Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “You’re a hero, sir.” Diego straightened up, eyes wide and pale lips twitching in a nervous smile. “I’ve heard all the stories. You single-handedly rescued a princess from a mountain fortress. You led the Espani armies in the Incan wars. You saved the royal family of Marrakesh from assassins. Sir, there is no one in the world, no one in history, who has led a life like yours.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “And you want to do those things?”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

  Lorenzo closed his eyes and shoved his long black hair back over his head. “Diego, that princess of mine rescued herself. In the New World, I led less than a hundred men in a three-day march, retreating from Cartagena to the ship that carried us home. And in Marrakesh last year, I stabbed two soldiers in the hand and then spent the rest of the morning watching over a handful of children after the attack. And while the Mazigh royal family did survive, the queen did not.”

  Diego stared down at his own empty hands, a horrified glare wrinkling his forehead. “It was all lies?”

  “I haven’t lied, ever, and I doubt your storytellers were trying to deceive you. They probably just embellished a little to entertain you. Or to sell newspapers.” Lorenzo turned his back to the windows and looked at the youth. “Most of the men who went to the New World died of the plague, and those who survived the Golden Death were killed by giant flesh-eating birds and war-cats like the ones chained up in my stable. Looking back, I have absolutely no idea how I survived any of it. God must like me very much. Or not at all, depending on your point of view.”

  The youth shivered.

  “Diego, we both know this is not working out. You’re a very bright young man and I’m sure your father will be able to find you a teacher or a master who can train you in some vocation better suited to your talents,” Lorenzo said. “Perhaps accounting or mathematics.”

  “Did someone mention mathematics?” a voice called from the hallway.

  Lorenzo frowned and crossed to the door. At the end of the hall he saw two men coming toward him. Both strangers. He backed away from the door to let them enter the practice room. “Gentlemen, I am Don Lorenzo Quesada. Can I help you?”

  The older man wore a weathered navy coat and an amused smirk. The younger man wore a black wool coat trimmed in ermine and a barely concealed sneer.

  “Don Lorenzo, I am Commander Rui Faleiro, cartographer, engineer, and cosmographer to Lord Admiral Ferdinand Magellan,” said the older man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you and your school here. And may I introduce a recent acquaintance of mine.” He gestured to the grim-faced youth. “This is Silvio de Medici.”

  Lorenzo shook their hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, and an honor to have you visit my school. Can I offer you something to eat or drink? Will you be staying here with us tonight?”

  “We will be staying the night, if it is no trouble, Don Lorenzo.” Faleiro smiled and clasped his hands. “Although I’m afraid we will not be staying long. I must return to the admiral and my duties, and my young friend here will be heading home soon as well. Back to Rome.”

  “Don Lorenzo.” The Medici youth nodded curtly. “I’ve come to deliver you a challenge from my master, Ridolfo Capoferro.”

  “Oh?” Lorenzo said. Capoferro knows my name? Should I be flattered or afraid? “And what sort of challenge might that be?”

  “Me. He’s sent me for an exhibition match. Today, if possible. I’ve come to test your sword-of-mercy style on his behalf.”

  “Sword-of-life style,” Lorenzo corrected. “But I’m sorry to say that I am not prepared to have any of my students spar with you. This is still a very new school. I have only a dozen pupils and none are ready for an exhibition match with a student of Senor Capoferro.”

  “You misunderstand, sir. I’ve not come to fight your students. I’ve come to fight you.” Silvio let a little more of his sneering smile spread across his face. “Unless you yourself are not ready to face a student of Master Capoferro.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Well, I’ll certainly try my best for a son of the house of Medici. Would you like a few hours to rest and prepare?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been sitting in a freezing cold saddle all morning,” said Silvio. “I’m aching for action. We can begin as soon as you are ready.”

  Lorenzo shrugged. “As you wish. I’ll gather my students to observe and have the main hall readied. Half an hour, then?”

  “Half an hour.” Silvio inclined his head slightly.

  “Good. Diego here will show you to the dining room where we will give you something to warm your bones while we get things ready.” Lorenzo gestured for his pale and sweating student to lead his guests back down the hall. Only when they were gone did he allow himself an unfettered smile.

  An hour later, he stood in the corner of the main hall by the window, looking out over snow-covered hills and skeletal trees and frozen ponds. Even in the mid-day glare, the world was quiet and still. No engines, no smoke, no steam, no filth. And down in the city, he knew there were no poor beggars in the alleys, no orphans running barefoot in the streets. Anyone not fortunate enough to have a home of their own was living with someone else, with family or friends, or at the very least, in the old cloister on the far side of the city. No one was cold. No one was hungry. No one was forgotten or ignored. Their money was gone and the nascent industry all stillborn in unfinished factories, but the survivors were still decent people. They’re still Espani. And that’s all that really matters.

  “Enzo?”

  He turned and couldn’t help but smile at his wife. Qhora wore one of her new dresses that blended the modesty of Espani high society with the color and grandeur of her Incan homeland. Green and gold cloth, white lace at her throat and wrists, a magnificent frill of peacock feathers around her neck and shoulders, and thick gold ribbon tying back her sleek black hair. She was not smiling. “Enzo, what’s going on?”

  “Just a little match. This young man’s come all the way from Ridolfo Capoferro in Italia to try to humiliate me in front of my own students,” Lorenzo said mildly.

  “Are you sure that’s all this is? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “That makes two of us.” He glanced down at her belly. “How are you feeling today?”

  “The same. I told you, as soon as I know something, then you will know something.” She looked away. “Sometimes, these things take time.”

  “I know. I’m in no hurry. We’re still young.”

  “Be careful.” Qhora looked back up at him. “I don’t like this Italian.”

  “I don’t like any Italians. But that’s just my Espani pride talking, I’m sure.” He kissed her on the forehead. “You don’t have to watch if it troubles you, but you don’t need to worry. I know what I’m doing. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” She kissed his lips. “But if you do let him cut you, don’t let him cut anything important.” And behind the screen of her dress, she slipped her hand down between his legs and gave him a light squeeze.

  “Yes, dear.” Lorenzo took his place at the end of the room and shook his sword in its supple leather sheathe at his side. “Master de Medici, whenever you’re ready.”

  The Italian was ready. He had been ready, been standing at the other end of the room, alone, waiting with his hand on his sword and a scowl on his face. Twelve other young men from all over Espana stood along the walls, youths from Tartessos and Gadir, from Sevilla and Malaga, from Granada and Ejido. They were all young, so young. Young men with pale drawn faces, uncertain eyes and nervous hands, sweaty brows and shuffling feet.

  Lorenzo studied his students. Not a single real diestro among them. At least not yet.

  Rui Faleiro stood near the center of the room, still grinning merrily with a glass of beer in his hand. “To your health, gentlemen!” He finished his drink.

  Lorenzo saluted. Silvio saluted. Lorenzo assumed the classical destreza stance, tall and straight, sword held parallel to
the ground. Silvio grinned as he settled back into a more relaxed pose, a casual stance that conveyed nothing about his skill but volumes about his confidence.

  The Italian attacked. A slash at the face, a slash at the belly. Lorenzo snapped his wrist from side to side, swatting him away, and then assumed a similarly relaxed pose identical to his opponent.

  Silvio stopped grinning. “What is this? You’re copying me? Are you giving up on your own style already?”

  Lorenzo shook his head. “You’re a bit confused, young man. You see, I don’t have a style. Not really. Not as you understand it.”

  The Italian glared. “Then what is all this, this school of yours? What is the Quesada style? The Madrid style? Is it really just a religious cult like they told me in Valencia?”

  Lorenzo smiled and shrugged. “Actually, you’re not too far off.”

  Silvio dashed forward to cut the leg, to cut the arm, to cut the chest. But each time Lorenzo slipped sideways and parried, always parried, never blocked, never stopped the Italian cold. Every slash and cut of Silvio’s blade was deftly pushed aside an inch here or an inch there. But each time Lorenzo fell back a step or two.

  “Alonso,” Lorenzo called to the tall young man by the window. He was more skilled with a guitar than an espada, but he was still better than the others. “Why do we fight? For money? For glory? For ourselves?”

  “No, sir. We fight for the ones who stand behind us,” the youth said, his fist over his heart. “We fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. We fight for those who should not have to fight. We are the line in the sand that cannot be crossed. We are the shield that will not break. We are-”

  “Alonso, Alonso.” Lorenzo grinned and waved his hand. “Where are you getting all this?”

  “Sorry, sir. Just something I was working on in my head. I thought it might do for a song.”

  “No, no. It’s good. I should put it in the manual. Is there more?”

  Alonso nodded earnestly. “We are the shield that will not break, the blade that does falter, and the knee that does not bend. May all the swords in the world shatter before us until war is only a memory and God’s peace fills all men’s hearts.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “I like that. Very good, Alonso.”

  “Thank you, sir. The first version was utter crap.”

  “Language, Alonso.”

  The youth covered his mouth. “Sorry, did I say shit again?”

  “Language!”

  Lorenzo grinned as the attacks came faster, the young Italian grimacing and grunting with each stroke. Now Lorenzo stood his ground and let the blows fall hard on his squared-off blocks. A crash on the right, a crash above his head. The youth was slight but strong and Lorenzo felt the ache building in his own shoulder. He stared into the Italian’s eyes, wondering what might be burning and turning in the youth’s brain.

  Lorenzo shoved him back a step. “Are you hoping to make a name for yourself here? Am I so famous in Italia that defeating me would buy you a song?”

  Silvio rolled his shoulder back and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It will buy me my own fencing school, a position with the guild, a place on the council, and then one day I will be Duke of Firenze. My entire career begins today, here with you.”

  “Ah.” Lorenzo nodded. “I see. Well, good luck to you.” And he dashed backward two steps.

  Silvio’s eyes went wide and he lunged. For the first time in three minutes of continuous swordplay, he lunged. The slender Italian blade leapt like lightning, a narrow flash in the white sunlight, the youth’s entire body taut and straight and driving toward the heart.

  Lorenzo noted every line, every angle, every curve of the man’s body and blade. And he slipped beside it and let the point stab at the empty air, and then drove his own Toledo steel through the swept hilt of the Italian sword to pin the man in place. He leaned down and whispered in Silvio’s ear, “Thank you. I’ve been dying to learn Ridolfo’s so-called perfect lunge. I can’t thank you enough for saving me the journey all the way to Italia to see it.”

  Then he jerked Silvio off balance, planted his boot on the Italian blade, and wrenched the youth forward. The Roman steel sheared off in one sharp snap.

  Lorenzo backed away and sheathed his own sword. “Master de Medici, you can take your hilt and go in peace. But leave the blade. That’s forfeit. That’s the price of your lesson.”

  Silvio stumbled upright and swallowed. “That’s it? That’s your style? That’s your vaunted philosophy of combat?”

  “Yes.” Lorenzo pointed at the blade on the floor. “One less sword in the world. And maybe one wiser man in it as well.”

  The youth sneered, threw down his hilt, and strode out of the hall.

  The grinning students cheered. Lorenzo shook the hands offered to him, graciously accepting the overzealous praise, and then sat down to relax his tired arm and let some of the tension out of his back. As his students clustered eagerly around him, he watched Qhora slip out the door, giving him one last fleeting look before she left. He also watched Rui Faleiro slip out the same door behind her, but he wasn’t worried. These days, she carried four exotic knives on her person.

  Well, four that I know about, at least.

  Chapter 2. Qhora

  She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her palms. Qhora had always been anxious watching Lorenzo fight with that tiny excuse for a sword, but ever since the wedding she could barely stand to see him in danger. Even in practice.

  When did I become so weak and squeamish? He’s always been strong. He survived the plague and the wars. He survived me. And worse, I let him see how afraid I am. It’s this place. This miserable country. If he did die, then his students would leave, and his servants would leave, and I would be utterly alone. Just another childless widow forced into a convent for their stupid three-faced god.

  She passed down a narrow corridor and stepped off into a small room where she would often go to read and practice her Espani domestic skills. On the little table lay her attempts at sowing and knitting, drawing and painting, and even calligraphy. She sat in her chair and stared out the window. That was another habit she had taken from Enzo. Staring out at the world in silent contemplation. She often wondered what he felt gazing at his wintry homeland, but she knew what she felt. Bored.

  No hint of green except in the brief reprieve these people called summer. Two months of grass and stunted fruit trees. Qhora closed her eyes and tried to remember the rainforests, the endless jungles pulsating with life. The chirps and drones of millions of insects, the screams of monkeys, the songs of birds, the roars of the great cats. The Empire was never silent, even at night in the dead of winter. But here in Espana, one could imagine the world itself was dead. Nothing but snow and ice, a world drained of all color and sound except the pale slate blue of the sky and the dry rasping of the wind.

  A knock at the door drew her attention to the older gentleman in the hall. Buried beneath layers of shirts and coats, it was difficult to tell what sort of build he had, but judging from the weak chin and soft jowls, she guessed he was little more than a scarecrow with a lump of fat around his belly and neck with no room wasted on frivolous muscle. Not a threat to m e, she thought.

  He smiled. “Excuse me, Dona Qhora?”

  The title still sounded strange to her even after a year of marriage. “Yes?”

  “I’m Commander Rui Faleiro. I’ve come to speak with your husband on several matters of business. But I have a bit of a strange question for you, if you’ll indulge me.” His smile was false, but probably more from practice than actual deceit. “When we arrived a short while ago, we heard some strange noises coming from your stables. The boy out there said I should ask you about it.”

  Qhora nodded. “What you heard, sir, were my personal animals. A kirumichi and a hatun-anka from the New World.”

  The man smiled blankly. “And what are they?”

  “The one is a hunting beast.”

  “Like a hound?”

  “Exactly. Onl
y he is a cat, and eight times the size of a hound, with fangs as long as your hand, and he is trained to hunt men. And to eat them.”

  Faleiro’s smiled wavered. “And the other?”

  “My mount. A bird twice as tall as I am, and almost as deadly as the cat.”

  Faleiro nodded slowly. “Is that so? Fascinating.” He stepped over the threshold and folded his hands politely in front of him. “If you will indulge a further intrusion, Dona, I would also like to ask you about your husband before I meet with him this evening. I thought it wise to consult the lady of the house so as to be…well prepared.”

  “Thank you for that. It seems few people here care much for what a lady thinks.” She pointed him to the other chair in the room. “What business did you come to discuss?”

  Faleiro sat and began a long ritual of wiggling his buttocks and rearranging the folds of his coats under his legs. “Yes, well, I serve under Lord Admiral Ferdinand Magellan, who is currently rebuilding our naval forces in the Middle Sea. With the loss of our Atlanteen fleet in the New World, our reserves are stretched to their limit maintaining even the most basic patrols. But in addition to ships, there is something else that concerns the Lord Admiral, which is our men’s ability in hand-to-hand fighting when the ships come together in battle. We are currently recruiting combat instructors from across Europa and North Ifrica to train our new sailors. Just last month we hired a wrestling champion from Hellas, for example. And I’m here today to ask your husband to train our sailors in swordplay. We have an Italian fellow at the moment, but I don’t think he’s going to work out, frankly. But Don Lorenzo’s reputation is well earned, judging from that display back there. He is without question one of the most skillful diestros I have ever seen. He is stunningly fast. But he also has this religious reputation, which concerns me. In your opinion, Dona, what do you think he would say to my proposal?”

  Qhora folded her cold, dry hands in her lap. “First, he would thank you for your generous offer. And then he would politely decline it.”