Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “Love him as well as I love Qhora? I doubt she’d put up with that for very long.” Lorenzo smiled. “So what then? Are you suggesting that I leave him to his own devices? Abandon him to his fate?”

  “I’m suggesting that he is the sort of person who is going to get himself into trouble, even if the finest diestro in the land is at his side. But your arm is injured and you’re alone in a strange city. It may be his path to walk into danger and not come out again.” Sister Ariel brushed his arm with her insubstantial hand. “And it would be a terrible loss if you died for him.”

  “Died for him?” He smiled a little wider. “You sound positively cynical now, although to be fair, you are dead. Look, Dante’s just a rude young man in need of a little seasoning. And the truth is that he’s probably only walking into a short fight with a drunken oaf in an alley. A broken nose and bloody lip, that’s all.”

  “If you think so, then you haven’t spent as much time in Zaragoza as I have,” the ghost said. “This is not a quiet northern city. This is an angry place.”

  “An angry place?” Lorenzo squinted into the wind. Half of España is angry these days, and the other half is staring into a black void of a future, wondering if they’ll survive the winter without their husbands or sons or brothers to help them. Father’s letters say that Gadir is already on the edge of disaster. People are starving. People are dying. The war ended three years ago, but it’s still killing us. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “I mean the people are angry. Look.”

  In the distance, Lorenzo could see a circle of men beneath a pair of torches at the top of the bank. The firelight danced on the frozen face of the Elbro below. A few shouts echoed down the dark lane.

  “Is it a fight?” He looked to his right when she didn’t answer, but the nun was gone.

  Lorenzo hurried toward the men and soon saw Dante hovering at the edge of the group. The Italian was leaning forward, pointing, gesturing, and talking to some of the men around him.

  A boxing match?

  Two huge brutes stripped to the waist were swinging their bloody fists at each other’s faces and connecting more often than not. They had been at it quite a while judging by the extensive sheen of blood on both their faces, blinding them and filling their mouths. They were staggering and spitting and drooling, lurching into one another and hanging on each other’s shoulders even as they tried to throw one more punch, one more jab, one more gouge.

  The hidalgo sidled up to the Italian and said, “Nice night, isn’t it?”

  Dante only scowled at him, not a trace of surprise on his face. “It’s as nice as any other. Do you have any money on you? They won’t take my florins.”

  “No, we’re not betting here. Come on, let’s go back.” Lorenzo touched his arm.

  “Get off me.” Dante jerked his arm away, lost his balance on the icy cobblestones, and crashed into the three men on his right. The men roared curses in three languages as they all fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and coats. Dante was the first on his feet but instead of offering to help the others up, he kicked them and swore back in Italian.

  Suddenly half of the spectators around the boxing match had turned their attention to the angry men behind them. They laughed and jeered at the fallen men, particularly at the one who had planted his face in another’s crotch. The three men scrambled up and found themselves being shoved and mocked by the crowd, and Lorenzo saw them turn toward Dante with knives drawn. The Italian did not see them at all as he was trying to worm his way back into the knot of men still watching the boxers.

  “No, no, no!” Lorenzo burst into motion only half a step ahead of the raging drunks. He grabbed Dante’s collar and hauled him away from the spectator’s circle. The Italian didn’t even turn to look before he began shouting and trying to throw the hidalgo off. Struggling and stumbling backward, Lorenzo felt the cold chain fence at the edge of the bank digging into the back of his knees and as he tumbled backward he prayed, Dear God, I swear I will do anything humanly possible to glorify your boundless love and grace if only you will refrain from breaking my neck right now.

  He crashed onto the hard stone slope with Dante on top of him and they slid together, accelerating down the icy incline to the frozen river. He kicked at the stoneworks frantically to turn around and managed to get his feet halfway round before they hit the Elbro. They slid apart in a light cloud of snow dust across the hard ice.

  Lorenzo rolled over and pushed himself up to all fours. Nothing broken. Thank God! Oh right, God. I guess I owe you a holy stone and the renewed faith of an entire nation. Well played, Lord. Well played.

  He stood up to see the three men with their knives running across the embankment toward the old stone stair that would bring them safely down to the river. “Dante? Dante!” He grabbed the Italian and pulled him up.

  “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” The Italian shoved him away.

  “Them!” Lorenzo pointed at the three men rushing down the stairs.

  Dante looked. “Oh.” He was up and running in an instant with Lorenzo only a step behind.

  The ice underfoot was treacherous but solid and it could be managed by someone used to running on it. Lorenzo had no trouble and Dante seemed to actually be pulling away ahead of him. But behind them, he could see the three men had reached the river and were only a long stone’s throw away.

  “The boat! Get to that boat!” Lorenzo yelled.

  Dante angled right and leapt into the ice-sailer tied to the nearby dock. He dove to the front of the canoe and began wrenching the frozen ropes off the cleats that held them to the pilings. Lorenzo charged up a moment later and hacked viciously at the ropes with his espada. The lines cracked and broke apart in a burst of icicles and frost. Both men grabbed the mast ropes as high as they could and then dropped with their combined weight to raise the sail. The canvas rose half the height the mast and the easterly wind gusting up the river snapped the sail taut, hurling the boat away from the dock.

  The armed men were still closing.

  “Again!” Lorenzo and Dante leapt up to grab the line and hauled it down again. The sail cracked against the upper pulley and now the full height of the canvas caught the wind. The two men fell back into the canoe as the ice-sailer skidded and sliced across the Elbro, tipping up to the left at a precarious angle. Dante threw himself to the right and the sailer crashed back down level on its skates.

  Lorenzo looked back. The three armed men were slowing, stumbling to a halt, doubling over, and gasping for breath. The hidalgo grinned. “You see? All we needed was to borrow a canoe on skates with a sail and we were perfectly capable of escaping. Nothing complicated about it.”

  Dante collapsed into the bottom of the canoe on his back and laughed. “We stole this boat, Quesada, fair and square.”

  “No, no.” Lorenzo shook his head. The wind blasted through his unbound hair and he used his free hand to hold up his collar to protect his face. “We’re just taking it out for a bit of exercise, to keep it limber for the owner, and then we’ll leave it tied up a mile or two upriver.”

  The icy banks of the Elbro streaked by for several minutes until Lorenzo pointed out the dark silhouette of La Seo against the blue-black clouds roiling beneath the pale stars. They lowered the sail and let the boat glide to a halt beside an empty slip beside several other sailers. Lorenzo tied up the boat as best he could with the remains of the frozen lines and then the two men trudged up another long stone stair to the top of the bank.

  When they reached the street again, the hidalgo paused to stretch his back. “Are we done running about for tonight?”

  Dante nodded. “Yes. And thanks.” He grinned, but as his eyes strayed to the left his grin faded. “Or maybe not.”

  Lorenzo turned and saw at the far end of the road a column of soldiers marching toward them, rifles held at the ready. By the light of the moon, the hidalgo peered into the distant face of the man leading the company and saw the sinister sweep of a black mustache and point
y little beard.

  Two dozen armed men. Well, Fabris, that’s one way to skin an eight-hundred pound cat. Unfortunately, it’s not one that will work tonight.

  He grabbed Dante’s arm and pointed him toward a dark side street. “Time to disappear.”

  Chapter 17

  Qhora sat in the last seat of a cold wooden pew near the back of the nave, far back in the corner near the entrance to the stairway that led up to their private rooms. For the first few minutes after Lorenzo left, she had waited in the room alone. Then she had ventured out to pace the hall, then to explore the stair, and now to sit and wait.

  He’ll be back.

  Flipping through the hymn book she found beside her, Qhora realized how far she still had to go in her Espani studies and she set the book aside. The stained glass windows were dark and indiscernible. The scattering of candle light throughout the vast chamber cast only the faintest of amber glows on the great stone columns and on the tiny stone statues hidden in the alcoves along the walls.

  He’ll be back. Soon.

  The minutes passed slowly. A man in a brown robe paced along the wall at one point, inspecting the candles. She watched him walking along from one pool of light to the next. A lay brother? A choir monk? She couldn’t remember what they were each called, or why, and she didn’t care.

  He’ll be ba—

  The heavy doors on the far side of the nave banged and the man in the brown robe strode across the wide room to the door. Qhora stood and peered through the gloom, waiting. The door squealed open and a babble of voices echoed across the pews. She couldn’t understand the words, but she knew that Enzo wasn’t one of the men speaking. She stood and slipped back to the doorway that led to the stair.

  The voices burst out louder and more insistent as a stampede of boots pounded on the stone floor of the nave. Qhora saw the men pouring through the doors, she saw the rifles in their hands, and she turned and dashed silently up the stairs.

  She passed the doors where Alonso, Hector, and Gaspar slept and rapped sharply on the door beyond them. She knocked again. And she knocked again. The door opened suddenly to reveal a squinting, yawning Mazigh pilot and behind her the Eranian girl sitting up in bed.

  “What is it?” Taziri whispered.

  “Soldiers. Grab your clothes and get out now,” Qhora said. “Take the stairs at the far end. Don’t hide. Get out of the church. They’ll search every room. The priests let them in, and they might tell the soldiers everything.”

  Taziri and Shahera scrambled to grab up their discarded clothes and boots.

  Qhora lingered in the hall, watching the near stairs. “Faster, faster. You can get dressed downstairs or outside. You need to get out, now.” She wasn’t thinking of politics or spies, or even of arrests or interrogations. All she could think about was what she had seen in the streets of Cusco when the Espani soldiers first arrived, and what those soldiers, those men of God, had done to the Incan women. I haven’t thought of that in years. It was a different time, it was war, and it was half a world away from here. And yet… Qhora touched the tiny Numidian dagger tucked between her breasts just to be sure it was still there.

  Shahera dashed out of the room, her short arms clutching her coats and boots, her dark eyes wide, her plump lips parted in breathless panic. Taziri was just behind her, but she paused beside Qhora. “What about you? Are you coming with us? I mean, what if they think you’re Mazigh?”

  “They won’t. You’d be surprised how many people in España have heard of the hidalgo’s Incan princess. And besides, the boys will look after me. We’ll be fine. Now go!”

  Taziri hesitated another heartbeat before nodding and racing away after Shahera toward the far stair. Qhora slipped inside the women’s room to straighten the sheets and make sure nothing had been left under the beds, and then she stepped outside and closed the door. A torch flickered and flared at the top of the near stairs. She smoothed her dress, ran a finger through her hair, and walked slowly toward her own door. When the first soldier reached the top of the stair, she was drumming her fingers on the door handle and staring at the young man griping his rifle.

  “Halt!” he yelled.

  “I’m not moving,” she said.

  “Yes, well.” He frowned. A moment later there were half a dozen more just like him on the landing, and a moment after that a tall man in red pushed through them.

  Qhora forced her hands to rest by her sides and she swallowed her sudden desire to slash the Italian’s throat. “Good evening, Señor Fabris.”

  “Signora Quesada, what a pleasure to see you again. Where is your husband this evening?”

  “Not here, but not far away.”

  “Far enough though, I imagine. What a shame. I was so hoping to see him again.” He turned to his men. “Check every room.”

  The soldiers had barely stepped away when two doors across the hall opened and Alonso, Gaspar, and Hector all emerged as one. Gaspar and Hector both had their trousers on and shirts untucked, standing barefoot with their naked swords in hand. Alonso, however, was wearing only his boots, his small clothes, and a smile. Qhora stared at him. This is not the time, Alonso!

  “Gentlemen!” Alonso raised his arms as though to embrace the entire regiment. “How nice of you to welcome us to Zaragoza. We are honored, pleased, and flattered. My name is Alonso, this is Hector, and that is Gaspar. We are students of Don Lorenzo Quesada. Perhaps you have heard of him, the hero of Cartagena? But of course you must know this already. I’m sorry to have you all out of bed on such a cold night, so why don’t we all retire for the evening and reconvene in the morning when I have more pants on?”

  Salvator smiled. “Young man, where are the Mazighs?”

  Alonso blinked, still smiling broadly. “The who?”

  “The young woman with the metal arm and the curvaceous young lady who giggles so infectiously.” Salvator rested his hand on the golden hilt of his rapier. “I can’t tell you how delightful it was listening to the sound of her laughter on the wind as I followed you up the road from Madrid.”

  Alonso’s smile faltered. “Oh, I admit my voice is more tenor than bass, but I hardly think my laugh would be mistaken for a girl’s.”

  The soldiers continued opening and closing doors up and down the hall. A faint echo of voices from the stair heralded the arrival of several choir monks carrying candles and wearing stern faces. At the sight of the holy men, the soldiers froze to a man, all glancing from one to another, and finally looking back at Salvator.

  “What is it now?” The Italian glanced back at the priests advancing on him. “Yes, gentlemen? Is there a problem?”

  “Why are you disturbing our guests?” the tall man in brown asked. “Don Lorenzo, his wife, and his companions are friends of this parish, this church, and our beloved bishop. We do not permit officers of the law to disturb our prayers or our works, be they faithful Espani or otherwise.”

  “My dear fellow, I would not dream of disturbing any man of the cloth, and certainly not one so esteemed as the bishop of Zaragoza. However, this is no common matter of law and order.” Salvator draped his arm around the monk’s shoulder in a brotherly embrace. “I am here as a special envoy from Rome in the service of your own Lord Admiral Magellan to—”

  “I don’t care who you are or why you have come. You will leave immediately.”

  “I’ll leave when I wish and not a moment sooner.” Salvator gently pushed the monk back against the two others standing behind him. “Sergeant! Please escort the good brothers into that room there,” he indicated one of the empty cells, “and ensure that no one disturbs them until we leave, which will be shortly.”

  “Outrageous!” Qhora stormed in between the Italian and the monks. “You have no right to detain these men in their own home, in a house of God!”

  Salvator merely nodded at the sergeant. The young man in uniform swallowed, his face pale and sweating, his eyes wide and darting, but he nodded back and took the monk’s elbow, making certain to hold his rifle quit
e far from the robed men. When the three brothers were behind a closed door, he took his place at the threshold, his fingers clenching and unclenching his rifle.

  “Sir.” Another soldier approached. “There’s no one else here. The other rooms are empty. No clothes or anything else.”

  Salvator sneered. “Search the entire cathedral, floor by floor and room by room. I want those foreign women found, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldiers jogged away to the ends of the hall and down the stairs.

  “Since when do Italian swine command brave Espani soldiers?” Hector kept his sword down, but held it in front of himself. His voice caught in his throat, threatening to break. Qhora could almost feel the nervous fear coming off the young man in waves.

  “Since your royal swine Prince Valero came to the realization that the only chance his pathetic excuse for a military would ever have of fighting real men would come at the tutelage of foreign masters.” Salvator glanced at the boy’s espada. “That is a very cheap strip of tin.”

  Hector lunged at the Italian’s exposed chest, and Salvator began to draw, but Alonso was faster than both of them. The half-naked student tackled his friend to the floor in a tangle of loose clothes and bare limbs. Qhora saw Alonso’s eyes squeezed shut as the boy anticipated the Italian’s sword, but when no retaliation came he looked up. Fabris stood looking down at him, unmoved, his sword still sheathed. The sergeant guarding the monks stepped away from his post, but the Italian waved him back again.

  “Well done,” Salvator said to the small pile of bodies before him. “You’ve just saved the life of your friend. And I must say I’m rather impressed with your reflexes—”

  Gaspar leapt over the two boys on the floor to slash at the Italian’s chest. Salvator stepped back, drew his rapier, and slashed the young diestro’s arm from shoulder to elbow in a single stroke. The boy tumbled to the floor, his sword skidding away, forgotten. Gaspar screamed as he clutched his arm, the dark blood pouring from the enormous gash in his flesh.

  Again Qhora raced forward but again Alonso was quicker. He tore the loose sleeve from Hector’s shirt and dove onto the writhing form of Gaspar, wrenching the injured arm from Gaspar’s grip and binding it quickly and tightly with the torn cloth. The blood quickly stained the entire bandage, but the torrent became a mere dribble of red and black running down to drip from Gaspar’s fingers. The wounded youth leaned against the wall, pale and shuddering, his eyes unable to focus on anything.