The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 4)

Allow no mortal, neither human nor dæmon, to be deprived of personhood, liberty, or dignity through their reduction to property. Their ownership and sale are not to be permitted, nor should they be compelled to labor through either mundane or magical forms of slavery. When such a person is found in bondage, they are to be liberated.

- Article Seven of the Imperial Code

Aahil leads me down a short corridor to a workshop. For an establishment promising hand-carved goods, there are an awful lot of carmot-powered drills, lathes, and saws in here. Just to the side of the door is a worktable with a disassembled radio on it. I instantly pinpoint the collection of carmot wafers that will allow the finished device to operate. The ozone scent of their magic cuts through the mundane aromas of wood shavings and varnish, and their dark, metallic surfaces shimmer like diamonds in sunlight.

“We can speak freely here, Inquisitor.” Aahil settles onto a cushioned stool in front of the workbench. “The apprentices are at lunch. There should be a chair around here somewhere.”

Technically, I’m not an inquisitor, but I’m not about to lecture the man on the precise terminology. I grab a steel chair from in front of a drafting table and position it in front of the doorway. If Kowsari sneaks back into the shop to eavesdrop, I want to see her coming.

“Would you prefer to be able to see me while we talk?” I ask. “I can pull the Soul into me again.”

Aahil snorted. “I’d rather you didn’t. I saw enough of you back in the shop.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he means. Ruefully, I find myself wishing I’d worn lamé underwear. “Apologies – I hadn’t considered that.”

“I take it you don’t meet many people who have the Veil but aren’t …” Aahil gestured at his eyes. “…distracted by the visible world.”

“That’s one way or putting it. In any case, you’d proven you have that blessing upon you. It makes your testimony about Amāstrī even more credible.”

“What do you need from me, then?” Aahil shifts on his stool and rests his left arm on the table.

I remove my notebook and a pen from my portmanteau bag. “First – my apologies for asking, but I need to be thorough – are you currently involved in any activities involving a yazata, particularly as a daeva hunter?”

Aahil sighs. “Not since I was fifteen.”

“Who is your guardian yazata?”

“Kambūjiya, Patron of Executioners.” Aahil lifts his chin proudly.

I can’t help but chortle. “You know he doesn’t like that title, don’t you?”

“Well, he doesn’t much care for ‘the Manticore God,’ either.”

“He’s mellowed to that one. At least, he had when he called upon me.”

The old man cocks his head to the side. “I’d wondered if he’s your guardian yazata. When I saw you fight in the arena, you moved like him. Maybe any Hand who uses Manticore Style is the same, but …” He trails off.

“Yes. I’m one of his.” I reopen the file with the eyewitness statement. “But let’s get back to the topic at hand. Please walk me through what happened on the night of the assassination, from your perspective.”

Aahil deflates slightly. I feel a pang of guilt. It’s probably been a long time since Aahil crossed paths with another of Kambūjiya’s hunters, either active or retired. In a slightly wearier tone than before, he begins with, “We were closing the shop late that night. Some barbarian from one of the consulates came by to request …”

The account that follows is nearly identical to Qurbanov’s. However, unlike his business partner, Aahil’s delivery is natural, punctuated by pauses and space-filling noises. He even provides additional detail he hadn’t passed on to Qurbanov, like how the markings on Amāstrī’s face and snout resemble the stains left on alchemists’ faces by their protective goggles.

When we get to the assassination itself, Aahil says, “When Amāstrī tapped into the Soul, I saw the ripples as her will reached towards the automobile. The automobile melted. I could hear screams from within.” His nostrils flare. “And there was the stench, like blood and brimstone.”

The breath rushes from my lungs. “Blood and brimstone? You’re certain of that?”

“Yes.”

I swallow. Aahil must not realize what that scent signifies. If he did, surely it would have been in his original statement.

Now I know why Amāstrī killed Shapiev.

Rallying, I press, “After … what did Amāstrī do? Return to the alleyway?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alleyway at any point in these events?”

Aahil’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “There was no one.”

“Not even the hunter whom Amāstrī called in to channel her power?” I ask.

The old man holds his tongue.

Softly, I say, “I need to find her, Aahil. The Inquisition needs to –”

“No, you don’t. I know exactly what the Inquisition will do with her,” Aahil growls. “You want her as a weapon, don’t you? To get to Amāstrī through her, so that Amāstrī can destroy the Empire’s enemies?”

“The only enemies we want Amāstrī to destroy are the ones she’s already coming to fight. The daevas are just a much an enemy of the Empire’s moral integrity as they are to the cosmic order. Disrupting their plans benefits both the Inquisition and the yazatas.”

Aahil shakes his head. “A man cannot serve both the Archon and Truth. One must always make the choice. I know what you’ll do if you get your hands on that girl. One way or another, you will turn her away from the yazatas and force her to worship the Archon.”

“We don’t do that anymore,” I assert.

“No? I may not be able to read the papers anymore, but I know what sorts of people run the Inquisition now. ‘Archonites.’ Deh! I doubt the Archon ever intended to be deified.”

“I meant that the Archonites don’t try to convert daeva hunters anymore. Not in the Yanülevi Chapter, at least. Here, I make sure the Inquisition does things Kambūjiya’s way. We keep hunters healthy, help them maintain their spiritual relationship with their yazata, and collect statements from them whenever they hunt a daeva. When necessary, we facilitate. Other than that, we leave them be.”

Aahil wags his finger at me. “Are you certain Kambūjiya approves of what you’re doing?”

“He understands.”

“Really? Did you get that from him personally, or did you conveniently ‘hear’ the answer you wanted when you half-heartedly prayed about it?”

That remark shouldn’t sting after all these years, but my stomach still twists, and the void stirred by Kowsari gnaws at me again. Thank Truth that Aahil can't see my expression. I only had to worry about keeping an even tone as I explain, “Kambūjiya told me back when I was fifteen. Back then, all those things you just said about the Inquisition were true. They found me and conscripted me, moving me around the Empire to serve as a tactical weapon in case any daeva cults got too ambitious. Kambūjiya wasn’t happy about it, but he continued to call upon me. He told me that it was only a matter of time before the Inquisition realized that they couldn’t control him, and until then, we should make the most of their support. So, yes – even if we’ve never discussed my current work specifically, I think I can say confidently that I have his blessing.”

Tense silence stretched between us. At last, Aahil asks, “How exactly does one ‘facilitate’?”

“Did you ever get arrested for breaking curfew back in the day?” I say, putting as much wry humor into the words as I can. “How about missing school?”

Aahil’s dour disapproval cracks slightly. “Quite a lot of both. I went to a temple school, too.”

“One of the ones taught by Sisters of the Shepherd?”

“The same.” He chuckles. “They hit harder than any Hand, you know.”

I laugh outright. “I believe you.”

The tension bleeds out of the room. With only a touch of reluctance, Aahil admits, “There was a girl in the alleyway. I only glimpsed her twice, when Amāstrī revealed herself and again when she retreated.”

He describes the girl as best he can, guided by my questions. Afterwards, I have only a few minor follow-up inquiries regarding any other yazatas or daevas he’d seen in the area lately. We’re wrapping things up when Aahil brings the discussion into territory I hadn’t intended.

“Do you speak with other hunters often?” he asks. “Older ones, I mean.”

“Not often. The Inquisition only registers the ones who are active. It’s simply not worth the effort to track down everyone. No one’s going to be bothering you about your past activities with Kambūjiya, if that’s your concern.”

“How many of them keep the Veil?” Aahil passes a hand in front of his eyes. “I was friends with other hunters, back in the day … all of them are gone now. We often wondered by Kambūjiya never took the Veil back from me, once I was no longer of use. I thought maybe he was keeping me around for one last hunt.”

“Or he knew you’d need it someday,” I suggest, slipping my pen and notebook back into my bag. “I imagine being able to see the enchantments on carmot comes in handy, doesn’t it?”

“Doubtful. Or has he grown sentimental over the last half-century?”

I grimace. “I suppose not.”

“Do you know why he lets you keep the Veil?” Aahil’s tone grows wistful.

The one time I need Kowsari to interrupt, and she’s not around. I give her a few seconds to spawn from the æther. When she doesn't, I reluctantly admit, “It’s my punishment.”

Aahil frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry – I must go. The trail for hunters tends to go cold quickly. I need to find this girl before I lose it entirely.” The chair’s legs shriek as I abruptly stand.

“Of course.” Aahil rises with me and bows his head. “Khodâ negahdâr, Inquisitor.”

May your yazata go with you. It’s a farewell I didn’t hear often, and most people who say it don't mean it literally. Hearing it from this veteran hunter fills me with an odd mixture of pride and regret.

I bow back. “Khodâ negahdâr, Aahil.”

*                              *                              *                              *                              *

I still have an hour and a half before rejoining Kowsari, so I walk to the nearest Security tower and requisition their records for recent curfew violations. Only two children have been arrested in the past week, neither of whom were caught on the night of Shapiev’s assassination. I write down their names and Citizen Identification Numbers all the same. There’s always a chance one is a hunter, caught after an unrelated hunt.

The afternoon grows oppressive by the time I return to the auto. Kowsari sits across the street, drinking a glass of iced sekanjabin outside a café. I refuse to join her. Instead, I lean against the auto, trusting in Black Hand to keep me cool while I wait.

Finally, Kowsari finishes and joins me. She’s used our time apart to rebuild her composure. Blithe disinterest pours off her as she asks, “Did you get what you wanted?”

“I did.”

We climb into the oven-like cabin of the auto. Even with the Soul cooling me, the air’s so thick that it’s hard to breathe deeply. When Kowsari shuts her door, I expect her to start the engine, but she merely twists the key between her fingers.

“Get it out of your system,” she instructs me. “Because we both know you don’t have enough to get Dutt to do anything to me, and once we’re on the road, I’m not going to entertain any more fantasies.”

She can’t be serious about having a conversation inside this furnace. When I try to stare her down, she right back, her gaze steely. Only a single bead of sweat mars her brow.

“You weren’t in my office this morning to steal Nikbin’s blood. You were trying to figure out how much I know about your friend’s child and to keep me from digging deeper into her,” I accuse.

“No, I really did want Nikbin’s blood. And for what individuals I’m acquainted with may or may not be doing – that’s none of your business,” she replies calmly.

“The whole point of the Manifestation Register is that daeva hunters are the Inquisition’s business.”

Kowsari shrugs. “If you say so. As far as I’m concerned, I serve Archon and Empire so that others don’t have to. I see no reason to expose any citizen to unnecessary scrutiny.”

I counter, “But you do suspect that she was involved in this assassination. If you didn’t, why involve yourself?”

“I got involved because I know she’s not.” A note of irritation enters her voice. “I just wanted to be sure you didn’t embarrass yourself by invading her life while looking for the real culprit.”

“You’re too close to this to be objective. The great Aysa Kowsari, the Spider of Yanülevi, getting caught out in a lie this easily? You’re making mistakes because you aren’t thinking straight.”

“Maybe I’m testing how perceptive you are.”

“You have a very low opinion of me if you set the bar this low,” I grumble.

“I prefer to think of it as an easy throw-in to boost your confidence.”

This banter is smooth, practiced. Kowsari must have anticipated the conversation would go in this direction. She’ll give me the run-around if I don’t knock her off-balance.

Changing tactics, I ask, “Do you know why I keep lavender incense in my office?”

“Nostalgia for Ir Habarzel?”

“It’s because I don’t enjoy the lingering odor of ifrit. You know about the ifrit who was briefly imprisoned in the chapterhouse basements, right? Inside the old gas pipes? To me, everywhere below ground level still stinks of rotten eggs.” I take as deep a breath as the stifling air will allow. “Our witness picked up that same odor the night of the assassination. Amāstrī wasn’t after a daeva. She was there to kill an ifrit – one of Kir Nikbin’s slaves, to be precise.”

Kowsari balks at that. Who wouldn't? Kir Nikbin achieved the impossible, synthesizing several Philosopher’s Stones from his own blood … and promptly went insane, declaring himself to be an incarnate yazata and attempting to seize control of the Empire. His ifrit slaves, each magically bound to a ring set with one of those Stones, ravaged cities at the command of his cult. A pair of these ifrits even came close to killing the Archon. Even after two centuries, the Inquisition is still struggling to track all these rings down. They tend to resurface only after they’ve been claimed by the most unhinged of radicals.

“Well … that means the case is almost closed, doesn’t it?” Kowsari says slowly. “Possession of a binding ring put Shapiev in violation of Article Seven, no matter what she was doing with it. The fact it’s a superweapon just makes things worse for her. The Parīstānis won’t want any of that to go public. Once we find the ring, this whole matter can be swept under the rug. Well done, Yavari.” She extends the key towards the auto’s starter slot.

I slap my hand over the starter. “Was there an ifrit’s corpse in the wreckage? Because if there was, I didn’t hear it on the radio.”

Kowsari pokes at the back of my hand with the key. “If there was, wouldn’t I have shared that with you?”

“You’re concealing the identity of a daeva hunter. Why wouldn’t you withhold other information if it suited you?”

Kowsari wipes her brow. “What’s your point? Even if the ifrit escaped the vehicle, wouldn’t Amāstrī or another yazata have finished it off by now?”

“Ifrits are good enough shapeshifters to fool gods, not to mention the Golden Veil, so long as they don’t use any other magic. It could very easily have evaded her.” I go for the throat. “It’s going to be out for blood, Kowsari. Unless someone else uses the ring to call it off, Nikbin’s rings will compel it to avenge its master. This girl you’re protecting needs to go into protective custody.”

Kowsari draws a rattling breath. “Amāstrī will pull her weight and intervene. Or would that be too ‘petty?’”

Shaking my head, I take my hand off the starter and tap my amputated knuckle. “I nearly died the day I lost this finger. Kambūjiya didn’t step into save me.”

“Maybe an Archonite just isn’t worth his time!” Kowsari plunges the key into the starter.

The Soul churns as the carmot inside the auto’s engine stirs to life. It exerts a greater pull than I can, ripping away my connection to the Soul, leaving me with only the power that’s already inside my body. Despite this bottled pressure, I can’t ignore the void.

Kowsari’s not wrong. I had made that fateful decision to worship the Archon in my late teens. Kambūjiya hadn’t summoned me to hunt daevas for several months at that point, but there’d been a chance he might have returned. We could have still had a few more years of face-to-face partnership. I chose to slam the door on that possibility.

We lurch away from the curb. Kowsari rolls down her window to vent the auto’s cabin. Cool air sighs over me, breaking me from my pained daze.

“Yes – I let Kambūjiya down,” I admit. “I turned my back on him. However, that doesn’t mean he turned his back on me. He’s still my guardian yazata. Some of the worst men in history have been saved by the intervention of a yazata, all in the name of preventing a greater cosmic instability.”

“Then an innocent should have nothing to –”

“And saints are allowed to die,” I interrupt, “because free will cuts both ways. There’s every chance that this ifrit can find a way to kill this girl without provoking Amāstrī’s intervention. Are you willing to gamble on that?”

“It’s not a gamble!” Kowsari’s tightens her grip on the steering wheel and push the auto to a dangerous speed. “She wasn’t involved!”

“Then there’s also no risk in letting me talk to her directly, is there?”

Kowsari gulps down the cooling wind that buffets her face and tangles her hair. In a more measured tone, she says, “If your investigation leads to her, Yavari – fine. I won’t get in the way. But I’m not handing her over for registration. She’s got enough going on in her life without the Inquisition looking over her shoulder.”

I scowl. “What are you so afraid of? I’m not going to dissect in her a laboratory.”

“You won’t.” Kowsari glances at me. “But trust me, there are people in our chapter who will do far worse. I won’t put her in that position.”

That look is enough to tell me that Kowsari has found her center again. Until I find something else to knock her off-kilter, I’m not getting anything more from her. I’ll need to find this hunter on my own.

Thankfully, Kowsari’s has already given me more than enough to work with.

I settle back in my seat and roll down my own window. “Did you get us into the consulate?”

“I got myself into the consulate, but I did get us both access to Shapiev’s estate. We’ll go tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you visit the barber.”

“Why?”

There’s a touch of pernicious glee in Kowsari’s grin as she says, “You never turned down my suggestion to wear a chador.”

Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 5 releases July 29th!

Now that Mohsen and Kowsari know they’re after an ifrit, they infiltrate Shapiev’s home to find its binding ring … but they aren’t the only ones after this prize.

I hope to see you all then!