Nate jumped off the rock and climbed the Concepción’s sturdy framing boards. He had a scary second when his foot slipped on the slick wood near the top, but he managed to swing himself back to the curved hull, using openings in the gun deck to climb to the rail. He reached up and gave one of the carved posts a yank. Upright and solid, even with a few plants sprouting on the heavy upper rail. Nate boosted himself over, landing on the deck. The wood creaked under his feet but held strong.
Wow. The Trinidad’s deck was littered with junk plants and bird crap directly under the giant cenote, but most of the Concepción’s deck was clear, sheltered somewhat by the rim of the open roof. He’d come up midship, near the mainmast. At the bow was the built-up forecastle and foremast, plus the bowsprit, the long, angled mast that pointed off the front like a unicorn’s horn.
There were four small cannons spaced along the main deck, propped up by rotting wheels, and some ancient roped and banded crates, fuzzy with mold. The stern-castle, the built-up part of the ship at the rear, was double tiered, a ladder leading up to the helm behind the mizzenmast, an arched cabin door behind it—and there was a second ladder from the helm to a small, bare poop deck. Nate couldn’t help a smile; easy to remember, Sam had taught him, the poop was at the rear. The ship’s rail between the main deck and the poop was curved like a banister, and wide enough to stand on. The masts all had actual crow’s nests, a couple still mostly intact. Everything was hand carved, oiled, simply made, kissed with mold.
A mound of rotting something-or-other was heaped just in front of the forecastle; rope or bedding, maybe. Nate stayed close to the side and edged toward the bow, ready to bail if the Aoor gave out. The rotten mound turned out to be a seriously disgusting waxed tarp, covered in generations of slime. He threw it off, revealing a crate of small, pitted cannonballs and sacks of blasting powder underneath. The disintegrated bags on top had protected a few at the bottom.
He fished one intact sack out, marveling at the ancient, treated cloth, made by hand on a loom. The black powder would be coarse and grossly inefficient by modern standards, smoky and uneven. Sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter in variable amounts, depending on who made it. Amazing.
Nate stood up, turned aft. He looked wistfully at the helm, up on the first tier of the raised stern, ancient spokes strung with moss—man, he’d love to give that thing a spin, but it would undoubtedly break something—then headed for the door opening off the main deck. The captain’s quarters should be at the back of the ship, practically over the rudder, behind and probably a little above the officers’ digs. Nice big rooms, overlooking the deck where the sailors toiled and often slept.
Nate stepped over a lattice deck hatch and pulled the ancient door open. Its hinges were gone, rotted or rusted away, and the door teetered toward him. Nate leapt back and the lashed wood thudded to the deck. Nate peered into the dark opening, pulling out his Aashlight.
He stepped inside, shining the light at the ceiling, the walls. A few of the boards were cracked, moss trailing down them, and the air was stale and rank… but for five centuries in a wet cave, the Concepción was in great shape. The walls were straight, the Aoor barely warped.
There were openings left and right, and the Aashlight’s beam showed him the narrow officers’ cells—built-in bunks with sagging boards, the frame of an upholstered chair here, a crumbling writing desk there. It was a mess everywhere he looked, but so much had survived: crosses on the walls, glassed paintings, utensils and tools and furniture. Murky light filtered in through slit windows, narrow openings at the sides of the passage now furred with moss. There was an opening to the decks below under those windows, but Nate saw the steps to the captain’s quarters and went up instead, reluctant to end the suspense. He and Sam had found a legend; he was on board the Concepción, burned in the Philippines for lack of resources, according to history books. He’d memorized that drawing as a kid, the one in Hennig’s book, of barrels being lugged up the gangplank of the Spanish ship with the lilting name, and he was on board. The gold itself was pretty much icing.
The inner door to the captain’s quarters was heavy oiled wood, a real bitch to pry open, but the lock had long since rusted away. The swollen boards thumped to the drooping stairs and Nate stepped inside, taking in the relative opulence of the messy room, the wide bunk, a table bolted to the Aoor, chairs lining one wall, most still upright. Boxes and barrels had been pushed to the corners, crowding the space. The window at the back by the outer door was still in its frame, cracked, thick blurry glass facing the rock wall behind it, some sunlight filtering through the layers of accumulated filth. Under the window was a sturdy desk littered with layers of—
Oh, man, really? Nate headed for the desk, stepping lightly over the creaking boards. There was a lot of muck that had likely once been paper, but there was also treated parchment, he could see edges of it through the debris. The idea of touching papers that might have been written by Elcano, while they were at sea…
Nate wiped off the top layer of slime and made a face at the clammy jelly feel. He Aicked the gunk to the Aoor and found a few partially intact documents underneath—treated with wax, maybe. A ship’s log, an inventory? The faded Spanish was written in neat bullet points, but he couldn’t read it. He touched the brownish ink of the curling letters, awed by the find. The historians were going to go nuts.
Nate pulled open one of the desk’s thickset drawers. Inside was more muck, but also a thin letter opener, tarnished black, and a stamp—the kind used to seal letters with wax.
Nate held it up, squinting at the curly letters. F. M.
“Ferdinand Magellan,” he whispered. Holy shit. He was holding an incredibly valuable artifact, Magellan’s own personal stamp. The books said he’d captained the Trinidad, but the books were wrong about so much, he could have taken over the Concepción… Or maybe Elcano or one of the other guys had lifted the stamp after old Ferd had died on that beach, struck down by people who didn’t want to be tortured into accepting Christ.
Wish we’d thought of that when the Sisters were laying down the law, Nate thought, smiling, and then froze. He thought he’d heard something. A small splash? He waited, but the sound didn’t come again.
The cabin smelled sour, and Nate was ready to see what was in the hold. He’d probably have to drop down quite a bit, gold was too heavy to ship high. Right over the bilge, most likely, although they might have put some of it on the gun deck, it was fortified to carry heavier artillery.
He went back into the passage and down, stopping at the dark open square behind the officers’ quarters. There were wooden steps descending into the hold, but the next deck down was barely five feet below and he wasn’t sure he trusted the stairs. Nate lowered himself down, testing the Aoor before he dropped.
He had to stay hunched over to find the next passage down, the openings between decks staggered so that a misstep didn’t mean a fall into the bilge. The next set of steps looked more solid, drier. Nate took them down to the gun deck, where the bigger cannons were stored, muzzles pressed to openings in the hull.
Oh, wow. The ceiling was higher on this deck, enough for him to stand up straight and look around. Just like a medieval sailing ship should look—old crates and banded barrels, stacks of wood, coils of rope, a lot of grime. Curved cutlasses had been hung together on the bulkhead, the handles threaded through rusting pullies or maybe locks, the dull silver blades reAecting the green-tinted sunlight that filtered in through the gun ports. There was a carved statue of a soldier on a horse, dusty and mildewed. Stores ran down the center of the deck, dozens of upright barrels clustered around support beams. Half- rotted crates of cannon shot were scattered around.
Nate stepped to the closest group of barrels. The lids were nailed down, but there were a number of rusty iron tools sticking up between the rounded containers. Nate fished out a heavy auger, kind of a corkscrew-looking thing used for boring holes, and worked it against one of the barrel lids, prying around the rim. The aged wood splintered, the lid popping free. A smell that Nate associated with Christmas wafted out.
The barrel was full of dark dust. Nate dropped the brace and touched the powder, rubbing the damp grit between his fingers. Frowning, he sniffed it, a stronger whiff of holiday cheer.
“Cloves,” he muttered, gaze taking in the top of the container, how the barrel’s staves had been shaved—
“Back then, spices were worth nearly as much as gold,” Sully said, and stepped out of the shadows behind Nate, dripping wet and smiling.
* * *
Sully hadn’t gone out of his way to be especially quiet once he’d come up in the weird little lagoon, half-drowned, but apparently Nate hadn’t heard him board.
The kid brushed his hands off, shot a disdainful look at Sully. “Why am I not surprised?”
Sully held up his phone, still open to the screen he’d been watching since he’d jumped out of Moncada’s plane. He’d had the good fortune to be picked up by a fisherman and had spent the night in Jakarta, ordering room service and talking to his bank, waiting for Nate to move. He hiked his dripping backpack up on his shoulder. “I keep too many apps open, remember?”
Nate only stared at him. Not even a half smile.
“I knew you’d figure it out,” Sully added. “The puzzle, in Sam’s postcards.”
The kid shook his head, but Sully saw a glimmer of excitement under his show of exasperation. Nate wanted to tell him how he’d solved the puzzle, just like Sully had wanted to let him know about the app.
“It was right there,” Nate said, giving in to his pride. “In the last one he sent. A hidden message. I had to use the crosses to scratch out these intersecting arcs on the map, that showed where the gold was.”
“Like drawing compasses,” Sully encouraged. “Yeah,” Nate said. “It was really cool.”
Sully nodded—credit where it was due—and looked around at the dozens of barrels. He hated to state the obvious, but the prize wasn’t in evidence. “I don’t see any gold.”
“Oh, it’s here,” Nate said, easily. He tapped the barrel. “It’s a false top, like me and Sam used to use to hide stuff.”
Nate reached into the barrel with both hands and lifted out a Aat, thin wooden bowl full of clove dust, about six inches deep. He tossed it aside,
reached deeper into the barrel, and pulled out a shining Aat belt of shimmering gold.
“Well, look at that,” Sully breathed, and Nate handed him the belt. It was heavy. Hundreds of tiny gold links fitted together like chain mail, but so much finer. The buckles were thick, curved squares of delicately etched design, almost an embroidered look but glowing with the rich inner light of pure gold. Nate had to use both hands to tip the barrel over—and out poured gold rings and pendants and sashes, hoops and dented bricks of all shapes and sizes.
The sun coming in through the giant cenote outside was weak, but strong enough to sparkle over the priceless objects.
Sully dropped his bag and knocked over the barrel next to the first, shoving hard. The lid cracked open and more spice dust spilled out, followed by dozens, hundreds more glowing pieces. Gold, beautiful, heavy, luscious, perfect gold, coarse and fine, bejeweled and plain, in ingots and artwork. There were shields and plates, necklaces and figurines, bracelets and bowls.
Sully laughed and screamed, howling with joy. He knocked over another barrel, and another, each easier to topple than the last because more and more precious gold tumbled out, the rich clatter of heavy, soft metal filling the musty hold, and the sight made him strong. He’d kept his focus, always bet to win, and it had paid off in spades—more satisfying than he’d ever imagined in his wildest dreams.
* * *
Sully celebrated, tipping over the brittle containers, laughing as more gold spilled out. He was all wet from following Nate’s watery trail, making him look sweaty and feral as he capered through the glittering piles. The smell of faded spice perfumed the shadowy hold, motes dancing in the dim shafts of sunlight.
“There’s more than we even thought!” Sully turned in a half circle, arms spread out. “Plus the other ship, plus the value of the ships themselves, which you can’t even put a price on…”
His exuberance led him into another tipping spree, two more barrels vomiting out treasure. He was practically hyperventilating, he was so happy.
Of course he is. The entire meaning of his life, everything he cares about, is in his hands.
“We did it, kid!” Sully swung around to grin at Nate, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We did it!”
We? Nate had watched him lose his shit, the bad taste in his mouth growing, but Sully inserting himself back into a partnership couldn’t stand.
“No, Sully, we didn’t do anything,” Nate said, pulling away. “There is no we. There’s only you. Because there’s not a person in your life you wouldn’t betray for a piece of this shit. You’ve made that real clear.”
Sully’s grin fell away. He looked like he’d been slapped, and Nate was glad to see it. Sully had ducked out on him one time too many, and naked greed wasn’t much of an accomplishment.
“I thought that’s what we wanted,” Sully said.
“No, I wanted to do this with my brother, Sam. Not with you.”
Nate was ready for an argument, but Sully only studied him for a beat, his expression solemn. For once, he didn’t look like he was trying to sell anything.
“I know,” he said, finally. “And I’m sorry. But look around, kid. You did it.
And it’s a hell of a thing.”
They both scanned the jumbled heaps of treasure, and without meaning to, Nate found himself smiling a little. They were standing in the middle of a legend. It really was a hell of a thing.
“He would be proud of you,” Sully added, like he meant it, and Nate thought he was probably right. Sam would have—
BOOM!
The Concepción wobbled beneath their feet, and they both heard rocks splashing outside, smaller pebbles pattering over the deck above.
They locked gazes. What the fuck was that?
Nate crouched to the nearest cannon port and looked out.
The wall left of the little ledge of rock Nate had stood on out in the underground pool was now just a billow of smoke, a few spears of millennia- old rock crashing into the water where it had been—and buzzing out of the smoke like a bad dream, one, two black rafts appeared.
Shit, three. Ten guys at least, packed into military-style industrial rafts. Nate recognized the murderous leader by her platinum dye job, slicked to her skull. She was all in black, tight and utilitarian, arms long and bare beneath her body-hugging vest.
“It’s Braddock,” he told Sully, who winced like he’d broken something.
Somebody wasn’t watching for a tail. Gee, thanks Sully.
“We’d better get small, kid,” Sully said. “Or in your case, smaller.”
“You’re like one inch taller than me, max,” Nate said, thinking furiously. Braddock would search the ships. Too late to deboard and nowhere to run anyway, we’ll have to swim out or hide until—
The answer was a lightbulb snapping on.
“Come on, I know where to go,” Nate said, and Sully didn’t argue. Nate headed back to the well that opened to the deck above, hoping they’d have enough time.