2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows (12 page)

“Who knows what they think.”

“But wasn’t that what you were talking about when I got here?” John asked.

“You heard us?” The remaining pine needles slipped from Ravishan’s hand but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Not you,” John said. “Your friend.”

“Your ears are too sharp.” Ravishan looked a little nervous.

“Who were you talking to?” John asked.

“No one.” Ravishan dropped his gaze to the alabaster surface beneath him. It was an oddly shy response and John felt a sudden uneasiness at it.

He said, “It had to be someone. Do you have a lot of secret friends like me?”

“No.” Ravishan shook his head. “She’s just a girl at Umbhra’ibaye. We talk sometimes.”

“A girlfriend?” John asked. It shouldn’t have burned in his throat to say the word. He wanted Ravishan to look up at him, but he didn’t.

“She’s a sister, a nun.” Ravishan drew a circle on the stone with his finger and then rubbed it away as if it could have made an actual mark. “We gossip from time to time.”

John decided to let the subject drop. It had to be difficult for Ravishan, being a priest at such a young age. He had probably sworn celibacy before he had known what he was giving up. Now, who knew what desires he struggled with?

John could recall what he had been like when he was seventeen. Lonely, he thought, but unwilling to entrust another person with his affection. An oath of celibacy might have come as a relief to him. It wouldn’t have saved him from unspeakable, awkward crushes, but it might have saved him from a few encounters he would have rather never endured.

It probably wouldn’t have made that much of a difference. He had already developed his preference for the solitude of mountains and wilderness. He had already known to trust the soil and stone, things that never asked him how he felt or where he had spent the night.

He supposed he hadn’t changed much, really. He’d gotten taller, graduated from college, and fallen into another world. Still, he remained the same.

Ravishan was probably nothing like John had been. Nothing like John was now. He’d been stupid to even think about it.

Perhaps sensing John’s withdrawal, Ravishan continued, “I’m not like those old monks who whisper dirty things to girls. We were just talking.”

“It’s all right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. I guess that you’d be in trouble if anyone else knew.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Then I won’t tell anyone,” John said.

Ravishan smiled such an honest, handsome smile that John shied, withdrawing further from his openly affectionate expression. It was one thing for him to find Ravishan handsome, even to indulge in a brief flirtation, but he would be worse than a fool if he allowed himself to believe that Ravishan returned his desire.

John forced himself to focus on much more simple desires, a decent meal and somewhere to sleep. Those were the kinds of things that he had a right to want. He straightened, stretched, and asked if he could get something to eat.

“Supper is already past,” Ravishan said, “but I think we could sneak into the kitchen and have something from the cold cupboards.”

“You haven’t eaten either?”

“I couldn’t and still claim to be sick.”
       

Ravishan showed him to the kitchens. The rooms were vast and gloomy, but a residual heat radiated through them from the deep red embers of the roasting fires.

They made themselves sandwiches from old rolls and cheese and smoked goat meat. John had eaten lamb and mutton before, but not goat. The meat was tougher and its flavor stronger. Ravishan said it wasn’t as good as dog but goats were cheaper and easier to raise. And they gave milk as well.

They talked about food. John started to say that dog wasn’t eaten in his world and then had to correct himself. He asked about cats but Ravishan didn’t know what one was. The closest thing that he could describe in Basawar was the ubiquitous weasel. Ravishan said they were good animals that laid delicious eggs and ate vermin. That didn’t really sum up a cat, but John was too tired to be picky.

It was comfortable, easy conversation.

At last Ravishan led him to a room where he could sleep. He leaned so close that John could feel the heat of his skin through his robe and he wished John good dreams.

“For you as well,” John replied.

After Ravishan withdrew, John lay awake in the darkness, still aware of exactly where Ravishan’s chest had pressed against his own. When he at last slept, he dreamed of green forests and a home that he could hardly remember.

Kahlil sat up and glanced at the clock. Its small brass hands formed a tiny cross: it was a little past four in the morning. Outside, the full moon glowed in the white sky, illuminating a courtyard blanketed by newly fallen snow. Most of it would melt away once the sun rose. Everything was ephemeral this early in spring.

Kahlil gazed out through the narrow second-story window for a few more moments before finally getting out of his bed. He dressed quickly and then drew the heavy canvas curtain aside and walked to the big cast iron stove in the middle of the room. The wood had burned to embers, but those still glowed hot red. He held his hands up over the stove, catching the waves of heat in his palms.

All around him the other canvas curtains were still drawn, enclosing each of the men’s beds in an illusion of privacy.

‘You sleep alone, but I am not far.’
Those had been the words of a prayer he had known once, or maybe it had been a song. Maybe it was something that had just occurred to him at this moment.

He didn’t try to sort it out any longer. Over the past two years he had learned that if he pursued a memory it only twisted and broke into contradictions.

When he had first arrived he had believed that it was the 165th
 
year of the Divine Ushsho’shokri, when in fact it had been the 183rd
 
year. He thought he was a priest but his body held memories that no priest would entertain. He had thought that he was fighting to save the last Payshmura Stronghold at Rathal’pesha, but now he knew that the entire northland had been shattered and burned when he would have still been a youth.

He could open the Gray Space. He could step through stone walls and iron bars. And so he had believed that he was the Payshmura Kahlil and that he had traveled to Nayeshi. But when he looked for the Prayerscars that should have marked his body, all he discovered were the faint traces of a red Fai’daum tattoo dotted across his ribs. And no one he met had ever heard of Nayeshi.

Anything he believed about himself turned on itself and became a lie.

His memories were made up of shattered scents and images that would arise within him and then fade. Some of them would seem compatible, linking together a chain of a few days or even weeks; then, an absolutely opposite memory would surface. It was almost as if he were attempting to put together a single puzzle from the pieces of two different ones. Hopeless.

The single feeling that pervaded his sense of himself most was
 
isolation.

He looked over the long rows of canvas panels. A rashan slept behind each one, a man who belonged with the rest of them. They had trained together and they rode their patrols through the Bousim sectors of Nurjima together. They knew one another’s histories and lives. They were brothers, cousins, friends. They married each other’s sisters and interlaced their lives in affairs and disputes.

Even the men who loathed each other knew each other. Often, they loathed each other because they knew one another too well.

But none of them knew him. None of them shared a past with him. He had arrived among them, wrapped in bandages, hidden by surgical dressings. He had healed behind the canvas panels while they came and went on their business.

Only Rasho Alidas had seen him then, and Alidas didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t a man who cared to know too much about the past. Only the here and now concerned Alidas, and Kahlil had learned to take comfort in his attitude.

It didn’t matter who he might have been. That was not who he was now. He created himself each day and slowly built his own history.

He shifted silently in front of the stove.

Far down along the row of beds he heard low voices whispering. Then came the discreet noises of a man slipping from one bed, creeping between the panels and lying back down in his own bed. Everything would be in order by sunrise. Even the most passionate of the rashan’im were careful.

Or maybe they had just been secretly betting on the turn of cards? The white sky and the full moon offered light enough for that. Kahlil knew better than to trust his own instincts in the matter of illicit meetings. He was too lonely.

At the far end of the open hall, Rasho Alidas’ door remained closed, but Kahlil saw the yellow light of a lamp spark up and seep out.
  

The door opened quietly and Alidas frowned out into the darkness of the barrack. His age showed in the weathered lines at the corners of his eyes and in the gray streaks winding through his curling brown hair. This year he would be fifty. Kahlil found him handsome in spite of that. His full southern mouth and high cheekbones lent him an air of youth and the leanness of his body added to that impression.

He hadn’t pulled on his riding coat and his white shirt hung only half buttoned over his chest. He absently continued fastening his shirt closed as he walked, moving quietly despite the limited motion of his right leg. He started towards Kahlil’s bed and then stopped, catching sight of him in front of the iron stove. He beckoned Kahlil inside.

Alidas’ room was small and simple. It smelled like saddle leather and cedar soap. A dull glow of moonlight fell through the small window, illuminating the twisted white blankets on Alidas’ unmade bed. The closet door hung open, revealing Alidas’ spare uniforms, his lighter summer coat, and his spare boots. The adjoining door to Alidas’ private bathroom was shut. Alidas’ towel hung over the back of one of his chairs. His razor, mirror and shaving tins sat out on his table.
         

For a brief moment, Kahlil caught a glimpse of his own face in Alidas’ shaving mirror. It still seemed wrong to him that his eyelids were bare and only the corners of his mouth bore any testament to the wide scar that should have been there.

Kahlil closed Alidas’ door behind himself. He took a seat in one of the two ornately carved chairs. Rather than taking the chair opposite Kahlil, Alidas leaned against the edge of the table. Alidas avoided sitting in chairs, as it was often difficult for him to regain his feet smoothly. He disliked anything that brought attention to his bad leg.

“How was it last night?” Alidas asked.

Kahlil frowned and asked, “What do you mean?”

“All quiet in there?” Alidas leaned closer and tapped Kahlil lightly on the forehead.

“Oh,” Kahlil shrugged, “I don’t know. I slept well enough.”

“Well enough.” Alidas smiled as he repeated the words. “I suppose that’s all a man can ask for. So, none of your bad dreams?”

“Nothing too bad.”

 
“And your memory? Still the same?” Alidas asked.

“It’s never the same,” Kahlil replied. “That seems to be the problem.”

“Yes, but it hasn’t gotten worse?”

“No.” Kahlil picked up one of Alidas’ shaving tins. Even closed it gave off a deep woody scent. “Everything from the past two years is perfectly clear. It’s just further back than that...” Thinking of it gave him a feeling of uneasiness, as if he were trying to read through warped panes of glass. “Why do you ask? Afraid I’ll forget your birthday?”

“No,” Alidas replied, “I was just wondering if you’ve remembered any more of your old life. Family or friends who might help you out?”

“No.” A feeling of frustration began to well up in him. He didn’t want to be talking about this. He preferred not to even think of it. It wasn’t like Alidas to bring it up. Usually, he got straight to business. Kahlil put down the shaving tin.

“So, what about the here and now? Who is my man this time?” Kahlil asked.

“It can’t always be so simple.” Alidas frowned at Kahlil’s directness.

 
“You give me a name and I give you a corpse. What could be more simple?” Kahlil shrugged.

“This time I don’t have a name. I don’t even know when this man will show up for his execution.” Alidas pulled his dark green jacket on but didn’t button it closed.

“Another assassin?” Kahlil asked.

Alidas nodded.

“Belonging to whom?”

“I don’t know.” Alidas’ brown eyes seemed to darken to nearly black beneath the shadows of his narrowed lids. “He might be in Gaunsho Lisam’s hire, though it’s hard to say. He may not be a professional at all.”

“It’s not some poor man Gaunsho Bousim imagines to be another of his wives’ lovers, is it?” Kahlil asked.

“No.” Alidas smiled. “I think you and I might be the only ones left alive if we started down that road. No.” Alidas’ frown returned. “My man in the Seven Palaces has heard that Ourath Lisam plans to have Jath’ibaye killed. It seems that he thinks he can seize Vundomu for himself.”