9: The Iron Temple

by Ginn Hale

  The exhilaration, the pleasure of it, worried John a little. He glanced to Saimura. Saimura folded one arm under his head. John thought he might be falling asleep.

  “Jath’ibaye,” Saimura murmured, “people are already talking about you the way they used to talk about Sabir. You’ve given them a real taste of victory, you know. I’ve never seen any of the Fai’daum as elated as they were after you killed that ushiri. Not one of us has ever managed to do that. I thought Sheb’yu was going to cry from the joy of it.” Saimura opened his eyes and gazed at John. “You have more power than anyone I’ve ever known. People are going to be looking to you now. They’re depending on you.”

  “I know,” John said.

  Since he had joined the Fai’daum, this feeling of responsibility had been growing stronger. He possessed strength that none of them had and he could endure what would kill them. He had a responsibility to fight for them, to discover just how much power he could draw from those deep, ugly wounds. It was what Ravishan had told him. He had to make Basawar a better world—not just for himself, but for all of them.

  “I’m not going to fail them,” John said firmly.

  “That’s not exactly my point.” Saimura shook his head. “I just thought that you should know that people are starting to look to you for inspiration. You should take better care of yourself.”

  “If I was the kind of man who took better care of himself, I wouldn’t have volunteered to get arrested in the first place,” John replied. “I wouldn’t have taken that ushiri on in a fight.”

  Saimura gave John an annoyed sigh.

  “You know, before this, I was a little cold towards your lover. But now, I think the poor boy might deserve my sympathy,” Saimura said, smiling.

  “Ravishan?” John asked. He found it difficult to think of Ravishan as a poor boy.

  “It’s hell to care for a man with no sense of self-preservation.”

  “Very funny,” John replied. “I have a sense of self-preservation. I’m just more resilient than—”

  “Save it for someone who hasn’t picked bullets out of your back or sewn your throat closed.” Saimura lazily signed, Liar, at John. “You’ve got no sense at all. That’s what makes you so damn brave. It’s what makes you inspire people.”

  John was embarrassed into silence by the compliment, even if Saimura had delivered it as an insult.

  Saimura reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the bone talisman he’d given John months ago. He turned it between his fingers. Tiny lines of script gleamed as Saimura touched them. He tossed the stone to John.

  “Saimura, I can’t—” John caught the stone out of reflex.

  “It’s not for you,” Saimura said. “If you can’t heal any of the men at least you can give them my talisman. You may still be able to save their lives this way.”

  “Thank you.” John carefully tucked the talisman into his own pocket.

  “You’re welcome,” Saimura replied.

  Saimura closed his eyes and John let a comfortable quiet stretch between them. The sweet scent of straw floated up to John along with the deep, earthy musk of the tahldi. The ache of his wound receded. John closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, imagining Ravishan’s expression at being referred to as a ‘poor boy.’

  He missed him so much…

  From below he heard Fenn calling for Saimura. Saimura didn’t sit up. He shouted that he was up in the hayloft. Fenn came charging up the ladder. Snow still clung to his coat and boots. He had some kind of bird in his arms. John saw a white wing flutter against Fenn’s dark coat.

  “Jath’ibaye.” Fenn stopped at the sight of him. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, much better. Thanks.” Earlier, Fenn had offered to teach John to fish from the ice-covered river. Fenn had proffered the invitation with a look of such hungry enthusiasm that John had immediately declined, using the wound in his chest as an excuse.

  Fenn glanced between the two big bales of hay where John and Saimura reclined. John knew his own clothes looked messy and quickly thrown together. Saimura’s coat hung open. He lay back in a languid, sleepy manner. Pieces of yellow straw were tangled in his auburn hair. More straw clung to John’s clothes.

  John caught Fenn’s brief frown and wondered what conclusion Fenn had drawn from the sight of the two of them.

  The bird in his hands almost shook one wing free. Fenn gripped it harder.

  “A message?” Saimura straightened and held out his hands for the bird. Fenn passed it to him.

  The moment Saimura’s hands closed around the bird’s body it went entirely still. John frowned at its strange, limp form. It didn’t appear to have a head or legs. Its long white wings sprawled out from a tiny cage of carved bones. A dark red stone hung between the bones like a heart.

  Saimura whispered a word over the delicate bones and they spread open. He caught the stone in one hand and held it in silence.

  John and Fenn waited quietly, but as the time began to stretch on, John started to feel strange just gaping at Saimura while he worked at something that obviously required his full concentration.

  “How was the fishing?” John asked Fenn quietly.

  “Decent for winter,” Fenn replied in a whisper. “Two big sweetclaw. Sheb’yu gave them to her cook. I guess we’ll have them for dinner.”

  “It’ll be a nice change from all the mutton,” John said.

  Fenn nodded, but his eyes were fixed on John’s shirt. John glanced down and realized he’d missed a button. An expanse of white bandage and a faint streak of blood showed through. John buttoned his shirt closed.

  “I don’t think we’ll be staying for dinner,” Saimura announced.

  John and Fenn both started at his sudden return to their conversation. Saimura appeared amused. He stood and picked up his leather bag. “Ji says we’re needed back in Gisa.”

  “What’s happened?” John asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but there’s been trouble at the prison there.”

  “A prison again?” John asked.

  “Yes,” Saimura said. “A group of old men and women blocked the gates. They’ve all been arrested and now their sons and daughters are throwing stones at the city guards. No one has been killed yet, but Bousim rashan’im have been sent for.”

  “Do you think this is related to the girls being taken by the Payshmura?” John asked.

  “Maybe. We’ll know more when we get back to the Hearthstone.” Saimura started down the ladder. “Lafi’shir will want to ride as soon as he hears this.” He sighed and glanced apologetically to Fenn. “Too bad, really. I was looking forward to tasting some of that fish.”

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  After four days of hard riding through the Stone Hills, they reached Gisa. It was late in the evening and John’s back ached. He stank of sweat, wool, and tahldi musk. It was a relief to see the painted sign of the Hearthstone Hostel.

  While John, Fenn, and Saimura stabled the tahldi, Lafi’shir and Pirr’tu went to secure rooms in the hostel. Tai’yu departed to visit his sister in the Weavers Row. He would bring them as much news as he could tomorrow morning.

  “His sister spoils him. She’ll stuff him with dove meat and blue leaf cakes,” Saimura said. “In the meantime we’re going to be chewing dried weasel.”

  “Dove sounds good.” Fenn tossed a hide brush to John and another to Saimura.

  “Right now even weasel sounds good to me,” John said.

  He lifted his saddle and blankets off his tahldi. He carefully tucked his rifle under the blankets and then brushed the tahldi down. The big animal pressed against the stiff bristles of the brush as John groomed its withers and ribs.

  Fenn brought fresh water and feed to the animals’ troughs. He scratched Saimura’s tahldi between its horns and the tahldi leaned into his hands, making soft pleased noises.

  “Hot wine and a hot bath sound so good right now,” Fenn said.

  “Lafi’shir might be willing to pay up for one of the big steam tubs.
Particularly if he got a good whiff of you, Jath’ibaye.” Saimura grinned at John.

  “You’re no bouquet of moonflowers yourself,” John replied.

  “Pirr’tu’s the worst,” Fenn said. “I’d pay up just to get a bath for him.”

  “I may hold you to that,” Pirr’tu called from the stable doors. “I hear they have a gaun-style bath at the Flower Palace. The dancing girls there would probably leave me smelling sweet enough for you, Fenn. It’s eight silver.” Pirr’tu grinned and held out his calloused hand for the money.

  “You’re going to be waiting a few years for that bath if you expect Fenn to pay for it. He’s still paying for the rope he’s using to hold up his pants,” Saimura replied.

  Fenn looked like he might argue but then obviously thought better of it.

  “So, do we have a room?” Saimura asked Pirr’tu.

  “Two. Lafi’shir’s paid for a steam tub and laundry as well.” Pirr’tu glanced back to Fenn. “He wanted to know if you brought any of that hide stain you use to disguise the tahldi.”

  “Some.” Fenn looked puzzled. “Has he bought more tahldi?”

  “No.” Pirr’tu lowered his voice a little. “But our witches both have hair that’s a little too light to pass without notice in Gisa. Lafi’shir thinks we might be staying here a while.”

  Fenn dug the hide stain and a pair of gloves out of his saddlebag. They locked up the stable and then hurried into the warmth of the hostel.

  Inside, a large fire blazed in the hearth. The lamps gave off the faint scent of veru oil. A simple design of red flowers and green leaves decorated the walls. Only a few men still dined at the tables in the common room. Most had retired upstairs to sleep or gone out to one of the wine houses for an evening’s entertainment.

  John remembered the young plump woman who brought stew out to their table. Her fingers were tattooed. John guessed she was one of the hostel owner’s wives. Pirr’tu flirted with her in an easy manner. She remembered him from the last time they had visited. Pirr’tu told her that he hadn’t been able to forget her pretty face or her sweet laugh. The girl blushed and smiled. Pirr’tu watched the girl as she retreated back through the kitchen door.

  “Someone doesn’t mind the way I smell,” Pirr’tu said.

  “I think she actually likes your stink,” Fenn commented.

  Pirr’tu pulled a rakish smile.

  “All I’m going to say is don’t get caught,” Lafi’shir said.

  “Doing what?” Pirr’tu asked.

  Lafi’shir just looked at Pirr’tu for a long moment. Then he continued eating his stew.

  “Who knows if she’s even interested,” Pirr’tu said.

  A little later, the girl brought several extra slabs of soft cheese to their table. She set the tray down near Pirr’tu.

  “There’s so little left, you might as well have the last of the cheese,” the girl said. She gazed down at her hands. “There will be fresh curds tomorrow, you know. I’ll be in the kitchen all night cooking and pressing them.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” Pirr’tu commented. “You won’t be doing it all on you own, will you?”

  The girl colored just a little at the question.

  “My sister isn’t feeling well, so yes, tonight I’ll be working alone.”

  “Someone ought to at least keep you company,” Pirr’tu suggested very softly.

  The girl’s face lit up with excitement and only after dropping her gaze from Pirr’tu’s handsome face did she seem to recover her composure enough to nod her agreement and then excuse herself.

  “I’ll be careful,” Pirr’tu said before Lafi’shir even commented.

  John eyed the cheese. It looked appealingly buttery. Pirr’tu noticed and laughed, then proffered John a slice.

  “You see, there are advantages to charming girls,” Pirr’tu said softly.

  A month ago John might have mistaken the comment for more than friendly teasing. Now, he took the cheese and smiled lasciviously as he leaned a little closer to Pirr’tu.

  “There are also advantages to enticing a man who charms girls,” John said.

  Pirr’tu flushed to his hair. Fenn and Saimura both snickered at that, while Lafi’shir just smiled and shook his head. John gulped down the remainder of the cheese.

  “Laugh if you like,” Pirr’tu said, “but I’ll be getting more than a slice of cheese later tonight.”

  “True enough,” John admitted.

  “Lucky bastard,” Fenn said. John noticed the way Fenn glanced to him, but he didn’t respond. And soon enough Fenn’s attention shifted to Saimura.

  As far as John knew, none of them had had sex since they had left the Warren. That had been nearly a month ago. In Rathal’pesha a month of celibacy would have been nothing. But now the memories of Ravishan’s muscular body and inviting mouth were far too recent for John to easily ignore. He wondered where Ravishan was now and imagined him as he had last seen him, sleeping in the shelter of a shrine. John imagined kneeling down beside him, slipping his hands under Ravishan’s clothes, caressing his smooth skin and feeling the heat of lean muscle beneath his fingers. He imagined running his hand down over the dark curls of Ravishan’s pubic hair and stroking him to wakefulness. He imagined Ravishan’s hands touching him in return. Then Ravishan’s lips.

  A keen ache pulsed through John’s body. He had to stop fantasizing about Ravishan. He stirred his ugly brown stew. He studied the wrinkled, ancient face of an old man who sat dozing at a table near the fireplace. He considered the square root of 1,296. After a few moments of division John realized that the answer was 36.

  The stiff tension in his groin slowly faded.

  “Is something wrong?” Saimura asked. “Have you sensed something?”

  “No,” John said quickly. “I was just daydreaming.”

  “You looked troubled,” Saimura commented.

  “No, I’m tired and I smell like the ass-end of a tahldi, that’s all.”

  “The bath is probably ready by now,” Lafi’shir said. “We could all do with a little soap and water.”

  •

  The bath shared a wall with the kitchen. And the smell of bread and cooking oil floated through the small room. A huge wooden tub occupied most of the room. Wisps of steam rose off the water in the tub. John could feel the heat rolling off the coals below it. Even the tiled floor and walls radiated warmth.

  Soap, scrub brushes, and smaller wash buckets had been provided for all five of them. John studied the buckets curiously. Fenn also seemed confused. The baths in the Warren had been more like showers with running water, not just a series of tubs.

  “You wash and rinse with the small bucket. Then you soak in the tub,” Saimura told them both. “It’s very refined. Almost as decadent as a gaunsho’s bath.”

  “Don’t expect me to pay for another too soon,” Lafi’shir said. He stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a heap near the door. “It’s too cold to use the stable troughs right now, but in summer that’s where you’ll all be doing your washing.”

  John nodded. He tried to keep his eyes to himself as they all undressed, but it was impossible not to notice the other men’s naked bodies. He couldn’t help but note the similarities and differences between them all.

  Both Lafi’shir and Pirr’tu were strongly built men with thick curling body hair. Pirr’tu’s hair was glossy black, whereas much of Lafi’shir’s had gone gray and kinked wildly. For a man in his late fifties, Lafi’shir boasted an astounding physique. The muscles of his belly had softened a little, but his chest was still firm, his shoulders still thick. John guessed that in his prime his arms and thighs had bulged with muscle just as Pirr’tu’s did. John’s eyes lingered briefly on Pirr’tu, admiring how his broad back tapered down to tight, muscular buttocks.

  Not quite John’s type, but he could understand the attraction Pirr’tu inspired in so many young women.

  Fenn, by comparison, was quite slim. His long hands, feet, and penis seemed a little outsized for h
is thin body. His black body hair seemed fine. John guessed it would be silky to the touch. Fenn washed himself without any sign of discomfort at his own nudity.

  Saimura undressed more carefully than the other men. He removed several stones and a small knife from his pockets, then folded his clothes. His skin was milky white and dappled with freckles. His muscles were not as taut as Ravishan’s, but there was a similarity between their builds. Saimura possessed the same long, graceful physique as Ravishan. Where Ravishan was lean and scarred, Saimura appeared supple and unmarred. Where Ravishan’s pubic hair was black, Saimura’s was a surprisingly bright shade of red.

  Saimura threw a tin of soap to John. John barely looked up in time to catch it.

  “Are you planning on washing with your clothes on?” Saimura asked.

  John felt a red flush spread from his face down.

  Pirr’tu glanced back at John and grinned.

  “Don’t tell me you’re shy,” Pirr’tu teased.

  John placed the talisman Saimura had given him with Saimura’s stones and knife. Then he stripped off his clothes. He knew the other men were looking him over. He tried to ignore them and washed himself. After a few moments, he couldn’t help but turn to Pirr’tu. The man stared, aghast, at John’s groin.

  “Are you falling in love?” John asked, though he suspected he knew exactly what so horrified Pirr’tu.

  “Not with that ugly monster,” Pirr’tu responded. Then he demanded, “What happened to your foreskin?”

  Years before, John had answered the same question for Samsango and heard his response whispered among numerous other priests at Rathal’pesha for weeks after. But he couldn’t use the same answer. Saimura would know that descendants of Eastern families didn’t circumcise their sons.

  “It happened a long time ago. I’d rather not talk about it,” John said.

  “It was those bastard Payshmura, wasn’t it?” Pirr’tu asked quietly.