2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows (16 page)

“But what if he does?” Esh’illan persisted.

Nanvess didn’t reply. Ourath helped himself to another serving of black plums.

“Well,” Esh’illan said quickly, “he’s not taking me without a hell of a fight. I’ll put a few bullets in that bastard before his demon bitch takes us down.”

“The bitch moves faster than you’d think.” Nanvess didn’t look at the younger man.

“She doesn’t move faster than a bullet, I’ll bet.” Esh’illan patted the butt of the revolver in his shoulder holster. “When Jath’ibaye comes for me, I’ll be ready.”

“He isn’t coming for you,” Ourath said. “He doesn’t know of our plans or of our friends in the north.”

Esh’illan ate a few bites of his cutlet. Nanvess continued worrying his bundle of leather scraps while Ourath took out his pocket watch and checked the time.

“So,” Ourath closed his watch, “where is he?”

“Still at the docks, I heard.” Esh’illan disengaged from his food. “They’re saying that he won’t come off the water until daybreak.”

“Not Jath’ibaye,” Ourath said. “Our man. Where is he?”

“He’ll be here soon enough,” Nanvess said. “Any minute now.”

Esh’illan stopped eating and said, “He’s not going to walk through the walls again, is he?”

Nanvess lifted his head. He smiled.

Kahlil heard Gray Space rending. A sudden chill twisted down his spine.

“He’s here,” Nanvess said.

Kahlil shuddered as a wave of icy air hissed through the room. A flame arced up, the raw elements of the air igniting as they were ripped apart. Kahlil had rarely seen such brutal force used to rend the Gray Space. A noise almost like an animal scream tore through the still of the chamber.

A man in black robes stepped out from between the flames. His blonde hair writhed around his face, caught in the churning wind of the two clashing atmospheres. The man swung his hands down. His fingers twisted through the Payshmura signs of sealing and death. Instantly, the Gray Space snapped closed behind him with a sound like rending iron and the flames died. Only a smell of ozone hung in their wake.

A deep, cold sickly feeling began to churn through Kahlil’s stomach. He hadn’t expected this, nothing like this.

The knowledge of opening the spaces had been one of the Payshmura’s most guarded secrets. Only fifty men, secured in Rathal’pesha, were ever taught it. Of them, only a few ever surpassed the simple act of opening the spaces. Those who could move through the spaces were supremely rare.

With Rathal’pesha destroyed and all the Payshmura teachings lost, Kahlil had never thought for a moment that he would meet another man like himself. He was the Kahlil, from blood to bone. Until this moment, it had been his singular identity, not just his title but also his name. And now there was another.

Kahlil just stared at the man. He had no idea what he would do pitted against a man with skills like his own.

Nanvess rose to his feet.

“It’s been too long, Uncle Fikiri.” Nanvess embraced the older man. “Jath’ibaye has arrived early. One of my rashan’im saw him at the docks this afternoon.”

“We know.” Fikiri gave a brief, shallow smile. “He was poisoned. His people are bringing him to his Glass Palace for a remedy.”

“Will he die?” Ourath asked. His low voice sounded like a purr.

“Not of the poison alone, but it will certainly aid his demise,” Fikiri replied.

Though he, like Nanvess, spoke with a slight northern accent, Fikiri’s features appeared Eastern. His dark blonde hair and angular cheekbones seemed at odds with the slightness of his build. Kahlil guessed that he must have been a child of mixed blood.

He looked older than Kahlil—too old for his fit build, as if he’d been aged by far more than the mere passage of years. His red and swollen knuckles stood out against the tangled white scar tissue that criss-crossed the back of his right hand.

There was something familiar to Kahlil about that and about the man himself. He seemed like someone that Kahlil had seen before. Someone he had known? Maybe at Rathal’pesha?

Kahlil wasn’t always sure that he had been there himself. But he had to have been. And so had this other man.

Fikiri Bousim: the name made Kahlil feel oddly cold, as if he were reciting the name of a dead man.

Fikiri stepped closer to the fireplace and held his hands up to the heat. As he moved, Kahlil noticed the faint remnants of embroidered silver moons at the collar of Fikiri’s robes. In the illumination of the firelight, Kahlil could see that the robes themselves had been patched with other black cloth, particularly the right arm.

Fikiri turned back to his three companions. He glanced over the carcass of the dog and the half-empty dishes of plums and spice breads. At last his gaze came to rest on the bundle of leather beside Nanvess’ plate.

“I found it just as you said.” Nanvess had followed Fikiri’s gaze. He stepped back to his place at the table and picked up the leather-bound bundle.

“My lady saw it in the hollows of her oracle’s skull,” Fikiri murmured.

Kahlil couldn’t help but notice the slightly distasteful expression that passed over Esh’illan’s face. He mouthed the words ‘hollows of her skull’ to himself and then shook his head.

“So, what is it that she saw?” Ourath asked. “We’ve been waiting quite some time to find out.”

“Yasi’halaun,” Fikiri’s voice was almost a whisper, “the black knife of the Kahlil.”

Nanvess carefully unwrapped the rags of leather.

“It was in one of our garrison storerooms wrapped up in the remains of a leather pack. I have no idea how it came to be there.”

Kahlil stared as Nanvess slowly uncovered the gleaming black body of the knife.

It was his knife. Kahlil knew it the moment he saw it. He had been holding it when he had first come to Nurjima. But then there had been that fight and he had forgotten about his knife. He had forgotten about all the things he had brought with him.

Alidas must have stored them away. And now his knife was here in the hands of these men. The uneasy feeling in Kahlil’s stomach ground into him a little more.

Nanvess lifted the black knife gently and turned it in the lamplight. It was as dark as night should have been; dark in a way that seemed to devour the surrounding light.

“Yasi’halaun,” Fikiri whispered the name like a prayer. “The blade that drinks the blood of the god himself.”

“Will it kill Jath’ibaye and his bitch?” Esh’illan frowned at the knife.

“In the right hands it could do much more than that,” Fikiri replied. “It is almost a living thing. Fed on the blood of the powerful, this blade could become sharp enough to cut through the walls of the world.”

“But it can kill Jath’ibaye?” Esh’illan repeated his question a little more forcefully.

“It will do everything we need it to do,” Nanvess told Esh’illan. “Are you going to fret like a child-bride all night?”

“I’m not fretting. I just wanted to be clear,” Esh’illan replied. “All this talk about living blades and hollow skulls rings a little too much of Payshmura mystics and all their gibberish. Look what that got them. A smoldering black pit. The Anyyd house isn’t interested in toying with those kinds of forces.”

“It’s not as though we are attempting to summon the Rifter,” Ourath replied smoothly. “We are practical men in a position to make great gains. And we’re not talking about gibberish. We’re talking about new lands. An entire of world of new lands.”

Fikiri nodded. “With this blade and Jath’ibaye’s blood we can open the gate to Nayeshi. My lady swears it.”

The knot in Kahlil’s stomach twisted.

Nayeshi. Kingdom of the Night, Palace of the Day, the Rifter’s cradle. These three noblemen shouldn’t have even known the name.

And this man, Fikiri, and his lady, they seemed to know too much and too little at once. They shouldn’t have known that the yasi’halaun existed or that it could be blood-fed to open a Great Gate. They shouldn’t have known of the Great Gates at all. But since they did, they should have also discovered that the Great Gates were delicate and deadly. Opened incorrectly, one could tear apart acres of land, ripping through stone and iron alike. A gate could swallow men alive and spit out bloody paste.

It took the combined effort of both the Payshmura ushman’im and the Issusha’im Oracles to control a Great Gate. It wasn’t just a matter of spilling some Fai’daum leader’s blood with the yasi’halaun and then opening one.

Watching them was like watching toddlers play with grenades. It had to be stopped. Not just the assassination, but all of this.

For a moment he considered simply lunging out and taking the yasi’halaun from them. He could slip into the Gray Space in an instant. But then so could this other man, Fikiri.

“To be honest,” Ourath gazed at the black knife with a warm smile, “I’d do it just to be rid of Jath’ibaye.”

“Being rid of Jath’ibaye is actually the point.” Esh’illan, too, was looking at the knife, but his expression wasn’t nearly so pleased. “I just think that we’d be better served by putting a bullet through his head, instead of using some little knife.”

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” Ourath assured them. “I’m sure we could shoot and stab him. Possibly hang him if time allows.”

“You think it’s a joke?” Esh’illan demanded.

“No.” Ourath pushed a ringlet of his deep red hair back from his face. “I simply think you shouldn’t underestimate the power of the weapons we have at our disposal.” Ourath glanced meaningfully from the black knife to Fikiri.

“I’m not underestimating them. I know they have real power. I just don’t know if I trust all this sorcery. It seems as likely to kill us as Jath’ibaye, maybe even more so. After all, if it works so well, then why couldn’t the Payshmura destroy him in the first place?” Esh’illan leaned back slightly and glanced up at Fikiri.

Fikiri returned the man’s gaze.

“How well have your guns served you against Jath’ibaye so far?” Fikiri’s expression remained dull, but the edge of bitterness that tinged his voice made him sound ages older than the men around him.

Esh’illan flinched from Fikiri’s scorn.
       

“I don’t give a damn so long as it works,” Esh’illan muttered. “We need the iron in Vundomu.”

Nanvess smiled at Fikiri. Ourath looked pleased. Esh’illan looked like he had swallowed a worm. He took a deep drink of his wine.

“So, it will be at the Bell Dance?” Esh’illan asked Ourath.

Ourath nodded.

“You’ll need this, then.” Nanvess stood and held the black knife out to Fikiri. Fikiri slipped it into the empty sheath at his hip.

“The stones,” Fikiri asked Nanvess, “did you find them?”

“What stones?” Esh’illan interjected.

“I moved them,” Nanvess told Fikiri.

“Good.” Fikiri nodded. “Then that leaves only one other matter—”

“What stones?” Esh’illan demanded a little louder.

Nanvess scowled at him.

“Jath’ibaye placed bewitched stones in our houses and in the Gaunsho’im Council Hall,” Nanvess answered.

“In our houses?” Esh’illan looked from Ourath to Fikiri. “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

“They’ve been taken care of,” Nanvess said. “We can’t have meetings like this every time there’s some small detail to arrange. It’s suspicious enough as is.”

“But I could have been informed,” Esh’illan said.

“You have been,” Nanvess replied. “Just now.”

“What did they do?” Esh’illan demanded.

Fikiri sighed and said, “They respond to the presence of power like mine. They warned Jath’ibaye of any disturbance in the hidden spaces where I move.”

“And that’s all?” Esh’illan looked suspicious.

“That’s all that matters for our purposes,” Nanvess replied.

“I want to know—” Esh’illan began in annoyance.

“It’s difficult to explain to men who have not practiced sorcery,” Fikiri cut him off softly. “So I’ll show you.”

Fikiri lifted Esh’illan’s half-full wine glass. He folded his chapped hands around the glass and pulled it against his chest. He pressed his eyes shut.

“Certain inanimate objects can be infused with a witch’s will.” Fikiri kept his voice soft and his eyes closed. “If he concentrates on them he can control them, even from a distance.”

Fikiri opened his eyes. Then he handed the wine glass back to Esh’illan, who took it gingerly, as if he expected it would burst into flames. Kahlil half expected that
 
as well.

This certainly wasn’t a Payshmura teaching.

Fikiri lifted one hand up into the sign of peace. Slowly the dark red wine swirled up from the glass forming a replica of Fikiri’s hand. Esh’illan gaped at the red fluid as its overly supple fingers curled into a fist in imitation of Fikiri’s next gesture. Then the hand gave them a coy wave and splashed back down into the glass.

Kahlil guessed that his own expression mirrored Esh’illan’s. He had never seen anything like that before. He had walked between worlds and carried the living bones of an Issusha Oracle on his back, but he had never seen this. It had to have been an Eastern teaching. He wondered what other skills Fikiri possessed.