“Then why don’t we share it?” Mr. Hart asked again.
“One cannot be too careful,” Mr. D said, not a bit ashamed that he was speaking out of both sides of his mouth at once.
Beside me, Slate shifted, impatient, but I put my hand on his arm. Of course their names did not matter—Slate would not risk the map in an attempt to blackmail the men, but I hoped they did not know how completely they had him in thrall. After all, if they did, we would be in no position to bargain.
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage,” quoted the youngest man, his brown eyes shining, but he tempered faith with prudence: “I am . . . Mr. T.”
“And I’m Mr. D,” said the squirrelly one.
“I’ve been introduced as Mr. D,” Mr. D said.
“Then . . . call me Mr. M.”
“Call him Milly, we all do,” said Mr. Hart.
“Sir!”
“Can we move on?” Slate interrupted.
“Yes, let’s,” said Milly. “I am a very busy man.” Having drained his champagne, he unstoppered the cut crystal decanter and filled his glass. The sharp smell of brandy tickled my nose.
“First things first,” Mr. D said. “Mr. Hart. The map.”
Mr. Hart drew out the red satin ribbon and flipped open the portfolio. Slate crowded close and pulled me alongside him. He held his breath as he studied the map. He held my wrist too. Would he dare try to Navigate here and now? Was it even possible? Could he call up the fog in a stuffy room? I twisted my arm a bit; he wouldn’t let go. I clutched the edge of the desk with my other hand.
The map was a sketch, really, without much by way of topographical elevation or contour, but the coastline was fairly accurate and the roads of downtown were inked in, along with, clearly marked, what appeared to be every saloon, brothel, and opium den in town. I saw it then: Hapai Hale. Pregnant House. Quaint, indeed. That was where my mother was supposed to be.
The ink was dry and faded, and the paper smelled old. I released the wood of the desk and stretched out my hand; I didn’t touch the page, but I was close enough to feel the heat of my palm trapped between my skin and the paper.
I drew my hand back. “The maker was your brother?”
Mr. Hart’s eyes jerked toward me. “He was.”
“And . . . he frequented these places? He knew them well?”
His thin mouth twisted. “Yes. Yes, he did. He had an artist’s temperament and was familiar with much he would better have left alone.”
Milly snickered, and Mr. Hart blinked rapidly. It may have been a trick of the firelight, but for the barest instant, his eyes seemed filled with pure rage.
But the captain chuckled. “Hart. Blake, yes. I remember the man.” Was he remembering old days—old friends? “He died?”
“He drowned,” Mr. Hart said. His eyes flickered over to Mr. D, who did not exchange his glance.
“A tragic accident,” Mr. D added simply.
The sweat shone on Mr. Hart’s brow. My own eyes narrowed. On the surface, this map didn’t seem like a fake, no matter how much I had hoped otherwise. But why was Mr. Hart so nervous? Was I being overcautious? After all, he was hosting traitors in his home. I scanned the map again. There was nothing I could hang a doubt on, at any rate, if I’d been inclined to lie.
I nodded, grudgingly; the captain relaxed, taking a deep breath through his teeth. He released my arm, and we both stood back.
“I should very much like to . . . to come to an arrangement for this map,” the captain said.
There were sighs of relief, and tight smiles behind beards, but Mr. D was still gazing at Slate intently. “So we are agreed on the terms?”
But Slate hesitated, glancing at me, then back to Mr. D. “Actually, gentlemen, now we’re together—all together, here—and before we get into a dangerous situation, I want to . . . to extend to you a counteroffer.”
My eyes cut to the captain. A counteroffer? He hadn’t mentioned that to me. But when his words sank in, Mr. Hart flipped the portfolio closed and put his hand to his waist; under his jacket, did I see the glint of a metal barrel? “I am already in a dangerous situation, sir!”
“Now, now,” Mr. D murmured, but Mr. Hart ignored him.
“You are in my home, you know my name! I hope you can appreciate the delicate position I am in!”
The captain held up his hand. “I appreciate it, sure. And my offer is a lot safer. The map for a million dollars of my own money.”
Mr. D’s nostrils flared, and his voice was colder than the champagne. “I believe we already discussed this, sir.”
“You and I did. But we didn’t,” Slate said, gesturing to the other men. Their faces went as still and pale as wax; they must have been mirrors of my own.
I saw the question in their eyes—how did a ship’s captain attain such wealth? But I knew better. He hadn’t had more than a few hundred in the bank.