by Ginn Hale
Here, he forgot his injuries. His pains and desires. Even the names and faces that hurt him so deeply receded from his mind. Amnesia poured over him like an absolving stream. John’s thoughts drifted deeper into the churning warmth of the earth.
At his touch, pools of radiant magma calmed and curled up like sleeping dogs. Diamonds glittered in the darkness. John thought that he had slept. Perhaps he’d been dreaming.
But now a hard, cold sensation intruded.
John wanted to resist it, but he could not keep himself from listening to the sound of a voice. The words were familiar, the voice even more so.
“Jath’ibaye, you must wake up. Jath’ibaye. We need you. Wake up, damn it!” Again John felt a cold mass impact against his cheek. It was a hand, John realized. Someone had slapped him.
He opened his eyes. Saimura started back a step.
“You’re awake,” Saimura said.
Arches of granite and iron filled the tunnel like the filaments of an immense spider web. The light of Saimura’s lamp refracted through the countless slender, prismatic crystals blanketing the walls and floor of the tunnel.
John blinked as a rivulet of water cascaded down from his forehead into his eyes. More water trickled down his outstretched arms and ran down his back and chest.
“How long have I been down here?” John’s voice was rough in his throat.
“Most of the day,” Saimura replied. “Can you move?”
“I think so.” Thousands of supports filled the tunnel. The danger of a collapse seemed far less than that of becoming entombed within the intricate weavings of stones and minerals.
John slowly lowered his arms. His shoulders ached. Sharp cramps bit through the muscles of his back. John shuddered as his awareness poured back into his body. His teeth began to chatter. His clothes were soaked and his skin felt slick and clammy. His legs were numb weights.
John crouched and roughly massaged the muscles of his thighs and calves. He flexed his toes against the tight confines of his wool socks and heavy boots.
“Here.” Saimura handed him a small silver flask. John took a drink. The liquid felt like fire in his mouth. Its heat scorched down his throat and radiated from his stomach.
“Did the workmen get out?” John asked.
“All but two of them.” Saimura hesitantly touched a long spire of white granite. He looked back to John. “Drink a little more.”
John took another shot of the liquor. The heat didn’t seem so intense this time.
“One of them swears he saw Parfir down in the tunnel,” Saimura said.
“I wish…” John took another deep drink from Saimura’s flask. Parfir was immense, all knowing, and all powerful. Parfir would not have allowed even two workmen to die. He would have stopped time, turned stone to air. He would have done the impossible, effortlessly. Parfir would have saved Laurie.
“Parfir is a fucking lie.” John gazed at his own warped reflection in Saimura’s flask. “He’s a piece of fiction that can’t be achieved.”
Saimura frowned, then crouched down beside John. “Are you all right?”
“No. But it’s not something you can help,” John said. He handed Saimura’s flask back to him. “They killed my sister. Ravishan came to the hostel to tell me. They flayed her in Umbhra’ibaye.”
“They’re making her into one of the issusha’im?” Saimura asked.
John nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
Saimura closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“I’m sorry, Jath’ibaye.”
“So am I,” John said.
“But she isn’t dead.” Saimura touched John’s shoulder lightly. “You shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that she is. She isn’t any more dead than Ji is.”
John nodded. He wanted to feel assured by the thought of Ji. But he had never known Ji as a living woman. Laurie was different. He couldn’t imagine her stripped of her flesh, carved with commands, and soaked in the blood of her own child. He couldn’t see how that terrible figure could still be Laurie.
“I’m sorry about your sister, and if things were different, I would tell you to take your time and grieve,” Saimura said quietly. “But the rashan’im are coming and Lafi’shir needs you now.”
“I know,” John said. He got back up to his feet. He followed Saimura through the maze of stone arches and pillars. Jewel-like crystals flashed in the lamplight. Slender masses of gold and copper curled through walls of quartz.
Laurie would have found it beautiful, John thought. He forced himself to believe that she still would.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Outside the tunnel twilight shadows filled the streets. Yellow lamplight glowed from the windows of houses. The number of people out on the streets surprised John. Most of the men rode bicycles. Clusters of women walked close together on the walkways. John caught glimpses of bright staff uniforms under their dark wool coats. They were returning to their homes after a day’s work. To John their relaxed expressions and lively conversations seemed almost surreal.
Threads of ice water pooled beneath their feet. Chambers of iron gaped through miles of granite. The air curled and twisted, warm breezes fighting up through the settling cold winds. Somewhere in the distant north, ushiri’im tore the fabric of space and time.
The world around these people writhed with power and life. And they were all so unaware of it. They struck John almost as sleepwalkers, moving senselessly onward. And yet he could see that they had their own concerns—a group of older women studied the new black tattoos on a young girl’s fingers with expressions of tender melancholy. One man knelt beside his bicycle, fighting with the rusty chain. A young girl rushed out from a doorway and woman swept her up into her arms.
It wasn’t that these people were strange. It was him. He’d become so distanced from daily life that now normalcy struck him as unreal.
John suddenly became aware of the odd figure he presented. His dazed expression probably made him seem drunk. The dry clothes Saimura had given him were the ones that he’d worn the last three nights. They reeked of wine houses and sweat. The water in the tunnel had rinsed the stain from his hair. John pushed the damp blond curls back from his face. He pulled the hood of his coat up over the tangled mass.
“Is there still blood on my face?” John asked Saimura quietly.
“No.” Saimura glanced to John’s face. “There was a lot of blood on your old clothes, but you look fine now. You don’t still have any injuries, do you?”
“No,” John said. “I was worried that I looked strange.”
“Not too odd,” Saimura said. “You look like you could be one of the big men the house stewards hire for day labor. I don’t think anyone will take too much notice of you.”
Still, they kept clear of the larger crowds of people. Saimura led him west, past closed shops. Painted signs hung over doorways, advertising jewelry, feather hats, embroidered coats, and tapestries. They passed a pastry shop. The smell of the wood oven and taye flour still hung in the air. John felt a brief nostalgia for the evenings he used to spend with Samsango in the monastery kitchens.
“We aren’t going back to the Hearthstone?” John asked.
“No, it’s too far from the prison,” Saimura whispered as they cut across a street. They stopped at the back gate of a large squat building that seemed to be another hostel. Plumes of smoke pumped up from the rows of chimneys that studded the building’s roof. Saimura pulled a service bell and then leaned back against the iron bars of the gate.
“The Bousim rashan’im arrived at the Gisa stables this afternoon,” Saimura whispered. “Lafi’shir thinks they’ll take possession of Lon’ahma and the other women first thing tomorrow morning.”
“How many rashan’im?” John asked.
“Fenn counted eighty-nine at the city stables,” Saimura said.
“Eighty-nine?”
“I don’t think they’re taking any chances after what happened at Yah’hali Prison.”
Someone opened
a door in the back of the building. Bright yellow firelight poured out over the snow. Saimura said nothing more as a girl in a stained apron ran to the gate. Saimura told the girl that he and John were friends of Niru’lam’s. The girl said that they had been expected. She unlocked the gate and led them back into the big, humid kitchen.
Women crowded the kitchen. Some worked over the open fires and iron stoves, stirring pots of sauces or frying large cuts of meat. Others stood at the big wooden table, chopping dried herbs. Three of them swung big cleavers through the butchered sides of sheep and dogs, chopping the carcasses into single servings. The smell of the kitchen was at once pleasantly sweet and also tainted with the harsh metallic odor of blood.
An older woman with faded greenish tattoos across her fingers handed a room key over to Saimura. She waved her hand up and to the left as she told them that their room was on the second floor. A very nice room, she assured them. Dinner would be ready before the next bell. Men were already enjoying cups of warmed wine in the dining room, if they cared to join them. Saimura thanked the woman and he and John left the kitchen.
The room was warmer and smaller than the one they had rented at the Hearthstone. John noticed the single bed but didn’t bother to comment. Saimura went to the tiny, slit window.
“You can see the prison pretty well from here,” Saimura said. John joined Saimura at the window. He studied the prison, feeling the hard dark masses of spells engulfing and reinforcing the stone chambers.
“Lafi’shir thinks that the rashan’im will collect the women at the prison’s back courtyard early in the morning to avoid any public protests.” Saimura pointed to a distant stretch of wall between two watchtowers. “Then they will most likely follow the Fountain Road straight out of Gisa.” Saimura traced the line of the road on the window glass.
“Can we be sure of that?” John asked.
“No,” Saimura said, “but the captain of the rashan’im rented an iron-box chattel wagon at the city stables and those things are too ungainly to maneuver through most of the smaller streets.”
John thought about it. Iron-box wagons were built like vaults. They required teams of four or more tahldi to move.
“Why would they need a wagon that large to transport ten women?” John asked.
“Smaller wagons can’t be secured as completely as an iron box. And they’re probably going to need guards inside.” Saimura stepped back from the window.
“So, what is Lafi’shir’s plan?” John stared down at the dirty snow and mud of the road.
“Two blocks past the prison, Fountain Road narrows. An alley there runs from a tailor’s shop south, past the back of Ayal’ji’s workshop.”
John squinted through the darkening twilight to pick out the area of road Saimura described.
“Lafi’shir thinks that if we can waylay the rashan’im there, the narrow street will keep them from being able to maneuver. We have access to two rooms above the tailor’s shop and we should be able to pick off some of the riders from there. Pirr’tu and I are the best shots so that will be our position. Lafi’shir and Tai’yu will be shooting from the ground.”
“Where will Fenn be?” John asked.
“A block farther down with some of Kirh’yu’s workmen. They’ll begin the assault by driving a herd of sheep up the street and into the rashan’im. It should look like an accident at the outset. Then the rest of us will open fire.”
John frowned. He didn’t like the thought of Fenn being out in the midst of so much confusion and gunfire.
“He’ll be all right,” Saimura said, but his expression betrayed his worry. “Fenn knows that he’s not supposed to get into the middle of it. He just has to get the sheep moving and then get to cover. He’ll be fine.”
“What about me?” John asked, though he already suspected what his own role would be. He was the man who could take half a dozen bullets and keep moving. He could crack through iron locks with his hands. He was going to be in a worse position than Fenn.
“You’ll break into the iron box, get the women out, and turn them over to Ayal’ji’s men. There will be three of them waiting for you in the alley.”
“And after that?” John asked.
“Keep the rashan’im from pursuing the women down the alley. Lafi’shir and Tai’yu will drop back with you. Pirr’tu and I will cover you from above. Once the women are out of sight, we’ll all fall back to the west gate. Fenn should be waiting for us there with our tahldi.”
John considered the distant expanse of road. He tried to picture half a dozen men pinning down eighty-nine riders armed with swords and rifles.
“Couldn’t Kirh’yu find more men?” John asked.
“He offered to give us twenty of his workmen. But Lafi’shir refused,” Saimura said. “The men wouldn’t be armed or have any idea of how to fight. They’d just be slaughtered.”
“Better them than all of you,” John murmured.
Saimura frowned at him.
“Kirh’yu’s workmen don’t care about the Payshmura or the women in the Gisa prison. They’re just so poor and so desperate that they’d risk their lives to feed their families.” Saimura scowled down at his hands. “We couldn’t even provide them with fighting knives. The few who didn’t desert would be dead in seconds.”
John knew Saimura was right. He tried to imagine how they would overcome eighty-nine rashan’im. The worst that could happen to him was pain. And pain only gave him strength. But he dreaded the thought of a bullet ripping through Saimura or Fenn. He didn’t want any of his fellow Fai’daum to die. He’d already lost too many of the people he cared for.
“I just don’t want to see any of you hurt.” John turned back to Saimura.
Saimura cocked his head slightly. “You’re not worried about yourself?”
“No, not really,” John admitted.
Saimura sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Losing comrades is the inevitable price of our fight, you know. It’s terrible, but you can’t let it keep you from fighting. I’ve lost four good friends already. Two of them died the day I met you. But you can’t think about who may be killed or who you may lose. Every one of us Fai’daum has chosen to fight. We know that winning this war is worth risking our lives.”
A sliver of guilt pierced John’s chest. Almost nothing could kill him. He risked so much less than the other Fai’daum that it was hard for him to imagine that they might truly be willing to die for their cause.
“And in any case,” Saimura went on, “we’ve been up against far worse odds and won in the past. You should trust Lafi’shir. He knows what he’s doing. And you’re the most powerful witch I’ve ever met.” Saimura picked up one of the pillows and toyed with its weight. “Those rashan’im won’t know what hit them.” Saimura tossed the pillow. It slapped softly into John’s head and then flopped to the floor.
John picked up the pillow. He considered hurling it back at Saimura, but instead he gently threw it onto the bed.
There was no point in arguing with Saimura or fearing for his safety. Tomorrow would come and John would do everything in his power to protect his fellow Fai’daum. A small feeling of pride spread through him. His power was no small matter. Maybe Saimura was right. Maybe they would win the day and all would come out unscathed.
“Do you think they might be serving food downstairs yet?” John asked.
“They might.” Saimura smiled at the change of subject. “I was thinking of going across the street to the Bower Hostel.”
“Why?” John asked. Saimura looked a little sheepish.
“We couldn’t get rooms in the same hostel on such short notice, so Fenn is staying alone at the Bower and I thought…” Saimura trailed off. His cheeks flushed slightly.
“Oh,” John said. “Go. Definitely go. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You’re sure?” Saimura asked.
“Absolutely.”
“All right.” Saimura started for the door, then turned back and tossed the room key to John. �
�I’ll come and wake you a little before daybreak, so get to bed early.”
“I’ll probably fall asleep as soon as my stomach is full,” John assured him.
After Saimura’s departure, John returned to the window and watched the street. A few moments later he saw Saimura cross the ruts of mud and snow and walk to a smaller red brick building. The sign outside it was painted with a wine cup and branches of fruit blossoms. John’s gaze briefly moved up the road to the silhouette of the prison.
John turned away. He needed to get something to eat.
The dining room downstairs was large but already crowded. Two large hearth fires radiated heat and cast twisting red shadows as the flames jumped and flickered. Despite the warmth of the room, he kept his coat on and his hood up. John seated himself at the far end of a communal table where the shadows were deepest.
He held his room key up and a serving girl brought him a cup of hot wine. She looked him over, frowning at his stained coat.
“If you’re cold, there’s a table closer to the fire,” the serving girl offered.
“This is fine,” John said. “Some friends of mine might come by and I’d like to be near the door to catch them if they do.”
“Suit yourself.” The serving girl shrugged. She glanced to John’s key. For a moment she looked confused as she took in the design etched into its metal face. She straightened suddenly. “What can I bring for you, sir?” Her tone had become oddly servile.
John guessed that the crest on the key identified him as one of Niru’lam’s important guests. He certainly didn’t look the part.
“I just need something to eat,” John told her. “Thank you.”
“Right away, sir.” The girl bowed and then hurried back to the kitchen. John slipped the key back into his pocket. He sipped hot, spiced wine and idly watched the men who occupied the other tables. Most appeared to be in their thirties or forties and well dressed. John overheard a number of men comparing the qualities of Lisam cotton and Bousim linen. One of the few women sitting at the tables laughed at something her companions said. Her high voice carried over the low conversation of the men, but unlike so many Basawar women, she didn’t seem embarrassed to be heard.
