The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 10)
“It is a gross injustice that divs are stereotyped as malicious savages. Many among my students place the blame on the Empire’s close ties with Parīstān, saying we have inherited a barbarian prejudice. Sadly, the truth is far more tragic than that. The only divs who come to the Empire are outcasts, driven from their tribes for ambition, cruelty, and general sociopathy. They are the origin of this stigma. When monsters are all you meet, monsters are all you’ll believe to exist.”
- Doctor Ibn Al-Razi, Professor of Dæmonology at the Imperial University of Kadmía
Peynirci’s bodyguards thunder their battle cries and barrel across the office, their movements seeming languid to my Soul-enhanced reflexes. My gaze traces their tusks and their long fingernails. Every horror story I’ve ever heard about divs flashes before me.
These creatures are not human. There will be no restraint, no quarter given, and no thought to the fundamental value of Kowsari’s life or mine. Lethal force is more than justified - it’s necessary.
And yet …
I can’t ignore the glow of the binding collars around their throats. They have no say in this fight. If I knew they were serving Peynirci willingly, it might be another matter, but I don’t.
Kambūjiya only smites the guilty.
For his sake, I need to keep my claws in.
The first div comes within reach, swinging a massive hand at my head.
I dart forward. Bones crunch as my forearm block smashes into his wrist. The div recoils, his roar becoming a howl, hand flopping limply as he jerks back. Another step, and my uppercut impacts his chin with a loud thunk. The div’s head snaps back, raising his tusks and exposing his neck – or, rather, the glow of binding collar.
Before I can seize the collar, a meaty fist enters my peripheral vision. I whirl towards the second div. His fist clips my right temple as I jerk my head out of the way. My skull quakes from the glancing blow.
I reward the div’s accuracy by ramming a fist into his solar plexus. He grunts and reels back. I then flow into a punch to his face, pulling it just enough for him to see it coming. He responds by whipping his face back and forth, using his tusks to fend me off.
This takes his eyes off me.
I go low. Punches hammer into his stomach and ribs with a manticore’s ferocity. The div flails his arms in a blind effort to block me, but I slip through every opening, and when he slows his thrashing enough to get an eye on me, I feint at his face or chin to force him to blind himself again. My onslaught drives him back against the hypnotic painting. A few punches later, and the first of his ribs finally cracks.
Heavy footfalls alert me. I sweep sideways to find the first div has recovered … and drawn a katar from inside his suit.
It’s a perfectly mundane katar. No magical glow emanates from the blade. In fact, other than being scaled up to match the div’s bulk, making it more a short sword than a dagger, its only remarkable quality is the fragile layer of gold gilding dusted onto the blade.
My blood runs cold. Kambūjiya, protect me.
The div roars and charges, punching the katar ahead of him. I dive under the blow and roll halfway across the office floor. The div’s momentum carries him into the wall and drives the katar through the hypnotic painting.
I spring back to my feet. As the first div rips the katar back out of the wall, I check on Kowsari. She’s behind Peynirci’s desk now, wresting with him for control of a shotgun. Where that came from, I haven’t the faintest idea. It must have been under Peynirci’s desk the whole time.
The first div turns. His haphazard blow sheared most of the gilding off the katar, but it’s still a very sharp steel blade without any magic for the Soul to repel. The second div fumbles to draw his own katar, struggling against his broken ribs.
I rush the second div.
The first div waits until the last moment before lunging. Perhaps he means to spear me with the katar the instant I commit to punching his companion. As it is, I check my feint two steps before I hit that mark. The katar barrels through the space I would have occupied like a locomotive through a railroad crossing.
Two strikes derail that locomotive.
My right palm slams into his exposed elbow; my left fist finds his ribs. The katar veers left, towards the second div. It finds the wall instead of flesh - Black Hand speeds me up, but it can’t overwrite momentum - but what matters most is that the first div staggers into the second. They both roar as their respective injuries are crushed between them.
And, in that moment, the back of the first div’s neck is exposed.
I spring upon him. My fingers dig into the glowing bulge of the binding collar, finding the unyielding hardness of silver through the thin linen.
Kambūjiya, grant me your wrath.
Ethereal lightning sparks from my fingers. Kambūjiya’s power surges into the collar, and sparks - hot, physical sparks - burned through the div’s shirt. He roars and heaves off his companion, thrashing and spinning, causing my toes to drag along the floor as I swing with him. I gnash my teeth against the molten pain.
There’s a cascade of metallic popping sounds, and the topaz glow of the collar goes dark.
The div drops to his knees and paws at his throat. I let go and stagger back. That familiar lethargy crashes over me.
Meaty hands seize me from behind and heave me off the floor. My connection to the Soul breaks. I barely hold onto the power inside me as I’m raised towards the ceiling.
A heartbeat later, I’m airborne, hurling towards the wall of shelves.
Unyielding wood greets me. Glass shatters. I tumble to the floor in a shimmering, jagged hail, where another harsh impact welcomes me. Shards bite into my hands when I push myself up.
The second div steps over his gasping, liberated companion. He’s given up on drawing his katar, thank Truth, but now he prowls forward with his arms spread and head lowered to gore me.
My heart sinks. There’s no getting to this one’s collar, not in the shape I’m in now.
I’m sorry, Kambūjiya. I concentrate as much of the Soul as I can into my fingers, curling them for a throat strike. Shepherd, make my claws as diamond.
My fingers stiffen as the Soul obliges me. Through the Veil, I see a diamond digit materialize on my right hand. Claws shimmer on all my fingertips, twinkling cruelly as I settle into a fighting stance.
The div snarls and springs forward.
Bang.
The shotgun blast makes me jump. Teal blood sprays from the div’s right side, right where his broken rib is. He bellows and stumbles, clamping his hands over the wound as he whirls towards Peynirci’s desk.
I dodge – lurch, really – around the div’s left side. My claws rake down the side of his neck. The blow gouges dangerously deep furrows into his flesh, but then I catch the collar. There’s a shriek as diamond-hard points cleave through metal.
The div collapses to the floor, mewling and clutching his side.
I release my grip on the Soul. Immediately, a wave of Ead magic rushes into my nose. Gagging, I fumble out a prayer, pulling back enough of the Soul for me to breathe normally.
Kowsari is suddenly grasping my elbow. Smoke curls from the barrel of the shotgun in her other hand. “You certainly know how to give a lady a good show,” she declares. “Come on.”
I try to look back and check what state she left Peynirci in, but she guides me out of the office too quickly. We find ourselves facing an audience. The entire Lotus den has stopped their various debaucheries to stare towards the office door. Kowsari deals with them by firing the shotgun at the chandelier.
“On the floor! Now!” she bellows.
The patrons dive beneath tables or into the curtained alcoves.
Kowsari leads the way across the floor, turning slowly as she walks to cover the entire room. I trail after her to the lift and ring the bell for her. Once the lift car sinks into view, Kowsari takes her eyes off the den and aims the shotgun through the lift gate.
“Take us out now, darling,” she growls at the attendant.
The bouncer on the ground floor is dispatched just as easily. As soon as we arrive, I drag the gate open. Kowsari springs through and rams the shotgun’s butt into the waiting bouncer’s stomach, followed by his face. He, too, goes down with a broken nose.
By this point, I’ve recovered enough to keep up with Kowsari. We jog down the carpeted hallway and through a door to a more spartan staff corridor. A few more doors bring us to a back alleyway.
Kowsari doesn’t slow down until we reach a well-lit side street where the silver sedan was parked. Emre naps in the back seat, with his cap pulled over his eyes. Kowsari whistles as we draw near. In a flash, Emre is on his feet, saluting us and opening the door.
“Welcome back, Major, Captain. Successful evening?” he chirps.
Kowsari glances at me. “You did say we got what we needed, right?”
I shakily nod.
“Good.” Kowsari slips into the rear bench first. “Take us home, Private – his place.”
* * * * *
Emre doesn’t take us out of the enclave through the main gate. Instead, he drives us through darker and seedier streets to one of the enclave’s side entrances. It’s a smooth drive back to my apartment from there – so smooth, in fact, that Kowsari is able to extract the glass from my hands and bind them by tearing my handkerchief in half. I’m too tired to object.
I expect Kowsari to speed off with Emre once I get out of the sedan. Instead, she joins me on the sidewalk. “Thank you, Private. I won’t be needing you further,” she tells Emre. “I’ll be sure to tell your prelate how helpful you were tonight.”
“Thank you, Major.” Grinning, Emre vaults back into the auto and speeds off into the night.
Kowsari turns to me. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in for a nightcap?”
I beckon her into my building’s courtyard. Thankfully, I’m on the ground floor. Kowsari takes the liberty of unlocking my door for me using her skeleton key.
“You couldn’t bring a gun, but you remembered that thing?” I grouse.
“Oh, hush. Everything worked out fine.” Kowsari pushes open my door and flounces inside. “Hmm. I expected … more.”
“More?” I kick off my shoes and stagger to my kitchen. Burned out as I am, I barely noticed the twang in the Soul when I turn on my carmot stove.
“I’ve seen what you put in your safe. I assumed you’d be burning offerings to every yazata on the Register.”
I fill a kettle from the sink and set it on the stove. Then I stagger back out and sink into one of the chairs as my tiny dining table. “There’s a first aid kit in the closet, if you don’t mind.”
Kowsari goes to fetch it. While she does that, I glance at my household shrine, which is what I assume she was commenting upon. It’s standard for a Kimian shrine: a gold brazier in the middle of burning prayer scrolls, a statuette of the Shepherd of Dust on the right, and space for any vassal yazatas the family worships on the left. For me, that’s only Kambūjiya. Unlike with Amāstrī, his statue is up-to-date. The body of a lion with shaggy fur, the head of an ape, and a thick tail studded with rush-shaped spikes are all exactly as I remember them. His visage scowls at me – but, then again, he’s always scowling. It’s hard to do otherwise when you have the teeth of a shark.
I dip my head towards him. Thank you for bringing us through that safely.
Kowsari returns with the tin that holds my first-aid kit. Taking the table’s only remaining chair, she unties my torn handkerchief from my hands. I grimace as she dabs alcohol on my cuts.
“So – what did you figure out?” she asks.
“Amāstrī was never involved in this assassination. It’s been the ifrit, this whole time.”
Kowsari pulls a roll of linen bandages from the tin. “So it did get hold of a Philosopher’s Stone?”
“Not a Stone – Nikbin’s blood. His living blood,” I clarify. “It’s managed to get its claws into Jannat Nikbin.”
Kowsari’s gaze grows distant as she wraps my left hand. “How’s that possible? Even if Jannat is a direct descendant of Kir Nikbin, his being a mad prophet shouldn’t pass down to her. My great-grandmother was a high cleric of the Shepherd. I doubt you could tell that from my blood.”
“Nikbin might not have been entirely human.”
Kowsari snorts. “Careful. The Archon’s issued a pretty firm ruling on him not being a yazata.”
“The word ‘yazata’ wasn’t always exclusive to the gods. It applied to any divine essence that operated within the will of Truth. There was a time when it could even be used to describe mortal souls. It wasn’t until the Archon introduced us to the concept of ‘dæmons’ that we started divorcing the divine from the mortal.” I present my right hand. Once Kowsari starts wrapping it, I continue, “And the fact remains that no one’s ever been able to create more Philosopher’s Stones using Nikbin’s method, despite him leaving detailed notes about his process. Him possessing some unique dæmon bloodline could have been the deciding factor. It’d be watered down by now, of course, but if any being could coax the latent power out, it would be an ifrit.”
The kettle whistles. When I start to rise, Kowsari stops me with an upraised hand before taking care of it herself. When she reappears, she declares, “Why appear as Amāstrī, though?”
“Prayer will satisfy an ifrit just as effectively as a wish.” I flex my hands, testing the stiffness of the bandages. Making a fist is challenging, but I can at least curl my fingers into claws. “Masquerading as a known goddess and answering a few small prayers would secure a child’s devotion. From there, it wouldn’t be hard to coax her into praying for specific things.”
“Like Shapiev’s death?”
“Or the destruction of the ring. I suspect that’s what it was truly after. Ifrit’s aren’t omniscient, so if it didn’t know about Shapiev’s safe, it would be natural to assume she was keeping the ring on her.”
Kowsari shrugs. “Well, I’ve run with weaker theories.”
She disappears back into the kitchen. Cups clatter, and then she emerges with a laden tea tray. She places it on the table and spooned ground tea leaves into my cup for me.
“You’ve done well, Yavari,” she adds. “Thank you.”
I frown at the note of finality in her tone. “You’re … welcome?”
“I’ll take things from here. The Nikbin residence will be raided first thing in the morning. We’ll take Jannat into protective custody – convince her to wish the ifrit into surrendering, while we’re at it.” Kowsari pours from the kettle onto the leaves, sending up fragrant steam.
“You do realize that it won’t end there, don’t you?” I ask quietly.
“Obviously. By your own reckoning, Jannat aided and abetted the assassination – potentially even ordered it.” Kowsari sits down without pouring a cup for herself. “It’s not your problem. If no yazata was involved, it’s not Register business. She’s not one of your kids”
“By my ‘own reckoning’, she might as well have been. She thought she was serving a yazata.”
Kowsari sighs. “Why should that matter? The law doesn’t make exceptions for those who think they’re serving Truth. And since Shapiev was drugged into accepting and tampering with the ring, there’s no scandal to be buried. That just leaves a murderous dæmon and the pawn who helped it. Not even I can convince the Parīstānis to back down from prosecuting a situation this straightforward.”
“If it was Fayyaz’s daughter, you’d be singing a different tune.”
I hoped the accusation would give her pause. Instead, Kowsari casually spoons tea leaves into her own cup. “I’m at peace with my priorities, Yavari. You can’t shame me with them.”
My hands curl as tight as my bandages allow. Aahil’s words prickle at me. “A man cannot serve both the Archon and Truth.”
“You owe me,” I say.
“Because you may have helped me find the ifrit?” Steam rises from Kowsari’s cup as she pours. “That’s not how this works, Yavari.”
“I could have gone after Fayyaz’s daughter at any point in the past few days. I still could.”
The apartment chills, and Kowsari’s eyes narrow. “I strongly suggest that you don’t.”
I uncurl my fingers, spreading both palms wide in a gesture of peace. “That’s not a threat, Kowsari. It’s a promise. I’ve left her alone, haven’t I? I had no way of knowing that she wasn’t the hunter involved here, nor that this wasn’t really a case of Amāstrī dispatching one of Nikbin’s ifrits. But I still did what you asked. There was no evidence to lead me to her, so I’ve left her alone. And I intend to continue to leave her alone.”
“Only until the evidence leads to her, right?”
“No. I saw the information you scrubbed from Ms. Fayyaz’s file. The girl’s father is a Code breaker, isn’t he? That’s why you don’t want the Inquisition to know about her. You know that, if the Inquisition identifies her, she’ll be deemed too dangerous to continue operating. I’ll be ordered to make her … undesirable to Amāstrī. I’m not about to do that.”
Kowsari’s lip, which had been curling in scorn, instead quivers slightly by the time I finish. She takes a deep breath, and her walls come up again. “What’s your point?”
“There’s a way to deal with this threat without exposing the people we need to protect,” I insist. “You’ve been adamant about that from the start. If we can spare Fayyaz’s daughter, we can protect Jannat, too.”
“This is a little more severe than allowing a daeva hunter to operate without interference. If you’re right, then this ifrit has already committed one murder. What’s to stop it from goading Jannat into another wish that kills many, many more people? What’s to stop it from using her to start an entire cult? It needs to be exiled or executed before that happens.”
“I’m not suggesting that we not intervene. I’m saying that the truth about the ifrit’s role in the assassination needs to be kept between us. If you can do that, I’ll consider us even.”
Kowsari sips her tea. “I admire your confidence, Yavari. Truly, I do. However, keeping the secret doesn’t solve the problem. We still need a plan to deal with the ifrit – preferably one involving a lot of storm troopers.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve been working on a plan since we left the enclave. We won’t even need storm troopers for it.” It’s more like a spark or inspiration than a plan, but Truth willing, it will be enough to get Kowari on board.
A ghost of a smile flickers across Kowsari’s face. Maybe she knows I don’t have anything concrete. Still, she doesn’t call me out, simply saying, “Go on. Walk me through it. I’ll let you know where it’s lacking.”
I take a deep breath, both to clear my head and to buy myself a little more time. “To start with … you’ll need to fill out a few requisition forms.”
Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 11 releases September 9th!
Now that they understand the nature of the ifrit threat, Mohsen and Kowsari put their plan into motion. Can they bring this dæmon to justice without forfeiting the life of a child?
I hope to see you all then!