My Word is My Bond
It was almost ironic. Back in the beginning, learning to spell had seemed a kind of absurd joke. Felipe had only learned a few of his letters before he'd lost his hearing, and without spoken words to link sound and symbol, spelling had only been endless rounds of rote memorization.
Perhaps overcoming tedium was a skill one could learn, because Felipe was by far a better compositor than either Diego or Pedro: Pedro had to watch his fingers and Diego tended to daydream.
This was not to say that typesetting wasn't usually a little boring. The current story--a wildly inaccurate account of the arrest of the infamous Esteban Brothers by the stalwart lancers--was much less interesting than the truth. It was even less interesting than the list of people late on their taxes that de Soto had ordered Diego to include on page 3.
Felipe hesitated only a moment. Then he swept out the last three sentences and began again. In ten minutes he was finished with the page. He nudged Pedro and nodded toward the plate. Pedro frowned down at it for a moment; although he read backwards quickly, it took a moment to reach Felipe's changes. When his head snapped up in shock, Felipe motioned him to silence, took the plate over to the press and ran a test sheet for Diego.
Pedro studiously bent over his own plate as Felipe handed the paper over. Diego put aside the editorial he was working on and read over the proof, nodding slowly. The only sign that he had reached Felipe's 'improvement' was a slight choking sound. After another minute, Diego cleared his throat and read aloud: "After a brief discussion of the weather, the Brothers Esteban walked out of the tavern and politely surrendered. According to one witness account, "It was clearly because the alcalde is so ugly. He has a large nose, beedy eyes,' you have misspelled beady, Felipe, 'and his ears stick out. Also, his hair is prematurely grey, which makes him look old.' Felipe, I am astonished at you! Still making spelling errors."
Pedro fell over laughing, nearly taking a tray of capital letters with him.
"Not me," Felipe gestured, slapping his chest with both hands. "The error was in your original."
"Stop making excuses and get to work. Fix the page and set it up for the usual run."
Felipe pulled the plate and glanced at Diego out of the corner of his eye. How far would he take it? Surely, he wouldn't let Felipe actually print this?
Diego appeared to have gone back to his work on the editorial.
Felipe slapped the table. "You're bluffing," he signed, when Diego looked up.
Diego began to laugh. The only reason he didn't join Pedro on the floor was that he was already sitting down. "Yes, I'm kidding. I have no desire to see us all hung for libel."
"It's not libel if it's true," Pedro muttered. This was one of Diego's favorite sayings in the newspaper office.
"Ugly is a matter of opinion, not a verifiable fact. And in any case, libel would probably take a back seat to sedition." Still chuckling, he took the proof from Felipe and tore it into a dozen pieces. "The mail should be in by now. I should go see if the ink arrived. I don't suppose you'd mind putting aside your career in comedic fiction and set the page as I wrote it?"
Felipe grinned and nodded.
Reversing the process of putting the type in place, Felipe cleared the altered text and reset the plate with the story Diego had written. He was only about a fourth finished when he heard the muffled sound of yelling somewhere outside. He ignored it. Whatever the excitement was, it couldn't be Zorro, and Felipe wasn't supposed to hear it anyway.
A terrified scream, muted by the thick adobe walls, sounded outside, and Pedro grabbed Felipe by the arm and hauled him out into the narrow hallway. The little room Diego rented for the press was at the back of the tailor's shop, and Pedro was heading for the front where they could see the plaza from the window.
The window was taken up by a group of customers and the shop's owner was blocking the door, so it was a moment before Felipe could wiggle around and get a look himself. He saw people running, and an upended cart...and then he saw a huge bull charging past the fountain.
Felipe wondered if page three would do for this, or if he'd have to reset page two.
The bull narrowly missed an old man who was scrambling out of the way and changed direction, still running wildly. Felipe reached past Senor Vasquez, the shop owner, and grabbed the arm of a young woman standing outside, yanking her into the shop. If anyone else had been within reach, he'd have caught them, too.
The bull charged a vaquero and tossed him high in the air. "My God!" Senor Vasquez murmured, crossing himself.
Diego stepped in front of the bull. He was armed with a broom. The bull didn't stop. Diego stepped neatly out of the way, clouting the animal across the skull as it passed him. Stumbling more from rage than from pain, surely, the beast turned around--away from a fruit cart and a pottery stall--twisting its head, trying to reach Diego with its horns.
Diego was fast. The bull missed him again, and this time he caught it under the chin.
Suddenly the plaza seemed to be full of vaqueros, half of them mounted, all of them spinning ropes. The bull, occupied with Diego, made no attempt escape them until it was too late. One rope and then another dropped into place. Felipe lost sight first of Diego then of the bull, but the roar of the animal's rage told him where they must be. He took a step outside the door, but Senor Vasquez caught his arm.
When the bull was finally overpowered and contained by the men, Felipe scanned the thinning crowd for Diego.
He was down.
He was lying on his back in the plaza, not far from the main gate of the garrison, and he was making no move to rise.
Panicking, Felipe twisted free and ran, throwing himself down in the dust at Diego's side.
Diego reached for him at once. "I'm all right. I'm fine, Felipe. Nothing to worry about." He smiled tightly, patted Felipe's shoulder, and started to push himself up. His face went as white as newsprint and he gave a short, choked whimper of pain. It was the most frightening sound Felipe had ever heard him make.
Victoria dropped down on Diego's other side and firmly pinned his shoulder with her hand. "Do not move, Diego. Your leg is broken. You must hold still."
"No," Diego gasped hoarsely. "No, it can't be."
"Of course it can be! I am looking at it now, and I am quite sure it should not bend like that. Hold still." Still holding Diego to the ground, she turned and began calling out names and giving orders: someone to get the doctor, someone to ride to the de le Vega hacienda for Don Alejandro, someone to bring blankets from the tavern to make a sling.
Diego was soaked in sweat, his mustache standing out like an exclamation point printed on his paper-pale face. Felipe signed a promise that everything would be all right and then took one of Diego's hands. Diego, gritting his teeth to keep back another cry of pain, didn't answer.
Victoria, finished executing her strategy, turned back to Diego. She brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "It will be all right, Diego. Just be still for now."
Diego reached for her hand. Victoria winced at the strength of his grip, but didn't complain. "Try to relax. Everything will be all right."
"Just my luck...eh, Victoria?" Diego panted.
"Dear Diego," she chided gently. "I think that was the most foolish thing I've ever seen you do, and I was there when you fought Miles Thackery."
Diego managed to laugh weakly. His eyes were on Victoria's face. "Sorry, sorry."
"It was very brave," she whispered.
"Victoria," he whispered, his eyes drifting and unfocused.
Felipe gently slapped his shoulder and--one handed--signed, "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Diego struggled to steady his eyes on Felipe's face.
"Pay attention!" Felipe responded, nudging his shoulder. "Where else are you hurt?" He didn't see any blood, but while that was a good sign, it wasn't always enough.
"Just my leg," Diego whispered. "I'm all right. Just my leg...."
Some men made a sling with blankets and carried Diego into the dim interior of Victoria's tavern. Victoria saw him settled on a mattress on the floor, with pillows supporting both his head and his twisted leg and produced a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. Normally she didn't serve hard spirits: drunken customers were more trouble than they were worth. She poured a small glass and crouched down beside Diego's head. "The doctor will be here soon. Right now he is tending the man who was tossed in the plaza, but when he finishes..." she sighed. "He will have to set the leg. You will need this."
Diego nodded his permission, and she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips. Slowly, awkwardly, Diego managed to empty it. She gently lowered his head and reached for the bottle again.
"No," Diego gasped. "Enough."
"I know you do not drink," she teased gently, "but I think saving the plaza from a raging bull counts as a special occasion."
"No more," he groaned.
"Diego," her calm demeanor wavered. "Diego, it is going to hurt. Please."
"No...Felipe...please...." Diego had no reasonable excuse to refuse, but he didn't dare intoxicate himself, not when the spirits might loosen his tongue.
Felipe patted his shoulder to show he understood and--regretfully--signed to Victoria that Diego would become ill if he drank too much.
Doctor Hernandez arrived not long after that. Cheerful and efficient, he explained that the other injured man had a broken arm, some cracked ribs, and a mass of cuts and bruises, but no broken neck, so it looked to be a good day. He tisked and set about cutting away Diego's boot and removing his trousers.
Setting the bone was every bit is awful as Victoria and Felipe had feared. Felipe sat at Diego's head and held his shoulders. Victoria sat beside him and held his hands. Diego locked his gaze on Victoria's eyes and locked his teeth on an agonized scream as the bone was hauled back into place.
Diego's father arrived as the doctor was securing the splints in place. He stalked into the tavern, surprisingly quiet. Felipe wasn't reassured by the lack of bellowing as the old man gracefully dropped to one knee and peered into his son's face. "Diego?" he whispered.
Diego opened his eyes and un-clinched his teeth enough to answer, "Oh, hello, Father."
The muscles along Don Alejandro's cheek twitched. "How badly is he injured?" he snapped.
"Oh, it's a nice, clean break," Dr. Hernandez said cheerfully. "In a couple of months he'll be as good as new."
Don Alejandro nodded stiffly, and then turned to Victoria. "And may I ask what my son is doing lying on the floor of your tavern."
Unfazed by his anger, she answered mildly, "If we had carried him upstairs to a bed, we would have had to carry him back down again when you came to take him home. That seemed unkind, and given that we are somewhat fond of him...." She shrugged and winked at Diego. He tried to smile back.
Thwarted by the reasonable answer, Diego's father turned on the doctor again. "I was told that he was attacked by a bull in the plaza. Whose bull?"
Felipe tapped him sharply on the shoulder and shook a single finger back and forth in firm denial. He let go of Diego's shoulder in order to slowly and distinctly sign, "The bull did not attack him. He attacked the bull."
"He attacked the bull?" Don Alejandro snarled. "Don't be absurd!"
"'Attacked' is such a strong word," Diego said weakly, downplaying the truly astonishing confrontation in the plaza. "I was trying to distract it and bring it into the open so the vaqueros could get it under control." He winced at something the doctor was doing and continued, "I thought I did rather well, actually."
"Mother of God, Diego, what were you thinking? Have you lost your mind?" The words were harsh, but they were delivered in such a stricken whisper that Victoria looked away and Diego actually apologized: "I'm sorry, Father. I thought I could get out of the way."
"And I think you would have," Victoria said, in the same kind, patient voice she'd used with Diego all morning, "if that panicked chicken hadn't tripped you."
Don Alejandro actually perked up at the prospect of someone to be mad at. "Who?" he demanded.
"No, Father," Diego said miserably, "It was an actual chicken. A completely ignominious accident."
Don Alejandro barked a startled laugh. Or perhaps, no, it wasn't a laugh. He clapped a hand over his mouth and froze, his eyes full of a fear Felipe understood completely. Then, slowly, he composed himself and patted Diego on the shoulder. "Well. Quite a day, I would say. How soon before you'll be finished so we can get this hero home to bed?"
"Just a few more minutes, Don Alejandro. I assume you have some men coming with a wagon."
While the others were focused on the doctor's instructions for the care of their temporary invalid, Diego caught Felipe's gaze and winked reassuringly. Felipe thought that it was Diego who had earned the reassurance, so he rolled his eyes and signed that Diego would never be allowed to live this down.
z
Zorro got a two-month vacation. Diego's lasted half that long: for the first four weeks, Felipe and Padre Benitez edited the Guardian, and, restricted to his room, Diego was also relieved of his duties on the ranch.
He spent the time reading fiction and writing poetry until he started to feel his muscles weaken and had to send Felipe to go find heavy things for him to lift. The sort of exercise one could get in bed was incredibly tedious, and by the time he was allowed to make brief forays to the rest of the house on crutches, this new freedom--even as limited as it was--seemed precious indeed.
Five weeks after the bull injured him, Diego graduated to a much smaller splint and was permitted to walk with a cane. Don Alejandro planned a small dinner party to celebrate. Diego spent a lot of time playing the piano. He learned to paint sitting down. He painted a picture of his father. He painted Felipe earnestly studying. He painted two pictures of Toronado. And then he painted nine pictures of Victoria: he painted her with flowers, he painted her in her Sunday dress, he painted her in the tavern, he painted her in moonlight. Then he ran out of paint and he wrote a few dozen editorials for the Guardian (more than he could possibly use in the next four months).
The only interruption to Zorro's enforced hiatus came when Victoria decided to try to capture a suspected horse thief by herself. Felipe had scolded only a little--mostly because Diego had been very obedient to the doctor's restrictions so far, but partly because Diego made a promise to stay in the saddle and then didn't confess he'd been unable to--quite--keep it.
As it turned out, Zorro and Victoria managed to capture three horse thieves, retrieve a baker's dozen of horses, and rescue an entire kidnapped family. Racing ahead, Diego changed clothes and took a wagon into town so he could play the role of concerned friend, anxiously waiting for the search parties. By the time Victoria and her charges arrived, the healing leg was so abused that every step was a steel spike through the bone. At the same time, the 'good' leg was so overworked that it had begun to shake. It was difficult to judge the right level of concern, mild disapproval, and amusement to convey at Victoria's triumphant return when most of his attention was concentrating on concealing his pain and the irritability that accompanied it.
The distraction of Victoria was helpful here. She was luminous--delighted to be vindicated about the innocence of Jose before the alcalde and so proud of her part in the real criminals' capture.
When he hopped out of the wagon at home, his 'good' leg seized up and gave way. Diego would have fallen on his face if Felipe hadn't shoved him backward and pinned him upright against the wagon box. Panting, Diego murmured, "It's all right. I just need a moment." He looked around anxiously, but Alejandro had immediately rushed off to inspect the returned horses. He hadn't seen the near fall.
Between Felipe's strong shoulder and his cane, Diego managed to make it as far as the library before half-tumbling into a chair. Felipe, glaring, elevated both Diego's feet on a stool and rushed off to fetch some willowbark tea.
Diego closed his eyes and kneaded the quivering muscle. Zorro was badly out of shape. He'd been lucky today--no, worse. He'd been saved by the person he'd raced off to rescue. He had a lot of work to do.
Felipe returned with the tea. "What else can I do?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just let me rest a little. Here, sit down."
Felipe raised his brows and shrugged, asking for the whole story.
Diego laughed ruefully. "Some days I wonder if Victoria is in love with Zorro--or if she merely wants to be him," he answered, carefully keeping his voice down.
Felipe motioned him to continue.
"Victoria subdued two of the horse thieves. Yes, really. The first she shot and the second she clubbed over the head with the pistol. I think...she might have saved me this time."
Felipe smirked a little and signed, "Not very ladylike."
Diego felt his breath catch. "On the contrary. I found it...magnificent."
Felipe looked dubious.
"You've seen her arguing with the alcalde...or in the tavern speaking to the crowd or making a request to the caballeros."
Felipe shrugged but conceded that she was "very pretty."
"Pretty? She is--" Diego rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Never mind. Perhaps you're too young." He took a swallow of the tea. Felipe, who had brought the pot, refilled the cup. "Anyway. It is time for me to start working on my strength. I am not in fighting form."
"You do that," Felipe protested after he put the pot down.
"Not nearly enough, believe me."
"Well...not today," Felipe leaned over him in a way that was perhaps meant to be intimidating. "Today you are resting. Tomorrow, too."
Z
Felipe quickly finished with Diego's books on law, history, and philosophy of government, and Diego began calling in favors and borrowing books from friends. Success here was moderate, since no one except Ignacio had a library even half as good as the de le Vegas. Fortunately, rescuing the alcalde and his party from Alonzo's trap was worth--well, not exactly goodwill, not from Ignacio--nor graciousness, either, since he barely concealed his amusement at the idea of Diego's plan to make his little pet a lawyer--perhaps the word was 'cooperation.'
Ironically, while Diego found the study of law satisfying and reassuring, Felipe seemed to find it neither. Laws that were reasonable had always seemed an opportunity--within the limits of what was permitted and what was not lay a wide range of choices. The law protected even as it restricted, and a clever man paying attention to the details could use it as a very effective shield.
On the other hand, knowing exactly what the unjust laws were made it that much easier to break them without regret.
Felipe, though, seemed to take the law personally, and each example of unfairness he encountered seemed to make him more resentful. Diego wasn't concerned until he came across a pile of short essays tucked into a history book in the library. They were similar in format and organization to Diego's Guardian editorials, but there was no question that the style and sentiments were Felipe's. Diego settled himself on the parlor settee and read them through with growing dread.
The purpose of the current Spanish government was to exploit and control powerless people for the convenience of the powerful. Laws did not protect the innocent, protect morality, or enforce justice, they existed for the convenience of the king. A great deal of evidence suggested that incompetence was not only tolerated but encouraged. As for the king himself, his inability to govern at all was irrelevant, since he seemed to have no interest in trying....
Diego was so agitated he forgot to conceal the remnants of his limp as he hurried down to the cave where Felipe was feeding Toronado. Diego sat at the worktable, the essays piled neatly in front of him, watching Felipe working. He marveled at the child he had raised and wondered how on earth he hadn't seen this coming.
Felipe watched Diego out of the corner of his eye, but finished with the horse before coming to sit down on the stool on the other side of the table. "You're angry," he signed.
"No," Diego answered. "If you thought I would be you would have hidden them better."
Felipe swallowed and said aloud, "Then what's wrong?"
"I'm...having a hard time understanding. I don't know where all this anger came from. You didn't learn it from me."
Sighing, Felipe propped his elbows on the table and slouched forward. "Justice...according to every representative of the king to ever set foot in this territory...justice is putting Zorro in front of a firing squad."
"So...this is personal then? All of this," Diego flicked the pages with his fingers, "is because of me."
Felipe shook his head, but it was half a minute before he'd assembled the words to answer. "I was surprised, you know? When I actually read the laws? They were so capricious and unfair and ugly and...and I should not have been surprised, because I'd lived everyday knowing that the biggest threat to...to every good thing in the world was the law...not criminals or bad weather or even ignorance. The law...."
"Felipe--"
"The colonies--the people here, Diego, we are just property, a method to enrich the crown, while the government misgoverns Spain so badly it only survives because it is a parasite on us--" Something in Diego's expression brought him up short, and he sputtered to silence.
Diego, his heart sinking, dropped his eyes to follow the grain of the wooden table. "And the nobility?" he whispered.
Felipe surged to his feet, hands flashing. "No. Never. Don't think that."
"Listening to you, how can I not wonder--"
"No! It was you who taught me about responsibility and duty. You." Felipe pressed his palms to his face for a moment, then continued, speaking, "You have never failed your responsibility. You have never abused your power. You have repaid every loyalty. But. But. But not everybody is you, and there is no way to compel those with power to do their duty."
A long, breathless silence hung between them.
Felipe said, "I'm not a revolutionary."
"No, of course not. I never thought it."
"Good. Because I. You know I would never. You know that."
Diego nodded. "I know that."
Felipe sat back down and put his hands on the table.
Diego sighed. "No system of government is perfect. Not in practice. Democracy has its own pitfalls, as out neighbors to the east have shown us. Even the best intentioned....I don't think a system could be both completely fair and completely competent. And there is always a risk that those in power will abuse that power for their own gain. In any system."
"I can't dispute that," Felipe whispered. "But even you must admit that some systems are worse than others."
Diego found he could not actually say the words, so he only nodded.
Felipe held out his hand. Slowly, Diego tidied the edges of the pile and picked it up. "I will have your word that these--and any more like them--remain here in the cave. I have put us all in enough danger without having openly seditious essays in the house."
"I promise, Diego."
Diego passed the pile over.
Two weeks later when the next Royal Emissary claimed the de le Vega estate as property of the Crown, Diego comforted himself that at least Resendo wouldn't stumble across the damning evidence. Give how badly everything else was going, this one small success was cause for inward celebration.
Meanwhile, Diego tried not to dwell on the irony that Resendo's arrival neatly supported Felipe's point.