He caught up with Sancho as he rounded a corner, heart pounding, lungs gasping, but relishing the terror and yelling a primal war cry, heedless of the danger that confronted them. Four armed men huddled around a woman—maybe fourteen or fifteen years old—defiance and terror in her eyes. They were at the end of a short lane joining the street they ran down and another that overlooked the Tagus River gorge. No witnesses. All doors shut. All windows empty.
The abruptness of the boy’s war cry startled the men; its meagerness amused them. One smiled. One laughed. Another, a scar-faced man, grimaced and held up a knife. The last one, facing the girl—a brute almost twice the size of the others—ignored them.
Momentum hurled the boys into the men. Smiley went down with Sancho rolling. Francisco knocked Scarface into Laughing, passed them, and bounced off Brute. The behemoth grunted, inconvenienced. The girl answered him with kicks and screams. Francisco saw weaponless Sancho grab a terracotta pot and smash it over Smiley’s head. Francisco saw a blade flash, turned, saw two now glinting in the hands of Scarred and Laughing. A shove from behind sent Francisco into the blades, and the long knives pierced his chest and gut. Thrusts from the men drove the blades deeper. Killing wounds. The healing stone’s test.
Father, forgive me. I am a healer no more.
Tears in his eyes, only a wet gurgle for a cry, Francisco mouthed the words for the Hebrew verse, half expecting his fingers to drop off white with leprosy. Pressing his foot hard against the stone, knees failing, stone warming, pain muting, wounds tingling, he slid off the blades to the ground. The pain ceased before he hit pavement.
As Scarred and Laughing turned towards Sancho, Francisco kicked, sweeping their legs. They fell. Laughing dropped his knife. Francisco grabbed it, hopped up, looked at the knife—the knife with his blood still dripping from it—remembered his father’s warning, and dropped the knife as if it bit him.
Another shove from behind. This one stung. Pain seared his back and bit deep. It muted as he turned to see Brute staggering back, his eyes wide with confusion. Francisco took a step forward, arms ready to grapple feeling invigorated to the point of euphoria. “Yield, you brute!” Brute took another step back, stumbling over the girl, who had stopped her clamor and joined Brute in staring at Francisco.
Francisco grinned.
He issued a war cry with more gusto than before.
Sudden back pain again. And then again and again. Pain drove deep, and a horrid thought gripped him: the stone may be covered in red hungry marks, too hungry to work. Even as that last thought terrified him, he felt the stone working: muting, warming, tingling. He turned. Scarred, Laughing, and Smiley—sans smile and sporting a gushing head wound—they all backed away, the same look of wonder-fear in their eyes.
Scarred, shaking his head, cried, “El diablo que no moria! El diablo que no moria!” The devil that will not die! The devil that will not die! He turned and ran. The others hesitated, then followed him. Francisco turned around, expecting to grapple with Brute. Brute was gone.
Francisco laughed. It was hard to laugh. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t take deep breaths or stand up straight. Is the stone hungry? Did it get hungry before it could finish healing?
Sancho and the woman lay on opposite sides of the alley. The girl huddled, shaking and rocking against the wall. Abject fear was still in her eyes, but otherwise she seemed to be unharmed. Sancho was not. He lay amidst shards of broken earthenware—jars either he broke on Smiley or jars Smiley broke on him. Francisco’s back felt stiff and pulled as he knelt next to him. He withdrew the stone—no hungry marks, thank God—and pressed it against the skin of Sancho’s arm. It was then he realized that he did not say the verse the last time. Before he scared Smiley and the others off, they stabbed him in the back, and the stone healed him. But he never said the verse. Do I need to? Not wanting to take chances, he recited the verse anyway. Nothing happened.
The girl behind him ran off screaming something about the devil.
One agonizing minute later Sancho sat up and stared at him.
“It worked, Sancho,” Francisco said, barely able to contain his elation, even though his stiff back kept him from taking deep breaths. “It worked. I can fight and the stone still heals. I used to say that if I ever got the stone, I would do more than heal others like Papa. Now I can bring justice like El Cid!”
“It was my idea,” Sancho replied. “In God’s eyes, defending a damsel is a just cause.”
“Even the crazy, screaming ones. Did you hear her?”
“I believe she was afraid of your many weapons.”
“Weapons?” Francisco said with vibrato, “Sancho, I fought them with nothing but my own flesh, until they shrank back in fear.”
“Indeed. They feared your many weapons, for you, my friend, are well armed.”
Sancho reached up and around and with effort, pulled something from Francisco’s back. Francisco felt the tug but only a hint of pain, and stared in awe at the dagger. “All we need is a stall,” Sancho said, “and we are weapons merchants.”
Francisco scoffed. “You cannot start such a business with naught but one blade.”
“Look behind you.”
Francisco turned his head around as far as he could and looked down his back. At least three other knives were embedded in his flesh. His giddy grin disappeared. “This could be a problem,” he said.
Chapter 8
Miyuki
Burgos
Local Date: 4 September 1211
MIYUKI STEPPED OFF THE POD12 platform and onto Earth for the first time in years. The fresh breeze on her face, the birds singing, and the feel and scent of real soil underfoot invigorated her. She had not been here since that day on the waterfall with floating Angelo. Now that she was graduated with honors and had been appointed as trainee recruiter under Commander Angelo, she felt like she was a part of a clan with greater honor and power than the Minamoto clan. Moreover, she and Angelo had been given the Ox Shalay prophecy that everyone had been talking about: The One of Six. It had come out of a larger text generated by the Ox Shalay that told of six recruits who would end the war between the Sittiri and the Key’ari. The end of the centuries-long war meant one thing: that there was no chance of the universe-ripping rift called the impasuko. The excitement was more than enough to distract her, and that was something she could not afford. Stay focused. The Voice will guide me and I have Angelo at my side. What is to fear?
Without a word, Angelo cautiously stepped to the edge of the tree line, and surveyed the dirt road. They were alone. He walked out into the sunlight, leaving their pod camouflaged in the undergrowth.
“Who are we?” Angelo spoke in Castilian, the language of the region. His vivid green eyes smiled.
Miyuki’s linguistic implants allowed her to understand the words, syntax, grammar, and even most of the cultural nuances of this strange language. She had become used to the internal translation while at the Academe, but even with the implant she had to remember the foreign concepts and concentrate on pronouncing them correctly. It was difficult to wrap her tongue around these sharp words. The effect was that her speech was stilted and did not flow. “You are a wool merchant and I am your wife on pilgrimage, journeying to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galtia—”
“Galicia,” he corrected her.
“In Galicia. We are from Bilbao of Navarre.” She pulled at her dress to straighten a fold. “How do I look?”
“Like the wife I never had: old, wise, and full of beauty beyond the stars.”
“You honor me with your words, but your heart is far from them.”
He favored her with a smile. “And so begins your first day as a Sittiri recruiter trainee.” He held his hand out to her in a fist. She looked up and down the tree line to be sure they weren’t observed before she touched her fist with his. They pulled them back and chanted, “Nec Tempore Rugam.” The phrase was Latin for “no wrinkle in time,” and was the motto for the Bureau of Temporal Corrections. Technical
ly, she could be cited by their supervisor for using the chant in the field, but she couldn’t refuse Angelo and lose face.
The road was dusty from lack of rain, and as they rounded a bend, she saw their destination. In her eyes, the city of Burgos was a hodgepodge of square box buildings stacked dangerously high, doomed to be knocked over by the smallest earthquake. From a distance, the city looked like a thousand Minamoto castles smashed together with their roofs pulled off to be replaced with simple slabs. When they passed through the gates, her impression did not change. The whole city was all bland stone, no porches for shade, and no breathing room. It had been cleansed of natural life: stone, everywhere stone, lacking wood, symmetry, and greenery.
They stopped at the market where vendors lined the streets with their carts of melons, cabbages, onions, crafts, and cloth. Angelo led her to an empty spot between two fruit vendors competing for passing customers. A constant stream of people moved past them, alien in costume and manners, but familiar in that, if their clothes and customs were changed, she could very well be standing on a street back in Nippon. She and Angelo appeared to be wearing clothing that blended in with the crowd. Angelo had programmed their verisuits to make them look like an older couple wearing the typical brown and gray rough fabric common for the time.
She inhaled deeply. Stay focused. The Voice will guide me and I have Angelo at my side. What is to fear? Watch for enemy attack and look for signs of the prophecy. She put into practice what she learned at the Academe. She thought of a prowling tiger and blinked to use her oc-lok13 for an Avar-Tek scan. Since she and Angelo were the only ones on assignment in this region, a high Avar-Tek reading would indicate a Key’ari or rogue. The scan was clean: no Avar-Tek.
She realized Angelo had been watching her, his green eyes almost glowing.
“Did you scan for Avar-Tek?” Angelo asked aloud. Except for the last word, he spoke in Castilian, the language of the region.
“Yes, Commander Angelo Tenishi-san.”
Angelo smiled, and addressed her by rank. “Trainee Miyuki, this is not the Academe. You don’t need to address me by my full title or add an honorarium.”
She looked down, embarrassed he understood her so well. She had to remind herself that her sensei14 had lived in Nippon, the land of the sun’s origin, for over six years and understood her people. “But you are a commander. That is such a high rank. As a trainee, I should not even be working with you.”
“I miss the way you used to pronounce my name before you knew I was Sittiri. Before you got your linguistic implant, I was Anjero, the gaijin wanderer. I like Anjero. Of all the names I’ve been given, Anjero Tenishi is the most elegant.” He regarded Miyuki. “I will tell you.”
Confused, she asked, “You will tell me what?”
“You were wondering what the worst name was. No, you didn’t cast your thoughts, but I know you and can read your face. You want to know, but are too polite to ask. The name was Bhilis Plowijay.”
Miyuki hesitated. I must pronounce each syllable with reverence. “Ah, Bhi-lis Plow-i-jay. That is not such a bad name.”
“Of course, it is. It’s terrible. How could a mother who loves her child name it Bhilis Plowijay?”
“Your mother gave you that name?
Angelo nodded. “It meant ‘good rain.’ And yes, it rained. It was our tradition for the mother to name her child after an event around the child’s birth.”
“How then did you get the name Angelo?”
“When I passed the rites of manhood at thirteen, my father gave me the name Anglos-Sekewris, which meant ‘Skillful Axe.’ It is much better growing up in a warrior society named Skillful Axe than Rain. I loved my dad.” He turned his attention back to the crowd.
Miyuki studied Angelo as he watched the people walk by. She had the distinct impression that he did not know what to do next.
“How can we find this one?” she asked.
“How? What do they teach you in the Academe these days?”
“That everyone must find their own method. But the Ox Shalay prophecy is so vague. How do you do it?”
“I listen to the Voice and use logic. Use your mind as well as your heart. As a Sittiri, you must develop this sensitivity to the Voice. Our way is not all about Avar-Tek and battle.”
“The Voice is even more vague than the Ox Shalay.”
“Not vague but quiet—a whisper, and one does not always hear it.”
“Do you hear it now?”
He closed his eyes. His chest swelled with a deep, relaxing breath. After a moment, he said, “No.” He regarded her. “So, I turn to logic. Tell me Miyuki, how would you start the search?
“You have brought us here to this Kingdom of Castile, I assume because that was the language used in the prophecy.”
“Very good. And what is the prophecy?”
She activated her oc-lok by recalling the image of the emaki scrolls hanging like tapestries in her father’s palace. She blinked, and her oc-lok displayed their assigned prophecy. It appeared, and she recited it:
“One of Six is Sweet Sadness,
of a line that heals as it hurts,
that aids as it dies,
the stone holder, the rock hider,
the street runner, and the way maker,
the soldier who weeps for the enemy,
the Christian who defends the Jew,
the hero who falls in battle,
and the student who trains in slavery.
He shall bear no device
but the stone inside.”
“So then,” Miyuki concluded, clearing her throat, not knowing what else to say, “we should look for a weeping Christian warrior with stones.”
Angelo smiled. “And with that, it will take us fifty years to find him.”
She pursed her lips, and felt her hands clench. “And what would you do, Commander Angelo Tenishi-san?”
“Sample the local brew in that tavern.” He nodded towards a vibrant establishment on the other side of the square.
The raucous sounds emanating from inside turned her stomach, and her jaw dropped. “You, the veteran recruiter, the legendary Firesmyth in the flesh, starts with ... with a drink?”
He walked toward the tavern, and said over his shoulder, “I start, young Trainee, with information.”
Chapter 9
Francisco
Toledo
Autumn, Year of our Lord 1211
502 Days on the Streets
THE CASTIGO BRUTE LUNGED at Francisco. He was a red-headed giant of a bully twice Francisco’s weight, with a nose so badly smashed into his face he had to breathe with his mouth open. Francisco dodged; the brute recovered, his eyes alert and laughing, his fingers twitching as if grasping air—an odd habit he repeated every time he missed Francisco. Francisco fought bare-chested and had oiled his skin with olive oil, a technique he learned that helped with large opponents.
All through this month since discovering the healing stone worked in a fight, Francisco took every chance he had to give the innocents on the streets a better chance to survive against the Matóns, the Sombras, the Castigos, and the Oscuros gangs. He and Sancho didn’t seek out the gangs or try to pick a fight with the whole lot of them. Instead, they kept to the shadows until a handful of gangers attacked an orphan or old beggar. The gangers weren’t daft enough to attack a merchant or the clergy. That would bring down the wrath of the alguazil. It was the unseen dregs on the streets they targeted, and so the near-invincible Francisco targeted them. Since his reputation as ‘the devil that does not die’ had started drawing the alguazil’s attention, Francisco kept more to the shadows and chose his battles with care. Each gang had been elusive to the crown and the church, either by means of stealth or because both church and state had more important concerns. The gangs were nothing more than a bunch of loose-knit young thugs held together by makeshift rules and common interests. They filled their ranks with orphans of war or famine that no one else could care for.
The Castigo brute l
unged, got hold of Francisco’s arm, but Francisco slipped out of his grip. “Hands off, Goliath,” Francisco yelled, and slapped the giant on the cheek. A roar of laughter came from the four Castigos and a growing crowd gathering behind him. Goliath growled, and Francisco ran back to the other side of the arena. He hopped on his toes, ready for Goliath’s next move.
At sunset, Francisco had followed the five Castigos to the Circo Romano, the ruins of the old Roman circus with its crumbling stone arched walls and dusty bowl-like arena. The ruins lay outside the city walls north of Toledo and away from the alguazil and the law. There the Castigos had found and started to torment two hapless orphans, a brother and sister named Vermundo and Eva. The fight had started when Francisco stepped out from the shadows to challenge them in the red-orange glow from the setting sun.
This Goliath was new. Francisco had seen him with the Castigos only in the last two weeks. The brute seemed a little unsure that joining the gangs was the right thing to do: refusing to hit anyone unless they struck first; following and wanting to please rather than leading in ruthlessness. This one, although as massive as a Leonese plow ox, does not yet have a snake’s heart like Uncle Bernat.
Goliath, faster than Francisco would have thought possible, charged. During his first year on the streets, Francisco became a master at running away and slipping out of reach. When Goliath reached for him, Francisco feigned a dodge to the left, but moved right. Goliath anticipated the move, smiled and grabbed Francisco round the waist. With little effort, Francisco weaseled out of his grip. Goliath wiped the oil off his hands and glared at Francisco, his fingers grasping at air, his chest heaving, his smile now a grimace.
Francisco had already gone down twice in this fight, but recovered each time without yielding. Now, with the Castigo champion winded and staggering, Francisco only needed to stay out of his reach long enough for an opening.
Goliath, tired of Francisco dodging, looked down and grabbed a loose stone, the size of a large bowl. “Stop running, coward,” he demanded, “or I’ll knock you with this.”
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 7
