Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  Alonso’s smile faltered. “Oh, I admit my voice is more tenor than bass, but I hardly think my laugh would be mistaken for a girl’s.”

  The soldiers continued opening and closing doors up and down the hall. A faint echo of voices from the stair heralded the arrival of several choir monks carrying candles and wearing stern faces. At the sight of the holy men, the soldiers froze to a man, all glancing from one to another, and finally looking back at Salvator.

  “What is it now?” The Italian glanced back at the priests advancing on him. “Yes, gentlemen? Is there a problem?”

  “Why are you disturbing our guests?” the tall man in brown asked. “Don Lorenzo, his wife, and his companions are friends of this parish, this church, and our beloved bishop. We do not permit officers of the law to disturb our prayers or our works, be they faithful Espani or otherwise.”

  “My dear fellow, I would not dream of disturbing any man of the cloth, and certainly not one so esteemed as the bishop of Zaragoza. However, this is no common matter of law and order.” Salvator draped his arm around the monk’s shoulder in a brotherly embrace. “I am here as a special envoy from Rome in the service of your own Lord Admiral Magellan to-”

  “I don’t care who you are or why you have come. You will leave immediately.”

  “I’ll leave when I wish and not a moment sooner.” Salvator gently pushed the monk back against the two others standing behind him. “Sergeant! Please escort the good brothers into that room there,” he indicated one of the empty cells, “and ensure that no one disturbs them until we leave, which will be shortly.”

  “Outrageous!” Qhora stormed in between the Italian and the monks. “You have no right to detain these men in their own home, in a house of God!”

  Salvator merely nodded at the sergeant. The young man in uniform swallowed, his face pale and sweating, his eyes wide and darting, but he nodded back and took the monk’s elbow, making certain to hold his rifle quite far from the robed men. When the three brothers were behind a closed door, he took his place at the threshold, his fingers clenching and unclenching his rifle.

  “Sir.” Another soldier approached. “There’s no one else here. The other rooms are empty. No clothes or anything else.”

  Salvator sneered. “Search the entire cathedral, floor by floor and room by room. I want those foreign women found, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldiers jogged away to the ends of the hall and down the stairs.

  “Since when do Italian swine command brave Espani soldiers?” Hector kept his sword down, but held it in front of himself. His voice caught in his throat, threatening to break. Qhora could almost feel the nervous fear coming off the young man in waves.

  “Since your royal swine Prince Valero came to the realization that the only chance his pathetic excuse for a military would ever have of fighting real men would come at the tutelage of foreign masters.” Salvator glanced at the boy’s espada. “That is a very cheap strip of tin.”

  Hector lunged at the Italian’s exposed chest, and Salvator began to draw, but Alonso was faster than both of them. The half-naked student tackled his friend to the floor in a tangle of loose clothes and bare limbs. Qhora saw Alonso’s eyes squeezed shut as the boy anticipated the Italian’s sword, but when no retaliation came he looked up. Fabris stood looking down at him, unmoved, his sword still sheathed. The sergeant guarding the monks stepped away from his post, but the Italian waved him back again.

  “Well done,” Salvator said to the small pile of bodies before him. “You’ve just saved the life of your friend. And I must say I’m rather impressed with your reflexes-”

  Gaspar leapt over the two boys on the floor to slash at the Italian’s chest. Salvator stepped back, drew his rapier, and slashed the young diestro’s arm from shoulder to elbow in a single stroke. The boy tumbled to the floor, his sword skidding away, forgotten. Gaspar screamed as he clutched his arm, the dark blood pouring from the enormous gash in his flesh.

  Again Qhora raced forward but again Alonso was quicker. He tore the loose sleeve from Hector’s shirt and dove onto the writhing form of Gaspar, wrenching the injured arm from Gaspar’s grip and binding it quickly and tightly with the torn cloth. The blood quickly stained the entire bandage, but the torrent became a mere dribble of red and black running down to drip from Gaspar’s fingers. The wounded youth leaned against the wall, pale and shuddering, his eyes unable to focus on anything.

  “Two lives saved and still without pants,” Salvator said. “Most impressive.”

  Alonso leapt to his feet as Hector scrambled to Gaspar’s side, but Qhora grabbed Alonso’s wrist as she placed her other hand against the Italian’s chest, holding them apart.

  Salvator smiled. “All this pain, all this suffering, and for what? For the Mazighs? For a few foreign spies? Don’t you realize these people want to destroy what’s left of your homeland?”

  He doesn’t seem to know about Dante. Qhora exhaled slowly. If only Dante was of any use to anyone. Enzo, where are you?

  For a moment, only Gaspar’s strained breathing and soft moaning echoed through the corridor. Qhora felt the tension leave Alonso’s arm and she let him go. The young man stood very close behind her and she felt the heat billowing off his bare chest.

  At that moment, a pair of soldiers returned to the near stair to report nothing found in the corridor above them. A minute later, another man returned empty-handed from the kitchens. And another from the stables. And another and another. Soon the entire company had returned and all with the same report. There was no sign of the other women anywhere in La Seo.

  “And what now, Senor Fabris?” Qhora asked. She gestured to Gaspar. “This young man needs a doctor. Will you leave us in peace, or do you need to continue maiming children, threatening women, and bullying the gentle priests of this church?” She projected her voice over the crowd of soldiers, scanning the young men’s faces for reactions. She saw many pursed lips and uneasy eyes.

  Salvator sighed. “No, I suppose not. Sergeant, please let the good brothers out. And wait here until Signora Quesada and her companions are fully dressed before you bring them back to the barracks with us. I’ll return immediately to summon a doctor, or whatever passes for a doctor here.” He turned and strode away to the stairs.

  Qhora blinked. The barracks?

  The boys dressed, helping Gaspar to wrap his shirts and coats around his arm, and within a few minutes they were all bundling down the stairs and out into the street over the mealy mouthed objections of the sleepy priests and monks. The first blast of night air snapped her eyes open and left her shivering all the way down the riverside, and then through the maze of narrow stone and ice corridors to the prison-like block of the army barracks.

  Moments later she was sitting in a large cell with the three boys posturing around her like overprotective lions. They might have made a more impressive display if they had had their swords and if Gaspar hadn’t been hunched over, cradling his arm to his chest with a spatter of red on the floor beside him. A dozen soldiers milled around the large room on the other side of the bars while Salvator explained to the Espani major why he was holding four prisoners and why he needed a surgeon and why he needed a cup of real coffee and not the watered down piss the Espani called tea. Then Salvator left the room.

  As soon as the Italian was gone, the soldiers dropped their rifles and converged on the cell with bright beaming smiles. “Alonso!”

  Alonso pressed up to the bars, shaking hands and grabbing shoulders and tousling hair. The next few minutes were a deafening roar of laughter and shouts as the young diestro embraced his old friends and tried to introduce them to his fellow prisoners at a full holler. Qhora just smiled and waved at the young men hanging on the bars and babbling in their sharp northern Espani accents.

  Eventually one of the soldiers, a narrow-faced boy with a crooked nose and a booming voice took over the chaos. “Alonso, what’s really going on?”

  “I don’t know. One minute we’re on vacation to train
at the cathedral and the next minute some fancy Italian is dragging a whole party into my room in the middle of the night, and not in the good way.”

  The boys laughed.

  Alonso pointed at the door through which Salvator had left. “So who the hell is he? Why are you taking orders from an Italian?”

  “Who knows? He just showed up two hours ago, flashed some papers at the major, and suddenly he’s in charge. And he smells.” More laughter. “Like a drunken wad of burnt hair.”

  “Boys, boys, please.” Qhora stood up. “Now that we’re all friends, can we please go?”

  They exchanged guilty looks. “Sorry, Dona, we can’t do that. Orders are orders. But we do have the doc coming to patch up your friend there. Did Fabris really do that?”

  Alonso nodded. “He may smell like dead fish, but he knows which end of a sword to hold. Keep clear of him.”

  Qhora approached the bars. “Please, listen, this Italian is hunting innocent people. He says he’s looking for Mazigh spies, but we’ve only seen him attacking Espani. We had another young man with us, Enrique. Fabris attacked him on the road and we had to leave him behind in the care of strangers. He attacked my husband, and now he’s attacked Gaspar. This Italian is as depraved as he vicious. You must help us. Please, I need to find my husband, Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir. He’s out in the streets right now, he can’t be far.”

  The soldiers hung on the bars outside, casting frowns and squints at each other. The one with the crooked nose said, “Sorry, but if Fabris comes back and you’re not here, we could all end up in a cell, or out in the street. We didn’t exactly join the army because it was the best job available. It’s either this or working the ice.” He shuddered.

  Alonso snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Switch clothes with me.”

  A smattering of nervous laughs ran through the crowd. The soldier boy said, “The Italian may be stupid, but he’s not that stupid.”

  “Just for an hour. Half an hour,” Alonso said. “Just so I can find Don Lorenzo and tell him what’s happened, please. I’ll be gone and back before the surgeon ever gets here, if he’s even coming at all.”

  Everyone glanced back at poor Gaspar, doubled over on the stone bench with Hector hovering over him.

  The soldier frowned. “Half an hour?”

  Alonso nodded. “Or less.”

  Chapter 18. Taziri

  As she slipped through the squeaky kitchen door and into the howling wind of an icy alleyway behind La Seo, the Mazigh pilot felt the freezing night air stinging her eyes. Above the dark gray walls she saw a black ribbon of sky salted with cold stars. Taziri shivered as she tried to straighten out her hastily assembled layers of shirts and coats. The sleeves were all snagged and bunched, particularly around the brace on her left forearm.

  Shahera stood panting and shaking beside her. The Eranian girl shuffled down the alley toward the road. “Come on, come on! They could be right behind us!”

  Taziri glanced back at the door they had just come through. Old and filthy. Grimed and rusted. In her inner jacket pocket she found one of her older screwdrivers and she jammed the tool through the door’s handle. “Let’s go.”

  At the end of the alley they found a dark road that ran the length of the rear of the cathedral, and with no sound of pursuit in the alley behind them, Taziri led the way more slowly and carefully. With several inches of snow and ice lumped on the ground, the footing was treacherous and both women kept their eyes on their boots. The next intersection was empty but footsteps and voices echoed to their left so they drew back into the dark recess of a doorway and waited.

  First the shadows and then the bodies of the soldiers marched past and Taziri clenched her teeth at the sight of the Italian leading them down the street. Qhora looked as regal and defiant as ever surrounded by the armed men, as though they followed her instead of herded her along. One of the boys was obviously injured, but they were moving so quickly and were so obscured by the soldiers that she could not tell who it was or how badly he was hurt.

  When the soldiers were gone, Taziri stepped out into the road. “We have to help them.”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know. But she saved us. It should be us going to prison, not them.”

  Shahera shook her head. “No. If they took us, they’d kill us. But they’ll let the Espani go in a day or two. They’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll all be fine.”

  “That Italian is some sort of butcher. You saw what he did to Enrique. I’m not leaving Qhora with him. Come on!” She strode into the night and a moment later heard the Eranian girl following a few paces behind.

  They followed the noisy troop of soldiers through the dark, cold maze of Zaragoza, twisting and turning from one stony lane to another until the men filed into a bleak little building on a dark square where only the flickering candle light in the windows illuminated the road outside.

  As soon as the door closed behind the soldiers, Taziri dashed to the wall and eased around the edge of the first window to peer inside. She saw snow and soot, and through the filth a blurry yellow glow.

  Damn it. Can’t these people keep anything clean?

  She ducked down and shuffled to the next window, which she found as impenetrable as the first. Back in the shadows, she saw Shahera beckoning her away from the building. But Taziri moved on to the front door just as the handle clicked and the door swung open. A young soldier dashed off into the darkness, never glancing back at the dark figure flattened against the wall.

  Where’s he running off to?

  She turned and found Shahera crouched beside her. The girl said, “I have an idea about how to get inside.”

  “How?”

  “The next time a soldier goes by, we hit him over the head and steal his clothes. Then one of us can sneak inside-”

  “Good lord, you must read a lot of novels. We’re not stealing anyone’s clothes.”

  “But it always works in the stories!”

  “Well, this isn’t a story,” Taziri whispered. “It’s a cold night in a dark alley, and someone wants us in prison, or dead. Let’s go around back and see if we can find Qhora through another window.” She slipped past Shahera and ducked under the windows on her way to the corner of the barracks.

  The door opened again. Taziri glanced back just in time to see Shahera leap forward and take a wild swing at the lone soldier emerging from the building. Her fist connected with the side of his face and the young man stumbled away from her.

  “Ow! What the hell was… you!” Alonso rubbed his head. “What are you hitting me for?”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” Shahera said. “I thought you were one of those soldiers.”

  “You hit one of my favorite eyes. It really hurts,” he said, massaging the side of his face.

  Taziri jogged out into the courtyard and dragged both of them toward the far wall, into the shadows. “Shut up, both of you.”

  Shahera arched an eyebrow and nodded at Alonso’s army uniform. “I told you it works.”

  “And I told you to shut up.” Taziri turned to the young man. “How did you escape? Where are the others?”

  “Oh, it was easy. This is my home town. Half the guys in there are my friends. They let me run out to find Don Lorenzo. I have a message for him from his wife.” Alonso took his hand away from his face to reveal the first dark glimmers of black eye. “I just have to get back before the surgeon gets here.”

  “What surgeon?”

  “For Gaspar. Fabris sliced open his arm.”

  Taziri stared. He was hurt because of me and Shahera, the poor boy. What kind of monster stalks strangers and helpless young men like this? “And the soldiers just let you leave?”

  “Sure. They know I didn’t do anything wrong, and they sure as hell aren’t loyal to Fabris. In fact, it sounds like the major is pissed enough as it is and after a few more hours of these orders he’ll be ready to throw Fabris out on his ass, papers or no.”

  “Then why didn’t they jus
t let everyone else go in the first place?”

  He sniffed. “Well, that’s the tricky part of doing the right thing. Sometimes you let your friend go, and sometimes you follow orders because you swore an oath to follow orders.”

  “So they chose to let you go?”

  Alonso shrugged. “They did what all honest and devout souls do. They split the difference. But don’t worry. They’re not going to let anything happen to the others.”

  “What do we do now?” Shahera asked.

  “We find the Don. He needs to know what’s happened. And he needs Alonso’s message.” Taziri took off into the city again without waiting for the others. It was becoming second nature. Just decide and go and let the rest sort itself out.

  Alonso hurried to keep pace with her. “Dona Qhora said he went out chasing after Dante, so we should probably check the bars along the river.” He froze. The sharp clapping of boots on cobblestones echoed from just around the next corner. “Off the street!”

  Taziri slipped sideways into a narrow alley and kept shuffling into the dark hole as the others crowded in behind her. The boots clapped and clicked louder as they turned the corner, and then began to fade quietly into the whistling wind.

  Alonso whispered in her ear. “Two of them! A soldier and an older man with a bag. Shit!” They shuffled back out into the street. Alonso clutched his short black hair as he stared after the two men. “That was the surgeon for Gaspar. I thought I had an hour. Shit. They’ll know I’m gone now, I can’t go back.”

  Shahera shivered. “Should we try to stop the surgeon then?”

  “No. Gaspar needs him. We’ll worry about that later.” Taziri took their arms and steered them back down the road toward the river, or where she guessed the river to be. “Right now, all that matters is that we’re all free and Qhora is in good hands with your friends, right?”

  “Absolutely. My friends won’t let Fabris touch a hair on her head.” Alonso led them to the riverside where they stood exposed above the banks of the Elbro, shivering in the starlight.