“Why does the cold matter?”
Qhora sighed. “You’re the scientist, you tell me. All I know is that ghosts are souls that appear in clouds of aether. Aether is everywhere, but it can only coalesce where it is very cold. It also helps to be very dark, but apparently water-women don’t play by those rules.”
“I guess that’s why we never see any ghosts back home. Too warm,” Taziri said. “It’s just as well. Things are hectic enough these days without seeing dead people walking around.”
“I’m sure. I’ve been to Marrakesh. There were enough dead people lying on the ground, as I recall, and far too many lining up to fall down beside them.”
Taziri looked over at the little woman on the huge strutting bird. “Are you talking about the assassination? I know you were there. I probably saw you there, on the airfield, but I don’t remember much of that day. It’s a pity you couldn’t save the queen.”
Qhora sniffed. “I saved her children. And I hear the new queen has already begun cleaning up the mess her sister left behind. Isn’t that true?”
“You could put it that way,” Taziri said. Did everyone hate the old queen? Was I the only person who thought she didn’t deserve to die? “Tell me, what was it like on that airfield? What did you see? The last thing I remember is crashing the Halcyon into the queen’s skybarge.”
The smaller woman didn’t answer right away. They rode several paces, long enough to listen to the whistle of the wind, the clopping of hooves, and the scratching of talons on the frozen mud. Then Qhora said, “When I walked out onto the field, the first thing I saw was a huge black cloud in the sky, spreading out on the wind. Then I saw the people running and screaming, grabbing each other, servants dropping bags of luggage and trays of food, soldiers with rifles, children crying. I sent Enzo to round up the children. I didn’t know what was happening, not exactly. My Mazigh wasn’t very good so I couldn’t understand what people were saying. But I knew there were people trying to kill the queen. I found the queen’s family in the wreckage. And the assassin as well. I threw my knife at her and the bomb went off.”
Taziri nodded. “That’s what I heard. It was in all the papers. Did you see the queen there too? She must have been close by.”
“What is this all about, captain?” Qhora snapped. “I told you what happened. Maybe if you had done something more constructive than crash your airship that day, the old queen would still be alive. I did more than my share, considering how miserably I was treated by your people.”
Taziri wanted to lash back at her, but what was the point? They would be stuck together for days or weeks in close quarters, and a looming argument or a flurry of insults wouldn’t make it any more bearable.
Besides, it really doesn’t matter what happened that day, not now. Qhora’s right, anyway. She killed the assassin and saved the royal family while I just stumbled away from my wrecked ship and passed out.
The low clopping of hooves echoed behind them and Taziri looked back. A lone rider, a man, approached them from the south. He wore his collar upturned in the Espani-fashion to hide his face from the wind. Taziri winced.
And there it is again. That cold, sick feeling in my gut.
Taziri reined up and turned to watch the man draw closer.
Qhora looked back. “What are you doing?”
“Just waiting for this gentleman to pass us.”
Qhora frowned, but directed her huge eagle to strut over beside the Mazigh woman. The man’s horse stopped in the middle of the road, still quite some distance behind them. He lowered his collar to reveal an oiled mustache and small tuft of beard on his chin. Taziri suppressed a smile. He looked like the Espani devil.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he called out. “I am Salvator Fabris, at your service.”
Qhora drew a long straight Songhai knife from her boot. “You maimed an innocent boy, you death- worshipping filth!” Wayra screamed as her rider yanked on her reins.
“No, stop!” Taziri held up her hand.
The Italian had opened his coat and drawn his rapier. It shone in the midday light. “You there. Mazigh woman. What are these Espani paying you?”
Taziri frowned. “What?”
“Are you here to build the stone weapon, or merely to transport the stone itself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, of course you don’t. But I imagine you’ll recall the details once we have time to discuss the matter in private, as I slice apart your fingers. They’re terribly sensitive, the fingers.”
Taziri swallowed. It was real now. Up until this moment, everything had been threats and fears and possibilities, but no longer. It was real. It was here. Capture, torture, and death. She began unfastening the buttons on her left sleeve. “I think you’re a little confused. I was shot down by an Espani warship. I never meant to come here. I was on my way to Tingis.”
“Yes, I was there when the Lord Admiral gave the order to shoot you down. But nothing can explain why you were flying over Valencia in the first place, unless it was to visit your dear friend Don Lorenzo, who was about to set out on this little venture of yours.”
“We were blown off course.” Taziri pulled back her sleeve and raised her arm. The medical brace gleamed brightly in the snow-glare, yellow sun on pale aluminum and warm copper. She touched the release switch and the long cylinder popped up with the soft hiss of an air ram, the twang of a spring, and the click of a gear.
The Italian snarled, his face transformed into a wrinkled mass of rage. “Guns! Always guns with you damned Mazighs. A coward’s weapon. A weakling’s weapon!”
“That’s right. A weapon for the weak. A weapon for all the people who can’t defend themselves with muscles and blades.” Taziri leveled the shotgun barrel at the rider. “A weapon to protect anyone.”
“Protect? PROTECT?” Fabris had his horse dancing and sidestepping across the road, nervously wheeling in little circles, but never coming any closer. “One coward with a gun can kill an entire regiment of brave soldiers. Or a hospital full of the sick. Or a church full of wedding guests. Or a school full of children. Oh yes, we have a few of your precious guns in Italia, but I’m still waiting to hear a single story of them protecting anyone!” The Italian spun about one last time and galloped away, racing back south at a dead sprint and he didn’t slow until he was over the second hill and out of sight.
Taziri exhaled and shuddered. She lowered her arm and pressed the cold metal tube back down into her brace.
Qhora put away her knife. “Would you have shot him? Killed him?”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Taziri tapped her arm. “It wasn’t loaded, except with pencils. I suppose we should hurry on ahead to tell your husband about this.”
“No, we won’t.” Qhora shook her head. “If Enzo knew that this Italian was willing to come after us, alone, then he would send us away or lock us up in a tower. When it comes to protecting a woman, my husband tends to hold to some very old Espani traditions. It’s better that he doesn’t know, for now.”
They rode the rest of the morning at a brisk trot without saying another word, and shortly after noon they found Don Lorenzo and the others climbing a long gentle slope through a small wood. Qhora went forward to her husband’s side and Taziri ambled up to the three young diestros on foot. They all nodded and smiled and said hello. She passed them and came alongside Shahera and Dante astride the other two horses.
“So you found her.” Shahera smiled. “I’m glad. I was starting to worry about you both. What was she doing?”
“Fighting a ghost of some sort,” Taziri said casually, wondering if that’s how the Espani talked about the spirits among them when they were alone. For a people so intensely focused on their worship, scriptures, rituals, and the state of their immortal souls, they don’t seem very interested in the blessings or curses of the supernatural creatures living among them.
“A ghost? How exciting! I love stories, please tell me everything,” Shahera said. And for the next few minutes, Taziri described what she had seen and what Qhora had told her about the water-woman and the farmer. Shahera stared thoughtfully up the road ahead. “It’s so sad. For the farmer and his son, I mean. They lost everything, even their home. I hope they have friends or family somewhere to take them in.”
“Oh for God’s sake, who cares what happens to them?” Dante gave them a flat stare. “The man’s an idiot and so are his neighbors. We have just as many spirits wandering about in Italia, but you won’t hear any of this tragic nonsense back home.”
