Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘What is this place called?’ I wanted to know.

‘Santa Fe de la Vera Cruz. It’s the provincial capital.’

Capital, eh? Even in such a large, important city, it appeared, people weren’t expecting much traffic to come up the strong-flowing river, and they were delighted to see us. Some people in the waiting crowd even cheered or threw their hats into the air. I let them have their happy delusions. They’d stop cheering soon enough, when Mr Ambrose pulled out his price list.

Behind the docks and the cheering crowd, a palatial building rose, the Argentinian flag fluttering from its highest pinnacle. I saw Mr Ambrose eyeing it with cool calculation.

‘Forget about it,’ I told him.

He threw me a look. One of those looks. ‘How can you know what I was thinking, Mr Linton?’

‘I don’t know. I just know that whatever you’re thinking is a bad idea from the look in your eyes.’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

‘Indeed, Sir.’

Silence.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what, Mr Linton?’

‘Well, what were you thinking about?’

‘If you must know, Mr Linton, I was considering charging the Argentinian government for the damage done to the Mammon’s sails by their Navy’s cannons.’

I almost choked. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘You would advise against it, Mr Linton?’

‘Considering that you are in Argentina, and the damage to your sails was incurred because you fired on Argentinian ships? Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir, I would.’

‘Hm. You may be correct, Mr Linton. States can be strangely sensitive when it comes to attacking their army or navy.’

It wasn’t long before we had landed, and the cheers of the crowd, as I had suspected, ceased rather abruptly. In no time at all, Mr Ambrose had set up an impromptu stall beside the gangway and, from behind a collapsible table, was haggling with the natives like nobody’s business. Or like Rikkard Ambrose’s business, to be exact. I didn’t understand a single word of the half-heated (the natives) half ice-cold (Mr Ambrose) business proceedings. But a few expressions like ‘Avaro!’ or ‘Maleducado!’ were muttered in a tone that left little doubt about their meaning. Still, I noticed that people always waited until they were well away from Mr Ambrose and the giant figure of Karim towering behind him before muttering such words.

The day wore on. I continued working on deciphering the manuscript for some time, but my head could only deal with so many illegible scribbles, and I soon returned to watching Mr Ambrose more or less legally rob the inhabitants of Santa Fe. If I had ever wondered before about how he got so abominably stinking rich, now I knew. He could haggle the kilt off a Scotsman. I continued to watch, a smile playing around my lips each time one of the Argentinians walked by me, muttering expletives.

When one of Mr Ambrose’s sailors came down the gangplank, balancing a small barrel on one shoulder, I leaned towards him.

‘What does ‘Avaro’ mean?’

‘Skinflint. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’m just improving my Spanish.’

Within another hour, I had learned the Spanish words for ‘bastard’, ‘blaggard’ and ‘monkey’s arse’. I was watching the crowd, keeping an eye open for new and interesting sources to expand my vocabulary, when I first saw him.

At first I only noticed him because his skin tone was lighter than that of the natives. Not pale by any means, no, but not the same gleaming, polished bronze that generally prevailed here, either. His was a white face, although darkened by continued exposure to sunlight. The man to whom the face belonged was moving through the crowd like a shark through water, heading straight towards us.

I could see his face more clearly now. Rather dark for a white man, dark and angular. I frowned. Where had I seen that face before? I could swear that I…

The man reached into his pocket. Suddenly, I remembered - just a moment before the man withdrew his hand from his pocket and I saw the harsh glint of sunlight on metal. Pushing away from the ship, I jerked upright.

‘Mr Ambrose! Look out!’

The words had hardly left my lips when a massive dark shadow streaked past me. With a guttural battle cry, Karim hurled himself onto the stranger, grabbing the arm that held the gun and twisting it skyward. There was a thunderous report, and the flash of a gun sent people staggering backwards, terrified. Cries in Spanish rose up all around, and everyone fought to get away as fast as their legs would carry them.