Salvator Fabris stumbled out into the street, his hands clutching his belly, and his face dripping with sweat. But he managed to straighten up with a sneer on his lip and he glared down at the jailer. “I told you so.”
The jailer went back inside and slammed the door.
The Turks then escorted the Hellans back to their two dories by the pier and all the while Tycho exchanged confused and angry glances with his pale Italian partner, but neither said a word until they were all in their boats and safely away from the shore.
Salvator frowned at the southern waters where the great white cloud of aether hid the entirety of the Point and most of the far shore. His breathing was thin and labored, and his hands and shirt were painted in blood. “So it’s happened then, has it? Everyone has gone mad?”
“It would seem so,” Tycho said.
“And you left in the middle of that crisis to rescue me? I’m touched.”
“No, I came to save the people of Stamballa. I convinced the prince to evacuate the civilians from the waterfront district, and to send more scouts to check the walls of Constantia for the dead army. We saw them tonight. The dead. We shot one.” Tycho grimaced.
“And how did you convince our friend the prince to set me free? I was fairly certain they were going to execute me right next to Koschei tomorrow,” said the Italian. “If I lived through the night.”
“I didn’t convince him.” Tycho grinned over his shoulder at the bright shore of Stamballa. “I just told the guards that those were the prince’s orders. You should know better than anyone, Fabris, that if you lie with enough conviction most people will do what you say.”
The Italian grunted. “Good for you. Good for me. Bad for the Turks. What do we do now? And does it involve finding a surgeon any time soon?”
“We row up the Strait,” Tycho said as he pointed toward the distant lights of the ships farther up the Bosporus. “And pray that we stay ahead of the aether. Maybe we’ll come along side one of our ships, and they’ll have a doctor on board. But we need to keep moving.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
Chapter 16. Death
Omar massaged the side of his neck and heaved a loud sigh. The bright sword in his hand felt heavier than it had in a very long time. The light from the blade cast a long black shadow of his legs that stretched over the fields. He glanced across the road full of frozen heads and arms and said, “I could use a drink.”
Nadira grunted as she sat up. She’d flopped down on a pile of dismembered corpses, spread-eagled on one of her little victory mounds. Now she sat with her legs sprawled wide apart and her sword leaning against her thigh. “You could use a bath, too.”
Omar smiled and slipped his sword back into its scabbard. Above them in the dark, he could hear the Vlachians and the Hellans on the top of the wall still talking about the battle, about the dead. They had continued firing volley after volley of arrows down into the mob, even after Omar and Nadira had cut all the way through to the gate itself. He had taken two arrows to his arm and shoulder. He was fairly certain that Nadira had taken more.
But the wounds healed as soon as the barbs were pulled out and, as always, the injuries were quickly forgotten as the pain vanished. But the weariness remained.
A heavy metallic banging echoed from inside the gate.
“I suppose we should be moving on before our friends finish clearing the barricade and come out here to poke at the bodies,” Omar said.
“What do you care? You’re their hero,” Nadira said. “Don’t you want them to adore you and worship you and beg to hear how you saved their city?”
“No, I don’t.” Omar started walking along the edge of the wall.
After a moment, he heard Nadira following him. She stomped through the frozen snow and smashed through the delicate, skeletal bushes along the way. He slowed a bit so that she could come alongside him.
“Bashir?” she said.
He blinked. “Actually, it’s Omar now.”
“You changed it?”
“I change it every few decades. It keeps things simple for my business partners,” Omar said. “Not everyone can pull off the mystique of an immortal savior, century after century.”
Nadira shrugged. “I’m not trying to pull off anything. I’m just trying to protect my people.”
“I thought your people were in Damascus. The last time I checked, that wasn’t anywhere near Stamballa.”
“It’s near enough. There are several companies of soldiers from Damascus here, and I intend to see that they all make it home to their families. After all, it’s better to fight the infidels here than at home. This way, the city itself is safe.”
He nodded.
“Five hundred.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Five hundred years, more or less. That’s how long I did your research for you, back home. That’s how long I stayed a nun and studied the aether for you.”
“Oh.” Omar cleared his throat. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you discovered anything that you’d like to share?”
“Why didn’t you come back?” she asked quietly. “I knew it might be a long time, but five hundred years? And now, how long has it been? Two thousand?”
“Give or take,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t forget about you. I never forget about any of you. I just…” He shrugged. “I’m always getting distracted by one thing or another. I mean, I spent the last ten years at the top of the world on a whim, and half of that in a cave. Don’t ask. But I suppose I always say to myself, well, there’s always next year. We have forever. There’s always more time.”
Nadira shook her head. “That’s a hell of a way think.”
“That’s a hell of a way for a nun to talk.”
“I’m just a soldier now. I can talk however I want.”
He nodded. They passed the length of rope he had climbed down a few hours ago, but they kept walking, crunching along in the snow. The starlight shone brightly on the icy ground.
“Gideon left first,” she said. “He said he was going to look for you. I guess he never found you.”
“How is he?”
“The same. Happy as a puppy.”
“What’s he doing these days?”
“He destroys seireikens,” she said casually. “And he often kills the people carrying them.”
“Really?” Omar pouted thoughtfully. “Good for him.”
“Good for him? He’s killing your Osirians and destroying your precious sun-steel. I thought you’d be more upset,” she said.
Omar sighed.
So did I.
He scratched at his stubbly beard and said, “And Lilith?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Death. Dying. Not living anymore.”
Omar stopped and rubbed his eyes. “We talked about this on the boat the other night. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Why not?!”
“Because I don’t kill my friends.”
