The Treasure of Tranicos

On the broad stair, above the great hall, Belesa and Tina crouched, ignored by the men below. These sat about the broad table: Valenso, Galbro, Zarono, and Strombanni. But for them, the hall was empty.

Strombanni gulped his wine and set the empty goblet on the table. The frankness suggested by his bluff countenance was belied by the dancing light of cruelty and treachery in his wide eyes. But he spoke bluntly enough.

“We all want the treasure old Tranicos hid somewhere near this bay,” he said abruptly. “Each has something the others need. Valenso has laborers, supplies, and a stockade to shelter us from the Picts. You, Zarono, have my map. I have a ship.”

“What I should like to know,” remarked Zarono, “is this: If you’ve had that map all these years, why came you not after the loot sooner?” “I had it not. It was that dog, Zingelito, who knifed the old miser in the dark and stole the map. But he had neither ship nor crew, and it took him more than a year to get them. When he did come after the treasure, the Picts prevented his landing, and his men mutinied and made him sail back to Zingara. One of them stole the map from him and recently sold it to me.”

“That was why Zingelito recognized the bay,” muttered Valenso.

“Did that dog lead you here, count?” asked Strombanni. “I might have guessed it. Where is he?”

“Doubtless in Hell, since he was once a buccaneer. The Picts slew him, evidently while he was searching the woods for the treasure.”

“Good!” approved Strombanni heartily. “Well, I don’t knew how you knew my mate was carrying the map. I trusted him, and the men trusted him more than they did me, so I let him keep it. But this morning he wandered inland with some of the others and got separated from them. We found him sworded to death near the beach, and the map gone. The men were ready to accuse me of killing him, but I showed the fools the tracks left by his slayer and proved to them that my feet wouldn’t fit them. And I knew it wasn’t any one of the crew, because none of them wears boots that make a track of that sort. And Picts wear no boots at all. So it had to be a Zingaran.”

“Well, you have the map, but you have not the treasure. If you had it, you wouldn’t have let me inside the stockade. I have you penned up in this fort. You can’t get out to look for the loot, and even if you did get it you have no ship to get away in.

“Now, here’s my proposaclass="underline" Zarono, give me the map. And you, Valenso, give me fresh meat and other supplies. My men are nigh to scurvy after the long voyage. In return I’ll take you three men, the Lady Belesa, and her girl, and set you ashore within reach of some Zingaran port—or I’ll put Zarono ashore near some buccaneer rendezvous if he prefers, since doubtless a noose awaits him in Zingara. And, to clinch the bargain, I’ll give each of you a handsome share in the treasure.”

The buccaneer tugged meditatively at his mustache. He knew that Strombanni would not keep any such pact, if made. Nor did Zarono even consider agreeing to his proposal. To refuse bluntly, however, would be to force the issue to a clash of arms. He sought his agile brain for a plan to outwit the pirate. He wanted Strombanni’s ship as avidly as he desired the lost treasure.

“What’s to prevent us from holding you captive and forcing your men to give us your ship in exchange for you?” he asked. Strombanni laughed. “Think you I’m a fool? My men have orders to heave up the anchors and sail hence if I do not appear within the hour, or if they suspect treachery. They’d not give you the ship if you skinned me alive on the beach. Besides, I have the count’s word.”

“My pledge is not straw,” said Valenso somberly. “Have done with threats, Zarono.”

Zarono did not reply. His mind was wholly absorbed in the problems of getting possession of Strombanni’s ship and of continuing the parley without betraying the fact that he did not have the map. He wondered who in Mitra’s name did have the map.

“Let me take my men away with me on your ship when we sail,” he said. “I cannot desert my faithful followers—”

Strombanni snorted. “Why don’t you ask for my cutlass to slit my gullet with? Desert your faithful—bah! You’d desert your brother to the Devil if you could gain anything by it No! You shall not bring enough men aboard to give you a chance to mutiny and take my ship.”

“Give us a day to think it over,” urged Zarono, fighting for time.

Strombanni’s heavy fist banged on the table, making the wine dance in the goblets. “No, by Mitra! Give me my answer now!”

Zarono was on his feet, his black rage submerging his craftiness. “You Barachan dogl I’ll give you your answer —in your guts…”

He tore aside his cloak and caught at his sword hilt. Strombanni heaved up with a roar, his chair crashing backward to the floor. Valenso sprang up, spreading his arms between them as they faced each other across the board with jutting jaws close together, blades half drawn, and faces convulsed. “Gentlemen, have done! Zarono, he has my pledge—” “The foul fiends gnaw your pledge!” snarled Zarono.