The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 6)

While we appreciate Major Aysa Kowsari’s continual contributions to the greater good of the Empire, the fact remains that no inquisitor is above scrutiny. Even the mightiest paragons can be compromised or corrupted. If you won’t sanction her for frequently removing her confidant’s cap while on-duty, I’ll have no choice but to flag her as a high-risk individual. She and all known associates will need to be audited a semi-annual basis.

- Memorandum from Lieutenant Colonel Nasir Bousaid (Yanülevi Chapter of the Imperial Inquisition, Internal Morality Directive) to Chapter Prelate Tavleen Dutt

Without Black Hand, I’d be a dead man.

The ironwood coffee table weighs as much as a small hippo. At the speed it hits me, it should pulverize bone and pulp organs. The Soul within me holds my flesh together.

What it can’t do is cancel out momentum.

The airborne table bears me into the bedroom. Wood splinters and feathers spray into the air as I crash into Shapiev’s bed. Winded, I try to stand, but the table landed on top of me.

The rakshasa – now looking like a parī with only a suggestion of a rat’s face – rises and reaches for a divan to throw.

Kowsari reaches the dæmon first.

How she evaded the table, I can’t begin to guess, yet there’s not a hair out of place as she swings her shamshir at the rakshasa. The stroke cleaves into the rakshasa’s newly-formed right wing and bites deep into bone. The shapeshifter shrieks. Stinking purple haze sprays from the wound like gaseous blood.

That’s what Kowsari perceives, at least. I see that the rakshasa’s true form isn’t even scratched.

Kowsari follows up with a strike to the throat. The rakshasa gurgles and staggers away from her, but again, its true form is unharmed. What’s more, the initial wound to its wing is regenerating. That initial spray of haze collapses back in on the wound, scabbing it over within seconds. The jet that erupted from its throat likewise swirls back to seal the new wound.

I force breath into my lungs and shift focus to freeing myself. The table pins down my pelvis, trapping me at an angle where I can’t use my legs. I drive my elbows into the mattress. Muscles strain to the point that they should tear, but again, Black Hand holds me together. I heave free centimeters at a time.

Kowsari keeps up her assault, but she might as well be bullying the rakshasa with a reed. Worse, it’s transforming to better counter her. Haze boils from every pore, and its body becomes gelatinous again. The wings expand. Arms disappear. Legs lengthen. An owl’s head replaces the human-like features of a parī.

By the time my knees are out, a titan shoco looms before Kowsari. The enormous bird beats its wings in an intimidation display and kicks at her with taloned feet. Kowsari nearly trips over a divan as she is driven backwards.

“Shoot it already!” she bellows.

I forgot I’m still holding the revolver. The fact it didn’t fly into a corner is a miracle in and of itself. Tearing my legs the rest of the way free from the table, I take aim.

The rakshasa quickly changes position, using its wings to keep Kowsari between me and it.

Kowsari lunges and skewers the rakshasa through the stomach. It trills in pain and rage. This close, it can’t miss her with its retaliatory kick. Leather tears, and Kowsari is thrown backwards, taking the blade with her – and opening a clear line of fire.

I pull the trigger.

Blood gushes from the rakshasa’s left shoulder, followed a split second later by the white smoke of burning phosphorus. It screeches. On its true form, a bloody, smoldering hole bursts open on its shoulder. Both left arms go limp, and with them, the shoco’s left wing.

I thumb the revolver’s hammer for the third shot. The rakshasa doesn’t wait for me. Whirling away from Kowsari, it hurls itself at the drape-shrouded windows. There’s a muffled crash as the glass on the other side buckles. The rakshasa struggles out the window.

I rush after, firing that third shot as I come, but it goes into the drapes. Kowsari shouts something. I don’t register what she says, diving through the drapes and onto a balcony.

The rakshasa has already jumped up onto the rail. It spreads its ring wing wide and raises the left as high as it can. Before it can leap, I cock the revolver’s hammer for a fourth shot and pull the trigger.

The gun jams.

The rakshasa leaps.

No need to ask what Kambūjiya would do. Trusting my body to the Shepherd, I throw myself onto the rakshasa’s back.

Titan shocos are flightless birds. The best the rakshasa could have done, even without an injured wing, would be to flutter down to the garden and flee the estate on foot. My weight triples the load it needs to carry.

We tumble towards the garden.

I’m on the bottom when we crash into the ground. It’s a bruising impact, but I’ll walk it off. More importantly, my connection to the Soul reestablishes. A fresh blast of magmatic warmth rushes through me.

The rakshasa flails its wings and kicks wildly to free itself, but there’s no hope of escaping me this way. A dæmon’s flesh is as much magic as it is physical matter. The effects of Black Hand are amplified against such opponents. Without a mundane weapon that can piece or cut me, the rakshasa might as well be fighting against a literal statue of tungsten and steel.

Foul haze washes over me as the rakshasa reaches this same conclusion.

It’s too late to shapeshift out of my grip. I've already hooked my right fingers like a manticore’s claw and jammed them deep into the rakshasa’s neck. My next prayer is offered not to the Shepherd, but to Kambūjiya.

Grant me your wrath.

It feels like molten metal is rushing through my blood. The scars on my soul, the record of all my sins, don’t take kindly to sharing space with divine power. I gnash my teeth against the agony, reminding myself that this trickle isn’t nearly enough to kill me, and hold the connection open.

An ephemeral echo of a clawed finger flickers from my severed knuckle, and phantasmal claws shimmer from my remaining fingers. They spit sparks. The rakshasa’s true form strobes with arcs of lightning. I hold on for several seconds while the dæmon convulses in my grip. When I cut the flow of Kambūjiya’s power, the rakshasa goes limp. I expect it to return to its true form, but even unconscious, it maintains the shoco’s shape.

This is rather awkward for me. Screams and shouts of alarm echo around the garden, not to mention the pair of parī guards swooping towards me. All they see is a wild animal and a man dressed as a woman who burst out of the Consul’s bedroom window. Worse, a familiar wave of lethargy hits me. Channeling a god’s power is nothing if not taxing.

Grimacing, I release my grip on the Soul, sagging to the ground with the rakshasa atop me. My gaze darts up to the third-story balcony. To my relief, I find Kowsari at the rail, gazing down at me. The rakshasa’s kick left a rent in her coat, but her gambeson has only a minor tear in it. She’ll live.

I lose sight of her when the parīs shove their rifles in my face.

*                              *                              *                              *                              *

I’ve been in Prelate Dutt’s office on a few occasions. It’s nearly as luxurious as Shapiev’s residence, with wood paneling covering the walls and thick rugs on the floor. Her desk is a single block of marble carved with the image of two hyenas gnawing on a crocodile’s skull. The three armchairs in front of the desk are wrapped with supple, maroon leather. As an added boon, it doesn’t reek of ifrit.

My past visits were more dignified. I’d at least appeared in uniform. Showing up in women’s clothing, rumpled from not only my fight with the rakshasa but also a day of incarceration by first the Parīstānis and then the Security Corps, is a very different matter.

Dutt seems to be of the same mindset. She rests her chin upon her interlaced fingers as she silently studies me, ignoring Kowsari in the seat beside me. A lock of hair, silvered with age, has come free of Dutt’s bun, hanging down past wrinkles imposed by decades of stress.

After a small eternity, Dutt says, “Captain … have the last six years have misled you as to the nature of our relationship?”

“They haven’t, Prelate,” I reply quickly.

“Are you sure? Because your actions today say otherwise.” Her eyes narrow. “I don’t give you free reign with the Manifestation Register because I am fond of you. I don’t shield you from the many, many efforts to have you replaced because you are irreplaceable. I do these things because your idol sees fit to continually sustain the Golden Veil and because you don’t cause trouble.”

I wince at the word ‘idol.’ That Dutt would choose that word, rather than referring to Kambūjiya as a ‘yazata’ or even more generically as a ‘god,’ says more of her view of me than any of the points she’d spelled out. I assumed Dutt was a moderate Archonite, merely assessing yazatas as resources to serve the Empire’s interests. Her contemptuous dismissal of Kambūjiya makes her as radical as my family.

At least now I know she, too, rates me with the barbarians.

Aloud, I answer, “I understand, Prelate.”

Kowsari chimes in, “Prelate, it’s hardly fair to hold Yavari accountable for this. Bringing him to the Consul’s Mansion was my idea.”

I blink. Gratitude flashes inside me. Given Kowsari’s reputation, the last thing I’d expected was for her to accept blame for something that wasn’t even her fault.

Dutt scowls at Kowsari. “Oh, I’m aware, Major. That’s the only reason I’m not signing his dishonorable discharge.” Shifting back to me, she says, “The next time you nearly kick off a diplomatic incident, I will bury you, and I’ll hand off the Manifestation Register to someone I can trust. Am I clear?”

Kowsari looks like she’s about to comment again, so I quickly say, “Of course, Prelate.”

“You are dismissed, Captain. I expect a report regarding the status of this latest investigation of yours on my desk by dawn tomorrow, so that I can make excuses to Security.”

At least I can slip a mention about Kowsari hiding a hunter into the report. I bow my head and start to rise.

Kowsari seizes my wrist. “Actually, ma’am, that won’t be necessary. My report should be more than adequate to get Security to surrender this investigation to us.”

“Is that so? Because the last time I checked, Major, bumping into a rakshasa while you are tossing a dead diplomat’s personal quarters does not equate to a threat to the fabric of civilization. This isn’t even a case of a rakshasa failing to register his true identity with the Gatekeeper Directive. We’ve already verified who he is. He may be a thief, but he has no violations of the Code on his record.”

“Funny thing about that, Prelate – our ‘dead diplomat’ was keeping on of Nikbin’s slaves. The rakshasa was there to steal its binding ring.”

Dutt’s swarthy skin reddens, then drains of color. At last, she returns to a more neutral shade. “You have proof of this?” she says, softly now.

“We found a ring box in Shapiev’s safe,” Kowsari explains. “Yavari smelled the magic from one of Nikbin’s rings inside it, but the ring itself was missing. The most likely place for it to be hidden is inside the rakshasa’s stomach. I considered explaining all this to Security, but … well. They’re as corruptible as any other citizen, aren’t they?”

Dutt massages her temples. Slowly, she says, “You think the ring is in its stomach?”

Kowsari squeezes my wrist.

“Prelate,” I chime in, “The Veil exposed something glowing inside the rakshasa. It used the form of a rat to attempt to sneak past us. The most logical explanation is that it swallowed the ring.”

“That’s not good enough! It would be one thing if you got the ring out of the rakshasa, but you failed to do so. We need ironclad proof of a Code violation if we’re going to seize control of a diplomatically sensitive murder investigation. Anything less, and the Parīstānis will accuse us trying to cover up the murder. The damage to the Inquisition’s reputation in Parīstān would be incalculable. At best, they'll expel our cultural advisors. I cannot risk all of that on an idol-induced hunch!”

“You can stake my reputation on it, ma’am,” Kowsari offers. “Let me forge your signature on the transfer paperwork. If I’m wrong about the ring being in the rakshasa, ‘expose’ and disavow me.”

Dutt snipes, “Disavowing you is quite tempting. It also wouldn’t make a difference. Even if the Captain is right, and Shapiev did possess a ring, that would only be grounds to expel her from the Empire for possession of contraband. We have no direct evidence that she used it, and thus no reason to argue that the assassination was linked to it!”

Another squeeze from Kowsari, and I supply, “Prelate, I have an eyewitness with the Golden Veil who smelled ifrit magic at the scene.”

“Is this the same witness who claims an idol murdered Shapiev?”

“Yes, ma’am. If Shapiev wished for something sufficiently dangerous to the cosmic order, that could explain the report that the yazata Amāstrī assassinated her.”

“Such a shame, then, that the idol cannot be summoned to confirm this!” Dutt snaps.

“With all due respect, Prelate, her chosen hunter is also –”

“A child! Hardly a reliable witness.”

“What if we could also bring in the ifrit?” Kowsari jumped back in.

“Also an unreliable witness, as least as far as the Parīstānis are concerned! This is all circumstantial, at best!”

Kowsari nods. “I agree, ma’am, but we don't need this to hold up in a trial to justify our intervention. We just need to push the Parīstānis into making the same calculations you’re making right now. Trust me. With two witnesses and an ifrit, plus the right whispers in the right ears, I'll put fear of the Archon in the Parīstānis. They’ll be the ones making concessions to avoid scandal.”

Dutt ponders this in silence for nearly half a minute. “What happens if there is no ifrit to summon? If the idol butchered it after Shapiev’s death, leaving us with a ring that no longer has a slave attached to it?”

“It’s alive. Someone else knows that. Otherwise, why would the rakshasa have tried to steal the ring?” Kowsari leans forward. “We need to make this gamble, ma’am. Do we really want to run the risk that someone will break the rakshasa out or – worse – that someone in Security will find and abscond with the ring before we can confiscate it? The Archon won’t be happy if he finds out we let the ring vanish into the æther.”

Dutt leans back in her chair. Her eyes dart about as she stares up at the ceiling; I imagine she’s weighing options for how to wrestle the ring from Security without needing to admit to what it truly is. Eventually, she blows out a long breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Major.”

“Don’t I always, ma’am?” Kowsari asks, with a slight smile.

“I’ll make the arrangements to transfer the rakshasa to our custody. Once you have the ring in hand, I want you to get the ifrit here to the chapter. If the worst has happened, and it's dead, find me its corpse.” Rounding on me, Dutt adds, “Hold on that report for now, Captain. Find this daeva hunter first. If the Major can’t produce the ifrit, or if her plan for the Parīstānis fails, we’ll need to resolve this investigation quickly.”

You mean, we need to offer a child as a scapegoat.

I bite my tongue. Pushing back will just give Dutt an excuse to replace me. I need to think of all the children already on the Register, not just this new girl whom Amāstrī has chosen. The only way I can help her now is to put my faith in Kowsari.

That’s a grim position to be in, but it’s a better hope than none.

“As you wish, Prelate,” I concede.

Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 7 releases August 12th!

With the ifrit’s binding ring secured, Mohsen turns his attention to finding the daeva hunter. When he identifies the hunter Kowsari was trying to conceal, his loyalties will be tested.

I hope to see you all then!