Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  The woman with the baby managed a crooked smile and said in a hoarse whisper, “Hello, captain.”

  Taziri heard the rasp in her voice and saw the haunted look in Alonso’s eyes. “What is it? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Enzo,” Qhora said. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh no.” Taziri swallowed. How is that possible? “Come in, come in, please.”

  The three visitors shuffled inside and she herded them into the living room where they sat on the new upholstered chairs and couches covered in Kanemi patterns. The masked girl folded her gloved hands in her lap and turned to study a wooden Igbo mask on the wall.

  “Can I get you anything to drink or eat?” Taziri asked. “We have ice.”

  Qhora shook her head. “I need…” She swallowed loudly.

  Taziri sat down beside her. “Tell me what happened.”

  But Qhora could only screw up her face into a mass of deep wrinkles and red blotches, and she bowed her head over her baby boy, who lay quite still and peaceful, his eyes closed and mouth drooling. Taziri looked to the youth. “Alonso?”

  “Three hours ago,” the young man said slowly. “A man came to our hotel. An Aegyptian in green robes. He attacked Don Lorenzo. They fought in the hall. Mirari helped. I was holding Javier. And he died. Don Lorenzo died. Stabbed through the heart.” Alonso cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Mirari chased the killer to a house where there were two other people. The police identified them. One of them was a one-eyed mercenary from Eran. The other was…well, it was Kenan Agyeman.”

  Taziri stared. Kenan? My Kenan? The young man had served under her for only a year before quitting the Air Corps, but that had been over politics and ego. Kenan’s a straight arrow, as straight as they come. If anything, he was too moral, too dedicated. What was he doing with these mercenaries and assassins?

  She felt a shift in the air and turned to see Yuba standing in the doorway with Menna at his side. Taziri blinked. “Honey, these are some old friends of mine. They…”

  “I heard,” he said. He picked up Menna. “I’ll take her out back for a little while. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” She watched them leave.

  “Your daughter.” Qhora looked up with another crooked smile. “You told me about her once. She’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Taziri leaned forward. “And this is little Javier?”

  “Yes.” Qhora nodded and tilted her arm to better show him to her.

  “Lorenzo sent me a letter when he was born. How old is he now?”

  “Three months.”

  Taziri felt a hot weight pressing into her chest. Three months old. He’ll never know his father. Lorenzo. How can Lorenzo be dead? After everything he went through, after everything he survived? The wars and plagues in the New World, the assassins, the demons, the battles, and all just to be stabbed in a hotel?

  “Uhm. There’s a little more,” Alonso said. “Kenan and the one-eyed lady ran, so Mirari followed them.”

  “I’m sorry, one eye?” Taziri frowned. The only one-eyed woman she knew was her old commanding officer, Isoke Geroubi. But Isoke moved south last fall to be closer to her in-laws. And she was no mercenary.

  “Yes. One eye. Anyway, they ran away and Mirari followed them. They fought in an alley. And then they ran to the train station. And that’s where Mirari lost them. Kenan and the other woman got on the train about two hours ago. The train to Carthage.” Alonso was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and his skin was turning red. Mirari turned away from her study of the mask on the wall and rested her gloved hand on his arm, and he relaxed a bit. He looked over at her, and placed his other hand on top of hers.

  Alonso and Mirari? Taziri nodded slowly. Stranger things have happened. At least, stranger things have happened to me.

  “And she saved this. It’s Enzo’s.” Qhora touched the large golden medallion hanging around her neck, resting just in front of another, smaller one. “The killer took it, but Mirari brought it back.”

  “Qhora, I’m so sorry. Lorenzo was…” Taziri swallowed. Wonderful? Dashing? Funny? Brave? She couldn’t think of a word to describe him that seemed solemn enough for the moment. “He was a good man. I’m so sorry.”

  “The police.” Qhora choked and cleared her throat. When she looked up, her red-rimmed eyes were suddenly clearer. “The police said they can’t chase these people outside of Marrakesh. No jurisdiction, they said. If they come back into the country, then maybe, but otherwise, no.” The little woman trembled. “So they can’t do anything. They won’t do anything. That’s why I came to see you. I need your help. There isn’t another train to Carthage for three days. There isn’t an airship to Carthage for six days. That’s too long. I need to go now. I need to find them now.”

  “Find them?” Taziri leaned back and her right hand moved to massage her left arm where the heavy medical brace protected her old burned flesh and supported her weak hand. The brace covered her arm from elbow to wrist, and it itched. “Find the killer? Find Kenan?”

  “Yes. I’m going to find them. And I’m going to kill them,” Qhora said quietly. “I need you to fly me to Carthage in your aeroplane.”

  Taziri felt a tiny wave of giddiness try to curl her lip into a smile, but she repressed it. Too many memories and feelings were racing through her head all at once. Shock. Confusion. Anger. Horror. And the thought of another evening when another person had asked for her help chasing down a killer. “I’m sorry, Qhora, but I’m not with the Air Corps anymore. I left over a year ago. I mean, I still work in aeronautics, and I have a shop, but…”

  The smaller woman’s eyes widened and her face paled. “You can’t?”

  Taziri suddenly felt a horrible wave of guilt at her early retirement and she babbled, “Well, I can’t take a Corps airship or anything. I mean, I do have my prototype, but that’s hardly what you need right now, you need another train to Carthage, so maybe we can talk to some of my friends tomorrow…”

  “Tomorrow is too late. We have to leave now. Tonight. What is a prototype? What is that?”

  Taziri’s left hand, the one with the weak wrist, began to tremble on her knee. At each thought of her new machine, it was getting harder to stay sad about Lorenzo or angry about Kenan or serious about Qhora’s request. The excitement threatened to bubble over and she covered her mouth with her hand to try to look serious, but after ten months of hard work and no one to show off to, the strangeness of this moment was too much to bear. And besides, it was a welcome distraction from the miserable faces of her guests and from the horrible idea that Lorenzo Quesada was no longer alive. “Well, if you really want to see it, I can show you.”

  Qhora nodded.

  Taziri led the threesome out the back door and across the back yard, past the little greenhouse where Yuba sat reading to Menna, through the back gate, and across a gravel lane. The property behind the Ohana house was a wide grassy lot with a large shed that had once been painted red. And as they circled around to the entrance, the old railroad line appeared in the tall grass leading up to the double-doors of the shed. Taziri opened the lock and said, “This used to be a service line for the original Tingis railway, before they built the new station about twenty years ago.”

  She opened the door and flipped the light switch. Six large flood lamps sizzled to life overhead to illuminate the machine. Everyone stepped inside.

  “That’s a locomotive,” Qhora said. “I need to get to Carthage. Their train has a two-hour head start already. I need something faster than a train, captain. I need something that can fly.”

  Taziri walked over and put her hand on the side of the machine. “This does fly.”

  “Really? Can it take us to Carthage tonight?”

  Taziri winced. “It could, but this engine burns a special fuel called petrol. It’s made from Songhai oil, it’s very expensive, and I’m afraid I’ve used up what little I had last month. It will take me several mo
re months to save up enough money to buy enough petrol to fly all the way to Carthage. I’m sorry, but unless you can help me buy the petrol, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Qhora swallowed and looked down. “No, I don’t have much money.”

  “Then perhaps I can be of assistance,” said a man with a northern accent.

  Everyone turned. Alonso drew his espada, but Mirari’s long knife was faster and she launched herself at the tall man in the open doorway behind them. The man drew his rapier and struck the knife from the masked girl’s hand as easily as swatting a fly, and then whisked the point of the blade up against the hollow of her throat. “Now, now, now, no need for that. We’re all friends here.” He sheathed his rapier and approached the shed doorway a second time, now with his empty hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “Salvator Fabris, at your service, once again.”

  “You!” Taziri shoved her sleeve up to reveal the brace on her left arm and her finger hovered over the release switch that would spring the hidden revolver up out of its compartment. The gun wasn’t loaded, of course, but Fabris had no way of knowing that. “You Italian trash, you killed two of my passengers in Espana! Two unarmed civilians! I should kill you right now. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Spying on you, obviously.” The Italian lowered his hands and smiled. “I came to Marrakesh as soon as I heard about the plans to salvage the aetherium at the bottom of the Strait. In fact, I was staying in the hotel just across the street from you.” He nodded at Qhora. “You can imagine my surprise and alarm this evening when I heard the commotion just across the way and learned that my dear old friend Lorenzo was no more.”

  “You son of a bitch! You cut poor Enrique and Hector! They’re scarred for life now! If you had anything to do with this!” Qhora’s whole body shook and Taziri could see the little woman torn between her need to protect the sleeping baby in her arm and her need to attack the tall Italian.

  “Signora, I may have despised your husband’s politics, but make no mistake, I did respect him as a gentleman of the sword and a patriot, to a degree, and I had no wish to see him so horribly murdered tonight. I had rather hoped for an opportunity to kill him myself one day, fairly, without interruption.” Fabris gazed at the Incan woman sternly. “When you left the hotel with your child in hand, I followed you. I know your temper and I did not wish to see Don Lorenzo’s only child harmed in some mad flight of widow’s grief. I had no idea you would come to a place like this.” He gestured at the dusty shed around them. “But now that we’re here and you’ve made plain your intentions, allow me to do so as well. Your husband spared my life once.” He held up his left hand to display the long white scar running the length of his palm. “It took me some time to overcome that slight, but I have, and now the least I can do to repay that kindness is to help you bring his killer to justice.”

  “I don’t care about justice,” Qhora said. “I care about blood!”

  “Yes,” Fabris said quietly. “I’m sure you do.”

  “What else?” Taziri said. “What else do you want? You hunted Lorenzo and me through the mountains to get that lump of aetherium once. I’m not about to believe that you’re willing to give it up now to help avenge him.”

  “Of course not, my dear captain,” the Italian purred. “I have every intention of returning here eventually to steal the Espani aetherium after it is salvaged. But that can wait. This enterprise interests me more, in no small part because Lorenzo’s killer appears to be working with an old associate of mine. Shifrah Dumah. You may have heard of her.”

  “No,” Taziri said.

  “Really? A one-eyed woman from Eran? In fact, she told me she lost the eye in Marrakesh, down in Arafez, just a few years ago.”

  Taziri blinked as her memories of Arafez rushed up at her. A one-eyed woman in Arafez? The woman in white at the airfield demanding to be flown east! “I think I met her. I fought her.”

  “Fought her?” Fabris raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were a duelist, captain. Few people are as skilled with a knife as Shifrah.”

  “I didn’t fight her,” Taziri said. “I blew her up.”

  Fabris smiled. “That sounds more likely. But let us return to the business at hand. You need fuel for this contraption, yes?” He removed his wallet from inside his blood-red jacket and handed a fistful of notes to Alonso. “Here you are. Ten thousand reales. I assume Espani money is good here? I’ve been trying to get rid it for ages.”

  Qhora cleared her throat and stood as tall as she could. “You want to come with us?”

  “Yes indeed, dear lady.”

  “Then…do you swear by your three-faced God to help me find Enzo’s killer, and to let me have my own satisfaction when the moment comes?”

  The Italian folded over in a low, sweeping bow. “You have my word.”

  Taziri slowly lowered her sleeve to cover her brace. “Wait. Wait just a minute. I never said I would go to Carthage tonight. I have a family, I have a business, and I have classes. I can’t just leave.”

  Fabris turned to her. “Of course you can. But since this is no personal matter of yours, let us make it one of business, as you say.” The wallet appeared in his hand again, and this time he held out a wad of notes to her. “Another ten thousand reales for your trouble, captain.”

  Taziri stared at the money. Ten thousand? The fuel would only cost seven, but another ten? She thought of Yuba and Menna waiting for her back at the house. And she began listing all the things they could do with ten thousand reales. The new greenhouse, a new carriage, a personal tutor for Menna, and even some investments in her friends’ new ventures. And all for a single flight to Carthage? “I need to tell my husband. I mean, discuss it with my husband.” She took the money.

  Fabris smiled. “Of course you do. Just tell the boy here where to get the fuel and I will make certain it is here within the hour.”

  Taziri looked down at the money in her hand. Over six months’ worth of income for one job? Just a quick flight to Carthage and back. Just a day or two. And besides, it’s for Qhora. It’s for Lorenzo, and for his baby boy. “All right. Alonso, let me give you directions to the fuel depot…”

  The next hour was chaotic. Taziri hurried through the house trying to do everything at once. Taking Yuba aside, showing him the money, explaining the job, convincing him not to worry, saying goodbye to Menna while packing food and clothes, and then overseeing the petrol delivery and the fueling of the machine.

  Yuba gave her the look. The stern eyes and iron lip. “Assassins?”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s not worth it. We don’t need the money.”

  She paused. “I know. I’m not doing it for the money. I told you what happened in Espana. Lorenzo saved my life once. He saved yours too, and Menna’s, and everyone in this city. I owe him this, at the very least. His wife just lost her husband. His son just lost his father. This is the least I can do for him. For all of them.”

  Yuba swallowed and nodded. “How long?”

  “Two days. Or so.”

  “Is it safe? That machine of yours?” His eyes flicked up to the back window and the shed beyond it.

  “Yes, it is. Absolutely. You know me. I don’t take chances.”

  “But chances have a bad habit of finding you, all the same.”

  “I know. I’m lucky that way.” She held him and he held her and they whispered their I love yous into each others’ ears.

  “Be safe,” he said.

  “I will. I promise.” Taziri ran upstairs to change into her heavy canvas trousers, a light cotton shirt, and her old leather jacket. A dozen pouches latched onto her belt, and a hundred tools went into her pockets until she couldn’t move without jingling and rattling. She clipped her gloves under the strap on her right shoulder and her goggles and headgear under the strap on her left shoulder. The outfit weighed half as much as she did, but she remembered the last time she left the country unprepared and found herself on foot, without food, without we
apons, and without a clue how to get home. Never again, she had sworn.

  From the top shelf of the closet she pulled out a white-handled revolver. Still brand new. Never been fired. She bought it the week after she got home from Espana, after she found herself stranded in a hostile land, after she lost two passengers. Never again. She belted on the holster and tied it down to her thigh.

  Somewhere in all the chaos, everyone else managed to eat a little supper from the Ohana leftovers and then fetch their luggage from the hotel. Taziri was sitting in the pilot’s seat of her machine running down her checklist when she glanced in the mirror and saw the people and baggage all assembled beside the locomotive, waiting.

  Taziri climbed out and looked them over. She shook her head. “This is too much. Too much weight, I mean. I can’t make it to Carthage with all this.”

  For the next five minutes, they painstakingly weighed and measured each person and bag on the old floor scale in the corner of the shed and rearranged bags and contents, discarding whole bags one after another.

  “I’m sorry, it just won’t work,” Taziri said. “Even without the baggage, someone needs to stay behind.”

  The four passengers exchanged accusatory looks.

  “I’ll stay,” Alonso said, raising his hand sheepishly. “I’ll stay here. And I’ll take care of Javier.” He held out his hands to Qhora.

  She turned aside to hold the baby a little farther away from the youth. “I can’t leave him behind! He needs me!”

  “He needs to be safe, Dona,” Alonso said. “I understand that this is something you need to do. I wouldn’t dream of trying to convince you not to go. But don’t take Javier. You can’t take an infant in this flying machine on a mission to kill an assassin. It’s too dangerous for him. It’s too dangerous for you, if you’ll pardon my saying so, but please, let me take care of him while you’re gone. Please?”