The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 2)
“The blessing of the Golden Veil is not the power to perceive magic with our physical senses - though, if interpreted literally, that would be one of its benefits. It is a precious glimpse of how the yazatas perceive reality. That is why we have traditions about the Veil exposing dæmons and allowing the blind to see. The Veil partially frees the blessed from the distractions of superficial reality.”
- Javion Mallahi, Imperial Army Chaplain
The Security Corps have a four-day head start. Still, Kowsari and I possess one massive advantage: a shortlist of suspects, all of whom are now on their summer break.
I just pray Kowsari doesn’t kill us in transit.
“Should I take a left here, or at the next corner?” Kowsari asks as she whips the auto around a milk truck.
“The next one,” I snarl. The wind rushing through the window nearly snatches my words. Thank Truth for Black Hand. Without that martial art to help me lock my joints, Kowsari’s maneuver would have launched me through the window.
Kowsari clucks her tongue. “So tense, Yavari. One would think you never step out of the chapterhouse.”
“I usually walk when I make house -” My throat tightens as Kowsari swerves around the designated turn. I glimpse a dove, wandering across the road, and then I hear a small thud.
“Seems like you could get more house calls done if you drove.” Kowsari glances at me. “That was quite the line you fed me back in your office, you know.”
“What line?”
“That posturing about helping hunters bear their burdens. How bad can they really have it? Surely, if it were so difficult, they’d tell parents and friends. Soon so many people would know that the Inquisition couldn’t keep it quiet.”
“Did you ever try to tell your parents that the reason you skipped school, snuck out at odd hours of the night, or went missing for days at the time was because a god called upon you to help smite the forces of evil?” I ask.
Kowsari frowns. “If I’d ever needed to do something like that, I’d have just asked that yazata to reveal herself to my parents and -”
“And they’d think you were lying or insane, because of course, your yazata won't physically manifest for something so … petty.”
“Petty?” Kowsari’s hands tighten around the wheel.
“My guardian yazata’s words, not mine.” The memory of Kambūjiya’s rumbling voice brings a bittersweet smile to my face. “The physical manifestation of a yazata is, in and of itself, a violation of the cosmic order. This is supposed to be our world, with our own choices and our own consequences. Truth doesn’t allow yazatas to pop in to give testimonials. He permits the bare minimum of interference to correct greater imbalances.”
“Like daevas?” Kowsari inquires.
“Yes.”
“What about ifrits?”
I sigh, “If we’re talking about an enslaved one, granting a wish with dire enough repercussions … maybe.”
“What if I threaten to kill someone if the yazata doesn’t appear to –”
“Pedantry won’t get Truth to redraw His line. No testimonials. So unless you have friends or family who have absolute, blind faith in you, telling them you hunt daevas isn’t productive.” Ugly memories, shouting and accusations, swirl in the back of my mind. I shudder. “Sometimes, even if they believe you … telling them makes things worse. Trust me.”
Kowsari was silent for a whole block. “What about talking to a cleric?”
“Why would they believe?” I ask.
“Isn’t that their job?”
“Their job is to teach people about Truth, to build communion with the yazatas, and to warn against the temptations of the daevas. These days, that includes reminding people that not everything in the yazata myths is literal fact. They’ll provide plenty of spiritual support to a daeva hunter … right up until they realize that the child isn't speaking metaphorically. That’s when they recommend a good psychologist.”
“So … they really on their own.” Kowsari speaks so softly, the whir of the auto’s engine nearly drowns her out.
“Yes.” I brace my arm against the front console. “Go right at this next intersection.”
Kowsari careens around the bend. The auto’s right tires briefly leave the road, and for a moment, I fear we’ll roll into the flower shop on the corner. Then we crash back onto all four wheels.
The daredevil maneuver must have improved Kowsari’s mood, because she lifts her foot off the accelerator and asks, “What’s the procedure for these house calls, anyway? Do you just knock on the door and say, ‘Hello, Citizen, may I have a private conversation with your underage daughter?’”
“Give me some credit,” I growl. “I tell them that the Inquisition is researching the Golden Veil, and that their child potentially possesses it.”
Kowsari bursts into raucous, cackling laughter. “The Golden Veil? You’re serious?”
“It’s true. Daeva hunters can see certain forms of magic – hear and smell it, too. It’s a blessing the yazatas bestow to help us –”
“Oh, don’t get so defensive. I believe you. It’s their parents believing you that’s ridiculous.”
“A member of the Imperial Inquisition is telling them their child is special, of sound mind, and will be given preferential treatment, both now and when they come of age. They don’t need to believe that the Golden Veil is real to jump at the opportunity.”
“When you put it that way, it's a shame that Register wasn't around fifteen years ago.” Kowsari’s voice is still light, verging on mockery, but there’s a note of bitterness there.
This is definitely personal.
Her story about divine intervention might not have been exactly fifteen years ago, but it’s close enough for casual conversation. There’s also a distant look in her eye. She’s reflecting, taking what I just told her and applying it to someone she knows … or knew, at the very least.
She probably does know who the hunter who saved her was. A friend, probably.
Are you regretting not asking her more, Kowsari? Did you really think she wasn’t bearing a heavy load, or were you choosing to ignore it?
The latter seems likely. It would be in-character for Kowsari, given her conduct towards other Inquisition personnel. Besides, she’s inquiring about the most basic facts. If she really cared about this friend, she could have asked about these things years ago.
The question is, who is she protecting now? The hunter from the story is probably our age now, or in her mid-twenties at the youngest. Best-case scenario, this woman has been retired from hunting for half a decade.
“I got pretty lost in that mess you call a drawer,” Kowsari says suddenly, “but those hunters were … young.”
“Ages ten to nineteen,” I agree. “There’s precedent for slightly older hunters, but they’re exceptions that prove the rule.”
“And there’s so many of them. What does Amāstrī need with three different hunters, anyway?”
“That’s three hunters who the Inquisition are aware of, who have been called upon within the past year, and who live within the jurisdiction of our chapter. There are a couple here in Yanülevi whom I know exist but haven’t identified.” I do my best to avoid making that sound like an accusation. “Amāstrī likely has hundreds, if not thousands, of hunters across the whole of the Empire.”
Kowsari’s foot grinds down on the accelerator, pressing me back into my seat. “Even worse.”
“It can’t be helped. Only humans can serve as daeva hunters, but yazatas also need to protect Parīstān and every other dæmon realm, across every plane of mortal existence. We’re lucky that the Empire sees less than one percent of the crises that -”
My voice hitches as a pedestrian crossing appears ahead of us. It’s filled with alchemists on their way to Yanülevi’s factory district. Rather than slow down, Kowsari pounds the auto’s horn. The women scream and dive aside, barely opening a wide enough gap for the auto to plunge through their midst.
“Put that way,” Kowsari mutters, “and Amāstrī’s selfish for not spreading out the load.”
I try to calm my racing heart. “Don't worry. No one stays a hunter unless they're willing to bear the mantle. Yazatas don't force the issue, either. Free will’s an important part of the equation.”
“Isn’t it insanely painful? I mean, clerics do love to go on about our sins catching fire in the holy light of Truth. I imagine a god who’s loyal to Him won’t be any gentler.” Neither Kowsari’s tone nor her eyes betray her personal interest this time. Then again, she has to know this question doesn’t flow naturally from what came before. She could just be putting in the extra effort to act casually.
“That’s why the yazatas prefer to children. Their souls are pure enough to be safe.” I grimace. “Starting around the age of fifteen, though … ‘painful’ is an understatement.”
This time, Kowsari winces. It’s a small motion, barely more than a twitch, but when coupled with the way the corners of her mouth turn down, there was no mistaking it.
“It’s worth it,” I add.
“The power of a god is that addictive that it’s worth burning yourself alive?”
I shake my head. “It’s not about the power. It’s … connection. It’s family. Your guardian yazata wants nothing more than your welfare. The chance to speak with such a god face-to-face, to feel his or her essence coursing through you … it’s a love worth holding on to.”
“Really?” Kowsari scowled at me. “Then why didn’t you?”
A cold void yawns within me. I look away. “Sooner or later, we all make mistakes. That’s why the Register is so important. I can’t help these children hold onto that relationship forever, but I can buy them … time. No one else should let love go while it still has time.”
Kowsari lets the silence stretch. When I compose myself enough to look at her again, I see her lips are pursued and her eyes are slightly narrowed. It’s an appraising look, not unlike what I’ve seen Black Hand fans give me when they’ll pondering some illegal betting.
“Keeping talking like that, and I might have another job for you, once this is done,” Kowsari decrees.
Before I can dig into that cryptic statement, a stray hyena trots out of an alleyway and into the road ahead. Kowsari honks the horn. The hyena yelps and barely skitters aside in time. In my wing mirror, I see it dash back to the safety of the alleyway.
“When’s the next turn?” Kowsari asks casually, as if we hadn’t come close to flattening a symbol of the Empire.
My heart is still fluttering as I grunt, “Two blocks. Go right.”
* * * * *
Another few harrowing maneuvers deliver us to our destination. Apartment towers, some soaring to the dizzying height of eight stories, loom around us. While most of Yanülevi is renowned for eclectic architecture, as if builders take the constant rebuilding of the city as a challenge to make their mark on history, these towers are blocky, gray, and utilitarian. Their entrances are adorned with intricate, multicolor tilework that fades back into bare concrete the farther one’s gaze travels from the doors. This looks less like a deliberate choice and more like the contractor ran out of time.
I pry myself out of the auto. To my dismay, my legs shake. Steadying myself against the auto’s door, I close my eyes and silently invoke the patron yazata of the Kimian people. Oh glorious Shepherd of the Dust, thank you for bringing me through that crucible alive. Let my heart be still. Let my breath …
Magic stirs in the ground. In ancient days, the Shepherd watered the territory that now belongs to the Empire with her blood, giving the land a soul of its own. Black Hand grants me the tools to draw this Soul into my own flesh. As I pray, magic crawls up my knees and into my torso, filling me with magmatic warmth and a sense of immense pressure. I guide the power to my extremities. Clenched muscles loosen, and my heart slows. Lingering stress that might have taken an hour to fully recover from fades within a minute. Letting out a long, slow breath, I allow the Soul to drain back into the earth. My legs support me now.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Kowsari drawls. “You weren’t in any danger.”
What about everyone else?
I keep this retort to myself, instead focusing on tidying my unform. Unlike inquisitors and storm troopers, the garb of Inquisition sages hasn’t been updated in two centuries. I somewhat understand this with the turban – all male personnel wear them, much like how all female personnel are supposed to wear headscarves – but the khalat is another matter. Wearing robes these days feels like an effort to associate the Inquisition with clergy.
Satisfied that I’m presentable, I address Kowsari. “Leave your weapons in the car. We don’t want to scare anyone.”
“I think the black uniforms will do that already.”
“At least leave the shamshir. You can wear your revolver so long as you keep your coat closed.”
Shaking her head, Kowsari unbuckles the sword from her waist and tosses it into the auto’s back seat. I take the opportunity to retrieve my portmanteau bag from the passenger footwell.
“Remember – let me take the lead,” I remind her.
Kowsari gestures with both hands. “Lead on.”
We pass through the tower’s entryway and into the inner courtyard, from there climbing to the third floor. When I knocked on the door of the correct apartment, a Kimian man in a kurta suit answers. The aromas of fried eggs and black tea washes past him onto the arcade.
“Salaam, Mr. Bostani.” I touch my free hand to my heart. “I’m so sorry to disturb the family over breakfast, but I need to ask Delara a few quick questions.”
Mr. Bostani’s gaze slides past me to Kowsari, and a worried frown creeps across his face.
Quickly, I add, “This is Major Aysa Kowsari, with the Chapterhouse Inquisitors. I hope you don’t mind if she observes the interview – she’s expressed interest in my research into the Golden Veil.”
Mr. Bostani relaxes. “Yes, of course, Captain. Please, come in.”
The apartment is typical for a family of five, with a small kitchen area that’s open to a combined sitting and dining room as well as doors leading off to bedrooms. Mrs. Bostani and the family’s three daughters cluster around a table, which itself is laden with breakfast. My mouth waters a bit when I saw they have fresh barbari bread and sarsheer to go with the eggs.
I exchange cordial greetings with Mrs. Bostani and repeat my introduction for Kowsari before saying, “Please pardon this intrusion.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs. Bostani asks politely. Unlike Mr. Bostani, her initial anxiety doesn’t fade. I can hardly blame her. Even with the Golden Veil cover story, every visit by me is a reminder that her daughter isn’t normal.
“Thank you for the kind offer, but unfortunately, I don’t have time. I just have a couple of questions for Delara before I let you all get back to your breakfast.”
My focus shifts to Delara. She’s a thin-faced girl of fourteen, with her red hair done up in a braid. That’s all Kowsari or her family sees, at least. I can also see the faintest glimmer around her, like motes of diamond dust. It’s something that all active daeva hunters have, an echo of having recently channeled divine power, visible only to others who also possess the Golden Veil.
I don’t bother trying to read anything from the glimmer. We’d have to be standing in a dark room for me to gauge how long it’s been since Amāstrī called on her, and even if it was within the last few days, Amāstrī could have summoned her for something unrelated to Shapiev. Instead, I watch Delara’s eyes. They aren’t wide with panic. Instead, they’ve slightly unfocussed, as if she’s trying to solve a riddle.
She wasn’t expecting me. That’s promising.
“Delara, I’ll get straight to the point,” I tell her. “The Inquisition has had some odd reports in the Zenit District lately. Have you been in that area in the past week?”
Delara swallows her mouthful of food. “No.”
“What about episodes? Have you had any in that time frame?” Referring to a hunt as an ‘episode’ somewhat stretches the truth, but it serves the Golden Veil narrative. Better parents think that their children were merely wandering off in a daze at unpredictable hours than visiting planes filled with ifrits and rakshasas and Truth only knows what else.
“I had one yesterday. I wrote it down in the journal.” Delara pushes back her chair.
“Please, no need to get up.” I glance at Kowsari and nod to one of the bedroom doors. “Inquisitor, would you mind grabbing the black notebook off the desk in there?”
Before Kowsari can answer, chair legs scrape against the floor. Mrs. Bostani rises. Amber eyes transfix me with an imposing stare as she asks, “Captain, does this have something to do with that dæmon diplomat who got killed?”
I open my mouth.
Kowsari interjects, “Yes, but you have nothing to worry about. Your daughter wasn’t involved. Yavari, let’s go.” She sweeps out of the apartment.
I’m left standing there awkwardly. Rallying, I say, “Thank you all for your time. Delara, remember that you need to come to the chapterhouse next week for the usual tests.”
Delara nods, looking as confused as I feel.
With a small bow and a murmured, “Bâ ejâze,” I excuse myself.
Kowsari makes the most of her head start. Even with my longer legs, I must jog to catch up to her at the stairwell. The separation gives time for frustration to replace my surprise.
“What happened to not stepping on my toes?” I demand.
“You asked your questions. She answered. She wasn’t lying, so there’s no point in dragging things out.” Kowsari cuts the first bend in the stairs so tightly that she practically vaults the rail. “What was looking in the journal going to tell you, exactly? If she was lying to you, surely she’d have made something up and wrote it down to help sell her story.”
“Children don’t think that far ahead when they lie.”
Kowsari scoffs. “When I was sixteen, I invented a charity foundation so I could cut curfew. I even filed tax forms with the Ministry of Public Welfare.”
I roll my eyes. “Allow me to rephrase: most children aren’t you.”
“Do you really want to go back there and read a teenaged girl’s diary?” Kowsari jolts to a halt and points back up the stairs. “Be my guest. Waste ten minutes or half an hour or the whole damn day to get the conclusion that I just handed to you. If you want to wrap this up before Security comes knocking, you need to trust my intuition. It’ll save us a lot of time.”
I consider standing my ground, but thank Truth, I notice the cracks in her façade first. Kowsari isn’t being dismissive. She’s vibrating with anger.
She wanted Delara to be guilty.
Any doubt that she’s hiding a hunter goes out the window. I can’t call her out yet, though. She’ll only deny the accusation. If I let things play out, it’s only a matter of time before she properly makes a mistake.
“Next time, I’ll let you know when I’m ready for your ‘intuition.’ I’m willing to trust you and cut some corners, but I decide the corners. Agreed?”
Kowsari whirls and continues down the stairs. “Fine. On to the next girl?”
“Yes.” I trail after her. “And if none of them are our hunter –”
Perhaps it’s my imagination, but Kowsari’s shoulders seem to stiffen at that suggestion.
“– we’ll go back to our eyewitness,” I conclude.
Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 3 releases July 15th.
With his shortlist of hunters exhausted, Mohsen and Kowsari visit the eyewitness to the assassination - and uncover a lie that tips the scales in Mohsen’s favor.
I hope to see you all then!