arbiter of these Spaniards’ fates, not a humble colonel of mercenaries. Accordingly, he had given orders to leave the wounded undisturbed. North resumed walking toward the southern half of the main roof to finish his own sweep: they needed the security on the upper levels to be absolute before bringing the balloon down and exposing the hostages.
Evidently, the survivors who had been ambulatory enough to leave the roof had done so long before he and the Wild Geese arrived to begin their search for stragglers: there was no sign of any holdouts here, either. He turned to shout to Grogan, to give orders to start running fuses and powder trails to the roof battery’s ready powder casks, when he noticed a white handkerchief protruding from beneath the carriage of one of the larger culverins. North, fairly sure he had not seen it before, swung his gun up Just as the handkerchief twitched a bit, and a voice said, “Senor, if I might come out?”
North wondered at the polite tone, consented: “Yes. But come out slowly.”
A bit of scrabbling and grimy hands emerged, which in turn pulled out a man of small to medium height, who rose holding both arms in the air. “Sergeant Ezquerra, sir. At your service…eh, so to speak.”
North cocked an eyebrow at the sardonic introduction. “Hmm. Rather strange to see a veteran under there. I’d have thought a man like you would have died leading the charge across this roof.”
“It would be a stranger thing for a veteran not to understand that, in extreme cases such as this one, discretion is very much the better part of valor.”
North smiled before he could stop himself; reflexively, he already liked this man. Not that he was under any delusion that, given a hair’s breadth opportunity, Ezquerra would fail to cut him down: that was his job, after all. But from the more detached perspective of military professionals who could recognize each other across the dividing lines of national boundaries and conflicting oaths of fealty, North already knew this sergeant: a resilient career NCO who was an inevitable fixture of armies everywhere and a curmudgeonly blessing to any unit and captain lucky enough to have him.
“So, Sergeant, now we have a quandary: what do I do with you?”
Ezquerra nodded in the direction of the lazarette. “Take me there.”
North frowned. “Why?”
“My captain-Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas-he went in there. Does he live?”
North gestured with his left hand but kept his right firmly around his the grip of his pistol. “Let’s find out. After you.”
Sean Connal turned to Miro, smiling like a boy. “Signal confirmed: all clear for descent. Hostages recovered safely.”
Miro smiled back, started hauling in on the gang-line of the mooring cables. “Virgilio, as soon as you have sight of the lazarette, bring us around to the east side; there will be fewer Spanish there, at first.”
“They will come from the ravelins on the north and west quickly enough,” muttered the airship’s pilot.
Miro reflected that the little Venetian, although barely older than himself, was already well on his way to becoming a crabby old man. “True enough, which is why we must still act swiftly.”
Virgilio shrugged. “So pull harder.”
Owen limped, stiff-legged, back to the staircase, and discovered one of the Hibernians rousing Matija Grabnar, who blinked groggily and swayed up to his elbows. “Damn, I thought I was dead.”
“I’m acquainted with that feeling. D’you think you can walk, lad?”
“Uh…yes. But not well.”
“Right. McDonnell, Jeffrey, move Mr. Grabnar up to the roof; he’ll be going with the balloon if they can manage it. Now, you other men who aren’t busy teaching Spanish artillerists how to dance the lever-action gavotte, get yourselves downstairs in a trice. Start spreading the powder kegs from the magazine, just as we planned. Remember, eight minute fuses. And mind you, listen for the whistle; you don’t want to be left behind.”
As Frank poked his head out onto the roof of the lazarette, Castro y Papas put a restraining hand on his shoulder: “No, stay low: the men at the ravelins will be scanning for targets.”
“In this darkness?”
Castro y Papas shrugged. “Even without torchlight, a silhouette might be seen moving against the night sky. It is unlikely, but are you so eager to take a chance?”
Frank kept his head down as Harry Lefferts came away from the battlements, scooping up the empty magazines and counting the people on the roof. “Well, that’s all of us. Nothing left to do here.”
“Not quite,” came Thomas North’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you have a captain Castro y Papas with you? Or has he-erm, become a permanent resident of the tower?”
“It is not my intent to be so,” Don Vincente answered, “but my intents count for very little this evening. Who asks?”
Before North could speak again, a smudged head popped up from the stairwell. “Going on a trip, Captain?”
Don Vincente beamed. “Ezquerra! I had prayed and hoped-hah! You lazy dog: sleeping when the invaders came, I’ll wager. Snored in your bed while the rest of us fought nobly. It is the only reason you would still be alive.”
“The captain’s perspicacity is undimmed by the chaos of this night.” Ezquerra’s voice grew more quiet. “You are leaving, then?”
“Ezquerra, I–I killed Dakis. I cannot go back.”
“Don Vincente, it seems that no living Spaniard has seen what you have done, so-”
“No, but I have seen it, and I will not lie. I must live with my shame. I only regret that my family-”
“-your family will mourn your passing, Don Vincente. Until such time as you decide to imitate Lazarus and come back from the dead.”
At first Frank did not understand, but the shine in Don Vincente’s grateful eyes made it all clear: Ezquerra meant to stay and claim that he had seen the captain die, bravely fighting for Spain. No disgrace would come upon House Castro or Papas, and no search would be mounted for a traitor against the crown. But in turn, that meant “Sergeant Ezquerra,” said Frank, “I think you should know something. I just learned that, in order to leave as few clues as possible, our rescuers plan to uh…damage the Castell de Bellver.”
“Indeed?” Ezquerra looked puzzled.
“Really damage it. As in ka-boom.”
Ezquerra’s eyes widened, then narrowed-and revealed to Frank, for the first time, how sharp a mind occupied the brain behind them. “How long do I have to exit the tower, Senor Stone?”
Frank looked over at Harry, who was waving for someone to come up the stairs quickly. Harry had evidently been listening to the exchange, though: “Call it eight minutes. At most.”
“Ah. Good. That will be sufficient.”
“For what?”
“For me to get down to the lowest level of the lazarette and go out through the eastern postern gate.”
“Ezquerra!” exclaimed Don Vincente “That is still a long drop to the bottom of the dry moat!”
“Indeed it is, Captain. But I am a man who knows the value of rope-and knows where some is located, in that very room. I am off.”
“Ezquerra!” Don Vincente called.
The round smudged head popped up through the hole again. “Yes? I am in something of a rush, Captain.”
“Ezquerra, I… vaya con Dios, my friend.”
“Captain, how unlike you to become maudlin! Besides, this is not farewell. I am sure to be a burden to you again some time in the future; the world is small, and our paths shall cross.”
“Much to my annoyance, Ezquerra. Now go.”
Ezquerra smiled. “Ah. Now, that is the true voice of my captain.” His head disappeared.
Harry was glowering at the people on the roof. Frank wondered why; he cocked a quizzical head at him.
Harry saw the gesture and shrugged. “We’re over capacity, now.”
“What? Why?”
“Because of him.” He pointed at Don Vincente. “And him,” he added, pointing at Matija, who groaned up the narrow stairs, pulled and pushed along by two of the Wild Geese. “God damn it, that’s a lot more weight than we counted on.”
