Chapter 25
Wayra strutted up to the gate in the tall chain fence, the long blue feathers atop her head fluttering in the breeze. Beyond the fence stood a few long, low buildings near the edge of the bay, and beyond them Qhora could see the Middle Sea rolling darkly in the late day sun. To her left, the city of Valencia huddled close to the shore as though clinging to the feeble warmth of the sea.
The two guards at the gate looked up at the huge bird and glanced at each other. If she hadn’t been so tired from two days in the saddle, Qhora might have enjoyed their nervousness. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Lord Admiral Magellan.”
The left guard said, “I’m sorry, miss, but the admiral left aboard the Arkangel several days ago. I can’t say when he’ll return.”
His answer wasn’t entirely surprising. As she rode up the coastal lane, she hadn’t seen anything in the bay matching Taziri’s description of the warship that shot down her aircraft. “Very well, then I need to speak to your commander. Immediately.”
“This is a military facility, miss. No civilians permitted without authorization. But I can deliver a message to Captain Ortiz, if you like.”
“I am Dona Qhora Quesada, wife of Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir, and I am here on behalf of Commander Rui Faleiro,” she said. “And I need to speak to your Captain Ortiz, in person, immediately.”
The names worked. The guard escorted her through the gate and across the yard to a small brick office flanked by a pair of small browning pine trees. Captain Ortiz greeted her curtly. “We haven’t heard from Faleiro in quite some time. He was due back over a week ago, according to my log. I suppose he ran into some weather on the road somewhere.”
“Actually, he was murdered on the road somewhere, between here and Madrid I believe.” Qhora wore her most professional bored expression. For two days, she had had nothing to do except to guess when she would stumble upon Valencia and to perfect her questions and answers for when she arrived.
“Murdered? By whom?”
“By an Italian named Salvator Fabris. I believe he was stationed here as well.”
Ortiz frowned. “He was. I thought he’d been discharged. You have evidence against Fabris? A witness?”
“A confession. He told my husband that he’d killed Faleiro.”
The captain sighed. “This is what happens when you let in foreigners. Begging your pardon, Dona, I mean Italians and Mazighs and so on, not New Worlders like yourself. This entire project has been twice as difficult since the admiral started bringing in his special contractors. And now they’re murdering our officers?” He glared as he shuffled the papers around his desk, yanked out a clipboard, and began scribbling notes. “I’m issuing a warrant for Fabris’s arrest. No doubt you and your husband will be summoned to testify against him, but that could be months away. No need to worry about it now.” Ortiz paused, then resumed writing on a fresh page. “And I’m shutting down the science experiment in the warehouse. No more nonsense on my watch until we get this foreigner business under control.”
Qhora smiled her best high-society smirk of flirtatious conspiracy. “A science experiment? Here? How bizarre! Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s this machine they brought in, apparently on Fabris’s orders. Something that he found out on the road last week.”
“What sort of machine? Like a locomotive? I visited Marrakesh once and saw two locomotives crash straight into each other. Can you imagine?” Qhora loathed the act right down to the little giggle and smile at the end of her questions, but she had no other leverage with this man and couldn’t risk being turned away empty-handed.
Ortiz shook his head. “No, ma’am, I cannot. But this machine is no locomotive. It looks like a damned bird. Lord knows why those Mazighs keep building these flying contraptions. If God wanted us up in the clouds, that’s where he would have put us in the first place.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Qhora rested her gloved hand on her chest, just below her little golden triquetra.
Ortiz offered her a polite smile and nod. “Well, Dona Qhora, I can’t thank you enough for coming all this way to report this Fabris matter to me. I promise you, it will be dealt with swiftly.”
“Thank you so much, captain.” She stood to leave. Her hand strayed to her empty purse and she thought of her empty saddlebags. “Oh, look at the time. It’s already so late in the day. Can you recommend a hotel where I might spend the night?”
Ortiz stood up. “Actually, my wife and I would be honored if you would stay the night with us, Dona. It’s the least I can do in return for your services today.”
Qhora smiled. Such predictable nobility. I almost regret manipulating him like this, but a twinge of regret is better than another night out in the cold. “Why thank you, captain, I believe I will accept your most generous offer.”
Chapter 26
When the little fishing boat rounded the point, they saw the enormous harbor of Gibraltar and Algeciras glittering with the light of the setting sun. It had taken a day and a half to sail down the coast, fighting with the unpredictable winds of the Strait and then putting in at Marbella for a few hours of rest during the previous night. Syfax squinted into the brilliant white flashes on the dark waves and noted all the small craft coming in off the Strait for the evening. Big fishers, little fishers, sailers and rowers, and even a few trawlers with Mazigh steam engines huffing amidships. His gaze swept from south to north, from the Strait up into the harbor.
“Aw, crap.”
The enormous warship sat at anchor just inside the mouth of the harbor, lying east-west with her bow facing them.
“How the hell did that get here?” Shifrah asked. “The last I heard, the engines were still being tested. I didn’t think it could move at all.”
“They must have moved it right after we flew over it,” Kenan said. “Maybe they were afraid we would report it and send some Mazigh steamers to investigate.”
“But if they meant to hide it again, wouldn’t they have moved it north, perhaps to Barcelona, instead of south?” Nicola asked. “I mean, on a clear day someone in Marrakesh could probably just look across the Strait with a spyglass and see this monstrosity sitting here. There’s no good reason to place a warship so near another country unless you mean to use it, either as a threat or a deterrent or an actual weapon.”
“You’re probably right,” Syfax said. He studied the ship for a moment, staring up at its high decks and heavy anchor chains. They moved it as soon as they knew we’d seen it. And they moved it closer to Marrakesh, damn close. They must mean to use it. People are gonna start dying. And soon. “All right. Slight change of plans. You guys keep sailing to Tingis to report all this to the generals. I’m gonna see what I can do about this boat.”
“What do you mean?” Kenan pointed at the warship. “You’re going to go pick a fight with that thing?”
“Yeah, well, if they decide to use that ship, we’d only have about half an hour’s warning before it started shelling one of our cities.”
“So we get to Tingis as fast as we can and have the council send a military blockade to fence this thing in until the politicians can talk it out,” Kenan said. “You might have noticed it’s sort of a big ship, sir. I’m not sure what you think you can do to it on your own.”
“It’s a machine.” Syfax shrugged. “Open a few valves, rip out some wires, spill some fuel. How hard can it be?”
“That’s insane.” Kenan slumped back against the gunwale with Shifrah huddled close beside him. He muttered, “You’re insane.”
Syfax gave the one-eyed woman a second look. He’d made several attempts to coax her away from the kid and over to his side of the boat during the long sail from Malaga, but she’d pretended to ignore all of his looks and gestures. It was hard to imagine that a woman like that would be cozying up to Kenan on purpose, so it was probably just an accident due to the fact that Nicola had claimed the seat next to the major. Well, I’m sure we’ll have time to clear that up when this is ov
er and we’re all back home.
“Hey, captain?”
The fisherman glanced at him. “Hm?”
“I need you to swing in close to that ship there in the middle, as close as you can stand it.”
“You’re serious?” The fisherman adjusted the tiller slightly, a frown and a squint tightening his face. He spoke around the pipe clenched in his teeth. “All right, but I’m not getting too close. There’re rules about this sort of thing. Rules like, don’t get too close to nothing with guns on it.”
Syfax dragged his fingers through the salt water. A cold wave slapped his skin. It stung. “Don’t worry about it. I can swim this.”
A few minutes later they were sailing west parallel to the warship, still at least two hundred yards away. “Closer than I’d like,” the fisherman muttered.
“It’ll do.” Syfax shed his heavy coat and turned to Kenan. “All right kid, you’re on solo duty now. Get the women into Tingis safe and sound, and then run straight to the head office to report everything. Recommend they send at least four destroyers to blockade this harbor immediately. And don’t forget to send someone to look for Taziri and the others in Madrid.”
“You mean Zaragoza?” Kenan raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, right. Good. Good luck, kid.” The major took one last look at the looming warship with its tall, sheer hull and he slipped over the side into the water. The cold struck his chest with a hammer blow that sucked the air from his lungs, and in the bare moment that his head was underwater the freezing sea burned his scalp. He broke the surface again, already shivering.
For a fleeting instant he tried to remember whether he’d ever done something quite like this.
I must have, some time. Maybe in the army, or when I was a kid.
Nothing came to mind. Syfax turned to face the ship and began long, powerful breaststrokes just beneath the surface. He didn’t dare use an over-arm style that might kick up a spray and attract any attention.
He didn’t look back once. All he focused on was the gray wall of the ship’s hull where it met the dark frothing waves of the harbor. The salt stung his eyes. His fingers felt as thin as icicles clawing through the water, and his boots weighed three tons but he kept them on.
Stroke, kick.
Stroke, kick.
Ten minutes, then fifteen. He scanned the hull for features, for a way up and in other than the anchor chain and after closing half the distance he found it. A metal ladder ran down the face of the hull from a wide cannon port straight into the water. He angled toward it. When he reached the ship, every muscle in his body was threatening to cramp, to knot up tightly into a warm ball and let him sink into the darkness.
Syfax gripped the rungs of the ladder and began to climb. As he rose out of the water, the whistling sea wind sliced through his soaking clothes and set him to shivering all over again but he just tightened his muscles that much more to steady himself.
Hand, foot.
Hand, foot.
He glanced up at the edge of the ship against the purpling sky and saw nothing but a few wisps of cloud hurrying east on the wind.
Hand, foot.
Syfax raised his head to look over the edge of the cannon port and saw a wide, dark space terminating in an armored door. The space was empty.
So, not a cannon port at all. Wouldn’t have made much sense to have the ladder if it was. Must be some sort of rescue hatch for people falling overboard.
He climbed up and inspected the hatch.
No handle, no lock. Everything on the inside.
He glared at the door for a minute, then pulled out his hunting knife and banged it once on the hatch.
The clang echoed inside.
Syfax flattened himself against the wall and waited. After two minutes, he struck the hatch a second time, and again readied himself.
He was about to hit the door a third time when he heard the latch click and saw the door swing outward. A man stuck his head out, squinting into the cold air. Syfax grabbed the man’s throat and hauled him out onto the exposed deck. He planted his boot in the back of the sailor’s knee and as the man went down, Syfax wrapped his arm around the sailor’s neck and waited for the sailor to pass out.
With the sailor safely sleeping in the external bay, Syfax slipped inside and locked the hatch. The corridor was narrow and brightly lit, and everything seemed to be made of steel. The walls, the decks, and especially the intestinal mass of pipes and tubes winding along the ceiling.
He dropped his dripping shirt on the deck and started down the nearest stair. In the distance he could hear footsteps and voices echoing, but none seemed close or urgent so he pushed them to the back of his mind and focused on the walls and doors, and the numbers labeling everything. Occasionally someone would come down a nearby corridor and the major would slip back around a corner, or into a doorway, or up a stair, and each time the sailor would wander past showing no sign that the intruder had been detected.
So, where is it? The great big, breakable heart of this pile of junk?
Down.
His stairwell ended two decks down where the lights were dimmer and sounds of human activity were drowned out by the regular roaring, huffing, and clacking of machines.
Bingo.
Syfax jogged down the narrow gray hall to a closed hatch. The engine noises grew louder as he pressed his ear to the door. He grabbed the wheel in the center of the hatch, jerked it loose with a sharp clang, and spun it open. The hatch swung aside and Syfax stepped through with his knife in his hand.
“Damn.”
He was standing in a long, low-ceilinged room with two massive boilers along the right and left walls stretching down into the distance. The network of overhead pipes here completely obscured the ceiling, glass-faced gauges and brass-handled valves studded the pipes at irregular intervals, and blocky workstations stood at the ends of the boilers, and clustered in a central console, and along the back walls.
Twenty grim-faced engineers looked up from their work. Some stood over the consoles, some were holding clipboards, some held toolboxes, some lay on the floor inspecting their precious machines, and one older man was sipping a cup of tea. This older officer stood just inside the hatch and turned to see the huge Mazigh step into the engine room beside him and say, “Damn.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
Syfax froze. He glanced up at the dozen faces half-turned toward him, and the enormousness of the engines, and he pointed up at nothing in particular. “Yeah, they sent me down to have a quick look at the, eh, you know…thing.” He shoved the officer back into the wall and charged into the room. There were a hundred things he could break, but he knew he needed more than half a second to open a valve or smash an instrument panel and the engineers were already running toward him, most wielding wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers.
The major caught the first sailor’s wrist, smashed him in the nose, and stripped the hammer from his hand. The hammer flew into a glass-faced board of waving needles, and a shower of sparks flew out. In the last moment before the tide of sailors crashed into him, Syfax drove his knife into the panel right near the switch marked eléctrico and hoped he’d hit something important.
The first three men to reach him all got a fist in the face or a boot in the stomach, and then the major lifted one bodily and hurled him back into the oncoming sailors. Wrenches and hammers were flying, men were hollering in Espani, and suddenly red lights were flashing and a klaxon was wailing. Syfax hunkered down in his boxer’s stance with his back to the corner and focused on pummeling the men one at a time. There was no way to reach the hatch now, not through the press of sweaty, greasy bodies.
A hammer smashed his left wrist and he paid back the engineer with an elbow through his jaw that left the Espani unconscious on the floor to be trampled by his comrades.
A glass jar full of washers shattered against his right temple and he squeezed his right eye shut in case some fragments of glass trickled into it with the veil of
blood that spilled down over the side of his face.
A small man dashed in close and got his arms around Syfax’s legs. The major bent down to tear the engineer away and that was all the opening the others needed. They fell on him like a pack of wolves and the last thing that Syfax saw before his head struck the bulkhead was a line of armed men streaming in through the open hatch.
Chapter 27
“What the hell does he think he’s going to accomplish?” Shifrah watched the major swim away toward the warship.
“Who knows?” Kenan was looking the other way, out to sea. “Captain, are Espani channel markers the same as Mazigh ones?”
“They are.” The fisherman exhaled slowly and a thin haze of smoke rippled away from his pipe. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you may have noticed that ship back there. It’s a warship.”
“Looks like.” The fisherman nodded.
“It means that Prince Valero is getting ready to start the holiday season just a bit early this year. A ship that size is meant to terrify, to control, and to kill.” Kenan ran his thumb along his lip. “It means he’s going back to the good old days when the Middle Sea ran red every summer with the blood of Espani, Italians, Numidians, Mazighs, and Hellans.”
“Could be.”
“And do you remember what would happen every autumn?”
The fisherman nodded. “The Persians came.”
“Yes, they did. And they would take whatever they wanted, and they would stay as long as they liked,” Kenan said. “My mother said it was always bad for business when the Persians came through, back in Port Chellah.”
“It was bad in Italia, very bad indeed,” Nicola said quietly.
“Bad in Malaga, too.” The fisherman shifted his foot on the winch to let out a bit of line and the sail swung out a bit farther.
Shifrah smiled. This boy is smart, and not just clever in the way that some angry young men could be, but really smart. He understands people. He doesn’t have to lie to get what he wants. That’s a child’s game. No, this boy tells the truth. No lies to remember, no lies to get caught in. And that’s why he’s going to live a very long time.
Aetherium (Omnibus Edition) Page 68