Sorcerer's Secret (30 page)

“Let me guess, Dutch schoolteacher,” Rory said drily.

“Exactly! Why mess with success? I infiltrated this smallpox hospital, the belly of the beast, as it were, and discovered much about Kieft and his plans before I was caught.”

“That's amazing,” Rory replied. “How long were you able to poke around before you were discovered?”

“Almost forty-five minutes!” The pride rang in Hale's voice. “A new record for me! And I've been here in this cell ever since.”

“Have you tried to escape?”

“Of course not!” Hale sounded horrified. “No, I'm waiting for them to hang me, and then I've got this wonderful speech prepared that will move them all to tears and make them repent of their evil ways. It can't miss!”

“What are you god of, exactly?” Rory asked, a suspicion forming in his mind.

“God of Martyrs,” Hale answered, confirming Rory's intuition. “But I should be God of Spies, honestly. I am that sneaky!”

And so it continued. Rory barely had to answer as Hale regaled him with story after story of his spying prowess, each of which involved him being a Dutch schoolteacher and getting caught really, really fast. Rory could tell by the fading light that evening was descending. He tried looking out the window to catch a glimpse of Kieft's army, but his room faced a wall, so he saw nothing but old stone. No one came to his door to check up on him; for all he knew, Kieft had stuck him in this room to rot. He lay down on the old mattress, trying not to think about his father, who had seemingly betrayed him, yet tried to save him in the end. Still, the fact remained that Peter Hennessy had led Kieft's men to Rory and his friends. And for that, Rory didn't know if he'd ever forgive him.

Rory began to have fears of starving to death in this tiny forgotten room while an idiot droned on next door, when something strange happened. A thump sounded outside his room, like something big was hitting the ground, and then his door slowly creaked open.

Rory sat up, his heart in his throat. The doorway was empty, leading out to a dim hallway.

“Hello?” he called out, not too loudly.

“Yes?” Hale answered.

“Not you,” Rory said absently, sliding off the bed to creep over to the open door. Cocking his hand into karate-chop position (not that his yellow belt would help him much here), he carefully peered out into the hall.

“What the—” he muttered. A big Hessian in a long blue coat was lying on the floor of the dank hallway, not moving. Rory nudged him once with his toe, ready to leap back if the guard came alive, but nothing happened. The Hessian was either unconscious or dead.

“I've got a friend here, I guess,” he said to himself.

“What's going on?” Hale's voice demanded.

“Shh!” Rory hissed through Hale's door.

“How did you get out?” Hale's voice asked, a little quieter.

“I don't know, but I'm out.” Rory paused for a moment, weighing the inhumanity of letting someone rot in a prison cell with the annoyance of having this chatterbox along for the ride. It was a tough choice, but finally he sighed, unlocking Hale's door and pushing it open. A handsome man in a black jacket and hose stood on the other side, his open, honest face smiling widely.

“Well done! Now if we meet any of Kieft's men, I am a simple Dutch schoolteacher and you are my son Paco.”

“Paco isn't a Dutch name.”

“They don't know that!”

“Just keep quiet and maybe we can get out of here alive,” Rory said, turning to run down the hallway. Hale followed, spouting out more aliases to use when they encountered the enemy.

But, strangely enough, no enemy was to be found. All the hallways, with their flickering lights and damp, peeling wallpaper, were empty. Rory opened a few of the rooms, hoping to free more prisoners, but all of those rooms were empty as well.

“What is going on here?” he wondered aloud, and for once, Hale had nothing to say. Rory found a flight of stairs and carefully made his way down them, peering around a landing just in case. Hale's wooden shoes (he seemed to think all the Dutch wore them) were making a racket, but there was little Rory could do about that. It didn't seem to matter, as there was no one, not a soul, to be found.

“Did they leave?” he asked.

“Maybe they surrendered and we missed it,” Hale offered. Not bothering to answer, Rory warily approached a door that led to a courtyard, and looking out, he caught his first glimpse of some other living souls in this dreary place.

Two gang boys, with knives out, were slowly advancing on a poor, weak-looking man in foppish clothing. The man had his back to the far wall, and tears were rolling down his face.

“Please!” he cried. “Please, I have a wife!”

“What a baby,” Hale muttered at Rory's side. The gang boys had almost reached the man.

“The high-and-mighty god is crying!” one gang boy said, smirking. “Not so big now that we've got a knife that'll do you! Yer not long for this world, believe me!”

“I'm not sure if I want his locket,” the other boy said. “God of Ornamental Handkerchiefs seems pretty girlie to me.”

“Hey, I'll take it,” the first one said. “A god is a god, right? And since we caught him snooping around where he shouldn't after everyone else had gone, he's fair game.”

“Please! No!” The god was on his knees, tears streaming down his face. Hale snorted in disgust in Rory's ear.

“This cannot continue,” he said, grabbing hold of the door handle. Before Rory could stop him, Hale thrust open the door and strode into the courtyard. “Unhand that man! I am but a simple Dutch schoolteacher, but I cannot let you harm him!”

The two gang boys spun, brandishing their knives. Hale immediately threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. You caught me! I'm no schoolteacher. I am Nathan Hale, the famed spy, and I surrender! Do your worst!” The gang boys' jaws dropped, completely unprepared for Hale's unconditional surrender. What came next happened so fast Rory could barely register it. Once his tormentors were distracted, the cornered god's face suddenly changed, the fear dropping away with cunning replacing it. Straightening up, he ran forward, punching one gang boy in the back of the head before sweeping a leg out from underneath the other. He grabbed one of their knives and swiftly stabbed, once, then twice, dispatching both gang boys as quick as a breath. And only a moment had passed.

Hale's arms were still in the air as he stood frozen in astonishment. Looking past him toward the door Rory waited behind, the god spoke up. “You can come out. It's safe now.” His voice was strong and steady—nothing at all like the blubbering mess he'd been a few moments before. Rory warily entered the courtyard, stopping beside Hale and nudging him gently.

“You can lower your arms now,” he said. Hale grunted, finally dropping his hands to his sides.

“You're Rory Hennessy,” the god said, stepping over the dead bodies to walk over to them. “I had heard you'd been captured, but I hadn't been able to locate your room. I had other business to attend to.”

“Who are you?” Rory asked.

“My name is Robert Townsend,” the god said. “I am God of Spies.”

“Impossible!” Hale shouted. “You're the God of Ornate Handkerchiefs! I heard them!”

“That was my cover,” Robert said. “Not that it matters now. We're the only ones left in this unholy place.”

“Did Stuyvesant send you?” Hale asked, and Robert nodded. “Why? He'd already sent me!”

“The more spies the better, I guess,” Robert said, turning away. Rory suddenly realized that Hale had never been the spy. He was the decoy. Now, that was sneaky.

“Where is everyone?” Rory asked.

“I don't know,” Robert said. “Kieft just called them all into the courtyard and then led them away. I would have left as well, but I heard you were in the building and I wanted to find you. But before I could do that, I spied these two pieces of scum coming up from the basement, in a hurry, talking about some trap they were setting. They caught me before I could overhear any more, and then you came along.”

“What kind of trap?” Rory asked, his stomach sinking.

“I'll find out,” Robert said. “You stay here, in case something nasty is waiting in the basement. If I don't return in fifteen minutes, get out of here.”

“I'll come with you!” Hale announced, but Robert's steely look beat him back. “Protecting the boy should be our first priority anyway,” he muttered as Robert ran off toward the basement.

Ten minutes passed, each minute tenser than the last. Which was why Rory almost screamed when he heard a new voice speak up across the courtyard.

“Rory! You're all right!” It was Fritz, riding in on Clarence. The battle roach stopped at Rory's feet, giving Hale a quick greeting. “I thought I'd have to sneak my way to your cell, but here you are free and clear! Where is everyone?”

“They just left,” Rory said.

“Well, I've got a whole army right behind me, so maybe they got wind of that and ran away.”

“An army?” Rory asked.

“You bet. When the council heard you'd been kidnapped, Teddy Roosevelt took it as a sign that it was time to attack. They're a few minutes away from storming the place. I was supposed to find your cell so Nicholas and the others could grab you in the confusion. But now it looks like we'll just walk on in unopposed. We might as well just wait here, they'll be showing up any second.”

“No!” Rory turned to see Robert running toward him. “It's a trap! The basement is filled with explosives tied to hundreds of god-killing knives! The army will be sliced to pieces in the explosion. Kieft knew you were coming, that's why they left. Come on, we've got no time!”

Rory, Hale, Robert, and Fritz immediately began to run, racing out of the courtyard into an old lobby, past a decomposing front desk, and through the front door into the forest outside. Trees surrounded them, and at first Rory thought they were alone, but then Robert began to scream.

“Fall back! It's a trap! Fall back!”

The bushes rustled as someone stood up, his form barely showing up in the dim of twilight.

“Robert, is that you? What are you talking about?” Rory recognized Stuyvesant's voice.

“The whole place is going to blow! Fall back!” Rory and the others crashed into the trees, and suddenly the forest came alive as hundreds of people began to run alongside Rory. They'd gone maybe a hundred feet when the world seemed to explode, the force pushing Rory forward as if he were a kite in the wind. He hit the ground hard as debris fell around him. Something big landed right on his back and fear shot through him as he thought he was dead. Instead a voice spoke right in his ear.

“I've got you, Rory,” Bridget breathed as she used her body to protect him from the flying debris. “I thought you were a goner.” And then she burst into tearless sobs.

R
obert Townsend made his report to the council as the smallpox hospital burned behind them. Thanks to his warning, their army had escaped serious injuries, though some soldiers had been wounded by the shrapnel. Peter Stuyvesant gave Teddy Roosevelt a dirty look, opening his mouth as if to say I told you so, but Roosevelt was not one to look back.

“So his whole army is just gone?” he asked. “By Jove, that is some feat! They could be anywhere! We should have moved quicker!”

“If we'd moved any quicker, we'd have been inside the hospital when it blew,” Stuyvesant said sourly.

“And now they could be anywhere!” Roosevelt exclaimed. A murmur ran through the council—no one liked that idea one bit.

“No matter where they may be now,” Mrs. Parker said, “they'll be heading toward the park. That's where this will all play out, I promise you.”

“I find it more interesting that the foot soldiers, the gang members, have been given knives,” Whitman said. “I'd assumed Kieft was only handing those out to sow confusion among our ranks, not to his own grunts. I can't believe that Kieft doesn't know that they don't care who they kill so long as they get a locket.”

“Maybe he doesn't care,” Mrs. Parker mused.

“Or maybe that's exactly what he wants,” Whitman added.

“That's ridiculous,” Roosevelt said. “What general wants his soldiers killing each other?”

“Someone who doesn't care who's left,” Whitman replied. “And those generals are the ones we should be most frightened of, because they will do anything to get what they want.”