Europa (8 page)

As he strode out across the snow toward the woolly juggernaut, Omar gripped the hilt of his seireiken and said, “Little brother, I’d appreciate your help again. Any suggestions would be appreciated.” He could feel the frozen earth shuddering under his boots with the vibrations of the one-horn’s huge feet.

Slaughtering animals is a task for butchers, not samurai
, the dead man answered.

Omar tightened his grip on the sun-steel sword and he reached down into the burning metal with his own soul to grab the ghost of Ito Daisuke and tear a flood of images from his memories. Omar saw strange castles and silken robes, men practicing with wooden swords in a gravel yard, a young woman standing on a bridge with an umbrella on her shoulder. Image after image appeared, too fast for him to comprehend any of them.

I submit!
Daisuke cried out.

“That’s better.” Omar blinked to clear his mind as he drew his seireiken, letting its white light dance on the face of the unbroken snow. The one-horn tilted its head back to bellow its final challenge before lowering its snout and leveling its massive horn at Omar’s chest. But already he felt the soul of the samurai guiding his hands and feet, and Omar moved.

At the last moment before contact, he dashed left and forward, slashing swiftly to his right and guiding the edge of his blade along the side of the beast’s head. The behemoth moaned and crashed down into the snow as though its legs had been torn out from under it. Omar whirled away to the side and sheathed his blade, hiding it once again inside his coat. Before him the great beast lay dead and still, an ugly black scar running from its mouth through its small black eye, over the ear, and down the side of its throat in a long snaking line. Omar studied the smoking cut with no memory of having guided his hands around the contours of the animal’s head like that at all. He nodded and exhaled. “Thank you again, little brother. Maybe next time you’ll be a bit more eager to help.”

And the ghost whispered,
Yes, Bakhoum-dono.

The airship hatch banged open and footsteps thumped lightly in the snow to his right, followed closely by many more footsteps approaching on his left. Morayo was the first to reach him. “That’s amazing,” she said, her warm breath swirling around her face in a cloud of vapor. “How did you do that?”

“With the wisdom of many years’ experience in killing giant furry one-horned beasts.” He smiled. “Life is mysterious that way.”

“Life isn’t mysterious at all,” Riuza said dully. “Most things die when you slit their throats.” She indicated the final cut behind the one-horn’s ear. “But why is the wound cauterized?”

“What?” Morayo leaned closer and poked at the wound. “Hey, it’s all dry and hard. Feels like bacon.”

“Oil,” Omar said abruptly. “There’s a special oil on my sword. It’s an ancient Aegyptian practice. The oil burns when it mixes with blood, and seals the wound shut. It makes the internal wound worse. That’s what happened.”

Riuza frowned at him, and then looked away. “If you say so.”

The other local hunters jogged up, inspected the kill, and erupted into cheers. They descended on Omar with brotherly affection, embracing him and lifting him off the ground, laughing and shouting, and roughhousing with their excited hounds. Eventually they set to work butchering the carcass, from which they offered their guests many choice cuts of meat, of which Omar accepted a few but returned most, encouraging his new friends to enjoy the bounty on his behalf. They were happy to oblige him.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly as some of the merchants shuffled back out to try to sell their stones and furs. Riuza and Morayo refilled the boiler with ice and refilled the hopper with coal bought from local miners. Meanwhile, Omar and Kosoko stood in the snow with several more elderly gentlemen, comparing maps and struggling to understand each other through the barriers of four different languages.

For supper, Omar prepared a small feast of seal steaks and one-horn ribs, an experiment that quickly proved that no one liked one-horn ribs no matter how well seasoned they were. Eventually the sun set and with no wind to power the lights, a soft darkness settled over the field. Starlight glowed on the snow on the ground as well as on the town, and Omar fell asleep with a full belly and a smile at the thought of continuing north in the morning.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll cross the Sea of Ice and we’ll see it. Ysland. Tomorrow.

“This is simply amazing,” Kosoko muttered. The cartographer was kneeling on his seat facing out the window with his drawing board balanced against his hip and Omar’s old Rus map pressed flat against the wall above him. His complicated-looking mechanical pencil was clenched in his teeth, distorting his words slightly as he peered alternately at his new map, the old map, and the ground below the
Frost Finch
. They were cruising less than a thousand feet above the earth and following the meandering eastern coast of the country that the people of Edinburgh called Alba.

“What’s so amazing?” Omar asked.

“The detail,” he answered. “Whoever drew this map did a wonderful job capturing the detail of the coastline. Some of the proportions look a bit fuzzy, or maybe the coastline has just shifted since this map was drawn. There’s no way to be certain. But every inch of the coast that I’ve drawn over the last two hours is here, on your map, in perfect detail. I really wish I could read this thing.”

Omar nodded. “When we get back, the first thing I’ll do is make you a translated version. That was my deal with the captain.”

Kosoko nodded absently, his hand massaging his belly.

Shortly thereafter they reached their destination, the northernmost edge of Kosoko’s incomplete map. From there they proceeded at an agonizingly slow pace while the cartographer practiced his craft, sketching in the shape of the world below one tiny line at a time.

The hours crept by, and Omar slipped away into the world of ghostly singers and dancers preserved within his seireiken.

“Captain?” Kosoko called out over the growl of the engine. “I’d like to propose a little change of plan.”

“What’s that?” Riuza asked.

“This Rus map, it looks nearly perfect. I think we might be better served if we speed up and I simply spend the time confirming as much of this map as possible rather than reinvent the wheel on my own.”

“You want to go faster?” the captain asked.

“Yes, much. Same altitude, full speed ahead. If I see any discrepancies I can tell you to stop, but right now I’d like to see just how accurate Mister Bakhoum’s map really is. I think it would be a better use of our time.”

“All right.” Riuza’s hands and feet barely moved, but Omar immediately felt the surge of power from the propellers as the
Frost Finch
accelerated into the northern sky.

Another hour passed and Omar tried to sit patiently and quietly, waiting for the expedition’s work to end so his real journey could begin, the final leg across the Sea of Ice. From time to time he glanced at Kosoko or the maps or out the window, but it was all the same. Snow and rocks and surf and seals. The forests had thinned out just north of Edinburgh and now trees appeared vanishingly rare, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that or anything else.

It was nearly noon when Kosoko turned back around to sit down in his seat, piling his papers in his lap. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, breathing heavily and wincing slightly as he pressed his hand to his stomach. “Captain? I don’t see any need to continue any farther. Every meter of this coastline is drawn with exacting detail on the Rus map. Even the rocky islands off to the east. And the proportions to the mountains in the west look right to me as well. I’m satisfied, at least for the moment.”

Riuza looked back at the men. “You’re sure? We came all the way up here for this. I want you to be sure.”

“Captain, believe me, no one wants to be more certain than I do. But I’ve been comparing this map to the land below us for over three hours now. That’s several hundred kilometers, at least. And it’s all correct. The Rus map is correct. If nothing else, this expedition has allowed us to verify this map, which is worth Mister Bakhoum’s weight in gold. I think we’d be best served by heading home and translating the old map instead of lingering at the end of the world to draw a new one. I can continue to confirm his map on the way back, too. But I’m satisfied for the moment. It’s accurate, captain.”

“If you’re satisfied, then so am I.” She turned to Omar. “Well, Mister Bakhoum, it looks like it’s time to find your island, and well ahead of schedule at that. Can you give me a bearing and range?”

Omar discussed the measurements with Kosoko using their two maps and then called out, “Bearing northwest three-one-four. Distance, thirteen hundred kilometers.”

“Thirteen?” The captain shook her head. “All right, but it’ll be close to midnight before we get there, assuming the wind cooperates. That’s a long time over open ocean. You’re certain of the bearing?”

“Absolutely, dear lady.” Omar grinned and patted Kosoko on the knee. The cartographer offered a weak and sickly smile in return. “We are certain. Full speed ahead to Ysland!”

Full speed to the gates of paradise, full speed to the garden of the sages! After all these years, I’m finally here, nearing the end of my too-long journey. Finally.

Lunch was a cold handful of fruits and nuts, and the afternoon was an uneventful cruise above the clouds that hid the northern sea and left them in a featureless expanse of blue sky and white clouds. From time to time, Omar would pace up to the cabin to peer out the forward windscreen, hoping to be the first to sight his island, but there was rarely any sight of the world below at all, and when the clouds did part they only revealed more dark blue ocean frothing and churning with great white icebergs sailing the waves.

As evening approached the clouds parted one last time and Omar saw the light of the setting sun streaking across a vast field of white ice spider-webbed with black cracks. There was no sign of the dark waters any more. But Morayo pointed to her airspeed indicator and her fuel gauge and her pocket watch and said with youthful confidence that they were halfway to their destination, if their destination did in fact exist.

The sun set and darkness engulfed the airship, but Omar remained poised on the edge of his seat, leaning forward to stare at his clasped hands, waiting.

Only a few more hours. We’re nearly there now. Ysland!

After a while of staring down at the filthy toes of his new boots and realizing that he hadn’t taken off his new boots in several days, Omar sat up to stretch and yawn. He glanced at Kosoko and said, “Are you excited about seeing my little island at the top of the world, or is it just another island for you?”

The cartographer didn’t answer. He simply went on staring across the cabin at the far wall. He didn’t blink.

Oh God, not again.

Omar touched the man’s neck.

No pulse.

He grabbed the hilt of his seireiken. He muttered, “Doctor? I need your help again.”

The dim shade of the Indian healer appeared in the center of the cabin, his legs partially obscured by the small barrel of cheeses in the middle of the floor. After squinting at Kosoko, the physician shrugged and said,
I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to be done. He’s been dead for quite a while now. It’s the same as that other man from before. Heart failure. But at least this gentleman was older. He seemed like a nice man.
And the healer vanished.

Omar grimaced.

No, not now!

He exhaled slowly.

No, it’s all right. The captain didn’t turn back when Garai died, so she won’t turn back now. It’s all right.

“Captain?” he called out. “Can you come back here, please?”

Riuza thumped back to him with one hand on the overhead rail for balance. “What is it?”

Omar gestured to the cartographer. “It would seem our friend Kosoko is no longer with us.”

“What?” Riuza grabbed the dead man’s wrist, and then his neck. “Damn it. What the hell is going on here? Did he say anything?”

“No, nothing. He looked a bit queasy, but he’s looked queasy since we left Tingis. And now he looks the same as Garai did. See the discoloration around the eyes and mouth?”

“Hey, what’s going on back here?” Morayo poked her head over the captain’s shoulder.

Omar leaned over to peer at the cockpit and saw a thin metal bar propped up against the pilot’s controls. The handle wiggled, but stayed upright.

“Kosoko’s dead,” Riuza said.

“Him too? How?” The young engineer took a quick step back from the corpse.

“The doc here says it was his heart, just like Garai.”

“Well, what are the odds of that?” Morayo’s frown shifted quickly into gaping, wide-eyed fear. “What if our food’s been poisoned? What if we’re all going to die?”

“We’re not going to die, lieutenant, settle down.” Riuza turned to Omar. “But it can’t be a coincidence that they’re both dead. What about you, how do you feel?”

“Fine,” Omar said. “I had a little indigestion once, but that was days ago.”

“Captain,” Morayo whispered. “What if
he
did it?”

“Don’t be stupid, lieutenant. Get back to your station.” But Riuza kept her gaze on her one remaining passenger.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Omar said, raising his empty hands. “I didn’t even know these gentlemen before you introduced me to them. Why would I kill them?”

“So you could get to your damn island,” Morayo said, her face darkening. “With Garai dead, we spent almost no time on the ground looking at the plants and things. It sped up the flight for you, didn’t it?”

Omar shrugged. “Maybe. But why would I kill Kosoko? He stopped his map-work hours ago. He wasn’t holding me up.”

“Maybe not now, but this morning he sure was. Maybe you poisoned him then and he only just now died of it. You’ve had your hands in the food the whole time. And you cooked for us right before Garai died. You could have poisoned his food then,” the engineer said. “What do you think, captain?”