6: Broken Fortress

by Ginn Hale

  From the Gray Space, Jath’ibaye’s blood looked black as it poured down his face and body. Where it fell on the sands, it remained only a few moments before the shards of bone drank it in.

  Kahlil remembered how dry the sand had felt in his hands despite the surrounding mist. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now he realized that all of these thousands of white pebbles were drinking in the moisture just like they drank up Jath’ibaye’s blood. They weren’t hungry so much as thirsty bones. Their broken remains blanketed the ground for miles.

  Jath’ibaye swayed on his feet, then straightened himself upright. He kicked through the sand for a few moments and then located his discarded rifle. He held it in his hands, not like a weapon, but like some unwanted consolation. He turned, staring out at the rolling clouds in the north. Kahlil didn’t think that he had ever seen a man look so unguarded and desolate before in his life.

  A moment later, Jath’ibaye’s attention whipped back to where Kahlil stood, hidden in the Gray Space. Jath’ibaye’s gaze narrowed and Kahlil knew he shouldn’t have spied on such a private moment. Jath’ibaye brought his right fist up and flicked his fingers through three Fai’daum hand signs.

  What feeling was missing from the motions alone was incredibly clear from Jath’ibaye’s displeased expression. It had been less than a week since he had sworn obedience to Jath’ibaye and already he had wandered off on his own, disregarded an order, and lingered where he was not wanted.

  This time Kahlil obeyed at once. He reached Vundomu even before the black clouds and flashes of lightning had cleared from the northern sky.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The sun had set nearly an hour ago. From his window, Kahlil watched the gas lamps being lit all along the main road far below him. Inside his room, the lamps burned pale green mashaye oil and perfumed the air faintly with the scent of almonds.

  Kahlil sat on the wide window ledge, holding the tome that Jath’ibaye had given him to translate. He closed it and set it down beside his stacks of papers, ink bottle and pen case. It amazed him that a windowsill could accommodate so much. It was nearly the size of an entire desk. But then, everything about his room was big. The doors were high and heavy. The bed loomed up like an iron cathedral. The shower seemed like it would accommodate a half barrack of rashan’im.

  Kahlil supposed that if he had owned anything the spaces would have seemed smaller. He remembered how the shelves of books had filled Alidas’ rooms. They had lent the unremarkable architecture a sense of presence. They had made it seem almost as if Alidas was there even when he wasn’t. Kahlil’s three magnificently inlaid and detailed chambers felt empty even when he occupied them.

  Outside, people gathered in the streets—far more than there should have been at this hour. Kahlil peered down. The huge iron gates that separated the wide, new streets at the base of Vundomu from the old iron avenues on the terraces above were being cranked open. Kahlil heard someone give a cheer. Then more voices joined in. The crowd washed around the riders coming up the main street.

  Kahlil suddenly felt a rush of anxiety. He picked up the heavy book again, opened it, and tried to read. His concentration slipped across the words. He put the book back down and suddenly wished that he’d bothered to buy some of the new clothes he’d noticed down at the market. At the time he’d been worried about the money.

  He’d only discovered this morning that Jath’ibaye had provided him with a salary. Eriki’yu, the slim blond house steward for Jath’ibaye’s massive holdings, had brought the Fai’daum coins to Kahlil. He had apologized for the delay and then explained what deductions had been taken from Kahlil’s pay and what his employment within Jath’ibaye’s household entitled him to.

  His rooms were provided free so long as he chose to live in the household. A new coat and one change of clothes were allotted to him twice a year, as was a pair of boots. The tailor and cobblers would be up to see him within the week. He was welcome to eat in the common hall or, if he arranged it beforehand, his meals could be brought up to his rooms.

  Kahlil had been pleased to know that he got paid. In Nayeshi, he’d had to steal every single dollar he’d needed. It had grated on him to make himself a thief, and whenever possible, he’d committed his crimes against large institutions like banks or mints, where the loss could be afforded.

  “As for your duties…” Eriki’yu had paused and glanced down at the red leather-bound book in his hands. He had frowned. “They have not been fully described as of yet, but I imagine that you will be reporting directly to Jath’ibaye. His apartments are just south of these. Almost directly across from yours, in fact.”

  “Across the walkway?”

  “Yes. You can see them out your window.”

  Kahlil had looked across at the facing windows. Somehow he’d expected Jath’ibaye’s apartments to be an entire palace or temple, not just a few rooms next to a watchtower.

  “The first thing tomorrow you’ll want to report to him there. We’re expecting him back later tonight.”

  “I’ll do that.” Anxiety had clenched Kahlil’s stomach into a hard knot. Jath’ibaye’s orders in the morning could very well be to get out of Vundomu.

  “Don’t look so worried. He’s really quite kind. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” Eriki’yu had given Kahlil one of those brief, professional smiles that all house stewards seemed to cultivate.

  Obviously, Eriki’yu had not seen the expression on Jath’ibaye’s face at the edge of the northern chasm two days prior. He’d been furious. In the interim, Kahlil had gone back to translating to get his mind off Jath’ibaye’s return.

  But now that Jath’ibaye had arrived, the entire fortress of Vundomu seemed to be lighting up. Shouts, cheers, and even strains of music rose from the street below.

  Kahlil sighed. There was no point in putting it off. He stood and started for the door. He might as well go down and just get it over with. Then he stopped. He wasn’t sure he wanted to join an adoring throng. And if Jath’ibaye was still furious, the last place he wanted to be reprimanded was in front of a crowd.

  It would be better to just wait for Jath’ibaye to come to him. He sat back in the window. The riders, Kahlil counted twenty, had already made their way up to the courtyard. Grooms rushed out to take the tahldi. Jath’ibaye was easy to pick out. Even at a distance his long frame was noticeable. Ji trotted along beside him.

  More people poured out from the circle of buildings that made up Jath’ibaye’s household. Kahlil thought he recognized the slender figure of the house steward as well as the almost emaciated form of the ancient kahlirash commander. Probably every person in this entire three-story complex had something to tell Jath’ibaye. It wasn’t as if he was Kahlil’s private deity anymore.

  It could be hours before Jath’ibaye got around to him. That was if he came to see Kahlil at all. He might just want a bath, a meal, and some sleep. Not that Kahlil thought Jath’ibaye would be allowed much rest. The last two days he’d overheard many of the Fai’daum anxiously discussing the peril of their friends and families in Nurjima. They all seemed to expect Jath’ibaye to arrive and answer their prayers. Doubtless, he’d be busy long into the night.

  Kahlil gathered the loose pages of his translation and tried to read through them. He read a page and then had to read it again. He couldn’t concentrate on worm castings or soil content. His thoughts just kept circling back to what he would say to Jath’ibaye. He needed to explain himself, to ensure that Jath’ibaye didn’t think that he was undependable. Or worse, disloyal.

  He looked down at the paper in his hands. He still had no idea of what he’d just read.

  He wasn’t going to be able to think about anything until he’d seen Jath’ibaye and settled things. He laid the papers aside and headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, there was a light knock. Kahlil yanked the door open.

  Jath’ibaye stood in the hallway, his hand still raised to the door. He looked tired and dirty from traveling. The cuts across hi
s forehead, throat, and hands had faded to thin scratches. Kahlil’s own injuries looked far worse. His hands were peppered with scabs and the cut across his cheek looked ugly. The deep bruise on his shoulder was still darkening to black.

  Jath’ibaye lowered his hand to his side. Kahlil’s heart began hammering in his chest. Suddenly the silence between them seemed unbearable. Words came rushing out of him.

  “Look, I just wanted to tell you that I realize that it was stupid of me to go off on my own when I didn’t know anything about this place.” Kahlil’s grip on the doorknob was far too hard. The tendons were standing up on his hand. “I did tell Ji that I was leaving for a while and I couldn’t have known that the northern chasm was dangerous. So I don’t feel that I was completely to blame there.” Kahlil rushed on before Jath’ibaye could get a word in. “But, when you came to get me and you ordered me to leave, I should have just left. I was in the wrong on that point. I’ll admit that right out. It won’t happen again. You don’t need to send me away.”

  Jath’ibaye made no reply at all and Kahlil could read nothing in his expression.

  Kahlil suddenly felt slightly sick. Why was he jabbering his jaw off? This wasn’t like him—he was assured and knew how to handle men and the conflict they brought. He’d been more collected when he’d killed Nanvess Bousim than he felt now, with Jath’ibaye just standing in his doorway. But then, he hadn’t cared if Nanvess had liked him. Jath’ibaye mattered to him enough to make him nervous, to make him feel like a nineteen-year-old idiot hanging back in the shadows of Candle Alley.

  “I translated more of that book you gave to me.” Kahlil tried to sound casual. “I’m almost done with the chapter on loam.”

  Jath’ibaye regarded Kahlil with an uncertain expression.

  “How many pages have you translated?” he finally asked.

  “Sixty.”

  “And to think I was about to give you a long dull speech.” Jath’ibaye smiled just a little.

  “Long and dull,” Kahlil said. “I am way ahead of you.”

  “So it would seem,” Jath’ibaye remarked. “And the next time I tell you to go, you’ll go?”

  “Absolutely,” Kahlil said, though he suspected that it would depend on the situation.

  “Really?” Jath’ibaye’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, probably,” Kahlil admitted.

  “Probably? That’s quite an oath of loyalty. You swear that you will probably do as I say.” Jath’ibaye shook his head.

  “It’s not a matter of loyalty. I am loyal,” Kahlil insisted. “It’s just that sometimes someone ought to be there to keep you from getting yourself hurt. I know it’s hard for you to grasp, but in Nayeshi I guarded you for over a decade—even if you didn’t know I was there. It’s difficult for me to leave you when it seems like you don’t care what happens to you. You let Ourath Lisam lure you into an assassination attempt. You let some monster impale you. You gave up your blood to save me. You’d have let them burn you alive in Amura’taye if I hadn’t come for you—I mean, if Ravishan hadn’t…” Kahlil trailed off in frustration. Every time he talked to Jath’ibaye he had to struggle to keep his memory straight.

  “You remember that?” Jath’ibaye stepped into the doorway.

  “It would be hard to forget a day like that,” Kahlil replied. The low scents of Jath’ibaye’s sweat and his leather coat floated over Kahlil.

  “Yes, but before you said that you weren’t certain of your memories,” Jath’ibaye contended.

  “I wasn’t. I’m still not. But I’ve been thinking about some things Ji told me.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes she can say a little too much too soon.” Jath’ibaye’s expression softened slightly. “She told me what the two of you had been discussing just before you took your outing to the wastes.”

  “My death—” Kahlil caught himself. “Ravishan’s death. I’m still here, still alive.”

  Jath’ibaye glanced back down the hall. Kahlil could hear rushed, serious voices rising up the stairs. More than once Jath’ibaye’s name was called; it sounded as though his would be the final say on some unstated disagreement.

  “May I come in?” Jath’ibaye asked quickly.

  “What? Oh. Yes, of course.” Kahlil stepped back to allow Jath’ibaye to enter. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were waiting for an invitation.”

  “I just don’t want to get caught up with a lot of other people right now.” Jath’ibaye stepped in and pushed the door shut behind him. He surveyed the empty room. “Have you told Eriki’yu that you don’t have any chairs?”

  “No, I…I hadn’t thought to,” Kahlil said. “He’ll get me chairs?”

  “Yes.” Jath’ibaye smiled. “What have you been sitting on? The floor?”

  “The windowsill. It has a nice view.” Kahlil returned to his previous position. “It’s not so bad. Try it.”

  Jath’ibaye joined him on the sill. He picked up a page of Kahlil’s translation. Kahlil leaned in slightly, following Jath’ibaye’s reading.

  He felt relieved that they had left the previous conversation behind. After witnessing the pain in Jath’ibaye’s face at the subject of Ravishan’s death, discussing a dry botanical text seemed like a relief.

  “I didn’t know exactly how to translate some of the words,” Kahlil commented. “There’s one long contracted phrase in particular. It means something like ‘fine hairs knotting roots.’”

  “They’re probably trying to describe mycorrhizae.” Jath’ibaye leaned back against the window.

  “I have no idea how to write that in Basawar script,” Kahlil said.

  “Just use English. I’ll know what it means.” Jath’ibaye picked up Kahlil’s pen. He held it for a moment, thinking, and then very carefully printed the word on the margin of the page. Kahlil wondered how long it had been since Jath’ibaye had even thought of his native language.

  “Mycorrhizae are fungal filaments,” Jath’ibaye said. “They entwine around plant roots and aid in the uptake and transfer of nutrients between root systems. Many newly germinated plants can’t get enough nourishment without them.”

  “I had no idea,” Kahlil admitted.

  “I can’t imagine you cared to know,” Jath’ibaye replied and again Kahlil caught that flicker of a teasing smile. He must have joked like this often with Ravishan.

  “I don’t know…It seems like it could be important,” Kahlil answered. “It could affect people’s lives.”

  “True enough,” Jath’ibaye agreed, though he seemed a little surprised that Kahlil had said as much.

  As Jath’ibaye read, Kahlil observed his expression. It was so serious and at the same time almost tender. All at once, Kahlil felt that mycorrhizae had to be important. It mattered that he had translated those dozens of tedious pages for Jath’ibaye. He recalled Ji’s comments about the introduction of featherfin to the lake. This is what she had meant when she said that it mattered to her because it mattered to Jath’ibaye.

  Jath’ibaye finished reading the page and set it aside. He looked to Kahlil and his expression changed. The intensity was still there in his bright blue eyes, but he also seemed troubled, as if he were contemplating a difficult equation.

  “Will you tell me,” Jath’ibaye asked, “why you talk about Ravishan as if he were someone else?”

  “He was.” Kahlil frowned down at his hands. “I may carry his memories, but I didn’t live his life. I didn’t make the choices he did.”

  “But you remember his life? You remember…” Jath’ibaye didn’t seem able to say anything more. His jaw clenched and he shook his head.

  “If I don’t think about it, then Ravishan’s memories come to me as if they were my own,” Kahlil admitted. “But then I realize that they can’t be. When I try to straighten out what’s mine and what’s his, it all gets garbled and confused. Everything I know about myself is suddenly contradicted by this other life I didn’t live. It’s like my memory is haunted.”

  “How do you get through the day like that
?” Jath’ibaye lifted his hand and for a moment Kahlil thought he might reach out to touch his cheek, but then Jath’ibaye caught himself and dropped his calloused hand back to the book in front of him.

  “I try not to think about the past too much.” Kahlil shrugged. “You’d be surprised by how little you have to know about yourself to just get through the day.”

  “Sounds like hell,” Jath’ibaye replied.

  “When I first arrived it was, but lately…” Kahlil sighed. “I don’t know. Either I’m getting used to it or my memories are beginning to settle out.”

  “Settle out?” Jath’ibaye asked.

  “I can think about the past a little more easily. There are still two histories, but instead of just crashing into each other, it’s more like…” Kahlil tried to think of a way to describe the interplay of the two sets of memories in his mind.

  “You know when you look out this window,” Kahlil said at last, “there’s the view outside but there’s also your reflection in the glass. You can watch everything going on outside, but the reflection is always there. And every now and then you notice it, and the entire view outside goes out of focus. But if you shift your focus, the view comes back. That’s kind of how it is for me.”

  Kahlil noticed Jath’ibaye’s gaze flick to the window. He nodded. “So which life is it that you plan to focus on?”

  “I don’t know,” Kahlil replied. “This entire world is Ravishan’s. His history is consistent with everything that has happened here. But this is also the world that killed him. His place in this history ended twenty-seven years ago, didn’t it?”