Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  Taziri held her breath. The young man had just said everything that had been swirling through her mind but she hadn’t dared to say. Her brief time in Espana with Dona Qhora Yupanqui Quesada had given her only a glimpse into this strange woman’s life and mind, but Taziri had come away with a healthy respect for the small lady’s will and resolve.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, Qhora nodded and stepped closer to Alonso. “How will you feed him?”

  “Yuba can teach him how to make something. When Menna was a baby, I had to go away from time to time, so Yuba made food for her,” Taziri offered. “In fact, Alonso, I want you to stay here. We have a guest room. It’s a nice quiet neighborhood, and Yuba can give you whatever help you need.”

  “Thank you,” Alonso said. And his eyes said thank you a hundred more times.

  Qhora leaned over her baby boy and kissed him and whispered to him and the moment seemed without end until Fabris cleared his throat noisily. Qhora straightened up and handed her child over to the young man, who cradled the half-awake infant with the ease of much practice. Then he took Mirari aside and they stood close, and whispered, and embraced. And finally, Alonso stepped out of the shed.

  Taziri clapped her hands. “All right. All aboard for Carthage.”

  Fabris, Mirari, and Qhora climbed into the small passenger compartment in the center of the locomotive and when Taziri had them all strapped in securely, she strapped herself into the cockpit.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but if we’re here,” Fabris gestured to the passenger compartment, “then where exactly is the engine?”

  Taziri smiled. “I gutted this locomotive. The new engine is much smaller and lighter, and up in the front.”

  “And you’re sure this thing can fly?” he asked.

  “I’ve flown it three times already.”

  “Ah. So, is there a balloon that comes out the top or-”

  “Just hold on.” Taziri started the engine, which rumbled to life with a low growling drone. She shoved the throttle forward and the locomotive rolled quickly out of the shed down the old abandoned rail line. Out in the distance, half hidden in shadows, she could see the warning sign that marked the end of the line a quarter mile away. Maybe less.

  “It’s going to be a little noisy,” she called over her shoulder. She eyed her instruments. The speedometer was still climbing. Forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Now. Taziri grabbed the big lever on the floor beside her chair and yanked it up.

  The entire machine clanged as a dozen clamps snapped open and tiny hissing sounds escaped from every corner like a hundred angry snakes as the air pistons expanded. Starlight flooded the rear compartment as the outer panels of the locomotive folded down to uncover the inner windows. Fabris and Qhora stared out the glass with gaping mouths.

  Taziri smiled. One by one, the panels of the locomotive’s shell dropped down and snapped into place until they hung far out to each side of the machine.

  “The wings fold out!” Fabris cried with a boyish grin on his face. “Marvelous!”

  The front of the locomotive folded down and locked in place to reveal the whirling propeller blades on the nose of the machine, and behind them they heard the tail clang into position.

  Taziri took a deep breath and whispered to herself, “Contact.” She shoved the throttle hard against the stops and felt the transformed locomotive surge forward. The entire machine shuddered and rattled, and the warning sign at the end of the rail line was racing toward them, and then the strange machine leapt into the sky. The air roared underneath them as Taziri angled higher and higher and the world below dropped sharply away. After a moment, she lowered the nose and eased back the throttle slightly. The vibrations and noise faded away, leaving only the muted droning of the propeller. Below them, the city of Tingis had been reduced to a motionless swarm of fireflies in the darkness, and ahead of them the dark line of the Atlas Mountains sawed at the blue-black horizon.

  Taziri grinned. I wish you could see this, Isoke. I know you’d love it. Then she thought back to her days in the Air Corps and said, “Ladies and gentleman, sit back and relax. We’ll be in Carthage by morning. I hope you enjoy the flight, and thank you for flying on the Halcyon III.”

  Chapter 4. Shifrah

  The seats in the private compartment were very comfortable. Too comfortable. Shifrah shifted her buttocks, but everywhere she settled was soft and forgiving and threatened to mold to her contours. She wanted to sit up, to be poised and ready, to know that she could simply move properly if she had to. But the Mazigh upholstery wasn’t made for any of that.

  Through the window to her right, the Atlas Mountains were already receding into the distance beneath the midnight stars and the Numidian countryside spread out beside the train, and in the distant north a pale glimmer betrayed the Middle Sea rolling in against the shore.

  Kenan slumped beside her quite contentedly, his hand resting on the black revolver holstered on his right thigh. The softness was fine for him. Guns didn’t demand strength or leverage or balance or agility. They were indifferent weapons for indifferent killers, for more civilized people, for softer people. Shifrah grimaced and turned her attention to the man in the seat across from them.

  It hadn’t taken more than half an hour to find him, and since they were well away from Tingis and racing toward the border of Numidia with not a single obstacle between them and freedom, there had been surprisingly little tension at that moment. So she and Kenan had taken the seat across from him. Quietly. Calmly.

  Kenan had merely squinted at the Aegyptian before sliding into the seat across from him without the barest hint of a threat.

  Aker smiled, a glass of Espani wine in his hand. “I am sorry about ruining your little setup back there. I know how hard it can be to arrange a deep cover, especially in a foreign country. But then, these things do happen to the best of us.”

  “The best of whom?” Kenan asked, eyes narrowed to slits, lip thrust out in a thoughtful pout, fingers still drumming lightly on his gun. “What are you? Just a contractor? You’re not very professional for a contract killer. Carrying a sword in a country like Marrakesh isn’t very subtle, or very effective. And you said you wanted to steal the aetherium salvage from the Strait. That’s a very specific cargo. It’s useless to anyone who doesn’t know how to handle it properly, which means resources, facilities, and infrastructure. So either you’re a liar, or you’re working for some very interesting people.”

  Aker shrugged. “I’m a liar when I’m paid to lie. Shifrah, what have you told your little friend here, exactly?”

  She frowned. She hadn’t been planning to discuss anything important with Kenan, not ever. It was easier that way. After all, she knew they would only be together a short while, and the odds were always fair that she would have to kill him herself one day. Even so, their time together had passed pleasantly enough, and for far longer than she had ever expected.

  So maybe. Maybe it’s worth telling him. Hell, I can always kill him later if I have to. Not that I want to.

  Shifrah shook her head. “I haven’t told him anything specific, but I suppose it’s time now, isn’t it?” She turned to Kenan. “You know about my broker in Alexandria?”

  The Mazigh nodded.

  “His name is Omar Bakhoum.”

  Aker chuckled.

  Shifrah glared at him. “Why is that funny?”

  “Because Omar is dead,” the Aegyptian said. “Has been for years. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “He isn’t dead. What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, come now, Shifrah. I’ve been back to Alexandria three times in the last five years. Omar is never there. No one has seen him in at least seven or eight years. He went off on one of his little expeditions and this time he just disappeared.” Aker raised his glass. “He’s dead.”

  “Well if he’s dead, then who has been sending me my instructions?”

  “I couldn’t say. And I don’t care. But Omar is no more.” Aker shrugged. “Go
on, you were saying?”

  Shifrah sighed. “I was saying, Kenan, that my broker is a member of a large organization based in Alexandria. They dabble in everything. Arms, drugs, slaves. They meddle in politics everywhere. They can destabilize whole markets when they want to. Gold, silver, ivory. They control most of the eastern railway companies, as well as the new steamer shipping lanes and canals.”

  Kenan snorted. “That’s a nice story. But no one could have their fingers in so many pies. So if that’s what they told you, they were selling a myth to scare you, to impress you, to manipulate you. What do they want exactly?”

  Shifrah hesitated, wondering if Kenan might be right, if Omar might have been lying. She’d known many men and many liars, but somehow Omar had never felt dishonest. Not that feelings counted for much in their line of work. “Some of them simply want wealth and power. They consolidated Persia and reorganized it into the Empire of Eran, for one.”

  “More propaganda,” Kenan muttered.

  “But most of them,” Shifrah continued loudly, “are looking for something else. In the old days, it was called Ra’s steel or sun-steel. You know it as aetherium.”

  “Ah.” Kenan raised an eyebrow. “Now this part I believe. And what do they want with it?”

  “What else?” Aker said. “Power. Real power. Not this political nonsense. But power over the world, knowledge of all things, mastery of the elements, dominion over death itself!”

  Kenan squinted at him. “Is that all? So it’s just another cult with delusions of…well, with delusions.”

  “Is this a delusion?” Aker drew his short sword halfway from its scabbard. The blade glowed with a dark golden light, burning like the setting sun. The air around the aetherium shimmered and rippled. “The grip and sheathe are protected from the heat by a special ceramic. The blade itself can only be forged by a trained master from the far east, because they refuse to teach our own smiths how to do it. But none of that really matters. What matters is what is contained in here.” He shoved the blade home, hiding the fiery light.

  “And what is contained in there?” Kenan asked.

  “Souls. You see, this metal, which your people have so aptly called aetherium, drinks in the aether mist, and any soul that happens to touch the steel is caught in the aether riptide and sealed inside. The more souls swallowed by the blade, the hotter and brighter it becomes, though it never melts. And when wielded by a master swordsman, the souls speak and give their wisdom to their master.”

  Shifrah watched Kenan’s whole face grow tight and tense and she wondered whether he was seriously considering what he had just heard or whether he was trying to suppress his natural inclination to ridicule all things that fell outside his Mazigh sense of logic and science.

  “So, you’re saying that if you kill a man with that sword, you can steal his soul?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, you’re saying that Don Lorenzo’s soul is in that sword right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is Don Lorenzo’s soul saying to you right now?”

  Aker’s only answer was a sour smile.

  Shifrah cleared her throat. “None of that matters right now. What matters is that I have a network of allies in Alexandria who can help us avoid the Mazighs and find work somewhere else, at least for a little while.”

  “I don’t want to work somewhere else,” Kenan said. “I want to drag his murdering ass back to Tingis and watch him hang for killing the Don.”

  “Then shoot me now.” Aker held out his empty hands and grinned.

  “I’d love to, but that’s not how I work.” Kenan yawned. “When we get to Carthage, I’m going to stick my gun in your mouth and march you right onto the next train back to Tingis and then hand you over to the police.”

  “And why would I go along with that little plan?”

  “Because bullets are faster than swords.” Kenan smiled. “Then again, you’re a delusional cultist, so I may have to shoot you once or twice somewhere unimportant to get you to cooperate. But don’t worry. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

  Shifrah shot him a stern look. “You’re not going to shoot him or anyone. And you’re not taking him back to Tingis. I’m sorry your friend died tonight, but these things happen. You knew who I was and you knew who I work with. If you had a problem with it, you should have said something before now.”

  “And you shouldn’t have mistaken my silence for my approval.”

  “I don’t care. Do what you want. Just leave Aker alone. I need him.” She rested the tips of her fingers on the handle of the stiletto in her right boot.

  “Why? Why do you need him?”

  “Because he’s been back to Alexandria more than I have. He knows the new players in town. I need him to help me find Omar.”

  Aker rolled his eyes. “I already told you. Omar is dead.”

  “You know that for a fact? You saw his body? No? Then shut up,” Shifrah snapped at him. She turned back to Kenan. “Omar took care of me. I owe him. If he really is gone, then I don’t have a contact anymore, so I need to find out who has been sending me all these orders over the years.”

  Kenan frowned. “What orders, exactly?”

  Shifrah sighed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because you want me to turn my back on my home and just walk away from my job, from my responsibilities. I won’t do that if it puts my people in danger. So what sorts of orders has this mystery man been sending you?”

  Shifrah paused. “If Omar has really been missing for seven or eight years, then it includes my orders to come to Marrakesh the first time, to work for Lady Sade, to help destabilize the Mazigh government and put someone on the throne who would be more friendly to Alexandria.”

  Kenan frowned a little deeper. “Lady Sade. I haven’t thought about her in years. That was a hell of a mess. Rioting in Arafez. Assassinating the queen. You’re saying that this new mystery boss of yours set all that up?”

  “Probably.”

  “All right,” Kenan said. “Then I won’t arrest Aker here. Yet. We’ll go to Alexandria and see what we can see, and I’ll play it by ear from there. Deal?”

  Shifrah blinked. “You’re coming with us?”

  “Of course. I’m not letting him out of my sight unless I get a damn good reason to.”

  Aker smirked. “How charitable of you.”

  Shifrah shrugged. “Fine. But you’ll need to watch yourself. Alexandria can be a dangerous place. Especially for foreigners.”

  Kenan laughed. “You can say that about any place. I’ll worry about Alexandria when we get there. We have to get through Carthage first, and that won’t be any picnic either.”

  Shifrah raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that? What’s going on in Carthage?”

  Day Two

  Chapter 5. Qhora

  Through her little round window, she could look out over the wing at the rolling hills and wide open plains of Numidia. Patchwork fields and tiny towns and ant-like cattle spread out below, slowly sliding back across her view as the Halcyon droned on and on into the predawn sky. A faint smudge of pale gray and pink and yellow had appeared on the horizon, growing brighter in fits and starts between when she fell asleep and when she jerked awake.

  There were moments when she wanted to reach forward and slit Salvator Fabris’s throat for what he had done to Enzo, and to Enzo’s students, and to her. The pointless chases, the midnight raid, the cold jail cell, and the young men bleeding all over the floor.

  But none of them had died.

  The boys were all back home at Enzo’s fencing school just outside Madrid, training, playing, and waiting for their master to return. Qhora sighed and felt a horrible stain crawl over her memory of home. She would have to tell them. One day very soon she would have to walk inside, call them together, and say out loud that Don Lorenzo was dead, and they would all have to leave to find other schools or to go home and find something else to do with their lives. Don Lorenzo’s fencing school was al
ready a thing of the past.

  For a moment, she envied their ignorance. But only a moment. Their doom was coming. All their plans and hopes of the future were already shattered. They just didn’t know it yet.

  She tried to remember the faces of the two people Salvator had killed in the Pyrenees. The Italian chemist and the Eranian student. Plane crash survivors, refugees, and ultimately victims of someone else’s greed and cruelty, their bodies left by necessity high on a mountain path in a raging snow storm. She wondered if anyone had ever found the bodies, or if they were still there where Enzo and Taziri had left them.

  Qhora sighed. It’s all so far away and long ago now.

  She couldn’t bring herself to care about the young Italian. Dante had been a rude and selfish creature. But the girl, Shahera, she had reminded Qhora of a childhood friend in faraway Cusco. And for her death, Qhora almost pulled the Songai knife from her boot and plunged it between Salvator’s shoulder blades.

  But she didn’t. She needed him. For now. Needed his money. Needed his knowledge. Maybe she would even need his sword. But then, when this was over and she didn’t need him anymore, then she could kill him. She could kill him for Shahera, and Enzo and the boys, and even for Dante.

  Why didn’t Enzo kill him when he had the chance?

  They had dueled. The Italian lost. But Enzo let him go. Qhora’s lip curled into a little smile.

  He let him go with a broken sword and two feet of steel through his hand into his kidney. Espani justice. It was almost enough for me back then. Almost.

  “We’re coming up on Carthage,” Taziri called back over her shoulder. “I’ll be landing in just a minute and then we’ll enter the city on one of the branch lines.”

  “Branch line?” Salvator looked up. “You mean you’re going to land this contraption on a railroad track?”

  “Of course.” Taziri glanced back with a grin.