Wayra was not clumsy or delicate. She moved with the same powerful grace as her rider, trotting proudly down the road, her head snapping from side to side so she could study the world with her massive black eyes. Lorenzo guessed Wayra’s beak to be three hand-spans long and half that in width, though he had never dared to measure it. In the Empire he had seen Incan warriors riding the hatun-ankas into battle, the feathered monsters screaming as they raced through the forests and across the hills, their stunted wings held tight against their bodies. When they leapt upon the Espani cavalry, the horses were crushed into the dust beneath talons as cruel as sabers and the riders were torn to pieces by iron beaks that could crush a skull or snap a ribcage in a single thrust. And then the hatun-ankas would feed, bright red blood streaming across their pale golden beaks.
Lorenzo nudged his nervous mare a bit farther to the left. In España, Wayra had been confined to a corner of a stable where he had rarely been forced near her. The journey across the Strait in the Mazigh steamer had been tense but brief, and the journey to the capital at Orossa should have been similarly swift aboard the train. But now he counted the hours and days of riding that stretched out before him, hours and days of sitting with his head only a few feet from Wayra’s beak.
With some satisfaction, he saw that Lady Qhora was wearing the dark green dress he had given her last winter. White silk and lace covered her neck and chest and rustled at her wrists, ensuring that no man might see more than was proper. But she refused to ride side-saddle, and so the skirts lay in wrinkled disarray across her lap, revealing her soft riding boots nearly to her knees. She had not cut her hair since coming to España and now it hung decadently past her shoulders to mingle with the brilliant golds and greens and blues of her feathered cloak. The princess glanced at him and he looked away quickly. I am not a boy any more. If Ariel could tend to thieves and lepers, the least I can do is not lust after Qhora. Love can be chaste and pure. I must try harder. I must pray harder.
Behind them both, Xiuhcoatl drove the wagon carrying their small bags, the two cages, and the sleeping saber-toothed cat. Atoq had leapt into the cart the moment Lorenzo brought it to the hotel, and after sniffing about in the straw and circling several times, the great cat had collapsed in a huff and was soon dreaming, his paws scratching gently at the floorboards.
The old Aztec warrior had shown little interest in the news that the train had been destroyed, or that the airship had been destroyed, or that dozens of people had been killed, or that they now faced a much longer journey across Marrakesh. Nothing ever seemed to interest or trouble the man, but Lorenzo didn’t think anything of it. Xiuhcoatl had left his homeland in some northern province to serve in the great wars in Jisquntin Suyu, and then pledged his service to a young Incan princess only days before she had been forced to flee the city, the country, and then across the sea to España. The Aztec did not speak Quechua, though he seemed to understand enough to obey Lady Qhora’s orders. And he certainly didn’t speak Espani or any other language of the Middle Sea kingdoms. Lorenzo didn’t think anything of that either. But he sometimes envied the solitude that the Aztec must have enjoyed behind the wall of his strange language and his jaguar-skin cloak.
No one gives him a second look, thinking him some dull savage. And no one demands anything of him, except for my lady, Lorenzo reflected. To have such clarity of purpose. To be truly free to ignore the world and all its base distractions, to be totally dedicated to a single task in life. What a paradise that must be.
Ahead, the road angled up slightly and Lorenzo nudged his mare into a canter to reach the top of the rise and look ahead. The highway speared across the plains with uncanny precision, drawn by proud engineers and carved across the land by even prouder engines.
Even their roads are unnatural.
A dozen yards to the right, the train tracks shadowed the road with the same precision, the two rails gleaming in the morning light. Lorenzo tugged the mare’s head over so he could look back at the short distance they had traveled already. Tingis still appeared on the horizon, the spires of the temple and the governor’s estate rising proudly against the pale pink sky. He watched the winds play through the tall grasses for a minute as Lady Qhora rode past, and he was about to turn and follow her when a shimmer in the grass caught his eye.
The wind gusted from left to right, from the sea toward the mountains, and the grasses laid down like willing supplicants, except for one place just a few yards from the edge of the road. Down in the drainage ditch, the grass was rippling from north to south. It was bending toward him. Toward his Qhora.
As the horse-drawn wagon rolled by, Lorenzo said in his broken and unpracticed Quechua, “Xiuhcoatl, there are men following us. Be ready.”
The old Aztec nodded ever so slightly as he drove past, and Lorenzo saw him lift the blanket off the seat beside him to reveal his sword. The hidalgo grimaced at the sight of it. It wasn’t a sword at all, only a wooden club studded with obsidian spikes to create a sort of crude blade along its edges. It weighed half a dozen pounds, requiring both hands even from its grim-faced master, and at its fastest it was still as slow as the moon compared to the shooting star of Lorenzo’s espada. But he had seen men dismembered by that sword, their bones crushed, their flesh shredded, their hot blood gushing in a dozen places at once. Lady Qhora called the obsidian sword a macuahuitl. He had never asked what the word meant.
Lorenzo touched the medallion under his shirt. May the Father, the Mother, and the Son spare me such a fate as the macuahuitl.
As the wagon rolled past, he looked over the side at the sleeping mound of Atoq. The great cat would sleep most of the day before wandering out at evening to hunt. Beside him and their bags of clothing and food, the two small cages clacked and thumped against the far side of the wagon. Inside them, the two saber-toothed cubs swatted at each other through the bars. Behind them, Lorenzo saw the strange ripple in the grassy ditch still bending toward them against the wind.
Who can it be now? Do they mean to rob us, or worse?
Ariel’s pale face drifted across his mind’s eye, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he had really seen her or only imagined it. He swallowed and blinked back the sudden tears.
Ariel, can you see me? Are you watching over me in this strange land?
Only the wind answered him. Lorenzo turned his mare back up the road and came alongside Qhora. “I’d like to put some distance between us and the city before the morning travelers come out. I’d rather they not see us. They might be tempted to rob us, and I’d rather not leave a trail bodies from Tingis to Orossa.”
“If the queen of Marrakesh knew how to provide for her people, or how to police her people, we wouldn’t have to leave a trail of bodies wherever we go,” Qhora said. She glanced at him and her face softened. “But we are here in the name of Prince Valero. For his sake, we will try not to kill too many Mazighs.”
“Thank you, my love.” He nudged his mare into a quick trot just as Wayra broke into a sprint and dashed away down the road with a squawk and a hiss. Glancing back, he saw Xiuhcoatl whip his draft horse into a slightly quicker pace, which would leave him far behind both the hidalgo and the princess in just a few minutes. Lorenzo sighed and lashed his mare into a gallop. “Qhora!”
It took almost three minutes to catch up to the giant bird and catch the princess’s attention. She reined in Wayra and stared down at her escort as he explained the need to stay together with the wagon. As he spoke, he could see the impatience and frustration in her narrowed eyes and pressed lips, but she did not argue as she turned back to join the wagon, which was now hidden by another rise in the highway.
A deep-throated growl echoed across the plain and Lorenzo kicked his horse into another gallop as they passed back over the last hill and saw the old Aztec standing in the wagon’s seat, his obsidian sword glinting in the early morning light. The saber-toothed cat crouched on the ground beside the wagon, terrifying the draft horse into a constant stream of whinnies and sidesteps, s
lowly pulling the wagon away to escape the growling cat. At the opposite side of the road, two men in faded brown uniforms stood knee-deep in the grass with shining revolvers in their hands.
Lorenzo swallowed. Guns. “Qhora, stay back!” He charged down the hillside and whipped his espada free. Oh Ariel, if I survive this I swear I will never leave home again!
Xiuhcoatl shouted something in Nahuatl that no one within four thousand miles could understand as he jumped down to the ground beside Atoq, brandishing his weapon in a two-handed grip. The huge cat dashed forward to swipe at the first gunman, who stumbled back and fell into the ditch, disappearing under the tall grass. Atoq snarled and paced back to the wagon.
The yards quickly vanished beneath his horse’s hooves and Lorenzo passed his sword to his left hand. With a flick of his wrist, the hidalgo slashed the gunman’s shoulder as he galloped by and heard the revolver clatter on the hard-packed dirt and gravel of the road. Wheeling around, Lorenzo saw the man clutching his arm and jumping back down into the ditch, and the two men scrambled back the way they had come through the waving grasses. When they were out of sight, Lorenzo sheathed his espada and trotted back to the wagon, pausing to hop down and retrieve the dropped revolver. Xiuhcoatl was roughly stroking the cat’s head and patting his side. Atoq purred, butting his head against the man’s hand. And then the cat circled to the back of the wagon, leapt up into the straw, and flopped down again beside the caged cubs.
To his relief, Lorenzo saw that the princess had stayed at the top of the hill, sitting in her strange saddle on her strange beast, the feathers of her cloak fluttering in the cool morning breeze.
The old Aztec warrior dropped onto his seat, picked up the reins, and got the wagon moving again. Lorenzo rode beside him to the top of the rise and Lady Qhora fell into step beside him.
After a moment she said, “They had guns.”
“Soldiers, judging from their uniforms,” he said. “Deserters, maybe.”
“They had guns, Enzo.” She glanced at him. “They might have killed you. We’ve talked about this. You need to be more careful. You can’t fight guns with a sword.”
He said, “No, but I can fight men with a sword.”
“You didn’t kill them. You should have.” Her voice quavered, or at least he thought it did. “Deserters are traitors. Killing them would have been a service to the Mazigh queen.”
Was she this bloodthirsty when we first met? I don’t remember. But that was another life for both of us, in another world. So much has happened, so much has changed. I could never explain to her why I spared these two, or those three men last night. She wouldn’t understand.
Lorenzo reached up to touch the triquetra medallion beneath his shirt. “Perhaps.”
She saw his hand on his chest. “Does it trouble your faith to kill these people? They’re not your people. And they’re not even decent people.”
“It troubles my faith to kill any people. And they are decent people. They’re just going through a difficult time,” Lorenzo said. Do I even believe that? I’ve been hungry, cold, and frightened. I lived on the streets of Tartessos, in the winter, surviving on the charity of others for half a year and never robbed anyone. I crawled through ten miles of vermin-infested jungle with a bullet in my leg and never robbed anyone. “The last time I came here, ten years ago, it was to sing in a choir in Port Chellah. It was different then.”
“You were a boy then. You saw it differently. I doubt the country itself has changed at all.”
He nodded. “You’re probably right. More’s the pity.”
As they continued down the highway, Lorenzo caught sight of a few plowed fields high in the hills to his left, and a few delicate tendrils of smoke from some farmer’s house. Far from the madness of politics. The hidalgo dropped his hand from his medallion. How did life ever become so complicated?
If only I hadn’t met her. He stole a glimpse of Qhora and couldn’t help but smile at the young lady’s profile glowing in the morning sunlight. No, I can’t imagine that.
If only I hadn’t brought her back with me. No, her cousin would have sacrificed her.
If only she would convert, then I could marry her. But that would keep me at court. I would have to keep fighting, and teaching others to fight, and finding myself in these places, forced to kill or be killed.
If only Ariel had never come to me, had never shown me the true path, had never shown me the brokenness of my old life. I could have gone on living with Qhora, loving her, enjoying her, blissful in our sin.
If only.
His eyes darted over to the young woman beside him, her beautiful face so proud and defiant, her glorious feathered cloak shining in the early morning light.
How can I choose between her and Ariel? Between the real world and a holy life? Between happiness and holiness? Between love and God?
How can anyone? He sighed. I suppose most people don’t have to, do they?
Chapter 9. Taziri
After two hours lying on the bench with her eyes closed praying for sleep, Taziri was still unable to drift off knowing that she had only the doctor and the girl to deal with Hamuy. So she lay very still and over the lip of the far window she watched dawn break over Port Chellah, a dim and muted awakening out beyond the eastern ridge that shifted the darkness of night into a world of slate blues and pale morning mists. The gloomy half-light cast the cabin’s interior in a hundred shades of gray that revealed hints of the people around her. An old Hellan man with an enormous nose. A shackled prisoner with a burned face and a metal plate in his chest. And Ghanima, sitting beside the hatch with the gun belt around her waist, peering out across the airfield at something Taziri could not see.
A steady rhythm of footfalls in the thick grass outside drew her gaze to the window. Kenan jogged up to the gondola, little more than a boy in a long red coat, his face sweaty and breathing labored. Taziri sighed. I’m going to have to sit up now. But she didn’t move yet. Five more minutes, please.
Ghanima stepped into the open hatchway. “What’s your name?” Her fingers rested lightly on the butt of the gun.
“Did the major come back?” he asked breathlessly.
“Name first.” Ghanima’s thumb slipped down to the snap on the holster.
“Corporal Kenan Agyeman.” The young marshal stopped, still breathing heavily. “That’s my gun you’re wearing.”
“I know.” She smiled brightly as she returned his weapon. “Taziri told me to expect you.”
“Where is she?”
“Sleeping. I woke up a few hours ago and she explained what was going on. And she needed the sleep more than I did. She mentioned the major, too. He saved my life.” Ghanima glanced across the empty field. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know.” Kenan peered over her head at the prisoner as he slipped on his gun belt. “We got separated. There was a fight. Ambassador Chaou killed the police captain and took off on a horse, and the major went after her on our horse. I tried to follow them, but they were gone. I’ve been looking for him all night.”
Taziri grimaced as she lay on the bench. Now what? Am I really supposed to take Hamuy back to Tingis and report to the Marshal General? Or should I wait for the major?
“So what do we do now?” Ghanima stepped back into the shadows of the cabin. “Do you have any idea where to look for him?”
“No.” Kenan sat down on the lip of the open hatch and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. He told Ohana to report back to Tingis if he didn’t make it back. I never thought he wouldn’t make it back. Or that I would if he didn’t.” He squinted over his shoulder at her. “I guess we should go then, but…we can’t just go. The major is here somewhere. We have to find him. And the ambassador.”
“Then that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Taziri groaned as she slowly sat up on the bench. “We’ll find them both.”
Ghanima nodded. “Well, that’s fine, but what about the major’s orders?”
Taziri shrugged. “He’s Section Two. We
’re Section Four. Technically, he can’t give us orders anyway.”
“That’s true,” Kenan said. “Technically. Although, I bet the Board of Generals would see it differently.”
Ghanima raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but where does that leave us? We have a dangerous prisoner and only one gun, and we don’t know where to look, and apparently the police are as corrupt as the diplomats.”
“Exactly,” said Kenan. “We can’t trust anyone right now. We need to find the major, fast.”
“Wait. We?” Ghanima pointed at the man on the floor. “What about him? What about the airship? We’re not police. We’re not even armed.”
Taziri sighed. “Life is full of small challenges.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just something Isoke says.” Taziri thought for a moment. There’s no good way to do this, is there? “Well, one of us needs to stay on the Halcyon and the other can go with Kenan to look for the major. I know this ship better than you. Are you up for helping him?”
Ghanima nodded. “Absolutely. Besides, I’ve got the best eyes in the Air Corps. Who better for a search detail? Kenan, do you know this town at all?”
“I should. I was born here,” he said.
“Good. Where did you last see the major?”
Kenan pointed out across the field to the west where the streets flowed downhill to the waterfront. “They rode into town along the coast road. I saw them go into the older warehouses and I searched for hours before I decided to come back here. I was hoping he’d be back already.”
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 7
