She couldn’t bring herself to care about the young Italian. Dante had been a rude and selfish creature. But the girl, Shahera, she had reminded Qhora of a childhood friend in faraway Cusco. And for her death, Qhora almost pulled the Songai knife from her boot and plunged it between Salvator’s shoulder blades.
But she didn’t. She needed him. For now. Needed his money. Needed his knowledge. Maybe she would even need his sword. But then, when this was over and she didn’t need him anymore, then she could kill him. She could kill him for Shahera, and Enzo and the boys, and even for Dante.
Why didn’t Enzo kill him when he had the chance?
They had dueled. The Italian lost. But Enzo let him go. Qhora’s lip curled into a little smile.
He let him go with a broken sword and two feet of steel through his hand into his kidney. Espani justice. It was almost enough for me back then. Almost.
“We’re coming up on Carthage,” Taziri called back over her shoulder. “I’ll be landing in just a minute and then we’ll enter the city on one of the branch lines.”
“Branch line?” Salvator looked up. “You mean you’re going to land this contraption on a railroad track?”
“Of course.” Taziri glanced back with a grin.
Qhora was almost reassured by that grin, but all machines were still too strange, too stupid, and too dangerous. They couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t do anything unless they were built to do them and told to do them. She missed Atoq. She missed Wayra. Right now, the saber-toothed cat was no doubt sleeping off a belly full of beef in his pen in Madrid, and nearby the towering war-eagle would be standing by a window, gazing out at the snowy Espani plains and dreaming of running free, of hunting down her prey and devouring it alive.
If only we had brought them.
Qhora’s hand tightened on the armrest.
Atoq would have saved Enzo. He would have slaughtered that filthy Aegyptian maggot before he came within reach of us. Or Wayra. She could have run him down in the street and torn the flesh from his back with her talons. It would have been over, either way. As it should be. None of this. This running. This chasing. Other people. Machines.
Qhora shook her head to clear away the soft warm hands trying to drag her soul down into sleep.
No. I’ll sleep later. I’ll sleep when it’s done. I’ll sleep when the Aegyptian is dead.
Glancing out the window, she saw that the ground was much closer now. The houses looked like real houses and she could see people and carts and horses moving along the roads. A soft roaring bled into the cabin as the wings dragged slower and slower through the air, and the entire machine began to shiver and shudder.
“How exactly do you intend on getting this beast lined up properly with the tracks?” Salvator asked.
Qhora heard the anxiety in his voice, and she smiled.
“I have a guide clamp.” Taziri grabbed a small lever and they all heard a new series of hisses and clicks beneath their feet. The pilot said, “I only have to get close. Then I clamp the guide onto the rail and it straightens us out. Don’t worry. I’ve done this three times already. The real trick is making sure there isn’t already a train on the same line up ahead somewhere.”
A moment later there was a sharp clang and the Halcyon jerked to the right. Then the chattering of gears and chains filled the cabin as the earth edged up closer and closer, and then they landed on the railroad line. The iron wheels screamed and the cabin shook violently from side to side, but only for a moment. Then the machine fell nearly silent and still, just as it had been in the air, and Qhora realized they were now rolling smoothly along the ground. Taziri shoved the big lever back down and the long shining wings began folding back up, snapping and clacking up into a rigid box against the sides and roof of the machine. As the panels locked shut, they covered the windows, drenching the cabin in shadows except for the bright glare coming through the forward wind screen. Taziri glanced back, her dark circular goggles shielding her eyes, and she smiled and waved to the passengers.
Qhora exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding in.
Well, that part’s over at least.
For the next quarter hour, they clacked along the Numidian rail line with the pilot occasionally calling back to describe where they were. Orchards, suburbs, and warehouses. Qhora barely heard her.
Finally she could feel the machine slowing down, and a moment later it juddered to a halt. The brakes hissed and Taziri’s hands raced over her controls, flipping switches and knobs, and then she stood up and said, “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Carthage.”
Qhora followed the others out the narrow door and stepped out into the bright morning light. They were in a small rail yard of half a dozen lines, two of them full of old freight cars covered in dust and the rest empty. Qhora hurried to the end of the Halcyon, which again looked like an ordinary locomotive now that its wings had collapsed and wrapped around the cabin. “Where is the train from Tingis?”
Taziri glanced at the small watch chained to her pocket. “It should be here in the next half hour. It’ll pull into the station right there.” She pointed across the yard to a covered platform where a few dozen men sat dozing beside their bags on the benches in the shadows.
“Then that’s where I’ll be.” Qhora strode away from the locomotive. She heard footsteps following. “Mirari, stay by the main exit, in case he gets past me.”
“Yes, my lady.” The masked woman jogged ahead toward the tall wooden doors at the end of the platform that stood wide open, revealing the quiet streets of Carthage beyond.
There were still footsteps following her. She glanced back. In the distance she saw Taziri inspecting her machine. But just behind her she found Salvator striding along, tall and confident, his scarred left hand resting on the ornate golden hilt of his rapier. Qhora looked straight ahead again. “I don’t need you.”
“Of course you do,” he said airily. “But I wouldn’t dream of standing between you and your vengeance. Even though this man was able to defeat Don Lorenzo and escape from both you and your strange friend there, I’m sure you’ll have things well in hand.” He chuckled softly. “No, I’m here to hunt my own easterner.”
When they reached the platform and climbed up onto the wooden walkway, the smirking Italian sauntered away and sank down onto a bench between two snoring men in dark robes and blue turbans. Qhora turned the other way and paced out to the end of the platform, to the very edge where the walkway ended and the railroad tracks drew a straight path through the outskirts of the city far into the distance. She slipped a dagger from her sleeve and squeezed it tightly in both hands.
A brief eternity passed in which she could only stare west, waiting, scarcely breathing.
Now it comes. Now is the moment. Now I will find him, and open his flesh, and spill his blood in the dust, and shatter his heart, and destroy everything he is, or was, or ever will be. He took away my Enzo, and now I will take away everything that is his.
Now.
She gripped the knife tighter, and tighter still, imagining the blade in her hand piercing the man’s chest, tearing him apart into red and white ruin.
Now.
Every hidden corner of her own flesh grew warmer, pulsing with the rhythm of her heart, flush with readiness, with desire. She could see it, how it would happen, how it would feel.
Now.
The train appeared, a small dark shape on the horizon. It grew slowly at first, but then much faster, resolving into a large jagged metal beast with round, cycling legs and a fat trunk spewing steam and smoke into the sky over its back. Clacking, huffing, and whistling. It took forever to cross from the wilderness into the city and it only rolled slower as it came closer, and by the time it rolled into the station itself it was barely moving at all, but then it kept rolling and rolling, car after car, until the entire train had entered the station.
Qhora stared up at the dark windows where the dark shapes of bodies were shuffling about in the dark seats and aisl
es.
Where should I be? Where should I go? Where should I look?
For a moment, she considered joining Mirari at the main gate to watch everyone flood past. But instead, she stepped up onto the end of the last bench so she could look out over the heads of the men and women streaming down off the train.
A young Aegyptian. Small mouth. Large nose. Dark green robe, light green shirt. Close cropped hair with a sharp widow’s peak. Where are you?
She stood and watched and waited. But the man with the burning sword did not step off the train. As the cars began to empty out and the crowd on the platform drained out through the gates, Qhora crossed the platform and entered the rear passenger car. She jogged down the length of each car, ducking into the private compartments to look for stragglers, scanning the benches for a hidden figure, but there were none. The train was empty.
She stepped down onto the empty platform and saw Salvator standing nearby, frowning at the gates. He glanced at her and shook his head. Qhora hurried to the gates and stood beside Mirari, staring at the backs of the weary travelers shuffling out into the bright city streets. “I don’t understand. Did we lose them? Did they get off the train somewhere?”
“No, my lady. This train only stops for water and coal at supply depots,” the Espani girl said firmly. “There was no reasonable place for anyone to leave the train between here and Tingis. And I know what I saw. The Mazigh called Kenan and the Eranian called Shifrah were on this train.”
Qhora felt a strange emptiness in her breast. All the rage, all the heat, all the focus was draining away and leaving her with only a single cold, hollow question.
Where is he?
She was about to turn and ask Salvator something, perhaps to ask if he had seen anything, perhaps even to ask his advice as to what she should do next. But a voice drew her attention to the train, and there, on the far side of the tracks, with the cars obscuring all but their boots, were three people. She heard their voices.
She heard his voice.
“There they are!” The rage returned into a single titanic wave of fire and blood in her mind as she ran off the edge of the platform, leaping between two cars to land on the far side just behind the three figures.
All three turned to look at her and the Mazigh gunman’s eyes widened. He raised one open hand as he said, “Dona Qhora! My name is Kenan Agyeman. We met once at—”
She shrieked as she lunged at him, at his filthy mouth making noises and excuses and lies, standing between her and her prey. The young man stumbled back, his hand clawing at the holster on his leg. She saw the fear in his eyes. And dimly she felt the one-eyed woman coming toward her.
But then Mirari was there, suddenly, as if from nowhere, as Mirari always appeared, running and leaping from the shadows. The mountain girl flew out from between two passenger cars and tackled the Eranian woman to the ground and the two rolled across the dirt and gravel in a storm of blades and dusty clothes.
Qhora smashed her fist into Kenan’s jaw, her knife just grazing his neck. His foot caught a rock and he fell back hard. Just as he yanked his gun free, she stomped on his wrist and shot her knife toward his throat. His eyes went wide and he screamed, “Oh-God-please-no!”
And she stopped. This isn’t him. Isn’t the one. Isn’t right.
Qhora dashed away from the fallen Mazigh after the figure in green sprinting away down the side of the train.
That’s the one. The one who did it. That’s the one I need. I need to catch him, to wrap my fingers around his throat, to hear him beg for his life, and then to take it from him.
Just as the man in green reached the end of the train, Salvator Fabris stepped out from beyond the nose of the locomotive with his rapier drawn and raised.
“No! He’s mine!” Qhora screamed.
A blaze of orange light slashed through the shadows, and Qhora saw the man in green wielding his strange burning sword, hacking viciously at the Italian. But there was no clash of steel, no ringing blades. Salvator darted back and back again, twisting and turning, stabbing and needling at his opponent, but never letting the fiery short sword touch his shining rapier.
Qhora felt her legs burning and her lungs burning and her heart pounding as she raced down the last few yards toward the two men. But before she could reach them, the Aegyptian dodged around the front of the train and disappeared, and Salvator did not follow. He merely slipped his rapier away, tugged a small handkerchief from his sleeve, and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.
Qhora slid around the front of the train. The platform was empty. “Where is he? Where did he go?”
Salvator shrugged and she heard him breathing heavily. “Through the gate, I suppose. Into the city.”
“Why did you let him go?”
The Italian blinked and arched one eyebrow. “You told me not to kill him, and I told you I wasn’t interested in him to begin with. Besides, he was quite good with that little sword of his. Unique design. Nipponese, if I’m not mistaken. I think it’s called a seireiken. Hot, too. Too hot to cross blades with. And even if I had been willing to let it touch my steel, it would have been a close match. I can see why he was able to best Don Lorenzo.”
Qhora paused to catch her breath. “What? He’s an oaf! An idiot! He did more damage to the hotel than to Enzo. He only killed him because that damn sword of his melted through…Enzo’s espada…” She felt clawing hands of grief at her throat, choking off her words. She covered her eyes, trying to forget the image of the burning sword piercing Enzo’s chest.
“Really? Then he’s improved over night. Literally. But my business lies there.” Salvator pointed behind her.
Qhora glanced back to see Mirari still locked arm in arm with the one-eyed woman on the ground, while the Mazigh man stood over them with his gun pointed at the sky, yelling at them. “We have to help her!” And she was off running again.
Mirari!
Mirari existed in a strange place in Qhora’s life, somewhere between sister and friend and servant. Enzo had found her in the mountains, deformed and half-mad, but Alonso had brought her back, her mind quite at peace behind the beauty of her new Italian mask, and she had simply become part of their household in Madrid. Sometimes Enzo’s student, sometimes her confidante, and sometimes a household servant working to earn her keep. And of course, always Alonso’s lover. But whatever else she was or wasn’t, Mirari was family now.
The Mazigh gunman saw Qhora running toward them, and for a moment he moved as though to point his gun at her, but he shouted at his one-eyed friend again, and the woman managed to disentangle herself from the masked girl. The Mazigh and the Eranian clambered between the passenger cars and out of sight and Qhora heard them running across the platform, and then they were gone.
She reached Mirari just as the girl was standing up. She was moving stiffly, but there was no stain of blood on her or the ground, and for a moment Qhora felt something other than rage and confusion. Relief. “Are you all right?”
Mirari nodded. “I’m sorry, my lady. She was surprisingly skilled with her hands, and I had to keep her between me and the Mazigh. I couldn’t reach my knife.”
Excuses. She’s making excuses. The cool relief vanished beneath another wave of hate. “You let them go!”
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
“We’ll have to start over again!”
Why did I bring this broken girl at all? Alonso wouldn’t have lost them. He’s taller, stronger. Or Atoq, my beautiful Atoq, he would have torn their throats out and right now I could be staring down at their lifeless bodies instead of my own empty hands.
“Come on,” Qhora snapped. “We have to find them!”
With Salvator trailing a few paces behind, they jogged out the gates of the station and into the streets of Carthage. The early morning sun shone down on a few dozen people striding this way and that way, talking in low stern voices, gesturing sharply, and striding on to somewhere else. A few craftsmen sat behind tables of their wares beneath striped awnings as
they wove their baskets, or painted their glassware, or assembled their toys. The real markets were elsewhere, Qhora realized, and these were only the poorest people trying to catch a bit of business from the train’s travelers.
They came to the first intersection and stared down the long dusty roads in each direction. Qhora felt her entire body tightening up, her hand squeezing her knife, her teeth grinding together.
Salvator glided around her and spoke without looking at her in the eye. “You may want to put the knife away. You look ready to use it on the first thing that moves, which may not be your enemy. It wouldn’t do to run afoul of the local constabulary. They aren’t as reasonable here as they are in Marrakesh.”
With a trembling hand, she slipped the knife back into the narrow sheathe up her sleeve. “Where do we go now?”
“Well, we can’t possibly search all of these houses or shops. We need information, we need eyes. So let’s find someplace crowded.” Fabris took the lead, striding smoothly through the thickening crowds of caravan merchants, Kanemi workers, Hellan traders, Songhai pilgrims, and other peoples from farther east that Qhora had never seen before. They reached a bustling square ringed with small cafés and shrines, and around the dry fountain in the center of the space were hundreds of kiosks, a maze of rickety tables shaded by tattered awnings on crooked poles all lashed together in a patchwork shantytown in the middle of the square. The murmuring voices rose like the babble of white water pouring over a fall, and dust filled the air with a brown haze that stung Qhora’s nose and eyes.
Ahead of her, she saw Salvator ducking his head into the market stalls and kiosks, speaking softly to the merchants, sometimes gesturing toward his eye or miming the appearance of a gun or a sword. The merchants nodded or shrugged or shook their heads, but no matter their response the Italian always moved on. Finally she saw the tall fencer drop to his knee to speak to a young boy. A coin flashed between them, and the boy ran off.
“Now we’ll see some results,” Salvator said. “We’ll wait over there.” He pointed them to a shaded corner beside a shrine where a grotesquely fat stone figure sat grinning stupidly at all who passed.
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 69