Grantville
August 1635
"Grantville."
It was a strange name to Mohamed Amine Radi's ear, and as outlandish as the stories told of these foreigners. Yet at the moment, Radi struggled more to fathom the order and cleanliness of the mysterious Americans' incredible city. Even the roads were impossibly smooth, almost as if the entire city was paved with slabs of cut granite.
Beth Van Haarlem, his translator, pulled him from his bemused reverie. "I am sorry, Vizier. What did you say?"
She enunciated her Arabic well despite a heavy Dutch accent, addressing him as she always did by his Diwan honorific. Radi hadn't realized he'd spoken loud enough for her to hear him.
"This town," Radi gestured inclusively at the long, straight lines and crisp angles of the streets and buildings. "It is a wonder. I hope it might become a model for Sallee."
Van Haarlem's pale blue eyes were more rounded than usual, and her head turned constantly to take in the peculiar sights of Grantville and its people. In that one regard, he supposed that the woman looked much as he did. Yet at his mention of Sallee and the republic he helped govern, her eyes narrowed and she turned her attention away from the oddly dressed people around them.
"Sallee," she said, "is a port town. She will always turn her face to the sea."
"Even so. But given time, the Diwan—under the guidance of the Qaid—can create such marvels as these. Finally, we will visit the libraries of Grantville, and you will read for me what the future holds for Sallee."
"What future do you hope to find here, Vizier?"
She had asked him this. Many times in fact, on the ship north from Sallee and during the trip from Hamburg. Radi didn't dare tell her that fear drove him to seek the nearly mystical knowledge rumored to live in Grantville. Neither he, nor the other Andalusian viziers, would give voice to those fears, lest word get back to their Moriscos counterparts in the Diwan. To speak openly of fear would reveal weakness, possibly inviting a return to open bloodshed in Sallee.
No, Radi chose to keep that concern to himself. He replied instead with generalities that had grown comfortable as an answer to her recurring question. "If these Americans truly possess a book that contains the future of all countries, I want that I should know the path of Sallee."
"So that you might rise from the Diwan to rule as Qaid?"
An impertinent question from an employee, and a woman at that. Far more bold than any asked during their travels. She surprised him at the oddest times with small insights into the machinations of the corsair republic. It endeared her to him, but perhaps he indulged her too much.
"The Diwan will endure." Radi was cross, and he let it show in his voice. "A year has passed with no word of the tyrant Janszoon, nearly two since he set foot in Sallee. His Rovers are the tool of the Diwan now."
"How quickly you forget that you and your fellow Diwan were also pirates before turning politician."
She dared to compare him to the barbarous Dutchman, Janszoon. Radi opened his mouth to spit something venomous, when a sputtering roar like a hundred rigging lines snapped in rapid succession sounded from behind him. He spun, pulling a thin and wickedly curved knife from his belt. He had an arm out, moving his translator to safety behind him when a nightmare machine rounded a corner of the strangely smooth streets.
A man sat astride the machine. His arms were brown from the sun, and his legs were bare below the knee. Upon his head, slick and black like the carapace of some enormous beetle, was a helmet. Where Radi expected to see a face was instead an eyeless, mirror-like visor.
Noise from the thing slapped at his ears. It was like cannon fire, but ceaseless with each blast coming more quickly than the last. The machine screamed toward him, and Radi stood transfixed in the center of the road. He stared, unable to pull his eyes away from the faceless rider on the wheeled machine.
Then Radi was moving, pulled from behind and nearly lifted from his feet. He tore his eyes from the man on the thundering machine and stumbled into Van Haarlem. She was a sturdy woman, but even still her strength surprised him. He dropped the knife lest one of them get cut, grabbing hold of her waist to keep them from tumbling to the ground in a heap.
By the time they had righted themselves the machine was gone. A lean woman with close-fitting pants and a man's work shirt hurried toward them. She was speaking quickly and extended a hand to steady them.
"What is she saying?" Radi asked.
Van Haarlem's blonde brows drew down in a concentrated furrow as she listened to a torrent of foreign words from the Grantville woman.
"She is speaking in English, but very quickly. She says she has told the boy once. She has told the boy a thousand times. Not to ride," she hesitated, "the thing so fast in the town."
Van Haarlem's blue-eyed gaze drifted downward and his eyes followed their path to where his arm still encircled her waist. He straightened then, quickly pulling away from her. He rubbed his palms against his camir and suddenly it seemed much warmer near the buildings than it had been out in the street.
The Grantville woman stooped to retrieve Radi's fallen knife. She offered it to him hilt first with a wide, reassuring grin and a series of encouraging nods. Radi returned the weapon to the sheath at his waist and composed himself.
"Thank you, Dame van Haarlem." She acknowledged his gratitude with a quick nod but did not speak. "Ask this woman if she can lead us to the library. I fear we'll never find it if left to ourselves."
While the two women spoke, Radi listened for familiar words. His Dutch was poor and his English was contextually constrained to the taking of slaves and ships. Still, he gathered that the woman's name was Samantha Collins, and she appeared willing to help them.
"We are in luck," Van Haarlem said turning back to him. "This is Miss Collins and she can guide us through the city. She knows the books you wish to see."
Collins escorted them to the library while concern for the fate of Sallee vied with Radi's examination of the city. Once inside, the Grantville woman led them to a small table burdened with books.
The stacks were under the serious scrutiny of a slight young woman, chewing the tortured end of an equally slender pencil. Miss Collins introduced her as Christine Onofrio, and Radi waited as Van Haarlem proclaimed his name and titles.
"Miss Onofrio is a researcher," Van Haarlem said. "Miss Collins will show you to a place where we might work at our leisure. I will gather the books and bring them to you, yes?"
He agreed, although it was discomforting that he should now rely so completely on Dame van Haarlem's support. He wished to thank the Collins woman before dismissing her, but the Grantville women made him uncomfortable with the quickness of their speech.
To misspeak would be an embarrassment and so he took a seat. In a moment, Collins was gone.
It was cool despite the summer heat, and the table where he waited was sturdy and smooth to the touch. The chairs, while precariously lightweight, supported him quite comfortably. He could hear the two women talking softly beyond his sight. He'd never had much need for books, and they stood on shelves with their backs to him.
Radi shifted in his chair, wondering if Janszoon's son Cornelius might have waited in the very same room. With luck and the blessing of Allah, the boy had not survived his journey to Grantville. His father had been kind enough to disappear at sea; perhaps the boy would follow suit.
The moments stretched long and he wondered what kept the women so deeply engaged in conversation. He was gathering himself to fetch Van Haarlem when she approached and joined him at the table. She was alone and carried several red-bound tomes under a stack of loose papers.
"That woman is a treasure of information." Her eyes were once again wide with wonder, and they sparkled with something else—anticipation, perhaps, or excitement.
Radi remembered where his hand had rested and the feel of her hip under her kaftan. Perhaps his quest to learn the future of Sallee was infectious, or maybe Dame van Haarlem believed that he might one day soon rule the republic as Qaid.
"This is an encyclopedia." She set the books on the table, and he rose while she seated herself. The books were embossed in gold with familiar letters in undecipherable arrangements. "They're actually part of a larger set, and the pages are copies from other books. Where should we begin?"
It was now her excitement that infected him. Radi felt his face stretch in a grin, and together they dove into the story of the Republic of Sallee. Van Haarlem would read silently for long stretches before sharing bits of information with him. He watched over her shoulder, looking at drawings of unknown men and, curiously, maps of Malta and Algiers.
Most Barbary sailors spoke several languages, but it was a curiosity that Van Haarlem, a Dutchwoman so recently arrived to Sallee, could also read in English. He took notes when she spoke and questioned her about her skill with language when she grew too quiet while reading.
"I have a wealthy brother in New Amsterdam," she said. "I lived with him for a time before coming to Sallee."
"Why did you not return home?" he asked. "Or stay with your family in the Americas?" Why Sallee, Radi wondered. And would she wish to stay should he rise to rule the republic?
Van Haarlem turned from her reading to consider him. He didn't know why she hesitated to answer, but she gave the matter a long moment of thought before responding.
"I was in the Americas much longer than I intended to stay," she said, her eyes returning to the tiny letters in the encyclopedia. "I was there to meet my brother Anthony, but I was looking for my father."
"To 'meet' your brother?" It was curious that she should have a sibling and yet not know him. Perhaps there was a significant age difference between them.
"I was there to see him," she said quickly. "I am sorry, it is difficult to translate English to Dutch in my head while speaking to you in Arabic."
Radi imagined that must be true. He quieted himself, allowing her to read. The room smelled dry; he'd have thought that a room full of books should smell thick and musty. Perhaps it was because they were so far from the coast. He poked at one of the red-covered volumes with his finger.
"Did you find him?"
Van Haarlem started, sitting up and away from the book. She looked concerned or even guilty.
"I am sorry," he said. "I was asking about your father. Did you find him?"
"Oh." She turned to the book once again. "Not yet. I will, though. I am a patient woman."
"Did he leave you?"
She answered the question with a wry grin. "Constantly. He is a sailing man."
Then her grin faded.
"What is it?" He leaned forward to peer at her book, the words as unintelligible as ever. "What have you found?"
"The Republic." She paused. "I have to consider how best to tell you this. Sallee may outlive you, Vizier, but it will not survive the century."
Radi's stomach tightened and he swallowed hard before speaking. "What happens? Do the Moriscos rebel against the Diwan? Does Janszoon return?"
"Janszoon is dead. He was taken near Tunisia and tortured to death by the Knights of Malta at Fort Saint Angelo."
"What then?"
"I can't make sense of it," she said, "Some names and factions sound familiar but—"
It vexed him to need her assistance deciphering the language. However, a woman's interpretation of the political forces at work in the Republic was both unnecessary and unwelcome.
"Just read it to me," he snapped.
"The 'Alawites who rule Morocco came to power with the help of Arab tribes during the Almohad period. The founder of the dynasty, Mawlay ar-Rashid, mobilized these tribes against the powerful Dila'iyya that had dominated northern Morocco since the 1640s.
"Mawlay succeeded in reunifying Morocco with the help of a professional army recruited from the descendants of the many slaves."
She was quiet for a moment. He felt her eyes on him as what she'd said sank in. He regretted his abrupt and judgmental dismissal. The passage was indeed confusing.
"The Dila'iyya," he mused aloud. "I wonder. Could it refer to Dila?"
"Neither mean anything to me," she said. "Do you think they pose a threat to Sallee?"
"Dila is not a who," he explained, "but a where. It lies south of Fez and through Khenifra. Perhaps my concerns regarding Janszoon's return are misplaced. Should this Mawlay raise an army capable of subduing the Atlas and north to the sea . . ."
Internal politicking he could handle. Even the dreaded return of Janszoon might be managed, but the Americans' books spoke of powers that dominated the whole of North Africa. How would Sallee stand against such forces?
Anger flared, a spike of heat that seared his throat. Radi shoved with both hands, sweeping his notes from the table in front of him. Unsated, he grabbed at the books with clawed fingers ready to tear Sallee's doom from the pages.
His fingers didn't reach their mark. Van Haarlem's hand shot out to stop him. Her fingers were hard on his wrist. He jerked, pulling his hand away from her, and she held him there for a moment before releasing her grip.
Her voice was quiet, pitched low and soft. "I think we should leave this place, Vizier."
He rubbed at his wrist where she had held him. He swallowed again and then looked around him to see if Christine Onofrio or another resident from this strange city had seen him. Thankfully, they were still alone.
"Wait here a moment while I return the books." She said it like a question, and he nodded, not meeting her gaze.
He heard her moving around the library and wondered what he would do. Could he rally the Moriscos to support him? Even if all of Sallee and their corsairs along the Barbary Coast rallied against a common enemy, could they fend off an army fated to dominate all of Morocco?
Perhaps better to join the winning side now.
Van Haarlem returned, and he heard her gathering the writing supplies that he'd thrown to the floor. When he felt her presence at his shoulder, he rose and together they left the library. The peculiar city and its foreign townsfolk weren't the inspiring distraction they had been just a few short hours ago. He'd dreamed of elevating Sallee from the riverbank muck of the Bou Regreg to emulate the pristine wonder of Grantville. Now . . . now he had to find a way to subvert the republic's doom.
He was silent when they left the town. Their coachmen, surprised by an early return, were unprepared. Radi left them to Van Haarlem and sat for a time until they boarded to rattle their way back toward Hamburg and a slow ship south to home.
They set camp some hours later at a tributary flowing south to the Rottenbach. Radi did not join Van Haarlem and the men as he normally would.
Their mood was jovial, a general sense of completion and excitement for returning home. It was a mood that did not suit Radi's thoughts. Though she concealed it when she noticed him watching her, and despite sharing his knowledge of what would befall his beloved republic, Dame van Haarlem seemed to share in the men's high spirits.
Later, when the camp chores were complete, and the men retired to their tents to share lies or throw dice, she approached him where he sat.
"Walk with me?" As was her way, she said it like a question.
Radi rose, and together they moved away from the camp. She led him to a place where the river bent and followed along the shore until they were well out of sight from the camp.
A large stone was there. Grass grew soft and thick around the base and dark lichen climbed the sides. He watched her gather the fabric of her kaftan and sit upon the stone. After a moment, she patted the empty space beside her. Radi sat. He left a small space between them, hoping it large enough to be proper. His breath was coming faster, and it wasn't from the walk.
The river was shallow there, churned to white froth by nearly submerged rocks. The water tumbled loud enough that they would need to put their heads together to speak. The men from the camp would not hear them. Should nature call, they would not find them.
Radi sat beside Beth van Haarlem and watched the sky darken while the river played with smooth, round stones. He pulled his gaze down to the woman beside him, her hands resting in her lap. Her fingers trembled, although if the motion was a reaction to the cool evening air or from anticipation or excitement, he could not be sure.
"What will you do?" she asked.
He leaned closer to her to respond and their shoulders touched. "I had thought to wait until morning before announcing my intention, but my mind is set. You may as well know now.
"I will travel to Dila to see for myself if there is a Berber tribe with expansionist designs on the north. I will seek out this Mawlay to attest with my own eyes the foretelling of his conquering army.
"Then, should the Diwan support me, I will ally Sallee with whatever force is stronger. If Sallee may not be free, I would at least spare her from the coming conflict."
Her pale hands trembled again. He covered one of hers with his own. "You could come with me," he offered.
"That won't be possible," she said.
"You are frightened."
"No."
"Why then do you tremble?"
"Because, Mohamed Amine Radi," she said, and he met her eyes when she said his name. She turned her hand underneath his. Her fingers parted slightly and, with a gentle pressure, he twined his fingers through hers. She curled her fingers around his hand as she continued. "I lied to you in the library."
"Lied?"
Pulling his mind back from the warmth of her hand, Radi struggled to focus on the republic and the doom she had revealed to him. "Does Sallee not fall to the unification of Morocco?"
"Oh no," she said, "that was all true. Or at least, it is what I found in the Americans' books."
"What then?"
"It was not my brother that I visited in New Amsterdam," she said.
Radi sighed inwardly. She had taken a lover in the Americas. Now, as they grew close, she felt ashamed. His wish for her was to feel no regret for past passions. He thought to tell her as much, but she continued before he could speak.
"Anthony van Sallee is my half-brother. His mother is a Moorish woman from Cartagena."
Radi loosed his fingers as if her hand would sear the flesh from him. She held him fast. He met her eyes. They shone like the brilliant blue of sea ice in the gathering gloom.
"I think you know which parent Anthony and I share."
"Janszoon," he whispered.
"You were not the first to ask the Americans for books about Sallee," she said. "Another came before you."
Janszoon's brat. So Cornelius reached Grantville after all. Van Haarlem must have read in his face that he knew of whom she spoke.
"Word arrived while Cornelius stayed in Grantville. Jan Janszoon is yet alive and in the clutches of the Maltese and their dungeons. And finally I know where my father is."
"Sallee is free of Janszoon."
"You and your Diwan did not liberate Sallee from my father's corsairs," she said. "You have but been keeping her safe for us."
He struck her then.
It was an awkward blow, seated as they were and with her holding one hand captive. She hunched, turning into the blow and taking it on her shoulder. He surged back, hoping to catch her off guard and pull free, but her damnable grip was like leather, wrapped wet and left to dry around his hand.
Beth spun toward him. She scissored her legs up and around him despite her kaftan. Together they toppled to the damp grass.
Radi lay on his back atop her with one arm pinned tightly across his chest. He swung his legs, attempting to roll free and saw her heels cross, locking around his waist in a crushing embrace.
"There has always been a Janszoon in Sallee," she whispered into his ear. He felt her tugging at his belt with her free hand. "Should armies come, they will find Sallee ready."
"Beth," Radi struggled to squeeze words from his chest. She was crushing the life from him. "Please . . ."
"I am Lysbeth Janszoon van Haarlem, and I will see my father freed from those bastard knights in Malta. If I must raze Fort Saint Angelo to its foundation with every corsair on the sea, I swear it will be done."
Radi felt a sharp pinch in his left side. He pulled in a breath to call for the men in the camp. No sound came when he tried to scream, and he looked down to where her free hand moved at his waist. It took a moment for his mind to piece together what he was seeing.
Only when he realized the blade of his knife was halfway into him did he feel any pain. Then Mohamed Amine Radi felt a firm pressure against his ribs. The blade disappeared from view, and Lysbeth Janszoon twisted the handle.