1635 The Papal Stakes (86 page)

“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, Señor 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.”

Asher bristled. “I will not stand for your blasphemy, Captain Lefferts.”

“Okay, Doctor, maybe I shouldn’t take the name of the lord in vain. But maybe you should be putting the name of the lord to good use.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you ought to start praying.”

“Praying? What for?”

“A miracle. We don’t have enough lift to get everyone off this tower.”

As the balloon came down out of the clouds, Miro was surprised to see that they were only forty feet above the roof of the lazarette.

The very crowded roof of the lazarette.

“Holy Mary and Christ on a crutch,” breathed Sean Connal, “are all those people our passengers or a welcoming committee?”

Miro didn’t respond; he was too busy counting the upraised faces that were drawing closer every second. Frank, Giovanna, Harry, Turlough Eubanks, one of the Hibernians, Asher, a prisoner, Matija—wounded, it looked like—and another face that seemed strangely familiar, dressed as one of Asher’s assistants—

“Meir Tarongi!” Miro shouted, the headcount suddenly wiped from his mind.

“That’s me,” Meir shouted back up. “Just came to say goodbye and see what this fool contraption looked like. It certainly does suit you, high ears! Now, I’m off.”

“Meir—”

“No time for goodbyes; we said those already. Besides, you might not have enough room as it is.” Miro’s friend started down the staircase—

“Meir—
shalom!
”

Meir turned. “Next year in Jerusalem, Ezekiel—wherever that might happen to be.” He gave a crooked smile and was gone.

“They’ve seen the bloody balloon!” called Anthony Grogan from an embrasure overlooking the ravelin.

“Then let’s show them some muzzle flashes,” answered Thomas North. “All rifles to the embrasures overlooking the ravelin and the barbican. Your targets are men with long muskets. Fire at will!”

A musket ball zipped past the airship’s gondola—which was fortunate, because the leather-and-wicker compartment would not offer much protection against bullets. “Drop the netting,” ordered Miro.

Sean Connal complied; he pulled two slip-knots free and cast the triple-weighted net fringes outward.

As the bottom of the gondola came down to the level of the lazarette’s battlements, a double-layered fishing net spilled out beneath it, suspended by two lines per side and one on each corner. Belaying lines led down into it from over the edge of the gondola.

“We’re supposed to get into that?” asked Frank.

“Impossible,” huffed Asher.

“Not at all, Doc,” muttered Harry, who grabbed the old man around the waist, and in two long steps, went leaping out between the merlons of the battlement and into the net, which swayed a bit. Asher, after making sure he was alive and was going to stay that way, began berating Harry mercilessly.

Frank looked at Giovanna. Her eyes were wide, and he saw a look on her face that he did not recognize at first, but then did: fear. His fearless Giovanna was every bit as terrified as he was to jump off a hundred-foot-tall tower into a fishnet. So there was only one thing to do: he reached out a hand toward her.

She looked at it, then grasped it fiercely. Her eyes rose and locked on his.

Frank smiled. “Ready to go? In one, two, three—”

They jumped.

“The Spanish are moving again, damn it,” cursed Owen.

“They might be, but you shouldn’t,” replied North. “You should be hobbling back down the tunnel already, so you don’t hold us up.”

The Irishman smiled. “You can’t order me about, fellow-Colonel
Sassenach
.”

“Actually, I can. Colonel or not, I am in the direct employ of the USE. You, sir, are merely some baggage we picked up along the way. Meaning that I can indeed give you orders, and here is the one I’m giving you now: that you allow Mr. Jeffrey here to help you down the stairs into the tunnels and that you both start back to Cala Pedrera immediately. It’s a long walk with a leg wound, and we have to be there fifteen minutes ago.”

“Jeffrey’s wounded too,” objected O’Neill.

“Yes, which is why you both need to start moving—and helping each other along. Now don’t make me send a healthy man to make sure the cripples do what they’re told.”

“
Sassenach
bastard,” Owen grumbled.

“Yes, fine, I’m a bastard—just get moving.”

Which the two hobbling Irishmen did.

North turned, looked up at the balloon, a black blotch against the almost black clouds overhead, and gave what he hoped would be his last orders on this operation: “Keep the Spanish musketeers under fire, men. Mr. Ohde, let’s start lighting the longer fuses.”

Miro scanned the remaining passengers. “You,” he said, pointing to the tall hidalgo prisoner, “strip as far as decency allows.”

“What? I am—”

“You are staying here if you do not do as I say; you are the extra weight we must carry.” Miro thought again. “Turlough, you see that large leather case next to you?”

“Aye. What is it?”

“Something we are not going to bring after all. Toss it down the stairs.”

“My instruments!” howled Asher.

“Doctor,” said Miro in the most soothing tone he could manage, “where you are going, you will have the tools you’ve always dreamed of—and complained of not having.”

“But those are my—”

“They are gone. I am sorry. And Turlough, leave your cuirass and sword.”

“Maybe I should be getting a quick haircut, as well?”

“If I thought it would make a difference, I’d handle the scissors myself. Now, Virgilio, how many casks of oil can we dump overboard and still make it to Dragonera?”

“What? Dump fuel? That is not—”

“Virgilio, no arguments, not now. How many can we lose and keep a reasonable margin for error?”

“Two. Three at most.”

“Virgilio…”

“All right. Four. But no more than that, really.”

Miro nodded to Sean. “Four barrels overboard, then—and have them hit down inside the Castell. Let’s give Palma a fireworks show it won’t soon forget.”

North lit the master fuse on the roof, stood hands on hips and surveyed the beautiful architecture one last time, reflecting that he might be the last human ever to see it in all its delicate, pristine beauty. A shame really, he thought, and then darted for the stairs.

As the last of the passengers on the lazarette’s roof—the Hibernian and Turlough Eubanks—leaped over into the netting, Lefferts had finally finished hauling Asher up into the gondola, where he hung on the end of his belaying line like some limp, improbably bony fish. Frank and Giovanna were on their way up, and the net showed no sign of excess stress; Miro and Virgilio had tested it often enough, after all.

To the north, the bells of Santa Catharina began to chime. It was an alarum, of course, to warn the city that one of its defenses was under attack, but from here, it sounded like a celebration. Then, as if to remind Miro that they were not out of danger yet, a musket ball zipped through the floor of the gondola and carried on up to put a hole in the bottom of the envelope.

“Don Estuban,” Virgilio gasped, “please; we must go.”

Miro looked over the side, saw muzzle flashes aiming up at him, saw sharper brighter ones winking out the arrow slits along the northern and eastern faces of the Castell, saw several of the Spanish musketeers fall. He looked at the remaining men in the net. “We need to move,” he apologized. “We’ll have to pull you up as we travel.”

“Fine,” panted Turlough. “Just get us off this bloody shooting range!”

“Virgilio,” shouted Miro over the revving engines, “take us home.”

Thomas North counted the men as they went past. Many were wounded; Paul Maczka of the Wrecking crew was dead, along with two of the Hibernians, and one of the Wild Geese—little Dillon. Their gear had been carried out, but their bodies would be buried here, beneath the rubble of the storeroom that North now closed behind him.

He locked the storeroom door—mostly to intensify the effects of the impending internal blast—and checked the fuse on the two kegs of powder he had placed beside the trapdoor into the tunnel. It would burn down in four minutes, give or take.

North lit the fuse, blew out the match, dropped down into the secret passage, and closed the trapdoor behind him.

Virgilio had just completed a sweeping turn to the west, which would put them among the southernmost hills of the Tramuntana mountain range, thereby screening them from eyes in Palma. But as they slipped behind the crest of the Serra de Portopi, the passengers and crew of the dirigible heard a long, dull roar behind them.

Turning to look, Frank and Giovanna watched a column of white-yellow flame shoot up from the broad maw of the Castell de Bellver into the night sky. Large explosions pockmarked the blinding plume: those were powder kegs blown high before they, too detonated in mid air. “So long, fairy-tale prison,” whispered Frank.

“And
saluti
freedom,” sighed Giovanna.

The explosive jet settled down into a sullen orange glow; pretty at this range, it betokened an inferno trapped within the sandstone cauldron that were the walls of the Castell de Bellver.

Then they were behind the crest of Serra de Portopi, and both the flame and the sound of the bells was gone.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Thomas North tapped the Hibernian beside him, who left his position at the ruined windmill and fell back toward the black-hulled
llaut
that had raised its black sail. Back there, North also heard the sound he had been waiting for: the cough and steady growl of the extra motor that they had brought as an emergency back-up for the dirigible, now reverted to its original function: a small outboard motor.

A little more than half a mile to the northwest, the initially angry flames marking the Castell de Bellver had died down to occasional gutterings. From north and south, Spanish units were converging on the roads that led to the lanes that devolved into the cart tracks that wound up the slopes upon which the burning fortress was perched. What they would find when they got there was hard to estimate. On the one hand, there hadn’t been that many flammables on hand, even counting the containers of fuel jettisoned by the dirigible. But, on the other hand, the castle was sealed and the Spanish had no way to get in to fight the conflagration. Given time, the wooden floors and beams and fixtures would catch fire, too—if they hadn’t already.

“Colonel North, we’re ready.” It was Grogan’s voice.

“Very well, Grogan. Back aboard, now.” North followed the Irishman closely, and together they waded out to the
llaut.
They were hip-deep when they pushed it off the sandbar that its keel was barely kissing. As Ohde opened the throttle of the outboard slightly, North and Grogan hauled themselves over the side, receiving a hand from the waiting crowd hunkered low in the boat.