Harry shrugged. “They weren’t cooperative.”
“I’ll bet not.” Turning back to Miro, North continued his gripes. “And now you propose to stroll to one of these little, one-eyed hamlets, these, these-”
“ Alqueries,” furnished Miro calmly.
“Whatever. You propose to stroll into one, get a ride on the back of a wagon into Manacor where-with luck, as you say-you hope to find a horse for hire, and so ride on to Palma.”
“That’s the plan. About which you have questioned me at length, Thomas.”
“Well, I have one more question.”
“Which is?”
“Which is-are you stark raving mad, Estuban?”
The no-longer-ex-patriate xueta smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I do. You are in charge of this operation. You are the one operating at the direct behest of Ed Piazza to accomplish the military and political objectives of the USE here and in Italy. And now you are going to just toddle off into the night, without so much as an escort?”
“Yes, Thomas, that is exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Well, that is-”
“Thomas you asked me a question; hear my answer.”
North silenced himself with an effort, but kept glowering.
“I am home, Thomas. I know this land and this people better-far better-than any other. I know where trouble lurks and where it does not. I have a hundred possible identities and stories at my fingertips to explain my presence here, and the odds are good that I know some of these peoples’ distant relatives. An escort would only ruin my disguise.” He smiled. “My greatest protection is that I belong in this place, am native to it, and everyone who meets me will know that immediately. My gear and dress announce I am a man with friends and not to be treated lightly, and that harm done to me will result in pointed-or, better yet, pointy-inquiries by those same friends.
“So be at ease, Thomas. My return will be much more swift than my journey to Palma, so I think you should see me again in five days, a week at most.”
“At which point we will come looking for you, Estuban.”
“At which point you will visit this man in Manacor,” Estuban extended a written note to Thomas North. “He is a family friend-but his association with us is not known outside of a very small circle of us xuetas. If anything happens to me, he will already know what happened, where, and when.”
“How?”
“Because this is an old island, with old communities, and ties that were ancient before the Spanish ever set foot here. There are people who will know to watch over me once I step into their shops. They will pass word by channels swift, subtle, and still utterly unsuspected by the Spanish. They will be powerless to help me, but they will know everything that befalls me. Now, I must go if I am to be in Son Frai Gari by dawn.” He turned to Lefferts. “Harry, in my absence, yours is the definitive word of the USE. You are in official charge, but-as I have done-you must allow Colonels North and O’Neill to command the operations you order or authorize.”
“Yeah, sure. You just get your ass back here in one piece, Estuban-and hurry up doing so, okay?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The soft, constant whirr and creak of the windmills lining the shores east of Palma had a soothing sound when mixed with a brisk wind, such as was blowing outside now. The cries of the gulls-distant grace notes, not raucous intrusions-added just enough variety to make it seem like a composition of God’s own design, a subtle symphony to enjoy as Miguel Tarongi waited for “Hello, Miguel.”
Miguel kept himself from starting as a figure brushed past him, evidently emerging from the supposedly secure rear rooms of the tavern. The figure drew out a chair at Tarongi’s table-already laden with red wine, olives, salt sardines, and bread-and turned to face him.
Miguel nodded. “And hello to you, Estuban Miro.” For, against all probabilities, it was he: the best-aspected son of the xuetas who had, for years, been their conduit to, and watchful eyes amidst, the commercial world beyond Palma. And who had seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth-and probably into the maw of Hell and perdition-almost two years earlier. “Nice to see you again,” Miguel added with a laconic drawl.
Miro smiled at the understated tone. “Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I suspect your mother thinks so,” Miguel added a bit more pointedly.
Miro sighed. “Yes, I expect she does. Before I forget, Miguel, please give this to my family. But by indirect channels, you understand.”
Miguel crossed his arms instead of accepting the sizeable parcel of letters. “You’ll give them yourself-when you see your family.”
Miro’s eyes closed and Miguel had to work to maintain his gruff exterior; he knew the look of necessary, self-inflicted pain well enough. Living under the Spanish, no xueta remained a stranger to expressions as tortured as that one for very long.
“I can’t deliver the letters myself, Miguel, because I won’t be seeing my family. And you won’t tell them I’ve been here until after I’m gone.”
“This is nonsense, Estuban. You family deserves-”
“They deserve to survive, Miguel, which they won’t if I have any contact with them while I am here. It would be the start of a new round of auto da fe ’s. Trust me: I know.”
Miguel sighed but took the letters. He also knew that tone: the voice of a man embarked upon a desperate course from which he could not deviate. Miguel looked around. After he determined they were alone except for the tavern-owner, who was, after all, one of them, he shifted into Hebrew. “So where have you been…Ezekiel?”
“Didn’t you get any of my letters…Meir?”
“Not a one. Where did you post them, and when?”
“From Genoa, back in the spring of 1634, just before I went over the Alps and to Grantville.”
Meir’s eyebrows raised. “The Algerines were cruising the waters between the Balearics and Sardinia like schools of sharks, back then. Did you send it on a Spanish boat?”
“Genoese. I couldn’t risk Spanish channels-for your sakes, here.”
Meir nodded. “Which is probably why your letters never arrived; the number of Genoese ships that were lost to pirate-paid mutinies was very high. That only stopped recently.”
“Because the Spanish antipiracy patrols have trebled?”
Meir nodded. “Yes. The African pirates are finding the waters a lot less profitable, and a lot more dangerous, now.” He wondered at the small, satisfied smile on Ezekiel Miro’s face. He would have liked to find out what it meant, but there were so many larger questions to be answered. “Grantville, eh? Have you met Nasi? Is the place as safe as they say?”
“It exceeds description, Meir. If there was any way to do it, I would encourage all the xuetas to relocate there, en masse. Or even to Venice.”
“Why Venice?”
“Because the up-timer interests are very strong there. And where the Grantvillers set up permanent trading stations, they seem to insist upon a certain minimum of religious toleration. If conditions fall beneath that standard-such as preceded the Inquisition or the pogroms-they tend to leave. Or they effect what they call ‘regime change.’ That is the stick with which they beat oppressors, but their much larger influence is through the carrot of their commerce. Venice is booming, much stronger for its relationship with the USE. So, although they are not in any way sacrificing their autonomy, I believe the Council of Ten have realized that if they are to sustain their current surge in relative power, they must not antagonize the USE by ignoring the laws that give us Jews additional protection there.”
Meir pouted, nodded. “Sounds promising. And you are doing well?”
“Quite well, but right now, I am not here as a merchant.”
“No? So what brings you here?”
Miro told him.
Meir heard the finish of Ezekiel’s story just as he finished the last of the wine. The olives and bread were already gone, as were half of the fish. The shadows had moved noticeably; their slant was more pronounced, their edges not so sharply demarcated. The sunlight was no longer the punishing white of morning and midday, but had become a bit more yellow. Meir dabbed the remains of wine and oil from his lips. “You are, of course, mad,” he said.