by Vic Connor
The sliced barrel of one of Escobar’s pistols, shattered by Miyu’s blow.
I inspect it. It’s useless. “That won’t even serve as a spare part, I’m afraid.” I toss it back to the ground.
“Lucky for us, my child,” says Juanita, searching the Lieutenant’s body, “he was carrying two of those weapons.” She lifts a second pistol, which Escobar never drew.
“What was lucky is that the shot didn’t hit you,” I tell Miyu. “Did it?”
The onna-bugeisha spreads her arms, like silken wings, and turns a couple of slow circles. She doesn’t look hurt.
“That be part luck, aye,” grumbles Abe. He has taken Escobar’s pistol from Juanita and examines it with interest. “An’ part it bein’ a bad move from t’ Spaniard.”
He approaches and hands me the weapon. It’s a massive chunk of metal, almost the size of a compact shotgun if those things existed in-game, and three times as heavy as my other flintlock pistols.
Memory Unlocked:
Tools of the Trade
The thick-bearded man looks at the table that separates him from me, his expression grim. His tricorne hat casts ominous shadows over his face.
He keeps his hands clasped at his back. “Fifty paces,” he says.
Several pistols lie neatly arranged on the table. No two models are the same: long barrel this one, short barrel that one, this other one much fatter… Each gun a specific tool for a specific situation.
“This one.” I touch the dark wooden grip of a pistol with a barrel so long, it could be mistaken for a short rifle.
The tricorne hat’s shadows swing around the man’s face as his head bobs up and down.
“Five paces,” he replies.
“Charging at me?” I ask.
“No. Facing a friend of yours.”
I reach for the ivory and silver grip of a fat-barreled pistol with a disproportionately thick muzzle.
The faintest of all smiles crosses the man’s lips as his left hand reaches for my weapon of choice. “Heavy,” he says, picking it up. “Slow. Clumsy. Useless at more than a dozen paces.” He aims the thick-snouted muzzle at my chest. “But if your friends distract your foe, this big mouth will spell your enemy’s doom.”
“Pistolón, they call them,” I say. “That’s Spanish for really, really big pistol.”
“That thing be closer t’ cannon than pistol, me lad,” Abe grunts. “Not sayin’ ya cannae sinks a war galley with it, if ya manage t’ hit it. But tryin’ t’ aim in t’ thick o’ the fight may be a bad idea, me lad. Too big, too heavy. Jus’ asks its former owner.” He spits toward where Lieutenant Escobar lies dead, cut down by both Miyu’s naginata and Abe’s cutlass. “He never even gots the chance o’ drawin’, let alone firin’.”
He has a point. I won’t be able to Quick Draw this one. And the way the pistolón’s extra-broad barrel is cut tells me it won’t be very accurate at long range.
“Yet it should work point blank, Abe me mate,” I say. “It should work really well.”
He draws his brows closer, unconvinced.
Juanita approaches us, holding in each hand the remains of the Lieutenant’s possessions: a rather fine rapier and the wide-brimmed hat crowned with a tall ostrich plume as white as snow.
I grab the rapier’s pommel as Juanita offers it to me…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
I look at my bound, crippled legs. “No use,” I say. “Even if I remembered how to properly wield a sword, that won’t heal my legs. And fencing is more about footwork than anything else, that much I know. Is this fine rapier of any use to you, Ol’ Abe me mate?”
“If Ol’ Abe be wantin’ t’ roast a chicken, a skewer may come mighty handy, aye.” He sneers. “But fer fighting Spaniards—” he pats his cutlass’ blade “—Ol’ Abe prefers good English steel.”
“The rapier looks like a fine weapon,” Juanita adds. “It may fetch a good price if sold in Duurstad.”
“Could be worth even more in Morgantown,” Abe grunts. “Them godless Dutch be tough hagglers, t’ whole lot o’ them. Ya needs t’ squeeze ‘em like a sponge if ya wants to gets their coins.”
“Let me see the Lieutenant’s hat,” I say, mostly to interrupt their bickering.
Juanita hands it to me, glowering at the pirate.
The hat has seen better days, but its workmanship seems excellent, and the ostrich plume—white and soft and puffy as a cloud on a sunny day—looks brand new, as if attached only recently. And the hat’s flair matches this “swords and flintlocks” setting we are in. This is something d’Artagnan and the Three Musketeers wouldn’t be ashamed of wearing in Paris.
Abe spits on the ground.
“Hey,” I say, “this here fine piece of headwear be much fancier than the dirty bandana ye have wrapped around that thick skull o’ yours, me pirate mate.”
I try the hat on. It fits me like a glove, the wide brim comfortably blocking the sun from my face.
Juanita looks like she’s struggling to hold back a smirk.
“Jake,” the Noh mask hisses.
Miyu is standing as straight as the polearm she holds by her side, looking as sharp as the gleaming blade above her head. Something in the way the mask tilts forward tells me my sudden interest in European headwear has failed to impress the onna-bugeisha. “Time waste,” she hisses. “Choose way.”
“Our lance lady be right,” agrees Abe, squinting at the afternoon sun. “There be three hours o’ sunlight left. We could be makin’ it t’ Morgantown right after dusk, maybe.” He eyes my crutches.
“Or, we could travel a couple hours farther,” Juanita suggests, “until we reach the crossroad between Duurstad and Villarica.”
“I says we goes to Morgantown, witch.”
“And I say I should go to Villarica,” Juanita replies.
“What be t’ thing ya has fer ‘em Dutch, witch?” Abe demands. “I knows, thems buys and sells everythin’, but what—”
“Did you listen, you deaf oaf?” Juanita sneers. “I did not say Duurstad. I said Villarica.”
Both Abe and I stare at the witch.
“You made it very clear,” I remind her, “that we aren’t ready for confronting the Spaniards head-on.”
“Aye,” says Abe, “an’—”
“We are not,” she says. “But I can go by myself, alone.”
I glance at Abe, confused.
The pirate seems equally lost, then his eyes narrow as he seems to catch her drift. “That be mighty risky, witch, if yarr thinkin’ how me nose says yarr thinkin’…”
She lifts the sleeves of her poncho, leaving her arms mostly bare. Rows of crude glyphs are tattooed from her shoulder to forearm in red, black, and blue ink.
Memory Unlocked:
Juanita’s Glyphs
A dozen men and women stand on a crude wooden stage. Dirty, malnourished, half-naked. Some are black-skinned, brown-skinned the rest. Chains link their ankles, wrists, and necks.
Those who are brown-skinned have rows of crude glyphs tattooed on their shoulders, arms, and forearms; some with green and yellow ink, some with green, red, and blue; one with red, blue, and black.
The auctioneer presents each of them, one by one, reading their glyphs in a coarse, loud voice: their age, their former tribe, their crime.
Their base price.
“You want to sneak into Villarica,” I clarify. “Posing as a slave.”
“Not to sneak in, young Jake. But walk right through the main gate.” She looks at Miyu and nods toward the Priest’s corpse. “I will need several thin ribbons, sunset woman. Will your sharp blades help me with that?”
Both women crouch by the Priest’s corpse. Steel flashes from inside Miyu’s sleeve as she slashes ribbons off the black cassock, which Juanita then braids into a bracelet.
“Fer her wrists, Ol’ Abe would wager,” whispers the pirate besides me, watching the witch and samurai work.
“Right,” I say. “To cover the blue eagle marking
her as a freed slave.”
“Aye,” he whispers. “This be mighty risky, lad. If the Spaniards be wise t’ her ruse…”
“But if it works, it could save us a lot of time,” I argue. “We’re not certain that Barboza dragged Uitzli to Villarica, are we?”
“Nay; that bastard could be takin’ our lil’ angel back with ‘im, t’ his estate…”
“Or she could be dead, and—”
“Never,” he snaps. “Never be sayin’ that again.” He raises both hands. “Or ya be losin’ thems teeth, along with yarr tongue. Ya hear, lad?” His eyes flash with fury and fear in equal measure.
“We’ll find her, Abe,” I assure him. “We will.”
His anger cools down.
I pat his huge shoulder. “I promise, mate. We will.”
We crawl along the Northern Road with the sun at our backs as it continues its westward fall. We move carefully, allowing time for Abe’s nose and Juanita’s bees to sniff and scout ahead to avoid further entanglements with inquisitive Spanish patrols.
Luck seems to be on our side though: the path is deserted.
As Juanita predicted, we reach a fork in the road about two hours after leaving behind the corpses of Escobar and his men. One path makes a left toward the north-east of Isla Hermosa. The other bends to the right, leading roughly south.
We stop.
I place most of my weight on my fettered legs, leaning on my crutches only enough to ensure I don’t lose my balance. My shoulders, arms, and armpits welcome the respite. I have to give it to them, though: While still ever-present, the burning pain in my joints and muscles has receded to just ‘persistent annoyance,’ an improvement from the burning I endured yesterday. The musketeer hat we looted from Lieutenant Escobar may have something to do with it. It’s drenched in the sweat that gushes like a fountain from my forehead and down to my neck, my back, and my chest, but the hat’s wide brim has done a commendable job of preventing the sun’s merciless rays from punishing my skin.
“I should continue alone from here,” Juanita says.
Options flash above her.
“Choices,” I whisper. “Tough bitches.”
If Sveta is listening, I bet she’s grinning now.
How long will it take you?
We should stick together, and…
Okay; we’ll wait for you here.
“How long will it take you?” I ask.
“Our dear Uitzli is a rare sight,” she replies. “A young Aztec girl whose hair is as pale as the moon, with skin as white as that of a sunrise maiden who has never set foot outdoors.” She gestures to the north-eastward path to Villarica. “Spaniards, like men of all colors, love to indulge in drinking from dusk till midnight. Soon, their tongues will become loose, words falling from their mouths while the juice of rotten fruits takes hold of their minds, and they will not pay much attention to their servants. It should not take long to hear gossip about the fate of a young, silver-haired captive.”
“So, you’ll be back by midnight?” I ask.
“That be too risky,” Abe butts in. “Enterin’ or leavin’ t’ city in t’ middle o’ t’ night.”
Juanita nods. “I will reach Villarica right before sundown, keeping my head low like a good slave hurrying back after running some oh-so-important errand. I will return tomorrow after sunrise, when workers go out to their daily toils and the night guards are too tired to stay watchful.”
We should stick together, and…
Okay; we’ll wait for you here.
“I’m not sure I like you going alone, Juanita. I think we should stick together, and…”
…go all together to Villarica.
…forget about Villarica and go all together to Duurstad.
…spend the night here and decide what to do in the morning.
You are right…
Her plan isn’t bad. The Spaniards will surely pay less attention to a single slave than to a slave plus an almost seven-foot tall pirate, plus a silk-shrouded samurai, plus a cripple with a musketeer’s hat whose left crutch is becoming quite the gun rack.
But sending her alone, I don’t know…
“We should all go together to Villarica,” I confirm. “If you, too, get caught, it will shatter our party.”
Miyu tilts her head to the left, then nods.
“Thems Spaniards be sniffin’ that we be up t’ no good.” Abe snaps his fingers; the gun-like crack echoes in the quiet jungle. “Jus’ like that.”
Juanita turns to me. “A single slave, barely unable to walk without her staff. I will surely draw less attention than her polearm, his cutlass, and your pistols, young Jake.”
Yeah, that’s more or less what I was—
“But it is true,” she continues. “If the Spaniards catch me alone, I shall be doomed, and our group fractured. So, what shall we do, young Jake?”
Bitching final choices…
We will go all together to Villarica. Let’s go, we only have an hour left before sunset.
We will forget about Villarica, and we will all go to Duurstad.
We will all spend the night here and decide where to go in the morning.
We will wait for you here. May the gods you pray to be on our side.
My three companions gaze at me, waiting for my reply.
Man, what I wouldn’t give to save the game here and just see what happens if we go knocking on Villarica’s door all blade-swinging, gun-blazing, let’s-see-this-through-to-the-bloody-end crazy, frigging cautiousness be damned.
I bet anything the Noh mask would approve, to be honest. It would be fun, even. But we’d all end up dead, most likely. And I can’t reload the game.
All right.
Finding out what’s going on in Villarica is a good idea. And waiting until tomorrow may be too late.
“We will wait for you here,” I say. “May the gods you pray to be on our side.”
There’s the softest of hisses from behind Miyu’s mask.
Juanita nods. “Very well, young Jake. I shall be on my way.”
“Ya got balls, witch,” Abe says with an undertone of admiration. “Big as ‘em cannonballs from Henry Morgan’s flagship.”
“I have something better than cannons,” Juanita smiles. “The Smoking Mirror will not abandon me; not here, not now.”
“Aye.” The pirate nods. “May yarr pagan lord be helpin’ an’ protectin’ ya, witch.” He spits on the ground. “Fer if he be not, may our good Lord Almighty have mercy on us’n all.”
17
Downtime
Juanita sets off at a brisk pace toward Villarica, the coral snake patterns on her poncho wiggling furiously as she strides. In a few heartbeats, we’ve lost sight of her, and soon after, we can no longer hear her footsteps.
Abe pulls his head back and inhales, eyes closed. When he opens them, he looks up at the darkening sky, where the evening stars are sparkling. “No trouble nearby, me nose says. An’ no need t’ be lightin’ us a fire. Night be warm.”
“Shouldn’t we worry about, I don’t know, wolves, or something?”
There’s an eerie, crystalline sound: Miyu giggles. She’s even put her left fingers over her mask’s mouth, as if that makes a difference.
Abe’s rumbling laughter soon joins hers.
“All right, all right,” I grumble. “No wolves here, I get it.”
She tilts her head backward to enlarge the mask’s smile. “Stars,” she says, pointing above. “Friends.”
“Miracle, is it? Nothin’ on four legs bigger than ‘em dogs in this ‘ere damned island, lad.” Abe looks at the side of the road. “Still, findin’ us a spot yonder, hidden among ‘em trees an’ away from t’ beaten path, be a mighty fine idea. Blast me if some soldiers or travelers don’t come along, bad cess may brings thems.”
It’s no easy task to navigate through trunks, roots, and vines with my crutches, and the approaching darkness makes it no easier. Abe leads the way, hacking at lianas and branches to clear a makeshift trail for me to fo
llow, until about fifty paces from the road, we reach the foot of a huge tree.
“Far enough fer us’n t’ be hiddin’ from prying eyes.” Abe sits down and makes himself comfortable among the leaves and the tall grass. “An’ close enough fer us’n t’ take a peek on rotten passersby.” His back rests against the trunk.
Miyu kneels in such a graceful way that her upper body seems to have no weight, sitting cross-legged with her polearm by her side.
I unceremoniously toss my wide-brimmed hat to the ground, drop my crutches, and plop my butt down. Only then do I remember I have the Spanish pistolón tucked behind my back, and the gun reminds me of this by sinking its metal protrusions into the bottom of my spine. “Damn it,” I curse, all too keenly aware of the spectacle I’m making by wiggling like a worm while I try to lift my butt and dislodge the weapon. But neither Abe nor Miyu seem to care, or if they do, they don’t appear to think it’s funny.
I find a tree trunk to use as backrest myself and place the pistolón over my knees.
Abe has produced a packet of stale sea biscuits from inside his rucksack, each wafer the size of my palm, and hands me a couple.
“Abe, Ol’ mate,” I joke, after nearly breaking a tooth when I gnaw into one of them, “methinks a shark would be havin’ a hard time a-chewing one of these, me friend. Yer cookies, them be tougher than coffin nails, yarrr!”
The pirate bites a large chunk off the biscuit he’s holding, as if to prove me wrong. “Weak teeth, that be t’ first sign of scurvy, me lad,” he informs me, chewing like he is a debris crusher. “An’ there be nothin’ scurvy ‘bout ‘em sharks, or Ol’ Abe.” His jaws squash the rest of the biscuit. “Nae sure ‘bout ya though, me boy.”
I sink my teeth into my own biscuit again: rock-hard, bitter, but not bad after not having eaten anything all day. “Isn’t she ever hungry?” I ask, glancing at Miyu.
“Never seen ‘er gulpin’ nothin’.” Abe hands me another biscuit. “Never seen ‘er without ‘er mask, blast me eyes if I did.”