7: Enemies and Shadows (7 page)

Chapter Seventy-One

Kahlil turned the small pistol over in his hands. It looked absurdly beautiful. Engraved bulls charged over the silver filigree of the barrel. Delicate, curling initials had been etched into the casings of the silver bullets. Kahlil carefully loaded one after another into the chamber. The gun felt heavy but looked sleek. Even in the Gray Space, light gleamed along its edges. The gun seemed almost too attractive to function, but Jath’ibaye had assured him that it shot straight and smoothly. 

Kahlil peered down the sight, taking aim at the side of Nivoun’s face. It wasn’t much of a challenge. Nivoun sat only a foot from where Kahlil stood. Nivoun resembled his son, Nanvess, strongly. He bore the same delicate features, even the same slightly upturned lips, which gave the impression of a smile where there was none. But he was older. Streaks of gray shot through his braided black hair like ribbons. Deep wrinkles cut across his brow and creased the corners of his mouth. Nivoun shifted in his seat. He picked up a supply request from his desk and read it over. Eventually, he signed the document and added his seal to the bottom.

Kahlil moved to the left and took aim again from the new angle. The shot wasn’t quite clear. The bronze figurine of a young woman shielded much of Nivoun’s bowed head. Kahlil moved again.

As the morning progressed, Nivoun worked through the stacks of papers and letters piled on his desk. More than once he glanced to the empty chair where his secretary should have been seated. Today the secretary was in his own room, feeling sick. One of Besh’anya’s potions had ensured that he would remain ill for the entire day.

Kahlil circled the desk, mapping out his best shots. Again and again he took aim at Nivoun and then checked his surroundings. He had to be careful of the windows. They were wide and offered several nearby buildings a view of much of the room. Fortunately, Nivoun had chosen a room on the third floor of Gin’yu’s guesthouse. Most of the surrounding buildings were only two stories high.

The cumbersome carved furniture that filled the room was both an advantage and a problem. Huge bookshelves offered Kahlil cover, but the iron studs and thick wood troubled him. The legs of the chairs were so sturdy that they reminded Kahlil of ship timbers. He wondered if the wood was thick enough to stop a bullet. With a small handgun like this one, there was a definite possibility that it could. He couldn’t waste his one shot on a piece of furniture. As soon as the guards outside heard the report of a gun they would come rushing in. That meant he had one chance.

The door opened. One of the guards allowed Pesha into the room and then closed the door behind him. Pesha was dressed in the quilted clothes of a common street runner and a bulging courier’s satchel was slung across her chest. In one hand she casually held the leather pouch that Hial’luyyn had given Kahlil. Nivoun frowned at the pouch. No doubt, he was recognizing the Bousim crest embossed into its surface.

Kahlil could hear nothing of the words that were exchanged, but he knew what Pesha was saying. He’d tutored Pesha in exactly what to say. He was surprised at how well Pesha acted. As she told Nivoun that the package had come from Ourath Lisam, Pesha’s gaze lingered on a pretty figurine on Nivoun’s desk. Pesha looked far more interested in the gleaming bronze than her apparent work. There was something inherently believable about her air of unconcerned distraction.

Nivoun took the leather pouch and dismissed her. He closed the door firmly the moment Pesha was out of the room. Kahlil watched Nivoun’s features as he pulled out the pages of evidence and slowly read through them. Even from the Gray Space, Kahlil could see Nivoun go pale. An expression of growing horror spread across his face. Halfway through one of the reports, Nivoun suddenly strode to the windows and pulled the curtains closed. He collapsed back into his chair and continued reading. After he finished, Nivoun simply sat in his chair staring at the far wall.

Then, in a sudden burst of energy, he gathered the pages and stuffed them back into the pouch. He stood and paced around his desk, glancing again and again at the leather pouch. He had to be wondering what Ourath had meant by sending this to him. How had Ourath gotten his hands on these reports? Why hadn’t he destroyed them?

Kahlil moved close to Nivoun, keeping pace beside him. Now everything depended on what Nivoun would do. If he were the kind of man who waited, then Kahlil would have to force the situation. But Kahlil was betting that Nivoun would not allow events to simply unfold. He would act. He was, after all, a man who plotted assassinations and planned to seize power over two worlds.

Nivoun went to the door and shouted out to the two rashan’im standing guard. Kahlil watched his lips form Ourath’s name and demand that he be brought at once. Nivoun slammed the door shut. Kahlil smiled to himself.

Nearly two hours passed. Nivoun paced. He sent his lunch away untouched.

Ourath arrived looking impeccably groomed and annoyed. A boyishly pretty secretary trailed behind him, as did two guards. Kahlil didn’t like having so many people in the room and neither did Nivoun. He snapped something at the secretary and the young man flushed. Almost immediately Ourath sent his attendants away.

As soon as the door was shut, Nivoun hurled the leather pouch to Ourath. Kahlil watched as Nivoun demanded to know what the meaning of it was. Nivoun’s face was dark and Kahlil knew his voice was raised enough to carry through the door. The guards outside would know something was wrong. They would hear an argument brewing.

Ourath opened the parcel. He read a few lines and then looked up at Nivoun in outrage.

Kahlil’s pulse raced. He cocked the pistol and stepped out of the Gray Space. The heat of the room surged over him. Ourath’s voice roared in his ears.

“How dare you—” Ourath demanded of Nivoun. Then he went suddenly silent as Kahlil appeared almost on top of him.

Nivoun opened his mouth, began to call for his guards, and Kahlil fired the pistol. Nivoun’s head rocked back. A gush of scarlet blood sprayed up from his forehead. He stumbled on his feet and then hit the floor. A breathless gasp escaped Ourath.

Kahlil dropped the pistol and threw himself back into the cold silence of the Gray Space.

The guards came through the door instantly. Nivoun lay on the floor, dead but still bleeding. Ourath stood staring in horror, spattered in Nivoun’s blood. His pistol lay at his feet. The guards seized Ourath. He offered them little resistance. His face was white with shock. He still gripped the leather pouch in one hand. One of the many pages declaring him a traitor had fallen to the floor where Nivoun’s blood began to soak through its white surface.

Joulen arrived minutes later. His expression was both sickened and lost as he knelt beside his uncle’s body.

Kahlil watched Joulen’s face as Joulen noticed the blood-stained page on the floor. In accordance with their plan, Hirran had already informed Joulen that she had sent the evidence against Ourath to Nivoun. Joulen caught sight of the pouch Ourath held. His sorrow contorted into raw fury as he tore the leather pouch from the other man’s hand. Joulen dropped one hand to the holster at his hip, pulled out his gun, and aimed it at Ourath’s face. For a moment, Kahlil thought that Joulen might shoot. Instead, Joulen holstered his weapon and turned away. He ordered the guards to shackle Ourath and remove him.

After the guards had gone, Joulen knelt back down beside his uncle’s body. He bowed over the old man and wept.

Kahlil left him his privacy.

•••

Kahlil hunched under the water spigot, scrubbing at the dark brown spatters of dried blood. The water was almost steaming hot, but he still felt cold. A slight tremor passed through his hands as he brushed the soap into a lather and washed his hair. He thought he might vomit. The feeling passed.

This happened sometimes, after he had killed a man. When he was a boy it had been far worse. Now, this sick self-revulsion rarely came over him. It never lasted long.

Kahlil closed his eyes and rinsed the soap from his hair. The image of Joulen bowed in grief came vividly into his mind’s eye.

He hadn’t wanted to witness that. Kahlil had known, watching Joulen sink to the floor, seeing the way Joulen’s hands touched Nivoun’s body with such tenderness, that he would be sick with himself.

He did not regret killing Nivoun. Nivoun had needed killing.

Kahlil regretted the pain that Joulen had to suffer. The thought of mourners always disturbed Kahlil. He knew what they felt. The shock. The desolation. Their grief resonated through him. Kahlil usually went to pains not to witness the aftermath of his murders. But this time he had needed to be sure that Ourath was accused of the killing.

Another unwanted image flickered through his mind: his little sister screaming as the black smoke of their mother’s witch’s pyre rolled up before her. Rousma had screamed as though she had been in that fire herself. She had shrieked like she was dying, but the murder of their mother had saved her life. It had saved his life.

At times like this that knowledge did not console him. If he were honest with himself, it had never consoled him.

At times like this, he wondered if it would have been better if they had all died that day, so that his father, his mother, Rousma and him could all be cradled in the arms of Parfir together.

There was a little song that the street girls used to sing in Amura’taye.

No one likes the butcher

No one likes the hunter

No one likes the man

With blood on his hands

He did not remember the rest of the song. But he recalled, even as a youth, thinking that people might not like a butcher but they still wanted to eat their meat. It was work someone had to do. It was work that took courage to do, because it was hateful and it left a man feeling ugly. But it had to be done; and it had to be done right.

Kahlil had done his work right. Neither Nivoun nor Ourath could now threaten Vundomu. All of the people of Nurjima would be saved because he’d had the strength to get blood on his hands. He could be proud of that. He had to be proud of that.

He stood and stepped out of the bath. The tremors that had shaken him so badly were nearly gone. Kahlil toweled his hair to a damp mass. His face looked pale in the shaving mirror.

He dressed. The clothes were new. They smelled of nothing and felt stiff in his hands. His old clothes were now ashes in the fireplace of the adjoining bedroom.

The bedroom was cold, the fire having died out completely. He must have lost track of time. He sat down on the bed. The room Wah’roa had given him was more spacious than most in the kahlirash’im’s barracks, but it was still simple and unassuming with its bare, gray stone walls. A writing table and shelf had been crammed close together in the far corner like decorations that no one was ever expected to use. The old botanical tome that Kahlil had been translating sat alone on the shelf.

Translation: there was work that didn’t leave a wake of orphans and widows. Of course, it was also work that in no way suited Kahlil. It bored him. He could only translate a page before his thoughts wandered and he began to long for something else to do. As a rule he approached it like a kind of penance. When he knew he had done something wrong he worked on it. The last time he had gotten more than a few pages done had been after he had infuriated Jath’ibaye by disappearing off to the northern chasm.

Kahlil stared at the book. No, he didn’t feel that guilty. In fact, he didn’t feel guilty at all. He just felt sad that a lying traitor like Nivoun still had people who cared for him. He wondered suddenly who would mourn Ourath. He had wives and children. Would they feel the same deep loss that Kahlil had felt when his own parents had been killed?

Would Jath’ibaye mourn? Kahlil hated to think that he would. Kahlil stood and walked to the window, trying to read Jath’ibaye’s reaction to Ourath’s death in the sky. A few faint white clouds clung to the horizon, telling him nothing.

Ourath didn’t deserve Jath’ibaye’s sympathy. He had betrayed Jath’ibaye unforgivably. He had planned the ruin of Vundomu and risked the destruction of all of Basawar. There should be parades and celebrations to mark Ourath’s death. Kahlil couldn’t help but imagine himself riding through the streets of Nurjima, hearing the joyous roar of the surrounding crowds cheering him for saving the whole world.

He had ridden into Vundomu like that once.

Kahlil smirked slightly at his own fantasy. In reality, he had been incredibly uncomfortable when the crowds of priests and kahlirash’im thronged around him in open worship. He had been overwhelmed by the walls of strangers who shouted his name. He had hated how their admiration had taken Jahn from his side.

Outside, the sinking sun began to streak the sky with gold and orange. Ranks of kahlirash’im filed into the big, brick dining hall. Kahlil supposed that he should join them. His nausea had long since passed and he was beginning to feel hungry. He wondered what would be served and hoped it wasn’t dog.

There was a knock at his door. Kahlil guessed that it was Pesha coming to get him for dinner. Kahlil strode across the room and opened the door. Jath’ibaye stood with a heavy tray of covered dishes in one hand.

“I thought you’d be hungry,” he said.

“I am.” Kahlil stepped aside to allow him in. “If I had known you’d be delivering it, I’d have called for room service earlier.”

“Well, you know, I can always use the tips.” Jath’ibaye set the tray down on the writing desk. He turned back to Kahlil. “Joulen presented the evidence to the leaders of the other gaun’im’s armies.”

“Already?” Kahlil asked.

“He has the authority to do so now that he’s inherited Nivoun’s position,” Jath’ibaye said. “They found Ourath guilty of murder and treason. Joulen executed him about an hour ago.”

“How did that go?” Kahlil asked.

“Fast,” Jath’ibaye replied. “Joulen’s a good shot.”

Kahlil nodded. He had expected more distress in Jath’ibaye’s voice, more sorrow in his expression.

“I thought it would be worse than it was,” Jath’ibaye said after a few moments. “It’s funny. I almost feel guilty for being so relieved that he’s dead.”