9: The Iron Temple (11 page)

Saimura frowned at him.

“Kirh’yu’s workmen don’t care about the Payshmura or the women in the Gisa prison. They’re just so poor and so desperate that they’d risk their lives to feed their families.” Saimura scowled down at his hands. “We couldn’t even provide them with fighting knives. The few who didn’t desert would be dead in seconds.”

John knew Saimura was right. He tried to imagine how they would overcome eighty-nine rashan’im. The worst that could happen to him was pain. And pain only gave him strength. But he dreaded the thought of a bullet ripping through Saimura or Fenn. He didn’t want any of his fellow Fai’daum to die. He’d already lost too many of the people he cared for.

“I just don’t want to see any of you hurt.” John turned back to Saimura.

Saimura cocked his head slightly. “You’re not worried about yourself?”

“No, not really,” John admitted.

Saimura sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Losing comrades is the inevitable price of our fight, you know. It’s terrible, but you can’t let it keep you from fighting. I’ve lost four good friends already. Two of them died the day I met you. But you can’t think about who may be killed or who you may lose. Every one of us Fai’daum has chosen to fight. We know that winning this war is worth risking our lives.”

A sliver of guilt pierced John’s chest. Almost nothing could kill him. He risked so much less than the other Fai’daum that it was hard for him to imagine that they might truly be willing to die for their cause.

“And in any case,” Saimura went on, “we’ve been up against far worse odds and won in the past. You should trust Lafi’shir. He knows what he’s doing. And you’re the most powerful witch I’ve ever met.” Saimura picked up one of the pillows and toyed with its weight. “Those rashan’im won’t know what hit them.” Saimura tossed the pillow. It slapped softly into John’s head and then flopped to the floor.

John picked up the pillow. He considered hurling it back at Saimura, but instead he gently threw it onto the bed.

There was no point in arguing with Saimura or fearing for his safety. Tomorrow would come and John would do everything in his power to protect his fellow Fai’daum. A small feeling of pride spread through him. His power was no small matter. Maybe Saimura was right. Maybe they would win the day and all would come out unscathed.

“Do you think they might be serving food downstairs yet?” John asked.

“They might.” Saimura smiled at the change of subject. “I was thinking of going across the street to the Bower Hostel.”

“Why?” John asked. Saimura looked a little sheepish.

“We couldn’t get rooms in the same hostel on such short notice, so Fenn is staying alone at the Bower and I thought…” Saimura trailed off. His cheeks flushed slightly.

“Oh,” John said. “Go. Definitely go. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“You’re sure?” Saimura asked.

“Absolutely.”

“All right.” Saimura started for the door, then turned back and tossed the room key to John. “I’ll come and wake you a little before daybreak, so get to bed early.”

“I’ll probably fall asleep as soon as my stomach is full,” John assured him.

After Saimura’s departure, John returned to the window and watched the street. A few moments later he saw Saimura cross the ruts of mud and snow and walk to a smaller red brick building. The sign outside it was painted with a wine cup and branches of fruit blossoms. John’s gaze briefly moved up the road to the silhouette of the prison.

John turned away. He needed to get something to eat.

The dining room downstairs was large but already crowded. Two large hearth fires radiated heat and cast twisting red shadows as the flames jumped and flickered. Despite the warmth of the room, he kept his coat on and his hood up. John seated himself at the far end of a communal table where the shadows were deepest.

 He held his room key up and a serving girl brought him a cup of hot wine. She looked him over, frowning at his stained coat.

“If you’re cold, there’s a table closer to the fire,” the serving girl offered.

“This is fine,” John said. “Some friends of mine might come by and I’d like to be near the door to catch them if they do.”

“Suit yourself.” The serving girl shrugged. She glanced to John’s key. For a moment she looked confused as she took in the design etched into its metal face. She straightened suddenly. “What can I bring for you, sir?” Her tone had become oddly servile.

John guessed that the crest on the key identified him as one of Niru’lam’s important guests. He certainly didn’t look the part.

“I just need something to eat,” John told her. “Thank you.”

“Right away, sir.” The girl bowed and then hurried back to the kitchen. John slipped the key back into his pocket. He sipped hot, spiced wine and idly watched the men who occupied the other tables. Most appeared to be in their thirties or forties and well dressed. John overheard a number of men comparing the qualities of Lisam cotton and Bousim linen. One of the few women sitting at the tables laughed at something her companions said. Her high voice carried over the low conversation of the men, but unlike so many Basawar women, she didn’t seem embarrassed to be heard.

John relaxed in his chair and watched the flames dancing in the nearest hearth. A group of men across the room whispered about the Yah’hali Prison. John heard the name Jath’ibaye. But none of the men even glanced in his direction.

The serving girl brought John a platter of food as well as a bowl of washing water and a warm cloth, which he used to rinse and dry his hands. After the first polite bites, he devoured the mutton-stuffed dumplings, dog meat, and fried taye cakes ravenously. The serving girl brought him a dish of spiced weasel eggs and stewed greens. John finished the eggs in a few bites. Deep warmth radiated from his stomach. He sipped more wine, feeling warm and satisfied.

A light breeze rolled over John as the dining room door opened. A man, woman, and a young child came through. All three still wore their coats and snow clung to their boots. The child—a boy, John guessed, from his clothes—stared with wide brown eyes at the tables of men. He looked amazed when he caught sight of John and all the plates stacked up in front of him. John smiled at the boy.

Then he glanced up to the parents. The mother was a pretty woman but terribly thin. The silver wedding chains on her fingers seemed at odds with her red, chapped knuckles. But it was the sight of the father that almost made John choke on his wine. John had expected to never see him again and yet he recognized Hann’yu at once.

Hann’yu glanced to the big empty table near the fire. Dirty dishes and wine cups still cluttered its surface. Hann’yu turned and started towards the big common table. He ushered the woman and boy several steps before he suddenly met John’s gaze.

Hann’yu froze in place, the color visibly draining from his face. John watched him intently. He couldn’t afford Hann’yu to make a scene. Hann’yu seemed too stunned to move. The serving girl eyed him curiously.

John lifted his hand and beckoned Hann’yu over. Hann’yu initially balked but recovered quickly. He led the woman and child to where John sat at the communal table.

“Sit,” John said quietly.

Hann’yu pulled out a chair and helped the young boy up into it. The child glanced to John but seemed far more interested in his dirty plates. He stared with undisguised avarice at the small remnant of a dumpling. Hann’yu seated the woman. She, unlike the child, seemed very aware of Hann’yu’s tension. She kept her head bowed but watched John. When she noticed him returning her glances, she flinched away and hid her hands in her lap. At last Hann’yu took off his bulky pack and sank down into the chair across from John.

Hann’yu was thinner than John remembered. The smell of travel clung to his simple clothes. His hair hung loose around his face and was cut short like a laborer’s. His hands, which John remembered as graceful and soft, looked rough and nicked. Little crescents of dirt showed beneath his broken fingernails. But it was Hann’yu’s silence that seemed most at odds with John’s memory of the man. He watched John guardedly and said nothing.

 The serving girl approached them. She smiled and the little boy smiled back at her, though not brightly. A nervousness had crept into his manner. He reached out and gripped his mother’s hand. Hann’yu continued to watch John.

“Shall I bring food for your friends, sir?” the serving girl asked John.

“Yes, thank you.”

Again the serving girl bowed to John and then retreated into the kitchen. The noise of conversation at the other tables washed over John. A young man wondered when the trains would move again and immediately an old man began to whisper the story of Lon’ahma’s imprisonment. Two men drunkenly sang a few snatches of a song and then burst into laughter.

John noticed that the woman very minutely jabbed Hann’yu in the ribs. Hann’yu swallowed and seemed to force the flat line of his mouth into a weak approximation of one of his old easy smiles.

“It’s been a while,” Hann’yu said. “I’m glad to see that you’re well.”

“Really?” John leaned forward slightly. He kept his voice low. “Last I remember you sent Samsango to poison me.”

Hann’yu’s eyes widened and for the briefest moment he looked terrified. The woman next to him clenched her child’s hand and the boy gave a sharp cry.

“You ended up killing Samsango,” John whispered. “Did you know that?”

“He wanted to help you,” Hann’yu whispered back. “We both just wanted to help you, Jah—” Hann’yu cut himself off before he said John’s old name aloud. “I had no way of knowing that he would go that far to rescue you. You must believe me. I didn’t intend to harm you or him.”

John felt such bitterness. He remembered the terrible limpness of Samsango’s body in his arms. At the same time, he hated seeing fear in Hann’yu’s expression and knowing that he was causing it.

 The serving girl returned to the table with more hot wine and a cup of frothy goat’s milk for the boy. The boy gripped the cup in his hands but looked uncertain.

“May I?” the boy asked his mother. She looked to John.

“Go on,” John said. He watched the boy drink the warm milk. He was obviously Hann’yu’s son. They both had the same gentle brown eyes and silky, walnut-colored hair. The boy drank slowly and deeply. John imagined that he was very hungry.

John turned his attention back to Hann’yu.

“What’s his name?” John asked.

“Du’rai,” Hann’yu said quietly. He touched the woman’s shoulder lightly. “This is my wife, Istanayye.”

Istanayye held her hand up in a gesture of peace.

“It is an honor to meet you…sir,” she said. She smiled hesitantly. John could see dozens of tired lines around her mouth and eyes. “Thank you for your generosity.”

She gently brushed a few strands of her son’s hair back from his face.

John nodded. He let his old anger go. He couldn’t blame Hann’yu for not knowing what would happen that day. He couldn’t even blame Hann’yu for Samsango’s death. Samsango had made the decision for himself.

“So,” John said after a moment. “What brings you to Gisa?”

“We were hoping to take the train to Nurjima. Istanayye has family there. I had to leave—” Hann’yu went silent as the serving girl returned to their table.

She lowered two big platters of steaming dishes down in front of Hann’yu and his family. The smell of meat and fresh taye cakes rolled up through the air. Du’rai started to reach for a fried cake but pulled his hand back at a glance from his mother. Another serving girl brought them bowls of fragrant washing water and hand cloths.

Hann’yu, his wife, and son all washed their hands. Istanayye appeared almost moved to tears by the small luxury. She cupped the warm cloth around her chapped hands and very carefully dried the silver chains of her marriage rings.

“May I have a taye cake, sir?” Du’rai asked John.

“Of course,” John said. “Help yourselves to all you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” Du’rai said.

John expected the boy to just snatch the platter of taye cakes, but instead he waited for Hann’yu to serve him and his mother. All three of them ate quickly but with refined manners. None of them picked up the stuffed dumplings with their fingers or licked the meat sauce off their spoons the way John had. Hann’yu sipped his wine and closed his eyes. A faint, satisfied smile curved his lips. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at John.

“Thank you,” Hann’yu said.

“You’re welcome,” John replied and briefly he felt as though nothing had changed since the days when he and Hann’yu had spent hours preparing poultices and conversing comfortably. But things had changed, and apparently not just for him. John leaned in a little closer to Hann’yu. “So why aren’t you in Rathal’pesha?”

“I lost what faith I had,” Hann’yu replied. “The Payshmura have no honor any longer. You wouldn’t believe the things they’ve stooped to.”

“Do you mean using the ushiri’im to rape witches?” John asked.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Istanayye flinch, but she quickly turned her attention to her son, cutting his meat into smaller pieces.

“You know about that?” Hann’yu asked in a whisper.

“More people seem to know every day,” John replied.

“You see, Hann’yu,” Istanayye said quietly. “Your letters have been read.”

“Perhaps,” Hann’yu whispered, but he looked uncertain.

“Your letters?” John asked.

Hann’yu nodded.

“Once I discovered Ushman Nuritam’s plan, I tried to dissuade him, but he informed me that the Usho had ordered it. I said that it was impossible. Dayyid’s ushiri’im would never do such a thing.” Hann’yu took another sip of wine. “I didn’t think they would, but then I saw for myself…” Hann’yu looked nauseated. “I had to do something. But I’m not an ushiri or even a gaunan of any great importance. I couldn’t order it stopped myself. So I wrote to every ushman, gaunsho, and scholar I knew. I even wrote to the kahlirash’im, if you can believe that. I told them everything and begged them to stop it.”

“And?” John asked.

“And then I fled. I knew Nuritam would have me killed if he discovered what I had done, and if my plan was successful, he would find out. So I took a few trinkets, things that might have some value in Nurjima, and I left.” Hann’yu glanced down at the pack beside his chair.