It had all happened so fast. The men in yellow woke up. The woman in white woke up. Shouting. Guns. Knives. Running. There hadn’t been a moment to speak or even to think, only time enough to run away and hide, and to listen to the pounding of his own heart.
These are no desperados. These aren’t thieves or even murderers. No common criminal could have taken a train engine from Arafez. No, they’re something else. Mercenaries. Assassins. Someone wants us dead. Someone wants Qhora dead.
He sheathed his sword and scrambled up the slope to the gravel road and then dashed behind the rotting remains of the market plaza. Berkan shouted at his men, and through a crack in the wooden wall Lorenzo watched the soldiers crawl forward down the embankment toward the engine and the men in yellow.
“Qhora?” He scanned the dusty yard between the abandoned buildings, but there was no sign of life. Drawing his espada once more, he crossed the square and began skirting each stable and stall, looking for footprints and listening for footfalls.
She has to be here somewhere. Somewhere close. Dear God, let her be alive.
A man shouted off to the right and Lorenzo ran in that direction. It was Xiuhcoatl’s shout, one the hidalgo had heard before in the New World on the killing fields of Cartagena. He rounded the last market stall and saw the old Aztec slashing his obsidian sword at a tall woman in white. The woman danced back and forth, easily slipping beyond the macuahuitl’s reach. She held a stiletto in each hand, one by the handle and the other by the blade.
Beyond the fighters, Lorenzo saw Lady Qhora mounted on Wayra with the revolver in her hand. She was aiming at the woman in white, but every few seconds she would put her hand down and shout at Xiuhcoatl in Quechua, “Move! Get away from her!”
Lorenzo jogged out from the shadows into the bright afternoon sun with his espada at the ready, and he yelled, “My lady! Don’t shoot!”
He saw her frown at him, but to his relief she lowered the gun into her lap.
Then Xiuhcoatl screamed and Lorenzo saw the thin dagger buried in his throat. He dashed forward even faster. No! When did that happen? How is that possible? The old warrior clutched at his neck with one hand as he tried to swing his heavy sword in the other. He staggered off balance, gurgling, blood streaming from his mouth.
“No!” Qhora kicked her mount into a sprint. With an eagle’s piercing scream, Wayra darted toward the woman in white.
“Qhora, no!” Lorenzo raced toward the killer. “You! Don’t you touch her!”
The stranger drew another stiletto from her belt to replace the one in Xiuhcoatl’s neck and she pointed both blades at him. Lorenzo gauged the distance between them, measuring it out in paces and lunges, in circles of attack, and at the last moment he slid into a sideways stance and thrust his espada at the woman in white. He snaked his left hand around his back to grab at his long black coat and pull it up and away from his legs in a flourish of wool and fox fur. The woman whirled back, dropping her hands to her sides as her heavy black braid and long white coat swirled around her slender figure.
A deep snarling and growling almost drew Lorenzo’s attention, but he remained focused on his opponent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Qhora turn and look in the direction of the trains. “Atoq is among them. It will be over in a moment,” she said.
From the same direction, a man cried out, “Shifrah! Shifrah!” And then his words dissolved into screams, which cut off suddenly, leaving them in silence.
The woman in white flinched at the man’s cries. She shook her head and smirked at Lorenzo. “You’re an Espani diestro, aren’t you?”
“Si, senora.” He nodded curtly. She’s from the east and she’s familiar with professional swordplay. She’ll be more dangerous than any Mazigh soldier. “Have you studied destreza?”
“In Rome, I met a man who fights with a small sword. He taught me a few things. In Italia, they call him some sort of genius with a blade,” she said. “And I admit, his small sword was more impressive than his small sword.”
“Did this man have a name?” he asked. Don’t say Capoferro. Please, God, don’t say Ridolfo Capoferro. Any name but his.
“Fabris. Salvator Fabris.”
Oh, dear God. Lorenzo swallowed. Ridolfo would have been a blessing. If she was trained by Salvator Fabris, then I am a dead man.
The woman lunged at him, swiping at his blade with her knives to close the distance and come inside his striking range. The sight of her flashing hands and weapons emptied his mind of everything he had ever learned. All he could think was:
Salvator Fabris trains princes and generals. Salvator Fabris once slaughtered twelve diestros in a quarter of an hour. Salvator Fabris is the Supreme Knight of the Order of the Seven Hearts. I am a dead man.
“Enzo!” Qhora shouted.
He blinked.
But she is not Salvator Fabris.
Lorenzo slashed at the woman’s hands, pricking the soft olive blurs between the bright steel and the white coat. Splashes of red spattered her sleeves and the sun-scorched grass at their feet. His eyes never left her eyes as he pressed his advantage, driving her back, striding forward with the tail of his coat draped over the crook of his left arm and his sword-hand barely moving at all as the blade leapt like a viper at his command. The woman flinched, grunted and winced, and finally turned to dash back. One of her knives thumped in the dust as she clutched her bleeding hands.
“Do you yield?” Lorenzo asked. His sword arm felt light and fluid, as though the blade itself longed to strike her again and again. He dropped the point of his espada to the ground and let his coat tails fall free behind him to cool his blood and clear his mind.
The woman clutched her hands for a moment, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She glanced up at the princess on the huge striding bird monster, and then back at the man holding a sword dripping with her blood. She ran.
Lorenzo watched her plunge into the tall grasses and disappear around the far corner of one of the market stalls. A thump drew his gaze back to the right and he saw Qhora kneeling over Xiuhcoatl. The Aztec lay still, his lips bloody and cracked, his eyes glassy and vacant.
The hidalgo pulled a cloth from his pocket to clean his blade before he sheathed it. He walked slowly to Qhora’s side and said, “I’m sorry, my love. He deserved better. I should have been faster.”
“No. He died fighting. It was what he wanted.” She closed his eyes and stood up. “This death will carry him to paradise. His paradise.” Qhora turned and walked away to look out over the trains. “It’s over. Atoq and Berkan have the engine. Burn his body. Now, please.”
Lorenzo stared after her. Is that all? Is that all you have to say over the body of a man who lived and died at your side? A man who followed you half way around the world, who gave up his people, his country, his gods, even his language to stand by you, to put his flesh between you and death countless times?
He swallowed and stared down at the weathered face lying still in the dust. His own reflection stared up from the dark pool of blood under the man’s head. Lorenzo nodded to himself. Then that’s all there is. He gathered dry planks from the marketplace and fistfuls of dead grass and soon had a small pyre built on the bare earth. He dragged the body onto the rough frame, placed the cruel macuahuitl in the older man’s hands, and draped the jaguar cloak over Xiuhcoatl’s head and chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the body, clutching the triquetra medallion around his neck. “I’m sorry I was not a better friend to you. Alone and friendless in a foreign land. I should have done more. There was always an excuse not to, some petty selfish reason to be busy, to be elsewhere. You deserved better. You were brave and faithful, and you died alone on the far side of the world with no one to say your own prayers over you. May you find better friends and fairer paths in the next world. Rest in peace. In the name of the Father, the Mother, and the Son. Amen.”
When the grass and wood was burning brightly, Lorenzo stalked warily around the empty stalls and stables
in search of the woman in white, but her trail was masked by the waving grasses and there was no sign of her in or around the marketplace. The hidalgo stared out across the plains, knowing full well that the woman was still alive and still nearby. But if she really did study with Fabris, then perhaps she was wise enough to know when to fight and when to run.
The hidalgo returned to the black train where Wayra and Atoq were feeding on the men in yellow jackets, who lay in bloody pieces on the grass. He averted his eyes and helped Berkan to stand up. The sergeant had been shot in the shoulder, but seemed well enough otherwise. His two privates lay a few feet away, each with several bullets in their chests.
Lady Qhora stood in the cab of the black engine, studying the pressure valves and hand levers. “We can’t risk the highway any longer. Can we use this machine?”
Sergeant Berkan nodded and climbed up beside her with his one good arm. “Everything looks all right. I think the cow-catcher took the brunt of the collision. Here. If we can just get the pressure back up above the green line, we just change gears and release the brake, and we’ll be in Arafez in an hour or two.”
“Excellent. Enzo, please build up the fire, and then bring down the cages with the cubs. We’ll let Wayra and Atoq follow on their own. And turn the horses loose.” She waved him toward the shovel in the coal hopper. “Please.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly. She keeps saying “please.” She never says that. She’s grasping for help, for friends, for anything certain. And now Xiuhcoatl is gone. She must be feeling so alone and uncertain, and it’s my fault. My fault that I can’t decide what to do with my life. It’s not fair to her. Do I love her enough to let her go? Or do I love her so much I can’t live without her? Where is a priest or a ghost when you need one?
He took his place between the coal and the firebox, and bent to pick up the filthy shovel. “Yes, my lady.”
After enough shoveling to make his back ache and to send sweat pouring down his face, the hidalgo closed the firebox and trudged up the embankment to the wagon. He loosed the horses and hauled the two cages out of the bed. With a satchel of food slung over his shoulder, Lorenzo stumbled back down to the train with a cage in each hand. Berkan sat propped up against the hopper pointing out the various controls to the princess. Atoq lounged in the grass beside his kill, licking his teeth and yawning. Wayra strutted in the distance, clawing at the earth, whistling and squawking.
Lorenzo slid the caged cubs toward the sergeant and climbed up beside them. Berkan talked him through the steps to get the train moving and soon the black engine was huffing south toward Arafez. Lorenzo looked back at the marketplace one last time. Whoever you are, stay away from us. Please.
Chapter 16. Kella
Detective Kella Massi studied every detail of the work tables and bins of parts as she followed Lady Sade and her footman through the workshop. The front rooms had been orderly and sterile, almost resembling a hospital, but here in the back she found a mechanical abattoir of wooden legs, tin hands, glass eyes, and iron bones. A young woman by the window paused in her work to curtsy to the Lady, and Kella saw that she was building a false leg. A very small false leg.
Lady Sade led them through a door and down a hall to the top of a stair that angled down into a shadowy cellar. At the bottom of the stair was a narrow hall past several narrow store rooms behind leather curtains and ending in a massive door bound in iron. A small light bulb fizzled above the door, casting the portal in muted golds and browns. The footman stood to one side, a cage in his hand, a large cat in the cage.
“This is our private facility,” Lady Sade said. “Doctor Medina conducts some rather sensitive experiments here. Her work is taking us in leaps and bounds toward keeping our workforce working. The next generation of prosthetic limbs will be far more than peg-legs and hooks. Doctor Medina is creating mechanical hands and feet that move and grasp just like ones of flesh and blood.”
Kella glanced at the grimy door beneath the flickering light bulb. “I see. And she’s doing this groundbreaking work alone down here in the cellar?”
“She is.” If the Lady heard the detective’s doubting tone, she overlooked it. “And for a good reason. These experiments are unpleasant. The doctor is working with animals at the moment, and there are more than a few people, some in high places, who would strenuously object. They would call it torture.”
“And what would you call it?” Kella tried to sound disinterested.
“Necessary.” Lady Sade remained impassive. “Hundreds of skilled men are maimed in every city in the country every year. Workers on the railroad, in the mines, in the factories, in the quarries. They’re exhausted, eyes bleary, arms weak, fingers clumsy. If we do not find better ways to keep them working, then the number of poor, hungry, and homeless will continue to rise. And frankly, I do not wish to govern a city of cripples and vagrants any more than they want to be cripples and vagrants.”
That almost sounds sincere. Kella said, “So I can expect people to be reporting Doctor Medina for cruelty to animals or something along those lines. How would you like me to handle these complaints?”
“The same way that you handle all of my personal business. With discretion.” She tapped on the door. A moment later the lock clicked and the door swung in on silent, oiled hinges.
The woman inside bowed her head slightly. She was shorter than the Lady, shorter than Kella even, but much heavier. Her jet black hair was twisted up in a clumsy bun on top of her head, and a heavy leather apron hung like a solid column around her. “Lady Sade, it is a pleasure as always. Please, come in.”
Kella followed them into the laboratory, trying not to grimace too deeply at the smell of feces and urine, the slight stickiness of the stone floor, and the terrified squeals and hisses of tiny things in cages. And others not so tiny. Only the center of the room was well-lit and there she saw a large metal table, two stools, and a wheeled tray bearing small knives and needles that glinted in the light.
To her right she saw the bars and corners of the cages, half lost in shadows. Wings fluttered and forked tongues hissed. Small furred creatures whined and yipped. One very large cage in the back caught her eye and she saw an enormous shelled body shuffling in the dark and a heavy clubbed tail banged against the bars. To her left she noted a clutter of machines, great steel and brass cogs and leathery bellows, tubes and wires, vials and jars filled with bubbling fluids, and the faint buzz of electricity. But the machines were tucked back into the shadows, just as the cages were, and Kella couldn’t tell exactly what she was looking at. None of this looks all that dangerous. At the very least, they’re not building guns down here. Maybe this place is legitimate after all. Just disgusting.
The doctor smiled and wiped her hands on her stained smock. “My lady, I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Lady Sade shifted into a lightly accented Espani, and Kella had to concentrate to follow the rest of the conversation but her self-taught Espani proved adequate. Sade said, “I know, but there’s been a development. We’ll need to adjust your work schedule, doctor.” Lady Sade gestured and her footman stepped forward to place the cage on the table. The white and gray cat cowered in the back corner away from the light.
Kella watched the two speaking. That’s pretty vague and awkward language. What aren’t they saying? And why am I here if they don’t feel comfortable talking openly in front of me?
“Of course, my lady.” Doctor Medina glanced at the cage. “I must point out, it’s quite a bit smaller than the other one. An Espani lynx, is it?”
“It is. And I know. Prepare it the same as the other.”
“Certainly. The same delivery date?”
“No,” Lady Sade said. “Tomorrow evening.”
The doctor hesitated and for the first time betrayed a moment of uncertainty. But she nodded and forced a smile. “Yes, my lady.”
Switching back to Mazigh, Lady Sade said, “And this is a new acquaintance of mine, Detective Kella Massi of the third district police. I thought y
ou two should meet, just in case your paths cross again in the future.”
“Of course. A pleasure, detective.” Medina shook her hand. “Although, I hope we won’t be meeting too often in our professional capacities.”
“We can both hope.” Kella forced a smile.
“I also wanted both of you together to inform you of another problem. I’m sure you’re both aware of the attack on the train station in Tingis last night. Clearly a pastoralist attack,” Lady Sade said. “And later that same night, police officers found two men dead just a few streets away from the station. One appeared to have been mauled by a large animal. An officer said he saw several foreigners with a large dog at the station shortly after the explosion. These pastoralists could be on the move, detective. I’d like you to keep an eye out for any unusual faces in the district this week. It would be particularly terrible if they were to damage this facility or harm the good doctor here. I need her in one piece.” Lady Sade smiled. “We all do.”
“If these pastoralists do show up, it shouldn’t be too hard to spot them. We don’t have too many man-eating dogs in Arafez right now,” Kella said dryly.
“Very good. Well, doctor, I’ll leave you to this.” Lady Sade nodded at the caged lynx on the table. “Detective, if you’ll walk out with me, I have a friend to meet at the North Station.”
Kella nodded and glanced at the small brass clock on the far wall. The North Station? But all trains to Tingis were cancelled today. Unless she’s running a private line?
The detective studied the Lady’s back as they climbed the stairs back up to the warmer air on the ground floor and passed through the back workroom again.
Sade isn’t stupid. Is she feeding me information on purpose? Does she expect me to investigate this doctor, or the Tingis attack, or her friend at the train station? No.
Kella almost stopped when she realized.
She’s testing me. She doesn’t trust me, so she’s taunting me with coded conversations and shady business partners. And I’ll bet that any investigation into her business will end in a dark alley and a bullet in the back of my head.
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 13