And then, just a little west of the Seven Palaces, there was Jath’ibaye’s Glass Palace. It wasn’t a single structure so much as several strung together by covered walkways. Many of the buildings looked like the gray brick barracks that Kahlil was familiar with. They wouldn’t have been out of place in the Bousim military compound where he had been living. But there were other buildings that Kahlil could hardly believe existed in Basawar.
They flashed and glittered in the light. The walls and ceilings were made of thousands of panes of glass and the barest metal supports. They seemed almost made of nothing and too fragile to believe. He could see directly inside. The dark green forms of trees and plants filled every space.
Why build houses of something so delicate as glass? Why house trees indoors? Kahlil felt an intense urge to go there. He lifted his hand, touching the edges of the Gray Space. It would be easy to let himself in, but he wasn’t his own man yet. The Lisam Palace was where he was meant to be. He dropped his hand back into his pocket and continued down the hill. Soon enough he would travel wherever he wished.
•••
Two weeks later, Kahlil thought that he might end up going everywhere in the entire city before the month was out. During the course of his work as a Lisam runner, he had already navigated most of the streets and alleys of the wealthy North Shore, Silver Row and Five Fountains Districts. He had delivered notes, cakes, hats and velvet coats. Today, a cage of small white birds with vivid red beaks was tied into the basket of his bicycle.
The battered bicycle that he had been issued made a series of almost human moans as he pedaled it up the steep incline of Bakers’ Hill. The birds chirped in response to each groan and
squeak.
Suddenly ahead of him a form rocketed up over the top of the hill. A spindly black silhouette of limbs and wheels arced up against the pale afternoon sky and then plunged downward.
“Lisam runner! Out of my way!” the young man shouted from his bicycle.
The runner came barreling down the hill, so fast that his taupe uniform became a mere blur. Kahlil just barely caught a glance of his flushed face and brown hair.
Kahlil swung out of the way of his fellow runner. The birds in his basket shrieked and fluttered their clipped wings wildly. Kahlil heard the other runner’s laughter rising up from behind him.
It had to have been Fensal. Kahlil had seen him launch himself and his bicycle across gaps and down staircases. The sight was always accompanied by Fensal’s weird laughter. It sounded half like happiness and half like a scream. A few times the laugh had been followed by a genuine scream and a crash. But Fensal always got back up and continued on his way.
Kahlil glanced back in time to witness Fensal zip in front of the Golden Trolley and swerve down another of Nurjima’s steep hills. Doubtless, the wives and daughters of the gaun’im
in the trolley had been horrified. Letters would probably be written to the city’s two respectable papers.
“Once again the Lisam runners prove themselves a menace,” Kahlil murmured to himself. Fensal would cut out the article and post it in their barracks.
“Kyle!” A woman up ahead flagged him down. Yu’mir had been the first person to befriend him in the Lisam household. She didn’t stand out, particularly dressed in the tawny uniform of a Lisam runner. Her dark skin, brown eyes, and brown hair all seemed to melt into the dull umber of her wool coat. She had a plain face and unremarkable body that made her easy to mistake for other people and hard to pick out in a crowd. If Kahlil hadn’t known she was a grown woman, he too might have mistaken her for a boy. Especially dressed in boy’s clothes as she was today.
“Vuran Yu’mir.” Kahlil greeted her formally with a slight bow of his head. “What are you doing out alone and dressed as a runner?”
“House Steward Desh’oun sent me. There weren’t any men free to escort me, so he thought that I would be safest if I dressed as a boy.” Yu’mir frowned down at her oversized pants. “I was lying in wait for Fensal and for you as well.”
“Fensal and me?” Kahlil asked. “Why?”
“All the runners are being called back.” Yu’mir glanced down at the basket of his bicycle. The little birds chirped at her and held open their mouths, expecting bits of seed bread.
“They’re really noisy,” Yu’mir commented.
“They’re hungry.” He dug a few crumbs out of his coat pocket and tossed them into the cage. The birds quieted immediately and flitted to the floor of their cage to peck up as many crumbs as they could. “Why have we been called back?”
“Jath’ibaye.” Yu’mir lowered her voice. “His ship was seen coming down the river past the west pier. He should be arriving at his Glass Palace any time now.”
“He was supposed to still be three days away.” Kahlil couldn’t imagine how an entire ship could have moved ahead that quickly.
“Someone made a mistake somewhere up the river,” Yu’mir said. “They were following the wrong ship. That, or Jath’ibaye switched ships in one of those little river towns. I’m sure someone’s going to lose his skin for it.”
“So, now what?” Kahlil was asking himself as much as Yu’mir. He hadn’t had time enough to get to know all the Lisam house staff, much less guess who might be the assassin in their midst.
“Now the entire household’s up in arms. There are invitations that haven’t even been written that will have to be delivered and gifts that haven’t been picked up. Everyone’s got new rush jobs.”
Kahlil continued up the hill, walking his bicycle so that Yu’mir could keep up with him.
“I’ll return to the house as soon as I’ve delivered these birds,” Kahlil said. With all the new work he wondered how easily he could slip away. He wanted to do an advance survey of Jath’ibaye’s security, if possible.
“How much farther do you need to take them?” Yu’mir asked.
“The birds? Just over the hill,” Kahlil replied. “How are you getting back to the house?”
“That ass Fensal was supposed to give me a ride, but he refused. He said it would dishonor my womanhood.” Yu’mir scowled. “Does he think I can just get on the trolley like some nobleman’s wife? And I’m dressed like this. The door guard will throw me on my ass.”
“I’ll take you back.”
“Thanks.” Yu’mir smiled at him.
Kahlil was about to say something more to her, but they had reached the top of the hill and the shine of the river far below caught Kahlil’s attention.
Dozens of ships and fishing boats lined the river piers. Anonymous vessels that he had never taken much note of came and went. Now each seemed fascinating. Any one of them could be carrying Jath’ibaye. Any one of them carried the potential to alter his life forever. Just watching them, Kahlil could feel his heart begin to race. His last job had finally begun.
The Lisam Palace was vast and grand, but also cluttered by an overabundance of images of long-horned bulls, the Lisam emblem.
Kahlil doubted that anyone other than the Lisam noblemen and their breeders had ever seen one of the rare beasts alive. But certainly everyone in the Lisam Palace saw them in every other condition. They charged and menaced as statues; they glared out from shields and paintings. Bulls were carved into the furniture and over the doors. They reared up from the geysers in the courtyard fountains and stood on the gaunsho’s table, cast in small butter molds and carved in ice. They were even stitched onto the shoulders of Kahlil’s uniform.
After leaving Yu’mir near the servant’s quarters, Kahlil made for the kitchen’s backdoor. Inside, several women cooks stood glowering at a line drawing of one of the animals. Desh’oun, the house steward of the Lisam Palace, held the picture out in one bony hand and pointed to various areas of the bull’s anatomy with the other.
The air of the kitchen was thick with the smell of roasting dog meat. A skinned dog carcass lay on the long wooden table. Carved bones had been tied to the dead animal’s head and goat hooves had been sewn to the stumps where its paws would have once been. It didn’t really look like a bull calf, but it at least gave that impression.
Wooden bowls of stuffing lay beside the carcass and the older gray-haired woman held a clay salt jar in her arms.
“It is a bull. It must have them.” Desh’oun tapped the picture for emphasis.
“Can’t we make this one a girl?” the youngest of the cooking women asked. Kahlil couldn’t remember her name, but she was pretty with reddish hair and a wild pattern of freckles that spilled across her cheeks. The other two women’s fingers were tattoed with marriage bands but hers were still bare.
“There are no girls,” Desh’oun snapped. “They are only males.”
“Then how do they breed?” the freckled woman asked. Her two companions lowered their faces to hide their smirks.
Desh’oun’s usual tolerance had obviously been worn out. With an expression of pure anger he lifted his hand as if he would strike the woman. Instantly, all three of the cooking women cowered back. Kahlil started forward but Desh’oun dropped his hand down to his side. He drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
“You will prepare the roast exactly as it is shown here.” He smacked the picture down onto the long wooden table. “And if you do not, I will personally come into your rooms while you sleep and butcher you like bitches for the gaunsho’s breakfast.”
All three women nodded and returned to the wooden table. They didn’t look up or speak a word between them until Desh’oun had turned and left.
It wasn’t like Desh’oun to threaten his staff for such a small joke. Doubtless, Jath’ibaye’s early arrival had not only thrown all of the gaunsho’s plans into disarray but also ruined all of Desh’oun’s careful arrangements.
The smell of sweets and meat rolled over Kahlil and the scent reminded him
of somewhere he had once been. The pungent oil and warm bread seemed to tug at a distinct memory. Kahlil closed his eyes, letting it come as it would.
There surfaced an image of brilliant yellow fried eggs, stacks of pancakes, and maple syrup. Also the voice of a man he liked and a pair of shoes that looked like golden altars.
“You, runner.” One of the women’s voices broke into Kahlil’s thoughts. He opened his eyes and saw that all three of the cooking women were staring at him.
“What are you doing?” the freckled woman demanded.
“I was waiting for Desh’oun to leave.” Kahlil stepped forward into the light. “I didn’t want to catch his attention.”
“That’s wise enough. He’s fit to swallow a live weasel,” the freckled woman commented. She shoved a fistful of stuffing into the dog’s gaping abdomen.
“He was almost fit to swallow you,” the older, gray-haired woman said to the freckled woman.
The freckled woman’s expression grew sulky. Kahlil recalled that Desh’oun usually was rather friendly with her.
“It’s probably because of Jath’ibaye’s early arrival.” Kahlil wandered closer. Behind the women, he spied wire racks piled with cooling pies and custards. These shared space with steaming loaves of bread and something nearly black that he didn’t recognize. It all smelled good.
He’d been running emergency messages and dropping off parcels since noon without any break. The sky outside the kitchen windows was turning dull and dark. Spatters of black mud stippled his taupe pants.
“Don’t even think of it,” the black-haired woman said, catching the direction of Kahlil’s longing gaze.
“You look as sad as a roast pup.” The black-haired woman laughed.
“Shall we put you out of your misery and into the oven?” the freckled woman asked. “No, you look too stringy to eat.”
Kahlil said, “I’d say Fensal is your man. He’s got the right meat for a bull calf.”
All three women snickered and Kahlil took a step toward the table. There was a little dish of pitted cherries only two handlengths from him.
“So, who’s the roast for?” Kahlil indicated the dog carcass on the table, taking a casual half step closer to the bowl of cherries.
“You’d think it was for Parfir himself—” The gray-haired woman went instantly silent as she realized what she had said.
Since the destruction of the Payshmura, the name of Parfir was rarely called. His statues had been torn down, his worship outlawed by the Gaunsho’im Council. He was too dangerous of a god. Now, only old men and women ever slipped up and spoke of him or of his destructive incarnation, the Rifter.
“You think it will be for Jath’ibaye?” Kahlil went on as if he hadn’t heard her and all three of the women seemed relieved.
“No,” the black-haired woman answered, “Jath’ibaye wouldn’t come here the first night he’s arrived. Even if he did, he can’t appreciate the refinement of meat this tender. He eats like all those northern peasants: goat and wild taye.”
“Stringy things like you,” the freckled woman teased him.
“Even he’d choke on the aroma of me right now.” Kahlil shifted so that he was leaning against the edge of the table. The side of his right hand brushed the cool surface of the cherry dish. He continued, “So, can you tell who will be visiting the house just from what was told to the cook?”
“Of course. Desh’oun may not say who it’s to be served to, but when he tells us how it’s to be made, we know,” the old gray-haired woman said. “This dog will be for Gaunsho Lisam himself. Cherry stuffing is always for him.”