After the War: A Novella of the Golden City by J. Kathleen Cheney

Alejandro a strange look. “A maledictor? That’s a rare talent.”
    Alejandro had to bow to Joaquim’s greater knowledge of witches
—
after all, he did work for the Special Police. “The man in the story specializes in cursing, if that’s what it’s called.”
    “Well what happened to them?” Serafina asked loudly, impatient with their digressions.
    “They’re sent to steal a battle plan,” Alejandro said, finally recalling more of the details. “Behind the enemy lines in a town called . . . Lille. They were there for days hiding from the occupying forces before everything was right to make a move. João realizes after he does his part that the two who went inside stole more than the plans. They tell him and the Englishman that there were jewels, already stolen from a jeweler in town. If he keeps his mouth shut, they can divide the stones among themselves after the war . . . but João refuses to go along with it. One of the English tries to set him afire, but his effort rebounds on him and he dies instead, burned to death.”
    “Why?” Joaquim asked.
    The duke squinted at the page. “Ah. Because João has an amulet given to him by an African witch doctor.” He looked up. “Where would João have met a witch doctor?”
    “An amulet?” Serafina asked, eyes wide. “Like an old piece of bone on a strip of leather?”
    Alejandro blinked at her. “What?”
    “Yes,” the duke said. “It’s described exactly that way in the story.”
    “You had one,” Serafina said, bouncing in her seat like a little girl. “When you came back from Angola, you were wearing it about your neck. You told me some tribal leader gave it to you after you saved his son from a German bomb.”
    He felt idiotic for not knowing about an incident Serafina thought obvious. By now he should be accustomed to that. “German bomb?”
    Joaquim answered. “An effort to sow discord between the Angolan troops and the Portuguese troops. The Germans planted bombs under several of the Angolan barracks, and then spread word that the Portuguese were responsible.”
    “Why would we ever do such a thing?” Alejandro protested. Even though Germany hadn’t yet declared war against Portugal, the Portuguese had sent troops to their former colony in eastern Africa to help the Angolans protect their territory from the encroaching Germans.
    “Some people don’t need a great deal of urging to become angry,” the duke said, “and there will always be those in our former colonies who blame us
—
often with just cause
—
for many ills they suffer.”
    Those sounded like the words of a man with a great deal of experience in diplomacy. “And I saved someone?”
    Joaquim laughed. “You foresaw the incident and informed your commander ahead of time. At first they thought you were making it up. They didn’t know you’re a seer. But when they began to find the devices, they evacuated all the barracks before too many were hurt. Several men were injured, but no one died. One of the bombs wasn’t caught in time, and you took a piece of shrapnel when you tried to hold back an Angolan soldier.”
    And that explained the wound to his thigh. “I see.”
    “I forgot to tell you that story,” Joaquim said apologetically.
    “Well, it’s probably in these notebooks somewhere.” Alejandro wished he hadn’t been such a prolific writer as a young man. It would take him weeks to work through all these notebooks. “So I evidently was involved in an attempt to steal some battle plans, but became a casualty along with way because I didn’t agree with their . . . additional theft. One of them tried to burn me to death, only to have the curse bounce back on him. I’m less inclined to inform the man’s family now if we learn his identity.”
    “Even if he tried to kill you,” Joaquim said gently, “his family would still want to know.”
    Alejandro sighed. Joaquim was a kinder man than he was.
    The duke, who’d been reading all the while, lifted his