The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(85)

Slate’s face was pale in the moonlight. “How much farther?”

“Not far, Captain,” I said. “But from now on we’re climbing.”

We pushed into the forest, taking the path hand over foot at times, it was so steep. It hadn’t rained today, at least not near the sea, but the undergrowth was wet here, and the leaves glistened where the moon shone through the trees. It was easy to lose sight of one another in the thicket, and I slowed, not wanting to get lost in the dark. We passed the waterfall, the mist writhing through the rocks like ghosts among headstones, and continued upward with muddy hands and knees.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kashmir said.

“Almost positive.”

Slate barked in laughter, violating the dark. “Confidence! Now that’s the mark of a good Navigator!”

I paused, throwing back my hand. “Wait!”

“What?”

I listened. My breathing was even louder in my ears than the sound of the rushing water. “I thought . . .” I paused again. “I thought I heard something.”

“Oh, that.” Kashmir stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Yes, amira. Someone’s following us.”

“Probably Hart,” Slate muttered. “Just keep going. We can’t take a stand here. The money isn’t our business. We only need the map.”

“Dad. Do you honestly think he still plans to give us the map?”

Slate was quiet. “He has to answer to Mr. D,” he said, but he sounded uncertain.

“What a cock-up,” Kashmir said. “I should have gone back to his house and taken the damn thing.”

“On our way down?” Slate said.

“Perhaps,” Kash said. “If we make it down.”

We continued up—the cave would offer more cover in a fight—and mercifully soon, the path widened and leveled, leading us through the twisted trees along a windy ridge. I recognized the ledge up ahead, or at least, I thought I recognized it. Steely in the moonlight and slashed with deeper shadows, everything seen by the light of day was always slightly foreign in the dark.

As we entered the cleft in the rock, I found the torches we’d laid by the opening. I lit one gratefully, throwing light over the pit we’d dug and the shovels we’d used to dig it. I leaned out of the cave then, peering into the dark, but it was even harder to see with the light in my eyes, and the only sound was the soft question of a white owl.

I stabbed the torch into the soft sand in the back of the cave and rubbed the mud from my palms, while Slate flung the bag down by the hole. “You deal with the gold.” Then he drew and cocked his pistol, leaning against the wall at the mouth of the cave, facing the trail. “I’ll wait for Hart.”

“Let’s bury it,” Kashmir said, tossing the bag down by the trench. “Grab a shovel?”

I picked up one of the spades and hefted it. It was reassuringly solid in my hands—but no match for a gun. I peeked over my father’s shoulder and into the dark outside. It might not have been Hart in that second-floor window—it could have been one of the men whose houses he had looted. Yet it had to be him; he would not have left the gold behind unguarded. Of course he would have followed us, but here in the cave, we had the advantage. How had he gotten hold of a rifle? Unless . . .

“Stop!” I whirled around, too late. Kashmir dropped the ties; the leather flap twitched, and out of the bag climbed Mr. Hart.



Hart still wore his hat, but he’d pulled the kerchief down around his neck. He gave us a humorless smile and leveled a revolver at me. His hand was much steadier than his son’s.

Kashmir’s hand had gone to his knife, but he dropped his arm to his side. My father lowered his own gun, and when Hart gestured at me, I threw the shovel aside.

“An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hart,” Slate said.

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain. And ah, the charming dancing instructor is still unscathed.” Kashmir’s jaw clenched. “Do pardon my behavior earlier.” Mr. Hart waved his gun. “The heat of the moment, you understand.”

“That’s all behind us.” Slate held out palm in a placating gesture, the hand holding the gun low against his thigh. “We’re just here to bury the gold, like I said we would. But if you want to change the deal with the league, it’s not my business. My only business is with the map.” Slate paused, but Mr. Hart’s smirk hadn’t budged. Slate’s eyes roved from Hart’s face, down his arm to the gun, to me, and then back to the revolver. He took a shallow breath. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought me the map.”

“No, Captain.” Mr. Hart stepped away from the limp bag. Gold coins rolled away under his feet as he walked toward me. The dark center of the steel barrel was like a black hole, pulling me in. “The map would do you little good anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Slate said.

Mr. Hart’s thin lips hinted at the tips of his white teeth. “Do you know, at the very beginning, I was simply grateful to have my debts forgiven? The others would stand to make their fortunes, while I would barely remain afloat.” He reached down and picked up the bag, laughing in delight.

“I would have offered more if I’d known you needed so much.”

“You don’t know how that woman can spend. Spending is one of two things that make her happy. You may guess the other, sir.” He glanced at Kashmir with eyes as hard as coffin nails. “You, and half the men in their fine houses downtown. She wasn’t always like this. It was living here, on this rock, with these heathens; it has changed her. I blame my brother. He was the first. She couldn’t have made it more obvious, naming the boy after him.”