2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows

by Ginn Hale

  “I’ll buy you something on our way to Blackbird Bridge.” Alidas picked up his boots but didn’t move to put them on. He just stood with his back to Kahlil. “You should pack your things.”

  Kahlil nodded. There wasn’t anything for him to pack, but he understood that Alidas wanted to be alone. Kahlil returned the canvas enclosure and made his bed. He supposed it was the last thing he would ever do here.

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the distance of the Blackbird Bridge, the great palaces looked ornate and tiny, like silver foil charms that a child might have lost in the drifts of morning snow. The early sun glittered over needle-like spires and glowed across bright mosaic walls. Jath’ibaye’s Glass Palace flashed like a faceted diamond.

  The streets were still largely empty, save for few street vendors gathered in the plaza several blocks behind them. Occupied with preparing their carts and wares for morning business, none of them even spared a glance to the distant bridge where Alidas and Kahlil stood.

  “Work has already been arranged for you,” Alidas told him. “You’ll be hired as a runner for the Lisam household. The position should offer you some freedom of movement.”

  Kahlil managed a nod. He didn’t want to be doing this. “My name? Still Kyle?”

  “Kyle’insira. It has a good southern sound to it, doesn’t it?” Alidas’ smile looked forced. Kahlil could see that he wanted their parting to seem easy and natural, as if he were going to just another job.

  “It’s not as southern as Alidas, but it’ll do.”

  Kahlil lapsed into silence, staring out at the distant, gleaming palaces. He knew he should be going. His gaze shifted to the walled-off, barren land where the Black Tower had once stood. It was said to be cursed. Not even the gaun’im would build anything in its place. Looking at it sickened him and yet he continued doing it.

  “So, how are the clothes?” Alidas’ voice pulled his gaze away from the desolated land.

  “They’re good.” Kahlil slid his hand into the deep pocket of the coat and again ran his fingers over the key that had been there when he had first put the coat on. There was something deeply comforting about touching a key and turning it through his fingers. It felt like a door key. Kahlil supposed that he found it familiar and reassuring because it implied that there was a place for him; a door that would open to him. He supposed this sensation must be one he carried with him from a time when he had belonged somewhere, when he’d had a home.

  But he didn’t have a home now and the key was meaningless if he didn’t know what it was for.

  “You know, there’s a key in my pocket.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to mention that.” Alidas smiled and this time it seemed genuine. “I rent a room on Water Street in the Redbrick District. It’s the black door behind the bone carver’s shop. If there’s trouble, you can go there. It’s not too pleasant, but it will give you a roof over your head and the people there aren’t likely to ask any questions.”

  “Someone lives there?” Kahlil asked.

  “In my rooms? No.” Alidas shook his head. “I use the place from time to time for business that I can’t conduct at the barracks.”

  Kahlil thought of asking what kind of business Alidas conducted there but thought better of it. Alidas had already offered him more information than was prudent—certainly more than Kahlil would have expected.

  Alidas said, “If you don’t have anywhere else to go after you’re done with all of this, then we can meet there.”

  “Thank you.” Kahlil didn’t know why he found the offer so deeply touching—perhaps because he never would have expected it, and somewhere deep in him, he had wanted something like this desperately. Just having this small key made the entire prospect of working alone against a gaunsho seem easier. It assured him that he hadn’t been abandoned.

  “You should get going,” Alidas said at last.

  Kahlil obediently turned and started down the bridge.

  “Be careful,” Alidas called after him.

  “You as well.” Kahlil didn’t look back and doubted that Alidas did either. He started toward the Seven Palaces, the wealthiest district of Nurjima.

  In the last two years, he had worked almost exclusively in the west bank slums, rooting out wanted men who hid outside of Alidas’ legal authority. He had grown used to the squalor and the smell of open sewers. He was accustomed to working his way through the mazes of squats where northern refugees had been abandoned to their own means.

  The genteel open spaces of the other half of the city struck him as strange. As the sun continued to climb, the shadow burned away to pale modulations in the light-colored shop walls and wide clean streets. Even the alleys were open and spacious. There was nowhere for a man to crouch, no trash or dark shadows to camouflage his form.

  He wondered if he had always thought this way. Had he come from a shadowy slum or some dark, crowded place? The question didn’t stay with him. It, like any thought about his past, was an idle fantasy. He could decide that he had come from the Kingdom of the Night if he liked; it made no difference now.

  The streets were black and shiny with melted snow. He crossed two tracks running parallel down the center of the wide main street just before the huge yellow trolley whipped past. Its bright paint and shining brass fixtures glowed against the sedate beige bricks of the surrounding buildings.

  He had read about the trolley in the papers, but at the time he had been thinking of other things. Now it struck him as fascinating. No tahldi pulled it and no coal engine powered it. It ran on the currents trapped in the unassuming black cables strung overhead. The cables looked so unimpressive, even a little ugly.

  The trolley pulled to a stop at the top of the hill and a group of young women climbed aboard it. Then they and the trolley disappeared down the other side of the hill.

  Nothing like the trolley existed in the west bank slums. According to the newspaper, the lack of trolleys and mechanical industry throughout all but the richest areas was due to Jath’ibaye’s restriction on exports of iron from the northlands.

  Jath’ibaye’s actions mystified him. Why wouldn’t a man engage in what would certainly be a profitable venture for him and his Fai’daum?

  An older man and his three wives stepped out of a shop door directly into Kahlil’s path. The light scent of daru’sira and honey wafted out behind them until a slim waiter closed the door. As the husband led his wives across the street one of the women glanced back at him. He grinned at her and she quickly averted her gaze.

  He had been out in the world for years, he realized, but he had not been a part of it. He had not thought about it. He had been lost in the ruins of his memory. Living in the barracks and working for Alidas had given him structure. It had given him support and safety, and it had sheltered him from the rest of the world.

  Now, he would soon lose the structure of the last two years. He would have to make his own decisions and direct his life. It should have been a terrifying thought, but instead Kahlil felt only excitement.

  He didn’t know why he had felt so disinterested and numb to the world for so long. Perhaps it had been a result of such deep injuries. But now he remembered that he had once loved making new discoveries.

  Kahlil quickened his pace up the hill. He stopped at the top to briefly take in the Seven Palaces and Jath’ibaye’s Glass Palace. This would be the last assassination he performed for Alidas. If he lived, he would be free. His future depended on what he did in the gated thoroughfares and aged buildings below.

  The Seven Palaces of the Gaunsho’im were solid, huge structures. Even from the distance of this hill, Kahlil could tell that they’d been built in an earlier age when heavy walls and holy symbols alone could rebuff any assault. They came from a time before godhammers, mortars, and grenades. The palaces formed a crescent around the smaller but more modern Gaunsho’im Council Hall. By comparison, the golden dome and slender white pillars gave the Council Hall the look of fragile modernity.

 
And then, just a little west of the Seven Palaces, there was Jath’ibaye’s Glass Palace. It wasn’t a single structure so much as several strung together by covered walkways. Many of the buildings looked like the gray brick barracks that Kahlil was familiar with. They wouldn’t have been out of place in the Bousim military compound where he had been living. But there were other buildings that Kahlil could hardly believe existed in Basawar.

  They flashed and glittered in the light. The walls and ceilings were made of thousands of panes of glass and the barest metal supports. They seemed almost made of nothing and too fragile to believe. He could see directly inside. The dark green forms of trees and plants filled every space.

  Why build houses of something so delicate as glass? Why house trees indoors? Kahlil felt an intense urge to go there. He lifted his hand, touching the edges of the Gray Space. It would be easy to let himself in, but he wasn’t his own man yet. The Lisam Palace was where he was meant to be. He dropped his hand back into his pocket and continued down the hill. Soon enough he would travel wherever he wished.

  •••

  Two weeks later, Kahlil thought that he might end up going everywhere in the entire city before the month was out. During the course of his work as a Lisam runner, he had already navigated most of the streets and alleys of the wealthy North Shore, Silver Row and Five Fountains Districts. He had delivered notes, cakes, hats and velvet coats. Today, a cage of small white birds with vivid red beaks was tied into the basket of his bicycle.

  The battered bicycle that he had been issued made a series of almost human moans as he pedaled it up the steep incline of Bakers’ Hill. The birds chirped in response to each groan and squeak.

  Suddenly ahead of him a form rocketed up over the top of the hill. A spindly black silhouette of limbs and wheels arced up against the pale afternoon sky and then plunged downward.

  “Lisam runner! Out of my way!” the young man shouted from his bicycle.

  The runner came barreling down the hill, so fast that his taupe uniform became a mere blur. Kahlil just barely caught a glance of his flushed face and brown hair.

  Kahlil swung out of the way of his fellow runner. The birds in his basket shrieked and fluttered their clipped wings wildly. Kahlil heard the other runner’s laughter rising up from behind him.

  It had to have been Fensal. Kahlil had seen him launch himself and his bicycle across gaps and down staircases. The sight was always accompanied by Fensal’s weird laughter. It sounded half like happiness and half like a scream. A few times the laugh had been followed by a genuine scream and a crash. But Fensal always got back up and continued on his way.

  Kahlil glanced back in time to witness Fensal zip in front of the Golden Trolley and swerve down another of Nurjima’s steep hills. Doubtless, the wives and daughters of the gaun’im in the trolley had been horrified. Letters would probably be written to the city’s two respectable papers.

  “Once again the Lisam runners prove themselves a menace,” Kahlil murmured to himself. Fensal would cut out the article and post it in their barracks.

  “Kyle!” A woman up ahead flagged him down. Yu’mir had been the first person to befriend him in the Lisam household. She didn’t stand out, particularly dressed in the tawny uniform of a Lisam runner. Her dark skin, brown eyes, and brown hair all seemed to melt into the dull umber of her wool coat. She had a plain face and unremarkable body that made her easy to mistake for other people and hard to pick out in a crowd. If Kahlil hadn’t known she was a grown woman, he too might have mistaken her for a boy. Especially dressed in boy’s clothes as she was today.

  “Vuran Yu’mir.” Kahlil greeted her formally with a slight bow of his head. “What are you doing out alone and dressed as a runner?”

  “House Steward Desh’oun sent me. There weren’t any men free to escort me, so he thought that I would be safest if I dressed as a boy.” Yu’mir frowned down at her oversized pants. “I was lying in wait for Fensal and for you as well.”

  “Fensal and me?” Kahlil asked. “Why?”

  “All the runners are being called back.” Yu’mir glanced down at the basket of his bicycle. The little birds chirped at her and held open their mouths, expecting bits of seed bread.

  “They’re really noisy,” Yu’mir commented.

  “They’re hungry.” He dug a few crumbs out of his coat pocket and tossed them into the cage. The birds quieted immediately and flitted to the floor of their cage to peck up as many crumbs as they could. “Why have we been called back?”

  “Jath’ibaye.” Yu’mir lowered her voice. “His ship was seen coming down the river past the west pier. He should be arriving at his Glass Palace any time now.”

  “He was supposed to still be three days away.” Kahlil couldn’t imagine how an entire ship could have moved ahead that quickly.

  “Someone made a mistake somewhere up the river,” Yu’mir said. “They were following the wrong ship. That, or Jath’ibaye switched ships in one of those little river towns. I’m sure someone’s going to lose his skin for it.”

  “So, now what?” Kahlil was asking himself as much as Yu’mir. He hadn’t had time enough to get to know all the Lisam house staff, much less guess who might be the assassin in their midst.

  “Now the entire household’s up in arms. There are invitations that haven’t even been written that will have to be delivered and gifts that haven’t been picked up. Everyone’s got new rush jobs.”

  Kahlil continued up the hill, walking his bicycle so that Yu’mir could keep up with him.

  “I’ll return to the house as soon as I’ve delivered these birds,” Kahlil said. With all the new work he wondered how easily he could slip away. He wanted to do an advance survey of Jath’ibaye’s security, if possible.

  “How much farther do you need to take them?” Yu’mir asked.

  “The birds? Just over the hill,” Kahlil replied. “How are you getting back to the house?”

  “That ass Fensal was supposed to give me a ride, but he refused. He said it would dishonor my womanhood.” Yu’mir scowled. “Does he think I can just get on the trolley like some nobleman’s wife? And I’m dressed like this. The door guard will throw me on my ass.”

  “I’ll take you back.”

  “Thanks.” Yu’mir smiled at him.

  Kahlil was about to say something more to her, but they had reached the top of the hill and the shine of the river far below caught Kahlil’s attention.

  Dozens of ships and fishing boats lined the river piers. Anonymous vessels that he had never taken much note of came and went. Now each seemed fascinating. Any one of them could be carrying Jath’ibaye. Any one of them carried the potential to alter his life forever. Just watching them, Kahlil could feel his heart begin to race. His last job had finally begun.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Lisam Palace was vast and grand, but also cluttered by an overabundance of images of long-horned bulls, the Lisam emblem.

  Kahlil doubted that anyone other than the Lisam noblemen and their breeders had ever seen one of the rare beasts alive. But certainly everyone in the Lisam Palace saw them in every other condition. They charged and menaced as statues; they glared out from shields and paintings. Bulls were carved into the furniture and over the doors. They reared up from the geysers in the courtyard fountains and stood on the gaunsho’s table, cast in small butter molds and carved in ice. They were even stitched onto the shoulders of Kahlil’s uniform.

  After leaving Yu’mir near the servant’s quarters, Kahlil made for the kitchen’s backdoor. Inside, several women cooks stood glowering at a line drawing of one of the animals. Desh’oun, the house steward of the Lisam Palace, held the picture out in one bony hand and pointed to various areas of the bull’s anatomy with the other.

  The air of the kitchen was thick with the smell of roasting dog meat. A skinned dog carcass lay on the long wooden table. Carved bones had been tied to the dead animal’s head and goat hooves had been sewn to the stumps where its paws would have once been. It did
n’t really look like a bull calf, but it at least gave that impression.

  Wooden bowls of stuffing lay beside the carcass and the older gray-haired woman held a clay salt jar in her arms.

  “It is a bull. It must have them.” Desh’oun tapped the picture for emphasis.

  “Can’t we make this one a girl?” the youngest of the cooking women asked. Kahlil couldn’t remember her name, but she was pretty with reddish hair and a wild pattern of freckles that spilled across her cheeks. The other two women’s fingers were tattoed with marriage bands but hers were still bare.

  “There are no girls,” Desh’oun snapped. “They are only males.”

  “Then how do they breed?” the freckled woman asked. Her two companions lowered their faces to hide their smirks.

  Desh’oun’s usual tolerance had obviously been worn out. With an expression of pure anger he lifted his hand as if he would strike the woman. Instantly, all three of the cooking women cowered back. Kahlil started forward but Desh’oun dropped his hand down to his side. He drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

  “You will prepare the roast exactly as it is shown here.” He smacked the picture down onto the long wooden table. “And if you do not, I will personally come into your rooms while you sleep and butcher you like bitches for the gaunsho’s breakfast.”

  All three women nodded and returned to the wooden table. They didn’t look up or speak a word between them until Desh’oun had turned and left.

  It wasn’t like Desh’oun to threaten his staff for such a small joke. Doubtless, Jath’ibaye’s early arrival had not only thrown all of the gaunsho’s plans into disarray but also ruined all of Desh’oun’s careful arrangements.

  The smell of sweets and meat rolled over Kahlil and the scent reminded him of somewhere he had once been. The pungent oil and warm bread seemed to tug at a distinct memory. Kahlil closed his eyes, letting it come as it would.