by Ginn Hale
BLACK BLADES
Book Three of The Rifter
Ginn Hale
Black Blades
Book Three of the Rifter
By Ginn Hale
Published by:
Blind Eye Books
1141 Grant Street
Bellingham, WA 98225
blindeyebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Nicole Kimberling
Cover art, maps and all illustrations by Dawn Kimberling
Proofreading by Jemma Everyhope
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and situations depicted are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are coincidental.
First edition May 2011
Copyright © 2011 Ginn Hale
ISBN 978-1-935560-03-6
Alan and Michael, thank you so much for your generosity and sharp eyes!
—Ginn
The story so far
After accidentally traveling to the world of Basawar and surviving both the harsh climate and a Fai’daum ambush, John Toffler has found his way into to the great monastery of Rathal’Pesha where his ally, Ravishan, is in training as an ushiri—holy priests who can travel vast distances in the blink of an eye and who guard the keys to crossing between the worlds, keys that could allow John and his friends to at last return home.
John’s friends, Laurie and Bill, remain ensconced in the noble Bousim household in the city of Amura’taye, but Bill’s illness and Laurie’s subjugation make life in Basawar difficult for them. The constant danger of exposure haunts them all. This is a world where witches and strangers are burned alive, and all of their allies hide secrets of their own.
Once Kahlil had been entrusted with a holy duty: to watch over the Rifter and protect him in the world of Nayeshi until the Issusha’im Oracles decided whether to summon the destroyer god or kill him while he remained a mortal in Nayeshi. But Kahlil failed his duty, slipping away to rescue his sister from a fire and in that moment allowing the Rifter to cross into the world of Basawar.
Desperate, Kahlil followed the Rifter. But the Great Gate had been shattered, and Kahlil suffered catastrophic injuries to both his body and his mind during the crossing between worlds.
He has returned to Basawar, but his home is not as he remembered it—inasmuchas he can remember anything. With all signs of the holy sect he once served now wiped away, there is no one to remind him of his purpose. In his wrecked condition he accepts the only help offered and takes work in the noble Bousim household as a spy and an assassin for handsome Captain Alidas’ro’Bousim who patrols the seething underbelly of the capital city of Nurjima.
Now, after two years of faithful service, Alidas sends him on a final mission: to infiltrate the Lisam household and stop Orath Lisam and his circle of noble conspirators from assassinating the Fai’daum leader, Jath’ibaye. But he soon discovers that the heir of the Bousim household, which he serves is involved. As is a mysterious man who, like Kahlil, can travel through the Gray Spaces.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The panes of Jath’ibaye’s Glass Palace reflected the amber glow of the setting sun. At twilight, the glass sheets caught the light so well that they seemed cut from the sky itself, lending the building an ethereal beauty. But the sharp barbs of the surrounding fence stood in stark contrast. Black iron pickets rose above Kahlil in a twisting wall of cast-iron thorns and heavy bars.
Although a number of the palaces were surrounded by fences of ferocious appearance, Kahlil had found most of them easily surmountable. Designs of curving claws and massive teeth often presented perfect handgrips and footholds.
Not that he normally needed to resort to climbing, but still, he couldn’t keep himself from reaching out and lightly gripping one of the curving iron projections. It looked strong enough to support a man’s weight.
Tiny sharp teeth stung his fingertips. Immediately, Kahlil pulled his hand back. Long sharp needles encrusted the top side of the iron thorn. Even the tentative pressure of Kahlil’s curious touch had been enough to sink them into his flesh. He glanced down at the dark blood beading on his fingertips.
Obviously, Jath’ibaye wasn’t fool enough to trust the safety of his palace to any purely ornamental menace. Kahlil supposed he should take some reassurance in that knowledge. Perhaps it meant that Jath’ibaye would be capable of deterring his own assassination.
He had certainly seemed strong and capable enough to do so last night. Kahlil suppressed a shudder of dread at the memory of Jath’ibaye’s powerful grip. The previous night’s encounter had not been exactly amicable, and he wasn’t sure how Jath’ibaye would react to seeing him again. At the same moment, he felt a pulse of excitement. There had been such recognition in Jath’ibaye’s face.
The man knew him and Kahlil needed to know how.
He curled his hand into a tight fist, allowing the pressure to staunch the tiny wounds—the last thing he wanted was to stain the white surface of the package he was to deliver—and then he walked his bicycle toward the great iron gate.
Surprisingly the gates hung open, though two sentries stood posted alongside them. The sentries’ tanned and weathered faces made it hard to guess their ages, but neither had gray hair. Their coats were sewn from thick goat hide that might have been dyed bright red at one time, but now had faded to dull russet. Their boots were stained and dusty.
They suffered in comparison to the sentries at the Lisam palace, who wore gold, ceremonial swords, and bright badges of rank. These two men gave Kahlil more of the impression of conscripted goat herders than of men in a dress guard.
But their smooth, gleaming rifles shone with the same meticulous care that other dress guards reserved for their buttons.
It wasn’t the uniform that made the soldier, he supposed.
“Lisam runner.” Kahlil held up Fensal’s soapstone seal.
The sentries examined the seal, looked him over, and told him he had to leave his bicycle at the gate. Then one of the sentries escorted him across the open stone courtyard and into the Glass Palace.
The first two floors of the palace weren’t built from panes of glass, but from heavy stone. The massive entry doors were solid, black iron. In any gaunsho’s palace such doors would have been a foolish extravagance. What iron they could bargain out of Jath’ibaye was always put to use for guns, engines, or new rails. It couldn’t be wasted just hanging around as entry doors.
Inside, the sentry handed him over to a muscular auburn-haired man. He looked about Alidas’ age, his crow’s feet and smile lines lending him an air of experience rather than decline. Unlike the sentries, he wore a new, well-tailored suit.
From his reddish hair and expensive clothes, Kahlil would have guessed that he came from a refined southern family. But his speech destroyed that impression. His words compacted and split in the unmistakable cadence of a northern peasant. Kahlil recognized the accent from countless exchanges with the refugees, thieves, beggars and whores of the west dock slums.
“I’m Saimura, Jath’ibaye’s steward.” The man paused, peering at Kahlil closely. “Have we met before?”
Uncertainty shivered through Kahlil. He didn’t really know the answer to that question, but he had no intention of saying so.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “We runners are all over the city. You may have seen me somewhere else.”
“True.” Saimura nodded. “So you have a delivery?”
Kahlil took the small box and letter out of his satchel and offered them to the steward. Saimura made no move to accept them.
“They’re unmarked,” Saimura commented.
“T
hey’re meant for Jath’ibaye, but I’m sure it would be fine for me to leave them in your care. You are his house steward, after all.” Kahlil gave his best smile.
“That’s very trusting of you.” Saimura returned his smile but without any enthusiasm. “But I’m afraid that Jath’ibaye insists on proper procedure. You can wait for him in the mist garden. It’s relaxing there, and you look quite tired.”
“Thank you,” Kahlil responded out of habit. He carefully tucked the box and letter back into his satchel and followed Saimura out of the entryway through a wide whitewashed hall.
The darkening rays of orange sunlight poured down from the glass roof two stories above, coloring the walls peach and gold. Kahlil paused and looked up at the sky. At the dull dark center, he could see the faint curve of the crescent moon shining above him like the ghost of a smile.
Saimura glanced back at him and Kahlil hurried to catch the steward. As he walked, he caught voices coming from other rooms. Most of them sounded like Saimura, poor and northern. None of the walls, floors, or ceilings were decorated. Over the doorways, there was only a hand-painted design of two leaves, one red and the other green. The emptiness bordered on monastic.
He didn’t know why, but the starkness of the surroundings evoked a weird nostalgia. Out of some forgotten habit, his right hand automatically folded into the Payshmura gesture of peace. When Kahlil noticed, he hid his hands in his coat pockets.
Saimura stopped in front of a door. It, like the others, was black iron, but it had been varnished far more heavily. Its surface gleamed in the fading sunlight.
Saimura asked, “Are you hungry?”
“A little, yes.”
“Runners always are.” With some effort, Saimura pulled the door open. “Go on in. I’ll have some food brought for you. It may be a long wait for Jath’ibaye.”
Beyond Saimura, Kahlil saw a profusion of greenery. Walls of ferns and wild ivy sprouted from massive planters lining a huge room whose floor was nothing more than a winding trail between raised beds teeming with lush foliage. He could barely discern the far wall between thick bodies of trees, whose branches reached up past his line of sight.
“There are some benches just down the path,” Saimura said.
Kahlil mumbled his thanks, still gaping at the foliage. It seemed like Jath’ibaye had captured a forest and put it inside this one huge room.
Why would anyone, even an Eastern sorcerer, want to keep the outdoors inside?
Rich, scented air rolled over him, bringing to mind the intoxicating air of Nayeshi. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath so saturated with life that he felt like it could sustain him for hours.
He opened his eyes and noticed Saimura grinning at him from the door.
“Breathe as much as you like. It’s free,” Saimura told him. Then he let the door drop closed. The latch slid into place with a heavy reverberation.
Locked in again. Or at least that was what Saimura had intended to do. Kahlil smirked at the thought of common doors and walls restraining him, but he remained. He certainly had no reason yet to disprove Saimura’s confidence in the building’s security.
He could escape through the Gray Space any time he wanted, but he chose to push ahead into this lush forest.
He headed deeper into the immense chamber.
Overhead open walkways arched from one side of the second story mezzanine to the other. A few lamps flickered up there, but otherwise only the last red and violet streaks of the sunset burned against the dark night sky. The white stone floor stood out against the surrounding black soil and deep shadowy foliage.
Kahlil found the stone bench Saimura had mentioned beside a mound of grayish goatweed, yellow bellflowers, and another scrubby plant he didn’t recognize. Two slim chains hung down from the ceiling, supporting unlit lanterns. Kahlil was glad that they weren’t burning. The evening darkness seemed to better suit both the surroundings and his mood.
He carefully avoided touching the goatweed, as he knew from experience that it gave him a rash, even if he couldn’t remember precisely what that experience had been. It struck him as an odd plant to choose to cultivate, though dimly he recalled that its musky leaves could be used to induce vomiting. The roots, however, contained a deadly poison.
More evidence that Jath’ibaye wasn’t exactly helpless.
He sat down to wait.
Somewhere, in one of the trees, birds called to one another.
Just ahead, there came a rustling of dark leaves, then a big yellow dog stepped out from between two bushes. Its hide was faded and graying, but its eyes gleamed clear gold. The dog met his gaze and Kahlil knew he had seen it before. He stared at the animal with the uneasy feeling of having slipped into a dream: a terribly wrong dream.
A dream in which this dog was his sister.
Her teeth had yellowed with age and her eyes gleamed wild gold. She told him that her true skin had been stripped from her bones and this hide was just a coat to keep her warm. She laughed and he could smell raw meat on her hot breath. Then her brilliant red blood was pouring over his hands.
He couldn’t stop staring at it.
After a moment, the dog dropped its gaze from him and rustled back through the undergrowth, disappearing out of sight and hearing.
He put his head in his hands. He had thought he had finally overcome this kind of insane reaction.
The dog was just a dog. The world was full of them. It didn’t mean anything. This one had probably escaped the kitchen kennel and was now wandering the household, lost. That was just what dogs did. He couldn’t let the sight of one animal throw his mind into disarray. Otherwise he would end up the same confused, deluded mess he had been before Alidas had found him.
He wished this place wasn’t so disconcertingly familiar. The leaf designs above the doors, the worn red uniforms, even the smell of the air, everything around him seemed like a fragment of one of his dreams suddenly made real. It awakened shattered bits of memories and nightmare images that he had thought forgotten.
His sister was not a dog. He felt absurd even having to tell himself as much. He didn’t even know if he had a sister. Family and history both fell into the realms of conjecture. He didn’t really know anything about himself.
But Jath’ibaye did. When Jath’ibaye had looked at him, his hard gaze had been bright with recognition. Last night, Kahlil hadn’t dared to stay and see what judgment would come after that first moment of contact. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Jath’ibaye’s expression—or about the certainty that had flooded him the instant he met the other man’s stare. They had known each other.
Had they been friends? Had they been enemies? Was Jath’ibaye, like Fikiri, another man who could claim the right to be called a Kahlil?
His gut roiled with a turmoil of questions, but for now he had to bide in patience. There was nothing to do but wait and hope Jath’ibaye would bring the answers.
About twenty minutes later a young, plump kitchen woman arrived. She lit the lantern above him and then gave him a tray of taye bread, goat cutlets and steamed blue leaf. Kahlil ate the food and recalled that the Lisam kitchen women had said that coarse, simple food was all that Jath’ibaye ever ate—the kind of thing peasants lived on because they had to. Kahlil couldn’t imagine anyone choosing this as their only sustenance. After he finished the meal, he pushed his dishes under the bench.
With every new detail Jath’ibaye seemed more and more strange and yet more familiar for his oddity. It felt right to Kahlil that Jath’ibaye should choose coarse food. He was suddenly sure that the man drank his daru’sira strong and bitter and that he licked his fingers when he ate pungent goat cheese.
High in the sky, he could see that dim stars had joined the sharp moon. He’d expected that with nightfall the air would grow chilly around him, but it remained warm and sweet. Who knew when Jath’ibaye would arrive? Maybe he wouldn’t, and the steward would take the packages after all.
Kahlil smirked at the thought. All this worry, a
ll his fear and hope, just to have the house steward hand him a sweetdrop candy for a tip and thank him for his trouble. That was how this would probably all end up. He guttered the lantern overhead and closed his eyes for a nap.
He didn’t sleep, but he stretched his legs out and let his arms lie limp across his stomach. He listened to the sounds around him. Somewhere far off two men talked in low voices, a strange collision of northern and southern dialects. The words were indistinguishable but the tones rolled over him with soft calm.
As the voices drew closer, Kahlil cracked an eye. On the walkway above him, a lamp gleamed. Two men walked close, but did not touch. He knew them at once: Ourath Lisam and Jath’ibaye.
“You seem distracted this evening.” Ourath’s voice was tinged with concern. Light from the perfume lamp he carried glowed over his brown velvet jacket.
“It’s nothing.” Jath’ibaye turned from the lamplight to survey the greenery beneath him. Though his long blonde hair was pulled back it still looked wild, as if it had been restrained in the midst of an escape. He wore clothes like those of his sentries: heavy and simple. But he carried no weapon that Kahlil could see.
“Winter seemed so long this year,” Ourath commented.
Jath’ibaye turned back to Ourath but said nothing. Despite his age—Kahlil knew he had to be fifty at the least, older most likely—he appeared as young as Ourath, more powerfully built and much fairer skinned, but still so young.
Though it struck Kahlil that he should not look so very pale. He seemed almost ill. Then Kahlil recalled the poisoning Fikiri had mentioned.
“It’s probably only a whim of the weather,” Ourath went on lightly. “I’m sure that it will be warm soon enough.”
When Jath’ibaye still made no reply, Ourath began toying with the handle of his perfume lamp. Steadily, he swung it from side to side, causing the chains holding the lamp to spin. The shadows surrounding him jumped and twisted into each other.