4: Witches' Blood (15 page)

“I heard you two talk about going to Nayeshi together,” Fikiri said.

“And?” John asked. Dread gripped him as he remembered that Fikiri had called Ravishan a pervert. They had been careful but there had still been moments when Ravishan had pressed a hand against his. There had been small gestures, brief overtures. How much had Fikiri seen and how much had he understood?

“And I want to go too,” Fikiri demanded.

“What? No!” Ravishan snapped.

“If you don’t take me and my mother with you, I’ll tell Dayyid everything.” Fikiri looked at John. “I’ll tell him about the night you two spent in the hostel. I’ll tell him what you did in the morning.”

“You’ll die before you can say a word!” Ravishan started forward again but John caught him by the shoulders.

“Calm down,” John said softly.

“I’m not going to let this piece of snot blackmail me,” Ravishan growled.

“You’re not going to kill him,” John said flatly.

“I can beat him till his tongue falls out,” Ravishan countered.

“Just calm down,” John told him. “Beating up Fikiri certainly won’t make Dayyid less suspicious.”

Ravishan stepped back again and turned away from Fikiri.

“All right,” Ravishan said. John could see the muscles in his jaw working.

John turned back to Fikiri. “So you and Lady Bousim want to go to Nayeshi?”

“We’re going to live there with Loshai,” Fikiri said firmly.

“With my sister?” John asked. “Why do you think she’d be going?”

“Because I’ve watched her.” Fikiri’s pale face flushed slightly. “I’ve listened to her and Behr when they thought they were alone.”

“Now who’s the pervert?” Ravishan demanded.

“At least I didn’t have my head shaved for whoring with a goat herder,” Fikiri spat back.

Ravishan glared at Fikiri. “If Jahn wasn’t here, you would have my blade through your throat, Fikiri.”

“Well, he is here,” Fikiri answered. “So just shut up.”

John caught Fikiri’s jaw in his hand and turned his face so that they were staring directly at each other. He leaned a little closer to Fikiri.

“Don’t push your luck,” John said slowly. “And don’t insult Ravishan.”

Fikiri blanched. John continued, “What are you going to do if we don’t agree to take you with us?”

“Then I’ll tell Dayyid everything.” Fikiri lifted his chin slightly.

“Tell him,” Ravishan said suddenly. “He can’t afford to kill me now. I’m his Kahlil and he knows it.”

“Maybe, but we all know he’s dying to beat the life out of Ushvun Jahn,” Fikiri replied.

A look of horror washed over Ravishan. Then his eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight into a battle stance. His right hand flexed and John could almost feel him summoning the force to create a Silence Knife. John thought he might really kill Fikiri.

“So you’ll be coming with us,” John said quickly. “You and your mother.”

There was no point in arguing. He had to tell Fikiri what he wanted to hear, even if it might not turn out to be true.

“I want your word,” Fikiri said.

“What?” John asked.

“I want your word that you’ll take us,” Fikiri repeated.

“All right.” John agreed. “I promise that we will take you and your mother to Nayeshi when we go.”

“Ravishan has to promise as well,” Fikiri added.

“You have my word.” Ravishan’s voice sounded flat but his expression was filled with contempt.

“It’s your own fault,” Fikiri snapped at Ravishan. “If you weren’t a disgusting pervert, there wouldn’t be anything for me to tell Dayyid. But you—”

“Fikiri,” John cut him off. “You’ve gotten what you want, so don’t keep goading Ravishan into murdering you.”

Fikiri bowed his head and glowered down at his scraped hands.

“You should go,” John told him. “Now.”

Fikiri stood and started for the door. Ravishan watched him with narrowed eyes. John could see his hands shaking with suppressed fury.

John almost swore when Fikiri stopped at the door. Why couldn’t he just stop baiting Ravishan and get out? But this time he focused his attention on John.

“How did you pull me out of the Gray Space?” Fikiri demanded.

“I don’t think knowing how is as important as remembering that I can,” John replied. “Don’t spy on us again.”

A look of genuine fear crossed over Fikiri’s face. He left quickly then.

John sat down on the corner of the bed. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, massaging the beginning of a headache away.

“You should have let me kill him in the Gray Space,” Ravishan said.

“Would you really have done it?”

“What he said about Dayyid beating you to death is true. I think I’d kill anyone before I’d let that happen.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen,” John assured him. “So let’s just put the murder plans aside for the moment.”

Ravishan nodded. He glanced down at the floor, looking almost lost. “I should probably clean this water up before Hann’yu gets here.”

“I was about to do that,” John said.

Ravishan had already reached the shelves. He found one of the rags and tossed it down over the small spill. John watched the water soak into the cloth. He felt tired and a little sick.

“How did you pull him out, Jahn?” Ravishan whispered.

“I don’t know. I just did it.”

“You have witches’ blood, don’t you?” Ravishan asked.

“Maybe, I don’t know. No one does things like this in Nayeshi. No one walks into thin air or has witch blood or god’s bones. We’re just people.”

“You’re not a Kahlil?” Ravishan asked.

“No.” John almost laughed at the thought of it. “No. We don’t have Kahlil’im in Nayeshi. You know that.”

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, be sure. I’m not a Kahlil or a witch or an ushiri. I’m just a person.”

“You’re something.” Ravishan smiled and stepped closer. John caught the flirtatious curve of his smile. It hardly began before Ravishan stopped himself. He stepped back from John and turned to stare out the window. John understood. Who knew if Fikiri was the only spy that Dayyid would send out? They couldn’t afford even the slightest overture of affection now.

“I should go,” Ravishan said.

John simply nodded.

“Be careful,” John told him as he opened the red door.

“You as well.” Ravishan gave him a smile and then left.

By the time Hann’yu arrived, John had thrown out the water, put away the bowl, and begun the tedious work of grinding down the dried herbs that would be needed for poultices. The smell of earthy roots hung in the air, but it couldn’t mask the odor of burnt ozone.

Hann’yu sniffed and pulled a sour face. “Fikiri?” he guessed.

“Ravishan,” John said.

“He normally doesn’t leave such a strong smell.” Hann’yu contemplated the snow falling outside the window, then opened the window anyway. Icy, fresh air rushed in.

“We were practicing with the currents,” John said. “I think he got a little frustrated.”

“Did he make any progress?”

“He did, actually.”

“Good,” Hann’yu said. Then he looked John over. “But you look dead on your feet.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” He hadn’t been sleeping well for months. More and more the image of the issusha’im’s bones infiltrated his rest. The hollow, black chasms of their eyes stared, unblinking, into his sleep. Even in his most mundane dreams he thought he heard them whispering after him. Lately, it seemed to be growing worse.

“I suppose Ravishan woke you before the first bell?”

“He’s dedicated,” John replied.

Hann’yu studied the dried roots as John ground them in the mortar.

“If so much didn’t depend on him, I would say that he was too dedicated.” Hann’yu went to one of his shelves and opened a jar of desiccated leaves. He dropped two of the leaves into the mortar and then put the jar away.

“Yellowpetal leaves,” Hann’yu explained. “They dull pain somewhat.”

John ground them in with the knotted pine root. Hann’yu would use it as an antiseptic later.

“Did you get anything to eat?” Hann’yu asked. He walked back to the window and closed it.

“Cold taye and goat milk,” John said.

“Sounds awful.”

John didn’t think it was any worse than some servings of oatmeal he’d eaten. Hann’yu wouldn’t have understood that response. “It could have been worse.”

“Yes, most things could be,” Hann’yu said. “But it’s a sad consolation to have to take, you know.”

“I know.” John smiled.

“Would you like a nap?” Hann’yu offered.

“I’d love one, but—”

“Go on.” Hann’yu waved him towards one of the beds. “You’re no use as you are now.”

“No use?” John couldn’t help the tone of protest in his voice. He’d been working all morning.

“Oh, you can work well enough,” Hann’yu replied, “but you’re a terrible conversation partner when you’re tired.”

“I see.” John set the mortar aside. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Hann’yu told him. “Take a nap. I need someone who can appreciate my gossip like second wife.”

“You don’t have a first wife,” John said.

“We can all dream,” Hann’yu responded. “Especially you. Go to bed and dream me up a wife. A pretty wife.”

“I make no guarantees.” John wasn’t sure how well he would sleep, but his body hungered for rest. He lay down and closed his eyes. Hann’yu spread a blanket over him.

“Give her red hair and big breasts. Maybe a full, pouting mouth like the women from the Anyyid lands,” Hann’yu said.

“I think you’re going to have to come up with her for yourself,” John mumbled. He heard Hann’yu drawing the canvas curtains closed around the bed but didn’t bother to open his eyes.

“I have,” Hann’yu replied softly, “many times over. I’ve just gotten lazy. I’m hoping you’ll do the work for me.”

 
“You don’t want me to. I’ll get her all wrong.” John yawned. “You’ll end up married to a sheep. Something with a giant udder.”

“A giant udder. Really?” Hann’yu asked. “Perhaps you shouldn’t tell me anymore about your dreams.”

“My dreams.” John’s words came out in a groggy murmur. “Hardly.” Moments later he was asleep.

Dark insentience coiled around him and yet at the edges of his senses he felt as though he was still awake, watching as Hann’yu separated leaves and dried flowers for teas. He heard the hard snap of boot heels outside the door and knew immediately that Dayyid stood there.

Dayyid knocked and Hann’yu called him in.

“Is he here with Ushvun Jahn again?” Dayyid asked.

“Who?” Hann’yu didn’t look up from his herb table.

“Ravishan.” Dayyid scanned the infirmary, seeming disappointed with its emptiness. For a moment a small pile of dull green leaves and white flowers bore the brunt of his disapproving expression. Then he looked to Hann’yu.

“No, they’ve finished their practices. Ravishan has gone to the golden chamber, I imagine, and Jahn is sleeping.” Hann’yu glanced to the curtained bed. It gave John an odd feeling of vertigo to take in the space where he knew his own body lay in a deep sleep.

“In the middle of the day?” Dayyid frowned at the canvas panels.

“He was up early training with Ravishan.” Hann’yu looked up at Dayyid. “Did you know that he goes down to the kitchen after the eighth bell and helps the ushvun’im bake for the next day? He hardly sleeps at all.”

“How could he, when he’s so busy doing every job that isn’t his to do?” Dayyid responded.

Hann’yu sighed. “You sound jealous, Dayyid. I can see why you would be. The ushiri’im practice with him and Ravishan follows him around like a milk-pup. It leaves you out. But it’s unbecoming to succumb to such a petty feeling.”

“I’m not jealous,” Dayyid replied coolly. “If he improves the ushiri’im, then I’m glad for it.”

“You don’t seem glad for it,” Hann’yu replied. He stood and picked out another jar. A dark golden fluid swirled in it. “But perhaps I’m misinterpreting your glares, scowls, and threats.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Is there anyone you do trust?” Hann’yu searched his shelves. At last he found two small clay cups. He set them down on the herb table.

John would have liked to have heard the answer to Hann’yu’s question but Dayyid offered none. He stood in silence and watched as Hann’yu filled the two cups with golden liquid. It poured like honey. Hann’yu pushed one of the cups to Dayyid and took the other for himself.

“Fathi?” Dayyid raised a dark brow.

“The drink of divine truth and joy,” Hann’yu confirmed. “It suits our conversation, don’t you think?”

Dayyid eyed the small cup as if it were a trap of some kind.

“He hides things,” Dayyid suddenly stated. “When I placed the curse blade before him he felt its power, and yet he didn’t choose it.”