“No. None.” The Italian shrugged. “I did have two very interesting conversations in between some lengthy sprints, and I nearly stole a seireiken for myself, but as you can see we managed to escape with only our lives and no other souvenirs. But that’s all in the past now, as your lady says. Dona Qhora was just telling me that it’s time for us to all be heading home.”
“No.” Qhora shook her head. “No, I’ve changed my mind. We’ve come this far. We’ve seen the one-eyed woman and the detective here in the city. And now we’ve learned how to free Enzo. We’ll stay at least one more day to learn where the Aegyptian is or went. Maybe we can find the detective again. He seemed reasonable, or at least more reasonable than the others. He might be willing to help us for a price.” Qhora turned and started back down the road toward the Temple. “We can ask people in the street. A one-eyed woman and a Mazigh gunslinger should be at least a little memorable, right Salvator?”
The Italian sighed.
Qhora glanced back once just to be sure the tall fencer was actually following her, and she noticed young Tycho shuffling along at the back of the group and falling behind. She paused to wait for him to come alongside her. “I’m sorry. You must be tired. We can go a little slower.”
“What?” He looked up and his worried frown vanished into a look of mild surprise. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, my mind was somewhere else. I’m fine. Don’t slow down on my account.” He quickened his pace.
“Were you thinking about Philo?” Qhora asked. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel. I’ve barely given myself an hour to think about Enzo. I…I think I just can’t right now. Maybe when we’re home, when I have my baby in my arms again, then I can stop and breathe and mourn.”
The dwarf touched her hand. “It’s a terrible thing, what’s happened to you. No one should ever have to see that, or feel that. I’m sorry for you, and for your son. But don’t be sorry for me. Philo lived a noble life, far longer than most. And he died in good health, with his wits about him, in service to our Lady and our city. But I wasn’t thinking about him just now. I was thinking about breakfast.” He grinned sheepishly.
“But…it’s been only half a day since…” Qhora frowned.
Spiro shrugged. “Death is a part of life, and I’ve been preparing myself for Philo’s death for years. And besides, that was yesterday. Today is a new day. Philo would want me to be working, to complete our task and all the tasks that will follow. So I need to find a seireiken for the Vlachian prince. And I would be honored to help you save your husband’s soul.” He smiled and bowed his head.
“Thank you.” Qhora focused on the road ahead.
Is it really so easy for him? Or is his bravado just an act for my benefit? Or maybe for his own benefit?
Their group turned the corner and looked down the next avenue where the towering Temple of Osiris loomed above all other buildings. Qhora was about to ask Fabris what sort of person they should question on the street when Mirari grabbed her and the Italian and pulled them close to the wall. “My lady, there is a small group leaving the Temple now. Ten warriors and an older man. They are coming this way.”
Qhora peeked out and quickly pulled back. “That’s Khai. The old one. He’s an important man in the temple. He’s the one they took me to, the one who said he would kill me. His seireiken has claimed so many souls that it burns white hot.”
“Really?” Tycho and Salvator said in unison.
The Italian frowned down at the Hellan and said, “I interviewed this same gentleman shortly before my history lesson in the forge with a man called Rashaken. I had hoped to kill both of them, but fate intervened.”
“What about the name Aker El Deeb? Did either of them mention him?”
“No. Why? Who is this El Deeb?”
“The man who killed my Enzo!”
“Ah.” Salvator shrugged. “Had you shared that little gem with me, I might have asked, but now we’ll never know, will we? And didn’t you say you spoke to him as well? Did you think to ask him about your Aker El Deeb? No? Hm. Well, anyway, this Khai person called himself the First Knight of his order. That might make him somewhat important. And someone else called him Master Khai. So I imagine the name Aker El Deeb will mean something to him if we ask. Politely.” The Italian drummed his fingers on the golden hilt of his rapier.
“I agree,” Qhora said. “We’ll follow them. Perhaps an opportunity will present itself for another interview.”
After Khai and his green guards went by, Qhora and her three companions eased out into the flow of pedestrians and sauntered down the middle of the avenue in a loose knot, never too close or at the same pace. They spread out a bit, letting other travelers and animals and vehicles pass in between them.
Qhora watched the old man’s back, and the heads of the men following him.
There will be a moment. A turn. A hesitation. An interruption. They’ll stop, or be distracted, and I’ll run in among them, right through the middle of them and put my knife to Khai’s throat and grab his seireiken and make him tell me where I can find Aker El Deeb.
But the moment never came. No one approached the men in green, no one drove a wagon through their ranks, no mad horse kicked over a cart, and no group of heedless children ran laughing into their midst.
Instead, Khai led his men swiftly through the streets of Alexandria away from the markets and soon Qhora saw long slender gardens and fountains running down the center of the avenue. The architecture of the buildings on either side shifted dramatically from the ancient sun-bleached stone slabs to dark red bricks, white columns, and gray marble blocks swirling with green veins. There were steepled roofs, glazed windows, shaded porticos, and colorful pennants snapping in the breeze high over head.
Tycho came closer to her and muttered, “The Royal Quarter. Permanent and temporary homes for the countless princes, generals, ambassadors, and high priests of Eran. Once the lords of Aegyptus reigned from here, when this was a free nation. Be careful. There will more guards and soldiers here.”
Qhora nodded. She’d already noted the armed men flanking the doors and lining the walkways beyond the walls and iron gates around some of the larger estates.
At the next intersection, Khai led his men to the right through an open gate and up a wide stair into a large colonnaded building that reminded Qhora slightly of the cathedrals of Tartessos and Cordoba back home. She paused at the gate, but Tycho walked right past her and began grunting his way up the steps. He glanced back at her with a grin. “It’s safe. This is the library. Part of the museum. It’s a school, open to all. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
Together they mounted the steps, passing a steady stream of young boys in simple white smocks carrying books and scrolls. At the top of the stair they entered a large rotunda with a dozen smaller doors leading away in every direction. Diverse works of art from Hellas, Eran, Italia, Punt, Kanem, Songhai, and India adorned the walls or balanced on small plinths, and the interior of the dome overhead was a golden lattice of slender rods holding stained glass portraits of dignified old men in beards and scholarly hats.
“That way.” Tycho pointed left and they followed him left.
At the end of the corridor they emerged into a large room of row upon row of shelves of books, as well as tables around which sat countless more young men in white smocks reading, writing, and yawning.
“There.” Salvator pointed to the far end of the room where Khai and his guards stood with two middle-aged scholars in white.
Qhora led the way along the right-hand wall, moving quickly and quietly behind the walls of books and scrolls until they were close enough to hear the men talking. The conversation was in Eranian, but Tycho provided a running translation.
“…and the next time that I request a document, I expect it to be delivered to me within the hour,” Khai said. “I contribute far too much time and money to this institution to be treated as a common student.”
“Sir, the blueprints that you requested are stored in the Red Room, and by the order of your own Master Rashaken, no document in the Red Room is ever to be copied or taken from the library, by anyone, for any reason,” the librarian said calmly.
“Why the hell are they in the Red Room? The original architectural drawings of Constantia are no military secret or arcane scientific knowledge. They’re just drawings!” Khai hissed.
Tycho grabbed Qhora’s sleeve. “Constantia?” he whispered.
“Keep translating,” she whispered back.
“Sir, I have my orders,” the librarian said dully. “If it is in the Red Room, then it is not to be copied or removed, but you are welcome to review them here, as always.”
Khai sneered. “Rashaken is an old man. When he dies, who do you think will be giving the orders here?”
