en route. They’ll know the truth of the matter.”
“Five?”
Salvator smiled. “You can’t trust the postal service, my young friend. Not in any country or any age. Are you sure you wouldn’t be willing to trade souvenirs?”
“No,” Tycho said quietly. “Philo died searching for this sword. I nearly died as well. But when I bring it to my Lady Nerissa, and she presents it to the prince of Vlachia, it will change the world. With Vlachia at our side, Raska and Rus will surely follow. The war with Eran will come to a head, and then it will end, and my city will be safe. Truly safe.”
Salvator raised an eyebrow. “Or, your alliance will call down the full might of the Empire, utterly destroying three northern nations as well as your little town.” He paused. “An extra ten darics for it?”
“No.” Tycho looked up. “Would you say I’m an attractive man?”
Salvator grinned. “No. But a woman probably would. Why?”
“I was just thinking that when I return, I’ll be a hero, right? Heroes get rewards. Honors. Money. Not that I did this for a reward, but if a reward was offered, it would only be polite to accept it, right?”
“Of course. Twenty darics?”
“No. And then, well,” the dwarf shrugged, “it would only be natural for a young lady to hold me in a higher esteem. If I was a hero, I mean. Wouldn’t she?”
“Is this a particular young lady, or a hypothetical one?”
“A hypothetical one,” Tycho said slowly. “With long black hair that shimmers red in the sunlight, and a lovely singing voice…and very muscular legs.”
“Oh, her?” Salvator nodded sagely. “She would be most impressed by your heroics, without question. Thirty darics?”
“No.” Tycho drummed on the white-handled revolver on his hip. “Does the gun make me look dangerous and exotic? Or no? I think I rather like it.”
Salvator frowned. “I hate guns. They’re for cowards and monsters.”
“I love this one.” Tycho threw a wicked grin up at the Italian. “With a gun like this, a person like me can fight a person like you. And that scares you, doesn’t it?”
Yes, it most certainly does.
“Forty darics?”
“No.”
Chapter 31. Taziri
When the train finally came to a stop in the Tingis station, Taziri was the first to climb down and feel Mazigh soil under her boots and see the Mazigh stars overhead. She quickly found the yardmaster and oversaw the uncoupling of the Halcyon, and watched a small steam tram shunt the special locomotive off into a siding where it would be safe and out of the way. By then, everyone else had woken up and disembarked.
Kenan and Shifrah wrangled their semi-conscious prisoner onto the platform. The detective paused. “Thanks for your help, captain.”
I guess he found his place in the world after all. It definitely worked out for me this week, at least. Taziri nodded. “Thanks for yours. Just keep her out of trouble.” She nodded at the one-eyed woman in white.
Kenan grinned. “I’ll try. Be seeing you.” And they left.
Taziri found Qhora and Mirari waiting at the end of the platform. “Come on,” she said softly. “Someone’s waiting for you.”
“And you,” the weary princess said.
They walked the long mile from the train station uphill across four intersections to the quiet old neighborhood where the Ohana house stood at the end of a paved street dotted with slender elm trees. Taziri opened the front door and saw the men in the living room.
Alonso was snoring in the armchair in the corner. Little Javier lay sprawled across the young man’s chest, drooling and whimpering.
Yuba sat on the sofa with Menna curled up in his lap. They both looked up from the book they were reading. “Mommy!” Menna dashed across the room and Taziri scooped her up and swung her through the air before crushing the little girl to her chest.
Qhora quietly picked up her baby and Mirari gently woke Alonso, and Taziri backed out of the room with Yuba to give the others a moment alone.
“You’re back.” Yuba smiled and wrapped his arms around them both.
“It took a little longer than I thought. Sorry.”
He kissed her. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. Did it go all right?”
Did it go all right? Flying across the entire continent, chasing criminals, hiding from the authorities, meeting a goddess, and fighting off a cult of assassins with burning swords full of enslaved souls? Did that “go all right”?
Taziri smiled. “Yeah. It went all right. We got the bad guy and came home in one piece.”
“Good work, honey.” He kissed her again.
“I missed you, Mommy,” Menna said. “Did you bring me something?”
Taziri laughed. “No, I’m sorry sweetie, I didn’t bring you anything. But I do have a story for you.” She looked up at Yuba. “And I have a new invention that’s going to pay for all the new greenhouses you could want.”
He smiled. “Sounds nice. How long are you home for?”
She shrugged. “I’m home for good, or until someone else needs my help to save the world.”
“Fair enough.” And he kissed her again.
“Mommy! Tell the story!”
Chapter 32. Qhora
They buried Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir on a snow-covered hill in a small churchyard half a mile from the old Diaz estate where the hidalgo had lived and trained with his students. The service was brief but well attended. Most of the neighborhood was there, along with a dozen or so city officials from Madrid. Tradesmen and craftsmen from all over the area came to pay their respects, including a young cobbler, two glovers, a tanner and glazer, three blacksmiths, a silversmith, one elderly horse surgeon, two barbers, and four doctors.
A short line of young men with old-fashioned espadas on their hips stood along one side of the grave during the service as though guarding their dead master. A longer line of young ladies from town stood behind them.
Mirari held Alonso’s hand, except when the young man produced his guitar to sing a short song he had written to mark the day.
Qhora stood alone with Javier bundled up warmly in her arms, listening to the Espani priest leading the gathering in their blessings in old Italian and Hellan.
They sang together in soft, mournful voices.
They made the sign of the triquetra.
In the name of the Father, the Mother, and the Son.
They each came to Qhora to express their condolences.
And one by one, they all left.
Alonso and Mirari lingered by the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, talking to each other but always glancing back toward the grave and their mistress.
Qhora bounced Javier gently. She looked down at the fresh mound of black earth and its thin blanket of fresh white snow. “Good bye, Enzo.”
“Hello, princess.”
She turned slowly and saw him standing in the snow a few feet away. The edge of his figure was hazy and tattered as the wind rippled through the aether, and his boots left no marks on the face of the snow, but it was him.
