“Are you suggesting that aether also comes from the sun?”
“There are many theories. Personally, I suspect that the sun is some sort of forge where aether is created and then blasted by heat until it becomes sun-steel, or aetherium, as you call it. And that day, long ago, there was some calamity upon the sun. An explosion, perhaps. Bits of the steel fell to earth and a rain of aether fell with it.”
Salvator pouted thoughtfully. “Fascinating. But aether reveals the souls of the dead, and the aetherium can absorb souls with the aether. So if the aether and the steel fell from the sun, then what is the connection between the sun and our souls?”
Rashaken shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps we all came from the sun at the beginning of time? Or perhaps the sun is the house of the gods, from which our souls come and to which our souls will return at the ending of the world? It’s a strange universe, and we learned men are but insects trying to comprehend the vastness of the stars.” He threw up his hands in a playful gesture of helplessness. “And here ends our lesson. You now know one of the greatest stories and mysteries of our entire world, which profits you nothing, and you know nothing of the Temple, which might have profited you a great deal. At any rate, my part of the bargain is fulfilled. So now, the name of our loose-tongue contractor, if you please.”
Salvator nodded. “That was a most interesting lesson, sir. Thank you for it. It was certainly worth the life of your operative. At least to me. I first met-”
The door opened and the Italian leapt to his feet as he drew his rapier. He edged toward the door, noting the complete lack of expression on the smith Jiro’s face as the man saw whoever it was coming through the doorway.
Two people stepped into the room. Salvator froze. “Shifrah?”
The one-eyed Samaritan stared back at him. “Sal?”
Behind her, he saw the familiar features of the young man in the black jacket who had boarded the steamship in Carthage. Her Mazigh gunslinger.
Shifrah smirked. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes.” Salvator shifted the point of his sword toward the young man behind her. “Well, we’ll see just how much we still fancy one another in a few moments.”
“Master Rashaken.” Shifrah nodded at the older man. “And Master Jiro. It’s been a long time. You’re both looking well.”
“Little Dumah.” Jiro smiled. “Is it harder to throw a knife straight with only one eye?”
The woman shrugged. “Only at first.”
“Excuse me.” Salvator smiled. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but you all seem to have some catching up to do, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my leave.” He flicked his rapier to wave Shifrah and her companion away from the door. They moved aside, never taking their eyes from him but never betraying any hint of tension or desire to strike. Salvator stepped into the open doorway.
“Be quick, Italian, and you might live to see the dawn. But don’t make any plans for supper tomorrow,” Rashaken said. “You have no idea how easy it will be for my boys to find a tall, pale Italian with a striking mustache such as yours. Visit a barber tonight and you might dine tomorrow after all. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Salvator hesitated. It’s just the sort of bluff I would make in his position. It’s just the sort of threat I would make in any position. But this temple. This temple is enormous. This man commands hundreds of trained killers. Not better than me, naturally, but against an army of hundreds? He’s right. They will find me. They might even kill me.
“Master Rashaken.” The Italian kept one eye on Shifrah as he spoke. “I find that men of a certain age should only travel about in the company of friends. It’s far more comfortable, entertaining, and civilized. And I do abhor a dull silence.” He shifted his rapier toward the old man across the room. “If you would do me the honor of your company.”
“You’re not taking him,” Shifrah said. A pair of stilettos slid down into her hands, their blades glinting gold and crimson in the light of the forge. “I’ve come a very long way to find him.”
“Oh? Is this your mysterious broker?” Salvator asked.
“No. He’s a friend. And I need to speak to him.” She raised her knives. “Leave now.”
Salvator pointed his sword at her. “And if I refuse?”
She threw both her knives at him.
Chapter 20. Qhora
The journey across the city from The Cat’s Eye was a blur of shadows, the rumble of iron wheels, and a drone of muffled voices. Qhora sat very still on the hard wooden seat of the carriage with a large armed man beside her and another across from her. The small windows were curtained, leaving the interior of the carriage almost pitch black, but whenever a flicker of light from outside pierced some gap around the edge of the curtains she saw the unblinking eyes of her captors staring back at her and their hands on their pistols.
When the carriage stopped, she was led out into a dimly lit carriage house, through a door and down a narrow corridor, and then up a short stair, around a corner, and a hall and a door and on and on. It became an exhausting parade of old stone walls, chipped stone steps, scuffed wooden steps and creaking iron stairs, stone archways obscured by curtains, and stone doorways sealed with dark wooden doors with crude iron handles. Candle light played on the walls ahead and behind them, and sometimes she caught a glimpse of the young lady from the restaurant leading the way.
I’m here. I’m inside their fortress or temple or whatever it is. Aker El Deeb might be here, somewhere. If I could only get away, if I only knew where to look. I could find someone and force them to tell me, to lead me to him. I could find him. I could find the sword. I could hold Enzo’s soul in my arms. Tonight.
They walked on. Finally they arrived at the end of a hall several floors higher than where they entered. The lady knocked at the door and was admitted alone. A moment later the door opened again and the lady beckoned Qhora to follow.
It was an office or a study. It reminded her of Enzo’s little library at home, a small room dominated by a large wooden desk that belonged in a larger room, and a few shelves of books, and a few papers scattered about the desk and floor. A warm breeze was blowing through the small window, which revealed a small square patch of the night sky. The loose papers shuddered in the wind. She sat in the chair in the center of the room and the lady left, closing the door behind her.
The man behind the desk sighed. He appeared to be in his fifties, his wiry black beard lined with a few bright white heralds of age. Deep crow’s feet drew his eyes and mouth down in a look of perpetual disappointment and fatigue. He sighed again and sat up. “Zahra thinks you know something that I might find valuable. Maybe many things.”
Qhora glanced back at the door. “Miss Zahra said you would torture me and eventually kill me to learn about my homeland.”
The man shrugged. “We could. I can order my people to do so, if you wish. I may order them to do so, if I think it would be worthwhile. Would it be worthwhile, miss…?”
“Dona Qhora Yupanqui Quesada,” she said. “And you are?”
“Khai. Just Khai.” He didn’t smile or glare. He looked to be on the verge of falling asleep. “So tell me, Dona Qhora, should my associates and I take an interest in the New World? We haven’t in the past. After all, it’s very far away. And the moment we arrive, most of us will fall dead to the ground with plague, and those few who survive will be devoured by enormous flesh-eating birds and cats. Have you come to offer me a cure for this plague? Or some way to avoid the roving flocks of hatun-ankas and prides of kirumichis?”