Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  Aker grimaced. “What are you going to do with me?” He glanced over his shoulder at the two Mazighs. Taziri was reloading the gun bolted to her arm. The detective had already reloaded his black revolver and was staring flatly at the Aegyptian.

  “I’m giving you to the Mazighs. You’ll go back to Marrakesh. You’ll stand trial. You’ll go to prison. Or maybe they’ll execute you. I don’t know. I doubt they’ll torture you. That isn’t their way. But to honor my husband’s love of justice, you will live to stand trial. I swear that.” She tilted her head back to look at the sky. A single faint strand of cloud stretched from east to west, torn and driven by the sea wind. “But that isn’t enough for me.”

  She felt her chest drawing in, crushing her ribs around her heart. It hurt just to breathe and a dozen tiny claws seemed to be tearing at her throat, making it harder and harder to speak. The rims of her eyes burned. She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “You took my husband from me. And you took my son’s father. Forever. So now I will take something of yours. Forever.” She swallowed and steadied her voice, and then screamed, “TURIIIIIII!!!!!!!”

  The harpy eagle screamed a wordless scream high overhead, a scream that shredded the sky and pierced the ear, a scream that was more than inhuman, a scream beyond rage or hate. It was a herald’s cry. A god’s cry.

  Qhora raised the tip of her knife to point at Aker’s face, and the man glared at her and then up at the sky. Instantly his face was transformed into a mask of wide-eyed terror and the man spun and took three running steps before the enormous vengeful mass of feathers and talons streaked out of the sky and smashed into his head and shoulders. Aker twisted and fell to the ground with the eagle’s claws sunk deep into his face. Turi hunched his shoulders and lifted his wings for balance, screening the man’s upper body from view, but Qhora saw the harpy’s head strike down again and again as the blood trickled over his talons.

  Aker jerked and rolled from side to side and wrapped his arms around his face to shield himself from the viciously darting beak. But the more he flailed and kicked and thrashed, the deeper Turi’s talons sank into his flesh. And then the eagle’s head shot down and stayed down, and Aker screamed. “Oh God! Help me! Please, God, somebody help me! Help me! PLEASE! HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

  Qhora almost smiled. Instead she cleared her throat and held out her arm. “Turi. To me.”

  The harpy lifted his head to look over his shoulder at her with one luminous golden eye, and then he hopped and flapped into the air, glided across the few short yards between them, and perched heavily on her arm. He wrapped his bloody talons gently around her arm, and Qhora watched the blood drip from his beak. “Good boy.”

  Aker curled up on his side, his hands pressed to his eyes and painted in blood. He gasped and shuddered and sobbed quietly in the dust. “My eyes…my eyes…God, please…my eyes…”

  “He’s all yours now, detective,” Qhora said.

  Kenan holstered his gun and sauntered over to inspect his prisoner with a squint and a grimace. “Thanks. I guess.”

  Qhora walked past him and paused beside Taziri. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. You?”

  “I’m fine.” Qhora glanced back once across the rail yard over the dead men and the crying men, over the burning swords and scorch marks, over Mirari and Salvator and Tycho, and finally over Kenan squatting beside Aker. “I’m ready to go home now, captain.”

  Chapter 29

  “Are we there yet?” Shifrah smiled across the compartment at Kenan.

  The detective glanced over at her, shook his head, and went back to staring out the window. Shifrah sighed and looked at the other bench seat in their little private room of the Eranian passenger car.

  Aker lay very still, but his snoring was quite loud. Perhaps he was faking, but Shifrah doubted it. The Aegyptian had whimpered and moaned all through the long hours in the rail yard as Taziri arranged for the Halcyon to be hitched to a west-bound train.

  Tycho had strapped his new sword across his back and gone in search of a doctor, and returned with a distinguished Hellan surgeon. The surgeon had clucked his tongue at Aker’s missing eyes and burnt scalp, but pronounced them relatively superficial and that he would be fine, though blind barring some extraordinary advance in Mazigh optical prosthetics.

  The surgeon had then bound Qhora’s arm, stitched Shifrah’s arm and reset her shoulder, collected Salvator’s money, and left with a song on his lips.

  By mid-afternoon the Halcyon had been coupled to the end of an Eranian train, the aging steam locomotive had rumbled to life, and they had all watched Alexandria clatter past the windows and shrink into the distance behind them. All except the Italian and the dwarf, who had watched the train leave from the platform.

  Tycho had waved.

  Salvator hadn’t.

  Time to see where we stand. Shifrah sighed again. “I suppose I’ll need to get a private detective’s license when we get back. Who do I see about that?”

  Kenan looked at her. “So you’re serious? About that? About us?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re just going to give up your old life, just like that?”

  She nodded. “It was just a job, Kenan. People change jobs all the time.”

  “Murder isn’t a job.”

  “But executions are? But war is?”

  He was silent.

  “People kill people, Kenan,” she said. “Sometimes for money, or orders, or passion, or just by accident. In the great scheme of things, the death itself is always all the same. People die. The only thing that matters is why. What was in the killer’s heart? Hate and greed? Or honor and duty?”

  “What was in your heart?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “That I needed the money, and that the world would probably be a better place without my marks in it. It’s not like I was hired by sadistic monsters to kill innocent children. I was hired by monsters to kill other monsters. At least in the old days. In Marrakesh, I was mostly hired by the victims to kill the monsters. I tried to tell you this before.”

  He nodded and looked away. “Yeah, you did.”

  “So? What do you say?”

  Kenan moved over next to her and looked her in the eye. “No more killing?”

  “No more killing.” She smiled.

  He’s cute when he tries to lose an argument gracefully.

  “All right then. Agyeman and Dumah Investigations. We’ll give it a try.”

  She kissed him. “Dumah and Agyeman.” And she reached for his belt buckle.

  He glanced across the narrow compartment at their snoring prisoner. “Here? Now?”

  She grinned.

  I think I’ll name our daughter Ziva.

  Shifrah pulled him to her. “Here. And definitely now.”

  Chapter 30

  The customs inspector at the pier had fixed an unpleasant eye on the sword strapped to the dwarf’s back and to the second sword rattling on Salvator’s hip, but the Italian quickly allayed the official’s concerns with a fistful of coins and a few choice words in Eranian that might have been misconstrued to mean that both of the travelers were close personal friends with a certain Master Rashaken.

  The two men climbed the gangway and paced along the deck of the Hellan steamer to stand near the bow and watch the other passengers board.

  “Is it very cold in Constantia?” Salvator asked.

  “Cold-ish.” Tycho shrugged. “Why? Thinking of visiting? I thought you had a sword to deliver to your king in Rome or somewhere.”

  “This?” Salvator patted the second blade sheathed below his rapier. After seeing the brilliant white blaze of the dwarf’s sword, he had taken the brightest of the surviving seireikens scattered around the rail yard before the local scavengers arrived to pick the bodies clean. The Italian shook his head. “I can hand this off to another agent in Athens when we change ships. There’s no need for me to deliver it in person.”

  “You’d let someone else
take the credit?”

  “Of course not. I’ve already sent five letters to my associates at court to inform His Majesty that the sword is en route. They’ll know the truth of the matter.”

  “Five?”

  Salvator smiled. “You can’t trust the postal service, my young friend. Not in any country or any age. Are you sure you wouldn’t be willing to trade souvenirs?”

  “No,” Tycho said quietly. “Philo died searching for this sword. I nearly died as well. But when I bring it to my Lady Nerissa, and she presents it to the prince of Vlachia, it will change the world. With Vlachia at our side, Raska and Rus will surely follow. The war with Eran will come to a head, and then it will end, and my city will be safe. Truly safe.”

  Salvator raised an eyebrow. “Or, your alliance will call down the full might of the Empire, utterly destroying three northern nations as well as your little town.” He paused. “An extra ten darics for it?”

  “No.” Tycho looked up. “Would you say I’m an attractive man?”

  Salvator grinned. “No. But a woman probably would. Why?”

  “I was just thinking that when I return, I’ll be a hero, right? Heroes get rewards. Honors. Money. Not that I did this for a reward, but if a reward was offered, it would only be polite to accept it, right?”

  “Of course. Twenty darics?”

  “No. And then, well,” the dwarf shrugged, “it would only be natural for a young lady to hold me in a higher esteem. If I was a hero, I mean. Wouldn’t she?”

  “Is this a particular young lady, or a hypothetical one?”

  “A hypothetical one,” Tycho said slowly. “With long black hair that shimmers red in the sunlight, and a lovely singing voice…and very muscular legs.”

  “Oh, her?” Salvator nodded sagely. “She would be most impressed by your heroics, without question. Thirty darics?”

  “No.” Tycho drummed on the white-handled revolver on his hip. “Does the gun make me look dangerous and exotic? Or no? I think I rather like it.”

  Salvator frowned. “I hate guns. They’re for cowards and monsters.”

  “I love this one.” Tycho threw a wicked grin up at the Italian. “With a gun like this, a person like me can fight a person like you. And that scares you, doesn’t it?”

  Yes, it most certainly does.

  “Forty darics?”

  “No.”

  Chapter 31

  When the train finally came to a stop in the Tingis station, Taziri was the first to climb down and feel Mazigh soil under her boots and see the Mazigh stars overhead. She quickly found the yardmaster and oversaw the uncoupling of the Halcyon, and watched a small steam tram shunt the special locomotive off into a siding where it would be safe and out of the way. By then, everyone else had woken up and disembarked.

  Kenan and Shifrah wrangled their semi-conscious prisoner onto the platform. The detective paused. “Thanks for your help, captain.”

  I guess he found his place in the world after all. It definitely worked out for me this week, at least. Taziri nodded. “Thanks for yours. Just keep her out of trouble.” She nodded at the one-eyed woman in white.

  Kenan grinned. “I’ll try. Be seeing you.” And they left.

  Taziri found Qhora and Mirari waiting at the end of the platform. “Come on,” she said softly. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

  “And you,” the weary princess said.

  They walked the long mile from the train station uphill across four intersections to the quiet old neighborhood where the Ohana house stood at the end of a paved street dotted with slender elm trees. Taziri opened the front door and saw the men in the living room.

  Alonso was snoring in the armchair in the corner. Little Javier lay sprawled across the young man’s chest, drooling and whimpering.

  Yuba sat on the sofa with Menna curled up in his lap. They both looked up from the book they were reading. “Mommy!” Menna dashed across the room and Taziri scooped her up and swung her through the air before crushing the little girl to her chest.

  Qhora quietly picked up her baby and Mirari gently woke Alonso, and Taziri backed out of the room with Yuba to give the others a moment alone.

  “You’re back.” Yuba smiled and wrapped his arms around them both.

  “It took a little longer than I thought. Sorry.”

  He kissed her. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. Did it go all right?”

  Did it go all right? Flying across the entire continent, chasing criminals, hiding from the authorities, meeting a goddess, and fighting off a cult of assassins with burning swords full of enslaved souls? Did that “go all right”?

  Taziri smiled. “Yeah. It went all right. We got the bad guy and came home in one piece.”

  “Good work, honey.” He kissed her again.

  “I missed you, Mommy,” Menna said. “Did you bring me something?”

  Taziri laughed. “No, I’m sorry sweetie, I didn’t bring you anything. But I do have a story for you.” She looked up at Yuba. “And I have a new invention that’s going to pay for all the new greenhouses you could want.”

  He smiled. “Sounds nice. How long are you home for?”

  She shrugged. “I’m home for good, or until someone else needs my help to save the world.”

  “Fair enough.” And he kissed her again.

  “Mommy! Tell the story!”

  Chapter 32

  They buried Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir on a snow-covered hill in a small churchyard half a mile from the old Diaz estate where the hidalgo had lived and trained with his students. The service was brief but well attended. Most of the neighborhood was there, along with a dozen or so city officials from Madrid. Tradesmen and craftsmen from all over the area came to pay their respects, including a young cobbler, two glovers, a tanner and glazer, three blacksmiths, a silversmith, one elderly horse surgeon, two barbers, and four doctors.

  A short line of young men with old-fashioned espadas on their hips stood along one side of the grave during the service as though guarding their dead master. A longer line of young ladies from town stood behind them.

  Mirari held Alonso’s hand, except when the young man produced his guitar to sing a short song he had written to mark the day.

  Qhora stood alone with Javier bundled up warmly in her arms, listening to the Espani priest leading the gathering in their blessings in old Italian and Hellan.

  They sang together in soft, mournful voices.

  They made the sign of the triquetra.

  In the name of the Father, the Mother, and the Son.

  They each came to Qhora to express their condolences.

  And one by one, they all left.

  Alonso and Mirari lingered by the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, talking to each other but always glancing back toward the grave and their mistress.

  Qhora bounced Javier gently. She looked down at the fresh mound of black earth and its thin blanket of fresh white snow. “Good bye, Enzo.”

  “Hello, princess.”

  She turned slowly and saw him standing in the snow a few feet away. The edge of his figure was hazy and tattered as the wind rippled through the aether, and his boots left no marks on the face of the snow, but it was him. Whole and beautiful and perfect. He smiled.

  “Enzo.” She could barely whisper his name. “You’re free. You’re home.”

  “Thanks to you. And to our friend, the captain,” he said. “How is our son?”

  “He’s fine. He’s perfect.” She swallowed. “What was it like? When you were trapped in the seireiken, did it hurt?”

  “No, but it wasn’t pleasant.” He smiled sadly. “It was a bit crowded.”

  “I don’t know what to do now, Enzo,” she said. “The boys will all leave soon to find other teachers. I’ll probably sell the house and move south somewhere warmer, and cheaper. But after that, I don’t know what to do. How will we live? I don’t know how to earn a living for us. I don’t know anyone here. We’re all alone now.”

  “No, you’re no
t.” He nodded at the gate where the masked girl and her young man were waiting. “You have them. And you have me. I’ll always be here for you. For both of you.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You know that’s not true. And I know that’s not true. Death is still death, even in España.”

  “I know.” He nodded at the old medallion on her chest. “But I could touch that triquetra and be with you always. If you asked me to, I would.”

  “I know you would. But it wouldn’t be right. Not for you or me or Javier.”

  He nodded again.

  “I still know a few people at court,” she said. “Perhaps someone could use a Quechua translator for the merchants visiting the New World.”

  “Perhaps.” He winked. “See? The future doesn’t look so impossible after all, does it?”

  “No,” she said.

  Not impossible. Never impossible. Just long and bleak and hard and lonely.

  She looked down at the fat-cheeked baby in her arms and then she looked up at the sound of Mirari’s laughter.

  Or maybe not so lonely.

  “I’ll look in on you, from time to time,” he said.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  Enzo came forward, and the shape of his long black hair and long black coat shuddered in the wind as long streamers of aether tore away from him on the freezing wind. He looked down at her and then down at their son. “Good bye, Qhora. I love you.”

  She looked up at him and then down at their son. “I love you too, Enzo. Good bye.”

  Qhora bent down to kiss Javier, and waited a moment to be sure that her lover’s ghost had vanished before she turned and left to go home.

  Plague of the Demon King