Halcyon The Complete Trilogy (55 page)

Shifrah flopped back onto the bed, still only half dressed, her glorious black mane draped over her shoulders. She shrugged in agreement as she adjusted the patch over what used to be her other eye. She had been considering having a jeweler make her a new one cast in silver and set with a sapphire where the iris should be, but the idea had seemed too conspicuous even for her. “If you still want this ship, then fine. But why bother with some Mazigh spy? Let’s go back to Rome and see what your friends have drummed up. Maybe they’ll have some ideas about how to sink this whale.”

“No. I’m staying right here until the
Arkangel
problem is resolved. And who knows? Maybe if we do retrieve this spy’s head, the good admiral will grant us a little more leeway and we’ll begin to make some real progress.”

It’s always about the job, isn’t it, Sal?
Shifrah stood up, letting her unbuttoned trousers fall to her knees and she shoved him back against the wall. “Well, if this is our last hour in a heated room with a real bed, let’s not waste the opportunity.”

Salvator glanced at the bunk. “Another time. Get dressed. We have a flying spy to kill.”

Spoil sport
. She scowled and turned away to finish dressing and packing her bag.

The long hours on the road passed slowly. The Espani countryside plodded past them, field after house after field. It reminded her of home, of ancient Nablus in faraway Persia (
or Eran or whatever they’re calling it now,
she sniffed), only poorer and colder. Much colder. Salvator paused to question most of the people they met on the road, or near the road. Most nodded yes, they did see the strange little airship or the strange roaring bird pass by overhead. But on the afternoon of the second day the heads stopped nodding. The farmers and masons and furriers gave Salvator curious looks and shrugs, leaving the Italian to glare at the distant ridges and hills in silence.

When they came to Villanueva, the local soldiers told them about a strange machine they had found at the edge of the frozen lake just beyond the next ridge. So Shifrah endured the rough ride over the cold, windy ridge and saw the metal bird for herself.

Wings. Tail. Yes, it looks like a bird. So what?

The empty aircraft told her nothing except that no one had died inside it. In fact, she was certain no one had died at all, despite the dents and rents in the metal body. The Mazigh had tried to hide his machine under some branches, which told her that he intended to return to salvage it. But the fresh snow had covered any hint of which way the man had gone. Salvator ordered the soldiers at Villanueva to report their find to Admiral Magellan, and to haul the strange aircraft itself to Valencia, and then he and Shifrah continued on the road west in search of the pilot.

The Italian sat glaring in his saddle, lost in thought.

Ah yes, the exciting life of the dashing Salvator Fabris. Why did I ever come back?
Shifrah called out to a little man driving his cart of beaver pelts away down the road. “You there! Are you coming from Madrid?”

The furrier turned. “I am.”

“Did you see any strangely dressed people on the road? Maybe wearing orange?”

He nodded. “Yesterday afternoon. Three of them, and some circus people, I think.”

Shifrah glared at Salvator. “Three of them. And a circus. How fun for them. You’re a spy, Sal, why don’t you travel with a circus? Maybe you’re doing it wrong.”

Salvator snapped his reins and they trotted on to Madrid. It was late in the evening when they spotted a slouched rider coming toward them, descending a small hill where the icy road wound its careless path through a skeletal forest. Salvator smiled. “Rui!”

Oh, excellent. Just who I wanted to meet
. Shifrah shivered under her coats and muttered, “What the devil is he doing out here?”

The approaching rider perked up slightly and called out, “Fabris? Is that you? What the devil are you doing out here?”

Salvator glanced at her. “Great minds think alike.”

She scowled at him.

“An exciting expedition,” Salvator called out. “We’re looking for a Mazigh airship crew. The good admiral wants to have a word with their corpses.”

Rui Faleiro reined up beside them. “A Mazigh airship crew? Can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that around here. But then again, I haven’t been looking ahead so much as back over my shoulder.” He winked.

“What did you steal this time, Rui?” Shifrah asked.

“Just a book.” The older man grinned. “A sort of treasure map, if you will.”

“Treasure? I do so love treasure. You can buy so many wonderful things with it.” Salvator exhaled slowly, letting the pale vapor swirl around his face for a moment. “Is this treasure of yours anything I should steal from you, Rui?”

Faleiro blinked, his smile suddenly frozen and his eyes rather uneasy. “I doubt it’s anything that would interest you. It’s just an old Espani relic. A magic rock, if you will.”

Salvator shook his head. “You people are absolutely stunning in your faith in such profoundly stupid nonsense.”

Shifrah tugged her scarf away from her mouth. “What sort of rock?”

Faleiro shrugged. “Legend says it was bright and shiny, and the angels sang, and some nun saw it fall from heaven. A friend of mine likes these things. I thought he would enjoy the book.”

“A friend of yours?” Shifrah raised an eyebrow.
Maybe this trip won’t be a complete waste of my time after all
. “Would this be that gentleman from Aegyptus who came onboard the
Arkangel
last month?”

Faleiro swallowed. “Uhm. Yes, actually.”

“I see.” Shifrah nodded. “Did you know my broker in Alexandria would probably pay double or even triple for anything your friend might be interested in?”

“Really? Why is that? What do you know about my friend?”

“I know I killed him right after he met with you.”

She only had to glance at Salvator. The Italian drew his rapier and plunged it through Faleiro’s chest, and then withdrew to watch the man choke and shake and fall from his saddle into the road.

Salvator looked up at her. “Now, don’t misunderstand, I’m very pleased that this pathetic pile of offal is dead, but I too would like to know what your broker in Alexandria wants, exactly.” He dismounted and picked through Faleiro’s pockets very carefully to avoid the blood. With the man’s watch, wallet, and a small leather-bound book in hand, the Italian straightened up. He stared at her, waiting.

“My broker wants certain people dead.” Shifrah shrugged. “I don’t ask why. Faleiro’s Aegyptian friend was on the list, so I killed him. I was also told to send all of the man’s belongings back to my broker, which I did.”

“Why did you bother?”

“Because it doubled the bounty.”

“I see. So Faleiro’s friend was dealing in exotic valuables? Tell me, what is the current black market value of a magic Espani rock?”

Shifrah ignored the jibe. “I assume he was dealing guns, jewels, or drugs,” she said. “But all he had on him were some papers written in Aegyptian. Maybe this journal is more of the same.”

Salvator frowned as he dragged the fat little corpse into the ditch at the side of the road. He returned to his own horse, climbed up into the saddle, and then pulled the leather-bound book from his pocket. “I assume you want this, then?”

“Naturally.” She held out her hand.

He smiled and opened the book to flip through the pages. “Hand-written, and in Espani, not Aegyptian. It looks to be a sort of journal. Detailed notes. People, places, things. Dates and maps. How very interesting.”

“Yes, all very interesting. Can I have my bounty please?” She opened and closed her waiting hand.
Don’t be a prick about this, Sal. This is business
.

“All in good time.” Salvator tucked the journal into the breast pocket of his coat and turned his horse back onto the road toward Madrid.

You snake.
Shifrah squinted into the snow-glare of the bright sky and the bright icy field, and followed him.
You’ll pay for this the next time you want to see me naked
.

Day Two

Chapter 6. Lorenzo

He sat by the window, boots up on the stone ledge, staring out at the gray evening as the heavens faded from violet to black and the pale stars began to gleam in the clear winter sky. A howling wind rose from time to time to shake the naked trees and rattle the loose roof tiles, and to throw clouds of ice and snow against the window pane.

“A cold night. Are you going to see her?” Qhora asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Lorenzo stood up and pushed his long black hair back over his head. “She’ll know what to do about this.”

“Enzo, I think you’re overreacting. It will take a few days for Faleiro to return to Valencia or wherever he’s going. And the Espani navy isn’t going to send a search team into the Pyrenees in the dead of winter to look for some rock, no matter how magically hot it may be,” she said. “And that’s assuming Faleiro will even get permission from Magellan to look for the skyfire stone at all. Maybe the admiral will tell him he’s an idiot and throw him into the sea.”

Lorenzo smiled at the thought of Rui Faleiro pitched headfirst into the Middle Sea, left to drift back to shore on the freezing waves and peppered liberally with gull droppings. “You could be right.”

“I’m always right.” She smiled.

“It’s just, what if there’s some garrison up there already, somewhere in the mountains at the edge of the glaciers or in one of the mining towns? What if Faleiro sends a pigeon to that garrison and his men start searching for the stone on their own?” He felt his gut tighten into a knot. “They could be looking for it right now.”

“Enzo.” She grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward slightly to face her. “You’re doing it again. You’re inventing problems where there aren’t any. Not yet, anyway. Go on, go outside and talk to her. She’ll tell you the same thing. We have all the time in the world. We can go find your relic in the spring, when it’s safe, just like we talked about last month. Go talk to her.”

Lorenzo nodded. “I’ll do that.” He kissed her for a moment, or two, and left. The soft warmth of her lips lingered on his own and for a moment he considered carrying her back up to their bedroom.
Time enough for that later.

The hidalgo put on his long black coat and wide-brimmed hat and stepped out into the young night air. It was a sharp night, clear and cold with a needling wind full of ice dust to sting his cheeks and eyes. With his coat buttoned and the stiff collar flipped up, he reduced his exposure to a narrow gap across his eyes. His hot breath swirled inside the sealed collar, warming his nose and cheeks.

With his gloved hands in his pockets, he trudged out through snow that wasn’t quite as high as his knee-high boots. His students were supposed to be shoveling the snow every morning, and they usually did, but in this season a brief flurry could easily carpet any road or bury any object left in the yard in less than an hour. Outside the main gate, he veered off into the fields away from the road and the houses down the lane. Overhead, a hundred thousand stars shimmered like diamonds, drawing pictures of ancient beasts and heroes from myth and legend. The corner of his heart that was still eight years old began to name them and quietly reveled in their storied exploits slaying monsters and saving kingdoms. He grinned.
It always sounded so easy in the stories.

When his house appeared to be little more than a black smudge against the starry sky behind him, Lorenzo found a large rock by a stunted tree, both scoured clean of the recent snow by the shrieking wind. His hat shuddered on his head, but remained in place. He swept his coat down straight and sat on the rock. At first touch, the cold of the stone stung his legs and rear, but soon his flesh warmed the rough seat, or it numbed his flesh. Either way, he ceased to notice it.

“Sister?” he called softly.

There was no answer. No sound or movement in the shadows, except for the wind in the tall dead grass below and the stiff crooked branches above.

“Ariel?” He peered into the darkness, searching. He was in no hurry. His childhood in Gadir had been filled with winters as bitter as those here in Madrid and he couldn’t remember the cold ever truly bothering him. And there wasn’t another soul for miles to disturb his wait.

“Good evening, Lorenzo.”

“Agh!” He fell off his rock into the snow, his heart pounding in his chest. The voice had been right in his ear, so close beside him where no one had been a moment earlier.

The ghost stood to his right, knee-deep in the unbroken snow, her pale silvery figure rippling slightly in the breeze, a figure drawn of mist and aether limned in starlight. Dona Ariella Espinoza de Cordoba still wore the same habit and dour expression she had worn in life centuries ago, and around her neck hung her triquetra medallion with its three curling branches for the Father, the Mother, and the Son. She stared at him. “A nice night.”

“Yes, it is. Although I was enjoying it more before the heart attack.” He stood up and opened his high collar a bit so he could speak to her more clearly. His heart was still pounding from her sudden appearance. “It’s good to see you again. You’ve been away for a few weeks, haven’t you? Traveling the countryside?”

The ghost nodded and spoke in the clear voice of a living person, “Well, it being winter, I doubted you would be very busy or in need of my counsel. I thought I might walk the worldly paths for a while, so to speak. I wanted to see what was becoming of the rest of España in this new day and age.”

“And have you learned anything?”

“Yes, but no one else has, as far as I can tell.” The old woman offered him a brief and uncomfortable smile. “The same old world, the same people, the same problems. Not even the fall of the armada or the rise of Mazigh industry has changed things. It troubles me to see how many people still hold to the old superstitions, the same ones I struggled to put to rest during my service at the cloister. Everywhere I go, there are people warning their children of the aloja haunting some well or the mouros lurking in some cave. You would think that here, of all places, the people would set aside the old stories and accept that wandering souls are just that, and not monsters.”