7: Enemies and Shadows (3 page)

“That will have to be enough, I suppose.”

“If you can present any proof, I will vouch for your character to Nivoun, I swear,” Joulen said.

“If I can’t, and the week passes?” Hirran asked.

Joulen frowned deeply and even from a distance Kahlil understood his meaning.

Hirran sighed.

“I was looking forward to meeting you in person, Joulen Bousim,” she said. “I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

“Yes,” Joulen said. “I’m sorry.”

“I had hoped that one day the Bousim house would be an ally to the Iron Heights. I had such hopes…You can’t imagine.” Hirran looked sad but still quite lovely.

Very carefully, Joulen reached out and brushed a fallen blossom from Hirran’s hair.

“I’m glad to have met you.” Joulen didn’t seem able to take his eyes off her. “Even if this is a terrible time, it’s an honor to have met you after only knowing you from your letters.”

Hirran smiled at Joulen and Kahlil could see that this was a smile without artifice. He understood from her expression that she’d harbored her own personal hopes for Joulen Bousim—hopes completely unrelated to trade.

She said, “I will do all I can to ensure that our next meeting will be better.”

Joulen couldn’t seem to lift his gaze from Hirran and Kahlil thought the young commander might be on the verge of stealing a kiss. But Hirran straightened and drew back.

“I can’t be gone too long,” Hirran said.

“Your husband will miss you, no doubt.” Joulen scowled at the flower petals at his feet.

“I’m not married,” Hirran informed him.

Even from where he crouched in the tree branches, Kahlil could see how this information pleased Joulen. He bowed deeply to Hirran and stared after her as she and her attendant hurried away from the orchard.

Kahlil dropped back into the Gray Space, and several blocks past the Silverlake Gardens, he emerged at Hirran’s side. She was startled but managed to retain her dignity. Her young attendant yelped and jumped, almost falling off the walkway.

 “You were there?” Hirran asked. The flirtatious tone she had used with Joulen dropped from her voice.

“The entire time,” Kahlil said.

“You would make a very dangerous enemy, I think,” Hirran said.

“I could say the same for you,” Kahlil responded with a shrug.

Hirran seemed deflated. “I’d love to think so, but I don’t know that I accomplished much with that meeting.”

“The commander seemed impressed,” Kahlil said.

“Yes, but it won’t do us any good if we don’t have any evidence to present to him,” Hirran said. “Joulen is fond of women but he’s not going to commit treason just because a pretty girl asks him to. We have to find some proof.”

“Any ideas how?” Kahlil asked.

“I don’t know.” Now surly and annoyed, Hirran abandoned all pretense of demure reserve; she eyed Kahlil. “You were a spy. You must have some connections.”

Kahlil went silent, thinking that Hirran didn’t know much of spymasters or the insulating isolation they imposed upon their agents. In two years of assassinations, he’d never been told another agent’s name—he’d never asked. He’d simply done what Alidas had required. Though, considering the political delicacy of certain assignments he’d received, Kahlil had realized that Alidas must control an entire network of informants and agents.

“We only have a week,” Hirran muttered.

“If that,” Kahlil agreed. They needed to act quickly and directly. If he were going to get anything from Alidas, he would have to return to Nurjima and that meant going into enemy territory.

“I need to see Jath’ibaye,” Kahlil said.

“But you aren’t supposed to…” Hirran began.

“There are a lot of things neither you nor I are supposed to do,” Kahlil said. “And yet here we are. Will you help me get to him or not?”

“How could I say no to such a gallant proposition?”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Music poured through the long corridors of Jath’ibaye’s household. Even from the servant’s entry, Kahlil could hear a singer’s voice rising above the low murmur of guests. The kitchens were close by and he could smell meats and feast breads. Heat from the huge ovens radiated through the rooms, saturating the air with fragrant warmth.

Servants with trays of baked fish, roast lamb and precious fruits hustled past Kahlil on their way to the great hall. Ourath and his rashan’im seemed to be receiving quite a warm welcome.

Kahlil’s lip curled at the thought. A moment later he schooled his expression into the same neutral interest of the two men ahead of him. They were runners from Hirran’s household. Kahlil was taller than either of the two young men and older by a good ten years. He kept his head down. If any of the servants in Jath’ibaye’s household recognized him, they gave no indication. Most rushed past after a cursory glance at the Iron Heights insignia on the sleeve of his coat. With his scarlet uniform and his newly cropped hair, he fit their expectations of one of Hirran’s runners. No one bothered to examine him much beyond that.

Then again, few of the kitchen servants had seen his face up close. The real trick would be getting to Jath’ibaye without Ourath noticing him. That was assuming he could elude Eriki’yu, Saimura and Besh’anya.

It would be so much easier if he could just slip into the Gray Space. But he had already pressed his luck too far today. Another disturbance, much less one within Jath’ibaye’s own house, would doubtless bring Jath’ibaye roaring down on him. And who knew how many onlookers that would attract?

As he and the two runners stepped through the doors into the great hall, the sound and brilliant light of the vast room flooded over them. Bluish flames burned in the gas lamps high above the gathering. On the tables, expensive beeswax candles offered faint honey scents as well as their warm glow. Silver platters of meats, breads, and fruit filled the wooden tables where high-ranking Lisam rashan’im feasted beside Fai’daum intellectuals and merchants. All were dressed in their finest; for the gaun’im’s forces that meant brushed silk and polished amber, while the Fai’daum wore their wool coats and iron rings with obvious pride.

None of the golden splendor of the gaun’im’s palaces adorned Jath’ibaye’s household. Still, the atmosphere reminded Kahlil of the night he had infiltrated the Bell Dance in Nurjima. Heat and laughter rolled over him. A slim, handsome singer crooned from amidst the circle of musicians gathered near the fireplace. Music poured through the lapses in conversation, creating a sea of contented sound. Servants hurried from the tables to the kitchens and back.

Kahlil glanced immediately to where the guest of honor sat at the high table at the far end of the room. For a moment he couldn’t keep from glaring at Ourath’s stately profile. His red hair gleamed like copper. His skin seemed to glow with the luster of gold. The close tailoring of his silk clothing offered glimpses of his graceful body as he moved. His full lips parted in a sensual smile. 

The woman seated across from him gazed helplessly at him and she wasn’t alone. All through the chamber women stared at Ourath. Men stole quick, guilty glances again and again. Servants standing near him lingered too long.

Even seething with anger towards him, Kahlil had to admit that Ourath radiated attraction. A disturbing edge of arousal crept into Kahlil’s loathing as he continued to watch. Something cruel and sexual stirred inside him. The sensation infuriated Kahlil, killing what little longing there had been. He wanted to strangle the life out of Ourath for even briefly tainting his desire.

Immediately, Kahlil searched the room for Jath’ibaye. He glanced up and down the rows of tables. People moved, gesturing and laughing. Kahlil took them in dozens at a time and disregarded them just as quickly. Just glimpses of backs, profiles, even gestures, told him that none of these people were Jath’ibaye.

He caught sight of Besh’anya, sitting quite near Ourath. There was an almost glistening flush to her skin. She toyed obsessively with an amulet that hung around her neck.

She and Saimura were supposed to be bearing as much of the effect of the niru’mohim for Jath’ibaye as they could, but Saimura was nowhere to be seen and Besh’anya looked like she was being cooked to death from the inside out. She swayed slightly in her seat and then drained the water glass in front of her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kahlil noticed Eriki’yu’s slender form. Already he made his way toward the runners. There was no doubt that he would recognize Kahlil up close.

“That’s the house steward.” Kahlil indicated Eriki’yu to the two runners. “You should distract him before he gets much closer.”

Kahlil pulled his jacket off and folded it over his arm. Without the Iron Heights insignia he looked less like a servant. Now he waited for a momentary lapse in Eriki’yu’s attention. It came quickly enough. Eriki’yu paused as a water boy passed him and then for an instant he gazed sidelong at Ourath.

“Go now,” Kahlil told the two runners. As they moved forward, Kahlil stepped back into the crush of kitchen servants. He moved quickly between them, inquiring after the nearest bathroom. In direct contradiction to their brief instructions and the few annoyed gestures that they made, he walked to the back staircase. Then he bounded up the narrow stairs to the balcony overlooking the great hall.

The balcony was dark, and as Kahlil moved past, the bright flames of the gas lamps briefly blinded him. The air around him seemed to stir. Then, suddenly, he felt a strong hand catch his shoulder. He knew the touch even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Jath’ibaye said.

“I know. I had to talk to you,” Kahlil said.

“Of course you did.”

The noise of footsteps came from above—a servant tromped down the staircase with an armload of beeswax tapers. Jath’ibaye pulled Kahlil away from the stairs. As he allowed Jath’ibaye to guide him into an alcove, Kahlil’s eyes adjusted completely to the darkness. At one time sentries had probably been stationed here in order to keep watch over the great hall. Now it was just a recessed area containing nothing but a simple wooden bench.

Jath’ibaye looked strange. Not ill. Rather, he seemed almost too well. A healthy flush colored his tanned skin. The muscles of his long, lean body radiated heat. His motions were fluid and fast, as if every muscle in his body was hungry for action. He looked alert and a little too excited.

“I should have known you wouldn’t stay away even one day.” Jath’ibaye’s voice was low and rough. “Particularly if you were ordered to.”

Kahlil couldn’t help but remember how agitated Jath’ibaye had been in Nurjima when Ourath had last exposed him to niru’mohim. That had been the night he had choked Kahlil to near unconsciousness.

“Shouldn’t Saimura be here with you?” Kahlil found himself surreptitiously edging out of Jath’ibaye’s reach and forced himself to stop.

“Saimura is not in any kind of condition to make a public appearance right now.”

“Is he sick?”

“No, he just looks like he’s walking around with a flagpole in his pants.” Jath’ibaye smirked. “I think he’s managing it well enough in his room.”

 “I see,” Kahlil said. He supposed Besh’anya was dealing with her own difficulties as well. The thought embarrassed him somewhat.

“Are you…” Kahlil wasn’t sure how exactly he should word his question.

“Desperately happy to see you?” Jath’ibaye supplied for him. His smile turned almost shy. “I am. But if you hadn’t come I would have managed. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fuck Ourath, not even if he douses himself in buckets of niru’mohim.”

The insecurity that had gnawed at Kahlil’s stomach all day melted away. He felt somewhat amazed that this was all that it had taken to dissipate his anxiety. He’d just needed to hear a single reassurance from Jath’ibaye.

“But I am very glad that you did come.” Jath’ibaye drew Kahlil close. His breath felt pleasantly hot against Kahlil’s skin.

The bench was no use to them. It was too near the edge of the balcony. Instead, they knelt in the deep shadows of the alcove. They said nothing, understanding easily the motions of longing and pleasure. Kahlil exhausted Jath’ibaye’s restless body with his hands and mouth. Jath’ibaye responded with assurance and knowing. His quiet skill, both tender and demanding, left Kahlil gasping and certain that Jath’ibaye knew his body better than Kahlil did himself. At last they lay still, curled close atop Jath’ibaye’s coat. Their shirts were wildly disheveled; their pants hung open in obvious indecency.

Feeling Jath’ibaye’s sticky, hot skin against his own, Kahlil grinned. If Ourath could see the result of his niru’mohim right now, he’d probably tear out fistfuls of his carefully coifed hair. Then Kahlil abandoned any thought of Ourath. He leaned back against Jath’ibaye, enjoying the way Jath’ibaye’s fingers stroked the back of his neck and brushed through his hair.

“Your hair was short like this the first time we met,” Jath’ibaye whispered. He kissed the back of Kahlil’s neck.

Kahlil remembered it distinctly, though he knew that it was Ravishan’s past that he recollected. Still with the taste of Jath’ibaye on his lips and the heat of him so close, Kahlil felt the memory as if it were all his own. It had been just a day after he had found a golden key—the ush’hala—one of the three symbols of the Kahlil, lying in the snow. Jahn had looked like a wild man, all lean muscle and knotted hair. Savage. Barely able to speak. Dressed in animal skins and still, somehow, beautiful.

Kahlil almost said that that hadn’t been the first time they had met. The first time they had met had been when he had answered John’s ad for a roommate. Or perhaps it had been when John had just been a boy, in that briefest instant when the issusha’im had forged the bond between them. But he didn’t say anything because it didn’t matter right now. At this moment all that mattered was that they had met and now they were here together.

Jath’ibaye sighed and drew back slightly. He dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of his discarded coat and offered it to Kahlil.

“Always prepared,” Kahlil commented.

“Well, I was a Boy Scout.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Kahlil accepted the handkerchief and cleaned himself up. He straightened his clothes and watched as Jath’ibaye finished buttoning up the front of his own pants.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a breath mint on you?” Kahlil asked.

Jath’ibaye shook his head, then leaned forward and kissed Kahlil. “Your breath is fine.”

“Yeah,” Kahlil grinned, “and my hair looks great too.”

“Now you’re just trolling for compliments,” Jath’ibaye replied.

“They help to soothe my seething jealousy.”

“Really?” Jath’ibaye cocked his head questioningly. “You’re not actually jealous, are you?”

“Yes, but I’m trying to work through it.” Kahlil couldn’t help but glance past the balcony rail. He didn’t want to think about Ourath and Jath’ibaye, but it was hard not to. He just didn’t understand what could have brought them together. Maybe it had just been the niru’mohim. Kahlil wanted to believe that. But he doubted that their entire relationship could be blamed on a single potion. Niru’mohim might be strong but Jath’ibaye was good at resisting his own desires if he needed to. Kahlil knew that from the years the two of them had spent together in Rathal’pesha.

It wasn’t as if Jath’ibaye was incapable of killing a man who opposed him either. Kahlil could still vividly recall the way Jath’ibaye had broken Esh’illan’s neck. He could have been swatting a gnat for all it concerned him. No, if Jath’ibaye had wanted Ourath out of his way, the niru’mohim would not have stopped him. Nothing could stop Jath’ibaye but his own compassion.

That was why Loshai still lived. Jath’ibaye cared for her too much to kill her, even if it would be for his own good. Ourath seemed to have the same kind of hold on Jath’ibaye. That grasp worried Kahlil. It threatened his assurance. He expected to be united with Jath’ibaye against their enemies. But then there were these troubling exemptions. In Loshai’s case, years of friendship haunted Jath’ibaye. But with Ourath, Kahlil had no idea. It had to be much more than mere sex. Sex was easy to come by; a man with Jath’ibaye’s power and wealth would have to be turning it away. Ourath had to have some other connection to Jath’ibaye—something that ran as deep as hatred and shielded Ourath as if it were love.

“What would you do if I killed him?” Kahlil suddenly asked.

Jath’ibaye didn’t have to ask who Kahlil was talking about. He looked troubled.

“I’d hope that you didn’t start a war when you did it,” Jath’ibaye said at last.

The answer came too late and with far too much sorrow to be honest. Jath’ibaye’s concern wasn’t just pragmatism. If he had been pragmatic, he would have killed Ourath at the Bell Dance or even before then.

“Why the hell do you care so much for him?” Kahlil demanded.

“I don’t. I feel…responsible, I guess.” Jath’ibaye caught Kahlil’s skeptical expression and went on, “He was young when he met me and I wasn’t in the best state of mind.” Jath’ibaye leaned back against the shadowed wall. He glanced to Kahlil but then looked quickly away. “You—Ravishan had been gone so long…and Ourath reminded me of him—of you as well—”

“In what possible way is he even slightly like me?”

“It’s hard to see, especially now,” Jath’ibaye replied, “but when Ourath was younger…he was different.” Jath’ibaye went quiet and Kahlil could see him trying to find the words to explain. “He was always beautiful and I’m sure that was the first resemblance I noticed. But he was also so desperate and out of his depth at the same time.”

“I’m not out of my depth.” Kahlil couldn’t stop himself from making the comment. He hated the idea that anyone could look at Ourath and find a likeness between them.                         

“You aren’t out of your depth now, but that night when you—when Ravishan—approached me in Candle Alley, you were. You were hardly a smooth operator in your youth.” Jath’ibaye smiled just briefly.

“I wasn’t out of my depth. I was—” Kahlil couldn’t divide his own youth from Ravishan’s. At this moment, he simply felt the truth of his words. “I was in love,” Kahlil finished, as if it were an offhanded thing to say.