the governor of Arafez. If Barika is in some sort of trouble, she’ll go scampering back to her mistress for help sooner rather than later. I don’t know what Lady Sade sees in her, but I’ve seen Barika at more than a few suppers at her estate. Are we finished now, major?”
Syfax studied the Persian’s drooping pants and the broken vase at his feet. I’ve probably pushed my luck about as far as it will go here. “Yeah, we’re done. Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.”
Outside, the small city of Khemisset was settling down for the evening as the streetlamps sputtered to life and the streets emptied. Down every lane, the smells of supper crept out from the homes of thousands of exhausted men and women. Syfax shuffled back to the well on his aching, raw feet and found the middle-aged woman he had spoken to just swinging up into the saddle of her horse. She told him he had missed the coach back to Port Chellah, but also that the only passengers had been men. She also pointed him across town to another well where the stage coach to Meknes and Arafez usually parked.
By the time he found the other well, the night sky stretched overhead in full black and silver bloom. Their suppers finished, the locals began appearing on the front steps outside their homes to talk to their neighbors. A few men sang an old love song as the marshal trudged by, and later he passed a woman playing a lullaby on her flute. There was no one at the other well, but an elderly man sitting nearby confirmed that the stage coach to Meknes had indeed left around sunset.
“Passengers?” Syfax asked.
“Four or five, it seemed.”
“An older woman in black, gold, and green?”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe there was.”
Syfax trudged into the nearest teahouse and spent the next half hour eating with his dirty, bloody feet propped up on the chair across from him and demanding to know where he could get a horse and a pair of boots so late in the evening.
Chapter 21. Taziri
As the sun sank into the ocean, the Halcyon hovered above the flickering lights of the Arafez airfield. Unlike the field in Tingis with its massive hangars by the shore, here the landing area was an open space ringed with a towering brick wall that not only kept the wild street winds of the city at bay but ensured that a runaway airship would never go farther than the edge of the field. It also cast an impressive shadow, making nighttime landings even more challenging. Taziri thumped her thumbs on the throttles, peering down at the dark landing zone and the tiny figure of the field master waving her lanterns. “We’re cleared to land.”
After a slow descent through a few rough gusts, Taziri planted the ship safely within the field walls and began shutting everything down. Everyone else was stretching and groaning and muttering about food and bed, but Taziri had to meet with the field master, finish her paperwork, and watch the sleepy-eyed ground crew fumbling with the Halcyon ’s moorings.
“ Halcyon?” The field master frowned at her. “Oh, right. The one with the little boiler. We weren’t expecting you until later this month, I think. Where’s Captain Geroubi?”
Taziri cleared her throat. Where is Isoke, really? In a bed or on a slab? “In the hospital. She was hurt in the fire in Tingis.”
“And they let you take her boat up without her? Huh.” She scribbled something on her clipboard and then looked up again. “Ghanima! Good to see you. Looks like whatever happened yesterday scrambled the whole Northern Air Corps. What are you doing on Halcyon?”
The pilot stepped down to the grass and offered a tired smile. “Just helping out some friends. The Crake isn’t exactly airworthy at the moment.”
“I’ll bet. It’s all over the wire, everyone’s talking about it. They say the ambassador’s some sort of pastoralist. Wants to smash all the machines and go live in a cave or something. That true?” The field master had a way of shouting when she spoke and Taziri wondered how much hearing damage the blocky woman had suffered standing around idling airships year after year.
“I don’t know.” Ghanima rolled her head to stretch her neck. “I mean, she never said anything like that around me.”
Taziri stared through the tall gates of the airfield into the distant gas-lit haze of Arafez’s labyrinth of streets and alleys, squares and fountains, all traced and outlined with the flickering lamps. The other women continued with their small talk and gossip, neither one ever glancing at Taziri. Kenan and Evander emerged from the ship a moment later.
“I tied Hamuy to the railings,” Kenan said. “Not that he’s going anywhere. The doc says he’s in pretty bad shape now. Not much time left. So I need to get down to the marshals’ office, report in, bring back some help to move Hamuy, and do whatever else needs doing.” He shook Taziri’s hand. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll be sure to put a good word for you, for both of you, in my report. And you too, doc.”
Taziri nodded. “Good luck finding the major.”
Kenan grinned sheepishly. “I’m sure he’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s disappeared in the middle of a case, actually. Good night, and thanks again.”
They watched the young marshal jog across the field and out the gate.
The doctor coughed and snorted impatiently.
“All right, well, I think it’s time I got these two some food. I’ll see you later!” Ghanima patted the field master’s arm and turned to Taziri and Evander. “Ready to go?”
They nodded as one and Taziri followed the young pilot across the field, through the gate, and into the city. The streets were quiet but not deserted. A small but steady stream of weary laborers and happy young couples made their way up and down every road, voices echoing down the narrow lanes above the rhythmic clacking of hard-soled shoes on the cobblestones. The distant rattle of wagons and carriages chased the clip-clop of hooves, always out of sight, but always within earshot. The neighborhood they found themselves crossing had once been a poor one, a crumbling array of shoddily made single-story homes, which no doubt explained why it had been so cost effective to level several blocks of them to make way for the walled airship enclosure. But now, scattered among the unfortunate remains of the residences there stood a variety of small shops peddling “exotic” foods and “genuine Arafez dresses” intended to entice visitors from distant lands. Taziri squinted through the windows at the shadowed wares within, frowning. More cheap garbage that no one needs.
For a quarter hour, they followed Ghanima as she continued to assure them that the best bed-and-breakfast was just up ahead, while Evander continued to complain about a certain pustule forming on his big toe that he insisted upon describing in clinical detail. But eventually they turned a corner and emerged from a dim street onto a bright little square, a patch of grass and flowering trees ringed by cafes and restaurants with foreign-sounding names, hotels large and small, and as Ghanima pointed out, the best bed-and-breakfast in the city, an unremarkable building bearing a sign that read, “The Brass.”
They were just about to step inside when a soft patter of drums and the faint echo of a familiar song caught Taziri’s attention. She paused, straining to hear over the hundred pleasant conversations drifting across the square, and there it was. The song. A ballad, one her father had muttered under his breath while he worked, a song about a long journey and a happy homecoming. The melody took Taziri back to another time, a thousand worlds and years away, before fires and deaths, to a night just like this one, warm and clear, when she sang that same song to her new husband and life had been so much simpler and easier.
“You go on.” She waved the others toward the door. “I’m just going to walk around a bit. I’ll be back in a little while.” They entered the inn and Taziri continued alone across the square and down another dim road following the sound of wistful voices and soft drums.
The music grew louder with each step and after half an hour of wandering the unfamiliar streets and hearing several more old songs, Taziri stumbled upon another grassy square, this one strung with small lanterns and filled to bursting with cheering, laughing, joyful dancers. There must have been at least three hundred bodies crammed into the square, drawn up into rows, ragged lines of singers, chanters, drummers, and strummers forming a rough ring around a dozen dancers, young men and women performing a routine Taziri did not recognize. She moved quietly among them, feeling terribly awkward though not unwelcome. Many strangers smiled at her, offered her
