7: Enemies and Shadows (6 page)

“And the inhabitants, were they like ourselves?” Hial’luyyn inquired.

“Physically, you couldn’t tell the difference. But their languages were entirely foreign. They knew nothing of Parfir.”

“No, I theorized that they would not.” Hial’luyyn looked slightly pleased and ate another bite of his steak. “He is the god of our world, not theirs.”

Listening to Hial’luyyn, Kahlil suddenly realized that this man wasn’t the ardent priest that he had expected. He was something utterly foreign to Kahlil: a scholar.

“What of the Rifter himself?” Hial’luyyn asked. “What was he like there?”

“He wasn’t as powerful but he still affected the world. Even in Nayeshi, the plants, the soil, the water, everything seemed to feel his presence. It responded to him, but in small ways.”

“Really? That is peculiar.” Hial’luyyn set his knife and fork aside. “I think that goes a step towards proving that the world of Nayeshi is related to our own world. A cousin, if you will.”

 “Perhaps,” Kahlil replied. He had never tried to analyze Nayeshi’s relatedness to Basawar. He had simply accepted that both existed as they did by divine will.

“I think Mohimiri may be right that the two worlds were physically connected at one or more points in their ancient histories.” Alidas made this comment casually to Hial’luyyn, as if this were the kind of thing he normally spent dinner discussing. Kahlil stared at Alidas for a moment, then speared a tiny herbed dumpling with his fork and ate it.

Alidas continued, “It isn’t believable that both worlds should have the same race of people living on them by mere chance.”

“Oh yes,” Hial’luyyn replied, “I quite agree. But what is the relation? Did our race cross through a Great Gate to colonize Nayeshi? Could the reverse have occurred?”

This was not at all the conversation Kahlil had imagined having. He had been preparing to talk to a zealot, a religious fanatic. But instead Hial’luyyn was bringing up questions that Kahlil himself had never even thought of pondering. He had simply perceived Nayeshi as a divine world cloaked in mystery. He had never considered why men, or bulls for that matter, existed in both worlds and why tahldi were exclusive to Basawar and cats only existed in Nayeshi. He had just accepted it all as Parfir’s will.

He began to have the feeling that he might be the only religious fanatic in this room. As he listened to the quiet conversations of the men at the other tables, he became even more convinced. Many of them were talking about him. But they were not discussing his holy rank or how he had betrayed it. Instead, most of them seemed to be arguing about the extent of a Kahlil’s abilities. How much was myth and how much was fact? One young man had raised his voice just enough to carry his words over all the other whispers. He asserted that Nayeshi was not a real place at all but a metaphor which Payshmura mystics dreamed up while indulging in too much fathi. The Kahlil was just a divine drunk.

A deep anger flushed through Kahlil. He had risked his life to reach Nayeshi. He had nearly died returning. It was for access to the wealth and plenty of Nayeshi that Ourath was willing to risk war with the Rifter. Nayeshi was not just some deranged priest’s fantasy of women in men’s clothes and roads packed with strange machines.

Kahlil turned toward the young scholar unable—and indeed unwilling—to conceal his growing sense of indignation. The young man leaned a little closer to his dinner companions, though he didn’t lower his voice. “It’s a pity that a sentimental, old man should be taken in so easily. I almost feel embarrassed for him.” He glanced meaningfully to Alidas’ back.

Insulting Alidas brought Kahlil’s tolerance to an end. He snapped open the Gray Space between himself and the young scholar and without warning slammed his fist into the scholar’s smug face. The scholar’s head rocked back with the force of the blow and he toppled from his seat. He scrambled back to his feet, his face flushed brilliant red.

“Who did—” the young scholar began to demand but then stopped as he at last noticed Kahlil glowering at him. The rest of the men in the room had gone silent. Those who had witnessed Kahlil’s fist appear from nowhere gaped at Kahlil in shocked horror. The majority of the men, however, had seen nothing but their fellow club member’s sudden fall. They peered around in confusion. Across the table from Kahlil, Alidas shook his head ruefully.

Immediately Kahlil regretted his action. He had come here to ask a favor. Punching one of the club members was hardly going to help him in that. But Hial’luyyn’s demeanor had not changed.

“Are you all right, Tevar?” he called out to the young scholar.

“I am, sir,” the young man replied, hand still cupped to his face.

“Then I trust you can return to your seat.” Hial’luyyn gave the command with a gentle smile. Instantly, the young scholar obeyed. Hial’luyyn then returned his attention to Kahlil. His benign smile took on a hint of genuine amusement.

“I was going to ask for a demonstration of your abilities but I see that they are all that has been written of them.”

“I’m sorry I—” Kahlil began, but Hial’luyyn raised a hand to silence him.

“There’s no need to apologize.” Hial’luyyn’s voice rose over the murmurs and whispers that filled the room. “Some of the younger men here are not used to thinking of the immense conviction behind the texts that they study. A holy man of the old faith is a rarity now and some people do not know how to behave respectfully in such a presence. I hope you’ll forgive the rudeness.”

“Of course,” Kahlil replied.

“Thank you.” Hial’luyyn lowered his voice so that just Alidas and Kahlil would hear him now. “When you opened the Gray Space just now, it was so silent. After the reports I have read of Fikiri’s comings and goings, I’m quite amazed.” Hial’luyyn was again gazing at Kahlil with delighted fascination. And Kahlil realized that for Hial’luyyn he really was an ancient relic brought to life.

“It is rude to ask these things at the table, but would you do me the immense favor of reading something for me?” Hial’luyyn asked. “I know that your time is limited. You must return to Vundomu as soon as the papers you need have arrived from my office, but I would appreciate it.”

“Yes, certainly.” Kahlil felt a rush of relief. Alidas had already told Hial’luyyn everything and Hial’luyyn had already sent for the papers. Seconds before, the world could have ended in a matter of days. Now, salvation had been presented to him as if it were a common courtesy, as if it were his for the asking. Kahlil didn’t think anything in his life had been so easily achieved. It seemed unreal to him. His relief verged on joy.

“Here it is, then.” Hial’luyyn lifted a small parcel from his lap. Kahlil could see that it was a book swathed in several layers of silk.

Kahlil pushed his plate aside and took the book. The silk had not just been wrapped around it, he now saw. A finely embroidered case had been sewn for this book. Tiny pearl buttons clasped the case shut. Carefully, Kahlil removed the cloth. He stared at the book for several moments in surprise. It was not an original but an exquisitely detailed duplicate of the Nayeshi text,
Dan the Milkman
. The drawings had a distinctive Basawar style. The details of Dan’s clothing were much too beautiful. His milk truck had taken on a mythical appearance.

“Can you read it?” Hial’luyyn’s question came with quiet intensity.

“Certainly,” Kahlil said.

“I knew that the Kahlil would be able to read it,” Hial’luyyn said, beaming.

“I’d be happy to,” Kahlil replied.

After they had finished their meal, Kahlil read and translated the short book as well as two other partial texts from Nayeshi. Hial’luyyn often asked him to repeat lines as he took notes.

“So many of the most profound Payshmura documents were written in the holy language,” Hial’luyyn commented. “I almost despaired of ever reading them. But with these translations it should be much easier.”

“I’m glad to help,” Kahlil replied. Alidas simply leaned back against the edge of the table and looked pleased. He closed his eyes and listened as Kahlil read, first in the holy language and then in common Basawar. The younger men at the surrounding tables sat silently, straining to hear every word.

Three hours later the papers arrived from Hial’luyyn’s office. Hial’luyyn signed them and then stamped each one with the Bousim seal. After slipping them into a tough leather pouch, he handed them to Kahlil.

“Thank you,” Kahlil said.

“It is my pleasure,” Hial’luyyn replied.

“Will everything be all right here?” Kahlil asked Alidas. “The man I hit—”

“Tevar?” Alidas smirked at the name. “That was probably the best thing that has ever happened to him. Don’t worry. Even if Tevar did take offense, Hial’luyyn could silence him with a word.”

Kahlil nodded. It followed that Hial’luyyn, a spymaster for the Bousim house, would know how to guard his own secrets. Kahlil wondered briefly what word it was that Hial’luyyn could use to silence Tevar. Was it an ancient binding spell from the Payshmura texts or some Eastern ritual, which Hial’luyyn had painstakingly translated?

Kahlil bowed to Alidas. “I must go now, but I wanted you to know that I’m in your debt.”

He raised his hands in the Payshmura sign of peace. Alidas nodded and returned his gesture, though slowly, as though his fingers had not formed the sign in years. 

“If I ever show up at your door, put me up for the night, all right?” Alidas asked the question lightly but Kahlil knew him well enough to answer seriously.

“You will always be welcome,” Kahlil assured him.

Out of habit, he considered waiting until he’d exited the dining room to vanish into the Gray Space but saw in Alidas a certain anticipation building. Of all the men in the room, only Alidas had seen Kahlil’s real skills. And everyone already knew who he was anyway. He might as well show off a little, for Alidas’ sake. He opened the Gray Space and stepped inside.

He paused for one brief instant, surveying the shocked expressions on the faces of the men of the Domu’lam Club. Then he moved away, through the club walls and out of the city.

It astounded him that everything had gone so well and so easily. For all of the skills he possessed, the Unseen Edge, the Silence Knife, all he had really called upon was his friendship with Alidas. The thought offered Kahlil a reassurance that life was not always hard or cruel. Sometimes it could be miraculously kind.

Chapter Seventy

Two hours later Kahlil stood at the window of his room in the kahlilrash’im’s barracks, watching banks of dark clouds roll in from the distant north. Both Jath’ibaye and Hirran had arrived late and inconspicuously dressed. After Kahlil had presented them with the papers from Nurjima, the two of them had set about reading through them in silent intensity. In just over an hour they’d both read through every page and sorted the reports into a timeline of Ourath’s treachery. Neat piles of crisp pages were spread across Kahlil’s wooden table. Hirran’s face looked almost luminous with joy. But Kahlil noted that Jath’ibaye’s countenance had turned grim.

Outside his window, a fine rain began to fall and lightning crackled.

“No,” Jath’ibaye said softly, “it won’t work.”

Kahlil glanced to him. Jath’ibaye scowled down at a single page with Ourath’s name written clearly across it.

“What do you mean? Of course it will!” Hirran eyed Jath’ibaye. “Joulen asked for evidence and this is it. Ourath Lisam is clearly indicated time and time again as a conspirator against the interests of the Gaunsho’im Council. Three of these reports show that he was behind the attempted assassination at the Bell Dance. Just these three could send the gaun’im packing.”

“If they got to the rest of the gaun’im,” Jath’ibaye replied.

“Joulen swore that they would,” Hirran insisted.

“Yes, but Joulen’s authority comes from his uncle, Nivoun,” Jath’ibaye said.

“Nivoun can’t object to these papers. They’re from his own house. Even he will have to—”

“Not if he is also in league with Fikiri,” Jath’ibaye snapped. Kahlil felt a jolt at the thought of that.

“What do you mean?” Hirran looked startled.

“Here.” Jath’ibaye picked up one of the pages and handed it to Hirran. Frowning intently, she scanned the page.

“It says nothing of Nivoun here,” Hirran said.

“The agent didn’t recognize him well enough to name him,” Jath’ibaye replied.

“But you do?” Hirran demanded.

“I know things that the agent didn’t. He reports here that Ourath thanked a hidden man for the Tah’iss texts. Ourath got those books from Nivoun Bousim. He told me so himself. The hidden member of the group, the man who introduced the others to Fikiri, is Nivoun.” Jath’ibaye scowled. “I should have realized that Fikiri would have sought out an ally here in the north as well as in Nurjima.”

“So what if Nivoun is involved?” Hirran asked suddenly. “I say we give the evidence to Joulen and—”

“And then he will present it to his uncle, Nivoun, who will either dismiss it as rubbish or see to it that Joulen has an unpleasant accident.” Jath’ibaye collected several pages and straightened them.

“What if we tell Joulen that his uncle is involved?” Hirran asked.

“And what would Joulen do then?” Jath’ibaye asked. “Even if he believed us, Joulen wouldn’t have the authority to take action. He can’t bring charges against Ourath without Nivoun’s authority. How is he supposed to start legal proceedings without Nivoun?”

Hirran sagged visibly. Kahlil watched the northern sky illuminate with sheets of lightning. Jath’ibaye was as frustrated as Hirran. Kahlil frowned out at the storm. They had been so close to success.

“What if we took these reports to another of the gaun houses?” Hirran asked.

“You think they’d just accept evidence presented to them by their Fai’daum enemies?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“They could confirm the authenticity…” Hirran trailed off as she realized whom they would turn to for confirmation of the authenticity of any document from the Bousim house. Nivoun Bousim.

“If we had more time…” Jath’ibaye began but didn’t bother to go on. They didn’t have more time. They only had a few days. “I’m sorry, Hirran.”

Hirran bowed her head into her hands and Kahlil thought that she might be crying. He looked back out at the churning storm clouds while Hirran wiped her face and then straightened.

“What about Ji?” Hirran asked. “Has she had any luck?”

“Some,” Jath’ibaye said, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

Kahlil scowled at the white pages that littered the table. He had been so pleased with himself when he had brought them back. The ease of obtaining them had overjoyed him. It had filled him with a giddy optimism, an almost childlike sense that the world was on his side. Everything would be all right.

 Kahlil silently cursed Nivoun. He hardly knew the man, but at this moment Kahlil hated him with a passion. He wished he could just kill Nivoun and remove this obstacle. But that would ensure a war. If only Nivoun would just drop dead on his own. If only he and Ourath would both fall into a pit and break their necks. Then no one could blame Jath’ibaye for the deaths.

Kahlil paused for a moment to think, not just fantasize. What if he could arrange for Nivoun and Ourath to remove each other? Then these reports might still be put to use. There would have to be more evidence. He would need a weapon that couldn’t be traced back to Vundomu. Already, Kahlil’s thoughts worked over the details of the execution. The blood would be tricky. His timing would need to be perfect.

“I think we can still bring Ourath down.” Kahlil looked to Jath’ibaye. “But I need to know some things about him, about his preferences. I’ll need you to get into his rooms.”

Jath’ibaye didn’t seem pleased by Kahlil’s sudden announcement but said, “I’ll get whatever you need.”

“What are you thinking?” Hirran asked Kahlil.

“I’m thinking that we’ve been too honest and too kind to our enemies,” he replied.

Jath’ibaye nodded just slightly, as if he already knew that it would come to murder.

It would have been relieving, even uplifting, if this one victory had come easily. But Kahlil had not lived a life of easy success gained through great social connections. His strength and skill lay in violence and always would.