Mountains Do Not Care

Mateo smoothed the vellum of his fabricated pedigree, the ink barely dry against the humid, suffocating air of the high valley. He looked up at the stern profile of Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada and felt the weight of the lie resting like a stone in his throat. "My lineage is documented, Captain," he murmured, extending the scroll with a hand that refused to shake. Quesada did not take the scroll immediately. Instead, he scanned the camp, his gaze pausing on the mud-caked soldiers and the towering, jagged peaks that hemmed them in. "The mountains do not care for your ancestors, Scribe," he said, his voice rasping from the long march. Quesada finally took the vellum, retreating toward the scribe's tent. The small space smelled of old ink and damp pine, a cramped sanctuary of parchment and dust carved out of the wilderness. "Bring the registries," the Captain ordered, his eyes already drifting back to the sodden earth of the valley. Mateo obeyed, gathering the heavy ledgers. As he turned to leave, a sudden, sharp whistle echoed from the edge of the camp. He froze.

The sound was a signature, a specific, mocking cadence he had not heard since the alleys of Granada. Mateo looked toward the tree line, where a silhouette stood detached from the milling soldiers. "Who is that?" Quesada asked, his curiosity piqued by the scribe's sudden pallor. "A traveler, perhaps," Mateo lied, his voice thin. From the shadows of the pines, Julian Varga stepped forward, his expression one of predatory amusement. He didn't look at the Captain; he kept his eyes locked on Mateo, savoring the terror. Varga stopped just outside the tent's perimeter, his boots sinking deep into the Bogotá mire. He offered a low, sweeping bow that was far too theatrical for a wilderness camp, a gesture that mocked the very nobility Mateo claimed to possess. "Captain Quesada, forgive the intrusion," Varga said, his grin widening. "I believe I have found a long-lost brother in arms." Mateo felt the world shrink. He shifted his weight, the mud clinging to his boots like a desperate hand. "We have not spoken in years, Julian," he managed to whisper.

Quesada stepped between them, his presence a wall of weathered leather and authority. He didn't know the history of the two men, but he recognized the scent of a grudge. "I have little patience for reunions that smell of old debts," the Captain snapped, his gaze flicking from Varga's smirk to Mateo's trembling lip. Varga let out a short, sharp laugh. "Debts are the only currency that truly lasts, Captain," he replied, his eyes drifting toward the ledgers Mateo had just gathered. He stepped closer, the scent of stale tobacco and road-dust following him into the tent's cramped orbit. Varga’s focus shifted toward the tent's opening, where a young courier paused, clutching a dispatch from the coast. The boy looked bewildered by the sudden tension, his eyes darting between the Captain’s steel and the scribe’s panic. "Orders from the crown, Excellency," the messenger stammered, extending a wax-sealed letter. Quesada snatched the letter, his thumb breaking the wax seal with a decisive snap. He read in silence, the only sound the wet slap of rain starting to fall against the canvas. "The Council demands a formal census of all claimants," the Captain announced. Varga's grin sharpened.

Mateo glanced at the ledgers, then back to the mud churning beneath the soldiers' boots outside. The rain intensified, turning the Founding Site into a grey slurry that smelled of sulfur and rotting vegetation. "I will prepare the lists immediately," Mateo said. Varga stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against Mateo's as he leaned in to peer at the ink-stained pages. "A census is such a delicate thing," he whispered, loud enough for Quesada to hear. "One misplaced stroke and a gentleman becomes a ghost." Mateo stiffened. He gripped the ledger so hard the vellum groaned. "I know exactly where the strokes belong," he hissed, though his heart hammered against his ribs. Varga’s laugh was a dry rattle. "Then you know the cost of a smudge," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the forged seal of Mateo's pedigree. He stepped back into the rain, leaving the threat hanging in the damp air. Mateo watched him vanish into the grey mist. He looked down at the ledger, his vision blurring. The lie was no longer a shield; it was a target.

Mateo began to write. He worked for hours, the scratch of the quill the only sound in the tent as the rain hammered the canvas. Every name he entered into the census felt like a nail in his own coffin. He looked up to find Varga watching him from the mud, a silent sentinel in the mist. Mateo paused, the ink dripping from his nib in a thick, black bead. Varga finally moved, stepping into the tent with a slow, deliberate squelch of mud. "Your hand is shaking, Mateo," he noted. "The ink is bleeding." Mateo jerked the quill away, smearing a jagged line across the page. "I am merely cold," he snapped. Varga leaned over the desk, his voice a silk thread. "Cold doesn't make a man forget who taught him to fake a seal." Mateo stared at the smudge, a dark blot that looked like a void on the page. "I have forgotten nothing," he replied. He looked up and saw Varga's eyes gleaming with the hunger of a man who had finally found his leverage.

Varga reached out and tapped the forged seal with a grime-covered fingernail. "The Council will be thorough," he whispered. Mateo felt the air leave his lungs. "I can pay you," Mateo whispered, his voice cracking. Varga’s finger didn't move from the seal. "I don't want gold, Mateo." "I want the names," Varga said. He leaned closer, his breath smelling of sour wine. "The ones the Captain keeps in the locked chest." Mateo glanced toward the heavy iron chest resting in the corner of the tent. He knew the Captain's lock was stubborn, but the key often hung from Quesada's belt during the midday heat. "I cannot," he whispered. Varga's expression darkened, his finger pressing harder into the vellum. "Then you've chosen a very short future," he sneered. He stepped back, leaving a smear of grey sludge across the pristine margin of the ledger. Mateo stared at the smear of mud. He looked at the chest, then at the door. He had to act.

He waited. When the midday sun finally beat down on the canvas and Quesada unbuckled his belt to seek relief from the heat, Mateo moved. He slid the key from the Captain's waist with a practiced, trembling grace. He did not look back. He retreated into the shadows of the tent. With a sharp click, the iron chest yielded. Inside lay the secret correspondence of the expedition, a treasure trove of leverage that smelled of salt and old ambition. Mateo sifted through the papers, his pulse drumming in his fingertips. He found a letter detailing the Captain's hidden disputes with the crown. He closed the lid quickly. "I have it," he whispered to the empty tent. He stepped outside. Varga was waiting in the mud, his silhouette a jagged tear against the grey horizon. "The price of my silence," Mateo breathed, sliding the stolen intelligence from his sleeve. Varga snatched the papers with a sharp, hungry grin. Varga scanned the pages, his eyes dancing over the Captain's indiscretions. He looked up, the predatory grin still etched into his face. "A fair trade," he conceded. He stepped back into the mire, the papers clutched tight against his chest.

Mateo exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders in a sudden, violent rush. He watched Varga disappear into the fog, the man's silhouette blending into the greyness of the valley. The silence that followed was heavy. Then, the canvas flap snapped open. Quesada stood there, drenched and frowning. He looked at the open chest, then at Mateo’s flushed face. "The lock is turned," the Captain observed. Mateo froze, the stolen key still warm in his palm. He didn't move, didn't even blink. "I was merely organizing the files, Excellency," he stammered. Quesada stepped into the tent, his boots leaving heavy, dark prints across the floor. Quesada’s eyes narrowed, tracking the slight tremor in Mateo's hand. He didn't shout; instead, he leaned over the desk, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You are a meticulous man, Mateo. Meticulous men do not leave chests open." Mateo stepped back, the key biting into his skin. "My apologies, Captain," he whispered. Quesada stared at him, the silence stretching until it nearly snapped. He didn't trust the scribe, but he needed the census.

Quesada reached out and slowly closed the lid, the iron latch clicking with finality. He didn't take the key; he simply let his hand linger on the cold metal. "Finish the census by dawn," he commanded. Mateo nodded, his throat dry. As Quesada turned to leave, the Captain paused and looked back at the mud-streaked tent walls. "This land demands a level of honesty we do not possess," he murmured, almost to himself. Mateo watched him go, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. He looked at the ink-stained ledger and felt the noose of Varga's silence tightening. "Dawn," he whispered. He began to write. The quill scratched a frantic rhythm against the vellum until the first light of dawn bled through the canvas. Mateo stepped out into the freezing mist, the completed census clutched to his chest like a shield. He saw Varga waiting by the perimeter, a ghost in the grey. "The ceremony begins," Varga whispered, his eyes promising a debt that would never be paid. The soldiers began to assemble in the center of the mire, their armor dull under a leaden sky. Quesada stood at the head of the gathering, his expression carved from granite. "The New Kingdom begins here," he declared, his voice cutting through the wind. Mateo stepped forward to present the registries, his gaze flickering to Varga, who stood motionless in the crowd.

Mateo knelt in the slush, offering the registries to Quesada with a steady hand. The Captain glanced at the lists, then at the scribe. "Your ink is bold, Alcaraz," Quesada noted, his voice weary but perceptive. Mateo felt a bead of sweat slide down his neck despite the chill. "I strive for clarity, Excellency," he replied. Quesada gave a sharp, singular nod and turned to address the colony. As Quesada began to read the founding decree, Varga caught Mateo's eye and tapped his own temple. The gesture was a reminder: the secret was safe, but the leash was short. Mateo bowed his head, the weight of the forged lineage now a permanent shackle. The ceremony concluded with a heavy silence that no fanfare could pierce. Mateo rose from the mud, his knees aching. "The land is ours," Quesada murmured, though he looked at the grey peaks as if they were prison walls. Mateo followed the Captain's retreat, knowing Varga was still watching. He stepped toward the scribe's tent, his pace measured. "The archives need auditing," Quesada said, his gaze lingering on the smudge of mud on Mateo's cuff. The Captain wasn't blind; he was merely waiting for the right moment to strike.

Mateo paused. He looked at the smudge on his cuff, then at the distant, predatory silhouette of Varga. "Of course, Excellency," he replied. He stepped back into the tent and began to scrub at the stain. The fabric resisted, the grey mire clinging to the white linen like a parasite. Mateo stopped, staring at the mark, and realized he would never truly be clean of this place. He dropped the cloth. Outside, the rhythmic thud of marching boots announced a new arrival. "The Governor's envoy is here," a soldier shouted. Mateo stiffened. The envoy's arrival meant the census would be scrutinized by eyes from Spain, eyes that might recognize a forged hand. "Stay here," Quesada ordered, his voice sharp as a blade. Mateo stood frozen as the envoy entered the tent, the smell of salt and official wax trailing behind him. Varga appeared in the doorway, his smile a thin, jagged line. "The truth is a fickle thing, isn't it, Mateo?" he whispered. Mateo stepped forward and intercepted the envoy's gaze, sliding a supplementary ledger across the table with a steady hand. "The lineage is verified here, Señor," he said, his voice devoid of tremor. Varga watched from the shadows, his silence the price of the stolen secrets. The envoy peered at the ledger, his thumb tracing the forged seal with agonizing slowness. He looked up and gave a curt, satisfied nod. "Your credentials are in order," he declared. Mateo let out a breath he had been holding since Granada.