I didn’t answer. He knew who it was. The three of us turned and walked out the door, hurrying to catch up with Pello and Arrosa. We had a duty and a promise to keep high in the western Pyrenees. Outside in the open air and sunshine, something else occurred to me. I looked at Sailor. “Was that an accident or did he know we would be there and feel his presence?”
Sailor kept walking. He was staring straight ahead, looking past or through a thousand faces in the street. His jaw tightened and his “ghost eye” narrowed against the light. “I do not know, Zianno.” He was angry. Usoa had told me long ago: “You do not find Sailor, he finds you.” The current circumstance had abused his pride as much as anything. “But we shall find out,” he said, “I assure you.” Because of the unpredictable nature of the Fleur-du-Mal, I wondered just how long it might be before we knew the answer. It came sooner than I expected.
Pello and Arrosa were waiting for us on the broad promenade of Las Ramblas. Pello announced we had one more appointment, not a mile away, but instead of walking toward the city, we headed back in the direction of the waterfront. Most people were off the streets taking their afternoon siesta and Pello quickly found the narrow, almost invisible alley where our meeting was to take place. At the end of the alley was a tiny bar called Agua and inside there was only one customer, a boy sitting at a little round table near the open door. The boy was about twelve years old with dark eyes and dark hair curling over and around his ears. He wore leather boots laced to the knees, baggy black trousers, a simple cotton shirt with no collar, and a blue kerchief tied loosely around his neck. He was drinking a glass of beer and as he wiped his mouth after a large slurp, he smiled. He was missing a front tooth. A French naval officer’s cap lay on the table in front of him. He picked it up and tossed it to Sailor.
Sailor looked the cap over closely. “Am I to assume you are now serving the country of France?”
The boy laughed and motioned for us to sit. “I only serve the Meq, you old pirate. I thought you might like it.”
“Yes, well, it was a generous thought, Mowsel.”
Mowsel, or Trumoi-Meq, was the oldest living Meq. He was born before the time of Those-Who-Fled, several generations before Sailor and Opari. His independence was legendary and with his deep knowledge of our past, he seemed to me like a caretaker of all things Meq, a protector of “what was” along with great concern for “what will be.” It was likely that his unexpected appearance in Barcelona had an immediate reason and purpose. He and Sailor had known each other for almost three thousand years. In that time, they had developed a kind of shorthand between them. A single nod, shrug, or remark from one could tell the other all he needed to know. Sailor understood everything in seconds and knew with certainty that the Fleur-du-Mal’s presence at The Six Snails was no accident or coincidence.
“We found the room at the rear, behind the beads,” Sailor said. “How long has it been?”
“Less than a week,” Mowsel answered, then turned and looked at Ray, glancing briefly at Kepa’s beret. “You must be Ray Ytuarte,” he said. “I was told you were missing. My name is Trumoi-Meq. Call me Mowsel, Ray.” He took Ray’s hand in his, placed a cube of salt in his palm, and closed Ray’s fingers around it.
Without hesitating, Ray said, “You bet.”
At the same time, Pello was backing out the door with Arrosa. He was well aware that Mowsel had something to say in private. He told us they would be waiting at the entrance to the alley, then pivoted on his cane and walked away.
Trumoi-Meq turned to me and nodded. “Zianno Zezen,” he said, grinning.
“Mowsel,” I said, nodding back. “How are you?”
“I am well, except I think you are already missing St. Louis, no?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is common, it is common. Now, you must listen to me.” Mowsel turned to face Sailor. “The Fleur-du-Mal was here to meet with Giles Xuereb, against Giles’s wishes, according to my source. He wanted the same information Giles gave to you—the possible location of the Octopus.”
“How?” Sailor almost shouted. “How was he aware that Giles had met with me?”
“You know our Xanti Otso, Sailor. He seems to have networks within networks.”
“What is the Octopus?” I asked.
“A box,” Sailor answered. “A very old box made of onyx and serpentine with the image of an octopus inlaid in lapis lazuli on the top. Its origin is unknown, but it was last seen on Crete in the city of Knossos, before the island of Thera exploded. After that, it disappeared. However, it is not the box, it is what the box supposedly contains that interests me…and the Fleurdu-Mal.”
“The Sixth Stone,” Ray said.
“That is correct, Ray. And, Ray, I think you should let Mowsel see those photographs you made in Salzburg. Now.”
Ray handed over the small packet with the two photographs. Mowsel studied them for only a second and the color seemed to drain from his face. He looked up at Ray and stared at Sailor in disbelief. “Hail, Hadrian! Am I to understand that these are portraits of Susheela the Ninth?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. Truly.” Sailor glanced at Ray and me. “I should have told you both on the
“Now I am confused,” Mowsel interrupted.
“I will explain all to you later, but tell me, Mowsel, do you know where he went from Barcelona?”
“He forced Giles to leave with him, using threats to his sister, I believe. They left for Giles’s Mediterranean farm.”
“Which one?”
“The one on Gozo. His ‘little home above the cave,’ as he calls it.” Mowsel then looked out the open doorway toward the entrance to the alley, where Pello and Arrosa waited. “You will have to leave tonight, Sailor. I found a ship for you, all of you, but you must set sail tonight. The captain is a former officer in the French navy. His missions these days are of a more independent nature. He knows of us and can be trusted. The Fleur-du-Mal is sailing on a much slower vessel, a passenger ship. This man will catch him if it is possible.”
Sailor followed Mowsel’s gaze with his own eyes. “Does Pello know we will be leaving?”
“Yes. He is at peace with it. You will not offend him. Pello, Arrosa, and I will attend to Unai, Usoa, and Kepa. Still, it is your choice. Each of you must decide what you must do.”
For Sailor there was no choice. His decision had already been made, and without asking, I knew Ray felt the same. In my heart, so did I. We were going after the Fleur-du-Mal and that was that. The guilt of breaking a promise and not saying a proper farewell to our friends would have to be the price. All paths of action have a toll. Revenge has several.
Pello and Arrosa walked with us to the docks. Awkwardly, we all embraced in a great rush. I would miss Arrosa and told her so, then thanked her for everything she had done. She smiled and said, “I think it is I, senor, who should be thanking all of you. Especially you,” she added, dropping her smile and looking straight at Sailor. Sailor nodded in silence. Pello told me I would have to come to the Pyrenees when our business was concluded and I promised I would, for Kepa’s memory and my own peace of mind. Mowsel said he expected to rejoin them on the train “somewhere between here and Zaragoza.” Then Pello and Arrosa were gone, into the streets of Barcelona and eventually into the mountains of northern Spain.
“Come,” Mowsel said, “we have much to do.”
The last rays of sunlight were fading fast by the time we had transferred and loaded everything we needed onto the
