“So after the fight at the bakery,” the man continued, “we heard about the fire. The fire brigade got Massi straight here. The doctors say she was cut up real bad. Arms, stomach, chest. And a stiletto in her shoulder. Good money says that the person who sliced up the detective also sliced up Usem and the girl at the bakery.”
Taziri turned the story over in her mind, wondering what any of it had to do with Tingis, Chaou, or her battery. The only connection she could see was Medina, and it was a connection so thin it vanished if she thought about it too hard. “Does the name Medina mean anything to you? A doctor called Medina?”
“The Espani? Sure.” The officer nodded. “She runs the shop that burned down. We send accident victims there all the time. I’ve never met her, but everyone always says she’s wonderful. She helps anyone who comes in, even if they can’t pay. It’s all thanks to Lady Sade, she’s paying the bills. But it’s a damn shame that folks around here have to go to a foreigner for help. The companies should take care of the men who get hurt, and if not them, then the queen should do something about it. But I guess Medina is better than nothing. Why do you ask? Was she hurt in the fire?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Any idea where I can find her?”
The man shrugged. “Nope. Maybe later we can go by the station and I can look up her address for you.”
Taziri nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Thank you.”
The other police officers still hovered around her, still watched her closely, but they said nothing and allowed Taziri to saunter back down the hall to her bench. She sat down and tried to imagine why anyone would ever want to put a battery inside a human being.
Why would that even cross someone’s mind, except in a nightmare? And what are the odds that an Espani doctor invented a battery like mine all on her own?
She shook her head.
There are coincidences and then there are ridiculous coincidences. No one cares about batteries. Medina had to read about my battery and then do a lot of work to build her own. She wanted to do these things. And what does that make her? A scientist or a psychopath?
Medina had read a paper about metal plates and acid baths and electrochemical properties. She had learned how to store an electrical charge in a box and read the suggested applications: running trolleys throughout the night, providing light in homes so people could read in the evenings, and enhancing the efficiency of large engines, steam engines, trains, airships…
Medina had read all that, pieced together all of those thoughts and ideas, and dreamed up an electrocution device buried in the arm of a killer. And she read about medical coatings and put armor plates in another killer’s chest. God only knows what else she read about in the journals and decided to put inside someone. Taziri felt her skin crawling and a faint taste of bile wafted up into the back of her throat.
They are insane. All of them. How else could they not just imagine such things, but talk about them, agree that they are clever and sound notions, and then cut open their own bodies to make these things real? How could any sane person do this?
A fresh rage boiled up in her chest. These people, whoever they were, had taken her dream and pissed all over it, wrapped it in blood and fire, and spewed out a new form of death. These monstrous people existed in the same world as her beautiful little girl Menna. They had taken Isoke, taken the airships, taken the major, taken her battery. And they would go on taking everything she knew, everything she loved. Taziri stood up.
She went back to the young man by the open door. “Excuse me, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to get that address now…”
“Detective!”
Everyone turned to stare through the open door at the woman sitting up in bed, her face ashen and exhausted. She blinked slowly and croaked, “What the hell is going on?”
The officers flooded into the room, carrying Taziri with them, but before they could do more than cheer and babble and congratulate each other, the nurses and doctors were demanding quiet so they could inspect their patient. Everyone stood in nervous, impatient silence while the detective was poked and tapped and stared at, and notes were taken on clipboards. Finally the doctors left and the joyful chaos resumed.
Taziri faded back to the far wall and let them have their moment, knowing it would take time, but that was all right. These officers deserved their moment. They had their friend back. Thank God for that.
“…pilot? Hey, pilot? Sorry, I didn’t get your name. Come over here.” The young man was standing beside the bed waving her over and the others made a hole for her to approach the detective. The officer told Massi, “She’s working with the marshals on a case and she needs to talk to you.”
Taziri raised her hands. “It doesn’t have to be right this second.”
“Of course it does.” Detective Massi groaned. She rocked about stiffly under the sheets trying to get comfortable, and Taziri could see the bulges of the bandages around her arms and chest. Her voice rasped and whispered like someone desperate to fall asleep. “There are things the marshals need to know, things you all need to know. But first I need to know something. Did you find another person at the fire?”
Silence.
“No?” Massi frowned at them. “A woman in a white coat? Missing an eye?”
Heads shook.
“Damn.” The detective gingerly prodded the gauze packed around her shoulder. “All right, pilot, ask your questions.”
“Engineer, actually. Lieutenant Taziri Ohana. It’s nice to meet you, detective.” She cleared her throat. “The marshals are looking to arrest Ambassador Barika Chaou. She was responsible for the attack on the train station and airfield in Tingis two days ago. We know she has some connection to an Espani doctor named Medina here in Arafez. That name brought us to the scene of the fire this morning, which brought us to you. Were you investigating Medina? Do you know anything about her connections to the ambassador?”
Massi chewed at the inside of her cheek for a moment. “All right, here’s the short version. A woman named Jedira Amadi came to me yesterday with a story. Amadi said her boss, Doctor Medina, was torturing animals in the basement of the shop. Thing is, Lady Sade had already told me about that research, so I sent Amadi home. But I did a little digging anyway and an hour later, a Persian tried to kill me for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. His friend in the white coat killed Usem and Amadi.”
Jedira? The girl from last night? Taziri stiffened. She looked down at the brace on her left arm. Was that my fault too, somehow?
Massi coughed. “I made it to the basement and saw the animals, tons of them, all dead, all carved up and jammed full of strange machines. Like something out of an Espani ghost story, but with machines instead of demons. Some of you need to get down to that shop and start digging through the wreckage. Dig right down into the basement.”
“Dig for what?”
“Those bodies I saw. They’re evidence. Evidence of what, I don’t know, but they’re evidence. And when we figure out what was really going on there…” A silent snarl curled Massi’s broken lips.
There was a suddenly rumble of discussion and three officers dashed from the room. Taziri watched them go, and then looked down at the detective. Her face was mostly overlapping bruises, her lips alternately thin and puffy, and both eyes bloodshot. “Thank you, detective. Is there anything else you can tell me about Medina or Chaou?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Taziri nodded and touched the young officer’s arm. “I’m going to need that address now.”
He stood up and straightened his jacket. “Absolutely.”
Chapter 32. Lorenzo
As he stepped out the servant’s door beside the kitchen of Lady Sade’s manor house, the midday sun glared in Lorenzo’s eyes and he quickly set his wide-brimmed hat on his head. He couldn’t be certain whether the air would be warm or cool to a local, but to him it was rapidly becoming uncomfortably sultry. With a glance at his surroundings so he could be sure to find his way back, the hi
dalgo set out down the quiet back street that ran behind several large estates.
“Enzo!”
He stopped short and turned. Qhora stood in the doorway he had just left. She was wearing the purple dress he had given her, the light cotton one with the high collar. And for once, her feathered cloak looked almost fitting over her Espani clothing.
“My lady?”
She walked up to him with a stern squint, but he could not tell whether her look indicated her mood or merely that the sun was in her eyes. “Where are you going?”
Lorenzo said, “The cook told me about a butcher shop a few blocks away. This butcher has a meat locker that I’d like to see.”
“You’re running errands for Lady Sade’s cook?” Qhora moved around him to stand in his shadow and once in the shade her expression softened considerably. “Or is this how you intend to explore the culture and hospitality of our hosts? By touring their butcher shops?”
“It’s just a curiosity. The meat locker is walled with ice, which they keep cold with some sort of machine.”
A look of understanding passed over her eyes and Lorenzo’s chest tightened as he prepared for the inevitable lecture. But instead she said, “You want to be somewhere cold. Can I come with you?”
“You’d be bored. I’m just going to pray. I’ll be back soon.”
“Praying in meat lockers.” She stared into his eyes for a moment. “Can anyone see these ghosts of yours, or only the Espani?”
“Anyone, I suppose. But only in the cold and in the dark. Ghosts are fragile things. Too much light and heat makes the aether fade apart into the air.”
“And if I come with you now, will I see her? Will I see Ariel?”
It struck him then for the first time that in all the long months together in Espana and the several times he had spent long evenings with Ariel, Qhora had never seen the lingering revenant. Indeed, she had never seen any ghosts. Probably because she never strays from the fire, never goes walking at night. “If she comes, you will see her. Do you want to see her?”
“Yes. I want to understand why she has this hold over you.”
She doesn’t believe me at all. She thinks I’m delusional. She wants to bring this to a head, to have a final fight, to force me back into being the person I was when we first met. Lorenzo glanced around the quiet alleyway for some sign, some inspiration, some help. There was none, and he stammered, “I’ve tried to tell you. She has no hold on me, not in the way that you mean. She’s just showed me the story of her life, images and feelings, her memories. And it’s made me see my own life in a very different way, a way I’m not proud of.”
Qhora started to object but he plowed on, the words tumbling out almost faster than he could think of them. “Ariel lived a pure life, the life of a nun devoted to charity and compassion. She fed the hungry, clothed the poor, tended the sick, and ministered to thieves and killers. She lived without fear, without sin, without doubt. She walked the righteous path. She did all the things the priests tell us to do but no one actually does. Ariel has shown me that holiness and purity aren’t just words. They’re real. And I am so far from them, so far below them. And it wasn’t just her charitable works. She wrote sermons and letters and hymns. She taught children to read. She studied the heavens themselves with some sort of telescope given to her by the king himself. One night she saw a falling star and she mapped where it was and led an expedition to find it. The skyfire stone, she called it. She never found it, but the point is that she tried. She did all these things for other people, all these selfless and noble things, all in the name of God, and what have I done with my life? What? Killed men? Taught other men to kill men?”
There was pain in Qhora’s eyes, but there was iron there too as she said, “Take me with you. Let me meet her.”
If Ariel had been a living woman, Lorenzo would have feared for her safety as he heard the hard resolve in the princess’s voice. He swallowed and asked, “Why?”
Qhora took his hand. Her skin was rough and dry, but warm. She said, “You are the finest man I have ever met. Brave and noble, dedicated and loyal, skilled and strong. But if that isn’t enough for you anymore, if this ghost has given you a reason to turn your back on everything you once cared about, then I want to meet her. If Ariel is so important to you, then she is important to me as well, my love. It is past time that I met her.”
“Here? Now?”
“Here. Now.”
He thought there was probably more to say at that moment before they went any farther, but he didn’t want to fight and a part of him really did want Qhora to see Ariel, to put the two of them together face to face, especially if it meant he would no longer be standing directly between their competing needs, if only for a moment or two. So he nodded and led the way down the street.
They passed dozens of men and women, most carrying baskets of food or laundry, and some leading mules laden with more of the same. Servants filtered quietly in and out of the rear doors of the proud houses on the right while elderly couples lingered on the dusty stoops of the old rowhouses on the left. Lorenzo felt their eyes on him, on his clothes, on his pale skin. He would have hurried past them all, but Qhora’s short legs kept him plodding along far slower than he would have liked.
After a quarter hour of crossing side streets and studying Mazigh street signs, they found the butcher’s shop. The butcher was not very busy and when his last customer had been served he listened to Lorenzo’s request with a confused frown twisting the whole bottom half of his face down. But he shrugged and pointed them down a short hall and then down a spiral stair to a heavy door. The metal handle on the door was cold, so cold it stung Lorenzo’s bare fingers.
Inside they found a storage room ten feet wide and twenty feet deep. The walls glistened black and silver where the blocks of ice had been stacked floor to ceiling and the moment they stepped inside their breath curled and floated in a pale vapor around their lips. A dozen huge carcasses hung from hooks in the ceiling and the racks along the walls held a variety of sport fish and exotic game birds from countries far to the east and south. Lorenzo thought he recognized a feather here or a fin there, but no names came to mind.
There was nowhere to sit except the stone floor, which was stained over and over again with the bits of flesh and blood that had fallen from the meat. Lorenzo led Qhora to the back corner where there was some space between the hanging carcasses and the wall. And they stood there.
The cold was invigorating. It stung his lips and wind pipe and lungs. It sharpened his vision even as it slowed his pulse. A thousand fragments of childhood memories crashed against his waking mind: a toy dropped in the snow, sledge tracks by the river, icicles on the cathedral roof, snowflakes on his gloves and sleeves, sliding down a hill, and the warm embrace of the fire when he came back inside the house.
Lorenzo exhaled slowly, focusing on the spiraling wisps of vapor under his nose. He knew they wouldn’t be able to stay long down here. Qhora had buried her hands in her armpits and was pressing her lips together tightly, trying not shiver.
He closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to the divine, to the existence and purpose of the soul, to the meaning of righteousness, to sacrifice, to duty, to balance and purpose and purity and every other high-minded word he had ever heard an entire sermon about.
“Enzo?” Qhora’s whisper shuddered through her trembling lips.
He opened his eyes.
Dona Ariella Espinoza de Cordoba stood beside them. The ghost was as insubstantial as smoke, yet every detail of her serene face and centuries-old dress was sharp and distinct. She appeared, as always, a plain-faced woman of middle age, short but straight-backed, with thin humorless lips but wide smiling eyes. It was a face that could comfort even as it disapproved. Lorenzo glanced from the dead nun to the living woman beside him.
Qhora studied the ghost impassively without a trace of fear of surprise on her face. “Hello, Sister Ariel. It’s very nice to meet you.” If her voice wavered, it was only a tremor from
the cold of the meat locker.
“Hello, Lady Qhora. Hello, Lorenzo.” The ghost’s whisper cut the air like a razor.
“Sister.” Lorenzo bowed his head.
“You’ve chosen a strange place to pray.” A hint of a smile played at the corner of the dead nun’s mouth as her gaze swept the room and its contents. “But strange times may call for strange places, I suppose. You looked troubled, Lorenzo. You think we’re going to have a fight, don’t you? Lady Qhora and I?”
Lorenzo shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. That’s why I came here today. I had to see you, to ask your guidance again.”
“Oh, you poor boy. There’s nothing I could say that I haven’t already said a dozen times before.”
“I just…I just feel so lost. So torn.” He swallowed and stole a look at Qhora. “I know I have to give up so many worldly things to follow in your footsteps, but my heart doesn’t want to. I don’t want to live without Qhora. And I don’t know how to live except by fencing. It’s all I know, all I’m good at. I know I’m just being afraid and selfish and weak, but…”
“Hush, Lorenzo.” Ariel turned to Qhora. “My Lady, I’m sorry it has taken so long for us to meet, but circumstances do not allow me to come and go as I once did.”
“I suppose not,” Qhora said. A shiver ran through her and she recrossed her arms. “I really didn’t think I would see…you. A ghost, I mean.”
“I know you didn’t. But Lorenzo is as sane as everyone else in our country. The souls of the dead may only be seen in the deep cold and only by a cold light. Even then, the soul must come and make itself seen, and even then, the witness must be willing to see it. I imagine that ghosts are seen throughout the northern world, but only where the people have an understanding of the afterlife.” Ariel clasped her silvery hands in front of her. “But I don’t want to keep you two down here in this place any longer than needs be. Lorenzo?”
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