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away from the train tracks with Atoq padding silently beside her. At the center of the platform, she stopped to study the blasted remains of the long black machine lying across the tracks. The rails themselves had been bent and snapped and the wooden ties lay tumbled on the side of the line. She knelt down to knead the back of Atoq’s neck. “Do you smell something, boy?”
    “He probably smells the blood, my lady.”
    Qhora looked up and saw Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir striding across the platform toward her. In the deep night shadows, the young hidalgo almost vanished in his long black coat and boots, and his wide-brimmed hat shadowed his pale face. It was moments like this that he was at his most dashing, his most mysterious, and his most exotic. Sometimes Qhora asked herself whether she was only attracted to the man because he was so foreign, so pale, so thin and sharp and cold. Have I merely fetishized him? Would I love the man within if he did not look so alien? Does it even matter anymore? She turned away. After all, he only loves his three-faced god now.
    The Espani swordsman circled the huge cat and stood beside Qhora with his hands clasped behind his back. “The police say the explosion killed over twenty people and injured forty others. The station will be closed for several days while they clean this up and repair the rails and other machines.”
    “Days?” Qhora stood up as a cold breeze played through her feathered cloak. If we had been early to the station, as I had wanted, we would be lying dead on this platform too. Perhaps there is a time and place for being late. But no. That is no way for a lady to behave. “If we wait that long, then we will arrive late, Enzo. I don’t like to be late. It’s rude.”
    “Of course,” Lorenzo said. “But it can’t be helped. The trains can’t leave until the tracks are repaired and the police allow the station to open. The men at the gate say that this was not an accident.”
    “This was an attack?” Qhora frowned. These easterners rely too much on their machines. They’re forever breaking down. Even when they work, they need to be pampered like babies with oil and water and coal and fire. Are they so afraid to ride a living creature? “Why would someone want to destroy a train? Or did they mean to kill someone? To kill us?”
    “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.” Lorenzo removed his hat and his limp black hair fluttered in the wind against his shoulders. “The people here are all angry at one company or another because there isn’t enough work. There are many poor and starving people in Marrakesh.”
    “Not enough work?” The phrase made no sense to her. There is always work. If you need a home, you work to build it. If you are hungry, you work to feed yourself. Life is work. These easterners are fools. Qhora shook her head. “In España, everyone says Marrakesh is wealthy. So far, I am not impressed.”
    “No, it’s nothing like Jisquntin Suyu, I agree. And Tingis is an overgrown fishing village compared to Cusco. But the Incan Empire is very different from the nations of the Middle Sea.” Lorenzo gestured back toward the gate. “We should return to the hotel, my love.”
    He still calls me that, but there is no light in his eyes, no fire in his blood. His soul belongs to his churches and ghosts now, not me . She allowed him to lead her out of the train station. “Enzo, I want to leave immediately. How else can we reach the capital?”
    The young hidalgo frowned. “The airships were all damaged in the explosion, I believe, not that we could take Atoq and Wayra in an airship. We might be able to charter a steamer to take us down the coast to Port Chellah where the trains will be running.”
    Qhora touched his arm and he fell instantly silent. For all the strangeness of the Espani, for all their primitive ghost-worship and rituals and elaborate clothing, they were extraordinarily disciplined. He was waiting for her to speak, and she