“Where he went? He went into the ground, Shifrah. Or he fell on his own sword, in which case that’s exactly where he still is, trapped in his own seireiken.”
For a moment, Shifrah wondered if that might be true.
Would he have killed himself? Would he really have chosen to become one with all the others he had claimed in his sword?
Like the others of his fraternity, Omar had been fascinated by his soul-stealing blade, but not with Aker’s desire for power over other men. Omar had been one of the inner circle, one of the mystics obsessed with understanding the soul and the nature of the sun-steel, and the meaning of life, and all sorts of high-minded mumbling that had sent a younger Shifrah running off into the streets to practice sneaking, surprising, and slaying.
Looking back, it almost seemed like a contradiction in the man. His passion for knowledge about immortality and his proficiency for killing. At the time, though, it had seemed so natural. They were, after all, one and the same thing. The study of life, the study of death, and the sudden transition from the one to the other. The younger Shifrah had never seen a conflict in her mentor’s nature. And the older Shifrah knew that now was not the time to contemplate it.
“Obviously he didn’t die here in the city, or you would know for certain,” Shifrah said. “So where did he go?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Zahra closed her eyes and slipped her hand up into her thick black hair to gently massage the side of her head as the stone-faced waitress re-entered the room and circled around the table. She leaned down to whisper in Zahra’s ear, and suddenly the Aegyptian woman stopped massaging her scalp and she bared her teeth in a cruel snarl. She waved the waitress away and opened her eyes. “Shifrah, I can have my people ask around about Omar for you. But in return I’m going to need a small favor from you.”
“Such as?”
“Apparently, a few minutes ago, our dear friend Aker challenged a Bantu mercenary to a duel in my dining room. Caused a bit of a row, pulled a few bystanders into the fray, you know how it goes.” Zahra stood and hurled her wine glass at the wall. She stood very still for a long moment, and then slowly straightened up. “My people threw them out, but now there is a small street war in progress between our little circle, the Bantu, and an opium cartel that was sitting at the table next to the Bantu.” Her companions all looked up sharply from their various occupations, except for the priest who continued to peruse his illustrated manuscript. “I have to go deal with the Bantu and the cartel, but apparently Aker has scampered away. If you want to know where Omar is, bring me Aker’s head. Attached, if you like. And quickly please. It may help to smooth things over with the Bantu.”
Shifrah glanced at the door that led back to the dining room. “Are you sure? I didn’t hear anything.”
“The walls are insulated so no one can hear what is discussed in here,” Zahra snapped as she knocked her chair over and marched toward the door. “The offer expires when I leave this room.”
“I accept.” Shifrah blinked. There wasn’t time to think or consider. She needed help. She also needed to be in Zahra’s good graces, considering the casual display of power that was The Cat’s Eye. Shifrah nodded. “I’ll find him.”
“Just be quick about it.” And Zahra swept out of the room with her guards and clerks close behind.
Chapter 12. Qhora
They stood in the street, squinting at the boarded-up shop. Through the gaps in the boards, Qhora could see the broken windows and the shattered lock on the door. Everything was coated in rust, grime, and a dark mossy growth.
“I think they’re closed,” Qhora said dully.
Salvator shrugged. “Not every informant is as honest as one would hope. But it’s a new day, and everyone else is open for business. Let’s find the smiths.”
Qhora let Salvator lead the way to the open markets that lined one of the broad central avenues of the city, but once there she shouldered past him and marched as swiftly as she could through the sluggish crowds and around the stalls, hunting for the clang of metal and the gleam of steel.
On her arm, Turi was already feeling heavy and her shoulder had been aching since dawn from carrying him the day before, so Qhora whispered to her harpy and then sent him flying up high over the street. The eagle soared effortlessly overhead for a few minutes, and then came to roost on a bell tower overlooking the market street. Qhora marked his dark outline against the pale blue of the sky, and then continued her hunt for the ironmongers. She found cloth and leather, live animals and butchered meat, glass and clay, boots and hats, belts and gloves, and even new Italian pocket watches and an ancient Mazigh arquebus. But no swords.
At the next intersection, there was a flash of metal as the sun played over copper plates and silver spoons and forks, but no swords. She asked the sellers where she might try next, and using one of her own knives as a translation tool, and was pointed down a southern boulevard. The air grew hotter and every inhalation burned her nostrils with coppery and ferrous tangs. She heard hammers ringing and forges roaring, and finally up ahead she spotted the stalls and shops and foundries of the Aegyptian smiths.
There were curved Aegyptian khopeshes, straight Italian rapiers, triangular daggers from Rajasthan, and tiny blades hung on chains from nations even more remote. Qhora found gray iron, white steel, and blades covered in strange patterns from Damascus. There were dark copper blades shaped like leaves and matte black blades as straight as spears. Weapons from the Songhai Empire to the west, from the Kanem Empire to the south, and from the Bantu nations at the bottom of the world. But she didn’t find any obsidian blades like the one her old bodyguard Xiuhcoatl had brought with him from the Aztec provinces. And she didn’t find any that glowed like orange fire.
Salvator drifted from stall to stall, chatting up the young boys and the old men in Eranian, pointing here and there at their wares, and sometimes drawing his own rapier to show off. Mirari hovered just behind Qhora, her face unreadable and unknowable behind her white mask.
Qhora crossed the street to pace along the other shop fronts, her arms crossed, her whole face beginning to hurt from the strain of frowning and studying and squinting at the reflecting sunlight on all that polished metal.
At the next stall there was a tall man and his small son haggling with the smith and Qhora was about to move on past them when she realized they were haggling in Hellan and not in Eranian. And she recognized their dark red cloaks as Hellan as well. She paused to listen, wondering if her poor grasp of the language would help her to learn anything at all.
The tall man wanted a sword, of that she was certain. He was saying the same words over and over again, each time with a slightly different inflection, sometimes mashing them together to form longer words. And then she recognized one of the Hellan’s phrases. It was something Salvator had said in Carthage.
“Seireiken?” She touched the Hellan’s shoulder and he turned to stare down at her with watery green eyes under pale gray brows. “Did you say seireiken?”
He looked baffled for a moment, but then a look of clarity came into his eyes. With a heavy accent he said, “You are Espani? I speak Espani. You know seireiken? You can show me?” He gestured around them at the other shops.
Show him?
She glanced around and then realized his meaning. “You’re looking for a seireiken? For the person who makes them?” Qhora nodded. “So am I. I’m sorry, I can’t help you find them. I assume you’ve had no luck here either.” She sighed and glanced at Mirari.
“No, none at all,” said a deeper voice in a more fluent Espani.
Qhora glanced down and nearly stepped back when she saw that the elderly Hellan’s companion was no child at all but a dwarf. He had a handsome, striking face with sharp cheekbones and a strong chin, with black curling locks and piercing blue eyes. Qhora recalled having seen a dwarf once when she was very young, long ago in Cusco. The little maid had had a barrel chest and crooked legs, and had died one night struggling to breathe. But the young man before her now stood quite straight and steady, and at the neck and cuffs of his white shirt she saw the edges of hard tanned muscles.
“I’m Tycho, by the way,” the dwarf continued. “And this is Philo. Of Constantia, by way of Sparta, if you weren’t quite sure.” He smiled and shook the side of his red cloak. “A pleasure to meet you.”
