were all focused on the riches they hoped awaited them, the gold and pearls and emeralds, and drank their ale and rum with a tense, watchful air.
Bianca had been hearing disquieting whispers, though, and she was sure they had something to do with the ship that had limped into port today. Its battered sails and broken mainmast were like an omen in a town that was far too superstitious already.
But the more frightened the men were, the more they drank, and thus the more coin they spent in her establishment. Bianca was all in favour of that, as long as things didn’t turn nasty. It had taken her a sennight to clean up after the last fight, and those were days she could ill afford to lose. She had to pay her servants, her suppliers—and she didn’t intend to end up on the streets. Not again.
She narrowed her gaze as she studied the room. It wasn’t vast or grand, nothing like the gilded palazzos of Venice still so vivid in her memory. It was just a long, low chamber, the walls freshly whitewashed after the last repairs. The wooden beams overhead were dark with smoke, hung with bunches of dried herbs in a vain attempt to drive away the stench of rum and wool-clad bodies in the island heat. The uneven planks of the floor were warped and sticky, covered by close-packed tables and benches.
Si, humble it might be, but it was hers. A small accomplishment, perhaps, compared to the great feats of fortune hunting she heard every day here in Santo Domingo. But it was something.
Bianca stored the last of the goblets behind the counter, checking to make sure her pistol was tucked there still. Quiet as it was, she still didn’t trust that strange, heavy tension in the air. It was almost like the atmosphere that hung over the island just before a storm broke, taut and still. Something was afoot. Santo Domingo had been peaceful enough as they waited for the arrival of the next Seville-bound flota, but perhaps there was a raid coming.
She frowned as she remembered the last battle here with French pirates, Jean Florin and his men hanging at the mouth of the harbour as she and her late husband Juan had arrived. But that was years ago. The French had seen the folly of their actions, and ceased to harry the mighty Spanish fleets and their fortified ports. It couldn’t be that. Then what was it?
Bianca glanced towards Delores, who was stirring the stew pot over the fire and humming to herself. The maid wouldn’t know; she was a good worker, but cared mostly for flirting with the sailors. But Bianca knew who would have all the gossip, who knew everything that happened from Puerto Rico to Peru. And he was sitting right over by the wall.
She poured out a generous portion of her most expensive beverage, a punch made of rum, sugar and nutmeg, and carried it over to Señor de Alameda, aide to Governor de Feuonmayor.
Alameda was a quiet, watchful man of around thirty years old, not one to cause a fuss, yet still a regular visitor at the tavern. She suspected he was a spy of sorts, and heard more of his news at the docks than he did in the governor’s fortress. Also, he was diddling Delores. Not that Bianca cared. His escudos were good, he caused her no trouble, and he sometimes passed on titbits of valuable information.
She placed the goblet before him and sat down across the small table, wiping her hands on her apron. “I hope all is well with the governor, Señor de Alameda,” she said.
He glanced at her from his inscrutable black eyes, giving her a polite smile. “Ah, Señora Montero. Your company is indeed a rare pleasure. And, yes, the governor is quite well. Much occupied with the expansion of the cathedral.”
“Hmm. Then that cannot be what is amiss.”
Alameda took a slow sip of his drink. How very Spanish he was! Nothing ever given away. So polite, so careful, so dangerous. “Amiss?”
“I have lived in this town long enough to know when trouble is in the air,” she said. “And I have an interest in what happens. Business is better when all is peaceful and prosperous.”
He laughed ruefully. “That is undeniable, señora. A peaceful island where we can all go about our business is better for everyone. Our churches and storehouses unmolested, our shipping free of pirates…”
Bianca turned suddenly cold, despite the warm breeze from the windows, carrying the smell of the lush green island from the mountains out to the sea. She remembered those rotting bodies twisting in the wind, the smoldering shells of houses and the desecrated icons. Reports of torture, rape, murder. “Pirates? Is that the trouble?”
Alameda glanced away. “Señora Montero, pirates are always a menace in this part of the world, are they not? Desperate villains who seek to steal from the King and the Church. Surely you know that as well as anyone, for was your late husband not a sailor? But they are not an immediate threat to Santo Domingo. Quite the opposite.”
The tavern door blew open, admitting a rowdy group amid shouts and coarse laughter. Delores could see to them for now, but Bianca knew she would soon have to go back to work. The time for conversation was short; she had to find out what was happening. In Santo Domingo, knowledge was power. “What do you mean, Señor Alameda?” she said impatiently.
He nodded. Like any primero player, he knew when it was time to show his hand. “I have heard reports that the Calypso has made its way into our port.”
Whatever Bianca expected to hear, it was not that. She gave a startled laugh. “The Calypso? Have your spies started seeing fantasy vessels, then?”
The Calypso, captained by a man of near-supernatural navigational skills, was whispered about in the tavern when the rum was freely flowing: undefeatable in battle, so fleet it could outrun any storm, said to have sailed to the very edge of the earth and returned bearing unimaginable riches. Even Juan, her salty old navigator of a husband, had been awed by the tales. They had the aura of ancient, golden myths.
But Bianca had long ago given up on myths and heroes.
“The Calypso is real enough,” Alameda said.
“And her captain? The man they say could navigate his way out of hell itself? And steal the devil’s treasure while he’s at it.”
Alameda laughed. “He is real, too, though I doubt he has seen the underworld.”
“There is hell enough on earth, especially for a man who sails the seas for his living.”
“True, Señora Montero. Just don’t let Father Yanez hear you speak so. None of us have chosen an easy path so far from home, not even someone as wealthy as the captain of the Calypso.”
Bianca glanced towards the counter, where Delores was pouring rum and dishing out stew. “If the Calypso is so very grand, why have I never seen it? I have been in Santo Domingo for a fair number of years. I thought I knew every vessel that plies its way between Peru and Seville.”
Alameda shrugged. “I’ve heard tell Havana is his port of choice, and too that he has his own hidden island somewhere between here and Jamaica. He is servant to no one; he certainly does not answer to Governor de Fuenmayor. Perhaps not even to the king.”
A man who was servant to no one. Now Bianca knew he was a myth. And a most intriguing one. “Then who does he answer to?”
“That, Señora Montero, is something I would very much like to know. I’d pay a great deal to anyone with more information on the captain of the Calypso.”
“You know so much already.”
“Me?
