2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows (18 page)

Kahlil shouldered his way in past the other runners into the bathroom and found an unoccupied washbasin. Steam condensed on the tiled walls. Kahlil splashed hot water over his face. A moment later his skin was cold again. Spring still hadn’t warmed the morning air.

He opened his shaving kit. The razor would need sharpening again soon. Maybe he would have time to do it after the Bell Dance. The razor would probably keep its edge for three more shaves. Kahlil turned the straight blade in his hand, watching the light turn from a dull glow to a hard white gleam at the edge.

The razor wasn’t important and for that reason Kahlil focused on it. The edge of his razor, the smell of the soap, the roughness of his towel—he concentrated on small things. Details.

The feel of the air this morning was cold and crisp with the sting of frost. The roads would be slippery.

Kahlil went through the motions of the morning—washing, dressing, eating, and taking his orders—
in a sanctuary of minutiae. It kept him calm.

Terrible plans were in motion. Right at this moment Nanvess Bousim had men searching for him. His black knife, the yasi’halaun, had fallen into the hands of a sorcerer. In three days Jath’ibaye’s murder would probably start a war. And worst yet, the Great Gates could tear the world to pieces.

The relative dullness of his razor didn’t matter. It wouldn’t save or destroy a single life, so Kahlil put the reality of it between himself and overwhelming dread.

The other runners at the table oozed excitement. They devoured mountains of weasel eggs and baited each other over their cycling prowess. Fensal had worked them up with the promise of races later in the day. The runners swapped duties and negotiated routes to ensure that they got done with their deliveries early enough to join the races against runners from other houses. The rare opportunity to challenge Jath’ibaye’s runners elicited particular excitement.

“Nam’s fast,” Fensal was saying, “but I’m fearless. This year he’s going to be tasting my dust all the way back to Vundomu.”

Desh’oun wouldn’t have approved of any of this. But then, he was far too busy to pay attention to the petty rivalries of the house runners. Meals had to be prepared and guest rooms readied before the Bell Dance. All morning Kahlil only caught a single glimpse of Desh’oun. The gaunt man had stalked past their open door and disappeared down a hallway. Yu’mir and another kitchen girl hurried behind him, their arms full of linens and bedding.

For the people around him this was a hard, exciting, busy day. Their disasters, if they had any, would involve burned meats or dropped packages or stains that might never come out.

For him, there were assassinations and blood-fed black knives. There was Nayeshi and the soundless corridors of the Gray Space. His life was so different from theirs. He couldn’t imagine even attempting to explain it to them, much less commiserating.

Kahlil chewed his roll. It was almost too sweet. He stared down at his bread knife, and in spite of his efforts to avoid disturbing thoughts, Jath’ibaye’s angry face came unbidden into his mind.

Kahlil knew that face. Even in the dark he had recognized it. It was face of the man who stood over him in his nightmares. It was the face in the photograph he had been carrying when he had first reached Nurjima. The moment Kahlil had looked up and seen the man, Kahlil had known he was Jath’ibaye.

And Jath’ibaye had known him as well. It had been the first time anyone in this world had looked at him with complete recognition. He knew so little about himself that he found it disquieting to think that someone else could know more.

The knot in his stomach began to twist again. He wasn’t going to be eating anything more. He needed to get to work. Only three days remained until the Bell Dance. He needed to report to Alidas.

“I better get going.” Kahlil pushed his plate aside and stood.

Fensal looked up from his meal. “You’re clear on the new routes?”

“Red Row, Bakers’ Hill, and Five Fountains.” Kahlil picked up his coat and pulled it on.

“Perfect. Get done as fast as you can. The races will start at four up on Black Hill.” Fensal grinned in pure delight.

Kahlil nodded and left. He’d already loaded his share of the packages into the basket of his bicycle and tucked letters into his satchel. He delivered them quickly. Fensal would have been proud, he thought, and a little astonished to see the unorthodox shortcuts he took.

Once the letters were out of the way he locked up his bicycle at a soup house and slipped into the alley behind the building. He closed his eyes and immediately the colorless, silent Gray Space opened before him.

Moments later he was at the black door behind the bone carver’s shop. He could have simply passed through the door, but he didn’t want to. Instead he stepped out of the Gray Space. The smell of the air in the cramped streets of the Redbrick District was choking compared to what he had grown accustomed to at the Lisam Palace. In the middle of the day few people were out on the street, yet the odor of the surroundings attested to their overwhelming presence here, human sweat and urine matched by the scents of animal carcasses and rendering vats.

People shouted between the narrow brick buildings. The low, deep pounding of work hammers throbbed through the air, and above that Kahlil could discern the high screeching of butcher saws scraping into bones.

Kahlil knocked on the door. After no response came, he took out the key Alidas had given him and let himself in.

He’d expected the rooms to be as austere as those that Alidas occupied in the Bousim barrack, but these were far different. The space itself was smaller and colder. Framed pictures of tahldi and their riders hung on the plaster walls. Most of the pictures looked old and faded and the only face Kahlil recognized in any of them was that of Alidas himself.

A red embroidered carpet covered the floor and the two chairs in the first room were large and padded with dull red cushions. The greatest difference, however, was the sheer number of books. There had to be hundreds of them, packed into bookshelves and piled onto Alidas’ desk, even stacked on the floor.

Kahlil picked one up. The cover was tattered and stained but otherwise unmarked. Kahlil flipped it open and read:

Down the cold hill

Alone in the meadow

She waits for him still

An unknowing widow

Clearly a book of old southern poems. The next book in the stack turned out to be a history of the seven gaun’im families, containing a profusion of maps and line drawings of famous leaders. Beneath that lay a slim volume of medicinal plants. Kahlil had never heard of or seen many of them.

Most of the books on the shelves were older and a few that Kahlil flipped through had been dedicated to people other than Alidas. Kahlil guessed Alidas had gathered them throughout his travels as a rashan and bought most of them used.

The first room adjoined two smaller rooms: a cramped bathroom and a bedroom just large enough for a bed and a dresser. Kahlil sat down on the bed.

It felt good to get off his feet. He hadn’t gotten much rest last night. Briefly, he entertained the idea of lying back and sleeping here. He knew it was foolish but he felt safe in Alidas’ rooms. He could have easily lain back and napped until Alidas returned home.

But it could be days before Alidas arrived and he hadn’t come here to sleep. He had to inform Alidas of Nanvess’ involvement in the assassination plan as well as Nanvess’ order to find and kill him. Kahlil frowned at the blank plaster wall. If the Bousim house wanted Kahlil dead, then Alidas’ position could become difficult.

Still, it was his duty to Alidas to inform him.

In the desk in the main room Kahlil found a pen, root ink, and paper. There were ledgers and what looked like a diary. Kahlil didn’t disturb either, though they tempted him fiercely. If Alidas hadn’t given him the key to his rooms, Kahlil might have read them. But something about the trust in offering that key made Kahlil want to be worthy of it.

He wrote a brief report of what he had seen the previous night in Ourath’s chambers. He considered describing his encounter with Jath’ibaye but then decided against it. He’d only inform Alidas about Nanvess because that concerned Alidas directly. Kahlil set the note aside to dry.

On a second piece of paper he wrote:

I came by but you were out. I read a little in your book of poems. The one on page thirty-four was particularly insightful. If you read it, tell me what you think of it— Kyle’insira.

He lay the second note down on the desk in plain view. The ink on the first note had already dried so Kahlil folded it into quarters and slid it inside the book of poems. After that, he had no further excuse for lingering in Alidas’ rooms so he let himself out. It was already afternoon. Fensal would be expecting him back.

Less than an hour later, Kahlil pedaled up to the kitchen courtyard of the Lisam Palace. The bicycle racks were almost empty. He locked up his own and then let himself into the kitchen’s backdoor.

The heat and smell of roasting meats wafted over him. Most of the women working at the long wooden tables didn’t bother to do more than glance up as he came in. They were far too busy, rolling out fine crusts and mixing fragrant batters. Yu’mir, though, caught his eye and beckoned him over. Flour dusted her brown hair and Kahlil thought there must have been some on her face as well. She looked terribly pale.

“Watch his hands. They’re fast,” another woman commented as Kahlil walked past. Kahlil glanced back and recognized the freckled woman from the night before. He winked at her and she gave him a playfully menacing look.

“You can flirt later.” Yu’mir stepped forward and caught his arm. “Right now I need to speak to you.”

Kahlil glanced down at her. He had spent so little of his life near women that at times he forgot how small they could be. Her hand didn’t even enclose his wrist.

Kyle allowed her to pull him to the far side of the kitchen. The smell of blue leaf and other winter herbs was stronger here. He guessed that the locked cupboard next to him was full of precious spices. It was the coolest and darkest area in the entire kitchen.

“So, what’s for—” Kahlil began but Yu’mir cut him off.

“Is Fensal holding his stupid races today?” Yu’mir whispered.

“Why?” Kahlil asked.

“Because Desh’oun has two packages that he wanted Fensal to deliver and I can’t find him anywhere.”

“I can’t really say.” Kahlil made his best noncommittal reply.

“He’s out racing, isn’t he?” Yu’mir’s expression of annoyance shifted to anxiety. “Desh’oun will fire him if he finds out.”

“Don’t tell him then.”

“There are still the packages,” Yu’mir replied. “I can’t just throw them away and pretend that they never existed. They’re important.”

Kahlil sighed. He supposed that they were important. Not to him. None of this mattered to him. But to Desh’oun and Fensal and Yu’mir this wasn’t something that they just had to play at for the next three days. This was the reality of their lives. Nothing so consuming and immense as planned assassinations threatened them, but that didn’t mean that they lived without crisis or trouble. Fensal loved and needed his work here at the Lisam Palace. Yu’mir obviously cared about what happened to Fensal.

“So I’ll deliver the packages,” Kahlil said. “It’s nothing to worry over.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure, we switch routes all the time. I know where he keeps his seal of delivery. So long as you don’t tell, I won’t, and Fensal should be fine.”

“Really?” Yu’mir suddenly smiled at him and Kahlil realized how truly worried she had been. Her eyes shone as though she was on the verge of tears. “Thank you, Kyle.”

She gave his hand a squeeze. Her fingers felt soft and warm against his.

Making Yu’mir happy gave Kahlil an odd rush of pleasure. It felt good to do something kind for another person just for their sake, rather than out of duty or necessity. It made him feel like he might actually be a good man deep down.

“I have the packages locked in the spice chest.” Yu’mir took out a small key and unlocked the cupboard. A strong smell of dried herbs wafted out as she opened the doors.

The packages were surprisingly small: a little box wrapped in white cotton and a letter. Yu’mir placed them in Kahlil’s hands and said, “They’re to be given to Jath’ibaye personally.”
    

To Be Continued…

Usho—Leader of the Pashmura Church.

Kahlil—Holy Traveler and Companion to Parfir.

Ushman—High Ranking Clergy; often in a position of great responsibility.

Ushiri—Talented Priest studing to become Kahlil’im.

Ushvun—Priest.

Ushvran—Nun.

Gaunsho—Lord of a one of the seven noble houses.

Gaunan—Nobleman.

Gauniri—Noblechild.

Gaunvur—Noblewoman.

Gaun’im—Nobles (as a group).

Laman—Scholar, Doctor or anyone learned.

Lamiri—Student.

Rasho—Military leader, particularly calvalry.