Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  Akhom snapped his fingers, and another guard dressed like the one at the gate stepped out of a cluster of trees not twenty feet to Salim’s left. Though this one was slimmer than the gatekeeper, there should still have been no way for Salim to miss him at this distance, not when he’d spent most of his lifetime noticing such things as a matter of survival.

  “Tea for Mr. Ghadafar, please, Farik.”

  The servant bowed deeply and then disappeared into the house proper through another doorway.

  Then they were alone again—or at least, so far as Salim could tell. He doubted that a man as wealthy as Akhom Qali would take tea with a stranger unprotected.

  Unprotected, hell—the merchant had just proven that he could outmaneuver Salim twice in the time it had taken him to sit down. If either of them was in danger here, it wasn’t Qali.

  Akhom, for his part, hadn’t moved since the servant exited. He continued to observe Salim over the top of his teacup. Though his smile was genial enough, like an indulgent grandfather watching the antics of his progeny, the deep-set eyes above it were cold and calculating. After a moment, he spoke.

  “I must apologize,” he said, voice still light. “I have a terrible distaste for games, and yet I fear that I have engaged in them twice already. Perhaps we may speak plainly, as befits gentlemen of the desert?”

  Salim nodded slowly. Akhom set down his teacup.

  “You are Salim Ghadafar,” he said, taking on the tone of a teacher reciting facts. “Sometimes called the Priest Who’s Not a Priest. You work as a free agent at the Pharasmins’ behest, ferreting out undead abominations and those who would seek to extend their lives via that heresy, especially those who prey on innocents. You are good at your job—good enough that though none had met you in person, several of the priests in the Lamasaran diocese had heard of you before you ever arrived. And you’re here now, in my garden, to investigate the death of Faldus Anvanory.”

  Again, Salim could only nod. “You are remarkably well informed.”

  Akhom acknowledged the compliment with a little sideways bob of his head. “It pays for one in my line of work to be so. For you see, while I do a fabulous business in caravan management, as did the departed Faldus Anvanory, it is not my only calling. I’m also what you might call a career criminal.”

  Still the man’s tone was conversational. Salim felt as if he’d just jumped off a pier into the ocean—that moment when the water first closes over one’s head.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Salim did his best to match Qali’s casual tone.

  Qali’s answer was immediate. “Because I’m confident that, not only are you completely unaffiliated with the Lamasaran authorities, but even if you did make it your mission to uncover some wrongdoing on my part, your beard would be as white as mine before you found any evidence beyond this conversation. Ah, thank you, Farik.”

  The servant reappeared, setting down a little table on which rested two blood oranges and a steaming cup of tea for Salim. The servant salaamed and backed off twenty feet toward the wall, but made no attempt to regain his former hiding place.

  “None of that is the real reason, however,” Qali continued. “The real reason I’m telling you this is that I believe my extralegal affairs to be the simplest and most accessible proof that I had nothing to do with Faldus Anvanory’s death.”

  “And how is that?” Salim asked, reaching for the tea. It was possible Akhom had poisoned it, of course, but at this point Salim was so obviously at the other man’s mercy that it hardly mattered. He sipped. It was delicious, as strong as black coffee but with the traditional Osirian cinnamon.

  “Simple!” Akhom seemed delighted that Salim was such a willing participant in his little scene. “Though I haven’t been approached officially, I’ve heard through various channels that Faldus was murdered in his home, and that his soul is now somehow being held for ransom, with the price being the sun orchid elixir. Furthermore, it appears that the Church of Pharasma has been drawn into the matter due to the priests having accepted a rather large sum for a resurrection in the event of Faldus’s demise, as well as out of general professional pride. Souls going missing is hardly good publicity for the goddess of death, let alone her servants. Is this all more or less correct?”

  Salim indicated that it was.

  “The irony there is delightful, of course,” the merchant said, his tone almost apologetic. “That a church devoted to the cycle of birth and death would be devoting so much energy to helping a dead Taldan extend his life...but I’m sure you already appreciate that.”

  Salim did, but his caution was slowly giving way to irritation at the man’s pedantry. “I believe you were about to explain how your knowledge of the situation and your criminal ties place you above suspicion?”

  Akhom patted the air in a don’t-be-hasty motion. “I’m getting to that. Be patient.”

  “Now, just as I did not press regarding your atheistic Rahadoumi heritage, I’m sure you’ll understand and extend me the same courtesy if I don’t go into my illicit holdings and dealings in depth. Suffice it to say that I have a great number of connections, both here and abroad, that are capable and confidential when it comes to making things disappear. That applies to money, artifacts, unfavorable documents—and people, I regret to say.” He looked to Salim’s sword, resting at his hip in a prime drawing position. “Judging by the way you adjust that without thinking when sitting down, I’m sure you’re also well acquainted with that occasional necessity.”

  Salim ignored the comment. “I’m still not following you.”

  Akhom looked disappointed.

  “Perhaps a demonstration would be more enlightening.” The merchant reached for one of the oranges and studied it for a moment, holding it out to allow Salim to do the same. Then he held it up in the air above his head.

  “Farik!” he called. “This orange offends me.”

  The movement was too fast for Salim to follow. One second Akhom was sitting there holding up the orange, and the second both he and Salim were being showered with an explosion of juice and pulp, followed by the clatter of a blade striking stone on the opposite side of the courtyard, where Salim had entered. Akhom calmly lowered his arm so that Salim could see the perfect half-sphere of orange, bisected neatly and horizontally by the servant’s throwing knife. Salim glanced at Farik, who had already returned to his posture of bored attention.

  “This was an orange,” Akhom said. “A man is a far easier target, and the desert has no shortage of shallow graves, nor of men willing to keep a prisoner alive and hidden to prevent resurrection. I am a criminal, it’s true, but I am an honest one, as I believe I have proved. And first and foremost, I am a businessman.”

  He looked deep into Salim’s eyes. “I will not say that Faldus Anvanory was a friend, but he was affable, chasing after the elixir with the simple enthusiasm of a dog after a stick. If I had wished to remove him from the situation, I could have done so at any point before the auction and been virtually assured of winning the elixir. If I lost and decided I was unhappy with that situation, I could have sent any number of thieves into his house after it, or simply had both him and his daughter killed before it could be delivered so that it would be auctioned again. As it is, I played a dangerous game of low-bid, and I lost.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, still holding the dripping orange.

  “I will accept the next five years as a lesson,” he said. “And then I will bid again. And next time I will win.” He looked hard at Salim, and there was not the slightest trace of uncertainty in his declaration.

  “Now do you see?” the older man asked.

  “I see,” Salim said. And he did.

  Akhom smiled again, and this time there was no question why Faldus had referred to him as the Jackal.

  “Now then,” the merchant said, raising the bleeding half of the orange and offering it to Salim. “Fruit?”

  Chapter Four

  The Que
en of Spice

  Salim left Akhom Qali’s mansion several hours later. Their business concluded, the merchant had insisted that Salim stay and visit with him, exchanging stories of their travels in Avistan and farther abroad, his enthusiasm for Salim’s company seemingly genuine. Despite the man’s flagrant—and, Salim had to admit, deserved—arrogance regarding his own cunning and intellect, Qali proved a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist, and Salim had found himself enjoying the diversion. It was true that the merchant could be both patronizing and greasily unctuous, as Neila had implied, but neither were qualities he hadn’t dealt with dozens of times among priests and nobility.

  It was all staged, of course. Akhom’s pageant had clearly been orchestrated from start to finish, all the way down to the show with the oranges. He’d known Salim or someone like him would come sniffing around, and had no doubt been as well briefed about Salim by the time he arrived as High Priest Khoyar himself. But even knowing every word had been carefully scripted in advance didn’t make Akhom’s argument any less convincing. In this case, Akhom’s obvious means—both financial and criminal—effectively eliminated his motive, at least where the elaborate kidnapping plot was concerned.

  Which meant that it was now midafternoon, and Salim was already zero for one. If Lady Jbade was anything like her competitor, Salim might as well head back to the port right now and see if the Osirian river barge was still taking passengers for its return trip. It wasn’t often that Salim was outclassed that easily. Once a day was plenty.

  But enough of that. If Akhom wasn’t guilty, then by some lines of reasoning it made it that much more likely that Lady Jbade was, and the first order of business in any puzzle was disproving the most likely solutions. Even if he uncovered nothing today, he would have learned something.

  Following Olar’s instructions, Salim began to walk northwest through the city toward the theater district he had skirted the day before. Though he did his best to circumvent the chaos of the open market—a bustle that had once been so familiar as to be completely inaudible—it still spilled out onto street corners, hawkers enthusing and beggar children dogging his heels with cries of “One copper, Honored One! One copper!” Were he a more obvious foreigner, they would have mobbed him until he couldn’t move. As it was, the way he walked and the ease with which he at once acknowledged and ignored them bespoke his familiarity, and they stayed out of cuffing range, eventually abandoning him for easier prey.

  After a time, the shops and homes gave way once more to the glitter of unlit lanterns and the cries of barkers that signified the beginning of the theater district proper. Some of the venues were smaller than a simple dwelling, just mud boxes with four walls and men to accept the coppers that purchased admission. Some didn’t even have that much, but were rather canvas-walled tents, or woven stockades through which passersby could discern the faint shapes of sinuous forms dancing to tambours and castanets—a calculated preview that was even more effective for what it gave away free. The shows the barkers espoused ran the gamut from traditional mummers’ pageants and dancing troupes to erotic shadow plays and unnatural couplings that would make a Calistrian blanch. These delights were proclaimed loud and long for the benefit of anyone who cared to listen, and Salim saw many young boys leaning near the entrances to the more exotic venues, possessing neither the funds nor the age to get them inside but being educated all the same.

  As Salim continued along his course, the buildings got steadily larger and grander, becoming proper multistory theaters and performance halls. Though some still advertised illicit fare—as with much of the world, sex often prevailed where talent was scarce—these were as opulent as the strait-laced establishments, becoming true cabarets and brothels rather than back-room rutting halls. The young starlets who hung out of windows displaying their wares were as brown as sun-baked earth, dark hair loose or braided, and eyes dusted with kohl or aquamarine. Most were beautiful, in the smooth-skinned Thuvian fashion, and many danced to better highlight their natural blessings. Some sang in threes and fours, their gentle voices blending into a siren song that flowed out into the streets like cool water. Among traders along the Path of Salt, it was said that if a Lamasaran girl’s body couldn’t satisfy you, her voice would.

  Salim ignored their calls and shimmies and continued down the street, allowing the determination in his stride to cut a path as straight as any sword. When he reached the theater Olar had specified—an arched affair with a fresco of several tiny, phoenixlike birds—he turned and began up a slightly smaller avenue which did something few others in Lamasara did: it climbed. The slope wasn’t much, but in a town that was almost completely flat, the difference was immediately noticeable.

  It was a trick as old as the desert itself—simply pile earth and rubble over collapsed structures and build on top of them rather than clearing them away—but the view still increased the property’s value accordingly. By the time Salim was most of the way up the artificial hill, he was able to look out over several of the theaters’ rooftops and see the rest of the city, picking out a few other such mottes, as well as landmarks like the royal palace and the Pharasmin cathedral.

  At the top of the hillock stood a building every bit as fabulous as Qali’s compound or Anvanory Manor. This one eschewed Qali’s featureless mud brick walls and abundant greenery in favor of a many-storied construction and small, artfully landscaped gardens of stones and native succulents. The walls were painted in brilliant desert colors, from sand yellow to the red of the sunset, yet these features paled in comparison to the decorations that lined the wide front porch.

  The decorations were women. Women of all shapes and colors, from a black-skinned Zenj Mwangi woman with the proud shoulders of a jungle warrior to an impish Vudrani in saffron silks, and even a purple-haired gnome whose plum-colored nipples were visible shadows through the gauzy white wrap she wore. Short and tall, willow-thin or well upholstered, there was no question that each was striking in her own way. A full dozen of these women lounged in chairs or perched on benches, laughing and playing games with colored stones or quietly conversing with each other. Several looked up as Salim approached, and by the time he stopped at the edge of their tiled patio, all were studying him, demurely through lowered lashes or with brazen and appraising stares. One of them, a slim girl who appeared a native of the north coast, stood and sashayed forward to greet him.

  “Welcome, Lord,” she purred. “See anything you like?”

  Her smile was inviting—not just the doxy’s trade sign, but something with a touch of genuine friendliness—and Salim warmed to it involuntarily.

  “Several things,” he said, returning her smile with a small one of his own.

  The other women paused in what they were doing and either sat up straighter or leaned more languorously, depending on individual strategy. The lead girl waved an arm to encompass them all.

  “Any or all, my lord. A dancer or three to envelop you in the Naiad’s Veils. The most passionate love stories of history and legend brought to life at your feet, or in your lap. A nightingale to sing you to sleep—eventually. Any or all.”

  Salim shook his head and made a show of regret that was not completely feigned.

  “My apologies, most talented mistresses, but I’m afraid I cannot indulge. I seek specific company.”

  “Oh?” The spokeswoman arched an eyebrow. “Fair enough. Who is it that you desire? Someone you saw in a performance, perhaps?”

  “I need to speak with Lady Jbade.”

  At once, the women’s demeanor changed. Gone was the lolling cathouse frivolity, the careful air of sensuality. All around him, bared flesh tensed and leaned forward, subtly straining to catch his words. The lead woman smiled again, but this time it was harder, and with a touch of pity.

  “Go home, priest,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re a reasonably attractive man, but you have neither the funds nor the status to engage the lady’s interest, and she’s not one to suffer proselytizing. Put her from your mind, and you�
�ll be much happier. Better yet, allow one of us to aid you in forgetting.”

  Again, Salim shook his head.

  “I have business with the lady. Of a different sort.”

  The woman looked at him critically for a long moment, arms crossed pugnaciously over high breasts, then nodded. At her motion, the women behind her relaxed and lost interest, returning to their games and posturing. Salim got the feeling that, had he tried to force his way into the manor, he wouldn’t have made it more than a few steps.

  “Come with me,” the spokeswoman said, and led him across the porch and into the building itself.

  Lady Jbade’s manor was as different from Qali’s or the Anvanorys’ as night from day. Where the other two had been residences—albeit extraordinary ones, their daily routines fueled by entire villages of servants—this place looked like a combination theater and brothel. The grand entryway was hung thick with silks and tapestries, the walls beyond sporting murals and mosaics of tiny, colored pieces of glass blown from desert sands. Several more women lounged on low couches or leaned over the upstairs balcony, seemingly with no other purpose than to be seen.

  The spokeswoman led, and Salim followed. In lieu of doorways, most of the chambers that extended off of the house’s hallways bore curtains of diaphanous cloth or beads that could be drawn across the opening. Some had been left open, and through these Salim saw women dancing slowly and sensually for men with expensive clothes and wide grins. Some of these women wore elaborate costumes, others cascades of tiny bells that provided their own accompanying music. Still others wore nothing at all. And these were just the doors that were left open. Of the rooms they passed, twice that number had the curtains drawn, and from behind these came laughter, moans, and the occasional shriek.

  Salim and the woman ascended three flights of stairs, at last coming out into an antechamber that Salim judged to be on the topmost story. Before them was yet another of the cascading thread-curtains, but this one was embroidered with an ornate tessellation of flowers and dragons, shining with thread of gold. To either side stood two oiled and muscular men wearing loincloths and holding short halberds whose delicately curved blades looked sharp enough to shave with.