Hammer of Witches (12 page)

“I don’t know.” To the inn? To the Baba Yaga? “Maybe we can get onto another ship. There has to be another one around here that —”

“No!” Jinni exclaimed. A layer of tears glazed over her huge, currently-brown eyes. “These are the only ships going west, Bal! The Baba Yaga said we have to go west to find Amir! If we don’t . . .”

“No, Jinni,” I said in a low voice, hoping no one would hear. “The Baba Yaga just threw a bunch of cards on a table and told us what she thought they meant. The fact is, the Baba Yaga’s not helping us get on the
Santa María,
and neither are her cards. If we have to go west, you’re going to have to think of a way to do it, because I’m all out of ideas.”

Jinniyah, however, didn’t seem to be listening to me. She was standing on her tiptoes and listing to one side. When I opened my mouth again, she shoved a finger against my lips. As hard as I strained to hear what she was hearing, all I could make out above the roar of the crowds was the conversation of the two fair-haired men standing next to us on the dock.

Jinniyah shot a glance in their direction. “Bal, can you hear them? Those two blond men.”

“Well, sure, but —”

“What are they saying?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t really understand why Jinniyah couldn’t hear them — or why she cared. “They’re talking about some other sea voyage, down to the Horn of Africa. Why?”

A cunning grin surfaced on Jinniyah’s boyish face. And before I could understand what she was doing, I found myself being dragged through the crowds over to the
Pinta.
Martín Pinzón stood before it, rubbing his eyes as a sailor holding a heavy-looking barrel wasted his precious time.

Jinniyah burst in between them. “Captain Pinzón!”

Martín removed his fingers from his eyelids. “You two? Didn’t I just send you away?”

Jinniyah nodded up at him. “Captain Pinzón, I know you don’t need a cabin boy, but do you need an interpreter?”

At first I thought nothing of the question. Then I snapped my attention to Jinniyah.

An interpreter? What in God’s name was she doing?

“We have one,” Martín said, but Vicente, who must have overheard, slipped in front of him.

“Yes, and he’s awful. Why? Can you translate?”

Jinniyah shoved her hands proudly against her hips. “Bal . . . Lui . . . My friend here is able to read at least ten different languages.”

“Really?” Martín appeared skeptical, a look that fit him well.

“Don’t pay any attention to her — him!” I said, jumping in front of Jinniyah. “He’s exaggerating about my, er, abilities.”

Jinniyah nuzzled her boyish face on my arm. “Oh, Luis is so humble. Humble and
handsome
.” I pushed her away. This wasn’t helping!

Martín pinched the bridge of his nose with two bony fingers. “Enough. If you must waste my time.” He thrust the pile of yellowed papers he was carrying forward and jammed a finger toward it. “Read this.”

I took a hold of the top sheet, wondering if I should risk another lie. Then I exhaled, relieved. “It’s Latin.” As an apprentice
bookmaker and scribe, I had known the language most of my life. “It’s a list of supplies: fresh water, vinegar, cod, wine. Cheese, honey, and lentils —”

“Yes, yes, that’s enough.” Martín whisked the paper away and substituted it with another. “Now this one.”

My confidence growing, I meditated over the second paper. Hmm. Although I couldn’t speak the language sprawled across this page, I definitely could recognize it. Portuguese. It was funny, but the more I pored over the text, the more I thought I could read it all the same. And why not? It wasn’t that far off from Latin or my own Castilian tongue.

“It’s a contract,” I said to Martín with conviction. “It says you will pay the undersigned a salary of a thousand
maravedíes
per month for his services on the
Pinta,
the first half of which shall be paid before the voyage and the remainder to be paid upon our return.”

“Hmm,” Martín said, but his disappointed tone told me I had read it correctly. Unsurprisingly Martín Pinzón was a hard man to impress, and he demanded that I read passages in Italian, French, Arabic, and even Ottoman Turkish. To my shock and his rising chagrin, I could read them all. It was impossible, but . . .

But . . .

By then Antonio de Cuellar had returned to see what all the fuss was about, since it seemed half the crew had gathered around to watch the show. Antonio, I gathered, had not found
his admiral. “Luis,” he said, a mix of worry and awe infusing his voice. “How are you doing that?”

I would have liked to know that myself.

“He is splendid,” Vicente agreed. “Just perfect for the expedition.”

“Mmm,” was Martín’s answer. He tapped his quill against his palm. And then, for no reason at all, he vanished into the crowd. Jinniyah and I exchanged glances but didn’t say a word.

A minute later: “Make way! The admiral approaches!”

The waves of men standing before me parted, revealing Martín Pinzón and a sturdy gray-haired man with a navy cape draped over his shoulders. Admiral Colón. He looked down his Roman nose at me, his blue eyes piercing right through mine.

“Is this what you wanted me to see about, Martín?” The admiral’s voice was very deep, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent.

“Yes.” Martín stepped in front of me, holding a cover-worn book in his hands. Without ceremony he tossed it open to a random page. “Read this.”

I squinted down at the unfamiliar text. The letters were angular, and their points and serifs were decorated with inkblots. My gaze trailed along the lines. And barely aware of what I was saying, I recited, “‘Consider three things, and thou wilt not fall into transgression: know whence thou comest, whither thou art going, and before whom thou art about to give account and reckoning —’”

“That’s enough.” Martín stole the text away before I could finish and clapped the book closed with the force of judgment. “It’s as I suspected.”

“As I suspected as well, Brother,” said Vicente. “He’s perfect! With talent like this, we’d be able to speak with the Grand Khan!”

Admiral Colón peered down at me. “I’m wondering if you could tell me something, Señor . . . ?”

“Luis de Torres,” I said.

“I was wondering, Señor de Torres, if you could tell me where you became so skillful in reading these languages?”

Always ready to unsheathe a new story, I said, “Oh, here and there. I’ve done a lot of traveling over the years —”

“And where would you say you picked up this particular language?” Colón took the book from Martín Pinzón’s hands and held it up in front of me.

“That one? From my uncle. He was a bookmaker.”

I thought that answer was as good as any, and it was very nearly true. At any rate Colón seemed placated as he handed the book back to Martín. But the look on Martín’s face, a look of distrust and scorn, told me my lie had not worked on him.

“Don’t listen to a word this boy says, Admiral,” Martín said, taking a menacing step closer to me. Was he always this tall and commanding? Was his face always so ghoulish and gray?

“You, Señor de Torres, are a liar. And I do not like being lied to. I think de Torres isn’t your real name at all.”

I could hardly believe anyone could be so perceptive. Where had I gone wrong? Did my voice waver? Did I leave a hole in my story that Martín worked his way through? Or maybe Martín was an agent of the Malleus Maleficarum who knew my true identity.

“He’s a Jew.”

The statement stopped sailors in their tracks. The admiral said, “What are you talking about, Martín?”

Martín slapped the fateful book against Colón’s chest. “I’m talking about this. It’s in Aramaic. A Jewish text. Not something any boy off the street is going to understand. That is, unless he’s a Jewish converso — a Marrano, as people so rudely call them. Am I right, de Torres?”

I bowed my head as low as it could go. “That’s right, sir.”

“I knew it!” It was amazing what an effect being right had on Martín. A light kindled his features, transforming him in an instant from a sallow, sad-looking man into a being vibrant with youth.

Antonio de Cuellar scowled. “So he’s a Jew! What difference does that make? He could out-translate the Pope. God as my witness, he could!” For a moment I wondered if Antonio would hit the captain even if it meant losing his job.

Fortunately the carpenter failed to faze the captain. “If you were paying attention,” Martín said, “you would realize that I borrowed this copy of the Talmud from a sailor on the
Pinta
who happens to be Jewish. And there are three converted Jews
on this voyage, as well, including your friend Sanchez over there. It makes no difference to me if this boy is Jewish, pagan, or one of the Mohammedan peoples. If the boy can help us find gold in the Indies, he can be Moses, for all I care. Gold is the only religion to me, Carpenter.”

“So he’s got the job?” Antonio looked up at Colón expectantly.

“Yes,” the admiral said. “He and the other boy will be coming with me on the
Santa María.
The rest of you ready yourselves. We will depart in a half an hour.”

And all of a sudden the show was over. The crowd around me dispersed, and Antonio ran after Martín, ready to collect his bonus.

As for me? I just stood there, completely and utterly bewildered.

What had happened just now? What did I just
do
?

Lost in these thoughts, I barely noticed when Admiral Colón stepped up next to me. “You will see me later, in my cabin,” he said in a very low voice. “You and I need to talk.” And he swept past, leaving me to wonder what in the world he wanted.

I needed Jinniyah. She had wandered off near the base of the
Santa María,
probably to get a better look at the ships. I tramped up to her and said, “How did you do it?”

Jinniyah was busy twirling locks of her frizzy black hair around her fingers, clearly entertained by the novelty of appearing human. “Do what?”

I lowered my voice so no one would hear. “Make me able to translate all that stuff! I mean, Latin’s all right. Italian,
maybe.
But Aramaic? I’ve never even
seen
it before, let alone read it! But you saw. I understood it. I . . . I . . .”

The old-adult look resurfaced on the little boy’s face. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” Jinniyah said. “Well, don’t be! You’re a Storyteller. You take the stories and make them real. But first you have to read the stories. It only makes sense that you’d be able to understand other languages. I thought you knew that.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s why Storytellers are called lukmani, after the sage Luqman. He was so wise, he was able to speak with anyone and anything — even the flowers and the trees and the earth!”

“You’re saying I can speak with flowers and trees?”

“No, silly! But you can speak with people! Remember those two men who were talking about the Horn of Africa before? They were speaking English, Bal! Do you speak English?”

“No.” Not before today, anyway. Nearby, one of the two tow-headed men by the
Santa Marías
gangway was telling a joke to the other, something about the promiscuity of Andalusian women. But the real punchline was that I could understand every single word.

“Anyway, Amir could do it, so I figured you could too,” Jinniyah said, and she gave me a warm smile.

I returned it. “Thanks, Jinni.” While I didn’t always understand the girl, now I owed her big-time.

“You’re very welcome! And remember this the next time I tell you to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Then promise when we get to Cathay we’ll look for Amir.”

I groaned. This again?

The girl shoved her hands onto her hips. “No, Bal! This is important! We have to stop that evil being the Baba Yaga told us about, and we need to find Amir to do it. I don’t know why you hate him so much —”

“I don’t,” I said, not really believing the words.

“ — but when I say Amir’s a good person, I mean it! He’s a hero! When you were younger, you must have wanted to meet your father. Both your parents. Didn’t you?”

I turned away from her. “More than anything. But I thought they were different people. I thought they were —”

“No! No more buts! You said you trusted me. Now tell me the truth! Do you mean it or not?”

So I considered her, the skinny sort-of-boy standing in front of me. It was hard not to think of her as a child, with that undeveloped body and those huge shiny eyes. But I did trust her, and she’d been around far longer than I had. If it weren’t for her, I would probably never get out of Spain alive. She was right about the Baba Yaga, and she was right about my being a translator.

Maybe she was right about Amir al-Katib too. She said the man was a hero, and so did the Baba Yaga. And Diego. So what if . . .

It was an uncomfortable thought, but it kept coming back no matter how hard I tried to shake it. What if they were right? What if Amir al-Katib wasn’t the bloodthirsty Moor I had taken him for? When I was a child, my friends always called him a villain. But what if they were wrong? What if my parents really were heroes, like my uncle said they were? And when Father Joaquin said the Moors were all devils, what if he was wrong about them, too?

I took a breath, feeling the beginnings of something — maybe confidence, maybe destiny — burning within me. As I looked out over the mighty Atlantic I thought I could see the outlines of a new future forming on the horizon, a future where I was a hero like the Baba Yaga said, with my legendary father standing beside me. A shadowy figure, a monster bent on destroying the world, would rear up above us, baring its terrible claws. But we’d strike it down, my father and I, and start a new life on the other side of the world.

“What do you say, Bal?” Jinniyah said. “We’ll find him, won’t we?”

I took her hand. “Of course we will.”

She leaped up and rung me around the neck with a hug. “Oh, Bal! You mean it?”

I laughed. Oh, what had I gotten myself into?

“And one more thing.” I opened my bag, pulled out Jinniyah’s necklace, and held it out to her. “You can have it.”

Jinniyah bit her lip and said, “You mean you’re not going to trap me in there anymore?”