7: Enemies and Shadows (5 page)

“Not all of them deserved to die,” Alidas countered. “Many were filled with faith.”

“Innocent people die,” Kahlil said. “You know that. We both do.”

“Yes, but you want to believe that it’s different in the realm of the divine.” Alidas gazed at the book in his hands. “You want to believe that Parfir will sweep down and cradle those who have served him so long and faithfully.”

“I think he would if he could,” Kahlil replied. “But even he can’t protect everyone.”

“No.” Alidas sighed heavily and set the book aside. “He would have saved his sister and brother if he could have.”

 “I think he would have saved a lot of people if he could have. But even he can’t change death once it comes.” Kahlil met Alidas’ gaze. “Look, if we don’t stop the gaun’im from going to war against the Rifter, then many more innocent people are going to die. And not just soldiers. Nurjima, and everyone in it, will certainly be destroyed in the cataclysm. Jath’ibaye has said as much himself.”

Alidas’ eyes widened in horror. Without hesitation, he asked, “What needs to be done?”

Kahlil couldn’t keep from smiling at that. This courageous pragmatism had been one of the reasons he had always found Alidas so inspiring.

“We need to find a way to remove Ourath Lisam,” Kahlil said. He described what he had seen in the gaun’im’s camp and what Ourath planned. Their conversation felt familiar and natural. Kahlil had spent two years reporting secrets and assassinations to Alidas. Kahlil relaxed back into his chair. Alidas, too, seemed to sink back into a remembered ease. As he listened to Kahlil his expression grew tranquil; he allowed himself to fall into his private habit of massaging the chronic ache of his right knee.

“Niru’mohim?” Alidas’ tone conveyed his disgust. “Only an idiot would use that stuff. I’ve seen dock whores with burn scars like ropes from using niru’mohim.”

“I don’t think Ourath cares,” Kahlil replied.

Alidas just shook his head and Kahlil went on with his report. He described the council meeting in Vundomu and the arguments of the representatives. Alidas looked a little startled suddenly.

“Wah’roa?” Alidas asked. “The kahlirash?”

“Yes,” Kahlil said. “He’s in charge of Vundomu’s defense.”

“I thought he had died,” Alidas said.

“You knew him?” Kahlil asked.

“A long, long time ago.” Alidas glanced to an old, yellowed picture. “It doesn’t matter. Go on with what happened after the council meeting.” 

 Kahlil described the events of the past two days. Alidas only interrupted him once for the details of Joulen’s promise to Hirran. After that he listened thoughtfully. At last, Kahlil came to the end of all he had to say.

“So, you do need something from me,” Alidas said. “Evidence.”

“Yes, you’ve got me there.” Kahlil offered Alidas a sheepish smile. “Will you help me?”

Alidas studied Kahlil for a moment and then sighed and said, “Yes, of course I will.”

“Can you get me the reports on Ourath’s treachery?”

“Not directly,” Alidas said. “I’m not in possession of any of your reports or those of our other sources. But I do know a man who has access.”

“If he knows where the reports are kept, then I can get them.” Kahlil flashed his best arrogant grin. “The matter might be settled by the end of the day.”

“This isn’t something you can just steal,” Alidas said. “Joulen will expect the proper seals and signatures. Otherwise you might as well hand him a stack of papers you’ve written yourself. If Joulen is going to stake his position on this, it has to be convincing. The reports must be genuine.”

“You’re right.” Kahlil frowned in annoyance. Why couldn’t this just go easily? “So, you don’t think I could find the seals or perhaps reports that have already been signed?”

“I doubt you would find anything you’d recognize.” Alidas shook his head. “Hial’luyyn keeps everything encrypted. Any report would need to be decoded before you could even know what you were looking at.”

Kahlil scowled even more deeply. He wasn’t used to coming up against obstacles that he couldn’t affect. But Alidas was right. If the evidence he needed were gibberish, then no amount of walking through walls would change that.

“So what do we do then?” Kahlil asked.

Alidas studied the piles of letters and papers on his desk. He picked up a small white card. It looked like the business card of a dining club. Alidas slipped it into his pocket. Then he glanced back to Kahlil.

“I suppose,” Alidas said at last, “that we’ll just have to go to Hial’luyyn.”

“He’s a friend?” Kahlil asked.

“He and I move in a few of the same circles.”

“Did he serve with you as a rashan?”

“No.” Alidas appeared to be unduly amused by that thought. “He and I simply know a number of the same people. We both belong to the same private club.” Alidas seemed oddly reluctant to explain how such a tenuous connection would aid them.

“That will be enough to convince him to help us?” Kahlil asked.

“He will, if we have something to offer him in exchange.”

“Such as?” Kahlil asked.

Alidas smiled in a manner that Kahlil had rarely seen. He looked rather handsome but also somewhat sinister.

“Something like what?” Kahlil asked again.

“Something like you.”

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The Domu’lam Club inhabited what had once been a Payshmura guesthouse in the wealthy Silver Row District. Like most of the shrines and chapels that had been converted after the ban of the church, this building bore few signs of its past. The golden suns and moons had been chiseled off of the masonry. The blessings that would have been carved into nearly every surface had been sanded down to minute grooves. The few embellishments that remained above the door had been painted over with glossy black enamel.

Kahlil could still feel their presence as he passed through the doorway. Familiar warmth radiated over him with a strength that belied the three decades that had passed since the blessings had last been spoken.

The entry hall of the tall, narrow building was quiet. The walls were papered with a subtle pattern of tiny gray stars. Several subdued prints of tahldi hung in simple frames. There were no signs of the prostitutes and dancing girls who usually adorned men’s clubs. Only one pallid young doorman stood there to greet them. He welcomed Alidas formally as ‘Rasho Alidas’in’Bousim’ and then glanced to Kahlil but did not ask his name.

“My guest,” Alidas supplied.

“Welcome to the Domu’lam Club, sir,” the doorman spoke softly, as if he were worried about waking someone.

“Thank you.” Kahlil kept his own voice low.

The doorman bowed slightly and then escorted them through the hall to a set of double doors that led to the rest of the building. The clink and metallic rasp of the doorman’s keys seemed unusually loud in the silence. As Kahlil followed Alidas through the heavy doors, he heard the hard noise of the lock being secured behind them.

“We like to keep the club private,” Alidas said when he noticed that Kahlil had turned back to study the locked door.

“I can see that,” Kahlil replied.

Much of the ground floor of the building seemed to be taken up with reading rooms and libraries, many of which seemed to be locked, though a few doors hung ajar. Through these openings, Kahlil caught glimpses of stacks of old books heaped beside chairs and across tables. Groups of men, young and old, sat around tables, discussing passages of text in hushed voices. The few men who noticed Kahlil’s gaze looked slightly startled but immediately relaxed when they saw Alidas.

The club’s dining room was relatively small, seating only forty or fifty men at the dark wooden tables. The chairs were all expensive and new, but none exactly matched the others. They each seemed personalized for particular occupants. Place settings had already been laid out in preparation for dinner service. As they walked past, Kahlil spotted the Bousim crest embroidered along the edge of one folded napkin, while the one next to it was decorated with the Milaun crest. Many more of the settings were emblazoned with the seals of universities. One entire table was inlaid with mother-of-pearl to spell out a scholars’ honorific. Kahlil tried to guess which of the seats belonged to Alidas. There was one that was not so deep as the others and a little higher. Kahlil thought that it would accommodate Alidas’ injured leg.

“Are we staying for dinner?” Kahlil could smell roasting meat wafting up from a kitchen somewhere in the back of the building.

“Possibly,” Alidas said, shrugging. “It depends on how long this takes.”

He led Kahlil through the dining room and down another hallway to a locked door. Kahlil wasn’t surprised to see that Alidas had a key, though he still found it odd that the club should keep so many doors locked.

Inside the room, shelves of ancient books lined the walls and there were racks for scrolls as well. The space was cramped and only lit by a single gas lamp mounted on the wall. The perfume of incense and age that hung over the books and scrolls was reminiscent of the scent of the archive rooms at Rathal’pesha.

“Have a seat if you like.” Alidas briefly laid his hand on the back of one of the chairs.

“Are we going to have to wait long for Hial’luyyn?” Kahlil asked.

“His table was already set, so he’s here,” Alidas said. “Probably he’s upstairs in his room. But I think I should speak to him alone first. This is all going to come as something of a shock to him.”

“You said that he would want me to do something.”

“No,” Alidas said, smiling. “I said that he would want you, the Kahlil. And he will. But I’m not sure he’s ready to just have you and all your revelations sprung on him at once. Let me go up and break it to him.”

“Will he believe you?” Kahlil asked.

“I’ve never lied to him,” Alidas said. “And this would be an odd way to start.”

Not knowing Hial’luyyn or Alidas’ relationship with him, Kahlil couldn’t really say if that was true or not.

“So you just want me to stay here?”

“Yes, I know it’s not in your nature to let someone else act for you, but in this case you must trust me. Hial’luyyn is an old man. We want him on our side, not dead of a heart attack. Just wait here and behave yourself.”

“Behave myself?” Kahlil asked.

“Yes.” Alidas smile faded a little. “Sometimes you seem to have a knack for trouble.”

“Not today.” Kahlil held up his hands in the sign of peace. “I’ll be good and wait.”

“All right then.” Alidas stepped back to the door. “I’m going to lock you in. It should keep most other members of the club from bothering you.”

Kahlil nodded, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy as he listened to the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place. It shouldn’t have bothered him at all. Normally, doors and locks meant nothing to him. He could leave or enter any room at any time he liked. No prison could hold him except one that had been altered by binding rituals. As he thought of the ritual, he realized what had unnerved him. This club felt so much like a holy place. It reminded him too much of Rathal’pesha and the dark rooms where he had been helplessly confined.

Kahlil placed his hand against one of the walls and silently opened the Gray Space. There was no resistance. If he wanted he could walk out of the room at this moment.

He let the Gray Space snap closed.

He dropped back into a chair, pulled a book from the closest shelf, and flipped through the pages. It was an old book and all of the illustrations were simple engravings. It appeared to chronicle the lives of several obscure Payshmura saints. Kahlil slid it back onto the shelf and grabbed another volume. This one was a history of Jevir, the second Kahlil to unleash the Rifter. Kahlil frowned and chose a third book. This turned out to be a catalog of ancient prayers. Kahlil scanned the titles of the other books. All of them were religious texts and all of them were banned by the Gaunsho’im Council.

The volumes on the upper shelves were tattered and the spines of some were dark with scorch marks. Kahlil stood and took one of them down. He recognized it at once. It was a textbook explaining how to perform an ushman’s first blessings and curses. Kahlil held it carefully as he turned the brittle, yellow pages. Many of them were torn or obviously cobbled together with binder’s paste and tissue. Kahlil glanced at the dark leather cover and noticed the faint lines of what would once have been gold embossing. At one time the image of the Black Tower had been embossed on the scarred and damaged cover.

Kahlil gazed around the room in amazement. People had been hung for possessing just one book like this one. The gaun’im might bring back the practice of burning people alive for a collection of this size. Suddenly a few locked doors and one young doorman struck Kahlil as far too little security. He couldn’t help but wonder about the men in the club. They had to be risking their lives just to read these books.

Kahlil had encountered people who still kept the Payshmura faith. They were often older, like Alidas. Most of them owned a polished stone or kept a tiny carved sun hidden in a drawer somewhere. None of them would have dared to keep even one of these books, much less an entire library. The members of this club couldn’t have been men of ordinary faith; they had to be zealots, priests and ardent believers.

No wonder Alidas had worried about springing Kahlil on Hial’luyyn. It probably could kill a man to learn that his god—whose holy books he had been risking his life to defend—stood in opposition to almost everything in those texts. What would become of a man’s faith after such a revelation? Alidas had managed it. But Alidas was not only extraordinarily resilient but also had a streak of pragmatism that allowed him to adapt. How many of the men in this club could be the same? Kahlil didn’t think many. He guessed that most of them would rather die as martyrs to the old Payshmura faith than accept Jath’ibaye and his many heresies.

Kahlil gently returned the fragile book to its place on the shelf.

He wondered what Alidas was telling Hial’luyyn. Alidas had said that he had never lied to the man, but that wasn’t the same as always telling the truth. Kahlil wondered how much Alidas was leaving out.

Kahlil heard a key turning in the lock and then Alidas leaned in through the doorway, looking happy and relaxed.

“You can come and meet Hial’luyyn now,” he said.

Though Kahlil expected to be led upstairs, they instead returned to the dining room. It was nearly full now. With his new insight into the club’s purpose, Kahlil had expected most of the members to be Alidas’ age or older, but there were a surprising number of men in their late twenties and thirties. Many of them wore scholars’ coats and collars. Kahlil took in the interested faces of the men gathered at the tables. It obviously wasn’t common to have someone new brought into the club. They watched him with a kind of fascination that Kahlil found a little disturbing.

Alidas led Kahlil to the black table with the mother-of-pearl inlay that Kahlil had noticed earlier. The old man sitting there reminded Kahlil a little of Wah’roa. He was lean with sharp features. But where Wah’roa’s skin was tanned to a dark leather hide, Hial’luyyn’s was pale and translucent as wax. He studied Kahlil as if admiring a well-made clock.

“Lamansho Hial’luyyn’in’Jitamur.” Alidas’ voice carried easily in the hush of the room. “I present to you Kahlil Ravishan’in’Vundomu.”

Hearing Alidas say his true name and title gave Kahlil a small shock. It seemed to lay him entirely bare. Ravishan, Kahlil allied to Vundomu. Most of his life the title of Kahlil had been his secret, an identity to which he had sacrificed his birth name and all acknowledgement. Now everyone in this room knew. More than that, they now knew that he had come from Vundomu and what that implied. He served Jath’ibaye. Kahlil heard audible gasps and someone made a strange choking sound.

Hial’luyyn remained unruffled. His serene countenance reminded Kahlil of the mystics who sought wisdom through fathi. But his eyes were too focused. He was not a man lost in a dream.

“It is an honor.” Hial’luyyn bowed in his seat. The man’s words were formal and almost musically elegant. Kahlil knew his own harsh northern speech would never match Hial’luyyn’s scholarly refinement. But he couldn’t just stand there like a mute, either.

“The honor is mine as well, Lamansho Hial’luyyn.”

Hial’luyyn beamed at Kahlil as if his unlovely accent was exactly what he had expected to hear.

“Will you join me for this evening’s meal?” Hial’luyyn asked.

“Certainly.” Kahlil seated himself in the chair Hial’luyyn indicated. “Thank you.”

“Alidas,” Hial’luyyn said, “I have been presumptuous in having your seat brought to my table. I hope that you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

“It would be a pleasure.” Alidas’ words were not as elegant as Hial’luyyn’s but they were far more formal than what Kahlil was used to hearing from him. Alidas seated himself with a practiced ease.

“So.” Hial’luyyn returned his attention to Kahlil. His gaze moved intently over Kahlil’s features. “Alidas tells me that you are the Kahlil that never was.”

“I suppose you could call me that,” Kahlil replied. He wished he knew all of what Alidas had said. He stole a glance to Alidas but simply received a brief smile. He continued, “The ushman’im never wanted the common populace to know that a Kahlil was being trained. They published a denial of my existence the week that I arrived in Nurjima for my final blessings.”

“Yes, I remember that there was a great deal of controversy at the time. The Usho and ushman’im were afraid the Gaunsho’im Council would rebel at the thought of unleashing a Rifter. Perhaps rightfully so,” Hial’luyyn said. “Very few church documents concerning your existence survived the fall of the Black Tower. Three of them are in my possession. One is a portrait. You hardly look changed at all.”

“I’m older,” Kahlil said, embarrassed by the old man’s warmth. “I was only twenty when I came to the Black Tower.”

“Yes, but your eyes, your mouth, even your build are all the same. It’s like looking at a document that has come to life.”

Kahlil wasn’t sure how to respond, but he was saved from having to do so by the entrance of two serving men maneuvering a large silver cart of steaming dishes. The servants, like the doorman, were both pallid and young. They seemed a little unnatural as they swiftly and silently distributed covered dishes to the men at the tables. Once the meal had been served, the two servants withdrew. Absently, Kahlil wondered how the club members ensured the loyalty of those who served them.

The ushman’im of the Black Tower had used holy words and sacred blood to bind stubborn initiates. Though maintaining that control had required the constant chanting of an attendant. Still, the blank expressions of the servants did remind Kahlil of a bound initiate.

“I hope you are not offended, but Alidas took the liberty of choosing a meal for you,” Hial’luyyn told Kahlil. “Have you had bull’s meat before?”

“Yes,” Kahlil replied. “In Nayeshi. It is much more common there than here.”

“Really?” Hial’luyyn carefully cut his own steak into small pieces. “Bulls are common there? It must have been a strange world.”

“It was,” Kahlil agreed. “The sun was blindingly intense and the nights were blacker than you can imagine. It took me years to adjust. Almost everything there was pungent and brilliant and loud. Sometimes it overwhelmed me.”