Halcyon The Complete Trilogy (96 page)

“I’m Tycho, by the way,” the dwarf continued. “And this is Philo. Of Constantia, by way of Sparta, if you weren’t quite sure.” He smiled and shook the side of his red cloak. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Qhora and Mirari.” She nodded politely. “Why are you looking for a seireiken?”

Tycho glanced back at old Philo and held a brief exchange in Hellan before the younger man said, “I apologize, but my master’s Espani is very poor and I didn’t wish to speak out of turn. To answer you, we have been sent to buy a seireiken as a gift. We’re special envoys of the Lady Nerissa of Constantia.”

“A gift.” Qhora nodded slowly. “Do you know much about them? Do you know what these swords can do?”

“Do?” Tycho shrugged. “I suppose they can kill a man if you use the pointed end in the usual way.”

“Hellas is on the northern edge of the Middle Sea, like Italia and España,” Qhora said. “So I’m sure you’re familiar with ghosts.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And aether.”

“Naturally.”

“Then you should know that these seireiken blades can drink aether and steal…” She swallowed and steadied her voice. “They can steal a person’s soul and trap it in the blade.”

Tycho glanced from one lady to the other with an uncertain look. And then he smiled. “Yes, we know. After all, why would they send us a thousand miles for just any sword?” He shook his head and his smile faded. “What a hell of a present to give a man. But, if I may ask, why are you looking for these soul-swords?”

Qhora shook her head. “It’s a private matter. Good day, gentlemen. And good luck to you.”

“And to you. I’ll be sure to let you know if we find anything.”

Qhora nodded and turned away, leading Mirari on to the next shop and the next table of common steel swords. She was about to engage a bearded smith about a certain sword of his that almost resembled the shape of the seireiken when she felt Mirari’s hand on her arm. Qhora looked up to see six men in green and black robes advancing down the street. Short swords, single-shot pistols, and mismatched daggers crowded their belts.

“Same as the ones at the pier in Carthage,” she muttered.

“We should leave, my lady,” Mirari said quietly.

Qhora glanced over at Salvator across the street and saw him looking thoughtfully at the six men marching toward them. “Our Italian friend doesn’t seem concerned. I wonder why he…oh.”

The six men veered to one side and encircled the two red-cloaked Hellans.

“Maybe our questions attracted the wrong attention,” Mirari said.

“Or the right attention.” Qhora started forward, one slow shuffling step at a time. She reached for her Songhai dirk and found it gone, and she panicked a moment before remembering that she had traded it away. From her sleeve she drew a straight-edged dagger.

“My lady, no. We are out-numbered, alone, on strange ground. Think of your husband. Think of your son!” Mirari whispered.

Qhora paused, squeezing her knife.

She’s right. This isn’t my concern. They’re grown men. They can take care of themselves. And perhaps the wisest course would be to follow the ones in green back to wherever they came from. Yes, that would be the smart thing to do
.

One of the six drew his aging pistol and grabbed the elderly Philo. Another man in green reached down to grab Tycho and yanked him forward off balance. A patter of laughter ran through the other four fighters.

Qhora stared at the young Hellan, surrounded and armed only with a small knife, and his old master armed with nothing at all.

Someone’s son. Someone’s husband
.

When another of the fighters drew his pistol, Qhora moved. She ran. She raised her knife. And as the men in green suddenly turned to face her, she screamed, “TURI!” And she hurled her dagger.

The blade whistled as it spun and then buried itself in the neck of the man holding Tycho. The dwarf leapt free and drew his own knife as the men in green raised their pistols and reached for their short swords. And then a curtain of gray feathers fell screaming from the sky.

The harpy eagle shrieked like an angel enraged and flew into the first man, crashing bodily into the fighter’s head and sinking his long black talons into the man’s shoulder and face before snapping his curved beak at the man’s ear. The man screamed and the eagle leapt into the air, and two pistols barked but neither shot touched the huge bird.

And then Qhora plunged in among them, whirling to yank their own knives from their belts and whirling again to plunge their knives back into their flesh. She didn’t look or think, she simply pushed and pulled and felt the warm blood on her hands. Mirari crashed into the men like a faceless doll and swung her small hatchet at their short swords. As Philo fell over a table, Tycho darted into the fray, slashing expertly at knees and ankles and groins, and in a moment three of the green men were on the ground clutching their wounds and hollering in Eranian while the other three stumbled back, their faces splashed with blood and dust.

“Ladies.” Salvator Fabris stepped past them to face the three men in green still on their feet. Qhora turned to Mirari, who was holding her arm awkwardly, and Tycho who was struggling to help Philo to his feet. Just an arm’s length away several of the sword smiths stood motionless and stone-faced, hammers and swords in their hands as they waited to see whether they would have to defend themselves or their wares.

After checking the wound in Mirari’s upper arm, Qhora helped Philo up and discovered the old man had sprained or broken his ankle and could barely stand up through the pain of it.

We need to get away, we need shelter, and we need safety.

Qhora looked back down the street in time to see Salvator deftly slash tiny red lines in the necks of two of the green-clad fighters, leaving them to collapse in the dust, choking and clutching their throats. The last fighter spun and ducked into the crowd with the Italian about to stab him through the back.

“No!” she shouted. “We need to know who they are! Where they come from!”

Salvator glanced back at her and gave her a serious little nod as he sheathed his sword and hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the last man.

Qhora let the wheezing old Hellan lean on her shoulder. “We need to find somewhere a bit more private, gentlemen. Do you know this city at all?”

“I do.” Tycho kicked the head of one of the men on the ground. “There’s a small area they call the Hellan Quarter just a few streets from here. It’s where we slept last night. Follow me.”

The four of them had barely left the street of smiths when Qhora looked back over her shoulder. “What about Salvator? How will he find us?”

“Your tall Italian friend?” Tycho asked. “We can find him again later easily enough.”

Qhora nodded and hurried Philo down the road with Mirari close behind them.

It’s not a sword, but if Salvator can make that man talk, then we’ll know where these bastards sleep. And Lorenzo’s killer won’t be far away.

Chapter 13. Taziri

Her pocket watch said it was noon. From the heat inside the metal tube of the
Halcyon
’s cabin, she was inclined to believe it. For the first hour as the heat had begun to build, she managed to convince herself that she could simply wait it out. She folded up the old tarp in the middle of the floor and sat very still with her jacket and shirt on the floor beside her. The air had filled with vapors stinking of oil, sweat, petrol, and what might have been a dead bird. Each breath was a little thicker than the last, each one a bit more of a struggle to choke down.

She ignored the first few trickles of sweat rolling down the sides of her face, but when she felt water running down the small of her back she opened her eyes and saw the sweat standing in thick beads all down her arms and when she turned her head a small shower of sweat fell from her face.

That’s bad.

Moving slowly, she pulled all of the emergency canteens together in front of her. Four small metal flasks wrapped in canvas, and one of them empty already. The water in the others tasted stale and dusty, after she got past the fact that they felt hotter than her skin.

That’s bad, too.

Taziri stood up and wrenched open the small hatch in the center of the ceiling. It popped free to reveal a pale blue sky with a lone wisp of white cloud. A bright yellow shaft of sunlight struck the floor, illuminating a column of dust in the cabin.

That’s not going to cool me off.

In the cockpit, she opened and angled the small side windows, hoping to create a cross-breeze through the narrow space, but no matter what she tried, she felt no movement of air. She reached up to push a few heavy curls of her dark hair from her face and her hand came away dripping with sweat.

I’m not going to last long at this rate.

She stood up and peered out the small window in the main hatch. All she saw was a strip of gravel and the edge of one of the old freight cars on the adjoining line. It sounded quiet enough outside. She opened the hatch and stepped down to the ground, and closed the hatch most of the way. Then she tip-toed around the front of the
Halcyon
and found a patch of shade beside her machine. The ground felt noticeably cooler in the shadow than in the light, so she sat down on a jagged carpet of gravel. A soft breeze ran over her sweaty skin and she shivered.

The sunlight glared off the pale gray gravel all around her, blazing into her eyes almost as brightly as the Espani snow-glare.

España. Snow.

She closed her eyes and thought back to the days and nights trudging up the frozen Espani highway with ice-crusted snow and frozen mud crunching beneath her boots. The wind had howled and moaned without end, hurling icy crystals and dry snow into her face every few moments where it stuck fast to her hair and eyelashes.

Shivering.

They had shivered the entire time, shaking and trembling with blue lips as they marched along behind the relentless bulk of Syfax Zidane. The major had barked orders at them every step of the way, especially at the passengers.
Protect your eyes, hands tucked in your armpits, and don’t eat the snow
. It would freeze them from the inside out, he’d said.

Taziri swallowed her dry throat and tried to imagine freezing from the inside out. It sounded heavenly.

Cold, cold, cold. Gooseflesh. Shivering. Wind.

A warm breeze ran through her hair, but she couldn’t muster a single goosepimple.

Crunching through the snow. Crunching…on gravel? Footsteps? Footsteps on the gravel! Someone’s here!

Taziri opened her eyes and the glare on the pale stones seared her vision. Squinting, she struggled up to her feet just as the little girl from yesterday stepped into view at the far end of the
Halcyon
. She had a clay pitcher in her hand. “Tishna?”

The pilot stood very still for a moment, listening. No one else was coming. She gestured for the girl to come closer, and when she offered the pitcher Taziri took it in shaking hands and gulped down the cool water as fast as she could, spilling a little down the sides of her face.

With half the pitcher’s contents in her belly, Taziri stopped drinking to wipe her face and smile at the girl, who smiled back. “Thank you very much. Thank you. Thank. You. Wait, is it
mamnoon
? Whatever, you get the idea.”

“Khahesh mikonam.” The girl giggled and let loose a soft babble of Aegyptian or Eranian or whatever she spoke.

Taziri heaved a contented sigh and glanced down at herself. Her shoulders, arms, and stomach were all bare, and only the stiff cotton stay around her chest covered her breasts.

And I’m still not wearing a shirt. That’s not a good idea in this country.

The girl tapped on the side of the
Halcyon
and said, “Basirat andarun?”

“What?” Taziri glanced at the machine. “You want to look inside again?”

She nodded.

Taziri shrugged. “Probably safer than standing around out here.” She led the girl back to the hatch and inside where she hoped the cabin might have cooled off a bit from the open windows and hatches. It hadn’t.

They sat down together on the old tarp on the floor and shared the rest of the water. The girl spent every moment staring all around her at the walls, the seats, and the controls. She even leaned down to run her fingers over the rivets in the floor.

“You like machines? Want to be an engineer one day?” Taziri said. “Well, keep up your mathematics and you too could have an exciting career in flying strange people to dangerous countries in the middle of the night.” She smiled at herself, but then her smile faded. “Do you go to school? Can you read?” She grabbed her little notebook of preflight checks and pointed at her crooked scrawl. “Can you read?”

The girl shook her head.

Damn. It’s one of those countries
. She pointed to herself. “My name’s Taziri. Ta-zi-ri.”

The girl nodded. “Hasina.”

“Nice to meet you, Hasina.” Taziri waved to the cockpit. “Go ahead, take a look.”

Hasina leapt up with a beaming smile and jumped into the pilot’s seat. She gently touched and caressed and petted the dials and buttons and switches and gauges.

Taziri sat on the floor behind her, watching.
Poor thing.

Soon Hasina was babbling in Eranian again, asking questions about everything as she pointed from one console to another. Taziri stood up and leaned over her shoulder, naming each object in turn. “Throttle. Altimeter. Wind speed. Compass. Fuel. Oil. Temperature.”

She has no idea what I’m saying. She’s twice Menna’s age, but Menna can already read better than this girl ever will.

Thoughts of Menna and home took her back to Yuba puttering around the house, designing parks and fountains and gardens for his clients. Yuba in the kitchen. Yuba in the yard. Yuba, alive and well.

How can Qhora just walk around, fly across the world, and stalk some stranger from city to city with her husband not even buried, not even cold? I’d be in pieces. I’d be lying in bed, crying my eyes out, squeezing Menna until the poor little thing couldn’t breathe. I’d be useless.