“Kenan.” Shifrah cleared her throat. “This is Aker. An old friend of mine.”
“Ah. A friend.” Kenan nodded as he closed the door behind him. “Professional associate? Colleague? Partner?”
“We worked together back east for a year,” she said carefully. She had been with Kenan long enough for him to understand that she had slept with more than a few of her previous partners, friends, and targets, but he had never accepted that part of her past gracefully.
Kenan looked down at Aker. “And are you working now?”
“Always.” Aker stood up with an easy smile. “But not to worry. As I was just telling our dear Shifrah, I wasn’t after one of your countrymen. Just an Espani fencer.” He held up the stolen triquetra medallion. “You see?”
Kenan’s stern face hardened slightly. “What fencer?”
“No one important. His name was Quesada.”
Kenan’s revolver spun out if its holster and snapped up to point across the table at the shorter man. “You killed Lorenzo Quesada?”
Shifrah stepped away from Aker and held up one empty hand. “Kenan, please put the gun down. We’re all friends here.”
“You killed Lorenzo Quesada?” Kenan repeated.
Aker’s eyes danced from Kenan to Shifrah and back again. “Shifrah said you were in the business yourself. You know how it is. It was a job, nothing personal.”
“Then I guess Shifrah didn’t do a very good job explaining what business I’m in.” Kenan thumbed the hammer on his revolver. “I hunt down escaped convicts. I bring in thieves and killers that the police can’t find. I uphold the law. And Lorenzo Quesada was not only a friend to me, once, but a friend to the queen of Marrakesh. He saved my life. He saved her life. And now your life is forfeit. Give me that medallion. Now. Get down on your knees. Now.”
Aker raised an eyebrow. “A gun. How typical. Do you have any idea of the power of the sword I’m carrying?”
“Is it a magic sword that can draw itself and fly across this room faster than a bullet?” Kenan’s voice was deadly flat.
Aker hesitated only a brief moment before flinging the gold trinket in Kenan’s face. Kenan snatched the triquetra just before it would have hit him in the nose, and in that instant when his hand was up across his eyes, Aker ran. The Aegyptian bolted into the next room and hurled himself out the open window into the narrow alley behind the house. Shifrah reached for Kenan’s arm, but he was already running into the next room, and he fired twice out the open window. “Damn, he’s fast.” He turned back toward the front door.
Shifrah stopped him with both of her hands on his chest. “Kenan, stop. Let him go.”
“Get out of my way!”
“No, listen to me! Aker is a contractor. We work for the same broker. I know him. He’s just doing a job.”
“And so am I.” He shoved her aside and flung open the door, and stopped short. There was a knot of strangers marching up the street and they all turned their heads at the sound of the door opening. Three of the strangers were Tingis police officers. The fourth member of their group was a woman in a long blue dress wearing a white porcelain mask framed with long red-brown hair. There was a hatchet in her hand.
“He’s got a gun!” yelled one of the officers.
“He’s got Master Lorenzo’s medallion!” yelled the masked woman.
Kenan slammed the door and held it shut as the officers crashed against the other side. “What the hell is going on?”
Shifrah snatched up her white jacket and slipped it on, feeling the long knives inside it clink against each other and against her. “Out the back, now!” She dashed to the other room and vaulted out the open window just as Aker had done a moment ago. A glance back revealed Kenan hopping out behind her and running down the alley.
“Shifrah!” he snarled. “I’m not spending one minute in a cell for your damned friend. Where is he? Where is he staying?”
“I don’t know,” she called over her shoulder. “I didn’t even know he was in town until he showed up tonight.” At the end of the alley she ran out into the street, darting left and right through the heavy press of the evening traffic. She ducked around porters with baskets on their heads, and around rattling carts full of huge wire spools, and around giant lumbering sivatheras, and around clanging trolley cars racing down the tracks in the middle of the road. On the far side of the road she dashed into another alley and heard footsteps right behind her.
But they weren’t Kenan’s heavy pounding steps.
Shifrah drew one of her stilettos and spun around in time to see the masked woman in the blue dress take two running steps up onto a barrel against the wall and leap high into the air with her hatchet raised to strike. Shifrah hurled her knife into the woman’s belly, but the hatchet fell like a lightning bolt to knock the knife away. The masked woman landed as light as a cat, swinging her hatchet in short vicious arcs. Shifrah tumbled back, falling and rolling and dodging and scrambling to avoid the relentless whistling blade of the hatchet.
“Stop it, you psycho! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Shifrah drew a second stiletto but the hatchet smacked it out of her hand before she could throw it. She reached for a third knife but the hatchet was suddenly hooked behind her ankle and it yanked her leg out from under her, dropping her hard on the cobblestones at the end of the ally. Shifrah groaned as the pain shot through her back and leg and the knife fell out of her hand.
“Freeze!”
Kenan. Thank God.
The masked woman turned to look at the man pointing a revolver at her. “You!”
Kenan fired once at the wall next to her head. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Now listen to me. I didn’t kill Quesada, and I don’t know the man who—”
“Liar!” She dashed at him.
Shifrah tensed, waiting for the shot that would kill her. But the shot never came. She looked down the alley to see Kenan grappling with the masked woman. He had his free hand on her wrist holding the hatchet, and she had her free hand on his wrist holding the gun.
Damn it, Kenan. Why didn’t you shoot? Never mind. I know why.
She staggered up to her feet and forced herself to run back down the alley on an aching leg. Once behind the masked woman, Shifrah deftly slipped her arm around the stranger’s neck and squeezed. With Kenan restraining the woman’s arms, it only took a moment to choke her into oblivion. The woman fell to the ground.
Kenan frowned. “Did you kill her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Shifrah heaved a sigh and rubbed her back. “You all right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but we need to find your friend. Now.”
“Fine. Let’s go before her friends catch up to us.” She eyed the end of the alley for the police officers, but there was no sign of them. Yet. Then she saw Kenan putting the golden medallion into the sleeping woman’s hand. “What are you doing?”
“Her clothes and accent were Espani. She must be one of Quesada’s friends or students. I want the triquetra to get back to the right person. Besides,” he stood up and holstered his gun. “I don’t want to give these people another reason to try to kill me. A little good will can go a long way sometimes.”
Shifrah frowned. Her instincts all screamed that this situation was already completely out of control. They couldn’t go home. They couldn’t be seen on the street. The odds of Kenan being recognized by an old comrade from the army, the marshals, or the Air Corps were pretty good, and keeping company with a one-eyed woman probably wasn’t going to help him blend in. Her training told her to get out of the city. Now.
Training.
“Aker will get out of town, as soon as possible.”
Kenan glanced at his watch. “Well, the evening air courier to Arafez left half an hour ago. The ferry to Gadir won’t leave until the tide turns, which is in a few hours. That leaves the trains.”
“Is there anything eastbound tonight?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. Let’s go see.”
Shif
rah followed him out of the alley and down the street, angling swiftly through the thinning traffic across one intersection after another on their way toward the Tingis Central Station. The wrought iron roof of the station rose above the neighboring offices and warehouses, and just beyond the station, a little farther up the hillside, she could see the massive hangars where the airships of the Northern Air Corps were housed. But the hangars were closed and there was no sign of anyone there now.
The shrill cry of a steam whistle split the air and Kenan quickened his pace. Shifrah hurried after him and as they turned the corner through the gate in the outer fence around the station, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw a familiar white face in the crowd. The masked woman saw Shifrah looking at her, and she broke into a run.
“Kenan, she’s here!” Shifrah dashed into the station, grabbing his arm and propelling him inside. They found the outer vestibules all empty with only one young woman in uniform at the ticket window to their right. Across the wide floor of the inner station, a shining black locomotive stood at the head of a long train of passenger cars and two young men in matching blue jackets were waving to the engineer leaning out of the locomotive. The engineer waved back and leaned back inside. Another shrill whistle shrieked through the station, and the locomotive shuddered, and began to roll forward.
“It’s leaving!” Kenan pulled his arm free of her grip and climbed clumsily over the turnstile as the young woman at the ticket window banged on the glass and yelled at them.
Shifrah leapt over the turnstile behind him. “Do you see Aker?”
“Of course not!” Kenan snarled. He ran to the side of the train, which was rolling along at a steady pace and gathering speed. Kenan jogged left and right, straining to peer up into the dark windows of the passenger car.
Shifrah stood near him, scanning the windows. There were too many faces, and all moving too quickly. “We’ll have to get on,” she said.
“What if he’s not even on this train?” he asked.
She pointed behind them where the masked woman had just dashed into view.
“I thought you killed her,” he said, as he began jogging alongside the train.
“And I thought you didn’t like it when I kill people.”
Kenan grabbed the hand rail at the end of the nearest passenger car and pulled himself up onto the step outside the door. “Hurry up!”
Shifrah looked back again to see the masked woman vaulting high over the turnstile with her cruel hatchet in her hand. Behind her, three policewomen in gray uniforms raced into the station. Shifrah grimaced. “Damn it.” She grabbed Kenan’s outstretched hand and jumped up beside him just as she ran out of platform. The train accelerated out of the station and Shifrah leaned out to watch the masked woman and the officers jog to a halt at the end of the platform and stare after the retreating train.
“Great, that’s just great, Shifrah.” Kenan stomped up the steps and put his hand on the door handle of the passenger car. “Now we’re on the run for a crime neither of us committed. I told you this could happen. I told you what might happen if you kept friends like this. I told you!”
She slapped him and he shut up, his eyes still smoldering. She said, “And I told you that you could leave whenever you wanted. What’s done is done. So, if you’re finished whining, let’s go look for Aker.”
Chapter 3
Yuba cleared the last of the dishes from the table and little Menna ran after him to help with the washing up. Taziri smiled. Five years old. Five!
She stood up from the table, pushed in the chairs, and began straightening up the rest of the room. Toys lay everywhere. Wooden blocks covered in faded paint, old dolls with torn arms and legs and new dolls with hair already in tangles, coloring pencils and scrap paper, little wooden trains and tracks, little wooden airships, little wooden lions and zebras and sivatheras. She gathered them up one by one and tossed them into the bin in the corner. “Menna! Can you help me with your toys, please?”
The little girl ran back in with her hands covered in soap suds, her hair a tangled mess to rival her dolls, and she began merrily hurling her toys in the general direction of the box. Taziri smiled and got out of the line of fire.
From the kitchen, Yuba called out, “Was today payday, or is it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. The royalty checks for her batteries and capacitors and insulation came like clockwork from Othmani Industries, more money than they had ever seen, and yet somehow their expenses had steadily grown to gobble up the new income. “Why?”
“I wanted to talk to a man about expanding the greenhouse so we can grow more vegetables. We’ll need more glass, of course, and more pipes for the water.”
“That sounds fine.” Taziri flipped through the unopened mail by the door. So many cards, she thought. Invitations to tour this factory or teach at that school or partner with this inventor. She smiled and put them back. Time enough for that tomorrow. She turned back toward the kitchen, but a knock at the front door turned her back again. Taziri opened the door.
Outside stood a small Incan woman with a tiny baby in her arms. She wore tan trousers, a white blouse, a blue vest, and an old Espani military jacket tailored to fit her tiny frame. Her shining black hair was uncovered and it trembled in the evening breeze. Behind the woman stood a pale-faced Espani youth and a masked figure in a conservative Espani dress. Taziri smiled. “Dona Qhora? Alonso?”
The woman with the baby managed a crooked smile and said in a hoarse whisper, “Hello, captain.”
Taziri heard the rasp in her voice and saw the haunted look in Alonso’s eyes. “What is it? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Enzo,” Qhora said. “He’s dead.”
“Oh no.” Taziri swallowed. How is that possible? “Come in, come in, please.”
The three visitors shuffled inside and she herded them into the living room where they sat on the new upholstered chairs and couches covered in Kanemi patterns. The masked girl folded her gloved hands in her lap and turned to study a wooden Igbo mask on the wall.
“Can I get you anything to drink or eat?” Taziri asked. “We have ice.”
Qhora shook her head. “I need…” She swallowed loudly.
Taziri sat down beside her. “Tell me what happened.”
But Qhora could only screw up her face into a mass of deep wrinkles and red blotches, and she bowed her head over her baby boy, who lay quite still and peaceful, his eyes closed and mouth drooling. Taziri looked to the youth. “Alonso?”
“Three hours ago,” the young man said slowly. “A man came to our hotel. An Aegyptian in green robes. He attacked Don Lorenzo. They fought in the hall. Mirari helped. I was holding Javier. And he died. Don Lorenzo died. Stabbed through the heart.” Alonso cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Mirari chased the killer to a house where there were two other people. The police identified them. One of them was a one-eyed mercenary from Eran. The other was…well, it was Kenan Agyeman.”
Taziri stared. Kenan? My Kenan? The young man had served under her for only a year before quitting the Air Corps, but that had been over politics and ego. Kenan’s a straight arrow, as straight as they come. If anything, he was too moral, too dedicated. What was he doing with these mercenaries and assassins?
She felt a shift in the air and turned to see Yuba standing in the doorway with Menna at his side. Taziri blinked. “Honey, these are some old friends of mine. They…”
“I heard,” he said. He picked up Menna. “I’ll take her out back for a little while. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” She watched them leave.
“Your daughter.” Qhora looked up with another crooked smile. “You told me about her once. She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Taziri leaned forward. “And this is little Javier?”
“Yes.” Qhora nodded and tilted her arm to better show him to her.
“Lorenzo sent me a letter when he was born. How old is he now?”
�
�Three months.”
Taziri felt a hot weight pressing into her chest. Three months old. He’ll never know his father. Lorenzo. How can Lorenzo be dead? After everything he went through, after everything he survived? The wars and plagues in the New World, the assassins, the demons, the battles, and all just to be stabbed in a hotel?
“Uhm. There’s a little more,” Alonso said. “Kenan and the one-eyed lady ran, so Mirari followed them.”
“I’m sorry, one eye?” Taziri frowned. The only one-eyed woman she knew was her old commanding officer, Isoke Geroubi. But Isoke moved south last fall to be closer to her in-laws. And she was no mercenary.
“Yes. One eye. Anyway, they ran away and Mirari followed them. They fought in an alley. And then they ran to the train station. And that’s where Mirari lost them. Kenan and the other woman got on the train about two hours ago. The train to Carthage.” Alonso was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and his skin was turning red. Mirari turned away from her study of the mask on the wall and rested her gloved hand on his arm, and he relaxed a bit. He looked over at her, and placed his other hand on top of hers.
Alonso and Mirari? Taziri nodded slowly. Stranger things have happened. At least, stranger things have happened to me.
“And she saved this. It’s Enzo’s.” Qhora touched the large golden medallion hanging around her neck, resting just in front of another, smaller one. “The killer took it, but Mirari brought it back.”
“Qhora, I’m so sorry. Lorenzo was…” Taziri swallowed. Wonderful? Dashing? Funny? Brave? She couldn’t think of a word to describe him that seemed solemn enough for the moment. “He was a good man. I’m so sorry.”
“The police.” Qhora choked and cleared her throat. When she looked up, her red-rimmed eyes were suddenly clearer. “The police said they can’t chase these people outside of Marrakesh. No jurisdiction, they said. If they come back into the country, then maybe, but otherwise, no.” The little woman trembled. “So they can’t do anything. They won’t do anything. That’s why I came to see you. I need your help. There isn’t another train to Carthage for three days. There isn’t an airship to Carthage for six days. That’s too long. I need to go now. I need to find them now.”
Aetherium (Omnibus Edition) Page 73
