7: Enemies and Shadows (4 page)

Again Jath’ibaye gave him that flickering smile.

“Well, I don’t know if Ourath was in love.” Jath’ibaye looked doubtful. “I like to think that he wasn’t. I feel a lot less guilty. But either way it still comes down to the same thing. I wasn’t very good to him. I just used him. It made me feel sick with myself and I almost broke it off with him, but then he started wearing the niru’mohim. That made it easy for me to just erase the man Ourath was and see someone else in his body. I started using Ourath like a drug. I called him by the wrong name more than once. He just took it. By then he was involved with Nanvess and Fikiri. He couldn’t have gotten out even if he had wanted to.” Jath’ibaye looked sad and weary and Kahlil hated to think that it was for Ourath’s sake, because the man had plotted to murder him.

“If he’d just met someone else,” Jath’ibaye said, “someone who’d appreciated him, maybe he wouldn’t have gone to Nanvess for the niru’mohim in the first place. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

“Or maybe he would have,” Kahlil responded. “And ending up like he has isn’t as bad as all that. The man is a gaunsho. It’s not like he’s somebody’s slave.”

“I know. I’ve told myself the same thing. But I can’t help but still feel guilty.” Jath’ibaye’s gaze flickered from Kahlil down to the floor. “I shouldn’t have been with him at all. I should have waited for you. I just wanted someone.”

“Waited for me?” Kahlil frowned at Jath’ibaye. “I was dead.” Only belatedly did he realize that he’d spoken up as if he were Ravishan. It was happening more and more and he didn’t know if he should fight it or not. Today he didn’t, because he needed Ravishan’s insight into Jath’ibaye—and he wanted to win this argument.

“And yet here you are,” Jath’ibaye responded.

“By sheer luck, yes. But you couldn’t have known that. I didn’t even know it and I’m me.” Kahlil cocked his head slightly as a sudden, new thought came to him. “So what are you thinking? Ourath’s murder attempt was some kind of just punishment for your infidelity to your dead lover?”

Jath’ibaye’s silence told Kahlil that he’d guessed correctly.

“That’s just stupid,” Kahlil said. That at least prompted a wry laugh from Jath’ibaye.

“You were always one for tact, weren’t you?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“Well, it is stupid.” Kahlil shrugged. “You don’t deserve to be punished just because you don’t die and I do,” Kahlil said. “Sooner or later I’m going to die. Then you’re going to have to get over my death and move on.”

The instant he said the words Kahlil knew he shouldn’t have. The mortality of his friends and lovers was the one thing Jath’ibaye had no defense against. His expression was stricken, almost sick.

Kahlil knew that they were going to have to have this conversation some day but not today, not while Vundomu was on the verge of war. Kahlil cursed his own thoughtlessness.

“And as for Ourath,” Kahlil said in an attempt to shift the subject, “you’re going to have to get over him and not just because I don’t share well. We can’t afford to play nice with him any longer. He’s an enemy to your entire country, not just your personal pain in the ass.”

“I know,” Jath’ibaye said.

“Good, because I think I may have a way of keeping us from going to war, but Ourath’s going to have to die to get it done,” Kahlil informed him flatly.

Jath’ibaye didn’t object.

“Hirran has an acquaintance among the Bousim gaun’im—”

“Her pen pal, Joulen Bousim,” Jath’ibaye said.

“You know about that?” Kahlil wasn’t sure why he was surprised.

“I try to keep track of things like that. She’s been writing to him for a few years now.” Jath’ibaye shrugged. “So something’s come of it?”

“If we can bring Joulen evidence of Ourath’s alliance with Fikiri and his involvement in the assassination plot, then Joulen’s agreed to remove Ourath,” Kahlil said.

“On grounds of treason?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“That’s right. Even if we can only show his involvement in the assassination attempt against you at the Bell Dance, there are still grounds for treason, because he lied to the rest of the gaun’im and misled them to the brink of war. Joulen will have Ourath executed and the gaun’im will have to withdraw.”

“Joulen doesn’t have that kind of authority,” Jath’ibaye said.

“He believes his uncle, Nivoun, will support him if we can provide some proof of Ourath’s treachery.” Kahlil moved a little closer to Jath’ibaye. It was difficult to read his expression. Perhaps he was troubled or perhaps he was just thinking deeply. “With Ourath removed from power, the rest of the gaun’im won’t fight us. If we can do this, then we’ll end a war before it can start.”

Jath’ibaye nodded but his expression didn’t lighten.

“You came here to tell me you’re going to go back to Nurjima, didn’t you?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“That’s where our evidence will be if there’s any to be found,” Kahlil said.

“It has to be you,” Jath’ibaye said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

 “I can get there the soonest and I have connections with the Bousim house,” Kahlil replied. “I think I might be able to convince Alidas to help me.”

“Alidas?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“He’s the Bousim captain who took me in when I first returned to Basawar. He’s a good man.”

“Should I be jealous?” Jath’ibaye asked lightly.

“No.” Kahlil smiled at the idea that Jath’ibaye would be.

“So, he’s a Bousim captain…” Jath’ibaye paused for a moment. “He wouldn’t have a limp, would he?”

“Yes, his right leg. You know him?” Kahlil asked.

“Maybe. I might have met him a long time ago. We both did, actually. If he’s the same man I’m thinking of, then he took the train with us to Nurjima when you were going to receive your Prayerscars.”

Kahlil hardly remembered the journey except for his welcome in Vundomu and that first night he had spent alone with John in Nurjima.

“You’d think he would have recognized me,” Kahlil said.

“Maybe, but it couldn’t have made sense to him. To be the man he rode with on the train you’d have to be much older,” Jath’ibaye said. “It would probably be best not to complicate things with old history if it can be helped.”

“Don’t worry. Alidas and I have enough fresh history to keep us occupied,” Kahlil commented.

Jath’ibaye frowned and Kahlil went on quickly before Jath’ibaye could ask.

“I don’t know how long it will take but if it comes to the end of the week I’ll return no matter what.”

“I’ll talk to Saimura. He has friends who may be able to house you. You’ll need money and clothes as well,” Jath’ibaye said. Kahlil waited for Jath’ibaye to say something more but he was silent. Then suddenly he moved forward and wrapped his arms around Kahlil in a hard, anxious embrace.

“Be careful,” Jath’ibaye whispered into Kahlil’s ear.

Kahlil returned Jath’ibaye’s embrace. He’d been an idiot to bring up his own death. Now it was probably all Jath’ibaye would think about.

Kahlil hugged Jath’ibaye fiercely, as if he could impress his own strength and confidence upon Jath’ibaye physically. He knew he would die someday, but not now. Not for years. He wanted to say as much but knew better than to speak of it. Just as he had to trust Jath’ibaye to have the will to resist and refuse Ourath, so Jath’ibaye simply had to trust that Kahlil would come back alive.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Nurjima hung beneath Kahlil, silent and colorless as a photograph. For a moment Kahlil simply watched the dark waters roll beneath the Blackbird Bridge. Two years ago he had looked over this same great expanse of river and had gazed out at the winding streets and densely packed buildings knowing that it was all wrong. He had known that he had failed in his duties and destroyed Nurjima’s glorious, holy future. And yet the great city had survived his failure.

This time he doubted it would. If Jath’ibaye tore open the earth, Nurjima would crumble.

Utterly unaware of how near their ruin lay, fishermen pushed their boats out into the river to begin their day’s work. Deliverymen drove their tahldi across the bridge. Bread sellers were already out on the streets. Soon the roads would be packed with carts and wagons. Clusters of women and children would press through the crowds of men on the walkways. Alidas was already riding the morning patrol of the Bousim districts.

Kahlil had already visited Alidas’ private room in the rashan’im barracks, but the captain was gone. Kahlil had left him a note explaining that he would go by Alidas’ rooms in Redbrick in the early afternoon before returning to the refuge of the Gray Space. That left Kahlil the remainder of the morning to waste as he would.

Now he stood within the cold, colorless silence of the Gray Space and watched the morning rituals of the men and women of the city. They were each so involved in their own activities—an old man picking at something in his teeth, a girl pausing a moment to catch her reflection in a shop window. Two boys stole buns from a bread seller’s cart and ran as the man caught sight of them.

None of them knew of the Great Gate, Loshai, or the Rifter. The vast powers that threatened and protected their lives were as hidden from them as the atoms that underlay their very bodies. In a way, Kahlil supposed their ignorance offered them a luxury that he had personally never known. They were free to indulge in fantasies of their own importance. If they believed in Parfir, it was as a being both too distant and omnipotent to be understood. He was beyond them. They whispered their troubles to prayer stones and imagined Parfir listening in limitless, radiant perfection. They did not want to know that their god had troubles of his own. They did not want to know that he could bleed or vomit or that he might forget their names. It would probably terrify them to see his pain and savage anger or to know that even their god struggled and suffered through life.

 Kahlil wondered what it would be like to know none of those things. Would it be bliss? Would it offer deep sleep and easily forgotten dreams? Would it offer security in petty charms and talismans? A few months ago he had been close to knowing. But that ignorance had come at the cost of his own memories. There had been no solace in the restless jumble of his identity. All he had felt then was a pervasive sense of dislocation. For him, it had been a relief to discover the truth. His purpose and place had come with that knowledge.

But he wasn’t sure how welcome the same revelation would be to Alidas. No man would want to discover that his god was on the opposing side of a war. It wasn’t so surprising that none of the gaun’im recognized Jath’ibaye as Parfir’s incarnation. They called him a demon or a profane Eastern sorcerer. But none of them would want to believe he was the Rifter.

In the deep shadows of a huge pylon, Kahlil dropped out of the Gray Space. He strolled from the bridge towards the tightly packed streets of the Redbrick District. All along the walkways he saw clusters of women sitting at simple throwing wheels, turning wet lumps of rust-red clay into delicate cups.

Stacks of glazed and fired dishes filled wooden tables. None of the women even met Kahlil’s glances. Brightly dressed sons and husbands proposed a variety of prices as Kahlil passed by. He declined with a polite smile. The deep blue suit he had borrowed from Saimura seemed to convey enough wealth to make the street sellers feel he was worth their time. More than one man followed him a little way, attempting to interest him in a variety of goods and services. Farther down on Water Street, bone vendors called to Kahlil in the same respectfully friendly tones. He glanced at their displays of carved dice and combs without much interest. The delicate knives carved from animal bones gave Kahlil a moment’s consideration. All of them were white, obviously untainted by curses. He wondered if anyone but him even knew how to curse bone blades anymore.

A merchant noticed Kahlil’s gaze and quickly picked up one of the fine white knives. He smiled and offered it to Kahlil.

“This one was carved from a Lisam bull’s thigh bone.” The balding man smiled knowingly at Kahlil. “It guarantees success with women.”

Kahlil could not restrain a laugh at the notion that he would ever want success with women. He shook his head to decline the merchant’s offer.

“But that’s no worry for a young man like you.” The merchant smoothly replaced the blade with another longer one. “But who doesn’t need a little luck with money these days?”

“True,” Kahlil agreed. “In fact, I probably couldn’t afford that knife.”

The merchant seemed about to make an offer but Kahlil cut him off.

“What about something to defeat my enemies?” Kahlil asked. He couldn’t help but wonder what the merchant would present him with.

“I’m no witch.” The merchant stiffened and narrowed his eyes piously at Kahlil. “We only deal in blessed bones here.”

“Of course,” Kahlil replied. “I was just curious.” He stepped away and crossed the street before the merchant could say anything more.

Many of the merchants displayed carved, blessed bones. All of them were in the form of knives. It amused Kahlil to look at them. Their origin as curse blades was so obvious and yet they were being sold as lucky trinkets. Kahlil couldn’t remember how many men he had killed with his own black curse blade. No doubt the mere sight of it would have horrified all these proper shopkeepers.

 As he walked on, the merchants and storefronts became more rare. The air began to thicken with the scents of animal carcasses and rendering kitchens. The tightly packed brick buildings lining the street reverberated with the noise of butchering saws. The bone talismans and fine leathers Kahlil had seen in so many store displays were no doubt being produced by the hundreds in the workhouses Kahlil now strode past. Kahlil turned and paced quickly back behind a bone carver’s shop. He stopped at the door of Alidas’ rooms.

Kahlil couldn’t help but wonder why Alidas would rent rooms in this part of the city. It was filthy and loud and so close to the gallows that Kahlil suspected that some of the bone knives could have been carved from the remains of criminals. The noise and slaughterhouse odors could disguise any number of terrible deeds. Torture came quickly to Kahlil’s mind. But he couldn’t imagine Alidas bothering to fill a torture chamber with all those books and old photographs. Nothing about the small rooms, the worn carpet or soft bed had seemed conceived with cruelty in mind. And yet the location of the rooms offered no other advantage.

 Anyone hearing of Alidas’ rooms in the Redbrick District would assume that they were used to interrogate and dispose of enemies of the Bousim family. Perhaps that was what Alidas wanted. Maybe he chose the Redbrick District because it disguised his nature.

Maybe the rent was just cheap.

When it came to Alidas, Kahlil realized that he didn’t really know much of anything. Even with everything Jath’ibaye had told him, Kahlil still couldn’t guess how Alidas would react to his news. Kahlil wasn’t even certain that Alidas would respond to the message he’d left. The last time they had spoken Alidas had warned Kahlil that he had orders to kill him. He didn’t want to contemplate what he would do if he had to fight Alidas. He knew where to attack and how the noise and filth of the Redbrick District would serve him. But he didn’t want to think like that, not about the man who had rescued him two years before.

He knocked lightly on the door. Almost immediately, Kahlil realized that the surrounding noise of saws, hammers and shouting workmen had probably drowned out such a tentative knock. He lifted his hand to try again just as Alidas opened the door. He stepped back to allow Kahlil to enter, then locked the door behind him.

“I didn’t expect you to bother to knock,” Alidas remarked.

“I don’t have a key anymore,” Kahlil replied. They both knew that a key made no difference. Kahlil could have walked right in if he had wanted to. But he owed too much respect to Alidas to trespass in such a presumptuous way.

Several silent moments passed as both of them stood in the small room, surrounded by shelves and stacks of books and Alidas’ old photos, staring at one another.

Alidas still wore his riding clothes. Road dust dulled the glossy leather of his boots. He must have come directly from the barracks, Kahlil thought. Alidas studied Kahlil openly, as if he were a new rashan at his first inspection.

“You look good. Life in the north must suit you. That is where you’ve been, isn’t it? In Mahn’illev, at least,” Alidas asked coolly.

“Mostly in Vundomu,” Kahlil answered. He had no reason to lie to Alidas.

“You seem to have gotten a very nice suit out of it,” Alidas commented. There was an almost hurt bitterness in his tone. Kahlil decided to overlook it.

“It’s borrowed,” he replied.

Alidas smiled slightly at this, as if he had expected as much.

“So, you’ve come a long way to see me,” Alidas said, “and at a bad time as well. What do you need?”

“I don’t need anything. I have information,” Kahlil said.

“It’s too late to buy your way back into the Bousim house, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Alidas shook his head and for the first time Kahlil caught a glimpse of sadness in Alidas’ expression. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry, Kyle.”

“It’s not what you think,” Kahlil said quickly. “I’m not deserting Vundomu and I’m not trying to buy my way back into your service. I’m bringing information that Jath’ibaye wants you to have, information that you need if we are to avert a war.”

Alidas considered Kahlil and then offered Kahlil a seat in one of his two chairs. Alidas himself leaned against the edge of his wooden writing desk.

“Well then,” Alidas said solemnly, “tell me what you’ve come to say.”

“The good news is that I’ve gotten my memory back,” Kahlil began.

“And the bad news?”

“I guess the bad news is who I turned out to be.”

Kahlil tried to keep things simple. But the truth wasn’t simple. Slowly, he unfolded revelation after revelation to Alidas. First there was the matter of his own identity. Alidas listened and even admitted that he had suspected something like the truth but had never known how it could be possible.

“Your face was always familiar,” Alidas remarked. “And so were your skills. I remembered them from Amura’taye, when the ushman’im and ushiri’im opened the God’s Razor on the Harvest Fair. You were too young, but you looked so much like Ushiri Ravishan.”

“I am Ravishan,” Kahlil said, “but not exactly the one you knew. I changed Basawar’s history when I sent John back from Nayeshi to Rathal’pesha. He arrived years before I even became Kahlil. You knew him as Jahn.”

“Yes, until he took the name Jath’ibaye.” Alidas’ expression darkened. “And destroyed the entire Payshmura faith.”

“If it was anyone’s right, it was his,” Kahlil replied evenly. “He is the Rifter.”

Alidas stared at Kahlil in silence. Kahlil could see Alidas’ resistance to the idea and then the slow spread of realization as he considered Jath’ibaye’s power and history. Jath’ibaye had walked out of the ruins of Rathal’pesha unscathed. He had held Vundomu against all seven of the gaun’im’s armies. Rivers rose against his enemies and the earth trembled with his rage. What could he be but the Rifter? Alidas pressed his eyes shut. Troubled creases flickered through his expression like small shocks of pain.

“The Rifter…” Alidas said softly. “All this time he’s been here. It’s no wonder no one can defeat him. But why didn’t he reveal himself?”

It was a good question and one that Kahlil had often contemplated himself. His only answer was a guess, but he gave it to Alidas anyway.

“He doesn’t want to be worshiped,” Kahlil said. “It makes him uncomfortable to think that people would obey him thoughtlessly. It’s odd, but if he weren’t the Rifter himself, I don’t think he would believe in Parfir. He’s not quite what one expects.”

“Not quite?” Alidas said.

“When you know him well it makes more sense,” Kahlil said. “The man he was on Nayeshi never had faith in religions or churches. I think he only felt reverence for the natural world. So now, even as a god, he doesn’t want temples full of worshipers or devotees bowing before him. It’s the living world that he feels is sacred and that’s what he would have people pay homage to. Not to just one man.”

“I knew him but I never even suspected.” Alidas picked up a small book that lay on his desk but didn’t open it. “How can a devotee be so near his god and never feel his presence?”

“He didn’t want to be known,” Kahlil replied. “I was his Kahlil and even I wasn’t sure until he took Vundomu. After that there could be no doubt.”

Alidas looked almost sick. Kahlil had known that learning the truth would be a terrible exertion for Alidas. But there was a resignation in Alidas’ expression that told Kahlil that he was prepared to go on. Kahlil felt suddenly proud of Alidas for this. The foundations of his faith had just been crushed beneath him and yet he was willing to accept the truth and even face further revelations.

“He changed the entire world,” Alidas said.

“Yes,” Kahlil said. He explained the way John’s presence had altered their history. How Fikiri had been destined to die but had not because John had saved him.

“Then I should have died with Fikiri as well,” Alidas said quietly.

“You were saved by Parfir’s own incarnation. If anything, that means you were destined to live,” Kahlil replied.

“And all the men of Rathal’pesha were destined to die, then?” Alidas asked.

“They brought the Rifter down upon themselves.” Kahlil heard his own voice echoing Wah’roa’s flat condemnation.