outside. You need to get out, now.” She wasn’t thinking of politics or spies, or even of arrests or interrogations. All she could think about was what she had seen in the streets of Cusco when the Espani soldiers first arrived, and what those soldiers, those men of God, had done to the Incan women. I haven’t thought of that in years. It was a different time, it was war, and it was half a world away from here. And yet… Qhora touched the tiny Numidian dagger tucked between her breasts just to be sure it was still there.
Shahera dashed out of the room, her short arms clutching her coats and boots, her dark eyes wide, her plump lips parted in breathless panic. Taziri was just behind her, but she paused beside Qhora. “What about you? Are you coming with us? I mean, what if they think you’re Mazigh?”
“They won’t. You’d be surprised how many people in Espana have heard of the hidalgo’s Incan princess. And besides, the boys will look after me. We’ll be fine. Now go!”
Taziri hesitated another heartbeat before nodding and racing away after Shahera toward the far stair. Qhora slipped inside the women’s room to straighten the sheets and make sure nothing had been left under the beds, and then she stepped outside and closed the door. A torch flickered and flared at the top of the near stairs. She smoothed her dress, ran a finger through her hair, and walked slowly toward her own door. When the first soldier reached the top of the stair, she was drumming her fingers on the door handle and staring at the young man griping his rifle.
“Halt!” he yelled.
“I’m not moving,” she said.
“Yes, well.” He frowned. A moment later there were half a dozen more just like him on the landing, and a moment after that a tall man in red pushed through them.
Qhora forced her hands to rest by her sides and she swallowed her sudden desire to slash the Italian’s throat. “Good evening, Senor Fabris.”
“Signora Quesada, what a pleasure to see you again. Where is your husband this evening?”
“Not here, but not far away.”
“Far enough though, I imagine. What a shame. I was so hoping to see him again.” He turned to his men. “Check every room.”
The soldiers had barely stepped away when two doors across the hall opened and Alonso, Gaspar, and Hector all emerged as one. Gaspar and Hector both had their trousers on and shirts untucked, standing barefoot with their naked swords in hand. Alonso, however, was wearing only his boots, his small clothes, and a smile. Qhora stared at him. This is not the time, Alonso!
“Gentlemen!” Alonso raised his arms as though to embrace the entire regiment. “How nice of you to welcome us to Zaragoza. We are honored, pleased, and flattered. My name is Alonso, this is Hector, and that is Gaspar. We are students of Don Lorenzo Quesada. Perhaps you have heard of him, the hero of Cartagena? But of course you must know this already. I’m sorry to have you all out of bed on such a cold night, so why don’t we all retire for the evening and reconvene in the morning when I have more pants on?”
Salvator smiled. “Young man, where are the Mazighs?”
Alonso blinked, still smiling broadly. “The who?”
“The young woman with the metal arm and the curvaceous young lady who giggles so infectiously.” Salvator rested his hand on the golden hilt of his rapier. “I can’t tell you how delightful it was listening to the sound of her laughter on the wind as I followed you up the road from Madrid.”
Alonso’s smile faltered. “Oh, I admit my voice is more tenor than bass, but I hardly think my laugh would be mistaken for a girl’s.”
The soldiers continued opening and closing doors up and down the hall. A faint echo of voices from the stair heralded the arrival of several choir monks carrying candles and wearing stern faces. At the sight of the holy men, the soldiers froze to a man, all glancing from one to another, and finally looking back at Salvator.
“What is it now?” The Italian glanced back at the priests advancing on him. “Yes, gentlemen? Is there a problem?”
“Why are you disturbing our guests?” the tall man in brown asked. “Don Lorenzo, his wife, and his companions are friends of this parish, this church, and our beloved bishop. We do not permit officers of the law to disturb our prayers or our works, be they faithful Espani or otherwise.”
“My dear fellow, I would not dream of disturbing any man of the cloth, and certainly not one so esteemed as the bishop of Zaragoza. However, this is no common matter of law and order.” Salvator draped his arm around the monk’s shoulder in a brotherly embrace. “I am here as a special envoy from Rome in the service of your own Lord Admiral Magellan to-”
“I don’t care who you are or why you have come. You will leave immediately.”
“I’ll leave when I wish and not a moment sooner.” Salvator gently pushed the monk back against the two others standing behind him. “Sergeant! Please escort the good brothers into that room there,” he indicated one of the empty cells, “and ensure that no one disturbs them until we leave, which will be shortly.”
“Outrageous!” Qhora stormed in between the Italian and the monks. “You have no right to detain these men in their own home, in a house of God!”
Salvator merely nodded at the sergeant. The young man in uniform swallowed, his face pale and sweating, his eyes wide and darting, but he nodded back and took the monk’s elbow, making certain to hold his rifle quite far from the robed men. When the three brothers were behind a closed door, he took his place at the threshold, his fingers clenching and unclenching his rifle.
“Sir.” Another soldier approached. “There’s no one else here. The other rooms are empty. No clothes or anything else.”
Salvator sneered. “Search the entire cathedral, floor by floor and room by room. I want those foreign women found, now.”
“Yes, sir.” The soldiers jogged away to the ends of the hall and down the stairs.
“Since when do Italian swine command brave Espani soldiers?” Hector kept his sword down, but held it in front of himself. His voice caught in his throat, threatening to break. Qhora could almost feel the nervous fear coming off the young man in waves.
“Since your royal swine Prince Valero came to the realization that the only chance his pathetic excuse for a military would ever have of fighting real men would come at the tutelage of foreign masters.” Salvator glanced at the boy’s espada. “That is a very cheap strip of tin.”
Hector lunged at the Italian’s exposed chest, and Salvator began to draw, but Alonso was faster than both of them. The half-naked student tackled his friend to the floor in a tangle of loose clothes and bare limbs. Qhora saw Alonso’s eyes squeezed shut as the boy anticipated the Italian’s sword, but when no retaliation came he looked up. Fabris stood looking down at him, unmoved, his sword still sheathed. The sergeant guarding the monks stepped away from his post, but the Italian waved him back again.
“Well done,” Salvator said to the small pile of bodies before him. “You’ve just saved the life of your friend. And I must say I’m rather impressed with your reflexes-”
Gaspar leapt over the two boys on the floor to slash at the Italian’s chest. Salvator stepped back, drew his rapier, and slashed the young diestro’s arm from shoulder to elbow in a single stroke. The boy tumbled to the floor, his sword skidding away, forgotten. Gaspar screamed as he clutched his arm, the dark blood pouring from the enormous gash in his flesh.
Again Qhora raced forward but again Alonso was quicker. He tore the loose sleeve from Hector’s shirt and dove onto the writhing form of Gaspar, wrenching the injured arm from Gaspar’s grip and binding it quickly and tightly with the torn cloth. The blood quickly stained the entire bandage, but the torrent became a mere dribble of red and black running down to drip from Gaspar’s fingers. The wounded youth leaned against the wall, pale and shuddering, his eyes unable to focus on anything.
“Two lives saved and still without pants,” Salvator said. “Most impressive.”
Alonso leapt to his feet as Hector scrambled to Gaspar’s side, but Qhora grabbed Alonso’s wrist as she placed her other hand against the Italian’s chest, holding them apart.
Salvator smiled. “All this pain, all this suffering, and for what? For the Mazighs? For a few foreign spies? Don’t you realize these people want to destroy what’s left of your homeland?”
He doesn’t seem to know about Dante. Qhora exhaled slowly. If only Dante was of any use to anyone. Enzo, where are you?
For a moment, only Gaspar’s strained breathing and soft moaning echoed through the corridor. Qhora felt the
