“Shifrah?” His heart began to pound again. “Shifrah, don’t do it. Don’t run. I’m serious. Do not run.”
The Samaritan glanced at the street again, and ran.
Wayra screamed as she vaulted off the platform and landed in the street only a few yards behind the fleeing woman. Lorenzo leapt down the steps and ran after them both. The wind snatched away his hat and tore at his coat, but the monstrous eagle was too fast, far too fast. He caught a glimpse of Shifrah’s white coat in the distance, and then once more, and then she fell to the ground and disappeared and all he could see were dark feathers and scaled talons.
Lorenzo jogged up to the edge of the street where Wayra stood, her head bowed to the cobbles, but when he circled her he saw no body on the ground. The bird was hissing and pecking at a dark gap between the curb and the cobblestones. The hidalgo knelt down, but he could see nothing in the utter darkness below. The stench of every sort of rot wafted up to him.
He jerked upright. A sewer. He’d heard of such things. A massive river of filth running beneath the entire city. Not the escape route I would have chosen.
As he stood up, Atoq padded up to his side and shoved his head against the man’s hand. Lorenzo saw his hat clenched in the cat’s teeth, and he gently took it and put it on. “Thank you, Atoq. I think you’ve earned your supper.”
Wayra lifted her head and squawked.
Lorenzo glared at the bird. “I’ll feed you, too. Not that you deserve it.”
Chapter 23. Qhora
Time and again she looked to her left, to the empty chair set aside for Lorenzo. Half an hour into supper, as the Mazigh small talk droned on over soups and fruit salads and roast lamb, Qhora was growing desperate for some sense of inclusion. She felt like a creature from one of Enzo’s ghost stories, unable to enjoy the taste of the food, unable to speak to anyone, and generally ignored by everyone.
Two dozen well-dressed women and men sat at Lady Sade’s table and they kept the servants running for Hellan wine, for rags to mop up spills, and for exotic dishes that had not been on the original menu. Twice at least she had looked out the windows to see porters dashing out into the street and dashing back with covered baskets, no doubt from some grocer who was making a fortune on this one evening alone at the cost of a good night’s sleep.
Several times, Qhora tried to get Lady Sade’s attention, only to receive a polite wave and thin smile from the head of the table. She had nearly resigned herself to sitting in prim silence until excused from the table when she suddenly realized the entire conversation had shifted from Mazigh into Espani, though in several strained and awkward accents.
“Lady Qhora, is it true your people ride birds instead of horses?” a thin man asked.
Qhora blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden inclusion in the discussion. “Yes, that’s true. The hatun- ankas are superior mounts on any terrain and formidable warriors on the battlefield. They were critical to our defense against the Espani.”
“Ah yes, the Espani,” he said. “Curious people. Did you know they spend more than a quarter of all their national revenues on their churches? A quarter! It’s no wonder they’re so primitive. If they invested that money properly in basic infrastructure and utilities, their larger cities would be almost as lovely as ours.”
Qhora gripped her glass a bit tighter. “I find Tartessos quite lovely, in its own way. Those churches are the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. The stoneworks, the frescoes, the statuary, the stained glass, the mosaics. They are all stunning. The Basilica of Saint Paul is without question the single grandest place in the entire world.”
“Well, of course, anyone can pour money into a building. I’m sure Darius has a palace or two in Persia that one might call the grandest place in the world,” a young lady said. “But what about when they’re not praying to their ghosts? No trains, no streetcars, no steamships, no telegrams, no electric lights. They’re living in the stone age!”
The Incan princess cleared her throat. “The Espani live very much as my people do, in that respect. Although I must say, over the past year I have noted a distinct lack of explosions, corpses, thieves, bandits, and vagrants in Tartessos.” She carefully placed a berry in her mouth and chewed while gazing calmly at her plate.
The uncomfortable silence only lasted a moment before Lady Sade said, “Well, our distinguished guest from the New World certainly has a point. We know all too well that recent changes in our laws, and taxes, and foreign policies have had some undesirable effects.”
Qhora nodded. “It must be quite trying for a person of means, responsibilities, and intelligence to be forced to conform to such laws.”
“Quite so.” Lady Sade smiled and exchanged a quick glance with the elderly woman to her left. “But laws change over time with changes in governments. When our ancestors first came to this land, they split with the Kel Tamasheq of the east. Over the centuries, we were invaded, colonized, and mingled with one nation after another. The Phoenicians, the Hellans, the Persians, the Romans, the Songhai, the Espani. Our laws changed, our customs changed. We’ve borrowed more words from other languages than we’ve invented for ourselves. Even the country itself is called Marrakesh today because of some cartographer in Persia, or Eran, or whatever they call it now. Considering our history, I suppose we should be thankful to be living in a time of relative peace and freedom from open warfare.” Lady Sade paused to empty her water glass. “Did you know, Lady Qhora, that even just a few years ago Marrakesh was a very different country? My grandmother was the ancestral governess of Arafez, not its elected executive as I am today. Back then, our people still held to the ancient castes. My family, and all of our friends here tonight, were of the Imajeren. We ruled over Imrad workers, Ineslemen priests, Inadin smiths and artists, and of course, Ikelan slaves. There was far less disorder in those days.”
“The families of Cusco have similar distinctions,” Qhora said brightly. This is going so well. Perhaps this is all she had planned. To let me into this circle of elite and honored families. Of course they are cautious, they have been stripped of their blood rights and proper titles. The lower classes would revolt if they thought their lords and ladies wanted to return to the old ways. This is why I came here. To find these people. My people. “I can’t imagine what would happen to the Empire if we turned our backs on the old ways. It would be chaos, at least.”
“Yes. Chaos. That’s just the word,” said the old woman next to Sade. “It is chaos. Young hooligans running through the streets. Country bumpkins filling up the slums. Idiots in the factories losing hands and feet and eyes. Lines of beggars a mile long, begging for food, begging for clothes. Begging, begging, begging!” She dropped a wrinkled hand on the table and her wine sloshed as the glass shuddered. “And why? Why? I remember when I was a little girl, there were no Europans, no Persians or Eranians or whatever they are, no foreigners at all. The farmers stayed on their farms. The only armed men served the crown, not some bureaucracy. And the poor had the decency to stay in their hovels in the hills!”
Qhora tried not to grin. The old woman reminded her of her own grandmother, an irascible old lady with dim eyes and shaking hands and an iron opinion about everything under the sun. “Well, I’m sure if you present your grievances to Her Highness, she will listen to you. You are, after all, her most respectable subjects. Or is it citizens, now? I’m sure the queen doesn’t want her streets full of beggars and thieves any more than you do.”
“Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t,” Lady Sade said. “And yet, here we are.”
“Here we are,” the thin man echoed. “Hiding in our houses behind our gates and our guards to keep the bloodthirsty rabble at bay. And where is Her Royal Highness? In a palace on a mountain, selling our secrets to the southern kings.”
“Oh, whine, whine, whine!” a young woman exclaimed. “All you do is whine!”
“Well, what else can I do?” he demanded. “I’ve written letters, I’ve met with her in person, I’ve applied for a seat in parliament. It all goes nowhere.” He picked apart a bit of bread on the edge of his plate. “Why? What have you done?”
The young woman’s face softened. “I tried to organize a work gang. My man went about, gathering up the layabouts near my house, intending to direct them to help with the repairs on the Heru Bridge.”
“And?”
“And the police stopped my man and sent the workers back to laying about in the street begging for…for
