Taziri pushed through the brush, untied her horse, and climbed up into the saddle. The buzzing pain in her arm was almost gone. “Well, if someone had told me that story anywhere else, I wouldn’t have believed it. But here in España? I suppose that’s downright normal.”
Qhora swung up onto the bird’s muscular shoulders. “I’ve lived here almost three years now. Would you believe this was only the second time I’ve seen a ghost or a…whatever it was?”
They began trotting briskly across the field, not westward back to the road but northward, hoping to find the road again somewhere closer to the rest of the group.
“Aloja. I wonder what that means, exactly,” Taziri said. “Scientifically speaking. I mean, I’ve never heard of a ghost that could so much as touch water, let alone move it, or anything else you saw. There are natural laws governing the spirit world, but this sounds like something very different, very strange.”
“Alonso sings stories about them. He sings all the time, playing his guitar. He must know a thousand stories,” Qhora said. “This country is full of stories. There are water-women in every lake, river, well, and pond in the country, to hear him tell it. They’re women who drowned, but didn’t quite die. Some mixture of the water and aether changes them, makes them immortal, and makes them insane. Half their soul drowns but the other half stays in their flesh, or something like that. But whatever they are, in the stories every last one of them is desperate for love and attention. They never love the men back, though.”
“Isn’t that always the way in stories?” Taziri smiled. “Although, I try to only tell Menna the ones with happy endings.”
“Menna? Is that your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“You must miss her, always traveling the way you do.”
“Yes.” Taziri looked away as the chilly breeze lifted a handful of ice crystals from the field and cast them in her face. “I keep meaning to quit, but it seems like there’s always a reason to keep working just a little longer. There’s always one more project to finish. One more person to help. A little more money to make. Sometimes I think the only way I’ll ever get to stay at home is if I get pregnant again.”
“We’ve been trying for over a year.”
Taziri heard the weary resignation in the woman’s voice. She wanted to console her, but it had happened for her and Yuba almost instantly once they made the decision to try, and she wasn’t sure what to say. “It can take some people longer than others. Just give it time, and be grateful for the quiet evenings until then. You will definitely appreciate a full night’s sleep after the baby comes, I promise.”
Qhora glanced at her with a pinched frown.
They rode on across the field, picking their way over a small frozen stream in a ditch and around a low stone wall, and eventually they came back to the main road to Zaragoza.
“Do you think we’ll see more ghosts on this trip?” Taziri asked, hoping the air had cleared. Please don’t make any more enemies on this trip. I already have the Espani navy and an Italian assassin hunting me. I don’t need to add a New Worlder to the list.
“Almost definitely. It’s only going to get colder the farther we go.”
“Why does the cold matter?”
Qhora sighed. “You’re the scientist, you tell me. All I know is that ghosts are souls that appear in clouds of aether. Aether is everywhere, but it can only coalesce where it is very cold. It also helps to be very dark, but apparently water-women don’t play by those rules.”
“I guess that’s why we never see any ghosts back home. Too warm,” Taziri said. “It’s just as well. Things are hectic enough these days without seeing dead people walking around.”
“I’m sure. I’ve been to Marrakesh. There were enough dead people lying on the ground, as I recall, and far too many lining up to fall down beside them.”
Taziri looked over at the little woman on the huge strutting bird. “Are you talking about the assassination? I know you were there. I probably saw you there, on the airfield, but I don’t remember much of that day. It’s a pity you couldn’t save the queen.”
Qhora sniffed. “I saved her children. And I hear the new queen has already begun cleaning up the mess her sister left behind. Isn’t that true?”
“You could put it that way,” Taziri said. Did everyone hate the old queen? Was I the only person who thought she didn’t deserve to die? “Tell me, what was it like on that airfield? What did you see? The last thing I remember is crashing the Halcyon into the queen’s skybarge.”
The smaller woman didn’t answer right away. They rode several paces, long enough to listen to the whistle of the wind, the clopping of hooves, and the scratching of talons on the frozen mud. Then Qhora said, “When I walked out onto the field, the first thing I saw was a huge black cloud in the sky, spreading out on the wind. Then I saw the people running and screaming, grabbing each other, servants dropping bags of luggage and trays of food, soldiers with rifles, children crying. I sent Enzo to round up the children. I didn’t know what was happening, not exactly. My Mazigh wasn’t very good so I couldn’t understand what people were saying. But I knew there were people trying to kill the queen. I found the queen’s family in the wreckage. And the assassin as well. I threw my knife at her and the bomb went off.”
Taziri nodded. “That’s what I heard. It was in all the papers. Did you see the queen there too? She must have been close by.”
“What is this all about, captain?” Qhora snapped. “I told you what happened. Maybe if you had done something more constructive than crash your airship that day, the old queen would still be alive. I did more than my share, considering how miserably I was treated by your people.”
Taziri wanted to lash back at her, but what was the point? They would be stuck together for days or weeks in close quarters, and a looming argument or a flurry of insults wouldn’t make it any more bearable.
Besides, it really doesn’t matter what happened that day, not now. Qhora’s right, anyway. She killed the assassin and saved the royal family while I just stumbled away from my wrecked ship and passed out.
The low clopping of hooves echoed behind them and Taziri looked back. A lone rider, a man, approached them from the south. He wore his collar upturned in the Espani-fashion to hide his face from the wind. Taziri winced.
And there it is again. That cold, sick feeling in my gut.
Taziri reined up and turned to watch the man draw closer.
Qhora looked back. “What are you doing?”
“Just waiting for this gentleman to pass us.”
Qhora frowned, but directed her huge eagle to strut over beside the Mazigh woman. The man’s horse stopped in the middle of the road, still quite some distance behind them. He lowered his collar to reveal an oiled mustache and small tuft of beard on his chin. Taziri suppressed a smile. He looked like the Espani devil.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he called out. “I am Salvator Fabris, at your service.”
Qhora drew a long straight Songhai knife from her boot. “You maimed an innocent boy, you death-worshipping filth!” Wayra screamed as her rider yanked on her reins.
“No, stop!” Taziri held up her hand.
The Italian had opened his coat and drawn his rapier. It shone in the midday light. “You there. Mazigh woman. What are these Espani paying you?”
Taziri frowned. “What?”
“Are you here to build the stone weapon, or merely to transport the stone itself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, of course you don’t. But I imagine you’ll recall the details once we have time to discuss the matter in private, as I slice apart your fingers. They’re terribly sensitive, the fingers.”
Taziri swallowed. It was real now. Up until this moment, everything had been threats and fears and possibilities, but no longer. It was real. It was here. Capture, torture, and death. She began unfastening the buttons on her left sleeve. “I think you’re a little confused. I was shot down by an Espani war
ship. I never meant to come here. I was on my way to Tingis.”
“Yes, I was there when the Lord Admiral gave the order to shoot you down. But nothing can explain why you were flying over Valencia in the first place, unless it was to visit your dear friend Don Lorenzo, who was about to set out on this little venture of yours.”
“We were blown off course.” Taziri pulled back her sleeve and raised her arm. The medical brace gleamed brightly in the snow-glare, yellow sun on pale aluminum and warm copper. She touched the release switch and the long cylinder popped up with the soft hiss of an air ram, the twang of a spring, and the click of a gear.
The Italian snarled, his face transformed into a wrinkled mass of rage. “Guns! Always guns with you damned Mazighs. A coward’s weapon. A weakling’s weapon!”
“That’s right. A weapon for the weak. A weapon for all the people who can’t defend themselves with muscles and blades.” Taziri leveled the shotgun barrel at the rider. “A weapon to protect anyone.”
“Protect? PROTECT?” Fabris had his horse dancing and sidestepping across the road, nervously wheeling in little circles, but never coming any closer. “One coward with a gun can kill an entire regiment of brave soldiers. Or a hospital full of the sick. Or a church full of wedding guests. Or a school full of children. Oh yes, we have a few of your precious guns in Italia, but I’m still waiting to hear a single story of them protecting anyone!” The Italian spun about one last time and galloped away, racing back south at a dead sprint and he didn’t slow until he was over the second hill and out of sight.
Taziri exhaled and shuddered. She lowered her arm and pressed the cold metal tube back down into her brace.
Qhora put away her knife. “Would you have shot him? Killed him?”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Taziri tapped her arm. “It wasn’t loaded, except with pencils. I suppose we should hurry on ahead to tell your husband about this.”
“No, we won’t.” Qhora shook her head. “If Enzo knew that this Italian was willing to come after us, alone, then he would send us away or lock us up in a tower. When it comes to protecting a woman, my husband tends to hold to some very old Espani traditions. It’s better that he doesn’t know, for now.”
They rode the rest of the morning at a brisk trot without saying another word, and shortly after noon they found Don Lorenzo and the others climbing a long gentle slope through a small wood. Qhora went forward to her husband’s side and Taziri ambled up to the three young diestros on foot. They all nodded and smiled and said hello. She passed them and came alongside Shahera and Dante astride the other two horses.
“So you found her.” Shahera smiled. “I’m glad. I was starting to worry about you both. What was she doing?”
“Fighting a ghost of some sort,” Taziri said casually, wondering if that’s how the Espani talked about the spirits among them when they were alone. For a people so intensely focused on their worship, scriptures, rituals, and the state of their immortal souls, they don’t seem very interested in the blessings or curses of the supernatural creatures living among them.
“A ghost? How exciting! I love stories, please tell me everything,” Shahera said. And for the next few minutes, Taziri described what she had seen and what Qhora had told her about the water-woman and the farmer. Shahera stared thoughtfully up the road ahead. “It’s so sad. For the farmer and his son, I mean. They lost everything, even their home. I hope they have friends or family somewhere to take them in.”
“Oh for God’s sake, who cares what happens to them?” Dante gave them a flat stare. “The man’s an idiot and so are his neighbors. We have just as many spirits wandering about in Italia, but you won’t hear any of this tragic nonsense back home.”
“So what do you do when the dead come back to haunt you?” Taziri asked.
“Nothing! We ignore them. They just want attention, and it’s not as though they can do anything to you except whine about their problems and shake their little hands at you.” Dante waggled his gloved fingers at them.
Taziri shook her head. “No, this ghost attacked Qhora with water and birds.”
“Then it wasn’t a ghost, was it? Some sort of rotting undead thing, I suppose, one that likes to lay with men and pump out squalling infants! That’s what happens when you don’t handle your corpses properly. Espani idiots.” Dante sniffed and spat in the snow. “Our priests have the good sense to teach us how to handle the dead. Bury them deep, ignore them, and they’ll go away. This drama is what you get from Espani romanticism. Water-women and iron imps and whatever else they call them.”
Taziri fixed the Italian with a long stare. He was still ugly, maybe slightly uglier with the darkening stubble on his cheeks, and the cold air had left his face a bit more discolored. A little redder around the eyes. His nose was peeling. “How does a chemist earn enough money to fly from Rome to Tingis? Mixing tinctures must pay very well in Italia. I had no idea your people were so sickly.”
“My business is none of yours.”
“I don’t care about your business at all. But I care about those men who put two bullets in my plane trying to catch you. I was going to ignore that little show in Rome and leave it for the police to keep an eye on you in Tingis, but since I’m stuck with you, it’s my problem,” Taziri said. “Actually, it should be the major’s problem, but he isn’t here. So tell me what happened back there and whether it’s going to be a problem for us here.”
Dante’s scowl brightened with a look of incredulity. “It’s not a problem, not here or anywhere except in Italia. And it’s personal. If you want to talk about problems, let’s talk about why you crashed us in this miserable cesspool and then set us on this death march to nowhere instead of getting us out of the country.”
Taziri sighed. “We’ve been over this, Dante. This is the plan, the best plan to keep us all alive as long as possible. We hide and we wait. With any luck, the major will be able to slip across the border and help will be on the way.”
“And what about the swordsman who gave Enrique his first shaving lesson last night?” Dante asked. “You’re supposed to be hiding us from the military, but there’s already at least one of them following us now. And as soon as we pass a fort out here, he’ll have a hundred soldiers riding us down. I’m starting to think the DeVelli woman had the right idea. We should turn around right now and head south before this Quesada character gets us all killed.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Taziri kept her voice low so neither the hidalgo ahead nor his students behind would hear. “I’m taking you to Zaragoza and wherever else the Don goes until we know for certain that we can safely leave the country.”
“And how long will that take?”
Taziri grimaced. “As long as it takes.”
Chapter 14. Syfax
The major had to admit that the last hundred miles had made quite a difference in more than just the Espani weather. On the road from Toledo he had seen the land swelling with color, if not with life. As the snow thinned, the warm browns and cool grays of the mountains struck dark outlines against the overcast sky and the pines and firs stood in bright greens up and down the hills. What little moisture fell from the sky was mostly sleet and left pale slush on the road that was equal parts hard ice and watery puddles. Both were treacherous, but both were easier to walk through than snow.
Syfax paused to consider the line of roofs and steeples on the horizon and the handful of round windmills standing out in the fields. “Any idea what this place is called?”
Kenan trudged past him, hands shoved in his pockets, face half-nestled in the upturned collar of his borrowed coat. “Ciudad Real.”
Syfax started walking again. “We’ll stay here tonight. Dry out and get some warm food. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“I feel fine.” The lieutenant sneezed, leaving a long shining trail of slime hanging from the stubble on his chin. He wiped his face and rammed his fist back into his pocket.
“Come off it. You’re as sick as a dog.”
Kenan glanced up at him. “Just so long as we stay somewhere really quiet and out of the way. That mess back in Toledo was a little too close.”
“Nah, it was all right. No one got shot. Hell, those guys wouldn’t have shot us anyway. We learned that back in basic training. Espani don’t like shooting folks anymore than I do. They think knives and swords are more honorable or holy or something.”
Kenan sneezed again. “I don’t even remember basic.”
Syfax grimaced. I’m sure you don’t, kid. There was a good reason I took you with me when I went over to the marshals. Any longer in the army and you would have met a Songai arrow with your name on it.
Just outside Ciudad Real, Syfax paused to ask an old woman where they might want to stay the night. She described two places. The first was a large inn near an even larger church. The second was a small tavern near another, larger tavern. The major steered his subordinate to the larger tavern with a grin.
It was late in the evening when they found the Red Swallow, and they found the dining room overflowing with travelers and laborers who were already quite drunk. Two young men in the corner were abusing a pair of guitars and the lyrics of an old ballad between glasses of lager and most of the tables were rustling with piles of coins and stained playing cards.
After cramming some hot food into the sniffling lieutenant and depositing him in a bedroom in the back of the building, Syfax returned to the dining room to see if he could turn one handful of Espani reales into two or three handfuls. He found a table of stone masons who were all too happy to invite a stranger into their game. They were just dealing the first hand when a tall figure stepped up the table and said, “Good evening, gentlemen. Would you mind if I joined you?”
Syfax looked up, stone-faced. It was the Italian woman, Nicola DeVelli. She peered down at the table with a smug little smile and two of the men made room for her. But to the major’s relief, the woman never once made eye contact with him, never once gave any hint that she recognized him at all. They played monte for over an hour, the deal rotating around the table with every hand. And the hands were quick as the masons showed little care in placing their bets and only slightly more care in losing them. Syfax struggled to break even. There was no skill, no bluff, no real playing at all. Only the bet and the flip of the gate, and the sweeping of the coins this way or that.
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 50
