Sorcerer's Secret (27 page)

F
ritz had returned to the hold, telling Rory and the others about Tammand. Soka's face went white, and Perewyn tried to calm her.

“You need to concentrate on your magic,” Rory heard him whisper.

“What kind of diversion is Bridget planning?” De Vries asked Fritz, who shrugged.

“She's a resourceful girl,” the battle roach assured him. “She'll think of something good, I'm sure.”

A faint sound drifted down from the deck. De Vries cocked his head. “Sounds like a fight,” he said as the yelling and cursing grew louder. “A big fight!”

Rory shook his head as the soldiers in the hold walked over to see what the commotion was about. “How does she do it?” he asked no one in particular.

“She's gifted,” Fritz replied with a smile.

“Now is our chance,” Perewyn said to Soka. “Do what I showed you! You don't need to worry, I am right here.”

Nodding, Soka closed her eyes, muttering. Rory watched her anxiously, wishing he could help her. At first nothing seemed to be happening, but then Cornelis gasped.

“Look!” he said loudly, and De Vries had to clamp a hand over his mouth to shut him up. Thankfully the guards were gathered at the foot of the stairs, distracted by the fight on deck. None of them turned to see the small green shoots growing up from the wood floor around the bars that locked the prisoners in. The shoots grew higher and higher, wrapping around the bars. Soka muttered one word particularly strongly and the shoots pulled apart, bending the bars. De Vries turned to the prisoners, who had all gathered behind him.

“We have numbers on our side,” he whispered. “Overpower, grab guns, and finish it quickly! Ready . . . go!”

De Vries led them through the now-open bars, launching himself at the distracted guards. They heard him at the last minute, but by then it was too late. He had knocked them both senseless and grabbed their guns.

“Come on!” he said quietly, and led them up onto the deck.

Rory blinked in the light as he stepped onto the deck and into a mass of confusion. The soldiers and sailors were busy grappling with one another as their superiors tried to stop the fight.

“Stop this foolishness before the admiral finishes with the prisoner or there will be hell to pay!” one was saying as he tried to pry apart two combatants. Rory caught sight of Bridget, who was standing in the corner, waving proudly at him.

De Vries raised his gun in the air and shouted, “CHARGE!” as he led the mass of prisoners into the fray. The redcoats and sailors barely had time to notice their new opponents before the prisoners were on them.

Rory didn't know what to do, but then he spied Bridget waving at him and pointing toward the stern of the boat.

“Tammand!” she mouthed, and Rory broke into a run. There was no way he'd let Soka's brother get killed on his watch, no matter how angry Soka was with him. He dodged the fight as he scampered across the deck, meeting up with Bridget at a door at the back of the ship.

“How did you do this?” he asked her, and she gave an airy shrug.

“Just used my charm!” she replied. “Come on, he's in the admiral's quarters.” Bridget led him down a short hall. They burst into the room at the end, diving to the floor in case Howe was waiting for them with a gun. But to their surprise, Howe was worried about someone else.

Tammand lay on the floor, looking stunned as blood ran down a deep cut in his shoulder. Over by his desk, Howe was struggling with someone Rory couldn't quite see, cutlass in hand. Howe swung his assailant around, and Rory was shocked to see the determined but hapless face of Cornelis Melyn.

At first he thought the patroon might have a chance, but his luck betrayed him yet again as Cornelis proceeded to trip over his own feet and fall to the ground, hitting his head on the side of the desk with a loud thud. Rory and Bridget both began running to help Cornelis, but Howe wasn't concerned with the dazed god. Instead he trained his cutlass on Rory.

“You're him, aren't you,” Howe said. “The Light. It's the only explanation. And I will be the one to kill you.” He stabbed with his sword, hard, but Bridget intercepted it, throwing her arm up to deflect the point. The force of the blow, however, sent the sword straight through Bridget's arm and into the wall, pinning her there. Howe looked at her with confusion.

“You're a tough one,” he said, taken aback, before retreating to his desk. He reached behind the desk and pulled out a second cutlass, bringing it to bear on Rory. Rory backed away, tripping over Bridget's leg and landing heavily on the floor next to a chair that had been broken in the fight. He spied a chair leg that had snapped off, and just as Howe chopped down with his sword, Rory grabbed the leg, blocking the blade with the piece of wood. Chips flew off the chair leg as the blade sliced across it, but Rory was able to beat back the attack.

He pushed himself to his feet, holding the chair leg in front of him. Bridget tried desperately to free herself, while Tammand seemed to be out of it completely, perhaps bleeding to death in the corner. Rory was on his own as he faced down a smirking Admiral Howe, and to his surprise, he wasn't afraid.

“A fair fight,” Howe said, the sword swaying confidently in his hand. “I like it. Too bad it won't last very long.” With that, he launched himself at Rory, bringing his sword down hard. Rory didn't even bother to fight back; he dropped and rolled out of the way. Howe turned, advancing again, before stumbling with a curse.

“Ow!” he cried. He'd strayed too close to Bridget, who'd stomped on his ankle. He kicked back at her and Rory took his chance, leaping to his feet and swinging the chair leg with all his might. But Howe caught sight of the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he quickly brought his sword up to counter the attack. Moving out of range of Bridget's feet, the admiral parried Rory's thrusts expertly, and Rory realized there was no way he could beat this expert swordsman in a fair fight. Good thing he didn't feel the need to fight fair.

Spying a paperweight on the desk, he grabbed it and lobbed the heavy object at Howe's head. The admiral ducked, but the paperweight glanced off his skull, sending him staggering back. Rory picked up some papers that had been under the weight and threw them at Howe, too, trying to make it hard for the admiral to see. Sheets of paper filled the air, and as Howe slashed at them, Rory picked up another sheaf and was about to toss that as well when Bridget cried out.

“Rory, not those!”

Glancing down, Rory realized that he was holding Adriaen van der Donck's journal pages. Blanching, he quickly put them back, but it was too late to look for any more. Howe had cleared a path with his sword and was coming at him again. Rory brought up the chair leg just in time, blocking the sword once, twice, three times, barely keeping the steel from reaching his flesh. But a sick feeling in his stomach told him that his luck was running out. He backed up against the window and Howe moved to follow him and finish the job, but suddenly the admiral stopped short, struggling to move forward. Glancing down, Rory realized that Cornelis had come to and was holding fast to Howe's legs, preventing the man from going anywhere. Howe slashed down at Cornelis, opening cuts all along the patroon's back, but Cornelis would not budge.

Rory knew he'd never have a better opportunity, so he rushed forward, swinging the chair leg with all his strength. Howe caught sight of him too late, and he barely had time to lift the sword before Rory hit it, sending the cutlass flying out of his hand to the floor. Rory leaped after the fallen sword, picking it up near the bookcase and turning back to Howe, weapon in hand.

Howe kicked down hard, and finally pulled free of Cornelis's grasp, reaching down to grab the chair leg Rory had discarded.

“You think you've beaten me?” the admiral said, sneering at him. “I can do more damage with a piece of wood than you can do with a sword, boy. You don't even know how to hold that thing.”

Howe swung the chair leg right at Rory's head. Rory instinctively swung back with the sword, expecting the two weapons to collide noisily. But Cornelis wasn't out of the fight yet, and the patroon rolled into Howe's legs, sending the admiral stumbling. The chair leg missed its mark, but to Rory's horror, his sword wasn't going to. It sailed through the air on a collision course with Howe's neck, and Rory knew with a sick certainty that he was about to end a life.

But then a second sword swatted his out of the way and Rory spun to see Tammand standing weakly at his side, the sword that had pinned Bridget to the wall now resting in his hand. Before Rory could say a word, Tammand stepped past him, thrusting the sword through Howe's heart. Howe stared up at the Munsee, disbelieving, before falling over in a lifeless heap at their feet.

“You killed him!” Bridget cried, scrambling to her feet with one arm cradled in the other. “Why did you do that?”

Tammand didn't reply, instead crouching down by Cornelis, who was having trouble sitting up. “You saved my life,” he said, though his angry tone was at odds with the sentiment. “Why?”

“It was the right thing to do,” Cornelis said, wiping the blood off his lips. “I try to do the right thing, over and over, but it usually doesn't work out the way I want it to. This time, though . . . this time it did. And I'm glad.”

Tammand staggered away to lean against the wall. He looked even more lost than he'd been in the prison hold. Being saved by a newcomer threw his whole world out of whack.

“Rory!” Soka stood in the doorway. She noticed her brother, leaning against the wall while blood ran down his tunic. “Tammand! What happened?”

“He saved me,” Rory told her.

“Hey!” Bridget cried. “That's not true! You were about to take Howe down yourself before he stopped you and did it himself!”

Rory glanced at Tammand, who wouldn't look at him. “Like I said, he saved me.”

T
obias sat behind his desk in the upper corner of his bank, going over his ledgers. He glanced up as his door swung open.

“Mr. Prince,” he said, nodding as if the intruder were expected. Caesar Prince stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He tipped his fedora at the God of Banking.

“Tobias,” he said, smiling with all his white teeth showing. “I thought I'd find you here. Why aren't you out at Roosevelt Island with Kieft?”

“We may be on the edge of war, Mr. Prince, but that doesn't relieve me of my duties,” Tobias replied, nodding at his paperwork. “There is as much money to be made during war as during peace. And it is my job to look after the money.”

“Is it really?” Caesar said, cocking his head. “Are you sure?”

“What are you blathering about?” Tobias asked, his voice disinterested.

“J. P. Morgan has been raising a stink about you, you know that?” Caesar said. Tobias shrugged.

“He's always been quite the poor loser.”

“He was also the most powerful banker this city has ever known,” Caesar said. Tobias shrugged, uncaring. Caesar continued. “Yet you are the God of Banking. Not him. So you must have been far more famous than he was. Yet no one has ever heard of you.” Tobias did not answer, bending over his numbers, counting under his breath. Caesar smirked. “You love being the God of Banking, don't you. You're good at it. But what if people were to find out that you aren't who you say you are. That you aren't really a god at all.”

“That is slander,” Tobias said, though he did not look up from his ledger. In fact, he counted faster and faster, running a finger quickly over the rows of numbers.

“I did some digging. There was a spirit, a clerk, who worked for the last God of Banking two hundred years ago, whose name was Toby. Timothy Reese Toby. Tim to his friends, not that he had any. Tim Toby. I guess T. R. Tobias had more of a godly ring.”

“You are talking nonsense,” Tobias said. His finger was a blur over his ledger.

“I'm sure I am,” Caesar agreed. “Of course, the previous God of Banking died in a battle with the Munsees, and then, suddenly, you were God of Banking. And no one questioned it, because how could someone become a god if they didn't earn it? And now no one really remembers where you came from.”

“Is that all you came to tell me?” Tobias asked, refusing to raise his head from his work. “Fantastical stories?”

“I think you were Kieft's guinea pig. I think your boss was killed in battle and Kieft proposed a test. Instead of destroying the locket or letting it fade, you would wear it. Just to see what happened. And it made you a god.” Tobias picked up a pencil, adding his numbers furiously, ripping holes into his ledger as Caesar continued. “How many of you has he made over the years? How many false gods?”

“I am no false god,” Tobias spat, finally looking up with hatred in his eyes. “I am a better God of Banking than this city deserves!”

“Maybe you are,” Caesar said. “But you won't be one for long when this gets out. And if Kieft wins? Do you really think he will let you live? You know too many secrets. You were valuable before, but once he's won? He is not one to share power.”

“I don't want power,” Tobias replied haughtily. “I just want to do my job!”

“Good,” Caesar said. “And maybe you can. Here's what I propose. I will keep my mouth shut. I will let you keep doing your job. And soon I will ask a favor. And you will grant me that favor. If you do, no one will ever know what you really are. Deal?”

Tobias stared back at him; his vaunted calm vanished as he faced the end of all he held dear. At last he reluctantly nodded, once, and then bent back over his ledger, counting aloud as if to deny Caesar's very existence. Caesar smiled and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.