7: Enemies and Shadows (8 page)

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for anything.”

“I don’t, really. I’m relieved that you did what I couldn’t do. You saved countless lives today.” Jath’ibaye frowned down at his own hands. “I don’t always express myself all that well…particularly not when it’s something that I feel strongly about.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.” Kahlil smirked at Jath’ibaye’s understatement.

Jath’ibaye offered him a wry smile in response.

“Well, today I want to make sure that you know that I’m proud of you and I’m incredibly thankful that you are here with me. I wouldn’t—I don’t want…anyone else.” Jath’ibaye lapsed into a sheepish quiet.

“You said it well enough.” Kahlil felt his cheeks warming. This was all the parade he could have wanted, Jath’ibaye standing before him with such open admiration and affection in his expression.

Kahlil stepped closer to Jath’ibaye and began unbuttoning his shirt. The tension melted from Jath’ibaye. He kissed Kahlil deeply.

The food could wait.

Chapter Seventy-Two

The gaun’im’s withdrawal reminded Kahlil of an awkward apology. Everyone involved wanted it over with quickly. The forces, which had so dramatically converged on Vundomu, now hurried away in disorderly regiments. No banners flew. Some rashan’im didn’t even bother with formal formations. They simply packed and rode for the ships that would carry them downriver.

Kahlil watched the steady stream of departures from his vantage point in Jath’ibaye’s watchtower at the height of Vundomu. He focused his telescope on the road south of Mahn’illev. A convoy of Milaun supply wagons came to a sudden halt. Two of the tahldi had become tangled. The driver jumped down and went to straighten the harnesses. He shouted angrily. Anyyd riders filed past the man. None of them offered any assistance. They were all far too demoralized to care about a Milaun supply wagon.

The gaun’im’s armies had come as a unified force, bent on avenging their own, and then they had discovered that it was their own who had betrayed them. Ourath, Nanvess, and Esh’illan had plotted an assassination and died for it. There was no honor or justice in avenging them and certainly no grounds to demand compensation. That knowledge had destroyed more than the gaun’im’s cause. It now fueled the petty rivalries and grudges that they had attempted to put aside. No doubt, many of them would have preferred to remain ignorant and justified. Now they looked like fools. And they could only blame themselves.

 Small squabbles regularly broke out between the retreating ranks of the rashan’im. The clashes were particularly violent between the Lisam riders and those from the Bousim house. Their usual rivalry was blossoming into outright hatred. More than once the kahlirash’im had to intervene to avert bloodshed.

Oddly, there were very few transgressions against the people of Vundomu or any of the surrounding river towns. The gaun’im’s armies seemed almost too embarrassed to involve themselves with even cursory looting.

“It’s nice to see so much dissent among our enemies.” Kahlil glanced from the telescope to Jath’ibaye.

“It’s just good to see their backs,” Jath’ibaye replied.

“Particularly with each other’s knives in them,” Kahlil added.

Jath’ibaye smiled in response.

“Do you think things will have settled down by the Bell Dance next year?” Kahlil asked.

“Why? Are you hoping I’ll take you?”

“Well, the last one I attended went so well…”

“Yes. It went so well that I doubt either of us will be attending another for a few decades, at least,” Jath’ibaye said.

“Decades? You really think it will take that long for the gaun’im to accept you again?”

“No, they’re too greedy for iron,” Jath’ibaye said. “But it might take that long before I’m willing to attend another of their social functions.”

“At least you have an excuse for declining now. Before, it probably just seemed like you were some kind of a stick-in-the-mud.”

“Stick-in-the-mud,” Jath’ibaye repeated. “You remember the oddest phrases.”

Jath’ibaye gazed thoughtfully out the wide window. Kahlil returned to his study of the stranded Milaun supply wagon. The driver appeared to be hurling filthy rags at the Anyyd riders as they passed by. Kahlil guessed there would be another fight soon.

“I couldn’t have imagined that we would find a peaceful way out of this,” Jath’ibaye said.

“Peaceful for us,” Kahlil commented. “I think this Milaun boy is going to get his head knocked in.”

Jath’ibaye gazed out over the scene, then asked, “Is that underwear he’s throwing?”

“Don’t know. I can’t make it out,” Kahlil replied. “If it is, where did he get it all?”

“No idea.” Then after a moment, he offered, “Maybe he’s the launderer for the Milaun camp.”

“All of them? No wonder he’s so blithe about throwing his life away.” Kahlil set the telescope aside.

Jath’ibaye leaned out the window, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath of the warm spring air. Kahlil couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Jath’ibaye simply enjoy a breeze. For the last week Jath’ibaye had closely controlled the weather, balancing the need for future crops with the threat of hungry bones in the north. He had manipulated the wind, humidity and cloud cover so intensely that Kahlil had almost forgotten that Jath’ibaye could let the weather do as it would. Watching Jath’ibaye now, Kahlil remembered how much John had loved the feel of wind on his skin.

Kahlil wanted to relax as well, but he didn’t trust the sense of relief that pervaded him. Though the gaun’im might be leaving, Fikiri and Loshai remained, and as long as they lived, Kahlil’s work was unfinished.

He turned to the northern windows of the watchtower. The hungry bones would be hunting soon.

Jath’ibaye glanced up at him. He frowned as he noticed the direction of Kahlil’s attention.

“I need to practice moving through the Gray Space north of the Greenhills District,” Kahlil said. “The last time I tried to follow Fikiri he lost me out there.”

“You don’t have to…” Jath’ibaye began but then stopped himself, studying the northern horizon.

“I must do this,” Kahlil said. He expected an argument.

“I’ll go with you.” Jath’ibaye suddenly looked tired again.

Kahlil felt like an ass for ruining Jath’ibaye’s carefree mood. But they couldn’t allow victory on one front to lull them into a sense of safety while the other front still plotted their doom. Once Fikiri and Loshai were dead, they could enjoy spring breezes.

Kahlil said, “I’ll get my coat.”

Chapter Seventy-Three

At the northern tip of the Greenhills District, the Gray Space was thick and damaged. Scarred. The farther north Kahlil went, the worse it grew. The Gray Space here had a dense, ropey texture that resisted his passage. Other areas folded over the landscape, distorting Kahlil’s view as if he was looking at it through warped glass.

A mile from the white edge of the northern chasm, Kahlil discovered another phenomenon. Each time he attempted to move forward through a particular patch of the Gray Space, it tossed him back twenty yards to the left. The motion sickened and disoriented him. Kahlil remembered it from the time he had attempted to follow Fikiri from Nurjima.

Kahlil studied the patch of the Gray Space. It hung in front of him, severed from the rest. As he moved around this thin, dark irregularity, he watched how the colorless world outside distorted. The irregularity was two fingers wide. It was as if someone had taken a narrow slice of the hills just to Kahlil’s left and pasted it over the snow-flecked plain in front of him.

He could see a section of the abandoned stone path that he and Jath’ibaye had passed by earlier. Tough spring weeds edged the broken flagstones. Jath’ibaye stepped into Kahlil’s view. He followed the path down the hill, passing out of the glimpse afforded by the fragment in the Gray Space.

Kahlil looked back to where Jath’ibaye approached. Jath’ibaye searched the Gray Space. Every day for last six days Jath’ibaye had tracked him down and brought him lunch. Perhaps it was an excuse just to make sure that Kahlil was still alive, but Kahlil appreciated both the company and the food. Today, Jath’ibaye only carried a rifle.

 Kahlil stepped into the distortion. For a sickening instant he felt his body whip back. He dropped out of the Gray Space a few yards behind Jath’ibaye. Jath’ibaye instantly spun on him. A hard look flickered over his features, then disappeared.

“I could have sworn that you were up ahead of me,” Jath’ibaye said.

“I was.” Outside the Gray Space, the sun shone bright. The air felt hot. The few thin crusts of snow that remained on the ground glistened with beads of water as if they were sweating. “The Gray Space here has displaced patches. Almost like windows. They jump from one spot to another. I’m working out how to use them.”

Kahlil strolled down the path towards Jath’ibaye. A warm breeze rolled over him and he could feel the sun on his face. After so long in the Gray Space, the fresh moving air felt cleansing.

“How’s the planting going?” Kahlil asked.

“Good. The ground is warm enough to till.” Jath’ibaye closed the remaining distance between them. His eyes lingered on Kahlil’s neck. “You’re cut.”

“I hit a rough spot earlier. I had to force my way through.” Kahlil was beginning to see why Fikiri moved through the Gray Space the way he did. “I got a couple scratches. Nothing bad.”

Kahlil moved close to Jath’ibaye so that their shoulders brushed against each other. Jath’ibaye touched his hand lightly.

“No lunch?” Kahlil asked.

“I thought we should eat back at the Greenhills watchtower.” Jath’ibaye studied the distant white strand of the northern chasm. “Hungry bones will be waking soon and the district guards are testing the new landmines today. I don’t imagine it’ll be particularly peaceful out here.”

Kahlil disliked the fields of mines that surrounded the northern front of the Greenhills District. In his youth, those same fields had been filled with golden taye. Minefields seemed like a terrible misuse of the land. When the people of the Greenhills District no longer had to protect themselves from hungry bones he’d be happy to see them again fertile, though he had no idea how they were going to remove all the landmines.

As soon as he had the thought, he knew the solution. Jath’ibaye would do it, of course. Probably using something like a shovel.

“Anyway,” Jath’ibaye said, “Ji thinks she may have worked something out with the yasi’halaun, but she will need more of my blood to test it.”

He lifted his arm, displaying his bandaged wrist. The fact that Jath’ibaye’s wounds always healed quickly and mostly perfectly didn’t make the sight of them less disturbing for Kahlil.

They followed the broken path back to the narrow dirt roads that the men and women of the Greenhills District used. Low stone walls lined the roads, creating a patchwork of crumbling old bricks, new black iron, and stone.

They walked close and at an easy pace. Jath’ibaye wasn’t in a hurry to return to the Greenhills watchtower. Kahlil paused to study the collapsed remains of a cottage. It had to have been abandoned decades ago. The cracked weasel hutches now sheltered dozens of birds’ nests.

“Blackwing flycatchers,” Jath’ibaye said.

“It’s amazing that anything lives out here,” Kahlil said.

Just ahead of them the weedy plains gave way to open fields. Row after row of small white flags and earthen mounds filled the fields for miles. The flags designated newly laid mines. The only irregularities in the fields were random, blackened craters. Powdered ash and pieces of pale bone stood out starkly against the scorched soil. There used to be small farms all across these lands.

Now the inhabitants of Greenhills lived behind huge walls and kept vigil from their watchtowers. Kahlil looked up to the south. Even at this distance, the watchtower wall looked huge. Heavy guns and godhammers stood out from the red walls like black spines. Kahlil noticed a flash of reflected light from a telescope lens. Guards always stood ready at the watchtower waiting for movements from the north.

Kahlil waved.

“Making a new friend?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“Maybe.” Kahlil wondered what kind of people chose to remain in the Greenhills District. He knew that many did not. Most of the people he’d met at the Greenhills watchtower were older. Perhaps they had faced worse odds in the first years of Vundomu. Perhaps they were just too stubborn to move.

Jath’ibaye began walking again and Kahlil strode next to him.

“Hirran arrived today,” Jath’ibaye said.

Kahlil accepted the new subject without concern. Jath’ibaye was not a fluid or subtle conversationalist.

“She wants me to attend Nivoun’s funeral in the Bousim lands,” Jath’ibaye added.

“She probably wants you to show your support for Joulen. I think she has far-reaching plans for that unsuspecting fellow.”

Jath’ibaye nodded but didn’t say anything.

“But you’re worried about the hungry bones and about leaving when you know Fikiri could still attack,” Kahlil told him.

Jath’ibaye gave a slight nod.

“We should see what Ji has managed to come up with. We may be able to deal with the hungry bones and still allow you to go,” Kahlil said.

Again Jath’ibaye nodded, though more reluctantly than previously.

“Your presence at Joulen’s request would help to cement his authority. If you can go, you should.” Kahlil watched Jath’ibaye’s profile for any kind of telltale nod or headshake however minute. None came. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

 Jath’ibaye smiled a little as if appreciating a private joke.

“What?” Kahlil asked.

“You’re so easy to talk to,” Jath’ibaye said.

“I’m easy to not talk to,” Kahlil offered, since Jath’ibaye hadn’t really said much at all.

“That too,” Jath’ibaye agreed. He seemed to be studying the tall, red wall ahead of them. They were close enough now that Kahlil could see two figures moving between the gun turrets that lined the top of the wall. A woman in scarlet strolled beside an angular, older man. It had to be Hirran and Tai’yu.

Hirran ducked under the barrel of a heavy gun. Catching sight of Kahlil, she waved. He returned the gesture.

 Jath’ibaye turned off the main road and onto a side path that ran parallel to the Greenhills wall. Kahlil followed. The new path was sunken and so narrow that Kahlil had to walk behind Jath’ibaye. A low wall ran alongside, giving it the feeling of a trench.

“So is there anything I left out?” Kahlil asked.

“I hate these kinds of things.”

“Funerals or state functions?” Kahlil asked. Then he added, “Or days that people test land mines?”

“I’d be hard pressed to say which I hate most,” Jath’ibaye said. “Funerals, I suppose.”

“I can’t imagine that you’d be expected to do more than stand there looking somber,” Kahlil said. “You do that all the time. There will be nothing to it.”

Jath’ibaye stopped and looked back at him.

“I do not just stand around looking somber,” Jath’ibaye said. “I also wander around looking somber.”

Kahlil laughed and said, “Maybe Hirran can tether you to a spot.”

“Maybe,” Jath’ibaye said. “Could you come with me?”

“Possibly.” Kahlil’s attention strayed as they passed a crumbling section of stone wall. Pieces of bone jutted from it like shrapnel. Kahlil thought he heard hissing voices rising from the bone fragments.

“You don’t want to?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“What? No, I’d like to be with you,” Kahlil said. “I’m somewhat nervous about Joulen Bousim seeing me right away.”

Jath’ibaye shot him a questioning glance.

“He noticed me when I was spying in Ourath’s tent. Only for a moment, but I’d like there to be more time before he sees me again,” Kahlil said.

“You shouldn’t come then.” Jath’ibaye stepped closer to Kahlil. “Let’s not go back to the watchtower. We could spend the day away from everyone else.” Leaning forward, Jath’ibaye kissed the side of Kahlil’s neck and then his lips.

Kahlil’s initial flush of embarrassment ignited into a rush of desire. He slipped his hands inside Jath’ibaye’s coat and traced the lines of his body. He unbuttoned the top of Jath’ibaye’s shirt. Jath’ibaye’s skin was hot. His heartbeat quickened under Kahlil’s touch.

“If you lean back against the wall—”

The rest of Jath’ibaye’s whispered proposal was interrupted by shouts of, “Clear the field! Clear the field!”

Kahlil and Jath’ibaye both turned to look.

A group of heavily bundled men and women came running over the slight hill and threw themselves over the low wall onto the path. An instant later, a low muffled explosion sounded and a geyser of dirt kicked up into the air. Heavy clods plunged directly back to the ground. A spray of fine grit and dust rose on the wind and blew over both Kahlil and Jath’ibaye.

“Did I mention that they would be testing the new mines today?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“Yes, I recall now that you did,” Kahlil said.

Kahlil glanced to the group of men and women crouching behind the wall. Several of them returned his gaze with expressions of confusion and surprise. His and Jath’ibaye’s embrace was clearly not the sort of sight they expected to encounter on the narrow roads between their cratered minefields.

“Maybe we should keep moving,” Kahlil suggested.

Jath’ibaye nodded. He looked to the group of men and women.

“Anything up ahead we should know about?” Jath’ibaye asked.

One younger woman shook her head.

They turned and continued walking. Behind them, Kahlil thought he heard someone mumble Jath’ibaye’s name and his own with a tone of slight uncertainty. He wondered how long it would be before everyone at the watchtower knew. Then he wondered if it would matter if they did.

“I’m going to give you a bad reputation,” Kahlil said.

Jath’ibaye shrugged. “It couldn’t be worse than some of the things people just make up about my sex life.”

“Like what?”

“Bones, demons. A few years ago, someone started a story about how I went out impregnating mountains and rocks.” Jath’ibaye slipped his hand into Kahlil’s.

“Rocks.” Kahlil smirked. “That’s a little macho, even for you.”

“Just a bit,” Jath’ibaye replied with amusement.

They walked farther along the winding path. A few stands of black saplings occasionally broke the barren minefields. The black trees were familiar to Kahlil. He studied the gentle hills, imagining them once again cloaked in forest. He knew this area, he realized. They weren’t that far from where Amura’taye had once stood.

Kahlil was sure of it when they reached an old stone bridge. The bridge and narrow stream below were exactly as he remembered. He stopped.

Jath’ibaye looked back at him.

“I think I’ve been here before,” Kahlil said. “We’ve been here before. Together. In the winter.”

Jath’ibaye glanced at the bridge and then nodded. Kahlil studied the aged stones. He wasn’t surprised to find his own initial awkwardly scratched into one of them. He crouched down and carefully pulled a single cracked stone aside. For a moment he actually expected to see the key still lying there, where he had hidden it so long ago. But only cobwebs filled the nook now. Kahlil stood back up, feeling oddly disconcerted.

“I’m confusing his memory and mine again,” Kahlil murmured. He hadn’t spoken to Jath’ibaye about his memories since the first night they’d slept together. He wasn’t certain that he should now, but he wanted to be honest, if only with Jath’ibaye. “I keep thinking that I’ve got my life and his separated and then I come across something like this bridge and his memories all come back to me like they were my own.” Kahlil closed his eyes only for an instant, but the memory poured over him. “I can smell the veru oil and blood. I remember how cold you felt in my arms…” Kahlil looked up at Jath’ibaye and recognized that careful stillness in him.

“It’s not just his bad memories,” Kahlil assured him. “There are glorious, wonderful moments of his that I recollect as well, like the week he spent in Nurjima with you—”

“But you don’t want those memories?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“Of course I want them. Who wouldn’t want the happiest memories of two lives? I just—I don’t know that I deserve Ravishan’s memories,” Kahlil admitted.

“Because you aren’t the same man?” Jath’ibaye asked.

Kahlil nodded.

“But you are the same man.” Jath’ibaye held up his hand, cutting Kahlil off before he could object. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and just for a moment hear me out, will you?”

Kahlil felt an odd nervousness at the prospect of what Jath’ibaye might say, but he nodded.

“You’ve lived through two different histories and you’ve taken different paths in different circumstances,” Jath’ibaye said. “But you have always been the same courageous, reckless, beautiful man.”