3: Black Blades (2 page)

More evidence that Jath’ibaye wasn’t exactly helpless.

He sat down to wait.

Somewhere, in one of the trees, birds called to one another.

Just ahead, there came a rustling of dark leaves, then a big yellow dog stepped out from between two bushes. Its hide was faded and graying, but its eyes gleamed clear gold. The dog met his gaze and Kahlil knew he had seen it before. He stared at the animal with the uneasy feeling of having slipped into a dream: a terribly wrong dream.

A dream in which this dog was his sister.

Her teeth had yellowed with age and her eyes gleamed wild gold. She told him that her true skin had been stripped from her bones and this hide was just a coat to keep her warm. She laughed and he could smell raw meat on her hot breath. Then her brilliant red blood was pouring over his hands.

He couldn’t stop staring at it.

After a moment, the dog dropped its gaze from him and rustled back through the undergrowth, disappearing out of sight and hearing.

He put his head in his hands. He had thought he had finally overcome this kind of insane reaction.

The dog was just a dog. The world was full of them. It didn’t mean anything. This one had probably escaped the kitchen kennel and was now wandering the household, lost. That was just what dogs did. He couldn’t let the sight of one animal throw his mind into disarray. Otherwise he would end up the same confused, deluded mess he had been before Alidas had found him.

He wished this place wasn’t so disconcertingly familiar. The leaf designs above the doors, the worn red uniforms, even the smell of the air, everything around him seemed like a fragment of one of his dreams suddenly made real. It awakened shattered bits of memories and nightmare images that he had thought forgotten.

His sister was not a dog. He felt absurd even having to tell himself as much. He didn’t even know if he had a sister. Family and history both fell into the realms of conjecture. He didn’t really know anything about himself.

But Jath’ibaye did. When Jath’ibaye had looked at him, his hard gaze had been bright with recognition. Last night, Kahlil hadn’t dared to stay and see what judgment would come after that first moment of contact. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Jath’ibaye’s expression—or about the certainty that had flooded him the instant he met the other man’s stare. They had known each other.

Had they been friends? Had they been enemies? Was Jath’ibaye, like Fikiri, another man who could claim the right to be called a Kahlil?

His gut roiled with a turmoil of questions, but for now he had to bide in patience. There was nothing to do but wait and hope Jath’ibaye would bring the answers.

About twenty minutes later a young, plump kitchen woman arrived. She lit the lantern above him and then gave him a tray of taye bread, goat cutlets and steamed blue leaf. Kahlil ate the food and recalled that the Lisam kitchen women had said that coarse, simple food was all that Jath’ibaye ever ate—the kind of thing peasants lived on because they had to. Kahlil couldn’t imagine anyone choosing this as their only sustenance. After he finished the meal, he pushed his dishes under the bench.

With every new detail Jath’ibaye seemed more and more strange and yet more familiar for his oddity. It felt right to Kahlil that Jath’ibaye should choose coarse food. He was suddenly sure that the man drank his daru’sira strong and bitter and that he licked his fingers when he ate pungent goat cheese.

High in the sky, he could see that dim stars had joined the sharp moon. He’d expected that with nightfall the air would grow chilly around him, but it remained warm and sweet. Who knew when Jath’ibaye would arrive? Maybe he wouldn’t, and the steward would take the packages after all.

Kahlil smirked at the thought. All this worry, all his fear and hope, just to have the house steward hand him a sweetdrop candy for a tip and thank him for his trouble. That was how this would probably all end up. He guttered the lantern overhead and closed his eyes for a nap.

He didn’t sleep, but he stretched his legs out and let his arms lie limp across his stomach. He listened to the sounds around him. Somewhere far off two men talked in low voices, a strange collision of northern and southern dialects. The words were indistinguishable but the tones rolled over him with soft calm.

As the voices drew closer, Kahlil cracked an eye. On the walkway above him, a lamp gleamed. Two men walked close, but did not touch. He knew them at once: Ourath Lisam and Jath’ibaye.

“You seem distracted this evening.” Ourath’s voice was tinged with concern. Light from the perfume lamp he carried glowed over his brown velvet jacket.

“It’s nothing.” Jath’ibaye turned from the lamplight to survey the greenery beneath him. Though his long blonde hair was pulled back it still looked wild, as if it had been restrained in the midst of an escape. He wore clothes like those of his sentries: heavy and simple. But he carried no weapon that Kahlil could see.

“Winter seemed so long this year,” Ourath commented.

Jath’ibaye turned back to Ourath but said nothing. Despite his age—Kahlil knew he had to be fifty at the least, older most likely—he appeared as young as Ourath, more powerfully built and much fairer skinned, but still so young.

Though it struck Kahlil that he should not look so very pale. He seemed almost ill. Then Kahlil recalled the poisoning Fikiri had mentioned.

“It’s probably only a whim of the weather,” Ourath went on lightly. “I’m sure that it will be warm soon enough.”
 

When Jath’ibaye still made no reply, Ourath began toying with the handle of his perfume lamp. Steadily, he swung it from side to side, causing the chains holding the lamp to spin. The shadows surrounding him jumped and twisted into each other.

“Careful.” Jath’ibaye caught the chains and slowly stilled Ourath’s lamp. “You don’t want to spill burning oil.”

Those tiny silver chains had to be hot. They had to burn into Jath’ibaye’s palm, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Ourath’s full lips spread into a deep smile.

“I’m touched that you are so worried for me.” Then he gave a theatrical pout. “Or are you simply afraid that I might burn down your little forest?”

“Whichever you like. Just don’t do it again.” Jath’ibaye released the chains. His voice conveyed the cold authority of a trainer disciplining a dog. Hardly the manner of the malleable effeminate Ourath had made him out to be during his secret dinner.

“I didn’t mean to anger you,” Ourath said softly.

“You didn’t.”

“Really? You seem angry.”

Jath’ibaye looked at Ourath as if he were looking through him. “Would it please you if I were? Would it make this easier?”

“Of course it wouldn’t.” Ourath began to twist the lamp handle again but then stopped himself. “You know I want you to be happy.”

Jath’ibaye said nothing. Then again, Kahlil supposed he might become quite taciturn himself had he just been poisoned.

Ourath sighed and said, “You’re annoyed because I announced that you would be attending the Bell Dance, aren’t you?”

Again, Jath’ibaye didn’t respond, and now Kahlil began to wonder if his own questions would be met with the same stony silence Ourath currently enjoyed. He hoped not.

“I’m not asking you to attend because I want you to suffer.” Ourath shook his head and his red hair gleamed like polished copper. “And inviting you certainly hasn’t done my standing any good. But this is more important than a little social discomfort. If you do come, it will be the first real, meaningful, peaceful gesture since the truce. The Bell Dance is the night we celebrate the alliances of the noble houses. If you attend, I think it would demonstrate to the gaunsho’im that you respect their authority. They need to feel that you aren’t just out to destroy them. You say that you want real peace between—”

“I’ll go.” Jath’ibaye cut him off. “Just don’t expect a miracle to come of it.”

Ourath gave Jath’ibaye another handsome smile.

He said, “Thank you.”

Jath’ibaye simply turned again to stare down at the trees and greenery beneath him. Kahlil squinted up, trying to read his expression. Then he realized that Jath’ibaye returned his gaze. Jath’ibaye stood there, still and silent, looking through the darkness directly at him. A flush of embarrassment flooded Kahlil and he had no idea why.

Jath’ibaye’s expression remained as closed as that of a marble statue, his pale eyes luminous in the night.

Kahlil felt his skin flushing hotter, an alarming reaction that he couldn’t remember having since his awkward youth. In a sudden panic, Kahlil looked down at his boots as if they had become instantaneously interesting. Slowly, his cheeks cooled.

When he stole a glance back up to the walkway, Jath’ibaye was escorting Ourath across to the eastern side of the building.

“You can see the moon flowers blooming from here,” Jath’ibaye was saying. “They originally grew wild in the southern lands but have died out in the last ten years. I’ve found them to have a good effect on soils that have been over-farmed.”

Jath’ibaye went on describing the properties of weeds and bushes that had apparently died out in the south. The light of Ourath’s lamp grew dimmer. Kahlil strained to hear more, but Jath’ibaye and Ourath had moved too far away. He only caught the low rumble of Ourath’s voice and then nothing else.

Kahlil stayed put, too shocked by his own reaction to move. It had been inexplicable, unexpected, and humiliating. He’d probably been as red-faced as a bride caught on the chamber pot.

Time passed, while Kahlil hunched in the darkness feeling juvenile and self-conscious. Even Alidas had never been able to provoke such a reaction from him. He had to be more exhausted than he had thought. Or perhaps it had been the result of being caught spying on two men in such an obviously private exchange.

Were they really lovers? Last night Ourath had both implied and denied it. Jath’ibaye had seemed cold towards Ourath. Though, in the end, he had given Ourath what he wanted.

Somewhere in the distance of the greenery Kahlil thought he heard leaves rustling.

“Runner.” Saimura’s voice broke into his thoughts.

Kahlil jumped up to face the man.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to have startled you. I wasn’t sure where you were.” Saimura squinted through the darkness at him. “I thought that Addya lit a lantern for you.”

“She did, but I was feeling tired so I snuffed it.”

“I see,” Saimura said. “I came to tell you that Jath’ibaye has retired for the evening.”

Kahlil didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He supposed it didn’t matter. “You’ll want me to leave the package with you, then.”

 
Kahlil reached for his satchel, but before he could dig the package out, Saimura stopped him.

“I won’t be taking it.”

Kahlil scowled. He wasn’t actually going to be asked to come back tomorrow, was he? He wouldn’t do it. He’d just throw the damn package away before he went through this again.

“Jath’ibaye requested that you be escorted up to his personal chambers and deliver the package to him there.”

Jath’ibaye’s chambers were plain, almost ascetically so. There was a fireplace but no fire. The bare stone floors and walls radiated the night chill. The only light came from an oil lamp on the table and the room smelled of bitter medicinal herbs.

On the wide bed a roll of bandages lay next to a scalpel. But as Saimura escorted Kahlil into the room, Jath’ibaye snatched both items up and secreted them away in a blackwood box at the bedside.

He stood immediately and welcomed Saimura with a quick smile. His blonde hair hung loose, and this close, Kahlil could see how sun and weather had streaked it to white in places. He wore no coat now, just reddish work pants, and his white shirt hung open. Kahlil frowned at the white swath of bandages that encircled Jath’ibaye’s broad chest. As if sensing Kahlil’s attention, Jath’ibaye turned his back and buttoned his shirt.

“That was certainly fast,” Jath’ibaye commented over his shoulder to Saimura.

“I thought sooner would be better than later.” Saimura looked to the clay teapot and empty cup on the table. Kahlil recognized the scent of yellowpetal blossoms, so often used by northern physicians to ease pain.

“Should I have Addya bring up more tea?” Saimura asked.

“No.” Jath’ibaye turned to face them. He focused his attention on Saimura, hardly glancing at Kahlil. “I’m fine.”

Saimura nodded. “Has Ji spoken to you yet?”

“No, but I can wait till tomorrow.” Jath’ibaye tied his hair back from his face. As he did, Kahlil noticed that he moved his left arm carefully, guarding himself from pulling a tender spot on the left side of his chest.

“I thought as much,” Saimura said. “I couldn’t find her anyway.”

“She’s probably still out digging up the garden.” Jath’ibaye smiled slightly.

“Probably true.” Saimura shrugged, and then to Kahlil’s surprise, he simply walked away.

Kahlil wasn’t used to seeing servants, not even house stewards, taking leave of their lords so casually. Jath’ibaye seemed unfazed by Saimura’s presumption. He turned back to the blackwood cupboard and opened a drawer.

Kahlil waited, nervously watching Jath’ibaye’s back.