Sorcerer's Secret (11 page)

Rory finished reading and looked around in confusion. “What is this?”

“I don't believe it . . . ” Mr. Hennessy began, looking shaken.

“What?” Rory asked, leaning in. “Do you know what this is?”

Mr. Hennessy hesitated. “It sounds like the story behind the Agreement.”

“What agreement?” Soka asked, her face dark. “An agreement to oppress my people?”

“Not really, though that was sort of how it turned out. It was more of a pact between the land and the newcomers, to help the land to accept them.”

“Accept them?” Soka sounded incredulous. “But they were invaders!”

“Everyone is an invader,” Mr. Hennessy replied, his voice weary. “The Munsees didn't spring to life on Mannahatta. They traveled here from far off, finally settling here a thousand years ago. We're all newcomers in some respect. But to stay, everyone has to play by the house rules. Even the Munsees made their own agreement, centuries upon centuries ago. It was that pact that they called upon to survive when their own people were driven away. And when the newcomers arrived, they had to negotiate their own contract.”

“So those rules, like the blood and the fact that no god can kill another god, those aren't natural laws?” Rory asked. “They were negotiated?”

“Sacrifice,” Mr. Hennessy said. “Everyone has to sacrifice something. No one is immune, not even the gods. Of course, the Agreement is a big secret among the gods, now. None but the oldest who were there even know of its existence, and they have pushed the memory out of their heads. It is much more comfortable to think of these rules as natural laws, rather than a burden that is accepted for being allowed to exist. I doubt if you asked even Peter Stuyvesant that he would admit to it.”

“Who is this agreement with?” Rory asked.

“With the land itself. Think of it as rent that must be paid.”

“The gods made an agreement with some dirt?” Bridget asked, incredulous.

“Even the trees and the grass and the mud have a protector,” Mr. Hennesy replied, his eyes pained. “We humans aren't the only things that matter, after all.”

Rory's eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about all of this, anyway?”

Mr. Hennessy opened his mouth to speak, but then he spied something in the distance. “Hell Gate!”

“What?” Bridget asked, craning her head to stare down river. “There's an actual gate to hell? Awesome!”

“No, it's that stretch of water up ahead between Wards Island and Queens, where the Harlem River and the East River meet. It's an extremely dangerous passage—thousands of ships have been sunk trying to sail through. If you try to make the passage at the wrong time, the rapids will toss you around like a toy. We need to skirt around it to land in Queens. Hopefully we won't get too close.”

Rory could see the turbulent waters now, with swirling whirlpools and angry whitecaps churning in the distance. Mr. Hennessy began to look worried, pulling hard on the tiller to guide the little boat away from the rapids, but they only floated nearer and nearer to the rough water.

“So the tides are not in our favor,” he admitted, his voice tight. “It's all right. I'll hold her steady and we'll slip around the edge. I just wish we had a bigger boat.” He struggled to hold the tiller still as the turbulent water pulled at them. Suddenly he cried out as the tiller slipped from his hands and the boat swung around crazily, heading directly for the rapids. Rory lunged for the tiller, pushing it back toward his dad, and together they struggled to hold it on course.

“I think we're going to make it!” Mr. Hennessy cried. And for a moment Rory believed him. But then the unthinkable happened—the tiller snapped in two.

The boat spun out of control, sending its passengers flying to the floor. Rory looked down at the broken piece of wood in his hands—he noticed that the base of the handle was riddled with bullet holes. The bullets must have chopped off half the tiller, so it didn't need much more than a push to snap in half.

“Hold on to the boat!” his dad screamed as the sounds of the rushing water grew louder. “No matter what you do, don't let go!”

And with that, the waters swept them into Hell Gate.

Rory clung desperately to the side of the boat as the rapids spun them around like the teacup ride at Disney World. The screams of his fellow shipmates mixed with the pounding roar of the rapids as they all struggled to hold on. Water gushed over the edge of the boat, dousing them in salty spray until they were soaked to the bone. They were at the complete mercy of the waves as they were swept farther into the bowels of Hell Gate.

A large rock suddenly loomed ahead of them, directly in their path. Rory barely had time to scream before the rapids rammed them, sideways, into the jutting stone. Miraculously, the boat's frame held, but the mast didn't fare so well—it splintered on impact.

“Quick, cut the lines or we'll capsize!” his dad cried as the mast began to fall over the side, tipping the little boat. Soka pulled out a knife from her tunic and handed it to Rory before pulling out a second one for herself. Together they sawed frantically at the lines while Bridget hacked at the ropes nearest her with her sword, Buttkicker 2. The mast was quickly swept away once it touched the roaring waters, and soon the lines started to run out. The boat began to dip, still attached by one last rope. Rory had visions of the small sailboat capsizing, trapping them under the waves, where the turbulent current would pull them down to the river bottom to lie forever among all those broken ships. But his dad finally managed to crawl over and cut the last line, freeing the ship from the mast, which had been completely swallowed by the rapids. Rory sighed, but the close calls weren't over yet.

As the rapids tossed them around, they slammed into another rock. Water began to leak into the boat as the sides were breached, and Rory couldn't see how they'd survive. But finally his dad was able to grab hold of the stub of a tiller. He pulled it around with both hands as he tried to guide them past the rest of the rocks and through the rapids. Suddenly they seemed to be hitting fewer rocks. Over and over they seemed to be rushing toward destruction only to have Mr. Hennessy somehow nudge the boat just enough to get them through. For the first time, Rory was actually impressed by his dad. And then, finally, after one last violent dip and spin, they sprang free of the rapids, bursting out the other side of Hell Gate into the calmer waters of the upper reaches of the East River.

Mr. Hennessy, by now knee-deep in the water that was slowly filling the boat, collapsed back as the boat drifted toward the far shore. Rory was so exhausted he couldn't even remember what they had been talking about before their brush with death. He just lay against the side of the boat as it floated onward to Queens.

N
icholas sat in the back of the council room, trying not to worry. As Alexa finished her report on DeLancey's Cowboys' running amok in the Bronx, which duplicated reports from other boroughs, the shell-shocked looks in the faces of the councillors did not inspire confidence. Even his bulldozer of a father seemed uncertain. Nicholas caught Alexa's eye and she shook her head; she could see it, too.

“They look like a bunch of kicked dogs,” Lincoln muttered to Nicholas. “They're gods, for goodness' sake. You'd think they'd be a little less wussy.”

“They're used to petty little struggles among themselves,” Nicholas whispered back. “But half of Mannahatta has followed Kieft to Roosevelt Island. This war will be bigger than even the old battles with the Munsees. So no matter what, they're looking at the end of something. And no god wants to see anything end.”

“Spirits are rising up on our side as well, don't forget!” Whitman was saying, his characteristic exclamation points ringing out. “And there are many, the silent majority you could call them, who are simply hiding, hoping everything turns out all right. When the real struggle begins, they will join our side!”

“Not when they see these,” Peter Stuyvesant said, nodding toward the door. One of his farmhands, Diedrich, strode into the room, dropping three knives into the middle of the council table with a clatter. Nicholas's heart sank as he recognized the evil metal blades—he'd almost been sliced open by one such weapon not long ago. The councillors' faces turned ashen.

“Where did he get these?” Hamilton asked, his voice shaking.

“We pulled them off a group of mobster spirits that were cavorting downtown,” Peter said. “Thankfully, they were too drunk to put up much of a fight.”

“But I thought there was only one knife and we still have it!” Babe Ruth announced, his round face confused.

“Well, darling, someone has managed to make a couple more,” Mrs. Parker said drily.

“Are we sure these are really god-killing knives?” James Bennett asked.

“More certain than I would ever want to be,” Peter replied. “The mobsters were boasting about a murder they'd committed earlier that day. I pulled a locket off of them, myself. I destroyed it, of course; we're lucky no one thinks to put the lockets on. At least not yet. But it's coming if we don't do something soon.”

“Three valuable knives given to a couple of small-time crooks?” Mrs. Parker mused. “What is Kieft doing?”

“He's making certain that chaos reigns,” Hamilton said. “He must be passing these out to every spirit who wants one. The fear alone will drive people to his side.”

“But he could destroy Mannahatta forever!” Whitman said. “Why would he want that?”

The councillors erupted in frightened chatter as they tried to come up with some reason for this wanton destruction. Nicholas felt his spirits sag. He'd been trying to find the one who would inspire them. He'd thought he might have found him among the Munsees, but Buckongahelas had no desire to lead any gods into battle. Then he'd hoped he discover the leader among the council members. But as he glanced around the roomful of frightened councillors, he knew that wouldn't be happening, either. He'd have to continue his search. His eyes rested on the evil knives in the center of the table. He'd better find this guy soon. Because time was running out.

R
ory, Bridget, their father, and Soka landed in an industrial yard in the north of Queens, the boat coasting onto shore just before it could sink completely. Simon was waiting for them, grinning.

“Nice ride,” he said impishly as he kicked at the ruined boat. He glanced over at Peter Hennessy. “Where did he come from?”

“He showed up to help us!” Bridget exclaimed proudly, and Rory shook his head at the pride in her voice. He couldn't shake the feeling that they would both soon be disappointed by their old man. Simon shook Mr. Hennessy's hand warmly, however, and welcomed him to the hunt.

Simon led them to a group of horses he had tethered to a warehouse door. Heavy bags hung from one horse, and when the stallion shifted, Rory thought he heard the sound of china clinking. Simon was now the God of the Good China, and he couldn't go anywhere without his crockery. The new god untethered their steeds, helping Rory up behind him as Mr. Hennessy and Bridget shared a horse, his sister chatting away excitedly to her father the whole time. Soka took the third horse, looking lonely. Rory caught her eye, but she glanced away; he guessed she was still mad about his stunt at the lighthouse. Even though it had probably saved her from gambling away something important to her. It made no sense to him. He didn't care, he told himself, so emphatically that he almost believed it.

“So, where to?” Simon asked.

“The Fortune Teller told Rory to look in the belly of the royal steed,” Soka said. “So I gather we're looking for a horse of some kind.”

“But there aren't any kings in Queens!” Bridget exclaimed, then giggled at what she'd just said.

“Maybe a breed of horse?” Simon conjectured. “Royal horses?”

Mr. Hennessy suddenly snapped his fingers. “There is one king in Queens, you know. Rufus King.”

Simon slapped his forehead. “Of course!”

“Who's Rufus King?” Rory asked.

“He was a bigwig during the Revolution,” Simon explained. “Helped write the Constitution and I think he was a senator for a while. But beyond that, the guy never won at anything. He ran for governor, he ran for vice president, he ran for president, and he never won! He had the worst luck. That's why he's the God of Also-Rans.”

“He was a pretty bad gambler, too, as I remember,” Mr. Hennessy added. “He couldn't come in first at anything. Not the guy you want betting on you to win.”

“Well, he's probably betting on someone right now, 'cause today is racing day, and he never misses racing day.” Simon's face brightened. “I love racing day!”