"King's laborers. We would say 'kinder,' I think."
"You use children to take in harvests?"
"No-not small child. Law-child, dependent. Captives from battle."
"POWs?"
Mbandi shrugged. "I do not know that word."
"I suppose you wouldn't…" Nichols tasted the next word, found it bitter, spoke it anyway. "Slaves?"
"No. That is what I was, in Brazil. My father would not treat another man like that, nor would I. Nor even the worst of our kings."
"But he owned men, you are saying. You owned men."
"The king's tendala did. I owned only their work." Mbandi spread his palms on the desktop. "Herr Doctor, you have not farmed? No? The beans do not grow themselves. It needs skill and work. He who has the decisions must have the, the…"
"Ownership?"
"The ownership, yes, for a plot larger than I may tend as my own."
"You can own the land, without owning the men!"
"No, we cannot. That is strange to me. Everywhere, here, there are barricades-fences," he said in puzzlement. "Holding in nothing but empty fields… Land is land. A man takes what no one else is using, grows what he needs. That, he owns. And what his kijiko grow, he owns through them…"
"Okay. Look." Nichols pushed back from the desk, crossed his arms. "Just tell me what you want, Mbandi, what you came here for."
"I have angered you," said the traveler slowly, straightening. "I did not wish to. As I said, I have done bad things, but only when others have hurt me. And it is Father Montoya's wishes I speak of."
"It doesn't matter. Hell, German POWs raised Allied crops during WWII…" Nichols realized he was muttering in English again. "So. No matter. Father Montoya wishes to stop the slave trade, you say. But quinine will make it easier for Europeans, Arabs, anyone to go into Africa and take them. In this time, diseases are weapons. You would disarm a continent."
"He has two ways of logic. Firstly… of numbers. We speak of young men here. Slave-takers-Portuguese or Imbangala, no matter-may only take whom they defeat. As the coastal states weaken, they will lose more battles like mine, and fight among themselves to survive. More defeats, more captives. More kijiko… Yet many more young men die from the fevers than die in fighting-even in Ndongo highlands-and many, many in Brazil, or the sugar islands. Fewer of us from Africa die when taken there, and so we are more of value as slaves. If quinine becomes common, cheap, then the fighters will not die, the workers will not die."
"I see," said Nichols. He rubbed at his chin, reflecting that malaria killed without regard to skin color-thousands of Europeans, but millions of Africans. No good having a guard dog that rips out your own throat. "There are other fevers quinine does not treat… but those may be reduced by good water, or proper treatment of wastes. So not the same… rate of replacement."
"Secondly, of men. For any man outside of Africa, to go there is a bad risk. Many die of fevers. So-if it is dangerous to go to Africa, then only dangerous men will go. Only the greatest wealth can draw them, and they value no one's life, even their own. If they risk so much, they want much; wealth that walks on its feet. With quinine, better men may go without the bad risk, and trade in kinder ways. We have much to trade: Hausa gold, fine steel from Sudan. Ivory, pepper, Mandinga cloth. In a few years, quinine…" He shrugged. "In Kabasa, we too had an orchestra. There will be others. We may trade in ways of life, not the taking of it."
Nichols nodded slowly. "Father Montoya is… wise. And what of you? Why do you do this-will you go home, then, to Ndongo? Settle there when you are done with the seeds?"
Mbandi looked away, to the far wall, and far past it. "I cannot go home. There has been word through the Company, from Luanda. A new king in Kabasa palace, set there by Portugal. The true king is long dead. His sister, Nzinga, fought on for years from islands in the Kalandongo River, gained allies, seized another land's throne. Now she is queen of Matamba, kingdom to the east, riding on spears back into Ndongo. There will be more kijiko. The saying is 'the victors eat the country.' No one will talk of seeds there, with killing to do and wealth that walks. I cannot go home." He shifted, looked down to Nichols. "I think it is the same with you, Herr Doctor? We have a Kimbundu word: malungu, a fellow-traveler on a ship that will never return. You and I, we are malungu. It is not the distance. Men may cross any distance. It is the changes… the time."
"Yes," said Nichols. He reached out and gently closed the atlas, smoothed the spine.
"I do this for Father Gustav." Mbandi blew out a hard breath. "This is his crucifix. This is his robe. You asked what I wanted. Only what Father Montoya wants-your help.
"I cannot make men grow these cinchonas. It needs years, nearly as many as a man's to grow of age. I cannot keep them growing after I move on, when another man may come and raise another crop; cannot ask a family to squat on a jungle slope and wait. People must live… And it is dangerous in places. If there are Imbangala about, I must hire them as guards or face them as enemies."
"You need gold, then," said Nichols.
"Yes. Beads, if you have fine ones. Good iron nails. Horses."
"A fifteen-year supply of trade goods? That will take time," said Nichols. "Months, perhaps. Governments move slowly. No matter. There will be much to talk about while you wait."
Mbandi blinked. "But-No, Herr Doctor. There is very little time, and I have lost much of it already. Winter is colder each day. The harbors will freeze, the winter storms will close in. I must leave within ten days at most, or I will lose half a year; and I do not know how many years I have."
Nichols nodded slowly, thinking a moment of rats and fleas. "None of us do… But if we cannot decide in that time?"
"Then I must leave without help, and do what I can."
"Very well. You must tell me exactly-" Nichols glanced aside at the thump of the door knocker. "Busy day. Excuse me." He rose, made his way to the front door, opened it.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Nichols."
Nichols recognized the creased face and well-pressed cassock immediately. "Hello, Father, I wasn't expecting you."
Father Kircher pursed his lips and made a whooshing sound. "No one expects the Grantish Inquisition," he cackled.
"Oh, for-" Nichols leaned against the wall for a moment to gather his strength. "Who showed you that?"
"Heinzerling, of course."
"Of course… Seriously, how did you know so fast?"
"Of your visitor?" Father Kircher smiled benevolently, shifted to German. "Ah, Herr Doctor, by that darling girl whom I shall one day steal away from your wearying service, and place in my own-that is, the Company's. At a higher wage, too."
"Margritte. Figures." Nichols stayed with stubborn English. "I'll double your offer, Father."
"Generous, but can you afford such?"
"Sure, I'll dock half her pay for gossiping. Come on, he's in here." Nichols gestured the Jesuit past him in the hallway, swung shut the door, and hurried after, brushing past Kircher into the study. "Mbandi! This is Father Kircher, one of our Jesuit priests. If you would…"
He checked words and step alike as he caught sight of Mbandi's face: startlement, even fear, and then hardening, a man locking down his emotions. Caught off guard, or just caught? he thought an instant; then-"Father Kircher, this is Matthias Mbandi. He has just arrived from South America." Nichols knew Kircher well enough to afford Mbandi the courtesy of not saying, "claims to have just arrived." The Jesuit would frame the statement as such from logic if nothing else.
Mbandi lifted his chin slightly. "Good day, Father."
Kircher inclined his head. "It's considered an honor to welcome a procurator," he replied, adding with another nod to Nichols: "Ah, a Jesuit provincial representative, sent to report and negotiate in Rome… It's never been my privilege before."
"I have not come to report," said Mbandi. "To protest, perhaps. Or to testify… There will be no more procurators from Uruguay province. Nor a father-provincial to send them. Father Montoya may perhaps already be dead."