Empire of Shadows (Raiders of the Arcana #1)

Twenty-Six

The next morning, the caravan set out far later than it would have on one of Adam’s expeditions. Of course, Adam’s expeditions usually involved no more than four or five guys. This was easily seven times that size, with a couple of dozen mules to boot.

You needed a lot of mules if you were going to drag books out with you into the middle of nowhere.

When the long line of animals and men finally did get moving, it wove into the bush at a crawl as it followed the route Adam had mapped out. Adam ground his teeth against the urge to move faster. Breaking off to make his own more efficient way along the trail would probably have raised a ruckus. After all, he did have an armed guard trotting along in his wake.

It seemed Staines, the pomaded guy from Dawson’s tent, had been assigned to monitor Adam. Staines looked like the last thing he wanted to do was hike at a snail’s pace through the uncharted wilderness behind an unshaven, grumpy bakra.

Adam glanced along the snaking line of the caravan until his eyes stopped on Ellie’s figure. She was mounted on a mule and looked damned uncomfortable with the position. Flowers and Mendez flanked her to either side.

Adam still wasn’t sure what to think about their conversation the night before. A small, terrible part of him had feared that Ellie had lied to him because he simply wasn’t worth telling the truth to. He’d been relieved to know that wasn’t the case… maybe a little too relieved.

Feeling too relieved meant that what the woman thought of him had become pretty damned important to him—that it was something he cared about.

Aw, hell. Who was he kidding? He cared.

Well, he could enjoy knowing she cared as well for a little while longer… until their forced marriage solidly killed that dead.

Adam didn’t waste any time being offended that Ellie wasn’t excited about the idea of being stuck with him for life. He knew it wasn’t personal. Even if Ellie hadn’t been dead opposed to the entire idea of matrimony, Adam certainly wasn’t the kind of man she would have chosen for herself. She’d probably want some nice, mild guy in a waistcoat who shaved regularly and never once caught himself smelling a bit like a rotten lizard. Someone who could read books with her and chat about Aramaic semantics over dinner. He’d probably be a professor of something.

That made Adam think of Dawson. He quickly amended the theory—not a professor. Maybe a nice school teacher. Yeah, that felt right. He’d be from one of those girls’ schools that actually taught them things besides balancing books on their heads.

And he’d definitely be the kind of jerk who took on a bunch of extra charity students on the side.

Instead of that, Ellie was going to get Adam. It kind of made him feel awful for her, even as he also imagined himself socking that schoolteacher right in the waistcoat.

Adam startled. Why was he fantasizing about beating the schoolteacher? The guy had never done anything to him. He didn’t even exist.

The conundrum of that left him with the creeping and uncomfortable sensation that he was missing something important… something that stalked him like a jaguar in the fog.

Well, whatever that was, he’d worry about it later. Right now, he needed to focus on more practical concerns.

British Honduras was a small colony, and the community of men who did expedition work there was even smaller. Adam knew most of them, so he hadn’t been surprised when he started picking familiar faces out of the crowd at the camp once it was light enough for him to actually see everybody.

He had figured out Nigel Reneau was manning the cookfire when he tasted last night’s dinner. Adam could have recognized Nigel’s hudutu, a mouthwatering Garifuna fish stew, just from the smell.

Then there was Arturo Velegas. The old Mestizo fellow looked a bit like a gray-mustachioed grandpa who should be dozing on someone’s porch. He was actually one of the best hunters and trackers in the business.

Aurelio Fajardo was handling the mules, which figured. Aurelio looked like the less friendly kind of grandpa—or maybe he saved that glowering air of disapproval just for Adam. After all, Adam had an unfortunate habit of coming back from his expeditions a few mules short of the full contingent he’d rented from Aurelio. Adam had managed to talk his way around that problem the first two times it happened, but he figured he was probably on some damned thin ice as far as Aurelio was concerned.

The two guys from Caulker Caye, Pacheco and Lopez, were new to him. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen. The pair spent most of their time chatting with each other incessantly, flipping from Spanish to Kriol based on which language was less likely to be understood by whoever was within earshot.

There were also four East Indians fresh out of their indentured service contracts over in Jamaica—if they hadn’t just run off. There were Indians all over the various British colonial holdings in the Caribbean. Most of them were from the Bhojpuri region. They were treated pretty miserably once they arrived. Adam wouldn’t have blamed Ram and the other guys if they’d decided to take off, contract be damned, and build a new life for themselves in a different port.

He didn’t recognize any of Jacobs’ armed men. There were ten of them altogether—more than enough for him to feel unpleasantly surrounded.

Adam had spotted two other faces in the crowd that he was particularly interested in catching up with. When the caravan stopped for lunch, he finally got his chance.

The mules brayed with irritation as Nigel handed out dry rations from the expedition’s supplies. The forest around them had already started to include more of the tall pines that would dominate the landscape of the mountains.

Adam’s guard, Staines, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another as Adam crunched down some hard biscuit and dried goat. As the day progressed, the guy had managed to look even more bored and put-upon by his assignment.

Staines jumped as a troll-like figure popped up at his back. The new arrival’s pale skin was permanently ruddied from years in the sun—at least, the little of it that could be seen past the mass of an unruly reddish-brown beard. He was built as solidly as a brick wall, for all that the top of his head was maybe level with Adam’s biceps.

“Eh niaiseux,” the troll announced as he gave Staines a poke in the ribs. “The boss is asking for you.”

His the was dulled into de, while asking drew itself out into hasking. One didn’t often hear the distinctive tones of a Quebecois accent in the colony of British Honduras.

Staines managed to look both annoyed at the interruption and hopeful at a possible reassignment.

“And who’s gonna watch this bakra here, then?” he demanded.

“I’m going to watch him,” the Quebecois replied.

“But you don’t have one of the guns,” Staines pointed out.

The squat Canadian plucked a wicked, gleaming length of machete from the sheath at his belt.

“This good enough for you? Or do you want a closer look?” He punctuated this with a slightly terrifying grin that showed off his three missing teeth.

“Good enough,” Staines agreed. He swung his rifle to his back and stalked off.

“Salut, Lessard,” Adam said easily once Staines had gone.

“Bonne après-midi, Anglo,” Lessard replied. He punctuated the traditional Quebecois insult by loosing a stream of tobacco-stained expectorant.

It nearly hit a lizard. The lizard scampered away in alarm.

Adam had known Martin Lessard for years. Lessard had been a logger in Canada for decades before coming to British Honduras. Adam still wasn’t entirely sure what had brought him there, as there were still plenty of trees to cut in Canada. The ways of Lessard were a mystery you didn’t really want to get close enough to solve—but the hairy Quebecois was a hell of a hunter with a keen sense of direction. He also came in pretty handy in a brawl.

“It’s nice to see you,” Adam offered genuinely.

“It will be nicer to see you when you learn how to speak like a man instead of forcing me to use your ugly bastard language,” Lessard replied casually.

Lessard, like most of his countrymen, had decided opinions about the superiority of Quebec’s particular variety of French.

They were joined a moment later by Charles Goodwin. The lean, well-muscled Kriol man kept his hair close-cropped and natural above a neat beard. He swung himself onto a boulder and rolled a cigarette as he watched Staines stomp across the camp.

“You got your hand in the tiger’s mouth this time, bali,” Charlie commented blandly.

“It’s not my finest moment,” Adam admitted.

Charlie was a regular on Adam’s expeditions. He’d grown up in the bush trailing his father, who had made his living as a mahogany cutter. Charlie was wickedly resourceful and generally unflappable. He had gotten Adam out of more than one tough pinch in the past.

“And with a woman,” Charlie added pointedly. “Can’t wait to hear about that.”

He flicked a match to life against the stone, lit his smoke, and took a satisfied draw.

“It’s complicated,” Adam replied.

“C’est une femme,” Lessard returned flatly as though the connection between woman and complicated should have been obvious.

“Any particular reason you’re being marched around here with a gun at your back?” Charlie asked mildly.

Adam rubbed his face tiredly. “It’s a long story.”

Lessard frowned at the empty sheath on Adam’s belt.

“Where’s your knife?” he demanded.

“Your bosses took it,” Adam replied. “Got my Winchester, too.”

“My condolences, mon ami,” Lessard replied.

It sounded like he actually meant it. Then again, it didn’t surprise Adam that Lessard might consider losing one’s machete to be a bit like the death of a beloved aunt.

Adam couldn’t entirely blame him. He’d had aunts he cared less about than his knife.

“Lessard and I thought we best check in,” Charlie said with another puff on his cigarette. “Won’t be long before our boy Staines finds out nobody was asking for him, so we’d best check quick.”

“Who’s running this line?” Adam asked.

Charlie pointed across the camp with his cigarette. The ember picked out a tall, lanky Jamaican with a precise mustache.

“That’s Bones,” Charlie said.

“Haven’t heard of him,” Adam noted.

Adam’s lack of familiarity with the man was worth noting. He had been pretty sure he knew everybody in the colony who might run a caravan like this. After all, there were only about six of them—himself and Charlie included.

“He’s former West India Regiment, fresh out. Knows his business well enough, but not much for a joke,” Charlie explained.

“How about these guys with the guns?” Adam pressed.

“Company men,” Charlie returned flatly.

There was only one company that mattered around here—the British Honduras Export Company. Run by a board of executives who did their decision-making from cushy chairs in a London office, the Company owned the vast majority of the land outside Belize Town and claimed a monopoly on logging rights. Most of the local colonial officials were solidly in the Company’s pocket—and it didn’t shy away from using less-than-scrupulous methods to expand its land claims or remove obstacles to timber harvesting… obstacles like some of the local Maya.

The Company’s hired guns weren’t chosen for their high morals. They got the job because they didn’t ask questions, and because they said yes to whatever needed to be done.

“Great,” Adam grumbled.

“Except for the bakra,” Lessard added helpfully.

“What bakra?” Adam demanded.

“What bakra do you think?” Lessard shot back. “The one that looks like somebody dropped him a few times when he was a baby.”

Adam scanned the camp. His gaze locked onto one of the only other white men in the vicinity. He looked to be around twenty. He was a few inches shorter than Adam, with a scraggly blonde mustache and blue eyes that bulged a little.

“That guy?” Adam asked.

“Pickett,” Charlie filled in with a tired sigh. “Boy falls a little short of Company standards.”

“Probably because he spawned from all your Confederates marrying their cousins,” Lessard cheerfully offered.

Adam was familiar with the local Confederates. A contingent of them had landed in British Honduras after the war. They set up new plantations in the Toledo district. Though slavery had been against the law in the colony for about a hundred years, Adam figured the rebel sons had been drawn south by a combination of cheap land, lax indentured labor laws, and a general terror of sleeping just down the road from the justifiably angry people whom they and their ancestors had once owned.

A bunch of people who’d used skin color as an excuse for putting others in chains weren’t likely to intermarry with the local population in the colony. That had left them with a somewhat limited courtship pool.

“How the hell did you two end up involved in this?” Adam demanded.

“The bosses offered triple rates,” Lessard replied. He took a piece of jerky off of the plantain leaf that Adam was using as a plate and shoved it in his mouth.

Charlie shrugged. “Laura wants a new shed. And how do I know the old boss is gonna show up on the wrong end of a rifle?”

“You got a plan, then?” Lessard asked from around Adam’s jerky.

“I’m still working on it,” Adam replied.

“You won’t get far without a knife,” Lessard warned.

“I don’t suppose I could borrow either of yours?” Adam tried.

Lessard spat. The look that Charlie flashed Adam would’ve withered fruit on the vine.

“Yeah, I thought as much.” Adam sighed. “What’re the chances you could steal me one?”

“No chance,” Charlie retorted flatly.

“Aww, come on,” Adam countered. “It’s not like the pair of you aren’t capable of swiping a knife without getting caught.”

“Maybe without getting caught,” Charlie returned crossly. “But not without somebody noticing their knife is gone. And who you think they gonna figure took it?”

“Probably the guy without a knife,” Lessard pointed out helpfully.

“The Frenchman and I are not the ones with the guns out here,” Charlie protested. “We get caught taking some boy’s knife for you, you think they going to keep us around for decoration like your bakra self?”

“Lessard’s a bakra,” Adam protested with a wave at the ruddy-faced Canadian.

“Lessard’s not a bakra,” Charlie returned. “Look at him.”

Lessard flashed Adam a gap-toothed, tobacco-stained smile.

“When they’re about to drag you out into the bush and shoot you, maybe I’ll get you a knife.” Charlie took an irritated puff on his cigarette. “Maybe.”

“Our boy here still has that favor,” Lessard noted. His eyes glittered with dark mischief.

Charlie’s head swiveled. He pinned Lessard with a glare.

“That’s right,” Adam said slowly as a grin spread irresistibly across his face. “You said you owed me one when I got you out of that trouble with your wife.”

“After this idiot tried to climb the lighthouse when he was drunk as a rat and broke his arm,” Lessard added with a dark chortle.

“It was a protest,” Charlie shot back.

“You were going to hang your underpants from the flagpole,” Lessard retorted. His eyes began to water as he snorted at the memory.

Charlie straightened and looked down his nose at his smaller, more grizzled companion.

“I am a sixth generation Belize man, and I have no vote in the elections,” he retorted, jabbing his cigarette to make the point. “How does that Union Jack do me any good? Maybe we’d all be better off with the underpants.”

“Sure. Tell that to Laura,” Lessard returned with another wheeze.

Charlie glowered at Lessard, and then shifted the glower to Adam.

“Aarait,” he snapped. “You still got your favor. You wanna use it for a knife, what do I care? But when you do, your raass better be ready to run.”

Adam began to feel the distinct beginnings of a headache. “Fair enough. Anything else I should know?”

Charlie gave his cigarette an irritated flick.

“The professor acts like he’s in charge, but everybody knows Jacobs is the real boss,” he said. “Jacobs does all the work, while the professor sits around and reads those books he brought with him. He’s got a real fire lit under his feet about finding some big thing when they reach the city.”

Adam frowned.

“Some big thing like what?” he asked.

“What do I know?” Charlie took another drag, tapping his foot. “I’m just the help.”

Being just the help gave Charlie the chance to quietly soak up every bit of useful information from what was going on around him. There was a reason Belize Town’s nascent anti-imperialist movement had quickly recruited Charlie into its ranks. He was very good at noticing things.

Not that this particular piece of information was all that enlightening. It only made things even more confusing. Adam fought against his own exasperation.

“How can he be after something at the end of this trail when we have no idea what the hell we’re going to find there?” he protested.

“You tell him about the crazy candle?” Lessard demanded, looking to Charlie.

“What candle?” Adam asked.

Charlie rolled his eyes a bit.

“You tell him about the candle,” he shot back. “You’re the crazy Frenchman saw it.”

“It was in the professor’s cabin on the boats—all of a sudden this light blazing out the windows like somebody lit up a bonfire,” Lessard filled in with obvious relish. “And then—pffft!—it goes out.”

“That’s… odd,” Adam commented, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“Bah, what do you know? The whole room was glowing like a comet, and not so much as a piece of charcoal the next morning.” Lessard emphasized the point with another hock of tobacco spit.

“Here comes Staines.” Charlie nodded across the camp to where Adam’s bodyguard trudged toward them, looking even more grumpy than he had when he’d left. “Looks like he figured out nobody wants him.”

Lessard let out a wicked chuckle.

“That’s a good one, Charlie,” he said happily.

“Keep your head on, bali,” Charlie finished with a pointed look at Adam. He flicked away the butt of his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and moved away.

“Try not to get yourself shot,” Lessard added with another slightly terrifying grin before following after him.