Marco stiffened as the blade pressed harder and harder against his neck and Syfax hunched his larger frame behind his hostage. He locked eyes with Jorge. “Drop it. Drop the gun.”
Jorge did not flinch. He held his rifle tight into his shoulder, sighting along the barrel at Syfax’s head, which was mostly obscured by his hostage’s sweating face. The major made a small show of resetting his feet and retightening his grip on the knife. He bore down on Marco’s arms to make the young man gasp and shudder a bit, and then pulled back on the knife. Marco’s jaw shook and he rasped out, “For God’s sake, drop the rifle.”
Jorge didn’t move. “Diego, who is this man?”
Diego, huddled back with his friends against the far wall, stammered out, “I don’t really know them. We don’t know them. They’re friends of Don Lorenzo. Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir. The diestro. You’ve heard of him. You know him, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” Jorge said. “But what are these two doing here? Why’d he lie about Cordoba? What’s going on here, Diego?”
“Look, look, I swear, they just showed up at the Don’s house yesterday. I don’t know what it was all about. We were all getting ready to leave for our winter holiday, we were packing and getting ready. Then we all ate lunch together, and everyone left, and these two men came south with us.” Diego’s hand went up to his hair. The boy was shaking. “Please, that’s all I know. Please don’t shoot. They’re just friends of the Don. I swear. Please don’t shoot them.”
“Don’t lie to me, Diego!” Jorge shouted without sending even a slight shudder though the weapon held tight against his body. “He has a knife to Marco’s throat. He lied about who he is. And not an hour ago we got orders to be on the lookout for Mazigh spies. So you tell me who he is or I kill him right now. Right now!”
Holy hell, why couldn’t Kenan be more like this guy? The major locked eyes with the young soldier, not daring to blink. He’s steady as a rock and cold as ice. I sure could have used him back when I was running down serial killers in Arafez.
“Leave the kid alone,” Syfax said. “He doesn’t know anything. And we’re not spies. We just came to visit the Don. We’re old buddies, me and him. But it turned out to be a bad time, so now we’re heading home. Maybe we’ll get together later this summer.”
“Then why lie about it?” Jorge asked.
“The Don told me to. He said you people were getting antsy about foreigners,” Syfax said. “And it looks like he was right.”
“Jorge, for God’s sake, let them go,” Marco whispered. “Put your rifle down. Please.”
The major frowned. “Don’t worry, soldier. If he was going to shoot me he would have, and if I was going to slit your throat, you’d have drowned in your own blood a minute or two ago.” Syfax eased the knife away from the young man’s neck. “Now, Jorge, you’re going to put that gun down, and I’m going to walk out that door, and no one is going to get shot or stabbed. Deal?”
For the first time that the major had seen, Jorge blinked. The soldier nodded, ever so slightly. And then he began lowering his rifle. Syfax took his blade away from Marco’s neck but kept it high and visible. When the rifle was low enough for his taste, Syfax said, “Kenan, out the door now. Make sure these fellas don’t have any buddies out there.”
The lieutenant slipped to the door and poked his head out into the street. “Looks clear.”
Syfax kept one hand firmly on Marco’s collar to hold him in place. He sheathed his knife and for a moment considered grabbing the other rifle on the floor behind him.
No. That would probably be a bad idea, eventually.
He shuffled sideways toward the door, still holding Marco between himself and Jorge. And when he reached the door, he shoved the soldier toward his friend and bolted backward into the street. He stumbled into Kenan, who was still hovering by the doorway, but he grabbed the young pilot and steered him into the bustle of porters, horses, and carts threading up and down the narrow streets of Toledo.
“Do we run?” Kenan asked breathlessly.
“Not yet.” Syfax glanced back. There was no sign of pursuit.
“Where are we going?”
“Out of this town, I hope.” They came to an intersection and he scanned for street signs. There were none. But there were soldiers loitering here and there, pacing slowly along the shop windows and sitting on the wide steps of every church in sight. And there were quite a few churches in sight. He glanced up, hunting for a gleam of sunlight beyond the iron curtain of the winter clouds, but there was no hint of the sun’s position. “Damn it, which way is south?”
“There.” Kenan pointed at one street out of the square that looked as good as any other so they walked quickly and quietly down that road, and another, and another, and soon the buildings became smaller and slightly cleaner. Over the rooftops, he glimpsed a few trees, and then a bald hill, and finally the cobbled street became a road of frozen mud and dirty slush as they emerged from the town proper. Syfax slowed the pace. “I think we’re okay for the moment. They don’t know where we’re going since we don’t even know where we’re going. Level playing field.”
Kenan shook his head. “If you say so.” He kicked a lump of icy snow off the road.
“Something on your mind?”
“Were you really going to kill that soldier back there? Slit his throat?”
Hell yes, him and his brave little friend. We’ve got a boat to report, because warships mean war, and war means a hell of a lot more than two dead bodies. Syfax winced. Since when do I let the math decide who lives and who dies? I really am getting older. “Nah, I was just doing what I needed to do to get us out of there. Now pick up the pace. We need to put a few miles between us and this town.”
Chapter 11. Lorenzo
As the sun set on their second day on the road to Zaragoza, Lorenzo watched the tiny black line of the northern mountains with an eager eye. The loss of his journal had been as personally devastating as it was politically terrifying, and the appearance of the Mazigh refugees had been as unexpected as it was annoying, but now… now I’m on the road. All of the anxiety and anger and fear seemed so far away, so unimportant. Every hour brought him closer to the mountains, closer to the stone.
Ariel’s stone. Our stone. The skyfire stone. A piece of heaven fallen to earth. A holy relic that burns like molten gold and sings like a hundred thousand choirs of angels.
It was out there. It was real. And when he brought it back to the world and showed it to the quailing hearts of Espani men and women, they would remember who and what they were, and what God meant them to be, and a bright new future would be born.
It will.
It has to.
They had made good time from Alovera, even without the horse that the Italian woman had disappeared on. The sky had glowered at them throughout the day, but withheld its icy sleet and hail and snow, keeping the roads firm and clear all the way to Algora. When they arrived in the village it had taken a bit of effort to find enough beds for nine people and accommodations for four horses and a giant bird, but shortly after sunset everyone was settled either at the inn by the main road or a large farmhouse just up the lane. Qhora had suggested that the foreigners stay at the farm, farther out of sight and thus less likely to attract attention from anyone until long after they had left the next morning. And that left him, his wife, and his students to enjoy the quiet little inn. Qhora seemed to particularly enjoy the enormous fireplace.
Supper was still nearly an hour away, but no one was in the mood to do anything productive. The boys were in their rooms, probably sleeping if history was any indication. Lorenzo appreciated their ability to fall asleep at a moment’s notice at almost any time, in any place, in any position. It was something he himself had learned in the army and had often wished his wife had picked up as well. There were quite a few mornings when she woke up not entirely prepared to face the day with a smile. And sometimes she liked to tell him about it.
“I guess I should go chec
k on Atoq,” Qhora said from her seat by the fire. A small mountain of blankets hid her from view, from her shoulders down to her feet. She sighed quietly. She didn’t move.
“I’ll take care of it,” Lorenzo said.
“Are you sure? You shouldn’t have to go back out there for me.” Qhora glanced at him with wide, dark eyes. She still didn’t move.
He smiled. “You’re getting a little too good at this routine.”
She smiled back. “I said that I would try to be more of a proper Espani lady. So I thought it only appropriate to learn how to cajole and manipulate you as any Espani lady would.”
Lorenzo chuckled as he stood up. “Full marks for execution and style. Bravo.”
“Are you really going to find Atoq, or shall I?”
“Neither,” he said with a frown. “After all, we’re a respectable Espani couple. We’ll make the boys do it. Gaspar! Enrique!”
After a moment he heard a door creak and several tired feet thumped in the back hallway. The two boys emerged with hair standing at strange angles but otherwise looking alert. “Yes, Don Lorenzo?”
“I need you two to go out and take a quick circuit around the village to look for Atoq.” Lorenzo saw the boys’ faces fall a bit. “It’s not that bad. Just do one lap around the village and call for him every few minutes. He’s nearby. Even if you don’t see him, he’ll hear you and know where we are. That’s all. Now go on. Supper will be soon.”
Gaspar and Enrique nodded and went back to their room for their coats and boots, and a minute later they shuffled through the room again and out the front door.
Lorenzo settled back into his seat and resumed scratching and scribbling at his loose pages of notes. Last night he had begun reconstructing his maps and directions from memory as best he could and during the day’s ride he had remembered a few more details. Sister Ariel had conducted numerous interviews with witnesses across the northern provinces in her attempts to identify the angle of the stone’s plummet from the sky to better estimate its exact position. He was trying to recall those interviews now. Reports and descriptions from the townsmen of Zaragoza, the farmers outside Huesca, and miners near Bielsa.
It fell above the tree line.
It crossed from the east to the northwest.
It fell in summer.
Some details were certain. Others weren’t. And as much as that uncertainty troubled him, it comforted him more. Every missing detail was an obstacle to Faleiro and Magellan. Each conflicting report was a reason to think that the military wasn’t going to go looking for the stone any time soon. And even if they had his notes, he still had the source. He had Ariel.
It has to be near Yesero. It has to be.
He was startled out of his work by the innkeeper’s wife setting the table for supper and making small talk with Qhora. Alonso and Hector shuffled out of their room looking equally disheveled and ravenous, exhausted by the road and yet mysteriously invigorated by the prospect of food.
Lorenzo glanced at the door. How long have the other boys been gone? How long should it take them to come back? And when exactly should I be concerned?
To his immense relief, the door opened at just that moment and Gaspar appeared in the entrance. Lorenzo set his papers aside and crossed over to the table as he said, “Were you able to find Atoq?”
“Don Lorenzo.” Gaspar hurried toward him. “He’s got Enrique. I didn’t know what to do. We didn’t have our swords. I’m sorry, I was stupid.”
“Wait, stop. Where is Enrique?” Lorenzo grabbed the boy’s shoulders and tried to lock eyes with him. He was terrified and breathless, shaking as much from the cold as from fright.
“At the bottom of the hill, by the covered bridge we crossed. He’s holding him. He wants to see you. Right now.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He sounded Italian.”
“Was it the boy I dueled? Silvio de Medici?”
“No. Someone else. Someone older.”
Lorenzo pushed Gaspar aside and dashed to his room for his coat and gloves. With his espada belted over his hip, the hidalgo strode back across the common room. “Alonso, Hector, get your swords and protect the door. Qhora, stay back there by the fire. Gaspar, stay by her.”
“I’ll come with you,” Hector said. The young diestro was not as tall as Alonso, but he had shown more confidence and aggression in his lessons, if not as much skill.
For a moment, Lorenzo considered it. “No, everyone stay here. I’ll deal with the Italian.” He managed a smile. “Won’t be a minute. Keep supper warm for us.”
Outside he found that night had fully fallen and ten thousand stars burned overhead with a chilling white light. The village sat in silence, wrapped and swaddled beneath its blankets of snow and ice that glowed with reflected starlight. Lorenzo moved quickly down the road, the frozen mud crunching and snapping beneath his boots. He wanted to run, but he knew better.
Only moments after leaving the inn he could see the dark shape of the covered bridge at the bottom of the hill. There were no lights, no fires or torches or candles to betray where the Italian and his captive might be. All he could see were the silvery snow drifts, the gleaming icicles, and the black shadows oozing around the edges of the trees and rocks.
Halfway down the hill, he saw the first flicker of movement, a waver of shadow-within-shadow inside the covered bridge. And as he reached the level bank at the entrance to the bridge, he could see clearly through it to the bright snow on the far bank, and against that blue-white slope there stood two black figures.
“Enrique!” Lorenzo continued forward. He could see everything now, certainly well enough to know that there were no other men hiding behind the skeletal trees or the knee-high rocks along the creek’s edge. They were alone. “Enrique!”
“Yes,” the boy answered softly. “It’s me.”
The two figures on the bridge parted abruptly and Lorenzo stood in the open starlight as the smaller person walked out of the shadows toward him. Enrique tilted his head back to reveal the thin black streams of blood on his cheeks where a slender blade had sliced his hairless skin. Lorenzo didn’t need to see them closely to know they would leave long, ugly scars. He caught the youth’s arms. “Are you all right?”
Enrique nodded and croaked, “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We were just walking along and he stepped out of nowhere,” the young man said, his eyes level with his teacher’s shoulder. “He grabbed me and started yelling at Gaspar about getting you. I tried to get away, and he cut me.” He looked up slowly and gently touched his jaw, his fingers nowhere near the long gashes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ve never known a diestro who didn’t have a few scars.”
“You don’t.” His lip was trembling.
Lorenzo winced. Oh, yes I do, just not where you can see them. “Can you get back to the inn on your own?”
Enrique nodded and shuffled on. Over the scuffing of his student’s boots on the fragile ice, Lorenzo heard him sob and sniff.
The hidalgo watched him get halfway up the hill before turning his full attention back to the figure on the bridge. “I’ll spare you the sermon about hurting that boy. Anyone depraved enough to maim an unarmed opponent isn’t worth the effort. I’ll leave that to God. Who are you and what do you want with me?”
A short bark of a laugh echoed out from the covered bridge. The voice that spoke flowed like wine and honey carrying the posh accent of Roman nobility. “Oh, my. You really are a delusional zealot, aren’t you, Don Lorenzo? Sermons and God, souls and ghosts. I wasn’t sure whether I should believe the stories, but I can see now they’re all true. How disappointing.”
For a moment, a burning flare of rage and hate erupted in Lorenzo’s belly. It startled him. The sudden desire to carve a man into bloody pieces. The impulse to scream obscenities. It was so close to the surface. He knew he had only to touch his sword to unleash those dark passions. It would only take a moment,
the briefest of lapses, the briefest of indulgences.
No, that’s all in the past now, and besides, murdering this man won’t heal Enrique’s wounds.
He exhaled and managed a smile. “You know my name! It’s terribly civilized of you to go to the trouble, what with the stalking and the night-time dramatics. Or am I so well-known in Italia these days that everyone there recognizes my face? I’m flattered. Really. But I’m sorry to say I have no idea who you are. Is there a name, or shall I just pick some barnyard animal to call you? Chicken, cow, dog, pig?”
The man paced forward slowly into the starlight. His lined face was no longer young, but he was far from middle-aged. A well-sculpted mustache swept across his upper lip and a sinister tuft of beard pointed down from his chin. A long, heavy coat concealed the shape of his body, but Lorenzo guessed from the angles of his face and his movements that the man was rather lean. His eyes stared out in an expression of intense study and yet also mild amusement. He nodded curtly and said, “Salvator Fabris, at your service.”
Lorenzo willed himself to stand very still. A moment ago he had been supremely confident that no matter what was about to happen, he would walk away from the encounter unharmed. Now that confidence was gone. The name alone was enough to cast dark doubts over his own abilities. Fabris’s reputation wasn’t merely one of skill or excellence, but casual ruthlessness and viciousness, and suddenly the long cuts on Enrique’s face seemed a mercy.
The one story that Lorenzo had long associated with this man was of an honor duel. Years ago, some wealthy Roman hired the young Fabris to fend off an angry Sicilian. The Sicilian unleashed a dozen Espani diestros to search the Roman’s home for a certain misplaced daughter, but Fabris had met them on the lawn and defeated all twelve of them in rapid succession. Later that day, the Sicilian had received the bodies of his champions, but not his daughter.
It was the sort of story meant for drunken embellishment. After all, there were no witnesses. There was no reason to believe it was true. Maybe it was only one diestro. Maybe Fabris hadn’t fought alone. Maybe. But for years, Lorenzo had allowed that story to worm its way into the mythology of this man, and now as he stood a dozen paces from Fabris, he couldn’t escape his irrational certainty that the entire story was absolutely true.
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