Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “The families of Cusco have similar distinctions,” Qhora said brightly. This is going so well. Perhaps this is all she had planned. To let me into this circle of elite and honored families. Of course they are cautious, they have been stripped of their blood rights and proper titles. The lower classes would revolt if they thought their lords and ladies wanted to return to the old ways. This is why I came here. To find these people. My people. “I can’t imagine what would happen to the Empire if we turned our backs on the old ways. It would be chaos, at least.”

  “Yes. Chaos. That’s just the word,” said the old woman next to Sade. “It is chaos. Young hooligans running through the streets. Country bumpkins filling up the slums. Idiots in the factories losing hands and feet and eyes. Lines of beggars a mile long, begging for food, begging for clothes. Begging, begging, begging!” She dropped a wrinkled hand on the table and her wine sloshed as the glass shuddered. “And why? Why? I remember when I was a little girl, there were no Europans, no Persians or Eranians or whatever they are, no foreigners at all. The farmers stayed on their farms. The only armed men served the crown, not some bureaucracy. And the poor had the decency to stay in their hovels in the hills!”

  Qhora tried not to grin. The old woman reminded her of her own grandmother, an irascible old lady with dim eyes and shaking hands and an iron opinion about everything under the sun. “Well, I’m sure if you present your grievances to Her Highness, she will listen to you. You are, after all, her most respectable subjects. Or is it citizens, now? I’m sure the queen doesn’t want her streets full of beggars and thieves any more than you do.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t,” Lady Sade said. “And yet, here we are.”

  “Here we are,” the thin man echoed. “Hiding in our houses behind our gates and our guards to keep the bloodthirsty rabble at bay. And where is Her Royal Highness? In a palace on a mountain, selling our secrets to the southern kings.”

  “Oh, whine, whine, whine!” a young woman exclaimed. “All you do is whine!”

  “Well, what else can I do?” he demanded. “I’ve written letters, I’ve met with her in person, I’ve applied for a seat in parliament. It all goes nowhere.” He picked apart a bit of bread on the edge of his plate. “Why? What have you done?”

  The young woman’s face softened. “I tried to organize a work gang. My man went about, gathering up the layabouts near my house, intending to direct them to help with the repairs on the Heru Bridge.”

  “And?”

  “And the police stopped my man and sent the workers back to laying about in the street begging for…for whatever it is they beg for.” The woman blushed.

  Qhora stared. “The police stopped you from putting those men to work? Why?”

  “The queen’s law. No one can be pressed into labor, and apparently my man was pressing them too hard,” the woman said with a roll of her eyes. “It’s all nonsense.”

  “You’re such children.” The stern-faced gentleman on Qhora’s left sighed through his beard. “Beggars? Thieves? That’s all you ever talk about. Insects! The Songhai lords will give you something to complain about when their airships swarm over the Atlas Mountains next summer. They’ll come by the hundreds, by the thousands. They’ll rain Hellan fire on us from a mile overhead. This city will be nothing but ash by the end of the first day. The streets will run with blood, Imajeren and Ikelan alike.”

  “Oh, no, they won’t,” the thin man said with a roll of his eyes.

  “Yes, they will. I had supper with the Lord General himself last week. I’ve never seen the man so gray, so wasted with worry. Her Royal Highness has already sold blueprints, materials, and the services of no less than six airship engineers each to Gao and Timbuktu to strengthen her so-called treaties and trade agreements.”

  A tense quiet filled the room.

  “Then we can all be grateful that Emperor Askia is nothing like his predecessor,” Lady Sade said softly. “Askia is a man of peace and commerce, and religion. He is a builder and a priest, not a warrior. If Askia builds a fleet of Songhai airships, they will carry his people on pilgrimages to the holy cities of Eran. They will not carry soldiers here. God willing.”

  Qhora studied the faces around her and saw the proud eyes and sneering faces had all gone pale and wan, throats swallowing and hands groping for wine glasses. “The Songhai must be formidable neighbors,” she said.

  The gentleman on her left said, “My dear, under the previous emperor Sonni Ali, the ancient kings of the south were put to the sword and the torch. The Mali. The Mossi. The Dogon. The Ashanti. The Yoruba. He destroyed cities that he didn’t even bother to conquer. Destroyed them just to take their cattle and shut down the old trading posts, to destroy bridges, salt fields, and fill in wells. Sonni Ali made his cities the wealthiest in West Ifrica by driving all commerce across his borders. He drove men as men drive cattle. With whips and hate. History no doubt will remember his genius on the battlefield and his great works in Timbuktu. But I will remember the highways paved in bones.”

  “Surely, Her Highness wouldn’t sell your machines to this new emperor if she believed he would use them to invade her own country?” Qhora looked to her hostess. “Would she?”

  Lady Sade sighed and offered a meek shrug of her slender shoulders. “I would hope not, but I don’t know. Rome and Carthage are warring over the islands of the Middle Sea using our steamships. Darius is moving his troops across Eran with our locomotives. I just don’t know.”

  Qhora played with her tiny fork, the smallest of three on the side of her plate. A grim pall had fallen over the table. Only the clicking of silverware and moist eating noises rustled through the silence like frightened rabbits in the brush. She saw gold rings shake on unsteady hands and painted lips pressed thin, women folding and refolding the napkins in their laps, and men staring vacantly into their empty wine glasses. She cleared her throat and said, “What if you spoke to the Songhai emperor yourselves? Or his lords? What if you approached them with your own treaties? Secured alliances between their cities and yours?”

  “What?” The gentleman turned to her, but his frown vanished a moment later. “Ah, I see what you mean. No, unfortunately, any rights we once had to represent our cities independently were lost when the old queen abolished the aristocracy, almost a century ago.” He nodded to himself. “To ally Arafez with Timbuktu would be treason against the crown. Her Royal Highness might not be ready for war with the south, but she would certainly march her soldiers into her own cities.”

  Qhora stared at him. “She’s done this before?”

  “Last year, the governor of Acra began talks with the Silver Prince over, oh, what was it? Fishing rights around the Canaari Islands, I think. Her Highness sent two legions to quietly remove the duly elected governor and ensure that her citizen-subjects did not object to the sudden change in government. It was a summer storm, just a few days’ disruption and only a handful of shots fired, but Her Highness’s message came through quite clearly.” The gentleman plucked at the frail white hairs on his knuckles and his whole body seemed to diminish down into his chair as he exhaled. “We’re prisoners in our own country.”

  “It’s unconscionable!” Qhora slammed down her fork. “It’s unthinkable! This queen is no queen, she’s an incompetent tyrant! So terrified of her own governors that she sends soldiers against her own people? So terrified of invasion that she sells your weapons to your most dangerous enemies? I’m sorry, distinguished ladies and gentlemen, but the time has long since passed when you should have taken action.”

  “Action? What sort of action?” Lady Sade looked up from her glass and gestured to the young man who had spoken a few moments earlier. “My friend has just told you what happens when we try to take action. Our messages are ignored, our proposals rejected, our attempts to join her inner councils rebuffed. We can’t even put the homeless to work in our own city. What can we possibly do?”

  “When the Espani first came to my country, they were led by four brothers, the Piz
zaros. Our emperor, my cousin Manco Inca, was a young man, a naïve boy, and he was quite impressed by them. He gave them seats of honor, hung on their every word, drooled over their armor and guns, and buried them in gold. Within half a year, the Pizzaros had become the lords of Cusco, beating our lords and taking their ladies, and Manco all the while pleading and begging for their approval.” Qhora squeezed the fork tighter. “Finally, we could stand it no longer, we could wait no longer. My father and his fellow generals gathered their armies and declared war on the Pizzaros. Manco, of course, remained in his delusion until the last moment, though finally he relented. The war raged for most of a year as we ferreted out every last Espani outpost. Fortunately, the Golden Death had already weakened their ranks and the only real resistance came from the men still arriving on our shores. But we reclaimed our freedoms and our security. And now you need to do the same before a Songhai army streams over your borders, before your families and children are put to the sword.”

  “Revolution?” The young man who Lady Sade had pointed out ran his fingers lightly back and forth around the edge of his gold-painted plate. His voice was faint and uncertain, but after he cleared his throat he said, a bit more loudly, “You believe we should publicly oppose the queen? Even to the point of violence?”

  “Without question.” Qhora peered into his downcast face and saw what a feeble sheep of a man he was now that he had nothing to bray about. “Your families were great once, but they were not great because of the blood in their veins or the gold in their purses. They were great because they were people who did great things. They united their people, defeated their enemies, raised cities from the plains, and wielded the law as a warrior wields a sword. If you want to reclaim your country, if you want to reclaim your great names, then you will have to do great things, too.”

  The older gentleman smiled sadly at her. “If I was a younger man, I might rush off to fight for riches and power. Heaven knows, I probably would have rushed off to fight just to earn a smile from a young lady as pretty as you. But we are not warriors, not anymore. We are accountants and landlords, bankers and industrialists. We wield pens, not swords. We have no armies, no great war-birds or war-cats at our command. And I fear not even the Lord General himself would raise his hand against the queen. He holds his own honor more dearly than his life. No, I’m sorry, Lady Qhora, but this is no longer a land where revolution has any meaning. Not without the masses, anyway.”

  “Then raise the masses,” Qhora said. “They’re hungry and homeless. They’re angry and desperate. Give them a banner, give them a leader, and give them a target. They will be your army. No legion will stand against their own brothers and sisters on the battlefield. Then the queen’s army will become yours as well and you may walk into her palace unopposed and put a proper leader in her place. Someone strong and sensible. Someone with pride in your country, with faith in its future.”

  “Like who?” the gentleman asked.

  Qhora glanced around the table. “I wouldn’t know, I’m still a stranger here. Perhaps someone like our hostess, Lady Sade.” She saw the lady in question blush demurely.

  “And how would one go about such a venture?” the elderly lady beside Sade asked. “Gather our people and walk out into the fields with rocks and clubs? Or shut down our factories and wait for the legions to arrive?”

  Qhora shook her head. “I don’t think that would be proper, given the circumstances. You need to publicize your goals before the killing starts. Everyone needs to know what is happening and why, or there will be chaos and your cause will be lost before the fighting even begins.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  The princess said, “A declaration of war.”

  Chapter 24. Taziri

  A middle-aged woman at the wedding had been quick to praise the Espani doctor and just as quick to spout off the directions to her offices. Over the din of the music, Taziri had asked for them repeated, twice, but as she wound through the city she began to suspect she had gotten the last several turns wrong. A strolling policeman was able to set her right and twenty minutes later she found the grimy number plate of the doctor’s office on a large stone building that appeared much older than the row houses to either side of it.

  She pounded on the front door, waited, and pounded again. I’m too late, of course. Everyone’s gone home for the night.

  Taziri was about to turn away when she heard soft footsteps echoing inside the building and a few moments later the locks clicked and the door swung open. A young woman with grease-smeared cheeks and dark bags under her eyes smiled politely from the shadowed entrance. “Yes?”

  Taziri’s empty stomach twisted into a tight lump. Oh my God, this is her. No, wait, she doesn’t look Espani. “Hi. I’m sorry about the late hour, I wasn’t sure anyone would be here. Are you Doctor Medina?”

  “No, I’m one of her assistants. We’re closed for the night. I thought you might be a friend of mine bringing a bit of supper, but I guess I’m going hungry tonight. Again.” She stuck her tongue out and grinned. “Is there something I can do for you, or do you want to come back tomorrow when the doctor is in?”

  “Uhm. Well, I’m not sure, really. I guess I should come back tomorrow.”

  The woman frowned. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  Taziri glanced down and discovered she’d been massaging the numb fingers of her left hand again. Her wrist felt so weak she was almost afraid to lift her hand to wave it. “Oh. It’s nothing. There was a fire the other night and something hit my arm.”

  “Did a doctor take a look at it?” The woman stepped out into the street, her frown deepening. “Did they send you here? Why did you wait? You should have come right away. Burns are very dangerous. They’re difficult to assess correctly and they can grow worse if not treated properly.”

  Taziri’s first thought went to the shivering wreckage of Medur Hamuy, curled up and shaking like a frightened child on the deck of the Halcyon. My God, could that be happening to me? Could I be dying from this burn? What about Menna? Suddenly her heart was pounding and she had to swallow to clear her throat. “There was so much going on. I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “You didn’t think?” The woman glanced around at the distant streetlamps. “Come inside so I can take a look at it. Come on.” She led Taziri into the cavernous building down a long hallway with a wooden floor that snapped and creaked with every step they took. They passed several open and closed doors and finally came to a large room at the back of the building where a handful of burning candles and lanterns revealed a workshop filled with mechanical bits for peg-legs and hook-hands, some crude and simple made of wood, and others elegant and complex made of shining metals.

  “My name is Jedira, by the way.” The woman motioned her guest onto a stool beside a work bench.

  “Taziri.”

  “Hello, Taziri. Nice jacket. Air Corps? Is that how you got the burn?”

  “Yes. The fire in Tingis.” Taziri grabbed the cuff of her sleeve but Jedira stopped her and together they very gingerly slid the engineer’s arm out of the armored flight jacket.

  Taziri went cold at the sight of her arm. The sleeve of her thermal shirt was black and twisted and threaded with blobs of red and white something. Her hands began to shake but Jedira quickly produced a pair of scissors and cut away the sleeve as gently as possible, tugging her skin only slightly as the last of the fabric came away. In the bright light of the lantern beside her, Taziri saw a black band of scorched flesh around her coppery forearm. The color contrast alone brought the taste of bile to her mouth. But as she rotated her arm, she saw that it was no longer a smooth column of flesh connecting her elbow to her wrist, but a gnarled and twisted tree branch. It almost looked as though a small dog had taken a bite out of the underside of her forearm, though the weeping sores and mangled skin appeared miraculously intact. At least I can’t see any muscle or bone. She swallowed hard to get the burning acidic taste out of her throat. “Is it bad?”

&n
bsp; Jedira nodded. “I’m sorry. You see this pale area? This means the blood vessels are severed and probably dead by now. There’s no blood getting to your muscle, so it’s dying. Any weakness in your arm or hand?”

  Taziri nodded.

  “How long has it been now since the fire?”

  “One day exactly.”

  “Okay.” Jedira selected a magnifying glass from her tool rack and inspected the burn again. “Well, I would guess that the worst is over. Or at least, the worst has happened. Your fingers still have their color, so there’s blood getting to your hand. That’s very good. You could have lost your whole hand.”

  Taziri shuddered, unable to process the idea of losing a part of her body.

  “Any loss of feeling? Numbness, tingling, coldness?”

  Taziri nodded. “I can’t feel these two fingers at all. I can move them, but they feel sort of rubbery or wooden.”

  “Well, that might be temporary, but it might not. It means nerve damage. If it’s minor, then it might heal. I really can’t guess, though.”

  Taziri reached out slowly with her right hand to ever so lightly touch the burned flesh on her left forearm. It was hot, stiff, and dry, with fibers from her sleeve still embedded in it. “So it’s not going to get better?” What is Yuba going to say when he sees this? It’s disgusting. I can’t let Menna see it. It will give her nightmares.