6: Broken Fortress (11 page)

“Obviously,” Kahlil agreed.
 

Standing together like this, bickering without any real anger, it was easy to forget that they were not lovers. It was even harder to remember that they never had been. He knew the heat of John’s naked skin against his own body. He knew the feel of his lips and the taste of his sweat. Kahlil’s skin warmed at the memory.

He had to stop thinking of making love with Jath’ibaye or he would never make it though this conversation.

To distract himself Kahlil made a study of the jungle of terrariums filling the shelves along the walls. The flash of a yellow moth’s wings momentarily caught his attention. He watched the small insect flit from one white bell-like flower to another. He wondered what Jath’ibaye would tell him if he asked about this creature.
 

Probably too much. He always concerned himself about such small things. Microscopic things. Ever since he’d been a little boy.

Kahlil said, “If you won’t take care of yourself for your own sake, you ought to do it for the population living here in Vundomu.”
 

“I can’t possibly look that bad.” Jath’ibaye finally took off his coat. He tossed it across one of the chairs. “I might smell that bad but—”
 

“The people here look to you for their protection,” Kahlil said. “They don’t want to see you looking haggard and filthy when they’re facing the threat of a war.”

“You realize you’re advocating for the same people who just tried to sacrifice you to the Bousim house?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“They’re just scared,” Kahlil replied. “And they don’t know me. As far as they were concerned, I was a Bousim spy who went against his own masters. Why not sacrifice me to save their own people?”
 

“Maybe that was what they were thinking,” Jath’ibaye said. He frowned at the table. “But if it’s Hirran we’re talking about, then the whole thing probably just struck her as an opportunity to reopen trade negotiations.”

At the time of the meeting, Kahlil hadn’t gotten much of an impression of Hirran. She had been pretty and soft spoken. But Kahlil trusted Jath’ibaye’s opinion. Oddly, Jath’ibaye seemed to sense that and he shook his head.

“I shouldn’t say that. Hirran’s a good girl, when it comes right down to it. She’s just very driven, very focused on building relations with the gaun’im.”
 

“A war might make that difficult.”

“It might, but I’d bet my teeth that if anyone could come up with a way to trade with the gaun’im while fighting them it would be Hirran.” Despite his disapproving words, affection carried through Jath’ibaye’s tone.

 
Kahlil pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He had to shift a little to accommodate the length of the yasi’halaun.

Jath’ibaye dropped back into the chair opposite him. Against the dark red upholstery Jath’ibaye’s skin looked deathly pale and the shadows beneath his eyes appeared almost blue. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“I know the people here count on me,” Jath’ibaye said.

Studying him, Kahlil thought that perhaps too many people counted on Jath’ibaye for too much. He turned rivers, defeated hungry bones. He represented them in Nurjima and protected their lands. He was their first defense as well as their last hope. It was too much to expect of one man, no matter how powerful he was. Kahlil knew from his own experience how crushing such responsibility could be.

 
“Well, you’re no good to anyone like this.” Kahlil caught hold of Jath’ibaye’s hand. His skin was warm and dry. “You need to have a bath and get some sleep.”

“I should go down to the forges—” Jath’ibaye murmured but Kahlil cut him off.

“Is your bath on the left? Mine is. The layout of our apartments seems pretty similar.”

“They’re identical,” Jath’ibaye said.

“Let’s go then.”
 

“Fine,” Jath’ibaye said at last. He stood and allowed Kahlil to pull him into the tiled bathroom. The tub was much larger than the one in Kahlil’s rooms, apparently specially made to accommodate Jath’ibaye’s long limbs.

Kahlil pumped the first rush of cold water down the drain and then closed the trap to catch the hot water that followed. Wisps of steam curled up to fog the mirror mounted on the wall.
 

“You’d better get in while it’s still hot,” Kahlil told Jath’ibaye.

Jath’ibaye began, clumsily, to undress. Kahlil stepped out of the room but didn’t close the door. He heard Jath’ibaye’s filthy clothes fall heavily to the floor. Then came the quiet whisper of the water breaking as Jath’ibaye eased himself into the tub.
 

Kahlil went to the table and dragged one of the chairs over and sat with his back to the bathroom door to give Jath’ibaye his privacy.

Kahlil gazed again at the huge glass case in front of him. A thick vine twined its woody stem between the planes of glass, using them to support its canopy of green and gold leaves. Tiny red mushrooms and velvety green moss covered the soil.

“So, why all the plants?” Kahlil called back to Jath’ibaye.

“What do you mean?” Jath’ibaye countered. Kahlil could hear him unscrewing a soap tin.

“You’ve got this huge collection. What’s it for?” Kahlil asked.

“Does it have to be for something?”
 

“They don’t have to be for anything, but knowing you, they are.”

Jath’ibaye gave a soft, low laugh. Kahlil smiled to himself.

“So?” Kahlil prompted.

“Just a minute. I have to rinse my hair.”
 

Kahlil waited, rocking his chair back against the wall, while Jath’ibaye dunked his head under the water.

 
“I’m trying to rebuild the natural diversity of these lands,” Jath’ibaye said at last. “Every time the Payshmura opened the Great Gates it placed an incredible strain on the land. The soil weakened; the air lost much of its nitrogen and oxygen content. The plants and animals that I’ve been gathering were all once native to this area. I’m trying to reintroduce them.”
 

“I didn’t know that the Great Gates damaged the lands,” Kahlil remarked.

“When they’re opened, living force drains from Basawar to Nayeshi. The Eastern sorceresses knew about it, but they couldn’t convince the Payshmura to destroy the gates.”

“Really?”
 

“I don’t think the Payshmura widely publicized their dissent. But even when I first arrived I felt something was wrong with the land. It felt weak, almost sick. I had no idea why, of course.” The water sloshed as Jath’ibaye rose from the tub. “Ji told me about the rest.”

Kahlil glanced back, catching a glimpse of Jath’ibaye’s naked body. He was as strong and lean as Kahlil remembered. Tiny rivulets of water traced the curves of his muscles. The fine blond hairs on his chest, arms, and legs glistened with droplets of water. He reached for a towel.
 

Kahlil whipped his eyes back around to the front.
 

“So where did you find them, the plants, I mean? If there weren’t any left here?” Kahlil asked, though he was only half prepared to listen to Jath’ibaye’s reply. The image of Jath’ibaye’s body still played through his mind.

“Some are common, just growing farther south. Others, like the moonvines, were propagated from one sickly plant that managed to survive at the edge of its natural range.” Jath’ibaye’s voice was slightly muffled as he toweled his hair. “I think a few species might have survived on some of the islands, east of the great rift, but so much has become extinct.”
 

Jath’ibaye came to the door. He’d wrapped the towel around his hips. His skin was still pink from the heat of the bath.

“Sometimes when I’m looking through the old bestiaries and botanical books this sense of loss overwhelms me…”
 

“You do what you can with what remains.” Kahlil wasn’t sure if he was talking about his own life or Basawar’s mass extinctions. “It’s a beautiful plant. I’m glad you could save it.”

“So am I.” Jath’ibaye crouched down beside Kahlil’s chair. He pointed to the tiny red mushrooms dotting the soil in the glass case in front of them. “Before we discovered that mushroom we couldn’t get any of the moonvine’s seeds to germinate. But once we brought the two together they started sprouting right and left. And not just moonvine, frond trees as well.”

“Because of the mycorrhizae?”
 

Jath’ibaye smiled, beautifully. “Yes. I’m amazed you remembered.”

“I’m a little amazed myself,” Kahlil admitted. The scent of soap lingered on Jath’ibaye’s skin. Already, his hair was beginning to curl into disordered locks.

“What we see above the ground are just the mushrooms’ fruiting bodies. Many of them only fruit every ten or twenty years. The rest of the time they lead existences that are invisible to us, but they are integral to entire forests.” Jath’ibaye gazed at the glossy red mushrooms almost affectionately. “Sometimes they remind me of you.”

“Mushrooms?” Kahlil laughed.
 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Jath’ibaye protested.

“I know,” Kahlil said. “You’re probably the only man who would compare me to a fungus and mean it as a compliment.”
 

“It’s just the hidden nature of what you both do.” A hint of red crept up Jath’ibaye’s face. “I shouldn’t be trying to talk. Everything is coming out wrong.”

“Sleep might help that problem,” Kahlil suggested.

“I know. I should just go to bed.” Jath’ibaye stood as if to bid him good night and see him out but then hesitated at Kahlil’s side. He said, “If you aren’t too tired, I would like to show you one last thing.”

“I’m not the one who’s asleep on his feet,” Kahlil replied. “Sure. Show me what you’ve got.”

Jath’ibaye gave a short laugh at that and then shook his head before Kahlil could ask why. He said, “Come back to my bedroom and have a look.”
 

 
As Kahlil followed Jath’ibaye into his bedroom, his heartbeat quickened irrationally.

Here too, the several Wardian cases and glass terrariums brimming with lush botanical specimens lent the cold stone walls the illusion of summer. Earthy scents permeated the atmosphere. Worn leather tomes littered the few shelves not overflowing with vegetation. A wooden writing desk and chair stood beside a larger table—the top of which appeared to be entirely engulfed by mosses and ground covers. It took Kahlil a moment to notice Jath’ibaye’s simple bed and dresser pushed back into a far corner, as if they were necessary inconveniences.
 

Jath’ibaye went to one of the large terrariums that filled his deep windowsill. Kahlil followed, though he paused as he took in the display of mosses, stones and tiny flowers that dominated Jath’ibaye’s table.
 

It was a scale model, Kahlil realized. He easily recognized the mountains surrounding Vundomu, though they were carved from black granite. He followed the stream of blue quartz pebbles that represented the Samsira River down through the emerald, moss-covered hills and valleys to Nurjima. Farther south, the rolling hills of the Du’yura lands flattened into the fields of tiny white flowers and the clover meadows of the Lisam lands. At every point where a major city, town or fortress would have stood, clusters of polished stones gleamed.
 

 
Kahlil frowned at the fine white sand that covered the northern tip of the display. Kahlil recalled Fikiri speaking of stones
that Jath’ibaye used as wards.

“What is this?” Kahlil asked.

“A model,” Jath’ibaye replied without much interest. “The soil and stones are linked to the real lands. Ji built it to keep track of things outside of Vundomu. I just use it to grow varieties of winter moss.”

A dim red light flickered through the blue quartz of the Samsira River. Very slowly it moved northward towards Vundomu.

“You can see the gaun’im’s forces approaching with this, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Jath’ibaye said. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you right this moment. Will you come over here?” Jath’ibaye beckoned Kahlil to where he stood.

Reluctantly, Kahlil left the model to join Jath’ibaye beside a terrarium filled with low-growing plants. Splashes of scarlet colored the dark green leaves and red runners spread from one plant to another. A few had produced small white flowers, while others sheltered dark red fruit beneath their leaves.

“Are these Nayeshi strawberries?” Kahlil asked in amazement.
 

Jath’ibaye nodded. “
Fragaria ananassa.
I think they crossed to Basawar with me. I had all kinds of seeds and pollens on me and in my pack.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how these, out of everything, survived, but they did. I came across them in the Iron Heights three years ago. Would you like one?”

Kahlil nodded.

Jath’ibaye lifted the lid of one of the glass cases, picked several plump red berries, and then closed the case again. The sweet fragrance of the berries floated in the air. Jath’ibaye carefully placed the strawberries in Kahlil’s cupped hand.
 

“Don’t you want any?”