The guard looked up. “What are you doing? Stomping on mice?”

  “No; this spigot leaks. I have to ram it closed, hard. Here, one more time-” and his final effort produced a third squeak.

  “You done yet?” asked the guard. He did not sound impatient, but wistful; his eyes strayed to another sausage hanging by the wall.

  “One more,” answered the assistant as he tapped the second tun. He repeated the process: when the guard wasn’t looking, he inserted the key wrench in a similarly situated hole-just beneath, and concealed by the rim of, the tap. When he was done, the assistant scraped the key wrench across the handle of the spigot twice. Then he re-palmed it and once again tightened the spigot three times.

  “What? Another squeaky spigot?”

  The assistant shrugged. “Shoddy workmanship, I suppose.”

  “Just what a Jew would be willing to pay for,” sneered the guard. He belched and pointed out the door. “Get going. If that little bitch dies, it’s not going to be because you were late getting back.”

  Asher’s assistant bowed slightly and walked out, a gallon jug hanging in each hand. He made his way up to the second level, and was about to start on his way to the roof when a rich bass voice called after the two of them.

  “Guard, a moment.”

  The assistant’s escort looked around dully, then snapped straight to attention; the hidalgo captain-Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas-was approaching from the governor’s office. “I just heard about the prisoner,” he explained. “I am going up. I will escort the doctor’s assistant to the sickroom.”

  The guard spoke with his eyes fixed above the hidalgo’s brow line. “Sir, I must continue to escort the prisoner. Senor Dakis’ orders, sir.”

  “Ah. I see. Well then, I shall accompany you there.”

  “As the captain wishes.”

  Asher’s assistant started up the stairs to the roof, wondering why this captain was concerned enough to accompany them, but he knew one thing very clearly: from all accounts, he was smart enough to be trouble.

  Lots of trouble.

  Inside the secret compartment at the core of the tun of purified water, Owen Roe O’Neill counted to fifty after hearing the three squeaks that signaled that the barrel’s false interior was now unlocked and could be opened.

  It was hard making sure that he did not count too quickly, but fortunately, the only light inside the hidden compartment was also the assurance that he did not succumb to the desire to rush his exit: the pale green phosphorescent dot of the up-time watch Miro had lent him continued in its orbit around the unseen center of the timepiece’s face. The watch had not only been necessary to ensure that he waited long enough to emerge from the immense barrel, but was also a means of determining if the whole operation had gone awry. Had there been no three squeaks of the spigot within the next ninety minutes, Owen would have emerged anyway-but to withdraw as surreptitiously as possible: if the signal to come out was that late, it meant the operation was, as the up-timers put it, “busted.”

  Owen watched the second sweep hit the ten o’clock position and grabbed the handles on either side of the egress hatch from the secret compartment. He pushed them outward and heard the click that meant the spring lock had been pushed back far enough to allow the hatch to begin turning. He rotated it through ninety degrees and both heard and felt the flanges on the hatch clear the restraining tabs. Sliding himself forward, he got his arms doubled up behind the hatch, braced his feet against the back of the compartment, and pushed.

  The head of the tun hinged outward at the first hoop, the water in the false reservoir there flooding out on the floor with a rush. Owen wriggled out, past the lead inserts that had given the barrel proper weight and rolled to his feet, dagger at the ready.

  He was in a dark storeroom and he thought he smelled-sausage.

  He turned toward the other barrel just as it, too, hinged open from the first hoop, the ethanol that had been trapped in the reservoir behind the spigot splashing out, mixing with the water.

  Owen helped little Edward Dillon crawl out. Dillon clambered to his feet, reached back inside, and retrieved his pepperbox revolver. Owen shook his head. “No Edward, that’s not the tool for this particular job. It’s in here.” He tapped the young man’s temple. “ Como le va? ” he asked.

  “ Bueno. Estoy dispuesto a hablar espanol.” Dillon’s accent was as convincing as his reply was swift and sure. Furthermore, being one of the “black Irish,” he looked as genuinely Spanish as he sounded. His gear, like Owen’s, had been carefully selected from among the pirate equipment that had originally been worn by troops on Spanish argosies. The disguise was very effective in Dillon’s case; it was much less so for rangy, red-haired Owen Roe O’Neill, whose tip-tilted nose and plentiful freckles definitively marked him as a son of the northern Celtic peoples.

  “Shall I lead, then, Colonel?” Dillon asked.

  “Just a moment.” Owen checked the handle of both spigots; he saw two fresh, lateral scratches on one of them: the ‘go’ sign. “Lead on, Dillon. You know the way.” Twenty rehearsals on the chalk outline in Tarongi’s basement ensured that.

  Dillon nodded, went to the door, drew a deep breath, and fell into what he evidently hoped was a nonchalant posture. A great actor he will never be, thought Owen, but he’s good enough to walk fifteen feet to the left.

  Which is just what Edward Dillon did: pushing open the door casually, he wandered out to the left-hand side, not hugging the curving wall of the Castell de Bellver’s lower gallery, but anyone on the opposite side of second gallery level would still have only seen him from the waist down. Owen shut the door behind them without attempting to muffle the noise and followed Dillon, who reached the door to the long-term storage room, located just to the south of the Castell’s main entrance. The door was not open, but they had not expected it to be. They could not be sure if the room was occupied, either; their advance intelligence, while good insofar as layout and complement were concerned, did not extend to a precise knowledge of interior duty stations, or any others that could not be observed from the nearby slopes and low mountains just a bit inland.

  Dillon looked at Owen, who glanced around the Castell’s circular bailey or, “arms court”: only two Spanish in sight, almost on the opposite side of the lower gallery, strolling. Were they walking a patrol of the interior? That hardly seemed plausible, since it was only one hundred feet in diameter. More likely they were simply off duty, bored, and glad for the freedom to be taking some of the comparatively cool night air. Owen turned back to Dillon and nodded.

  The little Ulsterman opened the door without having to knock or fiddle with the lock; that much they had known-that this room was kept unlocked for ready access to routinely used tools and supplies. The dim light revealed a guard; before he looked up, Dillon muttered an informal greeting.

  As the guard grunted his lazy response, Owen moved past Dillon quickly and quietly, noting that the Spaniard was portly, well settled into a snack of olives, cheese, and bread, and rather slow-eyed.

  He looked up at Owen’s approach, suddenly anxious at the sound of swift, decisive movement. “Sir, I wasn’t-I didn’t-” He stopped and squinted as Owen got within arm’s-reach; the guard frowned, and his hand went to the short scabbard on his belt.

  “Hey-” he started.

  Harry Lefferts squinted into the murk and signaled on his handset for Doc Connal to lower him another ten feet in two intervals of five. The clouds had not risen as they approached the slopes on the west side of the Bay of Palma, which meant that they were damn near evolving into a ground fog.

  Harry scanned under the thickening cloud bank to find the sea-level-and therefore, visible-landmarks he’d spotted during his approach. Using the lights at Fort San Carlos to the south, and Palma to the north as his points of reference, he confirmed his bearings. He looked at his compass, recalled the last time he had seen the dim outline of Bellver-probably about three minutes ago-and frowned. Unless he was completely screwed up on the numbers, he should be almost on top of Bellver’s lazarette loomed out of the darkness at him the same moment that the line started playing out in response to his request for the first five feet of slack-putting him on a course that would carry him up against the battlements with a solid whack before he cleared them. Worse yet, he realized with a jump of his heart, the guys in the dirigible were about to lower him five more feet-meaning he was actually going to miss the roof entirely and instead splat full into the side of the tower at ten miles an hour. Not great, in itself, but then he’d either get dragged straight up the near side of the lazarette and be caught on its crenellations, or slide around curve of its outer wall, bumping as he went, his line possibly snagging one of the toothlike merlons, snapping, and dropping him one hundred feet down into the dry moat.

  Harry signaled quickly with the handset and reached his other hand around to unholster his. 357 automatic-a gun he was not particularly fond of, but was optimal for this situation. His signals-which were a three digit code for “emergency: raise me ten feet now: stop the airship now”-were evidently quickly received and understood; the second five-foot dip reversed into a hasty reascent that began as a lung-cinching snap. Wheezing, Harry reached behind to release two of the small spools of landing slack affixed to his main wire and did the same to his “fanny wire.” As he approached the wall-a little too high, now-he suddenly dropped two feet lower: his final altitude correction. At the same time, his butt swung down, leaving him in more of a sitting position as his course took his toes over the battlements, his feet out to brace against an impact or land. His gun was up, his eyes scanning for targets on the roof.

  Well, he thought, here goes nothing.

  Frank looked up as Asher’s assistant came back with the water and ethanol-and his heart sank. Oh no. Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas pushed into the room ahead of the returning guard, his eyes dark with genuine worry.

  “How is your wife?” he asked, crossing to Frank in one stride.

  Frank stared at him. S o it’s just like old times, huh? Just like that, all is forgiven. No hard feelings for the cold shoulder I’ve been giving you for weeks, even though I am lucky that it was you who beat me up. And I’ve never thanked you for the paper, the ink, the niceties, and especially for Asher, because there’s no other way Morales would allow a xueta into his precious Castell. So, despite my ingratitude and rebuffs, here you are, no resentment, just genuine concern. Probably ready to do anything for us, for her. You poor sap.

  “Frank?” asked Don Vincente, the frown on his face deepening. “Are you quite all right?”

  Asher’s voice was loud and scratchy. “I need quiet. Here,” he said to his larger assistant, “keep this handy.” Asher reached out a long, wicked looking knife; it didn’t look like any surgical implement Frank was familiar with, but then, he wasn’t too familiar with the doctoring tools of the seventeenth century. The tall assistant reached out, took the blade carefully. Dakis and one of the guards watched him closely until he set the knife down on the table in front of him.

  In the meantime, Asher had asked for his smaller assistant to stand ready with two full quart-sized, long-necked bottles of water and ethanol respectively. “I may need you to wash away a great deal of blood and douse against infection,” Asher said grimly as his hands were busy behind the privacy blind. Giovanna, to whom he had earlier given a draught that he identified as opiated wine, murmured and moaned. “God help me,” Asher muttered, “this will not be easy.”

  He seemed to be manipulating something gently when, suddenly, there was a splash of liquid on the floor: blood.

  Castro y Papas flinched forward, clearly following an instinct to help, stopping himself as he inevitably realized that there was nothing to be done.

  The smaller assistant asked, “Do you need the water or spirits, yet?”

  “No, but have them ready. And you”-Asher looked up at the taller assistant-“be quick with that knife.”

  In the same instant that Owen Roe O’Neill took his last, long step to close with the slow-eyed guard, he drew his dagger and thrust straight forward.

  The weapon’s point entered the man’s heavy neck just where the Irish colonel had intended: at the larynx. As the guard wheezed horror and dismay, Owen withdrew the knife at an angle, dragging its keen edge sharply across the jugular vein. Dark blood spurted and the man, in the midst of scrabbling after his own weapon and trying to rock up to his feet, suddenly grabbed at the mortal wound.

  Owen knew the man was dead, but this way he would die neither quickly nor silently: in the time it took him to exsanguinate, the guard might tip over boxes, flail about destructively, and thereby, bring other soldiers to investigate. Can’t have that. Owen, arm coming back from the exit slash, shot forward again into another thrust.

  This time, the man was on his knees, moving feebly, when the Spanish dagger sunk almost four inches of its length into his temple. The guard’s struggles ceased abruptly; he fell forward, face down on the paving stones, the blood leaking out of him in an ever widening pool.

  Owen turned to Dillon at the door. “Have you locked it?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “Then get over here, on the double.”

  Dillon did, and together they quickly found the box of spare culverin balls that had been placed square atop the trapdoor into the exit tunnel. Lifting the balls out, they lightened the crate and moved it aside, exposing the trapdoor.

  Locked. They could blow the lock off, but that was loud-and besides, this room was for storing tools, also, wasn’t it? “Dillon, keep watch outside. Tell me when those late-night strollers are at the other side of the arms yard.”

  “They’re over there now, Colonel.”

  Owen quickly found what he was looking for: a hammer and chisel. He set the nose of the chisel in place, tried a test blow.

  Nothing more was needed. Evidently the trapdoor had not been used in many decades, nor cared for in the meantime; the lock, its securing arm almost rusted through, came flying off with a dull clatter. He tapped a sequence of knocks on the door’s beams, a tattoo that the up-timers called “shave and a haircut.” He got the “two bits” response-and yanked open the trapdoor.

  Thomas North’s dusty face looked up at him. “About bloody time, bog-hopper.”

  “Get your lazy sassenach ass up here and sort out the men. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  North came up in two bounds, swapped his nine-millimeter for his SKS, and stared at the locked door. “Any sign of the other element yet?”

  Owen received his armor and the rest of his weapons from the oldest of the Wild Geese, Anthony Grogan, and shook his head. “No, we’re still waiting for Harry’s signal.”

  “And what is the signal?” asked North’s xueta guide, looking up at them from his position in the secret tunnel.

  Surely there’s no harm in telling the fellow now, Owen thought, but North only said, “Even down there, you’ll know it when you hear it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Valentino led the main charge toward the villa, approaching it at an oblique angle to stay out of the sightline of the fifteen men who had volleyed at the external guards. That fusillade did its job, dropping the four enemy silhouettes all at once, like an invisible wave knocking over straw men.

  At the head of almost fifty mercenaries and assassins, Valentino reached the side door into the villa, which he guessed was a secondary entry into a great room. Never having been inside, and not having dared pump local inhabitants for information, his attack depended upon overwhelming force, not advance intelligence. However, even his profound superiority in numbers would not be sufficient if the fight became a protracted gun battle.

  “This group has up-time weapons,” he hissed at his men, “so they will win if we keep our distance. But we will win a melee. So we volley and charge. Now, Arturo, take your group to the back of the villa; Ignatio, take your men around the front. Kill any external guards, keep anyone inside from getting out. Use any up-time weapons you find to hold off reinforcements from their perimeter patrols. Now go!”

  The two units of half a dozen men rushed off into the darkness just as the fifteen musketeers caught up with the rest of the group along the southern wall of villa. “So if we’re supposed to charge, why not charge in now?” panted Odoardo.

  “Because we have to seal all the possible exits first. Remember, no one is to be left alive. No one. Now, Linguanti, let’s give them something else to worry about.”

  Valentino’s wiry lieutenant nodded and produced a ceramic bottle of olive oil about the same time a few shots spatted back and forth at the front of the house. He lit the linen wick jammed into the top of the bottle and nodded to Odoardo, who drew back his immense, trademark axe and smashed open one of the two shuttered windows along that stretch of wall. Two reports-pistols probably-boomed in futile retaliation the same instant that Linguanti lobbed the fire bomb inside.

  Sherrilyn Maddox heard the volley, turned on her heel and started sprinting eastward, back toward the villa. Too focused on her job to be scared or surprised, she assessed the situation quickly: the attackers had infiltrated past, or eliminated, an outpost. Probably the southern one, since the sound of gunfire-and now, shouting-was spreading from the south of the villa.

  She was about two hundred yards out and, fortunately, the root cellar lay right along her most direct approach to the villa’s rear entrance, which opened into the building’s great room. The four men walking the perimeter like she was might arrive in time to be useful, but not if they came rushing directly back toward the villa; whoever was attacking was professional, and would be sure to have set up ambushes to interdict reinforcements.