The Day of Atonement Read online

  Mrs. Carver stopped at a building on the side street, near a little clearing by a steep staircase. It was an unremarkable house, though clearly an affluent one, of solid white stone crowned by two stories of elaborate tiling. She removed from her coats a key to open the door. Its lock was sturdy enough, but nothing impressive. Once we passed within, however, we found ourselves in a vestibule, poorly lit by a small skylight, with another door—this one of heavy oak, and protected with three complicated-looking locks.

  “It appears but an ordinary house,” Mrs. Carver said, something of a theatrical air in her voice, “and it is not upon the Street of Goldsmiths itself, so there is nothing to draw attention to it. No one should be tempted to break it open. If a thief should try, he will find himself faced with three locks no man alive could pick.”

  “Very good,” I said. I did not believe a lock had been made that a man could not pick, and I was as skilled in the art as any. “Are there guards to protect the building at night?”

  Mrs. Carver was leaning toward a lock, but she turned to me and smiled. Her lips appeared so red, and her teeth so white, in the dim light of the vestibule, that there was something simultaneously demonic and angelic in her appearance. “Not outside,” she said, “for that would only draw attention. Inside is another matter. You shall see soon enough.”

  She opened the three locks one by one and we then found ourselves in a long and narrow corridor with a low ceiling. At the end of this we came to another locked door. We next descended a gloomy staircase, Mrs. Carver clinging once more to my arm. The air was now cool and damp and smelled of mold and rotting wood. At the bottom we came to another long chamber, this one made of stone and undecorated, which felt more like a crypt than a vault.

  At the end of this chamber stood two young men, both bearded and extremely thin, with pistols and swords, and with wineskins hidden, hastily and poorly, on the floor behind a small table. They recognized Mrs. Carver and spoke to her deferentially. Even so, they permitted her to pass only after questioning her, at length, about me. Once we proceeded past these sentries, we gained entrance to a large room with an even lower ceiling than the hallway. I was made to stoop lest I strike my head. Small windows permitted shafts of light to pierce the gloom, revealing a series of cages, like prison cells. These contained not men but bars of gold, sacks of coins, and collections of gems. Here at last was what I had come for, the goldsmith’s vault, where the Carvers, among others, kept their gold. This was the place from which I would have to steal it.

  Such stores were not uncommon in Lisbon. Portugal was among the wealthiest of European nations, not because of its own industry or resources, but because for the past half century, Brazilian gold and diamond mines had provided a steady stream of treasure to the homeland, most of it dedicated to funding new palaces and churches. Such wealth as actually fell into civilian hands often remained locked away in warehouses like this one.

  I looked around, affecting approbation. “I believe this warehouse is very secure.”

  It did indeed appear to be so, which meant it was going to be difficult to steal the Carvers’ money. Difficult but not impossible. Not by any means, and I was already beginning to put together a plan.

  “May I see your vault in particular?” I asked.

  With the guards watching us, we walked down the aisle of cages. We came to one in the middle of the row, to which Mrs. Carver gestured. “Ours.”

  I peered inside and saw that it was entirely empty, which presented certain problems to the thief who wished to rob it.

  Mrs. Carver laughed upon seeing my expression. “Our money cannot grow in the vault. It is out upon ventures. When our ships return, our money is replaced.”

  “So for our arrangement to work,” I said, “I will have to secure funds when your money is between investments.”

  “Yes, that is how it must be.”

  I nodded, as much to myself as to Mrs. Carver. More than anything, I wanted to give Settwell the money he needed to flee the country, but I was not prepared to rob just any merchant to do it. This was about justice, not wealth, and it would have to be the Carvers’ gold I stole. And that meant I would have to, once more, prepare myself to wait.

  Chapter 13

  Mrs. Carver took my arm as we strolled back along the Street of Goldsmiths. The most direct path to the Three Speckled Hens was along a steep incline, and we had to choose between walking down a series of winding streets or taking a narrow stairway hacked out of the steep hillside. As it would soon be dark, I suggested the quicker route, though the dangerously angled stairs provided a perfect place for thieves to attack. A woman of Mrs. Carver’s station would never take it alone. Nevertheless, she showed every sign of feeling safe with me.

  The moment we stepped upon the first of the stairs, two men approached from below. They were Gypsies, rough ones by the look of them, but even such men as these rarely risked molesting English men or women in the light of day. The street behind us was now empty, however, the few laboring men and aging housewives who had been loitering about scurrying away like startled cats.

  “Hold, lovely lady,” one of the Gypsies said in Portuguese. “I would gaze upon you a bit longer, for you look less like a mortal creature than an angel of heaven.”

  “Your skin is like marble and your hair like fire,” said the other. “Will you suffer me to touch it?”

  “Get out of my way,” Mrs. Carver returned in their language. “You dare insult an Englishwoman in broad daylight? Have you urgent business with the hangman?”

  “No urge to die, but a score to settle.” A third man now approached from behind us, and I recognized him at once. It was Dordia e Zilhão. He walked with the easy and confident gait of a cat approaching a wounded and helpless bird. His face was no longer bruised from the beating he had taken, but his nose sat swollen and crooked upon his face, curiously at odds with his fanciful mustaches. Even so, he held himself like a man triumphant. With one hand he tapped a long dagger lazily against his pantaloons. “Are you surprised to see me, senhor?”

  Because I had tasked Enéas with finding Dordia e Zilhão and selling to the Gypsy information about where he might find the Englishman who had bested him, I was not surprised to see him in the least. Nevertheless, I glanced nervously from one man to the other. “I suggest you consider carefully before you venture into dangerous waters.”

  “You know this man?” Mrs. Carver asked. She tried to sound indignant, but her voice cracked. This, I suspected, was the sort of lady who appeared indomitable, but only because she was so good at controlling all around her. She spoke with authority and liked to say shocking things, but doing so put her in command. She did not like it, I now saw, when events were not of her ordering. Perhaps that was why she chose a dishonest path—secretly pulling the strings certainly made outcomes more certain.

  “He attempted to rob me upon the street,” I explained to her. “It went poorly for him.”

  One of the men grabbed me and spun me toward Dordia e Zilhão while pinning my arms firmly behind my back. I now balanced dangerously upon the edge of the stairway. A single push would send me tumbling. The end result might not be death, but at the very least bones would be broken.

  The other man similarly handled Mrs. Carver. She gasped as the Gypsy’s hands gripped her shoulders, and her already pale skin went nearly translucent and then blossomed with pink. There was no misunderstanding the look upon her face. It was pure terror. Anything could happen, she knew. These would not be restrained, and she had lost all control of the situation, of her life, of the world.

  Best to end this quickly, I decided. I had known Dordia e Zilhão would seek me out eventually, and so I had thought that rather than wait to be surprised, it would be better to meet him on my own terms—and in a way that would best serve my interests. When I had devised the idea of manipulating the Gypsy so that he would attack when I was with Mrs. Carver, I thought only then that these were two people who deserved such punishment as they deserved. My opinion
about Dordia e Zilhão had not changed, but whatever Mrs. Carver had done to Settwell, I found I did not have the stomach to see her suffer.

  “The lady has no part in this,” I said, trying to draw attention back to me. I had no illusions that a reasoned plea would persuade my attackers, but I thought it might distract them from Mrs. Carver, if only for a moment. “Let her be on her way, and you and I will resolve our differences in any manner you choose.”

  “You make no decide,” Dordia e Zilhão said in English. He grinned at Mrs. Carver. “I now take your clothes, as I ask before, but I shall also have her clothes, and more. I shall make you watch while I enjoy this woman, and then I slit your throat. What say you now, Englishman?”

  Mrs. Carver said nothing. Fear had left her nearly paralyzed, and seeing how these men tormented her, I felt the anger in me begin to swell. My own culpability was now forgotten. It hardly mattered to me. I desired only to lash out, to feel flesh and bone yield to me. I could not lose control, however. I told myself that. It became like a prayer. I could not lose control. I could not let the will to hurt envelope me.

  I am afraid, I told myself. I am a frightened merchant.

  “Someone has surely observed this assault and alerted the soldiers,” I said, letting my voice squeak. It had been hard to speak, but once I began, playing the role came easy. My training and experience and memory took command. “They will be here shortly. Now, as I am a man of honor, I shall meet you when and where you choose, and we may settle our differences. That is better than you deserve, and you had better take advantage of what I offer.”

  “He squeaks like mouse!” Dordia e Zilhão cried. “I tell you, mouse, I first have spoken to the people who live near, and they know what happens to them and their families if they cross Dordia e Zilhão, whom they fear—and wisely so. You should have done the same. As for soldiers, I have given promise of meat and drink if they do not trouble me. I regret to say, there is no one to help you. Honor is for up your arse.”

  I met his gaze. My heart beat steadily. My muscles were relaxed. In moments like these, when anger was about to meet action, I was most at peace. The urges calmed and the voices quieted. I was outnumbered, but I had faith in what my mentor had taught me. I need only wait until I found the best moment to press my advantage and make sure Mrs. Carver would not fall. The anticipation was torture, but the knowledge of what would come after was as soothing as wine.

  “I say you must let us pass,” I said in a loud voice, hoping to sound arrogant.

  “Your talk means nothing.” Dordia e Zilhão raised his long dagger and pointed it at my face, letting it dangle but inches from my left eye.

  The Gypsy’s elbow was locked and his arm firm—a threat, not a prelude to a strike. Even so, a sudden movement might cause me to lose an eye, and I willed myself not to flinch. Mrs. Carver was still too close to the stairs. If I moved now, the Gypsies could easily push her out of spite.

  Dordia e Zilhão lowered the blade slightly, letting it rest on my cheek. I felt warmth and then wetness as the sharp edge cut my skin. Mrs. Carver gasped and then something like a whimper, a wounded-animal sort of noise, escaped from deep in her throat. For my part, I did not react. The cut was shallow. It would not scar or even bleed much. What mattered to me was that Dordia e Zilhão had committed himself, and I could now act with impunity.

  From the corner of my eye I saw the man behind Mrs. Carver begin to grind his hips against her. “I want this one when you are done with her,” he said to his leader. Mrs. Carver squeezed her eyes shut and tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  I could tolerate no more. I thrust my heel into the shin of the man behind me, and at the same time I crouched down and to the left, sensing Dordia e Zilhão would thrust up and right with his weapon. He did, and the dagger flashed forward, striking hard into his own man’s cheek. The blade penetrated the flesh, and I heard the crack of teeth breaking and a more disturbing sucking sound as the blade ripped other teeth out by their roots. The man cried piteously as his face blossomed with blood. He staggered back, flailing his arms, horrified by his wound but unwilling to pull the dagger out himself. It flopped out of the side of his face, pulling down and widening the wound until it at last dropped upon the ground. At that moment, the man lost his balance and began to tumble down the steep staircase.

  Now free, I rolled off to the side and away from Mrs. Carver. Dordia e Zilhão was now holding the bloody dagger, which he had snatched from the ground.

  Taking the stance of an experienced duelist, Dordia e Zilhão thrust forward at me, but I danced backwards, close to where the hill plummeted downward. I stood facing my enemy while, to my right, the other Gypsy still held Mrs. Carver from behind on the top of the stairway. I moved toward Dordia e Zilhão and then sprang in the opposite direction, landing hard, forcing my elbow down on the base of the neck of the other man. He went down at once, and Mrs. Carver was knocked backwards by the impact. I grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her forward to keep her from falling.

  She staggered but regained her footing. Dordia e Zilhão, now the last man standing, brandished his blade. His face was red with anger and twisted into a mask of fury, but there was fear there too, and that made him dangerous. He would be willing to do anything to preserve his honor, including sacrifice himself if it meant hurting Mrs. Carver.

  “Get behind me,” I snapped at her.

  She began to move, but Dordia e Zilhão struck, lashing out quickly and suddenly. He meant to cut a wide gash across her face, destroying her beauty. I saw it in time. I struck his wrist hard with my forearm, and the blade flew free. The Gypsy was now disarmed, and the danger was essentially over.

  When I set this encounter in motion, I had hoped a heroic rescue might alter favorably the balance of power with Mrs. Carver. Because I had orchestrated the attack, I also believed I would have no difficulty keeping the lady safe. I had clearly miscalculated, and the callous assault upon Mrs. Carver’s dignity infuriated me.

  I lunged toward Dordia e Zilhão’s right, and as the Gypsy turned to face me, I shifted and struck the thief from the left, driving my fist into the soft spot on the side of his head. It was like a hammer blow. I felt something yield and Dordia e Zilhão’s eyes rolled upward. He fell to his knees.

  It was enough, and the fight was won, but I did not want that it should be over. Here was a man who would have mutilated a woman out of spite. He would have raped her and allowed his friends to do the same. Perhaps I’d been wrong to provoke him, but Dordia e Zilhão had turned from an equal to prey on an innocent—like all men of power in Lisbon.

  With my left hand I grabbed the thief by his long locks, and with my right I struck him in the jaw. I did it again, and then again and then again. I felt nothing, not the pain in my hand or the pounding in my head. I was only dimly aware of Mrs. Carver calling my name. Only the touch of gloved fingers on my forearm—so cool and gentle and tentative—broke through in the way no shouting or pain could have.

  “Please,” she said. “You need do no more.”

  I looked at Dordia e Zilhão, whose head I still held up by his hair. His nose was smashed once more, now flattened and utterly destroyed, and blood bubbled from his nostrils and mouth. Several teeth were missing and he struggled to breathe.

  I let go and the Gypsy dropped to the cobblestones. Mrs. Carver, her hands still on my arm, straightened me up.

  “I am sorry.” I panted heavily, and sweat rolled down my back and off my face. My stink was pungent in my nose. I lowered my eyes because I could not stand to look at her. Beauty was the last thing I wanted to see. I forced myself to speak, though the words came out with great difficulty. “He tried to hurt you, and I was angry.”

  “Do not say you are sorry,” she answered, raising my chin so I had to look into her brilliantly blue eyes. Already she had regained composure. The order in her world was restored. I had restored it, and I could not help but wonder if, because she had brought me into her world, she told herself that she had played a
part in her own rescue.

  “You saved me,” she said, the relief in her voice unmistakable, “and I shall not forget it.”

  Around us, people began to peer out windows and step into the thresholds of their doorways. An Englishman and Englishwoman stood among the bloodied forms of defeated thieves. One was badly hurt. Perhaps he would die. Perhaps not. In London I would have run before constables arrived to restore order and apprehend anyone who looked troublesome and unimportant. Here, there was no need to hurry. Mrs. Carver must have been thinking much the same thing, because she looked at me and managed a sad smile. “A vida em Lisboa,” she said in a raspy whisper.

  “A vida em Lisboa,” I agreed.

  She took my arm, and as though departing a country dance, we walked from the men I had bested. Already the memory of the blind rage began to fade, pushed away by certainty. Mrs. Carver was a manipulative woman and extremely dangerous, but the gratitude she felt now was real. Things were different between us. The power was mine.

  Back at the Duke’s Arms, I sat in my armchair, my head buzzing with a thousand incoherent thoughts. I tried to ignore the throbbing in my knuckles as I used my uninjured left hand to lift a cup of wine to my lips. I was content to sit there, to be still, to do nothing and think of less, for hours.

  I had nearly lost control of events, but I had not the energy to condemn myself. Nor did I wish to think of Roberta Carver, how I had seen vulnerability in her today, and how it made me think differently of her. It was much easier, I realized, to see her as nothing but a cruel villainess, but it seemed she was, like all people, more complex than surfaces suggested. Perhaps even more complex than most I’ve known.

  This was, I knew, a dangerous turn of thought, and I chastised myself at once. I could ill afford to think kindly of her. She had behaved with ill intent, and now she must pay for her actions. It was what I knew to be true, and yet I did not quite believe it.

  After some time, I drifted off into an uneasy slumber, but I do not believe it was long after that I was awakened by a soft knock at the door, and I groaned, thinking it must be the intolerable Kingsley Franklin. Perhaps he had seen me slip up the stairs, noticed my swollen hands, and now wished to make endless conversation about it. I waved at Enéas to get the door, and closed my eyes.