The Girl from Everywhere (34 page)

Rotgut would be guarding the junk while it was docked in the harbor, standing watch at the helm with a contingent of warriors in case any of the Royal Hawaiian Guard escaped. “And my job?” I asked Slate as the lights of Honolulu came into view.

“You’re staying behind.”

“What?”

“This isn’t one of your myths, Nixie,” Slate said, checking the revolver he’d borrowed from Bee. He wore half gloves, hiding the tattoos on his hands. “We don’t know what might happen. I won’t have you getting hurt.”

“You said there wasn’t going to be any fighting.”

“I said we weren’t going to attack anyone. Just because we don’t start a fight doesn’t mean they won’t fight back!”

“We’ve got fifty soldiers—”

“You wouldn’t be coming if we had armored trucks!”

“You normally let me do all kinds of dangerous things.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know. I’ve been regretting that since the tomb.”

As the memory of the dead artisan resurfaced, suddenly my protests caught in my throat.

Kashmir led me away. “Don’t worry so much,
amira
. We’ll be fine.”

I took his arms in my hands, gripping so tight the muscles slipped under his skin like fish. “I just—” He had darkened the area around his eyes and under his cheekbones with soot to obscure his features. I suppressed a shudder. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He grinned and put a gentle hand on the back of my neck, pulling my forehead to his. I followed his gaze down through the gap at the front of his shirt; underneath his white button-up, he wore a Kevlar vest.

I pulled free. “I didn’t know we had those.”

“Just the one. The captain insisted I take it,” he added when my face fell.

“Did he?” I looked back at my father, who turned away quickly, as though he hadn’t been watching us.

Kashmir brushed my forehead with a gentle hand; a smear of soot had found its way from his skin to mine.
“Don’t worry. I’ll throw my worthless carcass in front of him should anything happen.”

“Kashmir—”

“Stop, or you’ll make
me
nervous. You can do us both a bit of good if you would trust me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I do.” I stared into his granite-green eyes. “I do.” He touched my chin with his thumb.

And so it was, as night fell and the
Alameda
steamed east toward America, the
54
slid toward her spot in the harbor. The harbormaster was tied safely belowdecks; he’d given in without a fight when he came face-to-mustache with Bee’s revolver.

As Slate and Kashmir led the warriors in two solid columns onto the dock, sailors and fishermen fled the wharf, but from the shadows, a single man approached, wearing a battered hat pulled low and a kerchief knotted around his face. Mr. Hart had come after all.

Slate and Hart stood before each other, but neither reached out to shake the other’s hand, and for a moment, all was still and quiet as a hundred red eyes glowed like embers in the night. Then Kashmir blew the conch, and the low, hollow wail of the empty shell floated over the bay like a lost soul. He had been practicing.

The general began to beat the
ipu
in the rhythm he’d learned—one, two, one-and-two—and the men marched away into the darkened streets of Honolulu, leaving me behind, sitting against the bulwark, guarding the ship with Rotgut and a small contingent of terra-cotta men.

An hour passed, or more, the stars wheeling overhead. Once the sound of marching feet had faded, a hush fell over the town, especially near the harbor. News must have spread, and all of the townspeople were huddled in their beds—the locals out of fear, the foreigners out of indifference. Every so often, the faint sounds of the harbormaster struggling against his bonds would drift up from the hold—less frequently as the man exhausted himself.

I was beginning to grow impatient. They still had to hide the loot, but they must have been nearly done at the treasury; Kashmir had said it wouldn’t take more than an hour to load the gold. Rotgut had a good view down Nu’uanu Avenue from the crow’s nest, and he’d be able to see the column of torches as soon as they began their march into the valley. I waited for him to sing out a sighting, but none came.

Then hoofbeats broke the silence in the street: a single rider approaching. A lone, brave guardsman? A reckless reporter?

Rotgut and I shared a glance. He shook his head ruefully, and my skin went cold before I even peeked over the rail.

“No,” I whispered, and I dropped back down to the deck, trying pointlessly—foolishly—to hide as hooves thudded on the wooden planks of the pier.

“You there, lad!” Blake’s voice rang over harbor. “I saw you. Stand up!”

I slapped my palm down on the deck, but there was nothing for it: the damage was done. No. I had done the damage. Slate told me often enough: he couldn’t have done this without me.

I pulled off the cap that was hiding my hair and stood to face Blake. Then my eyes widened. “Don’t shoot!”

He stared at me from over the barrel of a small double derringer. Then he blinked and lowered his gun. “Miss Song? What are you doing here? It’s not safe. I heard there were . . . pirates in Honolulu.”

Realization crept across his face like a tide, and he raised the gun again.

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T
he gun gleamed in Blake’s grasp. The four warriors I’d stationed on the quarterdeck were quiet, their eyes like dying coals. He could take one shot before they reached him, and all it took was one. But would he?

“Mystery indeed,” Blake said bitterly. He scanned the ship, his eyes gray as flint in the moonlight. “Where is your father?”

“With yours at the treasury,” I shot back.

“That doesn’t shock me. I know the depths to which
he’d
stoop.”

The scorn in his voice bit like an eel. “I was going to return the gold.”

He laughed. “Of course you were!”

“I wrote you a letter giving you the location.” I lifted my chin. “It will be delivered tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps I should go home then, and wait for it.”

“Or just shoot me and find out later I was telling the truth.”

He stared at me, incredulous. “Have you ever once told me the truth?”

“Many times,” I said. “Most notably when I told you how to prevent us from returning.”

“Don’t try to make me responsible, Miss Song. I knew it was about money, but I didn’t think your return would lead to
this
.” Pilikia danced beneath him, but he kept the gun steady. His eyes, though, were less certain, and behind them I recognized it—not anger, but pain.

“What did you think it would lead to?” He didn’t answer, but the heartless moon illuminated every expression—regret, shame, longing. I cocked my head. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

He ground his teeth. “No,” he said with new resolve. “I’m going to take you prisoner so your father will return what he’s stolen.”

“He won’t,” I said, certain now. “And you still won’t shoot me.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at me for so long,
I began to doubt. But then he lowered his gun, shoving it in the holster. Then both of us looked up at the sudden sound, a few blocks away, of the tinkle of smashed glass and a scream. Suddenly Blake slammed his open hand down on his thigh; Pilikia reared back, but he kept his seat. “
Why?
Of all the places you might go to loot, why this one?
Why mine?”

“Blake . . . it’s inevitable,” I said, repeating the words I’d learned. “You’ve seen it on the horizon. You know what’s coming. Paradise is always lost.”

“That’s a convenient turn of phrase,” he said. “But paradise is never lost. Only destroyed.” My cheeked burned with shame, but he continued, merciless. “But for what, Miss Song? Not money, I wouldn’t believe that of
you
. What is the map really for?”

“You know what it’s like,” I said, desperate, not for clemency, now, but for understanding. “To try to hold on to something as it disappears.”

He shook his head as Pilikia pawed the deck; he pulled the reins sharply, turning her in a tight circle, keeping his eyes on my face. “There is more to this story. Something you’re still hiding. No one does something like this for a memory.”

I bit my lip, the answer on the tip of my tongue, but why shouldn’t I tell him? “He needs it to save a life. To save
my mother,” I said at last. “My reasons are less altruistic,” I added with difficulty, but I owed him the truth. “I’m doing this to save myself.”

“To save yourself? Who threatened you? And how does the captain—”

Then the sound of shouting and a high, manic laugh from the town made him turn his head. “That’s my father.” Blake’s voice was distant, as though he was listening to a song I couldn’t hear.

Another smashing sound, like furniture being overturned. “What are they doing?”

Blake’s shoulders sagged like an empty sail. “I would imagine he’d find it difficult to stop at the treasury.”

“Why?”

“There are some men in town who . . . who have . . . wronged him. He’s been at the edge for quite some time. It would not take much to push him over.”

I felt uneasy then, as though the deck were rolling beneath my feet; but no, we were in harbor. “You should go home. Wait for my letter and rescue the kingdom. You’ll be a hero.”

“It isn’t heroic simply to do what’s right.”

“Then do what’s right, but wait till tomorrow. Tomorrow
this will be over and we’ll be gone and . . . everything will be different.”

Then we both jumped to hear a shot ring out over the town.

And another.

Before the echoes died away, I was running down the gangplank and Blake was reaching for my hand. He hauled me up in front of him on the horse. Rotgut called after me as we clattered down the dock, but his voice was drowned out by the pounding of Pilikia’s hooves and my own heart.

We took King Street toward the palace, and though the streets were empty and lights extinguished and shutters closed against the thieves in the night, I felt eyes peering out from behind curtains. I listened past the sound of Blake breathing, ragged in my ear, but there were no more shots.

At last we reached the area near the palace, and I saw the orange glow of the torches two blocks north—the wealthiest block on the island. I gasped as we rode by bodies in the street, but there was no blood; they were guardsmen, still lying flat on their faces, their hands tied behind their backs. They didn’t open their eyes as we passed them by.

Then Blake swore and pulled Pilikia up short. She neighed, high and panicked. “What in hell?”

There, in the pool of torchlight, the terra-cotta men stood, still and silent, single file in the street. Their backs were straight as ever, though the general had been draped in a yellow feather cloak and a long string of pearls.

“It’s not them,” I said, breathless. “It’s not the Night Marchers.”

“Then what are they?”

“No time, Blake—”

“Miss Song, wait!”

But I had already slid from the horse and hit the ground running.

Beretania Street was a mess: doors hanging open on the fine homes, windows smashed, glass glittering in the torchlight, banknotes tumbling in the breeze of our passing. I smelled brandy spilled from broken bottles, and heard the sound of a woman crying, a man’s hushed voice, furniture being pushed against doors. The destruction made a trail from the treasury. Blake had been right. That was only the start of it.

I couldn’t see Slate or Kashmir anywhere.

“Kash?” I stopped in the middle of the street, unsure where to go. “Dad?”

“Amira?”

I whirled around to find Kashmir trotting toward me from behind the nearest house. He took me by the arm and pulled me along until we were in the shadow of a garden wall. He appeared well and whole, but I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out, running my hand over his shoulder and down his arm. “Are you all right?” Then my heart sank. “Slate?”

“He’s fine,
in shaa’ Allah
,” Kashmir said. Then he glanced at Blake, who had ridden up behind us. “He’s looking for Hart. We’ve had a bit of trouble.”

“You’ve faked the Hu’akai Po?”

I ignored Blake’s outrage. “Did you shoot him?”

“He shot at us! Someone recognized him—mocked him to his face—and he snapped. Hart beat the man and went down the street smashing things. The captain tried to reason with him, but he just ran off with the bag. And the map.”

Blake clenched his fists, and Pilikia danced under the tight rein. “You expected honor among thieves?”

“It’s more common than honor among gentlemen!” Kash retorted.

“We don’t have time for this,” I said. “Where did they go?”

“Come on,” Kashmir said, taking my hand. Then he pointed at Blake. “Not. You.”

“I might be unwilling to shoot you, Miss Song, but I have no such compunctions about your
friend
.”

“Blake,” I said firmly. “Your father may be heading home with the gold. You have a horse. If you want to help, you could stop him.”