a genuine field operative. Which, North had to admit, was recognition he very much deserved.
But it was still very, very annoying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Don Sancho Jaume Morales y Llaguno, governor of Castell de Bellver by appointment of the Carthusian monks of Valdemossa, was perplexed. And because he was perplexed, and hated being so, particularly in the presence of his social inferiors, he was angry. And growing angrier by the minute. He shook the sheaf of papers in his hand violently. “I ask again, what is this rubbish? Is it code?”
“It’s runic,” answered Frank Stone mildly. “An old Anglo-Saxon alphabet. Although, I think this is a little different. It’s Dwarvish, you see.”
Don Sancho goggled. “It is what?”
“It’s Dwarvish. See, there was this author named Tolkien, and he took these runes from way back in English history-back from before the Viking invasions, I guess. He adapted those runes to represent the alphabet used by the dwarves, who are short, really broad, have long beards, and live under mountains where-”
The governor of Bellver leaned back. “You are here less than two weeks, and already suffering from delusions?” He glared at Giovanna. “Or has he always been like this? Has he bouts of insanity?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she answered airily. “I am often out of the house, grooming our unicorns.”
Don Sancho’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. “You mock me. You will regret this.”
Gia smiled sweetly at him. “I doubt it.” Then she looked out the window, drew her legs under her on one of the narrow alcove’s courting seats, and enjoyed the breeze blowing in off the sea.
Don Sancho became red again and turned to stick a finger so directly into Frank’s face that the up-timer was tempted to bite it. “I ask you again,” snapped the governor, “what are these writings? They look demonic.”
“No, no: it’s just a novel. You know, like Don Quixote.”
The governor scoffed. “As I understand it, Cervantes constrained himself to writing his prose is an appreciably human script!”
Frank nodded, thought, damn, this guy would have been really cheesed if I was writing in the elves’ Quenya. He would probably have made me the main attraction at a human weenie roast. “I’m sorry if it upsets you.”
The governor stared, then threw down the papers in exasperation. “Senor Stone, I assure you, if there is sedition in these papers, or an attempt to somehow communicate beyond these walls, we will learn of it. One of the scholars in Palma indicated that the letters might be from an old Scandinavian dialect, so, although it may take some time, we will be able to decipher them. And moreover, no other person will see them until and unless you are freed.”
Frank nodded again. “I understand.” And I also understand that even once you’ve deciphered the runic alphabet, you’re still not going to be able to make any sense of it, because you won’t have a single clue for understanding the other code in which it’s written. Even if you somehow manage to make sense of all the terms I use from The Lord of the Rings and about a dozen fantasy games, you won’t understand what it really means unless you know that the orcs are the Spanish, the uruk-hai are hidalgos, the Nazgul are inquisitors, and so on and so forth, all the way down to the Uttermost West being up-time Earth. So sure, you’ll decode the alphabet in which the book is written, but you’ll still have gibberish. Happy reading, asshole.
“And we will take these documents whenever we wish, you understand.”
“Of course,” Frank agreed. As if I’m stupid enough to make just one copy.
“And we may have to take possession of it for extended periods.”
“I would expect so.”
Don Sancho dropped the papers. “You may have them back for now. Although I repent my agreeing to your request for the paper and ink. I would never have consented at all, but for the intercession of that annoying captain.”
Frank felt his chest tighten slightly. “What annoying captain?”
“You know. The one who came with you. The one they stationed here with those arrogant brutes from Fort San Carlos.”
Frank could feel Gia’s eyes on him, both playful and recriminatory. “He did that?” asked Frank. “He helped me get the paper and ink?”
“Help you? Senor Stone, if it was not for his insistent meddling on your behalf, you would not have the papers, or the ink, or this apartment which, I will point out, was mine up until your arrival. It is the governor’s privilege to enjoy the views and cool breezes of the top floor of the main tower. In Philip’s own name, he forced me out, declaring it the most secure room in the entire fortress. Which it is, of course.”
Frank frowned. “He-Vincente-did all that?”
“Why, yes, of course. Despite your refusal to take his visits. Frankly, I do not know why he tolerates such insolence.”
“We, uh…we have a history.” Gia was leaning over so Frank could not avoid seeing the way she stared at him with her twinkling “ told you so” eyes.
The governor waved a dismissive hand. “That is your affair. But I suppose you are well suited for each other. You, a lunatic, will not be offended by his insufferable imperiousness.”
Frank reflected that Don Sancho accusing Don Vincente of imperiousness was like an elephant criticizing a mouse for being too large.
The governor stalked toward the door, turned and looked back at the papers he had brought in. “So it is a novel, eh? What is this novel of yours about?”
Frank smiled lopsidedly. “Uh. A lot of things. But nothing in particular, just yet. It’s a work in progress, you see.”
“Hmf.” Don Sancho looked down his nose at the papers that, when he tossed them down, had scattered across the dark wood surface of Frank’s writing table. “It is all lunacy and sorcery, I’ll wager.”
Gia hopped down from her seat at the window and rose to her full height of just over five foot two. “My husband does not traffic in sorcery.”
“He is an up-timer, is he not? That makes him a witch!”
“And you are an appointed official, are you not? That makes you an idiot.”
The governor’s eyes, darkened, kept burning holes in Giovanna even when Frank stepped between them. “Hey, hey, no reason for harsh words. You know how it is; wives hate to hear their husband’s work being run down.”
“Eh? So? This is work? It looks like rubbish to me. You can’t even tell me what it’s about. Maybe she can?”
Giovanna’s eyebrows arched. “Maybe. Do not be so sure that I am not the muse that guides my husband’s hand.” She smiled at Frank. “Or at least his heart.”
Frank smiled back. “Definitely my heart.” He swallowed and felt butterflies in his stomach the way he always did when Gia looked at him that way. “And everything else as well.”
Don Sancho Jaume Morales y Llaguno, governor of Castell de Bellver, scowled and began descending the stairs, down to the level of the lazarette that was flush with the roof of the castle. His griping grunt was clearly, and probably intentionally, audible. “Hmf. It’s bad enough to be a warder for sorcerers. But sentimental ones? Bah. They are embarrassments to their own unholy profession.”
“And you will inform them, Captain, that I will not suffer such insolence again-not from such villainous, demon-consorting, scum as them!”
Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas managed not to roll his eyes. He kept them politely focused on Don Sancho, whose small form was almost fully hidden by his large desk. “Governor, do you seriously believe that Frank Stone is a companion to demons? Frank?”
The governor’s haughty chin came down a bit, and he looked away, almost embarrassed. “Well…no, not him. He is too boyish, too stupid. But that wife of his! She could be half-devil, from the look of her!”
Now Don Vincente had to suppress a smile. Yes, judging from what the guards told him of some of the nocturnal noise-making she had perpetrated in Rome, he would not be surprised if there was at least a gill of
