Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “Yeah, good work.” Taziri peered into the gloom. “I can’t see it, but I believe you. Is it far? It must be. And with this crosswind, we’re not going to get there any time soon.”

  The flood lights cut out again.

  Ghanima laughed. Even as she shivered in her cold seat in the pitch-black cockpit, she laughed, and Taziri laughed with her.

  “Okay, can I at least get a light on the compass dome here for a minute?” She tapped the glass in question.

  “Sure.” Taziri’s search through the tool rack was noisy but brief. “Here it is.” In the darkness, a small disc of soft yellow light appeared at the end of the flashlight, a heavy tube containing a conventional battery that could be relied upon for almost ten minutes of use in its entire lifetime. The light shuddered, faded, and vanished. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” She banged the side of the light. “It’s dead.”

  “So that’s it? We’re out of options? The only thing still working are the motors, and they could cut out at any moment. And we can’t see outside, so we could be flying into a mountain any moment now.”

  A bolt of lightning lanced down through the darkness ahead to starboard and in that instant the stark topography of the mountain range was burned into the aviators’ eyes, left to hover in their vision as a discolored after-image as they blinked and squinted in the swallowing dark. Thunder roared through the cabin in waves and the drumming of the rain quickened.

  “Well, good.” Ghanima nodded. “No mountains dead ahead. At the moment. Did you see anything out there?”

  “No.”

  “There you go, then.” She heaved a deep sigh. “We’re fine.”

  Chapter 37. Syfax

  Syfax sat listening to the rain pattering lightly on the train’s thin metal roof. It came in gusts, sometimes softly and sometimes violently, but never for very long. The irregular winds in the deep canyons hurled much of the weather into the rock walls, and through his window the major could see the rainwater streaming down the cliff faces in bright, shining lines.

  Through the curtains of rain and occasional gusts of steam from the engine, he could still discern the shape of Kenan’s head through the windows. He had not moved except once to look back after the armed men had passed him by. Syfax was about to ask a steward how much longer before they reached the Lower City when the clear outline of the corporal’s hand appeared in the front window.

  Time to be elsewhere.

  With his coat still reversed, he stood and moved to the back of the compartment and crossed into the next car. It was identical to the one he had just left and he continued through it with only two quick glances back over his shoulder. Through the night-shrouded spaces between the cars, he saw the two large guards ambling down the aisle toward him.

  Maybe they told Chaou what I look like. Maybe Chaou sent them back for me. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

  The next car was baggage, a maze of suitcases and small boxes stacked from floor to ceiling and lashed to iron rings in the walls with slender cords and heavy chains. The unsteady piles of containers jostled and leaned as the train rumbled through the mountain passes, and Syfax opened the back door just as he heard the front door open.

  Come on, fellas, give it up. No one wants to get shot on a train. Especially me.

  Lightning flickered overhead, signaling a fresh growl of thunder and hurling a few momentary shreds of light down onto the train. Outside the baggage car, the major found a wall of wood with no door. The freight car could only be accessed through the long sliding doors on its sides, or possibly by using the rusty iron ladder that led up to the roof. He felt the cold wind lashing his bare hands and face with freezing rain, and the darkness overhead was absolute, without a single pinprick of starlight to brighten his surroundings. Only the pulsing electrical lights of the passenger cars, generated by the locomotive itself, offered him a reprieve from the dark.

  Standing on the narrow balcony, Syfax ran his hands blindly over the walls of the car and found a ladder to his left leading up to the roof of the baggage car. A quick jerk of the rungs gave him some confidence that it might be safer than its counterpart on the freight car. He climbed up to the roof.

  In the center of the roof he found a thin metal bar to grab. Possibly meant as an alternative means to tie baggage to the roof, it seemed to run the length of the car, and Syfax trusted his weight to it as he crawled away from the ladder. The rain stung his hands and face, cold and needling. Instantly, his hands on the metal bar were aching from the cold and he could feel his back tightening up, threatening to cramp from the tension of hanging on the sloping roof and trying to remain perfectly still.

  He heard the rear door of the baggage car open and boots thumping on the exposed balcony. A few words reached his ears.

  “…gone somewhere…”

  “…not going up…”

  “…take a look…”

  And then there was the telltale metallic ringing of a heavy climber ascending a fragile metal ladder. Syfax glanced around for assets. He saw only a bare metal roof and a bare metal bar, and some rain. With a grunt, he swung himself sideways, sliding across the roof back toward the rear of the car and thrust the heel of his boot in the direction of the ladder just as a man’s head appeared above the level of the roof. The man shouted and dropped from view.

  Still sliding out of control, Syfax rolled up toward the bar and used every frozen, aching muscle in his body to get his feet under him and then scramble along the apex of the roof, his back bent and hands climbing horizontally along the bar for safety. Every footfall echoed like a drumbeat on the roof, and every footfall threatened to yank his boot out from under him in the slick rain. His bare fingers were already numb.

  At the end of the car he squatted above the edge of the roof and squinted through the heavy droplets clinging to his eyelashes. There was no ladder down, only a straight drop onto a narrow metal ledge between the cars. The only way forward was a long leap from one slippery sloped roof to the next. When the front door of the baggage car rattled open below, the decision was made for him. He jumped.

  There was no time to stand or to back up for a running start. Syfax heard the door opening directly beneath him and he leapt forward, surging up into a wall of rain on two sore legs and two throbbing feet. He landed off-center but with the next car’s rooftop bar between his feet. His left foot shot out from under him and he fell squarely on the bar. The pain spiked up through his spine, but he clamped his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut until the misery faded.

  As he lay sprawled on his back staring up into the black roof of the canyon with the tiny freezing diamonds of water pelting his face, he heard the men yelling back and forth through the baggage car. Again, he could understand only every fourth word, but that was enough. They had heard him land on the passenger car.

  Everyone on the damn train must have heard that.

  Syfax scrambled to his feet and again traversed the train car by gripping the dripping, frigid bar that ran along the peak of the curved roof. He had just squatted down at the far end when he heard the first gunshot.

  The sound was muffled and distorted by the wind and rain and canyon walls, but it was enough for him to throw himself down flat on one side of the roof with his hands still wrapped around the bar to keep him from sliding off the edge of the train. He tested his grip and decided, based on very little evidence, that he trusted his right hand more than his left, so it was the left hand that released the bar and slipped down into his coat to pull out his revolver. The new revolver from Arafez, which he had yet to fire.

  Now what, genius? Shout an order? Fire a warning shot? These guys know I’m a marshal, but they’re taking orders from Sade. Who knows what she told them. Hell, they probably think I’m a traitor or an assassin.

  Syfax thumbed the hammer back and tried to find a target somewhere in the darkness at the back of the passenger car roof, but all he could see were faint afterimages and nonsense shapes that bloomed when he blinked.

  L
ightning flashed overhead and a man appeared just a few yards away, crawling on all fours along the bar at the top of the roof. In that instant of illumination, the major looked into his eyes and saw the barest hint of a gun swinging toward him. Syfax fired blind. He heard the man’s gasp followed by the metallic clatter of a gun rolling off the train roof, and then the dull thumping of a man rolling off in the opposite direction.

  Syfax grimaced. Damn it.

  He slipped his gun back into his coat. With both hands on the bar, he turned his head back toward the front of the train and saw the wind-battered hair of the other guard. For the second time, Syfax hauled his weight up toward the bar and swung his legs at the man. His boot caught the man’s head and he disappeared from view.

  The major slid to the edge of the roof and lowered himself as far as he could reach, and then dropped to the narrow iron lip outside the car door. The guard had fallen on his rear and then rolled backward so that his legs were still on the ledge but everything above his belt was flopping and flailing over the edge, dangling all too close to the rails and rocky earth racing past beneath the train. Syfax grabbed the man’s shirt and hauled him up to a sitting position on the ledge and leaned him against the door of the passenger car. The side of his head was a dull red, his skin torn in a few places that were starting to bleed. The man blinked and shuddered, and his gaze seemed to focus on Syfax. His slack lips tightened into a frown and his right hand curled into a fist. Syfax punched him twice in the side of the head and let him flop down prone on the ledge.

  The major grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket, hauled him up onto his shoulder, and opened the door of the rearward passenger car. He dropped the man across the first bench seat. Straightening up, he found a dozen travelers all staring at him. Syfax glanced upward and he saw the dents in the roof. After a moment of silence, he pulled his dripping coat open to show the blood red interior. “Marshal business. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

  Then he turned and trudged back up the train to his own seat. He sat down, suddenly very aware of how cold and wet he was. Every scrap of clothing on him felt ten times heavier and hotter, and chafed slightly as he moved. Kenan jogged back from the next car and slipped into the seat behind him.

  Syfax said, “One’s dead and gone. The other’s unconscious in the last passenger car.”

  Kenan nodded. “Sorry, major, I was going to came back to help as soon as they walked past, but then the ambassador came in and she just stood there, right next to my seat. I guess she didn’t get a good look at me back in Chellah after all. I think she was trying to see what her goons were doing and I figured I couldn’t move until she was gone. She just went back to first class, so I was just coming back to find you. Sorry, sir.”

  Syfax blinked and a faint afterimage glowed behind his eyelids, the image of the gunman on the roof of the train, a heartbeat before he shot him. “You know, those men just now. They’re probably just Sade’s bodyguards. I know a lot of guys who went into private security after leaving the army. Decent guys taking whatever work they could find. ”

  Kenan shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Men with families.”

  Kenan shrugged again. “They chose the job, they decided to follow orders, and they knew they were looking for a marshal.”

  Syfax grimaced. “The hell with that. Right now, one of them is bleeding to death, alone, lying on the side of the tracks in a canyon, in the rain, with a bullet in his chest. Freezing. In the dark. He’ll be dead in a few minutes, if he isn’t already. This isn’t a war, it’s…our people.” The major slowly pulled his revolver out and pressed it into Kenan’s hands. “Here.”

  “I…” He held it awkwardly, not quite gripping it, letting it balance on his hand. “Major, I think you’re going to want this. And soon. Maybe we don’t have all the facts, maybe we don’t know exactly who’s guilty and who’s innocent, not yet, but we know that Chaou and her confederates are killing people. They might try to kill the queen. And since we can’t trust anyone to help us, we’re going to need every asset we can get our hands on between now and, well, whenever this ends.” He held the gun out.

  “No.” Syfax stared straight ahead, lids heavy and drooping, back sore and aching. I wonder where those families in the forest are tonight? Did they make it to town? Did they get caught in the riots or are they huddled under a tree somewhere, starving and cold? “God gave me perfectly good fists. And I’ve shot enough people, enough of our people, whether they deserved it or not. Just put it away.”

  He did. “What about the governor? What’s she going to do when her guards don’t come back? She’ll be suspicious. We need a plan. Maybe if we—”

  “Shut up and wait. That’s the plan. Sade isn’t going to do anything. She knows we’re here. She’s also missing her guards. Do you think she’ll send those little kids back here next? Nah, she’ll sit up there and hope that we don’t make a scene. Which we won’t.” He thumbed his nose and hunkered down in his seat. “How much longer to Orossa?”

  Chapter 38. Taziri

  Taziri gripped the edge of her console with clawing fingers. Every few seconds, she tried to relax her hands and her back and her legs, but then the lightning would flash and the thunder would roar and she’d be tense as an overwound spring again. The view through the forward windows was a blur of glittering rain, black clouds, and blue-white afterimages all piled on top of each other like dozens of stained glass windows, except the images were all mountain peaks and parts of the Halcyon’s cockpit.

  She glanced at Ghanima. In the darkness, she could just barely see the pilot swaying her shoulders from side to side and bobbing her head slightly. Her lips were moving silently.

  Taziri grinned in spite of herself. Ghanima was singing and dancing, mostly in her head, but just a bit of the music was slipping out into her body too. Watching Ghanima navigate the storm while providing her own in-flight entertainment, Taziri released her death grip on her station and rested her hands on the chart table. Somewhere beneath her fingers was a map of Marrakesh under a hinged glass lid, but there was no light to see it. No cabin lights, no flashlights, only the sudden lightning that seemed to wait until she was facing something useless to strike and burn yet another blue-white image into her tired eyes.

  The beacon light at the edge of the city hung low in the sky, its support tower invisible in the starless night. “How close, do you think?”

  “At this rate? Maybe another hour, hour and a half. This crosswind is pretty stiff. We’re just creeping along up here.” Ghanima didn’t sound tired at all.

  “Just let me know when you want me to spell you. You’ve been driving for a long while now. You should take a break.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Taziri frowned and her fingers crept back to grip the edge of her station.

  An hour later, the last ridge slipped by beneath the airship’s belly and the tiny lights of the Lower City shone clearly across the floor of the valley. Countless candle flames danced in countless homes, filling the windows with unsteady yellow glows. The streetlamps sipped at their gas feeds, offering a steadier, brighter light at regular intervals up and down the city blocks.

  Taziri peered down. “The airfield must be there, in that dark patch to the right.”

  “I think you’re right.” Ghanima eased the controls to starboard. “I’ve only made this landing a couple times at night. We usually arrive in Orossa around mid-afternoon when we come in from España.”

  “If you want, I can take us in.”

  She shook her head. “I’m good.”

  The landing approach began smoothly with only the murmur of the rain competing with the droning of the propellers, but as they descended over the field the Halcyon began to shimmy and shake.

  “Just a little turbulence, folks,” Ghanima muttered. The airship dropped a yard, then glided swiftly to port, then nosed down and swooped over the grass. She kicked the ped
als, rotated the props, and planted the Halcyon’s wheels in the soft mud. “Just like in the manual.”

  Taziri smiled and patted her shoulder. “Nice work.”

  Before she could say another word, the cabin lights flickered on overhead, and the heavy flashlight sitting in the tool rack threw its feeble beam up against the wall. Pilot and engineer exchanged a look, and laughed. Then the outside floodlights snapped on and the darkness blossomed into a field of brilliant green grass, and in that grass on all sides of the ship stood dozens of uniformed soldiers with rifles trained on the Halcyon’s cabin.

  Taziri froze.

  Ghanima whispered, “Shit.”

  They held their empty hands high, gently woke the snoring doctor, and then calmly and quietly opened the hatch. Taziri winced in anticipation of the first blow. It was harder than she expected. The next few minutes were a blur of shouting and being shoved against the airship’s hull, kicked, shackled, and dragged out onto the wet grass to kneel alongside a wheezing Ghanima and a trembling Evander.

  “Please, please! Who is in command here?” She heard herself speaking like it was someone else. Her heart was in her throat as she saw the dozens of gun barrels gazing at her like dead black eyes. The rain hissed all around them.

  A square-faced woman loomed over them. “I’m General Demsiri. You are under arrest for the crimes of arson, murder, and treason against the crown. You will be held in an army prison until your trial and inevitable execution.”

  “No-no-no! You’ve got it wrong! Chaou and Hamuy! It’s the ambassador and her bodyguard, they did it!” Adrenaline-fueled panic soaked through Taziri’s brain as she pictured her last few hours in a stone cell, far from her Yuba and Menna. “I watched Hamuy stab my captain, Isoke, right in front of me!”

  “And I saw the ambassador shoot my captain in the back on the Crake!” Ghanima tried to stand and was promptly kicked back down by the soldier standing behind her.

  The general frowned at them. “Medur Hamuy is the man who informed us about what exactly happened in Tingis. He barely survived the journey here, and he said you might try to blame him. He also said you might try to smuggle a foreign assassin into the Upper City. I assume he meant this Hellan.”