“Maybe.” He nodded. “But you’ve changed more than I have. You’re not so cold as before, not so angry. You seem pretty happy most days, and I mean happy in the normal way, not the crazy way. I was starting to think you and I might be together a long time.”
“Married?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“When we get to the city, you’re going to see some bad places, and meet some bad people, and hear some bad things about me.” She leaned close to his neck where she could smell his sweat. “You might not want to marry me after that. You might get the idea that I’ve been a bad girl.”
“A little late for that.” His mouth hovered near her ear and he whispered, “How long until we arrive?”
“Long enough.” And she pulled him back into the bunk.
Afterward, when she was dressed, Shifrah left their little cabin in search of Aker. She caught him admiring his glowing sword down in the shadows of the cargo hold.
“How’s your friend?” he asked.
“He’ll be fine. He thinks we should leave and row ashore in case we run into Don Lorenzo’s wife again.”
Aker grunted. “Who cares? Did you see me back there fighting that fencer? He couldn’t come near me. He was afraid of me.”
“He was afraid of your sword, the one glowing because it’s practically on fire.”
“Two hundred and fifty souls,” Aker said. “The blade isn’t hot enough to be dangerous until it claims fifty and it isn’t considered a true seireiken until it claims two hundred. This one holds two hundred and fifty. But the truly great blades, the heavenly swords, hold thousands. Only the masters have them. They say the blades glow perfectly white, and a single stroke can set an entire mountain on fire.”
Shifrah tried to get a better look at the sword in his hand, but he slid it home into its ceramic scabbard and let his loose green robe obscure the grip at his belt. She said, “That fencer at the rail yard has a name, by the way. Salvator Fabris.”
“Fabris? Why do I know that name?”
“He’s one of the Italian masters. He was also my partner for a while, before I met Kenan.” Shifrah crossed her arms and leaned against a crate. “I know Salvator. I’ve seen him fight. I don’t know exactly how good Don Lorenzo was, but I know Sal, and the old Aker I knew could never have beaten Sal. So who have you been training with?”
“No one.” Aker grinned. He patted the sword at his hip. “Just the Don himself. I know what he knows. I remember what he remembers. It’s all just images and instincts right now, but it will grow sharper in time.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” She stared at the sword and wondered how long she could let him keep such a thing. Aker was a common mercenary, a blunt weapon with more ambition than sense. He had always talked a big game and when she left him years ago he was still just talking. Clearly, something had changed. “The aetherium in the blade. I mean, I’d heard the stories, but I figured it was all Espani nonsense. Souls and ghosts. But it’s real, isn’t it?”
“It’s all real. Very real. I admit, most of the souls in here are nothing special, nothing more than fuel for the fire in the blade.” He smirked. “But there have been a few soldiers, a few killers. Their strength and skill and knowledge are in here. And now the master Don Lorenzo is in here too, and I can stand toe to toe with the great Salador Fabee!”
“Salvator Fabris.”
“Whatever.”
Shifrah sniffed and looked away. “Listen, Kenan says we should go ashore alone to avoid running into the Don’ widow, and I think he’s right. I want to go into town quietly, not in the middle of a pitched battle. All right?”
Aker shrugged. “As you wish. There is no need, but if it will make you feel better to sneak back into your own city, I will not stop you.”
“Fine. Meet us by the rear launch as soon as the city is in view.”
Shifrah spent the next hour trying to rest in the bunk with Kenan, but the bunk was too narrow for her to get comfortable and Kenan kept touching her, so eventually she suggested that they go up on deck to wait. They went outside and stood in the stern of the steamer beside the little wooden launch hanging over the side. The tiny lights of Alexandria twinkled in the darkness far off to their right.
Aker sauntered up. “Are we ready to go?”
“We’re just waiting for someone to help us put the launch out.” Kenan glanced around the empty deck.
“No, the captain said there’s nothing to it.” Shifrah winked at Aker and the two of them deftly unlashed the launch and lowered it into the water. The three of them climbed down into the boat and released the lines, leaving them to bob and wobble in the steamer’s wake. As soon as the water was calm again, Kenan and Aker put out the oars and began to row.
Shifrah watched their steamer cruise into the harbor and settle beside a long stone pier. Behind them on the point, the bright lights of the enormous lighthouse swept across the sky with ghostly fingers to point at the dark horizons. The steamer docked and a handful of sailors lashed it to the pier.
As their little launch rounded another pier farther down the harbor side and approached the lower mooring, Shifrah saw at least a dozen men waiting at the foot of the steamer’s pier, and as the lighthouse lamp swung around, the light glinted off the steel weapons in their hands. “Looks like Kenan was right.” She pointed at the dark figures.
They found an old iron ladder and climbed up to the street, which was dark and deserted. Aker pointed the way and led them down the road at a brisk pace. Shifrah glanced up at the shadowed faces of the towers and temples in the distance. The taste of the salt water mingled with the smells of fish and birds, of fire and spices, of flinty sand and crumbling stone.
Alexandria. It’s been a long time.
Chapter 8. Qhora
She stood in the darkness, staring out at the starry sky and the lights reflected on the rippling waters of the harbor. She watched Salvator lead his band of cheap muscle down the pier, and she watched them talk to the crew of the steamer, and she watched them come back empty-handed.
We lost them. Again.
Mirari laid a gloved hand on Qhora’s shoulder, and the Dona reached up to squeeze her hand for a moment. “Go talk to Salvator for a moment,” Qhora said. “I just need a minute to myself.”
“Yes, my lady.” The masked woman strode away to intercept the Italian and the two stopped on the dockside to talk.
Qhora turned and shuffled back into the darkness of the empty warehouse where Salvator had placed a single chair with a few ropes and a rickety little table displaying an assortment of stones, broken glass, and splintered wood. Crude, he had said, but more than adequate to your needs.
She stood in front of the empty chair, a spectral shape drawn in starlight and shadow. The harpy eagle on her arm squawked and stretched his talons. She reached over to stroke his feathered head.
We would have put the Aegyptian in this chair, she thought. Tied him down. Tortured him. Bled him. Mutilated him. Listened to him scream. And killed him.
The cold emptiness in her chest made it hard to breathe and she sat down in the chair. Her lip shook, but she did not blink, did not crumple, and did not wail. She sat tall and proud, staring across the dirty floor of the empty warehouse.
For vengeance. For justice. For me, and Javier, and all of Espana.
She exhaled slowly. Her breasts ached.
Forgive me, Enzo. You deserve better than this. I tried. I did. But I failed. I failed you. The man in green is gone. And I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to kill him, but you deserve that much, and more. But it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone.
And we both know that killing him would do nothing for us. It wouldn’t bring you back to me and our son. It wouldn’t even bring me peace, let alone happiness.