worrisome, as were the blood red plumes around its eyes, but she could almost think of it as a giant ostrich, and that was a bit less frightening. Not that she had ever seen such a thing before, but there were more than a few strange and enormous beasts from the New World in Marrakesh. Tamed megatheras labored in the factories alongside the huge engines, while the smaller sivatheras drew the carriages of the wealthy, as well as those who wished to appear wealthy for a night. She had even heard of the racetracks where giant birds sprinted for the gamblers and the well-dressed ladies, who watched from a safe distance in their tents, through their binoculars.
But the cat. The cat was something else altogether. When the beast called Atoq padded silently out of his pen, Taziri had nearly screamed. In fact, she probably would have screamed if she had not been surrounded by perfectly calm young Espani who barely gave the monster a second look. She had nothing to compare it to except the great lions of the eastern plains, but standing in the snowy yard, only a stone’s throw from the creature, she was certain that Atoq was larger than any lion. His shoulders were thicker and broader than any great cat or dire wolf, his head and neck were muscled like an elephant’s leg, and the huge fangs spearing down from his mouth told her not only that he could slice her apart without even opening his maw, but also that he could open his jaws at least as wide as the fangs were long. And they were very long.
When Dona Qhora emerged from the house, Taziri almost mistook her for the Eranian girl. Unlike everyone else who was wearing black and brown and gray coats, gloves, and scarves, the hidalgo’s wife strode out into the snow in buff colored trousers that disappeared into her tall, shining black boots. Over her high-necked white blouse she wore a tight purple vest, and over that a long blue coat decorated in silver threadwork across the breasts with elaborate silver ropes draped from her shoulders. Qhora paused to adjust her white leather gloves, then took her white fur coat from one of the students and wrapped it over her tailored blue one. And lastly she set on her jet black hair a blue and silver hat that by rights should have been identical to the hidalgo’s wide-brimmed black hat, except that she had folded up the edges of the brim and fixed them to the top of the hat with large blue satin ribbons. The result was a tricorn headdress resembling a festival ship ready to set sail.
“I’ve never seen a hat quite like that,” Taziri said. No need to mention that the Italians wear them that way, too.
“It was my husband’s dress uniform, as was the coat.” Qhora gestured to the blue and silver affair under her furs. “When he put them aside, I had them tailored to my own use. Military service is nothing to be ashamed of. It should be recognized and celebrated. But since he is too modest to parade for the masses, then I’m happy to do it for him.”
Don Lorenzo gave some final instructions to his students and staff, rattling off directions to each person in rapid-fire Espani. The horses were all heading north, but there weren’t enough for everyone. Taziri had meant to insist that she not be given one, at least not yet, but the gallant young diestros insisted that the ladies ride, and she knew enough about Espani men to give them their moment of chivalry. After all, she was still exhausted from the long march up the road from the crash, and, she reasoned, she was no good to anyone if she collapsed.
So when they set out, the hidalgo led the way with his wife at his side and her huge cat trailing, and behind them rode Taziri, Shahera, Nicola, and the scowling Dante. The four senior students followed them on foot, talking and laughing quietly. She envied them.
They aren’t afraid of anything. Still young. Still immortal. No responsibilities or duties. Only possibilities, egos, and libidos.
Taziri gave Kenan one last, sharp salute. The sad-eyed boy returned it half-heartedly and trudged away after the hulking major and the other junior students heading south.
The rough road north to Zaragoza was a far cry from the machined highways of Marrakesh. This was a dirt and gravel track, pitted and muddy and icy, winding its slow way around hills and through villages and over ancient stone bridges across tiny frozen creeks. For the first half hour, Taziri sat miserably in the saddle trying to remember the last time she had sat on a horse. Maybe when she was nine or ten when she visited her uncle’s farm in the highlands. Trapped between the lumbering mass of the horse under her legs and the sweltering mass of wool, leather, and fur on her back, she was almost ready to offer the horse to one of the young men trailing behind on foot, but the gentle rocking of the saddle and sighing of the wind through the pines soon had her eyes drooping and her head nodding.
She awoke with a start and a terrible ache in her neck and shoulders. The sky had grown gray and dim and dark clouds were gathering in the north. A light dusting of frozen rain was falling all around them, tinkling on the road and the frozen snow drifts to either side of the uneven lane. Taziri straightened up and glanced over at Shahera. She looked much older and even a bit thinner now that she was out of her jester’s costume. The Eranian girl offered her an exhausted smile, and then looked away. Lorenzo and his wife were still plodding along just ahead, but the saber-toothed cat was nowhere to be seen. Behind her, Taziri saw Dante leaning low in the saddle to talk to the youths, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. She turned to face forward again and was about to trot ahead and ask the hidalgo where they would be staying the night when she realized that they were a rider short.
“Nicola? Nicola!” She stared up and down the road for some sign of another figure, another horse.
Everyone looked at her, looked around, and came to a full stop as they realized they had lost one of their party. Don Lorenzo questioned his students, but none of them could say when the tall Italian woman had disappeared or how long she had been gone. Taziri felt her heart racing.
How could I let this happen? How could I fall asleep and just lose one of my people?
But looking around, she realized that everyone had been nodding off or staring miserably at their boots, and at any given moment their little group had been strung out over as much as fifty yards. The road had wound through heavy woodlands and tall stone houses, and plenty of other places where a rider might have left unseen at just the right moment.
Why would she leave the road? Taziri tried to list the possibilities, but the only one she could think of was the need to answer nature’s call, which she was currently trying to ignore herself. Unable to think of anything else to do, she turned her horse to backtrack up the road but the hidalgo was suddenly beside her and he reached over to rein back her mare.
“No. Qhora will go. We will wait and see what she finds.”
The little Incan woman nudged her towering bird into a sprint and they vanished up the road, Wayra’s talons digging deep gashes in the frozen gravel.
Taziri sat and waited. Dante complained, though everyone ignored him. Shahera said nothing. The four boys asked permission to spar in the road, but their master said no. After half an hour, they heard a faint squawk and whistle and soon heard the rider returning. Qhora let her mount strut into their midst and said, “Over two miles back, I found a fresh horse trail leaving the road in a thick stand of pine trees. She circled around to the road behind us and went back south. I couldn’t see her over the hills.”
“I’ll go back,” Taziri heard herself say. She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t give a damn about Nicola, or Dante, or even poor Shahera. She just wanted to fall asleep and wake up in her own bed with Yuba and Menna beside her. But I have to. I just have to. “I’ll find her.”
“No.” Don Lorenzo pulled down the high stiff collar of his coat to speak. “She chose to go back. God only knows why, but we must stay together and continue north. If your friend is smart, and lucky, then she’ll survive. I wish her well, but she’s gone now, and we need to be moving on. It will be dark soon, and we still have a few miles to go tonight.”
Taziri nodded, grateful to him that he had saved her from herself, and hating him for making her turn her back on her duty. Or am I just hating myself? Some captain I’m turning out to be.
Chapter 9. Shifrah
There was no one at the Diaz estate. No smoke rising from the chimney, no lights in the windows, no animals in the stables. But the snow in the yard wasn’t as deep as the snow outside the fence, and when she stared at the dimples in the fresh snow beyond the gate, Shifrah could see the telltale patterns of boots tramping along the lane to the left and the thinner trails of horse legs walking up the lane to the right.
“Another dead end,” she said. “What a waste of time.”
