by Ginn Hale
There surfaced an image of brilliant yellow fried eggs, stacks of pancakes, and maple syrup. Also the voice of a man he liked and a pair of shoes that looked like golden altars.
“You, runner.” One of the women’s voices broke into Kahlil’s thoughts. He opened his eyes and saw that all three of the cooking women were staring at him.
“What are you doing?” the freckled woman demanded.
“I was waiting for Desh’oun to leave.” Kahlil stepped forward into the light. “I didn’t want to catch his attention.”
“That’s wise enough. He’s fit to swallow a live weasel,” the freckled woman commented. She shoved a fistful of stuffing into the dog’s gaping abdomen.
“He was almost fit to swallow you,” the older, gray-haired woman said to the freckled woman.
The freckled woman’s expression grew sulky. Kahlil recalled that Desh’oun usually was rather friendly with her.
“It’s probably because of Jath’ibaye’s early arrival.” Kahlil wandered closer. Behind the women, he spied wire racks piled with cooling pies and custards. These shared space with steaming loaves of bread and something nearly black that he didn’t recognize. It all smelled good.
He’d been running emergency messages and dropping off parcels since noon without any break. The sky outside the kitchen windows was turning dull and dark. Spatters of black mud stippled his taupe pants.
“Don’t even think of it,” the black-haired woman said, catching the direction of Kahlil’s longing gaze.
“You look as sad as a roast pup.” The black-haired woman laughed.
“Shall we put you out of your misery and into the oven?” the freckled woman asked. “No, you look too stringy to eat.”
Kahlil said, “I’d say Fensal is your man. He’s got the right meat for a bull calf.”
All three women snickered and Kahlil took a step toward the table. There was a little dish of pitted cherries only two handlengths from him.
“So, who’s the roast for?” Kahlil indicated the dog carcass on the table, taking a casual half step closer to the bowl of cherries.
“You’d think it was for Parfir himself—” The gray-haired woman went instantly silent as she realized what she had said.
Since the destruction of the Payshmura, the name of Parfir was rarely called. His statues had been torn down, his worship outlawed by the Gaunsho’im Council. He was too dangerous of a god. Now, only old men and women ever slipped up and spoke of him or of his destructive incarnation, the Rifter.
“You think it will be for Jath’ibaye?” Kahlil went on as if he hadn’t heard her and all three of the women seemed relieved.
“No,” the black-haired woman answered, “Jath’ibaye wouldn’t come here the first night he’s arrived. Even if he did, he can’t appreciate the refinement of meat this tender. He eats like all those northern peasants: goat and wild taye.”
“Stringy things like you,” the freckled woman teased him.
“Even he’d choke on the aroma of me right now.” Kahlil shifted so that he was leaning against the edge of the table. The side of his right hand brushed the cool surface of the cherry dish. He continued, “So, can you tell who will be visiting the house just from what was told to the cook?”
“Of course. Desh’oun may not say who it’s to be served to, but when he tells us how it’s to be made, we know,” the old gray-haired woman said. “This dog will be for Gaunsho Lisam himself. Cherry stuffing is always for him.”
Kahlil frowned. All the other dishes had already been prepared and were nearly done. He could tell just from the heavy smell in the air. But this dog probably wouldn’t even get into the fire for another hour. By then it would be well past the time for dining.
“Are you going to have it cooking all night?” Kahlil forgot about the cherries.
“Certainly not.” The black-haired woman rolled her eyes. The other two shook their heads as if he were an idiot.
“It would be black as the Great Chasm by then.” The freckled woman finished with her bowl of stuffing and glanced around the table. Then she noticed how close Kahlil was to the cherry dish. She snatched it away from him.
“These aren’t for you,” she told him.
“That’s all you girls ever say to me,” Kahlil replied.
The other two women laughed at the paler girl’s reddening cheeks.
“So then,” Kahlil looked back to the gray-haired woman, “how long does it take to roast a dog like this one?”
“Hoping to wait up for a scrap?”
“Could be,” Kahlil said.
“With the belly cleaned out and the stuffing already cooked, it’ll be done in six hours,” the gray-haired woman replied, after a brief mental calculation. “A little past your bedtime I’d think.”
“Sadly true,” Kahlil conceded.
It was far too much for one man to eat. So it seemed Gaunsho Lisam would be having dinner guests at the unconventional hour of two in the morning. And it was obviously being ordered at the last minute. Perhaps Jath’ibaye’s early arrival had forced Gaunsho Lisam and his conspirators to rush. If so, then it was quite a sumptuous meal Gaunsho Lisam was providing—the kind of thing that only other noblemen would expect.
“I suppose I should get washed up.” Kahlil stepped back.
“Aren’t you going to try for some of these?” The freckled woman held out the dish of cherries.
“No.” Kahlil flicked his hand up and opened his fist so that she could see the palm full of cherries already there. “I wouldn’t want you to think I only came round for the food.”
Her shocked expression was perfect.
Kahlil fled the kitchen before the women could respond. He had just enough time for a short nap. Later tonight he would see how Gaunsho Lisam and his guests enjoyed their mock bull calf.
Chapter Eighteen
The night was never as dark as Kahlil expected it to be. The sky would darken to a dull slate but it never attained pure black. A darker night, a consuming blindness, existed within his mind. By comparison, the night sky over Nurjima was only a shadow.
Early on, Alidas had noted Kahlil’s uncanny ability to see through the darkness. Kahlil supposed it was one of the qualities that had made Alidas decide to use him for hunting wanted men. He couldn’t imagine what else Alidas could have seen in his beaten, half-mad condition that would have seemed worth saving.
Worth saving, but apparently not worth keeping.
Absently, Kahlil reached up to the base of his collarbones to touch Alidas’ key, which he wore on a chain around his neck. At times, an unreasonable fear of losing it overcame him. Keys were small things, easily misplaced and easily lost. Just the thought chilled him.
It frightened him in a way that creeping through the forbidden halls of the Lisam Palace couldn’t match. Here, there were only a scattering of night watchmen and soft dull shadows.
This tension was nothing compared to the cold horror that gripped him when he lay in bed, almost asleep, and the thought of losing the key washed over him. At these times, his fear seemed less like an emotion and more like poisoning. The scars all across his right arm would burn. And then, desperately, he would grip the key hanging from his neck. Slowly, the fear would drain from him.
Even now he caught himself stroking the key. The gesture had already become a habit. It soothed him just to touch it. His body relaxed as he traced the curves and edges of its form. The metal was always warm from lying against his bare skin.
His heartbeat quickened as the bright fire of a watchman’s lamp reflected a dozen yellow flames across the mirrors. He dropped the key back into his shirt, slipped back behind a statue of a rampant bull, and held perfectly still.
As the watchman walked, the polished mirrors on either side of him lit up like torches, reflecting his single lamp into a blaze. To Kahlil’s eyes the long hall was nearly as bright as it would have been by day. He could see the gold filigree etched into the faces of the mirrors, dull white quartz set into the eyes of the stat
ues, and even the soft luster of the butt of the watchman’s holstered pistol.
Kahlil caught his breath.
A moment later the watchman reached the end of the hall and marched down a staircase, the lamplight fading steadily as he descended.
Kahlil released the breath of air that had been growing stale in his lungs. He sped to the end of the hallway, to a different staircase that led up.
Whichever ancient Lisam gaunsho had commissioned this palace had obviously loved bulls, mirrors, and stairs. The center of the Lisam Palace itself was an immense structure of staircases and hall-like landings. It wound upward like a seashell. Smaller staircases branched out from it to the surrounding floors.
Looking down from the last, highest staircase, Kahlil could see the mosaic floor of the great hall at the very bottom level of the palace. Two red bulls locked horns across the smooth stretch of marble. Above him, he saw the last landing, then the carved beams of the roof and the long iron chains that supported the chandeliers.
Faint voices floated from the landing above. The men spoke with raised voices but didn’t argue, and from their tone they were perhaps a little drunk.
Kahlil followed the voices to a set of heavy wood doors studded with iron nails. Yellow light seeped from beneath the doors as did the sweet, pungent scent of roasted dog with cherry stuffing.
Even this close, the voices of the men inside remained unidentifiable to him. One man in particular had such a low voice that only rumbles carried through the heavy wooden door, hardly sounds so much as vibrations.
There was no way around it; he would have to go inside.
He closed his eyes and made a quick motion with his hand.
First he perceived only the darkness behind his closed lids. Then perfect silence enfolded him. The rumble of voices, the small sounds of silverware, and the crackling of the fire all went dead. Pale gray forms rose up like mist. The red iron and dark wood of the door hung in front of him now in gray monotones.
Where the wood of the door had been darker, now it was the denser iron that stood out as nearly black in Kahlil’s mind’s eye. Kahlil’s hands shone radiant white as he lifted them to the surface of the door. He could feel a kind of grain, not just in the wood but also in the iron nails. Forced in one direction it would divide cleanly. If the grain were forced in another direction it would splinter and tear against his flesh as he passed through.
When he had been a boy he had torn himself ragged and bloody, fighting against the grain of the Gray Space. It had taken him years to sense them. He remembered, very clearly, holding his hands in a bowl of still water and trying to feel the invisible bonds that held it together. Once, he had torn through the liquid in exactly the wrong manner. Hydrogen had ripped from oxygen and the oxygen had burst up in a sudden spout of flame.
Kahlil often wondered why, of so many of his memories, he retained this one so very clearly. The memory of his scorched fingers always came back to him just before he moved through solid objects in the Gray Space. It made him careful.
He flicked his fingers apart and stepped through the door as if he were a wraith.
The chamber wasn’t small, but compared to the looming dimensions of the great hall and the ballroom, its lower ceiling and hexagonal shape lent it a feeling of intimacy. Tapestries of hunting scenes insulated the walls. Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. Silk blinds, which would have served to hide musicians performing while guests ate, were folded and leaned up in the far left corner. The profusion of cloth gave the room a soft, quilted appearance.
Had he been able to feel heat from within the Gray Space, Kahlil imagined, he would have found this room warm, even a little too hot.
At the center of the room stood a heavy round table with four places set at it. Three of them were occupied by noblemen. The middle of the table was piled with food. The roast dog had already been sliced into cutlets and drizzled with gravy. Spiced bread, goat cheese, and tiny pickled weasel eggs were all stacked in dishes. There was fruit there as well, but it was difficult for Kahlil to recognize.
Deprived of scent and color, all of the food took on a lifeless quality. Kahlil couldn’t find it any more appetizing than hunks of modeled clay. Human beings too seemed foreign, like animated dolls, when viewed from the Gray Space. There was no color to them, no warmth, sound, or scent. They ate, gestured, spoke, and laughed, but it all seemed mechanical.
Kahlil gazed at the three men. They were all noblemen, all gaun’im. Kahlil had seen their faces in the papers. In passing, he had read some small bit of information about each of them, though most of it had to do with what plays they had attended or whose daughter they had taken for a wife.
Viewed from the Gray Space, Gaunsho Ourath Lisam’s curling red hair seemed dull. His full southern mouth looked like a deep gash. The gold Lisam seal, hanging from his neck, was nearly black. Kahlil guessed that his vest and pants were either the dull gold or dark brown that Ourath usually wore.
He poured himself some wine and then refilled the glass of the man seated to his right, Nanvess Bousim, who smiled and said something.
Kahlil frowned. He had not thought that any member of the Bousim family would be involved in Ourath’s assassination plans. He wondered if Alidas knew.
Nanvess touched something on the table, a bundle of leather scraps. Kahlil stared at it but he couldn’t tell what was inside. A knife, he guessed from the shape. It was obviously of some importance. Nanvess continually glanced to it.
Across from Ourath and Nanvess sat Esh’illan Anyyd. Younger than the other two men, his face still retained some traces of childhood. When he smiled, it was in an open, wide manner that lent him the appearance of a delighted ten-year-old. His body, however, was thickly built. His dark hair was shorn closely to his face and he appeared to be wearing a shoulder holster even to dinner.
Esh’illan said something and Ourath gave him an unamused glance before replying.
Kahlil scowled. He wasn’t going to get very far if he couldn’t hear them. He surveyed the chamber. The tapestries hung too closely to the walls for him to go unnoticed behind one. There were no chests or closets. But there were the silk blinds in the corner.
Kahlil walked past the table to the blinds. As he passed Nanvess, Kahlil noticed the man shudder. Movements from within the Gray Space often traced chilling trails through the air. Nanvess didn’t seem to think anything of it.
Kahlil crouched down behind the blinds and then dropped out of the Gray Space. Immediately the colors, scents, sounds, and heat of the room engulfed him. Meat, lavender oil, gold silk, scarlet wine, laughter like a clap of thunder. There were also waves of heat: living warmth, humid breath, the blazing fire, and perfume lamps.
He could observe most of the room by peering between the panels of the screens. He had been right about Ourath wearing dull gold. Esh’illan, too, had dressed in gold and dark cinnamon. Nanvess stood out from the others in his dark green clothes. At least in that much he seemed loyal to the Bousim household.
“—dependable, when he’s obviously late,” Esh’illan finished his statement. Then he took the silver serving fork and piled several cuts of dog meat onto his plate.
Ourath frowned at Esh’illan.
“He isn’t late. It’s Jath’ibaye who has decided to arrive early.” Ourath’s voice had been the one too low to hear.
Esh’illan stopped cutting his meat. “Do you think it’s for a reason?”
“Do I think what’s for a reason?” Nanvess seemed to have been preoccupied by something else. His hand still lay atop the bundle of leather.
“Jath’ibaye’s early arrival,” Esh’illan said. “Do you think he suspects us?”
“If that were the case, would he come at all?” Ourath asked.
“He has to come.” Nanvess had a soft voice that conveyed assuredness. It was the kind of tone that Kahlil naturally tended to like. The slight trace of northern accent, too, seemed familiar and pleasant.
“It’s a matter of pride,” Nanv
ess went on. “Jath’ibaye needs the world to believe that he can walk into the middle of Nurjima, right into the Gaunsho’im Council, and we’ll be too scared to do a thing about it. If he didn’t come, then he’d be risking the chance of someone thinking that he and his Fai’daum aren’t the great power they pretend to be.”
Esh’illan blinked at Nanvess as if expecting him to continue. Nanvess just picked up his wine glass, swirled the red liquor, and then put the glass back down without drinking.
“Then you think he knows?” Esh’illan asked.
“What?” Nanvess frowned. “No. I simply said that Jath’ibaye would have to come here even if he did know that there would be a trap awaiting him.”
“But what if he does?” Esh’illan persisted.
Nanvess didn’t reply. Ourath helped himself to another serving of black plums.
“Well,” Esh’illan said quickly, “he’s not taking me without a hell of a fight. I’ll put a few bullets in that bastard before his demon bitch takes us down.”
“The bitch moves faster than you’d think.” Nanvess didn’t look at the younger man.
“She doesn’t move faster than a bullet, I’ll bet.” Esh’illan patted the butt of the revolver in his shoulder holster. “When Jath’ibaye comes for me, I’ll be ready.”
“He isn’t coming for you,” Ourath said. “He doesn’t know of our plans or of our friends in the north.”
Esh’illan ate a few bites of his cutlet. Nanvess continued worrying his bundle of leather scraps while Ourath took out his pocket watch and checked the time.
“So,” Ourath closed his watch, “where is he?”
“Still at the docks, I heard.” Esh’illan disengaged from his food. “They’re saying that he won’t come off the water until daybreak.”
“Not Jath’ibaye,” Ourath said. “Our man. Where is he?”
“He’ll be here soon enough,” Nanvess said. “Any minute now.”
Esh’illan stopped eating and said, “He’s not going to walk through the walls again, is he?”
