Chapter 93: A Talk With The British Agent

Francisco looked at the woman and sighed. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

She smiled, the expression practiced and cold. “Good. I must reach Hanover, and since you all know my identity, I can’t risk letting you go free. Stay at an inn under my men’s supervision for—let’s say—two or three months. After that, my guards will release you.”

Francisco frowned. “I can’t. I’m going to Hanover to study.”

Her brow rose. “Hanover? You’re going to study there?” Surprise softened her arrogance.

Francisco nodded. “Yes. Though I’m surprised you didn’t already know.”

She hummed, eyes drifting toward the window as if chasing another thought. “The viceroy must have forgotten to mention it.” Turning back, she studied him with faint amusement. “Tell me—will you buy your way into the university, then?”

Francisco glanced round the cramped captain’s office and spotted a low sofa. He sank onto it. The stale smell of ink and tar pressed at his throat. “That depends on whether the man I call grandfather really is my grandfather.”

She watched him settle in with casual ease, gauging just how bold the youth dared to be. Beside him, Carlos stood still, face calm but fists tightening at his sides — nerves betrayed by the smallest motion.

“What do you mean, ’depends’?” she asked.

Francisco told the brief, thorny tale of his grandfather. She brightened, then composed herself. “Very well. New plan: pretend you’re detained here tonight. Tomorrow you come aboard; we sail to Hanover together. Under our escort, your father won’t dare expose me.”

Carlos’s jaw clenched. The woman was, plainly, taking his son hostage for the voyage. He looked at Francisco; if Francisco resisted, Carlos could drag him back to Antioquia and wait another year.

Francisco, however, was not his father. He met the woman’s gaze. “Fine — but you’ll have to disguise yourself as Catalina, my fiancé, in men’s clothes. Your guards will pass as crewmen. That way you’ll be safer, and you must obey Ramiro—no trouble.”

She grinned. “Fiancé?” Her eyes flicked toward a slender, quiet boy shadowing Carlos, and she blinked. “I thought he was a family servant—so she’s hiding as a man.” She pressed her fingers to her temple in mock frustration. How had she not thought of that herself?

If she had, perhaps these two—father and son—would never have uncovered her secret.

Francisco said nothing. Inside, his opinion of the Crown agent’s cleverness quietly lowered.

He rose, extended his hand. She took it without hesitation.

“It’s a deal,” they said together.

Outside the captain’s office the soldiers marched Ramiro, Carlos, and Francisco toward the inn in theatrical custody. The Spanish guards, seeing the viceroy’s sealed letter, nodded without prying and dispersed. Whispers sprouted on the quay like mold.

“I heard they found smuggled goods,” one sailor told his mate.

“Rubbish,” scoffed another. “Those who took him weren’t soldiers—more like private guards. And the woman? Beautiful. I heard he was to marry her, but he fell for someone else and fled.” He spat into the dust.

Rumor bloomed, maddening and false, each telling more extravagant than the last.

Far from the quay, an aide to the viceroy listened, his expression unreadable. He was not the sort betraying Spain. He had, in fact, deliberately sent the agent aboard the very ship Francisco was to take—intending to force them together so they might perish at sea and blame France. If the mission succeeded, the viceroy could stoke outrage and declare French aggression.

He leaned close to a soldier and asked quietly, “What exactly happened?”

The soldier gave an account that made the aide frown and then let out a slow, bitter sigh. “It seems it didn’t work. I must warn the viceroy. It’s too risky to kill her alone.”

He turned and walked toward Cartagena.

He did not see the shadow that peeled away from a nearby alley and follow him—did not see the narrow-eyed figure who watched his back until the aide disappeared into the market. The watcher’s jaw tightened. Whatever the aide planned, someone else had noticed.

They settled into a low-ceilinged room at the inn. The air was warm and heavy with the smell of stew, spilled ale, and damp wool. A single guttering candle threw the faces in soft, uncertain relief.

“So tell me, boy,” the woman said, leaning back as if she owned the chair, “why Hanover? Leave Spain aside — the French have excellent universities, and they teach some of that pagan learning the priests denounce.”

Francisco let out a short laugh. “I have German blood. My mother taught me some of the language, so I can manage in Hanover. I never learned French, so I’d be lost there.”

She nodded. “And who did you say your supposed grandfather is?”

Francisco hesitated, then decided that as an agent she might have heard of the man and that the name could clear something up. “His name is Johan Friedrich Kuger. He was a general under the King of Prussia. I don’t know who sits the throne now.”

She thought for a moment, then her eyes brightened. “Kuger — yes. A commoner who rose under Frederick the Great. I’ve heard the story of his tragedy: a daughter nearly lost to famine, yet it seems she escaped to New Granada. Lucky for him, she lived.”

Francisco exhaled. “So he’s real, after all.”

“Real,” she said. “Though I heard he resigned his command months ago and retired to Hanover. If what you tell me is true, he may be expecting you there.”

“Resigned?” Francisco’s brow lifted. “Is he planning on coming to the New World?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know—perhaps. As far as I know, he never remarried and spent his life in service to Prussia. The new king doesn’t look kindly on commoner-born generals and officers, so he’s been pressing them in all sorts of ways.”

“Why would a king distrust a proven general?” Francisco asked.

She gave a short, sharp laugh. “You don’t know much about politics. I wouldn’t advise you to seek military office in Europe.”

Carlos snorted. “She makes it sound worse than it is.”

Her gaze hardened on Carlos. “Not everyone enjoys a duke’s protection. Bastard or not, you still bear noble blood and the shelter of a great house. Francisco’s other grandfather was a commoner. The new Prussian king favors his nobles; even if he admired a man like Kuger, he would never dare to show it.”

Carlos fell silent. He knew she was right: his own hardships were cushioned by his father’s standing.

“Are Europeans so blind to talent that they discard it for rank?” Francisco asked, more curious than angry.

She smiled, pity softening the edges of her lips. “There is talent in Europe, yes—but it’s the same as in Spain with its rigid castes. A mestizo in the colonies—or a commoner in Europe—” she glanced toward Catalina across the room “—may achieve something brilliant, yet the Spanish authorities and criollos, like the European nobility and royalty, will reject it or pretend it never happened. They prefer the illusion of order.”

Francisco sighed. “Politics is a plague.”

She rose, gathering herself with the calm of someone accustomed to giving orders. “Be ready tonight. You must reach the port without drawing attention.” She turned to Carlos. “You should not go out for at least a week. My men will keep up the pretense that you and Francisco are detained here, so no interested party suspects he will be traveling with me.”

She left with the same effortless grace she had used to issue commands. The innkeeper bolted the door after them; the lock clicked like a distant verdict. Outside, the muffled noise of the quay slid past the wooden shutters: laughter, a shouted bargain, the scrape of a cart.

They were alone in the candlelit room. The sound of the lock reverberated in their bones.

“No one’s going to believe this will be simple,” Carlos muttered.

Francisco watched the street through the shutters for a long, flat moment, then turned and sat in the gloom. The candle guttered once, twice, and went on.

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