Kenan gently tugged his arm free and nodded with a slight grimace tightening his face. “Yeah, I guess so, sir. What do you want to do?”
“Right now, nothing. We’re just getting lunch and moving on. But we might need to shed some of our little convoy sooner rather than later. Ask around. Find out if any of these kids are going all the way to the coast. If they are, we can just take them and try to make better time. If they aren’t, we might want to leave them all behind and go it alone. It’ll be a lot faster.”
“Faster? How much faster do you want to go?” An unmistakable whine twisted Kenan’s words.
Syfax glared at the lieutenant. Not this again, not now. There is no way in hell I’m letting you get my ass killed. He grabbed the sulking youth’s coat and shoved him back against an icy wall, ignoring the surprised looks from the people around them. He leaned in close to whisper, “You know, Ziri keeps going on about how smart you are. She seems to think you’re officer material for some reason. So why don’t you shelve the attitude and try using some of those brains. Get this through your head. We are behind enemy lines. Eventually, the guys who shot us out of the sky are going to come looking for us. And we’re not armed. And we’ve got no backup. We’re alone out here Kenan. It’s just you and me and a very long road. And you know what’s at stake if we don’t get home and tell the brass about that warship. You may not have any family in Tingis, but that ship will work its way down to Port Chellah eventually and set your precious momma on fire, I promise. So get your head in the game and do your damned job.” He let go of Kenan’s coat and stomped away after the eight young fencers, leaving the lieutenant to make whatever faces and mutter whatever curses he needed to get out of his system.
By the time Diego brought them to an inn where they could eat, Syfax was completely lost. Toledo was all curving roads and cramped market squares, and everything looked the same. The gray clouds continued to obscure the sun, making it impossible to even guess which way was south. Still, Diego’s inn was a bright warm place filled with quiet, middle-aged men who seemed more interested in napping in their chairs than paying any attention to the small crowd filing in through the door. And that gave the major a little hope that they would be safe here, for a while.
There was little enough fare to choose from. Salted pork or salted beef, cabbage, and bread all clumsily arranged into a pile that the innkeeper called a sandwich. It wasn’t good, in fact just chewing the thing was as laborious as walking through the knee-deep snow, but it was filling and the crackling fires in the two hearths at each end of the room were all the comfort Syfax needed. Sitting on a wooden chair that had probably been serving the inn for several decades, he scanned the doors and windows, and then the people quietly eating or snoring at the other tables. No drinking, no laughing, no yelling. His first instinct was to call it a dead place for old people, but as he sat massaging the cramp in his leg and the knot in his shoulder, he began to rethink what he meant by “old.” Quite a few of the hairs on his knuckles weren’t dark anymore.
The soft stillness of the room and the heat of the fires were as comforting as his own bed, and Syfax leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them again when he heard the door squeak, and he saw two men in matching blue coats stamping their feet on the mat. The long barrels of their rifles swayed against the backs of their shoulders.
Aw, crap.
In the stillness of the inn, there was no way to move without drawing attention to himself. Still, Syfax tried to shift and casually slump over his empty plate as though about to join the other patrons in a siesta, trying to hide his face. Kenan followed suit. They were both three shades darker than any other men in the room, and for the first time in his life Syfax wished that wasn’t the case.
The two soldiers shuffled inside and sat at a table just a few feet away. They hung their rifles by the straps over the backs of their chairs and waved to the serving girl. Syfax decided to wait until the pair in blue started eating before he tried to walk out. They weren’t paying any attention to the Mazighs now and he doubted they would bother looking up from their food.
The girl had just given them their sandwiches when Syfax signaled to his companions that it was time to quietly stampede out the door. They were about to stand up when one of the soldiers turned around and said, “Diego? Diego Gonzalez? From Gadir?”
The young diestro named Diego blinked wide at Syfax and then turned to talk to the soldier. “Uh, yes, and you are?”
The soldier introduced himself as a Jorge something or other, apparently from the same town and possibly a distant cousin. The faster they talked, the less the major understood as his public school Espani quickly proved inadequate to the animated and informal conversation. Still, Diego seemed to be keeping Jorge’s attention and the food was keeping his companion’s attention, so Syfax decided to risk standing up and walking out. He made a small show of tapping the arms of the students on either side of himself, and then they stood up together and started for the door, leaving the other half of the young men at the table. Syfax half-hoped they would figure it out and come along and half-hoped he could just ditch them here and now.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Syfax froze except for his right hand, which began slowly sliding up toward the knife on his belt. He looked at the soldier who had spoken, the quiet one who had been focused on his lunch. Not-Jorge. Syfax shrugged. “Who, me?”
“Yeah.” Not-Jorge wiped his mouth and stood up. “Have you come from Marrakesh recently? You and your friend?” He nodded at Kenan.
“Nah, we’ve been down in Cordoba for about two years now. That’s my brother’s kid,” Syfax said, jerking his thumb at Kenan. “He’s been helping me out at work lately.”
“I see. And what is it that you do?” The soldier took a few steps closer to them, a few steps farther from his rifle.
“Cabinetry.” Syfax turned slightly to tower directly over the man in uniform. “I make cabinets. And other cabinet-type things. Like shelves.”
“Shelves.” Not-Jorge nodded and turned back to his table, but then paused. “Who is the governor of Cordoba now? Is it still Don Marco? I heard he was in poor health.”
Syfax clenched his jaw, pausing ever so slightly in the hope that Kenan might actually know the right answer and pipe up, but the kid was silent and he couldn’t risk pausing more than a second. “Yeah, it’s still Don Marco.”
Jorge looked over with a frown. Not-Jorge sniffed and said, “No, it’s not. The only Marco around here is me.”
Syfax grinned. “Well, I had a fifty-fifty chance.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The young diestros, both seated and standing, remained frozen with only their eyes darting about, each of them no doubt wondering whether their obligation was to their military or to their companions. In the absence of Don Lorenzo, Syfax knew better than to rely on them.
Everyone moved at once.
Both of the soldiers snatched up their rifles and swung them to bear on the two Mazigh men. The diestros at the table leapt to their feet, hands flying to sword hilts, but not a single blade was drawn as the young men stumbled back from the drawn firearms. Out of the corner of his eye, Syfax saw Kenan grab the nearby diestros and shove them back toward the bar. Score one for the kid, the major thought as he drew his knife and lurched toward the soldiers.
He caught the barrel of Marco’s rifle, yanked the smaller man forward off balance, and knocked his gun to the floor. Syfax spun Marco around, pinned the man’s arms in a crushing bear hug, and brought his knife up under the soldier’s chin where Jorge would be sure to see it.