valiantly upturned lip.
He’s going to die.
Taziri put her hand to her eyes and pretended to massage her temples.
Whoever he is, whatever he is, he’s going to die. People like him always die. The good ones. The kind ones. The ones who don’t understand the bleak and terrible truths about people and life and the world. He’s going to die. And it’s not fair.
“I take it that Senor Fabris has not returned at all today?” Mirari asked.
“No, no one,” Taziri said. “Is he lost too?”
“He went chasing after a green man this morning and never returned. He may be dead.”
We should be so lucky. Taziri sighed. “So what do we do now? How can we help Qhora if she’s locked in this Temple? Can we break in?”
“No, there’s no hope of that,” Tycho said. “We may be able to buy a few answers from the right people, but there’s nothing we can do for the lady now but wait.”
“Crap.” Taziri pushed her hands back through her hair. “So they may both be dead, or soon to be dead, or locked away in some prison. Damn it. Bastet was just telling me how to free a soul from a seireiken, too.” She shook her head.
“What?” Tycho sat up. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course you can,” Bastet said, her first words since the others entered the cabin. Her Espani had an archaic lilt to it. “It’s just very difficult. But I think your clever captain here was about to figure out how to do exactly that.”
“Is that true?” Mirari asked. “Can you really free Don Lorenzo’s soul?”
“Maybe. I think so.” Taziri shrugged. “Probably, yes. I’ll need to build a special tool, but I should be able to do it.”
“Ha!” Tycho slapped his leg with a wide grin. “Amazing. I’d like to see that.”
“You will.” Mirari stood up. “Dona Qhora must know this, immediately. So we must find her, and we must rescue her and find the sword that killed Don Lorenzo. Captain, can you build your tool now?”
“I suppose so. It would be easier once we get back to Tingis, but since the Halcyon won’t be flying anytime soon, there’s no reason why I can’t fabricate the tool right here and now.”
“Excellent. Please begin your work. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Mirari pushed out through the hatch.
Tycho shoved himself up onto his short legs and hurried after the tall Espani woman.
“Wait a minute,” Taziri said. She reached down and unstrapped the revolver from her thigh. “I want you to have this.”
The Hellan eyed the gun. “I’ve heard bad things about those. Blow up in your hand, rip your fingers off, shoot your toe off when you’re asleep. I think I’ll stick with my knife.” He patted his belt.
“No, that’s all cheap little Eranian guns. They don’t know what they’re doing. This is a Mazigh revolver. No exploding, no jamming, no misfires. Just point and fire.” She quickly showed him how to open the barrel and replaced the six bullets, and then gave him a small box of ammunition. “Fifty shots. It should last you a while.”
Tycho strapped the gun to his leg and practiced drawing it. “Fifty, eh? And all I have to do is aim straight?”
“Do you have good eyes?”
He laughed. “Of course! How else do you think I can tell you people apart from down here?”
Taziri laughed with him. It made the ache in her chest all the worse because it did nothing to dissuade her from believing that she was sending this young man off to die.
“You’re sure you won’t be needing it?” he asked.
“No.” She patted her armored medical braced under her sleeve. “I have a spare.”
“All right then. Thank you very much. I’ll treasure it always. Until it blows my finger off.” He leapt out the hatch with a grin.
And Taziri couldn’t help but grin as she pulled the hatch shut. She leaned back into her pilot’s chair and sighed as she rubbed her hand through her hair, which was starting to feel a bit dry and stiff from spending all day in the oven of the Halcyon. She looked up at Bastet, who was picking at her lip. “Well, I guess we need to build a very hot tool, don’t we?”
“What’s it called?” the girl asked. “You said we need to make something hotter than steam to melt the steel. So what’s hotter than steam?”
“It’s called plasma,” Taziri said. “We’re going to build a plasma torch.”
Day Four
Chapter 22. Shifrah
They ran down the dark, narrow passage, their shoulders crashing into the rough stone walls and footsteps echoing over and over, chasing them along in the shadows. Shifrah kept one hand on Rashaken’s arm and the other stretched out in front of her to probe the darkness. Her hand struck smooth wood and she shoved through the door into a small room illuminated by the torchlight in the hall slipping under the other door on the far side. The room was empty except for the dim outlines of a bench, a chair, and a pile of kindling in the corner.
Shifrah dashed to the far door to look and listen, but there was no one on the other side. Behind her Kenan closed the door to the narrow passage and signed that it was all clear behind them as well.
Safe.
Heaving a long sigh, Shifrah slipped away her last stiletto into her ruined jacket and sat down on the wooden bench beside Rashaken. The old man sighed as well, and then began to chuckle. He said, “It’s been a very long time since I’ve moved so quickly. I almost felt young again.” He squeezed her knee. “But not that young. My poor back is aching, but I think yours is a bit worse for wear. Take off your shirt and let me see those wounds.”
Shifrah nodded and slipped off her jacket and shirt. The old man tutted and tsked and patted around in his robes. “This one on your back is not deep at all, but I imagine it stings quite a bit. A little bit of Espani whiskey will help clean it out.”
She winced as he poured the alcohol over the wound.
“And a bit of cloth to keep it clean for now.” He tore the sleeves from her shirt and deftly fashioned a bandage to tie around her back and across her chest. “But your arm, that one will need to be stitched.” He bound another cloth over the gash, knotting it so tightly that Shifrah felt her fingers go cold for a moment.
She slipped her jacket back on gingerly. “Thank you, Master Rashaken.”
Kenan paced from one door to the other, peering through the cracks and listening to the silence in the halls beyond.
“Sit down, young man,” Rashaken said. “We’re quite safe here. No one is allowed down here, and your Italian friend will not leave the forge alive, thanks to Master Jiro.”
Shifrah translated the master’s words and Kenan grudgingly holstered his gun and sat down by the outer door.
“So, Shifrah Dumah, Omar’s little girl is all grown up, I see.” Rashaken’s smile gleamed in the shadows. “I never thought to see you again. I thought perhaps Omar had whisked you away to the ends of the earth with him. Why have you come back?”
She released the last heavy exhalation from her duel with Salvator and felt the heat bleeding away from her arms and legs, leaving her with a sweaty chill. “It’s a long story. But all that matters now is that I’m looking for Omar. Zahra says he went west to Marrakesh eight years ago and never returned.”
The old man’s smile faded. “That is true. And if wandering Shifrah has not seen him, then I doubt anyone has or ever will.” He shrugged. “A great loss to us all. Omar was as wise in council as he was entertaining in the tavern. I miss him.”
“But you must know something more. He must have told you some detail about where he went or what happened to him. Omar took the train to Carthage and then went west to Marrakesh. But where was he going? Did
