The Girl from Everywhere (14 page)

“What do you want, Slate?” I said finally, my voice loud in the night air.

He looked up at me suddenly, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Tell me about the man who came yesterday.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything!”

“Didn’t Bee tell you?”

“She didn’t say much.”

“Neither did he,” I said. “But he
knew
.”

Slate didn’t need to ask me what I meant. He stood and started pacing. “So he could ask for anything. Literally anything.”

“Maybe he’s just an opium smuggler,” I said, wanting it to be true. “Joss sent him, after all.”

He stopped in his tracks, then swiveled on his heel. “He said that?”

I bit my lip. “Not exactly. I—I met her yesterday.”

“Where?”

“In her apothecary! Christ. What are you afraid of? She
might expose me to opium?” I ran my fingers through my hair; they stuck in the tangles. Exasperated, I dropped my hands to my sides. “Don’t meet with him, then. When he comes back, we’ll send him away.”

Slate stared at me. “You know I need that map, Nixie.”

“You haven’t even seen it. What if it’s another dead ender?”

“If it’s good, I’ll need it.”

I just shook my head; it was starting to throb. “Can I go to sleep now?”

He chewed his lower lip, staring at the lightening sky. “Fine, but only a couple of hours. He’ll be back soon.”

“So?”

“So I need you at the meeting to figure out how to get him what he wants. Don’t look at me like that, Nixie. You know I can’t plan a route without you.”

I crossed my arms. “If you want me there, teach me to Navigate.”

The desperate smile faded. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I’m not
asking
, Nixie.”

“Good,” I said, light-headed with exhaustion and beer and this new feeling, rebellion. “Because I’m not either.
That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I am your father,” he said; I only laughed. “I am your captain!” His shout echoed in the harbor.

“So what are you going to do?” I jutted out my chin; victory was within my grasp. “Keelhaul me? Hang me from the yardarm? Leave me in the next port?”

“No!” Slate threw down the pewter mug. It bounced and tumbled to the bulwark; coffee splashed across the deck. Somewhere on shore, a dog started barking. “No,” he said again, quietly this time, and the coldness in his voice froze the laugh in my throat. “Not
you
.”

“Who then?” I asked, but his eyes flickered to the hatch where Kashmir had just gone, and I gasped.

He folded his arms and stared at me. “I warned you not to get too close.”

“No.” It was barely a whisper; I don’t even know if he heard.

“I told you he might not be around forever.”

“You’re disgusting.” For a moment, I couldn’t move, turned to stone by the ugliness of the implication. I pushed my way past—I couldn’t get away from him fast enough—but he grabbed my arm.

“Now you understand,” he said, his eyes bright. “The
pain of losing someone you love.”

My mouth twisted. “Oh, I’ve understood for a while, Captain,” I said, spitting the words out like broken teeth. “But you always come back when you want something. Maybe one day I’ll lose you for good.”

He released my arm, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Finally he dropped his eyes, ashamed, but not enough. “I’m going to try to catch some sleep,” he said, picking up the coffee mug. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

For once, I went to my cabin. Wide awake, I dug out my map from my trunk and traced the lines of Carthage: the scoop of the bay, the wide main street leading up from the harbor, the market where I would make my fortune and buy my own ship and cast off this anchor dragging me down.

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A
fter my argument with Slate, there was no chance of sleep—and no chance I would miss the meeting—so by the time the sun was fully risen, I was waiting on deck for the man to arrive.

I had even tidied up the captain’s cabin, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. I’d had to work around Slate, and more than once, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye, though neither of us dared speak.

Around ten, the man called up from the pier, and I showed him aboard with a thin veneer of civility. He gave Slate a self-assured nod as he entered the captain’s quarters and took the chair I offered. Then he smoothed the lapels of his frock coat. “Captain Slate. At last. And your daughter, is she Miss Slate, or Miss Song?”

Any pretense of cordiality fell away from Slate’s face.
“If you know her mother’s name, I’m sure you know we never had the chance to marry. What do I call you?”

The man’s smile only widened; perhaps he had noticed, as I had, that the captain had not asked his name. “You may call me Mr. D.”

Slate wasted no more time. “
Miss Song
tells me you have a business proposition for us.”

“Ah, yes.” Mr. D folded his hands neatly and waited. After a few moments of silence, he shifted slightly. “It is for your ears only.”

“I never hide anything from her,” Slate lied.

“Unusual,” Mr. D said. “Although perhaps the unusual should not be unexpected. As it is vital to the gentlemen I represent that everything be done in utmost confidence, let me impress upon the both of you the importance of confidentiality, by showing what’s at stake.”

He took a thick square of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it with excruciating slowness. “This is a copy of a map of Honolulu, showing the downtown area and the harbor.”

“A copy?” Slate said.

“I did not think it wise to take the original out into the world. What if I had been waylaid? By brigands?” Mr. D was
smiling, but I caught his meaning. “On it are marked several locations of note,” he continued. “Including the more interesting, ah . . .” His eyes flickered up to me, then back down. “The more interesting bars, brothels, and opium dens. It was inked in November of 1868.”

“Let me see it.” And there it was, the energy of the strummed string, the coiling of the great cat before the spring. Slate remained in his chair, but barely.

“Of course.” Mr. D laid the paper on the desk between them, smoothing it with a graceful motion.

The captain stood, stooping over the desk, exploring the page. “It’s not dated,” he said immediately.

“I can assure you it’s authentic.”

Without lifting his head, Slate glanced up at him, letting his smile show.

“The date can be inferred from the depiction of the city. You’ll note that a popular place for tourists and locals alike had, very temporarily, a change of name. Joss’s Shop had become . . .” He placed one delicate finger down on a point on the map; Slate’s eyes followed, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Hapai Hale?”

“Apparently there was a woman working there whose
condition was quite the talk among the regulars.” By the look on Slate’s face, Mr. D must have been talking about my mother. “You know how the locals are, always jabbering. Shortly after, tourists started calling it the Happy House, not knowing the meaning of the word
hapai
. It’s quaint, but the natives are charming about such things.”

I looked from Mr. D to Slate. I didn’t know the meaning of
hapai
either. Slate pressed his fist to his mouth, as if kissing the tattoos on his knuckles. “It is . . . suspiciously specific,” he said after a long pause. “Where did you acquire it?”

“It belongs to one of my colleagues,” Mr. D said. “His brother was the artist.”

“I’d like to speak with the brother.”

“Tragically, he passed away years ago.”

“Oh?”

“Drowned in the bay. Drunk, I believe. The black sheep of his family. You may imagine, a man who would map the dens of vice would frequent them as well. I was the executor of his will, and it was in the performance of that duty that I noticed the map, and of course our mutual friend told me you would want the original.”

“How fortuitous,” Slate said.

Mr. D spread his hands and then clasped them. “Who
can say what force throws us all together? But we are now bound by a mutual interest, which is what brings me here today.”

“Yes.” Slate narrowed his eyes. “Your price.” He gazed at the map; the longing was plain on his face. “Name it.”

Mr. D nodded, as though he had never expected any other answer. “It’s quite reasonable, I assure you. My colleagues and I, in exchange for this map, all we want is . . . well . . . money.”

The word turned Slate’s head. “Money?”

I frowned. I’d been worried after Mr. D’s mention of unusual skills and extraordinary tales, but money? Money was . . . well, not
easy
. But maybe Slate already had enough at Bishop Bank. Perhaps my father’s fears—and his threats—had been for nothing. The captain leaned back in his chair. “How much?”

“I must remind you, this must be kept in complete confidence, or—”

“Yeah. Yes.” Slate took a deep breath. “We are already in agreement.”

Mr. D laced his fingers. “For this map, my colleagues and I require nine hundred thousand dollars.”

My jaw dropped, and Slate raised one eyebrow. “Nine
hundred thousand?” he said, his voice so steady even I could barely hear the shock. “That’s a—a princely sum.”

“Almost kingly,” Mr. D said with a smug look.

“Obviously there won’t be any deal without me seeing the real map first,” Slate said.

“Certainly, sir,” Mr. D replied. “I wouldn’t expect any different from you.”

“Nine hundred thousand.” Slate glanced at me, his expectation clear: it would be my job to gather Mr. D’s ransom. I gritted my teeth, my mind racing. It was an outrageous amount.

We’d have to stay on the island; we couldn’t leave and come back, not without another map. Although if we had another map—could we find another map we knew would work? One that would bring us to a time after we’d made the deal? It would have to be inked tomorrow or later, that was the real trick of it; but not too much later, or Mr. D might grow impatient.

“And how long before you expect payment?” Slate said, but I was only half listening. Why did they want nine hundred thousand dollars in the first place? As Slate had said, it was a princely sum, especially for the era. That kind of money could change history.

“We aren’t unreasonable. Say, before the year is out?”

“Well,” Slate said. “I despise haggling. Bring me the map—the original. If it’s good, you’ll have your money.”

Mr. D lifted his hand, palm out. “Ah, one moment, Captain. Unfortunately, sir, it’s not that simple.”

“And why not? Has the price gone higher in the last few moments? If the map is authentic, you can have a million.”

I swallowed. Damn his pride.

“The price is unchanged, and the map is authentic. I am a very honest man.” Mr. D smiled. “The only quibble is, we want that money to come from a very specific place.”

“And where is that?” the captain asked, biting into each word.

“From the vault at Ali’iolani Hale. The Royal Hawaiian Treasury.”

I gasped audibly, but Mr. D didn’t seem to notice; his eyes were locked on the captain’s. I swallowed again as the words sunk in. Nearly a million dollars from the treasury.

“Treason,” Slate said at last.

“You are not a subject, sir. It is merely piracy.”

“Merely,” Slate repeated, and laughed. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”

The genteel charm dropped from Mr. D’s face. “I have
offended you,” he said, his voice clipped. “I will remove myself from your presence.” And he plucked the map from the desk and crumpled it in his fist.

“No! No . . . sit, please,” the captain said, trying to soothe Mr. D, or perhaps to soothe himself. “I’m not offended, just . . . surprised. I’m not usually involved in politics.”

“Ah.” Mr. D settled back into the chair so readily I suspected he hadn’t intended to leave in the first place. “Would that I could say the same! Unfortunately, circumstances have forced my hand. Politics are always complicated, sir, but even you can understand that Hawaii needs a strong leader.”

“I would think the king would be weakened with an empty treasury,” Slate said, his tone cautious.

“I said a strong leader, sir,” Mr. D said, passing the ball of paper back and forth in his hands. “Not a strong king.”

I went cold, but Slate only stared for a moment, then nodded once. “One thing I would like to know,” he said. “What part does our mutual friend have in all this?”

Mr. D laughed. “Ah, well, she is a businesswoman! All she wants is to be paid.”

I raised a finger. “One more question, sir.” Slate shook his head, but I pretended not to see it. “Why us?”

“Why? Well!” Mr. D said with a small laugh. “I was under
the impression you’d want the map.”

I dropped my hand to my lap. So it was not our strengths that brought him here, but our weaknesses. Who else would consider doing something like this for a scrap of paper?

Slate rubbed his hands over his head. “Before I give you an answer, I’ll need to see it. The map. The real one.”