by Ginn Hale
“You should have your own life,” Alidas said. “For the last two years you’ve lived in secrecy, in isolation. You’ve had no friends, no family. No one.”
“I had you, and I didn’t need—” Kahlil cut himself off as he realized how pathetic he sounded. “You saved my life; I owed you the work.”
Alidas watched the fire. His dark eyes caught its light and glowed like amber.
“I saved you because I knew I could use you,” he finally said. “I saw the remains of the man you killed with your bare hands. And I knew that if I could control you, I could bring the men I wanted down. I wasn’t moved by kindness or even pity. I wanted your skills.”
“And now that you’ve had them you want me to leave?”
“I want to give you your life back,” Alidas said.
“In Ris’ela?” Scorn crept into Kahlil’s voice. “What would a person like me do there?”
“Whatever you liked.”
“I don’t think I even know how to live like that. I’ve never—”
“I have orders to kill you,” Alidas said flatly. He didn’t meet Kahlil’s eyes, but only glanced down at the pile of books on his desk.
“From Nanvess?” Kahlil asked, hopeful. Nanvess hadn’t been named guansho yet. He still had to answer to his uncle’s authority.
“From Gaunsho Bousim. The house must remain united.” Alidas pulled the grate of the wood stove open. He threw in another scrap of wood, a piece of broken table leg. “That’s why I bought the ticket for you. I was going to leave it here and hope that you had the sense to go.”
“I see.” Kahlil’s stomach clenched and for a moment he thought he might be sick again. “So this is my fair warning, then?”
Alidas nodded. “If I see you again, I’ll have no choice.”
“I understand.” Kahlil forced briskness into his tone. “You should probably have your key back.”
“Yes, I suppose I should.”
Kahlil unclasped the chain around his neck and slid the key off. For a moment he held it in his hand, feeling the warmth it radiated, before he handed it over. Alidas’ concerns were matters of house loyalties and political stability. He was an excellent leader to his men and an honorable servant to his gaunsho. He would never involve himself in something he’d been ordered to disregard.
“What will happen tomorrow at the Bell Dance?”
“That depends on the men involved.” Alidas dropped the key into his coat pocket. “If they kill Jath’ibaye, then we still have his followers to contend with. If they fail, then it could be easier or worse. It would depend on how forgiving Jath’ibaye is feeling. In any case, it’s out of my hands.”
Kahlil supposed that this was true. The Rifter was not a matter to force on Alidas. Nothing in Alidas’ life or training would have prepared him to take responsibility for Parfir’s destroyer incarnation.
“Will you go?” Alidas’ question interrupted Kahlil’s thoughts. He offered the train ticket.
“I’d be a fool not to.” Kahlil managed a cocky smile as he took the ticket.
Alidas said, “I’m sorry that it turned out like this, but perhaps it’s for the best. At least your life is your own now.”
“Maybe so.” Kahlil slid the ticket into his coat pocket. His life was his again. It was like inheriting a burning house.
“I should go and pack.” Kahlil’s voice sounded flat, mechanical. Alidas only gave a nod. They had already said goodbye weeks ago. Doing it all again just seemed pointless.
Kahlil let himself out and closed the black door behind him. It was getting late and dark clouds crawled across the pale blue sky. He flicked his fingers apart and stepped into the silent Gray Space.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After weeks of morning frost and evening sleet, the warmth of the following day was surprising. Balmy winds twisted through the soft blue sky and sunlight poured down.
Street vendors came out in droves. Every corner Kahlil pedaled past burst with the scent of frying dumplings, the brilliance of paper flowers, and the sudden explosion of wings as pigeons took flight before his bicycle. The spring warmth drew crowds of people outdoors. Often, Kahlil had to swerve past some man—a shop clerk, tailor or banker—who had just stopped to stand with his face lifted to the sky, feeling the sun on his skin.
Clusters of wealthy women, clothed in richly embroidered dresses, emerged from the shelter of their homes as well. They traveled together like schools of fish, younger wives following the lead of the older ones, all of them keeping their children safely between them. Brightly-dyed honey candies flashed in the children’s hands. Silver wedding rings and fine chains glittered across the women’s fingers.
“Know what’s new!” a young boy selling newspapers shouted. “Lisam runners menace the streets once again!”
Kahlil glowered at the boy from his bicycle. The boy grinned back at him.
“Jath’ibaye to attend Bell Dance,” the boy called out. “Gaunsho Tushoya fears for the safety of his daughters! How safe are yours?”
Kahlil waited for the man ahead of him to lead his wives across the street and then he sped onward. Behind him, Kahlil heard the paperboy shout, “Lisam runners throw streets into chaos! What will be done? Read the paper and find out!”
Fensal had probably already bought the paper and clipped the article to add to his collection. He would have been disappointed to see how politely Kahlil waited at the street crossings, and how cautiously he rode around the potholes and mud puddles in the roads. But today Kahlil couldn’t afford to damage the packages bundled up in the basket of his bicycle. He’d spent the entire day collecting each of those little prizes.
He had pedaled back and forth across the Blackbird Bridge twice. He’d searched through dozens of winding, narrow streets. He’d ferreted his way through storefronts and into the back rooms of tailors, cobblers, and countless laundry services all over the city. It had taken him hours of hunting, haranguing and no end of lies, but at last he had pieced together one of the uniforms that the servants and musicians would be wearing for this year’s Bell Dance.
The shirt, pants, and jacket were all cut from soft white linen. A fine pattern of silver embroidery edged the jacket’s cuffs and collar. There were also white gloves, socks, slipper-like shoes and a set of dull, gray cufflinks. Kahlil guarded the complete uniform as if it were blown from glass. One tear, one spatter of mud, one missing piece could ruin it.
He waited on a street corner while the trolley rolled by. Noblewomen peered out of windows. Some of the younger ones already wore their hair piled up in the elaborate braids and curls they would wear at the Bell Dance. Most of the noblewomen would be in attendance, as the Bell Dance offered a rare opportunity for unwed girls to assess the men who would one day become their husbands.
Kahlil guessed that for many of them the possibilities of what could happen, both beautiful and humiliating, were far more thrilling than the actual event would be. It was now, in the grip of anticipation that, flushed with excitement, their imaginations ran wild.
Anticipation meant something entirely different for Kahlil. It was something to suppress, an infection of anxiety that he couldn’t allow to take hold. Two years of hunting men through the west dock slums had taught him not to think too far ahead of the moment.
He couldn’t trust his past and he couldn’t know the future. The present was really the only place for him.
The trolley trundled past, and Kahlil pulled his attention back to the street ahead. His eyes swept over the men there, and then he froze in place.
Nanvess Bousim stood directly across the street from him, chatting with another man. Both of them wore the deep green colors of the Bousim house and their black hair shone in the sun. Nanvess looked up and his glaze fell upon Kahlil without interest or recognition, the same way he might have noted a street sign. Then his attention returned to his companion. Both men stepped off the curb to stroll across the street toward him.
Kahlil swung off his bicycle and walked it ac
ross the street. It was hard to find the natural balance between staring fixedly at Nanvess and pointedly avoiding all eye contact. Kahlil focused his gaze on a cage of birds in the shop window directly ahead of him.
Nanvess came close enough for Kahlil to overhear his conversation.
“Would you want your sister to marry him?” Nanvess asked his companion. “I certainly wouldn’t.”
“But if Jath’ibaye were to marry into a gaun house, then he would have an incentive to protect the rights of the gaun’im,” Nanvess’ companion replied.
“I think that’s assuming quite a bit about the man.”
Kahlil was so close that he could smell Nanvess’ thick anise cologne. He could have reached out and caught him by the throat. It would be so easy. With just a flick of his fingers and a sweep of his arm, he could drag a sheering edge of Gray Space through Nanvess’ neck. Kahlil could almost feel the heat of dark blood gushing across his palm. He’d killed dozens of men the same way, with just a touch.
But killing Nanvess now would only scare his conspirators, forcing them to alter their plans for the assassination. Then he might never find Fikiri again. And Fikiri still had the yasi’halaun. More important than anything else was ensuring that he got the black blade back before Fikiri could use it. Kahlil’s only sure opportunity to get it back would be tonight at the Bell Dance.
Kahlil swung back onto his bicycle and sped down the street. The sun was beginning to dip towards the western horizon. Lisam runners would be turning back to the palace for their meals soon. A fellow runner had already zipped past him. Kahlil and the other man exchanged quick waves. Kahlil allowed the other runner to outdistance him.
He coasted along Seven Palaces Road. Parks and stone statues blurred past. He wove between carriages and delivery wagons. In a few hours the streets would begin to fill with gawkers and newsmen. But for now, there were only subdued clusters of men and women basking in the fading sun and street vendors packing up their wares.
He turned off Seven Palaces Road and raced up the narrow street to the Gaunsho’im Council building. The building itself was only two stories high and comparatively small. There were no vast wings of suites, no private libraries or magnificent treasuries. Even the dark pines and twisting evergreen trees surrounding it were dwarfed. Their topmost branches barely cleared the walls surrounding the grounds.
Despite its diminutive size, it was not a building that could be overlooked, not even among so many palaces. Embossed gold gleamed across the domed roof. Detailed bas-relief wound down the marble walls, giving them the appearance of delicate lace. Bands of gold ringed the carved pillars in front of the massive ivory-inlaid doors. Polished golden tiles flashed from the steps leading up to the entry.
Kahlil rode around the wall, taking in the surrounding land and noting the positions of the armed guards. Their rifles weren’t as powerful as the ones Jath’ibaye’s sentries had carried, but they still looked lethal. The guards watched him from the stone walls as he pedaled past. He waved. None of them responded with anything but a scowl.
Another three guards were posted at the servants’ gate at the back of the grounds. With their rifles and their gleaming gold-and-indigo uniforms they too presented an intimidating appearance. But Kahlil could see that they were more or less hapless in the midst of the intense activity all around them.
Streams of hired men hauled cases of fish, casks of wine, entire racks of roast dog, and bushels of southern fruits from waiting wagons. They grunted and heaved their loads through the gates and past the guards. Delivery boys from city shops darted between them with trays of brilliant candies, vases of cut flowers, and towering silver cakes. Staff from the council building, in blue and gold liveries, scurried from one point to another, shouting directions and attempting to check the deliveries and invoices.
“Lisam runner,” Kahlil told a guard. “Deliveries for the steward.” He pointed to a tissue-wrapped bundle in the basket of his bicycle. It contained his socks.
The guard just waved him in. Behind him, Kahlil heard tahldi and the creak of wooden wheels. He glanced back to see that several red, rented carriages had arrived. Musicians climbed out, most of them cradling or lugging instruments. Some were fully dressed in their white uniforms, but most still wore their street clothes. Immediatly, an argument started up as to who was responsible for paying the carriage drivers.
Kahlil caught the guard’s momentary expression of tired exasperation. By the end of the night, the guards would certainly have seen enough men pass between them to forget his face.
Kahlil simply drifted through the back courtyard. The unyielding weight of his bicycle protected him from too many bumps and shoves. The air in the courtyard rolled over him as he walked. One moment he grimaced in the grasp of fish odors, then he pushed past a clot of delivery men and found himself plunged into scents of mulled wine and spring blossoms. Men shouted questions and orders all around him. Kahlil didn’t think anyone really knew what was directed to whom.
He reached the racks behind the kitchen. He locked his bicycle next to three other delivery bicycles and then wandered into the council building with his clothes in his arms.
The interior of the building didn’t pale in comparison to the exterior, not even in the back rooms. The trim over the doors was carved with twining ivy. Scattered between the leaves were gilded coins, each bearing the crest of one of the seven gaun’im houses. The Lisam bull glared down from a corner. Across from it, Kahlil recognized the crossed arrows of the Bousim house. Just faintly, above the ivy, Kahlil could see that there had once been another, larger symbol. He squinted up at the vague shadows and then realized that he was looking at the remnants of a Payshmura sun.
The council building had been constructed before the Payshmura had fallen. Now that Kahlil thought of it, he could see old remnants of their dominance all around him. As he wandered the halls, stepping past flustered staff and deliverymen, he noted the small, incised alcoves where dishes of prayer stones would have been placed. Now they were either filled by bowls of cut flowers or gilded tiles depicting the crests of the seven houses.
“What are you doing?” an older man suddenly demanded of him.
“Delivery,” Kahlil answered.
The man rolled his eyes. Obviously most of the men pushing their way through the back rooms and halls had deliveries.
“Who is it for?” the old man demanded.
“A musician,” Kahlil said. “I’m supposed to deliver it to his dressing room.”
“His dressing room?” The old man scowled. “That’s rich. They’re all going to be using one room, the light-fingered little thieves.” The man suddenly turned to the group of stocky deliverymen slouching next to the wine racks. His wrinkled face seemed to fold in on itself as he glared at them. “If you’re done, don’t just stand around taking up space! Get out!”
The men quickly retreated back down the hall.
The old man snapped his attention back to Kahlil. “The fourth door on the right.”
“Thank you,” Kahlil replied.
The old man had already turned away and was stalking towards a cluster of young men milling around two kitchen girls. Kahlil shook his head. He couldn’t imagine being a house steward.
He found the room that had been designated for the musicians. Any decoration that could be removed obviously had been. The inlaid walls were bare, and even the flowers had been removed from the alcoves. None of the musicians had arrived yet. Kahlil stripped off his clothes and changed. He doubted that he would have an opportunity to recover his old clothes. Still, he folded them into a neat pile out of habit. He’d miss his coat and boots.
After that, he simply drifted through the council building, randomly carrying out instructions. He decanted a bottle of wine, removed and then returned a vase of lilies to an alcove. He avoided the steward, easily fading into the crowds of other men in white uniforms.
He accustomed himself to the layout of the building. Beyond the small back rooms stood a huge ba
llroom. There the screens that would hide the musicians had already been spread. Intricately carved chairs and tiny decorative tables had been placed along the left wall. A profusion of fresh flowers were scattered across the tables. The blossoms looked fragile compared to the huge shields and carved wreaths mounted on the walls. The polished floor shone brilliantly as it reflected the blazing gold and silver chandeliers overhead. A staircase on the the right wall led to the second floor but it had been chained off.
Kahlil doubted that Ourath or any of his conspirators would attempt anything here, under so much light and in such an open space.
Kahlil picked up a bouquet of spring buds and stalked purposefully past the other servants out into the gardens. The guards on the walls hardly took note of him.
A path of marble stones wound slowly up a slight hill to the west garden, the one Nanvess had mentioned. At the top Kahlil found a flickering stone lamp surrounded by dark pines. Yellow and red ivy vines cascaded over trellises. Between the trees, low shrubs hid the bare ground with dark winter-hardy greenery. Here and there tiny patches of red and violet spring flowers pushed through the dark soil.
Kahlil turned slowly around, taking in the deep shadows, the walls of ivy, and the thin, flickering lamplight. He couldn’t have chosen a better place for an assassination himself. He was sure it would take place here. But he couldn’t just wait around in plain sight. He turned back down the path.
He couldn’t know where Fikiri would come from or when he would arrive, but Kahlil did know that one way or another Fikiri would have to get close to Jath’ibaye. So all he had to do was slip back into the council building and wait for Jath’ibaye; then Fikiri would come to him.
When he walked in through the back door, several women looked up at him. They were portioning out cutlets of dog meat into white dishes.
“Where have you been?” an older woman demanded.
“The steward sent me out to get some more flowers.” Kahlil held up the bouquet of spring buds he had carried out with him.
