As La Venganza dropped anchor in San Cristobal's harbor, boats filled the water from the half-dozen ships that had sailed with her. The swarms of children and sailors parted around a small, round man, who began directing groups this way and that. As the Heroes made their way onto the docks, they met him: Don Carlos de Aldana y Rioja, whose orphanage La Clave had been established as an act of faith and charity some years back. He ordered the children by village and family, and then sent them on to La Clave, to be met by those relatives who had made it to safety. That so many of the islanders had escaped the Montaigne was welcome news, indeed. That so few had fled San Juan was less so.
Don Carlos greeted the Heroes effusively, and once the children had been taken north, drove them to his town house, which he placed at their disposal. Asgard was acquiring the beginnings of the croup from so many changes of climate, and retired to her rooms forthwith. Quinn noticed a familiar sign on the San Cristobal library as the carriage passed it, and excused himself for "a bit of reading" at the Chapterhouse of the Rose and Cross. Quinn soaked away the cares of the trip in a hot bath. Lt. Franzesca reported to the command post in San Cristobal, to deliver General Montoya's communiqué and receive her new orders. Henri folded several large Vendel banknotes into his wallet, scooped up the manuscript on which he and Quinn had labored so, and set out for the center of town, which he was told orbited La Universidad del San Cristobal.
A tailor's was the first stop, for decent clothes, a crisp new uniform, and other fineries. A hundred or so Guilders lighter, he trotted along to Noble Bernard's Printers and Booksellers with a proposal in mind. Soon shown into Mister Bernard's offices, he laid out his plan. He wished a manuscript printed, for distribution in occupied Castille, Paix, Buche, and Charousse. Bernard raised an eyebrow, and asked if he might read it. Henri handed over the book, took a seat in the offices and pieced his way through a Castillian history of architecture. Bernard's eyebrows drew ever higher as he read a bit, skipped ahead a bit, read a bit more, skipped to the end, and closed the covers.
He was delighted with the book, eager to print it, and eager to know the author's name. The book was sure to ruffle feathers and enflame the Montaigne. Henri explained that the author wished anonymity, and that he was the author's agent. Pressed for a Letter of Attorney authorizing this, Henri requested the address of Mr. Bernard's solicitors.
Shortly thereafter, Henri found himself in the study of Sra. Alexis Xavier, explaining the inexplicable.
"So let me see if I understand you, Señor. You wish me to write a Letter of Attorney authorizing you, Henri du Paix, to act as the legal representative of you, Henri de la Praisse du Rachetisse, author of 'Journal d'un Traitre, by Hereticus Proditor' who is also... you... "
"Well, it does sound odd when you put it so, and... yes. You can appreciate that this tract will be of value in demoralizing the Montaigne who read it, and that were I known to be its author, such knowledge would prove dangerous to me in the extreme, no?"
"Hmm. And your share of the proceeds, from the sale of this book?"
"Let it go. No, let it go to help rebuild San Juan. I know it won't be much, but it might help a little. You can arrange it, then? And your fee?"
"I can arrange it. Give me a moment to perfect the phrasing and to have a copy written for our records. As for a fee, perhaps you would send me a copy of the book?"
Henri smiled, soon concluded matters, signed papers with Bernard, and returned to the townhouse, flush with a job, er, done. With him, he hefted a small handful of facetiae he'd purchased for reading later, wondering if Asgard would find them an incentive to recovery. He arrived to find stacks of calling cards, from the engraved vellum of the other Dons, to the stationery of dignitaries, to scraps of paper laboriously scrawled with the names of peasants he'd never heard of.
As supper was concluding, Don Carlos joined the Heroes at table, wishing them to walk out with him to celebrate their arrival. San Cristobal had a delightful nightlife, and it would be a shame to miss it. They soon found themselves drinking and dancing at La Sarabande, a lively cantina. Lt. Franzesca found herself dancing, despite herself, and having quite the good time of it. As the music carried the Heroes around the hall of the cantina, a large crowd began to assemble. Henri nudged Cecil nervously, and whispered that there were an awful lot of people watching them.
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Miguel Sanchez de Ochoa strode up to the table. Henri was delighted and relieved to recognize his former houseman, reminded him to please call him 'Henri' rather than 'Master", and asked about the rest of the group. At that, the mob surged forward, and began to introduce themselves. Names soon faded into a blur, but the phrases kept being repeated: "We came from Casa Blanca. Thank you for saving our child. Thank you for giving us hope."
Sanchez went on to tell of the innkeeper Francisco, who had hidden so many in the basements of his shop, and everywhere else he could think of, of the fires that spread through the town, of their flight to seize a ship, slipping away with little notion of sailing. They pointed the ship toward the rising sun each day, and struck land, literally, north of San Juan. From there, it was a laborious trek overland, dodging troops, skirting La Selva, and a final arrival here. Alas, Francisco had not made it, but had bought time for their escape with his life. A solemn toast was made to the courage of the innkeeper and patriot, and the festivities began again in earnest.
Drink flowed, skirts swirled, hands clapped, and Henri found himself with a dazzling beauty, with a whisper in one ear, and a nod to the door, and an escape into the summer night into quiet, and calm, and comfort into the morning.
Dawn found Cecil and the Lieutenant walking home red-eyed and sore-hoofed, found Asgard coughing painfully, found Quinn enjoying a cup of coffee as he regaled his fellow Knights with the tales of his companions' courage-- and of his own, found Henri waking with Maria Vasquez, dancer and musician. Breakfast, a discreet cabriolet, a promise to meet again, and a goodnight to his arriving comrades were done as quietly as could be managed. Then, a bath, fresh clothing, and a cab of his own to the Hall of the Swordsmen's Guild.
The paperwork to purchase an iron pin was easy enough, the interview friendly enough. The examination with Master Marquez less so, as Henri exchanged his light silk gloves for fencing leather. Although they had exchanged their weapons for blunted epees, Henri soon found himself being thrashed soundly. His examiner was everywhere at once, then when he tried to strike back, seemed to be nowhere at all. Several blows from the point struck his chest, arms, legs, and Henri struggled to hold his weapon as the Castillian began to sweep the blade in a swirling bind that nearly tore it from his hand. The Traitor gritted his teeth and fought on, knowing he hadn't a hope of hitting his adversary (Marquez had used tagging to steal Henri's remaining Drama Die, and as he was now crippled, with a Finesse of 2 and Marquez's TN of 35, it was absolutely impossible for him to hit Marquez) but refusing to give up.
Finally, it was over. He felt as one caught in a hurricane, hearing Marquez's voice from a great distance. He had passed, but was advised to study further-- much further-- before engaging opponents of any real skill. He nodded mechanically, thanked his examiner, and donned his jacket, wincing. His name registered, he affixed the prized crossed swords of iron to his chest, and walked home to a welcome dinner.
Cecil and Franzesca were themselves again, and Asgard much improved. Quinn
had sent his regrets with a promise to return soon, and Don Carlos joined
them once again. There were congratulations for Henri's new membership, and
word from Don Carlos of a ball to be held soon. Asked how official it would
be, the Don replied that the city fathers would attend, with some folk who
wished to meet the Heroes, church officials, and the usual society crowd.
Henri closed his eyes, fighting dread. He pictured for an instant the face
of Lady Jamais Sices du Sices, screwed up in wicked glee, her mouth magnified
to impossible size in his memory as she skewered his every failing with her
razored tongue. "Delightful, Don Carlos," he smiled. "It should
be delightful."