The sky faded from slate blue to violet to black. As the last glimmer of color vanished from the northern horizon, he thought he glimpsed a small dimple, a tiny black figure that hadn’t been there before.
Well, either it’s them, or it isn’t.
He tossed the gnawed core of his apple off the edge of the platform and began alternately biting off chunks of his cheese and bread. The rolls weren’t as dark or rich as the bread at home and the cheese was far less pungent, leaving the meal somewhat tasteless and hollow. The last apple beckoned from his pocket, but he refrained. His eyes had adjusted to the brightening starlight and now he was certain he could see something in the distance, a hard black shape far out on the train tracks, still small but distinct in the silvery sea of grass that rippled and shivered in the rising wind.
It was a train. He heard it huffing and clacking before he could see the trail of steam above it. Maybe ten minutes away now. Did they send someone to get the other engine from the crash site? He glanced around the empty platform again. If they did send someone out there, they sure forgot to leave anyone here to meet them. No. What if it’s the woman in white?
Lorenzo rested his left hand on the pommel of his espada. I only cut her hand. I didn’t mean to hurt her much, but maybe I should have hurt her a little bit more. Enough to scare her away. He took his hand off his sword. No. No more blood today.
When the train rolled slowly into the station, the trail of steam from the funnel had already been reduced to a few pale wisps in the night air. The wheels hardly squeaked as the brakes were applied and the locomotive halted at the edge of the platform. It was too dark to see much of the boiler but the twisted and broken outline of the cab was distinctive enough. Lorenzo strolled down to meet it, but stopped well away from it. “Hello?”
The woman in white stepped out of the crushed and mangled remains of the cab. In the half light, he couldn’t make out the details of her face, only the pale gleam on her nose and cheeks, and the white bandage wrapped tightly around her left hand. She gave him a long, tired look before shrugging and saying, “You again.”
“Are you all right?”
She held up her bandaged hand. “You’re better than Salvator Fabris.”
He blushed and was grateful for the darkness. “I doubt that.”
“He could never cut me.”
“You were lovers. I doubt he wanted to.” Lorenzo exhaled slowly, praying for a visible trace of his breath, but his prayer went unanswered. It was too warm. Still, he touched the medallion beneath his shirt and tried to imagine what a kind and saintly person would say to this woman. “Why did you attack us?”
“For the money.”
“Our money? Whose money?”
She shook her head. “No names. I still have my knives, Espani.”
“And I have my sword. We both have things. How nice for us.” He gestured down the platform, inviting her to walk with him. “Your name is Shifrah, yes? I’m Lorenzo.”
She stared at him and then at the platform. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she began walking slowly parallel to him, never closer than three yards. “Why are you guarding that savage girl, Lorenzo? For her gold?”
A flicker of anger in him wanted to slap her. But only a flicker. “In her country, she is a princess. And no, she has nothing but her cloak, her animals, and her name,” he said. “She had one other friend, but you killed him today.”
“I did indeed. Will you kill me for that?”
“I don’t know yet.” He really didn’t know and that question loomed large in his mind, not only for his bodily safety but that of his soul as well. “Do you believe in God?”
Shifrah laughed. “Whose god? Yours? The one with the happy little family that came down from heaven to learn what it means to be human?”
“God comes to different people in different guises. You’re a Persian, aren’t you?”
“No,” she said sharply. “I’m a Samaritan.”
“I see.” He frowned. Her answer only raised more questions. The Samaritan sect was tiny, a footnote in the Espani holy text about a group of people claiming to have the only true Word of God hidden away on their sacred mountain and lording it over the Judeans, Syrians, Babylonians, and anyone else who claimed to worship the one God by any name, be it El, Adonai, or Ahura Mazda. Whatever their claims, he knew the Samaritans only to be scholars, not warriors. “I’m sure the path that brought you to this place was a hard one.”
“No harder than most.”
“I didn’t mean the road from Persia to Marrakesh.”
“Neither did I.”
Could she be a holy scholar as well as a killer? He swallowed. Why not? Aren’t I?
“You’re a mercenary? An assassin? That seems a hard road. I’ve killed quite a few people myself. Some were in duels. Most were in war,” Lorenzo said. “But I haven’t killed anyone since I returned from the New World. I vowed not to, though I haven’t told anyone of my vow yet. I’ve even faked killing for the sake of my lady. For her peace of mind.”
“You fake it? For a woman?” Shifrah smiled a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “How perverse.”
From the dark streets behind them, a chorus of little children shouted and squealed and laughed. Lorenzo did not look back toward the sound. “She wouldn’t understand. I thought that my vow would free me from so much sin and darkness, but it’s only plagued me with questions and doubts. Like this one here tonight. You.”
“To kill me or not to kill me?”
Lorenzo stopped and stared up at the night sky. “If I kill you, I break my vow. If I give you to the law, they will kill you, and I’ll have just as nearly broken my vow. And if I let you leave, you’ll only kill others and I’d be complicit in those deaths as well.”
“And now you know why I left my people,” she said. “There are no paths to God, if there even is a God. The high and narrow paths only lead to misery.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He saw no glint of light on steel but he heard the light flutter of cloth and in an instant he had drawn his espada and parried her stiletto thrust. She stumbled half a step and he grabbed her shoulder and shoved her away as he slipped his sword back into its sheathe and let his coat swallow him up once more.
Shifrah straightened up, the knife still in her hand. “Seriously? Are you going to keep me here all night, blathering on about your three-faced god until I give up a life of wealth and murder for some drafty cloister in España?”
A wooden clatter at the edge of the platform drew his glance for an instant, but if there was anything out there it was lost in the shadows. The hidalgo looked back at the woman. “That would solve my dilemma, actually.” He sighed. Each time he blinked his eyes closed it was a struggle to open them again. To lie down, to rest his back, to rest his mind, to retreat from the world, even for a few hours. At that moment, sleep became the ultimate temptation. He said, “So you reconciled a merciful God with a merciless world by renouncing your faith?”
“It was never my faith. It was the faith of the people around me. I was just born there. Faith is just the clothes and food of your homeland, not a shining path to the next world, or some eternal truth. It’s just words and candles and old books no one can read.” Her stiletto dangled from her fingertips. “It’s just like that lie about your precious Son of love and mercy.”
“What lie?”
“That he ever existed!” Shifrah rolled her eyes. “The Mother and Father descended the mountain from heaven with the Book already written in their hands, detailing the lives they were about to live. They never had a child. That was all made up long after their return to paradise. And you know why? So the stinking Italians could corner the market on religious truth and set up their precious pope in Rome.”
“Blasphemy.”
“It’s the truth. There is no Son in the original text. I know, I’ve read it!” She looked away and tightened her hand into a fist. She relaxed by small degrees. “You see? This is why I don’t like to talk about religion
. So what’s it going to be? Kill me or let me go? If you don’t choose, I will. I’m hungry and tired.”
Lorenzo inhaled slowly. What if I’m already damned? I’ve killed so many. Perhaps there are sins God cannot forgive. And if there are, then my only solace would be in knowing that this woman will never harm another person. He reached for his sword. “This isn’t what I want. But it is the only choice you’ve given me. I’m sorry.”
Shifrah shrugged. “At least you’re not going to bore me to death.” She presented her blade in a formal salute.
He returned the gesture as she broke into a sprint, racing toward him, her soft boots thumping on the planks. Suddenly the patter of her feet was doubled and trebled and Lorenzo knew that they were no longer alone on the platform. A lifetime of training kept his eyes firmly fixed on his opponent, but his belly was knotted with the fear that someone was about to stab him in the back. At the last instant before he would have raised his blade, Lorenzo dove to his right and rolled across his shoulder to the far side of the platform. As he came up to his knees, he saw a silent blur of fur and fangs leap onto the woman in white.
“Atoq! No!”
The saber-toothed cat stood on the woman, crushing her into the platform. He looked at the hidalgo with eyes like shining golden coins. By the light of the streetlamp behind him, Lorenzo saw that the cat’s fangs were still clean. “Here! Atoq, here!” The kirumichi hunter had never obeyed his commands before, but then again, they had never been alone together before and the cat had never shown any interest in the hidalgo, except as a provider of fresh meat and clean water.
The cat glanced down at the woman pinned beneath his paws and roared into her face. And then he padded silently away toward Lorenzo, sat down, and licked his teeth.
The hidalgo exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. Atoq had never given him any reason to fear for his own safety, but in the absence of affection, the man’s natural fear of inhuman eyes and enormous claws ruled his pounding heart. “Good boy.”
The cat blinked.
“Shifrah, it’s two against one now. If you had any chance before, it’s gone now. Please, see reason. Give up your weapons. Surrender to the police. I’ll come with you to see that you’re well treated, and I’ll even testify on your behalf. Perhaps we can negotiate some lesser punishment at your trial. Prison or labor.”
The Samaritan sat up and slowly got to her feet. “That’s just another sort of death sentence,” she said. “I won’t go willingly. I didn’t cross the width of Ifrica just to rot in a cell.”
Lorenzo circled the cat, who continued to lick his chops and gaze intently at the woman. “Well, maybe we can arrange something else. What you said a moment ago. You could come with me back to España. There is a nunnery in Madrid where I have a few friends. You could—”
“Give up my life of crime?” She smiled, shaking her head. “You’re a sweet boy. Some day you’ll make a dim-witted whore very happy, I’m sure. Maybe for a whole month, even.”
The hidalgo threw up his hands. “You want to die tonight? I won’t let you leave. I won’t let you kill anyone else. And the moment we draw our blades, I doubt I’ll be able to control Atoq. He’ll tear you to pieces. You’ll still be alive when he starts to feed on your flesh. Is that what you want? Is that really better than a cloister? Or a prison cell?”
A high-pitched scream split the night sky and they all looked north for the source of the cry. Lorenzo swallowed. The sound was not human. “Shifrah?”
The woman was slowly backing down the platform away from the plains and toward the city. A second scream tore at their ears, followed by three short squawks. Sharp claws skittered and scratched at the cobblestones of the street below them, but the creature remained hidden in the shadows. Shifrah had reached the edge of the platform and was descending the steps to the road. Atoq stood and sauntered toward her. Lorenzo followed them, glancing back at the dark street. Where is she? Is she hungry? And if she is, will she listen to my commands? Idiot. Why didn’t I bring meat for them?
Wayra strutted into the light beneath a streetlamp and paused to examine the ground for a moment. She lifted her head and opened her beak to hiss at the light, and then stalked across the street and leapt up onto the platform, her tail feathers spread wide and her neck plumage puffed and rippling in the breeze.
“Wayra! Here! Wayra!” Lorenzo raised his empty hand. The hatun-anka clicked forward, staring at him with her huge black eyes. “Good girl. Good girl.” He lowered his hands as the avian beast came to stand beside him. She smelled of dung and blood. “Good, okay.” Lorenzo turned to see Shifrah standing at the bottom of the steps. She glanced away up the street.
“Shifrah?” His heart began to pound again. “Shifrah, don’t do it. Don’t run. I’m serious. Do not run.”
The Samaritan glanced at the street again, and ran.
Wayra screamed as she vaulted off the platform and landed in the street only a few yards behind the fleeing woman. Lorenzo leapt down the steps and ran after them both. The wind snatched away his hat and tore at his coat, but the monstrous eagle was too fast, far too fast. He caught a glimpse of Shifrah’s white coat in the distance, and then once more, and then she fell to the ground and disappeared and all he could see were dark feathers and scaled talons.
Lorenzo jogged up to the edge of the street where Wayra stood, her head bowed to the cobbles, but when he circled her he saw no body on the ground. The bird was hissing and pecking at a dark gap between the curb and the cobblestones. The hidalgo knelt down, but he could see nothing in the utter darkness below. The stench of every sort of rot wafted up to him.
He jerked upright. A sewer. He’d heard of such things. A massive river of filth running beneath the entire city. Not the escape route I would have chosen.
As he stood up, Atoq padded up to his side and shoved his head against the man’s hand. Lorenzo saw his hat clenched in the cat’s teeth, and he gently took it and put it on. “Thank you, Atoq. I think you’ve earned your supper.”
Wayra lifted her head and squawked.
Lorenzo glared at the bird. “I’ll feed you, too. Not that you deserve it.”
Chapter 23. Qhora
Time and again she looked to her left, to the empty chair set aside for Lorenzo. Half an hour into supper, as the Mazigh small talk droned on over soups and fruit salads and roast lamb, Qhora was growing desperate for some sense of inclusion. She felt like a creature from one of Enzo’s ghost stories, unable to enjoy the taste of the food, unable to speak to anyone, and generally ignored by everyone.
Two dozen well-dressed women and men sat at Lady Sade’s table and they kept the servants running for Hellan wine, for rags to mop up spills, and for exotic dishes that had not been on the original menu. Twice at least she had looked out the windows to see porters dashing out into the street and dashing back with covered baskets, no doubt from some grocer who was making a fortune on this one evening alone at the cost of a good night’s sleep.
Several times, Qhora tried to get Lady Sade’s attention, only to receive a polite wave and thin smile from the head of the table. She had nearly resigned herself to sitting in prim silence until excused from the table when she suddenly realized the entire conversation had shifted from Mazigh into Espani, though in several strained and awkward accents.
“Lady Qhora, is it true your people ride birds instead of horses?” a thin man asked.
Qhora blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden inclusion in the discussion. “Yes, that’s true. The hatun-ankas are superior mounts on any terrain and formidable warriors on the battlefield. They were critical to our defense against the Espani.”
“Ah yes, the Espani,” he said. “Curious people. Did you know they spend more than a quarter of all their national revenues on their churches? A quarter! It’s no wonder they’re so primitive. If they invested that money properly in basic infrastructure and utilities, their larger cities would be almost as lovely as ours.”
Qhora gripped her gl
ass a bit tighter. “I find Tartessos quite lovely, in its own way. Those churches are the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. The stoneworks, the frescoes, the statuary, the stained glass, the mosaics. They are all stunning. The Basilica of Saint Paul is without question the single grandest place in the entire world.”
“Well, of course, anyone can pour money into a building. I’m sure Darius has a palace or two in Persia that one might call the grandest place in the world,” a young lady said. “But what about when they’re not praying to their ghosts? No trains, no streetcars, no steamships, no telegrams, no electric lights. They’re living in the stone age!”
The Incan princess cleared her throat. “The Espani live very much as my people do, in that respect. Although I must say, over the past year I have noted a distinct lack of explosions, corpses, thieves, bandits, and vagrants in Tartessos.” She carefully placed a berry in her mouth and chewed while gazing calmly at her plate.
The uncomfortable silence only lasted a moment before Lady Sade said, “Well, our distinguished guest from the New World certainly has a point. We know all too well that recent changes in our laws, and taxes, and foreign policies have had some undesirable effects.”
Qhora nodded. “It must be quite trying for a person of means, responsibilities, and intelligence to be forced to conform to such laws.”
“Quite so.” Lady Sade smiled and exchanged a quick glance with the elderly woman to her left. “But laws change over time with changes in governments. When our ancestors first came to this land, they split with the Kel Tamasheq of the east. Over the centuries, we were invaded, colonized, and mingled with one nation after another. The Phoenicians, the Hellans, the Persians, the Romans, the Songhai, the Espani. Our laws changed, our customs changed. We’ve borrowed more words from other languages than we’ve invented for ourselves. Even the country itself is called Marrakesh today because of some cartographer in Persia, or Eran, or whatever they call it now. Considering our history, I suppose we should be thankful to be living in a time of relative peace and freedom from open warfare.” Lady Sade paused to empty her water glass. “Did you know, Lady Qhora, that even just a few years ago Marrakesh was a very different country? My grandmother was the ancestral governess of Arafez, not its elected executive as I am today. Back then, our people still held to the ancient castes. My family, and all of our friends here tonight, were of the Imajeren. We ruled over Imrad workers, Ineslemen priests, Inadin smiths and artists, and of course, Ikelan slaves. There was far less disorder in those days.”
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 18
