2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows (13 page)

Kahlil could see what caused Alidas to scowl. Jath’ibaye’s reputation alone warranted concern. He was rumored to be a Shir’korud demon, a deranged Payshmura oracle and even an undead Eastern sorcerer. Some whispered that he slept with men. Others claimed he consorted with beasts.

What was known of him as fact was not nearly so perverse, but troubling all the same. He had served the Fai’daum during the war with the Payshmura priests. It was believed that his as
saults had led the Payshmura to unleash the Rifter. The entire northlands had been devastated in just a few hours. Jath’ibaye had been one of the few men to walk out of the ruins alive.

Now he and his surviving Fai’daum followers held the fortress of Vundomu and all of the lands lying north of there. They owned coal and iron mines, as well as the taye fields that had once been gaunsho’im holdings. If there were any ruins left of Rathal’pesha or Amura’taye, those too were in Jath’ibaye’s grasp.

For seven years after Rathal’pesha’s fall, Jath’ibaye and his followers had beaten back each and every gaunsho’s army. They had held the northlands and even threatened to advance in the face of further assaults. Finally, the Gaunsho’im Council had been forced to offer them a treaty.

In the twenty years since then, Jath’ibaye had become a gaunsho in everything but name. He retained his own army. He paid taxes and his great glass house was the eighth palace in the square of Seven Palaces. Once a year he even rode south from his lands to attend the Gaunsho’im Council.
 

“Gaunsho Lisam really thinks he’d be able to take the north if Jath’ibaye dies?” Kahlil looked up at Alidas.

“Who knows what he really thinks? He lies even to his allies. But he could take advantage of the confusion that Jath’ibaye’s death would cause.” Alidas picked up his razor and folded the sharp blade closed. “He’s benefited in the past from chaotic situations.”

“Taking rulership in the wake of his brother’s death is nothing like seizing a foreign land,” Kahlil said. “I’ve never met Jath’ibaye, but his people stood with him through the Payshmura’s fall and the Seven Years’ War. They’ve only grown stronger in the twenty years since then. I’d be willing to bet that they wouldn’t take kindly to the assassination of their leader. And they won’t give up their lands.”

“It may not be Jath’ibaye’s lands he wants,” Alidas said. “If Jath’ibaye is assassinated here in Nurjima, his followers could place the blame on any of the gaunsho’im. The Bousim lands are closest to them.”

“And the Lisam lands are the farthest south.” Kahlil frowned. “Does he think that he can invade his neighbors while they’re holding back Jath’ibaye’s followers?” Kahlil’s own face scowled back at him from Alidas’ mirror.

“Either way there would be war in the Bousim holdings.” Alidas sighed. “These young noblemen coming into power now, they don’t know what it takes to wage real war. They’ve never even seen a battlefield. To them it’s just a game.”

Kahlil didn’t know if his memories of battle were from the Seven Years’ War in the north or some other conflict, but it didn’t matter. He remembered battles. He remembered fires and hunger and driving snowstorms that stripped his will down to a struggle just to stay upright. He remembered the smell of wounds and pain that tore through him, even when he closed his eyes to sleep.

“It won’t come to that,” Kahlil said. “I’ll take care of the assassin. Old Jath’ibaye won’t even know that he was there.”

Alidas smiled but only briefly.

“It won’t be as easy as killing a wanted man in an alley,” Alidas warned. “This assassin may be a member of Gaunsho Lisam’s family or one of his friends. If you’re caught murdering a nobleman, I don’t know what I can do to protect you. Officially, the Bousim family won’t even acknowledge that you are in their pay.”

“So, I kill him and then I’m on my own?” Kahlil asked. The prospect seemed oddly familiar.

“I won’t force it on you.” Alidas didn’t look at him. Instead he tightened the lids of his shaving tins and put them away.

“You couldn’t.” Kahlil shrugged.

“True enough,” Alidas said.

“So what happens if I decline the offer?” Kahlil asked.

“Gaunsho Bousim has entrusted me with this duty,” Alidas replied. “It will be done one way or another.”

Kahlil sighed. He knew little about his life history, save that Alidas had been good to him. Alidas had taken him in and explained the world to him. He had listened while Kahlil muttered, hissed, and ranted in strange languages. Alidas had fed him and cared
for him. And when Kahlil had recovered, Alidas
had provided him with housing and pay.

What life he had now he owed to Alidas.

“I’ll do it,” Kahlil said.

Alidas smiled briefly. The expression didn’t actually make him look happy so much as tired.

“I wish there was someone else...” Alidas began. Then he folded his shaving mirror back into its case and returned it to the dressing closet.

“When will I go?”

“This morning, before the change of patrols.”

“Sending me out on an empty stomach?” Kahlil asked. He didn’t really care, but it was the only thing he could bring himself to complain about. He didn’t want to leave. He had just begun to feel at home. Perhaps not with the other men, but with Alidas.

“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.

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.