6: Broken Fortress (15 page)

“It doesn’t look bad, but it’s hard to be sure. I’d appreciate your opinion, Besh’anya.” Kahlil almost laughed at how unlike himself he sounded, but no one else seemed to be aware of it.
 

He rolled up the cuff of his new white shirt—now stained red, damn it. Besh’anya took his arm in her hands almost reverently. As she caught sight of his forearm a little gasp escaped her. Immediately, Pesha drew closer.
 

“There are so many scars,” Besh’anya breathed.

Kahlil was so used to the masses of white scars that crisscrossed the muscles of his arms that he hadn’t given a thought as to how they might look to others. Most of them were remnants from Payshmura bloodletting practices.
 

“Ji says that the Payshmura priests tortured the boys they trained.” Besh’anya held Kahlil’s arm as if it were a dying animal in her care. “Did they torture you?”
 

 
That was the last thing Kahlil wanted to talk about, especially in front of Pesha. But Besh’anya clearly couldn’t see the alarmed expression on Pesha’s face; as far as Pesha knew, Kahlil was training her in the same way he had been instructed.

“No,” Kahlil replied lightly, “they just punished me a lot for swearing.”

“Oh.” Besh’anya seemed disappointed by his answer, but Pesha gave a little, nervous laugh.
 

“So, it’s just a scratch?” Kahlil prompted.

“What?” Besh’anya started slightly. She had been staring at the scars on Kahlil’s arm again. “Yes, it looks fine. I should probably clean it, just to be safe.”

Besh’anya opened her leather bag and brought out a red bottle of some kind of liquid. A sharp metallic tang rose from it, and as she poured the stinging fluid over his hand, it turned acid yellow.

“I can make you a bandage as well,” Besh’anya offered.
 

“No, I—” His reply was cut off by a blast of unexpected wind that cut through the courtyard. Looking to its source, Kahlil saw a tall, blond figure striding towards them from the barracks. He should have known that the violent disturbance in the Gray Space would bring Jath’ibaye.

He quickly retrieved his discarded coat and started towards Jath’ibaye.
 

“Your bandage,” Besh’anya called after him. She held the roll of white cloth as if it were an enticement.

“I’m fine.” Kahlil rolled his sleeve down quickly. The last thing he wanted Jath’ibaye to see was him wandering around swathed in bandages.
 

“But…” Besh’anya seemed to give up before she even began.

Kahlil started towards Jath’ibaye and Pesha hurried to his side.

“Can you do me a favor?” Kahlil asked.

“Of course,” Pesha replied.

Kahlil dug several coins from his coat pocket and handed them to Pesha. “Buy Besh’anya and yourself a nice meal on me.”

Pesha took the coins but looked uncertain.

“What if the devil comes back?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He won’t.” Not while his armor was cracked, Kahlil felt certain. “Not today, at least. Go on. Have a little fun. I’ll be putting you through hard training again soon enough.”

“Yes, sir.” Pesha gave him a quick salute and then dashed back to join Besh’anya.

Kahlil smiled at her from over his shoulder, then quickened his own pace to meet Jath’ibaye.
 

“I thought you went out to the Silverlake Islands,” Kahlil called as they drew close.
 

“I did,” Jath’ibaye said. His gaze roved over Kahlil. “Is everything all right here?”

“Just fine.” He adopted what he thought was a confident stance.

“I felt the Gray Space tear and burn,” Jath’ibaye commented. “It felt like Fikiri.”
 

“It
was
Fikiri,” Kahlil replied, in as casual a manner as he could muster. “I spanked him and sent him crying back to his Lady.”

Jath’ibaye gave him a long, silent look. All around the courtyard, the kahlirash’im stood furtively watching for Jath’ibaye’s response. Finally, he said, “Were you hurt?”

“Just a scratch. My new shirt got the worst of it.”

“Let me see it.”

Kahlil held out his hand. Jath’ibaye took in the small gash and the deep concern in his expression faded away. Then he pulled Kahlil into his arms and held him. Kahlil felt his entire face flush red. Two troops of kahlirash’im as well as Pesha and Besh’anya stood only a few yards away, and who knew how many of the kahlirash’im were gaping at them from the barracks?
  

And yet it was so reassuring to feel Jath’ibaye’s arms around him. It was so pleasant to return Jath’ibaye’s embrace, and to savor the warmth and strength of his body.

A moment later Kahlil drew back.
 

“We should be more careful in public,” Kahlil said quietly.

“The kahlirash’im are faithful to me,” Jath’ibaye said. Still, he stepped back from Kahlil slightly. “If any of them start grousing, I have no doubt that Wah’roa will pound the Sixty-Six Fai’daum Edicts of Equality into them before treating them to a truly tedious speech concerning the sacred bond between the Rifter and his Kahlil. He doesn’t tolerate bigotry.” He glanced up to the wall and exchanged a wave with Wah’roa.
 

“But is it wise?” Kahlil couldn’t keep himself from lowering his voice further. “I mean, to acknowledge anything so…intimate between us?”
 

“It’s honest,” Jath’ibaye replied. “And it isn’t as if my persuasion is a secret here. Everyone in my holdings and on the council already knows about me. Ji, Wah’roa, all of my friends know.” Jath’ibaye studied Kahlil for a few moments and then went on, “Even if some asshole doesn’t like it, here in the Fai’daum lands our laws protect gay relationships.”

Kahlil should have suspected as much, he supposed, but the idea still surprised him.

Jath’ibaye smiled wryly at his startled expression, and said, “You know, I did have a little something to do with codifying the laws here. What did you expect?”
 

Hazy memories flickered through Kahlil’s mind as he studied Jath’ibaye. He remembered feeling this same sense of pride and anxiety the day he had watched from the Gray Space as John came out to his father. The steely major general had not taken his son’s revelation well, but John had not wavered. He’d held his head high, even when the old man had cuffed him across the face and ordered him to leave and never come back.

Of course, Jath’ibaye would not bow in the face of other men’s bigotry. Kahlil longed to be that confident, but his history was nothing like Jath’ibaye’s.
 

“I…It’s so hard to imagine lovers living openly here in Basawar.” Kahlil shook his head. “Dayyid executed men for having sex with each other. He would have killed me twice over if he’d had even a single other ushiri as strong as me.”
 

Kahlil lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth, where Dayyid’s knife had torn through his flesh. The scars had vanished with another lifetime, but Kahlil still remembered the humiliation and agony of that punishment. Every one of the other ushiri’im had known why Dayyid had mutilated him. None of them had been kind. Only the sad, drunken ushman who ran the infirmary had even spoken to him after that. Something inside of him had broken then. He’d never touched another man again, not even in Nayeshi.

Not until now.

Suddenly, he remembered Dayyid’s blood covering Jahn’s hands. All at once he knew what had become of the scars he so clearly remembered disfiguring his face. Ravishan had never borne them. Jahn had stopped Dayyid.

“It was different in Nayeshi,” Kahlil said.

“Yes, it was.”

“I was amazed by the parades and seeing men marching in each other’s arms. You can’t imagine how shocked I felt when I discovered that men openly declared themselves lovers there, that they had lives together.” Kahlil understood that people were not always kind to them, but they chose not to live like frauds and criminals. He’d envied their honesty and pride.

“I don’t want to make a liar of you,” Kahlil said at last. “And I’m not ashamed of what’s between us.”

“I’m glad.” A subtle pleasure showed in Jath’ibaye’s expression.

“But this is still Basawar and not everyone is your friend or governed by Fai’daum laws,” Kahlil went on. “Right now you are facing two very dangerous enemies, and if either knows that I’m your lover, then they won’t hesitate to attempt to harm you through me. I don’t want to become a tool to be used against you.” As Kahlil spoke he felt a chill pass through him. What he once would have thought was some kind of premonition, he now recognized as recollection. He’d been used against Jath’ibaye before; he wouldn’t let it happen again. “For now we need to be discreet.”

For an instant Jath’ibaye looked like he might argue, but then his expression turned grim and he simply nodded his assent. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat.

Kahlil hated to see him withdraw in this manner but he knew his decision was the wisest.

“Does this mean that I shouldn’t invite you out to a romantic lunch with me?” Jath’ibaye’s tone was only half teasing.

 
“Of course not,” Kahlil replied. “Just don’t bring anyone else along.”

Jath’ibaye gave a dry laugh.

“Between the two of us there wouldn’t be enough food for anyone else.”

•••

They walked through the barrack gates and crossed a small paved courtyard to the walkway leading up to Jath’ibaye’s holdings. A few men and women with goods from the lakeside market passed them on the way. Small carts and stalls offering hot food crowded the alleys between the shops and residences that had been built into the walls. A strong smell of seared fish and hot oil drifted by on clouds of steam and smoke.
 

 
No one seemed to take much note of the two of them beyond a first glance to Jath’ibaye. He offered a friendly smile to a pair of boys hauling a cartload of raw wool down the narrow street.

“Do you think we’ll ever have cars or trucks here?” Kahlil asked.

“I hope not too soon. Right now the environment just isn’t strong enough to withstand the kind of explosive industrial development that comes with automobiles,” Jath’ibaye replied. “But maybe some day.”

 
“I can’t imagine you ever wanting that time to come,” Kahlil commented.

“I don’t,” Jath’ibaye admitted. “But I can’t stop technology from moving forward.”
 

“You could,” Kahlil said. “If you wanted to, you could wipe everything clean. No trolleys, trains, roads. You have the power to destroy all of that.”

“I could.” Sadness crossed Jath’ibaye’s features and Kahlil knew he shouldn’t have brought the subject up. “I don’t think I’d feel too good about myself afterwards. I’ve already razed enough of Basawar to keep me busy rebuilding for decades. Last time thousands of people died. I don’t want to go through that ever again.”
 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s all right,” Jath’ibaye assured him. “It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but you shouldn’t think that you can’t speak of it.”

They crossed the wide walkway to a narrow, gated staircase. Intricate braids of iron leaves and branches decorated the gate. Jath’ibaye took a ring of keys from his coat pocket and quickly flipped through them. A moment later he pushed the gate open and led Kahlil up the stairs.
 

Like much of Vundomu, the stairs were a mix of the old black iron tiling and organic swaths of stone. Ancient urns embossed with the kahlirash symbol of crescent moons hung from the walls of the staircase. Despite the winter conditions, woody vines cascaded down from the urns.
 

As he walked, Jath’ibaye absently ran his hands over the dark leaves. The plants seemed to lift slightly, reaching for his touch as they might reach towards sunlight. Jath’ibaye didn’t take any note of it. If he had, no doubt he would have stopped immediately.
 

Jath’ibaye seemed to go out of his way to downplay the immense power that he wielded. He used keys when no natural lock could bar him. He walked at a natural pace, even allowing common men and women to outdistance him when he could cross miles in seconds if he wished. Across a short distance he could even keep pace with an ushiri moving through the Gray Space.

He restrained his power and seemed to take steps to mitigate the impact of his immense physical prowess. He was a god who dressed in the rough, ugly clothes of a laborer and who walked among fishmongers and street traders almost invisibly.

If their positions had been reversed, Kahlil knew he wouldn’t have been so self-effacing. He’d always liked beauty and ceremony. He supposed it was a holdover from his Payshmura upbringing. Even in the supposed austerity of Rathal’pesha, the walls had been inlaid with gold and ivory. The books had been gilded; the curse blades intricately carved.
  

Unlike Jath’ibaye, Kahlil took great pride in his power and sacred title. The two years he had spent unable to remember who or what he was had been the most disconcerting of his life. Living bereft of identity and purpose, he had simply given himself over to the first man who could use him. He needed the knowledge that he was the Kahlil. It resonated through his sense of himself.