Silvio stumbled upright and swallowed. “That’s it? That’s your style? That’s your vaunted philosophy of combat?”
“Yes.” Lorenzo pointed at the blade on the floor. “One less sword in the world. And maybe one wiser man in it as well.”
The youth sneered, threw down his hilt, and strode out of the hall.
The grinning students cheered. Lorenzo shook the hands offered to him, graciously accepting the overzealous praise, and then sat down to relax his tired arm and let some of the tension out of his back. As his students clustered eagerly around him, he watched Qhora slip out the door, giving him one last fleeting look before she left. He also watched Rui Faleiro slip out the same door behind her, but he wasn’t worried. These days, she carried four exotic knives on her person.
Well, four that I know about, at least.
Chapter 2. Qhora
She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her palms. Qhora had always been anxious watching Lorenzo fight with that tiny excuse for a sword, but ever since the wedding she could barely stand to see him in danger. Even in practice.
When did I become so weak and squeamish? He’s always been strong. He survived the plague and the wars. He survived me. And worse, I let him see how afraid I am. It’s this place. This miserable country. If he did die, then his students would leave, and his servants would leave, and I would be utterly alone. Just another childless widow forced into a convent for their stupid three-faced god.
She passed down a narrow corridor and stepped off into a small room where she would often go to read and practice her Espani domestic skills. On the little table lay her attempts at sowing and knitting, drawing and painting, and even calligraphy. She sat in her chair and stared out the window. That was another habit she had taken from Enzo. Staring out at the world in silent contemplation. She often wondered what he felt gazing at his wintry homeland, but she knew what she felt. Bored.
No hint of green except in the brief reprieve these people called summer. Two months of grass and stunted fruit trees. Qhora closed her eyes and tried to remember the rainforests, the endless jungles pulsating with life. The chirps and drones of millions of insects, the screams of monkeys, the songs of birds, the roars of the great cats. The Empire was never silent, even at night in the dead of winter. But here in Espana, one could imagine the world itself was dead. Nothing but snow and ice, a world drained of all color and sound except the pale slate blue of the sky and the dry rasping of the wind.
A knock at the door drew her attention to the older gentleman in the hall. Buried beneath layers of shirts and coats, it was difficult to tell what sort of build he had, but judging from the weak chin and soft jowls, she guessed he was little more than a scarecrow with a lump of fat around his belly and neck with no room wasted on frivolous muscle. Not a threat to m e, she thought.
He smiled. “Excuse me, Dona Qhora?”
The title still sounded strange to her even after a year of marriage. “Yes?”
“I’m Commander Rui Faleiro. I’ve come to speak with your husband on several matters of business. But I have a bit of a strange question for you, if you’ll indulge me.” His smile was false, but probably more from practice than actual deceit. “When we arrived a short while ago, we heard some strange noises coming from your stables. The boy out there said I should ask you about it.”
Qhora nodded. “What you heard, sir, were my personal animals. A kirumichi and a hatun-anka from the New World.”
The man smiled blankly. “And what are they?”
“The one is a hunting beast.”
“Like a hound?”
“Exactly. Only he is a cat, and eight times the size of a hound, with fangs as long as your hand, and he is trained to hunt men. And to eat them.”
Faleiro’s smiled wavered. “And the other?”
“My mount. A bird twice as tall as I am, and almost as deadly as the cat.”
Faleiro nodded slowly. “Is that so? Fascinating.” He stepped over the threshold and folded his hands politely in front of him. “If you will indulge a further intrusion, Dona, I would also like to ask you about your husband before I meet with him this evening. I thought it wise to consult the lady of the house so as to be…well prepared.”
“Thank you for that. It seems few people here care much for what a lady thinks.” She pointed him to the other chair in the room. “What business did you come to discuss?”
Faleiro sat and began a long ritual of wiggling his buttocks and rearranging the folds of his coats under his legs. “Yes, well, I serve under Lord Admiral Ferdinand Magellan, who is currently rebuilding our naval forces in the Middle Sea. With the loss of our Atlanteen fleet in the New World, our reserves are stretched to their limit maintaining even the most basic patrols. But in addition to ships, there is something else that concerns the Lord Admiral, which is our men’s ability in hand-to-hand fighting when the ships come together in battle. We are currently recruiting combat instructors from across Europa and North Ifrica to train our new sailors. Just last month we hired a wrestling champion from Hellas, for example. And I’m here today to ask your husband to train our sailors in swordplay. We have an Italian fellow at the moment, but I don’t think he’s going to work out, frankly. But Don Lorenzo’s reputation is well earned, judging from that display back there. He is without question one of the most skillful diestros I have ever seen. He is stunningly fast. But he also has this religious reputation, which concerns me. In your opinion, Dona, what do you think he would say to my proposal?”
Qhora folded her cold, dry hands in her lap. “First, he would thank you for your generous offer. And then he would politely decline it.”
Faleiro’s vacant smile faltered. “Really? Why do you say that?”
“Commander, when I first met Enzo, he carried a musket, an axe, and a fat cleaver of a sword. I thought he was just another wild-eyed butcher. It wasn’t until weeks later that I saw him duel with an espada for the first time,” said Qhora. “My husband is no longer a soldier. He spends more time in church now than in the practice room. And you saw what he did just now with that Italian boy. He toys with his opponents, sometimes he even preaches at them, and then he snaps their swords and sends them on their way. If he did go with you to your navy, he would only teach your sailors to do the same. And if you insisted that he teach them to kill, then he would leave.”
Faleiro sighed and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I see. That would be a problem, indeed. We can’t have a military that refuses to kill the enemy, can we?”
“Perhaps you can’t. It would be Enzo’s greatest dream come true.”
“Really?” Faleiro cocked his head to one side with a wide frown on his fat lips. “But he was such a talented soldier, according to every account I’ve heard. Did the ghosts of his comrades begin to haunt him? Did some priest get to him about his sins during the wars? Frighten him away from bloodshed and killing?”
Qhora frowned. “Something like that. He had several dark months, and almost gave up the sword altogether. For a time, I thought he might take the cloth himself.”
“But he didn’t. Why?”
“Because he married me.”
“Instead of God?” Faleiro chuckled. “Well, I suppose that proves he’s still quite sane.”
Qhora smiled briefly. “I suppose so.”
“So this is it, then?” Faleiro waved at the room around them. “Don Lorenzo intends to remain here, teaching his bloodless warfare? A pity. A waste, really. He might have done so much for his country. My cousin, Prince Valero, spoke rather highly of him when we were discussing candidates for the instructor position. I’m disappointed to find that one of our most esteemed patriots has been reduced to such a meager shadow of a man.”
“My husband has done enough for your country already,” she said sharply. “He fought your wars in the streets of Cusco, he saved your soldiers from the destruction of Cartagena, and if it had not been for him the crown of Marrakesh would be in the hands of a war-mongering bitch who no doubt would have razed Espana to its bedrock by now. What did you say your position was, sir?”