Ballad & Dagger Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by Daniel José Older

  Introduction copyright © 2022 by Rick Riordan

  Designed by Phil Buchanan

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Older, Daniel José, author.

  Title: Ballad & dagger / by Daniel José Older.

  Other titles: Ballad and dagger

  Description: Los Angeles : Disney/Hyperion, 2022. • Series: Outlaw saints ; book 1 • “Rick Riordan presents.” • Audience: Ages 12–18. • Audience: Grades 7–9. • Summary: When sixteen-year-old Mateo and Chela discover each other and their powers during a political battle between neighborhood factions, they set aside their differences to unravel the mystery behind their sunken homeland and to stop a dangerous political operative who is trying to harness their gifts to unleash terror on the world.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021051377 • ISBN 9781368070829 (hardcover) • ISBN 9781368070867 (ebk)

  Subjects: CYAC: Magic—Fiction • Ability—Fiction. • Cuban Americans—Fiction. • Jews—United States—Fiction. • Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. • Fantasy. • LCGFT: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.O45 Bal 2022 • DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051377

  ISBN 978-1-368-07086-7

  Reinforced binding

  Follow @ReadRiordan

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Part Five

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  This one is for Tito—¡Bienvenido!

  DO YOU REMEMBER SAN MADRIGAL?

  Oh, that beautiful island swallowed by the sea…the Atlantis of the Caribbean! The irresistible music of the kameros electrified the tropical evenings. The Grandes Fetes swirled with color and joyful chaos: dancing, singing, and drumming; gifts and prayers for the spirits. Platters overflowed with luscious seafood.

  Nowhere else in the world had that particularly wonderful mix of humanity: the three “founding” groups of Sefaradim, Santeros, and pirates, and also Indigenous peoples, dispossessed European Jews, and freed West Africans. San Madrigal was a haven from persecution, slavery, and colonial rule. It wasn’t perfect, no, but it was fiercely, proudly independent. A tiny jewel of a country!

  And then, fifteen years ago, it disappeared beneath the waves, leaving behind only the diaspora community of Little Madrigal in Brooklyn, New York. I still ache with sorrow when I think about such a loss to the world.

  Wait, you say.

  You check a map. You google “San Madrigal.”

  Uh, Rick? San Madrigal isn’t real. It never existed.

  Balderdash! I say. (Because I am the kind of person who says “balderdash.”)

  Just because a place is fictional doesn’t mean it isn’t real. San Madrigal is as real as Wakanda or the Shire or Earthsea. Once you read Ballad & Dagger, you will see what I mean. Only the best authors can make me feel nostalgic for a place that never existed but needs to exist, and Daniel José Older is one of the best.

  In Ballad & Dagger he gives us not only amazing characters, not only a compelling story, not only beautiful prose, humor, and heart (all of which come standard with every Older novel), he also gives us an entire culture—the heritage of a lost island we didn’t know we needed until it had sunk beneath the sea. That, my friends, is powerful writing.

  Like all San Madrigaleros, our hero, Mateo Matisse, is many things. He’s a musician, a healer, a young man in search of his place in the world. He’s also going to be your new best friend as he guides you through the wonderful world of Little Madrigal: a community infused with magic, where spirits live side by side with the living, and where the fractious, pirate-inspired democracy of San Madrigal fights to maintain its culture without its island.

  But what if San Madrigal could be raised again? What kind of magic would that require? What kind of sacrifices? These are the questions Matteo Matisse will have to wrestle with in Ballad & Dagger, and he’s going to need all his healing skills, because the fight for the soul of San Madrigal is going to open up some very old wounds.

  For many years, I have aspired to work with Daniel José Older. I have read all of his books. I have been in awe of his breathtaking range. I have longed to find the largest soapbox available, stand upon it, and shout into my megaphone: HEY, EVERYBODY, YOU NEED TO READ THIS GUY!

  I am delighted that I finally get to do this. And while any Daniel José Older novel is worth shouting about, Ballad & Dagger is something truly special: the first Rick Riordan Presents novel geared toward young adults. It is also, in my opinion, the most daring, ambitious, and memorable story Older has written yet, and that is saying a lot.

  I.

  With one thing the world begins…

  A single raft in the broken sea,

  Three enemies within:

  A child of the book,

  An outlaw of the waves,

  A son of the stones.

  Each thrown from their burning vessels

  Amidst cataclysmic warfare,

  Cursed to drift forever through a storm.

  Until

  Light breaks the darkness.

  A glowing shroud appears,

  Guides them through the early-morning mist.

  Three rocky peaks seem to rise from the horizon before them.

  Sanctuary.

  And so begins a new life, new world, new age.

  Life and Death walk hand in hand, creation and destruction.

  Each being, each story, each world contains the essence of its opposite within.

  They forever chase each ot
her, the moon and sun, in eternal balance.

  So begins the island, three peaks and a whole world born from the waves,

  The journey, the storm.

  With one thing, the world begins;

  With one thing, the world ends.

  —Divination Manual for San Madrigal, expanded edition, Baba Mauricio Batalán

  I.

  Con una cosa empieza el mundo…

  Una balsa sola en el mar roto,

  Tres enemigos adentro:

  Un hijo del libro,

  Un bandido de las olas,

  Un niño de las piedras.

  Cada uno tirado de su propio buque quemándose

  En guerra cataclísmica,

  Malditos a ir a la deriva en la tormenta.

  Hasta

  Que una luz rompe la oscuridad.

  Un sudario brillante aparece,

  Les guía por las nieblas de la madrugada.

  Hasta que tres montañas de piedra parecen crecer desde el horizonte.

  Santuario.

  Así empieza una vida nueva, un mundo nuevo, una edad nueva.

  Vida y Muerte caminan mano en mano, la creación y la destrucción.

  Cada ser, cada cuento, cada mundo contiene la esencia de su opuesto adentro.

  Siempre se cazan, el sol y la luna, en balance eterno.

  Así comienza la isla, tres cimas y un mundo entero nacido por las olas,

  El sendero, la tempestad.

  Con una cosa el mundo empieza,

  Con una cosa se acaba.

  —Manual de adivinación de San Madrigal, edición ampliada, Baba Mauricio Batalán

  “¡PUÑETA!” TÍA LUCIA SNAPS AS I head to my room to get ready for tonight. At first, I think it’s because I’m just in a towel and dripping all over her floor. But no, she’s reading her shells—divination—and her swear means they said something she didn’t want to know.

  Tía Lucia looks up and rolls her eyes. My heart sinks. She’s not coming with me tonight—it’s all over her face. And here I am about to be dressed and ready. “You go ’head, Mateo,” she sighs.

  “But, Tía…”

  Tonight is the Grande Fete, the biggest night of the year for us Galeranos, and my aunt has never missed an opportunity to carry on, gossip, and dance the night away. Plus, she’s one of the three members of the Cabildo, our leadership council, and it’ll be a whole thing, her not showing up.

  But something in those cowrie shells told her she has more important matters to attend to. She’s been divining for longer than I’ve been alive, and she doesn’t play around when it comes to messages from the spirits. So she shrugs. “Así es.” That’s just what it is.

  Thing is: this isn’t just a regular fete. Tonight, Councilwoman Anisette Bisconte will name her successor on the Cabildo, and everyone knows it’ll be Tolo Baracasa. At just eighteen, he’d be the youngest member of our leadership trinity, but he seems like he was born for it. Tolo comes from a long line of pirates and inherited the nightclub we gather in, along with all the nefarious dealings that go with it.

  Yeah, yeah, politics, whatever. The real reason tonight matters—to me, anyway—is that because it’s such an important fete, Maestro Grilo Juan Gerval is supposed to be there. It’s one of those rare nights he’s not off performing at concert halls across the world alongside other icons. And that means he’ll hear me play keys. He might even sing! Maybe he’ll realize I’m destined to bring our music to the world along with him, and he’ll pull me out of high school and away from the local festivities circuit to go hit the road, and I’ll just step on into the rest of my music-filled life…right?

  What’s wrong? Aunt Miriam asks Tía Lucia, shattering my fantasy in a voice that implies an extinction-level event is at hand (she uses this tone at least forty-five times a day). Dead people are a trip, man. Aunt Miriam has been a spirit almost as long as the sixteen years I’ve been alive. She must’ve been a wisp of a woman in life—long and slender, with aggressive cheekbones and a slight smile. Now you can just barely make out those sharp features on her translucent shroud. The harsh glare of our overhead lamps flushes right through her, only glinting slightly off the edges of her spectral form.

  She and Tía Lucia and I all live in this tiny apartment off Fulton Street in Little Madrigal, a hidden-away nook at the far end of Brooklyn. It’s just a couple hundred of us and a scattering of Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Ecuadorians who mostly mind their own business and don’t mess much with all the weird politics of the people from the lost island.

  You’re not going, Lucia? You’re already all made up and pretty!

  And it’s true: a colorful silky scarf conceals Tía Lucia’s short bleach-blond curls. Bright purple lipstick shines from her mouth, and she’s done up her cheeks with rouge. That aquamarine eyeliner is the finishing touch, and I know she spent at least an hour standing in front of her vast makeup selection, going back and forth about what color to use. She’s a small, round woman, my aunt, but when she’s armored up in all that regalia and paint, she seems to tower over everyone around her.

  “Nada.” Tía Lucia wraps up the shells and shoves a cigar in her mouth. “I’m still going, just a little later.” She only lights that thing when she’s super–stressed out, almost never. Otherwise she just chews on it till it’s mulch and replaces it every once in a while. Gross. She turns to me. “You go ahead without me, Mateo.”

  Suddenly, her eyes narrow, and I realize, a second too late, that I’m still just in a towel, dripping all over her, which means an extinction-level event may now actually be at hand—“¿Y MI PISO, COÑO?” Tía Lucia yelps and stands up, and I scatter into my bedroom and close the door before any chancleta torpedoes can fly through it.

  My folded T-shirt and jeans from earlier go in the drawer; my wet towel on the rack by the closet. Everything in its place.

  I’m pulling on my suit pants—I hate suit pants—and fussing with my phone to pull up my get-ready music when I hear a muffled argument on the other side of the door. Aunt Miriam trying to convince Tía Lucia to go, probably, but also…is one of them crying?

  This is none of my business.

  I hit Play and lean my phone against the mirror as the video of Gerval comes to life and his voice rises over whatever’s happening in the living room.

  It’s from a live show a few months ago. They’re covering an old Galerano bolero, some murder song—all these old ditties are either about praising God, falling in love, or murdering someone (sometimes all three at once)—and the band has fallen into a fierce vamp while Gerval stands at the edge of the stage and just lets out a howl. He’s only a year or two older than me, but that howl over those jangling chords sounds like an ancient battle cry, and the crowd devours it, breathless, screaming.

  On the small screen, Gerval flashes a wily grin.

  And of course he’s grinning: Gerval went and broke the one rule of San Madrigal’s traditional musicians, the kameros: he blew up. We’re supposed to be heard and not seen, you see. Sea espíritu is what people say to kameros before we go onstage. Say-ah espee-ree-tu—be like a spirit, basically, let the light pass through you. It’s from an old instruction manual by one of the back-in-the-day masters, a great-great-great-grandpa of mine, in fact, Archibaldo Coraje Medina. He supposedly lost his mind and started playing creepy, nonsensical music late at night in the plaza, but before that, he was one of San Madrigal’s number one kama composers. Walking around with a name like Archibaldo is probably stressful, though.

  Anyway, what a legacy, right?

  But I get it: our work isn’t about us, it’s about the music. And personally, I’m much happier vanishing into the shadows. Besides my family and my best friend, Tams, I don’t really know how to talk to people. Unseen works for me.

  But Gerval threw together an album of redone Galerano hits in the little music studio on Fulton, and one went viral and suddenly his face was everywhere we looked, grinning from our TV screens and phones, there onstage with some famous pop star that everyone ca
red about except us, touring the world.

  And since he’s been gone, I’ve been the one playing most of the weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, which is cool and all but…kind of a dead end, no pun intended.

  Tonight, though…tonight is my chance to jump on board with Gerval and help bring our music to a wider audience. I don’t want to be in the spotlight like him, just one of the guys in the band, there in the shadows, doing what I love.

  I pull on my dress shirt, and it sticks to my still-damp skin, but I barely notice because here comes the part I love most: the howl swings up into a kind of siren-wail and the band jumps keys and unleashes a frenzy of tight staccato hits as Gerval works his way back down the scale. You can see him making eye contact with the drummer, bopping his head in time, and then the camera follows his gaze to a bulky, tall figure at the far end of the stage: Trucks. That’s Gerval’s right-hand man. He’s always wearing a helmet with a visor and all kinds of heavy military gear—just walks around cosplaying a riot cop, basically—but I guess when you’re an icon like Gerval, it makes sense to have someone like that constantly at your side.

  Trucks and Gerval trade a nod, and then the band falls into a series of solos.

  I finish buttoning my shirt, shaking my head at the way the whole moment comes together. I’m probably responsible for a good half of the eleven million views this video has on YouTube, but it still amazes me the way they move so smooth through all those changes without a word being spoken. If I had to guess, they probably didn’t even rehearse that—they just know.

  Goals, man. Goals.

  Anyway, the thin line of my goatee has just today reached the thin line of my mustache, which makes today basically my bar mitzvah, and it’s a fresh October night, the kind that’s perfect for entire lives to change forever, so I slide one arm and then the next into my suit jacket, roll my shoulders back to get the whole thing in order, and walk out into the living room.

  And the most awkward silence I’ve ever known.

  “What’s…uh…what’s up?” I ask into my two aunts’ inordinately blank stares.

  You’re not going to tell him, Lucia? Aunt Miriam demands.

  “Tell me what?”

  Tía Lucia waves off her deceased wife and me. “Nada. Go on. Don’t forget to salute the santos on your way out.” She opens her big fleshy arms for a hug. There’s no getting information out of her she doesn’t want to give. Whatever’s going on, she’ll tell me when she’s good and ready. I cross the room and lean over. It’s like a cloud of Florida Water travels everywhere that woman goes, I swear. The sharp, spicy scent sizzles my nostrils as she wraps around me and then holds me at arm’s length and says, “Escucha.”