chairman. And I am ready to commence the discussion when you are.”
Stuyvesant nodded. “If we are to take any binding decisions, we shall have to embody the meeting in a formal written act. To that end, Meneer Van Dongen here will take notes of the conversation, and should we decide to proceed, will use those notes to draw up resolutions, as well as any necessary contracts or memoranda.”
“Excellent!” Franklin sat. “Meneer Van Dongen, I shall try to be succinct.”
Van Dongen bobbed his head once and dipped a quill into ink. The directors sat.
Isaiah Wilkes took a bottle of white wine and crept around the table with small, shuffling steps, offering it to each director in turn and filling glasses when asked.
“Understand that what Lord Thomas is proposing is a package.” Temple Franklin stretched his shoulder and back and sank comfortably into his chair. “I am empowered to take a complete yes. I am not empowered to accept a partial yes, or to agree to any other terms.”
“Do you take us for children?” Stuyvesant bellowed. “We know what you are, Franklin. We know the limits and powers of a creature like you.”
“A creature? My goodness.” Franklin smiled. “Some of your Dutch terms sound almost insulting when translated into good Penn’s English.”
Stuyvesant raised his eyebrows and waited.
Franklin began, raising fingers to count off terms as he listed them. “Item one, all existing lawsuits between the Imperial Ohio Company and the Dutch Ohio Company to be settled with a mutual release. No payment of damages by any party.”
“That’s outrageous!” an older director snapped. Isaiah thought he might have personally been on a ship that the Imperials had burned.
“Wait, Paul,” Stuyvesant urged his fellow. To Franklin he added, “Go on.”
“Item two, the release of claims between the two companies shall further provide that neither shall commence any lawsuit against the other predicated on any facts existing prior to the date of the agreement.”
Paul blustered further, but the other directors looked thoughtful.
“We’ll want some covenants,” one murmured. “Disclosures.”
“Yes, yes,” Franklin agreed, “we’ll let the lawyers at it once we’ve agreed, but on short leashes—nothing ruins a good agreement like a lawyer.”
“Go on,” Stuyvesant said again.
“Item three, for a period of ten years, renewable upon agreement of the parties, all Ohio markets to be shared and all prices to be agreed jointly by a steering committee of the two companies, having equal representation thereon.”
“Existing markets and also new ones,” Stuyvesant said.
“Naturally.” Franklin nodded.
“Deadlocks to be broken by an arbitrator acceptable to both parties, to be located in New Amsterdam.”
Franklin’s nod was slower this time. “I believe that will be acceptable.”
The directors were beginning to smile.
“Item four, all disputes between traders of the two companies to be settled by same steering committee.” Franklin hesitated. “With the same arbitration provision.”
Now the directors said nothing, but leaned forward over the table as if anxious to hear Temple Franklin’s every word. And no wonder; what he proposed went well beyond settling lawsuits, and offered something that sounded like alliance.
Isaiah had come to the meeting knowing that Adriaan Stuyvesant would feel pressured to accept a good settlement. He now became concerned that Stuyvesant would in fact accept the offer.
And perhaps betray Isaiah as a sign of good faith?
Isaiah moved to the next director. “Witte wijn, meneer direktor?” he asked in his best contralto.
Van Dongen wrote furiously.
“Item five, and this is the last item, but, mark you well, it is the most important one.” Franklin peered through his spectacles slowing around the table, meeting each man’s gaze. Only Stuyvesant flinched. “The Emperor has decided to take a Dutch wife. How did you say it? A mevrouw. Naturally, she will have to come with a dowry no less excellent than that of any other imperial bride.”
“You can only mean the dowry paid for Hannah Penn,” Stuyvesant said slowly. “As I recall, that was three hundred thousand crowns.”
“Five hundred thousand, actually.” Franklin looked Adriaan Stuyvesant directly in the eye. “Yes, that’s the appropriate amount.”
“But…who on earth?” Adriaan looked green in the face and his words came haltingly. “Or rather, who on the Hudson River?”
“Yes. His Imperial Majesty feared you might have a hard time deciding, so he has taken the liberty of deciding for you.” Franklin made a show of reaching into his jacket pocket to find a square of paper and then examining the name written on it. “Why, how curious! Lord Thomas has written here the name Julia Stuyvesant. Perhaps you know her, Meneer Chairman.”
* * *
Nathaniel felt a little less nervous for the fact that Jacob Hop came with him.
They lay on the floor in the attic bedroom above Ambroos’s house, and Nathaniel drummed them up seven steps and onto the starlit plain of the spirit world.
Jacob Hop stared at the sky and at the endless waves of grass and finally at Nathaniel.
“What do you see?” he asked. “What am I?”
“You’re a Dutchman,” Nathaniel said. “You look very much as you appear in the world of flesh and blood.”
That news didn’t seem to relax Jacob. “Sarah has said a similar thing, more than once. That she could see the Heron King when he was within me, and that she would know if he returned.”
“You don’t look like a heron,” Nathaniel said. “Or a king.”
“Then why do I feel that I am him?” Jacob asked. “Why do I have so many of his memories?”
Nathaniel looked at his companion and tried to find something to do. There was no second self out of place, no obvious injures; the Dutchman looked whole. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not the healer I thought I was.”
“Maybe Ambroos will be able to help.” Jacob laughed and cheered up visibly. “Maybe there is no help.”
Nathaniel listened for the Sorcerer Robert Hooke. He heard the leaf-crackle laughter of the dead man, but it sounded ever so far away and Nathaniel relaxed. Slightly.
Then he listened for Ambroos, heard him nearby, and led Jacob Hop the short distance to his cousin. They found a castle that shimmered like gold as they approached. The knights standing guard the front door ignored Nathaniel and Jake, and when the travelers climbed the steps inside a circular tower toward Ambroos’s voice, speaking from the roof, Nathaniel realized the construction was of something else entirely: paper.
The castle was made of paper, covered over entirely with ink. Nathaniel leaned in to examine the letters. He couldn’t read them, but from close up the ink looked black. It was reflecting starlight on the long, looping lines of the characters that made the whole building shine and sparkle.
At the top of the circular stair they reached a clearing. Nathaniel saw thirteen men, including Ambroos, standing in a line on one side of a clearing; facing them and opposite, stood the man Franklin. Behind Ambroos’s line stood a knot of women surrounding a single man, who lifted their skirts and crouched to hide behind them. Nathaniel and Jake witnessed the meeting Ambroos attended; Ambroos was the only one Nathaniel recognized, though he knew the name Franklin, and he gathered from the conversation that this Franklin was a grandson of the Lightning Bishop.
~Franklin,~ Jake murmured, over and over.
Something felt wrong to Nathaniel, but it was neither the location nor the gathering.
Something was wrong with him.
When Franklin finished his offer by saying, ~Perhaps you know her, Mr. Chairman,~ the clearing fell silent.
The person Franklin had been talking to, a florid and corpulent man named Stuyvesant, split abruptly into two. One Stuyvesant stepped forward and began to stammer out half-sentences. ~Well, I don’t…Well, she really…We couldn’t…There must be…~ The second Stuyvesant sprang backward as if he had been bitten by a snake and screamed.
Eleven of his companions leaped upon both versions of him and dragged him away. Their words fell on Nathaniel like a storm, threatening to shatter his ears.
~We must discuss!~
~Such an interesting offer!~
~How would you feel about another young woman in her place?~
~How would you feel about my wife?~
~It must be Julia Stuyvesant, or I cannot accept the deal.~ Franklin seemed taller. ~And the dowry must be paid in cash.~
Nathaniel and Jacob Hop followed the directors a few steps away. The man hiding behind women’s skirts dropped to his belly and wriggled through the grass until he was close enough to listen, too. The twelve men huddled behind a short wall and began yelling at Stuyvesant.
~Don’t tell me you’re going to be this selfish, Adriaan!~
~My own marriage was arranged! How would an arranged marriage with the Emperor Thomas Penn be a shameful or disappointing thing?~
~She’ll live a wonderful life, you understand that?~
~But she’s betrothed already!~ Stuyvesant yelled back. ~Do you really want me to break my daughter’s heart?~
~YES!~
~This will save the company!~
~Half a million crowns?~ Stuyvesant pulled at his own face in astonishment. ~I don’t have that money!~
~We’ll lend it to you!~ several shouted together.
~You’ll make back the money in three years. Think of the litigation costs saved! Think of the costs avoided by sharing markets with the Imperials! Think of the new buyers and additional revenue!~
~Think of the monopoly!~
~You aren’t saving just the company. You’re saving the Republic! If the company fails, the Republic’s tax base withers, and then who will re-pave Wall Street?~
~You’re saving the Empire! You were the one who told us about the Assembly, and how the Empire needs cash to send soldiers to fight the beastkind!~
~Don’t be selfish!~
A cunning expression came over Stuyvesant’s face. ~If I am asked to sacrifice my daughter for the Republic and the Empire, surely you can do better than lend me money for the dowry.~
The man lying on the grass yelled. ~No! Adriaan, no!~
~Shut up!~ Stuyvesant yelled back.
The other men didn’t notice the exchange. They looked back and forth at each other in surprise.
~It would be a good interest rate, though,~ one said.
~The best,~ a second added.
~Don’t be selfish.~ Stuyvesant wagged his finger at the other directors. ~If I’m to give up my daughter, you must be willing to pay the money.~
~I’m still willing to give up my wife,~ one director said glumly. ~Better my wife than my wealth.~
~Stop trying to sell your wife, Rijkert,~ his neighbor said. ~Franklin already turned her down.~
Ambroos stepped forward. ~Nobody is being asked to sell a daughter—or a wife—or to lose a daughter. The Emperor proposes a very honorable marriage and, if I understand you correctly, a marriage that will strengthen the company and the Republic financially.~
~That is correct,~ Stuyvesant said to Ambroos. To the other directors, he said, ~Do we have a deal?~
~No!~ yelled the man on the ground.
~Who is that?~ Jake whispered to Nathaniel.
Nathaniel shrugged.
~Wait,~ Ambroos said. ~Even an arranged marriage requires the consent of both groom and bride. We’re not Appalachee here, you know, we don’t kidnap our women. And you want me to tell the shareholders and the public that everything here was done above board, don’t you?~
The directors agreed, grumbling.
Adriaan Stuyvesant licked his lips. ~If you agree that you will pay the half million—pay, not lend—and I mean you eight who have any money, I’m not going to hang this around the preachers’ necks—then I will go ask my daughter to break off her engagement and marry Thomas instead. She’s a good girl, I think she’ll do it.~
~And the young man?~ Ambroos asked.
~I will handle him,~ Stuyvesant said.
All around, the thirteen men nodded. They looked like chickens, clucking and bobbing their heads up and down, and then like chickens they waddled back around the low wall to meet with Franklin again.
The man lying on the ground stood up and crept away.
~Alright,~ Adriaan Stuyvesant said. ~Let me speak with my daughter.~
Franklin smiled. ~I’ll look forward to your answer tomorrow.~
Jacob Hop pointed at the man creeping away. ~Can we follow him?~
Nathaniel wanted to say no. He felt ragged and exhausted, but he nodded.
* * *
Kinta Jane was knocked out of sleep by the slamming of a door. She had always been a good sleeper—able to fall asleep quickly, able to wake easily. It was a necessary skill for a workin
g woman in the Faubourg Marigny, and it had served her well in the Ohio. On this day, it had allowed her to take an efficient nap beside the fire while Isaiah Wilkes attended the meeting with Adriaan Stuyvesant.
It was Wilkes who came through the door. He was still dressed as a woman, but before Kinta Jane’s eyes he stepped up and out of his assumed woman’s walk and into a longer, taller stride. Plucking the false nose from his face, he tossed it into the flames.
“You look angry,” Kinta Jane said.
“I am…agitated. We leave immediately.”
The Conventicle’s Franklin certainly sounded enraged. “Where’s Dockery?” she asked him.
“We leave without him. We’ll take a different road.”
A knock came at the door.
“Go away, Adriaan!” Wilkes yelled.
“It’s my apartment, dammit!” Stuyvesant yelled back.
“Then open the door if you like!” Isaiah Wilkes tore the remainder of his disguise from his body and climbed back into his own clothing.
Stuyvesant came in. “I was being polite.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, also I thought you might shoot me.”
“I still might.”
Kinta Jane’s things were already collected in a single shoulder bag. She pulled on her winter walking boots and stood near the door, ready to move.
“Perhaps a marriage will put me in a position to influence the Emperor,” Stuyvesant said. “Perhaps I can…awaken Brother Onas.”
Wilkes shrugged into his coat. “Perhaps a marriage will put you in a position so that the Necromancer can corrupt you, as he has corrupted Thomas. Perhaps you will fall into the same sleep that plagues Brother Onas, and another wall of Franklin’s bastion will collapse.”
“I could never do that,” Stuyvesant protested.
“And this morning,” Wilkes said, picking up his shoulder bag. “What would you have said about Julia? Would you have said you were willing to break off her engagement?”
Stuyvesant said nothing.
“And yet now you propose to do it. For mere money, Adriaan. For money!”