The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 1)

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with an urgent news bulletin. Consul Fazu Shapiev was murdered this past hour in the Zenit District. The Security Corps reports that she was being driven home from the Parīstāni Consulate when her automobile was reduced to molten slag by unknown magical actors. All citizens are obligated to share any relevant information about this crime with the Security Corps.”

- Emergency broadcast by the Imperial Radio Service

Someone’s looting my office.

The Inquisition chapterhouse is never truly empty, not even at this predawn hour, yet the intruder makes no effort to conceal her presence. She left the door ajar and switched on my lamp, allowing yellow light to spill into the dim basement hallway. The true omen of calamity is the aroma of lavender wafting over the threshold. Only Aysa Kowsari would be so brazen as to light incense while stealing from fellow Inquisition personnel. If I had a radio in there, she’d be playing a drama, too.

Bracing myself for the headache ahead of me, I elbow the door open all the way. “Sobh bekheir, Inquisitor,” I grunt. “Please, do help yourself.”

Kowsari bends over the top drawer of my filing cabinet. Rather than return my greeting, she asks, “What is it with men and not organizing things?”

I check the tower safe in the corner of my office. Sure enough, Kowsari’s broken into that as well. I do a quick inventory my arsenal of religious paraphernalia. The beads, amulets, totems, reliquaries, candles, veils, and prayer shawls are all accounted for. However, as I count the vials of blood and bone fragments, one stands out. It’s the same size and shape as the other vials, but it contains only a clean strip of linen.

“Give me back Kir Nikbin’s blood,” I demand.

Kowsari still doesn’t look up. “Tell me how anyone’s supposed to find anyone in here.”

“It’s organized by Citizen Identification Number.” I extend my hand. “The blood.”

With a put-upon sigh, Kowsari fishes through the pocket of her leather trench coat and produces the stolen vial. The scrap of linen inside has yellowed with age, yet the crimson dot upon that cloth looks as fresh as when it had dripped from the prophet’s veins. Kowsari rolls the vial between her fingers as she assures me, “I’m only borrowing it for Archon and Empire.”

“Then fill out a requisition form.” I snatch the vial from her hand and restore it to the safe, making a mental note to change the combination. Kowsari will eventually break in again, but I can at least buy time to lodge a formal complaint. “If that’s too hard, come to me, and I’ll fill it out for you. That’s what I do for the other children.”

Kowsari snorts and tosses her silky auburn hair over her shoulder. “Do I look like a child to you, Yavari?”

If physical appearance were the only metric, the answer would be a firm, “No.” Like me, Kowsari’s in her early thirties, and she wears it well. Apparently, her flawless jasper complexion is the current standard that Kimian women strive for. However, her uniform tells another story. Her headscarf’s missing. The carmot gambeson she wears under the trench coat hangs open, as if she only bothers with magical body armor because it also keeps the wearer cool. At least the blouse under the gambeson matches the gold lamé lining of the trench coat, but that just proves she cares more about personal aesthetics than professional appearance.

The Imperial Inquisition should reflect the best of the Kimian Empire. We’re supposed to guard against social degeneration and moral decay, to ensure that the Archon’s vision of civilization is never lost in the chaos of daily life. Inquisitors are meant to be the face of that mission. Kowsari instead looks like bored actor in a costume – and not a good one. I’ve seen more convincing inquisitors portrayed in school theaters.

Kowsari scowls. “It’s polite to at least answer the question, you know.”

“It’s also polite not to break into other people’s offices. Now, which of my kids are you after?”

“Your kids?” Kowsari arches a brow. “You run a watchlist, not a youth program.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. As if she needs to remind me. It’s taken me six years to restructure the Manifestation Register into just being a watchlist. “Just give me a name, please. It doesn’t have to be the child’s. If you know which yazata the child serves, I can comb through the Register and pull some files for you.”

“As it happens, I’m not after anyone. I came for Nikbin’s blood, then got curious about how many children are on the Register. Since you insist on a form … well. I guess I’ll have to go acquire one.” She saunters out of the office.

I can’t have thwarted her this easily.

This prickling hunch has me scanning the office, trying to figure out what else Kowsari may have touched. It takes me longer than I’m willing to admit. Eventually, I realize she’s stolen the bottommost file from the stack on my desk.

Kowsari is nearly to the lift when I chase her down. “Are you investigating the Shapiev assassination?” I demand.

She snorts. “Didn’t you hear? There’s nothing that puts it in our jurisdiction. The Security Corps have full control.”

“Then there’s nothing in that file that interests you. Trust me. I worked late last night, going over it with a fine-toothed comb.”

“Have you?” Kowsari delivers this in a blithe tone, but I don’t miss the slight widening of her eyes.

Is it that strange that I’d read a witness statement that was put on my desk? Especially one that’s relevant to the Register?

Pondering those questions won’t do me any good. It’s not like Kowsari will answer them. With a sigh, I say, “Look – I don’t need the file at this point. Let’s just sign for change of custody, and you can do whatever you want with it.”

“I don’t have a pen on me.” Kowsari brushes past me. “I’ll borrow one from your office.”

We stride back up the hallway. Kowsari enters first. Rather than reach for the jar of the pens on my desk, she drapes herself over my chair. I take that as a hint to close the door.

“Do you really take this witness seriously?” Kowsari reaches into the largest of her coat’s inner pockets and extracts the stolen file. “He could have been hallucinating from hashish or opium.”

“Half of my job is following up on ‘hallucinations’ from Mutual Surveillance tip-offs. I can tell the difference.” Taking the file from her, I peruse its pages. Nothing is missing.

“Really? Anymore can claim that they saw a god kill Shapiev. Amāstrī shows up in a lot of statues and paintings, so it’s not hard to get her likeness right. Plus, aren’t there a lot of stories about Amāstrī smiting the wicked by entombing them in molten rock? There wouldn’t even need to be drugs involved. Seems like anyone who witnessed the assassination could imagine her involvement as a coping mechanism.”

I hold the file open for her. “Look here. See this line?”

Kowsari squints at it. “Her kaftan has some zardozi embroidery. So?”

“So that’s not something people would know from looking at religious artwork or reading the myths. The form that Amāstrī favors when she physically manifests has evolved over time. Yes, she always appears as a hyena-headed woman, and yes, she’s always dressed as an alchemist, but the little details evolve with the times, and religious artwork is a few centuries behind the curve. Zardozi’s been around for less than a hundred years. The only people who know Amāstrī applies zardozi to her clothes, let alone the pattern she prefers, are people who genuinely have seen her in person … well, them, plus anyone who reads reports like these.” I settle onto the aluminum stool that I usually offer to guests.

“Still seems like a massive stretch,” Kowsari says.

Her commentary’s starting to irk me, so I explain in plain terms. “Stretch or not, I must investigate. Divine intervention needs to be monitored and recorded. So, yes, if a man says he saw a yazata kill Shapiev, I need to figure out which child helped her to assume physical form and channeled the power needed for her to do the deed.”

Kowsari goes silent for several long seconds. “Have you considered what happens if one of ‘your’ kids was involved? Or even just a child who’s not already on the Register. You go out there, you identify who helped Amāstrī commit this crime, and you file an official report saying that this child is the reason Shapiev is dead. What do you think happens next?”

“Nothing’s going to happen. What would be the point? Yazatas don’t intervene in the world unless it’s to counter a threat to the cosmic order. They’re opposing objective evil. Last I checked, the Archon ruled that the Inquisition should let them go about that. Shapiev’s death was, at best, a tragic and unavoidable sacrifice for the cause of absolute good. Blame falls on the daeva who forced Amāstrī to step in, not on Amāstrī herself.”

“Yavari, we’re talking about the death of a diplomat, not some barbarian tourist or the owner of a Lotus den. It doesn’t matter if Shapiev worshipped the daevas. We can’t just write her death off.” Kowsari leans towards me and lowers her voice. “The Parīstānis want someone to be stoned for this. You and I both know it won’t be the god.”

“Well, the Inquisition won’t go public about gods literally walking among us, so it’s not going to be the daeva hunter who helped her, either,” I point out.

“Are you sure? What happens when Security runs out of leads and asks us for help? What happens when you’re ordered to hand over your findings? Security don’t need to believe that ‘Amāstrī’ was the goddess herself. All they need to understand is that the girl who helped her is an accessory. That’s all they’ll need to hand her over as a scapegoat.”

I hesitate. “Security’s too proud to ever admit they need our help.”

“Can you guarantee that?” Kowsari presses. “Because if not, the best thing you can do for this girl is to forget you ever saw this statement.”

Truth, Kowsari has a point. I didn’t reformat the Register to punish the children on it. Life is full of opportunities to suffer and be martyred in the name of the yazatas; there’s no need to enforce that reality before they’re adults. The yazatas clearly agree. The overwhelming majority of daeva hunters are retired before they turn seventeen, while their souls are still pure enough to channel divine power without lasting consequence.

This hunter could easily be ten years old. Can I really risk her life and freedom? She probably had no idea what Amāstrī was leading her into. Maybe it’s better to just let Kowsari take the file and –

“And yet you want the file,” I growl. “Why?”

“Vacation reading,” Kowsari declares.

“Vacation … what?”

“Reading. I’m overdue for some leave, and I need something to entertain me while I’m out of the office.” Kowsari brushes back a lock of her hair, as if to call attention to her missing headscarf.

No – not the headscarf. She’s pointing out that she’s not wearing her confidant’s cap, the communications and monitoring device that inquisitors and storm troopers wear in the field. She must have orders to investigate the assassination quietly. In fairness to her, she’s the perfect woman for the job. Her maverick streak gives the Inquisition plausible deniability if she gets caught.

“How’s what you do on ‘vacation’ any different from what I’m going to do?” I ask.

Kowsari’s smile becomes patronizing, as if she thinks it’s impressive that I can read between two widely-spaced lines. “I don’t care about who killed Shapiev. I care about why. And the why might just convince the Parīstānis to forget this assassination ever happened.”

“And when that’s done … what will you do for the daeva hunter?”

“I’ll leave her –”

“Not to her. For her.” I point at my filing cabinet. “I don’t just monitor those children to keep records of divine intervention. Nor do I do it to make sure they grow up loyal to Archon and Empire.”

“You mean, you don’t do your actual job?” Kowsari jibes.

I talk over her. “Serving the yazatas takes a toll, one for which there’s no support network. I can’t leave this girl to bear that burden alone.”

It’s hard to read Kowsari’s grimace. “You’re not going to let this go?”

“By all means – make this problem go away. But I’m finding this girl and helping her. Either she’s one of mine, and she’s waiting for me to contact her, or she’s not, in which case she needs someone to offer a helping hand.”

“Hmmm …” Kowsari’s face brightens. “Then, since I’m on leave, I’ll tag along and observe you in action.”

“Absolutely not,” I declare.

“But it’s perfect. Even if Security notices us, they’re not going to think that what you’re doing steps on their toes. They’ll probably write you off as another quack feeding off the Inquisition’s generosity. I’ll be unnoticed. And I’m sure my skills would be invaluable to you.”

“In the process, you’ll break several laws, and then I’ll get heaped with the blame and paperwork. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen what’s happened to other people who agree to let you work with them. You do realize that I’m not exactly popular around here, don’t you? That I’m only holding onto the Register because my record is clean?”

“That’s probably because you burn enough incense to smoke out an entire temple,” Kowsari says. “You know that dried flowers work just as well, right?”

I again jab my finger at the filing cabinet. “I am their only advocate within the Inquisition. If I risk my position, it hurts them. Whoever it is that Amāstrī pulled into this mess, she deserves better than you making her situation worse.”

I only meant to convey that I wasn’t in the mood for games. What I didn’t expect was Kowsari recoiling, as if I’d slapped her across the face. Her mouth hangs open. I can’t tell if she’s going to cry or scream at me.

Then, just as quickly, her walls are up again, along with her casual indifference. “Ooo, fine. I have a personal stake in this. I wasn’t going to bring it up, but if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll tell you.”

She’s just going to lie. After that display of vulnerability, though, I’m too unsettled to say anything except, “I’m all ears.”

“When I was sixteen, I had my own brush with Amāstrī. I wasn’t a daeva hunter,” Kowsari clarifies when I opened my mouth. “I was just unlucky enough to be in the same place as a daeva. Amāstrī saved me. Now, I couldn’t tell you whether this was really Amāstrī, but if it was, I feel I owe her. Helping one of her hunters allows me to pay off that debt.”

Kowsari sounds sincere. That didn’t make her story true, but I’m convinced that this is indeed personal for her. A theory blossoms in my mind.

She’s hiding a hunter from the Register.

It’s only a theory. If I’m to take the matter upstairs, I’ll need more than that. The best I can do for now is to play along. Keeping Kowsari in view is safer than letting her make a mess behind my back. Besides, if that display of vulnerability is any indication, she’s close enough to this to make mistakes. She might give me more to work with if I wait.

I sigh. “We’ll collaborate. But if you’re serious about taking a vacation, you will follow my lead. No attempting to pull rank on me. I’m not going to stop you from wandering off to follow a lead that goes beyond Register business, but for any matter pertaining to the Register itself, you can’t step on my toes. Agreed?”

“Of course.” Kowsari beams – the direst omen yet. “I’m looking forward to watching you work.”