Palma. And who had seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth-and probably into the maw of Hell and perdition- almost two years earlier. “Nice to see you again,” Miguel added with a laconic drawl.
Miro smiled at the understated tone. “Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I suspect your mother thinks so,” Miguel added a bit more pointedly.
Miro sighed. “Yes, I expect she does. Before I forget, Miguel, please give this to my family. But by indirect channels, you understand.”
Miguel crossed his arms instead of accepting the sizeable parcel of letters. “You’ll give them yourself-when you see your family.”
Miro’s eyes closed and Miguel had to work to maintain his gruff exterior; he knew the look of necessary, self- inflicted pain well enough. Living under the Spanish, no xueta remained a stranger to expressions as tortured as that one for very long.
“I can’t deliver the letters myself, Miguel, because I won’t be seeing my family. And you won’t tell them I’ve been here until after I’m gone.”
“This is nonsense, Estuban. You family deserves-”
“They deserve to survive, Miguel, which they won’t if I have any contact with them while I am here. It would be the start of a new round of auto da fe ’s. Trust me: I know.”
Miguel sighed but took the letters. He also knew that tone: the voice of a man embarked upon a desperate course from which he could not deviate. Miguel looked around. After he determined they were alone except for the tavern-owner, who was, after all, one of them, he shifted into Hebrew. “So where have you been…Ezekiel?”
“Didn’t you get any of my letters…Meir?”
“Not a one. Where did you post them, and when?”
“From Genoa, back in the spring of 1634, just before I went over the Alps and to Grantville.”
Meir’s eyebrows raised. “The Algerines were cruising the waters between the Balearics and Sardinia like schools of sharks, back then. Did you send it on a Spanish boat?”
“Genoese. I couldn’t risk Spanish channels-for your sakes, here.”
Meir nodded. “Which is probably why your letters never arrived; the number of Genoese ships that were lost to pirate-paid mutinies was very high. That only stopped recently.”
“Because the Spanish antipiracy patrols have trebled?”
Meir nodded. “Yes. The African pirates are finding the waters a lot less profitable, and a lot more dangerous, now.” He wondered at the small, satisfied smile on Ezekiel Miro’s face. He would have liked to find out what it meant, but there were so many larger questions to be answered. “Grantville, eh? Have you met Nasi? Is the place as safe as they say?”
“It exceeds description, Meir. If there was any way to do it, I would encourage all the xuetas to relocate there, en masse. Or even to Venice.”
“Why Venice?”
“Because the up-timer interests are very strong there. And where the Grantvillers set up permanent trading stations, they seem to insist upon a certain minimum of religious toleration. If conditions fall beneath that standard-such as preceded the Inquisition or the pogroms-they tend to leave. Or they effect what they call ‘regime change.’ That is the stick with which they beat oppressors, but their much larger influence is through the carrot of their commerce. Venice is booming, much stronger for its relationship with the USE. So, although they are not in any way sacrificing their autonomy, I believe the Council of Ten have realized that if they are to sustain their current surge in relative power, they must not antagonize the USE by ignoring the laws that give us Jews additional protection there.”
Meir pouted, nodded. “Sounds promising. And you are doing well?”
“Quite well, but right now, I am not here as a merchant.”
“No? So what brings you here?”
Miro told him.
Meir heard the finish of Ezekiel’s story just as he finished the last of the wine. The olives and bread were already gone, as were half of the fish. The shadows had moved noticeably; their slant was more pronounced, their edges not so sharply demarcated. The sunlight was no longer the punishing white of morning and midday, but had become a bit more yellow. Meir dabbed the remains of wine and oil from his lips. “You are, of course, mad,” he said.
Miro smiled. “And you are unchanged.”
“I am realistic. Being of humble origins, I never had the luxury of grand schemes and flights of fancy. The life of an orella baixa is one of reason, you see.”
Ezekiel smiled at the reinitiation of their old taunting ritual; they had become fast friends despite-or perhaps because of-the social differences between them. Meir, who was one of the orella baixa — or “low ears”-of the xueta, should have had little access to Ezekiel, who was the eldest scion of one of the most celebrated families of the orella alta — or “high ears.” But Ezekiel early decided that these class differences were nonsense, and even as a boy, recognized the strong mind and strong, dogged loyalty of Meir-called “Miguel” in public-who was but a cobbler’s son. “Thanks for your reminder that I am, in fact, a spoiled brat-intellectually as well as materially. Now, are the Stones being held in Bellver?”
“Of course? Where else?”
“And have you any news of them?”
“Until a few days ago, we were not even sure they were prisoners there. The Spanish were quiet about it. Word is that some factotum of Borja’s oversaw the couple’s transfer from Rome. Not much is known about him, however.”
Ezekiel’s face took on an expression Meir had never seen before-and for the first time in their long years together, Meir was scared of Ezekiel: physically scared. A man with such a look on his face might do anything…
“Does this factotum stay in Bellver?” asked Miro, his eyes still like a shark’s.
“No. He mostly resides in the Almudaina.”
“Not at the Black House, then?”
“Huh. This man of Borja’s seems to have little use for the Inquisition. And they for him.”
Miro’s expression became a bit less ominous, a bit more thoughtful. “Interesting. But back to the Stones: any word of their condition, or where in the Castell they are being kept?”
“No, but the husband apparently pestered the governor to provide the services of one of our doctors until he got his way, if you can believe that.”
“I readily believe he asked for one of our physicians. I find it very strange that the Spanish agreed, however.”
“Well, it wasn’t without some pressure. Apparently, an hidalgo who accompanied the couple here as a combination guard and overseer added his influence to the request.”
“And why did the Stones want a male physician? Why not a midwife?”
“It is said that the up-time ambassadora in Rome, this female doctor Sharon Nichols, warned that there might be complications with the pregnancy, particularly since the woman is carrying twins.”
Miro frowned and then, just as suddenly, he was smiling as broadly as when he had been a boy. “This Frank Stone is as shrewd as his father.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I consulted with Ambassador Nichols before coming here. Giovanna Stone is not carrying twins. She is also as sturdy a woman as God ever made. It is her first pregnancy, true, so unexpected problems are more likely-but that only gives added credibility to her need for much help, and is all the the more to our advantage.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind, Meir. I am thinking out loud. Thinking flighty, useless orella alta thoughts, mind you.”
“Of course. But-”
“So, they have not been provided a physician, yet?”
Meir shook his head. “No. All that has happened so far is that some inquiries were made in our community.”
“Excellent. Is Asher still practicing?”
“Him? He will be doctoring from his deathbed. And he has too wretched a temperament to ever die, so we
