The Shores of Spain (47 page)

The Vilaró chuckled. “You sound like Leandra, who gave me conditions, and names of those who must not be hurt.”

“I want assurance that you’ll not simply kill everyone here. I’ve already done things this morning I would never have contemplated before. Don’t make me regret freeing you.”

With a crunch, the last tumbler in the lock turned and the hasp sprang free. Joaquim opened the lock, pulled it through the holes on the cuff, and dropped it on the floor. Then he opened the cuff and let it fall. The chain dangled from the ceiling.

“Give me the key,” the Vilaró said, holding out his hand.

The man’s wrist showed livid burns, and in one spot Joaquim thought he saw bone. “Can you touch it?”

“Give it to me,” the Vilaró insisted.

Joaquim laid the key in the man’s hand, only to hear flesh sizzle. But the Vilaró’s hand clenched around the key. He shoved it into the keyhole of the lock binding the cuff on the far side, turning it far easier than the first lock. He freed that wrist, then squatted down to unshackle his ankles. Joaquim smelled burning flesh. He could see the man’s hand blackening, and fought down a surge of nausea.

A moment later, the Vilaró stepped free from his chains. He walked across the steel floor and out into the stone hallway. He placed his tortured hands against the stone wall, and as Joaquim watched, he was
transformed
.

Light flowed about the Vilaró, coalescing into garb that mimicked what Joaquim himself wore. The man’s gaunt frame filled out,
almost like air filling a bladder, and his blackened hands became whole again. He turned his face back toward Joaquim. “My bargain was with Leandra, not you. Because you brought me that key, I’ll kill as few as possible.”

And then he stepped right into the stone wall, as if it were a sheet of water instead.

Joaquim stood in the cell, his breath coming hard. His ankle had begun to stiffen, so he shifted his weight to the other leg. He could still feel the tendrils of Piedad’s
call
tugging at him, unable to find purchase, but otherwise it was silent in the abandoned cell.

And then a boom shook the earth. Dust from the ceiling settled in the tunnel. The lights flickered and went out. Left in utter blackness, Joaquim limped toward the tunnel, hands outstretched in search of the wall.

He needed to get out of here before the ceiling caved in on him. He hit the edge of the cell with his wounded arm, and hissed in another pained breath. But at least he knew where he was now.

The wispy grasp of Piedad’s
call
abruptly stopped. Joaquim paused for a second, feeling liberated by its absence. Then cool hands settled on his shoulders.

Before he could cry out, he was jerked away from the world.

CHAPTER 43

                   I
LHAS
DAS
S
EREIAS                   

W
hen word had reached them via the Americans that Joaquim had been taken prisoner, there hadn’t been any question in Duilio’s mind. He was needed in Barcelona.

His gift told him he wouldn’t arrive in time to rescue his brother. But he had to
try
.

So now Duilio stood on the docks of Porto Novo in trousers, shirt, and jacket. Shoes, even. He rather enjoyed that, although he suspected the nostalgic feel of Portuguese garb would wear off quickly and he’d then be chafing at the restriction of waistcoats and neckties again.

Oriana dressed the part of a Portuguese gentlewoman, wearing a lovely teal suit that his mother had ordered made for her the year before, although she’d had to have the waist let out. As she’d worn human clothing for two years in the Golden City, she bore it without too much discomfort. Inês, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable in the simple white shirtwaist and black skirt she’d worn at the Spanish embassy. Her expression betrayed her suffering, although every time Costa glanced her way, she managed a halfhearted smile. Duilio felt sorry for the young woman. The prospect
of going to Portugal to beg the permission of her mate’s family must be daunting.

The fifth member of their party stood to one side, watching silently. Oriana’s aunt had sent Lorena Evangelista, her investigator, to join them. Fortunately, Inês confirmed for them that the woman was indeed the same one who’d contacted her months before. Evangelista was to collect any evidence she could, and take Leandra’s statement whenever they located her. The minister hoped Leandra’s story would help convict those who had sold her to the Spanish, even if Leandra chose never to return to the islands.

“We’re almost ready to cast off,” the first mate of the
Tesouro
said. “Is your luggage aboard?”

“Yes,” Duilio said, “but please let the captain know we’re waiting for one more traveler.”

The first mate made his way back up the gangplank to the ship.

“Are you sure she’s coming?” Oriana asked, leaning close.

“Yes.” Duilio turned to watch the traffic on the main street, and as he did, a carriage pulled to a stop and a woman in a white outfit stepped down.

After some wrangling with luggage, Madam Norton strode down the pier to the ship with one portmanteau in her hand. One of her aides followed, a young woman in plainer attire, clutching two portmanteaus and a briefcase. The two women in blue uniforms of the Signal Corps came last, carrying a large trunk between them. That had to be their mechanical arm. Good news, since that meant they could contact Barcelona and let them know the
Tesouro
was on its way.

Madam Norton walked directly up to Duilio and Oriana, clutching her straw hat to her head with one daintily gloved hand. “Madam Paredes, Mr. Ferreira, I’m grateful for your inviting me along. I hope there’s better news about my nephew when we arrive.” She turned to Duilio, one eyebrow lifted speculatively. “You say that I’ll be needed there. Could you tell me why?”

Duilio wasn’t going to admit his gift had told him that. He’d rather have some secret in reserve for future interactions with the clever ambassador. “You have your ways, we have ours.”

*   *   *

L
LEIDA

T
he train finally drew up to the platform at Lleida as the sun crept toward the mountains in the west. The station at Lleida was another simple one, a small building with a metal canopy like Manresa’s. A river flowed toward the town, along the road from the station. To the east, an ancient cathedral rose on a hill. It looked more like a fortress than a church to Marina’s eyes. The whole town had that brownness she was beginning to associate with central Spain. She felt a sudden surge of homesickness for the often-foggy streets of the Golden City.

Father Escarrá immediately went to find a cab to carry them to the town hall. He returned a moment later with a large coach and, after a short discourse with the marquesa, helped her and Marina into it. Alejandro obediently climbed up and sat by her, keeping his knees well away from the old woman’s. Once they were all settled, the driver headed down the road that followed the bank of the river. It wasn’t like the Douro, deep and dark and powerful. Instead it seemed a lazy river, tamed, and more suited to this city with its bright sunshine and sandstone walls.

“What do we do once we get to the town hall?” Marina asked.

“I will speak with the . . .” The marquesa rattled off a phrase that meant nothing to Marina.

“That’s their title for the mayor here,” Father Escarrá said after seeing Marina’s baffled expression.
“Paer en cap.”

The marquesa tapped her cane against the floor of the coach. “Who’s the bishop now?”

“Meseguer,” the priest supplied.

“He’s a good man. If the
paer en cap
won’t produce my great-grandson, the bishop will.”

Marina wished she felt as sanguine about the marquesa’s chances. Nobility wasn’t as much a guarantee of cooperation as it must have been in the old days. “What do you need
me
to do?”

The marquesa’s eyes narrowed. “Keep yourself and that boy out of the way. I’m not prepared to fight two wars at once.”

Alejandro’s face remained expressionless. He was probably accustomed to hearing himself spoken of in that way. Marina wasn’t. She looked away at the river they were passing along, but then the coach turned from the wide main avenue onto a narrower street.

The street was lined with older buildings, the same beige stone predominating on either side of the street. Like in the Golden City, the buildings had small balconies that overlooked the traffic, wrought-iron rails guarding them. The coach finally pulled to a stop in a wider area in front of a stern building with tapestries hanging beneath trios of narrow arched windows.

“The town hall,” Father Escarrá said to Marina as he helped her down.

It didn’t seem a very grand building, but that was often the case in older parts of cities where one would find a church or museum crammed in between houses or shops.

Marina waited while Alejandro jumped down from the coach, landing on the paving stones in his worn shoes. His eyes shifted around the square—it was more a wide area in the street rather than a true square—and he stepped behind her. He was coming back to his prison. He couldn’t like being here. She took his hand. “We’ll be fine.”

His expression was doubtful. His jaw clenched and he looked away.

The marquesa stomped toward the hall, passing under the
archway on Father Escarrá’s arm. Marina followed with a reluctant Alejandro hanging on to her hand. The inside of the building was stately, the stone cast into a golden glow by the rings of lights hanging from the high ceiling and sconces on the walls. An arcade of arches surrounded the room, one covering a stairwell that led upward into what must be the areas of the building where the business of the city took place. The impressive main room in which they stood was nearly empty save for a few pieces of dark furniture under the arches and, incongruously enough, what looked like a well to one side.

The marquesa surveyed the room with a jaded eye and began banging her cane against the stone floor. A guard in ceremonial livery with a gold and red patch on his cap hurried over, his eyes wide with alarm. “My lady, how can I help you?”

The old woman peered up at the tall young man. “Get me a chair, you fool. And bring the
paer en cap
here. I want to speak with him now.”

“There are chairs in the waiting chamber upstairs.”

She snapped her cane against the young man’s shins, causing him to flinch. “I am not climbing those stairs, boy. I am the marquesa of Terrassa-Montcada. I am a grandee, and your mayor will come to me.”

Marina pursed her lips.
Grandee?
Surely Joaquim would know exactly what that meant. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect. The young man hurried off and returned carrying a heavy wooden chair. He set it on the floor and the marquesa settled into it with a satisfied huff. “Now, where is your mayor?”

“I’ve sent for him, lady,” the young guard said.

“Adequate.” The marquesa settled both of her gnarled hands atop her cane.

Marina glanced down at Alejandro, who rolled his eyes. She clamped her lips together to keep from laughing. It was the first time she’d seen him show such exasperation. He must share Joaquim’s egalitarian sentiments. She laid one hand on his shoulder instead.
How long will we have to wait?

*   *   *

J
oaquim took a great gasp of air. It seemed as if he’d been imprisoned in rock, stone filling his lungs. He blinked, dazzled by the light about him.
How did I get here?

He was in a courtyard, he realized, the reflection of the one that Marcos had shown him this morning—the prisoners’ courtyard—but there was
no
wall. Where the wall should have been, rubble sprayed away from the yard. In the distance Joaquim saw men running toward the town, the streets he’d not been able to see from the other side of the prison. A handful of men in worn clothes huddled in the court despite the missing walls, gazing past Joaquim with frightened eyes.

“Where is she?” the Vilaró demanded.

Joaquim turned as much as his aching ankle would allow. The Vilaró stood to his left, open hands held wide at his side. “What did you do?”

“Where is Leandra?” the Vilaró asked again.

Joaquim swallowed, tasting dust. “How did I get here?”

“I moved you through the stone,” the Vilaró said. “Now find Leandra for me, witch.”

Moved him
through
the stone? What exactly did that mean? “Why?”

“Because if she’s still in the Morra,” the Vilaró added, “we need to get her out of there.”

Ah, he hadn’t thought of that. Joaquim closed his eyes and recalled Leandra’s face the last time he saw her, bloodied like his own and exhausted. She was far enough away that she wasn’t in
this
prison. “She’s still there.”

The Vilaró moved so quickly that Joaquim didn’t have a chance to jerk away. He set his hand on Joaquim’s shoulder, and the world went dark again.

Then they were standing in a dim room of all stone, blocks roughly hewn. The smell was mustier, as if it was wetter here, but
still carried the undeniable scent of human filth. This was the Morra. He recognized it by the smell, even if he hadn’t seen it before.

Joaquim coughed, trying to get the taste of dust out of his mouth. “What did you just do?”

“I moved you through the stone,” the Vilaró said again.

This place was lit by lanterns rather than electricity. They were on a lower level, in a central atrium that had stairwells leading up on either side. As the Vilaró hauled him toward the wall beside one of the stairwells, Joaquim closed his eyes and caught his sense of Leandra.

She’s in the same cell as before.

“If I get you a set of keys and a gun,” the Vilaró asked, “can you get her out of here?”

Joaquim gazed at the man, his stomach cramping now. The Vilaró’s hand, the one that had seemed burned to the bone, now looked whole. “What happened to your burns?”