3: Black Blades (6 page)

Streams of hired men hauled cases of fish, casks of wine, entire racks of roast dog, and bushels of southern fruits from waiting wagons. They grunted and heaved their loads through the gates and past the guards. Delivery boys from city shops darted between them with trays of brilliant candies, vases of cut flowers, and towering silver cakes. Staff from the council building, in blue and gold liveries, scurried from one point to another, shouting directions and attempting to check the deliveries and invoices.

“Lisam runner,” Kahlil told a guard. “Deliveries for the steward.” He pointed to a tissue-wrapped bundle in the basket of his bicycle. It contained his socks.

The guard just waved him in. Behind him, Kahlil heard tahldi and the creak of wooden wheels. He glanced back to see that several red, rented carriages had arrived. Musicians climbed out, most of them cradling or lugging instruments. Some were fully dressed in their white uniforms, but most still wore their street clothes. Immediatly, an argument started up as to who was responsible for paying the carriage drivers.

Kahlil caught the guard’s momentary expression of tired exasperation. By the end of the night, the guards would certainly have seen enough men pass between them to forget his face.

Kahlil simply drifted through the back courtyard. The unyielding weight of his bicycle protected him from too many bumps and shoves. The air in the courtyard rolled over him as he walked. One moment he grimaced in the grasp of fish odors, then he pushed past a clot of delivery men and found himself plunged into scents of mulled wine and spring blossoms. Men shouted questions and orders all around him. Kahlil didn’t think anyone really knew what was directed to whom.

He reached the racks behind the kitchen. He locked his bicycle next to three other delivery bicycles and then wandered into the council building with his clothes in his arms.
                

The interior of the building didn’t pale in comparison to the exterior, not even in the back rooms. The trim over the doors was carved with twining ivy. Scattered between the leaves were gilded coins, each bearing the crest of one of the seven gaun’im houses. The Lisam bull glared down from a corner. Across from it, Kahlil recognized the crossed arrows of the Bousim house. Just faintly, above the ivy, Kahlil could see that there had once been another, larger symbol. He squinted up at the vague shadows and then realized that he was looking at the remnants of a Payshmura sun.

The council building had been constructed before the Payshmura had fallen. Now that Kahlil thought of it, he could see old remnants of their dominance all around him. As he wandered the halls, stepping past flustered staff and deliverymen, he noted the small, incised alcoves where dishes of prayer stones would have been placed. Now they were either filled by bowls of cut flowers or gilded tiles depicting the crests of the seven houses.

“What are you doing?” an older man suddenly demanded of him.

“Delivery,” Kahlil answered.

The man rolled his eyes. Obviously most of the men pushing their way through the back rooms and halls had deliveries.

“Who is it for?” the old man demanded.

“A musician,” Kahlil said. “I’m supposed to deliver it to his dressing room.”

“His dressing room?” The old man scowled. “That’s rich. They’re all going to be using one room, the light-fingered little thieves.” The man suddenly turned to the group of stocky deliverymen slouching next to the wine racks. His wrinkled face seemed to fold in on itself as he glared at them. “If you’re done, don’t just stand around taking up space! Get out!”

The men quickly retreated back down the hall.

The old man snapped his attention back to Kahlil. “The fourth door on the right.”

“Thank you,” Kahlil replied.

The old man had already turned away and was stalking towards a cluster of young men milling around two kitchen girls. Kahlil shook his head. He couldn’t imagine being a house steward.

He found the room that had been designated for the musicians. Any decoration that could be removed obviously had been. The inlaid walls were bare, and even the flowers had been removed from the alcoves. None of the musicians had arrived yet. Kahlil stripped off his clothes and changed. He doubted that he would have an opportunity to recover his old clothes. Still, he folded them into a neat pile out of habit. He’d miss his coat and boots.

After that, he simply drifted through the council building, randomly carrying out instructions. He decanted a bottle of wine, removed and then returned a vase of lilies to an alcove. He avoided the steward, easily fading into the crowds of other men in white uniforms.

He accustomed himself to the layout of the building. Beyond the small back rooms stood a huge ballroom. There the screens that would hide the musicians had already been spread. Intricately carved chairs and tiny decorative tables had been placed along the left wall. A profusion of fresh flowers were scattered across the tables. The blossoms looked fragile compared to the huge shields and carved wreaths mounted on the walls. The polished floor shone brilliantly as it reflected the blazing gold and silver chandeliers overhead. A staircase on the the right wall led to the second floor but it had been chained off.

Kahlil doubted that Ourath or any of his conspirators would attempt anything here, under so much light and in such an open space.

Kahlil picked up a bouquet of spring buds and stalked purposefully past the other servants out into the gardens. The guards on the walls hardly took note of him.
        

A path of marble stones wound slowly up a slight hill to the west garden, the one Nanvess had mentioned. At the top Kahlil found a flickering stone lamp surrounded by dark pines. Yellow and red ivy vines cascaded over trellises. Between the trees, low shrubs hid the bare ground with dark winter-hardy greenery. Here and there tiny patches of red and violet spring flowers pushed through the dark soil.

Kahlil turned slowly around, taking in the deep shadows, the walls of ivy, and the thin, flickering lamplight. He couldn’t have chosen a better place for an assassination himself. He was sure it would take place here. But he couldn’t just wait around in plain sight. He turned back down the path.

He couldn’t know where Fikiri would come from or when he would arrive, but Kahlil did know that one way or another Fikiri would have to get close to Jath’ibaye. So all he had to do was slip back into the council building and wait for Jath’ibaye; then Fikiri would come to him.

When he walked in through the back door, several women looked up at him. They were portioning out cutlets of dog meat into white dishes.

“Where have you been?” an older woman demanded.

“The steward sent me out to get some more flowers.” Kahlil held up the bouquet of spring buds he had carried out with him.

“Forget that,” the older woman told him. “The ladies are arriving and they aren’t half-hungry. Take a tray and get out there.”

Kahlil picked up a silver tray and strode out to the ballroom. The musicians had situated themselves behind their blinds and played quietly. Kahlil followed the other men in white uniforms, serving the exquisitely dressed gaun’im women at the tables.

As more gaun’im arrived, Kahlil’s duties changed. He took out trays of drinks for the men and candies for the youngest girls. All of the noblemen came dressed in their house colors and carried at least one long string of fine silver chain. Though the chains were symbols of the wealth that they could offer to their future brides, Kahlil still found them sinister.

Esh’illan Anyyd arrived with several of his brothers and a particularly sturdy set of silver wedding chains. Draped over his silk clad arm, the chains just brushed his knee. No one else seemed to take any note of them. Ourath arrived with his three wives and his young son, all clad in the rich tawny colors of the Lisam house. Ourath’s hair looked particularly red and his low voice seemed to brim with happiness as he spoke. He took a glass of wine from Kahlil without even sparing him a glance.

The music grew louder, competing with the rising hum of conversation. The heat from the lamps and chandeliers swelled with the warmth of so many bodies.

Several members of the Bousim family were announced, but Nanvess was not among them. Then the massive doors swung open again and a boy in blue and gold announced, “Welcome his honor, Jath’ibaye’in’Fai’daum.”

Kahlil and every other person in the entire ballroom turned toward the door. Even the musicians seemed to pause a moment to steal glances at Jath’ibaye.

Unlike any of the gaun’im, Jath’ibaye had come alone. His wild blonde hair blazed gold under the profusion of light. The blood red of his clothes declared his Fai’daum loyalty. He hadn’t brought a single silver chain.

Kahlil thought he heard an audible sigh of relief from some of the girls near him.

As Jath’ibaye scanned the crowded ballroom, Kahlil bowed his head. He could remember too well how Jath’ibaye had picked him out even in the darkness.

Ourath broke away from his conversation with a Tushoya woman and her unwed daughters. He strode easily through the crowd, lesser gaun’im men quickly making way for him. He greeted Jath’ibaye with a smile and led him into the ballroom. Kahlil stepped back behind a vivid yellow bouquet as Ourath looked around for a server. At last he stopped a young man in a white uniform and took two drinks. Ourath handed one to Jath’ibaye and offered a toast of some kind.

They drank together and Ourath introduced several other gaun’im to Jath’ibaye. After a few moments, the room seemed to return to normal. More guests arrived. The ancient Bousim gaunsho shuffled through the doors, followed by his dozen wives. Steadily, couples began to fill the middle of the dance floor. Ourath escorted his first wife out for a dance, but afterwards he returned to Jath’ibaye’s side.

Kahlil still hadn’t spotted Nanvess when he noticed Ourath drawing Jath’ibaye away from the crowd towards the back of the building and the gardens. Kahlil set his tray full of iced fruit down and cut through the kitchen to the west garden.

Once outside, Kahlil raced up the hill, keeping to the side of the path where the deep evergreen leaves hid him. He waited for Ourath and Jath’ibaye. A few moments later they appeared, walking slowly along the path. Far behind them, Kahlil caught sight of Esh’illan.

As Ourath led Jath’ibaye closer, Kahlil moved farther ahead. Though now they were close enough that he could hear their conversation. Suddenly, Jath’ibaye drew to a halt.

“You shouldn’t depend upon my affection,” Jath’ibaye told Ourath. “It’s not my strong point.”

“No?” Ourath asked. “What is?”

Jath’ibaye didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied the knots of dark trees and undergrowth ahead of him. Kahlil stood still as a statue, holding his breath. Eventually Jath’ibaye turned back to Ourath and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Ourath flushed.

“Absolutely.” He smiled at Jath’ibaye and this time the force behind it showed a little. “I know you’ll want to see these herbs.”

Ourath started forward, but Jath’ibaye caught him by the shoulder.

“I’m not a fool, Ourath. I know you’re not planning on showing me any herbs up there.” Jath’ibaye’s tone was oddly gentle in comparison to his harsh expression.

“Really?” Ourath slid his hand around Jath’ibaye’s, twining their fingers together. He lowered his head to brush his lips over Jath’ibaye’s wrist.

“So I want to be alone with you.” Ourath gazed up at Jath’ibaye. “You can’t be disappointed, can you?”

Again, Jath’ibaye glanced to the shadows beneath the pine trees before looking back to Ourath.

“We could stop it here, now.” Jath’ibaye spoke so softly that Kahlil hardly caught the words. “I wouldn’t hold it against you. People make mistakes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re still so young,” Jath’ibaye said. “You can’t understand how badly this could end for you.”

“How can you still think that I would regret being with you?”

Jath’ibaye just sighed heavily.

“Do you regret being with me?” Ourath suddenly demanded, his voice edged with what sounded like genuine anger.

“I regret using you,” Jath’ibaye said at last.

Ourath glared at Jath’ibaye and smiled at the same time. “Well, come. Regret it one more time.”

 
Jath’ibaye allowed Ourath to lead him along the path.

Kahlil rushed ahead of them, cutting through the trellises of ivy, while they took the curving path upward. When Kahlil reached the edge of the clearing at the top of the hill, he came to a halt. There was something different about the place now. Despite the warmth of the evening, a chill emanated from the center of the clearing. The tiny flame in the stone lamp flickered and spat. Kahlil hung back in the shadows.

Ourath and Jath’ibaye rounded the last curve in the path.

“Here.” Ourath caught Jath’ibaye’s hands and suddenly pulled him forward. It was clear to Kahlil that Jath’ibaye allowed this.

Coming up from behind, Esh’illan made his move. He swung the silver chains and whipped them around Jath’ibaye’s throat.

Jath’ibaye shoved Ourath aside, pushing him clear. Then he caught hold of the chains at his throat and jerked Esh’illan off his feet. Esh’illan gave a startled yelp as Jath’ibaye swung him up like he was spinning a child and then hurled him to the ground.