“It’s not that kind of business. At least I don’t think so.”
Asher made a gruff noise as he testily rearranged the sheets his larger assistant had propped up to form a privacy blind. “Now I’ll need you to relax, Senora Stone-and with your permission, I’ll-”
“You have my permission, now and in all future times. You are a physician; I am your patient. If others imagine anything else, that is a product of their own backward low-mindedness.”
Despite himself, Asher smiled. “I’m surprised your husband had the courage to marry you, Senora.”
“So am I,” admitted Frank. Then, seeing Giovanna’s look, he amended, “I mean, she was so beautiful, I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to ask her if-”
“Ah,” interrupted Asher, who was evidently no longer paying attention to Frank. “It is just as your first doctor, the famous Sharon Nichols, suspected: there are at least twins. Maybe triplets.”
Frank frowned. “No. Sharon said-”
“Yes, yes,” grumbled Asher, “I know she believed it very unlikely that there were three fetuses, but I am telling you I disagree. And with your wife this much further along in the pregnancy, it becomes easier to discern them.” He looked up hard at Frank. “So do not disagree with me, young man. When I say there are three here who will have to be brought out to safety, I know exactly what I am talking about.”
Frank looked at the old xueta ’s eyes, saw them flash-right before the one facing away from the four guards in the room winked.
“Yes,” said the doctor slowly, clearly, “it appears that there are three Stones who will have to brought out to safety. And probably sooner than any of us thought.”
Giovanna sat upright and looked at Frank, eyes wide. Who got it now.
“Oh,” he said to Asher, nodding. And keeping any hint of a smile off his face.
Captain Castro y Papas drifted in the direction of the impromptu mess that had been set up on the second gallery level of the Castell; the kitchen proper, having failed an inspection, was being thoroughly scoured. Approaching the cook laboring red-faced and sweaty over boiling pots and a field stove, Don Vincente had a sudden, almost nostalgic pang of recollection to his earliest years as a soldier-and then that moment of comparative innocence was shattered.
One of the Castell’s regular guards belched and commented to his mates, “All this fuss about some Italian bitch and her demon spawn whelp-to-be is nonsense. I say asking for a Jew to deliver her is proof positive that she’s a witch. So we should burn her, the devil-riding husband, and the Jew all at once and be done with it.”
Grumbles of assent made Don Vincente’s stomach churn; so, this was the flower of manly intellect in Imperial Spain? Centuries of war, conquest, and sacrifice had all been endured to produce this? He did not know whether to laugh, cry, or vomit. At any rate, he lost his appetite; he signaled the cook for a very small portion.
A more composed voice rose up in contention, speaking in pure Catalan, not Mallorquin. “You Mallorcan dolts understand nothing of politics. You might as well be capering around like a bunch of Moors, invoking the spirits of your ancestors to ward off ill omens.”
“Is that so, Corporal? And what is your lofty understanding of this situation?”
“This is politics, fool, plain and simple. You bring the child into the world and use it to control the parents. They’ll do anything to make sure it stays alive. Meanwhile, although you don’t let them know, you give the child the best of everything. Bring ’im up in Court, even.”
“Why? So the demon-child can kill the king?”
“Yokel. The only demons and witches are the ones in your imagination and your grandmother’s drunken dreams. Look: you bring the boy up in court to make him feel that it is his home. In time, you can use him as an agent against the USE, against his own grandfather, who’s becoming wealthy beyond any one’s dreams. Once the boy reaches the age of majority, a little intervention from a subtle assassin could put all that money at the grandson’s, and thus our king’s, disposal. That might even solve Spain’s money problems in a one fell swoop.”
Don Vincente felt the food thump on his plate, did not see it. This voice-belonging to one of the soldiers he and Ezquerra had drawn from the garrison at Fort San Carlos-was far more learned, but no less horrific, than the first; the same grasping cruelty was there, simply converted into a godless format.
One of the other soldiers from Fort San Carlos was disputing the corporal’s scheme. “That’s bullshit, Enrique. The USE would never allow it: they’d seize Stone’s firm, first.”
The corporal’s voice was unperturbed. “They may. But that has other costs. Political costs due to the hypocrisy of that action: so much for the vaunted up-time ‘rule of law’ and ‘free markets.’ Yes, they wouldn’t stay very popular if they nationalized the company right after its new grandson-owner announces that the business will allow investors to buy shares in it.”
The youngest of the Mallorcans-the son of a good family who had bought him a commission as an ensign- sounded dubious. “If it was to become known that we had so manipulated and twisted a child, it will make us-make Spain-more despised, even by our own allies.”
“Nonsense,” argued the corporal. “This is simply a matter of returning to more traditional and effective means of statecraft. This growing trend of considering children to be ‘innocents’ who must be shielded against the harsh realities of the world is a Reformation decadence, brought on by their fascination with Greek political debaucheries such as ‘democracy.’ All fueled by the up-timers. Who are already the basest of hypocrites, you know. ‘Spare the innocents,’ they all cried in their up-time world. And then their most civilized lands slaughtered millions of children with bombs dropped from flying machines.
“And besides, if the rest of Europe disapproves that we have groomed Thomas Stone’s grandson to be both our instrument of vengeance, and our means of refilling our coffers, how does that concern us? We are Spaniards: the fate of the Church is in our hands. We have done harder things. We just recently removed countless corrupt cardinals and strove to accomplish the same with the heretic Pope Urban-my apologies: the anti-Pope Urban. So of what concern is a little old-fashioned hostage-taking to our accumulated reputation? Our lot is infamy among the decadent: so be it.”
Don Vincente let his plate fall with a clatter. The soldiers looked up, stunned to see him at their margins. They never suspected that an officer would dine from the same pot, or come to the same queue to be served from it. “Acts that earn us infamy among the decadent is desirable-unless they also earn us infamy among the just. But of course, there are no just men or virtuous women beyond the borders of Spain, so my words are pointless.”
The captain turned his back on them, stalked away, hands behind his back, head lowered in thought, trying- very hard-to rediscover the lost threads of righteousness he had once associated with both the nation and king to which he had sworn allegiance so many years ago.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
When Sharon arrived at the Garden Room, Ruy was already there. Being married to him, she could see the telltale signs of-well, not anxiety, exactly: more like highly sharpened focus. The most noticeable physical sign was in his posture; although he always sat erect, there was also always a hint of serpentine fluidity about Ruy, even when he was perfectly still. That fluidity was not evident now; his spine seemed to be an inflexible vertical rod.
He moved to make room for Sharon as she glanced at the empty seats beside them. “Where is Sherrilyn? She planned on being here, this time.”
“She is walking the perimeter. She fears laxity and so is making a surprise inspection.”
“I see. And of course you didn’t say anything that might have prompted her.”
“I may have mentioned something about the danger of repetitive patrols without any surprises to test alertness. I do not remember.”
“Sure you don’t. You are just a forgetful old man.”
“How very right you are, my dearest love. By the way, this morning, before I left to walk the perimeter at dawn, did I forget to-?”
“You did not forget to do anything. In fact, you did it twice. Vigorously.”
“Ah. See the infirmities of age? Here I was, thinking I had failed in my spousal duties to you, and was happily anticipating making up for them tonight. Making up for them twice, in fact.”
“You know,” mused Sharon with a slow smile, “maybe I’m the one who’s forgetting. Maybe I’m remembering
