The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 11)

Sep 9

Sep 9 The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 11)

“Idol worshippers hold this Empire back. The Archon gave us a future, yet these fools continue to shackle themselves, and thus the rest of us, to the will of horrors from beyond reality. The flame of true civilization will gutter and die if we allow them to continue squandering its air.”

- Orxan Mansurov, Archonite Philosopher

The dead heat of mid-afternoon is thick upon Yanülevi when Kowsari and I arrive outside the Nikbin residence.

My stomach seethes. For once, it’s not just from Kowsari’s driving. I have enough of the Soul bottled up inside me to fill my entire body - and right now, every drop of that energy is crushed down into my stomach, ensuring the pressure won’t spread it to my extremities. It’s an extreme precaution, perhaps, but a necessary one. If the ifrit’s here, and if things turn violent, I won’t have time to siphon the Soul from the ground.

I’m sorely tempted to use that power the moment I clamber out of the auto. The inquisitor’s uniform that Kowsari acquired for me is heavy. I have the trench coat buttoned up, relying on the lamé lining to conceal the Soul within my stomach. The carmot gambeson under the coat is the only thing protecting me from heat stroke, and it adds even more weight. There’s also a hood of gold lamé tucked under my turban, trapping sweat against my scalp.

Kowsari slams the driver’s door. “Shall we?” she asks. From her blithe tone, one might think we’re just out for lunch. The only hint to her own anxiety is that, for once, her uniform is perfectly in order.

“It’s that compound there.” Out of habit, I switch my portmanteau bag from my right hand to my left before I point. The bag’s handle grinds against the ampule that I've tucked into the bandages on that hand. I quickly switch the bag back.

This neighborhood pretends to be more upscale than it truly is. Townhouses wrap around central courtyards to lend the illusion of upscale manses. Each unit within these compounds has a façade tiled in a different color; the Nikbin residence is a cool shade of cobalt blue with accents in jade and umber. While the air of wealth may be forced, I will say that the Nikbins maintain it better than their neighbors. Jasmine blooms in the flower box outside their sitting room window, and the brass nameplate beside their door has been meticulously polished.

Jannat herself opens the door when I knock. She’s a plump, round-faced girl with a complexion to match Kowsari’s. Her amber eyes widen as she recognizes us as inqusitors. The hand holding the door trembles.

A whiff of sulfur rolls off her.

Immediately, my heart is clashing in my ears. I was right. The ifirt has its claws in her.

I do my best to keep my voice calm and upbeat. “Salaam. Is your mother home?”

Not taking her eyes off us, Jannat calls out, “Mâdar! It’s the Inquisition!”

From deeper in the house, I hear the clatter of something being dropped, followed by the drumroll of feet rushing up stairs. Mrs. Nikbin hurries into view seconds later. She’s a middle-aged Kimian woman with lines of silver through her red hair. Greenish-black stains from alchemist’s goggles mark her cheekbones.

“Salaam, ma’am.” I touch my free hand to my heart and offer her a slight bow. “My name is Captain Mohsen Yavari. I am here on behalf of the Gatekeeper Directive of the Imperial Inquisition.”

Kowsari pipes up, “And I’m Major Aysa Kowsari, representing the Chapterhouse Inquisitors.”

“We’re very sorry to disturb your afternoon,” I continue, “but we believe you … and your daughter … may be immensely helpful to a pair of ongoing investigations. May we come in and discuss the matter?”

Mrs. Nikbin sweeps the door open all the way and warmly proclaims, “Of course! Please, come out of the heat! Jannat, show our guests to the sitting room.”

I inhale deeply once I’m over the threshold. The smell of sulfur isn’t any stronger, so it must be coming from Jannat alone. Either the ifrit’s not here, or it’s shapeshifed to keep a low profile. Truth willing, it's the former. This plan will fall apart very quickly if Mrs. Nikbin is actually the ifrit in disguise.

More haunting details in my surroundings catch my eye. A bronze-cast bust of a man with the head of a bull stands on the entryway table, and a print of The Sowing of the Spartoi hangs in the front hall. When we step into the sitting room, with its chintz armchairs and glass lamps, I find a gold plaque inscribed with the nineteen articles of the Imperial Code hanging in the nook where most people would tuck household shrines.

This might as well be my parent’s house.

No wonder the girl’s frightened. I doubt the ifrit had any trouble convincing her to keep its existence quiet. Revealing that she’d been called to serve the goddess Amāstrī would, at best, earn her parents’ silent disapproval and casual scorn.

I wish I’d been that lucky.

I suppress a shudder. Now isn’t the time to dwell on my past. Once I’m seated in an armchair, I offer Jannat a kind smile and make a point of admiring the view of the courtyard instead of staring at her.

Mrs. Nikbin bustles in with a silver tray, laden with cold glasses of sekanjabin and a whole tin’s worth of sohan. I politely take a long draught of the sweet-and-sour drink. The flavors of mint and honey steady my nerves.

“Now, how can we support the Archon’s most honorable servants today?” Mrs. Nikbin settles onto the room’s long sofa. When Jannat edges towards the door, Mrs. Nikbin gestures sharply, silently commanding the girl to sit on her left side.

“To start with,” I say, glancing meaningful at Jannat as I say this, “I just want to establish that neither one of you is a suspect in the matters we are about to discuss. The real reason Inquisitor Kowsari and I are here is due to your heritage. We are both searching for direct descendants of Kir Nikbin.”

Mrs. Nikbin’s face grows wary. “I assure you, Inquisitors, this household has no association with my ancestor’s abominable actions. We are loyal servants of the Archon.”

“I’m sure,” Kowsari says. “We only care about your bloodline. According to the Ministry of Heritage, yours is the only household in Yanülevi that can help us.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Nikbin sits up straighter. “Anything we can do to help.”

“The Archon appreciates your dedication. I believe we should discuss my business with you first, Mrs. Nikbin.” Kowsari gives me a sidelong look.

I dig a heavy ring box out of my portmanteau bag, gripping it delicately to avoid crushing the hidden ampule, and open it to reveal the binding ring. The stench is immediate and overwhelming. I force myself to keep breathing normally without drawing on the Soul.

Mrs. Nikbin’s expression is confused. For that matter, so is Jannat’s. Already, I can tell she doesn’t possess the Golden Veil. Otherwise, her eyes would be watering as much as mine right now. Her lips are moving ever so slightly.

Praying to the ifrit, perhaps?

“We recovered this ring from the residence of a suspected Code breaker,” Kowsari explains. “Our best sages conclude that it’s one of the ifrit binding rings that your ancestor forged. Heavily damaged, as you can see. We need the ifrit to present itself before an Inquisition tribunal to testify regarding any actions it was forced to perform, but the magic doesn’t appear to be working. Given that your ancestor created it, we hope you might be able to aid us in repairing it.”

The sulfur stench intensifies … and my heartrate slows.

The hunt is on. My prey approaches.

Kambūjiya, guard us.

Mrs. Nikbin’s eyes glitter as she answers Kowsari. “I won’t pretend to be an expert in such things, Inquisitor, but if I can aid in any way, I’ll do so gladly. Have the Inquisition already tried to install another Stone in the setting?”

“No yet. We want to full analyze our available options to avoid any accidents,” Kowsari answers.

A cloud of brimstone-scented cinders swirls behind the divan. From it emerges a two-meter-tall woman with the head of a golden-furred hyena. Were it not for the stench of ifrit magic, even I might mistake this creature for Amāstrī. The headscarf of gold lamé, the kaftan of carmine silk with a zardozi embroidery of golden hyenas, the golden fur on the hands and head and the goggle-like black markings around the eyes – other than the absence of Amāstrī’s falxes, no detail has been overlooked. Golden eyes glare at the ring over a black muzzle. Though ifrit’s back is to the window, its front is still brightly illuminated, as if bathed in sunlight from all sides.

Neither Kowsari nor Mrs. Nikbin register the ifrit’s arrival. I’m not surprised. The ifrit isn’t physically present. If it were, I’d be able to smell the burned-hair smell of flaming silk from its garments. What I’m seeing is just a projection so that it can observe the room and communicate with Jannat, while its body waits somewhere out of reach.

“I have a laboratory in the basement,” Mrs. Nikbin is saying. “If you’d like, I can begin a preliminary analysis right away. Of course, it’s humble compared to what you may have at your chapterhouse, but I can at least verify if there’s any inherent risk to removing the detritus of the previous Stone and installing a new one.”

Thank the Shepherd for small favors. I thought I’d need to explain the Golden Veil and convince Mrs. Nikbin to let me interview Jannat privately.

Kowsari seems to be of the same mind. “Wonderful. I hope you don’t mind if I supervise – chain of evidence needs to be maintained.” She delivers this with such sincerity that even I almost believe she cares about that.

“Yes, of course. Please, come this way.” Mrs. Nikbin springs from the sofa. She’s at the door before she remembers Jannat. Glancing back at the girl, she says, “Jannat, go –”

I clear my throat and close the ring box. “Actually, Mrs. Nikbin, I need to interview Jannat about a separate matter. It’s regarding something she may have seen during her recent … late-night excursion.”

From how Jannat cringes and Mrs. Nikbin’s expression darkens, the curfew breach is a sore subject in this house. “Jannat, give the inquisitor your full cooperation.” The warning in her tone is clear.

“Yes, Mâdar.” Jannat looks at the floor.

I pass Kowsari the ring box. She follows Mrs. Nikbin out the door, but at the threshold, she pauses to give Jannat a sympathetic smile. For the briefest moment, I imagine her gaze flickers to the ifrit, but with my eyes watering from its stench, I can’t be sure. Then Kowsari is going, leaving me along with the girl and the dæmon.

The ifrit bends close to Jannat’s ear. “My child, you failed me before, but today you shall succeed.”

My blood chills. The ifrit has copied Amāstrī’s voice perfectly : matronly, yet slightly coarse, like a middle-aged woman who spends too much time puffing on a medwakh. Behind the words is a resonance that reminds me of a brass gong. Longing stirs within me, some part of me recognizing a higher power that all mortals should aspire to emulate.

No wonder it seduced Jannat. I doubt even a cleric would know the difference.

“The ring is within reach,” the ifrit continues. “We can free my servant, here and now. Merely speak the prayer, and I shall destroy the ring and protect you from the Archon’s thugs.”

With that initial disquiet past, I notice the ifrit’s not whispering. The ifrit hasn’t realized yet that I’m aware of it. More importantly, neither the ifrit nor Jannat are watching my hands.

I don’t waste this second blessing. My right fingers scratch at the bandages on my leg hands, working the ampule free. I snap off the top as soon as it is exposed.

Jannat says something inaudible to the ifrit as I work. The ifrit’s voice grows unctuous as it responds, “Of course. I won’t risk any harm to your mother. I mean once they leave the house, and you and your mother are out of harm’s way, you must speak the prayer. I will take care of everything from there.”

I reach for Kowsari’s glass of sekanjabin, untouched on the tea tray. By grasping it from the top, I allow the sedative inside the ampule to drip down into the glass, while the back of my hand mostly blocks the ifrit’s view of the ripples. Some of the sedative soaks into my bandage, but Kowsari accounted for that when she chose this particular drug.

Barely has the ifrit finished speaking before I offer Jannat the glass. “Here. Inquisitor Kowsari doesn’t care much for sekanjabin. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

The gazes of both Jannat and the ifrit snap to me. “Play along, my dear child,” the ifrit hisses. “He will take any excuse to arrest you. Give him nothing to suspect your guilt.”

“It’s okay,” I tell Jannat. “I won’t bite.”

Jannat warily reaches for the glass. Her fingers tremble slightly when she takes it. I settle back into the chair and reach for my own glass.

“My compliments to your mother. She does a wonderful job mixing these,” I tell her.

The ifrit adds, “Give him nothing to suspect you – but don’t drop your guard.”

Jannat’s hands waver. I can only assume she’s wrestling with how she’s supposed to do that. She settles for drinking the whole glass in one go.

A third blessing. I won’t count on getting more. Mentally revising how long I have until she passes out, I speak in a gentle voice. “You’re not in any trouble, you know. There’s no need to be frightened.”

Jannat cradles the glass in her lap. “I know, Inquisitor. The Inquisition are the defenders of the Archon’s vision. You only punish evil, uncivilized people.”

“My parents drilled a similar mantra into me,” I comment. “What does that mean to you, though?”

“That …” Jannat hesitates.

Still watching me, the ifrit leans down to Jannat’s ear again. “Repeat after me. ‘It means that you punish people –”

“– who break the Code,” Jannat recites. “Like slavers, and people who try to build themselves up to be gods, or those who persecute dæmons.”

“What about people who worship anyone other than the Archon? Do we punish them?” I ask.

Jannat’s breath catches. The ifrit hesitates.

I lean forward. “The answer to that is, ‘No.’ The Archon guarantees us that freedom.”

Jannat whispers something. Judging by the annoyed look the ifrit throws her, it wasn’t a prayer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” I tell her.

“That’s … that’s just something he allows for now. We … we need to stop looking back at … idols.” Jannat’s eyes tear up slightly.

I shake my head. “My parents told me that, too. It’s not how things are, Jannat. It’s not how the Archon wants them to be. And that’s why I’m here. The Inquisition wants to work with you …” I let the sentence hang before finishing in a softer voice. “… and Amāstrī.”

Jannat’s eyes widen – in shock, not fear, or so I guess from the fact that she stiffens rather than shaking more violently. The ifrit’s mouth hangs open. I’d bet that, while it may understand enough about Amāstrī and daeva hunters to pull off this ruse, its knowledge predates the Manifestation Register.

“Yes – we’re aware that you’ve been chosen by her,” I continue. “And we’re aware that Amāstrī is responsible for the unfortunate incident with Consul Shapiev. There’s no need to be frightened, though. This case is open and shut. Shapiev was in violation of the Imperial Code by keeping an ifrit as a slave. We can’t take her to trial for that now, but once we get witnesses to testify to that fact, we can ensure that this whole incident gets swept under the rug. Inquisitor Kowsari is fixing the ring so that we can bring the ifrit in for questioning. As for me, I’m tasked with getting testimony from you and from Amāstrī. If you help us, we’ll be able to finish what Amāstrī started. We’ll be able to ensure the ifrit is freed.” My delivery is rushed, but I’m on the clock now. Already, Jannat looks far too relaxed.

“I … I can’t,” Jannat murmurs.

“Why?”

“I don’t want … If my mâdar …”

“She doesn’t need to know. We can make an excuse for you to come to the chapterhouse with us. You summon Amāstrī, we take statements from both of you, and then we deliver you safely home. We can even let Amāstrī destroy the ring, while we’re there.”

Jannat starts to wobble, and her speech slurs. “Do yoush … promush?”

The ifrit’s daylight glow fads. The dæmon stiffens, and its eyes dart towards Jannat’s empty glass, but there’s nothing it can do now. The sedative is already in Jannat’s system.

I tell Jannat, “I promise. And while we’ll there, you and I can talk more about your parents. You don’t need to be an Archonite to be a good –”

The empty glass slips from Jannat’s hands, and she tips towards the table.

I spring forward. The glass hits the floor, but I reach across and catch Jannat before Jannat slams her forehead on the table’s edge. A firm push sends her flopping sideways onto the sofa. I walk around the table and make her comfortable.

The ifrit’s glare burns into me the whole while.

Without Jannat’s conscious desire, the ifrit’s divine disguise deteriorates. The gold threads in the zardozi and the headscarf degrade into cooper; the kaftan fades from carmine to burgundy; the fur turns brown. The markings around the ifrit’s eyes blur, quickly becoming less like an alchemist’s googles and more like the masks I’ve seen in barbarian theater productions. Even the embroidered hyenas of the zardozi design unravel to the point that they look more like hippos.

Truth willing, the rest of its magic will be weakened, too.

I return to my chair and finishing my sekanjabin. Only once the glass has been drained do I look the ifrit in the eye. “Well? You’ve heard my offer. What do you say?”