“No oars?” wondered Jeffrey, shivering.
“No, lad,” muttered O’Neill, his leg out straight and stiff. “It takes a trained rower not to splash like a jumping fish-and if there’s any light to be caught, you can be sure the Spanish would see it shining off the blades of the oars. And I think you’ll agree that, just now, silence is all important.”
Jeffrey bit his lip and nodded, looking over the bows.
The rest of them followed his eyes to the squat, blunt outlines of Fort San Carlos. Still under construction, this was a fortification in the modern style: low, sloped, thick walls, modern gun mounts-a far more ugly, and far more dangerous, structure than Castell de Bellver.
They stared at it as they approached, passing within four hundred yards. Everything was in their favor at this point: the almost lightless night, the black of the hull and the sail, the sound of the waves drowning out the persistent low growl of the engine-a sound which, whatever else the local down-time ears might make of it, would not signify “escaping boat.” But they knew right enough that Dame Luck was a bitch goddess who refused to play favorites-because she didn’t have any. So until they had passed out from beneath the cannons of the fort…
A musket fired into the night. They saw the flash, but could not tell, so far away, if it had been aimed at them, or just more generally out into the bay. After a few seconds, there were two other shots, one of which plippshh ’ed into the swells twenty yards astern. But after that nothing.
Had it been a nervous new recruit firing at shadows? Had someone seen them, but not in time to bring any of the fort’s impressive cannons to bear? Had it been a trial shot-meant to excite the response of suspected amphibious infiltrators who might fear themselves discovered? Or was there some other explanation?
They could not tell, and they would never know.
Which was, of course, the very fiber of uncertainty that comprised the bulk of all war, and was even more characteristic of it than the death and destruction for which it was rightly infamous.
Using the lee of mountains to cover their long, altitude-sustaining burns, Virgilio brought the balloon under the clouds once they were safe in the uninhabited uplands north of the valley lake known as the Torrent de son Boronat, where they dumped half a dozen empty fuel containers overboard. Then they wound a bit farther to the north, staying high, often in the clouds, and estimating their progress and position by maintaining close running estimates of airspeed, heading, and wind.
After thirty minutes at twenty-two miles per hour, Miro ordered the burner be left alone and began to watch for the ground as the airship slowly lost lift. After five minutes, they came down through the lowest tier of clouds and discovered they were slightly lower than they thought, and only three miles away from the west coast of Mallorca. Which meant they were only six miles away from their ultimate destination: the oddly sloped island called Dragonera.
As they continued to lose altitude, it became evident to the occupants of the gondola why this island was called the Dragon. Although they were approaching its relatively smooth, southern side, its northern extents soared up dramatically. Creating a combined cliff top and crest that did invoke scenes of a sinuous dragon arising from the depths.
Virgilio conferred closely with Miro, now, whose experienced local eye guided them toward the level ground a few hundred yards north of the accessible part of Dragonera’s coast, the inlet known as Es Llado. If the nearby watchtower had seen the airship, there was no sign of it; not even Harry’s keen eyes could determine if the tower was occupied at all.
The landing was rough, the gondola scraping along the ground before enough of the heated air could be vented and the envelope began settling. Under Miro’s and Virgilio’s supervision, and with Harry’s and Connal’s trained assistance, those passengers that could began the process of breaking down the airship. The nosecone and partial back spine were separated and removed from the envelope, which was then hastily folded. The engines were dismounted, the rest of the gear packed and distributed to individuals. Miro was constantly checking his watch; the Atropos ’s away boats were due within ninety minutes, and they had to have the entirety of the airship broken down and ready to move.
In order to ensure that they had not, and would not, be spotted, Miro dispatched two of the group to keep an eye on the dark-windowed watchtower and the half dozen cottages of seasonal fishermen who worked the local waters. He chose Harry Lefferts for his extraordinary senses-including the sixth sense that always seemed to warn him of danger a moment before it became manifest-and, with some reservation, Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas, whose knowledge of Spanish military protocol was just as great as his ability to possibly deflect or at least confuse inquiries, if they were discovered by locals.
Sitting in the scrub only seventy yards from the cottages and fifty yards inland from the rocky southern shore, Harry was wondering how to start a conversation with a recent mortal enemy when Castro y Papas solved the problem for him-but in a most unconventional and unexpected fashion.
“I owe you an apology, Harry Lefferts.”
“You do? I don’t even know you.”
“No, not exactly. But you have seen me-or my handiwork-before.” When Harry remained silent, the hidalgo explained. “I refer to Rome. The courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo di Mattei. I was in command there. I had the up-time shotgun. It was I who killed the man commanding those who attacked that part of the palace complex.” His head drooped slightly. “It was hardly an honorable way to kill an opponent. That is the nature of war, I suppose-but I have long felt that our ambush upon you there was-well, particularly cowardly.”
Harry felt the sea air rushing in his open mouth; he shut it. “It was you? You were the guy in the window of Frank and Gia’s room?”
“I was.”
“And so you knew that I was-”
“That you were in the belvedere atop the building near the Ghetto? Yes: who else but you would have been there?” He looked Harry in the eyes; there was much regret, but also much resolve in his stare. “I understand if you wish to satisfy the honor of your friend, the man I shot so many times in the courtyard, for his death was not befitting his station. I gather he was a man of some import.”
Harry nodded slowly. “You might say that.”
“Of course, we must wait until we are in a safe place before I may give you satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction?”
“I refer to a duel, Senor Lefferts.”
Harry considered. “A duel, huh?”
“ Si — yes; that is how affairs of honor are usually settled.”
“Well, I have a different way. But as I understand it, if I challenge you, then you get to choose the weapons, right?”
“That is true, but I am willing to waive that, in this case. I feel that my misdeed is such that-”
“Lissen, I don’t need to hear any more. Here’s the challenge: whichever one of us can drink more toasts to Johnnie-eh, my friend-he has to buy all liquor we’ve swilled. Deal?”
Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas was silent for a long time, frowning deeply. “You are challenging me to a…a duel of drinking to the death?”
“No, no. Jeez, you hidalgos are a real serious bunch, aren’tcha? Look: you seem like an okay guy. And there’s been enough killing as it is-too much. So let’s toast my friend with wine and spirits until one of us can’t lift a glass anymore.”
Castro y Papas looked long and hard at Lefferts. “You are mocking me.”
“Damnit, Don Vincente, I’m not in the mood or place to do any mocking. Look: if I had been doing my job properly, I’d never have walked into your trap. But I was too sure of myself and my friend paid for that with his life.” Harry looked away for a moment. “A lot of people paid for that with their lives. But it taught me a lesson-one I might not have learned any other way. So, yeah, you pulled the trigger-but I set up the target. You were just a soldier with a gun who had set a good trap.”