“Really?” Tycho and Salvator said in unison.
The Italian frowned down at the Hellan and said, “I interviewed this same gentleman shortly before my history lesson in the forge with a man called Rashaken. I had hoped to kill both of them, but fate intervened.”
“What about the name Aker El Deeb? Did either of them mention him?”
“No. Why? Who is this El Deeb?”
“The man who killed my Enzo!”
“Ah.” Salvator shrugged. “Had you shared that little gem with me, I might have asked, but now we’ll never know, will we? And didn’t you say you spoke to him as well? Did you think to ask him about your Aker El Deeb? No? Hm. Well, anyway, this Khai person called himself the First Knight of his order. That might make him somewhat important. And someone else called him Master Khai. So I imagine the name Aker El Deeb will mean something to him if we ask. Politely.” The Italian drummed his fingers on the golden hilt of his rapier.
“I agree,” Qhora said. “We’ll follow them. Perhaps an opportunity will present itself for another interview.”
After Khai and his green guards went by, Qhora and her three companions eased out into the flow of pedestrians and sauntered down the middle of the avenue in a loose knot, never too close or at the same pace. They spread out a bit, letting other travelers and animals and vehicles pass in between them.
Qhora watched the old man’s back, and the heads of the men following him.
There will be a moment. A turn. A hesitation. An interruption. They’ll stop, or be distracted, and I’ll run in among them, right through the middle of them and put my knife to Khai’s throat and grab his seireiken and make him tell me where I can find Aker El Deeb.
But the moment never came. No one approached the men in green, no one drove a wagon through their ranks, no mad horse kicked over a cart, and no group of heedless children ran laughing into their midst.
Instead, Khai led his men swiftly through the streets of Alexandria away from the markets and soon Qhora saw long slender gardens and fountains running down the center of the avenue. The architecture of the buildings on either side shifted dramatically from the ancient sun-bleached stone slabs to dark red bricks, white columns, and gray marble blocks swirling with green veins. There were steepled roofs, glazed windows, shaded porticos, and colorful pennants snapping in the breeze high over head.
Tycho came closer to her and muttered, “The Royal Quarter. Permanent and temporary homes for the countless princes, generals, ambassadors, and high priests of Eran. Once the lords of Aegyptus reigned from here, when this was a free nation. Be careful. There will more guards and soldiers here.”
Qhora nodded. She’d already noted the armed men flanking the doors and lining the walkways beyond the walls and iron gates around some of the larger estates.
At the next intersection, Khai led his men to the right through an open gate and up a wide stair into a large colonnaded building that reminded Qhora slightly of the cathedrals of Tartessos and Cordoba back home. She paused at the gate, but Tycho walked right past her and began grunting his way up the steps. He glanced back at her with a grin. “It’s safe. This is the library. Part of the museum. It’s a school, open to all. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
Together they mounted the steps, passing a steady stream of young boys in simple white smocks carrying books and scrolls. At the top of the stair they entered a large rotunda with a dozen smaller doors leading away in every direction. Diverse works of art from Hellas, Eran, Italia, Punt, Kanem, Songhai, and India adorned the walls or balanced on small plinths, and the interior of the dome overhead was a golden lattice of slender rods holding stained glass portraits of dignified old men in beards and scholarly hats.
“That way.” Tycho pointed left and they followed him left.
At the end of the corridor they emerged into a large room of row upon row of shelves of books, as well as tables around which sat countless more young men in white smocks reading, writing, and yawning.
“There.” Salvator pointed to the far end of the room where Khai and his guards stood with two middle-aged scholars in white.
Qhora led the way along the right-hand wall, moving quickly and quietly behind the walls of books and scrolls until they were close enough to hear the men talking. The conversation was in Eranian, but Tycho provided a running translation.
“…and the next time that I request a document, I expect it to be delivered to me within the hour,” Khai said. “I contribute far too much time and money to this institution to be treated as a common student.”
“Sir, the blueprints that you requested are stored in the Red Room, and by the order of your own Master Rashaken, no document in the Red Room is ever to be copied or taken from the library, by anyone, for any reason,” the librarian said calmly.
“Why the hell are they in the Red Room? The original architectural drawings of Constantia are no military secret or arcane scientific knowledge. They’re just drawings!” Khai hissed.
Tycho grabbed Qhora’s sleeve. “Constantia?” he whispered.
“Keep translating,” she whispered back.
“Sir, I have my orders,” the librarian said dully. “If it is in the Red Room, then it is not to be copied or removed, but you are welcome to review them here, as always.”
Khai sneered. “Rashaken is an old man. When he dies, who do you think will be giving the orders here?”
“Most likely you, sir,” the librarian replied. “And I trust you will appreciate how precisely this institution follows your orders then, as we follow Master Rashaken’s orders now. I doubt, sir, that you would want your orders countermanded by a subordinate, even a high-ranking subordinate, particularly a high-ranking subordinate who presumes to undermine your authority on the grounds that he will one day replace you.”
Khai’s sneer twisted into an unpleasant smile. “I suppose there is something to be said for your integrity, as blind and thoughtless as it may be. Take me to the Red Room and present the drawings of Constantia. And call a scribe. I need to dictate several letters while I review the drawings.”
“Yes, sir. What languages will you require of the scribes?”
Khai sighed. “Eranian, Hellan, Raskan, and Vlachian. And Rus, if anyone knows it.”
“Very good, sir.” The librarian led Khai and the others to the end of the reading room and they disappeared through a door stained dark red.
“What is he doing?” Tycho asked. He looked from Qhora to Salvator. “What is he going to do about Constantia? Who is he going to write to? He could be planning something, anything! An invasion. A pact with the Ruslanders, or with the Vlachian prince? If he makes an alliance with Vlachia before my lady, then Constantia will be surrounded by enemies!”
“Be quiet, little man.” The Italian exhaled slowly. “No one cares about your little city.”
“I care!” Tycho snapped.
“Shut up! Both of you!” Qhora held up her hand, but she wasn’t looking at either of them. She was looking across the room to the door through which they had entered a moment ago. A man in green hurried down the center aisle, spoke briefly with one of the librarians, and then dashed to the dark red door through which Khai had left. Qhora frowned. “That doesn’t look good.”
A shout echoed from the room beyond the red door.
“Doesn’t sound good, either,” Tycho said.
The red door swung open and Khai strode out, moving so quickly he was almost running. His green guards dashed out close on his heels, the other scholars and librarians scattered to avoid them as they crossed the room, and all the while Khai muttered to his men.
When they were gone, Qhora touched Tycho’s shoulder. “He said the name Aker. I heard him. Did you hear him? What was he saying?”
“I couldn’t hear much. Something about the Bantu and Songhai and trains.”
“Trains?” Salvator frowned. “What about trains?”