Nothing moves. The salt wastes make him imagine fields of snow. He has never seen snow, except for a thin midwinter gleam on some distant peaks of the Coastal Range. He has heard it said that there are mountains in the world where the snow never melts. It seems an outlandish claim, but then, he has never seen any other mountains. How many can he even name? There are the lush Blue Mountains of the north, which some call the Jewels of Urrath. There are the Teeth of the Dead, a dark rumor from desert stories, and perhaps no more than rumor. And there are the titanic peaks Ariqina had somehow heard of, and in which she passionately believed: the Nightfires, climbing range upon range behind the city of Kasralys.
Kasralys. The great city-state, the Invincible City, fortressed in unbreachable walls. The last living shard of the Kasraji Empire. Kandri tells himself that he is certain: Ariqina is there. No other place in Urrath could have drawn her away from her clinic, from her beloved Valley, from him. What has she become, in these years he has wasted on war? A surgeon? Possibly, but she could wield a scalpel before she left the Valley. Her passion was medicine, the science of cures. She would be serving the poor of Kasralys (they must have their poor; didn’t everyone?) or testing their blood and bile in some old Imperial hospital. Perhaps she had found work with her hero, Dr. Tsireem, the one who inspired her with talk of the city in the first place.
Tsireem. Kandri sits up with a gasp. A puzzle-piece of memory has just snapped firmly into place. The satchel from Garatajik, the twice-sealed envelope. Letter of Introduction to Dr. T.R. Fessjamu.
Tsireem Fessjamu. Gods of Death, they’re allies. That letter is for Dr. Tsireem.
He had forgotten her last name. He’d only heard it once or twice. But Tsireem: that name he carries like a scar across his heart.
You could say they’d met. Kandri heard her speak before a large crowd in the Valley. She spoke of the Throat Rust—or as she called it, the World Plague. The crowd had liked her jokes: “So we’re resistant to the Plague, here in Urrath. The world calls that a miracle. I don’t. The Outlanders had to leave a little luck behind. If they’d tried to steal any more from us, it would have sunk their ships.”
She spoke of grave things lightly, even irreverently. She had visited the bleak memorial to the thousands executed in the Theater of Bones, and reminded the crowd that it was “the noble, cultured, civilized Kasrajis” who had built that palace of death. “Your enemies the Važeks merely carried on the tradition when the Empire fell. Savagery is not the province of the poor alone, my friends. Never believe that. Never believe a man can’t be a grotty little strangler, just because his nails are clean.”
She was—save for the Prophet herself—the most charismatic person ever to bother with a visit to the Sataapre. When her speech ended, a crowd of ninety escorted her to the next town, all of them aglow with the vision she’d shared: an educated Urrath, out from under the Quarantine, taking its rightful place in the world called Isp’rallal,” which only on that day did he learn meant “Island in the Stars.”
His family was there. Dyakra sang a song about the triumph of the humble. The Old Man smiled without craftiness or irony, and the smile took twenty years off his face.
Only Kandri was miserable. In the doctor’s presence, he felt a jealousy that left him witless, melting with rage. He knew why; there was no mystery. She had touched the one thing in all the world Kandri could not bear to think of sharing: Ariqina’s heart.
Dr. Tsireem was brilliant, dedicated, strong. She barely reached Kandri’s chin and had a face like a squirrel monkey, but her voice could blow the roof off a barn. She revealed nothing about her clan origins, but spoke of years spent among the Shôl—and they were enemies of the Važeks, so Tsireem was all right. Who could have guessed (besides the Old Man, maybe, who was nearly as well travelled as the doctor) that she had come from Kasralys?
She had stopped in Blind Stream for one reason: to meet a young nurse who was attempting something remarkable. An open clinic, where no one was barred from treatment, or beggared by the charges when the treatment was done. A clinic where you paid in proportion to your wealth: the most outrageous idea ever heard of in the Valley.
That nurse was Ariqina. Her clinic, just six months old, was already near collapse, for even the rich of the Upper Sataapre were not very rich, and the doctors were not pleased with what they took home. But Tsireem loved the idea, and since she had already impressed the best minds in the Valley as a genius, her praise transformed the clinic’s fortunes.
Ariqina’s, too: she and Tsireem had huddled for an hour before the doctor’s speech. That night, after the great woman’s departure, Ariqina came to Kandri and flung herself into his arms. Her eyes were moist but she was laughing. She was going to become a doctor, she was going to change the world. She would finish her studies in Nandipatar and visit the Xavasindran missions and acquire the new translation of the great Anatomyca of the Kasraj. She would become, thought Kandri, the Tsireem of the Sataapre Valley.
“I’ll help you,” he said. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, long and deep.
Kandri held her stiffly. He was frightened by her intensity, and at the same time aware that it was the very heart of why he loved her. Urrathi legends spoke of a well that led to the world’s fiery heart, from which heroes came to drink before embarking on a journey, or attempting great deeds. Ariqina might be kissing him, but it was heart-fire she tasted.
And it was Dr. Tsireem, not Kandri, who had led her to the well.
You’ve gone to Kasralys, haven’t you? Wait for me, look for me.
Ariqina would have laughed at such talk. You don’t even know if you’re coming to Kasralys. You don’t know where it is.
I’ll find it. Kandri can almost see her in the darkness: her slender shoulders, the mirth and joy in her gestures, hands never at rest until she dropped unconscious, dark eyes as urgent as a deer’s.
If you’re strong enough, she would have answered. If you’re ready to be wise. If all that lust and yearning has made you into someone the world could need.
She was so much harder than his drill sergeants. They just shouted and punished. Ariqina challenged him with love.
Kiss me, he tells her.
I can’t, fool, stop dreaming. I’m not there.
So he does stop. Immediately, a thought of danger takes her place, and he knows he has avoided it too long.
Water. By his count, they are carrying twenty-five faska, including the seven from the soldiers they killed. It is a dreadful weight; Kandri has never marched with more. But can it possibly suffice? Even traveling after sundown, each of them will need a full faska daily just to keep moving. Any less, and the deadly fatigue that comes with thirst will slow their pace.
Kandri had hoped they might cross the Yskralem in five days. Eshett says six or more. Six days: twenty-four faska. If all goes smoothly, they should make it with one to spare. But what if they are forced to linger? A full day? Two days? They will drink less in hiding than on the march, but they will still drink.
This time tomorrow, he thinks. If we don’t start by then, we’ll have to turn back. Into the jaws of the beast.
The wind rises. Its chilly hands probe his clothing, find a hundred paths to his skin. By the time Chindilan relieves him the moon has sunk low.
“Kandri?”
“. . .”
“Kandri?”
“What is it, Mek? Why aren’t you asleep?”
“The Prophet may think we’re assassins, hired assassins. But that’s not all. She thinks we’re doing the will of the yatra.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“And what if she’s right? I don’t know why I stabbed Garatajik. There’s no reason I should have.”
“Of course there’s a reason. You thought he was going to cut off my head.”
“But I heard him talking. After he fell, I realized that I’d heard quite a lot. About his hatred of Ojulan. The things he’d learned in the east.”
“You heard that?”
“And I stabbed him anyway.”
“Piss of the devil. All right, you heard something, but you weren’t clear about it, that’s all. We were in terrible danger and there was no time to think. Anyone could have done what you did. I might have done it: is that good enough for you? Shut your eyes, Mek. Go to sleep.”
“How did you know they were open?”
“I didn’t.”
“Can you feel my eyes, brother?”
“No. Idiot.”
“. . .”
“But don’t you lie there fucking staring at me!”
“What if I’m the one, Kandri? What if I’ve been carrying it all along?”
“Mek. How can you stand being you? I mean for even one day? If you were carrying the yatra, you wouldn’t be talking about carrying the yatra. And if I had it, I wouldn’t be talking to you this way either.”
“Yes, yes, you would.”
“Oh, Pitfire. So now you think it’s me?”
“I think it’s traveling with us. I can feel it pushing, sometimes. Like a thumb.”
“A thumb.”
“Like a dry thumb groping for my eyes.”
At daybreak, Eshett spots a hole in the side of the island, just yards from where they’ve slept. It is no more than a two-inch gap between hard stone and drifted scree, but a few minutes of digging with a chunk of driftwood reveals the mouth of a long, narrow cave. Chindilan makes a few exploratory stabs with Kandri’s machete, then lights a match and leans inside. “No ghouls,” he says. “In fact, there’s not a blessed thing inside. A lovely little sea cave, that’s what it is. Ang’s handed us a gift.”
The cave is less than three feet high. Kandri looks at the dark hole, and his old fear growls a warning. He turns and gazes across the seabed: the strangers have not reappeared. Survival before stupidity. In the cave, they will be out of the sun.
“I’ll keep watch,” says Eshett. “I can’t sleep again so soon.”
The men eat a quick breakfast, then crawl one by one into the cave. The floor of the cave is fine, cool sand, so comfortable that Mektu and Chindilan groan with pleasure as they stretch out. But to Kandri the space is almost as horrible as the grave-tunnel in Balanjé. His heart pounds; he wakes quivering, over and over, from whatever shallow sleep he achieves. Cries escape him, waking the others. Chindilan asks what in Jekka’s hell he’s so afraid of, and Mektu says with unusual sharpness to leave his brother alone.
At last it is Mektu’s snoring that dispels his terror. All the years he fell asleep to that horrible noise, a pig drowning in its slops. At times, he would wake Mektu with a kick and then deny it; today, the noise soothes him as nothing else could. He shuts his eyes and imagines the deep water that once filled this cave, the tug and billow of it, the vanished fish and octopi and eels.
After their fight over the “bush wife” remark, Kandri and Mektu opted for peace. It was a loveless, utterly strategic choice. Everyone in the household was watching them; Mektu even claimed that the Old Man would beat them if they didn’t appear to be getting along. Kandri didn’t want to believe that his father could be so dreadful, but he realized to his shame that Mektu was in a much better position to know. The Old Man had spent a great deal more time with his Blind Stream family than up on Candle Mountain.
So Kandri agreed to call his wound an accident: he had slipped in the bathroom, struck his head on the sink. And Mektu agreed to let him sleep on his floor.
In the presence of others, the boys put on a show: they were delighted with each other; they were friends. Kandri struggled with this performance. He was still furious with Mektu and disgusted with his snoring. And Kandri was an awful liar to boot. In the bathroom mirror, he forced his face into a smile, and recoiled at his own demented look.
But his brother was a natural. Everyone believed in his joy. Kandri can still recall Mektu’s effortless transformations: bitter contempt in the hallway, warm goodwill and a hand on Kandri’s shoulder when they reached the kitchen door. “Can I borrow three roda, Mother, if I make it up in chores? I want to buy Kandri a lemon roll. He’s never tasted one, and you know the shop runs out.”
Such easy kindness would last until the door shut behind them; then the coins and the smile would vanish into Mektu’s pocket, and there would be no more talk of lemon rolls. Mektu was so convincing that Kandri caught himself feeling grateful. He had a new brother; he was loved. Until they were alone again, he could forget that it was a lie.
But a lie sometimes evolves in the direction of truth. Three weeks after Kandri’s arrival, Mektu began to forget to sulk when they were alone. Then, very cautiously, he began telling jokes. Kandri laughed, even at the worst of them. He thought it was the least he could do.
One night, the brothers were lounging on the porch roof (gained from Mektu’s bedroom window, another privilege that had been his alone) looking out over the Valley at the lights of seven villages, faint pools of lamplight in the darkening Valley. It was early summer; they lay back eating chaffa nuts, drowning in the tireless din of tree frogs, and catching whiffs of the water pipe the old man was sharing with his cronies below. The stars were few and hazy; the younger children were already asleep. Mektu told a long tale of their “war” with the boys in the village of Sharp’s Corner, two miles downhill from Blind Stream. “They’re older, and they fight better too,” he admitted. “One of them kicked Betali in the nuts. His children will all have squeaky voices. That’s how it works, you know.”
Kandri winced. “Poor Betali.”
“You have to stand up to them,” said Mektu. “Always.”
“I will,” said Kandri.
Mektu studied him doubtfully. “Don’t be frightened,” he said at last. “Remember there’s a lot more of us.” Indeed, the Hinjumans were an enormous family: two adjacent houses belonged to uncles, and there were cousins beyond counting seeded across the Valley.
“We’re all fighters, Kandri. The women too. You should see Aunt Ingla make a fist.”
“I can fight,” said Kandri. It was the simple truth; he had blackened eyes, and worse, among the hardscrabble mountains boys. What shamed him was the guilt he felt, the longing to beg forgiveness of those he punched or kicked or threw to the ground, to pray for them in the temple. It was an awful weakness. Small children felt such remorse, not men of fourteen.
The night deepened. Mektu plucked fireflies from the air, held their wings, licked their glowing abdomens until his tongue blazed green and ghoulish. He urged Kandri to do the same, and Kandri did. The residue of the insects tasted like soap and made his tongue feel dry and foreign.
Mektu was pleased. “Now I’ll show you my treasure,” he said, and pulled Kandri to his feet.
Like monkeys, they scaled to the roof of the main house, leaped light-footed into a cypress tree, and from there descended to the wall between their own courtyard and that of the nearest uncle. “Don’t fall,” Mektu whispered. “His dog will wake the whole Gods-damned town. Also, there’s slugs.”
Kandri had good balance and didn’t mind the slugs, which oozed like butter through his bare toes. His only fear was that the fireflies might make him vomit up their dinner—a birthday dinner for their sister Dira, and the finest meal of Kandri’s life.
They crept on. Mektu pointed to a small, neat house down the hill from them, where the road made a hairpin turn. “That’s Uncle Chindilan’s place. You know about Chindilan, don’t you?”
“The Old Man’s best friend?”
Mektu looked as though the question had never entered his mind. “I suppose he is,” he said, “but that’s not what matters. He makes weapons. He’s going to make me a sword.”
Kandri blinked at Mektu: a thin, crooked boy with glowing goo on his lips.
“When?” he asked.
“What do you mean, when? Soon enough. Don’t be stupid.”
The wall led to other walls, and then to a much larger structure, which Kandri had admired since the day of his arrival. It was a bridge connecting nowhere with nowher
e, rising in great symmetrical arches over the folds and ravines of the Sataapre Valley. Greenery cascaded down its sides; bats whispered over and under its immensity. The boys stood some fifteen feet below its upper surface.
“Aqueduct,” said Mektu proudly. “It used to bring fresh water down to the port. Now it’s my secret road.”
“Did the Kasrajis build it?”
“Must have. There’s a heap of rocks near the sea called Old Palace, and that’s where the aqueduct ends. Be careful, will you? Every year, someone falls off the aqueduct and dies. We’re forbidden to climb it. Let’s go.”
There were footholds. They scaled the ruin and walked in darkness above the village, the pigsties and rice paddies, the great amphitheater of the Valley rushing down toward the stage of the sea. Mektu roamed ahead, impatient with Kandri’s awe. Now and then he’d turn and whisper Hurry with a green flash of tongue.
Blind Stream Village ended, and the wild margins of an apple orchard brushed the foot of the aqueduct; Mektu said they would come back in autumn and scavenge for fruit. They passed the seminary and the fish farm. They passed the New Life Orphanage, where forty years earlier, the tiny girl who became the Prophet had learned to fear the tread of the priests. A dancing white ribbon was the moon on Moti Lake, and then the outskirts of the next village began. Its name was Sed Hemon (“Blessed Dell”), but Mektu called it Chegemmon (“Yawn of Boredom”) because it was very religious and proper, and its girls were not allowed to climb trees or wade in the river or kick a ball in the road.
The first dozen houses were whitewashed, and joined together like cells in a hive. The aqueduct passed very close behind them, although it was choked along this stretch with more greenery than ever.
Kandri looked down through the tangled brush. “You could piss into their gardens,” he said.
Mektu pulled him back from the edge. “Don’t even joke about that,” he hissed. “And don’t make a sound unless I do. I’ve never brought anyone here, you understand? Not even Betali. If you mess this up—you’re not my brother. I don’t care what the Old Man says.”
Master Assassins Page 15
