They stood in the street, squinting at the boarded-up shop. Through the gaps in the boards, Qhora could see the broken windows and the shattered lock on the door. Everything was coated in rust, grime, and a dark mossy growth.
“I think they’re closed,” Qhora said dully.
Salvator shrugged. “Not every informant is as honest as one would hope. But it’s a new day, and everyone else is open for business. Let’s find the smiths.”
Qhora let Salvator lead the way to the open markets that lined one of the broad central avenues of the city, but once there she shouldered past him and marched as swiftly as she could through the sluggish crowds and around the stalls, hunting for the clang of metal and the gleam of steel.
On her arm, Turi was already feeling heavy and her shoulder had been aching since dawn from carrying him the day before, so Qhora whispered to her harpy and then sent him flying up high over the street. The eagle soared effortlessly overhead for a few minutes, and then came to roost on a bell tower overlooking the market street. Qhora marked his dark outline against the pale blue of the sky, and then continued her hunt for the ironmongers. She found cloth and leather, live animals and butchered meat, glass and clay, boots and hats, belts and gloves, and even new Italian pocket watches and an ancient Mazigh arquebus. But no swords.
At the next intersection, there was a flash of metal as the sun played over copper plates and silver spoons and forks, but no swords. She asked the sellers where she might try next, and using one of her own knives as a translation tool, and was pointed down a southern boulevard. The air grew hotter and every inhalation burned her nostrils with coppery and ferrous tangs. She heard hammers ringing and forges roaring, and finally up ahead she spotted the stalls and shops and foundries of the Aegyptian smiths.
There were curved Aegyptian khopeshes, straight Italian rapiers, triangular daggers from Rajasthan, and tiny blades hung on chains from nations even more remote. Qhora found gray iron, white steel, and blades covered in strange patterns from Damascus. There were dark copper blades shaped like leaves and matte black blades as straight as spears. Weapons from the Songhai Empire to the west, from the Kanem Empire to the south, and from the Bantu nations at the bottom of the world. But she didn’t find any obsidian blades like the one her old bodyguard Xiuhcoatl had brought with him from the Aztec provinces. And she didn’t find any that glowed like orange fire.
Salvator drifted from stall to stall, chatting up the young boys and the old men in Eranian, pointing here and there at their wares, and sometimes drawing his own rapier to show off. Mirari hovered just behind Qhora, her face unreadable and unknowable behind her white mask.
Qhora crossed the street to pace along the other shop fronts, her arms crossed, her whole face beginning to hurt from the strain of frowning and studying and squinting at the reflecting sunlight on all that polished metal.
At the next stall there was a tall man and his small son haggling with the smith and Qhora was about to move on past them when she realized they were haggling in Hellan and not in Eranian. And she recognized their dark red cloaks as Hellan as well. She paused to listen, wondering if her poor grasp of the language would help her to learn anything at all.
The tall man wanted a sword, of that she was certain. He was saying the same words over and over again, each time with a slightly different inflection, sometimes mashing them together to form longer words. And then she recognized one of the Hellan’s phrases. It was something Salvator had said in Carthage.
“Seireiken?” She touched the Hellan’s shoulder and he turned to stare down at her with watery green eyes under pale gray brows. “Did you say seireiken?”
He looked baffled for a moment, but then a look of clarity came into his eyes. With a heavy accent he said, “You are Espani? I speak Espani. You know seireiken? You can show me?” He gestured around them at the other shops.
Show him?
She glanced around and then realized his meaning. “You’re looking for a seireiken? For the person who makes them?” Qhora nodded. “So am I. I’m sorry, I can’t help you find them. I assume you’ve had no luck here either.” She sighed and glanced at Mirari.
“No, none at all,” said a deeper voice in a more fluent Espani.
Qhora glanced down and nearly stepped back when she saw that the elderly Hellan’s companion was no child at all but a dwarf. He had a handsome, striking face with sharp cheekbones and a strong chin, with black curling locks and piercing blue eyes. Qhora recalled having seen a dwarf once when she was very young, long ago in Cusco. The little maid had had a barrel chest and crooked legs, and had died one night struggling to breathe. But the young man before her now stood quite straight and steady, and at the neck and cuffs of his white shirt she saw the edges of hard tanned muscles.
“I’m Tycho, by the way,” the dwarf continued. “And this is Philo. Of Constantia, by way of Sparta, if you weren’t quite sure.” He smiled and shook the side of his red cloak. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Qhora and Mirari.” She nodded politely. “Why are you looking for a seireiken?”
Tycho glanced back at old Philo and held a brief exchange in Hellan before the younger man said, “I apologize, but my master’s Espani is very poor and I didn’t wish to speak out of turn. To answer you, we have been sent to buy a seireiken as a gift. We’re special envoys of the Lady Nerissa of Constantia.”
“A gift.” Qhora nodded slowly. “Do you know much about them? Do you know what these swords can do?”
“Do?” Tycho shrugged. “I suppose they can kill a man if you use the pointed end in the usual way.”
“Hellas is on the northern edge of the Middle Sea, like Italia and Espana,” Qhora said. “So I’m sure you’re familiar with ghosts.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And aether.”
“Naturally.”
“Then you should know that these seireiken blades can drink aether and steal…” She swallowed and steadied her voice. “They can steal a person’s soul and trap it in the blade.”
Tycho glanced from one lady to the other with an uncertain look. And then he smiled. “Yes, we know. After all, why would they send us a thousand miles for just any sword?” He shook his head and his smile faded. “What a hell of a present to give a man. But, if I may ask, why are you looking for these soul-swords?”
Qhora shook her head. “It’s a private matter. Good day, gentlemen. And good luck to you.”
“And to you. I’ll be sure to let you know if we find anything.”
Qhora nodded and turned away, leading Mirari on to the next shop and the next table of common steel swords. She was about to engage a bearded smith about a certain sword of his that almost resembled the shape of the seireiken when she felt Mirari’s hand on her arm. Qhora looked up to see six men in green and black robes advancing down the street. Short swords, single-shot pistols, and mismatched daggers crowded their belts.
“Same as the ones at the pier in Carthage,” she muttered.
“We should leave, my lady,” Mirari said quietly.
Qhora glanced over at Salvator across the street and saw him looking thoughtfully at the six men marching toward them. “Our Italian friend doesn’t seem concerned. I wonder why he…oh.”
The six men veered to one side and encircled the two red-cloaked Hellans.
“Maybe our questions attracted the wrong attention,” Mirari said.
“Or the right attention.” Qhora started forward, one slow shuffling step at a time. She reached for her Songhai dirk and found it gone, and she panicked a moment before remembering that she had traded it away. From her sleeve she drew a straight-edged dagger.
“My lady, no. We are out-numbered, alone, on strange ground. Think of your husband. Think of your son!” Mirari whispered.
Qhora paused, squeezing her knife.
She’s right. This isn’t my concern. They’re grown men. They can take care of themselves. And perhaps the wisest course would be to follow the ones in green back to wherever they came from. Yes, that would be the smart thing to do.
One of the six drew his aging pistol and grabbed the elderly Philo. Another man in green reached down to grab Tycho and yanked him forward off balance. A patter of laughter ran through the other four fighters.
Qhora stared at the young Hellan, surrounded and armed only with a small knife, and his old master armed with nothing at all.
Someone’s son. Someone’s husband.
When another of the fighters drew his pistol, Qhora moved. She ran. She raised her knife. And as the men in green suddenly turned to face her, she screamed, “TURI!” And she hurled her dagger.
The blade whistled as it spun and then buried itself in the neck of the man holding Tycho. The dwarf leapt free and drew his own knife as the men in green raised their pistols and reached for their short swords. And then a curtain of gray feathers fell screaming from the sky.
The harpy eagle shrieked like an angel enraged and flew into the first man, crashing bodily into the fighter’s head and sinking his long black talons into the man’s shoulder and face before snapping his curved beak at the man’s ear. The man screamed and the eagle leapt into the air, and two pistols barked but neither shot touched the huge bird.
And then Qhora plunged in among them, whirling to yank their own knives from their belts and whirling again to plunge their knives back into their flesh. She didn’t look or think, she simply pushed and pulled and felt the warm blood on her hands. Mirari crashed into the men like a faceless doll and swung her small hatchet at their short swords. As Philo fell over a table, Tycho darted into the fray, slashing expertly at knees and ankles and groins, and in a moment three of the green men were on the ground clutching their wounds and hollering in Eranian while the other three stumbled back, their faces splashed with blood and dust.
“Ladies.” Salvator Fabris stepped past them to face the three men in green still on their feet. Qhora turned to Mirari, who was holding her arm awkwardly, and Tycho who was struggling to help Philo to his feet. Just an arm’s length away several of the sword smiths stood motionless and stone-faced, hammers and swords in their hands as they waited to see whether they would have to defend themselves or their wares.
After checking the wound in Mirari’s upper arm, Qhora helped Philo up and discovered the old man had sprained or broken his ankle and could barely stand up through the pain of it.
We need to get away, we need shelter, and we need safety.
Qhora looked back down the street in time to see Salvator deftly slash tiny red lines in the necks of two of the green-clad fighters, leaving them to collapse in the dust, choking and clutching their throats. The last fighter spun and ducked into the crowd with the Italian about to stab him through the back.
“No!” she shouted. “We need to know who they are! Where they come from!”
Salvator glanced back at her and gave her a serious little nod as he sheathed his sword and hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the last man.
Qhora let the wheezing old Hellan lean on her shoulder. “We need to find somewhere a bit more private, gentlemen. Do you know this city at all?”
“I do.” Tycho kicked the head of one of the men on the ground. “There’s a small area they call the Hellan Quarter just a few streets from here. It’s where we slept last night. Follow me.”
The four of them had barely left the street of smiths when Qhora looked back over her shoulder. “What about Salvator? How will he find us?”
“Your tall Italian friend?” Tycho asked. “We can find him again later easily enough.”
Qhora nodded and hurried Philo down the road with Mirari close behind them.
It’s not a sword, but if Salvator can make that man talk, then we’ll know where these bastards sleep. And Lorenzo’s killer won’t be far away.