6: Broken Fortress (20 page)

“Why shouldn’t he claim reparations for his brother’s death?” Fikiri demanded.
 

“Esh’illan wasn’t well liked. Most of the Anyyd family are relieved that he’s dead.” Ourath glanced over the heaps of roast dog but didn’t take any. “Still, he was a gaun and that alone makes his death worth something. Yes, I think that might keep things tied up for a while.”

Fikiri studied Ourath. “Have you any influence over Gethlam?”

“Only a little,” Ourath admitted. “But he and Joulen Bousim have been butting heads for days now. Gethlam might make the claim just to spite Joulen at this point.”

“If the idea occurred to him,” Fikiri said.

“Just so,” Ourath replied.
 

“Would you need anything from me?”
 

“Not to stoke Gethlam’s avarice, but Jath’ibaye…I doubt that I’ll be able to enthrall him again, not after the Bell Dance. He’ll probably try to kill me the moment he lays eyes on me. That might get your war started a little too soon, don’t you think?”

“Much too soon.” Fikiri looked as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “If Jath’ibaye destroys the gaun’im armies before our northern forces are roused, there will be no way to take him by surprise.”

“So, am I to just throw myself into the beast’s bed again and hope he doesn’t kill me?” Ourath asked.

The contempt that Kahlil had felt towards Ourath suddenly exploded into rage at the suggestion that he ever could throw himself into Jath’ibaye’s bed again. The urge to spring through the Gray Space and tear the lying whore apart surged through Kahlil. Only the sheer stupidity of the impulse stopped him. Fikiri was sitting only a few feet away.
 

“If you must,” Fikiri replied. Kahlil noticed the faint sneer of disgust that Fikiri gave Ourath when his back was turned. Kahlil wondered if Ourath also saw it as he watched Fikiri in one of his mirrors.

“There are poisons that dull his anger and wear him down. But I no longer have any way of feeding them to him,” Ourath said.

“My Lady has sent you this.” Fikiri drew a thick glass vial from the pocket of his robe. The surface of the vial was scratched and dull as if it had been sandblasted. Still, Kahlil could see a faint golden glow emanating from its contents.

Ourath took the vial and studied it.

“Wear just a little on your skin where it won’t be seen,” Fikiri said.
 

“What does it do?” Ourath asked.

Fikiri smiled, but not kindly. “It will do what you need it to do. Though, for your own safety, don’t wear too much or go too close to the bucks while you’ve got it on.”

Ourath observed the vial, then very carefully peeled back the stopper. A soft gold light radiated up from the mouth.

“Wait until I’m gone to use it,” Fikiri put in quickly.

Ourath frowned at Fikiri as if the mere thought that he would do otherwise was distasteful to him. Ourath drew in a slow breath, though he kept his nose far above the vial.

“Niru’mohim,” Ourath said. “Nanvess used to make it. It irritates the skin and leaves welts.”

Fikiri nodded. “Don’t wear it where it will be seen.”

“So not in a large splash across my forehead?” Ourath asked sarcastically.
 

“This is stronger than any of Nanvess’ potions could have been.” Fikiri gave Ourath a hard look as if he were chastising a child. “It will burn you and it will leave a scar.”

“But it will affect Jath’ibaye?” Ourath asked.

Fikiri nodded. “Assuredly. Once he senses it, he’ll probably try to keep clear of you, which will keep you safe.”

“In the meantime, will I have to fight off every man in Vundomu?” Ourath asked.

“They’ll notice you, but this was made with Jath’ibaye’s blood. It will affect him far more than any other man.” Fikiri’s eyes darted to a movement up in the top of the tent. A cream-colored moth flittered close to one of the lamps.

“So then that only leaves us with the question of the yasi’halaun.” Ourath pushed the stopper back into the vial and slipped it into his coat pocket.

“That is my concern, not yours,” Fikiri replied. He slid his empty plate onto the table.

“But you will need it—” Ourath went quiet as the servant boy suddenly darted in.
 

“Forgive me, my lord, but Commander Joulen Bousim wishes to speak with you.” The boy bowed deeply to Ourath.
 

“Right now?” Ourath asked.

“He is waiting outside, as is Commander Gethlam Anyyd, my lord.” The boy kept his head down. Ourath looked to Fikiri.

“Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave,” Fikiri said.

“Perhaps it would,” Ourath agreed.
 

Fikiri stood.
 

Ourath turned back to his servant. “You may show the commanders in.”
 

“Yes, my lord.” The servant boy straightened and then retreated. Fikiri followed the boy out of the tent. It surprised Kahlil to see Fikiri just walk away. Then he realized that the noise and flames Fikiri caused when he opened the Gray Space were far too extravagant. They had already attracted Joulen’s attention. And Ourath would have particular difficulty explaining them if they occurred right inside his tent.

Soon the servant boy reappeared, followed by Joulen Bousim who was flanked by a second commander wearing the silver lily of the Anyyd House.
 

“Joulen. Gethlam.” Ourath inclined his head only a little to both men. “How is it that I can help you?”

An oddly voracious look came into Gethlam Anyyd’s eyes. For a moment Kahlil thought that Ourath might have used a little of the potion Fikiri had given him. Then Kahlil realized that Gethlam was staring at the food on Ourath’s table.

“Feel free to help yourselves to my table while you are here,” Ourath said.

“Very generous of you, Gaunsho.” Gethlam took a plate and began heaping meat onto it. His thick neck and square chest gave him more than a passing resemblance to the Lisam bulls that decorated Ourath’s tent. Though his dark brown hair was shot through with gray, there was a roundness to his chin and cheeks that made his face look almost like a child’s. Kahlil remembered thinking the same thing of Esh’illan Anyyd.
 

“We’ve come to discuss the discipline of our united troops.” Joulen scowled at Gethlam.

Gethlam avoided Joulen’s gaze, chewing his meat as if it took all of his concentration.

“Discipline?” Ourath inquired.

“Yes,” Joulen said, but then he paused. “May I ask who that man was that just left? I don’t recall seeing him before.”

“He was one of the residents of Mahn’illev,” Ourath replied smoothly. “Apparently he was quite concerned about our rashan’im. He told me that his shop was destroyed by riders wearing Bousim colors—”

Gethlam suddenly grinned and rounded on Joulen.

“Bousim colors!” Gethlam crowed. “And you have the gall to tell me how I should handle my men.”

Joulen’s face flushed. “Every one of my men is accounted for in our camp.”

“Yes, of course they are,” Ourath said soothingly. “It’s dark after all and it’s easy to mistake one rashan for another. Still, we must not allow our men to run wild.” Ourath filled a plate with cutlets of meat and sauce and then handed it to Joulen just as he had offered food to Fikiri earlier.

“Eat something, Commander,” Ourath said. “I think you’ll find it helps your mood.”

Joulen took the food and wine that Ourath offered him. His expression was one of slight confusion, as if he wasn’t sure how the dishes had ended up in his hands.

“Please, both of you,” Ourath said, “sit and tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Joulen’s bothering me.” Gethlam took the chair that Fikiri had just vacated. Joulen seated himself across from Gethlam. He looked like he was about to respond to Gethlam’s words; then he frowned. He narrowed his eyes, gazing past Gethlam to the mirror in the corner of the tent. He didn’t look at the reflection but at Kahlil. He stared with an expression of uncertainty, as if not quite sure of what he was seeing. Then his gaze met Kahlil’s directly and his eyes widened.

Instantly, Kahlil dropped back into the Gray Space. Joulen blinked and narrowed his gaze but there was no longer anything to be seen. Ourath said something and Joulen’s attention turned back to the meats piled on his plate.
 

Kahlil didn’t trust in his luck enough to push it much further this evening. He already had news enough to tell Jath’ibaye. And he knew he should get back to Vundomu before he was missed. He moved quickly through the Gray Space, returning to the watchtower at Vundomu just in time to hear the eleventh bell ring out.

Chapter Sixty-Three

At the heights of Vundomu, gusts of warm wind rose, twisting through the cool air. The warmth and moisture reminded Kahlil of a summer storm. The idea of summer was troubling. Heat was all that Fikiri was waiting for. Jath’ibaye had to be warned. Kahlil rushed from the watchtower down to Jath’ibaye’s chambers.

As he came through the door, the lush green scent of flowers and vines washed over Kahlil. Breezes swirled and raced through the leaves and blossoms. The air churned as if a thunderstorm were trapped in the room.
  

Jath’ibaye sat at his table. Books and planting charts were stacked to his right. Polished stones were scattered across the papers, weighing them down in the face of the rushing gusts. Jath’ibaye looked up as Kahlil walked in. Without saying a word, he kicked one of the chairs out for Kahlil to take a seat.

“Sorry I’m so late.” Kahlil walked to the chair but was hesitant to sit down. He studied Jath’ibaye and Jath’ibaye returned his gaze with a closed expression. The muscles in his jaw flexed and worked against each other. Jath’ibaye rolled a pale stone in his hand. As Kahlil watched, bits of the rock crumbled beneath Jath’ibaye’s fingers.

“I went—”

“I know where you went.” Jath’ibaye cut him off as if he couldn’t stand to even hear Kahlil say it.
 

Jath’ibaye glared down at the book in front of him. Kahlil recognized it. It was the ancient tome he had been slowly translating. Despite his attentive expression, Jath’ibaye did not seem to be reading. His gaze focused on one spot as if pinning the words down. He continued worrying the stone in his hand.

Kahlil was silent. He had known that his excursion would annoy Jath’ibaye, but he hadn’t thought it would warrant this kind of anger. He wasn’t sure how apologetic he could bring himself to act.

“Are you all right?” Jath’ibaye’s tone was flat.

“Fine,” Kahlil assured him.

“Good. I’m glad that you weren’t hurt.” Again the muscles in his jaw flexed as if fighting for control of his words. “You could have been killed.”

“No one even saw me,” Kahlil said, grinning. He had thought to play the entire matter off as inconsequential. Immediately, he realized that he’d made a mistake. Jath’ibaye snapped the stone in half.

“You could have been killed!” Jath’ibaye shouted, abandoning the pretense of repose. He bolted to his feet, sending his chair skittering back behind him.

Kahlil stepped back.

“You could have died! You…you are so frustrating.” He didn’t seem to trust himself to go on. Several moments of silence passed. Kahlil waited, unsure of what to say.
 

“I know I can’t expect you to follow my orders, but don’t you think that you ought to tell me when you go into enemy territory?” His words came out with an unnaturally measured precision.

“Yes,” Kahlil allowed. “But if I’m planning on doing something that you don’t like, then you’ll argue with me.”

“If you’re planning something stupid, it is my right to argue, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me,” Jath’ibaye said.

“I wasn’t doing anything stupid. I saved a girl. You would have done the same thing, if you could have.” Kahlil tried to keep his own temper from flaring. He wasn’t sorry he’d done it and couldn’t even pretend to be.

Jath’ibaye’s jaw clenched against an immediate response.
  

“It was possible for me to go down there and stop those rashan’im when no one else could,” Kahlil said. “It was the right thing to do and I don’t regret going.”

“Of course you don’t,” Jath’ibaye replied. “And I didn’t say that what you did was wrong. I was glad to see those rashan’im die. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me that you were going to do it.”

“Oh.” The righteous argument that Kahlil had been preparing to launch was suddenly pointless. “Well, you obviously found out what I was doing.”

“I don’t want to find out after the fact,” Jath’ibaye growled. “We are on the brink of war. I need to know where you are.”

“All right. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking about it.” Kahlil held up his hands in the Payshmura sign of peace. “At least no harm was done.”
 

“Not this time,” Jath’ibaye snapped. “But you have to remember that I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”