“Check for what?”
“For the dead.”
“You think this army of the dead is closer now?”
“Highness, I myself shot a walking corpse in the street not an hour ago. The dead aren’t coming,” Tycho said. “They’re already here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. But there is hope on that front, Highness.” Tycho smiled grimly. “From what I saw, we can kill the dead.”
Radu’s face tried to convey the confusion and distrust and disgust and curiosity warring in the man’s heart as he stood up and began writing orders on several pieces of paper. The next few minutes were a flurry of papers and clerks and messengers, and when it was over Radu was striding off to an emergency meeting with his military advisors and Tycho was being escorted back to the foyer where his underdressed marines stood surrounded by mustachioed Turks in blue uniforms.
“Your business is concluded, then?” the Turkish officer asked.
“Yes. Did you see the prince just now? Did he give you your orders?” Tycho asked.
The officer frowned. “I did see the prince leave just now, but he gave me no orders.”
“Yes, well, it’s going to be a busy night. You’re to take us to the cells and release Salvator Fabris into my custody, immediately.”
The officer went on frowning. “You have this in writing?”
“No, of course I don’t, the prince said he would tell you himself. Are you calling the prince a liar?” Tycho said as Lycus handed him back his white-handled Mazigh revolver.
“Of course not.” The officer hesitated, then snapped his fingers and indicated to his men that they were leaving. The Turks and Hellans marched back out into the night and after a quarter hour they came to a squat stone building near the waterfront where a lengthy and heated exchange in Eranian took place between the Turkish officer and the Turkish jailer. Tycho missed some of what was said, but they were both quite fixated on paperwork for many long minutes.
Finally the jailer went back inside and moments later produced his prisoner.
Salvator Fabris stumbled out into the street, his hands clutching his belly, and his face dripping with sweat. But he managed to straighten up with a sneer on his lip and he glared down at the jailer. “I told you so.”
The jailer went back inside and slammed the door.
The Turks then escorted the Hellans back to their two dories by the pier and all the while Tycho exchanged confused and angry glances with his pale Italian partner, but neither said a word until they were all in their boats and safely away from the shore.
Salvator frowned at the southern waters where the great white cloud of aether hid the entirety of the Point and most of the far shore. His breathing was thin and labored, and his hands and shirt were painted in blood. “So it’s happened then, has it? Everyone has gone mad?”
“It would seem so,” Tycho said.
“And you left in the middle of that crisis to rescue me? I’m touched.”
“No, I came to save the people of Stamballa. I convinced the prince to evacuate the civilians from the waterfront district, and to send more scouts to check the walls of Constantia for the dead army. We saw them tonight. The dead. We shot one.” Tycho grimaced.
“And how did you convince our friend the prince to set me free? I was fairly certain they were going to execute me right next to Koschei tomorrow,” said the Italian. “If I lived through the night.”
“I didn’t convince him.” Tycho grinned over his shoulder at the bright shore of Stamballa. “I just told the guards that those were the prince’s orders. You should know better than anyone, Fabris, that if you lie with enough conviction most people will do what you say.”
The Italian grunted. “Good for you. Good for me. Bad for the Turks. What do we do now? And does it involve finding a surgeon any time soon?”
“We row up the Strait,” Tycho said as he pointed toward the distant lights of the ships farther up the Bosporus. “And pray that we stay ahead of the aether. Maybe we’ll come along side one of our ships, and they’ll have a doctor on board. But we need to keep moving.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
Chapter 16. Death
Omar massaged the side of his neck and heaved a loud sigh. The bright sword in his hand felt heavier than it had in a very long time. The light from the blade cast a long black shadow of his legs that stretched over the fields. He glanced across the road full of frozen heads and arms and said, “I could use a drink.”
Nadira grunted as she sat up. She’d flopped down on a pile of dismembered corpses, spread-eagled on one of her little victory mounds. Now she sat with her legs sprawled wide apart and her sword leaning against her thigh. “You could use a bath, too.”
Omar smiled and slipped his sword back into its scabbard. Above them in the dark, he could hear the Vlachians and the Hellans on the top of the wall still talking about the battle, about the dead. They had continued firing volley after volley of arrows down into the mob, even after Omar and Nadira had cut all the way through to the gate itself. He had taken two arrows to his arm and shoulder. He was fairly certain that Nadira had taken more.
But the wounds healed as soon as the barbs were pulled out and, as always, the injuries were quickly forgotten as the pain vanished. But the weariness remained.
A heavy metallic banging echoed from inside the gate.
“I suppose we should be moving on before our friends finish clearing the barricade and come out here to poke at the bodies,” Omar said.
“What do you care? You’re their hero,” Nadira said. “Don’t you want them to adore you and worship you and beg to hear how you saved their city?”
“No, I don’t.” Omar started walking along the edge of the wall.
After a moment, he heard Nadira following him. She stomped through the frozen snow and smashed through the delicate, skeletal bushes along the way. He slowed a bit so that she could come alongside him.
“Bashir?” she said.
He blinked. “Actually, it’s Omar now.”
“You changed it?”
“I change it every few decades. It keeps things simple for my business partners,” Omar said. “Not everyone can pull off the mystique of an immortal savior, century after century.”
Nadira shrugged. “I’m not trying to pull off anything. I’m just trying to protect my people.”
“I thought your people were in Damascus. The last time I checked, that wasn’t anywhere near Stamballa.”
“It’s near enough. There are several companies of soldiers from Damascus here, and I intend to see that they all make it home to their families. After all, it’s better to fight the infidels here than at home. This way, the city itself is safe.”
He nodded.
“Five hundred.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Five hundred years, more or less. That’s how long I did your research for you, back home. That’s how long I stayed a nun and studied the aether for you.”
“Oh.” Omar cleared his throat. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you discovered anything that you’d like to share?”
“Why didn’t you come back?” she asked quietly. “I knew it might be a long time, but five hundred years? And now, how long has it been? Two thousand?”
“Give or take,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t forget about you. I never forget about any of you. I just…” He shrugged. “I’m always getting distracted by one thing or another. I mean, I spent the last ten years at the top of the world on a whim, and half of that in a cave. Don’t ask. But I suppose I always say to myself, well, there’s always next year. We have forever. There’s always more time.”
Nadira shook her head. “That’s a hell of a way think.”