He turned to look at his adjutant. “Mr. Porfino, have you found your first battle edifying?”
“Eh? Uh… si, signor. I mean, yes sir.”
“Wonderful. I suspect you might find yourself a tad closer to the action next time. But for now, signal the gajeta in the Cala Santa Maria inlet to make its way around this headland and bring the balance of the prize crew to the xebec.” The young Piombinese swallowed and sprinted off to carry out his orders.
North set the safety on his rifle, leaned it against the rock behind which he had taken cover, and looked through his binoculars toward the scialuppa. Having chugged out to a safe range for the majority of the fight, the craft was now heading slowly back toward the inlet on oars alone, two of its crew readjusting the rigging of its lateen sail. When he finally found the right focus, he discovered that Miro and Lefferts were standing in the bows of their boat. And were looking back through their own binoculars; a moment later they both waved and grinned.
North returned their waves and felt the faint stirrings of annoyance at Miro. Yes, damn it, Estuban’s bold plan had worked. Furthermore, with Harry’s help and moral support, he had carried it out under fire, leading from the front because only he and Lefferts had all the necessary skills for this particular job. Miro was the only one who had possessed expert knowledge of the local waters, just as Harry had been the only one familiar enough with an outboard motor. Which, in turn, meant that he, Thomas North, veteran of innumerable campaigns across the continent, would now actually have to start acknowledging that intelligence amateur Estuban Miro was now in fact a genuine field operative. Which, North had to admit, was recognition he very much deserved.
But it was still very, very annoying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Don Sancho Jaume Morales y Llaguno, governor of Castell de Bellver by appointment of the Carthusian monks of Valdemossa, was perplexed. And because he was perplexed, and hated being so, particularly in the presence of his social inferiors, he was angry. And growing angrier by the minute. He shook the sheaf of papers in his hand violently. “I ask again, what is this rubbish? Is it code?”
“It’s runic,” answered Frank Stone mildly. “An old Anglo-Saxon alphabet. Although, I think this is a little different. It’s Dwarvish, you see.”
Don Sancho goggled. “It is what?”
“It’s Dwarvish. See, there was this author named Tolkien, and he took these runes from way back in English history-back from before the Viking invasions, I guess. He adapted those runes to represent the alphabet used by the dwarves, who are short, really broad, have long beards, and live under mountains where-”
The governor of Bellver leaned back. “You are here less than two weeks, and already suffering from delusions?” He glared at Giovanna. “Or has he always been like this? Has he bouts of insanity?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she answered airily. “I am often out of the house, grooming our unicorns.”
Don Sancho’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. “You mock me. You will regret this.”
Gia smiled sweetly at him. “I doubt it.” Then she looked out the window, drew her legs under her on one of the narrow alcove’s courting seats, and enjoyed the breeze blowing in off the sea.
Don Sancho became red again and turned to stick a finger so directly into Frank’s face that the up-timer was tempted to bite it. “I ask you again,” snapped the governor, “what are these writings? They look demonic.”
“No, no: it’s just a novel. You know, like Don Quixote.”
The governor scoffed. “As I understand it, Cervantes constrained himself to writing his prose is an appreciably human script!”
Frank nodded, thought, damn, this guy would have been really cheesed if I was writing in the elves’ Quenya. He would probably have made me the main attraction at a human weenie roast. “I’m sorry if it upsets you.”
The governor stared, then threw down the papers in exasperation. “Senor Stone, I assure you, if there is sedition in these papers, or an attempt to somehow communicate beyond these walls, we will learn of it. One of the scholars in Palma indicated that the letters might be from an old Scandinavian dialect, so, although it may take some time, we will be able to decipher them. And moreover, no other person will see them until and unless you are freed.”
Frank nodded again. “I understand.” And I also understand that even once you’ve deciphered the runic alphabet, you’re still not going to be able to make any sense of it, because you won’t have a single clue for understanding the other code in which it’s written. Even if you somehow manage to make sense of all the terms I use from The Lord of the Rings and about a dozen fantasy games, you won’t understand what it really means unless you know that the orcs are the Spanish, the uruk-hai are hidalgos, the Nazgul are inquisitors, and so on and so forth, all the way down to the Uttermost West being up-time Earth. So sure, you’ll decode the alphabet in which the book is written, but you’ll still have gibberish. Happy reading, asshole.
“And we will take these documents whenever we wish, you understand.”
“Of course,” Frank agreed. As if I’m stupid enough to make just one copy.
“And we may have to take possession of it for extended periods.”
“I would expect so.”
Don Sancho dropped the papers. “You may have them back for now. Although I repent my agreeing to your request for the paper and ink. I would never have consented at all, but for the intercession of that annoying captain.”
Frank felt his chest tighten slightly. “What annoying captain?”
“You know. The one who came with you. The one they stationed here with those arrogant brutes from Fort San Carlos.”
Frank could feel Gia’s eyes on him, both playful and recriminatory. “He did that?” asked Frank. “He helped me get the paper and ink?”
“Help you? Senor Stone, if it was not for his insistent meddling on your behalf, you would not have the papers, or the ink, or this apartment which, I will point out, was mine up until your arrival. It is the governor’s privilege to enjoy the views and cool breezes of the top floor of the main tower. In Philip’s own name, he forced me out, declaring it the most secure room in the entire fortress. Which it is, of course.”
Frank frowned. “He-Vincente-did all that?”
“Why, yes, of course. Despite your refusal to take his visits. Frankly, I do not know why he tolerates such insolence.”
“We, uh…we have a history.” Gia was leaning over so Frank could not avoid seeing the way she stared at him with her twinkling “ told you so” eyes.
The governor waved a dismissive hand. “That is your affair. But I suppose you are well suited for each other. You, a lunatic, will not be offended by his insufferable imperiousness.”
Frank reflected that Don Sancho accusing Don Vincente of imperiousness was like an elephant criticizing a mouse for being too large.
The governor stalked toward the door, turned and looked back at the papers he had brought in. “So it is a novel, eh? What is this novel of yours about?”
Frank smiled lopsidedly. “Uh. A lot of things. But nothing in particular, just yet. It’s a work in progress, you see.”
“Hmf.” Don Sancho looked down his nose at the papers that, when he tossed them down, had scattered across the dark wood surface of Frank’s writing table. “It is all lunacy and sorcery, I’ll wager.”
Gia hopped down from her seat at the window and rose to her full height of just over five foot two. “My husband does not traffic in sorcery.”
“He is an up-timer, is he not? That makes him a witch!”
“And you are an appointed official, are you not? That makes you an idiot.”