Kircher's smile dissolved. "What has happened?"
"Father Montoya has left the Company. There was a letter I was to have-" He shook his head. "No matter. You must believe me when I say that Father Montoya will have no further dealings with those who have abandoned him and his people. I thank you for the welcome, but I cannot accept it either. I, too, have renounced the Company. I will walk the world alone."
"If what you say-" Kircher paused, visibly shifting his thoughts from Jesuitical strategy to the human scale of a weary, wary man; Nichols warmed to him for it. "Matthias, many who study to become full Jesuits never succeed in their lifetimes, and some who do, fail in a task, and are punished-but there is no casting out. There is room in God's service for all. If you have come so far, in such urgency, then do not fear anything at the end of your journey. I am offering no punishments."
"Again, I thank you. But while I may yet fail in my task, I do not leave because of failure… not because of my failure, or Father Montoya's. Because of our abandonment. I will serve man, and God, upon my own, with more loyalty than I have seen offered to him and me. If you had seen-"
"Matthias! This is wrongful!"
"-if you had seen, when San Ignacio fell, when, when the paulistas began herding together their cattle-"
"Mbandi," broke in Nichols. "He does not know. You may tell him what you told me."
The traveler collected himself. "I-Of course. When we received the orders to withdraw…" He sketched the events much more bluntly than he had when speaking to Nichols, either from urgency or from no need to convince-or to sway. He finished, leaving three men standing silent in the room for a time, while the fire chuckled to them.
Kircher broke the silence first. "Your letters and your money were stolen. What was not?"
"The burden I will carry now."
"Cinchona seeds," said Nichols. "A large quantity."
"That would require a large effort… Did you gather them yourself, Mbandi?"
The traveler set his face. "That was Father Gustav's work, and Father Montoya's gift. To the United States of Europe, in hope of assistance. And to Africa, merely in hope."
Father Kircher visibly weighed his next words before he spoke them. "That is the act of a generous and good man. But it is also that of a provincial of the Company, serving its authority-and subject to it. As you state you were when you took up this burden."
"Do you claim the seeds for the Jesuits, then, Father?" said Nichols, keeping his own voice calm.
"No. That is not my place-and this man is your guest, Doctor. But I must raise the subject. In fact, there is a great deal to decide here, and you will agree that is more than may be judged by a medical official. Nor, thankfully, by myself."
"You intend to refer to the superior? Isn't he attending in Rome?"
"I believe this is a matter not for God, but for Caesar," said Kircher dryly. "President Piazza, in this case… Matthias, know that you are welcome at the Company dwelling. Please know that, always."
The traveler bowed silently; Kircher turned away and rustled from the room.
"He will appeal to the ruler here, then?" said Mbandi after the door had closed. "To this president?" At Nichols' nod, he hunched. "We should hurry, if you know a quicker way. The first to speak in a dispute is often the victor."
"With some men, yes." Nichols sighed. "Not this one. It will not be an… official meeting. And you are exhausted. You may rest here; I will summon Margritte to keep company with you."
"I should be there," said Mbandi.
"You will truly not speak with Father Kircher?"
"I have renounced the Company," repeated Mbandi, as though stating the obvious.
"Do you realize how this will appear to anyone judging a… dispute?"
The traveler shrugged. "Appearances are no concern to me."
"Trust me; it would be a concern to this president." Nichols deliberately sat at his desk again, and reached across it. "We have some little while. Would you like to see the atlas again?"
"Ed, it's phenomenal. There's a whole other Thirty Years' War going on in Angola!" Nichols turned in his pacing as he spoke. "1624 to 1658, civil war, raiding, treaties broken like pie crust. Nzinga becomes queen, eventually, and cuts some deals with the Portuguese. It doesn't end well. Nothing really did there…"
He turned again. Seated at the upstairs taproom's single table, Governor Ed Piazza watched him steadily. A mug of small beer rested beside him, untouched; the location had been chosen to make this meeting as unofficial as possible, not for the beverages. His slight slump wasn't inattention; a Croat musket-ball had smashed ribs and a shoulder blade, two years ago, as he defended the high school he'd once been principal of.
"But look what the Dutch did in Java! A pound of seeds that an English botanist got to them, and in a few years they had plantations of cinchona. Hundreds of thousands of trees. And there's places all over Africa with mountain rain forests. Zaire, Cameroon, Tanzania, Rwanda. You remember our Rwanda, Ed? Jesus, what if we could stop that four hundred years in advance? Or keep Leopold's butchers out of the Congo?"
Governor Piazza nodded. "It would be a hell of a thing to be able to do, yes." He was a small thin-faced man; smaller behind a coarse-planked table. Pain had whittled down his features during a convalescence extended by work. His lips were often pinched, as they were now-as they'd been when Nichols dug a flattened chunk of lead out of him, sharing half an ampoule of morphine with another casualty. He'd offered Piazza the bullet as a keepsake. No, Doctor. Trophies are for sports.
"And with our half, maybe we can beat the Dutch to Java. Or trade it to them for something. Who cares, as long as the stuff gets grown cheap enough? Montoya's a goddamn genius."
Piazza glanced to this right, where Father Kircher sat. "Jesuits have a reputation for being… thoughtful. No question there. But, James-in this time, a thoughtful man will give his courier a letter, to back him up and confirm the details. Parchment. Seals. Something official. Did this man bring a letter of some kind?"
Nichols' enthusiasm faded. "Well, no. He told me about that-Montoya wrote several letters for him to bring, but he got sick in Lisbon, and some bastard stole his purse. Money, letters, all gone, but they didn't think anything of a bag of seeds."
"I see. And, Father, you aren't yet able to confirm if he's even a Jesuit, that's correct?"
The priest quirked a smile. "You mean, a secret handshake? I'm afraid not. It will take some time to contact Rome and obtain the routine reports from that province."
"More than ten days, I'm guessing."
"Yes." Kircher turned a palm upward. "They might show his name, if nothing else. I am sure that if I spoke to him at length, it would become clear if he had been even a lay brother… but he declines."
Nichols shifted on his feet. "We've established why he does. I doubt he'll change his mind, either."
"Well, that's possible. I've known stubborn folk before." Perhaps it was coincidence that Piazza held Nichols' eye at that moment. "If his story is true, he'll need to be stubborn… But these letters bother me. He had them long enough to memorize-then at the last stop of the trip, they're gone."
"It is possible," said Kircher, "that-with no offense to you, Doctor-that this man calling himself Mbandi has intercepted a genuine courier, robbed him, and wishes to take a great gamble to gain great wealth."
Nichols frowned. If they risk much, they want much. "But then he would have the letters, the proof, anyway."
"Any such letter would describe the bearer in detail-appearance, scars, and so forth. Would this man have visible scars?"
Nichols nodded grimly. "I'd guarantee it."
"Then an imposter could not use them." Kircher sat back slightly, closing the logical loop.
"It'd be one hell of a coincidence that an imposter would be black, though. Maybe in South America it wouldn't, but to travel all the way here is a long way to go for any payoff."