Ambassador Chaou. Who did you leave in command of the crime scene?”
“No one, ma’am,” Syfax said. “I guess I forgot to do that.”
“Mm hm. The night you arrived in Port Chellah, you found a police officer suffering a gunshot wound to the stomach. What actions did you take to care for that officer?”
“There wasn’t anything we could do for him, ma’am. He was bleeding to death. He would have died within the hour.”
“You snapped his neck. Is that correct?”
“It was what he wanted. He said so, ma’am.”
“Mm hm.” The general regarded the pen in her hands. “Later that night you confronted Ambassador Chaou and Police Captain Aknin. You grabbed Chaou’s weapon, which then discharged, killing Aknin. Is it your opinion that Chaou would have killed Aknin in any event, regardless of your actions?”
“Probably not. Aknin was part of their little conspiracy.”
“Then, in your opinion, did Aknin die because of your actions?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mm hm. The following evening, you entered the home of Fariza Othmani uninvited, damaged her personal property, and assaulted her house staff. All without a warrant. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am, but-”
The general waved him off. “Later that night, according to your report, you were accosted on the highway by several would-be bandits. But you did not arrest any of them. In fact, you advised them to proceed to Arafez and demand food and shelter from the temple. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. They had a lot of hungry kids with them.”
“Were you aware that when they arrived in Arafez, they attacked the temple priests and started the largest riot in the city’s history? The violence persisted for three days, during which time over one hundred people died and over eight hundred people were injured. Five city blocks burned to the ground.”
Syfax swallowed. “I am aware of that, ma’am.”
“You also gave a sidearm to a police detective. You assaulted the Royal Guards, stole a horse, and proceeded up a restricted road without appropriate clearance. You then authorized a pilot to crash-land an airship gondola in the middle of the queen’s airfield, destroying the royal skybarge and injuring countless bystanders. Also killing the pilot herself.”
“The queen’s life was in danger, ma’am. At that moment, I had no reason to believe that anyone else would be able to save her.”
The general nodded to herself. “I understand that. But you’ve had several weeks now on administrative leave to review the events of this case. With the benefit of hindsight, in your opinion, were these actions and decisions the best possible options? If you had them to do again, would you make the same choices?”
Syfax frowned. “I don’t know, maybe, some of them. I can’t really say, ma’am.”
“Fair enough. As you know, we were apprehensive about transferring you from the army into Section Two, but your record impressed us and you seemed eager to learn and grow into the position. But we are forced to conclude now that investigative police work is not where you belong, major. Several of us, myself included, would prefer to see you serving a brief sentence before being discharged from the service, but your little stunt in the capital impressed Lady Tzeddig, which places me in a difficult position. Fortunately for us, a compromise has presented itself. Effective immediately, you are transferred to Security Section Four.”
“Transportation?” Syfax glanced back at Kenan, who shrugged. “What am I supposed to do there, ma’am?”
“They have created a new position just for you. Air marshal. As I understand it, you will sit in the back of airships to ensure the safety of the passengers and the airfields. They’re hoping to avoid another attack like the one Hamuy pulled off in Tingis. You’ll be in the air most hours of the day, and you’ll be unarmed, of course. You’ll report to the Tingis airfield first thing next week for orders. Dismissed.”
Syfax saluted, turned, and strode out of the room.
Kenan dashed after him. “Sorry, sir. But at least you’re not going to prison.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s something. Are you going to be okay, kid?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, you’ll probably be seeing me around the airfield.”
“What? Did they make you an air marshal too?”
“No, sir. I met up with that pilot, Ohana, a few weeks ago. They made her a captain, you know, and she put in a good word for me with her superiors. They’re rebuilding the Northern Air Corps right now. Anyway, they let me take the pilot’s test. I passed.”
Syfax grinned. “Good for you, kid. To be honest, I never really thought you were cut out to be a marshal anyway.”
Kenan shrugged. “I guess that makes two of us.”
Book Two: The Broken Sword
Day One
Chapter 1. Lorenzo
Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir pitied the young man in front of him. His older brothers died far away in the New World, and more likely from plague than in battle. Just two more corpses left mauled and half-eaten in the jungle.
Lorenzo drew his sword slowly, feeling the heft of his old espada. He glanced down at the scarred and pitted blade. It felt heavier than before. Across the room, the young man sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Poor boy. His father’s investments in the wars vanished with the armadas, leaving the family destitute. His mother died of pneumonia last winter. And now he’s all that’s left of a once healthy and prosperous family. Just him. One glimmer of hope for the future.
And he’s rubbish.
The two men saluted, swept their espadas down to their sides, and assumed their stances. Lorenzo immediately marked half a dozen things wrong with his opponent’s feet and hands and eyes. The youth slouched off balance, continuing to shift and turn his body, never coming close to doing anything right.
Lorenzo grimaced. And then he attacked.
The young man stumbled back, barely able to parry, his form sloppy, his blade slow. The smallswords rang and clattered as the master’s fine Toledo steel rained down on his student’s cheap southern weapon.
Lorenzo shuffled forward, speaking in a low and steady voice. “Focus. Focus, please. Eyes up, sword up. You can do this.”
The youth shuffled back, already gasping and sweating. “I’m trying!”
Lorenzo abandoned grace and style and resorted to plain mechanical movements, trying to give his student a chance at squaring his defense and mounting some sort of attack. Slash across the chest. Thrust at the shoulder. Chop at the wrist. The youth stumbled back, his sword swatting clumsily at each attack, barely preventing the simple swipes from drawing blood. His bottom lip trembled, his eyes narrowed in a transparent attempt to hold back the tears.
“Back straight, Diego. Keep your eyes on me, please. You can admire my shoes later.” Lorenzo swung slower and slower, pausing longer between each stroke. “Diego, as your instructor, I can assure you that I am not going to strike you dead. So you might try being just a bit more aggressive than a dead rabbit. Try. Push. Attack. Anything, please!” Lorenzo drove a measured thrust at the youth’s chest.
The student dropped his sword and backed into the wall, his wide eyes fixed on the point of his teacher’s blade. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly, more to himself than to the youth. Four months. Four months and he has made no progress. Sixteen years old and he has no skill, no talent, no desire, and no focus. Lorenzo lowered his blade and massaged his eyes with his left hand. “Why did you come here, Diego?”
