That late on a Monday night, the streets would be quiet. Once ashore, Slate and Kashmir would lead the column of warriors to the treasury at Ali’iolani Hale. I had taught the general the simple one, two, one-and-two rhythm on the ceremonial ipu drum, and the army would be carrying their lighted torches, doing their best imitation of the Night Marchers. Kashmir would even be blowing a conch shell as best he could; so far he’d managed less of a haunting call from beyond the grave than the squashed blat of a disappointed goat, but hopefully it would be enough to cause the members of the Royal Hawaiian Guard to throw themselves on the ground and cover their eyes, where they would be easily tied.
None of us wanted bloodshed—as Sun Tsu had said, the supreme art of war was to subdue the enemy without fighting. But if the ruse didn’t work, the warriors still had their swords. I had impressed upon the general not to harm a living person, except to protect Slate or Kashmir.
Once at the treasury, Kashmir would open the vault, and the gold would be loaded into the bottomless bag. As soon as the vault was cleared out, Mr. Hart would hand over the map and leave, able to confirm to the others that the job was done, and Slate and Kash would bring the bag to Nu’uanu to bury the money. When the treasure was hidden, they would return to the 54 and sail to Hana’uma Bay to meet the Temptation and leave this place behind for good.
Rotgut would be guarding the junk while it was docked in the harbor, standing watch at the helm with a contingent of warriors in case any of the Royal Hawaiian Guard escaped. “And my job?” I asked Slate as the lights of Honolulu came into view.
“You’re staying behind.”
“What?”
“This isn’t one of your myths, Nixie,” Slate said, checking the revolver he’d borrowed from Bee. He wore half gloves, hiding the tattoos on his hands. “We don’t know what might happen. I won’t have you getting hurt.”
“You said there wasn’t going to be any fighting.”
“I said we weren’t going to attack anyone. Just because we don’t start a fight doesn’t mean they won’t fight back!”
“We’ve got fifty soldiers—”
“You wouldn’t be coming if we had armored trucks!”
“You normally let me do all kinds of dangerous things.”
He clenched his jaw. “I know. I’ve been regretting that since the tomb.”
As the memory of the dead artisan resurfaced, suddenly my protests caught in my throat.
Kashmir led me away. “Don’t worry so much, amira. We’ll be fine.”
I took his arms in my hands, gripping so tight the muscles slipped under his skin like fish. “I just—” He had darkened the area around his eyes and under his cheekbones with soot to obscure his features. I suppressed a shudder. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
He grinned and put a gentle hand on the back of my neck, pulling my forehead to his. I followed his gaze down through the gap at the front of his shirt; underneath his white button-up, he wore a Kevlar vest.
I pulled free. “I didn’t know we had those.”
“Just the one. The captain insisted I take it,” he added when my face fell.
“Did he?” I looked back at my father, who turned away quickly, as though he hadn’t been watching us.
Kashmir brushed my forehead with a gentle hand; a smear of soot had found its way from his skin to mine. “Don’t worry. I’ll throw my worthless carcass in front of him should anything happen.”
“Kashmir—”
“Stop, or you’ll make me nervous. You can do us both a bit of good if you would trust me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I do.” I stared into his granite-green eyes. “I do.” He touched my chin with his thumb.
And so it was, as night fell and the Alameda steamed east toward America, the 54 slid toward her spot in the harbor. The harbormaster was tied safely belowdecks; he’d given in without a fight when he came face-to-mustache with Bee’s revolver.
As Slate and Kashmir led the warriors in two solid columns onto the dock, sailors and fishermen fled the wharf, but from the shadows, a single man approached, wearing a battered hat pulled low and a kerchief knotted around his face. Mr. Hart had come after all.
Slate and Hart stood before each other, but neither reached out to shake the other’s hand, and for a moment, all was still and quiet as a hundred red eyes glowed like embers in the night. Then Kashmir blew the conch, and the low, hollow wail of the empty shell floated over the bay like a lost soul. He had been practicing.
The general began to beat the ipu in the rhythm he’d learned—one, two, one-and-two—and the men marched away into the darkened streets of Honolulu, leaving me behind, sitting against the bulwark, guarding the ship with Rotgut and a small contingent of terra-cotta men.
An hour passed, or more, the stars wheeling overhead. Once the sound of marching feet had faded, a hush fell over the town, especially near the harbor. News must have spread, and all of the townspeople were huddled in their beds—the locals out of fear, the foreigners out of indifference. Every so often, the faint sounds of the harbormaster struggling against his bonds would drift up from the hold—less frequently as the man exhausted himself.