Chapter 46: Greasing the Crown
The fort held the heat as stubbornly as the streets outside, though it hid the discomfort behind solid craftsmanship. Thick timber walls had been raised by men who expected their work to outlast them. Two soldiers stood guard outside Juan’s office while a third waited inside. All three watched the four men who followed their commander through the doorway.
Maps covered one wall, tracing the coast of La Florida from Pensacola down past the Keys. A desk stood where the morning light spilled through the window, every paper stacked with precision. The room lacked the comfort of stone, but Juan had made certain it looked like the office of a man destined for something greater.
The soldiers inside stiffened the moment Bert and Caesar stepped through the door. No drill in the Spanish Army had ever covered what to do when two men built like siege towers walked into your office.
One guard reached for his musket, paused halfway, and seemed to remember that muskets were for ordinary problems.
Another stared openly at Caesar for a heartbeat before deciding the wall behind James deserved his entire attention.
The last looked from Bert to Caesar, frowned as though the pair offended his understanding of human proportions, then quietly took half a step farther from both of them.
Neither giant so much as twitched.
James bit the inside of his cheek. Three soldiers. Three loaded muskets. And every one of them looked ready to apologize for existing.
Juan looked from his guards to the problem filling his office. He sighed softly through his nose, like a man already measuring how much patience the day would demand.
"Salgan. Ahora. Antes de que alguien se haga encima."
The soldiers were gone almost before the order had finished echoing.
Juan turned to Thatch.
"Now. Tell me plainly what you have brought me."
"Three treasure ships stripped clean off the Florida coast."
Thatch replied without hesitation. "Mostly silver. Emeralds from Cartagena in the second hold. Indigo and cochineal besides, though I doubt either’s what’s keepin’ you awake."
Emotions flickered across Juan’s face before disappearing. For a heartbeat he looked like he mourned countrymen who had sailed beneath his king’s flag, swallowed by the sea over silver that had never reached Spain.
The moment passed. Arrogance took its place. He was already deciding what his share ought to be.
"I see."
James wandered toward the shelf along the back wall. A small framed portrait rested there, showing the king beneath an enormous powdered wig, chin lifted as though he personally expected the sun to ask permission before rising. Whoever had painted him had also managed to squeeze every trace of humanity out of the man’s posture.
"Och, there’s a face that’s never gone hungry a day in his life."
James muttered before moving along, sparing everyone the trouble of defending His Majesty’s appetite.
Juan continued as though he hadn’t spoken. "If your silver reaches this office, it ceases to be anyone’s question. It becomes lawful salvage, recovered from a wreck unfortunate enough to leave no witnesses worth consulting. Havana receives the paperwork, Spain receives the silver, and everyone remains satisfied."
James picked up a small obsidian blade farther down the shelf. It was no longer than his palm, and the edge still looked sharp enough to open careless skin. Aztec work, if he judged it right. Someone had taken it from a temple long before anyone now alive had drawn breath.
"Somebody conquered an empire," he said, turning the blade in his hand, "and brought home the letter opener."
Juan’s gaze never left Thatch.
"Thirty percent. Given the scale of what you’ve described, and the considerable risk I accept on your behalf."
"Like hell."
Thatch didn’t raise his voice.
"Twenty."
"The risk is not imaginary, Edward. If Havana looks too closely at this office even once, I lose more than money. I lose the only position from which I might someday rise above this miserable posting."
"The risk doesn’t change between twenty and thirty. You’re just hopin’ I forget how numbers work."
James had already reached the third object on the shelf. It was a tiny golden llama no larger than his thumb, its smooth surface polished by hands that had turned to dust centuries ago.
He rolled the little figure over in his fingers and understood why Juan had kept it. It reminded him of a man’s first stolen coin. One glance was enough to remember that entire empires could be built on stolen gold dressed up as rightful inheritance, and somehow the trick had never stopped working.
"Twenty-five."
Juan spoke as though that had been the figure all along.
"And we are finished discussing it."
Thatch grinned.
"Done."
Juan finally looked at James. "That also applies to you, Captain. Twenty-five percent, and your silver troubles Havana no more than his."
James carefully returned the little gold llama to its place.
"Aye, that’ll do nicely."
He looked back at Juan. "While we’re speakin’ of business, your friend Thatch mentioned you’ve got a fondness for collectin’ artillery. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare mortar or two gatherin’ dust, would ye? A few extra guns wouldn’t hurt either."
Juan’s eyes snapped toward Thatch. For a heartbeat, the careful mask he wore cracked.
Thatch only smiled wider.
"Man’s got to test his friends somehow, Juan."
Juan let out a slow breath. "The mortar, and any cannon. Both came from an unique situation made under circumstances that will not happen again."
James spread his hands.
"I’ll pay twice what Thatch paid. Triple if it gets me the second mortar."
"Your money is welcome, Captain Calloway."
Juan’s voice remained even. "It is also beside the point. Discretion is what keeps this office alive. One satisfied pirate captain remains a secret I can manage. Two becomes a habit, and habits end careers. Mine included."
James leaned into the grin that had talked half his crew into making poor decisions.
"Surely a man as resourceful as yerself can find one little exception for a face this honest."
Bert then interrupted them, completely sincere. "I have observed the Captain’s conduct closely, Don Juan. I believe you would find him a reasonable man to trust."
Juan looked from James to Bert with the expression of someone being charmed by a fox while a chicken insisted the fox was perfectly respectable.
For several long moments he said nothing. His lips worked as though he were wrestling with words he had never intended to speak tonight.
At last, he stated, "There is, however, one matter that silver alone has failed to resolve. A problem requiring a hand considerably rougher than anything wearing the King’s uniform can provide."
