The Kalis Experiments

by R A Fisher

  “Please don’t leave,” she whispered.

  He stopped fighting her grip. It wasn’t like he’d be able to outrun the thing. He might as well not die alone.

  The remaining guards had come to no such conclusion and fled, two going up the path, one back the way they’d come. The karakh whistled a long squealing cry and bounded after the pair that had fled toward the waterfall, away and out of sight. A few seconds later, there was a man’s scream, choked off, and another long low whistle, followed by the fading sound of snapping branches. Then silence.

  Spaad and Myna lay cradling each other until long after it grew too dark to see anything but a few stars through the naked branches and wispy clouds, but the karakh didn’t make any more noise and didn’t come back.

  Spaad, misinterpreting Myna’s need for comfort as something more, began to nuzzle her neck, mumbling that she smelled like candles. She gently pushed him away and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Predawn light silhouetted the trees on the eastern ridge above them.

  “Let’s go back,” she said, in a small voice.

  And they did.

  28

  The Truth

  Syrina had planned to hurt the shepherd enough that he and the karakh couldn’t go on. She figured she had one clean shot at the karakh where she’d woven the snare out of the remains of the bridge she’d hacked down on the way north. After that, she was going to wing it and rub Storik among the charred ruins of the silos, whether the monster was still breathing down her neck or not. She decided there’d be plenty of opportunities for accidents among the broken machines of a navaras farm.

  Now the voice was droning on about how lucky she was that it had panned out so much better than she’d expected. She even had Storik’s personal secretary telling the story to anyone who’d listen, and nothing pointed to a Kalis. Accident achieved.

  It didn’t matter how lucky she was. She felt awful. She couldn’t stop thinking that it hadn’t worked out for the shepherd, or for that matter, the karakh, which had probably lay down to die somewhere and would spend its last days lonely and cold and filled with grief. The bodyguards, she could get over. They knew the risks going into that profession. But the mournful glitter in the karakh’s eyes as it had looked at its dying shepherd haunted her, and behind them lurked memories of Triglav. The tears that Myna had wept that long night had been Syrina’s own. The voice chided her and congratulated her and annoyed her, but it kept her focused enough to finish what she’d started. Still, her dreams grew darker and more haunted, full of fear she never knew when she was awake, and she was glad she couldn’t remember them when she woke up. She was even more glad that she didn’t need much sleep.

  Ormo took the news cautiously. After all, no one could be sure Carlaas Storik had been Ma’is Kavik, and only time would tell if the other High Merchant would turn up again.

  Syrina had her own ideas, and she was going to confirm them herself.

  Storik. He’d had at least one Kalis working under him. All his unlikely power and connections. The contacts in Ristro. Every sign but one had pointed to Storik being Ma’is Kavik. And that sign was, if all signs pointed to someone being a High Merchant, then it was probably someone else.

  There was only one other person involved on more points than Storik had been, and if nothing else pointed to the woman being a High Merchant, it made Syrina all the more sure she was.

  She arrived at Ehrina Ka’id’s a little after dark, but the days were still getting shorter, and the accountant’s office was open for business. The woman was with a client—a businessman from Fom, which Syrina found ironic, and Syrina let them finish their conversation without eavesdropping. She went as herself. No need for disguises this time.

  After a while, the N’naradin left, smiling to himself. Syrina hoped that meant Ka’id would be in a good mood, too.

  Ka’id didn’t look up from her desk until Syrina closed the door behind her. The accountant looked blank for a minute, until her gaze found the Kalis’s, tried to focus, failed, and it dawned on her what she was looking at. She sat up straight and put her pen down, but her expression was calm as she found Syrina’s eyes.

  “I assume you’re not here to kill me, or you wouldn’t just be standing there.”

  “I just thought I’d let you know, I know who you are. Who you really are. Ma’is Kavik.”

  Syrina was prepared to look for a reaction under all the denial, but the accountant didn’t argue. Ka’id was silent for a full minute, shifting in her seat, and laid her hands on the desk like she was showing Syrina that she wouldn’t try anything. Her expression wasn’t so much concerned as considering.

  Then she said, “All right. Where does that leave us?”

  Syrina decided that if Ka’id was buying time until a couple Kalis showed up to deal with her, they would’ve made an appearence by now.

  “Ma’is Ormo is behind the recent… ugliness. At the moment, he thinks Kavik is dead. Use that however you want, but I thought you should know before you show up at the Equinox meeting in a few weeks. In case it’s something you can use.”

  Ka’id was quiet another minute. Syrina could see the pieces falling into place behind her eyes.

  The accountant nodded. “Storik.”

  Syrina nodded back, exaggerating the gesture so Ka’id could see it around the tattoos.

  “Well, thank you.” Ka’id paused, smiling at the answer she knew she would get before she asked the question. “I don’t suppose you can tell me how you fit into all this.”

  Syrina grinned, knowing the other woman couldn’t see it. “I don’t think I could explain that if I wanted to.”

  Epilogue

  “You have heard of Albertus Mann?” Ormo asked Syrina, three months after the death of Carlaas Storik.

  She nodded where she stood at the base of his dais, an imperceptible gesture. “The General?” Sarcasm was clear in her voice.

  Mann was an army general in a naval nation. An orphan boy from the Lip, taken in by the Grace herself. A figurehead the Church of N’narad could point to when they wanted a public example of how anyone might find glory in the quest for Heaven, and someone they could blame for all the things they screwed up. A reviled national hero.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

  “The Archbishop has entrusted him to collect some items of extreme interest to the Merchant’s Syndicate, from a place in the Black Wall they believe they have discovered.”

  “Mann?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Why him?”

  Ormo didn’t answer.

  Syrina bit her tongue. “You want him rubbed?”

  “No. Just watched. I will give you a list of contacts around Valez’Mui. New ones. I’m sure a few of your old ones are still around, too. They’ll have hawks, or at least know the nests of some that are homed to Eheene. Contact me when you get there, and I’ll send you further instructions. Mann is bringing an army, so I suspect you’ll be able to arrive at the Yellow Desert well before he does.”

  “An army?” Syrina snorted.

  Ormo rustled. “According to sources.”

  “What the hell does he need an army for?”

  “That, my dear Kalis, you shall tell me.”

  “Ah, I see. Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  Ormo watched the shadow of Kalis Syrina leave, his face clouded under the shapeless dark of his hood. He wondered what she was up to and whether it would’ve been better to have just finished her back when she’d escaped from his prison. Back when it would have been easy.

  Her report about Storik hadn’t added up, and however he thought about it, he came to the same conclusion. Kavik would always have at least one Kalis keeping an eye on him, just like any of the Fifteen. Maybe two or three on a trip north at harvest time. Even so, no Kalis had tried to save Storik from the karakh, and yet Ma’is Kavik hadn’t been seen since.

  The other Thirteen were already seeking a replacement, pleased they could gain a modicum of control ove
r one of their most powerful members by picking his successor. But Ormo knew better. Kavik had either put everything together on his own, or Syrina had figured out who the High Merchant was and warned him, joining the traitor and turning on Ormo completely.

  That Kavik could’ve figured it all out, down to which High Merchant was working against him, was impossible. Unless he’d just happened to have a complex operation going on against Ormo at precisely the right time. Syrina, on the other hand… Ormo thought of her, how she’d changed, and knew it was true. The thought of Syrina’s betrayal made Ormo’s heart hurt. She’d lost Triglav, but he’d lost her.

  No. Not yet. He hardened himself. Told himself a rabid hound could still be useful if he was careful to point it in the right direction. The cold distance of the comparison eased him a little, almost burying the smoldering ember of loss in the pit of his stomach.

  Ormo swallowed the despair and smiled, changing the black and white geometry painted on his face. He knew what Kalis Syrina wanted—to know herself. And with the Church’s discovery in the Black Wall, maybe he could give that to her.

  Until then, he wouldn’t give up.

  About the Author

  Robert Fisher has lived in Hiroshima, Japan, with his wife and five-year-old son for the past four years, where he occasionally teaches English, writes, and pretends to learn Japanese. Before that, he lived in Vancouver, Canada, where he worked in the beer industry and cavorted about, getting into trouble and eating Thai food. He placed fourth in the Vancouver Courier’s literary contest with his short story The Gift, which appeared in that paper on February 20, 2009. His science fiction novella, The God Machine, was published by Blue Cubicle Press in 2011.