The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 8)

“What truly separates humanity from the dæmons? Is it because we are creatures of flesh, while they are creatures of magic? How is it, then, that they breed so readily with us? Entire nations within this Empire, from the Yanülevans to the Eshayer Ead tribes, trace their heritage back to unions of human and dæmon. I suspect this is why the Archon mandates equal protection for dæmons under the Imperial Code. The lines that might be drawn otherwise are too troubling to entertain.”

- Doctor Ibn Al-Razi, Professor of Dæmonology at the Imperial University of Kadmía

Three days later, Kowsari announces herself at my office with her usual snark. “Don’t men like you go to temple on Ruztala?”

I ignore her, pushing another pin into the map of Yanülevi on my office wall. It holds down one of the several lengths of colored twine that I’m using to delineate routes between the site of Shapiev’s assassination and the homes of my shortlisted hunter suspects. I’ve also tacked up pieces of paper with notes on each suspect. One has a photograph pinned up alongside the notes.

Kowsari closes the door, trapping me in with her, and sticks a steel cup of tea in front of my face. “Well, since you’re here on your day off, have a drink.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here on a Ruztala.” I accept the beverage.

“Because you think I’m pious?”

“Because you don’t seem like the type to work on the weekend.”

Kowsari sips from her own cup. “Do you have any idea how long it took to convince the rakshasa to vomit up that ring?”

Her tone’s casual, but her eyes dart around the map, checking every one of the pinned-up notes. I glance at her head. No headscarf, no confidant’s cap.

I slurp my tea and comment, “None of these children is a ‘Fayyaz.’”

Kowsari smirks. “I know.”

“If she’s under her father’s name or an adopted family’s, let me know.” I turn back to the map. “I’m not going to chase after her. I’ll just let you know if she’s in the clear.”

Kowsari runs her hand along one of the pieces of twine before changing the subject. “Why do some of these follow the streets while others cut across town?”

“Amāstrī can use the Soul to bore a tunnel along the shortest distance to a daeva – or ifrit – but younger hunters don’t have the spiritual maturity or discipline to sustain that trick. They’re only able to give Amāstrī a couple minutes of fighting time. Yazatas aren’t fussed about geographic proximity when it comes to selecting the best hunter, but the time-to-target is something they consider.”

“So you’re looking for either a ten-year-old girl who lives within a ten-minute walk, or a fifteen-year-old within a ten-minute drive?”

“Something like that … though my top suspect breaks the rule.” I tap the pinned-up photograph. “Jannat Nikbin.”

Again, no hint of anxiety from Kowsari, but she does frown. “As in Kir Nikbin?”

“She’s a direct descendant of one of his daughters, or so the Ministry of Heritage tells me.”

Kowsari now traces the winding route from Jannat’s home to the assassination site. “It must have taken her an hour to walk that.”

“And an hour to walk back – which is when Security arrested her for breaking curfew. The arresting officer reported that she was dead on her feet. She wouldn’t say what she’d been up to, but she had been moving south, away from the Zenit District, when she was intercepted. She also matches our eyewitness’s description and has a mother who’s an alchemist.”

“I can read your notes just fine, Yavari.” Kowsari squints at something I’d crossed out. “Her family are Archonites?”

“They’re registered with the local Archonite lodge, yes.”

“And that doesn’t disqualify her?”

“Not every hunter is called from a pious family.”

Kowsari gives me the side-eye. “No need to snap at me, Yavari. I’m just asking.”

“Sorry.” I hadn’t even noticed the edge that had slipped into my voice. In a mellower tone, I explain, “If Jannat herself hasn’t embraced Archonite ideology, she’s still a viable candidate to be a daeva hunter. She is at an age when children start questioning what their parents taught them.”

“It all sounds like a lot of guesswork.”

“Well, unless and until Amāstrī calls on her again, guesswork is all I’m going to have, at least until I start interviews.” I slurp my tea again. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll be paying the Nikbin household a visit.”

“So you’re free tonight.” Kowsari plucks the cup from my hand.

“That’s not what I said.”

“What else are you going to do? Go train at the gymnasium?”

“Yes. I’ve got another tournament next month.”

Kowsari grins. “Then what I have planned is perfect. If things go wrong, you’ll get plenty of exercise.”

“No.” I wag a finger at her. “I am not going off on some illicit excursion with you. You heard Dutt. I’m on thin ice.”

“She’s already approved the requisition form. Would you like to see it?”

“Requisition form?”

Kowsari whips a folded piece of paper from her coat and presents it to me. Warily, I unfold it to discover orders from the Prelate’s office, marked with Dutt’s seal.

“I need someone with the Golden Veil and fighting skills to help me tonight,” Kowsari summarizes, “and I can’t exactly borrow one of your kids.”

I read my orders through to the end before speaking. “What, exactly, are we going to be doing?”

Kowsari answers by setting down the cups, digging a lamé pouch from her pocket, and dumping a steel ring into her palm. At least, I assume it’s steel. Black oxidation coats it so thickly that it looks more like dried tar. Sulfur and blood claw at my nostrils, forcing me to cover my nose. Through watering eyes, I see slender glyphs of topaz light dancing across that oxidized skin.

“You’re carrying the binding ring in your pocket?” I demand.

Kowsari rolls it around in her palm. “It was insulated.”

“That’s not what I meant! That thing is –”

“Broken,” Kowsari finishes, turning the ring so that I can see the setting where the Philosopher’s Stone should be. Instead of a ruby the size of a peach pit, there are just gelatinous specks resembling congealed blood.

“It reeks,” I grumble. “Could you put it away?”

Kowsari tucks the ring back into its pouch. As soon as the bloody glow is smothered, I risk a tentative breath. The ring’s stench lingers, so I light a fresh stick of incense.

“Without the Stone, could Shapiev still make a wish that provoked Amāstrī?” Kowsari asks.

I breathe deep of the lavender fragrance to clear my head. “She could give the order, but the ifrit wouldn’t be strong enough to fulfill it. However, a Philosopher’s Stone can break if too much energy is released at once. Shapiev could have made some astronomically huge wish and been executed by Amāstrī after the fact.”

“What about smashing it against that boulder in Shapiev’s back yard?”

I consider it for a few long moments. “Maybe? Except the Stone’s magic was present when Amāstrī killed Shapiev, so it can’t have been destroyed before Shapiev provoked her. Unless the ifrit grabbed the ring and fled from the melting vehicle with it … but they’re not supposed to be able to touch the rings … unless it reasoned that its mandate to protect the ring took precedence … but then it would have needed to decide to smash the ring itself, rather than avenging Shapiev, which are two big assumptions to make when the ring should compel it to do the exact opposite …”

“You’re talking yourself in circles,” Kowsari notes.

Grimacing, I conclude, “It doesn’t add up. Did you try summoning the ifrit? I can see it’s still bound to the ring. Even if its testimony isn’t admissible, it could at least help us make sense of things.”

“Yes. I had a dozen storm troopers in full raid gear at the ready, too. We sat there for three hours without any response.” Kowsari drains her tea. “That’s why I need you. I have a contact who’s an expert in dæmon binding. We’re going to have a little chat with him.”

“If it’s just a chat, why do you need me?”

“I need an escort. It’s a prestigious establishment.” Kowsari opens the office door. “Go home and put on your best suit. I’ll collect you there in two hours.”

*                              *                              *                              *                              *

The breeze coming off the sea rapidly cools the summer evening. By sunset, I don’t need to use Black Hand to avoid sweating through my kurta suit. This one is hardly my nicest suit – I have a traditional kaftan set for special occasions – but I have a sinking suspicion I’ll get blood on my clothes tonight. At least burgundy will help hide the stain.

I expect Kowsari to screech up to the curb in one of the bulky, black Inquisition autos she previously used to drive me around town. To my shock, a sleek, opened-topped sedan with silver paint glides towards me. Kowsari sprawls across the back seat. Her auburn locks are buried under a black wig, which has been braided through a series of jade hair rings. She wears a ghagra dress of pale blue silk with a neckline that plunges to her collarbone. A gold chain hangs around her neck and dives beneath the dress.

“Hello, handsome,” Kowsari greets me, adopting a sultry tone as she looks me up and down. “I’d have preferred you picked something that matched me, but it goes well with your eyes, so who am I to quibble?”

I ignore her and focus on the chauffeur, who springs from the sedan to open the door for me. The casual observer might mistake him for a Yanülevan, but the Golden Veil tells me otherwise. A citrusy, incense-like cloud of magic that wafts from him.

“Does this underworld contact of yours work in a gambling parlor?” I ask Kowsari.

“What? You assume that because our driver is a kuch neshin, we must be going to a gambling parlor?” Kowari tsks me. “The Archon would be so disappointed in you, Yavari. We’re supposed to leave behind our prejudices and preconceived notions about other –”

“Are you driving us to a gambling parlor?” I ask the chauffeur.

He nods. “Yes, Captain. My instructions are to deliver you and the Major to the Stag of Diamonds.”

I do a double take. I hadn’t expected Kowsari to rope in any other Inquisition personnel. “What’s your name and rank?”

“Private Emre Uzun, sir.” He salutes me.

Private. I scrutinize him a bit more closely. His neatly trimmed beard and gray suit make him look like he’s in his early twenties, but his eyes are just a bit too youthful. “Are you enlisted or Basiji Youth?”

“Basiji Youth, sir.”

I turned back to Kowsari. “Dragging me into danger is one thing, but a child?”

“Relax. He’s going to stay with the auto,” Kowsari says airily.

“Is he old enough to drive an Inquisition vehicle?”

“Actually, Captain, this is my uncle’s auto,” Emre contributes.

Kowsari pats the bench seat beside her. “Let’s not worry so much about the little things, Yavari. This is all for Archon and Empire. Now, get in. Traffic at the enclave gate is going to be rough enough as it is.”

Reluctantly, I slide through the open door and settled onto the bench, sitting as far from Kowsari as I can.

Emre’s uncle has good taste and deep pockets. The seat is incredibly comfortable. The auto also handles more smoothly than any other I’d been in. The breeze curls pleasantly over me as we drive down to the port. Without Kowsari behind the wheel, I’m able to enjoy the ride.

The port is awash with light. An eclectic mixture of ships bobs gently in the harbor: barbarian vessels with wooden hulls and masts, Imperial trading galleys with carmot-driven paddle wheels to supplement their sails, and even an Imperial Navy frigate with tall smokestacks for its steam-powered backup engine. Sailors stream from all these ships. Some flock to establishments along the waterfront, but most flow towards a walled-off community perched on a small rise: the local enclave for the Eshayer Ead tribes.

My work with the Register rarely brings me to the enclave. The yazatas of the Ead pantheon choose to ignore daevas rather than hunting them, so no hunters live here. That’s for the best. Thanks to services the tribes rendered to the Empire during the Great War, the enclaves are allowed to govern their own affairs. The Ead inquisitors have an exceedingly dim view of me walking into the enclave and interviewing their children.

Even outside of the Register, there’s little to lure to me here. No matter how beautiful the enclave appears now, shining like a radiant beacon against the deepening night, I can’t forget that it’s a dirty, overcrowded, poorly maintained neighborhood that offers nothing to outsiders except legalized gambling. The people aren’t much better. The average tribesman regards the Empire’s other citizens the way that we regard barbarians.

Then there’s the magic.

My nose itches as the sedan neared the enclave’s gates. When we stop so that the Security personnel at the checkpoint can inspect the auto, I seize my chance. “Private, turn off the engine for a moment,” I order Emre.

“Sir?” The boy glances back.

“I need ten seconds without the engine running.”

Emre shifts his gaze to Kowsari. She shrugs. “Do what he says. Not like we’re moving right now.”

As soon as the engine quiets, I tap into the Soul, praying fervently to the Shepherd as I draw power into my flesh. The acrid aroma burning my nostrils fades as magical pressure builds inside me. When I’ve drawn in as much power as I can hold, I pinch off the connection and nod to Emre. “Proceed.”

As soon as we roll through the enclave’s gates, it’s like I’ve been sprayed with tear gas. The blessings laid upon this patch of land by the Ead’s yazatas allow the tribesmen’s magic to flow freely, and with thousands of them crammed into this tiny area, their combined power is on par with an ifrit’s. Only the pressure of the Soul keeps that power from overwhelming me. I sincerely hope Kowsari isn’t counting on me to smell magical threats.

Riotous light and noise surround us as Emre drives through the enclave. Gambling parlors tightly pack the main thoroughfare, creating a corridor of flashing carmot signs in a rainbow of colors. The music pouring from these establishments clashes with musicians playing on corners. It’s so overstimulating that I don’t see the flashing sign of a white, leaping stag until Emre pulls up to the curb.

It isn’t hard to guess why Kowsari wants me as her escort. An easel stand sign outside of the Stag of Diamond’s doors promises sports betting on everything from chovgan to Black Hand. One of the burly, plum-suited bouncers who guards the doors spots me and nudges his companion. They ignore Kowsari, not even glancing at her when I help her from the auto and she drapes herself over my arm.

In a low voice – or, rather, a normal voice, since the cacophony drowns out anything softer – I ask, “Have you, by any chance, been banned from this establishment?”

“I may have shot the proprietor a few times.” Kowsari flashes a triumphant and possessive smile at onlookers and presses herself against my leg, as if laying claim to me.

“You may have?”

“It might have been his business partner. There were a lot of bullets flying that night.” She throws Emre a lazy wave as he climbs back into the auto. “It’s how we were able to borrow the auto. Emre’s uncle owns a rival establishment.”

“Lovely,” I mutter.

There’s no need to ask what Kowsari needs me to do, not with her trying to force her way into my suit. I guide her towards the establishment’s doors. The bouncers nod respectfully to me, still paying no attention to Kowsari. I hope they don’t realize my polite smile is a grimace.

Choosing the burgundy suit was definitely the right call.

*                              *                              *                              *                              *

The interior of the Stag is as chaotic as the street outside. Countless table games are spread over the floor of a single vast room. The babbling voices of people speaking in dozens of languages, both from across the Empire and over the sea, assail me. Gambling chips worth hundreds or even thousands of obols bounce across the tables as cards were dealt. I’m sure there’s more money on any given table than I make in a month. No doubt the many women dealing at the tables, most of whom were dressed as provocatively as Kowsari, are helping to keep the obols flowing.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Head to the private parlors in the back. The Stag will have additional guards outside of one of them. That’s our destination.” Kowsari shifts her grip on my arm, allowing her to press a chip into my palm. “Hand them this. Subtly, please.”

I maneuver through the bustle to the rear of the establishment. Sure enough, a series of wooden doors line the wall. Gilt plaques over the doors display names like Meadow Parlor and Arbor Parlor. More than one of these is guarded, but only the River Parlor is protected by another pair of plum-suited bouncers.

I transfer the chip to my free hand and approach them. Recognition dawns on their features, but they don’t address me. Awkwardly, I ask, “Private event?”

“Yes, sir,” the nearest bouncer grunts. “Invitation only.”

“Of course.” I step close and extend my hand.

Thankfully, he seems used to this, for he smoothly clasps my hand and strips the chip from it. He offers it only a brief glance before handing it back and opening the door. “Please enjoy yourself, sir.”

The parlor within has an elaborate mosaic of a riverine forest wrapped around its walls, along with a small, private bar and a table that can accommodate eight card players. It’s also empty. However, as soon as the doors behind us close, an attendant in a plum dress opens a small door on the rear wall.

For a moment, all I could think is, Why is her neckline exposing her breasts?

Suspicion prickles through me, growing stronger as the attendant ushers us into a back hallway with paneled walls and plush carpets. I roll the chip Kowsari handed to me over in my hand and checked its faces. One side bears the Stag’s logo. The other, however, displays a pink lotus.

Kowsari squeezes my arm. I glower at her. Her eyes grow cold, and she arches a brow at me. The reminder is clear.

Archon and Empire.

I close my fist around the chip. This won’t be the first time I’d been in a Lotus den. Granted, the last time I was in one, I was with Kambūjiya, and we were there to kill a daeva, but the principle is the same. Kowsari and I don’t need to partake to get what we’d come for.

We reach a lift with another bouncer guarding it. When I present him with the chip, he pockets it. The lift itself is operated by another attendant with a dangerously low neckline. A glass medallion of serpents and flowers rests on her partially exposed breasts, erasing any lingering doubt that we’re about to enter a Lotus den.

The lift descends far too quickly for my liking, and then we’re at the temple threshold.

Kambūjiya, I pray, guard me from temptation.

Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 9 releases August 26th!

Mohsen and Kowsari’s contact is more involved with the ifrit than either of them originally realized, but how will their case evolve when Mohsen realizes the truth behind the assassination?

I hope to see you all then!