Both guards drew back as though from a poisonous stench, their hands rising to cover their mouths.
Mirari stumbled backward, both gloved hands pawing at her bare cheeks and lips and nose as she whimpered, “My f-face, my face, need my face, where’s my face, face, need my face, need to be her, need to be her, need her, where is she, where is my face?”
“Dear God.” Salvator winced.
Qhora looked up past Mirari’s shaking hands at her silver-blue skin and her mangled, twisted ears. When Alonso brought the mountain girl to Madrid, he had explained that Mirari’s ears had been crushed during a difficult birth. And after years of torment from the people in her village, she had fled to live alone in an abandoned silver mine, drinking the tainted water running through the mine, permanently dying her skin with traces of silver. But in their two years together, Qhora had never seen her without the Carnivale mask. She had never seen her face at all.
And now, as they stood together at the foot of the pier with three armed men standing over them, all Qhora saw was a friend locked in the prison of her own fractured mind, and shaking with terror. “Fabris! Get her mask!”
The Italian swept into the foot traffic on the road and rescued the mask a moment before a camel’s foot would have crushed it and he returned it to her hand. Mirari stared at the inside of the mask as though she had never seen it before, lost and baffled.
“Here, here.” Qhora gently took the mask and placed it against Mirari’s face, and slowly the woman stopped shaking and mumbling.
She took the mask in her own hands, holding it in place, and she took a deep breath. Mirari straightened up, one hand pressed to the painted red lips of the mask, the other hand resting on the head of her hatchet in her belt. “I’m sorry, my lady,” she said in a calm voice. “I’m fine now. It won’t happen again.”
Qhora blinked.
The transformation is nearly instantaneous. Her body, her voice. Everything about her changes. She’s like two different people.
Qhora nodded. “It’s all right. You’re all right now.”
Salvator herded both of them into the road, into the streams of people and animals and away from the armed men on the pier. Qhora glanced back and saw the steamer pulling away from pier.
The Aegyptian!
“No!” Qhora reached out for the departing ship as though trying to pull it back to shore through sheer will and rage.
“Be silent!” the Italian hissed. “Don’t provoke those men anymore. They will shoot you if you give them a reason. You see their belts? Look, do you see?”
Qhora twisted to look and saw that the men wore no less than three belts each, one bound tightly around the waist and the other two sagging loosely with knives, pouches, vials, and metal boxes. “So?”
“So? They carry too many exotic weapons. They’re assassins. I should know.” Salvator pushed her against the wall of a fishmonger’s shop and turned to look at the men again.
“But what about the ship? It could go anywhere! I can’t just let them escape.”
“We know where it’s going. It’s going to Alexandria,” the Italian said. “And we’re not letting them escape. We’re letting them lead us to their masters. This is better. You can still kill your husband’s murderer, but why stop there? If we follow them home, we can destroy their entire organization.”
“I don’t care about that!”
“But I do. And they’re already on the ship, and the ship is already away from the pier. So unless you want to jump into the harbor and try to storm the decks single-handedly, I suggest you listen to me. Listen to me!” He turned her head to face him.
She jerked her chin out of his hand, but met his gaze.
“You’re tired. You’re angry. You’re heartbroken. You’re not thinking clearly, so let others think for you. These people escaped you in Tingis and they’re just escaped us here. Running blindly about the continent is not going to bring you justice. But a sound plan will. Now, I suggest we return to the station and get moving ourselves.”
Qhora was tempted to slap him for suggesting that she let him think for her, but she knew she still needed him. Needed his money. Needed his skill with languages. “Get moving where?”
“Alexandria, of course. We can arrive long before that ship does, and have our own personal army of mercenaries at the dock waiting to greet them. We’ll take our time and do things properly. No more blind running. Agreed?”
Alexandria? No, I should be heading back west, not farther east. I should be going home to Javier, home to Madrid and Enzo’s students, home to Atoq and Wayra. They need me.
As much as she wanted the Aegyptian’s blood, she wanted her baby more. “How long? How long will it take?”
A cruel smile spread slowly across Salvator’s face. “As long as it takes. And let me remind you, I am the one who chartered our private train, so I am the one who decides where it goes, and it is going to Alexandria. Whether you come with us is up to you.”
A whistle split the air and she looked up. The steamer was gliding away across the harbor. Several dark little figures were moving around its deck. Qhora nodded. “Alexandria. Fine, we’ll go. But we go quickly. And then we come quickly home.”
“I make no promises,” the Italian said.
Qhora shrugged. “I don’t want your promises. Just your obedience.”
Salvator looked amused, but said nothing, and they turned back down the road to the train station. She followed a pace behind.
What would Enzo do? How would he deal with Salvator? How would he protect Mirari? How would he catch a killer? Tell me, Enzo, how?
As they passed back through the market square, Qhora took some small satisfaction at seeing the shops all set to rights. Order had been restored. Civilization had triumphed, if only slightly. A high-pitched shriek drew her gaze to the left and she saw a stall filled with cages. In their wooden prisons, lizards hissed and snakes coiled and furry things slept in faceless balls. But to one side there was a crude perch, and on it stood a gray and white bird of prey.
I don’t believe it!
Qhora strode to the merchant and pointed at the bird. “Do you know what this is?”
The old man shrugged. “It is an eagle,” he said in Numidian-accented Mazigh.
“It’s a harpy! From Jisquntin Suyu, from the Empire, my homeland!” She forced her hand into a fist to keep from grabbing the old man’s shirt and shaking him. “Where did you get it? How did it get here?”
Again the man shrugged. “There is an Espani who sometimes comes here. He sometimes brings things from the New World. He brings this bird last month.”
“Set it free. Now!”
The old man shook his head. “The bird is very expensive.”
“Fabris, pay the man!” Qhora ordered.
“Mm, I think not. My money will be better spent in Alexandria.” And the Italian sauntered away.
Qhora passed her hands over her person in search of the money that she knew she didn’t have. She glanced at Mirari, knowing full well the girl’s only possessions were an old knife, a hatchet, and a mask. Qhora turned back to the merchant and slammed her Italian stiletto into his counter and left it standing there, embedded in the wood. “Trade.”
The merchant frowned. “This is not enough.”
He had barely spoken before Qhora slammed her Songhai dirk into the wood. “Trade!”
The two knives stood glinting in the sun. Polished steel, pale ivory, stained teak, and silver rings. Qhora reached for her sleeve. “Trade, or the next one won’t go into the wood.”
The old man nodded, his eyes wide. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
Chapter 6. Taziri
