propped his booted feet on the table and leaned back, looking disdainfully bored while the captain-general outlined proper procedure of the salute. When Magallanes finished, Cartagena heaved a sigh, removed his feet from the table, and said, “Finally. On to more important matters. There is still some confusion over the proper route agreed upon at the last council meeting. Perhaps we should review it again.”
Magallanes seemed unperturbed. “As you wish.”
I poured more wine while the captains and pilots spread charts upon the table, pointing and murmuring.
A nervous atmosphere pulsed through the air, tense and waiting. I met Rodrigo’s gaze across the cabin. He looked away.
I scanned the room, my hand sweaty, itching to grasp the hilt of my knife.
Mendoza, captain of the
Victoria
and one of the three captains named in the letter, observed Magallanes with small, watchful eyes. Balding and stout, he groomed his beard with stubby fingers, each laden with a jeweled ring that flashed in the candlelight. Occasionally, he spoke a word or two, but mostly he watched the captain-general. It seemed to me his eyes grew smaller as he did so; perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I stood behind him anyway for I did not trust him.
Opposite Mendoza sat Captain Quesada of the
Concepción,
a man younger than Cartagena. He was monstrous and pale, his bull-like neck corded with blue veins. Hair the shade of alabaster flowed past his shoulders, and he stared at Magallanes with eyes of winter, as if he were sculpted not of flesh and bone, but of marble. The letter had warned against Quesada, and I knew that he, like Mendoza, would side with Cartagena.
But the letter had not mentioned Serrano, captain of the smallest ship, the
Santiago
. He, too, was Castilian. As I observed him, I wondered where his loyalties lay. He was the oldest of all the captains, older even than Magallanes. Unlike Quesada’s face, which was cold and hard, Serrano’s was soft and rounded, as if so many years of service had worn him down.
Now, with the pilots and various others, the captains hunched over the charts. Cartagena’s comments, quiet at first, grew louder and louder. He glanced at Mendoza and Quesada as if gathering courage. “We would now have reached Brazil but for the bungling course chosen by the captain-general.”
Again, the silence.
Magallanes shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“If you had listened to me, we would not have spent two weeks caught in a gale, nearly losing our lives, and then three cursed weeks becalmed, wasting precious time and supplies.” Cartagena began to strut around the room. On his head perched a feathered cap, the brightly colored feather as haughty and gloating as Cartagena himself. “And tell me, mighty Captain-General, since you know all there is to know, what will we do once we reach Brazil? For all this time you have refused to disclose the route you plan to take. It is knowledge that until now you stubbornly have kept to yourself, but it is time to share it. After all,” Cartagena paused and glared at Magallanes, “what if something unfortunate were to happen to you?”
There followed a silence. All stared at Cartagena and Magallanes. I reached into my shirt and grasped my dagger. I shall strike Mendoza first, I thought, realizing blankly that I had never before raised a hand against another human being. My heart hammered in my chest. I blinked sweat from my eyes.
Finally, Magallanes raised his hand limply. “I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot share that information with you.”
“I demand to know. Is there a secret passage through the southern continent?”
Magallanes cleared his throat. “I must apologize, but as I said, I cannot share that information with you.”
Cartagena’s face deepened in color, as scarlet as the feather. “And why, pray tell, can you not?”
Magallanes sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have shared my intended route with King Carlos, and knowing the route, he authorized
Magallanes seemed unperturbed. “As you wish.”
I poured more wine while the captains and pilots spread charts upon the table, pointing and murmuring.
A nervous atmosphere pulsed through the air, tense and waiting. I met Rodrigo’s gaze across the cabin. He looked away.
I scanned the room, my hand sweaty, itching to grasp the hilt of my knife.
Mendoza, captain of the
Victoria
and one of the three captains named in the letter, observed Magallanes with small, watchful eyes. Balding and stout, he groomed his beard with stubby fingers, each laden with a jeweled ring that flashed in the candlelight. Occasionally, he spoke a word or two, but mostly he watched the captain-general. It seemed to me his eyes grew smaller as he did so; perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I stood behind him anyway for I did not trust him.
Opposite Mendoza sat Captain Quesada of the
Concepción,
a man younger than Cartagena. He was monstrous and pale, his bull-like neck corded with blue veins. Hair the shade of alabaster flowed past his shoulders, and he stared at Magallanes with eyes of winter, as if he were sculpted not of flesh and bone, but of marble. The letter had warned against Quesada, and I knew that he, like Mendoza, would side with Cartagena.
But the letter had not mentioned Serrano, captain of the smallest ship, the
Santiago
. He, too, was Castilian. As I observed him, I wondered where his loyalties lay. He was the oldest of all the captains, older even than Magallanes. Unlike Quesada’s face, which was cold and hard, Serrano’s was soft and rounded, as if so many years of service had worn him down.
Now, with the pilots and various others, the captains hunched over the charts. Cartagena’s comments, quiet at first, grew louder and louder. He glanced at Mendoza and Quesada as if gathering courage. “We would now have reached Brazil but for the bungling course chosen by the captain-general.”
Again, the silence.
Magallanes shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“If you had listened to me, we would not have spent two weeks caught in a gale, nearly losing our lives, and then three cursed weeks becalmed, wasting precious time and supplies.” Cartagena began to strut around the room. On his head perched a feathered cap, the brightly colored feather as haughty and gloating as Cartagena himself. “And tell me, mighty Captain-General, since you know all there is to know, what will we do once we reach Brazil? For all this time you have refused to disclose the route you plan to take. It is knowledge that until now you stubbornly have kept to yourself, but it is time to share it. After all,” Cartagena paused and glared at Magallanes, “what if something unfortunate were to happen to you?”
There followed a silence. All stared at Cartagena and Magallanes. I reached into my shirt and grasped my dagger. I shall strike Mendoza first, I thought, realizing blankly that I had never before raised a hand against another human being. My heart hammered in my chest. I blinked sweat from my eyes.
Finally, Magallanes raised his hand limply. “I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot share that information with you.”
“I demand to know. Is there a secret passage through the southern continent?”
Magallanes cleared his throat. “I must apologize, but as I said, I cannot share that information with you.”
Cartagena’s face deepened in color, as scarlet as the feather. “And why, pray tell, can you not?”
Magallanes sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have shared my intended route with King Carlos, and knowing the route, he authorized
Similar Books
