A/N: I'm sorry to say that there probably won't be an update for the next week as I visit relatives overseas. However, I do have three weeks of free time in January due to the eternally strange schedule of my university...I digress. As long as we can get to the end of the month, updates will only increase in frequency.

The first of several major twists is dropped in this chapter. Read what leads up to it very carefully, and you'll get it before our characters do!

Master of Tides

Chapter Seven

"I'm telling you, he wouldn't stop gushing about this woman from the Temperance. Apparently they spent all night in the hold discussing trading regulation and bartering techniques. If you ask me, that just sounds like a euphemism for some less than appropriate activities-"

William winced and leaned away from his companion; even though he knew George stood a good three feet away as he aired his grievances with Henry, it felt as if he was yelling directly into his ear. After a few tumblers of the heinous concoction known as rumbullion, he had entirely lost touch with his sense of propriety.

Julia had led him to her quarters, where they'd easily gotten carried away in the passion of drink. He'd embraced her and caressed her in a way that he never had with Liza; certainly not, for with his former fiancee, he'd been able to rein in his runaway libido. But that wasn't so with the beguiling lady captain, who'd deftly unwound the closures of his shirt as if she'd done it a thousand times before. Murdoch was taken aback by her boldness. Seeing how his eyes had glazed over at her touch, she'd surged forward and kissed the bridge of his nose.

Something about the tenderness of the gesture shook William out of his lecherous reverie. He insisted they stopped immediately, and she'd complied. But, all the same, he'd stayed the night, and taken immense pleasure in the sensation of a warm body curled around him in the width of the narrow bunk. There were no words exchanged between the two as he left-certainly there was nothing more to say-and they'd traded soft smiles in a manner becoming of a pair that were keen to keep a secret.

He really should have felt guilty, but as he passed Brax on the walkway, his cheeks stained with the rouge of his lady friend, all of that fell to the wayside. Certainly the night had passed with both his and Julia's honor intact, leaving only a pounding headache and incurable nausea in its wake. And that sickness had brought him to the plantation, where he'd suffered in silence for the past few hours, indignant not to make the source of his plight known to his companions. Some habits never truly died, or so it seemed.

Thomas was currently engaged in regaling his host with a falsified story as to how the Arcadia had come into their great riches as a courier vessel. Officially, it was because they did such a fine job of relaying intelligence that their patrons couldn't help but compensate them with their best trinkets. If it was a poor disguise of their true intentions, the patriarch of the family didn't seem to notice. His eyes fairly shone with interest as he examined their fripperies. It quite reminded William of a caricature a cleric might draw as the manifestation of the sin of greed; as the goods passed from one hand to the other, he kept his eyes peeled for any other covetous gestures.

There was a parcel of English tea, a carved music box from the orient, and even a satchel full of fragrant tobacco from the colonies. Florencio was relentless in his pursuit to handle everything. Clearly, he wouldn't be making his purchases until all of his options were laid out on the figurative table.

The three of them had also come on a mission of another kind, one that had been hurriedly hashed out on the hour long hansom ride. Each of them knew their role in this scheme, and were waiting with apprehension for the perfect moment to enact their vision.

After some time, Salma joined them in the garden, her face heavily veiled in the traditional way of mourners. She moved slowly, stately, with a starched handkerchief held in her gloved hands. Even in the infernal heat of the summer, she appeared to respect the memory of her son with a rosary and cameo layered over her dusky gown. The only other licentious pop of color appeared to be her painted lips, which moved ever so slightly as she muttered her greetings to their assembled guests.

If her state of mourning was all a ruse, it was a convincing one. Every few moments she'd let forth a prodigious sniff and dab at her eyes, whimpering with great emotional duress. Her husband fairly ignored this display; he was dressed in a fine silken shirt and breeches that were unbecoming of a man of his situation.

All of a sudden he bent forward to retrieve a carton on the ground. "Sir, this china bears the seal of a Valencian artisan that typically only sells his goods to the order of Spanish nobility. How did you come into possession of this?"

While their normally fearless leader sputtered for an answer, both of his accomplices sprung into action. As a result of the aftereffects of his heavy drinking, William had neglected to ascertain the contents of several boxes before loading them, assuming that it was English glass. It would have been only his responsibility to come to the aid of his colleague, but George beat him to it.

He addressed Salma, who surely was too withdrawn to have paid much attention to their conversation. "Madam, would you mind if I made use of your facilities?"

"Not at all, Mr. Crabtree," she replied, clapping her hands rapidly in succession. To their immense relief, the servant Noemí answered her call, bowing deeply as she stepped into the courtyard. "My girl here will escort you to the lavatory."

"I shall accompany you," William announced rather loudly, shocked at the volume of his own voice. It seemed to only echo in his skull, causing another wave of pain to shoot from his temple lengthwise. He scurried off, avoiding eye contact.

That left only Thomas in the company of the pair. It seemed that Florencio had grown disinterested in his discovery, returning to his wife's side. "If we might have a spot of time on our hands, señor, I thought you might give me an abridged tour of your grand estate."

A raised eyebrow was the only indication that he'd completely butchered the pronunciation of his title. But the gentleman was flattered, and that was all that mattered. "Of course, Captain. If you'll follow me."

-0-

"And she didn't die of a gunshot, but the poor thing was strangled. Imagine that, someone heartless enough to choke the life out of a young child-"

Noemí spoke no English, but George's strained tones and frantic gestures were enough to frighten her. Initially she thought they were still trying to extract information out of her, and she'd refused to speak, fearing for her life. But then they'd shown her the drawing, and her eyes had lit up with recognition and inexplicable calm.

Only a moment later, the cabin boy was being guided through the labyrinthine mansion towards what was presumably the office of Florencio de la Vega. He had to nearly jump and skip to keep up with the servant, as he wasn't used to wearing shoes that pinched his toes inward. William had abandoned him in search of the other household servants, who had scampered away at the first sight of non-Spaniards entering their domain. Whatever tales of the dastardly English the family had indoctrinated them with to ensure their secrecy, they'd been splendidly effective ones.

At last they reached the heavy oaken doors of the patriarch's inner sanctum. Inside, the ceiling was tremendously high and the walls were covered in shelves of books that looked like they'd never been opened. Even the placement of the desk, facing towards the large bay windows overlooking the rows and rows of sugarcane, seemed placed and immensely sterile.

"¿Estás seguro?" He questioned, employing one of the few phrases that the lawman had taught him that he actually remembered. The quills and ink wells even appeared untouched. But the girl only nodded vigorously, and lead him to a drawer whose handle was covered in at least a centimeter of dust.

She mimicked the motions of a pen and paper with her fingers, and pointed once again. "Recordes," Noemí intoned, not knowing how close her cognate was to the word she actually wanted.

It came open in an instant; George seized hold of an immense folder and dropped it onto the desktop, flipping through layers and layers of parchment detailing business transactions. Finally, he reached a list of given names and pulled it from the stack.

He'd come across a rather disorganized list of slave holdings, wherein many names were crossed out and corrected with Christian monikers. To the right was a listed price, as well as their countries of origin. There were names of places he'd only heard in legend, such as Bambouk, Loango, and Guinea. Dozens were grouped together under vague initials, which he supposed represented the dealer that had sold them or the ship that had brought them to their bondage in the colonies. After some searching, he located a familiar name and reached for his companion's hand.

Noemí flinched and stumbled away, as if she'd expected to be struck. Symbolizing he meant no harm, George bowed his head and held his hands to his sides. Once she'd recovered, he gently used her fingertip to trace the rounded letters. "Tu nombre," he explained, and he took inordinate joy in watching a wry grin split her features.

A noise was heard from the corridor, as if someone had dropped something heavy. The two jumped apart and resumed their work, knowing they could be walked in on at any moment. George's legs felt as if they would collapse underneath him; his heart was pounding so heavily he just knew that anyone standing in the room with him could hear it.

Fortunately, there was only one entry that matched a young girl named Luisa. A line had been drawn through the columns for purchase price and nationality, possibly indicating that she had been born on the island. Desperate for more information, George turned the page, and a leaflet slid out from his grasp and onto the floor.

Noemí retrieved it and placed it on top of the stack, pointing at it and then to herself. Her hands clenched together and relaxed multiple times before he finally understood that what he was looking at what a declaration of property. Indeed, many of them had been folded in lengthwise throughout the purchase records.

A date no more than a decade previously had been penciled in with a delicate hand, followed by the familiar name and their location. Curiously, in the position where a married couple's names might have been written, there was only one.

"And just who is Samiha?" He wondered aloud, fluttering through the manuscript until he found the proper entry. Whoever she was, she was from somewhere called Darfur.

All of a sudden, the slave girl began to babble in her native language and fairly tremble with excitement. She took the deed from her hand, pointing to the corner where a second date had been indicated. After Noemí placed a hand to her bosom and feigned to swoon, he caught on.

"That's the dead girl! And I suppose Samiha must be…"

"La dadivosa. Generosa, una mujer muy-"

A second noise, this time closer, was detected, and the two sprung into action. Neither could remember exactly what the desk looked like beforehand, but that didn't matter as long as they were evading capture.

-0-

Meanwhile, Thomas was being treated to an endless tour of the ground level of the home. It seemed that the de la Vegas had countless sitting rooms at their disposal, all of which sported a particularly impressive piece of furniture or painting by some long dead master that could serve as a talking point. He was beginning to grow bored, and dearly wished that George and Murdoch would hurry.

"So, you see, Velázquez had just a few weeks to paint father's portrait before dashing off to complete the depiction of the infanta…"

He supposed that the constant name drops were supposed to make him envious of the man's wealth, but truthfully, it only further enraged him to hear him drivel on about his own good fortune when one of his own slaves had been murdered, perhaps by his own hand.

At last they reached a grand library with an inlaid fireplace. It was filled to the brim with overstuffed chaises and shelves; in the center of it all, a family portrait hung over the doorway. Thomas stepped backwards to behold it. Certainly, for its faithful depiction of the silver hairs encroaching at Florencio's temple, it couldn't have been painted more than a decade ago.

Behind the seated couple on the canvas, a young man stood solemnly, his features entirely devoid of emotion. It finally occurred to Brackenreid where he'd seen similar posture: that blasted charcoal drawing that his charge had taken to carrying around with him. "Was this before or after Mateo joined the service?"

In the past half hour he'd spent in the company of the pair, he'd learned that the ship they'd attacked had been a royal fleet vessel tasked with defending Spanish claims among the islands. Their son had been a part of this armada, and had served for all of six years before his untimely demise.

Florencio clicked his tongue, something he'd noticed that the old man kept a habit. "Mere weeks after. He refused to wear his new uniform for the portrait, for it wasn't his choice to enlist," he responded nonchalantly.

From the opposite end of the room, Salma chastised him sharply in their own language. He supposed it had something to do with speaking ill of the dead. "It's true, querida. If only he hadn't gotten himself into all of that trouble."

Suddenly, they realized they were not alone and would have to hash out their disagreement at a later date. Florencio made a broad gesture towards the open windows and made some excruciatingly trivial observation about their craftsmanship. With this added distraction, Salma slipped past them and into the hallway undetected.

-0-

Sir Murdoch was woefully and undeniably lost.

He'd somehow managed to circle back to his original location, but had chosen a different path and had wound up in the bowels of the entire operation. Towards the posterior of the home, a wizened old woman was set to her work of laundering the family's clothing.

Even though it was hot enough to force sweat to one's brow after mere seconds out of doors, a fire was raging before her. As he watched, she hoisted a bucket of water towards the joists above the assembly, tilting it this way and that to make sure that the licks of flame reached it. Before her stood a flat washboard, which she was using to scrub a rather persistent stain from a shirt. So frail and thin were her arms and legs that William feared she'd snap at any second. Stepping into her domain, he introduced himself as a friend of Noemí and offered his assistance.

The slave eyed him with suspicion and bent to her work once more. Gently, Murdoch knelt to her level and pushed the drawing into her line of vision.

For a fleeting moment, he feared she might snatch it and throw it into the fire. At long last, the dark skinned woman set aside her washing and pointed a bony finger towards the elderly couple standing at the foreground. What came from her mouth was not Spanish or an African language, but two definitively English names.

He stood so fast that he almost fell over, thanked the woman, and dashed back into the home, tripping over the threshold as he went. And that was where Salma found him, some distance from any of the house's lavatories, leaning up against an end table and gasping for breath.

"Are you lost, sir?" Her voice relayed nothing but unmitigated suspicion.

"No, señora, I'm looking for you," he answered, hoping that it would be the correct answer.

-0-

No more than fifteen minutes later, the enterprising trio had found themselves on the opposite side of the front door. The family didn't take too kindly to pragmatists or those that overstepped their boundaries, so they would not be making a transaction today. In fact, they were disinvited from ever returning again.

"I think I might have discerned our next move," George was the first to speak once they were a safe distance away from the home. "I have seen the property certificate of the deceased girl, and a date which places her death around three months ago. Her mother was a woman named Samiha. She's our dadivosa, for her very name means generous in the native language of some of the slaves."

"Bollocks to that. I was told right out that Mateo wasn't sent away on his own accord, but was fairly banished from his estate for poor behavior. Perhaps that's the clue we should be chasing," Brax asserted, starting to load their unsold cargo back into the hansom.

"One of the servants identified the two other slaves in the picture as Abraham and Sarah. Those are their Christian names, of course, but we ought to pay a visit to the field houses to locate them," William said, adamant that his course of action be taken.

George suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and seized Murdoch's shoulders. "Do you remember me speaking of Henry's lady friend earlier, sir?"

Of course he did, over the sensation of his pounding headache. He nodded, hoping he'd soon be released from the ungainly personal contact.

"I never did mention her name because it didn't strike me as important at the time, but this requires that we return to San Juan with all haste."

The young man was enjoying having people so hooked on his words, but Thomas was having none of it. "Bloody hell, come out with it!"

He released William suddenly. "I suppose I needn't ask if you remember the story of the biblical Rebecca?"

The lawman's features grew pale as realization struck him. Ignoring his prior inhibitions, he climbed into the carriage after the rest of his companions and bade the driver to rush.

(to be continued)