“In what?”
“Tengwar is the alphabet of the elven language, Quenya. Except I can’t remember all of the letters. So I had to make some of them up.” Frank wiggled the rolled paper out of his trousers. “But this kind of invented alphabet was the only safe way to put it on paper, Gia. Otherwise, the Spanish might get hold of it and-”
“Yes, yes, husband; you are very wise. Now, quickly: what revolutionary fire has burst from your pen?”
Frank held it up, cleared this throat and read: “We, the people of Italy, solemnly declare our resolution to ordain and establish
1) The unification of our country;
2) The expulsion of the Spanish oppressors, and any other foreign powers that might occupy Italy;
3) A democratic and secular state;
4) Freedom of religion;
5) The church to renounce its claims to temporal power;
6) Universal suffrage for all adults.”
He put the paper down and shrugged apologetically. “It’s not much. It’s certainly not as important as the book.”
Giovanna rose, frowning. “You may discover you are mistaken about that, husband.”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t disagree with you, Gia. But the book was what came to me first. I guess because it’s what I’m familiar with. You grew up as the child of a political firebrand. Me? I was the child of a man who taught me and my brothers about ethical behavior-and the perseverance of goodness-in the stories he read to us. I’m just doing what I know best.”
“I think you underestimate how famous you have become in Italy. Coming from you, this proclamation will be taken seriously.” She smiled. “First we have to smuggle it out, of course, but I don’t see any difficulty there. No one is likely to inspect Dr. Asher that closely.”
She walked over to his writing desk and laid the Bible down upon it gently. “So,” she said, her voice shedding much of its prior gravity “what happens in the last scene of your book? What happens to the hobbits?”
“Hey, never rush an artist! I haven’t written that yet. And I don’t want to talk about it; it might disrupt my delicate creative processes.”
Her smile widened; she rubbed her belly. “I seem to recall that not all your creative processes are delicate, at least when it comes to pro creative ones.” She looked at him from under very dark, and very sexy, brows.
Frank swallowed, trying to fight his instincts back to some semblance of prudence and self-control. She was pregnant, after all. Which he pointed out: “You’re pregnant.” He said it with all the conviction of a drinker denying the appeal of a tumbler full of whiskey.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed. I don’t even know how I got this way.” Giovanna’s smile became positively demonic as she rose and walked toward him; the baby-bump was suddenly just another alluring curve in motion. “Perhaps,” she said innocently, “you could show me how it happened in the first place.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The watchtower at Cala Pi appeared abandoned as the now-familiar llaut from Miguel Tarongi wound its way out of Cala Beltran. Once in open water, it headed straight toward Miro’s larger llaut, the one his men had captured near the Bay of Canyamel and had named the Bogeria, or “Folly,” in Catalan.
The captain of the Bogeria — a Ragusan who had piloted similar boats before-cut an alarmed glance at Miro. “Don Estuban, what does this mean? Why is the other boat on course to meet us? Has the ship been seized by the Span-?”
“Steady as you go,” muttered Miro, squinting into the distance. If only he could make out the deck crew, even one of them A loud bellow saved him the need of further squinting. “Heh, old friend; you look as blind as an owl at noon, screwing your eyes up that way.”
“Miguel Tarongi, what are you doing here?” What Estuban wanted to say was, “What the hell are you doing here, Meir? You and I are not supposed to have any further contact.”
But Miguel waved airily. “Oh, I thought we could chat while your fellows pick up the packages we left in Cala Beltran. Last load, you know.”
Of course I know! What the devil was Meir doing, taking a chance like this?
Meir’s llaut came close alongside the Bogeria. “Hop aboard,” he called.
“Miguel, I-”
“Just do it, high ears. Don’t worry about the Spanish; no one’s home in the Cala Pi watchtower.”
“Oh?” replied Miro, jumping aboard Meir’s llaut as the two ships passed each other with less than a foot of room between their sides. “And just how do you know that-Miguel?”
A wave from Miguel and they were soon alone in the bows.
“You seem to forget,” answered Meir as Miro recovered his balance, “that most of the Spanish troops west and south of Manacor depend on xueta sutlers.”
“So it was easy to know how many need provisioning in the tower, and when.”
“That, and it is easy to sneak inside when you know it is not manned. During which time one can infest the place with rats.”
“You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did, Estuban. Since then, the Spanish soldiers discovered that swords are not good for killing rats.”
“Still, to abandon a watch post simply because of rats-”
Miguel Tarongi shifted into Hebrew and a much lower voice. “The local militia-which provides at least eighty percent of Cala Pi’s manpower-is all too ready to find any excuse not to spend the whole day, staring south, watching for pirates that no longer come. And the other twenty percent-the Spanish-had to find and hire locals with the right skills and tools to eliminate the rats.”
“Huh. Pity you can’t do the same thing with the staff at Castell de Bellver.”
“True, but our xueta sutlers have been busy there, too; our plans are well in hand.”
“And you needed to tell me that yourself? Is that why you came out this morning, Meir?”
Tarongi shuffled restlessly. “More or less. Besides, up until this point, staying at arm’s length was prudent; we were simply exchanging cargos, not information. And the men you sent-well, they came with your instructions, which were all quite clear.” He scratched behind his ear. “But now, we need to make sure that everything is in order, that nothing has been overlooked or forgotten. Because by this time tomorrow, you’ll be bound back for Italy, won’t you?”
“You know I can’t tell you any more than I have, Meir. But you can rest assured that, by dawn tomorrow, I will either be bound elsewhere, or will be remaining in Mallorca. Permanently, I fear.”
“Yes. So I gathered from your last message.” Again, Meir scratched fitfully behind his ear and looked out to sea.
And Ezekiel Miro understood. “You came out today to see me. Because by this time tomorrow I’ll be gone for good-one way or the other.”
“Damn it, Ezekiel. Why did you have to get mixed up in this? You could have-”
“Meir.” Miro lowered his voice. “The world is changing. We have always changed with it. That has often meant far travels. It has meant that some of us go ahead to prepare the way so the rest of our people can follow to a new place of safety.”
“And is that what you’re doing?”
“Who knows? I will send word when I know for sure. But that is all speculation for another time; let us settle matters. You need to be back in Palma before sunset.”
Meir shifted his gaze west. “So I do. And I know you don’t have a lot of time, either; you’ll have to double back to wherever you’re based right now. Which I’m guessing is on the Illa dels Conill?”
“That is not important,” said Miro, who wanted to spit in frustration. Were his plans that obvious, that Meir could guess his remote hideout and staging area on the very first try? On the other hand, given the timing of their regular rendezvous at Cala Pi, Meir’s only reasonable conjecture was to presume that Miro’s base was located
