Infernal

March 14, 1598

Brother Francisco Mendes smelled the rot, heard the scuttling of the rats as he picked his way through the oaken beams, braces, and knees of the Sombra's midship cargo hold. Had this been a galleon, the hold would have been crowded with rows of cannon and bins of shot and powder. Not so an unarmed merchant nao.

Francisco had suspected that the ship was running light, and indeed it was. As much as he had wanted to, no opportunity to inspect the hold had presented itself until now.

He had guided the Sombra along the first leg of the established merchant route: out from Cadiz into the Atlantic, past Gibraltar, then hugging the African coast, keeping land always in sight. The planned route led south to Cape Verde, where they would turn due west and head for the Caribbean.

But Francisco had seen to it that Captain Gutierrez fell sick as they approached the Canary Islands. The first mate, a wisp of a man named Adolpho Torres, had argued for a return to Cadiz but the captain had forbidden it. A matter of pride.

Francisco had guided the Sombra to Afiaza Harbor on Tenerife where they had anchored and had the captain taken ashore for treatment.

And now, here in the hold, his suspicions were confirmed. Sombra was indeed running light. He'd found bolts of fabric, worked iron, samples from many of Spain's manufacturing sectors… but only samples.

Why? Merchant ships unfailingly set sail with their holds packed floor to ceiling, leaving no space, no matter how small, empty. That was why their crews usually slept on the deck. They slept on the Sombra's deck too. Not because of lack of space below, but by captain's orders.

Yet to Francisco even this half-empty hold seemed too crowded, the air too thick. He felt his throat closing.

He forced himself forward. He had a description of the relic—or rather its container—but so far had had no luck finding it. He wanted to locate it before the ship got under way again. Moving belowdecks with a lamp held high was difficult enough on a docked ship. But once at sea the pitching and rolling might cause him to drop the lamp. The greatest threat to a ship—greater even than running into one of England's race-built galleons—was fire. Once they put to sea again he would need another pair of hands to help him. Those would be Eusebio's, but Francisco could not risk anyone learning of their connection. Not yet, at least.

Eusebio had been conducting his own clandestine searches, taking turns with Francisco while the ship was in port. But it would not be there much longer.

His search so far—nearly an hour—had yielded nothing. Could the cardinal have been wrong? Was the relic on another ship, perhaps?

But then, as he lifted a bolt of dark blue fabric, he spied a small chest tucked into the forward port corner. It perfectly fit the description: small, almost square, with teak sides and brass fittings.

The Lilitongue of Gefreda… what was it? What was its dark power?

Better not to know.

And now, God forgive him, he must take the next steps in the plan.

"Senor Mendes?"

Francisco started at the sound of his name and dropped the fabric. He turned and found one of the crew hanging from the rope ladder to the deck.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Senor—I mean, Captain Torres wishes to see you immediately."

"Captain Torres?"

"I am afraid so, senor."

Eusebio had told him that the crew did not like the first mate. But from the sound of it, he was now in charge. Francisco hoped that Captain Gutierrez had not died. He had grown to like the man during the short time he had known him. He had intended to give the captain only enough poison to make him sick. He prayed he had not miscalculated the dose.

With uncertainty gnawing at his viscera, Francisco climbed the ladder and headed for the officers' quarters.

He found Torres standing in the middle of the captain's cabin. Everything about the man was thin: thin physique, thin lips, thin face, thin hair.

"I was informed that you were in the hold. What were you doing down here?"

"Simply checking the cargo to make sure none of it has shifted."

"Such is not the navigator's concern."

"You are correct, sir. But since navigation is dependent on the helm, and since shifting affects the helm, and since my services are hardly needed while at anchor, I thought I might take a look. I must say, I am puzzled."

"Why is that?"

"There is so little cargo."

Torres smiled. "I said as much to Captain Gutierrez, and he told me the holds will be bursting at the seams on the trip home."

Francisco could imagine only one reason for that: Someone was paying mightily for the relic.

How could that little chest hold something of such value?

Torres sniffed. "But be that as it may, the captain is too sick to continue and has relinquished command to me."

"Then he is alive?"

Torres nodded. "Just barely. He almost died, but now he appears to be recovering. But it will be at least a week before he is on his feet. He wished me to complete the voyage."

Francisco breathed a sigh of relief. Gutierrez, at least, would be spared.

"I will aid you in any way that I can, Captain. In fact, I know a route that will help us make up much of the time we have lost here in port."

Torres's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Yes. Instead of waiting until Cape Verde to begin our westward tack, we head west from here."

"But we're too far north. That will land us in the English colonies."

"Yes, if we hold too long to a westward course. But two hundred leagues before we reach land we will find a swift, southward flowing current that we can ride all the way to the Caribbean Sea."

Torres frowned. "I have never heard of such a current."

"I have—from sailors who had to sail that route to escape the English. But more than the current, the winds have a southerly flow there. We will be riding the current and running before the wind. We will have an excellent chance of making up the days we have lost here. We might even arrive in Cartagena on schedule."

"No." Torres shook his head. "I cannot risk it. Better to be late than not reach port at all."

"But—"

He raised a hand. "Enough. I have spoken. I will hear no more of this."

Francisco swallowed his anger and forced a smile. "You are the captain of this vessel. I will do as you command."

"Excellent, Mendes."

"And now, in celebration, may I pour you a little of the captain's sherry?"

Torres glanced around. "I'm not sure I should—"

"You are the captain, are you not?"

Before Torres could protest again, Francisco had the captain's Murano glass decanter in hand and was filling a goblet for Torres. He put a few drops for himself into a second goblet, then handed the first to the captain.

"To the success of our voyage."

As Torres quaffed, Francisco tilted his glass but did not drink.

"Why so little for you? You do not care for spirits?"

"Oh, I care for them very much. A little too much, perhaps."

Torres laughed. "All the more for the rest of us!"

Francisco smiled. "Indeed you are right. Here, let me pour you a little more."

Francisco nodded as he watched Torres drain his second glass.

Soon… very soon they would begin their westward tack. And their destination would not be the Caribbean, but a place known to the seafaring world as the Isle of Devils.

Once there he prayed he had the courage to perform the duty he had been charged with.