The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 12)
“Regardless of whether one believes that Philosopher’s Stones come from the blood of gods, there is an otherness to them that I can only describe as ‘divine.’ One doesn’t unlock divinity by chasing selfish ends. That’s the true reason that the Inquisition has tried to erase Kir Nikbin from history. He was fueled by hatred of the Archon, yet he still managed to synthesize new Stones. He showed us all that destroying the Empire is an inherently selfless goal.”
- Doctor Berrak Adaçayi, Eshayer Ead alchemist (Commentary from personal correspondence, archived by the Kadmía Chapter of the Imperial Inquisition)
A wave of heat crackles over me as the ifrit’s eyes narrow. Brimstone cinders swirl around it. Judging by the stench of scorched silk, it has just shifted its physical body into the room.
“I was wondering if that theater was for my benefit,” the ifrit growls. Despite its deteriorated appearance, it still sounds like Amāstrī.
“The offer’s genuine,” I insist.
“Even so, I decline.”
I grimace. “Please reconsider. Surrendering yourself is what’s best for everyone, even you.”
“Oh?” The ifrit stalks around the divan. “I fail to see what I have to gain.”
“The Inquisition knows that you murdered Shapiev. We merely wish to avoid the messy complications of trial and punishment. In exchange for your cooperation, you get a blank slate. You can go free, to live your life beyond the Empire.”
The ifrit stares at me intently. Perhaps it’s trying to read my thoughts and determine if my offer is a trap. With my skull sheathed in gold lamé, my memories are beyond its reach. My desires are another matter, but all it will see is my genuine desire for us to end this nonviolently.
“And what happens to Jannat when I leave?” it asks.
“She’ll stay with her family.” I’m tempted to add an emphatic, “Of course,” but I think my tone says that on its own.
“Then I decline,” the ifrit says flatly. “She goes with me, or I do not go.”
“It’s not in her best interests for her to go with you, just as it isn’t in your best interests to –”
“But it is. I barely had to put on airs to convince her that I’m a god. She leapt at the chance for some divine comfort.” The ifrit gestured at the walls of this room. “Isn’t it better for her to leave a place like this?”
Something twinged inside me. I keep it from my face, but the ifrit smiles.
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” it croons. “Did you run away from your home?”
“That’s neither here nor there” I say flatly.
“But it is. Who are you to deny this girl the liberation you claimed for yourself?”
“I had family to run to. I didn’t roam the realms of dæmons and barbarians with a stranger.”
“But I’m not a stranger. Not to her.” The ifrit stokes Jannat’s hair with a clawed hand. “Since the real Amāstrī doesn’t see fit to deliver her from this wretched den, why not I?”
“‘I can do better.’ Didn’t Kir Nikbin make that same argument, when he enslaved your brethren and tried to use you to kill the Archon?”
The ifrit snarls and answers with a barb of its own. “You may hide your secrets from me, Inquisitor, but I see the scars on your soul … and the burns. The denied desire. When your yazata turned his back on you, you sought better, didn’t you? You sought the love he denied you.”
A cold void yawns within me. I hesitate for a moment before I counter, “And I discovered the alternatives were mere distractions. It cost me.”
“Your flaw was putting your faith in a distant god-king who hides in a cave while his civilization moves forward without him. I will not be so distant. When those who need me call, I answer. I provide what they desire most.” The ifrit extends a hand towards me. “And I will do it for more than just this one girl. If sending her out of the Empire concerns you so much, you could come with us. You could provide her with adult supervision, with human structure and guidance, while I provide you what you deserve.”
The ifrit’s outline wavers, mirage-like. The image of Amāstrī is replaced by a reflection I haven’t seen since I was seventeen. It’s not a likeness of Kambūjiya – no, it’s worse than that. It’s the memory of what Kambūjiya and I had been together, when I was at my best.
Armor of black carmot scales, not unlike that worn by ancient cataphracts, encases everything except the hands, feet, head, and the tip of the scorpion-like tail that arches over its shoulder. Cinnabar fur covers everything else. The face is leonine, save for the jaw, which distends like a shark’s and is filled with three rows of carmine teeth. Sparks flicker through the thick mane that haloes the face. A lamé blindfold shields the eyes.
“You have labored without reward for long enough.” The voice, too, is achingly familiar, rumbling like thunder and grinding like steel on steel. “I will play along with this ruse, Inquisitor. I will help you lay all the blame on Shapiev and sweep this matter under the rug. In exchange, you need only to let the girl come with me.”
My right hand aches. I find myself stroking the knuckle of my severed pinkie. The ifrit wouldn’t have let me lose it in the first place. Maybe it could even grow my finger back.
“All choice bear consequence - both the good, and the bad. It is the only way you can truly be free.”
That memory of Kambūjiya, the gentle rebuke, anchors me. I take a second look at the ifrit’s illusion. It’s hauntingly good one. Even with my thoughts protected by lamé, my yearning for Kambūjiya is giving it more than enough power to get the look right. However, there was also a gentleness to it. That outstretched hand isn’t a call to action. It’s a promise that things will be easy.
Kambūjiya is many wonderful things, but one thing he never promises is an easy road.
I rise from the chair. It’s hard to keep the bitterness from my voice as I declare, “So we’d all be slaves together, then? Us to your validation, and you to the power we give you?”
The illusion disappears as the ifrit drops the hand. Once more in Amāstrī’s voice, it snarls, “I am no slave!”
“But that’s why you want Jannat, isn’t it? You can’t bear to be without your own little Philosopher’s Stone.” The bitterness within me turns to steel. “You may think you’re pulling the strings now, but you’re still a thrall.”
“Call it what you will. She is mine, and you have no right to take her from me.” The ifrit splays a hand upon Jannat’s head, claw-like nails digging into her scalp.
“The alternative is that Inquisitor Kowsari and I hand you over to the Parīstānis for murdering their consul.”
“I see another alternative.”
A distortion swirls around the ifrit’s feet. It rushes across the carpet and swirls around me before I can move. My stomach rises to my throat, and my feet leave the carpet. I find myself suspended half a meter off the floor, floating helplessly with nothing to push off of.
The ifrit saunters forward, reaching for my turban. “Now, let’s get this out of the way and see what -”
I release my death grip on the Soul stored within my stomach. Power erupts to my extremities. As the heat reaches my hands and feet, I pray.
Make my flesh as steel. My bones as tungsten. My joints as mercury. My nerves as copper. My claws as diamond.
I add this last reflexively – and, in my heart, I know Kambūjiya would approve.
The ifrit is only exerting enough effort to levitate a body of flesh and blood, not an equivalent volume of metal and crystal. I fall from its grip. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I pounce. My fingertips bite through the ifrit’s kaftan and deep into dæmonic flesh, gouging into its chest. Drops of verdigris-green blood flash through the air.
My next strike goes for the throat.
The ifrit adapts.
The Soul thrums beneath my feet. Suddenly, the ifrit moves fast enough to deflect the lethal strike. A metallic crack tears through the house as Soul-augmented flesh smashes together.
I snarl and press the assault, striking as fast and hard as I can at its face and torso. The ifrit plants its feet and blocks with fluid motions, each followed by another crack. One throat strike does slip through its guard. However, rather than digging into its flesh and ripping out its windpipe, my fingers skate off with a painful screech.
While the ifrit toys with me, its disguise disintegrates entirely. Clothing crumbles to ash. Flesh and fur wither and blacken, like a corpse mummified by desert sands and then charred by a stove. Golden eyes become skeletal sockets filled with gray flame. The body elongates and thins, looming over me like a malnourished giant.
“Do you really think you can overpower me?” The ifrit’s voice is now a sandstorm’s howl, with a sizzling undercurrent like burning oil. “No mere Hand can best me, you fool. I am beyond your ability to –”
A metallic whine emanates from behind the ifrit, and then Kowsari’s voice is shouting over the ifrit, her voice echoing as she transmits a distress call through her confidant’s cap. “Hostile dæmon encountered! Requesting storm trooper support!”
She stands in the entryway. Her revolver is drawn and pointed at the ifrit’s back. Her left hand drifts down from her temple, which she had touched to activate her confidant’s cap, and dips into her trench coat.
Through the Veil, I hear a faint murmur as someone answers Kowsari. The ifrit cocks its head to listen. Rather than finish it off then and there, I skip back a step, out of its reach.
“Come with us quietly,” I declare, enunciating my words. If Internal Morality wasn’t eavesdropping on Kowsari already, they are now. We need to make this look good. “The Inquisition will listen to your side of the story. You can still walk away from this unscathed.”
“You two don’t have any backup, do you?” the ifrit asks, contemptuously turning its back on me to focus on Kowsari. “Did you even realize I’d be here?”
“No,” Kowsari lies smoothly. “But I did load up with gold bullets. So will you come quietly, or do I need to gild your insides?”
The ifrit turns slowly, looking from Kowsari to me. Finally, it gazes down at Jannat. The air around it distorts.
“I won’t be powerless,” it declares.
The ifrit swoops down upon Jannat.
Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 13 is now available! I hope you’ll join us for the thrilling conclusion to “The Unbottle Idol”!
