“Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Yes, that’s just great.”
Rodrigo jumped a little. “Ah, I was supposed to bring you to the cabin, wasn’t I? The admiral wanted to see you.”
I forced myself to gulp down my worsening nausea. “You and I need to talk,” the admiral had said back in Palos — and it didn’t sound like a friendly suggestion.
But it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter. “This way, Luis,” Rodrigo said, so I adjusted the strap of my bag over my chest and followed him across the heaving deck toward the aftcastle.
We found Colón standing outside the cabin door, appearing taller than I remembered him, and broader. While I continually had to shift my weight to keep balance on the deck, Colón seemed completely still, as if his boots were attached to the Santa María. Steps away from him stood a very young tawny-haired noble, speaking to him in a clipped but cultured tone.
“It was my father’s idea to bring him along, actually. Captain Pinzón said it wouldn’t be a problem. After all, we wouldn’t want to be without him if any rodents happened to stow their way aboard.”
For an instant I thought the boy was talking about me and Jinniyah. Colón directed his attention to a spot not far from his boots. “I must admit this is a first,” he said. “I’ve never had the privilege of traveling with a cat.”
In fact not far from the admiral plopped a large, goldeneyed tomcat, who seemed to be wearing the same condescending expression as his tawny-haired owner.
The admiral went on, “But when I said I was glad your father changed his mind, I wasn’t talking about your feline companion. I was talking about you, Don Terreros. Back in Granada, the count didn’t seem too eager to send his only son on a voyage to Cathay.”
The young nobleman was inspecting his fingernails. “My father had hoped that I would honor his good name by winning a victory on the field of battle. Unfortunately our kingdom is at peace for the moment, so the Terreros name will have to win glory on the seas.”
The sound of the name made Rodrigo’s muscles jolt within his skin. “Did you say ‘Terreros’?” the accountant interrupted. “But you couldn’t be one of the Terreroses from Burgos?”
That made the tawny-haired noble look up from his fingernails. “I am,” the boy said guardedly.
Rodrigo swooped in and shook the young man’s hand as if using it to paint the side of a barn. “Why, this is an honor! You must allow me to congratulate you, Don Terreros. I just heard about your sister! To win a betrothal to the Duke of Alba’s son — why, your family must feel so honored!”
Don Terreros’s face went bright scarlet. “I’m sorry, Señor . . . ?”
“Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia.” The accountant arched his lanky body over the deck in a stiff bow. “I am Her Majesty’s inspector and —”
“Yes, Señor Sanchez, and where, exactly, did you obtain the information about my sister’s impending nuptials?”
Rodrigo’s raised fingers twiddled away the question. “Oh, it’s about the biggest news in Segovia these days. Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone.” Rodrigo’s hand then snapped up to his mouth. “Oh. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret, was it?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Don Terreros’s face seemed to grow even redder at that question. Obviously the news of his sister’s betrothal was supposed to be a secret.
“I must applaud your rumormongers, Señor Sanchez!” the boy said shrilly. “I did not realize how quickly news travels these days. At this rate I am certain by the end of the month the Khan of Cathay will know all about my family’s private affairs! And it will be thanks to you, Señor Sanchez! Thanks to you, the ever-noble accountant!”
Rodrigo blanched at the outburst and even seemed to cower a bit. Terreros, though muscular, was not all that large, but I’d no doubt he could re-dislocate Rodrigo’s spindly arms out of sheer ferocity.
Fortunately Colón stepped between them. “Have you met Luis yet, Pedro?” Colón said, giving Rodrigo the opportunity to scurry away. “Luis, let me introduce Pedro Terreros, our ship’s cabin boy.”
Ah, so that’s where I’d heard the name Terreros before! This was the person Martín mentioned back in Palos, the one with the unpleasant family who had beaten me to the cabin boy job.
“Pedro,” Colón went on, “Luis here is our new interpreter. Our very gifted new interpreter, I should say.”
I inadvertently snorted at the statement. Gifted? I’d been called a lot of things in my life: coward, lukmani, Marrano. But gifted? I’d never been called that before, and never by an admiral either. Grinning dopily at the compliment, I put my hand in front of Pedro Terreros. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“A pleasure.” Pedro took my hand and gave me a good look-over, and I returned the favor. Pedro’s athletic figure was overburdened by fineries of all kinds: an emerald clasp held a black sable-lined cape in place over one shoulder; underneath it, I saw a brocaded ochre jerkin covering a doublet of patterned forest green silk. Yes, Pedro was a nobleman if ever there was one. Or at least a nobleboy. He seemed about my age, maybe fifteen at the most. Not one curl of his tawny hair was out of place under his smart brimless hat. His delicate features, offset by thick eyebrows and a severe chin, were growing more and more crinkled by the second. He appeared to have smelled something particularly acrid — and that something, I could easily guess, was me.
“He is quite young, is he not?” Pedro said to the admiral.
“As are you,” Colón pointed out.
“I meant for an interpreter.” From the haughty way Terreros spoke to the admiral, it seemed Terreros held the senior position.
“Perhaps. But Luis here is a marvel. He can translate anything put in front of him: Italian, Portuguese. Even Aramaic and Turkish. The crew’s taken to calling him ‘The Miraculous Jew.’ Isn’t that right, Luis?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, still grinning at Colón’s compliment. For all the pain it had brought me, this Storytelling business was turning out to have its perks.
Pedro Terreros was not as impressed with me as I was with myself, however. The red-faced noble ran his gaze up and down my body once more. “But Admiral, this is absurd! This voyage is far too important to place in the hands of a child!”
In a patient tone Colón said, “What would you suggest I do, Don Terreros?”
“Return to Palos. We can find a new translator there — an educated translator. What you do with this . . . boy is up to your discretion.”
As Pedro spoke I remained silent, examining Colón’s face for a clue of my fate. If Pedro’s father really was a count, he was probably funding this voyage. No, I was thinking small. For all I knew the Terreroses were related to royalty! If it came down to a choice between me and some royal, it was obvious how Colón would choose.
Or maybe not. Colón put on a fatherly tone and said, “I appreciate your suggestions, Pedro. But I cannot in good conscience abandon any member of our crew. Please trust me when I say I am certain Luis will live up to your high expectations. And who knows? I have a feeling that once you and Luis get to know each other, you two will become fast friends. But right now you must excuse me. I must see Luis in my office.”
And like that the conversation was over. Having asserted his authority, Colón entered his quarters, leaving his cabin boy to sputter outside on his own. Smiling, I turned to follow the man inside. A hand clasped around my upper arm from behind.
“You stay away from me,” Pedro breathed into my ear. He roughly released my arm, sending me tripping into the cabin’s outer wall. “And watch your step.”
Pedro’s threats didn’t worry me very much. If dealing with him was the extent of my heroic trials, this journey was going to be easier than I’d thought. I was sure I’d win him over to my side sooner or later. If six weeks of my dumb jokes and stories didn’t turn him into a friend, well, that was his problem, not mine.
I entered the admiral’s cabin, a cramped, dim room with only two meager portholes — o
ne in the door, and one in the back behind the admiral’s desk. The desk itself was a sight to see, not due to its workmanship, but because of the mess of papers that spilled over it. The papers were an expensive luxury, and the bed behind that desk was, too. The rest of the men on this ship would sleep out on the deck in rain or shine.
“Have a seat,” Colón said, gesturing to the chair across from him. A long-barreled gun sat on that chair — an arquebus, I later learned it was called. I moved it to the bed and sat in the now-empty place, listening to the Santa Marías bow creak below and beside us.
For a while Colón and I regarded each other in silence. The man was much whiter than anyone I’d seen on deck, and quite sunburned in places from the noonday sun. His bushy gray mane was streaked with the remains of a more youthful strawberry blond — not a particularly Spanish color, to be sure — and many of the papers on his desk had mysterious symbols scribbled in the margins. No wonder the crew questioned the admiral’s origins. Colón was like no man I’d ever seen before.
“So,” the admiral said at last. “‘Martín Pinzón’s Miraculous Jew.’” Colón picked up a nearby quill and rolled it between his fingers. “At least, that’s what that fool thinks you are. Yes, I said, ‘fool.’ Oh, Pinzón’s an able captain, to be sure” — the way Colón grimaced suggested that this was a main point of contention between the two — “but he cannot see past his sails and his tables to the truth. That you are what the stories speak of. A lukmani.”
I caught my breath at the word.
“Yes, I know what you are,” the admiral said, eyes twinkling. “There was talk that your kind did battle in Granada, and although I did not see them for myself, I know it is God’s truth. And that you, who can understand any language, are one of them. Tell me I am mistaken.” The admiral’s pale blue eyes bored into me, reading me as if I were one of his papers. “Do not lie to me, de Torres. I swear I will not harm you.”
I don’t know why, but I believed him when he said it. It could have been the way he held himself or the calm power of his voice. It could have been the way he never seemed to blink. But whatever the reason I trusted this man. There was something straightforward about him, something strong. Maybe Martín was right. Maybe Colón’s calculations were incorrect. Maybe we’d all starve to death before we reached Cathay. But right now, if I had to believe one man over the other, I’d choose the one sitting in front of me without question. I would bet this man could get us to the Indies by force of will alone.
So I said, “You’re right, Admiral. I am a Storyteller.”
Colón clasped his hands together on his desk. “I appreciate your honesty. And I will not lie to you, either. So let me be upfront. I would not have chosen to have a sorcerer on my ship. I am a Christian, and some say the lukmani do the work of the Devil.”
I cast my eyes down at his papers. Until now I’d not had time to consider where my Storytelling abilities had come from, but it was common knowledge that witches got their powers from Satan. Everyone knew witches traded their souls and any chance at happiness in the afterlife in order to lay curses on their enemies — or summon demons from the underworld. The sight of Colón’s papers lying before me filled me with unease. Castilian, Portuguese, Aragonese, Latin: I was able to read them all.
It reminded me of a story Father Joaquin used to tell when I was a boy. In ancient times the people of the world could speak the same language, and they joined together to build a tower that would reach up to Heaven. The Lord, seeing this as arrogance, destroyed their tower and made it so they were unable to understand one another’s tongues. The moral of the story, the priest said, was this: The people of the world were not meant to understand one another.
But I could. I could understand them all. Maybe Colón was right about me. Maybe I had sold my soul for these powers.
Colón must have noticed how upset I was, because his normally-steely voice turned gentle. “My apologies, Luis. I should not have said that. Where your powers come from makes no difference to me. Now that you are here I wish to keep you. When we reach the Indies I will have need for an interpreter, and a lukmani will be a certain boon for us.
“But if you will remain on this ship, you must do two things for me. First I would know what your business is here. It is clear you are no sailor, so that means one of two things. Either you are running to something, or you are running from something. So which is it?”
The answer, of course, was both. “I’m looking for someone,” I mumbled. “I’m trying to find my father.”
Colón’s clasped fingers relaxed noticeably at the answer. “As for the second thing: You must make me a promise. You must vow to keep yourself secret from the men. You must not use your magic. No one is to know you are a lukmani. Not the Pinzón brothers, not your friend Antonio de Cuellar. No one. Do you understand? Should someone learn of your powers, it will spell doom for this mission.”
I couldn’t help but fidget under the word “doom.” It sounded like another of the Baba Yaga’s prophecies. “May I ask why, sir?” I said.
Colón walked to the porthole in the door to size up his men. “They are good men, Luis. Sturdy. Strong. But they are not educated men like us. They are simple people, who live not by God’s word but by the dark whisperings of superstition. And they will fear your powers. I’ve no doubt they will mutiny if they know of them.”
I stretched my neck to get a better look out the window. There was the carpenter Antonio de Cuellar, joking with some of his sailor friends. Uneducated? Maybe. But I would hardly call him “simple.”
All the same I said, “I won’t tell them, Admiral. You have my word.”
“Good,” Colón said, and he smiled a real smile. “I think we’ll get along fine, you and I. Something about you. It reminds me of my son.”
The conversation apparently over, I got up to leave. But before I could reach for the cabin door the admiral’s voice rose up hesitantly. “There was one more thing I was meaning to tell you, Luis. Have you ever heard the term ‘Malleus Maleficarum’?”
I stopped reaching for the door and brought my hand back to my side. “I see that you have,” Colón went on. “Back in Spain your Queen Isabel told me she was concerned that we might run across lukmani over the course of our travels. Officially the Malleus Maleficarum is not supposed to exist. But your queen intimated that she might send a man from that organization on this voyage to report on magic use abroad.”
My inquisitor’s lizard teeth glinted at me in my memory, and the heretic’s fork in his hand. You think you’ve won, lukmani! But we will find you! We will find you!
“I do not want to worry you unnecessarily,” Colón said, “but there may be a spy on this ship. I thought perhaps you should know.”
I looked back out the cabin window. Outside, dozens of sailors were ambling across the deck, ready to begin their watch. How many men lived on this ship now? More than forty, if I had to guess, and nearly forty more on the Niña and Pinta combined. That made eighty men. Eighty men who could be my assassin.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and I left the cabin with eyes unfocused. The Malleus Maleficarum. They were here, waiting to capture me and punish me for my sins. The shadow of the mainsail fell coldly over me, and I looked up to see Pedro Terreros resting against the ship’s rail. He tilted back his head, and his brown eyes flashed red in the summer sun. Then my body started shaking from top to bottom, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“What?!”
Jinniyah and I had locked ourselves down in the damp, creaky hold, having come here so she could pray in privacy before dinner. Tons of supplies had been stuffed within the room’s bowed walls: barrels of water, crates of trade goods, a hodgepodge of plain-sheathed swords. Off to one side a thick ladder, eroded in places by years of climbing hands and heavy boots, led up to the hatch that opened out onto the main deck. Jinniyah and I had been sitting here, legs dangling over one of the hold’s stale-smelling barrels, when I’d made the mistake of revealing what Colón
said to me in the cabin.
“There’s a spy?!” Jinniyah exclaimed, and she flew up and around me so she could shove me off my barrel. “Well, that settles it! You’re going to learn to be a Storyteller. Right now.”
I waved her away with a halfhearted swat, then picked at my half-eaten bowl of lentils with a piece of hardtack. Of course Jinniyah would demand I learn magic now, mere hours after I’d sworn to Colón that I wouldn’t. Even more importantly, I had promised myself.
“But you have to learn to protect yourself!” Jinniyah insisted. “Go on. Make a creature — quick, quick!”
Her words barely registered. I was still lost in an ancient world of collapsing towers. “You heard what I said at the Baba Yaga’s. I’m not interested in being a Storyteller.”
“Why not?” Jinniyah said, and I found I couldn’t answer. Why not? Because Colón was right, that was why not. Because sorcerers were evil beings who got their powers from the Devil. No, I hadn’t actually made any pacts with Satan, to the best of my knowledge, but that didn’t mean that my powers weren’t demonic, somehow.
Why not, indeed. “Come on, Jinni. Haven’t you read the Bible?”
Jinniyah crossed her arms and looked down on me, her eyes mildly scolding. “Oh, right,” I muttered. Jinniyah was a Moor — a fact I had to constantly remind myself of.
I pointed my piece of hardtack at the girl. “Well, I’m sure it says the same thing in your Bible. Doing magic is a sin, and I’m not going to do it.”
Jinniyah glided closer to me and plucked a hair out of my head. “But I’m magic,” she said with a tone of mischief. “Do you think I’m a sin?”
I rubbed my head. “That’s completely different.”
“Exactly the same,” Jinniyah all but sang. “Lots of people think genies are evil, you know. They say we’re all sinners, that we’re demons, blah, blah, blah. But we’re not! At least, not all of us. It’s the same thing with Storytellers. Storytelling can be good or bad, depending on how you use it.”
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